Appendix
Lord Brougham on Burns and the Language of Scotland.
(At the Burns’ Centenary Festival, held in the Music Hall in Edinburgh, when Lord Ardmillan presided, a letter from Lord Brougham was read by the Chairman. It was dated from Cannes, January 17, 1859.)
Several of the poems in this little volume have already been quoted in “Parodies.” It is only necessary here to give the lines, supposed to be from an early and unfinished work by Robert Burns. These lines are introduced with a statement that they were found in an old escritoire, and are worthy of being preserved with the other relics of Robert Burns.
Gang wi’ me to Lixmaleerie,[27] Couthie dearie, Paukie dearie, Where Clinkumbell is clatterin’ cleerie, And lasses buskit gaily, O! Waukrife a’ the nicht I lay, Whigmaleerie’s toom to spae, Laith and lang, till blink o’ day Wad gie to me my Mallie, O!
Gang wi’ me to Lixmaleerie, Couthie dearie, Paukie dearie, Where Clinkumbell is clatterin’ cleerie, We’re aiblin’s baith expeckit, O! The hushion’d cowt afore the yett, Wi’ chaup o’ cloot, and crankous fret, Seems bletherin “Lassie, bide ye yet? Mess-John maun’t be negleckit, O!”
* * * * *
Scotchmen are ever ready to do honour to the memory of Burns, and enthusiastically celebrate his birthday every year.
Last year the Aberdeen Burns Club had a dinner at the Imperial Hotel, after which, one of the members, Sir William Cadenhead read some poems on Burns, purporting to have been composed for the occasion by Lord Tennyson, Mr. Gladstone, and Mr. Oscar Wilde.
Unfortunately these Parodies are too long to reproduce here, but they may be found in The Aberdeen Daily Free Press, of January 26, 1885.
Sir Walter Scott,
Born August 15, 1771. Died September 21, 1832.
[Illustration: T]he immense popularity of the writings of Sir Walter Scott is attested by the number of Parodies and imitations both in verse and in prose, they have given rise to.
Thackeray’s well known burlesque continuation of Ivanhoe entitled “Rebecca and Rowena” will be fully described, with several others of a similar nature, when dealing with prose parodies.
Several complete parodies of Scott’s poems exist, such as Jokeby, The Lay of the Scotch Fiddle, and Marmion Travestied, these are long, and rather tedious, the topics touched upon being now somewhat out of date. But there are many excellent parodies of his shorter poems, and of detached passages from The Lay of the Last Minstrel, etc.
Undoubtedly the finest imitation of Sir Walter Scott’s style is that contained in Rejected Addresses, the celebrated little volume by the Brothers James and Horace Smith. Horace Smith was the author of this imitation of Scott, a poem which was especially singled out for praise by the reviewers.
The Quarterly Review said “from the parody of Walter Scott we know not what to select――it is all good. The effect of the fire on the town, and the description of a fireman in his official apparel, may be quoted as amusing specimens of the misapplication of the style and metre of Mr. Scott’s admirable romances;” whilst The Edinburgh Review spoke of the poem as being admirably executed: “The burning is described with the mighty minstrel’s love of localities.” The authors of Rejected Addresses, in their very interesting preface to the eighteenth edition, state that not one of those whom they had parodied or burlesqued ever betrayed the least soreness or refused to join in the laugh that they had occasioned:――
“From Sir Walter Scott, whose transcendent talents were only to be equalled by his virtues and his amiability, we received favours and notice, which it will be difficult to forget, because we had not the smallest claim upon his kindness. ‘I certainly must have written this myself!’ said that fine-tempered man to one of the authors, pointing to the description of the Fire, ‘although I forget upon what occasion.’”
A TALE OF DRURY LANE.
BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
“Thus he went on, stringing one extravagance upon another, in the style his books of chivalry had taught him, and imitating, as near as he could, their very phrase.”――DON QUIXOTE.
(_To be spoken by Mr. Kemble, in a suit of the Black Prince’s armour, borrowed from the Tower._)
Survey this shield, all bossy bright―― These cuisses twain behold! Look on my form in armour dight Of steel inlaid with gold: My knees are stiff in iron buckles, Stiff spikes of steel protect my knuckles. These once belong’d to sable prince, Who never did in battle wince; With valour tart as pungent quince, He slew the vaunting Gaul. Rest there awhile, my bearded lance, While from green curtain I advance To yon foot-lights, no trivial dance,[28] And tell the town what sad mischance Did Drury Lane befall.
THE NIGHT.
On fair Augusta’s[29] towers and trees Flitted the silent midnight breeze, Curling the foliage as it past, Which from the moon-tipp’d plumage cast A spangled light, like dancing spray, Then re-assumed its still array; When, as night’s lamp unclouded hung, And down its full effulgence flung, It shed such soft and balmy power That cot and castle, hall and bower, And spire and dome, and turret height, Appeared to slumber in the light. From Henry’s chapel, Rufus’ hall, To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul; From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town, To Redriffe, Shadwell, Horsleydown, No voice was heard, no eye unclosed, But all in deepest sleep reposed. They might have thought, who gazed around Amid a silence so profound, It made the senses thrill, That twas no place inhabited, But some vast city of the dead―― All was so hush’d and still.
THE BURNING.
