Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. VI (part 3 of 8)
Here’s to Nitro-glycerine! store it in a cask. Making it, says Chemistry, is an easy task; Though it’s reckoned dangerous, let it flood the floors, Startling the detective coves prying at the doors.
Fulminating Mercury goes off with a noise, Fit for little Fenians like a baby’s toys; Chlorate of Potassium’s not exactly placid, When it’s mixed with sugar, Sir, and sulphuric acid.
This a merry business is, but your cruel laws Say we shan’t use Dynamite to advance the Cause; Yet we’ll mix our fulminates underneath your eyes, While the gay Conspirator blows you to the skies.
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THE BELLS OF LONDON TOWN
Gay go up and gay go down, To ring the bells of London town. Bull’s eyes and targets, Say the bells of St. Marg’ret’s. Brickbats and tiles, Say the bells of St. Giles! Halfpence and farthings, Say the bells of St. Martin’s. Oranges and lemons, Say the bells of St. Clement’s. Pancakes and fritters, Say the bells of St. Peter’s. Two sticks and an apple, Say the bells at Whitechapel. Old Father Baldpate, Say the slow bells at Aldgate. You owe me ten shillings. Say the bells at St. Helen’s. Pokers and tongs, Say the bells at St. John’s. Kettles and pans Say the bells at St. Ann’s. When will you pay me? Say the bells at Old Bailey. When I grow rich, Say the bells at Shoreditch. When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney. I’m sure I don’t know, Says the great bell at Bow.
Here comes a candle to light you to bed, And here comes a chopper to chop off your head.
WHAT THE NEW CITY PEAL SAYS.
You must pay up your “calls”―― Say the bells of St. Paul’s!
Stock rises and falls―― Say the bells of St. Paul’s!
City Companies’ hauls―― Say the bells of St. Paul’s!
Snug prebends and stalls―― Say the bells of St. Paul’s!
Blessings on these old walls! Say the bells of St. Paul’s!
ORANGES AND LEMONS IN THE CITY.
“Reformers are unpleasant,” Say the bells of St. Clement. “Yes, that is quite sartin,” Say the bells of St. Martin. “Do they want a sermon daily?” Say the bells of Old Bailey. “I’m sure I don’t know,” Says the great bell of Bow. “The Lords are in a fury,” Say the bells of Old Jewry. “Will they leave us in the lurch?” Say the bells of Abchurch. “I’ve a beadle and a clerk,” Say the bells of St. Mark. “Those two a church fill,” Say the bells of Cornhill.
Punch. July 23, 1881.
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“Poor Ireland’s enslavèd!” say the bells of St. David; “God help the poor creaturs!” say the bells of St. Peter’s; “Turned out of their dwellin’s,” say the bells of St. Helen’s; “And speed Home Rule on!” say the bells of St. John; “O, Tories, you rile us!” say the bells of St. Silas; “Confound your vagaries,” say the bells of St. Mary’s; “You’re always ridiculous,” say the bells of St. Nicholas; “And traitors besides!” say the bells of St. Bride’s; “You’ve earned our abhorrence,” say the bells of St. Lawrence; “You’re fit for the gallows,” say the bells of All Hallows; “So get away from us,” say the bells of St. Thomas; “We want better men!” roars out old Big Ben; “You’ve had all your flukes,” say the bells of St. Luke’s; “Suspensions and brawls,” say the bells of St. Paul’s; “The session concludes,” say the bells of St. Jude’s; “Out you must go!” says the great bell at Bow.
ROBERT PUTTICK.
The Weekly Dispatch. October 2, 1887.
THE CHIMES. 1886. (For Bad Times.)
“The Turks haven’t a shilling!” Said the gate bell of Billing.
“And then Russia wants all!” Said a bell near Millwall.
“And poor France has no power!” Said the bell of the Tower.
“And that Egypt’s a sweep!” Cried the bell of Eastcheap.
“And there’s Spain――a great sell!” Said St. Lawrence’s bell.
“Oh, we’ve had a nice ride!” Said the bell of St. Bride.
“And are ground in a mill!” Moaned a bell near Cornhill.
“We must wait for high tide!” Mourned the bell of Cheapside.
“It’s a regular hitch!” Clanged the bell of Shoreditch.
“Shall we really lose all?” Asked the bell of St. Paul.
“We should much like to know!” Tolled the big bell of Bow.
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WHO SHOULD EDUCATE THE PRINCE OF WALES?
“This is a serious question; and though we have looked through the advertisements of Morning Governesses every day for the last week, we are compelled to admit we have seen nothing that seems likely to suit――at least, at present. It is no doubt a very serious consideration, how the young ideas of the Prince of Wales should be taught to shoot so as to hit the mark; and it is, unfortunately, not so easy to train up a royal child, though the railroad pace at which education travels renders it necessary that he should be put into a first-class train as soon as possible. Awfully impressed with the deep importance of the question, we have made an humble endeavour to answer it, and if the hints are of any service to the nation, our object will be fulfilled, and our ambition will be gratified.”
Who’ll teach the Prince? I, answered Punch, With my cap and hunch; And I’ll teach the Prince.
Who’ll write his books? I, answered Brougham, With my goose-quill plume; And I’ll write his books.
Who’ll make him dance? I, answered Peel, For I can turn and wheel; I’ll make him dance.
Who’ll teach him logic? Says Hume, I’ve the right, I can vote black is white; So I’ll teach him logic.
Who’ll teach him dancing? I, lisp’d Baron Nathan, ’Mongtht tea-cupth, jughth, and bathin: I’ll teach him dancing.
Who’ll teach him writing? I, said Lord William, Because a copyist with a quill, I am; And I’ll teach him writing.
Who’ll teach him politics? Said Graham, that will I, That he every side may try; So I’ll teach him politics.
Who’ll pay the piper? I, said John Bull, On me will come the pull: I must pay the piper.
Punch. September, 1843.
This old parody of “Who killed Cock Robin?” was illustrated with a number of funny little portraits.
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Who killed these Arabs? “I did,” said Graham; I’d orders to slay em―― I killed these Arabs.
Who saw them die? Allah on high, With all-seeing eye―― He saw them die.
Who’ll be their mourners? “We,” said the Tribes, “Although we’ve had bribes―― We’ll be their mourners,”
Who’ll pay the cost? “I,” said John Bull, “Because I’m a fool―― I’ll pay the cost.”
And who’ll wind it up? “The Rads!” cried the Nation; “If but firm in their station, They’ll wind it up!”
GEORGE MALLINSON.
The Weekly Dispatch. April 13, 1884.
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WHO KILLED HOME RULE.
Who killed Home Rule? I, said Joe Chamberlain; Simply by speaking plain, I killed Home Rule.
Who saw it die? I, answered Goschen―― I gave it a potion, Then saw it die.
Who made its shroud? I, said Lord Harty; Regardless of party, I made its shroud.
Who dug its grave? I, Lord Randy cried, Making it deep and wide, I dug its grave.
Who was chief mourner? I, said Parnell; When my hopes fell, I was chief mourner.
Who was the parson? I, said Trevelyan; My text was “rebellion,” I was the parson.
Who was the clerk? I, said John Morley, And I wept sorely, I was the clerk.
Who tolled the bell? I, said John Bull; With a good hearty pull, I tolled the bell.
The People. July 3, 1886.
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THE GRAND OLD COCK ROBIN.
Who killed Gladstone? I, said Chamberlain, And I feel like Cain(e) I killed Gladstone.
Who saw him die? I, said Goschen, Without any emotion I saw him die.
Who caught his blood? I, said Caine, And it’s left a big stain; I caught his blood.
Who’ll make his shroud? I, said Argyll, In superior style; I’ll make his shroud.
Who’ll carry him to the grave? I, said County Guy, With a tear in his eye; I’ll carry him to the grave.
Who’ll dig his grave? I, said Lord Randy, For I’ve got the tools handy; I’ll dig his grave.
Who’ll carry the link? I, said John Bright, With my sweetness and light; I’ll carry the link.
Who’ll be chief mourner? I, said John Morley, For I miss him sorely; I’ll be chief mourner.
Who’ll sing a psalm? I, said Fowler, A regular howler: I’ll sing a psalm.
Who’ll be the parson? I, said Hicks-Beach, For I can preach; I’ll be the parson.
Who’ll be the clerk? I, said John Walter, For the Times may alter; I’ll be the clerk.
Who’ll toll the bell? I, said Parnell: ’Twas for Ireland he fell; I’ll toll the bell.
The Pall Mall Gazette. June 17, 1886.
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Who won Miss Jenny? “I,” said young Bogle, “With my bow and Ogle. I won Miss Jenny!”
Who heard him pop? “I,” said Miss Squeers, “With my two itching ears, I heard him pop!”
Who made him do it? “I,” said Miss Jenny, “The bashful young ninny. I made him do it!”
Who’ll tie the knot? “I,” said Dean B――――. “For the sake of the fee,―― I’ll tie the knot!”
Who’ll be best man? “I,” said Jack Bate, “For I’ll kiss saucy Kate. I’ll be best man!”
Who’ll tell his Dad? “I,” said Tom Hare, “And oh! won’t he swear! I’ll tell his Dad!”
From Sketches in Prose and Verse, by F. B. Doveton, London, Sampson Low & Co., 1886.
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Who killed Will Gladstone? “I,” said Joe C――――; “The blow came from me; I killed Will Gladstone.”
Who saw him die? “I,” said Lord Harty, “With my little party; We saw him die.”
Who’ll dig his grave? “I,” said Lord Randy; “I’ve got the place handy; I’ll dig his grave.”
EAST ANGLIA.
Truth. September 30, 1886.
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Who’ll kill Coercion? “I,” cries Democracy; “Despite the Aristocracy, “I’ll kill Coercion.”
Who’ll see him die? “I,” sighs each Tory; “Though in him I glory, “I’ll see him die.”
Who’ll catch his blood? “I,” says Castle rule; “He is my favourite tool, “I’ll catch his blood.”
Who’ll make his shroud? “I,” cries Trevelyan; “Would wager a million, “I’ll make his shroud.”
Who’ll dig his grave? “I,” cries old Gladstone; “In Mitcheltown’s sandstone, “I’ll dig his grave.”
Who’ll carry him to the grave? “I,” says Salisbury; (“But I am in no hurry), “I’ll carry him to the grave.”
Who’ll bear the pall? Says Chamberlain and Goschen, “We are both of one notion, “We’ll bear the pall.”
Who’ll carry the link? “I,” says John Bright, “To give you all light, “I’ll carry the link.”
Who’ll be chief mourner? “I,” says Rack-renter; “My hopes in him centre, “I’ll be chief mourner.”
“Who’ll be the parson? “I,” says gagging Smith; “Have the books to do it with, “I’ll be the parson.”
Who’ll be the clerk? “I,” says O’Brien; “His grace to be eyein’, “I’ll be the clerk.”
Who’ll toll the bell? “I,” shouts bold Parnell; “His end aloud to tell, “I’ll toll the bell.”
DEMOCRAT.
Newcastle Weekly Chronicle.
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WHO STOLE O’BRIEN’S BREECHES?
Who stole O’Brien’s breeches? I, said Balfour, with the aid of a warder, I stole his breeches.
Who stole his shirt? I, said Londonderry, and it’s made London merry, I stole his shirt.
Who stole his coat? I, said Plunkett: I went and slunk it, I stole his coat.
Who stole his socks? I, said King-Harman, for I wanted to darn ’em, I stole his socks.
Who stole his boots? I, said Saxe-Weimar, and the joke is a screamer, I stole his boots.
Who’ll wear the gaol clothes? Not I, said O’Brien, spite of all their tryin’! I’ll not wear the gaol clothes.
Pall Mall Gazette. November, 1887.
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Jack and Jill went up the hill, To fetch a pail of water; Jack fell down, and broke his crown, And Jill came tumbling after.
JOHANNES ET GILLIA.
Johannes atque Gillia Scandebant super clivo, Ut urnam aquæ gelidæ Haurirent ibi rivo. Johanni decidenti, heu, Tunc caput frangebatur; Et Gillia cadens etiam Johannem sequebatur.
The Hornet. 1872.
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A SONG FOR FIVE FINGERS.
This pig went to market; This pig stayed at home, This pig had a bit of meat; And this pig had none; This pig said “wee, wee, wee!” I can’t find my way home.
IN QUINQUE DIGITOS.
Hic porculus forum pergebat, Hic, contrà, in domo manebat, Hic porculus carnem edebat Hic victu, heu, planè carebat. Hic porculus mœstè lugebat, Quod illum nox domo claudebat.
The Hornet. 1872.
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Hey! diddle diddle, The cat and the fiddle, The cow jumped over the moon; The little dog laughed To see such sport, And the dish ran away with the spoon.
NURSERY RHYMES A LA MODE.
(Our nurseries will soon be too cultured to admit the old rhymes in their Philistine and unæsthetic garb. They may be redressed somewhat on this model!)
O but she was dark and shrill, (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!) The cat that (on the First Aprill) Played the fiddle upon the lea.
O and the moon was wan and bright, (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!) The Cow she looked nor left nor right, But took it straight at a jump, pardie! The hound did laugh to see this thing, (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!) As it were parlous wantoning, (Ah, good my gentles, laugh not ye!) And underneath a dreesome moon Two lovers fled right piteouslie; A spooney plate with a plated spoon, (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!)
Postscript.
Then blame me not, altho’ my verse Sounds like an echo of C. S. C. Since still they make ballads that worse and worse Savour of diddle and hey-de-dee.
From Rhymes and Renderings. Cambridge. Macmillan and Bowes. 1887.
“HEY DIDDLE DIDDLE! THE CAT AND THE FIDDLE.”
Ah! joy with me, my neighbours, joy with me, And let the air resound with glad acclaims, For she indeed, our furry feline friend, Hath shown herself disposed to music’s charms, And with the viol held in nimble paw, Scrapeth the tunes of mirthful melody. Meanwhile, aroused from out her careless mood, The Cow forgets her grazing on the grass, Forgets the blades most choice and succulent, Forgets the pail defrauded of its milk, Forgets the aim and tenor of her life, And rapt in rumination at the sound, Listens, until the sweet mysterious strains Fire her most inmost soul: then wildly forth In frantic frenzy speeds her wind-whirled way, Stirred by the notes of feline minstrelsy. But, louder comes the soul-inspiring sound, Till, boiling o’er with ecstacy, she leaps Far from the earth, and further still, away. I may not tell the distance of her leap, ’Twas all too far for mortal eye to trace; Yet afterwards her corse came hurtling down,―― For in the mighty magnitude of space Through which she sprang with impulse unrestrained, Her very swiftness had abstracted breath―― And on her hoof a substance green was found Which soon, ’twas marked, was nothing else than cheese; That so ’twould seem she had all but o’ertopped In that one bound the far far distant moon, A portion of whose substance there appeared Hoof-stricken, and adhering to its foe, To warn all others from such lofty leaps. Then was there mourning for the direful death; The horse, the hen, the labourer, and the lamb Flowed down in floods of saline tears sincere: While eke the cat hath stayed her viol’s notes, And wipes with trembling paw each streaming eye: But he, that very fiend in canine form, Brawls in a bluff brutality of mirth, Cries that “I’sooth it was a merry sport;” Aye laughs, as if each lateral wall of ribs Would burst asunder; for methinks that she While yet in life, our much-lamented cow, The while the dog was barking at her heel, With well-aimed kick erst stretched him on the plain; Wherefore at her mishap in spiteful spleen He now with cachinnations fills the air. Ah! would that I could end my tale aright, And give to something some good attribute. But no:――for in this wicked worthless world Seldom we see a soul untouched by taint:―― Let me then hurry o’er the final scene, The shameful shift to make emolument Amid the wild confusion that prevailed. ’Tis said the earthenware receptacle, Surnamed the Dish, who, highly held in honour, Maintained the meats, and lived a lordly life, Struck by a sudden guilty greed of gain, And noting furthermore that none espied, Clutched in his grasp the partner of his trade, The Spoon yclept, and, hurrying hastily, Bore him away right down into the street, And reached by stealth the pawnbroker’s at length, Whence,――for the spoon was one of Mappin’s make,―― He went back richer by a good round sum, Nor told to anyone his shameless sin.
(Attributed to Mr. T. H. S. Escott, afterwards Editor of the Fortnightly Review.)
From College Rhymes. Oxford, 1873.
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AT THE INVENTIONS.
Hey diddle diddle, Piano and fiddle, The fountains sprang up towards the moon, The people all flocked to see the fine sight, And sipp’d Indian tea with a spoon.
CHICKWEED.
Truth. October 15, 1885.
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MISTRESS MARY.
Mistress Mary, Quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With silver bells And cockle shells And hyacinths all of a row.
DOMINA MARIA.
O mea Maria, Tota contraria, Quid tibi crescit in horto? Testae et crotali Sunt mihi flosculi, Cum hyacinthino serto.
HENRY DRURY.
From Arundines Cami. Cambridge. 1841.
A REVISED EDITION.
Mary, Mary quite contrary, How does your garden grow? Do red rose and sweet mignonette Make quite a summer show? Twice seven days since we have met, But it seems years ago―― Mary, Mary, so contrary, Why do I love you so!
Mary, Mary, in your airy Summer gown of snow, Folding fragrant linen fair, Through your house to go; Full of self and full of care Will you heed my woe―― Mary, Mary, so contrary, Why do I love you so?
Mary, Mary, in the dairy, Setting pans in row, Jingling keys and silver bells, Marching to and fro, Learned in all your household spells―― (Wise you are we trow), Tell me Mary, still contrary, Why do I love you so!
Ah! my Mary comes a fairy, Whispers soft and low, All the sweet and sudden truth Heart to heart must owe; Be it joy or be it ruth, Only this I know―― ’Tis because you are contrary That I love you so!
S. FRANCES HARRISON.
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FROM W. E. G.
Joseph, Joseph, quite contrary, How do your acres grow? Some with weeds and some with seeds, But ne’er a one with a cow.
Truth. September 30, 1886.
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Harty, Harty, what of your party, How does your Union grow; Primrose belles, and Radical swells, Coercionists all in a row.
Newcastle Chronicle. November, 1887.
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“Master Joey, Quite too showy, How does your party grow?” “There’s Collings, and Dick, And Mister Kenrick, And myself, the boss of the show.”
P. Q. X.
Truth. June 28, 1888.
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MOTHER HUBBARD.
Brethren, the words of my text are:――
“Old Mother Hubbard, she went to the cupboard, To get her poor dog a bone; But when she got there the cupboard was bare, And so the poor dog had none.”
These beautiful words, dear friends, carry with them a solemn lesson. I propose this morning to analyze their meaning, and to attempt to apply it, lofty as it may be, to our every-day life.
“Old Mother Hubbard, she went to the cupboard, To get her poor dog a bone.”
Mother Hubbard, you see, was old; there being no mention of others, we may presume she was alone; a widow――a friendless, old, solitary widow. Yet, did she despair? Did she sit down and weep, or read a novel, or wring her hands? No! she went to the cupboard. And here observe that she went to the cupboard. She did not hop, or skip, or run, or jump, or use any other peripatetic artifice; she solely and merely went to the cupboard. We have seen that she was old and lonely, and we now further see that she was poor. For, mark, the words are “the cupboard.” Not “one of the cupboards,” or “the right-hand cupboard,” or “the left-hand cupboard,” or “the one above,” or “the one below,” or “the one under the floor,” but just “the cupboard,” the one humble little cupboard the poor widow possessed. And why did she go to the cupboard? Was it to bring forth goblets, or glittering precious stones, or costly apparel, or feasts, or any other attributes of wealth? It was to get her poor dog a bone! Not only was the widow poor, but her dog, the sole prop of her old age, was poor too. We can imagine the scene. The poor dog, crouching in the corner, looking wistfully at the solitary cupboard, and the widow going to that cupboard――in hope, in expectation may be――to open it, although we are not distinctly told that it was not half open, or ajar, to open it for that poor dog.
“But when she got there the cupboard was bare, And so the poor dog had none.”
When she got there! You see, dear brethren, what perseverance is! She got there! There were no turnings and twistings, no slippings and slidings, no leanings to the right, or falterings to the left. With glorious simplicity we are told “she got there.”
And how was she rewarded?
“The cupboard was bare!” It was bare! There were to be found neither apples, nor oranges, nor cheesecakes, nor penny buns, nor gingerbread, nor crackers, nor nuts, nor lucifer matches. The cupboard was bare! There was but one, only one solitary cupboard in the whole of the cottage, and that one, the sole hope of the widow, and the glorious loadstar of the poor dog, was bare! Had there been a leg of mutton, a loin of lamb, a fillet of veal, even an ice from Gunter’s, the case would have been very different, the incident would have been otherwise. But it was bare, my brethren, bare as a bald head. Many of you will probably say, with all the pride of worldly sophistry――“The widow, no doubt, went out and bought a dog biscuit.” Ah, no! Far removed from these earthly ideas and mundane desires, poor Mother Hubbard, the widow, whom many thoughtless worldlings would despise, in that she only owned one cupboard, perceived――or I might even say saw――at once the relentless logic of the situation, and yielded to it with all the heroism of that nature which had enabled her, without deviation, to reach the barren cupboard. She did not attempt, like the stiff-necked scoffers of this generation, to war against the inevitable; she did not try, like the so-called man of science, to explain what she did not understand. She did nothing. “The poor dog had none.” And then at this point our information ceases. But do we not know sufficient? Are we not cognisant of enough? Who would dare to pierce the veil that shrouds the ulterior fate of Old Mother Hubbard――her poor dog――the cupboard――or the bone that was not there? Must we imagine her still standing at the open cupboard door, depict to ourselves the dog still drooping his disappointed tail upon the floor, the sought-for bone remaining somewhere else? Ah, no, my brethren, we are not so permitted to attempt to read the future. Suffice it for us to glean from this beautiful story its many lessons; suffice it for us to apply them, to study them as far as in us lies, and, bearing in mind the natural frailty of our nature, to avoid being widows; to shun the patronymic of Hubbard; to have, if our means afford it, more than one cupboard in the house; and to keep stores in them all.
And oh! dear friends, keep in recollection what we have learned this day. Let us avoid keeping dogs that are fond of bones. But, brethren, if we do, if fate has ordained that we should do any of these things, let us then go, as Mother Hubbard did, straight, without curvetting and prancing, to our cupboard, empty though it be,――let us, like her, accept the inevitable with calm steadfastness; and should we, like her, ever be left with a hungry dog and an empty cupboard, may future chroniclers be able to write also in the beautiful words of our text――
“And so the poor dog had none.”
Notes and Queries, April 21, 1888, contained the following interesting account of the origin of this singular jeu d’esprit:
This is not a “burlesque” of the story of ‘Mother Hubbard,’ but a good-humoured parody of the popular (?) “regulation” sermon. It appeared originally in 1877, in a novel by Lord Desart, who claimed it in a letter to the Pall Mall Gazette in December, 1886, in which he says that “one of his characters delivered it as a mock sermon,” and adds that it has been copied into “most of the provincial English and Scotch, and into many American and Canadian newspapers.” He adds:――
“I myself heard it preached by a negro minstrel at Haverley’s, New York; it has been neatly printed, with an introduction, by a clergyman, and sent round to his brother preachers as an example of how not to do it; it was bought for a penny in a broadsheet form in the City a year or two ago by a friend of mine; it has been heard at countless penny readings and entertainments of the kind; it has appeared among the facetiæ of a guide-book to Plymouth and the South Coast; and in a volume published by the owners of St. Jacob’s Oil, as well as in another jest-book; and the other day I was shown it in a collection of ana, just published by Messrs. Routledge & Co., for a firm in Melbourne; and all this without any acknowledgment of its authorship whatsoever. Perhaps you will allow me, through your columns, to claim my wandering child――‘a poor thing, but mine own.’”
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Little Jack Horner sat in a corner, Eating a Christmas pie; He put in his thumb, and he took out a plum, And said, “What a good boy am I!”
These lines form part of “The pleasant History of Jack Horner, containing his witty Tricks and pleasant Pranks,” a copy of which is in the Bodleian Library, the story must have been in existence earlier than 1617, at which date a similar tale was printed in London founded upon it.
VERSIO ALTERA.
Horner Jacculo sedit in angulo Vorans, ceu serias ageret ferias, Crustum dulce et amabile; Inquit et unum extrahens prunum―― “Horner, quam fueris nobile pueris Exemplar imitabile.”
HENRY DRURY.
From Arundines Cami. Cambridge, 1841.
JOHANNIS HORNERII JACTATIO.
Hornerius Johannes In angulo sedebat, Et ibi in silentio Artocream edebat.
Extraxit prunum digito Et statim se jactabat―― “Ecce quam bonus puer sum!” Hornerius clamabat.
The Hornet. May 29, 1872.
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Studious Jack Horner, of Latin no scorner, In the second declension did spy How nouns there were some, Which, ending in um, do not make their plural in i.
CHESSMEN.
Truth. September 30, 1886.
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THE MODERN JACK HORNER.
Little Jack Horner, on the street corner, Smoked up his last cigarette; Saying, “When this is done, I’ll to the saloon And wet up my whistle, ‘you bet.’”
Little Jack Horner is now the chief mourner To head a policeman’s procession. The infantile dude became far too rude In trying to follow the fashion.
Detroit Free Press. December, 1886.
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Little Lord Randy Turned up quite handy, Speaking his mind so spry; He slashed right and left, Both weavers and weft, And he said, “What a statesman am I.”
M. B. B.
Truth. June 28, 1888.
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Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief; Taffy came to my house, and stole a shin of beef: I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was not at home; Taffy came to my house and stole a marrow bone. I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was not in, Taffy came to my house and stole a silver pin; I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was in bed, I took up a poker and flung it at his head.
For an explanation of this curious old rhyme, and Shirley Brooks’s adaptation of it in English and Welsh see p. 255, Vol. iv. Parodies.
Staffy was a poor man, Staffy was a chief; Staffy in the Lower House Often came to grief; So Staffy to the Upper House Hurriedly has flown, And left ’em the Lower House To stay and pick the bone!
JESSE H. WHEELER.
The Weekly Dispatch. July 5, 1885.
NEGLECTED WAILS.
Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy had a farm, Taffy wouldn’t pay his tithes, but kept ’em in his palm; His Vicar lowered Taffy’s tithes, for the sake of quiet, Taffy had rejoicings, ending in a riot. The Landlord sent his Agent, and doubled Taffy’s rent, Taffy’s now for Welsh Home Rule, and Disestablishment!
Punch. December 4, 1886.
――――:o:――――
What are little boys made of, made of? Snaps and snails, and puppy dog’s tails; And that’s what little boys are made of. What are little girls made of, made of? Sugar and spice, and all that’s nice; And that’s what little girls are made of, made of.
What is an Englishman made of? Roast beef and jam tart, And a pint of good Clar’t, And that’s what an Englishman’s made of.
What is a Frenchman, pray, made of? Horse steak and frog fritter, And absinthe so bitter, And that’s what a Frenchman is made of.
[_Therefore, my dears, you must be kind to a Frenchman, and give him some of your nice dinner, whenever you can, and teach him better._]
SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1864.
What are some young Misses made of? Poker and Bang, Second-hand slang; Plenty of face, Air without grace; Bustle and flounce, Brains half an ounce; Dreams but of pelf, Thoughts but of self; Life all a lie, Hang by-and-bye! That’s what some Misses are made of.
What are most young Johnnies made of? Needless toothpicking, Stage door heel-kicking; Long lemon squashing, Prodigal washing; Stock-seller’s model, Hairdresser’s noddle; Old schoolboy vices, Love-lingering for “nicies”; Blasé pretended, Unbegun――ended! That’s what most Johnnies are made of!
Judy. January 3, 1883.
“DICKORY,” à la française.
Diggoré, doggoré, doge, Le rat monte à l’horloge, Une heure se frappe Le rat s’échappe Diggoré, doggoré, doge.
Boys Own Paper. March, 1884.
MUS IN HOROLOGIO.
Quatit terrore domus, Est horologio mus. Tunc hora prima sonuit, Et murem sic attonuit; Caret terrore domus―― Non horologio mus.
The Hornet. June 19, 1872.
A SONG OF A SELL.
Hickery, dickery, dare! The Socialists met in the Square; Warren nabs one, Away the rest run, Hickery, dickery, dare!
――――:o:――――
Multiplication is vexation, Division is as bad; The Rule of Three, it puzzles me, And Practice drives me mad!
POEM BY THE ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY. (Composed on the day His Grace “deprived” Mr. Denison.)
Transubstantiation is vexation, Consubstantiation is as bad; Archdeacon D. doth trouble me, And I rather think he’s mad.
J. B. CANTUAR. 1856.
THE KHEDIVE’S SUMMING UP.
Abdication is vexation, Deposition’s twice as bad; The Rule of Three it bothers me, And Bismarck drives me mad.
Punch. June 28, 1879.
(Written shortly before the deposition of the Khedive, by Turkey, France and England.)
A SUM OF SORROWS.
The Iligant Nation Is a vexation, But Gordon’s twice as bad: From Redistribution Comes bitter confusion, And Egypt’s driven me mad.
BY A PUBLICAN.
“Application” is vexashun, “Compensation” ’ll prove bad; Terms o’ years three is a muzzle for me, Them practices drives me mad.
DANEHILL.
Lord S. loqr. Compensation’s tribulation, The wheel-tax is as bad, By Jokin G―― And Licensed V, I’m fairly driven mad.
BARITONE.
Truth, June 14, 1888.
――――
Mobilisation’s desperation, Inaction is as bad; The Admiraltee it puzzles “we,” The Horse Guards drives us mad.
Truth. June 28, 1888.
――――
Shakespeare and Bacon are vexation Donelly is as bad, His Cryptogram it puzzles me, His Cypher drives me mad.
Scott Surtees. 1888.
――――:o:――――
Please to remember The Fifth of November, Gunpowder, treason and plot; I know no reason Why gunpowder treason Should ever be forgot.
(About 1651.)
MITCHELSTOWN.
Please to remember The ninth of September, Mitchelstown’s murderous shot. I see no reason Why Government treason Should ever be forgot.
Balfour blacksheep, Have you any gruel? Yes sir, yes sir, Three plates full. One for the Parson, One for the Dame, And one for the man who joins The Plan of Campaign.
Ding, dong, dell, Dillon’s in a cell, Who put him in? Servants of the Queen. Who’ll pull him out? G. O. M. no doubt.
NEWGATE.
Truth. June 14, 1888.
――――
Remember, remember, the recreant member Who with Tories has cast in his lot, I see no reason why Chamberlain’s treason Should ever be forgot.
Clever, smart, and spry, With his eye-glass in his eye, Send him to the House of Lords And there let him lie!
A Tory place the traitor to pay; True Radicals scorn to lash him; Old Ireland’s curse on his soul to lay, And the next election to smash him.
JOHN BULL.
The Weekly Dispatch. November, 1888.
――――
A LAY FOR THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER.
Remember, remember, the fifth of November, And gunpowder treason plot; I know no reason why winking at treason Should ever be forgot. So, holloa, boys, holloa, and bring out the guys That every true Englishman needs must despise. Instead of Old Guy, who in years long gone by Used gunpowder kegs for a tool, We’ve a certain old man who does all he can To break up the House with Home Rule. Bring the effigy out, and take it about; On to the Bonfire with laughter and shout, And all the good people who see it will cry, “Holloa! boys, holloa! for Gladstone the Guy.”
