Part I (part 1 of 2)

Part I (part 1 of 2)

’Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, And the owls have awakened the crowing cock; Tu――whit!――Tu――whoo! And hark, again! the crowing cock, How drowsily it crew.

Is the night chilly and dark? The night is chilly, but not dark. The thin gray cloud is spread on high, It covers but not hides the sky. The moon is behind, and at the full; And yet she looks both small and dull. The night is chill, the cloud is gray: ’Tis a month before the month of May, And the Spring comes slowly up this way.

The lovely lady, Christabel, Whom her father loves so well, What makes her in the wood so late, A furlong from the castle gate? She had dreams all yesternight Of her own betrothed knight; And she in the midnight wood will pray For the weal of her lover that’s far away.

She stole along, she nothing spoke, The sighs she heaved were soft and low. And naught was green upon the oak, But moss and rarest mistletoe; She kneels beneath the huge oak tree. And in silence prayeth she.

The lady sprang up suddenly, The lovely lady, Christabel! It moaned as near, as near can be, But what it is, she cannot tell.―― On the other side it seems to be, Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.

The night is chill; the forest bare; Is it the wind that moaneth bleak? There is not wind enough in the air To move away the ringlet curl From the lovely lady’s cheek―― There is not wind enough to twirl The one red leaf, the last of its clan, That dances as often as dance it can. Hanging so light, and hanging so high, On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.

Hush, beating heart of Christabel! Jesu, Maria, shield her well! She folded her arms beneath her cloak, And stole to the other side of the oak What sees she there?

There she sees a damsel bright, Drest in a silken robe of white, That shadowy in the moonlight shone: The neck that made that white robe wan, Her stately neck, and arms were bare; Her blue-veined feet unsandal’d were, And wildly glittered here and there The gems entangled in her hair, I guess, ’twas frightful there to see A lady so richly clad as she―― Beautiful exceedingly!

Mary mother, save me now! (Said Christabel,) And who art thou?

The lady strange made answer meet, And her voice was faint and sweet:―― Have pity on my sore distress, I scarce can speak for weariness: Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear: Said Christabel, How camest thou here? And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet, Did thus pursue her answer meet:――

My sire is of a noble line, And my name is Geraldine: Five warriors seized me yestermorn, Me, even me, a maid forlorn: They choked my cries with force and fright, And tied me on a palfrey white. The palfrey was as fleet as wind, And they rode furiously behind. They spurred amain, their steeds were white! And once we crossed the shade of night. As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, I have no thought what men they be; Nor do I know how long it is (For I have lain entranced I wis) Since one, the tallest of the five, Took me from the palfrey’s back, A weary woman, scarce alive. Some muttered words his comrades spoke: He placed me underneath this oak; He swore they would return with haste; Whither they went I cannot tell―― I thought I heard, some minutes past, Sounds as of a castle bell. Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she), And help a wretched maid to flee.

Then Christabel stretched forth her hand And comforted fair Geraldine: “O well, bright dame! may you command The service of Sir Leoline; And gladly our stout chivalry Will he send forth and friends withal To guide and guard you safe and free Home to your noble father’s hall.”

She rose: and forth with steps they passed That strove to be, and were not, fast. Her gracious stars the lady blest, And thus spake on sweet Christabel: “All our household are at rest, The hall as silent as the cell; Sir Leoline is weak in health, And may not well awakened be, But we will move as if in stealth, And I beseech your courtesy, This night, to share your couch with me.”

They crossed the moat, and Christabel Took the key that fitted well; A little door she opened straight, All in the middle of the gate; So free from danger, free from fear They crossed the court: right glad they were. They passed the hall, that echoes still, Pass as lightly as you will! O softly tread, said Christabel, My father seldom sleepeth well.

Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare, And, jealous of the listening air, They steal their way from stair to stair, Now in glimmer, and now in gloom, And now they pass the Baron’s room, As still as death with stifled breath! And now have reached her chamber door; And now doth Geraldine press down The rushes of the chamber floor. The silver lamp burns dead and dim; But Christabel the lamp will trim. She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright, And left it swinging to und fro, While Geraldine, in wretched plight, Sank down upon the floor below.

O weary lady, Geraldine, I pray you, drink this cordial wine! It is a wine of virtuous powers; My mother made it of wild flowers.

* * * * *

Again the wild-flower wine she drank: Her fair large eyes ’gan glitter bright, And from the floor whereon she sank, The lofty lady stood upright; She was most beautiful to see, Like a lady of a far countrée.

And thus the lofty lady spake―― All they, who live in the upper sky, Do love you, holy Christabel! And you love them, and for their sake And for the good which me befell, Even I in my degree will try, Fair maiden, to requite you well. But now unrobe yourself; for I Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.

Quoth Christabel, so let it be And as the lady bade, did she. Her gentle limbs did she undress, And lay down in her loveliness.

But through her brain of weal and woe So many thoughts moved to and fro, That vain it were her lids to close; So half-way from the bed she rose: And on her elbow did recline To look at the lady Geraldine.

Beneath the lamp the lady bowed, And slowly rolled her eyes around; Then drawing in her breath aloud Like one that shuddered, she unbound The cincture from beneath her breast: Her silken robe, and inner vest, Dropt to her feet, and full in view, Behold! her bosom and half her side A sight to dream of, not to tell! O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs; Ah! what a stricken look was hers! Deep from within she seems half-way To lift some weight with sick assay, And eyes the maid and seeks delay; Then suddenly as one defied Collects herself in scorn and pride, And lay down by the maiden’s side And in her arms the maid she took, Ah well-a-day! And with low voice and doleful look These words did say: In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell, Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel! Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow; But vainly thou warrest, For this is alone in Thy power to declare, That in the dim forest Thou heard’st a low moaning, And found’st a bright lady, surpassingly fair: And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity, To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.

――――

The Conclusion to Part I.

With open eyes (ah woe is me!) Asleep, and dreaming fearfully, Fearfully dreaming, yet I wis, Dreaming that alone, which is―― O sorrow and shame! Can this be she, The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree? And lo! the worker of these harms, That holds the maiden in her arms, Seems to slumber still and mild, As a mother with her child. A star hath set, a star hath risen, O Geraldine! since arms of thine―― Have been the lovely lady’s prison. O Geraldine! one hour was thine―― Thou’st had thy will!

S. T. COLERIDGE.

――――:o:――――

Dr. Maginn’s Introduction to Part III.

Listen! ye know that I am mad, And ye will listen!――wizard dreams Were with me!――all is true that seems!―― From dreams alone can truth be had―― In dreams divinest lore is taught, For the eye, no more distraught, Rests most calmly, and the ear, Of sound unconscious, may apply Its attributes unknown, to hear The music of philosophy! Thus am I wisest in my sleep, For thoughts and things, which day-light brings, Come to the spirit sad and single, But verse and prose, and, joys and woes Inextricably mingle, When the hushed frame is silent in repose! Twilight and moonlight, mist and storm, Black night, and fire-eyed hurricane, And crested lightning, and the snows That mock the sunbeams, and the rain Which bounds on earth with big drops warm, All are round me while I spell The legend of sweet Christabel!

Christabel. Part III.

Nine moons have waxed, and the tenth, in its wane, Sees Christabel struggle in unknown pain! ――For many moons was her eye less bright, For many moons was her vest more tight, And her cheek was pale, save when, with a start, The life blood came from the panting heart, And fluttering, o’er that thin fair face Past with a rapid nameless pace, And at moments a big tear filled the eye, And at moments a short and smothered sigh Swelled her breast with sudden strain, Breathed half in grief, and half in pain, For her’s are pangs, on the rack that wind The outward frame and the inward mind. ――And when at night she did visit the oak, She wore the Baron’s scarlet cloak, (That cloak which happy to hear and to tell Was lined with the fur of the leopard well,) And as she wandered down the dell None said ’twas the Lady Christabel.―― Some thought ’twas a weird and ugsome elf, Some deemed ’twas the old sick Baron himself, Who wandered beneath the snowy lift To count his beads in solemn shrift―― (For his shape below was wide to see All bloated with the hydropsie.) Oh! had her old father the secret known, He had stood as stark as the statue of stone That stands so silent, and white, and tall, At the upper end of his banquet hall!

Am I asleep or am I awake? In very truth I oft mistake, As the stories of old come over my brain, And I build in spirit the mystic strain;―― Ah! would to the virgin that I were asleep! But I must wake, and I must weep! Sweet Christabel, it is not well That a lady, pure as the sunless snow That lies so soft on the mountain’s brow, That a maiden of sinless chastity In childbirth pangs should be doomed to die, Or live with a name of sorrow and shame, And hear the words of blemish and blame! ――For the world that smiles at the guilt of man, Places woman beneath its ban; Alas, that scandal thus should wreak Its vengeance on the warm and weak, That the arrows of the cold and dull Should wound the breast of the beautiful!

Of the things that be did we know but half, Many, and many would weep, who laugh! Tears would darken many an eye, Or that deeper grief, (when its orb is dry, When it cannot dare the eye of day), O’er the clouded heart would sway, ’Till it crumbled like desert dust away! But here we meet with grief and grudge, And they who cannot know us, judge! Thus, souls on whom good angels smile, Are scoffed at in our world of guile―― Let this, Ladiè, thy comfort be; Man knows not us, good angels know The things that pass in the world below; And scarce, methinks, it seems unjust, That the world should view thee with mistrust, For who that saw that child of thine Pale Christabel, who could divine That its sire was the Ladie Geraldine.

But in I rush, with too swift a gale, Into the ocean of my tale! Not yet young Christabel, I ween, Of her babe hath lighter been. ――’Tis the month of the snow and the blast, And the days of Christmas mirth are past, When the oak-roots heaped on the hearth blazed bright, Casting a broad and dusky light On the shadowy forms of the warriors old, Who stared from the wall, most grim to behold―― On shields where the spider his tapestry weaves, On the holly boughs and the ivy leaves, The few green glories that still remain To mock the storm and welcome the rain, Brighter and livelier mid tempest and shower, Like a hero in the battle hour!―― Brave emblems o’er the winter hearth, They cheered our fathers’ hours of mirth!――

Twelve solar months complete and clear The magic circle of the year! Each (the ancient riddle saith) Children, two times thirty, hath! Three times ten are fair and white, Three times ten are black as night, Three times ten hath Hecatè, Three times ten the God of day; Thus spoke the old hierophant (I saw her big breast swelling pant) What time, I dreamed, in ghostly wise Of Eleusinian mysteries, For I am the hierarch Of the mystical and dark―― And now, if rightly I do spell Of the Lady Christabel, She hates the three times ten so white, And sickens in their searching light, And woe is hers――alas! alack! She hates the three times ten so black―― As a mastiff bitch doth bark, I hear her moaning in the dark!――

’Tis the month of January. Why lovely maiden, light and airy, While the moon can scarcely glow, Thro the plumes of falling snow, While the moss upon the bark Is withered all, and damp, and dark, While cold above the stars in doubt Look dull, and scarcely will stay out, While the snow is heavy on beechen bower And hides its name-sake, the snow-drop flower, Why walk forth thus mysteriously! Dear girl, I ask thee seriously. Thy cheek is pale, thy locks are wild―― Ah, think, how big thou art with child!―― Tho’ the baron’s red cloak thro’ the land hath no fellow, Thou should’st not thus venture without an umbrella!

Dost thou wander to the field of graves Where the elder its spectral branches waves? And will thy hurried footsteps halt Where thy mother sleeps in the silent vault? Where the stranger pauses long to explore The emblems quaint of heraldic lore, Where tho’ the lines are tarnished and dim, Thy mother’s features stare gaunt and grim, And grinning skull, and transverse bone, And the names of warriors dead and gone Mark Sir Leoline’s burial stone; Thither go not, or I deem almost That thou wilt frighten thy mother’s ghost! Or wilt thou wend to the huge oak-tree, And, kneeling down upon thy knee, Number the beads of thy rosary? Nine beads of gold and a tenth of pearl, And a prayer with each, my lovely girl, Nine and one, shalt thou record, Nine to the virgin and one to the Lord! The pearls are ten times one to behold, And ten times nine are the beads of gold, Methinks ’tis hard of the friar to ask On a night like this so weary a task!

’Tis pleasant――’tis pleasant, in summer time, In the green wood to spell the storied rhyme, When the light winds above ’mong the light leaves are singing, And the song of the birds thro’ your heart is ringing, ’Tis pleasant――’tis pleasant, when happily humming To the flowers below the blythe bee is coming!―― When the rivulet coy, and ashamed to be seen, Is heard where it hides ’mong the grass-blades green, When the light of the moon and each sweet starry islet Gives a charm more divine to the long summer twilight, When the breeze o’er the blossomy hawthorn comes cheerful, ’Tis pleasant――with heart――ah, how happy!――tho’ fearful, With heaven-beaming eyes, where tears come, while smiles glisten To the lover’s low vows in the silence to listen!

’Tis pleasant too, on a fine spring day (A month before the month of May) To pray for a lover that’s far away! But, Christabel, I cannot see The powerful cause that sways with thee Thus, with a face all waxen white, To wander forth on a winter night.

The snow hath ceased, dear lady meek, But the night is chill and bleak!―― And clouds are passing swift away Before the moon so cold and gray―― The crescent moon, like a bark of pearl, That lies so calm on the billowy whirl;―― Rapidly――rapidly With the blast, Clouds of ebony Wander fast, And one the maiden hath fixed her eyes on, Hath pass’d o’er the moon, and is near the horizon! Ah Christabel, I dread it, I dread it, That the clouds of shame Will darken and gather O’er the maiden’s name, Who chances unwedded To give birth to a child, and knows not its father!

One――Two――Three――Four――Five――Six――Seven――Eight――Nine――Ten――Eleven!――

Tempest or calm――moonshine or shower, The castle clock still tolls the hour, And the cock awakens, and echoes the sound, And is answered by the owls around―― And at every measured tone You may hear the old baron grunt and groan; ’Tis a thing of wonder, and fright, and fear, The mastiff-bitch’s moans to hear―― And the aged cow in her stall that stands And is milked each morning by female hands (That the baron’s breakfast of milk and bread May be brought betimes to the old man’s bed Who often gives, while he is dressing, His Christabel a father’s blessing) That aged cow, as each stroke sounds slow, Answers it with a plaintive low! And the baron old, who is ill at rest, Curses the favourite cat for a pest―― For let him pray, or let him weep, She mews thro’ all the hours of sleep―― Till morning comes with its pleasant beams, And the cat is at rest, and the baron dreams!

Let it rain, however fast, Rest from rain will come at last, And the blaze that strongest flashes Sinks at last, and ends in ashes! But sorrow from the human heart And mists of care will they depart? I know not, and cannot tell, Saith the Lady Christabel―― But I feel my bosom swell

In my spirit I behold A lady――call her firm, not bold―― Standing lonely by the burn ――Strange feelings thro’ her breast and brain Shoot with a sense of madness and pain. Ah, Christabel return, return, Let me not call on thee in vain! Think, lady dear, if thou art drowned That thy body will be found, What anguish will thy spirit feel, When it must to all reveal What the spell binds thee to conceal! How the baron’s heart will knock ’gainst his chest When the stake is driven into thy breast, When thy body to dust shall be carelessly flung, And over the dead no dirge be sung, No friend in mourning vesture dight, No lykewake sad――no tapered rite!――

Return, return thy home to bless, Daughter of good Sir Leoline; In that chamber a recess Known to no other eye than thine, Contains the powerful wild-flower wine That often cheer’d thy mother’s heart, Lady, lovely as thou art Return, and ere thou dost undress And lie down in thy nakedness Repair to thy secret and favourite haunt And drink the wine as thou art wont! Hard to uncork and bright to decant.

My merry girl――she drinks――she drinks Faster she drinks and faster, My brain reels round as I see her whirl, She hath turned on her heel with a sudden twirl;―― Wine, wine is a cure for every disaster, For when sorrow wets the eye Yet the heart within is dry, Sweet maid upon the bed she sinks―― May her dreams be light, and her rest be deep! Good angels guard her in her sleep!

WILLIAM MAGINN.

――――

THE DREAM, A Psychological Curiosity. BY S. T. C.

ADVERTISEMENT TO THE READER.

The following “wild and singularly original and beautiful poem” was written at the instigation of Mr. Robert Warren, who was desirous of enrolling me among the number of his panegyrists. The circumstances that lead to its original composition are as follows: I had been considering in what way I might best introduce the subject, when suddenly falling asleep over a provincial newspaper which detailed the battle between Cribb and Molineux, the thoughts of my waking hours assumed the aspect of the present poetical reverie. This to an unidead “reading public” may appear incredible, but minds of imaginative temperament are ever most active during the intervals of repose, as my late poem, entitled “The Pains of Sleep,” will sufficiently attest.

Dreams in fact are to be estimated solely in proportion to their wildness; and hence a friend of mine, who is a most magnificent dreamer, imagined but the other night that he invited a flock of sheep to a musical party. Such a flocci, nauci, nihili absurdity will, I am afraid, puzzle even our transcendental philosophers to explain, although Kant, in his treatise on the Phænomena of Dreams, is of opinion that the lens or focus of intestinal light ascending the æsophagus at right angles, a juxtaposition of properties takes place, so that the nucleus of the diaphragm reflecting on the cerebellum the prismatic visions of the pilorus, is made to produce that marvellous operation of mind upon matter better known by the name of dreaming.――To such simple and satisfactory reasoning what answer can be made?

Ten minutes to ten by Saint Dunstan’s clock, And the owl has awakened the crowing cock: Cock-a-doodle-doo, Cock-a-doodle-doo. If he crows at this rate in so thrilling a note, Jesu Maria! he’ll catch a sore throat.

Warren the manufacturer rich Hath a spectral mastiff bitch; To Saint Dunstan’s clock, tho’ silent enow, She barketh her chorus of bow wow, wow: Bow for the quarters, and wow for the hour; Nought cares she for the sun or the shower; But when, like a ghost all-arrayed in its shroud, The wheels of the thunder are muffled in cloud, When the moon, sole chandelier of night, Bathes the blessed earth in light, As wizard to wizard, or witch to witch, Howleth to heaven this mastiff bitch.

Buried in thought O’Warren lay, Like a village queen on the birth of May; He listed the tones of Saint Dunstan’s clock, Of the mastiff bitch and the crowing cock; But louder, far louder, he listed a roar, Loud as the billow that booms on the shore; Bang, bang, with a pause between, Rung the weird sound at his door, I ween. Up from his couch he leaped in affright, Oped his grey lattice and looked on the night, Then put on his coat, and with harlequin hop Stood like a phantom in midst of the shop; In midst of his shop he stood like a sprite, Till peering to left and peering to right, Beside his counter, with tail in hand, He saw a spirit of darkness stand; I guess ’twas frightful there to see A lady so scantily clad as she Ugly and old exceedingly.

In height her figure was six feet two, In breadth exactly two feet six, One eye as summer skies was blue, The other black as the waves of Styx. Her bloodless lips did aught but pair, For one was brown and one was fair, And clattered like maid in hysteric fit, Or jack that turneth a kitchen spit; Jesu Maria! with awe, I trow, O’Warren beheld this worricow, For dreary and dun the death-hue came O’er her cheek, as she traced the words of flame; The words of flame that with mystic fuss Are hatched from a still-born incubus, And doom each wight who reads, to dwell Till the birth of day in the caves of hell.

Oh! read thee not, read thee not, lord of the Strand, The spell that subjects thee to elfin command; Vain hope! the bogle hath marked her hour, And Warren hath read the words of power; Letter by letter he traced the spell, Till the sullen toll of Saint Dunstan’s bell, And the midnight howl of the mastiff bitch, Announced his doom to the Hallowmass witch. Still in her grandeur she stood by, Like an oak that uplooketh to sun and sky; Then shouted to Warren with fitful breath; “I’m old mother Nightmare-life-in-death; Halloo! halloo! we may not stay, Satan is waiting; away, away; Halloo! halloo! we’ve far to go, Then hey for the devil; jee-up! jee-hoe――――” O’Warren requested a little delay, But the evil one muttered “too late, by my fay;” So he put on his breeches and scampered away.

And here mote I tell how they rode on the wind, The witch before and the Warren behind; How they passed in a twinkling the haunts of man, And the proud pagodas of Kubla Khan; How they peeped at the planets like Allan-a-roon, And supped on green cheese with the man in the moon; Or listed the dulcimer’s tremulous notes, Or the voice of the wind through the azure that floats, Till pillar and palace and arching sky Rung to the mingled melody.

* * * * *

Away, away, through the thunder-cloud, Where tempest and ruin sit laughing aloud; Away, away, through the fields of air, Where the night-wind howls to the falling star; This amiable couple have past, and now They gain the swart regions of darkness and woe. O’Warren beheld them, and shrunk with awe, Like a client held fast in the grasp of law, Then hymned to the Virgin for aid and for pity, A highly correct and devotional ditty: “Miserere Maria,” he cried in despair, While the bullet-nosed bogle drew back at the prayer, For Mary, sweet Mary, hath power to fright, And palsy the souls of the dæmons of night; “Miserere Maria,” he bellowed again, And the worricow dropt her eye-tooth at the strain, But spite of her teeth, she eschewed complaint, Till troubled in spirit, and cowed and faint, She collared the tradesman with horrible yell, Then plunged with him head over heels into hell. Oh, how its wild waves bellowed and boomed!! Oh, how its vapors the air perfumed!! As Warren with timid and stifled breath, And followed by old Mrs. Life-in-death, Moved to where Satan Reclined alone, In the silence of thought on his ebon throne.

* * * * *

Proudly he strode to his palace gate, Which the witch and the Warren approached in state, But paused at the threshold as onward they came, And thus, with words of fever and flame, The tradesman addressed, “Your name, Sir, is known As a vendor of sables wide over the town; But in hell with proviso this praise we must mix, For though brilliant your blacking, the water of Styx Is blacker by far, and can throw, as it suits, A handsomer gloss o’er our shoes and our boots.”――

Answered the Warren, with choleric eye, “Oh, king of the cock-tailed incubi! The sneer of a fiend to your puffs you may fix, But if, what is worse, you assert that your Styx Surpasses my blacking, (’twas clear he was vexed), By Jove! you will ne’er stick at any thing next. I have dandies who laud me at Paine’s and Almack’s, Despite Day and Martin, those emulous quacks, And they all in one spirit of concord agree, That my blacking is better than any black sea Which flows thro’ your paltry Avernus, I wis,”―― “Pshaw,” Satan replied, “I’ll be damned if it is.”

The tradesman he laughed at this pitiful sneer, And drew from his pocket, unmoved by the jeer Of the gathering dæmons, blue, yellow, and pink, A bottle of blacking more sable than ink;―― With the waves of the Styx in a jiffey they tried it, But the waves of the Styx looked foolish beside it; “You mote as well liken the summer sky,” Quoth Warren the bold, “with an Irish stye; The nightingale’s note with the cockatoo’s whine, As your lily-white river with me or mine.”

Round the brow of Abaddon fierce anger played At the Strand manufacturer’s gasconade; And lifting a fist that mote slaughter an ox, He wrathfully challenged his foeman to box; Then summoned each dæmon to form a ring, And witness his truculent triumphing.―― The ring was formed and the twain set to, Like little Puss with Belasco the Jew.

Satan was seconded in a crack, By Molineux, the American black, (Who sported an oath as a civil Salam), While Warren was backed by the ghost of Dutch Sam.―― Gentles, who fondly peruse these lays, Wild as a colt o’er the moorland that strays, Who thrill at each wondrous rede I tell, As fancy roams o’er the floor of hell, Now list ye with kindness, the whiles I rehearse In shapely pugilistic verse, (Albeit my fancy preferreth still The quiet of nature,) this desperate Mill.

THE FIGHT.

Both men on peeling showed nerve and bone. And weighed on an average fourteen stone; Doffed their silk fogle, for battle agog, Yellowman, castor and white upper tog; Then sparred for a second their ardor to cool, And rushed at each other like bull to bull.

ROUNDS.

1. Was a smasher, for Brummagem Bob[89] Let fly a topper on Beelzebub’s nob; Then followed him over the ring with ease, And doubled him up by a blow in the squeeze.

2. Satan was cautious in making play, But stuck to his sparring and pummelled away; Till the ogles of Warren looked queer in their hue, (Here, bets upon Beelzebub; three to two.)

3. Fibbings, and facers, and toppers abound, But Satan, it seems, hath the worst of the round.

4. Satan was floored by a lunge in the hip, And the blood from his peepers, went drip, drip, drip, Like fat from a goose in the dripping pan, Or ale from the brim of a flowing can; His box of dominos chattered aloud, (Here, “Go it, Nick!” from an imp in the crowd,) And he dropped with a Lancashire purr on his back, While Bob with a clincher fell over him, whack.

5. Both men piping came up to the scratch, But Bob for Abaddon was more than a match; He tapped his claret, his mug he rent, And made him so groggy with punishment, That he gladly gave in at the close of the round, And Warren in triumph was led from the ground.

Then trumpet, and timbrel, and deafening shout, Like wind through a ruin rang lustily out, High o’er the rocks that jut over the deep, Where the souls of the damned to eternity weep; Echo threw forward her answer of fear, Dull as the dust that clanks over a bier, Or death-watch that beats in a sick man’s ear. From the gulph where they howl to the lead colored night, The shadowless spectres leaped up with delight, And “Buy Warren’s Blacking” they shouted aloud, As the night-wind sighs through a coffinless shroud. The evil one frowned while they bellowed amain, But “Buy Warren’s Blacking” he chorussed again; For tho’ worsted in fight, yet, by order of fate, The vanquished must temper the pulse of his hate, And yield to the victor (his will’s despite) Unbridled sway o’er the fiends of night. ’Tis done, and sore with his recent thwacking, Abaddon hath purchased O’Warren’s Blacking; Fate stood by while the bargain was made, Signed a receipt when the money was paid, Then summoned her sprites, an exemplary band, To kneel in respect to the Lord of the Strand.

But hark, ’tis the voice of the crowing cock! And hark, ’tis the toll of Saint Dunstan’s clock! The morn rides high in the Eastern sky, And the little birds carol it merrily: Already have waned at the gladsome sight, Each scene of darkness, each goblin sprite; Abaddon to whit, and the whole of his crew, Pink, yellow, or rosy, green, purple, or blue, For cheered by the rays thro’ his lattice that peep, The bard hath awoke from the “Pains of Sleep.”

This is probably the most amusing parody of Christabel that has ever been written. It appeared originally in “Warreniana,” a small anonymous volume of imitations published by Longmans & Co., in 1824. It is now known that the author was Mr. W. F. Deacon, who died about 1845.

Between 60 and 70 years ago Robert Warren’s Blacking was the best advertised article of the day, and even Lord Byron was accused of writing puffs for it. Hence this collection of squibs, in which all the leading poets of the day were represented as singing its praises.

Some few redundant passages have been cut out, but nothing which is necessary to the plot of the poem has been omitted. Warreniana may still be met with occasionally as a second-hand book, and is well worth the few shillings it will cost.

――――

A PARODY OF CHRISTABELLE. The Baron Rich.

’Tis a quarter to ten by the castle clock, And the ‘mastiff bitch’ has awakened the cock, And the cock has awakened the ‘Baron Rich,’ And he in return will thump the bitch; Say what can ail her, in her sleep, That thus she begins to ‘moan and leap,’ I know not, I know not the reason I swear, And e’en if I did, I’ll be hang’d if I care.

* * * * *

The Baron awoke at the usual hour, And the bell toll’d loud in his moss-covered tow’r, Slowly it swung to the gales of the west, Like a voice from the dead when the winds are at rest, And a grinning nightmare withheld his rest, And sat like a pound of cheese on his breast, And devils and imps danced over his head, And Satan grinn’d at the foot of his bed; And the crowing cock his shrill clarion blew, To whit! to whoo! And hark again the crowing cock, How drowsily it crew; As if it was loth from its pillow to creep, But determined at least to snore in its sleep. Again the cock crew, while the glance of his eye, Frightened the clouds as they sail’d thro’ the sky, And the consequence was, that they shook with wonder, And jostling each other created the thunder; The Baron awoke, and he holloed aloud, As one who had seen ‘my ladie’s shroud’: “Bard Bracey, Bard Bracey, Come here, or I’ll lace ye, And tell me directly, or deeply you’ll rue, The cause of this terrible hulloboloo!” The bard came forth in his night-cap he, And he was as skinny as bard mote be, And his locks hung down o’er his shoulders flat, As my grandmother says like the tail of a rat; And away he went with a hem and a haw! To make the old mastiff lie still in her straw―― Without the kennel the mastiff old, Lay snoring fast in ‘moonshine cold.’ He kick’d her once, he kick’d her twice, But the old bitch snapp’d at his fingers thrice. Then Bracy kick’d her again, times four, But the old bitch snapped at his fingers the more.

Is he hurt? or doth he squall? I think he’s hurt tho’ he doth not squall, But he curses much, like a naughty man, And swears as often as swear he can; And like a ‘little limber elf,’ Singeth and danceth to himself. He must be hurt, I’m sure he must,―― Or he scarce would dare to kick up such a dust; And certain I am, by his look, ’ifegs, That the mastiff has bitten the calf of his legs, And ’tis a right wonder to raise a laugh!―― For who ever heard of a bard with a calf? But lo! he kicks her again, and her cry, Split the kennel and rent the sky, And there she was, squatted upright on her tail, And oh! she look’d――she look’d like a whale. And spouted forthwith this dolorous strain, Which deserves an encore, again and again.

Song of the old Bitch.

“There’s a cloud in the sky, And it’s wandering by, And in it I’ll lump, With a hop, skip, and jump, For I’m a warlock of evil, I trow.”

(Here the bitch ended with bow-wow-wow.)

The bardling was frightened, as well he mote be, And he looked around, but nought could he see; The lanky-legg’d bardling was frightened, odd rat it, And to tell you the truth, I don’t much wonder at it: For the mastiff had vanish’d, and he was alone, With nothing at hand, but the grey square stone; Thro’ which the wind oozed with a terrible crack, Like a shoulder of mutton spun round on the jack.