As Chaos, which, by heavenly doom, Had slept in everlasting gloom, Started with terror and surprise When light first flash’d upon her eyes―― So London’s sons in nightcap woke, In bed-gown woke her dames; For shouts were heard ’mid fire and smoke, And twice ten hundred voices spoke―― “The playhouse is in flames!” And, lo! where Catherine Street extends, A fiery tail its lustre lends To every window-pane; Blushes each spout in Martlet Court, And Barbican, moth-eaten fort, And Covent Garden kennels sport, A bright ensanguined drain; Meux’s new Brewhouse shows the light, Rowland Hill’s Chapel, and the height Where Patent Shot they sell; The Tennis Court, so fair and tall, Partakes the ray, with Surgeons’ Hall, The Ticket-Porters’ House of Call, Old Bedlam, close by London Wall,[30] Wright’s shrimp and oyster shop withal, And Richardson’s Hotel. Nor these alone, but far and wide, Across red Thames’s gleaming tide, To distant fields, the blaze was borne, And daisy white and hoary thorn In borrow’d lustre seem’d to sham The rose or red sweet Wil-li-am. To those who on the hills around Beheld the flames from Drury’s mound. As from a lofty altar rise, It seem’d that nations did conspire To offer to the god of fire Some vast stupendous sacrifice! The summon’d firemen woke at call, And hied them to their stations all: Starting from short and broken snooze, Each sought his pond’rous hobnail’d shoes, But first his worsted hosen plied, Plush breeches next, in crimson dyed, His nether bulk embraced; Then jacket thick, of red or blue, Whose massy shoulder gave to view The badge of each respective crew, In tin or copper traced. The engines thunder’d through the street, Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete, And torches glared, and clattering feet Along the pavement paced. And one, the leader of the band, From Charing Cross along the Strand, Like stag by beagles hunted hard, Ran till he stopped at Vin’gar Yard. The burning badge his shoulder bore, The belt and oil-skin hat he wore, The cane he had, his men to bang, Show’d foreman of the British gang―― His name was Higginbottom. Now ’Tis meet that I should tell you how The others came in view; The Hand-in-Hand the race begun, Then came the Phœnix and the Sun, Th’ Exchange, where old insurers run, The Eagle, where the new; With these came Rumford, Bumford, Cole, Robins from Hockley in the Hole, Lawson and Dawson, cheek by jowl, Crump from St. Giles’s Pound: Whitford and Mitford join’d the train, Huggins and Muggins from Chick Lane, And Clutterbuck who got a sprain Before the plug was found. Hobson and Jobson did not sleep, But ah! no trophy could they reap, For both were in the Donjon Keep Of Bridewell’s gloomy mound! E’en Higginbottom now was posed, For sadder scene was ne’er disclosed; Without, within, in hideous show, Devouring flames resistless glow, And blazing rafters downward go, And never halloo “Heads below!” Nor notice give at all. The firemen terrified are slow To bid the pumping torrent flow, For fear the roof should fall. Back, Robins, back! Crump, stand aloof! Witford, keep near the walls! Huggins, regard your own behoof, For, lo! the blazing rocking roof Down, down, in thunder falls! An awful pause succeeds the stroke, And o’er the ruins volumed smoke, Rolling around its pitchy shroud, Conceal’d them from th’ astonish’d crowd. At length the mist awhile was clear’d, When, lo! amid the wreck uprear’d, Gradual a moving head appear’d, And Eagle firemen knew ’Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered, The foreman of their crew, Loud shouted all in signs of woe, “A Muggins! to the rescue, ho!” And pour’d the hissing tide: Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain, And strove and struggled all in vain, For, rallying but to fall again, He totter’d, sunk, and died! Did none attempt, before he fell, To succour one they loved so well? Yes, Higginbottom did aspire (His fireman’s soul was all on fire), His brother chief to save; But ah! his reckless generous ire Served but to share his grave! ’Mid blazing beams and scalding streams, Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke, Where Muggins broke before. But sulphry stench and boiling drench Destroying sight o’erwhelm’d him quite. He sunk to rise no more. Still o’er his head, while Fate he braved, His whizzing water-pipe he waved; “Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps, “You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps, “Why are you in such doleful dumps? “A fireman; and afraid of bumps!―― “What are they fear’d on? fools! ’od rot ’em!” Were the last words of Higginbottom.[31]
THE REVIVAL.
Peace to his soul! new prospects bloom, And toil rebuilds what fires consume! Eat we and drink we, be our ditty, “Joy to the managing committee!” Eat we and drink we, join to rum Roast beef and pudding of the plum; Forth from thy nook, John Horner, come, With bread of ginger brown thy thumb, For this is Drury’s gay day. Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops, And buy, to glad thy smiling chops, Crisp parliament[32] with lollypops, And fingers of the Lady.
Didst mark, how toil’d the busy train, From morn to eve, till Drury Lane Leap’d like a roebuck from the plain? Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again, And nimble workmen trod; To realise bold Wyatt’s plan Rush’d many a howling Irishman; Loud clatter’d many a porter-can, And many a ragamuffin clan With trowel and with hod. Drury revives! her rounded pate Is blue, is heavenly blue with slate; She “wings the midway air” elate, As magpie, crow, or chough; White paint her modish visage smears, Yellow and pointed are her ears, No pendant portico appears Dangling beneath, for Whitbread’s shears[33] Have cut the bauble off.
Yes, she exalts her stately head; And, but that solid bulk outspread, Opposed you on your onward tread, And posts and pillars warranted That all was true that Wyatt said, You might have deem’d her walls so thick Were not composed of stone or brick, But all a phantom, all a trick, Of brain disturb’d and fancy sick, So high she soars, so vast, so quick!
