Postscript
To borrow WORDSWORTH’S name was wrong, Or slightly misapplied; And so I’d better call my song, “Lines after ACHE-INSIDE.”
From Carols of Cockayne, by Henry. S. Leigh. London: Chatto & Windus, 1874.
(This originally appeared in Fun. November 11, 1865.)
――――
THEY ARE THREE.
――――A simple youth That sits and smokes with fools, And looks a fop in face and mien, What should he know of Schools?
I met an undergraduate boy: He was three times ploughed, I heard; His head was like a pretty toy, His language was absurd.
He had a town-bred London air, And he was sprucely clad; His face was soft, so was his hair; His ‘side’ it made me sad.
“Of lectures, undergraduate sir, How many may you keep?” “How many? Three,” he did aver. And cunning looked and deep.
“And what are they? I’d gladly know.” He answered, “Three are they; To one of them I never go, And one I cut each day.
“But one of them is given by My Tutor and my Dean, So in the early morning I Must go to that I ween.”
“You say that one you cut alway, To one you do not go, Yet you have three! Explain, I pray, Sweet youth, how this is so.”
The wily youth thus answered me, “Three lectures――three in all The list of lectures you may see Upon the board in hall.”
“You wander in your talk, I wot, Or else you are in fun, If one you cut, to one go not, Then you have only one.”
“The list is there, that can I swear,” The wily youth replied; “In the second row of the letter O, The three are side by side.
“I oft do paper work in hall, My letters there I write; And, though the dons are cutish all, I sit and crib outright.
“And often, when the sun is down, Beneath the gaslight’s glare, I take my tattered cap and gown, And eat my dinner there.
“The first I cut was Latin Prose; In bed one morn I lay Till ten had struck, and then I rose, But ’twas too late that day.
“So in my room I sat and smoked, And when my pipe was out, To Russell’s lazily we walked, I and my terrier, Snout.
“And when the clock eleven had struck, I scarce had chalked my cue; And though perhaps the schools I’ll muck, I cut my Mods, Books too.”
“How many have you then,” said I, “If two you cut each day?” The wily youth would still reply, “Three, if you please, we’ll say.”
“But one you cut, nay two you cut! You never go, you see!” ’Twas throwing words away, for still This wily youth would have his will, And said, “Nay, they are three.”
From The Shotover Papers. Oxford: J. Vincent, 1874.
――――
“I’VE GOT SEVEN.”
――――A little boy, A schoolboy he might be, That shows his joy in every smile, Of figures what knows he?
I met a little London boy, He was nine years old, he said; His face shone bright with mottled soap, His hair curled on his head.
He had a cockney, saucy air, And he was sparely clad: His eyes were black, and very black; ――He looked a thorough cad.
“All sorts of marbles, little boy, How many may there be?” “How many? Seven in all,” he said, And, whistling, winked at me.
“And where are they? I pray you tell.” He answered, “Seven there be; Two ‘alley-tors,’ one ‘commoney,’ And all belong to me.
“The ‘alley-tors’ for three a-piece Do count, and thus you see, That they are seven in all, although Their number’s only three.”
“You say you’ve got two ‘alley-tors’ And one small ‘commoney;’ Yet you’ve got seven! I pray you tell, Youngster, how this may be?”
Then did the little boy reply, “Seven marbles I possess; Two, you observe, are ‘alley-tors’ And count for six――no less.”
“You cut along, my lively lad, You’re gamesome, I can see; Although for seven your marbles count, Still they are only three.”
“They’re striped with red in lines of three,” The little chap replied. “Twelve yards or more from my mammy’s door I place them side by side.
“My spelling there I try to learn, My tables there to say; And there upon the ground I kneel, And, knuckling, with them play.
“And often after ‘washing up,’ When the tea-table’s bare, I take my bread and treacle, and I eat my supper there.
“The first I had was given me By my big brother, Bill; He bought it with a ha’penny which He cribbed from mother’s till.
“The next my sister Poll gave me; She found it as she brushed My Uncle Jack’s cord’roys, and then With it to me she rushed.
“The third, the ‘commoney,’ I got From out the kitchen drawer; I nailed it when I went to fetch Pa’s usual spirit――raw.”
“How many have you, then,” said I, “If two to you were given; And one you ‘nailed,’ you wicked boy?” “Lord love you! I’ve got seven.”
“Fie! if you tell such fibs, my boy, You’ll never go to Heaven!” ’Twas wasting breath to talk; for still, The little wretch would have his will, And would say, “I’ve got seven.”
EDWARD COMPTON.
Touchstone. November, 1878.
――――
A SIMPLE LAY. By the Archbishop of Canterbury.
――――A Rural Dean That with the Church content, Brooked not in any shape or form The schism of Dissent.
He met an aged cottager, He was eighty-two, he said, His hair――as will to you occur―― Had some time left his head.
He had a dazed and rustic air, In kettle-smock was clad; The Dean a minute had to spare, So spoke to this gran’-dad:
“Of sons and daughters cottager, How many may you be?” “I have had seven, they’re all in heaven, Not one is left to me!”
“And what were they?” the Dean asked then; “What were they?” echoed he; “Why, three was Plymouth Bretheren, And two turned Methodee.
“And two was Baptistes, I think, The heldest an ’is brother; The heldest, well, he tookt to drink, An’ used to whack ’is mother.
“But in the hend he did reform, An’ gived up bein’ cranky; He was converted in a storm By Moody an’ that Sankey!”
“That two were Methodists, you said, And Plymouth Brethren three, And Baptists two, then why say you That seven in heaven there be?”
Then did that cottager reply, “Seven boys and gals had we, And now they’re dead, as I’ve a-said, In heaven I hopes they be.”
“You’re very green!” observed the Dean, “And won’t be long alive; Your children seven are not in heaven, Nor three, nor four, nor five!
“For all of them, by what you say, Dissenters I must call; And so you make a great mistake. There’s none in heaven at all!”
“Their graves are green, they may be seen,” The cottager replied. “Ah, yes, I see, they are on the Unconsecrated side.”
“The first that went was Mary Jane,” The cottager did say; “A rare good gal, too, in the main, ’Twere fine to yeer ’er pray!
“So in the ground, sir, she was laid, Then Bill the fever caught; A rare good workman with ’is spade, And good in deed an’ thought!
“It seemed a despard cruel blow!”―― And here the old man sighed―― “For ’fore the ground was white with snow, God help us! all ’ad died!”
“How many were you?” said the Dean, “I think you mentioned seven?” Then said the cottager, serene, “Yes, we have seven in heaven!”
“They were dissenters!” cried the Dean, “They cannot be in heaven!” ’Twas throwing words away, for still The cottager would have his will, “And said “We’ve seven in heaven!”
From Finis, 1877.
――――
THE BALLAD OF THE ’BUS.
――――A simple ’Bus, Belonging to a London “Co,” That gets its ten per cent. with ease, ――Why should it crowd us so?
I hailed a raucous little “Cad,”―― “There’s room for one!” he cried; But when I stood upon the step, The facts his word belied.
He bore a bag to give you change; His voice was very loud. The simpleton he overcharged, And timid ladies cowed.
“Within this vehicle,” I asked, “How many may there be?” “How many?” roughly he replied; “Why don’t you look and see.”
“But where is room? I see no room?” My wrath I tried to smother. He answered――“On one side are six, And only five on t’other.”
“Two of the five,” I pointed out, “Must weigh a ton between ’em; Two others have such tattered garbs As barely serve to screen ’em.”
Then did the little “Cad” rejoin, “Yet they are only five; If you’re a-coming by this ’bus, I wish you’d look alive!”
“’Tis shameful,” angrily I said, “To play your fares such tricks! If two do take the room of three, Then surely there are six.”
“You’re jolly green, that may be seen!” The rude Conductor cried; “Until I’ve got twelve passengers, I am not ’full inside.”
“I always travel in a ’bus,” I thought it right to say, “And frequently am over-pressed In this atrocious way.
“My little bag I love to bring, My paper here I read, And, when there’s proper elbow-room, ’Tis very nice indeed.
“A Magistrate has just declared You have no right to pack us, And――ah, I see that person is A votary of Bacchus!
“A nice quintette! The more I look I seem to grow the sicker; Two elephants――two more in rags―― The fifth, he is in liquor!
“But Mr. Partridge, he will see These wrongs are not repeated――” ’Twas wasting words, for with a frown The ’Bus Conductor knocked me down, And cried. “Now you are seated!”
Punch. April 18, 1885.
――――
THEY ARE SEVEN.
I marvelled why he looked so wild, And fiercely drew his breath; That Tory, who had lately smiled, But now looked pale as death.
His cranium seemed in such a whirl, He hated Fate, he said―― His hair was sadly out of curl, He lowly bent his head.
Said I, “The members in for ‘Brum,’ All one sort seem to be.” “Yes, seven in all,” he said, quite glum, But, there, we’ve no M. P.!”
“And who are they?” I asked, “Say, do!” Quoth he, “Cook, Broadburst, Bright, And Williams, Kenrick, Dixon, too―― And ‘Joe’ has won his fight!”
“What, not e’en Randolph in,” said I. “That Birmingham batch to leaven?” “Ah, no,” he sadly made reply, “Not one, while they have Seven!”
“Nay raise your head,” I gently said, “Let mirth your mourning leaven; Why, look at Liverpool”――but he Still moaned “In ‘Brum’ we’ve no M. P., While Liberals they have Seven!”
Fun. December 2, 1885.
――――
“WE ARE SEVEN.”
――――A Radical, With tenets all complete, Whose name is Joseph Chamberlain―― How should he know defeat?
I met――no little cottage gal, With curls around her head,―― But Joe, the conquering Radical, He’s more than seven, he said.
“In Brum what conquests have you made? How many may you be?” “How many? seven in all,” he said, And winked and smiled at me.
“The Tories? Pray you, where are they?” He answered: “Seven are we; The Tories stood awhile at bay, But they were all at sea!
“All of them knew the way to lie, They tutored one another, But each has gone to pipe his eye And whimper to his mother!
“And as they went I raised my hat, I smiled and coughed: Ahem! And there upon the poll I sat, I sat and laughed at them.
“The first to fail was Lord Chur-chill, Bright made him dull, by Joe! Then Showell showed extremely ill, And Lowe looked very low!”