* * * * *

The Baron has put on his night-gown and cap, To know the reason of this mishap; The Baron has put on his cap and night-gown, And with club-stick in hand, has gone in a fright down; And there he discovered, oh! think how shocking, Bard Bracey alone without shoe or stocking; “Bard Bracey, Bard Bracey,” the Baron exclaimed, “To remain in this manner, pray arn’t you ashamed?” “Bard Bracey, Bard Bracey,” the Baron he cried, “Go back, go back, to your own bedside, Or with this good cudgel of forest renown, As I hope to be saved, I will knock you down.” Bard Bracey hath girt up his loins and fled, And the Baron eftsoons has gone to bed; And a noise is heard, an inscrutable din, Of the mastiff without, and the kittens within. And the Baron has woke in a hell of a fright, And is close to the tinder-box striking a light; But in striking the flint with too numerous blows, He has missed the tinder, and struck his nose.

* * * * *

The proud-hearted Baron, o’ercome by the pain, Jump’d out of his bed, but finding it vain, Altered his mind and jump’d in again: And there he dreamt of the father of evil, ’Ycleft by sinners on earth, the devil; But before he could tell what his spirits were at, In popp’d father Satan in shape of a cat. And he skipp’d thro’ the key-hole with terrible pother, A match in one hand, and his tail in the other; And said to the Baron, with funeral glee, “Come, leap thro’ the window, and fly with me; For I’m the mastiff that kick’d up a rout, And my broomstick is waiting to carry you out.” The Baron requested a little delay; But the ill-tempered devil said “Nay, sir, nay;” So he put on his breeches and scampered away. And here might I tell how they rode on the wind, The Baron before, and the devil behind; How they rattled along, without food or pelf, On the high road to Hell, for I saw them myself. How they flew through the clouds like an air baloon. And quickly arrived at the hills of the moon. How the goddess herself was too late to meet them, But sent a committee of moon-calves to greet them; How, at five o’clock, just in time for dinner, The good-looking couple arrived at the inner Abode of hell, where their journey was o’er, And they dined off a chop in the Devil’s boudoir; All this I could tell, if I wasn’t afraid, That Satan would blush for the pranks I betrayed.

* * * * *

Years have fled since the fatal day, When the Baron’s spirit wing’d its way, Obsequious at Apollyon’s call, To the mansions of death, and the spectral hall; But still on that ill-omened hour, The death hymn peals and the tempests low’r, And knives and forks are laid across, And the salt is spill’d to the beldame’s loss; And thirteen old women get into the room, And the last who goes in――goes out to the tomb. And an ugly thief flies into the candle, And pops in your face if you dare it to handle; And horrid coffins bounce out of the flame, Enough the most desperate courage to tame; And demon’s torment the Baron’s soul, And sing out exultingly, “Old King Coal;” Which proves that the imps and their souls and so forth, Are as black as the coals that you buy in the north. And legends assert, since this terrible stroke, That Bracey still lives like a pig in a poke; And my grandmother like to the village chimes, Has rung out the subject a hundred times; I wist not what the truth may be, But I’ll take my oath she has told it to me.

* * * * *

And the worsted night-cap the Baron wore, And his flannel hose were seen no more, And instead of the pillow as soft as his head, A coffin was placed at the foot of the bed; And dead men’s bones go dancing about, And skeleton’s guzzle a bottle of stout, Drained from a toper that died of the gout. And lights are seen in the midst of the room, And none know why or whence they come; But most people think that from motives of spite, There Beelzebub places his hellish rush-light. But ere the clock tolls a quarter to four, The Devils post back to the Stygian shore; And ere the clock points at a quarter to six, The Devils are safe on the banks of the Styx; And like the people that travel to Dover, Only wait for the packet to carry them over.

This parody, which has more relation to the second part of Christabel than to the first, is taken from “The Dejeuné, or Companion for the Breakfast Table.” Monday, November 6, 1820. The Dejeuné was a small paper issued daily at the price of twopence, by Gold & Northhouse, London, and afterwards gathered into a volume, which is now very scarce. After long and patient searching in the British Museum Library no copy of it could be found, nor was its name, even, known to the authorities there. But the parody it contained had been mentioned by authorities on Coleridge, and this collection would have been incomplete without it, hence further searching. At last, after all hopes of obtaining it had departed, the volume was found, in the original boards, clean, and uncut, amongst waste books and pamphlets outside a second-hand bookshop.

That the parody is no better is to be regretted, its insertion here is excusable simply because of its scarcity, for although the editor of The Dejeuné admits that it had already been printed, he does not mention where, nor has any other copy of it ever come under our notice.

――――

The European Magazine and London Review for April, 1815, contained a poem entitled “Christobell, a Gothic tale,” which was simply a conclusion to Coleridge’s Christabel, although that fact was somewhat artfully veiled in a foot note, which stated “Written as a sequel to a beautiful legend of a fair lady and her father, deceived by a witch in the guise of a noble knight’s daughter.”

It was somewhat ungenerous to steal Coleridge’s metre and plot upon which to found a poem, without mentioning the name of the originator. This sequel is anonymous, in it Geraldine is finally discovered to be a witch of the Lake, and Merlin thus addresses her:――

“Witch of the lake, I know thee now! Thrice three hundred years are gone Since beneath my cave, In the western wave, I doom’d thee to rue and weep alone, And writ thy shame on thy breast and brow.” “Thy hour is past, thy spells I sever,―― Witch of the lake descend for ever!”

――――

The most important continuation of Coleridge’s poem was written by the author of Proverbial Philosophy. It was entitled “Geraldine, a sequel to Coleridge’s Christabel,” by Martin Farquhar Tupper. London. Joseph Rickerby. 1838.

In his Preface, Mr. Tupper gives a short prose sketch of Coleridge’s beautiful but incomplete poem, and remarks that his excuse for continuing the fragment is to be found in Coleridge’s own words, “I trust that I shall be able to embody in verse the three parts yet to come, in the course of the present year” (1816), a half promise which he never redeemed.

Mr. Tupper’s poem is in three parts, and is written in serious imitation of Christabel, although he fully admits the temerity of his attempt to complete Coleridge’s masterpiece.

――――

Another, but very inferior continuation appeared in Smallwood’s Magazine, June 1841 (London. E. Smallwood, Old Bond Street,) entitled “Christabel, continued from Coleridge,” by Eliza Stewart. There is a total absence of plot or interest in this poem, and some of the lines descend to the lowest depths of bathos.

Singularly enough, this poem is immediately followed, in the magazine, by an Italian ode “To a foggy day in England,” written by Gabriele Rossetti, father of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and William Michael Rossetti.

This brings to mind Mr. T. Hall Caine’s interesting “Recollections of Dante Gabriel Rossetti (London, Elliott Stock, 1882), in which a chapter is devoted to Rossetti’s opinions on the Lake poets, and particular prominence is given to his criticisms on Coleridge, and Christabel. First, the origin of the name is discussed, next the design of the poem, and whether Coleridge had intended (as some critics asserted) to show in the sequel that Geraldine was not a disconsolate maiden, but a man bent on the seduction of Christabel.

After these speculations there is an enumeration of various continuations and parodies of the poem, some mentioned by Rossetti, others by Mr. Hall Caine.

Unfortunately these references are so vague that it is impossible to trace some of the articles mentioned.

Thus, it is said the Morning Post about 1820 contained a continuation of Christabel, also that there were parodies in The Quarterly, The Examiner, and The Monthly Magazine, but no indication is given of the dates, or volumes, in which they appeared.

――――

In 1816 a clever parody was printed in London entitled “Christabess, by S. T. Colebritche, Esq., a right woeful Poem, translated from the doggerel by Sir Vinegar Sponge.” 8vo. Unfortunately no copy of this scarce pamphlet is to be found in the British Museum Library; it is said to be very funny, even Coleridge himself quoted it as an admirable parody. The name of the author of Christabess was never divulged.

It is difficult to parody Christabel successfully. Even the attempt contained in The Poetic Mirror, although written by one who was himself a poet, James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, was an interesting imitation, without invention, or suitable application of style. It was entitled Isabelle, the same volume contained another imitation of Coleridge’s style The Cherub, which was somewhat more successful, but neither poem is of sufficient interest to reprint. The Poetic Mirror was published in London in 1816.

Christabel has also been parodied in German.

“Chrystabelle; or, the Rose without a Thorn” is the title of an extravaganza written by the late Edmund Falconer, and produced at the Lyceum Theatre, London, December 26, 1860, it does not, however, bear any resemblance to Coleridge’s poem.

――――:o:――――

A VISION. (By the author of “Christabel.”)

“Up!” said the spirit, and ere I could pray One hasty orison, whirl’d me away To a limbo, lying――I wist not where―― Above or below, in earth or air; For it glimmered o’er with a doubtful light, One couldn’t say whether ’twas day or night; And was crost by many a mazy track, One didn’t know how to get on or back; And I felt like a needle that’s going astray, (With its one eye out) through a bundle of hay: When the spirit he grinn’d, and whisper’d me “Thou’rt now in the Court of Chancery!”

Around me flitted unnumbered swarms Of shapeless, bodiless, tailless forms; (Like bottled up babes, that grace the room Of that worthy knight, Sir Everard Home)―― All of them things half-kill’d in rearing; Some were lame――some wanted hearing; Some had through half a century run, Though they hadn’t a leg to stand upon. Others, more merry, as just beginning, Around on a point of law were spinning; Or balanced aloft, ’twixt Bill and Answer, Lead at each hand, like a tight-rope dancer―― Some were so cross, that nothing could please ’em; Some gulp’d down affidavits to ease ’em; All were in motion, yet never a one, Let it move as it might, could ever move on. “These,” said the spirit, “You plainly see, Are what they call suits in Chancery!”

I heard a loud screaming of old and young, Like a chorus by fifty Vellutis’ sung; Or an Irish dump (“the words by Moore”) At an amateur concert scream’d in score;―― So harsh on my ear that wailing fell Of the wretches who in this limbo dwell! It seemed like the dismal symphony Of the shapes Æneas in hell did see; Or those frogs, whose legs a barbarous cook Cut off and left the frogs in the brook, To cry all night, till life’s last dregs, “Give us our legs!――give us our legs!” Touched with the sad and sorrowful scene, I ask’d what all this yell might mean, When the spirit replied with a grin of glee, “’Tis the cry of the suitors in Chancery!”

I look’d, and I saw a wizard rise,[90] With a wig like a cloud before men’s eyes. In his aged hand he held a wand, Wherewith he beckoned his embryo band, And they mov’d and mov’d, as he waved it o’er, But they never got on one inch the more, And still they kept limping to and fro, Like Ariels, ’round old Prospero―― Saying “dear master, let us go,” But still old Prospero answered “No,” And I heard, the while, that wizard elf, Muttering, muttering spells to himself, While o’er as many old papers he turn’d, As Hume e’er moved for, or Omar burned. He talked of his virtue――’though some, less nice, (He owned with a sigh) preferr’d his Vice―― And he said “I think”――“I doubt”――“I hope”―― Call’d God to witness, and damn’d the Pope; With many more sleights of tongue and hand I couldn’t for the soul of me understand.

Amaz’d and poz’d, I was just about To ask his name, when the screams without The merciless clack of the imps within, And that conjuror’s mutterings, made such a din, That startled, I woke――leap’d up in my bed―― Found the spirit, the imps, and the conjurer fled, And blessed my stars, right pleased to see, That I wasn’t, as yet, in Chancery.

THOMAS MOORE.

(This poem originally appeared in The Times, 1826.)

FRAGMENT OF A VISION.

A Dandy on a velocipede I saw in a vision sweet, Along the highway making speed, With his alternate feet. Of a bright and celestial hue Gleamed beauteously his blue surtout; While ivory buttons, in a row, Showed like the winter’s caverned snow, Which the breezy north Drives sweeping forth To lodge in the cave below: Ontario’s beaver, without demur, To form his hat did lend its fur: His frill was of the cambric fine, And his neckcloth starched and aquiline; And oh, the eye with pleasure dwells On his white jean indescribables; And he throws the locks from his forehead fair, And he pants, and pants, and pants for air; What is the reason I cannot tell, There is a cause――I know it well; Too firmly bound, too tightly braced, The corsets grasp his spider waist, Till his coat tails are made to fly Even from the back they glorify. Look again, he is not there―― Vanished into the misty air! Look again! do you see him yet? Ah no! the bailiff has seized him for debt, And to and fro, like a restless ghost, When peace within the grave is lost, He paces as far, as far he should, Within the bounds of Holyrood!

WILLIAM MAGINN. 1821.

――――:o:――――

THE ANCIENT STORY.

[The Lord Chief Justice seems to have “Tichborne on the brain,” and cannot permit even his convivial moments to pass without talking of him, and going in for his own justification. He has become the veritable Ancient Mariner of the judicial bench, who, whenever he gets an audience, is compelled to begin anew the ancient story.――“‘There was a case,’ quoth he.”――South London Press.]

It is an ancient Judge-in-Chief, And he stoppeth one in three; “By thy horsehair wig and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?”

He holds him with his skinny hand, “There was a Case” quoth he. “Hold off!――unhand me, greybeard loon!” But still the tale must be.

“The case was called, the usher bawled, ’Regina v. Cas_tro_; The work began, upstood the man Whom all as Claimant know.

“Day after day, day after day, Into the box came he, And answers gave, the smiling knave, That posed the keen Q.C.

“And lies were here, and lies were there, And lies were all about, Whispered and growled, and roared and howled, And still the case spun out.

“Day after day, day after day, We stuck――no sense of motion, Until the speeches came, and words Flowed boundless as the ocean:

“Till every tongue, through utter drought, Was withered at the root; The barristers were dry as if They had been choked with soot.

“There passed a weary time; each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye; A weary time, a weary time―― And then my speech had I.

“I charged the jury with a will, The Claimant I defied, No Tichborne he, and if not――who? ‘Orton,’ the jury cried.

“Ah, well-a-day! what evil looks, Had I from old and young! To the convict’s doom, to the living tomb, The pestilent man I flung!

“And ever since a Shibboleth The world’s opinion rules; Fools and fanatics they who doubt―― Fanatics all and fools!

“And still this tongue of mine is moved, With a woful tendency, To cry this cry and tell this tale Where’er I chance to be.

“In public and in private life, In Needlemakers’ Hall, Whosever guest, with my unrest I still his ears appal;

And tell the tale, and cry the cry, Which public ardour cools, Fools and fanatics they who doubt―― Fanatics all and fools!”

Funny Folks.

The City Press lately reported (April 1888), that the Tichborne Claimant has returned to this country from America, travelling under the name of Sir Roger Tichborne, with Lady Tichborne. His ticket-of-leave is now out, and he boasts of a determination to re-open the Tichborne case.

MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS.

BORN 1775.――DIED MAY 14, 1818.

The first work of this author that attracted general attention was a somewhat licentious romance, published in 1795, entitled Ambrosio, or the Monk, from which circumstance he was afterwards generally styled “Monk Lewis.” He had a morbid taste for the horrible and supernatural in literature, and having achieved some fame by his Monk and Castle Spectre he continued to write ghost stories till, following as he did in the wake of Mrs. Radcliffe, he quite overstocked the market. Upon one occasion Lewis, speaking to Lady Holland about The Rejected Addresses, remarked

“Many of them are very fair, but mine is not at all like; they have made me write burlesque, which I never do.” “You don’t know your own talent,” answered the lady. Lewis was very small in stature, he had large grey eyes, thick features, and an inexpressive countenance, he was, however, exceedingly vain, and very foppish in his dress. But he was a generous, kind hearted man, Sir Walter Scott spoke highly of him, and Byron wrote

“I’d give a world of sugar cane, That Mat. Lewis were alive again.”

He was for some time M.P. for Hindon, but he obtained no parliamentary distinction.

The following, which is his best known poem, first appeared in his novel The Monk:――

ALONZO THE BRAVE,

AND THE FAIR IMOGINE.

A warrior so bold, and a virgin so bright, Convers’d as they sat on the green; They gaz’d on each other with tender delight; Alonzo the Brave was the name of the knight; The maid’s was the Fair Imogine.

“And Oh!” said the youth, “since to morrow I go “To fight in a far distant land, “Your tears for my absence soon ceasing to flow, “Some other will court you, and you will bestow “On a wealthier suitor your hand.”

“Oh! hush these suspicions,” Fair Imogine said, “Offensive to love and to me! “For, if you be living, or if you be dead, “I swear by the Virgin, that none in your stead “Shall husband of Imogine be.”

“And if e’er for another my heart should decide, “Forgetting Alonzo the Brave, “God grant that, to punish my falsehood and pride, “Your ghost at the marriage may sit by my side, “May tax me with perjury, claim me as bride, “And bear me away to the grave.”

To Palestine hasten’d the hero so bold! His love she lamented him sore; But scarce had a twelvemonth elaps’d, when, behold, A Baron all cover’d with jewels and gold, Arriv’d at Fair Imogine’s door,

His treasure, his presents, his spacious domain, Soon made her untrue to her vows; He dazzled her eyes, he bewilder’d her brain, He caught her affections, so light and so vain, And carried her home as his spouse.

And now had the marriage been blest by the priest, The revelry now was begun; The tables they groan’d with the weight of the feast: Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceas’d When the bell of the castle toll’d “One!”

Then first, with amazement Fair Imogine found That a stranger was plac’d by her side; His air was terrific, he utter’d no sound, He spoke not, he mov’d not, he look’d not around, But earnestly gaz’d on the bride.

His vizor was clos’d, and gigantic his height, His armour was sable to view! All pleasure and laughter were hush’d at his sight, The dogs as they eye’d him drew back in affright, The lights in the chamber burn’d blue!

His presence all bosoms appear’d to dismay, The guests sat in silence and fear; At length spoke the bride, while she trembled, “I pray, “Sir Knight, that your helmet aside you would lay, “And deign to partake of our cheer.”

The lady is silent; the stranger complies, His vizor he slowly unclos’d; Oh! then what a sight met Fair Imogine’s eyes! What words can express her dismay and surprise, When a skeleton’s head was expos’d!

All present then utter’d a terrified shout; All turn’d with disgust from the scene: The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out, And sported his eyes and his temples about, While the spectre address’d Imogine:――

“Behold me! thou false one! behold me!” he cried, “Remember Alonzo the Brave! “God grants, that to punish thy falsehood and pride, “My ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side, “Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride, “And bear thee away to the grave!”

Thus saying, his arms round the lady he wound, While loudly she shriek’d in dismay; Then sank with his prey, through the wide yawning ground, Nor ever again was Fair Imogine found, Or the spectre who bore her away.

Not long liv’d the Baron; and none since that time, To inhabit the castle presume; For chronicles tell, that by order sublime, There Imogine suffers the pain of her crime, And mourns her deplorable doom.

At midnight, four times in each year, does her sprite, When mortals in slumber are bound, Array’d in her bridal apparel of white, Appear in the hall with the skeleton knight, And shriek as he whirls her around.

While they drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave, Dancing round them pale spectres are seen; Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave They howl,――“To the health of Alonzo the Brave, “And his consort, the false Imogine!”

M. G. LEWIS.

It is somewhat unusual for an author to parody himself, but in a volume entitled “Tales of Wonder” written and collected by M. G. Lewis, Esq., London 1801, he inserted “Alonzo the Brave,” with a parody written by himself. Of this, he remarked, that the idea of making an apothecary of the Knight, and a brewer of the baron, and some few of the lines, were taken from a parody which appeared in one of the newspapers under the title of “Pil-Garlic the Brave, and Brown Celestine.”

It is to be regretted that he did not mention the author of the latter parody, nor the paper in which it originally appeared.

GILES JOLLUP THE GRAVE AND BROWN SALLY GREEN.

A Doctor so prim, and a sempstress so tight, Hob-a-nobb’d in some right maresquin, They suck’d up the cordial with truest delight: Giles Jollup the Grave was just five feet in height, And four feet the Brown Sally Green.

“And as,” said Giles Jollup, “to-morrow I go “To physic a feverish land, “At some sixpenny-hop, or perhaps the mayor’s show, “You’ll tumble in love with some smart city beau, “And with him share your shop in the Strand.”

“Lord, how can you think so?” Brown Sally Green said, “You must know mighty little of me, “For if you be living, or if you be dead, “I swear, ’pon my honor, that none in your stead “Shall husband of Sally Green be.

“And if e’er for another my heart should decide, “False to you and the faith which I gave, “God grant that at dinner too amply supply’d, “Over-eating may give me a pain in my side; “May your ghost then bring rhubarb to physic the bride, “And send her well dos’d to the grave.”

Away went poor Giles, to what place is not told; Sally wept till she blew her nose sore! But scarce had a twelve-month elaps’d, when, behold, A Brewer, quite stylish, his gig that way roll’d, And stopp’d it at Sally Green’s door.

His wealth, his pot-belly, and whisky of cane, Soon made her untrue to her vows; The steam of strong beer now bewilder’d her brain, He caught her while tipsy! denials were vain, So he carried her home as his spouse.

And now the roast beef had been blest by the priest, To cram now the guests had begun; Tooth and nail, like a wolf, fell the bride on the feast, Nor yet had the clash of her knife and fork ceas’d, When a bell (’twas a dustman’s) toll’d “One!”

Then first, with amazement Brown Sally Green found That a stranger was stuck by her side; His cravat and his ruffles with snuff were embrown’d; He ate not, he drank not, but turning him round, Sent some pudding away to be fried!!!

His wig was turn’d forwards, and short was his height, His apron was dirty to view; The women (oh! wond’rous) were hush’d at his sight; The cats, as they ey’d him, drew back, (well they might) For his body was pea-green and blue!

Now as all wish’d to speak, but none knew what to say, They look’d mighty foolish and queer; At length spoke the bride, while she trembled, “I pray, “Dear sir, your peruke that aside you wou’d lay, “And partake of some strong or small beer!”

The sempstress is silent; the stranger complies, And his wig from his phiz deigns to pull; Adzooks! what a squall Sally gave thro’ surprize! Like a pig that is stuck, how she open’d her eyes, When she recogniz’d Jollup’s bare skull!

Each miss! then exclaim’d, while she turn’d up her snout, “Sir, your head isn’t fit to be seen!” The pot-boys ran in, and the pot-boys ran out, And could not conceive what the noise was about, While the doctor address’d Sally Green.

“Behold me! thou jilt-flirt! behold me!” he cried, “You have broken the faith which you gave! “God grants, that to punish your falsehood and pride, “Over-eating should give you a pain in your side; “Come, swallow this rhubarb! I’ll physic the bride, “And send her well dosed to the grave!”

Thus saying, the physic her throat he forc’d down, In spite of whate’er she could say, Then bore to his chariot the damsel so brown; Nor ever again was she seen in that town, Or the doctor who whisk’d her away.

Not long liv’d the Brewer; and none since that time, To make use of the brewhouse presume; For ’tis firmly believ’d that, by order sublime, There Sally Green suffers the pain of her crime, And bawls to get out of the room.

At midnight, four times in each year, does her sprite With shrieks make the chamber resound, “I won’t take the rhubarb!” she squalls in affright, While, a cup in his left hand, a draught in his right, Giles Jollup pursues her around!

With wigs so well powder’d, their fees while they crave, Dancing round them, twelve doctors are seen; They drink chicken broth, while this horrible stave Is twang’d thro’ each nose,――“To Giles Jollup the Grave, “And his patient, the sick Sally Green!”

M. G. LEWIS.

――――

ST. GEORGE AND CAROLINE.

A loose parody of “Alonzo the Brave, and the Fair Imogine,” relating to George IV. and Queen Caroline.

(Written in October 1820.)

A warrior so bold, and a virgin so bright, Conversed as they sat o’er their wine; They gaz’d on each other with tender delight; St. George was the name of that pot-belly’d knight,[91] The maid’s was the Fair Caroline.

And “Oh!” said in rapture, the amorous beau, As of Champagne he tipp’d off a quart, The passion’s so ardent with which I now glow, That ne’er on another a thought I’ll bestow, You shall share both my throne and my heart.

“Then hush all suspicion,” the Cavalier said, “Believe me, this heart’s all your own; For whilst I am living, if you be not dead, I swear by these whiskers, that none in your stead, Shall sit by my side on the throne.”[92]

But alas! by caprice or intrigue led aside, His recreant affections soon roam; He spurn’d the fair damsel who late was his pride, E’en access to her own belov’d infant deny’d, And the poor childless mother, the sad widow’d bride, An exile became from her home.

* * * * *

For the grand coronation, now see the Archbishop, Prepare; for at hand was the day. At a cabinet dinner, they’d just served the fish up, And a waiter had brought a spare rib, the top dish up, When a belle struck them all with dismay.

Then, oh! with amazement, the courtiers found, ’Twas fair Caroline stood by their side; St. George was confounded, he utter’d no sound; He spoke not, he mov’d not, nor dar’d look around, Lest his eyes should encounter his bride.

Her mien was majestic, her aspect so bright, That her enemies shrunk from the view; All their pleasure and laughter were hushed at the sight, Callous Canning and Castlereagh shrunk in affright, Pious Eldon and Sidmouth look’d blue!

* * * * *

“Begone!” to the base borough-faction she cry’d; “Your malice and hatred I brave; To deceive England’s monarch all arts you have try’d, He has sworn that none else but his own lawful bride At the grand coronation should sit by his side, Unless I should be in my grave.”

(Here follow four more verses.)

From The Melange, Liverpool, 1834.

――――

COLENSO THE BRAVE. By our own Monk Lewis.

A Bishop so wise, and a native so tame, Conversed in an African mead, Colenso the Brave was the Suffragan’s name, But the pensive Zulu’s is not given to fame, And they talked upon questions of creed.

“O hush those suspicions,” the Suffragan said, “Offensive to Church and to me.” But something the native put into his head, He mused on at board, and he mused on in bed, And he talked of the same in his see.

Then over to England the Suffragan flew, And published some tomes full of lore, Which brought on his Lordship each savage Review; Some called him a sceptic, some called him untrue, Some said he’d been answer’d before.

A dreadful sensation, too dreadful to tell To the Bench of the Bishops he gave, As when Mr. Whitworth explodes a big shell; But they rallied, and all in a body they fell To demolish Colenso the Brave.

From the Cape, demon-haunted, a Spirit[93] arose, It was clad in a mantle of gray, And it stalked to Colenso, and said, “I depose A priest who can propagate volumes like those!” But a stern apparition cried “Nay!”

In a voice full of sweetness, but cold as a stone, “I forbid you to touch him!” it said. “You are phantoms alike――if you want flesh and bone, Go pray Three Estates; for a Monarch alone Is nought to the Church but a Head.

“He is free to return to his pensive Zulu, By whom it appears he was posed, He knows no allegiance to Longley or you: Behold me, and know what I tell you is true!” Then a Chancellor’s[94] face was disclosed.

The sentence was final and left not a doubt, His smile of derision they saw; The lawyers ran in, and the lawyers ran out, They hooted and mooted the Temple about, But no one could challenge the law.

And while all the Bishops look awfully grave, Dancing round them Dissenters are seen, Their liquor’s Cape-port, and as horrid the stave, They chant “To the health of Colenso the Brave[95] And his convert, the native so clean;”

SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1865.

――――

A Bishop there was at Natal A Zulu he had for his “Pal,” Said the Zulu, “Look here, This here Pentateuch’s queer,” Which converted his Grace of Natal.

――――

“BETWEEN THE ACTS;” Or, Spain and the Spanish.

A School-boy so stout, and a Maiden so mad―― She a hag, he a youth in his teens―― T’other day made a match, be ’t for good or for bad, Alfonso the Twelfth was the name of the lad, And L’Espana the maniac quean’s.

* * * * *

And this school-boy, with hands and with heart still so clean, Conscience clear of offence as a lamb―― If ever the world, flesh, and devil were seen, In a foul female Cerberus, crown’d as a Queen, ’Twas in her he’d to blush for as dam!

“But how,” said the Boy, “for as mad as you seemed, So much wits did you e’er come to show, As to hurl down the idols that gods you late deemed, Leave the fools that you followed, the dreams that you dreamed, And kick out Sagasta & Co.?”

“She!” in scorn cried the keeper,――Armed Force,――who stood there, With his whip and strait-waistcoat, fair shown, “Don’t think her craze cured, or her turned head set square, Poor L’Espana’s still mad as was ever March hare. It is me you’ve to thank for your throne.

“How bonds both a curse and a blessing may be Poor L’Espana is destined to know: In the bonds I put on her salvation you see, Through the bonds she got off bankrupt beggar is she, A world’s warning, a scoff, and a show!”

The maniac looked fierce, but her wrath died away To dead calm, that strait-waistcoat displayed, And she crouched and she whined, “’Pon my honour I’ll pay―― And get credit――who knows?――to run more ticks some day, When my ‘passives’ once ‘actives’ are made.

“Then come to my arms――be Alfonso the Brave―― And I’ll be thy fair Imogine.” Here the maniac looked wild, and the keeper looked grave, While Alfonso, poor boy, scarce knew how to behave,―― When a third party stepped on the scene.

’Twas Le Lor Maire of London――that mythical Lord, Who had deigned upon Paris to shine, With herald and trumpeters, sword-bearer, sword, Mace, flags, running footmen――in friendly accord Come England and France to combine!

* * * * *

Did Alfonso to Stone――Yo El Rey to Lord Mayor―― Give a pledge Spain’s bad debts in to call? And if a pledge――what pledge――and whence when and where Is the money to come, that, betwixt bull and bear, Like a bone of contention will fall?

Punch. January 16, 1875.

――――

A TERRIBLE TALE.

The night it was dark, not a star in the sky, As the Lord Mayor of London passed nervously by A charnel-house crammed with the bodies of those Who had died ’neath grim Radicals’ murderous blows.

The wind howled a dirge and the moon hid its face, There were skulls and dry blade-bones all over the place; But the Lord Mayor of London, no tremor had he―― Said his lordship, “It’s here that the thieves will put me.”

So he crept past the tombs and the graves of the dead, In spite of grim spectres, with eye-sockets red; And he hid him away in a newly-made grave, Just to see how at midnight the ghosts would behave.

Thought he, “I will watch these poor victims arise―― They shall tell me their sorrows, I’ll gather their sighs; And I’ll hie me away at the crow of the cock To give the good people of England a shock.

“I shall hear how these noble old corpses were killed―― They’ll describe how their innocent claret was spilled; And I’ll never take breath through my burning harangue Till the world knows the crimes of the Radical gang.”

