Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. IV (part 2 of 3)
“X” save our graceless Chief, Reward his unbelief, “X” save our B. O’er Church victorious, And Throne, once glorious, Now sole Lord over us―― Xtol our B!
SCIENCE, our “X”! arise! Xplode B.’s enemies, And squash them small! Confound their politics! Frustrate their knavish tricks, Oh “X”! these heretics Xtinguish all!
Thy Xcellent gifts in store. Great “X”! be pleased to pour, On sacred B.! May he repeal the laws Which make our conscience pause, (Oaths merely move our jaws) And win loud lip-applause. “X”! (pelled) M.P.
From Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet, London: Houlston & Sons. About 1884.
――――
“A clergyman――decidedly of the Church militant――sends us the following proposed ‘national anathema.’ His motto is from the ‘Magnificat’”:――
DEPOSUIT POTENTES DE SEDE.
Down with their lofty seats, Down with their vain conceits, Down with the Lords! Confound their false pretence, Confound their want of sense, Confound their impudence, Down with the Lords!
Down with their arrogant, Reckless, extravagant, Insolent words! Shall they reject the bill? Shall they dissolve at will? Shall they obstruct us still? Down with the Lords!
Commons of England, yet Shall the proud Lords regret Their futile aim. Make then our hearts rejoice, You are the People’s choice, You are the People’s voice, They but a name.
The Pall Mall Gazette. October 3, 1884.
――――
GOD SAVE GLADSTONE.
God save the People’s Friend! May he our cause defend! Trusted and brave. Lengthen his span of years, Deepen the tyrants fears, Until the right appears, Gladstone still save!
God save the noble band Who long have led the van Of Freedom’s host! May faith and courage be Watchwords of Liberty! Until the goal we see, Each to his post!
Gladstone, the People’s Friend! Our aid we gladly lend Thy work to do: Yielding no inch of ground He will his foes confound, So shall our cause abound―― Liberty true.
From Songs for Liberal Electors, Manchester. A. Heywood and Sons, 1885.
――――
A NATIONAL ANTHEM. (The Queen was to open Parliament on the 21st January.)
Soon will our gracious Queen In town again be seen―― Our long-lost Queen; Let us be glorious, Yea, quite laborious With mirth uproarious To――oo――oo greet our Queen!
Thus will Victoria Reg. Give us this privilege Too seldom seen. For she (oh, great event!) Hath stated her intent To o――o――open Parliament Parliament―― O――o――oh! gracious Queen!
Hail, then, with all your pow’r, That joyous brief half-hour, When she’ll be seen! Thanks to our politics (Which, through our M.P.’s tricks, Often are in a fix) We――e shall see our Queen!
Fun. January 20, 1886.
――――
ADDITIONAL VERSE COMPOSED ON THE QUEEN’S MARRIAGE.
O, grant our earnest prayer, Smile on the Royal pair, Bless Prince and Queen! May Albert’s name be dear To every Briton’s ear, The peasant and the peer―― God save the Queen.
――――
A JUBILEE VERSION.
The Vicar of Ryde, at the conclusion of an entertainment recently held at the Town Hall, Ryde, in aid of parochial charities, called upon the audience to join in singing the National Anthem, and “gave out” an additional verse which had been written “for the occasion” was as follows:――
God bless her Majesty, In this her Jubilee, Long may she reign! May she be near to us, Ever more dear to us, Oftener appear to us, God save the Queen!
Truth. February 17, 1887.
――――
AN IMPROVED “NATIONAL ANTHEM.”
At the opening of the People’s Park, Manchester, by Prince Albert, a greatly improved “National Anthem” was sung, it would make an excellent substitute for the objectionable old version. As an improved “National Anthem,” perhaps there is none more worthy than the following, by Mr. W. E. Hickson, and its adoption would be an excellent Jubilee memento:――
God bless our native land, May heaven’s protecting hand Still guard our shore; May peace her power extend, Foe be transformed to friend, And Britain’s power depend On war no more.
Thro’ every changing scene O Lord preserve our Queen, Well may she reign. Her heart inspire and move With wisdom from above, And in the nation’s love Her throne maintain.
May just and prudent laws Uphold the public cause, And bless our Isle; Home of the brave and free, The land of liberty, We pray that still on thee Kind heaven may smile.
And not this land alone, But be Thy mercies known From shore to shore. Let all the nations see That men should brothers be, And form one family The wide world o’er.
THE SONGS OF
Mr. W. S. GILBERT.
Although Mr. W. S. Gilbert has long been before the public as a dramatist and humorous author, his chief title to fame rests upon the long series of successful comic operas produced either at the Opera Comique, or the Savoy Theatre. In all of these the quaint fancies and humorous dialogues of Mr. Gilbert, were supplemented by the brilliant and tuneful music of Sir Arthur Sullivan. Their creations, placed upon the stage with attention to every detail, and interpreted by a powerful company, have, for the last ten years, been the chief theatrical attraction, of a lighter sort, in the metropolis. The following is a list of these operas, with parodies of some of the favourite songs contained in them:――
Thespis; or, The Gods grown old.
Trial by Jury. A novel and original dramatic Cantata. Opera Comique Theatre. 1876.
The Sorcerer. A modern Comic opera 1877. It was in this opera that the inimitable actor, Mr. George Grossmith, made his first appearance on the stage in the part of “John Wellington Wells, a dealer in magic and spells.”
H.M.S. Pinafore; or, The Lass that loved a Sailor. An entirely original Nautical Comic opera. Opera Comique Theatre. May 25, 1878.
The Pirates of Penzance; or, The Slave of Duty. An original Melo-Dramatic opera. Opera Comique Theatre. 1880.
Patience; or, Bunthorne’s Bride. An Æsthetic opera. Opera Comique Theatre. April 23, 1881.
Iolanthe; or, The Peer and the Peri. An entirely original Fairy opera. Savoy Theatre, November 25, 1882.
Princess Ida; or, Castle Adamant. Savoy Theatre January 5, 1884.
The Mikado; or, The Town of Titipu. An entirely original Japanese opera. Savoy Theatre. March 14, 1885.
Ruddygore; or, The Witch’s Curse. An entirely original Supernatural opera. (The leading word in the title was afterwards altered to Ruddigore.) Savoy Theatre. January 22, 1887.
――――:o:――――
TRIAL BY JURY.
THE JUDGE’S SONG.
When I, good friends, was called to the Bar, I’d an appetite fresh and hearty, But I was, as many young barristers are, An impecunious party. I’d a swallow-tail coat of a beautiful blue―― A brief which I bought of a booby―― A couple of shirts and a collar or two, And a ring that looked like a ruby!
Chorus.――A couple of shirts, &c.
In Westminster Hall I danced a dance, Like a semi-despondent fury; For I thought I never should hit on a chance, Of addressing a British jury―― But I soon got tired of third class journeys, And dinners of bread and water; So I fell in love with a rich attorney’s Elderly, ugly daughter.
Chorus.――So he fell in love, &c.
The rich attorney he jumped with joy, And replied to my fond professions: “You shall reap the reward of your pluck, my boy “At the Bailey and Middlesex Sessions. “You’ll soon get used to her looks,” said he, “And a very nice girl you’ll find her! “She may very well pass for forty-three “In the dusk, with a light behind her!”
Chorus.――She may very well, &c.
The rich attorney was good as his word; The briefs came trooping gaily, And every day my voice was heard At the Sessions or Ancient Bailey. All thieves who could my fees afford Relied on my orations, And many a burglar I’ve restored, To his friends and his relations.
Chorus.――And many a burglar, &c.
At length I became as rich as the Gurneys―― An incubus then I thought her, So I threw over that rich attorney’s Elderly, ugly daughter. The rich attorney my character high, Tried vainly to disparage―― And now, if you please, I’m ready to try This Breach of Promise of Marriage!
Chorus.――And now, if you please, &c.
W. S. GILBERT.
――――
BREACH OF PROMISE OF MARRIAGE.
Mr. Herschel’s motion for the abolition of actions for breach of promise of marriage, excepting where actual pecuniary loss had been incurred, was carried in the House of Commons by a substantial majority. He thus addresses an aspiring youth of the Temple:――
When you, my friend, are called to the Bar, Your wit may be fresh and hearty; You may be, as many young barristers are, A somewhat jocular party. But you won’t, in the course of your legal journeys, Be required to cross the water To plead, as advised by ’cute attorneys, For somebody’s jilted daughter.
A cute attorney jumps with joy When he hears a maid’s confession, And chuckles to think how he’ll bully the boy, In revenge for his retrogression. “You’ll get big damages, sure,” he’ll say, And cautiously remind her That her mother should bring her to court on the day, And her brother stand close behind her.
No, no. You won’t grow rich as the Gurneys Through accustomed legal slaughter; To the courts no more shall ’cute attorneys Bring somebody’s jilted daughter. That species of extortion I Most heartily disparage, And mean that henceforward no judge shall try A Breach of Promise of Marriage.”
Funny Folks. May 17, 1879.
――――:o:――――
H.M.S. PINAFORE.
THE MAHDI OF MID-LOTHIAN. (The Mahdi and Chorus of Radicals.)
The Mahdi――I am the Mahdi of Mid-Lothian.
Chorus―― And a very queer Mahdi too.
The Mahdi――You are very, very rude; And I’d have it understood I command a motley crew. Though a Tory I was born, My creed I have forsworn, And am a Rad of a deepish dye, I never turn my coat With a view to catch a vote, And I never tell a big, big――――official statement.
Chorus―― What, never?
The Mahdi――No, never.
Chorus―― What, never?
The Mahdi――Well, hardly ever.
Chorus―― Then give three cheers for the Grand Old Man, The Grand Old Mahdi of Mid-Lothian; Then give three cheers for the Grand Old Man, For the Mahdi of Mid-Lothian.
The Mahdi――I’ve trimmed my sails to satisfy you all.
Chorus―― And we never knew what you meant.
The Mahdi――Why, that’s my little game But I tell you all the same You are most impertinent. An insincere excuse I never, never use, Whatever the emergency. And I never, never ape, In any form or shape, The conduct of the late Lord B.
Chorus―― What, never?
The Mahdi――No, never.
Chorus―― What, never?
The Mahdi――Well, hardly ever.
Chorus―― Then give three cheers for the Grand Old Man, The Grand Old Mahdi of Mid-Lothian: Then give three cheers for the Grand Old Man, For the Mahdi of Mid-Lothian.
Manchester Courier. 1885.
――――
H.M. HOME RULE CORPS.
Captain Gladstone――I am the captain of this Home Rule Corps!
All―― And a right good captain too!
Captain―― You’re a very mix’d lot, Some are cold, some are hot, But you’re safe “pretty far” to go.
All―― We’re a very mix’d lot, Some are cold, some are hot, But we’re safe “pretty far” to go.
Captain―― I care for no Whig mutineer, For “three courses” I can steer, Bold pilot in extremity, I’ve never miss’d my mark, With Tory, Turk, or Bismarck. Nor lost the Lib’ral ship at sea!
All―― What, never?
Captain―― No, never!
All―― What, NEVER?
Captain―― HARDLY ever!
All―― Hardly ever lost ship at sea! Then give three cheers and one cheer more, For the hardy captain of this Home Rule Corps.
Captain―― I’ll do my best to satisfy you all――
All―― But will you satisfy Parnell?
Captain―― That is neither here nor there, I play upon the square, And will “box the compass” well!
All―― We’re neither here nor there, He plays upon the square, And he’ll “box the compass” well
Captain―― Veil’d words I never use, Nor Lib’ral trust abuse, Whatever the emergency; Lose my temper I may, But friend nor foe can say I ever do it with a big, big D――――
All―― What, never?
Captain―― No, never!
All―― What, NEVER?
Captain―― HARDLY ever!
All―― Hardly ever does it with a big, big D―――― Then give three cheers and one cheer more For the well-bred captain of the Home Rule Corps.
All―― For he is the captain of this Home Rule Corps; And a right good captain too!
Captain―― I’ve had many a sore fall, Ere made captain of you all, But you’re a promising crew!
All―― He’s had many a sore fall, Ere made captain of us all, And we’re a promising crew.
Captain―― I’ll hit upon a plan, To please the Parnell clan, Yet keep united Nations Three; They’ll play Parli’ment for diversion, Ne’er bother ’bout coercion Nor brick-bat Constabul’ry!
All―― What, never?
Captain―― No, never!
All―― What, NEVER?
Captain―― HARDLY ever!
All―― Hardly ever brick-bat Constabul’ry! Then give three cheers and one cheer more, For the daring captain of this Home Rule Corps.
The North British Daily Mail. February 8, 1886.
――――
GIANT LANDLORD.
I’m the curse of my country, the terror of all, Especially those who are feeble and small; I’m a grabber of land, and the people know me As a big-acred Landlord and J. of the P. Yes, I am a J. of the big, big P., And a very funny J. I’m too; For I never, never saw any practice in the law, And I never know what to do. But the clerk to whom I look, finds the law out in a book, And he whispers what it ought to be; And the pris’ners at the bar, Who or what-so-e’er they are, They never mercy get from me!
Jack―― What, never?
Giant L.――No, never!
Jack―― What, never?
Giant L.――No, never! No, never mercy get from me!
Jack and the Villagers―― Then give three groans, and three times three, For the cruel J. of the big, big P. Aye, give three groans, and three times three, For the J, of the big, big P.
Truth. Christmas Number. 1884.
――――
LORD BEACONSFIELD’S SONG.
When I was a lad I served a term As clerk to a decent attorney’s firm; But the trammels of the office were so vile a bore, That I longed to be stepping from the big front-door! I slipped through that portal so read_ilee_, That now I am a noble and, to boot, K.G.!
As novel-writer I made such a mark, That a Seat was discovered for the lawyer’s clerk; Then I sneered and flouted with a smile so bland, Till at last I had the Tories in my own right hand! I chaffed my opponents in a style so free, That now I am a noble, and a big K.G.!
By “slanging” Liberals I made such a name, That a full-blown Premier I soon became; With a “brute majority” to dance to my flute, I made an Indian Empress, and an Earl to boot! And that smart, Imperial juggle did so well for me, That now I am a noble and, you know, K.G.!
I grew so trusted that I was sent To the Congress, Britain for to represent. I cut up Turkey and insulted Greece; But you know I collared Cyprus, and I “brought back peace.” For a “peace with honour” they rewarded me By making of a nobleman a brave K.G.!
Now, statesmen all, whoever you may be, If you’re wishful to emulate this “big, big D.,” If your souls are not fettered to the Lower House, Be careful to be guided by the rule of nous: Stick close to the Crown, and never chop down trees, And you all may be noblemen, and all K.G.’s.
Funny Folks. September 7, 1878.
――――
PRESIDENT GARFIELD.
When he was a lad he served a term On a big canal with a boatman’s firm: With a heart so free, and a will so strong, On the towpath drove two mules along; And he drove those mules so carefullee He’s a candidate now for the Presidencee.
As a driver boy he made such a mark He came to the deck of the inland barque And all of the perils to boat and crew He stood at the helm and guided thro’. He stood at the helm so manfullee He’s a candidate now for the Presidencee.
He did so well with the helm and the mules, They made him a teacher of district schools; And when from college in a bran new suit, A Greek professor at the Institute, Where Greek and Latin he taught so free He’s a candidate now for the Presidencee.
The song traces General Garfield’s history through ten stanzas, and closes in this moral and improving strain:――
Now boys who cherish ambitious schemes, Though now you may be but drivers of teams, Look well to the work you may chance to do, And do it with a hand that is kind and true. Whatever you do, do it faithfullee, And you may aspire to the Presidencee.
From a United States pamphlet, entitled _Republican Campaign Songs_, 1880.
A political parody of the same original, but of purely local interest, was published in Melbourne Punch, August 26, 1880, describing the career of Mr. Berry, an Australian politician.
――――
LITTLE PRIMROSE’S SONG. (After Little Buttercup.)
Lord B.―― A many years ago, When I became a Tory, My brain was all aglow With dreams of fame and glory.
Ministers―― Now hear his artless story! When he became a Tory He dreamt of fame and glory A many years ago.
Lord B.―― One tender thought I “nussed”―― To gain a high position, And mix with upper crust Was ever my ambition.
Ministers―― Now, hear his frank admission! To be a sham patrician Was always his ambition A many years ago.
Lord B.―― Oh, bitter was my lot! Oh, vast was my vexation! They never once forgot My former humble station.
Ministers―― Oh, what humiliation! They seized on each occasion To mock his humble station A many years ago.
Lord B.―― But soon I made a hit, And nobody could doubt it: They cheered my ready wit, They couldn’t do without it!
Ministers―― Now this is all about it―― He’d wit and none could doubt it, Nor could they do without it A many years ago.
Lord B.―― My Party wanted power, And I so aptly taught it, That in a lucky hour To Office back I brought it.
Ministers―― So artfully he taught it, That back to Place he brought it; Now who’d have ever thought it A many years ago?
Funny Folks. March 6, 1880.
――――
DUET. (By two Persons of Quality.)
First Person of Quality.
Your Grace, we have important information―― Sing hey, the silly Liberal that you are!―― About a certain intimate relation Between the artful Afghan and the CZAR. Sing hey, the artful Afghan, The crafty, treacherous Afghan, The sneaking, dangerous Afghan, and the CZAR!
Second Person of Quality.
My Lord, in your romantic vein you’re speaking―― Sing hey, the wily Hebrew that you are!―― We don’t believe there’s any kind of sneaking Between the virtuous Afghan and the CZAR. Sing hey, the virtuous Afghan, The well-intentioned Afghan, The harmless, truthful Afghan, and the CZAR!
First Person of Quality.
Your Grace has not a spark of patriot feeling―― Sing hey, the factious Radical you are!―― Or you’d know we cannot letters be revealing, That touch a friendly Potentate, the CZAR. (Con expressione.) Sing hey, the friendly Monarch, The much-respected Monarch, Our best of foreign relatives, the CZAR.
Second Person of Quality (Con furia).
My Lord, we give you fair and timely warning―― Sing hey, the Tory criminal you are!―― We’ll talk to the Electors, one fine morning, About the ill-used Afghan, and the CZAR. (Lagrimando.) ’Bout the poor ill-usèd Afghan, The much malignèd Afghan, The loyal faithful Afghan, and the CZAR!
Punch. March 13, 1880.
――――
The Tichborne Claimant wrote:――“It is a fine thing to be an Englishman. Fool that I used to be to think so! I should feel prouder now if I could say I was an American Indian. For if ever a man felt ashamed to own a country as his native land, I do this.”
“For he himself has said it, That it’s much to his discredit That he’s an Englishman. He would rather be a Rooshan, A Turk, or Greek, or Prooshan, Or else Red In-di-an; And his future aspirations Will be turned to other nations, Not to be an Englishman.”
Funny Folks. ――――
THE PIRATES OF PENZANCE.
SONG FOR A POLICEMAN.
Hem! I represent the law, ’Sent the law. Of the Beak upon the Bench, well, I’m the claw, I’m the claw. I’m a terror and a snare To all not upon the square; And some envy me my uniform of blue, Yes, they due, Many envy me my uniform of blue.
Duty calls me on some roads, On some roads, Where, I own, I meet with pleasant episodes, Episodes; Where the housemaids have good looks, And obliging are the cooks, With no beastly barracks near to make ’em rue, Make ’em rue; Yes, it’s valued then, this uniform of blue.
For the credit of the Force, Of the Force, A proper pride I cultivate, of course, ’Vate, of course; But, though sad, it must be told, All that glitters is not gold, And the statement Mr. Gilbert made is true, Made is true,―― No! it’s not all joy to wear this dress of blue.
Judy. July 11, 1883.
――――
Song.――BY THE PRINCE OF WALES.
When a Prince is not engaged in his employment―― His employment, Such as laying by the score foundation stones―― ’Dation stones, His capacity for innocent enjoyment―― ’Cent enjoyment, For the cares of Princely etiquette atones―― ’Quette atones――
When he’s finished holding Levée’s for his mother―― For his mother, And has done official duties for the day―― For the day, He contrives his Princely weariness to smother―― ’Ness to smother, By indulging in a visit to the play―― To the play!
So he’s often at one playhouse or another―― Or another, When there is no public dinner to be done―― To be done; And take one consideration with another―― With another, A Prince’s lot might be a sadder one―― Sadder one! When there’s no official business to be done, A Prince’s life might be a sadder one!
Truth Christmas Number. 1884.
――――
AN ELECTION EFFUSION.
When the Free and Independent goes a voting――goes voting, He is very apt to make his presence felt; And election-news is nowadays denoting――a denoting, That a nasty knock to Gladstone he has dealt―― Amid the Separation dust, and smother――dusty smother, The Unionists their task have bravely done, Taking one consideration with another――with another, They all wisely took the tip of Mr. FUN――wondrous FUN! When preserving of the Empire’s to be done――to be done, It’s always safe to follow Mr. FUN.
* * * * *
Fun. July 21, 1886.
――――
THE WHEELISTS’ CHORUS.
When the city man has finished his employment, ――His employment; When anxiety and all its cares are o’er, ――Cares are o’er; He devotes his mind to wheeling as enjoyment, ――As enjoyment And voteth all his business is a bore, ――Is a bore.
His feelings he’ll with difficulty smother; ――Culty smother; When after all his daily toil is done, Toil is done; Taking one consideration with another, With another; The Wheelist’s lot it is a happy one, Happy one.
When the enterprising Wheelist’s not a wheeling, Not a wheeling, When the Wheelist isn’t occupied on wheels, ――Pied on wheels, He loves to saunter in the evening early, Evening early, And listen to the distant village peals, Village peals.
When the tourist’s not engaged in his vocation, His vocation. He loves to go a touring in the sun, In the sun; Taking all things into due consideration, ――Sideration, The Wheelist’s lot it is a happy one, Happy one.
ALFRED GIBBONS. Wheeling Annual 1885.
Another very long song, on the same model, was printed in Wheeling, January 14, 1885, signed G. F. Benson.
――――
SONG AND CHORUS. (Picked up near the Opera Comique.)
When Lord Beaky’s not engaged in lamentation―― Lamentation, He’s tearing all his pretty curly hair―― Curly hair; When Northcote can control his agitation―― Agitation, He is asking “How the rabid nation dare?” Nation dare? When the enterprising Cross is not a-sobbing―― Not a-sobbing, When Manners is not making dismal rhymes―― Dismal rhymes, The former big big D’s his water-jobbing―― Water-jobbing, The last inveighs ’gainst Telegraph and Times―― -graph and Times. When Smith has finished dancing in ill-humour―― In ill-humour, He grinds his little tootsicums like fun―― -cums like fun; Oh! despite the Disappointed Party’s rumour―― Party’s rumour, The Tories’ lot is not a happy one―― Happy one!
Funny Folks. April 24, 1880.
――――
THE SECRETARY’S SONG.
I.
When a fellow finds in Tennis his enjoyment, Or maturing his pot-hunting little plans, If the Secretarial duty’s his employment, He had rather it were any other man’s. He wishes he’d a cousin or a brother, Who would do the little job and think it fun, Oh, take one consideration with another, His official lot is not a happy one; Ah! When a Secretary’s duty’s to be done, His official lot is not a happy one.
II.
When the cunning young mug-lumb’rer’s not mug-lumb’ring, When the shirker doesn’t fail to come to time, Still the Secretary mustn’t be caught slumb’ring, Nor waiting for the distant village chime. When the players fall a-wrangling with each other, Or the Referee’s dry sherry short has run, Oh, take one consideration with another, His official lot is not a happy one, Ah! When the Secretary’s duty’s to be done, His official lot is not a happy one.
III.
When the grass is very hard, or wet and sloppy, Or your spikes are ploughing furrows in the ground, Every ball will be “found dead,” or much too hoppy, And, of course, will “hardly ever” fairly bound, Then you’ll surely find the cause of all the bother In the Secretary’s duty badly done; Oh, take one consideration with another, His official lot is not a happy one. Ah! When the Secretary’s duty’s to be done, His official lot is not a happy one.
IV.
When the weather is propitious, bright, and sunny, Our tournament successfully we hold; Then how gleefully we gather up the money, And the Secretary gladly counts the gold. But, when clouds and wind and rains the heavens smother, Then the Secretary’s blamed for lack of sun; Oh, take one consideration with another, His official lot is not a happy one. Ah! When the Secretary’s duty’s to be done, His official lot is not a happy one.
From Tennis Cuts and Quips. London, Field and Tuer.
――――
THE WHEELIST KING. (Parody on “The Pirate King.”――Pirates of Penzance.)
Oh, better far to ride a bike Through the air on a frosty night, And catch the breezes as they blow Till cheeks all ruddy and a glow, You feel as though you’re a man of might, And fly through the air as a thing of light, Than stay at home and mope away The length’ning night of a winter’s day. For I am the wheeling king. I am the wheeling king, And it is, it is a glorious thing To be the wheeling king.
Oh, better far the path to ride Of cinders, merrily side by side, And rank as a racing man of might, Than dwindle away a summer’s night. For honour is due to racer brave, And scoff the reward of the moping slave; So still I’ll ride, and the song I’ll sing Will be that I’m the wheeling king. For I am the wheeling king, I am the wheeling king, And it is, it is a glorious thing To be the wheeling king.
A. GIBBONS. Wheeling Annual. 1885.
――――:o:――――
PATIENCE; OR, BUNTHORNE’S BRIDE!
This delightful opera was produced on Saturday, 23rd April, 1881, at a time when the Æsthetic movement was the talk of London, and Mr. Burnand’s vamped-up old play, with the new and meaningless title, The Colonel, was drawing crowded houses. The plot of The Colonel was taken from Mr. Morris Barnett’s The Serious Family, produced in 1849, whereas Mr. Gilbert’s plot was entirely original, and although it was not performed until April, 1881, the libretto of Patience was completed in November, 1880.
In both pieces the main idea was to ridicule Æstheticism and the Æsthetes; in The Colonel this was effected by representing the movement as a sham, and its votaries as humbugs and swindlers; in Patience the style, manners, and conversation of the extreme Æsthetes were so gently and gracefully exaggerated, that even the most Utter and Intense amongst them could scarcely take offence at its lively sarcasms.
The excitement about Æstheticism has now subsided, but the beneficial results of this artistic movement are to be seen on every side. In house building, furniture, and decoration; in china, pottery, and glass, even in ladies costumes, far more taste and skill are now displayed than prior to this much ridiculed Renaissance of Art and Culture, which was inaugurated by the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood, consisting of Dante Gabriel Rossetti; W. M. Rossetti; William Morris; John Ruskin; Holman Hunt; and Thomas Woolner.
Further details on this subject would be out of place in this collection, but a full account will be found in The Æsthetic Movement in England, published by Messrs. Reeves and Turner, London, 1882.
THE COLONEL’S SONG. (Patience.)
When I first put this uniform on, I said, as I looked in the glass, “It’s one to a million That any civilian, My figure and form will surpass. Gold lace has a charm for the fair, And I’ve plenty of that, and to spare, While a lover’s professions, When uttered in Hessians, Are eloquent everywhere!” A fact that I counted upon, When I first put this uniform on!
Chorus of Dragoons――
By a simple coincidence, few Could ever have reckoned upon, The same thing occurred to me too, When I first put this uniform on!
* * * * *
THE IMPECUNIOUS OFFICER.
But I’m bound to confess that it comes rather hard Upon those who’ve not much but their pay, To have all the Horse Guards commands to regard As to how we’ve ourselves to array. It is now――let me see――close on twenty-one years Since I had my regimentals to don; And, oh, how they’ve changed them, And re-re-arranged them, Since I first put this uniform on.
The Duke, our commander, an excellent man, Has seemingly spent all his days In trying original methods to plan For putting on lace in new ways; For cutting out tunics and altering caps, To similar lengths he has gone; Scores of times he has changed them, And re-re-arranged them, Since I first put this uniform on!
Truth, Christmas Number. 1882.
――――
SONG BY PRINCE HENRY OF BATTENBERG.
“When I first had the garments to don, Which are worn by the Highlander bold, The kilt I’d to wear Left my kneecaps so bare, That I shiver’d and shook with the cold! But for dear mamma-in-law’s sake, I continued to shiver and shake; Yes, though the keen breeze Seem’d my marrow to freeze, Her favour I knew was at stake And ’twas this that I reckoned upon, When I still kept that uniform on.
“But though I continued to wear Those very remarkable clothes, I am sorry to say There was scarcely a day That I did not use strong (German) oaths For the mists were so damp and so chill, And the wind grew so cuttingly shrill, That at length I was fain To in sorrow complain That the kilt would me certainly kill―― A fact p’rhaps not counted upon When they put me that Highland dress on.
“Yet though I the tartan foreswore, And the kilt and the philibeg too, And was able to shirk Both the sporran and dirk, And the bonnet of Roderick Dhu, Yet still I in public, ’twas clear, In some uniform must appear; So my mother-in-law Colonel Atherley saw, And I soon was a bold Volunteer! The Colonel, by fiction polite, Of the valorous Fifth Isle of Wight.
“But when I its uniform donned, Of a dull and invisible green, With green, too, for facings, And few tags or lacings, I own that I thought it looked mean, Compared with the liveries splendid Of those on the Queen who attended. Aye, I felt it was hard That the Yeoman on guard Had a costume that mine far transcended; Whilst the flunkeys, I had to confess, Beat me too in the matter of dress.
* * * * *
“And so it at length was agreed, When we many projects had weigh’d, For me to petition A Captain’s Commission In Her Majesty’s Household Brigade; And as it was felt the jack-boot Would my legs most undoubtedly suit; And that I to assume The cuirass and the plume Was fine enough, past all dispute, ’Twas further decided that I The Life Guards to join should apply.
“Meanwhile, though, I’m sorry to say, There has been some strange opposition; And I haven’t as yet Been enabled to get This much-desired Captain’s commission; And so I at present don’t dare, The uniform, handsome, to wear, But still must be seen, In my Volunteer Green, Whene’er in State functions I share; A fact I think well to disclose, To those who my purpose oppose.
“And I, amongst these, I am told, Not only M.P.’s must include, But the officers, too, Who essay to taboo What they call my attempt to obtrude. But, surely, they will not maintain Their attitude now I’ve made plain Why it is that I fear To in public appear As a Volunteer Colonel again. No; when they my plight think upon They’ll let me their uniform don!
Truth. March 4, 1886.
――――
WHEN I FIRST PUT JOE’S UNIFORM ON. (Dissident Liberal.)
When I first put Joe’s uniform on, I said as I looked in the glass, “A conscience that’s hearty Should rise above Party, And trust for support to the Mass. Independence of spirit is rare, But I’ll prove that of that I’ve to spare, While a patriot’s pleadings, Though backed by secedings. Are eloquent everywhere!” A fact that I counted upon, When I first put Joe’s uniform on!
Chorus of other Dissident Liberals――
By a simple coincidence, few Could ever have reckoned upon, The same thing occurred to me, too! When I first put Joe’s uniform on!
I said, when I first put it on, “It is plain to the veriest dunce, That every voter With duty for motor, Must plump for the Empire at once! They will see that a statesman debased By our Chamberlain squad has been placed In an odd situation To pass Separation. Which will surely be quite to their taste. Yes, that’s what I counted upon, When I first put Joe’s uniform on!
Chorus of other Dissident Liberals――
By a simple coincidence, &c.
But alas! now it’s come to the pinch, I discover, unfortunate man! That the Lib’ral elector Is not an objector To Gladstone’s deplorable plan. He ranks me with Tories――oh, dear! Nor do arguments specious appear To gammon the Caucus That’s striving to baulk us, And my chance in especial to “queer”! Which I never counted upon When I first put Joe’s uniform on!
Chorus of other Dissident Liberals――
By a simple coincidence, few Could ever have reckoned upon, I damaged my prospects――like you―― When I first put Joe’s uniform on!
Funny Folks. June 26, 1886.
Another parody of this song appeared in The Wheel World for June, 1882.
――――
THE COLONEL’S SONG.
If you want a receipt for that popular mystery, Known to the world as a Heavy Dragoon, Take all the remarkable people in history, Rattle them off to a popular tune. The pluck of Lord Nelson on board of the Victory―― Genius of Bismarck devising a plan; The humour of Fielding (which sounds contradictory,) Coolness of Paget, about to trepan. Take of these elements all that is fusible, Melt them all down in a pipkin or crucible, Set them to simmer and take off the scum, And a heavy Dragoon is the residuum!
Chorus――Yes! yes! yes! yes! A Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!
* * * * *
ADVISE TO A SHORTHAND JENIUS.
I.
If you want a resiet for a novel stenografy, a paragon sistem, fonetik and true, and which in a trise shal extinguish Phonography, list, and I’l tel you just what you shud do. Note what inventions old authorz hav hit upon, boldly appropriate all that you kan; take the quintessens ov all that you’v lit upon, arranje it anew on a different plan; shuffel the strokes til you’v got a new alfabet; skatter the dots here and there for the vowelz: the serkelz and kurvz you must mix up yourself a bit; abbreviate words by ejekting their bowelz; lengthen your outlinez to make an addition; shorten them now to show an omission; kompile a whole pajeful ov neat intersektionz; ov rulez and exseptionz make bulky kollektionz; ov frazez and grammalogz next ad a few; turn on some digrafs and poligrafs too. Take ov theze elements all that’s most horribel; stir them together in fashion deplorribel; set them to simmer, and take of the skum; and a new shorthand sistem’z the re-sid-u-um. Yes, yes, yes, yes! A new shorthand sistem’z the re-sid-u-um!
II.
If you want a resiet for th’ advertisement part ov it, don’t let dul modesty stand in the way. Write a tall prefase, extolling the art ov it; ’gainst every rival most loudly inveigh: announs that none other dezervz popularity; state that ther’z everything exsellent in it, that its writerz’ attain an astounding selerity―― nine hundred and ninety-nine wordz in a minit! Next kritisize Pitman in languaje sensorious; deklare that hiz sistem’z playd out and effete, that your own method’z quickly bekuming viktorious, and wil soon make Phonography take a back seat. What tho your outlinez be shocking monstrositiz, useles, exsept az sublime kuriositiz; what tho your sistem abound with absurditiz so that when a sign’z written you kan’t tel what word it iz: pen pamflets, and posterz, and frendly reviewz; hand-billz and serkularz widely diffuze. If singly theze elements don’t seem respektabel, mix them together in fashion delektabel, set them to simmer, and take of the scum, and a short span ov fame iz the resid-u-um. Yes, yes, yes, yes! A short span ov fame is the re-sid-u-um.
From The Phonetic Journal, 1886.
――――
BUNTHORNE’S SONG.
If you’re anxious for to shine in the high æsthetic line As a man of culture rare, You must get up all the germs of the transcendental terms, And plant them everywhere. You must lie upon the daisies and discourse in novel phrases Of your complicated state of mind. The meaning doesn’t matter if it’s only idle chatter Of a transcendental kind. And everyone will say, As you walk your mystic way, “If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for me, Why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must be!”
* * * * *
THE CULTURED ASSISTANT.
If you want to cut a shine in Professor Attfield’s line Of high-class pharmacy, You must get up all the germs and the new-notation terms Of everything you see. You must learn about the daisies, and cram botanic phrases On every flower you find. If you’ve only got a smattering, be everlasting chattering To expose your “cultured mind.” And every one shall say, as you walk your mystic way, “If this young man converses in terms that are far too deep for me, Why, what a pharmaceutically-deep young man, then, this young man must be.”
Be sure you never praise those very ancient days When trade was sure to pay, But make them plainly see that eighteen eighty-three Is “culture’s” palmiest day. Of course you will pooh pooh whate’er they used to do, And pronounce it crude and mean, And declare “that oil and smalts, or pennyworths of salts, Are things you’ve never seen.” And everyone will say, as you walk your mystic way, “If that’s not good enough for him, that is good enough for me, Why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of youth must be.”
You must study sight and sound, for these, it has been found, Are required in making pills; And in keeping up your stock, the philosophy of Locke A wond’rous power instills. And mind you never drop a word about the “shop” For it’s plain as plain can be, You bid farewell to trade, when acquaintance has been made With high-class pharmacy; Though employers oft may say, as you walk your “cultured” way, “If he’s content with scientific lore, he’ll certainly not suit me, For a money-making, practical, and business man my kind of man must be.”
PHIL. BOSECIC. From a Chemical Journal.
――――:o:――――
DUET. Patience and Grosvenor.
Grosvenor――
Prithee, pretty maiden――prithee tell me true, (Hey, but I’m doleful, willow willow waly!) Have you e’er a lover a dangling after you? Hey, willow waly O! I would fain discover If you have a lover? Hey, willow waly O!
Patience――
Gentle Sir, my heart is frolicsome and free―― (Hey, but he’s doleful, willow willow waly!) Nobody I care for comes a courting me―― Hey, willow waly O! Nobody I care for Comes a courting――therefore, Hey, willow waly O!
* * * * *
When The Times had some pretensions to the title of the leading English newspaper, it was known as “The Thunderer of Printing House Square,” but it has recently been re-christened The Blunderer; or, the Political Weathercock, a name which recalls the subsidiary titles Mr. Gilbert gives to all his operas. The silly misprints, and other errors, which are to be found daily in The Times show the careless manner in which it is edited, whilst several disgraceful hoaxes practised upon it by the compositors on its staff, prove how unpopular the management must have been, and that a chronic state of mutiny existed in Printing House Square. One of these practical jokes was perpetrated on The Times by an audacious compositor, who altered an advertisement which appeared on Tuesday, February 21, 1882, so that it read:――On the 20th instant, at ―― Park Lane, W., the wife of ALBERT EDWARD, of a son.” Whilst a still worse hoax appeared in The Times of Monday, June 12, 1882, in an advertisement of a book entitled Every-Day Life in our Public Schools, which title was amplified in a manner never contemplated by the editor.
But the grossest case of all was that contained in the report of a speech delivered at Burton-on-Trent by Sir William Vernon Harcourt, then Home Secretary. This speech was reported at length in The Times of Monday, January 23, 1882, and thousands of copies were sold before the infallible authorities found out that the pompous Sir W. V. Harcourt’s speech had been adorned, by their compositors, with flowers of speech of a very unclassical nature. Every effort was then made to call in the unsold copies, but the mischief was done, and for weeks The Times was the laughing stock of London, and fabulous prices were given for copies containing the objectionable paragraph.
DUET. Mr. Gladstone, and Sir W. Vernon Harcourt.
Mr. Gladstone――
Prithee, Vernon Harcourt, prithee tell me true (Hey, but it’s shocking, willow, willow waly!) Did you speak the words attributed to you? Hey, willow, waly, oh! I should like to know, sir, How far did you go, sir? Hey, willow, waly, oh!
Sir W. Vernon Harcourt――
Gentle chief, my words may frolicsome have been (Hey, but it’s surprising, willow, willow, waly!) Yet to such a length I did not go, I ween. Hey, willow, waly, oh! There was nought indecent, In my speech so recent, Hey, willow, waly, oh!
Mr. Gladstone――
Prithee, Vernon Harcourt, will you sell to me (Hey, but I’m anxious, willow, willow, waly!), The paper, where reported, I your speech shall see? Hey, willow, waly, oh! Anything, I’ll pay you; What’s your price? Come, say you; Hey, willow, waly, oh!
Sir W. Vernon Harcourt――
Gentle chief, although to purchase you design (Hey, but it’s tempting, willow, willow, waly!) My paper’s not for sale, so I fear I must decline; Hey, willow, waly, oh! Money will not buy it, It’s no good to try it; Hey, willow, waly oh!
(Together.)
Sir W. V. Harcourt――
Though to use such words would very wicked be.
Mr. Gladstone――
(Hey, but it’s shameful, willow, willow, waly!) Printed in The Times, they’d most amusing be!
Sir W. V. Harcourt――
Hey, willow, waly, oh! I shall get a chaffing, All the world is laughing; Hey, willow, waly, oh!
The Sporting Times. January 28, 1882.
――――
A DUET OF THE DAY.
(In consequence of the numerous applications which have been made at the Home Office for an appointment to the place of public executioner, the Secretary of State has published a statement that it is neither his right, nor his duty, to make such appointment, as the selection in reality rests with the Sheriffs.)
Candidate――
Prithee, Secretary, what’s the latest news? (Hey, but I’m eager, willow, willow waly!) Has another Marwood stepped into his shoes? Hey, willow waly, O! Never mind the pang, man―― Have they got a hangman? Hey, willow waly, O!
Secretary of State――
Gentle sir, the post unoccupied you see―― (Hey, but he’s eager, willow, willow waly!) But you’ll p’raps explain now why you’re teasing me―― Hey, willow waly, O! Kindly, please, inform one Why you come and storm one, Hey, willow waly, O!
Candidate――
Prithee, Secretary, give the place to me―― (Hey, but I’m hopeful, willow willow waly!) I may say, at once, I shall scrag ’em properlee―― Hey, willow waly, O! Only deign to try me, Come, you can’t deny me, Hey, willow waly, O!
Secretary of State――
Gentle sir, although I honour your design―― (Hey, but he’s hopeful, willow, willow waly!) I’ve not the appointment, and so I must decline, Hey, willow waly, O! To sheriffs straightway go you―― Observe the door I show you. Hey, willow waly, O!
Funny Folks. September 22, 1883.
――――
A NEW DUET FROM “PATIENCE.”
Salisbury――
Prithee, gentle working-man, once my bugaboo, (Hey, but he’s civil, isn’t he now, rale-y?) Are there any Radicals dangling after you, Hey, willow waly, O! I would fain climb over your shoulder into clover, Hey, willow waly, O!
Working-Man――
Noble lord, my vote is quite unpledged and free, (Hey, but he’s civil, isn’t he now, rale-y?) The Rads don’t seem to care for to take the stump for me, Hey, willow waly, O! And what you are there for――oh, well I know the wherefore, Hey, willow waly, O!
Salisbury――
Prithee, gentle working-man, won’t you vote for me? (Hey, but I’m hopeful, willow waly), And leave the Grand Old Man at home to chop his tree, Hey, willow waly, O?
Truth. November 15, 1883.
――――
TRIO IN “PATIENCE.” (Duke, Colonel, and Major.)
It’s clear that Mediæval art alone retains its zest, To charm and please its devotees we’ve done our little best. We’re not quite sure if all we do has the Early English ring; But, as far as we can judge, it’s something like this sort of thing; You hold yourself like this, You hold yourself like that, By hook and crook you try to look both angular and flat. We venture to expect That what we recollect, Though but a part of true High Art will have its due effect.
If this is not exactly right, we hope you won’t upbraid; You can’t get high Æsthetic tastes, like trousers, ready made. True views on Mediævalism, Time alone will bring, But, as far as we can judge, it’s something like this sort of thing: You hold yourself like this &c., &c.
――――
THE TROUBLESOME TRIO. _Appearing nightly during the Performance of “Impatience,” at St. Stephen’s._
We’ve long opined the House should prove a sort of hornet’s nest; At least to turn it into one we’ve done our little best; And though our pranks upon ourselves no credit seem to bring, Still, when the Grand Old Man’s our game――we’re up to anything! We gibe at him like this, we snap at him like that; We yawn or laugh: sometimes we chaff, or contradict him flat; And, if he make a slip, We roar and yell and skip, And trust our brass may muster pass Somehow for Statesmanship!
If you should think our posturings our Party but degrade, Reflect, “Our Party’s” but ourselves, and we’re all ready made: Tact, reason, judgment to their work, wise politicians bring, But when the Grand Old Man’s the butt――why, fools can have their fling. So, we gibe at him like this, we snap at him like that; We yawn and laugh; sometimes we chaff, or contradict him flat; And, if he make a slip, We have him by the hip! By Jove, our brass, though not high-class, Is all our Statesmanship.
It isn’t that we really mean to irritate the Chair, Or worry old Sir Stafford till he’s fit to tear his hair, Nor o’er our friends do we desire our party mud to fling, But when the Grand Old Man gets up――we’re up to anything! So, we gibe at him like this, we snap at him like that, We yawn, we laugh; sometimes we chaff, or contradict him flat; And, if he make a slip, Like Cannibals we skip, And show the House what depths of nous, Has Jingo Statesmanship!
Punch. November 11, 1882.
The cartoon at the head of this parody, drawn by Sambourne, represented Lord Randolph Churchill, with a note of interrogation; Mr. Ashmead Bartlett, with a peacock’s feather; and Sir Drummond Wolff, with a sunflower; clad in Patience costumes, and adopting the attitudes assumed by the Duke, the Colonel, and the Major, when singing the original trio.
――――
SONG.――THE SOCIAL BELLE.
It’s clear, if I’m to hold my own, I must, with ardent zest, To supplement my natural charms attempt my artful best. What Nature’s done is very well, but Art can do yet more To round, to smooth, to renovate, to polish, and restore. So I lace myself like this (does so), I pad myself like that (does so), Make what is angular look round, and what bony is look fat. I hair-pin on this hair (does so), Frisettes I stick in there (does so), And to be in the fashion quite this bird-cage thus I wear.
I take my blushes from a box, complexion from a jar, My dimples are to order made (a guinea each they are), My curls were purchased through the Stores (a very cheap job lot), The alabaster of my neck is four-and-six per pot. And I line my eyes like this (does so). I mark my veins like that (does so), Fill up this wrinkle so, lay this excrescence flat (does so) I fix and I cement (does so), I powder, puff, and scent (does so), Until, at last, my form is fit in public to present!
Truth. Christmas Number, 1884.
――――:o:――――
“THE ST. JAMES’S GAZETTE” ON MR. JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN IN 1885.
When first I went to Parliament I gazed with mock humility, On Gladstone and on Hartington, on Derby and on Bright; I followed their directions with unquestioning docility, And said that what they bid me do must certainly be right. I flattered all and each of them, And daily did beseech of them Some counsel or advice, which I accepted with civility. I hastened to defer to them; When talking, I said “Sir” to them; And all my early conduct was remarkably polite, I bowed to them, Kowtowed to them, Each day from morn till night: I laughed with them, And chaffed with them, And played the parasite.
But as the proverb predicates, complete familiarity Affects a mam’s ideals with a kind of moral blight: And G. and H. and D. and B. (observe the singularity!) Revealed defects of character that shocked their proselyte. I could no longer follow them, or go to them as reference; Their methods, I discovered, differed totally from mine: And therefore I reluctantly, and quite against my preference, Informed them, “Either you or I, good people must resign.”
They simply would not hear of it: They had the greatest fear of it: They treated what I said to them with unaccustomed deference: They never would demur to me: They even whispered “Sir” to me; And one and all they flattered me, and asked me home to dine. They bowed to me, Kowtowed to me: And how could I decline? I sneered at them And jeered at them, But went, and drank their wine.
Don’t talk to me of impudence, deception, or audacity. I worried them, I flurried them, I worked upon their fears: And now they duly recognise my value and capacity, And meekly let me lead them by their noses and their ears.
――――:o:――――
“WHO ARE THEY?”
A very long-nosed young man, An evil-disposed young man, An oily-tongued, empty pate, Down with the Church and State―― Brother to Dilke young man.
A very astute young man, A remarkably ’cute young man, A very good act is his Gainst corrupt practices―― Try it at Taunton young man.
A “Rabbit and Hares” young man, Confront-me-who-dares young man, A modern Trebonius, Mighty Pomponius―― Take-care-of-himself young man.
A slap-at-the-Crown young man, A levelling down young man; A robbery, jobbery, Quakery, snobbery, Chamberlain-Bright young man.
A dignified grand young man, A lord of the land young man; A stand-no-rebukery, Heir to a dukery, Devonshire House young man.
A genial and kind young man, Who does all the good that he can; But the job quite bewilders Poor darling old Childers, Our army reform young man.
A stolid and square young man, A troubled-with-care young man; A buckshotty, bullety, Utter futility, Message-of-peace young man.
A plausible, bland old man; A shifty-as-sand old man; To aid Revolution Laws, Land, Constitution, He’d fling to the winds, old man.
The Morning Post. January, 1882.
――――
THE FLIPPITY-FLOP YOUNG MAN.
I once was a matter of fact young man, And thrived on port and sherry; But now I’m a kind of a cracked young man, The reverse of or-din-ary. I flip and I flop (echo) All over the shop (echo) And take it for granted you can; I’m a very Sunflowery, Aprily showery, Eastcheapy, Towery man.
Chorus――
I’m a very æsthetic young man, A non energetic young man, Slippity sloppity over the shoppity, Flippity flop young man.
I once was a hymny and tract young man, And sternly opposed to stooping; A kind of a stick up the back young man, But now I incline to drooping, Consummately if (echo) On no account stiff (echo) I scarcely know how I began; I’m a bitter and mildy, naturey childy, Oscary Wylde-y man.
Chorus――
I’m a Fuller’s earth colour young man, A greeny and “yuller” young man: Pretty externally “Patience” and “Colonelly,” Utterly, utter young man.
I once was a cobby and hack young man. And a little bit calico bally, A picture card out of the pack young man, And frequently Music Hally. I’d sing and I’d shout (echo) “Poor ’Liza” about (echo) And after the ladies I ran, Said Jenny to Amily, Oh, he’s a jammily, “Morally, family man.”
Chorus――
But I’m now a good goody young man, A head rather “Woody” young man: Body quite rickety, pose plas-tickety, Never go wrong young man.
I once was a three-and-six dinner young man, And at table knew which was the best end; But now you would not find a thinner young man Tho’ you walk from the East to the West End. Two steps and a stop (echo) A skip and a hop (echo) I require but a puff and a fan; I’m a Regent Street cuttery, skip o’er the guttery, New bread and buttery man.
Chorus――
I’m a worship the lily young man, Crutch and tooth pick-a-dilly young man, Cracked in the filberty, Burnand and Gilberty, Strike you with paper young man.
HARRY ADAMS.
This song was set to music by E. Jonghmans, and published by Francis, Bros. & Day, London. There were also some additional verses, but they were inferior to the above.
――――
SIR WILFRID LAWSON.
A down-with-the-Tories M.P., A never-drink-spirits M.P., A won’t-touch-a-drop-ery Ginger-y, pop-ery, Friend-to-the-pump M.P.
Judy. October 5, 1881.
――――
F. C. BURNAND.
A threepenny Punch Young Man, A Happy-Thought Young Man; A try-to-make Punch, The best of the bunch, But bad is the best Young Man.
HENRY IRVING AND MISS TERRY.
A very-much sought Young Pair, An angular, well-matched Pair; A worship-the-Bard, Whilst he proves a safe card, Then fall back on Wills Young Pair!
GENERAL AND MRS. BOOTH.
A very acute Old Pair, A ranting and roaring Pair; A bawling, fanatical. Send-round-the-hat-i-cal, Pick-up-the-pence Old Pair!
THE DAILY TELEGRAPH.
A caught in the act D. T., A swiftly-condemned D. T.; A basely sensational, False informational, Properly hanged D. T.!
MR. GLADSTONE.
A regular Grand Old Man, An easily-drawn Old Man; A noli-me-tangere, Quickly-made-anger-y, Not to be chaffed Old Man.
MARQUIS OF SALISBURY.
A reckless and fierce Old Man, A not-mind-a-fib Old Man; A Schouvaloff-Treatery, Up-to-deceitery, Berlin fiasco Old Man!
SIR STAFFORD H. NORTHCOTE.
A worthy but weak Old Dame, A limp and defied Old Dame; An often-defeated, Ungratefully-treated, Can’t-manage-her-brats Old Dame.
Truth. Christmas Number, 1882.
――――
AN AMERICAN IDEAL.
A common-place young girl; A decidedly rare young girl; Stay home at night, Do what is right. Help-her-old-mother young girl.
A hard-to-find young girl; A reader-of-fact young girl; An extra poetical, Anti-æsthetical, Care-nothing-for-novels young girl.
A minus her bangs young girl; A show-on-her-brains young girl; With an unpowdered face; One that don’t lace, A dress-for-her-health young girl.
An up-in-the-morning young girl; A help-in-the-wash young girl; One that can rub, Not afraid of the tub, A roll-up-her-sleeves young girl.
A quiet-and-modest young girl; A sweet-and-pure young girl; An upright, ambitious, Lovely, delicious, A pride-of-the-home young girl.
A remarkably scarce young girl; A very much wanted young girl; A truly-American, Too-utter paragon, The kind-that-I-like young girl.
New York Independent.
――――:o:――――
IOLANTHE; OR, THE PEER AND THE PERI.
――――:o:――――
PLAYERS AT PLAYING.
Chorus of Fashionable Amateurs.
When upon the stage we play, Tantantara! Our acting that of pro’s surpasses, Yaas! So pro’s and public, please, make way, And view us through your opera-glasses, Tantantara! Make room!
Bow, bow, ye playhouse-loving masses, We’re taught by “coaches” and in classes, Such the power of brass is, that, although we’re asses To act we all presume.
Though we boast high rank and station, Acting is our recreation, And we startle all the nation, Tantantara! Make room!
Solo.
Spurn not the wealthy swell (Whose mind’s affected), Nor with disdain repel Pro’s self-elected. Once we would sink with shame If actors near us came, Now by rich swell and dame That art’s respected. We swells! We swells! Fair actresses would once select And them “protect,” But now we act ourselves――we swells!
Chorus.
In tragedy and comedy to shine is our intention.
Swells.
Yaas, yaas――for acting is in vogue; And we hope the pwo’s appweciate our gwacious condescension.
Pro’s.
To Colney Hatch you ought to be removed, we say, You noodles pay to act, and of engagements you defraud us, And often through your little game adversity has gnawed us.
Swells.
But look how it amuses us, and how our fwiends applaud us―― Besides, it is “the thing,” you know, at acting now to play.
When we seek the “coach” or the S.D.A., And wish some famous part to play, The “coach” wesponds to us, “Just so; At a matinée you must show.
“To a matinée you must go, Sir (or ma’am) of highest quality, You’ll appear at the Fwivolity, At a matinée you shall show!”
Then each of us fwom gay Belgwaviah Thinks himself the Stage’s saviah; And all our fwiends their plaudits thunder, Voting each of us a wonder.
Pro’s and Public.
When Billy Shakespeare ruled the stage In good Queen Bess’s reign, The swells did not to act attempt; But they wern’t then, as now, exempt From anything like brain. And yet Thalia won her bays In quaint Queen Bess’s glorious days.
When David Garrick drew the town, With Woffington la belle, No Upper-Ten folks paid to play, And yet the Drama, strange to say, Succeeded very well, It did without the swellish craze In David Garrick’s glorious days.
And then again, in later times, (Say, up at Sadler’s Wells), The Drama, somehow, kept alive, And still it managed to survive Without the aid of swells. And actors won renown and praise In dear old Samuel Phelps’s days.
Carados.
To escape there is a way: Don’t go! Whene’r these idiots play, Don’t go! They’ve L.S.D., These would-be pro’s Each fancies he Great genius shows. But no: Take warning from this lay: Don’t go!
CARADOS. The Referee. April, 1883.
――――:o:――――
THE LAY OF THE LORD CHIEF JUSTICE.[24]
A Lord Chief Justice, by common consent, Is Law’s most lovely embodiment; For the Chancellor, though a thing of dread, Is a sort of a perfunctory figurehead. And that is why the American Bar Have selected Me to travel afar. A very agreeable jaunt, and one That will lead, I trust, to some excellent fun, And furnish a capital holiday For a most mellifluous Lord Chief J. All――And furnish, &c.
But though the compliment implied Inflates me with legitimate pride, It nevertheless can’t be denied That it has a――ahem!――dangerous side. For I’m not so old or melancholic As to be quite proof ’gainst the love of frolic, And there’d be the deu―――― well, a certain risk, If the Lord Chief Justice began to frisk. A possibility, I should say, For a peripatetic Lord Chief J. All――A possibility, &c.
I must keep on myself strict watch and ward, Lest in more than one sense I should be abroad; For the Themis young of America Is a very agreeable girl, they say; She has affable manners――and customs free―― And――she laughs at wigs! Oh! deary me. I must be as careful as careful can be, Lest I should forget Law’s dignitee. ’Tis a sore temptation to throw in the way Of such a susceptible Lord Chief J.!
All――’Tis a sore temptation, &c.
Punch. September 1, 1883.
――――
A SUSCEPTIBLE CHANCELLOR.
“That is a specimen of the complaints which are poured into the letter-box of a susceptible Chancellor of the Exchequer.”――Mr. Goschen at the Mansion House.
