Opening
PARODIES
OF THE WORKS OF
ENGLISH AND AMERICAN AUTHORS,
COLLECTED AND ANNOTATED BY
WALTER HAMILTON,
Fellow of the Royal Geographical and Royal Historical Societies; Author of “A History of National Anthems and Patriotic Songs,” “A Memoir of George Cruikshank,” “The Poets Laureate of England,” “The Æsthetic Movement in England,” etc.
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“We maintain that, far from converting virtue into a paradox, and degrading truth by ridicule, PARODY will only strike at what is chimerical and false; it is not a piece of buffoonery so much as a critical exposition. What do we parody but the absurdities of writers, who frequently; make their heroes act against nature, common-sense, and truth? After all, it is the public, not we, who are the authors of these PARODIES.
D’ISRAELI’S Curiosities of Literature.
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VOLUME III.
CONTAINING PARODIES OF
LORD BYRON. SCOTCH SONGS.
SIR WALTER SCOTT. ROBERT SOUTHEY.
CHARLES KINGSLEY. THOMAS CAMPBELL.
THE POETRY OF THE ANTI-JACOBIN.
MISS C. FANSHAWE. THOMAS MOORE.
A. C. SWINBURNE. ROBERT BURNS.
MRS. FELICIA HEMANS. OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
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REEVES & TURNER, 196, STRAND, LONDON, W.C.
1886.
_All these things here collected are not mine, But divers grapes make but one kind of wine; So I from many learned authors took The various matters written in this book; What’s not mine own shall not by me be fathered, The most part I, in many years, have gathered._ JOHN TAYLOR, the Water Poet.
“It was because Homer was the most popular poet, that he was most susceptible of the playful honours of the Greek parodist; unless the prototype is familiar to us, a parody is nothing.” ISAAC D’ISRAELI.
BROWN & DAVENPORT, 40, SUN STREET, FINSBURY, LONDON, E.C.
INDEX.
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The authors of the original poems are arranged in alphabetical order; the titles of the original poems are printed in small capitals, followed by the Parodies, the authors of which are named, in italics, wherever possible.
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A Chapter on Parodies
By Isaac D’Israeli 1
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The Poetry of the “Anti-Jacobin.”
A List of Parodies contained in “The Anti-Jacobin” 181 La Sainte Guillotine, Song; The Progress of Man, after Mr. R. Payne Knight; Chevy Chase; The Loves of the Triangles, after Dr. Darwin; Brissot’s Ghost, after Glover’s Ballad; Ode to Jacobinism, after Gray’s Hymn to Adversity; The Jacobin, after Southey’s Sapphics; Ode to a Jacobin, after Suckling.
THE ROVERS ―― George Canning 181 The University of Gottingen 182 A New Gottingen Ballad, Morning Herald, 1802 182 The Constitutional Association, William Hone 183 The University we’ve got in town, R. H. Barham 183 The Universal Penny Postage, 1840 184 The Humorous M.P. for Nottingham, Fun, 1867 185 The Union Oxoniensis, the Shotover Papers 185 The Oxford Installation Ode, Diogenes, 1853 186 The Universal Prayer of Paddington, Punch, 1882 186 The University at Nottingham, Punch 1882 186 The Hor-Ticultural Society (Cambridge, 1830) 280
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Robert Burns.
BRUCE’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY ―― “Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled.” 1793 48 “Gulls who’ve heard what Hobhouse said” 49 “Britons who have often bled!” 49 “Folks who’ve oft at Dolby’s fed!” The Fancy 49 “Whigs! who have with Michael dined!” 49 “Whigs whom Fox and Petty led,” John Bull, 1823 49 “Scots, wha hae the duties paid,” Robert Gilfillan 50 “Cooks, who’d roast a sucking-pig,” Punch 50 “Bunn! wha hae wi’ Wallace sped,” The Man in the Moon 50 “Jews ―― as every one has read,” The Puppet Show, 1848 51 “Guards! who at Smolensko fled,” W. E. Aytoun 51 “Britons! at your country’s call” 51 Wing-Kee-Fum’s address to the Patriot Army, Diogenes, 1853 51 “Travellers, who’ve so oft been bled,” Diogenes 52 “Ye, whose chins have often bled,” Diogenes 52 “Serfs, wha hae wi’ Kut’soff bled!” Diogenes 52 “A’ wha hae wi’ Russell sped,” W. Lothian 52 “Scots! wha are on oatmeal fed,” They are Five, 53 “Scott, wha ha’ your Jumbo fed,” Punch, 1882, 53 “Friends, by Whig retrenchment bled,” Poetry for the Poor, 1884 53 “Men by wise example led,” Songs for Liberal Electors, 1885 53 “Scots! although in New York bred,” Funny Folks, 1877 67 “Scots, wha won’t for Wallace bleed,” Shirley Brooks, 1865 107
ADDRESS TO THE DE’IL―― Address to the G. O. M., Moonshine, 1885 106
JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO 54 “Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane,” John Jones, 1831 54 “George Anderson, my Geo., George,” Punch 55 “My bonny Meg, my Jo, Meg” 55 “When Nature first began, Jean” 55 “Joe Chamberlain, my Jo, John,” Punch, 1886 55 “John Alcohol, my foe, John,” Home Tidings 107 “Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, Sir,” Punch, 1885 56-69 “John Barleycorn, my foe, John,” Charles F. Adams 69 “Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad,” Funny Folks, 1885 69 “Ted Henderson, my Jo, Ted,” Moonshine, 1886 108
FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT 56 Quoi! Pauvre honnête, baisser la tête, Father Prout 56 “A man’s a man,” says Robert Burns 57 “Dear Freedom! sair they’ve lightlied thee” The Wreath of Freedom. 1820 57 “Success to honest usury.” Diogenes, 1853 57 “More luck to honest poverty,” Shirley Brooks 106 “Is there a lady in all the land?” Once a Week 57 “Is there a Jingo, proud and high?” Punch, 1878 58 “Is there, for princely opulence?” Fun, 1879 58 “Is there, for double U. E. G.?” Funny Folks 58 Sir Arthur Guinness and a Peerage 58 “Is there for Whig and Tory men?” _John Stuart Blackie_, Alma Mater, 1885 59 Political Parody in Funny Folks, March 14, 1885 67 A new song to an old tune, Sir Walter Scott, 1814 67 To Women of the Period 67
COMING THROUGH THE RYE 59 “Tak cauler water I” 59 “Gin’ a nursey meet a bobby,” Judy, 1879 60 Parody in Funny Folks, 1879 66 “If a Proctor meet a body,” Lays of Modern Oxford. 1874 106
DUNCAN GRAY 60 “Oor Tam has joined the Templars noo.” Rev. R. S. Bowie 108 “Sam Sumph cam’ here for Greek” _John Stuart Blackie_, Alma Mater, 1885 60 The Whigs of Auld Lang Syne, Punch, 1865 61 Sir M. Hicks Beach on Auld Acquaintance, Truth 61 “We twa hae dune a little Bill,” Punch, 1848 66 Paraphrase of Auld Lang Syne, Comic Offering 66 Should Gaelic speech be e’er forgot? 107
GREEN GROW THE RASHES 61 Life in Malvern. Malvern Punch, 1865 61 “Hey, for Social Science, O!” Lord Neaves 61 “There’s nought but talk on every han’,” Punch 109 Holy Willie’s Prayer, Newcastle Weekly Chronicle 62 The Fishers’ Welcome, Doubleday. “We twa ha’ fished the Kale sae clear” 63 To Burns, Joseph Blacket, 1811 64
TAM O’ SHANTER―― Origin of the Poem 64 The Political Tam o’ Shanter, Punch, 1884 65
“HERE’S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT’S AWA’ 66 “Here’s a health to the ladies at home,” The Mirror, 1828 66 “Willie Brew’d a Peck of Maut,” Punch, 1884 66 “Thus Willie, Rab, and Allan sang” 107 “O, never touch the drunkard’s cup” 108 The Ballad of Sir Tea-Leaf, Punch, 1851 68
MY HEART’S IN THE HIGHLANDS 68 “My harts in the Highlands,” Punch, 1856 68 “O, whistle, and I will arrest you, my lad” 68 “Lilt your Johnnie”――A nonsense Parody, George Cruikshank’s Almanac, 1846 69 Justice to Scotland――A nonsense Parody, _Shirley Brooks_ 70 “Greet na mair, ma sonsie lassie,” a Nonsense Parody. Judy, 1884 70 A history of the Burns Festival at the Crystal Palace, January 25, 1859 70 Prize Poem in honour of Burns, Isa Craig 70 Rival Rhymes in honour of Burns, Samuel Lover 70 Gang wi’ me to Lixmaleerie 70 Poems on Burns, William Cadenhead, 1885 71
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Lord Byron.
THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE 190 The Maiden I love, P. F. T., 190 WELL! THOU ART HAPPY 190 To Mary. Phœbe Carey’s Poems and Parodies, 1854 191
MAID OF ATHENS, 1810 191 Anticipation in “The Monthly Mirror,” 1799. “I conjure thee to love me, Sophia” 191 Polka mou sas Agapo, Punch, 1844 191 Pay, oh! Pay us what you owe, Punch, 1847 192 Man of Mammon, e’er we part 192 People’s William! do not start, Truth, 1877 193 Maid of Athens! ere we start, Punch, 1878 193 Maid of Clapham! ere I part, Jon Duan 193 Made of Something! ere we part, Free Press Flashes, 1882 193 Made of Something! (Zoedone) Punch, 1880 194 Calf’s Heart, “Maid of all work, as a part,” 194 Madame Rachel! ere we smash, Judy, 1868 194 Unkind Missis! e’er the day, Grins and Groans 194 Maid of Ganges! thou that art, The Etonian, 1884 195 Maid of all work! we must part 195 Joe, my Joseph! ere we part, St. James’s Gazette 195
I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD. 195 The old Fogey’s Lament, Funny Folks 196
NAPOLEON’S FAREWELL 196 The Bohemian’s Farewell, Worthy a Crown? 1876 196 The spell is broken, Judy 1880 196 War Song of the Radical Philhellene, The Saturday Review, 1886 197
ENIGMA ON THE LETTER H. (Ascribed to Byron.) “’Twas whispered in Heaven” 197 “I dwells in the Herth,” Henry Mayhew 197 The Letter H. his petition, and a reply 197 The Petition of the Letter W. to Londoners, and a reply, 198 A Riddle on the letter U 278
LORD BYRON’S ADDRESS, spoken at the opening of Drury Lane Theatre, October, 1812 198 Cui Bono? from the Rejected Addresses, _H. and J. Smith_ 199 The Genuine Rejected Addresses 201
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold 201 The Destruction of the Aldermen, Punch, 1841 201 Sir Robert came down on the Corn Laws so bold, 201 The Russian came down like a thief in the night, 202 The Blizzard came down like a thousand of brick, 202 The Belgravians came down on the Queen in her hold, Jon Duan 202 Miss Pussy jumped down, Don Diego 202 The Diplomats came like a wolf on the fold, Truth 203 The Yankee came down with long Fred on his back, Punch, 1881 203 All the papers came down (on melting the Statue of the Duke of Wellington), Truth 203 The Tories came forth in their pride, _Alick Sinclair_, The Weekly Dispatch, 1884 203 The Premier came down to the House as of old, C. Renz, The Weekly Dispatch. 1886 203 Great Gladstone came down his new Bill to unfold, F. B. Doveton, 1886 204 “Dan O’Connell came down,” The Spirit of the Age Newspaper, 1828 209 Belasco came down like a bruiser so bold 279
TO THOMAS MOORE―― “My boat is on the Shore” 208 “My cab is at the door.” The National Omnibus 208 “My cab is at the door,” Punch, 1846 208 “My boat has run ashore,” Punch, 1875 208 A Farewell to Jenny Lind, Punch, 1848 210
CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE―― “Adieu, adieu! my native shore” 209 “Adieu, adieu! place once so sure,” 209 “Adoo! adoo! my fav’rite scheme,” Punch, 1846 209 There was a sound of revelry by night 209 There was a sound that ceased not (on the Railway Panic), Our Iron Roads, F. S. Williams 210 Waterloo at Astley’s Theatre, Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack, 1846 210 The Battle of the Opera, Punch 1849 210 There was a sound of orat’ry by night 210 There was a clash of Billiard balls, A. H. Smith 211 Stop; for your tread is on a Poet’s dust! (on Henry Irving as Othello), Figaro, 1876 211 London’s Inferno, Truth, 1884 212 Childe Snobson’s Pilgrimage, Punch, 1842 212 Childe Chappie’s Pilgrimage, by E. J. Milliken 212
DARKNESS―― “I had a dream, which was not all a dream” 204 “I had a hat――it was not all a hat” 204 “I had a dream” (On Smoking) The Spirit of the Age, 1828 204
’TIS TIME THIS HEART SHOULD BE UNMOVED 205 ’Tis time that I should be removed, Punch’s Pocket Book, 1856 205 Lord Byron’s Marriage 205
FARE THEE WELL! Yes, farewell; farewell for ever 206 And fare Thee well, too――if, for ever 207 Fare thee well! Lyrics and Lays, 1867 207 Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Article on Byron 207 The Un-true Story, dedicated to Mrs. Stowe “Know ye the land where the Novelists blurt all,” Walter Parke, Punch and Judy, 1870 208 To Inez. “Nay, smile not at my garments now,” Phœbe Carey 213 “I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs” 213 Venice Unpreserved, Punch, 1851 214 Practical Venice, Punch, 1882 214 “Roll on thou drunk and dark blue peeler” 214 There is pleasure in a cask of wood, Hugh Cayley 214 Arcades Ambo, C. S. Calverley, Fly Leaves, 1878 214 Beer, C. S. Calverley 215 The Guerilla, James Hogg, The Poetic Mirror 215 The Last Canto of Childe Harold 215
THE GIAOUR―― “He who hath bent him o’er the dead” 215 “He that hath gazed upon this head,” The Gownsman, 1830 216 “He that hath bent him o’er a goose,” The Gossip, 1821 216 “He who hath bent him o’er the bed,” Beauty and the Beast, 1843 216 “He that don’t always bend his head, Punch, 1847 216 “He who hath looked with aching head” 216
THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS―― Know ye the Land? 217 Know’st thou the land? Thomas Carlyle 217 Know ye the land where the leaf of the myrtle? 217 Know ye the town of the turkey and turtle? 217 Know ye the house in which Vestris and Nisbett? 217 Know’st thou the land where the kangaroos bound? 217 Know ye the house where the Whigs and the Tories? Punch 1842 217 Where ye the scene where the clerks and the tailors? Punch, 1844 218 Know ye the loss of the beautiful turtles? 218 Know ye the land where the hot toast and muffin? 218 Know ye the town where policemen and navvies? 218 Know ye the stream where the cesspool and sewer? 218 Know’st thou the spot where the venison and turtle? Diogenes, 1853 218 Know ye the Inn where the laurel and Myrtle? 219 Know’st thou the land (of Greece)? _Shirley Brooks_, 1854 219 Know you the lady who does’nt like turtle? _Shirley Brooks_, 1856 219 Know ye the land of molasses and rum? 219 Know ye the Hall where the birch and the myrtle? 220 O, know you the land where the cheese tree grows? 220 Know’st thou the land where the hardy green thistle? An Address to Lord Byron 220 Know ye the land where the novelists blurt all? Walter Parke 1870 208 Know ye the place where they press and they hurtle? Jon Duan, 1874 220 Is it where the cabbage grows so fast? 221 Know ye the land of reeds and of rushes? 221 They stood upon his nose’s bridge of size. Lays of Modern Oxford, 1874 221
PRISONER OF CHILLON.――Snowed up 228
SUBLIME TOBACCO! which from East to West 279 Sublime Potatoes; that from Antrim’s shore 279 Cabul, September, 1879. In imitation of the Siege of Corinth. The World, 1879 221 The Civic Mazeppa, Punch, 1844 221 Mazeppa Travestied. 1820 279
DON JUAN―― “Bob Southey! you’re a poet” 222 “Ben Dizzy! you’re a humbug,” Jon Duan 222 The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece 222 The Isle of Eels! the Isle of Eels, Punch, 1844 223 The Smiles of Peace, Shirley Brooks, 1856 223 The Wines of Greece, Punch, 1865 224 The Ills of Greece Punch, 1879 224 The Claims of Greece, G. A. Sala 224 The aisles of Rome, Jon Duan, 1874 224 The Isles decrease, Faust and Phisto, 1876 225 The Claims of Greece, Punch, 1881 225 The Town of Nice, Herman Merivale, 1883 225 The Smiles of Peace, Funny Folks, 1885 225 The Liberal Seats, Pall Mall Gazette, 1886 226 The Fields of Tothill; a Fragment 49 The Childe’s Pilgrimage, W. F. Deacon 226 “Without one lingering look he leaves,” Lays of Modern Oxford. 1874 227 Miscellaneous Parodies of Lord Byron’s Poems 228 Don Juan Unread (1819), Dr. W. Maginn 229 (A Parody of Wordsworth’s “Yarrow Unvisited”)
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Thomas Campbell.
LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER 21 Sir Robert’s Bill. Protectionist Parodies 21 John Thompson’s Daughter, Phœbe Carey, 1854 22 Lambeth Ferry 22 The New Lord Ullin’s Daughter 23 “In London when the funds are low,” Coronation Lays, 1831 113 “To London ’ere the sun is low,” Hyde Parker 112
HOHENLINDEN 23 Bannockburn, Archie Aliquis, 1825 23 The Battle of Peas-Hill, from The Gradus ad Cantabrigiam, 1824 23 Jenny-Linden, Punch, 1847 23 The Bal-Masqué at Crockford’s――The Man in the Moon 25 Row-in-London, The Puppet Show, 1848 25 The Battle of the Boulevard, W. E. Aytoun 25 Hohen-London, Punch, 1851 26 Swindon Station 26 Hotel Swindling, Diogenes, 1853 26 The Battle of Bull-Run 27 “At Seacliff, when the time passed slow,” College Rhymes, 1861, L. E. S 27 “At Belton, ere the twilight grew” 27 “At Oxford when my funds were low,” Lays of Modern Oxford, 1874 27 At Prince’s when the sun is low, 1876 28 The Tay Bridge Disaster, F. B. Doveton, 1880 28 “In Erin where the Praties grow,” J. M. Lowry 28 Hohenlinden, Latin translations of 28 The Tay Bridge Disaster, J. F. Baird 43 ” ” ” ” L. Beck 43 The Lawn Tennis Match, F. B. Doveton 47
THE SOLDIER’S DREAM 29 “We were wet as the deuce,” Punch 1853 29 The Boat Race: “We had stripped off our coats,” Lays of Modern Oxford, 1874 29 The Tory Premier’s Dream, Funny Folks, 1880 29 The Fatal Gallopade, The Comic Magazine, 1834 30
LOCHIEL’S WARNING 30 1879, its glory and its shame. Prize Poem. The World. 1880, Goymour Cuthbert “Old year, old year, I’m glad of the day” 30 “Chieftain, O, Chieftain, lament for the year” 31 “Old women! old women! prepare for the day,” J. H. Wheeler 31 “O, Cecil! O, Cecil! beware of the day,” James Robinson 31 “O, Salisbury, Salisbury, beware of the day,” Albert Otley 32 “O, Tories! O, Tories! beware of the day” 32 The Student’s Warning, 1838 45
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND 32 Ye Kite-flyers of Scotland, Thomas Love Peacock 32 Young gentlemen of England, Punch, 1844 33 Ye Peasantry of England, Punch, 1845 33 Ye Constables of London, Puppet Show, 1848 34 Ye Ship builders of England, Punch, 1849 34 Ye Subalterns in England Punch, 1854 34 Ye Clergymen of England, Punch, 1856 35 March, March, Make-rags of Borrowdale, T. L. Peacock 33 You rustic maids of England, Punch, 1857 35 Ye Commoners of England, Echoes from the Clubs, 1867 35 You sneaking Skunks of England, Lyrics and Lays, 1867 35 Ye Gentlemen of Ireland, Punch, 1870 36 Ye Scavengers of England, Punch, 1880 36 Ye Milliners of England, Hugh Cayley, 1883 36 Ye Mariners of England (Torpedo Terrors) 37 Ye Infantry of England, Punch 37 Ye Gentlemen of England, Truth, 1884 37 Ye Mariners of England (and Mr. J. Chamberlain) Funny Folks, 1884 38 ” ” ” ” Punch 1884 38 ” ” ” ” Globe, 1885 39 Ye Radicals of Brumm’gem, 1884 39 Ye Gentlemen of England (Cricket Match) 39 Ye Shopkeepers of London, Truth, 1884 40 Ye Ministers of England, Truth, 1879 40 You faithful Muggletonians, 40 Ye Mariners of England (on Chinese Sailors) 47
THE MAID’S REMONSTRANCE―― The Bench of Bishops. James Turner 40 Randolph’s Remonstrance to Sir Stafford. H. L. Brickel 40 Britannia’s Remonstrance. J. A. Elliott 40 Staffy’s Remonstrance. Gossamer 41
THE EXILE OF ERIN 41 Parody from Figaro in London, May, 1833 41 Mitchell in Norfolk Island, The Puppet Show, 1848 42 The Ex-premier’s Visit to Erin, 1877 42 Ireland’s Distress, Captain Walford 42 ” ” Miss E. Chamberlayne 42 The Sorrows of Ireland. Rejected Odes, 181 47 Ye Mariners of England (as sung by Lord Ellenborough), Punch, 1846 110 You Managers of Railways, Punch, 1847 110 Ye Husbandmen of Scotland 110 Ye Liberals of England, Funny Folks, 1880 111 “There came to the beach a poor landlord of Erin,” M. O’Brien. The Irish Fireside, 1886 111
BATTLE OF THE BALTIC 43 Battle of the Balls. The University Snowdrop. 44 Stanzas on a Late Battle ” ” 45 The Burning of the Play House (Covent Garden.) Shirley Brooks 45 “Of Scotia and the North.” Rival Rhymes, 1859 47 The Escape of the Aldermen. Punch, 1845 111
THE LAST MAN―― The Last Growler. Punch, 1885 46 The Last Duke. Punch, 1846 109 The Last Man in Town. Funny Folks, 1878 109 The Massacre of Glenho. Puck on Pegasus 46
THE PLEASURES OF HOPE. 47 Campbell, undone and outdone. Joseph G. Dalton 47 Portrait of Campbell. Maclise Portrait Gallery 47 Lines on Campbell. Dr. W. Maginn 47
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Miss Catherine Fanshawe.
THE ENIGMA ON THE LETTER H 197 A Parody on the above――Henry Mayhew 197 The Letter H’s Petition and a Reply 197 Petition of the letter W, and reply 198 An Enigma on the letter U. The Gownsman, 1830 278
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Dr. Oliver Goldsmith.
WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY 3 “Lorsqu’une femme,” Ségur 3 “When woman,” as Goldsmith declares, Barham 3 When Harry Brougham turns a Tory. Punch, 1844 3 When lovely woman wants a favour. Phœbe Carey 3 When lovely woman, prone to folly. Punch, 1854 3 When lovely woman stoops. Diogenes, 1853 4 When lovely woman, hooped in folly. Punch, 1857 4 When lovely woman, lump of folly. S. Brooks 4 When managers have stooped to folly. Fun, 1866 4 When lovely woman takes to lollies. Grasshopper. 4 When lovely woman, still a maiden. Kottabos. 4 When lovely woman stoops to fashion. 4 When lovely woman takes to rinking 4 When lovely woman reads Le Follet. Figaro, 1873 4 When foolish man consents to marry 4 When lovely woman, once so jolly 5 When lovely woman finds that breaches 5 When lovely woman’s melancholy. Fun, 1885 5 When lovely woman longs to marry 5 When stupid Odger stoops to folly. Judy 5 When foolish woman stoops to fashion. 1882 5 When man, less faithful than the colley. Judy. 5 If lovely woman seeks to enter. Gossip, 1885 5 When lovely woman pines in folly――1885 5 When lovely woman stoops to Foli 5 When a grave Speaker stoops to folly 17
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG 6
AN ELEGY ON MRS. MARY BLAIZE 6 Le Fameux la Galisse, by Gilles de Ménage, 1729 6 The Happy Man. The Mirror, 1823 8 Le Chanson de La Palice, by Bernard de la Monnoye 8 John Smith, he was a guardsman bold. The Comic Magazine, 1834 9 There was a man, so legends say. Tom Hood 10 An Elegy on Mrs. Grimes. The Century Magazine 10
DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR’S BED CHAMBER 10 The Street Artist. The Month, 1851 10
THE DESERTED VILLAGE 10 The Doomed Village 10 The Deserted Village (London). The Tomahawk 11 London in September. Lord John Russell 12 Innovation. Anthony Pasquin. 1786 18 The Frequented Village. E. Young 19 The Deserted School. James E. Thompson, 1885 19
THE HERMIT 12 “Gentle Herdsman tell to me” 12 The Friar of Orders Gray 14 The Hermit――a Prophetic Ballad. The St. James’s Gazette, 1881 15 The Hermit of Vauxhall, G. A. à Beckett, 1845 17
RETALIATION The Speaker’s Dinner. Posthumous Parodies 15 Home, sweet Home. H. C. Bunner, 1881 17 The Tears of Genius. Courtney Melmoth, 1774 (Thomas Jackson Pratt) 19 The Vicar of Wakefield, and Olivia. W. G. Wills 19 The Vicar of Wide-a-Wakefield, or the Miss-Terryous Uncle, a burlesque by _H. P. Stephens and W. Yardley_ 19 The Caste of the Burlesque 20 Jupiter and Mercury. David Garrick 20
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Mrs. F. D. Hemans.
THE STATELY HOMES OF ENGLAND 129 The Donkey-boys of England. Punch, 1849 129 The Garden Grounds of England 130 The Merchant Prince of England. Shirley Brooks 130 The dirty Cabs of London. Punch, 1853 130 The Duns of Merry England. Diogenes, 1853 131 The Barristers of England. Punch, 1853 131 The Compo’d Homes of England. The Figaro 131 The Stately Homes of England. Truth, 1877 132 The Cottage Homes of England. Punch, 1874 132 The Haunted Homes of England. Pall Mall Gazette, 1883 132 The Stately Men of England. Hugh Cayley 132 The Unhealthy Homes of England. Punch, 1884 133 Ye Cottage Homes of England. Truth, 1885 133 The Graves of a Household. The Man in the Moon 138 He never wrote again. Phœbe Carey, 1854 139
LEAVES HAVE THEIR TIME TO FALL. Fish have their times to bite. College Rhymes 139
CASABIANCA 133 “Macbeth stood on the new-built Stage” (Mr. Henry Irving as Macbeth.) The Figaro, 1875 134 The Mule stood on the Steamboat Deck” 134 “The boy stood on the back-yard fence” 134 “The dog lay on the butcher’s stoop” 134 “The Peer stood on the burning deck.” Truth, 1884 134 “The girl stewed on the burning deck” 135 “The boy stood by the stable door” 135
THE BETTER LAND 135 “I’ve heard thee speak of a good hotel” 136 “I have heard you speak of ‘Three acres of land.’” Edward Walford, M.A. Life, 1885 136 “I hear thee speak of a bit o’ land” 136 “I hear thee speak of a ‘Plot of Land’” 137 An answer to the preceding 137 “I hear thee speak of a Western land” 137 “I hear them speak of a Happy Land.” Fun 138
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Charles Kingsley.
“THREE FISHERS WENT SAILING AWAY TO THE WEST” 117 “Three Merchants went riding.” Punch, 1858 117 “Four Merchants who thought themselves.” 117 The Lasher at Iffley. College Rhymes, 1861. “Eight coveys went out in their college boat.” 117 “Three mothers sat talking.” Punch, 1861 118 “Three freshmen went loafing.” College Rhymes 118 “Three fellahs went out to a house in the west.” 118 “Three husbands went forth.” Banter, 1867 118 “Three Children were playing.” The Mocking Bird, F. Field, 1868 119 “Three Students sat writing.” The Cantab, 1873 119 “Three gourmands invited were into the West.” 119 “Three ladies went skating.” Idyls of the Rink 119 “Three regiments went sailing away to the East,” 119 “Three practical men went strolling west.” 120 “Three profits had got to come out of the land.” 120 “Three lambkins went larking.” Judy, 1879 120 “Three rascals went ranting round in the West.” Gobo, The World, 1879 120 “Three land agitators went down to the West.” 121 “Three Paddies went spouting away at Gurteen.” F. B. Doveton 121 “Three fishes were floating about in the Sea.” 121 “Three Tories went bravely.” Grins and Groans 121 “There were three pussy cats.” Fun. 1882 121 “Three Fishmongers looked for a sale.” 1883 122 “Three Potters set out all dressed in their best.” 122 “Three Champions went stumping.” Punch 1884 122 “Three Fossils sat perched in the Whitehall Zoo.” 122 “Three fishermen went gaily out into the North.” 122 “Three acres seemed pleasant to Countryman Hodge.” Punch, 1885 123 “Three Farmers went driving up into the town.” 123 “Three Topers went strolling out into the East.” Hyde Parker. 1886 123 “Three Poets went sailing down Boston streets.” Lilian Whiting 123 “Three Filchers went cadging.” The Free Lance 124 Three Students were walking.” The Lays of the Mocking Sprite 124 “Three Melons went sailing out in the West.” 124 “Three Carpets hung waiving abroad in the breeze.” 124 “Three worthless young fellows went out in the night.” 124 “Three Sports got into a railroad car.” 125 “Three husbands went reeling home out of the West.” Mrs. G. L. Banks 125 “Three young men who never went astray.” 125 “Three Anglers went down to fish Sunbury Weir.” The Angler’s Journal, 1886 139 “Three Freshers went sailing out into the street.” 139 “An Umpire went sallying out into the East.” 140 Three women went sailing out into the street. 279 Three little fishers trudged over the hill. F. H. Stauffer 279 Three cows were seized for tithe rent in the West. 280 Three fishers went fishing out into the sea. H. C. Dodge 280
ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND. “Welcome, wild North-Easter!” 125 The Surgeon’s Wind. Punch, 1857 126 Hang thee, vile North-Easter. Punch, 1858 126 “Welcome, wild North-Easter,” as sung by a Debutante at the last Drawing Room 127 Welcome, English Easter. Fun, 1867 128 Kingsley, and the South-west Trains 128 “I once saw a sweet pretty face.” 128 The Dirdum. A parody of C. Kingsley’s Scotch poem on an Oubit, 1862 129
――――
Thomas Moore.
’TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER 230 ’Tis the first rose of Summer, R. Gilfillan 230 Do. do. Wiseheart’s Songster 230 ’Tis the last man in London. The National Omnibus, 1831 230 I’m the last Rose of Summer, 1832 231 ’Tis the last summer bonnet. T. H. Bayly, 1833 231 ’Tis the last bit of candle. Wiseheart’s Songster 231 The last lamp of the alley. Dr. Maginn 232 ’Tis the last choice Havana 232 ’Tis the straw hat of summer 232 ’Tis the last of the Fancy. Judy, 1867 232 ’Tis the last weed of Hudson’s. J. R. G. 233 ’Tis the last little tizzy. The Snob, 1829 233 ’Tis the last of the members. Figaro in London 233 ’Tis the last fly of summer. Punch’s Pocket Book, 1848 233 He’s the last “Vivâ Voce.” College Rhymes 234 ’Tis the last belle of summer. Funny Folks 234 ’Tis the last pipe this winter. Funny Folks, 1879 234 ’Tis the last jar of pickles 234 He’s the last of his party. R. H. Lawrence 234 ’Tis the last baked potato. W. W. Dixon 235 ’Tis a prime leg of mutton. Lizzie Griffin 235 ’Tis the last rose of Windsor. F. Rawkins 235 ’Tis the last blow of a drummer. Hugh Cayley 235 ’Tis the last ruse of someone. The Globe, 1886 236 Let Erin remember. Punch. 1885 236
WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE 236 To a Bottle of old Port. Dr. Maginn 236 When he who adjures thee 236 When he who now bores thee 264
THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA’S HALLS 236 The Puff that once thro’ Colburn’s halls. 1831 237 The Belt which once. Egan’s Book of Sports, 1832 237 The Harp that once in Warren’s Mart. Punch 237 The Broom that once through Sarah’s halls. Judy 237 The Girl that oft in lighted halls, 1869 237 The Voice that once thro’ Senate halls. Funny Folks, 1884 237 Luke Sharpe, who once. Detroit Free Press, 1885 238 The Plate that once through Fashion’s halls 264 Fly not yet, ’tis just the hour. Figaro, 1833 260 Fly not to wine. The Blue Bag, 1832 238 Fly not yet. St. James’s Gazette, 1881 238
RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE 238 Rich and furred was the robe he wore, T. Hook 238 Ragged and rough were the clothes she wore 239 Rich and rare were the arms she bore 239 Rough and red was the cloak she wore 239 Quaint and queer were the gems she wore 264
THERE IS NOT IN THE WIDE WORLD 239 There is not in this city an alley so sweet. National Omnibus, 1831 239 There is not in the palace. National Omnibus 239 There’s not in Saint Stephen’s. Figaro in London 239 There is not in all London. Punch, 1842 240 There’s not in the wide world a country so sweet 240 There’s not in the wide world an odour less sweet 240 O, There’s not in the West-end, Punch. 1872 240 There’s not in all London a tavern so gay. _G. W. M. Reynolds_ 240 On Stephen Kemble 240 The Irish welcome 241 The Trifle. Punch, 1852 241 The Bitter cry of outcast London. Two parodies from the Weekly Dispatch, by T. A. Wilson and Aramis 241 The meteing of the waters. Punch, 1884 241 The Thames. B. Saunders. 1884 242 The House of Lords. H. B., 1884 242 There is not to the poet. E. A. Horne, 1884 242 The Heiress. Aramis. 1884 242 The Club Smoking-room. J. Pratt, 1884 242 The Meeting of the Emperors. Moonshine, 1884 243 There’s not in old Ireland. Walter Parke 270 Come, send round the wine. 1825 243
BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS 243 Mr. Colburn to Lady Morgan’s Books, 1831 243 On the House of Lords and Reform. Figaro in London, 1831 243 Believe me, dear Susan. Diogenes, 1854 243 To a lady in a crinoline. Punch, 1857 244 John Bull to Paddy, 1867 244 John Bright to his place, 1869 244 To an Ancient Coquette 244 On College Don 244 On Roast pork. F. B. Doveton, 1881 244 On Tory election promises, 1886 244 Oh, blame not the Bard. Fun, 1883 245 Oh! the days are gone when beauty bright. 1869 245
LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE 245 Peggy hath a squinting eye 245 Lesbia hath a fowl to cook 246 Lesbia’s skirt doth streaming fly. Punch, 1856 246 Lemon is a little hipped. Charles Dickens, 1855 246 This suit is all chequer’d 246
OH! THE SHAMROCK 247 Oh! the Scarecrows. United Ireland, 1885 247 One more try at parting. Punch’s Almanac, 1883 247
THE YOUNG MAY MOON 248 The Irishman’s serenade 248 The Bladder of whiskey 248 The Cat’s serenade 248 The old March moon. Diogenes, 1854 248 Song of the Signalman, Punch, 1885 248 Defeated Manœuvres 249
THE MINSTREL BOY 249 Mister Sheil into Kent has gone. W. M. Thackeray 249 The Sailor Boy on a tour is gone. 1832 249 The leary cove to the Mill is gone. 1832 249 The fiddler’s boy to the fair is gone 249 The Koh-i-noor to the wall has gone. Punch, 1851 250 The Cordon Bleu (M. A. Soyer). Punch, 1855 250 The Draper’s man. Punch, 1857 250 The Chinese Boy to the War is gone 250 The Errand Boy. Judy, 1869 250 The Beardless Boy. Punch, 1875 250 The Minstrel Boy in the train. Funny Folks 250 Bradlaugh to protest is gone. S. J. Miott 251 The Warrior Duke (of Cambridge) 251 The Alderman from Guildhall has gone. Judy, 1880 251 The Girton Girl to Exam’ has gone. Funny Folks 251 The Grand old Boy. Punch, 1882 251 The Noble Lord to the stores is gone. Judy, 1882 251 Sir D. V. Gay to the poll is gone. United Ireland 252 Our Bradlaugh boy 252 The ’prentice boy to the street has gone 252 The Grand Young Man. F. B. Doveton 252 The Grand old man to the North has gone. Life 253 The Grand old man. Songs for Liberal electors 253 The Shy Bo-Peep to the sea is gone. A. H. S. 276 The time I’ve lost in “screwing” 253 Come, rest on this gridiron. Punch, 1881 253 To the Finish I went. Dr. W. Maginn 253 I saw up the steps. Lays of the Mocking Sprite 253 I saw from my window. Girl of the Period, 1869 254
SAIL ON, SAIL ON, THOU FEARLESS BARK 254 Scale on, scale on, oh! tuneless strummer 254
THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE 254 Tea, Tea, only Tea. Punch, 1884 254
OH! CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME 254 Oh, try, good sirs, some better game. 1886. B. Saunders 254 Oh! try some worthier, better game. D. Evans 255 Oh! call it by some better name. J. Fitzpatrick 255 Oh! call it by some fitter name. Gossamer 255 Oh! call him by some stronger name. Robert Puttick 255
I KNEW BY THE SMOKE THAT SO GRACEFULLY CURL’D 255 I knew by the wig that so gracefully curl’d 255 I knew by the post that so gaily display’d. The Mirror, 1823 255 We knew by the string that so gracefully curl’d 256 I saw by the steam that so gracefully curl’d 256 I knew by the smoke that so heavily curl’d 256 To Dizzy, “When time hath bereft thee,” 1867 256 By the Thames to the right, is the flat shore of Erith 256 Had I a shilling left to spare, Bertie Vyse 256
A CANADIAN BOAT SONG. “Faintly as tolls the evening chime” 257 The Cabinet’s Boat Song, 1878 257 “Plainly as tolls disruption’s chime,” 1886 257
HITHER, FLORA, QUEEN OF FLOWERS! 257 “Hither, Flora of the street. T. A. Wilson 257 “Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers.” Aramis 258 ” ” ” ” Thistle 258 When in gaol I shall calm recline 258 When in death I shall quiet be found 258 When in death I shall calm recline. 1832 271 Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour 259 To Tory hearts a round, boys 259 A nice Devill’d Biscuit. Punch 259 Apple pie. “All new dishes fade.” 259
THOSE EVENING BELLS 259 Those Christmas Bills. W. Hone, 1826 259 That Chapel Bell. The Gownsman, 1830 260 My white moustache. Figaro, 1832 260 Those London belles. Miss Bryant 260 Those Ball-room belles. Diogenes, 1853 261 Those Scotch hotels, Diogenes, 1853 261 Those Gresham chimes. Punch, 1853 261 Those Tramway bells. Funny Folks 261 Those Evening bells. Tom Hood 261 Those London Bells. Shirley Brooks, 1855 261 Those Pretty Girls. J. W. W. 261 Those Vatted Rums. Punch, 1855 262 Those evening belles. Pan the Pilgrim 262 That Muffin bell. Punch, 1880 262 The Parcel Post. Judy, 1883 262 Those Evening belles. Moonshine, 1886 262
OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT 262 Oft, o’er my tea and toast. Figaro in London 263 Oft, in his present plight. The Puppet Show, 1848 263 Oft, in the chilly night. Memoirs of a Stomach 263 Oft, on a “silly” night. Funny Folks, 1878 263 Oft, in election’s fight. Truth, 1886 263
HERE’S THE BOWER SHE LOVED SO MUCH 264 Here’s the box that held the snuff 264 Here’s the bottle she loved so much. J. Bruton 264
THERE’S A BOWER OF ROSES BY BENDEMEER’S STREAM 264 There’s of benches a row in St. Stephen’s extreme 264 There’s a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard. Phœbe Carey, 1854 264 One morn a Tory at the gate. Figaro, 1832 265 A Peri at the “Royal” gate. Truth. 1877 265 This week a Peeress at the gate. Truth, 1883 265 One morn Ben Dizzy at the gate 266
FAREWELL, FAREWELL TO THEE, ARABY’S DAUGHTER 266 Farewell, farewell to thee, desolate Erin! 266 Farewell, farewell to thee, Arabi darling! 266 Begone, begone with thee, son of Shere Ali! 267 Away, away, with the Ameer unlucky! 267 Farewell, farewell to thee, Ireland’s protector! 270
OH! EVER THUS, FROM CHILDHOOD’S HOUR 267 I never wrote up “Skates to Sell” 267 I never loved a dear gazelle 268 I never rear’d a young gazelle. H. S. Leigh 268 I never had a piece of toast 268 A Parody by Tom Hood the younger 268 Wus! ever wus! H. Cholmondeley-Pennell 268 ’Twas ever thus! C. S. Calverley 268 I never bought a young Gazelle 269 The young Gazelle, a Moore-ish tale. Walter Parke 269 Come hither, come hither, by night and by day 270 A Parody. On the House of Commons, 1832 270 Sweet Borough of Tamworth 1832 270 The Sweet Briar. C. S. K. 271 Miscellaneous Parodies on “Paradise and the Peri” 271 Lalla Rookh Burlesque. Vincent Amcotts 272 One more Irish Melody, 1869 272 On Lord Brougham, 1833 272 Loves of the Mortals 272 Loves of the New Police 273 Jack Randall’s Diary, 1820 273 Young Love once fell through a straw-thatched shed 273 The Bencher, or whitewashing day 273 The Living Lustres. Rejected Addresses 273 A Fallen Angel over a Bowl of Rum-Punch. _Christopher North_, 1823 274 Love and the Flimsies. Thomas Love Peacock 275 The Bard of Erin’s Lament 275 Old Sherry. (An Anacreontic, 1828) 275
ANACREON’S ODE XXI. “Observe when mother earth is dry” 276 Earlier translations by Ronsard, Capilupus, Shakespeare, Lord Rochester, and Abraham Cowley 276 On Moore’s Plagiarisms. An article in Fraser’s Magazine, June, 1841 276 Lays of the Saintly. Walter Parke 270 “The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass,” by _Thomas Moore_ 260
――――
Sir Walter Scott.