Just then a wild tempest broke over the scene―― The bells clanged out midnight, his lordship turned green; For, with clamour and cry, in their shrouds from their graves, There arose the dead victims of Radical knaves.

O, the language they used, and the pranks that they played; O, the terrible tricks that those spectres essayed; O, the sentiments shocking that came from their lips; O, the crimes that they had at their finger-bones’ tips!

It was “Bedlam” and Newgate and Hanwell “broke loose,” And their language!――their mildest expression was “deuce!”―― The Lord Mayor he shuddered and fell on his knees; He had never before seen such infamous sprees.

But just as his lordship was checking a sob, Right into the place burst a horrible mob; The vilest of vile and the lowest of low, And these cuddled the corpses and snivelled their woe.

They were folks who regretted the jolly old days When humbugs and robbers had all their own ways; They wept for the crew by the Radicals slain, And they wished back the old days of darkness again.

He crept from the churchyard, and, wiser, more sad, He confessed that the City was hopelessly bad; He confessed that in feasting and pageant and show They squandered the wealth filched from want and from woe.

That scene in the charnel-house burnt in his brain; He went to Sir William[96] at once by the train, And explained that his soul would be harassed until He had helped with his vote the Municipal Bill.

The Referee. April 20, 1884.

――――:o:――――

The Poems of M. G. Lewis were deemed worthy of imitation by the authors of The Rejected Addresses, and Horace Smith accordingly wrote one entitled “Fire and Ale,” of which Lord Jeffrey said in the Edinburgh Review, “Fire and Ale,” by M. G. Lewis, exhibits not only a faithful copy of the spirited, loose, and flowing versification of that singular author, but a very just representation of that mixture of extravagance and jocularity which has impressed most of his writings with the character of a sort of farcical horror.”

FIRE AND ALE.

My palate is parched with Pierian thirst, Away to Parnassus I’m beckoned; List, warriors and dames, while my lay is rehearsed, I sing of the singe of Miss Drury the first, And the birth of Miss Drury the second.

The Fire King, one day, rather amorous felt; He mounted his hot copper filly; His breeches and boots were of tin, and the belt Was made of cast iron, for fear it should melt With the heat of the copper colt’s belly.

Sure never was skin half so scalding as his! When an infant ’twas equally horrid; For the water, when he was baptised, gave a fizz, And bubbled and simmer’d and started off, whizz! As soon as it sprinkled his forehead.

O! then there was glitter and fire in each eye, For two living coals were the symbols; His teeth were calcined, and his tongue was so dry, It rattled against them, as though you should try To play the piano in thimbles.

From his nostrils a lava sulphureous flows, Which scorches wherever it lingers; A snivelling fellow he’s call’d by his foes, For he can’t raise his paw up to blow his red nose, For fear it should blister his fingers.

His wig is of flames curling over his head, Well powder’d with white smoking ashes; He drinks gunpowder tea, melted sugar of lead, Cream of tartar, and dines on hot spice gingerbread, Which black from the oven he gnashes.

Each fire-nymph his kiss from her countenance shields, ’Twould soon set her cheekbone a frying; He spit in the Tenter-ground near Spital-fields, And the hole that it burnt, and the chalk that it yields, Make a capital lime-kiln for drying.

When he open’d his mouth, out there issued a blast (Nota bene, I do not mean swearing), But the noise that it made, and the heat that it cast, I’ve heard it from those who have seen it, surpassed A shot manufactory flaring.

He blazed, and he blazed, as he gallop’d to snatch His bride, little dreaming of danger; His whip was a torch, and his spur was a match, And over the horse’s left eye was a patch, To keep it from burning the manger.

And who is the housemaid he means to enthral In his cinder-producing alliance? ’Tis Drury Lane Playhouse, so wide, and so tall, Who, like other combustible ladies, must fall, If she cannot set sparks at defiance.

On his warming-pan knee-pan he clattering roll’d. And the housemaid his hand would have taken, But his hand, like his passion, was too hot to hold, And she soon let it go, but her new ring of gold All melted, like butter or bacon!

Oh! then she look’d sour, and indeed well she might, For Vinegar Yard was before her; But, spite of her shrieks, the ignipotent knight, Enrobing the maid in a flame of gas light, To the skies in a sky-rocket bore her.

Look! look! ’tis the Ale King,[97] so stately and starch, Whose votaries scorn to be sober; He pops from his vat, like a cedar or larch; Brown-stout is his doublet, he hops in his march, And froths at the mouth in October.

His spear is a spigot, his shield is a bung; He taps where the housemaid no more is, When lo! at his magical bidding, upsprung A second Miss Drury, tall, tidy, and young, And sported in loco sororis.

Back, lurid in air, for a second regale, The Cinder King, hot with desire, To Brydges Street hied; but the Monarch of Ale, With uplifted spigot and faucet, and pail, Thus chided the Monarch of Fire:

“Vile tyrant, beware of the ferment I brew; “I rule the roast here, dash the wig o’ me! “If, spite of your marriage with Old Drury, you “Come here with your tinderbox, courting the new, “I’ll have you indicted for bigamy!”

HORACE SMITH.

The Rejected Addresses. 1812.

――――

As an instance of a burlesque――of a burlesque, a few verses may be quoted from one which was given in Punch:――

FIRE AND WATER.[98]

(_With Apologies to the Shades of the Authors of “Rejected Addresses.”_)

The Fire Fiend was curst with unquenchable thirst, And his gnomes to his aid having beckoned, From Cornhill to Clapham he flew at a burst, And furious flames soon arose from the first, And volumes of smoke from the second.

The Fire Fiend was hungry as Moloch of old, And knew not the meaning of pity: The new Edax Rerum; voraciously bold, His maw a red gulf that was ready to hold The calcined remains of a City.

That Phlegethon-gorge might have served as the grave Of man and his works altogether; But Shaw, the new Life-guardsman, swordless but brave, Was ever at hand to extinguish and save, And hold the Red Ogre in tether.

The Fire Fiend as usual went at full pelt, But Shaw at his heels followed faster, Of leather well tanned were Shaw’s boots and his belt, And his helmet was brazen for fear it should melt, And the Fire Demon knew him as master.

The Fire Fiend possessed a most hideous phiz, Polyphemus’s was not more horrid, Unkempt and unwashed was that visage of his, For water that touched it went off with a whiz! It was so tremendously torrid.

But Shaw on his enemy kept a cool eye, Of vigilant valour the symbol, Affrighted no more by the Fire Demon’s cry Than the squeak of a rat; if the Fire Fiend was spry, His opponent was equally nimble.

For Water, Fire’s foe, at his best freely flows, And the Fire Demon dares not to linger Whenever his enemy turns on the hose; He stands in much fear of this foeman, and those Who flock at the lift of his finger.

The Fire Fiend has schemes, it is credibly said, For laying half London in ashes; But Water――and Shaw――are the things he must dread, And at sight of an engine he shakes his red head, And his teeth like a lunatic gnashes.

But his fire-gnomes he multiplies lately so fast That the task of repressing them’s trying; The flare that they make and the heat that they cast, Are so great that the Fiend seems resolved in one blast To set the Metropolis frying.

He blazes and blazes; Shaw gallops to snatch His prey from its desperate danger; But the Demon’s a deuce of a rider to catch, And it taxes brave Shaw to continue a match For the fiery noctivagant ranger.

And if London is wise she assistance will call, For the Water King needs the alliance Of hands that are sturdy and limbs that are tall, To give the Fire Demon a rattling good fall, And set all his imps at defiance.

(Eight verses omitted.)

Punch. August 20, 1887.

――――

“Tales of Wonder,” written and collected by M. G. Lewis, contained two ballads entitled “The Erl King” and “The Cloud King,” both written by Lewis in his accustomed style of grim horror, with thunder, shrieks, and fury, and in the same volume he inserted an anonymous burlesque of these entitled “The Cinder King,” the humour of which would not be very apparent unless the two first-named poems were reprinted in full. They are neither of sufficient interest to merit the space this would require. A somewhat similar parody may be found in “The Blue Bag: or Toryana.” London; Effingham Wilson, 1832. It is called “The Fire King, The Water King, and The Cotton King,” and relates the quarrels of some politicians, well-known sixty years since, but now well nigh forgotten.

One more parody of Lewis remains to be noted, it occurs in an exceedingly scarce volume of poems, “The School for Satire.” London, 1802, and is exceedingly interesting on account of its allusions to Monk Lewis’s personal appearance, and his literary productions:――

THE OLD HAG IN A RED CLOAK. (Inscribed to Matthew G. Lewis, Esq., M.P.)

Mat Lewis was little, Mat Lewis was young, The words they lisp’d prettily over his tongue; A spy-glass he us’d, for he could not well see, A spy-glass he us’d, for near sighted was he.

With his spy-glass once spying in Parliament Street, He chanc’d an old Hag in a red cloak to meet; When the Hag in a red cloak thus awfully said, “Pray give me a sixpence to buy me some bread.”

“No sixpence I’ll give thee to buy thee some bread,” To the Hag in a red cloak Mat feelingly said; Then down to the House in a huff strutted he, Sure all the world knows little Mat’s an M.P.

But as onward he strutted, and push’d thro’ the crowd, The Hag in a red cloak still curst him aloud; Strange words of mysterious intent struck his ear, And could he be frighten’d he’d then have known fear.

“Though cold be thy heart, and thy feelings as cold, Though bold be thy mien, and thy language as bold, Ere the clock at St. Giles’s is heard to strike one, A deed to confound thee, a deed shall be done.”

She spoke: and then vanish’d at once from his sight, In a cellar as dark as the darkness of night; But ev’ry five minutes this horrible strain Rush’d in fearful recurrence o’er Mat’s tortur’d brain.

From the House about twelve to his house he repairs; To creak seem’d the doors, and to crack seem’d the stairs; He put out the candle, his clothes off he threw, When St. Giles’s struck one, and the door open flew.

Then the Hag in a red cloak of Parliament Street, The Hag in a red cloak whom Mat chanc’d to meet, The Hag in a red cloak, who to him once said, Pray give me a sixpence to buy me some bread.

By a sort of a blue and a glimmering light Rode quite round his bedstead and full in his sight; She rode in a carriage, that hight a birch broom, And her breath breath’d the whiffings of gin through the room.

“I ask’d thee,” she cried, in a hoarse, hollow voice, “For sixpence, thou gav’st not while yet in thy choice; For punishment dread then, pretender, prepare, Which e’en to repentance I now cannot spare.

“Know that she who so lately sustain’d your abuse, Is thy mother, oh shame! and my name Mother Goose; To a German Romancer thee dreaming I bore, And we both dipp’d thee deep in the tale telling lore.

“Too soon thou outdidst all my wonders of old, And instead of my stories thy nonsense was told; With nurses and children I lost my high place, And from Newberry’s shop I was turn’d in disgrace.

“Depriv’d of a corner to hide my old head, I wander’d about, begging e’en for my bread; When thou too, my child, to complete my despair, Refused my own spoils with thy mother to share.

“But vain are thy hopes to supplant me on earth, For know that immortal I am in my birth, Can defeat all thy arts by a magical spell, And all thy productions in paper dispel.

“Ye ghosts and hobgoblins, and horrible shapes, Ye lions, and wolves, and ye griffins and apes, Ye strange jumbled figures from river or den, Ye fire-born monsters, and fishified men.

“Ye raw-heads and bloody-bones, spectres and shades, And water-sprite swains, and transmogrified maids, As your grandmother’s curses on each of you fall, To hell and the devil fly one and fly all!”

Then the ghosts and hobgoblins, and horrible shapes, And lions and wolves, and the griffins and apes, And strange jumbled figures from river or den, And fire-born monsters, and fishified men,

And raw-heads and bloody bones, spectres and shades, And water-sprite swains, and transmogrified maids, When they heard the goose curses on each of them fall, To hell and the devil fled one, and fled all.

Fled in fire and in water, in smoke and in hail, Some green, and some red, some black and some pale, Fled in accents of horror, of spirit, of wit, Tralira, tralara, or fal-de-ral tit.

While as fast as away Matty’s progeny flew, Mother Goose summon’d up her original crew, Who with loud peals of laughter and sallies of fun, Quizz’d, pinch’d, and tormented her reprobate son.

A Knight led them on, who was first to assail, Who was arm’d cap-a-pie in a dear coat of mail. Sir Horn-Book hight he; at the very first glance Mat saw he was Lord o’er the Field of Romance.

Then little Red Riding-Hood’s wolf howled amain, Fear shook all his limbs, and unsettled his brain; But the horrors he suffer’d can ne’er be surpass’d, When little Cock-Robin’s sad funeral pass’d.

As Blue-Beard for blood loudly howl’d o’er his wife, And sister Anne pleaded so well for her life, Mat’s fav’rite spectre he saw dance in air, And he gave up his spirit a prey to despair.

To his parent he bow’d, and now penitent groan, Cried “Thy strength and my empty pretences I own, “In vain were my hopes to supplant thee on earth, “And immortal, O mother, thou art in thy birth!

“As now you behold me in penitence sunk, “Take all my Romances, nay, take too my Monk; “But leave me, since thus I acknowledge my crime, “My epilogues, sonnets, and lady-like rhyme.”

Mother Goose, as her son was in penitence sunk, Took all his Romances, but took, too, his Monk; And left him in pity to trifle his time In epilogues, sonnets, and lady-like rhyme.

If you wish me the moral, dear Mat, to rehearse, ’Tis that nonsense is nonsense in prose or in verse; That the man who to talent makes any pretence, Should write not at all, or should write common sense!

ANONYMOUS.

(First printed in 1801.)

――――:o:――――

Champagne Goschen is my name! Champagne Goschen is my name! Good for any sort of tax, dear boys, Put it on to wheels and pleasure hacks, my boys, Champagne Goschen is my name! Beautiful to look on is my game! Good for any sort of tax, my boys! Oh, that’s the little game of JOKIN’ G!

Punch. 1888.

The Right Hon. G. Joachim Goschen, Chancellor of the Exchequer, proposed an increased duty on bottled wines.)

LEIGH HUNT.

BORN, 1784. DIED, August 28, 1859.

ABOU BEN ADHEM.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of gold: Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the Presence in the room he said, “What writest thou?”――The vision raised its head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord, Answer’d――“The names of those who love the Lord.” “And is mine one?” said Abou; “Nay, not so,” Replied the angel.――Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.”

The angel wrote, and vanish’d. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light, And show’d the names whom love of God had bless’d―― And, lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest!

LEIGH HUNT.

――――

MAKING UP THE SLATE.

Stratman Ben Jackey――may his tribe decrease―― Awoke one night, quite sick and ill at ease, And saw within the lamplight in his room―― Making it yellow with a sickly gloom―― The devil, scratching on a brazen slate. Thinking to chaff him, Jacky reared his pate, And said, without the customary hail, “What writest thou?” The devil whisked his tail, And quite astonished at the fellow’s cheek, Answered, “The names of those who office seek.” “And is mine one?” said Jacky. “Yes you bet!” The devil said. Not hesitating yet, Quite unabashed, said Jack, “I beg――ahem! Write me Collector, or at least P.M.” The devil smiled and vanished. The next night He staggered into Jacky’s room, half tight, And showed the names upon his slate of brass, And lo! this Jack was written down an Ass.

American Paper.

――――

BEN DISRAELI.

Ben Disraeli (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, close by the night light in his room, Filling it with sulphureous perfume, An angel(?) writing in a book of gold: Exceeding cheek had made Ben Dizzy bold; And to the Presence in the room he said, “What writest thou?” The vision raised its head, And, with a smile of diabolic beauty, Answered, “The names of those who do their duty.” “And is mine one?” said Dizzy. “Nay, not so,” Replied the Spirit. Dizzy spoke more low, But cheerly still, and said, “I pray thee then, Write me as one that does his fellow-men.”

The angel wrote and vanished. The next night, It came again with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom Patriotism had blest, And lo! Ben Dizzy’s name led all the rest.

Echoes from the Clubs. December, 1867.

――――

THE BLUE.

Muggins of Sixes (may his ward increase) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the gaslight in the ward His Grecian, who was whacking one that snored. The while with pencil――aluminium gold―― He something seemed to write. Muggins grew bold, And to the Grecian standing by his bed He cried, “What writest thou?” He raised his head, And answered, while a shoe at him he threw, “The names of those who’ve paid up for the Blue!” “And is mine one?” said Muggins. “Nay, not so,” Replied the Grecian. Muggins whistled low, And in his――night shirt――sleeve he chuckled, saying, “Write me as one that wants one without paying!”

The Grecian smote and vanished. The next night He came with hockey-stick, not over light, Holding the names of the heroic few Who paid a year’s subscription to the Blue. Then, adding one, he showed the youth the list, And lo! young Muggins’ name led all the rest!

The Blue. A journal written by, and for, the scholars at Christ’s Hospital (the Bluecoat School), London.

――――

ABOU BEN FOLSOM.

Cousin Ben Folsom (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight of his room, Making it rich and like a lily bloom, A fat man writing with a pen of gold: Exceeding luck had made Ben Folsom bold, And to the presence in the room he said, “What writest thou?” The fat man raised his head, And in a voice made sweet by its accent, Answered: “The names of those who love the President.” “And is mine one?” asked Benny. “Nay, not so,” Replied the fat man. Benny spoke more low, But cheerily still; and said, “I pray, if not too late, Write me as one who’d love a consulate.”

The fat man wrote and vanished. The next night He came again, with a great flickering light, And showed the names. Ben Folsom looked, And lo! for Sheffield, England, he was booked.

Albany Express. U.S.A.

[Mr. Benjamin Folsom is a cousin of Mrs. President Cleveland (United States), and has had the management of her affairs. Soon after her marriage to the President, the newspapers began to mention him as likely to have an appointment under the Government, and in a short time he was named United States Consul for Sheffield, England.]

――――

ADAM MAC ADAM.

Adam Mac Adam (may his clan increase) Awoke at midnight with a hearty sneeze, And, as he raised himself in bed, he saw Something that struck Mac Adam’s soul with awe. For, bending in the moon’s uncertain light, An aged man, with locks all silvery white, Sat making entries in a ledger old. The sight uncanny made his blood run cold, And scarce for terror could Mac Adam ask The nature of the scribe’s untimely task. “Behold, I write,” the vision answered then, “The names of those who love their fellow men.” “And pray,” said Adam, with a hopeful grin, “Your Honor’s honor, am I counted in?” “Nay,” spake the presence, with a look of grief, “My task is easy, for the roll is brief; Look through the M’s, but all in vain, I fear, You seek your ancient patronymic here.” Then meekly Adam said, “I am not one Who boasts to others of the good I’ve done; I seldom answer to the public call With wants so pressing and with means so small; I ply a woodsaw for my bread and pork, And half the time, you see, I’m out of work; So, from my purse no stream of largess flows; No loud subscription my sign-manual knows; But this I do,――now lend attentive ear―― Each wintry morning when the dawn grows clear, I take my bucket to the ash-hole dim, And there I fill it to the very brim; Then in the sidewalk take my slippery stand, And scatter ashes with a liberal hand, So at my gate no broken heads I see; No cripple shakes his gory leg at me; In kind regard I’m held by rich and poor, Save by the surgeon who resides next door.” Thus Adam told his tale, the while The great scribe listened with a brightening smile, Then vanished. The next night he came again: “See here,” he cried, “the list of great souled men Who answer promptest to sweet mercy’s call;” Lo! A. Mac Adam’s name o’ertopped them all. P. American Paper.

――――

ABOU BEN BUTLER.

Abou Ben Butler (who has just been fired) Awoke one night almighty cross and tired, He saw within the moonlight in his room The spirit of a Presidential boom, Who wrote on parchment tanned from human skin. Exceeding “cheek” caused Butler to begin, And to the presence in the room he said―― “What writest thou?”――the Spectre raised his head, And answered with a gesture most uncouth, “The names of demagogues who love the truth.” “Is mine left out?” said Butler. “I should smile,” Replied the spirit. Butler thought awhile; And then he said, “Please put it in your note “I only lie to gain the coloured vote.”

The spirit wrote and vanished. The next night It came again, with evident delight, And showed the names of politicians dead, And lo! Ben Butler’s name was at the head.

American Paper. 1886.

――――:o:――――

Leigh Hunt’s other poems never attained to sufficiently general popularity to become the butt of the parodist, there is, however, a jocular imitation of his style in The Book of Ballads, by Bon Gaultier, from which a few lines may be quoted:

FRANCESCA DA RIMINI.

(Argument.――An impassioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon Gaultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences thus:――

Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball, Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small, With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less, Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness? Dost thou remember, when, with stately prance, Our heads went crosswise in the country-dance; How soft, warm fingers, tipped like buds of balm, Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm; And how a cheek grew flushed and peachy-wise At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes?

There’s wont to be, at conscious times like these, An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,―― A crispy cheekiness, if so I dare Describe the swaling of a jaunty air; And thus, when swirling from the waltz’s wheel, You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille, That smiling voice, although it made me start, Boiled in the meek o’erlifting of my heart; And, picking at my flowers, I said, with free And usual tone, “O yes, sir, certainly!”

* * * * *

But when the dance was o’er, and arm in arm (The full heart beating ’gainst the elbow warm) We passed into the great refreshment hall, Where the heaped cheese-cakes and the comfits small Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, brought to burn Around the margin of the negus urn; When my poor quivering hand you fingered twice, And, with inquiring accents, whispered, “Ice, Water, or cream?” I could no more dissemble, But dropped upon the couch all in a tremble. A swimming faintness misted o’er my brain, The corks seemed starting from the brisk champagne, The custards fell untouched upon the floor, Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more.

There was an imitation of Leigh Hunt, entitled “A Nursery Ode,” in Warreniana (London, 1824), but it had little merit as a parody, and is of no present interest.

Another short imitation was published, about forty years ago, in The Puppet Showman’s Album, describing the author’s sentiments on viewing that celebrated danseuse.

CARLOTTA GRISI.

By the Author of “Niminy-Piminy,” “A Pot of Treacle,” &c.

She floated towards us from the wreathing crowd Of peachey nymphs, and swam a breathing cloud, Less with a regulated kind of motion, Than like a bird scarring the breast of ocean. I thought and said――“In roseate light she swims, Guided, not lifted, by those slopy limbs, And wants in air a sister sylph to meet, While Earth heaves upward, sick to kiss her feet.” But when she ceased that sort of moveless gliding, Her gauzy garments round her form subsiding, And dashed through all that wonderful display Which poet ne’er described, and never may―― The whirl――the twist――the turn――the start――the bound, The step――the spring――the leap――the fling――the round; The backward bending, and the bold gyration―― The leg for ages in one situation.

The sparkling, glittering, dazzling, flickering feats Which made us jump, delighted, in our seats, And then came down, and in child-dalliance pouted, While you, and I and everybody shouted, And hurled our flowers with vigour almost rude (One felt that flowers were such a creature’s food). I gave up simile――it wasn’t easy―― All I could say was “That’s CARLOTTA GRISI!”

――――:o:――――

SONG OF OCTOBER. (After Leigh Hunt.)

October, month of bird and song, And ivy on old walls, Trailing some dreary pile along, From which hard mortar falls.

Come hither, spider, you and I Have long been friends together; Approach, old brute, and tell me why You love October weather;

Perchance, old spinster of the grove, You come in autumn days, To spin your yarn, as if to prove Life is a webby maze.

Punch’s Almanac. 1846.

――――:o:――――

MANNERS AND CIVILITY.

Let Laws and Commerce, Arts and Science die, But leave us still our old Nobility!

LORD JOHN MANNERS (now Duke of Rutland).

The New Age thus describes the august writer of that couplet:――

“The wreck of a beau, of a bard, of a spouter, The seed of a Duke, he was bound by all rule To furnish Disraeli, that scorner and flouter, Of noble-born failures, with friend, foil, and tool.

“Had chances galore and some gifts; took to throw ’em Away to the winds 63 years or more; Two laughable lines in an imbecile poem Will probably furnish his posthumous store.”

MR. RITCHIE’S SPEECH.

(In which he proposed to disestablish everybody, except the Drinksellers.)

“Let Boards and Benches, Lords and Squires die, But leave us still our old Debauchery.”

The Star. March 21, 1888.

Thomas Babington, Lord Macaulay,

Born October 25, 1800, Died December 28, 1859.

――――

[Illustration: A]LTHOUGH Lord Macaulay’s literary fame rests principally upon his prose writings, yet his “Lays of Ancient Rome,” “Ivry,” and “The Armada,” are widely popular, and have been frequently parodied.

“The Armada,” (which is but a short fragment) was first published in 1832, it possesses exceptional interest at present, as the tercentenary Commemoration of the defeat of the Spanish Armada is to be held in Plymouth this year. Although the natives of Devonshire have most cause to be proud of the brave deeds of their ancestors, it must not be forgotten that every Englishman is now enjoying that religious and political liberty for which they then fought, the celebration ought therefore to be a thoroughly National one.

Those who love English Ballad Poetry will often have regretted that Lord Macaulay should have left unfinished his story of the Armada.

His fragment consists of seventy-four lines, bringing the narrative no further than the night alarm of the approach of the Spanish fleet. Dr. W. C. Bennett has written a conclusion of a little over two hundred lines, which can be found in his “Contributions to a Ballad History of England,” (London, Chatto and Windus), whilst another continuation (in the same metre as the original,) by the Reverend H. C. Leonard, which originally appeared in The Boy’s Own Paper, has since been published, in pamphlet form, by J. W. Arrowsmith of Bristol.

By the kind permission of the author, Mr. Leonard’s imitation is inserted here immediately following Lord Macaulay’s fragment.

THE SPANISH ARMADA.

Attend, all ye who list, to hear our noble England’s praise; I tell of the thrice-famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, When that great fleet invincible against her bore, in vain, The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain. It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Bay; Her crew hath seen Castile’s black fleet, beyond Aurigny’s isle, At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile. At sunrise she escaped their van, by God’s especial grace, And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase. Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall; The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgcumbe’s lofty hall; Many a light fishing-boat put out, to pry along the coast, And, with loose rein and bloody spur, rode inland many a post. With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes; Behind him march the halberdiers; before him sound the drums; His yeomen round the market-cross make clear an ample space, For there behoves him to set up the standard of Her Grace; And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, As, slow upon the labouring wind, the royal blazon swells. Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, And, underneath his deadly paw, treads the gay lillies down! So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field, Bohemia’s plume, and Genoa’s bow, and Cæsar’s eagle shield. So glared he when, at Agincourt, in wrath he turned to bay, And, crushed and torn beneath his claws, the princely hunters lay. Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight: ho! scatter flowers, fair maids: Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute: ho! gallants draw your blades: Thou sun, shine on her joyously; ye breezes, waft her wide; Our glorious royal battle-flag, the banner of our pride. The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner’s massy fold; The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold; Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea, Such night in England ne’er had been, nor e’er again shall be! From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay, That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day; For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly war-flame spread, High on St. Michael’s Mount it shone: it shone on Beachy Head. Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire, Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire. The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar’s glittering waves: The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip’s sunless caves; O’er Longleat’s towers, o’er Cranbourne’s oaks, the fiery herald flew: He roused the shepherd of Stonehenge, the rangers of Beaulieu. Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town, And, ere the day, three hundred horse had met on Clifton Down; The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night, And saw, o’erhanging Richmond Hill, the streak of blood red light. Then bugle’s note and cannon’s roar, the death-like silence broke, And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke. At once, on all her stately gates, arose the answering fires; At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires; From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear, And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer: And, from the furthest wards, was heard the rush of hurrying feet, And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed down each roaring street; And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, As, fast from every village round, the horse came spurring in: And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the warlike errand went, And roused, in many an ancient hall, the gallant squires of Kent; Southward from Surrey’s pleasant hills flew those bright couriers forth; High on bleak Hampstead’s swarthy moor they started for the north; And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still: All night, from town to town, they sprang; they sprang from hill to hill: Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o’er Darwins rocky dales; Till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales; Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern’s lonely Height; Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin’s crest of light; Till, broad and fierce, the star came forth on Ely’s stately fane, And tower and hamlet rose in arms, o’er all the boundless plain; Till Belvoir’s lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on, o’er the wild vale of Trent; Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt’s embattled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle;

(End of Lord Macaulay.)

Till, from the peaks of Cheviot, the wonder-telling flames Passed on the news from Berwick bounds to subjects of King James.

