Part I (part 2 of 2)

Part I (part 2 of 2)

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon When they heard him lustily a-choo-in.

And the young girl sneezed beside the well Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

He wedded a wife of richest dower With an aquiline beak of ten Roman power,

And oft when the wine in his nose was red And he knew the old woman was safe in bed,

The proud man sighed with a furnace force “Ah could I only get a divorce

And marry the girl I saw that day When I had the Fever of the Hay.”

She wedded a man unlearned and poor And they had twins every twelve month――sure;

And oft when the summer sun shone hot She wished she could drown the pesky lot.

Again in the shade of the apple trees She saw a rider draw rein, and sneeze,

As she looked down because she knew Her nose was big enough for two.

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls

And for him with a pipe in his ugly mug―― Oh, if she had him by the lug!

A manly form at her side she saw And there was no estival catarrh.

Then she took up her burden of life anew Sighing only “Ah-chee! Ah-choo!”

Alas! for maiden; for Judge alas! For household drudger, and gray haired ass.

Of all sad words of tongue or pen The saddest are “Hay fever time again.”

Ah! well for us that a region lies Where the infusoria never rise;

And in the hereafter Angels may Find a cure for the Fever of the Hay.

New York World.

――――

MAUD MÜLLER ON THE ICE.

Maud Müller on a winter’s day Went out upon the ice to play.

Beneath her Derby gleamed her locks Of her red banged hair, and her crimson socks.

She straddled about from ten to two And then a hole in the ice fell through.

On the bottom of the pond she sat As wet and mad as a half drowned rat.

A man with a hicking pole went there And fished her out by her auburn hair.

And her mother is said to have thumped her well―― Though just how hard Miss Maud can’t tell――

And hung her over the stove to dry With a thumb in her mouth, and a fist in her eye.

Alas for the maiden! alas for the hole! And ’rah for the man with the hicking pole!

For the truest words of tongue or pen Are “A skating girl’s like a headless hen.”

Brooklyn Eagle.

――――

MISS MULLER.

[“Miss Muller’s furniture, which was distrained for the payment of Queen’s taxes, refused by her on the ground that women are not allowed to vote for Parliamentary representatives, has been bought back by some of her friends, without her knowledge, and restored to her without her having paid the taxes.”――Daily paper.]

Miss Muller, on a summer day, Refused her taxes just to pay.

“I won’t stump up at all,” quoth she, “Until to vote they make me free.”

So sordid man began his tricks, And seized the dauntless maiden’s “sticks.”

He seized her table, and her chair, While she stood by with martyr air.

She saw her dear belongings go, And spoke of giving “blow for blow.”

About her thronged a female clan, Who’d sworn to trounce despotic man.

And these, to cause the tyrant pain, Bought back their leader’s “sticks” again.

That table and that chair so dear They wrested from the auctioneer.

They brought them home, they set them down, Then shrieked their triumph through the town.

Miss Muller smiled, and said, “You bet I haven’t paid my taxes yet.”

If, of all words of tongue or pen, The saddest are, “It might have been.”

Well-nigh as sad are man’s when he Wails, “Muller, you have worsted me.”

Funny Folks. July 19, 1884.

――――:o:――――

BARBARA FRITCHIE.

Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand, Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach-tree fruited deep, Fair as a garden of the Lord, To the eyes of the famished rebel horde.

On that pleasant morn of the early fall, When Lee marched over the mountain-wall, Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their crimson bars, Forty flags with their silver stars Flapped in the morning wind, the sun Of noon looked down and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Fritchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; Bravest of all in Frederick town; She took up the flag the men hauled down;

In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead;

Under his slouched hat, left and right He glanced; the old flag met his sight. “Halt!” The dust brown ranks stood fast. “Fire!” out blazed the rifle blast.

It shivered the window pane and sash, It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick as it fell from the broken staff, Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;

She leaned far out of the window sill, And shook it forth with a royal will. “Shoot if you must, this old grey head. But spare your country’s flag,” she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came; The nobler nature within him stirred To life, at that woman’s deed and word.

“Who touches a hair on yon grey head, Dies like a dog. March on!” he said. All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet;

All day long the free flag tossed Over the heads of the rebel host; Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds, that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night. Barbara Fritchie’s work is o’er, And the rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honour to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier! Over Barbara Fritchie’s grave, Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!

Peace, and order, and beauty, draw Round thy symbol of light and law; And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below, in Frederick town!

J. G. WHITTIER.

Barbara Fritchie was 96 years old at the time of the occurrence, which took place literally as described in the poem.

A PARODY.

Drough der streets of Frederickdown, Wid der red hot sun shining down, Past der saloons filled mit beer, Dem repel fellers valked on der ear.

All day drough Frederickdown so fasd, Hosses foot and sodgers past, Und der repel flag skimming ond so pright, You vould dink py jiminy id had a ridght.

Off der mony flags dot flapped in der morning vind Nary a vone could enybody find, Ub shumbed old Miss Frietchie den, Who vos pent down py nine score years und den.

She took der flag der men hauled down, Und stuck id fasd on her nighd-gown, Un pud id in der vindow vere all could see Dot dere vas vone who did lofe dot goot old flag so free.

Yust den ub come Stonewall Jack, Riden on his hosses’ pack, Under his prows he squinted his eyes, By golly de olt flag make him much surprise.

“Halt!” vell efery man stood him sdill, “Fire!” vas echoed from hill to hill; Id broke her strings of dot nighd-gown, Put olt Babra she vas round.

She freezed on dot olt flag right quick, Und oud of der vindow her head did stick: “Scoot, of you must, dis old cray head, Put spare dot country’s flag!” she said.

A look of shameness soon came o’er Der face of Jack, und der tears did pour; “Who pulls ond a hair of dot pald head, Dies like a monkey!――skip along,” he said.

All dot day und all dot night, Undil efery repel vas knocked oud of sight, Und vay pehind from Frederickdown, Dot flag stuck fasd to dot olt nighd-gown.

Babra Frietchie’s vork vas done, She don’d eny more kin hafe some fun; Pully for her! und drop a dear For dot olt gal midoud some fear.

ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

HIRAM HOVER. (A Ballad of New England life.)

Where the Moosatockmaguntic Pours its waters in the Skuntic, Met, along the forest-side, Hiram Hover, Huldah Hyde.

She, a maiden fair and dapper, He, a red-haired, stalwart trapper, Hunting beaver, mink, and skunk, In the woodlands of Squeedunk.

She, Pentucket’s pensive daughter, Walked beside the Skuntic water, Gathering, in her apron wet, Snake-root, mint, and bouncing-bet.

“Why,” he murmured, loth to leave her, “Gather yarbs for chills and fever, When a lovyer, bold and true, Only waits to gather you?”

“Go,” she answered, “I’m not hasty; I prefer a man more tasty: Leastways, one to please me well Should not have a beasty smell.”

“Haughty Huldah!” Hiram answered; “Mind and heart alike are cancered: Jest look here! these peltries give Cash, wherefrom a pair may live.

“I, you think, am but a vagrant, Trapping beasts by no means fragrant: Yet――I’m sure it’s worth a thank―― I’ve a handsome sum in bank.”

Turned and vanished Hiram Hover; And, before the year was over, Huldah, with the yarbs she sold, Bought a cape, against the cold.

Black and thick the furry cape was; Of a stylish cut the shape was; And the girls, in all the town, Envied Huldah up and down.

Then, at last, one winter morning, Hiram came, without a warning: “Either,” said he, “you are blind, Huldah, or you’ve changed your mind.

“Me you snub for trapping varmints, Yet you take the skins for garments: Since you wear the skunk and mink, There’s no harm in me, I think.”

“Well,” said she, “we will not quarrel, “Hiram: I accept the moral. Now the fashion’s so, I guess I can’t hardly do no less.”

Thus the trouble all was over Of the love of Hiram Hover; Thus he made sweet Huldah Hyde Huldah Hover as his bride.

Love employs, with equal favour, Things of good and evil savour; That, which first appeared to part, Warmed, at last, the maiden’s heart.

Under one impartial banner, Life, the hunter, Love, the tanner, Draw, from every beast they snare, Comfort for a wedded pair!

From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor.

This is an imitation of the style of some of Whittier’s delightful ballads, only substituting a comical for an earnest motive. Change that motive, and a few expressions, and it would become a serious poem.

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

ALL OR NOTHING.

Whoso answers my questions Knoweth more than me; Hunger is but knowledge In a less degree: Prophet, priest and poet Oft prevaricate, And the surest sentence Hath the greatest weight.

When upon my gaiters Drops the morning dew, Somewhat of Life’s riddle Soaks my spirit through. I am buskined by the goddess Of Monadnock’s crest, And my wings extended Touch the East and West.

Or ever coal was hardened In the cells of earth, Or flowed the founts of Bourbon, Lo! I had my birth. I am crowned coeval With the Saurian eggs, And my fancy firmly Stands on its own legs.

Wouldst thou know the secret Of the barberry-bush, Catch the slippery whistle Of the moulting thrush, Dance upon the mushrooms, Dive beneath the sea, Or anything else remarkable, Thou must follow me!

From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor.

This is a fair imitation of some of Emerson’s early poems. “Brahma” is, however, the most frequently parodied, although no parody approaches the mystery of the original.

BRAHMA.

If the red slayer thinks he slays, Or if the slain think he is slain. They know well the subtle ways I keep, and pass, and turn again.

Far or forgot to me is near; Shadow and sunlight are the same; The vanquished gods to me appear; And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out; When me they fly, I am the wings; I am the doubter and the doubt, And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode, And pine in vain the sacred seven; But thou, meek lover of the good! Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

This first appeared in The Atlantic Monthly, (No. 1) November, 1857.

――――

DAMN, AH!

An exclamation to the tortoise-shell cat which sings so diabolically under my window by night.

If the grey tom cat think he sing Or if the song think it be sung, They know not who would boot-jacks fling,―― How many bricks at him I’ve flung!

When comes the night, to me he’s near, Rainy or shiny, all the same, He on the roof will still appear And caterwaul his tom-cat flame.

They reckon ill who bolt him out, For like a bird with mighty wings He’ll perch upon the water-spout, And twice as loud the tom-cat sings.

His voice will oft attract a brood Of female felines, six or seven, To chaunt their hymns round my abode, As though it were the tom-cat’s heaven.

――――

MUTTON.

If the fat butcher thinks he slays, Or he――the mutton――thinks he’s slain, Why, “troth is truth,” the eater says―― “I’ll come, and ‘cut and come again.’”

To hungry wolves that on him leer Mutton is sheep, and sheep the same, No famished god would at him sneer―― To famine, chops are more than fame.

Who hiss at him, him but assures That they are geese, but wanting wings―― Your coat is his whose life is yours, And baa! the hymn the mutton sings.

Ye curs, and gods of grander blood, And you, ye Paddies fresh from Cork, Come taste, ye lovers of the good―― Eat! Stuff! and turn your back on pork.

ANONYMOUS.

Colonel John Hay.

JIM BLUDSO.

Wal, no! I can’t tell whar he lives, Because he don’t live, you see; Leastways, he’s got out of the habit Of livin’ like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three years That you haven’t heard folks tell How Jemmy Bludso passed-in his checks, The night of the Prairie Belle?

He weren’t no saint――them engineers Is all pretty much alike―― One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill, And another one here in Pike. A keerless man in his talk was Jim. And an awkward man in a row―― But he never flunked, and he never lied; I reckon he never knowed how.

And this was all the religion he had―― To treat his engines well; Never be passed on the river; To mind the pilot’s bell; And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire, A thousand times he swore, He’d hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore.

All boats have their day on the Mississip, And her day come at last. The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle she wouldn’t be passed; And so come tearin’ along that night,―― The oldest craft on the line, With a nigger squat on her safety valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.

The fire burst out as she clared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned, and made To that willer-bank on the right. There was runnin’ and cursin,’ but Jim yelled out Over all the infernal roar, “I’ll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot’s ashore.”

Through the hot black breath of the burnin’ boat Jim Bludso’s voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And knowed he would keep his word. And, sure’s you’re born, they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell,―― And Bludso’s ghost went up alone In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.

He weren’t no saint――but at jedgment I’d run my chance with Jim, ’Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn’t shook hands with him. He’d seen his duty, a dead-sure thing―― And went for it thar and then: And Christ ain’t a going to be too hard On a man that died for men.

JOHN HAY.

――――

THE BLOOMIN’ FLOWER OF RORTY GULCH.

It war Bob war the Bloomin Flower, They know’d him on Poker Flat; He’d gouged a few down Gilgal way, But no one complained o’ that. He scored his stiffs[126] on the heft of his knife―― Forty I’ve heern ’em say; It might have been more――Bob kept his accounts In a loosish sorter way.

Bob warn’t a angel ter look at, And the Bible it warn’t his book; He swore the most oaths that war swor’d in the camp, Or blarmedly I am mistook; But he warn’t a outen-out bad ’un, And he’d got a heart you could touch; And he never draw’d iron[127] on boy, or man, As didn’t pervoke him much.

And you can’t say fair as drinking War counted among his sins; For at nary a sittin’ would he put down More nor fifteen whisky skins. But one day we was drinkin’ and jawin’, Round Haggarty’s bar, and I fear That Haggarty riled him, bein’ so slow, So he jist sliced off Haggarty’s ear.

Then Haggarty went for him savage, Instead of a-holding his jor; And Bob went for his ’leven-inch knife, And scatter’d Hag’s scraps on the floor. One of Hag’s friends then drew upon Bob, And shot Joe Harris instead; And I take it the bar floor got at last ’Bout knee-deep in red.

But when the fun was over in there. Bob ran a-muck in the street; And he speared and potted each derned cuss As he chanced to meet. And quiet folks shut up their doors―― They thought it safer, you see―― All but a man with his wife and child, That was settin’ down to tea.

Into their parlour rushed Bloomin’ Bob, To that father and mother’s surprise; Jobb’d his bowie through one, and took The tother between the eyes. Then he clutched the innocent slumb’rin’ babe, Jist meanin’ to knock out its brains; But at that moment there reach’d his ear Some long-forgotten strains.

* * * * *

Some soft and touching music this, Music solemn and sweet, Played by a common organ-man Down at the end of the street. And it went straight home to the digger’s heart, And he did not squelch the child, But lay it down in its little cot, And rocked the same――and smiled!

Talk soft! They say the angels That night smole down on Bob; And a sorter radiant halo Gleamed brightly round his nob. I can’t swear to all this for certain, And it do seem a queerish start; But I won’t set by and hear none o’ you say Bob hadn’t a tender heart!

This admirable parody was written by Mr. Charles H. Ross, Editor of Judy. In the first volume of this Collection it was erroneously styled a parody of Bret Harte.

――――:o:――――

THE MYSTERY OF GILGAL.

The darkest, strangest mystery I ever read, or heern, or see, Is ’long of a drink at Taggart’s Hall―― Tom Taggart’s, of Gilgal.

I’ve heern the tale a thousand ways, But never could git through the maze That hangs around that queer day’s doin’s: But I’ll tell the yarn to you-uns.

Tom Taggart stood behind his bar; The time was fall, the skies was far; The neighbours round the counter drawed, And ca’mly drinked and jawed.

At last come Colonel Blood, of Pike, And old Jedge Phinn, permiscus――like; And each, as he meandered in, Remarked “A whiskey-skin.”

Tom mixed the beverage full and far, And slammed it, smoking on the bar, Some says three fingers, some says two,―― I’ll leave the choice to you.

Phinn to the drink put forth his hand; Blood drawed his knife, with accent bland, “I ax yer parding, Mister Phinn―― Jest drap that whiskey skin.”

No man hlgh-toneder could be found Than old Jedge Phinn the country round. Says he, “Young man, the tribe of Phinns Knows their own whisky-skins!”

He went for his ’leven-inch bowie knife:―― “I tries to foller a Christian life; But I’ll drap a slice of liver or two My bloomin’ shrub with you.”

They carved in a way that all admired,―― Tell Blood drawed iron at last, and fired. It took Seth Bludso ’twixt the eyes, Which caused him great surprise.

Then coats went off, and all went in; Shots and bad language swelled the din; The short, sharp bark of Derringers, Like bull-pups, cheered the furse.

They piled the stiffs outside the door, They made, I reckon, a cord or more. Girls went that winter, as a rule, Alone to spellin’ school.

I’ve sarched in vain, from Dan to Beer- Sheba, to make this mystery clear; But I end with hit as I did begin,―― WHO GOT THE WHISKY-SKIN?

JOHN HAY.

――――

BIG BILL.

There’s them that eats till they’re bustin’, And them that drinks till they’re blind, And them that snuffin’ and spooney, But the best of all to my mind, (And I’ve been around in my time, boys, And cavorted with any you like), Was Big Bill, that lived in the slashes, We called him Big Bill o’ Pike.

If he put his hand to his bowie Or scratched the scruff of his neck, You could only tell by waitin’ To see if you bled a peck: And the way he fired ’twas lovely! Nobody knowed which was dead, Till Big Bill grinned, and the stiff’un Tumbled over onto his head!

At school he killed his master; Courtin’, he killed seven more: And the hearse was alway a-waitin’ A little ways from his door. There wasn’t much growth in the country, As the census returns will show, But we had Big Bill we was proud of, And that was enough to grow.

And now Big Bill is an angel,―― Damn me, it makes me cry! Jist when he was rampin’ the roughest, The poor fellow had to die. A thievin’ and sneakin’ Yankee Got the start on our blessed Bill, And there’s no one to do our killin’ And nobody left to kill!

From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor.

James Russell Lowell.

In the great American Civil War Mr. J. S. Lowell was a warm partisan of the Northern cause, and his most popular poems, The Biglow Papers, were written in favour of the emancipation of the slaves, and the suppression of the Southern, or Confederate States. The Biglow Papers have been principally parodied, in this country, by the Liberal newspapers, and of these only a few examples are sufficiently good to bear quoting.

THE PIOUS EDITOR’S CREED.

I du believe in Freedom’s cause, Ez fur away ez Paris is; I love to see her stick her claws In them infarnal Pharisees, It’s wal enough agin a king To dror resolves an’ triggers,―― But libbaty’s a kind o’ thing That don’t agree with niggers.

I du believe the people want A tax on teas an’ coffees, Thet nothin’ aint extravygunt―― Purvidin’ I’m in office; Fer I hev loved my country sence My eye-teeth filled their sockets An’ Uncle Sam[128] I reverence, Partic’larly his pockets.

I du believe in any plan O’ levyin’ the taxes, Ez long ez, like a lumberman, I git jest what I axes; I go free-trade thru thick an’ thin, Because it kind o’ rouses The folks to vote――an’ keeps us in Our quiet custom-houses,

I du believe it’s wise an’ good To sen’ out furrin missions, Thet is, on sartin understood An’ orthydox conditions;―― I mean nine thousan’ dolls. per ann. Nine thousan’ more fer outfit, An’ me to recommend a man The place ’ould jest about fit.

I du believe in special ways O’ prayin’ an’ convartin’; The bread comes back in many days An’ buttered, tu, fer sartin;―― I mean in preyin’ till one busts On wut the party chooses, An’ in convartin’ public trusts To very privit uses.

I du believe hard coin the stuff For ’lectioneers to spout on; The people’s ollers soft enough To make hard money out on; Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his, An gives a good-sized junk to all―― I don’t care how hard money is, Ez long ez mine’s paid punctooal.

I du believe with all my soul In the gret Press’s Freedom, To pint the people to the goal An’ in the traces lead ’em; Palsied the arm thet forges yokes At my fat contracts squintin’, An’ withered be the nose thet pokes Inter the gov’ment printin’!

I du believe thet I should give Wut’s his’n unto Cæsar, For its by him I move an’ live, Frum him my bread an’ cheese air; I du believe thet all o’ me Doth bear his souperscription―― Will, conscience, honor, honesty, An’ things o’ thet description.

I du believe in prayer an’ praise To him thet hez the grantin’ O’ jobs――in every thin’ thet pays. This doth my cup with marcies fill, This lays all thought o’ sin to rest―― I don’t believe in princerple, But, O, I du in interest.

I du believe in bein’ this Or thet, ez it may happen One way or t’other hendiest is To ketch the people nappin’; It aint by princerples nor men My preudunt course is steadied―― I scent wich pays the best, an’ then Go into it baldheaded.

I du believe thet holdin’ slaves Comes nat’ral tu a Presidunt, Let ’lone the rowdedow it saves To hev a wal-broke precedunt; Fer any office, small or gret, I could’t ax with no face, Without I’d ben, thru dry an’ wet, Th’ unrizzest kind o’ doughface.

I du believe wutever trash ’ll keep the people in blindness―― Thet we the Mexicuns can thrash Right inter brotherly kindness, Thet bombshells, grape, an’ powder ’n’ ball Air good-will’s strongest magnets Thet peace, to make it stick at all, Must be druv in with bagnets.

In short, I firmly du believe In Humbug generally, Fer it’s a thing thet I perceive To hev a solid vally; This heth my faithful shepherd ben, In pasturs sweet heth led me, An’ this’ll keep the people green To feed ez they hev fed me.

From The Biglow Papers.

――――

THE PIOUS CHANCELLOR’S CREED. (Formulated by Prince Von Bismarck.)

I do believe in Providence, On grounds most firm and valid; Its rulings have shown strength and sense, And with my views have tallied. ’Tis ever on the stronger side, And while my side’s the stronger, I shall acknowledge it with pride (But not a moment longer).

I hold to faith robust and stout, And, Heaven and I agreeing, All duffers who presume to doubt, Deserve eternal d――ing. I’m sole exponent of the truth, Of genuine Christianity, Cleared from all cant of love and ruth, And humbug of humanity.

I do believe in days and dates, As I’m a (sort of) sinner; I hold those fools defy the fates Who sit thirteen at dinner, That Friday ventures badly fare, For reasons past explaining; That he’s an ass who has his hair Cut when the moon is waning.

I do believe most men are fools, And need despotic ruling By one past-master in the schools Of force and clever fooling; That dangers which beset the State, And risk that Kings environ, Demand a will as stern as fate, A rule of blood and iron.

* * * * *

I do believe free Parliament Means dawdling, drivelling, doting, Save only when it is content With silent money-voting. I hold, of all pretenders crass Who ever claimed dominion, The worst is that gregarious ass Nicknamed “Public opinion.”

In fine, I do believe in Force (Of fight, or faith, or feeding) Uncramped by conscience, ruth, remorse, Good-nature, or good-breeding, That strength should sway in council, fray, Love, piety, or potting, Is Providence’s special way And Heaven’s own allotting.

Punch. December 7, 1878.

――――

THE JINGO’S CREED.

I do believe that Gladstone likes The triumph of our enemies. Look how his tongue at “Interests” strikes It simply full of venom is. Now this belief, I’ll freely own, Is what some folks would term “hot;” But when has Gladstone ever shown The spirit of Macdermott?

I do believe the Russian Czar’s A tyrant scarcely human; I do believe that each Pasha’s A gentle and a true man. I shouldn’t really like to try And have one as a neighbour; But, cutting Russian windpipes――why They’ve saved us lots of labour.

I do believe, as Elcho says, Ketchwayo’s a gorilla―― A brute who in his wars displays The fury of a Scylla. So just for peace, it’s evident (The thing is gospel per se) Our missionary troops are sent To slay him without mercy.

I do believe in Beaconsfield, In Bartle Frere, and Lytton; I do believe all men should yield T’ the half-almighty Briton. We’re born to rule the human race, And futurity shall see, oh, ’Mid the world’s heroes take their place That half-immortal Trio.

Funny Folks. September 27, 1879.

――――

THE UNIONIST EDITOR’S CREED.

We du believe in freedom’s cause, Except when it in Dublin is; We do detest Coercion laws, But not when Erin troublin’ is. It’s wal enough for men to spout Of justice――in elections―― But when you’re snuffin’ Home Rule out―― You’re bound to make corrections!

We du believe the Irish want To do away with juries―― And, for our methods, now we can’t See what on airth more pure is. When we bring men to common sense We coax ’em――yes――with fetters. But other things we reverence―― Partic’larly forged letters.

We du believe with all our hearts In the great Press’s freedom; We hit out straight――but poisoned darts Reserve for such as need’ em. Palsied the arm that forges lies! Cussed be calumniators! [N.B.――This rule nohow applies When you fight agitators.]

We du believe whatever trash ’ll keep the people in blindness; Thet we the Irishmen can thrash Right inter brotherly kindness; Thet Balfour’s bill, an’ powder an’ ball, Air goodwill’s strongest magnets; Thet peace, to make it stick at all, Must be druv in with bagnets!

G. W.

Pall Mall Gazette. April 28, 1887.

――――

“J. C.” TO HIMSELF. From his favourite Poet.

“I du believe it’s wise an’ good To sen’ out furrin missions; Thet is, on sartin understood An’ orthydox conditions; I mean ‘£3,900’ per ann., ‘Two thousan’’ more for outfit, An’ me to recommend the man The place ’ould jest about fit.”

THE RIGHT HON. PROFESSOR CHAMBERLAIN, G.C.B., M.P., ETC., ETC., Returns to town after a short voyage. ―――― PROFESSOR CHAMBERLAIN Undertakes any Fishy Business for the NOBILITY, CLERGY, OR GENTRY, In the most distant Foreign or Colonial Terri-tories.

Terms:―― First Mission £3,900, G.C.B., and Baronetcy. Second “ £10,900, Dukedom, and all the Orders. Third “ £100,900, and the Reversion of the Crown.

N.B.――The American language spoken.

The Liberal and Radical. March 10, 1888.

――――:o:――――

WHEN DOCTORS DISAGREE, &C.

A number of doctors, with zeal hyperbolic, Have gravely consulted, and grandly decreed―― The improper prescription of things alcoholic Is really very improper indeed:―― But Mr. F. C. Skey says, says he, This pompous announcement is fiddledee!

For you cannot prescribe――here he deals in ironics―― To skilful practitioners what they should give; And the question must frequently turn upon topics Of whether the patient’s to die, or to live. And Mr. F. C. Skey says, says he, An empiric’s a quack though you write him M.D.

Let the Saturday shriek about drawing-room topers, And tell us our wives ne’er go sober to bed; I’ll laugh at such medical fumblers and gropers, And list to what skill and experience have said. And Mr. F. C. Skey says, says he, With that manifesto he cannot agree.

ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

ON RECRUITING.

Thrash away, you’ll hev to rattle On them kittle drums o’ yourn―― ’Taint a knowin’ kind o’ cattle Thet is ketched with mouldy corn; Put in stiff, you fifer feller, Let folks see how spry you be―― Guess you’ll toot till you are yeller ’Fore you git ahold o’ me!

Thet air flag’s a leetle rotten, Hope it aint your Sunday’s best;―― Fact! it takes a sight o’ cotton To stuff out a soger’s chest: Since we farmers hev to pay fer’t, Ef you must wear humps like these Sposin’ you should try salt hay fer’t, It would du ez slick ez grease.

Them thet rule us, them slave-traders, Haint they cut a thunderin’ swarth, (Helped by Yankee renegaders[129]) Thru the vartu o’ the North! We begin to think it’s nater To take sarse an’ not be riled;―― Who’d expect to see a tater All on eend at bein’ biled?

Ez fer war, I call it murder―― There you hev it plain an’ flat; I don’t want to go no furder Than my Testyment fer thet; God hez sed so plump an’ fairly, It’s ez long ez it is broad, An’ you’ve gut to git up airly Ef you want to take in God.

Wut’s the use o’ meetin’-goin’ Every Sabbath, wet or dry, Ef it’s right to go amowin’ Feller-men like oats an’ rye? I dunno but wut it’s pooty Trainin’ round in bobtail coats―― But it’s curus Christian dooty This ere cuttin’ folks’s throats.

* * * * *

From The Biglow Papers.

――――

RENEGADERS.

Thrash away, you’ll have to rattle On that “Union” drum o’ “yourn”; “’Tain’t” a knowin’ kind o’ cattle That gets ketched with mouldy corn. Put it stiff you turn-coat fellows, You’re a darned nice liberal (?) set,―― Gone to blow the tory bellows Now they want their irons “het,”

While their trusty chief’s been trying To keep “the old state ship” afloat, These backsliders ’ave been hieing Into Joseph’s scuttled boat, “Aint” they a prime set o’ fellows, When they think on’t won’t they sprout, Like a peach that’s got the “yellows” With the meanness “bustin” out.

Tell you just the end I’ve come to After ciphering pretty smart,―― And it makes a handy sum too, Any “gump” may learn by heart. Labouring man and labouring woman Have one glory and one shame, Every thing that’s done inhuman Injures all of them the same,

“’Tain’t” by letting landlords loot folks,―― Nor the people being brained,―― Nor police being set to shoot folks, That your own rights are maintained. Those who Ireland hold in fetters, Sure as one and one make two, When they’ve used you (their abettors), They’ll try hard to fetter you.

“The People’s Tribune,” God forgive him!―― He’s a kneeling with the rest, He that ought to ha’ clung while livin’ In his grand old eagle-nest, He that ought to stand so fearless While the wrecks around are hurled,―― Holding up a beacon peerless To the oppressed of all the world――

Gone, to help the stealer stealing Bigger pens to cram with slaves,―― Help the men who’re always dealing Insults on their father’s graves,―― Help the strong to grind the feeble,―― Wrong the many for the few,―― Helping those who’d not be able, Renegaders, but for you!

Let our staunch old leader proudly Still plead on with trumpet tongue, And proclaim for justice loudly For the weak against the strong. Clang the bells in every steeple, Call all true men to disown The traducers of the people,―― The deserters of their own.

WM. GUISE.

The Liberal and Radical. January 14, 1888.

――――:o:――――

THE OFFICIAL EXPLANATION.

Anent the account of the interview with James Russell Lowell published by Julian Hawthorne, the Chicago News had the following clever verses in imitation of Hosea Biglow:――

One night aside the fire at hum, Ez I wus settin’ nappin’, Deown from the lower hall there come The seound of some one rappin’. The son uv old Nat Hawthorne he―― Julian, I think his name wuz―― Uv course he feound a friend in me, Not knowin’ what his game wuz.

And ez we visited a spell. Our talk ranged wide an’ wider. And ef we struck dry subjects――well, We washed ’em deown with cider. Neow, with that cider coursin’ thru My system an’ a playin’ Upon my tongue, I hardly knew Just what I was a sayin’.

I kin remember that I spun A hifalutin’ story Abeout the Prince of Wales, an’ one About old Queen Victory. But sakes alive! I never dreamed The cuss would get it printed―― (By that old gal I’m much esteemed, Ez she hez often hinted).

Oh, if I had that critter neow, You bet your boots I’d larn him In mighty lively fashion heow To walk the chalk, gol darn him! Meanwhile, between his folks an’ mine The breach grows wide an’ wider, And, by the way, it’s my design To give up drinkin’ cider.

Received from the Milwaukee Public Library. December 24, 1886.

――――:o:――――

TENNYSON’S LATEST. (After Mr. Russell Lowell’s “The Rose.”)

In his chamber sat the poet, Striving to make verses free. “I’ve a poem,” said he; “I’ll show it―― They’ll stand anything from me! Public praise I know is hollow, But to publish I’m opprest; Cash will publication follow, And I’ve had too long a rest.”

Hies a reader on the morrow Through the busy street called “Strand”; Sees the notice――hastes to borrow From a friend the verses grand. Gets them――reads them; thinks he, “Surely, Tennyson, not this your own? ‘Hands all Round’――’tis nonsense, purely, Worthy Salisbury alone!”

In his chamber sits the poet―― Pale his face, his eye is dim; See the table――gold o’erflows it―― Publishers have sent it him. For a time no word he utters―― Fullest hearts the slowest speak―― But at length he feebly mutters, “I’m astonished at my cheek!”

