Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. IV (part 3 of 3)
O, the slush! the ineffable slush! Snow, mud, and fog churned to maddening mush, Slush that slips in through the boots on your feet, Slush that slops up to your chimney-pot neat. Into town――into country――wherever you rush Nothing to-day but ineffable slush: Bedraggled merino and velvet and plush Trail through the swamps of ineffable slush.
The Globe. January 28, 1886.
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WHERE THE WET COMES IN. (Parody of “When the Tide Comes In.”)
He had a dull and beery look, And I was ill at ease, When from the kitchen came the cook: “The plumber, if you please.” His very first request of me Was for a “drop o’ gin;” And then he said, “I’ll quickly see Where the wet comes in.”
He hammered there for many hours, At what I couldn’t guess, And broke some pots of winter flowers, Making an awful mess; Then said “he’d mended every crack,” Departing with a grin, Remarking, “I will soon be back If the wet comes in.”
I saw the main with joy again The empty cisterns fill. When, at a sound like summer rain, My heart began to thrill; While o’er the furniture it ran, A voice came through the din: “We’re certain now,” cried that false man, “Where the wet comes in!”
Funny Folks. February 8, 1879.
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IF DIRTY DEEDS. (_Sung by an inebriated Chimney-sweep. After Sullivan’s “If Doughty Deeds.”_)
I.
If dirty deeds my lady please, I’m jest the man to soot ’er; With me she’s sure to feel at ease, Both now and in the futur’. A dingy colour o’er me lies, Wot pictur’s forth my art; Wich, if it gets into my heyes, It alwuss makes ’em smart. Then say if I shall soot my love, Oh, say if I shall soot ’er! Or else――’weep ho! I’ll drownd my woe In this ’ere pot of pewter.
II.
But, if fond love ’er ’eart could gain, I wish she’d tell me ’ow; For love it is wot gives the pain As haggeriwates me now. Ah, yes! I’m weepin’ still――’weep ho!―― And likely to continner: Not thinkin’ so to soothe my woe, But trustin’ thus to win ’er. Then say if I shall soot my love, Oh, say if I shall soot ’er! Hair from my grief I seeks relief In this ’ere pot of pewter.
From The Humorous Works of the late gifted Hopkins. London: James Blackwood & Co. An anonymous and undated book, with Eight Illustrations by Phiz. It also contains a few parodies of Longfellow, and E. A. Poe.
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A WET SHEET.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like an eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee.
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ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
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IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. (A Voice from the Ventilator.)
With wet feet, in a committee, To our seats tied hard and fast, We sit half-starved, and to our call Comes Dr. Reid at last: Comes Dr. Reid at last, my boys, And turns the valves so free; Away the cold air flies and leaves The room at eighty-three.
“Oh, for a cool and gentle wind!” I heard a member cry; “But give it to me hot and hot,” Another did reply: Another did reply, my boys; So Dr. Reid made free To give it to us half and half, And wretched men were we!
The Speaker sits at freezing point, At fever heat the crowd; In the reporters’ gallery They all complain aloud: They all complain aloud, my boys, Of Reid in language free; And say, not even Peel can blow So hot and cold as he!
Punch. 1845.
At that time there were loud complaints about the bad ventilation of the House of Commons, and every remedy tried, seemed only to make matters worse. Nor was much improvement felt when the members were installed in Sir Charles Barry’s new Palace of Westminster, which has nearly every fault that it is possible a large public building can have. The site is probably the worst that could have been selected. The palace lies low, close to a polluted river, which smells intolerably in the summer, and gives off fog and damp in the winter. The style of architecture is totally unsuited for our climate, or for the purposes for which it is intended, and the stone of which it is built is rapidly crumbling away, whilst although the building covers nine acres of ground, the room in which the Commons meet will only accommodate a little more than half their number.
Every consideration of comfort and utility was sacrificed to gratify an architectural fad, and the requirements of the two legislative bodies who use the building were simply ignored. Frequent debates have been held, and divisions taken, to express the dissatisfaction of the members. Committees have been appointed to examine into, and report upon the heating and ventilation, the sanitary arrangements, and the possibility of enlarging the Commons chamber. Costly repairs are constantly going on, crumbling stonework is removed and replaced, and experiments of all kinds have been tried to remedy the structural defects. But all to no purpose, and the building remains a costly monument of a nation’s folly, and an architect’s vanity and incompetence.
SIR PERCY AND THE FEARFUL FOGGE. (A new “Percy Relique.”)
Full seven hundred Members mayde aloude thys one remark―― “Scarce can we breathe, or speke, or thynke. Wee all are in the darke.”
Like unto pygmyes arm’d against great Basan’s Monarque Og, So gasping, gallant gentlemen doe battell with the Fogge.
Stout Percy to the Commons went, all in Westministeere. Quoth he, “Ye have good neede of help, the Fogge doth enter heere.
“I ventylate and drayne the House, and keep it sweet and cool.” Cryed every man, “Who’ll stay the Fogge?” Quoth bold Percy, “I wool!”
“Now bless thee, Doctor Percy!” cry the Commons with a cheer, “If thou the Fogge shall set at naught all in Westministeere;
“And if with cotton-wool thou pluggest cranny, hole, and crack, The Lords we’ll dysestablyshe, and to thee give the Woolsàck.”
Stout Percy sniff’d a pynche of snuff, all of the olden schoole. Quoth he, “And if I fayle I’ll get the Sack without the Wool.
“Natheless the cotton-wool I’ll try; my very best I’ll do.” “No more can we expect,” sayde each to each. “Que woolley woo?”
Stout Percy hies him to the work, nor lists to knave nor fool. “Plenty of ‘cry’ there be,” quoth he. “My ears hold cotton-wool.”
“As walls have ears, I trow,” quoth he, “those at Westministeere Will thank me soe for saving them from much that else they’d heare.”
* * * * *
Then Heav’n send Doctor Percy may bring them light and peace! May Fogge clear from Westministeere, and all obstruction cease!
Punch. March 19, 1887.
In August 1887, Mr. Plunket, questioned by Mr. Esslemont and Dr. Kenny, said “he had no reason to believe that the air of the House of Commons was noxious. As to the artificial system of ventilation, it simply consisted in drawing up the air through the ceiling when it had been breathed by members, in order that there might be a freer and more constant access of fresh air from below. That air passed over ice to make it cooler, and he could not recommend the discontinuance of the system. Straining the air through cotton wool had been tried, but the officials were waiting for the next fog before making another experiment.”
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SHE AND I.
I in a mighty palace, She in a lonely room, I where the lights are shining, She where there is but gloom, I amid mirth and laughter, She where no laugh is known, I with gay friends around me, She with her fears alone.
I where gay music soundeth, She where the clock ticks loud, I where the lights are shining, She with her fair head bowed, I noble, rich, and courted, Chief of a mighty throng. She by her kin deserted, Burdened with care and wrong.
Could I but share her sorrow, One aching thought beguile, Gladden her heart to-morrow, Woo from her lips one smile, Oh, then I would give how gladly The joys that the world may prize, For one touch of her gentle fingers, One glance of her loving eyes.
G. COURTENAY BOYLE.
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I AND SHE.
She in a gay gin palace, I in a lonely room, She where the gas is shining, I where there is but gloom, She amid mirth and laughter, I where no mirth is known, She with young swells around her, I with my pipe alone.
She where the money clinketh, I where no tick’s allowed, She where the masher drinketh, I with my poor head bowed, She pretty, young, and courted, Chief of the Barmaid throng, I by my friends deserted, One more good man gone wrong.
Ah! she could soothe my sorrow, This aching heart beguile, If from her I could borrow Ten shillings for a while. And, oh, I would take it gladly, Altho’ it perhaps sounds queer, If she drew me with gentle fingers One glass of her bitter beer.
From The Keys ‘At Home.’ By J. M. Lowry. London. Field and Tuer, 1885.
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WILD WEST-MINSTER! Air――“Do you ken John Peel?”
Do you ken Arthur Peel in the nightly fray? Do you ken Arthur Peel at the break of day? Do you think he won’t wish himself far far away, Ere the House rises early in the morning?
Chorus―― For the sound of the Pats keeps us each from our bed, And the Tory horse bolts if you give him his head, And the row of the Rads, by sly Labouchere led, At Wild West-minster sounds until morning.
Yes, I know Arthur Peel, with his seat so true, And he needs it indeed on that buck-jumping screw, Which to fling Arthur Peel has done all that it knew, The bit and the bridle still scorning. Chorus――For the sound, &c.
Do you ken Arthur Peel of the resolute will, And the “hand” that is worthy of Buffalo Bill? Do you think the buck-jumper would not like to spill The cool hand on its back ere the morning! Chorus――For the sound, &c.
Yes, I know Arthur Peel for a rough-riding body, At handling a rogue almost equal to Cody, And down like a hammer on noodle and noddy, Though kept in the saddle till morning. Chorus――For the sound, &c.
Do you ken Arthur Peel with a snaffle so strong, Prepared for a contest that’s dour and ding-dong, For a rally that’s sharp and a struggle that’s long, Which may last all the night until morning? Chorus――For the sound, &c.
Do you ken Arthur Peel with the spur at his heel, Which the stubbornest buck-jumper’s bound for to feel, And flinch at the punishment dealt out by Peel, While Wild West-minster howls in the morning? Chorus――For the sound, &c.
Yes, I know Arthur Peel as a chap who won’t shirk; But his mount of to-day is a tiger, a Turk, And to break it to harness he’ll have all his work, Though he leathers and spurs night and morning.
Chorus―― For the sound of its snorts and the pad of its feet Show this buck-jumping brute is a teaser to beat, And Peel will do well if he still keeps his seat When Wild West-minster shuts some fine morning.
Punch. May 14, 1887.
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BOATSWAIN CHAMBERLAIN. AIR――“Sailing, sailing.”
The Liberal Barque is on the wave, And manned by seamen stout and brave, And though the Tory shoals are near, The gallant ship will danger clear, For Chamberlain The bo’san’s pipe will blow, And a hardy crew Stand ready for the foe――
Then here’s to the captain, With grand old heart so true. To Harcourt, Dilke, and Hartington, Who lead a gallant crew―――― Sailing sailing, Over the bounding main, Ready and ripe, At the sound of the pipe, Of Boatswain Chamberlain.
Joe Chamberlain is bold and free, And skipper some day he will be, For never a heart more true and brave, A murmuring people counsel gave; No false step marks His actions or career; And he sounds his pipe For action now to clear―― Then here’s to the captain, &c.
From Songs for Liberal Electors. Manchester, A. Heywood, 1885.
(This parody was written before Mr. Chamberlain and Lord Hartington joined the Conservative party.)
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“JOLLY NOSE.”
The late Mr. William Bates writing to Notes and Queries in December, 1863, pointed out that this capital drinking song is a translation of one of the Vaux-de-Vire of the fine old Norman Anacreon, Olivier Basselin. W. H. Ainsworth puts the song into the mouth of “Blueskin” in his novel Jack Sheppard, but it was made famous by the late Paul Bedford, who sang it in his celebrated impersonation of “Blueskin” at the Adelphi Theatre, London.
À SON NEZ.
Beau Nez, dont les rubis ont cousté mainte pipe Du vin blanc et clairet, Et duquel le couleur richement participe Du rouge et violet; Gros Nez! Qui te regarde à travers un grand verre, Te juge encore plus beau. Tu ne ressemblas point au nez de quelque hère Qui ne boit que de l’eau. Un coq d’inde, sa gorge à toy semblable porte: Combien de riches gens N’ont pas si riche nez! Pour te peindre en la sorte, Il faut beaucoup de temps. Le verre est le pinceau, duquel on t’enlumine; Le vin est la couleur Dont on t’a peint ainsi plus rouge qu’une guisgne En beuvant du meilleur. On dit qu’il nuit aux yeux; mais seront ils les maistres? Le vin est la guarison De mes maux: J’aime mieux perdre les deux fenestres Que toute la maison.
DRINKING SONG.
Jolly Nose! the bright rubies that garnish thy tip Were dug from the mines of Canary; And to keep up their lustre I moisten my lip With hogsheads of claret and sherry. Jolly Nose! he who sees thee across a broad glass, Beholds thee in all thy perfection; And to the pale snout of a temperate ass Entertains the profoundest objection.
(For a turkey-cock’s neck one might surely mistake thee: Why there’s many a well-to-do fellow Can’t boast such a nose! what a time it must take thee To get to a colouring so mellow.) For a big-bellied glass is the palette I use, And the choicest of wine is my colour; And I find that my nose takes the mellowest hues, The fuller I fill it,――the fuller.
Jolly Nose! there are fools who say drink hurts the sight Such dullards know nothing about it; ’Tis better with wine to extinguish the light, Than live always in darkness without it.
Mr. Ainsworth had omitted the third verse, this is supplied in the above version by Mr. Bates, but it will readily be seen that his lines are inferior to the gay sparkling verses of Mr. Ainsworth’s translation.
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DERBY AND JONES. (With convivial compliments to Mr. James Molloy.)
The Derby’s here, and I’m getting grey, By Jove I’m fifty if I’m a day; But through dust and sun, I like my fun As the cab rolls on. So we, that is Jones my friend and I, Have each to our wives made this reply: “Yes, we’re going,――like two staid elderly men, But don’t mean, my dear, to do it again.” And its always the same! Serious tones,―― Then a nice little game with my old friend Jones. A nice little game with my old friend Jones.
Arm-in-arm, after lunch that day, Arm-in-arm,――well we made our way: And everything spun round and round like fun As the cab bowled on! Arm-in-arm, we managed to slide, Though the streets and lamps all took the wrong side; And we never could quite tell how or when Each of us got safe home again! Always the same!――Banjo and Bones―― Always the same with my old friend Jones. Always the same with my old friend Jones.
Punch. June 4, 1881.
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GLADSTONE SINGS:―― (Addressing the Earl of Derby.)
Derby, dear, I am old and grey, Fifty years since my Newark day; Changes will come to every one As the years roll on. Derby, dear, when the votes went wry, Out in the cold and alone was I; Ah! but the thought of you cheered me then, “’Tis not for long he can hold with Ben.” Always the same, Derby, my own, Always the same to your old Glad-stone! Always the same to your old Glad-stone!
Derby, dear, but I did feel riled, When the Jingoes with joy went wild, Until hope whispered Knowsley’s lord “Loveth not the sword.” Derby, dear, ’twas your backing out Showed the way for the Tories’ rout, Ah, dear! how you stilled my fear, Life appeared better and office near. Always the same, Derby, my own, Always the same to your old Glad-stone! Always the same to your old Glad-stone!
Punch. December 23, 1882.
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SONG OF THE RAILWAY CLERK.
Come dwell with me, and be my own, For a joyful lot is mine; I’ve a sunny bank, with turf o’ergrown, And a cottage on the line. And two policemen own my sway, And strive to be my slaves, And daren’t receive gratuities, Though each one well behaves. Then, dearest, be for ever mine, In that small station on the line.
And though my lot’s all day to stamp Those slips of card-board blue, When faded is the mail’s red lamp, I come to love and you. Then, dearest, you must not refuse, But to my prayers incline; I’ll fetter thee, in Hymen’s noose, Not in――but on――a line. And let me link my lot with thine, And love thee on the banks of line.
From The Man in the Moon. Edited by Albert Smith.
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MUTTON CHOPS.
Come dine with me, come dine with me, And our dish shall be, our dish shall be, A mutton chop from the butcher’s shop And how I cook it you shall see. The chop I choose is not too lean; For to cut off the fat I mean. Then to the fire I put it down, And let it fry until ’tis brown. Come dine with me; yes dine with me, etc.
I’ll fry some bread cut rather fine, To place betwixt each chop of mine; Some spinach, or some cauliflowers, May ornament this dish of ours. I will not let thee once repine At having come with me to dine: ’Twill be my pride to hear thee say, “I have enjoy’d my chop, to-day.” Come, dine with me; yes, dine with me; Dine, dine, dine, with me, &c.
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DON’T DYE YOUR HAIR WHEN YOU GROW OLD. (Parody on “Silver Threads among the Gold.”)
Don’t dye your hair when you grow old, Or you surely will be sold, As I found myself one day When my hair was turning grey, On a pretty girl, named Grace, I was spooney, quite a case, But her hair was black and bright, Whereas mine was turning white. Don’t dye your hair when you grow old, Either black, or brown, or gold, Or the day you’ll surely rue, “Ne’er say dye” what’er you do.
Then to myself I said, said I, I’ll try a bottle of hair dye; Out I rush’d, and hurried back With a bottle labell’d black. When I’d rubb’d it on my head, I look’d beautiful, folks said, But when I’d embraced dear Grace I found out I’d dyed her face. Don’t dye your hair, &c.
And in the morning, I declare, Bright magenta was my hair. To the hairdresser I flew, “Sir,” said he, “that’s nothing new, Try our ostrich marrow grease, Try it, and your fretting cease;” So I did, and next was seen With my hair a light pea green. Don’t dye your hair, &c.
Next day, alas! ’twas dirty pink, Then the colour of red ink; Next ’twas purple, then ’twas blue, Every colour it’s gone through. Now content with homely grey, Often to dear Grace I say, “Locks may lose their black or gold, But true love will ne’er grow old.” Don’t dye your hair, &c.
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A CHILD’S HYMN OF PRAISE
I.
I thank the goodness and the grace, Which on my birth have smiled, And made me in these Christian days, A happy English child.
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From Hymns for Infant Minds. By Jane & Ann Taylor.
A PARODY.
Upon my childhood’s pallid morn, No tropic summer smiled, In foreign lands I was not born, A happy heathen child.
Alas! but in a colder clime, A cultured clime I dwell, All in the foremost ranks of Time, They say: I know it well.
You never learn geography, No grammar makes you wild. A book, a slate you never see, You happy heathen child.
I know in forest and in glade, Your games are odd, but gay. Think of the little British maid, Who has no place for play.
When ended is the day’s long joy, And you to rest have gone, Think of the little British boy, Who still is toiling on.
The many things we learn about We cannot understand, Oh, send your missionaries out To this benighted land!
You blessed little foreigner, In weather fair and mild, Think of the tiny Britisher, Oh, happy heathen child.
Ah! highly favoured Pagan, born In some far hemisphere, Pity the British child forlorn And drop one sorrowing tear.
From “That very Mab.” Published by Longmans.
SCOTCH SONGS.
Parodies of the Songs of ROBERT BURNS, and other Scotch Authors appeared in Volume III., but the following were not included.
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ANNIE LAURIE.
Supposed to have been modernised from an old Scotch song by Douglas, and dedicated by him to Annie Laurie, daughter of Sir Robert Laurie. Tradition says that Douglas was rejected by the young lady, and further, that he did not “lay him doun and dee.”
Maxwelton braes are bonnie, Where early fa’s the dew; And it’s there that Annie Laurie Gied me her promise true; Gied me her promise true, Which ne’er forgot will be; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I’d lay me doun and dee.
Her brow is like the snaw-drift, Her throat is like the swan, Her face it is the fairest That e’er the sun shone on; That e’er the sun shone on, And dark blue is her ee; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I’d lay me doun and dee.
Like dew on the gowan lying, Is the fa’ o’ her fairy feet; And like winds in summer sighing, Her voice is low and sweet; Her voice is low and sweet, And she’s all the world to me; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I’d lay me doun and dee.
OLD SIR PETER LAURIE.
The Guildhall Bench is funny, When prisoners stand in view, For it’s there Sir Peter Laurie, Gives them his promise true. Gives them his promise true, To “put ’em down,” he’ll try; How that Old Sir Peter Laurie Lays down the Law――my eye How that Old Sir Peter Laurie, &c.
His nose is like the roast beef, The Civic board upon; His phiz it is the ruddiest, That e’er the gas shone on, That e’er the gas shone on, And grey his gooseberry eye; And how Old Sir Peter Laurie Lays down the Law――my eye!
Like a dray through Cheapside going, Is the fall of his heavy feet; Like a windy knacker blowing, His voice about as sweet. His voice is just as sweet, And to put down all he’ll try; How that Old Sir Peter Laurie Lays down the Law――my eye!
J. A. HARDWICK.
In his day old Sir Peter Laurie was about as unpopular on the Bench as Mr. Newton is in this, and was scarcely less distinguished for the folly of his magisterial remarks. The actual circumstance which gave rise to the parody occurred in 1844, when a poor forlorn, half starved, and wholly ruined young woman was charged before this great and good Alderman.
“Sir Peter Laurie said he should send her to the Old Bailey for attempted suicide. It was a fit case for trial, and he had no doubt she would be transported. He had put an end to persons attempting to drown themselves; he would now try the same cure for attempted poisoning. He had no doubt that those who took poison did not do so for the purpose of self-destruction, but for the purpose of exciting sympathy.”
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MY MOTHER-IN-LAW. (Air――Mary o’Argyle.)
I have heard the cats a-squealing On the slates at early morn; I have the seen the tiles a-stealing, From the roof-tops in a storm; But the sound which most doth fear me, And disturb life’s sweet repose; I have seen an eye still blacker, Than the ink upon white clothes.
’Tis thy voice, my once dear-mother- In-law, which doth me rile, When you speak the house doth tremble, So roof-lifting is your style. Though thy voice may lose its gruffness, And thine eye its pot-black hue; And thy lengthy step its longness, And thy hair its redness too;
Still to me thou’lt be more frightful, Than I shall ever own; I have shunn’d thee for thy harshness, But not for that alone. ’Tis thy voice――hark――now ’tis stealing, Down the garret stairs, the while, Like sad funeral bells a pealing, I must answer it, or I’ll――――
DAVID WELCH. Detroit Free Press. January 15, 1887.
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POOR JOE.[72]
Oh, dear; what can the matter be? Oh, dear; what can the matter be? Oh, dear; what can the matter be? Joseph’s so very much out. He promised to give us a cow and three acres, And make us contented and placid as Quakers, But now we can’t even get bread at the bakers, Joe was so very much out!
He told us that Erin was not to be trusted, And that our friend William was very nigh “busted,” But all his remarks with romance have been crusted, Joe was so very much out! “Our Imperial Integrity” was the foundation Which lured us to “back up” poor Joe’s declamation, But the words, it appears, meant a clap-trap oration, By Joe, who was very much out!
Then let us rejoice to rejoin the old master, Who never has led us to wrong or disaster, Nor pretended to cure us with “Brummagem plaster,” Like Joe, who was very much out! Oh, dear; what can the matter be? Oh, dear; what can this chatter be? Oh, dear; what can this clatter be? Why, Joseph’s so very much out.
Truth. July 15, 1886.
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RANDY RANDOLPH CHURCHILL O!
A new version of an old Scotch favourite, suggested by recent events, and dedicated to the Standard.
Kick him now the bold outlaw, Randy Randolph Churchill O! Show no mercy Tories a’, Randy Randolph Churchill O! Let your hands and hearts agree, Let the cheeky laddie see How we curse with muckle glee, Randy Randolph Churchill O!
Long old Sal. has doom’d his fa’, Randy Randolph Churchill O! For he spurned the Tory law, Randy Randolph Churchill O! We can for our party dee, We will e’er staunch Tories be And can ne’er forget――forgie Randy Randolph Churchill O!
Ne’er again the Primrose pride, Randy Randolph Churchill O! Our reward must now abide, Randy Randolph Churchill O! Long from office let him pine, We’re but glad he did resign, Kick him, then, for auld lang syne, Randy Randolph Churchill O!
Pall Mall Gazette. 1886.
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BEHAVE YOURSEL’ BEFORE FOLK.
Behave yoursel’ before folk, Behave yoursel’ before folk; And dinna be sae rude to me, As kiss me sae before folk. It wadna gi’e me meikle pain, Gin we were seen and heard by nane, To tak’ a kiss or grant ye are; But, guidsake! no before folk. Behave yoursel’ before folk, Behave yoursel’ before folk; Whate’er ye do when out o’ view, Be cautious aye before folk.
Consider, lad, how folks will crack, And what a great affair they’ll mak’ O’ naething but a simple smack That’s gi’en or ta’en before folk. Behave yoursel’ before folk, Behave yoursel’ before folk; Nor gi’e the tongue o’ auld or young Occasion to come o’er folk.
It’s no through hatred o’ a kiss That I sae plainly tell you this; But, losh! I tak’ it sair amiss To be sae teased before folk. Behave yoursel’ before folk, Behave yoursel’ before folk; When we’re our lane, you may tak’ ane, But fient a ane before folk.
I’m sure wi’ you I’ve been as free As ony modest lass should be; But yet it doesna do to see Sic freedom used before folk. Behave yoursel’ before folk, Behave yoursel’ before folk; I’ll ne’er submit again to it―― So mind you that――before folk.
Ye tell me that my face is fair; It may be sae, I dinna care; But ne’er again gar’t blush sae sair As ye hae done before folk. Behave yoursel’ before folk, Behave yoursel’ before folk; Nor heat my cheeks wi’ your mad freaks, But aye be douce before folk.
Ye tell me that my lips are sweet; Sic tales I doubt are a’ deceit; At ony rate, it’s hardly meet To pree their sweets before folk. Behave yoursel’ before folk, Behave yoursel’ before folk; Gin that’s the case there’s time and place, But surely no before folk.
But gin you really do insist That I should suffer to be kiss’d, Gae get a license frae the priest, And mak’ me yours before folk. Behave yoursel’ before folk, Behave yoursel’ before folk; And when we’re ane baith flesh and bane, Ye may tak’ ten before folk.
――――
THE ANSWER TO “BEHAVE YOURSEL’ BEFORE FOLK.”
Can I behave, can I behave, Can I behave before folk, When wily elf, your sleeky self, Gars me gang gyte before folk?
In a’ ye do, in a’ ye say, Ye’ve sic a pawkie coaxing way That my poor wits ye lead astray, And ding me doilt before folk. Can I behave, can I behave, Can I behave before folk; While ye ensnare, can I forbear A kissing ye before folk?
Can I behold that dimpling cheek, Whar love ’mang sunny smiles might beek, Yet howlet-like my eelids steek, And shun sic light before folk? Can I behave, can I behave, Can I behave before folk, When ilka smile becomes a wile, Enticing me before folk?
That lip, like Eve’s forbidden fruit, Sweet, plump an’ ripe, sae tempts me to ’t, That I maun pree’t though I should rue’t, Ay twenty times before folk! Can I behave, can I behave, Can I behave before folk, When temptingly it offers me So rich a treat before folk?
That gowden hair sae sunny bright, That shapely neck o’ snowy white; That tongue e’en when it tries to flyte, Provokes me till’t before folk! Can I behave, can I behave, Can I behave before folk, When ilka charm, young, fresh, and warm, Cries, “Kiss me now;” before folk?
An’, oh, that pawkie, rowin ee, Sae roguishly it blinks on me, I canna, for my soul, let be Frae kissing you before folk! Can I behave, can I behave, Can I behave before folk, When ilka glint conveys a hint To tack a smack before folk?
Ye own that were we baith our lane, Ye wadna grudge to grant me ane; Weel, gin there be no harm in’t then, What harm is in’t before folk? Can I behave, can I behave, Can I behave before folk? Sly hypocrite, an anchorite Could scarce desist before folk!
But after a’ that has been said, Since ye are willing to be wed, We’ll hae a “blythesome bridal” made, When ye’ll be mine before folk. Then I’ll behave, then I’ll behave, Then I’ll behave before folk; For whereas then ye’ll aft get ten, It winna be before folk.
ALEXANDER RODGER.
――――:o:――――
THE TURTLE DOVE. (Air――Jessy of Dunblayne.)
As lonely I sat on a calm summer morning, To breathe the soft incense that flowed on the wind, I mus’d on my Boots in their bright beauty dawning, By Warren’s Jet Blacking――the pride of mankind.
On a maple-tree near sat a turtle bewailing, With sorrowful cooings, the loss of her love; Each note that she utter’d seemed sadness exhaling, And plaintively echo’d around the still grove.
When, lo! in my Boots, the lone mourner perceiv’d Her form, and suppos’d that her lover was there; Even I, that the vision was real, half believ’d; The Blacking reflected her image so clear.
She hover’d around, at the figure still gazing, Anxiety seem’d but to heighten her woe; She perch’d on the Boot with a courage amazing, And fondled the vision that bloom’d in its glow.
I pity’d the dove, for my bosom was tender,―― I pity’d the strain that she gave to the wind; But I ne’er shall forget the superlative splendour Of Warren’s Jet Blacking――the pride of mankind.
This easy-shining and brilliant Blacking, is prepared by Robert Warren, 30, Strand, London.
Old advertisement.
――――:o:――――
KELVIN GROVE.
Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie Lassie, O, Thro’ its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O; Where the rose, in all her pride, Paints the hollow dingle side, Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O.
* * * * *
LET US HASTE AND JOIN THE CHASE.
Let us haste and join the Chase, Jolly huntsmen, O! See the morning’s peeping face, Jolly huntsmen, O! We’ll sound the lightsome horn, Brush the dew-drop from the thorn, And danger treat with scorn, Jolly huntsmen, O!
Hark, hark, the barking pack, Jolly huntsmen, O! Bids us seek the courser’s back, Jolly huntsmen, O! So, mount! away we’ll go; Give our victim a death-blow, With laughter, mirth, soho! Jolly huntsmen, O!
And then, when drowsy night, Jolly huntsmen, O! Brings the brown ale to our sight, Jolly huntsmen, O! Then we’ll quaff the flowing can, And ugly care trepan, With a health to every man Jolly huntsmen, O!
The Universal Songster. Volume III.
――――:o:――――
SONG OF MARCH.
March, March; daisies and buttercups Put forth their petals in exquisite order. March, March; crocuses springing up, Give a gay aspect to bed and to border.
Little birds fly about; turkeys’ eggs lie about, And the broad daylight gets broader and broader. Boreas goes about; everything blows about; Bonnets and hats are in dreadful disorder.
March, March; daisies and buttercups Put forth their petals in exquisite order. March, March; crocuses springing up, Give a gay aspect to bed and to border.
Punch’s Almanac. 1846.
――――:o:――――
THE LAND O’ THE LEAL.
I’m wearin’ awa’, John, Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John, I’m wearin’ awa’ To the land o’ the leal. There’s nae sorrow there, John, There’s neither cauld nor care, John, The day is aye fair I’ the land o’ the leal. &c.
* * * * *
LADY NAIRNE.
――――:o:――――
THE LAND O’ THE LEAL. (New and improved version.)
I’m frichtened for ye a’ weans, Sic merriment to shaw, weans, That’s no the thing ava For the land o’ the leal. There’s nae lauchin’ there, weans, Nor faces smilin’ fair, weans, There’s noucht but looks o’ care, In the land o’ the leal.
II.
Ye’ll winder hoo I ken, weans? I’m no like ither men, weans, I live juist but and ben Frae the land o’ the leal. An’ gloomy faces stare, weans, Wi’ looks o’ wan despair, weans, Upon me ilka where, Frae the land o’ the leal.
III.
Then bend your little broos, weans, An’ hing your bonny moos, weans, An’ hear my blessed news, Frae the land o’ the leal. That thegither we may meet, weans, An’ sab, an’ sigh, an’ greet, weans, In happiness complete, In the land o’ the leal.
The Kincardineshire Advertiser.――[On the occasion of a Scottish minister addressing an assembly of 300 children and forbidding them to applaud, as “there would be no laughter in Heaven.”
――――
A CORN LAW RHYME.
Where the poor cease to pay, Go, lov’d one, and rest! Thou art wearing away To the land of the blest. Our father is gone Where the wrong’d are forgiven, And that dearest one, Thy husband, in heaven.
No toil in despair, No tyrant, no slave, No bread-tax is there, With a maw like the grave. But the poacher, thy pride, Whelm’d in ocean afar; And his brother, who died Land-butcher’d in war;
And their mother, who sank Broken-hearted to rest; And the baby, that drank ’Till it froze on her breast; With tears, and with smiles, Are waiting for thee, In the beautiful isles, Where the wrong’d are the free.
Go, loved one, and rest Where the poor cease to pay! To the land of the blest Thou art wearing away. But the son of thy pain Will yet stay with me, And poor little Jane Look sadly like thee.
From Corn Law Rhymes, by Ebenezer Elliott. London. B. Steill. 1844.
――――:o:――――
THE LAMENT OF THE LOST ONE. Residing in the Unprotectorate of Notting Hill.
Oh where, and oh where is our one policeman gone? Each night (when it was light) we used to see him come; And ’tis oh, in my heart, I fear we’re now not safe at home.
Suppose at my nose a cocked pistol I espy, No policeman comes to save, tho’ Murder! loud I cry; And for aid I must wait till somebody passeth by.
To “first catch your hare” is sound advice ’tis true; But when my burglar’s caught, pray what am I to do? One can’t hold him, like a baby, in one’s arms the whole night through.
For peace and police each half-year a rate I pay; But, alas! I find them pass only once or twice a day; And ’tis night when thieves delight to steal a march, they say.
Punch 1856.
――――
OH, WHERE, AND OH, WHERE, DOES YOUR OWN TRUE LOVER STRAY?
Oh, where, and oh, where does my own true lover stray? He’s gone upon his travels, oh, he’s gone to Botany-Bay; And its oh, in my heart I hope he will not stay.
Oh, where, and oh, where does your own true lover dwell? He lived in Tothill-fields, at the sign of the Blue Bell; And its oh, in my heart I loved him very well.
What cloth, and what cloth does your own true lover wear? He’s clothed in wool and yarn, and they’ve shaved off all his hair. And its oh, in my heart, I love him to dispair.
But what should I do if my own true love should die? I’d fret myself to death, oh, I would lay me down and cry. And its oh, in my heart I hope he will not die.
The Universal Songster. Volume III.
――――:o:――――
ORMONDE, M.P. An Election Song. June, 1886.