O well it was for Englishmen that, as the tidings spread, No panic seized their stalwart hearts, no fear or craven dread. O well it was for England then that, on her trial day, Her sailors and her soldiers brave were ready, ready aye! And Catholics and Protestants with equal zeal were seen Vying who best could England serve, who best could serve the Queen. Lord Effingham had chief command in Plymouth Sound that day, Hawkins and Drake and Frobisher like hounds in leashes lay; Drake and his men were playing bowls that eve, on Plymouth Hoe, Said he, “My mates, we’ll end our game and then we’ll end the foe!” When scarce the morning light had broke on land and sea around The English fleet, of forty sail, put out from Plymouth Sound; The flagship was the Raleigh Ark; beside her sailed the Bear, The Dreadnought and the Victory had foremost places there; And soon they saw the Spanish ships, with every sail outspread, Come up from the Atlantic main, by the tall Pinta led; Full six-score gallant ships sailed up, the south-west wind before, And, like a crescent moon, they stretched for seven good miles or more, And on their decks and in their hulls were thirty thousand men. Such fleet was never seen before, nor shall be seen again! Up channel now they set their helms, King Philip ordered so, To join the Duke of Parma’s men, ere up the Thames they go! For he, the greatest general that Spain or Europe knew, In Flanders long had waited them, and now impatient grew. But well the little English ships hung on their rear that day, And many a shot and shell flew east, to speed the Spaniard’s way! See hindermost, with towering poop, a galleon of Biscay Laden with gold of Mexico, full thirty weeks of pay; And next a frigate huge sails up, with port-holes open wide, From Andalusia is she come with piles of arms inside. But well for England fought that day the flame and southwest wind! The devil takes, the proverb says, the one that comes behind! The Andalusian lost her mast, the treasure barque took fire, While, in their wake, the English ships pressed ever nigh and nigher, And ere had paled, that summer night, the sunset’s ruddy glow These two, with all the spoil, were towed right up to Plymouth Hoe. Brave Drake it was that took the gold, but not a coin kept he; Full fifty thousand to his men he dealt, with jovial glee! Beyond the Tamar Raleigh lay, the Lizard Head to guard, But, when he saw the Spaniards pass, said he, “I count it hard That I who came to lead the van thus in the rear should lag!” He left his men, took horse and rode, and joined the Admiral’s flag! And now from every western port the ships came more and more, From Bristol and from Barnstaple, from all along the shore; From Dartmouth and from Bridport town, from Weymouth, Poole, and Lyme, And every ship spread all her sail, in haste to be in time. ’Twas off the point of Portland Bill the first great fight took place; The year was fifteen-eighty-eight, of our Redeemer’s grace, Throughout a glorious summer day, July the twenty-third, A cannonade both fierce and loud on either coast was heard. The hulking Spanish galleons then were sorely put about, The English ships sailed out and in, sailed briskly in and out. As when a mighty baited bull the valiant dogs surround, And all his bulk and all his strength of little use are found, So many a great three-decker then threw wide her shot and shell; The balls flew o’er the English masts, and in the billows fell! But now the light and gunpowder alike were spent and gone, And, in the night, the Spanish fleet their eastward way went on. In Calais roads the foemen next their anchors huge let fall, And to the Duke of Parma then they sent an urgent call: “Send out your pinnaces in haste, your boats with all dispatch; To fight these English devils thus is not an equal match!” But to this plan the Hollanders, old England’s staunch Ally, Refused consent, and would not let the pinnaces pass by. At length the Spaniards spread their sails and took their onward way Till off the Flemish coast, becalmed, the great Armada lay; And still the gallant English ships kept up with their advance Till six-score sail around them lay, and waited for their chance. Meanwhile on land, Her Grace’s troops, as active as the fleet, Prepared themselves with urgent haste the foreign foe to meet. Ten thousand Londoners in arms rallied around the Queen, A hundred thousand, hastening up from every shire, were seen; And as they came they leapt and danced and sang, with cheerfull face, As nimble runners gird their loins, with joy to run a race. At Tilbury Fort Elizabeth reviewed the bright array: O long did loyal English hearts recall that famous day! And long shall grateful Englishmen, that know her faults no less, Revere the gallant memory of England’s Good Queen Bess; For, riding on her war-horse white, the serried ranks between, A noble sight it was to see Old England’s Virgin Queen! A helmet crowned her golden hair, and they that saw it tell No coronet of diamonds became Her Grace so well; A coat of mail of burnished steel the Royal Maiden wore, And, in her fair white hand, aloft a truncheon-sceptre bore; Then up she spoke, and reined her steed before the troops to stand, And all could hear her accents clear beside the Essex strand: “My loving friends, my courtiers say I run a risk this morn, That treason lurks in martial throngs! Their cautious speech I scorn! For rather than distrust you all, from life I’d sooner part: Let tyrants fear! Next to my God I trust my people’s heart: So come I in your midst to-day, the Spaniards to defy, And for my God, and for my lands, with you to live or die. But well I know my frame is weak; what can a woman do? Yet mine’s the spirit of a king, a king of England too! Full scorn I think that any King, or any prince on earth, Should dare to set his foot within the land that gave us birth! So I will be your general, and mark each gallant deed, And to the victors in the fight give each their fitting meed So o’er the enemies of my God, and of this nation free, The valour of your arms shall win a famous victory!” But now my Lord of Effingham had made his cautious plan, And in the night, off Dunkirk coast, a fearful fight began; At close of day uprose the tide, uprose a gale of wind, And, on its wings, eight fire-ships flew the Spanish fleet behind; With sulphur and with rosin filled, their hulls were all aflame. And right upon the foemen’s ships, the fiery terror came; The Spaniards then their anchors weighed, and some their cables threw, In aimless course before the wind the ponderous galleons flew. The morrow morn the English took full many a splendid prize, While some, hard hit, by shot and shell, went down before eyes. Some foul of one another fell, in Flemish shallows lost; The rest flew north before the gale, to round the Scottish coast. Ah! better had they yielded then, or waited for their time, Till change of wind might speed their course back to their southern clime; For, up beyond the Orkney Isles, a furious tempest roared, And many a gallant ship was lost with every soul on board. And, on the iron northern coast, vast hosts of valiant men Were wrecked, or drowned, or butchered there, and never saw again The southern sun, the orange groves, the smiling Spanish shore, Which, full of pride and hope, they left but three short months before; And only sixty ships came back, into Santander bay, Of all the host that once had sailed to take their northern way. And, ah! how changed the gallant fleet, how changed the ragged forms Alike of ships and men, sore marred by cruel seas and storms! All splintered were the masts and yards, the bowsprits shot away, The sails to ribbons torn, the men all fevered, gaunt and gray! But in old England swells the sound of mirth and joy and praise, By day triumphal banners wave, by night the bonfires blaze, The church-bells’ merry carillon, the cannon’s harmless roar, Are echoed loud from shire to shire, resound from shore to shore. At Whitehall now the Virgin Queen, on the appointed day, In grand procession takes her place amidst the crowded way. See, on her right, great Cecil rides: a wiser man than he Ne’er led our glorious country on to meet his destiny: And, on her left, in manhood’s prime, is Raleigh proud and brave, Back from Virginia lately come, across the Atlantic Wave. Lords Effingham and Seymour next move onward side by side, Hawkins and Drake and Frobisher but just behind them ride; Lord Oxford and Lord Cumberland, and Vavasor and Blount, And more of England’s chiefest men, too numerous to recount. From every window beauty smiles, in faces young and old, And all the streets and all the roofs are wondrous to behold: Like bees they swarm! From every nook and corner of the land They haste to render thanks to God for His delivering hand. In all the way the densest throng at Ludgate Hill is seen, For there the player-men have wrought a wondrous arch of green; With them a youth of forehead high and eyes that pierce like flame; Mark well his face, ye passers-by, for Shakespeare is his name! So to Saint Paul’s they come, and when they reach the western door Her grace the stately chariot leaves, and kneels upon the floor. And, as a solemn silence falls upon the surging crowd, Her queenly voice gives thanks for all, in accents clear and loud. Three hundred years have passed since then, and many a change is seen; But, God save England! still we cry, and God save England’s Queen!

H. C. LEONARD.

――――

THE FEAST OF LANTERNS. (Being the original of Macaulay’s “Armada.”)

Attend, all ye who wish to hear our noble London’s praise, I sing of that great Tuesday night that saw her in a blaze, When the Archbishop’s benison had linked, in bridal chain, Young Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, and our sweet bright-eyed Dane.

It was about the chilly close of a half-foggy day, When London’s myriads all came out to see the grand display; From sleepy Hammersmith, and from the Dog’s amphibious Isle, The east and west they poured along for many a muddy mile.

The aristocracy for once the pageant deigned to grace, (Except a few who fled from town, and joined the sylvan chace). Each wide-awake and travelling cap was taken from the wall, Each wrap and bearskin was brought down and ready in the hall, Many a gay visitor came up from province and from coast, And on that night Sir Rowland Hill, he stopped the local post.

See, mounted on his charger tall, the proud Inspector comes, For sterner work than aiding swells to get to balls and drums, His constables essay to clear in every street a space, And shout his orders with much more of Henergy than grace; And haughtily the dandies sneer, and slightly scream the belles, As round the crested carriage the plebeian torrent swells, See how the Lion of the Park attempts with half-a-crown, To bribe his way from streets his coach should never have gone down.

* * * * *

The rain is done, each carriage ope, and each umbrella fold, And now to see how London shines as bright as molten gold. Night sinks upon that multitude, that roaring surging sea, Night that in London never was and ne’er again shall be. From Westminster to Islington, from Lord’s to Ratcliffe Way, That time of slumber is as bright and busy as the day:

For swift to East and swift to West the glaring joy-flame spread. High on Victoria tower it shone, on the New River Head, In pleasant Kent, in Essex dull, and each surrounding shire The semi-bumpkins gaped and grinned to mark each point of fire.

* * * * *

The huge sea-lanterns dimly showed on Wren’s cathedral height, But Science rather made a mull with her electric light, The Templars, for their brother Prince, lit up their dingy fane, And you could see their Lamb and Flag made out uncommon plain. Rich was the glare that Mappin’s house (the cab pervader) sent, Fierce glowed the Store that sells the beer from Burton-upon-Trent. And many a hundred grease-pots did their best for Barry’s pile, But that is an Immensity――what say you, Tom Carlyle?

SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1863.

――――

THE LORD MAYOR’S SHOW.

First Prize.

Hearken, all ye who care to hear my panoramic lay; I sing of that resplendent Show I saw last Lord Mayor’s Day, When forth from “famous London town” to grace their chosen lord Came shields and banners of each Guild, and men of every Ward.

It was about the gloomy noon of a dull November day, When from the stately Guildhall’s court set out this pageant gay; The crowds, who long had waited, cheered to see it slowly file Down King-street and across Cheapside come winding near a mile. Forthwith the bells of every church chimed all the “bobs” they knew, While mounted “bobbies” led the way that they might clear it too. Next these appear the Fire Brigade, with engines fully manned, For here behoved that they should march ’twixt men of sea and land―― ’Twixt sailor and ’twixt soldier placed, as though between two fires, Whose ardent spirits they might quench if aught should rouse their ires; So Guards and Rifles in their front played stirring tunes of war, While merrily behind them marched full many a youthful tar. And next on prancing palfreys borne, with plume and nodding crest, Four gallant knights with lances come, in silver armour drest; Look how their war-steeds gracefully lift up their well-trained feet, While underneath their iron hoofs resounds the stony street; So stamp they when at Sanger’s Cirque, in Bosworth’s mimic fight, They Richmond or brave Surrey bear, or some great mail-clad knight. How can one human pen suffice to paint this varying Show, Where Watermen with standards gay in long procession flow? Where Lancers, true to Bacchus, the monarch of the vine, Escort the mighty Vintners with band and strains divine; Where proudly the “Swan-hoppers” bear the banners of the Guild, With master and with wardens comes many a carriage filled; While onwards without ceasing stream more banners, knights, and bands, And louder still the people cheer, still louder clap their hands. Ho, guildsmen, all your banners wave! ho, gaily ring, ye bells! Ho, trumpets, sound a flourish! ho, urchins, shriek your yells! Thou coachman, drive on furiously; ye horses swiftly stride; Speed on that glorious coach which bears our Lord Mayor in his pride.

No sun shone on those panels decked with classic subjects old; The mists of damp November dimmed its hammercloth of gold; Still boys at its great Jehu stared, and their tears began to flow, To think such coach they ne’er would see until next Lord Mayor’s Show. From the Guildhall to Westminster, whene’er that pageant passed, The tide of business there was slow, as on a day of fast; Girls rushed to doors and windows, men climbed on gates and walls, Right loud and clear the bells all day rang out from great St. Paul’s; The sentinel on Whitehall Gate looked neither left nor right, But as he looked straight to his front he must have seen the sight. At Westminster it paused, and then down Thames Embankment wound, While thicker still became the throng, and louder still the sound, Till, Guildhall reached, it halted, while the Mayor in state descends To greet and feast great Beaconsfield, to banquet with his friends. As grand as was the Show this year, so may it next year be; Heaven send us such another sight, and take me there to see.

SPHINX (Captain J. A. Barlow, 96th Reg.)

Second Prize.

Come hither, children, for you love your grandsires tales, I know―― I’ll tell you of the Lord Mayor’s Show I saw long years ago; What time the gallant ’prentice band came forth with gibe and jeer To flout the civic monarch whom they had been used to cheer.

It was a fine November day, the year of the Zulu war, Hot-foot a little ragged boy came flying to Temple Bar; He said he’d seen the brave array advancing to the Strand, Preceded by the minstrelsy of all the Life Guards band; He’d dodged beneath a horse, and ’scaped by dint of nimble feet, Though a peeler tall, B 99, had chased him down the street. Straightway each clerk and office boy his walnuts ceased to crack, Forth from its hiding place was brought a hideous doll dyed black; The dirty little boys ran out the soldiers to espy, While in the crowd the pickpockets were faking many a cly.

* * * * *

From Westminster and Whitechapel, from Shoreditch and Vauxhall, The idle vagrants had turned out with laughter and catcall; From east to west the show moved on, and still the hooting spread, It thundered through Trafalgar-square where Nelson rears his head; From Whitehall’s topmost story the Treasury clerk might hear Street after street re-echoing the oft-repeated jeer; The coster left his barrow-load, careless of urchin raids; The dapper waiters hurried forth from restaurants and shades. All down the street of Parliament th’ assembled loafers bawl, And rouse the warders of Millbank, the Judges in their Hall; Right merrily with eager pen the specials took it down, And forty counties learned next day the humours of the town.

QUANTOX (S. H. Woodhouse.)

The World Parody Competition. November 26, 1879.

――――

ON MR. GLADSTONE’S MIDLOTHIAN SPEECHES.

Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble Gladstone’s praise. I tell of the thrice famous speech he made in his old days, When that great lord of flouts and jeers against him led in vain The peers and those few working men that honied lies could gain. With his white hair unbonneted the stout old chieftain comes; No picnic in a park gives he――he bribes no local drums; For shrewd men in the Corn Exchange have filled each vacant space. “Now, hark!” he says, “I grant the peers till autumn’s session grace.” And haughtily, in trumpet tones, he then the story tells, And though he tries to calm the storm, behold you, how it swells! Look how the hero of the fight lifts up his honoured head, And with his magic, winged words strikes Tory falsehoods dead! So spoke he when he put to shame, on that same Scottish field, The Government that tried by fraud the Turkish crimes to shield. So glared he when the Tory host he sternly brought to bay, And crushed and shamed beneath his glance the wretched Jingoes lay.

GEORGE MALLINSON.

The Weekly Despatch. September 14, 1884.

――――:o:――――

Foremost amongst Lord Macaulay’s “Lays of Ancient Rome,” is Horatius, the popularity of which is duly attested by the number of parodies and imitations it has given rise to.

Some of the most striking verses of the original are given below, for the convenience of comparison with the parodies.

HORATIUS.

I.

Lars Porsena of Clusium By the Nine Gods he swore That the great house of Tarquin Should suffer wrong no more. By the Nine Gods he swore it, And named a trysting day, And bade his messengers ride forth, East and west and south and north, To summon his array.

II.

East and west and south and north The messengers ride fast, And tower and town and cottage Have heard the trumpet’s blast. Shame on the false Etruscan Who lingers in his home, When Porsena of Clusium Is on the march for Rome.

(The Tuscan Army arrives before the River-Gate of the Tiber, the Roman Fathers deliberate how to save the city.)

XIX.

They held a council standing Before the River-Gate; Short time was there, ye well may guess, For musing or debate. Outspake the Consul roundly: “The bridge must straight go down; For, since Janiculum is lost, Nought else can save the town.”

XXVI.

But the Consul’s brow was sad, And the Consul’s speech was low, And darkly looked he at the wall, And darkly at the foe. “Their van will be upon us Before the bridge goes down; And if they once may win the bridge, What hope to save the town?”

XXVII.

Then outspake brave Horatius, The Captain of the Gate: “To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Then facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, And the temples of his Gods.

XXIX.

“Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, With all the speed ye may; I, with two more to help me, Will hold the foe in play. In yon strait path a thousand May well be stopped by three. Now who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me?”

XXX.

Then out spake Spurius Lartius; A Ramnian proud was he: “Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the bridge with thee.” And out spake strong Herminius; Of Titian blood was he: “I will abide on thy left side, And keep the bridge with thee.”

XXXI.

“Horatius,” quoth the Consul, “As thou sayest, so let it be.” And straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless Three. For Romans in Rome’s quarrel Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, In the brave days of old.

XXXII.

Then none was for a party; Then all were for the state; Then the great man helped the poor, And the poor man loved the great: Then the lands were fairly portioned; Then spoils were fairly sold: The Romans were like brothers In the brave days of old.

XXXV.

Meanwhile the Tuscan army, Right glorious to behold, Came flashing back the noonday light, Rank behind rank, like surges bright Of a broad sea of gold. Four hundred trumpets sounded A peal of warlike glee, As that great host, with measured tread, And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, Rolled slowly towards the bridge’s head, Where stood the dauntless Three.

(Horatius and his companions slay several of the bravest Tuscan chiefs who advance towards the bridge.)

LIII.

But meanwhile axe and lever Have manfully been plied; And now the bridge hangs tottering Above the boiling tide. “Come back, come back, Horatius!” Loud cried the fathers all. “Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! Back, ere the ruin fall.”

LIV.

Back darted Spurius Lartius; Herminius darted back: And, as they passed, beneath their feet They felt the timbers crack. But when they turned their faces, And on the farther shore Saw brave Horatius stand alone; They would have crossed once more.

LVII.

Alone stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. * * * * * But he saw on Palatinus The white porch of his home; And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome.

LIX.

“Oh, Tiber! father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray, A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms, Take thou in charge this day!” So he spake, and speaking sheathed The good sword by his side, And with his harness on his back, Plunged headlong in the tide.

LX.

No sound of joy or sorrow Was heard from either bank; But friends and foes in dumb surprise, With parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing where he sank; And when above the surges They saw his crest appear, All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, And even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer.

LXI.

But fiercely ran the current, Swollen high by months of rain: And fast his blood was flowing; And he was sore in pain, And heavy with his armour, And spent with changing blows: And oft they thought him sinking, But still again he rose.

LXIV.

And now he feels the bottom; Now on dry earth he stands; Now round him throng the Fathers To press his gory hands; And now, with shouts and clapping, And noise of weeping loud, He enters through the River-Gate, Borne by the joyous crowd.

LXV.

They gave him of the corn-land, That was of public right, As much as two strong oxen Could plough from morn till night; And they made a molten image, And set it upon high, And there it stands unto this day To witness if I lie.

LXVIII.

And in the nights of winter, When the cold north winds blow, And the long howling of the wolves Is heard amidst the snow; When round the lonely cottage Roars loud the tempest’s din, And the good logs of Algidus Roar louder yet within;

LXIX.

When the oldest cask is opened, And the largest lamp is lit; When the chestnuts glow in the embers, And the kid turns on the spit; When young and old in circle Around the firebrands close; When the girls are weaving baskets, And the lads are shaping bows;

LXX.

When the goodman mends his armour, And trims his helmet’s plume; When the goodwife’s shuttle merrily Goes flashing through the loom; With weeping and with laughter Still is the story told, How well Horatius kept the bridge In the brave days of old.

T. B. MACAULAY.

――――

THE FIGHT OF THE CRESCENT. A Lay of Modern Cambridge.

The sturdy undergraduates Are pouring in amain, Up thro’ the fair Rose Crescent, The Market-place to gain―― From many a wild wine-party, From many a sober tea, From the distant halls of Downing, And the Courts of Trinity.

From lowly Queen’s Quadrangle, Where muffins are the go; From Magd’lene, famed for fast men, From Cath’rine, famed for slow; From Caius, where anxious proctors To keep the gates shut try; From Clare, where Dons chivalrous Unlock them on the sly.

There be twenty chosen gownsmen, The foremost of the band, Pupils of SAMBO SUTTON, To keep the Crescent stand: They can’t run if they wish’d it; Perforce they bear the brunt, For the gownsmen in the rear-rank Push the gownsmen in the front.

And all within the Market-place, And Market-Hill along, The townsmen, far as words can go, Come it uncommon strong, But as yet no nose is bleeding, As yet no man is down; For the gownsmen funk the townsmen, And the townsmen funk the gown.

When, lo! a cad comes brimful Of bravery and beer―― “To arms! to arms! The Borough Police will soon be here!” Thro’ Market Street to eastward, Each townsman turn’d his eye, And saw the hats and truncheons Rise fast along the sky.

And plainly and more plainly, Now may each gownsman know, By form and face, by port and pace, Each big blue-coated foe. There, in the front, fierce FREESTONE, Be-whisker’d may be seen, And stalwart SERGEANT SEABROOK, With buttons bright and sheen;

And BUGGINS, of the mutton fist; And MUGGINS, with the fearful twist; And HOBBS, famed for his waving curls; And DOBBS, adored by servant girls, And gruff INSPECTOR GREENE!

Then out spake a fellow-commoner, In voice both sad and low, And darkly look’d he on his friends, And darkly on his foe: “They’ll be too many for us; Ten to one against the gown: Unless we get to Trinity We’ll be wollop’d by the town.”

Then out spake brave FITZ-WIGGINS, Though a small college man: “To keep the Crescent ’gainst the cads, I’ll do the best I can! And if none will stand beside me, Alone I’ll face the snobs, Despite fierce FREESTONE’S truncheon And the staves of HOBBS or DOBBS!”

Then out spake SIR TOM NODDY, A son of Trinity, “Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And the Crescent keep with thee.” And out spake MERRYPEBBLES―― A Johnian was he―― “I will abide at thy left side, And the Crescent keep with thee.”

A great shout of defiance From all the snobs arose, But the three stand calm and silent―― A thumb to every nose! And forth three Peelers rushing, Attempt to storm the Pass; Truncheons are thick, but fists are quick, And down they go to grass!

FITZ-WIGGINS floor’d fierce FREESTONE, TOM NODDY levell’d HOBBS, And cheerful MERRYPEBBLES Black’d both the eyes of DOBBS; And the aggravated townsmen Stand all appall’d to see On the flags the unconscious Peelers―― In the Pass the dauntless Three! And on the leaguer’d Crescent Was none would brave attack; But those behind cried “Forward!” And those in front cried “Back!”

Meanwhile their legs the gownsmen Right manfully have plied; And now they’ve got to Trinity, And the gates are open’d wide. “Come back, come back, FITZ-WIGGINS,” Loud cried they from the gate “Back NODDY, MERRYPEBBLES, Back, or you’ll be too late!”

But the police are on them, And their truncheons fierce they ply; Now the fates save brave FITZ-WIGGINS―― What a terrible black eye!―― Though MERRYPEBBLES’ head be The thickest in the ring, It scarce can ’scape unbroken; Such staves must make it sing.

Alone stood SIR TOM NODDY, But constant still in mind, Policemen pitching in before And Trinity behind. “Down with him!” cried false SEABROOK, As he mopped his bloody face; “Now yield thee,” cried the Inspector, “Now yield thee, to our grace!”

But brave TOM NODDY never deigned An answer; no not he; But he floor’d the Inspector neatly As a man could wish to see: And through the storming townsmen And the irate police, He fights his passage manfully, And he wins the gate in peace.

And now, his gown in ribbands, In the crowded court he stands, And “to call upon him the next day,” Receives the Dean’s commands. And then with shouts and clapping, And hip, hip, hurrah, loud, He passes on unto his rooms, Borne by the admiring crowd.

But he was rusticated By the Dons that very night; And when he show’d them his black eye, They said, “It served him right.” But long at our wine-parties, We’ll remember how, like bricks, Stout NODDY kept the Crescent, In Eighteen-forty-six!

Punch. April 11, 1846.

――――

MARCUS CURTIUS, THE HONEST LAWYER. (A Lay of Ancient Rome.)

Wilt hear how Marcus Curtius, that lawyer true and hold, Did bravely for his country in the brave days of old? How by Justinian’s Institutes and his green baize bag he swore, That the only honest lawyer could live in Rome no more? Oh, none could be more honest in life and death, than he Who cheated but the sexton, and saved the burial fee.

The lawyers in the Forum are squabbling loud and long, To the wonder of their clients, confounding right and wrong; Begowned, bewigged, bewildered, each judge the clamour hears, And Justice, blind already, would fain have stopped her ears.

As now the wordy contest grew hotter still and hotter, The desks, the books, the benches, began to quake and totter; And they heard a sound like thunder, a horrid, dreary sound, As though all the powers of evil danced the polka underground.

The lawyers through their spectacles looked with a stony glare, And the crier stammered out, “O Yes,” and whispered through a prayer: Some of the judges fainted, and there for dead they lay; And the jury snatched their solidi, and fleetly ran away.

And now――O, sight of wonder!――with a stifling smell of sulph- Er, in the Middle Forum, there gaped a hideous gulf: A gulf as black as midnight, or “best Japan,” I trow; And a voice came howling, hissing up, like a thousand whirlwinds now:

“This gulf will close――no, never! till in Rome the rarest thing, The rarest and most wondrous, a sacrifice you bring.” O! great was the lamenting, when these fearful facts were known, The mothers weep and wring their hands, the grandames groan “Ochone;” And the little boys no longer their flying hoops pursue, Nor chaunt of “Ole Virginny,” as they were wont to do. And the men in moody silence pace slowly to and fro, With pallid lip, and frowning brow, and countenance of woe; And the Fathers of the City――the Aldermen and Mayor―― Are met in solemn council, with a grave and puzzled air.

Then uprises Lucius Cimber, a grocer proud was he, Who traded first with China, in Twankay and Bohea; And in accents slow and solemn, thus the meeting he advised:―― “Let’s try and fill the hole up with stones macadamised.”

And they listened to his counsel, and with shovel and with spade, They adjourned unto the Forum, and aside their togas laid. And then all in their shirt sleeves they worked with might and main, Patrician and Plebeian, alike they worked in vain. For though a thousand cart-loads into the gulf they threw, Instead of getting shallower it deep and deeper grew.

And now a frenzied client who had lost his all that day, Seized “Selwyn’s Nisi Prius” from the bookshelf where it lay, And in the hole he dashed it, with a howl of maniac glee, And wished all law and lawyers at the bottom of the sea. And, fired by his example, the crowd seized, one by one, On “Chitty,” and on “Starkey,” and on “Coke and Lyttleton” On Bacon’s Whole Abridgement, with tooth and nail they fell, But where they wished those authors, ’twere not polite to tell.

In vain the poor librarian, while tears ran down his cheek, Strove to bend them from their purpose――not a word they’d hear him speak. And the venerable Chief Justice, like Lord Mansfield at the fire, Not caring to remonstrate, thought it prudent to retire. So they rifled all the library of every book they saw, Yet the gulf but yawned the wider for all that dose of law.

Then from that mixed assembly a seedy-looking gent (He pays not much for mending who cannot pay his rent), With an old coat all in tatters, and a hat without a brim, Stalked proudly from the multitude, who, curious, gazed on him.

“My name is Marcus Curtius! a Roman knight am I,―― And eke a learned counsellor, but, alas! I cannot lie! I’ve gone upon the Circuit,――there came no briefs to me; I ne’er addressed a jury, ne’er pocketed a fee. Alas! mistaken parents, to bind me to the law! I have no natural cunning to make or find a flaw. He who’d sit upon a woolsack must be ne’er with conscience cursed, And, for wool to fill the cushion, he must take to fleecing first. Then behold in me, O Romans! what the oracle demands, The thing in Rome that’s rarest, a lawyer with clean hands. A truly honest lawyer, with a feeling, tender soul, Which, witness this nay garment――a tongue’s in ev’ry hole. For the good of thee, my country, I die a true-blue Tory, For Dulce et decorum, est pro patria mori!”

He said, and on the lawyers he turned a kindling eye, As away on all sides slinking, no one dared make reply. Then smiling sad but calmly, he cried “Good Charon, hark! I’m too poor to pay the obolus for crossing in your bark, But I know that you will trust me; so now, my friends, good bye, I’ll trouble not the coroner, a natural death I die: A natural death for Curtius, who might have been so rich, But he was an honest lawyer, so he perished in a ditch.”

He said, and threw a summersault into that dreary vat―― Head foremost, like a thunder-bolt down went the brimless hat; Down went the brimless beaver, fall many a fathom deep, And the women took hysterics, and the men began to weep. When they dashed away the tear drops, and looked ahead again, Where that gulf had late been yawning, there lay a level plain.

And they reared a marble tombstone on the spot where he had died, And in letters carved and gilded, was inscribed on either side

Here Marcus Curtius lyes, Ye onlye honeste lawyere, hee Who neverre pocketedde a fee. Anno aetatis XXXIII. Hee felle withe muche philosophie, Forre Rome a sacrifice.

And with weeping and lamenting still is the story told, How Curtius kicked the bucket in the brave old days of old.

EDGAR ALLEN.

This parody originally appeared in a United States newspaper, the Salem Herald, about forty years ago.

――――:o:――――

GUSTAVUS.[99] A Lay of Drury Lane.

Great Smithius of Drury Lane, By cape and truncheon swore, That Bold Gustavus Brookius Should perdu lie no more. By staff and cape he swore it, And named his opening night, And sent his messengers abroad, Each with a pile of orders stored, To summon all they might.

East and west, and south and north, The messengers repair; Some hie them to the Regal Oak, Some to the Arms of Eyre. Shame on the false theatrical Who would refuse to come, When bold Gustavus Brookius Enters the “Drama’s Home!”

The gallery-boys and pittites Are pouring in amain, And struggling in a turbid mass, The theatre doors they gain. From many a noisome alley, From many a crowded court, Great G. V. B’s supporters Have hastened to the sport.

From Kingsland’s leafy quarters, From Camden’s noble town, From where Belgravia’s daughters On humble men look down; From Islington the merry, From Kensington the slow, To meet the great Gustavus The many-headed go.

The patrons of the Surrey, Who e’er in shirt sleeves sit. While the refreshing foaming stout Is handed round the pit, Yield up their old allegiance, And join the swelling train, Crossing the Bridge of Waterloo, To meet at Drury Lane.

Ho! fiddlers, scrape your catgut! Ho! drummers, use your strength! HE comes, whose name on every wall Measures six feet in length! Who, though perchance he cannot With Shakespeare move your souls, Will gain your heartiest plaudits By gifts of soup and coals!

Come, Phelps, come crouch unto him; Come, Kean, and do the same; You, famous by your own good deeds, You, by your father’s name! Crouch to the great Gustavus, Who has become the rage, And proved himself, by feats of alms, King of the British Stage.

EDMUND H. YATES.

From Mirth and Metre. G. Routledge and Co. 1855.