Rebecca and Rowena. W. M. Thackeray 71 A Tale of Drury Lane. Rejected Addresses 72
BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER 73 Blue Stockings over the Border. Mirror 1828 74 Write, write, tourist and traveller. _Robert Gilfillan_ 74 Read, read, Woodstock and Waverley, _Robert Gilfillan_, 1831 74 Tax, tax, Income and Property. Punch, 1851 75 March, march, pipe-clayed and belted in 75 Take, take, lobsters and lettuces. Punch 75 Take, take, blue pill and colocynth. Punch 75 Drill, drill, London and Manchester. Punch, 1859 75
MR. KEMPLE’S FAREWELL ADDRESS, 1817 “As the worn war-horse at the trumpet’s sound” 75 Mr. Patrick Robertson’s farewell to the Bar “As the worn show horse whom Ducrow so long” 76 Lament for Tabby, or the Cat’s Coronach. The Satirist, 1814 76
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 77 Introduction―― “The way was long, the wind was cold” 77 “The tide was low, the wind was cold.” Funny Folks, 1875 77 “The sun was hot, the day was bright.” Weekly Echo, 1885 77 The Lay of the last Cab-Hack. Funny Folks 78 The Bray of the last Donkey 78 The Lay of the last Ministry. Fun, 1885 78 Mr. Barnum’s Experience of Travelling 116
CANTO III.―― “And said I that my limbs were old” 78 “And thought they I was growing old.” They are Five. 1880, 79
CANTO VI.―― “Breathes there the man with soul so dead” 79 A declamation, by Miss Mudge, the Blue Stocking 79 “Breathes there a Scot with soul so dead.” O. P. Q. P. Smiff. The Figaro, 1874 79 Pilosagine. Advertisement parody 80 “Lives there a man with soul so dead” 80 “Breathes there a man with taste so dead.” The Figaro, 1876 80 “O Caledonia! very stern and wild.” Jon Duan 80 Don Salisbury’s Midnight Vigil. Truth, 1885 81 Parody from the Lays of the Mocking Sprite 82
ALBERT GRAEME. “It was an English ladye bright” 81 “It was a toper one Saturday night” 81 “It was an Oxford Scholar bright.” The Shotover Papers, 1874 82 The Lay of the Poor Fiddler, 1814 81 St. Fillan’s Arm. From Lays of the Saintly, by Walter Parke 83 The Blue Brother. Walter Parke 83 The Lay of the Scottish Fiddle, 1814. _James Kirke Paulding_ 84 A Lay to the Last Minstrel. Edward Churton 84
MARMION. O Woman! in our hours of ease 84 Oh! Scotsman! in thine hour of ease 84 A good Wife 85 A Dedication to Women. Finis, 1877 85 The Mansion House Marmion (Lord Mayor Fowler). Truth, 1883 85
LOCHINVAR 86 Lock-and-Bar. Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine 86 “O young William Jones is come out of the West.” 87 “The big-booted Czar had his eye on the East.” Shirley Brooks, 1854 87 “It was Albert of Wales and his troop of Hussars. Judy, 1871 88 “Choice of Stoke-upon-Trent, lo, Kenealy confest.” Punch, 1875 88 “O young Stephey Cave is come out of the East.” 89 Young Lochinvar in Blank Verse. Free Press Flashes, 1883 89 “Oh! A Bishop from Surrey is come here to pray.” From Marmion Travesty, by Peter Pry 90 Epigrams on the Duke of York 91 A Parody concerning Mr. Digby Pigott. 1877. 116
THE LADY OF THE LAKE, 1810 91 The Lady of the Wreck, or Castle Blarneygig. George Colman 91 “The stag at eve had drunk his fill” 91 “The pig at eve was lank and faint” 91
BOAT SONG―― “Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances” 91 “Hail our Chief! now he’s wet through with whiskey.” George Colman 92 “Hail to the Chief” (Gladstone). Punch, 1880 92 The Nile Song. Punch, 1863 99 Mountain Dhu; or, the Knight, the Lady, and the Lake. Burlesque. Andrew Halliday, 1866 92 The Lady of the Lake, plaid in a new tartan. Burlesque. by R. Reece 92 “Raising the “Fiery Cross.” Punch, 1884 93
ROKEBY, 1813 94 Jokeby, by an amateur of Fashion, 1813 (attributed to John Roby, also to Thomas Tegg, and to the Brothers Smith) 94 “O, Brignall banks are wild and fair” 94 “Oh, Giles’s lads are brave and gay” 94 Smokeby, in Ephemerides, 1813 94 Rokeby the second, in the Satirist, 1813 94 MacArthur, an Epic Poem, ascribed to Walter Scott. The Satirist, 1808 95 Valentines. The Satirist, 1810 95 The Ovation of the Empty Chair. The Satirist, 1811 95 Walter Scott, Esq., to his Publishers. Accepted Addresses, 1813 96 The Poetic Mirror, or the Living Bards of Britain, by James Hogg, 1816 96 “O, heard ye never of Wat o’ the Cleuch” 97 The Battle of Brentford Green. Warreniana, 1824 97 The Bridal of Caolchairn. John Hay Allan, 1822 99 Rejected Odes. Humphrey Hedgehog, 1813 99 A Border Ballad. Thomas Love Peacock, 1837 99 “Carle, now the King’s come” 99 “Sawney, now the King’s come” 99 The Battle of Wimbledon. Punch, 1862 99 Kenilworth Burlesque, by R. Reece and H. B. Farnie 99 The Lay of the Lost Minstrel 112
CORONATION LAYS. The New Monthly Magazine, July, 1831. Containing parodies of Walter Scott, The Lay of the Lost Minstrel. T. Campbell, The Show in London. S. T. Coleridge, “The Sun it shone on spire and wall.” W. Wordsworth, Sonnets on the Coronation. L. E. Landon, The Little Absentee. George Crabbe, A Reflection. Thomas Moore, A Melody. Thomas Hood, A Glance from a Hood. Robert Southey, P.L., The Laureate’s Lay 112
――――
Scotch Songs.
The London University “March, march, dustmen and coal-heavers.” The Spirit of the Age, 1829 99 “Smoke, smoke! Arcade and College Green” 100
OH WHERE, AND OH WHERE 100 “Oh where, and oh where, is my Harry Brougham gone?” Punch, 1846 100 “Oh, where, and oh where, has my learned counsel gone?” Punch, 1848 100 The great kilt Reform. Diogenes, 1854 100 “Oh where, and oh where, has our Wand’ring Willie gone.” Judy, 1879 101
BONNIE DUNDEE “To the gents of the pantry ’twas Yellow-plush spoke,” 1872 101 The Maidens of Bonnie Dundee “And did they its meeting turn into a joke” 101 “Tis a jolly conception”!――’twas Truscott who spoke.” (The Temple Bar Obstruction) 101 “In the House of St. Stephen’s Britannia thus spoke” 102 “To the lords of Creation ’twas Chamberlain spoke” 102
THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING. The Pop’ an’ Jock Cumming, oh dear, oh dear 102 Hey, Johnny Cumming! are ye waukin’ yet? 103 The Camels are coming, at last, at last! The Globe, 1884 103 My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands. Punch, 1883 103
WOO’D AND MARRIED AN’ A’ 103 The Tourists’ Matrimonial Guide through Scotland. Lord Neaves 103
CHARLEY IS MY DARLING―― “Charley was so daring” (Sir Charles Napier) 104 “O, Langtry, wilt thou gang wi’ me” 105
ROBIN ADAIR―― “You’re welcome to Despots, Dumourier,” _Robert Burns_, 1793 105 “Canning, O rare!” Liverpool election, 1812 105
――――
Robert Southey, Poet Laureate.
THALABA THE DESTROYER―― “How beautiful is night?” 140 “How troublesome is day?” T. L. Peacock 141 “How beautiful is green?” Charterhouse Poems 141
THE CURSE OF KEHAMA―― “Midnight, and yet no eye.” 141 “Midnight, yet not a nose.” The Rebuilding _James Smith_. The Rejected Addresses 141 Justice. Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon, 1874 144
THE CATARACT OF LODORE―― “How does the water come down at Lodore?” 145 Before and after Marriage How do the gentlemen do before marriage? 145 How do they do after marriage 146 How the Daughters come down at Dunoon. Puck on Pegasus. H. C. Pennell 146 How does the drunkard go down to the tomb? 147 How do the jolly days pass in the Holidays? Banter, 1867 147 How the Horses come round at the Corner. Fun 148 May in Lincolnshire. Once a week, 1872 148 How do the ’Varsities come to the Race 149 Ready for the Derby Start. Funny Folks, 1878 149 How does the water come down at Niagara? Funny Folks, 1878 150 How the Customers come to the Sandown Bazaar. W. J. Craig, 1879 150 Is it how the Home Rulers make spaches, me boys? Miss Story 151 Here they come broguing, together colloquing. C. J. Graves 152 Here they come wrangling. Pembroke 152 Just out of one bother into another. Hoyle 152 The World. Parody Competition. Nov., 1879 How the Home Rulers behave at St. Stephens. F. B. Doveton, 1880 153 How do cheap trippers come down to the shore? 153 How do the waters come down on the public? 154 How the Commons rush in through the door? 154 How do the Landlords “come down on” the Act? 155 How the Tourists come down to the shore. Detroit Free Press, 1885 155 The Falls of Niagara. E. H. Bickford 156
“YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM” 156 A Parody from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland 156 “You are cold, Father William.” The Figaro 157 “You air old, Father William. Zoz, 1878 157 “You are old, Father William.” Mayfair, 1878 157 “You are sad, People’s William.” Truth, 1878 157 “You are old, turkey gobbler.” Free Press Flashes, 1882 158 “You look young, little Randolph.” Punch, 1882 158 Parody Competition in Truth, April 5, 1883 “You are old, Father William.” Repealer 159 “You are young, Master Randolph.” Pickwick 159 “You’re a Peer, now, Lord Wolseley.” Skriker 159 “New Honours, Lord Wolseley.” Old Log 159 “You are old, Lady William.” Third Raven 159 “You are old, Kaiser Wilhelm.” T. S. G. 160 “You are plain, Mr. Biggar.” Paste 160 “You are young, Randolph Churchill.” Yash 160 “You are old, Father William.” Don Juan 160 “You have told, Lady Florence.” Ohr 161 “You are old, Noble Senate.” Poetry for the Poor. 1884 161 “You are old, Father William” (Mr. Gladstone.) Truth, 1884 161 Old William Archer interviewed. The Sporting Times, 1885 162 On the danger of licking postage stamps. Funny Folks, 1885 162 Sequel to a great Poem. Once a Week, 1886 162 On Irish Policy. A new Alphabet of Irish Policy 162 A Valentine from Miss Hibernia to W. E. G. 163
THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM―― “It was a summer evening” 163 Notes on the Poem, 163 A Battle with Billingsgate. G. Cruikshank’s Comic Almanac 164 A Seasonable Gossip. The Puppet Show, 1848 164 The Battle of Jobbing. Diogenes, 1853 164 The Battle of Berlin. Funny Folks, 1878 165 Children at the Pantomime. F. B. Doveton. The World, 1880 165 Another Parody on the same topic. A. Salter 165 The Battle of Brummagem. William Bates 166 A Famous Holiday. Punch, 1880 166 A Glorious Victory (in Cricket). Punch, 1882 167 A Famous Victory (in Egypt). Clapham Free Press, 1884 168 The Battle of Blenheim House. Birmingham Daily Mail, 1885 168 The old Gladstonite and his Son. Morning Post 169 The Jackanape Jock, Cribblings from the Poets 169
SOUTHEY’S EARLY POLITICAL POEMS 170 BOB SOUTHEY! you’re a poet 171 The Anti-Jacobin Review 171 INSCRIPTION――Henry Marten, the Regicide 171 Inscription――Mrs. Brownrigg, the Prentice-cide 172 THE WIDOW. (Southey’s Sapphics) “Cold was the night-wind” 172 The Friend of Humanity, and the Knife Grinder 172 The Friend of Humanity, and the Bricklayer’s Labourer. John Bull, 1827 173 Sapphics of the Cabstand. Punch, 1853 173 Lay of the Proctor. The Shotover Papers, 1874 174 The Friend of Humanity, and Seafaring Person. Punch, 1874 174 The Friend of Humanity, and John Bull. Funny Folks, 1878 174 The Friend of Agriculture, and the needy new Voter. Punch, 1886 174
THE SOLDIER’S WIFE. Dactylics, 1795 175 The Soldier’s Friend. (Canning’s Contrast.) 175 The Soldier’s Wife. Imitation Dactylics 175
SOUTHEY’S OFFICIAL POEMS 176 The Curse of the Laureate. James Hogg 176
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 176 The Vision of Judgment. Lord Byron 176 A Slap at Slop. William Hone 177 “The New Times” and “The Constitutional Association” 177 A New Vision. William Hone 177 Carmen Triumphale. W. F. Deacon. Warreniana 179 “The Satirist or Monthly Meteor,” 1813 180 Epitaph for Robert Southey, Esq., Poet Laureate, The Spirit of the Public Journals, 1824 180
――――
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
THE COMMONWEAL, July 1, 1886 187 The Old Cause, A Counterblast. The Daily News, July 2, 1886 187 The Common Squeal. Punch, 1886 189 The Weekly Dispatch. Parodies by A. Whalley, and F. B. Doveton 189
CONTENTS OF PARTS I. TO XXXVI. PARODIES.
EACH PART MAY BE PURCHASED SEPARATELY.
PART 1. Alfred Tennyson’s Early Poems. PART 2. Alfred Tennyson’s Early Poems. PART 3. Alfred Tennyson’s Later Poems. PART 4. Page 49 to 62. Tennyson’s Poems. Page 62 to 64. H. W. Longfellow. PART 5. Page 65. A Parody of William Morris. Page 65 to 80. H. W. Longfellow. PART 6. Page 81 to 96. H. W. Longfellow. PART 7. Page 97 to 105. H. W. Longfellow. Hiawatha. Page 105 to 112. Rev. C. Wolfe. Not a Drum was heard. PART 8. Page 113. Not a Drum was heard. Page 113 to 128. The Song of the Shirt. PART 9. Page 129 to 135. Thomas Hood. Page 135 to 140. Bret Harte. Pages 140 & 141. Not a Drum was heard. Page 142 to 144. Alfred Tennyson. PART 10. Page 145 to 160. Alfred Tennyson. PART 11. Page 161 to 176. Alfred Tennyson. PART 12. Page 177 to 186. Alfred Tennyson. Page 187 to 190. Not a Drum was heard. Page 190 to 192. The Song of the Shirt. PART 13. Page 1 to 4. Bret Harte. Pages 4 and 5. Thomas Hood. Page 6 to 16. H. W. Longfellow. PART 14. Page 17 to 24. H. W. Longfellow. Page 25 to 40. Edgar Allan Poe. PART 15. Page 41 to 64. Edgar Allan Poe. PART 16. Page 65 to 88. Edgar Allan Poe. PART 17. Page 89 to 103. Edgar Allan Poe. Pages 103, 4 & 5. The Art of Parody. Page 106 to 112. My Mother, by Miss Taylor. PART 18. Page 113 to 135. My Mother. Page 136. The Vulture, (After “The Raven.”) Page 136. A Welcome to Battenberg. PART 19. Page 137 to 141. Tennyson’s The Fleet, etc. Page 141 to 143. My Mother. Page 144 to 160. Hamlet’s Soliloquy. PART 20. Page 161 to 184. W. Shakespeare. The Seven Ages of Man, etc. PART 21. Page 185 to 206. W. Shakespeare. Account of the Burlesques of his Plays. Page 206 to 208. Dr. Isaac Watts. PART 22. Page 209 to 217. Dr. Isaac Watts. Page 217 to 232. John Milton. PART 23. Page 233. John Milton. Page 233 to 236. Dryden’s Epigram on Milton. Page 236 to 238. Matthew Arnold. Page 239 to 244. W. Shakespeare. Page 244 to 246. Bret Harte. Page 246 to 255. H. W. Longfellow. Page 255 and 256 Thomas Hood. PART 24. Page 257 to 259. Thomas Hood. Page 260 to 280. Alfred Tennyson. PART 25. A CHAPTER ON PARODIES, by Isaac D’Israeli. Page 3 to 16. Oliver Goldsmith. PART 26. Page 17 to 20. Oliver Goldsmith. Page 20 to 40. Thomas Campbell. PART 27. Page 41 to 47. Thomas Campbell. Page 48 to 64. Robert Burns. PART 28. Page 65 to 71. Robert Burns. Page 71 to 88. Sir Walter Scott. PART 29. Page 89 to 99. Sir Walter Scott. Page 99 to 105. Scotch Songs. Page 106 to 109. Robert Burns. Page 109 to 112. Thomas Campbell. PART 30. Page 113 to 116. Coronation Lays. Page 117 to 129. Charles Kingsley. Page 129 to 136. Mrs. Hemans. PART 31. Page 137 to 140. Mrs. Hemans. Page 140 to 160. Robert Southey. PART 32. Page 161 to 181. Robert Southey. Page 181 to 184. The Anti-Jacobin. PART 33. Page 185 to 186. The Anti-Jacobin. Page 187 to 189. A. C. Swinburne. Page 189 to 208. Lord Byron. PART 34. Page 209 to 229. Lord Byron. Page 230 to 232. Thomas Moore. PART 35. Page 233 to 256. Thomas Moore. PART 36. Page 257 to 278. Thomas Moore. Page 278. Lord Byron. Pages 279 & 280. Charles Kingsley.
NOTES AND CORRECTIONS.
Page 19. Courtney Melmoth was the assumed name of T. J. Pratt, who wrote “The Tears of Genius” lamenting the death of Oliver Goldsmith.
Page 20, Line 3. For Cast read Caste.
Page 71, Column 2, line 6. Read “Mr. William Cadenhead.”
Page 80, Foot Note.――For “dear runs” read deer runs.
Page 197. The Enigma on the letter H. here ascribed to Lord Byron was written by Miss Catherine Fanshawe.
Page 208. “The Un-True Story” was written by Mr. Walter Parke for Punch and Judy, in 1870. The fifth line should read:――
“Know ye the land of the dollar and dime?”
Page 218. Foot Note. Read, “Parody of a song in _The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan_.”
Page 229. Don Juan Un-Read. This is a parody of _Wordsworth’s Yarrow Unvisited_.
A CHAPTER ON PARODIES.
A lady of bas bleu celebrity (the term is getting odious, particularly to our savantes) had two friends, whom she equally admired――an elegant poet, and his parodist. She had contrived to prevent their meeting as long as her stratagems lasted, till at length she apologised to the serious bard for inviting him when his mock umbra was to be present. Astonished, she perceived that both men of genius felt a mutual esteem for each other’s opposite talent; the ridiculed had perceived no malignity in the playfulness of the parody, and even seemed to consider it as a compliment, aware that parodists do not waste their talent on obscure productions; while the ridiculer himself was very sensible that he was the inferior poet. The lady-critic had imagined that PARODY must necessarily be malicious; and in some cases it is said those on whom the parody has been performed, have been of the same opinion.
PARODY strongly resembles mimicry, a principle in human nature not so artificial as it appears. Man may well be defined a mimetic animal. The African boy who amused the whole kafle he journeyed with, by mimicking the gestures and the voice of the auctioneer who had sold him at the slave market a few days before, could have had no sense of scorn, of superiority, or of malignity; the boy experienced merely the pleasure of repeating attitudes and intonations which had so forcibly excited his interest. The numerous parodies of Hamlet’s soliloquy were never made in derision of that solemn monologue, no more than the travesties of Virgil by Scarron and Cotton; their authors were never so gaily mad as that. We have parodies on the Psalms by Luther; Dodsley parodied the book of Chronicles, and Franklin’s most beautiful story of Abraham is a parody on the Scripture-style; not one of these writers, however, proposed to ridicule their originals; some ingenuity in the application was all that they intended. The lady-critic alluded to had suffered by a panic, in imagining that a parody was necessarily a corrosive satire. Had she indeed proceeded one step further, and asserted that PARODIES might be classed among the most malicious inventions in literature, in such parodies as Colman and Lloyd made on Gray’s odes, in their odes to “Oblivion and Obscurity,” her readings possibly might have supplied the materials of the present research.
PARODIES were frequently practised by the ancients, and with them, like ourselves, consisted of a work grafted on another work, but which turned on a different subject by a slight change of the expressions. It might be a sport of fancy, the innocent child of mirth; or a satirical arrow drawn from the quiver of caustic criticism; or it was that malignant art which only studies to make the original of the parody, however beautiful, contemptible and ridiculous. Human nature thus enters into the composition of parodies, and their variable character originates in the purpose of their application.
There is in “the million” a natural taste for farce after tragedy, and they gladly relieve themselves by mitigating the solemn seriousness of the tragic drama; for they find, as one of them told us, that it is but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous; and if this taste be condemned by the higher order of intellectual persons, and a critic said he would prefer to have the farce played before the tragedy, the taste for parody would be still among them, for whatever tends to level a work of genius is usually very agreeable to a great number of contemporaries. In the history of PARODIES, some of the learned have noticed a supposititious circumstance, which it is not improbable happened, for it is a very natural one. When the rhapsodists, who strolled from town to town to chant different fragments of the poems of Homer, and had recited some, they were immediately followed by another set of strollers――buffoons who made the same audience merry by the burlesque turn which they gave to the solemn strains which had just so deeply engaged their attention. It is supposed that we have one of these travesties of the Iliad in one Sotades, who succeeded by only changing the measure of the verses without altering the words, which entirely disguised the Homeric character; fragments of which are scattered in Dionysius Halicarnassensis, which I leave to the curiosity of the learned Grecian.[1] Homer’s battle of the Frogs and Mice, a learned critic, the elder Heinsius, asserts, was not written by the poet, but is a parody on the poem. It is evidently as good humoured an one as any in the “Rejected Addresses.” And it was because Homer was the most popular poet, that he was most susceptible of the playful honours of the parodist; unless the prototype is familiar to us, a parody is nothing! Of these parodists of Homer we may regret the loss of one. Timon of Philius, whose parodies were termed Silli, from Silenus being their chief personage; he levelled them at the sophistical philosophers of his age: his invocation is grafted on the opening of the Iliad, to recount the evil doings of those babblers, whom he compares to those bags in which Æolus deposited all his winds; balloons inflated with empty ideas! We should like to have appropriated some of these silli, or parodies of Timon the Sillograph, which, however, seem to have been at times calumnious.[2] Shenstone’s “School Mistress,” and some few other ludicrous poems, derive much of their merit from parody.
This taste for parodies was very prevalent with the Grecians, and is a species of humour which perhaps has been too rarely practised by the moderns: Cervantes has some passages of this nature in his parodies of the old chivalric romances; Fielding in some parts of his Tom Jones and Joseph Andrews, in his burlesque poetical descriptions; and Swift in his “Battle of Books,” and “Tale of a Tub,” but few writers have equalled the delicacy and felicity of Pope’s parodies in the “Rape of the Lock.” Such parodies give refinement to burlesque.
The ancients made a liberal use of it in their satirical comedy, and sometimes carried it on through an entire work, as in the Menippean satire, Seneca’s mock Eloge of Claudius, and Lucian in his Dialogues. There are parodies even in Plato, and an anecdotical one recorded of this philosopher shows them in their most simple state. Dissatisfied with his own poetical essays he threw them into the flames; that is, the sage resolved to sacrifice his verses to the god of fire; and in repeating that line in Homer where Thetis addresses Vulcan to implore his aid, the application became a parody, although it required no other change than the insertion of the philosopher’s name instead of the goddess’s:[3]
“Vulcan, arise! ’tis Plato claims thy aid!”
Boileau affords a happy instance of this simple parody. Corneille, in his Cid, makes one of his personages remark,
“Pour grands que soient les rois ils sont ce que nous sommes, Ils peuvent se tromper comme les autres hommes.”
A slight alteration became a fine parody in Boileau’s “Chapelain Décoiflé.”
“Pour grands que soient les rois ils sont ce que nous sommes, Ils se trompent en vers comme les autres hommes.”
We find in Athenæus the name of the Inventor of a species of parody which more immediately engages our notice――DRAMATIC PARODIES. It appears this inventor was a satirist, so that the lady-critic, whose opinion we had the honour of noticing, would be warranted by appealing to its origin to determine the nature of the thing. A dramatic parody, which produced the greatest effect, was “the Gigantomachia.” as appears by the only circumstance known of it. Never laughed the Athenians so heartily as at its representation, for the fatal news of the deplorable state to which the affairs of the republic were reduced in Sicily arrived at its first representation――and the Athenians continued laughing to the end! as the modern Athenians, the volatile Parisians, might in their national concern of an OPERA COMIQUE. It was the business of the dramatic parody to turn the solemn tragedy, which the audience had just seen exhibited, into a farcical comedy; the same actors who had appeared in magnificent dresses, now returned on the stage in grotesque habiliments, with odd postures and gestures, while the story, though the same, was incongruous and ludicrous. The Cyclops of Euripides is probably the only remaining specimen; for this may be considered as a parody of the ninth book of the Odyssey――the adventures of Ulysses in the cave of Polyphemus, where Silenus and a chorus of satyrs are farcically introduced, to contrast with the grave narrative of Homer, of the shifts and escape of the cunning man “from the one-eyed ogre.” The jokes are too coarse for the French taste of Brumoy, who, in his translation, goes on with a critical growl and foolish apology for Euripides having written a farce; Brumoy, like Pistol, is forced to eat his onion, but with a worse grace, swallowing and execrating to the end.
In dramatic composition, Aristophanes is perpetually hooking in parodies of Euripides, whom of all poets he hated, as well as of Æschylus, Sophocles, and other tragic bards. Since that Grecian wit, at length, has found a translator saturated with his genius, and an interpreter as philosophical, the subject of Grecian parody will probably be reflected in a clearer light from his researches.
Dramatic parodies in modern literature were introduced by our vivacious neighbours, and may be said to constitute a class of literary satires peculiar to the French nation. What had occurred in Greece a similar gaiety of national genius unconsciously reproduced. The dramatic parodies in our own literature, as in “The Rehearsal,” “Tom Thumb,” and “The Critic,” however exquisite, are confined to particular passages, and are not grafted on a whole original; we have neither naturalised the dramatic parody into a species, nor dedicated to it the honours of a separate theatre.
This peculiar dramatic satire, a burlesque of an entire tragedy, the volatile genius of the Parisians accomplished. Whenever a new tragedy, which still continues the favourite species of drama with the French, attracted the notice of the town, shortly after up rose its parody at the Italian theatre. A French tragedy is most susceptible of this sort of ridicule, by applying its declamatory style, its exaggerated sentiments, and its romantic out-of-the-way nature to the commonplace incidents and persons of domestic life; out of the stuff of which they made their emperors, their heroes, and their princesses, they cut out a pompous country justice, a hectoring tailor, or an impudent mantua-maker; but it was not merely this travesty of great personages, nor the lofty effusions of one in a lowly station, which terminated the object of parody; it intended a better object, that of more obviously exposing the original for any absurdity in its scenes, or in its catastrophe, and dissecting faulty characters; in a word, critically weighing the nonsense of the poet. It sometimes became a refined instructor for the public, whose discernment is often blinded by party or prejudice. It was, too, a severe touch-stone for genius: Racine, some say, smiled, others say he did not, when he witnessed Harlequin, in the language of Titus to Berenice, declaiming on some ludicrous affair to Columbine; La Motte was very sore, and Voltaire and others shrunk away with a cry――from a parody! Voltaire was angry when he witnessed his Mariamne parodied by La mauvaise Mênage; or “Bad House-keeping:” the aged, jealous Herod was turned into an old cross country justice; Varus, bewitched by Mariamne, strutted a dragoon; and the whole establishment showed it was under very bad management. Fuzelier collected some of these parodies,[4] and not unskilfully defends their nature and their object against the protest of La Motte, whose tragedies had severely suffered from these burlesques. His celebrated domestic tragedy of Inez de Castro, the fable of which turns on a concealed and clandestine marriage, produced one of the happiest parodies in Agnes de Chaillot. In the parody the cause of the mysterious obstinacy of Pierrot the son, in persisting to refuse the hand of the daughter of his mother-in-law Madame la Baillive, is thus discovered by her to Monsieur le Baillif:――
“Mon mari, pour le coup j’ai découvert l’affaire, Ne vous étonnez plus qu’à nos désirs contraire, Pour ma fille, Pierrot, ne montre que mépris: Voilà l’unique objet dont son cœur est épris.” (Pointing to Agnes de Chaillot. The Baillif exclaims,
“Ma servante?”
This single word was the most lively and fatal criticism of the tragic action of Inez de Castro, which, according to the conventional decorum and fastidious code of French criticism, grossly violated the majesty of Melpomene, by giving a motive and an object so totally undignified to the tragic tale. In the parody there was something ludicrous when the secret came out which explained poor Pierrot’s long concealed perplexities, in the maid-servant bringing forward a whole legitimate family of her own! La Motte was also galled by a projected parody of his “Machabees”――where the hasty marriage of the young Machabeus, and the sudden conversion of the amorous Antigone, who, for her first penitential act, persuades a youth to marry her, without first deigning to consult her respectable mother, would have produced an excellent scene for the parody. But La Motte prefixed an angry preface to his Inez de Castro; he inveighs against all parodies, which he asserts to be merely a French fashion (we have seen, however, that it was once Grecian), the offspring of a dangerous spirit of ridicule, and the malicious amusement of superficial minds.――“Were this true,” retorts Fuzelier, “we ought to detest parodies; but we maintain, that far from converting virtue into a paradox, and degrading truth by ridicule, PARODY will only strike at what is chimerical and false; it is not a piece of buffoonery so much as a critical exposition. What do we parody but the absurdities of dramatic writers, who frequently make their heroes act against nature, common sense and truth? After all” he ingeniously adds, “it is the public, not we, who are the authors of these PARODIES; for they are usually but the echoes of the pit, and we parodists have only to give a dramatic form to the opinions and observations we hear. Many tragedies,” Fuzelier, with admirable truth, observes, “disguise vices into virtues, and PARODIES unmask them.” We have had tragedies recently which very much required parodies to expose them, and to shame our inconsiderate audiences, who patronised these monsters of false passions. The rants and bombast of some of these might have produced, with little or no alteration of the inflated originals, “A Modern Rehearsal,” or a new “Tragedy for Warm Weather.”
Of PARODIES, we may safely approve of their legitimate use, and even indulge their agreeable maliciousness; while we must still dread that extraordinary facility to which the public, or rather human nature, are so prone, as sometimes to laugh at what, at another time, they would shed tears.
Tragedy is rendered comic or burlesque by altering the station and manners of the persons; and the reverse may occur, of raising what is comic and burlesque into tragedy. On so little depends the sublime or the ridiculous! Beattie says “In most human characters there are blemishes, moral, intellectual, or corporeal; by exaggerating which, to a certain degree, you may form a comic character; as by raising the virtues, abilities, or external advantages of individuals, you form epic or tragic characters;” a subject humourously touched upon by Lloyd, in the prologue to “The Jealous Wife.”
“Quarrels, upbraidings, jealousies, and spleen, Grow too familiar in the comic scene; Tinge but the language with heroic chime, ’Tis passion, pathos, character sublime. What big round words had swell’d the pompous scene, A king the husband, and the wife a queen!”
――――:o:――――
This apology for Parody, extracted from “The Curiosities of Literature,” was written by the late Mr. Isaac D’Israeli more than fifty years ago. Mr. Isaac D’Israeli was a Jewish gentleman of great literary attainments, and of a most amiable character. He was the father of the late Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield. Mr. Isaac D’Israeli died in 1848.
Dr. Oliver Goldsmith,
Born at Pallas, in the County of Longford, Ireland, Nov. 29, 1728,
Died in Brick Court, Temple, London, April 4, 1774.
[Illustration: B]efore quoting the Parodies on the Poems of Oliver Goldsmith, mention must be made of three instances, in which he, himself, borrowed ideas from French sources. These are the well-known “Elegy on the Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize,” the “Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog,” and the favourite verses, entitled “Stanzas on Woman,” commencing “When lovely woman stoops to folly,” which appeared in “The Vicar of Wakefield,” when first published in 1765. Before Goldsmith settled down in London as a struggling man of letters, he had spent some time wandering about on the Continent, and had obtained a fairly good insight into foreign literature. He had, therefore, in all probability seen the poems of Ségur, printed in Paris in 1719, in which the following lines occur:――
“Lorsqu’une femme, après trop de tendresse, D’un homme sent la trahison, Comment, pour cette si douce foiblesse, Peut-elle trouver une guérison? Le seul remède qu’elle peut ressentir. La seule revanche pour son tort Pour faire trop tard l’amant repentir, Hélas! trop tard,――est la mort.”[5]
These he appears to have almost literally translated, thus:――
When lovely woman stoops to folly And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from ev’ry eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom――is to die.
――――
A PARAPHRASE.
“When Woman,” as Goldsmith declares, “stoops to folly,” And finds out too late that false man can “betray,” She is apt to look dismal, and grow “melan-choly,” And, in short, to be anything rather than gay.
He goes on to remark that “to punish her lover, Wring his bosom, and draw the tear into his eye, There is but one method” which he can discover That’s likely to answer――that one is “to die!”
He’s wrong――the wan and withering cheek; The thin lips, pale, and drawn apart; The dim yet tearless eyes, that speak The misery of the breaking heart;
The wasted form, th’enfeebled tone That whispering mocks the pitying ear; Th’ imploring glances heaven-ward thrown As heedless, helpless, hopeless here;
These wring the false one’s heart enough If made of penetrable stuff.
From The Black Mousquetaire (The Ingoldsby Legends.)
――――
A SONG FOR THE MILLION.
When Harry Brougham turns a Tory, Too late convinc’d that Whigs betray, What can revive his tarnish’d glory? What his desertion best repay?
The only robe his shame to cover, To hide the brand upon his back, And best reward this faithless lover―― That Peel can give him is――the sack.
Punch February, 1844.
――――
“WHEN LOVELY WOMAN.”
When lovely woman wants a favour, And finds, too late, that man won’t bend, What earthly circumstance can save her From disappointment in the end?
The only way to bring him over, The last experiment to try, Whether a husband or a lover, If he have feeling, is――to cry!
From Poems and Parodies, by Phœbe Carey. Boston, 1854.
――――
A SONG.
When lovely woman, prone to folly, Finds that e’en ROWLAND’S oils betray; What charm can soothe her melancholy? What art can turn gray hairs away?
The only art gray hairs to cover, To hide their tint from every eye, To win fresh praises from her lover, And make him offer――is to dye.
Punch, April, 1854.
――――
A REMEDY.
When lovely woman stoops to poli- Tics, and finds it doesn’t pay, What charm can wean her from her folly, And put her in the proper way?
The only plan we can discover, Is the one we now propose; That she should obtain a lover, Marry him, and mend his hose.
Diogenes, 1853.
――――
CANZONET ON CRINOLINE. By a Wretch.
When lovely woman, hooped in folly, Grows more expansive every day, And makes her husband melancholy To think what bills he’ll have to pay.
When in the width of fashion swelling, With air-balloons her skirts may vie, The truth――(what hinders Punch from telling?)―― Is that she looks a perfect Guy!
Punch, February 21, 1857.
――――
“ANOTHER WAY.”
When lovely woman, Lump of Folly, Would show the world her vainest trait; Would treat herself as child her dolly, And warn each man of sense away.
The surest method she’ll discover To prompt a wink from every eye, Degrade a spouse, disgust a lover, And spoil a scalp-skin――is to dye,
SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1866.
――――
A SILLY MANAGER.
When Managers have stooped to folly, And find vulgarity won’t pay, And audiences won’t be jolly, But boldly rise and hiss the play:
In order their misdeeds to cover, Some clap-trap for the gods they try Before the farce is halfway over, And insult add to injury.
Fun, November 24, 1866.
――――
GOLDSMITH IMPROVED.
When lovely woman takes to lollies,[6] And finds, too late, her teeth decay, What penitence can cure her follies, What chloroform her pain allay?
If beauteous, she’ll be kindly pitied; If ugly, each good-tooth’d one’s butt. So she must get her mouth refitted, Or, what is better――keep it shut!
The Grasshopper, July 1, 1869.
――――
BEAUTIFUL FOR EVER.
When lovely woman, still a maiden, Finds her locks are turning grey, What art can keep their hue from fading? What balm can intercept delay?
The only art her age to cover, To hide the change from every eye, To quell repentance in her lover, And soothe his bosom is――to dye.
Kottabos. Dublin, W. McGee, 1872.
――――
FASHION.
When lovely woman stoops to fashion And finds it like man’s fancy change, What can reclaim the truant passion, And capture it no more to range?
The only way to curb love’s passion. And charm her fickle lover’s eye, To bring the colour to her chignon―― As the old joke says is――to dye.
The Hornet.
――――
STANZAS ON WOMAN――BY O. G.
When lovely woman takes to rinking, And finds how hard the asphalte’s got, What charm can save her heart from sinking, What art can heal the injured spot?
The only plan she can pursue, To save herself another fall, In fact the only thing to do, In future’s not to rink at all.
The Idylls of the Rink, 1876.
――――
STANZAS ON WOMAN. By a modern Goldsmith.
When lovely woman reads Le Follet, And tries her best to men betray; She makes herself a pretty dolly, But fritters all her soul away.
When she grows old, and charms decay, And crow’s-feet come beneath each eye; When skin is wrinkled――hair is grey―― Her only chance is then――to dye!
The Figaro, January 1, 1873.
――――
STANZAS ON MAN. By Dr. Silversmith.
When foolish man consents to marry, And finds, too late, his wife a shrew, When she her point in all must carry, ’Tis hard to say what’s best to do!
In hopes the breeches to recover, To hide his shame from every eye. To be as free as when her lover His only method is――to fly.
――――
A BIT OF GOLDSMITH’S WORK NEW GILT.
When lovely woman once so jolly, Finds, late in life, that hair grows grey, How make her case less melancholy, How hide Time’s step that none can stay?
The only way his track to cover, To mask her age from every eye, And if she have a spoon for lover To keep him still “spoons,” is――to dye!
――――
ON A BREACH OF PROMISE.
When lovely woman finds that breaches Of promise are her suitor’s wear, What is it the black record bleaches, And comforts the deserted fair?
To punish the unfaithful lover, Where only he’ll his falsehood rue, Substantial damages recover―― Pursue him not, but his purse sue!
――――
VENUS IMITATRIX.
[Another Ladies Club is starting at the West-end.――See Society Journals.]
(Sung by a Clubbess).
When lovely woman’s melancholy Because her husband stays away From home, pursuing some mad folly, (“’Tis business, love,” they always say).
The only plan to teach him manners, And cure the midnight latchkey hub, Is, dears, to march beneath our banners―― So, ladies, come and join our club.
――――
STANZAS ON WOMAN.
When lovely woman longs to marry, And snatch a victim from the beaux, What charms the soft design will carry? What art will make the men propose?
The only art her schemes to cover, To give her wishes sure success, To gain, to fix a captive lover, And “wring his bosom,” is TO DRESS.
――――
ON MR. ODGER. (Formerly Candidate for Southwark.)
When stupid Odger stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What thought can make him once more jolly? What hope can drive his spite away?
The only thought his rage to smother Is one we’ll hope will turn out true; ’Tis thus he mutters, “You’re another; As you’ve Hughes’d me, they’ll use you too.”
Judy.
――――
FASHION.
When foolish woman stoops to fashion, And finds tight-lacing doesn’t pay, But turns her grey, and brings a rash on Her nose no powder charms away;
What best the horrid tints can cover? What hide the truth from every eye, Defying e’en keen sighted lover? ’Tis to Enamel and to Dye.
Grins and Groans, 1882.
――――
MINT SAUCE FOR LAMB. (After Goldsmith.)
When man, less faithful than the colley, Deserts his love and goes astray, What art can make the maiden jolly? What charm can drive her grief away?
The way her grief to overcome is, Instead of lying down to die, To claim three thou for breach of promise, And show her swain the reason why.
Judy, August 24, 1881.
――――
WOMAN’S RIGHTS.
[Mrs. Longshore Potts says that, if a woman fall in love, custom ought not to debar her making some proposal.]
When lovely woman’s melancholy, And finds she’s in a love-sick way, Must she be bound by custom’s folly, And never more her love betray?
No! Helen must her heart discover To Modus; but if all in vain, And he should scorn to be her lover, Her sole resource is――try again.
