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Title: Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol IV

Compiler: Walter Hamilton

Release Date: April 14, 2023 [eBook #70546]

Language: English

Produced by: Carol Brown, Chris Curnow and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARODIES OF THE WORKS OF ENGLISH & AMERICAN AUTHORS, VOL IV ***

PARODIES

OF THE WORKS OF

ENGLISH AND AMERICAN AUTHORS,

COLLECTED AND ANNOTATED BY

WALTER HAMILTON,

Fellow of the Royal Geographical and Royal Historical Societies; Author of “A History of National Anthems and Patriotic Songs,” “A Memoir of George Cruikshank,” “The Poets Laureate of England,” “The Æsthetic Movement in England,” etc.

“I have here only made a Nosegay of culled Flowers, and have brought little more of my own than the band which ties them.”

VOLUME IV.

CONTAINING PARODIES OF

BALLADS, SONGS, and ODES.

T. HAYNES BAYLY. ALFRED BUNN. THOMAS CAMPBELL. HENRY CAREY. LEWIS CARROLL. ELIZA COOK. CHARLES DIBDIN. THOMAS DIBDIN. W. S. GILBERT. ROBERT HERRICK. CHARLES MACKAY. HON. MRS. NORTON. LORD TENNYSON’S JUBILEE ODE. SWINBURNE’S ODES. ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTOR. BARRY CORNWALL. J. H. PAYNE. R. B. SHERIDAN. JAMES THOMSON. IRISH SONGS. SCOTCH SONGS. WELSH SONGS. MISCELLANEOUS OLD ENGLISH SONGS AND BALLADS.

REEVES & TURNER, 196, STRAND, LONDON, W.C. 1887.

CONTENTS

VOLUMES I., II., III., and IV. PARODIES.

Each Part may be purchased separately.

VOLUME I.

PART 1. Alfred Tennyson’s Early Poems. PART 2. Alfred Tennyson’s Early Poems. PART 3. Alfred Tennyson’s Later Poems. PART 4. Page 49 to 62. Tennyson’s Poems. Page 62 to 64. H. W. Longfellow. PART 5. Page 65. A Parody of William Morris. Page 65 to 80. H. W. Longfellow. PART 6. Page 81 to 96. H. W. Longfellow. PART 7. Page 97 to 105. H. W. Longfellow. Hiawatha. Page 105 to 112. Rev. C. Wolfe. Not a Drum was heard. PART 8. Page 113. Not a Drum was heard. Page 113 to 128. The Song of the Shirt. PART 9. Page 129 to 135. Thomas Hood. Page 135 to 140. Bret Harte. Pages 140 & 141. Not a Drum was heard. Page 142 to 144. Alfred Tennyson. PART 10. Page 145 to 160. Alfred Tennyson. PART 11. Page 161 to 176. Alfred Tennyson. PART 12. Page 177 to 186. Alfred Tennyson. Page 187 to 190. Not a Drum was heard. Page 190 to 192. The Song of the Shirt.

VOLUME II.

PART 13. Page 1 to 4. Bret Harte. Pages 4 and 5. Thomas Hood. Page 6 to 16. H. W. Longfellow. PART 14. Page 17 to 24. H. W. Longfellow. Page 25 to 40. Edgar Allan Poe. PART 15. Page 41 to 64. Edgar Allan Poe. PART 16. Page 65 to 88. Edgar Allan Poe. PART 17. Page 89 to 103. Edgar Allan Poe. Pages 103, 4 & 5. The Art of Parody. Page 106 to 112. My Mother, by Miss Taylor. PART 18. Page 113 to 135. My Mother. Page 136. The Vulture, (After “The Raven.”) Page 136. A Welcome to Battenberg. PART 19. Page 137 to 141. Tennyson’s The Fleet, etc. Page 141 to 143. My Mother. Page 144 to 160. Hamlet’s Soliloquy. PART 20. Page 161 to 184. W. Shakespeare. The Seven Ages of Man, etc. PART 21. Page 185 to 206. W. Shakespeare. Account of the Burlesques of his Plays. Page 206 to 208. Dr. Isaac Watts. PART 22. Page 209 to 217. Dr. Isaac Watts. Page 217 to 232. John Milton. PART 23. Page 233. John Milton. Page 233 to 236. Dryden’s Epigram on Milton. Page 236 to 238. Matthew Arnold. Page 239 to 244. W. Shakespeare. Page 244 to 246. Bret Harte. Page 246 to 255. H. W. Longfellow. Page 255 & 256. Thomas Hood. PART 24. Page 257 to 259. Thomas Hood. Page 260 to 280. Alfred Tennyson.

VOLUME III.

PART 25. A CHAPTER ON PARODIES, by Isaac D’Israeli. Page 3 to 16. Oliver Goldsmith. PART 26. Page 17 to 20. Oliver Goldsmith. Page 20 to 40. Thomas Campbell. PART 27. Page 41 to 47. Thomas Campbell. Page 48 to 64. Robert Burns. PART 28. Page 65 to 71. Robert Burns. Page 71 to 88. Sir Walter Scott. PART 29. Page 89 to 99. Sir Walter Scott. Page 99 to 105. Scotch Songs. Page 106 to 109. Robert Burns. Page 109 to 112. Thomas Campbell. PART 30. Page 113 to 116. Coronation Lays. Page 117 to 129. Charles Kingsley. Page 129 to 136. Mrs. Hemans. PART 31. Page 137 to 140. Mrs. Hemans. Page 140 to 160. Robert Southey. PART 32. Page 161 to 181. Robert Southey. Page 181 to 184. The Anti-Jacobin. PART 33. Page 185 to 186. The Anti-Jacobin. Page 187 to 189. A. C. Swinburne. Page 189 to 208. Lord Byron. PART 34. Page 209 to 229. Lord Byron. Page 230 to 232. Thomas Moore. PART 35. Page 233 to 256. Thomas Moore. PART 36. Page 257 to 278. Thomas Moore. Page 278. Lord Byron. Pages 279 & 280. Charles Kingsley.

PART 37. ON PARODIES OF POPULAR SONGS. Page 2 to 16. Modern Songs, PART 38. Songs by Henry Carey, A. Bunn, J. H. Payne, and Robert Herrick. PART 39. Songs by R. Herrick, T. H. Baily, and Lewis Carroll. PART 40. Songs by C. and T. Dibdin, T. Campbell, and David Garrick. PART 41. The Bilious Beadle, The Old English Gentleman, Rule Britannia, and God Save the King. PART 42. Songs in W. S. Gilbert’s Comic Operas. PART 43. W. S. Gilbert’s Songs, Tennyson’s Jubilee Ode, Swinburne’s Question, and the Answer. PART 44. The Vicar of Bray, Old King Cole, Lord Lovel, and Old Simon the Cellarer. PART 45. Chevy-Chace, Lord Bateman, Songs by R. B. Sheridan, Charles Mackay, and B. W. Proctor (Barry Cornwall). PART 46. Parodies of various old Songs and Ballads. PART 47. Parodies of Scotch, Irish, and Welsh Songs. PART 48. Songs by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and various old English Songs. Tennyson’s Jubilee Ode.

[Illustration]

AN INTRODUCTION TO THE

Parodies of Popular Songs.

[Illustration: A]cting on the suggestion of numerous friends and subscribers I have determined to devote the Fourth Volume of my Collection to Parodies of Popular Songs and Ballads, which are probably the most amusing and witty of all Parodies.

The Songs of Sheridan, Henry Carey, Dibdin, Thomas Haynes Bayly, Samuel Lover, Eliza Cook, Charles Mackay, Henry Russell, the Hon. Mrs. Norton, Lady Dufferin, Barry Cornwall, and W. S. Gilbert, have been frequently parodied, as well as separate songs, written by the minor poets, such as Rule Britannia; The Roast Beef of Old England; The Bay of Biscay; The British Grenadiers; The Vicar of Bray; The Fine Old English Gentleman; Home, Sweet Home; The Mistletoe Bough; The Ivy Green; In the Gloaming; My Queen; The Message; The Lost Chord; Some Day; Far, far away, etc.

Parodies of many of the best songs written by the earlier poets, such as Sir John Suckling, Sir Charles Sedley, Ben Jonson, Herrick, George Wither, Edmund Waller, and Richard Lovelace, will also be included.

In the previous volumes the songs of Shakespeare, Burns, Campbell, Sir Walter Scott, Byron, Moore, and Alfred Tennyson have already been dealt with in connection with their other poetical works.

Following this Volume of Songs, there will be another containing parodies of the poems of Thomas Gray, William Wordsworth, S. T. Coleridge, William Cowper, Lord Macaulay, Dante G. Rossetti, Robert Browning, A. C. Swinburne, and of some of the minor English and American Poets, Nursery Rhymes, etc.

Another Volume will contain selections from the most amusing Parodies of the principal prose writers, Sterne, Dean Swift, Dr. Johnson, Walter Scott, Charles Dickens, W. M. Thackeray, Lord Macaulay, Thomas Carlyle, Captain Marryat, Benjamin Disraeli, John Ruskin, G. P. R. James, Ouida, and Miss Braddon.

The last Volume will give full details, historical, bibliographical, and anecdotal, of all the principal works in the English language consisting of, or containing, Parodies and Imitations. A list of all the most important Theatrical Burlesques will be included, with Authors’ names, the names of the principal actors and actresses, the date and place of first performance, and much other information useful to the dramatic critic or collector.

It will thus be seen that the scheme of the Work embraces a complete Collection and History of every kind of Parody and Burlesque, British and American, in a form admitting of easy reference, and particularly suitable for Public Entertainments, Readings, and Comic Recitations. The plan of the Collection is such that any one knowing the name of the author of any particular work, either in verse or in prose, or the title of the work itself, will be at once enabled to find all the best parodies or imitations of it, together with an enumeration of such others as are either too long to reprint, or not sufficiently interesting.

A work devoted to the history of English Parody is not so frivolous as it may appear at first sight. Thackeray wrote many parodies, so did Dickens, Sheridan, Fielding, and Dryden, yet, strange to say, no attempt has yet been made to classify and collect them. A few short occasional articles have appeared in the magazines, but these are of little value for purposes of reference.

It will be seen that the object of a Parody is very seldom to ridicule its original, more often, on the contrary, it does it honour, if only by taking it as worthy of imitation, or burlesque. Poets are parodied in proportion to their popularity, as was pointed out in an interesting article which appeared in The Daily News (London), October 16th, 1886, from which I venture to quote the following paragraphs:――

“Why should there be no parodies? The world has come to a pretty pass of virtue if we are to denounce them as a ‘debasing of the moral currency.’ Parody has two values. It is an admirably effective form of criticism; and it is often a harmless and legitimate source of amusement. Parody is valuable as criticism, because it is a placing in a bright light of the faults (exaggerated) of a work of art. Clearly some forms of art defy this mode of treatment. No fun could be got out of a parody of ‘Adam Bede.’ No legitimate fun can be got out of an honest parody of ‘Hamlet.’ Any fun that is got must be lugged in from without, in the shape of comic songs and music, and antics in general. But a great deal of mirth may be got out of a parody of the ‘Corsican Brothers,’ especially when the mannerisms of the actors are well hit off. To ridicule mannerisms by slightly exaggerating them is one of the chief functions of parody. Probably any artist might learn more from a good, and not ill-natured, parody of himself than from any other form of criticism. Parody is sometimes so amusing that even the victims must laugh, and it is always more or less of a compliment. Nobody parodies an actor, or a novel, or a poem, or a picture that has not artistic qualities and a considerable share of success.”

“As to literary parody, that seldom gives offence. The vast flock of ravens which follow Edgar Poe’s are the bird’s courtiers, not his enemies. No man can parody with any effect, a poem which has not striking and original features. ‘Excelsior’ and the ‘Psalm of Life’ are examples: each of them has scores of parodies. Miss Fanshawe’s parody of Wordsworth is an astonishing example of skill in catching a measure only marked by a strained effort at simplicity. Perhaps this is the very best parody in the English language; better even than any in the ‘Rejected Addresses.’ There, too, the Wordsworth, Scott, and Byron are admirable, and Scott was justly pleased with the success of his imitator. Whether William Wordsworth was pleased is not so certain. But authors are not so touchy as actors, as the ancients knew, or they would not have feigned that Homer was his own parodist in the ‘Battle of the Frogs and Mice.’ Greek parody probably reached its height in Aristophanes, but there is not much fun in jokes that we have to elucidate with a dictionary and German notes. Poets are parodied in proportion to their popularity; if a bard wishes to know his exact standing in popular repute, let him ask himself ‘Am I parodied, and how much?’ Lord Tennyson is parodied far and wide, but who ever tries to parody Shelley? Mr. Swinburne’s ’Dolores’ is the parent of an innumerable flock of parodies. Yes; she is mother of parodies painful, by many a wandering pen; but she frowns on them, dark and disdainful, the mirth and the mockings of men! They alliterate boldly and blindly, but none to her music attain; and she turns from them, cold and unkindly, Our Lady of Pain. Mr. Browning also has been well beparodied, and a shot or two has been taken at Mr. William Morris; but the other contemporary poets have missed the crown, thorny yet desirable, of Parody.”

The classification of the Parodies of Songs presents some difficulties, but the following arrangement will be adopted as far as possible; Popular sentimental and amatory songs; National and Patriotic (English, Irish, Welsh and Scotch); Naval and Military; Sporting, Convivial, Social and Humorous Songs.

WALTER HAMILTON. 57, GAUDEN ROAD, CLAPHAM, LONDON, S.W. December, 1886.

――――:o:――――

SENT TO HEAVEN.

I had a message to send her, To her whom my soul loved best; But I had my task to finish, And she had gone home to rest.

To rest in the far bright heaven, Oh, so far away from here; It was vain to speak to my darling, For I knew she could not hear.

* * * * *

And I know that at last my message Has passed through the golden gate; So my heart is no longer restless, And I am content to wait.

This poem first appeared in The Cornhill Magazine, November, 1860, in 13 four-lined verses, over the initials A. A. P. (Adelaide Anne Proctor). It is now better known as The Message, and has been frequently parodied.

THE MESSAGE.

I had a message to send her, To her whom my soul loves best, For I had my task to finish, And she had gone home to the west, To our pretty suburban villa, At least five miles from here, And my dear affectionate darling Will be very anxious, I fear.

I wrote a letter to send her, So tender, and loving, and sweet, I longed for a seraph to bear it, And lay it down at her feet. I gave it the clerk in the morning, And the post was only next door, But the stupid, forgetful fellow Didn’t post it till half-past four.

I cried in my passionate longing, “Has the earth no angel friend Who will carry my love the message My heart desires to send!” The message at last was sent her, And at midnight to Hyacinth Grove, The telegraph boy brought my warning―― “Don’t keep dinner waiting, my love.”

Funny Folks. April 27, 1878.

――――

THE MESSAGE. (Of the Future.)

I had a message to send her, To her whom my soul loves best, But I had some letters to finish, And it couldn’t go out with the rest――

With the rest to the first post-office, Oh, so far away from here; It was vain to call back the porter, He was deaf and could not hear.

I had a message to send her: Some friends I intended to treat, And I longed for a hansom to bear it, But there wasn’t a cab in the street.

I placed it (that summer noontide) In the pocket which lay on my breast, But when I went out for my luncheon I had on a different vest.

I gave it a boy, with a copper, And he twirl’d it o’er and o’er, But his fingers were faint and weary And it fluttered to earth once more.

And I cried, midst my passionate swearing, “Have I got no bosom friend Who will kindly deliver the message, That I am so anxious to send?”

Then I heard a strain of music, And I wondered all cats weren’t dead, But I found ’twas the wind that was passing Through the telephone wires overhead.

It rose in harmonious rushings Like a fiddle-bow over the strings, And I thought I would send my message, By one of those new-fangled things.

And I heard it float farther and farther, In sound it resembled my speech, Farther than I could travel, Farther than eye could reach.

And I knew that at last my message Had been telephoned down to my wife, And my mind was no longer uneasy For I knew she’d expect us at five.

Funny Folks. October 19, 1878.

I had a message to give her, But she too early had fled; I thought of it since we parted, And she had gone home to bed To rest in the highest attic, Far up near the starry sky: And she never could hear me calling―― Her window was much too high.

I had a message to give her (A line which I here repeat), But I thought it would not be proper To shout it from out the street; So I tried to attract attention By flinging aloft a stone, But I only broke a window, And left her――in haste――alone.

I gave it to “milk” next morning, And I watched if she took it in. But ’twas somebody else who did it (I’d to stand the “milk” some gin). And I cried in my passionate longing, “Oh! is there no other way I can get to my love the message, And say what I have to say?”

Then I heard a sweet voice singing Up high in the morning air; She was cleaning the first-floor windows, And I beckoned her down the stair. And she came to the front door quickly―― For her mistress was not yet up―― And she said I must come that ev’ning (For the cook was going out) to sup.

So I hastened home to my breakfast (I had coffee and salted fish), And went to my work as happy As lover who’s got his wish; For I knew I should give my message―― And I felt it was not too late―― I should meet her that night at supper, So I was content to wait.

Fun. October 17, 1883.

“OH! DON’T YOU REMEMBER SWEET ALICE?”

[According to England, some of the Radicals were very annoyed that Mr. Gladstone should have written a letter of congratulation to Prince Albert Victor Edward on the attainment of his majority.]

Oh! don’t you remember Sweet William, Ben Bolt, Sweet William wot chops treeses down? How you wept with delight wen you gave him your wote And said he’d soon down with the Crown. Like an old churchyard of no walley, Ben Bolt, Or a hactor hobscure and halone, He have positive shown in a letter so gay That he still have regard for the Throne.

Oh! don’t you remember Sweet William, Ben Bolt? His tongue it would never keep still; And its sweet-flavoured clack had a fatherly smack To the click of the Radical mill. Them wentursome words wos but words, Ben Bolt And I looks for their meaning around; For them lines to a Prince, they only ewince That he’s artful and werry profound!

Oh! don’t you remember the school, Ben Bolt, With its master, the Brummagem screw? And the screeches we screeched, and the speeches we speeched?―― A howling Republican crew! I’m not quite so green as the grass, Ben Bolt, For that letter have made me feel dry: And if you can bolt all this flummery, Ben, YOU’RE A DONKEY, BEN BOLT, AND NOT I!!!

England, January 24, 1885.

THE LOST CHORD.

THE LOST BALL.

(A Parody on The Lost Chord, by Miss Adelaide Anne Proctor. Music by Sir Arthur Sullivan.)

Batting one day at the Oval, I was scoring and quite at ease, And I “placed” the bowling neatly, Piling up twos and threes. I know not whom we were playing Or what was my total then, But I struck one ball of Morley’s Like the sound of a great “Big Ben.”

It fled in the golden sunlight Like the devil away from psalms, And swiftly, though long-leg fielded, It slipped like an eel through his palms. It quieted chaff and chatter Like loves overcoming dears, And raised a harmonious echo Of loud, discordant cheers.

It left the perplexéd fieldmen, Simple as perfect geese, And rolled away in the distance As if it were loth to cease. I have sought and still seek vainly Of the lost ball a sign, That came from the shoulder of Morley And travelled away from mine. It may be some man from the gas-works Will find it on his domain; It may be that only next season I shall strike at that ball again.

Written by the late Doctor G. F. Grace, the celebrated Cricketer.

THE LOST CORD. (Words by an Organ-grinder. Music by Sir Arthur Sullivan.) Andante Moderato.

Seated one day on the organ Was my monkey, but ill at ease, For his fingers wandered idly, Searching for――what you please. I know not what I was playing, Or what I was dreaming, quite, But I dropped his cord and, quickly, With a bound he was out of sight! With a bound he was out of sight!

Then forth he came through a skylight, With some clothes on his outstretched arm; And the way that he sought to wear them Had a touch of infinite charm. While riot and shrieks of sorrow Above, from a plundered wife, Recalled the harmonious echo Of my discordant life. The things perplexed the monkey, He spoilt them piece by piece:――

Animato.

I trembled away in my silence, In fear of the dread police!

Agitato.

I have sought, but I seek it vainly, That one last cord, and pine For him, for the soul of my organ―― That vanished ape of mine!

Grandioso.

It may be my truant monkey Will come with that cord again; It may be he only decamps When he hears the organ-men

(Repeat.)

Judy, March 3, 1880.

THE LOST VOICE.

Seated at Church in the winter I was frozen in every limb, And the village choir shrieked wildly Over a noisy hymn.

I do not know what they were singing But while I was watching them Our Curate began his sermon With the sound of a slight “Ahem!”

It frightened the female portion Like the storm which succeeds a calm, Both maidens and matrons heard it With a touch of inane alarm.

It told them of pain and sorrow, Cold, cough, and neuralgic strife, Bronchitis, and influenza All aimed at our Curate’s life.

It linked all perplex’d diseases Into one precious frame; They trembled with rage if a sceptic Attempted to ask its name.

They have wrapped him in mustard plasters, Stuffed him with food and wine, They have fondled, caressed, and nursed him With sympathy divine.

It may be that other Curates Will preach in that church to them, Will there be every time, Good Heavens! Such fuss for a slight――Ahem!

A. H. S.

THE CORRECT CHORD.

Seated for years at the organ, Just trying the stops and keys, And wondering how the pedals Might be got to work with ease: By ear, with my notes in my pocket, Performing――as few men can, I struck such a chord that the organ Burst out “You’re a Grand Old Man.”

It flooded the daily papers, Like the name of a comic song, And I felt several inches taller As I quietly bowled along. I think that it nettled NORTHCOTE, Polite as he can be in strife, Though it seemed a sensible echo From the din of my public life.

But it brought down chaff by the cartload, That possibly may increase;―― For till CHURCHILL’S in with his Party, I never shall know any peace. But I take the whole thing calmly, For the cord has a swell that’s fine; And I’m glad the popular organ Has a touch that answers mine.

And whether I stick to the Commons,―― And I certainly will if I can,―― Or go to the Peers,――no matter, I shall still hear “that Grand, Old Man!”

Punch. March 10, 1883.

THE LOST DRINK.

Seated one day at a café, I was thirsty and hot as the sphinx, And my tongue went babbling idly Over the names of drinks. I knew not what I was saying, Nor what I had uttered then; But the garçon brought me a mixture Like a gift of the gods to men.

Its colour was crimson foncé Like the tip of a toper’s nose, And it tickled my fever’d palate With a touch of infinite “goes.” It trickled down my gullet Like oil down a red-hot pipe; It seemed the harmonious echo From some supernal swipe.

It linked vin rouge and choice liqueur Into one perfect drop, And guggled away down my gullet As if it were loth to stop. I have sought――but I seek it vainly―― That one lost drink divine, Which was mixed by that garçon du café With curaçoa and red wine.

It may be that some chance garçon May bring me that drink again; It may be that some day in Paris I may utter its name. But then I never could find that café, And lost to mortal ken Is that supernal boisson Like a gift of the gods to men!

Judy. October 27, 1886.

IN THE GLOAMING.

A PARODY OF LADY ARTHUR HILL’S SONG.

In the gloaming, oh, my Proctor, When your ways are mean and low, And the sons of Alma Mater Loudly come and softly go; When you prowl around my college, With your Bull-dogs in a row, Will you watch for me and catch me As you did one term ago?

In the gloaming, oh, my Proctor, Think not bitterly of me! Tho’ I tripped you up instanter, Left you prostrate, and was free. For my diggings were quite handy, Five bob more could never be; It was best to floor you thus, sir, Worst for you, but best for me

University College, Oxford. A. HASKETT SMITH.

“IN THE GLOAMING;” OR, THE WAILINGS OF A DISAPPOINTED NOVICE.

In the gloaming, oh! my darling! Don’t I curse the thoughts of thee! Crowding ever like grim phantoms, Haunting me unceasingly. Oh! my heart is sad with longing, What I dreamed will never be:[1] It were best to “chuck you up,” dear, Best for you and best for me.

In the gloaming, oh! my darling! When thy light burns dim and low, And the vision of a bobby,[2] Sets my ruby all aglow! When with pain my limbs are aching, As I “hook it” awful slow, Withering condemnations hearty Of thy maker often flow.

In the gloaming, oh! my darling! I will mount thee not in vain; Take thee to a near relation, “Pop thee up the spout” for gain! Thus I’ll rid me of thy torments, Instrument of make insane! I have learned by sad experience, Cycling ain’t an easy game.

“AB INITIO.” Icycles. 1880.

MORE GLOAMINGLY.

In the gloaming, O my darling, Now our credit’s very low, And the tax-collectors calling, Often come and unpaid go; Now the landlord’s asking quaintly For the rent you know we owe, Will you let me have some money, As you did――once――long ago?

In the gloaming, O my darling, Think not bitterly on me, If we bolt away in silence, Bilk our duns, and thus be free! For their hearts are crushed with longing,―― Paid their bills can never be; It is best to leave them thus, love, Best for you and best for me! It is best to leave them thus, love, Best for you and best for me!

Judy. March 2, 1881.

AN OXFORD SHOOTING EXPEDITION

In the shooting, oh, my comrade, When the birds are flying low, And the hares and wily bunnies Swiftly come and swiftly go: When the beaters cry, “Mark over!” And a cock comes skimming low, Will you blaze away, and pot me, As you did once long ago?

In the shooting, oh, my comrade, Think not bitterly of me, Though I shammed that you had killed me, And you rushed up pale to see. For I taught you then a lesson Which will ne’er forgotten be, It was best to teach it roughly, Best for all your friends and me!

A HASKETT SMITH, Oxford.

“IN THE GLOAMING.” (Dedicated to the Ladies of the Studio, South Kensington.)

In the gloaming, O my darlings, When our hearts are sinking low, When our mouths are wide with yawning, And our backs are aching so; When the thought of painting longer Fills us with an untold woe; How we think of tea, and love it, While the shadows deeper grow!

In the gloaming, O my darlings, We think tenderly of tea, Till our hearts are crushed with longing Round our steaming cups to be. (It is only green in mem’ry, And at times――’twixt you and me―― A malignant grocer sends us An inferior bohea.)

In the gloaming, O my darlings, When our hearts are sinking low, When our mouths are wide with yawning, And our backs are aching so; Will the tea be weak? we wonder (What has been, again may be); But perhaps ’tis best for us, dears―― Best for you and best for me.

HELEN MARION BURNSIDE. The Girls’ Own Paper. February 23, 1884.

THE OLD ARM CHAIR.

I love it, I love it! and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm-chair? I’ve treasured it long as a sainted prize, I’ve bedew’d it with tears, I’ve embalm’d it with sighs, ’Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart; Not a tie will break, not a link will start; Would you know the spell?――a mother sat there! And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

ELIZA COOK ――――

MY OLD ARM CHAIR.

I loathe it, I loathe it! and who shall dare To chide me for loathing my own arm-chair? It haunts me daily, and wheels its flight Into the dreams that I dream by night. When I look at its cover of outworn chintz, Where age and washing have blurred the tints, No earthly passion can well compare With my deadly hate for that old arm-chair.

I loved with a love of the noblest kind;―― Sensitive, delicate, most refined. But she spurned my love and betrayed her vow, And is only a Mrs. McKenzie now. I cannot forget, though I might forgive; My wrongs will follow me whilst I live. But this is the memory worst to bear;―― She once took tea in that old arm-chair.

I owned a creditor――(frightful man!) Who bored me as creditors only can. He vaguely talked of a small amount Which took the shape of an old account, Twice in the week, I remember well, He banged my knocker or twanged my bell. If he found me without any cash to spare, He called me names from that old arm-chair.

Incubi, demons, nightmares, owls, Vampires, goblins, ghosts, and ghouls, Visit that seat, and around it swarm In every possible shape and form. My life is a torture, a perfect curse―― My home is a dungeon, or something worse. I shall never be happy or freed from care Until I get rid of that old arm-chair.

From A Town Garland, by HENRY S. LEIGH. (Chatto & Windus, London, 1878.)

ON THE NEW ARM CHAIR. (Presented to Mr. Gladstone.)

The Pleased Premier Sings:――

I love it, I love it; will WORMS, now, dare To nag me for loving my new Arm-chair? I shall treasure it long, ’tis a genuine prize, Of cosy make, of convenient size. ’Twill be bound to my heart by a thousand links, By memories pleasant of “forty winks.” Thanks, men of Greenwich, whose thoughtful care Supplies me this capital new Arm-chair.

I have sat in the Commons this many a day, Till my eyes are dimmish, my locks gone grey: Oh, the hours I have lounged, and――with trouble――smiled Whilst CHURCHILL cheeked or the Pats ran wild; Till the Treasury cushions seemed cold as lead, And hard as a prisoner’s timber bed. By Jove, how I wish I could wheel you there And lounge on your cushions, my new Arm-chair!

But HARCOURT’S waiting, and I must go; He can’t stand his Whitebait cold, you know. Were it not for the feed and these swells at my side, My talk might flow on in a lava-like tide. Ah! excuse this tear that bedews my cheek, I should very much like to talk on for a week. Now myself from your presence I really must tear, But I thank you once more for my new Arm-chair.

Punch. August 27, 1881.

SCENE.――The House of Commons. The EX-SPEAKER is discovered gazing sadly at the seat he has lately vacated. At length, satisfying himself that he is alone, he relieves his soul in song as follows;――

“I loved it, I loved it; and who would dare To chide me for loving that Grand Old Chair? When they chose me first to its seat to rise, I looked on it then as a precious prize, And my heart with joy and with pride was big When I put on my new full-bottomed wig. I was under a spell as I first sat there, And a sacred thing was that Grand Old Chair!

“And all at first happened well for me, And my life was calm as calm could be; The ‘Ayes’ were gentle, the ‘Noes’ were kind, And rarely to sitting late inclined; Whilst night after night ’twas my happy fate To retire for my ‘chop’ at half-past eight; To retire and return, unvexed by care, To sit――aye, and doze, in that Grand Old Chair!

“But as years rolled on, and the sessions sped, My idol was shattered, my hopes all fled: For there came o’er the scene a parlous change, As the new M.P.’s brought their manners strange; Till one night, alas! was ‘Obstruction’ born, And I knew what it was to sit till morn; Ah! I learned what a Speaker’s strength could bear, As I sat out my life in that Grand Old Chair.

