Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. III (part 3 of 5)

Introduction

The night was dark, the wind did howl, When Tom the Fiddler left his bowl; His nose once of a fiery hue, Was now deep tinged with modest blue; Fierce o’er the heath the wind did blow, And swiftly fell the drifting snow. Tom was returning from the fair With lightsome heart devoid of care; His fiddle, as I’ve heard it sung, Across one ample shoulder hung In leathern case, and by his side, A horn of snuff was well supplied; A huge nob-stick he firmly grasped, And to his breast a loaf he clasped,―― Poor Tom had once seen better days Than fiddling for a looby’s praise; At country club, or wake, or fair, He would have scorned to scrape a hair; But now alas! old times are gone, He roams neglected and unknown; And strangers claim that high renown Which Tommy once had thought his own.

At length he reaches a large mansion, he craves admission and shelter from the storm:

The lady happened to be nigh, She heard his voice and language high, She marked his wet and dirty clothes, His pimpled cheek and reverend nose, And bade her maid the servants tell, That they should use the fiddler well: For she had known adversity, Tho’ raised to such a high degree; And sorrow too, for in her bloom She wept o’er her third husband’s tomb.

After due attention to the creature comforts of the Fiddler, he obliges the company with his lay, in the manner of Scott’s last Minstrel, and at the end of each Canto refreshes himself with a draught of good October ale. The opening lines of the third Canto describe his partiality for strong liquor:――

I.

And said I that my throat was dry; And said I that no cheer was nigh, And that all giving souls were dead, And that the good to heaven were fled. And that I ne’er should put my nose Again into a tankard’s brim; And that I ne’er again should dose, Before an ale-house hearth so grim? How could I fancy such mishap, Would e’er fall from Dame Fortune’s lap, On me the happiest of mankind, The merriest mortal you may find?

II.

In peace, malt liquor’s cheap and good; In war, ’tis poor and badly brewed; In kitchens, now they drink small beer; Malt, hops and water, grow so dear. Good liquor rules both church and state, It brightens many a stupid pate; And men and saints, to my own thinking, Are often prone unto hard drinking. Heaven, we are told, through a glass is seen; A glass of grog is what they mean. * * * * *

The poem closes with a description of Tommy’s fate:――

Hushed is the fiddle――Tommy’s gone; But did he roam, unhoused, unknown, Again thro’ wilds and deserts drear? No succour nigh, or alehouse near? Oh no:――close by this stately hall, So snug, with newly white-washed wall, Appears Tom’s cot; with lattice clean, And window-shutters painted green, A garden, hen-pen, and a stye, Well stock’d with sundries, stand close by; And every want is well supplied, And every blessing is enjoyed. * * * * *

――――

BREATHES THERE A MAN WITH SOUL SO DEAD.

Breathes there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, Confound that horrid Little-Go Whose heart within him ne’er has burned, As from the papers he has turned, When them he found he did’nt know.

If such there be――go! mark him well For him no Poll will do as well As honours high, or wrangler’s name A fellowship’s his only aim. Not his to lie upon the shelf; Poor wretch sustainer of himself A living comes thro’ his renown. Nor unrewarded goes he down To the small hamlet whence he sprung, A hero great as bards have sung.

From The Lays of the Mocking Sprite. (Metcalfe and Sons, Cambridge.)

――――

THE LAY OF THE FIRST MINSTREL. By Sir Walter Scott-free, Bart.

It was an Oxford Scholar bright, (The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,) And he would get him thoroughly tight, For Gilbey’ll still be lord of all.

Blithely he saw the coming dun, As bright as sun on Charsley’s Hall, Alas! his race was well nigh run And Gilbey’ll still be lord of all.

The dun drinks wine, and tastes it well, (The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,) Then came Cremation and he fell, So Gilbey’ll still be lord of all.

He fell not by the “Old Red Heart,” (The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,) He fell by Gilbey’s fiery art, To prove that Gilbey’s lord of all.

The scholar spurned the knife and fork, (The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,) And cut his throat with Gilbey’s cork, So Gilbey’ll still be lord of all.

From The Shotover Papers (Oxford), October 17, 1874.

――――:o:――――

The following extract is taken from a very amusing volume, entitled “Lays of the Saintly,” by Mr. Walter Parke, published by Vizetelly and Co., London. The ballad introduced is a Parody of the style of ballads contained in Percy’s Reliques of Ancient English Poetry.

ST. FILLAN’S ARM. (A Lay of Scott-land.)

Harp of the North, that hangs, or used to hang, “On the witch-elm that shades St. Fillan’s spring” (Which elm I know not), wake thy tuneful twang, And keep thy wires in order while I sing In verse of true Sir Walter Scottish ring; And lest your Minstrel’s strength should haply faint Glenlivat shall its inspiration bring; Thus will we make the Sassenach acquaint With blessed Fillan’s life, thy friend and patron Saint.

I.

If thou would’st view old Pittenweem aright, Go visit it by the broad daylight, For if the night were murky, pray How couldst thou ken that fair Abbaye! And should it eke come on to rain, Thy pleasure would be turn’d to pain; But when the golden sunbeams smile On ruin’d nave and barren aisle, When noontide rays enlivening fall On thirstly floor and weedy wall. So that thou need’st not break thy bones Or shins against the rugged stones, Then go, but take a trusty guide Who knows the country far and wide, And give him half-a-crown or so, To tell thee all that he may know; But should he show thee Fillan’s tomb Within some cloister’s ivied gloom, Believe him not, although he swear, Because the Saint’s not buried there.

II.

Breathes there the man who having read All that the Northern Bard has said, All the particulars supplied By travellers’ tomes and Murray’s Guide, Of Scotia’s landscapes fair and grand, Longs not to see that favour’d land? Oh, would that I could get the chance To view those regions of romance, What pleasure to be climbing now Ben Dizzy’s stern and lofty brow! How sweet to stand beside the Frith That owes its waters to Loch Smith, To mark Bel-hangar’s ruin’d pile, And Ion-munga’s charmed isle, Whilst in the distance can be seen The giant peaks of Ben Zoleen,[35] And, if the weather be not dull, The fragrant isle of Sneeshin-Mull; And, floating like a mirage there, That phantom ship, the “Brig of Ayr” Sails where Loch Toddy’s smile creates A beauty that intoxicates. Then view, my fancy, if thou wilt, Knights tourneying within Glen-Tilt, Hear Roderick Dhu and brave Fitz-James Calling each other dreadful names, And see them chase, through bosky dells The hart that “in the Highlands” dwells. Oh, if some friend would pay my fare, How “like a bird” I’d wander there!

III.

The meal was over at Pittenweem; The monks had gone to their cells to dream, Or heavily sleep, as the case might be, Till waked by the bell at half-past three; The Abbot had gone to his private tower, For he sat up till a later hour, And oft he would have his under-prior To sit and talk by the cosy fire; For Abbots of old, you may suppose, Could do in such matters as they chose, And here, from the mill-stream’s outer loch To the tippest top of the weather-cock, Good Fillan the Abbot ruled supreme―― Such was the custom of Pittenweem.

IV.

The night was long, the weather cold; A Minstrel, neither young nor old, Whose ragged coat and shoes in holes Wrung pity from those monkish souls, Entered the Abbey’s lower hall, Whence, duteous to the Abbot’s call, He brought himself and harp upstairs And ’gan show off his Scottish airs. It was a charity to bring Such warbler in the place to sing. St. Fillan gave him ample cheer And copious draughts of home-made beer, Till, while that inspiration work’d, This music from the wires he jerk’d:――

V.

BALLAD. THE BLUE BROTHER. (Parody of a Ballad in “Percy’s Reliques.”)

’Twas on Maxwelton’s bonny braes (“Where early fa’s the dew.”) That at the set of sun I met A Friar of Orders blue.

With sigh, and frown, and eyes cast down, His face was sad to see; Some heavy care was settled there―― Whatever could it be?

“Come hither, come hither, thou Holy Friar, Why dost thou look so blue?” He answer’d stern――“I’ve yet to learn What that’s to do with you.”

“Wert thou,” I asked, “a baron bold, Who sought a hermit’s lot, Because thy love so false did prove?” He answer’d, “I was not.”

“And hast thou fought in distant climes, Seen mighty cities fall, And wounded been a score of times?” He answered, “Not at all.”

“And did thy true love follow thee, In page’s garb disguised? And when thou foundest it was she, Say, wert thou not surprised?”

“No true love ever follow’d me Thus garbed; or if she had, At once, I ween, I must have seen ’Twas she, and not a lad.”

“And did she, stricken by thy side In thy embrace expire?” “Good gracious! no――who told you so? He must have been a liar.”

“Or hadst thou woed some ladye fair, And wast about to wed, But saw or heard that she preferr’d Another knight instead?

“And didst thou seek their trysting-place, And fiercely slay them both, And there inter both him and her?” “I did’nt, on my oath!”

“Or did’st thou quarrel with a maid, Who loved thee all the time, And seek a hermitage’s shade? Far in a foreign clime;

“And did the maiden seek thee out, Dress’d like a pilgrim-boy? And, having found thee safe and sound, Die, there and then, for joy?”

Fire flash’d from that Blue Brother’s eye; “’Tis well,” he cried, “for you, That I’m a Friar, else in mine ire Some mischief might I do!

“Why should I tell to such as thou The story of my youth? My patience is exhausted now, Denying each untruth.

“You’re right, so far, if you suppose I’ve seen some woes and cares, But, mark you well, I never tell To strangers my affairs.”

The vesper-bell rang thro’ the dell; Abrupt he sped away, And not another syllable Did to this minstrel say.

And tho’ upon Maxwelton’s braes Since then I’ve often been, I know not why, but never I Have that Blue Brother seen.

VI.

The Abbot praised the Minstrel’s skill, And gave him siller――better still; What wonder that such vagrant men, Encouraged thus, should come agen? For Fillan’s heart was warm and large, He never gave these folks in charge, And tho’ the bagpipe made him groan, He let his torturer alone. Well used, I wot, were one and all Within St. Fillan’s Abbey-wall; Even the cats were fed on cream―― Such was the custom of Pittenweem.

* * * * *

――――

Another imitation of The Lay of the Last Minstrel was “The Lay of the Scottish Fiddle,” a poem in Five Cantos (with notes in galore) supposed to be written by W――――. S――――., Esq., London, 1814. This parody was at first attributed to the pen of Washington Irving, but is now generally ascribed to his brother-in-law, James Kirke Paulding, a voluminous author, well-known on the other side of the Atlantic. The parody appears to have been first published in the United States, and then re-produced in London. The author, for the purpose of his burlesque, describes the unhappy war then raging between Great Britain and his own country, as predatory, and treats of the British officers as border chieftains and freebooters. Such poetical license, especially on the part of an avowed foe, seems quite excusable, yet the Editor of the English Edition, in his preface, is very severe both on the poem and the notes which accompany it. These notes are voluminous, occupying nearly as many pages as the parody itself, and they are partly humorous and satirical, but principally descriptive of events alluded to in the poem, which had occurred during the war.

There were some imitations of Scott’s Lay in Truth, January 18, 1877, and also in the Christmas number of Truth for 1877.

“A Lay to the Last Minstrel,” inscribed to the memory of Sir Walter Scott, by Edward Churton (London, John Murray, 1874), is not, as one might suppose from the title, either an imitation, or a parody of Scott. It is merely an essay on his poetical genius, with some lines in his praise.

――――:o:――――

MARMION.

This was the next poem published by Scott after The Lay. It contains several passages which have been singled out for frequent imitation, notably Lady Heron’s Song, Lochinvar, and the well-known lines in Canto VI.:――

“O woman! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made; When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou!”―― * * * *

――――

AN ENGLISH POET TO A SCOTCH CRITIC,

Oh! Scotsman! in thine hour of ease Uncanny, slow, and hard to please,―― And querulous in thy tirade As shrewish wife or sour old maid―― When too much “whusky” stings thy brow, An unco’ sarcy devil thou!

(Slightly!) altered from Scott (to Scot).

――――

A GOOD WIFE.

“But, on the whole, Chloe is a good wife. If I have a cold she dresses me in linseed poultices, and doses me with all kinds of potions; and even in my suffering I can appreciate the poetic exclamation――

“Oh, woman! in our hours of ease, Impatient, coy, and hard to please: As ineffectual as the shade By a defective gingham made: As difficult wherewith to deal As any sly and cunning eel; But, oh! when hoarseness grasps the thorax, How nimble, thou, with soothing borax!”

――――

A DEDICATION.

O woman! in our hours of ease Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, Yet, barring pins, how soft to squeeze! Unequall’d too at making cheese―― And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made; And “very able,” too thou jade, In managing a shopping raid―― When pain and anguish wring the brow, Well, one of two things then art thou: That is, thou’rt either a born nurse; Or else a nuisance, if not worse! O Woman! too, in hours of woe, Into hysterics apt to go: When trouble levies its distraint, How prompt art thou thereon to faint! When danger’s for the time supreme, How ready art thou, too, to scream! In fact, what hour of night or day Is there when thou’rt not in the way?

From Finis, 1877.

――――:o:――――

THE MANSION HOUSE MARMION.

[In 1883, when there was much talk of impending and very desirable reforms in the Government of the Metropolis, Lord Mayor Fowler gave a dinner to the City magnates. He then expressed his great surprise that Mr. Forster should have recommended him to become first Lord Mayor of the new Corporation. “Far from that,” he asserted, “he would fight the new Bill, line by line and clause by clause;” and he then proceeded to declaim to his vociferous fellow-citizens Marmion’s speech to King James.]

The City Carlton merrily With wassail rung, and mirth and glee, For Tory City-Fathers there Feasted the Marquis and Lord Mayor. The spread outshone all banquets past; The wine and wit flowed free and fast; Till, ’midst approving sound, The loyal toasts were drunk in turn; And then, whilst civic hearts waxed stern, The Loving-Cup went round. And easy was the task, I trow, The Marquis’ manly form to know, When, his great courtesy to show, He drank with Fowler, bending low To meet the goblet’s brim; And City men who saw the sight, Demonstrative in their delight, Gave several cheers for him.

Ere long, uprising from his chair To toast the City, Mr. Mayor Stood, in his new-found fame; But for some moments could not speak―― His Tory heart swelled nigh to break―― And presently adown his cheek A bitter tear there came. Then memory did his wrath inspire, Then burn’d his furrow’d face with fire, And shook his very beard with ire, As “This to me!” he cried. “From Forster, too, a friend who knows How I persistently oppose Reforms on every side! He little kens the thoughts that roll, Like storm-clouds, through my haughty soul, Or he would not declare That I, a City Tory true, Would of the Corporation new Become the first Lord Mayor!”

Still on his cheek the flush of rage O’ercame the ashen hue of age, As he went on, “How dare he, then, Thus beard the Lion in his den―― The Fowler at Guildhall! Or thinks he Harcourt can o’erthrow, And lay our Corporation low? No! by St. Margaret Pattens, No! Up, Tories, then! What, Carden, ho! For your stout aid I call.”

Then Fowler turned and laughed, “Ha! ha!” Deep quaffed the bowl and shouted “Bah! Let Harcourt know, if he dare try The City Fathers to defy, That London has its treasures great―― Its funds invested, and its plate; That turtle now is cheap as beef (That Conger canard’s past belief); And that, ere his vile Bill be passed, Those hoards of wealth we have amassed Shall be entirely spent, In Swords of Honour by the score; In Golden Boxes, rained galore, In Banquets gross as those of yore, In jobs still grosser than before, And greater in extent!

“That we will many a time persist In opening a Subscription List, Far-off distress to aid; Whilst those who starve about our gate, We’ll leave to their unhappy fate, And hunger unallayed. Know, too, that ere from power we start, We’ll patronise again High Art, And raise the Griffin’s counterpart To dominate the City; That Billingsgate unmoved shall stay, And block the fish-producing-way, Spite what in Parliament they say, Or argue in Committee.

“Know, too, that ere all London taste This new reform, we oft will haste Funds left in Charity to waste In gorging and in guzzling; And we, as Aldermen, will mock At justice still; and surely shock Those who are bound to us to flock For our decisions puzzling.

“Yes, know, ere Harcourt shall succeed, Shall many a poor man die of need, And thousands suffer for the greed Of our smug Corporation; And London for long years shall bear Fresh burdens that we still may share The plunder, and well bait the snare With which we trap the nation, Pretending that at our own cost We’ve freed the lands the City’d lost, With generous intent; Whereas it safely might be sworn No penny from our hoard’s been torn―― ’Tis duties placed on coal and corn That we’ve so freely spent!”

Again, ’midst vehement applause, Did Fowler for a moment pause; Then, facing round to his brave band, And fiercely shaking his clenched hand, He with a sip his voice restored, And once again defiance poured: “Let Harcourt, Firth, and all their crew,” Cried he, “their spiteful ends pursue, I still am here, my friends, with you, My opposition to renew; And ere that Bill shall pass, Full many a brother shall secure Knighthood by rank expenditure; Full many a Scandal we’ll commit; Absorb full many a perquisite; Full many a well-known man we’ll bribe To join some Civic thievish tribe; Full many a day reforms oppose; Full many a time strike coward’s blows; And often to the nation show How small we are, how rude, how low, How stubborn, ignorant, and dense, How totally devoid of sense, And how intensely crass!”

Here Fowler ceased, and sat him down, While cheers from all sides came to crown His spirited appeal; Thrice went the Loving Cup around, And thrice did fresh applause resound As those brave City Tories found Fresh impulse for their zeal!

Truth, November 29, 1883.

――――:o:――――

LOCHINVAR

This song, sang by Lady Heron, in Marmion, was partly founded on a ballad called “Katharine Janfarie,” which may be found in the “Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.”

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west! Through all the wide border his steed was the best; And, save his good broad-sword, he weapon had none; He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone! So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!

He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Esk river where ford there was none―― But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented!――the gallant came late!―― For, a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar!

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, ’Mong bride’s-men and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword―― For the poor, craven bridegroom said never a word―― “O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war?―― Or to dance at our bridal?――young Lord Lochinvar!”

“I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied: Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide! And now am I come, with this lost love of mine To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine!―― There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!”

The bride kissed the goblet! The knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup! She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh―― With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,―― “Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace! While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, “’Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!”

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near―― So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! “She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur! They’ll have fleet steeds that follow!” quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting ’mong Græmes of the Netherby clan: Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea―― But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

WALTER SCOTT.

――――

Benet College, Cambridge, 1820.

DEAR MR. NORTH,

We are rather flat here at present, but I enclose you a squiblet, which was written when Sir J. E. Smith, that knight of the gilly-flower, made his grand charge on our Botanical Chair.

LOCK-AND-BAR. A Botany Bay Eclogue.

O Gallant Sir James is come out of the North, Through all that wild region his fame had gone forth; Yet, save the Vice-Chancellor, friend he had none; He came all unask’d, and he came all alone. So daring in heart, and so dauntless in pith, There ne’er was Professor like President Smith.

He staid not for frown, and he stopp’d not for groan; He put in his clamour where claim he had none; But e’er he arriv’d at a Lecturer’s state, The tutors conspir’d――and the lectures came late. For a Churchman, God wot! and a botanist too, Was to sit in the chair that Sir James had in view.

In a rage, then, he stalk’d into College and Hall, Among Bedmakers, Bachelors, Doctors, and all; Then spoke Mr. Marsh in a civilish way, (For some of the Tutors had little to say), “O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dine with the Fellows, or――what come ye for?”

“I long wish’d to lecture, my suit you denied, I know you’d have lik’d them, if once you had tried; And now am I come with this Pamphlet of mine, To try a last measure――then leave you to pine; There are students in London more civil by far, That would gladly have welcom’d so brilliant a star.”

Sir James shew’d his Pamphlet, and Monk read it through; He gulp’d the hard bits, but he saw ’twoul’d not do; He look’d down to laugh, and pretended to sigh, With a smile on his lip, and a sneer in his eye, Then down comes the rogue with an “answer” forthwith. “This is dealing hard measure!” says President Smith.

So stately the tone, and so lovely the print, Even Freshmen conceiv’d there must something be in’t. While Socinians did fret, and Professors did clap, And Webb tore the tassel that deck’d his new cap; And Reviewers did whisper, “’Twere better by far To have match’d your brave knight in some gooseberry war.”

A hint such as this had just rung in his ear, When he reach’d the stage-coach, and the coachman stood near; So light to the box that tight coachman he sprung, So snugly the reins o’er the dickey were flung―― We are off! we are off! over bank and o’er hill, “Your pamphlet may follow,” cried James, “if it will.”

There is quizzing ’mong wags of the Trinity clan; King’s, Queen’s-men, and Johnians, they all laugh that can, There is joking and smoking in Norwich citiè, But the lost Knight of Botany ne’er do we see, ――So daring in heart, and so dauntless in pith: Was there e’er such a callant as President Smith.

This Parody appeared in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine for November, 1820. Many other excellent parodies and imitations are to be found in the early volumes of Blackwood, (which first appeared in April, 1817) but unfortunately most of them are quite out of date, and would be of little, or no interest to the modern reader.

――――

SONGS OF THE RAIL.

O young William Jones is come out of the West, Of all the bright engines, his engine’s the best! And save his grim stoker, he helper had none, He drove all unhelp’d, and he drove all alone, So dauntless he rush’d midst his engine’s loud moans; Did you e’er hear of driver like young WILLIAM JONES?

He stopp’d not for water, he stopp’d not for coke, And he skimm’d o’er the streams render’d black by his smoke; But when at the station he slacken’d his rate, The up-train had started, the down-train came late; And a laggard in travel, a luggage-train guard, Was to wed the fair POLLY of JONES’S regard.

“I long woo’d your daughter, my suit you denied; Love swells like a steam-valve, and bursts when it’s tied; And now I am come, with my lost POLLY B. To walk once the platform, drink one cup of tea: There are maidens who’d gladly give body and bones, To jump at the tender of young WILLIAM JONES.”

The bride stirred the Congou, the spoon took it up, He quaff’d off the tea, and he put down the cup; She stoop’d on the pavement her sandal to tie, And she show’d her neat foot with a tear in her eye: He took her soft hand, ere her mother said nay; “Now walk on the platform,” said young WILLIAM J.

So stately his form, and so beauteous her face, That never a plank such a couple did grace; While the stoker did fret; and the engine did fume, And the station-clerk wink’d in his little back-room, And the navvys all whisper’d, “Ay, BILL, what d’ye say? They’d make a neat couple, that gal and young J.”

One touch of her hand, and one word in her ear, And they open’d a carriage that by them stood near; So light o’er the cushions the fair lady sprung―― So light the policeman the bright brass bell rung―― “She is won! we are off! there’s no train in the way, And the next does not stop here” said young WILLIAM J.

There was laughing and roaring with every man; They laugh’d and they roar’d till their eyes briny ran: They must get a new maiden to hand out the tea, For the fair MRS. JONES there they never will see; And each one that knows her will laughingly say, “That’s a deucid ’cute fellow, that young WILLIAM J.!”

Punch, January 22, 1848.

――――

THE RUSSIAN LOCHINVAR.

[The first encounter in the Crimean War took place at Oltenitza, on November 4, 1854, when the Russians were defeated. A few days later the Turks retired to Kalafat where they kept the Russians in check for some time.]

The big-booted Czar had his eye on the East, For treaties and truces he cares not the least, And save his good pleasure he conscience hath none, He talks like the Vandal and acts like the Hun. So faithless in peace, and so ruthless in war, Have ye e’er heard of King like the big-booted Czar?

He stayed not for speech, but with sabre and gun, He rushed into Turkey, though cause there was none; But when he got near to the old Iron Gate, He found certain reasons which urged him to wait. For down by the Danube stood Omar Pasha, Prepared to encounter our big-booted Czar,

So he drew up his legions――serf, vassal and thrall, His footmen, and horsemen, and cannons, and all, Then out spake bold Omar, his hand on his sword, In an attitude fitting an Ottoman Lord, “O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to see St. Sophia, you big-booted Czar?”

“I’ve long asked your homage, my suit you denied, And my holy religion you’ve scorned and decried, So now I’ve come down with this army of mine, The rights and the wrongs of the case to define, And you have not a chance, for the Musselman star Must pale when it looks on the flag of the Czar.”

He flung down his challenge, the Turk took it up (Remarking on slips ’twixt the lip and the cup), And deigned to his logic the briefest reply, “That the claim was unjust, and its proof was a lie,” And he brought up some thousands of swords as a bar To further advance by the big-booted Czar.

So before Oltenitza the battle took place, And the Russian thought proper to right about face, For the guns of Stamboul had a menacing boom, And a bombshell sent flying the Dannenburg plume, And the Cossacks all grumbled, “’Twere better by far To eat tallow at home than dine out with the Czar”,

One hint would not do, nor one word in his ear, The despot commands, and his men persevere―― So again to the breezes their standards are flung, And Kalafat echoes the war-trumpet tongue, And the Ottoman, charging, has scattered afar The ill-fated troops of the big-booted Czar.

There was wild disarray in the rear and the van, The Moslem they rode, and the Cossacks they ran. There was racing and chasing――’twas pleasing to see The Russ as well beat as a Russian can be. May this, and much worse, be all fortune of war That awaits the old pirate, the big-booted Czar.

SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1854.

――――

THE PRINCE OF WALES’S RIDE. (à la Lochinvar.)

The Prince of Wales was present at the autumn manœuvres in 1871, and the Times gave the following account of a part he took in a sham fight:――

“A party of the dashing 10th Hussars had pushed on too far up the hill, and were captured by our cavalry, and given in as killed by an umpire. They were standing――dead men all――on the ridge, when the Prince and his staff rode up the hill-side, and made towards three of STAVELEY’S guns. In a few seconds His Royal Highness had discovered whose the guns were, and galloped up to the troop of the 10th, who were prisoners (but he did not know it), placed himself at their head, and ordered them to charge the guns. The gunners, perceiving this manœuvre, with great smartness, but little loyalty, put four rounds into the Prince and his Hussars before they were ridden down. The Prince claimed the battery, and an umpire was sent for. Sir H. GRANT, Sir C. STAVELEY, and others came, and the Prince and his party were given in as prisoners; but when Sir CHARLES claimed them, the Prince laughed and galloped off. Then was seen the Heir Apparent, flying before a general of division and his staff, who kept up the pursuit with a will, to loud cries of “Stop him!” “Don’t let him go!” “Seize the Prince!” One of Sir CHARLES’S aides-de-camp got so close that he could have laid his hand on the Prince’s shoulder, but neither for big guns, nor small arms, nor shouts would the Prince draw bridle, and he got clear away, and vanished into the woods below the hill.”

It was ALBERT of WALES and his troop of Hussars, Who took horse one fine day to go off to the wars; And their trappings were brilliant, their sabres were bright, As they rode to the Sham (for it was a sham) Fight. “And if any would take the wind out of our sails, They must look sharp about it!” says ALBERT OF WALES.

“It is rather slow work, this,” then ALBERT said he. “And to stand and do nothing will hardly suit me. At the side of yon hill, where those clouds of smoke hang, Are the enemy’s cannon――hark! there they go――BANG! Let us try to surprise them――a rush seldom fails: Balaclava the Second!” shouts ALBERT OF WALES.

With a crash and a waving of sabres in air, Down they swoop on the gunners――and how these last stare! But although they are startled, not one of them runs: They are Britons, and doggedly stick to their guns, “Now surrender!” (a bombardier thus the PRINCE hails): “Do you yield?”――“No, but you do!” says ALBERT OF WALES.

“You are captured, each man Jack!” says he with a laugh.―― “I beg pardon, your Highness, it’s you and your staff.”―― “Oh dear, no!”――“Yes, yes, really,” the umpire submits, “As your Highness’s men would be knocked all to bits, You must yield yourselves up――no resistance avails.”―― “Don’t you wish you may get it?” says ALBERT OF WALES.

With a jerk at his rein, and a stroke of his whip, Then the Prince turns his charger, and gives them the slip. “You have not got me yet,” says he: “follow who may, He must gallop who’s going to take me to-day! You’ll excuse my not stopping to talk of details―― I am off in a hurry!” says ALBERT OF WALES.

Then in haste follows STAVELEY, and off gallops GRANT: “Hallo there!”――“Hold him, now!”――“Oh, I’ll stop him!”――“You Can’t!” Down the Hill the Prince goes, seeming little to reck That the Heir to the Throne can break only one neck. “It’s at this sort of speed that they carry the mails; Let who can overtake me!” cries ALBERT OF WALES.

Judy, October 11, 1871.

――――

THE LATE LIGHT OF THE BAR.

Choice of Stoke-upon-Trent, lo, KENEALY[36] confest, Pledged to see the foul wrongs of SIR ROGER redressed! Save his grievance and gingham he weapons had none; He went unabashed, and he went all alone, As though stainless in ’scutcheon, in fame without scar,―― Who e’er equalled for brass this late Light of the Bar?

He stayed not for scoff, and he stopped not for groan; What were “Orders” to him, who takes orders from none? But ere he alighted at Westminster Gate, The House was well-filled, though the doctor came late; For the night’s blushing honours were shared, and at par, ’Twixt JOHN MITCHEL and him, this late Light of the Bar.

So boldly he entered the High Commons’ hall, Among Whigs, Rads, Conservatives, alien all, While calm, cold, and cutting, the SPEAKER was heard, Through the silence, unbroken by cheer or by word, “In breach of the House-Standing-Order you are, Without introducers thus passing our Bar!”

“I stuck to the Claimant: his claims were denied: Bench might beard me and Bar; Bar and Bench I defied! And now I am come, with this lost cause of mine, Like CROMWELL, to bid hence that ‘bauble’ of thine: Learn how wide-spread my fame, whom the much-wrongèd Gaikwâr Had retained,[37] had there not been that sinister Bar.”

Dropped by all like hot poker, JOHN BRIGHT took him up―― “Not e’en from such lips should this House dash the cup. If WHALLEY has spirit to lend me a hand, By Stoke-upon-Trent’s new-made Member I’ll stand.” But DISRAELI moved, “Waive the rule, better far: Some will force their way over, some under, the Bar.”

So the Order was waived, and unblushing in face He shook hands with the SPEAKER, swore, scowled at the Mace; ’Twas some time e’er the House could its business resume, What with Decency’s fret and Propriety’s fume: While an old stager whispered, “We’re best as we are; Stick to Orders, that serve, now and then, as a Bar.”

He touched WHALLEY’S hand, who fought shy, it was clear, And he reached the Hall-door, with the cabs standing near; So light in the air his green gingham he swung; So light to his faithful four-wheeler he sprung―― “I have won! The trick’s done! To the knife it is war! See The Englishman!”――quoth this Ex-light of the Bar.

There were posters (four-sheet) on The Englishman’s van With its damp quires the newsboys they roared and they ran: Vollied dirt at M.P.’s, as at Judges, there flew. But the lost case of ORTON they would not review! So persistent to pelt, from the mark though so far, Was e’er Member like this late Light of the Bar!

Punch, March 6, 1875.

――――

YOUNG STEPHEY CAVE.[38]

O, young Stephey Cave is come out of the East, Through borders Levantine his steed was the beast! And save his grey goosequill he weapon had none; He rode all unharm’d, and he rode all alone. So renowned at accounts, so financially brave, There never was knight like the young Stephey Cave.

He staid not for passport, he stopped not for Stone; He took the first steamer where train there was none; But ere he alighted at Ismail’s gate The Khedive was ruined; the banker came late, For a babe at accounts and a scripholding slave Had forestalled the proud mission of young Stephey Cave.