Fun, March 25, 1885.
――――
THE OMNIBUS. (By an Old Bachelor.)
If lovely woman seeks to enter The crowded ’bus in which you ride, Have you the heart to discontent her. Or would you rather go outside?
I’m brute enough, I dare to state, Although it may the lady vex, To keep my seat, and let her wait―― I’ve “bussed” too many of the sex.
Gossip, May 16, 1885.
――――
When lovely woman pines in folly Because her hair is turning gray, What charm can soothe her melancholy? What art can drive her grief away?
The only art her woe to cover, To hide her age from every eye, To come the gum-game o’er her lover And to make her happy――is to dye!
Detroit Free Press, August, 1885.
――――
The following, signed “By the Ghost of Goldsmith,” was picked up in the Queen’s Bench Division Court after the termination of the trial, Foli v. Bradshaw, that being an action for assault brought by the eminent singer, in May, 1884:――
“When lovely woman stoops to Foli, And lets her son with cudgels play, An action soon brings melancholy, And damages one has to pay.”
The two other before-named poems by Goldsmith, which can be traced to a French source, are so similar in style that they may be both given together, followed by the French original:――
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.
Good people all of every sort, Give ear unto my song, And if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran Whene’er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad, When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends; But, when a pique began, The dog, to gain his private ends, Went mad and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets The wondering neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man.
The wound it seemed both sore and sad To ev’ry Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light, That shew’d the rogues they ly’d; The man recover’d of the bite, The dog it was that dy’d.
――――
AN ELEGY. On the Glory of her Sex, MRS. MARY BLAIZE.
Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word―― From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom passed her door, And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor―― Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighbourhood to please, With manners wondrous winning, And never followed wicked ways―― Unless when she was sinning.
At church in silk and satin new, With hoop of monstrous size; She never slumbered in her pew―― But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more; The King himself has followed her―― When she has walk’d before.
But now her wealth, and finery fled, Her hangers on cut short all; The doctors found, when she was dead―― Her last disorder, mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent-street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more, She had not died to-day!
GOLDSMITH.
――――
The following Chanson du Fameux la Galisse, taken from Ménagiana, 1729, must have supplied hints for the construction of the foregoing poems:――
“LE FAMEUX LA GALISSE.”
Messieurs, vous plait-il d’ouir L’air du fameux la Galisse, Il pourra vous rejouir, Pourvû qu’il vous divertisse.
La Gallisse eut peu de bien, Pour soutenir sa naissance; Mais il ne manqua de rien, Dès qu’il fut dans l’abondance.
Bien instruit dès le berçeau, Jamais, tant il fut honnête, Il ne mettoit son chapeau Qu’il ne se couvrit la tête.
Il étoit affable et doux, De l’humeur de feu son père, Et n’entroit guère en courroux, Si ce n’est dans la colere.
Il buvoit tous les matins Un doight tiré de la tonne, Et mangeant chez les voisins, Il s’y trouvoit en personne.
Il vouloit dans ses repas Des mets exquis et fort tendres, Et faisoit son Mardi gras, Toujours la veille des Cendres.
Ses valets étoient soigneux De le servir d’andouillettes, Et n’oublioient pas les œufs Surtout dans les omelettes.
De l’inventeur du raisin Il révéroit la mémoire, Et pour bien gouter le vin, Jugeoit qu’il en falloit boire.
Il disoit que le nouveau Avoit pour lui plus d’amorce, Et moins il y mettoit d’eau Plus il y trouvoit de force.
Il consultoit rarement Hippocrate et sa doctrine, Et se purgeoit seulement, Quand il prenoit médecine.
Au piquet par tout payis, Il jouoit suivant sa pante, Et comptoit quatre vingt dix, Lorsqu’il marquoit un nonante.
Il savoit les autres jeux Qu’on joue à l’Académie, Et n’etoit pas malheureux Tant qu’il gagnoit la partie.
On s’étonne sans raison D’une chose très commune; C’est qu’il vendit sa maison, Il faloit qu’il en eut une.
Il aimoit à prendre l’air, Quand la saison étoit bonne, Et n’attendoit pas l’hyver, Pour vendanger en automne.
Il épousa, ce dit on, Une vertueuse Dame; S’il avoit vêcu garçon, Il n’auroit point eu de femme.
Il en fut toujours cheri, Elle n’étoit point jalouse; Si tot qu’il fut son mari, Elle devint son épouse.
Il passa près de huit ans Avec elle, fort à l’aise, En eut jusqu’à huit enfans, C’étoit la moitié de seize.
On dit que dans ses amours, Il fut caressé des belles, Que le suivirent toujours, Tant qu’il marcha devant elles.
D’un air galant et badin, Il courtisoit sa Caliste, Sans jamais être chagrin Qu’au moment qu’il etoit triste.
Il brilloit comme un Soleil, Sa Chevelure étoit blonde: Il n’eut pas eu son pareil, S’il eût été seul au monde.
Il eût des talens divers, Meme on assure une chose, Quand il écrivoit en vers, Qu’il n’écrivoit pas en prose.
En matiére de rébus Il n’avoit pas son semblable: S’il eût fait des impromtus, Il en eût été capable.
Il savoit un triolet Bien mieux que sa patenôtre: Quand il chantoit un couplet, Il n’en chantoit pas un autre.
Il expliqua doctement La Physique et la Morale. Et soutint qu’une jument Etoit toujours une cavale.
Par un discours sérieux Il prouva que la berluë, Et les autres maux des yeux Sont contraires à la vûe.
Chacun alors applaudit A sa science inouïe, Tout homme qui l’entendit, N’avoit das perdu l’ouïe.
Il prétendit en un mois Lire toute l’Ecriture, Et l’auroit lue une fois, S’il en eût fait la lecture.
Par son esprit, et son air Il s’aquit le don de plaire: Le Roi l’eut fait Duc et Pair S’il avoit voulu le faire.
Mieux que tout autre il savoit A la Cour jouer son role, Et jamais lorsqu’il buvoit Ne disoit une parole.
Il choisissoit prudemment De deux choses la meilleure, Et répétoit fréquemment, Ce qu’il disoit à toute heure.
Il fut à la verité Un danseur assez vulgaire; Mais il n’eut pas mal chanté S’il avoit voulu se taire.
Il eut la goute à Paris Long tems cloué sur sa couche En y jettant les hauts cris, Il ouvroit bien fort la bouche.
Lorsqu’en sa maison des champs Il vivoit libre et tranquille, On auroit perdu son temps De le chercher à la ville.
On raconte, que jamais Il ne pouvoit se résoudre A charger ses pistolets Quand il n’avoit pas de poudre.
Un jour il fut assiné Devant son Juge ordinaire. S’il eût été condamné Il eut perdu son affaire.
On ne le vit jamais las, Ni sujet à la paresse, Tandis qu’il ne dormoit pas, On tient qu’il veillait sans cesse.
Il voyageoit volontiers, Courant partout le Royaume Quand il étoit à Poitiers Il n’étoit pas à Vendôme.
Il se plaisoit en bateau, Et soit en paix, soit en guerre, Il alloit toujours par eau A moins qu’il n’alla par terre.
Une fois s’étant fourré Dans un profond marécage, Il y seroit demeuré, S’il n’eut pu trouver passage.
Il fuioit asses l’excês, Mais dans les cas d’importance, Quand il se mettoit en frais, Il se mettoit en dépense.
Dans un superbe tournoi Pret a fournir sa carrière, Il parut devant le Roi, Il n’etoit donc pas derrière.
Monté sur un cheval noir, Les Dames le reconnurent, Et c’est la qu’il se fit voir, A tout ceux qui l’apperçurent.
Mais bien qu’il fût vigoureux, Bien qu’il fit le Diable à quatre Il ne renversa que ceux Qu’il eut l’addresse d’abattre.
C’etoit un homme de cœur Insatiable de gloire; Lorsqu’il etoit le vainqueur Il remportoit la victoire.
Les places qu’il attaquoit A peine osoient se défendre, Et jamais il ne manquoit Celles qu’on lui voyait prendre.
Un devin pour deux testons Lui dit d’une voix hardie, Qu’il mourroit de là les monts, S’il mourrait en Lombardie.
Il y mourut ce Heros, Personne aujourd’hui n’en doute; Si tôt qu’il eut les yeux clos, Aussitot il ne vit goute.
Il fut par un triste sort, Blessé d’une main cruelle: On croit, puisqu’il en est mort, Que la plaie etoit mortelle.
Regretté de ses soldats, Il mourut digne d’envie Et le jour de son trépas Fut le dernier de sa vie.
J’ai lu dans les vieux écrits Qui contiennent son histoire, Qu’il iroit en Paradis S’il etoit en Purgatoire.
――――
Some verses of this song were translated, and published in The Mirror, November 8, 1823. They do not adhere very closely to the original.
THE HAPPY MAN.
La Gallisse now I wish to touch, Droll air! if I can strike it, I’m sure the song will please you much; That is, if you should like it.
La Gallisse was indeed, I grant, Not used to any dainty, When he was born――but could not want, As long as he had plenty.
Instructed with the greatest care, He always was well-bred, And never used a hat to wear, But when ’twas on his head.
His temper was exceeding good, Just of his father’s fashion; And never quarrels broil’d his blood, Except when in a passion.
His mind was on devotion bent, He kept with care each high day, And Holy Thursday always spent, The day before Good Friday.
He liked good claret very well, I just presume to think it; For ere its flavour he could tell, He thought it best to drink it.
Than doctors more he loved the cook, Though food would make him gross; And never any physic took, But when he took a dose.
Oh, happy, happy is the swain The ladies so adore; For many followed in his train, Whene’er he walk’d before.
Bright as the sun his flowing hair In golden ringlets shone; And no one could with him compare, If he had been alone.
His talents I cannot rehearse, But every one allows, That whatsoe’er he wrote in verse No one could call it prose.
He argued with precision nice, The learned all declare; And it was his decision wise, No horse could be a mare.
His powerful logic would surprise, Amuse, and much delight. He prov’d that dimness of the eyes Was hurtful to the sight.
They lik’d him much――so it appears, Most plainly――who preferred him; And those did never want their ears, Who any time had heard him.
He was not always right, ’tis true, And then he must be wrong; But none had found it out, he knew, If he had held his tongue.
Whene’er a tender tear he shed, T’was certain that he wept; And he would lay awake in bed, Unless, indeed, he slept.
In tilting everybody knew His very high renown; Yet no opponents he o’er-threw, But those that he knocked down.
At last they smote him in the head―― What hero e’re fought all? And when they saw that he was dead, They knew the wound was mortal.
And when at last he lost his breath, It closed his every strife; For that sad day that sealed his death, Deprived him of his life.
――――
Ménage introduces Le Chanson de la Galisse without any other explanation than that it relates to the adventures of an imaginary character, he does not mention the Author’s name, nor does he refer to any other poem having any resemblance to it. Yet there was a “Chanson” written in exactly the same style and metre, recording (in burlesque it is true) the adventures of a brave French officer, named La Palice. And what makes it more remarkable is, that this poem was written by a friend of M. Gilles de Ménage, the grave and religious Bernard de la Monnoye, who conceived the idea of personifying nonsensical truths in his Complaint upon the Life and Death of La Palice; careless of attaching popular ridicule to a name which should excite only recollections of heroic and military virtue.
Concerning this Chanson de la Palice there was a long article in Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal, as far back as July, 1845, from which the following notes are extracted:――
“Thanks to this strange production, we know that the famous La Palice died in losing his life, and that he would not have had his equal had he been alone in the world. Doubtless it is satisfactory to know that he could never make up his mind to load his pistols when he had no powder; and that when he wrote verse he did not write prose; or that while drinking he never spoke a word. These are certainly notable details concerning the habits and character of this great man, but it is also certain that La Palice had greater claims to admiration which may be brought to light in illustrating some stanzas of the biographical ballad. The song begins thus:――
‘Please you, gentlemen, to hear The song of La Palice; It surely will delight you all, Provided that it please,’
Besides this proposition, the historian would have done well to tell us that La Palice was of noble race, for his grandfather, an earlier Jacques de Chabannes, after valiantly defending Castillon against Talbot, the English Achilles, died of his wounds at the siege of this city, which, two years afterwards (17th July, 1453), cost the life of his illustrious enemy.
‘La Palice but little wealth To his renown could bring; And when abundance was his lot, He lacked no single thing.’
Abundance of glory, of honours, of treasures, of war on battle fields; this was surely what the poet meant to say. He ought to have been rich indeed, when three sovereigns successively invested him with the titles of marshal of France, governor of Bourbonnais, of Auvergne, of Forez and the Lyonnais.
‘He was versed in all the games Played at the academy; And never was unfortunate When he won the victory.’
Those which he gained are faithfully chronicled in history. First, stands Marignan in 1515, next Fontarabia, in 1521; then Bicocca, in Lombardy, where La Palice, being second in command, made incredible exertions to recover the fortunes of the day; and last, Marseilles, which went to sleep one night Spanish, and woke up French the next morning, because a great Captain, Chabannes de la Palice, had scaled her walls, and effaced by dint of courage the shame with which the desertion of Bourbon had tarnished the name of French gentlemen.
‘To do and dare in his career, He readily inclined; And when he stood before the king, He was not, sure, behind.
Fate dealt to him a cruel blow. And stretched him on the ground; And ’tis believed that since he died, It was a mortal wound.
His death was sore and terrible, Upon a stone his head; He would have died more easily Upon a feather bed.’
Chabannes made a sortie with a handful of brave fellows from the fort which he defended against the Spanish army, and saw all those who followed fall around him. A Spanish soldier climbs over the barrier of corpses piled before him, aims a tremendous blow at his head, beneath which the brave La Palice fell senseless to the earth,
‘Deplored and envied by his braves, He shut his eyes to strife; And we are told his day of death Was the last of his life.’
――――:o:――――
THE RIGHT AND MARVELLOUS HISTORY OF JOHN SMITH.
John Smith he was a guardsman bold, A stouter never fought; He would have been a grenadier, But he was one foot short.
But to a man of John Smith’s mind The love of power had charms; So when his captain ordered him, John Smith order’d his arms.
An active, bustling blade was he, At drill and eke at mess, Who never thought to stand at ease When Captains called out “dress,”
Attentive always to the word, It never was his wont To turn his eyes or right or left―― When Captains cried “eyes front!”
Though he was ever thought correct, Once, during an assault, He ne’er advanced a single foot―― ’Cause he was told to halt.
But still he was not coward called, Why,――we can soon detect; His foes all fell dead at his feet,―― When his shots took effect.
But tired of knapsack and of gun And firing in platoons, The infantry he quitted when―― He entered the dragoons.
His saddle now became his home, His horse and he seemed one; And he was ne’er known to dismount,―― Unless he first got on.
How brave and bold a man he was, From one small fact is clear; Whole regiments fled before him when,―― He followed in their rear.
He was a steady soldier then. And sober too, of course, And ne’er into a tap-room went,―― Mounted upon his horse.
In fact his conduct was so good, His Captains all confess He never got into a scrape,―― Though always in a mess.
Though as to what fights he’d been in Men differed,――none denied That the last battle he e’er fought Was that in which he died.
The soldiers there who saw him fall, Exclaimed, as with one breath, “Unless his wound’s a mortal one, It will not cause his death.”
Unlike most epitaphs, John Smith’s Nought but the truth did tell; But this none ever stopped to read, Who had not learn’d to spell.
“Stop, passenger, and weep;――one tear To him you can’t refuse, Who stood――high in his regiment, And five feet in his shoes.”
The Comic Magazine, 1834.
――――
A HISTORY.
There was a man, so legends say, And he――how strange to tell!―― Was born upon the very day, Whereon his birthday fell.
He was a baby first. And then He was his parents’ joy; But was a man soon after, when He ceased to be a boy.
And when he got to middle life, To marry was his whim; The self-same day he took a wife, Some woman wedded him.
None saw him to the other side Of Styx by Charon ferried; But ’tis conjectured that he died Because he has been buried.
TOM HOOD, the younger.
The Century Magazine for November, 1883, contained an _Elegy on Mrs. Grimes_, written in the same vein of humour as Goldsmith’s Elegy on Madam Blaize.
――――:o:――――
DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR’S BED-CHAMBER.
Where the Red Lion staring o’er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay; Where Calvert’s butt, and Parson’s black champaign. Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury Lane; There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, The Muse found Scroggen stretch’d beneath a rug; A window patch’d with paper, lent a ray, That dimly shew’d the state in which he lay; The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread: The humid wall with paltry pictures spread: The Royal game of goose was there in view, And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew; The seasons, fram’d with listing, found a place, And brave Prince William shew’d his lamp-black face: The morn was cold, he views with keen desire The rusty grate unconscious of a fire: With beer and milk arrears, the frieze was scor’d, And five cracked tea-cups dress’d the chimney-board; A night-cap deck’d his brows instead of bay A cap by night――a stocking all the day!
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
――――
BEAUTIES OF THE GREAT MASTERS. THE STREET ARTIST.
Where sturdy beggars, blocking up the way, Molest each passing pilgrim that can pay; Where generous souls, unused to sights of pain, Toss half-pence to the cripples in the lane; There on a wintry morning, clad in rags, The Kid found Tompkins shivering on the flags―― A ragged beard disguised his sallow cheeks, Which plainly showed he hadn’t shaved for weeks; And o’er the pavement――green, and blue, and red―― In coloured chalk, his paltry pictures spread; Maxims of charity were there in view, And next a bunch of grapes the artist drew, Then half a mackerel, (or perhaps a plaice), And great Napoleon showed his well-known face―― The morn was cold――he takes with down-cast eye The offerings of the pitying passers-by―― How changed the scene, when, to his home returned, He meets his pals, and boasts the tin he’s earned―― With steaks and beer his vigour is restored, And crack companions grace his festive board―― He dons a coat――his rags he throws away―― A swell by night――a beggar all the day.
The Month. By Albert Smith and John Leech. Dec. 1851.
――――:o:――――
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
The following imitation was originally published by Messrs. Parker, of 377, Strand, London, but no date is given.
THE DOOMED VILLAGE.
A Poem, dedicated to the Right Honourable John Bright.
“Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,” Could thy true Poet visit earth again, How would his patriot spirit grieve to see A hundred Auburns doomed to die like thee! The decent church abandoned to the owl, The ruined parsonage, the roofless school, The village of its preacher’s voice bereft, The little flock without a shepherd left, Without “the man to all the country dear,” Whose part it was to teach, to warn, to cheer; “Unskilful he to fawn or seek for power By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. Still in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all; And as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt her new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds and led the way.”
Will then the State suppress the godly man, And bid him buy his dwelling if he can, That hospitable roof and open door Sought by the friendless, loved by all the poor, Steal the small stipend from a treasure paid Which pious ages gifts to God had made, Leave the bewildered peasant tempest-tost, His faith unaided and his altar lost, To quit for distant lands his long-loved home, Or helpless sink beneath the foot of Rome? Where shall he look for succour? shall he trust That Royal womanhood will still be just? Will their dear Queen their loyal love disown, And let her statesmen drive them from her throne?
The man of State who wants a heart to feel Wants that which most concerns the public weal; No nice distinction will he stoop to make Between the power to seize, and right to take. “The Lord forbid it,” cry the poor “that we Should give our fathers’ heritage to thee.” False allegations then a pretext yield; And Ahab takes possession of the field. Wild as the wind is such a Statesman’s mind; No law can fix him, and no treaty bind; He burns the poor man’s charter with its seal, And bids him trust in voluntary zeal, Go beg the bread that has been all his own, Along a road untravelled and unknown, Ardent alike to pare a Church away, And lay a tax for charities to pay.
Why are so many Auburns doomed to groan? Whither are Equity and Pity flown? Are all the virtues melted down in one, Of neutral colour much resembling none? A large, loose, LIBERALITY of mind, True to no faith, not generous, just, nor kind. Time was, each Virtue was distinctly known, And Faith and Justice sat beside the throne; Time was, when Justice owned prescriptive right, And Policy disdained to side with spite, Not hounding on the envious pack which pant To tear away the bone they do not want, Ere yet she summed each ancient grievance up, As if they all still mantled in the cup, And loved by antiquated tales to shew, How Britain always has been Erin’s foe; Till Erin dreams she feels a present grief, And seeks in self-inflicting blows relief.
Behold! a glorious band by Heaven inspired, By many hearts revered, by all admired; In Erin’s sky as burning lights they shone; Will Erin cease to claim them for her own? Will she no more repeat her Usher’s[7] name, Of old ascendant on the rolls of fame? Will she her Bedell’s[8] pious memory blot, With the blest book he gave the Irish cot? Will it grate harshly on her altered ear, Of Taylor’s[9] golden eloquence to hear? Will she no longer boast that God had given “To Berkeley[10] all the virtues under heaven?” Deems she what was, and is, should ne’er have been, The Norman Conquest, and the British Queen? Are these the thoughts that vex the Celtic heart? Beneath such wrongs do Erin’s millions smart, The signs and records of an alien band, Which troubles with its rule a peaceful land?
“It is not we who troubling Liffey’s stream Foul it with blood,” the threatened sheep exclaim; “It was your fathers then that fouled it so,” Retorts the wolf “a hundred years ago.” The shepherd comes; he hears the distant howl Of the wild beasts that o’er the country prowl; In his right hand he wields a butcher’s knife, And bids the lamb lie still and yield its life, An offering to peace, a needful feast, To stay the hunger of the savage beast. The neighbouring swains, to whom for help it cries, Applaud the prudence of their Chief’s device, The struggles of the bleeding victim mock, And join the wolf in ravaging the flock.
But oh! may Heaven avert the fatal end, And Britain’s heart to juster counsels bend, Raise many a champion through the land to lead A growing host for poverty to plead, The sacred voice of conscience wake within, Forbid the fatal policy of sin, Leave the just laws to deal with factious hate, Calm down the public mind, and save the State. Pause, Britain, pause, ere yet advanced too far Thy hand lets slip the dogs of civil war, Ere yet the vultures hovering in the sky On the self-immolated quarry fly.
So shall pure Faith’s long-hallowed altar stand! Still unprofaned by state-craft’s ruthless hand; So shall the threatened Auburn cease to weep, Peace be restored, and passion lulled to sleep; So shall the flood of Ultramontane pride, By justice checked, within its banks subside; So shall the Candle, which the Lord has lit, Revived and cherished, well its place befit, And through the time to come serenely bright Shine forth a beacon-flame of Gospel light.
Immortal Light, that can’st alone control The brutal instincts of the savage soul, ’Tis thine to teach the murderous bands of strife The deep significance of human life, Teach the wild untaught Kerne who knows not God, The awful sanctions of HIS penal code; Teach Faith her hope and end in LOVE to read, The height and depth of every Christian’s Creed.
――――
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
Sweet London, loveliest village of the plain, Where wealth and fashion cheered the labouring swain, Where smiling spring the earliest visit paid, And the rich summer dinner-tables laid. Dear lovely bowers of indolence and ease, Seats of my youth when every card could please, How often have I done thy park so green Where humble iron chairs endeared the scene; How often have I paused the throng to tell, Th’ unnoticed clerk, the cultivated swell, The never-failing talk, the riders’ skill, The indecent duke that topt the neighbouring hill, The moving row with spots beneath the shade For timid horseman’s ease and whisperings made: How often have I blest the late-born day, When play remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village swells from dinner free, Led up the sports that fashion loves to see, While much flirtation circled in the shade, The young ones spooning as the old surveyed, And many a galop frolicked o’er the ground, And valses, lancers, and quadrilles went round; And still as each repeated partner tired, Succeeding suppers one more turn inspired. The dancing man, who simply sought renown By leading all the cotillons in town, The swain mistrustful of his smutty face, While secret riddles tittered round the place, The younger son’s shy sidelong looks of love, The chaperons who would those looks reprove, These were thy charms, sweet village, sports like these With sweet succession taught e’en town to please, These round thy bowers their genial influence shed, These were thy charms, but all those charms are fled.
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy swells withdrawn, Within thy doors upholsterers are seen, And water-carts alone the park keep green; Almighty dulness grasps thy whole domain, Of all thy people none with thee remain. No more thy babbling talk reflects the day, But in the country winds its shallow way; Along thy park a solitary guest, A sole policeman now laments the rest, Amid thy drawing-rooms the spider toils, Thy draperies the moth relentless spoils; Gone are thy dinners, dances, parties all, And early bed o’ertops the byegone ball, And trembling, lest they last should join the band, Far, far away, thy children leave the land.
Ill fares the land to hastening ills a prey, Where working men increase and swells decay, Leaguers and roughs may flourish or may fade, Hardy may make them as Walpole has made, But fashionable swells, their country’s pride, Once out of town can never be supplied.
The Tomahawk, September 7, 1867.
――――
The following Parody appeared in Vol. XVIII. of The Mirror:
“Lord John Russell, even amidst all the turmoil of Office has contributed:――
LONDON IN SEPTEMBER (Not in 1831), By Lord John Russell. (After The Traveller, by Oliver Goldsmith).
“Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, A single horseman passes Rotten row; In Brookes’s sits one quidnunc to peruse The broad dull sheet which tells the lack of news. At White’s a lonely Brummell lifts his glass To see two empty Hackney Coaches pass; The timid housemaid, issuing forth, can dare To take her lover’s arm in Grosvenor square. From shop deserted hastes the prentice dandy, And seeks――Oh bliss――the Molly――a tempora fandi. Meantime the battered pavement is at rest, And waiters wait in vain to spy a guest, Thomas himself, Cook, Hanen, Fenton, Long, Have all left town to join the Margate throng. The wealthy tailor on the Sussex shore Displays and drives his blue barouche and four, The Peer who made him rich, with dog and gun, Toils o’er a Scottish moor, and braves a scorching sun.”
――――:o:――――
THE HERMIT.
This favourite poem originally appeared in “The Vicar of Wakefield,” which was published in the year 1765. Dr. Goldsmith was accused of having borrowed the idea of the ballad from “The Friar of Orders Gray,” and in June, 1767, he sent the following reply to the St. James’s Chronicle:
“A correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad I published sometime ago, from one by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me with his usual good humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakespeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it.”
In confirmation of this statement Bishop Percy afterwards added a note to “The Friar of Orders Gray,” stating that it was only just to declare that Goldsmith’s Poem was written first, and that if there had been any imitation in the case, they would be found to be both indebted to the beautiful old ballad Gentle Herdsman. This ballad is reprinted below, with Goldsmith’s The Hermit, and a few verses from Bishop Percy’s Friar of Orders Gray.
It will be seen that although the poems have several points of resemblance, yet each has a distinct individuality of its own.
“GENTLE HERDSMAN TELL TO ME.”
Gentle herdsman, tell to me, Of curtesy I thee pray―― Unto the towne of Wallsingham Which is the right and ready way?
“Unto the towne of Walsingham, The way is hard for to be gone, And very crooked are those pathes For you to find out all alone.”
Were the miles doubled thrise And the way never so ill, It were not enough for mine offence; It is so grevous and so ill.
“Thy yeares are young, thy face is faire, Thy wits are weake, thy thoughts are greene; Time hath not given thee leave as yet For to commit so great a sinne!”
Yes, herdsman, yes, soe wou’dst thou say, If thou knewest so much as I; My wits, and thoughtes, and all the rest, Have well deserved for to dye.
I am not what I seeme to bee, My cloths and sexe doe differ fare; I am a woman, woe is mee! Born to greeffe, and irksome care.
For my beloved, and well beloved, My wayward cruelty could kill; And though my teares will naught avail, Most dearely I bewail him still.
He was the flower of noble wights, None ever more sincere colde bee, Of comelye mien and shape he was, And tenderlye he loved mee.
When thus I sawe he loved me well, I grew so proude his paine to see, That I, who did not know myselfe, Thought scorne of such a youth as hee.
And grew so coy, and nice to please, As women’s lookes are often soe, He might not kisse, nor hand forsooth, Unlesse I willed him soe to doe.
Thus being wearyed with delayes, To see I pityed not his greeffe, He goes him to a secret place, And there he dyed without releeffe.
And for his sake these weedes I weare, And sacrifice my tender age; And every day I’ll beg my bread, To undergoe this pilgrimage.
Thus every day I’ll fast and praye, And ever will do till I dye; And get me to some secrett place, For so did hee, and soe will I.
Now, gentle herdsman, ask no more, But keep my secretts I thee pray; Unto the towne of Wallsingham Shew me the right and readye waye.
“Now goe thy wayes, and God before, For he must ever guide thee still; Turn down the dale the righte hand pathe, And so, fair pilgrim, fare thee well.”
――――:o:――――
THE HERMIT.
“Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray.
“For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go.”
“Forbear, my son,” the Hermit cries, “To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom.
“Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still: And though my portion is but scant I give it with good will.
“Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate’er my cell bestows; My rushy couch and frugal fare, My blessing and repose.
“No flocks that range the valley free, To slaughter I condemn; Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them:
“But from the mountain’s grassy side A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring.
“Then, pilgrim, turn thy cares forego; All earthborn cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long.”
Soft as the dew from heaven descends, His gentle accents fell: The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure The lonely mansion lay; A refuge to the neighbouring poor, And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch Required a master’s care; The wicket, opening with a latch Received the harmless pair.
And now when busy crowds retire To take their evening rest, The Hermit trimmed his little fire, And cheered his pensive guest:
And spread his vegetable store, And gaily prest, and smil’d; And skill’d in legendary lore The lingering hours beguil’d.
Around in sympathetic mirth Its tricks the kitten tries; The cricket churrups in the hearth, The crackling faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart To sooth the stranger’s woe; For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the Hermit spy’d, With answ’ring care opprest: “And whence, unhappy youth,” he cry’d “The sorrows of thy breast?
“From better habitations spurn’d, Reluctant dost thou rove? Or grieve for friendship unreturn’d, Or unregarded love?
“Alas! the joys that fortune brings, Are trifling and decay; And those who prize the paltry things, More trifling still than they.
“And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep; A shade that follows wealth or fame, But leaves the wretch to weep?
“And love is still an emptier sound, The modern fair-one’s jest; On earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle’s nest.
“For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, And spurn the sex” he said But while he spoke, a rising blush His love-lorn guest betray’d.
Surpris’d he sees new beauties rise, Swift mantling to the view; Like colours o’er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast Alternate spread alarms: The lovely stranger stands confest, A maid in all her charms.
“And, ah! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn.” she cried; “Whose feet unhallow’d thus intrude Where Heaven and you reside.
“But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray: Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way.
“My father lived beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he; And all his wealth was mark’d as mine He had but only me.
“To win me from his tender arms, Unnumber’d suitors came; Who praised me for imputed charms, And felt, or feign’d a flame.
“Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove; Amongst the rest young Edwin bow’d, But never talk’d of love.
“In humblest, simplest habit clad, No wealth nor pow’r had he; Wisdom and worth were all he had, But these were all to me.
“And when, beside me in the dale, He carol’d lays of love, His breath lent fragrance to the gale, And music to the grove.[11]
“The blossom opening to the day, The dews of Heav’n refin’d, Could nought of purity display To emulate his mind.
“The dew, the blossom on the tree, With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his, but, woe to me, Their constancy was mine.
“For still I tried each fickle art, Importunate and vain; And while his passion touch’d my heart I triumph’d in his pain.
“Till quite dejected with my scorn He left me to my pride; And sought a solitude forlorn, In secret, where he died.
“But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay: I’ll seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay.
“And there forlorn, despairing, hid, I’ll lay me down and die; ’Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I.”
“Forbid it, Heaven!” the Hermit cried, And clasped her to his breast: The wandering fair one turned to chide;―― ’Twas Edwin’s self that press’d.
“Turn Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, Restor’d to love and thee.
“Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And ev’ry care resign: And shall we never, never part, My life――my all that’s mine?
“No never, from this hour to part We’ll live and love so true, The sigh that rends thy constant heart Shall break thy Edwin’s too.”
――――:o:――――
THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.
This poem is given in Bishop Percy’s Reliques of Ancient English Poetry with the following note:――
“Dispersed through Shakespeare’s plays are innumerable little fragments of Ancient ballads, the entire copies of which could not be recovered. Many of these being of the most beautiful and pathetic simplicity, the Editor was tempted to select some of them, and with a few supplemental stanzas to connect them together, and form them into a little tale, which is here submitted to the reader’s candour.”
It was a friar of orders gray Walkt forth to tell his beades; And he met with a lady faire Clad in a pilgrime’s weedes.
“Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine My true love thou didst see?”
“And how should I know your true love From many another one?” “O, by his cockle hat and staff, And by his sandal shoone.”[12]
“But chiefly by his face and mien, That were so faire to view, His flaxen locks that sweetly curl’d, And eyne of lovely blue.”
O, lady he is dead and gone! Lady, he’s dead and gone! And at his head a green grass turfe, And at his heels a stone.
“Within these holy cloysters long He lanquisht, and he dyed, Lamenting of a ladyes love, And ’playning of her pride.”
* * * * *
“And art thou dead, thou gentle youth! And art thou dead and gone! And dids’t thou dye of love of me! Break, cruel heart of stone!”
“O, weep not, lady, weep not soe; Some ghostly comfort seek; Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, Ne tears bedew thy cheek.”
“O, do not, do not, holy friar, My sorrow now reprove; For I have lost the sweetest youth, That e’er wan ladyes love.
And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse, I’ll evermore weep and sigh; For thee I only wisht to live, For thee I wish to dye.”
(Eleven stanzas here omitted.) * * * * *
“O, stay me not, thou holy friar; O stay me not, I pray; No drizzly rain that falls on me, Can wash my fault away.”
“Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, And dry those pearly tears; For see, beneath this gown of gray Thy own true-love appears.
Here forc’d by grief, and hopeless love, These holy weeds I sought; And here amid these lonely walls To end my days I thought.
But haply, for my year of grace[13] Is not yet past away, Might I still hope to win thy love, No longer would I stay.
Now farewell grief, and welcome joy Once more unto my heart; For since I have found thee, lovely youth, We never more will part.
――――
THE HERMIT. A Prophetic Ballad.
“Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way To where some shanty cheers the vale With hospitable ray.
“For as, forlorn and lost, I tread This weary waste, and slow, My skirts immeasurably spread Impede me as I go.”
“Welcome, sweet girl!” the Hermit cries, “My roof shall give thee shade; I call thee girl, although mine eyes Behold no tender maid.
“But, exiled from the world, I find―― However old she be―― That any one of womankind Is as a girl to me.
“A kiss I beg, just one! what no? Is kissing then so wrong? Man wants a little here below Though not perhaps, for long.
“Hold! hold!” the wand’rer cried, “nor dare My modesty invade!” Fury inspired the conscious fair, And fury her betrayed.
That bristling cheek, that stubborn breast, Those thewy, threatening arms! The lonely stranger stands confest―― A man in all his charms.
“And, ah! excuse a stranger rude, A hunted wretch,” he cried; “Indeed I hope I don’t intrude Where you in peace reside.
“But pity a poor trader who Has mixed in public fray, And learned what politics can do In leading men astray,
“My chief the Land League party led In Parliament and out, And by his side I fought and bled With constancy devout.
“Pretenders to the Chiefship came To win me from his band; But still I loved but Parnell’s name And bow’d to his command.
“And length to ’scape arrest, one morn He deemed it best to hide; And sought some solitude forlorn In secret, where he died.
“Though ‘wanted’ too I fled uncaught In feminine array And seek the solitude he sought To stretch me where he lay.
“There, my identity thus hid I’ll lay me down and die For Ireland so my Parnell did And so for him will I.”
“Forbid it Heaven!” the Hermit cried, And clasped him to his breast The wondering stranger turn’d to chide ’Twas Parnell’s self that prest!
“Turn Joey Biggar, ever dear! My comrade turn to see Thine own, thy long-lost Parnell here, True to the League and thee!”
The St. James’s Gazette, February 28, 1881.
――――:o:――――
THE SPEAKER’S DINNER.
The following political paraphrase of Oliver Goldsmith’s pleasing poem Retaliation, is taken from an anonymous collection, published in 1814, entitled “Posthumous Parodies and other Pieces, composed by several of our most celebrated Poets, but not published in any former Edition of their Works.” Several pieces from this collection have already been quoted in Parodies; they have nearly all a strong party bias in favour of the Tory Government of the day. The Politicians alluded to in the poem are, the Earl of Liverpool, Premier 1812 to 1827, died in 1828; Viscount Castlereagh (afterwards Marquis of Londonderry) Foreign Secretary, committed suicide in 1822; Lord Grenville, died in 1834; the Right Hon. George Canning author of the witty parodies in the “Anti-jacobin,” died 1827; Sir Francis Burdett, an opposition M.P., father of Lady Burdett Coutts, died 1844; Viscount Sidmouth, died 1844; the Right Hon. John Wilson Croker, died 1857; Samuel Whitbread, M.P., died 1815; the Right Hon. R. B. Sheridan, died 1816; Lord Chief Justice Ellenborough, died 1818; William Cobbett, M.P., for Oldham, died 1835; and Robert Waithman, M.P., Alderman and Lord Mayor of London, who died in 1833.
Of late, when the pic-nics their parties invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united; If the Speaker will get us the loaves and the fishes, We’ll serve up ourselves for the rest of the dishes.
Our L――v――rp――l’s beef at the top let us find, Old England’s famed diet for time out of mind: Let C――strl――gh’s turtle at bottom be placed, Restoring the system and pleasing the taste: And Gr――nv――lle’s fat haunch in the middle be put on, The rump very large, but a taint in the mutton, Our C――nn――ng is salt; for his talents are such That they heighten the taste of whatever they touch, While B――rd――tt resembles the onion that throws A vulgar effluvium wherever it goes.
With a chicken well boiled, gentle S――dm――th will treat us, And Cr――k――r shall serve for our Irish potatoes: Brown stout shall be Wh――tbr――d, the dregs of the cup, And Shr――d――n, spruce, not sufficiently up. Push about, Mr. Speaker――I’ll sit, if I’m able, Till all these grave statesmen sink under the table; And while they are lying unconscious before us, We’ll talk of the men who have lorded it o’er us. Now L――v――rp――l’s Earl lies along at our feet, Who was eloquent often, and always discreet. If failings he had, he has left us in doubt, Though the Whigs spared no trouble in finding them out, But Scandal has said, he had more admiration For old-fashioned practice, than fresh speculation.
Here sleeps the bold Wh――tbr――d, whose temper was such That we scarce can admire or condemn it too much: Who, born for high purposes, lowered his mind, And gave to a mob what was meant for mankind: Who, proud in his nature, still wearied his throat In wheedling a cobler to lend him a vote: Who, too wild for utility, wander’d so far That his passion for peace kept him always at war: Though equal to most things, for all things unfit; Too pert for a statesman, too coarse for a wit: Untrue to the Talents, uncouth to the Regent, And fond of all changes, howe’er inexpedient:―― So ’twas always his fate to find fault out of season, Most strongly to speak, and most weakly to reason.
Here C――tl――r――gh lies, with a mind like the mint, Exhaustless and sterling the stores that were in’t. His well-bred demeanour still bore him along Unhurt through a roaring and riotous throng, Where staunch to his duty, yet slow to offend, He softened the means, but to strengthen the end. Would you know, more at large, by what talents he shone? His country will tell you――for all was her own.
Here slumbers poor Sh――rry, whose fate I must sigh at! Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet. What spirits were his, how elastic and subtle! Now cracking a jest, and now cracking a bottle! Now swift as an archer to tickle and gall, Now strong as a phalanx to shake and appal! In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, That we wished him full ten times a day at old Nick, But missing his mirth and agreeable vein, As often we wished to have Dick back again.
Here S――dm――th reposes, whose virtues and parts Were a light and a model to well-ordered hearts: A friend of religion, who made it his care To live as men ought to be, not as they are. Yet perhaps he has sometimes exceeded the line, And wire-drawn his measures too piously fine. To a coming millenium has fashioned his views, Or the ancient theocracy marked for the Jews. Say, where has his genius this malady caught, Of reasoning on man, as if man had no fault? Say, was it, that tired of applying his mind To estimate coolly the mass of mankind, Quite sick of pursuing each versatile elf, At last he grew lazy, and judged from himself?
Here B――rd――tt retires, from his rows to relax, The scourge of all kings and the king of all quacks. O come, ye quack scribblers, and patriots by trade; Come and weep o’er the spot where your member is laid! When, dreading the Tow’r, he distracted the town, I fear’d for its safety, I fear’d for my own; But wanting the aid of this giant detractor, The press may yet cease its unclean manufacture; The lightnings of G――rr――w may slumber at length, And the thunder-toned justice of Ell――nb’r――gh’s strength; The Whites[14] and the Hunts[14] shall desist from sedition, No leader remaining to spur their ambition; Pale Envy her taper shall quench to a spark, And C――bb――tt meet W――thm――n, and wail in the dark!
Here sleeps my Lord Gr――nv――lle, describe him who can, A compression of all that was solid in man. For bottom, confess’d without rival to shine: For head, if not first, in the very first line, Yet, with pow’rs thus confess’d, and a lofty condition, He was duped by his own over-weening ambition; Like Satan of old from authority fell, And left service in Heaven for empire in Hell. In foreign concerns he was skill’d to a wonder: ’Twas only at home he was fated to blunder: For, straining too far to secure the command, He cut off all hope from himself and his band, Invited to pow’r, yet too proud to come in, Unless he could storm what ’twas easy to win. He cast his old friends, as a huntsman his pack―― But found not the secret to whistle them back, He loved popularity, swallow’d what came, And the puffs of the papers he fancied was fame; Till the fall of his cabinet humbled their tone, And the shouts of their extacy died in a groan. Long lauded by Journals and minor Reviews, He paid for their praises by sending them news.