The cry is still “They come,” and I Could almost wriggle with agony, For while one man would a tax impose, Another, remission would fain propose; One worthy our tea would from duty free. And another would tax up our mild Bohea; While many would gladly change the law, And put the screw upon whisky raw. Which is exasperating, for I’m such a susceptible Chancellor.
Then, in the interest of the rats, I’m asked to discourage the spread of cats; While a widow lady whose dog is blind Protests the afflicted should not be fined; The naughty, some say, a tax should pay Whenever they go to see the play; And broadly speaking, the wickeder you, The worse the penance you ought to do. Which is to me distressing, for I’m such a susceptible Chancellor.
The Liverpool Weekly Post. April 2, 1887.
――――:o:――――
THE SONGS OF THE PROFESSIONS. The Church.
When I went to the Church, as a very young man, (Said I to myself, said I) I’ll work on the good old pluralist plan (Said I to myself, said I). I’ll marry the daughter of Bishop or Dean; To the best paying side in church politics lean, And whatever the work, remain idly serene (Said I to myself, said I). And I’ve managed, I fancy, to do what I say, For you see what I am by my apron to-day; And if you but look at the papers you’ll know To what bigoted lengths I am willing to go. It is true I’m too weak to my diocese work, But no one can say my chief duty I shirk. No, I quarterly draw my prelatical pay, In the fine, old, full-flavoured Episcopal way!
The Army.
When I took my commission as a silly young man (Said I to myself, said I), I will certainly work on a Barnumesque plan――[25] (Said I to myself, said I). I will flatter my General, get in a clique, My own self-advancement at all times bespeak, And to puff my own bravery always will seek (Said I to myself, said I). So I did it, and thus, as you see me to-day, Have worked very high in the Army my way, And now am quite busy in doing my best The course of my rivals to forthwith arrest, By striving that they, although equally wise, May no army discover in which they can rise. Yes, thanks to the fads in which I persist, Our army, I take it, will not long exist.
The Law.
When I went to the bar as a priggish young man (Said I to myself, said I), I’ll work on the regular, old legal plan, (Said I to myself, said I). I’ll take more briefs than I can read through, Nor care though my clients my carelessness rue. I will stick to my fees whatever I do (Said I to myself, said I) Well. I think I have managed to score a success, And have ruined more clients than ever you’d guess; And besides, when a chance was presented to me, I my politics changed and became an M.P.; And my coat having turned (’twas a very slight wrench), I soon shall be called as a judge to the bench, From there to pass sentence, for many an act In no wise so bad as my deeds were in fact.
Medicine.
When I hospitals walked as a merry young man (Said I to myself, said I), I’ll proceed to success on a Specialist plan, (Said I to myself, said I). I’ll stick to one part of our wonderful frame, And, spite of my fellow-practitioners’ blame, I think it will bring me both lucre and fame (Said I to myself, said I). The result, I am glad to report, has been good, For I’ve earned the large fortune I said that I would, And as to my fame, it is easy to tell From the way that I’m hated I’ve won that as well. So jealous, in fact, are my rivals, I think They hardly from my vivisection would shrink, In order to find, by their treatment of me, Where this Nerve most successful they grudge me can be!
Truth Christmas Number. 1883.
――――
SOME NEW YEAR’S EVE RESOLVES.
Said a Barrister, low to himself, said he, “Next year I will keep no unearned fee, I will hold no briefs that I cannot read, Nor sully my ‘silk’ with dishonest greed. Next year I will not be paid for work Which I know full well that I mean to shirk. Nay, more, I will make my clerk return Those cheques which now in my pocket burn. Aye, straight is the course that I mean to steer Through the Legal Terms of the Glad New Year!”
* * * *
Said a British General, “I will try To learn that the Alphabet’s not all ‘I.’ With the year now dawning I mean to seek To become less bumptious and grow more meek; And learn to remember in former days There were Generals, too, who deserved some praise; And that British soldiers could fight and storm, Though nought had been heard of my reform. Yes, all that the Army esteem most dear I will cease to vex in the Glad New Year!”
Said a West-end Tradesman, “I hereby vow That reckless credit I’ll not allow, Nor will I make up for it e’er again By the shameful profits that I maintain; Nor will I longer essay to trade By adulteration’s scurvy aid; No! I henceforth what is pure will sell, And the demon of commerce forthwith expel, Resolved to my vows to close adhere Through the coming months of the Glad New Year!
Said a Jerry Builder, “Next year shall see No Jerry dwellings put up by me! I will purchase no fever-reeking site; Nor, having bribed to the left and right, Will I there run up those frail abodes Which the life of each hapless tenant loads With cramps and chills and with torture grim, ’Till Death itself seems a boon to him; No, I as a fiend will not appear In the happy days of the Glad New Year!”
Said a City Alderman, “I will try My enemies’ sneers to falsify; I’ll curb, as much as ever I’m able, My gluttonous taste at the Civic table; I’ll do my best, too, myself to force To become less bigoted, dull, and coarse; I will also strive to promote no job, And to cease the poor any more to rob. ’Though, I’m bound to add, I already fear I’ve promised too much for the Glad New Year!”
Said a Man of Fashion, “Hereby I swear To think much less of the clothes I wear; To gamble less when I cannot pay, Less spirits to drink, less slang essay; The spiteful talk of the Club to ban, To take my sport as becomes a man, To shoot no pigeons, to sell no race, Nor a gentleman’s name to in aught disgrace: All this I swear, so I think ’tis clear I have much to change in the Glad New Year!”
Truth. January 3, 1884.
――――
SAID I TO MYSELF, SAID I. (As sung by Mr. Henry Irving).
When I took to the stage as a gifted young man, Said I, &c., I’ll act on a new, if peculiar plan, Said I, &c. I’ll never consider the rôle that I play, My method need change to a different way, From the path that I’ve chosen I never will stray, Said I &c.
The public are ready for anything new Said I, &c., The æsthetes are raving o’er all that I do, Said I, &c. My plan is successful, my manner attracts, No matter the play, if ’tis Irving that acts, And places are booked two months off. These are facts Said I, &c.
I’ll swagger and stagger, I’ll roar and I’ll rant, Said I, &c., I’ll suddenly cease, roll my eyes, gasp and pant, Said I, &c. In mounting most costly I’ll not be outdone, Though in comedy vague my idea of fun, Yet soon on the boards I shall be number one, Said I, &c.
I always will keep my peculiar stride, Said I, &c., In Hamlet, Charles, Richelieu, and Romeo beside, Said I, &c. With pre-Raffaelite Ellen my woes to assuage, In London be burlesqued, in Scotland the rage, We triumph on every American stage. Said I, &c.
ONNY BRIDGE Truth. November 15, 1883.
――――
THE MASHER CLERK.
(A city firm have just advertised in the Daily News for a clerk, adding that they want “no mashers.”)
When I went to the City a knowing young man (Said I to myself, said I), I’ll follow the fashion as much as I can (Said I to myself, said I), I’ll live upon credit when minus of cash, In the eyes of the world I will cut such a dash, That envious chappies shall cry, “Can’t he ‘mash’!” (Said I to myself, said I).
I’ll never drink anything else but best “cham.” (Said I to myself, said I), Or “cotton” to fairies who’re not “real jam” (Said I to myself, said I); But of dear little pets I will have the first pick, And dress in a style most decidedly “chick.” I’ll get from my tailor unlimited tick (Said I to myself, said I).
When the “shop” is shut up, and the evening begun (Said I to myself, said I), I’ll then sally forth for some frolic and fun (Said I to myself, said I), I’ll ogle the girls at the Gaiety bar, Or, soothed by the smoke of a pipe or cigar, I’ll list to the song of the music-hall star (Said I to myself, said I).
If I must be a clerk to be perched on a stool (Said I to myself, said I), I’ll not give up “mashing,” I’m not such a fool (Said I to myself, said I). So now where’s that berth advertised in the News? I’m sure with my figure they cannot refuse―――― Hallo! what is this――“No mashers!” the deuce! (Said I to myself, said I).
Funny Folks. May, 1884.
A political imitation of this song appeared in England for July 4, 1885, but it had little interest, and is now out of date.
THE FAIRY QUEEN’S SONG. “OH, NATION GAY.”
(Mr. Shaw claimed ten thousand pounds as compensation for his unjust imprisonment by the French.)
England sings to France.
Oh, nation gay. Think you, because Your brave array Poor China awes, I’d disobey Stern Justice’ laws? Because you’re sly, And not above A tendency The weak to shove, Resemble I The timid dove? Oh, timid dove! Bird of Ovidius Naso! This heart of mine Is not as thine, And no man dares to say so!
On ire that glows With heat intense Turn, France, the hose Of pounds and pence, And out it goes At some expense! I must maintain Stern Justice’ law―― That fact is plain; So kindly draw A cheque, and gain The heart of Shaw! Oh, Mister Shaw! Long by the Gaul kept under, Would thy crusade Without my aid Attain its end, I wonder?
Funny Folks. September, 1883.
――――
SONG OF THE LAWN TENNIS CHAMPIONSHIP.
I.
Oh, foolish swain, Think you, because On grassy plain I mind each clause Of sovereign Lawn-tennis laws,―― In brightest gleam That fancy owns, Think you, I dream My cranial bones With rules can teem Like those of Jones? Oh, Mr. Jones, Type of Lawn-tennis Draco, This head of mine Is not as thine, Although it sometimes ache, Oh!
II.
When heaven glows With heat intense, And grass ne’er grows In any sense, We ply the hose At great expense! When eager calls And fervent prayers For brand-new balls Are heard from players, The onus falls On F. H. Ayres. Oh, Mr. Ayres, Vendor of balls sewn-under, How are they made, Or sold, or paid For, at such price, I wonder?
III.
Fame’s made or marr’d At Wimbledon, And matches hard Are deftly won, And scored on card, Ere set of sun: But no young gent Scores with such art A tournament In every part As heaven-sent Young Mr. Schacht. Oh, Mr. Schacht, Type of Lawn-tennis umpire, Perched up on high, In summer sky, No grasshopper could jump higher!
IV.
The lists are set, The ties are drawn, And anxious yet, Ere morning dawn, We pray, no wet May spoil our lawn. The play begins, Without a flaw, The fastest spins We ever saw; The fav’rite wins,―― ’Tis still Renshaw! Oh, Will Renshaw, Type of Lawn-tennis champions, None e’er so quick The world to lick From Land’s End to the Grampians!
From Tennis Cuts and Quips. (London: Field & Tuer, 1884.)
――――:o:――――
PRINCESS IDA.
――――
THE DISAGREEABLE MAN.
_As Sung by Mr. Henry George, the “Land Nationalization” Comique._
If you give me your attention, I will tell you what I am: I’m a genuine philanthropist――all other sorts are sham. Each stupid freak of Fortune and each soc-i-al defect By my lectures and my volumes I endeavour to correct; To all their little grievances I ope the people’s eyes, And pretty plans to crucify the landlords I devise. I love my fellow creatures――I do all the good I can―― Yet Property declares that I’m a disagreeable man! And I can’t think why!
To Smith and to Ricardo I’ve a withering reply; Malthusians I always do my best to mortify; Political economy I skilfully dissect, And crevices within its mail I’m ready to detect. I know everybody’s income and what everybody earns, And I prove that honest labour doesn’t win its due returns; But to benefit humanity, however much I plan, Yet Property will have it I’m a disagreeable man! And I can’t think why!
I’m sure I am no Marat, I’m as gentle as can be; The guillotine in Leicester Square I should regret to see. I merely want the populace to grab all “real estate,” Without regard to owners’ cry of “Please to compensate.” To those same owners’ prejudice, I know a thing or two; I can show them to be curses of the nation――and I do. But though I try to make myself as pleasant as I can, Yet Property asserts that I’m a disagreeable man―― And I can’t think why!
Funny Folks.
――――
THOSE CLEVER CONSERVATIVES.
“Mr. J. W. Harris won Poole for the Conservatives by declaring to the working classes that the Liberals had brought the bad trade, and the Tories would revive the industry of the place, and make everybody rich.”
If green Cheddar you desire From the moon――from the moon―― They’ll supply what you require Very soon――very soon. Then they hope to fill lean purses, Lacking pence――lacking pence―― With the coin Weg-born reverses Steal from thence――steal from thence. And as harvests shirk a nation ’Neath Sol’s ban――’neath Sol’s ban, To aid farmers by taxation They’ve a plan――they’ve a plan. They’ve a firmly-rooted notion They can bridge Depression’s ocean, And they’ll set all trades in motion, If they can――if they can! These are the phenomena That Poole expects to come in a Crack or a jiffee Now that Harris is M.P.
As for failure, they forswear it, So they say――so they say, And prosperity they’ll “square” it, Some fine day――some fine day. When the voter they would “sell” him―― Not too “fly”――not too “fly”―― “The Millennium’s,” they tell him “By-and-bye――by-and-bye!” So each newly-joined aspirant To their clan――to their clan―― Must pooh-pooh Hard Times, a tyrant Known to man――known to man. They mock at him and flout him, And they chaff the Rads about him, For they’re “going to do without him” If they can――if they can! These are the phenomena, &c.
From Funny Folks. May 3, 1884.
Another parody, of the same original, appeared in Pastime, February 13, 1884, relating to the London Athletic Club.
――――
A WASTED “INFANCY.” (The Lay of a Man of Forty.)
I was not so very old, Twenty years ago! Quite an “infant,” I am told, Twenty years ago! How I might have gone the pace At the cost of tradesmen base, If I’d only had the face Twenty years ago!
But I was a trifle shy, Twenty years ago! Let the golden time slip by, Twenty years ago! Didn’t buy on tick, alas, “Necessary” things en masse―― All which branded me an ass, Twenty years ago!
Funny Folks. April 5, 1884.
――――
THE SCUTTLE.
Of all the plans there are on earth For Statesmen still to cherish O Commend me to the Premier’s own Whose glory ne’er will perish O! O the Scuttle, the base, ignoble Scuttle. Chosen fad of Lib and Rad, Our dear old Gladstone’s Scuttle O!
Forth, forth, from Egypt let us slope As fast as we can manage O! And let the Mahdi work his will The B.P.’ll pay the damage O! O the Scuttle, the base, ignoble Scuttle, Chosen fad of Lib and Rad, Our dear old Gladstone’s Scuttle O!
Forth from Afghanistan as well In spite of all our bunkum O! The only way to beat the Russ Is evermore to funk ’em O! O the Scuttle, the base, ignoble Scuttle, Chosen fad of Lib and Rad, Our dear old Gladstone’s Scuttle O!
So wheresoever threats a foe, Or dangers England worry O! We will surmount them all by flight And out of trouble hurry O! O the Scuttle, the base, ignoble Scuttle, Chosen fad of Lib and Rad, Our dear old Gladstone’s Scuttle O!
Moonshine. May, 1885.
――――
THE ARGOSY BRACES
Ye who are cumbersome and slow, Awkward and ungainly, We would have you know The cause is BRACES! mainly Those of the old fashioned type, Impeding every movement. Really the time was ripe For marvellous improvement.
Then if you’re tired of the vice-like gripping Grasping, clutching, and irritating slipping, And your principal complaint Is physical restraint, You needn’t have a taint Of it now.
But when you’re next engaged in shopping, Into a hosier’s go you popping, Give the “ARGOSY” a trial; Then with a placid smile, Cast off the old ones vile, As we do.
――――
KNOX ET PRÆTEREA NIHIL! (After King Gama’s song in the “Princess Ida.”)
SCENE.――Dromore. Leaders of the Local Orange Lodges discovered in Council.
First Orange Leader.
Common sense we bar, That is not our bent; On the whole we are Not intelligent.
Chorus of Leaders.
No, no! Not intelligent!
Second Orange Leader.
But with spiteful heart, Play we here anew Our abusive part―― Insult is our cue!
Chorus of Leaders.
Yes, yes! Insult is our cue! Bigots fierce and strong, ha! ha! For the strife we burn; Who is in the wrong, ha! ha! We have no concern. So we wreak our spite, ha! ha! Little care we, then, Who is in the right, ha! ha! For we’re Orangemen!
Chorus of their followers who have gathered round.――
They are men of might, ha! ha! Bigots, moved by spite, ha! ha! Ready for the fight, ha! ha! Ready for the fight!
Solo.――THE HON. COLONEL KNOX.
“If you give me your attention I will tell you what I am; I’m a genuine Orange patriot! all other kinds are sham. I adore my dear old country, and most viciously I try To thwart the plan of statesmen who would peace to her supply; I am full of true devotion to my Queen, and so I use The most offensive epithets her Viceroy to abuse, See how I love the Irish! Why, their massacre I plan, Yet Liberal papers say I’m such an extremely dangerous man! And I can’t think why!
“I’m so loyally patriotic that I strive with all my might My Monarch’s chief advisers to humiliate and spite; I so yearn to see my Ireland free, and Protestant, and great, That I’d blast its hopes with bloodshed and its people decimate. No greater stickler for the Law was ever known than I, So long as it allows me its provisions to defy, Or assists me in developing some ultra-Orange plan; Yet moderate critics say I’m such a very odious man! And I can’t think why!
“I am always for upholding Ulster’s right to freely meet, To walk with yellow banners, and the noisy drum to beat; Aye, sweet Freedom is the birthright of us Orangemen so true: But it is not meant for rebels like Parnell and his black crew. So with pistol and shillelagh I would quickly smite them down, If they dare to hold a meeting or perambulate a town; Thus you see I try to make myself considerate as I can, Yet everybody says I’m such a disingenuous man! And I can’t think why!
“I’m blind to every party sin, and personal defect, But ready any Land League fault most sternly to correct; ’Gainst Orangemen’s besotted crimes I closely shut my eyes, But mark the slips of Nationalists with most severe surprise. And when their foul abuse of us I hear them trying at, Why, I feel they ought to know we claim monopoly of that! But although I’ve acted in this way since manhood I began, Yet people will insist I’m such an undesirable man! And I can’t think why!
“So come, my worthy farmers and poor peasants, look at me, And try if you as spiteful and intolerant can be; Denounce the things in others you do without demur, And make repeated efforts their passions fierce to stir. Be prejudiced as I am, my spite and malice share, And as becomes true patriots, for civil war prepare. In short, I’d have you act upon my patriotic plan, Though everybody says I’m such a bad, contentious man, And I can’t think why!”
Final chorus of Orange Leaders.
Yes, with spiteful heart Here we’ve played anew Our abusive part―― Insult is our cue! Yes! yes! Insult is our cue!
Truth. January 10, 1884.
――――:o:――――
THE MIKADO.
――――
“JAMWILLOW.”
[According to the Times correspondent at Suakin, the frequent “jamming” of the Martini-Henry rifles was due to the defective cartridge in use. The cartridge is regarded, as “a theoretical one;” and a theoretical cartridge might as well be a blank one at once.]
On a battlefield gory a soldier was seen, Who sang “Willow, jamwillow, jamwillow;” And I said to him “Warrior, what do you mean By your ‘Willow, jamwillow, jam willow’? Act at once, since the foe is approaching,” I cried, “You had better take aim, or they’ll humble our pride.” With a shake of his helmet, the fighter replied, “Oh, willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!”
He pulled at the trigger again and again, Singing, “Willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!” But, alas! all his struggles were clearly in vain, Oh, “willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!” He threw down the arm, and a “Drat it!” he gave; Then he turned and he ran, though undoubtedly brave, And he shouted, while striving his bacon to save, “Oh, willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!”
Now, I feel just as sure as I’m sure that my name Isn’t Willow, jamwillow, jamwillow; That a cartridge defective had made him exclaim, “Oh, willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!” And if something’s not done by the War Office――why, We shall suffer defeat in the sweet by-and-bye, And our soldiers will wail as they perish or fly, “Oh, willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!”
Funny Folks. May 9, 1885.
――――
THE “WATERBURY” MAIDS.
Three little maids from school are we, Proper and good, as we ought to be; The reason why, you will shortly see, Three little maids from school. We were once “real wild,” we “took the bun” For mischievous pranks and daring fun, So they put a watch on us, every one, Three little maids from school. Three little maids so quick and wary. The best of all watches was necessary, That’s why they picked out the “Waterbury,” Three little maids at school. But now we are all “real nice,” you know, And always act as our watches go, Not the least bit “fast,” but by no means “slow,” Three little maids from school. From three little maids take these away, And three little maids would be all astray―― For we’d never be up to the time of day, Three little maids from school. Three little maids, delightful very, Laughing always, so bright and merry, Everyone with a “Waterbury,” Three little maids from school.
――――
SEWING.
On a seat in the garden A sweet pretty maid Was sewing, so sewing, so sewing And I said to her, “Dearest one! Why thus so staid? So sewing, so sewing, so sewing. Is it stitching for somebody over the sea, Or a slipper you’re making for impudent me?” But without looking up she continued to be Sewing, so sewing, so sewing.
And she sighed a deep sigh as She sat on that seat So sewing, so sewing, so sewing; And her forehead was flushed with A feverish heat, So sewing, so sewing, so sewing, But she still maintained silence And answered me naught, Though a smile or a whisper was all that I sought. She was certainly angry at having been caught So sewing, so sewing, so sewing.
But when Dick had come back from His voyage at sea, She was sewing, so sewing, so sewing; And the slippers were finished, As such work should be, By sewing, so sewing, so sewing. Now a wedding took place, But alas! ’twas not mine; And when Dick is away, if the weather be fine, She will sit on that seat and her fingers incline To sewing, so sewing, so sewing.
SAML. PEEL. From Gems.
――――
WORDS FOR MUSIC.
The flowers that bloom in the pot, tra-la, Have the bulge on the flowers of Spring, For whether its cold or its hot, tra-la, They’re placed in temperate spot, tra-la, And in this have a very soft thing; So they don’t care a jot If it freezes or not, For they feel pretty certain that they have the pot, Tra-la-la la-la, tra-la-la-la-la. Oh, theirs is a fortunate lot.
Rare Bits. February 5, 1887.
――――
THE SPRING CLEANING.
The flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la, You buy for the girl you adore, For a beautiful smile they bring, tra-la, And cause her your praises to sing, tra-la, Till you wish that you’d only bought more, And that’s what we mean when we say that a thing Is as welcome as flowers that bloom in the Spring.
The blushes that bloom on her cheek, tra la, Are painted the men to deceive; If you doubt, just notice this week, tra la, When her curls on your arm a rest seek, tra la, How the blushes will soil your coat-sleeve. And that’s what we mean when we angrily speak: A brush for the blushes that bloom on her cheek.
The flour that blooms in the spring, tra la, We find in confectioner’s cakes The children unto ’em will cling, tra la, Though they’re spongy and tough as a string, tra la, And simply are leathery fakes! And that’s why we’re sad when they pass us a thing, Made out of the flour that blooms in the spring.
The houses we clean in the spring, tra la, Give a blow to all social sunshine, And we profanely say as we sing, tra la, That we’d like to be hanged on a string, tra la, But we find that it’s useless to whine. And this is the refrain that we dolefully sing, Oh, bother the houses we clean in the spring.
THE TUNEFUL LIAR.
Quips (Liverpool.) March 4, 1887.
――――
VERSES ACCIDENTALLY OMITTED AT THE SAVOY THEATRE.
At this General Election some have met with their rejection, Who never will be missed, who never will be missed! At last they’ve been found out, although they’ve long escaped detection, And we’ve scratched them off the list, we’ve scratched them off the list, There’s the foul-mouthed Joseph Leicester sent to “studdy” at his ease, With Rogers, whose crude Billingsgate has somehow failed to please; And Joseph Arch the humbug, who against the labourers votes, Has leisure now to understand what’s meant by “hinds” and “goats;” And Gibb, and Firth, and plenty more, we’ve scratched them off the list, But they’ll none of them be missed, they’ll none of them be missed!
But some there are who’ve scrambled through we well could do without; Though they’re still upon the list, they’re still upon the list! The traitors who have managed to escape the general rout, Though they never would be missed, they never would be missed! First, there’s the Grand Old Madman and his silly little son, And that “genial ruffian,” Labby, with his weak attempts at fun; There’s Bombastes Falstaff Harcourt, and J. Morley, prince of prigs, Flabby Childers, blatant Russell, half a dozen recreant Whigs, And all those empty Gladstone bags who’ve got upon the list; Oh, they’d none of them be missed, they’d none of them be missed!
W. St. Stephen’s Review. July, 1886.
――――
Messrs. Lever Brothers, of Warrington, have published a small pamphlet describing the manufacture of their “Sunlight Soap.” It contains “A respectful Per-version of the Mikado,” from which the following extracts are given, by permission of Messrs. Lever Brothers:――
SONG――BY A LADY OF QUALITY.
As some day a washing soap that is harmless may be found, I’ve got a little list! I’ve got a little list Of gowns and things all stowed away, as safe as underground. Which have constantly been missed! How much they’ve all been missed! There’s my charming Dolly Varden, which, alas! is rather soiled, My parasol of once white lace, though dirty, it’s not spoiled. My chintzes and chinchillas, China crape, and cream brocade, My bombazines and silks of every style, and sort, and shade; That fetching little bonnet too, in which I first was kissed, They’ve all of them been missed! They’ve all been sadly missed.
Chorus――She’s got ’em on her list! She’s got ’em on her list; And they’ve all of ’em been missed! They’ve all been sadly missed.
One day a friend said Sunlight Soap I really ought to try, And as she did insist, I hunted up my list; For, hearing her experience, I remembered with a sigh, How much they’d all been missed! How much they’d all been missed. So I sent at once for Sunlight Soap, and soon unpicked the lace, From that old discarded sunshade and I tacked it in its place; Round a muslin-covered bottle, as their little books direct, And used the Sunlight Soap with most astonishing effect, The lace washed quite as good as new――encouraged to persist, I wondered if it would restore the other things I’d missed.
Chorus――She hunted up her list! She got her little list, And wondered if it would restore the other things she’d missed.
So one by one I brought to light the things I’d laid aside For I’d got them on my list! They were all upon my list; The same success attended each experiment I tried, And they’ll never more be missed They’ll never more be missed! The finest fabrics were unharmed, the tints remained intact, You may think I’m romancing, I assure you it’s a fact; You try the Sunlight Soap, you’ll find your labour much reduced, I only wish that years ago it had been introduced! Henceforth no more soiled garments will appear upon my list, For, thanks to harmless Sunlight Soap, they’ll none of them be missed.
Chorus――She’s crossed ’em off her list! She’s crossed ’em off her list, For, thanks to harmless Sunlight Soap, they’ll none of ’em be missed!
TRIO OF SUNLIGHT SOAP TABLETS.
Three little aids to health are we, Powerful aids in tablets three, Harbingers all of purity, Three little aids to health! Everyone will our virtues own, Everywhere is our value known, Everything that is foul hath flown, From three little aids to health!
Three little tablets, all expelling Germs of disease from dress and dwelling, Purity’s advent e’er foretelling―― Three little aids to health! Three little foes to dire decay, Driving disease and dirt away, Pleased to disperse their dread array―― Three little aids to health!
All that is foul we render fair, No earthly boon can with us compare, Life is a burden few could bear But for three little aids to health! Three little tablets, all expelling Germs of disease from dress and dwelling, Purity’s advent e’er foretelling―― Three little aids to health!
THE REASON WHY.
The flowers that bloom in the spring, Tra la, Breathe promise of merry Sunlight―― As we merrily dance and we sing, Tra la, We welcome the hope that they bring, Tra la, Of a summer of roses so bright; And that’s what we mean when we say that a thing Is welcome as flowers that bloom in the spring. Tra la la la la la, &c.
Lever’s Sunlight Soap’s a thing, Tra la, That brings sunshine wherever it goes If you ask us to which we should cling, Tra la, It won’t be the flowers of spring, Tra la, For they’re useless for washing of clothes; And that’s what we mean when we say, or we sing, “It’s better than flowers that bloom in the spring!” Tra la la la la la, &c.
A PATHETIC BALLAD.
In a cot by a river a lady forlorn Sang “willow, titwillow, titwillow!” And I said to her, “pretty one, why do you mourn, Singing ‘willow, titwillow, titwillow?’ Your love will return ere the sun will have set, Your honeymoon scarce is completed, and yet With a shake of your head you reply in a pet, “Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
But alas! she had wedded for love, not for pelf, Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow! So she had to get through all the washing herself, Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow! She sobbed and she sighed, and a gurgle she gave, Then she threw herself into the billowy wave, And an echo arose from the suicide’s grave―― “Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
Now I feel just as sure as I’m sure that my name Isn’t willow, titwillow, titwillow, ’Twas inferior soap that thus made her exclaim, “Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!” If Lever’s Sunlight Soap she’d happened to buy, Her work had been done without trouble, and I Should never have heard that most desolate cry―― “Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
――――:o:――――
RUDDIGORE; OR, THE WITCH’S CURSE.
This opera, produced at the Savoy Theatre on Saturday, January 22, 1887, did not at first receive that approval which the Press and the public have hitherto accorded to Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan’s pieces. Objection was taken to the title, and in deference to public opinion the first word was altered from Ruddygore to Ruddigore, whilst several passages which occur in the published version of the libretto are either altered, or omitted, in representation, and generally the piece runs more smoothly than it did when first produced.
That Mr. Gilbert himself had some mistrust of his own passion for logical paradoxes may be inferred from the fact that the following passage has, from the first, been omitted in the performance:
Rod. It’s not too late, is it?
Han. Oh Roddy! (bashfully).
Rod. I’m quite respectable now, you know.
Han. But you’re a ghost, ain’t you?
Rod. Well yes――a kind of ghost.
Han. But what would be my legal status as a ghost’s wife?
Rod. It would be a very respectable position.
Han. But I should be the wife of a dead husband, Roddy!
Rod. No doubt.
Han. But the wife of a dead husband is a widow, Roddy
Rod. I suppose she is.
Han. And a widow is at liberty to marry again, Roddy!
Rod. Dear me, yes――that’s awkward. I never thought of that.
Han. No, Roddy――I thought you hadn’t.
Rod. When you’ve been a ghost for a considerable time it’s astonishing how foggy you become!
The acting copy now also dispenses with the equally ingenious quibbles which appeared to give offence to the audience on the first night, as follows:――
Robin. Stop a bit――both of you.
Rod. This intrusion is unmannerly.
Han. I’m surprised at you.
Robin. I can’t stop to apologise――an idea has just occurred to me. A Baronet of Ruddygore can only die through refusing to commit his daily crime.
Rod. No doubt.
Robin. Therefore, to refuse to commit a daily crime is tantamount to suicide!
Rod. It would seem so.
Robin. But suicide is, itself, a crime――and so, by your own showing, you ought none of you to have ever died at all!
Red. I see――I understand! We are all practically alive!
Robin. Every man jack of you!
Rod. My brother ancestors! Down from your frames! (The Ancestors descend.) You believe yourselves to be dead――you may take it from me that you’re not, and an application to the Supreme Court is all that is necessary to prove that you never ought to have died at all!
(The Ancestors embrace the Bridesmaids.)
From the omission of this conversation it now follows that the “ancestors,” having once returned to their picture frames, remain there.
――――:o:――――
AN APPEAL, AFTER E. A. POE.
Once upon a midnight dreary, Gilbert pondered weak and weary, Thinking of a curious title his new Comic Opera for, When a volume from him flinging, suddenly there came a ringing, As of some one madly clinging to the bell at his front door; “It is D’Oyly Carte,” he muttered, “ringing at my big front door, Merely this, and nothing more.”
Poking then the glowing ember, for ’twas cold as bleak December, Gilbert said, “Ah, I remember in the olden time of yore, Yea, and shall forget it never, though I were to live for ever, How I vainly did endeavour once to see my ‘Pinafore;’ Sat and suffered awful anguish in the stalls at ‘Pinafore,’ Just that once, but nevermore.”
“For the feeling sad uncertain, at the rising of the curtain. Thrilled me, filled me with such terrors, that a solemn oath I swore, And the oath have oft repeated, that though kings and queens entreated, I would ne’er again be seated in the stalls as once before, There to try and see the piece through, as I tried to do before, Now to do so nevermore.”
Open here was flung the portal by a pompous powdered mortal, Who then ushered Mr. Carte in, as he oft had done before; Not a moment stopped or stayed he, but a slight obeisance made he, And in voice of thunder said he, “Mr. Carte,”――then slammed the door, And in tones stentorian said he, “Mr. Carte,”――then slammed the door, Only this, and nothing more.
Mr.Carte then said quite coolly, “Mr. Gilbert, tell me truly, Have you found a proper title our new Comic Opera for? Tell this soul with sorrow laden, as you hope to go to Aidenn, Have you really, really made ’un? Tell, O tell me, I implore! Tell me what its funny name is――tell, O tell me, I implore!” Answered Gilbert――“Ruddygore!”
Carte uprose, alarmed, astounded, by this title much confounded, For this word of dreadful meaning such a world of horror bore; And he said, “This title gruesome, I feel very sure will do some Injury, and we shall lose some thousands ere this piece is o’er; Such a name will surely ruin both your words and Arthur’s score; Therefore change it, I implore.”
Then said Gilbert, calmly smoking, “D’Oyly Carte, you must be joking; I have never found a title that I liked so much before, For it gives the play the seeming of a drama that is teeming With deeds of blood all streaming, which the people gloat so o’er; Of those deeds all grim and ghastly that the people gloat so o’er; Therefore be it Ruddygore,”
And with title so unfitting, people still are nightly sitting In the gallery, stalls, and boxes, from the ceiling to the floor; And although they can’t help glancing at D. Lely when he’s dancing, Think Miss Brandram’s song entrancing, and give Grossmith an encore, Still all cry, “Oh, Gilbert, Gilbert, change this title, ‘Ruddygore.’ Not in spelling――we want more.”
E. B. V. Pall Mall Gazette. February 12, 1887.
――――:o:――――
THE PLAYWRIGHT’S LAMENT. With Chorus of Professional Supers from “Ready Goer.”
(Note.――The long lines are by the Playwright; the short lines are by the Chorus of Supers.)
Oh, why am I gloomy and sad? Can’t guess. And why am I wicked and bad? Confess. Because I am thoroughly MAD! Oh, yes. You may tell by the rage in my face.
Do you know that I’ve written a play? Don’t say! And it was produced yesterday? Hurrah! Do the papers a single word say? Not they! Now I think that’s a very hard case.
’F I were Gilbert or Sully-vi-an―― Oh, ho! Bronson Howard, the Ah-merry-khan―― Ah, no! H. A. Jones, or his partner Her_mann_―― Just so! George R. Sims or Henry Pet-tett.
If I were the author of “Jan”―― Who’s he! Or a thoroughly noted young man―― Dear me! Or Verdi at distant Mil-an―― I see! I’d get half a column, you bet!
But being at present unknown―― Oh, dear! No preference for me is shown―― No fear! So I have to play it alone―― Hear! Hear!! But I’ll even up with them yet.
LUKE SHARP. The Detroit Free Press. March 19, 1887.
――――:o:――――
COERCION COMING. Duet――Lord Londonderry (Despard) and Sir M. Hicks-Beach (Mad Margaret).
Lond. I once was a very abandoned person――
Beach. Spoiling the hard-up landlords’ chances;
Lond. Such people couldn’t conceive a worse ’un――
Beach. Or one more subject to sickly fancies.
Lond. I blush for my mild extravagances; But be so kind To bear in mind
Beach. We were the victims of circumstances! [Dance This is one of our contrite dances.
Beach. I was as soft as a sweet young lady――
Lond. Troubled by Nationalistic vapours.
Beach. The squires declared that my ways were shady――
Lond. They hinted at penitential tapers.
Beach. The Plan of “Pressure” amused the gapers. My ways were strange Beyond all range――
Lond. And grumbles got into Tory papers! [Dance. Here goes to cut coercionist capers.
Lond. I’m sorry now for each weak proceeding――”
Beach. My taste for a merciful method’s waning.
Lond. It’s gag and shackle that Erin’s needing――
Bench. We can’t have the Unionists complaining.
Lond. Our party’s praises we’d be obtaining. We’ll try a rule Of the Iron School.
Beach. It won’t be nice, but we’ll stop Campaigning! [Dance. Our steps will mend when we’ve had some training.
Funny Folks. March 5, 1887.
――――:o:――――
GOOD FOR GOSCHEN. (Owed by a De-lighted Pipe.)
Come hither, ye slaves of the weed, And read; All ye of fumiferous breed Take heed; Through minimised taxing, The prices they’re axing For fragrant tobaccos――recede With speed!
You say that the Budget’s not strong?―― You’re wrong. You say it contents not the throng?―― Go ’long! Good smokes it arranges, And rings in the changes, And rings out the old with a song―― Ding-dong!
What, say you it’s all for a puff? That’s rough: Here Goschen deserves no rebuff―― Enough! Indulgers will glory In Whig or in Tory Who’ll give them in ’baccy or snuff Good stuff!
High duty on weeds they revoke―― Smart stroke―― It’s certain to finish in smoke (Good joke!) We welcome, in brief, sir, Less liquid, more leaf, sir! When ’baccy in water they soak―― We choke!
When Goschen Pride’s high pyramid Bestrid, We openly own that we chid The kid. But he gained by this action The thanks of each faction That loveth the succulent quid―― He did!
Funny Folks. April 30, 1887.
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Although Ruddigore is, in itself, a burlesque, it occurred to Mr. Toole that some fun might be got out of a caricature of it, and accordingly Messrs. Taylor and Percy Reeve composed a “musical parody” entitled Ruddy George, which was produced at Toole’s Theatre. Much talent for mimicry was displayed by the principal performers, and especially by Mr. E. D. Ward, as Robin Redbreast (after George Grossmith) and Mr. Skelton, as Sir Gaspard, in a droll imitation of Rutland Barrington’s portentious manner. The burlesque was, however, most successful in so far as it caricatured the idiosyncracies and eccentricities of Sir Arthur Sullivan’s music. In imitation of the scene in Act II. of the original, where the portraits of Sir Ruthven’s forefathers descend from their frames, kitcat panel likenesses of Mr. Gilbert, Sir Arthur Sullivan, and Mr. D’Oyly Carte suddenly become endowed with life, and utter some mild, and rather pointless jests.
――――:o:――――
KO-KO ON “THE COW AND THREE ACRES.” (The Mikado.)
The Rads all the yokels to gain, tra la! Gave promise of land and a cow. They argued, “They’re all half-insane, tra la! “Majority we shall obtain, tra la! By the help of the sons of the plough.” And that’s what they meant, as you’ll quite understand, When they promised a cow and three acres of land, And told-’em-a-lie-or-two, told-’em-a-lie-or-two―― Promised a cow and some land.
They’ve voted for them, and so now, tra la! My advice to the “clods” is “Away! And tell ’em you’re sick of the plough,” tra la! That you’ve come for your acres and cow, tra la! And they’ll turn round to you and they’ll say, “My friends, we would give you the acres and cow, But, alas! we’ve not got them――at least, not just now. But we’ve told-you-a-lie-or-two, told-you-a-lie-or-two―― Live by the sweat of your brow!”
The Sporting Times. 1886.
――――:o:――――
ODE TO A LONDON FOG.
Roll on, thick haze, roll on! Through each familiar way Roll on! What though I must go out to-day? What though my lungs are rather queer? What though asthmatic ills I fear? What though my wheeziness is clear? Never you mind! Roll on!
Roll on, thick haze, roll on! Through street and square and lane Roll on! It’s true I cough and cough again; It’s true I gasp and puff and blow; It’s true my trip may lay me low―― But that’s not your affair, you know. Never you mind! Roll on!
Funny Folks Annual. 1885.
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A small volume has recently been published by Messrs. Chatto and Windus (London), entitled Mr. Gilbert’s Original Comic Operas, it contains The Sorcerer, H. M. S. Pinafore, The Pirates of Penzance, Iolanthe, Patience, Princess Ida, The Mikado, and Trial by Jury. It gives the dates when these pieces were first produced, but unfortunately omits the names of the performers, which all playgoers and collectors of theatrical curiosities will regret.
Numerous imitations and parodies exist of Mr. Gilbert’s writings, other than those connected with Sir Arthur Sullivan’s music, thus his mythological play Pygmalion and Galatea was burlesqued by Miss Alice Maud Meadows in “Chiselling Pygmalion,” which was performed in London in December, 1883, by the members of the Grantham Lawn Tennis Club.
A jocular guide to the Edinburgh Exhibition of 1886 was compiled by Mr. George Stronach, and published by Robert Mitchell, of Edinburgh. It was entitled “Our Own-eries; or, The Show in the Meadows; a dog-gerel cat-alogue,” and was profusely and humourously illustrated. It contained several amusing parodies on The Mikado, and one on Tennyson’s Brook, but as they related only to the Exhibition they were of purely local interest, and are now out of date.
In The Bab Ballads, which originally appeared in Fun (London), may be found the germs of several of Mr. Gilbert’s plays and operas, sketches of plots afterwards amplified, and snatches of song which were, later on, to be linked to Arthur Sullivan’s music, and so made famous.
The following, which appeared in Fun twenty years ago, contains part of the plot of H. M. S. Pinafore:――
JOE GOLIGHTLY; OR, THE FIRST LORD’S DAUGHTER.
A tar but poorly prized Long, shambling, and unsightly, Thrashed, bullied, and despised, Was wretched Joe Golightly.
He bore a workhouse brand, No pa or ma had claimed him, The Beadle found him, and The Board of Guardians named him
P’raps some princess’s son―― A beggar p’raps his mother! He rather thought the one, I rather think the other.
He liked his ship at sea, He loved the salt sea-water; He worshipped junk, and he Adored the First Lord’s daughter.
The First Lord’s daughter proud, Snubbed earls and viscounts nightly―― She sneered at barts aloud, And spurned poor Joe Golightly.
Whene’er he sailed afar Upon a Channel cruise, he Unpacked his light guitar And sang this ballad (Boosey).
Ballad.
The moon is on the sea, Willow! The wind blows towards the lee, Willow! But though I sigh and sob and cry, No Lady Jane for me, Willow!
She says, “Twere folly quite, Willow! For me to wed a wight, Willow! Whose lot is cast before the mast;” And possibly she’s light, Willow![26]
His skipper (Captain Joyce) He gave him many a rating, And almost lost his voice From thus expostulating:
“Lay out, you lubber, do! What’s come to that young man, Joe? Belay!――’vast heaving! you! Do kindly stop that banjo!”
“I wish, I do――oh, lor! You’d shipped aboard a trader: Are you a sailor, or A negro serenader?”
But still the stricken cad, Aloft or on his pillow, Howled forth in accents sad His aggravating “Willow!”
Stern love of duty had Been Joyce’s chiefest beauty―― Says he, “I love that lad, But duty, damme! duty!”
“Twelve years blackhole, I say, Where daylight never flashes; And always twice a day Five hundred thousand lashes!”
But Joseph had a mate. A sailor stout and lusty, A man of low estate, But singularly trusty.
Says he, “Cheer hup, young Joe! I’ll tell you what I’m arter, To that Fust Lord I’ll go And ax him for his darter.
“To that Fust Lord I’ll go And say you love her dearly.” And Joe said (weeping low), “I wish you would, sincerely!”
That sailor to that Lord Went, soon as he had landed, And of his own accord An interview demanded.
Says he, with seaman’s roll, “My captain (wot’s a Tartar), Guv Joe twelve years’ black hole, For lovering your darter.
“He loves Miss Lady Jane (I own she is his betters), But if you’ll jine them twain, They’ll free him from his fetters.
“And if so be as how You’ll let her come a-boardship, I’ll take her with me now”―― “Get out!” remarked his Lordship.
That honest tar repaired To Joe upon the billow, And told him how he’d fared: Joe only whispered, “Willow!”
And for that dreadful crime (Young sailors learn to shun it) He’s working out his time: In ten years he’ll have done it.
Fun. October 12, 1867.
――――
The Bab Ballads have been often imitated (it is scarcely possible to parody them successfully), but the imitations are for the most part very inferior to the originals, besides which they are generally very long, so that only a few examples can be quoted. The three following appeared in a prize competition in The World, the subject selected by the editor being:――
KING THEEBAW OF BURMAH.
FIRST PRIZE. (Model: “Sir Guy the Crusader.”)
Theebaw was a potentate mighty, “The Magnificent One, Grandchild of the Sun,” To put foreign armies to flight he Shook his magical spear――it was done.
John Bull was his special objection, A contemptible cad, An upstart who had Not a single celestial connection, And whose form altogether was bad.
Yet this snob, with the coolest assurance, Sent a party named Shaw To the court of Theebaw To remonstrate――O cheek past endurance!―― When he strangled his brothers-in-law.
Says Theebaw, “Shall this prig of a Briton Be allowed to object―― Such a want of respect!―― When I’ve got a man-torturing fit on? It’s hard lines if my fun be thus checked!”
So he tried of that prying external His kingdom to rid, Which he finally did, Having scared him to death; but a colonel Named Browne to replace him was bid.
Now Theebaw, it is right here to mention, Had very strong views On the subject of shoes; At an afternoon call their retention Was a slip that he could not excuse.
The colonel thought this very cruel, Took cold in his head, And before going to bed Put his feet in hot water, supped gruel, Packed up the next morning and fled.
Said Bull to Theebaw, “I’m disgusted; If my delegates are Thus exposed to catarrh, With a colonel you shall not be trusted.” Whereto Theebaw answered with “Yah-r!”
So St. Barbe was left there to be worried, Till he’d reason to dread, Being relieved of his head In a manner less pleasant than hurried; Then he, too, packed baggage and fled.
So Theebaw was alone in his glory. He drowned everybody In the deep Irrawaddy, And then, as an end to the story, He finished himself with rum-toddy.
ODD FISH.
SECOND PRIZE. The Tale of King Theebaw.
Theebaw was the King of the golden toe, And the monarch of Mandalay, And he laughingly said, as he got out of bed, In a casual sort of way:
“I’m tired of my dozens of uncles and cousins; My connections are far too extensive; My hundreds of mothers and legions of brothers, Though dear, yet are very expensive.
I’ll polish off all the sons of my pa, And then, with due justice, I can’t But smother my nieces, and cut into pieces My grandmother’s aged aunt.”
“No, really you mustn’t, august Theebaw,” Said the spirited British Envoy. “Pray think of it twice, for it wouldn’t be nice, You exceedingly naughty boy!”
“’Tis plainly my duty to warn you that we―― Though we’d rather not say, ‘You shan’t!’―― Shouldn’t like it at all, if you cut up quite small Your grandmother’s aged aunt.”
Then up rose the King of the golden toe, And he tore off his Chancellor’s wig. “You idiot,” said he, “have you no repartee To answer this son of a pig?
Now listen, you ugly preposterous man, You wretchedly lily-white cus I’ll make you regret that you got in a pet, And made such a deuce of a fuss!
I’ll cut every one of my brothers in half; Their mothers I’ll tenderly boil; And I’ll frizzle each niece in buffalo-grease, And fry all my uncles in oil.
O yes, you may threaten; I don’t care a d―― For you and your silly ‘You shan’t!’ And I’ll certainly smother my aged grandmother, As well as her elderly aunt.
For am I not King of the golden toe, And the monarch of Mandalay? And I laugh in my sleeve, for I’m led to believe That England is far away.
And your army I read in my Daily News―― Three men and one little wee boy―― Has sufficient to do with King Cetewayo: Good morning, my dear Envoy!
And please have the goodness to leave me alone, For my temper’s uncommonly quick. Don’t think me uncivil――but――go to the devil! And――send me some rum, there’s a brick!”
SCOAD.
A VERY DRY TALE. (To the air of the ‘Precocious Baby.’)
A monarch of Burmah, I cannot tell why, With his sips and ‘nips’ For his parched-up lips, Was plagued with a throat so excessively dry, ’Twas useless to try To ‘wet t’other eye,’ Because he was perfectly, perfectly dry.
’Twas shocking in one of exalted degree, With his ‘Pour a drop more, Encore and encore,’ ’Twas painfully sad for the monarch of B., As thirsty was he As a fish from the sea, As thirsty, as thirsty, as thirsty could be.
His ministers tried to relieve him at first With coffee and tea And soda-and-b., But couldn’t relieve his insatiable thirst; They all did their worst For the King, who was curst From youth with a singular, singular thirst.
Of each kind of tipple they brought a supply (With whisky and brandy, And other drinks handy), And wept that their monarch should still remain dry; But laugh when he’d try With his jester to vie, For even his jokes were exceedingly dry.
They gathered in Hungary, Portugal, Spain, On the banks of the Rhine, Many hogsheads of wine, Which were drunk (so was he), but he still cried ‘A drain!’ ’Twas perfectly plain All their labours were vain; He kept on repeating, ‘Go fetch me a drain!’
Then a royal commission his Majesty sent, With his ‘Pass me a glass Of the bitter of Bass!’ To buy all the liquor of Burton-on-Trent. But after they went He wasn’t content, Though he drank all the liquor of Burton-on-Trent.
It remained for a Hebrew a cure to propose―― He knew that his highness Was famed for his dryness, And melted him down to make waterproof clo’s! And history shows the fame of him rose―― His dryness made excellent waterproof clo’s!
PEMBROKE. The World. October 29, 1879.
――――
A parody on the same topic will also be found on page 413 of Mr. F. B. Doveton’s Sketches in Prose and Verse, published by Sampson Low & Co., London, in 1886. But a much more amusing imitation of a Bab ballad is that on page 456 of the same volume, which, by Mr. Doveton’s kind permission, is here given:――
THE BISHOP AND THE BALLET.
Postures antic Drove him frantic Seized he pen and paper―― “Young men, stop it, Pray you, drop it, Watching damsels caper―― ’Gainst this awful Vain, unlawful Folly set your faces; Though they charm ye, Girls will harm ye More than wine or races!”
They replying, Answered, sighing―― Hawing, hemming, humming―― “Not for Joe, sir For you know, sir, Short skirts are becoming! Ballet dancing, Is entrancing, We enjoy it――rather!” But stern “London” Thought them undone―― Spoke out like a father.
“Dare ye dally With the ballet?” Said the bishop, coldly. “You may see, sir, More than we, sir,” Young men answered boldly. “Go along, boys, You are wrong, boys, I have years in plenty; Whilst these lasses, Through my glasses, All seem under twenty!”
Dancer clever Hardly ever Finds a man who’ll scold her. Leant one fairy Light and airy, On his lordship’s shoulder; Bishop kissed her Like a sister, When he should have smacked her To delight her, Doffed his mitre, And became an Actor!
F. B. DOVETON.
LORD TENNYSON’S JUBILEE ODE.
The April number of Macmillan’s Magazine contained the Poet Laureate’s contribution to Jubilee literature. As usual, portions of the Ode were quoted in the London papers almost before the magazine was published, and The Daily News went so far as to reprint the whole of the Ode, an infringement of Messrs. Macmillan’s rights, for which an apology had to be made. As to the poetical merits of the Ode public opinion has been tolerably well expressed by the parodies on it which have appeared. A few verses of the original are here given, to lead up to the parodies.
CARMEN SÆCULARE.
AN ODE IN HONOUR OF The Jubilee of Queen Victoria.
I.
Fifty times the rose has flower’d and faded, Fifty times the golden harvest fallen, Since our Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre.
II.
She beloved for a kindliness Rare in Fable or History, Queen, and Empress of India, Crown’d so long with a diadem Never worn by a worthier, Now with prosperous auguries Comes at last to the bounteous Crowning year of her Jubilee.
* * * * *
VI.
You, that wanton in affluence, Spare not now to be bountiful, Call your poor to regale with you, Make their neighbourhood healthfuller, Give your gold to the Hospital, Let the weary be comforted, Let the needy be banqueted, Let the maim’d in his heart rejoice At this year of her Jubilee.
* * * * *
VIII.
You, the Patriot Architect, Shape a stately memorial, Make it regally gorgeous, Some Imperial Institute, Rich in symbol, in ornament, Which may speak to the centuries, All the centuries after us, Of this year of her Jubilee.
IX.
Fifty years of ever-broadening Commerce! Fifty years of ever-brightening Science! Fifty years of ever-widening Empire!
X.
You, the Mighty, the Fortunate, You, the Lord-territorial, You, the Lord-manufacturer, You, the hardy, laborious, Patient children of Albion, You, Canadian, Indian, Australasian, African, All your hearts be in harmony, All your voices in unison, Singing “Hail to the glorious Golden year of her Jubilee!”
XI.
Are there thunders moaning in the distance? Are there spectres moving in the darkness? Trust the Lord of Light to guide her people. Till the thunders pass, the spectres vanish, And the Light is Victor, and the darkness Dawns into the Jubilee of the Ages.
――――
The Globe remarked:――
“It is to be feared that the Laureate’s Jubilee Ode will sadly disappoint all his admirers. It has a certain rhetorical neatness, no doubt; but it cannot be regarded as adequate to the occasion. The poet has chosen, for the most part, very prosaic rhythms, and the Ode, trite and even common in ideas, is not even endowed with occasional felicities of expression, On the contrary, it is sometimes positively unlucky in its phraseology, as when the world is most unnecessarily assured that Her Majesty has about her――
‘Nothing of the lawless, of the Despot, Nothing of the vulgar, or vain-glorious.’
“By no means happy are the references to those who ‘wanton in affluence’ (why ‘wanton?’) to the ‘Lord manufacturers,’ and to the ‘Imperial Institute,’ which latter surely savours a little of bathos? The six concluding lines have more inspiration, perhaps, than most; but they do not harmonise very well in their allusion to ‘thunders moaning in the distance,’ with the Laureate’s allusion elsewhere to the ‘prosperous auguries’ of the Jubilee. On the whole, Lord Rosslyn, Mr. Morris, and Lord Tennyson having all spoken, it must be confessed that the Jubilee still lacks a vates sacer.”
ANOTHER ODE.
Fifty times the Laureate sharpened his pencil: Fifty times he turned over the Rhyming Dictionary: Then he decided to give up rhymes altogether. HE, the Patriot Laureate, He, the Lord-manufacturer, Shaped a stately memorial, Made it regally gorgeous After Walt Whitman’s pattern, Rich in blackness, in dullness, Which might speak to the centuries Through the Magazine Macmillan, Of this year of our Jubilee.
* * * * *
Fifty lines at last completed! Fifty more at least to make a century; Where the dickens shall the other fifty come from? But―― Is that the printer’s boy moaning in the passage? Is that the ――――? ――――! There goes my lead pencil. Trust the public to make out the glory of these verses.
The Globe. March 29, 1887.
――――
VERY HARD LINES. HOW THEY WERE WRITTEN TO ORDER. (Leaf from a Laureate’s Diary.)
9 A.M.――Bother the Jubilee! What in the name of fortune, can one do with such a rubbishing subject? But here’s Macmillan waiting, and I haven’t done a single line yet. Must get something put on to paper, if only to quiet him. But how on earth to begin! Get in “fifty” somehow. Want fifty somethings that come but once a year. Christmas? Good. That suggests Clown. I have it.
Fifty times the Clown has grinned and tumbled.
No. That won’t do. It’s too shoppy, stagey. Has a soupçon of the Promise of May about it. Wants something wider Ha! The Row, suggesting the Season, of course.
Fifty times the Row has filled and emptied.
No. Don’t like it. Reads as if I was talking of a cistern. Too heavy. Try something lighter. Pastry? Feathers? Flowers? Ha! that’s it. Flowers, of course. Here, I’ve got it!
Fifty times the Rose has flowered and faded.
Anyhow, that’ll do to go off with. Let’s see. I want fifty something elses to follow it up with. What shall it be? Cartloads? Handfuls? Armfuls? Autumns? Harvests? Good again. Not that there’s any precise connection between them; but one must stick down something, How’ll this do?
Fifty times the golden harvest fallen.
Yes, that reads all right. Is there any other way of putting “fifty?” Yes, “twice twenty-five.” But that won’t come in. Then there’s “four times twelve and a half.” No; that won’t do. Enough “fifty.” Now we want some allusion to Her Majesty. Must get in a “since.” I have it, “Since our Queen assumed,” Capital. Here you are!
Since our Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre.
Come; that’s a beginning anyhow. Three lines! But they’ve quite dried me up. Besides, I can’t go on in blank verse like this. Don’t feel up to it. Must try another metre. What metre. And then what on earth am I to say in it? I haven’t had such a job as this for a long time. Could weep over it. A precious Ode I shall make of it.
For though I, know not anything, Yet must I not my lot upbraid; Since as the Laureate I am paid, And, being paid, am bound to sing.