Remember, remember, the fifth of November, As years have rolled on we have got Fresh guys for the season of gunpowder treason So now let us bring out the lot. Here’s Charley Parnell, and Dillon as well, With Labby so fond of abuse, And Harcourt may find a place close behind With a jar of the Parnellite juice. And give to each one a moonlighter’s gun, A mask, and some powder and shot, With Fenian dynamite somewhere concealed To finally blow up the lot. Holloa, boys, holloa, and pile the chips well, For Gladstone of Hawarden has plenty to sell. Bring the effigies out and take them about, On to the bonfire with laughter and shout, With cheers for the empire, with hooting and cries Of “Holloa! boys, holloa! boys, down with the guys!”
J. E. CLARKE.
Judy. November 7, 1888.
――――:o:――――
THE HUSBAND’S REVENGE. A Warning to wives who will keep bad Cooks.
Provisions raw Long time he bore, Remonstrance was in vain; To escape the scrub He join’d a club; Nor dined at home again.
Punch. March 1, 1856.
――――
EPITAPH ON A LOCOMOTIVE.
Collisions four Or five she bore, The signals wor in vain; Grown old and rusted, Her biler busted, And smash’d the Excursion Train―― “Her end was pieces”
MONODY ON PROTECTION.
Protection sore long time we bore, Seditions were in vain; But now his friends have given him o’er, He’ll never wake again.
――――:o:――――
NURSERY RHYMES FOR CYCLISTS.
Here is a touching little thing to “teach the young idea how to shoot”――down nasty hills:――
“Sing a song of wheeling, Mind that no one squeals―― Four-and-twenty black boys Riding on their wheels, When down hill they ventured, They ‘braked’ it rather rash, And four-and-twenty cripples Resulted from the smash!”
The pathetic address of the bicyclist to his lamp:――
“Twinkle, twinkle, little light Struggle through the murky night, Round about the corners trot Many a blue for-get-me-not (i.e., the Bobby), Who would drag me to the Beak For a fine or for a ‘week,’ And they’d always serve me so If you did not twinkle so!”
“Little Jack Jumber Sat on his Humber, Waiting till cows go by, When one in a flurry Sent him in a hurry Sow-so into the old pig-stye!”
Ladies are invited to――
“Ride a machine to What’s-the-name Green, To see whatever there is to be seen, Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, She shall have music wherever she goes!”
“Jack and Jill Rode down the hill, With joke and jeer and laughter, Jack fell down, And broke his crown, And Jill came tumbling after!”
Jack and Gill came down the hill Upon a Humber tandem, Jack turned round to Gill and frowned, “Eugh!” you don’t understand ’em Put up your feet, stick to your seat, I’m going to do a ‘flyer,’ For goodness sake don’t touch the brake. We’re spilt! oh Jeremyur!
Wheeling Annual. 1885.
――――:o:――――
QUESTIONS FOR SIR CHARLES.
O where, O where, are your little wee dogs, O where are they gone, Sir C.? Says Chawles “Down in Surrey, They fled in a hurry, And never came back to me,”
And where, O where, were your merry men gone That people should murdered be? “O, my men were ‘all there,’ In Trafalgar Square, Looking most militaree.”
But Chawlie, O Chawlie, where were you? Why didn’t you travel down E.? “I was up to my eyes In a Christmas Prize Composition for Newnes’s T. B.”
COCK WARREN.
Who killed Cock Warren? “I,” said the gin distiller; “I’m the tyrant killer, I killed Cock Warren.”
Who killed Cock Warren? “I,” said the Pall Mall; “I set him up as well, Then I killed Cock Warren.”
Who killed Cock Warren? “I,” said Mr. Graham, “I’m the hound to bay ’em; I killed Cock Warren.”
Who killed Cock Warren? “We,” said the people; “Clash the bells in the steeple; We killed Cock Warren.”
H. W. M.
AN EPITAPH.
Here lies Sir CHARLES WARREN, Formerly Chief Commissioner of Metropolitan Police. During his Tenure of Office He Lectured on the Holy Land, And Trampled Under his Feet Our Free and ancient laws, Daily insulting the law-abiding people of London. Contrary to the Regulations of the Service He wrote an article in Murray’s Magazine, The grammar of which was shaky, And the spelling of which is said to have been corrected By the Printer’s Devil. He resigned rather than submit to Merited censure. Forbear, pious reader, To spit upon his tomb, For though his actions were despotic, His resignation brought joy and gladness To the homes of thousands.
“When the wicked perish there is shouting.”
From The Star. November, 1888. Just after the resignation of Sir C. Warren as Chief Commissioner of the London Police, much to the delight of the London people.
――――:o:――――
In Carols of Cockayne (London, Chatto & Windus, 1874) the late Mr. Henry S. Leigh gave some poetical versions of Nursery Rhymes, which he termed “Chivalry for the Cradle.” The stories selected were “Humpty-Dumpty,” “Ride a Cock-horse to Banbury Cross,” and “Babie Bunting.”
THE ROMAUNT OF HUMPTY-DUMPTY.
’Tis midnight, and the moonbeam sleeps Upon the garden sward: My lady in yon turret keeps Her tearful watch and ward. “Beshrew me!” mutters, turning pale, The stalwart seneschal; “What’s he that sitteth, clad in mail, Upon our castle wall?”
“Arouse thee, friar of orders gray; What, ho! bring book and bell! Ban yonder ghastly thing, I say; And, look ye, ban it well. By cock and pye, the Humpty’s face!”―― The form turn’d quickly round; Then totter’d from its resting-place―― * * * * * That night the corse was found.
The king, with hosts of fighting men, Rode forth at break of day; Ah! never gleam’d the sun till then On such a proud array. But all that army, horse and foot, Attempted, quite in vain, Upon the castle wall to put The Humpty up again.
THE BALLAD OF BABYE BUNTING.
The Knight is away in the merry green wood, Where he hunts the wild rabbit and roe: He is fleet in the chase as the late Robin Hood―― He is fleeter in quest of the foe.
The nurse is at home in the castle, and sings To the babe that she rocks at her breast: She is crooning of love and of manifold things, And is bidding the little one rest.
“Oh, slumber, my darling! oh, slumber apace! For thy father will shortly be here; And the skin of some rabbit that falls in the chase Shall be thine for a tippet, my dear.”
――――
H. DUMPTEII TRISTIS HISTORIA.
Humptius Dumpteius Sedebat stulte muro: Humptius, heu, decidit Nec fatum in obscuro. Non omnes equi regii, Non viri potuere Pristinam rectitudinem Dumpteio præbere.
AD INFANTEM BUNTINII.
Buntincule beate! Pater venatur catè. Pellem feret cuniculi, Ut vestis sit Buntinculi.
The Hornet.
――――:o:――――
THE MONTHS.
Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November; February has twenty-eight alone, All the rest have thirty-one, Excepting leap-year, that’s the time, When February’s days are twenty-nine.
These lines occur in an old play, “The Return from Parnassus,” printed in London in 1606, they may have been derived from the following old poem De Computo, written in the thirteenth century:――
“En avril, en juing, en septembre A .xxx. jours et en novembre: Tout li autre ont .xxxj jour, Fors fevriers qi est li plus cour, En soi que .xxviij. jors n’a, Ne plus ne meins n’i avra ja Fors en l’an qe bissextres vient, Adont en a, einsi avient, .xxix., de tant est creüs, L’an que bixestres est cheüs.”
Dirty days hath September, April, June, and November; From December up to May, The rain it raineth every day. All the rest have thirty-one, Without a blessed gleam of sun; And if any had two-and-thirty, They’d be just as wet, and twice as dirty.
Figaro. 1873.
A SUMMERY SUMMARY.
Thirty-one days hath the month of May, Most of them chilly, and none of them gay, June――less obnoxious by one day――has thirty, Every one, more or less, dirty and squirty. Thirty plus one are the “whack” of July, None of them sunny, and few of them dry, Three months of gloom that each year groweth glummer! That sums the sell that is called English Summer!
USEFUL MEMS. FOR 1885.
JANUARY is first month (It commences with the oneth).
FEBRUARY’S days are twenty-eight (Wanting more, four years you wait).
In MARCH you find mad hares and Lent (25th’s the day for rent).
APRIL’S days are only thirty (And even most of those are dirty!)
Thirty-one there are in MAY (24th’s Victoria’s day).
Thirty days are there in JUNE (Rent-day the 24th――too soon!)
Thirty-one days in JULY (A month for eating greengage pie).
In AUGUST thirty-one you’ll find (If you don’t care, well, I don’t mind).
Thirty days, please, hath SEPTEMBER (And 29th’s the rent, remember!)
Thirty-one days hath OCTOBER (Quite enough, if you keep sober!)
NOVEMBER it has thirty (why?―― You’d best ask some one else than I).
DECEMBER――thirty-one (contrive To scrape up rent by 25).
――――:o:――――
THE THREE JOLLY RATSMEN. (With Apologies to the Memory of Randolph Caldecott).
It’s of three politicians, and a rattin’ they did go; An’ they ratted, an’ they ranted, an’ they blew their horns also. Look ye there!
An’ one said, “Mind yo’r een, an’ keep yo’r noses reet i’ th’ wind, An’ then, by scent or seet we’ll leet o’summat to our mind.” Look ye there!
(Portraits of Chamberlain, Goschen and Hartington.)
They ratted, an’ they ranted, an’ the first thing they did find Was a Grand Old Statesman in a field, an’ him they left behind. Look ye there!
One said it was a Statesman, an’ another he said, “Nay; It’s just a Liberal Party, that has been and gone astray.” Look ye there!
They ratted an’ they ranted, an’ the next thing they did find, Was a gruntin’, grindin’ grindlestone, an’ that they left behind. Look ye there. One said it was a grindlestone, another he said, “Nay, It’s nought but a fossil Quaker that’s gone an’ roll’t away.” Look ye there!
(Portrait of John Bright.)
They ratted an’ they ranted, an’ the next thing they did find Was a bull calf in a Tory fold, an’ that they left behind. Look ye there! One said it was a bull calf, an’ another he said, “Nay, It’s just a little jackass that has never learnt to bray.” Look ye there!
(Lord R. Churchill).
They ratted an’ they ranted, an’ the next thing they did find Was a two-three children leaving school, an’ these they left behind. Look ye there! One said they were children, but another he said, “Nay, They’re no’ but little Radicals, so we’ll leave ’em to their play.” Look ye there!
They ratted an’ they ranted, an’ the next thing they did find, Was a poet singing in a ditch, an’ him they left behind. Look ye there! One said it was a poet, an’ another he said, “Nay; It’s only just a poor young man whose wits are stole away.” Look ye there!
(A. C. Swinburne.)
They ratted an’ they ranted, an’ the next thing they did find, Was two young lovers in a lane, an’ these they left behind. Look ye there! One said that they were lovers, but another he said “Nay; They’re two poor wandering lunatics: come, let us go away.” Look ye there!
(Erin and John Morley.)
So they ratted an’ they ranted till, the setting of the sun, And they’d naught to bring away at last when election time was done. Look ye there! Then one unto the other said, “This rattin’ doesn’t pay; But we’n powler’t up an’ down a bit, an’ had a rattlin’ day.” Look ye there!
Pall Mall Gazette. July 7, 1886.
Mr. Randolph Caldecott must have founded his well known children’s ballad upon the following very old nursery rhyme:――
There were three jovial Welshmen, As I have heard them say, And they would go a hunting Upon St. David’s day.
All the day they hunted, And nothing could they find, But a ship a-sailing, A-sailing with the wind.
One said it was a ship, The other he said, nay; The third said it was a house, With the chimney blown away.
And all the night they hunted, And nothing could they find But the moon a-gliding, A-gliding with the wind.
One said it was the moon, The other he said, nay; The third said it was a cheese, And half o’t cut away.
――――:o:――――
The following old rhyme was sung to the tune of Chevy Chace. It was taken from a poetical tale in the “Choyce Poems” printed in London in 1662. John Poole introduced the song in his Hamlet Travestie in 1810, without any acknowledgment, perhaps thinking it was too well known to require mention.
Three children sliding on the ice Upon a summer’s day, It so fell out they all fell in, The rest they ran away.
Now had these children been at home, Or sliding on dry ground, Ten thousand pounds to one penny They had not all been drown’d.
You parents all that children have, And you that eke have none, If you would have them safe abroad, Pray keep them safe at home.
CARMEN CANINUM.
Labentes super glaciem, In medio æstatis, Tres pueri sunt mersi, et Succubuêre fatis.
Ah, si in terrâ lapsi sint, Vel domi si mansissent Sestertium ad denarium Non aquâ periisent.
Parentes quibus nati sunt, Et vos qui non habetis Si salvos vultis foris hos, Clausos domi servetis.
The Hornet. 1872.
――――:o:――――
THE COW.
Thank you, pretty cow, that made Pleasant milk to soak my bread, Ev’ry day and ev’ry night, Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white.
Do not chew the hemlock rank, Growing on the weedy bank; But the yellow cowslips eat, They perhaps will make it sweet.
Where the purple violet grows, Where the bubbling water flows, Where the grass is fresh and fine, Pretty cow, go there and dine.
TO A PET REPTILE.
Thank you, pretty spotted snake, Thus to as your mistress try me. What a charming pet you make, Cold and creepy, damp and slimy!
How you wriggle up my sleeve. How you coil around my shoulder Causing visitors to leave, Terrifying each beholder.
Come, then, where your breakfast waits, Reptile of eccentric habits; Come, and seal the several fates Of these frogs and two plump rabbits.
――――:o:――――
THE CAT.
I love little Pussy, her coat is so warm, And if I don’t hurt her, she’ll do me no harm; So I’ll ne’er pull her tail, nor drive her away. But pussy and I together will play; She shall sit by my side, and I’ll give her some food, And she’ll love me because I am gentle and good.
TO MY NEW PET.
I love my ichneumon, Its tongue is so queer, Its ways are so human, It has such a leer.
’Tis fond of the emmet For dinner and tea; But ere you condemn it, Pray listen to me.
And know that though ants it Delights in so much; Its fiercest foe grants it An uncle won’t touch.
“Be lenient with lobsters, and ever kind to crabs, And be not disrespectful to cuttle-fish or dabs; Chase not the Cochin-China, chaff not the ox obese, And babble not of feather-beds in company with geese. Be tender with the tadpole, and let the limpet thrive, Be merciful to mussels, don’t skin your eels alive; When talking to a turtle don’t mention calipee―― Be always kind to animals wherever you may be.”
――――:o:――――
Speak roughly to your little boy, And beat him when he sneezes; He only does it to annoy, Because he knows it teases.
Alice in Wonderland.
Speak when not spoken to, Sulk when you’re chid, Bang the door after you Good little kid!
――――:o:――――
Be kind to the panther! for when thou wert young, In thy country far over the sea, ’Twas a panther ate up thy papa and mama, And had several mouthfuls of thee!
Be kind to the badger! for who shall decide The depth of his badgerly soul? And think of the tapir, when flashes the lamp O’er the fast and the free flowing bowl.
Be kind to the camel! nor let word of thine Ever put up his bactrian back; And cherish the she-kangaroo with her bag, Nor venture to give her the sack.
Be kind to the ostrich! for how canst thou hope To have such a stomach as it? And when the proud day of your “bridal” shall come, Do give the poor birdie a “bit.”
Be kind to the walrus! nor ever forget To have it on Tuesday to tea; But butter the crumpets on only one side, Save such as are eaten by thee.
Be kind to the bison! and let the jackal In the light of thy love have a share; And coax the ichneumon to grow a new tail, And have lots of larks in its lair!
Be kind to the bustard! that genial bird, And humor its wishes and ways; And when the poor elephant suffers from bile, Then tenderly lace up his stays!
Figaro’s Natural History. (O. P. Q. Smiff.)
――――:o:――――
MARY’S LAMB.
Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, And everywhere that Mary went, The lamb was sure to go.
He followed her to school one day,―― That was against the rule; It made the children laugh and play, To see a lamb at school.
(Two verses omitted.)
――――
DOT LAMBS VOT MARY HAF GOT.
Mary haf got a leetle lambs already: Dose vool vas vite like shnow; Und every times dot Mary did vend oud, Dot lambs vent also oud vid Mary.
Dot lambs did follow Mary von day to der school-house, Vich was obbosition to der rules of der schoolmaster, Alzo, vich it dit caused dose schillen to schmile out loud Ven dey did saw dose lambs on der insides of der school-house.
Und so dot schoolmaster did kick dot lambs quick oud, Likevise, dot lambs dit loaf around on der outsides, Und did shoo der flies mit his tail off patiently aboud Undil Mary did come also from dot school-house oud.
Und den dot lambs did run right away quick to Mary, Und dit make his het on Mary’s arms, Like he would said, “I dond vos schkared Mary would keep from droubles ena how.”
“Vot vos de reason aboud it, of dot lambs and Mary?” Dose schillen did ask it, dot schoolmaster; Vell, doand you know it, dot Mary lov dose lambs already, Dot schoolmaster did zaid.
MORAL.
Und zo, alzo, dot moral vas, Boued Mary’s lambs’ relations: Of you lofe dose like she lofe dose, Dot lambs vas obligations.
――――
MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB. A TALE.
Mary was the proprietress of a diminutive incipient sheep, whose outer covering was as devoid of colour as congealed atmospheric vapour, and to all localities to which Mary perambulated, her young South-down was morally sure to follow. It tagged her to the dispensary of learning one diurnal section of time, which was contrary to all precedent, and excited cachinnation to the seminary attendants when they perceived the presence of a young mutton at the establishment of instruction. Consequently the preceptor expelled him from the interior, but he continued to remain in the immediate vicinity, without fretfulness, until Mary once more became visible.
“What caused this specimen of the genus ovis to bestow so much affection on Mary?” the impetuous progeny vociferated.
“Because Mary reciprocated the wool-producer’s esteem, you understand,” the teacher answered.
――――:o:――――
MARY’S LITTLE LAMB. Verses culled from different Authors.
Oh, who has not heard of Sweet Mary’s pet sheep, With fleece like the lilies by Alaway’s stream, When the day on the breast of the night falls asleep With the fragrance of lilies to perfume its dream? The love of that mutton for Mary was more Like the nightingale’s song by the swift Bendemeer Which born in the grove, seeks a grave on the shore As laughter or music is drowned in a tear.
THOMAS MOORE.
I saw that lamb rise from the hallowed ground That emperors have kissed as they resigned their rule; I saw him rise like Venice rise and straddle round, There where the wraith of Time prowls like a ghoul And centuries have sate, each on its stool, Then, with a spring of ages, saw him bound To Mary’s side, and down the sombre cool Dark corridors of rotting years he followed her to school
LORD BYRON.
Bounce, bounce, bounce, For Mary’s poor pet wool! But the tenderness of three days’ grace Can’t get him back to school; Oh, well for the sailor lad That he bit his sister’s thumb, For the contribution box goes round And the lamb is deaf and dumb!
TENNYSON.
Prithee, good pedagogue, we lend our ears To feed on explanation. It appears That this pet lamb has passed the world’s estate Of treachery, and love that loves to prate Of love, while loving but the sound The gnashing lips that bear it breathe around, Beseemeth he would with her spangle nights And wear her as the stars wear satellites, To him she is the lightning to the cloud, The rain to summer, to death the shroud, Dreams to eyes, sleep to the weary, rest To the yearning or ambitious breast. We prithee, pedagogue, if so be you know, Why does this sheep love little Mary so?
SHAKESPEARE.
――――:o:――――
William had a big gingham, Its folds were strong and broad; And everywhere that William came That gingham too abode.
Lord Rosey put it up one day, And many sheltered there; It made the Tories laugh and play To see the huge affair.
To shut it up their leaders tried, But still its folds are spread, And ’neath them Libs and Rads abide Around their Grand Old Head.
“Why do they all love William so?” The jealous Tories cry. “Because he trusteth us you know,” The people loud reply.
SCRAWLER.
Truth. October 15, 1885.
――――
Mary had a little corn Upon her little toe, And everywhere that Mary went The corn was sure to go.
But Mary bought an Alcock’s shield, And stuck it on her toe; And then she ran about alone, For the corn soon had to go.
And Mary, grown up, tells the tale, Of that time, long ago, When she was little Mary with That corn upon her toe.
――――
Mary had a little lamb, With coat as black as soot, And into Mary’s cup of milk It put its dirty foot. Now Mary, a straightforward girl, Who hated any sham, Rapped out a naughty little word That rhymed with Mary’s lamb.
HUSSAR.
Truth. September 30, 1886.
――――
Mary had a pot of jam Presented by the cook, And everywhere that Mary went, The luscious jar she took.
She carried it to school one day, Which was against the rule; And when the teacher looked away, She ate the jam in school.
At last the teacher found her out, And, oh! was most severe: But what the imposition was It doth not well appear.
Now Mary soon began to roll Her head upon her arm, And felt dismayed, and much afraid The jam had done her harm.
“Oh! why does Mary’s head ache so” The curious children cry, “Quaejam est, ea sic erit,” The teacher did reply.
C. W. G.
Newcastle Weekly Chronicle. 1887.
――――
JOSEPH AND HIS JESSE.
An Adaptation of “Mary had a Little Lamb,” said to have been Sung during the Ayr Contest, in which Mr. Collings took an active part.
Joseph had a little lamb――a little lamb―― Joseph had a little lamb, Which loved its master so, That everywhere that Joseph went――that Joseph went―― That everywhere that Joseph went, The lamb was sure to go.
It followed him so close about――so close about―― It followed him so close about, To every place you know, It made the people laugh and shout――laugh and shout―― It made the people laugh and shout, To see the lamb and Joe.
And when the laborers turned it out――turned it out―― And when the laborers turned it out, Yet still it lingered near, And wandered helplessly about――helplessly about―― And wandered helplessly about, Till Joseph did appear.
“What makes the lamb love Joseph so――love Joseph so―― What makes the lamb love Joseph so?” The “Rural Laborers” cry, “Why Joseph loves the lamb, you know――the lamb, you know”―― Why Joseph loves the lamb――you know, And Jesse makes reply, Baa! Baa!
The Star. June 18, 1888.
――――
Mary had a cactus plant So modestly it grew, Shooting its little fibers out It lived upon the dew.
Her little brother often heard Her say it lived on air, And so he pulled it up one day And placed it in a chair.
Placed it in a chair he did, Then laughed with ghoulish glee―― Placed it in the old arm chair Under the trysting tree.
Nor thought of Mary’s lover, Who called each night to woo, Or even dreamed they’d take a stroll, As lovers often do.
The eve drew on. The lover came. They sought the trysting tree, Where has the little cactus gone? The lover――where is he!
――――:o:――――
SONG.
AIR.――“_If I had a donkey vot vouldn’t go, Do you think I’d wallop, &c._”
Had I an ass averse to speed, Deem’st thou I’d strike him? No, indeed Mark me, I’d try persuasion’s art, For cruelty offends my heart: Had all resembled me, I ween, Martin, thy law had needless been Of speechless brutes from blows to screen The poor head; For had I an ass averse to speed I ne’er would strike him; no indeed! I’d give him hay, and cry, “Proceed,” And “Go on, Edward!”
Why speak I thus? This very morn, I saw that cruel William Burn, Whilst crying “Greens!” upon his course, Assail his ass with all his force; He smote him o’er the head and thighs, Till tears bedimm’d the creature’s eyes! Oh! ’twas too much. My blood ’gan rise, And I exclaim’d, “Had I an” &c.
Burn turn’d and cried, with scornful eye, “Perchance thou’rt one of Martin’s fry, And seek’st occasion base to take, The vile informer’s gain to make.” Word of denial though I spoke, Full on my brow his fury broke, And thus, while I return’d the stroke, I exclaim’d, “Had I an” &c.
To us, infringing thus the peace, Approach’d its guardians――the police; And, like inevitable Fate, Bore us to where stern Justice sate: Her minister the tale I told, And to support my word, made bold To crave he would the ass behold: “For,” I declared, “Had I an” &c.
They call’d the creature into court, Where, sooth to say, he made some sport, With ears erect, and parted jaws, As though he strove to plead his cause: I gain’d the palm of feelings kind; The ass was righted; William fined. For Justice, one with me in mind, Exclaim’d, by her Minister, “Had I an” &c.
Cried William to his Judge, “’Tis hard (Think not the fine that I regard), But things have reach’d a goodly pass―― One may not beat a stubborn ass!” Nought spoke the Judge, but closed his book; So William thence the creature took, Eyeing me――ah! with what a look, As gently whispering in his ear, I said, “William, had I an,” &c.
Punch. February 17, 1844.
――――
THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN.
(A propos of Jumbo.)
If I owned Jumbó, (Who declines to go) Would I sell him to a show? No, no, not I! When the Titan I saw Firmly plant his paw, I would shout “Hooraw!” For his bra-ve-ry.
Chorus. If an army of Yankees should proffer their pay, I’d button my pockets, and send them away.
* * * * *
Punch. March 4, 1884.
――――
ON LORD GUMBOIL.
What are you doing, my pretty maid? I’m mashing a lord, kind sir, she said. Then pray be careful, my pretty maid; I’m more than seven, sir, she said. What is his father, my pretty maid? His father’s a lawyer, sir, she said. Say, has he married you, my pretty maid? No, an it please you, kind sir, she said. What will you do then, my pretty maid? I’ll sue on his promise, sir, she said. Then has he a fortune, my pretty maid! He’s got one――at present――sir, she said.
PENZANCE.
The Weekly Dispatch. April 13, 1884.
――――
There was an old statesman, And what do you think? He used mountains of paper, And oceans of ink, And even on postcards would issue his fiat, And yet this great statesman Could never rest quiet.
AUGUST FIFTEENTH.
Truth. June 14, 1888.
――――:o:――――
THE LEGISLATIVE ORGAN.
[“The capacity of our Legislative Organ is limited. Its strength is overtaxed. In its perspective, the first place is held by the great and urgent Irish question. Still more limited are the means, especially as to the future, possessed by a man on the margin of his eightieth year.”――Mr. Gladstone’s letter.]
Seated long since at the organ, I strummed in my weary way; And my fancies wandered widely For a popular air to play. I know not what I was doing, (And I cannot explain it still), But I struck one chord of faction; Like the sound of a Home Rule Bill.
It startled the House and the Empire, With a fantasy wild and new; And it shattered a mighty party Like a thunderbolt from the blue. And I struggled and “reconstructed,” But passions I could not cool; So I gave up my seat at the organ, Where I might not play “Home Rule.”
Yet still on that worn-out Organ I shall strike those chords once more; And sing in life’s sunless gloaming, The song that I learnt of yore; And the Law of the Land shall quaver In tune to a plundering Plan, When the grand Old English Organ Shall throb to the Grand Old Man.
The St. James’s Gazette. 1889.
――――:o:――――
AN UTTER PASSION UTTERED UTTERLY.
This poem, inserted on page 81, was disfigured by a misprint, the third line should have read:――
“And drapen in tear-colour’d minivers.”
The author (Dr. Todhunter) wishes it to be understood that the poem was intended as a skit on the imitators of Mr. Swinburne’s style in general, and not on any particular individual. It was therefore a little out of place amongst the Parodies of Mr. Oscar Wilde, as it was not intended to refer in any way to the writings of that gentleman.――ED. Parodies.
――――:o:――――
PARODIES & POEMS IN PRAISE OF TOBACCO.
[Illustration: T]he following poems, devoted entirely to the laudation of Tobacco, either as smoked in the pipe, cigar, or cigarette, or as taken in the form of snuff, have been collected from many different works. One of the principal sources of information has been that entertaining journal Cope’s Tobacco Plant, which has now unfortunately ceased to exist. Another useful authority was a little book published at the office of Tobacco in Gracechurch Street, London, entitled Tobacco Jokes for Smoking Folks, which contained many amusing anecdotes, and humorous illustrations. A few of the latter are here inserted by the kind permission of the proprietors. Following the Parodies some of the most noted Poems on Tobacco are given, so as to make the collection on this interesting topic more complete.
One of the earliest burlesque poems in praise of Tobacco was that written by Mr. Isaac Hawkins Browne about one hundred and fifty years ago, entitled “A Pipe of Tobacco, in imitation of Six Several Authors.”
This poem has been repeatedly reprinted, although there is little in it that strikes a modern reader as either remarkably humorous or clever. The authors imitated are Colley Cibber (the Poet Laureate), Ambrose Phillips, James Thomson, Edward Young, Alexander Pope, and Jonathan Swift, Dean of St. Patrick’s. It is stated that the imitation of Ambrose Phillips was not written by Mr. I. H. Browne, but was sent to him by a friend, whose name has not been transmitted to us. This is to be regretted, as this particular imitation (the second) is generally considered the best in the collection. According to Ritson this was written for the collection by Dr. John Hoadley.
A PIPE OF TOBACCO:
In Imitation of Six Several Authors.
IMITATION I.
_Laudes egregii Cæsaris―――― Culpâ deterere ingenî._ HOR.
A NEW-YEAR’S ODE.
Recitative.
Old battle-array, big with horror is fled, And olive-robed peace again lifts up her head. Sing, ye Muses, Tobacco, the blessing of peace; Was ever a nation so blessed as this?
Air.
When summer suns grow red with heat, Tobacco tempers Phœbus’ ire, When wintry storms around us beat, Tobacco cheers with gentle fire. Yellow autumn, youthful spring, In thy praises jointly sing.
Recitativo.
Like Neptune, Cæsar guards Virginian fleets, Fraught with Tobacco’s balmy sweets; Old Ocean trembles at Britannia’s pow’r, And Boreas is afraid to roar.
Air.
Happy mortal! he who knows Pleasure which a Pipe bestows; Curling eddies climb the room, Wafting round a mild perfume.
Recitativo.
Let foreign climes the vine and orange boast, While wastes of war deform the teeming coast; Britannia, distant from each hostile sound, Enjoys a Pipe, with ease and freedom crown’d; E’en restless Faction finds itself most free, Or if a slave, a slave to Liberty.
Air.
Smiling years that gayly run, Round the Zodiack with the sun, Tell, if ever you have seen Realms so quiet and serene. Britain’s sons no longer now Hurl the bar, or twang the bow, Nor of crimson combat think, But securely smoke and drink.
Chorus.
Smiling years that gayly run Round the Zodiack with the sun, Tell, if ever you have seen Realms so quiet and serene.
――――
IMITATION II.
Tenues fugit ceu fumus in auras. VIRG.
Little tube of mighty pow’r, Charmer of an idle hour, Object of my warm desire, Lip of wax, and eye of fire: And thy snowy taper waist, With my finger gently brac’d; And thy pretty swelling crest, With my little stopper prest, And the sweetest bliss of blisses, Breathing from thy balmy kisses. Happy thrice, and thrice agen, Happiest he of happy men; Who when agen the night returns, When agen the taper burns; When agen the cricket’s gay, (Little cricket, full of play) Can afford his tube to feed With the fragrant Indian weed: Pleasure for a nose divine, Incense of the god of wine. Happy thrice, and thrice agen, Happiest he of happy men.
――――
IMITATION III.
_――――Prorumpit ad æthera nubem Turbine fumantem piceo._ VIRG.