J. T. G.

The Weekly Dispatch. June 25, 1882.

――――:o:――――

THE SAGA OF AHAB DOOLITTLE.

Who hath not thought himself a poet? Who, Feeling the stubbed pin-feathers pricking through His greenish gosling-down, but straight misdeems Himself anointed? They must run their course, These later measles of the fledgling mind, Pitting the adolescent rose with brown, And after, leaving scars; and we must bear, Who come of other stirp, no end of roil, Slacken our strings, disorient ourselves, And turn our ears to huge conchyliar valves To hear the shell-hum that would fain be sea.

O guarding thorn of life’s dehiscent bud, Exasperation! Did we clip thee close, Disarm ourselves with non-resistent shears, And leave our minds demassachusetted, What fence ’gainst inroad of the spouting throng?

For Fame’s a bird that in her wayward sweep Gossips to all; then, raven-like, comes home Hoarse-voiced as autumn, and, as autumn leaves Behind her, blown by all the postal winds, Letters and manuscripts from unknown hands. Thus came not Ahab’s: his he brought himself, One morn, so clear with impecunious gold. I said: “Chaucer yet lives, and Calderon!” And, letting down the gangways of the mind For shipment from the piers of common life, O’er Learning’s ballast meant some lighter freight To stow, for export to Macarian Isles But it was not to be: a tauroid knock Shook the ash-panels of my door with pain, And to my vexed “Come in! “Ahab appeared. Homespun, at least,――thereat I swiftly felt Somewhat of comfort,――tall, knock-kneed, and gaunt: Face windy-red, hands horny, large, and loose, That groped for mine, and finding, dropped at once As half ashamed: and thereupon he grinned. I waited, silent, till the silence grew Oppressive: but he bore it like a man; Then, as my face still queried, opened wide The stiff portcullis of his rustic speech, Whence issued words: “You’d hardly kalkelate That I’m a poet, but I kind o’ guess I be one; so the people say to hum.” Then from his cavernous armpit drew and gave The singing leaves, not such as erst I knew. But strange, disjointed, where the unmeasured feet Staggered allwhither in pursuit of rhyme, And could not find it: assonance instead, Cases and verbs misplaced――remediable those―― Broad-shouldered coarseness, fondly meant for wit.

I turned the leaves; his small, gray, hungry eye Stuck like a burr; agape with hope his mouth. What could I say? the worn conventional phrase We use on such occasions,――better wait, Verse must have time; its seed, like timothy-grass, Sown in the fall to sprout the following spring, Is often winter-killed: none can decide; A single rain-drop prints the eocene, While crowbars fail on lias: so with song: The Doom is born in each thing’s primitive stuff.

Perchance he understood not; yet I thrust Some hypodermic hope within his flesh, Unconsciously; erelong he came again. Would I but see his latest? I did see; Shuddered and answered him in a sterner wise. I love to put the bars up, shutting out My pasture from the thistle-cropping beasts Or squealing hybrids, who have range enough On our New England commons,――whom the Fiend, Encouragement-of-Native-Talent, feeds, With windy provender, in Waverley, And Flag, and Ledger, weakly manger-racks.

Months passed: the catbird on the elm-tree sang What “Free from Ahab!” seemed, and I believed. But, issuing forth one autumn morn, that shone As earth were made October twenty-seventh (Some ancient Bible gives the date), he shot Across my path as sped from Ensign’s bow, More grewsome, haggard-seeming than before. Ere from his sinister armpit his right hand Could pluck the sheets, I thundered forth, “Aroint!”

Not using the Anglo-Saxon shibboleth, But exorcismal terms, unusual, fierce, Such as would make a saint disintimate. The witless terror in his face nigh stayed My speech, but I was firm and passed him by. Ah, not three weeks were sped ere he again Waylaid me in the meadows, with these words: “I saw thet suthin’ riled you, the last time; Be you in sperrits now?”――and drew again―― But why go on? I met him yesterday, The nineteenth time,――pale, sad, but patient still.

When Hakon steered the dragons, there was place, Though but a thrall’s, beside the eagle-helms, For him who rhymed instead of rougher work, For speech is thwarted deed: the Berserk fire But smoulders now in strange attempts at verse, While hammering sword-blows mend the halting rhyme, Give mood and tense unto the well-thewed arm, And turn these ignorant Ahabs into bards!

From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor.

These somewhat ponderous lines are written in imitation of Lowell’s serious poems, such as “The Cathedral.”

Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes.

An English edition of The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table was published some years ago by Messrs. Chatto and Windus, with an Introduction by Mr. George Augustus Sala. Holmes was not then well known, or understood, in this country, yet surely such a veteran litérateur as Sala might have found some more appropriate opening sentence for his Introduction than this:――“Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes is essentially what is termed a ‘funny fellow.’”

Written of Artemus Ward, Bret Harte, or Mark Twain, the assertion might have been true, though not new, as applied to Holmes it is neither the one, nor the other.

Pathos there is in plenty, with dry humour and playful wit, which occasionally tempt a smile, as in the following poem, though most assuredly it cannot be termed “funny” in the ordinary acceptation of the word.

CONTENTMENT.

“Man wants but little here below.”

Little I ask; my wants are few; I only wish a hut of stone (A very plain brown stone will do), That I may call my own;―― And close at hand is such a one, In yonder street that fronts the sun.

Plain food is quite enough for me; Three courses are as good as ten:―― If Nature can subsist on three, Thank Heaven for three. Amen! I always thought cold victual nice,―― My choice would be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land;―― Give me a mortgage here and there. Some good bank-stock, some note of hand, Or trifling railroad share,―― I only ask that Fortune send A little more than I shall spend.

Honours are silly toys, I know, And titles are but empty names; I would, perhaps, be Plenipo―― But only near St. James; I’m very sure I should not care To fill our Gubernator’s chair.

Jewels are baubles; ’tis a sin To care for such unfruitful things;―― One good-sized diamond in a pin, Some, not so large, in rings, A ruby, and a pearl, or so, Will do for me;――I laugh at show.

My dame should dress in cheap attire (Good, heavy silks are never dear); I own perhaps I might desire Some shawls of true Cashmere,―― Some marrowy crapes of China silk, Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

I would not have the horse I drive So fast that folks must stop and stare; An easy gait――two, forty-five―― Suits me; I do not care;―― Perhaps, for just a single spurt, Some seconds less would do no hurt.

Of pictures, I should like to own Titians and Raphaels three or four―― I love so much their style and tone―― One Turner, and no more (A landscape, foreground golden dirt, The sunshine painted with a squirt).

Of books but few,――some fifty score For daily use, and bound for wear; The rest upon an upper floor;―― Some little luxury there Of red morocco’s gilded gleam, And vellum rich as country cream.

Busts, cameos, gems,――such things as these, Which others often show for pride, I value for their power to please, And selfish churls deride; One Stradivarius, I confess, Two Meerschaums I would fain possess.

Wealth’s wasteful tricks I will not learn, Nor ape the glittering upstart fool; Shall not carved tables serve my turn, But all must be of buhl? Give grasping pomp its double share,―― I ask but one recumbent chair.

Thus humble let me live and die, Nor long for Midas’ golden touch; If Heaven more generous gifts deny, I shall not miss them much,―― Too grateful for the blessing lent Of simple tastes and mind content!

From The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.

――――

CONTENTMENT. (A Parody.)

Little I ask; my wants are few I only wish a hut of stone, Or one of good plain brick will do That I may call my own. And close at hand in Downing Street, Is just the house my wants to meet.

I care not much for gold or land―― Give me an office fairly paid. The Premiership was wisely planned For statesmen such as I was made. And then, perhaps, five thou’ a year Is not too much of worldly gear.

Honours are silly toys, I know, And titles are but empty names; I could a marquis be, and so Beat Beaconsfield at those small games. I’m very sure I should not care To fill our Sovereign’s royal chair.

As for the Commons, why require A very large majority? One member for each rural shire, One for each town will do for me. No small vexation turns me sour When I am once installed in power.

Though fond of praise to some extent, Unmingled flattery I despise, So that it be sincerely meant, A daily dose or two I prize―― There is no god that I can find Whose cult extends to all mankind.

The Classes! pooh! I heed them not, The masses still are reckoned mine; And if they say, “They will be shot Ere they support me,” why repine? The asses surely will be true, And they are neither far nor few.

Were I fastidious, I might tout Among the great ones of the land; Give me the lubbard and the lout, Who bargain not to understand, One vote as t’other’s just as good, And all heads count, although of wood.

Thus humble let me live and die, Nor long for what I cannot get. If Heaven more generous gifts deny, I shall net miss them, yet Too grateful for the blessings lent Of simple wants and mind content.

The St. James’ Gazette. W. E. G.

(Copied from John Bull) July 17, 1886.

――――:o:――――

THE DEACON’S MASTERPIECE. OR, THE WONDERFUL “ONE-HOSS SHAY.”

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way, It ran a hundred years to a day, And then, of a sudden, it――ah, but stay, I’ll tell you what happened without delay, Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits,―― Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five, Georgius Secundus was then alive,―― Snuffy old drone from the German hive. That was the year when Lisbon-town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock’s army was done so brown, Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible earthquake day That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always somewhere a weakest spot,―― In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, throroughbrace,――lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will,―― Above or below, or within or without,―― And that’s the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise breaks down, but doesn’t wear out.

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, With an “I dew vum,” or an “I tell yeou”), He would build one shay to beat the taown ’n’ the keounty ’n’ all the kentry raoun’; It should be so built that it couldn’ break daown: ――“Fur,” said the Deacon, “’t’s mighty plain Thut the weakes’ place mus’ stan’ the strain; ’n’ the way t’ fix it, uz I maintain. Is only jest T’ make that place uz strong uz the rest.”

* * * * *

That was the way he “put her through.”―― “There!” said the Deacon, “naow she’ll dew!”

Do! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less. Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren――where were they? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day! Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there’s nothing that keeps it youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a moral that runs at large; Take it――You’re welcome.――No extra charge.)

FIRST OF NOVEMBER,――the Earthquake-day.―― There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, A general flavour of mild decay, But nothing local, as one may say. There couldn’t be,――for the Deacon’s art Had made it so like in every part That there wasn’t a chance for one to start. For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, And the floor was just as strong as the sills,

And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whippletree neither less nor more, And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, And spring and axle and hub encore. And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be worn out!

First of November, ’Fifty-five! This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. “Huddup!” said the parson.――Off went they.

The parson was working his Sunday’s text,―― Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the――Moses――was coming next. All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meet’n’ house on the hill, ――First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill,―― And the parson was sitting upon a rock, At half-past nine by the meet’n’-house clock,―― just the hour of the Earthquake shock! ――What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around?

The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground! You see, of course, if you’re not a dunce. How it went to pieces all at once,―― All at once, and nothing first,―― Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic is logic. That’s all I say.

O. W. HOLMES.

From The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.

――――

SEQUEL TO THE “ONE-HOSS SHAY.”

Doubtless my readers all have heard Of the “wonderful one-horse shay,” That “went to pieces all at once On the terrible earthquake day.”

But did they ever think of the horse Or mourn the loss of him―― The “ewe-necked bay (who drew the “shay,”) So full of life and vim?

He was a wonderful nag, I’m told, In spite of his old “rat-tail,” And though he always minded the rein, He laughed at the snow and hail.

He had the finest stable in town, With plenty of oats and hay; And to the parson’s oft “Hud-dup” He never would answer neigh.

To the parson’s shay he was ever true, Though the other felloes were tired, To live and die with his fiancée Was all his heart desired.

He was much attached to his ancient mate; So the parson “hitched them together,” And, when they went-on their bridle tour, His heart was as light as a feather.

We all remember her awful fate, On that sad November day, When nothing remained but a heap of trash, That once was a beautiful “shay.”

Oh! what could stir-up the equine breast Like this fearful, harrowing blow? Which put a check on his happiness And filled his heart with w(h)oa.

As he wheeled about, a shaft of pain Entered his faithful breast, As he there beheld the sad remains Of her whom he loved the best.

With a sudden bound and fearful snort, He sped away like the wind; And a fact most queer I’ll mention here―― No traces were left behind.

CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.

――――:o:――――

“Here is a little poem I sent a short time since to a committee for a certain celebration. I understood it was to be a festive and convivial occasion, and ordered myself accordingly. It seems the president of the day was a ‘teetotaler.’ I received a note from him in the following words:――”

Dear Sir,――Your poem gives good satisfaction to the Committee. The sentiments expressed with reference to liquor are not, however, those generally entertained by this community. I have therefore consulted the clergyman of this place, who has made some slight changes, which he thinks will remove all objections, and keep the valuable portions of the poem. Yours with respect, etc., etc.,

ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING. (With slight alteration by a teetotaler.)

Come! fill up a bumper――for why should we go,

#logwood# While the nector still reddens our cups as they flow?

#decoction# Pour out the rich juices still bright with the sun,

#dye-stuff# Till o’er the brimmed crystal the rubies shall run.

#half-ripened apples# The purple-globed clusters their life-dews have bled;

#taste# #sugar-of-lead!# How sweet is the breath of the fragrance they shed!

#rank poisons# #wines!!# For summer’s last roses lie hid in the wines,

#stable-boys smoking long-nines.# That were garnered by maidens who laugh’d thro’ the vines.

#scowl# #howl# #scoff# #cheer#, Then a smile, and a glass, and a toast, and a cheer.

#strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer!# For all the good wine, and we’ve some of it here!

In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall,

#Down, down with the tyrant that masters us all!# Long live the gay servant that laughs for us all!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

――――

THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE. Poet (in fine frenzy rolling).

Object redolent of grass, Daisies, lowing kine, and that, Fresh from hands of dairy lass, Dear delightful yellow pat!

Hark! I almost hear the “swish” Of the milk in tinny vat (“Pail” won’t rhyme as I could wish), Perfume-breathing moulded pat!

I recall one passing fair Milking maiden, as she sat; Sweet was she as you, with hair Just your colour――golden pat!

’Twas her fingers, I’ll be sworn, Churned you up, and rolled you flat―― Fingers rosy as the dawn―― Poet’s Wife (speaking in the light of recent investigations). Stuff, John Smith――it’s bullock’s fat!

Funny Folks. November, 1879.

There is a burlesque of O. W. Holmes in Bayard Taylor’s Diversions of the Echo Club, entitled “The Psycho-Physical Muse,” but it is not an interesting specimen of Taylor’s power of imitation. A parody, “The Wheelless,” relating to bicycling, appears in Lyra Bicyclica, by J. G. Dalton (published in Boston, U.S., in 1880), but it is not of general interest.

WALT WHITMAN.

It is the part, one might almost say, the duty, of the parodist to exaggerate the defects of his original, and in the case of Whitman assuredly no mercy, and little justice have been shown. This is to be regretted, because Whitman has not so many readers in this country, as his parodists can command, and it is distinctly an advantage to have read the original poem before getting imbued with the bathos, and intentional nonsense of a parody. It is comparatively easy to reproduce and caricature Whitman’s manner. Consequently his mannerisms are far more familiar to most English readers than the vigour of his poetry, especially as owing to the mock-modesty of editors and publishers, many of his finest thoughts on the mysteries of nature, and the philosophy of life, have been omitted in English editions of his works.

Whitman is emphatically a poet for men, not for “Select Academies for the Daughters of Gentlemen only;” and whilst much that he has written is glorious poetry to those who will, and can imbibe its spirit freely, to those who cannot thus absorb it the Parodies will appear nearly as poetical as the original. His principal volume, “Leaves of Grass,” as published by James R. Osgood & Company, of Boston, U.S., is a marvellous book, but one from which it is extremely difficult to make a satisfactory selection of quotations which, whilst doing justice to Whitman, shall, at the same time, illustrate the parodies.

Not to be chosen from his solemn Salut au Monde, nor the pathetic Drum-taps, nor even from the much abused Children of Adam, these must be read entire, or not at all.

Walt Whitman’s egotism is a favourite topic with the parodists, here is a small extract from his

SONG OF MYSELF.

I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, formed from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same, I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance. Retiring back awhile sufficed at what they are, but never Forgotten, I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy.

* * * * *

I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contained, I stand and look at them long and long. They do not sweat and whine about their condition, They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God, Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things, Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago, Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth. So they show their relations to me and I accept them, They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their possession. A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my caresses, Head high in the forehead, wide between the ears, Limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground, Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving. His nostrils dilate as my heels embracing His well-built limbs, tremble with pleasure as we race around and return. I but use you a minute, then I resign you, stallion, Why do I need your paces when I myself can out-gallop them? Even as I stand or sit passing faster than you.

* * * * *

I too, am not a bit tamed, I too, am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. The last scud of day holds back for me, It flings my likeness after the rest, and true as any on the shadow’d wilds, It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk. I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun, I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags. I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good health to you nevertheless, And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you.

He has been accused of irreverence, of materialism, yet he writes thus on

MIRACLES.

Why, who makes much of a miracle? As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses towards the sky, Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water, Or stand under trees in the woods, Or talk in the day with any one I love or sleep in the bed at night with one I love, Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon, Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds, or the wonderfulness of instincts in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining, so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me the sea is a continual miracle, The fishes that swim――the rocks――the motion of the waves――the ships with men in them, What stranger miracles are there?

This is not poetry of the tinkling rhyme, and those who require to hear the changes rung on the old, old peal of bells――love, dove, heart, part,――must seek elsewhere than in the writings of Walt Whitman. Lord Tennyson considers him a true poet, so did Swinburne till he took to renouncing all the opinions of his youth, and turned from the praise of revolution, and the anticipation of the happy time when “Prince that clogs and priest that clings, Be cast as weeds upon the dunghill of dead things,” to become the reciter of Jubilee odes. Here are a few extracts from his verses “To Walt Whitman in America:”――

Send but a song oversea for us, Heart of their hearts who are free, Heart of their singer, to be for us More than our singing can be; Ours, in the tempest at error, With no light but the twilight of terror; Send us a song oversea!

O strong-winged soul with prophetic Lips hot with the bloodbeats of song, With tremor of heartstrings magnetic, With thoughts as thunders in throng, With consonant ardours of chords That pierce men’s souls as with swords, And hale them hearing along.

As long ago as 1855, Emerson, a clear sighted critic, wrote: “I am not blind to the worth of the wonderful gift of ‘Leaves of grass.’ I find it the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed. I am very happy in reading it, as great power makes us happy. I give you joy of your free and brave thought. I have great joy in it; I find incomparable things, said incomparably well, as they should be.”

ON THANKSGIVING DAY.

Thanks in old age――thanks ere I go, For health, the midday sun, the impalpable air――for life, mere life, For precious, ever-lingering memories (of you, my mother, dear――you, father――you, brothers, sisters, friends). For all my days――not those of peace alone――the days of war the same. For gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands, For shelter, wine, and meat――for sweet appreciation. (You distant, dim unknown――or young, or old――countless, unspecified, beloved. We never met, and ne’er shall meet――and yet our souls embrace, long, close, and long;) For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books,――for colours, forms, For all the brave, strong men――devoted, hardy men――who’ve forward sprang in freedom’s help, all years, all lands, For braver, stronger, more devoted men (a special laurel ere I go to life’s war’s chosen ones. The cannoneers of song and thought――the neat artillerymen――the foremost leaders, captains of the soul;) As soldier from an ended war return’d――as traveller out of myriads, to the long procession retrospective. Thanks――joyful thanks――a soldier’s, traveller’s thanks.

WALT WHITMAN. January, 1888.

――――:o:――――

Now for the Parodies. The first is taken From Once a Week of twenty years ago, it is prefaced by the satirical announcement:――

“The following is supposed to be an original poem by Whitman:

I am Walt Whitman. You are an idiot, O, intellectual ingurtilations of creeds! To such I am antiseptic. I met a man Where? In a gutter. We were at once friends. O homogeneities of cotemporaneous antiloxo-dromachy! He would try to stand on his head. O divinely crapulent hysteron-proteron! “Our meeting,” he said, is a palingenesis of Paradise; hast thou, O Philadelphian, hast thou eighteen pence?” I embraced him――I wept, I have it not, I shrieked――or――

* * * * *

Whom do I love? Whom do I admire? Not two lounging in a carriage, but twelve bulging out of a cart. I am not respectable. You are an idiot. I am Walt Whitman.”

Once a Week. (London.) December 12, 1868.

――――

WALT WHITMAN ON OXFORD.

I am Walt Whitman――who are you? Who art thou, O brother of me, art thou an Englishman, Welshman, Styrian farmer, or Last of the Red Indians? Oh indescribable idiosyncracies! O, mighty grandeur of ratiocination! I, Wall Whitman, I, the great I――ineffable I――I have been to Oxford! O crumbling-ruinous monuments, O velvet-cloathed Proctorial espionage, I am an Americano, yet I am of you, I am you, you are me. Oh! Yea, but the time all-democratic shall come, all will come to an end of this. O, America! Libertad! thou shalt swallow up all. Oxford, thy days are gone, thou shalt cringe to Harvard. O democracy! O my world-brother! I am Walt Whitman! I have been to Oxford. I too am wise, I am learned. I salute you! Je vous salue, Omnes! Omnes! I am a scholar. Home of learning! Oxford, mingled up with the past, the Greek, the Roman, the Sanscrit, all these are thine. But there is America, there is Maine, New York, Connecticut, Rhode Island, Massachusetts, Delaware. Ah, Latitude 41°. Oh, Longitude 74°. Ye are one! Red-skin and White-skin, Proctor and Bulldogs, Boden-scholar and Vice-Chancellor, ye are all one! O glory of interjections! Oh! I am one――I am all! Who is the great poet but I? I am Walt Whitman. You are a fool.

From The Shotover Papers. Oxford, May 16, 1874.

――――

HOME――SWEET HOME. (With Variations.)

You over there, young man with the guide book, red bound, covered flexibly with red linen. Come here, I want to talk with you; I, Walt, the Manhattanese, citizen of these States, call you. Yes, and the courier, too, smirking, smug-mouthed, with oil’d hair; a garlickly look about him generally; him, too, I take in, just as I would a coyote, or a King, or a toad-stool, or a ham sandwich, or anything, or anybody else in the world. Where are you going? You want to see Paris, to eat truffles, to have a good time; in Vienna, London, Florence, Monaco, to have a good time; you want to see Venice. Come with me. I will give you a good time; I will give you all the Venice you want, and most of the Paris. I, Walt, I call to you! I am all on deck. Come and loafe with me! Let me take you around by your elbow and show you things. You listen to my ophicleide! Home! Home I celebrate. I elevate my fog-whistle, inspired by the thought of home. Come in! take a front seat. All you have to pay me is to take in my romanza.

* * * * *

Part of a long parody, which appeared in Scribner’s Monthly. May, 1881.

――――

THIS IS A POEM.

I am the Poet of progress: I sing the athletic life of the great University, the triumphs of the river, the apotheosis of muscle. I sing the river, sluggish, opaque, sewage-breathing, but boat carrying, I sing boating: the attempts of the beginner, the failures in feathering, the deep and jerky stroke, the play of the blades like the sails of the windmill, the frequent crab; I sing the unsympathetic criticisms of the horny-handed denizens of the towing path, their laughter, profanity, and readiness in repartee; I sing the toils of training; the troubles of regular exercise, the tired arms, legs, shoulders, neck and breastbone, the bothersome blister, the discomforts in diet, the unsatisfied craving for tobacco; I sing the pleasures of boating, the joys of the practised oarsman. I sing the excitement of the race. The gun, the start, the flying banks, the encouraging shouts from the shore, the confused roar of the tow-path. The swirl, the rush of the river, the frail ship shooting forward under the efforts of her oarsmen. The crowd on the bank, the rush, the riot, the rattle, and the rumpus; The bump, and the glory of the bumpers; The bump, and the shame of the bumped.

* * * * *

From The Cambridge Meteor. No. 7. June 14, 1882. Fabb and Tyler, Cambridge.

――――

CAMERADOS.

Everywhere, everywhere, following me; Taking me by the buttonhole, pulling off my boots, hustling me with the elbows; Sitting down with me to clams and the chowder-kettle; Plunging naked at my side into the sleek, irascible surges; Soothing me with a strain that I neither permit nor prohibit; Flocking this way and that, reverent, eager, orotund, irrepressible; Denser than sycamore leaves when the north winds are scouring Paumanok; What can I do to restrain them? Nothing, verily nothing. Everywhere, everywhere, crying aloud for me; Crying, I hear; and I satisfy them out of my nature; And he that comes at the end of the feast shall find something over. Whatever they want I give: though it be something else, they shall have it. Drunkard, leper, Tammanyite, small-pox and cholera patient, shoddy and codfish millionaire, And the beautiful young men, and the beautiful young women, all the same, Crowding, hundreds of thousands, cosmical multitudes, Buss me and hang on my hips and lean up to my shoulders, Everywhere listening to my yawp, and glad whenever they hear it; Everywhere saying, say it, Walt, we believe it: Everywhere, everywhere.

From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor.

――――

A PARODY FROM SAN FRANCISCO.

I dump my soul and seek repose; I lay oft in the shadow of the summer leaves and smoke Spanish; I dump my soul and lay off――you’d better believe it. I am the poet of filibusters, the poet of Kinney;[130] But I do not refuse to be the poet of Walker also. Yes, I am the poet of Kinney and of Walker, you may bet your life on it. I could go to Nicaraqua and loll in my hammock, I could go to a fandango and dance with negro beauties until I perspired very much, Yes, sir-ee, I could indeed, and double! I could eat tortillas and mark the dark-eyed quadroons making frijoles the greater part of the afternoon, Well, I could. I could fillibust the government, and make myself president, And form a cabinet, And do several things of that sort:―― I could do nothing shorter![131] I could also colonize and do some agriculture, And fix the flints of the natives,[132] And help my countrymen to go in for their chances, And make the King of the Musquitoes clean my boots, And make him dance a reel for my enjoyment; And I could come all sorts of gum games,[133] Now mind I tell you.

――――

The following are extracts from a very long parody which occurs in a curious book entitled “The Fate of Mansfield Humphreys,” by Richard Grant White. Boston, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1884. An edition of this work was also published by Sampson, Low & Co., London.

I happily myself. I am considerable of a man. I am some. You also are some. We are all considerable, all are some. Put all of you and all of me together, and agitate our particles by rubbing us up into eternal smash, and we should still be some. No more than some, but no less. Particularly some, some particularly, some in general, generally some, but always some, without mitigation. Distinctly, some! O ensemble! O quelque-chose! Some punkins, perhaps; But perhaps squash,[134] long necked squash, crooked-necked squash, cucumber, beets, parsnips, carrots, turnips, white turnips, yellow turnips, or any sort of sass,[135] long sass or short sass, or potatoes, Men, Irish potatoes; women, sweet potatoes. Yes, women. I luxuriate in women, They look at me, and my eyes start out of my head; they speak to me, and I yell with delight; they touch me, and the flesh crawls off my bones. Women lie in wait for me, they do. Yes sir! They rush upon me, seven women laying hold of one man; and the divine efflux that thrilled all living things before the nuptials of the Saurius, overflows, surrounds, and interpenetrates their souls, and they say, Walt, why don’t you come and see us? You know we’d be happy to have you. O mes sœurs!

* * * * *

Libertad, and the divine average! I tell you the truth, Salut! I am not to be bluffed off. No, sir! I am large, hairy, earthy, smell of the soil, am big in the shoulders, narrow in the flank, strong in the knees, and of an inquiring and communicative disposition. Also instructive in my propensities, given to contemplation; And able to lift anything that is not too heavy. Listen to me, and I will do you good. Loafe with me, and I will do you better. And if any man gets ahead of me, he will find me after him.

VALE!

――――

Who am I? I have been reading Walt Whitman, and know not whether he be me, or me he;―― Or otherwise! Oh, blue skies! oh, rugged mountains! oh, mighty, rolling Niagara! Oh, chaos and everlasting bosh! I am a poet; I swear it! If you do not believe it you are a dolt, a fool, an idiot! Milton, Shakespere, Dante, Tommy Moore, Pope, never, but Byron, too, perhaps, and last, not least, Me, and the Poet Close. We send our resonance echoing down the adamantine canons of the future! We live for ever! The worms who criticise us (asses!) laugh, scoff, jeer and babble――die! Serve them right. What is the difference between Judy, the pride of Fleet Street, the glory of Shoe Lane, and Walt Whitman? Start not! ’Tis no end man of a minstrel show who perpends this query; ’Tis no brain-racking puzzle from an inner page of the _Family Herald_; No charade, acrostic (double or single), conundrum, riddle, rebus, anagram or other guess-work. I answer thus: We both write truths――great, stern, solemn, unquenchable truths――couched in more or less ridiculous language. I, as a rule use rhyme, he does not; therefore, I am his Superior (which is also a lake in his great and glorious country.) I scorn, with the unutterable scorn of the despiser of pettiness, to take a mean advantage of him. He writes, he sells, he is read (more or less); why then should I rack my brains and my rhyming dictionary? I will see the public hanged first! I sing of America, of the United States, of the stars and stripes, of Oshkosh, of Kalamazoo, and of Salt Lake City. I sing of the railroad cars, of the hotels, of the breakfasts, the lunches, the dinners, and the suppers; Of the soup, the fish, the entrées, the joints, the game, the puddings and the ice-cream. I sing all――I eat all――I sing in turn of Dr. Bluffem’s Antibilious Pills. No subject is too small, too insignificant, for Nature’s poet. I sing of the cocktail, a new song for every cocktail, hundreds of songs, hundreds of cocktails. It is a great and a glorious land! The Mississippi, the Missouri, and a million other torrents roll their waters to the ocean. It is a great and a glorious land! The Alleghanies, the Catskills, the Rockies (see atlas for other mountain ranges too numerous to mention) pierce the clouds! And the greatest and most glorious product of this great and glorious land is Walt Whitman; This must be so, for he says it himself. There is but one greater than he between the rising and the setting sun. There is but one before whom he meekly bows his humbled head. Oh, great and glorious land, teeming producer of all things, creator of Niagara, and inventor of Walt Whitman. Erase your national advertisements of liver pads and cures for rheumatism from your public monuments, and inscribe thereon in letters of gold the name of Judy.

Judy. December 10, 1884.

――――

WHITMAN IN LONDON.

Oh, site of Coldbath Fields Prison! Oh, eight and three-quarter acres of potential Park for the plebs; I gaze at you; I, Walt, gaze at you through cracks in the black hoarding, Though the helmeted blue-coated Bobby dilates to me on the advantages of moving on. I marvel at the stupidity of Authorities everywhere. I stand and inhale a playground, which in a week or two will be turned into a Post Office by Government orders! Instead of plants growing here, bricks will be planted. Instead of girlhood, boyhood playing here, cash will be counted, stamps will be affixed (savagely) by the public, and letters weighed when the young women have time, and also inclination, to do so. I, from the wild Western Continent, wilder myself, weep for this Park soon to be devoured. I am like a buck-jumper: I buck at it. I am like the Giant Cowboy: only I am not gigantic, and I am cowed by it. Oh, Northerly end of Farringdon Street! Oh, Coldbath Fields Square! Oh, dwellers in all the adjacent slums and rookeries, redolent of old clothes’ shops, swarthy Italian organ-grinders, and the superannuated herring. Are you going to see another House of Correction――a Postal one――built where the old one stood? If so, it is I who correct you: I, who am so correct myself!