So boldly he entered proud Ismail’s hall, Among Pashas and Agas, Effendis and all. Then spoke those Egyptians, ineffably bored, (For the poor craven Khedive said never a word,) “O, come ye to fleece us, or come ye to save, Or to prove us insolvent, thou young Stephey Cave?”

“I long thought ye bankrupt――the truth ye denied; Loans swell like the Solway, but ebb like its tide, And now I am come with this ledger of mine To go through your figures. You dare not decline! There are countries in Europe as bankrupt, proud knave, Who’d gladly be tipped by the young Stephey Cave.”

They threw down the records, bills, bonds, and such stuff; He tested the figures through sums on his cuff; He bent down to blush, and he got up to sigh, With a curl on his lip and disdain in his eye; He gave his right hand a most tragical wave―― “They’ve swindled thee proper,” said young Stephey Cave.

One pull at the bell, and one crocodile’s tear, And they ope’d the hall-door, and the Khedive stood near. So plain to his Highness the plan that he showed, So strongly perceiving the same he avowed―― “We are saved! We are saved! spite of loan, bond, and knave!” “They’ll have sharp wits that beat us,” said young Stephey Cave.

There was raving and stamping ’mong Pashas galore; Frenchmen, Germans, and Yankees, they cursed and they swore; There was hoping and waiting ’mong bondholders free, But the fruits of his mission ne’er did they see. So renowned at accounts, so financially brave, Have ye e’er heard of banker like young Stephey Cave?

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

――――

YOUNG LOCHINVAR. The True Story in Blank Verse.

Oh! young Lochinvar has come out of the West, Thro’ all the wide border his horse has no equal, Having cost him forty-five dollars at the market, Where good nags, fresh from the country, With burrs still in their tails are selling For a song; and save his good broad sword He weapon had none, except a seven-shooter Or two, a pair of brass knuckles, and an Arkansaw

Toothpick in his boot, so, comparatively speaking, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone, Because there was no one going his way. He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for Toll-gates; he swam the Erke River where ford There was none, and saved fifteen cents In ferriage, but lost his pocket-book, containing Seventeen dollars and a half, by the operation.

Ere he alighted at the Netherby mansion He stopped to borrow a dry suit of clothes, And this delayed him considerably, so when He arrived the bride had consented――the gallant Came late――for a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen, and the guests had assembled.

So, boldly he entered the Netherby Hall Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and Brothers-in-law and forty or fifty cousins; Then spake the bride’s father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom ne’er opened his head):

“Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in anger, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?” “I long wooed your daughter, and she will tell you I have the inside track in the free-for-all For her affections! my suit you denied; but let That pass, while I tell you, old fellow, that love Swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide, And now I am come with this lost love of mine To lead but one measure, drink one glass of beer; There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far That would gladly be bride to yours very truly.”

The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up, He quaffed off the nectar and threw down the mug, Smashing it into a million pieces, while He remarked that he was the son of a gun From Seven-up and run the Number Nine. She looked down to blush, but she looked up again For she well understood the wink in his eye; He took her soft hand ere her mother could Interfere, “Now tread we a measure; first four Half right and left; swing,” cried young Lochinvar.

One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door and the charger Stood near on three legs eating post hay; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, Then leaped to the saddle before her. “She is won! we are gone! over bank, bush, and spar, They’ll have swift steeds that follow”――but in the

Excitement of the moment he had forgotten To untie the horse, and the poor brute could Only gallop in a little circus around the Hitching-post; so the old gent collared The youth and gave him the awfullest lambasting That was ever heard of on Canobie Lee; So dauntless in war and so daring in love, Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

Free Press Flashes, 1883.

――――:o:――――

MARMION TRAVESTY.

Marmion was published in February, 1808, when the Duke of York was Commander-in-Chief of the British Army. A scandal in connection with this office gave rise to a very successful burlesque of Marmion, about which a few explanatory notes must be given. Frederic, Duke of York (the second son of George III., born in 1763), having proved his utter incapacity as a general in the field, during several disastrous campaigns in Flanders and Holland, was raised to the lucrative post of Commander-in-Chief of the Army. Notwithstanding that he was married to a daughter of the King of Prussia, he took several ladies under his protection, one of whom, Mrs. Mary Anne Clarke, was also married. The Duke, in addition to an unfortunate attachment to the pleasures of the table, was also an inveterate and unlucky gamester, consequently the allowance of £1,000 a year which he had promised to Mrs. Clarke was always in arrear.

Unable to support the expensive establishment which she had started at the Duke’s instigations, Mrs. Clarke proceeded, with much business aptitude, to sell Commissions in the Army, to arrange promotions, and to effect transfers, pocketing very large sums for her services, which, in most cases, were crowned with success. Colonel Wardle, M.P. for Oakingham, brought the subject before the House of Commons, an enquiry was instituted, Mrs. Clarke was examined as a witness, and stated that she always found the Duke of York willing to promote the gentlemen whose names she recommended to his notice. The evidence taken before the Committee was so damaging to the character of the Duke that he resigned his office before the House had fully decided on its report. Sir David Dundas was appointed Commander-in-Chief, but he only held the position for a short time. As soon as the public indignation had in some degree subsided, the Duke of York resumed the office, having by the clever ruse of a temporary resignation, escaped the almost certain vote of censure of the House of Commons.

Upon these circumstances was founded “Marmion travestied; a tale of Modern Times, by Peter Pry, Esq. London; Thomas Tegg, Cheapside. 1809.” The keynote of this amusing volume is given by the motto, taken from Gay:――

_’Tis Woman that seduces all mankind; By her we first are taught the wheedling arts; Her very eyes can cheat when most she’s kind; She tricks us of our money with our hearts._

The Travesty was inscribed by its author to “Walter Scott, Esq., Advocate.” Each canto is introduced by lines addressed either to Sir Francis Burdett, R. B. Sheridan, Sir David Dundas, Sir Robert Peel, or Lord Ellenborough.

The poem consists of 277 pages, octavo, and deals very closely with the Clarke case, so that unless the reader has by him the Report containing the evidence taken before the House, some of the allusions would be unintelligible, especially as the names are only indicated by italics, and the volume is destitute of any explanatory notes.

As one of the longest and most important burlesques in the language it could not be passed over, but unfortunately it offers few passages, which detached from the context, would interest the modern reader, and even these might be considered rather broad in their allusions.

The parody it contains of Lady Heron’s song, Lochinvar, is entitled “The Bishop,” an allusion to the fact that the Duke of York was Prince-Bishop of Osnaburg, a post for which his high moral character admirably fitted him.

THE BISHOP.

O, a Bishop from Surrey is come here to pray, Throughout our dominions no man is more gay; And save one in a corner, he favourites had none, For he was so moderate, he lov’d only one; So faithful in love and so fervent in pray’rs That never did man better manage affairs.

He staid not for cash――tho’ he ask’d for a loan, But he that cur’d tooth-aches, provided him none; And ere he’d neglect things of love or of state He came without money, for fear he’d come late, For a laggard in love, is a fool, he declares, Unworthy of Cupid, or e’en state affairs.

To worship his saint did he thus take a trip, And, quite pilgrim-like, with no cash in his scrip; When one of the vestals, the Bishop attacked, (It seems that the altar some sacrifice lack’d), Oh! come you with money, or come you with pray’rs, Or come you with vows that you’ll settle affairs?

Without you have cash must your suit be denied, Love swells like the ocean but ebbs like its tide; So now I observe――and observe very true, That if you’ve no money, your kissing won’t do; Your Grace need not take empty pockets upstairs, It is a long-purse that must manage affairs.

The saint then appear’d and the Bishop soon pray’d; His vows――but not one of the house-bills――were paid. She look’d up for more and she look’d down in vain, For searching his small clothes, they nought did contain. She wish’d to know how she should settle arrears, “Good morrow,” said he, and thus managed affairs.

How sudden his exit――how wild was her look, For now his departure she scarcely could brook; While her sister did fret and her housemaid did fume, And her friends in a passion walk’d all round the room, And the servants too whisper’d, “She’s wrong, who e’er dares, To meddle so much with a Bishop’s affairs.”

One hint by the way――and one word in your ear If ever you wish to be darling and dear―― Ne’er talk to a Bishop ’bout mammon, but know His blessing’s enough, as the sequel will show; “She is false――then farewell――let her rail, but who cares; Another I’ll find that can manage affairs.”

And to manage affairs is a business of art, A secret which prudence forbids to impart, A secret which e’en in the Cabinet reigns, For statesmen can always display ways and means; In love or in war whoe’er stratagem spares, Deserves not a blessing to prosper affairs.

The Duke of York died early in 1827, to the great regret of all――his numerous creditors, and the nation erected an expensive monument to commemorate his military genius, and domestic virtues.[39] Perhaps the money might have been as well employed in the payment of some of his debts.

――――:o:――――

THE LADY OF THE LAKE.

The success of Marmion encouraged Scott to produce another poem, and in May, 1810, was published The Lady of the Lake, which met with equal favour. In the preface to his new poem Walter Scott made the following sensible remarks:――

“If a man is determined to make a noise in the world, he is as sure to encounter abuse and ridicule, as he who gallops furiously through a village, must reckon on being followed by the curs in full cry. Experienced persons know, that in stretching to flog the latter, the rider is very apt to catch a bad fall; nor is an attempt to chastise a malignant critic attended with less danger to the author. On this principle I let parody, burlesque, and squibs, find their own level; and while the latter hissed most fiercely, I was cautious never to catch them up, as school-boys do, to throw them back against the naughty boy who fired them off, wisely remembering that they are in such cases apt to explode in the handling.”

The philosophical temperament of which he here boasts was soon put to a severe test, for George Colman the younger produced a parody in which every technical blemish in The Lady of the Lake was mercilessly ridiculed, and every improbability maliciously exaggerated, whilst Scott’s long Notes on antiquarian and philological topics were imitated with very comical mock gravity. This clever satire was entitled, “THE LADY OF THE WRECK; or Castle Blarneygig,” by George Colman the younger, inscribed to the author of “The Lady of the Lake.” This poem was published by Longmans and Co., London, and was illustrated by some curious and very well executed little woodcuts. The scene of the story is laid in Ireland, and the author thus explains his reason for selecting that country:――

“Let not the reader, whose senses have been delightfully intoxicated by that Scottish Circe, the “Lady of the Lake,” accuse the present author of plagiary. The wild Irish and wild Caledonians bore a great resemblance to each other, in very many particulars; and two Poets, who have any “method in their madness,” may, naturally, fall into similar strains of wildness, when handling subjects equally wild and remote. ’Tis a wild world, my masters! The author of this work has merely adopted the style which a northern GENIUS has, of late, rendered the Fashion, and the Rage. He has attempted, in this instance, to become a maker of the Modern-Antique; a vendor of a new coinage, begrim’d with the ancient ærugo; a constructor of the dear pretty sublime, and sweet little grand; a writer of a short epick poem, stuff’d with romantick knick-knackeries, and interlarded with songs and ballads, à la mode de Chevy Chase, Edom o’ Gordon, Sir Launcelot du Lake, &c., &c. How is such a writer to be class’d?”

Scott’s descriptions of scenery, his love of sport, and chivalrous tone are all, in this burlesque, reduced to a very prosaic level; thus the lines in Canto I commencing:――

“The stag at eve had drunk his fill, Where danced the moon on Monan’s rill, And deep his midnight lair had made In lone Glenartney’s hazel shade.”

are, by Colman, rendered thus:――

“The Pig, at eve, was lank, and faint, Where Patrick is the Patron Saint, And with his peasant Lord, unfed, Went, grunting, to their common bed: But when black night her sables threw Athwart the slough of Ballyloo, The deep-mouth’d thunder’s angry roar Re-bellow’d on the Ulster shore, And hailstones pelted, mighty big, The Towers of Castle Blarneygig. * * * * * And all the Vassals’ senses lay Drown’d in the whisky of the day. Still raged the storm!――still, records run, All slept in Blarneygig, save one, Lord of the Castle, and Domain, Sir Tooleywhagg O’Shaughnashane.”

In Canto II. of The Lady of the Lake occurs the celebrated and often quoted

BOAT SONG.

Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances! Honour’d and bless’d be the ever-green Pine! Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line! Heaven send it happy dew, Earth lend it sap anew, Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to grow, While every Highland glen Sends our shout back agen, “Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!” * * * * * Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands, Stretch to your oars for the ever-green Pine! O that the rose-bud that graces yon islands Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine! O that some seedling gem, Worthy such noble stem, Honour’d and bless’d in their shadow might grow! Loud should Clan-Alpine then Ring from the deepmost glen, “Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!”

In Colman’s version the Lord of Castle Blarneygig is the hero of the song:――

“Soon did the deep Cream Crutin twang, And, thus, as loud the chorus rang, The Vassals, at the Banquet, sang.”

BANQUET SONG.[40]

Hail our Chief! now he’s wet through with whiskey; Long life to the Lady come from the salt seas! Strike up, blind harpers! skip high to be frisky! For what is so gay as a bag-full of fleas? Crest of O’Shaughnashane!―― That’s a Potato, plain,―― Long may your root every Irishman know! Pats long have stuck to it, Long bid good luck to it; Whack for O’Shaughnashane! Tooleywhagg, ho!

Our’s is an esculent lusty and lasting; No turnip nor other weak babe of the ground; Waxy or mealy, it hinders from fasting Half Erin’s inhabitants, all the year round. Wants the soil, where ’tis flung, Hog’s, cow’s, or horse’s dung, Still does the Crest of O’Shaughnashane grow; Shout for it, Ulster men, Till the bogs quake again! Whack for O’Shaughnashane! Tooleywhagg, ho!

Drink, Paddies, drink to the Lady so shining! While flouret shall open, and bog-trotter dig, So long may the sweet Rose of Beauty be twining Around the potato of proud Blarneygig! While the plant vegetates, While whisky recreates, Wash down the root from the horns that o’erflow; Shake your shillalahs, boys! Screeching drunk, scream your joys! Whack for O’Shaughnashane! Tooleywhagg, ho!

The Song in Canto III, commencing thus:――

The heath this night must be my bed, The bracken curtain for my head, My lullaby the warder’s tread, Far, far, from love and thee, Mary; To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, My couch may be my bloody plaid, My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid! It will not waken me, Mary! * * * * *

is thus parodied:――

SONG OF THE BRIDEGROOM.

Don’t, now, be after being coy; Sit still upon my lap, dear joy! And let us at our breakfast, toy, For thou art Wife to me, Judy! And I am bound, by wedlock’s chain, Thy humble sarvant to remain, Sir Tooleywhagg O’Shaughnashane, The Husband unto thee, Judy! * * * * * The skins of Wolves,――by me they bled,―― Are covers to our Marriage-Bed; Should one, in hunting, bite me dead, A widow thou wilt be, Judy! Howl at my wake! ’twill be but kind; And if I leave, as I’ve design’d, Some little Tooleywhaggs behind, They’ll sarve to comfort thee, Judy!

Several other parts of this parody might be quoted, but unfortunately Mr. Colman’s muse was not quite so chaste as that of Walter Scott.

――――

The libretto of an Italian opera was founded upon The Lady of the Lake (and such librettos are always burlesques on the original poem), besides which it has been frequently represented, in various forms, on the stage. One very amusing version, by Andrew Halliday, entitled “MOUNTAIN DHU; or, the Knight, the Lady, and the Lake,” was produced at the Adelphi Theatre, on December 26, 1866. This burlesque was full of parodies of Scotch songs with topical allusions. The leading parts were performed by Mrs. Alfred Mellon, Miss Furtado, and Paul Bedford, with J. L. Toole as Rhoderick Dhu. About the same time Miss M. Oliver produced “The Lady of the Lake plaid in a new Tartan, an ephemeral burlesque,” by R. Reece, at the New Royalty Theatre, London, but this was decidedly inferior in literary merit to Mr. Halliday’s Mountain Dhu.

――――

“HAIL TO THE CHIEF!” (A_ Popular Pæan. After Sir Walter._)

Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances! Sharp be his axe, and resplendent its shine, Long may the light of his fire-flashing glances! Fervently flame in the front of our line! Heaven his strength renew, Still keep him stout and true, Gaily to battle, and greatly to grow; While all true Englishmen Send forth the shout agen, “Gladstone victorious! Ho-ieroe!”

Ours is no stripling, no Knight of the Carpet! Blooming at seventy, when shall he fade? Him, of the People, in Peace or in War, pet, Years cannot fetter, nor foes make afraid, Firm as the fixèd rock, Braving the tempest’s shock, Faster he roots him the fiercer it blow. England and Scotland then Echo his praise agen, “Gladstone victorious! Ho-ieroe!”

Far in Midlothian his pibroch pealed loudly, And Torydom’s shout to his slogan replied. Dauntless Dalkeith there confronted him proudly, But little the Veteran recked of his pride. “Fagots” all prostrate laid Long shall lament his raid, Think of “Old Gladstone” with wonder and woe: Buccleuch’s brave voting men Shake when they hear agen “Gladstone victorious! Ho-ieroe!”

Shout, bearers, shout, for the Pride of the Party! Lift on your shoulders the evergreen Chief. Stalwart at seventy, stout, hale, and hearty, Who of his laurels will grudge him a leaf? And there’s a stripling gem, Worthy the ancient stem―― Middlesex missed him, but Leeds won’t say “No.” Loud shall all England then Shout for the pair agen, “Gladstone and Gladstone’s boy! Ho-ieroe!”

Punch, April 24, 1880.

――――:o:――――

The following lines are in imitation of the opening of Canto III., entitled The Gathering. They are apropos of Mr. Gladstone’s visit to Scotland in August, 1884, during the agitation about the Franchise Bill.

RAISING THE “FIERY CROSS.” (Some way after Sir Walter Scott).

Time rolls his ceaseless course. That fight of yore, When the Great Earl was beaten to his knee, When Gladstone’s rhetoric rolled from shore to shore, Herald and harbinger of victory, Is not yet blotted from man’s memory. How few, how weak and withered of their force The Tory remnant, which all men might see Like stranded wrecks. The tide returning hoarse Sets them afloat again! Time rolls its ceaseless course.

There yet live those who can remember well When last the Liberal Chief his bugle blew; When county broad and borough big, as well As far Midlothian’s heart, the signal knew, And fast the faithful clan around him drew. And now again his warning note is wound, Again the banner floats as then it flew; Whilst now the clamorous war-pipes shrilly sound, And now the Fiery Cross gleams like a meteor round.

The Summer Sun’s effulgent hue Gilds Scotia’s skies of bluest blue; Autumn’s at hand, but a brisk breeze, Born of conflicting policies, Blows o’er the land, and leisure coy, And sport’s supreme soul-stirring joy, Are not for Members sorely prest, The prospect of unbroken rest In dull uncertainty still lies Far off, ’neath drear December’s skies. The Peers have crossed the People’s right, And there is bound to be a fight! Against the ermine and the lawn The proletariat blade is drawn, Members must leave the mountain’s side, The trout stream’s swift and silvery glide; To raise the sword and shout the cry Amidst the roused democracy. Good-bye to grouse, to health’s fair flush, The pheasant’s whirr, the salmon’s rush, War’s raven croaks, the cushat dove Hushes her notes of peace and love.

No thought of peace or Autumn rest Hath harbour in the Chieftain’s breast. With unsheathed broadsword in his hand, He’ll pace the war-awakened land. Strife’s rising he has heard and laid His hand upon his ready blade, His foot’s a rock. His vassals’ care Midlothian promptly will prepare, Where he aforetime lessons taught With deep and deathful meaning fraught; Where they shall meet and whence abroad The Cross of Fire shall take its road. The land would hear his vocal blasts, And see the flashing glance he casts: Such glance the mountain-eagle throws, When high among the peaks and snows He spreads his pinions on the wind, And, like an albatross reclined Mid-air, with his broad shadow hushes The chirpers of the brakes and bushes. ’Tis all prepared! Firm as a rock, And bold to brave the stormiest shock, With kindling eye, with floating plaid, Wide waving hair and flashing blade, The Chieftain stands, heroic, grim, Of dauntless front, and sinewy limb. The Cross is shaped, and held on high; The Chieftain of the eagle eye Rears it aloft with clutch of steel, Whilst far resounds his fierce appeal:―― “When flits this Cross from man to man, Vich-Gladstone’s summons to his clan, Woe to the clansman who shall view This symbol, loved of followers true, Forgetful that when last the blue Beheld its blaze its beaconing drew Beaconsfield’s glory low! Deserter of his Chieftain’s trust, He shall be scattered like the dust, And from all loyal gatherings thrust, Each clansman’s execration just Shall doom him wrath and woe!” He stops;――the word his followers take With forward step and fiery shake Of naked brands that lightnings make, And clattering shields that echoes wake; And first in murmur low, Then like a Demonstration’s course That Hyde parkwards doth his in force, And purple shouts itself, and hoarse, Burst from that thousand-throated source, “Woe to such traitors, woe!”

The Chiefs grey locks defiant wave, The Tories scarce that Cross may brave; The exulting Rads hurrah afar―― They know the voice of Gladstone’s War!

Punch, August 30, 1884.

――――:o:――――

ROKEBY.

Rokeby was the next important poem produced by Scott,――it appeared early in 1813, and was quickly followed by a burlesque, entitled “JOKEBY; a Burlesque on Rokeby. A Poem in Six Cantos, by an Amateur of Fashion.” To which are added Occasional Notes, by our most popular characters. London, printed for Thomas Tegg, 1813. The notes are in imitation of the style of learned commentators, and are signed by Sheridan, Kemble, Colman, and others. The only portion of this now-forgotten parody which is worth quoting, is a song founded on that in Canto III. Rokeby, commencing:――

“O, Brignall banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there, Would grace a summer queen.”

SONG.

Oh, Giles’s lads are brave and gay, The pride of Dyott Street, And though in dwellings low they stay, Yet snug is their retreat. And as I walked thro’ Russel-square, To see what I could see, A fair one from a window there Was singing merrily

Chorus――

“Oh, Giles’s lads are brave and gay, The pride of Dyott Street; I’d rather with my Cymon stray, Than live in country seat.”

If, fair, thou wou’dst for me agree, To leave this house and place, Thou first must guess what boys we are, Who sweet St. Giles’s grace. And if thou can’st this riddle tell, As tell you may with ease, Then shalt thou enter soon our cell, As merry as you please.

Chorus――

Yet sung she “Giles’s lads are gay, The pride of Dyott Street; I’d rather with my Cymon stray, Than live in country seat.”

“I guess you by your awkward feet, And by your stoop to boot; I guess you for a taylor meet, To make a marriage suit.” “A taylor, madam, bends his knees, And not for sake of prayer; His legs are always fix’d at ease, And mine are here and there.”

Chorus――

Yet sung she, “Giles’s lads are gay, The pride of Dyott Street; I wish I could with Cymon stray, And see his snug retreat.”

“By the fine compliments I’ve met, And by your gallant airs, I guess you for a ’Squire’s valet, Who for him lies and swears.” “No servant I to any Squire, Nor yet a place have I, And when that trials hard require, I can both swear and lie.”

Chorus――

And, oh! though Giles’s lads are gay, The pride of Dyott Street, Yet never lass with me shall stray, To see our snug retreat.

“Lady, a shameful life I lead, A shameful death I’ll die; The man who labours hard for bread Were better spouse than I. And when I meet my comrades rare, In places distant far; We all forget what once we were, Nor think on what we are.”

Chorus――

Yet Giles’s lads are bold and gay, The pride of Dyott Street; And ever true and merry they, Within their snug retreat.

Jokeby went through many editions, although to a modern reader it seems almost destitute of humour or talent. It has been attributed to John Roby, and also to Thomas Tegg, its publisher, whilst the Editor of Parodies copied the following note from a copy of Jokeby, which had belonged to the late Shirley Brooks, Editor of Punch:――“This was written by the Brothers Smith (of Rejected Addresses). I picked it up at a bookstall near Baker Street. The work is not good for much, but I suppose is now scarce, so this may as well be kept.――Shirley Brooks, 17th October, 1873.” But it seems most improbable that this poor imitation should have been the work of either of the Smiths, whose admirable parody of Scott in the Rejected Addresses, which was given on page 72, shows what they could do in that way.

There was also Smokeby a Parody of the same poem, which appeared in an early number of the Ephemerides, a literary serial, published in Edinburgh in 1813. Rokeby the Second is the title of a long, and rather dull, parody which appeared in The Satirist, of March. 1813. The events recounted in the poem are supposed to have occurred immediately after the dreadful fight between Tom Cribb and Molineux. The chief aim of this production was to ridicule Scott for the inordinate length of the notes to his poems, for in a preface entitled “An Essay on the Art of Book Making,” the author remarks: “It must be known to everyone, that in modern bookmaking, little depends on the poetry of a poem. The notes are the thing on which success depends. In these, difficult as it may seem to come up to the authors of Childe Harold and Rokeby, I am vain enough to think I shall not be found wanting.” Accordingly, the notes are very long (as well as rather broad), and have very little connection indeed with the parody itself.

The Satirist, or Monthly Meteor (London), first appeared on October 1, 1807, and was discontinued in 1814. It contained numerous political parodies, and with each number there was a large coloured folding cartoon. The tone of the Satirist was decidedly Tory, and both in its cartoons and its letterpress the Whigs were roundly abused and ridiculed.

The parts published December, 1808, and January, 1809, contained two articles entitled “Second Sight,” which professed to be a review of a new poem entitled “MACARTHUR, an Epic Poem, in six Cantos, by Walter Scott, Esq.” This review not only gave the plot of the supposed work, but also quoted several extracts from it, such as the following:――

“And every eye was turn’d to see What such a goodly smell might be! When, lo! upon the sideboard plac’d, With mottoes quaint and scutcheons grac’d, And crest erect on high; In noble dish of china-ware, Adorn’d with gold and pictures rare, Stood, and perfumed the neighbouring air, A lofty pigeon-pie! And round its edge, in bas relieve, The curious gazer might perceive S.W. and P.I.! * * * * * Knows well, no doubt the curious sage, And poet’s mind, and head of age, What such devices mean; Who made this pie, of high renown, A baker was, of Derby town, His sire reap’d beards at Horsleydown, An honest wight, I ween; His sister a damsel of Etwall-ash, His mother a matron of Enfield-wash, And laundress to the Queen! And long could he trace his ancestry, Too long for my weak minstrelsy.” * * * * *

――――:o:――――

VALENTINES, A Fragment.

… “It was then proposed that we should each of us compose a poem for the next St. Valentine’s Day. The idea was readily adopted, and the MINSTREL, who has a knack of pouring the unpremeditated lay, after a very short prelude on the bagpipes, sang the following irregular lines, accompanying his voice with great taste on that expressive instrument:――

I who, of Norham’s castled steep, And Tweed’s fair river, broad and deep, And Cheviot’s mountains lone; The battled towers, the Donjon keep, The loophole grates where captives weep, The flanking walls that round it sweep, Built of the thickest stone:――

Of stalworth knight and champion grim With square-turn’d joints and strength of limb; Of Haco’s floating banner trim; Of Wallace wight, and Martin Swart, Who came on baker Simnel’s part; Of abbots, monks and jovial friars, Of simple nuns and purblind priors, Of heralds, pursuivants, and squires; And wanton lady’s charms; Of painted tabards, proudly showing Gules, argent, or, or azure glowing, And him, that Satirist, so knowing, Of whom we still make some account, Sir David Lindsay, of the mount, Lord lion king at arms:―― * * * * * I, who have sung of all of these;―― And eke of that same cuckold lord, Sir Hugh the Heron bold, Baron of Twissel and of Ford, And Captain of the Hold. Who led the Falcon knight to the deas, And posted him full high With a fresh broach’d pipe of Malvoisie And a savoury venison pie: From the bare north, my distant home A border minstrel, lo! I come; Who much, I ween, have pored On many a huge unwieldy tome Imprinted at the antique dome, Of Caxton, or de Worde:

To dear St. Valentine no thrush, Sings livelier from a Springtide bush; Then pay me half-a-crown a line, And I will be thy Valentine.”

This Valentine parody appeared in The Satirist for February, 1810, with another poem imitating the style of M. G. Lewis.

In January, 1811, there was another long parody of Walter Scott, in the same journal. It was entitled The Ovation of the Empty Chair, and commenced:――

O that I had the muse I wot, The buxom muse of Walter Scott, Whose wand’ring verse and vagrant rhymes, Recite the tales of other times; Then should that simple muse declare, Th’ ovation of the empty chair.

This parody relates to the imprisonment in the Tower of Sir Francis Burdett, the Radical Member for Westminster, and father of the present Lady Burdett Coutts.

――――:o:――――

On the death of Mr. Henry James Pye, the Poet Laureate, in 1813, and during the discussion which ensued as to his probable successor, The Satirist published a collection of applications for the post. These applications (supposed to have been written by the most eminent poets of the day), contained specimens of such odes and addresses as they would have been prepared to manufacture in praise of the monarch, and his family, on appointment to the office. The authors thus parodied were Hannah More, George Colman, Lord Byron, W. Wordsworth, Thomas Campbell, Robert Southey, Walter Scott, and George Crabbe. The notes which accompanied the parodies were more interesting than the poems themselves, of which, indeed, the only one which would be worth quoting was a parody on Robert Southey. That on Walter Scott was poor stuff, and most of the others are quite out of date.

――――:o:――――

WALTER SCOTT, ESQ., TO HIS PUBLISHERS.

Be not discouraged――gentlemen, Tho’ criticism has run me down―― Tho’ burlesque has assum’d my pen, And Plagiary stole my renown―― Give me more cash――I’ll take more pains, And far surpass my former strains In Metaphor and thought. My fancy too shall soar so high, That burlesque writers I’ll defy, And critics set at naught.

Successful in my first essay, My friends began to greet―― My First, entitled the Last Lay―― No minstrel sung more sweet―― Then envy slept and I became, At once a Poet of great fame; For much applause I had―― Proud of the offspring of my pen, I was resolved to write agen, And to my laurels add.

My Marmion I then gave the town, In strains energetic and bold; The critics were ready to own, The battle sublimely was told. But one Peter Pry, His humour must try, To burlesque the poem I’d written; To me it did seem A wonderful theme, For any to exercise wit on.

Resolved another work to make, I wrote the Lady of the Lake; The Lady was so much the rage, That she was brought upon the stage; But grief to tell! The younger Colman must think fit, (In order to display his wit) My Lady, who the Lake did deck, To make the Lady of the WRECK; Nor was this all――for――oh, for shame! Presumptuous Plagiary, I wot, Stole all my sentiments and plot, And made a novel of the same.

I’ll nought of Don Roderic say, For that, sirs, had never fair play And well the poor author may rail In oblivion Don Roderic lay; For all must allow, There wer’nt puffs enow, And how could it then have a sale?

I then my dear Rokeby devised―― By MURRAY ’twas well advertised; For he made a boast In the Times and the Post, (And many the puffs too believed) That he the first copies received―― But oh my unfortunate Rokeby; Who e’er of a parody dream’t, To bring thee thus into comtempt, Metamorphosing thee into JOKEBY. When I saw――oh, how great was my passion, The bills upon Edinburgh wall―― Fit dress for this writer of fashion[41]―― I sent men to cover them all.

Now, gentlemen, as I have hinted, I wish a new work to be printed―― Another’s already prepared, Then don’t let your money be spared. I hate in my price to be stinted―― ’Tis such――it will baffle all wit, ’Tis such that no burlesque can hit; ’Tis such so sublime and so grand―― The critics will not understand. And I long――ah, I long now to show ’em, The charms of my forthcoming Poem.

From ACCEPTED ADDRESSES, or Præmium Poetarum. London, Thomas Tegg, 1813.