“’Tis past! ’tis past! but I gaze on it now With quivering lips and with throbbing brow; For there full oft have I sat in vain, Till the day has peeped through the window pane; ’Twas there I was badgered; ’twas there I heard My solemn rulings declared absurd―― But I loved it! I loved it! and cannot tear My soul from that once-prized Grand Old Chair.”

As the above is being softly sung, the SPEAKER ELECT, attracted by the sound, returns to the House, and remains an unobserved listener till the conclusion of the song, when, remarking MR. PEEL’S presence, the EX-SPEAKER thus addresses him:――

“Ah, ’tis well, my new successor, Aye, ’tis meet you thus have found me Lingering here in semi-darkness, And addressing mournful lyrics To the furniture about me.”

Truth. February 28, 1884.

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

[“A German Professor has discovered that all the woodwork about our houses has power to absorb ‘noxious juices’ while still growing in its native forest, and that when a tree becomes part of the domestic furniture, and is cut up into chairs and tables and bookshelves, it immediately begins to pour its ‘noxious juices’ out into the air of the room.”――Daily Paper.]

I dread it, I dread it! and who shall dare To chide me for dreading that old arm-chair? I’ve treasured it long as an antique prize, But Science has suddenly opened my eyes; So now I say to my startled heart That ’twere better the chair and I should part. Would you know my reason?――a mother sat there, And became the prey of that old arm-chair.

In childhood’s hour I lingered near That treacherous seat without a fear, And mother, poor soul, no tremour knew As she worked at her knitting the morning through, For German savants had yet to produce Their ghastly theory of “noxious juice,” And my parent guessed at no cause for scare In the poisoned breath of her old arm-chair.

The doctor watched her many a day, While she took her physic and pined away; And it failed to strike him that p’raps her cure Might be found in a smash of furniture. Time passed on, and I heard with glee That mater intended to try the sea; But though she recovered in Brighton air, I never suspected the old arm-chair.

I was guileless then, but I gaze on it now With a fluttering pulse and a bended brow, ’Twas there she sickened and almost died―― Of chair――as professors sage decide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, For my “creepy” spine and my blanching cheek; But I dread it, I dread it! and mean to bear To the broker’s shop that old arm-chair.

Funny Folks. May 29, 1886.

THE DENTIST’S CHAIR.

I hate it, I hate it, and who shall dare To chide me for hating that dentist’s chair? I hated it first in my early youth, When I groaned in its depths with an aching tooth.

And many and keen are the pangs through my soul, And the terror I feel is beyond control; I could gnash my teeth in my wild despair, As I gaze on that terrible, terrible chair.

It has held me many and many a day, When I fain would have been in the fields at play And I hated the dentist when first I sat In the chair, and he said, “Take off your hat.”

Years roll on and are quickly fled, And my teeth became shattered within my head: But I know how much the heart can bear, When I sit in that horrible, horrible chair.

Will it ever be thus? I gaze on it now, With affright in my soul and care on my brow; ’Twas there they were stopped; ’twas there they were scaled; ’Twas there with the forceps that I was assailed.

Say it is folly, and call me weak, While the raging nerves puff out my cheek, But I hate it to-day in my toothless despair, And I’ll hate it for ever, that vile arm-chair.

A. L. D. Modern Society. April 17, 1886.

SONG OF NOVEMBER. (Another parody of Eliza Cook,)

That gridiron by the mantel-piece, Its look gives every nerve a thrill; That thing of home begrimed with grease, Whereon our sprats we learn’d to grill. November――month to childhood dear, Old month of Civic feasts and sights, To see that gridiron so near, Fills my sad heart with home delights.

November――I remember well The day when I to market hied, In search of one with sprats to sell―― Sprats in which childhood might confide. I bought them, and the savoury fish On yonder gridiron then were broiled Experience is a bitter dish, I had it then――the sprats were spoiled!

Punch’s Almanac, 1846.

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.

As several of the following parodies are rather out of date extracts only are given.

PUNCH TO THE WOODS AND FORESTS.

Lincoln, spare that tree, Touch not a single bough, Though in the way to be, Oh, stand up for it now. Still, let its shade expand, Where, round the social pot, The HANSOM cabmen stand―― Oh, LINCOLN, harm it not!

Thy sire, great Clumber’s King, Thou’st certain to offend―― His son do such a thing!―― The world draws to an end Old Laws, old Dukes, old Trees, Delay, decay, dry-rot: Let PEEL do as he please, But, LINCOLN, harm them not!

Punch. 1846.

[While Lord Lincoln, son of the Duke of Newcastle, was First Commissioner of Woods and Forests, a proposal was made to cut down some of the old trees in the West-end of London, which were said to be in the way.]

THE HYDE PARK CORNER CLOCK.

Gasman, light that clock, The time I cannot see; It can’t be more than twelve, And yet it looks like three! Its hands are all confused, Its numbers none can trace: Say, is that humble clock Ashamed to show its face!

It can’t be very late: True, I’ve been out to sup: But, ho! what says the clock? Come, Gasman, light it up. Say, can the mist be caused By fumes of generous wine? Is it three-quarters past eleven, Or is it only nine!

Is it half after twelve, Or six, or eight, or two? That dismal rushlight kept inside No good on earth can do. When I go home to bed I’m quite afraid to knock, If I’ve no notion of the hour―― So, Gasman light that clock.

THE “TREE OF LIBERTY.”

Frenchman, spare that tree, Its roots lie very low; You’d better let it be―― Elsewhere ’twill never grow

Vitality, to-day, Within it there may be, It perishes when moved away―― So, Frenchman, spare that tree.

Punch. 1848.

AN IMPASSIONED APPEAL TO THE PREMIER. (By a very Common Councilman).

Gladstone, spare that Tree! (Of course I means the Corporation.) Touch not a single bough; (That is, neither the Court of Aldermen or the Court of Common Council.) In youth it sheltered me, (When I was bound a Prentice.) And I’ll protect it now. (Now that I’m a full-blown Common Councilman.)

’Twas my forefather’s hand (A jolly long time ago, when the Saxons and Danes was here.) That placed it near this spot; (At the bottom of King Street, Cheapside.) Then, GLADSTONE, let it stand, (Till it’s blowed down as well as blowed up.) Thy Ax should harm it not. (Ax of Parlement, of course.)

Oft, when a careless child, (Summut about 17,) Beneath its shades I heard, (Guildhall, of course,) The woodnotes sweet and wild, (But rather expensive,) Of many a foreign bird. (From the Italian Opera.)

My Mother kissed me there, (In the Chamberlain’s Office, when I took up my Freedom.) My Father pressed my hand (With a sovereign in it, the fust I ever had:) I ask then, with a tear, (Of course, that’s all my eye,) To let the old Oak stand! (Too obvious to require explanation.)

I’ve crossed the foaming wave; (Dover to Calais――oh, Steward!) I’ve braved the cannon-shot! (Figuratively, at the Tower;) While I’ve a hand to save, (That is, till I’ve lost ’em both,) Thy Ax shall harm it not! (Ax of Parlement, as before.)

Punch. February 11, 1882.

“SPENCER, SPARE THAT TREE!”

[“It is beyond all measure the finest tree in London, and being of a kind that defies London smoke, it actually seems to enjoy and thrive upon it. It is sad to think that we have Vandals paid by the public to do such irreparable, wanton mischief.”――Mr. Nasmyth on the cutting down of the old South Kensington plane tree.]

SPENCER, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! For years you’ve let it be:―― Why set upon it now? I know not whose the hand That placed it on that spot; But, SPENCER, let it stand, Or else you’ll get it hot!

The old familiar plane That decks this end of town:―― Why, those are scarcely sane Who want to cut it down. South Kensington secures Its end with many a joke; But if you must have yours,―― O SPENCER, spare this stroke!

When, in my childhood’s joy, T’wards Fulham’s fields I strayed; CHARLES MATTHEWS still a boy, Grew young beneath its shade. And later, it was here, Ere Brompton saw its close,―― Forgive this foolish tear, The dear old boilers rose!

So, if you’ve work in view, Cut down――I’ll not repine―― A salary or two, But not this tree of mine! And though in wild dismay Your underlings complain,―― O SPENCER, cut away, But don’t cut down my plane!

Punch. July 23, 1881.

“CHILDERS, SPARE THAT COIN.”

[The Chancellor of the Exchequer proposed to abolish the old half-sovereign and issue a new one, which should be worth only nine shillings in gold.]

Childers, spare that coin, Historically grand, Thou wouldst its tenth purloin, But, prithee, stay thy hand. It aye has held for me A pure ten-shilling joy. So, Childers, let it be, Nor mix it with alloy.

That old familiar piece, Whose glory and renown Would straightway sink and cease, If thou shouldst chip it down! Childers, forbear this stroke, ’Gainst which we all protest; Oh, say that when you spoke, You only spoke in jest.

Oft, when a careless lad, The golden chink I heard, For I an uncle had Who tipped me “like a bird.” On sweetstuff, apt to smear One’s clothes, the coin was spent; I ask thee with a tear, Oh, drop thy ten per cent.

My heartstrings round thee cling Close as thy rim, old friend―― Remain a handy thing To borrow or to lend. Old piece, still circulate, And, Childers, of thy grace, Think well and hesitate, Ere thou our coin debase.

Funny Folks. May 10, 1884.

THE IVY GREEN.

Oh! a dainty plant is the Ivy green, That creepeth o’er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim; And the mouldering dust that years have made, Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he. How closely he twineth, how tight he clings, To his friend the huge Oak Tree! And slyly he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, And he joyously hugs and crawleth round The rich mould of dead men’s graves. Creeping where grim death has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade, From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days, Shall fatten upon the past: For the stateliest building man can raise, Is the Ivy’s food at last. Creeping on, where time has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

CHARLES DICKENS.

This song first appeared in Chapter VI. of The Pickwick Papers, which were originally published in monthly parts, commencing in April, 1836. Ten years later Dickens started The Daily News, the first number of which was published in London on January 21, 1846. For many years the paper had but a struggling existence. Although Dickens only edited it for a few months, it was well known that he was interested in its success, so that the author of the following poem, whilst sneering at The Daily News, had a motive in choosing Dickens’s poem as the model for his parody.

THE DAILY NEWS.

Oh! a dreary print is The Daily News, And its life is a wonder to all. It puts in advertisements others refuse, But sooner or later must fall. Its leaders are heavy, confused its page, And dismal its general tone. In club, or in coffee-house, nothing but rage Is, when it is offered, shown. Sent for nothing to all who choose, A losing game is The Daily News.

Oh! The Daily News began with a bang, And was going to shut up The Times. And twaddled that murderers never should hang, And printed “large sympathy” rhymes. But still the old gallows its reign enjoyed: And still did “The People” refuse, To trust to the rhymes that their friends deployed, In the sheets of The Daily News. What large sums they have learnt to lose, Who first embarked in The Daily News.

Oh! The Daily News never publishes “wants” Of footmen, or nurses, or cooks. Nor many announcements of ships or of sales, But only the Whitefriars books; Which pretty well shows what everyone knows, By no one it ever is seen, And soon shall we, when it ceases to be, Forget that it ever has been. Let it abuse or praise if it choose, There’s nobody minds The Daily News.

The Man in the Moon. Vol. III. 1848.

GREEN PEA SOUP.

Oh! a splendid soup is the true Pea Green, I for it often call; And up it comes in a smart tureen, When I dine in my banquet hall. When a leg of mutton at home is boiled, The liquor I always keep, And in that liquor (before ’tis spoil’d) A peck of peas I steep. When boil’d till tender they have been, I rub through a sieve the peas so green.

Though the trouble the indolent may shock, I rub with all my power; And having returned them to the stock, I stew them for more than an hour; Then of younger peas I take some more, The mixture to improve, Thrown in a little time before, The soup from the fire I move, Then seldom a better soup is seen, Than the old familiar Soup Pea Green.

Since first I began my household career, How many my dishes have been! But the one that digestion never need fear, Is the simple old soup Pea Green. The giblet may tire, the gravy pall, And the turtle lose its charm; But the Green Pea triumphs over them all, And does not the slightest harm. Smoking hot in a smart tureen, A rare old soup is the true Pea Green!

Punch. 1852.

“OFFICIAL ROUTINE.”

(A New Song to an old Tune, as sung in the War Office.)

Oh, a dainty growth is Official Routine, That crawleth o’er systems old: With red-tape tendrils clasping keen, And choking where they fold! What stores have rotted, what ships decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim! How he fettereth hand, and blindeth head, So terrible and so trim! For knaves and fools a sheltering screen, Oh a glorious growth is Official Routine.

He worketh his way, with men and things, Alike by land and sea; And the weaker his root, the tighter he clings By the vis inertiæ. You may see him trailing along the ground, O’er an army’s new-made graves; Or barring their way that stand around To save wrecked stores from waves. At Balaklava all serene―― A flourishing growth is Official Routine!

Let men and ministers have their day, And be as they had not been, Official routine still holdeth sway, In its mingled gray and green. The brave old creeper, in these our days, Still fattens, as in the past, And the noblest host a nation could raise, Hath fallen, its prey at last! Creeping still where life has been―― A terrible plant is Official Routine!

Punch. February 10, 1855.

THE CABBAGE GREEN.

Oh, a dainty plant is the cabbage green Wot grows in a garden bold; With a gammon of bacon, half fat and lean, He’s good either hot or cold. His heart must be tender and not decay’d, To please your dainty whim; And the chap as loves cabbage, I’ll tell the blade It’s a precious meal for him. Sprouting out of the ground is seen, A rare old plant is the cabbage green; Sprouting out of the ground is seen, A rare old plant is the cabbage green.

Fast he sprouts, for he’s food for kings, And a nice white heart has he; How close he sticks and how tight he clings To the stump, till he’s quite stumpy; In a waggon he’s jolted along the town, And his leaves no longer waves, For he’s pack’d like a conwict, and quite done brown, As his way to Common Garden he paves. Sprouting out, &c.

Full wages have fled, hard work’s ill paid, And grub werry scarce has been; But the rare old cabbage shall never fade From being a chap wots green. The hearty old plant in future days Shall fatten you up so fast; For the best of wegables man can raise, Is a cabbage, my boys, at last, Sprouting out, &c.

J. LABERN. From Sharp’s Vauxhall Comic Song Book.

THE YARD OF CLAY.

A fine old thing is the yard of clay, The zest of a social throng, It driveth the clouds of grief away, From the old as well as the young. The hearts may be wrung by the hand of care, Or with joyous mirth be crown’d But a lofty hope, for the spirit’s wear, In a yard of clay is found, Puffing all our cares away, A fine old thing is the yard of clay.

God Bacchus hath many a trophy won, From the pipe for his glorious shrine, And till his career on the earth is done, It ever must be divine. It heeds not the frowns of the rich or poor, It beareth no factions sway, And where is a friend in the world so sure As this fine old yard of clay? Puffing, &c.

The beardless boy with his meerschaum fine Or famous Principee, To fashion’s strange follies may still incline, They never will do for me. The Stoic, too, dead to our joys, may blame, And barter his peace away, But while life still throbs in this mortal frame I’ll cling to the yard of clay. Puffing, &c.

Our fathers who loved the pipe, have died. Their vacant seats we find, And we cling with steadfast pride, To the faith they left behind. And when from the spot where we now appear, Our spirits are called away, May those who are sent to succeed us here, Still honour the yard of clay. Puffing all our cares away, A fine old thing is the yard of clay.

ANONYMOUS.

I. V. GREEN. (“I. V.” is short for John Villiam.)

Oh, a rare old toper was I. V. GREEN, With his nose so fiery and bold; ’Twas redden’d by dips in the tankard, I ween, That had grown in his service old. Drunk, when he should not have been, A rare old toper was I. V. GREEN!

Though I. V. GREEN he pull’d so hard, ’Twas mostly at something “short;” He was half-seas over within the bar, And yet never got into port. Sober never was he seen: A rare old toper was I. V. GREEN!

He needed no bier to carry his bones, For he carried his beer in his head; And instead of a winding-sheet, he was found “Three sheets in the wind,” when dead. Dead? dead drunk is what I mean: A rare old toper was I. V. GREEN!

Judy. April 19, 1876.

LITTLE NELL.

This Song was founded upon the pathetic story in Dickens’s Old Curiosity Shop, the first line is:――

They told him gently she was dead.

And the refrain is――

“She’ll come again to-morrow.”

MAN’S PLACE IN NATURE. (Dedicated to Darwin and Huxley.)

They told him gently he was made Of nicely tempered mud, That man no lengthened part had played Anterior to the Flood. ’Twas all in vain; he heeded not, Referring plant and worm, Fish, reptile, ape, and Hottentot, To one primordial germ.

They asked him whether he could bear To think his kind allied To all those brutal forms which were In structure Pithecoid; Whether he thought the apes and us Homologous in form: He said, “Homo and Pithecus Come from one common germ.”

They called him “atheistical,” “Sceptic,” and “infidel.” They swore his doctrines without fail Would plunge him into hell. But he with proofs in no way lame, Made this deduction firm, That all organic beings came From one primordial germ.

That as for the Noàchian flood, ’Twas long ago disproved, That as for man being made of mud, All by whom truth is loved. Accept as fact what, malgré strife, Research tends to confirm―― That man, and everything with life, Came from one common germ.

Tinsley’s Magazine. 1868.

Contrast this refined jeu d’esprit with the following specimen of the kind of literature that is sold by street ballad singers. It was printed at Taylor’s Song Mart, Brick Lane, Bethnal Green, and sold for one half-penny:――

FAITHLESS NELLY.

They told him gently she was gone To the station house, and smil’d; They led him to a dark back cell, Where laid his squalling child. For gin she had sold everything, And spent all she could borrow; “In the station house she sleeps,” says he, “She’ll be out again to-morrow.”

Six policemen bore her to the cell, Next day before the beak, And for blacking a big policeman’s eye She was sent up for a week. Outside the Court the old man watch’d Her into the van with sorrow; Says he, “If I take you home to day, You will be here again to morrow.”

They took her straight to Tothill Fields, To grind wind on the mill, But she scream’d aloud for a drop of gin, They gave her an extra drill. Six days after the old man saw Her through the bars with sorrow; Says she, “Old boy, I’m lock’d in now, I shall be out again to-morrow.”

WINGS. (Composed by DOLORES.)

Wings! to bear me over Mountain and vale away; Wings! to bathe my spirit In morning’s sunny ray. Wings! that I may hover At morn above the sea; Wings! thro’ life to bear me And death triumphantly.

Wings! like youth’s fleet moments Which swiftly o’er me pass’d, Wings! like my early visions, Too bright, too fair, to last: Wings! that I might re-call them The lov’d, the lost, the dead; Wings! that I might fly after The past long vanished.

Wings! to lift me upward, Soaring with eagle flight, Wings! to waft me heav’nward And back in realms of light. Wings! to be no more wearied, Lull’d in eternal rest. Wings! to be sweetly folded Where faith and love are bless’d.

From the German by PERCY BOYD.

CURLS. (A Parody by a Flirt.)

Curls, that I might roll them In paper coils at night; Curls that I might hide them, Away till morning light. Curls, to hang in clusters, Of silken texture fair; Curls, to kiss me gently, In evening’s balmy air.

Curls, that I might sever For my own lover true; Curls, perhaps to give one, To other lovers too. Curls, that all may see them, Curls, reaching to my knee; Curls, that men might press them To hearts that beat for me.

Curls of jet or golden, I care not which they be; Curls, to waft me lovers In shoals triumphantly. Curls, that girls may gaze on With longing, wond’ring eyes; Curls, to flit before them And draw their envious sighs.

Curls, that men might hover Around me lovingly; Curls, that I might conquer Mankind, and yet be free.

HARPER. The Cheltonian. June, 1873.

IT CAME WITH THE MERRY MAY, LOVE.

A Parody by the G. O. M. (Solo).

It came with the joyful June, love, That vote against taxing beer; And your William resigned eft soon, love, The place that he held so dear. To the nation it seemed like a boon, love, But to me it was bitter woe; Only a year ago love, Only a year ago.

It came with the joyful June, love, The smash of my Irish Bill, And again as a poor gone coon, love You wept for your fallen Will. The majority it was more, love, Than that which struck the blow, And made me so very sore, love, Only a year ago.

Solo resumed

It came with the joyful June, love, My need for the Irish vote; I was not such a witless loon, love; But I knew how to turn my coat; So I vowed that the men of reason Were Mr. Parnell and Co., Though I thought they were steeped in treason. Only a year ago.

It came with the joyful June, love. My love for the National League. And morning and noon and night, love, I revelled in dark intrigue. The worth of their vote had risen, So I felt my affection glow For the men I’d have clapt in prison Only a year ago.

It came with the joyful June, love,―― The General election came; And the persons who light the moon, love, Were my partners in the game. But the voters were rude and cruel―― They called me the Empire’s foe, Though they deemed me a priceless jewel Only a year ago.

St. Stephen’s Review. June 12 & 19, 1886.

“MY MOTHER BIDS ME BIND MY HAIR.”

THE MOMENTOUS QUESTION

(Answered with great wisdom by a Black-haired Beauty.)

My mother bids me dye my hair The fashionable hue, Which women now so often wear, And Nature never grew. She bids me at their chignons peep, And see how fair are they: But will dyed hair its colour keep? And won’t it soon turn grey?

I see girls in the gay saloon, Or on the grand parade, And wonder in my heart how soon Their hair’s light hue will fade. Each night before they go to sleep They dye it, I dare say: But will dyed hair its colour keep? And won’t it soon turn grey?

My hair is like the raven’s wing, So jet black are its curls: What if away my fears I fling, And dye, like other girls? In potash if my head I steep, I may be fair as they: But will died hair its colour keep? And won’t it soon turn grey.

And then, who knows? “Revenge!” may be Soon outraged Nature’s call, And, haply, on fair heads you’ll see The blight of baldness fall! While such dread thoughts upon me creep, O ne’er say Dye; Ma, pray! ’Twere best my own black hair to keep, Till old age turns it grey.

Punch. January 6, 1866.

THE GIRL (NOT) OF THE PERIOD. (After the jolly HAYDN.)

[LITTLE SECRETS.――Mouches pour bal. Eaux Noirs, Brun, et Chatain, Dyes the Hair any shade in one minute. Kohhl, for the Eyelids. Blanc de Perle, pâte et liquide. Rouge de Lubin, does not wash off. Eau de Violette, pour la bouche. Powder Bloom, pour blonde et brunette. Persian Antimony and Egyptian Henna. Bleu pour les veines. Rouge of Eight Shades. Sympathetic Blush, poudre pour polir les Ongles. Pistachio Nut Toilet Powder. Florimel of Palm. Opoponax Oil. All these, and many other little Secrets.――See Advertisement.]

My mother bids me dye my hair The fashionable hue; And change my chataigne locks with care To red――through green, or blue! “You can’t,” she cries, “my dear, do less―― Or what will people say?” But, ah! I only wish that PIESSE And LUBIN were away!

[An interval of two years is supposed to elapse.]

’Tis sad to think the colour’s gone. That men have called so dear; I leave unturned, I’m sure, no stone, But sigh for my head-gear! How I shall look, I dare not guess. Perhaps quite white or grey! And folks will laugh aloud when PIESSE And LUBIN are away.

Fun. May 30, 1868.

THE “LANCET” BIDS ME BE A PEER.

[The Lancet urges, on medical grounds, that Mr. Gladstone should accept a peerage, and thus avoid the continued fatigue which leadership of the Commons necessarily involves.]

The Lancet bids me be a Peer, With robes of gorgeous hue, Tie up my form in lordly gear, And act on Beaky’s cue―― Tie up my form in lordly gear, And act, and act on Beaky’s cue.

For why, it hints, sit still and bear The tease of Tories gay? Alas! I own it has me there, And long to get away―― Alas! I own it has me there. And long, and long to get away.

’Tis sad to think how Randies clown, And Wolffs and Wartons jeer; I gulp this horrid cough-drop down, And sigh when none can hear―― I gulp this horrid cough-drop down, And sigh, and sigh when none can hear.

And while the gargle I apply, Which really isn’t nice. “The counsel’s good,” I almost cry To Lancet-framed advice―― “The counsel’s good,” I almost cry To Lan, to Lancet-framed advice.

Funny Folks. April 5, 1884.

Song.――CINDERELLA.

My mother bids me pinch my waist Another inch or two, For, though already tightly laced, She says it will not do! And, oh! she says that I must wear A body cut so low―― My cheeks will flame with honest shame As through the streets I go!

She says I must expose my charms, And cause the roughs rare sport. And leave quite bare my neck and arms, Because we’re going to Court; But I have heard our Court is pure―― I know our Queen is so―― She cannot, then, require, I’m sure, Poor me half-dressed to go!

Truth. Christmas Number, 1884.

LOVE NOT.

Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay; Hope’s gayest wreaths are made of earthly flow’rs―― Things that are made to fade and fall away. When they have blossom’d but a few short hours. Love not, love not.

Love not, love not: the thing you love may die―― May perish from the gay and gladsome earth; The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, Beam on its grave as once upon its birth. Love not, love not.

Love not, love not: the thing you love may change, The rosy lip may cease to smile on you; The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange, The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. Love not, love not.

Love not, love not: oh! warning vainly said, In present years, as in the years gone by; Love flings a halo round the dear one’s head; Faultless, immortal-till they change or die. Love not, love not.

HON. MRS. NORTON.

SMOKE NOT.

Smoke not! smoke not your weeds nor pipes of clay, Cigars are made from leaves of cauliflowers; Things that are doomed no duty e’er to pay, Grown, made, and smoked in a few short hours. Smoke not! smoke not!

Smoke not! smoke not! the weed you smoke may change, The healthiness 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 weeds you smoke may die, May perish from the cabbage bearing earth; The sordid dun may to 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!

(Popular in Oxford in 1861).

“STAY” NOT! THE SURGEON’S SONG TO THE SEX. (Sung by Dr. Richardson.)

“Stay” not! No longer don Tight cincture to your hurt, Trust Lady Harberton, Try the divided skirt. Most parlous is your state, Your only hope of cure Lies――try it ere too late―― In dual garmenture. “Stay” not! “Stay” not!

“Stay” not! The torturing steel, The rib-compressing lace, Will mar the human weal, Will wreck the human race. What profits waist of wasp. Shape on the hour-glass model, When you don’t breathe, but gasp, When you don’t walk, but waddle? “Stay” not! “Stay” not!

[And they stay not――to listen.

Punch. February 17, 1883.

SONG OF THE ELECTION.

Vote not, vote not for me, I pray, There’s fatal weakness in your vaunted powers, My foes will laugh, my friends will slink away Soon as they hear that you are one of ours. Vote not! Vote not!

Vote not for me! Oh, keep your word to Wild, ’Twill serve me better than if faith you broke, I knew the value of your hate, and smiled, But, oh! to have you for me is no joke! Vote not! Vote not!

Vote not! Vote not! Oh, warning vainly given; Oh, why be generous at another’s cost? Against your vote alone I might have striven, But when you used your influence all was lost. He votes! all’s lost!

From Poems of a Life, by Lord Sherbrooke (Robert Lowe.)

SOME DAY.

(Music by Milton Wellings.) A PARODY.

We know not when the day shall be; We know not how the cost to meet; What sites to choose, should all agree; Or will our plans work when complete. It may not be till years have passed, Till crowded hordes plague sweeps away. Debate is long――but, poor, at last Our wordy wars may end――Someday.

Someday, Someday, Someday we shall house you, Though we know not when or how; though we know not when or how; Tories first, Tories first――first have said they’d house you; Think of this, Vote for us now, good artisans, Vote for us now.

We cared not once your woes to hear, Nor how you died, nor how you live; But now election time grows near, Your votes to us we’d have you give; And when we’re in, Someday, Someday, Streets wider grown, well built, you’ll see; And ev’ry man, new quartered, may Have first-rate rooms, almost rent free.

REPEALER. Truth. November 15, 1883.

STRANGERS NOW. (After “Strangers yet” by R. Monckton Milnes, Lord Houghton.) Set to Music by Claribel.

Years of chequered life together, Days of fair and stormy weather, Hours of toil and weary pain, Moments of eternal gain―― All are gone――we know not how And have left us strangers now!

Words that flowed to lighten care, Thoughts which others could not share Hopes too bright for mortal eyes, Prayers for wisdom from the skies,―― All have ceased――we know not how And have left us strangers now!

Will it evermore be thus? Shall the past be lost to us Can the souls united here Never once again be near? Must we to the sentence bow “Strangers ever――Strangers now!”

Thorns amid the roses press Earth is but a wilderness; Flitting o’er a fallen race Love can find no resting place. Where his flowers immortal grow Shall we strangers be as now?

Once a Week. 1869.

“THE BEATING OF MY OWN WIFE.” (Air――“The beating of my own heart,” by Lord Houghton).

I’d melted all my wages, Ere of beer I had my fill, For a bob I asked the Missus ――There’s a way where there’s a will. She refused, I took the poker, The neighbours never stirred, For the beating of my own wife Was the only sound they heard.

A sneak blowed to the Crushers, I was lugged afore the Beak―― But I know’d that it was nothing: The old gal had her squeak: They fined me forty shillings, I paid it like a bird, And the beating of my own wife, Perhaps, that night was heard.

But rights is rights no longer; CROSS swears he’ll eat his hat, Or jolly dogs, as wops their gals, Shall suffer from the Cat. If that brutal measure passes, Take WILLIAM SIKES, his word, That the beating of his own wife Will not again be heard.

Punch. November 21, 1874.

LOVE AND SCIENCE.

[The Sphygmophon is an apparatus connected with the telephone, by the help of which the movements of the pulse and heart may be rendered audible.]

I wandered by the brookside, I wandered by the mill; The Sphygmophon was fixed there, Its wires ran past the hill. I heeded not the grasshopper, Nor chirp of any bird, For the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

To test this apparatus, One end I closely press’d, The other, at a distance, I hoped was next his chest. I listened for his footfall, I listened for his word, Still the bumping of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

He came not, no, he came not―― The night came on alone; And thinking he had tricked me, I loosed the Sphygmophon. The evening air passed by my cheek, The leaves above were stirr’d, When――the thumping of his own heart Was all the sound I heard.

With joy I grasped the magnet, When some one stood behind, His hand was on my shoulder (But that I did not mind). Each spoke then――nearer――nearer, We shouted every word; But the booming of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard.

Funny Folks. March 29, 1879.

MY KING. (After “My Queen.” Music by Blumenthal.)