And you, too, Clerkenwell Gaol! What are the dodrotted Authorities going to do with you? Eh? Clear you away, and build a Board School there? But why build anything? Clerkenwell is mine: I am à propos of Clerkenwell: Clerkenwell is à propos of me. Morally, if not legally, it is mine; morally it is yours as well, you wizened, pallid, blue-nozed, dunderheaded Metropolitan Citizen! In this jungle of houses, what is wanted is fresh air. Everyone of you toilers should be given the real “Freedom of the City,” by having free spaces bestowed on you. It is better to learn how to expand the limbs, and play rounders, and leap over the frog, and fly kites, Than to acquire in a school-room elementary education, consisting of algebra and Assyrian hieroglyphics, spelling, Greek, Italian, and advanced trigonometry. Allons, then! Esperanza! Also cui bono! Go to your Home Secretary, your Postmaster in General, and tell them that no Post Office, or School, shall be built on this spot. Because I, Walt, hailing hoarsely from Manhattan, have spotted it, And Punch, the lustrous camerado, the ineffable dispensator, will spot it too!

Punch. September 3, 1887.

――――

A PENSION FOR WALT WHITMAN.

A prosaic bill, drawn up in the tiresome form of such measures, was introduced into the United States Congress in 1887, to give Walt Whitman a pension. He was a hospital nurse in the war, and earned such a recognition.

When the bill reaches the Senate, however, says the Boston Record, Senator Blair or some other poet, ought to substitute a bill couched in Whitmanese, somewhat as follows:――

“Be it enacted, solidified, plastered, pasted, nailed, tied, hem-stitched, and generally made invulnerable, That Walt Whitman, bard, slinger of pronouns, server of mixed drinks in the form of verbs, adjectives, and other adverbs, Be granted, allowed, made to swallow, consume, and digest the sum of dollars, ducats, promises to pay hereinafter mentioned, said, sung, and cast up.”

――――

ST. SMITH OF UTAH (A.D. 1844.)

A song of the Far West, A song of the Great Salt Lake, of Utah, Nauvoo, Jackson County, and the new Jerusalem. Listen, individuals, communities, sects, nations; I am (for this occasion only) a Transatlantic bard, None of your smooth court-poets of worn-out Eur_òpi_an monarchies, But a bird of the backwoods――a loud-throated warbler of the forest; My inspiration is the breath of the boundless prairie; my mental food is the roll of the raging Atlantic. Rhyme?――I scorn it. Metre?――Snakes and alligators! what is that to ME? Libertad for ever! I intend to sing anyhow――and all-how, just as I tarnation please. Universe, are you listening? very well, then; here goes, right away.

SMITH!!!! Smith the Apostle!!! Smith the Evangelist!! Smith the Discoverer of the Book of Mormon! His name was Joseph, and he was raised at Sharon, Windsor County, Vermont, U.S. His parents were tillers of the soil――poor, but dishonest, When they wanted money, they took it; horses, they boned them; sheep, they annexed them; But saints may spring from sinners, as a butterfly springs from a maggot.

Angels! heavenly visions!! In white robes, with crowns, harps, and everything according, Bless’d the youthful Smith with their presence beatific. He went into solitude, loafing in caves, backwoods, and lonely canyons. Those angels meant business; thrice in one night they sought him. They told him all his sins were liquidated, Told him the history of the world (not according to Moses), Told him the Red Injuns was one of the lost tribes of Israel; Told him where to find the sacred book of the Prophet Mormon, Told him to bring it out, and make a good “spec” of the business.

Leap, O my soul, every 22nd of September, For on that date Smith found the sacred volume! Eighteen-twenty-seven――a year to be remembered!!! Sheets of tin, with characters antique engraven―― Such was the wondrous Book of Mormon. From that prophet Smith profited, and became a prophet also. Mahomet, Brahma, Buddha, Confucius――Smith surpassed them all. Getting behind a screen, he dictated to Oliver Cowdrey (Smith was not a literatus, and couldn’t have jerk’d it grammatically). In eighteen-thirty, hurrah! the glorious Book was publish’d. But carping critics of orthodoxy murmured “fraud!” and “humbug!” “Where’s your authority? Show us the original!” Smith disdained to do so; he and his friends had seen it, But nobody else has seen it, nor will they see it forever. Yet did Smith triumph, and gathered in converts like hay in the sunshine. Virtue will ever prevail, as long as the world circumvolvulates on its axis.

Huzza for the New Jerusalem! At Kirtland, Ohio, Smith with his Saints located, Till, in March, ’32, there came a band of Nonconformists, Seized Joseph the Saint, and Rigdon his mate, and gave them tar and feathers! O my soul, boil, boil like a potato with indignation! From county to county, and state to state, for years the Mormons were driven, Sometimes camping out ’neath the snow-cold stars of winter. At last they found a resting place――Clay county, in Missouri. Thither came Brigham Young――at that time Brigham Younger. Smith sent him out to bring to grace those sceptical down-easters, Whilst Orson Pratt and Heber C. Kimball were missionaries in Europe.

In this world banks will break, and promoters be call’d swindlers: This was the luck of Smith and his saintly companions―― Lo! the bank of Kirtland busted, the Mormons were clapp’d in prison, Not long afterwards they received this heavenly revelation―― “Missouri’s too hot to hold you”――they “vamoused the ranche,” according. O, Nauvoo, city of Beauty! Land of delight, fertility, promise, and blossoming realizations! When I beheld thee my soul was enthrall’d, and danced a spirited can-can. Thither came 15,000 saints, and squatted in glory, And the desert blossom’d as the rose, beneath the smile of Smith. He preach’d the gospel, and got up a government-house and militia, Was mayor of the town, high priest, and commander-in-chief of the army; O, gloria! triumph! bravo! hosannah! huzza! halleluiah! (These are the words of a soul jumping out of its skin with felicity.)

Once more “revelation” came, and spake unto Smith the prophet. “The relation between man and woman is not only social but spiritual. The social is bounded by two, the spiritual knows of no limit; Wherefore, O Smith, you may take what number of wives you think proper, Sanctifying them by sacred mysterious ‘sealings.’” (Reader, seekest thou further to know, then go and consult Hepworth Dixon.)

But the cold hard world disapproved of spiritual marriage; War rose up against Smith, and again, with his mates, he was cast into prison, “Revelation” helped them no more; no, nor did angels assist them; But a gang of rowdies (A.D. 1844) broke into the prison, Haul’d out Joseph Smith and his brother Hyram, And with their too-true revolvers they sent them both to glory!

Sinners make martyrs, and martyrs make saints (this is logic.) Smith was a martyr, and mourned by the Mormons according, Especially Brigham Young, who came in for his fortune and fixtures. In 1850 they established the Salt Lake City, And two years later another great “revelation” set up spiritual wifehood, the glorious cause that Smith died for. Thus, like a beautiful tree, grew up the doctrine of spiritual marriage, Monogamy, bigamy, trigamy, quadrigamy, quinquigamy, and lastly polygamy―― Till, if you ask me, “How many wives has Brigham?” I shall answer, “Go, count the waves of the boundless Atlantic!”

They made Smith a saint――a boss saint――and was he not worthy? Far more than the worn-out Saints of your rotten Eur_ôpi_an Kingdoms! Bully for Joseph! my eyes fill with tears; don’t yours? I admire Joe Smith――I du――I’ll wrap up his memory in lavender, And if you love me, reader (as I’m sure you cannot help it), Go thou and do likewise.

Mourn for Smith; mourn, mourn, ye peoples! O songsters, bards of all times, climes, regions, and generations, O warblers, tenori, bassi, contralti, and mezzi-soprani, O Christian men of every land and language, O kings, priests, presidents, khans, kaisers, and subjects. O infinitively diversified inhabitants of this revolving kosmos, Sing, and sing, and sing, and keep on singing his honour and glory, Echo and re-echo for ever the name of Joe Smith, boss Saint of the Mormons!

From Lays of the Saintly, by Walter Parke, author of “Songs of Singularity,” “Rhoda,” etc. London, Vizetelly and Co.

――――

“Poem of the Ride. A parody-mosaic, by Walt Wheelman,” is the title of a long parody relating to bicycling, contained in Lyra Bicyclica, by J. G. Dalton, Boston, U.S. 1880.

Pods of Pease, a parody of Whitman, occurs on p. 24 of Rejected Tercentenary Songs published in Edinburgh in 1884, to celebrate the Tercentenary of the Edinburgh University:

“And I ask, wherefore all this merry-making, this eating and drinking? And they tell me it is the three hundredth year of the University, And so it is.”

――――

A Mad Parson, a short prose story by Julian Sturgis, appeared in Longman’s Magazine, April, 1884. The parson in question is a kind of Walt Whitman in Holy orders, and his intensely democratic speeches are comical parodies of Whitman’s poetry, but they cannot well be separated from the context. Then there comes upon the scene a wicked wit who mimics the well-meaning parson, and he out-Herods Herod:――

Covent Garden Market. Onions, potatoes, carrots, turnips, parsnips, asparagus French and English (O bon jour, French asparagus my brother!) Good vegetables and bad musty vegetables! Good sellers and bad musty sellers! I devour the bad musty vegetables. O bouquets for misses, and for opera girls! Empty waggons and full waggons, empty baskets and full baskets, empty people and full people! O Covent Garden Market! O dirt and smell and slime indescribable! I describe you all, I love you all, I wallow in you all. I too am a vegetable. I am likewise an animal and an angel. Cool and sweet is the dewy grass, and the shore of the sea. Cool and sweet is the crowded London street. I strip myself naked in the grass, on the shore of the sea, in the crowded street. I am free and naked; the policemen run me in. Them also do I call brothers!

“SHERIDAN’S RIDE.”

Towards the close of the great Civil War, the United States General Sheridan made a movement against the Southern troops under the command of General Early, in the Shenandoah Valley. Sheridan wasted the valley, and broke Early all to pieces in a great battle, for which General Grant ordered a salute of a hundred guns. But soon Early, reinforced by Longstreet, was ready to move against the intruder in overwhelming force. The movement was a surprise. Sheridan had been absent at Washington, and he was returning to his post, when he met the whole army running towards him in panic and rout. Then began the famous “ride” from Winchester to the front. Deploying his cavalry across the valley to stop the first stragglers, he dashed forward with a handful of men right through his own beaten force towards the victorious foe. As he met each flying regiment he ordered the men to turn about, reminding them that, while they were making excellent progress, they were “going the wrong way.” His desperate energy, and his bon mot together, saved the battle, and turned the rout into a victory.

General Philip Sheridan was born in Ireland, in March, 1831, and died at Nonquit, Massachusetts, on Sunday, August 5, 1888.

Up from the south at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain’s door, The terrible grumble and rumble and roar, Telling the battle was on once more―― And Sheridan twenty miles away! And wilder still those billows of war, Thundered along the horizon’s bar; And louder yet into Winchester rolled The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, Making the blood of the listener cold―― As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, With Sheridan twenty miles away!

But there is a road from Winchester town, A good, broad highway leading down; And there, through the flash of the morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night, Was seen to pass as with eagle flight; As if he knew the terrible need, He stretched away with the utmost speed; Hills rose and fell――but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away!

Still spring from these swift hoof? thundering south. The dust, like the smoke from the cannon’s mouth, Or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster; Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster: The heart of the steed and the heart of the master, Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, Impatient to be where the battle-field calls: Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away!

Under his spurning feet, the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed; And the landscape sped away behind Like an ocean flying before the wind; And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, Swept on with his wild eyes full of fire: But, lo! he is nearing his heart’s desire―― He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away!

The first that the General saw, were the groups Of stragglers, and then, the retreating troops! What was done――what to do――a glance told him both, And striking his spurs with a terrible oath, He dashed down the line ’mid a storm of huzzahs, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, Because the sight of the master compelled it to pause, With foam and with dust the black charger was grey: By the flash of his eye, and his red nostril’s play, He seemed to the whole great army to say, “I have brought you Sheridan, all the way From Winchester down to save the day!”

Hurrah! Hurrah! for Sheridan! Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man! And when their statues are placed on high Under the dome of the Union sky, The American soldier’s Temple of Fame,―― There with the glorious general’s name, Be it said in letters both gold and bright: “Here is the steed that saved the day By carrying Sheridan into the fight, From Winchester――twenty miles away!”

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

――――

SCHLOSSER’S RIDE.

Righd from der front one putiful day, Bringin’ der rear some fresh dismay, A frightened sendinel broughd der news (He looked as if he vas scared like der doose, Der vay he kigged his legs so loose). Delling der rebels were coming aheadt, “Und shooding like hell,” dot’s vot he said. De gallant soldiers, I haf no doubd, Ad dis schweed news mid joy should shoud, Bud as der news vas spread aboud, Do dell der druth, dey looked down in der moud; Exbecially von boor Dutchman dere, Who, when he heard der guns in der air, Almost did durn himself gray hair. Pore Schlosser didn’t like id ad all, Do gid himself gud mit a cannon-ball. Und dalk as you may, dot Dutchman vas righd―― In a baddle its petter do bin oud of sighd; Do been shod und exploded dot ain’t much fun, So long as you hafe any chance for do run, Und as dose shells did bust around, Und knocked der soldiers on der ground, Exbloding mit a gentle sound, Dot Schlosser quick made ub his mind, De first goot horse dot he should find, He’d ride avay as quick as der vind, Und leaf de baddle far behint. Und soon he finds him a schblendid horse, Und climbs on him midoud some pause; Den shburs his side mid his big heel, Und gallobs from der battle-field. Dere is a road righd near dot schbot, A first-rate road for a horse do drot, Und dere dot frightened Schlosser rides, Und kigs der poor horse in der sides, Und shcreams so much at him besides; Der drees, der road dey bass like a schot. Fadigue and exposure dot cubble feel not, Dey vish do get only avay from dot schbot. Doo-forty dot hot horse he goes flyin’ avay; Der hills rise and fall, und Schlosser is gay, ’Cause he is more as fife miles avay. Shdill der hoofs of dot old nag For efen a minute did never lag; He shtrained him efery sdhrength he got, Und Schlosser, as he on him sot, Vas heard to laugh in a cholly vay, ’Cause now he vas ten miles avay. Und sdhill old Schlosser pushed him aheadt, “I feel quite bedder now,” he said, Und his face god back ids natural red; But nod a minute did he stay, Und soon he was dwenty miles avay. So goot dot horse his duty done, Dot pefore der setting of der sun, He carried his rider――dat son of a gun―― Away from der sount of any gun. Und ven dot baddle vos at ids dop, Und de swords mit awful noise did pop, Und de ground mit heldy blood did sop, Dot Schlosser as he rode along, He singed himself a funny song. He vasn’d dinkin’ ’boud der fray―― He vas more as a hundred miles avay, Dree cheers! dree cheers! for Schlosser, bold. Four cheers! four cheers! for dot horse so old.

There is another parody, also in the Dutch patois, entitled Schneider’s Ride, it relates how Schneider saved his contraband whiskey from the revenue officers. It does not follow the original very closely, and is not of sufficient interest to be inserted here.

――――:o:――――

Read, an artist as well as a poet, first came into notice as the author of several sweet and graceful lyrics. His best poems are those which have a pastoral character, of which the following, taken from The Diversions of the Echo Club, is an imitation:――

A SYLVAN SCENE.

The moon, a reaper of the ripened stars, Held out her silver sickle in the west; I leaned against the shadowy pasture-bars, A hermit, with a burden in my breast.

The lilies leaned beside me as I stood; The lilied heifers gleamed beneath the shed; And spirits from the high ancestral wood Cast their articulate benisons on my head.

The twilight oriole sang her valentine From pendulous nests above the stable-sill, And, like a beggar, asking alms and wine, Came the importunate murmur of the mill.

Love threw his flying shuttle through my woof, And made the web a pattern I abhorred; Wherefore alone I sang, and far aloof, My melting melodies, mightier than the sword.

The white-sleeved mowers, coming slowly home, With scythes like rainbows on their shoulders hung, Sniffed not, in passing me, the scent of Rome, Nor heard the music trickling from my tongue.

The milkmaid following, delayed her step, Still singing as she left the stable-yard: ’Twas “Sheridan’s Ride,” she sang; I turned and wept, For woman’s homage soothes the suffering bard.

SONG.

Trust not man for he’ll deceive you, Treach’ry is his sole intent; For he’ll court you, then he’ll leave you Poor, deluded, to lament.

Formed by nature to undo us, They escape our utmost heed, Oh! how humble when they woo us, But how proud when they succeed.

So the Bird when once deluded By the fowler’s artful snare, Pines out life, in cage secluded, Fair ones, while you’re young, beware!

――――

A PARODY.

Trust not woman, she’ll beguile you, All her smiles are form’d by Art, First she’ll flatter, then exile you, Sighing with a broken heart!

Form’d by nature to pursue us, They outstrip the fleetest men; Ah! how sweet they bill and coo us, But how proud they triumph then!

So the fish the bait admiring, On the angler’s fatal snare, Gasps out life, in pangs expiring! Lovers, of the hook beware!

From The American Songster. About 1770.

――――:o:――――

TEMPTATION AND EXPLANATION.

I just buttoned her glove And her dress had no sleeve You will blame me my Love; But I beg you believe―― That――(just what I can’t prove), But her dress had no sleeve, And she made some slight move And then――prithee sweet dove Do not let yourself grieve. For my heart did not rove Though my wits all took leave, By this mark of her glove On my cheek you perceive That――her dress had no sleeve.

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

――――

A NEWSPAPER PARODY.

I just buckled the tug And the whiffle tree fixed, You will blame me, my love, But I’m still somewhat mixed, And (next week I can move). The blamed whiffle tree’s fixed, The mule made a slight move And then――prithee sweet dove Bring the arnica here, I went sailing above Through the ether so clear. By this mark of his hoof On my cheek you will know That――the bay mule must go.

――――

YOU KISSED ME.

You kissed me! My forehead drooped low on your breast With a feeling of shelter and infinite rest, While the holy emotion my tongue dared not speak Flushed up like a flame from my heart to my cheek; Your arms held me fast, oh! your arms were so bold; Heart beat against heart in their passionate fold. Your glances seemed drawing my soul through my eyes, As the sun draws the mist from the sea to the skies; And your lips clung to mine till I prayed in my bliss They might never unclasp from that rapturous kiss.

You kissed me! My heart and my breath and my will In delirious joy for the moment stood still; Life had for me then no temptations, no charms, No visions of pleasure, outside of your arms. And were I this instant an angel possessed Of the joy and the peace that are given the blest, I would fling my white robes unrepiningly down, And tear from my forehead the beautiful crown, To nestle once more in that haven of rest, With your lips upon mine, and my head on your breast.

You kissed me! My soul in a bliss so divine Reeled and swooned like a drunken man foolish with wine; And I thought ’twere delicious to die there, if death Would come while my lips were yet moist with your breath; ’Twere delicious to die, if my heart might grow cold While your arms wrapped me round in that passionate fold, And these are the questions I ask day and night: Must my lips taste but once such exquisite delight? Would you care if your breast was my shelter as then, And if you were here would you kiss me again?

JOSEPHINE HUNT (Chicago Tribune.)

In publishing this a few years ago, the New York Tribune said, “The above exquisite poem was written in 1857, when the young lady, the author, was under 20. It was addressed to a certain young gentleman, the hero of the occasion portrayed. James Redpath thought so well of the poem that he published quite an edition on white satin ribbon. Whittier, the poet, wrote of it and its young author, that she had ‘mastered the secret of English rhythm.’”

Thereupon the “bad man” of the Chicago Tribune broke out as follows:――

You kicked me! my head dropped low on my vest With a feeling as if I would like to go west, While the cock-and-bull story about my rich love For your daughter――my Mabel, had flown like a dove. Your fist held me fast――oh, my back was so cold; Boot beat against pants, and each hearty kick told. Your boot toe seemed knocking my spine through my eyes, As the White Stocking boys knock the sky scraping flies. Your foot clung to me till I prayed you might miss Me just once, and your corn ’gainst the table leg kiss.

You missed me! my heart and my breath and my will In delirious joy for a moment stood still, Life had for me then no temptations, no charms, No visions of happiness, outside of your arms, And were I this instant an angel possessed Of the peace and the joy that are given the blest, I would fling my white robes unrepiningly down, I would tear from my forehead its beautiful crown, To listen once more to that old man’s wild whoop, As he basted his bunion out on the front stoop.

“The above exquisite poem was written in 1881, when the author was a young man under 30. It was addressed to a certain old gentleman, the hero of the occasion portrayed. A Chicago editor thought so well of the poem that he once published quite an edition on wood pulp paper. Whittier the poet wrote of it, and its young author, that ‘he had evidently been there.’”

The same “bad man” quotes, on another occasion, without giving the author’s name, the following lines:――

Falling leaf and fading tree Lines of white in a sullen sea, Shadows rising o’er you and me, The swallows are making them ready to fly Wheeling out on a windy sky; Good-bye, summer, good-bye, good-bye.

“Hush,” a voice from the far away, “Listen and learn,” it seemed to say “All the to-morrows shall be as to-day, The cord is frayed, the cruse is dry, The link must break and the lamp must die, Then good-bye to hope, good-bye, good-bye.”

“What are we waiting for, oh my heart? Kiss me straight on the brows and part Again! Again! My heart! My heart! What are we waiting for you and I? A pleading look, a stifled cry, Then good-bye, friend, good-bye, good-bye.”

After which followed this parody.

Easy chair and soft young man, Lovely girl on his kneepan. Let him hold her while he can. Her father is taking the chain off the pup, On Tommy’s pants he will shortly sup; Get up Myrtle! get up, get up.

“Biff,” a voice from the far away, “Over the gate,” it seemed to say; “Come round to-morrow the bill to pay.” The dog is hungry, the moon is pale, God help the boy if the trousers fail, Set sail, Tommy, set sail, set sail.

“What is he waiting for, O, my heart? Why don’t he get another start? Again! Again! My heart! My heart! What are you waiting for Tommy dear? Get up and hustle, the coast is clear; Some day that front gate will be his bier.”

――――:o:――――

“THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS.”

Harper’s Cyclopædia of Poetry says Clement C. Moore (1779-1863) was the son of a bishop, and a native of New York City. In 1844 he published a volume of poems dedicated to his children. One of them, founded on an old Dutch tradition, is generally known as “The Night before Christmas,” although the author christened it “A Visit from St. Nicholas.”

’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar plums danced through their heads; And mamma in her kerchief and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below; When, what to my wondering eyes did appear But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nic. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled and shouted and called them by name: “Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer! and Vixen! On Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!” As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, So up to the housetop the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too, And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof, The prancing and pawing of each little hoof, As I drew in my head and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a pedlar just opening his pack. His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry, His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow; The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath. He had a broad face and a little round belly, That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly, He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him in spite of myself; A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread; He spoke not a word but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod up the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to the team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle, But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

――――

THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS.

’Twas the night after Christmas when all through the house, Every soul was abed and as still as a mouse, Those stockings so lately St. Nicholas’ care We emptied of all that was eatable there, The darlings had lately been tucked in their beds With very full stomachs, and pain in their heads.

I was dozing away in my new cotton cap, And Nancy was rather far gone in a nap, When out in the nuss’ry arose such a clatter, I sprang from my sleep, crying, “What is the matter?” I flew to each bedside――still half in a doze―― Tore open the curtains and threw off the clothes, While the light of the taper served clearly to show The piteous plight of those objects below. For what to the fond father’s eyes should appear But the little pale face of each sick little dear, For each pet that had crammed itself full as a tick I knew in a moment now felt like Old Nick.

I turned from the sight, to my bedroom stepped back, And brought out a vial marked “Pulv. Ipecac,” When my Nancy exclaimed――for their sufferings shocked her―― “Don’t you think you had better, love, run for the doctor!” I ran, and was scarcely back under my roof, When I heard the sharp clatter of old Jalop’s hoof. I might say that I hardly had turned myself round, When the doctor came into the room with a bound; He was covered with mud from his head to his foot, And the suit he had on was his very worst suit, He had hardly had time to put this on his back, And he looked like a Falstaff half fuddled with sack. His eyes how they twinkled! Had the doctor got merry? His cheeks looked like Port, and his breath smelt of Sherry. He had’nt been shaved for a fortnight or so, And the beard on his chin wasn’t white as the snow.

But inspecting their tongues in despite of their teeth, And drawing his watch from his waistcoat beneath, He felt of each pulse,――saying――“Each little belly Must get rid”――here he laughed――“of the rest of that jelly.” I gazed on each chubby plump sick little elf, And groaned when he said so――in spite of myself, But a wink of his eye when he physicked our Fred, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He didn’t prescribe, but went straightway to work, He dosed all the rest; gave his trousers a jerk, And adding directions while blowing his nose, He buttoned his coat; from his chair he arose, Then jumped in his gig, gave old Jalop a whistle, And Jalop dashed off as if pricked by a thistle; The doctor exclaimed e’er he drove out of sight, “They’ll be better to-morrow――good night, Jones――good night!”

――――:o:――――

“THE PICKET GUARD.”

An American gentleman writes, that “one of the finest of the war productions was Thad Oliver’s, ‘The Picket Guard.’ I send the enclosed copy of it, as it may not be at hand for you, and the parody takes hold of all of us who have ever had experience in broken banks, and know how convenient Canada is.”

“All quiet along the Potomac,” they say, “Except now and then a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket. ’Tis nothing: a private or two now and then, Will not count in the news of the battle; Not an officer lost――only one of the men, Moaning out all alone the death rattle.”

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; Their tents in the rays of the clear Autumn moon, Or the light of the watchfires are gleaming. A tremulous sigh, as the gentle light wind Through the forest leaves softly is creeping; While stars up above with their glittering eyes Keep guard,――for the army is sleeping.

There’s only the sound of the lone sentry’s tread, As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two in the low trundle bed Far away in the cot on the mountain. His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,―― For their mother,――may Heaven defend her.

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, That night when the love yet unspoken, Leaped up to his lips,――when low murmured vows, Were pledged to be ever unbroken. Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling, And gathers his gun closer up to its place, As if to keep down the heart swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree―― The footstep is lagging and weary; Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. Hark! was it the night wind that rustled the leaves? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? It looked like a rifle: “Ha! Mary good-bye!” And the life blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, No sound save the rush of the river; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead, The picket’s off duty for ever.

THAD OLIVER.

――――

ALONG THE ST. LAWRENCE.

All quiet along the St. Lawrence to-night, Except now and then a cashier Is seen as he crosses with gripsack in hand And imagines a cop in the rear.

All quiet along the St. Lawrence to-night, No sound save the rush of the water, While amateur warriors curled up in bed, Are dreaming of horrible slaughter.

“All hail to this snow-covered alien shore,” Quoth the boodler, disporting a plug; “Far better the sweep of the boreal blast Than a bed in the circumscribed jug.

“But, alas! for the fellows who lingered too late; We think of them ever with pain, For they lost the rich spoils of municipal war By waiting too late for the train.”

Was it the moonbeam so suddenly bright? The starlight so wondrously flashing? Ah, no: ’twas the glint of the glimmering glass, And the cocktail is ebbing and splashing.

All quiet along the St. Lawrence to-night, Though the cashier is crossing for ever; While depositors rush on the bank which he left, He draws on the bank of the river.

From The New York World.

――――:o:――――

LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS.

I hafe got a leedle boy Vot gomes schust to my knee; Der queerest schap, der greatest rogue As efer you dit see; He runs and jumps, und smashes dings In all parts of der house―― But what of dot? he vas mine son, Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He get der measles und der mumbs, Und eferyding dots out; He spills mine glass of lager beer, Puts schnuff into mine kraut; He fills mine pipe mit Limberg cheese―― Dot vas der roughest chouse; I’d dake dot vrom no oder boy But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He dakes der milk pan for a dhrum, Und cuts mine cane in dwo, To make der sthicks to beat it mit―― Mine cracious, dot vas drue! I dinks mine head vas schplit apart, He kicks up such a touse―― But never mind, der boys vas few Like dot leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He asks me questions sooch as dese: Who baints my nose so red? Who vas it cuts dot schmoot blace out Vrom der hair upon mine head? Und vere der plaze goes vrom der lamp Vene’er der glim I douse―― How gan I all dese dings eggsblain To dot shmall Yawcob Strauss?

I somedimes dink I schall go vild Mit sooch a grazy poy, Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest, Und beaceful dimes enshoy; But ven he vas aschleep in ped So quiet as a mouse, I brays der Lord, “Dake anydings, But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss.”

CHARLES F. ADAMS.

――――

LEEDLE EDUARD STRAUSS.

They haf von very clever man At der Inventorees. To see him schust conduct der band, Dats sometings if you please.

He hops und schumps und marks der time, Und shows such taste and nous, Dat dere’s to equal him no vun, Mine clever Eduard Strauss!

He fills our ears mit lofely sounds, Applause “brings down der house,” Dat happens to feu uder poys, But leedle Eduard Strauss.

He dakes der viddle in his hands, Und he schust blay it, too! He dake der schtick to beat der time Mine gracious, dot vos drue.

His band blays not too loud nor zoft, It kicks not up a touse, Oh, peutiful! der schaps are few Like leedle Eduard Strauss.

Und ven der beeble hear dot band Dey at each oder glance, Den vag deir heads, den move deir veet, Und vish dot dey might dance.

Und ven dey blay der “Danube Blue,” Vich vos vor an encore, Dey velcome it as zomtings new, Und call vor it vunce more.

Der beeble listen as dey blay As guiet as a mouse, Dere’s none vor dance tunes any day Like leedle Eduard Strauss.

Punch. June 13, 1885.

――――:o:――――

THE LESSONS OF THE BIRDS.

What is that, mother? The lark my child! The morn has but just looked out and smiled, When he starts from his humble grassy nest, And is up and away, with the dew on his breast And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere, To warble it out in his maker’s ear. Ever my child, be thy morn’s first lays Tuned, like the larks, to thy maker’s praise.

* * * * *

What is that, mother? The Swan, my love! He is floating down from his native grove: No loved one now, no nestling nigh,―― He is floating down, by himself, to die! Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings, Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings, Live so, my son, that when death shall come, Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.

G. W. DOANE.

――――

WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER?

“What is that, mother, that comes from the urn, Fragrant and strong as we get it in turn?” “An infusion of leaves from far Cathay, Leaves of the alder, and leaves of the bay, With a twang, and full flavoured, just as it should be, And I think that there may be some leaves of the tea.”

“What is that, mother, so coldly blue, Like a wintry sky of azure hue?” “That is milk of the city, that mixture, my dear, The milk of the chalk-pit and pump that is near, That would not be owned by a sensible cow, For she never could make it, she wouldn’t know how.”

“What is that, mother, yellow as gold?” “Butter, my boy; not the butter of old. In the hey-day of youth we said tit for tat, ’Twas a prophecy when we said butter for fat; That is butter, to those whom the scoffer calls green, To the elect it is oleomargarine.”

“What is that, mother? ’Tis the pepper of trade, But the Lord only knows of what it is made; Of roasted meal, of dust, and peas With a dash of cayenne, to make one sneeze It is hot and strong, but it’s rather queer, Of the ground pepper-corn, there is none of it here.

E. LAWSON FINERTY.

――――:o:――――

BEAUTIFUL SNOW.

In the early part of the American civil war, one dark morning in the dead of winter, there died at the Commercial Hospital, Cincinnati, a young woman over whose head only two-and-twenty summers had passed. Once the pride of respectable parentage, her first wrong step was the small beginning of the “same old story over again,” which has been the only life-history of thousands. Highly educated and accomplished in manners, she might have shone in the best of Society. But the evil hour that proved her ruin was but the door from childhood; and having spent a young life in disgrace and shame, the poor friendless one died the melancholy death of a broken-hearted outcast.