But, “a glass of sherry, will make me merry.” I’ll try one.!
6 P.M.――Confound the Jubilee Ode! Have now been at it all day, and am floundering worse than ever. Have got in something about illuminations, sanitary improvements, subscribing to a Hospital and Penny dinners, and given a kind of back-hander to George the Third, but who, on earth, I refer to as the “Patriot Architect,” and what I mean by asking him to Shape a stately memorial, Make it regularly――no, “regally”――gorgeous, Some Imperial Institute, I don’t know. But if I arrange it in parallel lines it will look like poetry, and that’ll be near enough.
Feel I’m making a horrible hash of it. Might go for a turn on my bicycle. May clear my head. Might try it. Will.
* * * * *
Have dined, and now, at 9 P.M., have again settled down to it over a pipe and a glass of grog. Am in a more hopeless muddle than ever. Trying to bring in everybody in a kind of wind-up appeal. But look at this,――
_You, the snubbed, the unfortunate You, the Lord-Undertaker, You, the Lord-Omnibus-Conductor,_
That doesn’t seem to run very well, but it’s the kind of idea I want to work in. Don’t seem able to manage it.
You, the Lady-Amateur Actor?
No, that won’t do! Shall never get it done to-night.
* * * * *
10 P.M.――After awful hammering, managed to knock off two more lines. Head spinning, but must stick to it. Feel I’ve never turned out such stuff in my life before. Hopeless!
* * * * *
10.30 P.M.――Two more lines screwed out. But what lines! Won’t scan, and as to rhyme,――ha! ha!――catch me rhyming to-night!
* * * * *
11 P.M.――Have come to a dead stand-still. Equal to it. Have had recourse to the wet towel. Refreshes me. Ha! I see light. Happy thought! As I can’t do it in verse, why not write it all in prose, and then cut it up into poetry afterwards? Sure to get cut up when it appears. Why not do it myself first? I will. Anyhow, here goes.
* * * * *
MIDNIGHT.――Done it! Labelled it Carmen Sæculare. Looks all right, but quite the toughest piece of work I’ve ever had to turn out. Posted it to Macmillan. Hope he’ll like it.
Punch. April 9, 1887.
ANOTHER JUBILEE ODE.
I.
Fifty times the lines have slipped and halted; Fifty times some golden lines have fallen Since this man――the poet――became the Laureate.
II.
He, renowned for a wordiness, Rare in fable or history, Poet――and Rhymster of England, Crowned at last by strawberry leaf, Never worn by a wordier. Now with numbers unmusical, Comes at last to the psalm-front, Singing the year of Jubilee.
* * * * *
VI.
You whose bank balance is right side Spare not of cheques the distributing. Ask your labourers to dine with you, Make cleanlier their cottages, Double infirmary subscriptions, Let the ragged all be clothed, Let the hungry have bellies full, Let those one-legged have a wooden one At this year of the Jubilee.
* * * * *
Fifty years of ever-growing taxes; Fifty years of ever world-mending Fifty years of ever muddling Ireland.
* * * * *
You――the taxpayer unfortunate, You――the Lord Knows-who, and lady, You――the Lord, shoddy-mixer, You――the almighty working man, Patient grumblers of England. You――all sorts of men――and others, Irish, Yankee, dynamiters―― All your hearts be in harmony, All your pockets open lib’rally To the numerous funds in progress, Gilding the year of Jubilee.
* * * * *
XI.
Were there poets living in past ages? Are there poets writing still amongst us? Pray the Lord of Rhyme to guide weak pens Till the bards do pass. Song giants come back, And old sweet Poetry as the victor Dawns into a Jubilee of the ages.
Scraps. April 16, 1887.
――――
OWED TO LORD TENNYSON. (Carmen Sequel-airy.)
I.
Fifty times our nose has twirled and tilted, Fifty times our silvern laughter fallen, Since, my Lord, we read your Ode――your metre.
II.
You, renowned for a stateliness Rare in Prose, or in Poetry, Keen with impress of Genius, Crowned so long with a laurel-wreath Seldom worn by a worthier, Now with preposterous flummeries Come at last to this flatulent Droning Ode on the Jubilee!
III.
Nothing of the flawless――but the tin pot―― Nothing of the dulcet, or strain glorious, All is fussy, feeble, flat――writ poorly. * * * * *
VI.
You that wanton in epithets, Spare not now to be bountiful, Call Tom Moore to regale with you, Make your sentiments mirthfuller, Send your spleen to the hospital, Let the reader be comforted, Let the seedy be junketed, Let MacM. in his purse rejoice At your Ode on the Jubilee.
VII.
Henry’s fifty truths are all in shadows, Green with envy Edmund’s fifty t’others, Ananias’ forti-tude forgotten.
VIII.
You, the Patriot Laureate, Write a better memorial!―― Something really gorgeous ’Bout th’ Imperial Institute, Rich in jingle, in ornament, Which may fetch South Kensington, All South Kensington after us, In this year of the Jubilee.
IX.
Fifty lines of ever-broadening Outlook, Fifty lines of ever-brightening Promise, Fifty lines of ever-widening Meaning.
X.
You, the Flighty, the Fortunate, You, the Lord-in-Memoriam, You, the Word-manufacturer.
* * * * *
All your parts be in harmony, All your verses in unison, Singing――“There’ll be a glorious Golden harvest, this Jubilee!”
XI.
Are there blunders glooming in the Navy? Are inspectors moving in the darkness? Trust My Lords aright to guide the people Till the blunders pass, th’ inspectors vanish, And the Press is Victor, and the darkness Dawns into the――Jubilee of the Pages.
Moonshine. April 6, 1887.
――――
THE HOME RULE JUBILATION ODE.
Fifty times seven days are past and ended, Eighty Whigs have ratted and turned Tory, Since your William burned his boats, his bridges
He renowned for a wordiness Rare in fable or history, King and God of the Radicals, Crowned with Papal diadem Never worn by a wordier, Now with splendid audacity Reigns the King of Obstructionists.
Partner with Parnell, chief of Irish despots, Stewed in his juice with Harcourt the vainglorious, Yet is your William noble, great, and god-like.
You then noisily, all of you Stump the towns for Disunion. Let Misrule hold high festival; Everywhere let the multitude, Home Rule each to the heart of it, Raise the standard of Anarchy; Hail the monarch of egotism, Quod sic volo sic jubeo.
Be as true to England as to Gordon, Glorying in the trials of her Rulers, Sorrowing with the griefs of the disloyal.
You that, wanting in intellect, Spare not now to be boisterous, Call your thousands to demonstrate, Make it hot for your neighbourhood. Give your gold to Invincibles, Let the landlords be boycotted, Let the juries be browbeaten, Let the maimed make the best of it, Spread the gospel of Anarchy.
Henry’s ears are pricked to catch your brayings, Gray your ravings to report is burning, Even my Granny joins the Home Rule chorus.
You, the Paddy-American, Shape a missile of Dynamite; Make it really dangerous, Some explosive material Like the missile of Clerkenwell, Which may frighten the Unionists, All the Unionists terrify, Frighten them into anarchy.
Fifty times repeat the loud explosion, Fifty times the midnight crime and outrage, Till at length you rend the mighty empire.
You, the ruler, the democrat; You, the serf territorial; You, the crime-manufacturer; You, the grimy, uproarious, Bastard children of Albion, You, Milesian, Hibernian, You, the Gael and the Cambrian, You, the Tyke and the Tynesider, All your hearts be in harmony, All your throats shout in unison, Singing, Hail to the godlike Grand Old Man, the Obstructionist!
Are there Tories raving in the distance? Are there landlords moving in the darkness? Trust the Grand Old Man to blind the people, Till the Tories fall, the landlords vanish, And the League is victor, and the darkness Falls upon the Anarchy of Ireland.
The St. James’s Gazette. April 14, 1887.
PRIZE COMPETITION PARODIES.
The Weekly Dispatch awarded the prize of two guineas for the best Parody of a part of Tennyson’s Jubilee Ode to the following:――
X.
You, the Laureate (O Fortunate), You, the Bard-territorial, You, the Verse-manufacturer, You, whose lines so laborious Patient children of Albion Have perused in bewilderment―― List awhile to another “pote.” All your tones lack in harmony, All your verse is confusion, Sing in style less inglorious, Try these lines for the Jubilee:――
XI.
Hear the thunders moaning not far distant! See the spectre Want step out from darkness! Trust we that the Right will guide our people When they reach that pass, that sceptres vanish, And the Light is Victor, and these ages Seem to them the Jubilee of Darkness!
C. R. IRELAND.
The following were highly commended:――
II.
He revered for a genius Rare in annals of poesy, Poet Laureate of Albion, Crowned so long with the evergreens Never donned by a doughtier, Now with puerile versicles, Comes at last to inaugurate This last year of her Jubilee.
VI.
You, that joy in celebrity, Spare us now more inanities; Tell your Muse you have done with her, Make your countrymen happier. Give way now to the younger men, Let the critic be quieted, Let admirers be comforted, Let your Queen in her heart rejoice In this year of her Jubilee.
F. B. DOVETON.
――――
“Fifty times the rose has flower’d and faded,” Fifty times it would have bloomed without her―― Smelt as sweet without “the crown, the sceptre.”
XI.
Are there thunders moaning in the distance?―― ’Tis the German band of near relations; Trust the mother Queen to guide her people Where they’ll live in plenty without labour, And her Alberts, Victors, Georges, Henries, Families raise for Jubilees for ages.
T. A. H. ――――
I.
Fifty times the State has fooled and blundered, Fifty times the royal pension’s risen Since the Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre.
XI.
Are there children starving in our alleys? Are there famine-stricken homes in cities? Trust not Queen or Lords to feed the people; Till the nation rules no troubles vanish. When the Right is Victor, then the darkness Dawns into the liberty of the ages.
ALFRED LOVETT.
――――
ON INTERNATIONAL COPYRIGHT.
VI.
Ye, who revel in authorship, Spare not now to be practical; Call your “chums” to discuss with you, Make their industry hopefuller, Give your works to the publisher. Let the printer be recompensed, Let the trader be profited, Let the scribe in his work rejoice At the prospect of copyright.
X.
You, the poet, th’ essayist, You, the faithful historian, You, the play manufacturer, You, the writer sensational, Patient newspaper editor, You, th’ obscure, the illustrious, Author, artist, and type-cutter―― All your aims be in harmony, All your efforts in unison, Till you succeed in obtaining International copyright.
J. MARSHALL.
――――
MY LANDLADY.
II.
She disliked for a craftiness Rare in kitchen or scullery, Queen, and slave in a lodging-house, Crowned so long with a widow’s cap Never worn by an artfuller, Now, with sanctified countenance, Comes to fleece us and plunder us, Growling, “Here is your weekly bill.
VI.
“You, that wanton in affluence, Spare not now to be bountiful; Scan not what I regale you on, Swear no neighbourhood’s healthfuller, Leave your gold on your looking-glass, Let your beer and your tea be boned, Let the needy (that’s me) be fed, Let your landlady line her nest While she tinkers the weekly bill.”
SHAWRNLAM. From The Weekly Dispatch. April 17, 1887.
――――:o:――――
CARMEN EXPOSTULATORY.
I.
Fifty times my nose I’ve rubbed, and jaded Is my brain with trying to make out wherein Of poesy an ounce to find in Carmen Seculare.
II.
He, who as Laureate attained a fame Rare and great in History, Babbles now in frothy talk, Unlike his wonted measure. And speaks of Empress Queen And Jubilee, like Whitman would With ruggedness of diction To crown this year of Jubilee.
III.
Nothing of the Poetic, but the Crackpot, Who, with vulgar words bepraising, All in humdrum rant and rubbish anent the Queen.
IV.
You then mournfully, all of you Wear your sackcloth, your ashes, For the sad falling off of one Who wrote of Arthur Hallam, In the grand “In Memoriam.” So will you not with heart Or voice, Hail this of Tennyson’s Other than the twaddle tribute Spawned of this year of Jubilee.
V.
Oh! Alfred, once so true to manhood, Glorying in the strength to fight all shams. Sorrowing only with the people in their wrongs.
VI.
You that once in affluence Of diction, caught the ear of time, Call we now no longer ours The people’s friend. Spoiled child With diadem, and much belorded. We cannot now be comforted, Our maimed heart for you doth bleed, At this, your twaddle talk of Jubilee.
VII.
Who is Henry, that for fifty years in shadow, Consorts for fifty summers with Edward in gray distance, And the grandsire’s fifty half forgotten?
VIII.
You, the Patriot Leader, Shape a stately Memorial. Record of wrongs not righted, Of Ireland’s cry not silenced: But still the symbol badge Of Saxon oppression, Which she has worn for centuries. How will fair Erin Hail this golden year of Jubilee?
IX.
Fifty years of ever-growing Taxation. Fifty years of Civil Lists most heavy. Fifty years of Royal Pauperism.
X.
You, the Mighty, the Fortunate, Think of the poor who have fallen. You, the Lord-manufacturer, Made rich by the hard, laborious, Patient to suffer――but about to rise.
XI.
Yes, the thunders moan forth in the distance. See gaunt spectred Poverty moveth in the land. Trust your common sense to guide you, oh! my people, So shall thunders pass and spectres vanish, And Demos crowned a victor, out of darkness’s Dawn shall come, the Jubilee of the Ages.
ANONYMOUS.
Algernon Charles Swinburne’s Question AND THE ANSWER.
THE QUESTION. 1887.
Shall England consummate the crime That binds the murderer’s hand, and leaves No surety for the trust of thieves? Time pleads against it――truth and time―― And pity frowns and grieves.
The hoary henchman of the gang, Lifts hands that never dew nor rain May cleanse from Gordon’s blood again, Appealing: pity’s tenderest pang Thrills his pure heart with pain.
THE ANSWER. 1887.
Shall England shirk the task sublime That Justice to her honour leaves, Of blotting out a shame that grieves Her soul, because in raving rhyme Slander a songster weaves?
The furious fugler of the gang His rabid epithets may rain On that grey head in vain, in vain, Though England’s heart may feel a pang, And England’s pride a stain.
Grand helmsman of the clamorous crew, The good grey recreant quakes and weeps, To think that crime no longer creeps Safe toward its end: that murderers too, May die when mercy sleeps.
While all the lives were innocent That slaughter drank, and laughed with rage, Bland virtue sighed, “A former age Taught murder: souls long discontent Can aught save blood assuage?
“You blame not Russian hands that smite By fierce and secret ways the power, That leaves not life one chainless hour; Have these than they less natural right To claim life’s natural dower?
“The dower that freedom brings the slave She weds, is vengeance: why should we, Whom equal laws acclaim as free, Think shame, if men too blindly brave Steal, murder, skulk, and flee?
“At kings they strike in Russia: there Men take their life in hand who slay Kings: these, that have not heart to lay Hands save on girls whose ravaged hair Is made the patriot’s prey.
“These, whom the sight of old men slain Makes bold to bid their children die, Starved, if they hold not peace, nor lie, Claim loftier praise: could others deign To stand in shame so high?
“Could others deign to dare such deeds As holiest Ireland hallows? Nay, But justice then makes plain our way: Be laws burnt up like burning weeds That vex the face of day.
“Shall bloodmongers be held of us Blood-guilty? Hands reached out for gold Whereon blood rusts not yet we hold Bloodless and blameless: ever thus Have good men held of old.
“Fair Freedom, fledged and imped with lies, Takes flight by night where murder lurks, And broods on murderous ways and works, Yet seems not hideous in our eyes As Austrians or as Turks.
“Be it ours to undo a woful past, To bid the bells of concord chime, To break the bonds of suffering crime, Slack now, that some would make more fast; Such teaching comes of time.”
So pleads the gentlest heart that lives, Whose pity, pitiless for all Whom darkling terror holds in thrall, Toward none save miscreants yearns, and gives Alms of warm tears――and gall.
Hear, England, and obey; for he Who claims thy trust again to-day, Is he who left thy sons a prey To shame whence only death sets free; Hear, England, and obey.
Great shrieker of the shrieking crew, The lyric recreant raves and rails At Justice, who adjusts her scales, At last, at last, for Erin too, His fire of freedom fails.
When Italy was militant For liberty, his muse could rage In rolling rhetoric page on page, His poet bosom swell and pant With wrath――which songs assuage.
But blame not British hands that smite Their brethren in fierce pride of power, Leave Ireland not one chainless hour. Is ruling not our native right, Our Heaven-appointed dower?
“The dower that freedom brings the slave She weds, is vengeance.” Aye, the free In other lands may strike; but we Are sacrosanct; the fools who brave Our wrath, must cease to be.
At kings they strike in Russia; there Tis duty, bliss, to stab, to slay Kings; but the Landlord, whose harsh sway Drives pillaged thralls to mad despair, He is no patriot’s prey.
Those whom the thought of fathers slain, Of roofless children doomed to die Starved, maddens by its memory―― These poets pardon not, nor deign To lift a lyric sigh.
A sigh of pity for such deeds As hapless Ireland harass? Nay, Justice shall not make straight our way Till ruthless Law hath crushed like weeds All who dare disobey.
Shall soulmongers be held of us Blood-guilty? Hands that grab the gold, Whereon blood rests, from the weak hold Of poor men homeless? Nay, not thus, Lest British Mammon scold.
Dear Mammon, fledged and fed with lies, The tale of suffering blurs and burkes, Hides his own murderous ways and works. Great Heaven, such shame would shock our eyes―― In Russians, or in Turks.
What, prate about a shameful past? Ask who began the tale of crime? Smirch England’s robes with tyrant slime? The patriot poet in full blast Shall brand you to all time.
So raves the fieriest bard that lives, Whose pity for the tyrant’s thrall, Set to rich music’s rise and fall, So nobly rang one half forgives This recreant mud and gall.
Hear, England, and be sad; for he Who peals this palinode to-day, The oppressor once could scathe and flay. Shame that his muse no more is free When England blocks the way.
Thy spoils he gave to deck the Dutch; Thy noblest pride, most pure, most brave, To death forlorn and sure he gave; Nor now requires he overmuch Who bids thee dig thy grave.
Dig deep the grave of shame, wherein Thy fame, thy commonweal, must lie; Put thought of aught save terror by, To strike and slay the slayer is sin; And Murder must not die.
Bind fast the true man; loose the thief; Shamed were the land, the laws accursed, Were guilt, not innocence, amerced; And dark the wrong and sore the grief, Were tyrants too coerced.
The fiercest cowards that ever skulked, The cowardliest hounds that ever lapped Blood, if their horde be tracked and trapped, And justice claimed their lives for mulct, Gnash teeth that flashed and snapped.
Bow down for fear, then, England: bow, Lest worse befall thee yet; and swear That nought save pity, conscience, care For truth and mercy, moves thee now To call foul falsehood fair.
So shalt thou live in shame, and hear The lips of all men laugh thee dead; The wide world’s mockery round thy head Shriek like a storm-wind; and a bier Shall be thine honour’s bed.
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. The Daily Telegraph. April 29, 1887.
――――
Our sore no patriot hand must touch Even for healing: song shall rave Against the Statesman old, but brave Who dares――where youth, craven o’ermuch, Shrinks――the sharp strokes that save.
Beware that grave of shame wherein His fame, his honour――by a lie Put with false lyric fervency―― You fain would thrust. His cause shall win, His glory shall not die.
You voice their virulence――whose sheaf Of poisoned darts, for blood athirst, Fall blunt and harmless――you, the first Of lyric freemen, once the chief Of patriots? Fate accurst!
Not thus had he, your Hugo, skulked ’Midst the traducer’s, limed and trapped By patriot shams; you jingo-capped, Whose views of Freedom broadlier bulked Caste’s curs have snarled and snapped
In chorus long; but will you bow To yelp at Freedom’s heels, and tear Her noblest champion? Have a care! The fading laurels round your brow Slander shall not make fair.
At least you have our Answer. Hear! Not e’en your lips shall laugh Truth dead, Nor your fierce mockery bow his head At whom fools shriek in hate and fear, And despots howl in dread.
From The Daily News. April 30, 1887.
THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.
On page 93 a parody of the above song, entitled The Fine Old Standard Tragedy, was inserted, with a note stating that it had first appeared in Albert Smith’s Town and Country Miscellany. The author of the parody, the Rev. E. Bradley, has written to point out that it was originally published in The Month for October, 1851, a small magazine edited by Albert Smith, and illustrated by John Leech. The Month only ran to six numbers, from July to December, 1851, when it was discontinued. Bradbury and Evans, the publishers, had lost money by it, and the fact was, as stated by poor Albert Smith, The Month was far too good for the public taste of that day. Mr. Bradley kindly sends another parody, of the same original, which was very popular amongst University men about 1845; the author’s name is not known.
THE FINE YOUNG ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.
I’ll sing you a fine new song, ’twas made by a mad young pate, Of a fine young English gentleman, who lives on no estate, But who keeps up appearances at a very dashing rate, And also his poor old landlady by coming home so late, Like a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.
He lives in a smart new lodging up a rather narrow stair, And the furniture is fine enough, though a little the worse for wear, For, two or three gay young friends of his are fond of smoking there, And though they spoil the new carpet, this brave young man don’t care; For, he’s a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.
His custom of an afternoon, if he’s anything of a swell, Is to ride a friend’s horse in Hyde Park, and chat with some first-rate belle; Or to dine with a few nice friends of his at the Clarendon Hotel, Upon capital good turtle soup, and champagne that’s iced so well; Like a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.
And, as for the rest of the evening, why I really cannot say, Except that the cold punch was excellent, and the company very gay; And he challenged two or three men; but then, they settle it next day; And he does not quite remember how, or when he came away; For, he’s a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.
Now, instead of being seen next day at his desk at half past ten, He doesn’t find himself there till one, p’raps not even then; And his head aches so, and his hand shakes so, he can scarcely hold his pen; But, “these little accidents will occur to the steadiest of men!” Says this fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.
Now, the senior clerk is a horrid old man, as strict as he is sly, And he calls up this fine young gentleman, and he asks him the reason why; And this good young man replies to him――for, he “scorns to tell a lie”―― That he sat up all night with a poor sick friend, to the best of his memory! Like a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.
Then he goes back to his brother clerks, if nothing else intervenes. And they’re neither quite as wise as judges, nor yet as grave as deans; And a great deal is said about “flaring up,” and “going it like bricks and beans;” And they call each other “slap up trumps!” I’m told the expression means A fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.
ANONYMOUS (about 1845.)
――――
THE OLD ENGLISH PUBLICAN.
I’ll sing you a song, a good old song, which I have sung before, About an English publican who lived in days of yore, The bush then served him for a sign, with chequers at the door, His ale was fine, and choice his wine, of which he had good store, The fine old English publican, who served in olden times.
Upon the hearth the fire then blaz’d with logs and roots of trees, The chimney corner held a score who sat round at their ease; ’Twas there the song and ale went round the social guests to please, ’Till morning chimes bid them depart; we’ll ne’er see times like these. The fine, &c.
They brewed their ale and bak’d their bread, bacon on the rack, And poultry which the ale-wife fed, and flour in by the sack: Mine host then had his gun and dog, the fox or hare could track, And in his pouch when on the chase had malmsey, ale, or sack, The fine, &c.
You might then play a game at cards, could sing and dance at ease, Nor heeded an informer’s dread, for such vile knaves displease; And men could enjoy themselves, and might their fancies please, Nor could the taxman come as now, the landlord’s purse to squeeze. The fine, &c.
You ne’er heard of excisemen then, and every house was free; Nor paltry base informing men that seek for fine and fee; No new beer shop, to guile the poor about the town you’d see. No tax on house or windows then, on spirits, or on tea. The fine, &c.
I hope that all my brother bungs, residing in this land May have long life and enjoy themselves, and all join hand in hand To put down the informing crew, who are all a base band, And fearlessly, with heart and purse, against them make a stand. For the fine, &c.
ANONYMOUS (written about 1820.)
――――
A FINE OLD HEAVY VILLAIN.
Oh, I’m a deep died villain of a somewhat bygone age, When T. P. Cooke and N. T. Hicks were heroes of the stage; Such heroes old playgoers vow they look for now in vain, What thunders of applause in those old days I used to gain, When a fine old heavy villain Of the Drama’s palmy days.
Now having rested silently for nearly fifty years, The very Deep Red Rover for a short time reappears, Although not quite so heavy pr’aps as in those days of yore, He’ll try to soothe the grief of those playgoers who deplore All the fine old heavy villains Of the Drama’s palmy days.
Lines in “Deep Red Rover,” an O’piratic burlesque, by Westmacott Chapman.
――――
THE FINE OLD COMMON COUNCILMAN.
I’ll sing you a fine new song at once, before it is too late, Of a very Common-Councilman who’s trembling for his state, Who guzzling at his hall comes out particularly great, But whom his friends in early life forgot to educate, Like a vulgar Common-Councilman, one of the present time.
His wife so fine was hung about with feathers, lace, and bows, Contrived by city milliners, whose fashions no one knows, And though she dropped her H’s, yet she wore expensive clothes, And “wot’s the hodds,” she oft would say, “which way the money goes?” Of this fine old Common-Councilman, all of the present time.
And when the Queen was to be seen he rushed into Guildhall, And took his wife, and his wife’s aunt, and daughters, sons, and all. And swore and push’d, perspired and crush’d, and fought his way about, And showed his wife Prince Halbert, when desired to ‘pint him hout,’ Did this fine old Common-Councilman, all of the present time.
Few names I wot, those guests had got, that England loves to claim, But those the civic wards supplied did every bit the same, And figged-out dames with cheeks in flames, did on the throne entrench Who could not well speak English, not to say a word of French, Nor those fine old Common Councilmen, all of the present time.
But “which there is,” (as they would say) a paper called _The Times_, Which drags up by the roots, all old abuses, cheats, and crimes; And when its heavy ordnance soon was pointed at Guildhall, They quaked in dread, because they knew their power soon would fall, Did these fine old Common-Councilmen, all of the present time.
And surely ’twill be better far, by universal frown, When following dirty Smithfield, they themselves should be put down, Who are more vulgar than the most uneducated clown, And ought to feel at last, that they are not of much renown, These fine old Common-Councilmen, all of the present time.
The Month. August, 1851.
A VARIETY OF VICARS.
Let us sing of a worthy type that is well-nigh out of date, Of the good old English Vicar, who, though small was his estate, Did all he could the poor to aid and suffering to abate, And sought the cottage door more oft than the mansion of the great, Like a good old English Vicar, one of the olden time!
He never made himself the priest of an exclusive creed; His house was ever open wide to all that were in need; And ’twas his joy to cheer the sick, the hungry one to feed; And little children by the hand with loving care to lead; Like a good old English Vicar, one of the olden time!
He did not social honour seek, or church preferment crave, Nor did he let base lucre’s love his kindly soul deprave, To his dear people his whole life most willingly he gave, And all the village when he died stood mourning round the grave Of this good old English Vicar, one of the olden time!
But look at his successor now, a change most marked you’ll see. He is a very learned man who’s gained a high degree, And who, expecting in due course that he’ll a bishop be, Cares little for the humble folks who crave his ministry, Like a learned modern Vicar, one of the present time!
Shut in his study he essays some treatise to complete, And rarely do you see his form about the village street; His voice is never heard, alas! the toiling hind to greet, And at the bedside of the poor you never, never meet This learned, modern Vicar, one of the present time!
But even he is better than his neighbour, who, we find Forgetting that his Master was all merciful and kind! And who when ’mongst the magistrates he proudly sits enshrined, To stern and harsh severity’s persistently inclined, Like a modern J.P. Vicar, one of the present time.
He preaches charity, and bids all men forgive their foes, And yet, when on the bench next day, no sign of mercy shows; But far beyond the lay J.P.’s most eagerly he goes, To crushing sentences inflict, and cruel fines impose; Like a modern J.P. Vicar, one of the present time!
The parish next to his as priest an Honourable can claim, Who that fat living holds because he bears his father’s name; And who, the simple truth to tell, a clergyman became, Because too mentally obtuse to otherwise win fame; Like the high-born modern Vicar, one of the present time!
Lawn-tennis is the only thing on which he seems intent, And he each week for half-a-crown from town has sermons sent―― That is, when at the vicarage, a rather rare event, For at his father’s London house his time is mostly spent, Like a high-born modern Vicar, one of the present time!
* * * * *
Just now, these very varied types at least in this agree: They think their snug emoluments in jeopardy may be; And rushing to the danger meet, which though far off they see, They make their long-neglected flocks the pretext for their plea, Like self-interested Vicars, all of the present time!
Be they Broad Church, or be they High, or Narrow they, or Low, They all unite to hold their own against the common foe; Their hearts ’twould seem, with one desire, with one high impulse glow, Which animates the sermons which from all Church pulpits flow, From these much-excited Vicars, all of the present time!
* * * * *
Too late is their anxiety the Church may long endure, In order that the masses may its services secure. Too late have come these loud appeals for mercy for the poor, From those whose one chief aim has been to make their own pay sure, As grasping English Vicars, all of the present time!
* * * * *
(Seven verses omitted.)
Truth. November 5, 1885.
――――:o:――――
MY NELLIE’S BLUE EYES.
My Nellie’s eyes are blue, Hair of bright and golden hue, Like her eyes, her heart is true, My Nellie my own! Never reigned a queen more fair, Who with Nellie could compare, By her side my life I’d share, My Nellie my own! Ne’er was culled from nature’s bower Half so sweet or rare a flower―― With my Nellie hour by hour, My Nellie my own!
Chorus.
My Nellie’s blue eyes, My Nellie’s blue eyes, Bright as the stars that shine above, My Nellie’s blue eyes.
* * * * *
The above is part of the original song which inspired Mr. Charles Coborn with the idea of one of the most popular parodies of modern times, Two Lovely Black Eyes.
TWO LOVELY BLACK EYES; or, No more Politics for me.
Strolling so happy down Bethnal Green, This gay youth you might have seen, Tompkins and I with his girl between; Oh, what a surprise! I praised the Conservatives frank and free, Tompkins got angry so speedilee, All in a moment he handed to me, Two lovely black eyes.
Chorus.
Two lovely black eyes, Oh what a surprise! Only for telling a man he was wrong, Two lovely black eyes.
Next time I argued I thought it best, To give the Conservative side a rest, The merits of Gladstone I freely pressed, When oh, what a surprise! The chap I had met was a Tory true, Nothing the Liberals right could do, This was my share of that argument too, Two lovely black eyes!
Chorus.
Two lovely black eyes, Oh what a surprise! Only for telling a man he was wrong, Two lovely black eyes.
The moral you’ve caught I can hardly doubt, Never on politics rave and shout, Leave it to others to fight it out, If you would be wise. Better, far better, it is to let Lib’rals and Tories alone, you bet, Unless you’re willing and anxious to get Two lovely black eyes!
Chorus.
Two lovely black eyes, Oh, what a surprise! Only for telling a man he was wrong, Two lovely black eyes.
The music for this amusing song was arranged by Mr. Edmund Forman, and it is published by Francis Bros. and Day, of Oxford Street, London.
“Two Lovely Black Eyes” created such a furore at the Trocadero Music Hall (formerly the Argyll Rooms) that it was christened “The Trocadero Anthem,” and on February 8, 1887, The Pall Mall Gazette gave an account of the wild enthusiasm with which the singer was nightly received, and reported the following remarks, made by Mr. Coborn, as to the origin of the song.
“OH, WHAT A SURPRISE!”
“It was a fluke; in fact, I may say ‘a surprise.’ Such things generally are. ‘Two Lovely Black Eyes’ is a parody of an American song of which the chorus is ‘Nellie’s Lovely Blue Eyes.’ The air is the same, and had been sung in London by some lady vocalists, even at the Trocadero, long before I thought of it. I had an engagement at the Paragon in the Mile-end Road, and had to sing a new song one Saturday night. That was a Tuesday, I think. I hummed ‘Nellie’s Blue Eyes,’ and thought the tune would catch them; but I doubted about the ‘blue’ eyes. I thought they would appreciate ‘black’ more. So I get my chorus――’Two Lovely Black Eyes.’ That is always my starting point. I had now to find my words. I was walking down Bethnal Green, thinking about it; the elections were on at the time, and I turned it over. So I got the first line:――
‘Strolling so happy down Bethnal Green,’
Who? Why,
‘This gay youth you might have seen,’
You see, ‘seen,’ ‘green?’ Then you would naturally meet some one. I met Tompkins. I wanted a word to rhime with ‘seen’ and ‘green,’ so I gave Tompkins a young lady:――
‘Tompkins and I with his girl between.”
I had written ‘Harry’ at first, but it was too prosaic, so I changed it to Tompkins, which sounded funnier. Then I thought of the elections, and the rest followed easily. What more natural than that we should fall out, and that Tompkins should hand me ‘two lovely black eyes’? That is how it grew. Here is the original which I wrote coming home in the train.” And Mr. Coborn produced a little black-covered note-book, every page of which was covered with writing. Songs and scraps of dialogue and bits of street conversation which Mr. Coborn will introduce into his patter. “I have sung it about one thousand times in English, French, and German,” and the popular comic gave me some samples. He is not a polyglottist, but he has a quick ear, and his accent is pronounced to be marvellous. Here are the French and German renderings:――
“Deux beaux yeux noirs, Oh ciel! quel horreur, Seulement pour dire a quelqu’un qu’il a tort Deux beaux yeux noirs.”
“Zwei Augen so schwartz, Ach, ist dass ein Spass? Gesagt hab’ ich nur das er Unrecht gehabt, Zwei Augen so schwartz!”
“I propose to sing it in Hebrew and modern Greek. But the song has been a fluke right through its career. I thought it would suit the Paragon audiences (we must consider our public). I thought they would like the chorus. But when I came to the ‘Trocadero’ I was a little doubtful, thinking it might be too coarse. So I asked the conductor, and if he had said ‘yes’ I should have changed it at once. It is my principle rather to sacrifice a laugh, than to offend a prejudice.”
――――
OH, WHAT A SURPRISE!
The popular Budget Ballad, sung with general rounds of applause at the St. Stephen’s Music Hall, by the new Exchequer Startler, G. J. Goschen.[27]
Air――“Two Lovely Black Eyes.”
Down at the House, in the days that have been, This grave sage you might often have seen, Harcourt and I, and the Chief between, But oh, what a surprise! I joined the Conservatives frank and free; Gladstone got angry right speedilee, All in a jiff to see G. J. G. Rat to the To-ries.
Chorus.――I join the To-ries? Oh, what a surprise! Rads were all telling me G. J. was wrong To join the To-ries.
When to resign Randolph thought it was best, The Chancellorship upon me was press’d. A humdrum Budget I feared, I confessed. When oh, what a surprise! A surplus I found; it was small, ’tis true, Less than a million, but what did I do? By a neat little dodge made it more than two! That opened their eyes!
Chorus.――Revenue on the rise! Oh, what a surprise! Harcourt was dumbfoundered, Churchill was dished; Loud cheered the To-ries!
Didn’t the Chaplinites hallo and shout? Harcourt and others, of course, expressed doubt, But the Tories may leave me to fight it out; In that they’ll be wise. Cut down the Annual Charge on the Debt; Penny off Income Tax――good bait, you bet, Lib’rals or Tories, they’re all glad to get That little surprise.
Chorus.――Long it has been on the rise. Ah! what a surprise! Who will be telling G. J. he is wrong? This is penny-wise!
Working men’s ’baccy tax――give that a wipe, Please the poor feeders on porter and tripe Friend of the “Masses,” put that in your pipe,―― Ain’t that a surprise? Fancy my Budget’s a fine work of Art. Randolph may sneer, shows he’s feeling the smart. ’Tisn’t so bad, eh, my friends?――for a start, With my new allies.
Chorus.――Give ’em a fall, not a rise! Oh! what a surprise! As for Retrenchment――well that in the sweetest Of “sweet By-and Byes!”
Punch. April 30, 1887.
――――:o:――――
UPROUSE YE THEN, MY MERRY MEN.
Gipsy Glee.
The chough and crow to roost are gone, The owl sits on the tree, The hush’d wind wails with feeble moan, Like infant charity. The wildfire dances on the fen, The red star sheds its ray, Uprouse ye, then, my merry men, It is our op’ning day. Uprouse ye, then, &c.
Both child and nurse are fast asleep, And clos’d is every flower, And waking tapers faintly peep High from my lady’s bower; Bewildered hinds, with shorten’d ken, Shrink on their murky way, Uprouse ye, then, my merry men, It is our op’ning day. Uprouse ye, then, &c.
Nor board nor garner own we now, Nor roof, nor latched door, Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow, To bless a good man’s store; Noon lulls us in a gloomy den, And night is grown our day, Uprouse ye, then, my merry men, And use it as you may. Uprouse ye, then, &c.
JOANNA BAILLIE.
――――
A SEASONABLE GLEE. (To be sung in bed on any Frosty day.)
With Cough and Cold to bed I’ve gone, My boot is on the tree;[28] The weather out of doors this morn
(With a shiver.)
Is cold as charity.
(With several shivers.)
Is co-o-o-o-old as charity. The bright fire sparkles sparkles o’er the fen- -der with its steel array-ay-ay, -der-with its steel array, -der with it’s steel array.
(Shake with cold ad lib. Rings for the Servants.)
Uprouse ye then, my merry merry men, I’ll not get up to-day; Uprouse ye then, my merry merry men, I’ll not get up to-day.
Beneath the blankets full three deep All snuggled up I cower, All snuggled up I cower, Above the counter-pane I peep To see what is the hour, To see what is the hour. My watch I find says half-past ten, Then dow-ow-own myself I lay, Then down myself I lay, Then down myself I lay.
(To the Footman.)
Bring tea and toast, my merry merry men, I don’t get up to-day; Bring tea and toast, my merry merry men, I don’t get up to-day.
Some friends drop in to ask me “how I am” (pray shut the door); Drop in! Their frost is melting now, And deluging the floor, And de-lu-ging the floor! “Get up!” No! no! I trust them when They say ’tis a_n ice_ day, They say ’tis an ice day. They say ’tis an ice day.
I’ll house me then, my merry merry men, Abuse me as you may; I’ll house me then, my merry merry men, Abuse me as you may!
(Turns in bed, and goes to sleep till dinner time.)
Punch. January 16, 1864.
There was a short political parody, of the same song, in Punch for August 9, 1856, but it is now of no interest.
――――
CHANT OF SMALL CRITICS. In the Royal Academy.
The Private Day and Feast are gone, The public comes to see, The poor Rejected grunt and groan. Nor speak with charity. The shillings flood the porter’s den, The Red Star sheds its ray,[29] Uprouse ye, then, my men of merry pen, It is the Opening Day.
Now for the witticisms cheap, That sting with knat-bite power: The sentence based on hasty peep, And visit of an hour: Bewildered boobies (nine in ten) Admire our sportive way: Uprouse ye then, my men of merry pen, It is the Opening Day.
Who heeds the painter’s saddened brow, The wolf he keeps from door, The pale wife’s timid trust that, now, His work shall swell their store? Let’s scare his hope and chance again, As boys pelt boys in play: Uprouse ye then, my men of merry pen, And slang him as ye may.
SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1867.
――――
OUR OPENING DAY. (Trio and Chorus for the Political Huntsmen at St. Stephen’s.)
The Ins and Outs from rest are back, The Speaker’s in his chair. The talk-mill now resumes its clack, As birds begin to pair. The wild-fire quickens tongue and pen, Wit’s bow is strung to slay. Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men, It is our op’ning day!
Chorus――Uprouse ye then, &c.
Both Whigs and Rads are wide awake, Unclosed are Tory’s eyes; The morning papers now will make Less room for fads and lies. Bewilder’d Cits through columns ten Once more will plod their way; Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men, It is our op’ning day.
Chorus――Uprouse ye then, &c.
The Cloture’s power own we now To silence faction’s jaw; Pat shall not raise eternal row, In spite of taste and law. Home-legislation looms in ken, England shall have her day. Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men, And use it as ye may!
Chorus:――
Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men! Uprouse ye then, I say! Fill up your horns, and let the glen Resound with echoes gay! The hunt is up, Brim high the cup, Big game we’ll bring to bay. Uprouse ye then, My merry, merry men, It is our op’ning day!
Punch. February 17, 1883.
――――:o:――――
TO BE THERE. Parody of a well-known Salvation Army Song.
Now I have been a warm ’un in my time, I have drank and been in rows by the score, But now I’ve given it up and signed the pledge, And vowed that I would do so never more. ’Tis true that I have joined a goodly crew, That never, hardly ever, say sware; The dark half-hours are nice, I’ve been in them once or twice, So I know what it is to be there.
When first I saw this very happy band, They were singing hymns and preaching in the street, A lady came and shook me by the hand, And whispered words of piety so sweet; I squeezed her little fingers rather tight, And tried to kiss her lovely face so fair, But she said, if you will come to our sweet Salvation home, You will know what it is to be there.
(Chorus.)――To be there, &c.
I very soon began to preach and prate, And with the sisters played some funny pranks, I was so good at nobbing with the plate, They soon made me a Captain of the ranks; And often when our meetings were dispersed, With Sister Jane I’d offer up a prayer, I’d such a jolly spree, when she took me home to tea, For I knew what it was to be there.
(Chorus.)――To be there, &c.
I’m troubled with a vixen for a wife, And often sigh for liberty once more, She leads me such a very wretched life, And with the poker warms me on the floor; She summoned me before the beak one day, Who said I’d used her shamefully unfair, Then he ordered me a spell, at the jail in Clerkenwell, So I know what it is to be there!
(Chorus.)――To be there, &c.
Encore Verses.
I’m a most unlucky man, I am, indeed, Misfortune’s cup I’ve emptied to the dregs, I’ve tried my best, but find I can’t succeed, And so at last I took to sucking eggs; My uncle in the best friend that I’ve got, He keeps a pawnshop close to Leicester Square, And sometimes I drop in, when I’m rather short of tin, For I know what it is to be there!
(Chorus.)――To be there, &c.
To Epsom I went down one Derby day, And thought that I should have a jolly spree, When a fellow came and wanted me to pay, He said he backed the winning horse with me; I told him I had never made a bet, When a crowd got round and soon began to swear, And when they tore my clothes, blacked my eyes, and broke my nose, Oh, I knew what it was to be there!
(Chorus.)――To be there, &c.
Written by C. A. Page. Composed by J. Iliffe. Published by Messrs. Francis Bros. & Day, 195, Oxford Street London.
――――:o:――――
THE TAILOR’S HOLIDAY.
A Parody of Jack’s Yarn.
’Twas on a Monday morn, and the Tailor played the horn, On which he’d been a blowing all the way; He was sitting on a van, and out on the randan, A going to Rye House to spend the day. For a few hours free from strife, ’cos he’d got a nagging wife, But his plan to keep it quiet was in vain, For a pal just for a game, went and told the Tailor’s dame, So she took her eighteenpenn’orth down by train.
Singing, Hilly holly ho, listen to my tale of woe, Of this Tailor’s dinner anniversary, When every jolly snip, was enjoying of his trip, Singing, Hilly holly hilly holly ho!
When the Tailor ceased to play, he was looking far from gay. He showed us where his face and neck were scored; When we got to the Rye, the first thing we did spy, Was his wife, and Holy Moses, how she jawed! And then it was such fun, for to see the Tailor run, Round the river bank, she in pursuit of he; ’Till at length she tripped and fell, in the water with a yell, I reckon you’d a heard across the Lea.
(Chorus.)――Singing, &c.
Every man to this day brags, how long it took to find the drags, Tho’ they hung near, and handy on a tree, The drags not being found, of course the old girl drowned, And so the poor old snip was free. So here’s good luck and life, to the man what drowned his wife, And so saved the heavy undertaker’s fee. All the dragging was in vain, she ne’er was seen again, That’s why there’s good eel fishing in the Lea.
Singing, Hilly holly ho, listen to my tale of woe, Of this Tailor’s dinner anniversary, When every jolly snip, was enjoying of his trip, Singing, Hilly holly, hilly holly ho!
――――:o:――――
THE GUNPOWDER PLOT
I sing a doleful tragedy,―― Guy Fawkes, the prince of sinisters, Who once blew up the House of Lords, The King, and all his Ministers; That is, he would have blown them up, (And folks will ne’er forget him,) His will was good to do the deed,―― That is, if they’d have let him!
Tow, row, row! tol di ridy, tol di ridy, tow, row, row!
He straightway came from Lambeth side, And wished the State was undone, And crossing over Vauxhall Bridge, That way came into London: That is, he would have come that way, To perpetrate his guilt, sirs, But a little thing prevented him――the bridge it wasn’t built, sirs!
Then sneaking through the dreary vault, With portable gas light, sirs, About to touch the powder train At witching hour of night, sirs; That is, I mean, he would have used The gas, but was prevented, ’Cause gas, you see, in James’s time, It had not been invented!
Now, James, you know, was always thought To be a very sly fox, So, he bid ’em search th’ aforesaid vault, And there they found poor Guy Fawkes; For that he meant to blow them up, I think there’s little doubt, sirs, That is, I mean, provided he Had not been found out, sirs.
And when they caught him in the fact, So very near the Crown’s end, They straightway sent to Bow Street, For that brave old runner, Townsend; That is, they would have sent for him, For fear he was no starter at, But Townsend wasn’t living then―― He wasn’t born till after that!
So then they put poor Guy to death, For ages to remember, And boys now kill him once a year In dreary dark November; That is, I mean his effigy, For truth is strong and steady, Poor Guy, they cannot kill again, Because he’s dead already!
Then bless her gracious Majesty And bless her royal son, sirs, And may he never get blown up (That is, if she gets one, sirs) And if she does, I’m sure he’ll reign, So prophecies my song, sirs, And if he don’t, why then he won’t, And so I can’t be wrong, sirs!
(This version was written about 1840, but the original song is of a much earlier date.)
――――
NEW LAMPS FOR OLD ONES.
In the story of “Aladdin,” sir, that veritable history, A certain downy dodger of a new Light made a mystery; And all for Peoples good, of course, his words were very bold ones. The cry he gulled the Public with, was “New lamps for Old ones.”
Buy――Buy――Buy, “New Lamps for Old Ones,” Buy――Buy――Buy.
Now, it wasn’t out of love at all for darkness, poor humanity, He offered them New Lamps for Old Ones, but only out of vanity; That Arabian Mr. Cockrane, knew the value of the old one, And he thought a sounding one of brass might bring him in a gold one.
Buy――Buy――Buy, &c.
So, even in the present day, in almost every nation, Designing knaves can profit by a “Brummagem” imitation, They cry out “Change, good people, change,” around your dwellings hovering, And many are so fond of change, they cannot keep a Sovereign.
Buy――Buy――Buy, &c.
Here, Agitators bawl “Free Trade,” while others shout “Protection.” “The Suffrage,” and every week a General Election; With many other Party cries, my metaphors are bold ones, But the principle is all the same, it’s “New Lamps for Old ones.”
Buy――Buy――Buy, &c.
Conservatives “to the Country” cry out “New Lamps for Old Ones;” They put the Whig small candles out, and introduced their mould ones; But the blessed Lights in Downing Street don’t much improve the business, They only splutter, and waste away, with a dismal, dizzy dizziness.
Buy――Buy――Buy, “New Lamps of Derby and Disraeli, buy――buy.”
In France long for a new Lamp they were in darkness plunging, So they threw away a Louis[30] for a brass one from a dungeon. But as for any Light it gives, more t’other, though aspiring, It just serves the Bill Sykes Emperor[31] for Cooking and for Firing.
Buy――Buy――Buy, The counterfeit, brass Strasburg Lamp out will soon die.
In Rome they rose en-masse one day, and Pious Nino goosed, too; The wily Pontiff said such a mass he wasn’t used to; He “stepped it,” and their New Lamp for awhile flared up quite glittering, But the French soon put it out, and the Pope’s old Lantern lit again.
Buy――Buy――Buy, &c.
About Australian “Diggins” Agitators they keep crying, “New Lamps for Old Ones,” and thousands them are buying; But oh, beware, or else you’ll find, as Jason did in Greece, Sir, You’re ruined Muttons after all, all through the _Golden fleece_, Sir.
Buy――Buy――Buy, &c.
In a country which you all know well, close to the one that we’re in, They bawled “New Lamps for Old Ones,” to all who were in hearing (Erin); They bought the Lamp up eagerly, from men so much distinguished. But it only kept alight a week, and then it was extinguished.
Buy――Buy――Buy, &c.
Now, of course you’ve got a right to change your ancient gold for glitter, But which is best, a steady Light, or one that can but flitter, And die away, till in the dark, you find you’re but a sold one? So unless you’re sure it’s a better one, why, never change the old one.
Don’t――Buy――Buy, “New Lamps for Old Ones” of Meddlers never buy.
J. A. HARDWICK. About 1852. ――――
THE UNCONSCIOUS GUY FAWKES; OR, IN THE WRONG CELLAR. (On the Marquis of Salisbury and the Franchise Bill.)
I sing a song of foolishness, of GUY FAUX, chief of sinisters, Who fain would blow the Commons up, the PREMIER and his Ministers: That is, he piles combustibles as he were game to do it; Let’s hope he’ll be prevented, or he’ll be the first to rue it.
A sort of GUIDO FAUX pour rire he seems for all his swaggering, Displaying boylike rashness that to thoughtful men is staggering, That is, it would be staggering, and Statesmen wiser, truer rile, But that he’s played so many games, and most of them so puerile.
Although he’s bearded like the pard, and looks all fierce virility, At least as a Conspirator he shows some juvenility. That is, the juvenility of urchins who complacently Will let off squibs and crackers when combustibles adjacent lie.
If you should call him GUY FAUX, he’d deny it quite indignantly. None could regard the House of Lords more fondly and benignantly. That is, whilst they will follow him; and any plans explosive About them he’d repudiate with invective most corrosive.
But there’s a horrid Incubus, a Demogorgon hideous, Who dominates the country by his blandishments perfidious. That is, he artfully pretends that he the country dominates, Though everybody――more or less――his rigid rule abominates.
His crafty head to blast from him and skyward swiftly send it sure, Would justify, in gunpowder, a very large expenditure. That is, if some perchance might shrink from sheer decapitation, At least to blow him from his seat would gratify the Nation.
And so――and so, to mine below the Commons-swaying throne of him, Might end at least in bursting up the power overblown of him. That is, the game is worth a try, and――well――if not a bit of him. Remain to tell the dreadful tale, the Commons are well quit of him.
The stars in their calm courses may be confidently trusted To fight against this Lucifer until his rule is “busted.” That is, one might feel confidence in influences stellar, But our poor unconscious Guy Faux has got into the wrong cellar!
It is the House of Lords, alas! that he is mining under, And it and he will presently go up in flame and thunder, That is, they may in flame go up, if Guy Faux do not falter; But we’ll hope at the last moment his explosive plan he’ll alter.
Punch. November 8, 1884.
――――
A BRADLAUGH BALLAD.
I sing a comic-tragedy, Of Bradlaugh, Anti-Royalist, Who once dethroned Victoria, And stamped out every loyalist; That is, he would have changed our rule, That folks might ne’er forget him, His will was good to do the deed, That is――if they’d have let him. With his bow, wow, wow, B. the Bashful at the helm, The Queen B. at the prow.
He marched his mob to Palace Yard, Stalked right up to the Speaker, Prostrated all the Treasury Bench, Turned Brand into a squeaker; That is, he fully meant to make This brilliant coup de grace, sir, But Bobbies don’t like rowdies, So they wouldn’t let him pass, sir, With his row, row, row.
He laid about him with the mace, Sent statesmen sprawling left and right, Then rushed and popped beneath the Throne A ha’pennyworth of dynamite; That is, he would have blown ’em up (In metaphor, I mean, sir) If Northcote had helped Gladstone’s trick, But he wasn’t quite so green, sir. Not just now――ow――ow.
When he’d made the Peerage disappear, The Queen an abdicator, He made the Chanc’llor his cashier, And dubbed himself Dictator; Thought he, if Dilke or Chamberlain, Or Bright can turn “Court flunkey,” There’s something in’t,――but hopelessness Of winning made him funky. Bow――ow――ow.
He gave himself the Church’s spoils, Crown lands to the Residuum, Re-named our loved Victorian Realm, The Republic of Besantium; That is, he would this tribute pay, To woman’s worth and station, But the People’s will did sore confound This moral combination. Somehow――ow――ow.
And as for those Allegiance Oaths, Let them remain he wouldn’t; The poor must have no children, Because Malthus said they shouldn’t;―― That is, he thought it just as well The Statute Books to wipe out, But Gladstone’s lot cold-shouldered him, And Juries put his pipe out, And his yow――ow――ow.
He confiscated all the wealth, That spoiled the upper classes, But did not share it with his mob, Whom he somehow called “the-m-asses;” That is, he feared that lucre might Pollute the people’s mind, sir, But then he never got the power, Pooh! nothing of the kind, sir. Bow――ow――ow.
And so, of ill-got property, The rich he’d disencumber, To secure the greatest benefit For the greatest number; That is, he’d thus have ruled the folk, If they hadn’t said “Begone, sir!” For they guessed his greatest number might Perhaps, be Number One, sir, With his bow, wow, wow, sirs. You can’t make silken purses from The best ears of a sow, sirs.
Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet, by ION. London: Houlston & Sons.
――――
A DAMP WATER PARTY.
I sing a doleful tragedy that gives one quite a shiver, sir, All of a water party that once sail’d upon a river, sir, That is, they would have sailed on it, if there they’d chanced to get, sir; But the rain came down in torrents, and the river was quite wet, sir! Oh! dear, oh! Now, wasn’t this a stop to all their row, row, row?
At Where-was-it this party was, and there, at many tea-tables, The guests were gathered in a tent, intent upon the eatables; That is, they would all have been out on the verdant grass, sir, But al-fresco luncheons ain’t the thing when the rain comes in your glass, sir! Oh! dear, oh! &c.
Upon the table there was set each kind of cake and custard, And every dish that cooks have e’er invented there was mustered; That is, there would have been had they been laid within the house, sir, But the rain converted every dish, and turned it into “souse,” sir! Oh! dear, oh &c.
Good things abounded on all sides, and every kind of wine was there, And empty bottles prov’d that many a votary of the vine was there; That is, they would have proved so if the wine they’d chanced to get, sir, But Teetotallers got water, the rest had “heavy wet,” sir! Oh! dear, oh! &c.
And when champagne had brought real joy, and all the lunch was ended, They look’d up at the bright blue sky, and said, “The weather’s splendid!” That is, they would have said so, but――to use a vulgar name, sir―― The blue was all a “blue look out,” and the weather was the same, sir! Oh! dear, oh! &c.
* * * * * (Three verses omitted.)
And so all things were turned to fun, and dancing closed the night, sir, And music played, and hearts were light, and eyes were shining bright, sir; So long may water parties reign, and always have fine weather, sir, To shine upon the company that there have met together, sir, So, be it so, For then they may take boats and barge, and Row, row, row!
From Medley; by Cuthbert Bede, author of Verdant Green. London: J. Blackwood.
――――
HOME RULE ALL ROUND.
The question for the country now is no mere choice of Ministers, ’Twixt Liberals and Conservatives, the Dexters ’gainst the Sinisters, A party warfare waging, with designs and dodges tactical. Within the sphere of Politics, which common minds call practical. Bow-wow-wow, &c.
Home Rule’s at most a moiety of a measure far more national, The uppermost in every mind that’s sensible and rational A measure to eradicate the vice of inebriety, By interdicting liquors to all classes of Society. Bow-wow-wow, &c.
Needs must Home Rule for Ireland be domestic legislation, Laid down on Father Mathew’s lines to pacify the nation; ’Twould Irishmen from whiskey wean, on thin drink strictly diet ’em, And let them have no more potheen! which possibly might quiet ’em. Bow-wow-wow, &c.
Electors, in this crisis you’ve a splendid opportunity, For the only Cause of consequence to all of the community. Vote for no candidate, whose line in politics a fad I call; But poll for the Teetotaller, Conservative or Radical. Bow-wow-wow, &c.
Home Rule the United Kingdom craves, that claim of its Alliance is The only thing to care about――therein our sole affiance is. None other do we want to press on Parliament’s adoption Home Rule for every parish, Universal Local Option. Bow-wow-wow, &c.
Punch. July 10, 1886.
――――
THE G.O.M. FOX.