Pamphlet-writers! Reporters! and Critics so grave! What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave! How aptly, on both sides, the eulogy fitted, When you were be-Junius’d, and he was be-Pitted; But peace to his errors, whatever his fate, For his former deserts had been many and great: The measures of Pitt, as matured by his skill, Shall plead his apology, happen what will; His lore and his science shall Shelburne approve, And Windham and Burke be his colleagues above.
Here Cr――k――r reclines, a most smart, clever creature, And ev’n opposition allow him good nature.
He was true to his country, his friends, and his king: Yet one fault he had! a most scandalous thing, Perhaps you may ask, was he wanting in spirit? Oh no, that was never an Irish demerit. Perhaps a too bigotted aristocrat? I do not intend to impeach him of that. Perhaps he would trust to the chance of the day, And so became careless and indolent? Nay, Then what was his failing? Come, come, let us know it―― He was――could he help it?――by nature a poet! Here C――nn――ing is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a brighter or better behind: His speeches were brilliant, resistless, and grand, His character cordial, attaching, and bland: Still born to improve us in every part, His wisdom our judgment, his genius our heart. The terror of coxcombs, the wonder of wits, He could hit all their blots, he could ward all their hits; When they blunder’d, and thunder’d, and smarted, and swore, He but quizz’d them the quicker, and cut them the more!――
THE HERMIT OF VAUXHALL.[15] (A Ballad after Oliver Goldsmith.)
Turn, gentle hermit of Vauxhall, And let me know the way In which, within that cavern small, You pass your time away.
There’s nothing but a little lamp, A pitcher and a cat! The place must be extremely damp―― Why don’t you wear a hat?
No chaff, my son, the hermit cries, But walk your chalks along; Your path to the rotunda lies―― They’re going to sing a song.
Father, I care not for the strain Of that young girl in blue, But, if you please, I will remain, And have a chat with you.
My son, you surely wish to hear The music of the band; But if you stop――a drop of beer I think you ought to stand.
Father, to grant what you require, I’ll not a moment fail; Here, waiter, bring the holy friar A pint of Burton ale.
The waiter brought the welcome draught, I took a little sup; The liquor then the hermit quaff’d, He fairly mopped it up.
Father, I cried, now if you please, Philosophy we’ll talk―― As the wind murmurs through the trees, Skirting the long dark walk.
My son, forbear, exclaimed the sage, Nor on me make a call―― My life is but a pilgrimage From Lambeth to Vauxhall.
At eve when shops their shutters shut, And tolls the curfew bell, I quit my room in the New Cut, To sit within this cell.
A friendly ounce of Cheshire cheese My landlady provides, Save, what to give the public please, I’ve nothing, son, besides.
Father, your salary, of course, You must receive, I said; Your sitting here is not by force: How do you get your bread?
The sage replied, Alas, my son, I light the lamps by day―― The hermit’s work, at evening done, Brings me no extra pay.
And get you cheese alone to eat, I asked the good old man. Sometimes, he said, I buy a treat From baked potato can.
The luxury sometimes I bring With butter――a small lump, With water from the crystal spring That rises ’neath our pump.
Father, I cried, your tale is long, You tire my patience quite; I’m off to hear the comic song, Lull-li-e-tee, good night,
GILBERT A. A’BECKETT.
From George Cruikshank’s Table Book, 1845.
――――:o:――――
In Scribner’s Magazine for 1881 appeared a set of variations on “Home, Sweet Home,” treated in the different styles of Swinburne, Bret Harte, Austin Dobson, Walt Whitman and Oliver Goldsmith. This amusing contribution has since been included by its Author, Mr. H. C. Bunner, in his pretty little Volume, entitled “Airs from Arcady and elsewhere,” published by Mr. C. Hutt.
HOME, SWEET HOME.
(As it might have been constructed in 1744. Oliver Goldsmith, at 19, writing the first stanza, and Alexander Pope, at 52, the second.)
Home! at the word, what blissful visions rise: Lift us from earth, and draw us toward the skies! ’Mid mirag’d towers, or meretricious joys Although we roam, one thought the mind employs: Or lowly hut, good friend, or loftiest dome, Earth knows no spot so holy as our Home. There, where affection warms the father’s breast. There is the spot of heav’n most surely blest: Howe’er we search, though wandering with the wind Through frigid Zembla, or the heats of Ind, Not elsewhere may we seek, nor elsewhere know, The light of heav’n upon our dark below.
When from our dearest hope and haven reft, Delight nor dazzles nor is luxury left, We long, obedient to our nature’s law, To see again our hovel thatched with straw: See birds that know our avenaceous store Stoop to our hand, and thence repleted soar: But, of all hopes the wanderer’s soul that share, His pristine peace of mind’s his final prayer.
From Scribner’s Monthly, May, 1881.
――――:o:――――
A BRAND-NEW SONG, (After Goldsmith.)
(On the Speaker of the House of Commons, Sir H. B. W. Brand, having his pocket picked of his watch at the Folly Theatre.)
When a grave Speaker stoops to Folly, And finds with tickers roughs make way, What charm can soothe his melancholy―― Can Laughing gas his loss repay?
The only way to hide vexation, To shield himself from pungent chaff, Save dignity of House and nation, And keep his temper, is――to laugh.
Punch, May 5, 1877.
――――
ON MR. WARTON, M.P.
When they talked of their progress, improvement, and stuff, He blocked all their bills, snorted loud, and took snuff,
――――:o:――――
In that amusing book, “The Reminiscences of Henry Angelo” (published by Colburn and Bentley in 1830), some account is given of the satirical writer, Anthony Pasquin, whose real name, by the way, was Williams. This man who had been originally brought up to the profession of an Engraver, threw aside the graving tool, and adopted the less respectable calling of a satirical lampoonist. He was an unprincipled impudent sponge, who spoke ill of every one, and forced himself on the hospitality of all who knew him, so that it was said of him that “he never opened his mouth but at another man’s expence.” In 1786 he contributed to a weekly paper then appearing, entitled The Devil, from which Angelo quotes part of a long Parody upon the Deserted Village, written by Pasquin asserting the inferiority of the actors then upon the stage, to their predecessors, an assertion frequently made by elderly people even in these days.
INNOVATION.
Sweet Playhouse! best amusement of the town, Where often, at half-price, for half-a-crown, I’ve with such glee my opening visit paid, When oysters first are sold, and farces play’d: Dear boxes! where I scarce my nose could squeeze, Where play, and dance, and song were sure to please; How often happier than a king or queen, While loud applause has marked the well-play’d scene. How often have I paused on ev’ry charm, The speaking silence, the expression warm, The never-failing start, the gushing tear, The broken accents trembling on the ear; The moon that vainly tried to pierce the shade, Impervious scene for love or murder made; How often have I blessed the parting day, When, tea removed, I hurried to the play; And both the galleries, from labour free, Wept at the actor’s woe, or shar’d his glee; While many a first appearance has been made, The young contending as the old survey’d, And many a gentleman walk’d o’er the ground, While hisses, cat-calls, off! and groans, went round; And still as each repeated effort tir’d, The stage-struck wight became still more inspir’d. The rival Romeos that sought renown, By holding out, to tire each other down; The Scrub right conscious of his well-chalk’d face; While bursts of laughter echo’d round the place; The timid Juliet’s side-long looks of love, The critic’s glance, who would those looks reprove: These were thy charms, sweet playhouse, joys like these, With quick succession taught e’en Rich to please. These round the theatre alternate shed Laughter and tears――but all these charms are fled.
Joy-giving Playhouse! best delight in town, Thy merit’s fled, and any stuff goes down. ’Midst thy bays the pruning knife is seen, And critic fury tears away the green; Monopoly now grasps the whole domain, And authors, actors, starve, nor dare complain. No wit or humour marks the lively play, But puns and quibbles make their saucy way; Along thy tragedies, a sleepy guest, Dull Declamation snores herself to rest. The place of elegance a stare supplies, And affectation that nor laughs nor cries. Ease, nature, grace, are now neglected all, For he acts best who can the loudest bawl; Or by a squint, or grin, or squeak engage, To fright astonish’d reason from the stage. Ill fares the town, to vicious tastes a prey, Where op’ras multiply, and plays decay; Pageants and shows may flourish or may fade, A puff can make them, as a puff has made, But well-writ plays, the stage’s noblest pride, When once destroy’d, can never be supplied.
* * * * *
Sweet was the sound when at the music’s close, Obedient to the bell, the curtain rose; There Garrick as he sadly stepp’d, and slow, In Hamlet――looked unutterable woe! Here, torn with jealous rage ’gainst her he loved, Barry grew agonised in――“not much mov’d.” There noisy bacchanals from Comus’ court, Milton and Arne taught how to laugh and sport. There Boyce and Dryden wak’d with hound the morn. Or vocal Johnny Beard, with early horn. There the apt tune in timely moment play’d, To fill each pause the exeunt had made. But now simplicity’s soft accents fail, And Irish jigs th’insulted ear assail. No friends to Nature on the boards now tread, But all truth’s faithful portraiture is fled!
* * * * *
Beside Charles-street, where hackney coaches meet, Where two blue posts adorn fam’d Russell-street, There, in an ale-house, taught to play the fool, Good Master Shuter first was put to school. Nature’s adopted son, though mean and low, “Alas! I knew him well, Horatio.” Well did the tittering audience love to trace The miser’s thrift, depicted in his face; Well would the busy whisper circle round, When, in Corbaccio, at Volpone he frown’d; Yet he was kind――but if absurd in aught, The love he bore to blackguards was in fault. The chimney-sweeper swore how much he knew, ’Twas certain he could act, and mimic too. While Quaker’s sermons, given in drawling sound, Amazed the prigs, and kiddies rang’d around: And still they gap’d, and still the wonder grew, That one droll head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame――the Rose and Crown, Where he so oft got tipsy――is burnt down.
Near to the wardrobe stairs, one story high, Where ermined robes and jewels caught the eye; Dull is that dressing-room――by Quin inspir’d, Where, once, choice wits after the play retir’d; When play-house statesmen talk’d, with looks profound, And apt quotations――meant for wit――went round; Imagination fondly stoops to trace, The tinsell’d splendours of the motley place; The warlike truncheon, prone upon the floor,
The herald’s coat, that hung behind the door: The clothes――their different duties made to pay, To deck the stage by night, the street by day; The pictures slyly drawn on Hogarth’s plan, Garrick i’ the lanthorn――Quin in the sedan; The toilet stocked to decorate the play, Paint, Indian ink, burnt cork, and whiting gay; While on the clothes-pins rang’d in gaudy show, Robes deck’d with foil-stones, glittered in a row.
Vain transitory splendours could not all Reprieve the mimic monarch from his fall. Obscure he sinks, forgot his worth and name, For Sheridan forbids the smallest fame; To paltry players, no more shall he impart An hour’s delight to the convivial heart: Thither no more shall witty lords repair, To sweet oblivion of the senate’s care! No more the anecdote, the luscious tale, The mirth-inspiring good-thing shall prevail; No more the fop his cobweb’d sconce shall cheer, Padlock his flippant tongue, and learn to hear; Fat Quin himself no longer shall be found, Careful to see the chuckling fun go round; Nor the young actress, anxious to be tried, Shall blush to speak a smutty speech aside.
――――:o:――――
There was another Poem written in imitation of The Deserted Village entitled “The Frequented Village, a Poem dedicated to Oliver Goldsmith,” by E. Young, L.L.D. (J. Godwin). Unfortunately there does not appear to be any copy of this Poem in the Library of the British Museum.
Oliver Goldsmith, died on April 4th, 1774, and within a few days of his death a poem, written by Courtney Melmoth, was published by T. Beckett, in the Strand. “The Tears of Genius,” as the Poem was called, was dedicated to Sir Joshua Reynolds; part being written in imitation of the style of The Deserted Village, whilst another part, deploring the death of the poet Gray, was written in imitation of his Elegy in a Country Churchyard. There were also allusions to several other minor Poets but the whole effusion lacks interest.
――――:o:――――
THE DESERTED SCHOOL.
Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, With hands in pockets, down Cheapside I go, And onward where one hears that dismal yell Of “Echo, Standard, Special, or Pall Mall,” Or where that dear old School forsaken lies A weary waste expanding to the skies. Where’er I roam whatever realms to see, My heart untravell’d fondly turns to thee; My thoughts to “Homer” turn, with ceaseless pain, “Physics” and “Newth” I ne’er shall do again.
* * * * *
And oft a sigh prevails and sorrows fall To see humanity of man so small; To turn us all away from that dear School, And sacrifice her to the workman’s tool. But my worn soul now deems it for the best At Kensington to see my fellows blest.
JAMES E. THOMPSON.
From Pauline, the Magazine of St. Paul’s School, in the City of London, October, 1885.
――――:o:――――
The Vicar of Wakefield is probably, of all English stories, the one which has been most widely read, (perhaps only excepting Robinson Crusoe), and has taken most thoroughly hold of the hearts of English speaking people. It was first printed at Salisbury, by Collins, and was issued by Francis Newberry, in 2 vols., in March 1766. A dainty facsimile of this original Edition has recently been published by Mr. Elliot Stock.
A dramatic version of The Vicar of Wakefield, by W. G. Wills, entitled Olivia, has for some time past been attracting large audiences to the Lyceum Theatre, to see Henry Irving and Miss Ellen Terry in the parts of the Vicar and his daughter. The success of Olivia tempted the inevitable travestie, and on Saturday, August 8, 1885, “The Vicar of Wide-a-Wakefield, or the Miss-Terry-ous Uncle.” a Respectful Burlesque Perversion by H. P. Stephens and W. Yardley, was produced at the Gaiety Theatre. The burlesque had but little humour, or literary merit, and although Mr. Arthur Roberts’s imitation of Henry Irving as Dr. Primrose was at times quaint and amusing, the entire success of the production was due to the extraordinary caricature of Miss Ellen Terry given by Miss Laura Linden, who has a perfect genius for such mimicry. Not only in voice, but in gestures, movements, and delivery, the resemblance was striking, and wonderfully sustained throughout the piece, with only just sufficient exaggeration to produce the intended effect of caricature. The plan of the authors of the burlesque consists in making the virtuous persons of the original appear to be more or less villainous and unprincipled, while the villain of the original is made out to be the only pure-minded and moral individual in the piece. For instance, the Vicar is a terrible old scoundrel, who only pretends to have lost all his money, who knows that Mr. Burchell is the baronet in disguise, and who schemes to get his daughters and son married, and performs the nuptials himself, under different disguises, so as to pocket the fees. Burchell is another villain, having unlawfully possessed himself of his nephew’s titles and estates. Olivia is a very forward minx, who tells the virtuous Squire Thornhill all about the pleasures of London, especially the gay and giddy Inventories, and who begs and induces him to run away with her. Even Sophia is cunning enough to discover Burchell’s identity, and to sum up all the worldly advantages of catching him matrimonially.
The Cast when the Burlesque was first produced was as follows:――
THE VICAR OF WIDEAWAKEFIELD, OR THE MISS-TERRY-OUS UNCLE,
Written by H. P. STEPHENS & W. YARDLEY, The Original Music by FLORIAN PASCAL.
The Dances arranged by Madame KATTI LANNER. The New Scenery by Mr. E. G. BANKS.
CHARACTERS.
Dr. Primrose (Vicar of Wideawakefield) Mr. A. ROBERTS Squire Thornhill Miss VIOLET CAMERON Mr. Burchell Mr. T. SQUIRE Moses } { Mr. J. JARVIS Bill } The Vicar’s Sons { Miss M. PEARCE Dick } { Miss G. TYLER Leigh (a Vagabond) Miss LESLEY BELL Farmer Flamborough Mr. CORRY Mrs. Primrose Miss HARRIET COVENEY Olivia } { Miss LAURA LINDEN Sophia } her Daughters { Miss AGNES HEWITT Polly Flamborough Miss SYLVIA GREY Gipsy Woman Miss M. RAYSON
In The Retaliation Goldsmith treated David Garrick with some severity, and the cause may perhaps be found in some lines written by Garrick, descriptive of the curious character of Goldsmith, and therefore forming a fitting conclusion to this Collection of Parodies of his works:――
JUPITER AND MERCURY, A FABLE,
Here, Hermes says Jove, who with Nectar was mellow, Go, fetch me some clay――I will make an odd fellow: Right and wrong shall be jumbled,――much gold and some dross: Without cause be he pleas’d, without cause be he cross; Be sure, as I work to throw in contradictions, A great love of truth, yet, a mind turned to fictions; Now mix these ingredients, which warm’d in the baking, Turn’d to learning and gaminq, religion and raking. With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste; Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste; That the rake and the poet o’er all may prevail, Set fire to the head, and set fire to the tail; For the joy of each sex, on the world I’ll bestow it, This Scholar, Rake, Christian, Dupe, Gamester, and Poet; Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame, And among brother mortals――be GOLDSMITH his name; When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear, You――Hermes――shall fetch him――to make us sport here.
Thomas Campbell,
Born July 27, 1777. Died June 15, 1844.
[Illustration: H]aving already given Parodies of several of the most celebrated English, Irish, and American Poets, it is advisable to turn now to Scotland for an Author, and although, perhaps, the genius and writings of Campbell were not very distinctly Scotch, most of his poems have achieved world-wide fame, and have consequently been very frequently parodied.
Thomas Campbell was born and educated in Glasgow, where he achieved remarkable success in his studies; after travelling some time upon the Continent, he came to London, married, and went to reside at Sydenham. His writings soon attracted considerable attention, he was appointed Professor of Poetry to the Royal Institution, and became Editor of the New Monthly Magazine, to which he contributed many interesting articles. But an Act of Parliament should be passed to prohibit men of genius from acting as Editors, the work and worry kill them, and the duties leave no time for original compositions. It is, therefore, not surprising that Campbell was not a prolific poet, and Washington Irving relates that he once expressed his regret to Mrs. Campbell that her husband did not write more verse. “It is unfortunate,” she replied, “that he lives in the same age with Scott and Byron who write so much, and so rapidly. He is apt to undervalue his own works, and to consider his little light put out, whenever they come blazing out with their great torches.” Irving subsequently repeated this to the great Sir Walter, who, with his usual kindness, and good humour, replied, “How can Campbell mistake the matter so much? Poetry goes by quality, not by bulk. My poems are mere cairngorms, wrought up, perhaps, with a cunning hand, but they are mere Scotch pebbles, after all; now Tom Campbell’s are real diamonds, and diamonds of the first water.”
Of the “diamonds” produced by Campbell, some of the most popular are Lochiel’s Warning, Hohenlinden, the Soldier’s Dream, Lord Ullin’s Daughter, and The Exile of Erin, but no one of his poems has been so often parodied as his famous naval ode “Ye Mariners of England.”
――――:o:――――
LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER.
A Chieftain to the Highlands bound, Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry! And I’ll give thee a silver pound, To row us o’er the ferry.”
“Now who be ye, would cross Lockgyle, This dark and stormy water?” “Oh, I’m the Chief of Ulva’s Isle, And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.”
“And fast before her father’s men Three days we’ve fled together, For should he find us in the Glen, My blood would stain the heather.
“His horsemen hard behind us ride! Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?”
Outspoke the hardy Highland wight “I’ll go, my chief――I’m ready:―― It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady:
And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So though the waves are raging white, I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”
By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heav’n each face Grew dark as they were speaking,
But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men, Their trampling sounded nearer.
“Oh haste thee, haste!” the lady cries, Though tempests round us gather; I’ll meet the raging of the skies: But not an angry father.”
The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her, When oh! too strong for human hand, The tempest gather’d o’er her.
And still they row’d amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, His wrath was chang’d to wailing.
For sore dismay’d, through storm and shade His child he did discover:―― One lovely hand she stretch’d for aid, And one was round her lover.
“Come back, come back!” he cried in grief, Across this stormy water: And I’ll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!――Oh my daughter!”
’Twas vain: the loud waves lash’d the shore, Return or aid preventing:―― The waters wild went o’er his child―― And he was left lamenting.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
――――:o:――――
SIR ROBERT’S BILL.[16]
Sir Robert, to the Commons bound, Cries, “Cobden, do not tarry, And I’ll gie ye ‘Repeal’ all round, If now my bill you’ll carry!”
“And who be you would pass ‘Repeal’ My own peculiar treasure?” “Oh! I’m the man, ye ken full weel, That does just what’s my pleasure.
And fast before the farmers’ friends, I’ve fled in your direction―― And, should they gain their private ends, My bill would meet rejection!”
“George Bentinck follows fast along, From him great harm I feel, Sir, And, should he prove so very strong, Oh! who could rescue Peel, Sir?”
Out spoke the hardy Leaguer, then―― “I’ll help ye, Peel, I’m ready―― It is not for yourself, ye ken, But for the League so seedy!
“And, by my word, the Cotton Lords In danger shall not tarry―― And, tho’ the farmers whet their swords, Your measure I will carry!”
“Then haste ye, haste, and no more words, Nor wait till it be calmer―― I’ll meet the raging of the Lords, But not an angry farmer!”
The stormy Council Peel has left, A stormy House before him―― And see, the Tories, all a drift, Have soon begun to bore him.
Yet still he waged the wordy war, With foemen justly railing―― Lord Stanley ventured to the “Bar,” From wrath he turned to wailing.
For on that night in dismal plight, Sir Peel he saw to sob then―― One hand out-stretched for aid to Bright, And one was round his Cobden!
“Go hence, go hence,” he cried in grief, Across the stormy lobby, “We’ll ne’er forgive our turn-coat chief, Sir Bobby, Oh! Sir Bobby!”
’Twas true――the turn-coats vainly rave, Protection’s friends preventing, The Tories brave kick’d out the knave, And he was left repenting.
From Protectionist Parodies, by “A Tory.” Oxford, J. Vincent, 1850.
――――:o:――――
JOHN THOMPSON’S DAUGHTER.
A Fellow near Kentucky’s clime, Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry, And I’ll give thee a silver dime To row us o’er the ferry.”
“Now, who would cross the Ohio, This dark and stormy water?” “O, I am this young lady’s beau, And she, John Thompson’s daughter.
“We’ve fled before her fathers’ spite With great precipitation, And should he find us here to-night, I’d lose my reputation.
“They’ve missed the girl and purse beside, His horsemen hard have pressed me, And who will cheer my bonny bride, If yet they shall arrest me?”
Out spoke the boatman then in time, “You shall not fail, don’t fear it; I’ll go, not for your silver dime, But for your manly spirit.
“And by my word, the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; For though a storm is coming on, I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”
By this the wind more fiercely rose, The boat was at the landing, And with the drenching rain their clothes Grew wet where they were standing,
But still, as wilder rose the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Just back a piece came the police, Their tramping sounded nearer.
“O, haste thee, haste!” the lady cries, “It’s anything but funny; I’ll leave the light of loving eyes, But not my Father’s money!”
And still they hurried in the face Of wind and rain unsparing; John Thompson reached the landing place, His wrath was turned to swearing.
For by the lightning’s angry flash, His child he did discover; One lovely hand held all the cash, And one was round her lover!
“Come back, come back,” he cried in woe. Across the stormy water, “But leave the purse, and you may go, My daughter, Oh! my daughter!”
Twas vain, they reached the other shore, (Such dooms the Fates assign us), The gold he piled went with his child, And he was left there, minus.
From Poems and Parodies, by Phœbe Carey. Boston, United States, 1854.
――――
LAMBETH FERRY.
A cove vot had come from Lambeth Town Cried “Boatman do not tarry: I don’t mind giving you ’arf-a-crown To row me over with Mary.”
“Now who be he vould cross the Thames Ven it’s dark and ’tis high vater?” “Vy Billy Downey is my name, And this is Black Joe’s Daughter.
“Afore her daddy’s ’prentice boys! An hour we’ve run away, man! Should they catch us they’d make a noise, And my poor back vould pay, man.”
Up jumps the vaterman, “I’ll pull; Jump in my boat, be jolly; It’s not for the sake of half-a-bull, But for your charming Polly.
“And so help me tater, the darlen creetur, Though in danger you have brought her, But if it should rain both cats and dogs, I’ll row you o’er the vater.”
And then the vind it howled apace, The rain vas fast a pattering. They stared in each other’s face As they stood there a chattering.
And still as the rain made more noise, And as the vind blow’d hoarser, They heard the sound of the ’prentice boys As if they vos coming closer.
“Oh! sparkle up,” poor Polly said, “Though the veather be ever so cold, man, I’d rather meet a vatery bed Than meet my angry old man.”
The boat has left the Thames’ famed shore, They pulled away, ahoy! sir, Ven oh! too strong for his weak hand, They run against a buoy, sir.
My eyes! how the wild waves did roar, Poor Bill thought Poll vos dying, Black Joe, he reached the fatal shore, Ven he begun a-crying.
For ven towards the wreck he look’d His child he did discover. Von mutton fist in her hair was hook’d Tother vos round her lover.
“Come back, come back!” he cried, “to me,” “Come back, vot are you arter, And I’ll forgive you, Billy Downey, My daughter! oh, my daughter.”
But a wave came vot upset the boat In the vater they vos drivelling. Joe viped his eye vith the tail of his coat, And he began a snivelling!
ANONYMOUS.
――――
THE NEW LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER.
A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry; And I’ll give thee a silver pound To row us o’er the ferry.”
The boatman did not even smile, But looked across the water; He kenned the Chief of Ulva’s Isle, And eke Lord Ullin’s daughter.
“Oh, haste thee!――haste!” the lady cried, “This youth and I, eloping, Would cross at once to t’other side, So aid us in our sloping!”
The boatman budged no inch, and then The clue Lord U. discovers; And down the glen ride armed men, And catch the brace of lovers.
“Curst boatman;” shouted Ulva’s chief, “If I were free I’d show ye”―― “_We’d rather dee on Loch Maree Than on the Sawbath row ye!_”
Funny Folks, July 13, 1878.
――――:o:――――
HOHENLINDEN.
On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay th’ untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast array’d, Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neigh’d, To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shock the hills with thunder riv’n Then rush’d the steeds to battle driv’n, And louder than the bolts of Heaven, Far flash’d the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow, On Linden’s hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph’rous canopy.
The combat deepens, on ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave! And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few, shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding sheet, And every turf beneath their feet, Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre!
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
The Battle of Hohenlinden was fought on December 3, 1800, when the French, under General Moreau gained a victory over the Austrians. Campbell witnessed the battle from the monastery of St. Jacob, it is therefore somewhat surprising that his poem should, in its details, be so completely at variance with the reality of history. The Colonel of the Sixteenth Lancers, in describing the battle said that the “victory was obtained almost without an effort of the General, or any very great bravery on the part of his troops.” Some of the poetical allusions, as for instance “the black Iser,” “bannered Munich,” and the “night scene” were altogether imaginary, and nothing can be called true but the beautiful stanza that concludes the Ode. Whilst a writer in “Notes and Queries” suggested that even this stanza was poetically faulty, and proposed it should be altered to:
“And every sod beneath their feet Shall bear a soldier’s Elegy.”
――――
BANNOCKBURN. (An imitation of Hohenlinden.)
Near Stirling’s tower, by Fortha’s wave The rising sun its radiance gave, Upon the armour of the brave That burned for battle brilliantly.
And Scotland by that soaring sun Beheld her brightest day begun―― Her greenest wreath of glory won By deeds of dauntless bravery.
On Bannockburn’s camp covered field The men of war were met to wield, With hostile hand, the sword and shield, For conquest or for liberty!
How gaily glanced that field before Began the battle’s rage and roar! That reddened with the reeking gore As raved the dreadful revelry.
The wild war-yell rose hoarse and high, St. George! for Edward was the cry, And Scotland’s shout shook earth and sky, St. Andrew! Bruce! and liberty!
Then closed the conflict deep and dread! Then strained the bow and struck the blade, Its dirge of death the trumpet brayed, As thinn’d the ranks of rivalry!
What feelings fired each hero’s heart, For conquest or a country’s part, As from each eye the flash did dart, That spoke the spirits enmity:
But fast the Southrons fell and fled Where Bruce――brave Bruce! his patriots led, And Scotland’s lion rampant――red Pranced proudly on to victory!
And may each land, as Scotland, scorn The tyrant’s threat――his thraldom spurn With such success as Bannockburn Of dear and deathless memory!
ARCHIE ALIQUIS.
From The Scrap-book of Literary Varieties. Printed by Edward Lacey, 1825.
――――
THE BATTLE OF PEAS HILL.
“The following effusion was penned the day after the memorable 13th of November, 1820, which must be a day of pleasant recollection to all CANTABS, as long as there shall be a SNOB or Radical amongst them, or a fist to bate them with. This is the only Matriculation Day which is registered in letters of blood in the archives of the Vice-Chancellor; and we are sure there never was, nor ever will be, such an occasion for calling FRESHMEN from the science of mechanics to the application of its theory in the science of war.”
On Granta, when the sun was low, No symptoms lower’d of fearless row, But all was silent as the flow Of CAMUS rolling tardily.
But Granta saw another sight, When Radicals presumed at night, With Carter’s[17] mutton-wicks to light Their Caroline’s base treachery.
Round Hobson’s conduit quick array’d, Each GOWNSMAN rush’d the cause to aid, And fast about him each one laid, With blows that told most terribly.
Then rushing forth the SNOBS among, Fierce from the ranks the Johnian sprung, And loud and clear the market rung, With shouts of dreadless liberty.
But redder yet shall be each cheek, And louder yet each tongue shall speak, And fiercer yet each soon shall wreak His vengeance most undauntedly.
’Tis rushlight all――but what can shew The GOWNSMAN from the GOWNSMAN’S foe, As shouting in thick files they go To battle all so merrily?
No banners there were waving high, To cheer the brave to victory, No pennon floating to the sky, With rare device wrought curiously.
No plumes of crested pride were seen, But tassels black of silken sheen, With gold and silver mix’d between, Emblems of unanimity!
No sound was heard of martial drum, No bugle blast, but one wild hum Floated o’er all: “The SNOBS! they come, On! on! and meet them cheerily.”
And then was shout, and noise, and din, As rallying forwards poured in, Hundreds and hundreds to begin The work of fame so gloriously.
Then rush’d undaunted, to the fight, The tall――the low――the strong――the light; And, oh! it was a glorious sight, That strife of TOWN and GOWN to see.
As fist to fist, rais’d high in air, And face to face opposed were, As shone the conflict in the glare Of lights that told of Bergami.
Then rushed to fight the hardy SOPH, Regardless of the townsmen’s scoff, As one by one they sallied forth To war in ambush warily.
Then rush’d the FRESHMAN to essay His maiden valour in the fray, And who that valour shall gainsay, And wrong not such effrontery?
Then with one cry so loud and shrill, It echoed to the CASTLE HILL, They charged the SNOBS against their will, And shouted clear and lustily.
Then all distinctions were forgot―― Then, silk and velvet had one lot With tatter’d stuffs, upon that spot Which sacred was to bravery.
No signs of fear, no signs of dread, Of bloody nose or broken head, Of wretch by Proctors homeward led For “acting contumaciously.”
No thoughts were there, but such as grace The memory of that crowded place, The memory of that gallant race Who took and gave so heartily.
The combat deepens; on, ye brave, Who rush to conquest, or to save; Wave all your stuffs and poplins wave! And charge with all your chivalry!
Few, few, shall part where many meet, Dull soon shall be each crowded street, Responsive, now, to thousand feet Pursuing on to Victory.
From The Gradus ad Cantabrigiam, by a Brace of Cantabs, John Hearne, London, 1824.
――――
JENNY-LINDEN.
A Dreadful Engagement between the Swedish Nightingale, and the Poet Bunn.
On Lind, when Drury’s sun was low, And bootless was the wild-beast show, The lessee counted for a flow Of rhino to the treasury.
But Jenny Lind, whose waken’d sight Saw Drury in a proper light, Refused, for any sum per night, To sing at the Menagerie.
With rage and ire in vain displayed Each super drew his wooden blade, In fury half and half afraid, For his prospective salary.
Bunn in a flaming frenzy flew, And speedily the goosequill drew With which he is accustomed to Pen such a deal of poetry.
He wrote the maiden, to remind Her of a compact she had signed, To Drury Lane’s condition blind, And threaten’d law accordingly.
Fair as in face in nature, she Implored the man to set her free, Assuring him that he should be Remunerated handsomely.
Two thousand pounds she offered, so That he would only let her go: Bunn, who would have his bond, said, No! With dogged pertinacity.
And now his action let him bring, And try how much the law will wring From her to do the handsome thing, Who had proposed so readily!
The Swedish Nightingale to cage He fail’d; she sought a fitting stage, And left him to digest his rage, And seek his legal remedy.
Then shook the House with plaudits riven, When Jenny’s opening note was given, The sweetest songstress under heaven Forth bursting into melody,
But fainter the applause shall grow, At waning Drury’s wild-beast show, And feebler still shall be the flow Of rhino to the treasury.
The Opera triumphs! Lumley brave, Thy bacon thou shalt more than save; Wave, London, all thy ’kerchiefs wave, And cheer with all thy chivalry.
’Tis night, and still yon star doth run; But all in vain for treasurer Dunn, And Mr. Hughes, and Poet Bunn, And quadrupeds, and company.
For Sweden’s Nightingale, so sweet, Their fellowship had been unmeet, The sawdust underneath whose feet Hath been the Drama’s sepulchre.
Punch, May 15, 1847.
Mr. Alfred Bunn, then lessee and manager of Drury Lane Theatre, had endeavoured to secure the services of Miss Jenny Lind, but she accepted an engagement under Mr. Lumley, and made her first appearance at Her Majesty’s Theatre, Haymarket, on May 4, 1847. Her début was a brilliant triumph, and for the short time she remained on the lyric stage she was extremely popular. But in 1851 she married M. Otto Goldschmidt, and retired from the stage, although she has occasionally performed since, principally for the benefit of public charities, or other philanthropic objects.
――――
THE BAL MASQUÉ AT CROCKFORD’S.
On Thursday, ere the time was come For supper’s joys――the guests were glum, And deep as thunder was the hum Of thousands polking sullenly.
But Crockford’s saw another sight, When rang the bell at dead of night, Commanding streams of gas to light Her supper-room’s gay scenery.
In Hart’s and Nathan’s costumes lent, Each polkeuse chose some visor’d Gent, And eagerly the cash was spent, To join the coming revelry.
Then rushed the crowds, by hunger driven, Then rang the room, with laughter riven, And loudly were the orders given For Champagne popping merrily.
But louder yet the noise shall grow, Ere Crockford’s masquers thence shall go, And faster yet the wine shall flow, From bottles emptied rapidly.
’Tis day, and scarce the exhausted band Can sleep’s o’er-powering charms withstand, While Jullien waves his wearied hand, And leads the final galopade.
The pace now quickens. On, ye slow! Or crushed by numbers, down you’ll go. Blow, Kœnig! loud thy posthorn, blow, And make the walls re-echo thee!
Few, few, remain that sound to greet, The dancers rest their burning feet; And each cab in St. James’s-street Bears home some worn-out reveller.
The Man in the Moon, Vol. 1.
――――
ROW-IN-LONDON.
Caused by the Invasion of the French National Guards, in 1848.
In London, when the funds were low, And business was uncommon slow, The Quadrant only on the go, And that kept moving sluggishly.
But London saw another sight When National Guards arrived at night, And Lumber troopers took to flight, Across the pavement slippery.
In shirt and stockings fast arrayed, The Lord Mayor gasped out, sore afraid, And with the Aldermen essayed To join the flying Cavalry.
To cut and run they’d stoutly striven, But back to battle they were driven, And then the foremost rank was given The Bunhill Row Artillery.
But bolder yet that troop must grow, Or, London conquered by the foe, The Gallic cock will proudly crow On Temple Bar right merrily.
’Tis morn――but Specials in a swoon, Won’t reach the Mansion House by noon, Where frantic Gibbs and “pale-faced Moon”[18] Groan in the butler’s pan-t-ry.
The combat deepens――on ye brave, Who rush to Guildhall, or the grave; Save, Magog! oh, the city save, And charge with all the Livery.
Few French shall tread where freemen meet Turtle on Lord Mayor’s Day to eat; But hung on high, with dangling feet, Swing opposite St. Sepulchre’s!
The Puppet Show, September 30, 1848.
――――
THE BATTLE OF THE BOULEVARD.
On Paris, when the sun was low, The gay “Comique” made goodly show, Habitués crowding every row To hear Limnandier’s opera.
But Paris showed another sight, When, mustering in the dead of night, Her masters stood, at morning light, The crack chasseurs of Africa.
By servants in my pay betrayed, Cavaignac, then, my prisoner made, Wrote that a circumstance delayed His marriage rite and revelry.
Then shook small Thiers with terror riven; Then stormed Bedeau, while gaol-ward driven; And, swearing (not alone by Heaven), Was seized, bold Lamoricière.
But louder rose the voice of woe, When soldiers sacked each cit’s depôt, And tearing down a helpless foe, Flashed Magnan’s red artillery.
More, more arrests! Changarnier brave Is dragged to prison like a knave, No time allowed the swell to shave, Or use the least perfumery.
’Tis morn, and now Hortense’s son, (Perchance her spouse’s too) has won The imperial crown. The French are done, Chawed up most incontestably.
Few, few shall write, and none shall meet; Suppressed shall be each journal-sheet! And every serf beneath my feet Shall hail the soldier’s Emperor.
These lines on the Coup d’Etat of Napoleon III. were written by the late Professor W. E. Aytoun, a most determined and persistent opponent of the Napoleon régime. The doubt as to the Emperor Napoleon’s paternity has been frequently expressed, it did not originate with Aytoun.
――――
HOHEN-LONDON.
The result of an awful Engagement on the part of her Majesty to honour the City Ball with her presence.
In London, when folks’ taste was low, They used to like the Lord Mayor’s show; But now ’tis voted very slow―― A dull affair, decidedly.
But London showed another sight, When the Queen came on Wednesday night, Escorted, through a blaze of light To join the City revelry.
At every window smart array’d, Sat civic lass, and Cockney blade; And all the populace hoorayed To see the Royal pageantry.
Then shook St. Paul’s, with shouting riven; Then rushed the steeds, up Cheapside driven; And still more stunning cheers were given By noisy British loyalty.
But noisier yet the crowd will grow, Through King Street, as the Queen shall go To Guildhall, there――on gouty toe―― To see her hosts dance heavily.
The concourse thickens! Heroes brave, Who flash the bull’s eye on the knave, Wave, Crushers, all your truncheons wave, And charge them with the cavalry.
The Hall is gained; but lo! what fun! As to a ball, the Sovereign’s done! Except her suite, there’s room for none To dance before her Majesty.
Few, few can polk where many meet, And have no space to kick their feet; The Hop a failure was complete; The Supper went off decently.
Punch, July 19, 1851.
――――
SWINDON.
At Swindon when the night drew nigh, Few were the trains that went thereby, And very dreary was the sigh, Of damsels waiting dolefully.
But Swindon saw another sight, When the train came at dead of night, Commanding oil and gas to light Much stale confectionery.
By soups and coffee fast allured, Each passenger his choice secured, Excepting those lock’d in, immured By sly policeman’s treachery.
Then rushed the mob, by hunger driven; Then vanished buns, in pieces riven; And louder than the orders given, Fast popped the beer artillery.
But farther yet the train shall go, And deeper yet shall be their woe, And greater horrors shall they know, Who bolt their food so speedily.
Time’s up; but scarce each sated one Can pierce the steam cloud, rolling dun, Where curious tart and heavy bun Lie in dyspeptic sympathy.
The combat thickens. On, ye brave! Who scald your throats, in hope to save Some spoonsful of your soup, the knave Will charge for all he ladles ye!
Few, few, digest where many eat, The nightmare shall wind up their feat, Each carpet bag beneath their seat Shall seem a yawning sepulchre.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
HOTEL SWINDLING.
In Dover, when my purse was low, One luckless night, ’twixt sheets of snow, At an hotel most travellers know, Did I, Sir, slumber cosily.
But Dover shock’d at morn my sight With such a bill for that brief night, Such whacking sums for wax to light The darkness of its hostelry!
My tea and crumpets’ cost array’d, That a rogue drew the bill betray’d, And furious overcharges made, The whole a dreadful robbery.
Then shrank my purse, to plunder given: Then wagg’d my tongue, to scolding driven; And at these scamps, on cheating thriven, Fierce flash’d my eyes’ artillery.
But fiercer yet did those eyes glow, When reft of means “express” to go, From Dover, in the third-class low, Was I, Sir, rolling crawlingly.
’Twas morn, but deuce a bit of sun Pierced through the clouds; they were as “dun” As I,――excuse the horrid pun―― In that infernal hostelry.
The subject sickens. On, thou knave! And dig base Imposition’s grave; Shave, landlords! all your guests close shave, And overcharge in rivalry!
Few, few return, where many meet, Or press again the snow-white sheet; The Times, ye hosts, who foully cheat, Will be your swindling’s sepulcre.
Diogenes, November, 1853.
――――
THE BATTLE OF BULL-RUN.