To the “House” at Westminster, ’twas wisdom that spoke, The Home Rule of Gladstone is nothing but smoke; Then each brave elector, who loves honour and me, Let him stand by the flag of the kingdoms, all three.
Chorus―― Come fill up your cup, come fill up your can, Come saddle your horses and follow your man; Frustrate disunion, and let us gae free, For its all up with Gladstone and his minis-trie.
The Light ’un is mounted, he rides up the street, Bravo! cry the whigs, and the “rads” they retreat: Whilst the Tory (douce mon) says just e’en let it be, For we’ve had quite enough of Old Ver-bos-i-tie.
The horseman is loyal, in speech he is short, He’s his country to serve, and has no other thought; No seeker for pension, no time server he, Nor lawyer, place hunter, nor peers pro-te-gée.
There are hills up to Highgate and lands as set forth, There are Lords in the west, and Lads in the north; And bold free electors, twice thousand times three, Who can make Little Leighton our local M.P.!
Then awa’ to the highlands and meadows in cocks, Eer I’d own with old Gladstone I’d crouch with the Fox: Oh! tremble false whigs, in the midst of your glee, Ye hae no seen the last o’ my colours or me.
――――
GLADSTONE’S ADDRESS.
To the millions of England, ’twas Gladstone who spoke, “I’ve freed you at last from the Squire’s strong yoke, The march of the people to triumph I’ve led, And, henceforth, the rule of the Tories is dead. Come, follow me, men, for the fight that is near; Come, gather and rank for the battle that’s here; And again your old Leader to lead you, you’ll see, And you’ll fight and you’ll conquer again, led by me.
“You’ll fight as you fought when the people I led, With Cobden and Bright, and with Peel, for cheap bread; You’ll fight as you fought and you triumphed with me, When commerce and trade we for ever set free. Come, follow me, men, for the fight that shall say If you or the Tories shall rule from to-day; And again your old leader to lead you you’ll see, And you’ll fight and you’ll conquer again under me.
“Think how we have fought for the people’s free Press, For the schools that with knowledge your children shall bless, For the laws that from Ireland swept wrong upon wrong, In Church and in land, that she’d suffered so long; So gather, my men, for the fight that is near, And follow me, men, when the battle is here, And again your old leader your leader shall be, And you’ll fight and you’ll conquer again, led by me.”
* * * * * (Two verses omitted.)
He spoke, and the people arose at his word, And the march of the millions to aid him, I heard; “At my call how they gather to triumph,” said he, “And they’ll conquer and conquer again yet with me; For England’s I am till I yield up my breath, Like Chatham, I’m her’s still in life and in death, To the last, for the people, their leader I’ll be, And they’ll conquer and conquer again, led by me.”
W. C. BENNETT.
――――
TO THE PEERS.
To the Peers ’tis the People that sturdily spoke ’Ere Privilege rule us its power shall be broke; So let the Lords tremble if hostile they be, For the end of their House they will certainly see.
Chorus. Then be it the duty of every man To fight for the franchise as hard as he can, And teach gilded puppets, whoever they be, That England from fossilised claims will be free.
For who are the handful of lords who assume The right thus to silence the millions to doom? Why, the answer is plain, they are bubbles which dream They rule, since they float upon Time’s mighty stream.
But the bubbles, though gilded and gay they appear, The tempest of anger will find very near; And ere they perceive that it speeds on its way The bubbles called Peers will be blown far away.
J. PRATT. The Weekly Dispatch. August 24, 1884.
A very good parody of Bonnie Dundee will also be found in “Three in Norway, by two of them,” published recently by Longmans & Co., London. The parody is entitled “An Ode to the Last Pot of (Keiller’s Dundee) Marmalade.” A parody of “A Highland Lad my Love was born,” entitled “The Grand Old Man,” and commencing “In Tory bonds our Bill was born,” appeared in Punch, December 16, 1882.
――――:o:――――
THE BLACK BROOM.
The Broom cam capouring doon to the Hoose, Wi’ a mossion aboot an Excisemon; It sims the Exchequer can loosen a noose Which the law too cruelly ties, mon; So Looshington cried, “Ye’ve foond a mare’s nest, We weesh ye much joy o’ the prize, mon; ’Tes a vera new grievance, but are o’ the best, Whan the Trasury snubs the Excisemon.”
The Broom is commonly pawkie enoo; Boot was, faith, ilka night, not a wise mon, Ef he thought in the coontry, to make a hubboo, Wi’ a mossion aboot an Excisemon; For the Trasury cried, “Ye’ve foond a mare’s nest,” &c., &c.
* * * * * (Two verses omitted.)
From The New Whig Guide. London. 1819.
Henry Brougham, M.P. (afterwards Lord Chancellor), brought a motion before the House of Commons on April 2, 1816, relative to the remission of Excise penalties.
――――
THE RIFLEMEN’S RETURN.
The Belgians are coming, Oh, dear! oh, dear! The Belgians are coming, Oh, dear! oh, dear! Says Colonel Loyd Lindsay, M.P., M.P., We’ll take ’em our Sydenham Palace to see, To Richmond and Windsor, and give ’em some tea, In return for their great hospitali_tee_, So let ’em be coming, oh, dear, &c.
* * * * *
The Belgians are coming, My dears, my dears! They’re coming, receive ’em―― With cheers, with cheers; But Colonel Loyd Lindsay, I’m sure will be, Delighted his Belgian friends to see. And treat them at all events more handsome_lee_, Than our Royaltee treats foreign Royaltee. The Belgians are coming, &c.
Punch. May 25, 1867.
In October, 1866, a large number of English Volunteers went to the Tir National in Brussels, and were received with every mark of kindness and attention. The Belgians were lavish in their hospitality, and on October 20, the King gave a splendid dinner to all the English Volunteers then in Brussels.
In 1867, about 2,000 members of the Belgian Garde Civique paid a return visit, and were most cordially received by the London Volunteers. A great deal of money was spent in entertaining them, but the general arrangements were faulty in the extreme, and Royal hospitality was conspicuously absent.
――――:o:――――
A DIRGE FOR THE DEPARTED.
BY AN OLD MEMBER. Air.――“The flowers o’ the forest are a’ wede awa’.”
So mourn we to-night! Yet not all of them――nay! But we miss many proud, Parliamentary, blossoms, We lucky “survivals” assembled to-day, Sad fog in our brains and soft pangs in our bosoms; The fog for the future, the pangs for the past, A past peopled fair with――we will call them flowers, Whose petals were strewn by November’s chill blast, Or beaten to earth by December’s dread showers.
Where are they, the bright ones who bloomed and looked brave, Hardy annuals, year after year on these benches? Some Villon should “wake” them with lachrymose stave, The mild modern Muse from the tragical blenches. “A Ballad of M.P.’s Unseated,” Good lack! Master Francois would make it pathetic and pretty; But he, too, is fled and will hardly come back, Though tempted by Swinburne, though coaxed by Rossetti.
Oh, for yester-year’s snows! Where is Newdegate gone? The House without him! ’Tis a thought that bewilders. Shaw Lefevre, where’s he? Like the rose season gone With rare Farrer Herschell and radiant Childers. The rose will return, and these twain in its train May, like penitent peris, in Paradise sport on; But ever henceforth may we hunger in vain For the shout and the snuff-box of Bill-blocker Warton.
Where’s Firth? How the flushed City Fathers rejoice At the fall of the foe who assailed them so rashly! Where’s Alderman Lawrence’s soul-soothing voice? And where, O ye Graces, is Evelyn Ashley? Like Villon’s fair Echo, “beheld of no man” Any more in the House; mute as Lesbia’s dumb pet, Departed to Limbo the weary and wan, With Lawson’s Joe Millers and Thomasson’s trumpet.
Where’s Briggs? Who’d suspect ’neath his Cymon-like air, A consuming desire to coquet with the Muse hid? Where poor “Toots” McIver? where’s Elliot? and where Is Sir Patrick O’Brien, the luscious and lucid? Campbell-Bannerman’s gone; we have no “Truthful James” To o’erwhelm us with wild economical shoddy; And――oh, ruthless fate! ’twas the sorest of shames To deprive us of Wirtue’s palladium in Waddy!
That general fidus Achates, “dear Caine,” Is a wanderer now, which seems cruel, most cruel. Like Mossoo in his seat O’Shea “does not remain.” Smug McArthur has got――and deserved it――his gruel. Sidney Waterlow’s down ’tis low water with him. Smart George Russell’s defeat Rads regard with abhorrence; But few of them weep that Dame Fortune’s wild whim Has upset Lambeth’s bête-noir, Sir “Jamie” Clarke Lawrence.
And Power, Ciceronian O’Connor? Alack! Where was Kennington’s wit when, though loving, she lost him? Well he, like poor Bo-peep’s strayed sheep, will come back To the seat which his pluck, for the season, hath cost him. But Wolff! Ah, Sir Henry, ’tis pitiful work. To “Shoe the Gray Goose” Eastward-Ho you were summoned, And while you were wasting your time with the Turk, Fickle Portsmouth played jilt. ’Tis too bad, my dear Drummond!
Then Bright, Jacob Bright! But time fails us to tell The whole sorrowful tale of our manifold losses. Big Ben’s solemn boom strikes the ear like a knell, As we muse on our Ecroyds, and moan o’er our Crosses. Good Gosset, ’tis well you no longer are here, For the Lobby strikes chill, and the Terrace looks sodden; The winter wind wails, not a Happy New Year, But a mournful lament like the dirge after Flodden.
So sounds it to one who remembers old days: Yet dreams of the past are but bogies and spectres, The House from to-night sets its foot in new ways, Hurrah for the choice of the county electors! We have the Grand Old One, at least, to the good; Neither Time nor the Tory dished him in December. One tear for the fallen may soften one’s mood, Then face to the fray with the freshest New Member!
The Daily News. January 13, 1886.
――――:o:――――
MY LOVE IS LIKE THE RED RED ROSE.
My love is like the red red rose That’s newly sprung in June; My love is like the melody That’s sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in love am I; And I will love thee still, my dear Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi’ the sun; And I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands of life shall run.
But, fare thee weel, my only love, And fare thee weel awhile; And I will come again, my dear, Though ’twere ten thousand mile.
R. BURNS
――――:o:――――
MY LOVE SHE HAS A RED RED NOSE.
O my love has got a red red nose, I long to see it soon, O my love is like the mulberry, All cover’d o’er with bloom.
As fond as thou my bonny lass, Of full-proof gin am I; For I will drink with thee, my dear, And drain the bottle dry.
I’ll drain the bottle dry, my dear, We’ll sing and dance for fun; And if you wish for more, my dear, Why for it I will run.
But I must cut my stick, my love, And hop the twig ashore; And we’ll get fou again, my dear, A thousand times or more.
――――
My love he has a great red nose―― Would that its hue were whiter! Yet every day it larger grows, And every hour gets brighter. But still it is a useful nose For on a winter’s night, As bright as any fire it glows, And gives a brilliant light.
* * * * * (Two verses omitted.)
From The Humorous Works of the late Gifted Hopkins. London, James Blackwood.
――――
“An Address to the Game Laws,” imitated from Burns, may be found in a 12mo. pamphlet with the singular title:――
“A small Note-Book on Wealth and True Wit. “Pen sketch took by S. H. Hewitt. “Not to be had of those who all books sell “But only of the Author, M.R.C.S.L.” 1851.
――――:o:――――
THE HOME RULE WAR SONG.
Men whose fathers crushed the wrong, Men whose love for freedom’s strong; Shall the rights you’ve won so long Down be trod to-day? Tories now and traitors threat Fetters on your rights to set; That you’re voters they forget; Sweep the fools away.
Yours to-day are rule and power; You, the People, reign this hour; Do they dream you’ll basely cower? At their threats, you scoff: Up, you millions, for the fight; Up, to rush your foes to flight; Up, for freedom and for right; Sweep these Tories off.
Tell them this is not the day They, their tyrant tricks, can play Up, and forward to the fray; On, to war and win; What you will you’ve strength to do; Men, you’ll to yourselves be true; Out with Salisbury and his crew; In with Gladstone――in.
Thunder well your meaning out; Leave the Whigs and rats no doubt, All the turn-coats, out you’ll rout; Even Joe and John. If your teeth you plainly show, They turn tail as well you know; Will they wait your bite? No――no; On to smash them――on!
From Radical Rhymes. By W. C. Bennett.
A parody in a somewhat similar strain will be found in Punch, June 26, 1886, relating to Mr. Gladstone’s election tour in Scotland.
――――
LOVE AND LIBERTY.
Where’s the girl can fear disdain? Where’s the man can woman pain? Where’s the heart not proud to gain Love and Liberty?
Where’s the wretch can woman shun? (Woman! life’s meridian sun!) Cold, and not by beauty won! Poltroon let him be!
Fill the glass to Beauty’s power! Fill the glass to Freedom’s hour! Naught that breathes should live to sour Love and Liberty!
The Universal Songster.
――――:o:――――
THE “MODEL” SUIT.
Should old habiliments be forgot, Especially such as mine? Oh, no, I venerate the lot, For the sake of Auld Langsyne! For Auld Langsyne my boys, Though them and I decline, And they shabby get, I’ll stick to ’em yet, For the sake of Auld Langsyne.
Now, here’s a beaver, look at that, This old chapeau of mine; ’Tis the first Policeman’s left off hat, In eighteen twenty-nine, In eighteen twenty-nine, my boys, Yet still to make it shine, I dip it into the water butt, For the sake of Auld Langsyne.
There’s a coat, my boys, that saw the days Of poor Queen Caroline, Of the fit and cloth, that George the Fourth, In as Regent used to shine. That is it was a fit, my boys, But I don’t too often dine, So it’s rather loose, and worse for use, Still I don it, for Auld Langsyne.
* * * * *
J. A. HARDWICK.
――――:o:――――
AULD LANG SYNE
Let auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind, Oh! from your memory ever blot The days of auld lang syne. No steam――no gas, rail-road to pass, O’er Menai Bridge so fine; The present hour is worth a power Of days of auld lang syne.
* * * * *
For friend of auld lang syne, dear ma’am, Was never friend of mine―― Depend on me, no enemy Like friend of auld lang syne! The ancient fair with youthful air Who’d pass for twenty-nine, Finds no such bore, when past twa score, As friend of auld lang syne. Take this advice of mine, dear ma’am, Cut friends of auld lang syne;―― The twaddling sage who tells one’s age, Is――friend of auld lang syne!
By Lady Clarke, in “The Comic Offering” for 1832. London. Smith, Elder & Co.
――――
A SONG FOR SMALL GERMANS, IN 1871.
Ye German Princes puir an’ proud, You sae do Commerce scorn, Ye wadna hae Louise allowed To wed the Lord o’ Lorne, In trade’s honest line, you fools, In trade’s honest line; Because o’ kinsmen to Argyll, In trade’s honest line!
Your wealth and wits alike are sma’, Ye pack o’ lazy loons, You that were in your mouths born a’ Wi’ German siller spoons. In trade’s honest line, you fools, In trade’s honest line; Wad ye’d the wit your bread to get In trade’s honest line!
Are ye na blate, ye pauper chiels, Ye burdens on the soil, To think ye’re owin’ for your meals To ither people’s toil? In trade’s honest line, ye fools, In trade’s honest line; Their livin’ whilst your betters earn In trade’s honest line?
Punch. February 4, 1871.
――――
SHOULD BRANDY EVER BE FORGOT?
Should brandy ever be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should brandy ever be forgot, For port or sherry wine? For port or sherry wine my friend, For port or sherry wine; We’ll tak’ a glass of brandy yet, And kick away the wine.
And, surely, you’ll your quartern be, And, surely, I’ll be mine; And we will drink so merrily, But we’ll not call for wine. But we’ll not, &c.
And here’s six-pence, my own good friend Give me six-pence of thine; We’ll for another quartern call, To wile away the time. To wile away, &c.
The Universal Songster. Volume III.
――――:o:――――
A RINK’S A RINK FOR A’ THAT.
Is there, at jolly skating rinks, Who shakes his head and a’ that, Who from the fun of skating shrinks? We still will rink for a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, Whate’er it cost and a’ that, The entrance is but half-a-crown―― At least we’re good for a’ that.
What tho’ we get an ugly spill, And break our limbs and a’ that, We will not bear it any ill, A rink’s a rink for a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, We do not care for a’ that, And rinking, spite of all its risks, Is king o’ sports for a’ that.
You see your party blithe and gay, Who bats and bowls, and a’ that, Though hundreds go to see him play, He cannot rink for a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, His bat, and ball, and a’ that; The man who feels at home on wheels, He looks and laughs at a’ that.
Then let us pray that come it may As come it will and a’ that, That roller skates and skating rinks, May hold their own and a’ that, For a’ that, and a’ that, The time will come, and a’ that, When every man and woman, too, Shall skate and rink and a’ that.
From Idyls of the Rink. By A. W. Mackenzie. Second Edition. London: Hardwicke & Bogue. 1877.
――――:o:――――
A GLADSTONITE’S LAMENT.
There’s nought but loss on ev’ry han’ As each election passes, oh! What signifies the Grand Old Man?―― He cannot move the masses, oh! Chorus. A’ fools and asses, oh, Ding doon “the classes,” oh! In spite of breath and siller spent We cannot move the masses, oh!
For power and place the Tories race (The Whigs too seldom shy them, oh!) But though at last they catch them fast, We’ll see if they’ll enjoy them, oh!
Gie me some more o’ Parnell’s men, (Great Parnell’s William’s dearie, oh!) And Unionists an’ Upper Ten Shall a’ gae tapsalteerie, oh!
Now John and Joe ye’ll smile at this? (Ye’re naething else but asses, oh!) The langest tongue the warld e’er saw Has ceased to move the masses, oh!
Dame Gladstone swears the Nobs and Peers Are clean against the masses, oh! Her ’prentice han’ for Grand Old Man Had failed to drive the classes, oh!
Chorus.
A’ fools and asses, oh! Ding doon the classes, oh! In spite of breath an’ siller spent, We cannot move the masses, oh!
G. The Globe. London, July 9, 1886.
――――:o:――――
“GREEN GROW THE RASHES, O!”
There’s naught but care on every han’, In every hour that passes, O! What signifies the life of man, An’ ’twere not for the lasses, O! Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e’er I spent, Were spent amang the lasses, O!
The warly race may riches chase, And riches still may flee thee, O! And when at last they catch them fast, Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them, O! Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e’er I spent, Were spent amang the lasses, O!
Give me a canny hour at e’en, My arms about my deary, O! Then warly cares and warly men May all gang tapsalteery, O! Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e’er I spent Were spent amang the lasses, O!
For ye sae douce ye sneer at this, Ye’re naught but senseless asses, O! The wisest man the warld e’er saw, He dearly loved the lasses, O! Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e’er I spent, Were spent amang the lasses, O!
Dame Nature swears the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O! Her prentice han’ she tried on man, And then she made the lasses, O! Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e’er I spent, Were spent among the lasses, O!
ROBERT BURNS.
――――
Curæ corrodunt Urbem, Rus, Et sapientûm cellulas, Nec vitâ vellem frui plus Nî foret ob puellulas―― Virent arundines! At me tenellulas Tædet horarum nisi queis Inter fui puellulas
Divitias avaro dem, Insudet auri cumulo, Quærat quocumque modo rem, Inops abibit tumulo. Virent arundines At me tenellulas Tædet horarum nisi queis Inter fui puellulas!
Cùm Sol obscurat spicula, Mî brachio tunc niveo, Stringente, fit, amiculâ, Rerum dulcis oblivio! Virent arundines! At me tenellulas Tædet horarum nisi queis Inter fui puellulas!
Num dices contrà? canum grex! An fuit vir sagacior Quàm Solomon? aut unquam rex In virgines salacior? Virent arundines! At me tenellulas Tædet horarum nisi queis Inter fui puellulas!
Quas cum de terræ vasculo Natura finxit bellulas, Tentavit manum masculo Formavit tunc puellulas. Virent arundines! At me tenellulas, Tædet horarum nisi queis Inter fui puellulas!
FATHER PROUT. (The Rev. Francis Mahony.)
In the “Works of Father Prout,” published by George Routledge & Sons, London, there will also be found a Latin translation of “John Anderson, my jo, John.”
――――
THE WEARING O’ THE SASHES, OH!
All people bow at Fashion’s Shrine, Especially where there cash is, O! And the latest thing in Fashion’s line Is most extensive sashes, O!
Chorus. We’ve seen those sashes, O! Red and yellow sashes, O! In fact, all hues the ladies choose For vast and varied sashes, O!
That lovely and all-conquering sex, Who in man’s heart makes gashes, O! Will now still more man’s mind perplex By flying such big sashes, O!――(Chorus.)
For now, where Fashion’s nymphs are seen, Through man this thought now flashes, O! That maybe all the darlings mean To hide themselves in sashes, O!――(Chorus.)
And, oh! if Woman should do this, We’d need sackcloth and ashes, O! Then do not rob us of our bliss You fine and large new sashes, O!――(Chorus.)
Who but reveres the lovely dears? Love meant us for their “mashes,” O! And so, why plan to draw poor man By adding large-sized sashes, O!
Chorus. But still they wear those sashes, O! And sweet are all those sashes, O! Like window-frames our maids and dames Now need a lot of sashes, O!
Fun. August 4, 1886.
――――
MY KITTY O!
Dull books, good bye! No more shall I In you seek recreation, O; I’ll pore no more o’er musty lore For fruitless information, O, I’ll o’er the foam, I’ll hie me home, I’ll leave the dreary city, O, O’er hill and dale, through glen and vale, I’ll roam alone with Kitty, O, My Kitty, O! My Kitty, O! Oh, what are joys of city, O, Long years compared with one hour shared In converse sweet with Kitty O?
Her eye is bright, her step so light It scarcely bends the daisy, O. If men her laugh like wine could quaff ’Twould surely send them crazy, O. Soft ringlets press in fond caress Around her ears so pretty, O, And brow of snow, and lips aglow, And rosy cheeks has Kitty, O. My Kitty, O! My Kitty, O! She’s handsome, winsome, witty, O; Seek far and near, from Bann to Clear, You’ll meet no peer for Kitty. O!
From Irish Songs and Poems. By M. Fahy. 1887.
――――:o:――――
A MAN’S A MAN FOR A’ THAT.
I.
‘A man’s a man,’ says Robert Burns, ’For a’ that, and a’ that;’ But though the song be clear and strong, It lacks a note for a’ that. The lout who’d shirk his daily work, Yet claim his wage and a’ that, Or beg when he might earn his bread, Is not a man for a’ that.
II.
If all who ‘dine on homely fare’ Were true and brave and a’ that, And none whose garb is ‘hodden grey’ Was fool or knave and a’ that, The vice and crime that shame our time Would disappear and a’ that, And ploughmen be as good as Kings, And churls as earls for a’ that.
III.
But ’tis not so; yon brawny fool, Who swaggers, swears, and a’ that, And thinks because his strong right arm Might fell an ox and a’ that, That he’s as noble, man for man, As Duke or Lord and a’ that, Is but an animal at best, And not a man for a’ that.
IV.
A man may own a large estate, Have palace, park, and a’ that, And not for birth, but honest worth, Be thrice a man for a’ that. And Donald herding on the moor, Who beats his wife and a’ that, Is nothing but a brutal boor, Nor half a man for a’ that.
V.
It comes to this, dear Robert Burns, The truth is old and a’ that, ‘The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, The man’s the gowd for a’ that.’ And though you’d put the self-same mark On copper, brass, and a’ that, The lie is gross, the cheat is plain, And will not pass for a’ that.
VI.
For a’ that and a’ that, ’Tis soul and heart and a’ that That makes the king a gentleman, And not his crown and a’ that, And whether he be rich or poor, The best is he for a’ that Who stands erect in self-respect, And acts the man for a’ that.
CHARLES MACKAY.
――――
HE’S THE MAN FOR A’ THAT.
Is there for tenets Liberal That hangs his head and a’ that, And thinks the de’il is in us all―― Bah! he’s a fool for a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, Perhaps he’s right for a’ that; But what’s the odds, we’ve ta’en an oath To vote wi’ Glad. for a’ that.
What tho’ he beaten ten times o’er is, Cried down, despised and a’ that, By fools of Rads and knaves of Tories. Why, he’s the man for a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, Perhaps he’s wrong for a’ that; But what’s the odds if he mistake, We’re pledged to him for a’ that.
Ye see yon members, Liberals ca’ed, They fume and fret and a’ that, When asked to vote they hummed and ha’ed, They’ve a just cause for a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, They’re honest perhaps for a’ that; But whoso hangs by Gladstone’s tail He scoffs at them for a’ that.
Moonshine. May 8, 1886.
A parody on the same song, but taking exactly the opposite view of the question, appeared in The Liberal Home Ruler for January 8, 1887. It was written by W. E. Sadler, and commenced, “Is there for honest policy.”
――――:o:――――
A RADICAL’S LAMENT.
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, “When we were first acquent,” Your speech was like a Radical’s, With us your life was spent; But now you’ve sadly changed, Joe, Your voice we hardly know, While Tories have your sympathy, Joe Chamberlain, my Joe.
(Two verses omitted.)
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, The right is on our side; And we have gallant leaders, Joe, All trusty, true, and tried. And though you have deserted us And gone to join the foe, We mean to fight and conquer yet, Joe Chamberlain, my Joe!
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, With us you climbed the hill; And hand to hand we helped you up, With Radical good-will. Now, hand in hand with Salisbury, You down again will go, And you’ll “sleep together at the foot,” Joe Chamberlain, my Joe!
The Liberal Home Ruler. April 9, 1887.
Punch for June 21, 1879, contained a parody of this song relative to the Golden Wedding of the Emperor of Germany, and there were also political parodies of it in England for May 30, 1885, and the St. James’s Gazette for March 19, 1886.
――――:o:――――
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.
Thomas Campbell’s version of the above song was given (as well as several parodies based upon it) in Volume III. (Part 26), but no mention was made of the fact that Campbell had borrowed the main idea from the following old song by Martyn Parker:――
Ye gentlemen of England. That live at home at ease, Ah! little do you think upon The dangers of the seas. Give ear unto the mariners, And they will plainly show All the cares and the fears, When the stormy winds do blow. When the stormy, &c.
If enemies oppose us When England is at war With any foreign nation, We fear not wound or scar; Our roaring guns shall teach ’em Our valour for to know, Whilst they reel on the keel, And the stormy winds do blow. And the stormy, &c.
Then courage, all brave mariners, And never be dismay’d, Whilst we have bold adventurers, We ne’er shall want a trade: Our merchants will employ us To fetch them wealth, we know; Then be bold――work for gold, When the stormy winds do blow. When the stormy, &c.
――――
YE PUGILISTS OF ENGLAND.[73]
I.
Ye Pugilists of England, Who guard your native sod, Whose pluck has braved a thousand years, Cross-buttock, blow, and blood, Your corky canvas sport again, To mill another foe, As you spring, round the ring, While the betters noisy grow; While the banging rages loud and long, And the betters noisy grow.
II.
A Briton needs no poniards, No bravos ’long his street―― His trust is in a strong roped ring, A square of twenty feet. With one-twos from his horny fists, He floors the coves below, As they crash, on the grass, When the betters noisy grow; When the banging rages loud and long, And the betters noisy grow.
III.
The spirits of prime pugilists Shall rise at every round; For the ring it was their field of fame, To them ’tis holy-ground. Where Slack and mighty Belcher fell, Your manly hearts shall glow, As you peel, true as steel. While the betters noisy grow. While the banging rages loud and long, And the betters noisy grow.
IV.
The Randal-rag of England Must yet terrific burn, Till Ireland’s troublesome knight be beat, And the star of Crib return! Then, then, ye glutton-pugilists, The claret red shall flow, To the fame, of your name, When the noise of bets is low. When Sir Dan lies levelled loud and long, And the noise of bets is low.
Blackwood’s Magazine. September, 1819.
――――:o:――――
MARK SPROT’S LAMENT.
Ye President’s and L’Amy’s men, Who drill on foot at ease, O, little do you think upon The dangers of our knees! My song shall make your legs to shake Within your pantaloons: We such woe undergo When we ride with the Dragoons.
Our Quarter-Master, Donald, Is up at peep of day; A whacking fine he doth design, If you remain away. When he doth call the muster-roll, His pipe each yeoman times―― Spare me, lo! here I go, To ride with the Dragoons.
Then out speaks Sergeant Whigham, And an angry man is he; If you’ve that day forgot pipe-clay, Or put your belt ajee, Quoth great Whigham, “Resolved I am, To trounce such awkward loons―― Please pay down, half-a-crown, To the fund of our Dragoons.”
Then out speaks Captain Cockburn, With accents stern and gruff, “Count one, two, three, that I may see How many files go off.” We jog along, some eighty strong, Despising absent spoons―― A gay band, o’er the sand, The Volunteer Dragoons.
Although the sand is flying, And the sun is burning hot, And every soul is frying, We must not shrink a jot. We don’t give o’er, though basted sore, But halt and fire platoons. O, the shock, when we cock! O, the falls of the Dragoons!
Sometimes the thing will happen, The rear rides o’er the front; Myself, I once came slapping. And fell with such a dunt! I hate the gloom of Borthwick’s plume! There’s wisdom in my tune, “Make your will ere you drill, Each desperate Dragoon.”
But O! the cup of blessing, That washes down our pain! I would not lose our messing, Though I must ride again. Care killed a cat, remember that, To-night enjoy your lunes: Fairly fill, deeply swill, Bellygerent Dragoons.
From Songs of the Edinburgh Troop. July, 1820. Edinburgh: James Ballantyne & Company. 1825.
A curious, and now very scarce little collection of songs relating to the Edinburgh Yeomanry Cavalry, which was privately printed, and afterwards suppressed. There were nine songs in all, of which this was the first, dating from July 1820 to July 1823; they were written jointly by John Gibson Lockhart and Patrick F. Tytler, author of The History of Scotland, &c.
In the article on Lockhart in The Maclise Portrait Gallery Mr. W. Bates mentions the brochure as being very scarce. The above song has been kindly sent by Mr. James Gordon, F.S.A., Scotland.
――――:o:――――
A prize parody competition on Campbell’s song took place in Truth, and fifteen versions were printed on July 1, 1886. Of these the first verses of a few may be quoted:――
You Grand Old Man of England, So fond of felling trees. Ah, little did you think your Bill Would stir up such a breeze. Give ear unto your trusted friends, Who vainly try to show All their doubts and their fears, When your honeyed words do flow.
AGELASTES.
――――
Ye barristers of England, Who live upon our pleas, How pleasant could you moderate Your too inflated fees; Give ear unto poor suitors, And you shall plainly know All their care and despair, As those fees so swiftly grow, &c.
NUTSHELL.
――――
Ye gentlemen of England, Who bat with “Grace” and ease, What think ye of Australian teams Arrived a’yont the seas? Be careful that the colonists Don’t make too great a show, For they play, everyday, In their island home below, &c.
CRYSTAL PALACE.
――――
Ye Liberals of England, Attention, if you please, Pray let me know which you prefer, My programme or J. C.’s. Give ear unto your Grand Old Man, And he will plainly show, ’Tis the cads, not the Rads, That are in the swim with Joe, &c.
MAVIS.
――――
You gentlemen of England That live the fair to please, Ah, little do you think upon The fancies of the shes; Give ear unto the dressmakers, And they will plainly show, The dresses made with tears With dead birds in a row.
J. MCGREGOR ALLAN.
――――
You noblemen of England, That boast of pedigrees, Ah! little do you think of those Who fare on bread and cheese. Give ear unto the people, For soon they mean to show They’re a power, in the hour When the Lords we overthrow, &c.
W. VAL ENGLISH.
――――
YE UNIONISTS OF ENGLAND.
Ye Unionists of England, Who grace our native land, Whose Union Jack has braved so long The whole Gladstonian band. That glorious standard launch again To meet the Liberal foe, As you rave like the brave While you follow after “Joe!”
The spirit of the Tories In every heart burns bright. Coercion is your field of fame, Obstruction your delight. The hatred of all Irishmen Your burning zeal shall fan, As you shout and you spout That you’ll crush the Grand Old Man.
When Brand and noble Goschen fell Your Tory breasts still glow, As you stand at command Of your mighty leader “Joe.” The meteor flag of Brummagem Terrific still shall burn, Till Gladstone’s troubled course be run And Joseph’s star return.
Pall Mall Gazette. June 16, 1887.
――――
YE CRICKETERS.
Ye cricketers of England, That guard the timbers three; Whose game has brav’d a thousand years All other games that be! Your pliant willow grasp again To match another foe. As ye stand, bat in hand Where the ripping swift uns go; Or the crafty Clark with peerless twist Sends in his teazers slow.
The spirit of your fathers, Look on from nook and shade; Their ghosts, in ancient flannels clad, Peer forth from every glade. Where Pilch and mighty Alfred move Their spectres long to show How to stand, bat in hand, Where the ripping swift uns go; Or the crafty Clark with peerless twist Sends in his teazers slow.
Long, long, on lawn of noble, And in the cottage field, This game of games to English hearts, Its healthy joys shall yield; And oft at eve, when stumps are drawn, The fragrant weed shall glow; As ye tell, how they fell, Where the ripping swift uns go; Or the crafty Clark with peerless twist Sends in his teazers slow.
From Hints to Freshmen in the University of Oxford. J. Vincent.
――――
THE CRICKETER.
There’s a game that bears a well-known name, in castle, hall, and cot, ’Tis the first in boyhood’s happy years, in this our island plot. The stripling thinks himself a man, when once he owns a bat; A flush beams on his youthful brow when comrades vote for that. ’Tis a noble game, deny it who can! The pride of a fine young Englishman! ’Tis, &c.
It nurtures a deep and lasting love for manly deeds and true, And trains our youth in nerve and eye――things well to keep in view; It teaches deeds of chivalry, to friends to be sincere, And teaches him in play or sport there nothing is to fear, ’Tis a noble game, &c.