Among her personal effects was found in manuscript, the “Beautiful Snow,” which was seen by Enos B. Reed, a gentleman of culture and literary tastes, who was at that time editor of the National Union. In the columns of that paper, on the morning following the girl’s death, the poem appeared in print for the first time. When the paper containing the poem came out on Sunday morning, the body of the victim had not yet received burial. The attention of Thomas Buchanan Read, one of the first American poets, was soon directed to the newly-published lines, who was so taken with their stirring pathos that he followed the corpse to its final resting-place.

The above account of the origin of the poem is that given by Mr. James Hogg, as far back as 1874, and repeated by him in the columns of “Notes and Queries” on July 3, 1875, but it is open to considerable doubt.

Some American writers ascribe it to Mr. James M. Watson, whilst others assert that it was written as far back as December, 1852, by Major W. A. Sigourney, and that his erring young wife was the miserable outcast described in the poem. It is also stated that on the night of April 22, 1871, Major Sigourney was found dead in the outskirts of New York, under circumstances leading to the belief that he had shot himself.

It is possible that Mr. Watson amplified and improved the poem from the original draft of Major Sigourney, which as usually printed, is shorter and far less pathetic.

Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow! Filling the sky and the earth below; Over the house-tops, over the street, Over the heads of the people you meet: Dancing――Flirting――Skimming along. Beautiful snow! it can do nothing wrong; Flying to kiss a fair lady’s cheek, Clinging to lips in frolicsome freak; Beautiful snow from the heavens above―― Pure as an angel, gentle as love!

Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow! How the flakes gather and laugh as they go, Whirling about in their maddening fun; It plays in its glee with everyone―― Chasing――Laughing――Hurrying by. It lights on the face, and sparkles the eye. And the dogs, with a bark and a bound, Snap at the crystals as they eddy around; The town is alive, and its heart in a glow, To welcome the coming of beautiful snow.

How wildly the crowd goes swaying along, Hailing each other with humour and song! How the gay sledges, like meteors, flash by, Bright for a moment, then lost to the eye! Ringing――Swinging――Dashing they go, Over the crust of the beautiful snow―― Snow so pure when it falls from the sky As to make one regret to see it lie, To be trampled and tracked by thousands of feet, Till it blends with the filth in the horrible street.

Once I was pure as the snow, but I fell―― Fell like the snow-flakes from heaven to hell Fell to be trampled as filth in the street―― Fell to be scoffed, to be spit on, and beat―― Pleading――Cursing――Dreading to die, Selling my soul to whoever would buy; Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread, Hating the living and fearing the dead, Merciful God, have I fallen so low? And yet I was once like the beautiful snow.

Once I was fair as the beautiful snow, With an eye like its crystal, and heart like its glow: Once I was loved for my innocent grace―― Flattered and sought for the charms of my face! Father――Mother――Sisters, and all, God and myself I have lost by my fall; The veriest wretch that goes shivering by, Will make a wide sweep lest I wander too nigh; For all that is on or above me I know, There is nothing so pure as the beautiful snow.

How strange it should be that this beautiful snow, Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go! How strange it should be when the night comes again, If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain! Fainting――Freezing――-Dying alone. Too wicked for prayer, too weak for a moan, To be heard in the streets of the crazy town. Gone mad in the joy of the snow coming down To lie and to die in my terrible woe, With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow.

Helpless and foul as the trampled snow, Sinner, despair not! Christ stoopeth low To rescue the soul that is lost in its sin, And raise it to life and enjoyment again. Groaning――Bleeding――Dying for thee. The Crucified hung on the accursed tree. His accents of mercy fell soft on thine ear―― “Is there mercy for me? Will He heed my prayer?” O God, in the stream that for sinners doth flow, Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.

――――

BEAUTIFUL SNOW.

The following is the version ascribed to Major Sigourney:――

Beautiful Snow! Beautiful snow! Falling so lightly, Daily and nightly, Alike round the dwellings of lofty and low. Horses are prancing, Cherrily dancing, Stirred by the spirit that comes from the snow.

Beautiful snow! Beautiful snow! Up at the dawning, In the cold morning, Children exult, though the winds fiercely blow; Hailing the snow-flakes Falling as day breaks―― Joyful they welcome the beautiful snow.

Beautiful snow! Beautiful snow! Childhood’s quick glances See the bright fancies Decking the window-panes softly and slow; Forest and city, Figure so pretty, Left by the magical fingers of snow.

Beautiful snow! Beautiful snow! Atmosphere chilling, Carriage-wheels stilling, Warming the cold earth, and kindling the glow Of Christian pity For the great city Of wretched creatures who starve ’mid the snow.

Beautiful snow! Beautiful snow! Fierce winds blowing, Thickly ’tis snowing; Night gathers round us――how warm then the glow Of the fire so bright, On the cold winter night, As we draw in the curtains to shut out the snow.

Beautiful snow! Beautiful snow! Round the bright fireside, In the long eventide, Closely we gather though keen the winds blow; Safely defended, Kindly befriended, Pity the homeless exposed to the cold, icy snow.

December, 1852. ――――

LONDON SNOW.

O, the snow! the beautiful snow! Feathering down to the ground below. Snow on the pavement, and snow on the street, Snow on the boots of the people you meet. Train, cab, or omnibus? O, no!――no! Nothing to-day but the beautiful snow; Nothing to go by and nowhere to go, All through the fall of the beautiful snow.

O, the slush! the ineffable slush! Snow, mud, and fog churned to maddening mush, Slush that slips in through the boots on your feet, Slush that slops up to your chimney-pot neat. Into town――into country――wherever you rush Nothing to-day but ineffable slush: Bedraggled merino, and velvet, and plush, Trail through the swamps of ineffable slush.

The Globe. January, 28, 1886.

――――

THAT BEAUTIFUL KISS.

When Madame Patti was in St. Louis, U.S., in 1884, the then Governor, Mr. T. T. Crittenden, called upon her, and during some playful badinage, he kissed her. The newspapers got hold of the story and humourously enlarged upon it, one of them published the following parody, wickedly ascribing it to the Governor:――

Oh, that kiss! that beautiful kiss! Filling and thrilling my lips with its bliss; Reaching ’way down to the depths of my soul, Voting early and often at joys inmost poll, O, transport ecstatic! O rapture I hail More pleasant than pardoning crooks out of jail, Throbbing, Sense robbing, Oh bountiful bliss, I’d yield my political hopes for that kiss!

Once I was pure as that beautiful kiss, But that was several years before this―― In the years ere executive honors o’er snowed The spot whereon ringlets of raven once growed, Ere I sainted that Bourbon, the good Jesse James, And saved brother Frank from the high scaffolds claims. Jobbery, Snobbery, All I’d eschew, For the ravishing moment I snatched kiss from you.

O that kiss! that staccato-like thud! Sound as when cow pulls her hoof from the mud. Nicolini stood by, but I cared not a whit For him, or the fury of bold Mrs. Crit, I let all ambitions bright hopes float in wrack, Away on the wings of that one luscious smack, That old houri, Missouri, For me holds no bliss One half so entrancing as that Patti kiss.

It could scarcely have been the same newspaper writer who wrote the following unfavourable criticism upon Madame Patti’s singing: “Her technique is bad, besides being too small. When a bran-new technique can now be had for three dollars, and a good second-hand one, holding over two quarts, for $1.75, there is no excuse for this. Of course we all know――all we critics――that there are no tears in Mrs. A. Patti’s voice, which is the reason for her having to wet her whistle so early and often. There is a marked deficiency in breadth, and depth, and thickness in the upper register, which does not admit the air freely in consequence, and a far-off nearness, a sort of inanimate after-taste, so to speak, in the diminuendo of her flats, particularly her French flat. Her singular mannerism of holding her chin lopsided during her G ups is in bad form, and the first thing she knows, one of her sharps will come out edgeways and cut her throat. Then she opens her mouth too much and too often when she sings, which makes her chest-notes mouthy, and her mouth-notes chesty. It would be much better, to say nothing of more artistic, if she were to open only one side of her mouth at a time. This would save wear and tear of her teeth, and at the same time give the other corner time to rest and brace up. She exerts herself too much in her trills, and it would save her both breath and expense if she had them hereafter done behind the scenes, by a boy with a dog-whistle or something.”

――――:o:――――

HANS BREITMANN’S BARTY.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty; Dey had biano-blayin; I felled in lofe mit a Merican frau, Her name was Madilda Yane. She hat haar as prown ash a pretzel, Her eyes vas himmel-plue, Und vhen day looket indo mine, Dey shplit mine heart in dwo.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty, I vent dere you’ll pe pound; I valizet mit Madilda Yane, Und vent shpinnen’ round and round. De pootiest Fraulein in de house, She vayed ’pout dwo hoondred pound, Und efery dime she gife a shoomp She make de vindows sound.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty, I dells you it cost him dear; Dey rolled in more ash sefen kecks Of foost-rate lager beer. Und vhenefer dey knocks de shpicket in De Deutschers gifes a cheer; I dinks dat so vine a barty Never coom to a het dis year.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty; Dere all was Souse and Brouse, Vhen de sooper corned in, de gompany Did make demselfs to house; Dey ate das Brot and Gensybroost, De Bratwurst and Braten vine, Und vash der Abendessen down Mit four parrels of Neckarwein.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty; Ve all cot troonk ash bigs; I put mine mout’ to a parrel of beer, Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs; Und den I gissed Madilda Yane, Und she shlog me on the kop, Und de gompany vighted mit daple-lecks Dill de coonshtable made oos shtop.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty―― Where ish dat barty now? Vhere ish de lofely golden cloud Dat float on de moundain’s prow? Vhere ish de himmelstrahlende stern―― De shtar of de shpirit’s light? All goned afay mit de lager beer―― Afay in de ewigkeit!

CHARLES GODFREY LELAND.

――――

THE FATE OF THE FOUR.

Lord Woodcock[136] had a Party, Of high heroic strain; They held that the Liberal lot were naught, And Gladstone’s vauntings vain. They had principles of the patriot type, True Neo-Tory Blue, And when in muster full they met, They numbered――just twice two!

Lord Woodcock had a Party; Those Four were ever found In the deadly breach with vote and speech, When the word for fight went round; The cockiest four in all the House, There was Balfour, Wolff, and Gorst, When Woodcock led those three to war, Their foes might dread the worst.

* * * * *

Lord Woodcock had a Party,―― Where is that Party now? Where is the hyacynthin crop That decked young Dizzy’s brow? Where is Adullam? Where Bob Lowe, That star of free-lance fight? All gone with the flash of yesterday’s “fizz,” Away “in the ewigkeit.”

Punch. March 5, 1881.

――――:o:――――

THE FATE OF THE FRONTIERSMAN.

After Joaquin Miller, an exaggeration of an exaggeration, for indeed much of Miller’s verse is a travesty of poetry.

That whiskey-jug! For dry or wet, My tale will need its help, you bet!

We made for the desert, she and I, Though life was loathsome, and love a lie, And she gazed on me with her glorious eye, But all the same,――I let her die! For why?――there was barely water for one In the small canteen, and of provender, none! A splendid snake, with an emerald scale, Slid before us along the trail, With a famished parrot pecking its head; And, seizing a huge and dark brown rock In her dark brown hands, as you crush a crock, With the dark brown rock she crushed it dead. But ere her teeth in its flesh could meet, I laid her as dead as the snake at my feet, And grabbed the snake for myself to eat.

The plain stretched wide from side to side, As bare and blistered and cracked and dried As a moccasin sole of buffalo hide, And my throat grew hot, as I walked the trail, My blood in a sizzle, my muscles dry, A crimson glare in my glorious eye, And I felt my sinews wither and fail, Like one who has lavished, for fifty nights, His pile in a hell of gambling delights, And is kicked at dawn, from bottle and bed, And sent to the gulches without a red. There was no penguin to pick or pluck, No armadillo’s throat to be stuck, Not even a bilberry’s ball of blue To slush my tongue with its indigo dew, And the dry brown palm-trees rattled and roared Like the swish and swizzle of Walker’s sword. I was nigh rubbed out; when, far away, A shanty baked in the furnace of day, And I petered on, for an hour or more, Till I dropped, like a mangy hound, at the door.

No soul to be seen; but a basin stood On the bench, with a mess of dubious food, Stringy and doughy and lumpy and thick, As the clay ere flame has turned it to brick. I gobbled it up with a furious fire, A prairie squall of hungry desire, And strength came back; when, lo! a scream Closed my stomach and burst my dream. She stood before me, as lithe and tall As a mosqueet-bush on the Pimos wall, Fierce as the Zuni panther’s leap, Fair as the slim Apache sheep. A lariat draped her broad brown hips, As she stood and glared with parted lips, While piercing stitches and maddening shoots Ran through my body, from brain to boots. I would have clasped her, but ere I could, She flung back her hair’s tempestuous hood, And screamed, in a voice like a tiger-cat’s: “You’ve gone and ett up my pizen for rats!” My blood grew limp and my hair grew hard As the steely tail of the desert pard: I sank at her feet, convulsed and pale, And kissed in anguish her brown toe-nail.

You may rip the cloud from the frescoed sky, Or tear the man from his place in the moon, Fur from the buzzard, and plumes from the coon, But you can’t tear me from the truth I cry, That life is loathsome and love a lie. She lifted me up to her bare brown face, She cracked my ribs in her brown embrace, And there in the shanty, side by side, Each on the other’s bosom died.

She’s now the mistress of Buffalo Bill, And pure as the heart of a lily still; While I’ve killed all who have cared for me, And I’m just as lonely as I can be, So, pass the whiskey,――we’ll have a spree!

From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor.

Several other parodies of American poets have already been quoted from The Diversions of the Echo Club, and it is only now necessary to say of the others that they are written in imitation of E. C. Stedman, Mrs. Sigourney, W. C. Bryant, T. B. Oldrich, Mrs. Stoddard, N. P. Willis, R. H. Stoddard, Henry T. Tuckerman, Jean Ingelow, George H. Baker, Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, and William Winter.

――――:o:――――

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE!

This favourite old song was written by an American, General G. P. Morris, and several parodies of it were inserted in Volume IV., the following has since been received from the United States:――

THE WOODMAN’S REPLY.

No, mum, this ’ere old tree Can’t be no longer spared; It ain’t no odds to me, If Muster Brown was squared; But Muster Brown says, “Green, You drop that there tree down,” And what he say he mean, Sure-ly, do Muster Brown.

I don’t possess the ’ed To hargify with you, A lady born and bred Is safe to speak what’s true. But, put a case, I takes A job from Mr. B. (And little ’tis I makes Out of the likes of he).

Your heart-strings, and all that, Round this ’ere tree may cling―― To contradict you flat, Would not be quite the thing; But if you talk of shade, There’s other boughs than these, And other folks have played, Mayhap, round other trees.

It’s very good to feel A mystning of the eyes, For chairs of oak or deal, And old straw-hats likewise, To keep, if you’ve a mind, The things as makes you weep; I’ve got no fault to find, If they’re your own to keep.

But this ’ere old oak tree, As you don’t want cut down, Excuse me, mum, you see, Belongs to Muster Brown. To him you should apply, Though ’taint no use I think, And if you please, mum, I Should like your health to drink.

GODFREY TURNER.

――――:o:――――

Although, as has been seen, American writers have abundance of humour, it does not make them proud, and they will appropriate the comic writings of our authors, without acknowledgment, in the most condescending manner. A volume of amusing verse entitled “Songs of Singularity” was brought out by Mr. Walter Parke in 1874, it contained a ballad on the mother-in-law, a theme of never-failing fruitfulness to the satirist. That same ballad afterwards appeared in the San Francisco News Letter, duly appropriated and altered to suit the local market, without one word of acknowledgment to the original author.

BY THE SAD SEA WAVES. AN IDYLL.

“O gai!”――French exclamation of delight.

He stood on his head on the wild sea shore, And joy was the cause of the act, For he felt as he never had felt before, Insanely glad in fact. And why? In that vessel that left the bay His mother-in-law had sail’d To a tropical country far away, Where tigers and snakes prevailed. And more than one of his creditors too―― Those objects of constant dread―― Had taken berths in that ship “Curlew,” Whose sails were so blithely spread. Ah! now he might hope for a quiet life, Which he never had known as yet, ’Tis true that he still possessed a wife, And was not quite out of debt, But he watch’d the vessel, this singular chap, O’er the waves as she up’d and down’d, And he felt exactly like Louis Nap. When “the edifice was crown’d.” Till over the blue horizon’s edge She disappeared from view, Then up he leapt on a chalky ledge And danced like a kangaroo. And many and many a joysome lay He pealed o’er the sunset sea; ’Till down with a “fizz” went the orb of day, And then he went home to tea.

WALTER PARKE.

――――

HIS MOTHER-IN-LAW.

He stood on his head by the wild sea shore, And danced on his hands a jig; In all his emotions, as never before, A wildly hilarious grig. And why? In that ship just crossing the bay His mother-in-law had sail’d For a tropical country far away, Where tigers and fever prevailed. Oh! now he might hope for a peaceful life And even be happy yet, Though owning no end of neuralgic wife, And up to his collar in debt. He had borne the old lady through thick and thin; And she lectured him out of breath; And now as he looked at the ship she was in, He howled for her violent death. He watched as the good ship cut the sea, And bumpishly up-and-downed, And thought if already she qualmish might be, He’d consider his happiness crowned. He watched till beneath the horizon’s edge The ship was passing from view; And he sprang to the top of a rocky ledge, And pranced like a kangaroo. He watched till the vessel became a speck That was lost in the wandering sea, And then, at the risk of breaking his neck, Turned somersaults home to tea.

From The San Francisco News Letter.

Mr. Parke, being a good natured man, might not, perhaps, have objected to the theft of his poem, but the mutilations must have been galling to his feelings.

He has since republished the poem, with some alterations to fit it for music, in “Patter Poems, humourous and serious.” London, Vizetelly and Co.

――――:o:――――

ON THE PIER. An American Idyll.

Our friend, Dapper English, on a Mississippi Pier, awaits the advent by river boat, of an Americaness whom he adores. A hunter, who will voyage by the same boat, drinks freely until its arrival, and thus urbanely accosts Dapper:――

Look ye hyar, young feller! Not you, ye wizen’d old stoat! Him! that smarty chap. What flower’s that in your coat? It looks so bright an’ red ’longside ’o that sprig o’ green, I like the look of it rayther. Don’t you know what I mean?

Don’t yer know who I am? Look hyar! Y’ see that knife? It’s dug out o’ human an’ grizzly the red and ragin’ life. I’m Grizzly Jim o’ Nebraska! Hain’t ye heerd o’ him? An’ the human dies an’ the grizzly that crosses Grizzly Jim.

Now, I like yer flower, young feller. Confound yer Britisher look: Don’t yer know what I mean? What I’ve liked I’ve allus took. Jest you hand over that flower as humble as humble can be, Or this’ll make winders and doors where yer won’t like sich to be.

Laughin’. By thunder! Dog done it, ye’re grit, an’ I love yer spunk. Come, tip us yer flipper, stranger; I reckon yer not such a skunk. Why that was the grip of a man, yer a fellow the reds ’ud fear, Let’s have a drink. Don’t? Moses! Don’t! Why ain’t that queer,

Not! an’ a feller like you! Nor smoke? Eh? Well, that’s rum! What’s the name o’ yer flower, I say! Gee-ray-nee-um. That’s a comical name; and fern’s that bit o’ green, Never know’d it before, though acres of ’em I’ve seen.

Where’d you get ’em? Grew ’em? Come, sell me one, I say! Here’s half-a-dozen o’ dollars: I want to throw ’em away, Hain’t got yer flowers clus by? Besides, you wouldn’t trade. You’d gi’ me ’em if you had em. Well, yer a generous blade.

Too tarnal proper a chap by half for a Britisher. But why wouldn’t you gi’ me that flower, you lyin’ sneak of a cur? Well, beg parding. You were’nt ask’d, that is, in a proper way; Besides, goin’ courtin’ I s’pose. Ay, an’ likely, too, I say.

Well, let’s liquor up, old chap――my stars! I forgot, yer don’t. It’s extrornery cert’nly, but if yer won’t, yer won’t. I’d like to know you a deal, for you ain’t so stiffish an’ high. Tarnation! hyar’s the boat. Look hyar: keep the bowie. good-bye!

WILLIAM WILKINS.

From Kottabos. Trinity College, Dublin. Michaelmas Term, 1878.

――――:o:――――

JOSEPH SWIFE, OF POTIPHAR. A Man after Twain’s own “Harte.”

There’s been some whales ’mong the buoys I’ve know’d, (They was all on ’em high above par); But the rightest sperm as ever blow’d Was Joe Swife o’ Potiphar. Joseph’s heighth was seven fut three, All mussell and grit when he stripp’d, On his face a network of scars you’d see, (That is, where the dirt had chipp’d.)

Whenever the buoys had a rowdy on, Bet your currency Joe was there; An’ ef he didn’t head inter the fun, He’d see as all things went square; ’Twas a Fourth o’ July to see him hop round, Along of his ’leven-inch knife, And the way his man would nose the ground Was the pootiest sight in life.

His Bowie was now jest a ’leven-inch rip, (’Twas thirteen when it was bought, But he wore two inches off the tip With carvin’ the men he’d fought.) A plumb-centre shot was his Derringer, He didn’t let that iron rust, He’d spot a couple a day with her, Would Joseph――when on the bust.

We reckon’d his “down-pins” about fourscore, But we hadn’t the c’rect amount; ’Cos arter he’d notch’d up to seventy-four, He lost the run of his count. Where is he now? I knows no more Nor you, in them respeks, ’Cos one arternoon in sixty-four He had to “pass his checks.”

The way that it mayhap’d was thus:―― Up Potiphar they went “pard,” An’ made a pile, that some thievin’ cuss Stole――which was derned hard; I tell ye, they felt it pooty bad, They wanted that skunk to knife, An’ the lad that ’peared to git most mad Was him as I’ve named――Joe Swife.

To see that critter cavortin’ around, Was a sight to raise your hair, Jest arx him if the thief was found, If you wanted to hear a swear! Joe left Potiphar then an’ came here to Creek, An’ soon had a run o’ luck, He hadn’t been prospectin’ more’n a week ’Fore he said a big pocket he’d struck.

One day we was lappin’ round Joggles’s bar―― The Cunnel, an’ Joseph, an’ me―― When in totes Long Hiram from Potiphar, An’ we arxed him to drink ’long o’ we; He call’d for a “spider”――(his fav’rite drink), An’ was liftin’ the glass to his lips; But he dropp’d it smash on the floor in a wink, When he saw Joseph haul out his chips.

Ses he: “Joe Swife, my gentle son, You’ll have for to strike your flag, You stole the pile, you son of a gun―― Our dust was in that bag!” He glared at Joe like a grizzly bear, Then he draw’d a bead an’ fired, ’Scavating a canon in Joseph’s hair, In a manner we all admired.

But Joseph’s iron was ready to bark, ’Fore Hiram the dose could repeat, Six shots, an’ Hiram was stretch’d out stark, In a style as couldn’t be beat; With “conical” holes he was reg’lar scored, From his scalp-lock, down his legs, He’d ha’ made a derned good cribbage-board, If you’d on’y got the pegs.

Whar was Joe? Waal, I reckon he clear’d, ’Fore the fellows had time to revanche, For the fust time in his life he was skear’d, An’ mosey’d out of the ranche; He know’d, with men as digs and delves, He dursent trust his breath, “Killin’ a man was atwixt yerselves,” But to go for his pile meant death.

When he found that the buoys were dead on “kill,” Joe came for’ard an’ giv’ hisself up, “You’ll settle my hash with a leaden pill,” Ses he――“DON’T string me up like a pup!” Openin’ his shirt, and slappin’ his breast―― “Here’s lodgings to let for a slug!”―― They fired, an’ Potiphar’s pride lay at rest, Stiff an’ stark, with a smile on his mug!

Funny Folks. April 29, 1876.

This is an imitation of the style of Colonel John Hay’s poems, for which see page 246.

――――:o:――――

THE WIFE.

Her washing ended with the day, Yet lived she at its close, And passed the long, long night away, In darning ragged hose.

But when the sun in all its state Illumined the Eastern skies, She passed about the kitchen grate, And went to making pies.

From Poems and Parodies by Phœbe Carey, Boston, U.S. 1854.

The same interesting little volume contains a number of clever parodies, of which those on the best known poets have already been printed in this collection. The remainder refer principally to American authors whose works are not very familiar to British readers. The book is out of print and very scarce, and although there is a copy of it in the Library, British Museum (11687. d), it is difficult to find, as it is improperly catalogued under Cary, instead of Carey.

Another curious American book is entitled “Strange Visitors, by the spirits of Irving, Willis, Thackeray, Bronté, Richter, Byron, Humboldt, Hawthorne, Wesley, Browning, and others, now dwelling in the Spirit World.” Dictated through a Clairvoyant while in an abnormal or Trance State. New York. G. W. Carleton, publisher, 1869.

Most of the papers in this volume are in prose, the following only are in verse:――

To his Accusers after Lord Byron. The Lost Soul “ E. A. Poe. To her Husband “ Mrs. E. B. Browning. Hold Me Not, “ Adah Isaacs Menken. A Spirit Revisiting Earth “ N. P. Willis. Alone “ Allan Cunningham. The Spirit Bride “ Adelaide A. Procter.

All these imitations are serious, and even sombre, not to be styled parodies, although of little merit, except, perhaps, the imitation of Mrs. E. B. Browning.

Her spirit speaks thus:――

TO HER HUSBAND.

Dead! dead! You call her dead! You cannot see her in her glad surprise, Kissing the tear drops from your weeping eyes; Moving about you through the ambient air, Smoothing the whitening ripples of your hair.

Dead! dead! You call her dead! Lift up your eyes! she is no longer dead! In your lone path the unseen angels tread! And when your weary night of earth shall close, She’ll lead you where eternal summer blows.

NATIONAL and PATRIOTIC SONGS of the United States of America.

It is not within the province of this collection to enter into the history of the numerous National Songs belonging to the United States, nor to give the songs themselves, except in so far as may be necessary to contrast them with the parodies which have been written on them.

Those desirous of further information on an interesting topic should refer to the following works:――

Rebel Rhymes and Rhapsodies, collected by Frank Moore. New York. G. P. Putnam, 1864.

Poetry of the Civil War, selected by R. G. White. New York, 1866.

A History of National Anthems and Patriotic Songs, by Walter Hamilton, in Our Ocean Highways, London, 1872.

The Songs of the War, by Brander Matthews, in The Century Magazine, August 1887.

The Dictionary of Music and Musicians, by Sir George Grove. London. Macmillan & Co.

The following is a list of the more important songs,

Yankee Doodle. 1755.

Hail Columbia! 1788. By Joseph Hopkinson. Adapted to the tune of “The President’s March.” This was always sung when George Washington went to the theatre.

The Star-Spangled Banner, written by Francis Scott Key, and first printed in the Baltimore American, shortly after the defeat of the British by the Americans at Fort McHenry.

My Country ’tis of thee, sung to the air of “God save the King.” As we stole this air from the Germans (or, as some say, from the French), so the citizens of the United States have appropriated it as one of their national songs.

John Brown’s Body, 1861.

Marching through Georgia, written and composed by Henry C. Work, near the close of the Civil War.

Battle Hymn of the Republic, by Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, first published in The Atlantic Monthly. 1862.

We are coming, Father Abraäm, by John S. Gibbons, of New York. 1862.

Mr. George F. Root, of Chicago, was both the author and composer of the three following war songs:

Tramp, Tramp, Tramp; the Boys are Marching.

The Battle Cry of Freedom. This was often ordered to be sung as the men marched into action. More than once its strains arose on the battlefield and made obedience more easy to the lyric command to rally round the flag. With true American humor the gentle lines of “Mary had a Little Lamb” were fitted snugly to the tune; and many a regiment shortened a weary march, or went gayly into action, singing,

“Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, Shouting the battle cry of freedom; And everywhere that Mary went The lamb was sure to go, Shouting the battle cry of freedom.”

Just before the Battle, Mother.

When Johnny comes marching Home. Written by P. S. Gilmore, in 1863.

My Maryland, by James R. Randall. April, 1861. (Southern States.)

Advance the flag of Dixie, by General Albert Pike. 1861. (South.) There were several versions of this song, one of the earliest having been sung in New Orleans by Mrs. John Wood in the Burlesque “Pocahontas,” in 1860.

Southrons, hear your country call you! Up! lest worse than death befall you! To arms! to arms! to arms! in Dixie! Lo! all the beacon fires are lighted, Let all hearts be now united! To arms! to arms! to arms! in Dixie! Advance the flag of Dixie! For Dixie’s land we take our stand And live and die for Dixie! To arms! To arms! And conquer peace for Dixie!

ALBERT PIKE.

The Bonnie Blue Flag. By Harry McCarthy. (South.) 1861.

Lorena. (South.)

A National Hymn for the United States of America, written for the Centenary of the signing of the Constitution of the United States, by F. Marion Crawford. Printed in The English Illustrated Magazine, October, 1887.

――――:o:――――

YANKEE DOODLE.

In the words of the Hon. Stephen Salisbury, “Yankee Doodle is national property, but it is not a treasure of the highest value. It has some antiquarian claims for which its friends do not care. It cannot be disowned, and it will not be disused. In its own words,

‘It suits for feasts, it suits for fun, And just as well for fighting.’

It exists now as an instrumental and not as a vocal performance. Its words are never heard, and, I think would not be acceptable in either public or private American entertainments.”

Sir George Grove, in his Dictionary of Music and Musicians, (Macmillan, London), fully examines the various theories as to the origin of this song. He inclines to the opinion that the words were written by Dr. Schuckburgh about 1755, with the title “The Yankee’s Return from Camp.” The tune was printed in 1784 in an opera by Arnold, entitled “Two to one,” where it is first properly styled Yankee Doodle.

There has been much discussion as to the derivation of the word Yankee, one theory being that it is the Indian way of pronouncing English. The Indians cannot sound the letter l, so they lengthen and soften the vowels. Hence the more advanced among them only manage to pronounce English as Eengeesh, while a more common sound would be Angees, or Ankees. Possibly the Indians were more familiar with the French form Anglais. A writer in Notes and Queries stated the above fact, citing Hutchinson’s “History of Massachusetts” as an authority; he added “Doodle is surely only an imitation of the crowing of a cock.” The meaning, if any, of Yankee Doodle is “New Englanders, be on the alert,” or “show your spirit.” Another writer quotes a derivation suggested by Thierry, that the word Yankee arose from the collision and jeerings of the Dutch and English in New York and New England, and that it is from the Dutch Jan――pronounced Yan――John, with the common diminutive kee, and doodlen, to quaver; which would make the whole into “quavering or psalm-singing Jacky or Johnny.”

Whatever may have been the origin of the term, it is only correctly applied to New Englanders, and not to the inhabitants of the other states.

Yankee Boy is trim and tall, And never over fat, Sir, At dance or frolic, hop or ball, As nimble as a rat, Sir. Yankee doodle guard your coast, Yankee doodle dandy. Fear not then, nor threat nor boast, Yankee doodle dandy.

He’s always out on training day, Commencement, or election, At truck or trade he knows the way Of thriving to perfection. Chorus――Yankee Doodle, etc.

His door is always open found, His cyder of the best, Sir, His board with pumpkin-pie is crown’d, And welcome ev’ry guest, Sir. Chorus――Yankee Doodle, etc.

Tho’ rough and little is his farm, That little is his own, Sir, His hand is strong, his heart is warm, ’Tis truth and honor’s throne, Sir. Chorus――Yankee Doodle, etc.

His country is his pride and boast, He’ll ever prove true blue, Sir, When call’d upon to give his toast, ’Tis “Yankee-doodle-doo,” Sir. Chorus――Yankee Doodle, etc.