When and how shall I meet him, if ever? What are the words he first will say? How will the barriers now that sever Our kindred spirits be rolled away? This self-same daylight on him is shining, Shining somewhere the while I sing―― The only one who, my will resigning, Could I acknowledge my King, my King!

Whether his hair be golden or raven, Whether his eye be dark or blue, I know not now, but ’twould be engraven Some day hence as the loveliest hue. Many a face I have liked for a minute, Been charmed by a voice with a pleasant ring But ever and aye there was something in it, Something that could not be his, my King!

I will not dream of him, handsome and strong, My ideal love may be weak and slight; It matters not to what class he belong, He would be noble enough in my sight. He may not be brilliantly gifted, my lord, Or he may be learned in everything, But if ever he comes he will touch the chord Whose melody waits for the hand of its King!

But he must be courteous towards the lowly, To the weak and sorrowful, loving too; He must be courageous, refined, holy, By nature exalted, and firm, and true. To such I might fearlessly give the keeping Of love that would never out-grow its spring: There would be few tears of a woman’s weeping If they loved such men as my King, my King!

London Society.

“My Queen,” which appeared originally in London Society some time before the above imitation, consisted of four verses, but as arranged by Blumenthal the second verse is omitted:――

Whether her hair be golden or raven, Whether her eyes be hazel or blue, I know not now but ’twill be engraven, On that white day as my perfect hue. Many a girl I have loved for a minute, Worshipped many a face I have seen; But ever and aye there was something in it, Something that could not be hers, My Queen.

MY SCHEME. (As sung with great success by the L-d Ch-nc-ll-r).

Why and when were we driven to moot it? Was it knocked off in an afternoon? Will the Roman-Catholic Bishops hoot it? Have we set it afloat too late?――too soon? Did we try it because we feared a flounder? No matter.――Since still we reign supreme, Admitting that nothing simpler, sounder, Have we ever turned out than, “My Scheme, my Scheme!”

Punch. July, 12, 1879.

ONLY A LOCK OF HIS HAIR. (Companion to the popular song, “Only a lock of Her Hair.”)

Only a lock of his hair, Last of some twenty and seven; Souvenirs all to the fair, In the heyday of ecstacy given. Lost in the frolics of youth―― In the time to which thought has recalled one; To the Phrynes, declaring, forsooth, That the lover for them’s not a bald one.

Only a lock of his hair, Last of the twenty and seven; And then the bald pate, which the wag Has wittily likened to heaven (And whatever we think of the taste, The wit there can be no denying)―― As a place bright and shining above, Where there’s never more parting nor dye-ing.

ONLY.

Only a common door yard Back of a common flat; Only a kitchen doorstep. And an old J. Thos. cat Lazily in the sunshine Dozing on the mat.

Only an open window Directly overhead; Only a fiendish boarder, His face with grins o’erspread (All of which implies a big surprise For that sleeping quadruped).

Only a pitcher of water Dumped with precision square Icy down upon that J. T. C. So calmly sleeping there―― And a frenzied chunk of cat-meat Jumps six ft. in the air.

Only a hair on his shoulder, Long, and wavy, and brown, Only a cock-and-bull story In exchange for his wife’s deep frown. Only a broken broomstick Wildly waved in the air; Only a strip of court-plaster―― His wife had discovered the hair.

The Evening Gazette. [Aberdeen], February 5, 1886.

A CAT-ASTROPHE.

Only a cyclist gigantic, Astride on a sixty-inch wheel, Eyeing sidewise a maiden romantic, As he drives on his swift steed of steel.

Only a poor little tabby, Slinking slyly across the smooth street, Her mottled fur dirty and shabby, Out she darts from beneath the girl’s feet.

Only a sky-rocket header, While the maiden just stands still and stares; A poor feline, who couldn’t be deader, And a whopping old bill for repairs.

Once a Week. June, 1886.

THE LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

I’m sitting on the stile, Mary, where we sat side by side, On a bright May morning, long ago, when first you were my bride. The corn was springing fresh and green, and the lark sang loud and high, And the red was on your lip, Mary, and the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary, the day is bright as then, The lark’s loud song is in my ear, and the corn is green again, But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, and your breath warm on my cheek; And I still keep listening for the words you never more may speak!

’Tis but a step down yonder lane, and the little church stands near, The church where we were wed, Mary――I see the spire from here: But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, and my step might break your rest; For I’ve laid you, darling, down to sleep, with your baby on your breast.

I’m very lonely now, Mary, for the poor make no new friends; But oh, they love the better far, the few Our Father sends! And you were all I had, Mary, my blessing and my pride:―― There’s nothing left to care for now, since my poor Mary died!

Yours was the brave good heart, Mary, that still kept hoping on, When the trust in God had left my soul, and my arm’s young strength was gone: There was comfort ever on your lip, and the kind look on your brow; I bless you for the same, Mary, though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile, when your heart was like to break, When the hunger-pain was gnawing there, and you hid it for my sake! I bless you for the pleasant word, when your heart was sad and sore; Oh! I am thankful you are gone, Mary, where grief can sting no more.

I’m bidding you a long farewell, my Mary, kind and true, But I’ll not forget you, darling, in the land I’m going to, They say there’s bread and work for all, and the sun shines always there; But I’ll not forget Old Ireland, were it fifty times as fair!

And often, in those grand old woods, I’ll sit and shut my eyes, And my heart will travel back again to the place where Mary lies; And I’ll think I see that little stile where we sat side by side, And the springing corn, and the bright May morn, when first you were my bride!

LADY DUFFERIN.

THE TENANT’S FAREWELL. (A Lay of the 24th of December.)

I’m flitting in the style, Mary, Which each half year we’ve tried, At Michaelmas and Lady-day, Since first you were my bride. The quarters follow quickly on, And the rents mount up so high; But there’s brass upon my cheek, Mary, And there’s no green in my eye.

The place is greatly changed, Mary, We’ve boned the fixtures all; We’ve torn the locks from off each door, The bell-pulls from each wall. And we’ll miss our soft warm beds to-night, To-morrow’s quarter day; And the landlord’s waiting for the rent I never mean to pay.

I’m very busy now, Mary, The while yon cart attends, For I’m packing up our furniture, And all our odds and ends: For these goods are all we have, Mary Our household’s joy and pride; And there’s nothing left to seize on now, We’ve packed them all inside.

We’re bidding now a long farewell, My Mary, to our den; And we’ll not forget next Quarter-day To do the same again. Folks say it is but fair to pay One’s landlord, I don’t care; For I ne’er intend to do so, Were it fifty times as fair.

Diogenes. 1853.

THE LAY OF THE HENPECKED. By Lady Sufferin.

I’m sitting in a style, Mary, Which doesn’t coincide With what I’ve been accustomed to Since you became my bride; The men are singing comic songs, The lark gets loud and high, For I’ve ask’d――since you’re from home, Mary―― A party on the sly.

The place is rather changed, Mary, Of smoke it slightly smells, And the table and the floor are strewn With heaps of oyster shells; And the men have marked your damask chairs With many a muddy streak, And they’ve drawn burnt cork moustaches on Your mother’s portrait’s cheek.

I’m very jolly now, Mary, ’Midst old and valued friends, (Though they’ve in the carpet burnt some holes, With their Havannahs’ ends). For thou wert somewhat cross with me, And ever apt to chide, But there’s nothing left to care for now You’re gone to the sea-side.

And yet I fear when all you’ve learnt, This ev’ning’s work I’ll rue; And I’ll not forget it, darling, for You won’t allow me to. In vain they sing “The Pope he leads,” Likewise “Begone dull Care;” For at thought of you, I vow I can’t Sit easy in my chair.

Our Miscellany, edited by E. H. Yates, and R, B. Brough, (London, Routledge & Co., 1856).

This amusing Parody had already been published in Albert Smith’s The Man in the Moon.

SONG FOR THE SITZ.

I’m sitting in this style, Mary, The bathman by my side; And if you saw me now, Mary, You would not be my bride; They call this hatching health, Mary, I cannot tell you why; There’s water to my waist, Mary, And water in each eye.

From Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch, by J. B, Oddfish. London: Simpkin Marshall & Co., 1865. The same amusing little work contains parodies of the following songs:――“Still so Gently;” “Kiss me quick, and go my Honey;” “The Storm” (Cease Rude Boreas); and a long one on “We’re a ’Noddin,” entitled “We’re all Pressing.” These Songs are explanatory of the treatment adopted at the various Hydropathic Establishments in Malvern.

CHANGED FOR THE WORST.

I’m sitting at my window, Jack, Where we’ve sat side by side, Many a bright ev’ning long ago, In life’s thoughtless, gay spring tide, When we thought more of pleasure, Jack, Than three per cents or four: Ah, those were pleasant days, my boy―― But days we’ll see no more!

This place is greatly changed, Jack, The fields are all “clean gone,” The shady lanes through which we strolled Have all been built upon: My house is flanked by a “Dun Cow,” A “Green Man,” and a “Duke,” A chandler’s shop is opposite―― The owner’s name is Snook!

“Solitude” is now “Victoria-street,” “The Hermitage” “Albert-square,” “The Fairies’ Haunt” a Music Hall, In which I’ve got a share. A cab-stand’s near “Our Lady’s Well,” A workhouse in “Love Lane,” A church and schools in “Lovers’ Walk” From near which starts the train!

We’re treated to all “London cries” From morn till dewy eve, And strong-lunged preachers in the streets Beseech us to “believe;” We’re taxed for water, streets, and gas, And “Bobbies” by the score―― Ah, everything is changed, Jack, From the happy days of yore!

But, worse than all, the weather, Jack, Has quite “gone to the dogs”―― In May we’d sleet, in June we’ve frost, In July we’ll have fogs; I cannot leave the house, Jack, But I shiver with the cold―― Ah, the weather’s not the same, boy, As in the days of old!

And I am greatly changed, Jack, I do not walk so straight As when each day beheld us At pic-nic, race, or fête; My hair has grown quite thin, Jack, My lungs are far from right, I’ve rheumatism, lumbago, gout, I cannot sleep at night.

I think if I’d a wife, Jack, She’d make me soon all right, By watching o’er my comfort, boy, Both morn, and eve, and night: I’ll take one,――if I find a girl Of beauty, youth, and wealth, Who wants a husband sound at heart, Though not quite sound in health!

The Hornet. June 21, 1871.

THE CHURCHYARD STILE. (An Imitation).

I left thee young and gay, Mary, When last the thorn was white; I went upon my way, Mary, And all the world seemed bright; For though my love had ne’er been told, Yet, yet I saw thy form Beside me in the midnight watch; Above me, in the storm. And many a blissful dream I had, That brought thy gentle smile, Just as it came when last we leaned Upon the Churchyard Stile.

I’m here to seek thee now, Mary, As all I love the best; To fondly tell thee how, Mary, I’ve hid thee in my breast. I came to yield thee up my heart, With hope, and truth, and joy, And crown with Manhood’s honest faith The feelings of the Boy. I breathed thy name, but every pulse Grew still and cold the while For I was told thou wert asleep Just by the Churchyard Stile.

ELIZA COOK.

THE LOW-BACKED CAR.

When first I saw sweet Peggy, ’Twas on a market day, A low-back’d car she drove, and sat Upon a truss of hay; But when that hay was blooming grass, And deck’d with flowers of spring, No flow’r was there that could compare With the blooming girl I sing. As she sat in the low-back’d car―― The man at the turnpike bar Never asked for the toll, But just rubb’d his old poll, And looked after the low-back’d car.

THE LOW-NECK’D DRESS.

When first I saw Miss Clara, A west-end ball ’twas at, A low-neck’d dress she wore, and near The open door she sat; But when that door was thriving oak, Exposed to tempests keen And biting air So much, ’twas ne’er As the blooming girl I mean, As she sat in her low-neck’d dress, Becoming I must confess; For of all the men round, Not one could be found, But looked after the low-neck’d dress.

The polka’s tumult over, The fondest of mammas Her daughter calls, and hints at shawls; But scornful “hums” and “ha’s” From Clara (artful goddess!) The kind proposal meet―― Quite faint she feels―― She fairly reels―― She never could bear the heat! So she sits in her low-neck’d dress; But the heat would have troubled her less, For long weeks will have roll’d Ere she’s rid of her cold, That she caught from the Low-neck’d dress.

I’d rather see those shoulders ’Neath dowdy cloak of fur, Or pilot coat, and round that throat A ploughman’s comforter; For I’d know that tender bosom Was safe from climate’s ill, And the heart so sweet Would much longer beat Than I now feel sure it will While she clings to her low-neck’d dress I’ve proposed, and she answer’d “yes.” Next week it’s to be, But make sure I shall see That it’s not in a low-neck’d dress.

Diogenes. October, 1853.

THE DINING CAR.

When first I used the railway, ’Twas in Mugby Junction days, With their sandwiches so salt and stale, Their buns with the fly-blown glaze, Their Melton pies of weight and size, Soup too hot down to fling, And sausage-rolls, if not men’s souls, Their stomachs made to wring. As you jumped from your first-class car, The minxes at Mugby Bar Your change tossed down, With a flounce and a frown, And a haughty, “There you are!”

Five minutes, a frantic fixture, You strove with might and main To gulp some scalding mixture, While the bell rang――for the train! Your tea or soup you swallowed, As much as did not fly On your shirt-front or your waistcoat, From the dense crowd hustling by: While the minxes at Mugby Bar, Smiled, serene, upon the war, For they’d learnt the art, And looked the part―― Of “We are your betters far.”

But in PULLMAN’S dining-car, Sir, Now run on the Northern Line, You’ve a soup, and a roast and entrées, And your cheese and your pint of wine. At his table snug the passenger sits, Or to the smoke-room moves, While on either side the landscape flits, Like a world in well-greased grooves. Thanks to PULLMAN’S dining-car, No more Mugby Junction Bar―― No more tough ham and chicken, Nor passenger-pickin’ For the minxes behind the Bar!

Then success to the Dining-Car, Sir, With elbow-room allowed, And leisure to dine and sip your wine, And blow the digestive cloud. Punch takes off his hat to PULLMAN, And his sleeping and eating car, In the cause of British digestions, Against Mugby Junction Bar! Be the journey never so far, With his dining and sleeping-car, At our ease in our inn, Along we spin, Nor dread Mugby Junction Bar!

Punch. November 1, 1879.

THE OLD BRIGADE.

Where are the boys of the Old Brigade Who fought with us side by side? Shoulder to shoulder, and blade by blade, Fought till they fell and died! Who so ready and undismayed? Who so merry and true? Where are the boys of the Old Brigade; Where are the lads we knew? Then steadily, shoulder to shoulder Steadily blade by blade! Ready and strong, marching along, Like the boys of the Old Brigade.

F. E. WEATHERLY.

This stirring song, set to a martial air by Odoardo Barri, was dedicated to the Royal Artillery Brigade, it is also a favourite march of the celebrated old corps, the London Rifle Brigade, whose band generally plays it on parade after the Regimental march “Ninety-five,” of which a parody is given on page 20.

THE LIBERAL BRIGADE.

Sons of the old and staunch brigade, Who marched on side by side, Muster your forces of every grade, And scatter the foemen wide. Let us be ready and none dismayed, Let us be steady and true; As sons of the old and staunch brigade, The old pioneers we knew.

Steadily shoulder to shoulder, Ready and none dismayed, Marching along, steady and strong, Like sons of the old brigade.

Form in the streets of the busy town, Form in the rural lane, Form where the turreted mansions frown, And form on the open plain. Liberals all, give your cheerful aid, Manfully play your part; And, like your sires of the old brigade, You’ll live in your country’s heart.

Steadily shoulder to shoulder, Ready and none dismayed; Marching along, steady and strong. Like sons of the old brigade.

From Songs for Liberal Electors, 1886.

PROFESSOR BROWNE’S WONDERFUL TONIC LOTION.

Rare were the joys when our hair decayed, We’d naught but to hide our pride: Older and older, shade did fade, Naught but to tell it died. Who so ready as Browne to aid With Tonic Lotion true? Try, and with joy see, undismayed, Hair where before none grew.

Then steadily bolder and bolder, Steadily shade by shade, Healthy and strong, hairs come along, Oh! the joys of Browne’s potent aid.

Over the sea far and wide they cry―― “Browne’s Tonic Lotion we love; Roots gain new strength, young shoots look spry, And fresh comes a crop above. Not weak and shabby, now they are made Strong, full of grace, and smart; So great our joy, thanks to Browne’s best aid. That deeply we’ll praise Browne’s art.”

Then steadily bolder and bolder, Steadily shade by shade, Healthy and strong, hairs come along. Oh! the joys of Browne’s potent aid.

Solo.――MRS. KENDAL.

I’m thirty-five! I’m thirty five! And so to keep I shall contrive, Until I long enough have played An ample fortune to have made, Then I, with bitter scorn, intend The stage to fiercely reprehend, And publicly to set my face Against this national disgrace. Meanwhile, ’till I can this contrive, I’m thirty-five! I’m thirty-five!

When I the age of forty see, No more the stage shall know of me; No more will I take leading parts With actresses who show their cartes; That is, I won’t unless, of course, Things unforeseen my hand should force. If all goes well, though, at that age I mean to gladly quit the stage! Meantime, until my time arrive, I’m thirty-five! I’m thirty-five!

Truth Christmas Number. 1884.

Mrs. Kendal (of the St. James’s Theatre, London) read a paper on the modern stage at the Social Science Congress, held in Birmingham, in September, 1884. Some of the opinions she expressed gave great offence in theatrical circles.

FAR AWAY. A Song of Swindling Directors.

Where is our last big coup? Far, far away! Where are our profits, too? Far, far away! ’Till, in our indigence, We think of getting hence, Perhaps clients have less sense, Far, far away! Far away! Far away!

Where are those “specs” we made? Far, far away! Where is our quiet trade! Far, far away! Once we had mansions fine, Now lodgings are our line; In two-pair backs we pine―― Far, far away! Far away! Far away!

Gone are our prancing steeds, Far, far away! Gone those expensive weeds. Far, far away! Gone with our mashing suits, Gone with our varnished boots; Gone with our hothouse fruits―― Far, far away! Far away, far away!

Once there were “bogus” lines, Far, far away! Likewise much “salted” mines, Far, far away! O how we “bulled” their shares, Then how we turned to “bears,” None now such “sells” prepares, Far, far away! Far away, far away!

P’rhaps folks can still be “done,” Far, far away! So we will cut and run, Far, far away! Here swindles now are vain, But, once across the main, We may pick up again, Far, far away! Far away, far away!

Truth Christmas Number, 1884.

THE FARNBOROUGH SOW.

During the Anti-Tithe Agitation in Kent, in 1885, the following Parody was sung by the Farmers, one verse only is omitted, on account of its coarseness. In other respects the song is an exact copy of one obtained at an Anti-Tithe Meeting in Farnborough, April, 1885:――

There is a fine old sow, Down Farn-boro’ way, She belongs to Brave Joe Stow. And people say, The Parson tried to sneak that sow In a dirty way. But Joe, he made the mud to fly, Splashed the Bailiffs hip and thigh, And made them from the village hie Far, far, away.

Oh! where is the old Sow now? Safe Farn-boro’ way. And where is the Parson gone, Nobody can say. But Kentish Farmers all have swore To pay his monstrous tithes no more, And spite of Bailiffs by the score, The Farmers win the day.

Let us lend Joe Stow a hand, Down Farn-boro’ way. To fight the Parson and his band Who will ruin him they say: Let’s fight against this cruel law, Which from our labours fill the maw Of hungry Parsons Rook and Daw, Let’s sweep the curse away.

There was another parody of Far Away which was very popular in the Music Halls a short time ago. Several of the verses were coarse and slangy, the following were the best:――

FAR, FAR AWAY.

Where is a bobby found, Far, far away! It’s ten to one he’s off his round, Far, far away! Should you do wrong and hold the pelf, And tip to some blue coated elf, Where does he take himself, Far, far away!

I sent off thirty stamps so meek, Far, far away! To learn to earn five pounds per week, Far, far away! It turned out a swindling plan, The answer came, and thus it ran, Start a baked potato can; Far, far away!

Where are my Sunday clothes? Far, far away! Resting in sweet repose, Far, far away! Well looked after there’s no doubt, They are simply up the spout, But where’s the coin to get them out? Far, far away!

The cry of outcast London’s known, Far, far away! All may hear their bitter moan, Far, far away! Homeless, starved, without a friend, While we to savages attend, All our Charity we send, Far, far away!

NUNEHAM. “Dulce est desipere in loco.”

Where is now the merry party I was with a month ago, At that jovial Nuneham picnic, Where the ladies flirted so? On that balmy summer evening Chaperons behind did stay; All the rest dispersed and wandered In the woods, far away.

Some of us in paths secluded. With the girls we loved did roam, Mothers’ knew their pretty daughters Soon would find another home; So they like indulgent mothers Were content to let them stay, With us as we strolled in silence Far away, far away.

Some unwed are still remaining,―― Will remain so to the last; Some have changed their names, and like their New names better than their past. And they bless with all their little Hearts that balmy summer day, When in Nuneham’s woods they wandered Far away, far away.

From Lays of Modern Oxford. By Adon. (London, Chapman and Hall, 1874).

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

Of all the girls that are so smart, There’s none like pretty Sally, She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. There is no lady in the land Is half so sweet as Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

HENRY CAREY. ――――

A parody of this famous song, entitled The Rhino, appeared in The Spirit of the Public Journals, 1824. It was devoted to insulting Queen Caroline (the unfortunate wife of George IV). and her advisers, Lord Brougham and Alderman Wood, and is quite obsolete now.

In “The Bentley Ballads” (London. Richard Bentley) is a complete Latin version of Sally in our Alley, entitled In Saram. It will be found on page 406 of the 1862 edition, and is signed G. K. Gillespie, A.M.

SOLLY IN OUR ALLEY. (By a grateful Cadger.)

Of all the flats with blunt that part, There’s none so green as Solly; He’s got a kind benevolent ’art, And is know’d in our Alley. Oh, don’t I like the blessed day As comes afore the Monday! Cause why, it is old Solly’s way To go to church on Sunday.

And there a-watching nigh the door, We beggars waits for Solly; He takes sitch pity on the poor―― My eye, wot precious folly! In mud and wet I slops about Without a shoe or stockin,’ And all in rags, there’s not a doubt But what my looks is shockin’.

But wet and dirt I never minds: A hobjec’ melancholy, I bears it all, because I finds Thereby a friend in Solly. I’m bound I’d get a underd pounds, By cadgin’ out of Solly, His wealth and riches so abounds, And he’s a muff so jolly.

Punch. September 18, 1852.

A SALLY IN FAVOUR OF OLD HARRY.

Of all the Peers within the House, (And pretty well I know ’em), There isn’t one with half the nouse Of gallant HENRY BROUGHAM.

We for his equals look in vain, ’Twill take some time to grow ’em: So let us hope we shall retain Some long time yet――old BROUGHAM.

Punch. June 23, 1855.

[As corrected by the Rev. Howling Blazes, of Clapham, to meet the views of the Directors of Exeter Hall, who refused to allow the song to be sung with the “objectionable” verse describing the singer’s enjoyment of Sunday.]

Of all the days that’s in the week, I ’umbly love but one day, To which I give a Jewish name, But heathens call a Sunday; For then between three sermon-times, I sit in my dark alley, And think upon the wickedness, Of this here worldly Walley.

Punch. March 29, 1856:

―――

BALLAD FOR JOHN BULL.

Of all the folks in purse that smart I best know money’s valley; My pocket lies so near my heart―― I do hate that Shere Ali!

I ne’er enjoy a mind serene On any blesséd one day; Not e’en on that which comes between The Saturday and Monday.

Those telegraphs, they break my rest; From one ere I can rally, Another comes about that pest Of pests, Ameer Shere Ali!

But, for a hundred million pounds, I must not shilly-shally: With Russia close behind his bounds, ’Twon’t do to stand Shere Ali. Punch. October 26, 1878.

SALLY. (Sarah Bernhardt.) (From a Comédie Francaise Point of View.)

Of all tragediennes so smart, There’s none like famous Sally; She’d be the darling of each heart If she would’nt shilly shally, There is no actress in the land Who knows so well her “valley;” No spoiled child of a noble art So paid and puffed as Sally.

Of all the pets of the Francaise There was but one the fashion, And that’s when Sarah had to play In scene of love and passion; And then decked out in fine array, With Hollingshead to rally, They cared not what they had to pay If they could witness Sally.

They thought of Sarah when at church, And for her voice of honey They left poor Irving in the lurch To spend unbounded money Upon this famous Gallic wench, Who spoke so musically; And those who knew the least of French. Were loudest praising Sally.

’Tis true that many an English star Was prone to rail at Sally, And say the slaves of fashion are Like slaves who row a galley. Since, therefore, at the Gaiety She can no longer dally, How happy they――and we――shall be To hear no more of Sally.

Funny Folks. July 19, 1879.

BULLY IN OUR ALLEY.

Of all the brutes I loathe to meet, One lives in our alley; He leaves his wife with nought to eat When he for drink doth sally. Of all the days within the week He only loves but one day, And that’s the day that comes between The Saturday and Monday.

For then, until his cash is gone, He fills a flowing measure, And ere he goes to bed at dawn, He kicks his wife for pleasure. Poor soul! she drinks a little too, And gets in debt with “Tally,” For which he beats her black and blue―― That Bully in our Alley.

She locks him up, but lets him free By answering shilly-shally, And he half kills her in his glee, That Bully in our Alley. May Justice, lately something slack, And much inclined to dally, Soon leave her mark upon his back―― That Bully in our Alley!

Funny Folks.

THE LAST DAYS OF SALLY AND OUR ALLEY. (A Sanitary Comic Song by S. BRETT.)

Of all the girls in our town There was none that suffered like Sally; For Sal and her parents got broken down, And with them, our alley.

Her mother sold sprats, and her father caught rats, Round Holborn Hill and its valley; And Sal sold mats and bought old hats, When out she chose to sally. Chorus.

One unlucky night, the cats did afright, And broke the sweet slumbers of Sally; Then she threw all her hats, at the wicked old cats That kicked up a row in the alley.

Repeat 1st verse for Chorus.

The very next night, the cats out of spite, Stole a first-class door mat from Sally, Then the rest of her mats she threw at the cats That stole all the lost goods in the alley.

Next day, the same cats, stole a bushel of sprats, That belonged to the mother of Sally; Then Sal let loose her father’s rats, That destroyed all the cats in the alley.

Now the landlord, an old sot, a bull terrier had got, And he tarried to bully poor Sally, And he sat on his dog, which went the whole hog, And destroyed all the rats in the alley.

Then the neighbours joined the cat’s meat men, To have their revenge upon Sally, And they set all their dogs at her, and then Sal slew all the dogs in the alley.

The nan inspector came, said he, Whose to blame? The neighbours said, ’twas Sally! But the landlord quite calm, said hold out your palm, And never mind the alley.

Then a fever came hot, and put an end to the plot, And Sal’s neighbours and parents, and Sally, And to complete the fun, when the mischief was done, The School Board took the alley.

THE GAIETY BAR.

Of all the days that’s in the week, Your actor loves but one day; And that’s the day that comes betwixt The Friday and the Sunday.

For then he’s dressed all in his best, At Spiers and Pond’s he’ll dally; The ghost has walked, and he doth “part” Like a Prince in Prosser’s Alley.

SHILLY-SHALLY.

Of all the follies on our part There’s none like Shilly Shally, A weakness that the Liberal cart Upsets continually. There’s not a cry,――Home-Rule, Church, Land,―― To which I will not rally, But there’s one thing I cannot stand, That’s foreign Shilly-Shally.

Of policies absurd and weak The worst is Shilly-Shally. If Office we’re about to seek, I fear that principally. Put to the test, I’ll do my best Enthusiastically, And follow Gladstone like the rest, But oh! don’t Shilly-Shally!

Let “Pussy”[3] be allowed to purr, As Leader, musically; But not as Foreign Minister, To play at Shilly-Shally! If at the F. O. we may see True nerve and nous, O Halle- Lujah! how happy we shall be Saved, saved from Shilly-Shally!

Punch. February 6, 1886.

ALICE GRAY.

She’s all my fancy painted her, she’s lovely, she’s divine, But her heart it is another’s, it never can be mine; Yet I have lov’d as man ne’er lov’d, a love without decay, Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking for the love of Alice Gray.

LORD GREY.

“The poor Duke of Wellington has not yet got over his attempt to supplant Lord Grey’s ministry. The remembrance of his discomfiture still haunts him by day and night, and in the evenings, just before sun-set, he may be heard by the stranger passing underneath the windows of Apsley, to sing in pathetic tones, the following plaintive melody:――

It’s all my fancy painted it, It’s lovely, it’s divine; But, alas! it is another’s, It never can be mine.

Yet strove I as he never strove, Efforts without decay; Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking, For the place of premier Grey.

His table now is loaded, With notes in black and white, And his salary so liberal, He clutches with delight.

The cash, alas! is not for me, The money’s turned away; Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking For the place of premier Grey.

For that I’d take the liberal side, For that the bill call good, For that I’d dare the rabble strife, Though it cost a sea of blood.

By night I’d take no slumbers, Whate’er e’en Praed might say, But scorn’d is the heart that’s breaking, For the place of premier Grey.

I’ve sunk beneath Reform’s bright sun, I’ve shook ’neath Brougham’s blast; But my pilgrimage is nearly done, The heavy conflict’s pass’d.

And when the great Act digs my grave, Party will haply say, “Oh! his heart, his heart was broken, For the place of premier Grey.”

Figaro in London. August 11, 1832.

SALLY MAY.

She’s naught my fancy painted her, She’s not at all divine; I wish she was another’s But fate has made her mine: I’m used as man was never used; I never have my way―― My peace, my peace is broken, By cruel Sally May!

Her sandy hair is scattered o’er A face of dingy white, Her goggle eye now sleepy looks, Now flashes fierce with spite! Her sandy hair I hate to see―― Her eyes are set awry, My rest, my rest is broken, By cruel Sally May.

From her I’ve climb’d the mountain’s side, From her have braved the flood! With her I’ve felt the battle’s strife, For she has shed my blood―― By night she breaks my slumbers, And watches me by day, My rest, my rest is broken, By ugly Sally May.