There are names that bring a well-known charm to peasant and to peer: Old England, Ireland, Scotland, send out a ringing cheer; Canada adds a loving word, America its praise, Of giants in this isle of ours, and oft our spirits raise. ’Tis a noble game, &c.
To gallant South and noble North a welcome tribute bring Of Lillywhite, old Fuller, Mynn, this day, my boys, we sing; Still Parr and Daft are words that burn――W. G. the champion is; The Walkers, Littletons are grand! Whoever should them quiz. ’Tis a noble game, &c.
’Tis a noble land that bears such sons, who fight in love and peace. May concord, truth, and unity through all the world increase; May those who win and those who lose united ever be―― Old England’s pride shall be, my boys, good cricketers to see. ’Tis a noble game, &c.
ANONYMOUS.
(Written about the time of the Canadian Cricketers’ tour.)
IRISH SONGS.
――――
MOLLY BAWN (OR, FAIR MOLLY).
Oh, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining, All lonely, waiting here for you? While the stars above are brightly shining, Because they’ve nothing else to do. The flowers late were open keeping, To try a rival blush with you; But their mother, Nature, set them sleeping, With their rosy faces wash’d with dew, Oh, Molly Bawn, &c.
Now the pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear, And the pretty stars were made to shine; And the pretty girls were made for the boys, dear, And may be you were made for mine; The wicked watch-dog here is snarling, He takes me for a thief you see; For he knows I’d steal you, Molly, darling, And then transported I should be. Oh, Molly Bawn, &c.
SAMUEL LOVER.
There was a parody of this song in the first volume of The Man in the Moon, unfortunately it is very coarse:――
Oh! Molly, pawn without repining, That wedding-ring I gave to you, Where three gilt balls are brightly shining, Because they’ve customers to do.
* * * * *
――――
A VOICE FROM CANNES.
OH, ROBERT Bawn, why leave me pining, Lone waiting here for news from you? With LEADER now I’m idly dining, Because I’ve nothing else to do. The Whigs were into office creeping, We hear, to try a brush with you; But their nurse, RUSSELL, set them sleeping, Their sanguine faces turn’d to blue. Oh, ROBERT Bawn, why leave me pining, &c.
The pretty flowers were made to bloom, BOB; The pretty moon to wax and wane; A tidy wig was made for BROUGHAM, BOB―― Ah! cruel, was it made in vain? There’s wicked CAMPBELL at me snarling; He takes me for a rat, you see: I wish you’d take me, Robert darling! Then ratified my hopes would be. Oh Robert, &c.
Punch. 1846.
The above song refers to a rumour that Lord Brougham (then residing at Cannes) was making overtures to Sir Robert Peel, in the hope that if Sir Robert returned to power, he, Brougham, would again be made Lord Chancellor.
“Brougham was still amused by the prospect of holding the Great Seal under Sir Robert Peel.”――Life of Lord Brougham.
――――:o:――――
THE ANGEL’S WHISPER.
A baby was sleeping, its mother was weeping, For her husband was far on the wild raging sea; And the tempest was swelling round the fisherman’s dwelling, And she cried, “Dermot, darling, oh! come back to me.”
Her beads while she numbered, the baby still slumbered, And smiled in her face as she bended the knee. “Oh! blessed be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.”
* * * * *
SAMUEL LOVER.
――――
A woman half sleeping, o’er a window was peeping, For her husband had not come to dinner or tea: And the watchman was telling the hour that was knelling, And he cried, “Past eleven,” most vociferously.
The hours while she number’d, her anger still slumber’d, And she thought where the deuce her wild husband could be! Oh! where is he snoring till this hour of the morning, Oh! I’m certain he can’t be in good companie.
Sich hours to be keeping, is quite overleaping The bounds of decorum and all modesty; I think it is rather improper in a father, Who might sit quietly at home, in his wife’s companie.
And five in the morning, saw Jenkins returning, And the wife gloom’d, her husband half-drunk for to see, And he, while undressing, his folly confessing, Cried, I’ll never take up with such bad companie.
The Irish Comic Vocalist. 1862.
――――:o:――――
THE LAND OF THE WEST.
O come to the Wild West, O come there with me, To see th’ exhibition of Buffalo B――, Where the fair ladies shoot at the glass balls up-thrown; O come to the wild west――and come not alone. I’ll treat you, I’ll show you the pictures, and best Of all, I will show you Bill Cody’s Wild West.
The North has attractions, I do not deny; It’s Hampstead, its Hall, and its Palace on high. Let ’Arrys at Hampstead enjoy themselves best, The Indian location is down in the west. So go there with me, and it will be confessed, You’ll have fun for your money at Cody’s Wild West.
The South has its Palace of Crystal, ’tis true; All sparkling in sunlight, and lamps not a few; Half greenhouse, half theatre, it hasn’t the zest, It’s right small potatoes compared to “Wild West.” So come to the “Yankeries”――Earl’s Court is best Place for a ticket――the Bully Wild West!
From Max in the Metropolis. By Max P. Romer. 1887. George Routledge & Sons. London.
――――
A parody of Samuel Lover’s The Low-Backed Car, entitled The Gin Shop Bar, was written by J. A. Hardwick. It was, however, very coarse and slangy. Another long parody was in Diogenes, Volume III, 1854, entitled The Haughty Czar:
When first I saw the Emperor, ’Twas on the Ascot day. Beside our gracious Queen he sat, And chatted free and gay: And when the cup was won, they named The horse “The Emperor,” No compliment to the horse, we thought, But flattering to the Czar: The bullying northern Czar: The crazy northern Czar, As fast as that steed to run he’ll have need, When with us he goes to war.
(Three verses omitted.)
――――:o:――――
CAVOUR.
In July, 1859, the Emperor Napoleon III. concluded a sudden and unexpected armistice with Austria, just at a time when all the world was expecting to see Italy freed from the hated rule of the Hapsburgs, and the Bourbons. Count Cavour resigned his ministerial posts, the indignation of the Italians was unbounded, and revolutions broke out all over the Peninsula.
Count O’Cavourneen, the bubble is breaking You’ve had the last scene, Solferino’s red hill, The cannons no longer the echoes are waking, Count O’Cavourneen, what, Minister still? O, hast thou forgot the diplomacy clever In which thou didst bear so distinguished a part, Thy vow to clear out all the Hapsbugs for ever? The vermin still linger, Cavour of my heart.
Cavourneen, Cavourneen, the dead lie in numbers Beneath the torn turf where the living made fight; In the bed of My Uncle the Emperor slumbers, But Italy’s Hapsbugs continue to bite. Well done, my Cavour, they have cut short the struggle That fired all the pulses of Italy’s heart; And in turning thy back on the humbug and juggle; Cavour, thou hast played a proud gentleman’s part.
SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1859.
――――
KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. (Her Answer.)
Oh! Dermot Asthore, though the gray dawn is breaking, To open the window would give me a chill, The lark――of last evening――has left my head aching, So don’t sing outside there, but let me lie still. My hair is in papers――three screws on each side, dear,―― Not very romantic for lovers to see. The “Voice of your heart” has a thrifle of pride, dear, And that’s why I’m silent, which pray let me be.
Oh! Dermot Asthore, is it still are ye there, now; Don’t throw up the pebbles, you’ll break every pane; Just take yourself off, for I vow and declare, now, I’ll get very mad if you wake me again. It may be for five years, it may be eleven Or even fourteen, or for life we must part, But this is no reason to wake me at seven, So don’t come again, till I’ve made myself smart.
――――:o:――――
THE BELLS OF SHANDON.[74]
With deep affection And recollection I often think of Those Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, In the days of childhood, Fling round my cradle Their magic spells. On this I ponder Where’er I wander, And thus grow fonder, Sweet Cork, of thee; With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee.
I’ve heard bells chiming, Full many a clime in, Tolling sublime in Cathedral shrine; While at a glibe rate Brass tongues would vibrate; But all their music Spoke naught like thine. For memory, dwelling On each proud swelling Of thy belfry, knelling Its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee.
I’ve heard bells tolling Old “Adrian’s Mole” in And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame; But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o’er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly. Oh! the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee.
There’s a bell in Moscow, While on tower and kiosk O! In Saint Sophia The Turkman gets, And loud in air, Calls men to prayer From the tapering summit Of tall minarets. Such empty phantom I freely grant them; But there is an anthem More dear to me―― ’Tis the bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee.
REV. FRANCIS MAHONY (Father Prout).
――――
In Memoriam. FATHER PROUT. (REV. FRANCIS MAHONY.)
In deep dejection, but with affection, I often think of those pleasant times In the days of “Frazer” ere I touched a razor, How I read and revelled in thy racy rhymes; When in wine and wassail we to thee were vassal, Of Water-grass Hill, O renowned P. P.―――― May “The Bells of Shandon,” Toll blythe and bland on The pleasant waters of thy memory!
Full many a ditty, both wise and witty, In this social city, have I heard since then―― (With the glass before me, how the dream comes o’er me, Of those Attic suppers and those vanished men!) But no song hath woken, whether sung or spoken. Or hath left a token of such joy in me, As “The Bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee.”
The songs melodious, which――a new Harmodius―― “Young Ireland” wreathed round its rebel sword; With their deep vibrations and aspirations, Fling a glorious madness o’er the festive board; But to me seems sweeter the melodious metre Of the simple lyric that we owe to thee―― Of the bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee.
There’s a grave that rises on thy sward, Devizes, Where Moore lies sleeping from his land afar, And a white stone flashes o’er Goldsmith’s ashes, In the quiet cloister by Temple Bar; So where’er thou sleepest, with a love that’s deepest, Shall thy land remember thy sweet song and thee, While the bells of Shandon Shall sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee.
DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY.
Father Prout (Francis Sylvester Mahony) was an early contributor to Frazer’s Magazine, he died on Friday, May 18, 1866, and the author of the above imitation of his poem died on Good Friday, 1882. Mahony was buried in Cork, on the banks of the river Lee, and within sound of the Bells of Shandon.
――――
“FRAZER.”[75] Obit.――A.D. 1882.
Oh, the bells of Shandon, that sound so grand on, The pleasant waters of the river Lee, Ne’er tolled so sadly where once so gladly They pealed their merriest old “Yorke,” for thee, As when they laid thee with those that made thee Of “broths of boys” that blithest company, That round the table (while they were able) Of friendly Frazer held rare revelry.
Eheu, fugaces! Their vacant places, Like empty tumblers tell of vanished glee, Of jokes and jokers now stiff as pokers, Of silent singers, shut-up repartee, Of wits phosphoric all dumb as “Yorick,” Fun, fire and fancy, and philosophy; With that rich cargo at Death’s embargo, The good ship “Frazer” ne’er more sails the sea.
Ah! well they knew it (why did they do it?) Who spoilt the gallant rig we loved to see? That double column grown broad as solemn, The old brown coat turned modern filagree. Yet while there lingers of those sweet singers, That jovial crew still pleasant memory In mood as frisky, we’ll fill the whisky. And make sweet end in mirth and melody.
Maclise’s pencil, that rare utensil, It gives those brave boys immortality, As still they’re sitting, the swift wit flitting, Like lightning forked round Frazer’s snuggery―― Sage, singer, joker, from Crusty Croker, Gay Theodore, that “divil” for a spree, To th’ Reverend Barham (garter and star him!) The prince of ballad-singers, Ingoldsby.
There’s the gentle Barry (Cornwall won’t marry With rhyme at all) famed for sweet minstrelsy, And that rare old thinker, the whisky drinker, Brave Father Prout――ould Irish Mahony, Blockhead and blockheart who loves not Lockhart, Singing the brave old song of chivalry; But of those brave brothers, above all others Bold Barry Lyndon! turn our hearts to thee.
Eheu, fugaces! e’en younger faces No more will gather ’neath thy old roof-tree―― Those “boys” so curly, the slashing “Shirley,” Hypatia’s hero, dull “A. K. H. B.” All――all are vanished, for ever banished From their old happy haunt of life and glee, But as sons to father come home, they’ll gather With joy to welcome, dear old “Frazer,” thee.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
“THE BELLS I’VE SHAMM’D ON.”[76]
The Bells I’ve Shamm’d on, This town so grand on, Have made me famous among greater names. Though silent swinging, Nor proudly ringing, They’ve sent no music over Father Thames.
I’ve stood all tremblin’, ’Neath the vaulted Kremlin, While aisles vibrated with a solemn hum. But what’s all their mettle To Westminster’s kettle? That gave one bang out, and then was dumb.
Men were well wearied Of chimes so varied, And longed some simple song to hear; And my cracked pitcher, If it were not richer, At least was newer to the world’s ear.
At midnight waking, And thro’ silence breaking, Some bells would seem a solemn sound to tell; A song of nations, In the deep vibrations, Sending the echo, thro’ many a far-off dell.
But my harsh screamer, With the shrill cry of steamer, Awakes no memory of distant times, Nor rings a benizon, But the knell of DENISON, Who first invented these cruel chimes.
――――:o:――――
BRIAN O’LIN.
Brian O’Lin had no coat to put on, He borrow’d a goat skin to make him a one, He planted the horns right under his chin, “They’ll answer for pistols,” says Brian O’Lin. &c.
* * * * *
A NEW IRISH MELODY. (To an old Air, viz., “Brian O’Lin.”)
Daniel O’Connell’d no mischief to brew, So he started Repeal just for something to do, And the watch-word like mad through Hibernia ran; “Och! the rint is a mighty fine income,” says DAN.
Daniel O’Connell found nothing would do But to keep up a regular hullabaloo, Till he found himself frying like fat in a pan; “Faith, I’m thinking I’d like to be out on’t,” says DAN.
Daniel O’Connell said rather too much, About blackguards, and tyrants, and Sassenachs, and such, Till the Government shut up the turbulent man; “Arrah! here’s a gintale situation,” says DAN.
Daniel O’Connell had friends to his back, So he got out of prison again in a crack; And he now is exactly just where he began, “Arrah! What in the world will I do now,” says DAN.
Punch. 1844.
――――:o:――――
TOM MOODY.
You all knew Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well; The bell just done tolling was honest Tom’s knell, A more able sportsman ne’er followed a hound Through a country well known to him fifty miles round. No hound ever open’d, with Tom near the wood, But he’d challenge the tone, and could tell if ’twere good; And all with attention would eagerly mark, When he cheer’d up the pack, “Hark! to Rockwood, hark! hark! High!――wind him! and cross him! Now, Ratler, boy!――Hark!
* * * * *
ANDREW CHERRY.
PAT FAGAN.
You all knew Pat Fagan, the labourer, well; The bell just done tolling, was poor Paddy’s knell: A more able hodsman can never be found, St. Giles’s well known to him every inch round. No pal that e’er cross’d him, whether little or big, But he’d challenge the boy, and flourish his sprig; And all with attention would eagerly fix, When they cheered up the boy with, “Paddy, more bricks! A little water!――more mortar! Below, Pat, below!”
Six whacking big chairmen, with togs queerly dress’d, Supported poor Pat to his last place of rest; His hod, which he styled the best hod in the world, (On whose top hung his jacket, like a flag that’s unfurled,) His cap, boots, and shovel, in a trophy was bound, And the spalpeens all join’d in the “hubbaboo” sound; But no more, sure, the boys his loud “hollo” will fix, Nor the buildings resound with, “Paddy, more bricks! A little water!――more mortar! Hollo, Pat, hollo!”
Thus Pat spoke, “My honies, now I give up de ghost, I hope of my death you’ll all make de most; One favour I’ll ask――the same I will crave―― Kick a thundering big row up, now, over my grave; And, unless I jump up and flourish my sprig, My boys, you’ll conclude I’m as dead as a pig!” Honest Pat was obey’d――the howls rent the sky, And the spalpeens all join’d in the “hubbaboo” cry. “Hubbaboo!――philliloo! Arrah, my darling, why did you die? Och, murder!――Pat, come back!”
ANONYMOUS.
――――:o:――――
WADE’S VERSION.
Meet me by moonlight alone, And then I will tell you a tale Must be told by the light of the moon, In the grove at the end of the vale. O remember! be sure to be there; For though dearly the moonlight I prize, I care not for all in the air, If I want the sweet light of thine eyes. Then meet me by moonlight alone.
Daylight was made for the gay, For the thoughtless, the heartless, the free! But there’s something about the moon’s ray That is dearer to you, love, and me. Oh! be sure to be there, for I said I would show to the night-flowers their queen. Nay, turn not aside that sweet head―― ’Tis the fairest that ever was seen. Then meet me by moonlight alone.
ABBÉ DE PROUT.
Viens au bosquet, ce soir, sans témoin, Dans le vallon, au clair de la lune; Ce que l’on t’y dira n’a besoin Ni de jour ni d’oreille importune. Mais surtout rends-toi là sans faillir, Car la lune a bien moins de lumière Que l’amour n’en sçait faire jaillir De ta languissante paupière. Sois au bosquet au clair de la lune.
Pour les cœurs sans amour le jour luit, Le soleil aux froids pensers préside; Mais la pale clarté de la nuit Favorise l’amant et le guide. Les fleurs que son disque argentin Colore, en toi verront leur reine. Quoi! tu baisses ce regard divin, Jeune beauté, vraiment souveraine? Rends-toi là donc au clair de la lune.
FRANCIS S. MAHONY.
――――:o:――――
THE WIDOW MALONE.
Did ye hear of the Widow Malone, Ohone! Who lived in the town of Athlone Alone? Oh! she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts, So lovely the Widow Malone, Ohone! So lovely the Widow Malone.
Of lovers she had a full score, Or more; And fortunes they all had galore, In store; From the minister down To the clerk of the crown, All were courting the Widow Malone, Ohone! All were courting the Widow Malone.
* * * * *
CHARLES LEVER.
――――
Thackeray, as is well known, had a knack of writing humorous burlesque Irish songs, in imitation of the brogue and whiskeyiana of Lover and Lever. The following is, perhaps, the best of its kind, the metre resembles that of Lever’s “Widow Malone.”
LARRY O’TOOLE.
You’ve all heard of Larry O’Toole, Of the beautiful town of Drumgoole; He had but one eye, To ogle ye by―― Och, murther, but that was a jew’l! A fool He made of de girls, dis O’Toole.
’Twas he was the boy didn’t fail, That tuck down pataties and mail; He never would shrink From any strong dhrink, Was it whiskey or Drogheda ale; I’m bail This Larry would swallow a pail.
Och, many a night at the bowl, With Larry I’ve sot cheek by jowl; He’s gone to his rest, Where there’s dhrink of the best, And so let us give his old sowl A howl, For ’twas he made the noggin to rowl.
W. M. THACKERAY.
――――
NORDISA.
Did you hear of Nordisa’s first night? A sight! “Old Drury” choke full. First Act bright And light. The Second was dull, But it wasn’t a mull, As an Avalanche put it all right, We quite Screamed de Gus-tibus Harris in fright!
The Third Act took place in a serre, Plants rare! The Avalanche had arrived there, You stare? And the storm being strong, Took Nordisa along, And carried her in ’twixt the pair Who were Being married! Oh my! What a scare!
Then Oscar (M’Guckin), in throes Soon shows His heart is less false than his nose (I knows), Miss Burns becomes riled, And this makes Oscar wild, Reparation Nordisa he owes For woes He has caused, so he turns to propose.
Then enter old man with a crook, Or hook, He’s hither “conducted by Cook” (Aynsley Cook). He says Nordi’s mother, Was some swell or other. Perhaps she’s the heiress of Snook―― I’ll look, But I do not see this in the book.
Punch. May 14, 1887.
――――:o:――――
ERIN GO BRAGH.
Towards the close of the last century, when a French invasion seemed imminent, a caricature was published, entitled “The Allied Republics of France and Ireland,” in which the French are represented as having enriched themselves by plunder with the assistance of the Irish rebels. A Frenchman mounted on Ireland, which is represented as a donkey, sings:――
From Brest in the Bay of Biskey, We come for de very fine whisky, To make de Jacobin friskey, While Erin may go bray.
We have got de mealy potato From de Irish democrato, To make de Jacobin fat, O, While Erin may go bray.
I get by de guillotine axes, De wheats and de oats, and de flaxes, De rents, and de tydes, and de taxes, While Erin may go bray.
I put into requisition, De girl of every condition, For Jacobin coalition, And Erin may go bray.
De linen I get in de scuffle, Will make de fine shirt to my ruffle, While Pat may go starve in his hovel, And Erin may go bray.
Fitzgerald and Arter O’Connor, To Erin have done de great honour, To put me astride upon her, For which she now does bray. She may fidget and caper and kick, O, But by de good help of Old Nick, O, De Jacobin ever will stick, O, And Erin may go bray.
――――:o:――――
THE SHAN VAN VOGHT.[77]
Oh! the French are on the sea, Says the Shan Van Voght; The French are on the sea, Says the Shan Van Voght; Oh! the French are in the Bay, They’ll be here without delay, And the Orange will decay, Says the Shan Van Voght. Oh! the French are in the Bay,[78] They’ll be here by break of day, And the Orange will decay, Says the Shan Van Voght.
And where will they have their camp? Says the Shan Van Voght; Where will they have their camp? Says the Shan Van Voght; On the Curragh of Kildare, The boys they will be there With their pikes in good repair, Says the Shan Van Voght. To the Curragh of Kildare The boys they will repair, And Lord Edward will be there, Says the Shan Van Voght.
Then what will the yeomen do? Says the Shan Van Voght; What will the yeomen do? Says the Shan Van Voght; What should the yeomen do, But throw oft the red and blue, And swear that they’ll be true To the Shan Van Voght? What should, &c.
And what colour will they wear? Says the Shan Van Voght; What colour will they wear? Says the Shan Van Voght; What colour should be seen Where our Fathers’ homes have been, But their own immortal Green? Says the Shan Van Voght. What colour, &c.
And will Ireland then be free? Says the Shan Van Voght; Will Ireland then be free? Says the Shan Van Voght; Yes! Ireland SHALL be free, From the centre to the sea; Then hurra for Liberty! Says the Shan Van Voght. Yes! Ireland, &c.
There are many other versions of this song. It has always been a favourite with the Irish people at all times of political excitement; either varied or re-written, according to circumstances. At the time of the celebrated Clare election, carried by Daniel O’Connell while the “Catholic Emancipation” cause was yet pending, they sang a street ballad in Dublin running thus:――
“Into Parliament you’ll go, (meaning O’Connell,) says the Shan Van Voght, To extricate our woe, says the Shan Van Voght; Our foes you will amaze, And all Europe you will plaze; And ould Ireland’s now at aise, Says the Shan Van Voght.
“Our worthy brave O’Connell, says the Shan Van Voght, To have you in we’re longing, says the Shan Van Voght; Sure you we well have tried, And you’re always at our side, And you never took a bribe, Says the Shan Van Voght.”
During the “Repeal” movement (about 1840) the original song was revived, with the exception of the first verse, and the name of O’Connell was substituted for that of Lord Edward.
――――
JAN VAN BEERS.
There’s a Dutchman in the town, Says the Jan Van Beers; There’s a Dutchman in the town; Though he’s more than half a clown, Still folks pay their shillings down, Says the Jan Van Beers.
Oh! what should the English do? Says the Jan Van Beers; What should the English do, But admire my red and blue, And swear that I’m “too too!” Says the Jan Van Beers.
And shall not Artists kneel? Says the Jan Van Beers. No! Artists will not kneel, But express contempt they feel For your incense and pastille, Mister Jan Van Beers.
So said Punch about an exhibition of clap-trap foreign pictures which, in 1886, attracted sightseers of morbid tastes, in search of the horrible and the grotesque. Cunning arrangements of black curtains, grinning skeletons, headless bleeding bodies, and ghastly wounds made up a show, in which but little true art could be found.
――――:o:――――
The rollicking Irish song Ballyhooly, which was introduced in the highly successful burlesque Monte Cristo junior, was written by Mr. R. Martin, according to rumour an officer in the Royal Artillery.
THE PARLIAMENTARY BALLYHOOLY, A Parody of “Ballyhooly.”
There’s a dashing sort of bhoy who was once his country’s joy, But his ructions and his rows no longer charm me. He often takes command in a fury-spouting band Called the “Ballyhooly” Parliamentary Army. At Donnybrook’s famed fair he might shine with radiance rare, A “Pathriot” he’s called, and may be truly, It is catching, I’m afraid, for when he is on parade There seems scarce a sober man in “Ballyhooly.”
Chorus. Whililoo, hi ho! Faith they all enlist, ye know, Though their ructions and their shindies fail to charm me, Bad language, howls, and hate put an end to fair debate, In the “Ballyhooly” Parliamentary Army.
The Spayker, honest soul, finds they’re quite beyond control, Discussion takes a most extinded radius, It’s about as fine and clear as the stalest ginger-beer. But the “bhoys,” they never seem to find it “tadyious.” And what is worse, to-day all the Army march one way, That is in being ructious and unruly, If a Mimber in debate wants to argue fair and straight, Faith, they howl him out of court in “Ballyhooly.” Chorus――Whililoo, hi, ho, &c.
They’re supposed to hould debate in the interests of the State, Which one and all they do their best to injure; I have said their talk’s as clear as the stalest ginger-beer, And they mix the vilest vitriol with the ginger. The bhoys are not alone, for in sorrow one must own The young Tories are as noisy and unruly, And the Rads they rave and rail till one longs to lodge in gaol The intemperate brigade of “Ballyhooly.” Chorus――Whililoo, hi, ho, &c.
There’s a moral to my song, and it won’t detain yez long, Of Party spirit e’en the merest “nip” shun. It’s poison, that is clear, Ballyhooly “ginger-beer,” As ye’ll own when I have given the prescription. You take heaps of Party “rot,” spirit mean, and temper hot, Lies, blasphemy, and insult; mix them duly; For sugar put in salt, bitter gall for honest malt, Faith, they call it “Statesmanship” in “Ballyhooly.” Chorus――Whililoo, hi, ho, &c.
Punch. August 13, 1887.
――――:o:――――
MARY, I BELIEVED THEE TRUE.
Mary, I believed thee true, And I was blest in thus believing; But now I mourn that e’er I knew―― A girl so fair and so deceiving!
Few have ever loved like me,―― Oh! I have loved thee too sincerely! And few have e’er deceived like thee,―― Alas! deceived me too severely!
* * * * *
THOMAS MOORE
――――
LINES TO MARY.
O Mary, I believed you true, And I was blest in so believing; But till this hour I never knew―― That you were taken up for thieving!
Oh! when I snatched a tender kiss, Or some such trifle when I courted, You said, indeed, that love was bliss, But never owned you were transported!
But then to gaze on that fair face―― It would have been an unfair feeling To dream that you had pilfered lace―― And Flints had suffered from your stealing.
Or when my suit I first preferred, To bring your coldness to repentance, Before I hammered out a word, How could I dream you’d heard a sentence?
Or when with all the warmth of youth I strove to prove my love no fiction, How could I guess I urged a truth On one already past conviction?
How could I dream that ivory part, Your hand――where I have looked and lingered; Altho’ it stole away my heart, Had been held up as one light-fingered?
In melting verse your charms I drew, The charms in which my Muse delighted; Alas! the lay, I thought, was new, Spoke only what had been indicted!
Oh! when that form, a lovely one, Hung on the neck its arms had flown to, I little thought that you had run A chance of hanging on your own too!
You said you picked me from the world―― My vanity it now must shock it, And down at once my pride is hurled, You’ve picked me――and you’ve picked a pocket?
Oh! when our love had got so far, The banns were read by Doctor Daly, Who asked if there was any bar―― Why did not some one shout “Old Bailey”?
But when you robed your flesh and bones In that pure white that angel garb is, Who could have thought you, Mary Jones, Among the Joans that link with Darbies!
And when the parson came to say My goods were yours, if I had got any, And you should honour and obey, Who could have thought――“O Bay of Botany!”
But, oh!――the worst of all your slips I did not till this day discover―― That down in Deptford’s prison ships, O Mary! you’ve a hulking lover!
THOMAS HOOD.
――――:o:――――
PLAIN COLD WATER.
The days are gone when claret bright Inspired my strain, When I sang on every festive night About champagne. Prime thirty-four in floods may pour, And glasses gaily clatter. But there’s nothing half so safe to drink As plain cold water.
Though the bard may make a greater noise Over his wine, When with other Bacchanalian boys He chances to dine. Yet if he wake, with a headache, And wonders what’s the matter, He learns there’s nought so safe to drink As plain cold water.
There’s Doctor Hassall, he proclaims That water’s full Of curious brutes, with curious names In every pool. Now you will see that this must be A most important matter, For it’s clear there’s meat as well as drink In plain cold water.
Professor Clarke, of Aberdeen, Says chalk is there, And Monsieur Chatin, iodine Finds everywhere. If this be true, ’tis clear to you It’s just so much the better, For there’s meat and drink, and physic too, In plain cold water.
From Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch. By J. B. Oddfish. London: Simpkin, Marshall & Co. 1865.
――――:o:――――
THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.
HORATII ROSARUM.
Eheu rosarum floruit ultima! Vel mille nuper cincta sororibus, At nunc amicarum cohorti Floribus et sociis superstes!
Nec una mansit conscia quæ propé Suspiriorum suavë olentium, Suspiret ultro――quæ rubenti Erubeat, pia frons, vicissim.
Non te relinquam stemmate, lugubre. Quæ singulari fers caput, unica! Iere dormitùm sodales, Tu ceteris comes ito――dormi!
Sparsis amicà sic foliis manu, Finire tristes pergo tibi moras; Siccis odoratas per hortum Frondibus i superadde frondes.
Et mi sit olim sors eadem, precor! Quando sodales, quæque micantia, Ornant amicorum coronam Gemmata, depereunt――perire!
Abrepta fato dissociabili Quando tot eheu! corda jacent humi Quis poscat annos? vita talis Nonne foret mera solitudo?
FATHER PROUT.
――――
THE FIRST ROSE OF SUMMER.
’Tis the first rose of summer, I saw it come out, Its arrival I hailed with a rapturous shout. I took off my hat (for politeness I’m famed), And striking an attitude, thus I exclaimed:――
“Oh! clear first rose of summer, it gladdens my heart, To behold thee thus lovely and bright, as thou art; I had feared that the east wind, which well-nigh killed me, Would have proved as destructive, sweet darling, to thee.
“But thou hast no cough, I may fairly suppose, Such as I had all winter, delectable rose―― A cough to my heirs most enchanting to hear; And so thou art blooming and beauteous, my dear!
“I’ll not leave thee, enchantress, to pine on the tree, Thou shalt make a gay button-hole, loved one, for me. This summer’s the last that will ever be thine, And I somehow believe ’tis the last, too, of mine.
Judy.
――――
THE LAST “QUID.”
’Tis the last “quid” of many Left sadly alone, All its golden companions Are changed, and are gone; No coin of its kindred, No “fiver” is here, To burn in tobacco, Or melt into beer.
I’ll not leave thee, thou last one, All lonely to pine, As the others have left thee,―― Go seek them in wine. Thus kindly I scatter Thy shillings away, Like those of thy comrades, To moisten my clay.
So soon as I’ve changed thee To silver, alas! It flies like the sparkle Of froth in the glass; I’ll seek, when I’ve spent thee―― If credit’s not flown―― What’s hard to obtain in This bleak world-a loan!
Fun. July 20, 1887.
――――
THE LAST FLY.
’Tis the last fly of summer Left buzzing alone, All its club-footed comrades Have buzzed and passed on. No remnant pestiferous Save this one is nigh, To tickle our proboscis, Or bob in our eye.
I’ll not leave thee, old buzzer, To feast upon me―― Take that, thou tormentor―― To other lands flee. It is folly to spare thee Swear words to maintain, When the mates of thy raidin’ Stick flat on the pane.
Sound, sound, shall we slumber, When thou art away―― When the bedroom is quiet In cool of the day. Really, all things considered, Both beauty and tone. We’d much rather inhabit This queer world alone.
WILLIAM LYLE.
――――:o:――――
THOSE BICYCLES.
Those bicycles, those bicycles! How merry a tale their image tells, Of youth and health, and that fleet time When last I heard their whistle’s chime.
Those boyous hours are passed away; And many a heart that then was gay, Out of or in town darkly dwells, And rides not now those bicycles.
Again ’twill be――they are not gone; That gleeful wheel will still roll on, While I help bards to wire their shells And sing your praise, fleet bicycles.
From Lyra Bicyclica, by J. G. Dalton. Boston, U.S., 1880.
――――:o:――――
STRONG AND SURE.
Strong and sure were the skates she wore, And a neat little hat on her head she bore; But, oh! her grace, so wondrous that, Beyond her skates, or her dainty hat.
“Lady! dost thou not fear to rink, So hard is the ground should’st thou chance to sink? Are Plimpton’s skates of so great renown As not to be tempted to let you down?”
“Nay, nay! I feel not the least alarm, No skate of Plimpton’s will bring me to harm: Though at night I love dancing on polish’d floor, By day――I love skating and rinking more.”
On she went, and her magic skill Guided her safely without a spill; And happy are they who trust their fates To Plimpton’s rollers and Plimpton’s skates.
From Idyls of the Rink, by A. W. Mackenzie. Second Edition. 1877.
――――:o:――――
ON AN UNANSWERED LETTER.
I knew by the dirt that so greasefully lined All its corners and sides, that an answer was due; And I said if a sheet in my desk I can find, My pen that is ready shall fill it for you.
――――:o:――――
THE TEMPLE BAR MEMORIAL OBSTRUCTION.
Where stood the Bar, we’re building love, A something all stone, and some gilding, love, Ah! the best of all ways Can be stopped up by drays, When we steal a few feet from the road, my love.
Punch. October 9, 1880.
――――:o:――――
Oh, there is not in nature A bliss so complete As the first glass of toddy―― Strong, smoking, and sweet. All care it dispels, Drives blue devils away, ’Tis the first glass of toddy, That makes our hearts gay.