O thou, matur’d by glad Hesperian suns, Tobacco, fountain pure of limpid[16] truth, That looks the very soul; whence pouring thought Swarms all the mind; absorpt is yellow care, And[17] at each puff imagination burns. Flash on thy bard, and with exalting fires Touch the mysterious lip, that chaunts thy praise In strains to mortal sons of earth unknown. Behold an engine, wrought from tawny mines Of ductile clay, with plastic[18] virtue form’d, And glaz’d magnifick o’er, I grasp, I fill. From Pætotheke[19] with pungent pow’rs perfum’d, _Itself[20] one tortoise all, where shines imbib’d Each parent ray_; then rudely ram’d illume, With the red touch of zeal-enkindling sheet, Mark’d[21] with Gibsonian lore; forth issue clouds, Thought-thrilling, thirst-inciting clouds around, And many-mining fires: I all the while, Lolling at ease, inhale[22] the breezy balm. But chief, when _Bacchus wont with thee to join In genial strife_ and orthodoxal ale, Stream[23] life and joy into the Muses’ bowl. Oh be thou still my great inspirer, thou My Muse; oh fan me with thy zephyrs boon, While I, in clouded tabernacle shrin’d, Burst forth all oracle and mystick song.
――――
IMITATION IV.
_――――Bullatis mihi nugis, Pagina turgescat, dare pondus idonea fumo._ PERS.
Criticks avaunt; Tobacco is my theme; Tremble like hornets at the blasting steam. And you, court-insects, flutter not too near Its light, nor buzz within the scorching sphere. Pollio, with flame like thine, my verse inspire, So shall the Muse from smoke elicit fire. Coxcombs prefer the tickling sting of snuff; Yet all their claim to wisdom is――a puff: Lord Fopling smokes not――for his teeth afraid: Sir Tawdry smokes not――for he wears brocade. Ladies, when pipes are brought, affect to swoon; They love no smoke, except the smoke of town; But courtiers hate the puffing tribe,――no matter, Strange if they love the breath that cannot flatter! Its foes but shew their ignorance; can he Who scorns the leaf of knowledge, love the tree? The tainted templar (more prodigious yet) Rails at Tobacco, tho’ it makes him――spit. Citronia vows it has an odious stink; She will not smoke (ye gods!) but she will drink: And chaste Prudella (blame her if you can) Says, pipes are us’d by that vile creature Man: Yet crowds remain, who still its worth proclaim, While some for pleasure smoke, and some for fame: Fame, of our actions universal spring, For which we drink, eat, sleep, smoke,――ev’rything.
――――
IMITATION V.
_――――Solis ad ortus Vanescit fumus._ LUCAN.
Blest leaf! whose aromatick gales dispense To templars modesty, to parsons sense: So raptur’d priests, at fam’d Dodona’s shrine Drank inspiration from the steam divine. Poison that cures, a vapour that affords Content, more solid than the smile of lords: Rest to the weary, to the hungry food, The last kind refuge of the wise and good. Inspir’d by thee, dull cits adjust the scale Of Europe’s peace, when other statesmen fail. By thee protected, and thy sister, beer, Poets rejoice, nor think the bailiff near. Nor less the critick owns thy genial aid, While supperless he plies the piddling trade. What tho’ to love and soft delights a foe, By ladies hated, hated by the beau, Yet social freedom, long to courts unknown, Fair health, fair truth, and virtue are thy own. Come to thy poet, come with healing wings, And let me taste thee unexcis’d by kings.
――――
IMITATION VI.
Ex fumo dare lucem. HOR.
Boy! bring an ounce of Freeman’s best, And bid the vicar be my guest: Let all be placed in manner due, A pot wherein to spit or spue, And London Journal and Free Briton, Of use to light a pipe―――― * * * * * This village, unmolested yet By troopers, shall be my retreat: Who cannot flatter, bribe, betray; Who cannot write or vote for pay. Far from the vermin of the town, Here let me rather live, my own, Doze o’er a pipe, whose vapour bland In sweet oblivion lulls the land; Of all which at Vienna passes, As ignorant as ―――― Brass is: And scorning rascals to caress, Extoll the days of good Queen Bess, When first TOBACCO blest our isle, Then think of other Queens――and smile.
Come jovial pipe, and bring along Midnight revelry and song; The merry catch, the madrigal, That echoes sweet in City Hall; The parson’s pun, the smutty tale Of country justice o’er his ale. I ask not what the French are doing, Or Spain to compass Britain’s ruin: Britons, if undone, can go, Where TOBACCO loves to grow.
――――:o:――――
HORACE. In imitation of Epode III.
AN ODE AGAINST TOBACCO.
For parricide, that worst of crimes, Hemlock’s cold draught, in ancient times, Scarce taught the rogue repentance: But had tobacco then been known, Its burning juices swallow’d down, Had prov’d a fitter sentence.
How callous are the lab’rers jaws, Who this dire weed both smokes and chaws, And feasts upon the venom! While I by chance a taste once got, That so inflam’d my mouth and throat, I thought all hell was in ’em.
Sure, this vile drug, that serv’d me thus, The deadly viper’s poisonous juice Infus’d must have great share in; Or else some hag, with midnight wish, Procur’d it as a special dish Of Satan’s own preparing.
This was the charm Medea taught Her dear advent’rous Argonaut, To steal the Golden Fleece with; Down bulls and dragons gaping throat A quid he threw, which, quick as thought, The brutes were laid at peace with.
Ting’d in tobacco’s baleful oil, Her presents made her rival broil Past Jason’s art of quenching: And when he swore revenge, the witch Mounted aloft astride her switch, Pleas’d she had spoil’d his wenching.
Under the blue I’d rather live, And the sun’s fiercest rays receive, How apt soe’er to burn us: Nay, Hercules’s shirt I’d wear, Or any flame much sooner bear, Than a pipe’s fiery furnace.
My merry lord, if quid or whiff You ever taste of this damn’d leaf, May you meet with what you dread most, May Chloe, when with her you lie, And press to kiss her, put you by, And rather hug the bed post!
From The Gentleman’s Magazine. May, 1744.
――――:o:――――
Elegy. WRITTEN OVER AN OLD PIPE-BOX.
The postman hits his last rat-tat to day, And hies him to his lowly home with glee; My wife reposes in her white array; The night is left to “’Bacca” and to me.
Now starts a glimmering bottle on the sight, And all the air a spirit perfume holds; At sight of me the cockroach takes to flight, And leaves awhile my common dips and moulds.
All raving now, at yonder area gate, The moping “bobbies” to the cooks complain That soldiers, with their padded breasts elate, Molest their ancient privilege and reign.
Beneath this hingeless lid, bound round with braid, Wherein no anti-vermin dare to creep (Each one done brown, aside for ever laid), The ancient tutors of my smoking sleep.
The bull-like voice of nicotinian Bob, The sylph-like tones of sweet, poetic, Ned, The fierce denouncings of the anti-mob, No more shall call them from their narrow bed.
For them no more the fierce fusee shall burn, Or plugs be purchased and put in with care; In memory only, I to them return; Their smoke, too strong, would all my nerves impair.
Oft have they lain with me in some green field; Their solace oft some stiff-neck’d care has broke. How strangely sorrow to the pipe doth yield, And joy descends e’en through ascending smoke.
Let not philosophy at smoking mock―― Philosophy is but its prototype; Nor e’en religion hear with spurning shock, The short and simple annals of the pipe.
* * * * *
Ah me! In this neglected box is laid Old pipes, once glowing with the scented fire; Pipes for which shillings, ay, and pounds were paid. Start not――’tis true, or I’m a living liar!
But pipes on pipes of “Bacca,” day by day, With poison laden, did their fates control; Strong-smelling oil stopp’d up the narrow way, And now they may no more console my soul.
Full many a pipe, of purest briar root, The stern schoolmaster confiscates and breaks; Full many a clay, too, seized is by the brute, And flung with tops and marbles, buttons, cakes.
One colour’d meerschaum that, in hidden poke Conceal’d, full many a day in school did lie, Escaped the notice of the stern-eyed bloke, To linger in this box and never die.
To take excursion by the iron way, In smoking-carriage, where thick clouds arise; To fumigate――(tho’ anti-smokers bray), And blow their ashes into people’s eyes――
Their state forbids. Now, circumscribed they lie, For pleasure useless, and for work as well; Weak, helpless, all, I bid them now good-by; For, tho’ so weak, dear me, how strong they smell!
For thee, who, brooding thus with bended head, Deploring much their sad and helpless state, If chance, by nicotinian feelings led, Some brother smoker shall inquire thy fate:
Haply some wooden-headed clown may say: “I’ve often seed him, when the ale-house closed, Wandering along the all-too narrow way, His eyes a quiver, like to one who dozed;
“There, at the foot of yonder painted sign, That looks more like a pig than like a cow, He’d drink his beer――it would’nt run to wine―― And smoke his pipe, all reckless――anyhow.
“Or down the street, to put his watch in pawn, Feeling for vanish’d coppers, he would rove, His old hat on, his bristly chin unshorn. He liked his beer, but warn’t a drunken cove.
“One night I miss’d him at the accustom’d pub; Unoccupied remain’d his favourite seat. Another came. Where was he?――sore the rub; In losing him, we lost a look’d-for treat.
“The next, with solemn march, in blue array (A crowd behind with strong tumultuous din,) Two bobbies came. They’d found him on the way, With beer o’ercome, and so they ran him in!”
THE EPITAPH.
Here rests, with his old head upon a stone, A man who smoked till he did reason drown. To-morrow morn the mayor, all fully blown, Will frown on him, and fine him half-a-crown.
H. L.
From Cope’s Tobacco Plant. September, 1874.
――――
HAMLET’S SOLILOQUY ON TOBACCO.
To smoke or not to smoke, that is the question: Whether a mild cigar assists digestion; Or, whether it begets a kind of quaintness, Which some would say was nothing but a faintness; To smoke――to drink and then to go to bed; To find a pillow for an aching head; To snore――perchance to dream! and half your senses scare With visionary demons or nightmare; To wake, in perspiration nicely dished, ’Tis a consummation hardly to be wished; For who would bear the kicks, cuffs, and abuse Of this base world, when he might cook his goose Upon his toasting fork? Or who would care For half the motley groups which at him stare, Some morning early, stuck before the bench, When soda-water would his fever quench, But that a little thing within doth call? Thus porter doth make rumuns of us all! And thus our resolution to keep sober Is drown’d and soon forgot in good October. But hush! my Phelia comes, the pretty dear! Oh! think of me love――when you fetch your beer.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
TO SMOKE, OR NOT TO SMOKE.
To smoke, or not to smoke――that is the question! Whether ’tis better to abjure the habit, And trust the warnings of a scribbling doctor, Or buy at once a box of best Havanas, And ten a day consume them? To smoke, to puff, Nay more, to waste the tender fabric of the lungs And risk consumption and its thousand ills The practice leads to――’tis a consummation Discreetly to be shunned. To smoke, to puff―― To puff, perhaps to doze――ay, there’s the rub; For in that dozing state we thirsty grow, And, having burned the tube up to a stump, We must have drink, and that’s one cause We modern youth are destined to short life; For who can bear to feel his mouth parched up, His throat like whalebone and his chest exhausted, His head turned giddy, and his nerves unstrung, When he himself might drench these ills away With wine or brandy? Who could live in smoke, And pine and sicken with a secret poison; But that the dread of breaking o’er a rule Prescribed by Fashion, whose controlling will None disobey, puzzles ambitious youth, And makes us rather bear the ills we feel Than others that the doctor warns us of. Thus custom does make spectres of us all, And thus the native hue of our complexion If sicklied o’er with a consumptive cast; The appetite, a loss of greater moment, Palled by the weed, and the digestive powers Lose all their action.
JOHN W. FARRELL.
Rare Bits. November 18, 1882.
――――:o:――――
A SONG, AFTER SHERIDAN.
Here’s to the hookah with snake of five feet, Or the “portable” fix’d to one’s “topper”; Here’s to the meerschaum more naughty than neat, And here’s to all pipes that are proper. Fill them up tight, Give ’em a light; I’ll wager a smoke will set everything right.
Here’s to the Warden’s twelve inches of stalk, Here’s to Jack Tar’s clay, with one, sir; To the pipes now with mountings so rich that they “walk,” And here’s to most pipes which have none, sir. Fill them up tight, &c.
Here’s to the Milo just out of the shop, With mouthpiece as dry as pale sherry; Here’s to your veteran, wet as a mop, Black as a sloe or a cherry. Fill them up tight, &c.
Let them be clumsy or let them be slim, Light or heavy, I care not a feather; So, fill them with ’Baccy right up to the rim, And let us all smoke them together. Fill them up tight, Give ’em a light; I’ll wager a smoke will set everything right.
From Cope’s Tobacco Plant. February, 1875.
――――:o:――――
HAIL TO THE PLANT. (A Parody of Sir Walter Scott.)
Hail! to the Plant which we owe to brave Raleigh, Long may it flourish on Cuba’s lone shore, Bloom on the mountain, and spread in the valley, Fertile, and fragrant, and fresh evermore! Bright sunshine, nourish it, Gentle deeds, cherish it, Life giving breezes, around it still flow; Moisture and warmth, give aid, That it may never fade; Tabak, St. Nicotine, ho, ieroe!
* * * * *
Smoke, brother, smoke of the pride of Virginia; Snuff, brother, snuff, if you’d clear up your brain; Chew, brother, chew, and I’ll bet you a guinea, Once fairly started, you’ll do it again. Oh, would our northern air Nurture this plant so rare! Never aught else in my garden I’d grow: All my flowers pluck’d should be, Fruit-trees give place to thee, Tabak, St. Nicotine, ho, ieroe!
――――
THE LAY OF THE LAST SMOKER.
The weed was rank, the pipe was old, Along the road the smoker rolled; His scared and hesitating way Showed that he owed and couldn’t pay. The pipe, his one remaining joy, Was scoff of every man and boy; For last of all the smokers, he, This old man was well known to be For ’Bacca’s day was lately fled, And all his brother smokers dead; And he but stayed to smoke and swear, And wonder where the others were. No more amid the jest and song, He puffed at his churchwarden long; No longer in a smoking car He blew a cloud from his cigar, And stood his ground both stern and stout, To smoke the anti-puffers out. Old days were drowned in Time’s dark stream, And “antis” reigned now all supreme; The quivering noses of the time Now called each harmless puff a crime. A wandering smoker, scorned and sad, He nearly drove the city mad; And had to smoke――oh! wretched elf! Some ’Bacca that he grew himself. * * * * *
From Cope’s Tobacco Plant. April, 1876.
――――:o:――――
THE LAST CIGAR. (After Thomas Moore.)
’Tis a last choice Havana I hold here alone; All its fragrant companions In perfume have flown. No more of its kindred To gladden the eye, So my empty cigar case I close with a sigh.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine; but the stem I’ll bite off and light thee To waft thee to them And gently I’ll scatter The ashes you shed, As your soul joins its mates in A cloud overhead.
All pleasure is fleeting, It blooms to decay From the weeds glowing circle, The ash drops away. A last whiff is taken, The butt-end is thrown, And with empty cigar case I sit all alone.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
’Tis the last weed of Hudson’s Left lying alone; All his dark brown Regalias Are vanished and gone. No cigar of its colour, No “Lopez” is mine, To delight with its perfume And fragrance divine.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one! I’ll ring for a light; Thy companions are ashes, I’ll smoke thee to-night. Thy halo and incense Shall rise o’er my head, As I sigh for the beauties All scentless and dead.
And soon may I follow Those lov’d ones’ decay; Since from each tempting bundle They’ve faded away. When Regalias are smok’d out, And “Lopez” are blown, Oh! who would still linger, Cigarless, alone?
From Hints to Freshmen, in the University of Oxford.
――――
A LAST CIGAR.
’Tis my last mild Havana Pervading the room; Her companions have taken Their leaves in a fume. No kindred to back her, Nor plug, twist, nor snuff, To return her aroma Or give puff for puff.
Oh, fain would I follow When the last whiff is sped, And in life’s brightest garden The weeds are all dead. When troubles oppress us, Or better-halves jar, Oh, what were existence Without a cigar?
――――:o:――――
THE BUTCHER BOY.
The butcher boy down the road has gone, With beefsteak he has lined him; A pipe of clay he has put on, And his basket’s slung behind him. “Lend me that,” cried the baker’s boy, “The pipe you now are biting,” “Not I,” cried he, “my pipe I’ll guard!” And so they fell to fighting.
The butcher fell, but the baker’s boy, Could not bring his proud soul under; The pipe he loved ne’er smoked again, For he broke its stem asunder; And cried, “No dough shall sully thee, I’ll be thy undertaker; Thy joys were made for the butcher boy―― Thou shalt ne’er be smoked by a baker!”
H. L.
From Cope’s Tobacco Plant. July. 1873.
――――
MY OLD DHUDEEN. (Air: Love’s Young Dream.)
Oh! the days are gone when lollipops My heart could move; When sugar-sticks and almond rock Were my first love; Inventions sweet And succulent, Made childhood all serene; Now there’s nothing half so sweet in life As my old Dhudeen; Yes, there’s nothing half so sweet in life As my old Dhudeen.
For the youth will tire at last of sweets When “down” appears, And he wears a collar in the streets That hides his ears: The vile “Pickwick” May make him sick, And turn his face quite green, Yet there’s nothing half so sweet in life As his old Dhudeen; Oh! there’s nothing half so sweet in life As his old Dhudeen.
Oh! the first sly smoke I’ll ne’er forget―― It made me queer; And when I my stern parent met, He pulled my ear; But now I’m old, And weak and cold, And on my stick do lean, There’s nothing half so sweet in life As my old Dhudeen; Oh! there’s nothing half so sweet in life As my old Dhudeen.
H. L.
From Cope’s Tobacco Plant. December, 1872.
――――:o:――――
I REMEMBER. (After Hood.)
I remember, I remember, The pipe that first I drew; With red waxed end and snowy bowl, It perfect was and new. It measured just four inches long, ’Twas made of porous clay; I found when I began to smoke, It took my breath away,
I remember, I remember, In fear I struck a light; And when I smoked a little time, I felt my cheeks grow white. My nervous system mutinied, My diaphragm uprose, And I was very――very ill In a way you may suppose.
I remember, I remember, The very rod he got, When father who discovered me, Made me exceeding hot. He scattered all my feathers then, While, face down I reclined; I sat upon a cold hearthstone, I was so warm behind.
I remember, I remember, I viewed the rod with dread, And silent, sad, and supperless, I bundled off to bed. It was a childish punishment, And now ’tis little joy To know that, for the self-same crime, I wallop my own boy!
From Cope’s Tobacco Plant. March, 1875.
――――:o:――――
THE OLD BLACK CLAY.
I love it! I love it! though some may say It’s wrong to be fond of an old black clay; I haven’t exactly inlaid it with sighs―― The turn of my mind has been otherwise―― For I always feel excessively gay When I’m gazing upon that old black clay.
When rude and frivolous folk are by, I never produce it――I’ll tell you why―― They call it harsh, injurious names, And vex my soul with mischievous games; But when to a lonely place I repair, I make quite sure there’s nobody there, And adore in the most abandoned way That stumpy loveable coal-black clay.
I’ll never forget the dreadful day When they “played it low” on that harmless clay―― The ruthless hand of a mother dear Hid it away in a dust-hole drear; But, ah! no words can properly tell My joy when I found it again by the smell; And I took to my heart (as one may say), Once more that redolent, long lost clay.
I love it! I love it! as I have said, I smoke it abroad, and I smoke it abed; And if the prophecy turn out right That I’m burned to a cinder some fine night, I’ll simply deem it a glorious way Of ending my life with my faithful clay.
The Manchester City Jackdaw. April 21, 1876.
――――:o:――――
SMOKE NOT!
Smoke not, smoke not your weeds nor pipes of clay! Cigars that are made from leaves of cauliflowers;―― Things that are doomed no duty e’er to pay;―― Grown, made, and smokèd in a few short hours. Smoke not, smoke not.
Smoke not, smoke not! the weed you smoke may change The healthfulness of your stomachic tone; Things to the eye grow queer and passing strange; All thought seems undefined――save one, to be alone. Smoke not, smoke not.
Smoke not! the tradesman whose weed you smoke may die! May perish from the cabbage-bearing earth;―― The sordid dun into your chamber hie―― Sent by the trustees in their tinless dearth. Smoke not, smoke not.
Smoke not, smoke not! O, warning vainly said! Cane and cap-paper since we first did try, Smoke flings a halo round the smoker’s head; And all in vain do anxious mothers cry, Smoke not, smoke not!
From Hints to Freshmen in the University of Oxford, published by J. Vincent, Oxford, and attributed to the Rev. Canon Hole.
――――:o:――――
THE PIPES OF ENGLAND.
The stately pipes of England, How beautiful they be, With amber tips and meerschaum bowls―― Such pipes are not for me! With scented Latakie they burn, And golden crowns they wear; And the smoke steals from the scented urn―― Like summer’s perfumed air.
The merry pipes of England, Amid the joke and jest, With gladsome glasses of hot grog, Are found then at their best, The smoker’s eye is seen to wink, As many a tale is told; Or lips ope cheerfully to drink The glorious ale of old.
The cottage pipes of England―― By thousands made of clay―― All snowy in their wooden box, How beautiful are they! From ruddy lips they outward poke, As white as wool or lard; And the lowly do a cheerful smoke, When the times are not too hard.
The free, fair pipes of England Live long in hall and hut; And sweet for ever be their lips, And scented be their bowls; And may no humbug e’er eclipse The solace of our souls.
From Cope’s Tobacco Plant. April 1873.
――――:o:――――
THE GENIUS OF SMOKING.
[We have been favored with the following defence of smoking, by an intimate literary friend of Lord Byron, who assures us it is selected from several unpublished juvenile trifles written at various times in his album by the noble bard.]
I had a dream――it was not all a dream; Methought I sat beneath the silver beam Of the sweet moon, and you were with me there, And everything around was free and fair; And from our mouths upcurled the fragrant smoke, Whose light blue wreaths can all our pleasures yoke, In sweetest union to young Fancy’s car, And waft the soul out thro’ a good cigar. There as we sat and puffed the hours away, And talked and laughed about life’s little day, And built our golden castles in the air, And sighed to think what transient things they were, As the light smoke around our heads was thrown, Amidst its folds a little figure shone, An elfin sprite, who held within her hand A small cigar her sceptre of command. Her hair above her brow was twisted tight off, Like a cigar’s end, which you must bite off; Her eyes were red and twinkling like the light Of Eastern Hookah, or Meerschaum, by night; A green tobacco leaf her shoulders graced, And dried tobacco hung about her waist; Her voice breathed softly, like the easy puffing Of an old smoker, after he’s been stuffing. Thus as she rolled aside the wanton smoke, To us, her awe-struck votaries she spoke,―― “Hail faithful slaves! my choicest joys descend On him who joins the smoker to the friend, Yours is a pleasure that shall never vanish Provided that you smoke the best of Spanish; Puff forth your clouds”――(with that we puff’d amain) “Sweet is their fragrance”――(then we puff’d again) “How have I hung, with most intense delight, Over your heads when you have smoked at night, And gratefully imparted all my powers To bless and consecrate those happy hours; Smoke on,” she said. I started and awoke, And with my dream she vanished into smoke.
ANONYMOUS.
――――:o:――――
AN AMERICAN PARODY OF WORDSWORTH’S “SONNET ON THE SONNET.”
Scorn not the meerschaum. Housewives, you have croaked In ignorance of its charms. Through this small reed Did Milton, now and then, consume the weed; The poet Tennyson hath oft evoked The Muse with glowing pipe, and Thackeray joked And wrote and sang in nicotinian mood; Hawthorne with this hath cheered his solitude; A thousand times this pipe hath Lowell smoked; Full oft hath Aldrich, Stoddard, Taylor, Cranch, And many more whose verses float about, Puffed the Virginian or Havanna leaf; And when the poet’s or the artist’s branch, Drops no sustaining fruit, how sweet to pout Consolatory whiffs――alas, too brief!
――――:o:――――
MY HOOKAH.
What is it, that affords such joys On Indian shores, and never cloys, But makes that pretty, bubbling noise? My Hookah.
What is it, that a party if in At breakfast, dinner, or at Tiffin, Surprises and delights the Griffin? My Hookah.
What is it to Cadets gives pleasure? What is it occupies their leisure? What do they deem the greatest treasure? My Hookah.
Say――what makes Decency wear sable? What makes each would-be nabob able To cock his legs upon the table? My Hookah.
What is it (trust me, I’m not joking, Tis truth――altho’, I own, provoking) That sets e’en Indian belles a smoking? My Hookah.
What is it――whensoe’er we search In ev’ry place;――except the Church, That leaves sweet converse in the lurch? My Hookah.
But hold my Muse――for shame for shame―― One question ere you smoking blame―― What is it gives your book a name? My Hookah.
My fault I own――my censure ends; Nay more――I’ll try to make amends, Who is the safest of all friends? My Hookah.
Say who? or what retains the power, When fickle Fortune ’gins to lour, To solace many a lonely hour? My Hookah.
When death-like dews and fogs prevailing In Pinnace or in Budg’-row sailing, What is it that prevents our ailing? My Hookah.
When we’re our skins with claret soaking, And heedless wits their friends are joking, Which friend will stand the greatest smoking? My Hookah.
By what――(nay, answer at your ease, While pocketing our six rupees)―― By what d’ye mean the town to please? My Hookah.
From MY HOOKAH; or, The Stranger in Calcutta. Being a collection of Poems by an Officer. Calcutta: Greenway and Co., 1812.
――――
A PINCH OF SNUFF.
With mind or body sore distrest, Or with repeated cares opprest, What sets the aching heart at rest? A pinch of snuff!
Or should some sharp and gnawing pain Creep round the noddle of the brain, What puts all things to rights again? A pinch of snuff!
When speech and tongue together fail, What helps old ladies in their tale, And adds fresh canvass to their sail? A pinch of snuff!
Or when some drowsy parson prays, Or still more drowsy people gaze, What opes their eyelids with amaze? A pinch of snuff!
A comfort which they can’t forsake, What is it some would rather take, Than good roast beef, or rich plum cake? A pinch of snuff!
What warms without a conflagration, Excites without intoxication, And rouses without irritation? A pinch of snuff!
Then let us sing in praise of snuff! And call it not such “horrid stuff,” At which some frown, and others puff, And seem to flinch
But when a friend presents a box, Avoid the scruples and the shocks Of him who laughs and her who mocks, And take a pinch!
From The Sportsman. August, 1835.
――――
STANZAS TO A LADY In defence of Smoking.
What taught me first sweet peace to blend With hopes and fears that knew no end, My dearest, truest, fondest friend? My pipe, love!
What cheer’d me in my boyhood’s hour, When first I felt Love’s witching power, To bear deceit,――false woman’s dow’r My pipe, love!
What still upheld me since the guile, Attendant on false friendship’s smile, And I in hope, deceiv’d the while? My pipe, love!
What cheer’d me when misfortunes came, And all had flown me? Still the same My only true and constant flame, My pipe, love!
What sooth’d me in a foreign land, And charm’d me with its influence bland, Still whisp’ring comfort, hand in hand? My pipe, love!
What charm’d me in the thoughts of past When mem’ry’s gleam my eyes o’ercast, And burns to serve me to the last? My pipe, love!
Nicotiana, by H. J. Meller. London. E. Wilson, 1832.
――――
TO MY CIGAR.
When cares oppress the drooping mind, And fickle friends are most unkind, Who constant still remains behind? My true cigar!
Oh! where’s the friend who’d cheerfully, To soothe one pensive hour for me, Resign his latest breath like thee―― My kind cigar?
Thy spirit’s gone, poor fragile thing! But still thine ashes, mouldering, To me a valued lesson bring,―― My pale cigar!
Like man’s, how soon thy vital spark, Expiring, leaves no other mark, But mouldering ashes, drear and dark, My dead cigar.
T. G. J.
Bristol. 1844.
――――
TOBACCO.
Whene’r I’m out of sorts or sad, Oppress’d with care, and well-nigh mad, What comforts me, and makes me glad? Tobacco!
What builds such castles in the air, And paints my prospects bright and fair, And makes me negligent of care? Tobacco!
How is it that I’m so resign’d, When’er my wife must speak her mind, And ne’er retaliate in kind? Tobacco!
What makes my holidays so sweet, And ev’ry “outing” such a treat That I would fain their joys repeat? Tobacco!
Whene’er my brain is dull and dark, And utterly beside the mark, What wakes the latent, slumb’ring spark? Tobacco!
What changes all my scowls to smiles, And many a tedious hour beguiles, And ne’er by any chance me riles, Tobacco.
Enlarger of our mortal ken, Familiar of the artist’s den, Beloved by literary men―― Tobacco!
Far kinder than the kindest friend, O, teach us how your powers blend! And from your heavenly throne descend, Tobacco!
E. H. S.
From Cope’s Tobacco Plant. April, 1873.
――――
THE WEED.
When roses droop beside the wall, When lily petals fade and fall, What swiftly rises, covering all? The Weed.
When starts the widow on the chase, To fill “the late lamented’s” place, What decorates her pretty face? The Weed.
When coffee’s served and wine runs low, When conversation waxes slow, What brings the after-dinner glow? The Weed.
――――
A SMOKE.
What comforts me when I am sad, Or when I’ve got the toothache bad, Or when the money market’s mad? A smoke.
What soothes me if I dine not well, When lies about me people tell, Or friendship proves a hollow sell? A smoke.
What quiets indigestion’s pangs, And takes the edge off hatred’s fangs, And salves misfortune’s cruel bangs? A smoke.
――――:o:――――
HYMN TO SAINT NICOTINE. (Imitation of Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes.)
Strange! that this gently breathèd cloud So far, far sweeter unto me, Than all that this green earth enshroud, Or float above the sea. My meerschaum, when thy mouth I greet, No lady’s lips seem half so sweet.
I look upon the fair blue skies, And naught but empty air I see; But when thy circling cloudlets rise, It seemeth unto me Ten thousand angels spread their wings, Within those little azure rings.
Tobacco hath the choicest leaf That ever western breeze hath fanned; Its healing odour gives relief To men of ev’ry land. This precious herb to me doth yield More joy than all the broider’d field.
O, comrade! there be many things That seem right fair in truth or joke; But sure from none among them springs A richer charm than smoke. Let us not puff our pipes alone, But join two altars both in one.
From Cope’s Tobacco Plant. December, 1871.
――――:o:――――
PARODY OF DR. WATTS, BY AN ANTI-SMOKER.
How doth the nasty, dirty man, Go smoking every hour; And spend his money wastefully On Old Nick’s favourite flower.
How wistfully he seeks his pipe, How glad he doth it light; And smokes the foul thing all the day, And feels quite ill at night.
In shag, bird’s eye, or honey-dew, His mind is ever fast; And Satan knows to him he’s due, For he’ll get him at last.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
THE LAST PIPE.
T’was the voice of the doctor, I heard him declare, “You’ve been smoking too much, of tobacco beware! To be candid and plain you’ll find it no joke, For you’ll become ashes yourself if you smoke.”
So I’ve filled my last pipe as I sit by the fire, And gaze at the cloud rising higher and higher, And languidly watching each up-curling ring, A mournful adieu to tobacco I sing.
Farewell, good cigars, I will e’en call you dear, Yet your price were no object so you were still here. Good bye! Latakia, Mild Turkey, good by! Virginia, Cavendish, Bristol Bird’s-eye,
And my pipe! My sweet pipe, with thy cool amber tip! No more shall that amber caress my fond lip. Oh! friend of my youth! must thou really go―― My partner in joy, and my solace in woe?