I sing about a Grand Old Man, whom everybody knows, sir, Who once disjoined the Emerald Isle from us, her “foreign” foes, sir; That is, I mean, he would have given her “National” authority, But for the fact that he for once was not with the majority. Bow, wow, wow! What’s the good of balking when it’s all done now?
He summoned all the Cabinet, and there in consultation, His colleagues helped him form the bill to bring before the nation; That is, he might have sought their aid, for most of them are ’cute, sir, Had he not planned and settled all himself to save dispute, sir. Bow, wow, wow, &c.
Then fifty million pounds he raised to buy the landlords out, sir, And England――it is she who pays――there’s not the slightest doubt, sir; That is, we should have had to pay the bill if nothing stopped it, But, fortunately just in time, the Grand Old Man he dropped it. Bow, wow, wow, &c.
And now his plébiscite has brought him once more into power, All Liberals and Radicals united like a tower; That is, the fight would thus have turned, and have been from the starting won But for his lack of openness――and Chamberlain and Hartington. Bow, wow, wow, &c.
JOHN LOWRESS. The Weekly Dispatch. July 4, 1886.
――――
THE PILGRIM OF LOVE.
Recitative.
Orynthia, my beloved, I call in vain! Orynthia! Orynthia! echo hears and calls again, A mimic voice repeats the name around, And with Orynthia all the rocks resound.
Air.
A hermit who dwells in the solitudes cross’d me, As wayworn and faint up the mountain I press’d; The aged man paus’d on his staff to accost me, And proffered his cell as a mansion of rest. Ah! nay, courteous father, right onward I rove, No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love, For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love, No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.
Yet tarry, my son, till the burning noon passes, Let boughs of the lemon tree shelter thine head; The juice of ripe muscadel flows in my glasses, And rushes fresh pulled for siesta are spread. Ah! nay, courteous father, right onward I rove, No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love. For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love, No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.
――――
BLOWSABEL.
Recitative.
Oh! Blowsabel! my detested, you call in vain, Oh! Blowsabel! echo hears and squalls again; Her horrid voice repeats my name around, And with her bawling all the streets resound.
Air.
A landlord who kept a snug liquor-shop pass’d me, As flurried and hot I up Summer Hill pressed; The knowing one smiled as he stayed to accost me, And proffered his crib for a glass and a rest. Oh! no, jolly father, I will not, I vows,―― No rest but the grave from the tongue of my spouse.
Yet, tarry, my son, till your wife’s fury passes, The “George and the Dragon” shall shelter thy head; My whiskey is good, and full measure my glasses, If fuddled too soon you shall share half my bed; No, no, jolly father, I will not, I vows,―― No rest but the grave from the tongue of my spouse.
From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.
(The same volume contains another parody, entitled Raw Lobsters, which is vulgar, and not funny.)
――――
THE VICTIM OF LOVE.
Recitative.
Angelina, my chickabiddy! I calls upon Angelina! Angelina! A bobby hears, and says “Move on!” His comic voice repeats the name around, And with “Angelina” all the streets resound!
Air.
A damsel there dwells in a court down in Stepney, In disgraceful apparel she ever is drest, This fair one I lov’d and I asked her to have me, Oh! have me sweet gender, and I shall be blest!
Ah! nay, courteous masculine, the dear one replied, “This virgin don’t mean to be not no man’s bride.” So I’m the victim of love, I’m the victim of love, There’s no cure for consumption, nor the victim of love.
Yet stay, scrumptious maid, like a beautiful Queen, You shall dress in fine calico, silks, laces and shawls, You shall ever wear the thingamys and your dear crinoline Shall be three times as big as the dome of Saint Pauls; “Ah! nay, simple Simon, she answered so cool, I’d rather keep single than amalgamate with a fool, So I’m the victim of love, I’m the victim of love, There’s no cure for dislocation of the vertebræ, nor the victim of love.
Angelina! said I, “put an end to my woes, My buzzum’s a busting, nay, cut me not short,” But all that she did was to turn up her nose, And wagging her tail she then waltz’d down the court. Like a blighted young flower expire I shall, For I’d cast my infections on that there young gal, So I’m the victim of love, I’m the victim of love, There’s no cure but extinction for the victim of love.
Written expressly for Mackney, the comic singer, by G. W. Hunt, and published by J. Bath, Berners Street, London.
――――
THE SONG OF THE SEEDY COMMON-COUNCILLOR AFTER A WEEK’S FESTIVITIES.
A Doctor who dwells in my neighbourhood crossed me, As, seedy and queer, to my office I pressed; The able man paused on his way to accost me, And proffered advice that would give me some rest. “Ah no, courteous Doctor, though weary I be, No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C. For the seedy C. C., for the seedy C. C., No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C.”
“Yet tarry, my friend, till this sad attack passes; I’ll send you some pills to relieve your aching head. The juice of the grape must not flow in your glasses, And rush fast away from the most tempting spread.” “Ah no, courteous Doctor, though weary I be, No rest till Vacation, for the seedy C. C. For the seedy C. C., for the seedy C. C., No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C.”
Punch. July 3, 1886.
――――
PADDY FLINN!
Recitative.
Och, Judy, my sweet darling, I bawl in vain Judy! dear Judy! I’m wet through quite with rain The dirty children mock me all around And with ‘dear Judy’ does each pig stye sound!
Air.
Tim Murphy, who dwells by the Cow and worsted stocking, I met near the bog at the end of the town; He swore by the powers, I desarved a dacent knocking, He was after knocking me up, but I knocked the varmint down. ’Och, now Patrick,’ said he, what is it you’d be at? Faith said I, you would get round me, but ye see I’ve laid ye flat, And remember when to Judy’s you betake yourself again, There’s sure to be a bating for the foe of Paddy Flinn. So I wished him better luck, and left the spalpeen sprawling, And hastened to you, Judy, wid a heart of love so true:―― Then listen to your Paddy, while his tender tale he’s tawling, In this hard shower to let me stand, sure’s very hard in you. But see the door is open’d, so I’ll boldly venture in, Here’s bad luck and better manners to the foes of Paddy Flinn.
J. W. BURDEN.
――――
THE PILGRIM OF HATE.
(A popular song, sung by Mr. Chamberlain in Scotland and elsewhere.)
Recitative.
Chamberlain, my beloved!――he calls in vain. Chamberlain! Echo hears and calls again. A grand old voice repeats the name around, And with J. Chamberlain Scotland’s hills resound.
Air.
A Hermit who dwells down at H-w-rd-n had crossed me, As wayward and proud up Fame’s mountains I pressed; The aged man feared from his staff he had lost me, And offered――a sell!――in his Cabinet rest. “Ah! nay, Grand Old Hand, I would far rather wait; No rest, save at top, for the Pilgrim of Hate.”
“Yet tarry, my Son, till my H. R. Bill passes; Let’s bow to the League and Parnell, its great head. You’ll not leave the Masses and vote with the Classes? Come in, take your seat. Reform’s banquet is spread.” “Ah! nay, Grand Old Hand, I’m not caught with that bait. No rest under you for the Pilgrim of Hate.”
Punch. April 30, 1887.
――――:o:――――
THE VICAR OF BRAY.
In good King Charles’s golden days, When loyalty no harm meant, A zealous high Churchman I was, And so I got preferment: To teach my flock I never miss’d, Kings are by God appointed, And damn’d are those that do resist, Or touch the Lord’s anointed. And this is law I will maintain Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever king shall reign, I’ll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.
When royal James obtain’d the crown, And Popery came in fashion, The penal laws I hooted down, And read the Declaration: The Church of Rome I found would fit Full well my constitution; And had become a Jesuit But for the Revolution. And this is law, &c.
When William was our king declared, To ease the nation’s grievance, With this new wind about I steer’d, And swore to him allegiance; Old principles I did revoke, Set conscience at a distance; Passive obedience was a joke, A jest was non-resistance. And this is law, &c.
When gracious Anne became our Queen, The Church of England’s glory, Another face of things was seen, And I became a Tory: Occasional conformists base, I damned their moderation, Although the Church in danger was By such prevarication. And this is law, &c.
When George in pudding-time came o’er, And moderate men look’d big, sir, I turn’d a cat-in-pan once more, And so became a Whig, sir; And thus preferment I procured, From our new faith’s defender; And almost every day abjured, The Pope and the Pretender. And this is law, &c.
Th’ illustrious House of Hanover, And Protestant Succession; To these I do allegiance swear―― While they can keep possession: For in my faith and loyalty; I never more will falter, And George my lawful king shall be―― Until the times do alter. And this is law, &c.
“The Vicar of Bray, in Berkshire,” says D’Israeli, in his “Curiosities of Literature,” was a Papist under the reign of Henry the Eighth, and a Protestant under Edward the Sixth. He was a Papist again under Mary, and once more became a Protestant in the reign of Elizabeth. When reproached for his versatility of religious creeds, and taxed with being a turn-coat, and an inconstant changeling, as Fuller expresses it, he replied: “Not so, neither; for if I changed my religion, I am sure I kept true to my principle, which is to live and die the Vicar of Bray.”
In a note in Nichols’ Select Poems, 1782, vol. viii., p. 234, it is stated that The song of the Vicar of Bray “is said to have been written by an officer in Colonel Fuller’s regiment, in the reign of King George the First. It is founded on an historical fact; and though it reflects no great honour on the hero of the poem, is humourously expressive of the complexion of the times, in the successive reigns from Charles the Second to George the First.
As to the name of this famous Vicar there are several theories. According to one authority, “Pendleton, the celebrated Vicar of Bray,” became rector of St. Stephen’s, Walbrook, in the City of London, in the reign of Edward VI. But in a letter from Mr. Brome, to Mr. Rawlins, dated June 14, 1735, he says, “I have had a long chase after the Vicar of Bray. Dr. Fuller, in his Worthies, takes no notice of him, I suppose he knew not his name. I am informed it was Simon Alleyn or Allen, who was Vicar of Bray about 1540, and died 1588, so was Vicar of Bray nearly fifty years. You now partake of the sport that has cost me some pains to take.”
Camden, in his Britannia, says of Alleyn: “This is he of whom is the proverb, ‘The Vicar of Bray still.’” The song however, refers to an entirely different period, commencing in the reign of Charles II. and lasting until “the illustrious House of Hanover.” There was a Vicar of Bray, unknown to fame, who was vicar during the exact period covered by the song. His tombstone is in the centre aisle of Bray Church, and its record is that his name was Francis Carswell, that he was chaplain to Charles II. and James II., Rector of Remenham and Vicar of Bray forty-two years, and that he died in 1709.
――――
THE COURT CHAPLAIN.
When Pitt array’d the British arms, To check the Gallic ferment, I spread the regicide alarms, And so I got preferment; To teach my flock I never miss’d, “Reform is revolution, “And damn’d are those that do assist “To mend a Constitution.”
And this is law, I will aver, Tho’ stiff-neck’d fools may sneer, sir, Whoe’er may be the Minister, I’ll be the Chaplain here, sir.
When gentle Sidmouth sway’d the Crown And peace came into fashion, The lust of war I hooted down, And puff’d pacification. I vow’d the papists were agreed To burn all honest men, sir: And Methodism had been my creed―― But Pitt came in again, sir, And this is law, &c.
When Grey and Grenville made the laws For Britain’s tol’rant nation, I took the cudgels for the cause Of transubstantiation. The Articles I made a joke, (Finding I should not need ’em:) And, Afric’s fetters being broke, E’en grew a friend to Freedom. And this is law, &c.
When Perceval advised our King, (The Church of England’s glory) My conscience was another thing, For I had turn’d a Tory: I cursed the Whigs, no more in place; I damn’d their moderation, And swore they shook the Church’s base, By sinful toleration. And this is law, &c.
Now that the Ministry relent, And Erin’s sons look big, sir, I feel a soft’ning sentiment, Which makes me half a Whig, sir. And thus preferment I procure, In each new doctrine hearty―― Alike extol, neglect, abjure, Pope, King, or Bonaparte. At least ’tis law, &c.
The now prevailing politics, The now administration, On these allegiance do I fix―― While they can keep their station: For in my faith and loyalty I never more will falter, To Liverpool and Castlereagh, Until the times shall alter.
For thus I safely may aver, However fools may sneer, sir, That whoso be the Minister, I must be Chaplain here, sir.
From Posthumous Parodies. London: John Miller. 1814.
――――
WHO’S YOUR RATTER?[32]
In Mr. Gladstone’s powerful days, When Tories were a faction, We used his every word to praise, And glorify each action. To teach our readers we ne’er miss’d, Their William was perfection, And traitors those who dared resist, Or move his bill’s rejection! But this the law is we’ll maintain, Until it cease to pay, sir, That whatsoever party reign, We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir!
The People’s William lost his place, And Dizzy was victorious; The Tories we had called so base Replaced the Liberals glorious. But soon we found ’twould never do To still support the latter; We’d vow’d to do so, it is true, But still that did not matter. For this the law is we’ll maintain, Until it cease to pay, sir, That whatsoever party reign, We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir!
And see how well our “ratting” pays, For Ministers are grateful, And from their table drop some scraps Enough to fill a plateful. And when we up back stair-ways creep, To Salisbury see, or Dizzy, They rarely kick us down again, Unless they’re very busy. So this the law is we’ll maintain, Until it cease to pay, sir, That whatsoever party reign, We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir!
Another fight will soon begin, And p’rhaps, as some allege, sir, The Liberals will th’ elections win, In that case we must hedge, sir. For should the Tories have to yield, They would no further use be; Oh, wouldn’t my Lord Beaconsfield Rare subject for abuse be! For this the law is we’ll maintain, Until it cease to pay, sir, That whatsoever party reign, We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir!
Truth Christmas Number. 1879.
――――
BRADLAUGH’S BRAY.
In good Victoria’s palmy days, When Chartism was prating, I joined the Democratic craze, And practised stump orating. To teach my mob I never missed That King-made law is bad law, And damn’d be all who dare resist The rise of righteous Bradlaugh. For this is law, I will maintain, Until my dying day, sir, That over Parliament I’ll reign, Or there’ll be the devil to pay, sir.
When first my stump career began, Rank heresy I spouted, Belief in God as Lord of man, As lunacy I scouted. Disguised as great “Iconoclast,” In wrangling I waxed foxy, Blew my own trumpet’s brazen blast, And started my new ’doxy.
For this is THE true faith, I swear, Nor dare to say me nay, sir, Believe in Bradlaugh, Cromwell’s heir, And for his triumph bray, sir.
But finding Atheists weak and thin, I sought a higher mission, And found much greater profit in The vending of sedition. Though mobs can’t think, they shun a bore, They love a bright variety, Which proved to me my forte was more For politics than piety.
So this is law I do declare, In this my trying day, sir, That none shall judge me by my acts, Nor yet by what I say, sir.
So down with Kings and Queens and Priests, And Church and State and Pensions, And up with Dilke’s Republic, and My grand Freethought Conventions; Saints Malthus, Knowlton, Besant――these Are lights this dark world’s needing, So up with population checks, And down with all good breeding.
For if this had but been the law In my good father’s day, sir, One nuisance less of print and jaw, Had not now blocked the way, sir.
Sometimes a nation’s destiny By cobbler’s wax-end hangs, sir, I found myself an M. P. by M.P. rical harangues, sir, And though my “lay” was strong and bold, (For “takings” flowed in thereby) The Crown I’d cursed――I’ll now uphold, The Book Pd scorned I’ll swear by!
For this should be the law, I say, And shall do to my grave, sir, A man may swear his soul away, His path to power to pave, sir.
Now to our Gracious Queen, her Heir, And Protestant succession. To each I will allegiance swear (While they can keep possession), So now, sweet Commons! hear my prayer, Have pity on my grievin’, Please let me on that Bible swear By Him I don’t believe in.
And when I’m Lord Protector, sir, I’ll make the law to be, sir, That whatsoe’er a man shall swear, His conscience shall be free, sir.
From Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet, By ION. London, Houlston & Sons.
――――
THE HOUSE OF LORDS.
When bluff King Hal grew tired of Kate, And sued for his divorce, sir, He cast about, and found in us His willing tools, of course, sir. What for her grief? We laughed at that, And left her in the lurch, sir, While every one of us grew fat By plunder of the Church, sir.
To hold a candle to Old Nick Has ever been our way, sir, And still we’ll play the self-same trick, So long as it will pay, sir.
Two other queens that underwent “The long divorce of steel,” sir―― Do you suppose that e’er we wept, Or for their fate did feel, sir? We only sought to please the King, And his worst wishes further; And gaily did our order join In each judicial murther.
For us no trick was e’er too base, No crime too foul to shock, sir, Nor innocence availed to save E’en women from the block, sir.
When Mary came with fire and stake Poor pious folks to kill, sir, No single protest did we make, But let her work her will, sir; But when the Church reclaimed her lands, And looked for smooth compliance, We quickly raised our armèd bands And gave her bold defiance.
Thus did the Queen her error learn, To think (how gross the blunder!) That, though we let her rack and burn, We’d e’er restore our plunder.
Elizabeth, the mighty Queen, We quailed beneath her frown, sir, With nought but fear and hate for one So worthy of the crown, sir. As abject traitors round her throne We fulsome homage paid her, Though more than half of us were known To plot with the invader.
To her for ducal coronets We never were beholden; To us the days of “Good Queen Bess” Were anything but “golden.”
When slobbering James of coin was short, He baronets invented, And to creating lords for gold Right gladly he consented; A handsome “tip” was all he asked To make you duke or lord, sir―― No question ever of your worth, ’Twas what you could afford, sir.
To be a peer, “your grace,” “my lord,” O, Lord! how fine it sounded! And thus, by shelling out of cash, Were noblest houses founded.
When Charles the First, the public right To crush but now applies him, And willing help he gets from us; As friends we stand beside him. His acts of tyranny and fraud Scarce one of us opposes―― The fine, the prison, or the whip, Or slitting people’s noses.
To curb the tyrant of his will Was no way in our line, sir, All human rights were forfeited, And merged in “Right Divine,” sir.
The Second Charles just suited us, We joined his lewd carouses, And concubines became the source Of many ducal houses. And, as reward of services That history rarely mentions, You still enjoy the privilege Of paying us the pensions;
And this we swear, by all that’s blue, Despite that prudes cry “Hush, sir!” That whatsoever we may do You’ll never find us blush, sir.
In James’s Court we flourished still; Like sycophants we vied, sir; To be a royal mistress formed Our daughters’ highest pride, sir; For Whigs though tortures were devised, Their legs with wedges broke, sir, We ate and drank, and laughed and played, But ne’er a word we spoke, sir.
For mingled cruelty and wrong We never did upbraid him; But when a paying chance came round, Right quickly we betrayed him.
When William came, with righteous rule, We proved but glum consenters; The King we deemed was but a fool, To tolerate Dissenters; Whilst on his part his Majesty Distrusted us with reason, For ’gainst our chosen lord and king We still kept plotting treason.
And so against all righteous things We’ve struggled from the first, sir, To vex and thwart the better kings, And sided with the worst, sir.
In reign of Anne, ’twas one of us,[33] Gave notice to the foe, sir, Against his port and arsenal We aimed a warlike blow, sir; And thus were lost, in dire defeat, Eight hundred sailors bold, sir―― But what of that, when France’s bribe Our “noble duke” consoled, sir?
Betrayal of the State’s designs By this colossal traitor―― What wonder now the lordlings praise His humble imitator!
With George the Third it was essayed To purge our code from blood, sir, But we the arm of mercy stayed, Its efforts all withstood, sir; To hang for e’en a paltry theft―― Though tempted sore by hunger―― Was God’s own justice, so it seemed To every boroughmonger.
And so poor wretches, one or more, At every fair or wake, sir, Performed “the dance without a floor,” Our thirst for blood to slake, sir.
Yet had the self-same laws been tried On us without distinction, Their action surely had implied The peerage’s extinction. But while the gallows we upheld, “Offence’s gilded hand,” sir, Had all our lordly acres swelled With thefts of common land, sir.
While wicked prizes thus we claw, And justice shove aside, sir “Not ’gainst the law, but by the law,” Has ever been our guide, sir.
When Pitt the Irish Parliament Resolved to bring to London, He had to buy their peer’s consent Or else his scheme was undone, So English coronets galore Were scattered through their tribe, sir, Besides a million pounds or more―― Their stipulated bribe, sir.
And by this opportunity They drove their dirty trade, sir, To show to all posterity How lords and dukes are made, sir.
When Wesleyans and Baptists, too, For right of education, At public universities Did press their application, ’Twas we their just demand refused―― Denied their common right, sir, And all our special powers abused To gratify our spite, sir.
When Jews to sit in Parliament Had duly been elected, ’Twas we kept shut the Commons’ door, Their right to vote rejected.
On Railway Bills our conduct calls For no detailed narration; No line could pass our lands without Outrageous compensation. Like gorging vultures at the feast, Our greed surpassed all bounds, sir, Our blackmail figured, at the least, One hundred million pounds, sir.
Of pa_y_-triotism we’ll never tire, For it we’ll live and die, sir, And, if the reason you inquire. We spell it with a y, sir.
In reason’s name or righteousness, You vainly may reprove us, For scorn, contempt, and threats possess The only power to move us. To mutilate, reject, delay, Obstruct whene’er we dare it, We’ll persevere in our old way So long as you will bear it.
Of this be sure, until that day Such things shall ne’er be mended, Till million voices join to say, “The House of Lords is ended!”
C. F. The Weekly Dispatch. December 7, 1884.
There was another short parody of the same song in The Weekly Dispatch of August 24, 1884. It also was directed against the House of Lords, and concluded:――
“So bend and mend, proud peers, or end In signal dissolution.”
――――
THE NEW VICAR OF BRAY. (Mr. Gladstone Loquitur.)
In good King William’s peaceful reign, when loyalty no harm meant, A zealous Tory then was I, and showed no small discernment; To teach the crowd I never failed, that Tories were appointed To save the King and Church and State from rebels unannointed.
And this is law I will maintain unto my dying day, sir, That whatsoever parties reign still I’ll in office stay, sir.
When Peel at length assumed the reins, and Free Trade came in fashion, Protective laws I hooted down, as hurtful to the nation. The Treasury Bench I found would fit full well my Constitution; And there I first began to air my matchless elocution.
And this is law, &c.
When Palmerston look things in hand to ease a Nation’s grievance, With this new wind I steered about, and swore to him allegiance; Old principles I did revoke, set conscience at a distance, Sent Derby to the right about, and laughed at all resistance.
And this is law, &c.
When Disraeli began to shine, and seemed to dim my glory, A downright Liberal I became, and grew to hate a Tory. The Whigs began to look askance; I scouted moderation, And held my own in spite of all by much prevarication.
And this is law, &c.
When Chamberlain came on the stage, with precepts Communistic, I joined the crowd with him and Dilke, and other folks deistic. Propped up by them I kept my place and promised less taxation; Then straight sent up the Income Tax, and went for confiscation.
And this is law, &c.
When Salisbury and Churchill came I made out at a glance, sir, That Parnell and his motley crew were now my only chance, sir; So now for Home Rule straight I go, unheeding revolution, And fondly hope before I die to smash the Constitution.
And this is law I will maintain unto my dying day, sir―― That whatsoever parties reign I will in office stay, sir.
S. H. The Globe. March 24, 1886.
――――:o:――――
OLD TOWLER.
Bright Chanticleer proclaims the dawn, And spangles deck the thorn, The lowing herds now quit the lawn, The lark springs from the corn: Dogs, huntsmen, round the window throng, Fleet Towler leads the cry, Arise the burden of my song, This day a stag must die. With a hey, ho, chevy! Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy! Hark! hark! tantivy! This day a stag must die.
The cordial takes its merry round, The laugh and joke prevail, The huntsman blows a jovial sound, The dogs snuff up the gale; The upland wilds they sweep along, O’er fields, through brakes they fly, The game is roused, too true the song, This day a stag must die. With a hey, ho, &c.
Poor stag; the dogs thy haunches gore, The tears run down thy face, The huntsman’s pleasure is no more, His joys were in the chase; Alike the gen’rous sportsman burns, To win the blooming fair, But yet he honours each by turns, They each become his care. With a hey, ho, &c.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
THIS DAY A STAG MUST DIE. (An imitation of “Old Towler.”)
The op’ning morn dispels the night, Her beauties to display, The sun breaks forth, in glory bright, And hails the new-born day; Diana like, behold me then The silver arrow wield, And call on horses, dogs, and men, Arise, and take the field. With a hey ho chivy, Hark forward tantivy! Arise, bold hunters, cheerly rise, This day a stag must die.
O’er mountains, valleys, hills, and dales, The fleet-foot coursers fly, Nor heed whate’er the sport assails, Resolved a stag shall die! Roads, trees, and hedges seem, to move, Such joys does hunting yield; While Health a handmaid deigns to prove, When huntsmen take the field. With a hey ho chivy, &c.
Thus virgins are by man pursued, And beauty made his aim, ’Till, by his wily craft subdued, He hunts for other game; And since e’en life is but a race We run till forced to yield; Yo, ho, tantivy, join the chase, Arise, and take the field. With a hey ho chivy, &c.
――――
SONG OF THE MATCHMAKING MAMMA.
Bright chandeliers the room adorn, Each thing’s arranged with care, And gayest smiles and silks are worn This night to catch the Heir. With a heigho! Letty! Hark forward, you forward Miss Betty, To-night we hunt the He-e-e-i-r―― To-night we hunt the Heir!
Poor Heir! you feel our sport a bore, We read it in your face; If you’ll propose to one――no more You’ll find us give you chase. With a sigh from Letty! Or forward, too forward Miss Betty! No more we’ll hunt the He-e-e-ir―― No more we’ll hunt the Heir!
From George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack for 1848.
――――
A HUNTING SONG. (Dedicated to the Jamaica Committee.)
Our chance at EYRE we claim this dawn―― Our witnesses are sworn―― A new indictment we have drawn, Despite the public’s scorn. Dogged hither by a yelping throng, The Governor draws nigh―― So raise the burden of our song―― “Peccavi” he must cry! Chorus――With a hey, oh, levy Subscriptions our victim to chevy. Law charges heavy! (Here comes a yelping of hounds.) “Peccavi” he must cry.
* * * * *
Despair! Our Christian sport is o’er, The judge has spoilt our case; “A colony preserved” no more Can we pronounce disgrace. The jury no true bill returns,―― To cheer the public dare! No gratitude our labour earns―― We can’t hunt down our (H)EYRE. Chorus.――With a heigho, heavy The legal expenses to levy! Vain our chevy! (Here the yelping grows faint), “Peccavimus,” we cry!
Fun. June 13, 1868.
――――
HUMANITY HUNTING SONG.
“OPENING MEET OF THE WINDSOR GARRISON DRAG-HOUNDS.――On Saturday, in miserably wet weather, this pack of draghounds commenced their hunting season…. The hounds will be hunted twice a week (every Wednesday and Saturday) during the season.”――Morning Paper.
We’re going to have a glorious run, This murk and mizzling morn. Our Hunt inferior is to none, Except not even the Quorn. A substitute will, scent as strong As Reynard’s own, supply. Excuse the burden of my song; This day a Drag must die!
Chorus―― With a hey, ho, chivy; Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy! Excuse the burden of my song; This day a Drag must die!
Because, although a herring red May, like a fox, be tracked, The Drag is absolutely dead In point of literal fact. Yet hounds and horses after go, With huntsmen’s horns, and cry Of “Yoicks!” and shout of “Tallyho!” This day a Drag must die! Chorus――With a hey, ho, &c.
A Drag’s as good to ride behind As ever a fox’s tail, Well drawn about, with turn and wind, O’er many a hill and dale. Fence, hedgerow, palings, turnpike gate, The rider’s pluck will try, As much as though ’twere true to state, This day a Drag must die! Chorus――With a hey, ho, &c.
Each man as much risks life or limb As when a fox is slain; The sport is all the same to him, And we give no animal pain. Humane excitement whilst we seek, No victim in our eye; Except as now, when so to speak, This day a Drag must die! Chorus――With a hey, ho, &c.
Note.――WILLIAM COBBETT, in one of his charming works, tells a delightful story of the revenge he, when a young clodhopper, once took of a huntsman who had fetched him a cut of his whip; in repayment for which injury Cobbett went and trailed a red herring over the hunting-ground, and then, mounted on a hill-top commanding a view all round, stood enjoying the satisfaction of seeing the hounds thrown off the scent, and the fox-hunt turned into a drag-hunt, to his enemy’s vexation.
Punch. November 5, 1881.
――――:o:――――
OLD KING COAL. (Air: “OLD KING COLE.”)
I.
Old King Coal was a merry old soul: “I’ll move the world,” quoth he; “My England’s high, and rich, and great, But greater she shall be!” And he call’d for the pick, and he call’d for the spade, And he call’d for his miners bold; “And it’s dig,” he said, “in the deep, deep earth; You’ll find my treasures better worth Than mines of Indian gold!”
II.
Old King Coal was a merry old soul, Yet not content was he; And he said, “I’ve found what I’ve desired, Though ’tis but one of three.” And he call’d for water, he call’d for fire, For smiths and workmen true: “Come, build me engines great and strong; We’ll have,” quoth he, “a change ere long; We’ll try what Steam can do.”
III.
Old King Coal was a merry old soul: “’Tis fairly done,” quoth he, When he saw the myriad wheels at work O’er all the land and sea. They spared the bones and strength of men, They hammer’d, wove, and spun; There was nought too great, too mean, or small, The giant STEAM had power for all;―― His task was never done.
IV.
Old King Coal was a merry old soul: Quoth he, “We travel slow; I should like to roam the wide world round, As fast as the wild winds blow.” And he call’d for his skilful engineers; And soon through hills and vales, O’er rivers wide, through tunnels vast, The flying trains like lightning pass’d, On the ribs of the mighty Rails.
V.
Old King Coal was a merry old soul, A merry old soul is he; May he never fail in the land we love, Who has made us great and free! While his miners mine, and his engines work, Through all our happy land, We shall flourish fair in the morning light, And our name and our fame, and our might and our right, In the front of the world shall stand!
CHARLES MACKAY.
――――
QUEEN COLE.
Oh! little Queen Cole was as nice a little soul As any in this company; And she loved the King more than anything Else――but a green monkey. So, when Old King Cole did call for his bowl,―― As in truth, very oft did he,―― If he’d send away the fellows, to make merry in the cellars, Why, a sly little drop took she, Why, a sly, &c.
But little Queen Cole (and it’s true upon my soul, Strange though the fact may be) She scolded the King like anything, For smoking of tobaccy! Though of angels the type, she couldn’t bear a pipe, She hated it mortally; And she’d make such a rout as put the King’s pipe out, Oh! most confoundedly. Oh! most confoundedly.
Now, little Queen Cole had a musical soul, So she sent for her pianists three; When Mr. Chopin he soon came a-hopping, Such a very nimble chap was he. While Thalberg and Liszt, each with ten-finger’d fist, As no mortal e’er did see; And never till now was there heard such a row On one poor piano-for_te_. On one poor piano-for_te_.
Also, little Queen Cole had a singing soul, And she sent for her singers three, And she liked the notes from the musical throats Of Grisi and Persiani. But, the third one, to wit, she said could not sing a bit, ’Cause his name didn’t end in “I.” Some fellow from town, some Jones or Brown; So very soon snubb’d was he. Oh, very soon, &c.
This was all very well, but I must also tell That she hated the secretary; For he always would look in the royal cash-book; Such an aggravating chap was he. “Vot’s this?” says he, “Fippence do I see, for taters Three pounds; bless me! Vy, taters, I’ll be bound, may be had three pound Tuppence-ha’penny!” “Ah! tuppence-ha’penny!”
Well, little Queen Cole, as time did roll, Fulfilled her destiny; That is to say, in a genteel kind of way, She had a large family. So that Old King Cole felt anxious in his soul, And with a deep sigh said he, “Drat the people, if I ax ’em, why they won’t let me tax ’em, For to fill my treasury.” “For to fill, &c.”
But little Queen Cole was as coaxing a little soul, As you’d find on a summer’s day; So said she, “If I axes, now I know they’ll pay the taxes.” “We’ll be smother’d if we do!” said they. “For ve werry much winces at this long list of princes, Vich is longer than it ought for to be!” But the Queen, too proud to wrangle, oh! she set up a mangle, And her subjects they went tax free. And her subjects, &c.
But the people grew ashamed, when they heard the story named, How she mangled for the whole family; So they swore “Blood and ’ounds,” and they fumbled out the “browns,” Just in time for their old country. For a very old foe saw the royal coffer low, And a very fierce attack made he; And it would have served them right (they were shabby fellows quite), If he’d gain’d the victory. If he’d gained, &c.
From Sharp’s Vauxhall Comic Song Book. No date.
――――
OLD KING COAL.
Old King Coal paid a very high toll, And a very high toll paid he; And it went in the bottle, and it went in the bowl, In green fat, callipash, callipee. What a shame, what a shame, what a shame! said the people, What a wrong that this should be! And there’s none whate’er that can compare To the sons of gluttony.
Old King Coal paid a very high toll, And a very high toll paid he: And the City of London eat up the whole, By consent of the Powers that be. This won’t do, this won’t do, this won’t do! says the people; This must not, shall not be; And we now declare we’ll no longer bear Such a monstrous robbery!
Punch. November 29, 1851.
(Notwithstanding Mr. Punch’s virtuous indignation the City of London still levies the obnoxious Coal Tax, and Parliamentary Reports have recently shown in what manner some of the money is expended.)
HENRY COLE, C.B.[34]
“We write in a state of great depression. Our readers will forgive us if we are not sprightly this week; there is a time for everything, and now with us it is the time for grieving. We have fallen under the displeasure of Mr. HENRY COLE, C.B.!!
Gentle Public pity us!
Oh! Henry Cole, C.B., deal gently with us.
Oh! creator of South Kensington; oh! author of Mumbo Jumbo, don’t be too hard on us.
We are sorry, and our heart is heavy within us. Oh! inexhaustible Cole, consume us not in thine ire!
What have we done that we should be smitten with thy fury? Did we ever insult thee by coupling thy name with high Art? Did we ever accuse thee of holding the interests of thy country higher than thine own? Listen while we praise thee.
Yes, we will now praise the great, the mighty, the gentle Cole. We will show him how deep, how sincere, is our love, our veneration, our worship, of Henry Cole, C.B.
Who is the very greatest architect of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the greatest painter of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the greatest military hero of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the greatest author of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the handsomest man of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the most immaculate statesman of this age? Henry Cole, C.B.
Oh! Henry Cole, C.B., will you forgive us now?”
The Coming “Strife.”
Old King Cole was a savage old soul, And a savage old soul was he; Captain Coles was his intimate friend, And almost as savage as he.
Said Old King Cole, the savage old soul, As savage as ever could be, “My friend you must lend me a turret ship In which I can put to sea?”
Says Captain Coles, while his eyeball rolls, As savage as ever you see, “For what do you want a turret ship, And why sail o’er the sea?”
Says Old King Cole, the savage old soul, As savage as ever could be; “I want it to smash, and crash, and to dash, The Ed. of the TOMAHAWKIE?”
Says Captain Coles while his eyeball rolls, As savage as ever you see; “I heard he had threatened you with 68 pound, Of the finest gunpowder tea!”
Says Old King Cole, the savage old soul, As savage as ever could be; “If you’ll only lend me a turret ship, I’ll soon annihilate he!”
The Tomahawk. September 7, 1867.
――――
YOUNG KING COAL.[35] New Version of an Old Song.
Young King COAL was a merry young soul, And a merry young soul was he; He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl, And he called for his fiddlers three. There was CHAMBERLAININI, and HARTINGTONINI, And, GOSCHENI to make up the three; For young King C., oh, was fond of a tri-o, Very fond of a trio was he.
Young King COAL left his rivals in the hole, When he took the Chancelle-rie Of the British Exchequer, and, to keep up their pecker, They slanged him unmercifull-y. So himself to cloak from the very provoking jeers of the Rad Part-y, Young King COAL their old mantle stole, And a very smart Rad made he.
Young King COAL loved “smoking” in his soul, And his Brummagem Best Bird’s-eye, And his “Cavendish,” went faster than was pleasing to the master Of the House where his new baccy’s he would try. And our young King C., and his fiddlers three, Thy kicked up such a shine and such a fume, Mr. IRVING’S worst witch-riot in a Faust-scene’s clear and quiet, To the Tory-Democratic Big Boom.
Young King COAL he called for his bowl, And he called for his fiddlers three, And he served ’em out a dozen pounds of best Union rosin, And they all played a symphonee. CHAMBERLAININI and GOSCHENI played like STRAUSS and like ZERBINI, And then HARTING-TON-I-NI Played “God Save the Queen!” and the others all joined in, In a way to make a patriot pipe his eye.
Young King COAL he laid down his bowl, And a dickens of a speech made he; And he talked so loud that he frightened half the crowd, And broke up the symphonee. At least some (in the Chorus) cried, “This music can’t be for us,” But as for those fiddlers three, Whilst the Chorus cried, “We’re diddled!” they symphonically fiddled, And muttered “O, fiddlededee!”
Young King COAL still waves his pipe and bowl, Though they reek of Rad flavour still. Some say it’s far from right, that he’ll set himself a-light, And blow up like a gunpowder-mill. But as for the whole of the “principles” of COAL, When he was a true Toree, If you want ’em you may see ’em in the British Museum, Or the writings of Lord SALISBUREE.
Punch. December 4, 1886.
――――:o:――――
WHEN THIS OLD CAP WAS NEW.
From a black-letter copy among the Roxburgh Songs and Ballads.
When this old cap was new―― ’Tis since two hundred year―― No malice then we knew, But all things plenty were: All friendship now decays, (Believe me, this is true) Which was not in those days, When this old cap was new.
The nobles of our land Were much delighted then To have at their command A crew of lusty men; Which by their coats were known, Of tawny, red, or blue, With crests on their sleeves shown, When this old cap was new.
Now pride hath banish’d all, Unto our lands reproach, When he whose means are small Maintains both horse and coach: Instead of an hundred men, The coach allows but two; This was not thought on then, When this old cap was new.
ANONYMOUS, about 1666.
――――
A CHANGE OF STYLE.
When this old hat was new The railroad was a stage; And a six-mile team Made plenty of steam, For the broadest kind of gauge. You caught a goose when you wanted a pen, The ink you used was blue; And the women you loved didn’t want to be men When this old hat was new.
A Spade was only a spade, And Jennie was just plain “Jane” For his impudent lip A boy would skip At the end of a rattan cane. There were sixteen ounces in every pound, Four quarts made a gallon true; But things don’t seem as they used to be When this old hat was new.
But we’ve shortened the time since then, And we’re running a faster heat, And the boys of ten Are full-blown men, Who run the store and the street. We blush to giggle and we should smile; We’re cute and we never say die; We’re up to snuff and we’re full of guile; And we’re just too awfully fly; And father is governor, old man, dad, And his old day is gone; We run things fast and a little bad, Since we put this new hat on.
ROBERT JONES BURDETTE. The Cincinnati Inquirer.
――――
WHEN THIS OLD JOKE WAS NEW.
When this old joke was new, This time worn heritage, The monkey-man its points did scan On pre-historic page. His footmark was the only print; His leaves were leaves that grew; The only tint was Nature’s tint When this old joke was new.
When this old joke was new, Our literature was scant, And literateurs had no reviewers With hearts of adamant; No wild-eyed poets raved of “Spring” We had our tails it’s true, But novels were’nt a general thing When this old joke was new.
When this old joke was new, We drew an easier breath; For we had then no funny men To make us long for death; There was no Punch austere and flat, To paint our faces blue; They wouldn’t have tolerated that When this old joke was new.
When this old joke was new, We somehow hadn’t hit That loss of shame which builds a “name” On other people’s wit. Perhaps folks were more honest then; Had consciences a few, And different from our race of men, When this old joke was new.
HAL BERTE, The Detroit Free Press.
――――:o:――――
SAID A SMILE TO A TEAR.
Said a Smile to a Tear, On the cheek of my dear, And beamed like the sun in spring weather, In sooth, lovely Tear, It strange must appear, That we should be both here together.
I came from the heart, A soft balm to impart, To yonder sad daughter of grief: And I, said the Smile, That heart now beguile, Since you gave the poor mourner relief.
Oh! then, said the Tear, Sweet Smile, it is clear, We are twins, and soft Pity our mother: And how lovely that face Which together we grace, For the woe and the bliss of another!
JAMES KENNEY.
An amusing parody of this song, entitled The Loves of the Plants will be found on page 70 of Volume I. of the Universal Songster. Unfortunately it is too long, as well as too broad, to be inserted in this collection.
――――
THE STEAK AND THE CHOP.
Said a steak to a chop, On a hook in a shop, In the dog-days, and very hot weather, “Dear chop, it is clear, If we long tarry here, We shall certainly melt both together.”
Said the chop from the chump, To the steak from the rump, “Unless there’s a change in the weather, Lovely steak, I agree, In a mess we shall be, And be kitchen-stuff made both together.”
“Oh!” then, with a sigh, Midst the sound, What d’ye buy!” Said the steak to the chop with emotion, “A long or short six, In some save-all to fix, Will at last be our doom, I’ve a notion!”
――――
SAID A FOX TO A GOOSE.
Said a fox to a goose, (From a farm-house let loose) And chanced to be pluming a feather, “Dear goose, how d’ye do? ’Tis strange, and yet true, That you and I meet here together!
Said the goose (with a stare), “Mr. Fox, are you there? And to see you indeed is a pleasure! In truth I must say, That your visit to-day, Is really delight beyond measure!”
Says the fox, “Then, we’ll walk, And like friends so dear talk, And never was seen finer weather.” Says the goose, “Gander Grange Has forbade me to range Or else we would travel together.
Said the fox, “Let him be, Take an airing with me, And hear both the goldfinch and linnet! On the love of a friend, You can, goosy, depend, And”――snapt off her head in a minute.
――――:o:――――
SONG. (By a Person of Quality. Written in the year 1733.)
Fluttering spread thy purple pinions, Gentle Cupid, o’er my heart: I, a slave in thy dominions; Nature must give way to art.
Mild Arcadians, ever blooming, Nightly nodding o’er your flocks, See my weary days consuming, All beneath yon flowery rocks.
Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping, Mourn’d Adonis, darling youth; Him the boar, in silence creeping, Gored with unrelenting tooth.
Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers; Fair Discretion, string the lyre; Soothe my ever-waking slumbers: Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.
Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, Arm’d in adamantine chains, Lead me to the crystal mirrors, Watering soft Elysian plains.
Mournful cypress, verdant willow, Gilding my Aurelia’s brows, Morpheus, hovering o’er my pillow, Hear me pay my dying vows.
Melancholy smooth Meander, Swiftly purling in a round, On thy margin lovers wander, With thy flowery chaplets crown’d.
Thus when Philomela, drooping, Softly seeks her silent mate, See the bird of Juno stooping; Melody resigns to fate.
This mellifluous piece of nonsense was published in the Miscellanies of Alexander Pope, but it was also inserted amongst the poems of Dean Swift, where it was entitled A Love Song in Modern Taste. It ridiculed an affected style of poetry then much in vogue, and which continued in fashion for many years, culminating in the writings of a clique, known as the Della Cruscans, which was originated by a few English, of both sexes, assembled at Florence in 1785. They were named Della Cruscans because their leader, one Robert Merry, signed his trashy effusions as a member of the Acadamy Della Crusca at Florence. Merry wrote a tragedy, entitled Lorenzo, which was more successful than many comedies, for it made the audience laugh immoderately, besides innumerable poems long since forgotten. By a deliberate system of mutual puffing the Della Cruscans forced their absurd productions upon the public, and in the early years of the present century nearly every journal contained some of their poems, published over assumed names, such as Laura Maria, Edwin, Anna Matilda, &c. These were afterwards gathered into volumes, with a few poems by really able writers such as M. G. Lewis, Robert Southey, and S. T. Coleridge, and published by subscription.
There is no knowing how long this twaddle might have held the public taste had not William Gifford (Editor of the Quarterly Review) produced his famous satires The Baviad, and The Maeviad, in which he mercilessly exposed the inflated nonsense written by the Della Cruscans; and by well chosen extracts from their poems turned the laugh so completely against them that they slunk back into their native obscurity.
Gifford’s satires are still read with pleasure, and the extracts given in the notes show that Pope’s nonsense verses were excelled by the would-be-serious Della Cruscans; as for example――
“Slighted love the soul subduing Silent sorrow chills the heart, Treach’rous fancy still pursuing, Still repels the poisoned dart.
Soothing those fond dreams of pleasure Pictur’d in the glowing breast, Lavish of her sweetest treasure, Anxious fear is charm’d to rest.
Fearless o’er the whiten’d billows, Proudly rise, sweet bird of night, Safely through the bending willows Gently wing thy aery flight.”
When the brothers Smith projected their famous Rejected Addresses they included an imitation of the Della Cruscan poetry, entitled Drury’s Dirge, of which Lord Jeffery wrote “The verses are very smooth and very nonsensical――as was intended; but they are not so good as Swift’s celebrated song by a Person of Quality; and are so exactly in the same measure, and on the same plan, that it is impossible to avoid making the comparison.”
――――
DRURY’S DIRGE. BY LAURA MATILDA.[36]
“You praise our sires: but though they wrote with force Their rhymes were vicious, and their diction coarse: We want their strength, agreed; but we atone For that, and more, by sweetness all our own.”――GIFFORD.
I.
Balmy Zephyrs, lightly flitting, Shade me with your azure wing; On Parnassus’ summit sitting, Aid me, Clio, while I sing.
II.
Softly slept the dome of Drury, O’er the empyreal crest, When Alecto’s sister-fury, Softly slumb’ring sunk to rest.
III.
Lo! from Lemnos limping lamely, Lags the lowly Lord of Fire, Cytherea yielding tamely To the Cyclops dark and dire.
IV.
Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness, Dulcet joys and sports of youth, Soon must yield to haughty sadness; Mercy holds the veil to Truth.
V.
See Erostratus the second Fires again Diana’s fane; By the Fates from Orcus beckon’d, Clouds envelope Drury Lane.
VI.
Lurid smoke and frank suspicion Hand in hand reluctant dance: While the God fulfils his mission, Chivalry resign thy lance.
VII.
Hark! the engines blandly thunder, Fleecy clouds dishevell’d lie, And the firemen, mute with wonder, On the son of Saturn cry.
VIII.
See the bird of Ammon sailing, Perches on the engine’s peak, And, the Eagle firemen hailing, Soothes them with its bickering beak.
IX.
Juno saw, and mad with malice, Lost the prize that Paris gave: Jealousy’s ensanguined chalice, Mantling pours the orient wave.
X.
Pan beheld Patroclus dying, Nox to Niobe was turn’d; From Busiris Bacchus flying, Saw his Semele inurn’d.
XI.
Thus fell Drury’s lofty glory, Levell’d with the shuddering stones; Mars, with tresses black and gory, Drinks the dew of pearly groans.
XII.
Hark! what soft Eolian numbers Gem the blushes of the morn! Break, Amphion, break your slumbers, Nature’s ringlets deck the thorn.
XIII.
Ha! I hear the strain erratic Dimly glance from pole to pole; Raptures sweet and dreams ecstatic Fire my everlasting soul.
XIV.
Where is Cupid’s crimson motion? Billowy ecstasy of woe, Bear me straight, meandering ocean, Where the stagnant torrents flow.
XV.
Blood in every vein is gushing, Vixen vengeance lulls my heart; See, the Gorgon gang is rushing! Never, never let us part!
HORACE SMITH. From The Rejected Addresses, 1812.
――――
ALBUM VERSES. By a Fond Lover.
Lovely maid, with rapture swelling, Should these verses meet thine eye, Clouds of absence soft dispelling, Vacant memory heaves a sigh.
As the rose, with fragrance weeping, Trembles to the tuneful wave, So my heart shall twine unsleeping, Till it canopies the grave!
Though another’s smiles requited, Envious fate my doom should be: Joy for ever disunited, Think, ah! think, at times on me!
Oft amid the spicy gloaming, Where the brakes their songs instil, Fond affection silent roaming, Loves to linger by the rill――
There when echo’s voice consoling, Hears the nightingale complain, Gentle sighs my lips controlling, Bind my soul in beauty’s chain.
Oft in slumbers deep recesses, I thy mirror’d image see; Fancy mocks the vain caresses, I would lavish like a bee!
But how vain is glittering sadness! Hark, I hear distraction’s knell! Torture gilds my heart with madness! Now for ever fare thee well!
From The Comic Latin Grammar by Paul Prendergast (Percival Leigh), illustrated by John Leech. London, David Bogue.
――――:o:――――
LORD LOVEL.
Lord Lovel he stood at his castle gate, Combing his milk-white steed, When up came Lady Nancy Bell, To wish her lover good speed, speed, speed, Wishing her lover good speed.
“Where are you going, Lord Lovel? (she said), Oh, where are you going?” said she; “I’m going, my Lady Nancy Bell, Strange countries for to see, see, see, Strange countries for to see.”
“When will you be back, Lord Lovel? (said she) Oh, when will you come back?” said she. “In a year or two, or three at most, I’ll return to my Lady Nancy-cy-cy, I’ll return to my Lady Nancy.”
But he had not been gone a year and a day, Strange countries for to see, When languishing thoughts came into his head, Lady Nancy Bell he would go see, see, see, Lady Nancy Bell he would go see.
So he rode, and he rode on his milk-white horse, Till he came to London town, When he heard St. Pancras’ church bells ring, And the people all mourning around, round, round, And the people all mourning around.
“Oh, what is the matter?” Lord Lovel he said, “Oh, what is the matter?” said he. “A lord’s lady is dead,” an old woman said, “And some call her Lady Nancy-cy-cy, And some call her Lady Nancy.”
So he ordered the grave to be opened wide, And the shroud to be turned down; And there he kissed her clay-cold lips, Till the tears came trickling down, down, down, Till the tears came trickling down.
Lady Nancy she died as it might be to-day, Lord Lovel he died as to-morrow; Lady Nancy she died out of pure, pure grief, Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow, sorrow, sorrow, Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow.
Lady Nancy was laid in St. Pancras’ churchyard, Lord Lovel was laid in the choir, And out of her bosom there grew a red rose, And out of her lover’s a brier-rier, rier, And out of her lover’s a brier.
It grew and it grew to the church steeple top, And then it could grow no higher; So there it entwin’d in a true lover’s knot, For true lovers all to admire,-rire,-rire, For true lovers all to admire.
――――
FRAGMENT OF A BRADLAUGHABLE BALLAD.
He strode and he strode till he reached the lan_ding_, And then he couldn’t “strode” any higher, And there he saw Mister Inspector Den_ning_, Who asked him at once to retire-’ire-’ire. Suggesting that he should retire.
He tackled the Sergeant and his depu_tee_, A Messenger too in the Lobby, When in came a lot of Constabula_ree_,―― Mister Bradlaugh he collared a Bobby――’obby――’obby; But was collared too by that Bobby.
They fought and they tussled away down the stairs, With many a gasp and a guggle, And poor Daddy Longlegs, who won’t say his prayers, Lost his collar and tails in the struggle――’uggle――’uggle. Lost his temper and tails in the struggle.
Who profits by this? The reply’s not remote, Not the Rough, nor the Bobby, nor Gaoler, But as Mister Bradlaugh must have a new coat, ’Tis a capital thing for his tailor――’ailor――’ailor, A very good thing for the tailor.
Punch. August 13, 1881.
――――
THE TALE OF LORD LOVELL.
Lord Lovell he stood at his own front door, Seeking the hole for the key; His hat was wrecked, and his trousers bore A rent across either knee, When down came the beauteous Lady Jane In fair white draperee.
“Oh, where have you been, Lord Lovell?” she said: “Oh, where have you been?” said she: “I have not closed an eye in bed, And the clock has just struck three. Who has been standing you on your head In the ash-barrel, perdee?”
“I am not drunk, Lady Shane,” he said: “And so late it cannot be; The clock struck one as I enter-ed―― I heard it two times or three; It must be the salmon on which I fed Has been too many for me.”
“Go tell your tale, Lord Lovell,” she said: “To the maritime cavalree, To your grandam of the hoary head―― To any one but me. The door is not used to be open-ed With a cigarette for a key.”
THE TUNEFUL LIAR. “Quips.” (Liverpool), March 18, 1887.
――――
JOE MUGGINS AND SALLY BELL.
Joe Muggins he stood at his own cottage door, A-brushing down his black moke, When up came his ladylove, Sally Bell, And thus to her lovier she spoke――oke――oke―― And thus to her lovier she spoke.
Oh! where are you going, Joe Muggins, she said, Oh! where are you going? said she. I’m going, my lass, to Smith’ll markèt, To Smith’ll to sell my donkey――key――key―― To Smith’ll to sell my donkey.
When will you come back, Joe Muggins? she said, When will you come back to me? In an hour or two, or three at the most, So get me a herring for tea――tea――tea―― So get me a herring for tea.
Now he had not been gone an hour or more, To Smithfield, and sold his donkey, When a thought of the herring came into his head I hope it’s a soft roe, said he――he――he―― I hope it’s a soft roe, said he.
* * * * * (Three coarse verses omitted.)
――――
LORD FADDLE’S ELECTION FOR BOSH.
Lord Fitz-Faddle he lived in Bel-gra-vi-a, And being tired of town and ennui He resolved to put up for M.P. somewhere, A Parliament Member to be-e-e, An honorable M.P. to be.
Lord Fitz-Faddle he asked what sum in hard “posh,” Of his Tory friend, “W.B.” It required, to get in for the City of Bosh, And what the expenses might be-e-e, And what the expenses would be.
Said “W.B.” a “safe, good man and true,” “You must send down to Bosh speed-i-ly, With a check on the Bank for a thousand or two, Or perhaps he may want two or three-ree-ree, Or perhaps he may want, &c.”
Lord Fitz he declared, with a smile, to his friend, That he didn’t mean bri-ber-y; Oh, dear, not at all!――not a shilling he’d spend, But what was quite nec-ess ary-ry-ry, But what was quite, &c.
Lord Fitz he went down, found a deal of distress Pervading the coun-ter-y; And, being a kind man, why, he couldn’t do less, Than pity the poor Voters free-ree-ree, Than help the Electors so free.
Then he ordered hotels to be open-ed wide, The “Bell,” and the “George,” and the “Crown,” And forced, when a poor Voter hard-up he spied, A few onion tears to roll down-own-own, The crocodile tears to roll down.
He suddenly took a great interest in pigs, The crops, and all kinds of manure; Vowed he’d nothing in common with Tories or Whigs, But he was the real friend of the poor-oor-oor, That he was the real friend, &c.
Then the “Free, Independent Electors,” somehow, All got in the sun mer-ri-ly; For a week, on the cheap, with mine host of the “Plough,” They feasted con-tin-u-ally-ly-ly, They kept up the game merrily.
’Twas astonishing, what a vast lot of new boots, On a sudden, the Voters displayed; And incredible, what a great number of suits They got, for which “nobody” paid-aid-aid, They wore, for which, &c.
* * * * *
Lord Fitz was returned, and the Liberals beat, But soon comes up petitions, to see Into some queer affairs, and he loses his seat, For “treating,” and “grogs” bri-ber-y-y-y-y, For treating, &c.
The Committee declare that corruption prevails, But Lord Fitz didn’t know it――oh, no! It was all through his Agents, the “Flukers” & “Frails,” That his four or five thousand did go-o-o, That his four or five, &c.
Lord Fitz gets elected, as it might be to-day, But Lord Fitz gets unseated to-morrow; And that all the expenses he’s forced to defray, He knows very well to his sorrow-orrow-orrow, He knows very well, &c.
So Lord Fitz in Bel-gra-vi-a biteth his nails, Minus Parliament honours, and “posh,” And he thinks, as do most, till the Ballot prevails, There’ll be many more Cities like Bosh-osh-osh, That there’ll be more elections like Bosh.
――――:o:――――
THE BROWN JUG.
(From the Opera of the “Poor Soldier,” by J. O’KEEFFE. The song itself is attributed to the Rev. FRANCIS FAWKES, who imitated it from the Latin of Hieronymus Amaltheus.)
Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale (Out of which I now drink to sweet Nan of the vale), Was once Toby Filpot, a thirsty old soul As e’er crack’d a bottle, or fathom’d a bowl. In boozing about ’twas his pride to excel, And among jolly topers he bore off the bell.