――――:o:――――

“THE POETIC MIRROR, or the Living Bards of Britain,” is the title of a small volume published by Longmans & Co., London, in 1816. This contains poems which are ascribed, in the index, to Lord Byron, Walter Scott, W. Wordsworth, James Hogg, S. T. Coleridge, J. Wilson, and Robert Southey. In the introduction the Editor remarks that he claims no merit save that of having procured from the authors the various Poems contained in the volume, and he leads one to believe that the names affixed to the Poems represent the real authors.

The Editor of Parodies purchased this little old book in March, 1879, and by a singular coincidence he picked up in the same shop “The Altrive Tales,” by the Ettrick Shepherd (London, 1832). This contains a memoir of the author, James Hogg, written by himself. In it Hogg thus describes the origin of The Poetic Mirror: “My next literary adventure was the most extravagant of any. I took it into my head that I would collect a poem from every living author in Britain, and publish them in a neat and elegant volume, by which I calculated I might make my fortune. I applied to Southey, Wilson, Wordsworth, Lloyd, Morehead, Pringle, Paterson, and several others, all of whom sent me poems. Wordsworth reclaimed his, Byron and Rogers both promised, but neither of them ever performed. Walter Scott absolutely refused to furnish me with even one verse, which I took exceedingly ill, as it frustrated my whole plan. I began, with a heavy heart, to look over the pieces I had received, and lost all hope of the success of my project. After considering them well, I fancied that I could write a better poem than any that had been sent to me, and this so completely in the style of each poet, that it should not be known but for his own production. It was this conceit that suggested to me the idea of “The Poetic Mirror, or the Living Bards of Britain.” I wrote nearly all of it in three weeks, and in less than three months it was published. The second poem in the volume, namely, the Epistle to R―――― S―――― is not mine. It was written by Mr. Thomas Pringle, and was not meant as an imitation of Scott’s manner, although in the contents it is ascribed to his pen. I do not set any particular value on any poem in the work by myself, except “The Gude Greye Katte,” which was written as a caricature of “The Pilgrims of the Sun,” and some others of my fairy ballads. It is greatly superior to any of them.”

It is only just to the memory of James Hogg to add that the poems in the Poetic Mirror cannot be termed Parodies; they are rather imitations of style, and all the authors mentioned are treated with forbearance; Wordsworth, alone comes in for some slight criticism, called forth by his intense egotism, and offensive self-assertion, of which Hogg, in his memoir, gives some amusing instances.

Besides the Epistle addressed to Southey, in the name of Walter Scott, there is a long poem, in three Cantos, entitled “Wat o’ the Cleuch,” which would pass very well as a minor poem by Walter Scott himself. In style it somewhat resembles Marmion, whilst Lochinvar was evidently in the author’s mind when he wrote the following sketch of his robber hero:――

WALSINGHAME’S SONG.

O heard ye never of Wat o’ the Cleuch? The lad that has worrying tikes enow, Whose meat is the moss, and whose drink is the dew, And that’s the cheer of Wat o’ the Cleuch. Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! Woe’s my heart for Wat o’ the Cleuch!

Wat o’ the Cleuch sat down to dine With two pint stoups of good red wine; But when he looked they both were dry; O poverty parts good company! Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! O for a drink to Wat o’ the Cleuch!

Wat o’ the Cleuch came down the Tine To woo a maid both gallant and fine; But as he came o’er by Dick o’ the side He smell’d the mutton and left the bride. Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! What think ye now of Wat o’ the Cleuch?

Wat o’ the Cleuch came here to steal, He wanted milk, and he wanted veal; But ere he wan o’er the Beetleston brow He hough’d the calf, and eated the cow! Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! Well done, doughty Wat o’ the Cleuch!

Wat o’ the Cleuch came here to fight, But his whittle was blunt, and his nag took fright, And the braggart he did what I dare not tell, But changed his cheer at the back of the fell. Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! O for a croudy to Wat o’ the Cleuch!

Wat o’ the Cleuch kneel’d down to pray, He wist not what to do or to say; But he pray’d for beef, and he pray’d for bree, A two-hand spoon and a haggies to pree. Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! That’s the cheer for Wat o’ the Cleuch!

But the devil is cunning as I heard say, He knew his right, and haul’d him away; And he’s over the border and over the heuch, And off to hell with Wat o’ the Cleuch. Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! Lack-a-day for Wat o’ the Cleuch!

But of all the wights in poor Scotland, That ever drew bow or Border brand, That ever drove English bullock or ewe, There never was thief like Wat o’ the Cleuch. Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! Down for ever with Wat o’ the Cleuch!

――――:o:――――

“Warreniana; with Notes Critical and Explanatory, by the Editor of a Quarterly Review,” is the title of a small volume of imitations, published by Longmans and Co., London, in 1824. The Editor signs his prefatory remarks “W.G.” but there is every reason to believe that the work was written by a Barrister, Mr. William Frederic Deacon, who died in, or about 1845. The motto on the title-page gives the key-note to the motive of the poems, “I have even been accused of writing Puffs for Warren’s Blacking,” LORD BYRON. Warren’s Blacking inspires each composition, but whether seriously or in jest, can be best judged by the following extract from the dedication to the King: “Deign then, oh best of Princes, to justify the Editor’s appeal, that posterity may learn how Warren enlarged the bounds of science, and his Sovereign bowed approval. Long after the trophies of a Wellington shall have floated down the Lethe of oblivion, the name of Guelph, eternised by the gratitude of Warren, shall flourish to after ages, the Medici of modern art. That as yet this mighty manufacturer has lived comparatively unnoticed, he casts no reflection on your Majesty; he resigns that office to his Blacking, but feels with the sensitiveness of neglected genius, that intellect, like the oak, is but tardy in the attainment of its honours.”

This dedication is followed by an introduction stating that Robert Warren had lately engaged all the intellect of England in his behalf, each author being required to furnish a modicum of praise in the style to which he was best adapted. The result being a collection of writings attributed to Washington Irving, William Wordsworth, Leigh Hunt, Robert Southey, Lord Byron, S. T. Coleridge, Sir Walter Scott, and other authors of less note.

The imitation of Scott is entitled:――

THE BATTLE OF BRENTFORD GREEN.

“In the autumn of 1818, a serious affray took place between those illustrious rivals, Warren, and Day and Martin. The parties, as I learn from the black litter record of the fray, met at Brentford, and after a ‘well-foughtenfield,’ victory was decided in favour of the former Chieftain.”

The first Canto describes a Wassail in the banquetting-hall of Robert Warren. The second Canto, which is the better of the two, is entitled:――

THE COMBAT.

’Tis merry――’tis merry on Brentford Green, When the holiday folk are singing, When the lasses flaunt with lightsome mien, And the Brentford bells are ringing; Well armed in stern unyielding mood. High o’er that Green the Warren stood; A burly man was he, Girt round the waist with ’kerchief blue, And clad in waistcoat dark of hue, And thick buff jerkin gay to view, And breeches of the knee: Beside him stood his trusty band, With hat on head, and club in hand, Loud shouting to the fight; Till answering shrill, street, alley, lane, O’er hill and heather, wood and plain, Sent forth the deepened sounds again, With voice of giant might.

Charge, Warren, charge; yon battle Green, Glitters afar with silvery sheen, The lightning of the storm; Where bands of braggarts bluff in mien, With ragged Irishmen are seen, Dreadful and drunken all, I ween, A phalanx fierce to form: Saint George! it was a gallant sight, To ken beneath the morning light, The shifting lines sweep by; In mailed and measured pace they sped, The earth gave back their hollow tread, ’Till you mote think the charnelled dead Were howling to the sky. “Hark, rolls the thunder of the drum, The foe advance――they come, they come! Lay on them,” quoth the Day; “God for the right! on Brentford Heath, Our bugles stern and stormy breath, Summons to victory or to death; Hurrah then, for the fray!”

Hurrah, hurrah! from rear to flank, In vengeance rung along each rank; And the red banners (formed by hap Of two old shirts stitched flap to flap)[42] Waved lordlier at the cry: ’Till every proud and painted scrap, Shivered like plume in ’prentice cap, Or cloud in winter sky. The Warren first this squad espied, Ranged man to man in ruffian pride, And to each warrior at his side In vaunting phrase began, “Rush on, ye ragamuffins, rush, All Brentford to a blacking brush, My foeman leads the van.”

On rushed each lozel to the fight, Ruthless as flood from mountain height, The bludgeons clattered fierce and fast, And dealt destruction as they past, While high as some tall vessel’s mast, Warren o’erlooked the shock; Thence bore him back with might and main; Brickbats and bludgeons fell like rain, Stones, sticks and stumps, all, all in vain, He stemmed them like a rock; His foeman chief with wary eye, The flickering of the fight could spy, And shouted as his bands he led, To Pat O’Thwackum at their head, “Thwackum, press on――ne’er mind your scars, Press on――they yield――and oh, my stars! Each nose is bleeding fast; Strike, strike,――their skulls like walnuts cracking For Day, for Martin, and his blacking, The battle cannot last.”

Vain charge! the Warren dauntless stood, Though ankle deep flowed seas of blood, Till Thwackum fierce towards him flies, His breast with choler glows, Rage flashes from his mouth and eyes, And claret from his nose. The foemen meet――they thump, they thwack! Hark! burst the braces on their back! And, hark! their skulls in concert crack! And, hark! their cudgels clatter, whack! With repercussive shocks: See, see they fall――down, down they go, Warren above, his foe below, While high o’er all ascends the cry Of “Warren,” “Warren,” to the sky, And “Thwackum” to the stocks.

Oh! for a blast of that tin horn, Through London streets by newsmen borne, That tells the wondering host How murder, rape, or treason dread, Deftly concocted, may be read In Courier, Times, or Post; Then in dramatic verse and prose, The martial muse should tell How Warren triumphed o’er his foes, How Thwackum fought and fell, And how, despite his cartel, Day Hied him, like recreant, from the fray.

’Tis done――the victors all are gone, And fitfully the sun shines down On many a bruised and burly clown, The flower of whose sweet youth is mown, To blossom ne’er again; For e’en as grass cut down is hay, So flesh when drubbed to death, is clay, As proved each hind who slept that day On Brentford’s crimson plain. Sad was the sight, for Warren’s squad Bravely lay sprawling on the sod; They scorned to turn their tails,――for why? They had no tails to turn awry, So dropped each where he stood.

First Ned of Greenwich kissed the ground, Then Figgins from Whitechapel pound, Mark Wiggins from Cheapside, Whackum and Thwackum from Guildhall, The two O’Noodles from Blackwall, Noggins the Jew from London Wall, And Scroggins from Saint Bride: Tim Bobbin tumbled as he rose To join the motley chase, Joe Abbot, spent by Warren’s blows Lay snug ensconced, and Danson’s nose Was flattened to his face: Stubbs too, of Brentford Green the rose, Would have essayed to pour On one――on all, his wrath red hot As blacksmith’s anvil, had he not Been hanged the day before.

Illustrious brave if muse like mine May bid for aye, your memories shine In fame’s recording page; Each wounded limb, each fractured head, Albeit tacked up in honour’s bed, Shall live from age to age; And still on Brentford Green while springs The daisy, while the linnet sings Her valentine to May, The sympathising hind shall tell Of those who fought and those who fell, At Brentford’s grim foray.

L’Envoy to the Reader.

Now, gentles, fare ye well, my rede Hath reached an end, nor feel I need To add to Warren’s fame, my meed Of laudatory rhymes; Far loftier bards his praise rehearse, And prouder swells his daily verse In Chronicle or Times. Enough for me on summer day, To pipe some simple oaten lay, Of goblin page or border fray, To rove in thought through Teviotdale, Where Melrose wanes a ruin pale, (The sight and sense with awe attacking,) Or skim Loch Katherine’s burnished flood, Or wade through Grampian Moor and mud, In boots baptized with WARREN’S BLACKING.

――――:o:――――

In 1822 a volume of Poems was published by Hurst, Robinson and Co., of London, and in Edinburgh by Archibald Constable and Co., entitled “THE BRIDAL OF CAÖLCHAIRN, and other Poems, by Sir Walter Scott, Bart.”

In the same year another edition was published by T. Hookham, Old Bond Street, London, on the title-page of which the work was said to be “by John Hay Allan, Esq.” The volume was dedicated to the Duke of Argyle, it had no preface, nor any explanation of the author’s impudent attempt to pass off his work upon the public as that of Sir Walter Scott.

The poems are of a serious nature, and would not have been mentioned here, had it not been for the hoax as to their authorship.

――――:o:――――

Rejected Odes, edited by Humphrey Hedgehog, Esq. (London, J. Johnston, 1813), contains an imitation of Scott’s poetry, but it is not worth quoting.

When George IV, visited Scotland in August, 1822, Scott wrote an imitation of an old Jacobite ditty, Carle, now the King’s come, it was in two parts, and was published as a broadside. This was parodied, under the title of Sawney, now the King’s come, of which it is very difficult now to obtain a copy.

In the third volume of the works of the late Thomas Love Peacock (London, R. Bentley and Son, 1875) there is a Border Ballad written in imitation of Sir Walter Scott.

This was one of the “Paper Money Lyrics” which were written by Peacock in 1825, and published in 1837, it has little to interest modern readers.

Several other Parodies of Scott have appeared in Punch, in addition to those here reprinted. One, entitled The Battle of Wimbledon, which appeared on July 19, 1862, consists principally of an enumeration of the most famous shots amongst the Volunteers of the day. Another, The Nile Song, June 6, 1863, in imitation of “Hail to the Chief,” celebrates the announcement made by Sir R. Murchison, at the Royal Geographical Society that Messrs. Speke and Grant had discovered the sources of the Nile.

A few other Parodies of detached passages of Scott’s poems are to be found in the early numbers of Blackwood’s Magazine, some of which were written by Professor Wilson (Christopher North.)

Many of Scott’s novels have been dramatised, and also burlesqued, these will be enumerated when dealing with his prose works. It may here be mentioned, however, that a burlesque of Kenilworth, written by R. Reece and H. B. Farnie is now being performed at the Avenue Theatre, London.

PARODIES OF SOME SCOTCH SONGS.

THE LONDON UNIVERSITY.

March, march, dustmen and coal-heavers, Doff your great castors for brims of less border, Assume trencher caps in the room of your old beavers, And march off to school at great Intellect’s order; For many a poet, who now does not know it, Professor, historian, logician and great wit, Mathematician, and famed rhetorician, Shall start from the dust-cart, or rise from the coal-pit.

March, march, &c.

Come from your shop-boards, ye tailors so nimble, Come forth, ye Crispins, from out your snug stalls, No more waste your time on your needle and thimble, Nor trust to your lapstones, your lasts, and your awls, Big wigs are debating, professors are waiting, To make ye all gentlemen, linguists, and great men, Turn tinkers and tailors to soldiers and sailors, And qualify dunces and asses for statesmen.

Then march, march, &c.

From The Spirit of the Age, 1829

The London University was founded mainly through the exertions of Lord Brougham, and Thomas Campbell, the Poet. It was opened in October, 1828, and was for some time the object of great opposition and ridicule. It was said that every sweep was going to have a college education, and a song, entitled The Literary Dustman, became exceedingly popular:――

At sartin schools they make boys write Their alphabet on sand, sirs, So I thought dust would do as vell, And larnt it out of hand, sirs; Took in the “Penny Magazine,” And Johnson’s Dixionary, And all the Perio-di-calls To make me literary.

They calls me Adam Bell, ’tis clear, As Adam vos the fust man,―― And by a co-in-side-ance queer, Vy, I’m the fust of Dustmen!

――――

SMOKING’S QUITE REGULAR.

“When pigs run wild about the streets, with straw in their mouths, it is a sign of rain.”――Old Saying.

Smoke! smoke! Arcade and College-green, Light your cigars, for smoking’s quite regular. Smoke! smoke! shop boys and chimney sweeps; Smoking’s the fashion from gemman to higgler.

Blow! blow! smokers and pugilists; Let there be piping and blowing no matter how. Blow! blow! zephyrs and organists, Piping and blowing there’s nothing else thought of now.

Puff! puff! that’s doing what is right. Puff till you’ve blinded his majesty’s lieges, Puff! puff! bakers and pastry-cooks, Bacca-pipe odour each nostril besieges.

Spit! spit! all who love bacca smoke, For it produces great expectoration; Spit! spit! smokers and cook wenches, Let there be spitting without a cessation.

Pipe! pipe! pipers and naughty brats; Here end my verse, my muse she is rather hoarse, Quid! quid! what do you think of it? Excellent metre! I know you all cry of course.

From WISEHEART’S NEW COMIC SONGSTER, Dublin (about 1832, when smoking was first becoming prevalent).

――――:o:――――

“OH, WHERE, AND OH WHERE.”

(Written by Mrs. Grant, of Laggan, “On the Marquis of Huntly’s departure for the Continent with his Regiment in 1799.”)

Oh where, tell me where, is your Highland Laddie gone? He’s gone with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done, And my sad heart will tremble, till he come safely home.

Oh where, tell me where, did your Highland Laddie stay? He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, beside the rapid Spey, And many a blessing followed him, the day he went away.

Oh what, tell me what, does your Highland Laddie wear? A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war, And a plaid across his manly breast, that yet shall wear a star.

Suppose, ah suppose that some cruel cruel wound Should pierce your Highland Laddie, and all your hopes confound! The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly, The spirit of a Highland chief would lighten in his eye!

But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland’s bonny bounds, His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds, While wide through all our Highland hills his warlike name resounds.

――――:o:――――

PUNCH’S SERENADE.

Oh where, and oh where, is my Harry Brougham gone?―― He’s gone to see the French, and Philippe upon his throne, And it’s oh! in my heart, I wish him safe at home.

Oh where, and oh where, does my Harry Brougham dwell?―― He dwells at Cannes in bonny France, and likes it very well; But recollect ’tis not the Cann’s where gravy soup they sell.

In what clothes, in what clothes, is your Harry Brougham clad?―― His hunting coat’s of velvet green, his trowsers are of plaid; And it’s oh! in my heart, he can’t look very bad.

Suppose, and suppose, that your Harry Brougham should die!―― Dog Toby would weep over him, and Punch himself would cry: But it’s oh! in our hearts, that we hope he will not die.

Punch, October 1846.

Lord Brougham went to his château at Cannes.――Passing through Paris, he, as usual, paid his respects to Louis Philippe. Life of Lord Brougham.

――――

SONG OF THE SLIGHTED SUITOR.

Oh where, and oh where, has my learned counsel gone? He’s gone to the Queen’s Bench, where a case is coming on, And it’s oh! in my heart, that I wish my case his own.

What fee, and what fee did your learned counsel clutch? Five guineas on his brief he did not think too much;―― And it’s oh! if he’s a barrister, I wish he’d act as such.

In what court, in what court is your learned counsel found? I cannot catch him anywhere, of all he goes the round;―― And it’s oh! in my heart, that to one I wish him bound.

What excuse, what excuse can your learned counsel make? None at all, none at all, but his head he’ll gravely shake, And it’s oh! in my heart, that the fee he’s sure to take.

Punch, 1848.

――――

THE GREAT KILT REFORM.

Oh where, and oh where, is your Highland Laddie gone? Oh, he’s gone into the hospital, with pains in every bone; And it’s oh! in my heart, that I wish he’d breeks put on!

What clothes, oh what clothes, did your Highland Laddie wear? Oh, his shoulders were well covered, but his legs were left all bare; And it’s oh! how that part must have felt the wintry air!

Oh why, and oh why, was your Highland Lad not dress’d? Oh, some people say with half his clothes the Highlander looks best; But it’s oh! in my heart, that I wish he’d wear the rest!

Suppose that his dress, now your Highland lad reform, Oh, I think ’twould be more decent, and I know ’twould be more warm; And it’s oh! in my heart, that I hope he will reform.

Suppose and suppose that they make your Highland lad Wear decent coat and trowsers, ’stead of kilt and tartan plaid? Then it’s oh! in my heart, but just should’nt I be glad!

Suppose and suppose that they keep the costume old; Oh! this winter’s so severe, I’m sure he’ll catch his death of cold; And it’s oh! bless my heart! how my Laddie would be sold!

Diogenes, p. 22, Vol. 3, 1854.

――――

WANDERING WILLIE.

Oh where, and oh where, has our Wand’ring Willie gone? He’s gone to fight in Scotland for Radicals forlorn, And it’s oh, Greenwich town is left alone to mourn.

Oh where, and oh where, has our Wand’ring Willie been? He’s been down into Scotland to sweep the Tories clean, And it’s oh, what on earth does our Wand’ring Willie mean?

Oh why, and oh why, did our Wand’ring Willie roam So far from Greenwich Hospital, so far from Oxford’s dome? For he knows in his heart he had better stop at home.

In what way, in what way, was our Wand’ring Will addressed? As if he of all statesmen was wisest, truest, best, And it’s oh, he must feel this was but a sorry jest.

Oh what, and oh what, does our Wand’ring Willie need? ’Tis hoping to get office he’s gone across the Tweed; But it is oh, in my heart I hope he won’t succeed.

And oh how, and oh how, would our Wand’ring Willie act If by his will the Government were out of office packed? And it’s oh, he don’t know, and oh, that’s a solemn fact.

Judy, December 31, 1879.

――――:o:――――

BONNIE DUNDEE; OR, THE STRIKE IN THE KITCHEN.

(Another strike is announced, the malcontents being on this occasion gentlemen’s servants. A crowded meeting of butlers, coachmen, footmen, gardeners, and stablemen was held at Leamington; the butler of Leamington College being in the chair. The demands were for shorter hours and increased pay; while the separation of married couples was deprecated as conducive to immorality. Cheers were given at the conclusion of the meeting for “The Maids of Dundee.”――Daily Paper, April 30th, 1872.)

To the gents of the pantry ’twas Yellow-plush spoke, “This gentleman’s-gentleman’s life is no joke; And so, fellow-servants, I votes as how we Go ahead with the maidens of bonnie Dundee. For, be it a maid, or be it a man, Our rule is, Do nothing and get all you can. To compass that object no method I see Like that of the maidens of bonnie Dundee.

“’Tis true that their meeting all ended in smoke, What can you expect, though, from weak women-folk? But that which we like is the pluck――the esprit―― Displayed by the maidens of Bonnie Dundee. So go out on strike, gents, that is your plan; Of course our arrangements are quite spick and span. And all our manœuvres more perfect you’ll see Than the foolish flare up of the maids of Dundee.

“What may not result from this union of schemes, If only Jemima is aided by Jeames? We’ll soon be installed in the salon, you know, With masters and missises all down below. So go in for ‘union’ each Benedict man. No longer on Hymen let caste lay its ban. While every Lothario provided shall be With a mate from the maidens of bonnie Dundee.

“Then come from the pantry, the kitchen, the hall, From footman gigantic to buttons the small, And follow your leaders the butlers, as we Condescend to be led by the girls of Dundee. Quick! down with the master, and up with the man, Since that nowadays is society’s plan. You’ll each one deserve a poor curate to be If you don’t join your lots with the maids of Dundee.”

The Hornet, May 8, 1872.

――――

THE MAIDENS OF BONNIE DUNDEE.

(“The Dundee servant maids have quarrelled with the reporters, whom they charge with having made their meetings ridiculous. They refused to have their last meeting reported.”)

And did they its meeting turn into a joke, And fun journalistic presume for to poke? Could anyone aught that’s ridiculous see In the “platform” assumed by the maids of Dundee? O be it a maid, or be it a man, Let each be placed rigidly under the ban. And henceforth resolve no reports there shall be Of the talk of the Maidens of Bonnie Dundee.

Dare we hope, as result of this last little game, The Lords and the Commons will soon do the same? How much more inviting the papers would be, If the House followed suit to the Maids of Dundee. For be it in earnest, or be it in joke, A deal of the talkee-talk does end in smoke. Of course the reports are in fault, as in re The counsels astute of the Maids of Dundee.

Should St. Stephen’s be wise, and this maxim adopt, Every sort of reporting we soon might have stopped. No longer that twaddling bosh should we see, “The Toast of the Evening”――all thanks to Dundee Then go on and prosper, each striking young maid, You are sweet as the taste of your own marmalade. From henceforth we’ll hope no memorial to see Of the doings of maidens in Bonnie Dundee.

The Hornet, June 19, 1872.

――――

BONNIE BAR-GEE.

“’Tis a jolly conception!”――’twas Truscott who spoke―― “Though Temple Bar’s gone, we can still have our joke; So let each civic wag who loves humour and me, Vote for putting this Stone where the Bar used to be. Come, out with your trowels, and up with the Stone, Though Cabmen may cavil, and Bus-drivers groan, We care for no pleadings or warnings――not we! For it’s up with the cry, ‘Calipash! Calipee!’”

Now the Stone is erected, objectors are beat, And the Civic wags laugh at the block in the Fleet, While Truscott, the joker, cries, “Well, as you see, ’Tis a noble memorial of humour and Me!” So crash goes the hansom, and smash goes the van, There’s a mingling together of horse, wheel, and man, Just over the spot where the Bar used to be They triumphantly cry, “Calipash! Calipee!”

There are fools in the East as in West, South, or North, But there yet may be time ere the edict go forth, Since there are sober men who the reason can’t see For obstructing the Fleet where the Bar used to be, Come, put up the trowels, and leave well alone; Come, abandon the scheme, and have done with the Stone! For if once set up, ’twould a laughing-stock be, To be fitly inscribed “Calipash! Calipee!”

Punch, September 18, 1880.

The Temple Bar memorial, erected in the centre of a narrow and very busy thoroughfare, cost London over £12,000. So great was the annoyance it caused, both on account of its obstruction and its ugliness, that two policemen were placed to guard it night and day, yet, in spite of their watchfulness, the carvings were smashed wherever they could be reached. The grotesque Griffin which surmounts the memorial is still the laughing stock of every passer-by.

――――

THE DISSOLUTION.

In the House of St. Stephen’s Britannia thus spoke: You will now be released and can take off the yoke. As you’ve meddled and muddled till all is at sea, The majority of you can go to the D.! You have squandered my money in powder and shot; Whom you should have protected you gave it to hot. You did this, and much more, in the name of the free, So away you incompetents! Go to the D.!

You have fostered intolerance――bigotry’s ban; Like cowards you turned on a stout-hearted man, Compensated iniquities lavishly free―― Nearly everything’s gone to the dogs or the D.! But now my affairs which you’ve scattered and strown, Perhaps will come right when you leave ’em alone. Two million! Ah, they to my future will see! Farewell, then, I’ve done with you――go to the D.!

D. EVANS.

The Weekly Despatch, November 15, 1885.

――――

JAWING “J. C.” (AIR, “BONNIE DUNDEE.”)

To the lords of creation ’twas Chamberlain spoke, “Ere my power go down the Queen’s crown shall be broke! So each jolly Rad who loves plunder and me, Let him follow the system of jawing J. C.

Come fill up my inkpot and whittle my pen, To meeting my radicals! Sing out like men, Come, open the best way to let us go free, For plunder’s the system of jawing J. C.”

J. C. he is started, he puffs through the land; The Whigs they sink backward, dismayed at his “hand;” But the Leader, douce man, says “Just e’en let him be, For the party must stick to that deil o’ J. C.”

“Come fill up,” &c.

There are games beyond Gladstone, and fields beyond Forth; If there’s farms in the Southland, there’s crofts in the North; There are braw whiskey-drinkers, three thousand times three, Who’ll “go blind” on the system of jawing J. C.

“Come fill up,” &c.

“Then away to the garrets, the cellars, and slums―― Ere I own to a leader, I’ll funk like my chums. So tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee, Ye have nae seen the last of my system and me.

Come fill up my inkpot and whittle my pen, To meeting my Radicals, sing out like men; Fling everything open, we all will be free, For plunder’s the system of jawing J. C.”

The Globe, December 1, 1885.

――――:o:――――

“THE CAMPBELL’S ARE COMING.”

Dr. John Cumming, minister of the Scotch church, in London, frequently introduced controversial matters into his sermons, and was at times, rather violent in his denunciations of the Pope, and Roman Catholicism. The Pope wrote inviting him to go to Rome, but intimated that he would not consent to reopen a discussion on theological questions which had long since been decided by his august predecessors. The two following parodies on the subject appeared in Punch, which has always been exceedingly bitter in its attacks on the Roman Catholics and their priesthood. So much so that Richard Doyle (himself a Catholic), one of the most talented artists who ever drew for Punch, retired from its staff on that account.

THE POP’ AN’ JOCK CUMMING.

The Pop’ an’ Jock Cumming, oh dear, oh dear! They winna foregather, I fear, I fear; For Jock certain questions has got to speer That the Pop’ wad na fancy to hear, hear, hear.

The Pop’ till his Council did all invite, Wha coudna see Truth, to receive their sight, “For me” answered Jockie, “noo that’s a’ right; Just what I wad hae is your light, light, light.

“Ye’ve sic an’ sic points I could ne’er mak’ oot, An’ want my puir vision illumed aboot; Mair light is the cure my complaint wad suit; Sae lighten my darkness an’ doot, doot, doot.

“Do show me your light, abune Lime, or Bude, Magnesian, Electric――do be sae gude! Sin’ I’ve been invited, I dinna intrude; When I cry for light ca’ me not rude, rude, rude.”

The Pop’ to Jock Cumming mak’s no reply; Non possumus, noo, he may truly cry. ’Tis not as it was in the days gane by, When a Pop’ could his questioner fry, fry, fry.

The Pop’ and his Cardinals sing fu’ sma’, An’ they grin, an’ they glow’r in their Conclave Ha’, An’ their auld shaven chaps wi’ dismay do fa,’ Jock Cumming’s dumfounded ’em a’, a’, a’!

Punch.

――――

HEY, JOHNNY CUMMING! (Air――“Hey, Johnny Cope!”)

Hey, Johnny Cumming! are ye waukin’ yet! Or aboot the Millennium talkin’ yet? Gin ye were waukin’ priests wad wait, To shrive Johnny Cumming i’ the mornin’.

Johnnie wrote a challenge to the Pop’ o’ Rome, Sayin’, “Sin’ till the council ye’ve bid me come, Gin I gang, can I speak as nae doggie dumb? I wad speer ye for light i’ the mornin’.”

When Pawpie read the letter on, He took him pen and ink anon, We’ll mak’ short wark wi’ this heretic son O’ Scotia an’ Knox i’ the mornin’.”

A line through Manning the douce auld Pop’ To Johnnie did in answer drop; “Thae questions ye’d speer we canna stop To re-open the noo of a mornin’.

“There’s nane can doot or deny that we Are the Lord-Lieutenant o’ Christendie. D’ye spy ony green in our Paternal ee? Get hoot wi’ your chaff of a mornin’!

“Ye’re welcome at our council Ha’, Doon on your marrowbones to fa’ An’ your errors recant, and haud your jaw, Nae mair o’ your gab i’ the mornin’!

Ye’ll come to mak’ submission mute, We dinna argue or dispute, Shall naething say but, ‘There’s Our fute, Kiss that, Johnny Cumming, i’ the mornin’!

When Johnnie gat the Pop’s reply, Said he, “I baith doot an’ deny An’ sae do mony mair forbye, The commission ye claim of a mornin’.”

Twice ten Munich Doctors of canon law Acknowledge there’s nae rule at a’ To tell what the Pop’ says ex cathedra’ An’ what aff of his throne i’ the mornin’.”

When Pawpish Doctors disagree As to what maks gude the Pop’s decree, The warth o’t canna be ane bawbee To ae canna Scot of a mornin’.

Nae dogmies Pio will discuss To prove whilk wad auld Nick nonplus: And sae he cries non-possumus; Canna meet Johnnie Cumming i’ the mornin’.