I’ve sung beneath that noisy tongue, And trembled as she passed, But, now my business is done, She’s broke my head at last, And when the doctor binds my wound, In pity he will say, His head, his heart was broken By wicked Sally May!

From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.

CAPTAIN GRAY.

He’s all his agent painted him, A captain in the line; But his pay he spent on others, And none has e’er been mine. I work’d as ne’er a tailor work’d For him without delay; And I became a bankrupt, Through trusting Captain Gray.

In dark blue coat all braided o’er, In ducks of spotless white, In bright velvet waistcoat, He flashes out at night, That coat was braided all by me; Those ducks and waistcoat gay I made, and am a bankrupt, Through trusting Captain Gray.

I’ve sunk beneath the bailiffs touch, I’ve into gaol been cast; But my imprisonment is done, And I’m white-washed at last. Oh, when the court my schedule had, My lawyer there did say, Th’ insolvent was a bankrupt, Through trusting Captain Gray.

ALICK GREY.

He’s all my fancy painted him, He’s all I thought divine; But his heart it is decoy’d away, He never can be mine: Yet I ador’d, and dearly lov’d, A love without decay: Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking For the love of Alick Grey.

I’ve sunk beneath the summer’s sun, And tremble in the blast, But now my course is nearly run, The weary conflict’s past; And when the turf lies o’er my grave, May pity haply say, Oh! her heart, her heart was broken, For the love of Alick Grey.

THE SONG OF THE HUMBUGGED HUSBAND.

She’s not what fancy painted her―― I’m sadly taken in; If some one else had won her heart, I Should not have cared a pin. I thought that she was mild and good As maiden e’er could be; I wonder how she ever could Have so much humbugged me.

They cluster round and shake my hand―― They tell me I am blest: My case they do not understand, I think that I know best. They say she’s fairest of the fair―― They drive me mad and madder, What do they want by it? I swear, I only wish they had her.

’Tis true that she has lovely locks, That on her shoulders fall: What would they say to see the box In which she keeps them all? Her taper fingers it is true, ’Twere difficult to match; What would they say if they but knew How terribly they scratch?

Punch. 1842.

KITTY BROWN.

She’s all the chimney sweep described, She’s eats as much as nine, But her appetite it is her own, And never can be mine; Yet eat I more than any man, In country or in town. Oh! a bullock’s heart I’m frying For the lunch of Kitty Brown.

Her false and crooked teeth fix in A mouth both grim and wide, Her pig like eyes squint now and then, And sometimes leer aside. She did not buy those teeth for me But food to gobble down―― Oh! a bullock’s heart I’m frying For the lunch of Kitty Brown.

For her I’d keep an eating-house If she provided cash, For her if she would send a haunch, I’d make some venison hash; Charms which I never saw I’d praise, Change to a smile her frown―― Oh! scorch’d is the heart that’s frying For the lunch of Kitty Brown.

I’ve felt repletion’s horrid pain, And suffered hunger dread, But the cursed cat has run away, With my bonny baked sheep’s head; And as I rove, some wag may say, That fool without a crown. His head lost, while he warmed his heart, For the lunch of Kitty Brown.

HER HAIR IS TURNING GREY.

No wonder that they’ve painted her, With rouge and carmine high, And made her look so beautiful, I guess the reason why: She long has pass’d her prime of life, Her flesh now falls away, And, few men ever choose a wife, Whose hair is turning grey!

She dresses fine and very smart, She buys the best of lace; She uses Rowland’s Kalydor, To wash her hands and face. Her dress becomes her very well, Her bonnet looks quite gay, But I’m awake――yes, I can smell, Her hair is turning grey

She’s sunk, at least an inch in height, She does not walk so fast, But, her virgin state is not yet done, Her single life’s not past; For when the men have ogled her, I’ve heard them whispering say She must be old, and so I’ve thought For her hair is turning grey!

I CANNOT SING THE OLD SONGS, Words and Music by CLARIBEL.

I cannot sing the old songs I sung long years ago, For heart and voice would fail me, And foolish tears would flow; For bygone hours come o’er my heart, With each familiar strain. I cannot sing the old songs, Or dream those dreams again. I cannot sing the old songs, Or dream those dreams again.

“I CANNOT SING THE OLD SONGS.”

“Of course not; they’re hackneyed and out of fashion, and nobody knows what half of them mean. We will change them into new songs, adapted to the taste of the day.

We met――’twas on the rink, And I feared he’d upset me; He curved――I tried to think Who he was, and he let me!

She wore a “pull back” costume That night when first we met; As flat as any pancake, Her tablier worked with jet.

Her footsteps had no lightness (Though high her heels were shown) How could they, with a tightness To sprightliness unknown?

I saw her but a moment, Yet methinks I see her now, With a cloud of lace à sortir About her sunny brow.

“Cherry ripe, cherry ripe, ripe, ripe,” I cry, “Fresh and fair ones”――when no Bobby’s nigh.

I CANNOT EAT THE OLD HORSE.

(Written during the agitation in Paris in favor of eating horse flesh).

I cannot eat the old horse, I rode long years ago; I’m sure my teeth would fail me, And foolish tears might flow. For bygone hunts come o’er my heart, With cuts from round and side; I cannot eat the old horse, On which I used to ride.

I cannot eat the old horse, For visions come again; Of bygone meets departed, And runs in soaking rain. But perhaps when raging hunger, Has set his hand on me; Then I may eat the old horse, And hope t’will tender be.

OH! THE MISTLETOE BOUGH.

The mistletoe hung on the castle hall, The holly branch shone on the old oak wall, And the baron’s retainers were blithe and gay; And keeping their Christmas holiday: The baron beheld with a father’s pride, His beautiful child, young Lovell’s bride; While she, with her bright eyes, seem’d to be The star of that goodly company. Oh! the mistletoe bough.

“I’m weary of dancing now,” she cried; “Here tarry a moment――I’ll hide――I’ll hide; And Lovell, be sure thou’rt the first to trace The clue to my secret hiding place.” Away she ran――and her friends began Each tower to search, and each nook to scan; And young Lovell cried, “Oh! where dost thou hide, I’m lonesome without thee, my own dear bride.” Oh! the mistletoe bough.

THE MICHAELMAS GOOSE.

The Michaelmas goose lay in Leadenhall, On the outside of a poulterer’s stall; The poulterer’s boys were blithe and gay, Keeping of Leadenhall Market-day: The poulterer, though his stock profuse, Kept twigging with pride the Michaelmas goose; Whilst she with her neck broke, seem’d to be The best of all gooses that could be. Oh! the Michaelmas goose, Oh! the Michaelmas goose.

“I’m tired of walking,” an old maid did cry, “I’ve walk’d to the market a goose for to buy: And poulterer be sure that you give me, I pray; The best of your gooses for Michaelmas day!” Then a thief ran by, and straight began, To finger the goose, and away he ran: And he the poulterer out loud did call, “Oh! I’ve lost the best goose in all Leadenhall!” Oh! my Michaelmas goose, &c.

They sought it that hour, they sought it all day, They sought it in vain till the night passed away! “The cleanest――the dirtiest――the filthiest spot, The old maid sought wildly but found it not; At length, as onward she did roam, She looked far the goose all the way she went home; When the old maid appeared, oh! the children did cry, “Twig the old woman that went a large goose to buy!” Oh! the Michaelmas goose, &c.

The thief was caught at morning’s light, They searched his pockets, when oh; what a sight; For a bit of a goose lay hidden there, In the breeches pocket, the thief did wear: The thief laugh’d aloud, and swore it was fun; To the Beak who heard how the trick was done, Who decided against him, so now laugh your fill! For three months he was sent to step at the mill. All through prigging a goose, Oh! the Michaelmas goose.

THE VORKHOUSE BOY.

The cloth vos laid in the Vorkhouse hall, And the greatcoats hung on the vhite-vashed vall; The paupers all were blithe and gay, Keeping their Christmas holiday; Vhen the master he cried, with a roguish leer, You’ll all get fat on your Christmas cheer; And one by his looks he seemed to say, I’ll have more soup on this Christmas day. Oh, the poor Vorkhouse boy, &c.

At length all of us to bed vos sent, The boy vos missing in search ve vent; Ve sought him above, ve sought him below, Ve sought him with faces of grief and voe: Ve sought him that hour, ve sought him that night, Ve sought him in fear, and ve sought him in fright, Vhen a young pauper cried “I know ve shall Get jolly vell vopt for losing our pall.” Oh, the poor vorkhouse boy, &c.

Ve sought in each corner, each crevice ve knew, Ve sought down the yard, and ve sought up the flue; Ve sought in each saucepan, each kettle each pot, In the vorter butt looked, but found him not; And veeks rolled on, ve vere all of us told, That somebody said he’d been burked and sold; Vhen our master goes out the parishioners vild, Cries, “there goes the cove that burked the poor child.” Oh, the poor vorkhouse boy, &c.

At length the soup-coppers repairs did need, The copper-smith came, and there he seed; A dollop of bones lay grizzling there, In the legs of the breeches the boy did vear; To gain his fill the boy did stoop, And, dreadful to tell, he vos boiled in the soup! And ve all of us say it, and say with a sneer, That he vos pushed in by the overseer! Oh, the poor vorkhouse boy &c.

From The Victoria Minstrel. Published by JAMES DUFFY, Dublin.

THE FAMILY GHOST.

At the Old Manor House and ancestral Hall, Where the ivy climbs over the gable-end wall, A Rookery lends the domain a charm, And the rats and the mice within-door swarm; And, time out of mind, as the talk hath been, There’s a spectral Thing to be heard and seen. O, the Family Ghost! O, the Family Ghost!

A sound, as it were, of a rustling train, That sweeps into the chambers, and out again, And anon there appeareth an ancient Dame, Like a figure stept out of a picture-frame, In a stomacher, frill, and farthingale, And her eyes glimmer through an antique lace-veil. O, the Family Ghost! O, the Family Ghost!

There’s a room where the Ghost is given to keep So in that one apartment that none dare sleep, No man-servant, maid servant, girl, or groom, Will adventure a night in the Haunted Room. Should the Host any Stranger away there stow, The Ghost of the Family lets him know. O, the Family Ghost! O, the Family Ghost!

A something in sooth it may be to boast, That a fellow hath gotten a Family Ghost, For a Family Ghost to a Family Name Is a sort of appurtenance much the same As a coat-of-arms, or a Family Tree; No such Ghost but for persons of pedigree. O, the Family Ghost! O, the Family Ghost!

In your stuccoed Villas it scorns to dwell; Stands only the hold of your high-born Swell. It disdains to appear――having too much pride―― To the family circle at Christmastide, Where, if ghost-stories then be but truly told, It could, an it listed, a tale unfold. O, the Family Ghost! O, the Family Ghost!

Punch. December 29, 1883.

HOME, SWEET HOME.

By J. HOWARD PAYNE, in the opera of “Clari, the Maid of Milan.”

’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble there’s no place like home! A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere. Home! home, sweet home! There’s no place like home!

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain! Oh! give me my lowly thatch’d cottage again! The birds singing gaily that came at my call:―― Give me these and the peace of mind, dearer than all! Home! home, &c.

In the winter of 1833. John Howard Payne called upon an American lady, living in London, and presented to her a copy of “Home, Sweet Home,” set to music, with the two following additional verses addressed to her:――

To us, in despite of the absence of years, How sweet the remembrance of home still appears From allurements abroad, which but flatter the eye, The unsatisfied heart turns, and says with a sigh Home, home, sweet, sweet home! There’s no place like home! There’s no place like home!

Your exile is blest with all fate can bestow, But mine has been checkered with many a woe! Yet, though different our fortunes, our thoughts are the same And both, as we think of Columbia, exclaim, Home, home, sweet, sweet home, &c.

Whilst the words are thus clearly of American origin, the melody was introduced by Sir Henry Bishop as a national Sicilian air, in his National Melodies. Sir Henry afterwards adapted it to the words “Home, Sweet Home,” in Howard Payne’s opera of Clari, 1823, from which time its popularity dates. It has subsequently been called a National Swiss air; but Sir Henry Bishop seems to have the right to it. Donizetti introduced it, with some alterations, in his Anna Bolena, not as his own, but as a representative English melody.

ON THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

“The melody of Home, sweet home, must be impressed on the memory of all. The only sphere in which poor Wellington can feel himself at home is in ‘place, sweet place,’ and having once tasted of its pleasures it continues to haunt his memory. To him the splendour of palaces and the favour of his sovereign offer no longer a charm, ‘It is all very well,’ he sometimes frantically exclaims, but:――

The court of my sovereign, though I may grace, Be it ever so stormy there’s nothing like place, A vapour from hell seems to shield us when there, Which seek through the world you’ll ne’er meet with elsewhere. Place! place! sweet, sweet, place. There’s nothing like place, No! there’s nothing like place.

An exile from place levees dazzle in vain. Oh! give me my Downing Street house once again, The subs slaving daily that came at my call, Give me them, with a sinecure, dearer than all. Place! place! sweet, sweet, place. There’s nothing like place. No! there’s nothing like place.

Figaro in London. Sept. 22. 1832.

BEIGNET DE POMME.

’Mid fritters and lollipops though we may roam, On the whole, there is nothing like Beignet de Pomme. Of flour a pound, with a glass of milk share, And a half pound of butter the mixture will bear. Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme! Of Beignets there’s none like Beignet de Pomme.

A Beignet de Pomme, you will work at in vain, If you stir not the mixture again and again; Some beer, just to thin it may into it fall; Stir up that, with three whites of eggs, added to all. Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme! Of Beignets there’s none like the Beignet de Pomme!

Six apples, when peeled, you must carefully slice, And cut out the cores――if you’ll take my advice; Then dip them in batter, and fry till they foam, And you’ll have in six minutes your Beignet de Pomme. Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme! Of Beignets there’s none like the Beignet de Pomme

THE UNFINISHED HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT.

When Lord Brougham said there was no more dependence to be placed on BARRY’S promises than on a broken reed, he was not perhaps aware that it was really REID, and not BARRY, that acted as a barrier to the completion of the Houses of Parliament. Since it has been discovered that REID is the culprit, the following melody has been expressly written for LORD BROUGHAM, who has sung it twice at the Beef Steak Club, with considerable gusto.

“’Mid Westminster’s palace, while REID still shall roam The Lords will ne’er taste of the blessings of home; If BARRY e’er tries the new house to prepare, His efforts by REID are all blown into air. REID, REID, DOCTOR REID! Of all great mistakes, there is not one like REID.

“While exil’d from home, all my speeches seem vain; Oh give me my old House of Commons again. The ‘cheers’ and the ‘hears,’ once my own I could call Give me them, or that sack of wool, dearer than all, REID, REID,” &c.

Punch. April 14, 1846.

PARODY FOR PUSEYITES.

Though crosses and candles we play with at home, To go the whole gander, there’s no place like Rome; We’ve statues and relics to hallow us there, Which, save in museums, you’ll not find elsewhere, Rome, Rome, sweet, sweet Rome! For all us Tractarians there’s no place like Rome

Punch. 1850.

THE POLICEMAN’S HOME.

Up courts and round palaces long may they roam, But ancient policemen have no sort of home To offer them shelter, and comfort, and care, The curbstone no more when their highlows can wear. Home! home! they’ve no home: For poor old Policemen there’s no place like home!

Then let a snug station await Life’s decline, When once sturdy fists must their truncheons resign; And ere his worn frame is consign’d to the loam, Oh, grant the Policemen a few years of home! Home! home! short, short home! Let worn out Policemen have some place like home

Punch. December 6, 1851.

SONGS OF THE CIRCUIT.

From Circuit to Circuit although we may roam, Be it ever so briefless, there’s none like the Home; A fee from the skies p’rhaps may follow us there, Which, seek through the Courts is ne’er met with elsewhere Home, Home, sweet sweet Home, There’s none of the Circuits can equal the Home. When out on the Home, lodgings tempt you in vain, The railroad brings you back to your chambers again: On the Home the expenses for posting are small; Give me that――’tis the Circuit, the cheapest of all. Home, Home, sweet sweet Home, There’s none of the Circuits can equal the Home.

Punch. March 23, 1884.

HOME, SWEET HOME! Modern Version.

’Midst mansions and palaces worthy of Rome, How pleasant, great Bumble, is Poverty’s home! Gehenna-like gloom seems to circle us there, Which, seek through the world, is scarce met with elsewhere. Foul fume as from Styx seems to hang o’er the spot, Its gutters that reek and its rafters that rot, Its rain-sodden dwellings that threaten to fall, And its squalid, sad denizens, drearer than all.

Home, Home, Sweet, Sweet Home! As ruled by King Bumble, a sweet place is Home!

An outcast from comfort, a bondsman to pain, The shivering prey of the frost and the rain, The thrall of King Bumble must patiently dwell, ’Midst scenes that might fit the grim Florentine’s Hell. Foul garbage-choked footways snake on through the slum, Where the sweet airs of heaven seem never to come, Where a bird shuns to ’light, where a flower ne’er waves; Where the grass will not grow, though it grows amidst graves.

Close-stacked, crazy rookeries, rotting and rank, Pest-pregnant, plague-foul in each timber and plank, Rear thick-huddled frontages, row upon row, The smoke-pall above, and the swamp-ooze below. Each garret-roof covers its horde――though it leaks, Each cellar slough hides its pale crowd――though it reeks. Dumb thralls, voiceless victims, none heeds their mute call; But Dirt and Disease are the masters of all.

Hence Mammon draws tithe, and here Moloch takes toll; Here conscienceless wealth, of the spiderish soul, Sucks fatness from foulness in fœtid beast-lairs; Whilst somnolent Bumble, as deaf to all pray’rs As a drowsing King Log, all his powers lets fall, And skulks in prone impotence. What though they crawl From their dens to his knees, the poor souls, in appeal? His brains are of wool, and his heart is of steel.

Deaf, blind to all pleas sense or feeling can urge, Till King Pest, with his fierce, indiscriminate scourge, Sallies forth from the loathsome, the horrible lair, That himself and his imps with our pariahs share. Then, who so affrighted, so helpless as he, King Log, brainless Bumble? Ah! when shall we see Some stout modern ghoul-slaying Champion come To teach our poor outcasts the meaning of Home?

Punch. November 12, 1881.

SONG OF THE PROFESSIONAL BEAUTY’S HUSBAND.

’Midst mansions and palaces so much I roam, That it’s useless to long for an evening at home; The charm from the heavens that falls on us there I’ve never a chance to experience or share.

Home, home, sweet sweet home, Be it ever so humble, There’s no place like home!

An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain, O give me my villa at Tooting again; My pipe at the fireside; the lawn where I bowled; And that sweet peace of mind, far more precious than gold!

Home, home, sweet home, Be it ever so quiet, There’s no place like home!

But parties perpetual now are my lot. I’ve a home,――but I never enjoy it one jot; It is only a place where I put on white ties―― Whence I drive with my wife in our nightly-jobbed flies.

Home, home, sweet home, Be it ever so humdrum, There’s no place like home!

O woe to the morning when, foolishly vain, I gazed on my wife in the shopkeeper’s pane; It was only a carte――but with anger I foam When I think how it’s carted us both from our home. Home, home, sweet home, Be it ever so “homey” There’s no place like home!

Truth Christmas Number, 1882.

THE WEEKLY DISPATCH. (PRIZE PARODY. January 28, 1883.)

’Mid hardships and hovels Though we may roam, From Dan to Beersheba, There’s no place like home. A fiend from below Seems to worry us there, Which, search through the world, Is not met elsewhere.

Home, home! vile, vile home! There’s no place like home; There’s no place like home.

How hateful the squalling Of children and wife! While doctors and duns Make a limbo of life. Of all human dwellings Beneath heaven’s dome, Be they ever so shocking, There’s no place like home.

DAVID REID.

“PLACE, SWEET PLACE.” (Sung by an Old Whip).

Though clubdoms’s fair palaces Welcome my face, I cannot but grumble There’s nothing like place. A chance may arise For a fellow who’s there, But he’ll travel the world Ere he meets it elsewhere.

An exile from “place,” Fashion dazzles in vain, Oh, give me my showy Appointment again! With members who tremble And come at my call, Give me this――or a pension, More valued than all!

EXE.

THE BARRISTER’S LAMENT ON LEAVING THE OLD COURTS, AND GOING INTO THE NEW COURTS.

’Mid new courts and chambers, Where’er I may roam, There no place familiar―― I don’t feel at home. A shade from the old hall Has followed me here, As a friend that’s departed, Whose mem’ry is dear.

An exile from home, Splendour dazzles in vain; Oh, give me my dirty Old Law Courts again! I can’t say a word here, My brief I let fall, When the old place I think of, And that dear, grimy Hall.

C. W. SCOTT.

A VERSE TO HOME RULE.

In Westminster Palaces We bluster and foam, And say, if its bumble, There’s no Rule like Home. St. Stephen’s is charming, St. Stephen’s is fair, But it’s not the St. Stephen’s We long for elsewhere.

Home, Home, sweet Rule of Home! There’s no Rule like Home Rule, No Rule like Home!

In 1885 Truth had two competitions on the song “Home, Sweet Home,” the first (April 23, 1885), was for parodies, when twenty-five were printed; the second (June 4, 1885) was for original third verses, and twenty-eight replies were printed.

Selections from both these numbers are given below.

ORIGINAL AND THIRD VERSES TO “HOME SWEET HOME.”

Though bidden to roam, the world’s face to its end, The power of home will attractiveness lend; Then dearest and fairest of memories all, Bid me come, and with rapture I’ll answer the call. Home, home, sweet, sweet home! There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

CUYUNI.

Fond hearts bear it? sweetness o’er land, and o’er sea, It’s mem’ry is with us where’er we may be; Though time’s changes ringing nought else should remain, Sweet home and its loved ones our hearts shall retain. Home, home, sweet, sweet home! There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

PICAFLOR.

In the Soudan desert, ’neath Afric’s fierce sun, After butchering Arabs, no honour being won; Worn out by hard marches, we lay on the sand, And longed for sweet home and our lov’d native land. Home, home, sweet, sweet home! There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

TOMMY ATKINS.

Though far from dear England our lot may be cast Our love and allegiance she’ll hold till the last, New ties we contract, and affections we gain, But Britain we mean when we sing the refrain: Home, home, sweet, sweet home! There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

DALETH.

In joy or in sadness, in care or in grief, We fly to its bosom, and there find relief; There love reigns supremely, and on till life’s wane Our hearts shall re-echo that sweetest refrain: Home, home, sweet, sweet home! There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home!

PICAPTOR.

Tho’ rich be our portion, or poor be our lot, Tho’ years flying swiftly all else be forgot; Tho’ fortune disdain us and friendship should veer, Home’s mem’ry our hearts in their loneness shall cheer, Home, home, sweet, sweet home! There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

I pray that I reach the old homestead once more, And see the loved faces around, as of yore; Of all fortune’s gifts, methinks this were the best, At home, at life’s close, thus to peacefully rest. Home, home, sweet, sweet home! There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

W. P. (TENERIFFE).

How many in dreams only shadow the bliss Of home, where, alas, a mother’s last kiss Is all that sustains them o’er life’s weary strand Away from sweet home, and their dear native land. Home, home, sweet, sweet home, There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

A. ATWOOD.

Like bird to its nest, or like sheep to the fold, I turn to my home from the world’s bitter cold; For true, faithful hearts beckon me from afar, And the flame of my ingle is my guiding star. Home, home, sweet, sweet home! There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

WINSTEAD. Truth. June 4, 1885.

LAW, CHEAP LAW.

’Mid falsehood and fallacies, jingle and jaw, Though often we stumble, there’s nothing like law! There’s a charm in the wig, there’s a grace in the gown, And say what they will, ’tis the best trade in town. Law, law, cheap, cheap law, There’s no trade like law; there’s no trade like law.

For counsel-at-law clients whistle in vain, “Oh, give us our wasted retainers again; The bright, golden guineas we paid at your call, Give us these, and the ‘Fees on Brief,’ greater than all.” Law, law, cheap, cheap law, &c.

LEX.

BEEF, ROAST BEEF.

’Mid soup, fish, and entrées our stay will be brief, Be it ever so gristly, there’s no meat like beef; A true English taste seems to hallow this fare, Which, eat what we will, is not met with elsewhere. Beef, beef, roast, roast beef, There’s no meat like beef; there’s no meat like beef.

Debarred from my beef, kickshaws tempt me in vain, Oh, give me my plainly-cooked sirloin again; The greens, piping hot, to be brought to my call, Give me them with the under-cut, dearer than all. Beef, beef, roast, roast beef, There’s no meat like beef; there’s no meat like beef.

FRIAR TUCK.

TEA, SWEET TEA.

’Midst mansions or cottages, where’er we may be, Be it ever so feeble, there’s nothing like tea. A balm that restores seems to perfume the air, Which, seek through all comforts, is not met elsewhere. Tea, tea, sweet, sweet tea! There’s nothing like tea! there’s nothing like tea!

Forbidden my tea, all else tempts me in vain, Oh, give me my Chinese infusion again. The urn, singing gladly, responds to my call, And brings back the soothing draught, cheering to all.

EDIORA.

THE LONDON POOR’S LAMENT.

’Mid gin-shops or “palaces” though I may roam, ’Tis better than starving and freezing at home! No food, fire, or candle is ever found there, Such comforts, alas! must be sought for elsewhere. Home, home, bleak, bleak home! For sorrow and want there’s no place like home!

As exiles from home I and mine would be fain, We pine for a log-hut or cottage in vain. In a land where the poor are not forced “to the wall.” Give us this and some “pieces” down――better than all! Home, home, bleak, bleak home! There’s no place in England, there’s no place called home.

CRYSTAL PALACE. ――――

(“Men are merriest when they are from home.――Shakespeare.)

’Mid pleasures and palaces fain would I roam, Be it ever so stately there’s no peace at home; All bores ’neath the sky seem to follow us there, Which, seek thro’ the world, may not meet us elsewhere. Roam, roam, sweet to roam! There’s no peace at home! there’s no peace at home!

A captive at home, comfort’s sought for in vain; Oh, give me my bachelor freedom again; The little club dinners, they came at my call; Give me them, with the “pipe of peace,” dearest than all. Roam, roam, sweet to roam! &c.

MOONSHINE.

’Mid worry and bustle, where’er you may roam, There is nothing can beat the Spring cleaning of home; There’s a fuss and confusion then reigns in the air, That, search where you will, is not met with elsewhere. When Spring cleaning times come, There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

Exiled from my room, I must grumble in vain, For they’re cleaning my lowly thatched cottage again; Those sweetbirds, the charwomen, chatter and bawl, ’Till I give them a “piece of mind” louder than all. When Spring cleaning time’s come, &c.

ANON.

RUM, GOOD RUM.

Of all the strong drinks that are loved in the slum, Be they ever so fiery, there’s none like good rum; Its quickness in levelling a man with the ground In no other liquor will ever be found. Rum, rum, good rum, good rum, There’s nothing like rum; there’s nothing like rum.

Though it’s hastening my ruin and my life is a stain, Fill up the fire-water, I’ll drink it again; Speak not of the pleasures I lose by my fall, I tell you good rum is the dearest of all. Rum, rum, good rum, good rum, &c.

MONA.

JONES STILL JONES.

In islands or continents, this parodist depones, Wherein he has wandered he’s always met Jones In steamboats or trains, or balloons in the air. If he sought for a change, Jones was sure to be there! Jones, Jones, still, still Jones, There’s no shirking Jones, there’s no shirking Jones.

In prairies and deserts again and again, I have striven to dodge him, but always in vain; On the top of Mount Blanc, and the Great Chinese Wall When I paused to take breath, there was Jones after all! Jones, Jones, still, still Jones, There’s no dodging Jones, there’s no dodging Jones!

PRIMA DONNA.

HOME RULER’S SONG.

’Neath measures and policies though we may groan, Be we ever so humble we long for our own. ’Tis liberty’s charm bids us “Home Rule” declare, And we’ll stir all the world if we don’t get our share. Home Rule, rule at home! There’s no rule like “Home,” there’s no rule like “Home!”

An exile from home is both cruel and vain, So give us our coveted “Home Rule” again, With a Parliament pledged to destroy British thrall; And Charles Stewart Parnell as king over all, Home Rule, rule at home! &c.

ROGGEE SHURT.

When worries and creditors force you to groan, For safety and freedom there’s nought like Boulogne, In vain will bum-bailiffs or writs seek you there, Very short is the distance, very cheap is the fare. Boulogne! oh, Boulogne! There’s nought like Boulogne, there’s nought like Boulogne.

I can laugh at all duns, bailiffs threaten in vain, By Jove! they shan’t catch me on their side again. By my wits I can manage to keep up the ball, To be lagged for contempt would not suit me at all. Boulogne! oh, Boulogne, &c.

NUTSHELL.

ROME, SWEET ROME.

’Mid Ritualistic clergy, though we may roam, Be they ever so High Church, there’s no place like Rome; No Forty-nine articles harass one there, No Penzance to rule what a parson must wear. Rome, Rome! Sweet, sweet Rome! There’s no place like Rome! There’s no place like Rome!

A concert from Rome, livings dazzle in vain, Oh, give me my stole and my incense again; The maids sighing daily who came to my call, The piece of mind then that I gave to them all. Rome, Rome! Sweet, sweet Rome!

CLERICUS.

A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD SONG. “She had a voice like a siren, and when she sang:――

“Mid play sure, sand pal aces, thoug heam a Rome, Be it averse, oh! wum bull there, snow play sly comb, H, arm from thesk eyeseam stew wallow a sheer, Whitch seek through the whirl disneerm et twithel swear!”

――――there wasn’t a dry eye in the Tabernacle; but if the programme hadn’t said, in clear, unmistakable print, that she was going to sing “Home, Sweet Home,” a man might have thought his teeth loose without ever guessing it.” American Paper.

DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE EYES.

(From “The Forest,” by Ben Jonson, born 1574, died 1637.)

Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I’ll not look for wine. The thirst that from my soul doth rise, Doth ask a drink divine: But might I of Jove’s nectar sup, I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee, As giving it a hope, that there It would not wither’d be, But thou thereon did’st only breathe, And sent it back to me; Since then, it grows and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee.

A PARODY.

Drink to me only from a jug, And I will pledge in mine; So fill my glass with whisky punch, And I’ll not look for wine. The thirst that in my throat doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove’s nectar sip, That honour I’d resign.