――――:o:――――
BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER.
[Scott introduces the following song in Chapter XXV. of _The Monastery_, with the remark that it was sung to the ancient air of “Blue Bonnets over the Border.”]
March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order? March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, All the blue bonnets are bound for the border. Many a banner spread, Flutters above your head, Many a crest that is famous in story, Mount and make ready then, Sons of the mountain glen, Fight for the Queen and the old Scottish glory!
Come from the hills where the hirsels are grazing, Come from the glen of the buck and the roe; Come from the crag where the beacon is blazing, Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. Trumpets are sounding, War steeds are bounding, Stand to your arms then, and march in good order, England shall many a day Tell of the bloody fray, When the Blue Bonnets came over the border!
WALTER SCOTT.
――――
BLUE STOCKINGS OVER THE BORDER.
Read, quickly read, for your honours, ye Oxford men! Why don’t you read Greek and Latin in order? Pass o’er the Ass’s Bridge, sons of the Cambridge Fen! All the Blue Stockings are crossing the Border! Their banner is flying, They’re “victory” crying, They’ll solve every problem in Euclid before ye―― Come from the rowing match, Glee club, and merry catch, Read for a class and the old College glory!
Ye Dons and Professors, arise from your slumbers, Open your books,――set your studies in order―― The danger is pressing in spite of your numbers, For the Blue Stockings are crossing the Border.
Descend from your Tilburies, Gents of the long robe, Read briefs――for their steps to the Woolsack they bend: The depths of your science, ye Doctors, they’ll soon probe, With old Esculapius the Blues would contend! Their clack is resounding, With hard words abounding, Steam guns their weapons, which cause great disorder. By Gas they’re enlightened―― By nothing they’re frightened, The dauntless Blue Stockings who pass’d o’er the Border.
Read for your honors, then, Oxford and Cambridge men! Look, lawyers, look, are your Green Bags in order? Oh! Sons of Galen, you will not escape the ken Of the Blue Stockings who pass’d o’er the Border!
Look well to your counsels, ye sage Politicians―― They’ll change all your projects and plans for the State; Examine your arguments, Metaphysicians―― In every department the Blues are first-rate. Famed Craniologists! Learned Phrenologists! You’ll find, though each bump in their skulls is in order; The organ of Prying All others defying, Stands first in the Blues who are crossing the Border.
Strain every nerve, then, all ye who have place and sway, From Wellington down to the City Recorder. Ye’ll be found bunglers, in office unfit to stay, If the Blue Stockings come over the Border.
Stand to your posts, ye adepts in Astronomy, A comet they’ll see whilst your glass ye arrange―― Find out some fault in Dame Nature’s economy―― Spots in the moon, which betoken a change. Quake, ye Geologists! Tremble, Conchologists! Put Retorts and Crucibles, Chemists, in order! Beware, Antiquarians, They’re Disciplinarians, These talented Blues who are passing the Border!
Put on your spectacles, star-gazing gentlemen―― Steam-boat inventors, avoid all disorder―― If there’s a blunder committed by Englishmen, Each Blue will see it who passes the Border!
’Tis said they’ve discovered perpetual motion, Attached to their tongues, ’twill be henceforth their own; And this job completed, some folks have a notion They’re all seeking now the Philosopher’s Stone. An enemy slanders Their ablest commanders, Their heads vacuum engines he calls (’tis a joke), Says Watts’ Steamer teaches The plan of their speeches, Beginning in noise, and concluding in smoke,
Believe not, my countrymen, this foolish story―― Come when they will, let them find you in order―― Delay not, I pray, till each Blue, crown’d with glory, By paper kites drawn shall pass o’er the Border.
The above appeared in The Mirror, vol. II, 1828, p. 239. About that period “intellectual females” were in fashion as well as the Brobdignagian bonnets, mentioned in the parodies on Burns. The origin of “Blue Stocking” is given in Boswell’s Life of Johnson, edition 1835, vol. 8, p. 85, “About this time (1781) it was much the fashion for several ladies to have evening assemblies where the fair sex might participate in conversation with literary and ingenious men, animated by a desire to please. These societies were denominated Blue Stocking Clubs; the origin of which title being little known, it may be worth while to relate it. One of the most eminent members of those societies, when they first commenced, was Mr. Stillingfleet, whose dress was remarkably grave, and in particular it was observed that he wore blue stockings. Such was the excellence of his conversation, that his absence was felt as so great a loss, that it used to be said, ‘We can do nothing without the blue stockings;’ and thus by degrees the title was established. Miss Hannah More has admirably described a Blue Stocking Club in her ‘Bas Bleu,’ a poem in which many of the persons who were most conspicuous there are mentioned.”
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WRITE, WRITE, TOURIST AND TRAVELLER.
Write, write, tourist and traveller, Fill up your pages and write in good order; Write, write, scribbler and driveller, Why leave such margins?――come nearer the border.
Many a laurel dead flutters around your head, Many a tome is your memento mori! Come from your garrets, then, sons of the quill and pen, Write for snuff-shops, if you write not for glory.
Come from your rooms where the farthing wick’s burning, Come with your tales full of gladness or woe; Come from your small-beer to vinegar turning, Come where the Port and the Burgundy flow!
Fame’s trump is sounding, topics abounding, Leave, then, each scribb’ler, your high attic story; Critics shall many a day speak of your book, and say, “He wrote for the snuff-shop, he wrote not for glory!”
Write, write, tourist and traveller, Fill up your pages and write in good order; Write, write, scribb’ler and driveller, Why leave such margins?――come nearer the border.