Punch.

――――:o:――――

KHARTOUM.

The Camels are coming at last, at last! Over the desert so fast, so fast! Daring canoe-men from Canada’s shore Mock Father Nile, and his cataract’s roar The might of Old England is felt once more―― Thanks to the Franchise Bill.

The Camels are coming at last, at last! The dream of dishonour has passed, has passed. But this we owe not to Gordon’s fame, Or the growing power of that hero’s name, Or to Europe’s echoing cry of “Shame”―― But to the Franchise Bill.

The Camels are coming at last, at last! The trumpets peal forth their warlike blast, Every nerve must now be strained, New prestige must now be gained, Money be spent and blood be rained―― To save the Franchise Bill.

C. B. S.

The Globe, September 30, 1884.

――――:o:――――

THE MILLIONAIRE ON THE MOORS.

My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands, my ’art it ain’t ’ere, My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands, along of the deer; Along of the wild deer, the buck and the doe; My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands, I’d ’ave you to know.

I bought bare estates up of lairds proud and poor, As they ’adn’t the money to live on a moor, Now like any Duke I my deer-forest keep, And grouse-shootins also――don’t care much for sheep.

I now and agin leave my ware’ouse be’ind, Go North for refreshment of ’ealth and of mind, Where solitude reigns on the ’eath all around, On the ’ole of my propputty I don’t ’ear a sound.

There’s no eagles now in the mountain’s to scream, And as for the gos’awk, ‘is whistle’s a dream. There’s never no falcons a flyin’ about, Shot down by the keepers to them I bought out.

Poor beggars, and therefore you’ll own they was free, Theirselves, from romance, quite as much so as me, In Town whilst attendin’ to bisnis, although My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands wherever I go.

Punch, October 27, 1883.

――――:o:――――

THE TOURIST’S MATRIMONIAL GUIDE THROUGH SCOTLAND.

The following song, to the tune of “Woo’d and married an’ a’,” was written by a distinguished Scotch judge, Lord Neaves, it may therefore be taken as giving a correct view of the curious state of the Scotch law relating to marriage.

Ye tourists, who Scotland would enter, The summer or autumn to pass, I’ll tell you how far you may venture To flirt with your lad or your lass; How close you may come upon marriage, Still keeping the wind of the law, And not, by some foolish miscarriage, Get woo’d and married an’ a’,

_Woo’d and married an’ a’; Married and woo’d an’ a’: And not, by some foolish miscarriage, Get woo’d and married an’ a’._

This maxim itself might content ye, That marriage is made――by consent; Provided its done de prœsenti, And marriage is really what’s meant. Suppose that young Jocky and Jenny Say, “We two are husband and wife;” The witnesses need’nt be many―― They’re instantly buckled for life,

_Woo’d and married an’ a’; Married and woo’d an’ a’: It isn’t with us a hard thing To get woo’d and married an’ a’._

Suppose the man only has spoken, The woman just giving a nod. They’re spliced by that very same token Till one of them’s under the sod. Though words would be bolder and blunter, The want of them isn’t a flaw; For nutu signisque loquuntur Is good Consistorial Law.

_Woo’d and married an’ a’; Married and woo’d an’ a’: A wink is as good as a word. To get woo’d and married an’ a’._

If people are drunk or delirious, The marriage of course will be bad; Or if they’re not sober and serious, But acting a play or charade. It’s bad if it’s only a cover For cloaking a scandal or sin, And talking a landlady over To let the folks lodge in her inn.

_Woo’d and married an’ a’; Married and woo’d an’ a’: It isn’t the mere use of words Makes you woo’d and married an’ a’._

You’d better keep clear of love-letters, Or write them with caution and care; For, faith, they may fasten your fetters, If wearing a conjugal air. Unless you’re a knowing old stager, ’Tis here you’ll most likely be lost; As a certain much-talked-about Major[43] Had very near found to his cost.

_Woo’d and married an’ a’; Married and woo’d an’ a’: They are perilous things, pen and ink, To get woo’d and married an’ a’._

I ought now to tell the unwary, That into the noose they’ll be led, By giving a promise to marry, And acting as if they were wed. But if, when the promise you’re plighting, To keep it you think you’d be loath,―― Just see that it isn’t in writing, And then it must come to your oath.

_Woo’d and married ah’ a’; Married and woo’d an’ a’: I’ve shown you a dodge to avoid Being woo’d and married an’ a’._

A third way of tying the tether, Which sometimes may happen to suit, Is living a good while together, And getting a married repute. But you who are here as a stranger, And don’t mean to stay with us long, Are little exposed to that danger, So here I may finish my song.

_Woo’d and married an’ a’; Married and woo’d an’ a’: You’re taught now to seek or to shun Being woo’d and married an’ a’._

CHARLES, LORD NEAVES.

――――:o:――――

PROMISE AND PERFORMANCE.[44] AIR――“Charley is my darling.”

Charley was so daring, so daring, so daring, Charley was so daring, yet somehow durstn’t fight; For Cronstadt looked so scaring, so scaring, so scaring, Cronstadt looked so scaring, it frightened him outright.

Its forts he vowed he’d shatter, he’d shatter, he’d shatter, The forts he swore he’d shatter, no stone of them should stand: But this was merely chatter, mere after-dinner chatter, He changed his note when soberly the stones themselves he scanned.

“Your cutlasses prepare boys, prepare boys, prepare boys, For victory depends upon the sharpness of your fire; But at Cronstadt we’ll but stare boys, but stare boys, but stare boys, Then home again in safety all right gallantly retire.

And if they ask us why, boys, our strength we didn’t try, boys, ’Stead of taking it for granted if we fought that we’d be beat; ’Twas the fault of Jimmy Graham, the swab (I’d like to flay him!) Who with boys and with old women had manned our precious fleet.”

And now the War is over, Sir Charley’s turned a rover, And arm in arm with Constantine inside the forts has seen; And he swears ’twas deuced lucky he more prudent was than plucky, Or sunk and smashed and shattered every ship of his had been!

Now with all respect for Charley, who did his work so rarely, Punch holds that British oak’s as tough as ’twas in Dibdin’s day; And Punch states without shrinking, he’s not alone in thinking, That a Nelson would have taken where a Napier turned away.

Punch, November 29, 1856.

――――:o:――――

THE MANAGER TO MRS. LANGTRY.

AIR――“Oh, Nanny, wilt thou gang wi’ me?”

O Langtry, wilt thou gang wi’ me, On lime-lit boards to win renown? Can crowded stalls have charms for thee―― The painted scene and tinsel crown? No more mere Photo’ed-Beauty’s Queen, No more restrained to Park and Square, Say, canst thou quit Belgravia’s scene, Where thou art fairest of the fair?

O Langtry, when ’tis thine to play “Big parts,” their “keeping” keep in mind; Though Beauty’s charming in its way, In acting “there is more behind.” Some say, so stately is thy mien, High tragic rôles thou well could’st bear; Let’s hope as Genius thou’lt be seen, As well as fairest of the fair.

O Langtry, canst thou act so true, Through long and trying scenes to go, Not pleased by Flattery’s smooth review, Nor grieved when critics “slate” the “show?” As yet, they don’t agree at all What praise or blame shall be thy share; And critics, whether great or small, Are not the fairest of the fair.

And when at last thy Muse shall try Ophelia, Juliet, Queen Macbeth, Say, canst thou make thy audience cry, Or, scared and spellbound, hold their breath? And wilt thou from thy handsome pay, Of poorer players take due care? If so, then still the world will say That thou art fairest of the fair.

――――:o:――――

ROBIN ADAIR.

When General Dumourier, after unparalleled victories, deserted the army of the French Republic, in 1793, and took refuge from the infuriated Convention with the enemies he had lately beaten, someone expressed joy in the event where Burns was present, when he chanted, almost extempore, the following sarcastic stanzas:――

ON GENERAL DUMOURIER.

A Parody on Robin Adair.

You’re welcome to Despots, Dumourier; You’re welcome to Despots, Dumourier, How does Dampiere do? Ay and Bournonville too? Why did they not come along with you, Dumourier?

I will light France with you, Dumourier; I will fight France with you, Dumourier. I will fight France with you; I will take my chance with you; By my soul I’ll have a dance with you, Dumourier.

Then let us fight about, Dumourier; Then let us fight about, Dumourier: Then let us fight about, Till Freedom’s spark is out, Then we’ll be damn’d, no doubt――Dumourier.

――――:o:――――

A SONG. Tune――“Robin Adair.”

Hark! to yon glorious shout, Canning, O rare! Echo proclaims it out, Canning, Huzza! Beauty, each step you see, Displaying loyalty, Whose charms keep Britons free, Canning, Huzza!

O! ’tis a lovely sight, Canning, O rare! Thrills each heart with delight Canning, Huzza! What! though no freeman true, What! though their eyes are blue, Still are their lips for you, Canning, Huzza!

Lips whose persuasive touch, Canning, O rare! Strengthens our cause so much, Canning, Huzza! Thou’lt think when far away, Where red rose held its sway, On Bosoms, pure as day, Canning, Huzza!

Heroes wait their command, Canning, O rare! When waves their lily hand. Canning, Huzza! Whilst you with smiles approve, Naught can our bosoms move, Save Mars, or God of Love, Canning, Huzza!

Mark as in lines they lead, Canning, O rare! See England’s hero tread Canning, Huzza! Whose bosoms void of care, Wounds from your eyes but fear, Whence falls the tender tear, Canning, Huzza!

View their faces with surprise, Canning, O rare! Lovely tints lips and eyes, Canning, Huzza! Mark coalitions wile, Join’d by a heavenly smile, That can each hour beguile, Canning, Huzza!

You whom all hearts adore, Canning, O rare! ’Tis you to guard our shore, Canning, Huzza! Tell wandering nations far, Our’s is bright honour’s war, Shine Salamanca’s star, Canning, Huzza!

From An Impartial Collection of Addresses, Songs, Squibs, &c., published during the Liverpool Election, October, 1812.

The Candidates were the Right Hon. George Canning; Lieut.-General Isaac Gascoyne; Henry Brougham; Thomas Creevey; and General B. Tarleton. (Messrs. G. Canning and Gascoyne, both Tories, were elected.)

――――:o:――――

ROBERT BURNS.

In order to make this collection of Scotch Parodies as nearly complete as possible, a few additional Parodies of Robert Burns, and Thomas Campbell will be here inserted.

ADDRESS TO THE G.O.M. (After Burns’s Address to the De’il.)

O thou, whatever be the name Your silly pride wad gar ye claim As likely best to spread your fame Owre land an’ sea, Great People’s Will, or G.O.M., Listen a wee.

D’ye mind the time, I mind it weel, When fu’ o’ misbegotten zeal, Ye pranced through Scotland like a deil, Verbose an’ rash, Bletherin’ about the “Land o’ Leal,” An’ sic like trash?

To reckon a’ your wild harangues Frae platforms, trains, to gapin’ thrangs, About the countra’s woes and wrangs, A gruesome tale O’ Tory rule, the memory dangs An’ time wad fail.

In short, ye kicked up sic a splore, Pourin’ out speeches by the score, An’ vendin’ rousin’ whids galore Through a’ the land, The countra’ bid ye tak the oar An’ try your hand.

How stands the case? Ye’ve had your fling, Upset or bungled everything, Mair waste and shame contrived to bring Down on the land Than tongue can tell, or muse can sing Or understand.

Despite your boasts about finance, An’ a’ your grand cheap wines frae France, The whisky duties, sad mischance, Hae laid ye low, An’ stopped ye in your reckless dance At ae fell blow.

I’m wae to think upon your state, Headlang ye’ve rushed upon your fate, An’ tho’ advice I ken ye hate, Tak thought and mend, Consider, while it’s no owre late Your hinner end.

“MIDLOTHIAN” in Moonshine, July 1885.

――――:o:――――

FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT.

A new Version, respectfully recommended to sundry whom it concerns.

More luck to honest poverty, It claims respect, and a’ that; But honest wealth’s a better thing, We dare be rich for a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, And spooney cant and a’ that, A man may have a ten-pun note, And be a brick for a’ that.

What though on soup and fish we dine, Wear evening togs and a’ that, A man may like good meat and wine, Nor be a knave for a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Their fustian talk and a’ that, A gentleman, however clean, May have a heart for a’ that.

You see yon prater called a Beales, Who bawls and brays and a’ that, Tho’ hundreds cheer his blatant bosh, He’s but a goose for a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, His Bubblyjocks, and a’ that, A man with twenty grains of sense, He look and laughs at a’ that.

A prince can make a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a’ that, And if the title’s earned, all right, Old England’s fond of a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Beales’ balderdash, and a’ that, A name that tells of service done Is worth the wear, for a’ that.

Then let us pray that come it may And come it will for a’ that, That common sense may take the place Of common cant and a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Who cackles trash and a’ that, Or be he lord, or be he low, The man’s an ass for a’ that.

SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1868.

――――:o:――――

IF A PROCTOR MEET A BODY. “Accusator erit qui verbum dixerit ‘Hic est.’”

If a Proctor meet a body Coming down the High, If a Proctor greet a body Need a body fly?

Every Proctor has his bulldog, Dog of mickle might, When he marches forth in full tog At the fall of night.

Every bulldog, when he spies a Man without a gown, Promptly chases him and tries a- Main to run him down.

From Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon, 1874.

――――:o:――――

THE WALLACE TOWER The Auctioneer’s Address to his Audience.

“The Wallace Tower at Stirling cannot be completed for want of funds, so the project is to be discontinued, and the materials are to be sold by auction.”――Scotch Papers.

Scots, wha won’t for Wallace bleed, Scots, who’d see such humbug d’d, Welcome; each condition read―― Then make bids to me.

Now’s the day, and now’s the hour, Yon’s the rock, and yon’s the tower, Ere it’s in the Sheriff’s power, Pay the £ s. d.

Wha would hear an English knave, Just pretending to look grave, Drawl, “Is that unfinished shave, Place for shrimps and tea?”

Wha would see the cursed law, Grab it in its cruel paw, Sell up Wallace, Bruce and a’ Sae contemptuously?

By your sturdy Scottish brains, By your wealth of Union games, Shows that Scotland’s sense disdains An anomalie.

Lay provincial pedants low, Give the cant of Race a blow, England’s one――and that you know―― One――from Thames to Dee.

SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1865.

――――:o:――――

GAELIC SPEECH; OR, “AULD LANG SYNE” DONE UP IN TARTAN.

Should Gaelic speech be e’er forgot, And never brocht to min’, For she’ll be spoke in Paradise In the days of auld langsyne. When Eve, all fresh in beauty’s charms, First met fond Adam’s view, The first word that he’ll spoke till her Was “cumar achum dhu.”

And Adam in his garden fair, Whene’er the day did close, The dish that he’ll to supper teuk Was always Athole brose. When Adam from his leafy bower Cam oot at broke o’ day, He’ll always for his morning teuk A quaich o’ usquebae.

An’ when wi’ Eve he’ll had a crack, He’ll teuk his sneeshin’ horn, An’ on the tap ye’ll well micht mark A pony praw Cairngorm. The sneeshin’ mull is fine, my friens―― The sneeshin’ mull is gran’; We’ll teukta hearty sneesh, my friens, And pass frae han’ to han’.

When man first fan the want o’ claes, The wind an’ cauld to fleg. He twisted roon’ about his waist The tartan philabeg. An’ music first on earth was heard In Gaelic accents deep, When Jubal in his oxter squeezed The blether o’ a sheep.

The praw bagpipes is gran’, my friens, The praw bagpipes is fine; We’ll teukta nother pibroch yet, For the days o’ auld langsyne!

――――:o:――――

ADDITIONAL VERSES TO “WILLIE BREW’D A PECK O’ MAUT.”

Thus Willie, Rab and Allan sang, Thus pass’d the night wi’ mirth and glee, And aye the chorus, a’ night lang, Was, “As we’re now, we hope to be.”

And aye they sang, “We are nae fou, But just a drappie in our e’e; The cock may craw, the day may draw, And aye we’ll taste the barley bree.”

That time for them the cock did craw, The harbinger of morn to be; That time for them the day did daw’, Wi’ gouden tint o’er tour and tree.

And aye they sang, &c.

That time for them the moon’s pale horn Did wax and wain o’er land and sea, But now has dawn’d the hapless morn, That gilds the grave o’ a’ the three,

Nae mair they sing “We are nae fou, Nae mair the drappie’s in their e’e, Nor cock does craw, nor day does daw’, Nae mair they’ll taste the barley bree.”

Thus Learning makes for Willie main, For Robin, Poesy wipes her e’e, And Science wails for Allan gane, Since death’s dark house hauds a’ the three.

Then Britons mourn for genius rare, A’ victims o’ the barley bree, And ban the bree that could na spare The youthfu’ lives o’ a’ the three.

――――:o:――――

MY FOE.

John Alcohol, my foe, John, When we were first acquaint, I’d siller in my pockets, John, Which noo, ye ken, I want; I spent it all in treating, John, Because I loved you so; But mark ye, how you’ve treated me, John Alcohol, my foe.

John Alcohol, my foe, John, We’ve been ower lang together, Sae ye maun tak’ ae road, John And I will tak’ anither; For we maun tumber down, John, If hand in hand we go; And I shall hae the bill to pay, John Alcohol, my foe.

John Alcohol, my foe, John, Ye’ve blear’d out a’ my een, And lighted up my nose, John, A fiery sign atween! My hands wi’ palsy shake, John, My locks are like the snow; Ye’ll surely be the death o’ me, John Alcohol, my foe.

John Alcohol, my foe, John, T’was love to you, I ween, That gart me rise sae ear’, John, And sit sae late at e’en; The best o’ friens maun part, John; It grieves me sair, ye know; But “we’ll nae mair to yon town,” John Alcohol, my foe.

John Alcohol, my foe, John, Ye’ve wrought me muckle skaith; And yet to part wi’ you, John, I own I’m unko’ laith; But I’ll join the temperance ranks, John, Ye needna say me no; It’s better late than ne’er do weel, John Alcohol, my foe.

Home Tidings, January, 1886.

――――

TED HENDERSON MY JO.

Ted Henderson,[45] my Jo, Ted, When we were fast acquent, On giving Bobbies martial drill Your mind was wholly bent: But burglars have revolvers now, And mobs to riot go, And Hugh thinks you behind the times, Ted Henderson, my Jo.

Ted Henderson, my Jo, Ted, It is a little hard The men in blue you won’t review Again in Scotland Yard. That you were not alone to blame Is what we all well know, But take your pension and depart, Ted Henderson my Jo.

Moonshine, March 13, 1886.

――――:o:――――

The following imitations are selected from some New Temperance Songs, written by the Rev. R. S. Bowie, of Glasgow:――

THE WIFE’S APPEAL. Tune――“O Willie brewed a Peck o’ Maut.”

O never touch the drunkard’s cup, It drumly makes your sparkling e’e, And changes a’ your features sae, My kind gudeman nae mair I see.

Then get na fou’, no, ne’er get fou’, Aye keep the wee drap oot your e’e; And at cock-craw, when day does daw, You’ll blyther far than drunkards be.

Ne’er waste your hours wi’ merry boys, Who to strong drink for pleasure flee; For if at night they merry be, You know the pains next morn they dree. Then get na fou’, etc.

“The moon, that frae her silver horn, Pours radiance over tower and tree,” Should never shine “to wile folk hame,” Frae tipplin’ o’ the barley bree. Then get nae fou’, etc.

Shun a’ the gilded snares o’ vice, “The cuckold coward loon is he,” Who dare not say that wee word No! And act the man where’er he be. Then get na fou’, etc.

――――

TIB’S SANG――“OOR TAM HAS JOINED THE TEMPLARS NOO.” Tune――“Duncan Gray.”

Oor Tam has joined the Templars noo,―― Ha, ha, the doing o’t! Ne’er again ye’ll see him fou,―― Ha, ha, the doing o’t! When a’ the lave tak’ to the drink, An’ gar the change-house glasses clink, While they themselves like howlets wink, He ne’er thinks o’ preein’ o’t.

Takin’ drink baith late an’ ear’,―― Weary fa’ the brewing o’t! Aft he made oor hearts richt sair,―― Weary fa’ the brewing o’t! But what cared he for wife an’ weans―― For a’ oor sighs and heavy granes! We micht as weel ha’ saved oor pains,―― He couldna see the meanin’ o’t.

Drink had seared his heart within,―― Weary fa’ the brewing o’t! He ne’er was pleased till he was blin’,―― Weary fa’ the brewing o’t! His wife and weans micht hungry be; Tam ne’er cared a single flee, As lang’s he’d got the barley bree.―― Weary fa’ the brewing o’t!

Hame he reeled fu’ late at nicht,―― Weary fa’ the brewing o’t! Gi’ein’ wife an’ weans a fricht,―― Weary fa’ the brewing o’t! An’ when ance atowre the door, He wad stamp, an’ shout, an’ roar; Oh! it was an unco splore,―― Weary fa’ the brewing o’t!

Noo, oor hame’s a heaven on earth,―― Ha, ha, the doing o’t! Life, in sooth, is something worth,―― Ha, ha, the doing o’t! We’re a’ weel clad frae tap to tae, An’ meat in plenty, too, we ha’e, An’ something for a rainy day,―― Ha, ha, ha, the doing o’t!

Wha wad thocht to see me here,―― Ha, ha, the doing o’t! Singing sangs o’ hearty cheer,―― Ha, ha, the doing o’t! Nae mair the weans an’ me think shame To hear folk mention “daddy’s” name; We’re prood our kinship noo to claim,―― Ha, ha, ha, the doing o’t!

――――

SONG OF THE SESSION.

There’s nought but talk on every han’; On every night that passes, oh! ’Tis wonderful how Members can Behave so much like Asses, oh! Loud bray the Asses, oh! Loud bray the Asses, oh! While business wails amid debates; And so the Session passes, oh!

All this delay, from day to day Arrears of work amasses, oh! By sum on sum, till August’s come, When Statesmen look like Asses, oh! Loud, &c.

The Income Tax upon our backs, With leaden weight is pressing, oh! And Ireland’s grief demands relief, The Debtor’s wrongs redressing, oh! Loud, &c.

The Poor-Law Bill is standing still, While Gentlemen are jawing, oh! At fists and foils, in private broils, Each other clapper-clawing, oh! Loud, &c.

Give them their hour to spend at night, In altercation dreary, oh! And England’s good, and England’s light, May gang all tapsalteerie, oh! Loud, &c.

Although the above lines appeared in Punch more than forty years ago, they apply almost equally well to the present Parliament.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THE LAST DUKE. (After The Last Man.)

All selfishness must meet its doom; Humbug itself must die, Before the Dukes give us their room ’Stead of their company. I saw a vision in my sleep, Of Tainboffcoon, a fearful heap, And Belgian cattle prime:―― I saw the last of Ducal race, Who in the steamer took his place, To seek a foreign clime.

His Grace had quite a bilious air; His cheek with woe was wan; The Ducal glories center’d were, All in that lonely man! Some had gone to Boulogne――the hands Of mortgagees were on their lands―― To Rome and Baden some; The House of Peers was drear and dead, And Punch himself as dull as lead, Now that the Dukes were dumb.

Yet, donkey-like that lone one stood, In seediness still high, And, turning on the pier of wood To England gave good bye: Saying, “Thou hast set, my country’s sun! Thou may’st shut up――the thing is done; The Dukes are forc’d to go; The Corn Laws, that for eighteen years Have kept up rents and paid the Peers, Have fallen at a blow!

“What though beneath them we had dearth, And no reward for skill? What though the tillers of the earth Their bellies ne’er could fill? Henceforth to men in toil grown grey, The new coat with its buttons gay, No Ducal hand imparts―― Henceforth no Duke shall teach the throng, With curry-powder warm and strong, To cheer the labourers’ hearts.

“But I, for one, won’t vote supplies To men who thus conspire To lower the Duke in vulgar eyes, And poke fun at the Squire. I quit my country, doomed to death; Hard soil, where first I drew my breath, Where long I ruled the roast; I’ll take the Corn-Laws for a pall, And, wrapping them around me, fall―― Wept by the Morning Post!

“Go, JOHN――the steam will soon be up, A sandwich I would taste; I shall be too sea-sick to sup―― Unto SIR ROBERT haste; Tell that man to his brazen face, Thou saw’st the last of Ducal race Quitting this classic spot, PEEL and Potato-blight defy To make him hold his tongue, or try To talk aught else but ‘rot’!”

Punch, 1846.

(The Duke of Richmond opposed the repeal of the Corn Laws, and declared that if they were repealed, landed proprietors would be driven out of the country.)

――――

THE LAST MAN. (A Study after Campbell.)

The Park has quite a sickly glare, The trees are brown as tan, The spectres of the season are Around that lonely man. His world has vanished――ah, ’tis hard, He cannot find a single card For party on the lawn, For picnic, flower show, or dance; To Greece, Spain, Italy, and France Or Cyprus they have gone.

Sad and perplexed the lone one stood, And muttered with a sigh, “I have no friends by field or flood, By moor or mountain high. The opera’s over, Goodwood done, And sport with fishing-rod or gun Alone is very slow. Until the ‘Upper Ten’ appear, About the closing of the year, I know not where to go.

“And wearily each moment flies, For stale amusements tire; An idle man’s in agonies When seasons thus expire. Belgravia is as still as death, And in Mayfair I hold my breath; Or on some absent host Make quite unnecessary calls; Or haply in familiar halls I linger like a ghost.”

He sought the club――“Bring claret cup Oh, waiter, and with haste; Something to keep my spirits up In mercy let me taste. And if a pilgrim seeks the place Tell him the last swell of his race This afternoon hath trod, The squares, the drives, and Rotten Row, And met no single belle or beau To greet his listless nod.”

Funny Folks, August 24, 1878.

――――:o:――――

THE SONG OF THE FIRST LORD OF THE ADMIRALTY. (The Earl of Ellenborough.)

Ye mariners of England, I’ll thank you if you please, To come and tell me something of The service of the seas: I’ve something heard of horse marines But nothing do I know; Though a trip in a ship I to India once did go.

If enemies oppose me, And say I’m very far From being what I ought to be, I’ll say that others are. So come, brave tars, and teach me A vessel for to know: If the heel is the keel―― Or abaft means down below.

Then courage, all you admirals, And never be dismay’d, For I’m a bold adventurer, That never learnt my trade. Our ministers employ me To vote for them, you know; Then be bold, when you’re told That by interest things go.

Then here’s a health to Wellington, Who made of me the choice; And to his worthy colleagues bold, Who scorn the public voice. Tell France and tell America They may begin to crow;―― While I reign o’er the main Is the time to strike a blow.

Punch, January, 1846.

(The Earl of Ellenborough was sent to India, as Governor-General, in 1842, and remained there till 1844. On his return there was some difficulty to find a place in the Government for him. By Sir Robert Peel he was appointed First Lord of the Admiralty, a post which he probably owed to the friendship and interest of the Duke of Wellington.)

THE RAILWAYS GROSS MISMANAGEMENT;

Or, The Complaint of the “Engine-driver” versified. (Written in 1847, when Railways were in their infancy.)

You Managers of Railways, Who meet to talk and dine, Ah! little do you think upon The dangers of the line; Give ear unto your engineers, And they will plainly show All the wrack, which, alack! From mismanagement doth flow.

All who are engine-drivers Must have tremendous pluck, For when you get upon your seat You trust your life to luck; You must not be faint-hearted For crash or overthrow, And the spills from the ills Of mismanagement that flow.

Sometimes our trains are mixed up, Of common sense in spite, With several heavy carriages, And others that are light; Out rolls the train, and no man What next may come can know; And whate’er happens here From mismanagement doth flow.

But our worst source of peril By far, is when we find An engine put before the train, And one to push behind; Then jamm’d and crush’d together Of carriages the row Oft will be――which, you see, From mismanagement doth flow.

Unto our trains of breaksmen There is a shameful lack; And hence it is our lives and limbs So often go to wrack, For want of due assistance Our peril when we know: This defect from neglect And mismanagement doth flow.

Ye legislative sages! On you it is we call! For as for our proprietors, Gain is their all in all, Which, for the public safety, They somewhat must forego, Or your bills stop those ills From mismanagement that flow.

Punch, 1847.

――――

“A great deal more attention will have to be given than heretofore by the agriculturists of England, and perhaps even Scotland, to the production of fruits, vegetables and flowers. You know that in Scotland a great example of this kind has been set in the cultivation of strawberries.”――Mr. Gladstone at West Calder, Nov. 27, 1879.

Ye husbandmen of Scotland, Who till our native soil, How vain your high-class farming! How profitless your toil!

Your fields of grain are humbug, Your flocks and herds are “bam”―― Go cultivate the strawberry, And make it into jam! * * * * *

――――

THE LIBERALS OF ENGLAND.

(Campbell’s “Mariners of England” applied to recent events.)

Ye Liberals of England Who vote by land and seas, Who stamped your names in other years, On Parliament’s decrees―― Your glorious party launch again To meet its ancient foe, And sweep, swift and deep, And no hesitation know, Till a Liberal army, brave and strong, Shall Tories overthrow.

The great deeds of your fathers Still speak from many a grave; For the Commons was their field of fame, Their native land to save. Again let noble Gladstone tell, While every heart doth glow, How to leap o’er the deep Machinations of the foe, Till England echoes with the song Of the Tory overthrow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks On every savage steep; At keeping rebel hordes in awe Small glory will she reap. She smiles at “Foreign Policy,” While “Peace and Honour” grow, And Jingoes roar abroad no more About a savage foe. But John Bull sees ’twixt right and wrong, Through the Tory overthrow.

The Liberal strength of England Shall fill the voting urns, Till Tory fictions fade away, And common sense returns. Then, then, ye Liberal warriors, The song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, And the glory of the blow That struck a Sham with the force of Truth, And laid the Tories low.

Funny Folks, April 17, 1880.

――――:o:――――

THE LANDLORD’S FAREWELL. A respectful Perversion of The Exile of Erin.

There came to the beach a poor landlord of Erin, The due on his rent-roll was heavy and chill, For his garments he sighed, for they needed repairin’, While the boots on his feet were just “tenants-at-will;” But a steamer attracted his eye’s sad devotion, And he thought as he watched it glide over the ocean, “There’s one thing that keeps my poor grinders in motion, And that’s emigration from “Erin-go-Bragh.”

“Sad is my fate!” groaned the purple-nosed stranger, To beg I’m ashamed, and to dig I don’t agree; I have no refuge from famine and danger But to set up a pub in the Land of the Free. Never again, at the midnight’s small hours, Shall I swig the old port in those well-furnished bowers, Which my grandfather got from the governing powers, When penal laws flourished in Erin-go-bragh.

Erin, my country! you’ll soon be forsaken By all the respectable landlords of yore; Then will those rascally tenants awaken, With their nose to some grindstone they knew not before. Oh, cruel fate, could you ever replace me In my seat in the House, where no bagman could chase me; I’d vote for Coercion――though Healy should face me―― And prove my relations were hanged by the score!

Where is my hunting lodge, deep in the wild wood (Hounds that are poisoned can’t answer the call), Where are the tenants I bullied since childhood? And where are my rack-rents? They’re gone to the wall. Ah, my sad pocket ’tis easy to measure, Land Leagues and lawsuits exhausted your treasure, Fifty per cent. I’d abate now with pleasure But the devil a ha’penny they’ll give me at all!

New Year is here now, and creditors pressing, One dying wish! ere I’m forced to withdraw Davitt! a landlord bequeaths thee his blessing, (’Tis all that you’ve left him in Erin-go-Bragh). And (in my shirt-sleeves across the broad ocean) I’ll pray for Parnell who put voters in motion, And filled their thick heads with this new-fangled notion That leaves them the masters of Erin-go-Bragh.