* * * * *

(The Editor felicitously adds that the second verse is not worth parodying.)

Blackwood’s Magazine. July, 1823.

TO LYDIA’S GLASS EYE.

“From particulars supplied to the reporter of a Chicago paper by a dealer in glass eyes in that city, it appears that there are as many as a thousand wearers of these eyes in Chicago…. Twenty years ago there were sold many more dark eyes than light … about twenty light eyes are now sold to one dark.”――Times.

Wink at me only with glass eye, And I’ll respond with mine, And smile not when the harmless fly Goes crawling over thine. I care not for the colour there, Dark brown, or black, or blue, Or even if you wink, ma chère, With eyes of different hue.

I sent thee late a new glass eye, Impervious to the tear, Tinged with some new æsthetic dye, And quite “too utter” dear. You’ll wear it, won’t you, when you think How faithful it must be, For it is warranted to wink At nobody but me?

Punch. April, 1881.

Bring to me only, if you’re wise, The ale that’s clear and fine; Place but a quart within the cup, I’ll call that quart divine.

DRINKING SONGS FOR THE MEN OF THE PERIOD.

“What can you expect from a nation that lives chiefly upon tonics.”――Vide Saturday Review. 1866.

1.

Drink wine only with thy Drugs And I will drink with mine,―― Or leave a “peg” within the cup, And I’ll not seek Quinine!

2.

O some may praise John Barleycorn, And some the juice of Cadiz, But I will sing of Chlorodyne, That keeps me out of Hades.

3.

Boast not thyself in Sherries gold, Or Claret’s crimson river, There’s nothing like Taraxacum To spur a sluggish liver!

4.

Ah hapless youth, life’s honey-sweets Too deeply you beguile! Soon must you quaff its bitter cup, Quassia and Camomile!

5. Pledge me a draught of the Pepsine Wine To comfort thy spirit sore, To-morrow you’ll play a knife and fork As you never have played before

6. Hey nonny, nonny, Champagne is bonny, At summer pic-nic or wedding feast; But more for your weal, Is Citrate of Steel, Effervescing like German Yeast!

7. On an Iron Age we fall―― Iron steeds, and Iron rail, Iron ships and, worst of all, Iron drinks instead of Ale!

8. Life is cruel, false, and cold, Steel thy heart against the scorner, Steel it with the Tincture sold At the Chemist’s round the corner!

9. Iron drops such conquerors be Over death, that hoary croaker, That you’ll quite immortal be When you’ve swallowed all your porter.

Will-o-the-Wisp. July 10, 1869.

THE RINKER’S SONG.

Rink to me only with thine ice, And I will sledge with mine; Or heave a hiss but inly up, And I’ll not look for whine. The thirst that from a sole doth rise, Doth ask a rink divine, But might I on Jove’s necktie slip, I would not change for thine.

I went to thee, late, a rosy youth, Not so much honoring thee As in the hope that, taking care, I should not “Spiller’d” be. But thou me send’st, in groanly truth, Plump on back, ah me! Since when my “ditto” suit I swear, Smells asphaltely of thee!

The Figaro. June 10, 1876.

THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE.

Talk to me only with thine eyes, And I will hear with mine; Turn hither all the light that lies In those twin orbs of thine. I shall not miss an H or two, Nor find as many slips Of grammar as I daily do From these bewitching lips.

In such a deep impassioned glance Could any eye suspect A double negative, perchance;―― Which never ain’t correct. Could any dazzled gaze descry, In stars thus blue and bright, A tendency to say, “Says I;”―― Which, I says, can’t be right.

Nay, Love and Prosody combined Sit smiling evermore. Within those eyes that speak a mind Above grammatic lore. Those lips may err――they often do; But why should that surprise? My love has nothing of the Blue About her but her eyes.

From A Town Garland. By HENRY S. LEIGH. (Chatto and Windus. London, 1878.)

PHILLIS IS MY ONLY JOY.

Phillis is my only joy, Faithless as the wind or seas; Sometimes coming, sometimes coy, Yet she never fails to please. If with a frown I am cast down Phillis smiling And beguiling, Makes me happier than before.

Though, alas! too late I find Nothing can her fancy fix; Yet the moment she is kind, I forgive her all her tricks; Which though I see, I can’t get free; She deceiving, I believing, What need lovers wish for more?

CHARLES SEDLEY.

A RHYME OF THE HOAX.

Fillies is my only joy―― Slippery jades as e’er one sees, Sometimes forward, sometimes coy, Sometimes game to win with ease. If I’ve ill luck, And back the ruck, Yet disaster Makes me faster. Bet each year upon the Oaks.

Though, alas! I always find There’s no guessing all their tricks, Yet I still with constant mind Risk my monkey’s, five or six; This year may be A case for me Of cash――bereavement; O ACHIEVEMENT. Win! or ’tis a frightful Hoax.

Echoes from the Clubs. May 22, 1867.

Fillies is my only joy! Faithless though the jades oft be Transient ever such annoy. ’Tis but so much £ s. d.; Done are we brown On Epsom Down, Fillies shying, Shiners flying, Spooners sappier than before!

Though, alas! too late I find, Fails the goal my fancy picks; Since she’s not of womankind, Freely I forgive her tricks. Fortune’s slippy, ah! Get on HIPPIA,[4] I believing, Ne’er misgiving, Mean to risk my “tin” once more.

Echoes from the Clubs. May 29, 1867.

PARODIES OF ALFRED BUNN’S OPERATIC SONGS.

THE SOT BOWED DOWN.

The sot bowed down by too much drink, To nearest post will cling; Or in the gutter p’rhaps will sink, Which can no comfort bring; For all exciting spirits tend The senses having flown, To make a fool the only friend That drink can call its own.

The sot will in his muddy lair, Still ponder o’er the last Strong glass he took, and could’nt bear, But which he swallowed fast. Till the police assistance lend, And in a cell of stone; Lock up all night the only friend That drink can call its own.

SONG OF JANUARY.

When other months amid the range Of time’s revolving year, Exhibit symptoms of a change From what they should appear; Though April fails to bring her showers; Though March is mild and tame; Though May forgets her buds and flowers, You’ll find me still the same.

They say that Janus sways my lot, That I two faces wear; But, let me ask them, who does not? In this false world of care. Oh! I’m a month that’s always cold, And who shall dare to blame, If they’re at such a moment told That I am still the same.

Punch’s Almanac. 1846.

SELF-EVIDENT.

When other lips and other eyes Their tales of love shall tell, Which means the usual sort of lies You’ve heard from many a swell; When, bored with what you feel is bosh, You’d give the world to see, A friend, whose love you know will wash, Oh, then remember me!

When Signor Solo goes his tours, And Captain Craft’s at Ryde, And Lord Fitzpop is on the moors, And Lord knows who beside; When to exist you feel a task Without a friend at tea, At such a moment I but ask That you’ll remember me.

J. R. PLANCHE.

A YULE-TIDE PARODY.

When other wits and other bards, Their tales at Christmas tell, Or praise on cheap and coloured cards, The time they love so well; Secure from scorn and ridicule I hope my verse may be, If I can still remember Yule, And Yule remember me.

The days are dark, the days are drear, When dull December dies; But, while we mourn an ended year, Another’s star will rise, I hail the season formed by rule For merriment and glee; So let me still remember Yule, And Yule remember me.

The rich plum-pudding I enjoy, I greet the pie of mince; And loving both while yet a boy, Have loved them ever since, More dull were I than any mule That eyes did ever see, If I should not remember Yule, And Yule remember me.

From London Society. Christmas Number for 1881.

SONG FOR THE HALL PORTER.

I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls, With tradesmen and duns outside, And a large assembly of morning calls, In carriage pomp and pride. There were crowds too great to count, and most For Bills unsettled came; But I also dreamt that at my post I sat dozing all the same.

I dreamt that footmen raised their hand, And knock’d to a high degree, With a noise few porters’ ears could withstand, But they wasted it all on me, I dreamt that one of the noisy host Came forth and bawl’d my name; But I also dreamt that fast as a post I slept there all the same. I slept there all the same.

From George Cruikshank’s Table Book. Edited by Gilbert Abbot à Beckett.

THE ALARMIST’S DREAM ABOUT THE GREAT EXHIBITION.

I dreamt that I stood in the Crystal Halls, With Chartists and Reds at my side, And that all who assembled in those glass walls, Came there the contents to divide. Of riches too great to count it could boast, And jewels of world-wide fame; But I found, when I woke, which surprised me most, They remained there all the same.

I dreamt the swell mob was there in a band With thieves of every degree, And with skill that no police could withstand, They picked all the pockets of we. And I dreamt that one of the scampish host To grab the Koh-i-Noor came; But I found when I woke, which surprised me most, It was safe there all the same.

Punch. June 14, 1851.

LORD BROUGHAM’S DREAM.

“The foul, the false charge, that I have changed a single opinion.”――Vicar of Bray.

I dreamt that I dined in Conservative halls, With Peel and the Duke at my side; That I went like their shadow, to morning calls, To concerts, the club, or the ride. And seldom or never to meet, did I seem, With a Whig or a Radical name; And yet――the most curious part of my dream―― My opinions were still the same!

And I dreamt of a Chancellor (strangely, of course, For my senses were running a rig,) Who said that “Persuasion was better than force,” As he dazzled my eyes with his wig. “Oh, beautiful wig!” thought I, “could I for thee Turn this coat? Ay, or part with my name?” And yet――the most wonderful matter to me―― My opinions were still the same!

Punch. April 13, 1844.

BALLAD.

I dreamt that I sat in the House of Lords, As Monteagle spoke at my side, And into that sleep which his tone affords I did imperceptibly glide. There were lions too many to count――a host Of creatures I knew not by name; And I also dreamt――which puzzled me most―― That the figures were all the same.

I dreamt that huge monsters――a fearful band―― Were staring to such a degree That the sight was more than I could withstand, For they turn’d all their eyes upon me. And I dreamt that King John’s unearthly ghost Stepped forth my homage to claim, When I woke and I found ’twas my bedstead’s post, But it frightened me all the same.

DREAMS OF MABILLE BALLS.

(The famous Moulin Rouge Restaurant and Mabille disappear together from the Champs Elysées this month.)

(RETROSPECTIVE BALLADS.) (Sung confidentially by the Old “Bohemian Boy.”)

I dreamt that I danced at Mabille balls―― That again at the Cancan I shied: But to judge from the set that now honoured those walls, I had far best have Cancan’d outside! For, spite JULES’S antics, once good as a feast―― Spite Music, Nymphs, flare――still the same. I noticed, what certainly pleased me the least, That the whole thing seemed horribly tame, Oh, so tame! So depressingly, horribly tame!

Punch. March 4, 1882.

MARBLED BEEF.

(Ballad for the Modern Butcher, with acknowledgments to the Shade of Bunn.)

I dreamt that I dined on Marbled Beef, And found it the best I had tried; And of all its good points I held this the chief,―― The figure at which ’twas supplied. But when, as Prime English, I found it as nice You tried on the same old game, And though every carcass cost you half the price, You charged me still the same! You charged me still the same!

Punch. April 18, 1885.

BEAUTIFUL STAR.

Beautiful star! on each opera night, Watching with wonder your diamonds bright, And hearing your cadences echo afar, I envy your fortune, fair opera star―― Star of the evening, beautiful star.

I hear sad Amina’s cantabile ring, I see the bouquets which by dozens they fling; Watch gaily Rosina her guardian cajole, And weep when Medea entrances my soul―― Star of the evening, beautiful star.

I love thee in Norma and fair Marguerite, And Lohengrin even thy tones can make sweet: But I sigh that no journal will pay me to write At the rate of thy two hundred guineas per night―― Star of the evening, beautiful star.

Beautiful Pit, behind the stalls, For treatment kind thy memory calls; Who could fail to thy use admit, Pit of the Haymarket, Haymarket Pit! Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!

In fancy’s eyes you seem to say, Think of the Drama’s bright hey-day; When first-night critics would views emit From the famed front row of the Haymarket Pit! Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!

To your cheap seats the people come In a vigorous crowd with a hearty hum; And where is the manager who’d permit One seat to be filched from the Haymarket Pit? Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!

The stalls are cynical, boxes sneer At the warm applause to actors dear; And the cheer that cometh their hearts to knit, Is sent from the rows of the crowded pit. Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!

So, Pit, last on! and hold your own, Whatever else may be overthrown; And let fond hands your each seat refit, Pit of the Haymarket, Haymarket Pit! Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!

(Old Play-goers still remember, with a sigh, that in the palmy days of Buckstone’s management, the Haymarket Pit was the most comfortable in London.)

The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and began, in a voice sometimes choked with sobs, to sing this:――

Beautiful soup, so rich and green, Waiting in a hot tureen! Who for such dainties would not stoop? Soup of the evening, beautiful soup! Soup of the evening, beautiful soup!

Beau――ootiful Soo-oop! Beau――ootiful Soo-oop! Soo-oop of the e-e-evening, Beautiful, beautiful soup!

Beautiful soup! Who cares for fish, Game, or any other dish? Who would not give all else for two- pennyworth only of beautiful soup? Pennyworth only of beautiful soup?

Beau-ootiful Soo-oop! Beau-ootiful Soo-oop! Soo-oop of the e-e-evening, Beautiful, beauti――FULL SOUP!

From Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by LEWIS CARROLL. (Macmillan & Co., London.)

MORE LOST CHORDS.

On page 3 a parody of “The Lost Chord” was given which had originally appeared in Judy in 1880. This was written by Mr. Alfred Greenland, junior, and has been included by him in an amusing volume, entitled Lunatic Lyrics (published by Tinsley Brothers, London), which also contains one of the very best parodies of Swinburne ever written, entitled A Matcher.

The last verse of The Lost Cord as given in this volume differs slightly from the Judy version, it runs as follows:――

It may be my truant monkey, Will come with that cord again; It may be he only skedaddles When he hears the organ-men! It may be my truant monkey Will come with that cord again; It may be he only SKEDADDLES When he hears the organ men!!

As mentioned above this parody was printed in 1880, but curiously enough, another rather similar parody has been sent in, dated December, 1879.

THE LOST APE.

Seated one day on an organ, A monkey was ill at ease, When his fingers wandered idly, In search of the busy fleas. I know not what he was slaying, Or what he was dreaming then, But a sound burst forth from that organ, Not at all like a grand Amen.

It came through the evening twilight Like the close of the feline psalm, But the melody raised by their voices, Compared to this noise, was balm! It was worse than Salvation’s Sorrow With their band of drum and fife, And cut, like an evening “Echo,” The Tit-Bits out of “Life.”

I upset my table and tea things, And left not one perfect piece; I gazed at the wreck in silence, Not loth, but unable to speak! Then I sought him, alas! all vainly, The source of that terrible whine, With his cracked and tuneless organ, And its melodies undivine.

Of course there was no policeman To move him away,――and men Who grind organs smile demurely At your curses, and smile again. It may be that I could choke him―― Could kill him――but organ men If you kill a dozen to-day, To-morrow will come again!

J. W. G. W. December, 1879.

THE LOST RENT.

(Copied, without permission, from a Christmas card in the shape of a “Dicky,”)

Seated one day at the window, I was weary and ill at ease, And my coat I handled lightly, As I tried to extract the grease.

I had no hopes of a dinner; My stomach was aching then, When a knock at the door of my chamber. Like the sound of the broker men!

It may be they thought I would open; But I stepped through the window then, Leaving one chair and a shirt front, To amuse the broker men.

THE LOST KEY.

The following parody was written, composed, and sung with great success by Mr. George Grossmith. It carries the idea of “The Lost Chord” throughout, yet the air is different, and the quaint and laughable words form a strong contrast to the mystical language of the original. The music is published by J. Bath, Berners Street, London.

Seated one day in her carriage, She was lounging well back at her ease, And her fingers wandered idly, In her pocket for her keys. She thought――as the bunch was missing, In her wardrobe it must be, So she struck one note of discord, Like the sound of a big, big D. Like the sound of a big, big D.

She thought of the sweet little trinkets, Whose loss she would sadly mourn, Then she thought of her frocks and mantles, Some of which she had not yet worn. She thought of her precious diamonds, She thought of the square plate-chest, For at home, in that large old wardrobe, She kept everything she possess’d.

Then she thought of the sweet love letters, Received with many a ruse, Then she suddenly thought that the servants Those letters would surely peruse. Then she thought, with a feeling of horror! That the neighbours would surely be shown, A piece of black hair neatly plaited, Which was not exactly her own.

So she dived to the bottom of her carriage, Turned the matting all upside down, Then she dived beneath the cushions, And the lining of her green silk gown. She dived in the depths of her mantle, And into her muff dived she, But only at home in her wardrobe, Would be found that lost, lost key!

’TWAS ONLY A YEAR AGO, LOVE. (Music by F. Paolo Tosti.)

It came with the merry May, love, That neat little billet doux, And I much regret to say, love, The measles and rates came too: The passion may fade away, love, But the rates I shall always owe. ’Twas only a year ago, love, Only a year ago!

It came with the merry May, love, That tip for the big event; I shall ne’er forget the day, love, I plank’d on my ev’ry cent. But the animal stopped to sneeze, love, Which much increas’d my woe, ’Twas absolutely last, love, Only a year ago!

It came with the merry May, love, That big furniture van, It took all my goods away, love, It thwarted my fondest plan. I thought I could shoot the moon, love, But destiny grunted “No”; They were there a bit too soon, love, Only a year ago!

It came with the merry May, love. That beautiful big black eye, The kick I received for aye, love, Will live in my memory, And oh! I have got such a bruise, love, I regret I’m unable to show, I have to stand up to my meals, love, Though it’s over a year ago.

It came with the merry May, love, It looked about forty three, And much to my dismay, love, It fixed itself on to me. I know that it foolish sounds, love, I promised and breached, you know. It cost me five hundred pounds, love, Just over a year ago!

FREDERICK BOWYER.

(This parody was sung, with great success, by Mr. Arthur Roberts, in the Burlesque of Kenilworth at the Avenue Theatre in 1885.)

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

Come live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That valleys, groves, and hills and fields, The woods or steepy mountains yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls, Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers and a kirtle, Embroidered o’er with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs; And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meat,[5] As precious as the gods do eat, Shall on an ivory table be Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, For thy delight, each May morning; If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my love.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

THE NYMPH’S REPLY.

If all the World and Love were young, And truth on every Shepherd’s tongue, These pleasures might my passion move, To live with thee, and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,[5] When rivers rage and rocks grow cold, And Philomel becometh dumb, And all complain of cares to come.

But fading flowers in every field, To winter floods their treasures yield; A honey’d tongue, a heart of gall, Is Fancy’s spring, but Sorrow’s fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Are all soon wither’d, broke, forgotten, In Folly ripe, in Reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw, and ivy-buds, Thy coral clasps, and amber studs, Can me with no enticements move, To live with thee, and be thy love.

What should we talk of dainties, then,[5] Of better meat than’s fit for men? These are but vain; that’s only good Which God hath blessed and sent for food.

But could Youth last, could Love still breed, Had Joy no date, had Age no need; Then those delights my mind might move, To live with thee, and be thy love.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

In The Complete Angler Izaak Walton introduced these two songs, with some modifications, which are here produced from the First Edition (preserving the old orthography) of The Complete Angler, published in 1653:――

“As I left this place, and entered into the next field, a second pleasure entertained me, ’twas a handsome milk-maid, that had cast away all care, and sung like a Nightingale; her voice was good, and the Ditty fitted for it; ’twas that smooth Song which was made by Kit Marlow, now at least fifty years ago; and the milk-maid’s mother sung an answer to it, which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh, in his younger days. They were old fashioned Poetry, but choicely good, I think much better than that now in fashion in this critical age:”

THE MILKMAID’S SONG.

Come live with me, and be my Love, And we wil all the pleasures prove That vallies, Groves, or hils, or fields, Or woods and steepie mountains yeelds.

Where we will sit upon the Rocks, And see the Shepherds feed our flocks, By shallow Rivers, to whose falls Mellodious birds sing madrigals.

And I wil make thee beds of Roses, And then a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers and a Kirtle, Imbroidered all with leaves of Mirtle.

A Gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty Lambs we pull, Slippers lin’d choicely for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivie buds, With Coral clasps, and Amber studs; And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my Love.

The Shepherds Swains shall dance and sing For thy delight, each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my Love.

THE MILKMAID’S MOTHER’S ANSWER.

If all the world and love were young, And truth in every Shepherd’s tongue? These pretty pleasures might me move, To live with thee, and be thy Love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage and rocks grow cold, And Philomel becometh dumb, The Rest complains of cares to come.

The Flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward Winter reckoning yields, A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancies spring, but sorrows fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of Roses, Thy Cap, thy Kirtle, and thy Posies, Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivie buds, Thy Coral clasps and Amber studs, All these in me no means can move To come to thee, and be thy Love.

But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date nor age no need; Then those delights my mind might move, To live with thee, and be thy love.

A little farther on Viator observes:――

“Yes, master, I will speak you a coppie of verses that were made by Doctor DONNE, and made to shew the world that he could make soft and smooth verses, when he thought them fit and worth his labour; and I love them the better, because they allude to rivers and fish, and fishing. They bee these:――”

Come live with me, and be my love, And we will some new pleasures prove, Of golden sands, and Christal brooks, With silken lines and silver hooks,

There will the River wispering run, Warm’d by thy eyes more then the Sun; And there th’ inamel’d fish wil stay, Begging themselves they may betray.

When thou wilt swim in that live bath, Each fish, which every channel hath Most amorously to thee will swim, Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.

If thou, to be so seen, beest loth, By Sun or Moon, thou darknest both: And, if mine eyes have leave to see, I need not their light, having thee.

Let others freeze with Angling Reeds, And cut their legs with shels and weeds. Or treacherously poor fish beset; With strangling snares, or windowy net.

Let coarse bold hands, from slimy nest, The bedded fish in banks outwrest; Let curious Traitors sleave silk flies, To ’witch poor wandring fishes eyes.

For thee, thou needst no such deceit, For thou thyself art thine own bait; That fish that is not catch’d thereby, Is wiser far, alas! then I.

Come live with me, and be my spouse, We’ll keep a cottage, pigs and cows; And I will dress in lace and silk, While you shall pig, and dig, and milk.

There you will work and hoe all day, While I enjoy myself, away. If this you’ll do, we’ll have no rows, Come live with me, and be my spouse.

From The Incomplete Angler, by F. C. Burnand. 1876.

THE PASSIONATE STATISTICIAN TO HIS LOVE.

“For my part, I am a passionate Statistician…. Go with me into the study of statistics, and I will make you all enthusiasts in statistics.” Mr. Goschen at Whitechapel.

Come live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That facts and figures can supply Unto the Statist’s ravished eye.

And we will sit ’midst faction’s shocks And calculate the price of Stocks, The music of whose rise and fall Beats most melodious madrigal.

We’ll learn how the last Census closes And the art of counting noses; And taste the pleasures, sweetly solemn, Of abstract brief, and lengthy column.

We’ll tot the figures fair and full Relating to the price of wool, The annual range of heat and cold, The death-rate, and the price of gold.

Per-centages shall stir our blood Analyses as clear as mud. Oh, if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love.

The marriage rate, the price of meat, Shall yield us raptures calm and sweet; And analytic “Tables” be Prepared each day to give us glee.

Economists our praise shall sing, The Statesman’s eloquence we’ll wing If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my love.

Punch. March 21, 1885.

Come, rink with me, and be my love! And we will all the pleasures prove, That better far than hills or fields The slippery floor of asphalte yields.

Of skates with rubber ties a pair, Thee o’er the asphalte safely bear; And if these pleasures may thee move, Come, rink with me, and be my love!

THE RINKMAID’S ANSWER.

If all the world and love were young, And truth on every rinker’s tongue, These asphalte pleasures might me move To rink with thee and be thy love.

Talk to me not of flowers and posies; Suppose we fall and break our noses? Thou’lt not prevail on me at all; In truth, it is no joke to fall!

Judy. April 12, 1876.

“WON’T YOU TELL ME WHY, ROBIN?”

The late Mr. Whalley, formerly M.P. for Peterborough, was a firm believer in the truth of the claim of Arthur Orton to the Tichborne title and estates. He, and Dr. Edward Vaughan Kenealy, were the most devoted adherents to the cause of “the unfortunate nobleman.” When Mr. Whalley rose in the House of Commons, he was generally greeted with the cry,――“Sing, Whalley, Sing!”

Several Scoffers. Sing, sir! sing!

Mr. W. Well, if you like, I have a little thing: It’s somewhat sad in tone and very terse, My own sad feelings put in ballad verse.

Song: Mr. WHALLEY. Tune: “Won’t you tell me why, Robin?”

Oh, won’t you tell me why, doctor, You are so stern and strange? Come, ope your heart and tell, doctor, What ’tis has made you change! You never come to see me now, As once you used to do; I miss you at the Tichborne fetes, Where once I went with you.

Chorus. Won’t you tell me why, doctor, Won’t you tell me why; Won’t you tell me why, doctor, Oh, won’t you tell me why?

I’m very sad at heart, doctor, To think you hate me so; And why you call me names, doctor, I really do not know. You shouldn’t use such naughty words About your once dear friend; Oh! why not, for dear Tichborne’s sake, Let this sad difference end?

Chorus. Won’t you tell me why, doctor, &c., &c.

We’ve both pressed Roger’s hand, doctor, More times than I can tell; We both have loved that man, doctor, Not wisely, but too well. And now the Englishman declares I’m more than three-parts mad; I did not think you’d do it, Vaughan, It really is too bad!

From Finis.

THE COOK’S LAMENT. A Pathetic Ballad of a Policeman’s Perfidy.

Oh, won’t you tell me why, Bobby, Won’t you tell me why? You never speaks when’er we meets, You always pass me by! You never takes me for a walk, As was the case afore; You never comes to have a talk, Nor see me to the door!

Oh, won’t you tell me why, Bobby, Policeman X Y Zad? Why pass my airey by, Bobby? Your cookey’s awful sad?

Oh, won’t you tell me why, Bobby, Won’t you tell me why? When on your beat, you beats retreat, If o’er the gate I spy? The mutton cold and taties hot, As oft I’ve give to you! Likewise “cold fourp’ny” in a pot, And now you are not true.

Oh, please to tell me why, Bobby? My heart’s a-breaking fast; My bosom’s one big sigh, Bobby―― My figure, long, can’t last!

Oh, won’t you tell me why, Bobby, Won’t you tell me why? The reason now, you’ve broke your vow, To your own Sophy-i? The “public” we was going to take Is fading from my view; And sadly from my dreams I wake―― Deceitful wretch in blue!

Oh, will you tell me why, Bobby, You’ve gone and broke your word? And left your love to die, Bobby―― The facts shall all be heard!

I’ve learnt the reason why, Bobby, I knows the reason why! I see ’tis plain that Mary Jane Is lurking in your eye―― The wicked slut! perfidious man! I’ll go to law, of course! I’d sooner wed the buttons, Dan, Than all the blessed Force!

You need not tell me why, Bobby, Policeman X Y Zad; For I shall never cry, Bobby―― In fact I’m rather glad!

S. J. A. F.

There was a political parody of the same song in They are Five, published by David Bogue. It is out of date now, and of no general interest.

PARODIES OF ROBERT HERRICK.

(ROBERT HERRICK was born in Cheapside in 1591. Died October, 1674.)

TO DAFFODILS.

Fair Daffodils we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early rising sun Has not attained his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hast’ning day Has run But to the even-song; And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, like you: We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay As you, or anything. We die As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer’s rain; Or, as the pearls of morning’s dew Ne’er to be found again.

ROBERT HERRICK.

UNEXPECTED ACCOUNTS; OR, THE QUARTERLY “BILL-EST-DUE.”

I.

Dear little bills, we weep to see You come again so soon; Our dividends are not paid in, And yet, you crave this boon; “Pay, pay, On reckoning day, The Tin!” Thus, Christmas with its charms, And mirthful glow and glee, Hath also its alarms!

II.

We did not think that you were due Till some time in the spring: You grow, like toadstools, in a night, As quick as anything; And though we do Fight shy of you――and taxes too, In spite You fall like drops of summer rain, Save you are many and they are few. And――still you come again!

Cribblings from the Poets, by Hugh Cayley. Cambridge, Jones and Piggott, 1883.

ADVICE. (Freely adapted from Herrick).

Order ye Wallsends while ye may, Though prices are surprising; For this same coal that’s high to day, To-morrow may be rising.

The winter quarter has begun, The sun is sooner setting, Best coals are now two pounds a ton, And dearer will be getting.

That man is blest whose cellar’s full, For days will not grow warmer; But what we want to see, John Bull, Is some great coal reformer.

Then be not rash, but take advice―― All ye who wish to marry! With coals and meat at such a price, You would be wise to tarry.

LOVE’S REASONS. (After Herrick.)

Why do I love my love? Her eyes are deepest blue, Bluer than sky above, She’s pure, and sweet, and true. ’Tis not for every grace That sparkles in her face, Although each one of these My wayward fancy please, I love my love because I do.

I’ll tell you of my love, She tender is and true, Kind as turtle dove, Too fair for mortal view. And if you fain would know Why I must love her so, I love my love, but I Could hardly tell you why, I love my love because I do.

From The Figaro. October 28, 1874.

CHERRY RIPE.

Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones, come and buy; If so be you ask me where They do grow? I answer there, Where my Julia’s lips do smile There’s the land, or cherry isle.

Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry Full and fair ones come and buy There plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow. Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones, come and buy.

This song having been adapted to a pleasing melody by Mr. Charles Horn, became very popular about 60 years ago.

It is probable that “Cherry Ripe” was suggested to Herrick by Richard Allison’s earlier poem, entitled:――

THERE IS A GARDEN IN HER FACE.

There is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lillies grow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do inclose, Of orient pearl a double row; Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose buds fell’d with snow; Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still, Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threatening with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

“WATER-PIPES.” (Paterfamilias’s song of the frost.)

“Water-pipes, water-pipes, pipes” I cry! “Been and busted!” Low and High. If I ask the housemaid. “Where?” She will answer, “Here, and there,―― Here and there and everywhere.”

Whence they come and where they go, Is just the thing I want to know! But I don’t, and that is why “Plumber! Plumber!” is the cry. Plumber! Plumber! left and right; Plumber! Plumber! day and night.