“But they are fled――their hopes are done.” He said: “They are forgiven! Seven seats there are, but they have none, Seven seats――yet they have not won one,” He said, “But we are seven!”
The Judge. London. December 5, 1885.
――――
MORE THAN SEVEN. (Wordsworth’s Poem Adapted to Modern Times.)
I met a little city child, A small and vulgar boy, His eyes were twinkling, and he smiled As with an inward joy.
He had a look of saucy pride, His legs were somewhat bent, He walked along with careless stride, And whistled as he went.
“Sisters and brothers, little child, How many may you be?” His whistle ceased, but still he smiled, And stood and looked at me.
I said, “How many may you be? Where dwell you under heaven?” He smiled a simple smile at me, And said “I’m more than seven!”
“I do not doubt your word,” I said, “It gives me no surprise.” I placed my hand upon his head, And looked into his eyes.
“But pray you tell me, too, of those To whom your love is given.” He laid his finger on his nose And said, “I am more than seven!”
“I asked you not your age to give,” I said, with mild caress, “But tell me if your parents live, And what is their address?”
He fumbled with his jacket hem, As only children can: “I never tell such things as them To any School Board man!”
“I’m not a School Board man, my child, I am your friend,” said I, But still he only stood and smiled, And made this strange reply:
“If you tell whoppers such as that You’ll never go to heaven!” I reasoned vainly, I suppose, For still he smiled and tapped his nose, And said, “I’m more than seven!”
A. St. J. A.
――――
WE ARE ONE. (More’s the Pity.)
――――A single man, That leads a quiet life, Far from the din of family cares, What should he know of strife?
I met a tall and ancient girl―― She was nineteen, she said―― Her wig was thick with many a curl That bobbed about her head.
She had a very regal air, And she was thinly clad, As well befits an ancient girl Whose beauty makes one glad.
“Sweethearts and lovers, lovely maid, How many may they be?” “How many? Seven in all,” she said, And gave a leer at me.
“And where are they? I pray you tell.” She answered, “Seven are they, And two of them in Bedlam dwell, And two have run away.
“Two more of them are underground And then there is another Who ――――Ga ’long you naughty man, Or else I’ll call my mother.”
I went along. That beauteous maid Has followed me through life; But now, alas! I sue no more, Because――she is my wife.
――――
“WE ARE SEVEN.”
[The seven members who thus attained for a night a most unenviable notoriety were Mr. Parnell, Mr. O’Connor Power, Mr. Richard Power, Mr. O’Donnell, Captain Nolan, Major O’Gorman, and Mr. Whalley.]
’Tis Peterborough’s simple child, Who knows not what he saith, Replies to me in utterance wild, And somewhat out of breath.
He has a rustic woodland air, And he is strangely clad; His eyes are wild, unkempt his hair, As one a little mad.
“Of those who bring the House disgrace, How many may there be?” “Why, seven,” he said, with vacant face,―― “There’s seven――counting me!”
“But he who doth at Cavan dwell Foremost is wont to be; Yet you are ‘seven’――I pray you tell, My friend, how that may be.”
He kept to the same statement still, “Obstructives seven are we; Our task to hinder every bill, Aid spoil whate’er may be.
“And often after sunset, sir, Until the morning fair, The weary House we keep astir, And eat our breakfast there.”
“We thought that Biggar and Parnell Alone the House had driven”―――― Again the self-same accents fell, “Oh, master, we are seven!”
Funny Folks. July 21, 1877.
――――
THEY ARE FIVE.
I met a statesman old and worn, He was threescore years and more, And in his trembling hand were borne Vague Resolutions three or four.
[This is the first verse of a parody dated May, 1877, which occurs in a small anonymous pamphlet, entitled, They are Five, published by David Bogue, London. The parody consists of twelve dull verses, and is quite out of date.]
――――
“WE ARE SEVEN.” (The Birmingham Version.)
――――A Grand Old Man, By self-conceit so eaten, He cannot bring himself to feel That he’s completely beaten.
He met a Midland Radical, From Birmingham came he, And eye-glass, orchid, monogram All showed ’twas Joseph C――――.
J. C.’d a perky, well-pleased air, His “frock” was buttoned tight, The glance that through his eye-glass shot Was jubilant and bright,
“Ah,” said the G. O. M. to him, “Your face I surely know. Methinks you hie from Birmingham. Say, how do things there go?”
“How many have elected been, I’ve not had time to see?” “How many? Seven in all,” said Joe, And smiled at William G.
“And who are they, I pray you tell?” He answered, “Seven are we; Four sit for North, East, South, and West, And one for Bordesley.
“This last one, by the bye’s my friend, Who, spite your verbal maulings, Has triumphed! need I add he is ‘A certain Jesse Collings?’”
“Collings?” the G. O. M. replied, As he his brows knit sore, “Oh, Jesse Collings; yes, I may Have heard the name before.”
“But,” he went on――and he to keep His temper much did strive―― “You said that you were seven, but you Have only mentioned five.”
Then straight did Joseph C. reply, “Seven Unionists are we, For to the five you have to add, My brother-in-law and me.”
“But you’re against me,” Gladstone said, “I know your Caine-like tricks, So Birmingham has only sent For me supporters six?”
“What, do you mean you have not seen The polls?” J. C. replied, “Why, G. O. M., from Brummagem Not one is on your side.”
(Seven verses omitted.)
“Nay, nay,” cried Gladstone, “I refuse To own that things are so; “Birmingham went for me!” said Joe―― “It did――nine months ago.”
“But you have since brought in two bills So foolishly arranged That your devoted followers To bitter foes they’ve changed.”
“But they are dead; those bills are dead; They’re dead, I say, by Heaven!” The Old Man wasted breath, for still Would Midland Joseph have his will, And still exclaimed in accents shrill, “We Unionists are seven!”
Figaro. (London), July 10, 1886.
――――:o:――――
LUCY.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways, Besides the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love.
A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye; Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me!
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 1799.
Mr. W. Davenport Adams has asserted that the second verse of the above was written by Mrs. Wordsworth. Now Wordsworth was not married until 1802, three years after the poem on “Lucy” was written, and it seems very improbable that Mary Hutchinson would have contributed a verse praising a former sweetheart, even although she were dead.
――――
ON WORDSWORTH.
He lived amidst th’ untrodden ways To Rydal Lake[74] that lead; A bard whom there were none to praise, And very few to read.
Behind a cloud his mystic sense, Deep hidden who can spy? Bright as the night when not a star Is shining in the sky.
Unread his works――his “Milk White Doe”[75] With dust is dark and dim; It’s still in Longman’s shop, and oh! The difference to him.
This clever parody was written by Hartley Coleridge, whose character Wordsworth prophetically divined when he was but six years old:――
“O blessed vision! happy child! Thou art so exquisitely wild, I think of thee with many fears For what may be thy lot in future years.”
――――
JACOB.
He dwelt among “Apartments let,” About five stories high; A man, I thought, that none would get, And very few would try.
A boulder, by a larger stone Half hidden in the mud, Fair as a man when only one Is in the neighbourhood.
He lived unknown, and few could tell When Jacob was not free; But he has got a wife,――and O! The difference to me!
From Poems and Parodies, by Phœbe Carey. Boston, United States, 1854.
――――
EMANCIPATION.
She dwelt within unyielding stays That kept her bolt upright, A nymph whose waist won doubtful praise, She laced so very tight.
A maiden by a kirtle dun Half hidden from the eye, A single skirt when only one Was worn by low and high.
She burst her bonds at last, and so With perfect ease can stir. She wears “divided skirts,” and oh! The difference to her!!
F. B. DOVETON.
――――:o:――――
THE REJECTED ADDRESSES.
Wordsworth was one of the authors selected to be imitated in The Rejected Addresses. These were supposed to be the compositions sent in by competing poets on the occasion of the opening of the new Drury Lane Theatre in October, 1812. They were all written by the Brothers James and Horace Smith, this imitation of Wordsworth being the work of James Smith.
The Edinburgh Review for November, 1812, contained an article (written by Jeffrey) on The Rejected Addresses, in which, referring to this particular poem, the reviewer remarks:――“The author does not attempt to copy any of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth’s poetry; but has succeeded perfectly in the imitation of his mawkish affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering. We hope it will make him ashamed of his ‘Alice Fell,’ and the greater part of his last volumes――of which it is by no means a parody, but a very fair, and indeed we think a flattering imitation.”
THE BABY’S DEBUT.
“Thy lisping prattle and thy mincing gait, All thy false mimic fooleries I hate; For thou art Folly’s counterfeit, and she Who is right foolish hath the better plea; Nature’s true Idiot I prefer to thee.”
CUMBERLAND.
[Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child’s chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle’s porter.]
My brother Jack was nine in May,[76] And I was eight on New-year’s-day; So in Kate Wilson’s shop Papa (he’s my papa and Jack’s) Bought me, last week, a doll of wax, And brother Jack a top.
Jack’s in the pouts, and this it is,―― He thinks mine came to more than his; So to my drawer he goes, Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars! He pokes her head between the bars, And melts off half her nose!
Quite cross, a bit of string I beg, And tie it to his peg-top’s peg, And bang, with might and main, It’s head against the parlour door: Off flies the head, and hits the floor, And breaks a window-pane.
This made him cry with rage and spite Well, let him cry, it serves him right. A pretty thing, forsooth! If he’s to melt, all scalding hot, Half my doll’s nose, and I am not To draw his peg-top’s tooth!
Aunt Hannah heard the window break, And cried, “O naughty Nancy Lake, Thus to distress your aunt: “No Drury-Lane for you to-day!” And while papa said, “Pooh, she may!” Mamma said, “No, she sha’n’t!”
Well, after many a sad reproach, They got into a hackney coach, And trotted down the street. I saw them go: one horse was blind, The tails of both hung down behind, Their shoes were on their feet.
The chaise in which poor brother Bill Used to be drawn to Pentonville, Stood in the lumber-room: I wiped the dust from off the top, While Molly mopp’d it with a mop, And brushed it with a broom.
My uncle’s porter, Samuel Hughes, Came in at six to black the shoes, (I always talk to Sam:) So what does he, but takes, and drags Me in the chaise along the flags, And leaves me where I am.