M. O’BRIEN. From The Irish Fireside, February 6, 1886.

――――:o:――――

THE ESCAPE OF THE ALDERMEN. (After The Battle of the Baltic.)

Sing the adventure rare Of those worthies of renown, The Right Honourable LORD MAYOR Of great London’s famous town, And the Sheriffs, and the Aldermen, at large On diversion they were bent, And on junketting intent; So they up the river went In their barge.

Like porpoises afloat Roll’d their Worships in their craft, In that truly jolly boat It was merry fore and aft: The thirtieth of September was the day, They were sitting at dessert, With their waistcoats all ungirt, So extremely full of tur- -tle were they.

MICHAEL GIBBS was in his chair, In his chair of civic state; And the Sheriffs near him were,―― The elect as well as late; And the Aldermen the board were sitting round, As they drifted up the tide, In their cabin big and wide, Each took care of his inside, I’ll be bound.

In a moment from his seat Was the MAYOR OF LONDON thrown, And the Aldermen――like wheat By the sickle newly mown: And the Sheriffs four were stretched their length along, And the mace joined in the fall, With decanters, plates and all, Which the company did sprawl Prone among.

Out bawled his Lordship then, And the Corporation, too, Loudly raised those Aldermen Of affright the wild halloo:―― “What’s the matter, what’s the matter” was the cry; And the answer to their shout Was “Quick! put the barge about; Now, you fellow there, look out, For your eye!”

And then it did appear, By bad steering, or bad luck, The barge against a pier Of Westminster Bridge had struck: Their escape was most miraculous, indeed, Now, your Worships, have a care Who your navigators are When on board you next repair For a feed.

Punch, 1845.

――――:o:――――

OH! IN LONDON

To London ere the sun is low, The unemployed in thousands go, Where the Trafalgar fountains flow, Like Hyndman speaking rapidly.

But London saw another sight, When Hyndman bade his friends unite To make o’erladen shops more light Of their superfluous jewelry.

By word and gesture fast arrayed, Whitechapel thieves of ev’ry grade―― Who rushed upon their westward raid To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the streets to riot given, Then rushed King Mob to havoc driven, And louder than the bolts of Heaven They roared in all their devilry.

But more defiant yet they grow, As down South Audley Street they go, Bottles and legs of mutton throw In Socialistic bravery.

The havoc deepens! On, ye brave, To win no glory――risk no grave―― Wave, Riot, thy red banner wave, And charge with East-end chivalry.

’Tis eve, and all the damage done, Police stroll up to see the fun, And from each thousand capture one Who joined not in the knavery.

Few, few shall smart, tho’ many meet, And carpenters and glaziers greet A day dear to South Audley Street, The famous eighth of February.

HYDE PARKER.

CORONATION LAYS. (Picked up in the Crowd.)

An article, having the above title, appeared in the New Monthly Magazine, July, 1831. It referred to the forthcoming coronation of King William IV. and Queen Adelaide, which took place on September 8, 1831. The scraps of poetry were supposed to proceed from the pens of Sir Walter Scott, Thomas Campbell, S. T. Coleridge, W. Wordsworth, L.E.L. (Miss Landon), the Rev. G. Crabbe, Thomas Moore, Thomas Hood, and Robert Southey, then Poet Laureate. As the imitations of Scott and Campbell lead the way, the article may as well be inserted here. The little introductory notices alluding to Moore’s well-known love of a Lord, Southey’s objection to write the official odes hitherto expected from the Poet Laureate, &c., sufficiently indicate the authors referred to. Some of the imitations are not very striking, and those on Crabbe and L.E.L. might perhaps have been omitted as possessing little to interest the modern reader. However, the whole of the poetry is given, the comments only having been slightly shortened.

THE LAY OF THE LOST MINSTREL. (Sir Walter Scott.)

[A tall “stalwart figure,” with a good-humoured Scotch face, a sturdy-looking stick, and a style of dress indicative of something between the farmer and the philosopher, should be represented seated upon a pile of novels, marked “fiftieth edition,” writing, with a pen in each hand two volumes at once of a new work――at the same time dictating a third to an amanuensis at his elbow.]

Long years have pass’d, since lyre of mine Awoke the short and easy line That now unbidden flows; Tell, Constable, tell thou, how long My steps have shunned the halls of Song, And sent, for sundry reasons strong, My pages, an uncounted throng, To bear the train of Prose! But now my harp anew is strung; And eager grows my tuneful tongue, Like panting steed that paws the earth, To burst and tell its tale of mirth. And visions float, like those that danced Before my eyes, when George the Fourth, Be-tartaned o’er, erewhile advanced With knightly train, and quite entranced The fondly-frantic North. Again I see such glittering show, Again such pageants gleam and go, As well might form the golden theme Of minstrel-song or morning-dream.

The last excursion formed, I ween, To charm our gentle King and Queen, Was on the tide of Thames; A sight that few may e’er forget, That bards, enrapt, are singing yet: Then all the court, defying wet, Embarked at House of Somerset; But now the Royal party met At Palace of St. James! Sunny was that September morn; And groups grotesque were there; The beef-eaters――and those who scorn To taste such vulgar fare―― And those again who daily mourn, Condemned to dine on air. Highest and lowest of the land Were met, and saw no vacant stand; Ladies with white and waving hand, And troops, a fine mustachio’d band, With brandished weapons bare. And coachmen, comely, sleek, and big, Beneath a curly world of wig; And pages slim, a countless race, So dazzlingly disguised in lace, So like a line of dukes they stood, That had their thousand mothers old Beheld them in those suits of gold, They had not known their blood.

Now, now the standard fondlier floats, The cannons speak with hoarser throats, And cheek of trumpeter denotes The coming of the king! Each lady now her kerchief throws, Each exquisite with ardour glows, Each treads upon his fellow’s toes, And deems he sees the monarch’s nose,―― Ah! no, ’tis no such thing. Yet hark! now, now in truth he comes, He comes as sure as drums are drums; The drums, the guns, the shouts, the cheers, You hear――or you have lost your ears. Let all look now, or look no more; What stands at yonder palace-door? Gaze, wonderers, gaze; a coach-and-eight Is passing through that palace-gate―― A coach of gold, with steeds of cream, It moves, the marvel of a dream.

With coursers six, are some that bring The suite and kindred of the King; Bold Sussex, honest Duke; And him, the darling of renown, A nation’s idol, hope and crown, Great Cumberland――whom yet the town Salutes with sharp rebuke. And not one lazy lacquey there But glance of rapture drew, Like tinselled hero at the fair Of old Bartholomew. Some rode, some walk’d, some trumpets blew, Some were with wands and some without; And all along the line of view From pavement and from housetop too Rose one continual shout; That Charles the First at Charing-cross His head, amazed, might seem to toss. Rang all the Mall with needless noise, From topmost Sams to Moon and Boys!

――――:o:――――

THE SHOW IN LONDON. (THOMAS CAMPBELL.)

[Let the design represent a middle-sized and middle-aged poet, habited in blue, with buttons bearing the initials “P.L.U.C.” He must be leaning on an anchor, reading the last account of the capture of Warsaw. His books must be numerous and classical, but none bound in Russia, as it reminds him of despotism. A volume of his own poems should be lying before him, opened at “Hohenlinden,” as that exquisite composition has evidently suggested the idea of his new one, called “The Show in London.”]

In London when the funds are low, And state-distresses deeper grow, The rule is this――to have a show, Designed with strict economy.

We here this cheapened show have had; Who now shall deem the nation sad! Distress was there superbly clad, And Sorrow stalked not shabbily.

All, all the troops were out; who choose To read the list their time may lose; The gaudy Guards, the Oxford Blues, Besides the Surrey Yeomanry.

And many a line of Foot appears, With drummer-boys and pioneers, And last, the Loyal Volunteers, The drollest of the Infantry.

Not last; for of the New Police Behold how one, in pure caprice, The hat knocks off――to keep the peace―― Of idler, answering snarlingly.

That morn was seen by all the town King William’s brow without a crown; But ere yon autumn sun went down, ’Twas circled most expensively.

The Debt still deepens. Could we save A trifle, Hume might cease to rave. Waive, Rundell, half your profits waive, And charge as low as possible.

Few, few shall gain where many pay; The people must the cost defray, And give their guineas too to-day For seats to see the pageantry.

――――:o:――――

THE ANCIENT MARINER. (S. T. Coleridge.)

[The author of “The Ancient Mariner,” should be delineated after the poet’s definition of him, as a “noticeable man with small grey eyes.” A crowd of listeners should be around him, catching up with eagerness and ecstasy every syllable as it falls from his lips; and in a corner of the room there might be one or two persons reading his works, apparently puzzled at times to make out his meaning. On the walls should be representations of a giant devoting his life to catching flies; of a philosopher straying on the sea-shore to pick up shells, while the sails of the vessel that was to waft him to his home are scarcely to be descried in the distance.]

The sun it shone on spire and wall, And loud rang every bell; Wild music, like a waterfall, Upon my spirit fell; But the old grey Abbey was brighter than all, Each spire was like a spell.

I breathed within that Abbey’s bound, It was a hallowed spot; The walls they seemed alive with sound, And hues the sky hath not. Good lord, my brain was spinning round, And methought, I knew not what.

Eleven o’clock, eleven o’clock! My spirit feels a passing shock; Eleven o’clock――you heard the chime; Oh! many shall see the King this time. My very heart it seems to sing, And it leapeth up to see the King.

What flattering music meets his ear, What loving voices greet! He sitteth now in presence here, With a nation at his feet. And (joy for him!) he’s not alone; Yon lady, look――she shares his throne.

The bishops, a right reverend race, Bring first, then take away, Rare things of gold that through the place Dispense a brighter day They robe him next with a robe of grace, The supertunica.

And many a ring, and staff, and sword, He takes from many a mumbling lord, Enwrapt in richest silk and fur; On head and hand the oil is poured, And now they touch his foot with a spur, And crown that Ancyente Marynere! Soon about the Queen they’ll stir, Crowning William, crowning her.

To kiss the cheek, with aspects meek Now on their knees the bishops fall; Oh! every peer must kiss the cheek, But great Lord Brougham the last of all. Oh! yes, Lord Harry he came the last, But the roof it rang as on he passed; The people laugh, and the peers they stare For they never had thought to have seen him there. I guess ’twas curious there to see A baron so oddly clad as he, Ludicrous exceedingly.

――――:o:――――

SONNETS ON THE CORONATION.

By a Lyrist from the Lakes. (William Wordsworth.)

[Our Lyrist of the Lakes must be figured as an “old man eloquent” in all that can interest and elevate our nature. He should be somewhat tall, and somewhat drooping, with a head that scarcely seems to know that there is a halo round it, an expression of quiet dignity and simplicity of character, an unaffected familiarity of demeanour, and a suit of brown, properly fitted for one whose studies are sometimes of the same complexion. The white doe, the “solitary doe” of Rylstone, might be playing in the back-ground, and it would not be amiss to have a glimpse of the other solitary and immortal quadruped, that Peter Bell encountered in the forest.]

NATIONAL HAPPINESS.

Oh! ardent gazers! happy, happy herd Of creatures, who your parlours, back or front, Have left in litters; and in scorn of Hunt And all who once your darker feelings stirred, Have risen this morning with the earliest bird―― Breakfastless haply, or with some such thing As a dry biscuit satisfied; your King May justly prize the crown this day conferred Upon him, and for you his power employ, Was ever love like this! That maiden pale Was there at seven this morn; of cap and veil Despoiled, yon matron laughs. Behold that boy Loyally standing on a spiked rail. Oh! what can damp a nation’s natural joy.

EFFECTS OF RAIN AT A CORONATION.

What, what but RAIN! When brightest shines the sun, Now as the pageant gorgeous back returns, Down, down it comes! Each honied aspect learns The sour vexation; all delight is done. The King is now forgotten. Many run For shelter, where strange phrases (strange to me) Of “perkins,” “meux,” and “barclay,” seem to be Signs of glad welcome and of social fun. Meanwhile each cloud some cherished comfort mars; Those, envied, on the roofs, slide down again Now envying those below, Rheumatic men, With ague in perspective, curse their stars. Wives, with their dresses dabbled, mourn the sum Thus washed away, and wish they had not come.

THE SUBJECT CONTINUED.

The very soldiers fly: with dripping plumes Depending, the whole staff, at furious pace, Retreats, most tender of its limbs and lace. On tiptoe creep the carriage-seeking grooms Of many who, among the Abbey-tombs Had prayed for a “long reign!” but not for showers Like this that seems disposed to last for hours! Oh! happy they who, shut within their rooms, Were disappointed of their seats to-day! ’Tis wisely ordered that――――

* * * * *

I have forgot what I was going to say.

――――:o:――――

THE LITTLE ABSENTEE. (Miss L. E. Landon.)

[The only illustration to this contribution should be three elegantly-ornamented letters “L.E.L.” Through the clouds in the background might be dimly discerned a face, whose expression seems to hover between Romance and Reality――that indicates a spirit bound by every natural tie to the altar of song, yet stealing a sidelong look at the shrine of prose, as if inclined to offer up half its worship there.]

I see the bright procession wind “Like a golden snake” along; And I gaze around the Abbey, lined With a proud and jewelled throng.

I see fair Lady Harrington; And rich St. Albans, clad In gems that drive, though ill put on, The peeresses half mad.

The little princes too are there, Those pure and pretty peers; But oh! the scene, to others fair, To me is dimmed with tears.

One speck upon this earthly sun, That soon, alas! must fade, One little spot, and only one, Throws on my heart a shade.

Of all the myriads met to-day, Oh! tell me which is she The gentle child I saw at play By Kensington’s green tree.

My eye it rests on every spot, Ladye and cavalier; But that fair child, I see her not Of all the thousands here.

She is not here――the reason why[46] Is neither there nor here; At home she heaves the infant sigh, And dries the childish tear.

The humblest maid will murmur when Refused its cup of bliss; How must a princess suffer then, To lose a sight like this!

Thus, mid the rich magnificence, A vision sad and wild Presents unto my inmost sense An image of that child.

――――:o:――――

A REFLECTION. (Rev. George Crabbe.)

[The author of this “Reflection,” who would have given a “Tale of the Hall,” but that it happened to be closed this Coronation, should be represented by a river side, moralizing on the state of some Crabs that have just been captured, and quite insensible to the increasing tide which is washing over him. He should be figured as a poet prone to consider things “too curiously”――as one who, if he had a centipede to describe, would dissect you every separate leg, and instruct you in its anatomy; who would enlist your sympathies for a beggar by painting the shape and colour of every patch upon his vest, and whose picture of a battle would be merely the Army-List turned into rhyme. A workhouse should be in the centre of the picture, with a prison on one side, and an hospital on the other.]

Turn from the court your eyes, and then explore Those gloomier courts where dwell the pining poor. Just think what hungry families might dine On that laced jacket, framed of superfine. How large a nation may a little net Confine――what traps are in those trappings set! Will the King give, what he has gained, a crown, To Jones, Clark, Thompson, Jackson, Smith, or Brown? All penceless pockets theirs――the man with cakes For them stands still, or eats the tarts he makes. Yet see yon lady; fifty pearls at least Circle her arms, and might an army feast. That zone for which a princess might have pined, Her waist confining, seems to waste consigned. On those red coats, ten buttons meet the view; Ten plated buttons; ten divide by two, It leaves you five, and five we know would do. These five, if sold, would buy yon lad a hat, Provide a dinner, and a tea to that.

――――:o:――――

A MELODY. (MOORISH.)

(Thomas Moore.) “The Moor, I know his trumpet!”――OTHELLO.

[A very small space will suffice for the present illustration. The poet must be figured at his desk inditing an epistle, commencing with “My dear Lord.” Volumes of poetry that exhibit signs of having been read over and over again are thrown in profusion about him, mingled with which are some biographies that seem to have been cast aside with many of the leaves uncut. Invitations to dinner are piled before him, with some resolutions proposing him as President of the Silver Fork Club.]

There’s a beauty as bright as the sunshine of youth, Or the halo that beams round the temples of truth; An odour like that from the spring-lily thrown When a breathing from Araby blends with its own. But the lustre is not on that Peeress’s hair, Though gems and a circlet of gold glisten there; And the odour is not by that Exquisite cast, Though his robe left a scent on the air as he pass’d.

This odour, ’tis not from the Abbey at all, But breathes round the banquet in Westminster Hall; This light, that outsparkles the courtliest class, Is the dazzling of dishes, the glitter of glass. Let, let but that lustre encircle me still! ’Tis the true light of love, we may say what we will. Oh! give me a breath of that odour sublime, It is worth all the flowers perfuming my rhyme.

* * * * *

No banquet, dear Lansdowne? no banquet to-day! You cannot mean that!――I’ll appeal then to Grey. My lord, you have blotted the beauty, while new, Of the rainbow that rises round Althorp and you. Your music should mix with the drawing of corks, Your glory should gleam in the flashing of forks. Economy charms me――but first I must dine; You may tamper with all constitutions――but mine.

Let Lord What’s-his-title exult in his curls, Let Lady The-other still dote on her pearls; What is all this to me, who my loss must deplore ’Till the Dinnerless Administration be o’er! No dinner!――not even a sandwich――――

[The poet was here overcome by his feelings. He was carried off in a carriage decorated with a coronet, and was shortly afterwards set down at a very satisfactory side-table.]

――――:o:――――

A GLANCE FROM A HOOD. (Thomas Hood.)

[Represent a grave and rather anti-pun-like looking person, turning over the leaves of a pronouncing dictionary, and endeavouring to extract a pun from some obstinate and intractable word, that everybody else had discovered and abandoned years ago. Now and then he finds something that repays him, not because it is good but because it is new. If unsuccessful, he puts the first word he comes to in italics, and leaves the reader to fasten any joke upon it he pleases.]

He comes, he comes! the news afar Is spread by gun and steeple; He seems (what many princes are) The Father of his People.

That echoing cheer――it rises higher And seems to reach the stars; No Life-Guard escort he requires Who meets with such Huzzas!

A poet-King; nay, do not scoff! The Monarch hath his Mews; Like those whose pensions he cuts off, He’s followed by the Blues.

Yet some our King and Queen must hate, For see, besides a star, Their houses they illuminate With “W. A. R.”

He’s near the Abbey; on the air The guns their echoes threw; And now the bishops make him swear To mind their canons too.

That organ seems on ours to play As if our love to nourish; Be ruined by reform who may, Those trumpeters must flourish.

A crown is brought, they make him King; A King! why they mistake; Two crowns, each child must know the thing, But half a sovereign make.

Well, he is ours; along the way He hears his people’s vow; And as he goes, he seems to say, “Your Bill is passing now!”

――――:o:――――

THE LAUREATE’S LAY. (Robert Southey, Poet Laureate.)

[The Laureate’s Lay will of course exist only in a blank page. His lyre hath no chord left. He hath taken out a patent in the Court of Apollo, for treating birthdays and coronations with contempt. He basks in the sunshine of idleness――the poetical privilege of doing nothing, except calling at the treasury once a-year. As he could not be conveniently omitted among the contributors to this collection, some emblematic device may be introduced――a chamelion, or a rainbow: or you may paint him, if you will, glancing back upon the light of his earlier years, and paraphrasing the story of “Little Wilhelmine” and the “famous victory:”――

“They say it was a splendid sight, Such sums were lavished then, Although the nation at the time Was full of famished men; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous pageantry.

“Much praise our gentle Monarch won, And so did Grey and Brougham;” “But what good came of it at last,” Quoth simple Mr. Hume. “Why, that I cannot tell,” said he, “But ’twas a famous pageantry.”

MR. BARNUM’S EXPERIENCE OF TRAVELLING IN ENGLAND.

The way was short, the wind was cold, The voyage on Mr. B. had told; His yielding knees, his tottering gait, Showed what had lately been his fate; His sunken eyes, his face so pale, Bespoke the scarcely-finished gale. His bag, in which he took such joy, Was carried by a dockside boy; And undistributed remained The store of handbills it contained. He had not far to go to gain The platform where the London train Stood waiting, and with wistful eye He saw his welcome bourne so nigh; And soon sank down, with yearning face, Into the nearest vacant place.

It was a dark and fusty den, In which were huddled several men, Who gave, as Barnum came, a groan, Which died away into a moan, As, with their chins close to their knees, They watched their new companion squeeze Into his seat, and try in vain Room for his legs, or arms to gain. When he had struggled moments twain, His wrath, which he could not restrain, Impelled him suddenly to rise; But no, he found, to his surprise, ’Twas useless, he was now, alas! Part of a packed and groaning mass. And as he, too, felt weak and ill, He gave one groan and sat him still; Till, moved by his increasing ire, He cried, “Allow me to enquire If we poor victims truly are Now seated in a first-class car?” “We are!” they moaned, then Barnum said, “I’m sure I’d much prefer instead Inside a cattle-truck to ride!” “You’re right!” his fellow martyrs cried. “Then why,” exclaimed P. Barnum “then, If you are true, brave Englishmen, Do you submit without a battle To thus be served far worse than cattle?” Then, strengthened by his indignation, He uttered this denunciation:――

“BREATHES there a man that England’s bred, Who never to himself hath said, This is a scandal to my land? Whose wrath has not within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From travelling on a foreign strand, When he’s been put to ache and freeze In such disgraceful trucks as these?

If such there be, one soon can tell That ’tis the shares he holds impel Him to condone the line’s disgrace; Or ’cause connection he can trace With some large holder of its scrip, Or one on its directorship. That any other man of sense Should find conceivable pretence So great an outrage to defend Does probability transcend.”

Truth, Christmas Number, 1883.

The Christmas Number of Truth, 1877, contained a parody on Lochinvar, concerning the appointment of Mr. Digby Piggott, as controller of the stationery office, by Lord Beaconsfield. This was characterised, at the time, as a gross piece of jobbery, but the subject has lost all interest now, and the parody was not a particularly good one.

Charles Kingsley.

Born June 12, 1819. Died January 23, 1875.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

Charles Kingsley, rector of Eversley, was born June 12, 1819, at Holne Vicarage, Dartmoor, Devonshire, and died January 23, 1875. His poems, though comparatively few in number, are marked by much power, pathos, and originality. The two which have most frequently suffered parody are The Three Fishers, and the Ode to the North-East Wind.

THE THREE FISHERS.

Three fishers went sailing away to the West, Away to the west as the sun went down; Each thought of the woman who loved him best, And the children stood watching them out of the town.

For men must work, and women must weep, And there’s little to earn and many to keep, Though the harbour bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.

But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbour bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come home to the town.

For men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner it’s over, the sooner to sleep; And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

――――

AN OLD FRIEND IN A NEW DRESS.

Three merchants went riding out into the west, On the top of the bus, as the sun went down; Each talked of his wife, and how richly she drest, And the growing circumference of her new gown; For wives must dress, and husbands must pay, And there’s plenty to get, and little to say, While the Milliner’s Bill is running.

Three wives sat up in JANE CLARKE’S for hours. And they told her to put every article down, They ordered the silks, and they ordered the flowers And the bill it kept rolling up, gown upon gown; For wives must dress, and husbands will pay, Though perhaps they will be in a terrible way When they’re dunned for the Bill that is running.

Three Bankrupts were figuring in the Gazette On a Tuesday night when the sun went down, And the women were weeping and quite in a pet, For the dresses they never will show to the town; For wives will dress, though husbands can’t pay, And Bankruptcy’s surely the pleasantest way To get rid of the bill and the dunning.

This parody, with three appropriate illustrations, appeared in Punch, November 27, 1858.

――――

THE FOUR FISHERS, (Who caught nothing)

Four Merchants who thought themselves wisest and best Of all the folks in Liverpool town, To the EMPEROR LOOEY a letter addressed, Intended to do him uncommonly brown: “We’ll sound his plans so dark and so deep, From Liverpool brokers no secret he’ll keep,” Said they, in their Lancashire toning.

Four Boobies went sniggering round all day Among the folks in Liverpool town, And thinking that none were so clever as they, And how they should come to a great renown: “We’ll strike LORD PALMERSTON all of a heap, And show we can catch a French weasel asleep,” Said they, their impertinence owning.

Four asses they hung down their lollopping ears, When the post came in to Liverpool town, And brought them a letter whereof it appears Those donkeys could’nt translate a noun. For LOOEY knows well how his secrets to keep, And the Liverpool brokers unluckily reap A harvest of jeering and groaning.

Punch, December 17, 1859.

(During the ridiculous panic about a supposed imminent French invasion in 1859, four Liverpool gentlemen wrote a letter to Napoleon III. asking him to publicly declare what his intentions were towards England.)

――――

THE LASHER AT IFFLEY.

Eight coveys went out in their college boat, And they feathered their oars as the water they cut, Each thought of the races, and what they would do, And Harvey stood watching them out of the gut.

For men must row and coxswains must steer, And carefully too, as the races draw near, While the lasher at Iffley is moaning.

These eight coveys went into training one day, And they trimmed their boat, though at first it felt queer Their pipes and their baccy were soon put away, And they stuck to their steaks, and their chops, and their beer;

For men must train and coxswains must steer, And if they don’t train they’ll get bumped I fear, While the lasher at Iffley is moaning.

The races came on, and the guns went off, The crew now are spurting――the boat does jump, Their friends too are shouting, and waving their hats For those who will never submit to a bump.

For men must spurt, and never say die, And when their strength fails, on their pluck must rely, While the lasher at Iffley is moaning.

The races are past, and the bumps are made, The crew have been cheered, and the supper is won, The pipes and the baccy are quickly renewed, “The Eight” is deserted――the puntings begun.

For men must rest, and races must cease, But Isis’ fair stream can ne’er be at peace While the lasher at Iffley keeps moaning.

H. F. B. College Rhymes, 1861. W. Mansell, Oxford.

――――

HOW THREE FISHERS WENT SALERING.

Three mothers sat talking who lived at the west, The west end――as that eldest son went down, Each thought him the husband that she liked the best, For the girl who had watched him all over the town, For men must pay or women weep And their dress is expensive, and many to keep, And their mothers are always wo-o-ning.

Three gentlemen lounged at the club-house door, And they thought of those girls as the funds went down; They thought of their bankers and thought them a bore, And of bills that came rolling in “ragged and brown.” But men must pay or women will weep―― Though debts be pressing――still mothers are deep, And keep up a constant wo-o-ning.

Three gentlemen lay in three separate cells―― The last season’s “necessities” pulled them down―― And the women are weeping and ringing their bells, For those who will never more show upon town, For men must pay or women will weep, And the sooner you do it the sooner you’ll sleep And good-bye to the ma, and her wo-o-nings.

Punch, August 24, 1861.

――――

THE THREE FRESHMEN.

Three freshmen went loafing out into the High, Out into the High, as the sun went down; Each thought on his waistcoat and gorgeous tie; And the nursemaids stood watching them all the way down. For men won’t work, and their mothers must weep, For nothing they earn, and their ticks run deep, Though the College Dons be moaning.

Three townsmen met them near Magdalen Tower; And the freshmen came up, and the sun went down; And a battle ensued for the space of an hour, And a bull-dog came running up, breathless and blown. For when Townsmen meet gownsmen there’s always a riot, And bull-dogs come sudden, some mischief to spy out, While the College Dons are moaning.

The Proctors came up in their shining bands, And they asked them their names, and they sent them down. And their mothers are weeping and wringing their hands, For those who will never come back to the town. For men go to grief, and their mothers must pay, And the sooner its over the better for they; So good-bye to the Dons and their moaning.

DUNS SCOTUS.

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

――――

THE THREE FELLAHS.

Three fellahs went out to a house in the west, To a ball in the west as the sun went down; Each thought how the women would like his new vest, And the street-boys stood chaffing them walking thro’ town. For men must flirt, and women will weep If they can’t get a husband whose pocket is deep, Though they don’t tell Pa what’s owing.

Three girls sat dressed to the best of their power, And they trimmed their hair as the sun went down; They thought of the ball, and they looked at the hour, And the carriage came rolling up――coachman in brown―― For men must flirt, and women will weep If they can’t get a husband whose pocket is deep, Though they don’t tell Pa what’s owing,

Three swells are tied firmly in wedlock’s bands, In the morning gleam as the ’bus went down; And the women are laughing and shaking the hands Of those who without them will ne’er leave the town. But men should mind, and women are deep, And the richer the husband the harder to weep, And good-bye to the swells and their groaning.

Judy, September 4, 1867.

――――

THREE HUSBANDS.

Three husbands went forth from their homes in the West―― From their homes in the West to the City went down, Each thought on the woman whom he loved best, And said “shall I bring her to-night a gown?” For men must work and women must dress, Though it sometimes comes hard on the husband, I guess, And gives rise to much grief and moaning.

Three wives sat up in a lady’s bower, And each trimmed the dress that was brought from town, Fixing here a ribbon, and there a flower; And said one “’Twill look well trimmed with Bismarck brown,” For men must work that women may dress, And if it comes hard on the husbands I guess It is not the least use their moaning.

Three husbands stood at the bankruptcy bar―― At the bankruptcy bar and their heads hung down, For creditors pressing for dividends are And three white-washed men will go forth to the town. For if men must work that women may dress, The former sometimes find themselves in a mess, Which gives rise to tears and much moaning.

From Banter, edited by George Augustus Sala, November 4, 1867.

――――

THREE CHILDREN WERE PLAYING.

Three children were playing, one day on the lawn, One day on the lawn, ere the sun was high, Their day had no shadow, their rose had no thorn, Not one little cloud was abroad in the sky. Their fathers were working when they were at play, Though pleasant the season and early the day; For the old world goes on rolling.

Three husbands once met in the street of a town, In the street of a town as the crowd pass’d by; And one had a heartache, and one was cast down, And the other look’d gloomy, and said with a sigh, “Yet we must toil that the children may play, Though a night of disquiet oft follows the day; And the old world goes on rolling.”

Three old men stood by the side of a tomb, By the side of a tomb when the night drew nigh; And they look’d to the westward, all shrouded in gloom, But no beam of sunset was seen in the sky: “Oh, let us to sleep; and the children will play To-morrow at day break, when we are away: For the old world goes on rolling.”

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

――――

THREE STUDENTS.

Three Students sat writing with lips compressed In a well-known house with their heads bent down; Each thought of the “tip” that might serve him best, And the Proctor came rustling up, all hood and gown. For men must work, and little they’ll sleep, If Dons be cruel, and papers be deep, And the Church and Bar be waiting.

Three Dons sat sipping at something hot By a flickering lamp when the sun went down; They looked at each blunder, and crib phrase and “shot,” And they marked down a D with a sigh and a frown. For men must work――but little you’ll sleep If a man with a cornet should under you keep, And the Church and Bar be waiting.

Three travellers puffed out a fragrant cloud, One Saturday morn when the sun went down; Though they travelled first-class, you could see they were ploughed, And, oh! they were Robinson, Jones and Brown! For men won’t work, and little they’ll sleep If the wine be good, and tobacco be cheap, Though the Church and Bar be waiting.

The Cantab, E. Johnson, Cambridge, 1873.

――――

THE THREE DINERS. (A Lay of Temple Bar in its present state, September, 1874.)

Three gourmands invited were into the West, Out of Cornhill by Lord Fitz-Brown; They found they’d be late, and they thought it best From Cheapside to cab it right into Town. “For men will growl and women will weep, If waiting for dinner my Lord we keep!” Near Temple Bar they’re moaning.