’Tis too true; nought avail me these heart-broken sighs! And, alas! thou art out. There are tears in my eyes, As I lay thee down gently. I will not complain, But I feel I shall never be happy again.
Fun, 1870.
――――:o:――――
THE PIPE. A Parody of Barry Cornwall’s “The Sea, the Sea!”
The pipe, the pipe, the German pipe! The short, the long, the meerschaum ripe! Its odorous puffs without a sound, They float my head’s wide regions round; They rise in clouds and mock the skies, While Baccy snugly eradled lies. My hookah wide! my hookah deep! I’ve that which I would ever keep; With the smoke above, and smoke below, And smoke wheresoe’er I go. If a storm (like a Chinese gong) should ring What matters that? I’ll smoke and sing. What matters, &c.
I love――oh! how I love to smoke, And drink full bumpers of th’ foaming soak! And when its waves have drowned my soul, I’ll whistle aloud such a “Tol-de-rol!” Don’t ask me where the world is going, Nor why the sou’-west blast is blowing. I never breathed the dull tame air, But I relish my great pipe mair and mair, And back again flew for a soothing puff, Like a bird――I’m sure that’s quick enough. My mother it is, and I’ll prove it to ye, (Much more of a mother than the open sea!) For smoking, I’m at it ever and ever! I hope your comment on this line is “clever!” For fear of growing at all lackadaisical I hasten to lay down my pen parody-sical; In truth these stanzas concluding with somewhat ’Bout “birth” and “death,” which things I can’t come I’ve only one word, and that’s to crave pardon, These sweet pretty verses that I’ve been so hard on.
From The Individual. Cambridge, January 31, 1837.
――――:o:――――
A DREAM (ANTI-CIPATED). (After Kingsley.)
Three Antis[24] went groaning out into the east―― Out into the east, as the sun arose; Each thought on the newspaper he loved the least; The Tobacco Plant followed, and chaff’d at their woes. But antis will croak, and smokers will smoke, Tho’ chaff it be sudden, and endless the joke That the antis afford with their moaning.
The Plant having stopped in a garden bower, Lit up his sweet pipe, as the sun arose; And he heard those three antis bawl out by the hour The weakest of humbug, in seedy old clothes. But antis will croak, and the Plant have his joke, And chaff, if ignited, must all end in smoke, And the antis must soon end their moaning.
Three antis lay drunk on the shining sands, In the morning gleam, as the sun arose; And smokers are laughing and rubbing their hands, To know they’re already relieved of their foes. For Observers will talk, and the Plant doesn’t sleep; Though tough be the job, ’tis amusing to keep All the anti-Tobaccoites moaning.
From Cope’s Tobacco Plant. January, 1875.
ODE TO TOBACCO.
Thou who, when fears attack, Bidst them avaunt, and Black Care, at the horseman’s back Perching, unseatest; Sweet when the morn is grey; Sweet, when they’ve clear’d away Lunch; and at close of day Possibly sweetest:
I have a liking old For thee, though manifold Stories, I know, are told. Not to thy credit How one (or two at most) Drops make a cat a ghost―― Useless, except to roast―― Doctors have said it:
How they who use fusees All grow by slow degrees Brainless as chimpanzees, Meagre as lizards; Go mad, and beat their wives; Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving knives Into their gizzards.
Confound such knavish tricks! Yet know I five or six Smokers who freely mix Still with their neighbours; Jones――(who, I’m glad to say, Asked leave of Mrs. J――) Daily absorbs a clay After his labours.
Cats may have had their goose Cooked by tobacco-juice; Still why deny its use Thoughtfully taken? We’re not as tabbies are: Smith, take a fresh cigar! Jones, the tobacco-jar! Here’s to thee, Bacon!
C. S. CALVERLEY.
――――
DETAINED.
Hand me another spill―― Phœbe, my glass refill, As I’ve some time to kill. What do you mention? Boat, gun, and tackle nigh, Horse and trap ready?――I Think I can manage my Task of detention.
Rowing? I’ve had a bout! Raining? Then can’t go out! Capital stream for trout? Not very handy! No, I’ll just pen a lay; Clear all these things away; Landlord! another clay Soda and brandy
Anti-Tobaccoite! I have no wish to fight; But if you douse my light, Mind, we shall wrangle. Why should you interfere, With your new-fangled gear, And try my course to steer At such an angle?
No! I must have my light; Whether I read or write, Smoking, by day or night, Aids the reflection. Some may prefer Bohea; Excellent though it be, I think Tobacco the Pink of Perfection!
Shag’s my divinity, Pure as virginity; In its vicinity Come not, you croakers! What, though the Antis choke? Still I must have my smoke; Pshaw! let the beggars croak! Here’s to the smokers!
E. H. S.
――――:o:――――
BEWARE!
I know a meerschaum fair to see, Take care! It whispers “Smoke and colour me,” Beware! beware! Smoke it not, ’Tis fooling thee!
It cost two guineas, golden brown, Take care! You’d better smash it; drop it down; Beware! beware! Smoke it not; ’Tis fooling thee.
A mouthpiece of a golden hue, Take care! ’Twill very likely make you――vomit, Beware! beware! Smoke it not! ’Tis fooling thee.
It hath a bowl as white as snow, Take care! Smoke it black, to Old Nick you’ll go; Beware! beware! Smoke it not; ’Tis fooling thee.
P. C.
――――
TOBACCO SMOKE!
The clouds of smoke were rising fast, As through a college room there passed A youth, who bore, ’spite sage advice, A “baccy”-pouch, with strange device, “Tobacco smoke!”
His brow was sad; his eye beneath Glared on a pipe, laid in its sheath, And in his ears there ever rung The accents of the donor’s tongue, Tobacco smoke!
In ground-floor rooms he saw the light, Of pipes and weeds glow strong and bright; And, heedless of the passing don, From out his lips escaped a groan, Tobacco smoke!
“Try not the shag,” the old man said, “It is o’er strong for thy young head, Dire its effects to those untried;” Heedless he was, and but replied, Tobacco smoke!
“Oh, stay,” the maiden said, “and test Our Latakia――’tis the best!” He grasped his packet of birds’-eye, And only muttered with a sigh, Tobacco smoke!
“Beware; don’t set your room alight―― The college might object――good night!” Such were the words the scholar spoke, And scarcely heard through closing oak, Tobacco smoke!
At midnight hour, as bedroom-ward Two “undergrads” from drinking hard, Steered up the gas-less break-neck stair, A voice cried from the “right two-pair,” Tobacco smoke!
The Freshman by his scout was found, Lying all prone upon the ground, And still his hand grasped like a vice The “baccy”-pouch with strange device, Tobacco smoke!
There, in the morning cold and gray, Moaning, and all unkempt, he lay, And then the scout, unmoved, serene―― Said――“Oh! ’tis easy to be seen, Tobacco smoke!”
R. C.
From College Rhymes. Part XVI., 1864.
――――
The Song of Firewater, a parody of Longfellow’s “Song of Hiawatha,” appeared in Cope’s Tobacco Plant for November, 1871. The poem relates to snuff, but as it extends to over 200 lines it cannot be inserted here. It commences thus:――
Should you ask me whence this story? Whence this legend and tradition? I should answer, I should tell you, From the lips of Blow-me-tite-o; Blow-me-tite-o, sweetest singer, Singer of the mournful ditties. * * * * * ――――
THE SONG OF NICOTINE.
Should you ask me why this meerschaum, Why these clay-pipes and churchwardens, With the odours of tobacco, With the oil and fume of “mixture,” With the curling smoke of “bird’s eye,” With the gurgling of rank juices, With renewed expectorations As of sickness on the fore-deck? I should answer, I should tell you, From the cabbage, and the dust-heaps, From the old leeks of the Welshland, From the soil of kitchen gardens, From the mud of London sewers, From the garden-plots and churchyards, Where the linnet and cock-sparrow Feed upon the weeds and groundsel, I receive them as I buy them From the boxes of Havana, The concoctor, the weird wizard. Should you ask how this Havana Made cigars so strong and soothing, Made the “bird’s eye,” and “York-river,” I should answer, I should tell you, In the purlieus of the cities, In the cellars of the warehouse, In the dampness of the dungeon, Lie the rotten weeds that serve him; In the gutters and the sewers, In the melancholy alleys, Half-clad Arab boys collect them, Crossing-sweepers bring them to him, Costermongers keep them for him, And he turns them by his magic Into “cavendish” and “bird’s-eye,” For those clay-pipes and churchwardens, For this meerschaum, or he folds them, And “cigars” he duly labels On the box in which he sells them.
From Figaro. October 7, 1874.
――――
LINES TO THE “ANTI-TOBACCO JOURNAL.”
Tell me not in penny numbers Smoking’s but a loathsome dream; Worse than onions and cucumbers, Though they be chawed up like steam!
Smoke is sweetness, done in earnest, Power possessing to console, If ’tis healthy weed thou burnest In the clay or meerschaum bowl.
Not to aid expectoration Doth the smoker burn the weed, But to woo sweet meditation, And also digest his “feed.”
“Shag” is strong, “Returns” is milder, “Cavendish” but suits the brave; Though our pulses beat the wilder, Still for ’bacca do we crave.
In this world so full of brawling, If in years your manhood’s ripe, Heed ye not the antis’ calling―― Be a man and smoke a pipe.
Pipes of great men all remind us (Tho’ of clay the bowl and stem), Wheresoever fate may find us, We can colour pipes like them.
Dhudeens, that perhaps another On the wheel of fortune broke, Some forlorn and bankrupt brother, Seeing, may take heart, and smoke.
Let us, then, take weeds and matches, And a pipe――that is enough; Tho’ it only be by snatches, Spared from toil, we still will puff!
From Cope’s Tobacco Plant. March, 1876.
――――
MEERSCHAUM.
Come to me, O! my meerschaum, For the vile street organs play; And the torture they’re inflicting Will vanish quite away.
I open my study window And into the twilight peer, And my anxious eyes are watching For the man with my evening beer.
In one hand is the shining pewter, All amber the ale doth glow; In t’other are long “churchwardens,” As spotless and pure as snow.
Ah! what would the world be to us Tobaccoless?――Fearful bore! We should dread the day after to-morrow Worse than the day before.
As the elephant’s trunk to the creature, Is the pipe to the man, I trow; Useful and meditative As the cud to the peaceful cow.
So to the world is smoking; Through that we feel, with bliss, That, whatever worlds come after, A jolly old world is this.
Come to me, O! my meerschaum, And whisper to me here, If you like me better with coffee Than grog, or the bitter beer.
Oh! what are our biggest winnings If peaceful content we miss? Though fortune may give us an innings, She seldoms conveys us bliss.
You’re better than all the fortunes That ever were made or broke; For a penny will always fill you, And buy me content with a smoke.
WRONGFELLOW.
――――
THE PIPE AND THE QUID.
An imitation of Longfellow’s “The Arrow and the Song.”
I flung a pipe into the air, And it fell down, I knew not where; For many folks were near to me, And so I did not stay to see.
I spun a quid up in the air, And that fell down, I knew not where; For ’twould require the strongest sight To follow a quid in its erring flight.
Shortly I found my pipe again, On the head of my uncle broke in twain; And the quid I had not seen descend, I found in the eye of my dearest friend.
WRONGFELLOW.
Cope’s Tobacco Plant. June, 1876.
――――:o:――――
ANOTHER MATCH. (After A. C. Swinburne.)
If love were dhudeen olden, And I were like the weed, Oh! we would live together, And love the jolly weather, And bask in sunshine golden, Rare pals of choicest breed; If love were dhudeen olden, And I were like the weed.
If I were what cigars are, And love were like the case, In double rows or single, Our varied scents we’d mingle, Both brown as Persian shahs are―― (You recollect his face); If I were what cigars are, And love were like the case.
If you were snuff, my darling, And I, your love, the box, We’d live and sneeze together, Shut out from all the weather, And anti-snuffers snarling, In neckties orthodox; If you were snuff, my darling, And I, your love, the box.
If you were oil essential, And I were nicotine, We’d hatch up wicked treason, And spoil each smoker’s reason, Till he grew penitential, And turned a bilious green; If you were oil essential, And I were nicotine.
If you were shag of dark hue, And I were mild bird’s eye, We’d scent the passing hours, And fumigate the flowers; And in the midnight, hark you, The Norfold Howards should die If you were Shag of dark hue, And I were mild Bird’s-eye.
If you were the aroma, And I were simply smoke, We’d skyward fly together, As light as any feather; And flying high as Homer, His grey old ghost we’d choke; If you were the aroma, And I were simply smoke.
From Cope’s Tobacco Plant. August, 1876.
――――
ANOTHER BALLAD OF MORE BURDENS. (After Swinburne.)
The burden of false meerschaums: Fair to sight Built up by scamps in a most fraudful way, With glass for amber, can’t be seen at night, But looketh what it is in truthful day. And bowls that turn (with dirt) to dirty grey, And narrow bores that all our jaws do tire, And fill our souls with horrible dismay. This is a cause of every smoker’s ire.
The burden of bad ’Bacca: This is worse. A burden with full fruit of mild swearing: We drop the pipe to drop a gentle curse, Six score between the morn and evening. The quivering of the glands, the shuddering, The wheezy grunts with which we do respire, Makes “weed” seem horrid and a treacherous thing. This is a cause of every smoker’s ire.
The burden of burnt breeches: Nay, sit down; Cover thyself and sleep; for verily The market women all about the town Behind thy back shall laugh and hoot at thee. Like the red beet-root all thy face shall be; That box of lights set thy coat tails on fire, And burnt thee bare. Tarry till daylight flee. This is a cause of every smoker’s ire.
The burden of the missus: oh! her tongue Shall let thee rest not, e’en upon thy bed; For that her curtains at the window hung, Of stale smoke smelling, fill her soul with dread. With mutton cold thou shalt be often fed, And drink cold grog, against thy warm desire, And wear a broomstick round thy shrinking head. This is a cause of every smoker’s ire.
The burden of mean cadgers; thou shalt flee All ways at once, but still they will be seen; And at the thing thou seest thy face shalt be Transmogrified, and not at all serene. And thou shalt say of ’Bacca, “It hath been Consumed by me;” and they shall whisper “Liar;” And go their ways with chagrin turning green. This is a cause of every smoker’s ire.
The burden of sad Antis: Every day They will prognosticate thy doom, and tell Where thou art going to at last, and say The place is warm and undesirable. And swear that for a mile thy clothes do smell; And preach to thee till thy whole soul doth tire; Then, going, groan――just for a parting knell. This is a cause of every smoker’s ire.
The burden of the taxes: Spoiled is Spring, With fragrant ’Bacca ’neath the growing trees, To think of what we pay for this one thing, The dearest physic for our miseries. For, at each puff, the weeping smoker sees His wreath fly up, away, and higher, higher, Till thoughts of bankruptcy do make him freeze. This is a cause of every smoker’s ire.
The burden of the fusees: Some won’t light, And some will spit out fire upon the hands; The wretch who sells them slinketh in the night, And counts his fortune in far, foreign lands Where police are not, and where are no cab-stands, While we still on his head heap curses dire And blame the makers of the various brands. This is a cause of every smoker’s ire.
The burden of fierce headaches: When we must Forsake the weed, altho’ ’tis our delight, When all our eyes seem red with blinding dust, And on our head a weight hangs day and night, And our red faces, lo! are bloodless white; When nothing in the world we do admire, And folks do ask us when we last were tight. This is a cause of every smoker’s ire.
L’ENVOY.
Smokers, and ye whom ’Bacca tickleth, Heed what is here before the weed you fire; You cannot smoke for ever. Where’s your breath? This is a cause of every smoker’s ire.
SINBURN.
From Cope’s Tobacco Plant. September 1876.
――――:o:――――
THE CIGAR-SMOKERS.
“‘Courage!’ he said, and pointed towards the land; ‘This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.’ In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon.”
THE LOTOS EATERS――Alfred Tennyson.
I.
“Land ho!” he cried “I see it now,” says he, “This jolly breeze will fetch us soon to land.” Towards night they got there, time for early tea, A land where tea seemed ever smoking hot to stand. Thick clouds of smoke, by sleepy breezes fanned, Twined, serpent like, o’er all, in curves and twists; The setting sun glared red and angry, close at hand, And from his steaming brow fell off the mists, As falls the sweat from boxers, boxing with their fists.
II.
A land of smokers! smoking fast were some, Quick, restless puffers wand’ring to and fro; And some, with drowsy eyes and senses dumb, Rolled heavy smoke-clouds very long and slow. The strangers saw the smokers come and go Along the shore, in groups of eight and sometimes ten, From somewhere up above to somewhere down below; Strange, dingy faces, strongly-perfumed men, Smelling as husbands when their wives ask, where they’ve been.
III.
The sun went out, the moon began to rise, But could not shine; smoke rests on everything And closes o’er the sea; the hum of flies Is heard afar, and vast musquitoes sing, Who buzz and nearer buzz, then ’light and sting; A place where all things always sleepy feel! And round about and in and out, on odorous wing, With faces like an owl, and tail unlike an eel, The red-eyed ghosts of old Tobacco-smokers steal.
IV.
Great leaves of that disgusting weed they brought, And some chopped fine to chew, and also snuff, Whereof they gave to each, but who once caught The taste, from him the strangely-smelling stuff Took all good sense, nor said he ever, “hold! enough;” The ocean’s voice he heard as tho’ it spake To some one else; his own grew thick and gruff, And half asleep and scarcely half awake, An everlasting puffing, puffing he did make.
V.
They sat them down upon the dingy shore, Betwixt the moonlight and the moonlight’s ray, And closed their eyes with heavy eyelids o’er, And saw the “old folks’” faces far “at home” away; But dark and dismal seemed the tossing bay, Dismal the hammock’s swing, the boatswain’s cry. Then one man said, “We won’t go home, to-day!” And all at once chimed in, “Agreed say I; Let’s all together not go home till by-and-by!”
CHORIC SONG.
I.
There’s sweet tobacco here, of every kind, Sweeter than honey in the hollow tree, Or sugar in the sugar-cane, you’ll find, Or dew-drop in the hollyhock can be; Cigars whose smoke floats lightly round the eye, As round the buttercup the butterfly; Cigars that one would die to smoke, then smoke to die! Here lie long-nines beside, And plugs no teeth have ever tried, And all the earth is snuff too, far and wide, And in the craggy rocks the cigarettos hide!
II.
Why leave dry land to sail on boiling water? Why make our short lives, any longer, shorter By still debating, while the minutes flee? All folks smoke here; why only smoke not we?―― We who have smoked vile smoke as e’er was known, And chewed vile chews on land and sea, Still from a bad one to a worse one thrown! Nor ever end our woes, By snuffing up the nose, Nor yield our senses to the potent spell; Nor hearken to the song that o’er us goes; “No joy that tongue can tell Is like what enters thro’ the avenue of smell!”
III.
Hateful is the pea-green sky, Hanging o’er the pea-green sea―― Life ends in smoke, oh! why Should life all labor be? Let us alone. We do not want to go! Since life’s a vapor, smoke it all away! Let us alone. We have no strength to row, We won’t attempt it, anyhow, to-day. Let us alone. What fun can sailors find In climbing up a wave, and down behind? All folks have rest excepting only tars, Their work is always of the endless kind;―― Give us a smoke or sleep, sound sleep or good cigars!
IV.
How sweet it were, seeing the rising fog, With half-cigar and half a smile, Dozing in a half-and-half the while, To dream and dream like yonder aged frog, Which only leaves his hole, the smoky log, To muse amid abandoned stumps near by; Chewing Tobacco, here to lie And see the waves rush up, our joy to share, Clutching with eager arms the vacant air, To grasp the sweets the scented breezes bear; To give our minds up to it wholly, To chase away blue-thoughted melancholy, To put rich flavorous, antique fine-cut tobacco, Into these pipes by steady use grown blacker; Pressed down with thumb to make it stay; Two pinches of black dust shut in a bowl of clay.
V.
Our wives and children are at home, ’tis true; But we can do without them, I and you; All things have undergone a change back there; Our babes climb other knees; our shirts new husbands wear! They would not know us now, so dirty grown: So strong we smell they’d slam the angry door, Thinking our souls upon the wings of smoke had flown, Been puffed away upon this dingy shore, Leaving behind the wasted stumps alone, Fit on the ash-pile only to be thrown. Let what is, be as ’tis, of course; A wife is hard to reconcile; We might be driven out by force; ’Tis hard to fix things, when they’ve run awhile; ’Twould be at best our labor for our pains; He gains but little who a woman gains: Sad work, for hearts worn out with household noise, And arms grown lame long since with nursing baby-boys!
VI.
Tobacco-posies blossom high and low; Tobacco-posies bloom where’er you go; All day the breezes from the ocean dipping, O’er hill and vale, on tireless tiptoe tripping, Up and down the sandy beach the dust of the Tobacco blow. We have done enough of rolling and of pitching, O! Up the foremast, up the hindmast, in the musty hold below, While the bellowing boatswain shouted his eternal “Yo heave ho!” Let us take an oath and keep it, with an open eye, In the land of the Tobacco still to live and lie, On the bank, like pigs together, you and also I; For they lie beside each other, and the slops are hurled All around them in the gutter, while their tails are tightly curled All around them――glad and happy, in a glad and happy world; There they smile in comfort, dreaming over future joys, Dreading neither thirst nor hunger, sun nor storm, nor roaring noise, Swearing men, nor scolding women, barking dogs, nor tyrant boys. But they smile, they smell a prospect of a dinner by-and-bye, Steaming up, a preparation making in the kitchens nigh, And their tail is full of meaning when it’s curled so high! But the luckless race of human labor for their life, Plant and dig and raise potatoes, mostly keep a wife; Wife who scolds them late and early, more than one would think, ’Till they lose their senses nearly――some, ’tis whispered, take to drink―― Swigging endless potions――others in Tobacco islands dwell, Resting weary legs, at last, on beds of assfoodel. Surely, surely, smoking is more nice than not-the chew, Than life upon the great big ocean, with so much work to do; Oh! bless you, brothers, yes of course, we’ll stay here, I and you!
This is taken from a small volume of American parodies, entitled “The Song of Milkan Watha, and other poems,” by Marc Antony Henderson, D.C.L. Cincinnati: Tickell and Grinne. 1856.
――――
NICOTINA. After Tennyson’s “Oriana.”
At a bal masqué in San Francisco a young lady appeared attired to represent Nicotine. Her dress was made of Tobacco leaves, her necklace was formed of cigars, and she carried a fan and a parasol constructed of the weed.
My liver’s out of order, oh! Nicotina! A cloudy gloom doth o’er me flow, Nicotina! When blossoms fall as white as snow, I think of her of “Francisco,” Nicotina! I wriggle in my bitter woe, Nicotina!
When the dark to light was growing, Nicotina! And the cock left off a crowing, Nicotina! Thin ones “oh”-ing, fat ones blowing, All unto the ball were going, Nicotina! I, too, went, to my o’erthrowing! Nicotina!
In the ball-room fill’d with light, Nicotina! (Some were downstairs getting tight, Nicotina!) While thine eyes entranced my sight, Underneath the gay gaslight, Nicotina! I engaged you; you said “Right!” Nicotina!
We danced in the whirling ball Nicotina! She loved my mask ’mong them all, Nicotina! She saw me slip, she heard me fall, When out stepp’d a rival tall, Nicotina! He kicked me hard, and made me bawl, Nicotina!
The villain dragg’d thee on one side, Nicotina! The bitter beast, he went aside, Nicotina! The darn’d brute, he glanced aside, And took thee oft, my love, my bride, Nicotina! Thy dress, thy fan, and thee beside, Nicotina!
Oh! narrow, narrow was the place, Nicotina! I call’d out as a donkey brays, Nicotina! Oh! dreadful looks were dealt apace, There was no room for dancing ways, Nicotina! And flat I went upon my face! Nicotina!
They tried to smash me where I lay, Nicotina! I couldn’t rise and get away, Nicotina! No more I thought to see the day, They tried to smash me where I lay, Nicotina! They nearly turn’d my dust to clay, Nicotina!
Oh! breaking ribs, that would not break, Nicotina! Oh! damaged nose, so snub and meek, Nicotina! She winketh, but she does not speak; I rub the chalk dust from my cheek, Nicotina! And feel inclined away to sneak, Nicotina!
I cry, “my corns!” none hear my cries, Nicotina! And, rueful, rub my blacken’d eyes, Nicotina! My face is like to boneless size, Up from my chin unto my eyes, Nicotina! On thy programme my name it lies, Nicotina!
Oh! cursed boot! oh! cursed blow, Nicotina! I was not happy lying low, Nicotina! All night my nose with blood did flow; A quart it bled, and more, I know, Nicotina! A damaged man, away I go, Nicotina!
When my old pipe is lit by me Nicotina! I crawl about and think of thee, Nicotina! I do not dare to look at thee, I fear him, tall as forest tree, Nicotina! I “cuss” him, and his pedigree. Nicotina!
H. L.
――――
O DARLING WEED!
O darling weed! my heart’s delight, Dear plant, the apple of my sight, Thou hast a ray so warm and bright I know no charm so exquisite As puffing out thy smoke so white. It puts all troublous thoughts to flight, Sending dull spirits left and right, While yielding joy by day and night.
This is a parody of a little poem by Alfred Tennyson, published in 1833, but afterwards omitted from his works, probably because of the ridicule it received from Lord Lytton in “The New Timon”:――
O darling room, my heart’s delight Dear room, the apple of my sight, With thy two couches soft and white, There is no room so exquisite, No little room so warm and bright, Wherein to read, wherein to write. * * * * *
――――
THE WEED.
I come from vaunted root, and burn To many a merry sally; I sparkle, and to ashes turn, Men’s spirits worn to rally.
Thrice thirty ills that press folks down, I fumigate like midges; In country, city, little town, My charm some care abridges.
Yon chattering Stiggins with a craze, In little sharps and trebles, A hubbub makes in my dispraise―― Demosthenes, sans pebbles.
Ay! chatter, with thy face of woe; With bile and anger quiver; Thus Antis come and Antis go, But I’m smoked on for ever.
They go about, and fume and spout, Against Tobacco railing, With here and there a lusty shout, And here and there a wailing.
I’m smoked on lawns and grassy plots, By sportsmen in the covers; My cloud’s blue as forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers.
There is not under moon and stars, In this world’s wildernesses, A plant that care more stoutly bars, Or labour better blesses.
Behold my vapour curve and flow Tow’rds where the pure clouds quiver; Let antis come and antis go―― My smoke goes up for ever.
R. C.
Cope’s Tobacco Plant. March, 1874.
――――:o:――――
SONG FROM THE MIKADO.
The travellers who try in the spring, Tra la! To sell their cigars by the case, Must find it a difficult thing, Tra la! When the shopkeeper won’t buy a thing, Tra la! And kicks them right out of the place, And he kicks them all out of his place. And that’s what they mean when they say or they sing: “Oh, bother the trade we are having this spring,” Tra la la la la la, tra la la la la, Tra la la la la la lah!
――――:o:――――
The following can scarcely be termed parodies, they are poems in praise of Tobacco written in the newly-revived but old-fashioned Ballade metre.
BALLADE OF THE BEST PIPE.
I hear you fervently extol The virtues of your ancient clay, As black as any piece of coal. To me it smells of rank decay And bones of people passed away,―― A smell I never could admire. With all respect to you I say, Give me a finely seasoned briar.
Poor Jones, whose judgment as a whole Is faultless, has been led astray To nurse a costly meerschaum bowl. Well, let him nurse it as he may, I hardly think he’ll find it pay. Before the colour gets much higher, He’ll drop it on the grate some day. Give me a finely seasoned brier.
The heathen Turk of Istamboul, In Oriental turban gay, Delights his unregenerate soul With hookahs, bubbling in a way To fill a Christian with dismay, And wake the old Crusading fire. May no such pipe be mine I pray! Give me a finely seasoned brier
ENVOY.
Clay, meerschaum, hookah, what are they That I should view them with desire? I’ll sing, till all my hair is grey, Give me a finely seasoned brier.
The University News Sheet. St. Andrews, N.B. March 3, 1886.
――――
THE BALLADE OF TOBACCO.
When verdant youth sees life afar, And first sets out wild oats to sow, He puffs a stiff and stark cigar, And quaffs champagne of Mumm & Co. He likes not smoking yet; but though Tobacco makes him sick indeed, Cigars and wine he can’t forego:―― A slave is each man to the weed.
In time his tastes more dainty are, And delicate. Become a beau, From out the country of the Czar He brings his cigarettes, and lo! He sips the vintage of Bordeaux. Thus keener relish shall succeed The baser liking we outgrow:―― A slave is each man to the weed.
When age and his own lucky star To him perfected wisdom show, The schooner glides across the bar, And beer for him shall freely flow, A pipe with genial warmth shall glow; To which he turns in direst need, To seek in smoke surcease of woe:―― A slave is each man to the weed.
ENVOI.
Smokers! who doubt or con or pro, And ye who dare to drink, take heed! And see in smoke a friendly foe:―― A slave is each man to the weed.
BRANDER MATTHEWS.
From Mr. Gleeson White’s collection of Ballades and Rondeaus. London, Walter Scott, 1887.
――――
IN A CLOUD OF SMOKE. A Rondel.
In a cloud of smoke when the lights are low I half forget that I’m nearly “broke,” And my cares and my sorrows they seem to go In a cloud of smoke.
Ah, yes! ’tis a mystical “Basingstoke,”[25] That guides my thoughts to a saner flow So a fig to the Anti-Tobacco folk!
Her tongue has no “measured beat and slow;” She says that in fumes narcotic I soak; But her withering scorn seems to softer grow In a cloud of smoke.
From Judy. April 18, 1888.
――――
WITH PIPE AND BOOK.
With Pipe and Book at close of day, O! what is sweeter, mortal, say? It matters not what book on knee, Old Izaak or the Odyssey, It matters not meerschaum or clay.
And though our eyes will dream astray, And lips forget to sue or sway, It is “enough to merely Be,” With Pipe and Book.
What though our modern skies be grey, As bards aver, I will not pray For “soothing death” to “succour” me, But ask thus much, O! Fate, of thee, A little longer yet to stay With Pipe and Book.
From Volumes in Folio. By Richard Le Gallienne, author of “My Ladies’ Sonnets,” etc. London, Elkin Matthews, Vigo Street, W. 1889.
A dainty little Volume of Bookish Verses.
――――
LINES ON AN EMPTY TOBACCO-POUCH.
I, who was brisk and R T once, Am C D now; become a dunce. If U the reason would descry, I’ll very quickly tell U Y.
I ne’er indulged in sad I――OOO! When smoke was curling round my N――OOO; But I am falling 2 D K, Who could X L, no distant day.
I lack not T, or O D V, But B 4 long my want U’ll C: My pouch is M T; so, indeed, I N V men with lots of weed.
I C U feel an interest In what your poet would request; There 4 I ask U 2 X QQQ The plaint of my dejected M UUU.
I C U R the smoker’s friend; Send me some weed, B 4 my end! This craving I would fain ap PPP, And smoke my pipe “O K” at EEE.
Declare I lived and died in peace, If U should hear of my D CCC. Erect an F-I-G of me, And write this in my L-E-G.
Here lies a man of Letters, C, Who shunned X S; and yet was E Merry and YYY; a busy B, Who never made an N M E.