ROBERT GILFILLAN, 1828.
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READ, READ!
Read, read, Woodstock and Waverley, Turn every page and read forward in order; Read, read, every tale cleverly, All the old novels are over the border!
Many a book lies dead, dusty, and never read, Many a chiel wants a thread to his story; While Walter, that king o’ men, just with his single pen, Like a giant, well grogged, marches on in his glory!
Come from your tales full of murders amazing, Come from romaunts gone to bed long ago; Come from the scribb’lers whom pye-men are praising, Come to Redgauntlet and brave Ivanhoe!
Scott’s fame is sounding, readers abounding, May laurels long circle his locks thin and hoary! Scotland shall many a day speak of her bard, and say, “He lived for his country, and wrote for her glory!”
ROBERT GILFILLAN, 1831.
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TAX, TAX!
Tax, tax Income and Property, Why the deuce don’t ye tax both in fair order? Tax, tax, Genius and Industry―― Aye; but not so as on plunder to border! Many, by hand or head Earning precarious bread, Suddenly ruin’d’s an often-told story. Do, JOHNNY RUSSELL, then, Justice to working men; If you refuse, we must call in a Tory!
Punch, May 17, 1851.
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VALOUR UNDER DIFFICULTIES.
March, march, pipe-clayed and belted in, That is to say you must march in good order; March, march, broiling sun melted in, Stocks all so tight that on choking you border. Martinet’s anger dread If you can turn your head, Martinet, stiff as the knights of old story, Shave and make ready then, Half-strangled Englishmen! March on, as well as you’re able, to glory!
Punch.
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LOBSTER SALAD.
Take, take, Lobsters and lettuces; Mind that they send you the fish that you order; Take, take, a decent-sized bowl, One that’s sufficiently deep in the border. Cut into many a slice All of the fish that’s nice, Place in the bowl with due neatness and order; Then hard-boiled eggs you may Add in a neat array All round the bowl, just by way of a border.
Take from the cellar of salt a proportion; Take from the castor both pepper and oil, With vinegar, too――but a moderate portion―― Too much of acid your salad will spoil. Mix them together; You need not mind whether You blend them exactly in apple-pie order! But when you’ve stirr’d away, Mix up the whole you may―― All but the eggs, which are used as a border.
Take, take plenty of seasoning; A teaspoon of parsley that’s chopped in small pieces. Though, though, the point will bear reasoning, A small taste of onion the flavour increases. As the sauce curdle may, Should it, the process stay; Patiently do it again in due order. For, if you chance to spoil Vinegar, eggs, and oil. Still to proceed would on lunacy border.
Punch.
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SONG BY A SURGEON.
Take, take, blue pill and colocynth: Hey, Sir! your liver is much out of order. Take, take, rhubarb and aqua menth: Close on acute inflammation you border. Symptoms about your head, Make me congestion dread, When I take them with the rest in conjunction; Leave off wine, beer and grog: Arrowroot all your prog, Let organs rest to recover their function.
Punch, November 12, 1859.
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RIFLEMEN BOTH SIDES OF THE BORDER.
Drill, drill, London and Manchester, Shoulder your Enfields and shoot in good order; Drill, drill, Glasgow and Edinburgh; Don’t be behind us, on your side the border. Foreigners oft have said BRITAIN’S old fire is dead, Let your array tell a different story: Arm and make ready then, Squires, Shop, and Warehousemen, Scotchman and Englishman, Liberal and Tory.
Come from the shops, where your goods you are praising, Come from your moors, from the red deer and roe: Come to the ground where the targets they’re raising, Come from your ledgers, per contra and Co. Bugles are sounding, drill sergeants grounding, Practice your wind in loose skirmishing order, Foes will think twice, I lay, ’ere they provoke a fray―― Once Britain stands in arms, both sides the Border.
Punch, December 3, 1859.
Written at the time the great Rifle Volunteer movement was starting into life in England and Scotland.
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MR. KEMBLE’S FAREWELL ADDRESS.
On taking leave of the Edinburgh Stage.
Mr. Kemble’s last appearance in Edinburgh was on the evening of Saturday, March 29, 1817, on which occasion he performed Macbeth. At the close of the tragedy Mr. Kemble recited a beautiful farewell address, which had been composed for him by Walter Scott. It is only necessary to quote a few lines from the commencement and the end of this well-known poem:――
As the worn warhorse, at the trumpet’s sound, Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the ground, Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns, And longs to rush on the embattled lines, So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear, Can scarce sustain to think our parting near; To think my scenic hour for ever past, And that these valued plaudits are my last.
* * * * *
But my last part is play’d, my knell is rung, When e’en your praise falls faltering from my tongue; And all that you can hear, or I can tell, Is――Friends and Patrons, hail! and FARE YOU WELL!
――――
In “Reminiscences of the Court of Session (Scotland), as it was a few years ago,” by George Outram, Esq., Advocate, 1856, there is a parody of “Mr. Kemble’s farewell Address.” The subject of it is Mr. Patrick Robertson’s taking leave of the Bar on his promotion to the Bench. “Before assuming the judicial vestments, Robertson was entertained at a farewell dinner by the sorrowing friends he was to leave without the bar, and from whom he was henceforth by judicial decorum to be separated. The following address (written probably by either Douglas Cheape, Esq., Advocate, or by the late Lord Neaves, one of the judges,) was prepared to be spoken by the guest of the evening.”