It chanced, as in dog-days he sat at his ease In his flow’r woven arbour, as gay as you please, With a friend and a pipe, puffing sorrow away, And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay, His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut, And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt.
His body, when long in the ground it had lain, And Time into clay had resolved it again, A potter found out in its covert so snug, And with part of fat Toby he form’d this brown jug, Now, sacred to friendship, to mirth and mile ale, So here’s to my lovely sweet Nan of the vale.
――――
“DEAR BILL, THIS STONE-JUG.”
(Being an Epistle from TOBY CRACKSMAN, in Newgate, to BILL SYKES.)
Dear Bill, this stone-jug,[a] at which flats dare to rail, (From which till the next Central sittings I hail) Is still the same snug, free-and-easy old hole, Where MACHEATH met his blowens,[b] and WYLDE floor’d his bowl. In a ward with one’s pals,[c] not locked up in a cell, To an old hand like me it’s a fam-ly[d]-hotel.
In the day-rooms the cuffins[e] we queer at our ease, And at Darkman’s[f] we run the rig just as we please; There’s your peck[g] and your lush, hot and reg’lar, each day. All the same if you work, all the same if you play. But the lark’s when a goney[h] up with us they shut, As ain’t up to our lurks,[i] our flash-putter,[j] and smut;
But soon in his eye nothing green will remain, He knows what’s o’clock when he comes out again. And the next time he’s quodded,[k] so downy and snug, He may thank us for making him fly to the jug.[l] But here comes a cuffin――which cuts short my tale, It’s agin rules is screevin’[m] to pals out o’ goal.
(The following postscript seems to have been added when the Warder had passed.)
For them coves in Guildhall and that blessed LORD MAYOR, Prigs on their four bones should chop whiners,[n] I swear: That long over Newgit their Worships may rule, As the High-toby, mob, crack and screeve[o] model school; For if Guv’ment was here, not the Alderman’s Bench, Newgit soon ’ud be bad as “the Pent” or “the Tench.”[p]
Note.――We subjoin a Glossary of MR. CRACKSMAN’S lingo:――
[a] Prison. [b] Ladies of a certain description. [c] Comrades or fast friends. [d] Thieves speak of themselves as “family-men.” [e] Warders. [f] Night. [g] Meat and drink. [h] A greenhorn. [i] Tricks of the trade. [j] Talking slang. [k] Imprisoned. [l] Up to prison ways. [m] Writing. [n] Thieves should pray on their knees. [o] Highway-robbers, swell-mobsmen, burglars, and forgers. [p] Slang names for Pentonville Model Prison, and Milbank Penitentiary.
Punch. January 31, 1857.
――――
FANCY PORTRAIT OF A BISHOP FILL-POTS.[37]
Dear Tom, this black pot, which now foams with vile gall, Out of which you now see lies abundantly fall, Was once Toby Phillpots, as venal a soul As e’er stretched his conscience t’wards interest’s goal, In telling a lie ’twas his praise to excel, And amongst Major Longbows he bore off the bell.
It chanced, as in London he sat at his ease, In want of preferment, as hot as you please, With a pen and some ink pamphleteering away, That Wellington made him a Bishop one day; In the Lords, as his mouth he could never keep shut, He lied till he soon was the Chancellor’s butt.
Yes, ’gainst Catholics long time he had laboured for gain, Till pay set his principle all on the wane, When the Duke found him out in incognito snug, And contrived to a Bishoprick Toby to lug, Who sacred in office, but damned in himself, Now is wholly divided ’twixt venom and pelf.
Figaro in London. July 14, 1832.
――――
THE WHITE MUG.
“Dear Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I fill, And drink to the health of sweet Nan of the Hill, Was once Tommy Tosspot’s, as jovial a sot, As e’er drew a spigot, or drain’d a full pot. In drinking, all round ’twas his joy to surpass, And with all merry tipplers he swigg’d of his glass.”
“One morning in summer, while seated so snug, In the porch of his garden, discussing his jug, Stern Death, on a sudden, to Tom did appear, And said, ‘Honest Thomas, come take your last bier;’ We kneaded his clay in the shape of this can, From which let us drink to the health of my Nan.”
W. M. THACKERAY.
――――
THE GIPSY KING.
’Tis I am the Gipsy King, And where is the king like me? No troubles my dignities bring; No other is half so free. In my kingdom there is but one table, All my subjects partake in my cheer; We would all have champagne were we able, As it is, we have plenty of beer; And ’tis I am the gipsy king.
A king, and a true one, am I; No courtiers nor ministers here! I see everything with my own eye, And hear everything with my own ear. No conspiracies I apprehend, Among brothers and equals I rule; We all help both to gain and to spend, And get drunk when the treasury’s full; And ’tis I am the gipsy king.
* * * * *
This song is founded upon a number of earlier songs recounting the supposed joys of a gipsy life, a few of which may be enumerated for comparison. The first is taken from an old play, entitled “More Dissemblers besides Women,” printed in 1657:――
Song of the Gipsies.
Come, my dainty doxies, My dells, my dells most dear; We have neither house nor land, Yet never want good cheer. We never want good cheer.
We take no care for candle rents, We lie, we snort, we sport in tents, Then rouse betimes and steal our dinners. Our store is never taken Without pigs, hens, or bacon, And that’s good meat for sinners: At wakes and fairs we cozen Poor country folk by dozen.
If one have money, he disburses; Whilst some tell fortunes, some pick purses? Rather than be out of use, We’ll steal garters, hose, or shoes, Boots, or spurs, with gingling rowels, Shirts or napkins, smocks or towels. Come live with us, come live with us.
* * * * *
A somewhat similar song occurs in The Spanish Gipsy, first printed in 1653, it commences:――
Trip it, gipsies, trip it fine, Show tricks and lofty capers;
At threading-needles we repine, And leaping over rapiers: Pindy pandy rascal toys! We scorn cutting purses; Though we live by making noise, For cheating none can curse us.
――――
THE RAILWAY KING.
Oh! ’tis I am the Railway King, And where’s there a king like me, No trouble my shareholders bring, No monarch is half so free; In my kingdom there’s but one table, And that is the time-table here, We all go as fast as we’re able, And steam is our charioteer! For ’tis I am the Railway King! Ha! ha! ’Tis I am the Railway King!
* * * * * (Three verses omitted).
Joe Miller the younger. October 25, 1845.
――――
OH! ’TIS I AM A FRISKY KING. (_As sung by his Majesty of Bavaria with the greatest applause, at Munich._)
Oh! ’tis I am a frisky King And where is the King like me? Into trouble myself I shall bring, For I am so easy and free. My kingdom’s affairs are unstable; My subjects suspect I am queer; Lola Montez I’d wed were I able, As it is, she’s my sweetheart so dear. For I am the Frisky King, ha! ha! For I am the Frisky King.
A King, and a rum one am I, No Jesuit nor minister fear; Their counsels I think all my eye, And give them a flea in their ear. No conspiracy I apprehend, To Lola I’ve given the rule, She helps me to gain and to spend, And in fact, she has got quite the pull. For I am the Frisky King, ha! ha! For I am the Frisky King.
I confess that I am but a man, My failings, who pleases, may know; I’m fond of my girl, and I can, If she likes, let her kick up a row, My subjects are kind unto me, They don’t mind my being an ass; Nor yet that I hold on my knee, At this moment, the prettiest lass, For I am the Frisky King, ha! ha! For I am the Frisky King.
The Man in the Moon, Vol. I.
Charles Louis, King of Bavaria, caused great dissatisfaction in his dominions by his reckless extravagance, and his utter incapacity to fulfil the duties of his position. He formed a disgraceful liaison with a scheming adventuress generally known under the assumed name of Lola Montes, but whom he created Countess Von Landfeldt. At length the interference of Lola Montes in state affairs became too notorious, and she was banished the Kingdom. She afterwards led a wandering life, delivered some lectures in London in 1859, thence proceeding to the United States. She died in New York, January 17, 1861. Charles Louis was compelled to abdicate in March, 1848, but survived his fall for twenty years, living to see the throne occupied by his grandson, Louis II., the Mad King and patron of Wagner, who recently committed suicide.
――――
THE GIPSY “KING.” (A CAVEAT FROM THE DULWICH ENCAMPMENT.)
Oh, ’tis I am a gipsy king, And where is there king like me? From my freehold land defiance I fling, And scoff at the powers that be; For my court is my caravan, Where in dozens my subjects “pig,” And drink and fight like a riotous clan, And for nobody trouble a fig.
They say that a nuisance am I To the householders far and near, That my ribald rabble make women fly, And our raids fill tenants with fear. We’re a pest, a disturbance, a curse (So I hear that the gentlefolks say), But they’d find it hard were we ten times worse To frighten the gipsies away.
They may talk of the Vagrant Act, And the Nuisance Inspector send (My dog the medical officer pack’d), And the School Board its aid may lend; The Vestry its powers may bring, And the Courts and the Parleyment, But they’re only amusing the gipsy king, And his court in the van and tent.
Funny Folks, June 22, 1878.
――――:o:――――
WHEN WE WENT OUT A GIPSYING.
In the days when we went gipsying, A long time ago, The lads and lasses in their best, Were drest from top to toe. We danc’d and sung the jocund song, Upon the forest green, And nought but mirth and jollity, Around us could be seen. And thus we pass’d the merry time, Nor thought of care or woe, In the days when we went gipsying, A long time ago.
All hearts were light, and eyes were bright, And nature’s face was gay, The trees their leafy branches spread, And perfume filled the May; ’Twas there we heard the cuckoo’s note, Steal softly through the air, While every scene around us look’d, Most beautiful and fair, And thus we pass’d, &c. * * * * *
――――
THE DAYS WHEN WE WENT GIPSYING.
Oh, the days when we went gipsying, A long time ago, Though meant to be amusing trips, Proved nothing else but woe. The fire-place would never draw, The wood was always green, And naught but flies and creeping things Were in the milkpot seen. And thus we passed the hours away, In pastime very slow, In the days when we went gipsying, A long time ago.
The tea was always very bad, The water never boiled; We wore the smartest things we had, And they were always spoiled. And if along the meadows damp We felt inclined to roam, It usually began to rain, Before we got safe home.
And thus we passed the hours away, In pastime very slow, In the days when we went gipsying, A long time ago.
We never mean to pay again A visit to the scene, And seat ourselves on emmets’ nests―― We are not now so green. We do not love it overmuch, But when we want our tea, We’ll take it on a table, where It always ought to be.
And thus we’ll drink it properly, Provided ’tis not sloe, Much better than the gipsying A long time ago!
From A Bowl of Punch, by Albert Smith. London. 1848.
――――
AN OXFORD SONG.
Oh, the days we read those musty books, a short time ago, Were certainly the seediest a man could ever know. We filled no glass, we kissed no lass, our hacks grew fat and sleek, We thought it dissipation if we rode them twice a week. We rose up early in the morn, we sat up late at e’en, And nought but horrid lexicons about us could be seen!
Unheeded lay our meerchaums then, our “Lopez” bound in green; The undisturbed blue-bottle was on our team-whip seen; The goblets in our foxes’ heads ne’er shone with good Bordeaux, But we took a glass of something mild, and talked about “_Great go_.”
We rose up early, &c.
We got parental letters then, in which ’twas gravely vowed, How harrowed all would be at home, if we perchance were ploughed: And what was worse, those sordid duns an early payment wished, ’Till, what ’twixt ticks and tutors too, we felt extremely “fish’d.”
We rose up, &c.
’Tis past! ’tis past! ’tis won at last! my Muse no longer grieves; We sweep adown the High Street now in our long silken sleeves; And envious Under-graduates sigh forth as we draw near, “O, crickey! how I wish I was a ‘new-made Bacalere.’ They rise up when they like at morn, they sit up late at e’en, And hunt and quaff, and smoke and laugh, the whole Term thro’, I ween.”
From Hints to Freshmen. Oxford: J. Vincent.
――――
THE LAY OF THE LOVER’S FRIEND.
I would all womankind were dead, Or banished o’er the sea; For they have been a bitter plague These last six weeks to me: It is not that I’m touched myself, For that I do not fear: No female face hath shown me grace For many a bygone year.
But ’tis the most infernal bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who’s lost his heart A short time ago.
When e’er we steam it to Blackwall, Or down to Greenwich run, To quaff the pleasant cider cup, And feed on fish and fun; Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill, To catch a breath of air: Then, for my sins, he straight begins To rave about his fair.
Oh, ’tis the most tremendous bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who’s lost his heart A short time ago.
In vain you pour into his ear Your own confiding grief; In vain you claim his sympathy, In vain you ask relief; In vain you try to rouse him by Joke, repartee, or quiz; His sole reply’s a burning sigh, And “What a mind it is!”
O Lord! it is the greatest bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who’s lost his heart A short time ago.
I’ve heard her thoroughly described, A hundred times, I’m sure; And all the while I’ve tried to smile, And patiently endure; He waxes strong upon his pangs, And potters o’er his grog; And still I say, in a playful way “Why, you’re a lucky dog!”
But oh! it is the heaviest bore Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who’s lost his heart A short time ago.
I really wish he’d do like me When I was young and strong; I formed a passion every week, But never kept it long. But he has not the sportive mood, That always rescued me, And so I would all women could Be banished o’er the sea.
For ’tis the most egregious bore, Of all the bores I know. To have a friend who’s lost his heart A short time ago.
WILLIAM E. AYTOUN.
Professor Aytoun died in 1865. These verses are taken from a collection, published in Boston, entitled The Humorous Poetry of the English Language, by J. Parton, but I do not know where they first appeared.
――――
OLD SIMON THE CELLARER.
Old Simon, the cellarer, keeps a rare store―― Of malmsey and malvoisie, And cyprus, and who can say how many more, For a chary old soul is he, Of sack and canary he never doth fail, And all the year round there is brewing of ale; Yet he never aileth, he quaintly doth say, While he keeps to his sober six flagons a day; But ho, ho, ho, his nose doth show, How oft the black-jack to his lips doth go.
Dame Margery sits in her own still room, And a matron sage is she; From thence oft at curfew is wafted a fume. She says it is rosemary. But there’s a small cupboard, behind the back stair, And the maids say they often see Margery there―― Now Margery says she grows very old, And must take a something to keep out the cold; But ho, ho, ho, old Simon doth know―― Where many a flask of his best doth go.
Old Simon reclines in his high-backed chair, And talks of taking a wife, And Margery oft has been heard to declare, She ought to be settled for life. Now, Margery has, so the maids say, a tongue; She’s not very handsome, nor yet very young; So, somehow, it ends with a shake of the head, And Simon he brews him a tankard instead―― With ho, ho, ho, he’ll chuckle and crow What, marry old Margery! no, no, no.”
J. L. HATTON.[38]
――――
CAVEAT VENDITOR.
Joe Podgers, the farmer, he keeps a rare store Of sheep, as his neighbours can see, And oxen, and I can’t tell how many more, For a well-to-do fellow is he. Of beef and of mutton he never doth fail, And craftily qualified is his milk-pail; But he never paleth, he quaintly doth say, As his meat goes to London on each market day. But oh! oh! oh! his books do show Where many a cow of his worst doth go.
Bill Choppers he sits in his little back room, For a butcher discreet is he: But oft from his premises comes a queer fume, He says it is “only his tea.” But there’s a small yard just behind the loft stair, And folks say they see some strange carcases there; But Choppers he says, and he looks very bold, That the meat which he sells is the best ever sold. But oh! oh! oh! Joe Podgers doth know Where many a calf of his worst doth go.
Joe Podgers reclines in his easy chair Without ever dreaming of strife: But the dead-meat inspector is heard to declare That the time for a summons is rife. And the magistrate has a most critical tongue, And condemns Podgers’ meat to the dogs to be flung. So somehow Joe Podgers don’t go home to bed, But finds himself lodged in a prison instead. And oh! oh! oh! doth he chuckle and crow As he tramps on the treadmill? Oh! no! NO!
Fun. March 17, 1869.
――――
“OLD TIM THE TEETOTALLER.”
Old Tim the Teetotaller keeps a rare store, Of black and strong green tea, Of Souchong――and who can tell how many more, For a thirsty old Soul is he-e! A thirsty old Soul is he. Of Pekoe and Twankay he never doth fail, Which all the day long he drinks out of a pail. For he never ale-th, he quaintly doth say, While he sticks to his fifty-two cups in a day―― For ho! ho! ho! Old Tim can’t know How much of birch-broom there is in Pekoe. Chorus――“For ho! ho! ho!” &c.
His Landlady sits in her own still-room, Alone with the cat sits she; Except when she asks in the maid or the groom, To join her in taking tea-e, To join her in taking tea. Now, Tim has a tea-chest, but isn’t aware, That his Landlady helps herself freely from there. Tho’ the maid and the groom of the Landlady told, Yet Tim held his tongue,――it was no use to scold. For ho! ho! ho! He now doth know, Where all his Bohea and Souchong doth go. Chorus――“For ho! ho! ho!” &c.
Old Tim he reclines in his high-backed chair, And plays a few tunes on a fife; He blows it for joy for he doesn’t care, Since he puzzled her out of her life. Yes! his landlady out of her life, For he’s got a lock on his tea-chest so strong, And the Landlady tried it for ever so long With hammer and tongs till she fainted away, And was then handed over to P’liceman 1 A. And ho! ho! ho! Old Tim will show His Landlady up in the Court of Bow.
Chorus of Teetotallers in their Cups――
For ho! ho! ho! Old Tim will show His Landlady up in the Court of Bow!
Punch. February 4, 1871.
――――
TAURUS THE CELLARER. (During the Russian War scare.)
Old Taurus our cellarer keeps a rare store Of Malmsey and Malvoisie, Of Cyprus, and who shall say how many more? For a chary old soul is he! With sacks of canaries he never can fail And all the year round he is hearty and hale, And those who once cavilled are now heard to say, “We are all of us proud of old Taurus to-day.” And ho! ho! ho! Things seem to show That England’s not like to the dogs to go!
Dame Ursa she sits in her cold, bare room, A Christian dame is she, From thence oft at curfew she steals in the gloom, On errands of charity. Now there’s half a turkey that’s not gone as yet, Which folks say that Ursa would much like to get, And Dame Ursa she says she is hungry and cold; But old Taurus he wakes, and he thunders forth “Hold!” With ho! ho! ho! that game is no go! Caught napping by Ursa, no, no, no, no!
Judy. July 24, 1878.
――――
A parody in three verses, entitled Simmonds, the Bellower, was written by J. A. Hardwick. The first verse is given, the other two are omitted, owing to their coarseness:――
SIMMONDS, THE BELLOWER.
Old Simmonds, the Bellower, keeps a coal store, Of “Clinkers,” and “Slates” nub-bel-y, And light weights, and who can say what he does more? For a pious old cock is he. The sack to have holes in, he never does fail, And all the day long he keeps “slanging” the scale; Yet they’ll never nail him, he bluntly does say, While he makes a ton out of six waggons a day. And oh, dear! oh, his nose does show, How oft the “three-out” to his lips does go.
* * * * *
――――
WILLIAM THE CLÔTURER.
Old William the Clôturer sets great store By his hard-won majori_tee_, And he wants it in good working order once more, For an ardent old toiler is he―― A _tre_mendous old toiler is he. Of business and progress the Commoners fail, For all the year round they do nothing but rail; But William declares he this shindy will stay, And stick to his Clôture――his gag as some say. And ho! ho! ho! His demeanour would show That he on this point to the country would go.
Chorus (heartily)――But ho! ho! ho! &c.
Old William the Clôturer weareth the air Of one who is weary of strife, And Salisbury oft has been heard to declare He would have his――political――life, His――strictly political――life. And Salisbury hath a most terrible tongue; But William is warlike, though no longer young; And to prove that he isn’t――in politics――dead, He his Clôture-gage hurls at sour Salisbury’s head. While ho! ho! ho! He’ll chuckle and crow, What, cave in to Salisbury? No, no, no!
Chorus (lustily)――While ho! ho! ho! &c.
Punch. April 22, 1882.
――――:o:――――
I AM A FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY, From the Opera of “Merry Sherwood.”
I am a Friar of orders grey, And down in the valleys I take my way, I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip, Good store of venison fills my scrip; My long bead roll I merrily chaunt, Wherever I walk no money I want; And why I’m so plump the reason I’ll tell―― Who leads a good life is sure to live well. What baron or squire, Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar.
After supper of Heaven I dream, But that is fat pullet and clouted cream, Myself, by denial, I mortify―― With a dainty bit of a warden pie; I’m cloth’d in sack-cloth, for my sin; With old sackwine I’m lined within; A chirping cup is my matin song, And the vesper’s bell is my bowl, ding, dong. What baron or ’squire, &c.
J. O’KEEFFE.
――――
A BRADLAUGH BALLAD.
I am the Demagogue of the day, And down ’mongst the mob I make my way, It’s years since of poverty I felt a nip Good store of the Sovereigns I love fill my scrip Republican patter I merrily chant Wherever I stump no money I want; And why I’m so plump the reason I’ll tell―― Who fattens on martyrdom’s sure to live well: No bishop or squire Can hope to aspire To the glorious height of the law defier.
After orating, of fame I dream, And Cromwell-cum-Wilkes-cum Washington seem, Myself as a model I mortify With a thumping cupful of wine when dry; I wear best broadcloth, black as sin, My breeches pockets are lined with “tin;” I’m Liberal with a strong Radical dash, But I’m strictly Conservative of my cash. No lord of the shire Nor prince is higher In my esteem than C. B., Esquire.
My dusk performances are my best While working men work, I take my rest, I bid my disciples prevent new lives, Reading “Fruits of Philosophy” with their wives. And to save their pence, as they’ve got no soul To help me to win at Northampton poll, For the House is the only Heaven I know Though they say I make it a Hell below, Where I’ll play the lyre And kindle its ire, Till oblivion swallows the law defier.
From Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet. By Ion. London. Houlston & Sons.
――――:o:――――
OLD SONG.
Gently touch the warbling lyre, Chloe seems inclin’d to rest; Fill her soul with fond desire, Softest notes will soothe her breast: Pleasing dreams assist in love, Let them all propitious prove.
On the mossy bank she lies (Nature’s verdant velvet bed), Beauteous flowers meet her eyes, Forming pillows for her head; Zephyrs waft their odours round, And indulging whispers sound.
A. BRADLEY.
HOW SHALL I DINE.
Gently blow and stir the fire, Lay the mutton down to roast, Dress it nicely I desire, In the dripping put a toast, That I hunger may remove: Mutton is the meat I love.
On the dresser see it lie, Oh! the charming white and red! Finer meat ne’er met my eye, On the sweetest grass it fed: Let the jack go swiftly round, Let me have it nicely browned.
On the table spread the cloth, Let the knives be sharp and clean: Pickles get and salad both,[39] Let them each be fresh and green: With small beer, good ale, and wine, O ye gods! how I shall dine.
Attributed to DEAN SWIFT.
――――:o:――――
WHY SO PALE AND WAN.
Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can’t move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can’t win her, Saying nothing do’t? Prithee, why so mute?
Quit, quit for shame, this will not move, This cannot take her; If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her, The devil take her.
SIR JOHN SUCKLING.
AN IMITATION OF THE ABOVE.
I.
Why so sad and pale, fond lover? Pr’ythee, why so dull? How can tears the cause discover Why these eyes are full? Pr’ythee why so dull? Shall a hopeful maiden take A baby to her arms? Oh, prove a man, and for her sake, Caress, not grieve her charms.
II.
Thou hast no heart, fearful wooer, And love ye give, not gain; Then, with the heart that ye gave to her, Why give her not its pain? Cease to murmur, hapless whiner, Sigh that sob away, Think, if caring much won’t win her, Caring little may; Then scorn, with scorning pay.
R. J. From Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine. May, 1819.
Sir John Suckling also wrote what is, perhaps, the finest ballad in the English language, A Ballad upon a Wedding, this appears to have escaped parody. An imitation of it, however, is contained in Elegant Extracts from the British Poets, 1824. It is entitled Aylesbury Races, and is attributed to Sir J. H. Moore; it is very long, and does not sufficiently follow its original to entitle it to a place in this collection.
――――:o:――――
THE MAD SHEPHERDESS.[40]
My lodging is on the cold ground, And very hard is my fare; But that which troubles me most is The unkindness of my dear; Yet still I cry, O turn love, And I prithee, love, turn to me, For thou art the man that I long for, And alack! what remedy!
I’ll crown thee with a garland of straw then, And I’ll marry thee with a rush ring, My frozen hopes shall thaw then, And merrily we will sing; O turn to me my dear love, And I prithee, love, turn to me, For thou art the man who alone canst Procure my liberty.
But if thou wilt harden thy heart still, And be deaf to my pitiful moan! Then I must endure the smart still, And lie in my straw all alone; Yet still I cry, O turn love, And I prithee, love, turn to me, For thou art the man that alone art The cause of my misery.
――――
SONG BY FUSBOS.
My lodging is in Leather-lane, A parlour that’s next to the sky; ’Tis exposed to the wind and the rain, But the wind and the rain I defy: Such love warms the coldest of spots, As I feel for Scrubinda the fair, Oh! she lives by the scouring of pots, In Dyot-street, Bloomsbury Square.
Oh! was I a pint, quart or jill, To be scrubb’d by her delicate hands; Let others possess what they will, Of learning, and houses and lands; My parlour that’s next to the sky I’d quit her blest mansions to share; So happy to live and to die In Dyot-street, Bloomsbury Square.
And, oh! would this damsel be mine! No other provision I’d seek; On a look I could breakfast and dine, And feast on a smile for a week. But ah! should she false-hearted prove, Suspended, I’d dangle in air; A victim to delicate love, In Dyot-street, Bloomsbury Square.
From Bombastes Furioso, by William Barnes Rhodes.
――――:o:――――
THE WOLF.
At the peaceful midnight hour, Every sense and every power Fetter’d lies in downy sleep, Then our careful watch we keep. When the wolf, in nightly prowl, Bays the moon with hideous howl; Gates are barr’d, a vain resistance; Females shriek, but no assistance. “Silence or you’ll meet your fate―― Your keys, your jewels, cash, and plate!” Locks, bolts, and bars, soon fly asunder, Then to rifle, rob and plunder!
J. O’KEEFFE.
A PARODY.
At the peaceful midnight hour, When by love and hunger’s power, I am kept from downy sleep, Nightly I to Molly creep; Whilst the cats upon the tiles Mew their loves for many miles, O’er the gutters lightly hopping, Thro’ the garret window dropping. Silence! or my master wakes, Lay the cloth and broil the steaks; Beef-steaks and onions crown our blisses; Bread and cheese and balmy kisses.
――――:o:――――
THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.
The light of other days is faded And all their glory’s past; For grief with heavy wing hath shaded The hopes too bright to last. The world with morning’s mantle clouded, Shines forth with purer rays; But the heart ne’er feels in sorrow shrouded, The light of other days.
The leaf which Autumn’s tempests wither, The bird which then take wing, When Winter’s blasts are past, come hither, To welcome back the Spring. The very ivy on the ruin, In Spring new life displays; But the heart alone sees no renewing Of the light of other days.
ALFRED BUNN.
THE COAT OF OTHER DAYS.
The coat of other days is faded, And all its beauty past: My shoes no longer look as they did, But, like it, are fading fast! When first I sported it, a new one, My uncles cash ’twould raise, But now no longer ’tis a new one, The coat of other days.
The cuffs and collar now are greasy, Not a bit of nap is there; ’Twas tight, but now it fits me easy, ’Twill soon be at Rag-fair! My four-and-nine look rather rummy, Expos’d to Sol’s bright rays, And ’tis too late for renovating The coat of other days!
Another parody of this song, by J. James, entitled The Foggy Gin-Fluenza Days occurs in Vol. II., of Punch’s Popular Song Book, but it is slangy and vulgar.
――――:o:――――
THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL.
On Richmond Hill there lives a lass More bright than May-day morn, Whose charms all other maids surpass A rose without a thorn.
This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet, Has won my right good-will; I’d crowns resign to call her mine, Sweet lass of Richmond Hill.
* * * * *
Mr. Upton, who wrote the above song, also wrote many others for the convivial entertainments at Vauxhall Gardens towards the close of the last century. The music was composed by Mr. Hook, father of Theodore Hook, the celebrated wit and practical jokist.
THE LASS OF RICHMOND ILL.
[The Richmond Select Vestry, having sent to the Home Office a memorial with reference to the deplorable condition of the Thames in that district, Sir W. V. Harcourt has entered into communication with the Conservators, and has been informed by them that nothing can be done until a radical change is effected in the disposal of the London sewage.]
On Richmond Hill there lives a lass Who on a bright May morn, By sweeps of sewage mud must pass, On Thames’s waters borne. What does she meet? Spring breezes sweet? No, muck is master still. “Deposit’s” cake, and stink, and make The Lass of Richmond ill!
How happy might that maiden be If sweet Thames-tide might run. But no; Conservators agree That “Nothing can be done.” Lips she must close, must nip her nose,―― The Stench-fiend lords it still, And laughs with glee――grim ghoul――to see The Lass of Richmond ill!
――――
WILLIAM’S BILL.
Of William’s bill we’ll see the last, No more it holds the field; We’ve nailed our standard to the mast, The harp we’ll never yield. The Irish fry in vain may try To gild the Home Rule pill, But soon we’ll see, ’twixt you and me, The last of William’s bill.
’Tis past dispute, the kingdoms three Together stand or fall, And measures of autonomy Should be the same for all; But this that tends to part old friends Shall ne’er have our goodwill; No, no, friend Pat, we’ll veto that By “chucking” William’s bill.
DARJEW. The Weekly Dispatch. July 4, 1886.
――――:o:――――
THE BRAVE OLD OAK.
A Song to the Oak, the brave old Oak, Who hath ruled in the green wood long, Here’s health and renown to his broad green crown, And his fifty arms so strong. There’s fear in his frown, when the sun goes down, And the fire in the west fades out, And he showeth his might on a wild midnight, When the storms through his branches shout.
Then here’s to the Oak, the brave old Oak, Who stands in his pride alone, And still flourish he a hale green tree, When a hundred years are gone.
* * * * * H. F. CHORLEY.
A BIT OF A PARODY.
A Song of the Dukes, of the dense old Dukes, That have rul’d in the land so long; With small renown to the Ducal crown, By dint of legal wrong. There’s rage in their frown when Peel goes down, And for Free Trade’s cause speaks out; And they show him their spite in the Lords each night That the subject is talk’d about.
Then here’s to the Dukes, to the dense old Dukes, Who live for themselves alone; And still live they, though no more to prey On the country’s blood and bone.
They talk of the times when the Christmas chimes Were a merry sound to hear; And pretend that the poor were regaled, galore, With old English beef and beer. That tale is all stuff, it is much too tough; It won’t even hoax an ass; And don’t we know, they who tell us so, The New Poor Law allow’d to pass?
Then here’s to the Dukes, to the dense old Dukes, Who live for themselves alone; And still live they, though no more to prey On the country’s blood and bone.
Punch. April 11, 1846.
――――:o:――――
FRAGMENT OF A TRANSLATION FROM SAPPHO.
Blessed as the immortal gods is he, The Youth who fondly sits by thee; And hears and sees thee, all the while, Softly speak, and sweetly smile.
’Twas this deprived my soul of rest, And rais’d such tumults in my breast; For while I gazed, in transport tossed, My breath was gone, my voice was lost.
My bosom glow’d the subtle flame Ran quickly thro’ my vital frame; O’er my dim eyes a darkness hung, My ears with hollow murmurs rung.
In dewy damps my limbs were chill’d, My blood with gentle horrors thrill’d; My feeble pulse forgot to play, I fainted, sunk, and died away.
AMBROSE PHILIPS.
――――
A PARODY OF THE FOREGOING.
Drunk as a dragon sure is he, The youth who sups or dines with thee; And sees and hears thee, full of fun, Loudly laugh, and quaintly pun.
’Twas this first made me love my dose, And rais’d such pimples on my nose; For while I fill’d to every toast, My health was gone, my senses lost.
I found the claret and champagne Inflame my blood, and mad my brain; The toast fell falt’ring from my tongue, I hardly heard the catch I sung.
I felt my gorge and sickness rise; The candle danc’d before my eyes; My sight grew dim, the room turn’d round, I tumbled senseless to the ground.
HENRY ERSKINE.
――――:o:――――
DEAR BETTY.
Dear Betty, come give me sweet kisses, For sweeter no girl ever gave; But why, in the midst of our blisses, Do you ask me how many I’d have? I’m not to be stinted in pleasure; Then prithee, dear Betty be kind; For as I love thee beyond measure, To numbers I’ll not be confined.
Count the bees that on Hybla are straying, Count the flowers that enamel the fields, Count the flocks that on Tempé are playing, Or the grains that each Sicily yields; Count how many stars are in Heaven; Go reckon the sands on the shore, And when so many kisses you’ve given, I still will be asking for more.
To a heart full of love let me hold thee, A heart, that dear Betty is thine; In my arms I’ll for ever enfold thee, And curl round thy neck like a vine. What joy can be greater than this is? My life on thy lips shall be spent; But those who can number their kisses, Will always with few be content.
SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.
――――
THE NUMBERING OF THE CLERGY.
Come, give us more Livings and Rectors, For richer no realm ever gave; But why, ye unchristian objectors, Do you ask us how many we crave? Oh, there can’t be too many rich livings, For souls of the Pluralist kind, Who, despising old Cocker’s misgivings, To numbers can ne’er be confin’d.
Count the cormorants hovering about, At the time their fish season sets in, When these models of keen diners-out Are preparing their beaks to begin. Count the rooks that, in clerical dresses, Flock round when the harvest’s in play, And not minding the farmer’s distresses, Like devils in grain peck away.
Go, number the locusts in heaven, On their way to some titheable shore; And when so many parsons you’ve given, We still shall be craving for more. Then, unless ye the Church would submerge, ye Must leave us in peace to augment, For the wretch who could number the Clergy, With few will be ever content.
THOMAS MOORE.
(Suggested by the Bishop of London’s Charge, in which he said:――“We want more Churches, and more Clergymen.”)
――――:o:――――
LINES TO AN EDITOR. (On sending a Book for Review.) After Ben Jonson.
Print for me only just one word, And I will pledge thee mine, If thou wilt give a wholesome “puff,” That I will not repine. I think my work should be preferr’d (’Tis very large and fine), Though dullards may not like my stuff, I would not change a line.
FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. (On the non-appearance of a Notice.)
I sent thee late my able book, Not so much honouring thee, As hoping something would appear That might bring L. S. D. But thou thereon did’st neither look Nor sent’st it back to me, Since when I feel inclined to swear Both at myself and thee.
――――:o:――――
DELIGHT IN DISORDER. (Adapted from Herrick.)
“There is nothing in the pit-brow work, nor in the costume necessitated, that tells against modesty. It makes fine, healthy, strapping women――not exactly after the pattern of Fenella or Miranda――but women who are the fit mates for the men whose wives and mothers they are.”――Mrs. Lynn Linton on the “Pit-brow Women.”
A fine frank roughness in the dress, Is better than La Mode’s excess; Flannel about the shoulders thrown, A stayless bodice and loose zone; Stout clogs or highlows and a pair Of coarse hose much the worse for wear; A kerchief-cap, and trailed thereby, Wild locks that flow confusedly; A dual garb deserving note, As more――or less――than petticoat; A leathern shoe-string in whose tie The slattern speaks to every eye, Do more bewitch me, for my part, Than Regent Street with all its Art.
Punch, May 28, 1887.
――――:o:――――
HERRICK IN THE HOUSE. After Herrick’s Lines to Ben Jonson. (By a Troubled Tory.)
Ah, Ben![41] Say how or when Shall we, thy sheep, Less scattered order keep? Or have such fun As when you led us on, When we such musters had As made us with great joy half mad? Ah, sure one speech of thine Outdid nine Randolphs and Smiths nine times nine.
My Ben! Oh, come again, Or send to us Thy wit’s great overplus; But teach us yet Wisely to husband it. Lest we that talent spend, And, having once brought to an end That precious stock, the store Of will, wit, tact, our Party have no more!
Punch. February 5, 1887.
――――
SONG.
On seeing the Speaker asleep in his Chair, in one of the Debates of the first Reformed Parliament.
(Parody of the well-known Lullaby in Guy Mannering.)
“Sleep, Mr. Speaker, ’tis surely fair, If you mayn’t in your bed that you should in your chair; Louder and longer now they grow, Tory and Radical, Aye and No, Talking by night, and talking by day, Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, slumber lies Light and brief on a Speaker’s eyes. Fielden or Finn in a minute or two Some disorderly thing will do; Riot will chase repose away, Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.
“Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sweet to men Is the sleep that cometh but now and then, Sweet to the weary, sweet to the ill, Sweet to the children that work in the mill; You have more need of repose than they, Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.
“Sleep, Mr. Speaker, Harvey will soon Move to abolish the sun and the moon; Hume will no doubt, be taking the sense Of the House on a question of sixteen pence; Statesmen will howl and patriots bray: Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.
“Sleep, Mr. Speaker, and dream of the time When loyalty was not yet quite a crime, When Grant was a pupil in Canning’s school, And Palmerston fancied Wood was a fool. Lord! how principles pass away! Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.”
W. M. PRAED.
――――:o:――――
MY HEART AND LUTE.
I give thee all,――I can no more,―― Though poor the offering be: My heart and lute are all the store That I can bring to thee: A lute whose gentle heart reveals The soul of love full well, And better far a heart who feels Much more than lute can tell.
Though love and song may fail, alas! To keep life’s clouds away, At least ’twill make them lighter pass, Or gild them if they stay: If ever care his discord flings O’er life’s enchanted strain. Let love but gently touch the strings,―― ’Twill all be sweet again. I give thee all, &c.
――――
STEWED DUCK AND PEAS.
I give thee all, I can no more, Though poor the dinner be; Stew’d Duck and Peas are all the store That I can offer thee. A Duck, whose tender breast reveals It’s early youth full well; And better still, a Pea that peels From fresh transparent shell.
Though Duck and Peas may fail, alas! One’s hunger to allay; At least for luncheon they may pass, The appetite to stay. If seasoned Duck an odour bring From which one would abstain, The Peas, like fragrant breath of Spring, Set all to rights again.
I give thee all my kitchen lore, Though poor the offering be; I’ll tell thee how ’tis cook’d, before You come to dine with me: The Duck is truss’d from head to heels, Then stew’d with butter well; And streaky bacon, which reveals A most delicious smell.
When Duck and Bacon in a mass You in the stew-pan lay, A spoon around the vessel pass, And gently stir away: A table-spoon of flour bring, A quart of water bring, Then in it twenty onions fling, And gently stir again.
A bunch of parsley, and a leaf Of ever-verdant bay, Two cloves――I make my language brief, Then add your Peas you may! And let it simmer till it sings In a delicious strain, Then take your Duck, nor let the strings For trussing it remain.
The parsley fail not to remove, Also the leaf of bay; Dish up your Duck――the sauce improve In the accustom’d way, With pepper, salt, and other things, I need not here explain And if the dish contentment brings, You’ll dine with me again.
Punch.
――――:o:――――
EARNEST REMONSTRANCE.
Addressed to the Young Lady World, on the “Fringes” now in Fashion.
AIR.――“Long, Long Ago.”
Twine me the curls I delighted to see Long, long ago――long, long ago; Bring the old curling-tongs hither to me Of long ago, long ago! Since they are gone, all my grief has begun; Those queer “waving fronts” do not please me, for one I pine for the hair as it used to be done Long, long ago, long ago!
Don’t you remember the ringlets that flow’d Long, long ago――long, long ago; The beautiful ringlets that then were the mode, Long, long ago, long ago? Some called them “corkscrews”――a gross malaprop, Save that when met at a squeeze, or a hop, Lovers, like corks, would come out with a pop, Long, long ago, long ago!
Oh, if the Whigs their old fame would renew, (Quite rococo――quite rococo) And rival the glories of Brian Boroo, Long, long ago, long ago. Let them but give us, our thanks to secure, Instead of a Bill for removing the Poor, A Bill for removing the shady coiffure Now all the go, all the go!
Punch.
――――:o:――――
THE BEAUTIFUL MAID.
A Parody of Liston’s “Beautiful Maid.”
My fishmonger he swore that his soles were most dear, I trembled to hear what he said; For salmon and shrimps ’twas the wrong time of year, So I pitched on a beautiful maid; I brought home my beautiful maid: “Here, cook! dress this beautiful maid; Go boil it,――don’t spoil it, But see it well done, And I’ll dine on my beautiful maid!”
But an ugly black cat, I speak it with grief, My delicate tit-bit waylaid, The cook turned her back, and the long-whiskered thief Ran off with my beautiful maid; She clawed up my beautiful maid; She swore o’er my beautiful maid; Oh, pussy, you hussey, Oh, what have you done? You have eaten up my beautiful maid!
――――:o:――――
OH! SAY NOT WOMAN’S HEART IS BOUGHT. From the Opera of “Clari, the Maid of Milan.”
Oh! say not woman’s heart is bought With vain and empty treasure. Oh! say not woman’s heart is caught By every idle pleasure. When first her gentle bosom knows Love’s flame, it wanders never, Deep in her heart the passion glows, She loves, and loves for ever.
Oh! say not woman’s false as fair, That like the bee she ranges! Still seeking flowers more sweet and rare, As fickle fancy changes. Ah! no, the love that first can warm, Will leave her bosom never; No second passion e’er can charm, She loves, and loves for ever.
T. L. POCOCK.
――――
OH, SAY NOT THAT MY HEART IS CAUGHT.
Oh, say not that my heart is caught, By Mary’s face bewitching; For other charms my love has bought, Those charms her mind enriching; Unfriendly fate may soon us part And fickle fortune sever, But she who holds this throbbing heart I’ll love and love for ever.
And must I then those charms resign, All I esteem a treasure, And give up what I hoped was mine To fix a rival’s pleasure? The stars may fall, the sun decay, The earth’s whole fabric waver, But firm as heaven my love shall stay, Unquenched, unceasing never.
MONTAGUE.
――――
HE DRINKS, AND DRINKS FOR EVER.
Oh, say not life is dearly bought By him who seeks for pleasure; Oh, say not joy is wrongly sought When whiskey’s thought a treasure! When first a youthful toper knows Its fumes he wanders never; He gladdens at his rosy nose, He drinks and drinks for ever.
Oh, say not whiskey does impair, Nor like a poison rages; Still seeking ev’ry vein to tear, Nor cause such deadly changes! Oh, no! the draught that first can warm Will leave his stomach never, Though all his friends may rant and storm, He’ll drink, and drink for ever.
ANONYMOUS.
――――:o:――――
DUNOIS THE BRAVE.
It was Dunois the young and brave, Was bound for Palestine, But first he made his orisons Before St. Mary’s shrine! “Oh! grant, immortal queen of heaven,” Was still the soldier’s prayer, “That I may prove the bravest knight And love the fairest fair.”
His oath of honour on the shrine, He graved it with his sword, And followed to the holy land The banner of his Lord. Where, faithful to his noble vow, His war-cry filled the air: Be honoured, aye, the bravest knight, Beloved the fairest fair.
They owed the conquest to his arm, And then his liege-lord said, “The heart that has with honour beat, By bliss must be repaid. My daughter Isabel and thou Shall be a wedded pair; For thou art bravest of the brave,―― She, fairest of the fair.”
And then they bound the holy knot, Before St. Mary’s shrine, That makes a Paradise on earth, If hearts and hands combine. And every lord and lady bright, That were in chapel there, Cried, “Honoured be the bravest knight, Beloved the fairest fair.”
This is a translation by Sir Walter Scott, of the French song Partant pour la Syrie, written by De Laborde, to music said to have been composed by Queen Hortense, mother of Napoleon III. Under the Empire Partant pour la Syrie was the officially recognised French national song, but it never became so popular as La Marseillaise.
――――
PARTANT POUR LA RUE BAKER.[42]
It was Bill Noyes, the yeoman brave, Was in the tillage line, But first he set his heart upon His stock of beeves and swine; His mind to cattle most was given, And “darn,” he swore, “my wig! But I will breed the hugest ox, And rear the fattest pig.”
This point of honour, weight of swine, And ox as highly scored, He proved it at the Smithfield Club, Before both squire and lord, And cried as to the judges’ view He bore the monsters big, “Now bain’t this here the hugest ox? That there the fattest pig?”
They owned his victory――due the palm―― And then the chairman said: “The ox that is for honour grown, On oilcake must be fed; On barley-meal, hog, boar, or sow, And tubs of wash to swig; That’s how you cram the hugest ox, And stuff the fattest pig.”
So round his neck the prize was tied, And then they went to dine, Which makes a farmer’s heaven on earth, When beef and beer combine; And every yeoman, lord, and ’squire, Conservative and Whig, Drank “Honour to the hugest ox, Be praised the fattest pig!”
Punch. December 17, 1859.
There was another parody commencing:――
It was Dunupp, the hard beset, Was bound to far Boulogne; But first a hansom he must get, And money he had none! “Alas,” he cried, “they’re safe to nab, No time have I to spare; If I can find the fastest cab I’ll prove the fairest fare.”
in The Hornet for January 10, 1872, and another, of no interest or literary merit, on page 134 of The Literary Lounger, London 1826.
――――:o:――――
CHEVY-CHACE.
It is quite unnecessary to quote this noble old ballad in full, it may be found in Percy’s Reliques, Robert Bell’s Early Ballads, and many other collections of old English Songs and Ballads.
God prosper long our noble king, Our lives and safetyes all; A woefull hunting once there did In Chevy-Chace befall;
To drive the deere with hound and horne, Erle Percy took his way; The child may rue that is unborne, The hunting of that day.
The stout Erle of Northumberland A vow to God did make, His pleasure in the Scottish woods Three summer days to take;
The cheefest harts in Chevy-Chace To kill and beare away. The tydings to Erie Douglas came, In Scottland where he lay:
Who sent Erle Percy present word, He would prevent his sport. The English Erle, not fearing that, Did to the woods resort
With fifteen hundred bow-men bold; All chosen men of might, Who knew full well in time of neede To ayme their shafts arright.
* * * * *
Lord Percy to the quarry went, To view the slaughter’d deere; Quoth he “Erle Douglas promised This day to meet me heere:
But if I thought he would not come, Noe longer wold I stay.” With that, a brave young gentleman Thus to the Erle did say:
“Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come, His men in armour bright; Full twenty hundred Scottish speres All marching in our sight.”
* * * * *
The newes was brought to Eddenborrow, Where Scottland’s king did raigne, That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye Was with an arrow slaine.
O heavy newes, King James did saye, Scottland may my witnesse bee, I have not any captaine more Of such account as hee.
Like tydings to King Henry came, Within as short a space, That Percy of Northumberland Was slaine in Chevy-Chace:
Now God be with him, said our king, Sith it will noe better bee; I trust I have, within my realme, Five hundred good as hee.
Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say, But I will vengeance take: I’ll be revenged on them all, For brave Erle Percye’s sake.
This vow full well the king perform’d After, at Humbledowne; In one day, fifty knights were slaine; With lords of great renowne:
And of the rest, of small account, Did many thousands dye: Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace, Made by the Erle Percy.
God save our king, and bless this land With plentye, joy, and peace; And grant henceforth, that foule debate ’Twixt noblemen may cease.
――――
CHEVY CHACE.[43]
God prosper long our noble King, Our lives and safeties all: A woeful story late there did In Britain’s Isle befall.
DUKE SMITHSON, of NORTHUMBERLAND,[44] A vow to God did make, The choicest gifts in fair England, For him and his to take.
“Stand fast, my merry men all,” he cried, “By MOIRA’S Earl and me, And we will gain place, wealth, and pow’r, As arm’d neutrality.
Excise and Customs, Church and Law, I’ve begged from Master ROSE; The Garter too――but still the Blues I’ll have, or I’ll oppose.”
“Now God be with him,” quoth the KING, “Sith ’twill no better be; I trust we have within our realm, Five hundred good as he.”
The DUKE then join’d with Charley Fox A leader ware and tried, And ERSKINE, SHERIDAN, and GRAY Fought stoutly by his side.
Throughout our English Parliament They dealt full many a wound; But in his King’s and country’s cause, PITT firmly stood his ground.
And soon a law like arrow keen, Or spear, or curtal-axe, Struck poor DUKE SMITHSON to the heart, In shape of Powder-tax.[45]
Sore leaning on his crutch, he cried, “Crop, crop, my merry men all; No guinea for your heads I’ll pay, Though Church and State should fall.”
Again the taxing-man appeared―― No deadlier foe could be; A schedule of a cloth-yard long, Within his hands bore he.
“Yield thee, DUKE SMITHSON, and behold The assessment thou must pay; Dogs, horses, houses, coaches, clocks, And servants in array.”
“Nay,” quoth the DUKE, “in thy black scroll, Deductions I espye, For those who, poor, and mean, and low, With children burthen’d lie.
And though full sixty thousand pounds My vassals pay to me, From Cornwall to Northumberland, Through many a fair countée;
Yet England’s Church, its King, its laws, Its cause I value not, Compar’d with this, my constant text―― A penny sav’d, is got.
No drop of Princely PERCY’S blood Through these cold veins doth run; With Hotspur’s castles, blazon, name, I still am poor SMITHSON.
Let England’s youth unite in arms, And every liberal hand With honest zeal subscribe their mite To save the native land.
I at St. Martin’s Vestry Board, To swear shall be content, That I have children eight, and claim Deductions, ten per cent.”
God bless us all from factious foes, And French fraternal kiss; And grant the King may never make, Another DUKE like this.
From The Anti-Jacobin, March, 1798.
――――
Another parody of Chevy-Chace, entitled The Battle of Putney Hill appeared in the Morning Herald in 1799. It commenced thus:
God prosper long our noble King, And guard our Statesmen all From foul mishaps of every sort, That vulgar folk enthral.
Two orators, whose venom tongues Had left a point in doubt, With weapons of more deadly mould Resolv’d to fight it out.
The one a squire, of manners blunt, A patriot staunch within; The other of a lordly breed, A courtier tall and thin.
Forth went these wights one Sabbath morn; Ill luck such acts betide! Was there no other to be found, Of all the days beside?
* * * * *
The complete parody may be found in Vol. III of The Spirit of the Public Journals for 1799.
――――
THE NEW CHEVY CHACE. (On the occasion of the O. P. Riots.)
God prosper long our noble King, Our cash and comforts all, In Covent Garden, while I sing, The row that did befal.
To chase the CAT with howl and horn JOHN BULL went to the play; And though she laughed him to scorn, I trow he won the day.
THE KEMBLES, HARRIS, SON and CO. Did vow to God――God willing That for GRIMALKIN and their show They’d touch――the other shilling!
For they a theatre had made, This famous CAT to squall in; With “Annual Boxes” for the trade No doubt of caterwalling;
JOHN’S native drama to undo, With foreign airs and vices―― And so they e’en impos’d their New And banish’d his “Old Prices.”
Their bowmen bold from Bow Street brought, All chosen men of might Resolv’d to stuff down Johnny’s throat, Their prices――wrong or right.
But JOHN whose skull with brains is cramn’d, Their schemes did soon unriddle, “And if I have, may I be damn’d, (Quoth he) your Cat and Fiddle!
“What! think you me to tax and gull, “For building this here house! “Or thinks a Cat to catch JOHN BULL “Just as she’d catch a mouse?
“Your modesty, upon my soul, “Much with the ton increases, “That fain would cram each pigeon-hole “With seven-shilling pieces!
“No, no――it will not do, Black JACK “It shall not do, by Jingo; “Old plays and prices we’ll have back, And no outlandish lingo!”
The orchestra struck up in vain, Macbeth and wife were hiss’d! And “Birnham Wood to Dunsinane” Unnotic’d pass’d, I wist.
For “banners on the outward wall” The tyrant had no use Their scrolls within so thick did fall, Though ne’er a flag of truce!
On Monday first the row begun. Or call it what you may, ’Tis certain they kept up the fun Until the Saturday.
The actors ran through every scene, As fast as they could go―― As it a pantomime had been Or eke, a puppet show.
And though the people that were there Most loud did roar and rage, Their backs they all, with special care, Did turn upon the stage.
O Jove! it was a grief to see, For word you could not hear―― (Except the speech of Mister Leigh) A tragedy so queer.
To catgut, cat-call did reply, With bell and bugle brazen! And all the Gods, that sat on high, Help’d out the diapason.
Yet bides JACK KEMBLE on the bent, A Don of thorough blood; With aitches though his head was rent, Firm as a mule he stood.
“Show me,” said he, “what ’tis you want? “What want ye here?” he cried “We neither want your CAT or cant,” Our Englishmen replied.
“Our notes, for her’s you shan’t command; “And for her pipe, perdie, “We trust we have within the land “Five hundred good as she!”
With that there came a glorious roar, Of rattles and of row-sticks; As such there never did before Confound the catacousticks!
Then look’d our manager, I trow, Like one in doleful dumps; His pride was humbled to a bow, Almost upon his stumps.
As thus he said――“At length I yield, “You’ve got what you have wish’d; “You’ve won, JOHN BULL, you’ve won the field, “And so――the cat is dish’d!”
God save the King, and bless the land, Our liberties and laws, And thus may Britons ever stand, United in their cause.
From The Morning Chronicle. September 30, 1809.
This parody refers to the most extraordinary series of disturbances, known as the O.P. Riots, which took place in the new Covent Garden Theatre, commencing on the opening night, September 18, 1809, and lasting, almost without intermission, till December 16, when the old charges were restored. John Philip Kemble, the tragedian, and manager of the theatre, was singled out for special disapproval, the outcries against the Cat (Madame Catalani) were also very bitter, as it was generally supposed the prices had been raised owing to her exorbitant salary. Madame Catalani’s business agent used to ask five hundred guineas for her appearance at a concert, which was considered an enormous sum in those days.
Kemble (styled Black Jack, on account of his dark complexion and black hair), had a pedantic way of pronouncing ache as aitche.
A PROTECTIONIST PARODY.
God prosper long our noble Queen, Our lands and purses all; A woeful ruin once there did In Parliament befall.
The sly Sir Robert Turnabout,[46] A solemn vow did make, To scout the aristocracy, And make the farmers quake.
The Landowners to terrify, The Corn-laws to repeal. These tidings to Lord Bentinck came, Who wished his country’s weal.
He sent Sir Robert present word, He shouldn’t pass his bill; Sir Turnabout, not fearing this, Replied, “Indeed, I will.”
For full three hundred backed him up, A force in numbers strong, Who knew full well in time of need To give their votes a-wrong.
The “Turncoats” mustered in the “House,” Taunts able to endure; Their faces all that day were made Of brass, you may be sure.
And long before midnight they had Their pledges rendered vain; And when they’d dined, the whipper-in Soon drove them back again.
Sir Robert went――his speech complete―― To view his friends so queer; Quoth he, “Lord Bentinck promised This night should cost me dear:
Now, if I thought he would not come, I’d have my Com-mit-tee.” With that, says Bright, “Friend Turnabout, A sight you now may see.
Lo! yonder doth Lord Bentinck stand, His friends replete with spite; Two hundred stout Protectionists, To cheer the live-long night;
All sturdy agriculturists, True to their pledges still.” “Then leave your dinners,” Bobby said, “And Treasury benches fill,
And now with me, my Turnabouts, Set forth fallacious words, For never was there statesman yet, In Commons House, or Lords,
That e’er did with statistics come, But if he proved too strong, I durst cook up some others quick, To show that his were wrong.”
Lord Bentinck, on his hobby-horse, Most like an honest man, Stood foremost of his company, And straightway thus began:
“Show me,” said he, “What right have ye, The farmer’s gains to steal, To rob the agriculturists, The Corn-laws to Repeal?”
The man who longest answer made, Was turn-coat Bobby, he Who said, “We have the right of power And of majority.”
* * * * *
Forth stept a manufacturer (Dick Cobden was his name) Who said, “I would not have it told Unto ‘The League’ for shame,
That e’er this bill was fairly passed, To make our traffic free, And I took not that time t’abuse The Aristocracy.
I’ll jaw as long as jaw I may, Although I’m proved quite wrong, Whilst I have place in Parliament I’ll never hold my tongue.”
* * * * *
The fight did last twelve live long nights, (The matter was so deep;) And when they cleared the gallery, The Speaker fell asleep!