From Cope’s Tobacco Plant. November 1871.
――――:o:――――
THE SMOKER’S ALPHABET.
A was an Anti-Tobacconist moke, B was the ’Bacca his neighbours would smoke, C was the Counsel he forced on the world, D was Derision, that at him was hurled. E more Enlightened, would chuckle and say, F “Fill your pipes, and puff nonsense away.” G was a Guardsman, who lit a cigar; H was the health that it never could mar. I was an Irishman witty and gay, J was the Joy that his pipe gave each day. K was the Keel of the vessel that bore L Lots of the “Weed” from Columbia’s shore. M was the Mariner, chewing a quid, N was a Noodle, who vowed “If he did, O “Only ’Orrible qualms would arise.” P was the Punch that he got ’twixt his eyes, Q with the Quid; he turned sickly and wan, R was the “Robert” who made him “move on.” S was the Snuff, pungent, fragrant, and light, T the Torment of Headache cured by it quite. U the plant Universal, that is still V the Victor over full many an ill. W the Wealth, that its growers may hoard, X is a Xebeck, with tobacco on board. Y was a Yankee, who offered cheroots, Z was a Zealot, who said “Fit for brutes!” & the Yankee replied, “Brutes don’t talk, or wear boots.”
ANONYMOUS.
POEMS IN PRAISE OF TOBACCO.
In the following pages the poems are thus arranged――on Tobacco generally, on the Pipe, Cigar and Cigarette, and on Snuff. No poets have been found, however, to sing the praise of chewing Tobacco, a very old form of enjoying the weed. This habit is now principally confined to sailors, soldiers, policemen and others, whose duties compel them to remain in solitude for many hours at a stretch without the solace of a pipe. The following amusing letter shows the importance a sailor attaches to his Quid:――
GRAVESEND, March 24, 1813.
Dear Brother Tom;
This comes hopein to find you in good health as it leaves me safe anckor’d here yesterday at 4 P.M. arter a pleasant voyage tolerable short and a few squalls.――Dear Tom――hopes to find poor old father stout, and am quite out of pig-tail.――Sights of pig-tail at Gravesend, but unfortinly not fit for a dog to chor.
Dear Tom, Captain’s boy will bring you this, and put pig-tail in his pocket when bort. Best in London at the Black Boy in 7 diles, where go acks for best pig-tail――pound a pig-tail will do, and am short of shirts. Dear Tom, as for shirts ony took 2 whereof one is quite wored out and tuther most, but don’t forget the pig-tail, as I aint had a quid to chor never since Thursday. Dear Tom, as for shirts, your size will do, only longer. I liks um long――get one at present, best at Tower-hill, and cheap, but be particler to go to 7 diles for the pig-tail at the Black Boy, and Dear Tom, acks for pound best pig-tail, and let it be good.
Captain’s boy will put the pig-tail in his pocket he likes pigtail, so ty it up. Dear Tom, shall be up about Monday there or thereabouts. Not so perticuler for the shirt, as the present can be washed, but dont forgit the pig-tail without fail, so am your loving brother,
Timothy Parsons.
P. S.――Dont forget the pig-tail.
――――:o:――――
THE INDIAN WEED.
Many versions exist of the following very old song, and the history of it is somewhat contradictory and confusing. It has been ascribed to George Wither (1588-1667), and was originally published in 1631, in a volume entitled The Soules Solace, by Thomas Jenner. Another version was printed in 1672 in “Two Broadsides against Tobacco.”
One version commenced with the following stanza:
Why should we so much despise So good and sweet an exercise As, early and late, to meditate? Thus think, and drink tobacco.[26]
The most usually accepted version runs as follows:――
The Indian weed withered quite, Green at noon, cut down at night, Shows thy decay,―― All flesh is hay: Thus think, then drink tobacco.
The pipe that is so lily-white, Shows thee to be a mortal wight, And even such, Gone with a touch: Thus think, then drink tobacco.
And when the smoke ascends on high, Think thou behold’st the vanity Of worldly stuff, Gone with a puff: Thus think, then drink tobacco.
And when the pipe grows foul within, Think on thy soul defiled with sin; And then the fire It doth require: Thus think, then drink tobacco.
The ashes that are left behind, May serve to put thee still in mind, That unto dust, Return thou must, Thus think, then drink tobacco.
The next is a more modern version:――
TOBACCO IS AN INDIAN WEED.
This Indian weed now withered quite Though green at noon, cut down at night, Shows thy decay; All flesh is hay; Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
The pipe, so lily-like and weak, Does thus thy mortal state bespeak; Thou art e’en such, Gone with a touch: Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
And when the smoke ascends on high, Then thou behold’st the vanity Of worldly stuff, Gone with a puff! Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
And when the pipe grows foul within, Think on thy soul defiled with sin; For then the fire It does require: Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
Thou seest the ashes cast away, Then to thyself thou mayest say, That to the dust Return thou must: Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
Some additional, but very inferior stanzas, were written by the Rev. Ralph Erskine, a minister of the Scotch Church, and printed in his Gospel Sonnets, about the end of the last century. This continuation has been called
SMOKING SPIRITUALIZED.
“Was this small plant for thee cut down? So was the plant of great renown, Which mercy sends For nobler ends. Thus think and smoke tobacco.
“Doth juice medicinal proceed From such a naughty foreign weed? Then what’s the power Of Jesse’s flower? Thus think and smoke tobacco.
“The promise, like the pipe, inlays And, by the mouth of faith, conveys What virtue flows From Sharon’s rose. Thus think and smoke tobacco.
“In vain th’ unlighted pipe you blow, Your pains in outward means are so, Till heavenly fire Your heart inspire. Thus think and smoke tobacco.
“The smoke, like burning incense, towers; So should a praying heart of yours With ardent cries Surmount the skies. Thus think and smoke tobacco.”
――――
A CATCH ON TOBACCO. (Sung by four men smoking their Pipes.)
Good, good indeed; The herb’s good weed; Fill thy pipe, Will. And I prithee, Sam, fill, And yet sing still, And yet sing still, What say the learn’d? What say the learn’d? Vita fumus, vita fumus!
’Tis what you and I, And he and I, You, and he, and I, And all of us sumus.
But then to the learned say we again, If life’s a smoke as they maintain; If life’s a vapour without doubt, When a man does die, He should not cry, That his glass is run but his pipe is out. But whether we smoke or whether we sing, Let us be loyal and remember the King, Let him live, and let his foes vanish thus, thus, thus, Like, like a pipe, like a pipe of Spanish, thus, thus, thus, A pipe of Spanish!
From “Bacchus and Venus.” 1737.
――――
INVOCATION TO TOBACCO.
Weed of the strange power, weed of the earth, Killer of dulness――parent of mirth; Come in the sad hour, come in the gay, Appear in the night, or in the day: Still thou art welcome as June’s blooming rose, Joy of the palate, delight of the nose.
Weed of the green field, weed of the wild, Foster’d in freedom, America’s child; Come in Virginia, come in Havannah, Friend of the universe, sweeter than manna: Still thou art welcome, rich, fragrant and ripe. Pride of the tube-case, Delight of the pipe.
Weed of the savage, weed of each pole, Comforting,――soothing,――Philosophy’s soul; Come in the snuff-box, Come in cigar, In Strasburgh and King’s, come from afar; Still thou art welcome, the purest, the best, Joy of earth’s millions, for ever carest.
From Nicotiana, by Henry James Meller. London Effingham Wilson. 1832.
――――
VIRGINIA TOBACCO.
Two maiden dames of sixty-two Together long had dwelt: Neither, alas! of love so true, The bitter pangs had felt.
But age comes on, they say, apace, To warn us of our death, And wrinkles mar the fairest face, At last it stops our breath.
One of these dames, tormented sore With that curst pang, tooth-ache, Was at a loss for such a bore What remedy to take:
“I’ve heard,” thought she, “this ill to cure, A pipe is good, they say, Well then, tobacco I’ll endure, And smoke the pain away.”
The pipe was lit, the tooth soon well, And she retir’d to rest―― When thus the other ancient belle Her spinster mate addressed:――
“Let me request a favour, pray”―― “I’ll do it if I can”―― “Oh! well then, love, smoke everyday, You smell so like a man!”
From Gimcrackiana, or Fugitive pieces on Manchester Men and Manners. Manchester, 1833. (Attributed to John Stanley Gregson.)
――――
AN IMITATION OF MR. ABRAHAM COWLEY.
“The lazy Earth doth steam amain, And fumes and smokes beneath the rain: The Rivers, Brooks, and Rivulets are No less in smoke particular At nightfall: and the storm blast loud Is often wont to blow a cloud Around the mountain-tops, and they Do take delight in this same way; And send a fiery fume from out Their angry heights, and such a rout Of burnt-up ashes, that do strow Great cities in the plains below. The setting Sun is oft made dim With smoky mists that circle him. So all the world’s on smoking bent, And puffs and fumes to its content: Fill up the bowl then, fill it high, Fill all the gaping pipes, for why Should every creature smoke but I: Why, man of morals, tell me why?”
From “The Anatomy of Tobacco: or Smoking Methodised, Divided, and Considered after a new fashion.” By Leolinus Siluriensis. London. George Redway, 1884.
AN ADDRESS TO THE CRITICS.
Critics avaunt――tobacco is my theme, Tremble like hornets at the blasting steam; And you Court insects――flutter not too near Its light, nor buzz within its scorching sphere. Pollio, with flame like thine, my verse inspire, So shall the Muse, with smoke, elicit fire; Coxcombs prefer the tickling sting of snuff, Yet all their claim to wisdom is――a puff. Lord Fopling smokes not――for his teeth afraid; Sir Tawdry smokes not――for he wears brocade. Ladies, when pipes are brought, affect to swoon; They love no smoke, except the smoke of town. But courtiers hate the puffing tribe――no matter, Strange if they love the breath that cannot flatter. Its foes but show their ignorance, can he Who scorns the leaf of knowledge, love the tree?
Citronia vows it has an odious stink, She will not smoke, ye gods, but she will drink; And chaste Prudella――blame her if you can―― Says――pipes are used by that vile creature man. Yet crowds remain, who still its worth proclaim, For some for pleasure smoke, and some for fame―― Fame, of our actions, universal spring, For which we drink, eat, sleep, smoke――everything.
Smoking and Smokers. By W. A. Delamotte. 1845.
――――
A MANILLA SONNET.
Luscious leaf of fragrant savour, Mild cheroot of choicest flavour, Wafting incense to the sky, Like the gales of Araby, Let us press thee to our lips, As the bee the honey sips; Culling as our well-earned meed, Joys from thee――thou heavenly weed! Ere thy burnished lip we kiss, Let us thus enjoy the bliss, Lit by the promethean spark, Kindled from the congreve dark; In summer-house or country villa, There’s nothing like a good Manilla!
From A Pipe of Tobacco, by E. L. Blanchard. London. H. Beal. (No date.)
――――
L’HEUREUX FUMEUR.
Certain fumeur courtisait une veuve, Grâce à l’hymen, lorsqu’il fut dans ses lacs, Pour te donner, lui dit-il, une preuve De mon amour, je vais mettre en éclats Si tu le veux, ma pipe toute neuve; ――Non, non; la pipe a pour toi trop d’appas; Je ne la crains que lorsque je suis grosse: L’odeur m’en plait quand je ne la suis pas; Tu peux fumer. Notre époux, dans la Beauce Comme héritier d’un oncle, avait des droits; Il part. Suivant des conseils maladroits, Dans un procès chicaneau vous l’enfourne; Ce n’est qu’après absence de vingt mois, Qu’à son logis un matin il retourne, Pipe à la bouche. Oh! qu’est ce que je vois? S’écria-t-il en rentrant; quoi! commode, Console içi! pendule, glace la? D’ou viennent done ces meubles à la mode? ――D’un troc. Je vais te conter tout cela; Mais――mon mari――ta pipe m’incommode.
PONS DE VERDUN.
――――
AN ENCOMIUM ON TOBACCO.
Thrice happy Isles that stole the world’s delight And thus produce so rich a Margarite!
It is the fountain whence all pleasure springs, A potion for imperial and mighty kings. He that is master of so rich a store May laugh at Crœsus and esteem him poor; And with his smoky sceptre in his fist, Securely flout the toiling Alchymist, Who daily labours with a vain expense In distillations of the Quintessence, Not knowing that this golden Herb alone Is the Philosopher’s admired Stone.
It s a favour which the Gods doth please, If they do feed on smoke, as Lucian says. Therefore the cause that the bright sun doth rest At the low point of the declining West―― When his oft wearied horses breathless pant―― Is to refresh himself with this sweet Plant, Which wanton Thetis from the West doth bring, To joy her love after his toilsome ring: For ’tis a cordial for an inward smart, As is Dictamnum[27] to the wounded hart. It is the sponge that wipes out all our woe; ’Tis like the thorn that doth on Pelion grow, With which whoe’er his frost limbs anoints, Shall feel no cold in fat, or flesh, or joints. ’Tis like the river, which whoe’er doth taste, Forgets his present griefs and sorrows past, Music, which makes grim thoughts retire, And for a while cease their tormenting fire Music, which forces beasts to stand at gaze, And fills their senseless spirits with amaze―― Compared to this is like delicious strings, Which sound but harshly while Apollo sings.
The train with this infumed, all quarrel ends And fiercest foemen turn to faithful friends; The man that shall this smoky magic prove, Will need no philtres to obtain his love. Yet this sweet simple, by misordered use, Death or some dangerous sickness may produce. Should we not for our sustentation eat Because a surfeit comes from too much meat? Should we not thirst with mod’rate drink repress, Because a dropsy springs from such excess? So our fair Plant――that doth as needful stand As heaven, or fire, or air, or sea, or land; As moon, or stars that rule the gloomy night, Or sacred friendship or the sunny light―― Her treasured virtue in herself enrolls, And leaves the evil to vainglorious souls. And yet, who dies with this celestial breath, Shall live immortal in a joyful death. All goods, all pleasures, it in one can link―― ’Tis physic, clothing, music, meat, and drink.
Gods would have revell’d at their feasts of Mirth With this pure distillation of the earth; The marrow of the world, star of the West, The Pearl whereby this lower Orb is blest; The joy of Mortals, Umpire of all strife, Delight of Nature, Mithridate of Life; The daintiest dish of a delicious feast, By taking which Man differs from a beast.
ANONYMOUS. TEMP., JAMES I.
From The Smoker’s Guide, Philosopher and Friend, by a veteran of Smokedom. London. Hardwicke and Bogue.
――――
THE PATRIOTIC SMOKER’S LAMENT.
Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh, Briton of the truest type, When that too-devoted valet Quenched your first-recorded pipe, Were you pondering the opinion, As you watched the airy coil, That the virtue of Virginian Might be bred in British soil?
You transplanted the potato: ’Twas a more enduring gift Than the wisdom of a Plato To our poverty and thrift. That respected root has flourished Nobly for a nation’s need; But our brightest dreams are nourished Ever on a foreign weed.
For the deepest meditation Of the philosophic scribe, For the poet’s inspiration, For the cynic’s polished gibe, We invoke narcotic nurses In their jargon from afar: I indite these modest verses, On a polyglot cigar.
Leaf that lulls a Turkish Aga May a scholar’s soul renew, Fancy spring from Larranaga, History from honeydew. When the teacher and the tyro Spirit-manna fondly seek, ’Tis the cigarette from Cairo Or a compound from the Greek.
But no British-born aroma Is fit incense to the Queen; Nature gives her best diploma To the alien nicotine. We are doomed to her ill-favour; For the plant that’s native grown Has a patriotic flavour Too exclusively our own.
O my country, could your smoker Boast your “shag,” or even “twist,” Every man were mediocre Save the blest tobacconist! He will point immortal morals, Make all common praises mute, Who shall win our grateful laurels With a national cheeroot!
The St. James’s Gazette.
――――
ODE TO THE WEED.
When happy quite and cosy grown, I feel for meditation ripe, I need companionship, and so I take a pipe.
When from the irksome cares of life I pine to be removed far, They vex no longer if I light, A good cigar.
I realize what Eden was, (Or some faint semblance of it get) When “she” is with me, and I light A cigarette.
Ah me! how much the spirits bless Mankind. I fail when I begin To count thy many gifts to me Sweet “Nicotin.”
I wonder oft as I enjoy Thy calm delights (and calm indeed), How they can call thy resting place By name “a weed.”
O, may the world in all its ills, Ne’er have this greatest to confess, That is, that it should e’er become Tobaccoless.
R. W. ESSEX.
――――
AMOURETTES OF A SMOKER.
I flirted first with cigarettes One windy, wild March day; But found their fire, like fair coquettes, Too soon consume away.
And then I wooed the mild cheroot, As balmy as the south; Inserting, after much dispute, The big end in my mouth.
Awhile I dallied with cigars, Havanna’s ripe brunettes; And wafted incense to the stars, In blue and spiral jets.
Shag, bird’s-eye, twist, and negro-head This infant doth eschew; And cavendish he hath “cut” dead: But “Chacun â son goût.”
One Christmas on an ottoman I sat, and some turkey A fair girl brought me in a can―― Ister, a duck was she!
I bought a pipe, with amber tip, Of Moses Abrahams; Alas! one day I let it slip―― I’ll love no more mere-shams!
Now, all my youthful amour o’er, I’m wed, and every day With smoking holocausts adore An idol made of clay.
GEORGE HILL.
――――
A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.
May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammering verse, If I can a passage see In this word-perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to my mind (Still the phrase is wide or scant), To take leave of thee, Great Plant! Or in any terms relate Half my love or half my hate: For I hate yet love thee so, That, whichever thing I show, The plain truth will seem to be A constrain’d hyperbole, And the passion to proceed More from a mistress than a weed. Sooty retainer to the vine, Bacchus’ black servant, negro fine; Sorcerer, that makest us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion, And for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimed lovers take ’Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way, While thou suck’st the labouring breath Faster than kisses or than death.
Thou in such a cloud dost bind us, That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; While each man, through thy heightening steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem, And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness.
Thou through such a mist dost show us, That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowed features, Due to reasonable creatures, Liken’st us to fell chimeras―― Monsters that, who see us, fear us; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion. Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou, That but by reflex canst show What his deity can do, As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle? Some few vapours thou may’st raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze, But to the reins and nobler heart Canst nor life nor heat impart.
Brother of Bacchus, later born, The old world was sure forlorn Wanting thee, that aidest more The god’s victories than before All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Bacchanals. These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of thee meant: only thou His true Indian conquest art; And, for ivy round his dart The reformed god now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves. Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne’er presume Through her quaint alembic strain, None so sovereign to the brain. Nature that did in thee excel, Framed again no second smell. Roses, violets, but toys, For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manly scent.
Stinking’st of the stinking kind, Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, Africa, that brags her foison, Breeds no such prodigious poison, Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite―― Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you. ’Twas but in a sort I blamed thee, None e’er prosper’d who defamed thee: Irony all and feign’d abuse, Such as perplex’d lovers use At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike; And, instead of Dearest Miss, Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her Cockatrice and Siren, Basilisk, and all that’s evil, Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor. Monkey, Ape, and twenty more: Friendly Traitress, Loving Foe,―― Not that she is truly so, But no other way they know A contentment to express, Borders so upon excess, That they do not rightly wot Whether it be pain or not.
Or as men, constrain’d to part, With what’s nearest to their heart, While their sorrow’s at the height, Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce.
For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, Tobacco, I, Would do anything but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But, as she who once hath been A king’s consort, is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any tittle of her state Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain: And a seat, too, ’mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys; Where, though I, by sour physician, Am debarr’d the full fruition Of thy favours, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odours, that give life Like glances from a neighbour’s wife; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces; And in thy borders take delight An unconquer’d Canaanite.
CHARLES LAMB.
――――
LORD BYRON ON TOBACCO.
Borne from a short frail pipe which yet had blown Its gentle odours over either zone, And, puff’d where’er winds rise or waters roll, Had wafted smoke from Portsmouth to the Pole, Opposed its vapour as the lightning flash’d, And reek’d, midst mountain-billows unabash’d, To Æolus a constant sacrifice, Thro’ every change of all the varying skies. And what was he who bore it? I may err, But deem him sailor or philosopher. SUBLIME TOBACCO! which from East to West Cheers the tar’s labour or the Turkman’s rest; Which on the Moslem’s ottoman divides His hours, and rivals opium and his brides; Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand, Though not less loved, in Wapping or the Strand; Divine in hookahs, glorious in a pipe, When tipp’d with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe; Like other charmers, wooing the caress, More dazzlingly when daring in full dress; Yet thy true lovers more admire by far Thy naked beauties――give me a cigar!
The Island.
――――
A SHIELD OF ADAMANT.
For lack o’ Tobacco, I’d die; For cigars O! my stars, How I cry! For a smoke is the shield Before which troubles yield―― Enabling us cares to defy!
E. H. S.
――――:o:――――
EPITAPH
On a young lady who desired that Tobacco might be planted over her grave.
Let no cold marble o’er my body rise―― But only earth above, and sunny skies. Thus would I lowly lie in peaceful rest, Nursing the Herb Divine from out my breast. Green let it grow above this clay of mine, Deriving strength from strength that I resign. So in the days to come, when I’m beyond This fickle life, will come my lovers fond, And gazing on the plant, their grief restrain In whispering, “Lo! dear Anna blooms again!”
POEMS ON THE PIPE.
Hail! social pipe――thou foe to care, Companion of my elbow chair; As forth thy curling fumes arise, They seem an evening sacrifice―― An offering to my Maker’s praise, For all His benefits and grace.
DR. GARTH.
SONNET TO A PIPE. (1690.)
“Doux charme de ma solitude, Brulante pipe, ardent fourneau! Qui purges d’humeur mon cerveau, Et mon esprit d’inquiétude. Tabac! dont mon ame est ravie, Lorsque je te vois te perdre en l’air, Aussi promptement q’un éclair, Je vois l’image de ma vie; Tu remets dans mon souvenir, Ce qu’un jour je dois devenir, N’étant qu’une cendre animée; Et tout d’un coup je m’aperçoi, Que courant après ta fumée, Je passe de même que toi.”
Attributed to Esprit de Raymond, Comte de Modène.
Translation of the above.
“Sweet smoking pipe, bright glowing stove, Companion still of my retreat, Thou dost my gloomy thoughts remove, And purge my brain with gentle heat.
“Tobacco, charmer of my mind, When, like the meteor’s transient gleam Thy substance gone to air I find, I think, alas! my life the same.
“What else but lighted dust am I? Thou show’st me what my fate will be; And when thy sinking ashes die, I learn that I must end like thee.”
――――
TO A PIPE OF TOBACCO.
Come, lovely tube by friendship blest, Belov’d and honour’d by the wise, Come, fill’d with honest Weekly’s best, And kindled from the lofty skies.
While round me clouds of incense roll, With guiltless joys you charm the sense, And nobler pleasures to the soul, In hints of moral truth, dispense.
Soon as you feel th’ inlivening ray, To dust you hasten to return; And teach me that my earliest day, Began to give me to the urn.
But tho’ thy grosser substance sink To dust, thy purer part aspires; This when I see, I joy to think That earth but half of me requires.
Like thee myself am born to die, Made half to rise and half to fall. O! could I while my moments fly, The bliss you give me, give to all.
From The Gentleman’s Magazine. July, 1746.
――――
CHOOSING A WIFE BY A PIPE OF TOBACCO.
Tube, I love thee as my life; By thee I mean to chuse a wife, Tube, thy colour let me find, In her skin and in her mind Let her have a shape as fine; Let her breath be sweet as thine: Let her, when her lips I kiss, Burn like thee, to give me bliss: Let her in some smoke or other, All my failings kindly smother. Often when my thoughts are low, Send them where they ought to go. When to study I incline Let her aid be such as thine: Such as thine her charming pow’r, In the vacant social hour Let her live to give delight, Ever warm and ever bright: Let her deeds, whene’er she dies, Mount as incense to the skies.
From The Gentleman’s Magazine. 1757.
――――
TRANSLATION OF A GERMAN SONG.
When my pipe burns bright and clear, The gods I need not envy here; And as the smoke fades in the wind, Our fleeting life it brings to mind.
Noble weed! that comforts life, And art with calmest pleasures rife; Heaven grant thee sunshine and warm rain, And to thy planter health and gain.
Through thee, friend of my solitude, With hope and patience I’m endued, Deep sinks thy power within my heart, And cares and sorrows all depart
Then let non-smokers rail for ever; Shall their hard words true friends dissever? Pleasure’s too rare to cast away My pipe, for what the railers say!
When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me. When friends are fled, thy presence charms me; If thou art full, though purse be bare, I smoke, and cast away all care!
――――
THE PIPE OF TOBACCO.
Why should life in sorrow be spent, When pleasure points to the road Wherein each traveller with content May throw off the ponderous load?
And instead, in ample measure, Gather fruits too long left ripe; What’s this world without its pleasure? What is pleasure but a pipe?
Is it not tobacco dear, That from the brow fell grief can wipe? Yes! like them with jolly cheer, I find pleasure in a pipe.
Some delight in envy ever, Others avaricious gripe; Would you know our greatest pleasure? ’Tis a glowing social pipe.
Two verses omitted.
(Printed by W. J. Shelmerdine, about 1794.)
From Logan’s Pedlar’s Pack of Ballads.
――――
LA PIPE DE TABAC.
Contre les chagrins de la vie, On crie, “Et ab hoc et ab hac;” Moi, je me crois digne d’envie, Quand j’ai ma pipe et mon tabac. Aujourd’hui, changeant de folie, Et de boussole et d’almanach, Je préfère fille jolie, Même à la pipe de tabac.
Le soldat bâille sous la tente, Le matelot sur le tillac; Bientot ils out l’âme contente, Avec la pipe de tabac. Si pourtant survient une belle A l’instant le cœur fait tictac, Et l’amant oublie auprès d’elle Jusqu’à la pipe de tabac.
Je tiens cette maxime utile De ce fameux monsieur de Crac: En campagne, comme à la ville, Fêtons l’amour et le tabac. Quand ce grand homme allait en guerre, Il portait dans son petit sac, Le doux portrait de sa bergère, Avec la pipe de tabac.
PIGAULT LEBRUN. (1755-1835.)
――――
CONTENT AND A PIPE.
Contented I sit with my pint and my pipe, Puffing sorrow and care far away, And surely the brow of grief nothing can wipe Like smoking and moist’ning our clay; For, though liquor can banish man’s reason afar, ’Tis only a fool or a sot, Who with reason or sense would be ever at war, And don’t know when enough he has got. For, though at my simile many may joke, Man is but a pipe――and his life but smoke.
Yes, a man and a pipe are much nearer akin Than has as yet been understood, For, until with breath they are both fill’d within, Pray tell me for what are they good? They, one and the other, composed are of clay, And, if rightly I tell nature’s plan, Take but the breath from them both quite away, The pipe dies and so does the man: For, though at my simile many may joke, Man is but a pipe――and his life but smoke.
Thus I’m told by my pipe that to die is man’s lot, And, sooner or later, die he must; For when to the end of life’s journey he’s got, Like a pipe that’s smoked out――he is dust: So you, who would wish in your hearts to be gay. Encourage not strife, care, or sorrow, Make much of your pipe of tobacco to-day, For you may be smoked out to-morrow: For, though at my simile many may joke, Man is but a pipe――and his life but smoke.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
LA FEMME ET LA PIPE.
Plains-moi, Philippe, mon ami; Le sort me traite en ennemi. Un instant mon âme charmée Sut se caresser de fumée; Un instant m’enivra l’amour: Hélas! tout a fui sans rétour. Suis-je donc né pour le malheur, Philippe? J’ai perdu ma femme et j’ai cassé ma pipe. Ah! combien je regrette ma pipe!
Ma femme était blanche de peau, Ma pipe était comme un corbeau; Elle était simple et pas bégueule; Je m’en servais en brûle-gueule: Avec elles deux je chauffais Mon lit, mes doigts et mon palais! Suis-je donc né pour le malheur, etc. * * * * *
Quand, par un caprice à blâmer, Ma femme me faisait fumer, Moi, j’avais alors un principe; Je prenais ma blague et ma pipe, Et, las de fumer au moral, Je savourais mon caporal. Suis-je donc né, etc.
Ma femme avait bien des appas, Et ma pipe n’en manquait pas. Que sa jupe était bien portée! Dieu! qu’elle etait bien culottée! J’embrassais l’une en musulman, Je fumais l’autre en Allemand. Suis-je donc né, etc.
Conclusion Consolante.
――Mon cher Fumard, pour ton chagrin Il est un baume; c’est du vin! La femme pour qui tu sanglotes, Souvent te tirait des carottes, Et grâce à la pipe, au tabac, Se desséchait ton estomac. ――Tu crois! allons, verse-moi donc, Philippe, Verse-moi l’oubli de ma femme et ma pipe! Ah! pourtant je regrette ma pipe!
――――
A POT AND A PIPE OF TOBACCO.
Some praise taking snuff, And ’tis pleasant enough, To those who have got the right knack, oh! But give me, my boys, Those exquisite joys, A pot and a pipe of tobacco.
When fume follows fume To the top of the room, In circles pursuing their track, O! How sweet to inhale The health-giving gale, Of a pipe of Virginia tobacco.
Let soldiers, so bold, For fame, or for gold, Their enemies cut, slash, and hack, O! We have fire and smoke Though all but in joke, In a peaceable pipe of tobacco.
Should a mistress unkind, Be inconstant in mind, And on your affections look black, O! Let her werritt and tiff ’Twill blow off in a whiff, If you take but a pipe of tobacco.
The miserly elf Who, in hoarding his pelf, Keeps body and soul on the rack, O! Would he bless and be blest He might open his chest, By taking a pipe of tobacco.
Life’s short, ’tis agreed So we’ll try from the weed, Of man a brief emblem to tack, O! When his spirit ascends, Die he must――and he ends In dust like a pipe of tobacco!
――――
TO AN OLD PIPE.
Once your smoothly-polished face Nestled lightly in a case; ’Twas a jolly, cosy place, I surmise; And a zealous subject blew On your cheeks, until they grew To the fascinating hue Of her eyes.
Near a rusty-hilted sword, Now upon my mantle-board, Where my curios are stored, You recline. You were pleasant company when By the scribbling of her pen I was sent the ways of men To repine.
Tell me truly (you were there When she ceased that debonair Correspondence and affair)―― I suppose That she laughed and smiled all day; Or did gentle teardrops stray Down her charming, retrousée, Little nose?
Where the sunbeams, coyly chill, Fall upon the mantel-sill You perpetually will Silence woo; And I fear that she herself, By the little chubby elf, Will be laid upon the shelf, Just as you.
DE WITT STERRY.
――――
THE CUTTY.
When nobs come oot to walk aboot, And show their shapes to leddies; They’re ne’er without their grand cheroot, For that they think well bred is.
And when they meet――no in the street, But aiblins ower a meal like―― Then oot they draw a meerschaum braw, An’ that looks real genteel like.
Weel! there’s nae ban on ony man, Let him be braw or sootie; I’ll no debar their grand cigar, But I’ll haud to my cutty.
* * * * *
The winter’s blast, aft gey an fast, Blaws your genteel cigar oot; My cutty’s fire, with tap o’ wire, Burns no a grain the waur o’t.
* * * * *
So now I’ll ripe my cutty pipe, And bauldly face rude Boreas; And, as I fill, ower ilka ill, I’ll still haud on victorious.