My father’s walls are made of brick, But not so tall and not so thick As these; and, goodness me; My father’s beams are made of wood, But never, never half so good As those that now I see.
What a large floor! ’tis like a town! The carpet, when they lay it down, Won’t hide it, I’ll be bound. And there’s a row of lamps――my eye! How they do blaze! I wonder why They keep them on the ground.
At first I caught hold of the wing, And kept away; but Mr. Thing- um bob, the prompter man, Gave with his hand my chaise a shove, And said, “Go on, my pretty love; Speak to ’em, little Nan.
“You’ve only got to curtsey whisp- er, hold your chin up, laugh, and lisp, And then you’re sure to take: I’ve known the day when brats, not quite Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night;[77] Then why not Nancy Lake?”
But while I’m speaking, where’s papa? And where’s my aunt? and where’s mamma? Where’s Jack? O, there they sit! They smile, they nod; I’ll go my ways, And order round poor Billy’s chaise, To join them in the pit.
And now, good gentlefolks, I go To join mamma, and see the show; So, bidding you adieu, I curtsey, like a pretty miss, And if you’ll blow to me a kiss, I’ll blow a kiss to you.
Blows a kiss, and exit.
From Rejected Addresses, by Horace & James Smith. (London: John Miller. 1812.)
――――
THE PET LAMB.
The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; I heard a voice; it said, “Drink, pretty creature, drink!” And looking o’er the hedge, before me I espied A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its side.
No other sheep were near, the lamb was all alone, And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone; With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel, While to that mountain lamb she gave its evening meal.
* * * * *
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
――――
RINK, PRETTY CREATURE, RINK.
The dusk was falling fast, the lamps began to blink, I heard a voice, it said, “Rink, pretty creature, rink.” And looking o’er the edge, close by me I espied A gentle youth on wheels, with a maiden at his side.
No other folk were near, and they were quite alone, I saw the maiden sit upon a friendly stone.―― With one knee on the ground the gentle youth did kneel, And stooping down, her skates he tenderly did feel,
I saw, when in his hand her little foot he took, He seem’d with joy o’ercome, with sweet emotion shook, “Rink, pretty creature, rink,” he cried in such a tone, I saw that he had ta’en her heart into his own.
A handsome youth was he, while she had beauty rare, I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair; Now, hand in hand, again, I saw them start away, And as they passed me by, methought I heard him say:
“What ails thee, dear one? What? Why pull so at my hand? Are not thy skates yet firm? dost feel thou canst not stand? Ere long upon thy skates thou wilt be quite at home, And fly across the ground like any fairy gnome.
“Art tired, sweet, or hot? See here a cosy nook, Where we can sit and rest, and nobody can look; Or would’st thou skate alone, then start in all thy pride? One whistle and thou know’st that I am at thy side.
“Thou need’st not fear a fall when I am by thy side, My arm will hold thee up, as round and round we glide; Asphalte, I know, is hard, so it will always be, But if you feel you must fall, dearest, fall on me.”
I could not listen more, I had no time to stay But ponder’d o’er the scene as home I took my way; Methought the servant-maid who oped the door did shrink, For all I muttered was, “Rink, pretty creature, rink.”
A. W. MACKENZIE (Author of Idyls of the Rink).
From Mirth. May, 1887.
――――:o:――――
MY HEART LEAPS UP.
My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The child is father of the man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
――――
Extract from POEMS OF THE APPREHENSION.
My heart leaps up when I behold A bailiff in the street: ’Twas so since from one first I ran; ’Twas so even in the Isle of Man: ’Twill be so even in Newgate hold, Or in the Fleet! A trap is hateful to a man; And my whole course of life shall be Bent against them in just antipathy!
WILLIAM MAGINN.
This parody originally appeared in the Literary Gazette for 1820, p. 427.
――――:o:――――
Lines originally intended to have been inserted in the last edition of WORDSWORTH’S Poems.
I.
I met an old man on the road, His name was Robert Lake; Old man, said I, how do you do? He said his tooth did ache.
II.
I think, good Sir, he cried in grief, My tooth’s not worth a pin! But now and then to get relief I fill my mouth with gin.
III.
You fill your mouth with gin, said I, Your face, too, doth denote That now and then, by way of change, You pour it down your throat.
IV.
Indeed ’tis not a goodly drink, It fills the mind with doubt; And if your tooth doth ache, I think You’d better have it out.
V.
So to his tooth a string I tied, And pull’d right strong, forsooth; The old man held tight by the post, And soon out came his tooth.
VI.
The pain immediately took wing, No ghost e’er vanished quicker; “Ho,” quoth the man, “a bit of string Is better far than liquor.”
From The Satirist. June 1, 1811.
――――
She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment’s ornament; (Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like twilight’s too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature’s daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller betwixt life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength and skill, A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a spirit still, and bright, With something of an angel light.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
――――
THE M.A. DEGREE.
It was a phantom of delight When first it gleamed upon my sight, A scholarly distinction, sent To be a student’s ornament; I did not know nor did I care What work there might be to prepare, For all my mind to work was drawn Then, in my academic dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay Before me then was my M. A.
I saw it upon nearer view, A glory, yet a bother too! For I perceived that I should be Involved in much Philosophy (A branch in which I could but meet Works that were more obscure than sweet); In Mathematics, scarcely good For human nature’s daily food; And Classics――rendered in the styles Of Kelly, Bohn, and Dr. Giles.
And now I own, with some small spleen, A most confounded ass I’ve been; The glory seems an empty breath, And I am nearly bored to death With Reason, Consciousness, and Will, And other things beyond my skill, Discussed in books all darkly plann’d And more in number than the sand.―― Yet that M.A. still haunts my sight With something of its former light.
From The University News Sheet. St. Andrews. N.B. March 24, 1886.
――――
ON AUBERON HERBERT.
He was a Great Panjandrum, quite, When first he burst upon our sight; An Admirable Crichton, sent To be the nation’s ornament. His eyes possessed the Sphinx’s glare, The Sphinx’s, too, his stony air; But all things else about him drawn In tints of the millennial dawn. A mighty sage, a Mentor great, To chide, to chivvy, and to slate.
We saw him upon nearer view A Radical, yet a Tory too! With thoughts from Party bondage free, And steps of chartered liberty. A diction his in which did meet Tart enmities and phrases sweet. A creature far too wise and good For civic nature’s daily food. For Salisbury’s schemes or Gladstone’s wiles; He rates, and rallies, and reviles.
And now cantankerously serene He pitches into “The Machine,” Breathing hot wrath in every breath On Gladstone and his shibboleth. Having the will, if not the skill, All schemes――save his――to scotch or kill. A perfect Oracle――nobly planned, To scold, to scathe, and to command. And yet with an admixture slight Of blague and bounce, and blatherumskite!
Punch. June 5, 1886.
――――:o:――――
DUSTY BOB.
A Parody upon the style of Wordsworth, one of the Lake Poets, and author of “The Oxford Street Fiddler,” &c.
See where old Bob the Dustman stands, With dirty face and dirtier hands, Swinging his huge bell to and fro, Chaunting the while, “dust ho! dust ho!” In sooth, it is a pleasant cry, That hoarse and deep-toned harmony; It speaks of health and strength, and, oh! What dearer blessings here below?
Marry! he hath a sooty brow; But there are brains within, I trow; The blackness, that o’ershadows it, Doth hide a mine of rude old wit, Whose pleasaunce oft will downward fly, And sparkle in his broad, bold eye; A merry truth which ye, who’d know, Go watch him, while he sings, “dust ho!”
Old brawny songster! ’tis to me A marvel and a mystery, The jovial and Stentorian gusto With which thou daily callest “dust ho!” How useful art thou, making clean The dwellings both of rich and mean, Unheeding each small street-boy elf Who tauntingly cries, “clean thyself!”
Mild Dustman! in thy filthy face A moral he who looks may trace,―― A moral which, perchance, hath struck Thyself, when ’neath thy weight of muck; For, to my fancy, in thine eye A quaint philosophy doth lie, Which says, “who dirt from others sweeps More dirt upon himself but heaps!”
I met him last in Piccadilly; His bell was faint, his howl was shrilly; There was no more his lungs about The force with which he used to shout; A cry, but not as erst, was heard;―― I knew that “dust ho” was the word, But all the depth, the soul was gone As with his bell he “dust ho’d” on.
His hat was still in Dustman’s fashion, But with a slouch that woo’d compassion; Of velveteen still were his breeches, But with a host of coarse-drawn stitches. Of highloes still a pair he wore, But laceless each, and with a score Of holes that let the puddles in, And wetted Bobby, sole and skin!
No, Bob was anything but garish; ’Twas time they sent him to the parish! They tell me he is there at last, And that his bell was with him passed! The Dustman’s cart, the Dustman’s horse, Still haunt the streets and squares――of course, But other drivers do the job That once was done by Dusty Bob!
From The Comic Magazine. 1834.
――――:o:――――
TO THE CUCKOO.
O blithe new comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear, From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near.
Though babbling only, to the vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird; but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery.
* * * * *
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
――――
CUCKOO NOTES.
O blythe new paper! From thy page Seductive scraps I cull. O Cuckoo, shall I call thee sage? I cannot call thee dull!
When I’m reclining――business done―― Thy “Notes” provoke a laugh; From line to line my optics run, And twinkle at thy chaff.
From Fetter Lane I hear thee call To thousands far away; And unto me thou bringest all The gossip of the day!
“Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!” To me thou art, no doubt No bird, but a most novel thing―― The brightest paper out!
F. B. DOVETON.
――――:o:――――
THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.
At the corner of Wood Street when daylight appears, Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years; Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the bird.
’Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove’s, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all passed away from her eyes.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
――――
THE REVERIE OF A POOR SQUEEZED ’UN.
At the East end of Paul’s, there’s a plot that’s for sale; And the Press sings out, “Buy it!”――the cry’s somewhat stale. The Londoner, hustled and crowded, can tell How narrow the roadway, the pavement as well.
His fancy runs riot! What ails him? He sees A Boulevard appearing, all shaded by trees; With ease and with comfort the ’busses now glide From Cannon Street corner to busy Cheapside.
A road, “wide as Holborn,” allows him to view The Cathedral uprising in dignity new; And a fine open space lets the oxygen roam Where school-boys and merchants once boasted a home.