As the worn show-horse whom Ducrow so long Has taught to prance before the applauding throng, Now all unfit to play his wonted part, Turns the dull mill or tracts the ignoble cart; If, midst his daily toils, perchance he hears Great Wombell’s trumpets, and the attendant cheers, Strives from his rear the cumbrous load to fling, And longs to circle in his ancient ring―― So I, when loud your festive laughter swells, Would gladly don once more my cap and bells, So sad it is to deem my triumphs past, And think these joyous plaudits are my last. Warned by some symptoms of a certain age, To-night a veteran quits the mirthful stage; A certain age a certain post requires―― Not prematurely Robertson retires. At eight-and-forty, when the locks are grey, ’Tis time to doff one’s comedy array, And leave, while youth’s excesses we retrench, Some space between the banquet and the Bench. Time was, when even the rigid and the wise Might scan my levities with lenient eyes; Cast in a mould denied to other men―― (Great Jove will hardly use it soon again)―― If not with wit, at least with words at will, The wish to please――and, shall I say, the skill? Peers, parsons, players, applauded as I spoke, And Huntly loved, and Scott endured the joke. Each look would set the table in a roar: And when the look was grave, men laughed the more. Hard task! and how performed, Jove best can tell, To serve two masters, and to serve them well; For Momus can with Mammon ill agree, And jealous Themis hates Euphrosyne. But, now, farewell the mimic look and tone, The general question, and the big trombone That makes the orchestra nothing――Oh! farewell To Oscar’s melody and Ossian’s shell; The stammering cornet, the Italian air; Farewell the bagman, and farewell the beer; Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious fun, Farewell――for Peter’s occupation’s done.
Yet still the fire, that burned too fierce before, May shed a chastened light your evenings o’er; Sometimes the mountain may bring forth its mouse To please the laughers in the Outer-House. Nay, even in yonder niche installed on high, Some jest or pun Lord Peter may let fly, Clerk, counsel, agents, mid the weekly roll, Shall vainly strive their muscles to control; Wide spreads the infectious laugh, and even a while The losing litigant consents to smile;
* * * * *
All but the macer, grieved to see no more The classic gravity that Corehouse wore.
But to return: if you have owed to me One witless jest, one pointless repartee―― If I at good mens’ feasts too long have lolled, And seldom stirred when bells to church have knolled―― If censuring tongues might of my errors tell, As loving mirth, not wisely but too well―― If even in caution’s course I missed my aim, Tried jokes by stealth, and blushed to find them fame―― The few preposterous efforts I have made By this too partial tribute are repaid. Could my big bosom prop the sinking line, Then I could speak what feelings now are mine. But fancy fails, expression dies away; In feeble murmers I can only say, Amidst my throbbing heart’s tumultuous strife: “This is the proudest moment of my life!”
――――:o:――――
LAMENT FOR TABBY; or, The Cat’s Coronach.
And art thou fall’n, and lowly laid, The housewife’s boast, the cellar’s aid, Great mouser of thy day; Whose rolling eyes, and aspect dread, Whole whiskered legions oft have fled In midnight battle fray. There breathes not kitten of thy line, But would have given his life for thine.
O! could I match the peerless strain, That wailed for Black Sir Roderic slain, Or that whose milder tone O’er Gertrude, fall’n in beauty’s prime, The grace of Pennsylvania’s clime, Raised the sepulchral moan! Such strain might burst th’ eternal bar, And reach thy spirit from afar.
But thou remote from pain and strife. Now reap’st the meed of virtuous life In some Elysian grove, Where endless streams of milk abound, And soft valerian paints the ground, Thy joyous footsteps rove; With Tasso’s cat, by poets named, And Whittington’s in story famed, Requiescat in pace!
From The Satirist, March 1814.
――――:o:――――
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.
The numerous Parodies of this poem are principally founded upon passages in the introduction, and the opening verses of Cantos the second, third, and sixth, a few lines from each of which will be given to recall them to the reader’s mind for comparison.
Introduction
The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His wither’d cheek, and tresses gray, Seem’d to have known a better day! The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by an orphan boy. The last of all the bards was he, Who sung of Border chivalry; For, well a day! their date was fled, His tuneful brethren all were dead; And he, neglected and oppress’d Wish’d to be with them, and at rest. No more on prancing palfrey borne, He caroll’d light as lark at morn; No longer courted and caress’d, High placed in hall, a welcome guest, He pour’d, to lord and lady gay, The unpremeditated lay: Old times were changed, old manners gone A stranger fill’d the Stuarts’ throne; The bigots of the iron time Had called his harmless art a crime. A wandering Harper, scorn’d and poor, He begg’d his bread from door to door, And tuned, to please a peasant’s ear, The harp, a king had loved to hear.
WALTER SCOTT.
* * * * *
――――
ANOTHER
LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.
The Tide was low, the wind was cold, Upon the sands the minstrel strolled; His burnt-cork cheek and croaking lay Seemed to have known a better day; His banjo, sole remaining joy, Was thrummed by an obstreperous boy; The last of all the band was he Who sang of nigger minstrelsy. For, well a day! their date was fled―― His tuneful brethren earned their bread In other channels. He confessed That had he done so it were best. No more to fiddle, harp and horn, He sang his melodies forlorn; No longer courted and caressed, The tenor squared his manly chest, And poured to lord and lady gay His unpremeditated lay. Old times were changed, old music gone, The folks had “scientific” grown, Neglected his untutored chime, Pronouncing Wagner quite sublime. A wandering nigger, scorned and poor, He hummed and strummed from door to door, And tuned, to please a vagrant ear, The banjo swells had loved to hear.