These extracts are taken from A Pedlar’s Pack of Ballads and Songs. Edinburgh, W. Paterson. 1869.
――――
MY CLAY PIPE.
“Thou cheering friend of many a weary hour, I’ll sing thy virtues in my humble lay; Oft have I felt thy gentle, soothing power; I do not scorn thee, though thou art but clay.
Far dearer thou to me than choicest work From the skill’d products of Italia’s land, Or rich chibouque of the enamour’d Turk, With endless tubes, and amber mouthpiece grand.
Companion thou hast been for many a year; ’Tis I have colour’d thy once fair face black; I could not leave thee now without a tear, Thou, the last keepsake of my old friend Jack.
He prized thee for thy shape――and then to hear How oft upon thy merits he hath spoken! Long may I smoke thee with my evening beer, My own loved pipe!――Confound it! it is broken!”
――――
ON THE PLEASURE OF A PIPE.
Charm of the solitude I love; My pleasing, my glowing stove! My head of rheum is purged by thee; My heart of vain anxiety. Tobacco! favourite of my soul! When round my head thy vapours roll; When lost in air they vanish too, An emblem of my life I view. I view, and, hence instructed, learn To what myself shall shortly turn: Myself, a kindled coal to-day, That wastes in smoke, and flees away. Swiftly as these――confusing thought―― Alas! I vanish into naught.
From Cope’s Tobacco Plant. December, 1871.
――――
LA PIPE.
Je suis la pipe d’un auteur; On voit, à contempler ma mine D’Abyssinienne ou de Cafrine, Que mon maitre est un grand fumeur.
Quand il est comblé de douleur, Je fume comme la chaumine Où se prépare la cuisine Pour le retour du laboureur.
J’enlace et je berce son âme Dans le réseau mobile et bleu Qui monte de ma bouche en feu,
Et je roule un puissant dictame Qui charme son cœur et guérit De ses fatiques son esprit.
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE.
Translation of the above.
A Poet’s pipe am I; And my Abyssinian tint Is an unmistakable hint That he lays me not often by,
When his soul is with grief o’erworn, I smoke like the cottage where They are cooking the evening fare For the labourer’s return.
I enfold and cradle his soul In the vapour moving and blue That mounts from my fiery mouth;
And there is power in my bowl To charm his spirit and soothe, And heal his weariness too.
RICHARD HERNE SHEPHERD.
――――
MY DARLING PIPE.
Pipe, my darling, Fate is snarling―― Let her snarl.
Thou art my love Thee do I love Best of all.
In thy kisses, Truest blisses Ever dwell.
Faithful ever, Pouting never―― Ah! ’tis well,
Pipe, my darling, Fate is snarling―― Let her snarl
――――:o:――――
MY AFTER-DINNER CLOUD.
Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude at home, Perchance an ultra-bilious fit Paints all the world an orange chrome. When Fear, and Care, and grim Despair, Flock round me in a ghostly crowd, One charm dispels them all in air;―― I blow my after-dinner cloud.
’Tis melancholy to devour The gentle chop in loneliness. I look on six――my prandial hour―― With dread not easy to express. And yet, for every penance done, Due compensation seems allow’d, My penance o’er, its price is won;―― I blow my after-dinner cloud.
My clay is not a Henry Clay―― I like it better, on the whole; And when I fill it, I can say I drown my sorrows in the bowl. For most I love my lowly pipe When weary, sad, and leaden-brow’d: At such a time behold me ripe To blow my after-dinner cloud.
As gracefully the smoke ascends In columns from the weed beneath, My friendly wizard, Fancy lends A vivid shape to every wreath. Strange memories of life or death, Up from the cradle to the shroud, Come forth as, with enchanter’s breath, I blow my after-dinner cloud.
What wonder if it stills my care To quit the present for the past; And summon back the things that were, Which only thus in vapour last? What wonder if I envy not The rich, the giddy, and the proud, Contented in this quiet spot To blow my after-dinner cloud?
From Gillott and Goosequill. By Henry S. Leigh. London, British Publishing Company. 1871.
MY THREE LOVES.
When Life was all a summer day, And I was under twenty, Three loves were scattered in my way―― And three at once are plenty. Three hearts, if offered with a grace, One thinks not of refusing. The task in this especial case Was only that of choosing. I knew not which to make my pet―― My pipe, cigar, or cigarette.
To cheer my night or glad my day My pipe was ever willing; The meerschaum or the lowly clay Alike repaid the filling. Grown men delight in blowing clouds, As boys in blowing bubbles, Our cares to puff away in crowds, And banish all our troubles. My pipe I nearly made my pet, Above cigar or cigarette.
A tiny paper, tightly rolled About some Latakia, Contains within its magic fold A mighty panacea. Some thought of sorrow or of strife At ev’ry whiff will vanish; And all the scenery of life Turn picturesquely Spanish. But still I could not quite forget Cigar and pipe for cigarette.
To yield an after-dinner puff O’er demi-tasse and brandy, No cigarettes are strong enough No pipes are ever handy. However fine may be the feed, It only moves my laughter Unless a dry delicious weed Appears a little after. A prime cigar I firmly set Above a pipe or cigarette.
But, after all, I try in vain To fetter my opinion; Since each upon my giddy brain Has boasted a dominion. Comparisons I’ll not provoke, Lest all should be offended. Let this discussion end in smoke, As many more have ended. And each I’ll make a special pet; My pipe, cigar, and cigarette.
HENRY S. LEIGH.
The London Magazine. November, 1875.
――――
ODE TO MY PIPE.
My pipe to me, thro’ gloom and glee, Has been my faithful friend; I sit and smoke――not sit and soak, For that I can’t commend.
Bird’s eye, returns, or shag that burns Most freely and most bright; This Indian weed, it is, indeed, My solace and delight.
Some people say it steals away The brain, till all is bare, But they are foes, or chiefly those Who’ve got no brains to spare.
Great Doctor Parr, bright learning’s star, A scholar rare and ripe, Would sit and puff, through smooth and rough, Enraptured with his pipe.
My pipe I’ll fill, and smoke I will, Though all the world condemn; And if I die burnt black and dry, Pray, what is that to them?
The Echo. February 16, 1889.
――――
WHO SCORNS THE PIPE.
Who scorns the pipe? Show me the man, I do not mention “glasses,” He’s writhing under social ban The jink his soul compasses―― Old friend Tobacco!
Ye carping souls, who, envious, doom The weed to dire perdition, Just take a whiff――dispel the gloom That clouds your mental vision―― Of rare Tobacco!
――――:o:――――
MOTTO FOR A TOBACCO JAR.
Come! don’t refuse sweet Nicotina’s aid, But woo the goddess through a yard of clay; And soon you’ll own she is the fairest maid To stifle pain and drive old Care away. Nor deem it waste, what though to ash she burns, If for your outlay you get good Returns!
Some time since, in Cope’s Tobacco Plant, there was a competition for the best inscription for a Tobacco Jar. The first and second prizes were awarded to the following, and many others were printed:――
First.
INSCRIPTION FOR A TOBACCO JAR.
Three hundred year ago or soe, Ane worthye knight and gentleman Did bring mee here, to charm and cheer Ye physical and mental man. God rest his soul, who filled ye bowl, And may our blessings find him; That hee not miss some share of bliss, Who left soe much behind him!
YE SMOKE JACK (BERNARD BARKER).
Second.
Keep me at hand, and as my fumes arise You’ll find a jar the gates of Paradise.
THE CIGAR.
Some sigh for this and that; My wishes don’t go far; The world may wag at will, So I have my cigar.
Some fret themselves to death With Whig and Tory jar, I don’t care which is in, So I have my cigar.
Sir John requests my vote And so does Mr. Marr; I don’t care how it goes, So I have my cigar.
Some want a German row, Some wish a Russian war, I care not――I’m at peace, So I have my cigar.
I never see the Post, I seldom read the Star; The Globe I scarcely heed, So I have my cigar.
They tell me that Bank stock Is sunk much under par; It’s all the same to me, So I have my cigar.
Honours have come to men My juniors at the Bar; No matter I can wait, So I have my cigar.
Ambition frets me not, A cab or glory’s car Are just the same to me, So I have my cigar.
I worship no vain gods, But serve the household Lar, I’m sure to be at home, So I have my cigar.
I do not seek for fame, A General with a scar; A private let me be, So I have my cigar.
To have my choice among The toys of life’s bazaar, The deuce may take them all, So I have my cigar.
Some minds are often tost By tempests like a tar; I always seem in port So I have my cigar.
The ardent flame of love My bosom cannot char, I smoke, but do not burn, So I have my cigar.
They tell me Nancy Low Has married Mr. Parr; The Jilt! but I can live, So I have my cigar.
THOMAS HOOD.
――――
THE CIGAR SONG.
The sky it was dark, and the way it was long, When I mounted his Majesty’s Mail; And I tried to chirrup a cheery song In the teeth of the wind and the hail;―― But it wouldn’t do――so on night’s dark face I said there should glitter one star; And I took from snug sleep in its own cozy case, And lit up into life a cigar.
And then, as its sweet breath came forth with good-will, The sky didn’t look half so gruff; ’Till I felt like a player or poet, who still Gets more happy at every puff. And said I to myself, since mere vapour thus soothes, Why should men their bliss ever mar? Life’s cold spots it warms, and its rough places smoothes, And each pleasure is but a cigar!
But――like Hope, self-consuming before its own fire―― It silently wasted away; And I was too happy to stop to inquire If there was such a thing as decay.
It was gone! and I could not another one light! But the lesson in love’s stronger far; Ere the embers of one flame have ceased to be bright, Light another――just like a cigar!
From The Chameleon, published anonymously by Longmans, Rees & Co., London, 1833 Ascribed to T. Atkinson.
――――
THE SMOKERS.
Smoke, do you? Well, then, sir, you know How fast and firm these habits grow; You’ve often doubtless sworn to quit, And then forgot it till you’d lit A fresh cigar, and caught the smell Of that which pleases you so well.
You’ve doubtless looked into your purse And counted cost with many a curse, And read of dread diseases caught By smoking oftener than you ought; And vowed at least that you’d curtail The cost and danger, but to fail.
You buy two where ’twas six before―― But go more often to the store; You storm and reason with yourself, And put your box back on the shelf, But, in whatever place you are, Your thoughts are with your shelved cigar.
How weak this proves strong men to be! Free, yet in hopeless slavery! The thought is madness to the mind; We’ll burst these galling chains that bind! But, ere, my friend, we go too far, I’ll thank you for a fresh cigar.
COLUMBUS DISPATCH.
――――
TO MY CIGAR.
(Translated from the German of Friedrich Marc.)
The warmth of thy glow, Well lighted cigar Makes happy thoughts flow, And drives sorrow afar.
The stronger the wind blows The brighter thou burnest, The dreariest of life’s woes Less gloomy thou turnest.
As I feel on my lip Thy unselfish kiss, Like thy flame colour’d tip, All is rosy-hued bliss.
No longer does sorrow, Lay weight on my heart, And all fears of the morrow In joy dreams depart.
Sweet cheerer of sadness Life’s own happy star! I greet thee with gladness My precious cigar!
――――
HIS FIRST CIGAR.
A small boy puffed at a big cigar His eyes bulged out and his cheeks sank in: He gulped rank fumes with his lips ajar, While muscles shook in his youthful chin. His gills were green, but he smole a smile; He sat high up on the farmyard stile, And cocked his hat o’er his glassy eye, Then wunk a wink at a cow near by.
The earth swam round, but the stile stood still, The trees rose up and the kid crawled down He groaned aloud for he felt so ill, And knew that cigar had “done him brown.” His head was light, and his feet like lead, His cheeks grew white as a linen spread, While he weakly gasped, as he gazed afar, “If I live, this here’s my last cigar.”
――――
MY LAST CIGAR.
The mighty Thebes, and Babylon the great, Imperial Rome, in turn, have bowed to fate; So this great world, and each particular star, Must all burn out, like you, my last cigar: A puff――a transient fire, that ends in smoke, And all that’s given to man――that bitter joke―― Youth, Hope, and Love, three whiffs of passing zest Then come the ashes, and the long, long rest.
From Nicotiana, by Henry James Meller. London. Effingham Wilson. 1832.
――――
ODE TO MY CIGAR.
Yes, social friend, I love thee well. In learned doctors’ spite; Thy clouds all other clouds dispel, And lap me in delight.
What though they tell, with phizzes long, My years are sooner passed? I would reply, with reason strong. “They’re sweeter while they last.”
And oft, mild friend, to me, thou art A monitor, though still; Thou speak’st a lesson to my heart, Beyond the preacher’s skill.
Thou’rt like the man of worth who gives To goodness every day, The odour of whose virtues lives When he has passed away.
When in the lonely evening hour, Attended but by thee, O’er history’s varied page I pore, Man’s fate in thine I see.
Oft, as thy snowy column grows, Then breaks and falls away, I trace how mighty realms thus rose, Thus trembled to decay.
Awhile, like thee, earth’s masters burn, And smoke and fume around, And then like thee to ashes turn And mingle with the ground.
Life’s but a leaf adroitly rolled, And time’s the wasting breath, That late or early we behold Gives all to dusky death.
From beggar’s frieze to monarch’s robe One common doom is passed; Sweet nature’s work, the swelling globe, Must all burn out at last.
And what is he who smokes thee now? A little moving heap, That soon like thee to fate must bow, With thee in dust must sleep.
But though thy ashes downward go, Thy essence rolls on high; Thus, when my body must lie low, My soul shall cleave the sky.
CHARLES SPRAGUE.
From The New York Tobacco Plant.
――――
MY FIRST CIGAR.
As the years vanish, darling, Time, with the sponge of Fate, Wipes the events we cherish Cleanly from Memory’s slate; E’en the first pair of * * That I put on, I vow, I have forgot their colour, Their cut and their pattern now; When did the dawning whisker Sprout on my boyish face? When did my soaring treble Change to a manly bass? I have forgotten, darling, I have forgotten――but, ah! One memory ever will haunt me―― The taste of my First Cigar!
Not in fair Cuba, darling, Under a sun of gold; Or down in old Virginny Were those brown leaves enrolled, But from the English cabbage Sprang the enchanting weed In a Whitechapel cellar, Moulded and made, indeed; I cannot tell you, darling, How my heart thrill’d with glee, As down on the shiny counter Planked I my last two d., And the fair girl who served me, Lounging behind the bar, Handed across the beer-pulls A light for my First Cigar.
Moments of dire upheaval, Darling, your boy has known, When salmon for supper unsettled Sadly his system’s tone, When at two a.m. on the doorstep He has stood, with a vacant smile, Two bob and a toothpick in pocket, And wearing a stranger’s tile,―― And oft on the billowy ocean, His anguish has naught assuaged, When there was a run on the brandy, And the basins were all engaged,―― But even these pangs, my darling, Are not to be held on a par With the writhe, and the rack, and the riot, That followed my First Cigar.
CLO. GRAVES.
From Hood’s Comic Annual, 1889.
――――
CONFESSION OF A CIGAR-SMOKER.
I owe to smoking, more or less, Through life the whole of my success; With my cigar I’m sage and wise―― Without, I’m dull as cloudy skies. When smoking all my ideas soar, When not, they sink upon the floor. The greatest men have all been smokers, And so were all the greatest jokers. Then ye who’d bid adieu to care, Come here and smoke it into air!
――――:o:――――
THE CIGARETTE.
I sing the song of the cigarette, The nineteenth century dudelet’s pet; With its dainty white overcoat, Prithee, now, make a note, How your affections entangled get. The Machiavelian power I sing, Of the stealthy, insidious, treacherous thing.
What odours unpleasant our nostrils fret! That subtle aroma we ne’er forget. But wherefore complain of it? Spite of the pain of it, We, too, indulge in our cigarette. The skeletonizing power I sing, Of the mind-paralyzing, perfidious thing.
Shades of the past, that linger yet! Is there no land where laws beset Those who lay sense aside, Puffing slow suicide, Into themselves from a cigarette? Thither I’d fly, and for ever sing The praise of the land that is free from the thing.
From the various gamins the slums beget To the gilded youth with the coronet, All of them play with it, Seemingly gay with it, Taking slow death through a cigarette. The invasive, intrusive, odoriferous thing Its power autocratic I sadly sing.
What sinner without and beyond the pale Of civilization, began to inhale, Sealing his own sad fate, Telling us, oh, too late! Gibbering lunacy ends the tale. Husky my voice, I must cease to sing, I’m puffing, myself, at the poisonous thing.
The Judge.
SNUFF: AN INSPIRATION.
The pungent, nose-refreshing weed, Which, whether pulverised it gain A speedy passage to the brain, Or, whether touched with fire, it rise In circling eddies to the skies, Does thought more quicken and refine Than all the breath of all the Nine.
WILLIAM COWPER.
――――
SGANARELLE, tenant une tabatière:――
“Quoi que puissent dire Aristote et toute la philosophie, il n’est rien d’égal au tabac; c’est la passion des honnêtes gens, et qui vit sans tabac n’est pas digne de vivre. Non seulement il réjouit et purge les cerveaux humains, mais encore il instruit les âmes à la vertu, et l’on apprend avec lui à devenir honnête homme. Ne voyez-vous pas bien, dès qu’on en prend, de quelle manière obligeante on en use avec tout le monde, et comme on est ravi d’en donner à droite et à gauche, par-tout où l’on se trouve? On n’attend pas même que l’on en demande, et l’on court au-devant du souhait des gens: tant il est vrai que le tabac inspire des sentiments d’honneur et de vertu à tous ceux qui en prennent.”
MOLIERE. Don Juan. (1665.)
――――
SIX REASONS FOR TAKING SNUFF.
When strong perfumes and noisome scents, The suffering nose invade Snuff, best of Indian weeds, presents Its salutary aid.
When vapours swim before the eyes, And cloud the dizzy brain, Snuff, to dispel the mist, applies Its quick enlivening grain.
When pensively we sit or walk, Each social friend away, Snuff best supplies the want of talk, And cheers the lonely day.
The hand, like alabaster fair, The diamond’s sparkling pride, Can ne’er so gracefully appear, If snuff should be denied.
E’en Commerce, name of sweetest sound To every British ear, Must suffering droop, should snuff be found Unworthy of our care.
For ev’ry pinch of snuff we take Helps trade in some degree; As smallest drops of water make The vast unbounded sea.
Read’s Weekly Journal. February 21, 1761.
――――
J’AI DU BON TABAC.
J’ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatière, J’ai du bon tabac, tu n’en auras pas. J’en ai du fin et du rapé, Ce n’est pour ton fichu nez. J’ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatière, J’ai du bon tabac, tu n’en auras pas.
Ce refrain connu que chantait mon père, A ce seul couplet il était borné. Moi, je me suis déterminé A le grossir comme mon nez. J’ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatière, J’ai du bon tabac, tu n’en auras pas.
Un noble heritier de gentilhommière, Recueille tout seul un fief blasonné, Il dit à son frère puîné Sois abbé, je suis ton aîné. J’ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatière, J’ai du bon tabac, tu n’en auras pas.
Un vieil usurier, expert en affaire, Auquel par besoin on est amené, A l’emprunteur infortuné, Dit, après l’avoir ruiné: J’ai du bon tabac, dans ma tabatière, J’ai du bon tabac, tu n’en auras pas.
Juges, avocats, entr’ouvrant leurs serres, Au pauvre plaideur par eux rançonné, Après avoir pateliné, Disent, le procès terminé: J’ai du bon tabac, dans ma tabatière, J’ai du bon tabac, tu n’en auras pas.
D’un gros financier, la coquette flaire Le beau bijou d’or de diamants orné. Ce grigou, d’un air renfrogné, Lui dit: Malgré ton joli nez―― J’ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatière, J’ai du bon tabac, tu n’en auras pas.
Tel qui veut nier l’esprit de Voltaire, Est pour le sentir trop enchifrené. Cet esprit est trop raffiné, Et lui passe devant le nez. Voltaire a l’esprit dans sa tabatière, Et du bon tabac, tu n’en auras pas.
Voilà huit couplets, cela ne fait guère, Pour un tel sujet bien assaisonné; Mais j’ai peur qu’un priseur mal né, Me chante, en me riant au nez: J’ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatière J’ai du bon tabac, tu n’en auras pas.
GABRIEL CHARLES DE LATTEIGNANT (1697-1779.)
TO MY NOSE.
Knows he that never took a pinch, Nosey, the pleasure thence which flows? Knows he the titillating joys Which my nose knows? O nose! I am as proud of thee As any mountain of its snows; I gaze on thee, and feel that pride A Roman knows?
ALFRED CROWQUILL.
The Comic Offering. 1834.
PADDY DUNBAR.
At the request of numerous subscribers the following very humorous parody of Sir Walter Scott’s “Young Lochinvar” is here given, although somewhat out of its proper order. The parody, which is a favourite piece with reciters, has been kindly sent by Mr. C. H. Stephenson, of Southport.
PADDY DUNBAR.
Och, Paddy Dunbar is come out of the West, In all broad St. Giles his brogue was the best, And, save his shillelah, he weapon had none, He walked by himself, when he walked all alone; So daring in love, and so plucky in war, Och, a broth of a boy now, was Paddy Dunbar.
He carried up bricks, and he carried up stone, And he carried up mortar, when bricks there was none; But ere he had rattled at Mulrooney’s gate, The bride had consinted, poor Paddy came late, And a fresh-water sailor, as niver smelt tar, Was to wed the swate Norah of Paddy Dunbar.
So bowldly he marched into Mulrooney’s stall, ’Mongst mothers, and brothers, and cousins, and all; Then spake ould Mulrooney, his fist in his hand While the spalpeen of a bridegroom quite spacheless did stand, “Och, come ye in pace here; or come ye in war, Or to jig at our wedding, ye blaygard Dunbar?”
“When I first coorted Norah, ye thought me too bould, Love warms us like toddy, but sooner grows cold; And now I am come, without malice or spleen, To jig at your wedding, and smoke my dhudeen; There are girls in St. Giles more pretty by far, Would gladly be married to Paddy Dunbar.”
The bride filled a noggin, young Pat took it up, He tipped off the whisky, then threw down the cup; She looked down to sneeze, then looked up so sly, Wid a pipe in her mouth, and a patch on her eye; He took her red hand, ere her mother could bar, “Here goes for a jig now,” says Paddy Dunbar.
So big was his form, and so red was her face, That nivir a stall such a couple did grace; While the mother did fret, and the father did fume, And the bridegroom lay drunk at the end of the room: And the bride-gossips whispered, “’twere better by far, To have matched our fair cousin with Paddy Dunbar.”
One wink o’ the eye, and one word in the ear, When they reached the street door, and found the coast clear; So light to his shoulder swate Norah he flung, So swift o’er the gutter before him he sprung, “We are gone, she is mine, over post, rail, and bar, They’ll have long legs that catch us,” said Paddy Dunbar.
There was rousing and growling in Mulrooney’s clan, The Murphys and Donovans up and they ran; There was racing and chasing, a deuce of a spree, But the illigant Norah no more did they see: So daring in love, and so plucky in war, Och, a broth of a boy now was Paddy Dunbar.
――――
THE STAR.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are! Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky.
When the blazing Sun is gone, When he nothing shines upon, Then you show your little light, Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.
Then the traveller in the dark Thanks you for your tiny spark: He could not see which way to go, If you did not twinkle so.
In the dark blue sky you keep, And often through my curtains peep, For you never shut your eye, Till the Sun is in the sky.
As your bright and tiny spark Lights the traveller in the dark, Though I know not what you are, Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
Ascribed to Miss Taylor.
――――
MICA, MICA.
Mica, mica, parva Stella; Miror, quænam sis tam bella! Splendens eminus in illo, Alba velut gemma, coelo. Quando fervens Sol discessit, Nec calore prata pascit, Mox ostendis lumen purum, Micans, micans, per obscurum. Tibi, noctu qui vagatur, Ob scintillulam gratatur; Ni micares tu, non sciret Quas per vias errans iret. Meum sæpe thalamum luce Specularis curiosa; Neque carpseris soporem, Donec venit Sol per auram.
HENRY DRURY.
From Arundines Cami. 1851.
――――
TO A LONDON CHURCH BELL.
Tinkle, tinkle, horrid bell! How I hate your dismal knell! From your church’s tower so high Plaguing all the dwellers nigh.
Ere the shades of night are gone, Ere the sun earth shines upon, You begin with morning light Tinkle, tinkle, till the night.
And the toiling City clerk Hears you in his office dark; Less of headache he might know If you did not tinkle so.
With your ceaseless clang you keep Many a sufferer from sleep, For you never silent lie While the sun is in the sky.
As your din from dawn to dark Worries both sick man and clerk, Proving oftentimes their knell, Cease to tinkle, horrid bell!
(Prize parody.) M. BEACH.
One and All. November 6, 1880.
――――
TO THE TEMPLE BAR MEMORIAL.
Monument to Temple Bar, How I wonder why you are Stuck in Fleet by magnates high, Like a huge November guy!
Though the ugly Bar is gone, You the site must rest upon, Just to show how little light Flickers in this Council bright.(?)
Then the travellers in the dark, Curse you as their shins you bark, For they could tell which way to go If you did not hinder so.
In the narrow street you keep, At solemn pace my cab doth creep ’Neath thy “all-fired” griffin’s eye, Leering there ’twixt earth and sky.
As of light no tiny spark, Brightens all thy hist’ry dark, Oh! I know not why you are, Monument to Temple Bar.
One and All. November 6, 1880.
There are five other parodies of the same original in the competition, but the two above are the most interesting.
――――
THE REVISED VERSION.
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star,” the nursery rhyme so familiar to everybody, has been revised by a Committee of Eminent Scholars, with the following result:
Shine with irregular, intermitted light,[28] sparkle at intervals, diminutive, luminous, heavenly body.[29] How I conjecture, with surprise, not unmixed with uncertainty,[30] what you are, Located, apparently, at such a remote distance[31] from and at a height so vastly superior to this earth, the planet we inhabit. Similar in general appearance and refractory powers to the precious primitive octahedron crystal of pure carbon,[32] set in the aërial region surrounding the earth.
Merry Folks Library.
――――
Scintillate, scintillate, globule vivific, Fain would I fathom thy nature specific. Loftily poised in æther capacious, Strongly resembling a gem carbonaceous.
When Torrid Phœbus refuses his presence, And ceases to lamp us with fierce incandescence, Then you illumine the regions supernal Scintillate, scintillate, semper nocturnal.
Then the victim of hospiceless peregrination Gratefully hails your minute coruscation; He could not determine his journey’s direction But for your bright scintillating protection.
――――
THE SPRINKLER.
Sprinkle, sprinkle, water cart, How I wonder what thou art; Never can I find you nigh When the dust is deep and dry.
When the clouded sun is set, And the streets with rain are wet, Then you wing your little flight, Sprinkle, sprinkle, left and right.
When the crossings, Sunday clean, Full of well-dressed folks are seen, Men, amid their shrieks and oaths How you sprinkle all their clothes.
And when bright my boots are “shined,” And my hands in kids confined, Rattling down the thirsty street How you soak my hands and feet.
Some day, when this deed is done, I will draw my trusty gun, Then we’ll wonder where thou art Buckshot sprinkled water-cart.
――――
TO A FALLEN “STAR.”
Twinkle! twinkle! Morning Star![33] How I wonder where you are! Not that you were ever high In the journalistic sky.
But I wonder has John Bright Ceased to feed you with his light? Have you had your little day? Have you shone your last weak ray?
If you have――why then I’m glad, For the light you gave was bad! If you’re snuffed out, Morning Star, Why I’m very pleased you are!
Punch and Judy (London.) October 23, 1869.
――――
TO THE NEW STAR IN ANDREW MEDIA.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star, Up among the nebular; How I wonder all the same, Where you were before you came?
You are shining, are you not, When the blazing sun is sot? Tell me truly, is it right, To be on the blaze all night?
I do not know who you are, Though your face seems famil-yar; Nameless little globe of fire―― Twinkle, twinkle, little stire.
――――
THE TINKLING TRAM.
Tinkle, tinkle, Tramway Car! Well I’m conscious where you are. Down below my study high, Like a demon ever nigh.
When the morning opens wet, When in fog the sun hath set, Then you sound to left, to right, Tinkle, tinkle, day and night!
When to sleep my eyes incline, Then your bells kicks up its shine; Up the street and down the street, ’Mid the horse-hoofs’ maddening beat.
No――detested demon car. I don’t “wonder what you are”; But too well aware am I, Tinkling horror, ever nigh!
Punch’s Almanack for 1884.
――――
THE PUBLIC PROSECUTOR.
The Public asks:――
Twinkle, twinkle, Prosecu_tar_, How we wonder what you are, Up above our heads so high, Conundrum in the legal sky.
When a blazing wrong is done. To prosecute you are the one; Out should come your little light, In the clouds of legal night.
Then the public, in the dark, Would thank you for your welcome, spark; Justice could not onward go, If you did not twinkle so.
But behind a cloud you keep, Only popping out to peep. Legal star, you shut your eye, We, and Hawkins, wonder why.
The P. P. answers:――
My blessings, friend, are over-estimated; You ask me plainly, why I was created; I’ll tell you straight, and stop your flippant raillery: I was appointed――――
The Public:――Well?
The P. P.:――To draw my salary.
The Referee. December 2, 1882.
――――
Twinkle, twinkle little star I can tell you what you are; And your atmosphere, I hope, Analyse with spectroscope. Tin, I fancy; lead, I fear, Lurk within your atmosphere. Gold, by Jingo, better far! Twinkle, twinkle little star.
SALVE.
Truth. October 15, 1885.
Wrinkles, wrinkles, solar star, I obtain of what you are, When unto the noonday sky, I the spectroscope apply; For the spectrum renders clear Gaps within your photosphere, Also sodium in the bar, Which your rays yield, solar star.
CHESSMAN.
Truth. September 30, 1886.
(This latter had previously appeared in Harper’s Magazine.)
――――:o:――――
VERB SAP.
(To a Wandering Star.)
“I am willing to throw in my lot with that of my friend Huxley, and ‘to fight to the death’ against this wicked and cowardly surrender. A desperate gamester, miscalled a Statesman, has chosen to invoke ignorant foreign opinion against the instructed opinion of his own countrymen.”――Professor Tyndall’s last Letter to the Times.
Tyndall, Tyndall, learned star, How we wonder where you are! Fizzing up like penny pop, Coming down on Gladstone flop!
“Desperate gamester!” Tyndall mine, Such invective is not fine. Have you not a card to trump, Rattling Randolph on the stump?
* * * * *
Difference exists no doubt; Let us calmly fight it out; But to call each other names Is the vulgarest of games.
Honestly one view you hold; If to differ one makes bold, Is it fair, Sir, to infer, That he’s rascal, traitor, cur?
Pooh! That’s Party’s puerile plan, Wisdom, Sir, should play the man. Drop these tart polemic pennings, Leave that sort of stuff to Jennings.
Punch. July 23, 1887.
――――
LINES TO THE ELECTRIC LIGHT IN THE READING ROOM OF THE BRITISH MUSEUM.
Twinkle, twinkle, little arc, Sickly, green, uncertain spark! Up above my head you swing, Ugly, strange, expensive thing.
When across the foggy air Streams the lightning’s blinding glare Does the Reader in the dark Bless your radiance, little arc?
When you fade with modest blush, Scarce more bright than farthing rush, Would he see which way to go, If you always twinkled so?