He looks, and his joy grows intense! But they fade―― The visions of elbow-room, Boulevard, and shade; And the space will be speedily built on, unless To the cry of, “Oh, buy it!” the City says, “Yes.”
Punch. December 26, 1885.
(But the City authorities did not say “Yes,” and the ground has all been covered with lofty warehouses.)
SIMPLICITY.
“Simplicity is a characteristic of the highest species of poetry. Now, no one has carried the simple so far as Wordsworth; and, as I hold it good always to imitate perfection, I have taken the following lines for my model:――
Violets, do what they will, Wither’d on the ground must lie: Daisies will be daisies still; Daisies they must live and die.
I fear much, lest some meaning, which may have crept into my verses should prove destructive of that exquisite simplicity at which I aim; however, what scholar is not inferior to the master?
Fair women win the hearts of men, Men the hearts of women too! It has been so, the Lord knows when―― What then can the poor things do?
Their blue eyes will be blue eyes still; Will have fire, and fire will warm: Lips will be lips, say what they will; And to kiss them, where’s the harm?
To church, to marry, fair one, go―― Bells in belfries toll, ding dong; If your mother did not so, Then your mother, child, did wrong.
(The last verse is omitted, not because it is too long, but because it is too broad.)
From The British Press. March 3, 1813.
――――:o:――――
WHAT WOMEN MAKE OF MAN.
I heard her singing lively notes, While on a chair I sat reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sweet thoughts to the mind.
To her fair face had nature linked A subtle charm that through me ran. And it pleased my heart to think, I was a lady’s man.
Soft blushes would, in that sweet hour, Each time we met, her face suffuse. And told me I had gained the power To have her hand did I but choose.
Bright couples round me danced and played, Their thoughts I could not measure, But, as approached the beauteous maid, My heart was full of pleasure.
My outstretched hands caught hold her arm, And drew her to my side. I told my love, confessed her charm; The maiden quick replied
“Here comes my husband;” then she went; The maiden even ran! Have I not reason to lament What maidens make of man!
WM. E. DOUBLEDAY.
――――:o:――――
THE YARRA-YARRA UNVISITED.
Written in an Australian Album on its Home Tour.
Ne’er have I rambled on its marge, Ne’er angled ’mid its willows; I ne’er have sailed in skiff or barge Upon its languid billows. Yet will I sing as Callanan Once sang at Gougaune Barra―― Yet will I sing as best I can The lazy winding Yarra.
Ah! many a day of weary toil, And much privation well borne, Have served to tame the rampant soil And raise this rising Melbourne. Some forty years ago, as wild, As lonely as Sahara, Now rife with life and Trade’s keen strife, Just at the mouth of Yarra.
It creeps between high wooded sides, And ere it reach the city, Past holy Abbotsford it glides―― To which it owes this ditty. For in Australian album, why Waste praise on Connemara, Thy heart’s in Abbotsford, and I Will praise its Yarra-Yarra.
The friend whose friendship gave me thine, With kindness past all telling, Pursues me since the “auld lang syne” When first with him I fell in. Ah! while we watched the summer tide Lap thy gray rocks, Kinvara, We recked not that o’er oceans wide He’d fly to Yarra-Yarra!
He tells me that the sky above Is bluer far and brighter Than that which spans the isle we love; The air is warmer, lighter. Gay flowers along the margin float And many an avis rara Of brilliant plume but tuneless throat, Skims o’er the sparkling Yarra.
When shall I breathe that purer air? Quite lately I have had some Fair chance of being summoned there. If summoned, ecce adsum? The motto of our Bedford race Is this: Che sara sara. (The accent slightly I misplace To coax a rhyme for Yarra.)
More musical than new Adare Its olden name Athdara, And Tennyson’s meek Lady Clare Grows statelier as Clara. Had not my Muse such gems to spare For gemming thy tiara, She would not waste a double share On this one stanza, Yarra!
There is not unity of theme I grant it, in these stanzas, The subjects as far sundered seem As Kensington and Kansas. ’Twere better if in graceful round My thoughts could move――but arrah! What can a poet do who’s bound To close each verse with Yarra?
And notice here our rhythmic chords Are strict in orthodoxy, Nor do they force two little words For one to act as proxy. An article to harshly treat (As in this line) would mar a Most conscientious rhyming feat Achieved to honour Yarra.
But now, at last, we must give o’er With our Wordsworthian sapphic, Though sundry rhymes remain in store Historic, topographic, Like those we’ve hitherto impressed, A Lara and Bokhara, Carrara, Marat, and the rest: But how link these with Yarra?
My trickling thread of metre wells As if ’twould well for ever: So mountain streamlet swells and swells Into a stream, a river. But now my harp as mute must grow As that which hangs at Tara. Farewell, dear Maid from Bendigo! Farewell, O Yarra-Yarra!
W. L.
This imitation of Wordsworth’s poems, Yarrow Unvisited, Yarrow Visited, and Yarrow Revisited, appeared originally in The Month, May and June, 1872. The allusion in the first verse is to J. J. Callanan, an Irish poet, who wrote Gougaune Barra, which is inserted in Bell’s Standard Elocutionist. (Belfast, 1874) p. 436.
――――:o:――――
A SONNET ON THE SONNET.
Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch’s wound A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; With it Camoens soothed an exile’s grief; The Sonnet glittered a gay mirtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow; a glowworm lamp It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land To struggle through dark ways; and when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains――alas, too few!
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
――――
TRANSLATION BY M. DE ST. BEUVE.
Ne ris point des sonnets, ô critique moqueur; Par amour autrefois en fit le grand Shakspeare; C’est sur ce luth heureux que Petrarque soupire, Et que le Tasse aux fers soulage un pen son cœur;
Camoens de son exil abrège la longueur, Car il chante en sonnets l’amour et son empire: Dante aime cette fleur de myrte, et la respire, Et la mêle au cyprès que ceint son front vainqueur.
Spenser, s’en revenant de l’ile des féeries, Exhale en longs sonnets ses tristesses chéries; Milton, chantant les siens, ranimait son regard: Moi! je veux rajeunir le doux sonnet en France, Du Bellay, le premier, l’apporta de Florence, Et l’on en sait plus d’un de notre vieux Ronsard.
――――
AN AMERICAN PARODY.
Scorn not the meerschaum. Housewives, you have croaked In ignorance of its charms. Through this small reed Did Milton, now and then, consume the weed; The poet Tennyson hath oft evoked The Muse with glowing pipe, and Thackeray joked And wrote and sang in nicotinian mood; Hawthorne with this hath cheered his solitude; A thousand times this pipe hath Lowell smoked; Full oft hath Aldrich, Stoddard, Taylor, Cranch, And many more whose verses float about, Puffed the Virginian or Havana leaf; And when the poet’s or the artist’s branch, Drops no sustaining fruit, how sweet to pout Consolatory whiffs――alas, too brief!
――――
BULL IN THE PRINTING OFFICE. A Wordsworthian Sonnet.
Oh! Bull, strong labourer, much enduring beast, That with broad back, and sinewy shoulder strung, Draggest the heavy wain of taxes, flung In growing heap, from thy poor brethren fleeced. Hadst thou a literary sense of shame, How woulds’t thou crush, and toss, and rend, and gore, The printing press, and hands that work therefore, For the sad trash that issues from the same. If they would print no other works than mine, The task were nobler; but, alas, in vain, Of audience few and unfit I complain, Bull won’t believe in Southey’s verse and mine. Arouse thee, John, involve in general doom All who bid Wordsworth rise for Byron to make room.
Cruikskank’s Comic Almanack. 1846.
――――:o:――――
BILLY ROUTING. A Lyrical Ballad.
Fit subject for heroic story, I sing a youth of noble fame; Town and country, ten miles round, Awaken at the glowing sound, Of gallant Billy Routing’s name!
This poem, written in imitation of Wordsworth, consists of thirteen verses. It will be found in Vol. I. Miscellanies by W. Maginn, London. Sampson, Low and Co. 1885.
In the same Volume will be found a rather dull imitation of Wordsworth’s Excursion, entitled The Kail Pot, which originally appeared in Blackwood’s Magazine for May, 1821, as did also the following much more clever parody:――
BILLY BLINN.
I knew a man that died for love, His name, I ween, was Billy Blinn; His back was hump’d, his hair was grey, And, on a sultry summer day, We found him floating in the linn.
Once as we stood before his door Smoking, and wondering who should pass, Then trundling past him in a cart Came Susan Foy, she won his heart, She was a gallant lass.
And Billy Blinn conceal’d the flame That burn’d, and scorch’d his very blood; But often was he heard to sigh, And with his sleeve he wiped his eye, In a dejected mood.
A party of recruiters came To wile our cottars, man and boy; Their coats were red, their cuffs were blue, And boldly, without more ado, Off with the troop went Susan Foy!
When poor old Billy heard the news, He tore his hairs so thin and grey; He beat the hump upon his back, And ever did he cry, “Alack, Ohon, oh me!――alas a-day!”
His nights were spent in sleeplessness, His days in sorrow and despair, It could not last――this inward strife; The lover he grew tired of life, And saunter’d here and there.
At length, ’twas on a moonlight eve, The skies were blue, the winds were still; He wander’d from his wretched hut, And, though he left the door unshut, He sought the lonely hill.
He look’d upon the lovely moon, He look’d upon the twinkling stars; “How peaceful all is there,” he said, “No noisy tumult there is bred, And no intestine wars.”
But misery overcame his heart, For all was waste and war within; And rushing forward with a leap, O’er crags a hundred fathoms steep, He plunged into the linn.
We found him when the morning sun Shone brightly from the eastern sky; Upon his back he was afloat―― His hat was sailing like a boat―― His staff was found on high.
Oh reckless woman, Susan Foy, To leave the poor, old, loving man, And with a soldier, young and gay, Thus harlot-like to run away To India or Japan.
Poor Billy Blinn, with hair so white Poor Billy Blinn was stiff and cold; Will Adze he made a coffin neat, We placed him in it head and feet, And laid him in the mould!
WILLIAM MAGINN.
――――:o:――――
FRAGMENT IN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH.
There is a river clear and fair, ’Tis neither broad nor narrow; It winds a little here and there―― It winds about like any hare; And then it takes as straight a course As on a turnpike road a horse, Or through the air an arrow.