Funny Folks, May 22, 1875.
――――
THE GRAND OLD M――INSTREL.
[“Mr. Gladstone, attired in a light summer suit, and without any wrapper round his throat, walked on Tuesday afternoon up Whitehall from his residence in Richmond-terrace. On reaching Trafalgar Square the right hon. gentleman was closely followed by a considerable number of people. He repeatedly raised his hat in acknowledgment of the salutes he received from many persons as he proceeded. Turning up the Strand, Mr. Gladstone made his way in the direction of Covent Garden, still followed by about a hundred persons.”――Daily News, July, 1885.]
The sun was hot, the day was bright, The statesman found his collars tight; He threw the starchy things aside, And round his neck no choker tied; In summer suit he quickly dressed―― True Paisley cloth, and of the best, Presented by admiring Scots Who gave him presents, lots on lots. “Ah, now,” he cried, in accents gay, “I think I’ll take a walk to-day; The crowd that oft my footsteps dogs, Will never know me in these togs; Not one can recognise in me, The potent statesmen, W.G.!” He first from Richmond Terrace hied, Without policeman at his side; And then up Whitehall took the air Until he reached Trafalgar Square; By twos and threes the folks came out And welcomed Gladstone with a shout; Others, attracted by the sound, In tens and dozens gathered round; Desiring but to be alone, The baffled Statesman hurried on; With eager steps he paced along, But always followed by the throng; He fled from crowded street to street, Precipitately in retreat; And yet, despite the pace he flew, The crowd only the greater grew; And now, though several days have gone, That Statesman still is hurrying on; And strangers in a London street Perchance may any moment meet An old man in a summer suit Endeavouring to avoid pursuit, But vainly; for where’er he goes The crowd behind him cheers and grows.
The Weekly Echo, July 25, 1885.
――――
THE LAY OF THE LAST CAB-HACK.
The way was long, the wind was cold, The cab-hack was infirm and old. His withered hide, a dirty grey, Seemed to have known a better day; His nose-bag, sole remaining joy, Was pilfered by a ragged boy. The last of all the hacks was he, Of bony frame and broken knee: For, well-a-day, their date was fled, His wretched brethren all were dead; And he, neglected and oppressed, Wished to be with them, and at rest. No more ’neath damsel lightly borne, He caracolled like lark at morn; No longer curried and caressed, Snug placed in stall of corn the best, He pranced for lord and lady gay Throughout the equine-octial day. His form was changed, his strength was gone, A stranger owned his frame of bone; His master of the iron time To starve him thought it not a crime―― A wandering cabby, scorned and poor, He urged his hack from door to door, And drove, to win a peasant’s fare, The horse that once a lord did bear. He crawled where London’s smoky Tower Looks out from Thames’ muddy bower; The cab-hack gazed with wistful eye, Alas! no resting-place was nigh, With weak and faltering step at last The glaring sausage-shop he passed, Whose ponderous chopping-up machine The rest of all his race had seen. The shopman marked his weary pace, His hang-dog mien and bony face, And bade his boy the cabby tell He’d buy if he the hack would sell; For he had bought much worse than he, Though born of racing pedigree, In pride of power, in beauty’s bloom―― They’d gone unwept to this same tomb.
Funny Folks.
――――
THE BRAY OF THE LAST DONKEY.
The way was long, the wind was cold, The donkey was infirm and old; His wrinkled nose and rough coat grey, Seemed to have known a better day; A whip, that sadden’d all his joy, Was wielded by an awful boy; The last of all his race was he, Who lived in age of chivalry. For, well-a-day, their date had fled, His long-ear’d brethren all were dead; And he, o’er-loaded and oppress’d, Would soon be with them――and at rest. No more with light load gladly borne, He caracolled from night till morn; No longer well-fed and caress’d. High placed in stall, a welcome guest, He pour’d to lord and lady gay His most unmusical of bray; Old steeds were changed, the donkeys gone, The stalls with horses filled alone, Proud favourites of degenerate time―― Even his braying call’d a crime, A groggy donkey, starved and poor, He carried sand from door to door, Hard words and blows still doomed to bear. Till death relieves him from his care.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINISTRY.
The way was long, the voters cold, The Minister was weak――not old; His wither’d hopes and messes gay Seem’d to have known a better day; The lyre, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by the Office Boy; The last of the stop-gaps was he, And which his name was Salisbury. His brethren to the towns had fled, Expecting to be shortly dead, And he, dejected and oppress’d, Wished they were back, and feared for rest. No more on wings of fancy borne He chortled light as lark at morn; No longer standing on the boards As leader of the House of Lords, To nobles young, and nobles grey, He pour’d the Governmental lay: His occupation nearly gone, He felt he must vacate his throne; For many at Election-time Look’d on his policy as crime. A Premier on a touting tour, He begged for votes from door to door, And tried to please the peasant’s ear With tunes that few might care to hear. Et cetera.
Fun, November 18, 1885.
This was accompanied by a cartoon representing the Marquis of Salisbury as the aged minstrel, with Lord Randolph Churchill as his boy carrying the lyre.
――――:o:――――
Canto III
And said I that my limbs were old, And said I that my blood was cold, And that my kindly fire was fled, And my poor wither’d heart was dead, And that I might not sing of love;―― How could I, to the dearest theme That ever warm’d a minstrel’s dream, So foul, so false a recreant prove! How could I name love’s very name, Nor wake my heart to notes of flame!