Cold, unlovely, shivering star, I’ve no notion what you are―― How your wondrous “system” works, Who controls your jumps and jerks.
Yours a splendour like the day―― Bilious green and purple ray! No: where’er they worship you All the world is black or blue.
Though your light at times surpass Homely oil or vulgar gas, Still――I close with this remark―― I detest you, little arc!
Slightly altered from Judy. June 6, 1888.
――――
BOULANGER.
Twinkle, twinkle, little Star, How I wonder what you are! Still more what you mean to be, When you get back to Par_ee_!
Are you a Republican, Wedded to the Rights of man? Or an embryotic King? Emperor? Despot? Anything?
When you’re President-elect, What new move may we expect? Will you show us what you are By a bloody Coup d’Etat?
Here meanwhile in London town You will certainly go down; Social crowds will stare and cheer; Of expulsion there’s no fear!
Twinkle, twinkle, Gallic Star! We’ve no notion what you are; Living low and flying high. Like a comet in the sky.
Puck. May 1, 1889.
The political adventurer Boulanger, having done all he could to embarrass the French Government, and to create disturbances on the eve of the opening of the great Paris Exhibition, ignominiously fled to Belgium, when he found that his selfish and unpatriotic conduct was likely to bring upon him the punishment he deserved. Whilst in Brussels he issued a ridiculously theatrical manifesto, whereupon the Belgian Government hinted that his presence was undesirable in that country, and in April last he sought refuge in London. His reception was cool, and in a few days he was completely forgotten. Boulanger, who is fifty-two years of age, has none of the qualities necessary in a man who aspires to be a great political leader, and had he not been supported by the wealth and influence of the re-actionary parties in France, he would long since have sunk back into his native obscurity.
THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.
“Will you walk into my parlour?” said a spider to a fly, “’Tis the prettiest little parlour, sure, that ever you did spy; You’ve only got to pop your head within side of the door, You’ll see so many curious things you never saw before, Will you walk in pretty fly?”
“My house is always open,” says the spider to the fly, “I’m glad to have the company of all I see go by;” “They go in, but don’t come out again――I’ve heard of you before;” “Oh yes, they do, I always let them out at my back door. Will you walk in, pretty fly?”
“Will you grant me one sweet kiss, then!” says the spider to the fly; “To taste your charming lips, I’ve a cu-ri-os-i-ty!” Said the fly, “If once our lips did meet, a wager I would lay, Of ten to one, you would not after let them come away.” “Will you walk in, pretty fly?”
“If you won’t kiss, will you shake hands?” says the spider to the fly, “Before you leave me to myself, with sorrow sad to sigh.” Says the fly――“there’s nothing handsome unto you belongs; I declare you should not touch me even with a pair of tongs.” “Will you walk in, pretty fly?”
“What handsome wings you’ve got,” says the spider to the fly, “If I had got such a pair, I in the air would fly ’Tis useless all my wishing, and only idle talk, You can fly up in the air, while I’m obliged to walk. Will you walk in, pretty fly?”
“For the last time, now, I ask you, will you walk in, Mr. Fly?” “No! if I do, may I be shot! I’m off! so now good by.” Then up he springs, but both his wings were in the web caught fast! The spider laughed, “ha, ha, my boy, I have you safe at last.” “Will you walk out, pretty fly?”
“And pray how are you now?” says the spider to the fly! “You fools will never wisdom get, unless you dearly buy! ’Tis vanity that ever makes repentance come too late, And you who into cobwebs run, surely deserve your fate. Listen to me, listen to me, foolish fly.”
MORAL.
Now, all young men take warning by this foolish little fly: Pleasure is the spider, that to catch you fast will try; For, although you may think that my advice is quite a bore, You’re lost if you stand parleying outside of Pleasure’s door. Remember, oh, remember, the foolish little fly.
MARY HOWITT.
――――
“WILL YOU MIGRATE TO NEW ZEALAND?”
I.
“Will you migrate to New Zealand?” its Colonists do cry, “’Tis the richest, healthiest country, that ever you did spy; The way to our Arcadia is o’er the pleasant sea, And endless the enchanting scenes we’ll show when there you be!” “Oh! no, no,” say the Englishmen, “to ask us in vain, For who goes o’er your longsome seas, can ne’er come back again.”
II.
“We’re sure you must be weary, lads, with toiling all the day, Luxuriate in our balmy clime,” the Colonists still say; “The fertile earth here laughs around, the skies are warm and fine, Oh! do but come, live here awhile, and share our oil and wine.” “Ah! no, no,” say the Englishmen, “we’ve often heard before, How many gammon’d simple folk, wreck on your earthquake-shore.”
III.
The cunning Colonists repeat――“Dear friends, what can we do To prove the immense solicitude we’ve always felt for you? We have within our ample bounds good store of all that’s nice, You’re very welcome all to come, and each to take his slice.” “Oh! no, no,” say the Englishmen, “kind sirs, that cannot be, We’ve heard what’s in your country, and we have no care to see.”
IV.
“Fine fellows,” say the Colonists, “you’re industrious and you’re steady, How powerful are your toil-task’d limbs, your minds so strong and ready! We have full many a splendid spot in our new-promis’d land, Such soil,――so water’d,――timber’d too, soliciting your hand.” “We thank you, liberal Colonists, for what you’re pleased to proffer, We’re busy now,――another day we’ll listen to your offer.”
V.
The Colonists are waiting still, they prowl about their beach, For well they guess some English dupes will come within their reach; So they conjure up some Siren song, and have it put in print, And rub their hands, and slap their thighs, at folks believing in’t: They fabricate long letters home――from settlers well-to-do, All season’d high with luring lies, so couched to seem quite true; “Here capital must multiply, wealth waits each working clan, Here is――Eutopia itself, aye,――Paradise for man.”
VI.
Alas! alas! how very soon some too-confiding men, Hearken to the seductive words said o’er and o’er again: With home――they discontented grow, fancy――a fairer land, Air-castles build in promis’d scenes, with wealth that courts the hand; Seas cross’d――the colony must now for ever hold them fast. Fresh Colonists are old one’s game, who pluck them great and small, Gloat o’er their brethren――victimized, sore struggling, one and all.
VIII.
And now, ye English, old and young, who may this story read, To tales from coves――of distant shores, I pray you ne’er give heed; Unto the crafty Colonist, close heart, and ear, and eye, And heed this version of the tale of “The Spider and the Fly.”
From Emigration Realised, a poem, &c., by S. C. C. (i.e. Chase), London. Saunders & Otley, 1855.
――――
THE SONG OF THE BANK DIRECTOR.
“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the spider to the fly! “Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy. “You’ve only got to pop your head just inside of the door, “You’ll see so many curious things you never saw before” “Will you let me see your pocket?” said the spider to the fly! “To handle your bright gold I’ve a great curiosity.”
Said the fly, “If once you’d hold of it, a wager I would lay “Of ten to one you very soon would take it all away.” “What handsome purse, what lots of cash!” quoth spider to the fly. “If I had so much money, some nice Bank shares I would buy. “Look here!” And here he ope’d a safe, and said, “Dear fly, just see “These lovely shares, big divs., and unlim’d liability.”
“What lovely wings they’d make you! How much higher you could fly! “For the last time, now, I ask you, pretty creature, will you buy?” And the silly fly, intoxicated with his flattery, Bought lots of shares with unlimited liability. But when the time came for the dividends to be received, The poor fly found that he had been most woefully deceived.
When he went into the parlour, quick the spider shut the door, And tightly round him spun his web, and hurled him on the floor―― And laughed, “Ha! ha!” and said, “I’ll show you now, my pretty fly, “What comes of buying shares with unlim’d liability.” And first he plundered all his gold, and all he had beside, And then he crushed him utterly, and sucked him till he died.
From Dizzi-Ben-Dizzi, 1878.
――――
THE IRISH SPIDER AND THE ENGLISH FLY.
“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly. “We can talk without disturbance, and no Tories can espy. It is just across the Channel, you can very soon get there. And I’ve curious things to show you which I’m sure will make you stare.” “Excuse me,” said the Grand Old Fly, “your manner has a charm, But are you really sure, dear sir, you do not mean me harm?”
Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, “Dear friend, what can I do To prove the warm affection I have always felt for you? I’ve eighty-six companions too so pleasant, kind, and nice, Who’ll welcome any friend of mine and help him in a trice.” “Forgive me,” said the Grand Old Fly, “because I make so bold, But about that Irish party there are awful stories told,”
“Sweet creature,” said the Spider, “you’re witty and you’re wise, On you the universal world now turns its wondering eyes, I have an Irish looking-glass upon my parlour shelf―― You’ll be surprised if in that glass you but behold yourself,” “I thank you, gentle sir, indeed for what you’ve pleased to say, And bidding you good morning now I’ll call another day.”
The Spider waited for a time inside his Irish den, For well he knew the Grand Old Fly would soon come back again. He wove his subtle Home Rule web in a little corner sly And set his eighty-six confrères to watch the Grand Old Fly. Then wandered to his door again and merrily did say, “Come hither, hither, dearest Fly――a moment step this way.”
There was no limit to the pride of that poor silly Fly. He listened to the Spider’s voice, which flattered him sky high; He buzzed about, he tossed his head, and near and nearer drew―― Deceived by his own vanity he thought the Spider true. “No English Fly has soared so high,” said he, but now at last, Caught in the cunning Home Rule web, the Spider held him fast.
Moonshine. June 5, 1886.
――――
A CHARITABLE INSTITUTION. (A Hint to some Hospitals nearer Home.)
“Will you walk into our death-trap?” Say the surgeons so serene, “’Tis the neatest little death-trap That there ever yet has been; The beds are most inviting, The sheets are nice and white―― And when you get between ’em You can bid the world good-night.”
“We have wards to suit all parties,” Say the surgeons so serene, “But the one we’re recommending Is that special ward――eighteen. Kindly cut your little finger, And select your little bed―― Then, before a week is over, You will certainly be dead.”
“If you fracture say your elbow, And come here to get it dress’t―― Well, your arm is amputated And you find eternal rest; For your blood is surely poisoned, And so deadly is the taint That you’re here, perchance, one morning, And, to-morrow, here you ain’t.
“When some nasty broken chilblains Give you trouble with your toes, Oh! we take your leg, and presto! In a moment off it goes. It is getting on quite nicely, Is that amputated pin, When, as certain as the sunrise, Erysipelas sets in.
“Then walk into our death-trap―― Harry, Tommy Johnny, Bob―― We have instruments in plenty And are always on the job; ’Tis the very surest death-trap That the world has ever seen, Make your wills and have a shake-down In our special ward――eighteen.”
The Sydney Bulletin. August 7, 1886.
――――
HARCOURT AND CHAMBERLAIN.
“Will you walk into our parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly; “’Tis the cosiest little parlour, friend, that ever you did spy―― The way into this parlour is quite wide, as you’re aware, And, oh! we’ll do such wondrous things when once we get you there! Then, won’t you, won’t you, won’t you, won’t you, Pretty little fly?”
Now, as I’ve heard, this little fly was young, but wary, too, And so he thought, I’ll mind my eye――the thing may be a do! So “No, no!” said that little fly; “kind Sir, that cannot be, I’ve heard what’s in your parlour, and I do not wish to see.”
That Spider he was portly, and that Spider he was bland, And he played the part of siren for an even Older Hand. Says he, “Oh, Fly, you must be tired of being on the shelf, Why don’t you just step in awhile, if but to rest yourself?”
“Our parlour’s snugly furnished, for expense we never spare, We’ve such a nice Round Table; you shall have an easy chair. It seems incomplete without you as a sort of settled guest; Turn up solitary buzzing now; step in and take a rest.”
That little Fly looked longingly. Thinks he, “I do feel tired, I’m fond of cosy parties, and I like to be admired. Yet I have a slight suspicion that the thing may be a trap―― I twig something in the corner――I distrust that fat old chap.”
So “I’ll wait a little longer,” to the Spider said the Fly, As he spread his wings (with friend Col-lings), and fluttered towards the Skye. But whether he’ll come back again, and try that parlour yet, Is a thing on which a cautious man would hardly like to bet.
Punch. March 19, 1887.
The Spider, by Sir W. Y. Harcourt. The Fly, by Mr. Joseph Chamberlain.
――――
“Will you walk a little faster?” said a whiting to a snail, “There’s a porpoise close behind us, and he’s treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle――will you come and join the dance? Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance? Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance.”
* * * * *
From Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
There was a parody in Will-o’-the-Wisp, March 20, 1869, entitled “The Abbess and the Maid” concerning a law suit which attracted much attention at the time, but is now forgotten. It commenced:――
“Will you walk into my convent?” said the abbess to the maid. “’Tis the prettiest little cloister ever nestled in the shade.”
Another long political parody in The London Figaro, August 7, 1886, commenced:――
“Will you come into our Chamber?” said the Marquis to “Grand Cross” “’Tis a finely gilded chamber” (so went on the Tory Boss.)
Another appeared in Punch, June 30, 1888, soon after Mr. W. E. Gladstone had given his vote in favour of Watkin’s scheme for the Channel Tunnel. Two verses may be quoted:――
THE WATKIN SPIDER AND THE GLADSTONE FLY.
“Will you walk into my Tunnel?” said the Spider to the Fly, “’Tis the handiest little Tunnel that ever you did spy. You’ve only got to pop your head inside and peep, no more, And you’ll see a many curious things you never saw before. Will you, will you, will you, will you, walk in, Grand Old Fly?”
Said the Spider to the Fly, “It’s most absurd, upon my soul, To see so big a nation scared about so small a hole. To share the scare that’s in the air is worthy, don’t you know, Not of a Grand Old Fly like you, but of a midge like Joe! Then won’t you, won’t you, won’t you, won’t you, plucky Grand Old Fly?”
* * * * *
Punch. June 30, 1888.
――――
Pray come along to Hawarden, says the Grand Old Man so fly, (Or p’rhaps I should say spider), to convince you let me try. Home Rule’s the grandest principle since first the earth began, And to vote for C. S. Parnell and his friend, the Grand Old Man. Pop in the train at Euston and to Chester then run down, And don’t make speeches on the way (such conduct makes me frown,) If but a Post-card you will send to say when you’ll arrive, The Home Rule van shall meet you, and the Grand Old whip will drive.
* * * * *
This not very brilliant political parody will be found in an anonymous pamphlet entitled “Glad-Par-Stonell-Iana.” Waterlow & Sons, 1889.
――――
NURSERY RHYMES.
Parodies on Nursery Rhymes and Children’s Songs, which were interrupted in order to introduce those relating to Smoking, can now be resumed, as a few good ones still remain to be quoted. When the late Mr. J. O. Halliwell (Halliwell-Phillipps) first brought out his collection of Nursery Rhymes, his friend James Robinson Planché, the dramatist, wrote some little humourous skits on them. These were merely meant for playful badinage, but a few lines may be quoted from them:――
Ride-a-cockhorse To Kennington-Cross; Come and see Planché, Who works like a horse Sucking his fingers, And roasting his toes; He would have you come Wherever he goes.
Halliwell-Halliwell, My pretty man, Make me a book As fast as you can; Write it and print it, And mark it with P., And send it by Parcels Delive_rye_.
Ding dong bell, Planché’s at Stockwell. What took him there? His wife, you may swear. When will he come back? As soon as he can――good lack.
――――
The Prince of Wales was christened on January 25, 1842, for which occasion a very handsome cake was prepared, but it was remarked that it remained uncut, the Queen appearing unwilling to spoil this remarkable specimen of confectionary.
A Nursery Ballad, entitled “The Christening Cake,” was published on the occasion, (by Mr. John Lee, of 440, West Strand,) from which a few extracts may be quoted:――
When great Victoria ruled the land, She ruled it like a Queen; She had a Princess and a Prince Not very far between. The Princess was a girl, you’ll guess, A pretty little thing; Yet parties all agreed in this―― She never could be King. But ere the year its course had run, What universal joy! On Lord Mayor’s Day there came to light A glorious princely Boy! The Queen gazetted him next week, The caudle ran in pails; She girded on his little sword, And called him “Prince of Wales.” “The christening shall be superb, And worthy of our state.” So spoke the Queen to Albert, her Most true and royal mate.
* * * * *
The Banquet served, the brilliant throng Proceed their seats to take; The plate was grand, yet every eye Was fixed upon the Cake! The thistle, rose, and shamrock twined The Prince’s arms and crest; The Prussian Eagle, raised on high, To please the Royal Guest. In matchless beauty stood the cake, The glory of the day; And now each lady hoped to take A little bit away. Prince Albert raised a knife and fork, Victoria looked a frown! So, with a disappointed air, He laid the weapons down. She rose――and the distinguished guests Their last obeisance make! All murmuring, as they left the room, “She never cut the Cake!” The Queen and Prince, like other folks, Their party gone away, Sat for five minutes, chatting o’er The pleasures of the day. “When I’ve enjoyed a fete so much I really cannot tell; From early morn till now midnight, All things went off so well!” “Nay, dear Victoria, pardon me, You make a slight mistake; For every thing did not go off.” (He glanced towards the cake.) “Consider our expenses, love; Outgoings are so great, Receiving foreign Potentates With all this form and state. Our family increases fast, And cakes are very dear; The Prussian Eagle laid aside, We’ll keep it for next year!”
This ballad shows that the Queen had a reputation for parsimony as long ago as 1842, the moral it enforces is similar to that contained in the old Nursery Rhyme the ballad parodies, concerning the famous plum Pudding of King Arthur:――
“The King and Queen ate of the same, And all the Court beside; And what they could not eat that night, The Queen next morning fried.”
It is somewhat curious that Poets should so often select incidents in the lives of Royal personages as topics for their poems, considering how ephemeral is the interest they excite.
The above ballad was, of course, only a burlesque, and had no claim to longevity, but of all the serious adulatory poems written about the Queen, and her family, during the last fifty years how many have survived? With the exception of some few lines in Tennyson’s Dedications and Odes, the present generation knows nothing of them.
Where is Leigh Hunt’s poem on the birth of the Princess Royal? Where is Professor Aytoun’s Ode on the Marriage of the Prince of Wales? Where, oh, where is Mr. Lewis Morris’s Ode for the Opening of the Imperial Institute? Forgotten, all forgotten, and nearly as obsolete as the Birthday Odes of the Poets-Laureate Eusden, Warton, and Pye.
Who reads or remembers Martin F. Tupper’s Welcome to the Princess Alexandra?
“And thus they warbled, in the style of Tupper, Whose ode to our Princess is thought a fine Sample of metre Alexandra-ine―― A poet arithmetical in fame, Who lisp’d in numbers, for the numbers came:”
THE JOY BIRDS’ ODE.
100,000 welcomes![34] 100,000 welcomes!! And 100,000 more!!! Oh! happy birds of Eden, Sing like the Star of Sweden, Yes, yes, like Nilsson sing, birds, And make the island ring, birds, As no land rang before; And let the welkin roar, To wel_kin_ her to shore; Let miles of echo shout it, And sparkling fountains spout it, Let leagues of lightning flash it, And tons of thunder crash it; Let pouring rainfalls hail her name, And fiery earthquakes sound her fame, Till sky, and sea, and shore Join in a vast encore, 100,000 welcomes, And 100,000 more!
* * * * *
In justice to Mr. Tupper it must be admitted that these are not exactly his lines, but only a very fair parody of them taken from The Lays of the Saintly, by Mr. Walter Parke. (London, Vizetelly, 1882.)
――――:o:――――
DR. FELL.
I do not like thee, Dr. Fell, The reason why I cannot tell; But this alone, I know full well, I do not like thee, Dr. Fell.
This little nursery rhyme claims ancient lineage. In Thomas Forde’s “Virtus Rediviva,” 1661, in a collection of familiar letters, is the following passage:――
“There are some natures so Hetrogenious, that the streightest, and most gordion knot of Wedlock is not able to twist, of which the Epigrammatist (Martial) speaks my mind better than I can myself:――
Non amo te Sabide, nec possum dicere quare, Hoc tantum possum dicere, non amo te.
Take the English in the words of a gentleman to his wife:――
I love thee not, Nel, But why, I can’t tell; But this I can tell, I love thee not, Nel.”
The following is Clément Marot’s version as given in Chapsal’s ‘Modèles de Littérature Française,’ ii. p. 26:――
Jan, je ne t’aime point, beau sire: Ne sais quelle mouche me point, Ni pourquoi c’est je ne puis dire Sinon que je ne t’aime point.
Another version, by Roger de Bussy, Comte de Rabutin (ob. 1693), ran as follows:――
Je ne vous aime pas, Hylas, Je n’en saurois dire la cause; Je sais seulement une chose; C’est que je ne vous aime pas.
JOHN DRYDEN.
BORN August 9, 1631. | DIED May 1, 1700.
(Was Poet Laureate from 1670 till the accession of William III. in 1688, when he was superceded by a Protestant poet, Thomas Shadwell.)
In the year 1683, a musical society was formed in London for the celebration of St. Cecilia’s Day, and from that time a festival was held annually on November the 22nd in Stationers’ Hall, and an Ode, composed for the occasion, was sung. These festivals continued, with a few interruptions, down to the year 1744, and some were held at even a later date; but these celebrations must not be confounded with the performances given by the “Cecilian” Society, which was established in 1785.
A collection of the Odes, written for the Festival of St. Cecilia’s Day, was first formed by Mr. William Henry Husk, Librarian of the Sacred Harmonic Society, and published by Bell and Daldy in 1857, in “An Account of the Musical Celebrations on St. Cecilia’s Day. To which is appended a Collection of Odes on St. Cecilia’s Day.” It is unnecessary to enumerate them all here, but as Odes written by Nahum Tate, John Dryden, Thomas Shadwell, Samuel Wesley, Joseph Addison, William Congreve, Alexander Pope, and the burlesque Ode by Bonnell Thornton are included, the volume has considerable literary interest.
John Dryden wrote a song for the Festival of November, 1687, but his great Ode, “Alexander’s Feast; or, the Power of Music,” was written and performed in 1697. For this poem it is said Dryden received forty pounds, its success was so great that it was frequently performed at later festivals, and in 1736 “Alexander’s Feast” was set to music by Handel. The poem has been frequently parodied, it will therefore be convenient to give the original Ode, followed by the parodies, or such parts of them as are fit for re-publication, for it must be confessed that some of the earlier imitations are excessively coarse.
ALEXANDER’S FEAST.
’Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won, By Philip’s warlike son, Aloft in awful state, The god-like hero sate On his imperial throne. His valiant peers were placed around, Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound: (So should desert in arms be crown’d.) The lovely Thais, by his side, Sate like a blooming eastern bride, In flower of youth, and beauty’s pride.
Chorus. Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair.
Timotheus placed on high, Amid the tuneful choir, With flying fingers touched the lyre; With trembling notes ascend the sky, And heavenly joys inspire. The Song began from Jove, Who left his blissful seat above Such is the power of mighty love: A dragon’s fiery form belied the god; Sublime on radiant spheres he rode, When he to fair Olympia press’d, And while he sought her snowy Breast, Then round her slender waist he curl’d, And stamp’d an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. The listening crowd admire the lofty sound; “A present deity!” they shout around; “A present deity!” the vaulted roofs rebound.
Chorus. With ravish’d ears The monarch hears, Assumes the God, Affects to nod, And seems to shake the spheres.
The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musican sung, Of Bacchus, ever fair and ever young!―― The jolly god in triumph comes! Sound the trumpets! beat the drums! Flush’d with a purple grace, He shows his honest face, Now give the hautboys breath! he comes! he comes! Bacchus ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain:
Chorus. Bacchus’ blessings are a treasure; Drinking is the soldier’s pleasure: Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, Sweet is pleasure, after pain!
Sooth’d with the sound, the king grew vain; Fought all his battles o’er again; And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain! The master saw the madness rise; His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; And while he heaven and earth defied―― Changed his hand, and check’d his pride. He chose a mournful Muse, Soft Pity to infuse: He sang Darius great and good! By too severe a fate, Fallen! fallen! fallen! fallen! Fallen from his high estate And weltering in his blood! Deserted at his utmost need By those his former bounty fed, On the bare earth exposed he lies, With not a friend to close his eyes! With downcast look the joyless victor sate.
Chorus. Revolving, in his alter’d soul, The various turns of fate below; And now, and then, a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow!
The mighty master smil’d to see That love was in the next degree: ’Twas but a kindred sound to move: For pity melts the mind to love. Softly sweet, in Lydian measures. Soon he sooth’d his soul to pleasures War, he sung, is toil and trouble: Honor but an empty bubble; Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying, If the world be worth thy winning, Think, oh think it worth enjoying! Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee! The many rend the skies with loud applause, So Love was crown’d; but Music won the cause.
Chorus. The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair Who caused his care, And sigh’d and look’d, sigh’d and look’d, Sigh’d and look’d, and sigh’d again: At length, with love and wine at once oppress’d, The vanquish’d victor sank upon her breast!
Now strike the golden lyre again! A louder yet, and yet a louder strain! Break his bands of sleep asunder, And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark! hark! the horrid sound Has raised up his head, As awaked from the dead; And, amazed, he stares around! “Revenge! revenge!” Timotheus cries―― See the Furies arise! See the snakes that they rear, How they hiss in the air, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! Behold a ghastly band, Each a torch in his hand! Those are Grecian ghosts that in battle were slain, And unburied remain Inglorious on the plain! Give the vengeance due, To the valient crew! Behold; how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes, And glittering temples of their hostile gods;―― The princes applaud, with a furious joy!
Chorus. And the king seized a flambeau, with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way, To light him to his prey! And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.
Thus, long ago, Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, While organs yet were mute, Timotheus, to his breathing flute And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame: The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, With Nature’s mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
Chorus. Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown: He raised a mortal to the skies! She drew an angel down!
JOHN DRYDEN.
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SHAKESPEARE’S FEAST.
_An Ode on the recent rehearsal in the Town Hall of Stratford._
I.
’Twas at the solemn feast, for laurels won By William, old John Shakespeare’s son, Aloft in awful state The Mayor of Stratford sate, Rais’d on a wool-pack throne: His aldermen were plac’d around, Their brows with spreading antlers crown’d, (So city spouses should be found) The lovely May’ress by his side Sat like a plump High-German bride, Not less for fat renown’d, than pride.
Happy, happy, happy May’r! None but the fat, None but the fat, None but the fat deserve the bouncing fair.
II.
The bard of Ferney, plac’d on high Amid the tuneful quire, With flying fingers touch’d the wooden lyre: The notes, tho’ lame, ascend as high As civic joys require. The song began from G――K’s toil, Who left his Litchfield’s native soil, (Such were his hopes of golden spoil) King Richard’s crooked form bely’d the man: Sublime on high-heel’d shoes he trod, When first he courted Lady Anne In Goodman’s Fields, till then an unfrequented road. As Hastings next round Pritchard’s waist he curl’d, Or shew’d, in Drugger’s rags, an idiot to the world. The list’ning crowd admire the lofty sound, A present Shakespeare, loud they shout around: A present Shakespeare, loud the rafter’d halls rebound. With prick’d up ears His May’rship hears; Assumed the play’r, Affects to stare, And shakes the room about his ears.
III.
The praise of ven’son, then, the rapt enthusiast sung; Of ven’son, whether old or young: The jolly haunch in triumph comes; Sound the trumpets, beat the drums; Flush’d with a purple grace, It shews its currant-jelly face: Now give each feeder breath: it comes, it comes; Ven’son, ever fair and young, Drinking joys can best reveal; Fat of ven’son is a treasure, Eating is the glutton’s pleasure: Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, Sweet as stuffing is with veal.
* * * * *
From The Court Miscellany. 1769.
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The following Parody will be found in a scarce little volume entitled “Pranceriana Poetica, or Prancer’s Garland. Being a Collection of Fugitive Poems written since the publication of Pranceriana and the Appendix. Dublin: Printed in the year M.DCC.LXXIX.” This volume opens with a very satirical dedication to the Right Honourable Sir J――n B――q――re, Knight of the Bath, Alnager of all IRELAND, and Bailiff of Phœnix Park; in this he is taken to task for “placing the most improper man in the Kingdom at the head of our College.” The College alluded to was Trinity College, Dublin, and the individual who had been appointed at its head was nicknamed the “Prancer,” as “more fit to be a dancing master than a Provost.”
PRANCER’S FEAST, or, the Power of ORATORIAL FLATTERY.
I.
’Twas at Election Feast for College, won By Bregah’s wond’rous son, Aloft in awful state The prancing Hero sate, On academic throne; His supple Voters plac’d around, Who on Election Day were faithful found (Minions only by self Interest bound,) The grim Ben Saddi by his side (Not like a blooming Eastern Bride) With awkward stiffness, awkward pride. Happy, happy, happy pair! None but Ben Sad, None but Ben Sad, None but Ben Sad deserves a Prancer’s care.
II.
The great Pomposo rose To utter his Harangues, Writhing with oratorial pangs, Puffing as when a Bellows blows, Or when a bagpipe twangs. His speech from Bregah he begun To flatter Prancer――Bregah’s son, (Though one would think it all was Fun) He shew’d what a fine nimble Lad Was Bregah――this our Prancer’s Dad, How long ago he was stark wild To get his Sheelah great with child; And when he had with Raptures entranc’d her He stamp’d an image of himself, a mighty Prancer. The list’ning crowd admire the lofty sound, Great Prancer’s fame they shout around, Great Prancer’s name the vaulted roofs rebound. With ravish’d ears McBregah hears, Adjusts his wig, Looks bluff and big; Anon he smiles and leers. Pomposo then held forth in Praise of Prancer, Both as a Fencer and a Dancer, In minuet step how he advances! Strike up the Fiddles, see, see how he dances! With his well-turn’d Pumps How he skips and he jumps! Clear tables and chairs, for he prances, he prances. He dancing lectures did ordain And drove out all the Muses’ Train; Dancing is a Prancer’s Pleasure. Rich the Treasure! Sweet the Pleasure! Sweet the Pleasure that requires no Brain!
* * * * *
――――
“To commemorate the Naval Review at Portsmouth, the Oratorio of Alexander’s Feast is to be performed at one of the Theatres Royal, by command of his Majesty, with the following alterations, by William Whitehead, Esq; Poet Laureate.”
ALEXANDER’S FEAST, PARODIED;
OR, THE GRAND PORTSMOUTH PUPPET-SHEW.
’Twas at the royal show, and grand display Of all the navy which at Portsmouth lay; Aloft in laughing state, Britain’s monarch sat, And look’d serenely gay. Goldstick, and other peers were plac’d around, Their hair in bags of silken ribbons bound; So should, ye fair, our men of arms be crown’d! Charlotte smil’d sweetly at his side, Yet inwardly, alas! she sigh’d At George’s folly, and at Twitcher’s pride.
Air.
Happy, happy, happy pair, How they rejoice! How they rejoice! To see the weather grown so fair!
Then Sandwich plac’d on high, Amid the tuneful band, Struck the loud kettle-drums with mighty hand; The deaf’ning notes ascend the sky, And sound along the strand. From Fred’rick began the strain, Who left Germania’s bleak domain For England――such the pow’r of Stuart’s reign! Augusta then his Highness woo’d, Got children, as all Princes should, When he to Saxe-Gotha press’d, And while he sought her snowy breast: Then round her waist his arms he spread, And stamp’d an image of himself――a Prince without a head. The list’ning tars admire the lofty sound; A Prince without a head――they shout around; A Prince without a head――the vaulted skies rebound.