They were blocked up in Fleet Street for nigh an hour, And the lamps were lit as the sun went down; They swore they’d walk, but there came a show’r: ’Twas long past the hour for Lord Fitz-Brown. For cabs must walk and ’busses must creep, Which causes a block from Fleet to Chepe, While the Temple Bar is moaning.

Three “empties” drew up at Fitz-Brown’s house grand, As the Devonshire cream and the tart went down; And the ladies are smiling behind the hand As the “empties” explain to Lord Fitz-Brown. While cabs must crawl and ’busses must creep, All long to say, from Fleet to Chepe, “O, good-bye to the Bar and its moaning!”

Punch, September 26, 1874.

――――

THE THREE SKATERS.

Three ladies went skating at Prince’s one day, And happy indeed were one and all; For their hearts were light, and their dresses were gay, But ’ere night they each had a terrible fall; For women will skate, whate’er be their fate, And its perfectly useless objections to state, So heigh ho! for the rink and the skating.

Three husbands sat waiting for dinner that night, And weary and hungry they were each one, And the cook and the butler were both in a fright, For they knew the fish would be overdone: But men must wait, while women do skate, And its just as well to put up with your fate, So heigh ho! for the rink and the skating.

Three sufferers that night were brought home in alarm, Bemoaning their fate with many a sigh; One had broken her leg, another her arm, And the third alas! had fractured her thigh: For woman will skate, whate’er be their fate, Though to mend we know it’s never too late, So good-bye to the rink and the skating.

From Idyls of the Rink. Judd and Co, London, 1876.

――――

SONG ON CYPRUS, BY MR. GLADSTONE.

Three regiments went sailing away to the East―― Away to the East, to our Island new; And the nearer they came their spirits increased, For they were Englishmen brave and true: For whilst we’ve an army our troops must fight; And islands bought must be held by might, In spite of the press’s groaning.

Three Regiments landed on Cyprus shores―― On Cyprus shores, there by Larnaca town; And having no huts slept out of doors, And a quarter next week were with fever down: For officials will blunder, and men must die, And it’s little use to be asking why; For nought comes of the press and its groaning.

Three Regiments went sailing away to the West―― Away to the west, whence they first had come; And none had escaped from the island’s pest, But all were feeble, and limp and glum. And soldiers must suffer and die, no doubt, But why did they send those Regiments out? Did they know at the time what they were about? It’s for this that the press is groaning.

Truth. Christmas Number, 1878.

――――

THE THREE PRACTICAL MEN.

Three practical men went strolling West, Out into the West as the Bar came down; Each said to the workmen, “May you be blest, For moving this obstacle out of the town! For cabs still crawl, and ’busses still creep―― While stultified aldermen vainly weep, Their ancient Bar bemoaning.”

Three barmaids stood in their gas-lit bower, And filled each glass as the Bar came down; And the practical gentlemen looked at the shower, And the mud that was rolling up slimy and brown, For men will drink, and women must keep Replenishing beakers, while potions deep Are quaffed to the Bar and its “boning.”

Three “lushingtons” lie in the roaring Strand, ’Neath the Law Courts’ shade as the Bar comes down, And the barmaids are peeping――a giggling band―― For they know the police may be squared with a crown. Ah! liquors are potent, and draughts are deep, And the more you imbibe, why, the sooner you sleep, An’ goo’-bye to th’ Bar an’s moaning!

Funny Folks, January 26, 1878,

――――

THE THREE PROFITS.

[“There must be three profits obtained from land.”――Lord Beaconsfield.]

“Three profits” had got to come out of the land―― Out of the land where the cash went down―― The farmer some capital still had in hand, Which stood in his name at the bank in the town. For rents fall due, and tenants must pay, And there’s little quarter on Quarter-day From the lord the land who’s owning.

Three landlords sat in an ancient hall, And mourned the way that their rents went down! “Three profits!” they cried. “It is ours that fall! Where once we’d a sovereign, now we’ve a crown! We have to live――and our farms won’t let! And we can’t exist upon what we get―― So what use is the land we’re owning!”

Three farmers consulted about their lands―― Each face was sad with a thoughtful frown The profits were all paid to farming “hands”―― The profits were all in the land sunk down! “Three profits!” they cried, “there’s not a doubt Our landlords and we must go without, And ‘Good-bye’ to our old farms owning!”

Funny Folks, October 18, 1879.

――――

WHEN WE WERE BOYS. By an Old Boy.

Three lambkins went larking there out in the west,―― Out in the west at the dawn of day; At pulling of knockers they all did their best, And the bobbies looked on in a bobbylike way. For boys will be boys, and bobbies will bob, And when you get cotched you get one on the nob, If you’re out on the spree of a morning.

Three lambkins got lagged and were shut up in quod, Twenty-six knockers the bobbies they found. Mr. WOOLRYCH, he said that such conduct was odd, And he mulct each poor lambkin of twenty-one pound; For beaks will be beaks, though boys may be boys. You must grin and must bear, not kick up a noise At the court when you show in the morning.

A marquess, a colonel, a captain, and I Forty years gone went out on the spree; To every trick on the cards we were fly, And now of the four alive there’s but me. For night will come and man must die, And we come, to look back half ashamed by and by On what we thought fun in the morning.

Judy, March 19, 1879.

――――

THE THREE LAND AGITATORS IN IRELAND.

The following were selected, from over one hundred parodies sent in to The World, as worthy of the first and second prizes:――

FIRST PRIZE.

Three rascals went ranting round in the West, Disturbing old Ireland, country and town; “Bedad, it’s the landlords is bastes at the best! And if ever they drive ye for rent, shoot ’em down!” For rogues must rant, and good men must weep, With starvation to earn, and prison to keep, And a cry for Freedom sounding.

Three captives sat in the prison drear, And they longed for their pipes as the sun went down; And they sniffed their stale loaves, and they begged for some beer, And they swore at their mattrasses rugged and brown. For rogues who rant in prison must weep, And planks are knotty, and treadmills are steep, Though Freedom’s echoes be sounding.

Three cropped heads fresh from the barber’s shears, Three bowls of thin gruel as salt as the sea, Three curses on Parnell, three strong men in tears, “Me boys, ye are marthers to Fradom!” says he. For fools must smart, and victims must weep, And the harder the mattrass the later to sleep, So good-bye to the three in their “pounding.”

GOBO. ――――

SECOND PRIZE.

Three land agitators went down to the West, Went down to the West, where the storm-clouds rise; Each thought of fair Erin, the land of unrest, And of fair Erin’s children, so poor, so unwise. For times are hard, and harvests are bad, And there’s little to comfort and little to glad, And Famine’s throes impending.

Three men spoke up to the Gurteen throng, And they trimmed their words by Home-Rule light; They railed at the landlords, they raved about wrong, And curses came rolling up black as the night, For times are hard, and harvests are bad, And troubles are many, and hearts grow sad, With treason’s woes impending.

Three captives lay prisoned in Sligo jail, Away in the West where the sun goes down; And men mutter fiercely, and women bewail, And Erin――poor Erin!――must reap the crop sown, For times are hard and harvests are bad, And famine and treason make misery mad, Despair and death the ending.

OBSERVER. The World, December 10, 1879.

――――

THE THREE AGITATORS.

Three Paddies went spouting away at Gurteen, Away at Gurteen in old Erin’s Isle, Each stormed at the Saxons, their laws and their Queen, And the “boys” their shillaleghs stood twirling the while; For tenants must shoot, and landlords must die, Cold lead is cheap, and the rents are high, So, hurray for the agitation!

Three Bobbies came up, and they tapp’d those Pats On the shoulders, just in a friendly way, And they look’d rather sold, as they put on their hats, For the game was up, and it would’nt pay! But tenants must shoot, and landlords must die, Though a dirty Government plays the spy On the Irish agitation!

Three martyrs lay lock’d in the Sligo gaol, In the Sligo gaol as the sun went down, And the loafers set up a discordant wail For those whose orations were lost to the town! For tenants must shoot, and landlords must die, And the sooner they’re potted, the sooner we’ll cry Farewell to the agitation!

From Snatches of Song, by F. B. DOVETON. (Wyman and Sons, London, 1880.)

――――

THE JELLY FISHES.

Three fishes were floating about in the sea; Three fishes which were of the Jelly-fish kind, And being perceived by a certain grandee, They called up at once, as he said, to his mind, How much they resembled in form and degree, Three colleagues he recently had left behind. And men now will laugh and women must smile At this very apt joke of the Duke of Argyll.

These fishes, he said, iridescent but limp Seem’d all at first sight to be able to sail, But examined had not e’en so much as the shrimp The power of propelling themselves by the tail; They neither had skeletons, nerve, nor backbone, Were nothing but jelly, no will of their own, So women must scoff at, and men will deride These structureless creatures adrift in the tide.

This witty grandee has been wont to come out, To come out of his house when the sun has gone down, To meet with his compeers, tall, lean, short and stout, And bishops arrayed in black gaiters and gown, But no one could predicate till he’d begin, With head well thrown back and with prominent chin, Whether friends had to cheer or opponents to moan, Over what would among them most surely be thrown. But all must rejoice, and none can deplore, Our having among us the Mac Allum More.

Morning Post, August 4, 1881.

――――

THE THREE FISHERS.

Three Tories[47] went bravely down into the North, Away to the North which the “Rads” love best; Each thought of the man that had driven him forth, From the snug little berth that he once possessed: For Placemen must live, though the country may starve, And sometimes a blister, and sometimes a salve, Will set party waves a-rolling.

Three Orators spoke for many an hour, And told ’em the blunders that Gladstone had made, Which they only could right if returned into power: And they gave ’em some pious “opinions” on trade. For Placemen must live, and――though hardly the thing, Yet even to Newcastle coals you must bring, To set Tory tides a-rolling.

Three “Failures” came back, as we’ve all of us read, Sad, if not wiser, to London town; For e’en Tory organs were shaking a head, And hinted they’d better have not gone down. But Placemen must live――every dog has a day, And even “Fair Trade” may, for once in a way, Keep party waves a-rolling.

From Grins and Groans. 1882.

――――

THE ACADEMY, 1882. THE MEW-STONE. J. W. OAKES, A.R.A.

There were three pussy-cats sought the tiles, They sought the tiles as the sun went down, Their faces were wreathed with complacent smiles, For they were about to “do it brown.” And men may growl and women may weep, But nobody gets him a wink of sleep For pussy-cats’ caterwauling.

There were three parties who yearned for sleep, Who yearned for sleep as the sun went down, They used expressions “not loud but deep,” At pussies’ commencing to “do it brown.” For men may growl and women may weep, But who, may I ask, can manage to sleep, With pussy-cats caterwauling.

There were three parties who rose in rage, Who rose in nocturnal cap and gown, And one of the pussies was, I’ll engage, A little surprised when they knocked her down. A second succumbed to a pistol shot, The other fell down a chimney-pot―― “Good bye to the cats a-wauling!”

From Fun Academy Skits, 1882.

――――

THREE LONDON FISHMONGERS.

Three fishmongers looked for a sale down west, In the heart of the west, when the world’s in town, Each thought of the neighbourhood paying him best Where the prices go up but never come down; For fools will pay when they can’t buy cheap, So back to the sea every day goes a heap, While the public look on groaning.

Three Stores were set up some miles from the Tower, And the fish got west all over the town, And the middlemen cried, “We’re in for a shower, If this goes on! Why the price will come down! For men will dine, and――if they can――cheap, And the public seems waking at last from its sleep―― It’s so precious tired of groaning!”

Three bankrupts are showing their empty hands, And all that they get for their pains is a frown, And a “Serve you right――why, ’twas your demands That for years have plundered and starved the town!” But fools grow wise, and fish can get cheap, Three halfpence a pound anywhere in the heap, And the public has done with its groaning!

1883

――――

THE POTTERIES.

Three potters set out all dressed in their best, All dressed in their best as the sun went down, Each sought out the butcher who’d serve him the best, It was Saturday night, and a crowd in the town―― For women must cook and men must eat, And the nearer the bone the sweeter the meat, Tho’ ’tis better by far with no bone in.

Three wives sat wearily “watching for pa,” Till the sweet chimes jingled the midnight hour, And they waited and watched with the doors ajar, Oh, where were the joints, the spuds, and the flour! For women can’t cook if the cupboard is bare, And a dinnerless Sunday will make a saint swear, With the poor little children moaning.

Three potters came home all dressed in their best, All dressed in their best, but draggled and torn, Nothing they brought――you may guess the rest, And the wigging they got from their wives forlorn, For men should be sober at each week end, And give their wives their wages to spend, Then there’d be no headaches and groaning.

(Stoke-upon-Trent, 1884)

――――

THE THREE CHAMPIONS.

Three Champions went stumping up into the North, Up into the North with identical creeds; Lord S. took the Clyde, and Sir STAFFORD the Forth, While Lord RANDOLPH he posed as a Leader at Leeds, For if Radicals rant, then Tories will fret, And there’s little to learn, and much to forget, When our rival Chiefs are spouting.

Three Editors sat in their newspaper towers, While the “flimsies” came pouring in fast as could be; And they kindly cut short the rhetorical flowers, And sighed when the language was “painful and free;” For if Rads will threaten, then Tories must scold, Though Europe be angry and ironclads old, And patriots hate this spouting.

Three crowds of admirers they chortled and cheered, For the Leaders went up, and their speeches “went down;” And the Editors swear by Lord BEACONSFIELD’S beard That the country is with them as well as the Town. But though Tories and Radicals scream themselves red, The sooner it’s over, the sooner to bed, And good-bye to this pestilent spouting!

Punch, October 11, 1884.

――――

THREE FOSSILS.

Three Fossils sat perched in the Whitehall Zoo, Out far in the West where the sun goes down; Each thought of his crotchet――the last one he knew; And their fads and their whims were the talk of the town. For men must work and women must weep, Or there’ll be no money the Fossils to keep; And the shipowning folks are groaning.

Three shipowners sat in their wild despair, By East or by West they were all done brown! For the Fossils had ruined the trade once so fair; And the foreigners cut in to put the freights down. But men must work and women must weep; ’Tis hard to do else when there’s nothing to eat, While the Fossils go on droning.

Three ships were laid up in the stream hard by; And the crews were discharged ere the sun went down; And nothing was left for a roof but the sky; And the moon’s not as warm as a quilt made of down. But men must work and women must weep; For none but a Fossil in comfort can sleep, When the Shipping trade is groaning.

Three Fossils laid stretched on a Whitehall floor; Right flat on the floor, on a carpet brown. And their collars were dirty; and loud was their snore; For they’d all been enjoying a night about town. But men must work and women must weep, And when the spree’s ended the Fossils can sleep, While the hard-working world is moaning.

Fairplay, November 7, 1884.

――――

THREE FISHERMEN.

Three fishermen went gaily out into the North―― Out into the North ere the sun was high, And they chuckled with glee as they sallied forth, Resolved to capture the trout――or die. For men will fish and men will lie, About the fish they “caught on the fly,” Their Sunday-school lessons scorning.

Three fishers lay under the trees at noon, And “blamed” the whole of the finny race, For never a nibble touched fly or spoon, And each sighed as he wet the hole in his face, For men will fish and men will lie, And the way they caught trout when nobody’s nigh Is something to tell――in the morning.

Three fishermen came into town at night, And their “speckled beauties” were fair to see: They talked of their “sports” with keen delight, The envy of all the fraternity. But men will fish and men will lie, And what they can’t catch they’re sure to buy, And never repeat in the morning.

U. N. NONE.

The Saturday Evening Post, Philadelphia, U.S.A. June 27, 1885.

――――

NEW WORDS AND OLD SONGS.

Three acres seemed pleasant to Countryman Hodge; With Countryman Hodge, too, the Cow went down; The Acres and Cow were a capital dodge For those who could never get in for the town. The men may vote――the women may not―― But the Primrose League is the comfort they’ve got; So the Knights and Dames go cadging!

Three Rads came out in the country to speak―― By the village-pumps where the Cow went down; And they all kept talking on end for a week, Till the rustics came polling up, horny and brown. The men did vote――the women did not―― But though they didn’t, they canvassed a lot; And the Knights and Dames went cadging!

Three Tories retired to their Primrose Lodge―― Left out in the cold when the Cow went down; And the women sate cussing at Countryman Hodge, For going and spoiling the votes of the town. That men should vote――and women should not! But if ever they do, ’twill for Members be hot, So, good-bye to the Dames, and their cadging!

Punch, December 19, 1885.

――――

THREE FARMERS WENT DRIVING.

Three farmers went driving up into the town, Up into the town when the sun was low; Each thought what he’d do when the sun went down, And the women came outward to see them go. For farmers must carry their produce to town To buy themselves clothes and the women a gown, And the neighbours wives are groaning.

Three peelers stood out on their lonely beat And swung their staves as the sun went down, They looked at their helmets and looked at their feet, And now and then squinted round through the town: For “cops” must hunt for men who are full, And finding them, ’tis their duty to “pull” Though the prisoners may start howling.

Three farmers were locked in a cell that night, Who, loaded with “lush” as the sun went down; Their produce they sold and they soon got tight, And started at once to take in the town. For “cops” will “pull” whenever they see Three farmers together out on a big spree, Whose wives are at home a-growling.

Scraps, January 1886.

――――

THREE TOPERS.

Three topers went strolling out into the East, Out into the East as the sun went down―― Each thought of the liquor that’s brewed with yeast, And not of the wife with the tattered gown―― For men must drink, and women must weep, For there’s little to earn and nothing to keep, When the pot-house bar is groaning.

Three wives sat up in a garret bare, And they lit their dips as the sun sank low, And they gazed at the squalor and misery there Till the night-rake comes rolling up stagg’ring slow. For men must drink and women must weep, And storms are sudden when men drink deep, And the pot-house bar is groaning.

Three bodies lie out on the shining sands Of the pot-house floor in the morning light, And the women are weeping, and wringing their hands, For there’s murder done in a drunken fight. For men must drink, and women must weep; Oh! would that the Temperance pledge they’d keep, Bid adieu to the bar and its groaning.

HYDE PARKER, 1886.

――――

THE THREE POETS.

Three poets went sailing down Boston streets, All into the East as the sun went down, Each felt that the editor loved him best And would welcome spring poetry in Boston town. For poets must write tho’ the editors frown, Their æsthetic natures will not be put down, While the harbour bar is moaning!

Three editors climbed to the highest tower That they could find in all Boston town, And they planned to conceal themselves, hour after hour, Till the sun or the poets had both gone down. For Spring poets must write though the editors rage, The artistic spirit must thus be engaged―― Though the editors all were groaning.

Three corpses lay out on the Back Bay sand, Just after the first spring sun went down, And the Press sat down to a banquet grand, In honour of poets no more in the town. For poets will write while editors sleep, Though they’ve nothing to earn and no one to keep; And the harbour bar keeps moaning.

LILIAN WHITING.

From an American collection, entitled The Wit of Women by Kate Sanborn.

――――

THE THREE FILCHERS.

Three filchers went cadging in character dressed, To every move most remarkably down, Each thought on the fakement that suited him best; And the peelers stood watching them out on the town. “Oh, we don’t want no vork, ’cos ve goes on the cheap, We prigs all ve can, though but little we keep, And we are the boys for boning.”

Three bob-hobbies sat by the station fire, And to trim these scamps they a plan laid down; They looked very sly, but may need to look slyer, For these night-hawks were old ’uns at doing ’em brown. “Oh, vhen ve vork honest folks are asleep, And in their strong boxes ve takes a sly peep, And we are the boys for boning.”

Three convicts, connected with iron bands, In the saddest plights of the “jug” went down, And the peelers are grinning and rubbing their hands At the coves who will never more cadge on the town. “Now then ve must vork with our hands and our feet, Sich a gitting up-stairs――oh, ain’t it a treat, Besides we are barred from boning.”

From The Free Lance, Manchester.

――――

THREE STUDENTS.

Three students were walking, all dressed in their best, On a Sunday in Term, without cap, without gown. Each lit a cigar that came from the West, And they thought they’d astonish the men of the town. For men will slum, tho’ their guv’nors weep, Who have got to stump up to pay for their keep, And the Tutor ’bout work may be groaning.

Three students sat up past the midnight chimes, And they re-trimmed their lamps, as they oft ran down, And they “mugged” at their Paley, and got up the rhymes, And turned o’er their “Dictions,” so ragged and brown. For men must work and give up their sleep, Their livings to earn and themselves to keep, Though o’er Euclid they be moaning

Three proctorised students the Proctor call’d up On the Monday morning. He sent them down; But not for the others did dons wring their hands, Because they would nevermore wear cap and gown. For if men won’t work by night or by day, The sooner they go down the less there’s to pay, When goodbye is said to the college.

From The Lays of the Mocking Sprite, by E. B. C. Cambridge, W. Metcalfe and Sons.

(There is no date to this curious little collection, nor does the Author’s name appear.)

――――

MELONCHOLIC.

Three Melons went sailing out in the West―― Nutmeg, water, and musk, Three little boys at evening dusk, While nature brooded in damp suspense, Climbed over a ten rail, eight foot fence And stowed a Melon beneath each vest.

Three little colics appeared that night And tackled the cherubs three―― Oh, the groan, the pain, the misery, The cramp, the gripe, and the inward hurt, The fate that doctors couldn’t avert, Three Undertakers at morning’s light.

Let Melons go sailing everywhere And women are born to weep, And boys will forage while farmers sleep, And colics will come where melons go, And so will doctors and every woe That points the way to the golden stair.

United States Paper.

――――

HOUSE CLEANING.

Three Carpets hung waiving abroad in the breeze Abroad in the breeze as the sun went down, And three husbands with patches of dust on their knees Whacked whacks that were heard for miles up and down. For men must work and women must clean And the carpet be beaten, no matter how mean, While neighbours do the bossing.

Three housewives leaned out of their windows raised Of their windows raised where the light streamed in And they scrubbed and scrubbed till their heads grew dazed, And their ears were filled with a horrible din; For pots will fall and kettles go bang, And boilers refuse in the attic to hang, While husbands do the swearing.

Three husbands went out in the hay mows to hide In the hay mows to hide where their wives ne’er looked. Each said as he rolled himself o’er on his side, “I guess I will snooze, for I know I am booked, For men may swear, but women will dust, And before I’ll move that stove I’ll be cussed―― I’ll stay right here till morning!”

Three Judges sat up on their benches to judge Three cases that came from a house-cleaning row; The parties asserted they never would budge, But wanted divorces “right here and right now.” So the men went off and the women went home, And hereafter will do their house-cleaning alone, While their former partners snicker.

United States Paper.

――――

THE THREE WORTHLESS FELLOWS.

Three worthless young fellows went out in the night, Went out in the night when the sun went down, They wandered along ’neath the moon’s pale light, And smoked their cigars as they walked down town. For men will go and women will weep, ’Tis useless to grieve, ’tis wiser to sleep, Tho’ they don’t come home till morning.

Three worthless young fellows looked up at the moon, Looked up at the moon as they went their way, Each thought of O’Shaunnessy’s big saloon, Where every night they could billiards play. For men will play and women will weep, ’Tis useless to grieve, ’tis wiser to sleep, Tho’ they don’t come home till morning.

Three worthless young fellows got safe to the door, Got safe to the door as the clock struck nine, Each well knew the place, they had been there before, And drank of the brandy, and ale, and wine. For men will drink and women will weep, ’Tis useless to cry, ’tis better to sleep, Tho’ they don’t come home till morning.

Three worthless young fellows came out in the street, Came out in the street as the clock struck three, Two stalwart policemen they chanced to meet, And were marched straight along to the armoury. For men will sing and women will weep, ’Tis useless to grieve, ’tis wiser to sleep, Tho’ they don’t come home till morning.

Three worthless young fellows came home in the morn, Came home in the morn as the clock struck ten; They “went out for wool,” but alas, were shorn, And they wished themselves anywhere else just then. For men will sin, and women will weep, ’Tis waste of affection, forget it in sleep, And dream till the dawn of the morning.

United States Paper.

――――

A ROYAL FLUSH.

Three Sports got into a railroad car, A railroad car with a pack of cards; They called “hear” “hyar,” and “there” was “thar,” And they always spoke to each other as “paur” For sports there are both good and poor, Professional and amateur, Where railroad trains are running.

They wanted a fourth at a poker hand, Three were they, and they were one short, And they asked a stranger if he’d the sand To try a little game for sport; For strangers there are when men abound, And you’ll always find a stranger round Where railroad trains are running.

The stranger didn’t know the game, But he was willing to live and learn; To him the cards were all the same―― “They was to all at first he’d hearn,” And the Sports laughed loud and dealt the pack And gave him four queens and a thick-legged Jack, As they will when trains are running.

And then they bet on the poker hand, And fattened the pot to a goodly pile, And they asked the stranger if he would stand, And the stranger stood with a simple smile. And one sport raised the other two, And the stranger won, as strangers do Where railroad trains are running.

And then in a solemn breathless hush The three Sports showed what they had got; But aces won’t beat a royal flush, And the stranger gobbled that obese pot, For strangers and sports are natural foes, And the former carry cauls in their clo’es When railroad trains are running.

United States Paper.

――――

THE “BAR” AND ITS MOANING. (Not a Parody.) BY MRS. G. LINNÆUS BANKS.

Three husbands went reeling home out of the West, Home out of the West ere the moon went down, Nor thought of the women who loved them the best, Or the children expecting them home from the town; Oh! women must work and women must weep, When there’s all to be earned, and many to keep, And the tavern bar makes moaning.

Three wives sat up past the midnight hour, And they trimmed their lamps till the moon went down, They wept o’er their work, and looked out through the shower, Till the night-rakes came reeling with menace and frown; But women must work, and women must weep, For storms are sudden when drink is deep, And the tavern bar makes moaning.

Three husbands shake out life’s sodden sands In the morning gleam when the moon goes down, And women are weeping and wringing their hands, For those who will never go back to the town; But women must work, and women must weep, And the sooner its over, the sooner to sleep, And good-bye to the bar, and its moaning.

――――

Messrs. Hopwood and Crew have recently published a song, entitled “Three Young Men who never went astray,” which has been sung with some success in the Music Halls, but it has no literary merit as a parody.

――――:o:――――

ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND.

Welcome, wild north-easter! Shame it is to see Odes to every zephyr; Ne’er a verse to thee. Welcome, black north-easter! O’er the German foam; O’er the Danish Moorlands, From thy frozen home.

Tired we are of summer, Tired of gaudy glare, Showers soft and steaming, Hot and breathless air. Tired of listless dreaming, Through the lazy day: Jovial wind of winter Turn us out to play!

Sweep the golden reed-beds, Crisp the lazy dyke; Hunger into madness Every plunging pike. Fill the lake with wild fowl; Fill the marsh with snipe; While on dreary moorlands Lonely curlew pipe.

Through the black fir-forest Thunder harsh and dry, Shattering down the snow flakes Off the curdled sky. Hark! the brave north-easter! Breast-high lies the scent, On by holt and headland, Over heath and bent.

Chime, ye dappled darlings, Through the sleet and snow. Who can over-ride you? Let the horses go! Chime ye dappled darlings, Down the roaring blast; You shall see a fox die Ere an hour be past.

Go! and rest to-morrow, Hunting in your dreams, While our skates are ringing O’er the frozen streams. Let the luscious south-wind Breathe in lovers’ sighs, While the lazy gallants Bask in ladies’ eyes.

What does he but soften Heart alike and pen? ’Tis the hard grey weather Breeds hard English men. What’s the soft south-wester? ’Tis the ladies’ breeze, Bringing home their true loves Out of all the seas:

But the black north-easter, Through the snowstorm hurled, Drives our English hearts of oak Seaward round the world. Come, as came our fathers, Heralded by thee, Conquering from the eastward, Lords by land and sea.

Come, and strong within us Stir the Vikings’ blood; Bracing brain and sinew; Blow, thou wind of God!

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

――――

THE SURGEON’S WIND.

The wind is North-East――so let it be! The North-East wind is the wind for me, To me it blows good if to none besides; For the boys on the pavement cut out slides, And the passenger on the hard flagstones Comes down, ha, ha! and breaks his bones.

I have had a radius to do, And a compound fractured tibia, too, And that had been scarce ten minutes gone, When in came a case of olecranon, There was next a dislocated hip, Resulting also from a slip.

Zymotic diseases lend a charm To genial autumn, moist and warm. We have Scarlatina and Typhus then, And Cholera good for medical men; But practice is best, I always find, In the bracing air of the North-East wind.

When the North-Easter whistles shrill, It makes me think on the little bill To many a patient that I shall send, Whom that wind calls me to attend And though its music may seem severe, ’Tis a strain to gladden a surgeon’s ear.

Punch, February 21, 1857.

――――

“BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTRY WIND.”

“SIR,――I have lived to see and hear a great many strange things, but I never expected to live to hear an English poet singing the praises of the North-East Wind, as I am amazed to find the Rev. Charles Kingsley has been doing. What does the man mean? Has he a nerve in his body? Is he susceptible of catarrh, influenza, bronchitis, and the other ills that miserable flesh is heir to in this climate? Has he a constitution of cast iron, a skin of triple brass, and muscles of steel wire? Does he not know what it is, as he lies in bed of a morning, to feel that twinge of indescribable all-overishness, which announces that the East Wind is blowing outside the house? Does he not feel his eyes smart, his skin scorch and shrivel, his every limb ache, appetite go, and his temper break down altogether, whenever this same abominable wind prevails, as it does three days out of four in this infernal climate of ours?

Sir, if we are to have a song of the North East Wind, I submit that mine is more the thing than Mr. Kingsley’s, and therefore beg to enclose it for your journal, which has occasionally, though at distant intervals, beguiled a miserable half-hour for,

“Your dyspeptic reader, “MISERRIMUS MEAGRESON.”

MY SONG OF THE NORTH WIND.

Hang thee, vile North Easter; Other things may be Very bad to bear with, Nothing equals thee. Grim and grey North Easter, From each Essex-bog, From the Plaistow marshes, Rolling London fog――

“Tired we are of summer” KINGSLEY may declare, I give the assertion, Contradiction bare: I, in bed, this morning Felt thee, as I lay: “There’s a vile North Easter Out of doors to-day!”

Set the dust-clouds blowing Till each face they strike, With the blacks is growing Chimney-sweeper like. Fill our rooms with smoke gusts From the chimney-pipe, Fill our eyes with water, That defies the wipe.

Through the draughty passage Whistle loud and high, Making door and windows Rattle, flap and fly; Hark, that vile North Easter Roaring up the vent. Nipping soul and body, Breeding discontent!

Squall, my noisy children; Smoke, my parlour grate; Scold, my shrewish partner; I accept my fate. All is quite in tune with This North Eastern blast; Who can look for comfort Till this wind be past?

If all goes contrary, Who can feel surprise, With this rude North Easter In his teeth and eyes? It blows much too often, Nine days out of ten, Yet we boast our climate, Like true English men!

In their soft South Easters Could I bask at ease, I’d let France and Naples Bully as they please, But while this North Easter In one’s teeth is hurled, Liberty seems worth just Nothing in the world.

Come, as came our fathers Heralded by thee, Blasting, blighting, burning Out of Normandie. Come and flay and skin us, And dry up our blood―― All to have a KINGSLEY Swear it does him good!

Punch, April 10, 1858.

――――

ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND. By a Débutante at the last Drawing Room.

Welcome, wild North-Easter? Oh! most certainly! Here a girl must gladly Turn a verse to thee! Welcome, black North-Easter? Eugh! a German goddess, Or a Danish nymph, Never donned low bodice.