This little volume was written by Mr. E. H. Yates in conjunction with Frank E. Smedley, and in 1856 a similar, but far more amusing work was published by Messrs. Routledge and Co., entitled “Our Miscellany” (which ought to have come out, but didn’t,) edited by E. H. Yates and R. B. Brough. This contains parodies and imitations of Harrison Ainsworth, G. P. R. James, T. B. Macaulay, Alfred Tennyson, Albert Smith, Martin Tupper, Charles Dickens, Edgar Poe, Samuel Warren, H. W. Longfellow, J. G. Lockhart, Mrs. Browning, Douglas Jerrold, and other popular authors of the day. Many of these imitations are in prose.

In conveying his permission for the insertion of the following in Parodies, Mr. Edmund Yates courteously added the information that the parodies in “Our Miscellany” which were written by Mr. Brough were signed B, the others being by Mr. Yates. The latter are not only the most numerous, but by far the most humorous and clever.

JOHNSON. (A Lay of Modern London.) By Thomas Blabbington Macawley.

Stout Johnson, of Saint Thomas, By George and Jingo swore That the street door of Watkins Should hold its own no more, By George and Jingo swore he, And named a trysting day, For all his trusty friends on town To meet to tear the knocker down, And bear the bell away.

From East-end and from West-end, His missives prompt entreat, Assistance (at his rooms resolv’d On making both ends meet), Shame on the craven spirit Who sends a poor excuse, And smokes his pipe at home or strolls Ignobly on the loose!

The staunch allies in clusters Are dropping in apace, From many a lofty “chambers,” From many a lowly “place,” From “cribs,” and “dens,” and “quarters.” And vague mysterious “rooms,” Whose whereabouts to specify, No daring mind presumes.

From Guy’s across the water, From Strand adjacent Kings’, From Charing (which a shadow o’er The mourn’d Casino flings!) From Bartlemy’s in Smithfield, Of accidents bereft! And Middlesex, whose course we trace From Oxford Street up Rathbone Place, By turning to the left.

From wall-encircled Temple, Shut out from London’s noise. Where apron’d porters guard the way, And keep in awe the boys; From Gray’s and dingy Clement’s (Where rents so mod’rate run!) And Lincoln’s Inn, where stands, alas! Th’ Insolvent Court,――besides a mass Of others of a noisome class (Requiring far more nerve to pass), Where no whitewashing’s done.

Rich are the chops whose gravy Exudes o’er Rhodes’s[100] bars; And sweet, at Evans’s, the notes That issue from the singers’ throats In spite of the cigars. Beyond all bands the waltzer Loves Laurent’s (when in tune); Best of all grounds the bowler loves The American Saloon.

But now no chop or kidney Emits its soft perfume; No voice is heard suggesting that “The waiter’s in the room.” In vain the sylphs at Laurent’s Their palms in kid have dressed; The bowls may wait, and Rhodes’s grate Enjoy a few bars rest.

The comic songs of Cowell, To-night old men shall hear,―― To-night young boys and greenhorns Shall have the Argyle clear; And parsons from the country, To-night sole audience be, To hear Sam Hall or Baldwin’s call, “Attention for a glee!”

A score of chosen spirits In Johnson’s rooms are met, And Johnson sees his birdseye Diminish with regret; And from the round stone bottles Too fast the liquids flow;―― He sees (and feels) his spirits sink, And inwardly begins to think―― ’Tis time for them to go.

“Ho! friends and fellow students, ’Tis fit we should prepare For action (Fibbetson, you brute, Don’t interrupt the Chair!) The enterprise before us Must fraught with danger be; Will you go in through thick and thin To win the spoil with me?

“For Watkins the plebeian, Whose door we go to spoil (By past unskilled attempts enraged) A private watchman has engaged, Our cherished schemes to foil. Therefore let no man join us Who fears to break the peace And go the undivided hog, E’en to (should they our footsteps dog) Assaulting the police.”

Then up spake Robert Simpson, Of Middlesex was he: “Lo! I’ll go in through thick and thin, To win the spoil with thee!” And up spake Brown of Charing, (Plucked but last week was he): “No man am I for saying die―― Lul-liet-iet-y!

“That accidents will happen, It stands a fact confest, In families which, by their heads, Are regulated best; And if to-night’s adventures Result in fines and quods, So long as you are happy, Inform me where’s the odds?”

And now the dauntless phalanx Stand ’neath the gas-light’s glare, And many a pipe and ancient hat Hurl’d at a scared and flying cat, Goes whizzing through the air. With Ethiopia’s music They rend the welkin now, Telling of Blane and Tucker’s fate, Till stern policeman “Twenty-eight” Steps forward to expostulate ’Gainst such a jolly row.

The restless Strand behind them They leave, and quickly gain The corner where Saint Martin’s Church Frowns grandly up his lane. Through danger-fraught Cranbournia Unscath’d they make their way (Protected by the evening’s shade, For syrens in the bonnet trade That spell-bound district long have made Unsafe to pass by day).

Up through the Court of Ryder! Nor idly pause to sigh O’er the crush’d Valentino’s fate, Nor Wharton’s bills investigate Above the lamps hard by. On! through the Cretan mazes Of Newport Market go. They’re past, and now the warlike train A yell of joy can scarce restrain As bursts in sight the proud domain Of Watkins of Soho!

“Back, Simpson! back, Carruthers! Back, Blatherwick!――be cool; Be quiet Brown; keep Davis down; And Jones!――don’t be a fool. Wait till the private watchman Shall round the corner wind; He will directly, to inspect The premises behind.

“There, now, you see,――I told you; He’s hidden by the wall, Haste, Jones!――engage him in a chat,―― Insult his capes, or chaff his hat, Or treat him to some coffee at The early breakfast stall: Anything to engage him For minutes two or three, By which time he, I dare be bound, Shall see what he shall see.”

Like telegraphic message Jones on his errand flies; And Blatherwick and Simpson Go with him as allies. (And, of those last-named heroes ’Tis whisper’d since on town, They thought the watchman-chaffing game A less precarious road to fame Than pulling knockers down).

But Johnson of St. Thomas, No craven droopings knew; Up to the frowning knocker, With tiger spring he flew; And mirthful e’en in danger, Said, with a joyous grin, “Walk up!――the exhibition’s just A-going to begin!”

Then thrust he through the knocker His stick of British oak; But Brown of Charing, from the throng, Quoting a Social Progress song, Thus, with a purpose, spoke: “Just wait a little longer, There’s work for me as well; You from its clamps the knocker tear―― I from the door, your fame to share, Will please to wring the bell.”

But of that gang the stoutest Felt their hearts sink to see In progress what, in planning, Had merely seem’d a “spree;” And from the dread adventure, So rashly underta’en, All shrank, like boys who, ere they strip, Intend to plunge o’er head and hip In Father Thames, but when they dip In his cold flood a toe-nail’s tip, Scared――dress themselves again.

But meanwhile Jones and Simpson, And Blatherwick have tried, In vain, to keep the watchman Round on the other side. “Run, Davis! run, Carruthers!” Loud cried the students all; “Slope! and to him who hindmost lags, The usual fate befal!”

Back darted Brown of Charing, Letting the bell-pull go, With startling clang, and all the gang Retreated from the foe; But when they saw brave Johnson Still tugging at the door, Under the very watchman’s nose, They would have turn’d once more.

But, with a crash like thunder (Such thunder as one hears At minor theatres, when the ghost Or maniac appears), Round on its well-used pivot The watchman’s rattle sprung; The band set up a frighten’d cry, And (Jones in front) began to fly, E’en Brown, averse to saying die, Scorn’d not to cut and run.

Yet, like himself in practice (“Teeth drawn for half-a-crown,” Stands graven on his bus’ness card), The furious Johnson struggled hard To wrench the knocker down. And with Herculean prowess, At length perform’d the feat; And oaken splint, and nut and screw, With bits of paint and dried-up glue, Flew scatter’d o’er the street.

With one huge stride he bounded Adown the steps in glee, Waving his hard-earned prize on high, But stopp’d――he was compell’d to――by Policeman “Twenty-three.” “Off with him!” cried the watchman, With a smile on his pale face; “Now blow me!” “Twenty-three” exclaimed; “This here’s a Brixton case.”

Round turn’d he somewhat stagger’d, These myrmidons to see, But he took the watchman’s measure, And the weight of “Twenty-three.” And ere “Robinson” you’d summon He had laid the former low, By tripping up his heels, and dealt To “Twenty-three” (above the belt) A firm left handed blow.

Bereft of speech and breathing, Awhile was “Twenty-three,” (For, thanks to kitchen maidens fair, Who bought his love with viands rare, Of habit full was he); And Johnson, by his valour Freed from judicial grab, In safety gain’d the neighb’ring stand, And with the knocker in his hand, Plung’d headlong in a cab!

Never, I ween, did driver With such a style of horse, Urge o’er the stones at such a rate, To save a patron from the hate And fury of the Force. But his sympathies went greatly With the large heart within, Who half-a-crown beyond his fare Had promis’d――and some gin.

And now they near his chambers, Where, waiting his return, Stand his false-hearted comrades Joy’d his escape to learn; Whom, for their craven conduct, As from the cab he leaps, The high-soul’d Johnson scruples not To stigmatize as “sweeps.”

And now they press around him, And now they soap him down; And with emollient sawder His just reproaches drown; Now on the back they slap him, Thumbs in his ribs they stick, And now they dub him “Trojan,” And now proclaim him “Brick.”

They gave him songs and speeches, They drank his health with glee, And (heedless of the lodgers) It was done with three times three. And they took the rifled knocker, And hung it up on high, And there it stands in Johnson’s rooms, To witness if I lie.

And in the nights of winter, When things are rather slow, And men (the gardens being shut) Uncertain where to go; To Johnson’s humble chambers, In little knots drop in, To smoke his soothing birdseye, And quaff his cheering gin!

When the bottled stout is opened, And the meerschaum pipe is lit, And the guests on trunks and tables (Chairs at a premium) sit, When flags the conversation, Revert they to the “go,” How Johnson tore the knocker down Of Watkins of Soho.

――――

SIBTHORPIUS. A Lay of Modern London, made in the year 1848.

BY T. BLABBINGTON MACSQUALLY

I.

O’Connor of York Castle By the Six Points he swore, That the great English rabble Should suffer wrong no more. By the Six Points he swore it, And named a trysting day, And made his underlings go forth, In third-class trains, from south to north, To summon his array.

II.

The pickpockets and Chartists Come pouring in amain, From many a dirty market-place, From many a half-choked drain; From many a lonely alley, Where, hid from Peeler’s eyen, In a magmen’s nest――the neighbourhood’s pest―― Grovel the human swine.

III.

There be some scores of delegates, The noisiest of the land, Who alway by O’Connor, In John Street’s building stand; With dirty hands the delegates Have turned the papers o’er―― The leaders bright, in black and white, Of journalistic lore.

IV.

And with one howl the delegates This answer forth are slipping, “Go forth, go forth, dear Feargus, Go forth, go forth, our pippin! Go, and return in glory, To our fine John Street dome, And hang the tickers of the rich Round the bare walls of home!”

V.

And now hath every alley Sent up its batch of men, The foot are some ten thousand, The horsemen scarcely ten, Upon the plain of Kennington Is met the great array―― A proud man was O’Connor Upon the trysting day!

VI.

But in the Parks, and Pall Mall, Was tumult and affright; And in the Carlton, men looked blue, And those in Brookes’s white; And Berkeley Square was shaky, While some from Mayfair cut; And girls in pastrycooks were sad And Quadrant shops were shut.

VII.

Now, from a lofty lamp-post Could the wan Peelers spy The dust made by the marching mob, Like a pall in the sky. The Ministers in Downing Street Were nervous all the day, For every hour a horseman came With tidings of dismay.

VIII.

They held a council standing In Westminster Bridge Road; Surrounded by sad Specials, Who evil days forbode; Out spake Lord Russell roundly, “The bridge must straight go down, For now that they’re past the New Cut, Nought else can save the town.”

IX.

Then out spake brave Sibthorpius, Up to the council riding, “I’ll keep the bridge――Chartists be hanged, I’ll give them a d――――d hiding! Hew down the bridge, Lord Russell! I’ll let the humbugs see―― What Honourable Member Will keep the bridge with me?”

X.

“Sibthorpius,” said Lord Russell, “As thou sayest, so let it be.” He spoke! two more came forward, And forth then rushed the Three. Meanwhile, the Specials round them, Came each man with an axe, And Russell gave a mighty blow, And Morpeth pummelled with a crow The bridge ’neath which the Thames doth flow, Resounded with their whacks!

XI.

One Member smote proud Cuffey, The second rushed at Jones, Unmoved by Chartist yelling, Undaunted by the stones. Sibthorpius at Feargus Darted one horrid thrust And the plebian’s puddle blood Mix’d with Lambeth dust.

XII.

And now the Bridge of Westminster Trembled ’neath Russell’s blows,―― “Back, back,” he cried, “brave comrades, Back ere the old bridge goes.” Then quickly the two members Ran to the other side―― Then turned and saw Sibthorpius Alone in all his pride.

XIII.

Then with a crash like thunder, The old bridge went to pot―― Its ruins down the foaming stream Rushed hurriedly and hot. Alone stood brave Sibthorpius, A moment sternly stood, Then, with his armour on his back, He jumped into the flood.

* * * * *

XIV.

And in the nights of winter, When the cold north winds blow, And sweepers from the pavement Are shovelling the snow; When the crusted port is opened, And the camphine lamp is lit, When dessert is on the table, And around it bright guests sit.

XV.

When the gay and lively party Roar at the PUPPET-SHOW, And claret, sparkling like its jokes, Right joyously doth flow. When the good-man plays écarté, And the young lads make a noise; When the girls are working crochet, And the children smashing toys.

XVI.

When the good-wife takes her workbox, And the grandame takes a nap, When Radicals and Chartists Grow lively at the tap. With weeping and with laughter, Still is the story told, How well Sibthorpius kept the Bridge, And how the mob were sold.

From The Puppet-Showman’s Album.

The six points demanded by the Chartists in 1848, were: Universal Suffrage, Vote by Ballot, Annual Parliaments, Payment of the Members, the Abolition of the Property Qualification, and Equal Electoral Districts.

Forty years ago these proposals were considered terribly revolutionary, and when the leaders of the movement――Ernest Jones, Fergus O’Connor, Vincent and Stephens――proposed to hold a mass meeting at Kennington, and march to Westminster, it was feared there would be a riot. Special constables were enrolled in large numbers, and strong measures were taken by the police, but little actual disturbance occurred. Colonel Sibthorp, a very eccentric M. P., was especially violent in his denunciations of the Chartists, but it need scarcely be said that the poem is entirely imaginary as to the fight at Westminster Bridge, and the part he took in it.

――――

THE FIGHT FOR THE CHAMPIONSHIP. (_As told by an ancient Gladiator to his Great-Grandmother._)

Big Heenan of Benicia, By ninety-nine gods he swore, That the bright belt of England Should grace her sons no more. By ninety-nine he swore it, And named the ‘fisting’ day―― ‘East and west and south and north,’ Said Richard Mayne, ‘ride forth, ride forth, ‘And summon mine array.’

‘Ride forth by heathy Hampshire, Of “chalk-stream-studded” dells, And wake the beaks of Eversley Where gallant Kingsley dwells; Spur fast thro’ Berkshire spinneys, The broad Hog’s Back bestride, And if the White Horse is scour’d Mount up amain and ride: Spur, spur, I say, thro’ England! The word went flashing by. Look out for Sayers and Heenan, Policemen――mind your eye!

Sir Richard’s bold moss-troopers Looked out uncommon keen, From park and plain and prairie, From heath and upland green; From Essex fens and fallows, From Hampshire, dale and down, From Sussex’ hundred leagues of sand, To Shropshire’s fat and flowery land, And Cheshire’s wild and wasted strand, And Yorkshire’s heather brown;―― And so, of course, the fight came oft A dozen miles from Town.

Then first stept out big Heenan, Unmatched for breadth and length; And in his chest it might be guessed; He had unpleasant strength. And to him went the Sayers That looked both small and thin, But well each practised eye could read The ‘lion and the bull-dog’ breed, And from each fearless stander-by Rang out that genuine British cry, ‘Go in, my boy,――and win!’

And he went in――and smote him Through mouthpiece and through cheek; And Heenan smote him back again Into the ensuing week: Full seven days thence he smote him, With one prodigious crack, And th’ undaunted Champion straight Discerned that he was five feet eight, When flat upon his back:―― Whilst a great shout of laughter Rose from the Yankee pack.

As from the flash the bullet, Out sprang the Sayers then, And dealt the huge Benician A vast thump on the chin; And thrice and four times sternly Drove in the shatt’ring blow; And thrice and four times wavered The herculean foe; And his great arms swung wildly, Like ship-masts two and fro.

And now no sound of laughter Was heard from either side, Whilst feint, and draw, and rally, The cautious Bruisers tried; And long they sparred and counter’d Till Heenan sped a thrust So fierce and quick, it swept away Th’ opposing guard like sapling spray――, And for the second time that day The Champion bit the dust.

Short time lay English Sayers Upon the earth at length, Short time his Yankee foeman Might triumph in his strength! Sheer from the ground he smote him And his soul went with the blow―― Such blow no other hand could dash―― Such blow no other arm could smash―― The giant tottered low; And for a space they sponged his face, And thought the eye would go.

Time’s up!――Again they battle; Again the strokes fly free; But Sayers’ right arm――that arm of pride―― Now dangles pow’rless by his side, Plain for all eyes to see; And thro’ that long and desperate shock―― Two mortal hours on the clock―― By sheer indomitable pluck With his left hand fought he!

With his left hand he fought him, Though he was sore in pain,―― Full twenty times hurled backward, Still pressing on again! With his left hand he fought him, Till each could fight no more; Till Sayers could scarcely strike a blow, Till Heenan could not see his foe―― Such fighting England never knew Upon her soil before!

They gave him of the standard Gold coinage of the realm, As much as one stout guardsman Could carry in his helm; They made him an ovation On the Exchange hard by,―― And they may slap their pockets In witness if I lie.

And every soul in England Was glad, both high and low, And books were voted snobbish, And ‘gloves’ were all the go; And each man told the story, Whilst ladies’ hearts would melt, How Sayers, the British Champion, Did battle for the belt.

Yet honour to the vanquished! (If vanquished then he were) Let the harp strike a bolder string And the Bird of Freedom clap his wing For the fight so free and fair. And forge another girdle That shall belt as brave a breast As ever sailed to English shore From the broad lands of the West.

And when some sterner battle Shall shake along the line, The Lion flag of Liberty In Freedom’s cause to shine,―― To fence its ancient honour, And guard it safe from harms, May two such Champions hand in hand―― Twin brethren of the Saxon land―― Be found together to withstand A universe in arms.

H. CHOLMONDELEY-PENNELL.

This excellent parody has appeared in numerous editions of Puck on Pegasus (published by Chatto and Windus, London), it is here given by special permission, and with corrections and additions recently made by the author.

The desperate fight it describes took place at Farnborough on April 17, 1860. Tom Sayers, the Champion of England, stood only about 5 feet 8 inches high, whilst John Heenan, the “Benicia Boy” was upwards of 6 feet in height. Both men showed great courage and endurance, but Sayers displayed the most science, and had not the fight been interrupted, he would, in all probability, have been victorious, as Heenan’s eyes were fast closing up from the punishment he had received. As the fight was a draw, a silver belt was afterwards presented to each of the men. Punch also had a very long parody on the subject, from which a few verses may be quoted.

THE FIGHT OF SAYERIUS AND HEENANUS. A Lay of Ancient London.

(Supposed to be recounted to his Great Grand-Children, April 17_th_, A.D. 1920, by an Ancient Gladiator.)

Close round my chair, my children, And gather at my knee, The while your mother poureth The Old Tom in my tea; The while your father quaffeth His rot-gut Bordeaux wine,―― ’Twas not on such potations Were reared these thews o’ mine. Such drinks came in the very year ――Methinks I mind it well―― That the great fight of HEENANUS With SAYERIUS befell. These knuckles then were iron; This biceps like a cord; This fist shot from the shoulder A bullock would have floored. Crawleius his Novice, They used to call me then, In the Domus Savilliana, Among the sporting men. There, on benefit occasions, The gloves I oft put on, Walking round to show my muscles When the set-to was done; While ringing in the arena The showered denarii fell, That told Crawleius, Novice Had used his mauleys well. ’Tis but some sixty years since The times whereof I speak, And yet the words I’m using Will sound to you like Greek.

What know ye, race of milksops, Untaught of the P. R., What stopping, lunging, countering, Fibbing, or rallying are? What boots to use the lingo, When you have not the thing? How paint to you the glories Of BELCHER, CRIBB, or SPRING,―― To you, whose sire turns up his eyes At mention of the Ring?

Yet, in despite of all the jaw And gammon of the time, That brands the art of self-defence ――Old England’s art――as crime, From off mine ancient memories The rust of time I’ll shake, Your youthful bloods to quicken And your British pluck to wake. Then gather to your grandsire’s knee, The while his tale is told, How SAYERIUS and HEENANUS Milled in the days of old.

* * * * *

The stakes are pitched, the ropes are tied, The men have ta’en their stand; HEENANUS wins the toss for place, And takes the eastward hand. CUSICCIUS and MACDONALDUS Upon the Boy attend; SAYERIUS owns BRUNTONUS, And JIM WELSHIUS for friend. And each upon the other now, A curious eye may throw, As from the seconds’ final rub In buff at length they show, And from their corners to the scratch Move stalwartly and slow.

Then each his hand stretched forth to grasp, His foemen’s fives in friendly clasp; Each felt his balance trim and true,―― Each up to square his mauleys threw; Each tried his best to draw his man―― The feint, the dodge, the opening plan, Till left and right SAYERIUS tried; HEENANUS’ grin proclaimed him wide; He shook his nut, a lead essayed, Nor reached SAYERIUS’ watchful head. At length each left is sudden flung, We heard the ponderous thud, And from each tongue the news was rung, SAYERIUS hath “First blood!” Adown HEENANUS’ Roman nose Freely the tell-tale claret flows, While stern SAYERIUS’ forehead shows That in the interchange of blows HEENANUS’ aim was good! Again each iron mauley swung, And loud the counter-hitting rung, Till breathless all and wild with blows, Fiercely they grappled, for a close; A moment in close hug they swing Hither and thither, round the ring, Then from HEENANUS’ clinch of brass SAYERIUS, smiling, slips to grass!

I trow mine ancient breath would fail To follow through the fight, Each gallant round’s still changing tale, Each feat of left and right. How nine times in that desperate Mill HEENANUS, in his strength, Knocked stout SAYERIUS off his pins, And laid him all at length;

But how in each succeeding round SAYERIUS smiling came, With head as cool, and wind as sound, As his first moment on the ground, Still confident, and game. How from HEENANUS’ sledge-like fist, Striving a smasher to resist, SAYERIUS’ stout right arm gave way, Yet the maim’d hero still made play, And when in-fighting threatened ill, Was nimble in out-fighting still, Did still his own maintain―― In mourning put HEENANUS’ glims, Till blinded eyes and helpless limbs, The chances squared again. How blind HEENANUS in despite Of bleeding mug and waning sight So gallantly kept up the fight, That not a man could say Which of the two ’twere wise to back, Or on which side some random crack Might not decide the day: And leave us――whoso won the prize,―― Victor and vanquished, in all eyes, An equal meed to pay.

Two hours and more the fight had sped, Near unto ten it drew, But still opposed-one-armed to blind,―― They stood, the dauntless two. Ah, me, that I have lived to hear Such men as ruffians scorned, Such deeds of valour brutal called, Canted, preached down and mourned! Ah, that these old eyes ne’er again A gallant Mill shall see! No more behold the ropes and stakes, With colours flying free! But I forget the combat―― How shall I tell the close, That left the Champion’s Belt in doubt Between those well-matched foes? Fain would I shroud the tale in night,―― The meddling blues that thrust in sight,―― The ring-keepers o’erthrown;―― The broken ring,――the cumbered fight,―― HEENANUS’ sudden, blinded flight,―― SAYERIUS pausing, as he might, Just when ten minutes used aright Had made the fight his own!

Alas! e’en in those brighter days We still had Beaks and Blues,―― Still, canting rogues, their mud to fling On self-defence and on the Ring, And fistic arts abuse! And ’twas such varmint had the power The Champion’s fight to stay, And leave unsettled to this hour The honours of the day! But had those honours rested Divided as was due, SAYERIUS and HEENANUS Had cut the Belt in two.

Punch. April 28, 1860.

――――

THE BATTLE OF THE BRIDGE.

Great LAWRENCE, erst a builder, By Gog and Magog swore That he would rule the Livery And be Lord Mayor once more. By Gog and Magog swore it, And named the polling day, And bade the Liverymen go forth To all the wards, East, West, and North, To summon his array.

I see the long type galleys, I see the molten lead, I see the wondrous matrix―― The bright type leaves its bed. He casts the grim black-letter, For battle he is ripe, Thus ever rides our Besley, Lord of the Founts of Type.

Now hath each polling district Sent up her tale of men, And Besley counts by hundreds, And Lawrence scarcely ten. But a mighty boast he uttered “Right soon the Queen shall ride To Blackfriars Bridge, and where looks down The viaduct o’er London town, And Lawrence by her side.”

The harvest of the title, This year shall Lawrence reap; This year the London urchins At Queen Victoria peep. This year the crowds shall gather To London, like the foam That gathers on the Tiber That rolls beside old Rome.

And now the warfare’s over, And who shall say who’s won, Our Besley rules the Aldermen, The civic fight is done. But Lawrence, cool and cunning, No shock of war would stand, He yields the power, but wins the prize; Henceforth, before the nation’s eyes, He wears the Bloody Hand!

And in the nights of winter When many a bottle’s floor’d, And gormandizing aldermen Gloat o’er the groaning board, Between the punch and turtle, The tale they still shall tell: How Lawrence jockey’d Besley―― How Gladstone managed well.

The Period. 1869.

The new Blackfriars Bridge was opened by the Queen on November 6, 1869, during the mayoralty of Alderman James C. Lawrence, who wished to be twice Lord Mayor of London, but he was beaten by Mr. Robert Besley.

――――

A LAY OF ANCIENT STOKE.

Qucealy, the avenger, By the nine points he swore That the great Tichborne Claimant Should suffer wrong no more: By the nine points he swore it, And ere the polling day He straightway rose and gat him forth, And taking tickets for the North, He sped him on his way.

Full rapidly yet surely, The Midland train runs fast, Until the town of potteries Is safely gained at last! Woe to the vile traducer Who treats it as a joke, For Qucealy the avenger Is on the march for Stoke.

There be many whom the franchise Makes voters in the land, Who always by the public house, Both morn and evening stand. Evening and morn they linger About the open door; While each man’s little finger Is lifted o’er and o’er.

And with one voice the voters Have their glad answers given “Go forth, go forth, Qucealy! Go forth, beloved of Heaven.” Or, in the plain vernacular Of these simple men of Stoke, “We’ll stick to you, Qucealy! Go in and win, old bloke!”

I wis in all the Commons, When came the Doctor’s night, There was not e’en a vacant seat For none would miss the sight. Forthwith uprose the Premier, Uprose the Members all: Full speedily they seized their hats, And hied them to the hall.

The Doctor’s brow is knit, And the Doctor’s speech is low, And frequently is heard “Ha, ha!” And now and then “Oh, oh!” But he flings aside their taunts, As when bounding o’er the plain, The lion shakes the dewdrops From off his tawny mane.

“Ye honorable members Jeer on as best ye may; But I with two to help me Will keep you all at bay. A Jesuitical device May well be checked by three: Now who will stand on either hand To crush conspiracy?”

Then out spake valiant Whalley, From Peterborough he, “_Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And give my voice with thee._” And outspake bould O’Gorman, Of Celtic blood was he, “_Whack philliloo! I’m wid you too. Acushla gra machree!_”

The speeches now are ended, And lo! the ranks divide, And outsteps brave O’Gorman, With elephantine stride. And many fear what he may say, And at the thought grow pale! “_Is there any of yiz here would like To trid upon my tale?_”

Never I ween did member In any former case, In solitary grandeur walk Back to his ’customed place. With a mighty cheer they greet him, As he marches on alone, And the tellers say the members be Four hundred odd to one.

When the “ancient Tom” is opened, And the farthing dip is lit: When the elders whack the youngers, And the kid howls when he’s hit: When old and young together Around the quartern close: When the girls are cracking cobnuts And the lads are mixing “goes:”

When the goodwife rubs her elbow, After contact with the broom: When the goodman’s “highlows” merrily Are flying round the room! Amid these gay distractions, Still doth the story run, How Qucealy lost his motion by Four hundred odd to one.

The Figaro (London). July 7. 1875.

Dr. E. V. Kenealy, counsel for the Tichborne Claimant in the great trial, was afterwards elected M.P. for Stoke.

――――

THE RETURN-MATCH BETWEEN DRYBURGH AND SLUDGEBOROUGH,

Sir V. O. Verandah of Sludgebro’ On his Tate racket swore That the marshy town he dwelt in, Should know defeat no more: On his Tate racket swore it, And named a trysting day, And bade his messengers go forth, To Dryburgh in the far off North, And challenge it to play.

On bicycles to the far off North The messengers ride fast, And tower and town and cottage And hill and vale are passed. And continuous rotation Of the never-wearied wheel Brings them to where, near Dryburgh’s hill, Flows Pepperhanger’s rapid rill; To where the whilom victors dwell, And play the game they love so well, Foes worthy of their steel.

* * * * *

From the towers of stately Ballchester Drives in young Tennyslorne, From Pleycyngbury comes the heir, And the young de Vorley’s horn Is heard behind his spanking four As he drives to the Pavilion door, And nods to each a friendly greeting Assembled for the special meeting, Just called on Dryburgh’s lawn. They held a council standing By the Pavilion gate; There wasn’t much necessity For musing or debate. And they read the Sludgebro’ challenge “That another match they’d play;” And they all agreed on the Sludgeborough mead To meet on the trysting day.