The following verses are cited from an American Paper, “The Transcript,” in Willis’s Current Notes for 1852:――

THE ORIGIN OF YANKEE DOODLE. After the manner of the old Continental Ballad writers.

Once on a time old Johnny Bull, Flew in a raging fury, And swore that Jonathan should have No trials, Sir, by jury! That no elections should be held, Across the briny waters! “And now,” says he, “I’ll tax the tea Of all his sons and daughters.” Then down he sat in burly state, And blustered like a grandee, And in derision made a tune Called “Yankee doodle dandy.” “Yankee Doodle”――these are facts―― “Yankee doodle dandy! “My son of wax, your tea I’ll tax―― “Yankee doodle dandy.”

John sent the tea from o’er the sea With heavy duties rated; But whether Hyson or Bohea, I never heard it stated. Then Jonathan to pout began―― He laid a strong embargo―― “I’ll drink no tea, by Jove!” so he Threw overboard the cargo. Then Johnny sent a regiment, Big words, and looks to bandy, Whose martial band, when near the land, Play’d “Yankee doodle dandy.” “Yankee doodle――keep it up! “Yankee doodle dandy! “I’ll poison with a tax your cup, “Yankee doodle dandy.”

A long war then they had, in which John was at last defeated―― And “Yankee doodle” was the march To which his troops retreated. Cute Jonathan, to see them fly, Could not restrain his laughter: “That tune,” says he, “suits to a T, I’ll sing it ever after,” Old Johnny’s face, to his disgrace, Was flushed with beer and brandy, E’en while he swore to sing no more, This “Yankee doodle dandy.” “Yankee doodle――ho! ah! he! “Yankee doodle dandy―― “We kept the tune, but not the tea, “Yankee doodle dandy.”

I’ve told you now the origin Of this most lively ditty, Which Johnny Bull dislikes as “dull And stupid”――what a pity! With “Hail Columbia!” it is sung, In chorus full and hearty―― On land and main, we breathe the strain, John made for his tea-party. No matter how we rhyme the words, The music speaks them handy, And where’s the fair can’t sing the air, Of “Yankee doodle dandy?” “Yankee doodle――firm and true―― “Yankee doodle dandy―― “Yankee doodle, doodle doo! “Yankee doodle dandy.”

GEORGE P. MORRIS.

A parody of “Yankee Doodle,” too coarse for republication here, will be found in An Impartial Collection of Addresses, Songs, Squibs, &c., published during the Liverpool Election, October. 1812. It is principally directed against Henry (afterwards Lord) Brougham, one of the candidates.

The mighty Brougham’s come to town, To sweep away corruption, And other filth, but ten to one, He’ll meet with interruption. Yankee Doodle, etc. * * * * *

――――

AN APPENDIX TO “YANKEE DOODLE.”

Yankee Doodle sent to Town His goods for exhibition; Every body ran him down, And laugh’d at his position. They thought him all the world behind; A goney, muff, or noodle; Laugh on, good people――never mind―― Says quiet Yankee Doodle. Chorus.――Yankee Doodle, &c.

Yankee Doodle had a craft, A rather tidy clipper, And he challenged, while they laughed, The Britishers to whip her. Their whole yacht-squadron she outsped, And that on their own water; Of all the lot she went a-head, And they came nowhere arter. Chorus.――Yankee Doodle, &c.

* * * * *

Your gunsmiths of their skill may crack, But that again don’t mention I guess that Colt’s revolvers whack Their very first invention. By Yankee Doodle, too, you’re beat Downright in Agriculture, With his machine for reaping wheat, Chaw’d up as by a vulture. Chorus.――Yankee Doodle, &c.

You also fancied, in your pride, Which truly is tarnation, Them British locks of yourn defied The rogues of all creation; But Chubb’s and Bramah’s Hobbs has pick’d And you must now be view’d all As having been completely licked By glorious Yankee Doodle. Chorus.――Yankee Doodle, &c.

Punch, 1851.

――――

“PUNCH” ON THE CIVIL WAR.

Yankee Doodle went to war, On his little pony, What did he go fighting for, Everlasting goney! Yankee Doodle was a chap Who bragged and swore tarnation, He stuck a feather in his cap, And called it Federation. Yankee Doodle, etc.

Yankee Doodle, he went forth To conquer the seceders, All the journals of the North, In most ferocious leaders, Breathing slaughter, fire and smoke, Especially the latter, His rage and fury to provoke, And vanity to flatter. Yankee Doodle, etc.

* * * * *

These verses are taken from a long parody which appeared in Punch (London), August 17, 1861, shortly after the defeat of the Northerners at Manassas Junction. The cartoon represented John Bull sneering and jeering at the retreating Yankee soldiers, and the tone of the whole poem was most insulting, whilst it showed that Punch (following in the wake of The Times) sympathised with the Confederate States.

It actually classed the protective duties levied by the Northern States for the encouragement of native industry, as equally immoral with the institution of slavery, which had given rise to so many horrors in the South:――

“These for negro slavery strike, Those for forced protection. Yankee Doodle is the pot, Southerner the kettle; Equal morally, if not Men of equal mettle.

Unfortunately The Times was then considered abroad to represent the public opinion of Great Britain, and much ill feeling arose in consequence of its misrepresentations. At one time it seemed as if this country would become embroiled in the war, and what was worse, on the side of the slave owners.

During this excitement many songs and parodies were written about us in the States which were decidedly uncomplimentary, reminding Britons that in their previous wars with America they had suffered almost invariable defeat.

Several of these parodies are given in The Poetry of the Civil War (one, an especially bitter one, is entitled “John Bull, my jo John,”) but it would serve no useful purpose to repeat them, now that the ill feeling has passed away with the causes which led to it.

Mr. James R. Lowell’s dignified protest in the Biglow Papers may, however, be quoted:――

JONATHAN TO JOHN.

It don’t seem hardly right, John, When both my hands was full, To stump me to a fight, John,―― Your cousin, tu, John Bull. Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess We know it now,” sez he, “The lion’s paw is all the law, Accordin’ to J. B., Thet’s fit for you an’ me!”

Blood ain’t so cool as ink, John: It’s likely you’d ha’ wrote, An’ stopped a spell to think, John, Arter they’d cut your throat? Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess He’d skurce ha’ stopped,” sez he, “To mind his p-s an’ q-s, ef thet weasan’ Hed b’longed to ole J. B., Instid o’ you an’ me!”

Ef I turned mad dogs loose, John, On your front-parlor stairs, Would it jest meet your views, John, To wait an’ sue their heirs? Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess, I on’y guess,” sez he, “Thet, ef Vattel on his toes fell, ’T would kind o’ rile J. B., Ez well ez you an’ me!”

Who made the law thet hurts, John, Heads I win,――ditto, tails? “J. B.” was on his shirts, John, Onless my memory fails. Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess, (I’m good at thet,)” sez he, “Thet sauce for goose ain’t jest the juice For ganders with J. B., No more than you or me!”

When your rights was our wrongs, John, You didn’t stop for fuss,―― Britanny’s trident-prongs, John, Was good ’nough law for us. Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess, Though physic’s good,” says he, “It doesn’t foller thet he can swaller. Prescriptions signed ‘J. B.’ Put up by you an’ me!”

We own the ocean, tu, John: You mus’n’t take it hard, Ef we can’t think with you, John, It’s jest your own back-yard. Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess, Ef thet’s his claim,” sez he, “The fencin’-stuff’ll cost enough To bust up friend J. B. Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

Why talk so dreffle big, John, Of honour, when it meant You didn’t care a fig, John, But jest for ten per cent.? Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess, He’s like the rest,” sez he: “When all is done, it’s number one Thet’s nearest to J. B., Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

We give the critters back, John, Cos Abram thought ’t was right; It warn’t your bullyin’ clack, John, Provokin’ us to fight. Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess We’ve a hard row,” sez he, “To hoe jest now; but thet, somehow May heppen to J. B., Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

We ain’t so weak an’ poor, John, With twenty million people, An’ close to every door, John, A school-house an’ a steeple. Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess It is a fact,” sez he, “The surest plan to make a Man Is, Think him so, J.B., Ez much ez you or me!”

Our folks believe in Law, John; An’ it’s for her sake, now. They’ve left the axe an’ saw, John, The anvil an’ the plough. Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess, Ef’t warn’t for law,” sez he, “There’d be one shindy from here to Indy; An’ thet don’t suit J. B. (When ’t ain’t ’twixt you an’ me!)”

We know we’ve gut a cause, John, Thet’s honest, just, an’ true; We thought ’t would win applause, John, Ef nowheres else, from you. Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess His love of right,” sez he, “Hangs by a rotten fibre o’cotton: There’s natur’ in J. B., Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

The South says, “Poor folks down!” John, An’ “All men up!” say we.―― White, yaller, black, an’ brown, John: Now which is your idee? Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess, John preaches wal,” sez he; “But, sermon thru, an’ come to du Why, there’s the old J. B. A crowdin’ you an’ me!”

Shall it be love, or hate, John? It’s you that’s to decide; Ain’t your bonds held by Fate, John, Like all the world’s beside; Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess Wise men forgive,” sez he, “But not forget; an’ some time yet Thet truth may strike J.B., Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

God means to make this land, John, Clear thru’ from sea to sea, Believe an’ understand, John, The wuth o’ being free. Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess, God’s price is high,” sez he; “But nothin’ else than wut He sells Wears long, an’ thet J.B. May learn like you an’ me!”

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

――――

“YANKEE DOODLE” FROM THE SOUTHERN POINT OF VIEW.

Yankee Doodle had a mind To whip the Southern traitors, Because they didn’t choose to live On codfish and potatoes. Yankee Doodle――doodle doo, Yankee doodle dandy, And so to keep his courage up, He took a drop of brandy.

Yankee Doodle said he found By all the census figures, That he could starve the rebels out, If he could steal their niggers. Yankee, &c.

Yankee Doodle made a speech; ’Twas very full of feeling. I fear, says he, I cannot fight, But I am good at stealing. Yankee, &c.

Yankee Doodle drew his sword, And practised all the passes; Come, boy, we’ll take another drink When we get to Manasses. Yankee, &c.

Yankee Doodle soon found out That Bull Run was no trifle; For if the North knew how to steal, The South knew how to rifle. Yankee, &c.

Yankee Doodle wheeled about, And scampered off at full run, And such a race was never seen As that he made at Bull Run, Yankee, &c.

Yankee Doodle, oh! for shame, You’re always intermeddling; Let guns alone, they’re dangerous things; You’d better stick to peddling. Yankee, &c.

Yankee Doodle, you had ought To be a little smarter; Instead of catching woolly heads, I vow you’ve caught a tartar. Yankee Doodle, doodle doo, Yankee Doodle dandy, Go to hum, you’ve had enough Of rebels and of brandy.

From Rebel Rhymes and Rhapsodies, collected by Frank Moore. New York, George P. Putnam, 1864.

――――

A YANKEE SOLDIER’S SONG.

I hearkened to the thundering noise, And wondered what ’twas for, Sir! But when I heard ’em tell our boys, I started up and swore, sir! Yankee boys will fight it out! Yankees brave and handy! Freedom be our battle shout! Yankee doodle dandy!

They said that traitors tore our flag, Down there in Dixie’s land, sir; I always loved the stripèd rag. And swore by it to stand, sir. Yankee boys will fight it out, &c.

I knew them Southern chaps, high bred, Had called us “Mudsills” here, sir: If on these sills they try to tread, I guess ’twill cost them dear, sir, Yankee boys, &c.

Down South I marched, rat-tat-a-plan, With heart brim full of pluck, sir; I held my head up like a man; A righteous cause brings luck, sir. Yankee boys, &c.

――――

From Poetry of the Civil War, selected by R. G. White. New York, 1866.

――――

COCK-A-DOODLE.

Mr. Stanley went to found A Congo trading station. The Stars and Stripes he hoisted up, And cried “No annexation.” But M. de Brazza came along, The natives to “canoodle;” He gave them “tricolours” all round, And sang out “Cock-a-doodle!”

Mr. Stanley, very cross, Called de Brazza “Poodle!” M. de Brazza said, “Pooh, pooh! You’re one Yankee Doodle!” Whilst the natives took the flags, As our view discloses, Made them serve as coverings, And to blow their noses!

Truth Christmas Number. 1882.

――――

RANDY CHURCHILL.

Randy Churchill’s gone to pot, Melted just like candy; Once he was, but now is not, And that’s the last of Randy.

When he thought that he was great, Fellows thronged about him, Swearing that affairs of State Couldn’t move without him.

Then a somersault he threw, Tumbled in the gutter, Spilt his salt, and sugar, too; Lost his bread and butter.

Still the wheels will move, no doubt, Running on quite gaily, Doing better far without That Brummagem Disraeli.

American Paper. January, 1887.

――――:o:――――

JOHN BROWN’S BODY.

The origin of this celebrated anti-slavery song is obscure and involved. John Brown attempted to incite the negroes to rebel against slavery, and although he did not succeed in this, he, with a few fanatical followers, seized a small fort at Harper’s Ferry. The United States troops attacked them, captured or killed Brown’s followers, and Brown himself was hanged on December 2, 1859. Insignificant as was this episode, it was the warning of the coming storm between North and South, and was the death knell of slavery. “John Brown’s Body” appears to have been first adopted as a marching song by the Twelfth Massachusetts Volunteers, commanded by Colonel Fletcher Webster. The soldiers of this regiment sang it as they marched down Broadway in New York, July 24, 1861, on their way from Boston to the front.

A RADICAL SONG.

To the tune of “John Brown’s Body lies mouldering in the Grave”

Raise a shout of gladness for the dawning of the day, Ever steady, onward to the foremost of the fray: Every Tory barrier, boys, will soon be swept away As we go marching on.

Chorus. Glory, glory, hallelujah, Glory, glory, hallelujah, Glory, glory, hallelujah, As we go marching on.

Tory knaves oppressed us in the ages long ago, Tory knaves have left us all a heritage of woe, Tories now must tumble, for we mean to lay them low, As we go marching on.

Joseph’s coat of colour now is fluttering in the wind, Joseph and his brethren are the leaders of the blind, Joseph and his “gentlemen” must all be left behind As we go marching on.

Rally round the standard of our great democracy, Rally round your leader, boys, and on to victory, Rally as your fathers did, and Ireland shall be free, As we go marching on.

Hand in hand our army with the workers o’er the wave, Hand in hand we’ll battle till the people we shall save, Hand in hand for Torydom we’ll dig a yawning grave, As we go marching on.

Shout, for Time with victory our strife is sure to crown; Shout, for million voices join the chorus of renown; Shout, and at the anthem every wrong shall crumble down, As we go marching on.

D. EVANS.

The Weekly Dispatch. July 17, 1887.

――――:o:――――

THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE.

This song was written in 1862 just after President Lincoln had issued a proclamation calling for 300,000 men to fill up the ranks of his army. The author was Mr. John S. Gibbons, a Quaker of New York. The poem was first published anonymously, in the “Evening Post” New York, on July 16, 1862, and was then generally ascribed to William Cullen Bryant, the editor of that paper.

We are coming Father Abraam, three hundred thousand more, From Mississippi’s winding stream and from New England’s shore; We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and children dear, With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear; We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before, We are coming Father Abraam, three hundred thousand more!

If you look across the hill tops that meet the northern sky, Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry; And now the wind an instant tears the cloudy veil aside, And floats aloft our spangled flag, in glory and in pride; And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour, We are coming Father Abraam, three hundred thousand more.

If you look up all our valleys where the growing harvests shine, You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line; And children from their mothers’ knees are pulling at the weeds, And learning how to reap and sow, against their country’s needs; And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door―― We are coming Father Abraam, three hundred thousand more!

You have called us and we’re coming, by Richmond’s bloody tide, To lay us down for freedom’s sake, our brothers’ bones beside; Or from foul treason’s savage grasp to wrench the murderous blade, And in the fore of foreign foes its fragments to parade. Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before―― We are coming Father Abraam, three hundred thousand more!

JOHN S. GIBBONS.

――――

AN AMERICAN LYRIC.――TO ABRAHAM LINCOLN, On his demand for 300,000 Men.

We’re coming, Father Abraam, we’re coming all along, But don’t you think you’re coming it yourself a little strong? Three hundred thousand might be called a pretty tidy figure, We’ve nearly sent you white enough, why don’t you take the nigger?

Consider, Father Abraam, and give the thing a thought, This war has just attained four times the longitude it ought; And all the bills at Ninety Days as you have draw’d so free, Have been dishonoured, Abraäm, as punctual as could be.

We’ve fought, old Father Abraäm, and fought uncommon bold, And gained amazing victories, or so at least we’re told; And having whipped the rebels for a twelvemonth and a day, We nearly found ’em liquoring in Washington in May.

Now, really, Father Abraäm, this here’s the extra ounce, And we are almost sick, you see, of such almighty bounce; We ain’t afraid of being killed at proper times and seasons, But it’s aggravating to be killed for Mac’s strategic reasons.

If you’d be so obliging, Father Abraäm, as to write To any foreign potentate, and put the thing polite, And make him loan a General as knows the way to lead, We’d come and list. Jerusalem and snakes! we would indeed.

But as the matter stands, Old Abe, we’ve this opinion, some. If you say “Come,” as citizens of course we’re bound to come, But then we want to win, you see; if Strategy prevents, We wish you’d use the nigger for these here experiments.

Hereditary bondsman, he should just be made to know He’d convenience us uncommon if he’d take and strike a blow. The man as will not fight for freedom isn’t worth a cuss, And its better using niggers up than citizens like us.

So, Father Abraäm, if you please, in this here game of chess, You’d better take the black men against the white, I guess, And if you work the niggers off before Rebellion’s slain, Which surely ain’t expectable,――apply to us again.

SHIRLEY BROOKS.

――――:o:――――

TRAMP! TRAMP! TRAMP! THE BOYS ARE MARCHING!

As we muster for the fray, In our thousands every day, By one hope and by one purpose we are buoyed. We will never cease to fight Until Ireland claims by right That same freedom which so long we have enjoyed.

Tramp! tramp! tramp! we boys are marching! Justice for Ireland there shall be; For beneath our Leader’s flag Not a man shall lurk or lag, Till old Ireland, like Great Britain, shall be free!

Chorus. Tramp! tramp! tramp! we boys are marching! Cheer up! the foes begin to run! See where Gladstone waves the flag, And let no man lurk or lag Till the Battle of the Ballot-box is won!

Since we last time joined in fight We have lost some men of might, Thanks to envy and to spite and to ill-will; But we need to waste no tears O’er these jealous mutineers, For we have our grand old leader, Gladstone, still! Tramp! tramp! tramp! with him we’re marching! Forward! we shall win the day! For we will not flinch nor turn ’Till with purpose grim and stern We have swept the Paper-Unionists away!

* * * * *

(Several verses omitted.)

If we Parliament divide, By our foes it is implied That a fatal risk too surely we shall run; But ’tis better, we maintain, To one Parliament make twain, If thereby we can but make two nations one. Tramp! tramp! tramp! for this we’re marching! Tramp! tramp! Gladstone’s at our head, And poor Ireland soon to be From a Paper-Union free, Shall be linked to us by heart and hand instead!

__Truth._ July 1, 1886.

――――:o:――――

MY MARYLAND.

This song was written in April, 1861, by Mr. James R. Randall, a native of Baltimore, and first published in The Delta, whence it was soon copied into every journal in the Southern States.

It is sung to the tune of a favourite college song, entitled “Lauriger Horatius,” which itself is borrowed from a German air known as “Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum.” Two young ladies, Miss H. Cary and Miss Jennie Cary, first set it to music, and sung it to the Confederate troops in their camp at Manassas.

The despot’s heel is on thy shore, Maryland! His torch is at thy temple door, Maryland! Avenge the patriotic gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore, And be the battle-queen of yore, Maryland! My Maryland!

Hark to an exiled son’s appeal, Maryland! My Mother-State, to thee I kneel! Maryland! For life and death, for woe and weal, Thy peerless chivalry reveal, And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Maryland! My Maryland!

Thou wilt not cower in the dust, Maryland! Thy beaming sword shall never rust, Maryland! Remember Carroll’s sacred trust, Remember Howard’s warlike thrust And all thy slumberers with the just, Maryland! My Maryland!

Come! ’Tis the red dawn of the day, Maryland! Come with thy panoplied array, Maryland! With Ringold’s spirit for the fray, With Watson’s blood at Monterey, With fearless Lowe and dashing May, Maryland! My Maryland!

Dear Mother, burst the tyrant’s chain, Maryland! Virginia should not call in vain, Maryland! She meets her sisters on the plain, Sic Semper! ’Tis the proud refrain That baffles minions back amain, Maryland! Arise, in majesty again, Maryland! My Maryland!

Come, for thy shield is bright and strong, Maryland! Come, for thy dalliance does thee wrong, Maryland! Come to thine own heroic throng, Stalking with liberty along, And chaunt thy dauntless slogan-song, Maryland! My Maryland!

I see the blush upon thy cheek, Maryland! For thou wast ever bravely meek, Maryland! But lo! there surges forth a shriek, From hill to hill, from creek to creek, Potomac calls to Chesapeake, Maryland! My Maryland!

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, Maryland! Thou wilt not crook to his control, Maryland! Better the fire before thee roll, Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland! My Maryland!

I hear the distant thunder-hum, Maryland! The Old Line bugle, fife and drum, Maryland! She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb! Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum! She breathes! She burns! She’ll come! She’ll come! Maryland! My Maryland!

It should be mentioned that the metre (with a slight modification), and the style of the poem, are copied from “The Karamanian Exile,” written by that eccentric genius, James Clarence Mangan, who died in 1849.

THE KARAMANIAN EXILE.

I see thee ever in my dreams, Karaman! Thy hundred hills, thy thousand streams, Karaman! O Karaman! As when thy gold-bright morning gleams, As when the deepening sunset seams With lines of light thy hills and streams, Karaman! So thou loomest on my dreams, Karaman! O Karaman!

* * * * *

From “The Ballads of Ireland,” edited by E. Hayes, fifth edition, vol. ii. p. 392.

――――

The following parody of the Rebel War song alludes to the failure of the Southern forces to hold Maryland, the object of General Lee’s advance northward, and which was defeated by the battles of South Mountain and Antietam.

Ah me! I’ve had enough of thee, Maryland, my Maryland! Dear land, thou art too dear for me, Maryland, my Maryland! I’ll take the nearest ford and go, I’ll leave thee, darling, to the foe, But do not let him kick me so, Maryland, my Maryland!

You’ve dashed my hopes, ungrateful State, Maryland, my Maryland! Go! bless your stars I came too late, Maryland, you understand! I meant to dress you well in black, And scar you with the battles track, And I had scourges for your back, Maryland, my contraband!

Oh, where are Longstreet, Hill and Lee? Maryland, my Maryland! And “Stonewall” Jackson, where is he? Maryland, my Maryland! Four coat-tails streaming in the breeze, And that is all a body sees; Better than dangling from the trees, Maryland, my Maryland!

Gray geese are flying southward, ho! Maryland, O Maryland! It’s getting cold up there, you know, Maryland, O Maryland! I should have thought it rather warm, South Mountain yonder took by storm, Antietam yielded in alarm,―― Maryland, O Maryland!

Blood-red my hand, and dead my heart, Native land, my native land! Columbia from her grave will start, Murder’d land, my murder’d land! Thy flag is like a sword of fire, I’ll fly, I’ll fly its vengeful ire; Beneath its stroke its foes expire, Native land, my native land.

From Harper’s Weekly, also reprinted in Poetry of the Civil War, selected by R. G. White. New York, 1866.

A LIBERAL LYRIC.

There’s a crisis coming on, Mary Ann, That I dread to think upon, Mary Ann! In the papers there appears Quite enough to raise our fears For the Commons and the Peers! Mary Ann!

For, apart from all the rows, Mary Ann! And the squabbles, threats, and vows, Mary Ann! That are sure to emanate From the “Gifted, Good, and Great;” Oh, the Rads will demonstrate! Mary Ann!

Though the delegates seem mixed, Mary Ann! And the date is hardly fixed, Mary Ann! There will be a meeting, mark! In that innocent Hyde Park, And most likely after dark, Mary Ann!

An enthusiastic crew, Mary Ann! But what aim do they pursue? Mary Ann! Well, I’m sure I cannot say! Yet, wherever asses bray, Fools are sure to go astray, Mary Ann!

Oh, our policy once stood, Mary Ann! For the nation and its good, Mary Ann! Now, alas! it only drains From the senatorial brains, To be howled in railway trains, Mary Ann!

There are better times in store, Mary Ann! When these wrangling feuds are o’er, Mary Ann! And an interest for the State Have usurped this Party prate; But you’ll have some time to wait, Mary Ann!

England. October 11, 1884.

――――

YANKEE-LAND. Novus Ordo Cyclorum.

The destined wheel is on thy shore, Yankeeland! Its perch is at thy ample door, Yankeeland! Ascend the gay exotic goer That flashed the streets of Boston o’er, And beat the boneshaker of yore, Yankeeland, my Yankeeland!

Hark to the wondering son’s appeal, Yankeeland! “My mother dear, I want a wheel,” Yankeeland! For life and health, for “go” and weal, Thy beardless cavalry reveal, And speed their beauteous limbs with steel! Yankeeland, my Yankeeland!

They must not tumble in the dust, Yankeeland! Their beaming steel should never rust, Yankeeland! That slender firmness you may trust Like slender blades in warlike thrust, Held by those numbered with the just, Yankeeland, my Yankeeland!

Come, for the wheel is bright and strong. Yankeeland! Come, for thy carriance does thee wrong, Yankeeland! Come for thy young bard in the throng, Who stalks with levity along, And gives a new key to much song, Yankeeland, my Yankeeland!

This iron forms no tyrant’s chain, Yankeeland! Britannia now sends not in vain, Yankeeland! She greets her kindred o’er the main―― Slick transit! be the wild refrain We shout in greeting back again, Yankeeland, my Yankeeland!

The Wheeling Annual for 1885, quoted this parody without any acknowledgment of the source from whence it was derived. It was written by Mr. J. G. Dalton, and published in his volume of poems entitled Lyra Bicyclica. Hodges and Co., Boston, U.S. 1885. There was another cycling parody in The Umpire for May 5, 1888, on the same original, but not so good as the above.

――――:o:――――

HAIL COLUMBIA!

The new verses to “Hail, Columbia!” written by Oliver Wendell Holmes for the American Centenary are as follows:――

1798.

Hail, Columbia! Happy land! Home of heroes――Heaven-born band, Who fought and bled in Freedom’s cause, Who fought and bled in Freedom’s cause, And when the storm of war was gone Enjoyed the peace their valour won. Let independence be our boast, Ever mindful what it cost: Ever grateful for the prize, Let its altar reach the skies.

Firm――united――let us be, Rallying round our Liberty. As a band of brothers joined, Peace and safety we shall find.

* * * * *

1887.

Look our ransomed shores around, Peace and safety we have found! Welcome, friends, who once were foes. Welcome, friends, who once were foes. To all the conquering years have gained A nation’s rights, a race unchained! Children of the day new born, Mindful of its glorious morn, Let the pledge our fathers signed Heart to heart for ever bind!

While the stars of heaven shall burn, While the ocean tides return, Ever may the circling sun Find the Many still are One!

Graven deep with edge of steel, Crowned with Victory’s crimson seal, All the world their names shall read! All the world their names shall read! Enrolled with his hosts that led, Whose blood for us――for all――was shed. Pay our sires their children’s debt, Love and honour――nor forget Only Union’s golden key Guards the Ark of Liberty!

While the stars of heaven shall burn, While the ocean tides return, Ever may the circling sun Find the Many still are One!

Hail, Columbia! strong and free, Firm enthroned from sea to sea! Thy march triumphant still pursue! Thy march triumphant still pursue! With peaceful stride from zone to zone, And make the Western land thine own! Blest is the Union’s holy ties, Let our grateful song arise―― Every voice its tribute lend―― In the loving chorus blend! While the stars in heaven shall burn, While the ocean tides return, Ever shall the circling sun Find the Many still are One!

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

Before leaving the American Poets a few supplemental parodies of E. A. Poe may be inserted here. His works were dealt with in Volume II. of this collection (Parts 14, 15, 16, 17, and 18), but since then, May 1885, several excellent parodies of his poems have appeared, besides which a few others have come to light which had then escaped attention.

Annabel Lee was printed on p. 61, Vol. II., the following are some additional parodies of it:――

DEBORAH LEE.

’Tis a dozen or so of years ago, Somewhere in the west countree, That a nice girl lived, as ye Hoosiers know By the name of Deborah Lee: Her sister was loved by Edgar Poe, But Deborah by me.

Now I was green, and she was green, As a summer’s squash might be, And we loved as warmly as other folks,―― I and my Deborah Lee,―― With a love that the lasses of Hoosierdom Coveted her and me.

But somehow it happened a long time ago, In the aguish West countree, That a chill March morning gave the shakes To my beautiful Deborah Lee; And the grim steam doctor (drat him!) came And bore her away from me,―― The doctor and death, old partners they In the aguish countree.

The angels wanted her in Heaven (But they never asked for me), And that is the reason, I rather guess, In the aguish West countree, That the cold March wind and the doctor and death, Took off my Deborah Lee―― My beautiful Deborah Lee―― From the warm sunshine and the opening flower, And bore her away from me.

Our love was as strong as a six horse team, Or the love of folks older than we, Or possibly wiser than we; But death, with the aid of doctor and steam, Was rather too many for me; He closed the peepers and silenced the breath, Of my sweetheart Deborah Lee, And her form lies cold in the prairie mould, Silent and cold――Ah me!

The foot of the hunter shall press her grave, And the prairie’s sweet wild flowers, In their odorous beauty around it wave, Through all the sunny hours, The still bright summer hours; And the birds shall sing in the tufted grass, And the nectar-laden bee, With his dreamy hum on his gauze wings pass, She wakes no more to me; Ah! never more to me; Though the wild birds sing and the wild flowers spring, She wakes no more to me.

Yet oft in the hush of the dim still night, A vision of beauty I see, Gliding soft to my bedside,――a phantom of light, Dear, beautiful Deborah Lee, My bride that was to be; And I wake to mourn that the doctor and death, And the cold March wind should stop the breath Of my darling Deborah Lee―― Adorable Deborah Lee―― That angels should want her up in Heaven, Before they wanted me.

ANONYMOUS.

American Paper.

――――

CAMOMILE TEA.

It was many and many a year ago, In a cot by the Irish sea, A decoction I knew of which you may know, By the name of Camomile tea; A stuff which was brewed with no other end Than to plague and be drunk by me.

I was a child, a mere bit of a child, When I lived in that cot by the sea; But I hated with hate which was more than hate That horrible Camomile Tea. A hate which was visible, I have no doubt, To the eyes of my――Aunt Magee.

And this is the reason, I happen to know, Why she always was down on me, Whenever I had the least malady, filling A tumbler with Camomile Tea, And drenching me three times a day with the same―― The horriblest bore that could be―― And shutting me up in my bedroom for hours, With a tract and more Camomile Tea.

Even now, strange it seems, I have hideous dreams Of that horrible Camomile Tea; Of its taste when I think I still shudder and shrink At the nauseous Camomile Tea; And I muse in amaze at that old woman’s craze, On the loathing, the loathing I felt in those days, When I lived in that cot by the sea, In that cot with my Aunt Magee.

Punch’s Almanac. 1883.

――――

“W. E. G.”

’Tis not so much as a year ago, In this kingdom by the sea, That a statesman was at the top of the House Known as old W. G.; And this statesman he lived with no other thought Than a premier always to be.