――――:o:――――
Oft in the chilly night, Ere solar rays had bound us, Have we for heat cried out With blankets all around us.
But now when Sol has got the call To dry us up like leather. We sigh for ice, with breezes nice, And civil-service weather.
――――:o:――――
A BALFOUR BALLAD. Air――“The Young May Moon.”
Most Irish questions are about A Peeler, a Pauper, or Carman, O! They’re quite beneath me, As Chief Se-cre-ta-ree―― I hand ’em all o’er to King-Harman, O!
――――:o:――――
THE BATTLE OF BEER.
(At a meeting of the United Kingdom Alliance, Sir Wilfred Lawson said the publicans were like a great army armed with bottles.)
The publican on his raid has gone. All over the land you’ll find him; A bottle of Bass he has girded on, And a barrel is slung behind him. “Oh, drink divine,” said Boniface, “What though teetotallers make thee A thing of scorn and of black disgrace, I never will forsake thee!”
He did not fall, for Common Sense Soon brought the enemy under, And the bottle of Bass we Britons dense Refused to smash asunder. Sir Wilfred――well, he looked quite demure, For, fallen out of favour, he Was shown that we Britons will not endure Stern prohibition’s slavery.
Judy. July, 1887.
――――:o:――――
THE MILITIAMAN.
The militia man to parade is gone, In single file you’ll find him; The Albert hat he was fain to don, His blunt spade left behind him. “Land of wheat,” said the warrior-clod, “Tho’ Sir Robert now neglect thee, One bayonet still upholds the sod, One plough-boy will ‘protect’ thee.”
* * * * *
From Mephystopheles. February 28, 1846.
This illustrated satirical journal commenced, as a rival to Punch, on December 13, 1845, and lasted until March 28, 1846. It contains several other parodies, all of which are uninteresting at the present time, but they may be enumerated.
The Medical Gent, à la Tennyson. Pledge Rescinding, after Campbell’s Hohenlinden. “When other lips with other arts.” The Schoolmaster, after Oliver Goldsmith.
――――
THE ROW.
I knew by the noise that I heard all around In the street where I was, that a row it was near; And I said, “If there’s fun this good night to be found, As I love it so dearly, I shall sure find it here.” Every tongue seem’d employ’d, and the row did increase, Whilst the Charleys their rattles so cheerily spring.
I hopp’d into the crowd, the news for to catch, But scarcely had open’d my mouth to inquire, When a rascally thief made off with my watch, Tript my heels, and so laid me flat down in the mire. The watchmen surrounded, and bore me away, And in limbo was kept till the dawn of next day.
To the justice they took me, to tell my sad tale, Who ask’d me what in defence I’d to say, I told him that rogues in the crowd did assail, Used my person quite ill, and my watch bore away. He looking quite grim, bade me good hours keep, Pay a shilling――and go to my home with all speed.
――――
THE COOK SHOP.
I knew by the smoke that so greasefully curl’d, From a kitchen below that a cook-shop was near, And I said if a gorge’s to be found in the world, The man that is hungry might hope for it here. Ev’ry plate was at rest, And I heard not a sound, But the knives and forks rattling, Sweet music for me. And here in this snug little box would I sit, With a joint that was lovely to nose and to view, With a sirloin of beef, a turkey and chine, How bless’d could I live, and how calm could I dine. Ev’ry plate, &c.
――――:o:――――
The New Whig Guide (London: W. Wright. 1819), contains several parodies of the songs of Thomas Moore and of Lord Byron, but being all on political topics they are now out of date, almost unintelligible, and not generally interesting. They are styled English Melodies, the first lines are as follows:――
“Oh! the time is past when quarter-day my cares would chase.” (Moore’s Love’s Young Dream.)
“Old Tierney came down like a wolf on the fold.” (Byron’s Destruction of Sennacherib.)
“Believe me, when all those ridiculous airs.” (Moore’s Believe me, if all those endearing young charms.)
“Son of the faithless! melancholy rat!” (Byron’s Sun of the Sleepless)
“Fare ye well――and if for Easter.” (Byron’s Fare you well――and if for ever.)
In the early days of the century Moore and Byron were the Society poets, their verses were on everyone’s lips, and naturally parodies of them abounded. In addition to the translations of Moore’s melodies already given, several other Greek, Latin, and French versions will be found in the collected works of Francis S. Mahony.
WELSH SONGS.
――――
TAFFY WAS A WELSHMAN.
“Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief; Taffy came to my house and stole a shin of beef, I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was not at home; Taffy came to my house, and stole a marrow bone.
I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was not in; Taffy came to my house and stole a silver pin; I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was in bed, I took up a poker and flung it at his head.”
Taffy is a corruption of Taffid, the Welsh form of David. This very old nursery rhyme owes its origin to the continual raids and cattle-lifting expeditions which took place on the Welsh borders in the middle ages, but it has long since lost all serious meaning with those who repeat it. Twenty years ago the late Mr. Shirley Brooks completely re-modelled the poem very much in Taffy’s favour.
Taffy is a Welshman: Taffy’s not a thief; Taffy’s mutton’s very good, Not so good his beef: I went to Taffy’s house, Several things I saw, Cleanliness and godliness, Obedience to the law. If Taffy rides to my house, Or unto Pat’s doth swim, I think my Taffy will remark That we might learn of him. He does not drink, my Taffy, (Not leastwise as a rule); He goes to chapel regular, And sends his boys to school; He dresses well on Sunday, His family the like; He’s not too fond of over-work, But seldom cares to strike; He never lurks behind a hedge To pay his rent with slugs. Up craggy hills of steep incline His garden mould he lugs; And there he grows his garden, His cabbages and leeks; His kids get green meat in their mouths, And roses in their cheeks. Taffy is a Welshman, And glories in the name, To laugh at which enjoyment Appears to me a shame. You compliment the Scotchman Who talks of Bruce and Burns; You tolerate the Irishman Who vaunts ancestral Kerns; You’re nuts on your own pedigree, Won’t call it English, fair, But prate of “Anglo-Saxons,” Till Reviewers nearly swear. Why shouldn’t gallant Taffy Have his relics and his bones, Llewelyns and Cadwallos, And Griffyevanjones? To say nothing of the question Whether Taffy’s mother-tongue Wasn’t quite a fine old When all of ours were young. He says he has good poets, Leave him his own opinion: You like obscure old ballads, And Taffy likes Englynion. Pray are not “moel,” “afon,” And “Morwyns” (pretty rogues), At least as good as “birks” and “braes,” “Mavourneens,” “Arrah Pogues!” By all Nantfrancon’s Beavers, Of the pre-historic age; By Aberglaslyn’s hoary bridge, And the Swallow’s roaring rage; By the trout of Capel Curig, By Carnarvon’s Eagled Tower, The smile of placid Tan-y-bwlch, And the frown of Penmaenmawr; By yon lonely Puffin Island, And the monster head of Orme, The Castle of the Beauteous Marsh, Llanberis, Pass of Storm; By the magic bridge of Bangor, Hung awful in the sky, By the grave at sweet Beddgelert, Where the Martyr-hound doth lie; By the lightnings that on Snowdon Glint, the jewels of his crown, Stand up, brave Taffy, for thy right, And never be put down. If all Victoria’s subjects Were half as good as thou, Victoria’s subjects would kick up Uncommon little row. And Punch, Incarnate Justice, Intends henceforth to lick All who shall scorn or sneer at you, You jolly little Brick!
SHIRLEY BROOKS.
The Welsh were naturally much pleased with this version, and speedily translated it into their own language:
Cymro ydyw Taffy, Lladratta byth ni wna; Mae mutton Taffy’n gampus, Nid yw ei biff mor dda. Mi eis i fwthyn Taffy, I wel’d ei ddull o fyw―― Mae’n lân a duwiol yn ei dy, I’r gyfraith ufudd yw, Os merchyg Taffy yma, At Pat os nawf y lli, Mi dybiwn y dyweda ef Fod ganddo wers i ni: Nid ydyw Taffy’n yfed. Fel rheol, wrth ei chwant, I’r capel cerdd yn gysson iawn, I’r ysgol gyr ei blant; Ymwisga ’n hardd y Sabbath, A’i deulu yr un modd; Ni fyn ei ladd â gormod gwaith, A strike ni fyn o’i fodd; Ni lecha byth tu ol i’r gwrych, I dalu ei rent a phlwm; Mae’n llusgo pridd a gwrtaith I fyny’r llechwedd llwm; Ac yno tyf ei foron, A’i genin yn ei ardd. Rhydd wyrddfwyd yn ngeneuau ’i blant, A gwrid i’w gruddiau hardd. Cymro ydyw Taffy, A dyna’i fynych fost, Ymddengys gwawdio’r fath fwynhâd, I mi’n gywilydd tost: Canmolwch yr Ysgotyn Am son am Bruce a Burns; A goddef wnewch i’r Gwyddel tlawd Ymffrostio ’n nheulu Kerns; Ni fynwch chwithau chwaith, Eich galw ’n Saeson teg, Ond dwndro am “Anglo-Saxons” wnewch, Nes peri i ddyn roi rheg. Pa’m na chaiff Taffy ddewrwych Am ei hynafiaid son―― Caswallon a Charadoc fawr. A Gryffydd Ifan Shon? Heb son dim oll am holi, Allasai ’i famiaith fod Yn hen iaith bur y pryd nad oedd Ein holl rai ni mewn bod. Mae’n d’weyd fod ganddo brif-feirdd, Boed iddo ’i farn ar hyn; Hen gerddi tywyll hoffwch chwi, Englynion yntau fyn. Ai nid yw “moel,” ac “afon,” “Morwynion” (hudol rôgs), Yn llawn mor dda a “birks,” a “braes,” “Mavourneens,” “Arrah pôgs?” Yn enw efeingc gwylltion Nantffrancon oes a fu, Y bont ar Aberglaslyn, A’r Wennol groch ei rhu, Britbylliaid Capel Curig, Twr Eryr Arton hen. Yn enw gwg y Penmaen mawr, A Than y Bwlch a’i wên; Yn enw Ynys Seiriol, A’r Gogarth erch ei drwyn; Y Castell ar y Morfa Hardd, Bwlch oer Llanberis fwyn; Yn enw Crog-bont Menai, Sy’n hongian yn y nen; Yn enw bedd dy Ferthyr gi A’r garnedd uwch ei ben, Yn enw mellt yr Wydfa, Sy’n euro ei goron fawr. Sa ’i fyny, Taffy, myn dy hawl, Na’th fwrier byth i lawr, Pe byddai deiliaid Buddug Yn hanner mor ddi fai, Fe fyddai terfysg yn eu plith Yn llawer iawn yn llai; Mae Punch, y Barnwr Cyfiawn, Am roddi curfa ci I bawb ro’nt ddirmyg it’ rhagllaw Hen fachgen iawn wyt ti.
This translation is taken from a most entertaining as well as useful work, entitled The Gossiping Guide to Wales, written by the late Mr. J. Askew Roberts, and published by Woodall, Minshall & Co., Oswestry 1886.
――――
Bouncer was a welsher, Bouncer was a thief, I won a bet of Bouncer, And came to awful grief.
When I went to Bouncer, He said he hadn’t bet it, Put his thumb up to his nose, And wished that I might get it.
――――
Of the favourite Welsh songs, such as Jenny Jones, Ah hyd y nos, and The Maid of Llangollen, only a few parodies are to be found, and they are scarcely worth reprinting.
TERM COMMENCES.
On by the love of costs we’re goaded―― “Term” begins then mischief’s boded, For we’ve hearts as hard as steel What care we for wrong or right, When we hold a client tight, Or the least compunction feel! Like serpents now, we’re slyly creeping, Then on our prey like tigers leaping. In a twinkling we garotte him―― No escape when so we’ve got him.
While on him there is a stopper, We clean him out of every copper. Stick unto him till we bag All he has to the last mag; His body then, by way of ransom, We seize and squeeze out something handsome.
Like skittles, debtors we keep flooring―― In our charges fast keep pouring; Actions ne’er by us are stayed. Ours is a safe and thriving trade; To the Law Courts let’s away, Expenses call and we obey.
――――
THE TORY MARCH.
With blaze of fireworks, fêtes, and dancing, Lying speeches, vain romancing, See the boastful foe advancing Onward to the fray. Banners now are gaily streaming! In Liberal colours falsely gleaming, Hoping by thus meanly scheming, Yet to win the day.
Jingo shouts are hoarsely braying, Brazen trumpets loudly playing, High-toned churchmen warmly praying For Tory victory. Like the ass in olden fable, Clothed in lion’s skin unstable, They can but bray (to roar unable) Of Tory liberty!
Turn from them with loathing, Contempt and anger both in, And ever they Will rue the day They dressed in Liberal clothing; Honest truth will overcome them, The stolen skin will not become them, So tear the lion’s covering from them, And show the ass beneath.
Songs for Liberal Electors. 1885.
――――
LIBERAL MARCHING SONG.
Brothers, up, to win new glory, That shall brighten future story, Sweeping off abuses hoary, Shaping righteous laws; To the Ballot early go, men; That we mean to conquer, show, men; Well, we vote to win, we know, men
For the good old cause. For ourselves we’re fighting, The people nobly righting; Quick, come all, at Freedom’s call, To do her will delighting. On, your Blue to victory bearing: Nought for all their vauntings caring: For the Right all dangers daring―― Better lives and laws.
W. C. BENNETT.
――――:o:――――
OLD ENGLISH SONGS.
――――
SHALL I LIKE A HERMIT DWELL? (Attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh.)
Shall I like a hermit dwell, On a rock or in a cell, Calling home the smallest part That is missing of my heart, To bestow it where I may Meet a rival every day? If she undervalue me, What care I how fair she be?
Were her tresses angel-gold[79] If a stranger may be bold Unrebuked, unafraid To convert them to a braid; And with little more ado Work them into bracelets, too; If the mine be grown so free What care I how rich it be?
Were her hands as rich a prize As her hairs or precious eyes; If she lay them out to take Kisses for good manners’ sake; And let every lover skip From her hand unto her lip; If she be not chaste to me What care I how chaste she be?
No; she must be perfect snow, In effect as well as show, Warming but as snow-balls do, Not like fire, by burning too; But when she by change hath got To her heart a second lot; Then if others share with me, Farewell her, whate’er she be!
The burden of this song probably suggested the far more beautiful poem by George Wither, which follows:――
SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR. (George Wither, born 1588, died 1667.)
Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman’s fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care, ’Cause another’s rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flow’ry meads in May, If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be?
Should my heart be grieved or pined ’Cause I see a woman kind Or a well disposed nature Joined with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder, than Turtle-dove or pelican, If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman’s virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or, her well-deservings known, Make me quite forget my own Be she with that goodness blest Which may gain her name of best, If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be?
’Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die? Those that bear a noble mind, Where they want of riches find, Think what with them they would do That without them dare to woo; And, unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne’er the more despair. If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve: If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go: For, if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be?
From “The Mistress of Philarete,” published in 1622.
――――
SONG. MR. GLADSTONE.
Shall my heart be filled with care ’Cause the Whigs are so unfair? Or, their services to keep, Shall I sacrifice my sleep? Or, lest they offence may take, My great measures weaker make? If they are not true to me, What care I what Whigs they be.
’Cause they show such self-conceit, Shall I risk severe defeat? Or, in their good books to stay, Scare good Radicals away? Tho’ their talent be as great As they never fail to state, Yet, if they are not with me, What care I what Whigs they be?
They have duped me far too long, Threatening they were very strong, Now I know they are at best Fossils of no powers possest, And methinks they soon will find I am neither weak nor blind. If their heats beat not for me, What care I what Whigs they be?
They have thwarted me enough, Tried to hinder and rebuff; Why should I reward them, then, To the loss of better men; Better far to let them go, And become an open foe! If they will not work with me, They may Tories be for me!
Truth. Christmas number 1882.
――――
MATILDA.
Shall I fret and fume and swear, Because Matilda dyes her hair? Or make pale my cheeks with care, That hers so very rosy are? Though her raven locks to-day Turn as yellow as the hay, If she be but true to me, What care I how blonde she be!
Shall a woman’s weakness move Me such weakness to reprove? Or her little failings known Make me careless of my own? Though her bills be longer than Bill of duck or pelican, If they be not paid by me, What care I how long they be?
If her youth be left behind, Shall I play the fool and mind? She must be, the women say, Forty-five if she’s a day―― But I swear she looks no more, At the most, than forty-four: If she’s young enough for me, What care I how old she be?
Be she painted, fast, or old―― Be she flirt, or rake, or scold―― She has cash enough to make Me submissive for her sake: If she loose her money, though, I can scorn and let her go; If in poverty she be, She may go to Bath for me!
From The White Pilgrim, and other Poems. By Herman Charles Merivale. London, Chapman & Hall, 1883.
(By the Author’s kind permission.)
――――:o:――――
THE COCKNEY SHEPHEARD TO HIS LOVE.
(ARCADIA.――Switchback railway now running through groves of trees, and above a veritable Fairyland of flowers, foliage, and illuminations, to strains of military music.)
Come, switch with me, my cockney Love, And we will all the pleasures prove Of hills, vales, groves, and flowery lands, And strains of military bands.
And we will, sitting on the car, Where other nymphs and shepheards are, Shoot up and down, in rise and fall, With catch (of breath) for madrigal.
My manly arm about thy waist, For belt and clasp, Love, interlaced; Thy skirt beflowered, and thy head-gear The latest thing from Swan and Edgar.
My checks, my tie, my gilded studs, Will vanquish all the rival “bloods.” So, if such pleasures may thee move, Come, switch with me, my cockney Love.
The Globe. September 19, 1887.
THE NYMPH’S REPLY
to the “Cockney Shepheard,” is unfavourable to his appeal to her to come and switch with him in “Arcadia.” Much sympathy will be felt with the “Shepheard” on this refusal of his love to “switch the world with noble carmanship.”
Shepheard, an I were sweet seventeen, And thou wert green and I were green, These pretty pleasures might me move To switch with thee, my cockney Love.
But hills and valleys have their fears For maidens of discreeter years; And nymphs when they have had their tea Like to digest it quietlie.
These sudden flights, and jumps, and shoots Plunge hearts from bosoms into boots; And where in flowering Arcadee Flow founts of Sal Volatile?
Thy checks, thy tie, thy gilt of stud, Stir no bold humours in my blood; And nothink, ’Arry, can me move To switch with thee, my cockney Love.
The Globe. September 20, 1887.
――――:o:――――
AFTER HERRICK. (Upon seeing her picture in profile.)
I die If I but spy One eye; Yet would I fain See twain.
(Upon receiving the same in a full view.)
In profile ’Twas vile; But in th’ obverse ’Tis worse.
ERNEST RADFORD.
――――
Cats’ meat, cats’ meat――meat I cry On a skewer――come and buy; From Hyde Park Corner to Wapping Wall, All the year I cats’ meat bawl; Cats’ meat――cats’ meat――meat, I cry, On a skewer――come and buy.
From The Book of Cats, by C. H. Ross. 1868.
――――:o:――――
THE WHIP’S SONG. (After Ben Jonson.)
Come to my lobby with thy vote, And give it in with mine; Or pair with one who’d vote against, And I’ll not ask for thine. Divisions thus will make us still More closely link’d as friends, And when our party is in place, You may attain your ends.
I sent thee late a three-lined whip, And posted it to thee, In hopes that ere the House was made, It might deliver’d be. But thou didst never come that night Nor wrote a line to me! Do this again my friend, I swear, I’ll make it hot for thee.
C. H. WARING.
R. B. SHERIDAN.
On page 195 a list was given of the principal burlesques founded upon Sheridan’s plays, but the two following were accidentally omitted:――
PIZARRO; a Spanish Rolla-King Peruvian Drama. A Burlesque in one act. by C. J. Collins. 1856. This was produced at Drury Lane Theatre, on September 22, 1856, with Mr. and Mrs. Keeley, Mrs. Frank Matthews, and George Honey in the caste.
PIZARRO; or, the Leotard of Peru. An original Burlesque Extravaganza by Leicester Buckingham. Produced at the Strand Theatre, in 1862. Miss Fanny Josephs, Miss C. Saunders, Miss Woodin, Miss Ada Swanborough, Miss E. Bufton, James Rogers, and J. Clarke were the principal performers.
OF THE GENDERS OF NOUNS. Air――“Here’s to the Maiden of bashful fifteen.’
All names of the male kind you masculine call, Ut sunt (for example), Divorum, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, the deities all, And Cato, Virgilius, virorum. Latin’s a bore, and bothers me sore, Oh, how I wish that my lesson was o’er.
Fluviorum, ut Tibris, Orontes likewise, Fine rivers in ocean that lost are, And Mensium――October an instance supplies; Ventorum, ut Libs, Notus, Auster. Latin’s a bore, and bothers me sore, Oh, how I wish that my lesson was o’er.
From The Comic Latin Grammar, by Paul Prendergast (Percival Leigh.) Published by David Bogue. London.
――――:o:――――
GLEE.
This bottle’s the sun of our table, His beams are rosy wine: We, planets that are not able Without his help to shine. Let mirth and glee abound! You’ll soon grow bright With borrowed light, And shine as he goes round.
R. B. SHERIDAN.
THE LIGHT OF THE STUD.
Bicycle’s the sun of our stable, His beams the spokes so fine; We planets that so are able With him to roll and shine. Let circling mirth abound; We’ll all grow bright With borrowed light, And shine as he goes round.
From Lyra Byclica, by Joseph G. Dalton, Boston. 1885.
THE HON. MRS. NORTON.
(This lady was a grand-daughter of R. B. Sheridan.)
THE ARAB’S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED.
My beautiful, my beautiful! that standest meekly by, With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye! Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy wingèd speed; I may not mount on thee again!――thou’rt sold, my Arab steed! Fret not with that impatient hoof――snuff not the breezy wind; The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind; The stranger hath thy bridle-rein, thy master hath his gold:―― Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell!――thou’rt sold, my steed, thou’rt sold!
Farewell!――Those free untired limbs full many a mile must roam, To reach the chill and wintry clime that clouds the stranger’s home; Some other hand, less kind, must now thy corn and bed prepare: That silky mane I braided once, must be another’s care. The morning sun shall dawn again――but never more with thee Shall I gallop o’er the desert paths where we were wont to be―― Evening shall darken on the earth; and o’er the sandy plain, Some other steed, with slower pace, shall bear me home again.
Yes, thou must go; the wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky, Thy master’s home, from all of these my exiled one must fly; Thy proud, dark eye shall glow less proud, thy step become less fleet. And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy master’s hand to meet. Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright―― Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light; And when I raise my dreaming arms to check or cheer thy speed, Then must I startling wake, to feel thou’rt sold, my Arab steed.
Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide, Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side, And the rich blood that’s in thee swells, in thy indignant pain, Till careless eyes that on thee gaze may count each starting vein! Will they ill-use thee?――if I thought――but no,――it cannot be; Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed, so gentle, yet so free;―― And yet if haply when thou’rt gone, this lonely heart should yearn, Can the hand that casts thee from it now, command thee to return?
“Return!”――alas, my Arab steed! what will thy master do, When thou, that wast his all of joy, hast vanished from his view? When the dim distance greets mine eyes, and through the gathering tears Thy bright form for a moment, like the false mirage, appears? Slow and unmounted will I roam, with wearied foot alone, Where, with fleet step, and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on; And sitting down by the green well, I’ll pause, and sadly think,―― “’Twas here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him drink.”
When last I saw thee drink!――Away! the fevered dream is o’er! I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more; They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger’s power is strong―― They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long. Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold? ’Tis false! ’tis false! my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold! Thus――thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains! Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains.
HON. MRS. NORTON.
――――
THE DYING VENDOR OF VEGETABLES TO HIS PALFREY OF JERUSALEM.
Where art thou now? where art thou now? my beautiful, my bold; And shall they take thee far away to green-yards to be sold? O rather let them take the bed, where now, alas! I lie, Than seize on thee, for debt or rent, my beautiful――my shy! They tell me they’ll take care of thee――I know what ’tis they mean, A truss of hay in half a year, with thistle-tops between. O no! it shall not be thy fate, I’d rather, ere I part, Plunge deep, my mild and patient ass, this pitchfork to thy heart!
Nay, do not turn aside thy nose, and shake thine honest ear, Thy master’s sense is wandering, but thou’st no cause to fear; But let me give thee one embrace, ere from the world I go. There! there! nay, do not shrink from me, my terrified――my slow! Thou’st drawn with me, boy, many a year, the cart along the streets:―― Put thine hoof on thy master’s heart――thou feelest how it beats. But Oh, thine eyes benevolent, my anguish’d feelings lull. Farewell, my Jackass!――Oh! farewell――my beautiful! my dull!!
Punch. May 27, 1843.
――――
The four following Parodies appeared in a Prize Competition in One and All, 1879:――
A TRAVELLER’S FAREWELL TO HIS TRAIN. (Which he thinks he has missed while lunching at York.)
My railway train, my railway train, that stoodst all steaming by, With thy paraffin and oily lamps and one red gleaming eye. Thou goest to fly along the line with all thy wheelèd speed; I cannot ride in thee again――I’m sold, I am indeed! Puff not with that impatient blast; cleave not the breezy wind; The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind: The driver tends thy furnace fires; the “clerk” he hath my gold; Swift wheeled and punctual, farewell!――I’m sold, my train, I’m sold! Farewell! Those swift and tyred wheels full many a mile must glide To reach old Scotland’s bonnie moors and heather’d mountain side; Some other man more fortunate must occupy my seat, The corner place I sat in once must be another’s treat. The morning sun will dawn again, but not again with thee Shall I ride along the iron rails where thou art wont to be; Evening shall darken on the earth, and o’er the grassy plain Some other train with slower wheels will bear me on again.
Yes, thou must go; the wild free breeze, the autumn sun and sky, Thy terminus――to all of these my punctual one must fly. The “ticket-man” will go his rounds, and vainly seek my “tip,” And vainly will he ply his punch my ticket then to clip. Only in sleep shall I behold that red eye gleaming bright, Only in sleep shall hear again that whistle shrill at night; And when I rouse my dreaming brain to wonder at thy speed, Then must I starting wake, to feel――I’m sold, my train, indeed.
Ah now, indeed, uncared by me, some fireman’s hand may “stoke,” Till steam wreaths mix like driven snow among the blackening smoke, And the fierce fire that is in thee burns with increasing flare Till careless eyes which rest on thee may wonder at the glare. Wilt thou return here? If I thought――but no, it cannot be―― Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed, so punctual “to a T”! And though most surely now thou’rt gone my lonely heart will yearn, Yet the man who loses thee cannot command thee to return.
Return! alas, my railway train, what shall this traveller do Now thou, who wert his travelling home, has vanished from his view? When the dim distance cheats my eye, and through my gathering tears Thy bright light for a moment like a Will-o’-the-wisp appears, By parliamentary slow, alas, I now must travel on Where with thy speed and joyous shriek rejoiced I should have gone; But, sitting down on yon platform, I now in vain must grunt, “It was here he blew his whistle shrill, when last I saw him shunt!”
“When last I saw him shunt!” Away! The foolish dream is o’er; I see that thou art shunting still, and here thou art once more. They tempted me, my railway train, for hunger’s power is strong; They tempted me, my railway train! I near had gorged too long! Who said that I had lost the train? Who said that thou wast gone? ’Tis false――’tis false, my railway train; I still shall travel on. Thus, thus, I leap into my seat, and my good fortune bless; Who overtakes us now must beat a G. N. R. express!
W. G. MCMILLAN.
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THE HORSE AND HIS MASTER. (A panegyric.)
My――anything but beautiful, that standest “knock-knee’d” by, “Inverted arch” describes thy back, as “dismal” doth thine eye. Fret not――go roam the commons now, limp there for want of speed; I dare not mount on thee (’twere pain), thou bag of bones, indeed. Fret not with that too patient hoof, puff not with wheezy wind; The harder that thou roarest now the more we lag behind. The stranger “had” thy master, brute, for twice ten pounds, all told; I only wish he had thee back! Too late――I’m sold! I’m sold!
To-morrow’s sun will dawn again, but ah! no ride for me. Can I gallop over Rotten Row astride on such as thee? ’Tis evening now, and getting dark, and blowing up for rain; I’ll lead thee then, with slow, slow step, to some “bait stables” plain (When a horse-dealer cheats, with eyes of clap-trap truth and tears, A hack’s form for an instant like a thoroughbred’s appears); And sitting down, I’ll ponder well beside this water’s brink. Here――what’s thy name? Come, Rosinante! Drink, pretty (?) creature, drink!
Drink on, inflate thy skin. Away! this wretched farce is o’er; I could not live a day and know that we must meet once more. I’ve tempted thee, in vain (though Sanger’s power be strong, They could not tempt this beast to trot), oh, thou hast lived too long! Who says that I’ll give in? Come up! who says thou art not old? Thy faults were faults, poor useless steed, I fear, when thou wert foal’d. Thus, thus I whack upon thy back; go, scour with might and main The asphalte! Ha! who stops thee now may have thee for his gain.
PHILIP F. ALLEN.
――――
THE CABBY’S FAREWELL TO HIS BEER.
My pewter full, my pewter full, that stands untasted by, With thy amber hue, and odour sweet, and froth heaped up so high, Fret though I may to taste thee now, howe’er I feel inclined, I may not drink of thee again――I’ve signed the pledge, I’ve signed. I fret not ’neath this cosy roof, snug near the taproom fire; The further thou art from me now, the more is my desire. The landlord hath thee still his own, and “cabby” hath his gold. Beer! yes, my pewter full, farewell, to me thou art not sold.
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more for thee Shall I leave my “hansom” in the “stand” to get some stout and B; Evening shall darken o’er the “pub” and o’er it’s sandy floor; Some other “cove” may take my seat behind the taproom door, When a short distance cheats my “fare,” then through the gathering crowd I see the flash of pewter pots, and hear men singing loud; And sitting on my cab again, I pause and sadly think, “It was here I nearly broke my neck when last I had a drink.”
When last I had a drink! Away! the temp’rance dream is o’er; I cannot live a day and know I ain’t to drink no more. Thou’st tempted me, my pewter full, for habit’s power is strong; Thou’st tempted me, my pewter full, and I have drunk too long. Who said that I had given thee up? who said thou wert not sold? ’Tis false, ’tis false; here, guv’nor, come and change us this ’ere gold. Thus, thus I give my lips a smack, and call for number two; Who tries to make me sign again shall have enough to do!
GEORGE R. GALLAHER.
――――
THE BICYCLIST’S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED.
My bicycle, my bicycle, that crouchest weakly by, With thy proudly arched backbone a wreck, thy spokes all bent awry, Though not of late untreasured, now I swear, I do indeed, If any man says one pound ten, thou art sold, my iron steed. Straight shot right o’er thy patent head, my spill no easy kind, All smashed and low thou liest now: I’m sore before――behind. A stranger who’ll the trifle pay right fain would I behold, And then, my bicycle, farewell! thou’rt sold, my steed, thou’rt sold.
Farewell! this knee, these tired limbs full many a mile must roam To reach the railway――then, oh my! where’s cash to take me home? Some other plan must I contrive ere I to bed repair (My silver watch, paraded once, is in another’s care). The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more, ah me! Shall I whirl upon my bicycle through tollgates running free. Evening shall darken on the earth, and over hill and plain, While I must needs with weary step slow tramp it home again.
Yes, I must go, though barked my knees, a bump above my eye; Although I’m lame and scarce can wheeze, I yet to trudge must try. My big black eye will grow more black, more tired become my feet, And vainly shall I stretch my legs thy treadles’ whirl to meet. Only in sleep shall I behold thy smart lamp gleaming bright, Only in sleep shall hear again thy bell’s tinck-tinckling light, And when I move my dreaming arm to brake thy gathering speed, Then must I starting wake to wish thou wert sold, my iron steed.
Ah, rudely then, unseen by me, some traveller may deride On finding here thy rusted frame upon this lone way-side, While paraffin, that tear-like wells slow through thy lamp’s cracked pane, His careless nose will so surprise that on he’ll start again. Will folks ill-use thee? If I thought――but no, that couldn’t be; Thou art so smashed, howe’er disturb’d, no harm can come to thee. And yet, if haply when I’m gone for thee again I yearn, Could the man who rode thee gaily here remount thee to return?
Return, alas! My iron steed, what can thy master do But leave thee here and limp along till home appears in view? When the long distance tires me I will rest while fancies queer, Thy bright form will restore, and thou’lt a new machine appear. Slow and unmounted must I go with weary foot alone, Where with fleet wheels fast whirling round thou once did’st bear me on; And sitting down in some hotel I o’er my beer will think, I nearly broke my blessed neck when last I rode full clink.
When last I rode full clink! Away! the fever’d dream is o’er; I could not live a day and know that thee I’d mount no more, I’ll tinker thee, my bicycle, for solder’s sometimes strong; I’ll tinker thee, my bicycle, perchance thou’lt serve me long. Who said that I had given thee up? who said I wished thee sold? ’Tis false, ’tis false, my iron steed; I wouldn’t have their gold. Thus, thus I’ll heap upon my back thy battered, bulged remains; Away! who from me takes thee now gets little for his pains!
S. T. A. N. From One and All. November 8, 1879.
――――:o:――――
THE CYCLIST’S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED.
My beautiful, my bicycle! that standest patient by, With thy proudly arched and glossy back, ’twould please a critic’s eye, Fret not to roam the country o’er with all thy willing speed, I may not mount on thee again――thou’rt sold, my iron steed. Fret not; thy modern Stanley head, held high in breezy ind, The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind; The stranger hath thy handling now, thy master hath his gold―― To thee, my bicycle, farewell,――thou’rt sold, my steed, thou’rt sold.