Two hundred men and seventy That day remained true; The rest did rat with Turnabout, And voted black was blue.
Then tidings to Lord Stanley came, That Bentinck’s lord was beat, And that at last Protection’s cause Had suffered sore defeat.
“Now heaven be with us,” Stanley said, “And Robert, what is he? I trust we have within this Isle, Leaders more trustworthy.
Yet shall not Bob nor turn-coats say, But we will vengeance take: We’ll be revenged upon them all, For our good farmers’ sake.
This vow full well the chief performed, As Irish bills explain, For Turnabout was then kicked out, And won’t come in again.
Honour to you, Protectionists, Bob and his lot shall fall, For if they kept their places, you Have kept your pledges all!
(26 verses are here given, the complete Parody contains 48.)
From Protectionist Parodies. By a Tory. J. Vincent Oxford. 1850.
――――
CHEVY CHASE.
New Version of the old Ballad of Chivalry, adapted to our unchivalric days.
God prosper long our gracious Queen, And may no more befall, So foul a fight as that rude fray, Which Chevy[47] Chase we call.
To lead the House, with care and pain, Grey Gladstone did essay. The churl may shame that is unborn The manners of that day.
The suave Sir Stafford[48] to oppose His devoir did with grace; A gentler pair of gallant foes Stood never face to face.
But forth there stepped a cheeky Squire, Randolpho[49] was his name, Who cried, “You don’t call this a fight? Your style is much too tame!
“You shall not fool about like this, And I stand looking on. You be too muffs,” Randolpho[49] said, “I’d lick the pair alone!
“I’ll do the best that do I may, Although not Old or Grand. All this punctilio is rot; I’ll fight for my own hand!”
Then straight arose a vulgar row, Shaming good hearts and true; Coarse words like poisoned arrows went, And smirched where they not slew.
To still the storm, with broken voice, Grey Gladstone did his best; A Captain he of mickle might, Who never stooped his crest.
But howls rose fast on every side, No courtesy was found; And yahoo yells of laughter rude, His struggling accents drowned.
O Saints! it was great grief to see How pale he did appear, While flout and shout flew all about, Rude laugh, and ruthless jeer.
This fight did last till Gladstone grey Shamed some of such coarse fun. Hoarse was that voice, erst like a bell, That long-tried strength foredone.
Lo! conscience pricks the brave Sir Hicks,[50] A Knight of courtesie; On that black bench churl hearts might blench, And fail of their cad glee.
For Randolpho needs must I wail As one in doleful dumps, Aping the rough who kicks his foe, And on his body jumps.
Smart Squire, who well might be brave Knight, Him pity ’tis to see Hounding rude clowns on, in despite Of gallant Chivalry.
Let Irish churls of small account Thus play the unknightly lout; Let inarticulate Tory sumphs Thus rudely yell and shout;
But one of brain and gentle blood Should deem it less disgrace To join some Cockney Epping Hunt Than lead a Chevy Chase!
God save the Queen, and bless the land With plenty, joy, and peace; And grant henceforth that foul debate ’Twixt gentlemen may cease!
Punch. May 30, 1885.
――――:o:――――
LORD BATEMAN.
One of the best known of our old Ballads is Lord Beichan, or Buchan. This is corrupted in the modern English form to Lord Bateman; the ballad commences thus:
“Lord Bateman was a noble lord, A noble lord of high degree; He shipped himself on board a ship, He longed strange countries for to see.”
Cruikshank collectors will remember that the artist chose this ballad for illustrating, and small as is the book, a copy of the original 1839 edition sold for £5 15s. at Sotherby’s last year. Of course Cruikshank’s version is comic, and the history of it is that he sang the ballad at a dinner of the Antiquarian society, to the air, and with the cockney pronunciation he had heard given to it by a street ballad singer. Dickens was present at the dinner, and offered to supply the illustrative notes (which are exceedingly humorous), Cruikshank etched the plates, and almost innumerable editions of the little book have been published; the most recent having been issued a few years since by Messrs. Bell and Daldy, London.
THE NEW BALLAD OF LORD BATEMAN.
Lord Bateman wos a noble Lord, Wot held Free Trade pure fiddlededee; So he up and he moved in the House of Peers, In favour of Sweet Reciprocitee!
He maundered here, he meandered there, For a good two hours, or, some say, three, In the style of oration called roundaboutation, Until his hearers they wos wearee.
For forty long years he had held the opinion, And still his belief in that same wos strong, That the jade Free Trade, deemed so fair and lovely, Wos a vain deloosion wich led men wrong.
We’d abandon’d our old lady-love, Protection, In favour of a minx wot wos far too free: We had boasted of her beauties unto foreign countries, Wich those foreign countries had failed to see.
He would not go back to the old love wholly, He wosn’t quite a Dodo, he wosn’t――not he. The name of Protection he would rayther not mention, But he warmly recommended Reciprocitee.
Wot wos right in love must be right in Commerce. Wot man would marry an unloving bride? He failed to see wy it wos only in trading Reciprocity ought to be all o’ won side.
Then up and answered another noble Lord,―― Wich his name likeways it began vith a B,―― And he “sat on” poor Lord Bateman in a scientific manner, Wich filled the beholders with mirth and glee.
Says he,――“Reciprocity’s a hollow phantom, Though I swore ’twos a substance wonce, I know; But you won’t raise the dead with a dusty recital Of my musty phrases of forty years ago.”
Then Free-Trade’s old lovyers they cheered and chuckled, And the gallant Granville he smiled for to see The Bogey young Dizzy so cleverly vamped up, So coolly torn to pieces by the old Lord B.
But the crusted Lord Bateman, his sad face veiling From his country’s sorrows and his party’s crimes, Went homeward, and endeavoured to solace his sorrow, By buying a stuffed Dodo, and burning of the Times.
Punch. May 10, 1879.
Lord Bateman’s motion in favour of Reciprocity met with little encouragement in the House of Lords, and Lord Beaconsfield spoke strongly against it.
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LILLI BURLERO.
This song, now all but forgotten, deserves to be recorded, for it contributed not a little to the Revolution of 1688. A contemporary writer said of it, “A foolish ballad was made at that time, treating the Papists, and chiefly the Irish, in a very ridiculous manner, which had a burden, said to be Irish words, “Lero, lero, liliburlero,” that made an impression on the King’s army that cannot be imagined by those that saw it not. The whole army, and at last the people, were singing it perpetually, and perhaps never had so slight a thing so great an effect.”
One of the principal tools of James II. was General Richard Talbot, who was nominated to the Lieutenancy of Ireland in 1686, in this position his arbitrary and cruel treatment of the Protestants recommended him to the favour of his bigoted master, who rewarded him by creating him Earl of Tyrconnel, and sending him a second time, and on this occasion as Viceroy, to Ireland. It was at this time that Lilliburlero was written; Lilliburlero and Bullen-a-lah are said to have been the sign and countersign used among the Irish papists during their warfare with the protestants.
The song has been ascribed to Lord Dorset, but also, and with more probability, to Lord Wharton, who openly boasted that he had sung King James out of three kingdoms.
Ho! Broder Teague, dost hear de decree Lilliburlero, bullen-a-lah. Dat we shall have a new deputie, Lilliburlero, bullen-a-lah. Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen-a-lah, Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen-a-lah.
(This refrain is to be repeated after each two lines.)
Ho! by St. Tyburn, it is de Talbote: And he will cut de Englishmen’s troate. Lilli, &c.
Dough by my shoul de English do praat, De law’s on dare side, and Chrish knows what, Lilli, &c.
But if dispence do come from de Pope, We’ll hang Magna Charta and dem in a rope.
For de good Talbote is made a lord, And with brave lads is coming aboard.
Who all in France have taken a sware, Dat dey will have no Protestant heir.
Arrah! but why does he stay behind? Ho! by my shoul ’tis a Protestant wind.]
But see de Tyrconnel is now come ashore, And we shall have commissions gallore.
And he dat will not go to de mass, Shall be turn out, and look like an ass.
Now, now de hereticks all go down, By Crish and Saint Patrick, de nation’s our own.
Dare was an old prophesy found in a bog, Ireland shall be ruled by an ass, and a dog.
And now dis prophesy is come to pass, For Talbot’s de dog, and James is de ass.
Lilli burlero, bullen-a-lah. Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen-a-lah, Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen-a-lah.
The melody was said to be the same as that which accompanies the convivial chant:――
“Very good song, very well sung, Jolly companions, every one.”
And Lord Macaulay wrote of Lilliburlero:――“The verses and the tune caught the fancy of the nation. It was especially the delight of the English army.” Whilst Sterne also mentions it in “Tristram Shandy,” as the favourite air of Uncle Toby, who had been a soldier in the army of William III.
The following imitation alludes to the attempts being made in 1798 to bring about the legislative union of England and Ireland, but which did not actually take place until 1801. At that date the Irish Parliament was induced, by bribery and fraud to consent to its incorporation with that of Great Britain. The parody is a somewhat remarkable prophecy of what has actually occurred.
THE NEW LILLA BULERO.
Ho, broder Teague, dost hear de decree? Lilla bulero, bulen, al ha, United men we shall all of us be, Lilla bulero, bulen, al ha.
Lero lero, lilla bulero, lilla bulero, bulen al ha, Lero lero, lilla bulero, lilla bulero, bulen al ha.
Says England, since Union’s de ting dat you want, By Jasus I’ll give you a belly full on’t
And if green is de colour you like, by de mass, You’ll be plas’d when all Dublin is cover’d wid grass.
But, says Teague, now, by Union, what is it dey mane? Sure ’tis binding three nations all fast in one chain.
’Tis a shame which quite bodder’s one’s brain faith and troth, For ’tis worse for de one yet it’s better for both.
Is not Johnny Fitzgibbon gone straight to de King? Oh! between ’em how nately dey’ll settle de ting!
He’ll drive a rare job for us all, you may swear, And anoder as good for Lord Chancellor Clare.
And since we’ve a parliament not to our mind, Sure to take it away now, is wonderful kind.
Would a minister wish for his jobs better tools Dan a cargo of knaves, when exported by fools?
And, by Christ, we’ll not send him such blundering elves, Who will tink of deir country and not of demselves.
Oh! when Paddy in Westminster takes his own sate, By my shoul he’ll enliven de British debate.
Should de Spaker call order, he’ll huff and look big, Till he makes ev’ry hair stand on an end on his wig.
Should a member prasume on his spache to remark Sure he’ll beg just to mate him next day in de Park.
For a park like our Phanix in London dey’ve got, By jontlemen us’d for exchanging a shot.
Won’t it be a vast benefit now to our trade, When all laws to promote it in England are made?
You have seen, Teague, a cur, to whose draggled backside, Butcher boys have a broken old canister tied.
Now, if England’s de dog whom French butchers assail, Will not we be de canister tied to her tail?
Not a great while ago, sure, we heard a vast dale About renunciation and simple repale:
But this schame now will strike ev’ry orator mute, And de Union will settle de simple dispute;
And ’twill den to our fearce Orange yeomen be known, Dat in cutting our troats dey’ve been cutting deir own. Lilla Lero, &c.
The Morning Chronicle. 1798.
――――
THE NEW “LILLI BURLERO.” (To be sung by Nationalists to the old air.)
Ho! Broder League, dost hear the decree? Lilli Bull_er_o, Buller a-la, “SAUNDERSON ought to be sub-Secretree.” Bully Bull_er_o, Buller a-la.[51] Lero, Lero, REDVERS BULLERO, Lero, Lero, Buller o-la.
Oranges come to us from foreign climes, Lilli Bull_er_o, Buller a-la, Is the blood-orange a sign of the Times? Lilli Bull_er_o Buller a-la. Lero, &c.
Down with Moon-lighters and up with the Laws! Lillo Bull_er_o, Buller a-la, And save us from Fire-and-Sworderson’s claws! Lilli Bull_er_o, Buller a-la! Lero, &c.
Punch. March 19, 1887.
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The style of the old ballad has been often so successfully imitated as to deceive even the most accomplished literary critics. Amongst these may be noted the “New-Old Ballads,” written by Peter Pindar (Dr. Wolcot) which were republished by that clever but unscrupulous satirist in a collection, entitled Tears and Smiles, published in 1801, with the following “Advertisement to the Reader. These ballads were composed several years ago, in imitation of authors of the reigns of Harry the Eighth, Elizabeth, and James, and sent to some of my literary friends as innocent deceptions.――P. P.”
There were also “The Cornish Ballads,” written by Mrs. Gervis, and “The Bristow Tragedy, or Death of Sir Charles Bawdin,” by Thomas Chatterton, and others too numerous to mention, especially as they cannot exactly be styled Parodies in the strict sense of the term.
The finest burlesque ballad in the language is undoubtedly that entitled “The Queen in France,” contained in The Book of Ballads edited by Bon Gaultier, and published by W. Blackwood and Sons. This clever book of parodies and burlesques was the joint production of Sir Theodore Martin, and the late Professor W. E. Aytoun. The burlesque ballad in question was probably composed by Aytoun, it describes the Queen’s visit to Louis Phillippe in France in 1843, and closely imitates the metre and diction of “Sir Patrick Spens” an old Scotch ballad. The old ballad may be found in Percy’s Reliques, in Sir Walter Scott’s Border Minstrelsy, and in Early Ballads, edited by Robert Bell. “The Queen in France” is very long, and disjointed extracts would give but a faint idea of its quaint humour, and simple pathos, besides which The Bon Gaultier Ballads is a readily accessible book.
In the same volume there is another, but inferior, burlesque ballad, entitled Little John and the Red Friar, which deals with the vexed question of ecclesiastical titles. Little John representing Lord John Russell, and the Red Friar, Cardinal Wiseman, who, in 1850, was appointed by the Pope, Lord Archbishop of Westminster, a nomination which gave rise to much agitation and angry controversy.
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THE “LAY” OF THE GOOD LORD ROSEBERY. A Modern Ballad.
It was the good Lord Rosebery And he sat at the Durdans fair, By the hour of noon in his heel-less shoon, And the ease of an easy-chair.
“Come hither, come hither, my private scribe; Come hither and soothly say, What wild ducks fly, be it low, be it high, Over London town this day.”
“O the talk flies high,” said the private scribe, “That to-day we cross the sea, To Calais and Brussels and fair Cologne, And the City upon the Spree.
“And its O, but I know, when the loud winds blow And the sea climbs high on the strand, It is I that am wan as the wan water Or ever I win to land.”
“Nay, peace, good fellow,” Lord Rosebery cried, “Till the actual qualms befall, And tell me, I pray, what men may say Of the mails which we travel withal.”
“O they say you have ta’en a despatch-box stout, But and a Gladstone bag, With a bottle of blacking and brush inside Wrapped up in the British flag.”
“But tell me, O tell me, my private scribe, Come tell me, and soothly say, How fared you with yon smart interviewèr Who interviewed you this day?
“What learnt he of us and our secret plans? Sith he comes of a questing tribe, Did he ask what we’re at? hath he smelt of a rat? Say soothly, my private scribe.”
“Now Heaven be good to thee, good my lord!” Quo’ the scribe in high chagrin, “Dost think from the face of thy faithful clerk That his mother him bore yestreen?
“O many’s the chiel taking notes I have known And many a one sent back With the saut, saut scent of the red herring Drawn featly across his track.”
“’Tis well, ’tis well,” Lord Rosebery cried, “’Tis well that the rogues should stray. But tell me, my scribe, what think they of us? What of our little game think they?”
“O some there were who talked full wise Of the Germans beyond the sea, And the purposes dark of the grim Bismarck On the coast of New Guinea;
“And who seemed cocksure you were seeking the Prince―― ’Twas thus that the rumour ran―― With additional swag in the Gladstone bag As a bribe from the grand old man.”
“But said they nought,” said the Minister bold; Come tell me, my follower good, Of the Muscovite pranks on the Murghab’s banks, And the banks of the Heri Rud?”
“O ay! O ay! there were some who deemed Of your mission to Germany thus: That you go to engage the honest brokèr To square the advancing Russ.”
Full loud the good Lord Rosebery laughed, And his head went to and fro; Jack-fools are they who suppose that to-day One needs over sea to go.
“A word flies fleet on the lightning’s feet, And ’twere best without ‘mission’ or fuss; Let the wire give hints to the broker-Prince To square the advancing Russ.”
But the scribe look’d up from his newspapèr, And a white-faced scribe was he; “Too late may a man be, dear my lord, Though he wait not to cross the sea.
“For the foot of a Fate that is bent on war May outstrip a surrendering wire; Our allies and our foes are already at blows, And the fat’s in the Afghan fire.”
The Saturday Review. April 11, 1885.
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A BALLAD OF THE GREAT ELECTION BATTLE. DECEMBER, 1885. (Some way after Drayton’s Ballad of Agincourt.)
Fair stood the wind (we thought), Ere the great fight was fought, Much hoping, fearing nought, On marched our heroes. But when, whilst banners flew, First Orange closed with Blue, Our hopes soon tumbled to Chillest of zeros!
When in his height of pride, Joe did the foe deride, And “Ransom” loudly cried, Many offending; When he forgot the while Rob Roy’s not English style, Cecil did darkly smile, Mischief portending.
And, turning to his men, Quoth our sage William then, “Bearded in our own den? I am amazéd! But battles ill begun By pluck are often won. Close ranks, and fight like fun! Joe has gone craséd.
“But for myself,” quoth he, This my last fight may be. England will mock at me, No more esteem me, If vanquished I remain, In this great fray fall slain; Close up and charge again Loss to redeem me!
“’Eighty’ our foes may tell, When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell, Not less our skill is Than when great Ben we beat; That conquest we’ll repeat If you but follow fleet One standard――Willie’s!”
* * * * * (Five verses omitted.)
Dilke held a stubborn pike, Harcourt as Thor did strike, Smiting down smashers like Hammer on anvil; Morley his axe did ply, Bright and young Rosebery Bore them right doughtily, Derby and Granville!
All in December grey Fought was this wondrous fray, Brave Britons, as when they Lopped the French lillies! Acts these to fill a pen! Must not all Englishmen Hops we may breed again Hearts like Auld Willie’s?
Punch. December 19, 1885.
――――
THE BATTLE OF THE BALLOT. (Another imitation of Drayton’s Ballad,)
See, where the hosts advance, As on their steeds they prance, Flashing the sword and lance, Eager for glory! Hear ye the battle din; Who will be “Out” or “In”―― Which of the twain will win―― Lib’ral or Tory?
Salisbury, helmetless, On with his lance doth press Theat’ning with dire distress Will o’ the Collars! He, with uplifted axe, Never true valour lacks―― Sore doth his vigour tax “Squire” G., who “follers.”
Randolph, the Slangy Knight, Joins in the furious fight―― See, too, Free-Trader Bright―― “Joe,” too, of Land-fame! See while the Tories “fake,” Lib’rals the cry awake―― “Win, Gladstone, win, and make Grander your grand fame!”
Fun. December 2, 1885.
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THE NEWEST THING IN CHRISTMAS CAROLS.
God rest you merry, gentlemen! May nothing you dismay; Not even the dyspeptic plats Through which you’ll eat your way; Nor yet the heavy Christmas bills The season bids you pay; No, nor the ever tiresome need Of being to order gay;
Nor yet the shocking cold you’ll catch If fog and slush hold sway; Nor yet the tumbles you must bear If frost should win the day; Nor sleepless nights――they’re sure to come―― When “waits” attune their lay; Nor pantomimes, whose dreariness Might turn macassar grey;
Nor boisterous children, home in heaps, And ravenous of play; Nor yet――in fact, the host of ills Which Christmases array. God rest you merry gentlemen, May none of these dismay!
Funny Folks. January, 1880.
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KING JOHN IN A COCKED HAT.
A Parody on the famous old Grimaldian song, called “The Frog in the Opera Hat.”
John Kemble he would an acting go, Heigho! says Kemble; He raised the price which he thought too low, Whether the public would let him or no; With his roly-poly, gammon and spinnage, And ho! say manager Kemble.
The mob at the door made a mighty din, Heigho! says Kemble; They dashed like devils thro’ thick and thin, And over the benches came tumbling in, With their roly, &c. ’Twill do, says manager Kemble.
Soon as they pass’d Will Shakespeare’s hall, Heigho! says Kemble; They thought the lobbies were much too small, So they gave a loud roar, and they gave a loud bawl, With roly, &c. Hollo! says manager Kemble.
Pray what do you want? (in a sort of a huff) Heigho! says Kemble; Says Mr. Leigh――“Nonsensical stuff, Pho, none of your gammon, you know well enough. With your roly, &c. You do, great manager Kemble;
He held by the tip his opera-hat, Heigho! says Kemble; “Indeed the concern’s as poor as a rat;” Says Bull, “No dam’me, we won’t stand that,” With our roly, &c. ’Twon’t do, great manager Kemble.
He folded his arms, in a sad nonplus, Heigho! says Kemble; With Queen Anne’s prices he made a fuss, Says Bull, “what the devil’s Queen Anne to us,” With roly, &c. ’Twon’t do, great manager Kemble.
He swore to himself an oath, by Styx, Heigho! says Kemble. Kind ladies and gentlemen, none of your tricks, I love seven shillings much better than six, With my roly, &c. I do, says manager Kemble.
Then roar’d the gallery, gentle souls, Heigho! says Kemble; No private boxes, no pigeon-holes, We’ll dowse your glims, in a crack, by goles, With roly, &c. No, don’t, says manager Kemble.
The Morning Chronicle. November, 7, 1809.
During the O.P. riots at Covent Garden Theatre, in 1809, a certain Mr. Henry Clifford was a very conspicuous opponent to the new prices as fixed by John Kemble. Finally the management of the Theatre had to concede nearly all the claims advanced by the O.P. party through their spokesman, Clifford, and the victory was celebrated in the following lines:――
Hal Clifford would once a reforming go, Heigho! says Clifford; He swore by the mass, that he’d nonsuit his foe, And under his jerkin he hid his flambeau; With his roly, poly, gammon and spinage, “I’ll do it” roar’d patriot Clifford.
He went to the pit, where he saw a great fray, Heigho! says Clifford; “We want” cried O.P. “those vile boxes away,” For if they don’t sin there, I’m sure that they may,” With a roly, poly, gammon and spinage, “They shall vanish” said patriot Clifford.
* * * * *
Now he swears reformation has got a new tune, Heigho! said Clifford; Lo! he and John Kemble, like loon scratching loon, Sip their dramatic broth with the very same spoon; With roly, poly, gammon and spinnage, “It’s over” said patriot Clifford.
The last lines refer to the Dinner of Reconciliation which took place at the Crown and Anchor Tavern on January 4th, 1810, when Mr. Clifford took the chair, supported by the most prominent of the O. P. party, and Messrs. John Kemble and Harris represented the management of Covent Garden Theatre. For full details of these extraordinary proceedings the reader is referred to the Covent Garden Journal (J. J. Stockdale, London), 1810.
THE NEW MAGAZINE.
Campbell would a writing go, Heigh ho! said Colburn.
Campbell would a writing go, Whether the people would let him or no, With a Cockrane, Pickersgill, gammon and spinage―― Heigh ho! said Henry Colburn.
Off he set with the “Pleasures of Hope,” Heigh ho! said Colburn. On the road he spouted from Pope, With his absent, thoughtless!――gammon and spinage―― Heigh ho! said Henry Colburn.
He soon arrived at the Union Club, Heigh ho! said Redding; And he knocked at the door with a rub-a-dub-dub, And an English, Irish――gammon and spinage―― Heigh ho! said Cyrus Redding.
Pray Mr. Redding, Are you within? Heigh ho! said Campbell; Yes, dear Tom, I’m drinking my gin, With a lemon, sugar――gammon and spinach―― Heigh ho! said the longing Campbell.
Well Mr. Redding, I’ll have some too, Heigh ho! said Campbell; Aye, if you pay for it, that you may do, With a spoon and tumbler――gammon and spinage―― Heigh ho and the devil! said Campbell.
Pray Mr. Campbell, what brought you here? Heigh ho said a Lady;―― I’m making a new magazine, my dear, A Metropolitan――gammon and spinage―― Heigh ho, indeed! said the Lady.
I’ve left the “New Monthly” once and for all, Well done, said Redding; And now I’m determined to work for its fall, With its portraits, memoirs――gammon and spinage―― I’m very glad of it, said Redding.
Perhaps you’ll help me over the style; That I will, said Redding: So they sat down with a smirk and a smile, With pens and paper――gammon and spinage―― Tom Campbell and Cyrus Redding.
They had written prospectus――quaff’d their gin. I’m devilish tired, said Redding. When Picken and Roscoe came tumbling in With James and Marryatt――gammon and spinage―― You’re the King’s Own, said Redding.
Campbell rose, and with voice so sweet, Gentlemen all, said Campbell, I’ll give you fifteen guineas a sheet For your tales and politics――gammon and spinage So you ought to write well, said Campbell.
I mean to be independent quite,―― The devil you do? said Roscoe. I begin to think it’s nothing but right, And better than puffing, gammon and spinage, To be sure so it is, said Roscoe.
They then retired, each and all, All alone was Campbell; And they finished their articles, great and small, Poems, advertisements, gammon and spinage, And sent them away to Campbell.
Under a cover the numbers were bound, Heigh ho! said the reader: Cochrane and partner sent them round To the nobles, gentry, gammon and spinage, Heigh ho! said the gentle reader.
The National Omnibus. May 13, 1831.
Thomas Campbell, the Poet, was editor of The New Monthly Magazine, Cyrus Redding was his literary subordinate, and Henry Colburn was the publisher. The Lady here referred to was doubtless intended for Lady Morgan.
――――
LEAP FROG.
Dedicated to PRINCE NAPOLEON, THE DUKE OF MALAKHOFF, MARSHALS CANROBERT, BOSQUET, and the other French officers present at the late Crimean banquet at Paris.
Froggy must a warring go―― Heigh ho, so slowly! Froggy must a warring go, By the Emperor’s orders, like it or no, With his swingeing St. Arnaud, Bosquet and Canrobert, Heigh ho, so slowly!
So off he sailed to the Bosphorus blue, Heigh ho, so growly, So off he sailed to the Bosphorus blue, And there found John Bull with a soldier or two, With his good-natured Raglan, Lucan, and Cardigan, Heigh ho, so scowly!
When the Rooskies at Alma were forced to run―― Heigh ho, so easy! When the Rooskies at Alma were forced to run, It was Froggy, of course took the one captured gun, With his swingeing St. Arnaud, Bosquet, and Canrobert, Heigh ho, so easy!
When the beaten Rooskies we failed to pursue―― Heigh ho, so foully! When the beaten Rooskies we failed to pursue, To John Bull, of course, the delay was due, With his easy Lord Raglan, Lucan and Cardigan, Heigh ho, so growlly!
When to “sap” was changed what should have been “sack”―― Heigh ho, so slowly! When to “sap” was changed what should have been “sack,” Of course, Froggy held left and right attack, With his bouncing Pelissier, Bosquet, and Canrobert, Heigh ho, so slowly!
When six to one did at Inkermann fight―― Heigh ho, so boldly! When six to one did at Inkermann fight, It was Froggy, of course, that defended the height, With his terrible Chasseurs, Zouaves, and Indigénes, Heigh ho, so boldly!
When at Balaklava fled Russia’s horse―― Heigh ho, so quickly! When at Balaklava fled Russia’s horse, The “thin red line” was Froggy’s of course, With his blundering Lucan, Campbell, and Highlanders, Heigh ho, so quickly!
When the Allies’ assault was repulsed in June―― Heigh ho, so foully! When the Allies’ attack was repulsed in June, ’Twasn’t Froggy began the attack too soon, With his Duke of Malakhoff, Bosquet, and Company, Heigh ho, so foully!
When at last Sebastopol city was ta’en―― Heigh ho, so slowly It was Froggy did all――except lose the Redan, With his thundering D’Angely, Bosquet, and Malakhoff, Heigh ho, so slowly!
In short, the Siege of Sebastopol―― Heigh ho, so wholly! In short, the Siege of Sebastopol, Was Froggy’s achievement, whole and sole, With his Admiral Hamelin, Bosquet, and Malakhoff, Heigh ho, so wholly!
Of what laurels there are to win and wear―― Heigh ho, so seedy! Of what laurels there are to win and wear, Of course, Froggy claims the Lion’s share, With his Dukes and his Marshals, Bosquet and Malakhoff, Heigh ho, so greedy!
Punch. January 31, 1857.
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THE FROG WHO WOULD A-WOOING GO.
A Premier would a-wooing go, (“Boo! boo!” says Randy) Whether his Party liked it or no, With a Salisbury, Halsbury gammon and spinach. (“Pooh! pooh!” says pert little Randy.)
So off he went in a terrible pet, (“Ta-ta!” says Randy) And a Whiggy Peer was the first he met, With a Hartington haughty tone gammon and spinach. (“Pooh! pooh!” says smart little Randy.)
“Pray, Mr. Marquis, come with me?” (“Yah! yah!” says Randy) “And help us to govern our great countree, With a Hartington, Salisbury gammon and spinach.” (“Pooh! pooh!” says little Lord Randy.)
“You shall be Premier if you wish,” (“Heigho!” says Randy) “The principal spoon in the Tory dish Of Salisbury, Halsbury, gammon and spinach.” (“Boo! boo!” says cross little Randy.)
“Our Tory colours we’ll change about,” (“Hurroo!” says Randy) “If you’ll help to keep old Gladstone out, With a Hartington, Salisbury gammon and spinach.” (“Yah! yah!” says sharp little Randy.)
“No! Mr. Sarum, I can’t go with you.” (“Neither could I,” says Randy) “If I did the bargain I quickly should rue, With your Marshall and Snelgrove gammon and spinach.” (“Just so!” says little Lord Randy.)
“But on my support you may depend,” (“Oh, indeed!” says Randy) “In need I’ll always prove your friend, With my Liberal Unionist gammon and spinach,” (“Oh! oh!” says spry little Randy.)
“There’s no one now but Goschen left,” (“Invertebrate!” sneers Randy) A chief of followers bereft,” With a Salisbury, Halsbury, Goschen and spinach, (“Quite so!” says smart little Randy)
So off he went to Mr. G. (“Silly Bob,” says Randy) Who said he’d accept the Chancell’rie, With a Northbrook, Lansdowne gammon and spinach, (“Pooh, pooh,” says bad little Randy.)
But when he reached his home again, (“All in the dumps,” says Randy) Upon his head reproaches rain; With a hurly-burly gammon and spinach. (“Yo, ho!” sings chuckling Randy.)
It was who’s to go and who’s to rise? (“That’s the rub!” says Randy) Each marked the other with jealous eyes, With a grumbling, rumbling gammon and spinach. (“What fun!” says mischievous Randy.)
The kindest and the truest man, (“Go it, Bob!” says Randy) To turn him out they plot and plan, With their Salisbury, Halsbury, Goschen and spinach. (“He’s old!” says cruel young Randy.)
Upon one point they all agree―― (“Only one,” adds Randy) To banish dear Lord Iddesleigh, With their Salisbury, Halsbury, Goschen and spinach. (“Hurroo!” shouts little Lord Randy.)
“But what’s to be the end of this?” (“Deuced queer!” says Randy) “Such a chance old Gladstone never will miss, With his Homer, Home Rule, gammon and spinach.” (“Heigho!” sighs sad little Randy.)
The Premier was swimming along one day, (“What’ll come next?” says Randy) A grand old duck came and gobbled him up, With his Salisbury, Halsbury, Goschen, and spinach. (“All up” says little Lord Randy.)
Pall Mall Gazette. January 20, 1887.
When Lord Randolph Churchill resigned the Chancellorship of the Exchequer, on account of the extravagance in the votes for the War Office, and the Admiralty, the Marquis of Salisbury had some difficulty in finding a successor, but at length prevailed on Mr. Goschen to accept the post, although he had previously held office in a Liberal Cabinet.
――――
“OLD ROWLEY!”
[Mr. and Mrs. KENDAL and Mr. ROWLEY CATHCART played Uncle’s Will, and Sweethearts at Osborne. HER MAJESTY presented Mrs. KENDAL with a diamond brooch in the shape of an imperial crown, gave MR. KENDAL a cheque for the night’s expenses of the St. James’s Theatre, and Mr. R. CATHCART a cheque for himself. Subsequently it was announced that, as a memorial of the performance of David Garrick at Sandringham, H.R.H. had presented Mr. CHARLES WYNDHAM with a gold cup.]
Off they went to Osborne to play, (“Heigho!” say ROWLEY.) Off they went to Osborne to play; There were only Mrs. and Mr. K., With their ROWLEY CATHCART. (“Would it were Greenwich. Heigho!” sighs elderly ROWLEY.)
The first piece played was Uncle’s Will. (“Ho! Ho!” laughs ROWLEY.) They all three played in Uncle’s Will, And Sweethearts to follow completed the bill, Both with ROWLEY CATHCART. (“Glad to get finidg’d, Heigho!” growls elderly ROWLEY.)
They greatly delighted HER MAJESTEE, (“Hooray!” cries ROWLEY.) They highly delighted HER MAJESTEE, Did Mister and Missus and little ROWL_EE_, With their tact in actin’ Little space pack’d in. (“Heigho!” says elderly ROWLEY.)
With a brooch did her HER MAJESTY Mrs. K. deck. (“Hooray!” shouts ROWLEY.) Crown diamonds shining in front of her neck; A cheque to her Hub; then the QUEEN drew a cheque For their ROWLEY, slowly, (“Solely and wholly For me!” cries elderly ROWLEY.)
Postscript.
CHARLES WYNDHAM on hearing it threw his hands up (“Hallo!” says DAVY.) CHARLES WYNDHAM on hearing it threw his hands up, And into them H.R.H. chucked a gold cup, For command obeying, Sandringham playing, “Hooray!” cries WYNDHAM as DAVY!
Punch. February 26, 1887.
――――
THE CRAFTY HAWARDEN FOX AND THE SOUR UNIONIST GRAPES.
A grey old fox sat under a vine (Heigho! says Morley), Ogling the grapes so plump and fine, With his Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach (Heigho! says miserable Morley).
“Oh, come and be gobbled up, grapes,” said he (Heigho! says Morley) “It’s really a treat to be swallowed by me, With my Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach (Heigho! says miserable Morley)
But the grapes stuck fast to the parent stem (Heigho! says Morley) “We shan’t get much out of blarneying them, With our Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach, (Heigho! says miserable Morley)
Then the old fox jumped, but ’twas all in vain (Heigho! says Morley). For he came bump on his haunches again, With his Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach, (Heigho! says miserable Morley).
The more he jumped the fiercer he grew (Heigho! says Morley) And he growled all the naughtiest growls he knew, With his Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach, (Heigho! says miserable Morley).
“The grapes are sour, and not fit to eat.” (Just so, says Morley); So the pair crawled off to their den dead beat, With their Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach, The grey old fox and his Morley.
J. W. P. St. Stephen’s Review. June 18, 1887.
――――:o:――――
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. Born in Dublin in 1751. Died, July 7, 1816.
――――
Lord Byron said, “Whatever Sheridan has done, has been, par excellence, always the best of its kind. He has written the best comedy (“School for Scandal”), the best drama (“The Duenna”), the best farce (“The Critic”), and the best address (“Monologue on Garrick”); and, to crown all, delivered, the very best oration (the famous Begum Speech) ever conceived, or heard in this country.”
In addition to The School for Scandal, The Duenna, and The Critic, Sheridan wrote St. Patrick’s Day, a farce; The Rivals, a comedy; A Trip to Scarborough (partly adapted from Sir J. Vanbrugh’s “Relapse,”) and Pizarro, a tragedy.
Sheridan was indebted to an old play written by the Duke of Buckingham and entitled “The Rehearsal” (1672), for the main idea of “The Critic,” but all the personal allusions in Sheridan’s farce were made to well known contemporary characters. “The Critic” was produced at Drury Lane Theatre in 1779. In 1780 a miserable anonymous imitation was published by H. Kingsbury, entitled “The Critick; or, a Tragedy Rehearsed, a Literary Catchpenny! Prelude to a Dramatic after-piece, by R. B. Sheridan, Esq., with a Dedication, Preface, and Prologue.” This does not appear to have been intended for the stage. Another imitation was entitled “The Critic Anticipated; or, the Humours of the Green Room, as rehearsed behind the curtain of the theatre in Drury Lane, 1779.”
Coming to modern times, Mr. F. C. Burnand founded an amusing burlesque upon the tragedy portion of “The Critic.” This was entitled “Elizabeth; or, The Invisible Armada,” and was published in 1870, by Tinsley Brothers, London. The favourite old characters Tilburina, Don Ferolo Whiskerandos, and the Governor of Tilbury Fort are here introduced; no mention is made in the printed copy as to whether this burlesque was ever performed at any theatre.
In 1884 Sheridan’s comedy, “The Rivals,” was being played at the Haymarket Theatre (London), with a most elaborate mise-en-scene, and, perhaps, a little too much display of antiquarian accuracy in details, to ridicule which an afterpiece, entitled “The Ar-Rivals, or a Trip to Margate,” was produced at the Avenue Theatre on June 24, 1884. It was announced as having been written by “J. M. Banero and A. D. Pincroft” (Pinero and Bancroft are almost too slyly hidden here), and that it would be produced with “Real sand buckets, real wooden spades, real periwinkles which would be eaten with real pins, and, as far as practicable, with real appetites.”
Yet notwithstanding all this wit, the travesty was pronounced by the critics as utterly beneath criticism, and was at once withdrawn.
Passing now from burlesques of Sheridan’s complete plays to parodies of songs contained in them, the favourite appears to be the drinking song which occurs in the third act of “The School for Scandal.”
LET THE TOAST PASS.
Here’s to the maiden of bashful fifteen; Here’s to the widow of fifty; Here’s to the flaunting extravagant quean, And here’s to the housewife that’s thrifty. Let the toast pass, Drink to the lass, I’ll warrant she’ll prove an excuse for the glass.
Here’s to the charmer whose dimples we prize, Now to the maid who has none, sir: Here’s to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, And here’s to the nymph with but one, sir. Let the toast pass, &c.
Here’s to the maid with a bosom of snow; Now to her that’s as brown as a berry: Here’s to the wife with a face full of woe, And now to the damsel that’s merry. Let the toast pass, &c.
For let ’em be clumsy, or let ’em be slim, Young or ancient, I care not a feather; So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim, So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the brim, And let us e’en toast them together. Let the toast pass, &c.
These gay and flowing verses, perhaps the most popular of their class in the language, were evidently modelled on the following song in Suckling’s play of the Goblins:
‘A health to the nut brown lass With the hazel eyes, let it pass, She that has good eyes, &c. Let it pass――let it pass.
As much to the lively grey, ’Tis as good in the night as the day, She that hath good eyes, &c. Drink away――drink away.
I pledge, I pledge, what ho! some wine, Here’s to thine――here’s to thine! The colours are divine; But ho! the black, the black, Give me as much again, and let ’t be sack; She that hath good eyes,’ &c.
This song was appropriated by S. Sheppard, in a comedy called the Committee-man Curried, 1647, without any acknowledgment of the source from whence he stole it.
――――
SONG BY SIR ROBERT PEEL.
Here’s to each Tory and Radical too; Just only my Income Tax pass, boys, And you’ll see how completely John Bull I shall “do,” By taking the duty off glass, boys. Let the bill pass, John’s such an ass, I’ll warrant he’ll find an excuse in the glass.
Here’s the debater whose speeches we prize, And here’s to the spouter of twaddle: To gentlemen gifted with brains, and likewise, To those who have none in their noddle. Let the bill pass, &c.
Here’s unto Cobden, and here’s to Friend Bright, The farmers’ and landowners’ friend, too; To those who for Corn-Law monopoly fight, And those for Free Trade who contend, too.
Here’s to the few for class interests who vote, With a view to the loaves and the fishes; Here’s to the many who strive to promote Their constituents objects and wishes.
Here’s to young England and here’s unto old! For all parties I care not a feather: So long as you all are contented to hold, In support of my Budget, together. Let the Bill pass, &c.
Punch. March 8, 1845.
――――
LOVE, YOU MUST OWN, IS A COMICAL THING.
Love, you must own is a comical thing, ’Tis hoaxing, and coaxing, and teasing, Its power is so great it can conquer a king, Still its heaviest chains are oft pleasing. Its praise let us sound, For I will be bound, There are nine out of ten in love all the year round.
Stoics may preach against love if they please, Still, still I’ll declare it a pleasure; For though a fair maiden may often times tease, Still the girl of my heart is a treasure. Its praise let us sound, &c.
Husbands may say when they’re wed a few years, A wife’s a hard bargain to deal with; But I value not their lamentations and tears, For some lass I will soon sign and seal with, Its praise let us sound, &c.
Let single or married rail as they will, Yet love is the sunshine of life, sirs. And I will stand forth as its advocate still, Nor stop till I get me a wife, sirs. Its praise let us sound, &c.
I am in love, as before I have said, And no cynic my passion shall smother, I’ll marry a wife, and when she is dead, Why, then, I will marry another. Its praise let us sound, &c.
Then come in our dreams, love, love it shall be, Our joy it shall sweeten our glasses; We’ll drink it by land, and we’ll drink it by sea, For without it we lose all our lasses. Its praise let us sound, &c.
BRYANT.
――――
ELECTION SONG.
Here’s to the Voter whose terms are fifteen; Here’s to the vote that costs fifty; Here’s to the Candidate shabby and mean, And here’s to the one that’s not thrifty. Let the Bill[52] pass; ’Tis but a farce; I warrant they’ll find an excuse for a glass.
Here’s to the Voter whose freehold we prize, Here’s to the tenant with none, Sir; Here’s to the host who the liquor supplies, Here’s to the beer-taps that run, Sir. Let the Bill pass, &c.
Here’s to the Candidate, pure as the snow, With an agent as black as a berry; Here’s to the wife with a face full of woe, And here’s to the bribe makes her merry. Let the Bill pass, &c.
For let them be clumsy or cautiously trim, Snug or open, I care not a feather; So fill all the pewter-pots up to the brim, And let both sides get drunk altogether. Let the Bill pass, He’s but an ass, Who’s puzzled to find an excuse for a glass.
Punch. April 3, 1852.
―――― THE BOOKMAKER’S TOAST.
Here’s to the Ringman that’s made a grand coup, And here’s to the loser, the duffer! And here’s to the Ringman that hasn’t a screw, And here’s to his dupes that all suffer! Yet, don’t scruple to spend, but pay to the end, And I’ll warrant you’ll find that the layer’s your friend.
Here’s to the ninny backs all in the race, And here’s to the cautious beginner! Who’s surely, though quietly, learning the pace, While the old hands are spotting the winner. Then let the toast swing, and drink to the Ring, For I’ll warrant in time they’ll let outsiders in.
The Globe.
――――
EASTER.
Easter for maidens of bashful fifteen, Easter for lovers of fifty. Easter for all should be mild and serene, Not gusty and shifty and drifty. Easter (alas! Soon may it pass) I warrant ’twill prove an excuse for a glass.
Easter might brighter be as to the skies, What has become of the sun, sirs? Easter our temper exceedingly tries, When Easter is not a fine one, sirs. Coughing Chorus――Easter, alas, &c.
Easter is made up of drizzle and snow, Easter is changeable very, Easter’s unlike what it was years ago; But still let us all drink and be merry. Sneezing Chorus――Easter, alas. &c.
――――
A TOAST TO MANKIND.
Here’s to the man with a balance in hand―― Here’s to the party who’s minus, Here’s to the friend who’s unable to stand, And here’s to the swell that will dine us. Let the toast gee―― Drink to him, he, I warrant, excuse for a bumper will be!
Here’s to the swell with a landed estate, Here’s to the chap who has nil, sir, Here’s to the card who’s presented with plate, And, to him who’s presented a bill, sir, Let the toast gee―― Drink to him, he, I warrant, excuse for a bumper will be.
Here’s to the cove with the shirt-front of snow, Now to him who’s not even a dickey; Here’s to him on whom Fortune all gifts doth bestow, And to him now, with whom she is tricky. Let the toast gee―― Drink to him, he, I warrant, excuse for a bumper will be.
For whether they’re sinking, or whether they swim, Poor or wealthy, I care not a dump’s sum. Come fill up a bumper――nay, fill to the brim, And drink to mankind as a lump sum. Let the toast, pray, Pass, sir, for they Will prove an excuse for our moistening the clay.
Fun.
――――
HERE’S TO THE FRESHER!
Here’s to the Fresher not out of his teens; Here’s to the fellow of forty; Here’s to the feud with our ‘vis à vis’ Queen’s; And here’s to the “town and gown” sortie!
Chorus.――Toss the wine down,―― Drink to the gown, I’ll warrant they’ll prove quite a match for the town.
Here’s to old Univ. whose trophies we prize; Here’s to the college with none, sir: Here’s to our “pet” with a pair of black eyes, And here’s to his foe with but one, sir!
Chorus.――Toss the wine down, &c.
Here’s to our “Firsts” which the Honour lists shew, Here’s to the blows we deliver; Here’s to our “Drag” as they merrily go; Here’s to us Head of the River!
Chorus.――Toss the wine down, &c.
Here’s to our time honoured “esprit de corps,” Past or present I care not a feather; Old Univ. will always be well to the fore, As long as we all pull together!
Chorus.――Toss the wine down, &c.
A. HASKETT SMITH. Univ: Coll: Oxford.
――――
A NEW SONG FOR THE NEW TIMES.
Here’s to the motley, mellifluous host Whose agreement might well be more hearty, Who, of all creeds and none, yet their Unity boast―― Here’s to the Liberal Party. Radical, Whig, Little and big, We all for the moment must dance the same jig.
Chamberlain rushes he doesn’t care where; Derby is timidly backing; Hartington sideways is dragged here and there; Goschen keeps trimming and tacking. Still let us pray That for one day We all, when the tug comes, may pull the same way.
And now for the man who can never do wrong, Who’s name’s an electoral lever, Whose temper is short, and whose speeches are long―― Here’s to the grand old Deceiver: More than once tried, Found a blind guide, Yet still finding legions to fight at his side.
Only for plunder, and only for power, (Fools may for principle fight on). But for one object and but for one hour, Interest let us unite on. Though they look glum, Whigs must be dumb, And all discords be drowned by the Radical drum.
In office again shall our bonds be untied, On that point we own no illusion; Then as before we shall break and divide, And all as before be confusion. Once fairly there, Why need we care If Europe deride and if England despair?
Blood may flow vainly and commerce decay, Let not your cheers be less hearty. Honour and Empire in dust pass away, But flourish the Liberal Party! At his feet fall, Vote at his call, Whose grand old Umbrella will cover us all.
St. James’s Gazette. November 16, 1885.
――――:o:――――
POT AND KETTLE. (Some way after Sheridan.)
Smart Churchill, ’cute Chamberlain flouting and slanging, His speeches compares to a cracked tin-pot clanging. The mode in which Randy the argument carries on Suggests to tired hearers another comparison. For noise and for nuisance the claims who may settle ’Twixt Chamberlain’s pot and Lord Randolph’s old kettle? For, alas! as a source of detestable din, Men find sounding brass quite as bad as cracked tin.
Punch. November 8, 1884.
――――:o:――――
HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD FRAMED.
Had I a heart for falsehood framed, I ne’er could injure you; For though your tongue no promise claimed, Your charms would make me true; To you no soul shall bear deceit No stranger offer wrong; But friends in all the aged you’ll meet, And lovers in the young.
For when they learn that you have blest Another with your heart, They’ll bid aspiring passion rest, And act a brother’s part; Then, lady, dread not here deceit, Nor fear to suffer wrong; For friends in all the aged you’ll meet, And lovers in the young.
R. B. SHERIDAN. From The Duenna.
――――
STEWED STEAK.
Had I a pound of tender steak, I’d use it for a stew; And if the dish you would partake, I’ll tell you what to do, Into a stew-pan, clean and neat, Some butter should be flung; And with it stew your pound of meat, A tender piece――but young.
And when you find the juice express’d By culinary art, To draw the water off, were best, And let it stand apart. Then, lady, if you’d have a treat, Be sure you can’t be wrong To put more butter to your meat, Nor let it slew too long.
And when the steak is nicely done, To take it off, were best; And gently let it fry alone, Without the sauce or zest Then add the gravy――with of wine A spoonful in it flung; And a shalot cut very fine: Let the shalot be young.
And when the whole has been combined, More stewing ’twill require; Ten minutes will suffice――but mind, Don’t have too quick a fire. Then serve it up――’twill form a treat! Nor fear you’ve cook’d it wrong; Gourmets in all the old ’twill meet, And gourmands in the young.
Punch. March, 1852
SONGS by Dr. CHARLES MACKAY.
JOHN BROWN, OR A PLAIN MAN’S PHILOSOPHY.
I.
I’ve a guinea I can spend, I’ve a wife, and I’ve a friend, And a troop of little children at my knee, John Brown; I’ve a cottage of my own With the ivy overgrown, And a garden with a view of the sea, John Brown; I can sit at my door By my shady sycamore, Large of heart, though of very small estate, John Brown; So come and drain a glass In my arbour as you pass, And I’ll tell you what I love and what I hate, John Brown.
II.
I love the song of birds, And the children’s early words, And a loving woman’s voice, low and sweet, John Brown; And I hate a false pretence, And the want of common sense, And arrogance, and fawning, and deceit, John Brown; I love the meadow flowers, And the brier in the bowers, And I love an open face without guile, John Brown; And I hate a selfish knave, And a proud, contented slave, And a lout who’d rather borrow than he’d toil, John Brown.
III.
I love a simple song That awakes emotions strong, And the word of hope that raises him who faints, John Brown; And I hate the constant whine Of the foolish who repine, And turn their good to evil by complaints, John Brown; But even when I hate, If I seek my garden gate, And survey the world around me and above, John Brown; The hatred flies my mind, And I sigh for humankind, And excuse the faults of those I cannot love, John Brown.
IV.
So, if you like my ways, And the comfort of my days, I will tell you how I live so unvex’d, John Brown; I never scorn my health, Nor sell my soul for wealth, Nor destroy one day the pleasures of the next, John Brown; I’ve parted with my pride, And I take the sunny side, For I’ve found it worse than folly to be sad, John Brown; I keep a conscience clear, I’ve a hundred pounds a year, And I manage to exist and to be glad, John Brown!
C. MACKAY.
――――
JOHN BROWN’S ANSWER TO “THE PLAIN MAN’S PHILOSOPHY.”
I’ve listened to your song, and, unless I’m very wrong, There is much in it of what we now call bosh――Tom Smith. It is easy so to sing, but to do’s another thing, And I fear that your philosophy won’t wash――Tom Smith. Of course that’s not your name――but ’twill answer all the same For the person I’m presumed to argue with――Tom Smith. And offended you can’t be, as you’ve done the same to me, For I’m no more John Brown than you’re Tom Smith――Tom Smith.
What you love and what you hate――you’re at liberty to state,―― I’ve nothing upon earth with that to do――Tom Smith. De gustibus non est――I’ve no doubt you know the rest, And besides, I’ve much the same dislikes as you――Tom Smith. It’s on matters of finance, in which there’s no romance, I would break with you a lance――if you please, Tom Smith. I’m myself a family man, and I don’t believe you can Contrive to live with yours on bread and cheese――Tom Smith.
You’ve “a hundred pounds a year”――well, let’s even say it’s clear Of income-tax, that’s not two pounds a week――Tom Smith. But the cottage is “your own,” so the rent must in be thrown, Which I grant will help your income out to eke――Tom Smith. Per contra, you’ve a wife, as dear to you as life,―― I hope she is, I’m sure, for both your sakes――Tom Smith. But the more you hold her dear, the more must be your fear, If anything your little income shakes――Tom Smith.
Of children you’ve a troop――an interesting group, But to tell how many form it you forgot――Tom Smith. Say five or six in all, which for “a troop” is small.―― Of bread and butter they must eat a lot――Tom Smith. Of their clothes you may be spare, but they cannot go quite bare, And whooping-cough and measles you must count――Tom Smith, And if only one be ill, I’m afraid the doctor’s bill Might at Christmas prove a serious amount――Tom Smith.
’Tis philosophy, no doubt, trifles not to fret about, And “sufficient for the day” is a fine text――Tom Smith; But at your garden gate do you never scratch your pate, When you think what’s in the cupboard for the next――Tom Smith? The pot you know must boil; ’twould be better sure to toil, And add by honest labour to your store――Tom Smith, Than moon away your time, in philosophic rhyme, Or sitting ’neath your shady sycamore――Tom Smith.
You bid me, as I pass, come and drain with you a glass, But it cannot be of wine, or beer, or grog――Tom Smith. It’s more like “Adam’s Ale,” I’m afraid, than “Bass’s Pale,” And to drink, I water shun like a mad dog――Tom Smith. If “a guinea you’ve to spend,” I advise you as a friend, To put it in the Savings’ Bank forthwith――Tom Smith. You will want it before long, and sing another song, Unless, as I suspect, you are a myth――Tom Smith.
J. R. PLANCHE.
――――:o:――――
CHEER, BOYS! CHEER!
Cheer, boys! cheer! no more of idle sorrow, Courage, true hearts, shall bear us on our way! Hope points before, and shows the bright to-morrow, Let us forget the darkness of to-day! So farewell, England! Much as we may love thee, We’ll dry the tears that we have shed before; Why should we weep to sail in search of fortune? So farewell, England! farewell evermore!
Cheer, boys! cheer! for England, mother England! Cheer, boys! cheer! the willing strong right hand, Cheer, boys! cheer! there’s work for honest labour―― Cheer, boys! cheer!――in the new and happy land!
C. MACKAY.
* * * * *
――――
BEER! BOYS, BEER!
Beer! Boys, Beer! for that’s the stuff for sorrow, Forage out more, we will, upon our way; The score behind the door, we’ll make right to-morrow, When we get over the drinking of to-day. So, farewell, Landlord, much as we may owe thee, We’ll dry the pots up, if you’ll only draw; Why should we sleep? let’s drink to better fortune; So Farewell, Landlord, Farewell, old boy, hurrah!
Beer! Boys, Beer! all over town and country, Beer! Boys, Beer! with pewter pot in hand; Beer! Boys, Beer! for all who don’t mind labour, Beer! Boys, Beer! who a gallon’s going to stand?
Beer! Boys, Beer, off the froth we’re blowing, Our throats to freely pour down Barclay’s best; The “Bobby” may follow in the track we’re going The “Star and Garter” we’ll drop in, to rest, Though we have toil, we’ve skittles to reward it, But when we’ve plenty, we’ll do our Champagne: Then ours shall be Port and Sherry for the poorest, And foaming measures we’ll fill and fill again.
Beer! Boys, Beer! all over town and country, Beer! Boys, Beer! united, pot in hand; Beer! Boys, Beer! for all who hardly labour, Beer! Boys, Beer! who the next is going to stand?
J. A. HARDWICK.
――――
VOTE, BOYS, VOTE!
Vote, boys, vote, for Freedom’s noble leader; Shout, boys, shout, our chieftain’s battle cry. Ireland’s wrongs at length have found a pleader Ireland’s hope at length is drawing nigh Long her barque has seemed like one benighted, Drifting down a troubled, shoreless sea; But at last a welcome haven’s sighted Leading on to peace and liberty. Chorus――Vote, boys, vote, &c.
Chamberlain and Hartington and Goschen May attempt to thwart the nation’s will; But the British people’s true devotion Centres in their honoured chieftain still. Trust again the troth he’s nobly plighted And he’ll reach the welcome promised goal―― Erin’s sons, by ties of love united, Shall be “one with Britain’s, heart and soul.”
F. TOPHAM. The Weekly Dispatch. June 27, 1886.
――――
BEER, BOYS, BEER!
Beer, boys, beer! No more absurd restriction, Courage, Bass, Meux, and Barclay must give way; Half pints and quarts have vanish’d like a fiction, Why then, submit to the brewers’ despot sway? Brown stout of England! much as we may love thee, (Which, by the way, I rather think we do,) Pale draught of India, shall they charge us for ye, Twice what you’re worth, for the profit of a few? Beer, boys, beer! abundant, deep, and vasty! Beer, boys, beer! the stunning, strong and grand! Beer, boys, beer! the cheap, and not the nasty! Beer, boys, beer! at a price a man can stand!