I had a vote――not a faggot-vote―― In Midlothian by the sea, And I gave, with a love that was more than love, That vote for W. G.; Tho’ a vote that the Tories, striving in vain, Tried muchly to win from me.

The Tories not feeling happy in mind At the Budget which was to be; And this was the reason (as all men know In this kingdom by the sea) That petitions came swarming from every pub. And toppled o’er W. G.

And that was the reason this hurricane came In this much-taxed land of the “Free”; Just a row o’er the tax, which completely snuffed out This tree-felling W. G. In his dark days a Sunbeam brightened the gloom, In the shape of Sir Thomas Brass-ie, Who took him a-starring to “Norroway’s” shores―― To “Norroway” over the sea.

But my faith got a shake in Bill’s taxing ways, His liquor tax didn’t suit me―― He should have piled it on to the tea; And I’ve split with the “Libs.” all over the shop, And stick to Lord Randolph C. And never――no, never――again will I vote For the grand old W. G.

Judy. October 21, 1885.

――――

ALBERT MCGEE.

It was not very many years ago, In a city by the sea, That there lived a man whom none of you know, By the name of Albert McGee; And this man he lived with no other thought Than to read for his Math. Degree.

He was quite a child when he first came up To this city by the sea, But he read in a way that you’d scarcely believe (For you didn’t know Albert McGee),―― In a way that the bejants all agreed Was really frightful to see.

And this was the reason he always said no, When invited out to a spree (His favourite excuse was a very bad cold, But that was all fiddle-de-dee). And always at midnight his landlady came, Bringing him gallons of tea; And he wore wet towels around his head; And he always sat up till three.

* * * * *

The examiner, not knowing half so much, Envied this prodigy. Yes! that was the reason, I always thought (And Albert agreed with me), Why he ploughed him, not once but several times, Finally killing Albert McGee.

But his ghost is more persistent by far Than Banquo’s (Macbeth, Act III.) That appeared to Macbeth at a spree; And neither tonics, nor change of air, Nor the best advice can set free That wretched man from the haunting wraith Of the injured Albert McGee.

For at night in his dreams he frequently screams, “Go away, dear Mr. McGee!” And at morn he will rise with bloodshot eyes, And the very first thing he will see, There, sitting down by the side of his bed With several towels around his head, And an Algebra laid on its knee, Is the spectre of Albert McGee!

The University News Sheet (St. Andrews, N.B.) February 24, 1886.

――――:o:――――

E. A. Poe’s “The Bells” was printed on p. 75, Vol. II. The following are some additional parodies:――

THE SWELLS.

Here the drive is filled with swells―― Noble swells! What a mass of snobbery their toggery fortells How they snigger, snigger, snigger In the spicy air of day At the girls who cut a figure On their horses――looking bigger And particularly gay. In a trot, trot, trot All about one spot To the super-admiration, that so admirably tells Of the swells, swells, swells, swells, Swells, swells, swells, And the laughing and the chaffing of the swells.

Here’s the op’ra and the swells―― Full dress swells What a taste for music each swell’s countenance fortells With their pretty well gloved paws How they tap out their applause At the prima donna’s notes All in time. While the liquid music floats Till it filters in their mouths and down their throats Oh, sublime! Oh, what are the gal’ry yells To the gush of bravos that unanimously wells! On the belles―― How it dwells! On the singer――how it tells! Oh the rapture it impels Does the rapping and the tapping Of the swells, swells, swells, Of the swells, swells, swells, swells, Swells, swells, swells, Does the calling and the bawling of the swells.

Here’s a drawing-room of swells―― Grand swells! What a world of slowness their society compels In the brilliancy of night Don’t we instantly take fright At the melancholy drawling of their tone? Lisping through their tender throats Dwelling on their upper notes All their own―― That we plebeianic people Would be rather in a steeple All alone Than be list’ning, list’ning, list’ning To their dreary monotone―― Or elsewhere at some grand christ’ning Where the children shriek and groan. They are never never cheery, Ever à la “Lord Dundreary” Always dolls And the best among them lolls And woman extolls―― Lolls In the presence of the belles And his lisping voice it tells Of the beauty of the belles Who delight to dance with swells Keeping time, time, time In a manner quite sublime To the joy of both the swells And the belles; Keeping time, time, time With exactitude most prime To the squeezing by the swells Of the belles, belles, belles, To the pleasing of the belles Keeping time, time, time Oh ye swells, swells, swells, In a way that’s most sublime To the throbbing of the belles, Of the belles, belles, belles, To the bobbing of the swells, Of the swells, swells, swells, Swells, swells, swells, To the measure and the pleasure of the swells.

T. F. DILLON CROKER.

The Royal Dramatic College Annual. July, 1868.

――――

THE POLLS.

Hear the statements of the Polls, Of the Polls! What a world of partisans their publishing consoles! How they’ve waited, waited, waited In the morning or the night Till the net result is stated, When they scamper oft elated With delirious delight; And they hip, hip, hip, Hip-hurrah, and dance and skip With the supererogation of a lot of frisky foals From the Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, From their triumphs of the Ballot and the Polls.

Hear the totals of the Polls, Of the Polls! What a large official staff their adding-up enrols! After breakfast or at night How they count with all their might, Sorting papers, checking notes; And, ere ’tis done, How the scrutinizer gloats As he pounces down on spoilt or unmark’d votes One by one! Then they end their calculation, And at last is made the long’d-for declaration: How it rolls, How it trolls O’er the human heads in shoals, Which――Whig, Radical, and Tory―― Press round to hear the story Of the Polls, Of the Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, The story and the sequel of the Polls

Oh, the troubles of the Polls, Of the Polls What a heap of candidates must find themselves in holes! How they tremble with affright For the verdict of the night, Till the knell of their discomfiture it tolls! Then they prate of promised votes With the huskiest of throats, And they haul their luckless agents o’er the coals; And they give so many reasons for not having reached their goals, That we gradually weary of the Polls, And, perceiving one objection, To a General Election, We begin to dread the mention of the Polls, Of the Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, This persistent iteration of the Polls!

The St. James’s Gazette. December 8, 1885.

――――

THE BILLS.

O the season of the bills―― Tradesmen’s bills! What a quaking in my bosom the sight of them instils! How they flutter, flutter, flutter, In upon me day and night! From between my half-closed shutter I can hear their bearers mutter They be blowed if it’s “all right!” O the bills of Christmas time! I feel positive that I’m Quite bilious grown with terror that the Protean shape instils Of the bills, bills, bills―― Of the never-ending deluge of the bills.

O the never-ending bills, Christmas bills, For the mince-pies, puddings, pastry, things which bring a thousand ills In their train! How they still come on me flocking, With hateful “figures” mocking My dazed brain. And――ah, who’s that I hear knocking? Oh, it’s positively shocking―― Doctor Squills! With his recipes of powders, black draughts, pills, To be followed by his bills, Physic bills, By the little boy in buttons, with his bills. Oh, confound, then, Christmas-tide and all its bills!

Funny Folks. January 2, 1886.

――――

THE SLEIGH BELLS.

Hear the sleigh-belle, how she chatters With her beau! How she chatters, chatters, chatters, Of innumerable matters, While the horse’s heel bespatters Her with snow!

See the sleigh-belle with her lover! How they feel Like a pair of colts in clover, This sleigh-belle and her lover, Underneath the dainty cover Of the seal!

See the people stand and stare At the belle, As, with loosely flowing hair, And a smile beyond compare, She is speeding through the air With a swell.

Oh, such weather suits for riding, Though ’tis rough; And the sleigh-belle loves the gliding, And such merry, merry sliding, With her fifteen fingers hiding In her muff!

The Topical Times. March 13, 1886.

――――

AUTUMN BELLS.

Hear the bakers with the bells―― Muffin bells! What domestic happiness their melody foretell How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, As the man appears in sight, With a mouth that’s all a-wrinkle, And an eye that’s all a-twinkle With a demon-like delight. Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of flabby rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically swells, With his yells, yells, yells, yells, yells, yells, yells―― How we tolerate the torture of those yells!

Fun. October, 1886.

――――

THE BELLS.

Hear the clamorous church bells! Noisy bells! What a sound of Pandemonium their ding-ding-dong foretells; How they jingle, jingle, jingle, Every morning, noon, and night, Till I’m sure their deafening ring’ll Make my ears for ever tingle, And my peace of mind quite blight. Hear their dong-dong-dong, Like a cracked old Chinese gong! Oh, that tintinabulation’s worse than all the street boy’s yells. Oh, the bells, bells, bells, The jingling and the jangling of the bells!

Hear the Ritualistic bells, Ceaseless bells! What a discord most distracting in their noisy clappers dwells. Ere has come the morning light, I awaken in a fright At their dong-dong-dong, For ’tis matins all days long, Till they ring for evensong. Or ’tis Little Bethel’s Bells That from opposition steeple Call the other kind of people. Oh, the bells, bells, bells, What a horror in me dwells While the ear distinctly tells, As the noise now ebbs, now swells, That there’s madness in the clangour of the bells, Bells, bells, bells, In the never-ending Babel of the bells!

C. H. WARING.

Fun. June 15, 1887.

――――

THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. (American.)

The Reception.

Oh, the meeting of the Belles, and the greeting of the swells! How the merry maidens chatter While the men haw-haw and flatter, And how roguish Cupid weaves his magic spells!―― Happy Belles!

The Dance.

Oh, the skipping of the Swells, and the tripping of the Belles! <!――Page 581――> As couples, clasped, advancing In the whirling, twirling, dancing, The merry laugh all starchiness dispels―― Solemn Swells!

The Supper.

Oh, the flirting of the Belles, the diverting of the Swells! How memory fondly lingers On a pressure of the fingers, And thought upon a whispered nothing dwells! Foolish Belles!

The Departure.

Oh, the parting from the Swells, the heart-smarting of the Belles! Pledging no surcease of sorrow Till the meeting on the morrow, As with gleaming eyes they murmur their farewells―― Lucky Swells!

American Paper.

――――

THE BILLS.

See the postman with the bills―― New Year’s bills! What a world of tribulation Now their sending out fulfils! How they rankle, rankle, rankle In the startled dreams of night, As the creditors’ procession, Of the chamber takes possession, With a brutalised delight; Calling “Time!” “Time!” “Time!” In a sort of prize-ring rhyme. To the dark and deep demnition That so gradually kills, From the bills, bills, bills, bills, bills, From the tailors’ and the hatters’ little bills―― Bills! Bills! Bills!

The Umpire. January 7, 1888.

A parody entitled Christmas Bills appeared in “Pippins and Cheese,” by Joseph Hatton; London, Bradbury, Evans & Co., 1868. Another, entitled The Yells, was written for recitation by Mr. John C. Morgan, of Kenmure Road, Hackney, and published by him, at the moderate price of one penny. These are too long to give in full, and extracts would not convey a fair idea of their merits.

――――:o:――――

“The Raven” was given on p. 27, Volume II., followed by numerous parodies. Since 1885 many others have been written, principally on political topics, but unfortunately political parodies are, as a rule, of only ephemeral interest. Consequently only a few of the best will be given complete, with extracts from some of the others.

AN APPEAL.

Once upon a midnight dreary, Gilbert pondered weak and weary, Thinking of a curious title his new Comic Opera for, When a volume from him flinging, suddenly there came a ringing, As of some one madly clinging to the bell at his front door; “It is D’Oyly Carte,” he muttered, “ringing at my big front door, Merely this and nothing more.”

Poking then the glowing ember, for ’twas cold as bleak December, Gilbert said “Ah, I remember in the olden time of yore, Yea, and shall forget it never, though I were to live for ever, How I vainly did endeavour once to see my ‘Pinafore,’ Sat and suffered awful anguish in the stalls at ‘Pinafore,’ Just that once, but nevermore.”

“For the feeling――sad, uncertain――at the rising of the curtain, Thrilled me, filled me with such terrors, that a solemn oath I swore, And the oath have oft repeated, that though kings and queens entreated, I would ne’er again be seated in the stalls as once before, There to try and see the piece through, as I tried to do before, Now to do so nevermore.”

Open here was flung the portal by a pompous powdered mortal, Who then ushered Mr. Carte in, as he oft had done before; Not a moment stopped or stayed he, but a slight obeisance made he, And in voice of thunder said he, “Mr. Carte”――then slammed the door, And in tones stentorian said he, “Mr. Carte,”――then slammed the door. Only this and nothing more.

Mr. Carte then said quite coolly, “Mr. Gilbert, tell me truly, Have you found a proper title our new Comic Opera for? Tell this soul with sorrow laden, as you hope to go to Aidenn, Have you really, really made ’un? Tell, O tell me, I implore! Tell me what its funny name is――tell, O tell me, I implore!” Answered Gilbert――“Ruddygore!”

Carte uprose, alarmed, astounded, by this title much confounded, For this word of dreadful meaning such a world of horror bore; And he said, “This title gruesome, I feel very sure will do some Injury, and we shall lose some thousands ere this piece is o’er Such a name will surely ruin both your words and Arthur’s score; Therefore change it, I implore.”

Then said Gilbert, calmly smoking, “D’Oyly Carte, you must be joking; I have never found a title that I liked so much before, For it gives the play the seeming of a drama that is teeming With deeds of blood all streaming, which the people gloat so o’er; Of those deeds all grim and ghastly that the people gloat so o’er; Therefore be it Ruddygore.”

And with title so unfitting, people still are nightly sitting In the gallery, stalls, and boxes, from the ceiling to the floor; And although they can’t help glancing at D. Lely when he’s dancing, Think Miss Brandram’s song entrancing, and give Grosssmith an encore, Still all cry, “Oh, Gilbert, Gilbert, change this title “Ruddygore.” Not in spelling――we want more.”

The Pall Mall Gazette.

About a week after the production of Ruddygore (January, 1887), when both the opera and its title were being adversely criticised, Mr. Gilbert jocularly remarked: “I propose altering the title of the piece, and calling it ‘Kensington Gore; or, Not so good as the Mikado.’”

――――

AN ARTIST’S RAVIN’. (Apro-Poe of the Royal Academy Exhibition.)

In my studio, listless, dreary, As I pondered, weak and weary, Over heaps of washy sketches I had painted years before, Suddenly there came a tapping (A curious wild mercurial tapping). ’Twas the postman’s double rapping, Rapping at the big front door. Only this, and nothing more.

But it brought to me a feeling Ever growing――never healing―― “Still so gently o’er me stealing,” Which I’d often felt before. The Academy were sending Round those cards, those never-ending Monitors to the offending Limners they’d turned out before. This it was――and nothing more.

As I sat there, half demented, Our Jemima Ann presented Several letters which were left me by that postman at the door; And amongst them lay the verdict The Academy had sent me, And I swooned upon the floor―― Simply this――and nothing more.

Rising, on the verge of madness, Should I――courting joy or sadness―― Find it now by bursting open the portentous seal it bore; Or, in frenzy, should I burn it, Or to the R. A.’s return it, And their secrecy implore―― Their forgiveness――Evermore!

Or still feeling that without full Knowledge, if a Cross or Doubtful Might be lurking in the missive I’ve adverted to before, Should I tenderly unfold it, And in trembling digits hold it To confront me Evermore With its verdict――Evermore!

Musing thus, I opened wide the Envelope, and looked inside the Deep abyss, and found a curious card I’d never seen before: ’Twas the varnishing permission For the coming Exhibition! May I get it――Evermore; Be accepted――Evermore!

Funny Folks.

――――

On October 31, 1886, The Weekly Dispatch (London), published five parodies on the “Raven” sent in for competition. The prize of two guineas was awarded to the following:――

Once beneath a tree at Hawarden, while I pondered in my garden Over many a quaint and curious volume of Homeric lore. While I nodded, nearly napping, came a noise like distant tapping, Or shillelaghs gently rapping, on the verdant Shannon shore. “’Tis more Irishmen,” I muttered, “from the verdant Shannon shore―― Home Rulers, and nothing more!”

Ah, distinctly I remember――’twas in Eighty-six, November, After every “Union” member had conspired my bill to floor―― In a state of agitation, I sought some vaticination Which should show me if the nation would their G.O.M. restore: If the public their old leader would to place and power restore Once again, or nevermore.

Once again I heard the tapping; then, his ebon pinions flapping, O’er the wall there flew a Raven, of the stormy days of yore. An old bird of aspect cheeky, with a croak extremely creaky, And a bill extremely “Beaky,” and a curl that hung before, Like the curl once worn by Dizzy, which, you know, hung down before, And he croaked out “Nevermore!”

Then methought the air grew denser, and he changed to Mr. Spencer, And he gibbered, ghostly, ghoul-like, on the garden’s tufted floor. “Wretch!” I cried, “from distant Berlin, cease thy fierce moustache from twirlin’; Tell me, for my brain is whirlin’, will the Fates my power restore? Will the dissidents surrender and once more my power restore?” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”

J. C. ROSE.

Highly commended:――

Once upon an evening dreary, as I pondered worn and weary Over many a dusty packet of unsettled bills of yore, As I sat serenely rocking, thinking it was very shocking, Suddenly I heard a knocking――knocking at my study door. “’Tis my tailor gay,” I muttered, “knocking at my study door―― Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah! distinct my recollection, for I had a chest affection―― Out of cash――and in dejection I was gazing at the floor! Vainly I had tried to borrow half-a-crown to meet the morrow, But discovered, to my sorrow, none would trust me any more―― From the too-confiding butcher to my tailor, tradesmen swore They would trust me――nevermore!

Then, my study door unbolting, in there stepped, with bow revolting, He, my stern, relentless tailor, whom, I fear, I hated sore―― Made a most polite oration――didn’t show the least vexation―― As he calmly took his station just within my study door, With his bill upon the matting just within my study door―― Merely waited――nothing more.

“Tailor,” cried I. “Imp of evil! Tailor still, or else the Devil, Whether Satan sent thee――whether ’bus thy body hither bore; Standing in thy frock-coat braided on my carpet very faded―― Having this my den invaded, tell me truly, I implore.” Is there, is there trust no longer? Tell me, truly, I implore.” Quoth the tailor, “Nevermore!”

F. B. DOVETON.

――――

“JOE” AFTER POE. A Chamberlainian Dream.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and skeery, Over many a quaint and curious volume of Midlothian lore; While I studied――deeply napping――suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping with something wooden on the door. “’Tis some Radical,” I murmured, “with a cudgel at the door Waiting for me――nothing more.”

Presently my views grew broader; “it must be that great marauder, The big and hurly-burly Harcourt, sturdy limb of legal lore. Yes, ’tis he of frame Titanic, massive jowl, and sneer Satanic, That puts his foes to flight and panic when he occupies the floor. Or perhaps it’s Gladstone coming meekly pardon to implore―― “This it is, and nothing more.”

Back I dashed the door, half crazy――had my wits turned mad or hazy―― For in there stepped a pompous raven, full of paunch and sleek galore, And his look was grave and crafty, neither smiled, nor looked, nor laughed he, As he slowly strutted past me, perching o’er my chamber door―― Perched upon a bust of Schnadhorst――somewhat broken――o’er the door, Croaking “Caucus,” nothing more.

* * * * *

“Bird,” I cried, “with voice so raucous――thou who pratest of that caucus (Which once my highest praise and presidential honour bore) Know that we’re the Liberal party, and my brothers Dick and Arty, We are the leaders――we――and Harty. And you shall return no more Unless your vows and Grand Old Leader you throw over and ignore. ’Tis all we ask for――nothing more.”

“Prophet,” cried I, “thing of evil, prophet still, if bird or devil, Whether Gladstone sent or lent thee thus to guide me back to shore, Thro’ that cloud the future veiling, say which way my bark is sailing? Are our efforts unavailing? Shall I ever hold once more My old position in our party? Tell me, tell me, I implore.” “Morley,” quoth he, nothing more.

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend;” I cried, upstarting; “All our conferential meetings only serve to part us more. Get thee gone with this defiance, tho’ we have no real reliance, In the strength of our affiance――for ’tis rotten to the core―― This our aim, our hidden purpose, we don’t want to cross the floor.” “Gladstone,” croaked he, nothing more.

But that raven never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Demos――grimly mocking o’er the door; And when Parnellites decrying, and stern common-sense defying, All my former self belying, the shadow steals across the floor, The prescience of a Dissolution stealing darkly o’er the floor―― Annihilation, nothing more.

W. L.

(Seven verses omitted.)

Pall Mall Gazette. April 13, 1887.

――――

THE YANKEE CRYPTOGRAM. A Tale of Shakespeare’s Bacon.

Once within an autumn dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Of the only actress playing in my half-forgotten lore, While I nodded――nearly napping, which is something oft does happen, When some actors try the tapping, tapping of my written lore; Someone muttered, “Not his writing.” This has sure been said before. Only this, and nothing more.

* * * * *

Open then I flung the shutter, and with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a lengthy Yankee from Columbia’s shore; Not the least obeisance made he, not an instant stopped or stayed he; But with haste like all the Yankees, wrote a book about my plays; Wrote that it was Francis Bacon who had written all my plays, Wrote and wrote, and nothing more.

Then the Yankee scribe beguiling all my sad soul into smiling By the queer and strange arrangement of the nonsense that he wrote. “Though thy pate’s unshorn, unshaven, thou,” I said, must be a craven, Ghastly, grim, and lengthy Yankee, wandering from Atlantic’s shore, “Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night’s Baconian shore?” “Donnelly, and nothing more.”

Then the Yankee creature, holding Bacon’s bust, spoke only One long word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered, not a pamphlet even fluttered, Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other men wrote thus before; On the morrow he will leave me as the others did before.” Said the Yankee, “Crypto! More!”

Startled at the stillness broken by the words so oddly spoken, “Doubtless,” said I, “what he utters is his only stock and store, Caught from an unhappy master, who some shocking brain disaster, Turned into a poetaster, till his thoughts one burden bore―― Till the echoes of his thoughts one melancholy burden bore Of Crypto――cryptogram!”

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed by an unseen censer, Swung by creatures whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. Romeo cried, “Shakespeare hath sent me, to the world he lent me, Showing through me and Juliet how it is true lovers love. Leave, oh leave thy stupid fiction, and forget this cryptogram.” Quoth the Yankee “Nevermore.”

“I am Richard! Man of evil! Hero still, though fiend and devil! Whether tempter sent, or ill wind blew thee to our shore; Take my word――me all undaunted――see Macbeth on ground enchanted, Poor Macbeth by Banquo haunted――see them with a hundred more! Hamlet and his murdered sire! Leave him, leave him, I implore.” Quoth the Yankee “Nevermore.”

Said Orlando, “Thing of evil! Yankee man, be civil! By the heaven that bends above us, by the God we both adore, Tell this soul all loving-laden, do you think that Francis Bacon Could have made a sainted maiden, like the one called Rosalind? Made a fair and radiant maiden like to Shakespeare’s Rosalind?” Quoth the Yankee “Cryptogram.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, Yankee fiend,” I shrieked, upstarting; “Get thee back to Sampson Low’s, or your own Atlantic shore, Leave no proof-sheet as a token of the lie that you have spoken, Leave my glory still unbroken, take that bust without my door, Take thy book from off the press, and that bust without my door.” Quoth the Yankee “Nevermore.”

And that Yankee never sitting, still is flitting, still is flitting, With the pallid bust of Bacon to and from his printer’s door, And his tale has all the seeming of a madman who is dreaming, And the Crypto o’er him streaming, holds him wriggling on the floor And his book from out that Crypto wriggling with him on the floor Should be published――Nevermore!

(Eight verses omitted.)

ITHURIEL.

The Topical Times. December 3, 1887.

Mr. Donnelly’s ingenious, but absurd, theory that what we call Shakespeare’s plays were written by Bacon, has been utterly demolished by Dr. Nicholson, in “No Cipher in Shakespeare” (London, T. Fisher Unwin.) The theory was also most amusingly parodied in The Cornhill Magazine for August, 1888. In an article entitled “Who wrote Dickens’s Novels” it was demonstrated, on Mr. Donnelly’s system, that they were certainly written by Mr. W. E. Gladstone.

――――

A VISION.

Once within my little study,[137] while the firelight gleaming ruddy Threw fantastic lights and shadows on the wall and on the floor, I was thinking of two nations that for many generations Had known nought but deadly hatred and contentions sad and sore―― Nought but deadly strife and hatred and contentions sad and sore, Going on for evermore.

And I thought, all this is blameful, ’tis not only sad but shameful, All this plundering and oppressing and this spilling lakes of gore, ’Tis the nation that is stronger that has been the other’s wronger, Let her play this part no longer, but this cruelty give o’er, Turn to ways of love and kindness, and this cruelty give o’er, And have peace for evermore.

While unto myself thus speaking, on the stairs I heard a creaking As of someone softly sneaking up to listen at the door; Then said I, “You need not fear me, you can just come in and hear me, Take a seat or stand a-near me, let us talk this matter o’er―― ’Tis a grave and serious subject, let us talk it calmly o’er,” Then I opened wide the door.

Then a being thin and shanky, white of visage, tall and lanky Looking ill at ease and cranky, came and stood upon the floor; In his hands some keys he dangled, keys that harshly clinked and jangled, And over his right optic a large pane of glass he wore―― When it fell, he slowly raised it, and replaced it as before―― This he did and nothing more.

“Now,” said I, the shape addressing, “don’t you think ’twould be a blessing If this Anglo-Irish conflict coming down from days of yore―― If this age-long woe and sadness could be changed to peace and gladness And the holy ties of friendship could be knit from shore to shore And no words but words of kindness pass across from shore to shore!”―― Quoth the lank one, “Tullamore.”

At this word I marvelled truly, for it seemed to come unduly As a misplaced exhibition of his geographic lore; So my thread of thought resuming, I said, “There are dangers looming Over England’s wide dominion that ’tis useless to ignore, What shall strengthen and sustain her when the battle-thunders roar?” Answer made he, “Tullamore.”

Then said I, “Across the waters Erin’s faithful sons and daughters Now have fierce and bitter memories burning in each bosom’s core, Think what peace and joy would fill them and what happiness would thrill them If but England yielded freedom to the land that they adore―― If she spoke the word of freedom to the land her souls adore”―― But his word was “Tullamore.”

“Think,” said I, “of England’s masses; every day that o’er them passes Hears their murmurings and complainings swelling louder than before, They object――and ’tis no wonder――to the rule of force and plunder That so long has kept them under, squeezing blood from every pore―― Have you any word of comfort that their patience may restore?” His reply was “Tullamore.”

From my vision quick he glided; in my heart I then decided That if this was England’s message by this popinjay brought o’er, She had missed a chance of glory that would brighten all her story―― But, I said, that lanky Tory was a humbug and a bore: These words from both the peoples soon will ring from shore to shore―― “We are friends for evermore.”

From “Prison Poems; or, Lays of Tullamore” by T. D. Sullivan, M.P. (Lord Mayor of Dublin). Dublin Nation Office, Middle Abbey Street. 1888.

――――

On August 19, 1888. The Weekly Dispatch (London) published five competition parodies on the same topic. The following won the prize of Two Guineas:

TULLAMORE.

Ye who Erin’s history dreary oft have pondered, shamed and weary Of our Saxon sway’s inglorious volume of unrighteous lore; Castle knaves her sons entrapping, cruel laws her vigour sapping, Vampire landlords ever lapping at the blood her bosom bore; Weep! for Mandeville is martyred, stilled the hero heart he bore―― Done to death in Tullamore!

Ah, distinctly we remember peasants, thrust, in bleak December, From the peat-fire’s smouldering ember, wandering on the barren shore, Shiveringly to wait the morrow, vainly to attempt to borrow Solace and surcease of sorrow――sorrow for their homes of yore―― For the poor dismantled cabins that they named their homes of yore―― Their one shelter, Tullamore!

Tyrant Balfour! slave of evil! Tyrant still if man or devil! Whether Satan sent, or whether Cecil set thee at her door. Erin’s sons, who, all undaunted, hear thy tinsel bravery vaunted, See their isle coercion-haunted――yet their patriots’ lives implore. Is there, is their hope of respite? Tell us, tell us, we implore! Croaks brave Balfour, “Tullamore.”

And brave Balfour, venom spitting, chief in council still is sitting, While the pallid face of Dillon smiles behind his prison door; For he sees, beyond all seeming, Erin’s dawn of Justice beaming, Knows that when the daylight streaming throws its radiance o’er her shore Erin’s soul from out thy shadow, that now desecrates her shore, Shall be lifted, Tullamore!

SAMUEL MAPEHAM.

――――

The following parodies are scarcely of sufficient interest to be included:――

The Union Bank Shareholder and the Rook, in “Lyrics and Lays,” by Pips. Calcutta, Wyman Bros. 1867.

The Raving, in “Dublin Doggerels,” by Edwin Hamilton M.A. Dublin, C. Smyth. 1877.

A parody on “The Raven,” by Miss H. B. Winslow, in Graham’s Magazine for June, 1848, Philadelphia.

Sequels to Poe’s “Raven.” A number of these were published in Truth, October 8, and November 19, 1885.

Ye Legende of ye Raven, in “The Yorkshireman’s Comic Annual,” 1885.

Dunraven, in the Christmas Number of “The World.” 1885. Political.

Joseph and the “Caw-cus” Raven. “Truth,” August 25, 1887. Political.

The Carol of a Cat. “Newcastle Weekly Chronicle.” May 21, 1887.

Nevermore. “True Blue.” January 29, 1887. Political.

Dunraven. “Punch.” February 19, 1887. Political.

The Haunted Lifeboat. “Bridgend Chronicle.” May 13, 1887.

The Dirge of Dead Letters. “The Porcupine.” September 17, 1887.

The Voice of the People. The “Liberal and Radical.” October 29, 1887.

――――:o:――――

CHRISTMAS BOXES. (After E. A. Poe’s lines “FOR ANNIE.”)

Thank heaven! the nuisance Is over and past―― The fierce Christmas Boxers Came eager and fast, But my purse full of silver Is emptied at last.

The scavenger――hang him! Who howled “Dust ahoy!” The lazy and blundering Telegraph boy; The lame crossing sweeper Came “wishing me joy.”

The turncock was grinning “Merry Christmas”――what stuff! His overpaid Company Charge me enough; And the sweep too’s a claimant, All sooty and gruff.

The postman, who often Delivers next door The note that should reach me A whole day before, Reminds me, the varlet, “’Tis Christmas once more.”

I’ve tipped the lamplighter Though dark is my road; Remembered coal heavers, Though paid with each load―― Even poor-rate collectors, Who no mercy showed.

And O! of all tortures That torture the worst, The Waits! who awoke me From sweet slumber nurst, And made the night hideous With discord accurst.

Moonshine. January 8, 1887.

――――

THE LADIES, AFTER DINNER.

See the ladies, ladies only, Scattered lonely Through the empty room and chill, Ladies chatting each with other, Wife and mother, Ladies posing, posing still!

And their talk is faint and chilly Almost silly! Chatter about sun and rain, Chatter about baby’s teething, Heavy breathing―― Wretched wee thing!――and his pain.

Talk about the latest story, Gay or gory, Blonde or brune has chanced to skim, Talk of abbés, talk of verses, Talk of Nurses, Nurses, Baby,――more of him!

This, all this keeps going, going, Overflowing, Broken by a plaintive moan; Luckless little ladies dreary, How you weary, How you weary all alone!

――――:o:――――

TO WILLIAM. (At an immense distance after Poe.)

William, thy “glamour” is to me Like these torpedo barks that oft Go forth on the unvintaged sea Fresh from the yards of Thornycroft; Their mission――to blow ships aloft!

Through frantic speeches wont to foam, Thy tongue, that could not be at peace, Has brought us, for the “Rule” called “Home,” To barter fame that matched with Greece, And grandeur more than dwelt in Rome.