* * * * *

Quick are the strokes as lightning From Charley Pleycynge’s racket, And hot must be the game that makes De Vorley doff his jacket; And the two said, “We will play them A return-match, if they will. That they may regain on Sludgeboro’ plain What they lost on Dryburgh’s hill.” But the maidens fair of Dryburgh Must do without their beaux, While young Pleycynge and de Vorley Go forth to fight the foes; To fight them where in Sludgeboro’s lakes The pike at their quarry dash, And the silver moon on the deep lagoon Sees the wild fowl dive and splash. And now on the Sludgebro’ tennis-lawn Is met a surging crowd, And “play” is called by the umpire skill’d. In accents clear and loud: And forth steps the great Verandah With the warrior Biscoe bold, Whose doughty feats upon these sheets Could never enough be told. And the Dryburgh pair so dauntless Step forth on that humid lawn, From which the lake-weed and the sedge Have recently been shorn: With their Tate-made rackets in their hands And their dark blue flannel coats; And the referee and the umpire skill’d Lay to, hard by, in their boats.

Then the great Sir V. O. Verandah Served his over-handed stroke, And the crowd was hushed in silence, And never a word was spoke: But it came back down the side-lines, And made the whitening fly, And the warrior barely saw it, As it swiftly whistled by. Then all gazed on young de Vorley, As he smashed with wondrous knack; And some in front cried “Volley,” And some said “play it back;” But the Marshers looked despondent, As the umpire called the score, While all this time the rain poured down As usual in Sludgeboro’ town.

* * * * *

At length a sound of triumph From the Dryburgh players rose, “Three sets to love, and Dryburgh wins Once more against her foes.” And many a muttered curse was heard From the Marshers in goloshes, And folks in boats were heard to swear, And the Sludgeboro’ people tore their hair, And their looks were those of grim despair, As they clutched their mackintoshes.

But then a sullen murmur Through the angry Marshers ran, And the word was passed from mouth to mouth, Till it reached from rear to van: “Seize on those haughty Dryburghers, And duck them in our lake, And their jackets blue, and their rackets too, From those proud ones let us take.”

* * * * *

Then forthwith Charley Pleycynge raised Aloft his Tate-made racket; Sternly his partner buttoned up His dark blue Christ Church jacket; And the surging crowd pressed forward, And the shout of “Drown them!” rose, But the two stood calm and silent, And gazed upon their foes.

* * * * *

Was none who would be foremost To lead this fell attack? No: those behind cried “forward!” And those in front cried “back!” And backward now and forward Wavered the deep array, Till, all at once, the warrior bold And Kander, shepherd of the fold, And the country correspondent too, With fright all shivering cold and blue, Turned tail and ran away.

And the great Sir V. O. Verandah, With all his Sludgeboro’ men, Fled for their lives and safety Through marsh and lake and fen; Nor paused to look behind them, All pale and white with fear, Till they had reached the furthest shores Of the gloomy Sludgeboro’ mere.

* * * * *

And in future generations, In Dryburgh’s lofty town, When we, and our great grandchildren By time have been cut down, In the freezing nights of winter, When the blinding snow-storm falls, And the boys are making tennis-nets, And the girls are washing balls,

When the good man mends his racket, And tightens up the strings, When the good wife plies her needle, And mends her winter things, Will children gather round the fire, And the story will be told, How well their champions fought the fight On Sludgeboro’ marsh, on Dryburgh height In the famous days of old.

From Pastime. September 28, 1883.

This parody was afterwards reprinted in Tennis Cuts and Quips. Field and Tuer. London.

THE BATTLE OF THE ASSES’ BRIDGE.

Triangle Equilateral By Algebra he swore, That his good friend, Isosceles, Should suffer wrong no more. By Algebra he swore it, And named a fighting day, And bade his angles hurry forth―― East and west and south and north―― To summon to the fray.

East and west, and north and south, The angles hurry fast. And problem old and Theorem Have heard the trumpet blast. Shame on the Point that has no parts The Circle that would quake, When Equilateral has sworn The Asses’ Bridge to take.

* * * * *

And now they are assembled, The tale of fighting men, The Decimals in hundreds are, The Units one to ten. Equations all quadratical, Drawn out in long array; Oh, proud was Equilateral Upon the fighting day!

But on the Bridge of Asses Was tumult and affright, For all the lines below the base Were stricken at the sight. They held a council standing, Upon the narrow ridge, Hard lines I wis in times like this ’Twould take to save the Bridge.

Then outspake gallant Alpha, On the Apex full in view, “A Dog they say shall have his day, A Bridge must have it too; And how can man die better, When things come to this pass, Than fighting as first letter In the sacred name of ASS?”

“Know then, false Equilateral, “No Bridge thou’lt take to-day; I, with two more to help me, Will keep ye all at bay. In these five lines a thousand May well be stopped by three; Now who will stand on either hand And keep the Bridge with me?

Then outspake gallant Beta, Of Grecian blood was he, “Lo! I will stand on thy right hand, And keep the Bridge with thee.” And spake a stout Centurion, A Roman, surnamed C, “I will abide on thy left side, And keep the Bridge with thee.”

The three stood calm and silent, And watched the foeman’s line, As from its right stepped out to fight Theta’s well-known Co-sine. And Vector the Quaternion―― Vector, whose fourfold power Had puzzled many a weary head, And kept it aching out of bed Long past the midnight hour.

C went at once for Vector And with a deadly blow, Of his good blade he quickly laid The great Quaternion low: For in that hour had Vector’s power Been risen to the tenth. Little cared C I ween for he Had smote him to the Nth.

Next Beta marked how Theta Advanced against his line, So with his trusty tangent he Bisected the Co-sine. “Lie there,” he cried, “fell tyrant! No longer shalt thou mark How Girton’s gold-haired graduates sigh With vain endeavours to descry The variable length of Pi In thine accursed Arc.”

Then X on his Equation Advanced, and all were mute, For in his hand he waved his brand, A knotty old cube root; Thrice round his head he waved it, And then the weapon sprung Like bolt from bow, a mighty blow, On Alpha’s crest it rung.

He reeled, and first on Beta Leaned, for a breathing space, Then dashed his Co-efficient In the Equation’s face: And loud he cried, “No more thy pride My inmost soul shall vex;” Then with a stroke, ’twould cleave an oak, Eliminated X.

* * * * *

They gave him out of Euclid Ten cuts so erudite, Not thrice ten senior wranglers Could solve ’twixt morn and night; They gave a square, it still is there, And every dunce derides, With twice the double ratio Of its homologous sides.

And on the square they raised him A vast triangle high, His name is on the Apex To witness if I lie, And underneath is written, In letters all of brass, How well brave Alpha held the Bridge, That’s sacred to the ASS.

J. M. LOWRY.

This parody first appeared in “The Keys at Home,” published about four years since by Field and Tuer, at the Leadenhall Press, London. It has since been included in an interesting collection of Poems, entitled “A Book of Jousts,” edited by Mr. James M. Lowry, also published by Field and Tuer, of London.

HARCOURTIUS OF DERBIÆ.

Harcourtius of Derbiæ, In Right’s great name he swore That the crass hordes of Bumble Should hold Guildhall no more. In Right’s great name he swore it, And with good heart and will Made ready for the desperate fight―― That is to say, he named a night For bringing in his Bill, And when the night (’twas Tuesday) In order due came round, In serried ranks the Liberals Were in their places found; And with a mighty shouting Their gallant chief they cheered: In sooth, those present on that day Declare ’twas good to hear the way They ardently “Hear-hear’d!”

But ’mongst the City Fathers Was turmoil and affright, For they had right good reason To dread the coming fight; And as they filled the lobby, And locomotion stopped, An awesome thing it was to hear The h’s that they dropp’d! For many a City Father, With far-protruding vest, And City Knight, who should have worn A soup-tureen as crest; Vulgares Consiliarii―― In short, they all were there, Who, having passed the bottle, Soon hoped to “pass the Chair!”

They held a council standing About the Lobby floor, In groups to which fierce Auceps In turns his presence bore; But, after hot discussion Of this and that design, They, to a man, agreed their plan Should be to go and dine!

* * * * *

Then out spoke brave Harcourtius, Commencing the debate, “To every Government on earth Defeat comes soon or late, And how can one fall better Than fighting Bumbles’ swarm, For the sake of London’s future And Municipal Reform? For the sake of every citizen, Be he or high or low, And dwelleth he at Kensington, Or Bermondsey, or Bow, For the sake of every citizen Who payeth heavy rates, And to save them from the jobbery That Bumble’s rule creates.

“I’m ready, Mr. Speaker, With all the haste I may, To pass the sweeping measure That I bring in to-day. Too long has Gog been fancied Invincible to be; Now, who will stand on either hand And back this Bill with me?” Then out spake Gee-O-Emius, A Grand Old Man was he, “Lo, I will stand at thy right hand And back this Bill with thee!” And out spake Chelsæ Firthius, A legal “friend” was he, “I will, with pride, by thee abide, And fight the Bill with thee!”

Meanwhile the Civic forces, Despite their recent meal, Are, in their hearts, so much afraid, That all the blatant noise they made Could not their fear conceal. In vain did Magnus Blockus His snuff-box pass around, In vain did Auceps try to cheer His followers, or far or near, By his loud “Yah, Yah’s” sound. And far above the arena, More City Fathers sat; Smug, dense, and dull and vulgar, Crass, fatuous, and fat. And full of dread foreboding Lest, if the Bill were past, Of civic jobs and shuffles They’d seen the very last.

For none was for the City, Though all “managed” its estates; And the Liveries robbed the poor man, And the Council jobbed the rates. Most trusts were misdirected, And endowments misapplied, When Harcourtius and Firthius Stood out boldly side by side. Stout Firthius sprang on Auceps, And in a moment’s space He hurled, with crushing ardour, A Blue-book in his face, He saw, too, McArturus, With soup-nerved vengeance burn, And with one shot upset him, Fired from a new “Return.”

Then Cardenus of Barum, On Gee-o-Emius rushed; Cardenus, who, neath cab or ’bus So frequently is crushed; And Gee-O-Emius met his dash With a compelling frown, Then, with a force like Pickford’s van, Bore his assailant down. ’Twas Firthius smote down Luskus, Statistics laid him low; And to Cottoniensis’ heart Harcourtius sent a blow; Owdenus muttered curses, And ’midst the rising din Was heard the voice of him who sits For Farringdon Within.

But hark, they cry, “Randolphus!” And ’midst a deep’ning roar The spry “Quaternian” leader Sprang out upon the floor. He smiled at those before him, A smile serenely sly; He eyed the Bumbles near him, And scorn was in his eye. Quoth he, “In my existence I never yet did know So very just a measure, So very mean a foe, The City Corporation! Bah! tell me what is that? A mass of vulgar ignorance, Of fussiness and fat!”

Then, snatching up a Blue-book, He turned him left and right, And hurled most damning extracts With all his well-known might! ’Twas vain for poor Northcotus To shrewishly protest; In vain for Sclater-Boothius To beat his massive chest. And when the perky Crossius To Bumble brought his aid, ’Twas fun to see how quickly he Upon his back was laid.

Meantime, the “whips” their office Persistently had plied, And all the air was vocal With cries of “‘vide,’ ‘vide,’ ‘vide!” With one more bound Harcourtius At Auceps sternly leapt, Then like a stream that bursts its banks, In currents twain the rival ranks. On to the lobbies swept.

* * * * *

No sound of joy or sorrow Rose from the crowded floor, But friends and foes in mute surmise, With parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing at the door, And when, from ’mongst the members That surged about the Bar, They saw the Liberal Whips appear, There rose a most stupendous cheer, Repeated near and far.

The stricken City Fathers, Disgusted, slink away, But round great Gee-O-Emius The jocund victors stay, Until, midst shouts and laughter, And cheering long and loud, He passes from the Forum, Hailed by the joyous crowd. They gave him and Harcourtius A banquet straightaway, And passed of votes of thanks, at least, A score or so a day. And they made a graven image Of both these statesmen good, And set them up where hitherto The Civic Griffin stood.

And still their names are music Wherever they are heard; Still by the daring deeds they did, The City’s pulse is stirred. And its wives still pray for offspring With hearts and will as bold As those who passed the Bill so well, And stormed bold Bumble’s hold. And in the nights of winter, When from Turnham-Green to Bow, And from Camberwell to Hackney The Cits all homeward go; When round their cosy firesides The happy households draw, No longer dreading Bumble, Nor Vestry-muddled law;

When the evening print is opened, And electric-lamps are lit, And, their rates no longer dreading, The serene breadwinners sit; When the young and old in circle Around their parents close; When the girls make high-art doyleys, And the boys make classic mots; When Papa writes to the paper To Civic ways commend, And London’s central government To London’s weal doth tend; Then, with many a burst of laughter, Shall the story still be told How brave Harcourtius passed his Bil. In the bad days of old!

__Truth._ April 10, 1884.

The Right Hon. Sir William V. Harcourt, M.P. for Derby, introduced his Bill for the Reform of the London Municipality, and it was read a first time on April 8, 1884. The other Members of Parliament here referred to are Lord Mayor Fowler, Joseph F. B. Firth (Chelsea), C. N. Warton, the Blocker (“Magnus Blockus”), Alderman A. McArthur, Alderman Sir Robert Carden, Sir Andrew Lusk, Alderman Cotton, Alderman Owden, Lord Randolph Churchill, Sir Stafford Northcote, G. Sclater-Booth, and the Right Hon. Sir Richard Cross.

――――

THE BATTLE OF THE INSTITUTE.[101]

_A Lay sung on the Feast of St. Guy, about the ides of November_, 1875.

CHARLES COCHRANE of the Institute, By the heathen gods he swore That that great swell, Lothian Bell, Should Cocci Walkus be no more. By all the gods he swore it, And Marshall[102] named a day, And circulars were posted forth East and west, and south and north, Calling members to the fray.

Charles Cochrane there, whose yellow hair Waves o’er his manly brow He built a mighty furnace, the cause of all the Row. This furnace was more wide and big Than any other known, And, Cochrane said, t’would make more pig As could be clearly shown. And then he quoted figures, which were an awful bore, And of the members some did yawn, some shuffled on the floor. Bell shook his head, and then he said The figures were all wrong. The blast put in was much too weak The facts were all too strong! And in his pleasant, genial way He “hoped the Chair would let him say That Cochrane was a fool!” Then Cowper great, from Storey’s Gate, He raised his voice on high And swore an oath, a mighty oath, He swore that Bell should die! Each chieftain hastened to the brawl In vain did Bramwell “Order” call. Cried Marshall “What will Europe think? When Cochrane hurled a pot of Ink Full in the face of Bell!

Now Williams to the rescue! oh! What man alive could tell The laughter that arose all round When they saw the face of Bell? But Bell he rushed at Cochrane And smote him fearful blows; He gave him one between the eyes, And two upon the nose! They rose, they fell, with gasp, and yell And angry oath and roar; Whilst Ink and Blood, one horrid flood Did cover all the floor! Then, Carbutt, Mighty Hammer, and Bramwell in the Chair And Siemens of the Telegraph, did wish they were not there. Whilst all the other members thought It was a funny way. To settle scientific points In that far distant day. But high above the mighty din, was Hawksley heard to say “Ho! Gentlemen, Ho! Gentlemen, let’s stop this horrid fray!” So they sent out for the Serjeants, the Serjeants of Police, The Constables of Manchester, in the interests of Peace. They bade them pick those members up, And wipe the blood away, Whilst others washed each inky stain From off the floor that day.

But when they picked the foemen up No man alive could tell Which of the two was Cochrane, Nor which of them was Bell! But Bell survived the combat, all in the North Contree And for his gifts and money, they made him an M.P. Whilst Cochrane for his valour Got glory and renown, As much as could be measured Ere the sun went down. And in each drawing office, when the argand lamp is lit, And the draughtsman cuts his pencil, and points his ready wit. When the pupil spoils the tracing, and breaks his Archbutt scale With laughter and with merriment then shall they tell the tale. Whilst the pupil rubs his Indian ink And the draughtsman wipes his pen They still recount with wonder The valour of those men. And still we hear the story――told with mirth and glee, In any West end office, where merry draughtsmen be.

――――

FRAGMENT FROM A LAY OF MODERN ENGLAND. (Picked up somewhere between Downing Street and Khartoum.)

* * * * *

But the statesman’s brow was dark, And fear was in his eye, For he saw the wild storm rising Across his summer sky. “The Mahdi, he will water His steeds at Cairo’s gate;―― No Caucus, and no Chamberlain, Can save us from our fate!” Then out spoke gallant Gordon,―― All fearless was his speech,―― “What could a man ask better, Than to stand in the fiery breach; To go at England’s bidding And rend the sordid chain, That binds the desert peoples, For the sake of a Pasha’s gain; To build up out of ruin Order and peace once more; To burn the thongs for scourging, To break the prison door?”

* * * * *

Alone stood our brave hero, But constant still in mind, In front, foes thick as desert sand, And sneaking friends behind. “Now curse it,” quoth Lord Hartington,[103] “Blood-guiltiness I fear; The sun beats strong, the way is long, And English gold is dear!” “Aye! curse it,” quoth smooth Granville, “Yet will I speak him fair; “And show in my despatches “A Minister’s wise care, “To save him from the bad Zebehr, “And from the Mahdi too; “And praise him, while we leave him “To sink with all his crew!” “Aye! curse it,” quoth Spectator, “Why raise a hand to save “The friends he’s gathered round him; “Let each man dig his grave, “Or join the coming Mahdi, “Or take himself to flight; “We’ll rally round the Government, “And have a faction fight.” Round turned he as not deigning, Those craven ranks to see, Nought spake he to Lord Hartington, To Granville nought spake he; But he turned to the English people And spoke to the English heart, That ever has throbbed the higher When called to choose its part.

“I came here at your bidding, “I came to try and save; “I spoke of that far England, “Away beyond the wave, “Whose hand could reach the helpless, “Whose shield could bar the way, “And would not leave to perish “One life, that owned her sway. “And now, forsooth, I’m bidden “To save myself in flight.”

* * * * *

AUBERON HERBERT.

Pall Mall Gazette. May, 1884.

――――:o:――――

There are many other parodies of Horatius possessing less general interest than those already quoted.

As most of them are very long, only a few verses of each will be given, sufficient to indicate the subject, and style of treatment. As the source from whence each is derived will be named, the complete parodies can easily be obtained.

It will be noticed that the last four or five verses of Horatius have been especially favoured by the parodists.

LARS PORSENNA.

This amusing parody originally appeared in College Rhymes, 1855, but has since been issued in pamphlet form (price sixpence), by Messrs. T. Shrimpton and Son, Oxford, and has had a large sale.

Adolphus Smalls, of Boniface, By all the powers he swore, That though he had been plucked three times He would be plucked no more. By all the powers he swore it, And put on “Coaches” three, And many a livelong night he read, With sported oak, and towell’d head, To get him his “degree.”

* * * * *

They gave him his “Testamur,” That was a Passman’s right―― He was more than three Examiners Could “plough” from morn to night.

And in each Oxford College, In the dark November days, When Undergraduates fresh from hall Are gathering round the blaze: When the crusted port is opened And the Palmer’s lamp is lit, When the weed glows in the freshman’s mouth, And makes him turn to spit: When “goes” unlimited are forced On some unhappy gull, When victims, doomed to mull their pass, Unconscious pass the mull: With chaffing and with laughing. They still the tale renew, How Smalls, of Boniface, went in, And, actually got through.

ANONYMOUS.

Several imitations of Horatius occur in early volumes of Punch, one as far back as December 4, 1847, entitled the “Mustering of the Hobbies, a Lay of Modern Babylon,” refers to politicians many of whom are dead, and to events most of which are now forgotten. Another, dated January 26, 1856, “The Sibylline Books, a Lay of Ancient Rome for the consideration of modern Russia,” is also quite out of date. It contained certain advice which Mr. Punch considered advisable to address to the Emperor of Russia.

When Macaulay was created a baron, it was practically a life peerage, as he was unmarried and unlikely to marry, Punch had some verses congratulating him on the event, and referring to Mr. Baron Parke, who, in 1856, had been raised to the peerage as Lord Wensleydale, with the usual succession to his heirs male, who did not exist, and never came into being.

HOW TITUS MANLIUS MACAULEIUS WAS MADE A PATRICIAN.

The Consul Palmerstonius Hath ta’en down his DEBRETT, And o’er its storied pages His anxious brow is set. Those are not age’s wrinkles The Consul’s cheek that plough, It is not time that sprinkles That snow upon his brow.

The Consul closed the volume―― He closed it with a bang! And he seized his slate and pencil From the wall where they did hang; And straight he set to ciphering, And out a sum he brought; And his sum was of six figures, And it ended with a nought.

So the united ages Of the Patricians stood, When Consul Palmerstonius Vowed they must have new blood. What though your novi homines Do not always wax in wit; Oft Patricius, like Poeta, Proves “nascitur non fit.”

“Besides, as after physic The matron gives her child A crust of blandest honey, To make the bitter mild; So I, for the Patricians, A pleasant peer must find, To take away the savour Wens’dalius left behind.

“Patres majorum gentium, Patres minorum, too, Your seats upon those benches To sources strange are due: The fruit of royal bye-blows, The growths of courtier-slime The brawny sons of rapine, The heirs of reckless crime.

“The sword hath dibbled often Holes for patrician seed; And many a lawyer’s tongue hath licked All shoes, and oft unfee’d, No stooping found too lowly, No crawling thought too mean, If but a Conscript Father He might at last be seen.

“I’ll raise to the Patricians, One who ne’er wore steel, nor lied, Whose weapon was his goose-quill, Whose pleadings were world-wide; Whose foes were Falsehood, Prejudice, Fraud, Sophistry, and Wrong―― With which he held wit-combat, Wit-combat, brave and long!

“So, when that Palmerstonius Hath gone where all must go―― E’en those whose brains glow fiery ’Neath coronals of snow: Write by the Appian way-side, On the tomb where he is laid, ‘Of Manlius Macauleius He a Patrician made.’”

(Four verses omitted.)

Punch. September 19, 1857.

――――

THE BATTLE OF LAKE GLENLIVIT. By the Author of “The Lays of Ancient Rum.”

It was a song of sorrow, Blent with a solemn vow, Floated across the lovely lake, And up the mountain’s brow. Glenlivit! O, Glenlivit! No wonder that we grieve; Glenlivit! O, Glenlivit! Why should we ever leave?

No, we will never leave it, By oaths let us avouch, As long as mountain dew exists, And plack is in the pouch. Ye Parliament oppressors, Who Scotia ne’er could quell, Our fathers fought ye stoutly,―― Their sons can fight as well!

The poet then recounts the fight between the lovers of Whiskey, and the Temperance party, led on by Forbes Mackenzie, in which, after a tremendous struggle, Whiskey is triumphant:――

Glenlivit’s joyous victors With cheers the welkin rent, And home was Forbes Mackenzie Upon a shutter sent.

Now you who hear this story, Don’t doubt it, if you please; Have I not told you things before As wonderful as these? Why should you doubt a legend Because ’tis nearer home? Or can no fables please you But those that come from Rome?

This parody, which consists of 25 verses, is to be found in Rival Rhymes in Honour of Burns, by Ben Trovato. London. Routledge and Co. 1857.

This book is generally ascribed to Samuel Lover, the novelist.

――――

LAY OF MODERN ENGLAND.

Augustus Smith, of Scilly, By Piper’s Hole he swore That the proud Lord of Brownlow Should keep the waste no more. By Piper’s Hole he swore it, And named a trysting night, And bade his myrmidons ride forth, By special train from London’s north, To venge the Common Right.

Where on the street of Drummond Four Doric columns frown, Where the gigantic Stephenson On his own line looks down, The stalwart navvies gathered, From lodgings far and near; Strong were the crowbars in their hands, Stronger their hope for beer.

Loured the foul London gaslights, And made the gloom more deep, The million-peopled city’s sons Were in their early sleep, When from the Euston Station Glided the special train That bore the force that went to win Berkhampstead’s waste again.

On, the steam-demon bore them, Nor flagged upon the wing, Until he lighted with his load At Baptist-chapelled Tring.

They marched three miles in silence, The road was dark and drear, One thought upheld the navvy’s heart The pleasant thought of beer. They reached Berkhampstead Common Or that which had been one, Until by Ashridge’s proud Lord The feudal deed was done.

There, miles of iron railing Scowled grimly in the dark, Making what once was Common, The Lord of Brownlow’s Park: His rights that Lord asserted, Rights which they hold a myth, The bold Berkhampstead Commoner, Led by Augustus Smith.

Spoke out the nameless Leader, “That Railing must go down” Then firmer grasped the crowbar Those hands so strong and brown, They march against the railing, They lay the crowbars low, And down and down for many a yard The costly railings go.

So down went Brownlow’s railings, And down went Hazell’s beer, And from the gathering crowd upgoes One loud and lusty cheer. For carriage, gig, and dog-cart Come rushing on the scene, And all Berkhampstead hastes to see, Where Brownlow’s rails had been.

And husbands, wives, and children, Went strolling through the gorse, And cried, “We’ve got our own again, Thanks to your friendly force.” They cut green little morsels As memories of the Band, Whose lusty arms and iron bars Had freed the Common land.

Bold was the deed and English The Commoners have done, Let’s hope the law of England, too, Will smile upon their fun. For our few remaining Commons Must not be seized or sold, Nor Lords forget they do not live In the bad days of old.

(Seven verses omitted.)

Punch. March 24, 1866.

――――

The Book of Ballads, edited by Bon Gaultier (William Blackwood and Sons, Edinburgh), contains a poem by the late Professor W. E. Aytoun, entitled The Lay of Mr. Colt. The story it recounts is repulsive, Colt, being condemned to death for murder, was lying in prison in New York, but on the morning of the execution he committed suicide under peculiar circumstances. The poem itself is not a parody, but it concludes with the following imitation of the closing lines of Horatius:――

And when the lamp is lighted In the long November days, And lads and lasses mingle At the shucking of the maize; When pies of smoking pumpkin Upon the table stand, And bowls of black molasses Go round from hand to hand; When slap jacks, maple sugared, Are hissing in the pan, And cider with a dash of gin, Foams in the social can; When the goodman wets his whistle, And the goodwife scolds the child, And the girls exclaim convulsively, “Have done, or I’ll be riled!” When the loafer sitting next them Attempts a sly caress, And whispers, “Oh! you ’possum, You’ve fixed my heart I guess!” With laughter and with weeping, Then shall they tell the tale, How Colt his foeman quartered, And died within the jail.

――――

THE GREAT DURBAR.

Jan Larrens[104] of Calcutta, Chief Knight of India’s Star, Has sworn by all the Hindoo gods He’ll hold a Grand Durbar. By Gunga’s stream he swore it And named at once the day, Then bade his Aides-de-camp go forth, East, and west, and south, and north, To summon the array.

(The description of the Durbar which here follows, occupies about five hundred lines, many of which are scarcely intelligible to those who have not resided in India.)

And through the heat of summer, Warm night and sultry day, While Brahmins teach the girls to love And Hindu youths to pray; When, through the Rajah’s palace, Or in the poor man’s hut, Against the winds of winter The doors are closely shut; When in his close Zenana The Indian swell reclines, And smokes the bubbling hookah And quaffs forbidden wines; And when in dufter-khanah Lall-puggree counts the gains He made from swarthy chieftains On Agra’s sun-burnt plains; When the ryot drives the bullock, And twists his broken tail; When Hindo maidens seek their loves, And old crones fiercely rail; When the woman cooks the curry, And piles it on the rice, And the baboo and the labourer Alike count up their pice, In every home in Agra, In many a place afar, They’ll tell the tale of that day when Jan Larrens held Durbar.

From Lyrics and Lays. By Pips. Calcutta, Wyman 1867.

――――

BEFORE THE COMITIA. (The Two Aruspices.)

In Rome, ere the Comitia To business could be set, The Augurs and Arùspices In solemn conclave met; The peckings, pipings, hoppings Of the sacred fowls to try, And in the victim’s entrails For signs of fate to pry.

* * * * *

There’s Dizzius Aruspex Wears a sardonic grin, Though sterner Merrypebblius Such laughter holds a sin; But, for all he looks so solemn, No less he twigs the fun, E’en while his brow on Dizzius Appears to frown “Ha’ done!”

“Leaders should not be laughers,” (He holds) “whate’er their case; If in ’tis too triumphant; If out, ’tis not in place. Or, if a laugh be needful”―― Which he does not believe―― “The Arùspice’s laugh should never Extend beyond his sleeve.”

(Thirteen verses omitted.)

Punch. February 8, 1873.

―――― THE DAUNTLESS THREE.

This is the title of a parody, issued in pamphlet form by Messrs. J. Hall and Son, Cambridge. Second edition 1874, price sixpence, and said to be by A. de L. H. It would certainly be of literary interest to know the author’s name of this humorous, and scholarly parody of Macaulay’s Horatius, as the same initials are prefixed to another parody, of a similar character, entitled “The Battle of Lake Mort,” which will be more fully described when dealing with parodies of Macaulay’s “Battle of the Lake Regillus.”

“The Dauntless Three,” consists of forty two verses, with a number of burlesque latin notes. The subject of the parody is the well worn theme of the “Town and Gown” rows.

The Citizens of Cambridge By Jonas Webb they swore, That the gownsmen for the future Should hold their own no more. By Jonas Webb they swore it, And named Guy Fawkes his day, And to their quarters all sent forth, East and West and South and North, To summon their array.

* * * * *

I wis ’midst all the Leaders There was no heart so bold, But sore it ached, and fast it beat, When that ill news was told. Forthwith up rose the Captain, Up rose the Leaders all, In haste they tore away their gowns, And shied them at the wall.

They held a Council standing Beside the Royal Gate, No time was there, ye well may guess, For musing or debate, Outspake the Leader roundly, Picked men must straight go down. For if Rose Crescent once is lost, What hope to save the Gown?

* * * * *

Then out spoke Brown the brave one―― The Captain of the eight―― “To every man this fight will bring A struggle soon or late. And how can a man fight better, Then facing fearful odds, For the honour of his College, And his oft invoked gods.[105]

“To the Crescent, then, Sir Leader, With all the speed ye may; I and two more to help me Will hold the foe in play. In that strait path a hundred May well be stopped by three. Now who will stand on either hand, And keep the lane with me?”

Then out spake brave Mackenzie, A Scotchman proud was he, “Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the lane with thee.” And out spake strong O’Grady, Hibernian blood had he―― “I will abide at thy left side, And keep the lane with thee.”