At Bull-run, when the sun was low, Each Southern face was pale as snow; And shrill as jackdaws, rose the crow Of Yankees boasting rabidly!
But Bull-Run saw another sight, When in the deepening shades of night Towards Fairfax Court-house, streamed the flight Of Yankees running rapidly!
Then shook the corps, with terror riven Then rushed the steeds, from battle driven; The men of “Battery number seven” Forsook their red artillery.
Now from McDonald’s furthest left, The roar of cannon strikes one deaf; Where furious “Abe” and fiery “Jeff” Contend for death or victory.
The panic thickens; Off ye Brave! Throw down your arms; your bacon save! Waive Washington, each scruple waive, And fly with all your chivalry.
――――
SIC VOS, NON VOBIS, VERSIFICATIS AVE.
At Seacliff, when the time passed slow, And summer’s sun refused to show, Relentless was the steady flow Of raindrops pattering drearily.
But Seacliff saw another sight, The band struck up at ten at night, And Volunteers in leggings tight, Awoke the dance right cheerily.
By willing steward’s friendly aid The warrior sought the smiling maid, And charged, as each musician played, Adown the hall, hung tastily.
Then shook the floor to twinkling feet, While some did dance and some did eat, Or strove to stay the increasing heat By swallowing ices hastily.
But shorter yet these lights shall burn, And faster yet the waltzers turn, Before the chaperones discern That day is surely slipping in.
’Tis morn; but all that’s young and fair Of Seacliff beauties linger there, Full loath to seek the outer air And leave the hall they’re tripping in.
The ball is over. Read ye now Who read for honours,――or a plough, May Oxford’s laurels grace the brow Of him who works most steadily.
Too soon we part; but when we meet In bonds of recollections sweet, We’ll chat of Seacliff’s snug retreat That welcomed us so readily.
L. E. S.
From College Rhymes. W. Mansell, Oxford, 1861.
――――
BELTON.[19] (August 12, 1863.)
At Belton, ere the twilight grew, Untrodden was the avenue, Save by Papas and Mas a few With their sight-seeing progeny.
But Belton saw another sight, When the mob came at nine at night, And with a thousand flambeaux light Illumined all her scenery.
With od’rous torch and British cheer, To Brownlow’s home they drew them near, His Lordship’s honour――not his beer―― The motive of their revelry.
Forth flowed the ale. Ye know not its Peculiar virtues, O ye cits, ’Twould beat e’en Burton tap to fits, Though Bass be its auxiliary.
And hours that amber stream shall flow, And men shall come and scorn to go, The thirsty souls shall thirstier grow, Though quarts it empties rapidly.
’Tis midnight. For one “level son,” A hundred bawl they “havn’t done,” And as the barrels run and run, Shout in their beery jollity.
The beer grows thicker: now they go―― They could not drink for aye, you know―― Grantham thy banners (calico) Should wave o’er these (thy chivalry?).
Few, few can stand, though all have feet, They need no counterpane or sheet, When ev’ry turf that e’er they meet Destroys a perpendicular.
――――
BILLS.
AT Oxford when my funds were low, And I was ploughed for “Little-go,” How fast and furious was the flow Of Bills that came in rapidly!
But Oxford saw another sight, When my rich aunt went off one night, For then I’d gold, and cheques could write, And shopkeepers came fawningly:
“Our stupid clerks the error made, We never were the least afraid About our small bills being paid;” And so they went on lyingly.
“We hope,” they said with glistening eye, “You’ll still allow us to supply All articles you want; we’ll try To please you, sir, in every way.”
Oh! rare and comic was the fun To see each humbly cringing dun, The oily and the sugary one, All full of meek apology.
I paid their bills upon the spot, And the receipts from each I got, And then I looked at all the lot, As they stood bowing smilingly.
“Get out each fawning drivelling knave,” I shouted out with features grave; My hand towards the door I wave, And clench it simultaneously.
I heard the sound of hurrying feet Haste down the stairs and up the street, And then in fits of laughter sweet, I went off unrestrainedly.
From Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon. Chapman and Hall, London, 1874.
――――
HO! IN PRINCE’S.
At Prince’s when the sun is low, See all the fashion skating go, And bright and brilliant is the flow, Of ladies rinking rapidly.
Ah! Prince’s is a splendid sight, From break of day till fall of night, For all combine to render bright, The dull surrounding scenery.
In gorgeous dresses see arrayed, The haughty dame, the tender maid, Who join, with not a thought dismayed, The fascinating revelry.
From morn till eve a throng is found, Of rapid rinkers rolling round, Amid the light and joyous sound Of music’s varied melody.
Then on, ye fair ones, one by one, Who rink for fashion, or for fun, From early morn till setting sun You’ll always meet with chivalry.
And if, perchance at fearful pace, You charge another face to face, Then cry, when in that close embrace, “’Tis I, Sir, rinking rapidly,”
Few will forget the hours sweet, They spent with skates upon their feet, Nor friends that they were wont to meet At Prince’s, rinking rapidly.
From Idyls of the Rink. London: Judd & Co., 1876.
――――
THE TAY BRIDGE DISASTER.
That fatal eve, as darkness died, It spann’d the Firth in conscious pride, And far beneath it rolled the tide Of Tay, lamenting sullenly.
But later met that bridge its doom, When fiery showers pierced the gloom, To light to their tempestuous tomb, A wild despairing company.
Struck midway by the raging blast, The girders crash’d and crumbled fast, And down that living freight was cast Into a sea of agony.
Lost was the falling metals roar Amid the elemental war, And fast the flaming sparks flew o’er The chasm’s dense obscurity.
But soon those sparks are lost to sight, Quenched in the river’s rayless night, And still rejoicing in his might, Tay sweepeth seawards sullenly.
’Tis midnight! scarce yon barque can make Her way where seething billows break, And still the winds and waters shake The heavens in their rivalry.
Though darker yet the airy dome, Speed, gallant ship, across the foam! On! on! Dundee! and gather home Those wrecks of frail humanity!
But none shall wake where many sleep, Their bier shall be the trackless deep; And ever shall the surges sweep Above their lonely sepulchre.
From Snatches of Song, by F. B. Doveton. Wyman and Sons, London, 1880.
The Tay Bridge broke down on December 28, 1879, carrying with it a train which was passing over at the time, and many lives were lost.
――――
ERIN-LIEDER.
In Erin where the Praties grow When rents were high and prices low Ejected Paddies had to go, Across the ocean rapidly.
But Erin saw another sight, When tenants struck for tenant right, And gallant Parnell led the fight, Against a Landlord tyranny.
By torch-light leaders were conveyed To platforms, furious speeches made, And every tenant farmer bade, To “hold the harvest” steadily,
Few, few the rents that any got, And if an Agent was not shot, He had to undergo Boycott- Ing, by a furious peasantry.
J. M. LOWRY, 1884.
――――
It is said that Campbell sent the MS. of Hohenlinden to the Greenock Advertiser, but that it was rejected, with a polite intimation “that it did not come up to the Editor’s standard, and that poetry was evidently not the forte of the contributor.”
A version of Hohenlinden in Latin sapphics, probably written by Father Prout (the Rev. Francis Mahony) appeared in Blackwood’s Magazine, in 1834; and another version, in Latin Alcaics, “Prælium Lindenium” by the Rev. William Fellowes A.M., appeared in the Sabrinæ Corolla, 1850.
THE SOLDIER’S DREAM.
Our bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had lowered, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw; And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field’s dreadful array, Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track, ’Twas autumn――and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft, In life’s morning march, when my bosom was young, I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o’er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.
“Stay――stay with us!――rest, thou art weary and worn!” (And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay,) But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away!
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
――――
THE SOLDIER’S DREAM. (After T. CAMP-BELL, by A. CAMP-BEAU.)
We were wet as the deuce; for like blazes it poured, And the sentinels’ throats were the only things dry; And under their tents Chobham’s heroes had cowered, The weary to snore, and the wakeful to sigh.
While dozing that night in my camp bed so small, With a mackintosh over to keep out the rain―― After one glass of grog, cold without――that was all―― I’d a dream, which I hope I shall ne’er have again.
Methought from damp Chobham’s mock-battle array, I had bowled off to London, outside of a hack; ’Twas the season, and wax lights illumined the way To the balls of Belgravia that welcomed me back.
I flew to the dancing rooms, whirled through so oft With one sweet little partner, who tendril-like clung, I saw the grim chaperons, perched up aloft, And heard the shrill notes WEIPPERT’S orchestra flung.
She was there――I would “pop”――and a guardsman no more, From my sweet little partner for life ne’er would part, When sudden I saw――just conceive what a bore―― A civilian, by Jove! laying siege to her heart!
“Out of sight, out of mind!” It was not to be borne―― To cut her, challenge him I was rushing away―― When sudden the twang of that vile bugle horn Scared my visions, arousing the camp for the day.
Punch, July 9, 1853.
――――
THE BOAT RACE, “Verrimus et proni certantibus æquora remis.”
We had stripped off our coats, for the first gun had fired; Our starter intent on his watch set his eye; On the bank there were hundreds in flannels attired, The lean ones to run, and the fat ones to try.
The last gun was fired, we are off and away, With fast flashing oars, on the foremost boat’s track; ’Twas pumping――my knees, too, got in my way, And a troublesome horse-fly was biting my back.
The flush of exertion broke out on my face, And the skin-wearing car handle gave me great pain, And I vowed in my heart this should be my last race, And thrice ere the finish I vowed it again.
Put it on――well-rowed all――now you’re gaining――full oft I heard on the bank from many a tongue, And the cheers of our comrades that went up aloft From many a loud-shouting ear-splitting lung.
Then we spurted like mad, and gained more and more, Till the two boats were scarcely six inches apart, Our coxswain alternately cheered us and swore, To let off the steam from his fast-beating heart.
Easy all! ’Tis a bump! ’Tis a bump, I’ll be sworn! I was glad, for my back had begun to give way. Our cheers on the wings of the evening were borne, And our boat became head of the river that day.
From Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon. Chapman and Hall, London, 1874.
――――
THE TORY PREMIER’S DREAM.
Our leaders sang truce――for the session had lowered, And a cloud had come o’er the political sky; And the Parliament sank on the ground over-powered, The Liberals to shout, and the Tories to cry.
After feeding that night on my pork chop so raw With the vote-guarding “faggot” still haunting my brain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice e’er the cock crew I dreamed it again.
Methought from the Polling-booth’s dreadful array Triumphant I rose, for of votes I’d no lack. ’Twas delightful to hear all constituents say. “We idolize Jingo, and welcome you back!”
I flew to the policy traversed so oft, The secrecy whence my “surprises” have sprung; My motto, “Imperium,” floated aloft, And I laughed in my sleeve at the softness of Bung.
Then pledged we the Water Bill; fondly we swore From our spirited policy never to part; The stockjobbers blessed me a thousand times o’er, And the public it cursed in its hardness of heart.
Stay, stay with us――rest till an Empire is born; And fain was the Novelist-Statesman to stay; But Gladstone returned with the dawning of morn, And all my majority melted away.
Funny Folks, April 17, 1880.
――――
THE FATAL GALLOPADE.
A Parody upon the style of Thomas Campbell, Author of “Theodric,” etc.
’Twas night――a damp――dark――misty――murky night, Scarce thro’ the gloom could pierce the gas-lamp’s light, When to the square, which bears proud Grosvenor’s name, A crowd of carriages and chariots came, Stopping in turns, successively before A mansion’s wide and double-knockered door; And there was heard the carriage door’s quick slam,―― Anon a halt――and then a sudden jam Of poles retrorsally thro’ chariots driven, And shrieks of “Coachman!――Thomas! John!――oh Heaven!” At length, in safety’s reached the drawing room, Where gold, and platina, and pearl, and plume, Floating and shining o’er neck, head, and ears,[20] Like stars and white clouds seemed in heav’nly spheres From the high roof where gold and azure blended, In hues designed to typify the sky, Bright chandeliers of crystallised glass depended In colours each of too resplendent dye For human art with one of them to vie. Oh! ’twas a scene too dazzling to the sight―― Too grandly gay――too beautifully bright!
And now the music and the dance began,―― The beaux to ogle, and the belles to fan; And oft between the pauses of each dance, To lull the listener to a dreamy trance, Soft melting sounds around his heart-strings wreathed, To which a voice responsive accents breathed, Filling with such sweet harmony the air, It seemed an angel had been wafted there!
But who is he of foreign garb and air, That roams about with sentimental stare? No common personage; his star-lit breast Bespeaks him noble――little boots the rest; Russian he is, a rich ambassador. And oh!――propitious fact! a batchelor! A faded heiress looks on him intent; But, ah! his eyes are on another bent,―― And such another! who her charms can paint? Description waxes in the effort faint;
Pure as an infant in its first repose―― Mild as a summer evening at its close―― Pensive and pale as Dian in decline,―― Meek as the lily――tender as the vine―― Chaste as the Vestal,――modest as the ray, Which the sun leaves for night to scare away! These, and a thousand other charms, to boot Struck folly dumb, and admiration mute! Ceased the quadrille, the gallopade began, And partners briskly to their stations ran; Now thought the amorous Ambassador, Now let me dance――yes, now, or never more! With this he rushed to where his loved one stood, Asked her to dance――sweet girl!――she said she would; Joy to the Russian! he is blest indeed, And soon outstrips the fashionable speed;―― Too fatal speed! the floor’s vanished chalk Which pairs, more careful, step o’er in a walk, Arrests not them too fond to look below, Till down they suddenly together go! Smile not, ye fools!――the fair one’s head is broke! They raised her up, but never more she spoke! Ah! well with anguish may her partner start, For what hath broke her head, hath also broke his heart!
The Comic Magazine, 1834.
――――
LOCHIEL’S WARNING
The Wizard―― Lochiel! Lochiel, beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight: They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown; Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? ’Tis thine, oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate, A steed comes at morning; no rider is there; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led! Oh, weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead; For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave!
Lochiel―― Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.
The Wizard―― Ah! laughs’t thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn! Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth, From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north? Lo! the death shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high! Ah! home let him speed――for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast, Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? ’Tis the fire shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements height, Heaven’s fire is around thee, to blast and to burn; Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o’er her famishing brood.
――――
These lines are from Campbell’s “Lochiel’s Warning,” which poem is said to have been formed upon the skeleton of bouts-rimés, it certainly displays little trace of such a mode of construction.
――――
On January 14, 1880, The World published two competition poems on the model of “Lochiel’s Warning”; the topic selected being:
“1879, its Glory and its Shame.”
FIRST PRIZE.
John Bull――――Old Year.
John Bull―― Old Year, Old Year, I’m glad of the day That beholds thee, like evil dream, vanish away! For dejection and shame have companioned thy flight, From the morn of thy birth to thy final midnight. Look, look, where on reeking Isandula’s plain, Outflanked and outnumbered, our bravest are slain! Ah, see how cruel assegais enter the breast, Undismayed to the last, of our comrade and guest! Hark, hark, where the waters of Afghan’s dark river Fling back a sad cry, and then still it for ever, And where blood-stained Cabul with fanatical yells Of an envoy’s foul slaughter exultingly tells.
Old Year―― Peace, pessimist, peace! I have shattered the power Of the Zulu man-slayer, have curbed the rude Boer; Secocoeni is captive. Shere Ali is dead, And back from your borders the Russian I’ve sped; And no brighter pages can valour display.
John Bull―― Old Year, Old Year, I’m glad of the day―― From thy frost-bitten spring to thine autumn of blight Rain, rain hath oppressed us noon, morning, and night; Scant produce, unripened, mocks garden and farm; Flood and Tempest have waited on Famine’s alarm; While Leisure and Labour and Pleasure and Pain Have pined for the breath of thy summer in vain. With Sedition’s loud cry, have our annals been shamed, With a Senate obstructed, a credit defamed, With the cheers of a mob and the sneers of a press To rash to condemn and too prompt to caress, While the pulse of our commerce beats fitful and low――
Old Year―― False libeller, silence! and hark, ere I go: All my life throughout Europe the sword hath been sheathed; I have soothed the war-passions my brothers bequeathed; If want and Disaster have marched by my hand, They have knit class to class, and endeared land to land; And hardier and wiser, you shall not repine At the trials you have passed through in ’Seventy-nine.
ZIEGELSTEIN. (Goymour Cuthbert).
――――
SECOND PRIZE.
Wizard (of the North)――――Chieftain B.
Wizard―― Chieftain, O Chieftain, lament for the year! Of distress and disaster a history drear: For Cabul with its slain rises red on my sight; And grim Isandula, that massacre fight. They fought and they perished by field and by flood; But their victories rest bootless, and blood calls for blood. Weep, Albion, thy losses, thy glory grown pale! Weep, though gagged correspondents can’t tell the whole tale!
Chief―― Go, prate to Midlothian, thou peace-preaching seer! If the wars of thy country so dreadful appear, Let the fields of Ulundi, Rorke’s Drift, and Ekowe Dispel with their glory such phantoms of woe.
Wizard―― Ha! then turn to the East, who will there take thy side? Proud Chief, thou must break with the land of thy pride. Say, how strutted proud Turkey! how low now he lies! And new nations spring round while the old tyrant dies. Flourish freedom and peace where oppression once stood, And poor Turkey may scream for the loss of that brood.
Chief―― Verbose rhetor, avaunt! I’ve well managed my clan; Right or wrong, I rely on their votes to a man, With our endless resources, no foeman we fear, So woe to king Theebaw――
Wizard―― Yet weep for the year. Trade’s bad, sir, whatever your chemicals meant; And outside of Ireland, folks will not pay rent. Home interests were shelved, though oft Ministers met―― And look how the country has got into debt! They’ve finished, their blunders are done in the House; The Session was lost, just because they’d no nous, And where are those bothering Irishmen――where? Making trouble afresh, which may you have to bear! Yet, no! for departure from office is near; Peace, retrenchment, reform――
Chief―― You be――! Well, I don’t fear. For though weighted by taxes and harassed by foes, Still England, while life in each British breast glows, Shall, queen among nations in ages to come, Exult in libertas――
Wizard―― But not imperium.
RAD
――――
In March, 1882, “The Weekly Dispatch” had a Competition for Parodies of the first eighteen lines of “Lochiel’s Warning,” having reference to the House of Lords’ Select Committee on the Irish Land Act. The first prize was awarded to Mr. Jesse H. Wheeler, for the following:――
Old women! old women! prepare for the day When the Commons shall rule with an unopposed sway; For a dream of the future behold we to-night, While the hosts of Will Gladstone are massed for the fight. They guide us, they lead e’en their country and Queen―― Accursed be the puppets that trespass between! Poor Salisbury’s bunkum and muddling are vain, And the “shut up committee” is baffled, ’tis plain. For hark! that harangue, and those deep telling words―― What voice of the people defies the great Lords? ’Tis thine, William Gladstone, whose hearers await That scathing rebuff on the meddlers of State, A calm comes at finish, no challenge is there, But a silence prevails, then a sigh of despair. Shout, people! the Lords in humility bend; Oh, shout! this submission foreshadows the end. For this triumphant army the Lords can’t withstand, The Lords――whose foundations fast sink in the sand.
――――
The following Parody was also printed:――
O Cecil! O Cecil! beware of the day When the Commons shall meet thee in battle array; When the people’s stern will rushes on in its might, And the clans of the landlords are scattered in flight, Their standard shows ever “For kingdom and crown,” Hail! ye who shall trample the false device down, Proud sons of the people, as honest as plain, While their selfish bosoms throb only for gain. But see! through the storm-clouds that gather afar, What falchion gleams like a meteor star? ’Tis thine, William Ewart; in dread they await The time when thy summons is heard at their gate. Already its prelude resounds in the air, And soon will be heard their last sigh of despair. Oh! Albion, long in captivity led, Soon, soon, will the term of thy thraldom be sped, And the standard of freedom shall gallantly wave Where rule by a class finds a dishonoured grave!
JAMES ROBINSON.
――――:o:――――
The same original was again selected for a competition in the Weekly Dispatch, and the following prize poem was printed in that paper on September 14, 1884:――
O, Salisbury, Salisbury, beware of the day When the people shall meet thee in hostile array! For what can it end in excepting thy flight? Whilst thy Tory companions are scattered in fight, It is not a contest ’twixt people and crown, And woe to the lords who would trample them down! Brave Gladstone advances his arguments plain, And Tory mis-statements are routed and slain. And hark! ’mid the mutt’rings of those you would dare, What cry loud and earnest is borne on the air? ’Tis “Down with the Lords!” and, though Gladstone deplores, The people in anger will surge at your doors. Then take Gladstone’s warning, your error repair, Ere we wring our just rights from your fear and despair; Stay, Salisbury, then, ere the hour is too late, And you and your lords meet a merited fate!
ALBERT OTLEY.
――――
GLADSTONE’S WARNING. (Nothing to do with Lochiel’s Warning.)
O Tories! O Tories! beware of the day When my legions shall meet you in battle array! For the state of the poll in a vision I trace, With a name at the top, and a name at the base; Ye rally and cry: “For ourselves and the Crown!” And ye hoodwink the people and trample them down. Proud Salisbury, descending, declares to the poor, That he works for them now――though he did not before. But hark! through the thunder and speech-laden air, Who is he that flies howling in rage and despair? ’Tis the loud Democrat, so triumphant of late, The country has snubbed him, and――shown him the gate! Weep, Tories! your tricks to the country are plain, O weep!――can ye hope to deceive them again? They know, though your speeches sound pleasant and smart, That the truth on your lip is a lie at your heart!
The Judge, November 28, 1885.
――――:o:――――
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.
A NAVAL ODE.
Ye Mariners of England! That guard our native seas: Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, The battle, and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe! And sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow.
The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave!―― For the deck it was their field of fame, And ocean was their grave. Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow.
Britannia needs no bulwark, No towers along the steep; Her march is o’er the mountain waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak, She quells the floods below,―― As they roar on the shore, When the stormy tempests blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow.
The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn; Till danger’s troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
Campbell began this famous Ode, in Edinburgh, in 1799, and finished it at Altona in 1800. He at first styled it “Alteration of the old ballad ‘Ye Gentlemen of England’ composed on the prospect of a Russian War;” it was published early in 1801, in the Naval Chronicle, with the line “Where Granvill (boast of freedom) fell,” instead of
“Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,”
this being an allusion to the brave Sir Richard Granvill, who was killed in 1591, in the fight of the “Revenge” against the Spanish Armada.
After the death of Lord Nelson, at Trafalgar, in 1805, Campbell revised the poem, and then introduced the beautiful line
“Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell.”
The poem is frequently printed with the original date of 1800, and with the line about the fall of Nelson, without any explanation of these facts, thus making it appear that Campbell had anticipated the loss of the great sailor five years before it occured.
――――
YE KITE-FLYERS OF SCOTLAND.
Ye kite-flyers of Scotland, Who live from home at ease; Who raise the wind, from year to year, In a long and strong trade breeze: Your paper-kites let loose again On all the winds that blow; Through the shout of the rout Lay the English ragmen low; Though the shout for gold be fierce and bold, And the English ragmen low.
The spirits of your fathers Shall peep from every leaf; For the midnight was their noon of fame, And their prize was living beef. Where Deloraine on Musgrave fell, Your paper kites shall show, That a way to convey Better far than their’s you know, When you launch your kites upon the wind And raise the wind to blow.
Caledonia needs no bullion, No coin in iron case; Her treasure is a bunch of rags And the brass upon her face; With pellets from her paper mills She makes the Southrons trow, That to pay her sole way Is by promising to owe, By making promises to pay When she only means to owe.
The meteor rag of Scotland Shall float aloft like scum, Till credit’s o’erstrained line shall crack, And the day of reckoning come: Then, then, ye Scottish kite-flyers, Your hone-a-rie must flow, While you drink your own ink With your old friend Nick below, While you burn your bills and singe your quills In his bonny fire below.
THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.
The above parody is one of a series entitled Paper Money Lyrics, which were written in 1825-26, and published in a collected form in 1837. They had reference to the commercial panic of the winter 1825-26, and are consequently somewhat obsolete now. The other authors imitated besides Campbell, were Robert Southey, Poet Laureate; William Wordsworth, Thomas Moore, Samuel T. Coleridge, and Sir Walter Scott; whilst several old Scotch songs were also parodied, as for instance,
CHORUS OF NORTHUMBRIANS. (On the prohibition of Scotch One Pound Notes in England.)
March, march, Make-rags of Borrowdale, Whether ye promise to bearer or order; March, march, Take-rag and Bawbee-tail, All the Scotch flimsies must over the border: Vanity you snarl anent New Act of Parliament, Bidding you vanish from dairy and “lauder” Dogs you have had your day, Down tail and slink away; You’ll pick no more bones on this side of the border.
Hence to the hills where your fathers stole cattle; Hence to the glens where they skulked from the law; Hence to the moors where they vanished from battle, Crying, “De’il tak the hindmost” and “Charlie’s awa’.”
* * * * *
COMIC SONGS FOR YOUNG LADIES.
Young gentlemen of England, That only mind your ease, Ah, little do you think how hard Young ladies try to please! Give ear unto the Milliners, And they will plainly show How the waist must be laced, By the Fashion-books to go.
She who’d attract attention Must laugh at common sense, For when one goes to choose a dress, One mustn’t mind expense; Nor think how Pa will scold one, Whene’er he comes to know How he’s let into debt, By the Fashion-books to go.
What terrible privations Young ladies must endure, A lovely face and form of grace From damage to secure! Their appetites they must control, Lest they too stout should grow, And in vain strive and strain By the Fashion-books to go.
In days of bitter weather, Which winter doth enforce, One cannot think of such a thing As good thick boots, of course; With instep undefended, In rain, and hail, and snow, All so bold one gets cold, By the Fashion-books to go.
Punch, December 14, 1844.
――――
YE PEASANTRY OF ENGLAND.[21] (Dedicated to the Duke of Norfolk.)
Ye Peasantry of England, Who till our fertile leas, How little do ye think a man May live on, if he please? Your weekly wages, it is plain, As far again would go, And keep you so cheap, (For Norfolk’s Duke says so) If, when hunger rages fierce and strong, To curry you would go,
This powder, hungry fathers, From all expense will save; For if your children eat thereof, No other food they’ll crave; And any time that wages fall, (As oft they fall, you know,) ’Twill come cheap, a pinch to steep In water――a pint or so; And when hunger rages fierce and strong, To your curry powder go.
Our labourers need no dainties, But something strong and cheap; No steak from off the rump they crave, No chop from off the sheep: With curry powder thrice a week, Warm into bed they’ll stow, Nor ever roar out for more―― Their place so well they know; But when hunger rages fierce and strong, To the curry powder go.
The ’tato crops of England May all to gangrene turn, While Norfolk’s Duke about your lot His wise head shall concern. Meanwhile, ye hardy labourers, Your song of thanks should flow To the fame of his name Who the powder made you know: Which, when hunger rages fierce and strong, Will set you in glow.
Punch, January, 1845.
――――
ODE TO THE “SPECIALS.”
Ye Constables of London, That guard our Cockney plain, Whose staves have braved for several hours The Chartists and the rain, To Clerkenwell come forth once more To meet your ancient foe, And go then at the men Who never struck a blow At the men who spout so loud and long, But never strike a blow!
Our London needs no barriers, No forts along the street; Her faith is in her Specials’ staves, Her trust is in their feats! With their truncheons of old oak They fright the Chartists so, That they roar all the more, But they never strike a blow! Yes, although they spout so loud and long, They never strike a blow.
The maniac mob of England Shall yet some reason learn, Till humbug’s dreary night depart, And the star of sense return! Then, then, ye cockney warriors, Our half and half shall flow To the fame of your name, And every one shall know Of your prowess ’gainst the noisy mob Who never struck a blow.
The Puppet Show, June 10, 1848.
(Written at the time of the Chartist movement, when the late Emperor Napoleon III, was sworn in as a special Constable.)
――――
YE SHIP BUILDERS OF ENGLAND.
Ye Ship builders of England, That load our native seas With craft not fit to brave a year The battle or the breeze: Such rubbish do not launch again, Top heavy, dull, and slow As they creep through the deep Whatever wind may blow.
The spirits of retrenchment Shall start from every wave, For in the sea economy Through you has found a grave. Thousands and thousands you have sunk In ships that will not go; For they creep through the deep Whatever wind may blow.
The costly ships of England For fire-wood yet may burn, Till to the models of the past Her shipwrights shall return. Then, then, ye clumsy shipbuilders, Our song no more will throw All the blame on your name, Which now merits every blow.
Punch, December, 1849.
――――
“YE SUBALTERNS IN ENGLAND.”
From TUFF, of the Fusiliers in the Crimea, to MUFF, of the Grenadiers, at St. James’s.
Ye subalterns in England, Who live a life of ease, How little do ye think upon Our sufferings o’er the seas. To sup, lunch, dine, and lunch again, Upon fried pork we go, And three-deep, we’ve to sleep, In the trenches all a-row, With the batteries roaring loud and long, Four hundred guns or so!
The ghosts of clothing colonels Would shudder in their graves; For no two of us are rigged the same, And scarce a fellow shaves. Light cavalry and heavy swell Black as coal-heavers show; You can keep clean so cheap, But here a tub’s no go; For water you’ve to shell out strong, And then it’s salt, you know.
Out here we need no boot-jacks, For in our boots we sleep, One never sees a dressing-case, And hair brushes are cheap. Deuce a cigar one gets to smoke; Short pipes we’re glad to blow; And we draw rum from store, As we can’t have Bordeaux―― The point is, something short and strong, Although it may be low.
But round the flag of England We’ll our last cartridge burn, Till we have made the Russians smart, And victors home return. Then, when, as veteran warriors, At fête and ball we show, With the fame of our name, The ladies’ hearts will glow, And while you swells are voted bores, The pace, oh, shan’t we go!
Punch, November 18, 1854.
Another Parody on “Ye Mariners” appeared in Punch, December 11, 1852. It referred to a fracas which had taken place between two Members of Parliament, and has now no interest whatever.
――――:o:――――
A BALLAD BY A BISHOP. (With Brass Accompaniment.)
Ye clergymen of England, Who livings hold at ease, How little do you think upon The troubles of the Sees! Give ear unto my plaintive lay, And I’ll engage to show That a bishop’s poor and needy――whom for being rich and greedy, Up the stormy Times doth blow――oh! oh! oh! oh! Chorus expressive of Woe.
’Tis a law of human nature, As you all of you must grant, That of worldly things, the more man has The more he’s sure to want, Then wonder not that we, on whom Such fatness men bestow, Are in heart sick and sore, and in want, far, far more Than you who sit below――oh! oh! oh! oh!
That bishops who have been brought up Regardless of expense, In luxury must dine and sup, Seems merely common sense: And neither few nor far between Can be their wants, you know, When in health and at ease their appetites increase For the good things here below――O! O! O! O!
Then think ye not a bishop’s less To be envied than be pitied, Rememb’ring that to meet distress So little he is fitted. Nor wonder he for pension wants Six thousand pounds or so―― Or I fear in a year, tho’ he’s lived like a Peer, On the parish he would go――o――o――o――Oh!
(Refrain) ON THE PARISH HE WOULD GO!
Punch. October 11, 1856.
――――
CRINOLINE’S RAGING FURY; Or, the Fashionable Female’s Sufferings.
You rustic maids of England, Who dress yourselves with ease, Ah, little do you think how hard It is French taste to please. Give ear unto the milliners, And they will plainly show, With what care, tight with air, They our Crinolines do blow.
* * * * * (Five verses omitted.)
The husband, and the lover, May simple gowns prefer, That fit the form, and, in a storm, With safety let one stir, Reproaches fierce, our hearts that pierce, Against our taste they throw, Which we poor things endure, Whilst our Crinolines we blow.
We put on costly merchandise Of most enormous price, So much we need of drapery, To follow this device; We spend so much in drapery, Of such a size to show, And with toil our shape spoil, When our Crinolines we blow.
Punch, January 31, 1857.
――――
YE COMMONERS OF ENGLAND.
Ye Commoners of England, Who cannot sit at ease In the house designed by BARRY Four hundred odd to squeeze, Your straitened bounds enlarge again To hold two hundred more, Who now creep, in a heap, Through the narrow lobby door, When division bells ring loud and long, To the over-crowded floor.
The sluggard and late comer Their right to seats must waive, But a card stuck on the bench at prayers Will disappointment save. For architects will fail again Where BARRY failed before, And ye’ll creep, like penned sheep, Through another crowded door, While uttering curses loud and deep, To the over-crowded floor.
In the present House of Commons But few attempt to speak, For some have not the gift of tongue, And some not that of cheek. But in the new Reformed House There be at least ten score Who, like BRIGHT, every night, Forth their eloquence will pour, And speeches make, both loud and long, As ne’er were heard before.
To meet your wants in future, And find you room in turn. Gives HEADLAM, THOMSON HANKEY, And Bazley great concern: O’er plans and elevations Right patiently they pore, For they know ’tis no go To find space for any more, When debates are waxing loud and long, And the SPEAKER’S heard to snore.
Echoes from the Clubs, November 27, 1867.
――――
THE SCREAM OF THE AMERICAN EAGLE; OR, THE CROW OF YANKEE-DOODLE.
You sneaking skunks of England, Who stay at home at ease, Who think because you never fight You’re rulers of the seas: Another pirate launch again To match a New York foe, For the fame of your name Which has had so sad a blow, While we Yankees bluster loud and long, And over England crow.
The shattered “Alabama” Lies deep beneath the wave, Your finest guns and gunners Their vessel couldn’t save, When our noble ship, the “Kearsarge,” Her shot and shell did throw, To the bottom in an hour Did the “Alabama” go, And we Yankees bluster loud and long, And over England crow.
The flag of old Columbia Shall ne’er again be furled Till, having scourged the Southern States, We whip the whole wide world; With real lightning from our guns Our thunderbolts we’ll throw, Till not a single Britisher Upon the seas doth show, Then won’t we bluster loud and long And over England crow.
Yes, then, you sneaking Britishers, Our song and feast shall flow When we sink your Island, Queen and all, Old ocean’s depths below, And masters of the ’varsal airth We’ll liquor to and fro, Drink gin-slings with our Irish slaves And trumpets loudly blow To the fame of our name, And o’er the whole world crow.
From Lyrics and Lays, by PIPS (Wyman Bros., Calcutta, 1867).
――――
THE FENIANS’ RAGING FURY: Or, Legal Ireland’s Sufferings.
Ye gentlemen of Ireland Who live abroad at ease, A mighty little wonder ’tis That you are absentees. Give heed unto the newspapers, And they will daily show All the crimes――see the Times―― When the crimson drops do flow.
All we that would live landlords Must bear arrears of rent, And little though we should be paid Or none, must be content; Or else, a tenant’s bullet Will quickly lay us low; With a ball he pays all, Whilst the crimson drops do flow.
* * * * *
Not Irish landlords only, Thus live in care and dread; Their stewards and their agents too May look to be shot dead. Whoever makes an enemy Is very soon let know, What is what, by a shot, When the crimson drops do flow.
* * * * *
If all conciliation Is wasted, nought remains But to renew an iron rule, Stern penalties and pain, At least empower our magistrates To cage each public foe, With the speed which we need When the crimson drops do flow.
Punch, March 12, 1870.
――――
YE SCAVENGERS OF ENGLAND.
Ye Scavengers of England! Whose cart one seldom sees Without unpleasant consciousness There’s something in the breeze! Leave other garbage to its fate, And here your prowess show! And sweep through the heap From King Street up to Bow; Where the struggle rages all day long, From King Street up to Bow!
The Duke may wish you farther, The question try to waive; But, bear in mind, that filthy slush Might prove his Grace’s grave! And should he, by some chance, go down Himself, he’d swear you’re slow, As ye sweep through the heap From King Street up to Bow!
We boast we need no bulwarks Our social rights to keep; Yet, if we wish to purchase plums, We do it――ankle deep! And though we often, through the Times, Our indignation show, The while we roar, the loads still pour From King Street and from Bow; And the struggle lasts the whole day long, From King Street down to Bow!
The dirty flags of Mudford At last shall have their turn! No more for rotting refuse prove A putrid public churn! So up, ye British Scavengers, A decent garden show, Where Duchesses henceforth may――leap! From King Street up to Bow! And thank their stars you’ve made a sweep From King Street up to Bow!
Punch, October 16, 1880.
This Parody was accompanied by a portrait of the Duke of Bedford, the owner of this filthy, inconvenient, and mismanaged market.
――――
TO MILLINERS AND MILLIONARES. A modiste address by an Æsthetic Renegade.
Ye milliners of England, Who clothe so many shes, Whose stuffs have never found their peers, Oh, listen if you please. Your standard prices pray keep down, To hold the trade in tow, For thus you’ll reap and you’ll keep Of customers a flow; Though you make toilettes loud and long Now trains have ceased to grow.
The spirits of your tailors Shall start with every fold, For Paris ’twas from whence they came, And their reward was gold; Where Worth and mighty Felix dwell There is a better show, Where they do reap and do keep Of customers a flow, And say you haven’t the “haut ton,” And are most sadly slow.
Britannia needs no bustles, No heels of slender height, Her walk should e’er be straight and sure, Her dresses not too tight. With simple taste do loop them up And trim them down below: Ah! but you say, “that’s not the way O’er other firms to crow!” Well, then――(despairingly)――make your toilettes loud and long, We will not say you “No!”
(Sarcastically――) May the ladies fair of England Ever live and learn To be extra grateful for your deeds And give you some return! We sing to you, fair modistes, To Messrs. Worth and Co., To the fame of your name, And may fools of fashion flow, While you make dresses more and more, And bows and buttons grow.
From Cribblings from the Poets, by Hugh Cayley (Jones and Piggott, Cambridge, 1883.)
――――
TORPEDO TERRORS.
Our Poet has revised Campbell’s Lyric in accordance with the New System of Naval Warfare).
Ye mariners of England, Be vigilant to seize The flag that braved a thousand years, The battle and the breeze; And if your ships be launched again To meet a foreign foe, Ere ye sweep through thöe deep Send your divers down below, For that dread explosive swift and strong, The sneaking Tor-pe-dö.
When your heroic fathers Their foes a thrashing gave, On the deck above they sought for fame, Not underneath the wave. When Blake and mighty Nelson fought They dealt no dastard blow, But now we sweep o’er the deep, Both cautiously and slow, Fearing the din and the secret fire Of the Brigand Tor-pe-dö.
Britannia needs new bulwarks, New towers along the steep, If far below the mountain wave These hidden reptiles creep; No thunders from our broadsides now May quell the floods below, If when the proud ships float along The swift steam launches throw Beneath the keels of ironclads strong The coward Tor-pe-dö.
Though soon beneath our vessels They may terrific burn, With ships of steel and hearts of oak We trust their power to spurn; That still our ocean warriors To sea may safely go, And win new fame for England’s name With an open-handed blow, While the enemy’s fleet is blown sky high With their own vile Tor-pe-dö.
Funny Folks.
――――
YE INFANTRY OF ENGLAND. A Military Ode. Imitated from Campbell. “Fas est et ab hoste doceri.”
Ye Infantry of England, Supposed to guard our shores, Who made a precious mess of it In trying to pot the Boers, Your ready rifles take again, And try another style; Nor fool by old rule While the foreign critics smile, Whilst the Dutchman chuckles loud and long, And our foreign critics smile.
BRITANNIA needs instructors To teach her boys to shoot, Fixed targets and mere red-tape drill Have borne but bitter fruit. Our blunders are a standing joke, The scandal of our Isle, And the Boer loud doth roar, Whilst our foreign critics smile. Whilst the Teuton guffaws loud and long, And our foreign critics smile.
The cartridges of England In waste terrific burn; In sighting and in snap-shots, we From foes have much to learn. Then come, ye pipeclayed Infantry, And go to school awhile, Till the fame of your aim Shall no more make foemen smile; Till the Dutchman’s chuckle’s heard no more, And your foes have ceased to smile.
Punch.
――――
THE PERILS OF PARLIAMENT.
Ye Gentlemen of England, Who stay at home at ease, Ye little think upon the ills That threaten our M.P.’s! Now that throughout the House again The flood of talk will flow, And will roar O’er the floor While the storms of party blow, While discussion rages loud and long, And the storms of party blow!
The Spirit of Obstruction Will start from every side; New coalitions will be formed, Old combinations tried; The Alderman will shout “Yah! Yah!” Lord Randolph talk more stuff, Whilst a roar O’er the floor Will proclaim his new rebuff, And noises weird and varied tell That Warton’s taking snuff.
His meteor pocket-handkerchief, Shall oft terrific burn, Whilst weary legislators long, But vainly, to adjourn; Shall wave whilst dreary platitudes Tempt Ministers to weep, Or some bore On the floor Talks the faithful few to sleep; Whilst the dazed but ever-active “whips” Their endless vigil keep.
Yes, Gentlemen of England, Do picture, if you please, The fate that probably awaits Your sorely-tried M.P.’s. Think of those frequent dinners Of which they’ll get no bite When the bell Sounds their knell, And compels them to the fight; Till the lobbies echo with the groan Of outraged appetite!
Think of the miles of walking Divisions will impose, On those who, spite their gouty pains, Must follow “Ayes” or “Noes.” Think of the cramps they must endure When furtive naps they take, With what racks In their backs They will suddenly awake; When they have slumbered in their seats For their constitution’s sake.