Why are you and I such fools As submit to Builders’ rules? You and I, my friend, and all, High and Low, and great and small? One thing Builder understands―― How to play in Plumber’s hands: And for one thing Builder cares To leave openings for “repairs:” So loose, tiles and slates defends, Drains that finish in “dead ends,” Tanks and boilers safe to leak, Chimneys warranted to reek; Doors and windows placed with craft, Still to catch you in a draught; Green-wood panels in the doors, Warping new deal in the floors; Pipes that run just where they shouldn’t, And burst each frost. O, if they wouldn’t!

Punch. January 28, 1871.

COFFEE HOT.

Coffee hot, coffee hot, hot, I cry, Full and fair cups, come and buy; But if so be you axes where I makes it hot? I answer there, Over the fire where hangs my pot, That’s where I make coffee hot. Coffee hot, coffee hot, &c.

Coffee hot, coffee hot, hot I cry, Full and fair cups, if you’re dry; Here the milk galore doth flow, Here is butter, bread, also, If you have the ready got, That’s the time for coffee hot. Coffee hot, coffee hot, &c.

Coffee hot, coffee hot, hot, I cry, Full and fair cups, come and buy; Here is milk and sugar nice; Come here, I’ll serve you in a trice: If you have the ready got Then’s the time for coffee hot. Coffee hot, coffee hot, &c.

JAMES BRUTON.

ROSY WINE.

Rosy wine, rosy wine, wine we sip, Sweeter far than woman’s lip; If green-eyed grief assail the soul, Why, drown him in the flowing bowl; ’Twere folly now to grieve or pine, While seated near such rosy wine. Rosy wine, &c.

Rosy wine, rosy wine, wine, they cry, Doth beauty’s cheek by far outvie; Thou to the soul art more sincere, Her love is weaker than her tear; Then wreathe my brow with laughing vine While I quaff the rosy wine. Rosy wine, &c.

HEAVY WET.

Heavy wet, heavy wet, still I cry, Full and fair pots when I’m dry, If so be, you ask me where, They are drawn, I answer there, Where our lips their thirst forget, That’s the place for heavy wet!

Heavy wet, heavy wet, still I cry, Meux’s, Whitbread’s, nought care I; To the Blue Posts let us go, There we’ll clouds of backey blow; And, while we our cares forget, All the year quaff heavy wet!

W. T. MONCRIEFF.

CHERRY PIE.

Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry, Kentish cherries you may buy. If so be you ask me where To put the fruit, I’ll answer “There!” In the dish your fruit must lie, When you make your Cherry Pie. Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! &c.

Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry Full and fair ones mind you buy Whereabouts the crust should go, Any fool, of course will know; In the midst a cup may lie When you make your Cherry Pie. Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! &c.

Punch.

MUTTON CHOPS.

Mutton chops, mutton chops, chops I cry, Fat or lean ones, both I’ll buy; But if so be you’d have my coin You must cut them off the loin! When the cook for nothing stops, That’s the time for mutton chops!

Mutton chops, mutton chops, chops I cry, I as hungry am as dry; Let me have them nice and hot. With a murphy and shalot! Heaven bless the butchers’ shops,―― All the year they’ve mutton chops!

CHERRY BOUNCE.

Cherry bounce, cherry bounce, bounce, I cry, Fill a full glass on the sly; If so be you ask me where, To the wine-vaults we’ll repair, When we heavy wet renounce, That’s the time for cherry bounce!

Cherry bounce, cherry bounce, bounce I cry, When my flame is standing nigh; When with love I’m quite beguiled, And I wish to draw it mild, Then, each vulgar fear to trounce, Then I call for cherry bounce!

GUINEA-PIGS.

Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,―― As Directors qualify! At your feet your shares we lay,―― Not a penny there’s to pay! ’Tis high-sounding names we want, As decoy-ducks for our plant: Names to draw the public in, Place our shares, and sack their tin. Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,―― From the West-End, come and try!

Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,―― Of the City why fight shy? With shares for the taking, if you please, And, besides, Directors’ fees: Office work――an hour a day, Lots to get, and nought to pay… Flats agog to risk their tin. Giv’n good names to draw them in. So Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,―― As Directors Qualify!

Punch. March 6, 1875.

Herrick had no occasion to steal, yet there is little doubt but that his Cherry Ripe was adapted from Allison’s earlier, and prettier poem, There is a Garden in her Face; whilst the following lines (which occur in his poem upon Mistress Susanna Southwell,)

Her pretty feet Like snails did creep A little out, and then, As if they playéd at bo-peep, Did soon draw in again.

were stolen (and spoilt in the stealing), from Sir John Suckling’s inimitable Ballad upon a Wedding:

Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they feared the light: But oh! she dances such a way! No sun upon an Easter-day Is half so fine a sight.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

(Born in Bath, 1797. Died at Cheltenham, April 22, 1839.)

[Illustration: T]he songs of this prolific writer, which but sixty years ago were exceedingly popular, are now nearly forgotten, A few old-fashioned people may be heard to warble “She wore a wreath of Roses,” or “I’d be a butterfly,” whilst “Perfection,” perhaps the best known of Bayly’s dramatic pieces, is still occasionally played to afford some graceful actress an opportunity of displaying her varied attainments. The author of “Perfection” had to contend with many difficulties before he could get his piece performed. It was rejected at Covent Garden Theatre and several other houses, but was finally accepted at Drury Lane. With Madame Vestris, as Kate O’Brien, it achieved a great success, but several of Bayly’s other dramatic productions were less fortunate, and he had nothing to depend upon but the precarious income of a journalist for his support. His songs, though exceedingly popular, brought him small pecuniary returns during his lifetime, but after his death his widow derived a small sum from the sale of his collected works. Although but a poor and struggling author, it suited the editor of Fraser’s Magazine to sneer at this amiable and harmless versifier, and in volume iv. of that magazine these lines will be found in the Lay of the Twaddle School:――

“Satins and silks I sang gravely and gaily, And the bard of the boudoir was Thomas Haynes Bayly; With my butterflies, buttercups, butter-flowers daily, I buttered my bread,――heigh, for Thomas Haynes Bayly. With my songs and my sonnets, the girls I wooed frailly, Tom Moore, the chaste model of Thomas Haynes Bayly; Apollo,――though radiant his rays,――shines but palely, When the eyes of the fair shine on Thomas Haynes Bayly. With miniature Lyrics, the muse did I waylay, And a miniature picture of Thomas Haynes Bayly; I sang about Bath, till I bothered them really, And eclipsed was Kit Anstey by Thomas Haynes Bayly; Herrick, Waller, Burns, Byron, Moore, Morris and Shelley, Were poor sing-song strummers to Thomas Haynes Bayly.”

But these songs, which sixty years ago every one was singing, are now so seldom heard, that some of the parodies would be quite unintelligible unless accompanied by the originals.

SHE WORE A WREATH OF ROSES.

She wore a wreath of roses that night when first we met, Her lovely face was smiling beneath her curls of jet; Her footsteps had the lightness, her voice the joyous tone, The tokens of a youthful heart where sorrow is unknown. I saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now, With a wreath of summer flowers upon her snowy brow.

A wreath of orange flowers when next we met she wore, The expression of her features was more thoughtful than before, And standing by her side, was one, who strove, and not in vain, To soothe her leaving that dear home she ne’er might view again. I saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now, With a wreath of orange blossoms upon her snowy brow.

And once again I saw that brow, no bridal wreath was there, The widow’s sombre cap concealed her once luxuriant hair; She weeps in silent solitude, for there is no one near, To press her hand within his own, and wipe away the tear! I see her broken-hearted, and methinks I see her now, In the pride of youth and beauty, with a wreath upon her brow.

THE BANDIT’S FATE.

He wore a brace of pistols the night that first we met, His deep-lined brow was frowning beneath his wig of jet; His footsteps had the moodiness, his voice the hollow tone, Of a bandit-chief who feels remorse and tears his hair alone. I saw him but at half-price, yet methinks I see him now, In the tableau of the last act with the blood upon his brow.

A private bandit’s belt and boots, when next we met he wore, His salary, he told me, was lower than before; And standing at the O.P. wing he strove, and not in vain, To borrow half a sovereign, which he never paid again. I saw it but a moment――and I wish I saw it now―― As he buttoned up his pocket with a condescending bow.

And once again we met; but no bandit-chief was there; His rouge was off, and gone that head of once luxuriant hair: He lodges in a two-pair back, and at the public near, He cannot liquidate his “chalk,” or wipe away his beer. I saw him sad and seedy, yet methinks I see him now, In the tableau of the last act with the blood upon his brow.

Punch, November 11, 1843.

HE DINED AT BERTHOLINI’S.

He dined at Bertholini’s, the day when first we met, A pint of single stout was on the board before him set; His dinner had the lightness――his voice the humble tone Of one to whom a shilling was not intimately known; I saw him but a moment, but I think I see him now, In that hat of time-worn gossamer that drooped upon his brow.

A new dark Llama Paletot when next we met he wore, The expression of his dress was not so seedy as before; And, dining at his side, was one, in Hemming’s room upstairs, Who deem’d his Line a good one, and who took five hundred shares. I saw him but a moment, but methinks I see him still, At the café in the Haymarket, where yet he owes the bill!

And once again I saw him, but this time it was not here; In coat of questionable age he traversed Boulogne Pier! He stept in shabby solitude, for, on one fated day The bubble of his Line had burst, and he had run away. I saw him quite down-hearted, with his paletot all but rags, As he underwent the fate of all Provisionary Stags.

ALBERT SMITH. ――――

HE WORE GREY WORSTED STOCKINGS.

He wore grey worsted stockings the term when first we met, His trousers had no straps, his highlows had no jet; His look it had the greenness, his voice the sleepy tone, The tokens of a raw young man who’d lately left his home. I saw him but a moment, yet methinks I see him now, With his cap the wrong end foremost upon his freshman’s brow.

A pink and snowy buckskins, when next we met he wore, The expression of his banker was more thoughtful than before; And riding by his side was one who strove, and not in vain To borrow five and twenty pounds he ne’er might see again; I saw him lend the money; and methinks I see him now, With his hunting cap of velvet upon his sportsman’s brow.

And once again I see that brow; no sporting cap is there: An article at four-and-nine sits on its untrimmed hair; I see him playing racquets in the Fleet,[6] yet even now Methinks I see my freshman with verdure on his brow. The face is somewhat dirty, yet methinks I see it now, With the cap the wrong end foremost upon the freshman’s brow.

From Hints to Freshmen. Oxford: J. Vincent.

THE BETTING-OFFICE FREQUENTER’S PROGRESS.

He wore a suit of Moses, The night when first we met, And knowingly his hat was cocked Upon his curls of jet; Flash “Publics” he frequented, Where “Sporting cards” were seen; And many a Derby Sweep got up To ease them of their “tin.” I saw him in his glory―― (The word seems doubtful now), When to his stable wisdom His admiring chums would bow.

A betting-book he’d started, When next this youth I saw; And hourly he was lounging at Some Betting-office door; Or standing treat to stable-boys, With a “weed” between his lips, And listening to their sage discourse Of “great events” and “tips.” He told me then he stood to win A fi’ pun’ note or two, Upon a “certain” prophecy―― I doubt if it came true.

And once again I see this youth, No betting-book is there: The prison scissors close have cropped His once luxuriant hair. They tell that “cleaned” completely “out,” He closed his short career By bolting with his master’s till, When “settling” time drew near. I see him shipped――the Government His passage out will pay: And at some penal settlement, He’ll spend his Settling Day.

THREE VISIONS OF ONE HEAD.

She wore a wreath of roses The night that first we met; Her lovely face was smiling, Beneath her curls of Jet. Her curls of jetty brightness, Were charmingly in tone, With the colour on her features, For the hue was Nature’s own. I saw her but a moment, Yet methinks I see her now; With the hair that Nature gave her, Above her snowy brow.

A head of Paris fashion When next we met, she wore; The expression of her features, Was sharper than before. And standing by her side was one, Who seemed to give her pain, As he rubbed the reddening fluid on What should have held a brain. I saw her but a moment, Yet methinks I see her now, With the barber’s nasty liquid, Smeared on her snowy brow.

And once again I met her, No radiant locks were there; An unmistaken wig she wore Instead of lovely hair. She weeps in silent solitude, Because she looks so queer! The barber’s poison has destroyed Her hair from ear to ear. I saw her but a moment, Nor want to see her now, With those ugly proofs of folly Above her snowy brow.

SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1866.

HE WORE A PAIR OF “MITTENS.”[7]

He wore a pair of “mittens,” That day when first we met, His stony face was smiling As on himself he bet; He stood with saucy firmness, Or danced upon his feet, In token of a confidence That had not known defeat. I saw him but a moment, Yet methinks I see him now, With his hands well up for boxing, All eager for the row.

Two eyes, both black and swollen When next we met he wore, The expression of his features, Was less pleasant than before; And standing close beside was one, Who strove with might and main To make them still less beauteous, Nor did he strive in vain. I saw him but a moment, Yet methinks I see him now, As he diligently sought a tooth, He’d swallowed in the row.

And once again I saw that man, No joy at all was his; For many knocks had quite effaced Expression from his “phiz.” He wept as weeps a boy at school When beaten in the rear, Nor did he bless his second, Who sponged away the tear. I saw him but a moment, Yet methinks I see him now, As his length on earth he measured, Less eager for the row.

From The Corkscrew Papers. London: W. H. Guest, Paternoster Row. 1876.

THE GRAVEL RASH.

He rode a tandem trycycle The day when first we met, He wore a pair of spectacles, Perhaps he has them yet! I saw him but a moment, But methinks I see him now With the same old cap upon his head And frown upon his brow.

His face looked white as driven snow Against his bags of blue, His pedalling was marvellous As round the track he flew. I saw him but a moment, But methinks I see him now, Lying whole length o’er the track, And the frown still on his brow.

The last I heard of that young man, Was through the weekly WHEELING; “Whee-ling”-er o’er those words of his So full of kindly feeling. I saw them but a moment, But methinks I see them now With the author bending o’er them, And that frown yet on his brow.

MORAL.

When people speak of others’ faults, It’s time they knew their own, So take a lesson, dear young man, And try ye to atone.

Wheeling Annual, 1885.

“I SAW HER BUT A MOMENT.”

“The trains to Notting Hill run every half-hour.” Information given by Company.

“Do they? Ha! ha!” Remark by one who had tried them.

I saw her but a moment, Yet, methinks, I see her still―― ’Twas at Victoria Station, And she wanted “Notting Hill.”

Comes a “Notting Hill Gate” quickly―― Comes one more, then one more still; But they suit not our poor maiden, For she wants a “Notting Hill.”

That face, so wan and weary, Was sure enough to fill With pity, heart of marble, In this case of Notting Hill.

I saw her but a moment, Yet, perhaps, she’s waiting still―― Or, better still, has given up All hopes of “Notting Hill.”

BUT A MOMENT.

I saw her but a moment Beneath the apple tree; There was no one to listen, No eyes were there to see. I heard her soft voice singing, Her song was one of love; Her bright eyes seemed to borrow Light from the stars above. I saw her but a moment As ’neath the tree she sat; I threw at her the poker―― (She was――my neighbour’s cat).

OH! NO, WE NEVER MENTION HER.

Oh! no, we never mention her, her name is never heard, My lips are now forbid to speak, that once familiar word; From sport to sport they hurry me, to banish my regret, And when they win a smile from me they think that I forget.

They bid me seek in change of scene the charms that others see, But were I in a foreign land, they’d find no change in me. ’Tis true that I behold no more the valley where we met, I do not see the hawthorn tree, but how can I forget?

For oh! there are so many things recall the past to me, The breeze upon the sunny hills, the billows of the sea; The rosy tint that decks the sky before the sun is set, Aye, every leaf I look upon forbids that I forget.

They tell me she is happy now, the gayest of the gay, They hint that she forgets me too, but I heed not what they say; Perhaps like me she struggles with each feeling of regret, But if she loves as I have loved, she never can forget.

ANSWER TO “OH! NO, WE NEVER MENTION HER!”

Oh! am I then remembered still, Remembered too by thee! Or am I quite forgot by one, Whom I no more shall see? Yet, say not so, for that would add Fresh anguish to my lot. I dare not hope to be recall’d, Yet would not be forgot.

Had they who parted us but known How hearts like our’s can feel, They would have spared us both a pang, Beyond their power to heal. I know not if my heart retains, Its wonted warmth or not; Though I’m forbid to think of thee, Thou’lt never be forgot.

May’st thou enjoy that peace of mind, Which I can never know, If that’s denied my prayer shall be, That I may share thy woe. Where’er thou art my every wish, Will linger o’er that spot, My every thought will be of thee, Though I may be forgot.

If we should meet in after years, Thou’lt find that I am changed; My eyes grow dim, my cheeks grow pale, But not my faith estrang’d: From mem’ry’s page the hand of death, Alone thy name shall blot, Forget, forsake me, if thou wilt, Thou’lt never be forgot.

Lines suggested by the failure of Mr. Thomas Haynes Bayly’s Farce, “Decorum.”

Oh no! we’ll never mention him; We won’t, upon our word! “Decorum” now forbids to name An unsuccessful bard. From Drury Lane we’ll toddle to Our office with regret, And if they ask us, “Who’s been dished!” We’ll say that We forget!

We’ll bid him now forsake the “Scene,” And try his ancient strain; He’d better “be a butterfly” Than write a farce again. ’Tis true that he can troll a song, Or tender chansonette; But if you ask us, “What beside”? Why, really, we forget.

R. H. BARHAM, Author of The Ingoldsby Legends.

A SONG.

Written by a rusticated Trinity man, while brooding over the conduct of the Proctor of 1827.

Oh! no we never mention him, His name is never heard, My lips are now so loth to speak That once familiar word; From street to street he followed me One evening thro’ the west, Then brought me to the Vice, which now He thinks that I forget.

They bade me seek in rustic ease A quiet man to be, But when I come to Trin: again They’ll find no change in me. ’Tis true that I behold no more The alley where we met, I do not see dear Mr. T. But still I shan’t forget.

They tell me he is happy now, But each dog has his day, They tell me he forgets me now But he soon shall dearly pay; For when near me he struggles with A crowd of snobs beset, Then if I hit as I have hit, He never shall forget.

M. The Gownsman. February 18, 1830, (or 1831?)

SONG BY SIR ROBERT PEEL.

Notwithstanding the length of time that has now elapsed since the breaking up of the Tory Administration, there is scarcely a member of it who does not still look back with a feeling of the most melancholy regret to the days when he once fingered the public money within the walls of the Treasury. On Sir Robert Peel the effect that has been produced is as vivid as it seemed the first hour after his resignation, and the unhappy baronet is often heard to give vent to his sensations, after the debate of the night, in the following exquisitely touching stanzas:――

Oh no we never finger it, Its name we never say, My fingers are forbid to grasp The once familiar pay. From Bill to Bill they hurry me, To banish my regret, And when they win a speech from me, They think that I forget.

They bid me seek by change of note The place where rivals be, But were I e’en to turn a Whig, There’d be no place for me. ’Tis true that I no more behold The council where we met, I do not see the Treasury, But how can I forget?

They tell me Lyndhurst’s happy now, The gayest of the gay, They hint that he forgets, but pshaw! I heed not what they say. Perhaps th’ Exchequer brings him in A pretty penny yet, But if he grasp’d as I have grasp’d, He never can forget.

Figaro in London. April 6, 1833.

THE NOTORIOUS UNKNOWN.

“Oh! no! we never mention HER, HER name is never heard! And now the deuce to find it out, I know not, on my word. But tho’ I could not tell HER name, HER face I’d often seen, “She stood among the glittering throng,” with Jacky in the green.

A ladle in one hand she bore, a salt box in the other; And of the Sooty Cupids near, she seemed the teeming mother. “I met HER at the Fancy fair,” with fancy lads around her, And with a blow she laid one low, as flat as any flounder.

“I saw HER at the Beulah Spa,” along with Gipsy Joe, A-riding on a donkey rough, vitch, somehow vouldn’t go. I saw HER ply her sybil art, and pick up cash like fun, For heads and tails she gave them hearts, and pleasur’d every one.

“I saw HER at the Masquerade,” along with Nimming Ned, Achieve those feats, where fingers light work nimbler than the head. I saw HER too at All-Max once (not Almack’s in the west,) “’Twas in the crowd,”――her voice was loud: I must’nt tell the rest.

I saw HER at the “Central Court,” (it gave me quite a shock), Surrounded by her body guard, she stood within the dock. And then I heard a little man, with solemn voice proclaim, (’Twas rue to me, and wormwood too), that ALIAS was her name.

From George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack, 1836.

LORD NON-CONTENT.

Lord Lyndhurst (Lord Chancellor): Content or Non-content? Lord Brougham (Ex-Lord Chancellor): Oh! Non-content, of course.

Oh! no I say; don’t mention it, ’Tis really too absurd; I don’t admit a single thing: I won’t believe a word. From all that Noble Lords have said, In toto I dissent; Why, doesn’t everybody know I’m always “Non-Content?”

They tell me I’m an obstinate, Impracticable man; I’m open to conviction――but Convince me if you can. I blame your views, deny your facts, Dispute your argument; Then why the question put to me? Of course I’m “Non-Content.”

Content indeed! I never was, From childhood’s dawn till now; And I should greatly like to see The statement I’d allow. To differ only I’ll agree; On that I’m firmly bent, I am, I will, I must, I shall, Be always “Non-Content.”

Punch. 1844.

OH! NO, I NEVER NAME MY WIFE.

Oh no, I never name my wife But let her lie at rest; Although she used to pull my nose, Now I am truly blest.

Each morn for cash she’d worry me, To purchase heavy-wet; And how she stagger’d home at eve I never shall forget.

I strove to find in change of scene, A tranquil hour or two, But if, alas, she found me out She’d thump me black and blue.

’Tis true, I now appear no more With eyes as black as jet; But how the poker she could wield, I never can forget.

They hint that she is happy now, In sooth, and so am I, And, as she can return no more ’Twere wrong in me to sigh.

When I prepared to bury her And friends and neighbours met, The sort of sorrow I then felt I never can forget.

I’D BE A BUTTERFLY.

I’d be a butterfly born in a bower, Where roses and lilies and violets meet, Roving for ever from flower to flower, And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. I’d never languish for wealth or for power, I’d never sigh to see slaves at my feet; I’d be a butterfly born in a bower, And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. I’d be a butterfly, &c.

Oh! could I pilfer the wand of a Fairy, I’d have a pair of those beautiful wings, Their summer day’s ramble is sportive and airy, They sleep in a rose where the nightingale sings; Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary, Power, alas! nought but misery brings. I’d be a butterfly, sportive and airy, Rock’d in a rose where the nightingale sings. I’d be a butterfly, &c.

What though you tell me each gay little rover, Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day, Surely ’tis better when summer is over, To die when all fair things are fading away: Some in life’s winter may toil to discover Means of procuring a weary delay. I’d be a butterfly, living a rover, Dying when fair things are fading away, I’d be a butterfly, &c.

In 1828 a small volume was printed at Malton, entitled “PSYCHÆ; or Songs of Butterflies. By T. H. Bayly, attempted in Latin Rhyme by the Rev. Francis Wrangham, M.A., F.R.S. (Archdeacon of the East Riding of York.”) in which occurs the following admirable Latin version of the above song:――

Ah sim Papilio, natus in flosculo, Rosae ubi liliaque et violae patent; Floribus advolans, avolans, osculo Gemmulus tangens, quae suave olent! Regna et opes ego neutiquam postulo, Nolo ego ad pedes qui se volutent―― Ah sim Papilio, natus in flosculo, Osculans gemmas quae suave olent!

Magicam si possem virgam furari, Alas has pulchras aptem mi, eheu! Æstivis actis diebus in aëre, Rosâ cubant Philomelae cantu. Opes quid afferunt? Curas, somnum rare; Regna nil praeter aerumnas, eheu! Ah sim Papilio, die volans aëre, Rosâ cubans Philomelae cantu!

Quemque horum vagulum dicis horrore Frigora Automni ferire suo; Æstas quando abiit, mallem ego mori, Omni quod dulce est cadente pulchro. Bramae qui capiunt captent labore Gaudia, et moras breves trahunto―― Ah sim Papilio; vivam in errore, Concidamque omni cadente pulchro.

January, 1828.

AN ANSWER TO MR. BAYLY.

I would not be a butterfly, Nay, Mr. Bayly nay, Although you rhyme to ear and eye In such a dainty way. Those pretty words, that pretty air Admit but this reply, It strikes me I should hardly care To be a butterfly.

A charm there is in being born Within a rosy bower, Where sunshine and a summer morn Should grace my natal hour. But I was born a cockney, sir, A cockney I shall die, Pray why on earth should I prefer To be a butterfly?

The plants that in a garden grow Are fresh and very sweet, But more befitting for a show Than proper things to eat. I love my soup, I love my fish, My joint and apple-pie, My menu never makes me wish To be a butterfly.

’Tis only just a month or so The things can keep alive, One year’s career they never know, And mine are forty-five. I hope to earn a little fame Ere many more go by, It would not be a paying game To be a butterfly.

I tell you frankly Mr. B. I would not if I could, In fact so far as I can see I could not if I would. To many things we all aspire, For many things we sigh, But why should mortal man desire To be a butterfly?

HENRY S. LEIGH.

I’D BE A PARODY.

I’d be a Parody, made by a ninny Or some little song with a popular tune, Not worth a halfpenny, sold for a guinea, And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon. I’d never sigh for the sense of a Pliny, (Who cares for sense at St. James’s in June?) I’d be a parody made by a ninny, And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon.

Oh, could I pick up a thought or a stanza, I’d take a flight on another bard’s wings Turning his rhymes into extravaganza, Laugh at his harp――and then pilfer its strings! When a poll-parrot can croak the cadenza A nightingale loves, he supposes he sings! Oh! never mind, I will pick up a stanza, Laugh at his harp――and then pilfer its strings!

What though you tell me each metrical puppy May make of such parodies two pair a day; Mocking birds think they obtain for each copy Paradise plumes for the parodied lay:―― Ladder of fame! if man can’t reach thy top, he Is right to sing just as high up as he may; I’d be a parody made by a puppy, Who makes of such parodies two pair a day.

From Sharpe’s Magazine, 1829.

SONG OF A RIFLEMAN.

I’d be a Rifleman, gallant and gay, Longest and last at the banquet or ball; Waltzing, Quadrilling, and flirting away, Constant to none, yet a favourite with all. True to the opera, concert, or play, I’d never languish for wedlock’s dull thrall; I’ll be a Rifleman, gallant and gay, Constant to none, yet a favourite with all.

What though you tell me the jacket of scarlet Is forwarder seen when the battle’s begun? Yet the Rifleman sure you ought never to snarl at, For he’ll safely return when the battle is done. Others in conflict, while fighting may fall at The stroke of a sabre, or shot of a gun, But the Rifleman laughs at the jacket of scarlet, Perch’d in a tree till the battle is done. I’d be a Rifleman, I’d be a Rifleman, Flirting in peace-time when battle is done.

From The Bentley Ballads. (London. Richard Bentley.)

SONG OF THE COLLEGE BEDMAKER.

I make the butter fly all in an hour; I put aside the preserves and cold meats, Telling my master his cream has turned sour, Hiding his pickles, purloining his sweets.

I never languish for husband or dower; I never sigh to see gyps at my feet; I make the butter fly, all in an hour, Taking it home for my Saturday treat.

From Horace at Athens, by G. O. TREVELYAN.

I’D BE A ROTHSCHILD.

I’d be a Rothschild! immortal in story, As the fellows who live by their stanzas and brains, Having a heart drunk with visions of glory, When fifty per cent, on my table remains; I’d have no poet to sway his lute o’er me, A fig for the head that such nonsense contains. I’d be a Rothschild! immortal in story, As the fellows who live by their stanzas and brains.

Tell me of Southeys and Scotts, they are ninnies To foolishly trifle with time as they do, Give me the music of soul-witching guineas, While they address lays to the “summer skies blue!” What if they scribble like Virgils or Plinies, At sixpence per line in each London review? I’d be a Rothschild! and laugh at the ninnies, Whose brains such absurd undertakings pursue.

Commerce shall wave her proud flag o’er the ocean, When the wreath and the minstrel have vanished from hence, Rhymes may give to the muse their devotion, But mine is concentred in consols and rents Of Tempe and Castaly I have no notion Oh! they give song the importance of sense; I’d be a Rothschild! with every emotion Awake at the tune of pounds, shillings, and pence!

REGINALD AUGUSTINE. From The Mirror, 1830.

NEGRO LIBERTY.

Me neber run from my massa’s plantation, Wha for me run? me no want to get lick; He gib me house, and me pay no taxation―― Food when me famish, and nurse when me sick. Willy-force[8] nigger, he belly be empty, He hab the freedom, dat no good for me; My massa good man, he gib me plenty Me no lobe Willy-force[8] better dan he. Me be de nigger boy, Me happy fellow, den why me want free?

Me be a nigger boy, born in de hovel, What plantain da shade from de sun wha da shine, Me learn to dig wid de spade and de shovel, Me learn to hoe up de cane in a line. Me drink my rum, in de calabash oval, Me neber sigh for de brandy and wine; Me be a nigger boy, born in de hovel, What plantain da shade from de sun wha da shine. Me be a nigger boy, When me live happy, wha for me repine?

From Fraser’s Magazine, 1830.

SONG BY THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

I’d be a Minister born into power, Grasping the pay and the patronage sweet, Making fine speeches to last for an hour. At night when the Members of Parliament meet I’d never care for the Whigs looking sour, I should have plenty of slaves at my feet. I’d be a Minister born into power, Grasping the pay and the patronage sweet.

Then could I pilfer the office of Grey now I’d get a share of those nice little things, Giving the patronage, drawing the pay now And making the most of whatever it brings. Those that are out, great complaints have to say now Office around them complacency flings. I’d be a Minister, like I see Grey now I’d get a share of those snug little things.

Figaro in London, April 13, 1833.

“Master Butterfly, Mr. Townley’s famous short-horn bull, to which the first prize was awarded at the Chelmsford meeting, and who has been bought for the sum of 1,200 guineas, by an Australian gentleman, was shipped a few days ago for Melbourne by the Copenhagen.”――Daily Paper.