Farewell; from me those wired wheels full many a mile must roam, To reach the hill, men weary climb, and near the stranger’s home; Some other hand than mine must now thy injuries repair, That brilliant surface plated once must be another’s care. The morning sun shall dawn again――but never more with thee, Shall I paddle o’er the country roads where we were wont to be; Evening shall darken on my path, and trudging o’er the plain, With slackened speed and slower pace shall think of thee again.
Only in sleep shall I behold that nick’ling beaming bright Only in sleep shall tread again that step so firm and light; And when I turn my dreaming arms to slack or check my speed, Then must I startling wake to feel thou’rt sold, my iron steed. Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, the lurking dark oxide, In rust marks lie, encrusted deep, along thy wire-ribbed side; And thy rich gloss, oft praised by swells, show strong metallic grain. Till careless eyes that on thee gaze shall count each patent vain. Will they ill-use thee? If I thought――but no――it cannot be, Thou art so swift, so easy worked, so silent, yet so free; And yet, if haply when thou’rt gone, this lonely heart should yearn, Can the hand that casts thee from it now, command thee to return?
Return! alas! my iron steed, what will thy master do, When thou that wast his all of joy, has vanished from his view, When the dim distance greets mine eyes, and through the wandering tears, Thy bright form for a moment like the false mirage appears. Slow and unmounted will I roam, with wearied foot, alone, Where with fleet speed thy whirling wheels full oft hast borne me on; And sitting down on grassy bank, I’ll pause and sadly think ’Twas here he bowed his glossy neck and shot me o’er the brink.
Yet still, I love thee! away, away, the fever’d dream is o’er! I could not live a day and know that we should meet no more; They tempted me, my beautiful for money’s power is strong, They tempted me, my bicycle but I have loved too long. Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold? ’Tis false, ’tis false, my iron steed, I fling them back their gold. Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and roll o’er distant plains―― Away, who overtakes us now, shall claim thee for their pains.
ANONYMOUS.
A parody with the same title as the above, and written by R. P. Nind, appeared in Rare Bits for December 18, 1886. A prize was awarded to it as being the best poem written in praise of the bicycle. There was also another parody, entitled “The Englishman’s Farewell to his Train,” which appeared in Vol. I. of Tit Bits.
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THE PUBLIC’S ADDRESS TO HIS CABMAN.
My insolent, my turbulent! that stands crest-fallen by, With the recent Cab Act in thy hand, and tear-drops in thine eye, Try not to overcharge us now, or make our pockets bleed; You cannot do it now again――thou’rt sold, my man, indeed Fret not with that impatient cough: if surlily inclined, The nearest station is the place at which redress to find; The magistrates have now the power to mulct thee of thy gold, Or send thee off to jail, my friend. Thou’rt sold, my man, thou’rt sold.
Do they ill-use thee, Cabman? No! I’m sure it cannot be; You that have bullied half the world, and humbugged even me. And yet, if haply thou’rt done up, and for thee we should yearn, Can the same law that cut thee off compel thee to return? Return! alas! my Cabman bold, what shall the public do, When rain is falling everywhere, wetting the public through? I’ll stand me up beneath an arch, and pause and sadly think―― ’Twas at the beer-shop opposite, the Cabmen used to drink.
The Cabmen used to drink! Away――my fevered dream is o’er; I could not live a day and know cabs were to be no more. They’ve cut thee down, exacting one; but legal power is strong: You tempted us, my insolent! you kept it up too long. Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold? ’Tis false! tis false! Thou’rt better off, my Cabman, thou art told. Thus, thus, I leap into thy cab, to ride five miles from town, And when at Acton I alight, I’ll pay thee half-a-crown.
Punch. July 30, 1853.
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THE RINKER’S FAREWELL TO HER SKATES.
My beautiful! my beautiful! That hang so calm and still, I may not use you e’er again, For you have wrought me ill. Though you may roll the rink again With all your wingèd speed, I may not mount on you again I mayn’t, I mayn’t indeed. You’ll fly as you are wont to fly, Fast as the breezy wind, Alas! however fast you fly, You’ll leave me still behind. I must not rink on you again, For so by all I’m told; Swift wheel’d and beautiful, farewell! They say you must be sold.
Farewell! your patent “canting” wheels Full many a mile must rink, Ere into fell oblivion. Like others you must sink. Some other foot less soft than mine Must now upon you press, Some other hand must oil your wheels And maybe make a mess. The morning sun shall dawn again But never more with thee Shall I across the asphalte skate Where we were wont to be. Evening shall darken on the rink, For that what shall I care? I’ll ne’er return alone again I never shall go there.
Yes! you must go! no matter though The wrench should break my heart; My parents, friends, and doctors too, All say that we must part. Your tender straps some other foot To grasp must now endure, Beneath whose weight your “rubber pad” Perchance will grow less sure. Only in sleep again shall I Your springing action feel; Only in sleep shall hear again The creaking of your wheel. And when I raise my toe or heel To guide you through the stream, Then must I, starting, wake to find “’Tis nothing but a dream.”
A dream? alas! my much loved skates, What shall your mistress do When you, who were her joy of joys, Have vanish’d from her view? Shall I the charms of Badminton Or Lawn Tennis essay, Or knock the Billiard Balls about To pass the time away? Or purposeless, and aimless too, The lanes and meadows roam Seeking that “constitutional” I cannot get at home, And may-be pass that darling spot And pause and sadly think, ’Twas here we got that fall when last Together we did rink?
When last together we did rink! Away! the dream is o’er! I could not live a day, and know That we shall meet no more. They tempted me, my beautiful! Not without cause I own―― For all the rinking world knew well I broke my collar-bone. Who said that I had given you up? Who said you wrought me ill? ’Tis false, ’tis false! ’Twas my own fault I’ll risk another spill. Thus, thus I mount on you again, And o’er the asphalte fly―― Away! who’d win you for her own, To catch us let her try!
From Idyls of the Rink By A. W. Mackenzie. Second Edition. London. Hardwicke & Bogue. 1877.
――――:o:――――
BINGEN ON THE RHINE.
A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers―― There was lack of woman’s nursing, there was dearth of woman’s tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade’s hand, And he said: “I never more shall see my own my native land; Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen――at Bingen on the Rhine!
* * * * *
“Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage: For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child, My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate’er they would――but kept my father’s sword; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage wall at Bingen――calm Bingen on the Rhine!
“Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier, too――and not afraid to die. And, if a comrade seek her love, I ask her, in my name, To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father’s sword and mine), For the honour of old Bingen――dear Bingen on the Rhine!
“There’s another――not a sister,――in the happy days gone by, You’d have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye: Too innocent for coquetry; too fond for idle scorning;―― Oh, friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning! Tell her, the last night of my life (for, ere this moon be risen, My body will be out o pain――my soul be out of prison) I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen――fair Bingen on the Rhine!
* * * * *
His voice grew faint and hoarser,――his grasp was childish weak,―― His eyes put on a dying look,――he sighed and ceased to speak His comrade bent to lift him,… but the spark of life had fled! The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land was dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen――fair Bingen on the Rhine!
HON. MRS. NORTON.
ST. LOUIS BY THE CREEK.
During the Presidential Campaign of 1884 in the United States of America a great deal of jealousy and strife existed between different cities on the question as to where the nominating conventions should be held. After the Convention for the Republican party had been located at Chicago, the struggle became still more fierce as to where the Democratic Convention should assemble. It was Chicago against the field, but St. Louis a long way ahead of all other competitors. Both cities had committees working in Washington to support their interests, but finally the location was awarded to Chicago, whereupon the St. Louis people were in great wrath and indignation, and the St. Louis newspapers were very bitter in their remarks upon the contest.
Chicago, content with its victory, could afford to laugh at St. Louis, and the following parody appeared in the “Chicago Tribune”――
A Democratic Statesman stood in the bright saloon There was lack of laundried linen――to all Democrats a boon―― But a comrade stood beside him as the whiskey ebbed away And bent with pitying glances to hear what he might say. The bedrock Statesman faltered, as he put the tumbler down And he said, “I never more shall see my own, my native town,” Take a message and a token (’tis my board bill for a week), For I am from St. Louis――St. Louis by the creek.
“Tell my Democratic comrades as they gather from afar To hear my mournful story standing up against the bar; That we fought the battle bravely and when the shock was o’er Full many a jug that once held rye lay empty on the floor; And ’mid the knocked out phalanx were some grown old at bars, The death wound on their noses red the last of many scars; And some were young and suddenly began to feel quite weak And one was from St. Louis――St. Louis by the creek.
Tell my sister not to weep for me and make an awful scene; When the delegates are carried home (with aching heads I ween) But to put her foot down proudly, minding not what it may smash For her brother was a delegate, and stormed the sour mash. And if a comrade seek her love don’t let him get away. But secure a marriage license, and appoint the happy day: And hang the cork screw in its place (nor yet to use it seek) For the honor of St. Louis――St. Louis by the creek.
When we came here to Washington we thought to name the town Where the next convention would be held, but Chicago bore us down: The copper bottomed stomachs of their Statesmen held out well And to us the merry gurgle of each bottle was a knell, Who could hope against such talent the convention to secure―― Hope to make our sham Democracy o’ercome their Simon pure! No――the contest was a hopeless one――defeat has made me weak! And I ne’er shall see St. Louis――St. Louis by the creek.
His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse――he motioned for a drink, His eyes assumed a home-like look, he even ceased to blink; His comrade mixed a cocktail, but the spark of life had fled―― The Bourbon from St. Louis in a foreign land was dead. And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down (For the moon herself was full that night) on the crimson painted town, Her rays fell on the delegate his ruddy nose and cheek As they fell on far St. Louis――St. Louis by the creek.
WHAT IS THE GERMAN’S FATHERLAND?
The following imitation of this well-known German song appeared in Notes and Queries (London), in 1871:
“Where doth proud England’s boundary stand? In Europe’s land? In Asia’s land? Where islands spot the ocean’s face, Or where uncultured tribes have place? O no, O no, O no, O no! Her boundary farther yet must go.
“Where doth proud England’s boundary stand? In Afric’s land? Columbus’ land? Or is it marked by desert sand? By rocks, or by the sea’s wide strand? O no, O no, &c.
“Where doth proud England’s boundary stand Australia’s land? Tasmania’s land? Where earth and waters teem with gold? Where wealth is heaped in sums untold? O no, O no, &c.
“Where doth proud England’s boundary stand? O tell me in what distant land. From shore to shore, from pole to pole, Where’er the ocean surges roll, The earth doth smile, the sun doth shine,―― Go England there, for there is thine!”
F. C. H.
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HANS BREITMANN’S VATERLAND. (With due respect to Mr. Leland.)
Was ist des Breitmann’s Vaterland? Py Sharman sdream or Yankee sdrand? Ist wo Mosel tovärts de Rhein Pours bright pure vafe und thin poor wein? Ist wo, py Erie’s voondrous fount, De treaming Dutch de bubbles count? Oh no, no, no! Oh, no, no, no, You von’t content Hans Breitmann so.
Was ist des Breitmann’s Vaterland? Vho raised dis shief von blut and brand? Ist wo de hosts von Geist adfance To murder French und ploonder France? Ist wo, mit sack und sword und flame, Ne North de rebel South reclaim? Oh no, no, no! Oh no, no, no! You von’t content Hans Breitmann so.
Was ist des Breitmann’s Vaterland―― Dis segond Gotz von iron hand? Ist wo Petrolia’s fiery draught Of olt fictorious Bummers quaffed? Ist wo, ’mid corpses scharcely sdill, De true Champagne die Uhlans schvill? Oh no, no, no! Oh no, no, no! Hans Breitmann sdill wär dirsty so.
Was ist des Breitmann’s Vaterland? Oh name dat blace so pig und grand! Vhere Geist is sdill so voonderful, Vhere cities all are ploonderful, Vhich iron und blut to glory pring, Vhere robbers ne’er on gallows schving. Dere let me go! Dere let me go! Und wie der Breitmann leben so!
Was ist des Breitmann’s Vaterland? Verefer roves de Bummerband; Vhere Var lets lust und murder loose, Und theft in glory finds excuse; Vhere tyrant mob or robber-king Triumphant hymns to Himmel sing; Das soll es seyn, das soll es seyn; Ja, Breitmann, ja! dat land ist dein!
The Standard. January 30, 1871.
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WHAT IS THE GERMANS’ FATHERLAND? (Dedicated to the Exiled Deutchlanders.)
What is the Germans’ Fatherland? A country where the purple vine Adorns the banks of flowing Rhine, And men in want and hunger pine; That is the Germans’ Fatherland.
What is the Germans’ Fatherland? A thoughtful people’s teeming land, Where groan and pine a noble band Of men who love the right: That is the Germans’ Fatherland.
What is the Germans’ Fatherland? A nation where the stern command Of one man sways with iron hand The destinies of all; That is the Germans’ Fatherland.
What is the Germans’ Fatherland? An Empire steeped, on every hand, In poverty――an o’er-taxed land, Where iron grip and blood command; This is the Germans’ Fatherland.
What is the Germans’ Fatherland? A soldier-ridden, blood-stained soil, Where heaves and pants a vast turmoil Of down-trod noble souls; This is the Germans’ Fatherland.
From Fiz. January 17, 1879.
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ANOTHER VERSION.
What is the Briton’s Father-Land? Is’t where unfinished Paul’s doth stand, Is’t where Boyne William, stern, doth frown, Or where Sir Walter, calm, sits down? O no! O no! Because, you see, His Father-Land must greater be.
What is the Briton’s Father-Land? Is’t little Wales’s mountains grand, Is’t where Australia’s cattle grazes, Or where Maöris fight like blazes? O no! O no! Because, you see, His Father-Land must greater be.
What is the Briton’s Father-Land? Is it the grim Heligoland, Whereof Tom Campbell took and wrote A ghastly song about a Boat? O no! O no! Because, you see, His Father-Land must greater be.
What is the Briton’s Father-Land? Is it the brave Canadian strand Whereof Tom Moore he took and wrote A pleasing song about a Boat? O no! O no! Because, you see, His Father-Land must greater be.
What is the Briton’s Father-Land? (My patience drops its final sand――) ’Tis known by BÂTON and by hunch―― ’Tis where all good folk read their Punch―― Where Punch is seen in every hand, There! there’s the Briton’s Father-Land!
SHIRLEY BROOKS.
――――:o:――――
THE SNUG LITTLE ISLAND.
Daddy Neptune, one day, to Freedom did say, If ever I lived upon dry land, The spot I should hit on would be Little Britain! Says Freedom, “Why, that’s my own Island!” O, it’s a snug little Island! A right little, tight little Island! Search the globe round, none can be found So happy as this little Island.
Julius Cæsar, the Roman, who yielded to no man, Came by water――he couldn’t come by land; And Dane, Pict, and Saxon, their homes turn’d their backs on, And all for the sake of our Island. O, what a snug little Island! They’d all have a touch at the Island! Some were shot dead, some of them fled, And some stayed to live on the Island.
Then a very great war-man, called Billy the Norman, Cried, “D――n it, I never liked my land. It would be much more handy, to leave this Normandy, And live on your beautiful Island.” Says he, “’Tis a snug little Island; Shan’t us go visit the Island?” Hop, skip, and jump, there he was plump, And he kick’d up a dust in the Island.
But party deceit help’d the Normans to beat; Of traitors they managed to buy land; By Dane, Saxon, or Pict, Britons ne’er had been lick’d, Had they stuck to the King of their Island. Poor Harold, the king of our Island! He lost both his life and his Island. That’s all very true: what more could he do? Like a Briton he died for his Island!
The Spanish Armada set out to invade――a, ’Twill sure, if they ever come nigh land. They couldn’t do less than tuck up Queen Bess, And take their full swing on the Island. O, the poor Queen of the Island! The Dons came to plunder the Island; But snug in her hive, the queen was alive, And “buzz” was the word of the Island.
These proud puff’d-up cakes thought to make ducks and drakes Of our wealth; but they hardly could spy land, When our Drake had the luck to make their pride duck And stoop to the lads of the Island! Huzza for the lads of the Island! The good wooden walls of the Island; Devil or Don, let them come on; And see how they’d come off the Island!
Since Freedom and Neptune have hitherto kept tune, In each saying, “This shall be my land;” Should the “Army of England,” or all it could bring, land, We’d show ’em some play for the Island. We’d fight for our right to the Island; We’d give them enough of the Island; Invaders should just――bite once at the dust, But not a bit more of the Island.
THOMAS DIBDIN.
A somewhat different arrangement of this song appeared in The Spirit of the Public Journals for 1800, Volume IV. It contained several additional verses relating to the war with France, and Lord Nelson’s victories.
――――
THE VERY LATEST EDITION OF ROBINSON CRUSOE.
Published, with splendid illustrations, by Augustus Harris, Covent Garden Theatre.
Henry Byron one day to A. Harris did say “You’ve asked me to write, and I’ll do so; My pantomine theme I’ll work out with a dream, Of the fairies and Robinson Crusoe; There’s Payne will play Robinson Crusoe; Years ago he did Robinson Crusoe; But such pleasures of Payne, Evergreen will remain; And his sons shine in Robinson Crusoe.”
Then when came Christmas time, to the new Pantomime, Great crowds to the theatre drew; so Uproarious with joy grew man, woman, and boy At each scene in bright Robinson Crusoe. Coral groves were in Robinson Crusoe; Fairy-land was in Robinson Crusoe; Matt Morgan and Telbin, Hawes Craven had well been Working wonders for Robinson Crusoe.
Nelly Power skips in, with not much on her skin, But her natural charms are not few, so We need not complain if she likes to remain Half-naked through Robinson Crusoe. A smart elf she’s in Robinson Crusoe. Jigs a hornpipe in Robinson Crusoe; And sings to the tune “Up in a Balloon;” And frolics through Robinson Crusoe.
Stepping more warily, dressing less airily, Sweet and grave as the Last Waltz of Rousseau, Comes charming Miss Harris; while a danseuse from Paris Brings her pas into Robinson Crusoe. Lambertini’s in Robinson Crusoe; A grand ballet’s in Robinson Crusoe; With the tips of their toes They point at one’s nose, And cut capers in Robinson Crusoe.
When the next scene begins, we see Payne and the twins, His coat and his face looking blue, so We know that his wife is the plague of his life, And is master of Robinson Crusoe. Very riled is poor Robinson Crusoe; Sore perplexed is poor Robinson Crusoe; But, drinking and hopping Like sailors at Wapping, Hops away from Dame Robinson Crusoe.
Vivat wrecks! we may cry, when we next him espy, As he paddles his raft――not canoe――so We next see him land, on that desolate strand Where the footprint shocked Robinson Crusoe. Quashibungo meets Robinson Crusoe; Three niggers meet Robinson Crusoe; One of them fled, And one he shot dead, And one stayed with Robinson Crusoe.
Then we see him with Friday in his dwelling so tidy, Goat and parrot, and dog and cat, too; so, To bake they get at, while Friday a rat Pops the pie in of Robinson Crusoe. Oh! the gestures of Robinson Crusoe. While Friday jeers Robinson Crusoe! Then the last thing from France They, with decency, dance; The man Friday and Robinson Crusoe.
The procession of tribes then, as Stoyle says, “arribes;” The King and his squaw, and her trousseau; In the crocodile car, very splendid they are; ’Tis the great scene in Robinson Crusoe. Full of splendour is Robinson Crusoe; Full of fun, too, is Robinson Crusoe; But here I will stop, And the curtain will drop, On the Pantomime Robinson Crusoe.
Once a Week. February 6, 1869. London.
Although this clever parody was published anonymously, it was known to proceed from the pen of the witty and genial “Cuthbert Bede,” the author of Verdant Green, and other works of more historical importance.
――――:o:――――
THE SAILOR’S SLIP. Spithead, Saturday, July 23, 1887.
(Lord Charles Beresford sings.)
’Twas when the Great Review was o’er, To signal Lady C. I started. Oh, etiquette’s a horrid bore! I erred, and hence am broken-hearted. The whole huge Fleet the signal read―― Confound that thoughtless act of folly! What could I do but bow my head, And bid a long [?] adieu to Solly?
* * * * *
You see ’twas getting on for night, And true-bred tars, e’en midst carouses, Think with considerate delight About their sweethearts or their spouses. Up went my signal, frank and free, (A breach of rule most melancholy) To “give the tip” to Lady C., And now I have to part with Solly.
“Tell Lady Charles to go on board The Lancashire Witch, where I will join her”―――― And all the Fleet read this and roared. Well――of strong words Jack’s a free coiner, But never mind what I remarked When I perceived my act of folly. They’ll think the Naval Lord has larked! Hang it! I’ll say good-bye to Solly.
Such games aboard the Royal Yacht!―― Although I am a chartered rattle, The Big-wigs won’t stand this. ’Tis rot, But with red-tape who, who can battle? A private message to my wife By public signal! Oh, what folly! It is a lark, upon my life! But――I’ll resign my berth, dear Solly![80]
Punch. August 6, 1887.
――――:o:――――
The five following Nautical Songs were written for a Parody Competition, and printed in The Weekly Dispatch:――
A SAILOR’S JOURNAL. (Bound in Iron.)
’Twas post meridian, half-past four, The Nancy from her moorings parted; At six we drifted on to shore, And found out half her “plates” had started. At seven, as in distress we lay, To fire a signal was our fancy; But then, d’ye see, there was no way, No powder was aboard the Nancy.
Next day, tugged off, and into port, A month’s repairs, and off we glided At three o’clock, all trim and taut―― Then with the Margate boat collided. She soon sheered off, all safe and sound, But as for us――it was no fancy―― We overhauled the craft, and found There was a big hole in the Nancy.
We stuffed it up; a gale came on; We weathered it, though well-nigh worsted; Then at eight bells, or close upon, Two of our blessed boilers bursted! “Avast!” I cried, and swam ashore, “Them ironclads is not my fancy; If e’er I go a-cruising more, The Devil seize me, and sink the Nancy!
W. H. HADLEY.
POOR JACK.
Go, patter to Lords of the Admiralty ’Bout torpedoes and rams and the like; A sturdy old-fashioned three-decker give me, And to never a foeman I’ll strike. Now we’re caged up in armour, with guns of rare might, And think scorn of our vessels of wood, But our enemies with us keep pace left and right; Then I ask, after all, what’s the good? But jobbers are reckless and taxpayers soft And we sailors are taken aback, Though we know “there’s a Providence sits up aloft” To keep watch for the life of Poor Jack.
Just hear Lyon Playfair palaver away About ironclads, ordnance, and such. By Jingo! what Science has done in our day! But it hasn’t been proved very much. Those huge iron monsters may founder, d’ye see? And those great guns may burst, don’t you know? And our boasted appliances turn out to be More fatal to us than the foe. When hardy sea lions, who’ve conquered so oft, Are by engineers told to stand back, It may take the “sweet cherub that sits up aloft” All his time to look after Poor Jack.
ROBERT PUTTICK.
TOM TORPEDO.
Here lies a bit of Tom Torpedo, The darling of our crew, Who lost his rating, mates, indeed, O, At last Spithead Review. Our eighty-tonner was a beauty―― All flaws, like pewter soft: Tom fired it――for it was his duty―― And now he’s gone aloft.
“True to the core,” was poor Tom’s motto: He swore he’d fire the gun, His mates hung round and begged him not to, His Poll cried “Tom, ha’ done!” The crew all fainted――leastways, I did―― But at our fears he scoffed, And, just as two first-rates collided, He fired and――went aloft. They saved us, being summer weather: The Queen she gave commands To pipe our fragments all together, All minus feet or hands. But when she asked for Tom, our skipper Said, as his hat he doffed, “We’ve only got, marm, this ’ere flipper, The rest of him’s――aloft.”
DARJEW.
A sheer hulk lies the Devastation, The terror of its crew, And half a million to the nation Is broached by one review; Its form had nought of naval beauty, Its prowess was all “rot,” One bump unfitted it for duty, And now it’s gone to pot.
It barely from its berth departed Till Ajax barred the way, And then the Devastation started, For which John Bull must pay. The Jubilee had else been jolly, But here began the blot―― The monster brute betrayed its folly, And now has gone to pot.
Yet with the aid of pleasant weather, And pumping day and night, It somehow kept itself together To swell a show of might: When ship on ship its mate dispatches, And strives to sink the lot, Let those to whom the blame attaches At once be sent to pot.
GEORGE HAMILTON.
THE ARMOURED CRUISER.
Come, all ye modern seamen bold, Whose lot is cast in iron “mould,” Vast terror now in fashion old―― Hurrah for the armoured cruiser!
Aggressive zeal has launched too far These huge leviathans of war, For smaller craft more deadly are―― The restless armoured cruiser!
The lither foe, says E. J. Reed, Would prove, with its terrific speed, To foes an awful foe indeed―― The flashing armoured cruiser!
And now let’s hope that wars may cease, And power enforce a lasting peace, Making a strife upon the seas Absurd, with the armoured cruiser.
ISAAC READ.
Parody Competition in The Weekly Dispatch, July 31, 1887.
――――:o:――――
THE BRITISH ASS.
(Roared by Sheriff Nicolson in a Den of Scientific Lions at Edinburgh during the visit of the British Association to that city in August, 1871.)
Some men go in for Science, And some go in for shams, Some roar like hungry lions, And others bleat like lambs; But there’s a beast, that at this feast Deserves a double glass. So let us bray, that long we may Admire the BRITISH ASS! Chorus――With an ASS-ASS-OCIATION, &c.
On England’s fragrant clover This beast delights to browse, But sometimes he’s a rover To Scotland’s broomy knowes; For there the plant supplies his want, That doth all herbs surpass, The thistle rude――the sweetest food That feeds the BRITISH ASS!
We’ve read in ancient story, How a great Chaldean swell Came down from all his glory, With horned beasts to dwell; If you would know how it happened so, That a King should feed on grass, In Section D, Department B, Inquire of the BRITISH ASS!
To Grecian sages, charming, Rang the music of the spheres, But voices more alarming Salute our longer ears; By Science bold we now are told How Life did come to pass. From world to world the seeds were hurled, Whence sprung the BRITISH ASS!
In our waltzing through creation, We meet those fiery stones That bring, for propagation, The germs of flesh and bones; And is it not a thrilling thought, That some huge misguided mass, Will, one fine day, come and sweep away Our dear old BRITISH ASS!
The child who knows his father, Has aye been reckoned wise, But some of us would rather Be spared that sweet surprise! If it be true, that when we view A comely lad or lass, We find the trace of the monkey’s face In the gaze of the BRITISH ASS!
The ancients, childish creatures! Thought we derived from Heaven, The Godlike form and features To mankind only given But now we see our pedigree Made plain as in a glass, And when we grin we betray our kin To the sires of the BRITISH ASS!
――――
THE BRITISH VOLUNTEER.
The country has a quarter of a million of highly trained and disciplined Volunteers, yet the Government will neither find rifle ranges for the Infantry, nor cannon for the artillery. Camp equipment, commissariat, ambulance, and medical stores, are all wanting to render the service of any practical value in time of need.
Some prate of patriotism, and some of cheap defence, But to the high official mind that’s all absurd pretence; For of all the joys of snubbing, there’s none to it so dear, As to snub, snub, snub, snub, snub, snub, the British Volunteer!
A patriotic Laureate may bid the Rifles form. And Citizens may look to them for safety in War’s storm; But Secretaries, Dooks, and such as this delight to jeer, And to snub, snub, snub, snub, snub, snub the British Volunteer!
A semi-swell he may be, but he may be a mere clerk, And he’s an interloper, and to snub him is a lark. Sometimes he licks the Regulars, and so our duty’s clear, ’Tis to snub, snub, snub, snub, snub, snub the British Volunteer!
He hankers for an increase in his Capitation Grant, It’s like his precious impudence, and have the lift he shan’t. What, make it easier for him to run us close? No fear! We’ll snub, snub, snub, snub, snub, snub the British Volunteer!
He has a fad for Wimbledon, but that is just a whim, And as eviction’s all the go, we’ll try it upon him, He’s not an Irish tenant, so no one will interfere, When once more we snub, snub, snub, snub the British Volunteer!
His targets and his tents and things are nuisances all round, As Jerry-Builders, Dooks, and other Toffs have lately found. Compared with bricks and mortar and big landlords he’s small beer, So we’ll snub, snub, snub, snub, snub, snub the British Volunteer!
* * * * *
If he must shoot his annual shoot somewhere, why, let him go To Pirbright or to Salisbury Plain, or e’en to Jericho. But out from his loved Wimbledon he’ll surely have to clear,―― A final snub, snub, snub, snub to the British Volunteer!
Punch. August 20, 1887.
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MR. W. CHAPPELL’S valuable Collection of English National Airs contains a few curious parodies. Of “The Hunt is up,” a very old ballad, he remarks:――
“Musick’s Delight on the Cithern, from which our copy of the music is taken contains many very old and popular tunes, such as ‘Trip and go,’ and ‘Light o’ Love’ which we have, found in no other printed collection. The words also are evidently much older than ‘Merry Drollery,’ being parodied in ‘Ane compendious Booke of Godly and Spirituall Songs, collectit out of Sundrie of Partes of Scripture, with Sundrie of other Ballates changed out of prophaine Sanges for avoyding of Sinne and Harlottrie, &c.;’ reprinted in Edinburgh, by Andro Hart, in 1621, the original edition having been published in 1590.
“A ‘Hunt is up,’ or ‘Hunt’s up,’ was a general term for hunting songs, or rather an early song to rouse the party for the chase, something equivalent to the French Réveillée. It was afterwards generally used for any description of morning song.
“Maurus, last morne, at’s mistress window plaid An hunt’s up on his lute; but she (it’s said) Threw stones at him: so he, like Orpheus there Made stones come flying his sweet notes to heare.
Wits’ Bedlam, 1617.
“And now the cock, the morning’s trumpeter, Play’d hunt’s up for the day-star to appear.――Drayton.
The following is the parody from the “’Compendious Booke of Godly Songs.’”
“With hunts up, with hunts up, It is now perfite day; Jesus our King is gane in hunting; Quha (who) likes to speed they may.
“Ane cursit fox lay hid in rox This lang and mony ane day, Devouring sheep, whilk he might creep; Nane might him shape away.
“It did him gude to laip the blude Of young and tender lammis: Nane could him mis, for all was his, The young anes with their dammes.
“The hunter is Christ, that hunts in haist; The hunds are Peter and Paul; The Paip is the fox; Rome is the rox That rubbis us on the gall.
“That cruel beist, he never ceist, By his usurpit power, Under dispence, to get our pence, Our saullis to devoure.
“Quha could devise sic merchandise As he had there to sell, Unless it were proud Lucifer, The great Master of Hell?
“He had to sell the Tantonie bell, And pardons therein was; Remissions of sins in auld sheep skinis, Our sauls to bring from grace.
“With buls of lead, white wax and reid, And either whiles with green, Closit in ane box, this usit the fox; Sic peltrie was never seene.”
As another strange instance of religious fanaticism, Mr. Chappell quotes a love-ditty of about the year 1590, and its absurd conversion into a “Godly song”――
“Go from my window, love go; Go from my window, my dear; The wind and the rain, Will drive you back again; You cannot be lodged here.
“Begone, begone, my juggy, my puggy, Begone, my love, my dear; The weather is warm, ’T will do thee no harm; Thou canst not be lodged here.
“Quho (who) is at my windo, who, who? Goe from my windo, goe, goe. Quho (who) calls there, so like ane strangere? Goe from windo, goe, goe.
“Lord, I am here, ane wretched mortal, That for thy mercie dois crie and call Unto thee, my Lord celestiall; See who is at my windo, who?
“O gracious Lord celestiall, As thou art Lord and King Eternal; Grant us grace that we may enter all, And in at thy doore let me goe.
“Quho is at my windo, quho? Go from windo, go; Cry no more there, like are strangere, But in at my doore thou go.’
――――:o:――――
GUNPOWDER PLOT.
’Tis good to remember The FIFTH of NOVEMBER, Gunpowder, treason, and plot; There’s abundance of reason To think of the treason, Then why should it e’er be forgot? Our sympathies thrive By keeping alive Such sweet little hatreds as these; And folks love each other As dear as a brother, Whose throat they are ready to squeeze.
I delight in the joys Of the vagabond boys, When they’re burning Guy Vaux and the Pope; It the flame keeps alive, It makes bigotry thrive, And gives it abundance of scope. ’Tis a beautiful truth For the minds of our youth, And will make them all Christians indeed; For the Church and the State Thus to teach ’em to hate All those of a different creed.
From George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanac, 1835.
――――:o:――――
A RHYME FOR THE TIME.
“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?” “I’m going a-voting, Sir,” she said. “I’ll be your escort, my pretty maid.” “I need not trouble you, Sir,” she said. “Then will you not vote for me, my pretty maid?” “Tell me your policy, Sir,” she said. “Concession and cowardice, my pretty maid.” “Out of the question, Sir,” she said. “Yet they are the cheapest, my pretty maid.” “Not in the long run, Sir,” she said. “But I’ll leave my friends to stew in their juice; I’ll let the colonies go to the deuce; I’ll truckle to Russia and worry the Porte (Pray look upon that as my special forte); I’ll shut my ears when a hero calls, And I’ll go, when he dies, to the music-halls.
“How will that suit you, my pretty maid?” “I could not consent to it, Sir,” she said. “Never mind foreign affairs, my lass; I’ll give you a cow and three acres in grass: The cow shall be Smith’s and the grass shall be Brown’s, And the butter will buy you a couple of gowns. What do you say to that, pretty maid?” “Robbery! bribery! Sir!” she said. “Then I won’t be your escort, my pretty maid!” “Nobody asked you, Sir!” she said.
The St James’s Gazette. November 27, 1885.
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SWEET HOME RULE.