The trees that grow upon the shore, Have grown a hundred years or more; So long there is no knowing. Old Daniel Dobson does not know When first those trees began to grow; But still they grew, and grew, and grew, As if they’d nothing else to do, But ever to be growing.
The impulses of air and sky Have reared their stately stems so high, And clothed their boughs with green; Their leaves the dews of evening quaft,―― And when the wind blows loud and keen, I’ve seen the jolly timbers laugh, And shake their sides with merry glee―― Wagging their heads in mockery.
Fix’d are their feet in solid earth, Where winds can never blow; But visitings of deeper birth Have reached their roots below. For they have gained the river’s brink, And of the living waters drink.
There’s little Will, a five year’s child―― He is my youngest boy; To look on eyes so fair and wild. It is a very joy:―― He hath conversed with sun and shower, And dwelt with every idle flower, As fresh and gay as them. He loiters with the briar rose, The blue belles are his play-fellows, That dance upon their slender stem.
And I have said, my little Will, Why should not he continue still A thing of Nature’s rearing? A thing beyond the world’s control―― A living vegetable soul,―― No human sorrow fearing.
It were a blessed sight to see That child become a willow tree, His brother trees among. He’d be four times as tall as me, And live three times as long.
This parody was written by Miss Catherine Maria Fanshawe, and is included in her “Literary Remains,” published in 1876 by B. M. Pickering, London. In a foot note to the parody it is stated that a distinguished lady friend, and admirer, of Wordsworth thought it beautiful and was surprised that he had never shown it to her.
The same little volume contains an “Ode in imitation of Gray,” in which the following lines occur relating to the purchase of a lady’s hat:――
The milliner officious pours Of hats and caps her ready stores, The unbought elegance of spring; Some wide, disclose the full round face, Some shadowy, lend a modest grace And stretch their sheltering wing.
Here early blooms the summer rose; Here ribbons wreathe fantastic bows; Here plays gay plumage of a thousand dyes―― Visions of beauty, spare my aching eyes! Ye cumbrous fashions, crowd not on my head! Mine be the chip of purest white, Swan-like, and as her feathers light When on the still wave spread; And let it wear the graceful dress Of unadornèd simpleness.
Ah! frugal wish; ah! pleasing thought; Ah! hope indulged in vain; Of modest fancy cheaply bought, A stranger yet to Payne.[78] With undissembled grief I tell,―― For sorrow never comes too late,―― The simplest bonnet in Pall Mall Is sold for £1 8s.
To Calculation’s sober view, That searches ev’ry plan, Who keep the old, or buy the new, Shall end where they began. Alike the shabby and the gay, Must meet the sun’s meridian ray; The air, the dust, the damp. This, shall the sudden shower despoil; That, slow decay by gradual soil; Those, envious boxes cramp.
Who will, their squandered gold may pay; Who will, our taste deride; We’ll scorn the fashion of the day With Philosophic pride.
Methinks we thus, in accents low, Might Sydney Smith address, “Poor moralist! and what art thou, Who never spoke of dress?” “Thy mental hero never hung Suspended on a tailor’s tongue, In agonising doubt; Thy tale no flutt’ring female show’d, Who languished for the newest mode, Yet dar’d to live without.”
There is also a serious imitation of Cowper’s “Alexander Selkirk;” it is entitled:
LINES
Supposed to have been written by Robinson Crusoe on the acquisition of Friday.
I have stood on the brink of the grave: Savage feet have imprinted the sand; But an arm that was mighty to save, Has saved in this terrible land.
* * * * *
――――:o:――――
RALPH RATTAT. A Wordsworthian Warble.
[Lady John Manners thinks it would be so nice to offer the postmen temperance gifts at Christmas――a cup of “tea, coffee, or cocoa,” for instance, and something to eat.]
Oft had I heard of Ralph Rattat―― His name is known to most men―― And t’other day it was my luck To meet that pearl of postmen.
Upon a doorstep Ralph was stretched, The while he let off stout cries, And silently a crowd stood by And listened to his outcries.
Epistles round about his frame Formed quite a pretty border; Tossed here and there the missives lay In most admired disorder.
His waistcoat all unbuttoned gaped, His coat was all undone, For one as unconfined of waist You might have searched wide London.
But though poor Ralph no more was pinched By swathes of tailors’ stuff, he Still suffered pain. I ne’er before Had seen a wight so puffy.
So swells sometimes a huge balloon Within its hempen fetters. D. Lambert had been beaten by This bloated lord of letters!
“What’s wrong?” I asked the groaning wretch. “Say, have you ‘growed’ like Topsy? Is poison lurking in your veins? Or is your ailment dropsy?”
“It’s Manners’ tip that’s laid me low,” This answer did Ralph mutter. “_I’m busting, sir, with cups o’ tea, And plates o’ bread-and-butter!_”
Funny Folks. December, 1885.
――――:o:――――
THE POETS AT TEA.
Such is the title of a series of short clever parodies which appeared in The Cambridge Fortnightly (Feb. 7, 1888). This bright little magazine is published by Mr. Octavus Tomson, 16, King’s Parade, Cambridge. Four verses are here omitted, but the titles are given:――
Macaulay, who made it.
Pour, varlet, pour the water, The water steaming hot! A spoonful for each man of us, Another for the pot! We shall not drink from amber, No Capuan slave shall mix For us the snows of Athos With port at thirty-six; Whiter than snow the crystals Grown sweet ’neath tropic fires, More rich the herb of China’s field, The pasture-lands more fragrance yield For ever let Britannia wield The tea-pot of her sires!
Tennyson, who took it hot.
Swinburne, who let it get cold.
Cowper, who thoroughly enjoyed it.
Browning, who treated it allegorically.
Wordsworth, who gave it away. “Come, little cottage girl, you seem To want my cup of tea; And will you take a little cream? Now tell the truth to me.”
She had a rustic, woodland grin, Her cheek was soft as silk. And she replied, “Sir, please put in A little drop of milk.”
“Why, what put milk into your head? ’Tis cream my cows supply;” And five times to the child I said, “Why, pig-head, tell me, why?”
“You call me pig-head,” she replied; “My proper name is Ruth, “I called that milk――she blushed with pride―― “You bade me speak the truth.”
Poe, who got excited over it. Here’s a mellow cup of tea-golden tea! What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance brings to me! Oh, from out the silver cells How it wells! How it smells! Keeping tune, tune, tune, tune To the tintinabulation of the spoon. And the kettle on the fire Boils its spout off with desire, With a desperate desire And a crystalline endeavour Now, now to sit or never, On the top of the pale-faced moon, But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea, Tea to the n-th,
Rossetti, who took six cups of it. The lilies lie in my lady’s bower, (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost) They faintly droop for a little hour; My lady’s head droops like a flower.
She took the porcelain in her hand, (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost), She poured; I drank at her command, Drank deep, and now――you understand! (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost).
Burns, who liked it adulterated. Weel, gin ye speir, I’m no inclined, Whusky or tay――to state my mind Fore ane or ither; For, gin I tak the first, I’m fou, And gin the next, I’m dull as you, Mix a’ thegither.
Walt Whitman, who didn’t stay more than a minute. One cup for my self-hood, Many for you. Allons, camerados, we will drink together O hand-in-hand! That tea-spoon, please, when you’ve done with it. What butter-colour’d hair you’ve got; I don’t want to be personal. All-right, then, you needn’t. You’re a stale-cadaver. Eighteen-pence if the bottles are returned. Allons, from all bat-eyed formules.
B. E. O. P.
――――
PETER BELL.
PETER BELL: A Lyrical Ballad. London. Printed for Taylor & Hessey, 93, Fleet Street. 1819.
Such is the title of an amusing parody, contained in a small pamphlet of 29 pages, with Preface, Poem, and Foot-notes, all in ridicule of the vanity and egotism of the author of the real original “Peter Bell.” The Preface states:――
“It is now a period of one-and-twenty years since I first wrote some of the most perfect compositions that ever dropped from poetical pen. My heart hath been right and powerful all its years. I never thought an evil or a weak thought in my life. It has been my aim and my achievement to deduce moral thunder from buttercups, daisies, celandines, and (as a poet scarcely inferior to myself, hath it) ‘such small deer.’ Accustomed to mountain solitudes, I can look with a calm and dispassionate eye upon that fiend-like, vulture-souled, adder-fanged critic, whom I have not patience to name, and of whose Review I loathe the title, and detest the contents. Philosophy has taught me to forgive the misguided miscreant, and to speak of him only in terms of patience and pity.
My ballads are the noblest pieces of verse in the whole range of English poetry: and I take this opportunity of telling the world I am a great man. Milton was also a great man. Ossian was a blind old fool. Copies of my previous works may be had in any numbers, by application at my publisher.
Of Peter Bell I have only thus much to say: it completes the simple system of natural narrative which I began so early as 1798.
It is written in that pure unlaboured style which can only be met with among labourers; and I can safely say that its occasional meaning occasionally falls far below the meanest capacity. I commit my ballad confidently to posterity. I love to read my own poetry: it does my heart good.”
W. W.
The parody consists of 42 stanzas, and relates how Peter Bell, visiting the churchyard, comes across a gravestone on which is engraved W. W.
I.
It is the thirty-first of march, A gusty evening――half past seven; The moon is shining o’er the larch, A simple shape――a cock’d up arch, Rising bigger than a star, Though the stars are thick in Heaven.
IV.
Beneath the ever blessed moon An old man o’er an old grave stares, You never look’d upon his fellow; His brow is covered with grey hairs, As though they were an umbrella.
VI.
’Tis Peter Bell――’tis Peter Bell, Who never stirreth in the day; His hand is wither’d――he is old! On Sundays’ he is us’d to pray, In winter he is very cold.
VII.
I’ve seen him in the month of August, At the wheat-field, hour by hour, Picking ear――by ear,――by ear,―― Through wind,――and rain,――and sun,――and shower, From year,――to year,――to year,――to year.
XXXVII.
Patient Peter pores and proses On, from simple grave to grave; Here marks the children snatch’d to heaven, Nor left to blunder “we are seven;”―― Even Andrew Jones no power could save.
XXXVIII.
What a Sexton’s work is here, Lord! the Idiot Boy is gone; And Barbara Lewthaites’ fate the same, And cold as mutton is her lamb, And Alice Fell is bone by bone.