I’d be a Butterfly, bought for a power Of gold from Australia, a short-horn complete, Shelter’d in homestead from sun and from shower, Fatten’d on oat-cake and mangold so sweet. Think of the glory obtained by my breeder―― Of the medal at Chelmsford so gloriously won―― Think of the credit borne off by my feeder, For the fat, layer by layer, my broad ribs laid upon!

In a fast clipper they’ve taken my passage, And a cabin on deck they’ve constructed for me, Padded and mattressed to ease ocean’s tossage, Pitched and caulked close ’gainst the wash of the sea. While roots of the choicest, and hay of the sweetest, Are stored upon board for my use on the way, A best Lipscombe’s filter ensures the completest Regard for my water-supply, day by day.

As for the passenger bipeds――poor devils, Herring-like packed in the dark hold below! Think of sea-sickness, and all of its evils―― Hatches all down――when it comes on to blow! My sweet hay, my good water, and cabin so cool, Compare with their berths, junk, and Thames from the tank! Surely all must perceive how a fine short-horn bull And an emigrant labourer differ in rank!

Punch. August 23, 1856.

WE MET.

We met――’twas in a crowd, And I thought he would shun me, He came――I could not breathe, For his eyes were upon me; He spoke――his words were cold, And his smile was unaltered; I knew how much he felt, For his deep-toned voice falter’d.

I wore my bridal robe, And I rivall’d its whiteness; Bright gems were in my hair, How I hated their brightness. He called me by my name―― As the bride of another―― Oh, thou hast been the cause Of this anguish my mother!

And once again we met,―― And a fair girl was near him, He smiled, and whispered low, As I once used to hear him; She leant upon his arm―― Once ’twas mine, and mine only I wept――for I deserved To feel wretched and lonely.

And she will be his bride! At the altar he’ll give her The love that was too pure For a heartless deceiver. The world may think me gay, For my feelings I smother,―― Oh, thou hast been the cause Of this anguish, my mother!

PARODY ON THE ABOVE.

We met, ’twas in a mob, and we looked at each other; He came――I said to him, “That you have got another. You know I saw you come out of yonder dark alley, Along with that ere gal they call one-eyed Sally.” And she wore her bridal dress,――’twas a sailor’s blue jacket; Her face, it smiled at me, how I longed for to smack it, I said that you was false when you gave me a milling! Oh! thou hast been the cause of these black eyes, you villain!

I saw him once again, with that ’ere same gal walking; She grinn’d, and so did he; how I envied their talking. My heart it burst with rage, when her smart cap I tore off, And a piece of her black hair in triumph I bore off; He made a rush at me to give me a feller, But he missed his savage aim, and fell into a cellar: I laughed――I said to him, “You remember the milling You last did give to me, and those black eyes, you villain!”

“Mr. Henry Colburn here led Lady Morgan to the harp, and requested her to sing ‘WE MET.’ The wild Irish girl condescended thus to comply”:――

We met! ’twas in your shop, And I thought you would shun me; But you came――your words were sweet, And your yellow-boys won me. You bade me write a book, And they damn’d it in Holborn:―― Oh! thou hast been the cause Of this anguish, Hal Colburn!

You cut off half my price When I went to another; And I hate you for it well, Though my feelings I smother. God send you may be burked, Some dark night in High Holborn―― And the puffs may bear your corpse To the doctors, Hal Colburn!

From The National Omnibus. November 25, 1831.

WE MET――’TWAS IN ST. GILES.

We met, ’twas in St. Giles, Ah my poor bosom flutter’d―― He spoke, so full of smiles――though a little he stutter’d. He said, “Ah, how d’ye do,” but I could not say “Thank’ee!” I looked so very blue, and he look’d so lankey. I wore my new pelisse all satin and whiteness, A new five shilling piece had never such brightness I should have ta’en his arm, but there was another―― O, thou hast been the cause of this anguish――my mother.

And once again we met that dashing young fellow, It rain’d heavy wet, he’d a green umbrella; He said, a worthy Jew, for nine-pence did mend it, He said, ’twas good as new, and offer’d to lend it.

I thought there was no harm――I was going to take it; My mother pull’d my arm, ’till I thought she would break it! Don’t you think that cut direct, all his loving must smother. Ah! thou hast been the cause of this anguish my mamma.

From The London Singer’s Magazine.

THE DUEL.――No. 1.

We met,――’twas on the ground―― And I thought he would fight me; He came his looks were bold, And his pistols did fright me. He frown’d, and he whispered low A dead shot he is reckoned; Oh! thou hast been the cause Of this duel, my second!

He trod the paces out, With a deal of expertness; His legs were very short, How I hated their shortness. He loaded, primed, and cocked, To his friend then he beckon’d; Oh! thou hast been the cause Of this duel, my second!

From The National Omnibus, June 10, 1831.

THE DUEL No. 2.

We met, ’twas in a field, And I thought he would wing me; He came, I made cock sure That down he would bring me. He spoke, his words were cool; His smile was unalter’d; I knew he did not fear, For his hand never falter’d.

I wore my Russia ducks, And I rivall’d their whiteness; Two slight friends were there, How I envied their slightness! I call’d the fellow out, And there could be no shrinkings: Oh! thou hast been the cause Of this duel――Miss Jinkins!

(Two verses omitted.)

The Comic Magazine, Second Series, 1833.

LOVE ON THE OCEAN.

“‘Oh! is there not something, dear Augustus, truly sublime in this warring of the elements?’ But Augustus’s heart was too full to speak.”――MS. Novel by Lady ――――

They met, ’twas in a storm, On the deck of a steamer; She spoke in language warm, Like a sentimental dreamer. He spoke――at least he tried; His position he altered; Then turn’d his face aside, And his deep-ton’d voice faltered.

She gazed upon the wave, Sublime she declared it; But no reply he gave―― He could not have dared it. A breeze came from the south, Across the billows sweeping; His heart was in his mouth, And out he thought ’twas leaping.

“O, then, steward,” he cried, With the deepest emotion; Then totter’d to the side, And leant o’er the ocean. The world may think him cold, But they’ll pardon him with quickness, When the fact they shall be told, That he suffered from sea-sickness.

Punch. 1845.

LORD BROUGHAM AND DR. REID.

“I DON’T WANT EXPLANATION, I WANT AIR”――Brougham on Ventilation, Vide Times. “LORD BROUGHAM has expressed a very natural repugnance to be treated like an animal, shut up for the purpose of having ventilating experiments tried upon him. Such, however, is the fate of all Members of Parliament who are subjected to the horrors of DR. REID’S process. We can fancy the agonies of the Ex-Chancellor, imprisoned in an exhausted receiver, like one of those little figures we have seen ascending and descending in a glass tube, according as the air was let in upon or withdrawn from them. BROUGHAM’S rencontre with REID would be well worthy of a poetical celebration, in a strain somewhat similar to the following:――

We met, ’twas in the House, And I hoped he would shun me; He came, I could not breathe, For his tube was upon me. He puff’d, the air was cold, The thermometer alter’d: I knew ’twas freezing point, For my voice with shivering falter’d.

I wore my Russia ducks, In their beautiful whiteness; Cold gusts ran through the House―― How I hated their lightness! I call’d for warmer air, But the pipes never cock’d are―― Oh, thou hast been the cause Of this humbug, my Doctor!

And once again we met, And a workman was near him; He smiled and whisper’d low, And I waited to hear him. He gave a gentle breeze; I confessed it was pleasing: But then there came a rush Of air that was freezing.

Is no one at my side, Poor BROUGHAM to deliver; Or must he die shut in An exhausted receiver? The world may think him wise, But the House he will smother; Or blow it all away On some day or other.

Punch. June, 1846.

THE LOST WATCH.

We met――’twas in a mob――and I thought he had done me―― I felt――I could not feel――for no watch was upon me; He ran――the night was cold――and his pace was unaltered, I too, longed much to pelt――but my small-boned legs falter’d. I wore my brand new boots――and unrivalled their brightness, They fit me to a hair――how I hated their tightness! I called, but no one came, and my stride had a tether, Oh, thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!

And once again we met――and an old pal was near him, He swore, a something low, but ’twas no use to fear him. I seized upon his arm, he was mine and mine only, And stept, as he deserved ――to cells wretched and lonely: And there he will be tried――but I shall ne’er receive her, The watch that went too sure for an artful deceiver; The world may think me gay――heart and feet ache together, Oh, thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!

TOM HOOD.

THE IMPOSITION.

We met in upper school, And I thought he would “draw” me; He came, his words were stern, And much did he jaw me. He asked me for my task, Which I could not to him show. Oh! thou hast been the cause Of this anguish, my “Impo.”

And once again we met. And his black book was near him He pored and mumbled low, As often you may hear him; He said that I seem’d In my duty towards him slow. Oh! thou hast been the cause Of this anguish, my “Impo.”

I wore a clean white shirt, And revelled in its whiteness, Bright studs were in it too, How I envied their brightness; For they made my face look pale, But I did not let him know That thou wert the cause Of this anguish, my “Impo.”

W. V. From The Charterhouse School Collection of Poems.

THE SOLDIER’S TEAR.

Upon the hill he turn’d To take a last fond look, Of the valley and the village church, And the cottage by the brook; He listen’d to the sounds So familiar to his ear; And the soldier lean’d upon his sword, And wip’d away a tear.

Beside the cottage porch A girl was on her knees, She held aloft a snowy scarf Which flutter’d in the breeze: She breath’d a prayer for him, A prayer he could not hear, But he paus’d to bless her as she knelt, And wip’d away a tear.

He turn’d, and left the spot, Oh! do not deem him weak, For dauntless was the soldier’s heart, Tho’ tears were on his cheek. Go, watch the foremost ranks In danger’s dark career, Be sure the hand most daring there Has wip’d away a tear.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. ――――

THE RECTOR’S TEAR. (Supposed to be sung by the Rev. George Croly.)

Beside the church he stood, To take a last fond look Of the pulpit and the vestry-room, And the red morocco book. He heard the beadle’s voice, So familiar to his ear, And he raised his surplice to his eyes, And wiped away a tear.

Within the old church door, The clerk was on his knees, Groping about in the wooden box, In which he kept his fees. The parson heard the dub-ups chink Said he to himself, oh! dear, If I had those, I do not think I’d wipe away a tear!

That fine old humbug turned To leave the chapel door; He’d pocketted a fortune there, But now he longed for more. Go watch the vacant bishoprics, In the chancellor’s career; If he pops into one of them He’ll wipe away no tear!

From The National Omnibus, November 25, 1831.

THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON’S TEAR.

“We cannot help calling the attention of our readers to the following very touching melody, sung by the Duke of Wellington immediately on his discovering his inability to form an Administration. The allusion to his threatened retirement from the House, is replete with feeling; and the reference to the broken windows of Apsley House, pathetic and beautiful.”

Upon his heel he turned, To take a last fond look, Of their lordships and the ministers, And the premier’s pleasant nook. He listened to the sounds So familiar to his ear, And the soldier on his protest leant. To wipe away a tear.

Upon the sack of wool, Brougham was on his knees; He held aloft the snow-white Bill, That caused so many a breeze. He breathed a prayer to him―― A prayer he could not hear; But he paused to damn him as he went, And wiped away a tear.

He turned to quit the House―― Oh, do not deem him weak; For bloody were the soldier’s thoughts, Though tears were on his cheek. Go watch the broken panes, Of Apsley, dark and drear, For there the soldier now must go, To wipe away his tear.

Figaro in London, May 26, 1832.

(At that time the Duke of Wellington was very unpopular, and Apsley House had been attacked by the mob.)

THE BLUES AGAIN.

Upon the ground he stood, To take a last fond look At the troopers as he entered them In Mister Dixon’s book. He listened to the neigh So familiar to his ear; But the soldier thought of bills to pay, And wiped away a tear.

The soldier blew his nose, Oh, do not deem him weak! To meet his creditors he knows He’s not sufficient cheek. Go read the writ-book through, And mid the names, I fear You’re sure to find the very Blue Who wiped away the tear.

(“Punch had hoped that the regiment had been extricated from its little pecuniary difficulties, but was horrified on finding that the Commanding Officer had given instructions to sell twenty very superior long-tailed troop-horses. The above lines were suggested to the mind of a sentimentalist who attended the sale.”)

THE FOOTMAN’S NOSE.

In the street he turn’d to take a last long look, Of the palings and the garden wall, where he the carpets shook: He saw the kitchen fire where oft he’d warm’d his toes, The footman bent upon his stick, and stood to wipe his nose.

Upon those steps a girl was scrubbing on her knees, The wind took off her bonnet which flutter’d in the breeze. She pray’d that it might fall by him, as in the air it rose, He grinn’d, but lest that she should see, he stood and wiped his nose.

He turn’d and left the place where he had lived a week, Too youthful was the footman’s heart, tho’ whiskered was his cheek; Yet he had gain’d that cooky’s love, and banish’d other beaux, For sure the one she lov’d the most, was he who wiped his nose.

THE POLICEMAN’S TEAR.

Against the rails he leant, To take a last fond look, At the kitchen he was petted in, And the open-handed cook. He heard the pretty housemaid read―― “The Guards will soon be here,” And the Peeler turned his bracelet round, And wiped away a tear.

He thought on beef and pickles, On the lobster and the crab, And other dainties that the Force So well knows how to grab. He thought of Susan’s sixpences, Of Sarah’s supper-beer, And the Peeler turned his bracelet round And wiped away a tear.

For the Guards, the Guards are coming―― A week, and we shall find His nose put not less out of joint Than our larder, when he’d dined, Cousins from the Crimea With his rights will interfere―― No wonder that the peeler sighed, And wiped away a tear.

But there is vengeance in his head, So do not deem him weak―― There’s many a soldier will be watched And brought before the Beak. And of his rivals he will try To keep our kitchens clear, No sharper eye the steps can guard Than now lets fall the tear.

SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1856.

AWFUL POSITION OF MR. DUNUP AT BOULOGNE.

Upon the pier he turned To take a mental look Of his credit and his creditors, Whom basely he forsook. He conjured up the sound So familiar to his ear, Of “please to settle this account;” And answer’d with a sneer.

He reached his lodging door, A trembling took his knees―― He found in Paris there had been A most tremendous breeze. “A bas les Anglais!” roar’d Directly in his ear, Told him there was not time to pause―― He sought again the pier.

He look’d on board the boat, Oh! do not deem him weak; For desperate was Dunup’s game, The game of hide-and-seek. Go watch him at Boulogne, You’ll find him on the pier; He’d rather risk the bayonets there, Than brave the bailiffs here!

Punch, 1848.

THE SOLDIER’S FEAR.

He turn’d upon his heel, To take an angry look Of the baggage-waggon and the baggage As they came o’er the brook; He tried to lose the sounds So familiar to his ear, And the soldier leant upon his sword His wife was in the rear.

She sat upon the baggage. A child was on her knees: She looked just such a sort of one As loved to have a breeze; She breathed a threat for him, A threat he could not hear, Or else he would have soundly drubb’d His partner in the rear.

He turned and cursed the spot, Oh! do not deem him weak; Bursting with fury was his heart, Tho’ pallid was his cheek. Go watch the foremost rank In danger’s dark career, And mark the man most des’prate there His wife is in the rear.

STANZAS. (By Haynes Bayly the Second.)

The Broadwood is opened, its tapers are lit, And my hostess implores me to play; She would hear me accompany lines full of wit, In my truly musicianlike way. But my lyrics were made for the careless and free, When my heart and my spirits were light: Seek the lays of the lively from others, not me, Let my song be a sad one to-night.

Leave, leave me, fair lady, to cherish my gloom In a corner far far from the throng; Let me carry some chair to the end of the room And retreat from the dance and the song, Let me hide my depression and veil my despair From the crowd of the brilliant and bright; Or in case you insist upon hearing an air, Let my song be a sad one to-night.

I could give you “The Last Rose of Summer,” perhaps, In a plaintive and exquisite style: But I know I should simply and feebly collapse In my efforts to conjure a smile. The low-comedy manner, the sickly grimace, Would be rather too painful a sight: With a load on my bosom, a cloud on my face, Let my song be a sad one to-night.

Not a particle, thank you. No fluids can cheer Such a state of dejection as mine. It resists the seductive advances of beer, And refuses the solace of wine. No, I cannot be comic, fair lady. I trust You regard my refusal aright. Well, of course, if you must have a ballad, you must, Let my song be a sad one to-night.

Fun. November 18, 1871.

MORE STANZAS. (By Haynes Bayly the Second.)

I have taken ten glasses of sherry; I hope they will ask me to sing; I am feeling uncommonly merry, And pine to go in for my fling. I would give them no die-away ditty; My lay should be jocund and light. Bother sentiment――let me be witty; Oh! let me be comic to-night.

As I sit here alone in a corner―― A slighted though eminent guest―― I resemble poor little Jack Horner, Except that the pie is non est. Yet I fain would be awfully jolly, I fain would be gay if I might; I am ready for frolic and folly―― Oh, let me be comic to-night.

I was grieved when my opulent uncle Was taken so terribly ill. ’Tis a fearful affair, a carbuncle, And baffles all medical skill. He is gone, and has left me to suffer; But Time puts our sorrows to flight. He left me his money, poor buffer:―― Oh, let me be comic to-night.

Let me try; I am perfectly ready, I’ve sat in my corner too long, But my legs are a little unsteady―― That wine was remarkably strong. Did you say I was tipsy? Oh gammon! Just lift me up gently. All right―― I can sing, Sir. ’Twas only the salmon. Oh, let me be comic to-night.

Fun. December 9, 1871.

These two imitations of Bayly’s style were written by the late Mr. Henry Sambrook Leigh, who died June 16, 1883. They were also included in a volume of his poems, entitled A Town Garland, published by Chatto & Windus, London, in 1878.

OUT.

Out, John! out, John! what are you about, John? If you don’t say out at once, you make the fellow doubt, John! Say I’m out, whoever calls, and hide my hat and cane, John! Say you’ve not the least idea when I shall come again, John! Let the people leave their bills, but tell them not to call, John! Say I’m courting Miss Rupee, and mean to pay them all, John! Out, John! out, John! what are you about, John? If you don’t say out at once, you make the fellow doubt, John!

Run, John! run, John! there’s another dun, John; If it’s Prodger, bid him call to-morrow week at one, John! If he says he saw me at the window as he knocked, John! Make a face, and shake your head, and tell him you are shocked, John! Take your pocket handkerchief, and put it to your eye, John! Say your master’s not the man to bid you tell a lie, John! Out, John! out John! &c.

Oh, John! go, John! there’s Noodle’s knock, I know, John Tell him that all yesterday you sought him high and low, John! Tell him just before he came, you saw me mount the hill, John! Say you think I’m only gone to pay his little bill, John! Then I think you’d better add, that if I miss to-day, John! You’re sure I mean to call when next I pass his way, John! Out, John! out, John! &c.

Hie, John! fly, John! I will tell you why, John! If there is not Grimshawe at the corner, let me die, John! He will hear of no excuse, I’m sure he’ll search the house, John! Peeping into corners hardly fit to hold a mouse, John! Beg he’ll take a chair and wait, I know he won’t refuse, John! I’ll pop through the little door that opens on the mews, John! Out, John! out, John! &c.

LORD BRUMMAGEM, LATE JOHN BRIGHT.

Out, John! out, John! What have you been about, John, To thus oppose your Grand Old Chief, and try to cause his rout, John? We’d news of late which said your health was very much amiss, John; But, sick or well, we never thought that you would come to this, John!

Fie, John! fie, John! We wish you’d tell us why, John, You’ve now become of selfish Whigs and Tories the ally, John? It can’t, of course, be from mere spite, or any such mean end, John, That you have, in an honoured age, thus turned upon your friend, John!

Yet, John! yet, John! we very much regret, John, That better reason for your acts we’ve wholly failed to get, John. You hint that Mr. Gladstone’s mad, which is not very kind, John; But, come now, are you sure that you are in your own right mind, John?

Come, John! come, John! Nay, nay, you can’t be dumb, John. You must speak out if we begin your past life’s deeds to sum, John; For hitherto you have been bold upon the side of right, John. What, then, has changed your principles, if it be not mere spite, John?

Why, John! why, John! you in the days gone by, John, Full many a time have pleaded for the race you now defy, John; Freedom was sacred then to you, and justice very dear, John, But now, though, you attack them both, whilst stupid Tories cheer, John.

Think, John, think, John! ere you much lower sink, John, That those who cheer you are the crew from whom you used to shrink, John; Yes; stupid Tories, grasping Whigs, and Jingoes wild for war, John, These are your brand-new friends――and we would ask again “What for, John?”

Yes, John! yes, John! Most sadly we confess, John We, for the sake of “Auld Lang Syne,” for explanation press, John. Had you wax’d weary of the right, and tired of being true, John, When you across a noble life this sombre shadow threw, John?

Stay, John! stay, John! Hear all we have to say, John! Falls like to that of Chamberlain in no wise us dismay, John. Joseph is an ambitious man, and full of self-conceit, John; He’s shallow, too, like young men are, and vain and indiscreet, John!

But oh, John! oh, John! it was a cruel blow, John, When, with desertion not content, you went and joined the foe, John! Aye, when at Gladstone his old friend, John Bright, propelled a stone, John! ’Twas not his son alone that gave a deep and heartfelt groan, John!

Aye, John! aye John! you can’t yourself deny, John, That thousands who once loved your name begin to it decry, John; Whilst those too young your worthy deeds of past years to recall, John, Already ask in wonderment why it is loved at all, John!

But, stay, John! stay, John! There yet remains a way, John, In which, though stubborn, you may still this tendency allay, John; Yes, you may keep the name of Bright un-slurred in any case, John. By simply taking, as a Peer, a title in its place, John!

True, John! true John! you may this plan eschew, John, But, ere you do so, please recall the things you’ve stooped to do, John; You’ve shown yourself, though old in years, quite greedy of renown, John―― You as an Oxford D.C.L. flaunt in a scarlet gown, John

More, John! more, John! with feeling we deplore, John, You have most bitterly denounced the friends of heretofore, John! You’ve caused true Radicals to mourn――you’ve raised a Tory cheer, John: The climax, then, is natural――you mean to die a Peer, John!

Yes, John! yes, John! your recent acts express, John, That you in your maturer years a curious craze possess, John; Which, having made you do the things you’ve all your life abhorr’d, John, Now fills you with a silly wish――’twould seem――to be a Lord, John!

Eh, John! eh, John? “It isn’t so!” you say, John? Then let it be your aim henceforth, most earnestly we pray, John; Yes, please, as fitting climax to those Whig and Tories, cheers, John, To Bramwell, Lowe, and Brabourne join in our great House of Peers, John!

Yes, John! yes, John! most urgently we press, John, That you should from the Upper House declaim your next address, John; So that “John Bright” may still remain a prized and honoured name, John, Whilst with “Lord Brummagem” instead we link your Tory fame, John!

Truth. July 8, 1886.

NAY, JOHN. (A Temperance Song,)

“Nay,” John, “Nay,” John, that’s what you must say John, Wherever you are asked to drink, or you’ll be led astray, John

Say that though you are not old, Nor yet so very wise, John, Yet what is right and good and true, You’re old enough to prize, John. Let the people drink who will, But when they come to you, John, Boldly say, “I’VE SIGNED THE PLEDGE, AND MEAN TO KEEP IT TOO,” John.

“Nay,” John, “Nay,” John, that’s what you must say John, Whenever you are asked to drink, or you’ll be led astray, John. Think, John, think, John, what a thing is drink, John, From bad to worse, it mostly leads to death and ruin’s brink, John.

You know your uncle Robert had As nice a house as mine, John, But, years ago, you know, as well, He swallowed it in wine, John, His trade is dead, his shop is shut, ’Twas drink that made him fail, John; He started with a single glass, And now he’s in the gaol, John.

Use, John, use, John, winks at this abuse, John, And when you recommend the pledge, will patch up some excuse, John.

Many drink because they’re cold, And some because they’re hot, John Many drink because they’re old, And some because they’re not, John; Many drink because they’re thin, And some because they’re stout, John; Many drink because they’re in, And some because they’re out, John.

“Nay,” John. “Nay,” John, whatever they may say, John. Never touch and never taste, but always answer “Nay,” John.

If they ask you only just To taste a little drop, John, Say you would if you knew where The “little drop” would stop, John. Tell them by gin and rum, By wine and malt and hops, John, That life and health, and peace and fame, Are drowned in “little drops,” John.

Oh, John, oh, John, I’ll tell you what I know, John: A drunken man o’er all the world, has most of grief and woe, John.

Then on the land and on the sea, In seasons hot and cold, John, Keep the pledge when you are young, And keep it when you’re old, John, Let the people drink who will, But when they come to you, John, Boldly say, “I’VE SIGNED THE PLEDGE, AND MEAN TO KEEP IT TOO, JOHN.”

When Sir Thomas Brassey lost his seat in the House of Commons, he was promoted to a peerage for his services to his party. Some snobbish toadies immediately set to work to trace a pedigree for the new Baron, and asserted that one of his ancestors came over with the Duke William from Normandy. Whereas it was well known that the father of Sir Thomas was of very poor and humble origin, and made his money by honorable hard work as a Railway Contractor. Truth represented Sir Thomas, attired in a suit of mail as a Norman Knight, appearing to his father, who sits smoking a short pipe, in the loose and easy costume of his early calling, a “navvy,” or road excavator. The father thus addresses the newly made Baron:――

Out, Tom! Out, Tom! what have you been about, Tom? Though, if you truly know yourself, I’m very much in doubt, Tom! To think, though, that a man of sense, for you are not a fool, Tom! Should act in such a way, oh, dear! I hardly can keep cool, Tom!

What’s that you say? “You’ve only claimed what should be yours by right,” Tom? And that Le Sieur Bresci was indeed a Norman knight, Tom? My poor, poor boy! Come, tell me who has told you of such stuff, Tom! I should have thought your father’s name for you’d be good enough, Tom!

What’s that? “The Heralds searched for you, and found you our old crest,” Tom? For any Brassey’s crest I think my pickaxe would serve best, Tom; While for a motto, here is one that cannot be attackt, Tom, For it is merely “We enlarge the more that we contract,” Tom.

But, come, let me be serious, and this, at least, I’d pray, Tom: Do not, in common-sense’s name, go on in such a way, Tom. If you’ve been made a Lord, why I suppose you must be one, Tom, But do now try to be more like your poor old father’s son, Tom.

Don’t make the people laugh at you, by silly, empty pride, Tom; And don’t your father’s honest trade be so inclined to hide, Tom. You always were a clever boy, so let me then implore, Tom, That of these Norman ancestors I never may hear more, Tom.

Truth. Christmas Number, 1886.

THE OLD HOUSE AT HOME.

Oh! the old house at home where my forefathers dwelt, Where a child at the feet of my mother I knelt, When she taught me the prayer, where she read me the page, Which, if infancy lisps, is the solace of age; My heart, ’mid all changes, wherever I roam, Ne’er loses its love for the old house at home!

’Twas not for its splendour that dwelling was dear, ’Twas not that the gay or the noble were near; O’er the porch the wild rose and wood-bine entwined, And the sweet-scented jessamine waved in the wind; Yet dearer to me than proud turret or dome Were the halls of my fathers, the old house at home!

But now the old house is no dwelling for me, The home of the stranger henceforth it shall be; And ne’er will I view it, nor rove as a guest, O’er the ever-green fields which my father possessed; Yet still, in my slumbers, sweet visions will come Of the days that are pass’d, and the old house at home!

A CONTRAST.

Oh! the old house at home where my forefathers dwelt, Was a tumble-down place, where most dismal I felt; For my friends kept few servants, and taught me the page Could not wait upon me, for I was not of age. Oh! my heart ’midst all changes, from London to Rome, Finds each place more gay than the old house at home!

’Twas not for its rent that the dwelling was dear, But it wanted no end of repairs every year. From the roof had been stolen the coating of lead, And the rain pelted through till it dripped on your head; And a dark narrow passage, with no space to roam, Was the hall of my father,――the old house at home.

But now the old house is no dwelling for me; I’m settled in London, where sooner I’d be; And ne’er will return there, except as a guest, Just for two or three days,――if I do, I am blest! The dulness would kill me, and slumber would come, In the small dingy rooms of the old house at home.

From A Bowl of Punch, by ALBERT SMITH, London: D. Bogue, 1848.

PARODIES OF LEWIS CARROLL.

“Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,” and “Through the Looking-Glass, and what Alice found there” have so long been familiar, and are so universally popular, that their recent production on the Stage at the Prince of Wales’s Theatre only causes a feeling of surprise that they have not been dramatised hitherto.

It is true, that Colonel Lynes, of the Royal Artillery, selected the subject of “Alice in Wonderland” for the Soldiers’ pantomime at Woolwich, more than six months ago, and at his suggestion Mr. J. Addison wrote a very ingenious play, which was produced in the Theatre of the Royal Artillery Barracks at Christmas 1886.

But this was far less complete as a representation of Alice’s adventures, than the Musical Dream Play, in two acts by H. Savile Clarke, produced at the Prince of Wales’s Theatre in December, 1886.

All who have read Alice’s Adventures (and who has not read them?) should see how admirably they have been realised on the boards, and recognise in Miss Phœbe Carlo the charming little heroine of Mr. Carroll’s invention. Mr. H. Savile Clarke thus introduces the subject of his play:――

A Nursery Magician took All little children by the hand; And led them laughing through the book, Where Alice walks in Wonderland:

Ours is the task with Elfin dance And song, to give to Childhood’s gaze That Wonderland; and should it chance To win a smile, be his the praise.

By the kind permission of Mr. Lewis Carroll the following poems are selected from his books, with some parodies and imitations of them.

THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER.

The sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might; He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright―― And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done. “It’s very rude of him,” she said, “To come and spoil the fun.”

The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky: No birds were flying overhead―― There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: “If this were only cleared away,” They said, “It would be grand!”

“If seven maids, with seven mops, Swept it for half a year, Do you suppose,” the Walrus said, “That they could get it clear?” “I doubt it,” said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear.

“Oh, Oysters, come and walk with us!” The Walrus did beseech. “A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beech; We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each.”

The eldest Oyster looked at him, But never a word he said: The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head―― Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat―― And this was odd, because, you know, They had’nt any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four: And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more―― All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock Conveniently low: And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row.