’Mid closures and procedure and orders by the tome, Be it ever so simple, there’s no Rule like Home; To mind our own business we often are warned, Then why not let Paddy take Ireland in hand? Home Rule! Sweet Home Rule! There’s no plan so good, so give them Home Rule.
Without it Coercion is tried, but in vain, Evictions and Land Acts all bring strife and pain; A Senate in Dublin, to meet at their call, With the knowledge of their local wants dearer than all. Home Rule! Sweet Home Rule! There’s no plan so good, so give them Home Rule.
The Liberal and Radical. September, 1887.
――――
ALE.
O’er cut-glass and chalices the eye may like to roam, And our pewter may be humble, but ’tis ale that makes it foam; The taste that you prize surely waits for you there, Oh, the flavour of such malt and hops was never found elsewhere. Ale, ale, double X ale! There is no drink like ale, there’s no drink like ale!
Some tell me their small is good, but for me I do not heed it; And I don’t like your fourpenny, nor yet your intermediate. The gin it don’t agree with me, the brandy makes me pale, But the reason I’m so jolly is, I stick to drinking ale. Ale, ale, double X ale! There’s no drink like ale, there’s no drink like ale!
An exile from Knight’s, liquors dazzle me in vain; Oh, give me nay seat at the Christopher again; The jolly little pot-boy that came at my call; And give me my glass of ale, dearer than all. Ale, ale, double X ale! There’s no drink like ale, there’s no drink like ale!
EVERARD CLIVE.
――――:o:――――
JUBILATE.
“Ring out the joybells! ring a loud peal! We are English you know! So English, you know! Yes, this is a moment at which we all feel We are English, you know! So English, you know! ’Tis a time to exult! At the sound of her voice The rest of the world should kneel down and rejoice That England, the mighty, allows them this day To come to her throne their poor homage to pay. So cry jubilate! and banish your woe! We are English, you know! Yes, so English, you know!
“For we English, you know, are the mightiest nation; We are English, you know! So English, you know! And have we not cause for this grand jubilation? So English, you know! So English, you know! The Queen of our country has reigned fifty years, So greet her with joybells, and join in three cheers! Our wealth and good fortune she graciously shares, She has cost a few millions――so Bradlaugh declares, So cry jubilate! and banish your woe! For it’s English, you know! Yes, so English, you know!
“Then cheer for Prince Bertie! He’s gallant, if weak; That is English, you know. So English, you know! Though of German extraction, he sticks to his clique; Which is English, you know! So English, you know! His thoughts are Imperial, his Institute’s grand; To build it he begs with his hat in his hand. For there’s nought to be done without hats full of tin; And he doesn’t much care so the money comes in From the rich and the poor, from the high and the low―― Which is English, you know! Yes, so English, you know!
“The publicans now are assisting to pay―― Which is English, you know! Quite English, you know! Our taxes by fines, and they don’t like this way―― Which is English, you know! Quite English, you know! Sir Wilfrid declares selling liquor is wrong, But the Government analysts say, ‘Make it strong.’ Next election the Tories will find, I much fear, Their votes from the bungs will be very small beer―― But cry jubilate! Good bitter must flow―― For it’s English, you know! Quite English, you know!
“At the last Jubilee people went on a spree; Which is English, you know! So English, you know! They feasted and fed all the poor with much glee; Which is English, you know! Quite English, you know; But this time a journalist heads his own list, And makes an appeal which few folks can resist, For treating the children, oh, won’t it seem queer, If Jewbilee Lawson[81] is not made a peer? Will Didcott be knighted for bossing the show? ’Twould be English, you know! Quite English, you know!
From The Reign of Error. London: J. Cheetham. 1887.
――――
QUITE ENGLISH.
When the Comte de Paris recently issued a manifesto to the French nation, few sensible people gave it a serious thought, for Bourbons and Buonapartes are as much played out in France, as the Stuarts are in this country. Punch (September 24, 1887) ridiculed the pretensions of this would-be constitutional king, representing him as masquerading in John Bull’s garments, a world too wide for his shrunk shanks, and singing:――
Here I come in complete Constitutional coat (That’s English, you know; quite English, you know): The type of true Monarchy based on the Vote. (That’s English, you know; quite English, you know); To have a legitimate King on the throne, To make all the Country’s best interests his own, Great, grand, patriotic, but not overgrown (That’s English, you know; quite English, you know).
Chorus.
Oh, the things that you see and the things that you hear Are English, you know; quite English, you know. My mind, like my last Manifesto, ’tis clear, Is English, quite English, you know!
Just now a great calm meets the national eyes (That’s English, you know; quite English, you know): But imminent perils it cannot disguise (That’s English, you know; quite English, you know). We have deserved well of Conservative France; A Monarchy only her bliss can enhance; And now of its nature I’ll give you a glance (That’s English, you know; quite English, you know).
Direct, universal, free suffrage, my friends, (That’s English, you know; quite English, you know), Will vote――well for Me, and all trouble then ends (That’s English, you know; quite English, you know). The King, with the Chamber’s concurrence, will rule. The Deputies then can no more play the fool―― Clemenceau, Boulanger, and men of that school (That’s English, you know; quite English, you know).
* * * * *
Constitutional principles, these, my good friend! (They’re English, you know; quite English, you know)―― They Conservative needs and Equality blend, (That’s English, you know; quite English, you know). Do at my new Royal rig-out take a glance! In this to the front I shall proudly advance, As the true King of all, and first Servant of France, (But English, you know; quite English, you know).
Chorus.
The things which I say it is time you should hear (They’re English, you know; quite English, you know). The principles these to make France without peer (Though they’re English; quite English, you know)!
――――:o:――――
I NEVER MENTION IT.
Oh, no! I never mentioned it, I never said a word; But lent my friend my five pound note, Of which――I’ve never heard! He said he merely borrowed it To pay another debt―― And since I’ve never mentioned it, He thinks that I forget!
Where’er we ride I pay the ’pike; I settle every treat; He rides my cob, he drives my cab,―― But cuts me when we meet! My new umbrella I lent him too, One night ’twas very wet; Tho’ he forgets it ne’er came back, Ah, me!――I don’t forget!
(Three verses omitted.)
My friend is cousin to a lord; And when a feed I sport, He always asks his own fine friends, Who drink champagne like port! Last night down my own very stairs They kick’d me for a bet! By goles! I’ll fight them every one―― That’s――if I don’t forget.
By Lady Clarke, in The Comic Offering for 1832. London: Smith, Elder and Co.
――――
PARODY ON “ALICE GRAY.”
“She’s all my fancy painted her, She’s lovely! she’s divine!” Thus sighed all day my silly heart, Before my wife was mine: I loved as mankind ever love, And all love must decay: I found I had a wife,――Good lack! Whose horrid hair was grey!
Fine dark brown locks seemed braided O’er her brow of spotless white; Her eyes, on me soft languishing, Oft beamed with fond delight:―― But now they flash with angry fire; The paint is washed away From off that forehead brown――Good lack! Whose horrid braids are grey!
I’d slumber o’er a mountain’s side, I’d cross an angry flood; T’escape her tongue’s continued strife, I’d dare the field of blood. But soon the turf will wrap my grave. And all my friends will say:―― He thought her young――and died――Good lack! When he found her locks were grey!
LOUISA H. SHERIDAN.
From The Comic Offering for 1832, London: Smith, Elder & Co.
――――:o:――――
THE SOLDIER’S FEAR.
Upon the hill he turned, To take a last fond look Of the alehouse, and the village church, And the cottage by the brook. To use his pockethandkerchief, While tears began to swell, The soldier leant upon his sword―― It bent――and down he fell.
Amid the roar of battle, The warrior’s fellest blow Has failed to penetrate the coat That shields the vaunting foe. But though the pliant steel may cost Our bravest and our best, Be sure the sword most yielding there Has passed the strictest test.
Punch. April 30, 1887.
Another parody, entitled “The Sapper’s Beer,” a recollection of the Crystal Palace, occurs on p. 383 of The Month, by Albert Smith. 1851.
There are parodies of several other songs in the same volume, but they are all quite out of date.
――――――
THE SHOPMAN’S HORROR.
She stood beside the counter, The day he’ll ne’er forget, She thought the muslin dearer Than any she’d seen yet; He watched her playful finger The silks and satins toss, The shopman looked uneasy And felt a little cross.
“Show me some velvet ribbon, Barege and satin turc,” She said, “I want to purchase!” Then gave the goods a jerk. The shopman, all obedience―― Brought satins, silks and crape; At length, with hesitation, She bought a yard of tape!
ANONYMOUS.
――――:o:――――
FOR EVER AND FOR EVER.
Ah, me! I often think, my pet, Of that sweet hour when first we met―― A time that I would fain forget For ever and for ever! Beneath the palms we sat alone; We’d lost, I think, your chaperon; You whispered you would be my own For ever and for ever!
Ah, me! how well can mem’ry show That letter which I wrote to know If I were doomed to weal or woe For ever and for ever! When her papa’s consent I read―― Oh, how to see my love I sped! Folks thought me one whose wits had fled For ever and for ever!
Ah, me! that stroll down Regent Street, That afternoon when you, my sweet, Said strawberry ices you could eat For ever and for ever! Ah, me! with what a queenly air You entered “Jay’s” and took a chair! I thought, my love, you’d keep me there For ever and for ever!
Ah, me! the way you said, “I see A bracelet sweet. Oh, give it me! And I shall fondly think of thee For ever and for ever!” I said, “I can’t!” You said, “You will!” My love, I owe the money still. By Jove! they’ll have to send that bill For ever and for ever!
Ah, me! that morn at Whiteley’s mart; What time I said, “I think, sweetheart, That you and I had better part For ever and for ever!” A luckless speech with dire effect; My new silk hat at once was wrecked! That moment I shall recollect For ever and for ever!
Ah, me! that afternoon in court, When you, my love, your action brought; The peals of mirth would last, I thought, For ever and for ever! Some beings we can ne’er forget; Years may roll on, but I, my pet, Shall think of thee――with deep regret―― For ever and for ever!
LAURENCE S. MAY. From Cassell’s Saturday Journal. March 19, 1887.
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THE OLD CREEDS. AIR――“I cannot sing the Old Songs.”
I cannot hold the old creeds, We have them now outgrown; They cramped and bound the loving soul With fetters quite their own; The dogmas of the ancient faiths Are passing fast away, And now there dawns upon us Beams of a brighter day.
I cannot love the old times, When truth was seldom taught, When Church and Priest usurped the right To stifle human thought; When deeds of darkness, crime and woe, Were seen on every hand, And Old Religion’s name was made A terror in the land.
I cannot tread the old paths, With rankest weeds o’ergrown; A better way is opened up, Whose gates are closed to none. Nature’s domain is now our road, And science is our guide; We’ve travelled from sectarian strife With Freethought to abide.
G. SEXTON.
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A parody of General G. P. Morris’s song, “Woodman, Spare that Tree.”
Butcher, spare that pig! Touch not a single limb! He’ll soon be fat and big, Though now he’s lean and slim. ’Twas my old father’s hand That placed him in his sty; And, till too fat to stand, That porker shall not die!
My little girl and boy Delight to hear him grunt; They prod him in their joy With sticks which are not blunt. My mother kissed him here, Upon his luscious cheek; My aunt would shed a tear Whene’er she heard him squeak.
My heart-strings round thee cling Close as thy crackling, friend! Thy bacon soon shall sing, Its frying scent ascend. But now thou would’st be tough So, butcher, go away; Not till he’s fat enough, My piggy shall you slay.
ANONYMOUS.
――――:o:――――
I’D BE A BOTTLE-FLY.
I.
I’d be a bottle-fly, buzzing and blue, With a Chuny[82] proboscis, and nothing to do, But to dirty white dimity curtains, and blow The choicest of meats when the summer days glow! Let the hater of sentiment, dew-drops, and flowers, Scorn the insect that flutters in sunbeams and bowers; There’s a pleasure that none but the blue-bottle knows―― ’Tis to buzz in the ear of a man in a doze!
II.
How charming to haunt a sick-chamber, and revel O’er the invalid’s pillow, like any blue devil; When pursued, to bounce off to the window, and then From the pane to the counter-pane fly back again! I’d be a bottle-fly, buzzing and blue, With a Chuny proboscis, and nothing to do, But to dirty white dimity curtains, and blow The choicest of meats when the summer days glow!
From Blackwood’s Magazine. May, 1828.
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PARODY.
As sung by Robson, in “Masaniello,” a burlesque by Robert Brough.
I’m a shrimp! I’m a shrimp of diminutive size; Inspect my antennæ and look at my eyes; I’m a natural syphon when dipped in a cup, For I drain the contents to the latest drop up; I care not for craw fish, I heed not the prawn; From a flavour especial my fame has been drawn.
Nor e’en to the crab or the lobster I’ll yield, When I’m properly cooked and efficiently peeled. Quick, quick! pile your coals, let your saucepan be deep, For the weather is warm, and I’m not sure to keep. Off, off with my head! split my shell into three! I’m a shrimp, I’m a shrimp, to be eaten with tea!
Another parody of the same original was sung by the late comedian, Edward Wright, as Mr. Chatterton Chopkins, in “This House to be Sold (the property of the late William Shakespeare); Enquire Within.” This was written by J. Sterling Coyne, and produced at the Adelphi Theatre, London, September 9, 1847.
――――
I’M A GENT! I’M A GENT!
I’m a gent! I’m a gent! I’m a gent ready made; I rove through the Quadrant and Lowther Arcade; I’m a register’d swell from the head to the toe; I wear a moustache and a light paletôt.
I’ve a cane in my hand, and a glass in my eye; And I wink at the girls as I pass them by. Then, la! how they giggle to win my regards, And I hear them all say, “He’s a gent in the Guards!”
I can sing a flash song, I can blow on the horn, I like sherry cobblers――am fond of Cremorne; I love the Cellarius, the Polka I dance, And I’m rather attached to a party from France.
This gal I adore, is a creature divine, Though deucedly partial to lobsters and wine; She was struck with my figure, and caught with a hook, For I took her to visit “my uncle the Duke.”
I’m a gent! I’m a gent! in the Regent Street style; Examine my waistcoat, and look at my tile. There are gents, I dare say, who are handsomer far, But none who can puff with such ease a cigar.
From Sharp’s Vauxhall Comic Song Book. London: Thomas Allman.
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THE OLD ENGLISH CONSTABLE.
I’ll sing you of a good old boy, whom all must now revere, Of a fine old English constable, who lived for many a year; Who, though his natural looks were kind, could oft be most severe, And could whene’er he had a mind strike every one with fear―― Like a fine old English constable, one of the olden time.
His office was to keep the peace and order of the town, To take the roaming spirits up, and knock the rising down. They wanted then no new police, with hats glazed round the crown, To strut about, for he did all, in rare old rusty gown―― Like a grand old English constable, one of the olden time.
He often had to ring a bell, that every one might hear, When goods were stolen, strayed, or lost, in accents loud and clear. So maidens when their reticules were miss’d, did never cry, For love letters were found before they reached the parent’s eye―― By the good old English constable, one of the olden time.
There are nine more verses of this parody. It occurs in Songs, by “Jingo,” published by Edward West, Newgate Street, London. No date, but probably about 1859. It also contains parodies of “Meet me by Moonlight Alone,” “The Cannibal Islands,” “The Ratcatcher’s Daughter,” “I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls,” and many other songs which were popular about thirty years ago.
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AN OPIUM VISION. (After a long course of Alma Tadema.)
I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls, Whilst Sappho sang songs at my side, Ah! cold as a bath were those glittering walls, The doors and the windows were wide. From no point of view could I make head or tail Of the plan, the perspective, the plot; Though ’twas all on a truly magnificent scale, If I knew what it meant I’ll be shot.
* * * * *
From Harry Furniss’s Royal Academy. 1887.
There was another parody in Punch for August 20, 1887, commencing thus:――
I dreamt that I gazed at the Marble Arch, King Fog and King Coal at my side; The soot of November, the dust storms of March, Had made it a sight to deride.
* * * * *
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MY DUDE. AIR――“My Queen.”
When and where shall I earliest meet him? What are the clothes he then will wear? Will he still use the same big eye-glass Which gives his eyes such a vacant glare? Will he still walk like a hen rheumatic, Or like a goose by a boy pursued? He whom I look for with longing ecstatic, He whom I worship――My Dude, My Dude.
Will his small moustache be with wax anointed? Will his hair in the middle be parted neat? Will he still wear those boots so pointed, Pinching his dear little tender feet? Will his legs be thin and his hat be curly? Will he suck his cane as a child its food? Will he still call me his girly, girly? He whom I worship――My Dude, My Dude.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
HOW VERY GREEN!
Oh! a cunning plant doth the Jew, I ween, Oft make of both young and old; The younger the better, for then the more green, And so much the more readily sold. He’ll lend him cash, or sell him jewels, Or horses; he’ll pleasure each whim Of such arrant young fool; for he knows by-and-bye There’s a merry meal for him! So teaching the youth how life should be seen, He plucketh the feathers of Verdant Green.
Fast he leadeth him on at a terrible pace (Yet how staunch doth his false heart seem); How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend “Mishter Verdant Green!” All the while slily weaving around his path, A net that very soon will Put a stop to his game; then no longer the Jew Will discount, but sue on each bill; Having shown the way that life should be seen, By emptying the pockets of Verdant Green.
Whole ages have fled, and their works decay’d, And nations have scatter’d been; But the cunning old Jew will ne’er cease to drain The life-blood of each Verdant Green. And old “Shent per shent,” in his lonely days, Will e’er chuckle o’er the past, As he crones of the fortunes that Christians raise But to come to the Jews at last. And thus to the end of time, I ween, The Jew will thrive on each Verdant Green.
Diogenes. July, 1853.
――――
A FINE OLD CHANT.
Oh! a fine old chant is “God Save the Queen,” With “Britannia Rules the Waves,” I like a red cabbage from Turnham Green, And Britons are――always slaves. We are miserable, in this happy land, Impossible things must be done; For a mouldy crust, and water for thirst, A Briton about doth run. Oh, chanting where gay life is seen, A fine old chant is “God Save the Queen.” Chanting where gay life is seen, A fine old chant is――“God Save the Queen.”
A. W. HUMPHREYS.
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“IN THE GLOAMING.”
On the ocean, oh, my darling, When it rocks us to and fro, Don’t you think ’twere better, darling, We should both go down below? When the waves are tossing gently, ’Tis a sudden unknown woe Prompts me once again to ask you, Would you like to go below?
In the gloaming, oh, my darling, Cling not tenderly to me, For I oft with shortened warning Rush to view the deep blue sea; And I feel all choked with something Longing, struggling to be free; It were best to leave me thus, dear, Best for you, and best for me.
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TEN LIBERAL UNIONISTS. (By Sir Wilfrid Lawson.)
Ten Liberal Unionists, kicking up a shine, One went to Burnley, and then there were but nine.
Nine little Unionists, weeping o’er his fate, Another went to Ilkeston, and then there were eight.
Eight little Unionists, trusting still in Heaven, Fought a fight in Cornwall, and then there were seven.
Seven little Unionists, still up to tricks, Had a fling at Spalding, and then there were six.
Six little Unionists, fresh and all alive, Sent a man to Coventry, and then there were five.
Five little Unionists, valiant as before, Tried their luck at Glasgow, and then there were four.
Four little Unionists, bumptious as could be, Had a shot at Northwich, and then there were three.
Three little Unionists, looking rather blue, Thomas Russell left them, and then there were two.
Two little Unionists, feeling rather done, Joe cut a summersault, and then there was one.
One little Hartington, sitting all alone, He joined the Tories, and then there were none.
Pall Mall Gazette. 1887.
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THE LOST DISCORD.
Standing one day at his organ, The grinder seemed quite at ease, With his monkey idly chasing The far too-industrious fleas. I know not what he was playing (For I was composing then), But I heard someone curse that organ, And I murmured a great “Amen!”
That discord, it filled the silence With a sound as of tom-cats lorn; It racked my brain like a nightmare, It was worse than an oil-cloth torn. It was like inharmonious yelling; It made all the street-dogs whine, It seems that the soul of that organ Had spitefully gone for mine.
So I made for that organ-grinder, And swore that I’d break each limb; And his monkey his fleas ceased chasing, When he saw I meant chasing him. It may be in some other quarter He’s playing that air――and then, If someone is smashing his organ, I fervently say, “Amen!”
Judy. May 26, 1886.
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YE BICYCLISTS OF ENGLAND.
Ye Bicyclists of England Who stride your wheels with ease, How little do you think upon What Mr. Sturmey[83] sees. The Wheelman’s standard rises high With every year that goes, Wheels sweep, fast and cheap, Whereof Sturmey’s trumpet blows―― Our cycles range more swift and strong, And Sturmey’s trumpet blows――
* * * * *
The “meteor” wheels of England Shall yet terrific turn; ’Tis true that France gave us a start―― Now she has much to learn. To you, our brave wheel-warriors, Our song and glass shall flow; To the fame of your name Mr. Sturmey’s trumpets blow―― Cycles or Cyclists, ours are best, So why should we not blow?
Punch. October 1, 1887
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THE SONG OF BILLIAWATHA.[84]
Should you ask me whence these Indians? Whence these cowboys, whence these riders, Whence these Red Shirts and these shootists, With their tomahawks and war-paint, With their mustangs and buck jumpers, With their lassoes, with their rifles, With the savour of the prairies, With a smack of Reid and Cooper, And of melodrama on them? I should answer――I should tell you Buffalo, the great Bill, found them, Brought them from their camps and wigwams, From their lodges on the prairies In the great Show land of Barnum, In the clime of Minnie Palmer; Brought them here to Earl’s Court, Brompton, Where the Lohndahner, the Cochneh, Will throughout the Lohndahn season Flock in troops to gaze and wonder At their prowess with the bronchoes, At their dextrous use of lasso, At their deadly skill with rifle; Wonder how the deuce they do it, Wonder what the men are made of, How on earth they learned such dodges. If still further you should ask me What’s the use of all these cowboys? What’s the good of these wild Red men? What’s to us this coach of Deadwood, Or this railroad, the Switchback? I should answer your conundrums In the straitest tips as follow: In the wilds of Kensingtonia, In the land of Exhibitions, Where the Fisheries, the Health’ries, The Invent’ries, the Colindries Drew their thousands, drew the masses, Drew the town for four past seasons, Something new to-day is wanted, Something to revive the glories Of those sights and shows now played out; Something fresh must be provided, So the Lohndahner, the Cochneh, The Prohvinshial, the Yohkehl Still may find congenial pastime, Still may revel through the summer Nights, and puff the penny Piquewique; Feast his eyes with coloured lanterns, And his inner man with “cocktails,” Soothe his soul with “corpse revivers,” Steep himself in “maiden’s blushes,” List the strains of martial music, Mash the merry maids of Bertram. Hence these Yank’ries, these Cowboyries, Hence these Westeries, these Wigwamries, With the customs of the prairies, With their buffaloes and mustangs, With their skilful shooting maidens, With the squaws and their papooses, With the plundered coach of Deadwood, And the toboggin and Switchback, And the drinks of Yankee Doodle.
Judy. June 1, 1887.
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W. S. GILBERT’S SONGS.
A CRACKSMAN’S CAROL.
[A burglar, who was recently arrested, was proved to have a yacht of his own, on which he went sailing when not on burgling bent. Doubtless, in the fulness of time, the noble army of cracksmen will thus carol in a Gilbertian strain.]
AIR――Policemen’s Chorus (“Pirates of Penzance.”)
When the window “prising” burglar’s not a-burgling――not a-burgling, He doesn’t rush to some mere rural spot, And listen to the rivulet a-gurgling――’let a-gurgling, But skims along the ocean in his yacht. When his “lay” has been of “Ooftish” most productive――most productive, And he finds the land is getting rather “hot,” Then he tries a pastime soothing and instructive――and instructive, For he bounds across the billows in his yacht. When no “swag” is for the present to be got――to be got, He loves to go and navigate his yacht――’gate his yacht.
When the cracksman rests awhile from his employment――his employment, With his “jemmy” and his skeletonian key, Then he feels as how he ought to seek enjoyment――seek enjoyment, By inhaling of the breezes of the sea. When officious “slops” and “’tecs” would dare pursue him――dare pursue him, And his whereabouts they’re likely for to “spot,” Then in search of recreation you may view him――yes, you’ll view him, Large as life enjoying otium in his yacht. For a-lurking on the land is “Tommy-Rot”――“Tommy Rot,” So off he goes a-sailin’ in his yacht――in his yacht.
Fun. June 1, 1887.
――――
IT REALLY DOESN’T MATTER!
Trevelyan.
My eyes were fully open to my awful situation―― So I went at once to Gladstone, and I made him an oration. I explained to him that I once more was in my proper senses, And was willing to back up Home Rule and take the consequences; That I did not want to perish by desertion of my party, To descend into oblivion like Goschen had, and Harty. He accepted my apologies with pleasure that did flatter, As he said I’d been mistaken, and it really didn’t matter!
Cham.――And it really didn’t matter! That it really didn’t matter, matter, matter, matter, matter!
Chamberlain.
If I were not so deeply pledged to mingle with the Tories, I should like once more to join in my former leader’s glories; For I’m very much afraid that I have got into a mire, And lowered my position, sirs, instead of rising higher; My brain is getting weaker, I was once considered clever, I have voted for Coercion that’s to linger on for ever; To act like this I must have been as mad as any hatter, But as I can’t retrace my steps, it really doesn’t matter!
Trev.――It really doesn’t matter! It really doesn’t matter, matter, matter, matter, matter!
Pall Mall Gazette. August 15, 1887.
――――
THE MODEL AMERICAN GIRL.
A practical, plain young girl; Not afraid-of-the-rain young girl; A poetical posy, A ruddy and rosy, A helper-of-self young girl.
At home-in-her-place young girl; A never-will-lace young girl; A toiler serene, A life pure and clean. A princess-of-peace young girl.
A wear-her-own-hair young girl; A free-from-a-stare young girl; Improves every hour, No sickly sunflower, A wealth-of-rare-sense young girl;
Plenty-room-in-her-shoes young girl; No indulger-in-blues young girl; Not a bang on her brow, To fraud not a bow, She’s a just-what-she-seems young girl.
Not a reader-of-trash young girl; Not a cheap-jewelled-flash young girl; Not a sipper of rum Nor a chewer of gum, A marvel-of-sense young girl.
An early-retiring young girl; An active, aspiring young girl; A morning ariser, A dandy-despiser, A progressive, American girl.
A lover-of-prose young girl; Not a turn-up-your-nose young girl; Not given to splutter, Nor “utterly utter.” But a-matter-of-fact young girl.
A rightly-ambitious young girl; Red-lips-most-delicious young girl; A sparkling clear eye That says “I will try,” A sure-to-succeed young girl.
An honestly-courting young girl; A never-seen-flirting young girl; A quiet and pure, A modest, demure, A fit-for-a-wife young girl.
A sought-everywhere young girl; A future-most-fair young girl; An ever-discreet We too seldom meet This queen-among-queens young girl.
ANONYMOUS.
A somewhat similar American parody will be found on page 128.
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THE HOME SECRETARY’S SONG.
“It is announced this morning that ‘the Home Secretary will address a meeting of his constituents in the Birmingham Town Hall on Monday next. On Tuesday he will open the new premises of the Aston Conservative Club, and on Wednesday attend ward meetings in the division he represents.’ The following song has, we understand, been expressly written for the Minister’s use on this occasion.”
Henceforth all the crimes that I find in the Times, I vow I’ll investigate daily; For ignorance crass, like I showed to Miss Cass, Makes life go by not at all gaily; No kudos receiving for Lipski’s reprieving, The Salvation Army disgraces, The child-mother sentence, my tardy repentance, And numerous similar cases. To have me in the Cabinet’s awfully nice, But I fear I shall cost them a terrible price!
The new special pleaders, the writers of leaders, Come down on my faults like a hammer, To teach me the beauty of doing my duty, Yet I falter, and struggle, and stammer. Oh, Balfour and Goschen! you have not a notion, What a terrible life I am leading; For my faults blazoned get in the Pall Mall Gazette, While they mock at my manners and breeding. To give me a place was exceedingly nice, But I fear I shall cost you a terrible price.
Each day when I rise, lo, another surprise I feel will o’erwhelm me with wonder; If I walk through the street, I am certain to meet With placards denouncing some blunder; The position I’ve got is uncomfort’bly hot, For the public is getting so touchy, Next time there’s a race for the prize of a place I shall try to jump into the Duchy; For to be in the Cabinet’s awfully nice, But the honour is rather too much for the price.
Pall Mall Gazette. September 13, 1887.
CUMBERLAND, KING!
The Mélange, published in Liverpool in 1834. contained a number of songs of “High Tory and No Popery” sentiments, such as “Up, Protestants, Up!” in which the Pope and the Devil were ranged side by side, and a parody entitled “Rouse, Britons! Arouse.” Also the following verses to the tune of “God Save the King.”
Thy choicest curse in store, On George be pleased to pour, The traitor King! He has abused the laws, Slighted the Brunswick cause, Then hail with loud applause, Cumberland, King! Oh, may the Duke of Wel- Lington and Peel to Hell Go hand in hand; While Clarence and his crew, Popish O’Connell too, Homage are forced to do To Cumberland!
This was evidently written before the death of George IV. in 1830; he was succeeded by William, the Clarence alluded to in the song. King William was suspected of having Liberal leanings, and an Orange plot existed to displace him and put his brother Ernest, Duke of Cumberland, on the throne, thus entirely excluding the Princess Victoria from the succession. This plot was exposed by Joseph Hume; but it never had any chance of success, for the Duke of Cumberland, profligate, brutal, and overbearing, was thoroughly hated by the English people. On the death of William IV. Cumberland became King of Hanover, and this country was finally relieved of his presence, and his plots. In the time of the Georges the following additional verse was sometimes sung:――
God save great George our King, Long live our noble King, God save the King. Send us roast beef a store, If it’s gone send us more, And the key of the cellar door, That we may drink.
“DRUIDICAL SONGS, by James Wilson, A.D. (i.e., Ancient Druid), of Lodge 91. Adapted to popular and well-known tunes.” George Elliott, Blackfriars Road. London, 1839.――This pamphlet of 48 pages contains a number of songs in praise of the Ancient Order of Druids, to be sung to once popular airs, the majority of which are now quite forgotten. They are not actual Parodies.
“CORN LAW RHYMES, and other Poems” by Ebenezer Elliott, London. B. Steill, 1844, contained parodies of “Robin Adair,” “Scots wha hae,” “Rule Britannia,” &c., all relating to the scarcity of food, and the protective duties.
“SONGS OF THE PRESS, and other Poems,” original and selected, by C. H. Timperley. London. Fisher, Son and Co. 1845.――This amusing work contains a number of songs adapted to popular airs; they are very technical in their language, and only those already quoted can be styled Parodies.
“MOTLEY,” by Cuthbert Bede, B.A., published in 1855 by James Blackwood, London, contained a number of imitations of the popular songs of the day. Most of them related to incidents in the Crimean War. Professor Browne, of Fenchurch Street, London, hair-dresser and wig maker, has for more than twenty-five years issued small almanacs to his customers. These have contained a number of curious parodies relating to the Professor’s business, and praising his skill and enterprise. In some cases the humour of these productions was very quaint and grotesque.
Numerous short parodies of popular songs are to be found in the theatrical burlesques and extravaganzas produced during the last fifty years. As a rule they consist of a few couplets only, and possess no interest apart from their context. Hundreds of these ephemeral jeux d’esprit have been produced, and the following are the names of the most prolific authors of dramatic burlesques:――Vincent Amcotts; Captain Arbuthnot; William and R. B. Brough; Leicester Buckingham; F. C. Burnand; H. J. Byron; Gilbert A. A’Beckett; C. Dance; Maurice G. Dowling; W. S. Gilbert; H. Such Granville; A. Halliday; W. H. Oxberry; J. R. Planché; R. Reece; William Rogers; Francis Talfourd, and Charles Selby.
A more detailed account of dramatic burlesques will be given in a future volume.
Amongst collections of songs written for societies, such as the Freemasons, Druids, Anglers, Cricket and Football Clubs, Conservative, Liberal, and Radical Associations, many are to be found written to the airs of popular songs. As a rule these are not parodies.
There are numerous advertisement parodies of songs, some of considerable merit; the best of these have been quoted.
Some purely unintentional travesties of songs are really the most laughable and amusing, as, for instance, the absurd translations given in the English libretti of the Italian operas. Those who can appreciate comic songs should certainly also read Messrs. Augner’s edition of Schubert’s songs with English and German words. The song “Alinde” commences thus in the English version: “The sun sinks down into the meer, forth hast she not ridden?” This is intended to be a translation of “Die Sonne sinkt in’s tiefe meer, da wollte sie nicht kommen.” What is a meer? In several other cases the German word meer (sea) is translated meer. As a second example take “The Fisher.” “The water rushed, the water swelled, A fisher there bestow’d, With lazy angle, felt the hush, His heart with coolness load!” How could any man with his wits about him write such arrant nonsense? It certainly seems like an attempt to translate literally, but in the “Nachtstück” (night piece) an unpardonable deviation is made from the original. “Luna mit gewölken kämpft” we are told means “Luna camped upon the clouds!” Last, but not least, in that exquisite little song “Der Tod und das Mädchen,” which is unpoetically called “Death and the Girl,” the German runs thus: “Vor über ach vor über, geh wilder knochenmann.” Surely the translator struck the summit of absurdity in rendering it, “Pass onward, pass onward, wild man with skinless bone!” It is not a matter for surprise that we seldom hear any of Schubert’s works, except perhaps “Ave Maria,” in an English drawing-room, when the translations offered are hardly fit for nigger minstrels. There is much room for improvement in the poetry of our modern popular sentimental songs, whether intended for the stage, or the concert room. Yet ridiculous as these often are, they do not approach the nonsense, called translations from Italian, French, or German songs, where the effort required to render the sense in a metre suitable to the melody seems too much for any ordinary translator to cope with.