“Britannia needs no bulwark”―― Or so her poets claim―― But he who makes Britannia’s laws Should have an iron frame. Yes, he does need a bulwark ’Gainst all the session woes, ’Gainst the roar Of the bore, And the battle’s stress and blows! If his digestion be not sound, He scarce will see its close.
For dark is the horizon, And on the rising breeze, Clouds, shaped like “all-night sittings,” The weather-prophet sees; And fears that even pheasants The Sportsman shall lay low Ere the last Of the blast Through St. Stephen’s halls shall go; Ere the sharp “Hear, hear,” is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.
Truth, February 7, 1884.
――――
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.
The Salisbury Version of Campbell’s Song.
[It would appear from one of his recent speeches that Lord Salisbury considers Mr. Chamberlain a sham philanthropist, who only wishes to injure the poor innocent shipowners, and has no real desire to benefit seamen by his Merchant Shipping Bill.]
Ye mariners of England, That trust in Joseph C., Whose tale has gulled a thousand ears, Receive the truth from me. He champions you for selfish ends, Does philanthropic Joe, And you’re “had” by the Rad, When the stormy winds do blow.
Our sailors need no Bill-wark To guard them on the deep; Shipowners all are worthy folk, And calumny is cheap. Their vessels stand the tempests’ test, And never go below, So no more on that score, When the stormy winds do blow.
Obstruction’s flag in Parliament Shall yet terrific burn, Till Gladstone’s rabble rout depart, And the Tory clan return. Then, then, ye ocean simpletons, Brum tactics we shall “stow,” None will back Merchant Jack, When the stormy winds do blow.
Funny Folks, June 21, 1884.
――――
RULING THE WAVES. (Freely adapted from Campbell.)
Ye Mariners of England! Who’d guard our native seas, What think ye, lads, every few years Of this confounded breeze? They tell us we must launch more ships Ere we may match the foe, And weep O’er the deep, Whilst the Pressmen’s trumpets blow, While the squabble rages loud and long, And the Pressmen’s trumpets blow.
The spirits of your fathers Would look extremely grave At doubts thus thrown upon the fact That Britain rules the wave. Officials on each other fall; One “Yes!” says, t’other “No!” And sweep O’er the deep, Of big figures in a row, Tabled Statistics stiff and long, And figures in a row.
Britannia needs a Navy Her world-wide watch to keep, To ward her isle-encircling waves, And to patrol the deep. That’s truth, and far beyond all joke, Plain facts from them we’d know, Who roar And deplore, That our Navy’s running low, That the Frank and Teuton fleets grow strong, Whilst our Navy’s running low.
The money-bags of England The balance yet can turn. We’re quite prepared to freely “part,” Cheese-paring fudge we’d spurn. Facts, facts, ye ocean-warriors, Are what we fain would know! For the fame Of your name Every British heart will glow, When Party fights are heard no more And the Windbags cease to “blow.”
Punch, October 4, 1884.
――――
YE RADICALS OF BRUMM’GEM. (A Song for the next Election.)
Ye Radicals of Brumm’gem, With all your Caucuses, Whose noise has rung a year or two Just on a passing breeze, Your voice shall ne’er be raised again To deafen another foe; You shall fall, spouters all, When our party strikes the blow, And the battle will be short, I say, When our party strikes the blow!
The demagogues and stumpers No more shall rant and rave, The platform was their field of fame, Th’ election is their grave. Where Bunkum, Humbug, Bluster spoke, Now silence you shall know, For you fall, stumpers all, When our party strikes the blow, And the battle will be short indeed When our party strikes the blow.
Britannia’ll have no rebels Her soil in blood to steep; Her strength can crush the blustering knave―― Her wit the sly and deep; And class with class she reconciles And fuses high and low―― They unite for the fight And together strike the blow, And they make the battle short, I say, When, allied, they strike the blow.
Conservatives of England; A light enlightening burn To help the poor and guide the rich Right Members to return. Then, then, you ranting Radicals, Our song and feast shall flow, As we tell how you fell When the nation struck the blow, How the battle was uncommon short When the nation struck the blow.
A Pen’orth o’ Poetry for the Poor, London, 1884.
――――
PARODIES BY A PREMIER. (Addressed to the L――――s of the A――――y.)
“Ye Mariners of England,” (I’ll term you if you please), Whose brag has raised, a hundred times, A Parliament’ry “breeze!” Your gallant features blanch again Beneath another blow. As ye creep down the steep “Companion” stairs below; While the crisis rages loud and long, And you have to keep below.
“The spirits of your fathers” Won’t “start from every wave”―― For the deck “it was their field of fame,” And Kensal Green “their grave,” “Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell” You’ll have no chance to go, Nor to creep down the steep “Companion” stairs below; While the crisis rages loud and long, And you have to keep below.
“Britannia needs” her “bulwarks” And “towers along the steep;” Her ships crawl “o’er the mountain waves,” Her navy’s “on the cheap,” With blunders from her naval L――ds She riles the tars below, And they swear――you’re aware―― “When the stormy winds do blow,” ’Cause their awkward squadrons all go wrong, “When the stormy winds do blow.”
“The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn”―― They say――when Liberal L――ds depart, And Tory ones return. Then, then, ye ocean-amateurs! Their song and jest shall flow, To make game of your name When you’ve ceased to go below; When my fiery flights are heard no more, And you’ve ceased to go below.
The Globe, June 18, 1885.
――――
SONG AT SCARBOROUGH.
During the Match Gentlemen of England v. Players of England, September 3, 1885.
Ye Gentlemen of England, Who smite for twos and threes, One bat has swiped for twenty years, That bat is W. G.’s. That wondrous willow waves again To match the old, old foe, And spanks through their ranks Whilst the bowlers puff and blow, Though Tom Emmett sends them swift and straight, And the “field” do all they know.
Britannia need not tremble Whilst he his “block” can keep, And slog for sixes and for fours, Though the field stand close or deep There’s “powder” yet in every stroke, His “drives” like lightning go, And men roar as the score Swells at every swashing blow, Though Ulyett “sends ’em down” like hail, And Peate his best doth show!
The Cricket fame of England Shall yet in brightness burn, And we can wait without blue funk That Cornstalk Team’s return, Whilst W. G. can show such form After twenty years or so; The fame of his name Sounds wherever Britons go, And the mighty score on Scarborough’s shore Should bring him “one cheer mo’!”
Punch, September 12, 1885.
――――
ON CONCEDING THE SATURDAY IN CHRISTMAS WEEK, 1884.
Ye Shopkeepers of London, Who live in lavish ease; We beg of you for once to hear Your poor employés pleas. There is no need for us to say How hard their daily task; Then give the one short Saturday Which they this Christmas ask!
* * * * *
Ye Merchants, too, of London, Who Christmas will enjoy, Until a glut of luxuries Your appetites will cloy; Come, think of those whose tired hands shake, As at your books they toil; And, oh, do not, for pity’s sake, Their taste of Yule-tide spoil!
* * * * *
Truth, December 18, 1884.
Another long imitation of the same original appeared in Truth, Sept. 25, 1879, commencing
“Ye Ministers of England.”
Amongst the curiosities of literature may be classed an extraordinary collection entitled “DIVINE SONGS OF THE MUGGLETONIANS,” printed in 1829, and now very scarce. Amongst these so-called Divine Songs are some to be sung to such tunes as “God save the King,” “Hearts of Oak,” “De’il tak the wars,” and one there is which commences as follows, in imitation of Campbell’s Mariners:――
“You faithful Muggletonians who truly do believe The doctrine of Muggleton to be the same as Reeve; Let no wise anti-followers infuse into your ear, That a Prayer, Christ does hear, from us mortals here below.”
――――:o:――――
Campbell’s poems seem to be especially favored by the Editor of the Parody Competitions in The Weekly Dispatch, as, in addition to those already alluded to, he also selected “The Maid’s Remonstrance” for political parodies, and the following examples were printed, March 1, 1885:――
THE BENCH OF BISHOPS.
Never working, ever wooing, Loving fat things, wealth pursuing; Know ye not the wrong ye’re doing, O ye favoured few? All your lives obstruction brewing. Cease, or else be true!
Measures banished, wrongs not righted. See your Church, how disunited! See the scores of bills you’ve blighted In the House of Peers! Cringing, wav’ring, and benighted, ’Midst your country’s tears.
Yet you deem yourselves a blessing―― Sleek and fat, and self-caressing, Time is short, and needs are pressing; Soon you’ll have to go. Dull and useless, always messing; Dotard’s all, and slow.
JAMES TURNER.
――――
RANDOLPH’S REMONSTRANCE TO SIR STAFFORD.
Never fighting, ever cooing, Still a fruitless course pursuing; Read you not the wrong you’re doing In my cheek’s pale hue? All my lifelong hopes eschewing―― Fight, or cease to coo!
Gordon murdered, pledges slighted, Still our ways are disunited. When the goal is well-nigh sighted Feeble funk appears; Vacillation so benighted. Is for Lib’ral fears.
Office――once your dearest blessing; Place――we both would be possessing! Hopes――a mutual soul confessing, Soon you’ll make them grow Dim, and worthless our caressing―― Yours with age, mine woe.
HENRY L. BRICKEL.
――――
BRITANNIA’S REMONSTRANCE.
Never peaceful, ever doing, Still the phantom, Fame, pursuing, And askance the straight path viewing―― All for pow’r and place! Future storms for me you’re brewing; Cease, or veil my face!
Where is now the troth we plighted? Both our hearts are disunited; Freedom’s lamp one day we lighted, Now ’tis quenched with tears. Heroes murdered, great hopes blighted, Roused are all our fears.
Once you earned my richest blessing, Thrilled my soul with your caressing Each a mutual love confessing, Soon its sweets you’ll miss, For your love’s not worth possessing While War’s lips you kiss.
J. ARTHUR ELLIOTT.
――――
STAFFY’S REMONSTRANCE.
Never winning, ever wooing, Still the sweets of place pursuing, And the cause of my undoing, Randolph――it is you! All your life seems spent in brewing Mischief ever new,
Rivals bullied and indicted, Still our ranks are disunited; When your glowworm lamp is lighted Mine half-quenched appears; I must wander on benighted ’Mid’st the groans and cheers.
Would you but bestow your blessing, How I’d purr at your caressing! But your pranks are so distressing Soon you’ll make me trow Place itself’s not worth possessing If you plague me so!
GOSSAMER.
――――:o:――――
THE EXILE OF ERIN.
There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill: For his country he sigh’d, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye’s sad devotion, For it rose o’er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh!
“Sad is my fate”! said the heart-broken stranger, “The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers liv’d, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh!”[22] * * * * * THOMAS CAMPBELL.
――――
ENGLISH MELODIES.
“Unhappy little John, the once popular representative of Westminster, is, as every body knows, kicked out of the seat he has so long occupied, and has resigned the office in which he, for so short a period, was suffered to luxuriate. In the expressive words of the poet we may exclaim,
Joy, joy for ever! the task is done, The city’s free and Evans has won.
It will be seen from the following splendid ebulition of true pathos, that little Hobby in all his misery for the loss of his office and his seat, has not yet forgotten his kind patron ‘Dear De Vear,’ to whom his heart still turns with a most appropriate gratitude.”
AIR.――Erin go bragh.
There came to the hustings an exile from office, The damp at his heart it was heavy and chill, For his sal’ry he sigh’d, when one night he threw off his Patriotic disguise just assum’d for the bill. But the poll booth attracted his ancient devotion, As it stood, and he saw the electors in motion, And thinks he “pon my soul I’ve a very strong notion, They’ll return Colonel Evans! De Vear then go bragh.”
“Oh sad is my fate,” said the wretched ex-placeman, “Some Tories or Whigs to a borough can flee, But I have no chance, for so great’s my disgrace man, A seat in St. Stephen’s remains not for me. Ah, never again from John Bull’s breeches pocket, Whence my dad draws a pension; (God grant they won’t dock it), My pay shall I take in my coffers to lock it, Unless re-elected, De Vear then go bragh.
Oh office my haven, though by me forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy lucrative store, But alas, by the Colonel thrown out I awaken, And sigh for the votes that support me no more. And thou my Lord Grey, will you never replace me, In a post where electors no longer can chase me; Ah, never again shall old Glory embrace me, Or will he too go out with his Hob to deplore.
Where now is the Westminster rump that supported Sir Frank and myself? we must weep for its fall, And where is the junta, that influence sported, And where is De Vear too the dearest of all? Alas what an ass I have been for declining My seat! what a fool I have been for resigning My office! but now there is no use in whining, It cannot my seat or my office recal.
But yet all my bitter reflections repressing, There is one dying wish my fond bosom shall draw, De Vear, thy old protegé gives thee his blessing, Thou ghost of the rump! my De Vear then go bragh. Kicked out of my seat, when (oh bitterest potion) I’ve no longer the means of proposing a motion In the House, I’ll still out of it sing with devotion, You’ve been a kind friend dear De Vear then go bragh.”
Figaro in London, May 18, 1833.
This Parody refers to the late Sir John Cam Hobhouse (Lord Broughton), who long represented Westminster in Parliament, he was succeeded by Sir De Lacy Evans, then Colonel De Lacy Evans. The “Sir Frank” alluded to in the fourth verse was Sir Francis Burdett, a very advanced Radical politician for those days. He was the father of Lady Burdett Coutts, whose husband has recently been elected member for Westminster in the Conservative interest.
――――
THE EXILE OF ERIN; Or, Mitchell in Norfolk Island.
There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, The dew on his breeches was heavy and chill; He thought of the days of his spouting and “beering,” As he rattled his chains on the wind-beaten hill. He looked towards the north with an air of devotion, And thought of the very green isle of the ocean, Which once he had put in such awful commotion By bawling and roaring out Erin-go-bragh!
“Sad is my fate,” said the gray-coated stranger, “My cousins, the apes to their caverns can flee, But I in a chain-gang of convicts must range here; Repose or tobacco exist not for me; Ne’er again in the snug little bar Where my ancestors dwelt, shall I smoke the cigar. Or cheer on the rabble of Dublin to war By bawling and roaring out Erin-go-Bragh!
The Puppet Show, May 27, 1848.
――――
THE VISIT TO ERIN.
There came an ex-Premier from England to Erin, If not to his tongue, to give rest to his quill. From his country he came in the hope of repairing Some errors whose memory clings to him still. Can we doubt that e’en now, as he traversed the ocean, His conscience recalled with a doubtful emotion The day when, to show to the priests his devotion, He danced to the music of Erin-go-bragh?
O fond is my breast, said the time-serving stranger, O Erin! dear Erin! my heart yearns to thee. The day still I rue when we parted in anger, For a place and a party remain not in me. Then grant me once more for a day or an hour The pleasures of office, the semblance of power. O cover my head with the shamrock’s green flower, And I’ll dance to the measure of Erin-go-bragh.
O Erin! dear island! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit the Speaker’s right hand; But, alas! with the dawn’s reappearing I waken, Regretful I broke with the Irish brass band. O fate, cruel fate! would’st thou only replace me On the Treasury Bench, with few Tories to face me, With Biggar, O’Donnell, Parnell to embrace me, I’d seem like their leader, though they might command.
Where is my great University measure? Prelates and priests, did ye weep o’er its fall? O how can you dwell on its failure with pleasure, Which gave to you Trinity College and all? O my poor pen, long abandoned to railing! O my sad tongue, is thy influence failing? Pamphlets and speeches are both unavailing, My power and my party they cannot recall.
O that, all sad recollections suppressing, From the future one bright grain of hope I could draw, I’d sing, over-coming, all memories distressing, Home Rule for ever! sweet Erin-go-bragh! Sea-sick and ill when I feel the ship’s motion, Still joyously homeward I’ll traverse the ocean, And murmur, in token of grateful devotion, Home Rule for ever! and Erin-go-bragh!
From “They are Five,” by W. E. G., 1877.
――――
In the thirtieth of the Poem Competitions in “The World,” two prizes were offered for poems on “Ireland’s Distress,” the model selected being Campbell’s “Exile of Erin.” The first prize was gained by Captain Walford (Kommitop); the second by Miss Chamberlayne (Hypophosphate.) The Poems were printed in “The World” March 3, 1880.
IRELAND’S DISTRESS.
I saw in a dream the sad angel of Erin; Her green robe hung loosely, so withered her form; For her country she sighed, as though almost despairing, Of shelter and rest from the pitiless storm. Though the day-star of Hope, rising fair o’er the ocean, Shone bright on the mist of her eye’s sad devotion; Yet scarcely her lips, in their trembling emotion, Could whisper the anthem of Erin-go-bragh.
‘Sad is my fate!’ said the heart-broken stranger; ‘The wild deer and fox shall be monarchs alone; For, racked by the tortures of famine and danger, To new homes and new countries my children have flown, Never again, when the hill-tops are hoary And the winter winds wail, shall they list to the story, Which their forefathers loved, of their countrymen’s glory, Nor join in the chorus of Erin-go-bragh.
Britannia, my sister, though sad and forsaken, In hope I yet linger about thy rough shore; Alas, has my anguish no power to awaken Some pity to love, and some aid to restore? O happy land, only thou can’st replace me In a haven of peace! If thine arms shall embrace me, Never again shall my children disgrace me, Nor die at a distance, but live in my heart.
Now is the cabin-door open and shattered, Father and mother are weeping within; Gone are their kindred, their friends are all scattered, Their children with famine are wasted and thin. Ah, my sad heart, as I look on this sorrow, Hopeless to-day, and despairing to-morrow, How can I dare any comfort to borrow From dreams which the future may blast and destroy?
Yet all the thoughts of its anguish suppressing, One only fond wish my sad heart can desire―― That my sons’ bitter curses may change to a blessing, As faction shall languish and discord expire! Now wild with distress is my isle of the ocean; Then gladness shall swell my fond breast with emotion, And my children shall sing with new love and devotion, Erin mavourneen, Erin-go-bragh!’
KOMMITOP (CAPTAIN WALFORD).
――――
SECOND PRIZE.
There crept o’er the loveliest isle of the ocean The foretaste of famine, foreshadow of pain, And winter and want, with each fiercer emotion. Long-suffering patience had worn to the wane; For the food of the famishing people was rotten, And the hate that is often of hunger begotten Embittered the hearts with sedition besotten, And the singers of Erin were silent again.
O, where is the ardour of Shiel and O’Connell, The heart-burning eloquence poured in the cause? Would it stimulate Parnell, impassion O’Donnell, If of hunger they felt for a moment the claws? For small is the gain and the glory ensuing From the tortuous path that their feet are pursuing, And slow the advance unto Ireland accruing, From forcing the coach-wheels of Albion to pause.
‘Sad is our fate,’ cries the famishing peasant; ‘The wild bird is left to its home on the tree, And corn is full lavishly flung to the pheasant, But no roof and no food for my children and me. O, harder our fate than the horrors of fiction! When thrust by the merciless laws of eviction From the home that is held by the heart’s predilection, We are forced o’er the bare breast of Erin to flee.
Erin, our country, as, weak and heart-broken, We wander half-starved over mountain and shore, And search for a remnant of hope, or a token That life may be glad to our spirits once more; Can we trust that the hearths, now forlorn and forsaken, To welfare shall warm and to laughter awaken, And the dust from the wings of thy glory be shaken To the future reëcho of Erin-go-bragh!
Sweet solace it were to the heart of the dying, That throbs his last pulse out on pitiless ground, Could he know that the land upon which he was lying Would smile into gladness, with plenty abound; And the trials and straights of despair and starvation Through which he was fighting should end in salvation To happier sons of a new generation, Who will sing the old anthem of Erin-go-bragh.’
HYPOPHOSPHATE (MISS E. CHAMBERLAYNE.)
――――:o:――――
HOHENLINDEN.
An imitation of Hohenlinden, written by Mr. F. B. Doveton, was given on page 28. It was descriptive of the Tay Bridge disaster, which happened in December, 1879.
The subject was chosen for a prize competition in The World, the model selected being Campbell’s Hohenlinden, and the following poems appeared in that journal on January 21, 1880:――
THE TAY BRIDGE DISASTER.
On Balgay when the sun was low, Pale gleamed the distant Grampian snow, And dark and muddy was the flow Through Strath-Tay ebbing rapidly.
But Balgay saw another sight, When rose the wind at fall of night, And distant gleams of splendour light The darkness of her scenery.
Mid light and darkness fast arrayed The Storm-King’s hosts commenced their raid, And every furious blast essayed To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the bridge with storm-gusts riven, Then rushed the cloud-wrack tempest-driven, And nearer ’neath the vault of heaven, Out flashed the train lights ruddily.
But brighter still that light shall gleam, With one last flash o’er land and stream, And then shall vanish like a dream At daylight passing wearily.
The coming sun shall light no more Yon bridge that spans from shore to shore, And dark Dundee bereft shall cower Beneath her smoky canopy.
The horror deepens. Who can save Those rushing to a watery grave? Wave dashes wildly over wave, And leaps in dreadful rivalry.
None, none shall part where many meet; The sand shall be their winding sheet; No churchyard turf shall veil their feet In their untimely sepulchre.
CHEVY CHASE (J. F. BAIRD.)
――――
SECOND PRIZE.
On Tay the summer sun sinks low, Soaring above the broad Firth’s flow; A thread athwart yon ruddy glow, The wondrous bridge winds airily.
But halcyon days have taken flight, Wild howls the storm this winter’s night, And ’gainst that daring fabric light The tempest rages furiously.
Homeward they wend from town and glade, Husband and wife, and youth and maid, For that dread race of death arrayed, An all-unconscious company.
Forth speeds the train to ruin driven―― Is there no help, O pitying Heaven? No warning voice in mercy given Of the impending destiny?
The signal beckons――on they go; Now o’er the bridge the lamp-lights glow, Where, in the shuddering depth below, The foam-flecked Firth roars hungrily.
With straining eyes the watchers run, Longing to mark the passage done. In vain: the blast his prey has won, And on it swoops relentlessly.
That fiery flash the signal gave; Down crashing through the maddened wave, Both bridge and freight have found a grave, Whelmed in one dire catastrophe.
With questioning eyes the mourners meet, Blanched lips the fearful tale repeat; The wild wave rolling at their feet Mocks at their helpless misery.
COURTHOPE (L. BECK.)
――――:o:――――
BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.
Of Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day’s renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark’s crown. And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on!
* * * * *
But the might of England flush’d To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rush’d O’er the deadly space between. “Hearts of Oak,” our captains cried! when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.
Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back;―― Their shots along the deep slowly boom:―― Then ceas’d――and all is wail, As they strike the shatter’d sail; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom. * * * * * THOMAS CAMPBELL.
The two following parodies of this poem occur in The University Snowdrop, an Edinburgh College Magazine. These and the interesting explanatory notes which accompany them have been kindly furnished by Mr. James Gordon, F.S.A., Scotland.
The winter of 1837-8 was very severe, and there was a heavy fall of snow in Edinburgh. On the 10th January some snowballing took place in front of the College, in which the students took part. The warfare between the students and the townspeople was renewed on the 11th, and became more serious. Several shop windows were broken, the shops were closed, and the street traffic suspended. The students, believing that the constables took the side of the mob against them, appeared on the 12th armed with sticks, to defend themselves against the constables batons. Then a regular riot took place, sticks and batons being freely used, and matters became so serious that the magistrates found it necessary to send to the Castle for a detachment of soldiers of the 79th Highlanders, which arrived and drew up across the College quadrangle, and peace was restored. Five students who had been most active in the fray were tried by the Sheriff and were acquitted. The trial lasted three days. Among the witnesses for the prosecution were the Lord Provost, some Bailies, and the heads of the police force. The students were defended by Patrick Robertson, in a most amusing speech. He was made a Lord of Session, and wrote some volumes of poetry, now unsaleable, if ever they did sell. Lockhart wrote an epitaph for him:――
“Here lies that peerless paper lord, Lord Peter, Who broke the laws of ‘gods and men’ and metre.”
A report of the trial was published, which was followed by “The University Snowdrop, an appendix to the Great Trial, containing a selection of squibs, old and new, descriptive of the wars of the quadrangle and the consequences thereof. With magnificent embellishments.” Edinburgh, 1838.
The “embellishments” are pen and ink portraits of the principal parties concerned in the riot, drawn by Edward Forbes, then a student, who became a Professor. (His widow married Major Yelverton, from which event sprang the famous case of Longworth against Yelverton.)
BATTLE OF THE BALLS.
Of Alma and the North, Sing the glorious day’s renown, When the students all stood forth ’Gainst the minions of the town. And their snowballs on the Bridge fleetly flew I can’t tell how or why, But each Student took a shy, And floored were passers by Not a few!
Like ravens to the row, Came Pond and his Police, (For breaking heads, we know, Is their way of keeping peace,) It was two post meridiem by the bell: Up the Bridges as they dashed, The boldest looked abashed, For they knew they would be hashed Very well!
Out the youth of Alma poured To anticipate the scene―― And the balls the faster showered O’er the deadly space between: “We’ll be licked!” bellowed Pond, “that’s the fact.” So around his band he looks, “Now go, B20, Snooks, And summon Bailie Crooks With the Act.”
The Act was read in vain―― And the havoc did not slack, Till Crooks had fled again To the Council chambers back, And that there was a riot he would vouch: Then came the soldiers all, With their captains stout and tall, And sixty rounds of ball In their pouch.
Out spake the Major then, And he trembled as he spoke―― “We are brothers――we are men―― By the Lord, my nose is broke! Are your cartridges, my men, duly rammed; Our patience you will tire Peace is all we require, Then yield, or we shall fire!” “You be d――――d!”
Then the Provost forth he came, For he saw it was no go: Said he “It is a shame To treat the Students so,―― If you’ll promise, my young friends, to withdraw, No longer at the gate The Policemen shall await, And the vengeance I’ll abate Of the law.”
“That will do,” the Students cried, And each band departed straight. And one by one they hied Through the lofty College gate. But they knew not how severely they were watched; For Pond and all his rout Raised a horrid shout, And as every man came out He was cotched.
Brave hearts! who fought so well Once so faithful and so true, In your dungeon’s gloomy cell Our eyes shall weep for you. We’ll be bail for every one of you and bond! And when you all are freed, I think we are agreed On one article of creed, DOWN WITH POND!!!
――――
STANZAS ON A LATE BATTLE.
Of the combat in the North, Sing the glorious days’ renown, When the Charlies’ fierce came forth, To defend the trembling town, While the ragged crew without, hiss and groan. Each student took his stand, Till the College gates were mann’d, And shillellahs in each hand, Proudly shone.
Intent upon a row, Rose their clamour wild and loud, And in showers the snowballs flew, At the ragamuffin crowd. It was just two o’clock by the time; When the medicals came out, As each waved his cudgel stout, Cried “To crack a Charlie’s snout Is no crime.”
So down the stairs they dashed, Spreading terror far and wide; Right and left the crabsticks smash’d; Yells were heard on every side. “Hit ’em hard,” was the cry――when each man With an adamantine whack, Made their empty noddles crack, Now, ye Charlies, pay them back!! If ye can!!!
Again, again, again, And the havoc did not slack, Till to cut their sticks, they deign, And within the gates fly back. Stones and dirt along the streets, slowly boom; And the Charlies’ bruised and pale, With the mob behind their tail, Our environs to assail, Did presume.
With joy ye students shout, At the tidings of your might, How ye made the claret spout! How the scoundrels mauled took flight! Until midst their howling and uproar, The Lobsters in were led, And the Riot Act was read, While the Provost popp’d his head Through the door.
Brave hearts! turn out’s the word; Though you’ve leathered the police, Yet a baton’s not a sword, So leave the field in peace. And our bards shall sing the glory of the day, How many a skull and hat, To the tune of “Tit for Tat,” Was bash’d and batter’d flat, In the fray.
KILSPENDIE.
In the same volume (which is now very scarce) there are also Parodies of “Lochiel’s Warning,” entitled the “Student’s Warning,” one of a passage from Marmion, and another imitating The Lady of the Lake:――
“Hail to the chief who in triumph advances,” &c.
headed “Clan Charlie’s Pibroch,” and a parody of Hamlet’s Soliloquy, commencing, “To stand or not to stand, that is the question?” This is headed, “The Policeman’s Soliloquy.”
――――:o:――――
THE BURNING OF THE PLAY-HOUSE. (Improved from Campbell.)
[Covent Garden Theatre was destroyed by fire on March 5, 1856, during a masked ball conducted by Anderson, the self-styled “Wizard of the North.”]
Of the “Wizard of the North Sing the Tuesday’s night renown, When he let the gas break forth And burn the play-house down. And illuminated London brightly shown, While a masquerading band, Almost too drunk to stand, But all holding hand in hand, Revelled on.
Detesting every note, (They’d been playing there from nine), The orchestra scarce kept From kicking up a shine. It was five of Wednesday morn, by the chime, And as each fiddler saith, Tobacco choked his breath, And he played, fatigued to death, Out of time.
Any decent folks had blushed To assist at such a scene―― But, sudden, firemen rushed Where before they should have been, And “Fire! fire!” the Wizard cried, and the fun Stopped upon pallid lips, For the ceiling and the slips Glowed like a mountain’s tips In the sun.
The Main! the Main! the Main! But beams came tumbling whack, And a shower of fiery rain Falls on the frightened pack, And each hurries from the menaced doom, And gents with terror pale Pay no heed to woman’s wail, And the flames at once prevail And consume.
Down went Covent Garden then, Vain was the engine’s wave, Vainly the gallant men Struggled the wealth to save―― The clock twice saved away indeed they bring, But the Muse’s ancient seat Is a ruin most complete; Ashes, where song’s élite Used to sing.
And London’s blame was chief For the stupid heads of those Who have doubtless come to grief Through the Wizard’s vulgar shows. A play-house is intended for a play; If you let it for a night To a Quack, you but invite A fate that serves you right, You may say.
Now joy old opera raise For the tidings of the night, Once more thy gas shall blaze, Once more thy songs delight, And though losing our fine house is a bore, Let us think of those who weep Their tools――by no means cheap―― A charred and melted heap On its floor.
SHIRLEY BROOKS.
――――:o:――――
THE LAST GROWLER.
(After Thomas Campbell’s Last Man――also after the Official Report that there are one hundred and fifty seven fewer Four-wheeled Cabs in London now than last year.)
Four million souls without a Fly! Shall we then realise Our lack of common comforts, born From lack of enterprise? I saw a vision in my sleep That caused me from my bed to leap, And skip around the room; I saw the Final Growler go Unhonoured, hideous, mean and slow, To its appointed doom!
The gas-lamps had a sickly glare, And not a heart did bleed As passed that bony hulk along. Drawn by its bony steed; The Hansom Cabmen winked and leered, The very Crossing-Sweeper jeered, The street-boys raised a yell: And bliss o’er troubled spirits slid To see that Four-wheeled Monster bid To fares a long farewell!
Yet, martyr-like, the Driver sat; He knew the end was near Of over-charge and under-pay, And did not shed a tear; Saying――“Too long I have delayed; My Cab is old, my Horse decayed, ’Tis mercy bids me bolt; For fifty years of mortal breath, We’ve jolted Passengers to death, And shall no longer jolt.
“What though upon my seats have writhed The Great, perhaps the Good. Condemned in this proud Capital To use my box of wood? Yet now repentance, all too late, Makes me confess that ne’er did Fate A vehicle provide More maddening in each palsied shake, Or where long-suffering Fares might take, A more atrocious ride?
“’Tis done! Oblivion’s curtain falls Upon the myriad men Who’ve blown me up, and knocked me down, And ‘had me up’ again. Those frowsy cushions bring not back Nor stretch four souls upon the rack By Nature made for twain! Oh, let this cramped roof-tree go, Also thy dirty straw below, Thou Vehicle of Pain!
“Even I am weary now of playing My customary pranks; Rank idiocy it was to place Such Cabs upon the ranks! How came it, else, that London’s sons To stable-owning Goths and Huns For aid in vain did cry, While every Gent, and every Cad, In Aberdeen and Glasgow had His reputable Fly?
“Go, Kings of Cabland, and reflect On London’s awful waste By not a single Four-wheeled Cab From Kew to Greenwich graced! Go, tell the world how you beheld A Jehu, bowed with shame and eld, Guiding his Growler mean,―― The general universe defy, To match for sheer obliquity, That ramshackle machine!
Punch, September, 1885.
――――:o:――――
THE MASSACRE OF GLENHO.
Through deep Glenho the owlet flits, That valley weird and lone; The chieftain’s aged widow sits Beside the bare hearth stone.
Beside the bare and blighted hearth Whose fires, now quenched and black, Had seen five gallant sons go forth, And never one come back.
’Tis silent all! but hark――a cry And ghastly clamours wake The midnight glen. Then rose proudly That ancient dame, and spake――
“What mingled sounds of woe and wail Up Mortham’s valley spread? What shrieks upon the gusty gale Come pealing overhead?
“I hear the pibroch’s piercing swell, The banshee’s scream I hear, And hark! again that stifled yell―― The boderglas is near!!
“The Boderglas with bloody brow And tresses dripping red―― I see him at the window now He shakes his gory head!
“Then, daughter, to thy mother’s arms, Thus, thus, in close embrace, The messenger of death we’ll meet―― The slayer of our race.
“Then do not weep, my daughter!”―― “Oh mother, ’tis not that―― But Donald Roy the carrotty boy HAS KILLED OUR OLD TOM CAT.”
From Puck on Pegasus, by H. Cholmondeley-Pennell. Chatto and Windus, London,)
――――:o:――――
THE LAWN TENNIS MATCH.
The summer day proved all too short, But light forbade the pleasant sport, And silent lay the tennis court, Where time had flown so rapidly.
But morning saw another sight, When, after slumbers soft and light, The girls, once more, rushed forth to fight Upon the level greenery.
On either side the net they stand, Each with her tennis bat in hand, The fairest maidens in the land, Opposed in bloodless rivalry!
Then “faults” no longer were forgiven, Then o’er the net their balls were driven, And like the deadly bolts of Heaven, The “serves” in their velocity!
But faster yet the balls shall fly Beneath the cloudless summer sky, And still more frequent be the cry Of “Deuce” that sounds so naughtily!
’Tis noon, but still resounds the blow, Though scorching hours may come and go, Those maidens, fleeter than the roe, Are ever darting rapidly!
The combat deepens, Grace will win, In Jersey, fitting like her skin, Just give the ball a subtle spin, And snatch from Maud the victory!
A few games more, and Grace has won! “Ho! Claret Cup! we both are done!” And from the fury of the sun They scamper most bewitchingly!
F. B. DOVETON. From Society.
――――:o:――――
“WE ARE RUINED BY CHEAP CHINESE LABOUR.”
In Punch for January 16, 1886, a Parody (in four verses) appeared apropos of an assertion that Chinamen were being largely employed on vessels of the Royal Navy, stationed in the China Seas. It commenced:――
Ye Mariners of England Who watch our distant seas, ’Tis very odd that you should be The half of you Chinese. It scarcely fits our notions To have you down below; And though your keep, perhaps is cheap, The news comes like a blow; To think we’ve got a Mongol Jack Gives one a dreadful blow. * * * * *
THE PLEASURES OF HOPE.
At Summer eve, when Heav’n’s aërial bow Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky? Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? ’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue. * * * * * THOMAS CAMPBELL.
――――
CAMPBELL, UNDONE AND OUTDONE.
When oftentimes the young aerial beau Spans on bright arch the glittering wheels below, Why to yon upland turns the ’cycling eye, Whose misty outline mingles with the sky? Why do those tracts of soberer tint appear More meet than all the landscape shining near? ’Tis distance sends enchantment to his view, And lures the mounted with its azure hue.
From Lyra Bicyclica, by Joseph G. Dalton. (Hodges and Co., Boston, 1885.)
――――:o:――――
Amongst the various other imitations of Campbell’s style the following are noteworthy:――
In “Rival Rhymes in honour of Burns,” by Samuel Lover (London, 1859), is a long poem entitled “A Spirit Lay from Hades,” imitating “The Battle of the Baltic,” it commences thus:――
Of Scotia and the North A loving son would sing, And to laud surpassing worth Would wake the silent string, Untouch’d since it sank to the tomb; But bardic fires still burn In the ashes of the urn, And glimmering back return Through the gloom.
For BURNS this spirit lay Is wafted to the earth, In honour of the day That gave the poet birth.
* * * * *
“Rejected Odes,” edited by Humphrey Hedgehog, Esq., published by J. Johnston, London, 1813, a dreary little book, which was, no doubt, brought into existence in consequence of the success of “The Rejected Addresses,” contains poems which are supposed to bear some resemblance to those of Lord Byron, Walter Scott, Wordsworth, Southey, and others. Specimen the Ninth is devoted to the description of the sorrows of Ireland, written after the style of Campbell’s Exile of Erin.
In “The Maclise Portrait Gallery” (Chatto and Windus) there is an excellent portrait of Campbell, who, comfortably seated in an arm chair, is enjoying a long pipe and a glass of whisky toddy:――
“There’s Tom Campbell in person, the poet of Hope, Brimful of good liquor, as gay as the Pope; His shirt collar’s open, his wig is awry, There’s his stock on the ground, there’s a cock in his eye. Half gone his last tumbler――clean gone his last joke, And his pipe, like his college, is ending in smoke. What he’s saying who knows, but perhaps it may be Something tender and soft of a bouncing ladye.”
W. MAGINN.
Robert Burns,
Born January 25, 1759. Died July 21, 1796.
[Illustration: T]he date of the birth of Burns has been variously given as January 25 and January 29, the former date is probably correct judging from the lines:
“Our monarch’s hindmost year but ane. Was five and twenty days begun, ’Twas then a blast o’ Janwar win’ Blew hansel in our Robin.”
It is now generally adopted, and the celebration of the Centenary of Burns’s birth was certainly held at the Crystal Palace, Sydenham, on January 25, 1859.
Of all the Poems written by Burns no one is so grand, or so generally popular as Bruce’s address to his troops, which Burns is said to have composed as he rode home through a heavy storm. He sent the following draft of it to his friend Mr. George Thomson, in September, 1793, suggesting that the poem might be set to the old Scotch air HEY TUTTIE TAITTIE.
BRUCE TO HIS TROOPS.
On the Eve of the Battle of Bannockburn. (As originally written by Burns.)
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie! Now’s the day, and now’s the hour, See the front o’ battle lower: See approach proud Edward’s power―― Chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor-knave? Wha can fill a cowards grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee! Wha for Scotland’s king and law Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, Free-man stand, or Free-man fa’, Let him follow me?
By oppression’s woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free! Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty’s in every blow! Let us DO or DIE!
Mr. Thompson, in acknowledging the Poem, remarked:――
“Your heroic ode is to me the noblest composition of the kind in the Scottish language. I happened to dine yesterday with a party of your friends to whom I read it. They were all charmed with it, entreated me to find out a suitable air for it, and reprobated the idea of giving it a tune so totally devoid of interest or grandeur as ‘Hey tuttie taittie.’
I have been running over the whole hundred airs, of which I lately sent you the list; and I think ‘Lewie Gordon’ is most happily adapted to your ode; at least with a very short variation of the fourth line, which I shall presently submit to you. There is in ‘Lewie Gordon’ more of the grand than the plaintive, particularly when it is sung with a degree of spirit which your words would oblige the singer to give it. I would have no scruple about substituting your ode in the room of ‘Lewie Gordon,’ which has neither the interest, the grandeur, nor the poetry that characterize your verses. Now the variation I have to suggest on the last line of each verse, the only line too short for the air, is as follows:――
Verse 1st, Or to glorious victorie. 2nd, Chains――chains and slaverie. 3rd, Let him, let him turn and flee. 4th, Let him bravely follow me. 5th, But they shall, they shall be free. 6th, Let us, let us do, or die!
If you connect each line with its own verse, I do not think you will find that either the sentiment or the expression loses any of its energy.”
Acting upon these suggestions Burns altered his Poem to suit the music, but in simplicity and grandeur the first version was far superior to the second.
BANNOCKBURN. Robert Bruce’s address to his Army.
――――
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled: Scots, wham Bruce has often led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to glorious victory! Now’s the day and now’s the hour; See the front o’ battle lour See approach proud Edward’s power―― Edward! chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward’s grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Traitor! coward! turn and flee! Wha for Scotland’s king and law Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or Freeman fa’, Caledonia! on wi’ me!
By oppression’s woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins. But they shall be――shall be free! Lay the proud usurper low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty’s in every blow! Forward: let us do or die!
Curiously enough one of the earliest Parodies of this Poem is a satirical effusion directed against a victim of foul wrong and oppression, Caroline of Brunswick, wife of George IV., and her sympathisers, Sir John Cam Hobhouse, Joseph Hume, Alderman Wood, and her advocate Henry Brougham (Broom), afterwards Lord Chancellor. Brandenburgh House, at Hammersmith, was the residence of Queen Caroline.
Gulls, who’ve heard what HOBHOUSE said! Gulls whom JOSEPH HUME has led! Who deem that Pater Moore has head For Plans of Liberty! Now’s the day, and now’s the hour, See the face of GIFFORD lour, See approach the lawyer’s power, Bags and knavery.
Who’ll believe Italian spies? When honest Times indignant cries, That all they say are monstrous lies, Foul conspiracy! Who for England’s Queen so bright, To purchase Plate subscribes his mite, Or signs addresses, wrong or right, To Brandenburgh with me!