XXXIX.
And tears are thick with Peter Bell, Yet still he sees one blessed tomb; Tow’rd it he creeps with spectacles, And bending on his leather knees, He reads the _Lake_ist’s Poet’s doom.
XL.
The letters printed are by fate, The death they say was suicide; He reads――‘Here lieth W. W. Who never more will trouble you, trouble you;’ The old man smokes who ’tis that died.
XLI.
Go home, go home――Old Man, go home; Peter lay thee down at night, Thou art happy, Peter Bell, Say thy prayer for Alice Fell, Thou hast seen a blessed sight.
XLII.
He quits that moon-light yard of skulls, And still he feels right glad, and smiles With moral joy at that old tomb; Peters’ cheek recalls its bloom, And as he creepeth by the tiles, He mutters ever――“W. W. Never more will trouble you, trouble you.”
There has been some speculation as to the author of this parody, and as far back as 1866 the following letter appeared in Notes and Queries:
“It was Reynolds, too, who, in 1819, anticipated the genuine Peter Bell of Wordsworth by a spurious Peter Bell, in which were exhibited and exaggerated the characteristics of Wordsworth’s earlier simplicitas.
I knew Reynolds, and often talked to him about Peter Bell. Wordsworth’s poem had been advertised, but its publication was from time to time put off. Some literary men were guessing at the cause of this delay, and one said, Wordsworth is keeping it back to elaborate. ‘Elaborate!’ said Reynolds, ‘I’ll see if I can’t get one out before him.’ He set to work that afternoon, and sent his poem to the printer the next evening. I think it was out about a fortnight before Wordsworth’s. Up to the publication of Peter Bell, they were literary friends, and occasionally exchanged letters. The joke annoyed Wordsworth, who gave up the acquaintance.”
Shelley also wrote a parody of Peter Bell.
A parody entitled “The Dead Asses, a Lyrical Ballad” was also published in 1819, but no copy of it can be found in the British Museum Library.
“Benjamin the Waggoner, a Ryghte merrie and conceitede tale in verse.” A Fragment. London, Baldwin. 1819. Anonymous. The introduction is signed Peter Plague-em.
This clever burlesque of “Peter Bell,” is an octavo of 96 pages, and consists of an Introduction, the poem, and some very prolix notes, all in ludicrous imitation of Wordsworth.
There’s something in a glass of ale, There’s something in good sugar candy; And when a man is getting cold, And when the weather’s getting cold, There’s something in a glass of brandy.
There’s something in Gambado’s horse, There’s something in a velocipede; That’s the horse I’d like the best, On it your book may easy rest, And he who runs may read.
I wish I had a pair of wings, And like the arab, a little peg; I’d instant lay across my leg, And rising up to other spheres, No more should critics vex my ears.
And now I have a velocipede, And now I have the little peg, And now I’ve fix’d upon it wings, And bidding adieu to earthly things, I lift,――and lay across my leg.
Now I rise, and away we go, My little hobby-horse and me; And now I’m near the planet Venus, Nothing seems to be between us, Not a bit of earth I see.
* * * * *
I love the words which run so easy―― Boat and float――and you and do―― Ass and grass make pretty rhyme; Boat, I’ve used it many a time, And ass――times just forty-two.
The parody is amusing, but exceedingly frivolous, as no attempt is made to do more than ridicule the simplicity of Wordsworth’s diction.
――――
LORD BYRON ON “PETER BELL.”
Messrs. J. W. Jarvis & Son, booksellers, of King William Street, Strand, have a scarce little work from which they kindly allow the following extracts to be made:――
The book is entitled “The Private Libraries of Philadelphia,” and describes the curious Bibliographical collection made by Mr. George W. Childs, of that city.
This catalogue is by Mr. F. W. Robinson, and printed by Collins, of Philadelphia, in 1883.
Mention in it is made of a six volume edition of Lord Byron’s works presented to Mr. Childs by John Murray, the publisher. In the first volume of this set is inserted a copy of Wordsworth’s poem Peter Bell, a poem for which Lord Byron, who generally disliked Wordsworth’s poetry, had a special aversion, and in this copy he had scribbled on the margin a parody of the commencement of the poem. This parody has not hitherto been published in England. Wordsworth’s Peter Bell commences thus:
Rydal Mount, April 7, 1819.
Prologue
There’s something in a flying horse, There’s something in a huge balloon: But through the clouds I’ll never float, Until I have a little boat, Whose shape is like the crescent moon.
And now I have a little boat, In shape a very crescent moon:―― Fast through the clouds my boat can sail, But if perchance your faith should fail, Look up――and you shall see me soon!
Lord Byron’s disgust is expressed in these lines:
Ravenna, 22 March, 1820.
Epilogue
There’s something in a stupid ass; And something in a heavy dunce; But never since I went to school I heard or saw so damned a fool As William Wordsworth is for once.
And now I’ve seen so great a fool As William Wordsworth is for once; I really wish that Peter Bell And he who wrote it, were in hell, For writing nonsense for the nonce.
I saw the “light in ninety-eight,” Sweet Babe of one-and-twenty years! And then he gave it to the nation, And deems himself of Shakspeare’s Peers. He gives the perfect works to light! William Wordsworth――if I might advise: Content you with the praise you get, From Sir George Beaumont, Baronet, And with your place in the Excise.
――――:o:――――
A MOOD OF MY OWN MIND.
Much grieved am I in spirit by the news of this day’s post, Which tells me of the devil to pay with the paper money host: ’Tis feared that out of all their mass of promises to pay, The devil alone will get his due: he’ll take them at his day.
This the first verse of one of the Paper Money Lyrics (in imitation of William Wordsworth) written by T. L. Peacock. The poem will be found in the third Volume of The Works of Thomas Love Peacock. London. R. Bentley & Son, 1875.
A great many parodies of Wordsworth are to be found in books published forty or fifty years ago, but they are, for the most part, dull and uninteresting, a few of the best only need be enumerated.
Old Cumberland Pedlar. In “Warreniana.” By W. F. Deacon. Longman & Co., London. 1824.
The Stranger, The Flying Tailor, and James Rigg. In “The Poetic Mirror.” By James Hogg. Longman & Co. London. 1816. Specimen the Fourth, in “Rejected Odes” (London, 1813), is a parody of “Alice Fell.”
The Story of Doctor Pill and Gaffer Quake, after the most approved modern style, and containing Words-worth imitation, appeared in Vol. 10 of The Satirist (London.) This is a long and spiteful parody of Goody Blake and Harry Gill, which was first published in Lyrical Ballads (Bristol) in 1798.
“Tim the Tacket, a lyrical ballad, supposed to be written by W. W.” is to be found in Poetical Works by William Motherwell, Paisley. Alexander Gardner. 1881. It is a fairly good imitation of style, and might pass for one of Wordsworth’s minor ballads.
――――:o:――――
WORDSWORTH AS POET LAUREATE.
On the death of Robert Southey, in 1843, the appointment of Poet Laureate was offered to Wordsworth. At first he declined on the plea that he was too far advanced in life to undertake the duties of the office; thereupon Sir Robert Peel wrote:――“Do not be deterred by the fear of any obligations which the appointment may be supposed to imply. I will undertake that you shall have nothing required from you.” Thus pressed, Wordsworth accepted the title and the pension, he being already in the receipt of a handsome annuity from the Government. The warrant was dated April 6, 1843, and he retained the office till his death in 1850. He wrote a sonnet on the occasion of his appointment, which for vanity and egotism is probably unparallelled in literature, but beyond this he paid little further attention, either to the office, or its ancient duties.[79]
MR. WORDSWORTH’S SUPPOSED ODE ON THE INSTALLATION OF H.R.H. PRINCE ALBERT AT CAMBRIDGE, JUNE, 1847. (Exclusive.)
I.
Sons of the Cam, awake! Come, stir, ye sleeping elves; Arise, or else your Prince will take A rise out of yourselves. Fast man, come breakfast faster, Slow man, drink off your sloe; Proctor and Doctor, gyp and Master, Do show some little go! Ye Principals, majestical move on; And all ye Dons, come rolling like the Don.
II.
We’ve our Field Marshal now, Let Isis pride be o’er; Those sons of Oxon shall not cow Our spirits as of yore. “Pig” of St. John, With “Fox” of Bonn, Henceforth in learning’s feast go snacks, And Germany Shall crowd to see Our Cambridge races run in Saxe.
III.
Where art thou, learned Whewell? Thy “euge!” haste and utter; If tired of giving freshmen gruel, Come give the Prince fresh butter. If all be true that Cantabs state, Thy cant-ability is great. Come, meek of speech, and bland of style, Come, smile as thou wert wont to smile. At fairs, you know, for hats they grin, But here for mitres――come begin, Lack you a theme for laughter? better Think of your own election letter; Or of your epitaph――“Here Whewell lies, Master of Arts――that caused himself to rise.”
IV.
Throw up your caps in fury, O! Shout till you’re hot and red, Tam marti, quam Mercurio, Dear is your chosen head. He holds a baton and its true, That Wellington can’t carry two. Waste ye the midnight oil by pails Your chieftain claims the Prince of Wales. At home his window-view explores Those classic scenes displayed, Where grateful science still adores Her Henry’s holy shade. He’s fit to rule, with gifts like these, Cam――nay, Kamskatcha――if he please.
From The Man in the Moon. Vol. I.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
Born October 21, 1772. Died July 25, 1834.
――――
The poetical fame of Coleridge rests principally upon The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, and Christabel, both of which are so well known that it is quite unnecessary to reprint them, especially as Messrs. Ward, Lock & Co. have recently published a very cheap and handy edition of the miscellaneous poems of Coleridge, containing the above, as well as some other poems which, being less known, have not given rise to so many parodies.
――――:o:――――
THE ANCIENT MARINER.
This weird poem was founded on a strange dream which a friend of Coleridge had, who fancied he saw a skeleton ship, with figures in it. Wordsworth wrote a few lines of it, and the idea of shooting an albatross appears to have been his. As Coleridge himself informs us, it was planned and partly composed during a walk with Wordsworth and his sister, in the autumn of 1797. It was first published in 1798, in a volume entitled “Lyrical Ballads, with a few other Poems,” Bristol, 1798. It is the opening poem of the volume, and is quaintly styled “The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere,” in seven parts. Most of the other poems in the volume were written by Wordsworth. The first version contained a stanza (the eleventh in Part III.) which has been omitted from all subsequent reprints:
“His bones were black with many a crack, All black and bare I ween; Jet black and bare, save where with rust, Of mouldy damps and charnel crust They were patch’d with purple and green.”