Air.
Not us’d to hear Such truths sincere, At first he shrinks Before he thinks, That tars must have their jeer.
* * * * *
From The New Foundling Hospital for Wit. 1786.
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THE COVENT GARDEN ROW.
’Twas at a glorious row, for Clifford won, By german Wienholt’s son, After the play was done, Aloft in drunken state Was placed the stupid candidate, For O.P. fame and fun.
* * * * *
This parody, relating to the famous O. P. riots, will be found in The Covent Garden Journal, 1810, which contains a full account of that curious theatrical episode.
A long political parody of Dryden’s Ode, relating to Irish affairs, and entitled Ode to St. Patrick’s Day, appeared in Vol. ix. of The Spirit of the Public Journals, 1806, and in Vol. xvi. of the same series, (1813) was a parody describing a law case. It commenced:――
“’Twas where the fam’d Home Circuit is begun.”
Neither of these parodies possesses any interest for modern readers.
Another parody, of which only the title can be given, was “W――――S’s Feast, or Dryden Travesti; a mock Pindarick: addressed to his most Incorruptible Highness, Prince Patriotism.”
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SIR FRANCIS’S[35] FEAST. An Ode for the anniversary of a Westminster Election.
’Twas at a feast, giv’n to their Baronet By his own factious set, Placed by the chairman’s side, Sate Piccadilly’s pride, With airs of coy regret. His noisy friends were ranged about, With dirty shirts, and pots of heady stout: Meet dress, meet drink for such a rout! The valiant Cochrane, by his side, Sate, snappish, yet self satisfied, In naval garb and northern pride. Happy, happy, happy day! None but the mob, None but the mob, None but the mob are fit to sway!
Cobbett, exalted high, Amid that unwash’d train, Roar’d lies and libels out amain; Yet still he ’scapes the pillory, And sells the sland’rous strain. The King he first assail’d:
Gold, in this reign, he said, had fail’d (For gold such patriots ever rail’d!) Your flimsy notes, he cried, bely a King: Old England was another thing, When her great Monarch had a mint, And stamp’d an image of himself, the money of the World! The gaping mob admire the lofty sounds. “Burdett and Bullion!” all the street rebounds: With ravish’d ears The Bar’net hears, Affects to rouse The Commons House, And wake the torpid Peers.
The muse of Cobbett then extoll’d the drabs and rogues, Whom Cold-bath prison disembogues: From them the Bar’nets honours flow Salt-box play, and whistle blow! Deck’d with St. Giles’s graces, They shew their greasy faces. They come! stop, salt-box! whistle, cease to blow! Cold-bath prison disembogues Glorious food for discontent: Any grievance is a treasure, A patriot’s instrument and pleasure; Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, Sweet a charge in Parliament. Swell’d with the puff, Sir Frank grew vain, Spoke all his speeches o’er again, And thrice he damned the Ministers, and thrice the war in Spain.
Cobbett[36] saw the madness rise, His open mouth, his rolling eyes, And, while he heaven and earth defied, Chang’d the tune, and check’d his pride. He chose an awkward story, To damp his blazing glory: He sang this chief, so fond of pow’r, With notable disgrace, Taken, taken, taken, taken, Taken by the Speaker’s mace, And caged within the Tower: Afraid at his return to meet Th’ expectant rabble in the street, He skulks incog to Piccadilly―― Did ever patriot look so silly? Long, long, and longer grows the hero’s face: He meditates, in sullen mood, On fickle popularity: He’d blush, if blush reformer could, And lets the toast go by!
* * * * *
The remainder of this parody refers to political events of little interest to modern readers.
It is taken from Posthumous Parodies, an anonymous collection of poems having a strong Tory bias, published in London by John Miller, 1814.
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COMMEMORATION DAY.
Commemoration day: a day devoted to prayers and good living, i.e., feasting.
“Who leads a good life is sure to live well.”――Old Song.
The following Ode on a College Feast Day, will hardly be read with dry lips, or mouths that do not water. Whoever was the author of it, he certainly appears to have been a man of taste.
I.
Hark! heard ye not yon footsteps dread, That shook the hall with thund’ring tread? With eager haste The Fellows pass’d,[37] Each intent on direful work, High lifts his mighty blade, and points his deadly fork.
II.
But hark! the portals sound, and pacing forth, With steps, alas, too slow, The College GYPS, of high illustrious worth, With all the dishes in long order, go. In the midst a form divine, Appears the fam’d sir-loin; And soon, with plums and glory crown’d, Almighty pudding sheds its sweets around. Heard ye the din of dinner bray? Knife to fork, and fork to knife; Unnumber’d heroes, in the glorious strife, Thro’ fish, flesh, pies, and puddings cut their destin’d way.
III.
See, beneath the mighty blade Gor’d with many a ghastly wound, Low the fam’d sir-loin is laid And sinks in many a gulf profound. Arise, arise, ye sons of glory, Pies and puddings stand before ye; See the ghosts of hungry bellies Point at yonder stand of jellies; While such dainties are beside ye, Snatch the goods the gods provide ye; Mighty rulers of this state, Snatch before it is too late; For, swift as thought, the puddings, jellies, pies, Contract their giant bulks, and shrink to pigmy size.
IV.
From the table now retreating All around the fire they meet, And with wine, the sons of eating, Crown at length their mighty treat; Triumphant Plenty’s rosy graces Sparkle in their jolly faces; And mirth and cheerfulness are seen In each countenance serene. Fill high the sparkling glass, And drink th’ accustom’d toast;[38] Drink deep ye mighty host And let the bottle pass. Begin, begin the jovial strain, Fill, fill the mystic bowl, And drink, and drink, and drink again; For drinking fires the soul. But soon, too soon, with one accord, they reel Each on his seat begins to nod; All conquering Bacchus’ pow’r they feel, And pour libations to the jolly god. At length, with dinner, and with wine, oppress’d, Down in the chairs they sink, and give themselves to rest.
From The Gradus ad Cantabrigiam. By a Brace of Cantabs. London. Printed for John Hearne, 1824. It had previously appeared in The Spirit of the Public Journals for 1799. London, 1800.
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ODE TO A WRANGLER’S SPREAD.
’Twas at the roaring feast for Wrangler won, By Wiggin’s tipsy son, As high in lofty state, That classic Hero sate A music stool upon. The large eyed Lucy by his side Blush’d like a codling, Autumn’s pride;―― And spirits; fit to stem the tide Of Fortune’s current rough, Alike her frailties to deride, Or for her many dangers tried, Still ne’er to cry “Enough!” Throng’d round the Hero as he gave The toast in liquor brave, And by his ruling nod Rous’d the huzzas of gladness O’er the blue devils sadness, Waking the drowsy God, That slumber’d in the soul of each, To Wine, to Jollity, and Speech.
* * * * *
From The Cambridge Odes, by Peter Persius. Cambridge W. H. Smith. No date.
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THE KENNINGTON COMMON REVOLUTION.
’Twas on the Common of famed Kennington, Reynolds (old Reynolds’ son), Aloft in mimic state, Upon a waggon sate―― The driving box his throne. The idle riff-raff stood around, Some of their brows――for recent fractures――bound (So theft and mischief should be crowned). The Chartist, Williams, by his side, With envy his position eyed, As if for chairmanship he sighed. Precious, precious pair! None but the brave, None but the brave Deserve the chair!
Young Reynolds, placed on high, Produces half a quire Of correspondence, which, without desire, He reads, in notes that reach the sky, And shouts of “Hear!” inspire. Note one――bid Sir George Grey, Before a certain day, Leave Ministerial sway, And send the reins of power, straight from his hand, To Mister Reynolds, somewhere in the Strand; When he, of the said reins possessed, Would guide the State himself, in style the very best. The listening crowd admire the lofty sound; “A plucky chap this here,!” they shout around, And dabs of mud against the van rebound. With lengthened ears Young Reynolds hears, And thinks, with joy, “Yes I’m the boy That means to shake the spheres.!”
Praise of the French he next in glowing accents sung―― French Freedom――very fair, but very young. But a poor baker’s cart there comes: With their fingers and their thumbs, The mob to their disgrace, (Blush every honest face!) Would fain have stole the bread――the crusts, the crumbs! Freedom, very, very, young, Surely never did ordain Making baker’s carts a treasure, Robbing their contents at pleasure―― Pleasure to the owners’ pain.
To their disgust, the very rain, Resolved such conduct to restrain, Came down as if to say――“You shan’t do that again.” Young Reynolds saw the vast supplies Of rain pour down before his eyes. While he the Government defied, Away he saw the meeting glide He chose a wilder strain To bring them back again. He spoke of France, so great and good; Of Louis-Philippe’s fate, Fall’n, fall’n, fall’n, fall’n; From his high estate, And flying with his brood. Deserted at his utmost need By those who on corruption feed, From his own realm in fear he flies, To England turns his anxious eyes, Still, in the rain, young Reynolds boldly sate, Until there lingered scarce a soul; The wet had cleared the ground below, And down the van he gently stole Thinking――he’d better go.
Punch, 1848.
This refers to a meeting held at Kennington in connection with the Chartist agitation, when certain reforms were demanded, which were then ridiculed as revolutionary, but which have since either been granted, or else have come within the scope of practical political discussion.
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JOSH HUDSON’S FEAST.
’Twas at the dinner given, the prime tuck-out, By Josh, the boxer stout: Aloft the worthy sat, His corpus lin’d with fat, And, pleas’d, he gaz’d about: His jovial pals were plac’d around, For fancy feats and milling deeds renown’d, And for their fistic worth with glory crown’d. His blooming missus by his side, Smok’d like a hock of bacon fried, In glow of health and beauty’s pride. Happy, happy, happy pair, None but the fat, None but the fat, None but the fat deserves the fair.
Jack Fogo, placed on high Amid the tuneful quire, Touch’d with his fives the laureate lyre; The sounds discordant reach’d the sky, And set their souls on fire. Of law he curs’d the rod That sent fat Josh to quod. And swore it was too bad, by G――――! But now at length from durance vile releas’d, With spirit buoyant and in flesh increas’d, He took his seat that happy day the father of the feast. The list’ning coves admir’d the lofty sound, Jolly Josh Hudson’s health they shout around, “The John Bull fighter” all the roofs rebound: With ravish’d ears The fat one hears, Swore it was odd He went to quod. And drank their health with cheers.
The praise of prime old Tom then Fogo sung, A liquor always dear to old and young. Let a dram our dinner crown, To keep the beef and pudding down. Waiter, ’tis Josh’s pleasure, You bring in a gallon measure, The very best and strongest in the town. Spirit ever bright and clear! Who from drinking can refrain? Who can censure without blushing The joy, the extacy of lushing? Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, To imbibe a cordial drain. Pleas’d with its praise fat Josh grew vain, Fought all his battles o’er again, And swore his max was very prime, and better than champagne.
Jack Fogo saw his madness rise, His rosy snout, his staring eyes; And to subdue his furious fit, Swore he would bring him down a bit. He sung a mournful ditty To rouse fat Josh’s pity: He sung of Gyblett’s, boxer prime! By law’s relentless rule Sent to stonejug, and doom’d from thence To cross the herring pool. Deserted, in his utmost need, By all the traps his bounty fed Deprived of max, depriv’d of shag, Without a friend, without a mag. With downcast look the John Bull fighter sate, And gaz’d upon the tuneful bard: “Alack! for Charles, my friend,” cried he; “What! must he go across the sea? ’Tis gallows, gallows hard!”
But Frosty Fogo’s powers began to fail; The sounds he tried to vent Within his throat were pent, Subdu’d by max, and heavy wet, and ale. He, who on eagle’s wing Was wont sublime to soar In fruitless effort still to sing, Pitch’d headlong on the floor!
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In November 1884 Mr. Alexander Henderson produced a new comic opera at the Comedy Theatre, London, entitled The Great Mogul. In this piece Miss Florence St. John had to appear with live snakes writhing about her, an innovation which was not appreciated by the audience, whilst the songs written by H. B. Farnie, were received with derision. Although the house was packed with the friends of the Lessee, on the opening night (for no money was taken at the doors) the opera met with a very cool reception, and the following parody appeared in The Referee on November 23, 1884:
ALEXANDER’S FIRST. (With apologies to the late Ingenious Mr. Dryden.)
’Twas at the Royal Comedy (where none But friends of Hender_son_ Were let to pass the gate On first night held in state) This week A. H. got “done.” The folks therein on Monday found Had had free passes to that spot renowned (There was no money’s jingling sound). The gentle Farnie stood aside, And all the preparations eyed With all a mighty author’s pride. And then they cried――that peerless pair “None but our friends, None but our friends, Shall see our first nights, we declare.”
Van Biene, placed on high, Amid his tuneful quire (All wearing swallow-tail attire) ’Gan wave his bâton by-and-by His comrades to inspire. Anon commenced to play (A comic opera, let me say, Penned some time back in Paris gay), And first the “house” did to applause give vent, As up the curtain went. Stalls, boxes, pit, and gallery soon expressed Their joy when Florence entered sweetly dressed.
She charmed them by her voice’s flute-like sound; But later, on the crawling snakes they frowned,―― That exhibition they disgusting found. Their whispered sneer Did Alec hear. But like a god, Assumed to nod As though he felt no fear. The praises of pale ale anon the chords sung. But, strange to say, no sounds of “Encore!” rung. When Leslie through his teeth ’gan hum His pretty air――it worried some. The Song too of the “Steak” Did not applause awake. That lyric, like the rest, in rhythm was so rum. For Farnie to the wings had flung All rules for writing verse ’twas plain, Mostly halting was his measure; (Let him mend it, at his leisure). When a measure Gives no pleasure It is apt to give you pain!
The company worked hard, in vain, But dull and duller grew the strain, And no finale was a “go”――no, weaker did it wane. Then Alec heard the hiss arise Among the “friends” he used to prize. Even the Jingo gags they guyed And H. B. Farnie did deride. A most unequal muse Had Audran stooped to choose. Then Alexander, great and good, Began his teeth to grate―― Galling, galling, galling, galling, Galling was his sorry state, Dismayed, abashed, he stood, Deserted all at once was he By those whom he admitted free, “What! hissed by deadheads!” Alec cried; “What, by my own packed house defied!” Then D’Albertson, the smart and the sedate (With rich moustache with curlèd ends), Said Farnie could not take a call―― “Yah! we don’t want him!” cried the “friends”―― “Ugh! good job too!” did others bawl.
* * * * *
“Revenge!” great Alexander cries; Hear the hisses that arise! E’en the snakes, they ne’er cheered; At most “numbers” they jeered. This ingratitude gives me surprise; Such cheek from my band I cannot understand―― I have used them on first nights again and again But the ads shall remain In their first-arranged vein. I will show all this crew That I know what to do, Though they serve me like this, and thus dare to express An opinion, I’ll show I can fight against odds―― I’ll defy all these treacherous pittites and “gods”―― Go, announce it at once: “An Enormous Success!”
* * * * *
Not long ago (Ere Henderson received this blow) I ventured to dispute That A. in this respect was ’cute. I struck my lyre And told him that this dodge few people could admire At last, you see, to spoil his game, His dead-head “friends” rise up to blame; Henceforth, perhaps, he’ll try this trick no more, But warned by Monday’s gruesome sounds, Will run his premières upon proper grounds, And do as others do――take money at the door. So henceforth, Alec, wisdom try―― Don’t on the Public frown; A failure, e’en when “friends” don’t guy, Will never draw the town
CARADOS.
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LINES PRINTED UNDER THE ENGRAVED PORTRAIT OF JOHN MILTON. (In Tonson’s Folio Edition of “Paradise Lost,” 1688.)
Three poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first in loftiness of thought surpassed, The next in majesty, in both the last. The force of Nature could no further go; To make a third she joined the former two.
Mr. Malone suggested that the idea of these lines was borrowed by Dryden from Salvaggi’s Latin distich:――
“_Græcia, Mæonidem, jactet sibi Roma Maronem, Anglia Miltonum jactat utrique parem._”
But in a little work, printed in 1676, entitled “Anima Astrologia,” a verse occurs which bears a much nearer resemblance to Dryden’s epigram:――
“Let envy burst; Urania’s glad to see Her sons thus joined in a triplicity; To Cardan and to Guido much is due, And in one Lilly we behold the two.”
These lines allude to Jerome Cardan, the Astrologer (1501-1576), to William Lilly, also an Astrologer (1602-1681), and to Ubaldo Guido, an Italian Mathematician (1540-1601). Dryden was a firm believer in astrology, and as he must, in all probability, have been well acquainted with this book, it is probable these lines were in his mind when he composed his own more polished epigram.
On page 233, Vol. 2, of this Collection, a number of parodies of the Epigram will be found, but the following imitations were accidentally omitted.
ON HYPATIA. MADAME AGNESI, AND MRS. SOMERVILLE.
“Three women, in three different ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn; Rare as poetic minds of master flights, Three only rose to science’ loftiest heights. The first a brutal crowd in pieces tore, Envious of fame, bewildered at her lore; The next through tints of darkening shadow passed, Lost in the azure sisterhood at last; Equal to these the third, and happier far, Cheerful though wise, though learned, popular, Liked by the many, valued by the few, Instructs the world, yet dubbed by none a Blue.”
There is a little confusion in these lines, both Madame Agnesi and Mrs. Somerville were born in the same “age” if by that century is meant, and although Hypatia talked Greek she was an Egyptian, whilst Mrs. Somerville was not English at all, having been born in Scotland. Hypatia, a female philosopher in Alexandria, was brutally murdered by an ignorant mob; Madame Agnesi, an Italian lady of great scientific attainments, died a Blue Nun in a convent at Milan in 1799. Mrs. Mary Somerville wrote several scientific books, of which perhaps the best known was “The Connection of the Physical Sciences.”
Three Richards lived in Brunswick’s glorious reign, In Westminster the first[39], the next in Warwick Lane[40], In Dumbleton the third[41], each doughty knight, In spite of nature, was resolved to write. The first in penury of thought surpassed, The next in rambling cant; in both the last. The force of dulness could no further go, To make the third she joined the former two.
By Dr. James Drake, then an Undergrad of St. John’s College, Cambridge, printed in Anonymiana, 1809.
――――
Biographies of John Dryden are so numerous and accessible that it is unnecessary here to discuss the weak points of his character. To use the mildest language possible, he was a time-server, a turncoat, and a court sycophant. He had written in praise of Oliver Cromwell, he wrote equally laudatory verses on Charles II., he had strongly defended the Protestant religion, yet within a twelvemonth of the accession of the Catholic James II. the following entry appeared in Evelyn’s Diary, January 19, 1686: “Dryden, the famous play writer, and his two sons, and Mrs. Nelly (Miss to the late King) were said to go to mass; such proselytes were no great loss to the Church.” His conversion brought him Court patronage, and in April 1687 he published a defence of his new religion in verse, entitled “The Hind and the Panther.” This was a long allegorical poem in which the Hind represented the Catholic Church, and the Panther the Protestant Church of England. It gave rise to much controversy, and many burlesques were written upon it, ridiculing the work, and the character of its author. The most famous of these parodies was one of exquisite humour, the joint production of Charles Montague (the future Earl of Halifax) and Matthew Prior. This was called “The Hind and the Panther Transversed to the story of the Country Mouse and the City Mouse.” The principal characters in the famous farce The Rehearsal, Bayes, Smith, and Johnson, were revived in this witty production, which is unfortunately much too long to reprint. Dryden’s poem commences:――
A milk white Hind, immortal and unchanged, Fed on the lawns, and in the forest ranged; Without, unspotted, innocent within, She feared no danger, for she knew no sin. Yet had she oft been chased with horns and hounds, And Scythian shafts, and many winged wounds Aimed at her heart; was often forced to fly, And doomed to death, though fated not to die.
The first lines of the parody are:――
A milk-white Mouse immortal and unchanged, Fed on soft cheese, and o’er the Dairy ranged Without, unspotted; innocent within, She feared no Danger, for she knew no gin. Yet had she oft been scor’d by bloody claws Of winged owls, and stern Grimalkin’s Paws Aim’d at her destin’d Head, which made her fly, Tho’ she was doomed to death, and fated not to die.
* * * * *
ALEXANDER POPE.
BORN May 21, 1688. | DIED May 30, 1744.
Dryden’s Odes for St. Cecilia’s Day have already been mentioned, and in 1708 Pope was also induced, by Richard Steele, to write an ode for the annual festival. This is acknowledged to be the finest poem of its kind that had appeared since Dryden’s odes were produced. In fact, as Pope himself said, “Many people would like my ode on music better if Dryden had never written on that subject. It was at the request of Mr. Steele that I wrote mine; and not with any thought of rivalling that great man, whose memory I do, and have always reverenced.”
Pope chose the mythological story of Orpheus and Eurydice as the theme for his ode; it is too long to quote in full, but the first verse, and last quatrain, will serve as key notes for the parodies which follow.
ODE FOR ST. CECILIA’S DAY.
Descend ye Nine! descend and sing; The breathing instruments inspire, Wake into voice each silent string, And sweep the sounding lyre! In a sadly pleasing strain Let the warbling lute complain: Let the loud trumpet sound, Till the roofs all around The shrill echoes rebound; While, in more lengthen’d notes and slow, The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow. Hark! the numbers soft and clear Gently steal upon the ear; Now louder, and yet louder rise, And fill with spreading sounds the skies; Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes, In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats; Till, by degrees, remote and small, The strains decay, And melt away, In a dying, dying fall.
* * * * *
Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell, To bright Cecilia greater power is given, His numbers raised a shade from hell, Hers lift the soul to heaven.
ALEXANDER POPE.
――――
AN ODE TO TOAST-MASTER TOOLE.[42]
“Descend, ye Nine!” No common theme is mine―― I sing of thee, O Toole! Bacchus baptised thee in a font of wine, And from the roseate pool Thy face received the sunny tint it wears, And thus illumed (blest face!) a thousand “chairs.”
Who, that hath heard poor Charity’s appeal And nobly paid a guinea for a meal (Where soup and fish And every new-made dish, Just verged upon the cold; Or else the very tough, or very old―― Except the tepid salad, which appear’d Fresh gather’d from the hot-bed where ’twas rear’d), Can e’er forget, O Toole! thy coat of blue With dazzling metal buttons spangled o’er―― The yard of broad black ribbon, whereunto Appends the eye-glass thro’ which thou dost pore Over the list of toasts, ere thou dost bawl With such stentorian lungs, That we opine the walls of old Guildhall Are each endowèd with a thousand tongues―― “Silence!” To hear that Patagonian shout Is to obey. The hand that’s in the act of pouring out Is forced to stay―― “Non Nobis!!!” The greediest crammer Deserts his plate, roused by thy voice and hammer.
* * * * *
The buzz of bottle-drawing’s at its height; Brown takes wine with Smith, and Briggs with Bright, Hark! To that thunder, eloquent o’er all―― Toole! ’tis thy call. Of “Silence if you please――order for the chair!” As with an exquisite and finished air, (Worthy of――Widdicomb, when he essays To fix some shilling-gallery beauty’s gaze), You wave your paper bâton o’er the head Of him who, like Olympian Jove, is seated there, And guides your voice the thunder of the “Chair!” Who ne’er,――when public dinner port began To, Circe-wise, transmogrify the man, Hath found the rising hiccup downward driven, When, Toole! thy lungs this glorious toast have given―― “The Queen, with three times three! “Hip, hip, hurrah!――Silence for a glee!”
* * * * *
Farewell, thou King of Sentiment and Toast! Long may’st thou rule the roast At philanthropic and at civic dinner! Long may Lachesis (that old maiden spinner) Keep thy thread going, and long may we Hear you declare “Silence in the Chair! Messrs. Hobbs, Dobbs, Snobbs, will ’blige you with a glee.”
Punch, November, 1843.
――――
ODE ON ST. CECILIA’S DAY. (A long way after Pope.)
Descend, great Bunn!――descend and bring A furnace of poetic fire; Nib fifty pens, and take your fling, Boldly of foolscap fill a quire. In a namby-pamby strain, Let the tenor first complain; Let the falsetto sound, With nasal twang around, ’Till in applause ’tis drown’d. Then in more ponderous notes and slow, Let the deep bass go down, extremely low. Hark the shrill soprano near Bursts upon the startled ear! Higher and higher does she rise, And fills with awful screams the flies, By straining and shrieking she reaches the notes, Out of tune, out of time too, the wild music floats; Till by degrees the vigorous bawl, Seems to decay, And melts away In a feeble, feeble squall.
In music there’s a medium, you know; Don’t sing too high, nor sink too low. If in a house tumultuous rows arise, Music to drown the noise the means supplies; Or when the housemaid, pressed with cares, To yonder public-house repairs, Some gallant soldier, fired by music’s sound Will order pints of half-and-half all round. John the footman nods his head, Swears he’ll not go home to bed; In his arms a partner takes, As some courteous speech he makes; And suddenly the joyous pair engage In giddy Waltz or Polka, now the rage.
But when the violin puts forth its charms, How the sweet music every bosom warms: So when the dilettante dared the squeeze, To hear of Jenny Lind the opening strain, And in the rush serenely sees His best coat torn in twain, Transported simpletons stood round, And men grew spooneys at the sound, Roaring with all their wind; Each one his power of lung displayed In bawling to the Swedish Maid While cheers from box to pit resound For Lind, for Lind, for Lind! But when through those mysterious bounds Where the policeman goes his rounds, The poet had by chance been led Mid the coal-hole, festive shed, What sounds were heard, What scenes appeared, How horrible the din! Toasted cheese If you please. Waiter――stop! Mutton-chop. Hollo! Jones, Devilled bones; And cries for rum or gin! But hark! the chairman near the fire Strikes on the table, to require Strict silence for a song. Thy tongue, O waiter, now keep still; Bring neither glass, nor go, nor gill; The pause will not be long. The guests are mute as if upon their beds; Their hair uncurl’d hangs from their listening heads. By the verses as they flow, By their meaning nothing though, Full of tropes and flowers; By those lofty rhymes that dwell In the mind of Bunn[43] so well, Like love in Paphian bowers. By the lines that he has made, Working at the poet’s trade―― By the “marble halls” so smart, By “other lips” and “Woman’s heart,” True poetry at once restore, restore, Or don’t let Bunn, at least, write any more! But soon, too soon, poor music shuts her eyes; Again she falls――again she dies, she dies. How will she now once more attempt to thrive? Ah! Jullien[44] comes to keep her still alive. Now with his British Army Quadrille, so bright and balmy, Or with four bands meeting, Two men a large drum beating, He gives the tone Of dying groan, Or soldier’s moan, When at his post His life is in the battle lost. With five bands surrounded, Is Jullien confounded? No! onwards he goes, And his arms about he throws. See: wild as a wild duck the bâton he plies; Ah! down in the chair he drops, closing his eyes. My eyes! He dies!
He comes to life――for Jullien all have sung; The name of Jullien is on every tongue. The boxes and the pit, Both they who stand and sit; With Jullien’s name the entire house has rung.
Music the greatest brute can charm, And savage natures will disarm. Music can find luxurious ease, Making what bargain it may please. A salary it can improve To any sum that it may love. This the delightful Lind has found, And to the tune of fifteen thousand pound. When the full house enjoys the Swedish bird, E’en Fashion deigns to lend its ear, So eager ’t is to catch each little word, That were a pin to drop it must be heard; And people come from far as well as near!
Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell, For Jenny Lind may boast with greater reason: His numbers he for gold could never sell―― She makes her fortune in a season!
From George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack for 1848.
――――:o:――――
In 1749 Bonnell Thornton published a humorous burlesque upon the Cecilian odes, under the title of “An Ode on St. Cecilia’s Day, adapted to the Ancient British Musick,” which is said to have been set to music with characteristic accompaniments by Dr. Arne, and performed on the Saint’s day, November 22, 1749. This appears somewhat doubtful, it was however set to music in 1759 by Dr. Burney, who has left the following account of his work and its performance: “In 1759 I set for Smart and Newbery, Thornton’s Burlesque Ode on St. Cecilia’s Day. It was performed at Ranelagh in masks, to a very crowded audience, as I was told, for I then resided in Norfolk. Beard sang the Salt-box song, which was admirably accompanied on that instrument by Brent, the fencing master, and father of Miss Brent, the celebrated singer; Skeggs on the broomstick as bassoon, and a remarkable performer on the Jew’s Harp, ‘Buzzing twangs the iron lyre.’ Cleavers were cast in bell metal for this entertainment. All the performers of the Old Woman’s oratory, employed by Foote, were, I believe, employed at Ranelagh on this occasion.”
Boswell mentions that Dr. Johnson was much diverted with the humour of this ode.
AN ODE ON SAINT CECILIA’S DAY.
Adapted to the Antient British Musick: viz. The Salt-Box, the Jew’s Harp, the Marrow-Bones and Cleavers, the Hum-Strum or Hurdy Gurdy, etc.
With an introduction, giving some account of these truly British Instruments.
By BONNELL THORNTON, Esquire.
The Preface, which is too long to quote in full, concludes with the following remarks. “If this Ode contributes in the least to lessen our false taste in admiring that foreign Musick now so much in vogue, and to recall the ancient British spirit, together with the ancient British harmony, I shall not think the pains I employed on the composition entirely flung away on my countrymen. This Ode, I am sensible, is not without faults; though I cannot help thinking it far superior to the odes of Johnny Dryden, Joe Addison, Sawney Pope, Nick Rowe, little Kit Smart, etc, etc, etc, or of any that have written, or shall write on St. Cecilia’s day.”
“I have strictly adhered to the rule of making the sound echo to the sense.”
AN ODE ON SAINT CECILIA’S DAY.
OVERTURE.
Recitative.
Be dumb, be dumb, ye inharmonious Sounds, And Musick, that th’ astonish’d Ear with Discord wounds: No more let common Rhymes profane the Day.
Grand Chorus.
Grac’d with divine Cecilia’s Name; Let solemn Hymns this awful Feast proclaim, And heav’nly Notes conspire to raise the heavn’ly Lay.
Recitative.
The meaner melody we scorn, Which vulgar instruments afford; Shrill flute, sharp fiddle, bellowing horn, Rumbling Bassoon, or tinkling Harpischord.
Air.
In strains more exalted the Salt-box shall join, And Clattering, and Battering, and Clapping combine; With a Rap and a Tap while the hollow Side sounds, Up and down leaps the Flap, and with Rattling rebounds.
Recitative.
Strike, strike the soft Judaic Harp, Soft and sharp, By Teeth coercive in firm Durance kept, And lightly by the volant Finger swept.
Air.
Buzzing twangs the Iron Lyre, Shrilly Thrilling, Trembling, trilling, Whizzing with the wavering wire.
A GRAND SYMPHONY. Accompanied with Marrow Bones and Cleavers.
Air.
Hark, how the Banging Marrow-Bones Make Clanging Cleavers ring, With a Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding. Raise your uplifted arms on high; In long-prolonged tones Let Cleavers sound A merry merry round By Banging Marrow-Bones.
Full Chorus (Repeat the above verse.)
Recitative
Cease lighter Numbers: Hither bring The undulating String Stretch’d out, and to the tumid Bladder In amity harmonious bound; Then deeper swell the notes and sadder, And let the hoarse Base slowly solemn sound.
Air.
With dead, dull, doleful Hums, With mournful moans, And grievous groans, The sober Hurdy-Gurdy thrums.