By our Wood that shields the Queen, By our Broom that sweeps all clean, We will go through thick and thin, But she shall be free! Lay her proud accusers low, Pure she’ll prove as “unsunned snow,” Can we but persuade them so, Let us on and see!
――――
BRITONS WHO HAVE OFTEN BLED.
Britons who have often bled In the cause that Hampden led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victory, Now’s the day, and now’s the hour, See the front of battle lour, See approach your tyrant’s power, Chains and slavery!
Who would be a traitor knave? Who would fill a coward’s grave? Who so base as be a slave? Traitor, coward, turn and flee! Who at Liberty’s sweet cry Freedom’s sword would raise on high? Freeman stand, or freeman die, Hark! your chief cries “on with me!”
By oppression’s woes and pains, By your sons in servile chains, We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free! Lay your proud oppressors low! Tyrants fall in every blow! For the cause of God below, Is the cause of Liberty.
From The Republican, October 8, 1819. R. Carlile, printer, 55, Fleet Street, London.
――――
GLEE.
Folks who’ve oft at Dolby’s fed! Folks who’ve nibbled Batson’s bread! Folks who’ve ta’en a Hummum’s bed! Come not o’er the sea: Victuals here are but so, so; Hollands, too, run very low; Scarce is coffee and cocoa; Sojourn where you be.
Now’s the time and now’s the hour, For little bread, there being no flour; Liberty’s a glorious dower―― Though ragged, let’s be free! We will walk the unlopp’d wood, And taste what Nature grows for food―― Grumbling here does little good! So hail, glad Liberty!
From The Fancy, a selection from the Poetical remains of the late Peter Corcoran, 1820.
The same volume also contains a poem entitled The Fields of Tothill: A Fragment. This is written in imitation of Lord Byron’s Don Juan.
――――
In 1823 the John Bull newspaper contained a parody of “Scots wha hae,” entitled “Wilson’s Subscription,” but the subject is obsolete, and the parody inferior. It commenced:
Whigs! who have with Michael dined, Whigs! who have with Bennet whined, Hasten now to raise the wind, For a Knight’s dismissed.
In the same year another skit at the Whig party appeared. The allusions it contains are to Lord Grey, who eventually passed the Reform Bill, Joseph Hume, the political economist and exposer of Parliamentary corruption; R. Carlile, the publisher of Tom Paine’s, and other advanced Radical works; Leigh Hunt, part proprietor of the Examiner, who had been imprisoned for calling the Prince Regent a “Fat Adonis of Fifty”; Henry Hunt, who had suffered a long imprisonment for attending a meeting at Manchester to agitate for the Reform of the House of Commons, in 1819; and Henry Brougham, afterwards Lord Chancellor, who was instrumental in eventually passing that measure.
Whigs whom Fox and Petty led, Whigs who under Lord Grey fled, Welcome, though three in a bed, To the Treasury: Now’s the day, and now’s the hour―― Starve the Tories out of power―― Cent. per cent. their wages lower, They cannot choose but flee.
Who would be a grumbling knave, Though but half a loaf he have? Who prefer to toil and slave Without pay or fee? Who in spite of King and Laws, Faction’s darling weapon draws, Calls Hume’s and Bennet’s――Freedom’s cause, Let him follow me!
Let Bennet boast his purity In politics and pedigree, Talk loud of his nihil-ity By long service won. Let Hume dissect each place and fee, Each clerk, although a brother he, And prove that Cocker’s Rule of Three Means only Number One.
Whigs, with Carlile who condole, Whigs, with Hunt now cheek by jowl, Whigs, whom Tierney can’t control, And swears at horribly! Hume vows he has made a breach, (Not a pair, as hirelings teach), Out of little Bennet’s reach, By Financery!
Let Wilson rear his fallen crest, Let Log-Wood’s wisdom be confess’d, Leave Creevey’s virtues――to be guess’d, And Cam to form the line. Let Brougham be taken off the shelf, And make his fees from Michael’s pelf; Michael’s a host, sirs, in himself, So――let us in and dine!
By our long and hopeless pains, By despair of office gains, We will draw our dearest veins, But we will get in. Lay Lord Londonderry low, Placemen fell at every blow; Every placeman is our foe; Let us――pray begin.
――――
PARODY.
Written when part of the Duty was taken off Whiskey, in October, 1823.
Scots wha hae the duties paid; Scots wham whiskies aft made glad: Welcome, for the duty’s fled, And it shall be free! Now’s the time and now’s the hour; See the shades of evening lour; See the streams of toddy pour―― Pledge it three-times-three!
Wha wad be a brandy slave? Wha wad shilpit claret lave? Wha of rum wad ever rave? When the whisky’s free? Wha for Scotia’s ancient drink, Will fill a bicker to the brink! Scotsmen wake or Scotsmen wink, Aquavitæ aye for me!
By taxation’s woes and pains! By the smuggler’s ill-got gains! We shall raise our wildest strains, For it shall be free! Lay the big gin bottle low! In the fire the port wine throw! Let the tide of whiskey flow! Like liberty, aye free!
ROBERT GILFILLAN.
――――
ROASTED SUCKING PIG.
Cooks who’d roast a sucking-pig, Purchase one not over big; Coarse ones are not worth a fig So a young one buy. See that he is scalded well (That is done by those who sell), Therefore on that point to dwell, Were absurdity.
Sage and bread, mix just enough, Salt and pepper quantum suff., And the Pig’s interior stuff, With the whole combined. To a fire that’s rather high, Lay it till completely dry; Then to every part apply Cloth, with butter lined.
Dredge with flour o’er and o’er, Till the Pig will hold no more; Then do nothing else before ’Tis for serving fit―― Then scrape off the flour with care; Then a butter’d cloth prepare; Rub it well; then cut――not tear―― Off the head of it.
Then take out and mix the brains With the gravy it contains; While it on the spit remains, Cut the Pig in two. Chop the sage, and chop the bread Fine as very finest shred; O’er it melted butter spread―― Stinginess won’t do.
When it in the dish appears, Garnish with the jaws and ears; And when dinner-hour nears, Ready let it be. Who can offer such a dish May dispense with fowl and fish; And if he a guest should wish, LET HIM SEND FOR ME!
――――
“BUNN! WHA HAE.”
Bunn! wha hae wi’ Wallace sped, Bunn! for whom Bruce oft has led, Bunn! whom Jenny Lind doth dread, Strike for victory! Now’s the day and now’s the hour, Don’t to Lumley’s programme cower; See proud Beale approach in power, Back’d by Royalty.
Though the [23]contract’s void, they say, Though your ballet go away, Though Baderna cannot stay, Don’t desponding get. By fair Thillon’s eyes and curls, By Carlotta Grisi’s trils, “Bondmen” and “Bohemian” girls, You may be happy yet.
The Man in the Moon, Vol. I,
――――
A NOVEL TURN, to an Auld Sang.
Jews――as every one has read―― Jews――as Charles Bruce lately said―― Know that you are born and bred The World’s Aristocracie, Now’s the day and now’s the hour, See auld Inglis looking sour; On you he abuse doth shower―― Inglis, Cant, and Mummerie!
Wha would be a Jew-boy, Jew? Sell auld almanacks for new, When he’s one of――Bruce says true―― The World’s Aristocracie! Wha for Israel’s right, by law, In the house to sit, will draw―― Member stand, or member fa’―― Son of Judah, on wi’ me!
By auld London’s streets and lanes, By great Rothschild’s cunning brains, We will spend our hard earn’d gains But he shall be an M.P. Lay our proud opponents low―― Agnews[24] fall in every foe―― Parliament’s in every blow―― Opposition’s all my eye!
The Puppet-Show, April 15, 1848.
――――
LOUIS NAPOLEON’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.
Guards! who at Smolensko fled―― No――I beg your pardon――bled! For my Uncle blood you’ve shed, Do the same for me. Now’s the day and now’s the hour, Heads to split and streets to scour; Strike for rank, promotion, power, Swag, and eau de vie.
Who’s afraid a child to kill? Who respects a shopman’s till? Who would pay a tailor’s bill? Let him turn and flee. Who would burst a Goldsmith’s door, Shoot a dun, or sack a store? Let him arm, and go before―― That is, follow me!
See the mob, to madness riled Up the barricades have piled; In among them, man and child, Unrelentingly. Shoot the men! there’s scarcely one In a dozen’s got a gun: Stop them, if they try to run, With Artillery.
Shoot the boys! each one may grow Into――of the state――a foe (Meaning by the state, you know, My supremacy!) Shoot the girls and women old! Those may bear us traitors bold―― These may be inclined to scold, Our severity.
Sweep the streets of all who may Rashly venture in the way, Warning for a future day Satisfactory. Then, when still’d is ev’ry voice, We, the nation’s darling choice, Calling on them to rejoice, Tell them, FRANCE IS FREE.
WILLIAM E. AYTOUN.
――――
A BRITON’S ADDRESS TO HIS BROTHER COUNTRYMEN.
Britons! at your country’s call, Freely live, or bravely fall; Honour’d death awaits us all, Death, or glorious victory. Now’s the day, and now’s the hour! See the front of battle lour: See approach proud Gallia’s power―― Gallia! chains and slavery!
Who will be a traitor knave? Who can fill a coward’s grave? Who so base as be a slave? Traitor! coward! turn and flee. No――in this our sacred cause For Britannia’s King and Laws, Freedom’s sword each Freeman draws ’Gainst the insulting enemy.
Who would fear, or who would flee? Fix’d is Britain’s destiny―― DEATH WITH GLORY WELCOME BE, IF NOT LIFE WITH LIBERTY. Briton! by thy wife’s warm tear, By thy spotless Daughter’s fear, By thy menac’d Altars swear THAT THIS ISLAND SHALL BE FREE.
Lay the base Invaders low, Tyrants fall in every foe. Freedom hangs on every blow, Oh! to conquer or to die!
Printed for J. HATCHARD, 190, Piccadilly, Price Three-pence per dozen. J. Hales, Old Boswell Court. No date.
――――
WING-KEE-FUM’S Address to the Patriot’s Army.
A Parody, with the above title, was published in Diogenes (a London comic journal), in September, 1853. It was in reference to the Revolution in China against the Tartar dynasty, when the rebels made it incumbent upon their adherents to shave off their pigtails, hitherto the badge of the conquered race. As the parody has little merit or historical interest, the following extracts will suffice:――
Cut away! No coward fears Shall restrain our warlike shears; We shout defiance in the ears Of all the Tartar race. Now the day is nobly won, Now the deed is nobly done; We hurl our pigtails, every one, In the Mantchoo’s face!
Victory! our country’s free! The pigtail gone, no longer we By any alien race shall be Trampled on――kept down. The day’s our own――we’ll wear our hair Just as we please; and boldly swear The Mantchoo’s pigtail now shall ne’er Aspire to China’s crown.
* * * * *
――――
TRAVELLERS, WHO’VE SO OFT BEEN BLED.
Travellers, who’ve so oft been bled, When you’re poorly lodged and fed, At the Blue Boar, or King’s Head. Or the Victory; Ye who’ve paid a crown, or so, For a pint of Cape, or sloe, Join your powers to overthrow Such cool knavery!
Down with every monstrous tax, Chambermaids, and lights of wax! Who will pay for these, I ax, Shillings two or three? With each breast the feeling chimes, Well to punish such foul crimes; To the castigating Times, Biffin, write with me!
By the dinners, dear and bad, By the items, never had, Charged and paid for, yet too glad To escape so free,―― Deal mine host a deadly blow: Tell the boots that he may go To the gentleman below! Forward――what a spree!
Diogenes, October 15, 1853.
――――
SONG, by an “Old Shaver.”
Ye whose chins have often bled, Who, no doubt, each morn have said, “Why should blood of mine be shed To please Society?” Now’s the day, and now’s the hour; Though your close-shorn friends look sour, Defiance bid to barberous power, Soap and slavery!
Who’d be goose enough to shave When he might the trouble save? Who’d to custom be a slave, Lest folks call him, Guy? Who, from old-established raw, Fresh blood each day are wont to draw While scraping at your nether jaw, Fling your razors by!
By the cuts upon my chin, By the smarting of my skin, By the rage it puts me in, No more shave for me! Let moustache and whisker grow, O’er your breast the long beard flow; Let the barefaced shavers know What a beard should be!
Diogenes, February, 1854.
――――
THE CZAR’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.
Serfs, wha hae wi’ Kut’soff bled! Serfs, like beasts of burden led, Though readier far to go to bed―― Come to glorious victory! Now’s the day, and now’s the hour; Let Europe taste despotic power; Make the base pretenders cower; Down with Right and Liberty!
Who will be a traitor knave, Shun the knout our fathers gave, And freedom from the Saxon crave? Patriot rebel, turn and flee! Who would feast on tallow fat, Strike a blow at Kalafat! Cossacks, lick your lips at that; Valiant Finsmen, on wi’ me!
By our nobles’ crafty gains, By our vassals’ cherish’d chains, We will give our dullest brains; But we won’t, we won’t be free! Lay the Gaul and Saxon low; Crush a Turk at every blow; Liberty’s our greatest foe! Forward, or you’ll all be d――――!
Diogenes, 1854.
――――
THE LIBERAL PARTY.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE ECHO.
Sir,――If you think the enclosed worthy of appearing in the Echo I shall be glad.――Yours respectfully, W. LOTHIAN. 31, Ferntower-road, Highbury, Jan. 31.
ADDRESS TO THE LIBERAL ARMY.
A’ wha hae wi’ Russell sped, A’ wham Gladstone’s often led; Welcome to a Tory bed Or to victory! Now’s the day and now’s the hour; See the front o’ battle lour, See approach a would-be power―― Lord B. Disraeli!
Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward’s grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Follow Disraeli. Wha, for Parliament and Law, Freedom’s sword will strongly draw; Freemen stand, while Tories fa’, Let him Liberal be!
By Oppression’s woes and pains! We’ll not brook Imperial chains, For the blood in Liberal veins Boils at Disraeli! Lay all such usurpers low! Tories fall in every foe! Liberty’s in every blow! Down wi’ Disraeli!
The Echo, February 1, 1879.
――――
“SCOTS WHA’ ARE.”
Scots! wha are on oatmeal fed, Scots! wha sold your Royal Head To his foeman to behead―― For a mere baubee, Now’s the day and now’s the hour To throw your noble landlord ower, And bring your Willie into power, Scotsmen, I am he!
Wha can be a traitor knave? Wha his chance of power to save Shame and infamy can brave? Scotsmen, I am he! Wha’s for Disestablishment? Wha can’t tell whatever’s meant By “Home Rule” and “Don’t pay rent,” Let him follow me.
By the law of hypothec, Hung like chains around your neck, Scotsmen join with me to wreck The Tory Ministry. England to the wall may go, Russia jubilant may crow O’er her fall. Yet be it so, I avenged shall be.
March, 1850.
From “They are Five,” by W. E. G. (A small collection of Conservative parodies published by David Bogue, London, 1880).
――――
“SCOTT WHA HA’;” Or Jumbo’s Address to his Keeper.
Scott wha ha’ your Jumbo fed, Scott wham Jumbo aft hath led, Soonest mended least that’s said Of your shabby victory! Wha dare ask how I behave? Here I’m caged up like a slave;―― Guess if I’d got loose, a shave They’d all had to turn and flee!
What’s the good of British law? CHITTY only finds a flaw!―― Though I bang my head half raw, Their sole game is “On wi’ me!” There,――I call the whole thing low: E’en my trumpet I can’t blow; Off! Here, let me gang below―― Steward! Let me do, or die!
Punch, 1882.
When the elephant Jumbo was sent from the Zoological Gardens, London, to the United States he was accompanied by his keeper, Scott, who was with him when he was killed by a locomotive engine.
――――
SALISBURY TO THE CONSERVATIVES.
Friends, by Whig retrenchment bled, Friends, whom Beaconsfield has led, Rally round your Tory head, On to victory come! Now’s the day and now’s the hour, See the front of Gladstone lour, See laid low the Caucus’ power, Rads and Brummagem!
Who would come at Bradlaugh’s call, Who would see Great Britain Small, Who would be a Radical, Let him turn and flee! Who “For God and Queen” will cry Eager he to do as I, Loyal live and loyal die, Let him follow me!
By the woes seditions bring, We would rather have one King Than five hundred in the ring Brummagem would give. Lay the platform-spouters low! Liberty is ours we know! Change may tyrants bring and woe! Change we not and――live!
From A Pen’orth o’ Poetry for the Poor. London, 1884.
――――
A CALL TO ARMS.
Men by wise example led, From England’s greatest statesmen dead; Men whose fathers fought and bled For England’s liberty; Now’s the day and now’s the hour, See the front of battle lour, Scatter wide the Tory power, And let us still be free!
Who would be a Jingo knave? Who would Tory banners wave? Let him ever be a slave To Tory tyranny. Who would justice, right and law, Free from Tories’ greedy maw, To the poll in thousands draw, And poll for liberty!
Ere oppression’s woes and pains Load your sons with servile chains, Poll your full elect’ral gains To keep the people free; Lay the Tory braggarts low, A tyrant falls in every foe, Strike! for every Liberal blow Is dealt for liberty!
From Songs for Liberal Electors, 1885.
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JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.
John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent: But now your brow it beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow. John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty day, John, We’ve had wi ane anither. Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we’ll go; And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo.
ROBERT BURNS.
The above is the version of this song as given in the Works of Burns, but John Anderson, my jo, existed as a song, under different forms, long before his time. In Percy’s Reliques of Ancient Poetry it is traced back to the time of the Reformation, when many ridiculous and obscene songs were composed to be sung to the tunes of favorite hymns in the Latin Service, to ridicule the Roman Catholic faith. The explanation is important, and should be borne in mind, as accounting for the fact that many of the absurd and nonsensical old Scotch Songs, which Burns either entirely re-wrote, or remodelled, were wedded to really grand original music.
The first, and only, verse fit to quote originally ran thus:
“John Anderson, my jo, cum in as ye gae bye, And ye sail get a sheips heid, weel baken in a pye; Weel baken in a pye, and the haggis in a pot: John Anderson, my jo cum in, and ye’s get that,”
In the first volume of a collection entitled, Poetry Original and Selected, printed by Brash & Reid, of Glasgow, this song is given as follows:
JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO, IMPROVED.
By Robert Burns.
John Anderson, my jo, John, I wonder what you mean, To rise so soon in the morning, and sit up so late at e’en, Ye’ll blear out all your e’en, John, and why should you do so Gang sooner to your bed at e’en, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature first began To try her canny hand, John, her master-work was man; And you amang them a’, John, sae trig frae tap to toe, She proved to be nae journey-work, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my first conceit, And ye need na think it strange, John, tho’ I ca’ ye trim and neat. Tho’ some folk say ye’re auld, John, I never think ye so, But I think ye’re aye the same to me, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, we’ve seen our bairns’ bairns, And yet, my dear John Anderson, I’m happy in your arms, And sae are ye in mine, John――I’m sure ye’ll ne’er say no, Tho’ the days are gane, that we have seen, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, what pleasure does it gie, To see sae mony sprouts, John, spring up ’tween you and me, And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go, Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, your bonnie brow was brent. But now your head’s turned bald, John, your locks are like the snaw, Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, frae year to year we’ve past, And soon that year maun come, John, will bring us to our last; But let nae that affright us, John, our hearts were ne’er our foe, While in innocent delight we lived, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, we clamb the hill thegither, And mony a canty day, John, we’ve had wi’ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in hand we’ll go. And we’ll sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo.
The stanza with which this song begins, is the chorus of the old song under this title; and though perfectly suitable to that wicked but witty ballad, it has no accordance with the strain of delicate and tender sentiment of this improved song. With regard to the five additional stanzas, though they are in the spirit of the two stanzas that are unquestionably by Burns, every reader of discernment will see they are by an inferior hand; and the real author of them, ought neither to have given them, nor suffered them to be given, to the world, as the production of Burns.
――――
JANE BARNABY.
Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane, I’m wearing wan, and old As herds at close of eve, Jane, Are summon’d to the fold, I soon to mine shall be, Jane, My close of life is near, And much I need our Shepherd’s care, Jane Barnaby, my dear.
* * * * *
Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane, Thy tenderness is sweet, And grateful is this heart That soon will cease to beat. Thou wert its earliest love, Jane, Thou art its solace here, Thou’lt be its last remembrance. Jane Barnaby, my dear.
* * * * *
Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane, Life’s flood is ebbing fast, A few more soft’ning sighs, Jane, The shoals will all be past. To bear my spirit hence, Jane, Death’s bark is hov’ring near; Adieu, adieu, a short adieu, Jane Barnaby, my dear.
(Seven verses in all.)
From Attempts in Verse, by John Jones, an old servant. (Edited by Robert Southey, Poet Laureate. 1831.)
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BY A GLASGOW BOOKMAKER. (DEDICATED TO G. ANDERSON, M.P.)
GEORGE ANDERSON my GEO., GEORGE, before you did invent That Bill of yours, I made a book on every big event; But now my book is blank, GEORGE, and now my purse is low, So cusses on your Betting Bill, GEORGE ANDERSON, my GEO.
GEORGE ANDERSON, my GEO., GEORGE, my clerk and I together, With lists in hand, would brave it out, in fine or rainy weather; Now we must take them down, GEORGE (for lists we must not show). And shout the prices out instead, GEORGE ANDERSON, my GEO.!
Punch.
――――
PARODY ON JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.
My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg, When we were first acquent, A tighter hizzy never brush’d The dew frae aff the bent. But now ye’re turn’d as stiff’s a tree, And your pow’s as white’s the snow, There’s naething supple but your tongue My bonnie Meg, my jo.
My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg, I wonder what ye mean, Ye’re flyting everlastingly―― Frae morning light till e’en. Some folks say that ye’re failing Meg But I scarce can think it so, For ye flyte as weel as ere ye did, My bonny Meg, my jo.
My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg, When nature first began, She gaed every wife a yard o’ tongue To torture her gudeman. She’s been kind to you aboon the lave, An’ I can prove it so, For she’s gien you half a yard to boot, My bonny Meg, my jo.
My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg, We clamb the hill thegither, And mony a devilish dust we’ve had Sin’ we met ane anither. Now we maun totter down, Meg, And cheek for chow we’ll go, And we’ll girn at ither at the fit, My bonnie Meg, my jo.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
JEAN ANDERSON, MY JO. (An Imitation.)
When nature first began, Jean, To try her canny hand, It’s true she first made man, Jean, And gave him great command; But naething wad content him, Jean, Though king o’ a’ below, Till heaven in pity sent him, Jean, What maist he wish――a jo.
Tho’ some may say I’m auld, Jean. And say the same o’ thee, Ne’er fret to hear it tauld, Jean, You still look young to me; And weel I mind the day, Jean, Your breast was white as snow, An waist sae jimp one might it span, Jean Anderson, my jo.
Our bonnie bairns’ bairns, Jean, Wi’ rapture do I see, Come todlin’ to the fireside, Or sit upon my knee; If there is pleasure here, Jean, Or happiness below, This surely maun be likest it, Jean Anderson, my jo.
Tho’ age has siller’d o’er my pow, Sin’ we were first acquent, An’ changed my glossy raven locks, It’s left us still content; And eld ne’er comes alane, Jean But oft brings many a wo. But we’ve nae cause for sic complaints, Jean Anderson, my jo.
In innocence we’ve spent our days, An’ pleasant looks the past. Nae anxious thoughts alarm us, We’re cheerful to the last; Till death knock at our door, Jean, And warn us baith to go, Contented we will live and love, Jean Anderson, my jo.
It’s now a lang lang time, Jean, Sin’ you and I begun, To sprachel up life’s hill, Jean, Our race is nearly run; We baith hae done our best, Jean Our sun is wearin low, Sae let us quietly sink to rest, Jean Anderson, my jo.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
JOHN BULL AND JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN.
[“I should like to see this Government drink to the dregs the cup of humiliation which they have filled for themselves.”―― Birmingham Speech, December 17, 1885.]
Joe Chamberlain, my Jo――John Has still his word to say; Although you rate him low, John Was not born yesterday: Though acres three seem fair to men, And cows in fancy low, Yet Bulls will answer now and then, Jo Chamberlain, my Jo!
There’s Radical and Radical; In that time-honoured throng Men stout and bold have battled all ’Gainst many a grievous wrong: Then think you never man on earth That sturdy name might owe, Till Birmingham brought you to birth, Jo Chamberlain, my Jo?
So loud your trumpets clang and slang, That doubts John often feels, Bewildered by the “sturm und drang,” Which are his head and heels: For Liberal Captains staunch and true, Is he bestead so sorely, That he’s but Morley, Dilke, and you, And――you, and Dilke, and Morley?
Is Forster but a poor pretence? Is Goschen but a traitor? Upon a Tory providence Is Hartington a waiter? Is Gladstone but the Tame Old Man Whose strings you deign to pull? You’ve much to do before you can Prove all these facts to Bull.
Observe, good Joseph, if you’re wise, The Winkles you condemn Got pretty round majorities, To show my trust in them: Would you my loyal servant stay, (I’m stedfast, if I’m slow), A little modesty, I pray, Jo Chamberlain, my Jo.
You’d have your foes “drain to the dregs” The cup you say they fill? If so, John Bull your pardon begs―― He pays the liquor-bill. Ye Jacobins and Josephins, ’Tis time to think, you know, Less of yourselves and Outs and Ins, And more of me――come Jo!
Punch, January 2, 1886.
In Punch of October 3, 1885, there was another parody commencing “Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, Sir,” being an appeal by a moderate Liberal to Mr. J. Chamberlain not to endanger the unity of the party at the coming general election.
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FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT.
Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a’ that! The coward slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a’ that! For a’ that and a’ that, Our toils obscure, and a’ that! The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, The man’s the gowd for a’ that,
What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin’ grey, and a’ that: Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man’s a man for a’ that! For a’ that, and a’ that. Their tinsel show, and a’ that, The honest man, though e’er sae poor; Is king o’ men for a’ that!
You see yon birkie, ca’d a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a’ that. Though hundreds worship at his word, He’s but a coof for a’ that; For a’ that, and a’ that, His riband, star, and a’ that, The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a’ that.
A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke and a’ that; But an honest man’s aboon his might, Guid faith, he manna fa’ that! For a’ that, and a’ that, Their dignities, and a’ that, The pith o’ sense, and pride o’ worth, Are higher ranks than a’ that!
Then let us pray that come it may―― As come it will for a’ that―― That sense and worth o’er a’ the earth, May bear the gree, and a’ that, For a’ that, and a’ that, Its comin’ yet, for a’ that, That man to man, the warld o’er, Shall brothers be for a’ that!
ROBERT BURNS.
This Song was rendered into French, by Father Prout, and published in Bentley’s Miscellany:――
Quoi! Pauvre honnête, baisser la tête? Quoi! rougir de la sorte? Que l’âme basse s’éloigne et passe Nous――soyons gueux! n’importe travail obscur―― N’importe! Quand l’or est pur, n’importe! Qu’il ne soit point marqué au coin D’un noble rang――qu’importe?
Quoiqu’on dût faire bien maigre chère Et vêtir pauvre vêtement; Aux sots leur soie, leur vin, leur joie; Ca fait il L’HOMME? eh, nullement Luxe et grandeur, qu’importe! Train et splendeur, qu’importe! Cœurs vils et creux, un noble gueux Vaut toute la cohorte!
Voyez ce fat, un vain éclat L’entoure, et on l’encense, Mais après tout ce n’est qu’un fou,―― Un sot, quoiqu’il en pense; Terre et maison,――qu’il pense―― Titre et blazon,――qu’il pense―― Or et ducats, Non! ne font pas La vraie indépendence!
Un roi peut faire Duc, dignitaire, Comte et marquis, journellement; Mais ce qu’on nomme un HONNETE HOMME, Le peut-il faire? eh, nullement! Tristes faveurs! Réellement; Pauvres honneurs! Réelement; Le fier maintien des gens de bien Leur manque essentiellement.
Or faisons vœu, qu’à tous, sous peu, Arrive un jour de jugement;―― Amis, ce jour aura son tour, J’en prends, j’en prends, l’engagement. Espoir et encouragement, Aux pauvres gens soulagement; ’Lors sur la terre vivrons en frères, Et librement, et sagement!
――――
“FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT”
“A man’s a man,” says Robert Burns, “For a’ that and a’ that,” But though the song be clear and strong, It lacks a note for a’ that. The lout who’d shirk his daily work, Yet claim his wage and a’ that, Or beg when he can earn his bread, Is not a man for a’ that.
If all who dine on homely fare Were true and brave, and a’ that; And none whose garb is “hodden grey” Was fool and knave and a’ that; The vice and crime that shame our time, Would fade and fall and a’ that; And ploughmen be as good as kings, And churls as earls, for a’ that.
You see yon brawny, blustering sot, Who swaggers, swears, and a’ that; And thinks, because his strong right arm Might fell an ox, and a’ that. That he’s as noble, man for man, As duke or lord and a’ that, He’s but a brute, beyond dispute, And not a man for a’ that.
A man may own a large estate, Have palace, park, and a’ that; And not for birth, but honest worth, Be thrice a man for a’ that; And Donald herding on the muir, Who beats his wife and a’ that, Be nothing but a rascal boor, Nor half a man for a’ that.
It comes to this, dear Robert Burns, The truth is old and a’ that, The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, The man’s the gowd for a’ that. And though you put the minted mark On copper, brass, and a’ that, The lie is gross, the cheat is plain, And will not pass, for a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that ’Tis soul and heart, and a’ that, That makes the king a gentleman, And not his crown, and a’ that. And man with man, if rich or poor, The best is he, for a’ that, Who stands erect in self-respect, And acts the man for a’ that.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
DEAR FREEDOM. TUNE.――A Man’s a Man for a’ that.
Dear Freedom! sair they’ve lightlied thee, An’ ca’ed thee thief an’ a’ that, Thy faithfu’ friens hae borne for thee Baith scorn an’ grief an’ a’ that.
An’ a’ that an’ a’ that, Baith scorn an’ grief an’ a’ that, Thy faithfu’ friens hae borne for thee Baith scorn an’ grief an’ a’ that.
We dare na meet, we dare na speak, We dare na sing nor a’ that: Our dearest rights we dare na seek―― We’ll see them swing for a’ that, &c.
And then the de’il will be to pay, Wi’ tyrants, priests, an’ a’ that, Wi’ a’ their childish trumpery, Their fasts an’ feasts, and a’ that, &c.
Whan peace an truth wi’ freedom dwell, Fraternity an’ a’ that, Nae mair we’ll need the fear o’ hell, Eternity an’ a’ that, &c.
Their auld wives cants at length grown stale, (The light will soon do a’ that) Plain truth will e’en support hersel, But priestcraft mauna fa’ that, &c.
Then cheerfully wi’ harmless mirth, We’ll spend our days an’ a’ that, And bless the hour that gae us birth, An’ Freedom praise for a’ that, &c.
From The Wreath of Freedom, or Patriots Song Book. Newcastle, 1820.
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FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT.
(Supposed to be sung by a chorus of Jews, in the neighbourhood of Bevis Marks.)
Success to honest usury, And flying kites and a’ that; Post obit bonds, and mortgages, With notes of hand a’ that; For a’ that and a’ that, We’ll drive a trade in a’ that, Receipts are but a penny stamp: A bills’ a bill for a’ that.
When needy spendthrifts seek our dens, With embryo lord and a’ that, We tell them that we’re short of cash―― We’ll try a friend for a’ that, For a’ that and a’ that, We know the dodge for a’ that, And only ask our cent. per cent. For kindly doing a’ that.
Our friend a mixture p’rhaps may have, Which we Madeira ca’ that; And daubs which bear a heavy price, They’re “vary sheep” for a’ that, For a’ that and a’ that, We’ll drive a trade in a’ that; Receipts may be a penny stamp, We’ll do our bills for a’ that.
Diogenes. August, 1853.
――――
“A GIRL’S A GIRL FOR A’ THAT.”
Is there a lady in all the land That boasts her rank and a’ that? With scornful eye we pass her by, And little care for a’ that; For nature’s charm shall bear the palm―― A girl’s a girl for a’ that.
What though her neck with gems she deck, With folly’s gear and a’ that, And gaily ride in pomp and pride; We can dispense with a’ that. An honest heart acts no such part―― A girl’s a girl for a’ that.
The nobly born may proudly scorn A lonely lass and a’ that; A pretty face has far more grace Than haughty looks and a’ that! A bonny maid needs no such aid―― A girl’s a girl for a’ that.
Then let us trust that come it must, And sure it will for a’ that, When faith and love, all arts above, Shall reign supreme and a’ that, And every youth confess the truth―― A girl’s a girl for a’ that.
N. E. R., Fence Houses. Once a Week, 1869.
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A CAD’S A CAD FOR A’ THAT.
Is there a Jingo, proud and high, “Who cocks his nose and a’ that? The swaggering sumph, we pass him by―― We dare be just for a’ that! For a’ that, and a’ that, His sniggering scorn, and a’ that: The sneer is but the club-room’s stamp, The clay is Cad’s for a’ that!
What though on civic fare he dine, Wear Court attire and a’ that; Give churls their turtle, clowns their wine, A Cad’s a Cad for a’ that: For a’ that and a’ that, Their patriot show and a’ that: The selfish Snob, or rich or poor, Is Cad at heart for a’ that!
Ye see yon trickster, late clubbed Lord, Who dodges, dupes, and a’ that; Though thousands shout at each smart word, He’s charlatan for a’ that! For a’ that and a’ that, His riband, star, and a’ that; The man of just considerate mind, He smiles――or sighs――at a’ that!
A Cad may boast of power of fight, Of patriot zeal, and a’ that; But trust in right’s above his flight; He has not pluck for a’ that! For a’ that and a’ that, Their blatant bounce and a’ that: Fair play, stern justice, steadfast calm, Show truer grit than all that!
Then let us pray that come it may―― As come it will for a’ that―― That Jingo rant and Cad-dom’s cant May hush their row and a’ that! For a’ that and a’ that, It’s coming yet for a’ that, When patriots true the wide world o’er Shall brothers be for a’ that!
Punch, November 30, 1878.
――――
“OUR OLD NOBILITY.”
Is there, for princely opulence, That hangs his head, and a’ that? We wish the coward better sense, And dare be rich for a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, We’re noble Peers and a’ that. The commoner’s a common scamp; A Lord’s a Lord for a’ that!
What though on plate we daily dine, Wear coronets and a’ that? Let knaves have beer instead of wine, We stick to hock and a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that,―― Their pewter pots and a’ that,―― For all our gold we never blush, A Lord’s a Lord for a’ that!
Yon bragging pauper struts about, And rants and raves and a’ that; However loudly he may shout He’s but an ass for a’ that! For a’ that and a’ that―― His People’s Rights and a’ that; In pride of birth and money’s worth A Lord’s a Lord for a’ that!
Fun, January 22, 1879.
――――
It is among the things not generally known that Sir Arthur Guinness is a poet. He is said to have replied to the Prime-Minister’s offer of a Peerage in the following strain:――
Your kind intention I must damp, The game of rank’s not worth my candle; It is, sir, but the Guinness’ stamp; My honest pewter needs no handle.
――――
A SONG FOR MIDLOTHIAN.
Is there, for double U. E. G., That curls his lip and a’ that? The Tory loon, we’ll let him be, And gae oor ways for a’ that! For a’ that and a’ that, Election-cries, and a’ that; The rank may be the guinea’s stamp, The man’s the man for a’ that.
Ye see yon Dalkeith, ca’d a lord, Wha tries to speak, and a’ that; Tho’ hundreds worship at his word, He’s nae sae great for a’ that; For a’ that, and a’ that, His ancestry, and a’ that; The man o’ dauntless eloquence, He comes and wins for a’ that.
A candidate may be a knight, A lord, an earl, and a’ that, But the ballot’s far aboon his might―― Guid faith, he mauna fa’ that! For a’ that, for a’that, Their faggot-votes, and a’ that, The pith o’ sense and pride o’ speech Do bigger things than a’ that.
Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will for a’ that, That Gladstone’s worth o’er a’ the earth May bear the gree, and a’ that. For a’ that and a’that, It’s comin’ yet, for a’ that When man to man the kingdom o’er, Shall own his worth for a’ that.
This Parody appeared in Funny Folks, which contained another, on the same original, on March 14, 1885, which is not now of sufficient interest to be included.
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A POLITICAL SONG. (By a Man of no Party.)
Is there for Whig and Tory men Who fumes and frets and a’ that, Who dips in gall his loveless pen, With wrath of man and a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Their factions, feuds, and a’ that; In quiet nook we know to brook, A fruitful life for a’ that.
What though we make no mighty din With place and power and a’ that; We wear, within a healthy skin, An honest heart for a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, There’s outs and inns and a’ that; Let Whig and Tory bark and bite, The good cause wins for a’ that!
You see yon loon who taks his stand On blood and pedigree here, And thinks the Lord God made the land For him and his degree here, For a’ that, and a’ that, Their pridefu’ pranks and a’ that; We turn the sod, and claim from God Stout labours due for a’ that.
You see yon big-mouthed bawling boy, Of bright millennium dreaming here, From equal votes to ragged coats, And brainless men and women here; For a’ that, and a’ that, Their high-flown prate and a’ that; Clear heads, firm will, and subtle skill, Will rule the State for a’ that.
You see yon keen-eyed lank-faced lad, Who pleads the workmen’s cause here, And knows to surgeon all things bad, With patent brand new laws here. For a’ that, and a’ that, Their Communistic brag here; The sharpest eye, the game to spy, Will make the biggest bag here.
You see yon lean and lanky lad, Who flings his pulpit ban here, Save the elect of his own sect, On all the human clan here, For a’ that, and a’ that, Though priests may curse and ban here, The God who sits in heaven shall laugh At vain conceit of man here.
You see yon chiel who wags his tongue And bobs his wig and a’ that. Though he can prove that right is wrong, He’s but a prig for a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Their shifty arts and a’ that; The pulse of right will beat with might, In human hearts for a’ that.
Then let us pray, though for a day Wild seas may overwhelm here, That counsel mild may bear the sway, And wisdom hold the helm here! For a’ that and a’ that, Their party spite and a’ that; We’ll win the fight for truth and right, In God’s own time for a’ that.
JOHN STUART BLACKIE, Emeritus Prof. of Latin, Mar. Coll., Abdn., 1841-52.
From Alma Mater: Aberdeen University Magazine November 11, 1885.
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JENNY’S A WAT, POOR BODY.
Coming through the rye, poor body, Coming through the rye, She draiglet a’ her petticoatie, Coming through the rye, Jenny’s a’ wat, poor body, Jenny’s seldom dry; She draiglet a’ her petticoatie, Coming through the rye,
Gin a body meet a body Coming through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry? Gin a body meet a body Coming through the glen, Gin a body kiss a body, Need the world ken.
ROBERT BURNS.
――――
TAK CAULER WATER I.
Gin a body meet a body, When he’s passin’ by, Need a body gar a body Drink that isna dry? Though ilka chap should tak his drap, Tak ne’er a drap wad I, ’Mang friens or faes for a’ my days, Tak cauler water I.
Gin a body meet a body, Though to sell or buy, Need a body gar a body Drink that isna dry? Though yon big sea were barley-bree Tak ne’er a drap wad I; Abroad, at hame, its a’ the same, Tak cauler water I.
Gin a body meet a body Whar folk wed or die, Need a body gar a body Drink that isna dry? Amang the gay, amang the wae, Tak ne’er a drap wad I; The dram an’ pray’r are queer-like fare―― Tak cauler water I.
Gin a body meet a body. His lass jist by the by, Need a body gar a body Drink that isna dry? The lassie mine, I’d need nae wine, Ne’er a drap wad I, Though her sweet lip I’d aiblins sip, Tak cauler water I.
WALNEERG.
――――
“MEETIN’ ON THE SLY.”
Gin a nursey meet a bobby, Meet him on the sly, Gin a nursey leave a babby, Need a babby cry? Gin a bobby to a babby Acts in way unkind, Need the nursey stop that bobby―― Need that babby mind?
Gin a nursey smack a babby With a strength extreme, Gin a nursey pinch a babby, Need that babby scream? Gin a bobby shake a babby, Need that babby yell? Gin a nursey kiss that bobby, Need that babby tell?
Judy, December 10, 1879.
――――:o:――――
DUNCAN GRAY.
Duncan Gray cam here to woo, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, On blythe Yule night when we were fu’, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, Maggie coost her head fu’ high, Look’d asklent and unco skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh: Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
* * * * *
Time and chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, &c., Slighted love is sair to bide, Ha, ha, &c., Shall I like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie die? She may go to――France for me! Ha, ha, &c.
* * * * *
ROBERT BURNS.
――――
SAM SUMPH.[25]
Sam Sumph cam’ here for Greek, Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t! Frae Dunnet Head he cam’ for Greek, Wi’ sair thirst for the Greeking o’t; Brains he had na unco much, His schooling was a crazy crutch, But like the crab he had a clutch, Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t!
Latin Syntax vexed him sore, When he tried the Greeking o’t, For Cæsar stands at Homer’s door When folks try the Greeking o’t. Quod and ut he understood, At “speech direct” they called him good, But qui with the subjunctive mood Was the crook in the lot at the Greeking o’t!