* * * * *

And so they won Rose Crescent, And beat the Townsmen back―― But they owed it to the Valiant THREE Who bore the first attack―― That DAUNTLESS THREE who stood there, And kept in check the foes, And who so bravely held their post, In the Crescent of the Rose.

And in the nights of winter When the cold north winds blow―― And the “hallooing” of the cads Is heard amidst the snow; When round the well-built college Roars loud the tempest’s din, And the black gems from collieries Roar louder yet within;

When the choicest cup is ready, And the largest lamp is lit, When the chestnuts glow in the embers, And the edibles are fit, When all the men in circle Around the fireplace close, When some are smoking placidly And some on sofas doze;

When the host prepares the potables, And makes all snug his room, And the cheers of all his comrades Far in the court-yard boom―― With shouting and with laughter―― Still is the story told How well those three men kept the path, In the brave days of old.

In 1875, Messrs. Metcalfe of Cambridge, published another, “Town and Gown” parody, entitled “Thanatos: A Poem by the ghost of Macaulay.” This was written by Mr. Kerr, a nephew of Lord Tennyson.

FIFTH OF NOVEMBER.

Up rose the silver moonlight Over the rustling trees, And fast the hum of angry men Was wafted on the breeze.

From many a dirty pot-house, And hole without a name, From many a low and filthy haunt The mob of blackguards came; From populous St. Aldates, Swarming with noisy brats; St. Aldates on whose house tops we Have often heard with ecstasy The sweet nocturnal melody Of melancholy cats.

Here follows a long and detailed description of a “Town and Gown” row; the sudden appearance of the “Proctor,” with the policemen, the hasty flight of the undergraduates, and their safe arrival home.

And now no living thing is seen In the deserted streets, Save Oxford’s useless bobbies, Who perambulate the High, From Carfax to where Magdalen tower Stands tall and grim at midnight hour Against the moonlit sky.

And oft on winter evenings, In the cold Christmas vac., When home from school and college The youngsters have come back, Around the blazing fireside, Still is the story told, How well the gownsmen thrashed the town In the good days of old.

From Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon. Originally published by Chapman and Hall, London, 1874, in a small quarto form, but since re-issued in a cheaper form by Thomas Shrimpton and Son, Oxford.

――――

CH. CH. BESIEGED!

An anonymous parody of Horatius, published in 1877 in pamphlet form (price sixpence), by T. Shrimpton and Son, Oxford. It is a short poem describing a practical joke very similar to that known as the “Berners Street Hoax,” perpetrated by Theodore Hook, in 1809.

This consisted in writing to a large number of tradespeople and others, asking them to call, on various pretexts, at a certain house, at a fixed hour. In Theodore Hook’s case the hoax was pure mischief without any malicious intent; but in Christ Church Besieged, the joke is described as having been planned to annoy a certain Mr. M――――s.

A certain set of Christ Church, One common oath they swore, That the great M――――s of Christ Church Should suffer yet once more, And to the Oxford tradesmen They named a trysting day And made the messenger go forth East and West and South and North, To summon the array.

* * * * *

But Mr. M――――s’s brow was sad, He said their speech was low And if they did not shut it up, He’d to the censor go. “These vans that come upon us, These tradesmen here that wait, I have not ordered,――Porter! I wish you’d keep the gate.”

* * * * *

Still in the nights of winter When the moon shines clear and bright And o’er the quad rise loud and wild The voices of the night. When the “36” is opened And the gleaming lamp is lit, And all around the embers A jovial party sit; When fresh and senior circle Around the firebrands bright, And the redolent virginian weed Gives mingled cloud and light; When the connoisseur, with practised eye, Rejoicing at the sight, Holds up his glass of ruddy port Athwart the streaming light, With screams and tears of laughter Still is the story told Of how the porter kept the gate In the brave days of old.

――――

THE LAY OF THE LAST COMMEMORATION DINNER. (By a Disappointed Guest.)

The Seniors of Trinity By Newton’s bones they swore, That the proud Undergraduate Should share the feast no more; By Newton’s bones they swore it, And named their Feasting day, And sent no invitations round To hungry Scholars humblier gowned, Or prizemen in the May.

* * * * *

(In revenge for this slight the Undergraduates introduce gunpowder below the room in which the Dons hold their banquet; at a given signal, one Tomkins applies a match, and the whole party is blown up.)

A hand they found of Tomkins, Some sixteen miles away, And in its cold clenched fingers A box――“Bryant and May”; And to this hour his praises Are oft rehearsed in song, As one who perished at his post, And cheerfully gave up the ghost To wipe away a wrong.

He standeth in the cloisters, Beneath a roof of thatch, Tomkins, the fiery freshman, In act to strike a match; And underneath is carven, In letters plain to read, A circumstantial narrative Of his devoted deed.

ANONYMOUS.

Published by W. P. Spalding, Sidney Street, Cambridge. 1880.

――――

OBSTRUCTION UTILISED.

King Mensa of Coomassie By Mumbo Jumbo swore His family umbrella Should be detained no more; By Jumbo did he swear it, And named a trysting day, And bade his messengers run forth, South and west, and east and north, To gather his array.

East and west, and south and north, The messengers run fast; And the fetish in each village Has heard the conch-shell’s blast: Shame on the false Ashantee Who will not join the host, When Mensa of Coomassie Is marching on Cape Coast!

* * * * *

But Gladstone’s brow was sad, And Gladstone’s speech was trite: “The Land League take King Mensa! We do not want to fight.” He looked upon the telegram They gave him, with a frown: “I fear ’t will send my Budget up, And I want to keep it down.”

Then spake Coercion Forster, “O Gladstone, you’re a goose! For everything upon this earth One, some day, finds a use. Let’s send Parnell against him, With his Home Rule array! I think he’ll be the very man To obstruct King Mensa’s way!”

“Good Forster!” answered Gladstone, “What thou sayest is very well.” So forth against King Mensa They sent the great Parnell; For England in her battles Grudged not a Home Rule life, To give the English Parliament, And Ireland, rest from strife.

* * * * *

I wis in all Ashanteeland There was no heart so bold, But sore it ached, and fast it beat, When that ill news was told. Down from his throne fell Mensa, Down fell his council all, Headlong they rolled upon the floor, And loudly ’gan to squall.

They held a council, rolling Upon the mud-hut floor; No hope there was, you well may guess, Of victory in such war. Alas! they had no Speaker To face such dire attack. King Mensa cried, “We’re diddled!” And his council cried, “Alack!” So they sued for peace right humbly, And said they’d been in fun, And sent five more umbrellas To be kept at Kensington!

Judy. March 16, 1881.

――――

HOW HORATIUS KEPT THE BRIDGE.

Such is the title of a burlesque account of the events described in Macaulay’s poem, which appeared in “The Blue” a small magazine conducted by the scholars of Christ’s Hospital, (the Blue-coat school) London. It was afterwards reprinted in Gleanings from “The Blue,” S. Austin and Sons, Hertford. 1881.

The burlesque is in prose, but a few parody verses are given in it to illustrate the narrative:

“When the face of Sextus Was seen among the foes, No blackguard in the city But raised his Roman nose: No lady on the housetops But snarl’d at him and spat, No child but shriek’d out curses―― (Immoral little brat!)”

* * * * *

“Then out spake Spurius Lartius, A noble swell was he: ‘Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And take a chop with thee!’ And out spake strong Herminius, Heaver of coals was he: ‘I too will stay; and make them pay The wonted half pennie!’”

* * * * *

Horatius thus addresses the river:――

“Oh, Tiber, mister Tiber―― If thus I may address you―― If to yon shore you’ll bear me o’er, All I can say is――Bless you!”

* * * * *

When boys and girls are romping, And the elders drain the flagon, While the children burn their fingers

At glorious snap-dragon; Around the Christmas fire Still is the story told―― How well Horatius kept the bridge, In the brave days of old.

――――

A LAY OF MODERN HAMMERSMITH.

The great Sir James[106] of Charing Cross By the whole Board he swore That carriage folk for Richmond Should risk their lives no more, By the whole Board he swore it, And named a closing day, And bade his engineers ride forth To stop all traffic with the North, And block the right of way.

“To stop all traffic with the North,” The news it flies full fast, And terrace, lodge and villa, Are staggered at the blast. Shame on the slave of Mortlake Content for hours to roam, Because Sir James of Charing Cross, By Putney sends him home.

(Five verses omitted.)

Time was, when after dining Beyond proud Notting’s ridge, A halfpenny would bring him Across the classic bridge: For Hammersmith and Mortlake, Ere both of them were sold, Were like suburban brothers In the brave days of old.

But meanwhile axe and lever Have ruthlessly been plied, And soon the ancient structure Will have a new inside. But louder grows the thunder About the route to town,―― And p’raps they’ll get a wooden bridge A little lower down.

So in some night next Winter, When the cold Easters blow, And the omnibus comes slipping Amid the frozen snow; When round the lonely villa The fog wets to the skin, And the cheap coals of Wallsend Chokes everyone within.

When the latest bill is opened, And the dimmest gas is lit, And the curtains are drawn closer, O’er the windows that won’t fit; When the leaden pipe is bursting With the water it provides; When the girls are reading novels, And the boys are making slides;

When the goodman scans his cheque book, With a fitting Christmas gloom; And the goodwife’s chatter sharply Goes snapping round the room; With threats and imprecations, The tale may still be told How great Sir James blocked up the bridge That served quite well of old.

Punch. September 30, 1882.

――――

HOW GLADSTONE WON THE ELECTION.

I.

Our Queen’s Most Gracious Majesty, By the rich gems she wore, Declared “Her faithful Commons” Should waste their time no more. With her own tongue she said it, And would not brook delay, But bade her officers ride forth, East, and west, and south, and north, To scatter the array.

II.

East and west, and south and north, The officers went fast, And cottage, town, and county Have heard the trumpet blast; Shame on th’ enfranchised Briton Who does not find his voice, When country, Queen, and duty, Demand to know his choice.

III.

For though her “faithful Commons,” The Queen must needs dissolve, The gov’ning of the Empire Requires her quick resolve, To call another Parliament Of loyal men and true, Who shall devise laws good and wise, And change old things to new.

* * * * *

VII.

And now, most of the boroughs Have sent their tale of men, The Tories clear the hundred, And claim the victory then. In London’s mighty city, A Liberal scarce dare speak; A proud man was Lord Salisbury As ended the first week.

VIII.

But ’mong the Liberal party Was anger and dismay, As some of their oldest strongholds Yielded to Tory sway. From all parts of the country The messages came in, Suggesting ideas, expressing fears, Hoping ’gainst hope, to win.

XIV.

Then out spake William Gladstone, A Grand Old Man was he, “To every one upon this earth, Must come obscurity; And how can man yield better, Than falling in a fight, Where the true, straightforward Liberal, Meets Tory and Parnellite?

XV.

“Keep up your pluck, good comrades, And hark to what I say; I, with two more to help me, Will hold the foe at bay. In Scotland’s beauteous capital I’ll rally all the clans; Now who will stand on either hand, And aid me in my plans?”

XVI.

Then out spake good Lord Hartington, A comrade tried was he, “Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And fight this fight with thee.” And out spake William Forster, Of Irish fame was he, “I will abide by thy left side, Though weak and ill I be.”

XVII.

“Brave leaders,” quoth the Liberals, “As speak ye, so let it be.” And straight against the great array Forth went the valiant three. For Liberals, in this conflict Left not a chance untried, To crush the combined forces Which strangely were allied.

XVIII.

For none were for a Party, But all were for the State; And the great men helped the poor, And the poor men loved the great. The lands they’d fairly portion, In a way which they knew how, And every man they’d have possess, “Three acres and a cow.”

XXX.

To Derbyshire, Lord Hartington, Travelled to help a friend; While Forster’s serious illness Threatened his life to end. But when they saw friend Gladstone Commence renewed attack On a Tory Welchman’s stronghold They wished to hurry back.

XXXIII.

“O voters, county voters,” The old man’s heard to say, “A Liberal’s life and policy Do ye endorse to day.” So he spake, and, speaking, opened His umbrella with his right, And, with his left hand, seized his axe And plunged into the fight.

XXXIV.

But fiercely raged the conflict, Fed by each Party’s gain, And fast his strength was failing, And heavy grew the strain; His voice grew weak and weaker, As speeches multiplied, And oft they thought him done for, But he again revived.

XXXVI.

And now the strife is over, In Flintshire as elsewhere, The Liberal cause has conquered, With lots of strength to spare. Round Gladstone throng the leaders From all parts of the land, And each would be the foremost To grasp his manly hand.

XXXIX.

And in the nights of winter When the stars withhold their smiles, And the sweet voices of the cats Are heard upon the tiles; When round suburban villas Roars the loud tempests’ din, And draughts and smoky chimneys Cause loud complaints within――

XL.

When the oldest bottle’s opened, And the chandelier is lit, When the chestnuts glow in the embers, And the good wife sits to knit; When young and old in circle Around the fireside close, When the boys go in for courting, And the girls caress their beaus;

XLI.

When the Stanley club completeth Its year of jubilee, And grey-haired members take with pride A grandchild on each knee; With ever growing interest The story will survive, How William Gladstone gained the day In eighteen eighty-five.

F. W. S.

(Twenty-four verses omitted.)

From The Hampstead and Highgate Express. December 26, 1885.

――――

GLADSTONIUS. (Extract from a Classic Poem.)

But with a crash like thunder, Fell many a loosened “plank,” And, with a dam,[107] the Grand Old Man, Made for the County Bank.

* * * * *

“O Voter, Rural Voter, To whom we Liberals pray, A Liberal’s life and policy Take thou in charge this day!” So he spake, and speaking, fastened The well-worn mackintosh, And, with Welsh flannel on his back, Plunged Hodgewards in the slosh.

* * * * *

And when above the turmuts They see his drooping gills; From the Reform came loud applause, And the Times’ Leader-writers pause To trim their well-worn quills.

* * * * *

But his limbs were borne up bravely By the brave heart within, And the Good Rural Voter Bore bravely up his chin. And now he feels the bottom, Now on dry earth he stands, Now round him throng the Lib’rals; To press his muddy hands.

* * * * *

They gave him an umbrella-stand In record of the fight, And twelve stout stand-up collars To wear from morn till night. They gave him gay gardenias For buttonholes, I vow, And CHAMBERLAINUS promised him “Three Acres and a Cow!”

Punch. December 12, 1885.

――――

Now Joseph C. of Birmingham By his Three Points he swore, The worthy folk of England Should suffer wrong no more.

By his Three Points he swore it, And eager for the fray, He bade his messengers ride forth East and West, and South and North, To summon his array.

This is the first verse of a political parody which is contained in “Joseph and his Brethren,” by W. A. S. P., a sixpenny pamphlet published in 1885, by Foulger and Co., London. The advanced Radical opinions then held by Mr. Joseph Chamberlain were strongly advocated in the poems and parodies in this pamphlet.

――――

A LAY OF MODERN LONDON. By the Shade of Lord Macaulay.

An anonymous parody of twenty verses, printed apparently about 1880, but having no printer’s name, place, or date, commenced thus:

Jon Runcius of Hacne By the nine gods he swore That the ninth seat at Stepne Should vacant be no more. By the nine gods he swore it, And he marked the Meeting Day, And made his circulars go forth, East and West, and South and North, To summon his array.

East and West, and South and North, The circulars go round, And every Proprietor, A proxy-form hath found. Shame on the weak Shareholder, Who chafes at being bored, When Runcius of Hacne Is going for the Board!

The Last Verse.

When the goodman buys “Commercial,” When we near the half-year’s end, When the goodwife counts her holding, And scents her dividend, With zest, tut no ill-will or spite, Still be the story told, How well Bradshauvus kept the Board, And somebody was sold!

――――

VOLUMNIA.

Just at the ides of April They were in marriage tied, The noblest Roman of them all Unto the fairest bride; Volumnia her nomen was, And Lartius was her “spoon;” The twain went to Tarentum, To pass the honeymoon.

Yet, when the ides of August Had swiftly glided by, For a new Autumnal bonnet The bride began to cry He said: “My dear Volumnia I cannot give you that.” Yet still her cry was: “Lartius, I want a new style hat!”

He was a speculator In stocks of every sort; But down, far down had fallen, The stocks which Lartius bought, Had fallen down until his purse Was as a pancake flat. Yet still her cry was: “Lartius, I want a novel hat!”

“Volumnia,” said Lartius, “Now, really you must cease―― I cannot give you what you ask, So let me have some peace; I’m busted, used up, done for, And all that sort of thing, If bonnets cost a sesterce I could not buy a string.”

Yet still she kept on crying Aloud for a new hat. He had it with his muffins, When he at breakfast sat; He had it with his roasted joint, When dinner was served hot; And still it came at supper With toast and the tea-pot.

Then Lartius donned his toga, And by the Gods he swore That such an endless nagging He would endure no more. “I’ll to the Lictor,” quoth he, “And tell my tale straightway. I’ll tell to Consul and Tribune How she does nag and importune And see what they will say.”

“Wants a new hat!” quoth Consul And Lictor and Tribune. “That must be stopped, or females, Will rule our country soon, It’s written in the Tables, And all the laws of Rome, That when a woman’s hat is old She ought to stay at home.

“And if she nags her husband Just when he’s dreadful short, And howls for a new bonnet, Why that’s in law a tort: And for all torts the laws provide A punishment complete: For such a heinous crime as hers That she should die is meet.”

The Romans stood no nonsense In those good days of old. They quickly crushed a woman Whene’er she grew too bold. They fired such without ado Off the Tarpeian height; And that happed to Volumnia, And served that female right.

ANONYMOUS.

THE BATTLE OF THE LAKE REGILLUS. A Lay sung at the Feast of Castor and Pollux.

Ho, trumpets, sound a war note! Ho, lictors, clear the way! The Knights will ride, in all their pride, Along the streets to day. To-day the doors and windows Are hung with garlands all, From Castor in the Forum, To Mars without the wall. Each Knight is robed in purple, With olive each is crowned; A gallant war-horse under each Paws haughtily the ground. While flows the Yellow River, While stands the Sacred Hill, The proud Ides of Quintilis Shall have such honour still. Gay are the Martian Kalends; December’s Nones are gay: But the proud Ides, when the squadron rides, Shall be Rome’s whitest day.

Unto the Great Twin Brethren We keep this solemn feast. Swift, swift, the Great Twin Brethren Came spurring from the East. To where, by Lake Regillus, Under the Porcian height, All in the lands of Tusculum, Was fought the glorious fight.

* * * * *

And Sergius the High Pontiff Alone found voice to speak: “The gods who live for ever Have fought for Rome to day! These be the Great Twin Brethren To whom the Dorians pray. Here, hard by Vesta’s temple, Build we a stately dome Unto the Great Twin Brethren Who fought so well for Rome. And when the months returning Bring back this day of fight, The proud Ides of Quintilis Marked evermore with white. Unto the Great Twin Brethren Let all the people throng, With chaplets and with offerings, With music and with song; And let the doors and windows Be hung with garlands all, And let the Knights be summoned To Mars without the wall: Thence let them ride in purple With joyous trumpet sound, Each mounted on his war-horse, And each with olive crowned; And pass in solemn order Before the sacred dome, Where dwell the Great Twin Brethren Who fought so well for Rome!”

T. B. MACAULAY.

THE CHISWICK FLOWER FETE. For 1846.

Ho! members take your tickets,―― Ho! maidens, choose your shawls! The son looks out his waistcoats, The sire selects his smalls. To-day is Flora’s triumph, To-day great sights you view, So, cabmen, drive your cattle, And drive your bargains too.

Green are the squares of London, And some few lanes are green, And trees of city foliage Shade walks of stone between, And green are certain gala days, With places known to fame―― The inner circle of the park That bears the Regent’s name.

And green are those great glasses That hold Germania’s wine, That they tell you suit the vintage Of the clear Moselle and Rhine: And green are those young freshmen, Who, to earn a gentle name, Take credit of a tailor, Or give it to a dame.

But greener far than any Is Chiswick’s shaven sward, And gayer than all gala-days Are the groups that swarm abroad. See how they muster onwards,―― The car, the cab, the team; My dearest friends in carriages, My dearer self by steam.

Bright is the first fresh show of Spring, When cucumbers are rare; And bright the show of hot July, When Autumn’s fruits are there: Autumn that’s forced beforehand, As children oversage, When all forestalls its season, Like minds before their age.

But the brightest day among them, The grandest show of three, Is that which brings the roses, And draws down you and me. So ’mid the great Triumvirs Did greater Caesar sway; So ’mid the days of Epsom Stands out the Derby day.

(Ten verses omitted.)

THE TRAVELLING BACHELOR.

This imitation of Lord Macaulay first appeared in Bentley’s Miscellany, and was afterwards included in The Bentley Ballads (R. Bentley, London. 1869.)

――――

THE BATTLE OF THE VESTRIES.

Ho, guardians! sound the cornet, Ho, beadle! clear the way, The parish pride to-day hath hied To see the mud-pumps play. The legates of the Vestries Have gained the river boat. The legates of the Vestries Are all in state afloat. The legates of the Vestries Defying aqueous ills, Have reached the land by Stratford’s strand, Where stand the Abbey Mills.

Fair are the bowers of Stratford, Its coppices and clumps, And fair the Pumping Station Which Tamesian sewage pumps, And fairer yet by long chalks That cold collation is, Which Vestrymen have brought in train, Of ham and beef and fowl amain, And ale and stout and cheap champagne: The Vestries term it “fiz.”

They saw the Abbey Mill Pumps Work grandly up and down, Which save the mud and garbage Infecting London town; And when they had inspected, With noses satisfied, Down sat they to a banquet sprent O’er a white table in the tent Pitched over Stratford side. But ere they sat to dine there On fowl and beef and tongue, They, on the steamboat fore and aft, The wine and bitter beer had quaffed, Till, in the language of their craft, Each Vestryman was “sprung.”

Now dinner barely over, With more drink doled to each, Higgins the noble shopkeeper, Arose to make a speech―― Higgins who all the noblemen Of Clerkenwell supplies; And near him sat brave Podger, who The letter H defies, But Higgins when in liquor Of speech is somewhat thick, Yet dealeth he in chaff which is Extremely apt to stick. At Higgins’ muddled periods Stout Podger hurled a sneer, And Higgins answered with an oath Meet for a Vestry’s ear.

Now by the crest of Mary, Mary surnamed Le Bone, The ire of Podger swiftly rose To hear the scoffer’s tone. An empty bottle wielding He aimed it at his crown, And with unerring fleetness Tumbled his foeman down. Then flamed the wrath of Vestries, And blows and curses sped, And fowl-bones flew, and H’s dropped, But still undaunted Podger whopped, With champagne bottles that had popped, Prone Higgins’s bare head.

The battle now grew general; Boggle at Hunks let fly! Hunks aimed a blow at Boggle That caught him in the eye; While Grigg and Globb and Blenkinsop Around dealt broken pates; Still Podger’s stick dealt many a blow, Till mastered by the numerous foe That hurled him far and laid him low Among the knives and plates.

The Ilford beaks look sternly Upon a Guardian’s fault; The Ilford beaks fined Podger Five pounds for each assault, Still let us sing in triumph With all a minstrel’s powers, How Vestrymen behave themselves In the brave days of ours.

The Tomahawk. September 19, 1868.

――――

A LAY OF ANCIENT ROME. New-laid in Modern London.

Ho, Bugler, give a tootle! Ho, Peeler, keep the way; For the Mayor will ride in all his pride To Temple Bar to-day: To-day the doors and windows Are hung with banners all, From Buckingham’s famed Palace, To the Churchyard of St. Paul.

And forth ride Mayor and Sheriffs, All duly chained and gowned; A well-trained charger under each, Treads gingerly the ground. While stands the old Cathedral, And, till the Law Courts rise, So great a sight shall not delight Again our wondering eyes. Sweet is the First of April―― November’s Ninth is gay; But they may not compare a jot With this Thanksgiving Day.

Fast from the Hill of Ludgate, Where Benson’s watches are, The Lord Mayor and the Sheriffs Rode on to Temple Bar. On the right hand trotted Truscott, Of Dowgate Ward the pride; And on the left spurred Bennett, The Bennett of Cheapside.

I wis in all the City There was no man so cold, But loud he roared, and long he cheered, The pageant to behold. The Fathers of the City They sat their horses well, Though by their side did footmen stride To catch them if they fell.

And now ’mid cheers and laughter, They halt at Temple Bar, And glad are they, so I should say, To find that there they are. And lo, the Queen arriving, The City’s keys has ta’en:―― But look you how, with gracious bow, She gives them back again.

And now the Mayor and Sheriffs Remount at Temple Bar, And down the street of ancient Fleet Precede the Royal Car.

And now the ascent of Ludgate ’Mid shouting is begun: They pass the Cheese of Hudson, They pass the Books of Dunn, And where McCarthy’s groves of Hats A pleasant shadow cast, They draw the rein, for it is plain They’re at St. Paul’s at last.

(Five verses omitted.)

Fun. March 2, 1872.

――――

THE FOOTBALL MATCH

Between the Whartonites and Beaconites, which ended in the defeat of the latter. Played November 21_st, on the school ground._

(A Parody on passages from the Battle of Lake Regillus.)

Ho! Captains sound the war note; Præposters, clear the way; The Whartonites and Beaconites Will soon begin to play. See, many a tree and paling Is hung with caps and coats, From Mug’s shed to the Hundred The fence in finery gloats. Each youth is striped with colours, With light blue each is crowned, Right gallantly and proudly each Advances up the ground. The Captain,[108] brave Valerius, Is bringing up the ball, A shout of schoolboy merriment And mirth proceeds from all.

The half-backs were stout Aulus Of herculean size And Brutus strapped and tied and wrapped In wondrous football guise The full back was Horatius Who near the goal posts stood In shorts and stockings gay, arrayed Capped with a Brewer’s hood.

See, now the ball is started; See now they run apace; How pluckily the little chaps Those Beacon giants face! And in the gutters thickest Were given hacks and blows And from the gutters loudest The cry of “Play up” rose, And louder still and louder Rose from the muddy field The shouts and yells of Captains both “Shove up and do not yield.” The panting forwards dashing Like madmen, o’er the plain, Mid joyous shouts of triumph And screeching yells of pain, For underneath a gutter Flaccus of Sevenoaks lay: Better had he been learning Greek grammar all that day. Mamilias saw him struggling And tossed his blue black crest And toward the brave Valerius Through the thick battle pressed.

Valerius smote Mamilias So fiercely on the head That the great Lord of Sevenoaks Rolled over well nigh dead. Mamilias smote Lars Porsena With a good aim and true Just where the neck and shoulder join And made him black and blue, Here brave Amutius Elva Fell swooning to the ground, And a thick wall of players Encompassed him around.

Sempronius Atratinus Would fain have cleared a space But deaf’ning yells and shrieks and shouts Were levelled at his face. While some stood round and shouted “Brave Sextus don’t give in,” As many others roared as loud “By Jove, my man will win.” Then out spake good Valerius, The Captain of the team, “To all that stand upon this field “This must rare plucky seem, “But how can a man die better “(If he’s to die at all) “Than battered in and bashed and squashed “And flattened in a maul?” Sempronius Atratinus And Decius Mus were hoarse With yelling “Boys get off the ball “It’s Sextus’s of course.” And oh! the thundering clamour When Sextus faintly rose, Black in the face and panting fast Must bring this to a close.

Gay are the Cricket Kalends, The Racing Nones are gay, But the Football Ides, of all the pride, Shall be the whitest day, While flows our Medway river, While stands our One Tree Hill, The Ides of proud November Shall have such honour still.

The Tonbridgian. December, 1878.

――――

A PROPHECY OF CAPERS. (A Lay of an Ancient Roamer.)

Ho! grooms, fling forth the sawdust Ho! shed it on the tan, For round the show The troupe must to In glittering caravan; In long and grand procession Parading, one and all Belonging to the Circus At the Agricultural Hall.

Gay are Reform Processions, The Lord Mayor’s Show is gay, But the Circus-ride All else beside Surpasses in that way, Where piglings, born in litters, Did late attention crave, And implements of husbandry The reaping hook to save; Where (shows of mules and hosses Are likewise in its line), We’ve had of late A gathering great Of fatted sheep and kine. But nobler now the show is, And brighter the array―― A pageant, gay and glorious, A quite unique display Of horsemanship That none may whip Is opened there this day.

Tall are the iron siphons That rise in Pentonville, And lofty is the viaduct You see at Holborn Hill, Thwaites, at the Thames Embankment, Has worked for many a year, Beneath our highways Fowler drove An Underground career.

But now no water-workmen Are found at Pentonville, No navvies poise the girders huge For spanning Holborn Hill, Unheeded on th’ Embankment Rings out the cry of “Beer!” Unwatched the populace may urge Their Underground career!

The harvests at Refreshment bars Just now young men may reap; Just now the banks of Lombard The unfledged clerks may keep; And in the vats of Romford Just now the brewing’s done By ’prentice hands, for all the world Has gone to Islington.

Ho! bandsmen, toot your bugle! Ho! grooms, there, clear the course, For Mademoiselle Will cut a swell Upon her high-trained horse, And here is Jones of Putney, Who rides the bare-backed steed; And here is Brown of Camberwell, Who clears six hoops at speed; And here is Peckham’s Perkins, The foremost in the land, With tinsel fillet, smiling lip, And cracking whip, and loud Ya-hip, Who drives eighteen-in-hand. Make way for the procession―― Make way there, great and small―― It comes,――the troupe of Sanger, Of the Agricultural Hall!

Fun.

――――

THE BATTLE OF LAKE MORT.

_A Lay sung at a Feast of Bacchus, about the Kalends of Aprilis, in the year of grace_ MDCCCLXX.

With Latin notes by Canis.

I.

Ho, undergrads, be merry! Ho, all men, shout away! The Crew will ride, in all their pride Along the streets to day. To-day the doors and windows Are hung with “colours” all, From hand-bills in the street way, To posters on the wall. Each man is clothed in “blazer,” With light blue each is crowned; And each preserves a well made oar No more to rowlock bound. While flows our turbid river, While stands our Market hill, The Kalends of Aprilis Shall have such honour still. Gay are the Ides of Maia: December’s Nones are gay: But the Kalends which April sends, Shall be our proudest day.

II.