Lo, in thy dread historic niche A bankrupt State shall see thee stand, Thy wondrous Bills within thy hand! Ah, William, these thy measures which Have wrecked the land!

The Saturday Review. May 8, 1886.

――――

LEONAINIE.

On April 28, 1886, The Daily News (London), published the following curious story about E. A. Poe:――

“The New York Critic has unearthed a story from The Dispatch of Kokomo about the youth of the author of ‘The Raven.’ There dwells a man in Kokomo (Ind.) whose grandfather kept a tavern in Chesterfield, near Richmond (Va.). The story states that, at the Chesterfield tavern, a dissipated-looking young man presented himself one evening about fifty years ago, and asked for a bedroom. When the servant went to call him in the morning he had disappeared, without the prosaic ceremony of settling his bill. In place of that he had left a book with a poem written on the fly-leaf ‘as legible as print.’ Now Edgar Poe’s handwriting was as legible as Thackeray’s, wonderfully clear and beautiful. The poem was signed E. A. P. We quote the first verse, and leave experts to decide whether it is, or is not, by Poe:――

Leonainie, angels named her, And they took the light Of the laughing stars, and framed her In a smile of white, And they made her hair of gloomy Midnight, and her eyes of bloomy Moonshine, and they brought her to me In a solemn night.

Here the angels and the absurd sonorous name Leonainie, and the midnight, are all very like Edgar Poe’s manner, and very like his usual sentiment is the conclusion, when

My Leonainie drifted From me in a dream.

But whether the resemblances are beyond the reach of parody it were rash to pronounce.”

During his lifetime the inward application of spirits had a very bad effect upon Poe, and since his death spirits have done much to injure his reputation. It was bad enough for Miss Lizzie Doten and Dr. J. Garth Wilkinson to palm off their melodious twaddle as inspired by the spirit of Poe, the poems were nonsense, it is true, but nonsense written by educated persons. Whereas a work, published in New York twenty years ago, purporting to have been dictated by the spirits of deceased authors, contained a poem by the ghost of Poe which is noteworthy for the absence of any sense, and for the presence of grammatical errors which Poe, when living, would never have perpetrated.

As an authentic “spirit poem” it is curious, showing how Poets deteriorate when in Hades. The book is entitled “Strange Visitors,” dictated by Spirits through a Clairvoyant. New York, G. W. Carleton, publisher, 1869.

THE LOST SOUL.

Hark the bell! the funeral bell, Calling the soul To its goal. Oh! the haunted human heart, From its idol doomed to part! Yet a twofold being bearing, She and I apart are tearing; She to Heaven I to Hell! Going, going! Hark the bell! Far in Hell, Tolling, tolling. Fiends are rolling, Whitened bones, and coffins reeking, Fearful darkness grimly creeping On my soul, My vision searing. She disappearing Drawn from me By a soul I cannot see, Whom I know can never love her. Oh! that soul could I discover, I would go, Steeped in woe, Down to darkness, down to Hell! Hark the bell! Farewell! farewell!

Rev. RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM.

BORN, December 6, 1788. | DIED, June 17, 1845.

The author of the “Ingoldsby Legends” was educated at Brasenose College, Oxford, he entered the Church, and eventually became a Canon of St. Paul’s Cathedral, London. He wrote for John Bull, Blackwood, Bentley’s Miscellany, and was, for a time, editor of the London Chronicle.

Bentley’s Miscellany was established in 1837, and in it appeared the famous “Ingoldsby Legends,” a collection of poems unique for their fun and originality.

Popular phrases, the most prosaic sentences, the cramped technicalities of legal diction, and snatches of various languages are worked in with an apparent absence of all art or effort; not a word seems out of place, not an expression forced, whilst syllables the most intractable find the only partners fitted for them throughout the range of our language. These Legends have often been imitated, but never equalled.

MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE. A Legend of Jarvis’s Jetty.

MR. SIMPKINSON (loquitur).

’Twas in Margate last July, I walked upon the pier, I saw a little vulgar Boy――I said, “What make you here? The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks anything but joy;” Again I said, “What make you here, you little vulgar Boy?”

He frown’d, that little vulgar boy,――he deem’d I meant to scoff―― And when the little heart is big, a little “sets it off:” He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose―― He had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose!

“Hark! don’t you hear, my little man,――it’s striking Nine,” I said, “An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in bed, Run home and get your supper, else your Ma will scold――Oh! fie! It is very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry!”

The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring, His bosom throbb’d with agony,――he cried like anything. I stoop’d, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him murmur――“Ah! I haven’t got no supper! and I haven’t got no Ma!!――

“My father, he is on the seas,――my mother’s dead and gone! And I am here, on this here pier to roam the world alone; I have not had, this live-long day, one drop to cheer my heart, Nor ‘brown’ to buy a bit of bread with,――let alone a tart.

“If there’s a soul will give me food, or find me in employ, By day and night, then blow me tight!” (he was a vulgar Boy;) “And now I’m here, from this here pier it is my fixed intent To jump, as Mister Levi did from off the Monument!”

“Cheer up! cheer up! my little man――cheer up!” I kindly said, “You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head: If you should jump from off the pier, you’d surely break your legs, Perhaps your neck――then Bogey’d have you, sure as eggs are eggs!

“Come home with me, my little man, come home with me and sup, My landlady is Mrs. Jones――we must not keep her up―― There’s roast potatoes at the fire――enough for me and you―― Come home, you little vulgar Boy ―― I lodge at Number 2.”

I took him home to Number 2, the house beside “The Foy,” I bade him wipe his dirty shoes,――that little vulgar Boy,―― And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex, “Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X!”

But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise, She said “she did not like to wait on little vulgar Boys.” She with her apron wiped the plates, and as she rubb’d the delf Said I might “go to Jericho, and fetch the beer myself!”

I did not go to Jericho――I went to Mr. Cobb―― I changed a shilling――(which in town the people call “a Bob”)―― It was not so much for myself as for that vulgar child―― And I said, “A pint of double X, and please to draw it mild!”――

When I came back I gazed about――I gazed on stool and chair―― I could not see my little friend――because he was not there! I peep’d beneath the table-cloth――beneath the sofa too―― I said, “You little vulgar Boy! why, what’s become of you?”

I could not see my table-spoons――I look’d, but could not see The little fiddle-pattern’d ones I use when I’m at tea;―― I could not see my sugar-tongs――my silver watch――oh dear! I know ’twas on the mantel-piece when I went out for beer.

I could not see my Macintosh――it was not to be seen!―― Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad brimm’d and lined with green; My carpet-bag――my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and soy,―― My roast potatoes! all are gone!――and so’s that vulgar Boy!

I rang the bell for Mrs. Jones, for she was down below, “Oh, Mrs. Jones, what do you think?――ain’t this a pretty go?―― <!――Page 596――>294 That horrid little vulgar Boy whom I brought here to-night, He’s stolen my things and run away!!” Says she, “And sarve you right!!”

――――

Next morning I was up betimes――I sent the Crier round, All with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say I’d give a pound To find that little vulgar boy, who’d gone and used me so; But when the crier cried, “O yes!” the people cried, “O, No!”

I went to “Jarvis’ Landing-place,” the glory of the town, There was a common sailor-man a-walking up and down, I told my tale――he seem’d to think I’d not been treated well, And call’d me “Poor old Buffer!” what that means I cannot tell.

The sailor-man he said he’d seen that morning on the shore, A son of something――’twas a name I’d never heard before, A little “gallows-looking chap”――dear me, what could he mean? With a “carpet swab” and “muckingtogs” and a hat turn’d up with green.

He spoke about his “precious eyes,” and said he’d seen him “sheer,”―― It’s very odd that sailor-men should talk so very queer―― And then he hitch’d his trousers up, as is, I’m told, their use,―― It’s very odd that sailor-men should wear those things so loose.

I did not understand him well, but think he meant to say He’d seen that little vulgar Boy, that morning swim away In Captain Large’s Royal George, about an hour before, And they were now, as he supposed, “some_wheres_” about the Nore.

A landsman said, “I twig the chap――he’s been upon the Mill―― And ’cause he gammons so the flats, ve calls him Veeping Bill!” He said, “he’d done me wery brown,” and nicely “stow’d the swag,”―― That’s French, I fancy, for a hat――or else a carpet-bag.

I went and told the constable my property to track: He ask’d me if “I didn’t wish that I might get it back?” I answer’d “To be sure I do!――it’s what I’m come about.” He smiled and said, “Sir, does your mother know that you are out?”

Not knowing what to do, I thought I’d hasten back to town, And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the Boy who’d done me brown. His Lordship very kindly said he’d try and find him out, But he rather thought that there were several vulgar boys about.

He sent for Mr. Withair then, and I described “the swag,” My Macintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpetbag; He promised that the New Police should all their powers employ! But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar Boy.

MORAL:

Remember, then, what when a boy I’ve heard my Grandma’ tell, “BE WARN’D IN TIME BY OTHERS’ HARM, AND YOU SHALL DO FULL WELL!” Don’t link yourself with vulgar folks, who’ve got no fixed abode, Tell lies, use naughty words, and say “they wish they may be blow’d!”

Don’t take too much of double X!――and don’t at night go out To fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring your stout! And when you go to Margate next, just stop, and ring the bell, Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I’m pretty well!

R. H. BARHAM.

――――

THE VULGAR LITTLE BOY. Mr. Simpkinson’s Misadventure in London.

I was in London last July; I walked into the Strand; I saw a vulgar little boy――a broom was in his hand; The dirt upon his youthful face was quite against all rule, I said, “You vulgar little boy, why don’t you go to school?”

He laughed, that vulgar little boy――a roguish laugh had he―― He said, “The School Board schools are not for vulgar boys like me.” He put his finger to his nose his impudence to crown, And asked me “if I could’nt give a little kid a brown?”

“Hark! don’t you hear, my little man, it’s really striking three?―― An hour when boys should be at school to learn their A B C. The School Board man will take you up but only for your good, And make you go to school.” Says he, “I only wish he would.

“If there’s a school for such as me will teach me how to write, And read and spell and do a sum, I should be then all right, I should be jolly glad, for then I might find some employ; But Walker as to that!” says he――he was a vulgar boy.

I gave that boy a sixpence. Passing on I heard him cry, “Ain’t that old buffer werry kind!――oh, ain’t he? Oh, my eye!” And then he turned a somersault, which boys a “coach-wheel” call: He was not so ungrateful, though so vulgar, after all.

Revolving this within my mind, next morn I thought it fit To seek the river Palace――where the School Board people sit. I thought I’d go and tell them as they hadn’t found it out, That loit’ring in the streets they might find several boys about

That I had heard the School Board schools were meant for such as these, And not for little undergrads to go and take degrees; But schools where London’s little lads might go and learn to write And read, and vulgar little boys be taught to be polite.

I gave my card, was ushered in, and told to take a chair; I saw a portly gentleman――it might be the Lord Mayor; I told him of these vulgar boys, and plainly put my case. He laughed, that portly gentleman――he laughed right in my face.

“We do not care for vulgar boys,” he said. “We use our powers To shut up private schools, and get their pupils into ours. We go in for ‘accomplishments,’ for music, and――who knows?―― Some day a School Board pupil may an opera compose!”

I said, “I thought it might be so (for rules true Genius spurns), And from the gutters there might spring another Robert Burns.” But still he shook his portly head, and said, “Don’t make a fuss, If such there be, depend on it they’ll get no help from us.

“’Tis not on vulgar little boys that we spend every year Four hundred thousand pounds. You see that education’s dear, And is not to be wasted upon every boy you meet Sweeping crossings, selling matches, loafing, begging in the street.”

I said, “I thought the Act was passed that vulgar boys might share Some little education, that they couldn’t get elsewhere That schools might fill, and gaols, in time might really empty be.” He said, “Well, now we’ve got the Act, that’s what we cannot see.”

Now, ratepayers, when election comes, remember to a man Who caused all this extravagance――return them if you can; And so, ’twixt Board and ratepayer, to end this bitter strife, Again I say return them all――but into private life.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

MISADVENTURES AT THE MANSION HOUSE. A Legend of the City.

’Twas at Guildhall, a year ago, I chanced to hear a cheer, And saw an Alderman stand forth; thought I: “What make you here?” There was upon his face a look of somewhat common joy; Again I thought: “Oh, can it be, you ever were a boy?”

But, strange to say, they cheer’d him still, and gave him such applause, I looked into his face again, to try and seek the cause; Till some one in a wig announced he had not pass’d the chair, And asked the citizens if they would make him their Lord Mayor.

They said they would; I’m bound to say I didn’t like the plan, He seem’d to be, you see, a very pompous Alderman! And put on very bumptious airs, and puff’d his shirt front out; Twas sad to hear the h’s that he thickly dropp’d about.

“Come, rule o’er us,” the Cits exclaim’d, “and be our new Lord Mayor, And to the Mansion House we beg you to at once repair; You’ll find the City annals there, its prestige and its fame, And bear in mind that for a year we trust you with the same.”

Well, he went to the Mansion House, amidst fresh marks of joy. That pompous Alderman, who must have been, years since, a boy. And there the City, with the trust and kindness that it shows, Left him to do as he thought best, and did not interpose.

Some Aldermen were rather cross, and made a little noise, And held themselves in readiness to be a counterpoise. But meanwhile left him to himself, and murmur’d: “We shall see!” And sundry ominous remarks when at their calipee.

* * * * *

I had to go to Jericho, and stay’d ten months or so, And once more chanced, on my return, towards the Bank to go, When passing by the Mansion House I saw a crowd about, And heard a citizen remark: “Well, here’s a nice set out!”

He seemed of some important fact to have his civic head full; “What’s up?” I asked. Said he: “Oh lor’! he’s served the City dreadful!” “Who? what?” I cried, and thereupon the citizen began: “Why, don’t you know? I mean, of course, the pompous Alderman!”

“He’s served you badly, eh?” said I; the citizen replied: “Oh, yes; he has done much to wound our ancient City’s pride. Our name of hospitality, no trace of it is left!” And taking out his handkerchief I noticed that he wept.

“I’ve just been in the Mansion House,” said he, “and have look’d round; ’Twas really very sad indeed, the state of things I found. There’s all our Civic Prestige gone; of National Respect, Although I searched both high and low, I could no sign detect.

“Of Popular Esteem, too, now there seems no stock, I see; And very little ‘Charity’ to what there used to be; He’s even stripped the very Chair――the one in which he sat―― Of its Traditions; did you ever hear the like of that?

“There’s nothing left worth mentioning of all we valued so; Now can you wonder that I say, ‘Now, here’s a pretty go!’ That pompous, stubborn Alderman, to so our trust requite, And turn upon the City thus!” Said I: “It serves you right!”

“It serves you right!” said I again. “The chair you should not fill. With men like this; their very ways suspicion should instil. Your City should have shown more sense, and had sufficient nous, To know that he should never be throned at the Mansion House.”

Truth Christmas Number. 1879.

――――

THE LITTLE VULGAR (SCOTCH) BOY.

The following appeared in Punch, August 13, 1881, with a cartoon, by Sambourne, representing the pedantic, pompous, prosy, priggish Duke of Argyll, in Highland Costume, “taking a sight” and putting out his tongue at the occupants of the Treasury Bench, whom he has just styled “Jelly-fish”:

It was a little vulgar boy, exceeding sharp, and Scotch, At Westminster Aquarium he stood the fish to watch. He willingly had got at them, but, helpless so to do, Indulged, like little vulgar boys in general, in “Yah-boo!” He was a very cock-nosed boy, which tempted him, no doubt, “To put his thumb unto that nose, and spread his fingers out.”

Says he, “O yus, you look O.K.” (the boy meant “Orl Korrect”) “You fancy you’re big whales and things with backbones, I expect. Yah-boo! you flabby, flopping, floundering flats, as limp as small, You’re only helpless jelly-fish, with not no spines at all!” The creatures in the Tank appeared his cheek to quite enjoy, But took no other notice of that little vulgar boy.

――――

SIXTY YEARS AFTER.

I was in Margate once again. I limped along the pier; I saw a great big vulgar man――I said, “What make you here? The bloom upon your bulbous nose suggests the pewter can;” Again, I said, “What make you here, you great big vulgar man?”

He scowled, that great big vulgar man, he deemed I meant to laugh, He said (he was a vulgar man) he wouldn’t “stand no chaff.” He turned the quid within his mouth, and from his seat he rose; He stretched his hand wide out, and put his finger to his nose.

“Hark! don’t you hear, my vulgar friend? it’s striking ten,” I said; “An hour when every decent man should surely be in bed; Go home and get your supper, or your wife will――Oh dear me! It’s very wrong for great big men to use a great big D.”

The curses on his ready tongue burst forth as buds in spring; His bosom swelled with anger, and he swore like anything! I listened; and, between his oaths, he said “Upon my life, I haven’t got no supper, and I haven’t got no wife!

“My wife is dead, and I have been in quod since Sixty-two, I’ve got no work to do-oo-oo, I’ve got no work to do, I haven’t had this blessed day a mouthful or a drop; I haven’t got a bloomin’ thing (so ’elp me!) I can ‘pop.’

“If any gent ’ud give me food, or put me on a job, By day or night I’d work all right to earn an honest bob; But if there ain’t, I tell you plain, it is my fixed intent To hold a great mass meeting under Nelson’s monument.”

“Come home with me,” I kindly said, “come home with me and sup; My landlady is Mrs. Brown――we must not keep her up. There’s devilled kidneys at the fire――enough for you and me; Come home, you great big hungry man; I lodge at Number three.”

(I used to lodge at Number two――the second in the row, But Mrs. Jones is dead, and that was sixty years ago.) I took him home to Number three, and called to Mrs. Brown, And asked her kindly to step round into the Rose and Crown.

She looked at my companion; then she answered rather rough―― “It seems to me as if you’d had already quite enough. Who is that horrid-looking man? and, when she’d wiped the delf, Said, “Go unto Jerusalem and fetch your beer yourself!”

I went not to Jerusalem; I went to Mister Head. I changed a thick’un:――that was Greek for sovereign, he said. I got the liquor for the man (he did not come along); I said, “A pint of double X, and please to draw it strong!”

When I came back, I gazed about――I gazed on stool and chair, I could not see that great big man――because he was not there! I looked into the coal-box, and beneath the sofa too: I said, “You great big vulgar man, why, what’s become of you?”

I put my glasses on my nose, and looked, but could not see The rat-tailed spoons I’ve always used these sixty years at tea; I could not see my sugar-tongs, my good gold watch――oh, dear! I know ’twas on the mantelpiece when I went out for beer.

I could not see my Inverness――it was not to be seen; Nor yet my season ticket, with a strap and bound in green My Gladstone bag! my “Tantalus”! my silver warming pan! My devilled kidneys!――all are gone! and so’s that vulgar man!

I touched the bell for Mrs. Brown, for she was down below; “Oh! Mrs. Brown! what do you think? ain’t this a pretty go? That horrid great big vulgar man whom I brought here to-night, He’s stolen my things and run away!”――Says she, “And serves you right!”

* * * * *

Next morning I got up and wrote a letter to the Times, The Morning Post, the Daily News, The Globe, and _Church Bell Chimes_. I asked if anybody knew the man who’d used me so, And said “for information I would give a quid pro quo.”

I told the Margate bobbies all the trick I had been played; And all of them distinctly winked and promised me their aid; And when I go to them and ask, they’ve always “got a plan”―― But never to this day have got that great big vulgar man.

The Globe. January 1, 1887.

――――

THE LITTLE BULGAR BOY. (A woful ballad of the Balkans.)

Sorrowful Suzerain loquitur:――

It was at Philippopolis, in August of this year, I saw a little Bulgar boy,――I said, “What do you here?” The glow upon his youthful cheek, bespake exceeding joy. I said, “What is your little game, you little Bulgar boy?”

He sniffed, that little Bulgar boy, he seemed inclined to scoff; My heart has been so often bruised, a little sets it off. He put his finger to his―――― Well, my haughty bosom rose, And I applied my――hem――my handkerchief unto my nose.

“Hark! don’t you hear, my little man, your Suzerain speaks?” I said. “How would you like a sack, a cord, the Bosphorus for a bed, Run home to your Bulgarian home, or I shall scold, Oh, fie! This is a most improper game for Bulgar Boys to try.”

The mockery in his little eye began again to spring; His bosom shook with giggling strong――he laughed like anything! I stooped, and, ’midst his chortling low, I heard him murmur “Bosh! I haven’t got no Suzerain, so that kibosh will not wash!

“If you into your Bosphorus, to your exceeding joy, Can land me right, then blow me tight!” (A vulgar Bulgar Boy!) “And now I’m here, old Pint o’ Beer, it is my fixed intent To raise to diplomatic rot a lasting monument.”

“Tut! tut! my little man――tut! tut!” I genially said. “You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head. If you go breaking Treaties thus, as though they were but eggs, Either we’ll have to stretch your neck, or you to stretch your legs!

“Go home at once, my little man, or scimetar and Krupp Will have to take a turn at you――and won’t they keep it up? Don’t pull the chestnuts from the fire for Mister Romanoff. Cut home, you little Bulgar Boy! Skedaddle, slope, be off!”

“Home?” chuckled he. “Oh, certainly, with willingness and joy! This is my home, old Bubblyjock!”――a vulgar Bulgar Boy! I said, “Remember Mrs. Bull, the kindest of her sex! Will you snarl up her Berlin wool, and her kind bosom vex?”

But Mrs. Bull did not seem cross, she made but little noise. She said she didn’t care to “sit on” little Bulgar Boys. She said, “Old Turkey-Cock, ’tis time you were upon the shelf. Spank him? Go to――Roumelia, and spank the Boy yourself!”

I went not to Roumelia――I didn’t like the job. My purse was low; I scarce could raise what Cockneys call “a Bob.” The Powers that be looked shy at me, they saw that I was riled, But said, “We can’t have rows all round, so please to draw it mild!”

When I went back I gazed about――I hunted everywhere, I could not see my little foe――because he was not there I peeped at Philippopolis, and at Sofia too, I cried, “You little Bulgar Boy, what has become of you?”

I could not see my Tribute, no!――I looked, but could not see The little fiddle-faddle sham they call my Suzerain_tee_. I could not see my Treaty-rights――my Balkan-range――oh, dear! The whole great Bizzy-Dizzy game was a great fraud, I fear!

I could not see my status quo――it was not to be seen!―― Nor yet my Pan-Islamic Flag, that flag――like me――so green. My Carpet-bag, that held them all, my sole remaining joy, Is gone, for ever gone!――and so’s that little Bulgar Boy!

I ran to Mrs. Bull――her Salisbury once admired me so!―― “Oh, Mrs. Bull! what do you think?――ain’t this a pretty go?―― That horrid little Bulgar Boy you thought we’d tied so tight,―― He’s stolen my things and run away!!!”――Says she, “And sarve you right!!!”

Punch. October 17, 1885.

There was another political parody entitled “The Boy and the Bear, a ballad of Bulgaria” in Punch September 24, 1887, but it was not so interesting, nor so close a parody as the above.

――――

THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS.

The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal’s chair! Bishop and abbot, and prior were there; Many a monk, and many a friar, Many a knight, and many a squire, With a great many more of lesser degree,―― In sooth a goodly company; And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee. Never, I ween, Was a prouder seen, Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams, Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!

In and out Through the motley rout, That little Jackdaw kept hopping about; Here and there Like a dog in a fair, Over comfits and cakes, And dishes and plates, Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall, Mitre and crosier! he hopp’d upon all! With saucy air, He perch’d on the chair Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat In the great Lord Cardinal’s great red hat; And he peer’d in the face Of his Lordship’s Grace, With a satisfied look, as if he would say, ‘We two are the greatest folks here to-day!’ And the priests, with awe, As such freaks they saw, Said, ‘The Devil must be in that little Jackdaw!’ The feast was over, the board was clear’d, The flawns and the custards had all disappear’d, And six little Singing-boys,――dear little souls! In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles, Came, in order due, Two by two, Marching that grand refectory through!

A nice little boy held a golden ewer, Emboss’d and fill’d with water, as pure As any that flows between Rheims and Namur, Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch In a fine golden hand-basin made to match. Two nice little boys, rather more grown, Carried lavender-water, and eau de Cologne; And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap, Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope. One little boy more A napkin bore, Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink, And a Cardinal’s Hat mark’d in ‘permanent ink.’

The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight Of these nice little boys dress’d all in white: From his finger he draws His costly turquoise; And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws, Deposits it straight By the side of his plate, While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait; Till, when nobody’s dreaming of any such thing, That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!

There’s a cry and a shout, And a deuce of a rout, And nobody seems to know what they’re about, But the monks have their pockets all turn’d inside out; The friars are kneeling, And hunting, and feeling The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling. The Cardinal drew Off each plum-colour’d shoe, And left his red stockings exposed to the view; He peeps, and he feels, In the toes and the heels; They turn up the dishes,――they turn up the plates,―― They take up the poker and poke out the grates, ――They turn up the rugs, They examine the mugs:―― But, no!――no such thing;―― They can’t find THE RING! And the Abbot declared that, ‘when nobody twigg’d it, Some rascal or other had popp’d in, and prigg’d it!’

The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, He call’d for his candle, his bell, and his book! In holy anger, and pious grief, He solemnly cursed that rascally thief! He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed; From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head; He cursed him in sleeping, that every night He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright; He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking, He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking; He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying; He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying, He cursed him in living, he cursed him in dying!―― Never was heard such a terrible curse! But what gave rise To no little surprise, Nobody seem’d one penny the worse!

The day was gone, The night came on, The Monks and the Friars they search’d till dawn: When the Sacristan saw, On crumpled claw, Come limping a-poor little lame Jackdaw; No longer gay, As on yesterday; His feathers all seem’d to be turn’d the wrong way;―― His pinions droop’d――he could hardly stand,―― His head was as bald as the palm of your hand; His eye so dim, So wasted each limb, That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, ‘THAT’S HIM!―― That’s the scamp that has done this scandalous thing! That’s the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal’s Ring!’ The poor little Jackdaw, When the monks he saw, Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw; And turn’d his bald head, as much as to say, ‘Pray, be so good as to walk this way!’ Slower and slower, He limp’d on before, ’Till they came to the back of the belfry door, Where the first thing they saw, Midst the sticks and the straw, Was the RING in the nest of that little Jackdaw!

Then the great Lord Cardinal call’d for his book, And off that terrible curse he took; The mute expression Served in lieu of confession, And, being thus coupled with full restitution, The Jackdaw got plenary absolution! ――When those words were heard, That poor little bird Was so changed in a moment, ’twas really absurd. He grew sleek, and fat; In addition to that, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! His tail waggled more Even than before; But no longer it wagged with an impudent air, No longer he perch’d on the Cardinal’s chair. He hopp’d now about With a gait devout; At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out; And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, He always seem’d telling the Confessor’s beads. If any one lied,――or if any one swore,―― Or slumber’d in prayer-time, and happen’d to snore, That good Jackdaw Would give a great ‘Caw,’ As much as to say, ‘Don’t do so any more!’ While many remark’d, as his manners they saw, That they ‘never had known such a pious Jackdaw!’ He long lived the pride Of that country side, And at last in the odour of sanctity died; When, as words were too faint, His merits to paint, The Conclave determined to make him a Saint! And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know, It’s the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow, So they canonised him by the name of Jim Crow!

R. H. BARHAM.

First published in Bentley’s Miscellany, 1837.

――――

THE STORY OF THE LATEST CURSE

The Pontiff sat in St. Peter’s Chair, Cardinals, too, quite a host, were there, Cardinal this and Cardinal that, Cardinals lean and Cardinals fat, Cardinals sitting in style and state, Cardinals full of importance great, With Cardinal Vicars of high degree, In sooth, a goodly company; And as they sat in full conclave thus Momentous matters did they discuss; And presented reports of a wide-spread scope To their Holy Father and Sovereign Pope.

And chief of points to attention claim The perennial Irish Question came, With its pros and cons, which no ending knew, And the Tory Government’s biassed view. And the Duke of Norfolk’s suggestions, too, Of the course the Pope should henceforth pursue. They quoted once more All the legal lore That, as they said, on the question bore. They wrangled, too, (Which was nothing new) And made a fuss and a great to-do; And argued, some for the twentieth time, That to join in the “Plan” was a heinous crime, And loudly declared, through thick and thin, That “Boycotting” was a deadly sin; Whilst others maintained That no course remained Save that to patriots gagged and chained! But the Pope meanwhile Gave a ghastly smile As the Cardinals talked about Erin’s isle, And exclaimed, “This matter must settled be, Or else it will be the death of me! Draw up a report without delay, And present it to me this very day; For I’ve promised the Duke That I’ll rebuke My Irish flock in a pastoral way!”

* * * * *

So the Cardinals did what the Pope demanded And their Report to him duly handed, Denouncing the “Plan” and those who used it, And any Priest who at all excused it; Condemning “Boycotting,” too, as wrong, In Latin phrases extremely strong. And having read it, the Pope made known That its sentiments were, in good sooth, his own; And heedless quite Of the cause of right, And grossly misled by party spite, ’Till he was moved to believe the worst Of Ireland――libelled, maligned, aspersed―― The Pontiff published that famed “Decree,” And filled the Unionist camp with glee.

Yes, it filled the Unionists’ hearts with hope, For “Lo!” said they, “that obliging Pope Has cursed with bell and with book and candle The cause of Home Rule――that crying scandal! In holy anger and pious grief He’s solemnly cursed each Irish thief! He has cursed Parnell and his plundering crew In all they say or attempt to do. He has cursed the League, he has cursed its chiefs, And its helpless serfs, and its threatened fiefs. He has cursed O’Brien and Dillon, John, And his curse is O’Connor (Tay Pay) upon. He has cursed McCarthy and T. M. Healy, And all of the Irish leaders, really; He’s cursed them abroad, and he’s cursed them at home, With all the anathemas used at Rome; He’s cursed them both in and out of gaol, He’s cursed the few now at large on bail; He’s cursed them in eating, he’s cursed them in drinking, He’s cursed them in coughing, in sneezing, in winking; From the souls of their feet to the crowns of their heads, He’s cursed them awake, and asleep in their beds; He’s cursed them in standing, in sitting, in lying, He’s cursed them in speaking, and selling, and buying; He’s cursed the Gladstonian Party, too, For daring to make that alliance new. In short these Unionists all averred So dreadful a curse had never been heard!

Forsooth these Unionists talked away, Of this Papal curse all the live-long-day, And gloated with quite a savage glee On what must come of the Pope’s “Decree.” “They must be crushed, these vile Irishmen,” They daily repeated with tongue and pen. “No more shall we hear of Parnell’s fresh crimes!” Exclaimed, in “leaded bourgeois,” the Times, “Confusion has stricken the League’s curs’d host,” Was the warning cry of the jubilant Post. “There’s an end forthwith to the sorry set!” Was the evening shriek of St. James’s Gazette. But all the time they were writing thus, And making this daily fame and fuss, Declaring the Nationalist cause was done, And the Parnellites doomed were every one. Whilst still they were bidding the world to see What ruin was wrought by the Pope’s “Decree,” And everywhere stating, in prose and verse, There never was heard such a terrible curse! This fact gave rise To no little surprise, Nobody seem’d one penny the worse!

* * * * *

Stay! some one seems a good deal the worse For this much-debated Vatican curse; And that is the Pope himself, for he, By even the issue of his “Decree,” Made public the fact, beyond recall, That he knows of Ireland nothing at all. The Irish Bishops ’tis true, have tried, To soften the blow to their Pontiff’s pride; While the Irish people have treated his curse As a Papal weakness, and nothing worse. So far, so good! But the Pontiff should Bear in mind in how false a place he’s stood; He must ne’er again base denunciation On false and on biassed information; And certainly never give vent to a curse For which he only is any the worse!