One thing truth commands to tell, Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t! English he could hardly spell, But what’s that to the Greeking o’t? English fits the vulgar clan, The buying and the selling man, But for the learned the only plan Is a close grip at the Greeking o’t.
How he wandered through the verb, It pains my tongue the speaking o’t, He said it was a bitter herb, When he tried the Greeking o’t. Wi’ mony a wrench and mony a screw, At last he warstled bravely through, All except a tense or two, When he tried the Greeking o’t!
How he fared with ἣ and ἄν When he tried the Greeking o’t. Δὴ and γε, and all their clan, It’s weel worth the speaking o’t. These feckless dots of words, quo’ he. They are nae bigger than a flea, We’ll skip them ow’r, and let them be, They’ll nae be missed at the Greeking o’t!
A’ the story for to tell, Were nae end to the speaking o’t, But this thing in the end befell, When he tried the Greeking o’t; Though his heart was free frae vice (Men are sometimes trapped like mice), They plucked him ance, they plucked him twice, When he tried the Greeking o’t!
Sair cast doun was learned Sam At this end o’ the Greeking o’t; He could dae nae mair wi’ cram, At this stage o’ the Greeking o’t, But he was teugh as ony Scot, He was plucked, but yield would not, Sooner would he hang and rot, Than thus be balked at the Greeking o’t.
At the door he made a din, Rap, rap, for the Greeking o’t! Is the Greek Professor in? Yes, yes, for the Greeking o’t! Sam his plea wi’ tears would win, He fleeched and grat his een quite blin’, To pluck him twice was just a sin, For a sma’ fault at the Greeking o’t!
Professor was a kindly man, Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t! Felt for a’ the student clan That swat sair at the Greeking o’t, “Though your nae just in the van, My heart is wae your worth to ban Ye hae done the best ye can, So ye may past at the Greeking o’t!”
Sam Sumph is now M.A., Ha, ha, for the Greeking o’t! He can preach and he can pray, That’s the fruit of the Greeking o’t. He can thunder loud and fell, An awfu’ power in him doth dwell, To ope and shut the gates of hell, That’s the prize o’ the Greeking o’t.
Wait a year and ye will see, Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t! High upon the tap o’ the tree, Sam perch’d by the Greeking o’t! In the Kirk Assembly he Sits as big as big can be, Moderator Sam, D.D., That’s the crown o’ the Greeking o’t!
JOHN STUART BLACKIE.
From Alma Mater; Aberdeen University Magazine, December 9, 1885.
――――:o:――――
THE WHIGS OF AULD LANG SYNE. (The Premier and the New Peers.)
Should auld supporters be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should auld Whigs be remembered not By Whigs of auld lang syne? For auld lang syne my friends, For auld lang syne; We’ll gie ye baith a Peerage yet, For auld lang syne.
We three hae tasted aft, at times, The sweets of office fine; And sighed for place for mony a day, Sin’ auld lang syne. For auld, &c.
We three hae paddled, in our turn, The River down, to dine, And whiles without the whitebait gane, ’Sin auld lang syne. For auld, &c.
Noo, gie’s a lift, my trusty friends, And here’s a lift o’ mine; And we’ll tak’ a right guid Johnnie-waught For auld lang syne. For auld lang, &c.
And surely ye’ll be your staunch votes, As sure ye’re friends o’ mine, And we’ll tak’ a stoup o’Gladstone yet For auld lang syne. For auld, &c.
Punch, December 30, 1865.
――――
SIR M. HICKS BEACH singing:――
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, As I’ve forgotten mine? Yes, certainly; for it is rot To talk o’ auld lang syne! For auld lang syne forsooth! For auld lang syne! I stabbed my auld frien’[26] in the back, For auld lang syne!
He’d been a trusty frien’ to me, Right gude to me and mine; And as I drove the foul blow home, I cried “For auld lang syne! For auld lang syne, kind frien,’ For auld lang syne! Take that!” and so I laid him flat, “For auld lang syne!” [He goes out.
Truth, Christmas Number, 1885.
――――:o:――――
GREEN GROW THE RASHES.
A FRAGMENT.
Chorus. Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e’er I spend, Are spent amang the lasses, O!
There’s nought but care on every han’, In every hour that passes, O! What signifies the life o’ man, An’ ’twere na for the lasses, O! Green grow, &c.
* * * * *
Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears, Her noblest work she classes, O! Her ’prentice han’ she tried on man, And then she made the lasses, O! Green grow, &c.
ROBERT BURNS.
――――
LIFE IN MALVERN.
We’ve dinners, sprees, concerts and glees, As yearly they come roun’ O! We’ve social teas, and grand soirées, For ever in the town, O! The town, O! the town, O! The lively, pleasant town, O! There’s healthy strife and active life, There’s spirit in the town, O!
Though whiles we dream and whiles we scheme How we will yet sit down, O! And end our days in rural braes; We’ll never leave the town, O! The town, O! the town, O! The active, stirring town, O! Old Zimmerman would change his plan To live in Malvern town, O!
From Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch, by Dr. J. B. Oddfish, London, 1865.
――――
HEY FOR SOCIAL SCIENCE, O!
A SONG FOR THE SOCIAL SCIENCE MEETING, AT GLASGOW, IN 1860.
Air――Green grow the rashes, O!
A pleasant week I lately passed In Glasgow town,――no city, O! With men of state and merchants great, And sages wise or witty, O!
CHORUS:――_Hey for social science, O! Hey for social science, O! When wisdom, wine, and wit combine, They make a good alliance, O!_
We meet to show that all below To ruin fast is tending, O! That laws and schools and prison rules Are much in need of mending, O! Hey for social science, &c.
But though, no doubt, t’was well made out That things are old and wheezy, O! O cursed spite! to set them right Was not so very easy, O! Hey for social science, &c.
Yet though the task may patience ask, We’re here convened to try it, O! To see if schools will root out fools, Or crime be cured by diet, O! Hey for social science, &c.
The blood-red sun had scarce begun To shine out strong and hearty, O! When up we rose and donned our clo’es To join Bell’s breakfast-party, O! Hey for social science, &c.
Delicious doles of meat and rolls Disposed to mirth and laughter, O! The inspiring tea brought out Macnee, And others followed after, O! Hey for social science, &c.
When hunger’s rage we thus assuage, Succeeds the thirst for knowledge, O! Then, horse and foot, we take the route, And hurry to the college, O! Hey for social science, &c.
Here in we press for some address That lasts two hours or longer, O! And if a word is seldom heard, The applause is all the stronger, O! Hey for social science, &c.
The section meetings next we try, Some worse and others better, O! But if the days are somewhat dry, The nights will prove the wetter, O! Hey for social science, &c.
That sense alone conspicious shone I can’t declare in conscience, O! But great’s the use to introduce A safety-valve for nonsense, O! Hey for social science, &c.
A few who well their tale could tell Did ably fill the rostrums, O! While many a goose his clack let loose, And quacks proclaimed their nostrums, O! Hey for social science, &c.
Just ere the welcome hour of six We gladly cut our cable, O! And in some port of refuge fix, Hard by a well spread table, O! Hey for social science, &c.
While all things good in drink and food Our weary souls are cheering, O! The ills of life, before so rife, Seem quickly disappearing, O! Hey for social science, &c.
Around us eyes and faces bright Our softened hearts are winning, O! Fair matrons in meridian light, And morning stars beginning, O!
Hey for social science, O! The best of social science, O! Is when its power, in hall or bower, To Beauty we affiance, O!
With ardour fired, by love inspired, I rise and give “The Ladies,” O! And they who shrink the toast to drink May hang and go to Hades, O! Hey for social science, &c.
We talk, we quaff, we sing and laugh, Then part with tears and sighing, O! And when at last the week is past We’re dead with mirth――or dying, O! Hey for social science, &c.
But I ordain that soon again, These pleasant hours repeating, O! We learn some more of social lore At such an evening meeting, O!
Hey for social science, O! For genuine social science, O! A summons here to recompear Would find a quick compliance, O!
This song was written by the late Charles Neaves, Advocate, who, on his elevation in 1854 to the Bench of the Supreme Court in Scotland, sat as Lord Neaves. He was an able judge, a genial, witty man, and a frequent contributor to Blackwood’s Magazine. Some of his best pieces were collected and published in a small volume, entitled “Songs and Verses, by an Old Contributor to Maga,” by W. Blackwood and Sons. Lord Neaves was over 77 years of age when he died in 1877.
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HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER.
The following Parody was written after thanksgiving services had been used in the churches on account of the victory at Tel-el-Kebir.
HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER. (Supposed to be written by the Right Honourable W. E. G――dst――e, assisted by his G――ce the A――b――p of York.)
O Thou, wha in the heav’ns dost dwell, Wha, since it pleased best thysel’, Sent Arabi, that chiel o’ hell, A’ for thy glory, To brew amaist as muckle ill As ony Tory.
I bless and praise thy matchless might, Whan thousands left our shores to fight, Thou did’st uphaud Britannia’s right, And, by thy grace, We gied the Egyptian deils a fright Ower a’ the place.
What was I or my ministry That we should sae exalted be? A glaikit mongrel company O’ bleth’rin’ b―――― Some three years syne――O L―――― forgie Our liein’ speeches.
When frae my post aewhile I fell, I fum’d and sulk’d, and swore mysel’ Wad never mair wi’ office mell In Church or State, But wi’ the blust’ring outcasts dwell Outlaw’d by fate.
Yet here I’m i’ the highest station, To prove the power o’ thy salvation, I’m noo the bulwark o’ the nation, Strong as a rock, Head maister o’ tergiversation ’Mang a’ the flock.
O L――――, thou kens what zeal I bear, When Liberals fyke, and Tories swear, And speakin’ here, and scoffin’ there Wi’ great and sma’, O L―――― confound them everywhere, Ilk ane an a’.
But yet, O L――――, confess I must, I’m fash’d wi’ mad, ambitious lust, Since me the doited fules still trust, Thro’ thick an’ thin; Sae I rave on, L――――, I’m but dust, Forgie my sin.
Besides, I further maun allow, Wi’ Ireland, three times I trow,―― But L――――, my hands are always fu’, When I come near her, Or else thou kens thy servant true Wad safely steer her.
Maybe thou lets this Irish thorn―― Murder and outrage, night and morn―― Beset thy servant in their turn, Cause he’s sae gifted; Obstruction’s han’ maun e’en be borne Until thou lift it.
L――――, bless my followers in this place, Puir goavan coofs――a haverel race Led by the nose――but curse the face And blast the name O’ Northcote’s crew; bring them disgrace An’ public shame.
L――――, mind Rab Salisbury’s deserts, He flouts and jeers, by fits and stairts, Yet has sae mony takin’ airts Wi’ grit an’ sma’, I fear least he the people’s hairts Should steal awa.’
And whan we chasten him therefore, Thou kens how he breeds sic a splore, As sets the country in a roar O’ boist’rous laughin’; Curse thou his ermine and his fur, His sneers an’ chaffin’.
L――――, hear my earnest supplication Against that cause o’ my vexation, The House o’ Lords――bane o’ the nation―― Curse on their heeds; L――――, visit them wi’ swift damnation For their misdeeds.
O! L―――― my G――――, that glib-tongued Cowen, Wi’ gall and bitterness o’erflowin’, And a’ the ruck sae forward growin’ Still mair an’ mair; Wha keep thy servants’ choler glowin’, An’ fill wi’ fear.
L――――, since I am sae plaguit by ’em, Confound the loons wha’ do employ ’em, And in the day o’ vengeance try ’em, Heed not their prayer, But for thy servant’s sake destroy ’em For evermair.
But, L――――, remember me and mine, Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine, For aye let me and H――b――t shine, Excell’d by nane, And a’ that glory shall be thine, Amen, amen,
J. B. C., Northumberland,
The Newcastle Weekly Chronicle, July 5, 1884.
――――
THE FISHER’S WELCOME.
We twa ha’ fished the Kale sae clear, And streams o’ mossy Reed; We’ve tried the Wansbeck and the Wear, The Teviot and the Tweed; An’ we will try them ance again, When summer suns are fine; An’ we’ll throw the flies thegither yet, For the days o’ lang syne.
’Tis mony years sin’ first we sat On Coquet’s bonny braes, An’ mony a brither fisher’s gane, An’ clad in his last claithes. An’ we maun follow wi’ the lave, Grim death he heucks us a’; But we’ll hae anither fishing bout Afore we’re ta’en awa’.
For we are hale and hearty baith, Tho’ frosty are our pows, We still can guide our fishing graith, And climb the dykes and knowes; We’ll mount our creels and grip our gads, An’ throw a sweeping line, An’ we’ll hae a splash amang the lads, For the days o’ lang syne.
Tho’ Cheviot’s top be frosty still, He’s green below the knee, Sae don your plaid and tak’ your gad, An’ gae awa’ wi’ me. Come busk your flies, my auld Compeer, We’re fidgen a’ fu’ fain, We’ve fished the Coquet mony a year, And we’ll fish her ance again.
An’ hameward when we toddle back, An’ nicht begins to fa, An’ ilka chiel maun hae his crack, We’ll crack aboon them a’. When jugs are toomed and coggens wet, I’ll lay my loof in thine; We’ve shown we’re gude at water yet, An’ we’re little warse at wine.
We’ll crack how mony a creel we’ve filled, How mony a line we’ve flung, How many a ged and saumon killed, In days when we were young. We’ll gar the callants a’ look blue, An’ sing anither tune; They’re bleezing, aye, o’ what they’ll do, We’ll tell them what we’ve dune.
This old Border ballad was written by Mr. Doubleday before 1855, and, whilst being professedly an imitation of Burns, has exquisite pathos and spirit of its own.
――――:o:――――
TO BURNS.
And wha is he that syngs sae weel, And pens “Addresses to the Deil?” Wha gies the sang syke bonny turns? Daft Gowk! ye ken it’s sonsie Burns!
His gabby tales I looe to hear, They please sae meikle, run sae clear; That ilka time, good traith, I read, I’se wiser baith i’ heart an’ head.
I wad advise, when runkled care Begins to mak ye glow’r and stare, That ye wad furst turn ow’r his leaf, ’T’will mak ye sune forget ye’r grief!
And should auld mokie sorrow freeten, His blythesome tale ye’r hearts will leeten; And sure I am, ye grief may banter, By looking ow’r his “Tam O’ Shanter.”
And, while I breathe, whene’er I’se scant, O’ cheerful friends――and fynde a want Of something blythe to cure my glumps, And free me frae the doleful dumps,
I’ll tak his beuk, and read awhile, Until he mak me wear a smile; And then, if I hae time to spare, I’ll learn his “Bonny Banks of Ayr!”
From The Bards of Britain, contained in The Remains of Joseph Blachet, 1811, which work also contains imitations of Chatterton, Milton, Dryden, Pope, Young, Thompson, Shenstone, Collins, Gray, and Goldsmith.
――――
TAM O’SHANTER.
In a recent number of Notes and Queries (December 19, 1885), there was a long article, by Mr. Shirley Hibberd, on the origin of Burns’s masterpiece. It contains so much interesting information that readers of Burns will, no doubt, be pleased to have the following extracts:――
“In the year 1790, when Burns wrote Tam o’Shanter, stories of witches were current in Scotland, and there was yet a large survival of popular belief in their power and the diabolical source thereof. The poem bears evidence of a reality that has hitherto failed of recognition.
The confession of certain Scotch witches at the assizes held at Paisley, February 15, 1678, must have been well known to Burns, for it was a theme of fireside conversation in his youth, and there were many living who remembered the whole of the circumstances. That confession establishes the reality of witchcraft. The confession is cited in Demonologia (Bumpus, 1827).
In a letter to Francis Grose, Burns gives three prose versions of the story. In one, a farmer who “had got courageously drunk in the smithy,” saw the “infernal junto” play their antics in Alloway Kirk, and managed to carry off the cauldron in which the hell-broth was prepared from the bodies of the unchristened children. In another, a farmer of Carrick witnessed the incantation, and, losing his self-command in admiring a buxom lass who danced with peculiar liveliness, shouted the dread words, “Weel luppen, Maggie, wi’ the short sark.” In this case the speed of the horse was insufficient for his complete escape, for at “the keystane o’ the brig” the witches despoiled the horse of its tail, and the stumpy steed became a witness of the truth of the farmer’s declaration. The third story is of no account in this connexion.
In Robert Chambers’s Life and Works of Burns, iii. 152, we are told that “the country people of Ayrshire unmythicise the narration, and point to a real Tam and Souter Johnny,” the first being Douglas Graham, farmer, of Shanter; the other, his neighbour, John Davidson, noted for telling the “queerest stories.”
That a drunken freak and the lies told to cover it explain the form of the poem is well enough. But we have in these “facts of the case” no explanation of the motive, no indication of the source of the inspiration, no key to the supernatural business. The moral is obvious for the dénoûment proves the impotency of witches, and mocks the prevalent belief in their powers. These considerations, however, do not remove witches and witchcraft from the category of historical facts.
An important commentary on the subject will be found in a volume entitled Interesting Roman Antiquities recently discovered in Fife, by Rev. Andrew Small (Edinburgh, 1823.) In this work it is stated that near the Castle Law, Abernethy, were twenty-two graves of witches, and near by is the hill on which they were burned. A Mr. Ross, laird of Invernethy in the reign of James VI., became, as justice of the peace, responsible for the apprehension of certain witches, and made the discovery that their names were entered in a book. He set his mind upon obtaining this written record, and, as one step thereto, he persuaded a women who was a member of the gang to permit him to accompany her to a meeting. The laird went to the meeting on a fast mare, and kept his seat while the orgies proceeded, and obtained possession of the book wherein to inscribe his name with his own blood. But instead of complying with the rule he put spurs to his steed and fled with the book, “while out the hellish legion sallied.”
The witches swarmed upon him, but the laird kept his seat, and the mare kept her tail, and he outran them and got home, and quickly locked himself in and copied the names from the book. By this time the clamouring crowd had reached the house, and he dispersed them by throwing out the book, which they gladly seized and carried away.
In introducing the story Mr. Small says: “If ever the poet Burns had been in this part of the country, I would have said he had taken the leading ideas or hints from it in his humorous and excellent poem.”
――――
THE POLITICAL TAM O’SHANTER. Adapted, Fragmentarily, from Burns. Application――obvious.
No man can tether time or tide, And he who holds the reins must ride; And such a night WEG takes the road in As seldom rider was abroad in. With Boreas at his fullest blast, And Eurus whistling fierce and fast, There was a shindy never fellowed. Loud, deep, and long they raved and bellowed, That night o’ nights a Scot might say The Deil (of Hatfield) was to pay.
Well mounted on his mare was WEG, (A stouter never lifted leg,) Through Irish-bog-like mud and mire, Wartonian wind, and Woodcock fire, Fought iron frame and shrewd head on it. Weg, holding fast his good Scots bonnet, Looked sharp around with prudent care, Lest bogies take him unaware, Or watchful foemen “wipe his eye” With that confounded thing, a “cry,”
By this time he was cross the ford (Where he was very nearly floored), And passed the bog so dark and dank Where Snobdom’s “CHARLIE” sprawled and sank, And through the sand-pit, Egypt-dark, Where war-dogs seemed to lurk and bark; And the thorn-thicket, wild and wide, Where one had need be Argus-eyed. Before him doom appears at flood, Redoubling storm roars through the wood; Tongued lightnings flash from pole to pole, And vocal thunders fiercely roll.
* * * * *
But there was pluck in WEG’S shrewd noddle, He cared no more for threats than twaddle, His mare, though, was a bit astonished, Until, by hand and heel admonished, She ventured forward on the light, And eh! WEG saw a wondrous sight! Warlocks and witches in a dance, Egyptian whirls, and jigs from France; Drum-thumpings loud, and fife-like squeals, Put life and mettle in their heels. High on a seat, with flaming eyes, There sat old Nick in human guise; Mastiff-like, stern, black, grim and large; To set the measures was his charge. He pitched the pipes and made them skirl,
Till the wild troop seemed all a-whirl. Coffins stood round like open presses, And showed dead Bills in foolscap dresses, And by some dark, prophetic sleight Each held a boding spectral light, By which our wary WEG was able To spy, spread out upon a table, Late-murdered measures; cord or knife Had robbed the innocents of life. A proud Peer’s garter one had strangled, And many more were maimed and mangled; In short the scene was simply awful, And WEG considered quite unlawful.
* * * * *
But WEG knew what was what right well, And one young witch there bore the bell. One late enlisted in the rout (At Woodstock known and thereabout) At many a measure she had shot, And many a plan had sent to pot; Made many a plucky wight feel queer, And shook e’en her own side with fear. Her “cutty sark” of true-blue yarn, Which, up to now, the witch had worn, In cut and fit was scant and strange, Some thought she hankered for a change, And that ’twas sad her youth’s bright riches Should e’er have graced a dance of witches.
But here my muse must faster flutter, ’Tis scarce within her power to utter How RANNIE leapt, and twirled, and flung (A supple jade she was and young), And how WEG stood like one bewitched, How his eyes gleamed, how his mouth twitched. Even Satan glowered as though in pain, And puffed and blew with might and main, Till with one caper and another, No longer WEG his words could smother, But roars out “Well danced, Cutty Sark!” When in a moment all was dark; And scarce his mare and he had rallied When out the yelling legion sallied. As bees buzz round a sugar-tub, Or workmen round an opening “pub,” As M.P.’s rush to chase the grouse When Prorogation clears the House, So the mare runs, the witches follow, With many an eldritch shriek and hollow. Ah, WEG! ah, WEG! they’re nearing, nearing, Like hounds on trail of a red herring. Midlothian, WEG, awaits thy coming; They’ll think you’re lost, dear WEG, or humming, Now, ride thy very hardest, WEG! If the bridge key-stane fees her leg, Thy mare at them her tail may toss,―― That running stream they cannot cross. But ere the key-stone she could make, The deuce a tail had she to shake, For Nickie, far before the rest, Hard on that nag so nimble prest, And flew at WEG with hope to settle; But little knew he that mare’s mettle. One spring brought WEG off safe and hale, But left behind her own grey tail; For with NICK’S pull and the mare’s jump, WEG’S nag was left with ne’er a stump!
Punch, August 16, 1884.
――――
“HERE’S A HEALTH.”
Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to them that’s awa, And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, May never guid luck be their fa’! It’s guid to be merry and wise, It’s guid to be honest and true, It’s guid to support Caledonia’s cause, And bide by the bonnets of blue.
Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to Charlie, the chief o’ the clan, Although that his band be sae sma.’ Hurrah for the bonnets of blue Hurrah for the bonnets of blue It is guid to support Caledonia’s cause, And bide by the bonnets of blue.
Here’s freedom to him that would read, Here’s freedom to him that would write, There’s nane ever feared that the truth should be heard, But they who the truth would indite. Hurrah for the bonnets of blue, Hurrah for the bonnets of blue, It’s guid to be wise, to be honest and true, And bide by the bonnets of blue.
The above is a modern Jacobite song, author unknown. The original song from which it was taken is old, and was altered by Allan Ramsay and Burns, and several verses added. This version of it was very popular, and the following is a parody of it.
――――
“THE BROBDIGNAG BONNETS” OF BLUE.――A PARODY. (Dedicated most respectfully to the Play-going Ladies of the Pit.)
“If the following playful little parody should obtain a smile or two from some of the lady readers of the Mirror, the writer will feel amply rewarded. It will in some degree make up for the smiles of which he has been often deprived at the theatre, by having just before him three or four bonnets, three feet by two, or somewhere thereabout. He speaks feelingly, even if he has not written so.”
Here’s health to the ladies at home Here’s health to the ladies awa’, And wha winna pledge it wi’ a’ their soul, May they ne’er be smiled on at a’. It’s guid to be pretty and fair, It’s guid to be smilin’ like you; It’s guid to be stealin’ the gentlemen’s hearts,―― But na by broad bonnets of blue. Awa’ wi’ those bonnets of blue, Those Brobdignag bonnets of blue! It’s guid to be stealin’ the gentlemen’s hearts,―― But nae by sic bonnets of blue.
Here’s health to the bright eyes at hame, Here’s health to the bright eyes awa’, Here’s health to the beauties of every clime,―― But na to their bonnets at a’. I’ve a bracelet for her wha is wed, For the maiden a sweet billet-doux: Dear darlings, I’d give them whate’er they might ask,―― Except a broad bonnet of blue. Then hence wi’ those bonnets of blue, Those Brobdignag bonnets of blue! Oh bright eyes beam brighter from bonnets when sma’, Than hid by broad bonnets of blue.
The Mirror, Vol. II., March 1828.
See Dr. Charles Mackay’s “Jacobite Songs and Ballads of Scotland,” London and Glasgow, 1861.
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WE TWA HAE DUNE A LITTLE BILL. AIR――“Auld Lang Syne.”
Should auld acceptance be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should auld acceptance be forgot, All drawn, endorsed, and signed?
Endorsed, drawn, and signed, my friend, Endorsed, drawn, and signed: And noo ’tis time to tak’ it up, The siller we must find!
We twa hae dune a little bill, To raise the bonnie wind, And, tak’ the matter hoo we will, That document will bind. Endorsed, &c.
And SHADRACH will nae time alloo, And therefore a’m inclined To think that we had better do Anither o’ the kind. Endorsed, &c.
And surely ye’ll be your bit stamp, And I’ll nae be behind, And we’ll do a richt gude billie-wacht The needfu’ cash to find.
Endorsed, drawn, and signed, my friend, Endorsed, drawn, and signed, We’ll do anither billie yet, Just the wherewitha’ to find!
Punch, 1848.
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There was a paraphrase of “Auld Lane Syne” in the second volume of “The Comic Offering,” for 1832, and a long, but very dull, parody of “Willie brewed a peck o’ Maut” in Punch of November 29, 1884, apropos of Bismarck and the Congo question. Funny Folks, for June 14, 1879, had a few lines on a young man who kissed a girl on Peckham Rye, and was fined for so doing. They ran thus:――
If a body meet a body Coming through the Rye, Can a body kiss a body? Yes――if no one’s nigh. Every bobby has his hobby, And some like to spy In a way distinctly “snobby,” At young lovers spry.
In the same journal there was a poem (singularly appropriate at present), referring to the importation of American meat, which the butchers retailed as Scotch, in the same way that they now openly sell Australian, or New Zealand frozen mutton as English, and realise enormous and unfair profits by so doing.
“Scots!” although in New York bred; “Scots,” whom Yankees well have fed, Welcome either live or dead Safely o’er the sea.
Now we’re in the butcher’s power, Who, complaining every hour, Grudge to see us meat devour―― Cheap and savo-ree.
Every one has need to save, Times are bad and prospects grave: Why should butchers play the knave, Or such tyrants be?
Wha sells “Scot” fat, firm and braw, At a price that’s fair to a’, Butcher stand, or butcher fa’, He’s the man for me!
Funny Folks, February 10, 1877.
There was also a political Parody of “For a’ That” in Funny Folks of March 14, 1885.
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FOR A’ THAT AN A’ THAT.
The following imitation of Burns’s song was written by Sir Walter Scott, in praise of the “Holy Alliance,” and was sung at the first meeting of the Pitt Club of Scotland; and published in the Scots Magazine for July, 1814.
A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE. 1814.
Though right be aft put down by strength, As mony a day we saw that, The true and leilfu’ cause at length Shall bear the grie for a’ that. For a’ that, an a’ that, Guns, guillotines, and a’ that, The Fleur-de-lis, that lost her right, Is Queen again for a’ that!
We’ll twine her in a friendly knot With England’s Rose and a’ that; The Shamrock shall not be forgot, For Wellington made braw that. The Thistle, though her leaf be rude, Yet faith we’ll no misca’ that, She shelter’d in her solitude The Fleur-de-lis, for a’ that,
The Austrian Vine, the Prussian Pine (For Blucher’s sake, hurra that), The Spanish Olive, too, shall join, And bloom in peace for a’ that. Stout Russia’s Hemp, so surely twined Around our wreath we’ll draw that, And he that would the cord unbind, Shall have it for his gra-vat!
Or, if to choke sae puir a sot, Your pity scorn to thaw that The Devil’s elbow be his lot, Where he may sit and claw that. In spite of slight, in spite of might, In spite of brags and a’ that, The lads that battled for the right Have won the day, and a’ that!
There’s ae bit spot I had forgot, America they ca’ that! A coward plot her rats had got Their father’s flag to gnaw that: Now see it fly top-gallant high, Atlantic winds shall blaw that, And Yankee loon, beware your croun, There’s kames in hand to claw that!
For on the land or on the sea, Where’er the breezes blaw that, The British Flag shall bear the grie, And win the day for a’ that.
WALTER SCOTT.
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TO WOMEN OF THE PERIOD.
Is it because she cannot rule, That curls her lip and a’ that? Such froward dame is but a fool, And shames her sex for a’ that! For a’ that and a’ that, Poor worldly fame and a’ that, She strives but for a gilded badge, Herself’s the gold for a’ that.
What though we will not let her vote, “Electioneer” and a’ that; ’Tis best that man should wear the coat, The “breeches,” vest, and a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, She’s but a “rib” for a’ that! Man’s work requires a man complete, Not “half” a man for a’ that.
She does not need Newmarket tribe, The walking-stick and a’ that; They but expose to jest and gibe The cause they plead and a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, Their wrongs and rights and a’ that, The woman who respects herself, Just looks and laughs at a’ that.
“Master Henpeck,” give a lady place, At vestry boards and a’ that; But she with bonnie modest face, Will stay at home for a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that. “Equality” and a’ that, She was not made to rush and race, And elbow man for a’ that.
The hearth and home are woman’s sphere, Her proper place and a’ that; Where she may bear and nurse and rear, The “Babes of Grace” and a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, She shows most sense and a’ that. Who wins and wears the rank and name, Of mother, wife, and a’ that.
ANONYMOUS.
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THE BALLAD OF SIR T. TEA-LEAF. (Being a humble Parallel to the Ballad of Sir John Barleycorn.)
It was three gallant Chinamen, With long tail and pig eye, And they have sworn a solemn oath, Sir T. Tea-leaf must die.
And they have ta’en and flung him down Upon an iron bed, And underneath, with cruel hand, Have heaped the ashes red.
They’ve spread him out, and pressed him down, And turned him o’er and o’er, They’ve dried him up, until he curled, And writhed in suffering sore.
In vain he twisted and he turned, In vain he cried for grace; They kept him so, and scorched him till He grew black in the face.
But finding he was still alive, Their malice waxed more keen; They dosed him first with Prussian blue Till his poor face turned green.
What sparks of life might still remain Determined to foredo, They gave him next a bitter draught Of gum and catechu.
And on his death his name they changed, Lest men their crime should know, And when men asked, “Who’s that lies there?” They answered, “Young Pekoe.”
Whereas his name and family, It really was Souchong, Related to the old Congous, A race both rough and strong.
Lest men should recognise his dust, To dust when passed away, His calcined bones they kneaded up With lumps of China clay.
Their poison’d victim then they wrapp’d In lead, with well-feign’d grief, And wrote the epitaph outside, “Here lies Sir T. Tea-leaf.”
And though their grief was all a sham, The epitaph was true, For “here” it said, “a Tea-leaf lies.” And “lie” such Tea-leaves do.
Now Tea-leaf’s name is in repute In lands beyond the sea, Where maiden ladies love him much, Under the name Green-tea.
Ah! little dream these ancient maids Of Chinaman’s vile craft, Nor think, while chatting o’er their cups, There’s poison in the draught.
And little know they of the fate Poor Tea-leaf had to dree, Or in their teapots they would weep Tears bitter as their tea;
Till with the water of their woe E’en the first brew was spiled, And the presiding maid would be Obliged to draw it mild!
Then to poor Tea-leaf drop a tear, By poison doomed to fall; And when there’s green-tea in the pot, May I not drink――that’s all.
Punch, November 29, 1851.
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MY HEARTS IN THE HIGHLANDS.
My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe―― My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go.
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SONG FOR A SCOTCH DUKE. (Equally applicable to a Yankee Dog in the Manger.)
My harts in the Highlands shall have their hills clear, My harts in the Highlands no serf shall come near―― I’ll chase out the Gael to make room for the roe, My harts in the Highlands were ever his foe.
Punch, November 8, 1856.
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“O, WHISTLE, AND I WILL COME TO YOU.”
[A youth was prosecuted at Newcastle Petty Sessions, County Limerick, in 1881, for having whistled at Mr. Hugh Murray Gunn, J.P., in a tone of derision.]
O whistle, and I will arrest you, my lad, O whistle, and I will arrest you, my lad; Though your father and mother and all should go mad, O, whistle, and I will arrest you, my lad,
But warily act, when you’re passing by me, And do not indulge in irreverent glee; Derisive deportment let nobody see, And pass as you were not a passing by me. O whistle, &c.
But mind you are always respectful to me, Since rudeness with magistrates doesn’t agree; But far from the converse of naughty boys flee, For fear they should set you a-laughing at me. O whistle, &c.
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JOHN BARLEY-CORN, MY FOE.
John Barley-Corn, my foe, John, The song I have to sing Is not in praise of you, John, E’en though you are a king. Your subjects they are legion, John, I find where’er I go; They wear your yoke upon their necks, John Barley-Corn, my foe.
John Barley-Corn, my foe, John, By your despotic sway The people of our country, John, Are suffering to-day. You lay the lash upon their backs; Yet willingly they go And pay allegiance at the polls, John Barley-Corn, my foe.
John Barley-Corn, my foe, John, You’ve broken many a heart, And caused the bitter tear, John, From many an eye to start. The widow and the fatherless From pleasant homes to go, And lead a life of sin and shame, John Barley-Corn, my foe.
John Barley-Corn, my foe, John, May heaven speed the hour, When Temperance shall wear the crown And rum shall lose its power; When from the East unto the West The people all shall know Their greatest curse has been removed, John Barley-Corn, my foe!
CHARLES F. ADAMS.
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TO THE DARING DUCKLING. (By a Moderate Liberal)
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, Sir, You seemed but lately bent On preaching Liberal Unity, To our extreme content. But now you say you will not play, Unless your pace we go. How about Liberal Unity, now, Joe Chamberlain, my Joe?
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, Sir, We’re facing roughish weather; Our only chance of victory, Joe, Seems pulling all together. Though slow the pace, why should you stop? Up hill we all would go, And we’ll meet together at the top, Joe Chamberlain, my Joe!
Punch, October 3, 1885.
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JOE CHAMBERLAIN, OUR JOE. (A Radical Parody.)
[Mr. Chamberlain still adheres to the famous “three points” of the South London speech.]
Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad, Conservatives may ban, But more and more the rest of us Support the “Grand Young Man.” We do not grumble at your pace, We would not have you slow, So put your best leg foremost still, Joe Chamberlain, our Joe!
Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad, Though Stanhopes rise and row you, You will not let their silly talk “Three-acres-and-a-cow” you. You wait not for the “jumping cat,” Your mind you seem to know, Which counts for something nowadays, Joe Chamberlain, our Joe.
Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad, Your colours are attractive, And now you’ve nailed them to the mast, The Whigs will grow more active. Keep up the stride――press home those “points” That rankle in the foe, And leave the polls to do the rest, Joe Chamberlain, our Joe.
Funny Folks, October 17, 1885.
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Many short Parodies of Burns’s poems are scattered about in various old periodicals, but comparatively few are worthy of preservation, whilst some of the best, which have appeared in Scotch newspapers, are so broad in their dialect that few English readers would understand them. Trading on this ignorance of the northern dialect, some authors have composed poems, in imitation of Burns, which, whilst retaining some of the sound, contain none of the sense of the original.
A good example of this style of Parody is to be found in Cruikshank’s Comic Almanac for 1846, it is entitled:――
AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. By Robert Burns.
“Lilt your Johnnie.”
Wi’ patchit brose and ilka pen, Nae bairns to clad the gleesome ken; But chapmen billies, a’ gude men, And Doon sae bonnie! Ne’er let the scornfu’ mutchit ben; But lilt your Johnnie!
For whistle binkie’s unco’ biel, Wad haggis mak of ony chiel, To jaup in luggies like the deil, O’er loop or cronnie: You wadna croop to sic a weel; But lilt your Johnnie!
Sae let the pawkie carlin scraw, And hoolie, wi’ outlandish craw, Kail weedies frae the ingle draw As blyth as honie; Amang the thummart dawlit wa’ To lilt your Johnnie.
A still funnier parody was published in Punch, also said to be an unpublished poem by Burns. It consisted of three verses, but the first is quite sufficient to show the nature of the joke:
JUSTICE TO SCOTLAND. (Communicated by the Edinburgh Society for promoting civilization in England.)
O Mickle yeuks the keckle doup, An’ a’ unsicker girns the graith, For wae and wae! the crowdies loup O’er jouk an’ hallan, braw an’ baith. Where ance the coggie hirpled fair, And blithesome poortith toomed the loof, There’s nae a burnie giglet rare But blaws in ilka jinking coof.
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Some Parodies of National Songs have appeared in Judy, amongst them was the following:――
SCOTCH NATIONAL SONG. AIR――“The Breeks o’ Balquidder.”
Greet na mair, ma sonsie lassie, Greet na mair, ma pawkie chiel, Mither’s yout the wee bit hallan, An’ ye ken I loe ye weel! Gin your tocher’s guid, ma hinnie, What for gar the tear-draps fa’, Bring it ben, and pin the door, lass, An’ your jo will tak’ it a’!
There’s a hantle Kebbuck waitin’, Bonnie farls, and haggis richt, Pit yere haffits gaily frae ye, Brawly a’ will gang the nicht! Dinna croon, the braxy’s ready, Tane a tither’s i’ the brae, Daddy’s fou ahint the bothy, What suld gar ye fashin’ sae?
Loup an’ leuch, an’ skirl, ma lassie, Blithely toone the collops ben, Heed na lang thripplin――kame, luve, Fear na mair the tappit-hen; Till the kirk we’ll gang the morrow, Whiles the pipes sae gaily blaw, Syne we’ll crack o’ auld Balquidder, Soughing ’neath the simmer snaw!
Judy. Sept. 10, 1884.
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A HISTORY OF THE BURNs’ FESTIVAL; or, Centenary Celebration of the Birth of Robert Burns, held at the Crystal Palace, on January 25, 1859,
On November 9, 1858, the Directors of the Crystal Palace Company published an advertisement, stating their intention of celebrating the Centenary of the birth of Robert Burns, by a grand festival at the Crystal Palace. At the same time, they offered a prize of Fifty Guineas, under certain conditions, for the best poem celebrating the occasion, to be recited during the Festival, while they solicited the loan of relics and memorials of the Poet, which were to be exhibited on the occasion. An ample response was made. On the 2nd of January, 621 poems were collected, of which 9 came from America. Shortly before this, the Directors had solicited Monckton Milnes, Esq., M.P., Tom Taylor, Esq., and Theodore Martin, Esq., to act as judges to award the prize; and these gentlemen having kindly consented, commenced their examination. In order to carry out the competition with the utmost fairness, it was decided that the names of the authors should not be communicated, but that two mottoes should be inscribed, for identification, on each poem, and that the name of the author should be forwarded in a sealed envelope, which should bear corresponding mottoes to the poem which it accompanied. The Judges reported in favor of a poem bearing the mottoes “Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,” and “A man’s a’ man for a’ that.” On the day of the Festival there was a large attendance at the Crystal Palace, many interesting relics and several portraits of Burns were exhibited, and there was a concert of Scotch music, including many of Burns’s own songs.
The late Mr. S. Phelps opened the sealed envelope, and announced that the Prize poem was composed by a lady, named “Isa Craig.” He then recited the ode which, it must be confessed, was a somewhat disappointing work, with little that was either distinctively Scotch, or reminiscent of Burns in its composition. The poem was printed in full in the Crystal Palace programme for the day, also in the Times, of January 26, 1859.
That the Prize poem was unworthy of the occasion was pretty generally admitted, the Times sneered at the whole concern, principally because it was used by the C. P. Company as an attraction to the Palace, though why that should be a rebuke to managers of public entertainments is not very clear. And, of course, as in the case of all advertised poetical competitions, a collection of burlesque poems was published about the same time as the Festival, by Routledge, Warne and Routledge. This little volume has since been assigned to the pen of Samuel Lover, and it contains a few pieces of really smart, clever burlesque, but the general effect is not very inspiriting. It is entitled:
RIVAL RHYMES, In honour of Burns; With curious illustrative matter. Collected and edited by BEN TROVATO “_If Maevius scribble in Apollo’s spight, There are who judge still worse than he can write._” POPE.
Contents.
The Bard of Ayr. By Father Prout, A Remonstrance to the Directors of the Crystal Palace. By a Proverbial Philosopher. A Spirit Lay from Hades. By Thomas Campbell. A Voice from the Far West. By H. W. Longfellow. A Few Words on Poets, &c. By the Ghost of Thomas Hood. Ode by an Ardent Admirer of Milton. Letter of Fergus McFash, enclosing an unpublished Poem, supposed to be by Robert Burns. The Penny-a-Liner’s Hope. By Barry Cornwall. The Poet’s Birth; a Mystery. By the Poet Laureate. Groves of Sydenham. By an Enraged Bard. Battle of the Lake Glenlivit. By Lord Macaulay. Author of “The Lays of Ancient Rum.” Lay of the Rapt Spirit. By the Ghost of Alexander Pope. Letter to the Directors of the Crystal Palace. By W. M. Thackeray (prose).