The First Part, which is that most frequently parodied, is given below:――
Part I
It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. “By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?
The Bridegroom’s doors are opened wide, And I am next of kin; The guests are met, the feast is set: May’st hear the merry din.”
He holds him with his skinny hand, “There was a ship,” quoth he. “Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!” Eftsoons his hand dropt he.
He holds him with his glittering eye―― The Wedding-Guest stood still, And listens like a three years’ child: The Mariner hath his will.
The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: He cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner.
“The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the light-house top.
The sun came up upon the left, Out of the sea came he! And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea.
Higher and higher every day, Till over the mast at noon――” The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon.
The bride hath paced into the hall, Red as a rose is she; Nodding their heads before her goes The merry minstrelsy.
The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, Yet he cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man The bright-eyed Mariner.
“And now the storm-blast came, and he Was tyrannous and strong: He struck with his o’ertaking wings, And chased us south along.
With sloping masts and dipping prow, As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe, And forward bends his head, The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, And southward aye we fled.
And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew wondrous cold: And ice, mast-high, came floating by, As green as emerald.
And through the drifts the snowy clifts Did send a dismal sheen; Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken―― The ice was all between.
The ice was here, the ice was there, The ice was all around: It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, Like noises in a swound!
At length did cross an albatross, Through the fog it came; As if it had been a Christian soul, We hailed it in God’s name.
It ate the food it ne’er had eat, And round and round it flew, The ice did split with a thunder-fit; The helmsman steered us through!
And a good south wind sprung up behind; The albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play, Came to the mariners’ hollo!
In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, It perched for vespers nine; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white Glimmered the white moon-shine.”
“God save thee, ancient Mariner, From the fiends, that plague thee thus!―― Why look’st thou so?”――“With my cross-bow I shot the Albatross.”
S. T. COLERIDGE.
――――
THE SHERIFF’S OFFICER. (By the Great Unmentionable.)
It is a Sheriff’s Officer And he stoppeth one of three. “By thy shocking bad hat, and quaint surtout, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?”
He collars him with his dirty hand, “There is a writ,” quoth he. “Hold off! unhand me, scoundrel, loon! Thou liest! it cannot be!”
He holds him with his sparkling eye―― The arrestee stood still, And trembles like a rocking horse, The officer hath his will.
The arrestee is dragged along; He cannot choose but stir; While thus spake on that awful man, The Sheriff’s Officer.
The oath was drawn, the oath was sworn, The parchment pounced, and all that, The signer signed, and the sealer sealed, And lo, here is the Latitat.
“I am the bailiff employed to nab, Out of the City I come, Where, the lawyers’ will tell you, there’s not a more Indefatigable Bum!”
The arrestee then ’gan to see How the Bum he could give leg bail, And now he bethinks him of a plan, Which may, or may not fail.
“Santa Maria, you’ve made a mistake, My honour,” quoth he, “upon’t, My name, gentle Bum, is White, not Wright, I’m not the person you want.”
“Oh, yes, you’re the gentleman that I want,” Was the wary Bum’s reply; Said the arrestee, “it cannot be, No gentleman am I.”
But it wouldn’t do, the writ was true, And so was the bailiff eke, In the lock-up house he hath got his man, A prisoner safe and meek.
* * * * *
The arrestee is at Calais now, Out of the Bench came he, Genteelly dres’t, like a buck of the west, Who the deuce could he be?
At first they saw him every day, And then a week him missed; He went and came, and came and went, He was a Do, I wist.
A do, a hum, a cheat I wist, Gramercy, observe his grin; He’s taking himself of the city out, After taking the citizens in.
“Oh, tic, it is a useful thing, Beloved from pole to pole; The Insolvent’s Court cuts the matter short, And calms the troubled soul.”
Thus thought the arrestee, as on The deck of a steamer he stood, Oblivious quite of his Calais debts, Having made his retreat thence good.
He went to the Fleet, and one night came out, Of his debts and his character shorn, A free and unencumbered man He rose the morrow morn.
The Comic Magazine. Fourth Series. 1834.
――――
LE LECTURÉ MALGRÉ LUI. (A lay for Cantabs.)
It is a Trinity Lecturer, And he stoppeth one of eight; By thy lantern jaws and spindle shanks. Why dost thou make me wait?
The breakfast’s set, the men are met, And I am peckish――very. It’s late already――hark! that roar! May’st hear them getting merry.
He pointeth to the lecture-room, “’Tis nine o’clock,” quoth he. “Upon my word I cannot come, For Jones expecteth me.”
He pointeth to the Master’s lodge, The unbreakfasted turned blue; He had been hauled up twice before, So he saw it was a do.
He followed to the lecture-room, And often sighed “Oh dear!” While thus spake on that lantern-jaw’d, And long-legged lecturer.
He talked of siphons, pumps, and valves, And engines piping hot; But what he said I cannot tell, For I understand it not.
Now when the clock struck half-past nine, There was a shouting noise; The unbreakfasted here beat his breast, For he knew ’twas Jones’s voice.
The cyder-cup he knows hath come, And he too well can feel, That the gyp is walking off with all The remnants of the meal.
The unbreakfasted he scratched his head―― How wretched ’twas to hear; And still spake on that lantern-jaw’d, And long-legged lecturer.
* * * * *
The lecturer whose legs are long, Whose cheeks are very lean, Is gone; and now the unbreakfasted At Jones’s door is seen.
But he turned away like one who’s starved, For it was “on the sport;” A sadder and a hungrier man, He rushed across the court.
The Man in the Moon. Volume II. 1847.
――――
THE RHIME OF THE SEEDY BARRISTERE,
Part I
It is a seedy Barristere, And he barreth the way so free―― “By thy long limp band and rusty wig, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?
“The Commons’ doors are open’d wide, And I’m to be sworn in; The Speaker is set, the Members met, And business will soon begin.”
He showeth me his empty bag―― “It once was full,” quoth he: He showeth me his faggot brief, Marked with a monstrous fee.
I sat me down beside the door―― I could not choose but hear, As thus spake on that mouldy man, That briefless Barristere:――
“The kites were flown, the bubbles blown, Merrily went the scrip; Directors schemed, nor ever dreamed Of chances ’twixt cup and lip.
“The Stag comes out――over the left; The market riggeth he: The men with cash, by dealings rash, Are fleeced right horribly.
“Higher and higher every day Went up the bubble shares――” No step I stirred, altho’ I heard The Speaker was at prayers.
He’d made me wait――I was too late; Yet I could not choose but hear, As thus spake on that shabby man, That briefless Barristere――
And now November came, the Law Was tyrannous and strong; The thirtieth day all Plans must stay, And Sections, right or wrong.
“Thro’ day and dark the sleepy clerk Must toil and moil with care and cark; Lithographers, with fingers stark, Must never go to bed. The time flies fast, the Plans at last Are all delivered.
“And now, to sift the monstrous drift, Committees are enrolled, And they must hear each councillere His brief at length unfold.
“With weary head, from A to Z―― I trow it was no play―― The members sat, to be argued at, From eleven till four each day.
“Committees here, Committees there, Committees all around; While counsel roared, and joked, and bored, And fought, and fumed, and frowned.
“Ten guas. per day, and ten briefs alway, Unto my share there came; One half, I knew, I could not do, But I took them all the same.
“And I grew rich, and behaved as sich, And never the tide did drop, And the duns had flown that I once had known On my staircase for hours to stop.
“And my lanky bag did swell and swag With the freight of briefs it bore; I new curled my wig, and in letters big Wrote ‘Committee’ on my door.
“Twelve briefs one day on my table lay, With heavy retainers on each, When a knock at the door ushered in one more, My attention to beseech.”
“Now save thee, seedy Barristere, And send thee quick relief! Why look’st thou so?” “Ah, shame and woe! I did refuse that brief!”
Part II
“The Market now grew rather stiff, And shares not quite so free; Many Directors went abroad, And many an Allottee.
“And briefs fell slack, and no more at our back The agents in crowds did follow, Nor ten times a day, with papers or pay, Came to the Barrister’s hollo!
“I had done what was quite irregular, And it would work them grief, For all averred that the worst had occurred Since I refused the brief, ‘Ah, wretch!’ said they, ‘to turn away The fee upon a brief!’
“The Panic grew, the bills came due, Directors crossed the sea; Who knows which first of the bubbles burst? They went, and so did we.
“Down dropt our work, our fees dropt down: ’Twas bad as bad could be; Not once a week had we to speak Upon a Committee.
“All in the hot Committee-rooms The Barristeres, at noon Must yawn, and linger round the doors, Or thro’ the lobbies moon.
“Day after day we pined away, So idle you’ve no notion; As idle as a long debate Upon an Irish motion.
“Business, business, everywhere―― The Courts it seemed to fill; Business, business, everywhere, But not one Railway Bill!
“Yea, even young men just called――oh dear, That such things e’er should be!―― By mere half-guinea motions made A better thing than we!
“About, about, in busy rout, Attorneys and Q.C.’s, Within our sight were paying down And pocketing of fees!
“Ah! well a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young! And, for starched kerchief, the rejected brief About my neck was hung.
“Farewell, farewell; but this I tell―― As sure as there thou’rt set, He best shall thrive who most shall strive To keep all he can get.
“He fareth best, who loveth best All fees, both great and small; For the Bench declares that the etiquette Of the Bar is ‘Pocket all.’”
The Barristere whose bag is light, Whose wig with age is hoar, Passed from my sight――a thoughtful wight I crossed St. Stephen’s door,
And heard debates my brain that stunned, ’Bout currency and corn. A sadder and not wiser man. I woke the morrow morn.
Punch. November 20, 1847.
――――
THE PROLIX ORATOR.
It is a prolix orator And he stoppeth one J. B. “By thy strange long beard and vacant eye Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?
“My business calls I’ve work to do Which I would fain begin; My House is met, a question set That I’ve an interest in.”
He holds him with his eager hand: “I rise to move,” quoth he―― “Move off! unhand me, long beard loon!” Eftsoons his hand dropt he.