Beer, boys, beer! The present scale of prices, Leads to a style of tipple not the best; Vile Spanish root, and quassia, which not nice is, Bad for the bile, and oppressive to the chest. But, let’s unite with hearty agitation; Push for our rights, and battle might and main; And ours shall be a large yet brimming tankard Of real wholesome stuff, brew’d out of roasted grain. Beer, boys, beer! no more of gentian’s nausea; Beer, boys, beer! with liquorice away! Beer, boys, beer! no logwood chips or quassia, Beer! boys, beer, which is all I have to say!
Diogenes, Vol. II. 1853.
――――:o:――――
THE GOOD TIME COMING.
There’s a good time coming, boys, A good time coming: We may not live to see the day, But earth shall glisten in the ray Of the good time coming. Cannon-balls may aid the truth, But thought’s a weapon stronger; We’ll win our battle by its aid;―― Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys, A good time coming: The pen shall supersede the sword, And Right, not Might, shall be the lord In the good time coming. Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind, And be acknowledged stronger; The proper impulse has been given;―― Wait a little longer.
* * * * * (Six verses omitted.)
CHARLES MACKAY.
This song, which was one of a series entitled “Voices from the Crowd,” originally appeared in the second number of the Daily News (London).
Most of Dr. Charles Mackay’s songs breathe sentiments of hope for the future of the people, and trust in their good sense and ability to govern themselves. Such sentiments were very unpopular forty years ago, when revolutions were of frequent occurrence on the Continent, and Chartism was dreaded in England. Hence Mackay’s verses were parodied as follows:――
THE PICKPOCKET’S BLESSING. (By Charles Quackay.)
Curses on thee, haughty England! Shall thy sad heart-broken child Pray for blessings on a parent, Who hath well-nigh made him wild? Why should I prate of thy freedom, When I’m laden with the weight Of two hundred pounds of iron, Forged by thy much-vaunted State? Wait awhile, boys! Go ahead. Safety comes for thieves and knaves, Felons shall not then be slaves―― Go ahead, boys! Go ahead!
When a child I prigged an apple, When a youth I “faked a cly,” When a man I shot a keeper; And for this am I to die, In a land of iron bondage, Bound by chains I cannot break, Scorned by every honest dotard?―― Yet some day my wrath I’ll slake! Wait awhile, boys! Go ahead! &c.
Richly fed and richly clothed, Was the honest greasy fool, Who in judgment sat upon me; He, of tyrant’s wretched tool, Ne’er, forsooth, stole fruit or kerchief; Richly fed and richly clothed, Each unhappy wretch he punished, As a thing he deeply loathed. Wait awhile, boys! Go ahead, &c.
I was led before a jury, Stuffed and gorged with choicest food; They, vile enemies of freedom, Sentenced me, in coolest mood, To be bound in iron fetters, ’Midst the basest of mankind. But though mine are chains of iron, Theirs are chains which gird the mind! Wait awhile, boys! Go ahead! Safety comes for thieves and knaves, Felons shall not then be slaves―― Go ahead, boys! Go ahead!
(Five verses omitted.)
This parody occurs in a very scarce pamphlet, of which no copy is to be found in the Library of the British Museum, entitled The Puppet-Showman’s Album, illustrated by Gavarni. This is not dated, but it was evidently printed about 1848, or 1849. It contains imitations, either in prose or verse, of Lord Macaulay, Bulwer Lytton, Leigh Hunt, G. P. R. James, B. Disraeli, Charles Dickens, Charles Lever, A. Tennyson, Thomas Carlyle, W. M. Thackeray, W. H. Ainsworth, Douglas Jerrold, Walter Savage Landor, Mrs. Trollope, John Wilson Croker, Charles Mackay, Albert Smith, and Coventry Patmore.
VOICES FROM THE CROWD IN FLEET STREET.
There’s a good road making, boys, A good road making; We may not live to see the day, But there will be an open way O’er the good road making: Paviours may tear up the street, In time they’ll make it stronger; ’Tis true they’re always at it, but Wait a little longer!
There’s a good road making, boys, A good road making; The sewers shall supersede the gas, When paviours, perhaps, might let us pass O’er the good road making: Pipes and earth shall stop the way, Or bricks, which are the stronger, To jobs the impulse has been given, Wait a little longer!
There’s a good road making, boys, A good road making; Loud and fierce shall be the cry From the cabs, that can’t get by On the good road making: Carts and ’busses shall contend, To see which is the stronger, And panels smash for smashing’s sake―― Wait a little longer!
(Three verses omitted.)
There’s a good road making, boys, A good road making; The drivers shall be temperate, Nor swear at such a frightful rate, On the good road making; They shall use――and not abuse―― Then patience will grow stronger, When ’tis not so sorely tried, Wait a little longer!
There’s a good road making, boys, A good road making; Let them get what aid they can, Every boy and every man, On the good road making: Smallest helps, if rightly given, Make the impulse stronger, Fleet Street will be clear――some day―― Wait a little longer!
GILBERT ABBOTT à BECKETT. From The Almanack of the Month. September, 1846.
――――
THE WAITER.
I met the waiter in his prime At a magnificent hotel; His hair untinged by care or time, Was oiled and brushed exceeding well. When “Waiter,” was the impatient cry, In accents growing stronger, He seemed to murmur “By and by, Wait a little longer.”
Within a year we met once more, ’Twas in another part of town―― An humbler air the waiter wore, I fancied he was going down. Still, when I shouted, “Waiter, bread!” He came out rather stronger, As if he’d say with toss of head, Wait a little longer.”
Time takes us on through many a grade; Of “ups and downs” I’ve had my run, Passing full often through the shade, And sometimes loitering in the sun. I and the waiter met again At a small inn at Ongar; Still, when I called, ’twas almost vain, He bade me wait the longer.
Another time, years since the last―― At eating-house I sought relief From present care and troubles past, In a small plate of round of beef. “One beef, and taturs,” was the cry, In tones than mine much stronger; ’Twas the old waiter standing by, “Wait a little longer.”
I’ve marked him now for many a year; I’ve seen his coat more rusty grow; His linen is less bright and clear; His polished pumps are on the go. Torn are, alas! his Berlin gloves―― They used to be much stronger; The waiter’s whole appearance proves He cannot wait much longer.
I sometimes see the waiter still; ’Gainst want he wages feeble strife; He’s at the bottom of the hill, Downward has been his path through life. Of “Waiter, waiter,” there are cries, Which louder grow and stronger; ’Tis to old Time he now replies “Wait a little longer.”
Punch.
――――
IT’S A LONG TIME COMING.
It’s a long time coming, boys, A long time coming; We may not live to see the day, But lords their tailors’ bills shall pay In this good time coming. Politicians then shall speak the truth, The people’s cause be stronger, And thrive without e’en Cuffey’s aid―― Wait a little longer.
It’s a long time coming, boys, A long time coming; To foster foul disease shall be, No certain proof of loyalty, In the good time coming. Those men that hate the use of soap Shall not then be the stronger, Nor poison hosts for custom’s sake―― Wait a little longer.
* * * * * (Two verses omitted.)
The Puppet-Show. June 3, 1848.
――――
HAPPY ARCADIA.
(“General” Booth says that “the Salvation Army is the natural antidote to all the evils on the earth.”)
There’s a good time coming, boys A good time coming; The “General” has pointed out, How all the ill’s of life he’ll rout In the good time coming. Tho’ fortune’s frown may threaten us, The “Army” is still stronger, The War Cry’s raised――the battle’s won―― Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys, A good time coming; Bubble companies may break, Love-sick maiden’s hearts may ache, Till the good time coming, Altho’ woe now may seem supreme, The “Army” will prove stronger, Then mirth and jollity shall reign―― Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys, A good time coming; Ould Oirland will be our joy, “Deceased Wife’s Sister” won’t annoy In the good time coming. The Nihilists may menace us, The “Army” still is stronger, Our land will be Utopia―― Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys, A good time coming; We’ll have then the Millennium, Earth will be an Elysium, In the good time coming. We only need to join the “Army,” And make it daily stronger, And if ills yet will come, why we Must go on waiting longer!
Fun. June 16, 1886.
――――
THERE’S A GOOD TIME COMING.
There’s a good time coming, boys, A good time coming, When truth and justice will prevail, And all shall listen to the tale, In the good time coming; Every day shall aid our cause, And make conviction stronger, That Toryism’s but a snare―― Wait a little longer. There’s a good time coming, boys, A good time coming, There’s a good time coming, boys, Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys, A good time coming, Education shall be free To the poor man’s family, In the good time coming; No class shall be privileged Though it were ten times stronger. But all shall share the general good, Wait a little longer. There’s a good time coming, boys, &c.
There’s a good time coming, boys, A good time coming, For the owners of the soil Starving peasants shall not toil In the good time coming; Primogeniture shall be No struggling people’s wronger, Nor rents be raised at landlords’ wills, Wait a little longer. There’s a good time coming, boys, &c.
There’s a good time coming, boys, A good time coming, Sinecures shall have no pay, Endowments shall be swept away, In the good time coming; A pensioned aristocracy, Which now is growing stronger, No longer shall impair the State, Wait a little longer. There’s a good time coming, boys, &c.
* * * * * (Several verses omitted.)
From Songs for Liberal Electors. 1886.
――――
LIBERAL UNION.
The past has proved a trying time, And friends, once reckoned hearty, Have left us now, and vengeance vow Against the Liberal party. And are we sorry? Truly, yes. And hopeless? Nay, not we! For we all know Our cause must grow, Till we victorious be! Aye, our thinned ranks will fill again! Already we grow stronger. There’s a good time coming, boys! So wait a little longer!
Some who have left us will come back: Nor need the loss much grieve us If those who flagg’d and often lagg’d When with us, wholly leave us. For, purged of traitors and of cowards, With whom we’d no communion, The country soon Will bless that boon, A real Liberal Union! Then we for conquest or defence Shall stauncher be and stronger; Nor is this happy time far off; We shall not wait much longer.
Truth Christmas Number. 1886.
――――
There was also a parody of this song in The Hornet, May 22, 1872, which is now quite out of date, and another appeared in the St. Stephen’s Review for July 2, 1887. This prophesies that there will be a “good time coming” when an eminent politician goes to――――a certain warm but unmentionable place――the good taste of which assertion might not be obvious to some over sensitive people, so the parody is omitted.
Dr. Mackay wrote a number of other songs. “To the West! To the West!” was very popular; it was imitated in some verses entitled “I’m in Love! I’m in Love!”; whilst “Far, far upon the sea” was parodied by J. A. Hardwick as “Pa, out upon the spree,” in three very coarse and slangy verses, which cannot have a place here.
CAREY’S “SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.”
――――
LABBY IN OUR ABBEY.
Of all the Rads that are so smart There’s none like witty Labby; He’s played of late a leading part, So he’ll be at the Abbey; No institution in the land Escapes the sneers of Labby, But all the same, I understand, He’s going to the Abbey.
Of all the days within the week There’s one that will be the day, And that’s a day that’s quite unique, Victoria’s Jubilee Day. Then he’ll be dressed in all his best With nothing old or shabby; He may be snarling in his heart, But he’ll be at the Abbey.
He tried to dock the vote, you know, For fitting up the Abbey; Perhaps he’d like the Queen to go And hail the nearest cabby; All sentiment for England’s Queen He designates as “flabby;” But Truth must needs describe the scene, So he’ll be at the Abbey.
The Globe. June 20, 1887.
――――
LABBY AND HIS BABBY.
Of all the would-be witty Rads There’s none like clowning Labby; He is the Mother Gamp of fads And farms the Home Rule Babby. Not even Lawson, of the Pump, Whose jokelets all are flabby, When on the water-swilling stump, Is in the hunt with Labby.
In fine old Saxon flowers of speech, A bargee or a cabby Would own there’s nothing left to teach The conscript Father Labby. Bad are his jokes, but even worse His Parliamentary manners, And so he’s chosen for dry-nurse By Conybeares and Tanners.
On all the days right through the week, From Monday until Friday, Incessantly does Labby speak, He never has a bye-day; And, sucking at Obstruction-pap, The wizened Home Rule babby Squalls, howls, and chokes, upon the lap Of Parnell’s dry-nurse Labby.
J.W.P. St. Stephen’s Review. July 2, 1887.
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. Better known as BARRY CORNWALL. Born about 1787. Died October, 1874.
――――:o:――――
THE BEST OF ALL GOOD COMPANY.
Sing!――Who sings To her who weareth a hundred rings? Ah! who is this lady fine? The Vine, boys, the Vine! The mother of mighty Wine. A roamer is she O’er wall and tree, And sometimes very good company.
Drink!――Who drinks To her who blusheth and never thinks? Ah! who is this maid of thine? The Grape, boys, the Grape! O, never let her escape Until she be turned to Wine! For better is she Than Vine can be, And very, very good company!
Dream!―― Who dreams Of the God that governs a thousand streams? Ah! who is this Spirit fine? ’Tis Wine, boys, ’tis Wine! God Bacchus, a friend of mine. O, better is he Than Grape or tree, And the best of all good company.
B. W. PROCTER.
――――
AN OMNIBUSIAN SONG.
Ride! Who rides In a ’bus that taketh twelve insides? Ah! who is this lady fine That falls on this lap of mine? A lady is she, As big as three. I prefer her room to her company.
Smoke! Who smokes To the great annoyance of other folks? Ah! who is this snob so fine? A gent, Sirs! a gent! He comes with the noxious scent Of tobacco, beer, and wine: Far better that he On the roof should be. I prefer his room to his company.
Punch. September 17, 1853.
――――
Sing! Who sings Of him who weareth the fine gold rings, Ah, who is the party fine? The Jew I divine, Who works the Brummagem line. In “h’s” he Is a dealer free, And very unpleasant company.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
A CHAUNT FOR THE CHOUSED.
Dine? who’d dine At eight shillings a head, or even nine, With the heaviest price for the lightest wine? Ah! that house I know too well, ’Tis your “first-class” Hotel: Sad “Tales of my Landlord” there they tell Far better for me To order tea, And go dinnerless at that hostelry.
Sleep? who’d sleep Where a standing army their quarters keep, And in countless legions upon you creep? Ah! whose form is that I see,―― A flea! Sirs, a flea! He cometh to sup off me. Far better, say I, On the sofa to lie; I prefer his room to his company.
Stay? who’d stay To be bitten and fleeced in this wholesale way, And live at the rate of a fortune a day? Ah! who’ll expose their crimes? The Times, Sirs, the Times, The waiter his fee declines; Tell the landlord from me Him further I’ll see, Ere again I’ll be fleeced at his hostelry.
Punch. October, 1853.
――――:o:――――
THE SEA.
The sea, the sea, the open sea, The blue, the fresh, the ever free: Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth’s wide region round: It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies, Or like a cradled creature lies. I’m on the sea, I’m on the sea, I am where I would ever be, With the blue above and the blue below, And silence wheresoe’er I go. If a storm should come and awake the deep, What matter? I shall ride and sleep.
I love, O how I love to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, Where every mad wave drowns the moon, And whistles aloft its tempest tune: And tells how goeth the world below, And why the south-west wind doth blow. I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more, And backward flew to her billowy breast, Like a bird that seeketh her mother’s nest―― And a mother she was and is to me, For I was born on the open sea.
The waves were white, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when I was born; The whale it whistled, the porpoise roll’d, And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; And never was heard such an outcry wild, As welcom’d to life the ocean child. I have lived since then in calm and strife, Full fifty summers a rover’s life, With wealth to spend, and a power to range, But never have sought or sighed for change; And death, whenever he comes to me, Shall come on the wild unbounded sea!
B. W. PROCTER.
――――
THE CAM, THE CAM.
The Cam! the Cam! the dirty Cam! The green, the brown, the black, the blue! Of every shade, of every hue, It runneth the list of colours through! It plays with the sedge, it stagnant crawls, Or like an o’erfilled kennel brawls. I’m on the Cam! I’m on the Cam! Where I never again will be, I am; With the blue above, and the mud below, And weeds are wheresoe’er I go――
From The Individual. November 29, 1836. Cambridge: W. H. Smith.
――――
THE PIPE.
The pipe, the pipe, the German pipe! The short, the long, the meerschaum ripe! Its odorous puffs without a sound, They float my head’s wide regions round; They rise in clouds and mock the skies, While Backy snugly cradled lies. My hookha wide! my hookha deep! I’ve that which I would ever keep; With the smoke above, and smoke below, And smoke wheresoe’er I go. If a storm (like a Chinese gong) should ring What matters that? I’ll smoke and sing. What matters, &c.
I love――oh! how I love to smoke, And drink full bumpers of th’ foaming soak! And when its waves have drowned my soul, I’ll whistle aloud such a “Tol-de-rol!” Don’t ask me where the world is going, Nor why the sou’-west blast is blowing. I never breathed the dull tame air, But I relished my great pipe mair and mair, And back again flew for a soothing puff, Like a bird――I’m sure that’s quick enough. My mother it is, and I’ll prove it to ye, (Much more of a mother than the open sea!) For smoking, I am at it ever and ever! I hope your comment on this line is “clever!”
For fear of growing at all lackadaisical I hasten to lay down my pen parody-sical; In truth these stanzas concluding with somewhat ’Bout “birth” and “death,” which things I can’t come I’ve only one word, and that’s to crave pardon, These sweet pretty verses that I’ve been so hard on.
From The Individual. Cambridge, January 31, 1837.
――――
THE GIN, THE GIN!
The gin! the gin! Hodge’s Cordial Gin! It fairly makes our heads to spin; It gives us marks, and without bound, It turneth our head completely round; It plays with our eyes, it mocks our brain, And sends us rolling in the drain. I love the gin! I love the gin! And in a butt of it I could swim, Or ever live among butts below, For the juniper’s taste so well I know; If a drunken storm should rise, and a row begin, What matter? We’ll settle it all with Gin.
I love, I love――oh, how I love to bide, With a flowing gin-cask by my side; Where every quartern gives relief, We whistle a stave, and drown all grief; And when our browns to the host we show, The gin-cock then will merrily flow. I never tasted watery swipes, But I always found they gave me the gripes; So back I flew to my favourite juice, Until my sorrows were all reduced. No three-outs I’ll have, but my whack to the brim. For when I was born my mother gave me gin.
The gin it flow’d the glasses to adorn, On the drunken hour when I was born; The nurse she sang, but I did scream, My mother called out for valley’s cream; And never was known such a drunken crush, As welcomed to life this child of lush! I’ve lived since then in riot and din, Full thirty winters quite warm with gin; With ready blunt to the shops I range, But where I find it good I never change; And Death, whene’er it comes so grim, Shall find me guzzling Hodge’s gin.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
THE MAIL! THE MAIL!
The Mail! The Mail! The Royal Mail, The black, the red, the never pale; Without a bar, without a gate She runneth from Cork to Dublin straight, She plays with the stones, she mocks the sands, Or like a tilted waggon stands. I’m on the Mail, I’m on the Mail! I am where I would ever sail, With the dust before and the dust behind, And driving straight before the wind, If a storm should come, and disturb my ride, What matter! what matter! I can jump inside.
I love, O! how I love to drive, To urge the wheelers all alive, While every loose stone strikes the box, Or rattles aloft and the boot top knocks, And tells how goeth the road below, Or why the panting leaders blow, I never was in a dull post chaise, But on the Mail was fain to gaze, And jumped again on the buoyant box, Like an ape that sits on its native rocks, And my native place I always hail, For I was born, was born in the “Royal Mail.”
The roads were rough, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when I was born, The wind it whistled, the sign-board swung, The leaders jobled, and out they flung, And never was heard such an outcry wild As welcomed to life the coachman’s child. I have lived since then on ale and gin, Full fifty summers and not grown thin, With a coach to run and a team to drive, And never have sought or sighed to wive, And love if ever in that I engage, Must come on the fast light bounding Stage.
From Wiseheart’s New Comic Songster, Dublin. No date.
――――
THE ROAD.
The road, the road, the turnpike road! The brown, the hard, the smooth, the broad, Without a check, without an end, Horses against horses on it contend; Men laugh at the gate, they bilk the tolls, Or stop and pay like honest souls. I’m on the road, I’m on the road, I’m never so blithe as when abroad, With the hills above, and the vales below, And merry wheresoever I go, If the opposition appears in sight What matters――we’ll soon make that all right.
I love――oh! how I love to ride, With a smiling damsel by my side, Where every prad keeps well his pace, Nor draws my eye from the sweet one’s face. Nought tells how goeth the time of day, Nor why the hours so fly away. I never heard the angry sea roar, But I love the dry land more and more; And away have flown to my box and reins, For whips and wheel sounds are my favourite strains; On my team is all my care bestow’d, For I was born on the turnpike road!
The clouds were dark, and grey the morn, In the hazy hour when I was born; The guard he whistled, the coach it roll’d, And the outriders shrieked and shivered with cold, And never was heard such a curious din, As when the road-child the world popt in. I have driven since then in fair and rough, Full forty winters, a traveller tough, With primest of cattle, and carriages neat, And never had a spill or beat, And death, whenever he looks for me, Shall come on the road, and not on the sea.
From The London Singer’s Magazine.
――――
THE STEAK.
Of steak, of steak――of prime rump steak―― A slice of half-inch thickness take, Without a blemish, soft and sound; In weight a little more than a pound. Who’d cook a steak――who’d cook a steak, Must a fire clear proceed to make: With the red above and the red below. In one delicious, genial glow. If a coal should come, a blaze to make, Have patience! You mustn’t put on your steak.
First rub――yes, rub――with suet fat, The gridiron’s bars, then on it flat, Impose the meat; and the fire soon, Will make it sing a delicious tune, And when ’tis brown’d by the genial glow, Just turn the upper side below. Both sides with brown being cover’d o’er, For a moment you broil your steak no more, But on a hot dish let it rest, And add of butter a slice of the best; In a minute or two the pepper-box take, And with it gently dredge your steak.
When seasoned quite, upon the fire Some further time it will require; And over and over be sure to turn Your steak till done――nor let it burn: For nothing drives me half so wild As a nice rump steak in the cooking spiled. I’ve lived in pleasure mixed with grief, On fish and fowl, and mutton and beef; With plenty of cash, and power to range, But my steak I never wished to change: For a steak was always a treat to me, At breakfast, luncheon, dinner, or tea.
Punch.
――――
THE TEA! THE TEA!
The tea! the tea! the genuine tea! Souchong, Young Hyson, Gunpowder, Bohea―― Without a leaf that was not found, Growing on Noqua’s famous ground. It fills the teapot, and from the spout, The hand of beauty pours it out.
I’m for the tea! I’m for the tea! No chocolate, coffee, or such for me―― No sky-blue milk to blend with its flow―― No silence when round doth the tea-tray go! If friends drop in, we will hail with glee Their presence, and quaff our cups of tea!
I love――oh! how I love to sip, The green――green tea with my willing lip, When the toast is brown and the muffins hot, And there’s plenty of tea in the China pot, And to talk some scandal and how below, Matters and things in this world do go.
I never sat down with a dull tame “bore,” But I loved a tea-party more and more; And I backward flew to the cheerful sup Like a bird that nibbles its sugar up; And sugar it was, and more to me, For ’twas blent with the flavour of good green tea.
The clouds were dull and rainy the morn―― So the gossips say when I was born. The kettle sung and the jest was told, And the teacups and saucers were green and gold. And never was heard such a chattering wild, As welcomed to Congo the China child.
I’ve lived since then upon “heavy wet,” And all sorts of drinks which a man can get, With splitting headaches and purpled nose, With empty pockets and tattered clothes! But I’ve signed the pledge, and when death seeks me, He shall find me over a cup of tea!
ANONYMOUS.
――――
THE SEE.
The See, the See, the wealthy See! I can’t resign it gratis free; Within the mark――within fair bounds―― I think I may say six thousand pounds―― That is little enough――but one’s heart’s in the skies―― Therefore one can’t be worldly wise.
I’m in the See, I’m in the See, I am where I may ever be. Suppose I do not choose to go, What do you say then; yes or no? Of the whole of the income I stand possessed, And I can’t be turn’d out of my mother’s nest, For a Mother the Church has been to me, And I was born for her fattest See.
I love my See, my wealthy See, I scorn the idea of Simony; But I must take care what I’m about, Six thousand a-year and I’ll turn out. My offer you had better take, And you will, if you are wide awake, For Death, whenever he comes to me, Can alone compel me to quit my See.
Punch. August 2, 1856.
――――
THE TEA. By Carry Bornwall.
The tea! the tea! the beef, beef tea! The brew from gravy-beef for me! Without a doubt, as I’ll be bound, The best for an invalid ’tis found; It’s better than gruel; with sago vies; Or with the cradled babe’s supplies.
I like beef-tea! I like beef-tea, I’m satisfied, and aye shall be, With the brew I love, with the brew I know, And take it wheresoe’er I go. If the price should rise, or meat be cheap No matter! I’ll to beef-tea keep.
I love――oh, how I love to guide The strong beef-tea to its place inside, When round and round you stir the spoon, Or whistle thereon to cool it soon. Because one knoweth, or ought to know, That things get cool whereon you blow.
I never have drunk the dull souchong, But I for my loved beef-tea did long, And inly yearned for that bountiful zest, Like a bird: as a child on that I messed―― And a mother it was and is to me, For I was weaned on the beef――beef-tea!
TOM HOOD, the younger.
――――
OPERATIC MEM.
“When the C. from the chest is produced for the first time, the delight of the tenor is supposed to be so great that he bursts out into something like the following:
THE C! The C! The ALTO C! Most singers never get past B, Nor reach that most expensive sound. The C, which now at last I’ve found,―― The C! that treasure which to gain, Lessees shall hunt no more in vain. I’m up to C! I’m up to C! I am where I ne’er hoped to be!”
Diogenes, Volume ii. 1853.
――――
THE VAN-DEMON.
The Van, the Van! the hurrying Van! Terror alike of beast and man; With awful rush and roaring sound It thunders merrily over the ground. It smashes the cabs, it crushes the flies, Before it in ruin the tax-cart lies. I’m on the Van, I’m on the Van! Let people get out of the way who can.
Jolly the day when the Van was born, In the noddle of Pickford, or Chaplin and Horne; Says they, “The people denounce as slow The waggons so huge from our yards that go. We’ll build a Van that hath equal space, And horse it with horses that go the pace; With a scowling blackguard the box we’ll man, Let people get out of the way who can.”
I have lived since then in storm and strife, The fierce Van-Demon’s right jovial life. I drive like mad,――if a cove complains, He gets an oath or a cut for his pains; And right and left doth the traffic fly, When my thundering Juggernaut car comes by. I scrunch folks’ spokes as you’d scrunch a fan―― Let people get out of the way who can.
SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1859.
――――:o:――――
KING DEATH.
King Death was a rare old fellow, He sat where no sun could shine, And he lifted his hand so yellow, And pour’d out his coal-black wine. Hurrah! for the coal-black wine.
* * * * *
B. W. PROCTER.
――――
SONG OF JULY.
July is a rare old fellow, He’s a month when the sun does shine; He makes the pear quite mellow, Sagittarius is his sign. Hurra, hurra! though we don’t know why, For that rare old month――a hot July.
The Quail, that ne’er deceives us, Now makes his morning call; The fickle cuckoo leaves us, But that’s the way with them all. Then hurra, hurra! though we don’t know why, For that blazing month――a hot July.
Punch’s Almanac. 1846.
――――:o:――――
THE RETURN OF THE ADMIRAL.
How gallantly, how merrily we ride along the sea! The morning is all sunshine, the wind is blowing free, The billows are all sparkling and bounding in the light, Like creatures in whose sunny veins the blood is running bright. All nature knows our triumph, strange birds about us sweep, Strange things come up to look at us――the masters of the deep! In our wake, like any servant, follows even the bold shark―― Oh, proud must be our admiral of such a bonny bark!
Oh, proud must be our admiral (though he is pale to-day) Of twice five hundred iron men who all his nod obey! Who’ve fought for him and conquered, who’ve won with sweat and gore Nobility, which he shall have whene’er he touch the shore! Oh, would I were an admiral, to order with a word―― To lose a dozen drops of blood, and straight rise up a lord! I’d shout to yon bold shark there, which follows in our lee, “Some day I’ll make thee carry me like lightning through the sea!”
Our admiral grew paler, and paler, as we flew, Still talk’d he to the officers, and smiled upon the crew; And he look’d up at the heavens, and he look’d down on the sea, And at last he saw the creature that was following in our lee! He shook――’twas but an instant: for speedily the pride Ran crimson to his heart, till all chances he defied; It threw boldness on his forehead, gave firmness to his breath, And he look’d like some grim warrior new risen up from death!
That night a horrid whisper fell on us where we lay―― And we knew our fine old admiral was changing into clay And we heard the wash of waters, though nothing could we see―― A whistle and a plunge among the billows on our lee; Till dawn we watched the body in its dead and ghastly sleep, And next evening at sunset it was slung into the deep; And never from that moment, save one shudder through the sea, Saw we, or heard the creature that had followed in our lee!
B. W. PROCTER.
――――
THE RETURN OF THE OMNIBUS.
How gallantly, how merrily, we ride along the lane, The passengers all hope to catch the eight o’clock up-train; The wind is fresh, the clouds of dust do in our faces fly, Like coming from the Derby, when the roads are always dry: And all along is triumph: large crows above us sweep; Small boys rush out to shout at us, and maids from windows peep. A free-school urchin hangs behind some way upon the road―― Oh! proud must be our omnibus of such a jolly load!
And proud is Tom, the driver, too, who smiles, and well he may, Of twice three people (in and out) who’ll each a shilling pay; He’s proud, too, of that old grey horse, who earns so very hard The hay and water he shall have when once more in his yard. Oh, would that I were Tom, to drive and order with a word, That old grey horse, whose harness is made up of tape and cord, I’d shout unto the free-school boy who’s hanging on our lee, ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll whip behind, as quickly you shall see.’
Our driver pale, and paler grew; but, as we went along, Still talked he to the passengers, and then he hummed a song; And first he looked behind him, and then he looked on straight; And then we thought we heard him say ‘I think we is too late.’ He shook――’twas but an instant――we saw his fearful plight, The village clock struck eight just then; but that is never right. He flogged the old grey horse along, till he was out of breath, And when he reached the station doors he turned as pale as death.
We heard a bell, and then a pause, and then a bell again! We knew our fine old omnibus had missed the ‘eight up-train.’ And next we heard a rush of steam, but nothing could we see, But a whistle and a puff among the fir-trees on our lee. We watched the passing vapour till it vanished round the steep, Then back again t’wards home with all our luggage did we creep; But never from that moment, having once been ‘sold,’ again We patronised the omnibus that always missed the train.
From A Pottle of Strawberries, by Albert Smith.
――――
THE ALDERMAN. (By a Parishioner of St. Stephen’s, Walbrook.)
How gallantly, how merrily, they ride upon their way; Fleet Street is in commotion, the Queen comes here to-day! The Aldermen are mounted, and sitting bolt-upright, Like riders in whose eyes it is no joke to hold on tight.
All London owns their triumph, they ride along two deep, Small boys come up to look at them, their seats so well they keep. In their wake, as mild as new milk, stand policemen stiff and stark; Oh! who would not be Aldermen, in such a famous lark?
* * * * * (Five verses omitted.)
Punch. 1844.
――――
THE CRUIZE OF THE OLD ADMIRAL.
How crazily, how lazily, We creep along the sea; Our upper works are straining, Our hull is rolling free; Our lower ports they baffle Attempts to caulk ’em tight, Like scuppers, through whose leaky seams The water runs outright!
E’en coal-brigs o’er us triumph, Smart yachts about us sweep; Green’s ships come up to look at us―― The slow-coach of the deep! In their wake, like any servant, We sail from day to dark; Oh, proud must be our Admiral- -ty Lords of such a barque!
And proud must be our Admiral (He’s seventy-four to-day) Of turning out on duty, Whate’er the doctors say; He has fought with them and conquered, Although ’twas mad, they swore, To go to sea, when he should have Been laid up snug on shore.
Oh, if I were an Admiral I wouldn’t be on board, I’d stay in London, if I could, And be made a Junior Lord; I’d write to the Prime Minister, “Just find a place for me, For a sheer hulk lies Tom Bowling, No longer fit for sea?”
Our Admiral grew paler, And bluer and more blue, ’Midst the sniggers of the officers, And the broad grins of the crew; For at sixes and at sevens His stomach well might be, ’Twas so long, the poor old creature! Since he had been at sea.
He heaved――’twas but an instant―― For the old sailor’s pride Succeeded in the effort His nausea to hide. So he mopped his poor old forehead, And held hard his wheezy breath; And, like a steamboat passenger, Sat, looking grim as death!
That night the surgeon’s whisper Went round the mess to say, That our poor old used-up Admiral Was in a dreadful way: Next day we beat to quarters, In a Bath-chair wheeled was he, With a Welsh wig, and his legs Wrapped in fleecy hosiery!
That night a glass of toddy Sent him cozily to sleep, And next morning into harbour The old ship made shift to creep. And never from that moment, (Lest again sick he might be) Excepting in fine weather, Did we venture out to sea.
Punch. January 15, 1853.
――――:o:――――
THE RETURN OF THE MEMBERS. From the great Naval Review in 1853.
How speedily, how puffingly they glide along the rail, The M.P.’s who went down at morn to see the fleet in sail; And now they’re going back to town to sit again to-night, Like creatures who’ve no Factory Bill to guard their labour’s right; And some are jolly, some can scarce their eyelids open keep, And some who have been queer all day now are gone to sleep; But in one carriage one young member ventures this remark, “How proud must be the admiral of every glorious bark!”
* * * * *
Said Bright, “For no inducement’s sake an admiral I’d be, No Peace Societies again would ask me out to tea; And people all would think that I demeaned me, as they say, That Mr. Buckstone does the fighting Quaker in the play.” “I would not be an admiral,” Mackinnon said, “until Each cannon were subjected to my smoke-prevention Bill, Else should I fire a single gun ’twould drive me wild to see A curl of smoke upon the air, or even on the sea.”
* * * * *
Diogenes. Volume ii. 1853.
――――
THE TERM OF THE FRESHMAN.
How jollily, how joyously we live at B. N. C.[53] Our reading is all moonshine――the wind is not more free: The champagne is all sparkling; we quaff it day and night, Like creatures in whose sunny throats a thirsty flame burns bright. All Oxford knows our triumph: fast birds around us sweep; Strange “duns” come up to look at us, their masters though so deep; In our wake, like any serpent, doth the night policeman go, And at the toll-bar tarrieth the proctor with his pro. Proud, proud must be each Brasenose man, at least so I should say, Of all those grooms and flunkies who promptly him obey, Who’ve ta’en his horse to covert, who’ve cleaned, with labour sore, The snowy “tops” which he shall have when chapel-time is o’er.
Who would not be a Brasenose man to order with a word, His pink and well-built leathers, to turn out like a lord? I’d shout to yonder hack there, though somewhat screwed it be―― Each morn I’ll make thee carry me Lord Redesdale’s hounds to see. Each term our pace grew faster, and faster still it grew, Yet talked we to our tradespeople, and gull them not a few; And we looked into our bankers, but nothing could we see, And at last there came the fearful time for what we call “degree.” We read――’twas but an instant! for speedily the pride Of being plucked twice for “little go,” all chance of ours defied; This gave boldness to th’ examiners, as, sitting in a row, They told us we might mizzle, for indeed it was no go.
That night a horrid proctor fell on us where we lay, And we knew some fine policemen were carrying us away; And we heard the wash of waters――hard by the gutter we―― And a whistle from a friend of ours who knew how it would be. Till dawn they watched the body in its most unpleasant sleep, And the two next Terms, at morning, they refused to let us keep; And ever from that moment did one shudder for to see, The proctor or policeman that had followed in our lee.
From Hints to Freshmen. Oxford: J. Vincent.
(An amusing little pamphlet, which has been ascribed to the Rev. Canon Hole.)
――――
THE RETURN TO TYROL.
I.
How merrily, how jollily we haste along the steep, Though mist is all around us, and snow is lying deep; The green Inn rushes foamingly, far down beneath our path, And chafes against the stocks and stones, like an M.P. in wrath. All nature holds a washing-day, with froth, and slop, and steam, The wintry sun will scarcely deign vouchsafe one vagrant beam; So when we reach Landek and stop, well may the Gastwirth[54] grin, He sees the Nirgend’s[55] Wanderer come very soppy in:
(Chorus of enthusiastic partizans and compatriots:――)
The long-haired German Wanderer comes very soppy in!
II.
Oh! wet must be the Wanderer, for it has rained to-day, Though he a red umbrella has, from Rome brought all the way. The wind was high, the road was rough, where slushy mud snow, Lay on the long and winding path, and through it went our Joe! He sneezed! a moment’s weakness, for speedily he cried, “Bring me a glass of your Brantwein,[56] and a masz of Bier beside!” It gave colour to his cheek and nose, yet took away his breath, And he look’d like some old fox-hunter, new come in at the death:
(Chorus, discriminative and appreciatory:――)
Like some half-wash’d-out fox-hunter, that rides in at the death.
III.
The Wanderer grew merrier, and merrier still he grew, Joining in all the harmless fun of that Tyrolean crew; He sang Italian Opera airs, French chansons,[57] English songs, And Burschen lieder,[58] that were chorused as by Chinese gongs. He looked in his deep beer-glass: the kellnerin[59] knew the sign, And fill’d it up: he took one sup, and then set-to at wine. That night a horrid whisper pass’d, with calumny imbued, It said “The long-hair’d Wanderer got regularly screw’d!”
(Chorus, unanimous and valedictory.)
Of course ’twas false, but how he got to bed he never knewed!
JOSEPH WOODFALL EBSWORTH. Innspruchk. 1854.
――――
THE BABY IN THE TRAIN.
“Why is there not a Compartment ‘for Babies only’?” The Crusty Philosopher.
How merrily, how cheerily, we ride along the rail! We think not of the driving rain, nor care about the gale! I’m comfortably seated in a snug back corner seat, With woolly rugs about my knees, and warmers at my feet; I’ve all the morning papers in a heap upon my lap, I read and calmly contemplate, and think about a nap; A nap indeed? Impossible! You’ll find it all in vain, To have the slightest slumber with the Baby in the Train!
He’s autocratic as to rule, and as to language terse, He’ll freely fist his dear Mamma, and domineer o’er Nurse! He wrinkles up his forehead like an ancient Chimpanzee’s, And babbles of the “puff-puff,” and prattles of “gee-gees:” He guggles and he struggles, and he will not stand nor sit, But he gives an imitation of an apoplectic fit. I am not very captious, and I wish not to complain―― But what a crying grievance is the Baby in the Train!
I wish to feign the friendly, but I earnestly reflect―― In silly finger-snapping do I lose my self respect? Can I crow or can I chuckle with a countenance serene? Is “kitchee-kitchee” fitted for my gravity of mien? Can I talk of “doggie-oggies,” or prate of “ittle dears”? Is “peep-bo” fit amusement for a person of my years? And though I do my very best to try to entertain, I’m thought a vile impostor by the Baby in the Train!
He knows that I am longing to make faces on the sly, How spitefully I’d pinch him if no guardians were nigh! He clutches at my watch-chain, he smiles upon my suit, He tries to eat my eye-glass, he jumps upon my boot; He takes away my walking-stick, he crumples up my Punch; He burrows deep in paper-bags in foraging for lunch; And cups of milk at stations, too, how eagerly he’ll drain, With sighs of satisfaction, will the Baby in the train!
O bold Directors, build a car to take such household pets! And fit it up with cots and cribs and rocking bassinettes, And lullabies and picture-books and bon-bons, cakes, and toys, To soothe the savage bosoms of these little girls and boys. O brim the cup with caudle high! Let Soothing Syrup flow! Let roasted mutton deck the board, and milky rice also! And let all Railway Companies immediately sustain A Separate Compartment for the Baby in the Train!
Punch. March 24, 1883.
――――
THE NEWS. (After “The Sea! The Sea!”)
The News! the News! the motley News! Oh, how I love the motley News! ’Tis here, ’tis there, ’tis everywhere, At market, statute, wake and fair, And tells to all the country round, Where rogues and knaves may soon be found. I love the News! I love the News! And when I’m bothered with “the blues,” I turn me to the motley page, Where barbers boast, and patriots rage, And if it tells of bankrupt Jews, What matter? I’m among the News!
I love, oh, how I love the News! It’s gay bon-mots and keen reviews―― To loll at ease from morn till night, With nought but News within my sight, While lords attend the huntsman’s becks, And set no value on their necks. I never see the motley News, But love the more its new-born dews; And I think of the curl of an editor’s nose, As he scans the scraps of rhyme and prose, That come to his hand from wits and blues, Ambitious of places within the News.
The devil was black, ’twas early morn, And the pressmen sweat, when the News was born; A proof had been in the editor’s gripe, And there wasn’t a single misplaced type. Each pig was set, the galleys were high, No column could crumble into pie―― The forme was so well lock’d up with quoin, And the chase was proud of every line. I love, I love, the motley page, And if I live to well-fed age, And e’er-so-often change my views, What matter? I’ll always love the News!
From “Songs of the Press, and other Poems relative to the art of Printing, original and selected.” Compiled by C. H. Timperley, and published by Fisher, Son & Co., London, 1845.
――――
THE PRESS.
The Press! the Press! the glorious Press! The deep, the fresh, the ever free, Without a mark, without a bound, It searcheth the earth’s wide regions round. It plays with despots, it mocks their spleen, Or like a flaming rod is seen. I’m on the Press! I’m on the Press! I am where I would ever be, With the ink above, and the paper below, And the devil to pay wherever I go. If the Os[60] should storm, and threaten my fall, What matter? what matter? I can beat them all.
It loves, oh! how it loves to ride On the lordly voice of the popular tide, When every madcap speaks his mind, Or thumps his knuckles for want of wind. And tells how goeth the National Debt, And why at taxes the people fret. I never reported for one short hour, But I loved the free Press more and more, And backwards flew to my devils and type, Like a bear cub that loveth its mother’s gripe; And kinder and kinder it is to me, For the Press was born to be useful and free!
The world was changed, and the Pope looked round, When the hydra head of the Press was unbound, And the eyes of oppression and hatred rolled, And tyrants offered their bags of gold; And never was heard such an outcry wild, As strove to smother the free-born child. It has stood since then with great strength and weight, In spite of prisons and engines great, With Truth to guide, and Power to range, And never may England see its change; And life,――whenever it loves me less, Shall see me bound to the glorious Press!
From Songs of the Press.
OLD SONGS AND BALLADS.
THE MIDDLESEX ELECTION. (A Ballad to the tune of Chevy Chase.)
God prosper long our noble king, And eke his subjects too; And grant such deeds as now I sing We never more may rue.
In seventeen hundred sixty-eight, All on a summer’s day, Grim death did on our member wait, And took him clean away.
O, then a writ was issued out, To chuse a member in; And soon began a mighty rout For Procter and for Glynn.
When as the day advanced nigh, Each party did its best; And Horne (who scorns to tell a lye) Turn’d Proctor’s cause to jest.
Some worthy wights, the Lord knows who, Of Irish strength assur’d, Provided many a gallant crew, True men, I’ll pawn my word.
Such crowds to Brentford town did hie, As fill’d the place outright; While thousands knew not where to lie, And so――sat up all night.
At length the fatal morning came, O had it ne’er arriv’d! For many a wight crawled home quite lame, Full glad that he surviv’d.
Soon as the rising sun had clear’d The gloomy shades of night, All on the hustings they appear’d―― O! ’twas a glorious sight!
With ribbon and with star bespread, (Given by the good old king) Sir William hung his languid head, And looked――like any thing.
The serjeant held his head upright, For conscious still was he, That those who do the deed that’s right, Have real cause for glee.
Mr.O’Murphy too was there, Hight counsellor at law―― His business was to strut and stare, And find or make a flaw.
Count Gambler look’d as who should say, “I’ll bet ye six to one “That Beauchamp Proctor gets the day:” “I’ll take it, damme.”――“Done.”
Whilst bustling still from place to place, Old Brentford’s priest was seen, Who for this meal said many a grace, And fervent pray’r, I ween.
And still to heighten all they could This mighty gallant show, Close by the hustings numbers stood, Like――soldiers all a-row.
The clock told two, up flew the hat, (A signal for each wounder) And soon the freeholders lay flat As ever lay a flounder.
Then eyes and sculls, and arms and legs, Were darken’d, fractur’d, broke; And those who could not keep their pegs, Fell down――to mend the joke.
And many a ribbon flew about, (For favours then were common) And hundreds of the rabble rout Were dizen’d out like yeomen.
What they did more, let other bards In other guise declare; For, truth to say, they play’d their cards, To make all England stare.
Now God preserve our noble king, And grant henceforth, for aye, No future poet e’er may sing The deeds of such a day!
――――
THE LITCHFIELD DEFEAT.
God prosper long our noble king! Our lives and safeties all; A woful horse-race late there did At Whittington befall.
Great Bedford’s duke, a mighty prince! A solemn vow did make, His pleasure in fair Staffordshire Three summer’s days to take.
At once to grace his father’s race, And to confound his foes: But ah! (with grief my Muse does speak) A luckless time he chose.
For some rude clowns, who long had felt The weight of Tax and Levy, Explained their case unto his Grace By arguments full heavy.
* * * *
The whole of this parody will be found in volume iv. of The New Foundling Hospital for Wit. London, 1786.
Another parody of Chevy Chase occurs in the same volume, it is very long, and relates to some persons and political events of interest in 1776, but long since forgotten.
――――:o:――――
VERSES BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
Go soul, the body’s guest, Upon a thankless errant, Fear not to touch the best, The truth shall be thy warrant. Go, since I needs must dye, And give them all the lye.
Go, tell the court it glowse And shines like painted wood; Go, tell the church it showes What’s good, does no good. If court and church replye, Give court and church the lye.
Tell potentates they live Acting, but oh! their actions, Not lov’d unless they give! Not strong, but by their factions. If potentates replye, Give potentates the lye.
* * * * *
――――
A PARODY WRITTEN IN 1764.
Go, truth, unwelcome guest! Upon a thankless errant; Fear not to touch the best, For truth is a safe warrant. Go, since thou needs must die, And give them all the lye.
Go, tell the Tory faction, Now in their noontide hour, England won’t bear an action Of an arbitrary power. If Tories should reply, Give Tories all the lye.
Go, tell th’ ennobled thief, While cares oppress him most, He ne’er shall taste relief From guilt――from Ayliffe’s ghost. And if the thief reply, Then give the thief the lye.
* * * * *
The original and the parody are both given at full length in volume iv. of The New Foundling Hospital for Wit. London, 1786.
――――:o:――――
BEN JONSON’S “ODE ON THE STAGE.”
Ben Jonson was very unfortunate in not conciliating the affections of his brother writers. He possessed a great share of arrogance, and was desirous of ruling the realms of Parnassus with a despotic sceptre. That he was not always successful in his theatrical compositions is evident from his abusing, on the title pages of his plays, both the actors and the public. I have collected the following three satirical odes, written when the unfavorable reception of his “New Inn, or The Light Heart,” warmly exasperated the poet.
He printed the title in the following manner: “New Inn, or The Light Heart; a Comedy never acted, but most negligently played by some, the King’s servants; and more squeamishly beheld and censured by others, the King’s subjects, 1629. Now at last set at liberty to the readers, his Majesty’s servants and subjects, to be judged, 1631.”
At the end of this play he published the following Ode, in which he threatens to quit the stage for ever; and turn at once a Horace, an Anacreon, and a Pindar.
“The just indignation the author took at the vulgar censure of his play, begat this following Ode to himself:
Come, leave the loathed stage, And the more loathsome age; Where pride and impudence (in fashion knit,) Usurp the chair of wit Inditing and arraigning every day Something they call a play. Let their fastidious, vaine Commission of braine Run on, and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn; They were not made for thee,――less thou for them.
Say that thou pour’st them wheat, And they will acorns eat; ’Twere simple fury, still, thyself to waste On such as have no taste! To offer them a surfeit of pure bread, Whose appetites are dead! No, give them graines their fill, Husks, draff, to drink and swill. If they love lees, and leave the lusty wine, Envy them not their palate with the swine.
No doubt some mouldy tale Like Pericles[61], and stale As the shrieve’s crusts, and nasty as his fish- Scraps, out of every dish Thrown forth, and rak’t into the common-tub, May keep up the play-club: There sweepings do as well As the best order’d meale, For who the relish of these guests will fit, Needs set them but the almes-basket of wit.
And much good do’t you then, Brave plush and velvet men Can feed on orts, and safe in your stage clothes, Dare quit, upon your oathes, The stagers, and the stage-wrights too (your peers), Of larding your large ears With their foul comic socks, Wrought upon twenty blocks: Which if they’re torn, and turn’d, and patch’d enough, The gamesters share your guilt and you their stuff.
Leave things so prostitute, And take the Alcæick lute, Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon’s lyre; Warm thee by Pindar’s fire; And, tho’ thy nerves be shrunk, and blood be cold, Ere years have made thee old, Strike that disdainful heat Throughout, to their defeat; As curious fools, and envious of thy strain, May, blushing, swear no palsy’s in thy brain[62].
But when they hear thee sing The glories of thy King, His zeal to God, and his just awe o’er men, They may blood-shaken then, Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers, As they shall cry like ours, In sound of peace, or wars, No harp ere hit the stars, In tuning forth the acts of his sweet reign, And raising Charles his chariot ’bove his wain.”
This Magisterial Ode, as Langbaine calls it, was answered by Owen Feltham, author of the “Resolves.” His character of Ben Jonson should be attended to:――
AN ANSWER TO THE ODE, “COME LEAVE THE LOATHED STAGE, &C.”
Come leave this sawcy way Of baiting those that pay Dear for the sight of your declining wit ’Tis known it is not fit That a sale poet, just contempt once thrown Should cry up thus his own. I wonder by what dower, Or patent, you had power From all to rape a judgment. Let’s suffice, Had you been modest, y’ad been granted wise.
’Tis known you can do well, And that you do excell As a translator; but when things require A genius, and fire, Not kindled heretofore by other pains, As oft y’ave wanted brains And art to strike the white, As you have levell’d right: Yet if men vouch not things apocryphal, You bellow, rave, and spatter round your gall.
Jug, Pierce, Peek, Fly[63], and all Your jests so nominal, Are things so far beneath an able brain, As they do throw a stain Thro’ all th’ unlikely plot, and do displease As deep as Pericles. Where yet there is not laid Before a chamber-maid Discourse so weighed[64], as might have serv’d of old For schools, when they of love and valour told.
Why rage, then? when the show Should judgment be, and know-[65] ledge, there are plush who scorn to drudge For stages, yet can judge Not only poets’ looser lines, but wits, And all their perquisits; A gift as rich as high Is noble poesie: Yet, tho’ in sport it be for Kings to play, ’Tis next mechanicks’ when it works for pay.
Alcæus lute had none, Nor loose Anacreon E’er taught so bold assuming of the bays When they deserv’d no praise. To rail men into approbation Is new to your’s alone: And prospers not: for known, Fame is as coy, as you Can be disdainful; and who dares to prove A rape on her shall gather scorn――not love.
Leave then this humour vain, And this more humourous strain, Where self-conceit, and choler of the blood, Eclipse what else is good: Then, if you please those raptures high to touch, Whereof you boast so much: And but forbear your crown Till the world puts it on: No doubt, from all you may amazement draw, Since braver theme no Phœbus ever saw.
To console Ben for this reprimand, Randolph, one of the adopted poetical sons of Jonson, addressed him as follows:――
AN ANSWER TO MR. BEN JONSON’S ODE, TO PERSUADE HIM NOT TO LEAVE THE STAGE.
I.
Ben, do not leave the stage Cause ’tis a loathsome age: For pride and impudence will grow too bold, When they shall hear it told They frighted thee; Stand high, as is thy cause; Their hiss is thy applause: More just were thy disdain, Had they approved thy vein: So thou for them, and they for thee were born; They to incense, and thou as much to scorn.
II.
Wilt thou engross thy store Of wheat, and pour no more, Because their bacon-brains had such a taste As more delight in mast: No! set them forth a board of dainties, full As thy best muse can cull; Whilst they the while do pine And thirst, midst all their wine. What greater plague can hell itself devise, Than to be willing thus to tantalise?
III.
Thou canst not find them stuff, That will be bad enough To please their pallates: let ’em them refuse, For some Pye-corner muse: She is too fair an hostess, ’twere a sin For them to like thine Inn: ’Twas made to entertain Guests of a nobler strain; Yet, if they will have any of the store, Give them some scraps, and send them from thy dore.
IV.
And let those things in plush Till they be taught to blush, Like what they will, and more contented be With what Broom[66] swept from thee. I know thy worth, and that thy lofty strains Write not to cloaths, but brains: But thy great spleen doth rise, ’Cause moles will have no eyes; This only in my Ben I faulty find, He’s angry they’ll not see him that are blind.
V.
Why shou’d the scene be mute ’Cause thou canst touch the lute And string thy Horace? Let each Muse of nine Claim thee, and say, th’art mine. ’Twere fond, to let all other flames expire, To sit by Pindar’s fire: For by so strange neglect I should myself suspect Thy palsie were as well thy brain’s disease, If they could shake thy muse which way they please.
VI.
And tho’ thou well canst sing The glories of thy King, And on the wings of verse his chariot bear To heaven, and fix it there; Yet let thy muse as well some raptures raise To please him, as to praise. I would not have thee chuse Only a treble muse; But have this envious, ignorant age to know, Thou that canst sing so high, canst reach as low.
――――
COLONEL RICHARD LOVELACE.
(Born about 1618. Educated at Oxford. Imprisoned by the Long Parliament. Afterwards served in the French army. The latter part of his life was very miserable. He died in an alley near Shoe Lane, in 1658.)
TO ALTHEA.
When Love, with unconfinèd wings, Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair, And fettered to her eye, The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses crowned, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free―― Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty.
When, linnet-like, confinèd, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty And glories of my King; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlargèd winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make,[67] Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage: If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty.
R. LOVELACE.
――――
SONG.――AFTER LOVE-LACE.
Grey hairs do not a prophet make, Nor wrinkled brow a sage; Though Innocence as such may take These signs upon Life’s stage. Some think they are in “wrinkles” wise, And some a profit find In hair――but then it is in dyes, And braids to pin behind!
Though flowing locks will drop away, The flowing cups remain. The drops they hold will go, but they Can still be filled again. And ’tis a “wrinkle” Age has taught, That clay must ne’er be dry, Lest into crumbling dust ’tis brought So, fill the Tankard high!
C. H. WARING. From Hood’s Comic Annual. 1885.
The author of the above parody, Mr.C. H. Waring, is a frequent contributor to Fun, and other humorous periodicals. He was formerly associated with George Cruikshank in several literary ventures. The amusing parody on Lord Tennyson’s Revenge entitled “Retribution,” on page 42, Volume I. Parodies, was also from his pen.
――――
A FRUGAL MIND.
Champagne will not a dinner make, Nor Caviare a meal: Men gluttonous and rich, may take Those till they make them ill. If I’ve potatoes to my chop, And after chop have cheese, Angels in Pond and Spiers’s shop Know no such luxuries!
Punch. April 3, 1875.
――――:o:――――
TO LUCASTA.
ON GOING TO THE WARS.
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase,―― The first foe in the field; And with a stronger love embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As you, too, shall adore: I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honour more.
R. LOVELACE.
――――
THE GRAND OLD O’DIDDLE TO MISS ERIN.
Tell me not, sweet, it is a dodge Because so swift I hie, From making love to Molly Hodge And wink at thee an eye! True, a new charmer now I chase Across wild Faction’s field, Prepared, with shame-forgetting face, Whate’er thou wilt, to yield. Yet this apostacy is such As thou, too, shalt adore: I should not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not office more.
Moonshine. January 2, 1886.
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HANG SORROW, LET’S CAST AWAY CARE.
The Rev. Mr. J. W. Ebsworth, a great authority on our early songs and ballads, supplies the following information as to the different existing versions of “Hang sorrow.”
The music of this old ballad was composed by William Lawes, and “published by John Hilton: printed for John Benson and John Playford, and to be sould in St. Dunstan’s Churchyard, and in the Inner Temple neare the Church doore, 1652.” It reappeared in ‘Windsor Drollery,’ 1672, with a few verbal alterations.