――――
MORE ABOUT LORD TENNYSON’S JUBILEE ODE.
Several parodies of this Ode were given in Part 43 (June) but since then some others have appeared.
The universal opinion that Tennyson’s poem was a failure, and altogether unworthy of his reputation has been expressed in several ways, one London evening paper printed a couple of the Laureate’s verses “as they ought to be” thus:――
“You then loyally, all of you, deck your houses, illuminate all your towns for a festival, and in each let a multitude loyal, each, to the heart of it one full voice of allegiance, hail the great Ceremonial of this year of her Jubilee.”
“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.”
Instead of being poetry of transcendent merit, it seems to be a poor imitation of the language of Scripture. Others declare it to be an imitation of the style of WALT WHITMAN, and the Ode has even been compared to a badly-written catalogue! One satirist went so far as to plead in the Laureate’s latest style:――
You, the Patriot poet, Shape a statelier poem; Leave out “regally gorgeous,” Cut the Imperial Institute, Or we, weary, uncomforted, And we needy unbanqueted, Seeing how maimed are your verses, Joy not this year of the Jubilee.
――――
“TENNY THE BARON’S” JUBILEE ODE.
I.
Fifty times my poor nose you have broken, Fifty times my gore you have spilled, Since I stood with you in corded ring.
II.
He was trained by an ancient bruiser, Learned in art of self-defence, Slugger champion of England, Owner of a silver belt, Never worn by a worthier, Now with murderous auguries Comes at last to spoil my beauty, In this blooming year of Jubilee.
III.
Nothing of the common, of the magsman, Nothing of the vulgar or vainglorious, All is cruel, slogging, hard and manly.
IV.
You hit me savagely――yes, you did! Brought my claret as you struck My eyes and nose and cheeks, And from each let quarts pour Red and gory down my battered chest. One full blow aimed at proboscis Hurled me clean to mother earth In this the year of Jubilee.
V.
Stars as large as Spanish onions Dazzling in my peepers came, Tingling through me from my conk to hoof.
VI.
You, that wanton in your sparring, Spare me! Do not now be bountiful. Take your mawleys from my optics, Do not knock them both in one, Keep me safely from hospital, Let my weary frame be comforted, Let my aching pegs rejoice, In this the year of Jubilee.
VII.
Sayers’s blows are all in shadow, Gray with distance Greenfield’s sloggers, Even Mace’s left forgotten.
VIII.
You, the champion architect, Shape memorial of your skill, Make my nose so grandly gorgeous, Like some great Imperial Institute, Rich in colour, and of size Which seems like growth of centuries; All the centuries that come after us, In this the year of Jubilee.
IX.
Fifty times of ever-pounding business! Fifty times of ever-striking science! Fifty times of ever-widening gashes!
X.
You, the mighty and the bruiser, You the slashing lord of blows, You the bump-manufacturer, You the hardy-fisted one, Busiest child of Albion, You, the thumper, scruncher, Mug-demolisher, and puncher, All your blows have hit me hard, All my blows you countered well, Saying, “Go to grass, you duffer, In this the year of Jubilee!”
XI.
Are there seconds moving in my corner? They seem spectres in the darkness! Wash the blood from out my peepers, So I may some little see. Smith is victor, toss the sponge up, In this year of Jubilee.
ITHURIEL. The Topical Times. June 18, 1887.
――――
ANOTHER VERSION.
I.
Fifty years your verses have been fading, Fifty years your golden harvest rising, And now you publish stuff not fit to wrap butter in.
II.
This drivel of an agèd driveller Is dear at any price,――not readable, Such prosy rubbish takes up Good space that others might Have filled more profitably, Macmillan ought to be ashamed To print such abject rot.
III.
Nothing of the Poet of the Idylls; Nothing but Prose, the very commonest All for disgraceful greed and most unseemly.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
AN ODE-OUS PARODY.
I.
Fifty times we’ve planted kail and used it, Fifty times we’ve dug our own potatoes, Since our Queen came into luck uncommon.
II.
She, beloved for a negative Virtue quite neutral to history. Queen of realms she ne’er looked upon. Holding fast to the dignities None e’er clung to more jealously, Now is looking for perquisites, Sends her son with the hat for them Round this year of her Jubilee.
III.
She knows well her “neck has got a lith in’t,” In her manners she’s genteel, and not too loud, Does not boss too much about her shanty.
IV.
Trim your lamps every one of you, Or put dips in your window panes. Don’t grudge candles or paraffin, And be sure you make noise enough, Make all deaf with your loyalty, Shout your shoutingest shoutingly, Hold high-jink’d Saturnalia In this year of her Jubilee.
V.
Queen as true to motherhood as Queenhood. Giving many Princes to her people, With Princesses that she weds to Germans.
VI.
You, with many full money-bags, Slit a hole in the side of one, Give a square meal to Lazarus. Give three acres and cow to him, Put your names on subscription lists, Follow fashion in charity, Help the fadders to fad a bit, Give all round, and be sure to give Well to help on her Jubilee.
VII.
Hal’s half-hundred years are nigh forgotten, Nobody now prates of Ned’s long ruling, Ev’n the Farmer’s record’s hardly mentioned.
VIII.
You, who get the big job to do, Do your best with your stone and lime, Use no gingerbread artifice, Raise a pile that can stand a look, Something all will can wonder at, Which may stand for a year or two, Tho’ our children may laugh at us For our Juggernaut Jubilee.
IX.
Fifty years of pretty heavy taxes Fifty years of not too much to pay them, Fifty years of learning how to do it.
X.
You, the Swell by heredity, You, the Landlord all talk about, You, the Master men strike against, You, of soil horny-handed sons, Burdened brood of Britannia, You, whatever your country be, You, or white, black or copper-head, All your hands in your pockets put, Or your pockets’ equivalent, Give, altho’ you should starve for it, Gold to help on her Jubilee.
XI.
Are then those that mutter, discontented, That to give were little short of madness? Trust the Prince to lighten all their purses With a juggler pass that makes coin vanish, And Victoria Victrix shall be honoured With a gift unequalled in the ages.
WILLIAM A. SLOAN.
END OF VOLUME IV.
Footnotes:
[1] I dreamed I was the Amateur Champion.
[2] Oh! Lor.
[3] LORD GRANVILLE.
[4] The winner of “The Oaks” in 1867.
[5] These three verses are often omitted.
[6] This song was written before “The Fleet” prison was abolished.
[7] Boxing-gloves.
[8] Note:――Willy-force, i.e. Wilberforce.
[9] Alluding to Mr. Gladstone’s trip on board the Pembroke Castle, in September, 1883, when the Poet Laureate was also a guest of Sir Donald Currie.
[10] Formerly the “Star” Hotel, now the “Clarendon.”
[11] The late Viscount Ranelagh, Colonel of the South Middlesex Rifles, was one of the earliest and most enthusiastic supporters of the Volunteer movement. He originated the Easter manœuvres, and was exceedingly popular with the Metropolitan Volunteers.
[12] Charles James Fox.
[13] Alluding to the title of Baronet then newly instituted by James I, who created the first Baronet, Sir Nicholas Bacon, May 22, 1611. King James, being in need of money to suppress a revolt in Ulster, sold this new title somewhat indiscriminately, and so raised a large sum.
[14] These ancient political prophecies are amusing reading, but require some little explanation. In July, 1849, Baron Lionel de Rothschild was elected M.P. for the City of London, with 6,619 votes, whilst his opponent, Lord John Manners, only polled 3,104. But Baron Rothschild was not then allowed to take his seat, nor was it until he had been thrice again elected M.P. that he was permitted to enter the House of Commons in July, 1858. Shortly afterwards a special act was passed permitting Jewish M.P.’s to omit from the oath the words, “on the faith of a Christian;” since then many eminent Jews have been elected to the House of Commons, where they have generally supported the party which formerly opposed, to the very utmost, the extension to them of civil rights and political equality.
[15] A contiguous pack; but very inferior.
[16] Jack Goddard, the first whip; and the first of whips.
[17] The name which Jim bestowed on the “little pack,” because they could fly and work all day.
[18] An allusion to The Daily Telegraph (London), which had published a very sensational report of a fight between a man and a dog.
[19] The Rt. Hon. William Pitt, Chancellor of the Exchequer, was second son of the famous Earl of Chatham who had advocated conciliatory measures in dealing with the American Colonies, a policy which was very distasteful to the King and Court. Whereas his son afterwards supported the views of the King in opposition to the majority in the House of Commons.
[20] The Poor Law Commissioners had refused to allow any charitable person to send in supplies of roast-beef and plum-pudding upon Christmas Day to the inmates of the Workhouses.
[21] Dr. E. V. Kenealy.
[22] Lord Mayor of London
[23] Commander of the royal troops against the Scots in the 1745 rebellion.
[24] Lord Coleridge.
[25] A skit on Lord Wolseley.
[26] Mr. Gilbert appears particularly fond of this refrain, which he user, with certain variations, again and again. He probably borrowed it from a song popular about 200 years ago:――
THE POOR SOUL SAT SIGHING.
The poor soul sat sighing by a sicamore tree; Sing willow, willow, willow! With his hand in his bosom, and his head upon his knee; Oh! willow, willow, willow, willow, oh! Willow, willow, willow, willow, Shall be my garland: Sing all a green willow, willow, willow, willow, Ah me! the green willow must be my garland. * * * * *
[27] Mr. Goschen proposed to reduce the Income Tax from 8d. to 7d. in the £, and to take off 4d. in the lb. from the duty on tobacco, a concession from which the consumer will not reap the smallest benefit.
[28] On the boot tree. This is a poetical intimation that the singer does not intend going out for a walk.
[29] A red star affixed to the frame, or picture, denotes that the picture is sold.――Academy Catalogue.
[30] Louis Phillippe.
[31] Napoleon III.
[32] Alluding to the complete and sudden change in the political creed of The Daily Telegraph. (London.)
[33] The Duke of Marlborough.
[34] “Old King Cole” as he was familiarly known, was a fussy little old gentleman who founded the clique, notorious as the “South Kensington Gang,” which for the last twenty years has enriched itself at the expense of the nation.
[35] Lord Randolph Churchill.
[36] The authors, as in gallantry bound, wish this lady to continue anonymous.
[37] Henry Phillpotts, Bishop of Exeter, was a notorious controversialist and pamphleteer. He became very unpopular in his diocese owing to his stern and bigoted conduct. He was strongly opposed to the emancipation of the Roman Catholics.
[38] Mr. J. L. Hatton, the composer of Old Simon the Cellarer, The Friars of Orders Grey, The Leather Bottel, “Good bye, Sweetheart, good bye,” and a number of other popular songs and ballads, died at Margate in September 1886, at the age of 77. He had long been connected with the Orchestras of the principal London theatres.
[39] Salad, yes, by all means, only let it be eaten from a separate plate. But Pickles with hot roast mutton? Perish the thought! Red currant jelly if thou wilt, but Pickles――never!――ED. P.
[40] This song was introduced into Davenant’s comedy of The Rivals, 1668; but is probably still older. The phrase to “marry with a rush ring,” is introduced in the ancient ballad of “The Winchester Wedding:”――
“And Tommy was loving to Kitty, And wedded her with a rush ring.”
Meaning a marriage without the rites of religion, and to be dissolved at the will of the parties as easily as a rush ring may be broken.
[41] To the shade of Benjamin Disraeli.
[42] The Annual Cattle Shows of the Smithfield Club were formerly held in the Baker Street Bazaar.
[43] This clever parody has reference to the attempt made by the Duke of Northumberland to evade the payment of Mr. Pitt’s Income-tax. To mitigate the severity of the pressure on persons with large families, a deduction of ten per cent. was allowed to persons who had above a certain number of children. Amongst others the wealthy Duke of Northumberland was not ashamed to avail himself of this clause.
[44] Sir Hugh Smithson married the Lady Elizabeth, daughter and only child of the Duke of Northumberland, who died in 1750. In the same year he obtained an Act of Parliament, authorizing him to assume the surname and arms of Percy. In 1767 the King created him Earl Percy and Duke of Northumberland. The hero of this ballad was the eldest son of this marriage.
[45] This alludes to Mr. Pitt’s Tax upon Hair-powder, which turned out a failure; the public declining its use rather than pay the tax. Those who continued it were called “guinea-pigs,” the tax being a guinea per head.
[46] Sir Robert Peel.
[47] Chevy.――To rudely harass or brutally bait.
[48] Sir Stafford Northcote.
[49] Lord Randolph Churchill.
[50] Sir Michael Hicks Beach.
[51] Sir Redvers Buller.
[52] The Bill for the suppression of Corrupt Practices at Elections.
[53] Brasen Nose College, Oxford.
[54] Landlord
[55] Nowhere
[56] Brandy and pint-measure of beer
[57] Songs
[58] German Students’ songs
[59] Waitress.
[60] Overseers.
[61] This play, Langbaine says, was written by Shakespeare.
[62] Jonson had the palsy at the time.
[63] The names of several of Jonson’s Dramatis Personæ.
[64] New Inn, Act iii. Scene 2.――Act iv. Scene 4.
[65] This break was purposely designed by the poet, to expose that equally singular one in Ben’s third stanza.
[66] Richard Broome, wrote with success several comedies. He had been the amanuensis or attendant of Ben Jonson.
[67] The lines――
“Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage,”
were evidently suggested by Shakspeare:――
“Nor stony tower nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, Can be retentive to the strength of spirit.” Julius Cæsar Act I. Sc. iii.
[68] The following well-known glee is formed on this song:――
“He who goes to bed, and goes to bed sober, Falls as the leaves do, and dies in October; But he who goes to bed, and goes to bed mellow, Lives as he ought to do, and dies an honest fellow.”
[69] Sir E. J. Reed, M.P.
[70] Charles Dickens then resided at Gad’s Hill, near Rochester, Kent.
[71] The Young Tory Leader, Lord Randolph Churchill.
[72] Mr. Joseph Chamberlain.
[73] Referring to a prize-fight between Randal and Martin.
[74] Shandon Church, in the city of Cork.
[75] Frazer’s Magazine first appeared February 1, 1830, and Father Prout was one of its earliest contributors. It was discontinued in 1882.
[76] “Big Ben” of Westminster, which was cast in 1855, and weighs about 14 tons, is cracked, owing to an improper mixture of the bell-metal in casting.
[77] Gaelic. Sen Bhan Vochd――poor old woman――an affectionate name for Ireland.
[78] Bantry.
[79] Angel-gold was of a finer kind than crown gold.
[80] Lord Charles Beresford’s resignation was not accepted.
[81] Editor of The Daily Telegraph.
[82] The name of a favourite Elephant killed in Exeter Change in 1826.
[83] Mr. Sturmey has recently written a Handbook of Bicycling.
[84] In the American Exhibition held at Earl’s Court in 1887, Colonel W. F. Cody, better known as Buffalo Bill, with a troupe of cowboys and Indians, gave daily performances entitled The Wild West.
INDEX.
The authors of the original songs are arranged in alphabetical order; the titles of the original poems are printed in italics, followed by the Parodies, the authors of which are named, in italics, wherever possible.
―――― PAGE
Advertisement parodies 278 Corn Law Rhymes. 1844. E. Elliott 278 Druidical songs. 1839. J. Wilson 278 Leigh Hunt and The Examiner. 1813 101 Motley. 1855. Cuthbert Bede 278 The New Whig Guide. W. Wright. 1819 255 Perfection. T. Haynes Baily 42 Schubert’s songs in English translations 278 Songs of the Press. 1845. C. H. Timperley 278 A Town Garland. H. Sambrook Leigh 53 Theatrical burlesques and extravaganzas 278 A List of authors of the same 278
―――― Thomas Haynes Bayly.
She wore a wreath of roses 42 He wore a brace of pistols. Punch 42 He dined at Bertholini’s. Albert Smith 42 He wore grey worsted stockings 43 He wore a suit of Moses 43 She wore a wreath of roses. Shirley Brooks 43 He wore a pair of “mittens” 43 He rode a tandem tricycle 44 I saw her but a moment 44
Oh! no, we never mention her 44 Oh! am I then remembered still 44 Oh no! we’ll never mention him. R. H. Barham 45 Oh! no we never mention him. The Gownsman 45 Oh no we never finger it. Figaro 45 Oh! no! we never mention her! 45 Oh! no I say; don’t mention it 46 Oh! no, I never name my wife 46 Oh, no! I never mentioned it. Lady Clarke 272
I’d be a butterfly 46 Ah sim Papilio (Latin version) 46 I would not be a butterfly. H. S. Leigh 47 I’d be a parody. Sharpe’s Magazine 47 I’d be a rifleman. Bentley Ballads 47 I make the butter fly. G. O. Trevelyan 47 I’d be a Rothschild. The Mirror 47 Me be a nigger boy. Fraser’s Magazine 48 I’d be a minister. Figaro, 1833 48 I’d be a butterfly. Punch, 1856 48 I’d be a bottle-fly. Blackwood, 1828 273
We met――’twas in a crowd 48 We met――’twas in a mob 49-50 We met――’twas in your shop 49 We met――’twas in St. Giles 49 We met――’twas on the ground 49 We met――’twas in a field 49 They met――’twas in a storm 49 We met――’twas in the House 50 We met in upper school 50
THE SOLDIER’S TEAR. Upon the hill he turned 50 Beside the church he stood 51 Upon his heel he turned. Figaro 51 Upon the ground he stood. Punch 51 In the street he turn’d 51 Against the rails he leant. Shirley Brooks 52 Upon the pier he turned. Punch 52 He turned upon his heel 52 Upon the hill he turned 272 The sapper’s beer. 1851 272 She stood beside the counter 272 Satins and silks I sang gravely and gaily 42
Out John! out, John! 53 Out John (to John Bright). Truth. 1886 53 “Nay” John (Temperance song) 54 Out, Tom! (to Sir Thomas Brassey). Truth 55
Oh! the Old House at Home 55 A Parody from A Bowl of Punch. 1848 55 The Broadwood is opened. Fun 52 I have taken ten glasses of sherry. Fun 53 (Two Imitations of T. H. Bayly, by Henry S. Leigh. 1871.)
――――
Alfred Bunn.
The heart bowed down. The sot bowed down by too much drink 33
When other lips and other hearts. When other months amid the range 33 When other lips and other eyes. J. R. Planché 33 When other wits and other bards 33
I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls 33 I dreamt that I stood in the Crystal Halls 34 I dreamt that I dined in Conservative halls 34 I dreamt that I sat in the House of Lords 34 I dreamt that I danced at Mabille balls 34 I dreamt that I dined on marbled beef 34 I dreamt that I dwelt. H. Furniss 274 I dreamt that I gazed at the Marble Arch 274
The light of other days is faded 179 The coat of other days is faded 179 The foggy Gin-Fluenza days 179
――――
Thomas Campbell.
Ye gentlemen of England. MARTYN PARKER 243 Ye pugilists of England. 1819 243 Ye President’s and L’Amy’s men 244 You grand old man of England 244 Ye barristers of England 244 Ye gentlemen of England 244 Ye Liberals of England 244 You noblemen of England 245 Ye Unionists of England 245 Ye cricketers of England 245 Ye bicyclists of England. Punch 276
――――
Lewis Carroll.
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland 55 As a pantomime at Woolwich. J. Addison 55 As a musical play. By H. Savile Clarke 56
The walrus and the carpenter. “The sun was shining on the sea” 56 The vulture and the husbandman. 57 “The rain was raining cheerfully.” Light Green 57 The Nyum Nyum chortled by the sea 57
Jabberwocky. “’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves.” 58 Waggawocky. (on the Tichborne Trial) 59 “’Twas May-time, and the lawyer coves.” 59 Across the swiffling waves they went. Truth. 59 ’Twas grilling hot, the bloky cove. ” 59 “Can you move a little faster?” ” 59
――――
Henry Carey.
God save the King. 111 Grand Dieu, Sauvez le Roy 111 God save Great George our King 111 Domine Salvum fac Regem. 1795. 112 Heil dir im Sieger Kranz 111 Version in honour of William IV. 112 Victory, Freedom and Fox. 1784. 113 Our Mother Church. 1790. 113 God save great Johnny Bull. 1809. 113 (Sung during the O. P. Riots) Hail! Masonry Divine 114 God save the Rights of Man. 1820. 114 People! save yourselves. 1871. 114 “X” save our graceless Chief. 1884. 114 Down with the Lords. 1884. 115 God save Gladstone. 1885. 115 Soon will our gracious Queen. 1886 115 Verse composed on the Queen’s Marriage 115 Verse for the Jubilee year. 1887. 115 God bless our native land. 115 Bob shave great George our King 89 Cumberland, King! 278 Thy choicest curse in store 278 Orange plots against the throne 278
Sally in our Alley 21 Of all the girls that are so smart 21 “The Rhino.” 1824 21 “Sally” in Latin. In Saram G. K. Gillespie 21 Of all the flats with blunt that part. Punch 21 Of all the Peers within the house 21 Of all the days that’s in the week 21, 23 Of all the folks in purse that smart 22 Of all tragediennes so smart. Funny Folks 22 Of all the brutes I loathe to meet, 22 Of all the girls in our town. S. Brett 22 Of all the follies on our part. Punch 23 Of all the Rads that are so smart 203 Of all the would-be witty Rads 203
――――
Eliza Cook.
I love it, I love it. (The old arm chair) 6 I loathe it, I loathe it! Henry S. Leigh 6 I love it. (The new arm chair) Punch 6 I loved it. (The Speaker’s chair) Truth 6 I dread it, I dread it! Funny Folks 7 I hate it. (The dentist’s chair) Modern Society 7 That gridiron by the mantel-piece. After Eliza Cook 7
――――
Charles Dibdin.
THE JOLLY YOUNG WATERMAN. “And did you ne’er hear of a jolly young Waterman?” 66 And did you not hear of a jolly young barrister? 67 Oh, did you e’er hear of such jolly bad water man? 67 And did you ne’er hear of a jolly old waterman? 67 Oh! did you not hear of a handsome young clergyman? 67 Oh, did you ne’er hear of a jolly young trilobite? 67 And did you not hear of that luckless “young gentleman?” 67 Oh! did you ne’er hear of a jolly old woodcutter? (On Mr. Gladstone) 68 Did you ever hear tell of a jolly young rifleman? (On Lord Ranelagh) 68 Did you ever hear tell of the jolly young waterman? 68
THE HIGH METTLED RACER 68 “See, the course throng’d with gazers” 68 See, the shore lined with gazers. C. Dibdin 69 See, the house throng’d with members. 1832 69 Since of course we want razors. Cuthbert Bede 69 See the pier throng’d with gazers! Punch 69 The village born beauty 70
My name d’ye see’s Tom Tough 70 Yes, my name d’ye see’s Tom Tough. Truth 70 Yes, my name d’ye know’s Tom Tough. Truth 71
My Polly Do you want to know the ugliest craft? 80
Wapping Old Stairs. “Your Molly has never been false” 65 Untrue to my Ulric I never could be. Thackeray 65 Adelina has flirted. Punch 65 Your Fanny was never false hearted. Thackeray 65 Your money will never be safe 65
Tom Bowling. “Here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling” 65 Here a sheer hulk from fierce round bowling 66 Here, on the floor stands famed Tom Brassey 66 But a sheer wreck, sits poor Tom Noddy 66 “Drunken Sally.” By L. M. Thornton 66 Here lies a bit of Tom Torpedo 268 A sheer hulk lies the “Devastation” 268
’Twas post meridian, half-past four, 72 ’Twas prime meridian, twelve at noon 72 ’Twas when the great review was o’er 267 ’Twas post meridian, half-past four 267
As pensive one night in my garret I sate. 72 I had knocked out the dust from my pipe 72
――――
Thomas Dibdin.
Deserted by the waning moon 73 Deserted by the waning purse 73 Deserted by declining day 73 Hot from the guard room. Punch 73
Daddy Neptune one day 266 Henry Byron one day to A. Harris did say 266 (On the pantomime of Robinson Crusoe) C. Bede
May we ne’er want a friend 73 An answer to the foregoing. Tom Hood 73 Go, patter to Lords of the Admiralty 268
――――
Charles Dickens.
Oh! a dainty plant is the Ivy green. 9 Oh! a dreary print is the Daily News 9 Oh! a splendid soup is the true Pea green 9 Oh! a dainty growth is official routine. Punch 10 Oh! a dainty plant is the Cabbage green 10 A fine old thing is the yard of clay 10 Oh, a rare old toper was I. V. Green. Judy 11 Oh! a cunning “plant” doth the Jew I ween 275 Oh! a fine old chaunt is “God save the Queen.” 275
They told him, gently she was dead. 11 They told him gently he was mad 11 They told him gently she was gone 11
――――
Henry Fielding.
The Roast Beef of Old England 104 The Kail-Brose o’ auld Scotland 104 Oh, the true Whigs of Old England. 1784 104 O! the white vests of Young England. 1844 104 Oh! the brown beer of Old England 105 The Frog and the Bull 105 Oh! the boiled beef of Old England. 1858 105 The Pauper’s Chaunt 106 O, the boiled beef of Australia. 1872 106 The glorious plum-pudding of England. 1879 106
――――
David Garrick.
Come, cheer up my lads! 76 Come, cheer up my lads. 1784 76 ” ” ” merry Christmas is near 76 ” ” ” (for the Liverpool election 1812) 76 Unfurl the old flag. J. T. Wright 77 The day dawns upon us. J. H. Wheeler 77 Arouse, men of England. D. Evans 77 Awake, sons of Britain 77
――――
W. S. Gilbert.
A list of his dramatic productions 116
Trial by Jury 116
The Judge’s song 116 Song on Breach of Promise of Marriage 117
H. M. S. Pinafore. I am the Captain of the Pinafore 117 I am the Mahdi of Mid-Lothian 117 I am the Captain of this Home Rule corps 117 I’m the curse of my country. Truth. 1884 118 Joe Golightly, or the First Lord’s daughter 139 When I was a lad I served a term. (Disraeli.) 118 When he was a lad he served a term. (Garfield.) 118 Little Primrose’s song. (Lord Beaconsfield.) 119 Your Grace, we have important information 119 He is an Englishman. (Tichborne Claimant) 119
The Pirates of Penzance. Policemen’s chorus 120 Hem! I represent the law. 1883 120 Song by the Prince of Wales. 1884 120 When the Free and Independent goes a-voting 120 The Wheelist’s chorus. A. Gibbons 120, 121 When Lord Beaky’s not engaged in lamentation 120 When a fellow finds in tennis his enjoyment 121 When the window “prising” burglar. Fun 276
Patience; or, Bunthorne’s Bride. 1881 121 F. C. Burnand’s The Colonel 121 The Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood 122 The Æsthetic Movement in England 122
When I first put this uniform on 122 The impecunious officer 122 Song on the Kilt by Prince Battenberg 122 When I first put Joe’s uniform on 123
If you want a receipt for that popular mystery 123 If you want a resiet for a novel stenografy. The Phonetic Journal. 1886 123
If you’re anxious for to shine 124 If you want to cut a shine. P. Bosecic 124
Prithee, pretty maiden――prithee tell me true 124 Prithee, Vernon Harcourt. The Sporting Times 124 Prithee, Secretary, what’s the latest news 125 Prithee, gentle working-man. Truth. 1883 125
“The Times,” newspaper blunders, and hoaxes 124
Sir W. Vernon Harcourt and the “Times” 124
Trio in “Patience,” by Duke, Colonel and Major 125 Trio in House of Commons by Lord R. Churchill, Ashmead Bartlett, and Sir Drummond Wolff. Punch. 1882 125 Song by the Social Belle. Truth 126 “The St. James’s Gazette” on Mr. Joseph Chamberlain in 1885 126 “A very long nosed young man,” and other verses on the political celebrities of 1882 126 The flippity-flop young man. H. Adams 127 On Sir Wilfrid Lawson, F. C. Burnand, Henry Irving, Miss Terry, and General Booth 127 On the Daily Telegraph, Gladstone, Salisbury and Sir Stafford Northcote 128 A common-place young girl 128 A practical, plain young girl 277
Iolanthe; or, the Peer and the Peri When upon the stage we play. The Referee, 1883 128 A Lord Chief Justice, by common consent 129 I’m such a susceptible Chancellor 129 When I went to the Church 129 When I took my commission 129 When I went to the bar 130 When I hospitals walked 130 Said a Barrister, low, to himself 130 Said a British General 130 Said a West-end Tradesman 130 Said a jerry Builder 130 Said a City Alderman 130 Said a man of fashion 130 Said I to myself (Henry Irving) 130 When I went to the City (the masher) 131 Oh, nation gay (England to France) 131 Oh, foolish swain (Lawn Tennis) 131
Princess Ida. Henry George as the disagreeable man 132 If green cheddar you desire 132 I was not so very old 133 Of all the plans there are on earth 133 Ye who are cumbersome and slow 133 Common sense we bar 133 If you give me your attention. (Col. Knox) 133
The Mikado. On a battle field gory 134 Three little maids from school 134 On a seat in the garden 134 The flowers that bloom in the pot 135 The flowers that bloom in the spring 135 The Rads all the yokels to gain, tra la 139 At this general election, 1886 135 How much they’ve all been missed 135 Three little aids to health are we 136 In a cot by a river a lady forlorn 136 The Home Secretary’s song 277
Ruddigore; or, the witch’s curse. 136 Alterations, and omissions 137 Once upon a midnight dreary 137 Oh, why am I gloomy and sad 138 I once was a very abandoned person 138 Come hither, ye slaves of the weed 138 “Ruddy George,” at Toole’s Theatre 138 Roll on, thick haze, roll on 139 It really doesn’t matter 277
Pygmalion and Galatea 139 Chiselling Pygmalion 139 The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree 140
Bab Ballads 139 King Thebaw of Burmah 140 Thebaw was the king of the golden toe 141 A monarch of Burmah, I cannot tell why 141 A parody by F. B. Doveton 141 The Bishop and the Ballet 142
――――
Thomas Hood.
The dream of Eugene Aram. The dream of the Bilious Beadle. A. Shirley 89
――――
Lady Arthur Hill.
In the gloaming. In the gloaming, oh! my darling! Icycles 5 ” ” ” ” Judy 5 In the shooting, oh, my comrade. A. H. Smith 5 In the gloaming, O my darlings! Girls’ Own Paper 5 In the gloaming, oh, my proctor. A. H. Smith 5 In the steamer, O my darling 63 On the ocean, oh, my darling 275
――――
Robert Herrick.
Fair Daffodils we weep to see 39 Dear little bills, we weep to see. H. Cayley 39 Order ye Wallsends while ye may 40 Why do I love my love 40 Ah, Ben! say how or when 181 A fine frank roughness in the dress 181
Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry 40 There’s a garden in her face 40 Water-pipes, water-pipes, pipes, I cry 40 Coffee hot, coffee hot, hot, I cry 41 Rosy wine, rosy wine, wine we sip 41 Heavy wet, heavy wet, still I cry 41 Cherry pie! cherry pie! pie! I cry 41 Mutton chops, mutton chops, chops, I cry 41 Cherry bounce, cherry bounce, bounce, I cry 41 Guinea-pigs, guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry 41 Cats’ meat, cats’ meat, meat, I cry. C. H. Ross 259
Her pretty feet like snails did creep 41 Her feet beneath her petticoat. J. Suckling 41 I die if I but spy. Ernest Radford 259
――――
Ben Jonson.
BEN JONSON’S Ode on the Stage. 1631 212 An answer to the above by Owen Feltham 212 Another reply by Randolph 213
Drink to me only with thine eyes 31 Drink to me only from a jug. 1823 31 Wink at me only with glass eye 31 Bring to me only, if you’re wise 31 Drink wine only with thy drugs 31 Rink to me only with thine ice 32 Talk to me only with thine eyes. H. S. Leigh 32 Print for me only just one word 181 I sent thee late my able book 181 Come to my lobby with thy vote. C. H. Waring 259
――――
Richard Lovelace.
TO ALTHEA. When Love, with unconfinèd Wings 214 Grey hairs do not a prophet make. C. H. Waring 214 Champagne will not a dinner make 214
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind 214 Tell me not, sweet, it is a dodge 214
――――
Dr. Charles Mackay.
JOHN BROWN’S PHILOSOPHY. “I’ve a guinea I can spend” 198 An answer to the above, “I’ve listened to your song” J. R. Planché 199
Cheer, boys! cheer! 199 Beer! boys! beer! J. A. Hardwick 199, 200 Vote, boys, vote! 199
There’s a good time coming, boys 200 Curses on thee, haughty England 200 There’s a good road making, boys. 1846 201 I met the waiter in his prime 201 It’s a long time coming, boys. 1848 201 On the Salvation Army 202 Parody from Songs for Liberal Electors 202 The past has proved a trying time 202
To the West! To the West! 202 I’m in love! I’m in love! 202
Far, far upon the Sea. Pa, out upon the spree. J. A. Hardwick 202
――――
Christopher Marlowe.
Come live with me, and be my love 36 If all the world. Sir W. Raleigh 37 The above in Izaak Walton’s “Angler,” 37 Come live with me. F. C. Burnand 38 Come, rink with me. Judy 38 Come dwell with me, and be my own 232 Come dine with me (on mutton chops) 232 Come, switch with me my cockney love 258 The Nymph’s reply 258
――――
Hon. Mrs. Norton.
THE ARAB’S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED.
“My beautiful, my beautiful” 260 The dying vendor of vegetables to his palfrey of Jerusalem 260 A traveller’s farewell to his train 260 My――anything but beautiful. P. F. Allen 261 My pewter full, my pewter full 261 My bicycle, my bicycle. One and All 262 My beautiful, my bicycle 262 The Englishman’s farewell to his train 263 The public’s address to his cabman 263 The rinker’s farewell to her skates 263
Bingen on the Rhine 264 St. Louis by the creek Chicago Tribune 264
Love not, ye hapless sons of clay! 13 Smoke not your weeds, nor pipes of clay 13 “Stay” not! no longer don. Punch 14 Vote not for me, I pray. Robert Lowe 14
――――
Adelaide Anne Proctor.