True it looks like Summer, There’s a chilly glare; But the Sun seems hurtling Ice-shafts through the air. In their glad Spring greenery All the trees look gay, But through Summer’s scenery Winds of Winter play;

Sweep my golden tassels, To my bosom strike; Make my toes feel tingling In some frozen dyke; Fill my eyes with tear-drops, Cold――I hope as bright―― As those diamond ear-drops, Dear Mamma’s delight;

Through this thin tulle-pleating Worm their way until My poor heart stops beating With the deathly chill. Hark! the brave North-Easter, Like a blast from Norway, Howls along the passage, Whistles through the doorway.

Cringe, ye courtly darlings, In your robes of snow, Trimmed with pure white lilac! Heavens! it does blow! Even the plump Duchess In her brocatelle Finds the draught too much is, Though she’s covered well.

Her blue lips she closes, Her chilled eyelids wink, And her Roman nose is, Like her train, shrimp-pink. Mamma’s eye is on me, Sparkling like a jewel. Courage! but this wind is Cruel, cruel, cruel!

Such a scene as this is Every girl’s delight is; But my throat’s so raspy, And that means bronchitis: One would rather die Than not be presented; But in a North-Easter? KINGSLEY was demented!

Yes, the luscious South-wind Which the goose decries, Less afflicts our bosoms, Better suits our eyes. Why belaud and soften With his tricky pen What, alas! too often Women slays――and men?

Says the soft South-Wester Is the Ladies’ breeze! Be it so, and let us Have it, if you please! But the black North-Easter Through May’s mid-day hurled, Drives poor English girls by scores Death ward from “the world.”

Drawing-rooms are lovely, But diaphanous dress In a May North-Easter Means――eugh! I can guess By this inward quivering, By this bosom chill: E’en Mamma is shivering, Spite of her strong will.

Oh! cannot our mothers (From the dear Queen down) Some less killing fashion Set the foolish Town? Mode rules strong within us, But――we’re flesh and blood, Frozen by what KINGSLEY Calls “the wind of God.”

Punch, May 30, 1885.

――――

ODE TO AN ENGLISH EASTER. (After a Muscular Poet).

Welcome English Easter, Cowards should we be, Loving our vacations Not to sing to thee; Welcome English Easter When we long to roam, O’er the heights of Dover, Far away from home.

Tired we are of working, Sick and ill with care. Weary of Reformers, House of Commons air! Sweep the busy city Of the dust of years. Prime with pluck and muscle All our volunteers.

Shriek, ye snorting engines, With your loads in tow, Worried station-masters Give the word to go! Shriek, ye puffing engines, For we want to see Paris Exhibition Now that we are free.

Let the lazy summer Tempt us by and by With its cosy pic-nics, Ice, and pigeon-pie. Lengthy expeditions, Put them off till then, ’Tis this doubtful weather Pleases Englishmen!

What’s the sunny summer! ’Tis the ladies’ hour, Bringing lawns and crôquet, Tea and toast in power; But an English Easter Often takes us in, And ’midst our enjoyment Soaks us to the skin.

Welcome English Easter, We must have our spree, Cheap excursion-tickets, By the land and sea, Take us for next to nothing There and back again, Blow the doubtful weather, Never mind the rain!

Fun, April 27, 1867.

“THE SOUTH-WEST TRAINS AND THE SPEAKER’S CLOCK.――(To the Editor of the Daily News.)――Sir,――The writer of an article in your edition of to-day, in quoting these lines of Kingsley’s: ‘Oh, blessed south-west train; Oh, blessed, blessed Speaker’s clock, All prophesying rain,’ describes them as being ‘rather mysterious.’ As it is quite unusual to see anything of Kingsley’s thus characterised, it may perhaps be instructive to your writer, and interesting to your readers, to know that these lines simply have reference to the sounds which were wafted towards Eversley Rectory from the South-Western Railway and the clock at Heckfield Place, the residence of the then Speaker of the House of Commons, when the ‘bless’d southwind’ was blowing; always welcome to Kingsley as heralding a day’s fishing, when――

I’m off at eight to-morrow morn To bring such fishes back.

――Faithfully yours, FRED. W. GILL.――Dartford, Kent.”――

The Daily News, April, 1885.

――――:o:――――

A HUSBAND’S LAMENT.

AIR――“I once had a sweet little Doll, dears.” (Kingsley’s Words, set by A. Cecil.)

I once saw a sweet pretty face, boys: Its beauty and grace were divine. And I felt what a swell I should be, boys, Could I boast that such charms were all mine! I wooed. Every man I cut out, boys, At my head deep anathemas hurled:―― But I said as I walked back from church, boys, “I’m the luckiest dog in the world!”

As doves in a cot we began, boys, A cosy and orthodox pair: Till I found at my notable wife, boys, The world was beginning to stare. She liked it. At first so did I, boys, But, at length, when all over the place She was sketched, hunted, photo’d and mobbed, boys, I cried, “Hang her sweet pretty face!”

Still, we went here and there,――right and left, boys;―― We were asked dozen’s deep,――I say “we,” Though wherever I went not a soul, boys, Could have pointed out Adam from me. But we had a rare social success, boys, Got mixed with the noble and great, Till one’s friends, who say kind and nice things, boys, Talked of me as “the man come to wait!”

So, I’ve no more a sweet pretty wife, boys; For the one that I once hoped to own, Belongs, as I’ve found to my cost, boys, To the great British public alone. So until they’ve got tired of her face, boys, And a rival more touzled or curled, Drives her home to her own proper place, boys―― I’m the dullest dull dog in the world!

Punch, January 7, 1882.

――――:o:――――

A correspondent writes from the United States, “I send you below an attempt I made twenty-three years ago to parody an illegitimate poem of Kingsley’s, and to show that even a foreigner having a moderate familiarity with Scott’s novels, can write as good a piece of bad Scotch poetry as an Englishman:――

NEW YORK CORRESPONDENCE.

NEW YORK CITY, June 21, 1862.

DEAR PRESS,――I saw in your Poet’s Corner some time since a poem by Charles Kingsley about a beast termed an Oubit. What is it? I was vexed at the poem. What business has Kingsley to be writing fraudulent Scotch poetry? He can’t do it well. It makes him look as ridiculous as the old philosopher in the story, trying to put his toe in his mouth, because he saw a baby do it. Besides, anybody can do it as well as Kingsley. I can. Exempli gratia:

THE DIRDUM.

It was a fearfu’ Dirdum, ae morning in the spring, He hirpled down the brae his lane, a sair and grewsome thing. The muckle buirdly dirdum, wi’ pawky glarin een, And couched himsel amang the grass, whare he could na be seen.

Wee leein’ Jamie Nagle cam daunderin’ up the glen; A fusionless camsteary chiel, aye answering back again. And when auld Jock the cadger tauld him where the dirdum lay, And warned him aff, he leugh, and sware he’d surely gang that way.

Sae on he went, and up he gat, and lang, fu’ lang, he staid―― For naebody saw Jamie e’er come back the gate he gaed. But mony an eldritch screech was heard within the lonesome glen, Though what the dirdum did wi’ him, I’m sure I dinna ken.

There. And yet I don’t think myself an eminently――scarcely a moderately――successful Scotch poet! Ne sutor I say.

Mrs. Felicia Dorothea Hemans, (Née BROWNE) Born 1794. Died in Dublin, May 16, 1835.

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

The stately Homes of England! How beautiful they stand! Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O’er all the pleasant land. The deer across their greensward bound Through shade and sunny gleam; And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream.

* * * * *

THE DONKEY-BOYS OF ENGLAND. (A Song for the Sea-Side,)

The Donkey-Boys of England, how merrily they fly, With pleasant chaff upon the tongue and cunning in the eye. And oh! the donkeys in a mass how patiently they stand, High on the heath of Hampstead, or down on Ramsgate’s sand.

The Donkey-Boys of England, how sternly they reprove The brute that won’t “come over,” with an impressive shove; And oh! the eel-like animals, how gracefully they swerve From side to side, but won’t advance to spoil true beauty’s curve,

The Donkey-Boys of England, how manfully they fight, When a probable donkestrian comes suddenly in sight; From nurse’s arms the babies are clutch’d with fury wild, And on a donkey carried off the mother sees her child.

The Donkey-Boys of England, how sternly they defy The pleadings of a parent’s shriek, the infant’s piercing cry; As a four-year-old Mazeppa is hurried from the spot, Exposed to all the tortures of a donkey’s fitful trot.

The Donkey-Boys of England, how lustily they scream, When they strive to keep together their donkeys in a team; And the riders who are anxious to be class’d among genteels, Have a crowd of ragged Donkey-Boys “hallooing” at their heels.

The Donkey-Boys of England, how well they comprehend The animal to whom they act as master, guide and friend; The understanding that exists between them who’ll dispute―― Or that the larger share of it falls sometimes to the brute?

Punch, September 29, 1849.

――――

THE GARDEN GROUNDS OF ENGLAND.

The Garden Grounds of England! how hopeful they appear When all things else are desolate at winter time of year; For though the summer foliage no longer lends its screen, The earth still wears her uniform of vegetable green. The Cabbage Rows of England! how gaily they deploy, With ranks of stout auxiliaries from Brussels and Savoy; And regiments of native greens, which eloquently speak Of dishes rich and savoury――of bubble and of squeak!

The Cel’ry Heads of England! how airily they rise, High up above the trenches, where the root they spring from lies; Types of the true nobility――bursting by force of worth Out of the low position of circumstances and birth! The Beetroot Beds of England! how sturdily they shoot, The leaves the hardy produce of a stout and stalwart root; A rough and tough exterior serves but to cover o’er The rich internal saccharine――the sugar at the core!

The Endive Plants of England! how selfish is their plan, Spreading at first their arms about to catch at all they can; Then shutting up within themselves――like hypocrites demure, With hearts as cold and white as snow, but wonderfully pure! The Garden Grounds of England! how merrily they thrive; They show there’s always something to keep the world alive; For though deprived of Autumn’s fruits, and spring and summer flowers, There’s always green about the earth to brighten winter hours!

Punch, December 15, 1849.

――――

THE MERCHANT PRINCE.

[A very fulsome address was presented to Napoleon III. by a deputation of bankers and merchants of the City of London. The matter was brought before Parliament, but was allowed to drop through.]

The Merchant Prince of England, What a glorious name he bears! No minstrel tongue has ever sung The deeds the hero dares. Enlist that soldier in your cause, No dangers bar his way, But gallantly he draws his――cheque, If the Cause will only pay.

Where Freedom waves her banners He stands her champion bold, The noble English merchant Prince For her unlocks his gold. For her the Prince’s glowing pulse With generous ardour thrills, If only sure that Freedom Will duly meet her bills.

When scarce the gory bayonet Upholds the Despot’s throne, The Merchant Prince, all chivalry, Springs forward with a loan. And vain a nation’s cry to scare That dauntless friend-in-need, Provided only that the loan Is safely guaranteed.

See, where a sovereign’s crown rewards A venturous Parvenu, Crouches the Merchant Prince to kiss His royal brother’s shoe. For trampled law, for broken vow, No doit his Princeship cares, If that salute can raise an eighth His gain on railway shares,

You Christian of the slop-shop, And you usurious Jew, Assert your royal blood, for both Are Merchant-Princes, too. One common creed unites you, Devout professors of it, “There’s but one Allah――Mammon, And Cent. per Cent.’s his profit.”

What, blame some petty huckster, That his vote is bought and sold: What, chide some wretched juryman That he blinked at guilt, for gold: What, whip some crouching mendicant, Who fawned that he might eat―― With the Merchant Prince of England At the Third Napoleon’s feet?

SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1853

――――

THE CABS OF LONDON.

The dirty Cabs of London! How lazily they stand About the public thoroughfares, Or crawl along the Strand; The omnibuses pass them by With a contempt supreme; E’en the coal-cart overtakes them With slow and heavy team.

The crazy Cabs of London! How wretched is the sight Of one of those old vehicles That ply for hire by night! There, cracked is every window-pane, The door is weak and old; The former lets in all the rain, The latter all the cold.

The shaky Cabs of London! How impotent the powers Of one poor nervous female fare, When fierce the driver lowers, Swearing, with impudence sublime And ruffianly frown, He can’t afford to lose his time; “His fare will be a crown.”

The dear, bad Cabs of London! In vain the public call For a better class of vehicles That can’t be got at all. Extortion must for ever thrive, Cabs must be bad and dear, Till Legislation looks alive, And deigns to interfere.

Punch, February 26, 1853.

Paragraphs have recently appeared in the London newspapers announcing that a public company has been formed to provide the metropolis with improved cabs. It is to be hoped the news is true, for whilst similar announcements have been often made before, the London four-wheeled cab remains, what it was described by Punch in 1853, the worst public vehicle to be found in any large European city.

――――

NATIONAL SONG.

(By an Ex-Patriot, compelled by circumstances over which he has no control, to absent himself from his native country, and trying to persuade himself that he likes it.)

The Duns of merry England! how terrible their air, With brows like midnight low’ring, and eyes with fiendish glare; And never-ceasing questions, when you really mean to pay The Duns of merry England, what nuisances are they!

The Meats of merry England! how limited their range, Of roast and boiled, or boiled and roast, by way of start startling change; Of chops and steaks, and steaks and chops, on each alternate day, The meats of merry England, what sad affairs are they!

The Colds of merry England, how easy to be caught! How hard to be got rid of, and with what discomforts fraught! Swelled eyes, red noses, puff’d out cheeks,――the mildest they display. The colds of merry England, how torturing are they!

The Wines of merry England! the Port at half-a-crown! The pure Amontillado, and the nutty-flavoured Brown; Their horrors e’en while swallowing, and worse effects next day, The wines of merry England, how villainous are they!

Then here’s to France the smiling, where the weather’s always clear; The wines are light and wholesome, and as cheap as English beer; Where a man may grow moustaches, and――blissful thing to say! The Writs of merry England, how powerless are they!

(The Exile turning sadly from the pier, seeketh forgetfulness of his abandoned country in a petit-verre, for which he disburseth two sous. He groweth reconciled).

Diogenes, January, 1853.

――――

THE BARRISTERS OF ENGLAND.

The Barristers of England, how hungrily they stand About the Hall of Westminster, with wig, and gown, and band; With brief bag full of dummies, and fee book full of oughts, Result of the establishment of the New County Courts.

The Barristers of England, how listlessly they sit, Expending on each other a small amount of wit; Without the opportunity of doing something worse, By talking nonsense at the cost of some poor client’s purse.

The Barristers of England, how when they get a cause, They (some of them) will disregard all gentlemanly laws; And bullying the witnesses upon the adverse side, Will do their very utmost the honest truth to hide.

The Barristers of England, how with sang froid sublime, They undertake to advocate two causes at one time; And when they find it is a thing impossible to do, They throw one client overboard, but take the fees of two.

The Barristers of England, how rarely they refuse, The party they appear against with coarseness to abuse; Feeling a noble consciousness no punishment can reach The vulgar ribaldry they call the “privilege of speech.”

The Barristers of England, how often they degrade An honourable calling to a pettifogging trade, And show how very slight the lines of separation are. Between the cabman’s license, and the “licence of the Bar.”

The Barristers of England, how, if they owe a grudge, They try with insolence to goad a poor Assistant-Judge; And after having bullied him, their bold imposture clench By talking of their high respect for the Judicial Bench.

The Barristers of England, how sad it is to feel That rant will pass for energy, and bluster goes for zeal; But ’tis a consolation that ’mid their ranks there are Sufficient gentlemen to save the credit of the Bar.

Punch, November 26, 1853.

――――

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. (By Infelicia Shemans.)

The compo’d homes of England! ’Tis wonderful they stand Their weight of shaky chimney-pots, Smoke-drying all the land. Adown their flimsy tissue roofs Slate after slate fast slips; Each gentle rain that on them falls Through crack and crevice drips.

The drafty homes of England! Alas! how one must squeeze Close round the grate in winter time Unless one quite would freeze. There every voice continually Of some vile ache complains; Lumbago, or sciatica, Or stiff rheumatic pains.

The stifling homes of England! In summer’s sunny time More close and suffocating Than hot India’s burning clime! No breath of coolness finds its way From morn till evening’s close; But countless vile impurities Assail each inmate’s nose.

The smoky homes of England! Spread o’er the smoky land, If smoke were only grandeur We’d all be passing grand. The dull blue vapour pours itself Increasingly adown Each chimney, and provokingly Turns everything black-brown.

Oh, may the homes of England Long, long in freedom rise, But may the homes of England Be built by men more wise; Let air and light be one chief aim, Sufficient warmth another; And let them bear in mind as well, Our great want is not――smother.

The Figaro, August 24, 1872.

――――

BALLAD――BY VISCOUNT BLANK.

The stately homes of England, Conveniently they stand; For helping co-respondent’s games, ’Twould seem they had been planned. Their lords preserve their game with care, But cannot keep their wives; They hunt, they shoot, they fish, they ride And Hannen’s business thrives!

The blessed homes of England, How snugly in their bowers, Their owners soak on liquor fetched Ere interdicted hours, Solemn, yet sweet, the church bells chime, But piggishly they snore. For well they know whilst those bells clang Close shuts the public’s door.

The cottage homes of England, By thousands on her plains, Are wretched hovels as a rule, And quite devoid of drains. There’s sodden thatch upon their roofs, And mildew on their walls, And yet they’re what the poetess, “Sweet smiling dwellings” calls.

The free fair homes of England! Well, these do not exist; And if you doubt me just read through What’s on a jury list. Think of the things you’re forced to do, And all you dare not try; The free, fair homes, in sooth! Go to Free fiddlesticks, say I!

Truth, Christmas Number, 1877.

――――

COTTAGE HOMES.

“The Cottage-homes of England, How beautiful they stand!” (So once Felicia Hemans sang), Throughout the lovely land! By many a shining river-side These happy homes are seen, And clustering round the commons wide, And ’neath the woodlands green.

The Cottage-homes of England―― Alas, how strong they smell! There’s fever in the cesspool, And sewage in the well. With ruddy cheeks and flaxen curls, Though their tots shout and play, The health of those gay boys and girls Too soon will pass away.

The Cottage-homes of England! Where each crammed sleeping-place Foul air distils whose poison kills Health, modesty and grace. Who stables horse, or houseth kine, As these poor peasants lie, More thickly in their straw than swine Are herded in a stye?

* * * * *

(Three verses omitted.)

Punch, May 23, 1874.

――――

THE HAUNTED HOMES OF ENGLAND.

[Mr. Ingram had published a weirdly fascinating volume called “The Haunted Homes of England;” a kind of Postal Directory, or Court Guide, to British Haunted Houses.]

The Haunted Homes of England, How eerily they stand, While through them flit their ghosts――to wit, The Monk with the Red Hand, The Eyeless Girl――an awful spook―― To stop the boldest breath; The boy that inked his copy-book, And so got “wopped” to death!

Call them not shams――from haunted Glamis To haunted Hawthornden, I mark in hosts the griesly ghosts Of women, priests, and men! I know the spectral dog that howls Before the deaths of Squires; In my “Ghost-guide” addresses hide For Gurney and for Myers!

I see the Vampire climb the stairs From vaults below the church; And hark! the Pirate’s spectre swears! Oh, Psychical Research, Cans’t thou not hear what meets my ear, The viewless wheels that come? The wild Banshee that wails to thee? The Drummer with his drum?

Oh, Haunted Homes of England, Though tenantless ye stand, With none content to pay the rent, Through all the shadowy land, Now, Science true will find in you A sympathetic perch, And take you all, both Grange and Hall, For Psychical Research! A.L.

The Pall Mall Gazette, December 21, 1883.

――――

THE MEN OF ENGLAND.

_By a blighted being turned pessimist through disappointed ambition._

I.

The stately men of England, How eloquent the band; Setting their sails to catch the breeze Which they themselves have fanned! With argument, not over sound Patched up with awkward seam, Whig versus Tory――both a’ground On life’s tumultuous stream!

II.

The merry men of England, Who take a strange delight, In making jokes that none can see Unless he’s extra bright! Who volunteer a comic song Some pointless tale retold! Or try and make you think you’re wrong And roar to see you sold!

III.

The saintly men of England, Teaching their screeching choirs; Full of huge pedantic words! Their sermons lasting hours! Though down upon “life’s idle whims!” Though other men they scorn, You’ll see them――well――not chanting hymns On many a tennis lawn.

IV.

The free, fair trade of England, Long, long in shop and stall, May harmless customers be fleeced Of their small and little all! Thus, to my thinking it behoves Him who earth’s paths hath trod To mind and not spoil other coves By sparing satire’s rod.

From Cribblings from the Poets, by Hugh Cayley, Cambridge, 1883.

――――

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

The unhealthy Homes of England! How jauntily they stand Among their long-untended drains By crafty builders planned! The deer would shun them like the pest, Though beautiful they seem, And the Doctor’s face, in passing by, Lights with a sickly gleam.

The drainy Homes of England! In Summer’s sultry heat What sniffs of not unmixed delight Each varied odour greet! Then woman’s voice is heard to say She thinks there’s something wrong, While manly lips the landlord bless In language rather strong.

The typhoid Homes of England! How pleasant ’tis to know That liquid microbes of disease Keep up a constant flow! Simple, yet sure, the plan whereby The sewer-gas ascends; They’re perfect masters of their art, Our homicidal friends.

The fever-dens of England! By thousands on her plain, They smile at the defective pipes Which link them with the “main.” Through glowing orchards forth they peep, And gardens all abloom, And hygienic dullards sleep Unconscious of their doom.

The scamping rogues of England! Long, long in hut and hall May heads of wisdom still be reared To circumvent them all! And trapped for ever be the drains, And pure the watery store Where first the child’s glad spirit learns What lurks beneath the floor.

Punch, August 30, 1884.

――――

COTTAGE HOMES

Theoretical―― Ye Cottage Homes of England! How pleasantly ye stand, With bees and bowers and birds and flowers, And rich allotment land! How happy, too, each owner, As fearless, free, and frank, He thanks his landlord that he has His “oven, porch, and tank!”

Practical―― Ye Cottage Homes of England, That reek with filth and smells; There’s rheumatism in your roofs, There’s typhus in your wells; And many an ill-fed tenant―― His landlord’s helpless fief―― Looks forward to his workhouse home With positive relief!

Truth Christmas Number, 1885.

CASABIANCA, THE HEROIC BOY.

The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but he had fled; The flame that lit the battle’s wreck Shone round him o’er the dead; Yet beautiful and bright he stood As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud though child-like form!

The flames rolled on――he would not go Without his father’s word; That father faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. He called aloud――“Say, father, say. If yet my task is done!” He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.

“Speak, father!” once again he cried, “If I may yet be gone! And”――but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on. Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair; And looked from that lone post of death In still, yet brave despair!

He shouted yet once more aloud, “My father! must I stay?” While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way: They wrapped the ship in splendour wild. They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky.

Then came a burst of thunder sound―― The boy――oh! where was he? Ask of the winds, that far around With fragments strewed the sea, With mast and helm and pennon fair, That well had borne their part―― But the noblest thing that perished there, Was that young faithful heart.

MRS. HEMANS.

――――

EXPLOITS OF THE EMINENT I.

(The character of Macbeth was not one of Mr. Irving’s theatrical successes.)

Macbeth stood on the new built stage, Whence all but he had fled; The flame that lit his tragic rage Shone round his classic head. Yes――beautiful and bright he stood, A stalwart, graceful form, And raved about old Duncan’s blood, Whose corpus still was warm.

(Six verses omitted here.)

The gods applaud with thunder sound: Irving――O! Where was he? Ask of the wise ones grouped around, Who came Macbeth to see. His eye had then no lurid glare, He bowed, with grateful heart; But a noble thing was murdered there―― ’Twas Shakespeare’s tragic art,

The Figaro, October 13, 1875.

――――

THE MULE.

The Mule stood on the steamboat deck, For the land he would not tread; They tied an halter round his neck And whacked him on the head, Yet obstinate and braced he stood, As born the sea to rule, A creature of the old pack brood, A stubborn steadfast mule.

They cursed and swore, but he would not go Until he felt inclined, And though they thundered blow on blow, He altered not his mind. The ship’s boy to his master cried, “The varmint’s bound to stay,” And still upon that old mule’s hide The sounding lash made play.

His master from the shore replied, The ship’s about to sail, And as all other means you’ve tried, Suppose you twist his tail; I think that that will make him land. The ship’s boy, brave though pale, Then nearer drew, with outstretched hand, To twist that old mule’s tail.

There came a sudden kick behind, The boy, oh! where was he? Ask of the softly blowing wind, The fishes in the sea. For a moment not a sound was heard, And that mule he winked his eye, As though to say to him who’d gone, “How was that for high?”

――――

A PROSE VERSION.

“The boy stood on the back-yard fence whence all but he had fled. The flames that lit his father’s barn shone just above the shed. One bunch of crackers in his hand, two others in his hat; with piteous accent loud he cried, ‘I never thought of that.’ A bunch of crackers to the tail of one small dog he tied; the sparks flew wide, and red, and hot; they fell upon the brat; they fired the crackers in his hand and lit those in his hat. Then came a burst of rattling sound――the boy, where was he gone? Ask of the winds that far around strewed bits of flesh and bone, and scraps of clothes, and balls, and tops, and nails, and books, and yarn, the relics of that dreadful boy that burned his father’s barn.”

――――

CASABIANK.

The dog lay on the butcher’s stoop And in a pleasant doze, Forgot his lack of bed and board And all his canine woes. He dreamed of one fair pup he loved And soft his tail he wagged; ’Twas in those days when he was young, And kennelled, fed, and tagged.

Her spirit seemed to hover ’round, For from the shop behind A fragrance came which somehow brought That she-dog to his mind. And of those pugs who’d scratched with him, And barked and gambolled ’round, Some ate the poisoned chop and died, Some perished in the pound.

The dog dreamed on――the butcher-man Looked down on him and said, “A roly-poly sausage skin Shall be your final bed. With pepper and sweet marjoram And fragrant allspice grains, Casabiank, ’twill be my task To mingle your remains.

And though you’re old and tough, embalmed In spices of the East, You’ll for my faithful customers Provide a dainty feast.” He took three paces toward the dog, That pup――O, where was he? Ask of the reeking knives that tore Through hide and hair and flea.

And since that day though many a neck Has felt that cleaver keen, No fairer dog-meat ever fed The butcher’s dread machine.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE FATE OF THE PEERS.

The Peer stood on the burning deck, Whence all but he had fled; The storm that meant his Order’s wreck Roared round his puzzled head. Yet masterful and mad he stood, As though all threats were vain; A creature of most noble blood, But of a childish brain.

The storm raged on――he would not go Without his leader’s word; That leader, fooled by friend or foe, No warning voices heard. He called aloud: “See, Cecil, see How thick the people loom!” He knew not that Lord Salisburee Was reckless of his doom.

“Oh, let me go,” again he cried, “I surely can be spared?” “Nay, you must stay,” the “Whip” replied, “Since you’ve remained ‘unpaired.’” Upon his brow he felt the weight Of unaccustomed care, And tried “to follow the debate,” But ended in despair.

And shouted but once more aloud: “Oh, Cecil, must I stay!” But Cecil, still unwisely proud, Would have his wilful way. There came a burst, a shock, a jar! The Peer――oh! where was he? Ask of the Chief who scattered far Our old Nobilitee.

Dukes, Earls, and Barons went to smash Amidst a grateful cheer; But the crassest victim of the crash Was that deluded Peer!

Truth, October 16, 1884.

――――

THE OLD MAN LINGERED.

The girl stewed on the burning deck, For Rockaway she fled; The sun which blazed down on her neck, Turned all her tresses red. Yet innocent by Pa she sat, While glances shy and warm Shot from beneath her saucy hat At every manlike form.

Pa left to see a friend, he told: And then her smile was sweet On Mr. Jones, who growing bold, Took by her side a seat. The boat rolled on. Jones would not go Without her father’s word; That father at the bar below Her laugh no longer heard.

She called (not loud) “Stay, father, stay Until thy task is done.” She knew, too well, the old man’s way, Unconscious of her fun. The wind had freshened to a gale, The boat tossed on the sea, “Oh, miss,” cried Jones, “why art thou pale? Why talk’st thou not to me?”

“Speak, maiden!” once again he cried; “Art ailing? Tell me quick.” And but the drooping maid replied, “Oh, I――I feel so sick.” Upon her brow then came his breath; He smoothed her frizzled hair. She looked for all the world like death; He looked like grim despair.

She murmured but once more aloud, “Oh Jones, a basin――quick!” Not one was left, for in that crowd Each female, too was sick. Oh, when was gallant like to Jones; Or, rather, one so flat! With one heroic smile, he groans, “Here, darling, is my hat.”

Then came a burst of lightning sound; The girl!――oh, where was she? A-spoiling Jones’s hat, which crowned His cup of misery. Oh! Knights of old and heroes rare; Oh! lovers think of that, The noblest thing which perished there Was Jones’s new silk hat.

American Paper.

――――

A poetical squib which has gone the round of the U. S. papers is evidently based on the same original:

The boy stood by the stable door And watched the pensive mule; A thoughtful attitude it wore, An air serenely cool.

That boy approached its hinder end―― Let fall the pitying tears, “He’s gone to meet his brother, and His age was seven years.”

THE BETTER LAND.

“I hear thee speak of the Better Land, Thou callest its children a happy band; Mother, oh where is that radiant shore? Shall we not seek it, and weep no more? Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire flies glance through the myrtle boughs?’ ――‘Not there, not there, my child!”

“Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies? Or ’midst the green islands of glittering seas, Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings, Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?’ ――‘Not there, not there, my child!”

“Is it far away, in some region old, Where the rivers wander o’er sands of gold? Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?―― Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?’ ――‘Not there, not there, my child!”

“Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy; Dreams cannot picture a world so fair.―― Sorrow and death may not enter there; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, ――It is there, it is there, my child!”

MRS. HEMANS.

――――

THE BEST HOTELS.

“I’ve heard thee speak of a good hotel, Where they charged thee little and fed thee well; Mother, oh where is this hostel of thine, Shall we not seek it and go there to dine? Is’t in some fair city of the far North East, By the winding Wear?” “Oh! not in the least, Not there, not there, my child.”

“Is’t among the people who love to boast Of their “Town Improvements” the princely cost? Who say that, to keep their bodies sound They have spent £100,000?[48] Where (when small-pox is absent[49]) Hygeia dwells, Is it there, is it there, this best of hotels!” “Not there, not there, my child.”

“Is it where, through the small though festive rooms A drainpipe sheds its rich perfumes―― O’er the strange old birds with skinny wings, Which the languid waiter to table brings, With tottering steps that betoken, alas! The chronic effects of sewer gas?” “Not there, not there, my child.”

Is it far away in some region cold Where the visitor’s welcome; if he have gold That he’s willing to spend on most villainous wine At the regally privileged “Bleed him fine?” here the whole concern abounds in “sells”―― Is it there, sweet mother, this best of hotels? “Not there, not there, my child.”

Full many a city, my gentle boy Hath hostels in plenty where thou may’st enjoy Good viands well cooked, rooms sweet and large, Decent wines, and good waiting, at moderate charge; But, unless to thy soul disappointment is dear, Seek them not in the town by the mouth of the Wear; “Not there, not there, my child!”

――――

THE “THREE ACRES AND A COW” LEGEND.

The familiar joke, that every labourer was promised three acres and a cow, arose, as myths usually arise, out of an inversion of actual facts. Nobody ever seriously believed that such promises were made, and everybody knows that the substratum of truth on which the misrepresentation rested was that some machinery must be set up to promote the restoration of the people to the soil. There was, however, no desire to injure the landowners.