He holds him with his vacant eye, Spell-bound JOHN BULL stands still: And listens like a gaping child: The orator hath his will.
(Six verses omitted.)
Punch (1849) on Thomas C. Anstey, M.P. for Youghal, the “Prolix orator.”
――――
THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT ALDERMAN.
Part I
It is an Ancient Alderman, And he stopped one of three; “By thy gouty hand and ruby nose, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?
“The Adelphi doors have open’d long, And I would save my tin; My order’s lost at seven o’clock, Permit me to go in.”
He holds him with his gouty hand, “There is the Thames,” quoth he; “Bother the Thames,” the other cried; “Jump in, and let me be.”
He holds him by the glittering guard, The Stunning Swell stood still, And listens in most sulky style; The Alderman hath his will.
The Stunning Swell against a lamp Leant, as if bored to death. And thus gasp’d on that Alderman, With brevity of breath.
“The Mayor appear’d, the barge was steer’d, Merrily we did drop,―― The Alderman, in City barge,―― Along on our Swan-Hop.
“At the Blackfriars we did embark, Where gapes the mighty sewer.” The Stunning Swell he stamp’t his foot, For he heard the overture.
Mellon hath mounted on his stool, The desk he tappeth thrice―― Four Roberts now the Swell must pay, Or wait for the half-price.
“We pulled――at least the rowers did―― Bang through the Bridges three, And Lambeth Reach, and Chelsea Reach, We pass’d full merrily.
“And then the hour of lunch was come, Our appetites wax’d strong, We eat and drank, and drank and eat; The Chaplain sang a song.
“We drank and eat, we eat and drank, Till full was every sinner; And then we thought we’d go on deck, While Staples laid the dinner.
“We lean’d along the barge’s seats, Or o’er the bulwarks bent; We said it was a jolly world, And folks should be content.
“We said it was a jolly world, And everybody stated That what we read of want and wrong Was much exaggerated,
“That on the whole we really thought Things went uncommon well―― When the Remembrancer bawled out, ‘Gog! what a hawful smell.’
“The Mayor he started to his feet, Out of his lordly doze, And ramm’d his scented handkerchief Close up unto his nose.
“And as the smell came foully round, We gasp’d and spit, and swore; Such an abominable stench We’d never smelt before.
“And after comments fierce and fast On that unsavoury theme, For reasons which I need not name, Each turn’d him to the stream.
“When fouler, fouler rose the smell, And then we did diskiver The source of all that awful stench, Dear Gog, it was the River!
“The river it was yellow mud, With putrid colours varied, And every kind of filthy thing Upon the tide was carried.
“Dead dogs rotund, and garbage vile, And slime, and scum, and muck; Clung round as in a fœtid lake, And oozed, and stank, and stuck.
“And in the mess a drowning cat Mid seven drown’d kittens sprawl’d, And her great eyes stared wildly out. And piteously she squall’d.
“There was a blunderbuss on board――” “Old Cock, what are you at―― Are you not well?” “O gentle Swell, I took and shot the cat.”
Part II
We pull’d――at least the rowers did,―― How long I cannot say, But up to Richmond’s pleasant banks At length we made our way.
“There ran the river pure and bright, Without a speck or stain; So once it ran at Westminster, And so might run again.
“We all revived――began to laugh―― And then went down to dine, And all bad odours were forgot In my Lord Mayor’s good wine.
“We eat and drank, and drank and eat Back in our chairs we leant; We said it was a jolly world, And folks should be content.
“We own’d the Thames’s scent was strong, And said the labouring classes Who lived beside and drank the tide Were very stupid asses.
“For why not move, as we had done, Out of the stench’s way, And why not drink the sort of lush That we had drunk that day?
“We eat and drank, we drank and eat, With toasts and speeches hearty―― When Gog! that Cat’s infernal eyes, Glared in upon the party.
“In at the cabin window glared, Like the red fires of――well, But what was worse, along with her The creature brought the Smell.
“Into the cabin pour’d the stench, Suffusing all the air, And instant every Alderman Fell down beside his chair.
“And there we sat upon the floor, Unable for to rise. While, gazing in malicious sort, Glared down that Cat’s green eyes.
“And greener grew those fiendly orbs, (Ay, greener than green fat),―― As, twixt a mew and screech we heard―― ‘Who was it Shot the Cat?’”
Part III
“Floating, floating, down the Thames, Upon our backward way, All sorts of foul and nasty things Did seek our course to stay.
“At every window in they look’d Upon the deck they leapt, They crawl’d upon our visages, And on our plates they crept.
“To tell you of their hideous forms I have nor power nor hope―― Look on a water drop shown in The gaseous microscope.
“They were the Vermin of the stream That now is London’s sink; The filthy stream that is at once Her sewer, her bath, her drink.
“And as they crawl’d, and crept, and writhed, We heard this awful ditty―― ‘The Vermin of the Thames salute The Fathers of the City!’”
Part IV
“A dream, a dream, a pleasant dream. I stood at Westminster, And saw a bran-new, span-new bridge Bestride a river clear.
“The wave it was as crystal bright, You saw white sand below, And flounders, gudgeon, tench, and dace, Shot, flitting, to and fro.
“The jolly salmon heaved his jowl, The whitebait glanced like gems; In short, all kinds of finny fowl Were swimming in the Thames.
“On either bank a mighty sewer Received what London gave, And bore it to the Kentish farm, Or to the ocean wave.
“And terraced gardens there displayed Green leaves and arbours fair, And rosy children laughed and sniff’d The river’s fragrant air.
“And artisans (their labour done) With pots, and pipes, and wives, Sat by the stream, and call’d the sight The pleasure of their lives.
“And thus outspoke a gentle voice―― A voice of cheer and beauty: ‘See, London’s Mayor and Aldermen At length have done their duty.’”
Part V
“It’s deuced interesting,” quoth The now exhausted Swell; “But I must be allow’d to hope You’ve nothing more to tell.
“And if you’ll take a fellah’s hint, You, and your Mayor, and crew; The work you say your dream described, You’d better go and do.
“And when the sewers are quite complete, Jump in, and you shall be With all the other nuisances, Wash’d nicely down to sea.
“Now au revoir――the boxkeeper, With the half-price board comes; And I must hear that Blondelet, Upon his twenty drums”
Vanish’d the Swell: the Alderman Went off and drown’d his sorrow―― And with a thundering headache he Awoke upon the morrow.
SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1855.
――――
THE ANCIENT MARINER; or, The Deceived Husband.
It was an ancient mariner Who a party stopp’d of three (A father and his children twain): “Wilt sail to-day?” quoth he.
“My yacht she lieth off the shore: A shilling each you’ll pay.” The father slowly shook his head―― “I thank you――not to day.
“I see your yacht upon the shore, Dancing right merrily; But then my wife, ere we came out, Said, ‘Mind, be home to tea.’
“My dame she hath an angry tongue, And if that we should not Be back at five, I fear that we Should catch it rather hot.
“Besides, when out upon the waves, The mal du mer I fear.” “Lord bless you,” quoth the mariner, “We ain’t caught one this year!
“And you’ll be back by half-past four, In lots of time for tea.” “You promised, Pa, we’d have a sail,” Said the children, plaintively.
Appeal’d to thus, in sore perplex, The father gave consent; And, oh! he thought how sick he’d be, As to the boat he went.
The sun was high, the wind was low, And as the party sail, These words rang in the father’s ears, “At five, mind, without fail!”
And now they’re launch’d upon the deep, The yacht, like any witch, Skimm’d o’er the foam at first, and then She up and down did pitch.
She pitchèd up, she pitchèd down, All comfort ’gan to leave That father, and though afternoon, For him ’twas time of heave!
With cheery voice the mariner Kept pointing out the view; The father heeded not his words, For Ocean claimed his due.
He heard his children playing round, Devoid of qualms and fear; He heard his boy, in mocking tones, Say, “Ain’t Pa jolly queer!”
He had not strength to punch his head, Nor eke to box his ear; The words were true, and he did feel Particularly queer.
And worst of all, the while he paid His tribute to the sea, A voice kept ringing in his ear: “You won’t be home to tea!”
“Turn, mariner, I pray you, turn!” He cried in accents weak; The sailor heard, but only turn’d The quid within his cheek.
His cruel offsprings then began To laugh at their papa; Quoth they, “It’s five and after――won’t You catch it, Pa, from Ma!”
“Turn, mariner, I pray you, turn! Our course let homeward be; Your guerdon shall be doubled if We are in time for tea!”
The mariner he smiled a smile―― Nay, more, he grinned a grin―― He said (he was a vulgar man), “Fork over, then, the tin!”
The wretched father heaved a sigh, The cash he handed o’er; Again he turned him o’er the side,―― The boatman turned to shore.
They reach the land, the clocks struck six―― What vision does he see? It was the wife awaiting him Who came too late for tea.
What happened when they reached their home No one was there to see; Certain it is that from that hour He ne’er was late for tea!
ANONYMOUS.
――――
CLASSICAL VERSUS MODERN.
It was an ancient pedagogue[80] And he stopped me (one of three)―― ‘To Classic or to Modern side Go’st thou?’ said he to me.
By thy long Problems and Theorems Now wherefore plagu’st thou me? Hold off! unhand me, ancient one! I’ve seen enough of thee!
He held me with his skinny hand: Quoth he “I’ll prove to thee The fault in leaving thus the M[81] And going to the C.”
I sat me just outside, the Gymn, I could not choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient one, That able Moderner!
“Arithmetic, and my good book Are all you’ll want in life; An accurate mind will bless your age―― Reward your early strife.”
I slowly raised my head, eftsoons I asked with much civility My aged friend, does your book boast Degrees of probability?
Is it not plain without your aid To every child of fortune, That two long lines are always good In length, as against one short ’un?
“Is it not clear that in working a ‘sum,’ With figures enough to frighten, That of all the ansers who solve the thing One answer alone is the right ’un.
‘Figures, figures, everywhere―― And all the boys do shrink―― Figures, figures, everywhere―― Nothing whereon to think.’
I paused――the Moderner strode away And answered never a word; And away to Leck’ton Hill he hied[82] To work a favourite surd.
From The Cheltonian. March 1869.
――――
THE ANCIENT MARINER. A New Version.