Unto the Great Sea Ruler, With Bacchus, is this feast. Swift, swift, the Great Sea Ruler Ran till the race had ceased, He came from depths Atlantic, Where tossing waves abound, With countless laughter rippling, And music in their sound, He came to see his well-loved, Our Thames, where glory rings, He came to lordly London, The city of our kings[109]; To where by far-famed Lake Mort, Now Mortlake long time hight―― All in the Thames’ fair waters, Was fought the glorious fight.

III.

Now on the place of battle Are boats and barges seen, And rows of tugs, and lines of ships, And boatmen far from clean; The screws of the big steamers Crush the small waves beneath, And others with their paddles Make all the waters seethe; The fisher baits his angle, The mudlark goes his round, Little they think on those strong limbs That battled near that ground; Little they think how sternly That day the coxwains cried, How boat and boatmen felt the rush, Of that dark eddying tide; How some men came with rumours Which others called a hoax; How some laid bets on captains, And others named the strokes; How thick the crowd was gathered Upon the bridges height; How all along the towing path Swayed the wild stream of flight; And how the far-famed Lake Mort Bubbled with unclean foam, What time the ancient Isis Against the Cam did come.

X.

Up rose the golden morning Over the Pauline[110] height. The Kalends of Aprilis, Marked evermore with white. Not without secret trouble Our bravest saw the foes, For held by sixteen manly hands The eight good oars arose. From each picked beating college That boasts the Oxford name Fore doomed to be defeated That gallant army came.

* * * * *

And in the Cantab army Were men of wondrous might, Who came from Johnian portals, And girt them for the fight, From Trinity came others, As part of that array; From Sidney and from Jesus―― Athletic men were they.

XV.

Now to each boat the starter Gave signal for the charge; And in each boat the oarsmen Rowed on past tub and barge; And in each boat the oarsman Struck the water with his oar; And near each boat the steamers Steamed on with mighty roar, And under that great turmoil The waves with mud were dark, And like the London fog at morn The steam hung o’er each bark. And louder still and louder Rose from the crowded bank The cheering and the war cries,[111] With hopes that rose and sank. And onward rowed the rivals And neither seemed to wane, They scudded o’er the waters Like whirlwinds o’er the plain.

XVII.

The Cantabs took the lead at once; At the Creek they were away. “Now hie ye on!” the coxswains cried, “And see ye win the day.” But when they reached the Crab Tree ’Twixt the two light was seen; And halfway to the Soapworks, There was a length between. But now the Oxford strokesman Laboured with labour strong, And spurted up amidst the cheers Of the delighted throng. And closer still and closer Did Darbishire draw near, Till by the Soapworks Cambridge men Began to feel some fear. But Goldie now worked harder, And passed the Ship a-head When Darbishire put on a spurt, But his men were nearly dead. “Cam to the charge!” cried Gordon, The foe begins to yield; For now the Great Sea Ruler Hath gained for us the field. And passing under Barnes Bridge Cam was a length away, And rowing on to Lake Mort Most bravely won the day.

XX.

The god who lives for ever Hath fought for Cam to-day He is the Great Sea Ruler, To whom the oarsmen pray, Back comes the Chief in triumph Who in the hour of fight Was helped by the Great Ruler, Who gave him what was right. Safe comes the ship to haven Through billows and through gales If once the great Sea Ruler Sits perched upon the sails. Here in the Union building, Hoist we the telegram, Which says the Great Sea Ruler Hath fought so well for Cam. And when the months returning Bring back this day of fight―― The proud day of the boat-race Marked evermore with white―― Unto the Union building Let Undergrads all throng, And pass into the Union To read the telegram, Which says “The Great Sea Ruler, Hath fought so well for Cam!”

These extracts are from “The Battle of Lake Mort,” a long parody by the author of The Dauntless Three (already referred to on page 172). Cambridge, J. Hall and Son. 1875. Price 6_d._

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Punch, September 6, 1884, contained an imitation entitled “The Dioscuri in Egypt.” It referred to the mission to Egypt undertaken by Lords Wolseley and Northbrook, which failed so dismally. The following extracts are from, a parody, which also appeared in Punch, February 11, 1888, describing the opening of Parliament.

IN THE ARENA. The “Parade” before the Conflict.

Ho! trumpets blare forth bravely, ho, banners proudly flout! Cool critics loll expectant, spectators swarm and shout! For lo! short truce is over, and lately sundered foes, Once more in the arena will counter, clash, and close. The echoes of the battle when last they trod the sand, The tramp of eager horsemen, the clang of biting brand, Seem scarcely to have left us, and now, before the Spring Has come with burst of blossom, has filled with flush of wing, Ere Valentine the Vernal hath trod the ancient tracks, His burthens laid on lovers, and eke on postmen’s backs, Ere snow hath left the branches, ere green hath lit the boughs, We may look out for ructions, and we must list to rows. Yet in this huge arena heroic figures shine; Such sure is thine, Gladstonius; Cæcilius, such is thine! Achilles and great Hector might well have flushed with joy To counter foes so worthy afar by windy Troy. Cæcilius on his war-horse full proudly pranceth round―― He doth not show like shrinking, nor look like giving ground; And at his back all brawny, and stolid, and serene (An armour-bearer stouter hath been right seldom seen), Comes low-lipped Hartingtonius, ready with shield, or crest, Or sword, or spear, or javelin, as may be in request. These eyeing stern and steady, as fighters foemen eye, Comes wintry-lock’d Gladstonius, game still the lists to try Against whatever comer, erect, and gaunt of limb, With glance exceeding fiery, and jaw exceeding grim; His armour-bearer, also, is ready at his heel, With breadth of bossy buckler, and length of shining steel; Parnellius the Placid, with pallid cheek and cold, With calm eye ever watchful, and chill front ever bold. When these anon encounter in full and fiery tilt, Be sure that steel shall splinter, and ruddy blood be spilt. “Who――who in the aforetime had ever thought to see These heroes so attended, museth the herald, P, And other chiefs of valour though lower in their grade, Array in the arena, and prance in the parade. Comes Smithius the smug-faced, him of the settled smirk, Balfourius “the brave,” too, one never known to shirk Sword-thrust, or spare his foeman though prostrate and disarmed, Goschenius, erst henchman of Gladstonius, till charmed From him the white-lock’d Wonder, but now his fiercest foe, Save Chamberlanius, better beknown as Brummijo, Who beards his ancient Chieftain with even more of ire, And backs his ancient foeman with yet more zealous fire. Not so the stout Harcourtius, him of the triple chin, He backs the “Grand Old Manlius,” as one who’s bound to win, Old Manlius Gladstonius, when others shy or sulk, And loads the ancient war-horse with big complacent bulk. And others follow after him of the snowy crest, Morleius the mordant, bravest amongst the best, Gallant Spencerius Rufus, the loyallest of hearts, And――but the clarion brayeth, the martial pageant starts.

HENRY OF NAVARRE.

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn fields green, and sunny vines, oh, pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy, Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre.

T. B. MACAULAY.

THE WAR OF THE NORMAS.

Now glory to LA DIVA who still reigns the Queen of Song, And glory, too, to Costa, may he wield the bâton long. Now let the distant sound of song, and echo of the band, Be heard through Covent Garden, and Long Acre, and the Strand. And thou, too, Morning Chronicle, bold partisan of Beale, As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our weal. For ill-advised was Jenny, when she thought to reach the throne Of that unrivalled songstress who had made the part her own.

Hurrah! hurrah! the first night proved she had essayed too much; Hurrah! hurrah for Grisi, and the Norma none can touch!

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when a week before the day, We saw proud Lumley posting up his bills in long array; There stood the name of grand Lablache, of mighty voice and limb; And there too, was Fraschini, but we did not care for him. And we cried unto our Norma, that she might be underlined, To combat for her own great name, and leave the Lind behind.

* * * * *

Ho! partisans of Lumley, don habiliments of woe! Weep, rend your hair, to hear the truth: your Norma was “no go.” Ho! Verdi, bring for charity thy opera to their aid, That Jenny Lind may sing and no comparison be made. Ho! bold Bond-street librarians find the public still is true Unto their long-tried favourite, to whom all praise be due. For Grisi still hath proved herself the best of all the bunch, Hath mocked the critic of the Post, and box-bought praise of Punch.

Then glory to LA DIVA who yet reigns the Queen of Song, And glory, too, to Costa――may he wield the baton long!

From The Man in the Moon. Edited by Albert Smith and Angus B. Reach. Vol. II.

Jenny Lind made her first appearance at Her Majesty’s Theatre, London, in May, 1847 (when it was under the management of Mr. Lumley), with great success. She was much admired in every part she undertook, but in Norma she had to stand comparison with Madame Grisi, who had long been identified with it, and opinions widely differed, as to the superiority of these famous singers in this, now almost forgotten, opera.

――――

THE LORD MAYOR’S SHOW.

Now, ye blue-blooded dustmen, leave your cart’s unsav’ry tail, And you, ye “supes” of noble birth, come don your coats of mail; For Harcourt and his legions and Firth, that recreant knight, Have dared the valiant Griffin and the Turtle to the fight! Now Fowler wipes his reeking brow, while smiles relax his face, For have they not already flinched before his mighty mace? And noble Nottage waves his lens, and seeks the thickest strife, And woe to those who stand to him――he’ll “take ’em from the life”!

――――

But why this shadow o’er the board, this phantom at the feast? The day is won, the foe has fled, his fierce assaults have ceased. Yet still the hollow laugh is forced, as though each heard the cry: “Let’s eat and drink and merry be――to-morrow we must die!” In vain the jewelled cup is passed, the speech and song go round; Each song seems but a requiem, each speech a ghostly sound, While o’er the Master’s anxious face a cloud hangs like a pall; Alas! Belshazzar-Nottage sees――“the writing on the wall!”

J. T. WRIGHT.

The Weekly Dispatch. November 9, 1884.

――――

IRELAND, 1890.

Now, glory to the Lord Parnell, from whom all glories are! And feathers for his enemies, and ignominious tar! Now let Tay Pay blow off his steam, and Joseph Gillies prance, And suffer bold O’Brien (Ireland’s lion) to advance! And thou, Old Man, our Grand Old Man, who Erin’s acres bought us, With coin filched from the Sassenach, and confiscation taught us; As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For impotent or dumb are they who wrought our bills annoy. Whiroo! whiroo! Rip up the bond before it be too late, The watchword of New Erin――rip! rip! REPUDIATE!

* * * * *

Ho! Morley of the mealy mouth; ho! Green and Grand Old Man; Weep, weep, and rend what hair you have for downfall of your plan. Ho! Rothschild lend (or Roseberrie) vast shekels (or pistoles) To lure the Liberal and Rad from ratting at the polls. Oh, loyal members of the League, kneel at his feet and pray For him who with a royal hand hath squared the deal to-day. For the King hath crushed the tyrant bond, the King hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the just, and the valour of the brave. Then glory to the dodgy one who crowned New Erin’s Fate, And raised the cry, “Don’t pay your debts, but rip――REPUDIATE!”

Charles S. is come to marshal us, in all his livery drest, And he has stuck a landlord’s scalp upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his creatures with a wary winking eye, And then upon the Sassenach, and cried, “How’s this for high?” Right knowingly he leered on us, as rolled from street to street The shout, “The honest Pat’s played out; make ready for the cheat! And if the Yankee dollars fail, as fail full well they may, For never saw I promise yet of such a costly day. Press where ye see the landlord’s scalp upon my hybrid pate, And be your oriflamme, my boys, rip! rip! REPUDIATE!”

The Topical Times. March 20, 1886.

――――

THE GREAT RENT CASE. (A Lay of the High Court in the year 1865.)

Ho! Nazirs, sound your tom-toms! Ho! Sheriff, clear the way! The Judges ride, in all their pride,―― To the High Court to-day. Shout! gallant little Crier! Your eye-glass tightly fit, Arrange your splendid Forum So every Judge may sit. Each Judge is robed in sable, His gills flow long and wide, Like Bull-frog in the fable, He swells with conscious pride.

These are the opening lines of a long parody describing a trial in India, contained in “Lyrics and Lays,” by Pips, published in Calcutta, by Wyman Bros., 1867. The parody consists of more than 450 lines, and is both unintelligible and uninteresting to all but persons’ accustomed to Indian life and character.

――――:o:――――

BEFORE THE BATTLE. (And considerably after “Ivry.”) A Song for the Sanguine.

Now luck unto the Liberal Host, to whom good luck should be! And luck unto our Leader Old, undaunted William G.! Now let the merry music sound a resolute advance, Come, Hartington, why bite thy beard? Come, Joe, why look askance? And Spencer, loyal Spencer gaze across the Irish water! It is not rapture lights the eyes of those who schemed thy slaughter. As thou wert constant in our ills, joy in our coming joy, For glum, and mum, and dumb are they who wrought thy rule annoy. Hurrah! How oft a single charge hath made the Tory flee, Hurrah! Hurrah! for victory, and valiant William G. Oh! how all hearts are beating, on this our opening day, We see the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-praised patriots, and all its rebels red, And Biggar’s beauteous body, and Tim Healy’s handsome head. There sit the brood of anarchy, the troublers of the land; And dark Parnell is in their midst, and holds them well in hand. And as we look on them, we think of treason in full flood, And good Lord Frederick’s manly breast bedabbled with his blood; And we cry unto fair Fortune from their toils to set us free, To fight for loyal liberty and valiant William G.

He comes once more to marshal us, in simple broadcloth drest; As glorious are his scant white locks as any knightly crest. He looked upon his Homer, and he heaved a scholar’s sigh; He looks upon the Tory, and his glance is stern and high. Right genially he smiles on us, as rolls from wing to wing Down all our line the ready cheer. We’ve heard his voice outring: “And if our flag should seem to droop, as seem sometime it may, “For never saw I promise yet of such a fierce affray, “Press where you see my banner wave, in battle’s front ’twill be, “For whosoe’er fall to the rear, it won’t be W. G.”

Hurrah! The foe are stirring. Expect the mingled shindy, Of Biggar tart and turbulent, and Bartlett wild and windy. The Uncrowned King will cut us out some most unpleasant work, With all his hireling patriots from Kerry and from Cork. Now by the golden lips we love, unitedly advance! Charge Radical with Liberal!――don’t give the foe a chance! A hundred times we’ve beaten them, now comes a crowning test, A hundred times we’ve phalanxed close behind that snow white crest. If now we mean to break their ranks, and beat them, it must be All of one mind, charging behind our valiant William G.

Methinks the day may yet be ours. Carnarvon hath turned rein; Hicks-Beach in vain hath paltered, Lord Randolph glozed in vain. Their ranks are gaping; there be clouds upon each visage pale; Their Irish pact won’t somehow act; it was foredoomed to fail. It makes us dream of vengeance; and all along our van, “Remember their Kilmainham charge!” is passed from man to man. But what says generous William? “No Irishman’s my foe; “Down, down with every thought of hate! For justice let us go!” Was ever so magnanimous, so fair a foe as he―― Our much maligned old champion, our gallant William G.?

Right well each man will have to fight who fights with us to-day, And many a party pennon will fall earthward in the fray. And we whose watchword’s “Unity!” must bear us well in fight; For never yet was it more hard to follow simple right. But when our standard-bearer the old, old flag hath ta’en, Blazoned “Be just, and fear not!” flag that never flew in vain; Up with it high, unfurl it wide, that all the host may know Though with the League we won’t intrigue, to Ireland we’re no foe. Then rally round whilst trumpets sound their challenge far and free; Broad let it wave, a banner brave, for gallant William G.

Ho! Ladies of the Primrose, whose hearts for victory yearn, Weep, weep for the majority you struggled to return. Ho! Cecil, twist to Tory sense the verdict of the polls, And do your best to lure the Whigs and scare all timid souls. Ho! swollen cohort of the League, think not our hearts to fright. Ho! followers of the Liberal Flag, keep clear your sense of right. To foil Hibernia’s tyrant, yet to raise Hibernia’s slave, Will tax the counsel of the wise, the valour of the brave. Yet here’s for having at the task, how stiff soe’er it be! And here’s to him who’ll lead us on, our dauntless William G.!

House of Commons, Wednesday, January 20.

The Daily News. January 21, 1886.

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A number of parodies of Lord Macaulay are scattered about in the back numbers of comic papers. It will suffice to give a verse or two from the most important.

LAY OF THE AMPHITHEATRE (ROYAL). The Combat.

As they entered the arena, Their step was firm and brave; Though of one or of the other, They knew it was the grave.

Each took a little porter, To nerve him for the scene; They entered the arena, So calm and so serene!

A thousand eyes were on them, All eager for the fight; The footlights flared before them―― The combat was by night.

And now they bare their falchions, And foot to foot they stand, Each sternly eyes the other With look composed and grand.

Yet one is honest-hearted, And true, as well as brave―― The other is a ruffian, A sanguinary knave.

By turns their weapons clashing, Right equal seems the game; While “One, Two, Three,” says Simpson, Smith doth repeat the same.

Sword upon sword descending, While fiddle and trombone, In time to that dread music, Play slowly “Bobbing Joan.”

Yet not in time exactly―― This night it may not be; Yon churl who plays the fiddle, Exceeding drunk is he!

Now Smith doth wicked Simpson Into a corner urge; Now Simpson drives him back upon The stage’s utmost verge.

At length a blow so swashing From gallant Smith’s claymore, On that of Simpson thunders―― He totters――falls――’tis o’er!

* * * * *

And then――to show no malice Fester’d his soul within―― The wicked corpse of Simpson, He treated to some gin.

Now be each scheming villain Like yonder Simpson floored; And every gallant spirit meet With gallant Smith’s reward!

(Eight verses omitted.)

Punch. 1845.

――――

A LAY OF MODERN ENGLAND. Or, Ibrahim Pacha at Vauxhall.

Great Ibrahim of Egypt has promised the Lessee The Masquerade at Vauxhall he’ll go in state to see; To Allah he has vowed it――to Allah and the Clown, That in his royal glass-coach he will in state go down.

This is the first of twenty-three verses of a not particularly good parody, which appeared in George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack for 1847.

――――

The Month. By Albert Smith and John Leech. In the number for December 1851, of this scarce little magazine, there was a long imitation of Macaulay, entitled

THE INAUGURATION OF THE MAYOR.

Up! Citizens of Cripplegate――come Billingsgate, begin! Rise ye of ancient Candlewick――up Farringdon Within, Now Castle Baynard, show your strength――now Aldgate, lead the van, Ye City wards which ne’er were picked, since history began.

’Tis London’s ancient Festival, another Mayor to-day, Begins the civic sceptre of the Mansion House to sway; Blythe the self congratulation――sad the wail of discontent, As the one gets into office, and the other out is sent.

From the plains of fair Belgravia, from Tyburnia and the north, Troops of ruddy servant maidens on their holiday come forth, Each with snowy kerchiefs laden, which they never will unfold, Going wildly in directions just wherever they are told.

* * * * *

Twenty-two verses follow here, describing the Lord Mayor’s procession and banquet, topics which do not suggest any novelty to the poet, who concludes thus:――

Let us hope that in the waking from the darkness to the light, The coming day may realise the visions of the night, That the civic corporation may its funds so well bestow, That a nation’s commendation may attend the Lord Mayor’s “Show.”

Ainsi soit il.

――――

THE CITY TOURNAMENT.

Ho! Policemen! get before them! Ho! Serjeants! clear the way! The Sheriffs ride in state and pride, To the Guildhall to-day! To the Guildhall they’re coming, Spite of the wind or rain; To preside at Civic Tourney, That makes a Chamberlain.

This is the first verse of a long, and uninteresting, parody which appeared in Diogenes, June 18, 1853, describing the contest between Sir John Key and Mr. Benjamin Scott, for the office of City Chamberlain (London). Sir John Key was then successful, but in 1858 Mr. Scott obtained the office.

A Bowl of Punch, by Albert Smith, 1848, contains “A Lay of Ancient Rome,” describing the brave deeds of Marcus Curtius, in burlesque verses, but it is not exactly a parody of Macaulay’s style.

――――

BURLINGTON. (A Lay of Regent’s Park College.)

The Senate of the London U- niversity they swore, That the great house of Regent’s Park Should pass its men no more. By their M.A.’s they swore it, And fixed the fatal day, And bade all their Professors pen Such questions as should keep the men From taking their B.A.

There be an awful Senate; The wisest in the land, Who by the dread Examiners Both morn and evening stand, And with one voice the Senate, Like mean and stingy brutes, Have said, “Go forth, Examiners, And pluck them like old boots.”

Messrs. Bailey, Sale, and Edwards are sent up for Examination, the terrors of which are described at length, but they manage to pass.

Out came they, as not deigning Those other men to see; Naught spake they to the Porter, Although he asked a fee; But mentally in Regent’s Park They saw the “House” appear; And they hailed a Hansom cabman Who happened to be near.

“Oh, Cabby! gentle Cabby! To whom the students pay, Three students’ lives, three students’ limbs, Take thou in charge this day.” So they spake, and, speaking, told The cabman where to ride, And with their books beneath their arms, Plunged recklessly inside.

And now they gain the entrance; Now on the steps they stand, And round them flock the students, To shake each by the hand; And now, with shouts and laughter, To the tune of the College Song, They enter into the Common Hall, Borne by the joyous throng,

They gave them of the buttered bread, That was of public right, As much as three big students Could eat from morn to night; They got the printed Class List, And set it up on high―― And it exists until this day To witness if I lie.

(Twenty-five verses omitted.)

JOHN D. PARLEY. 1872.

From Rambles in Rhymeland.

――――:o:――――

ROUTH’S REVENGE. A Lay of the Tripos.

It was a future Wrangler, Smith, And gallantly he swore, “By blood and bones, by goose and groans, I’ll coach with Routh no more! I hate his problem papers, His quills I do detest; Revision too, and manuscripts With horror fill my breast. My mind is fixed, I’ll up at once And give him the straight tip.” And so he did; but Routh was out, So he gave it to his gyp; Then Routh he smole a horrid smile, And grinned a ghastly grin; “He wants to take it out of me, He’ll be himself took in, He’ll lose his place, alas, alas―― And I shall lose his ‘tin.’”

* * * * *

The Day is come, the list is read, And Routh is there to see―― The list is read which gives to all A high or low degree, Name after name, till Smith Came out a Junior Optime.

From Light Green. Cambridge, W. Metcalfe and Son, 1882.

――――:o:――――

THE NEW NASEBY. By Obadiah Bind-the-Priests-in-Chains-and-the-Paddies-with-Links-of-Iron, Officer in the Unionist Regiment.

Oh! wherefore went you forth as in triumph to the North, With your speech at every station, which the Tories raging read? And wherefore did your rout send forth a joyous shout? And where be the gapers that your northward journey sped?

Oh, triumphant was your route, but bitter is its fruit, And mistaken was the line of your Manifesto odd, Where you railed against the throng of the wealthy and the strong, And swore the People’s voice was the very voice of God.

It was about the noon of a sunny day of June, That we saw their banners dance in Midlothian fair and fine; And the Grand Old man was there, with his scant and snowy hair, And Cowan, and Lord Rosebery, and Liberal hosts in line.

And the Chief by Scots adored raised his head and bared his sword, And harangued his motley legions to form them to the fight; And many a cheer and shout from their listening ranks brake out, As the aged Sophist glosed upon justice, love, and right.

And hark! like the roar of the surf upon the shore, The cry of battle rises along our loyal line! For Union! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws! For Salisbury the Splendid, and for Joseph the Divine!

(Nine verses omitted.)

Punch. July 24, 1886.

There was also a political parody in Punch, February 12, 1887, comparing Lord Randolph Churchill to Quintus Curtius, and another on May 26, 1888, entitled “A Ballad of a late occurrence” addressed to Lord Wolseley, and written in imitation of Macaulay’s The Armada.

――――

LANDBILLIA.

(Fragments of a Lay sung in the Via Celera the week after the great Battle between the proud Patrician Furius Cecilius Salburius, and the Tribune Billius Gladstonius, great Champion of the Commons, and framer of Agrarian Laws.)

Ye good men of the Commons, with sturdy souls and true, Who stood by brave Gladstonius, as he had stood by you, Come make a circle round me, and mark my tale with care, A tale of what the Plebs have dared, and yet again may dare.

* * * * *

Of all the Upper Ten whose brows the Strawberry Leaves have prest, Cecilius af the acrid tongue was proudest, haughtiest, He stalked about the Senate like King Tarquin in his pride, And most of the Patrician host were marshalled on his side. And the Plebs eyed askance with doubt, which well he hoped was fear, That swarthy brow, that curling mouth, that ever seemed to sneer. That brow of black, that mouth of scorn, looked signs of iron will, And none believed Cecilius wished the Commons aught but ill.

* * * * *

Up from the Commons briskly the fair Landbillia came, Offspring of great Gladstonius, that Plebs-loved son of fame. And up the Senate stairs she passed, and, as she danced along, Gladstonius warbled cheerily words of the good old song, “She will return, I know her well!” thus the fond Sire out-sang, And through the Senate’s portals his mellow accents rang.

* * * * *

So passed the fair Landbillia to those high halls above, Where proud Patricians bowed to her they something less than loved. So triumphed great Gladstonius, who rather grimly smiled, As sour Cecilius once more led forth his cherished child, Uninjured from the ordeal stern; but, smiling, dropt his blade, And those two doughty champions, so late for fight arrayed, Like Boxus and like Coxus, each on other’s shoulder fell, What time the Commons chuckled, and the Plebs cried, “All is well!”

* * * * *

Punch. August 27, 1881.

――――

HIBERNIA.

(Fragments of a Lay sung on the day when the Patriot Singer (and Lord Mayor) Sullivan was released from durance vile, to “The Harp that once in Tullamore the soul of music shed,” in strains af mingled patriotism and parody.)

Ye good men of the Commons, with loyal hearts and true, Who stand by us bold Irish, who now will stand by you, Come, light your weeds around me, and mark my tale with care, Of what poor Ireland oft hath borne, and yet may have to bear.

* * * * *

Of all the wicked Tories still the names are held accursed, And of all the wicked Tories black Balfour was the worst, He stalked about the Chamber like a Bunthorne in his pride, Or sprawled with lank and languid legs entangled or spread wide. The Irish eyed with anger, not all unmixed with fear, His lifted chin, his curling mouth that always seemed to sneer: That brow of brass, that mouth of scorn, mark all the species still, For never was there Tory yet but wished the Irish ill. Nor lacks he fit attendance; for ever at his heels That most notorious renegade, his Sub., King-Harman, steals, His written answer ready, be the question what it may, And the smile flickering on his cheek for aught his Chief may say.

* * * * *

“Now, by your children’s cradles, now, by your father’s graves, Be men to-day, ye Liberals, or be for ever slaves! For this did Cromwell give us laws? For this did Hampden bleed? For this was the great vengeance wrought, upon the Stuart’s seed? Shall a cat’s snarl alarm the race who braved the lion’s roar? Shall we, who beat great Beaconsfield, crouch to the bland Balfour? Oh, for that ancient spirit that curbed the nobles’ will! Oh, for the men of Thirty-two, who passed the famous Bill! In those brave days our Liberals stood firmly side by side, They faced the Tory fury, they tamed the Tory pride; Shall what their care bequeathed to us, our madness fling away? Is the ripe fruit of three-score years all blighted in a day? O crier, to the polling summon the eager throng! O tribunes, breathe the word of might that guards the weak from wrong! No, by the earth beneath us, and by the sky above, We will not yield to Balfour’s hate, Hibernia, whom we love. No, let the Maiden’s Home be free, its Rule be hers, with pride She who now loathes ye――as a slave――will love ye――as a bride. Spare her the inexpiable wrongs, the unutterable shame Of being shackled and coerced to suit your Party game: Lest, when her latest hope is fled, her friends are in despair. Ye learn by proof in some wild hour, how much the wretched dare!”

Punch. March 10, 1888.

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SONG OF DECEMBER.

The Saturnalia now prevail; The white and classic foam Soars high above the porter pots Of proud and ancient Rome: Upon the Capitol at night, There is the cry of “beer,” As the pot-boy, in his toga, Salutes the vulgar ear,

And from the seven hills of Rome There is a festive shout Of youths who ask each other, “If Their mothers know they’re out.” Then hail the Saturnalia, The toast, the ale, the flip, For many a nose, a Roman nose, In many a jug will dip.

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In The Book of Ballads edited by “Bon Gaultier,” there are six burlesque poems supposed to have been written by competitors for the post of Poet Laureate, when, owing to the death of Robert Southey, that office was vacant. These are in imitation of Macaulay, Tom Moore, Tennyson, Lytton, and Montgomery. The imitation of Macaulay is entitled The Laureate’s Tourney, it is by no means striking in its resemblance, whilst it is utterly destitute of humour, except for the introduction of one line of vulgar slang, in the midst of what would otherwise pass for a fairly mellifluous second-rate ballad. The comic element in nearly every ballad in that collection is obtained by the same trick in composition, which is laughable enough when it is novel and unexpected, but becomes tedious on frequent repetition.

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The numerous parodies of Lord Macaulay’s prose writings will be given in a volume of this collection to be especially devoted to prose parodies, and imitations.

THE DEVIL’S PROGRESS ON EARTH.

Friar Bacon walks again, And Doctor Faustus too; Proserpine and Pluto, And many a goblin crew. With that, a merry devil To make the airing vowed; Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha! The Devil laughed aloud.

Why think you that he laughed? Forsooth he came from Court; And there amongst the gallants Had spied such pretty sport; There was such cunning juggling, And ladies gone so proud; Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha! The Devil laughed aloud.

With that into the city Away the Devil went; To view the merchants’ dealings It was his full intent! And there along the brave Exchange He crept into the crowd, Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha! The Devil laughed aloud.

He went into the city, To see all there was well, Their scales were false, their weights were light, Their conscience fit for Hell; And Pandars chose magistrates, And Puritans allowed. Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha! The Devil laughed aloud.

With that unto the country Away the Devil goeth; For there is all plain dealing, For that the Devil knoweth. But the rich man reaps the gains For which the poor man ploughed. Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha! The Devil laughed aloud.

With that the Devil in haste Took post away to Hell, And called his fellow furies, And told them all on earth was well: That falsehood there did flourish, Plain dealing was in a cloud. Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha! The Devils laughed aloud.