In peace, love tunes the shepherd’s reed; In war, he mounts the warrior’s steed; In halls, in gay attire is seen; In hamlets, dances on the green, Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, And men below, and saints above; For love is heaven, and heaven is love.
WALTER SCOTT.
* * * * *
W. E. GLADSTONE in March, 1880.
And thought they I was growing old? And hoped they that my hate was cold; And that my vengeful fire was fled, And that my hopes of power were dead; And that I might not sigh for place?
How could I to the dearest theme That ever warmed a statesman’s dream Prove recreant so foul and base? How could I name its very name, Nor wake to life its smould’ring flame?
In Session prudence tunes the reed, ’Tis otherwise across the Tweed! In Parliament, one’s forced to wear Restraint that one can doft elsewhere! St. Stephen’s needs a smoothened tongue, In Scotland fierce can be my song! Blest he who has a double face, When place is Heaven and Heaven is place!
From They are Five, by W. E. G. (London, David Bogue, 1880.)
――――:o:――――
Canto VI
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself has said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d, As home his footsteps he hath turn’d, From wandering on a foreign strand! If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonour’d, and unsung.
O Caledonia! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e’er untie the filial band That knits me to thy rugged strand!
* * * * * WALTER SCOTT.
――――
A DECLAMATION. By Miss Mudge, the Blue Stocking.
Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never several times has read The works of Spencer and of Mill! Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned, As o’er the pages he has turned Of Hamilton upon the Will! If such there breathe, go rate him well, For him no student’s raptures swell. High though his titles, what of them? I want a man whose diadem Is the Binomial Theorem! What matters it how proud his look, He knows not Euclid’s second book! His wealth is boundless――that may be; But how about his Rule of Three? Despite his titles, pride and pelf, And all the books upon his shelf, The wretch not knowing Algebra, Shall greeted be with shouts of “Bah!” Whilst many an one, his soul to vex, Shall ask him what’s the power of x And give him, heeding not his groans, Equations with the three unknowns. Until at last, his torture’s o’er, He seeks a School Board’s open door; And there, by jeers to action stung, Begins on learning’s lowest rung,
O Conic Sections! oft reviled, How sweet thou art to this young child! And book eleven of Euclid too, How sweet it is thy props, to do! And then to draw from them deductions! There’s but one thing still better――Fluxions!
Geometry! what mortal hand Can e’er untie the knotted band That knits me to thy propositions, Thy postulates and definitions! Strong too’s the cord which fastens me To Statics and Geology! Still stronger those which me affiance To thee, my own, my Natural Science! But strongest are the heavenly ones That join me to Mars’ late-found suns! [She collapses.
From Finis.
――――
ON SCOTCH PATRIOTISM.
Breathes there a Scot with soul so dead, Who never to himself has said Farewell for aye, my native land! Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned As he his willing steps hath turned To wander on a foreign strand! Who has not with a spirit gay From his loved Scotia trudged away To join the fortune-hunting band! If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no canny raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, He is an idiot all the same. No pupil apt of Gaelic school, He is a patriotic fool, A simple and un-Scottish clown Who, living, forfeits fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unsnuffed, unwhiskied, and unsung.
O Caledonia! stern and wild, Thou did’st not suit the Scottish child! Thy lovely scenery but tells On those brave Scots who keep hotels; Thy plain and mountain, loch and moor, Are only dear to those who tour. Land of my sires! what mortal hand Could e’er invite me to thy strand? Still, as I view each well-known scene, I think of what things might have been
And shudder as I think once more That I might ne’er have left thy shore. Whilst songs of triumph fill my mouth, That I so early went down South.
O. P. Q. P. SMIFF. The Figaro, August 1, 1874.
――――
PILOSAGINE.
Breathes there a man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said, “To have moustaches would be grand.” Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned As o’er the paper he hath turned And Wright’s advertisement hath scanned? If such there be, go, mark him well, And in his ears the good news tell: Pilosagine has gained a name, All who have tried it own its fame: While thousands prove its great renown By the moustaches they have grown; Whiskers and beards on many a face Their origin likewise to it trace, It contains no oil, is free from grease, And now forsooth our rhyme must cease. But what, you ask, is the expense? ’Tis sent post free for eighteenpence.
OLD ADVERTISEMENT.
――――
Lives there a man with soul so dead, Who never to his wife has said, “I love a bit of home-made bread!” Or can a man of aught be prouder, Than to have cried in tones still louder, “I like it made with Borwick’s Powder!”
――――
SPECIMEN OF SMIFF’S LITERARY ADVERTISEMENTS. The Poetic Style.
Breathes there a man with taste so dead, Who never to himself hath said, “This is the spirit of my choice,” As he his steaming glass hath stirred? Who hath not slightly raised his voice, So that his words might all be heard―― O something Whiskey, strong yet mild, Sweet spirit, pure and undefiled; From thee, as doctors oft have proved, The fusil oil has been removed; Unlike the other spirits, thou Bring’st not an aching to the brow. Of thee no biliousness is born, No coppers hot the following morn; Men drink of thee at noon, at night, And rise quite fresh at morning light; Men drink of thee, and drink again, To guard ’gainst rheumatism’s pain.
* * * * *
But there are some, I grieve to say, Who act in quite a silly way; Who every day their vitals spoil, By drinking lots of fusil oil. Yes, such there be, go――mark them well! Their sallow cheeks the secret tell. Sound though their stomachs may have been, Their livers active, palates clean; Yet, thanks to fusil’s deadly force, Fell indigestion comes, of course.