Mr. Chamberlain speaking at the Westminster Palace Hotel, in January, 1886, observed that:――

“The Tories have universally asserted that we promised to every labourer, as a free gift, three acres of land and a cow. (Laughter.) Well, I don’t think the labourers are fools. They have not shown it at the last election; and I don’t suppose many of them have been deceived by this falsehood. I sometimes think we were a little too eager to contradict it. (Laughter.) At all events, if we see it necessary to repudiate this burlesque of our intentions and our promises, let us take care to do nothing to discourage the expectation, perfectly praiseworthy and reasonable in itself, that facilities should be made by legislation for every thrifty, industrious labourer to obtain at a fair price an adequate, independent, and secure interest in the soil which he cultivates.”

The Globe, (London), in an article on The Three Acres Legend, observed:――

“Whether anybody ever said, in jest or earnest, that Mr. Chamberlain had promised three acres and a cow to every elector who voted Liberal, we do not know. But someone has been writing to him to ask whether such a statement, supposing it to have been made, would be true, and the inquirer has received the answer which he might have looked for. The statement is not true. Mr. Chamberlain’s secretary goes on to suggest to the right hon. gentleman’s correspondent that he has only to challenge those who make the assertion to prove it by quotation, adding, that if they decline the challenge he will know how to deal with them. He will, in fact, be able to charge them with uttering falsehoods.”

THREE ACRES AND A COW.

I have heard you speak of “three acres of land,” With “a cow” to belong to each peasant band; Tell me, oh! where are those acres found, That promised spot of domestic ground? Tell me, oh! where is that happy shore Where we all shall settle, and starve no more; Not here, not here, my man!

Where father shall sit ’neath his sheltering vine, And smoke his own pipe, and drink his wine, And mother and sisters, at tea in the shade, Bless the rosy bowers their hands have made; While the cow untethered, and ranging free, Crops the summer wealth of our acres three? Not here, not here, my man!

Say, are they then where rich travellers roam O’er the heathery hills of the “Scot at home”? Or are they where Erin’s gay sons abide, By the Liffey’s stream or the Shannon’s tide? Or are they in Northern or Southern Wales, Where St. David’s cliffs woo the Western gales? Not there, not there, my man!

Eye hath not seen them, my gentle Will; Ear hath not heard of them; valley or hill, Pasture, or moorland, or woodland fair, John Hodge and his brats may not settle there; Not there, not there, my man!

Trust not, oh trust not, to statesmen’s smiles; These visions so fair are delusion’s wiles And the acres are only “Chateaux en Espagne,” Built up in the head of Joe Chamberlain; They are there, they are there, my man!

EDWARD WALFORD, M.A.

Life, December 10, 1885.

――――

THE BIT O’ LAND.

I hear thee speak of a bit o’land, And a cow for every labouring hand; Tell me, dear mother, where is that shore, Where shall I find it and work no more? Is it at home, this unoccupied ground, Where the three acres and cow will be found? Is it where Pheasants and Partridges breed, Or in the fields where the farmer is sowing his seed? Is it upon the moors, so wild and so grand, I shall find this bit of arable land? Not there, not there, my Giles.

Is it far away on the Rio Grande? In Zululand or Basutoland? Is it far away on forbidding shores, Where Unicorns fight and the Lion roars? Or will it in Soudan be found, Where English bones manure the ground? Or on the banks of ancient Nile? Perhaps ’tis on some Coral Isle, With dusky groves and silver strand,―― Is it there, dear mother, that bit o’ land? Not there, not there, my Giles.

Eye hath not seen that fair land, my child, Ear hath but heard an echo wild,―― The nightmare of excited brain That dreamers, have, like Chamberlain Far away, beyond the ken Of sober, practical, business men; Far away beyond the sight Of men whose heads are screwed on right; Where castles in the air do stand, Behold the cow and the bit o’ land! ’Tis there, ’tis there, my Giles.

1885.

――――

“THE PROMISED LAND!” (Three Acres.)

“I hear thee speak of a ‘Plot of Land,’ For each and all of the Peasant band; Where! Oh Where! is this garden store? Shall we not till it and starve no more? Is it where the lordling sits in his pride, ’Mid wealth that to me has been denied? Is it where the flocks on the hill-side graze, Or the stag in the forest leaps and plays; Or the hare runs wild on every hand Is it there? Is it there? That Promised Land!” “Not there! Not there! my Giles!”

“Is it far away in some distant spot, This promised parcel of garden plot? Where nothing is heard but the murmuring bees, And the sound of the wind among the trees; Where no turnips are planted, or apples grown, Or the fruits of the earth in season sown; Where the land is idle, and nought is seen But the fragrant flowers and woodland green, And the sun shines down on a desolate spot,―― Is it there? Is it there? ‘My three-acre plot!’” “Not there! Not there! my Giles!”

“It is deeply hid in the mazy brain Of the venturesome Joseph Chamber_lain_! ’Tis but a bribe to catch a vote, A bait to hook fish by the throat; In vulgar phrase it’s ‘All my eye’! A newly invented election cry. It has no existence in sober sense,―― It is but the product of impudence! It lives but in Chamberlain’s speech so bland, This tempting plot of that Promised Land―― It is there! only there! my Giles!”

――――

THE PROMISED LAND: THREE ACRES. (An answer to the preceding Parody.)

I hear thee speak of a Plot of Land For every one of the peasant band, Tories! Oh, where is that garden store? Shall we not till it and starve no more? Is it where the lordling sits in his pride, ’Mid wealth that to me has been denied? Is it where the flocks on the black hills graze, Or the stag in the forest leaps and plays? Or the hare runs wild on every hand, Is it there, dear friend, that better land? Not there, not there, my man.

Is it far away in some distant spot, The promised parcel of garden plot Where nothing is heard but the murmuring bees, And the sighs of the winds among the trees; Where no turnips are sown or sweet apples grown, Or fruit of the earth in its season known; Where the land is idle and nought is seen But the dear wild flowers and woodland green, And the sun shines down on a desolate spot―― Is it there, is it there, my three acre plot? Not there, not there, my man.

It only exists in the “Tory” brain. Though they always “father it” on Chamberlain; They think we want bribes to get a vote, Like the Tories from Parnell, then cut his throat; But in vulgar phrase, it is all in “my eye,” “A great, big, thumping,” Tory “lie;” It has no existence in sober sense, It’s the product of Tory insolence; It’s author I think was the man in the moon, And if you expect to find such a boon―― It is there, it is there, my man.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

OUT WEST.

I hear thee speak of a Western land, Thou callest its children a wide-awake band―― Father, oh, where is that favored spot? Shall we not seek it and build us a cot? Is it where the hills of Berkshire stand Whence the honey comes already canned, Not there, not there, my child.

Is it far away in the Empire state Where Horace Greeley feels first rate, Where the people are ruled by Tammany ring, And Mr. Fisk is a Railroad King, With two thousand men at his command, Besides a boat with a big brass band? Not there, not there, my child!

Is it where the little pigs grow great In the fertile vales of the Buckeye State? And get so fat on acorns and meal That they sell every bit of them all but the squeal, Where the butchers have such a plenty of hogs That they don’t make sausages out of dogs. Not there, not there, my child!

Or is it where they fortunes make, Where they’ve got a tunnel under the lake, Where the stores are full of wheat and corn And divorces are plenty as sure as you’re born, Where Long John Wentworth is right on hand―― Is it there, dear father, that Western land? Not there, not there, my child.

Is it in the dominions of Brigham Young The most married man that is left unhung, Where every man that likes can go And get forty wives or more you know, Where “saints” are plenty with “cheeks” sublime, Can that be the gay and festive clime?―― Not there, not there, my child!

Is it where Nevada’s mountains rise From the Alkali plains which we all despise, Where a man may beg, or borrow, or steal, Yet he often will fail to get a square meal, Where the rocks are full of silver ore―― Is it there we’ll find that Western Shore, Not there, not there, my child.

Eye hath not seen it my verdant youth, Tongue cannot name it and speak the truth; For though you go to the farthest state And stand on the rocks by the Golden Gate, They’ll point you across the Western sea To the land whence cometh the “heathen Chinee,” Saying “’Tis there my child.”

American Paper.

――――

THE HAPPY LAND.

I hear them speak of a Happy Land, Is it at the Gaiety――Vaudeville――Strand―― Or where, secure from the public gaze, Mr. Buckstone privately Hamlet plays? Is it where the acting gives go and life To Wilkie Collins’s “Man and Wife?” ――” Not there, not there, my friend!”

“Is it where the Lord Chamberlain weakly tries To interfere with the actors’ guise, Because it gave us a portrait true Of the gentle Ayrton, and Lowe, and you[50]―― Though you now as three music hall cads appear, Which makes the satire much more severe?” ――“Not there, not there, my friend!”

“Is it where Jack Sheppard they fail to hang; Where Macbeth’s broad Scotch has a German twang; Or where many a bonny and bouncing lass To Nature holds up a Bohemian glass; Where Rosa Dartle’s consummate skill Inclines you to hiss her against your will?” ――“Not there, not there, my friend!”

“I have not seen it, my gentle bore, For five or six years――or rather more, Its joys are calmer by far than those That the Ministerial Bench bestows, For the scene of the Happy Land is laid In Opposition’s refreshing shade, ――It is there, it is there, my friend!”

Fun.

――――

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

THEY sucked their pap spoons side by side, They filled one house with shines―― Their graves are lying severed wide, By many railway lines. The same nurse tied the plain night cap At evening, on each brow: She gave each naughty child a slap―― Where are those screamers now?

One by the broad gauge line which goes To Exeter, is laid. They ran into a luggage train, And mincemeat of him made. The Eastern Counties line hath one―― He sleeps his last long sleep―― Near where an engine chose, slap off, A viaduct to leap.

Another went from Euston-square By an ill-fated train; They buried him at Coventry, With others of the slain. And one――’neath her an axle broke, And stayed life’s running sand―― She perished on the Dover line―― The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they lie, who play’d At hop-scotch in the court. Who after every cab that passed, Cried “Whip behind,” in sport. Who played upon the Nigger bones, And jumped Jim Crow with glee―― Oh, steam! if thou wert everywhere, Where would poor mortals be?

The Man in the Moon. Edited by Albert Smith, Vol. II.

――――:o:――――

“HE NEVER WROTE AGAIN.”

His hope of publishing went down, The sweeping press rolled on; But what was any other crown To him who hadn’t one? He lived――for long may man bewail When thus he writes in vain; Why comes not death to those who fail?―― He never wrote again!

Books were put out, and “had a run,” Like coinage from the Mint; But which could fill the place of one, That one they wouldn’t print? Before him passed, in calf and sheep, The thoughts of many a brain: His lay with the rejected heap:―― He never wrote again.

He sat where men who wrote went round, And heard the rhymes they built; He saw their works most richly bound, With portraits and in gilt. Dreams of a volume all forgot Were blent with every strain; A thought of one they issued not:―― He never wrote again!

Minds in that time closed o’er the trace Of books once fondly read, And others came to fill their place, And were perused instead. Tales which young girls had bathed in tears Back on the shelf were lain: Fresh ones came out for other years:―― He never wrote again!

From Poems and Parodies, by Phœbe Carey, Boston, U.S., 1854.

――――:o:――――

FISH HAVE THEIR TIMES TO BITE.

“Leaves have their time to fall.” MRS. HEMANS.

Fish have their times to bite―― The bream in summer, and the trout in spring, That time the hawthorn buds are white, And streams are clear, and winds low-whispering.

The pike bite free when fall The autumn leaves before the north-wind’s breath, And tench in June, but there are all―― There are all seasons for the gudgeon’s death.

The trout his ambush keeps Crafty and strong, in Pangbourne’s eddying pools, And patient still in Marlow deeps For the shy barbel wait expectant fools.

Many the perch but small That swim in Basildon, and Thames hath nought Like Cookham’s pike, but, oh; in all―― Yes, in all places are the gudgeon caught.

The old man angles still For roach, and sits red faced and fills his chair; And perch, the boy expects to kill, And roves and fishes here and fishes there.

The child but three feet tall For the gay minnows and the bleak doth ply His bending hazel, but by all―― Oh! by all hands the luckless gudgeon die.

C. From College Rhymes, Oxford. W. Mansell, 1861.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

The following parodies have come to hand since Part 30 was published.

“THE THREE FISHERS.”

Three anglers went down to fish Sunbury Weir, To fish Sunbury Weir, when the morn did break; But though the morn broke, so bright and so clear, Ne’er a one of those three a fish did take. For though a South wind the trout likes best, It’s sure to be North, or East, or West, To set the angler groaning.

Three anglers got down from Sunbury Weir, Where they had been fishing from break of day; Yet though their bag from trout was clear, A fourteen-pounder they’d seen at play. For though a cold wind the trout likes least, That day half-a-gale blew up from the East, To set those anglers groaning.

They tried that old trout at Sunbury Weir, With a choice selection of baits, so fine; But although that fish was devoid of fear, With that cold East wind he declined to dine. So away they sped from Sunbury Weir, And out came the trout when the coast was clear, And gobbled the bleaks “in the gloamin’.”

OTTER.

From The Angler’s Journal, May 1, 1886.

――――

THREE FRESHERS.

Three Freshers went sailing out into the street, Out into the street for a ‘town and gown,’ Each thought of the foeman he longed to meet And the Bull-dogs stood watching them out in the town. Through ‘High’ and ‘Broad’ the Proctor must sweep, And the fifth of November is hard to keep When such myrmidons are roaming.

Three times that night near the Magdalen tower, Did the dim gas lamps show a ‘town and gown’; They looked out for squalls, but alas! for the hour That the Proctor came up and was neatly knocked down; For men their hands from Proctors must keep Though blows be sudden, and black-eyes cheap, When our gallant blades are roaming.

Three heroes set out for their native strands, When the morning gleam saw them all ‘sent down.’ And the tradesmen of Oxford are wringing their hands For those who may never come home to the town. And Fathers storm, and Mothers must weep, And the Freshers have sworn a great oath they will keep Of goodbye to the fifth and its roamings.

A.H.S. Univ. Coll., Oxford. ――――

THREE WOMEN.

Three women went sailing out into the street To the brown-stone front where the red flag hung. They jostled the crowd all day on their feet, While “going and going and gone” was sung. For women must go where bargains are had. And buy old trash, if never so bad, And husbands must ever be groaning.

Three husbands, all hungry, went homeward to dine, But when they arrived there was nothing to eat. Three women, all crazy and feeling so fine, Were gabbling of bargains along in the street For women must talk of bargains they buy. And homes must suffer, and babes must cry, And husbands must ever be groaning.

Three women were showing their husbands with glee Their bargains at prices that never were beat, Three husbands, all starving and mad as could be Were tossing the bargains out into the street. For men don’t know when bargains are cheap And women, poor creatures do nothing but weep, And husbands must ever be groaning.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE UMPIRE’S VALEDICTORY. (After a Base-ball Match.)

An umpire went sallying out into the east, Out into the east, ere the sun went down. He thought of the club that loved him least And the quickest way to leave the town. But men must chin and boys must cheer, And the umpire’s lot is hard and drear, Along with the crowd and its groaning.

A man stood up and called out Foul! And called out Foul! with an angry frown; Then made for the gate with a sudden howl, While the mob with bricks tried to knock him down. For men will fight and boys will jeer, And luck is best when the gate is near, To escape from the crowd and its groaning.

A doctor was working the best he knew how. The best he knew how, as the sun went down, He thought as he plastered the broken brow Of the awful yells and the missiles thrown. For clubs will play and mobs will fight, And the umpire’s lucky if he lives till night To escape from the crowd and its groaning.

United States Paper.

Robert Southey,

POET LAUREATE. Born August 12, 1774. Died March 21, 1843.

[Illustration:A]lthough this voluminous author was Poet-Laureate from 1813 until his death, and produced a great quantity of poetry, yet only a very few of what he would have considered his minor poems, ever achieved any success. Of his more ambitious works, some of which contain passages of undoubted power and originality, even the very names are now generally forgotten, or only remembered in connection with the Satires and Lampoons of his political adversaries. Southey commenced life as an ardent Republican, and wrote poems which were ridiculed by Tories such as George Canning; he concluded by becoming a Tory himself and was mercilessly satirised by Whigs, such as Byron and Macaulay. It will therefore be necessary to divide the parodies of his poems into three distinct classes, the non-Political, the early Political, and the later Political. Of Southey’s non-political poems the best known are “The Cataract of Lodore,” “The Battle of Blenheim,” and “You are Old Father William,” of each of which there are many amusing parodies. But before treating of these a few imitations of detached passages taken from Southey’s epic poems may be given. These epics were never very popular, and are now almost forgotten, yet they contain some beautiful descriptive poetry, as for instance the opening lines of “Thalaba the Destroyer”:――

“How beautiful is night! A dewy freshness fills the silent air; No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain Breaks the serene of heaven: In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine Rolls through the dark-blue depths, Beneath her steady ray The desert-circle spreads, Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky, How beautiful is night!”

Amongst the “Paper Money Lyrics” contained in the poems of Thomas Love Peacock, there is an imitation of these lines, commencing――

“How troublesome is day! It calls us from our sleep away; It bids us from our pleasant dreams awake, And sends us forth to keep or break Our promises to pay. How troublesome is day!”

The poem deals with questions of Banking, paper money, and other very unpoetical topics:――

Come listen to my lay, While I the wild and wond’rous tale array, How Fly-by-Night went down, And set a bank up in a country town; How like a king his head he reared, And how the coast of cash he cleared, And how one night he disappeared, When many a scoffer jibed and jeered; And many an old man rent his beard; And many a young man cursed and railed; And many a woman wept and wailed; And many a mighty heart was quailed; And many a wretch was caged and jailed; Because great Fly-by-Night had failed. And many a miserable sinner Went without his Sunday dinner, Because he had not metal bright, And waved in vain before the butcher’s sight, The promises of Fly-by-night. And little Jackey Horner Sate sulking in the corner, And in default of Christmas pie Whereon his little thumb to try, He put his finger in his eye, And blubbered long and lustily. * * * * *

From The Works of Thomas Love Peacock. R. BENTLEY & SON, LONDON, 1875.

――――

The well-known antiquarian writer, and Editor, Mr. Edward Walford, M.A., has recently published, at his own expense, many interesting records of the Charterhouse School, together with some poems and parodies which will greatly interest old Carthusians. From amongst them Mr. Walford has kindly allowed me to select the following:――

ODE IN IMITATION OF SOUTHEY.

How beautiful is green Where grass has every colour but its own, Black, dingy, dirty brown, with noxious weeds o’ergrown. Lo, the trees Shaking and waving in the autumn breeze; Black as the Devil, Father of evil, With soot and smoke, Enough to choke Any unfortunate who walks below, When the winds blow; So beautiful the trees, How beautiful the Cods.[51]

Each one in chapel nods, While Pritchett drawls the lessons of the day, And long-drawn snores proclaim their senses dozed away; Till the organ’s thund’ring peal Wakes again their slumb’ring zeal; And soon no more condemned with sleep to grapple, They toddle out of chapel, So beautiful are Cods. Thou passer by, Who traversed the famed Carthusian square, Raise thy admiring eye, And view the gloom which long inhabits there; And as thou journeyest on thy way, Do say, Within that wall How beautiful is all!

――――:o:――――

Of all the amusing poems in The Rejected Addresses perhaps the only one which can be truly styled a parody is The Rebuilding, which closely mimics the Funeral of Arvalan in Southey’s Curse of Kehama. Not only is the metre closely followed, but James Smith, the author of this particular “Address,” has shown great ingenuity in bringing in the same characters as Southey has introduced into his poem. Lord Jeffrey, writing in The Edinburgh Review, said, “The Rebuilding is in the name of Mr. Southey, and is one of the best in the collection. It is in the style of the Kehama of that multifarious author, and is supposed to be spoken in the character of one of his Glendoveers. The imitation of the diction and measure, is nearly perfect; and the descriptions are as good as the original.” It may here be mentioned that Southey borrowed his description of the Glendoveers from the “Life and Adventures of Peter Wilkins,” published in London, in 1751.

THE REBUILDING.

――――“Per audaces nova dithyrambos Verba devolvit, numerisque fertur Lege solutis.” HORAT.

[Spoken by a Glendoveer.]

I am a blessed Glendoveer;[52] ’Tis mine to speak, and yours to hear. Midnight, yet not a nose From Tower-Hill to Piccadilly snored! Midnight, yet not a nose[53] From Indra drew the essence of repose! See with what crimson fury, By Indra fann’d, the god of fire ascends the walls of Drury!

Tops of houses, blue with lead, Bend beneath the landlord’s tread. Master and ’prentice, serving man and lord, Nailor and tailor, Grazier and brazier, Through streets and alleys pour’d―― All, all abroad to gaze, And wonder at the blaze. Thick calf, fat foot, and slim knee, Mounted on roof and chimney,[54] The mighty roost, the mighty stew To see; As if the dismal view Were but to them a Brentford jubilee. Vainly, all-radiant Surya, sire of Phaeton (By Greeks call’d Apollo)[55] Hollow Sounds from thy harp proceed; Combustible as reed, The tongue of Vulcan licks thy wooden legs: From Drury’s top, dissever’d from thy pegs, Thou troublest, Humblest, Where late thy bright effulgence shone on high: While, by thy somerset excited, fly Ten million Billion Sparks from the pit, to gem the sable sky.

Now come the men of fire to quench the fires: To Russell Street see Globe and Atlas run, Hope gallops first, and second Sun; On flying heel, See Hand-in-Hand O’ertake the band! View with what glowing wheel He nicks Phœnix! While Albion scampers from Bridge Street, Blackfriars―― Drury Lane! Drury Lane! Drury Lane! Drury Lane! They shout and they bellow again and again.

All, all in vain! Water turns steam; Each blazing beam Hisses defiance to the eddying spout: It seems but too plain that nothing can put it out! Drury Lane! Drury Lane! See, Drury Lane expires! Pent in by smoke-dried beams, twelve moons or more, Shorn of his ray, Surya in durance lay: The workmen heard him shout. But thought it would not pay To dig him out. When lo! terrific Yamen, lord of hell, Solemn as lead, Judge of the dead, Sworn foe to witticism, By men call’d criticism, Came passing by that way: Rise! cried the fiend, behold a sight of gladness! Behold the rival theatre! I’ve set O.P. at her,[56] Who, like a bull-dog bold, Growls and fastens on his hold. The many-headed rabble roar in madness; Thy rival staggers: come and spy her Deep in the mud as thou art in the mire. So saying, in his arms he caught the beaming one, And crossing Russell Street, He placed him on his feet ’Neath Covent Garden Dome. Sudden a sound, As of the bricklayers of Babel, rose: Horns, rattles, drums, tin trumpets, sheets of copper, Punches and slaps, thwacks of all sorts and sizes, From the knobb’d bludgeon to the taper switch,[57] Ran echoing round the walls; paper placards Blotted the lamps, boots brown with mud the benches; A sea of heads roll’d roaring in the pit; On paper wings O.P.’s Reclined in lettered ease; While shout and scoff, Ya! ya! off! off! Like thunderbolt on Surya’s ear-drum fell, And seemed to paint The savage oddities of Saint Bartholomew in hell. Tears dimm’d the god of light―― “Bear me back, Yamen, from this hideous sight; Bear me back, Yamen, I grow sick. Oh! bury me again in brick; Shall I on New Drury tremble, To be O.P.’d like Kemble? No, Better remain by rubbish guarded, Than thus hubbubish groan placarded; Bear me back, Yamen, bear me quick, And bury me again in brick.” Obedient Yamen Answered, “Amen,” And did As he was bid.

There lay the buried god, and Time Seemed to decree eternity of lime; But pity, like a dew-drop, gently prest Almighty Veeshnoo’s[58] adamantine breast: He, the preserver, ardent still To do whate’er he says he will From South-hill wing’d his way, To raise the drooping lord of day. All earthly spells the busy one o’erpower’d; He treats with men of all conditions, Poets and players, tradesmen and musicians; Nay, even ventures To attack the renters, Old and new: A list he gets Of claims and debts, And deems nought done, while aught remains to do.

Yamen beheld, and withered at the sight; Long had he aimed the sunbeam to control, For light was hateful to his soul: “Go on!” cries the hellish one, yellow with spite; “Go on!” cried the hellish one, yellow with spleen, “Thy toils of the morning, like Ithaca’s queen I’ll toil to undo every night.”

Ye sons of song, rejoice! Veeshnoo has still’d the jarring elements, The spheres hymn music; Again the god of day Peeps forth with trembling ray, Wakes, from their humid caves, the sleeping Nine, And pours at intervals a strain divine. “I have an iron yet in the fire,” cried Yamen; “The vollied flame rides in my breath, My blast is elemental death; This hand shall tear your paper bonds to pieces; Ingross, your deeds, assignments, leases, My breath shall every line erase Soon as I blow the blaze.”

The lawyers are met at the Crown and Anchor, And Yamen’s visage grows blanker and blanker; The lawyers are met at the Anchor and Crown, And Yamen’s cheek is a russety brown: Veeshnoo, now thy work proceeds; The solicitor reads, And, merit of merit! Red wax and green ferret Are fixed at the foot of the deeds!

Yamen beheld and shiver’d; His finger and thumb were cramp’d; His ear by the flea in’t was bitten, When he saw by the lawyer’s clerk written, Sealed and delivered, Being first duly stamped

“Now for my turn!” the demon cries, and blows A blast of sulphur from his mouth and nose. Ah! bootless aim! the critic fiend Sagacious Yamen, judge of hell, Is judged in his turn; Parchment won’t burn! His schemes of vengeance are dissolved in the air Parchment wont tear!

Is it not written in the Himakoot book (That mighty Baly from Kehama took) “Who blows on pounce Must the Swerga renounce?” It is! it is! Yamen, thine hour is nigh: Like as an eagle claws an asp, Veeshnoo has caught him in his mighty grasp, And hurl’d him, in spite of his shrieks and his squalls, Whizzing aloft, like the Temple fountain, Three times as high as Meru Mountain, Which is Ninety-nine times as high as St. Paul’s. Descending, he twisted like Levy the Jew,[59] Who a durable grave meant To dig in the pavement Of Monument-yard: To earth by the laws of attraction he flew, And he fell, and he fell To the regions of hell; Nine centuries bounced he from cavern to rock, And his head, as he tumbled, went nickety-nock, Like a pebble in Carisbrook well.

Now Veeshnoo turned round to a capering varlet, Array’d in blue and white and scarlet, And cried, “Oh! brown of slipper as of hat! Lend me, Harlequin, thy bat!” He seized the wooden sword, and smote the earth; When lo! upstarting into birth A fabric, gorgeous to behold, Outshone in elegance the old, And Veeshnoo saw, and cried, “Hail, playhouse mine!” Then, bending his head, to Surya he said: “Soon as thy maiden sister Di Caps with her copper lid the dark blue sky, And through the fissures of her clouded fan Peeps at the naughty monster man Go mount yon edifice, And show thy steady face In renovated pride, More bright, more glorious than before!” But ah! coy Surya still felt a twinge, Still smarted from his former singe; And to Veshnoo replied, In a tone rather gruff, “No, thank you! one tumble’s enough!”

――――:o:――――

JUSTICE.

“_She hath escaped very well,” Kehama cried; “She hath escaped_ - - - but thou art here.”

I.

It chanced that at an old tobacconist’s, Outside the door a painted figure stood, A Kilted Scotchman neatly carved in wood; ’Twas new and rather good. Now Tomkins bent upon a spree, Walked down the street the various sights to see; But when the painted image Tomkins view’d, To this he sprung, to this he clung, And ran like mad along the High with this Across his shoulder swung.

II.

Two bobbies seized him as he turned the street, Before he was aware; He dropped the image, and with wingèd feet Shinned them, and bolted like a started hare; The angry bobbies baffled now, Unto each other vow To make it hot for any gownsmen there They meet; and Wilkins passing, full of fun, Began to chaff the bobbies; wrathful they Seized him instead, and carried him away; He neither struggled, kicked, nor tried to run, Nor the least show of opposition made, Although they grasped him with their dirty hands Courageously, for they don’t feel afraid When still their victim stands.

III.

Thus are they always bold when they have made Some crippled beggar old, Or unresisting girl, or boy, their prey, But somehow they are never in the way If a strong ruffian has been throwing stones, Or punching some one’s head in self-sought fray, For they are careful of their bones.

IV.

“The culprit hath escaped,” the bobbies cried, He hath escaped, but one is here, Will do as well; Now let us go and tell The Proctor that ’twas he; and so they went And told their story well. Next morning Wilkins gets a note, Brought by the Proctor’s man, To call upon the Proctor at his rooms With all the haste he can.

V.

And when he came within the Proctor’s room, Young Wilkins roused himself, And told the Proctor ’twas a lie, Invented by those blue-clad menials base; That he was in the ‘High’ Walking alone, and never even saw The wooden figure that they talked about. And that these bobbies Came and pounced on him as he walked about, Because the real culprit they Had been so baulked about.

VI.

The velvet-sleeved one deigned him no reply, The narrow-minded man――his gooseberry eye Looked idiotic: not the smallest part Had right and justice in his foolish heart. At last he uttered loud each measured word, Long in his breast confined, Unjust, severe, proctorial, absurd―― The index of his mind.

VII.

“You must go down, Away from this town, For here you would Never do any good. You have made a row, Which I cannot allow, And so I must take you, An example to make you; You must pay me a fine Of five pounds to-day, And then go away; For you must not stay, At Oxford, lest others Should follow your track; And your caution-money You’ll not get back. And now Mr. Wilkins, My words are plain, You must never again, Though it gives you pain, Come up to Oxford. If you think to do so, You think it in vain, You’ll have to obey me, Mr. Wilkins, for ever: You can go away now, Sir, And return again never.”

VIII.

There with those bugbears of the town Before him, stood the wretched man; There stood young Wilkins with loose-hanging gown. Was it a dream? Ah! no, He heard his sentence flow, He heard the ready bobbies lie, And felt all hope within him die. Ah! who could have believed That he the velvet-sleeved Could have so small, so weak a mind, And ever trust those worms of dust, Those banes of student kind. With indignation flashing from his eye, He left the room, nor cast one look behind.

From Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon. LONDON, CHAPMAN & HALL, 1874

THE CATARACT OF LODORE.

HOW DOES THE WATER COME DOWN AT LODORE.

Here it comes sparkling, And there it lies darkling; Here smoking and frothing, Its tumult and wrath in, It hastens along, conflicting, strong, Now striking and raging, As if a war waging, Its caverns and rocks among.

Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Swelling and flinging, Showering and springing, Eddying and whisking, Spouting and frisking, Twining and twisting, Around and around, Collecting, disjecting, With endless rebound; Smiting and fighting, A sight to delight in; Confounding, astounding, Dizzing and deafening the ear with its sound.

Reeding and speeding, And shocking and rocking, And darting and parting, And threading and spreading, And whizzing and hissing, And dripping and skipping, And whitening and brightening, And quivering and shivering, And hitting and splitting, And shining and twining, And rattling and battling, And shaking and quaking, And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving, And tossing and crossing, And flowing and growing, And running and stunning, And hurrying and skurrying, And glittering and frittering, And gathering and feathering, And dinning and spinning, And foaming and roaming, And dropping and hopping, And working and jerking, And heaving and cleaving, And thundering and floundering, And falling and crawling and sprawling, And driving and riving and striving, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, And sounding and bounding and rounding, And bubbling and troubling and doubling, Dividing and gliding and sliding, And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, And clattering and battering and shattering, And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, And thumping and flumping and bumping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending, All at once and all o’er, with a mighty uproar,―― And this way the water comes down at Lodore.