__Truth._ June 7, 1888.

――――:o:――――

THE EXECUTION. A Sporting Anecdote.

My Lord Tomnoddy got up one day: It was half after two. He had nothing to do, So his Lordship rang for his cabriolet.

Tiger Tim Was clean of limb, His boots were polish’d, his jacket was trim; With a very smart tie in his smart cravat, And a smart cockade on the top of his hat; Tallest of boys, or shortest of men, He stood in his stockings just four foot ten; And he ask’d, as he held the door on the swing, “Pray, did your Lordship please to ring?”

My Lord Tomnoddy he raised his head, And thus to Tiger Tim he said, “Malibran’s dead, Duvernay’s fled, Taglioni has not yet arrived in her stead; Tiger Tim, come, tell me true, What may a Nobleman find to do?”――

Tim look’d up, and Tim look’d down, He paused, and he put on a thoughtful frown, And he held up his hat, and he peep’d in the crown; He bit his lip, and he scratch’d his head, He let go the handle, and thus he said, As the door released, behind him bang’d: “An’t please you, my Lord, there’s a man to be hang’d.”

My Lord Tomnoddy jump’d up at the news, “Run to M’Fuse. And Lieutenant Tregooze, And run to Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues. Rope-dancers a score, I’ve seen before―― Madame Sacchi, Antonio, and Master Black-more; But to see a man swing, at the end of a string, With his neck in a noose, will be quite a new thing.”

* * * * *

R. H. BARHAM.

――――

THE FROLICS OF BOREAS.

Old Boreas sprung up one day――says he, “Blow me tight, but I’ll have a spree―― I must be very much missed, no doubt, ’Tis a long time since I had a blow out; And as things in town are dreadfully dead, I’ll stir them up, though as heavy as lead. Yes, now for a rollicksome, frolicksome chase, I’ll raise the wind in every place.” So away he went, through the Strand so gay, Blowing up everything in his way―― Upsetting dozens (in spite of their squalls,) Of old women’s apple and lollipop stalls.

Never was heard such a terrible shout, As the apples and brandy balls rolled about; The old women swore, while the urchin shouts After the stock, and runs off with the fruits. On went Boreas playing his rigs, Blowing off bonnets and ladies’ wigs―― Making their hairless heads apparent, Which none would do but a rogue so arrant. Puffing and blowing onwards he bounds, Frisking the skirts of the ladies’ gowns―― Forming completely, as gentlemen say―― And ladies, sometimes, a show leg day.

Away he went blustering through Pall Mall, To the discommotion of every swell―― Giving their stay-laced figures a twirl, Blowing their whiskers quite out of curl―― Piercing their benjamin waterproofs, Blowing their tiles from off their roofs―― Whirling old bachelors into the mud, And old maids upon them――oh, gemini, lud, Knocks down of chimneys a terrific lot, Sends a respectable family to pot; Upsets a woman with flowers a growing, Just as she squall’d out all a blowing!

On went Boreas, mighty and strong, Puffing out lamps as he went along―― Patting a thief in the way of a job, Of dissecting a pocket, or lightening a fob: Leaving the Peelers quite in the dark, Doing a turn for an amorous spark; Giving the drunkard a chance, at most, Of running his cranium ’gainst a post. Upon the Park he flies to attend, And gives the boughs a bit of a bend―― The brave old oaks in the air he heaves, Without so much as axing their leaves.

Down he rushed to the river side, Sunk the loose barges, and blowed up the tide; Led the wherries a wherry rum chase, Gave Father Thames some blows in the face. Among the rigging he played his rigs, And capsized quite the captain’s gigs; The fishes swore they were quite dead bait, And rolled about in a floundering state. At last his frolics came to an end, He couldn’t raise wind――he was bellows to mend, So, as a wind-up, he, with all his might, Blew himself to Wind――sor to spend the night.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

A PARLIAMENTARY LEGEND.

The Marquis Bobby sat down one day, Feeling himself in a very bad way: His was the delicate porcelain clay Not made for the shelf, like mere common delf, And he felt that the world wanted something――himself; For he loved to stand in the light of day, To have his own way, and to say his own say―― To slaughter and gibbet and mangle. Now he thought to himself, here’s the devil to pay, Never a chance of a row or a wrangle, No Afghan affairs to get in a tangle. Gladstone before and old Johnny behind; With a wide-awake Postmaster, even if blind; Everything bound to go to the bad: His place, too, filled by a rascally “Rad.” Things seemed to his lordship gloomy――very, So he rose and rang for his Secretary.

Mr. Sec.――was a gentleman born Who hated a “Cad” with a noble scorn: He had learned at the best of public schools, To sneer at snobs, and the wretched fools, Who earned bread and cheese upon office stools, And his clothes were got on credit from Poole’s; He knew men were fools who trusted two stools, So wisely followed her Ladyship’s rules. He entered in haste, tho’ with dignified gait (It wasn’t allowed for Lord Bobby to wait).

The noble Marquis raised his head, And to his underling he said: “Beaconsfield’s dead, and Northcote is led By the nose, and whatever the last man has said, Richmond’s a donkey; Cairns is a parson; Who but myself can carry this farce on? People agree that there must be a head; And there’s only myself in the old man’s stead; Tell me, Sir Secretary, what think you, What can a born statesman find to do?” He paused, and the gentleman scratched his head, “There’s only the Land Bill, my lord,” he said, And the news of the evening, as you will see, Is that the Commons will not agree.”

Then the Marquis Bobby jumped up in haste, And he muttered a something that sounded like “baste.” And something resembling “bate ’em;” He felt that the fun wasn’t yet quite done, Though he’d issued his “ultimatum.” “Enough――call it done, my son of a gun―― I’ll show ’em a game ere with me they’ve done: Go call my henchmen liel and true: Call Cranbrook, Carnarvon and ‘canny’ Buccleuch, And call that fool of a Marlborough, too, Fetch the rest of the noble crew, With heads so thick and blood so blue; And by way of a ‘rat’ and a tit for a tat, Look up the Grey and the Fortescue; And even Gladstone shall learn to rue That with Irish landlords he’d aught to do;” Then his lordship sighed as he thought of the grouse, Put on his hat and went down to the “House.”

The clock strikes twelve, it is really midnight,―― But “their Lordships’ House” is a blaze of light; The parties have met and been pretty hard set, To amend the amendments and manage to get A Bill which looks something substantial――and yet Isn’t the thing that is wanted quite In this nice little island so bright and so tight. The Marquis Bobby has had his fling―― Denounced the whole as a villainous thing, A theft――a blunder――a sham――and a sin, And sworn that the Lords will never give in.

Gad, ’tis a very fine sight to see A very fine Aristocracy, Proud of port and stern of eye, With a look that says plainly――“Never say die,” Stemming the tide of Democracy. The clock strikes “one” and the thing isn’t done. The Marquis Bobby has munched a bun, Some aged nobles have “cut and run;” But sternly arrayed, as to say, “Who’s afraid!” The rest wait for the message too long delayed.

The clock strikes “four,” and at the door Sounds a something that isn’t exactly a roar―― A sort of a scuffle and underbred shuffle, As of Commons who wouldn’t their lordships ruffle; Impatience just tempered with awe. But the message is plain――as plain as the day, “My Lords, the Commons will not obey.”

Then the Marquis Bobby in wrath arose, And he――well, I’m almost afraid to disclose; Well――he took up his hat and he blew at his nose, And――did as do Fakirs, or people called Quakers, Or a gentleman namesake of his, “Bobby Acres,” And exclaimed, “Why, hullo! here’s a rum go. That fellow has made us do just what he chose. We certainly might have saved all our jaws. Thank God,” with a pause, “there’s the wild duck clause; But they’ll laugh at and quiz us all over their town, We’re all of us done so uncommonly brown.”

What act could be done? Well, it wouldn’t surprise one To know that they did a very unwise one, But now in their favour, there’s this to be said, They thought better of it, and you may have read, That my Lords and Lord Bobby――went home to bed.

From Grins and Groans, Social and Political. Published by W. Swan Sonnenschein & Co., about 1882.

――――

THE LORD OF INTRIGUE.

Pollaky sat in his oaken chair, Carte de visite and letter lay there, Princely coronet, lordly crest, Many a mystery, many a quest, With missive and billet of lesser degree, In sooth an extraordinary company; And they seemed to ask, “Oh! unravel me,” Never, I ween, Was a subtler seen, Concerned in divorce, or elopement, or league, Than love’s autocrat, Pollaky, lord of intrigue. In and out Through the motley rout, The Lord of Intrigue goes hunting about, Here and there, Like a dog in a fair, Through flights and divorces, Elopements and curses, Through a lady’s love and a husband’s grudge, Proud as a Cardinal, sharp as a Judge; And he smiles in the face Of the scrawl of his Grace, With a satisfied look, as if he would say, “Oh, the duchess must fall in our trap to-day.” While his clients with awe As such schemes they saw, Said, “Pollaky’s sharper than Hades, you know.” Never, I ween, Was a subtler seen, Concerned in divorce, or elopement, or league, Than love’s autocrat, Pollaky, lord of intrigue.

From Benjamin D――――. His Little Dinner. 1876.

――――

THE DEVIL’S BILLIARD MATCH.

Mr. Peeler was known to be one of the milliards Who go in for spending their talents on billiards; And by diligent training, And careful abstaining From gin and tobacco, succeeded in gaining Such skill at a hazard, a cannon, or “pot,” And was voted so “hot” When he got “on the spot,” That no one would play him, not e’en the great Cooker, (Who some people say is a bit of a fluker). He gave points to Jobenit, Bobs, and Michelli, And knocked the whole lot of ’em into a jelly; He often would make A two-thousand break, And only left off when he found his arm ache, Such a wonderful use did he make of his “stick,” That everyone thought he was leagued with Old Nick; And they went down to see this most wonderful “coon,” Evening and noon, In December or June, At the Royal Aquarium Billiard Saloon. And some time ago, As perhaps you may know, A match was arranged, and this time Peeler’s foe Was Signor Michelli, who often made lots Of very good shots And consecutive “spots,” And the odds Peeler gave to this man of such fame Were five hundred points in a one thousand game. Now Signor Michelli, though very much saner Than many, was far from a total abstainer; And whether the cheer of the festival season Or hard mental work had deprived him of reason I cannot affirm, but I’m positive quite, That he looked to be tight, On the advertised night, In spite of his tie and his linen so white; For when he came in he walked up to the slate, And proceeded at once in a manner sedate, To rub out the figures just under his name, And said that he “Wanted no pointsh in thish game,” And would play “the young d――――l,” A thousand up level; After making which modest and courteous remarks, He proceeded at once to be up to his larks; Made a very bad shot To screw in off the spot, (Instead of just giving the usual miss) Which was baulked by his making the two balls to kiss, And left a good cannon For Peeler, who ran on Ran off, and ran out, and finished the game, Amidst a loud cheering and general acclaim; Whilst Michelli, who’d wanted to shine as a hero, Stared aghast at his chalks, which were standing at zero. At this point a gentleman stepped forth from the audience, Who’d apparently tried All colour to hide, And to drive from his raiment all tints that were gaudy hence; His clothes were all black, At the front and the back, His handkerchief, watch-chain, and locket, and tie, His shirt and his studs, and his collar so high, His boots and his buttons, his hat and his rings―― In short, every one of his visible things Was as black as a crow, and――keep down your sniggers―― His face and his hands were as black as a nigger’s! He took his hat off And uttered a cough; Then with cynical satire, and many a scoff, He called Mr. Peeler A “ginger-pop dealer,” And snapped out “Nicolo Scratchini’s my name, And I’ll play Mr. Peeler a ten-thousand game; And these points I will my opponent assign―― Nine thousand nine hundred and ninety and nine! And the stakes――――” here he whispered in Peeler’s left ear, And that eminent cueist turned giddy with fear; But covered the tip of his cue well with chalk, And led off the game with a miss into baulk.

But his sable opponent then smirked a queer smirk, And flourished his cue as he’d flourish a dirk, Put his ball in the D, and aimed right at the red; And with such awful twist on his flying ball sped, That it screwed into baulk in the right corner pocket; As a ruby gleam flashed from the Stranger’s black locket, Then he got “on the spot” and made three thousand hazards; Whilst the audience stared as if knocked on the mazzards; Then made scores of cannons――the kind known as “nursery”―― Whilst Peeler was making remarks that were curse-ory; And at last, being “cushioned” or “under the bank,” Fetched his ball such a twank, Such a terrible spank, That it gave to the red a most thundering clank, And both smashed to bits, And knocked into fits The marker who sat where he commonly sits; And the audience yelled, when they saw all this steam on, “My! ain’t he a scorcher! O, ain’t he a demon!” Then Signor Scratchini, as meek as a lamb, Looked up, and most quaintly remarked, “Yes, I am!” And his polished black boots turned to black hoofs with corns, And his black curly hair to a black pair of horns, His cue to a pitchfork, his black eyes to coals, His fingers to claws, and his studs into holes From whence there came out such a fire and a smoke That everyone felt just as though they would choke; And he grabbed hold of Peeler, with eyes darting flame, But Peeler had presence of mind to exclaim―― “You’ve not won me yet, you old cheat! fie for shame! Fair play’s a jewel, Nick! Finish the game.”

Nick let go his hold, for though only a curs’t ’un He felt he was bound, by the framed rules of Thurston, Since he’d broken the balls, to be honest and plain, And call upon Peeler to “break them” again. So P. in a stew Took up his cue And aimed at the red in a manner so true, And put on his ball such a quantum of screw, That without more ado It vanished from view In the top corner bag――and the red went in too. Old Scratch gave a scream That curdled the cream, And was gone from their gaze like a horrible dream, (Which is not an original line, by the way, Though where I have read it I really can’t say.) And then Mr, Peeler Called a four-wheeler, And drove home at once without any delay, And never played billiards again from that day, But turned to a rigidly moral and mental man, And was troubled no more by the black-dressed Old Gentleman.

MORAL.

Don’t think that a man who’s a total abstainer Is therefore as good as a saint――to be plainer, Don’t be sure that a chap who’ll not drink, smoke, or marry May not all the same be in league with Old Harry.

You’ll get much more good from Æneids and Iliads Than by wasting your time and your money on billiards, For take it as true, be you sage or buffoon, You are sure to find Nick in a billiard saloon.

One word more, If a score Will make the game o’er, Just “shop” your opponent, and bolt through the door.

From Rare Bits, in which paper several other imitations of the Ingoldsby Legends have appeared.

――――

A ROW IN THE UPPER CIRCLES. A Legend of the Haymarket.

Bancroft the manager sits in his chair, With a gloomy brow and dissatisfied air, And he says as he slaps his hand on his knee, “I mean to abolish the P. I. T. The P. I. T. of the Hay-mar-ket, When turned into stalls, will be nightly let For a sum that I own will be pleasant to get; And all will agree ’Twould be ruin to me To keep on the Haymarket P. I. T.”

The green baize rose to the prompter’s bell, But the hubbub that followed no words can tell; Shriek and whistle and howl and yell, Like fiends let loose from the nethermost ――――L. “P. I. T! P. I. T! That’s the place whence the play we’d see. BAN-CROFT! BAN-CROFT!!” (’Twas thus they shouted from high aloft)―― “Upper circles for us? Pooh! Bah! Pish! Tush! Humbug and swindle――yah! Manager Bancroft, don’t forget We’ve been used to a pit at the Hay-mar-ket.”

Bancroft the manager rose from his chair, And his brow was shaded by sorrow and care, And he walked to the footlights, and made his bow, As Manager Bancroft so well knows how: “Ladies and gentlemen,” he did say, “What may you please to want to-day?” “P. I. T! P. I. T! This is the thing we want to see; These high upper boxes are fiddle-de-dee, And we don’t care a snap for your piteous plea, And there really must be A nice P. I. T.”

Bancroft the manager tries to speak, But his voice is drowned in a shout and a shriek. “A P. I. T. Won’t pay,” says he; “There’s the company, scenery, taxes, and rent, You don’t know the money already I’ve spent, But, believe me, I grieve at your discontent,”

“P. I. T――P. I. T―― If we don’t have that we won’t come and see The plays you produce if you let us in free.” Manager Bancroft tries to be heard, But the Public will listen to never a word, Till, tired of shouting, they cry anon, “You’d better go off, and the play go on!”

So this was the end of the flurry and fret That marked the first night at the Hay-mar-ket, So long live the manager, long live he, Here’s success both to Mr. and Missis B., And may we all often go there to see The plays they produce to delight you and me, E’en though they’ve abolished the P. I. T.

Judy. February 11, 1880.

In the old days of the Haymarket Theatre under the management of J. B. Buckstone, the pit was the most comfortable in London; but, Buckstone died in debt, whilst after abolishing the pit the Bancrofts made a fortune in a few years.

――――

Mirth and Metre, by Frank E. Smedley and Edmund H. Yates, published by G. Routledge & Co., 1855, was a small shilling book of poetry, written avowedly in imitation of Barham’s Ingoldsby Legends, besides containing several excellent parodies of other authors.

The following extracts from one of the imitations, written by F. E. Smedley, show that he had caught the knack of Barham’s versification. Unfortunately the poem is too long to quote in full:――

THE ENCHANTED NET.

There were sundry strange monsters existing of old, Could we only give credit to half we are told, As evinced (on the ex pede Herculean plan, Which from merely a footstep presumes the whole man) By our Savans disturbing those very large bones, Which have turned (for the rhyme’s sake, perhaps) into stones, And have chosen to wait a Long while hid in strata, While old Time has been dining on empires and thrones. Old bones and dry bones, Leg-bones and thigh-bones, Bones of the vertebræ, bones of the tail,―― Very like, only more so, the bones of a whale; Bones that were very long, bones that were very short (They have never as yet found a real fossil merry-thought; Perchance because mastodons, burly and big, Considered all funny-bones quite infra dig.) Skulls have they found in strange places imbedded, Which, at least, prove their owners were very long-headed; And other queer things――which ’tis not my intention, Lest I weary your patience, at present to mention,―― As I think I can prove, without further apology, What I said to be true, sans appeal to geology, That there lived in the good old days gone by Things unknown to our modern philosophy, And a giant was then no more out of the way Than a dwarf is now in the present day.

Sir Eppo of Epstein was young, brave, and fair; Dark were the curls of his clustering hair, Dark the moustache that o’ershadowed his lip, And his glance was as keen as the sword at his hip; Though the enemy’s charge was like lightning’s fierce shock, His seat was as firm as the wave-beaten rock; And woe to the foeman, whom pride or mischance Opposed to the stroke of his conquering lance. He carved at the board, and he danced in the hall, And the ladies admired him, each one and all. In a word, I should say, he appears to have been As nice a young “ritter” as ever was seen. He could not read nor write, He could not spell his name. Towards being a clerk, Sir Eppo, his (†) mark, Was as near as he ever came. He had felt no vexation From multiplication; Never puzzled was he By the rule of three; The practice he’d had Did not drive him mad, Because it all lay Quite a different way. The Asses’ Bridge, that Bridge of Sighs, Had (lucky dog!) ne’er met his eyes. In a very few words he expressed his intention Once for all to decline every Latin declension, When persuaded to add, by the good Father Herman, That most classical tongue to his own native German. And no doubt he was right in Point of fact, for a knight in Those days was supposed to like nothing but fighting; And one who had learned any language that is hard Would have stood a good chance of being burned for a wizard. Education being then never pushed to the verge ye Now see it, was chiefly confined to the clergy.

* * * * *

HANDY JACK. (A Lay of Alexandria.)

“The sailors, after proving themselves excellent gunners and most useful infantry, have to-day shone in the capacity of engineers.”――The Standard.

Oh! for what are you not good and game, Handy Jack? For what are you not good and game? Upon Egypt’s far strand You seem turning your hand To almost any job one can name, Which same Should resound, my dear Jack, to your fame!

You’re exceedingly good with a gun, Handy Jack! As we know from the deeds you have done. At infantry duty, A regular beauty, On land and on water you’re one Whose fun Is to fight and do aught――except run.

* * * * *

You are brave, and no end of a brick, Handy Jack! Jack-of-all-trades, as cheery as quick; Amphibious of gift, Ambidextrous and swift, And as awkward to flummox as lick; The pick Of our Blues would not strike to Old Nick.

Here’s your jolly good health and good luck, Handy Jack! And the flag you so seldom have struck. Ashore or afloat, On a bridge, or a boat, You’re a picture of nous and of pluck Never stuck. They who say that Jack has altered talk muck!

Punch. August 19, 1882.

――――

THE CARDINAL’S HAT.

A tremendous outcry against the Roman Catholics was raised in 1850, when the Pope created Cardinal Nicholas Wiseman――Archbishop of Westminster, and divided all England into Romish dioceses. But the agitation ended in smoke, it is true the Ecclesiastical Titles Bill was passed in 1851, yet it has practically remained a dead letter, and it was wittily said of Lord John Russell that, after chalking up “No Popery” on Cardinal Wiseman’s door, and ringing the bell――he ran away.

Amongst the many pamphlets written on the topic was one published by Henry Beal, Shoe Lane, London, entitled “The Cardinal’s Hat: How, when, and where it was made, and what became of it.” By Ipsedixit. 1851. This is an imitation of the Ingoldsby Legends, and like them is very uncomplimentary to Roman Catholic priests, consequently, several passages have been omitted in the following reprint, as being not only offensive and ungenerous, but also untrue:――

We have all of us heard of the CITY OF ROME, The fountain of Catholic blessings, and curses, Where those who are lucky in having long purses Go, to stare at the huge Coliseum and Dome Of St. Peter’s, and bring curiosities home,―― Such as medals, and casts; and indeed, whate’er fixes Their fancies,――rags――relics――beads――bones――crucifixes; Grand portraits of Saints, who cured fearful disease By the sufferer’s merely going down on his knees, And telling some beads, and by offering some fees, For Saints, like the men who take M.D. degrees, Their practice conduct in an orthodox way, And grant no relief to the souls who can’t pay.

Well――in this great and world-renowned City of Rome, Within the broad shadow that’s cast by the dome Of St. Peter’s aforesaid, is the Strada del Popolo, In which stands the house of the famed St. Jacopolo; And there reside thirty or forty stout monks, to see Whom, much reminds one of Smithfield obesity. All day long Goes ding-dong Their bells――and their song Alarms you at eve as you’re walking along: But at midnight, a wild and demoniac yelling Is heard from within, of some mystery telling; And I’ve heard It averred, That a vile brimstone smell in The Strada del Popolo, oft causes those Who’re passing――the orifice nasal to close; And, like old Daniel Tucker, of whom, I dare say You have heard――to make tracks “and git out of the way.”

Now――scorning the aid of that personage odious, The two-sticked dark gentleman known as Asmodeus; We have unroofed the house of these portly old men, And gaze without obstacle into their den! St. Peter’s great bell tells one more day is dead; Respectable persons lie snugly in bed; Only a beggar or woman with shrewd eye, Is prowling about, to pick up a few scudi; But Jacopolo’s altar is all in a blaze, Ten thousand wax tapers emit their bright rays, And at first you are almost struck blind as you gaze: The Abbot is clad in his finest attire Of satin and silk, at a price rather higher Than an un-worldly man, one might think, would desire; But what puzzled one most――and what seemed very queer, Was――that all the fat Monks of Jacopolo there, Instead of performing prescribed genuflexions, Or praying to Saints, to forgive their defections: Or joining (melodious old souls!) in the quire, All stood in a circle around a huge fire, Over which was a vessel of brass――yes, ’twas that metal, And in heretic lands ’twould be known as a HAT-KETTLE:

What are they doing? Some mischief is brewing! In the cauldron like that one in Macbeth, is stewing Something I warrant for somebody’s ruin! See how the burly monks plunge, each a fist Into the kettle, from which goes a mist Creeping and curling like snakes to the ceiling:―― For something right down at its bottom they’re feeling; Now they have got it, and like Monks of mettle They dab a wet mass on the rim of the kettle. Shapeless and dark is it!――but with a shout The Monks of Jacopolo maul it about; Bow to it――pray to it;――each one caresses it, E’en the Abbot himself lays his hand on, and blesses it: They roll it, and wrinkle, Punch it, and sprinkle: A silver bell’s tinkle Is heard――then the Abbot proceeds to un-padlock A casket, and from it with prayers takes a hat-block. [The last rhyme, dear reader, I very well know Just as well as yourself, is not quite comme il faut, But I’d rather make such a slight slip, than I’d fit a lie For the sake of mere sound to this true tale of Italy.]

Yes, the Abbot devout, A HAT BLOCK took out, And ’twas hailed by the Monks with a song and a shout:―― Not a block of the shape of a hat worn in town; But much like a wide-a-wake’s――low in the crown, Only not shaped like those of drab, white, green or brown, But level as rail-road――in short, ’twas a flat Block, such as is used for a milling cove’s hat. Mr. Bendigo wears such a one――think of that, And without further parley you have the thing pat.

“Hail Mary!” the Abbot cried――“Look upon that I ne’er saw a handsomer CARDINAL’S HAT! In England, I fancy――’twill rather surprise Man, Woman, and Child, when ’tis worn by NICK WISEMAN.” (And really, to give the old Abbot his due The latter remark was undoubtedly true;) “And,” he added, “Proceed, your good work and divine in, As now ’tis our duty to put in the lining.”

* * * * *

All this being done――said the Lord Abbot――“That, I fancy, completes our NEW CARDINAL’S HAT!”

Yes, the Cardinal’s Hat was completed at last, And NICHOLAS WISEMAN went rather too fast, TO ROME where that feeble old Potentate PIUS, Who, it seems, a fresh chance for our souls, won’t deny us, Plac’d the hat on his cunning old pate, and said “Rise Man, ARCHBISHOP OF WESTMINSTER――CARDINAL WISEMAN!” And his newly-made Eminence rose from his knees As proud and designing a Priest as you please!

But a very short time had passed by, and the HAT Was dingy and shabby, and crushed almost flat: For on it, John Bull, set his sturdy old heel, Saying――“Pius, my Bishoprics you shall not steal;” And to Wiseman――“Old Craftyman――vanish from here――” And he went with a Protestant flea in his ear!

But the CARDINAL’S HAT! How fared it with that?

Why from Westminster it was sent into RAG FAIR! But the Jews wouldn’t have the vile article there, And the last time ’twas seen, it was kicked with disdain From the filthiest old Clothes’ shop in Petticoat Lane!

――――:o:――――

TEMPTATION OF THE GOOD ST. GLADSTONE.

The good St. Gladstone sat on his stool, A-reading a big black book, With a steadfast patience, as was his rule, For he never frivolled or played the fool, Like a wanton urchin a-weary of school; But, though ’twas the rollicking season of Yule, He studied in quiet, and kept himself cool, On his stool of repentance――a hard-bottomed stool―― And ne’er from that sage Constitutional page His reverent gaze he took.

“We will woo,” cried Old Nick, “good St. Gladstone’s eyes Off from that excellent book. We will cluster around him in strange disguise, And plague him with shindies and Party cries, And bother his bosom with phantasies, That he upon us may look.”

So they came to the Saint in a motley crew A heterogeneous rout. There were imps of every shape and hue, And some looked yellow, and some looked blue, And they passed and varied before his view, And twisted themselves about. But the good St. Gladstone kept his eyes Fixed on that excellent book. From it they did not sink or rise, Nor sights, nor laughter, nor shouts, nor cries Could win away his look.

One black imp came in a masquerade Most like a ghoul’s attire, With a face like a skull in dried parchment arrayed, And bat-wings dingy that fluttered and played About St. Gladstone through light and through shade, Till they made the Saint perspire. And another one came apparalled In silk and velvet stuff, With a sort of tiara upon its head, And a shadowy alb, and a ghostly cope, And a scowl of anger, and fear, and hope Upon a phiz that seemed carven from soap; And the row it raised, As it blustered and blazed, Was noisier than enough. Another yet, of diminutive size, And with hairy lip and with goggle eyes, A winged weird creature, wee. He pounced like a hawk, and he whisked like the wind, And he whooped and hawed, and winked and grinned, And his eyes stood out with glee; And the more the Saint he deafened and dinned, The more exulted he.

But the good St. Gladstone bent his eyes, Upon that excellent book. He heard the shout and the laugh arise, But he knew that the imps had a naughty guise, And he did not care to look.

* * * * *

Last comes an imp――how unlike the rest―― A beautiful female form! With two dark Irish optics that ogle with zest, With a blooming cheek and a buxom breast, And a shamrock brooch in its snow doth rest, And her lips are soft and warm. As over his shoulder she bends the light Of her dark eyes on the page, She fires his heart with its ancient might, With thoughts of old seasons of glorious fight, ’Neath the Shamrock Shield in the cause of right. To aid hapless Beauty is still his delight, Though he’s grey with the frosts of age. So gentle she seems, so appealing, so sure Of his help, as of old; ’tis a parlous lure! Pride, pity, and promise of fame!―― What lurketh behind it, that beautiful mask, Will the good Saint see, will the good Saint ask? Will he know that the Devil is at his old task? Will he twig this last form of his game? Ha! the good St. Gladstone boggles his eyes Over that excellent book, Ho! ho! at the corners they seem to rise. He feels that the thing hath a lovely guise, And――will he decline to look?

There are many devils that walk this world―― Devils large and devils small; Devils saint-meagre, and sinner-stout; Devils with cow-horns, and devils without; ’Cute devils that go with their tails upcurled, Bold devils, that carry them bravely unfurled; Meek devils, and devils that brawl; Serious devils, and mocking devils; Imps for churches, and atheist revels; Devils cheeky, and devils polite; Blue and buff, and black and white; Devils that gossip, and devils that write; Devils that slaver, and devils that bite; Devils that posture as angels of light; Devils that fill green youth with spite; Devils that dim Old Age’s sight; Devils foolish, and devils wise; But a blarneying Colleen with two bright eyes Is the temptingest devil of all!

Punch. January 9, 1886.

――――:o:――――

YE PAPYRUS ROLL-SCROLL OF YE SETTE OF ODD VOLUMES[138]

Mr. J. Brodie-Innes, Master of the Rolls of the Sette of Odd Volumes, has a great talent for Ingoldsby versification. On May 4, 1888, he read a paper at Willis’s Rooms bearing the above title, in which the peculiarities of the members were graphically, comically, but withal genially hit off. The opening lines ran thus:――

Some fifty centuries, more or less Over this planet have pass’d, I guess, Since a monarch there lived of wond’rous fame In ancient Egypt, whose mighty name, Known to all both near and far, Was Mr. Pharaoh Rameses Ra.

One morn to his great High Priest, said he, “You’re a doctor versed in divinitie, A man of parts, And a Master of Arts, And the starry learning of old Chaldee; Now, don’t you see, It’s shocking to me, But I haven’t a ghost of a librarie. The wisdom of centuries past lies hid In the mystic depths of the Pyramid; And future ages Of seers and sages Ought to read in history’s pages, With what eclât, That radiant star, Mr. Pharaoh Rameses Ra, In mortal garb on this earth once trod,” Then the High Priest mutter’d, “Odd! very Odd! To record the events of your Majesty’s reign Were a task beyond mortal skill ’tis plain; But marvellous, mystical, magical lore I have learn’d from the sages, and seers of yore; And I think I can furnish just the commodity, Apex of learning, and quaintness, and oddity. In a chapel built by the old Chaldees, I’ll show you the cream of Libraries, Hidden away in the bowels of earth Since long before Creation’s birth; And all the volumes hidden there, Learnèd, curious, quaint, and rare, Hieroglyph carved, or papyrus roll, Every one hath a human soul.”