The Figaro, October 4, 1876.
――――:o:――――
Canto VII
O, Caledonia! very stern and wild,[34] And only dear to those who travel through you: The poet says you’re lov’d by each Scotch child, But you do not believe such nonsense, do you? What Scotchman is there that would not be riled, If he was bound for life to stick close to you? No, Land of heath, and loch, and shaggy moor, You’re only dear, say we, to those who tour.
O, Land of Whisky, Oatmeal, Bastards, Bibles; O Land of Kirks, Kilts, Claymores, Kail, and Cant,―― Of lofty mountains and of very high hills, Of dreary “Sawbaths,” and of patriot rant O land which Dr. Johnson foully libels, To sound thy praises does our hero pant; And to relate how, from engagements freed, He calmly vegetated north of Tweed.
He saw “Auld Reekie,” climbed up Arthur’s Seat, And thought the modern Athens a fine city; Admired the view he got from Prince’s Street, And wished the lassies could have been more pretty―― With smaller bones, and less decided feet; He found the cabmen insolent, though witty: The Castle “did,” and, ere he slept, had been on The Calton Hill, and seen the new Parthenon.
The Edinburgh “Sawbath” bored him, though, ’Twas like being in a city of the dead; With solemn steps, and faces full of woe, The people to their kirks and chapels sped, Heard damning doctrines, droned some psalms, and so Went home again with Puritanic tread; Pulled down their blinds, and in the evening glooms, Got very drunk in their back sitting-rooms.
* * * * *
From Jon Duan.
――――
Ye Grand Adventures of some MODERN MEN OF MIGHT.
Showing how Don Salisbury Quixote de la Hatfield set out to keep watch over his arms and armour, ere he could be admitted a Knight of the Primrose.
The Don’s Midnight Vigil.
The sky was dark, the air was cold, But firm Don Salisbury was and bold, As, undeterred by nights alarms, He vigil kept to watch his arms.
Above him, as he humbly kneel’d, Rose the bronze form of Beaconsfield―― The man whom once he had reviled, But whom long since, with fervour wild, He’d seemed to love; but who looked down As ’twere with a sardonic frown, As, very far from being at ease, Don Salisbury groaned upon his knees.
Each side him, on the Statue’s base, He for his armour’d found a place, And there he watch’d it, till, so sore, That he could bear to kneel no more, He staggered to his feet again, And sighing from excessive pain, His lance he grasped, and with a moan Limped lamely on his vigil lone.
The gas-jets round but flickered dim, And in their light it seemed to him That with a look of scorn intent The Statue’s eyes were on him bent. Nay, more, as he returned the gaze, He thought he saw the Statue raise Its dexter arm and point south-west, As though his notice to arrest.
Nor was the intimation vain, For as the Don his eye did strain, He saw folks in Victoria Street, Caught, too, the tramp of many feet; And, listening still, soon overheard Such sounds that he at once inferred, It was the promised delegation Sent by the Primrose Habitation To take him to the Hall of Light Where he was to be dubbed a Knight.
* * * * *
Truth, Christmas Number, 1885.
――――
ALBERT GRAEME.
It was an English ladye bright, (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) And she would marry a Scottish Knight, For love will still be lord of all.
Blithely they saw the rising sun, When he shone fair on Carlisle wall; But they were sad ere day was done, Though Love was still the lord of all. * * * * * Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove, (The sun shines fair on Carlisle Wall,) Pray for their souls who died for love, For Love shall still be lord of all!
WALTER SCOTT. The Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto VI.
――――
THE LAY OF THE POOR FIDDLER. WILLIE.
It was a toper one Saturday night, (The fire shines bright on yon Ale-house wall,) And he would spend a shilling so bright, For strong liquor will still be lord of all.
Blithely he posted with jolly red face, To where the fire shines on yon Ale-house wall, But that night was scarce o’er when in piteous case, He found that strong liquor was lord of all.
He pawned his shirt and his breeches both, Where the fire shines bright on yon Ale-house wall; He then did swear a terrible oath, For ire that liquor was lord of all.
In a hurry home he naked ran From where the fire shines on yon ale-house wall; The night was too cold for a naked man, Tho’ strong liquor was still the lord of all.
His limbs were cold, though his face was red As the fire that shines on yon ale-house wall; He craved for admission, his wife was in bed, For strong liquor was there the lord of all.
She looked through the window and bade him go Where the fire shines bright on yon ale-house wall; Or she on his hot skull would throw The liquor that is not lord of all!
He shivering ran with might and main, To where the fire shines on yon ale-house wall; But the door was locked he bawled in vain, For strong liquor was there the lord of all.
When morning came, quite dead he lay, Close by the door in yon ale-house wall; The frost his blood had chilled they say, And strong liquor is still the lord of all.
Now all ye topers when ye view The fire shining bright on an ale-house wall; Pray for his soul who once did rue That strong liquor was e’er the lord of all.
This ballad is from The Lay of the Poor Fiddler, by an admirer of Walter Scott. B. and R. Crosby & Co., London, 1814.
This scarce little volume of 167 pages, is a tolerably close Parody of “The Lay of the Last Minstrel.” It is, like the original, in six Cantos, and is accompanied by numerous notes, in which the legendary lore, and archæological learning of Scott, are humourously and ingeniously burlesqued.
The opening lines of each Canto are modelled upon those of Scott’s poem, a few extracts may be given:――