I had a message to send her 2 I had a message to send her. Funny Folks 2 I had a message to give her. Fun 2 I’d another message to send her. 1876 64
Seated one day at the organ 3 Batting one day at the Oval. G. F. Grace 3 Seated one day on the organ. Judy. 1880 3 Seated at church in the winter. A. H. S. 4 Seated for years at the organ. Punch 4 Seated one day at a Café. Judy. 4 Seated one day on an organ. J. W. G. W. 35 Seated one day at the window 35 Seated one day in her carriage. George Grossmith 36 Standing one day at his organ. Judy 275
――――
B. W. Proctor. (Barry Cornwall.)
Sing! who sings? 203 Ride! who rides? 203 Dine! who’d dine? 204
The sea, the sea, the open sea 204 The Cam, the Cam! the dirty Cam. 1836 204 The pipe, the pipe! the German pipe 204 The gin, the gin! Hodge’s cordial gin 204 The mail, the mail! the Royal mail 205 The road, the road! the turnpike road! 205 Of steak, of steak――of prime rump steak 205 The tea, the tea! the genuine tea! 206 The See, the See! the wealthy See! 206 The tea, the tea! the beef, beef tea! 206 The C! the C! the alto C! 206 The van, the van! the hurrying van! 207 The news, the news! the motley news 210 The press! the press! the glorious press! 210
King Death was a rare old fellow 207 July is a rare old fellow 207
THE RETURN OF THE ADMIRAL. “How gallantly, how merrily we ride along the sea” 207 The return of the omnibus. Albert Smith. 207 The Alderman. 1884 208 The cruise of the old admiral 208 The return of the Members. Diogenes. 1853 208 The term of the Freshman. Canon Hole 209 The return to Tyrol. Rev. J. W. Ebsworth 209 The baby in the train. J. Ashby Sterry 209
――――
J. Howard Payne
Home, sweet Home 26 Two additional verses and notes 26 The court of my sovereign. Figaro. 1832 27 ’Mid fritters and lollipops 27 ’Mid Westminster’s Palace. Punch. 1846 27 Though crosses and candles 27 Up courts and round palaces 27 From circuit to circuit 27 ’Midst mansions and palaces. Truth. 1882 28 ’Mid hardships and hovels. Weekly Dispatch 28 Through clubdoms fair palaces ” 28 ’Mid new courts and chambers ” 29 In Westminster Palaces ” 29 Though bidden to roam. Truth. 1885 29 Fond hearts bear its sweetness ” 29 In the Soudan desert ” 29 Though far from dear England ” 29 In joy or in sadness ” 29 Tho’ rich be our portion ” 29 I pray that I reach ” 29 How many in dreams ” 29 Like bird to its nest ” 29 ’Mid falsehood and fallacies ” 30 ’Mid soup, fish, and entrées ” 30 ’Midst mansions or cottages ” 30 ’Mid gin shops or “palaces” ” 30 ’Mid pleasures and palaces ” 30 ’Mid worry and bustle ” 30 Of all the strong drinks ” 30 In islands or continents ” 30 ’Neath measures and policies ” 30 When worries and creditors ” 31 ’Mid Ritualistic clergy ” 31 ’Mid play sure, sand pal aces ” 31
Index to catch lines of Choruses. Home, home, sweet, sweet home 26 Place, place! sweet sweet place 27 Pomme! pomme! Beignet de Pomme! 27 Reid, Reid! doctor Reid 27 Rome, Rome! sweet, sweet Rome 27, 31 Home! home! they’ve no home 27 Home! home! vile, vile home! 28 Home! home! sweet rule of home! 29 Law, law, cheap, cheap law 30 Beef, beef, roast, roast beef 30 Tea, Tea, sweet, sweet tea! 30 Home, home, bleak, bleak home 30 Roam, roam, sweet to roam! 30 When spring cleaning times come 30 Rum, rum, good, good rum 30 Jones, Jones, still, still Jones 30 Home rule, rule at home 30 Boulogne! oh Boulogne! 31 Home rule! sweet home rule! 271 Ale, ale! Double X ale! 271
――――
Sir Walter Raleigh.
Go soul, the body’s guest 211 Go, truth, unwelcome guest 212
Shall I like a hermit dwell? 257 Shall I, wasting in despair. G. Wither 257 Shall my heart be filled with care? 258 Shall I fret and fume and swear? H. C. Merivale 258
――――
Richard Brinsley Sheridan.
Burlesques on his plays 195 The Critic Anticipated. 1779 195 Elizabeth; or, the Invisible Armada 195 The Ar-Rivals. 1884 195 Pizarro; a Spanish Rolla-king drama 259 Pizarro; or, the Leotard of Peru 259
Here’s to the maiden of bashful fifteen 195 A health to the nut brown lass 196 Here’s to each Tory and Radical too 1845 196 Love, you must own, is a comical thing 196 Here’s to the voter whose terms are fifteen 196 Here’s to the ringman. The Globe 197 Easter for maidens of bashful fifteen 197 Here’s to the man with a balance in hand 197 Here’s to the fresher not out of his teens 197 Here’s to the motley, mellifluous host 197 Smart Churchill, ’cute Chamberlain 198 All names of the male kind masculine call 259
Had I a heart for falsehood framed 198 Had I a pound of tender steak 198
This bottle’s the sun of our table 259 Bicycle’s the sun of our stable. J. G. Dalton 259
――――
Sir John Suckling.
Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 178 Why so sad and pale, fond lover? 1819 178
Ballad upon a wedding 178 Aylesbury Races. Sir J. H. Moore 178
――――
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
The Question. The Daily Telegraph. 1887 147 The Answer. The Daily News. 1887 147
――――
James Thomson.
RULE BRITANNIA 108 A Latin version. Blackwood’s Magazine 108 When Canning’s name was first proclaim’d 109 When Britain first, impell’d by pride 109 When freedom’s foes mock labour’s groan 109 When first the South, to fury fanned 109 When faction at the De’ils command 110 When Beaconsfield, at civic board. 1879 110 Jingoes ever will be knaves 110 Brickbats never will be slates 110
――――
Lord Tennyson.
LORD TENNYSON’S JUBILEE ODE. Macmillan’s Magazine. April, 1887 142
“Fifty times the rose has flower’d” 142 Fifty times the Laureate sharpened his pencil. The Globe 143 Fifty times the clown has grinned. Punch 143 Fifty times the lines have slipped and halted. Scraps 144 Fifty times our nose has twirled and tilted. Moonshine 144 Fifty times seven days are past and ended. St. James’s Gazette 145 You, the Laureate (O Fortunate) 146 He, revered for a genius. F. B. Doveton 146 Fifty times the State has fooled 146 Ye, who revel in authorship 146 She, disliked for a craftiness 146 (These five are from The Weekly Dispatch.) Fifty times my nose I’ve rubbed 147 The ode as it ought to be 279 Fifty times my nose you’ve broken 279 Fifty years your verses have been fading 279 Fifty times we’ve planted Kail and used it. W. A. Sloan 280
IRISH SONGS.
Samuel Lover.
Oh! Molly Bawn 246 Oh! Molly, pawn without repining 246 Oh! Robert Bawn, why leave me 246
A baby was sleeping 246 A woman half sleeping 246 O come to the wild west. M. P. Romer 246
THE LOW-BACKED CAR 246
When first I saw sweet Peggy 18 When first I saw Miss Clara. Diogenes 18 When first I used the railway. Punch 18 The gin-shop bar. J. A. Hardwick 246 When first I saw the Emperor. 1854 247 Count O’Cavoureen. Shirley Brooks. 1859 247 Kathleen Mavourneen’s answer 247
――――
Thomas Moore.
The days are gone when claret bright 252 Those bicycles, those bicycles. J. G. Dalton 254 Strong and sure were the skates she wore 254 Where stood the bar, we’re building love 254 Oh! there is not in nature 254 Oft in the chilly night 254 Most Irish questions are about 254
The minstrel boy to the wars has gone 254 The publican on his raid has gone 254 The militiaman to parade is gone 254 I knew by the dirt 254 I knew by the noise 255 I knew by the smoke 255
Mary, I believed thee true 252 O Mary, I believed you true. Thomas Hood 252
’Tis the last rose of summer 253 Eheu rosarum floruit ultima! Father Prout 253 ’Tis the first rose of summer. Judy 253 ’Tis the last “quid” of many. Fun 253 ’Tis the last fly of summer 253
The Bells of Shandon.――FATHER PROUT 247 In Memoriam! Father Prout 248 On Frazer’s Magazine. 1882 248 The bells I’ve shamm’d on 248
Brian O’Lin had no coat to put on 249 Daniel O’Connell’d no mischief to brew 249
You all knew Tom Moody――ANDREW CHERRY 249 You all knew Pat Fagan 219
The Lament of the Irish Emigrant.――LADY DUFFERIN I’m sitting on the stile, Mary 16 I’m flitting in the style, Mary. Diogenes 17 I’m sitting in a style, Mary. Our Miscellany 17 I’m sitting in this style, Mary, J. B. Oddfish 17 I’m sitting at my window, Jack 17 I left thee young and gay, Mary. Eliza Cook 18
Meet me by moonlight alone.――J. A. WADE 60, 249 Meet me, Miss Molly Malone 60 Meet me this evening alone 60 Meet me with Wimbush alone 60 Meet me at breakfast alone. Punch 60 Viens au bosquet, ce soir. F. Mahony 249
Did ye hear of the Widow Malone?――C. LEVER 250 You’ve all heard of Larry O’Toole. W. M. Thackeray 250 Did you hear of Nordisa’s first night? 250
Erin go Bragh 250 From Brest in the Bay of Biscay 250
THE SHAN VAN VOCHT
Oh! the French are on the Sea 251 There’s a Dutchman in the town 251
Ballyhooly.――R. MARTIN 251 The Parliamentary Ballyhooly 251
SCOTCH SONGS.
Robert Burns.
Scots wha hae Men whose fathers crushed the wrong 239 Where’s the girl can fear disdain? 239 Is there for honest policy. W. E. Sadler 243 A rink’s a rink for a that. A. W. Mackenzie 240 A man’s a man. Charles Mackay 242 Is there for tenets Liberal. 1886 242
Green grow the rushes O’ 241 A latin version by Father Prout 241 A Gladstonite lament, 1886 240 The wearing o’ the sashes, oh! 242 My Kitty O’, my Kitty O’. M. Fahy 242 Randy Randolph Churchill, O! 234
My Love is like the red, red rose 238 My love she has a red, red nose 239 My love he has a great red nose 239 Oh! where is our one policeman gone? 236 Oh! where does my own true lover stay? 236 The Broom cam capouring doon 237 The Belgians are coming, oh dear! 238 An Address to the game laws 239 Should auld habiliments be forgot? 239 Let auld acquantance be forgot 240 Ye German princes puir and proud 240 Should brandy ever be forgot? 240 Joe Chamberlain, my Joe 243
――――
Sir Walter Scott.
Partant pour la Syrie. Translation by Scott 183
It was Dunois the young and brave 183 It was Bill Noyes, the yeoman brave 184 It was Dunupp, the hard beset 184
To the Lords of Convention 237 To the House at Westminster 237 To the millions of England 237 To the Peers ’tis the People 237 The last pot of marmalade 237 March, march; daisies and buttercups 235
Lullaby in Guy Mannering. Sleep, Mr. Speaker, ’tis surely fair. W. M. Praed. 182
Maxwelton braes are bonnie 233 The Guildhall bench is funny 233
I have heard the mavis singing 233 I have heard the cats a-squealing 233
Let us haste to Kelvin Grove 235 Let us haste and join the chase 235
I’m wearin’ awa’ John――LADY NAIRNE 236 I’m frichtened for ye a’ weans 236 Where the poor cease to pay 236
Behave yoursel’ before folk 234 An answer to the above, by A. Rodger 234 As lonely I sat on a calm summer morn 235 Do you ken Arthur Peel? 230 Oh dear! what can the matter be? 233
The flowers of the forest are a’ wede awa’ 238 So mourn we to-night. Daily News. 1886 238
WELSH SONGS.
Taffy was a Welshman 255 Taffy is a Welshman. A complimentary version by Shirley Brooks 255 The same in Welsh 256 Bouncer was a welsher 256
The march of the men of Harlech. On by love of costs we’re goaded 257 With blaze of fireworks, fêtes, &c. 257 Brothers, up, to win new glory 257
MISCELLANEOUS SONGS.
At the peaceful mid-night hour.――J. O’KEEFFE 179 A parody on the above 179
A wet sheet and a flowing sea 229 With wet feet in a committee 229
Alice Gray She’s all my fancy painted her 23 It’s all my fancy painted it. Figaro 23 She’s naught my fancy painted her 23 He’s all his agent painted him 24 He’s all my fancy painted him 24 She’s not what fancy painted her. Punch 24 She’s all the chimney sweep described 24 No wonder that they’ve painted her 24 She’s all my fancy painted her. L. H. Sheridan 272
A frog he would a wooing go. John Kemble he would an acting go 192 Hal Clifford would a reforming go 192 Campbell would a writing go. 1831 193 Froggy must a warring go. 1857 193 A Premier would a-wooing go. 1887 194 Off they went to Osborne to play. 1887 194 A gray old fox sat under a vine 195
A life on the ocean wave. A death on the ocean wave, Punch 78 A life on the ocean waive, Man in the Moon 78
And shall Trelawney die? 222 And shall they strike at Ritual rites? 222
A song to the oak, the brave old oak――H. F. CHORLEY 180 A song to the Dukes. Punch. 1846 180
A tale of the Tenth Hussars (on Colonel Baker) 87 When the sand of the lonely desert. Punch. 1884 87 When the train, on its lonely journey 87
Ballads――Parodies on various 190
Battle of Agincourt――M. DRAYTON 191 Fair stood the wind (we thought). 1885 191 See, where the hosts advance 191 Baviad, and the Maeviad 169
Beautiful Star. Beautiful star, on each opera night 34 Beautiful pit, behind the stalls 35 Beautiful soup, so rich and green 35 Billiawatha (on Buffalo Bill). Judy 276
Blessed as the immortal gods is he――A. PHILIPS 180 Drunk as a dragon sure is he. H. Erskine 180
Cease rude Boreas, blust’ring railer――G. A. STEVENS 79 Cease to bore us, and assail us. 1836 79 Cease to lure us ’bout the ocean. 1865 80
Champagne Charlie is my name 220 Gad’s hill Charlie is my name. 1867 220
CHEVY CHACE.
God prosper long our noble King 184 A Parody from The Anti-Jacobin. 1798 185 A Parody from The Morning Herald. 1799 185 A parody on the O. P. riots. 1809 186 A Protectionist parody. 1850 187 A parody relating to Mr. Gladstone. 1885 187 The battle of Putney Hill 185 The Middlesex Election 210 The Litchfield defeat 211
Come, all ye jolly sailors bold.――PRINCE HOARE 74 Come, every jolly rower bold. G. V. Cox 74 Come, all ye Britons, brave and bold. Punch 74 Come, all ye modern seamen bold 268
Dance, the boatman, dance. Sign the Bill stamp, sign 217
Dear Betty, come give me sweet kisses.――Sir C. H. WILLIAMS 180 Come, give us more Livings and Rectors 181
Dear Tom, this brown jug.――F. FAWKES 172 Dear Bill, this stone jug. Punch. 1857 172 Dear Tom, this black pot. Figaro. 1832 173 Dear Jack, this white mug. W. M. Thackeray 173 Della Cruscans, The 69
Darby and Joan. The Liberal barque is on the wave 230 The Derby’s here, and I’m getting grey 231 Derby dear, I am old and grey 231 Epitaph on George IV., with Cruikshank’s caricature 103
Far away. Where is our last big coup. Truth 20 There is a fine old sow 20 Where is a bobby found? 20 Where is now the merry party? 21
Fluttering spread thy purple pinions. 1733 169 Slighted love the soul subduing 169 Balmy zephyrs, lightly flitting. Horace Smith 170 Lovely maid with rapture swelling 170 For ever, and for ever. L. S. May 273
Gentle Zitella, whither away! 217 Real Havannah! precious cigar! 217
Gently touch the warbling lyre.――A. BRADLEY 178 Gently blow and stir the fire. Dean Swift 178 God rest you merry gentlemen. A carol 192
Go from my window, love go. 1590 270 Who is at my windo, who, who? 270
Hang sorrow, let’s cast away care 214 Cast away care, he that loves sorrow 215 Drink to-day, and drown all sorrow 215 There are five reasons, as I think 215 He who goes to bed, and goes to bed sober 215
I am a friar of orders grey――J. O’KEEFFE 177 I am the demagogue of the day 177
I am a simple muleteer. I am a rifle volunteer. 1860 226 I am tenant of nine feet by four. T. Hook 101 This is the house that Jack built 102
If doughty deeds. If dirty deeds my lady please 228
I give thee all――I can no more 182 I give thee all (duck and peas) 182
I hear the children’s voices. Corney Grain 225
I know an eye――JOHN OXENFORD 64 I know a “High.” College Rhymes. 1866 64
I’m afloat! I’m afloat! 78 There’s a flat! there’s a flat! Puppet Show 78 I’m a shot, I’m a shot! 78 I’m a float! I’m a float! The Angler’s Journal 78 I’m a shrimp! I’m a shrimp! R. Brough 274 I’m a gent! I’m a gent! 274
I’m ninety-five. I’m thirty-five! I’m thirty-five. Truth 20 In good King William’s peaceful reign 164
In the days when we went gipsying 174 Oh, the days when we went gipsying. A. Smith 174 Oh, the days we read those musty books 175 I would all womankind were dead. Aytoun 175
It came with the merry May, love. 12 It came with the joyful June, love 12 It came with the merry May, love. F. Bowyer 36
I thank the goodness and the grace 232 Upon my childhood’s pallid morn 232
I cannot sing the old songs――CLARIBEL―― 25 We met――’twas on the rink 25 I cannot eat the old horse 25 I cannot hold the old creeds. G. Sexton 273
I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming 62 I’ve been shopping, I’ve been shopping 62 I’ve been eating, I’ve been eating 62 I’ve been turning, I’ve been turning 62
Jolly Nose! the bright rubies that garnish thy tip. W. H. AINSWORTH 231 Beau nez! dont les rubis 231
Just before the battle, mother 226 Just before the wedding, mother 226 Just after the wedding, mother 227
Lilli Bulero――LORD WHARTON 189 The new Lila Bulero. 1798 189 Bully bullero, buller a-la. 1887 190
Long, long ago Twine me the curls I delighted to see 182
Lord Bateman was a noble lord 188 The ballad as illustrated by George Cruikshank, with notes by Charles Dickens 188 Lord Bateman was a noble lord 188
Lord Lovell he stood at his castle gate 171 He strode and he strode (on Bradlaugh). 1881 171 Lord Lovell he stood at his own front door 171 Joe Muggins he stood 171 Lord Fitz-Faddle he lived 172
Jack’s yarn The Tailor’s holiday 155 ’Twas on a Monday morn 155
My lodging is on the cold ground 178 My lodging is in Leather-lane. W. B. Rhodes 179
My Mother bids me bind my hair――MRS. JOHN HUNTER 12 My mother bids me dye my hair. Punch 12 The Lancet bids me be a Peer. Funny Folks 13 My mother bids me pinch my waist. Truth 13 My mother bids me find an heir. Punch 63 My mother bids me spend my smiles. T. Hood 63
My Nellie’s Blue Eyes 152 Two lovely black eyes. Charles Coborn 152 Deux beaux yeux noirs 152 Zwei augen so schwartz 152 Down at the House, in the days that have been Punch 153
My Queen. London Society 15 My King. London Society 15 My Scheme. Punch 15 My Dude 274
Nonsense Verses, and Parodies 169
Old Simon the cellarer――J. L. HATTON 176 Joe Podgers, the farmer. Fun. 1869 176 Old Tim, the teetotaller Punch. 1871 176 Old Taurus our cellarer. Judy. 1878 176 Old Simmonds, the bellower. J. A. Hardwick 177 Old William the cloturer. Punch. 1882 177
OLD TOWLER. “Bright Chanticleer proclaims the dawn” 164 The op’ning morn dispels the night 164 Bright chandeliers the room adorn 165 Our chance at Eyre we claim this dawn 165 We’re going to have a glorious run 165
Old King Coal was a merry old soul――CHARLES MACKAY 165 Oh! little Queen Cole was a nice little soul 166 Old King Coal paid a very high toll 166 Old King Cole was a savage old soul (on Henry Cole, C.B.) 1867 167 Young King Coal was a merry young soul 167
Oh! don’t you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt? 79 Oh! don’t you remember Sweet William 3 Now don’t you remember old Alice? 79 Oh! don’t you remember sweet Sal? 79 Oh! don’t you remember the days when “Bolt” 79
Oh! give me but my Arab steed 226 Oh! give me but my donkey, Joe 226 Farewell my ribbons, and alack! 226
O, let me like a soldier fall 86 Yes, let me like a feather fall. Whizz. 1880 86
On Richmond Hill there lives a lass――UPTON 179 A parody on the above 179 Of William’s bill we’ll see the last 180
Oh! say not woman’s heart is bought――T. L. POCOCK 183 Oh, say not that my heart is caught 183 Oh, say not life is dearly bought 183
Oh! the mistletoe bough 25 The mistletoe hung on the castle hall 25 The Michaelmas goose lay in Leadenhall 25 The cloth vos laid in the Vorkhouse hall 26 At the old Manor-house and ancestral hall 26
Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow 228
Oh, ’tis love, ’tis love! 63 Oh, ’tis beef, ’tis beef! D. O’Meara 63 Oh, ’tis love, ’tis love! 64 Oh! this love! this love! 64
Only a lock of her hair Only a lock of his hair 16 Only a common yard door 16 Only a hair on his shoulder 16 Only a cyclist gigantic. Once a Week 16
On the Prairie, an imitation of Captain Mayne Reid 62 Our dear old Church of England. S. Brooks 222 Our party’s doing very well. Judy, 1880 223 Jumbo and Taoung 223
Over and over again 220 As parodied by Miss Seventeen 220
Over the garden wall 221 Over the handles (Bicycle) 221 A parody by F. L. Richardson 221 Down with the castle wall 221
Phillis is my only joy――C. SEDLEY 32 Fillies is my only joy. 1867 32
Please to remember the fifth of November 270 ’Tis good to remember the fifth of November 270 Sadly Lord Salisbury. Fun. 1885 216 Gaily the Grand Old Man. Truth. 1886. 216
Said a smile to a tear.――JAMES KENNEY 168 The loves of the plants 168 Said a steak to a chop 168 Said a fox to a goose 169
Schubert’s Songs in English translations 278
See, the Conquering Hero comes! See, the conquering jingo comes. The Echo. 88
SHE AND I I in a mighty palace.――G. C. BOYLE 230 I and she She in a gay gin palace. J. M. Lowry 230 Should you ask me whence these Indians 276
Silver threads among the gold 232 Don’t dye your hair when you grow old 232 Sir Percy and the fearful fogge 229
Some Day 14 We know not when the day shall be. Truth 14 I know not when your bill I’ll see. Doveton 63
Strangers yet.――R. MONCKTON MILNES 14 Strangers now. Once a week 14
The old and young Courtier 90 The fine old English gentleman 90 The fine young English gentleman 91 The fast young undergraduate. 1836 91 The raal ould Irish gintleman 91 The old and new Cantab. 1848 92 The fine rich Jewish nobleman. 1850 93 The fine old English innkeeper. 1853 93 The fine old Standard tragedy. 1855 93 The fine old English omnibus. 1856 94 The fine old British subaltern 94 The fine young English officer. 1857 95 This wondrous nineteenth century. _Frank E. Smedley._ 1865 95 The fine old English gentleman of the present time 96 The fine young London gentleman. 1882 96 A fine old English general 96 The fine old atom-molecule 97 On Sir Stafford Northcote. 1885 97 On the Grand Old Man. 1886 97 The first rate English fox-hunter 98 The special Correspondent. 1882 99 The fine young agriculturist. 1867 99 In the Post-office Directory. 1848 100 The much mistaken demagogue. 1883 100 A good old English gentleman. 1885 100 The indefeasible title. 1881 100 The fine old English Tory times. _Charles Dickens._ 1841 100 The fine old Standard tragedy 149 The fine young English gentleman 149 The old English publican 150 A fine old heavy villain 150 The fine old common councilman 150 A variety of Vicars. Truth 151 The old English constable. Songs by Jingo 274
The Gunpowder Plot. “I sing a doleful tragedy” 155 In the story of “Aladdin” 156 I sing a song of foolishness 156 I sing a comic-tragedy (on Bradlaugh) 157 I sing a doleful tragedy. Cuthbert Bede 157 The question for the country now (Home Rule) 158 I sing about a grand old man 158
The Hunt is Up 269 With hunts up, with hunts up. 1590 270
The Monks of Old. A Darwinian ballad 220
The Pilgrim of Love. “Orynthia, my beloved, I call in vain” 159 Oh, Blowsabel! my detested 159 Angelina, my chickabiddy. G. W. Hunt 159 Och, Judy, my sweet darling! 159 Chamberlain, my beloved! 160 A doctor who dwells (the seedy C.C.) 159 The Queen in France. 1843 190 The “Lay” of the good Lord Roseberry. 1885 190
The Red, White, and Blue 106 Oh, Britannia, the pride of the ocean 106 Oh, Columbia, the gem of the ocean 107 Great, great is the task set before us. 1885 107
The Three Jovial Huntsmen. The three jovial statesmen 227 On Salisbury, Northcote, and Churchill 227
The Two Obadiahs 221 The two Marias. L. M. Thornton 222 The two Tory Obadiahs. Truth. 1886 222 The Tory Obadiah and the Union Obadiah 222
The Vicar of Bray. “In good King Charles’s golden days” 160 When Pitt array’d the British arms. 1814 161 In Mr. Gladstone’s powerful days 161 In good Victoria’s palmy days 161 When Bluff King Hal grew tired of Kate 162
There’s a Land that Bears a well-known Name 107 There’s a paper bears a well-known name 107 The Jingo Englishman. 1878 107 The Chancery Court 108 There’s a game that bears (on cricket) 245
The Bay of Biscay, O!――ANDREW CHERRY 75
Loud roared the dreadful thunder Loud roar’d the watchman’s rattle (O.P. Riots) 75 Loud roar’d the smoking funnel. Punch 75 I cut the ball right under. Tennis cuts 76
The Beating of my Own Heart――R. M. MILNES 14 The beating of my own wife. Punch 14 Love and Science. Funny Folks 15
The Beautiful Maid――LISTON 183 My fishmonger swore. Bishop R. Heber 183
THE BRITISH GRENADIERS. Some talk of Alexander――ANONYMOUS. 1760 81 Upon the plains of Flanders. Thomas Campbell 82 Some talk of Alexander (Brook Green Volunteer). Punch 82 Most regiments have some varlet. 1849 82 The gallant specials of 1848 82 Oh! some talk about Jack Sheppard. Diogenes 83 Some talk of Alexander (on the Victoria Cross) 83 Some talk of Alexander (on the London volunteers). 1860 83 Aitcheson’s carabineers 83 Some talk of Archimedes. Fun. 1866 84 Come all ye dilettante bold. Funny Folks. 1878 84 In Egypt there’s an old stream. Punch 85 Some swear by Wilfred Lawson. Morning Post 85 Some talk of Alexander. England 85 Some praise the fair Queen Mary (song of Mrs. Jenny Geddes). Professor J. S. Blackie 85 Some talk of Bright and Cobden. Truth 86 Some men go in for science. Nicolson 268 Some prate of patriotism (on the volunteers) 269 The chief of the Liberal party. 1864 216
The Chough and Crow to Roost are Gone 153 With cough and cold to bed I’ve gone 153 The private day and feast are gone. S. Brooks 154 The inns and outs from rest are back 154
The Girls they Left Behind Them. Our gallant Guards have marched away 86 We cheer our soldiers on their way. Funny Folks 86
Ten Little Nigger Boys. Ten joint-stock companies. Finis 218 Ten little barmaids, sitting in a line. Judy 218 Six royal persons in the realm alive 218 Ten high commissioners. 1877 218 Twelve Irish jurymen. 1881 218 Ten thousand soldiers. 1881 219 Ten British ironclads. 1885 219 Ten Liberal Unionists. Sir W. Lawson 275
Three Jolly Postboys. Three Band of Hope boys 215
To all you Ladies now on Land――EARL OF DORSET 215 Ho! all you toilers in the land 215
To be there (Salvation Army song) 154
’Tis I am the Gipsy King. 173 Come, my dainty doxies 173 Trip it, gipsies, trip it fine 173 Oh! ’tis I am the railway king 173 Oh! ’tis I am a frisky king 174 Oh! ’tis I am a gipsy king 174 ’Twas in the grimy winter time. A. Shirley 89 (The Bilious Beadle.)
’Twas in Trafalgar’s Bay――S. J. ARNOLD 80 ’Twas in the Spithead Bay. Diogenes 81 ’Twas in Trafalgar Square. Punch 81 ’Twas at the Pig and Cat 81 The song of Billiawatha. Judy 276 (A parody of Longfellow’s Hiawatha.)
Wait till the Clouds roll by 225 Willy, my own grand Old One. 1885 225
We are a Merry Family 223 Song by Miss Mary Anderson 223 Song by a crusted old bencher 223 Song by a barrister 223 Song by a successful Q.C. 224 Song by Mr. Joseph Chamberlain 224 The political happy familee 225 We are English, you know 271 That’s English, you know. Punch. 1887 271
We Don’t want to Fight 88 There’s Connaught does not want to fight 88
What is the German’s Fatherland? 265 Where doth proud England’s boundary stand? 265 Was ist des Breitmann’s Vaterland? 265 What is the German’s Fatherland? 265 What is the Briton’s Fatherland? 266
When the Tide Comes in 228 Where the wet comes in 228
When this Old Cap was New 167 When this old hat was new. E. J. Burdette 168 When this old joke was new. Hal Berte 168
The Old Brigade――F. E. WEATHERLY. Where are the Boys of the Old Brigade 19 Sons of the old and staunch brigade 19 Rare were the joys when our hair decayed 19
Where are you going to, my Pretty Maid? 60-270 Going to lecture. 1879 60 Going to be photographed. 1878 60 A new reading 61 Going a chestnutting. 1886 61 Going to publish. Ernest Radford 61 Going a-swearing (C. Bradlaugh, M.P.) 61 Going to Spelling Bee 61 Going to a lecture. Modern Society 61 “Shall I have any croppers?” Whizz 61 “Will you come and see my Humber?” Whizz 61
Wings! to bear me over――PERCY BOYD 11 Curls, that I might roll them. The Cheltonian 12
Woodman, Spare that Tree――G. P. MORRIS 7 Lincoln, spare that tree. Punch 7 Gasman, light that clock ” 8 Frenchman, spare that tree ” 8 Gladstone, spare that tree ” 8 Spencer, spare that tree ” 8 Childers, spare that coin. Funny Folks 9 Butcher, spare that pig 273
Won’t you tell me why, Robin? Oh! won’t you tell me why, doctor? Finis 38 Oh, won’t you tell me why, Bobby? 39
Write me a Letter from Home 219 Send a remittance from home 219 Post me a parcel from home 220
JEANNETTE AND JEANNOT. You are Going Far Away 217 The lay of the creditor. 1848 217 A Monte Christo ballad 217 The Christmas pudding 217
“It was precisely the poets whom we most admired that we imitated the most frequently (in the ‘Bon Gaultier Ballads’). This was not certainly from any want of reverence, but rather out of the fulness of our admiration, just as the excess of a lover’s fondness often runs over into raillery of the very qualities that are dearest to his heart. ‘Let no one,’ says Heine, ‘ridicule mankind unless he loves them.’ With no less truth may it be said, Let no one parody a poet unless he loves him. He must first be penetrated by his spirit, and have steeped his ear in the music of his verse, before he can reflect these under a humorous aspect with success.”
From Sir Theodore Martin’s Memoir of William Edmonstoune Aytoun. 1867.
BROWN & DAVENPORT, Printers, 40, Sun Street, Finsbury, London, E.C.
Transcriber’s Note:
This book was written in a period when many words had not become standardized in their spelling. Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent hyphenation in the text. These have been left unchanged except indicated below.
Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, like this. Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and were moved to the end of the book. Obvious printing errors, such as backwards, upside down, or partially printed letters and punctuation, were corrected. Unprinted punctuation and final stops missing at the end of sentences and abbreviations were added. Commas were changed to stops at ends of sentences and abbreviations. Duplicate words and letters at line endings or page breaks were removed. Quotation marks were adjusted to match as pairs.
In the Table of Contents, Part 24 was moved from Volume III. to Volume II. Where there was a difference in punctuation, accents, hyphenation, etc. between the index entry and the poem text, the index entry was adjusted to match that of the poem.
Illustrated dropped capital letters are indicated within brackets, thus: [Illustration: B]efore ...
There are 3 anchors to Footnote [5], two anchors to Footnote [8]</a>, and two anchors to Footnote [49].
A TALE OF THE TENTH HUSSARS and its parody were printed on facing pages across a page break. The end of each poem was rejoined to its beginning.
Spelling corrections:
thers’s / there’s(no place like home!) Thh / The Milkmaid’s Song Bayley / Bayly exerybody / everybody Add / And (never once thought of poor me!) instints / instincts (that drag downwards) (collectors of literary) curosities / curiosities (turn on my) bicyle / bicycle (no heart, fearful) woer / wooer