From J. Hilton’s ‘Catch that Catch Can,’ 1652 (music by William Lawes):――
Hang Sorrow and cast away Care, and let us drink up our Sack; They say ’tis good to cherish the blood, and for to strengthen the back. ’Tis wine that makes the thoughts aspire, and fills the body with heat; Besides ’tis good, if well understood, to fit a man for the feat: Then call and drink up all, The Drawer is ready to fill, A Pox of care, what need we to spare? my father has made his will.
Another version appeared in an excessively rare work, “The New Academy of Complements,” 1671, as, Song 276:――
Hang fear, cast away care, The parish is bound to find us, Thou and I and all must die, And leave this world behinde us. The Bells shall ring, the Clerk shall sing, And the good old wife shall winde us, And John shall lay our bones in clay Where the Devil ne’er shall find us.
A later version is in Playford’s ‘Musical Companion,’ 1673. There is also a Roxburghe ballad beginning similarly, but quite distinct from these two songs. It is entitled, “Joy and Sorrow mixt together. To the tune of, Such a Rogue should be hang’d.” Which is the same tune as ‘Old Sir Simon the King.’ Here is the first of the fourteen stanzas for comparison. The ballad is preserved in the Roxburghe Collection (vol. 1. fol. 170), and has been reprinted in the Ballad Society’s publication, vol. 1. p. 509:――
Hang sorrow, let’s cast away care, for now I do mean to be merry, Wee’l drink some good Ale and strong Beere, With sugar, and clarret, and sherry. Now I’le have a wife of mine own, I shall have no need to borrow; I would have it for to be known that I shall be married to-morrow. (Burden:) Here’s a health to my Bride that shall be, Come pledge it you boon merry blades: The day I much long for to see, We will be as merry as the Maides, &c.
This ballad was written and signed by Richard Climsell, and was printed for John Wright the younger, dwelling in the Old Bayley.
DRINKING SONG.
Cast away care, he that loves sorrow Lengthens not a day, nor can buy to-morrow; Money is trash; and he that will spend it, Let him drink merrily, Fortune will send it. Merrily, merrily, merrily, Oh, ho! Play it off stiffly, we may not part so. * * * * *
JOHN FORD. (About 1623.)
A play, ascribed to Fletcher, entitled The Bloody Brother; or Rollo, Duke of Normandy, printed as early as 1640, contains a somewhat similar defence of drinking:――
A DRINKING SONG
Drink to-day, and drown all sorrow, You shall perhaps not do it to-morrow: Best, while you have it, use your breath; There is no drinking after death. Wine works the heart up, wakes the wit, There is no cure ’gainst age but it: It helps the head-ach, cough, and ptisick, And is for all diseases physick. Then let us swill, boys, for our health; Who drinks well, loves the Commonwealth. And he that will to bed go sober Falls with the leaf, still in October.[68]
――――
Five reasons for Drinking.
There are five reasons, as I think, Why man, being reasonable, should drink. A friend――a bottle――being dry. Or, that one may be, by and bye, Or――any other reason why.
――――:o:――――
THREE BAND OF HOPE BOYS.
(Anti-Bacchanalian Song, dedicated to the Temperance Society, as an Aid to Moral Suasion.)
AIR.――“Three Jolly Postboys.”
Three Band of Hope Boys, drinking, on their mettle, Three Band of Hope Boys, drinking, on their mettle, And they determinèd, And they determinèd, And they determined again to tap the kettle. We’ll have t’other cup; pour on the water. We’ll have t’other cup; pour on the water. Fill us the teapot up, Fill us the teapot up, Fill us the teapot up, strong liquor’s self-slaughter. Tea cheers the gloomy, the sad, and melancholic, Tea cheers the gloomy, the sad, and melancholic, And it not inebriates, And it not inebriates, And it not inebriates like potions alcoholic. He that drinks mixed punch, and goes to bed mellow, He that drinks mixed punch, and goes to bed mellow, Lives as he shouldn’t do, Lives as he shouldn’t do, Lives as he shouldn’t do, and wakes a seedy fellow. He that drinks mild tea, and goes to bed sober, He that drinks mild tea, and goes to bed sober, Lasts as the leaves do, Lasts as the leaves do, Lasts as the leaves do, bright green in October.
Punch. May 7, 1870.
――――:o:――――
THE BOYS FOR YOU! (After the Earl of Dorset’s Song.)
AIR.――“To all you Ladies now on Land.”
Ho! all you toilers in the land Who freedom would promote, We fain would have you understand The way you ought to vote. Old Whigs eschew, And Tories too―― The Rads, they are the boys for you―― Boys for you! With a fal-lal, lal-lal, la, la, la―― With a fal-lal, lal-lal, la, la, la―― With a fal-lal-lal, fal-lal-lal―― The Rads are the boys for you!
To Jingoes, of whatever ilk, Who’d bid you with them march, Proclaim for Chamberlain and Dilke, And men like Burt and Arch. Brave men and true, Good work they’ll do, And they’re the only boys for you―― Boys for you!
ABRACADABRA. The Weekly Dispatch. October 25, 1885.
――――:o:――――
BACK FROM THE WARS.
Sadly Lord Salisbury Muttered “Oh, lor!” As he was hobble-ing Back from the war; Wailing, “From Voterdom Hither I come; Party dear, Party dear, Welcome me home!”
She at the thought of him Mournfully wept; Ruefully dreamt of him Too, while she slept; Wailing, “From Voterdom Would thou could’st come Victor――yet, Salisbury, Hurry back home!”
Into her presence then Slowly he came, Seeking her sympathy, Battered and lame; Wailing, “From Voterdom Vanquished I come: Party dear, Party dear, Soothe me at home!”
Fun. December 16, 1885.
――――
AIR.――“Gaily the Troubadour.”
Gaily the Grand Old Man Spoke by the way, As he was hurrying Home from the fray, Singing, “From Parliament Hither I come; Darling Midlothian, Welcome me home.”
She for her veteran Felt much distress’d; Sadly she grieved for him, By foes sore press’d, Singing, “To succour thee, Would I might come; Grand Old Man! Grand Old Man! Haste to thy home.”
Hark! ’twas the Grand Old Man Breathing her name. Through the applauding crowds Swiftly he came, Singing, “No need have I Farther to roam. Darling Midlothian, Here is my home.”
EXCELSIOR. Truth. July 15, 1886.
――――
THE CHIEF OF THE LIBERAL PARTY. AIR――The King of the Cannibal Islands.
Now, all ye hungry Whigs, who wait For pickings from your Premier’s plate, Attend, while I predict the fate Of the Chief of the Liberal Party. No more he plays the daring game That made all Europe fear his name; The Temple now enshrines a Fame Whose trumpet-notes are rather tame. And he’s only saucy, “jaunty Pam”―― His boasted power’s an empty sham―― And his colleagues groan when he says, “I am The Chief of the Liberal Party.” Joking――poking feeble fun―― That is the way his work is done By the Premier Palmerston―― The Chief of the Liberal Party.”
Pam’s oft the victim of his men―― For Gladstone’s tongue, or Russell’s pen Brings into trouble, now and then, The Chief of the Liberal Party. Now Gladstone’s fancy decks finance With all the charms of fair romance, And shows an Income-tax advance. Or cheapened rates on goods from France, To be, in fact the nation’s gain―― While poor John Bull protests in vain, And of his taxes doth complain To the Chief of the Liberal Party. Taxing, waxing, more and more, We pay in peace the price of war―― Thanks to our brilliant Chancellor, That not too “liberal” party.
Then Russell will despatches write, And bark at States he dares not bite: His every movement causes fright To the Chief of the Liberal Party. “Non-intervention” is his plan. And yet he’ll meddle where he can; But nobody minds the little man, Except perhaps poor, weak Japan, And he’ll bully Prussia about the Danes, And get a snubbing for his pains―― Till not a rag of respect remains To the Chief of the Liberal Party! Meddling, peddling everywhere―― Intervene and interfere―― Oh! what a Foreign Minister Has the Chief of the Liberal Party!
But now the Whigs are in retreat―― At every poll they lose a seat―― So bid “good-bye” to Downing Street, Oh, Chief of the Liberal Party! The bench you fill, you soon shall face,―― Like your own jokes, be out of place! And a better man your post shall grace―― The country’s fav’rite in the race;―― So clear the course for the DERBY-day Tories gather in strong array! And Whigs prepare to clear the way For the great CONSERVATIVE Party! Gladstone, Russell, Grey & Co., Nobody mourns your overthrow―― Your time is come――so out you go With the Chief of the Liberal Party!
E. J. GOODMAN, 1864.
These verses were first sung at a dinner of the Edinburgh Conservative Club, on February 19, 1864, and were published in the Edinburgh Courant, February 21, 1864.
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SIGN THE BILL STAMP, SIGN. (A Lay of the Downy One.) AIR.――“Dance, the Boatman, Dance.”
I lead a very merry and a rollicking life, Each passing day with fun is rife, I’ve hunters, I’ve a yacht, I’ve an Opera box, And this is how I steer clear of rocks. Sign the Bill Stamp, sign, Sign the Bill Stamp, sign. You may dance all night, ’neath the gay gas light, If you only do a bill in the morning. Heigho! I’m the regular doo, Floating down Life’s river on an I.O.U.
I’m Director of ten railways, and a tip-top swell, My villa’s at Richmond, my Club in Pall Mall. I laugh at petty larcenies, and never cut my stick, For this is the way we do the trick. Sign the Bill Stamp, sign, Sign the Bill Stamp, sign. You may revel all night, and yet feel all right, If you only do a bill in the morning. Then heigho! for the regular doo, Floating down Life’s river on an I.O.U.
The Man in the Moon. Vol. I.
――――:o:――――
LOVE’S RITORNELLA.
Gentle Zitella, whither away? Love’s ritornella, list while I play. No, I have linger’d too long on my road,―― Night is advancing, the Brigand’s abroad, * * * * *
――――
REAL HAVANNAH.
Real Havannah! precious cigar! Gentle as manna, bright as a star; Pleasant at fire-side, cheery on road, Best of all perfumes at home or abroad: Real Havannah! Puff away care―― Blow my misfortunes Into thin air.
Real Havannah! O who would dare, Meerschaum or hookah with thee compare? When thy bright tip any mortal may see, Thou art his choice, and a smoker is he: Real Havannah, &c.
Real Havannah! primest of stuff, Sell me no humbug, vender of snuff; Think not on me you can cut any jokes, ’Tis Toper Thomas himself who now smokes: Real Havannah, &c.
――――:o:――――
JEANNETTE AND JEANNOT.
About forty years ago this was a very popular song. The music was accompanied by a picture representing a French soldier taking leave of a peasant girl, who is saying:――
“You are going far away, far away from poor Jeannette, There’s no one left to love me now, and you, perhaps, may forget. With your gun upon your shoulder, and your bayonet by your side, You’ll be courting some fair lady, and making her your bride.” * * * * *
――――
THE LAY OF THE CREDITOR.
You are going far away, far away from all your Debts, There’s no one left to pay me now, for you have no assets, My bill it will be with you, wherever you may go; Can you look into my ledger, and deny me what you owe? When you wear the light moustache, and the vest of brilliant blue, I fear that you’ll forget then all about my I. O. U. With the reins between your fingers, and a danseuse by your side, You’ll spend your uncle’s legacy, and all your duns deride. Oh, were I Lord John Russell, or still better Robert Peel, I would pass a stringent measure that would make you debtors feel; I would put a stop to swindling, or at least would find a way That the man who had the goods should be the only one to pay.
The Puppet Show, April 1, 1848.
In the same paper there was another parody relating to the Company of French actors, whose appearance at Drury Lane Theatre led to some disgraceful disturbances on the part of the “gents” of the period.
A MONTE CHRISTO BALLAD.
You are going to the play, if an order you can get, And Monte Christo you’re to see; so mind you don’t forget To take two days’ provisions, and remember ere you go, That I want some cash to “keep the house” till you come back, dear Joe. When you’re sitting in the pit, and when “part the first” is o’er, You’ll be voting Monsieur Dumas a most terrific bore; With your head upon your hand, and your hand upon your knee, You will long to be at home again at Kensington with me. When the playhouse doors are opened, you’ll be madly rushing on, Never thinking if they squash you, that your only chance is gone; For your hard eggs will be broken, and your brandy bottle cracked, And you’ll faint from thirst and hunger in the pit so densely packed. Oh! if I were Lord Chamherlain, or, better still, the Queen, At Drury Lane, I’d take good care, no Frenchmen should be seen. If they choose to bring out pieces which it took two nights to play, They should keep such stuff for Paris, and from London stop away.
――――
THE CHRISTMAS PUDDING.
If you wish to make a pudding in which everyone delights, Of a dozen new-laid eggs you must take the yolks and whites; Beat them well up in a basin till they thoroughly combine, And shred and chop some suet particularly fine; Take a pound of well-stoned raisins, and a pound of currants dried, A pound of pounded sugar, and a pound of peel beside; Stir them all well up together with a pound of wheaten flour, And let them stand and settle for a quarter of an hour; Then tie the pudding in a cloth, and put it in the pot, Some people like the water cold, and some prefer it hot; But though I don’t know which of these two methods I should praise, I know it ought to boil an hour for every pound it weighs. Oh! if I were Queen of France, or, still better, Pope of Rome, I’d have a Christmas pudding every day I dined at home; And as for other puddings whatever they might be, Why, those who like the nasty things should eat them all for me.
Punch.
PARODIES OF “TEN LITTLE NIGGER BOYS.”
There was a parody of this song in “The Rise and Fall of Richard III.,” a burlesque by F. C. Burnand, produced at the New Royalty Theatre, Soho, in 1868. It possesses little interest apart from the context.
Song by BARON ALBERT GRANT.
Ten Joint Stock Companies, none of which were mine, One got into Chancery, and then there were Nine! Nine Joint Stock Companies, all with prospects great, One never paid at all, then there were Eight! Eight Joint Stock Companies, one a mine in Devon, The sea got into that, and then there were Seven! Seven Joint Stock Companies, all their Boards played tricks; One couldn’t pay its rent, and then there were Six! Six Joint Stock Companies, scarcely kept alive, One wound up amicably, and then there were Five! Five Joint Stock Companies, dividends long o’er, A liquidator bled one, and then there were Four! Four Joint Stock Companies, as rotten as could be, One ruined scores of folk, and then there were Three! Three Joint Stock Companies, having naught to do, A small panic killed one, and then there were Two! Two Joint Stock Companies, their course well-nigh run, One was tried as a fraud, and then there was One! One Joint Stock Company, just kept on for fun, The Chairman bolted with the books, and then there was None!
From Finis.
――――
THE “BARMAID CONTEST.”
Held in the North Woolwich Gardens, when under the management of Mr. William Holland.
“Good character, business habits, neatness of costume, and respectability, are the chief points.”――Advertisement.
Ten little barmaids, sitting in a line; One answer’d saucily, and then there were nine.
Nine little barmaids, trying to be great; One look’d too pompously, and then there were eight.
Eight little barmaids――one came from Devon―― Not quite genteel enough――and then there were seven――
Seven little barmaids――one was up to tricks, Glancing at the gentlemen-and then there were six.
Six little barmaids, eager all to strive; One fell to quarrelling, and then there were five.
Five little barmaids, counting up their store; One show’d her dirty hands, and then there were four.
Four little barmaids evidenced their glee―― One not “respectably”――and then there were three.
Three little barmaids said it was “a do;” One said it loudly――and then there were two.
Two little barmaids wish’d it all was done; One yawn’d too plainly, and then there was one.
One little barmaid thought it “famous fun;” She took the prizes――and then there were none.
Judy.
――――
THE SIX ROYAL PERSONS.
Six royal persons in the realm alive, One went to India, and then there were five. Five royal persons, finding town a bore, One went to Russia, and then there were four. Four royal persons――pleasant sight to see―― One went to Gibraltar, and then there were three. Three royal persons――nothing else to do―― One went to Nice for health, and then there were two. Two royal persons, who together run, Thus the second doesn’t count, and so there was one. One royal person――Session not yet done!―― She went to Germany, and then there were none!
Reynolds’ Newspaper. April 16, 1876.
――――
THE TEN HIGH COMMISSIONERS. (A Song of the Conference.)
Ten High Commissioners in council did combine; But Salisbury gave up at last, and then there were but nine. Nine High Commissioners no longer would debate; For next Ignatieff went off, and so there were but eight. Eight High Commissioners tried Turkish rule to leaven Count Corti he went back to Rome, and then there were but seven. Seven High Commissioners were just in the same fix, Till Count Calice started off――reducing them to six. Six High Commissioners would fain see Turkey thrive, But Werther back to Bismarck went, and then there were but five. Five High Commissioners found they could do no more, And so Count Zichy he went home, and left there only four. Four High Commissioners still failed their way to see; And even Elliott gave in――and so there were but three. Three High Commissioners, of course, could nothing do; And Chaudordy packed off to France, and left there only two. Two High Commissioners found talking sorry fun; So Bourgoing he quitted too; and then there was but one. A Turk was he, who winked his eye, as one who is elate; And, chuckling much, “Aha,” he said; “Bismillah! God is great!”
Judy. February 7, 1877.
――――
THE IRISH JURYMEN.
Twelve Irish Jurymen trying Prisoners seven, One had a frightened wife, and then there were eleven! Eleven Irish Jurymen consulting up in a pen, One of them had oxen got, which left but only ten! Ten Irish Jurymen brought there by a fine, One dreaded “Boycotting,” then there were but nine! Nine Irish Jurymen listening there in state, One got a threatening note, and then there were but eight! Eight Irish Jurymen not without some leaven, One had had a Landlord, then there were but seven! Seven Irish Jurymen sitting in a fix, One feared the highway shots, and then there were but six! Six Irish Jurymen in the legal hive, One knew a murderer, then there were but five! Five Irish Jurymen springing from the poor, One of them half-witted, leaving only four! Four Irish Jurymen wishing to be “fhree,” One spouted treason, and then there were but three! Three Irish Jurymen softly whispering “Pooh!” One backed out of it, and then there were but two! Two Irish Jurymen loving not the fun, Tossed up a half-penny, then there was but one! One Irish Juryman a verdict had to give, Nobly said “Not Guilty,” and was allowed to live!
Punch. January 22, 1881.
――――
TEN THOUSAND SOLDIERS.
Ten thousand soldiers, too many in the line; We’ll cut off a thousand, then there’ll be nine. Nine thousand soldiers, a number far too great, The country can’t afford them, let’s make it eight.
Chorus.
10,000, 9,000, 8,000, 7,000, 6,000 soldier boys, 5,000, 4,000, 3,000, 2,000, 1,000 soldier boys.
Eight thousand soldiers to guard us all, good heaven! Can’t we do with fewer men, and show up only seven? Seven thousand soldiers to help us in a fix, Let’s reduce a little more, and bring them down to six.
Six thousand soldiers! as I am here alive, I see no necessity for having more than five. Five thousand soldiers, when there ain’t a war! The Reserve is ten thousand, we can’t want more than four.
Four thousand soldiers――between you and me, Don’t you think we’d be quite safe if we had only three? Three thousand soldiers――between me and you, I haven’t got rifles enough for more than two.
Two thousand soldiers shooting with a gun, I like doing things by halves, and half of two is one. One thousand soldiers wouldn’t be much fun, Let’s sweep them all away, then there’ll be none.
When there’s no more soldiers there’ll be no more strife, We shall live a little time a peaceful sort of life, Till the Opposition come and kick us through the door, Then they’ll raise an army of a hundred thousand more.
10,000, 20,000, 30,000, 40,000, 50,000 soldiers more, 60,000, 70,000, 80,000, 90,000, 100,000 soldiers more!
St. James’s Gazette. June 29, 1881.
――――
SMALL BY DEGREES.
Ten British Ironclads, floating on the brine: Reed[69] went out of office, and then there were Nine! Nine British Ironclads to defend the State: Reed cocked his eye at them, and then there were Eight! Eight British Ironclads lying safe in haven: Reed raked ’em fore and aft, and then there were Seven! Seven British Ironclads, sound from keel to sticks: Reed wrote a pamphlet, and then there were Six! Six British Ironclads――hooray! Jack’s alive! Reed spoke in Parliament, and then there were Five! Five British Ironclads cruising round the Nore: Reed made a platform speech, and then there were Four! Four British Ironclads ruling of the Sea: Reed wrote unto the Times, and then there were Three! Three British Ironclads buffeting the blue: Reed had dyspepsia, and then there were Two! Two British Ironclads, big in plate and gun: Reed was snubbed by Brassey, and then there was One! Oh, make him Chief Constructor once again, whate’er befall; Or soon of British Ironclads we shall have――none at all!
Punch. April 25, 1885.
――――:o:――――
SEND A REMITTANCE FROM HOME. (Parody on “Write me a Letter from Home.”)
Wretched I sit here and cry, Poorer than I’ve been for years, Not a bad ha’p’ny have I, Nothing but sorrows and tears. Poor trust, at the cook-shop, is dead, My creditors bully and foam, Oh! how’s a poor man to be fed, Without a remittance from home.
Post Office Orders or stamps, What shall I do till they come? Oh! go, wake the old people up, To send a remittance from home.
I hope that they’ll send a good lot; The last time they wrote to me here, A blessing was all that I got From father and mother so dear. They hoped I’d be honest and true, And ne’er in extravagance roam, But what’s a poor devil to do Without a remittance from home? Post Office Orders or stamps, &c.
I have not the money for stamps, So when I write home ev’ry day, They think me the worst of young scamps, For twopence each time they’ve to pay. My best suit is sold, I possess But these clothes, one sock, and a comb, And they, too, will vanish unless They send a remittance from home. Post Office Orders or stamps, &c.
My candles are burnt, and my coals Are out, but my taxes are in, And as for my boots, poor old souls! Like me, they’ve grown terribly thin. Unless money comes I shall die, And, chang’d to a goblin or gnome, Shall haunt the old people, and cry, “How ’bout that remittance from home?” Post Office Orders or stamps. &c.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
POST ME A PARCEL FROM HOME.
Lonely I sit here and long, Charging the air with my sighs; Whence comes a yearning so strong? Fawcett, you know I surmise. The products of garden and lea Now haunt me wherever I roam, Oh! tell the old people from me To post me a parcel from home.
Have they forgotten my taste, Or do they expect me to come? At any rate bid them with haste To post me a parcel from home.
I think of the butter and cream―― I’ve “boshed” it for many a year―― Of the plums and the apples I dream, Why shouldn’t they comfort me here? Some paper and string, don’t you see, Can now bring me whiffs of the loam, So do tell my people from me To post me a parcel from home. Have they forgotten, &c.
――――:o:――――
A DARWINIAN BALLAD.
Oh, many have told of the monkeys of old, What a pleasant race they were, And it seems most true that I and you Are derived from an apish pair. They all had nails, and some had tails And some――no “accounts in arrear,” They climbed up the trees, and they scratched out the――these Of course I will not mention here.
They slept in a wood, or wherever they could, For they didn’t know how to make beds They hadn’t got huts, they dined upon nuts, Which they cracked upon each other’s heads. They hadn’t much scope, for a comb, brush or soap, Or towels, or kettle or fire. They had no coats nor capes, for ne’er did these apes Invent what they didn’t require.
The sharpest baboon never used fork or spoon, Nor made any boots for his toes, Nor could any thief steal a silk handker-chief, For no ape thought much of his nose; They had cold collations, they ate poor relations: Provided for thus, by-the-bye. No Ou-rang-ou-tang a song ever sang―― He couldn’t, and so didn’t try.
From these though descended our manners are mended, Though still we can grin and back_bite_! We cut up each other, be he friend or brother, And tales are the fashion――at night. This origination is all speculation―― We gamble in various shapes; So Mr. Dar_win_ may speculate in Our ancestors having been apes.
ANONYMOUS.
――――:o:――――
OVER AND OVER AGAIN.
Over and over again, No matter which way I turn, I always find in the Book of Life Some lessons I have to learn. I must take my turn at the mill, I must grind out the golden grain, I must work at my task with a resolute will Over and over again.
* * * * *
The path that has once been trod Is never so rough to the feet; And the lesson we once have learned Is never so hard to repeat. Though sorrowful tears may fall, And the heart to its depth be driven With storm and tempest, we need them all To render us meet for Heaven.
――――
OVER AND OVER AGAIN. (As Parodied by Miss Seventeen.)
Over and over again, No matter whom I may send, They always find in the old brown box Some stockings for me to mend. I must put up my fancy crocheting, I must go for that horrid old yarn, And set to work at it, smiling, Though I hate it――learning to darn.
I never can measure the hole In even the tiniest stocking, Nor number the stitches giving way Of the ornamental clocking; But the hole must somehow be darned, And the clocking must be replaced, And done, too, in such a way That the stocking be not defaced.
Over and over again The yarn through the needle goes, And over and over again I mend the heels and the toes; Once doing will not suffice, And the doing seems, sometimes, in vain When, after mending it twice and thrice, A stocking needs mending again.
But though socks that have once been darned Are never so soft to the feet, And, mending, if twenty times done, Is just as hard to repeat; While sorrowful tears may fall As my heart grows weary with strife; I must forget all and darn, Would I ever be somebody’s wife.
ANONYMOUS.
――――:o:――――
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND’S SONG.
Men say that I’m a humourist, and I can tell them why: Upon the ways of life I look with keen observant eye. So looked three centuries ago old England’s wondrous WILL, Whose magic pen immortal made the precincts of Gad’s Hill, For GAD’S HILL CHARLIE is my name, my boys, GAD’S HILL CHARLIE is my name.
Not to be poet I pretend――there are but two or three: And dear old THACKERAY’S caustic touch is not the thing for me. I could have sketched in modern prose with tolerable skill, The wild young PRINCE, and reckless POINS, and FALSTAFF on Gad’s Hill, For GAD’S HILL CHARLIE is my name, my boys, GAD’S HILL CHARLIE is my name.
Ay, sweet JACK FALSTAFF! Verily, his humour was sublime; I introduce my PICKWICK, the FALSTAFF of the time: Imagine that rare hero engaging with a will, A mob of men in buckram by moonlight on Gad’s Hill! For GAD’S HILL CHARLIE is my name, my boys, GAD’S HILL CHARLIE is my name.
All round the year men read me: and faith! I mean to write, So long as these clear eyes of mine are filled with living light, So long as oddities abound, and laughter lingers still, So long as there is magic in the memory of Gad’s Hill. For GAD’S HILL CHARLIE is my name, my boys, GAD’S HILL CHARLIE[70] is my name.
Echoes from the Clubs. September 25, 1867.
――――:o:――――
OVER THE GARDEN WALL.
Oh! my love stood under the walnut tree, Over the garden wall, She whispered and said she’d be true to me, Over the garden wall. She’d beautiful eyes, and beautiful hair, She was not very tall, so she stood on a chair, And many a time have I kissed her there, Over the garden wall.
Chorus――Over the garden wall The sweetest girl of all. There never was yet, such eyes of jet, And you may bet, I’ll never forget, The night our lips in kisses met, Over the garden wall.
* * * * *
――――
OVER THE HANDLES.
One day I was riding my wheel so free, Towards the garden wall; A charmer was standing and looking at me, From over the garden wall, Her face was fair, So saucy her air I was rattled completely, And right then and there I took a bad header, And flew through the air Over the garden wall.
Chorus――Over the garden wall, a terrible, terrible fall; I never did yet a header get That filled my soul with such regret, As the time I struck, head-first in the wet, Over the garden wall.
I picked myself up and said, “How do you do?” Over the garden wall. She said, “I’m certainly better than you,” Over the garden wall; “But much I should like, To know why you strike, And get so hot, and muddy, and dusty like, And take such a header from off your bike,” Over the garden wall, &c. Chorus――Over the garden wall, &c.
“My dear,” said I, “I can surely explain,” Over the garden wall; “The case in a moment, if I may remain,” Over the garden wall; “Your glance was so shy, I wished to be nigh, So over the handles I went with a fly! But now I’ll beware of a saucy black eye,” Over the garden wall.
The Wheeling Annual. 1885.
――――
OVER THE GARDEN WALL.
Willie M’Cann one midsummer night, Over the garden wall; Crept to greet his Julia bright, Over the garden wall. The daisies gemm’d the tender grass, And flowers enshrin’d the lovely lass, Said Willie, “the happiest hours I pass, Over the garden wall.” “Over the garden wall――the sweetest time of all! I’m happy to come, delighted to stay, Each hour I wish as long as a day; And sorry I am to wander away Over the garden wall.”
The hours flew by and an old man peer’d Over the garden wall; Then stealthily into the house he steer’d, Over the garden wall, But soon returned with a big thick stick, And caught poor Willie a terrible lick, That made him scramble excessively quick Over the garden wall. Over the garden wall――the sweetest time of all! He was happy to come, delighted to stay, But somehow that night I’m sorry to say, He hurried extremely in getting away Over the garden wall.
F. L. RICHARDSON.
――――
POPULAR IRISH CHORUS. (As sung in April, 1887.)
Then down with the Castle wall! Home Rule once for all! On Gladstone yet Our hearts are set And you may bet He’ll never forget How the wishes of Ireland must be met. Down with the Castle wall.
――――:o:――――
THE TWO OBADIAHS.
Said the young Obadiah to the old Obadiah, I am dry, Obadiah, I am dry. Said the old Obadiah, to the young Obadiah, Well, that’s queer, Obadiah, so am I. So am I.
But the two Obadiahs had between them not a brown, And all they sought to borrow from responded with a frown. You must pay us what you owe before we lend you what you need, Said the old Obadiah “that be d――――d.”
* * * * *
This not very elegant song had a considerable music-hall popularity, it was parodied by L. M. Thornton in a version, entitled “The Two Marias,” which was rather more vulgar, and less amusing than the original.
――――
THE TWO TORY OBADIAHS.[71]
Said the Old Tory Leader to the Young Tory Leader, “It’s my duty, Tory Leader, to complain.” Said the Young Tory Leader to the Old Tory Leader, “What, again, Tory Leader? what again? Of course, you ought by this time to know what you’re about; But in thus of me complaining I myself have not a doubt That you’ll find your indignation――as you’ve oft before found out―― Is in vain, Tory Leader, is in vain!”
Said the Old Tory Leader to the Young Tory Leader, “But think, Tory Leader, what you said!” Said the Young Tory Leader to the Old Tory Leader, “If my speech, Tory Leader, you have read, You will know that I objected at more robbery to wink, Or to let more public money in the City quagmire sink; That, in short, I told the ‘Bumbles’ just exactly what I think―― So its not a bit of use to shake your head!”
Said the Old Tory Leader to the Young Tory Leader, “But I must and I will, I say, protest! For of all our trusted friends, who work hard for Tory ends, Why the City Corporation is the best! And yet you go and tell it that it sadly needs reform; You denounce the Board of Works, too, in a manner very warm. Let me tell you that already your mad speech has roused a storm!” Said the Young Tory Leader, “Bah! you jest!”
Said the Old Tory Leader to the Young Tory Leader, “Jesting matter, Tory Leader, this is none!” Said the Young Tory Leader to the Old Tory Leader, “Do have done, Tory Leader, do have done! For your talk at first amused me, but it now begins to bore, So let me plainly tell you that I wish to hear no more; Or you’ll make me put my foot down, as I’ve put it down before, When, as you will not forget, I’ve always won!”
* * * * * (Five verses omitted.)
Truth. November 25, 1886.
――――
DUET.
The Tory Obadiah, by Mr. Marriott, M.P. The Union Obadiah, by Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, M.P.
Said the Union Obadiah to the Tory Obadiah, “We have both, Obadiah, turned our coats!” Said the Tory Obadiah to the Union Obadiah, “That, our ’cuteness, Obadiah, but denotes!” For we turned them to some purpose; for example, in my case, Did I not receive, most promptly, from the Tories a good place? Come, my worthy fellow-ratter, let us cordially embrace!” Said the Union Obadiah, “Wait a bit!”
Said the Tory Obadiah to the Union Obadiah, “But surely, Obadiah, I am right?” Said the Union Obadiah to the Tory Obadiah, “No, not quite, Obadiah; no, not quite! It is true that when you ‘ratted’――by the way, I hate that word―― A by-no-means ill-paid office on you promptly was conferred But that I have taken office, as a fact, I have not heard.” Said the Tory Obadiah, “But you might!”
Said the Union Obadiah to the Tory Obadiah, “Self-respect, Obadiah, very strong, Would compel me any offer from the Tories, Obadiah, To reject, Obadiah, as most wrong!” The Tory Obadiah merely winked with his left eye, And the Union Obadiah, with one glance at his ally, Fell back laughing in his chair so that he’d scarcely strength to cry, “Go along, Obadiah, go along!”
Truth, Christmas Number. 1886.
――――:o:――――
OUR DEAR OLD CHURCH OF ENGLAND. (Genuine Version.)
Our dear old Church of England, Let’s rally round you now, Though there’s not the least occasion For kicking up a row: You know you’re safe as ever, And watched with loving eye, But Dizzy (who’s so clever) Suggests a little Cry.
So, dear Old Church of England, (And none can tell you cheap) We’ll make your name a war-cry, For those who’d office keep. Declare to win elections, Old Mother Church so dear, With these, our crack selections, Yourself, and Gold, and Beer.
SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1868.
――――
SONG OF THE CHURCH UNION. (AIR――“And shall Trelawney Die?”)
And shall they strike at Ritual rites? Shall Tooth in durance lie? Then fourteen thousand Union Men Will know the reason why!
For Church and conscience James’s days Saw Bishop’s sev’n confined; But Cornwall’s sons found means and ways, To change the royal mind. So we’ll resist Tait, Cairns, and Pen, And Law, in them, defy,―― We, fourteen thousand Union men, And not men to say die.
Matters of moment still we’ll make, Of chasuble and stole; With Tooth, in teeth of Law, we’ll take The Mass of Rome for goal. While we scorn Tait and Cairns and Pen, And power of Law defy,―― In Union’s name Disunion Men, Though with no reason why.
Our Roman candles high shall flare, On Romish altar-plate, And lace and flowers and frontals fair, While Mass we celebrate. So using tooth and tongue and pen The Law Courts to defy, We fourteen thousand Union Men Will hang each other by!
We’ll under-creep or over-leap All Acts our course that bar; Obedience to our Bishops keep, But while with us they are, And till we stump Tait, Bench, and Pen, Against the three we’ll cry: If Law dares thwart Church-Union Men, Shall they be bound thereby?
Punch. February 3, 1877.
――――:o:――――
EX-PARLIAMENTARY. (AN IMAGINARY DIALOGUE THAT MIGHT BE TRUE)
Gladstone.――“Our party’s doing very well, Amending ev’ry bad law, I’ve silenced the O’Donnell’s yell, And now I’ll shut up Bradlaugh. My copious flow of words each night Would any good-sized pan fill; And what I say is always right――――” “You think it is,” says Granville.
Granville.――“I fear we’ve not done much as yet, And daily I’m affrighted That one of us may p’rhaps forget We all should be united. Against our party house of glass That Harcourt’s thrown a bad stone. I hope no damage, but――――” “Alas! He’s smashed a pane,” says Gladstone.
“A penny on the Income Tax Who’s mean enough to grudge it, When duties they on malt relax? Indeed, a glorious Budget! And ev’ry night my words fall fast, Like hammer blows on anvil, While wond’ring hearers gape aghast――” “They do indeed,” says Granville.
“Yet somehow certain words you speak Require explanation; And when their Premier eats the leek It don’t much please the nation. You may not like our old Whig ways, But we don’t like your Rad’s tone, Nor can we bear your talking craze――” “You’ll have to, though,” says Gladstone.
Judy. June 23, 1880.
There was also a parody, of the same original, in Judy, October 10, 1883, on the Election of Alderman Fowler as Lord Mayor of London; and another in Punch, February 9, 1884, relating to the elephant Jumbo, entitled “Jumbo and Taoung,” but neither is of any interest now.
――――:o:――――
“WE ARE A MERRY FAMILY.” Song.――MISS MARY ANDERSON.
I am the pink of properness, and wheresoe’er I roam I carry the accessories to make a happy home. I bear about an old armchair, the very best of mothers A step-papa, a cousin Jane, a time-piece and two brothers.
Chorus.――Oh! we’re a happy familee, From Mary down to Jo, Step-pa, mother, sister, brother, I, and cousin Flo; We have a very cosy hearth Which scandals never mar, We’re a devoted familee We are! we are! we are!
I always hurry home to them when once the curtain’s down, ’Twould kill me were mamma to weep or step-dada to frown. My servants fully understand “No followers allowed,” And o’er my spotless domicile there rests no scandal cloud.
Chorus.――For we’re a happy familee, &c.
When interviewers visit me (I know not why they call), I rattle in my artless way, and tell my little all; How I work hard for mother dear, and teach my brother Jo. And how we spend our happy hours, and where to church we go.
Chorus.――For we’re a happy familee, &c.
Yet people dare to say that when a soap I recommend, It’s not because I merely wish the maker to befriend; And that when I am photographed (in somewhat scant attire), ’Tis not twelve copies for myself alone that I require.
Chorus.――Yet we’re are a happy familee, &c.
Truth, Christmas Number. 1884.
――――
A LAY OF THE LAW.
THE CRUSTED OLD BENCHER sings.
We are a Corporation rich, with coffers filled with gold; Our aspirations high we pitch; we’re proud and close and old; We hold our honour very dear, our services likewise; But ’tis a thumping sum per year most fervently we prize! And so that we may get the more incessantly to waste, Those blocks law students took of yore, we’re pulling down in haste; And in their stead are running up palatial flats, wherein Rich snobs can pose as barristers and reputation win.
Chorus (supported by all the performers).――To always take, our motto is, to give――we seldom can; For he who gives the least, of course, becomes the richest man; Ours is a strange morality, peculiar to the bar; We are a grasping family――we are! we are! we are!
THE POPULAR COMMON-LAW BARRISTER sings.
We never ask for any fees, oh! no, we’ve too much pride; But we’ve a clerk who always sees our briefs have cheques inside; Who duns attorneys when they shirk refreshers to renew―― In short, does all the dirty work we’d rather die than do. If any scandal should arise, quite safe is our fair fame; We just repudiate his acts, and he gets all the blame; But he is quite prepared for this, and knows his place ’twill cost If, through some squeamishness of his, a fee is ever lost.
Chorus.――’Tis for this clerk, our strong right hand, we make our clients pay, He costs us not one penny-piece, his stipend they defray; So as you see, our trickiness is rather over par; We are a grasping family――we are! we are! we are!
THE SUCCESSFUL M.P.-Q.C. sings.
We take more work than we can do, and know it at the time; But if a client’s case fall through, we don’t think that a crime! For though his all he may have lost by our insatiate greed, He cannot sue us for the cost, so what care we, indeed? Besides, when we’ve received more briefs than we can ever read, A surplus one enables us to do a kindly deed; For we choose some young barrister, whose chance of work is dim, And with a patronising nod, toss on the brief to him.
Chorus.――Oh, yes; we take the widow’s mite, the orphan’s little store, And if a bigger fee come in, look at their briefs no more. Our carelessness their lot may blight, their life, their honour mar, But we’re a grasping family――we are! we are! we are!
THE INCAPABLE BARRISTER WITH A CONNECTION sings.
We’re very jealous of our trade, and anxious to retain Monopoly’s ill-omened aid our rivals to restrain; We know solicitors are fit to plead in court their cause―― Nay, as a rule, they’re better up than we are in the laws. But still to keep the barrier up protects all weaker men, For if there were free trade in briefs, why, where would they be then? So “Vive abuses old!” say we, and long live anything That extra guineas to our purse more easily will bring.
Chorus.――So Vive th’ abuses of the past! Long live the good old days! Why should we try to alter what such thumping income pays? We’ll foster all the mystery that hangs about the Bar―― We are a grasping family――we are! we are!! we are!!!
Truth, Christmas Number. December 1882.
――――
THE RIGHT HON. JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN, Loq.
“I am the cleverest of men! In all that I essay, It is my rule on no account to second fiddle play. There’s scarce a talent or a gift to which I lay not claim, And “Chamberlain” has, thanks to me, become a famous name. I brook no interference with the plans which I propose; I’m dictatorial, to a fault, alike to friends and foes. Nor am I satisfied applause for my own acts to win―― No! I demand the self-same praise for all my kith and kin. For we’re a clever family, From Arthur down to Dick; My Nephews, cousins, quite by dozens, And brother-in-law Ken-rick. So who dares question aught we say, Or our advance to bar? For we’re a clever family, We are! we are! we are!
“The nation must be daft to doubt a word of what I say, Or think that Mr. Gladstone’s plan is equal to my way! Poor man! What use is it for him his played-out brains to tax, When all that Birmingham can give so notably he lacks? He was not born there, has not been its Alderman or Mayor, Nor tasted of those honours which our family still share. O, foolish Gladstone! to suppose that any chance he runs With me, the pride of Brummagem, and greatest of her sons! And head of such a family, &c.
“And what can England be about to not at once agree To simply leave her welfare to my family and me? Why need she fear the rising storm will wreck or overwhelm? Does she forget her Chamberlains have hurried to the helm? Not Joseph only, for he’s called his brethren to his aid. Oh! silly, silly England, to be, in spite of this, afraid! For how can harm upon you come, or ill of any kind, When, for your sake, the Chamberlains have openly combined? For we’re a clever family, &c.
“And do those Radicals believe, who dare to me condemn, That they can still exist without the Pride of Brummagem? Do they suppose their Caucus can throughout one session last If I withdraw the nerve and strength I gave it in the past? Can they in sooth imagine that, however they may strive, Their party possibly can hope my loss to long survive? ’Twould seem they can, and yet――no! no! it surely cannot be; They must have learned the value of my family and me. For we’re a clever family, &c.
“And yet how strange it is that though I’ve turned against my chief, He still exists――such stubbornness is well-nigh past belief; I’ve told him he must reckon with my family and me, And yet he has not bowed as yet, not even on one knee. I’ve warned him that he must my wrath most certainly expect, And yet he positively dares to hold his head erect; He must be mad, yes, very mad, to think that thus he can Defy not me, the chief alone, but Caine and all my clan! For we’re a clever family, &c.
“And yet, as days and weeks go by, ’twould seem, I must confess, That if my influence grows at all it only grows much less. The Tories who two months ago knelt humbly at my feet, Ignore the man who brought about the Government’s defeat; The Whigs who warmly welcomed me as their most dear ally, Already seem inclined to be reserved with me and shy. In short, ’midst friends and foes alike a tendency I see To underrate most shamefully my kith and kin and me. Though we’re a clever family, &c.
“’Tis vain for me a caucus new to start, and it to man With brothers and with relatives, all members of my clan, If Radicals continue to ignore that caucus new, And further dare my policy to laugh at and pooh-pooh; In vain my family and I display our talents thus, If the ungrateful State declares ’twill not be saved by us; And ’tis in vain, too, that my foes I threaten and asperse, When they are clearly for my threats in no wise aught the worse. Though we’re a clever family, &c.
“And yet I scarce can bring myself to think I’ve had my day, And ne’er again shall have the power a Ministry to slay. Can it, indeed, have come to pass that Birmingham’s chief pride Is now a pow’rless leader who is feared by neither side? Can it, indeed, be true that I, spite all my brethren’s aid, Shall see that Statesman triumph who so lately I betrayed, And, hardest blow of all, live on to but too surely find That England is a match for all us Chamberlains combined?
Though we’re a clever family, From Arthur down to Dick, With kith and kin, both stout and thin, And brother-in-law Ken-rick. But to the last, spite all that’s past, This fact we’ll spread afar, We are a clever family! We are! we ARE!! we ARE!!!”
Truth. August 5, 1886.
――――
THE POLITICAL HAPPY FAMILEE.
We are a Happy Familee, And never, I engage, Was known such peace and unity As flourish in our cage! For we are all true Unionists, And it is good to see With what delight we all unite, How sweetly we agree!
Chorus――For we’re a Happy Familee, From Peter to John B.! From Joseph’s brothers, and sundry others, To Hartington and me! We are devoted, one and all, And never snap nor spar, For we’re a Happy Familee, We are! We ARE!! We ARE!!!
John Bright and Randolph Churchill make A truly loving pair, And gushing Goschen has no notion Which Rylands does not share; Collings and Caine would moan with pain To be from Chaplin parted; And Hartington, relieved of James Would be quite broken-hearted!
Chorus――For we’re a Union Familee, Whose hearts with fondness glow; Peter and Otto ’ve but one motto, And so have John and Joe. No thought of rupture troubles us, No split, no party jar, For we’re a Happy Familee, We are! We ARE!! We ARE!!!
Truth Christmas Number. December, 1886.
――――
WAIT TILL THE CLOUDS ROLL BY. Popular Premier Pipes to a Popular Air.
Willy, my own Grand Old One, Afar from the House you be, Out in the Hawarden woodlands, Under the still home tree. Doubtless Town misses you, my William. Winds blow and storms are raging high; Willy, my own Grand Old One, Wait till the clouds roll by!
Chorus――Wait till the clouds roll by, Willy, Wait till the clouds roll by; Willie, my own Grand Old One, Wait till the clouds roll by!
* * * * * (Two verses omitted.)
Willy, here’s time for thinking. Salisbury’s pack is hushed; But in affairs of empire, Have you been fogged――or rushed? Hodge has his boon, and is contented, But foreign foes seem in full cry. Willy look sharp, but take it coolly; Wait till the clouds roll by!
Chorus――Wait till the clouds roll by!
Willy, canards are flying,―― Cool skill will bring them down. But, when the eagles gather, Danger perchance may frown; Give it your careful thought, my William, Don’t be alarmed,――yet mind your eye! But when the bogey-mongers croak, man, Wait till the clouds roll by!
Chorus――Wait till the clouds roll by, Willy, Wait till the clouds roll by; Willy, my own Grand Old One, Wait till the clouds roll by!
Punch. January 24, 1885.
――――:o:――――
THE CHILDREN’S VOICES.
I hear the children’s voices Shouting at their play, And the tears don’t rise unbidden, For I know well what they say. They use strange words, and call each other Names that are forbid, And their sole idea of repartee Is “Didn’t!” “Yaas! ye did!”
Chorus――Sweet children’s voices haunt me night and day, And how I wish those children’s voices far, far away.
I hear the children’s voices Singing in the street, And I do not like their singing, For its neither low nor sweet. They are not singing quite in tune, The pitch is far too high, And I do not like the tune they sing, For its “Wait till the clouds roll by.” Chorus.
I hear the children’s voices, Behind my cottage door, And I think I never heard them So soft or low before. I hear a gentle tapping, I rush out in the rain, And I hear their little voices shouting “Hullo! sold again!” Chorus.
I hear the children’s voices, Murmuring in the lane, As I saunter ’neath the elm trees, To meet my pretty Jane. We fondly sit together, That little lass and I, And they softly creep behind us both And loudly call out “Hi!” Chorus.
Written and composed by CORNEY GRAIN. Published by J. Bath, Berners Street, London.
――――:o:――――
THE VOLUNTEER’S SONG. (Air.――“I am a Simple Muleteer.”)
I am a Rifle Volunteer, And quite particular to rules; Nor march, nor drill, howe’er severe, My military ardour cools. I arm but in my country’s cause, To keep her from the Eagle’s claws; If they attempt a swoop to make, Crack, crack! my course is clear; They’ll find they’ve made a slight mistake―― I am a Volunteer!
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Punch. July 21, 1860.
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OH! GIVE ME BUT MY ARAB STEED.
Oh! give me but my Arab steed, My shield and falchion bright, And I will to the battle speed, To save him in the fight. His noble crest I’ll boldly wave, And gird his scarf around; But I must to the field repair, For hark! the trumpets sound.
Oh! with my Arab steed I’ll go, To brave the embattled plain, Where warriors brave their valour show, And drain each noble vein. His brow that oft the battle braves With fadeless laurels crown’d, Shall guide me where his falchion waves, But hark! the trumpets sound.
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OH! GIVE ME BUT MY DONKEY, JOE.
Oh! give me but my donkey, Joe, His panniers fixed on tight; And I will to my doxie go, And do the thing what’s right! Her bran new wipe I’ll proudly wear, And pass the punch around, But I must to my crib repair―― For, hark! the cleavers sound.
Oh! with my donkey I will go, And greens and lettuce cry, While my doxie patters with the foe, I’ll toddle on the sly. Their chaffing without fear she braves―― Her head with carrots crowned, Shall guide me where her hand she waves―― But hark! the cleavers sound.
From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.
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THE COACHMAN’S LAMENT. (Air――“Oh! give me but my Arab steed.”)
Farewell my ribbons, and, alack! Farewell my tidy drag; Mail-coachmen now have got the sack, And engineers the bag.
My heart and whip alike are broke―― I’ve lost my varmint team, That used to cut away like smoke, But couldn’t go like steam.
It is, indeed, a bitter cup, Thus to be sent to pot; My bosom boils at boiling up, A gallop or a trot.
My very brain with fury’s racked, That railways are the rage; I’m sure you’ll never find them act, Like our old English stage.
A man whose passion’s crost, is sore, Then pray excuse my pet; I ne’er was overturn’d before, But now am quite upset.
From The Comic Latin Grammar. By Paul Prendergast (Percival Leigh). London. D. Bogue. 1848.
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JUST BEFORE THE WEDDING, MOTHER. PARODY ON “Just before the Battle, Mother.”
Just before the wedding, mother, what a lot there is to do, Seeing after wreaths and dresses, and the wedding favors, too; Bridesmaids six, around one crying, spoiling pretty bonnets gay, Oh! what a comfort ’tis, dear mother, weddings don’t come every day.
Farewell, mother, we must sever, We must sever, mother, Cries the bride in tones of pain; But oh! you’ll come and see us, mother, You will come and see us, When we’re back in town again.
Just before proposing, mother, oh! how nervous young men are, Even after they’re accepted, and referred to dear papa. For the settlements and breakfast, dear papa has got to pay, And says, “Oh! what a comfort, mother; weddings don’t come every day.”
Just before the breakfast, mother, no one knows what to be at, But when guests are round the table, they are more at home at that; Billious wedding-cake and speeches――save me from such speeches, pray―― Oh! what a comfort ’tis, dear mother, weddings don’t come every day.
Just before departing, mother, and the carriage is outside, Aunts and uncles, brothers, sisters, tearfully caress the bride; Every slipper in the household after them is thrown away, Oh! what a comfort ’tis, dear mother, weddings don’t come every day.
Just before the christening, mother, such a fuss you never saw, When the household is commanded by “dear mamma-in-law.” “Pretty Poppet,” cry the ladies; “happy father,” people say. Ah well! he has this consolation, christenings don’t come every day. Dearest mother, did you ever――no, I never, mother, See so fine a child before; You may take the glove off, mother, From the knocker on that door!
The Newcastle Weekly Chronicle. May 28, 1887.
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JUST AFTER THE WEDDING, MOTHER. PARODY ON “Just after the Battle, Mother.”
Still upon my recent marriage I am thinking, Mother dear; But the fatal step I’ve taken cannot now be help’d, ’tis clear; She was such a duck, I told her that to eat her I’d be glad, And now, between ourselves, dear Mother, don’t I only wish I had. Mother dear, your boy is married; all regret is now in vain; But oh, how gladly would I, Mother, be a bachelor again.
Oh, those callers in were fearful, Jones, and Robinson, and Brown, Shower’d in congratulations, when we first returned to town. All my darling wife’s relations came to breakfast, sup, and dine, And oh! what appetites, dear Mother, oh! the fearful waste of wine. Mother, dear, &c.
Oh! our dreadful cook and housemaid, oh! that boy we did engage, In the hist’ry of our servants, gladly I’d blot out that page; All our china he demolish’d, not a glass upon the shelves; And oh! the only spoons remaining are our two unlucky selves. Mother, dear, &c.
Sweet she look’d in gipsy bonnets blushing, like a damask rose, Little did I think that angels wanted such a lot of clothes; Wives, of course, are very charming, but be careful if you can, And when you chose one take a warning by a henpeck’d married man. Mother, dear, &c.
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THE THREE JOVIAL STATESMEN.
Sir William Harcourt, at Glasgow, in quoting from The Three Jovial Huntsmen, referred to it as “a delightful illustrated story-book,” which he advised all his hearers to buy. Quite so, Mr. Caldecott’s pictures are simply delicious, and the verses themselves are quaint and pithy. But the “bearings of ’em lie in their application.” And here’s their application――much at your service, Sir William.
It’s of Three Jovial Statesmen, and a-stumping they did go; And they spouted and they flouted, and they blew their horns also. Look ye there!
And one said “Mind your eye, Staff, there’s Reaction in the wind, And soon, by hook or crook, we a winning cry shall find.” Look ye there!
They spouted and they flouted, and the first thing they did find, Was a tattered scare-crow-mummy-thing, which seemed much to their mind. Look ye there!
One said it was a scare-crow, but another he said “Nay; It’s the real farmer’s friend, Fair Trade, and I think this cry will pay.” Look ye there!
They spouted and they flouted, and the next thing they did find Was a swelling, swaggering Bogey, its arms waving in the wind. Look ye there!
One said it was a Bogey, but another he said, “Nay; It’s our dear old Jingo-Fi-Fo-Fum, not yet quite past away.” Look ye there!
They spouted and they flouted, and the next thing they did find Was a Bull who browsed at leisure, and seemed easy in his mind. Look ye there!
One said ’twas brave John Bull himself, another he said “Nay; It’s just a Boer-whipt Jackass, without even pluck to bray.” Look ye there!
They spouted and they flouted, and the next thing they did find Was a fat pig grunting in a stye, with anger almost blind. Look ye there!
One said it was a fat pig, but another he said “Nay; It’s just a worthy Alderman who fears Reform’s black day.” Look ye there!
They spouted and they flouted, and the next thing they did find, Was two old Patriots trying to bring Pat to his right mind. Look ye there!
One said they were two Patriots, but another he said, “Nay; They’re just two ranting Demagogues. We’re sold! let’s come away.” Look ye there!
So they spouted and they flouted, till the setting of the sun; And they hadn’t got a cry at last, when their stumping-course was run. Look ye there!
Then each unto the other said, “This stumping doesn’t pay; But we’ve pounded up and down a bit, and had a rattling day.” Look ye there!
Punch. November 5, 1881.
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THE THREE JOVIAL HUNTSMEN.
(New and abbreviated version sung by Lord Salisbury, Sir Stafford Northcote, and Lord Randolph Churchill on their return from stumping the country.)
It’s of three Jovial Huntsmen, an’ a-hunting they did go; And they hunted, an’ they hollo’d, and they blew their horns also. Look ye there!
And one said, “Mind your eyes, and keep your noses right i’ the wind, And in Leeds or in Midlothian some game we’re bound to find.” Look ye there!
They hunted and they hollo’d, and the first thing they did find Was that a previous huntsman little game had left behind. Look ye there!
One said there was a chance for them, but another he said “Nay; In these North Country moorlands we have been and lost our way.” Look ye there!
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They hunted and they hollo’d, and the last thing they did find Was a Bull, safe in a Liberal fold, and that they left behind. Look ye there!
One said he was John Bull still, but another, he said “Nay; He’s no better than a jackass since he learned the Radical bray.” Look ye there!
So they hunted and they hollo’d till their holiday course was ran, And they’d nought to bring away at last when their hunting time was done. Look ye there!
Then one unto the others said, “This hunting does not pay; But we’ve pounded up and down a bit, and had a rattling day.” Look ye there!
Punch. October 18, 1884.
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BEAUTIFUL SNOW. (With a Drift)
Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow (This is a parody, please you to know; Over and over again you may meet Parodies writ on this poem so sweet; Rhyming, chiming, skipping along Comical bards think they do nothing wrong; Striving to follow what others have done, One to the number may keep up the fun). Beautiful snow, so gently you scud, Pure for a minute, then dirty as mud.
Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow! Here’s a fine mess you have left us below; Chilling our feet to the tips of our toes; Cheekily landing full pert on our nose; Jinking, slinking, ever you try ’Neath our umbrella to flop in our eye; Gamins await us at every new street, Watching us carefully, guiding our feet, Joking, mocking, ready to throw A hard compressed ball of this beautiful snow.
ANONYMOUS.
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O, the snow! the beautiful snow! Feathering down to the ground below. Snow on the pavement and snow on the street, Snow on the boots of the people you meet. Train, cab, or omnibus? O, no!――no! Nothing to-day but the beautiful snow; Nothing to go by and nowhere to go, All through the fall of the beautiful snow.