“The time has come,” the Walrus said, “To talk of many things: Of shoes――and ships――and sealing-wax―― Of cabbages-and kings―― And why the sea is boiling hot―― And whether pigs have wings.”

“But wait a bit,” the Oysters cried, “Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!” “No hurry!” said the Carpenter: They thanked him much for that.

“A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said, “Is what we chiefly need: Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed―― Now, if you’re ready, Oysters dear, We can begin to feed.”

“But not on us,” the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue. “After such kindness, that would be A dismal thing to do!” “The night is fine,” the Walrus said. “Do you admire the view?

“It was so kind of you to come, And you are very nice!” The Carpenter said nothing, but “Cut us another slice: I wish you were not quite so deaf―― I’ve had to ask you twice!”

“It seems a shame,” the Walrus said, “To play them such a trick, After we’ve brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick!” The Carpenter said nothing but “The butter’s spread too thick!”

“I weep for you,” the Walrus said: “I deeply sympathize.” With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief Before his streaming eyes.

“Oh, Oysters,” said the Carpenter, “You’ve had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?” But answer came there none―― And this was scarcely odd, because They’d eaten every one.

Lewis Carroll (Through the Looking Glass).

THE VULTURE AND THE HUSBANDMAN. BY LOUISA CAROLINE.

(A Vulture is a rapacious and obscene bird, which destroys its prey by plucking it limb from limb, with its powerful beak and talons. A Husbandman is a man in a low position of life who supports himself by the use of the plough.――Johnson’s Dictionary.)

The rain was raining cheerfully, As if it had been May, The senate-house appeared inside Unusually gay; And this was strange, because it was A vivâ-voce day.

The men were sitting sulkily, Their paper-work was done, They wanted much to go away To row, or ride, or run; “It’s very rude,” they said, “to keep Us here and spoil our fun.”

The papers they had finished lay In piles of blue and white. They answered everything they could, And wrote with all their might; But though they wrote it all by rote They did not write it right.

The Vulture and the Husbandman Beside these piles did stand, They wept like anything to see The work they had in hand; “If this were only finished up,” Said they “it would be grand.

If seven D’s or seven C’s We give to all the crowd, Do you suppose,” the Vulture said, “That we could get them ploughed?” “I think so,” said the Husbandman, ‘But, pray, don’t talk so loud.’

“O undergraduates, come up!” The Vulture did beseech, “And let us see if you can learn As well as we can teach. We cannot do with more than two, To have a word with each.”

Two undergraduates came up, And slowly took a seat, They knit their brows and bit their thumbs As if they found them sweet; And this was odd, because, you know, Thumbs are not good to eat.

“The time has come,” the Vulture said “To talk of many things, Of accidence and adjectives, And names of Jewish kings, How many notes a sackbut has, And whether shawns have strings.”

“Please sir,” the undergraduates said Turning a little blue, “We did not know that was the sort Of thing we had to do.” “We thank you much,” the Vulture said, “Send up another two.”

Two more came up, and then two more And more, and more, and more, And some looked upwards at the roof Some down upon the floor; But none were any wiser than The pair that went before.

“I weep for you,” the Vulture said “I deeply sympathize;” With sobs and tears he gave them all D’s of the largest size, While at the Husbandman he winked One of his streaming eyes.

“I think,” observed the Husbandman, “We’re getting on too quick, Are we not putting down the D’s A little bit too thick?” The Vulture said, with much disgust, “Their answers make me sick!”

“Now, undergraduates,” he cried, “Our fun is nearly done, Will anybody else come up?” But answer came there none, And this was scarcely odd, because They’d ploughed them every one.

The Light Green. Cambridge, 1872.

THE NYUM――NYUM.

The Nyum Nyum chortled by the sea, And sipped the wavelets green: He wondered how the sky could be So very nice and clean;

He wondered if the chamber-maid Had swept the dust away, And if the scrumptious Jabberwock Had mopped it up that day.

And then in sadness to his love The Nyum Nyum weeping said, I know no reason why the sea Should not be white or red.

I know no reason why the sea Should not be red, I say; And why the slithy Bandersnatch Has not been round to-day.

He swore he’d call at two o’clock. And now its half-past four. “Stay,” said the Nyum Nyum’s love, “I think I hear him at the door.”

In twenty minutes in there came A creature black as ink, Which put its feet upon a chair And called for beer to drink.

They gave him porter in a tub, But, “Give me more!” he cried; And then he drew a heavy sigh, And laid him down, and died.

He died, and in the Nyum Nyum’s cave A cry of mourning rose; The Nyum Nyum sobbed a gentle sob, And slily blew his nose.

The Nyum Nyum’s love, we need not state, Was overwhelmed, and sad: She said, “Oh, take the corpse away, Or you will drive me mad!”

The Nyum Nyum in his supple arms Took up the gruesome weight, And, with a cry of bitter fear, He threw it at his mate.

And then he wept, and tore his hair, And threw it in the sea, And loudly sobbed with streaming eyes That such a thing could be.

The ox, that mumbled in his stall, Perspired and gently sighed, And then, in sympathy, it fell Upon its back and died.

The hen that sat upon her eggs, With high ambition fired, Arose in simple majesty, And, with a cluck, expired.

The jubejube bird, that carolled there, Sat down upon a post, And, with a reverential caw, Gave up its little ghost.

And ere its kind and loving life Eternally had ceased, The donkey, in the ancient barn, In agony deceased.

The raven, perched upon the elm. Gave forth a scraping note, And ere the sound had died away, Had cut its tuneful throat.

The Nyum Nyum’s love, was sorrowful; And, after she had cried, She, with a brand-new carving knife, Committed suicide.

“Alas!” the Nyum Nyum said, “alas! With thee I will not part;” And straightway seized a rolling-pin And drove it through his heart.

The mourners came and gathered up The bits that lay about; But why the massacre had been, They could not quite make out.

One said there was a mystery Connected with the deaths; But others thought the silent ones Perhaps had lost their breaths.

The doctor soon arrived, and viewed The corpses as they lay: He could not give them life again; So he was heard to say.

But, oh! It was a horrid sight It made the blood run cold, To see the bodies carried off And covered up with mould.

The Toves across the briny sea Wept buckets-full of tears; They were relations of the dead, And had been friends for years.

The Jabberwock upon the hill Gave forth a gloomy wail, When in his airy seat he sat, And told the awful tale.

And who can wonder that it made That loving creature cry? For he had done the dreadful work, And caused the things to die.

That Jabberwock was passing bad―― That Jabberwock was wrong. And with this verdict, I conclude One portion of my song.

I contend that there is a great deal of natural beauty in the poem of which this extract forms part. Some people say there isn’t a scrap. A man, I am aware, mixed up something of the sort in a book called “Alice through the Looking Glass.”

JABBERWOCKY.

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogroves, And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand Long time the manxome foe he sought―― So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, ame whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came.

One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back.

And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogroves, And the mome raths outgrabe.

LEWIS CARROLL (Through the Looking Glass).

WAGGAWOCKY. (On the Tichborne Trial)

“Merely interpolating the note that the word ‘wabe’ is explained by the Poet to mean ‘a grassplot round a sundial,’ but that it also means a Court of Justice, being derived from the Saxon waube, a wig-shop, we proceed to dress the prophetic ode in plain English:――

’Twas May time, and the lawyer coves Did jibe and jabber in the wabe, All menaced were the Tichborne groves, And their true lord, the Babe.

“Beware the Waggawock, my son, The eyelid twitch, the knees’ incline, Beware the Baigent network, spun For gallant Ballantine.”

He took his ton-weight brief in hand, Long time the hidden clue he sought, Then rested he by the Hawkins tree, And sat awhile in thought.

And as in toughish thought he rocks, The Waggawock, sans truth or shame Came lumbering to the witness box, And perjured out his Claim.

“Untrue! untrue!” Then, through and through The weary weeks he worked the rack; But March had youth, ere with the Truth He dealt the final whack.

“And hast thou slain the Waggawock Come to my arms, my Beamish Boy! O Coleridge, J.! Hoorah! hooray!” Punch chortled in his joy.

SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1872.

In Truth, October 4, 1883, twenty-one imitations of the Jabberwocky were printed. They are now rather heavy reading, and only the two following seem worth reprinting:――

THE CRUISE OF THE “P. C.” BY A. T.[9]

Across the swiffling waves they went, The gumly bark yoked to and fro; The jupple crew on pleasure bent, Galored, “This is a go!”

Beside the poo’s’l stood the Gom, He chirked and murgled in his glee; While near him, in a grue jipom, The Bard was quite at sea.

“Gollop! Golloy! Thou scrumjous Bard! Take pen (thy stylo) and endite A pome, my brain needs kurgling hard, And I will feast to-night.”

That wansome Bard he took his pen, A flirgly look arnund he guv; He squoffled once, he squirled, and then He wrote what’s writ above.

HERMON.

THE BURGLAR.

’Twas grilling hot, the bloky cove Had burgled through the shop, When Bobbles caughtled him, and shove Him into quod flip-flop.

He chore his hair right fistfully, He rowled his squinty eyne; He waggled, grovelling fitfully, His lithy form and lean.

Then Bobbles sweart agin him straight, So off they chustled him To horrid Zone for seasons eight, And chortled at his din.

So all ye pals, come gristle up Unto my doleful tale: Ne’er fake away, nor jumble sup, Though nix my Dolly fail.

ALMA.

Air.――“Will you walk into my parlour.”

“Can you move a little faster?” said a tall man to a stout, “I’ve an enemy behind me, and I want to keep him out. See how eagerly the flatterers all throng round the great man; Now he is looking for their votes, can’t you spoil his little plan? Can you, can’t you, can you, can’t you spoil his little plan? Can you, can’t you, can you spoil his little plan?

“You can really have no notion how delightful it would be, If you get into the House, you will have many a fee.” And the stout one said, “No! I’ve worked in vain, I’m beat, My opponent’s firmly settled, and I cannot take his seat. Will not, cannot, cannot, will not now take his seat. Will not, cannot, will not now take his seat.”

“What matters it? you are not beat!” his tall friend to him said, “There’s another man to take your place, you know, when you are dead. If you’ll leave Ireland alone, you’ll then get on like fun, So don’t give up, but go and sup, and we will pay your dun. Won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you soon cry. Will you, won’t you, will you soon cry, ‘I’ve won!’”

MISS SHAW.

Truth. 15 July, 1886.

Not only has Lewis Carroll given many themes to the parodists, but he has himself produced some amusing parodies, a short one on Dr. Watts, that on Southey’s, “You are old, Father William,” already quoted on page 156, Volume III. of Parodies, and “Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup” given on page 35, all appear in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

That this book should have been translated into German, French, and Italian, tells of its well deserved popularity:――

And, though the shadow of a sigh May tremble through the story, For happy summer days gone by, And vanish’d summer glory―― It shall not touch with breath of bale The pleasance of that fairy-tale.

MEET ME BY MOONLIGHT.

Meet me by moonlight alone, And then I will tell you a tale, Must be told by the moonlight alone, In the grove at the end of the vale. You must promise to come, for I said, I would show the night-flowers their queen; Nay, turn not away thy sweet head, ’Tis the loveliest ever was seen. Oh! meet me by moonlight alone.

Daylight may do for the gay, The thoughtless, the heartless, the free; But there’s something about the moon’s ray, That is sweeter to you and to me. Oh! remember, be sure to be there, For though dearly the moonlight I prize, I care not for all in the air, If I want the sweet light of your eyes. So meet me by moonlight alone.

J. A. WADE.

MEET ME, MISS MOLLY MALONE.

Meet me, Miss Molly Malone, At the grove at the end of the vale; But be sure that you don’t come alone, Bring a pot of your master’s strong ale, With a nice bit of beef and some bread, Some pickled, or cucumbers green, Or a nice little dainty pig’s head, ’Tis the loveliest tit-bit e’er seen. Then meet me, Miss Molly Malone.

Pastry may do for the gay, Old maids may find comfort in tea; But there’s something about ham and beef That agrees a deal better with me. Remember my cupboard is bare, Then come, if my dear life you prize, I’d have lived the last fortnight on air, But you sent me two nice mutton pies. Then meet me, Miss Molly Malone.

MEET ME THIS EVENING ALONE.

Meet me this evening alone, Friend Bite, and we’ll hatch up a tale; We’ll chat when the day’s work is done, O’er a pipe and a jug of good ale: A plate of cold meat and some bread, With salad or cucumbers green, And part of a sucking pig’s head ’Tis the loveliest of tit-bits e’er seen. Then meet me &c.

Pastry may do for the gay, The thoughtless, the young, and the free, But there’s something in cold beef, they say, More tempting to you and to me; Then remember, be sure to be there, If good eating and drinking you prize, You’ve liv’d the last fortnight on air, I can tell by those hollow-sunk eyes. Then meet me, &c.

From Wiseheart’s New Comic Songster. Dublin.

Many years ago (it was in February, 1844), Punch had a parody entitled “Meet me with Wimbush alone,” alluding to Wimbush’s omnibus, which then ran from Belgrave Square to the Bank. It was jocularly reported never to carry more than one passenger at a time. But the following parody, from the same source, is not only more modern, but also more likely to appeal to the present generation, than a satire on a long forgotten omnibus:――

RED HERRINGS.

Meet me at breakfast alone, And then I will give you a dish Which really deserves to be known, Though it’s not the genteelest of fish. You must promise to come, for I said A splendid red Herring I’d buy―― Nay, turn not away your proud head; You’ll like it, I know, when you try.

If moisture the Herring betray, Drain, till from moisture ’tis free; Warm it through in the usual way, Then serve it for you and for me. A piece of cold butter prepare, To rub it when ready it lies; Egg sauce and potatoes don’t spare, And the flavour will cause you surprise.

PARODIES OF “WHERE ARE YOU GOING TO, MY PRETTY MAID?”

Miss Emily Faithful’s paper was responsible for the following:――We saw a Christmas card the other day which had been sent to a young lady at a school of design. It represented a grotesque figure at a lecturer’s desk, and underneath were these lines:

“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?” “I’m going to lecture, sir,” she said. “And what is the subject, my pretty maid?” “Total extinction of man,” she said. “Then nobody’ll marry you, my pretty maid.” “Advanced women don’t marry, good sir,” she said.

March 1, 1879.

VENUS AND ADONIS.

“Men who suffer their wives’ photographs to be exhibited for sale in the shop-windows run the risk of being thought to get some profit by so doing, for they otherwise would hardly sanction such publicity.”

Where are you going to, my pretty maid? I’m going to be Photographed, Sir, she said.

May I go with you, my pretty maid? Yes, if you like it, she calmly said.

What is your fortune, my pretty maid? My face is my fortune, Sir, she said.

How do you live on’t, my pretty maid? By selling my photos, she promptly said.

Then may I marry you, my pretty maid? If you’ve a title, perhaps――she said.

Punch. June, 1878.

“WHERE ARE YOU GOING TO, MY PRETTY MAID.” (New Reading.)

With the pail for the milk hung over her arm, Across the green fields tripped Mary; The smiles on her face gave additional charm, And caused you to call her a fairy.

Now a spruce young clerk was out for a ride, And happened to come across Mary; Said he to himself, “I will make her my bride, And make her keep me with her dairy.”

But altho’ she was rustic, and simple as well, As proud as a queen was our Mary; Tho’ her bonny blue eyes of mischief could tell, The sequel will show she was wary.

“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?” Said this gay young spark from the neighb’ring town; “I am going a-milking, sir,” she said. A blush on her face, and her eyes cast down.

“May I be your escort, my pretty maid? Nay turn not away those cheeks rosy red; To carry your pail I’ll not be afraid, And if you’ll consent, I’m willing to wed.”

“What, sir, is your fortune?” cried the young maid, And around her lips a merry smile played. “My face is my fortune! my pretty maid.” “Then you’ve plenty of brass, kind sir,” she said.

TRUE.

Oh, where are you going, my pretty maid?” “I’m going a chestnutting, sir,” she said. And she spoke sober truth, in sooth, for lo! She had a ticket for the minstrel show.

Detroit Free Press. July 24, 1886.

(Chestnuts――Americanism for stale jokes.)

Where are you going to my pretty maid? “I’m going to publish, sir,” she said. Perhaps you’ve a fortune, my pretty maid? “My verse is my fortune, sir,” she said. Then you’d better not try it, my pretty maid, There’s an item for printing, and when it is paid, There’s “commission on sales,” oh, innocent maid! In your rural retreat have you heard of THE TRADE? Oh, where are you going to, my pretty maid?

ERNEST RADFORD.

AN IDYLLIC DUET.

(A New Version, as Sung under the Gallery with the Greatest Success by the Sergeant-at-Arms, and the Junior Member for Northampton, Mr. Charles Bradlaugh.)

“Where are you going to, my stubborn head? Where are you going to, my stubborn head?” “I’m going a-swearing, GOSSET,” he said; “I’m going a-swearing, GOSSET,” he said.

“Then I must come after you, my stubborn head; Then I must come after you, my stubborn head,” “You may come if you like, old GOSSET,” he said; “You may come if you like, old GOSSET,” he said.

“Now you’re tempting your fortune, my stubborn head, Now you’re tempting your fortune, my stubborn head.” “Why,――my Oath is my fortune, GOSSET,” he said; “Why,――my Oath is my fortune, GOSSET,” he said.

“Then, I don’t think much of you, my stubborn head, Then, I don’t think much of you, my stubborn head.” “Nobody axed you to, GOSSET,” he said; “Nobody axed you to, GOSSET,” he said.

(Dance up the middle, touch shoulder, and down again.)

Punch, May 21, 1881.

“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?” “I’m going to Spelling Bee, sir,” she said, “Where is your lexicon, my pretty maid?” “I do not want one, sir,” she said. “What can you spell, pray, my pretty maid?” “I can spell prize, kind sir,” she said. “Let’s hear you spell it, my pretty maid!” “P-r-e-y-e-s, prize,” she said. “I wouldn’t give much for your ‘preyes,’ pretty maid!” “’Cause you ain’t got it to give, sir,” she said.

[Exeunt ambo.

“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?” “I’m going to a lecture, sir,” she said. “May I come with you, my pretty maid?” “You won’t understand it, sir,” she said.

“What is the subject, my pretty maid?” “The final extinction of man,” she said, “Then you won’t marry, my pretty maid?” “Superior girls never marry,” she said.

Modern Society. September 12, 1885.

“WHIZZ,” the Christmas number of The Bicycling Times, 1880, has a long parody, entitled “A Bicyclist’s Song,” after My Rattling Mare and I; also a parody on “My Pretty Maid,” entitled The Wheelman and the Maid, which concludes thus:――

“Shall I have any croppers?” asked my pretty maid, “Shall I have any croppers?” asked my pretty maid, “You’ll often go over, sweet girl, I said, sweet girl I said,” &c.

“Then I cannot ride it,” said my pretty maid, “Then I cannot ride it,” said my pretty maid, “Then I’ll wish you good morning, sweet girl, I said, sweet girl I said,” &c.

And still another, commencing:――

“Will you come and see my Humber?” said the rider on the tri, ’Tis the scorchingest of trycycles that ever you did spy; You’ve only got to pop your leg the easy saddle o’er, And you’ll go along at such a pace as ne’er was seen before; Will you, will you, will you, will you come and see my tri?

There is also a prose imitation of Captain Mayne Reid, entitled, On the Prairie, by Jak Strauz Karsel.

I’VE BEEN ROAMING.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming, Where the meadow dew is sweet, And I’m coming, and I’m coming, With its pearls upon my feet. I’ve been roaming, &c.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming, O’er the rose and lily fair, And I’m coming, and I’m coming, With their blossoms in my hair. I’ve been roaming, &c.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming, Where the honey-suckle sips, And I’m coming, and I’m coming, With its kisses on my lips. I’ve been roaming, &c.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming Over hill and over plain, And I’m coming, and I’m coming, To my bower back again. I’ve been roaming, &c.

ANONYMOUS. 1832.

I’VE BEEN SHOPPING.

I’ve been shopping――I’ve been shopping To John Brown’s in Regent Street, And I’m hopping――and I’m hopping With his shoes upon my feet.

I’ve been roaming――I’ve been roaming, For rose oil and lily rare, And I’m coming――and I’m coming With a bottle for my hair.

I’ve been roaming――I’ve been roaming To the pastrycook’s, old Phipps, And I’m coming――and I’m coming With some kisses for my lips.

I’ve been roaming――I’ve been roaming Up Bond Street and down Park Lane And I’m coming――and I’m coming To my own house back again.

THE WANDERING JEW.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming, Vid a merry, merry strain, And I’m coming, and I’m coming, Home to Rosemary Lane.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming, Through ev’ry street and square, And I’m coming, and I’m coming Vith the pargains I got there.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming, I have upon my life, And I’m coming, and I’m coming, To my children and my vife.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming For to pargain I’ve the knack, And I’m coming, and I’m coming, Vith my pag upon my pack.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming, Quite hungry full of vo, But I’m a coming, I’m a coming, To eat fish and buckle yow.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming, Vere the people call out “Pork,” But I am coming, I am coming, To be rested from my vork.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming But our shaboth it is nigh, So I’m coming, so I’m coming, To vish you all good-bye.

Universal Songster, Vol. 3.

I’VE BEEN EATING.

I’ve been eating, I’ve been eating, In the north and in the south And I’m coming, and I’m coming, With the crumbs about my mouth.

I’ve been stuffing, I’ve been stuffing Plates of beef, of pork and veal; And my corporation’s puffing, With an out-and-out good meal.

I’ve been drinking, I’ve been drinking, Heavy wet and Hodges’ gin, And I’m going, and I’m going, To my attic back again.

I’ve been eating, I’ve been eating, In the north and in the south; From the shops I’m now retreating, With the crumbs about my mouth!

SONG BY A SHIFTY POLITICIAN. (Not dedicated to Mr. Robert Lowe.)

I’ve been turning――I’ve been turning, Tory, Radical, and Whig, And I’m earning, and I’m earning, Something handsome by the rig.

I’ve been turning,――I’ve been turning, Over politic’s wide range, But I’m earning, yes I’m earning, Money by each little change.

I’ve been turning,――I’ve been turning, Till I have been made a Peer, And I’m earning, oh, I’m earning, Several thousand pounds a year.

I’ve been turning,――I’ve been turning, Almost every way ’tis plain, And I’m yearning, yes I’m yearning To be Chancellor again.

Almost every way, ’tis plain, To be Chancellor again; And I’m yearning, and I’m yearning, To be Chancellor again.

AFLOAT.

In the steamer, O my darling! when the foghorns scream and blow, And the footsteps of the steward softly come and softly go. When the passengers are groaning with a deep and sincere woe, Will you think of me and love me, as you did not long ago?

In the cabin, O my darling! think not bitterly of me, Though I rushed away and left you in the middle of our tea: I was seized with a sudden longing to gaze upon the damp, deep sea―― It was best to leave you then, dear; best for you and best for me.

Liverpool Weekly Post. January 1, 1887.

SOME DAY (To an Extortionate Tailor.)

I know not when your bill I’ll see, I know not when that bill fell due What interest you will charge to me, Or will you take my I.O.U.? It may not be till years have passed, Till chubby children’s locks are grey; The tailor trusts us, but at last His reckoning we must meet some day Some day――some day――some day I must meet it, Snip, I know not when or how, Snip, I know not when or how; Only this――only this――this that once you did me―― Only this――I’ll do you now――I’ll do you now―― I’ll do you now.

I know not are you far or near―― Are you at rest? or cutting still? I know not who is held so dear! Or who’s to pay your “little bill!” But when it comes, some day――some day―― These eyes an awful tote may see; And don’t you wish, my tailor gay, That you may get your £ s. d.? Some day――some day――some day I must meet it, Snip, I know not when or how, Snip, I know not when or how, Only this――only this――this that once you did me―― Only this――I’ll do you now――I’ll do you now―― I’ll do you now!

From Sketches in Prose and Verse, by F. B. Doveton, author of Snatches of Song. London: Sampson Low & Co., Fleet Street. 1886. (This amusing volume also contains a number of Parodies on the poems of Moore, Alfred Tennyson, Campbell, Hood, Byron, Coleridge, Southey, Poe, and Swinburne.)

MY MOTHER BIDS ME FIND AN HEIR.

My mother bids me find an heir And give up Cousin Hugh, Who came so often to the square, Poor cornet――Horse Guards Blue. “For why,” she cries, “a younger son, While plainer girls win peers, Alas! another season’s done, And still you’re all Miss Veres.”

The Post announces he has gone To shoot and stalk the deer; I canter through the lanes alone, And wish it was next year: And as I draw the amber thread, His slippers to adorn, No novel that I ever read, Had heroine so forlorn.

Punch September 22, 1866.

SONG.

My mother bids me spend my smiles, On all who come and call me fair, As crumbs are thrown upon the tiles To all the sparrows of the air.

But I’ve a darling of my own For whom I hoard my little stock,―― What if I chirp him all alone And leave mamma to feed the flock?

THOMAS HOOD.

O! ’TIS LOVE! ’TIS LOVE!

O! ’Tis love! ’tis love! ’tis love! From woman’s bright eye glancing, O! ’tis love! ’tis love! ’tis love! Every heart entrancing. What claims the monarch’s duty? What soothes the peasant’s pain? What melts the haughty beauty, And conquers her disdain? O! ’tis love, &c.

O! ’tis love! ’tis love! ’tis love! The warrior doth inspire. O! ’tis love! ’tis love! ’tis love! That kindles soft desire. On rocks or lonely mountains, In palaces or vales, In gay saloons near fountains, ’Tis love alone prevails. O! ’tis love! &c.

OH ’TIS BEEF!

Oh, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef, (’Pon my soul I’m not joking), Oh, ’tis Beef, Affords relief, When hunger’s most provoking.

Though many may doat upon mutton, And some prefer veal or lamb, Upon Beef I could feed like a glutton, Nor sigh for poultry and ham; Flank, brisket, or the sir-loin, I never could let alone, But nice tit-bits would I purloin From buttock, round, or edgebone. Oh, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef, (’Pon my soul I’m not joking). Oh,’tis Beef, Affords relief, When hunger’s most provoking.

Though Mrs. Glass I daily look in, (No reflection on that cook, the chief), Of all dishes her famous book in, There’s none can compare with Beef. How sweet when after my toiling, And cutting joints up, down, across, To behold on the gridiron broiling, A rump-steak for my oyster sauce, Oh, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef, (’Pon my soul I’m not joking), Oh, ’tis Beef, Affords relief, When hunger’s most provoking.

D. A. O’MEARA.

OH! ’TIS LOVE!

Oh! ’tis love, ’tis love, ’tis love, That makes the world go round; Ev’ry day, beneath his sway, Fools, old and young, abound; Love often turns young ladies’ brains, At which mamma will scold, So, in revenge, Love thinks it fair To shoot sometimes the old; With love some folks go mad, ’Tis love makes some quite thin, Some find themselves so bad, The sea they must jump in. Oh! ’tis love, &c.

The Universal Songster.

OH! THIS LOVE! THIS LOVE! TO ME’S A FUNNY THING.

Oh! this love! this love! this love To me’s a funny thing, It smites the heart of every cove, From beggar up to king. It never is found absent, From the breast of any one, But, like a cruel stab sent, One touch and you’re undone! The cure, too, is so hard That very few will try, Then, girls, be on your guard When love approaches nigh. For this love! this love, &c.

Oh! this love! this love! this love! It takes away one’s rest, So, after all, as I can prove, A single life is best, As, when once you’re married, You’ll find out to your cost, You’ll wish you’d longer tarried, Before your heart you’d lost, For then, too late, repentance Comes into your head, And, after Hymen’s sentence, A precious life is led, For this love! this love &c.

I KNOW A “HIGH.” (Parody on John Oxenford’s song, “I Know an Eye.”)

I know a “High” so fair and bright, When glistening ’neath the moon’s pale light, Whence men, with many a glance behind, To dodge the lurking Dons unkind, Rush to the “Star,”[10] where, pure and clear, They quaff their mild and sparkling beer. Belovèd “High,” beloved “Star,” Dear to my heart your memories are.

That “High,” where once, when violent blew The gale of war the whole night through, I fought the town with joyous glee, Though pain with joy possessed me; For whirled and kicked, ’mid scream and yell, With two black orbs at last I fell. Belovèd “High,” beloved “Star,” Dear to my heart your triumphs are.

And when at last that radiant “High” shall be Untrod, for e’er untrod by me; When absence throws her dim pale light O’er distant scenes of past delight; That “High,” that “Star” shall ever shine In Memory’s eye, with power divine; Belovèd “High,” beloved “Star,” Dear to my heart your glories are.

C. E. W. B. Worcester College, Oxford. From College Rhymes. 1866.

ANOTHER MESSAGE.

I’d another message to send her, To her whom my heart knows best, But a twinge of gout came o’er me, And I was compelled to rest. And she was above――and dressing―― A duty to her most dear: It was useless to shout to my darling, For I knew she would never hear.

I’d another message to send her, To hungry folks most sweet, It was that the dinner was ready, And the fire was spoiling the meat. I tied it this summer’s evening To her lapdog’s bushy breast, But the canine rascal tore it, And ate it with wondrous zest.

I gave it to baby next moment, And saw him climb and climb, But his little legs grew weary, And he fell in a little time. Then I yelled, in my hungry longing, Has an invalid no friend, Who will carry a wife a message Her ravenous spouse would send?

Then I smelt a scent of cooking, So savory and so sweet, That my very heart stood silent, And my pulse refused to beat. It rose in enticing rushing From meats and soups and things, So I laid my anxious message On its appetising wings.

Then I saw the steam rise higher, In smell more telling than speech, And I knew it would find her chamber, I knew her dear nose ’twould reach. Yes, I knew she would get my message, And I should not have to wait, So my soul grew calm and peaceful Though dinner, alas! was late.

From The Corkscrew Papers, London: W. H. Guest, Paternoster Row, 1876.

WAPPING OLD STAIRS.

Your Molly has never been false, she declares, Since the last time we parted at Wapping Old Stairs; When I swore that I still would continue the same, And gave you the ’bacco-box mark’d with my name. When I pass’d a whole fortnight between decks with you, Did I e’er give a kiss, Tom, to one of your crew? To be useful and kind to my Thomas I stay’d, For his trowsers I wash’d, and his grog, too, I made.

Tho’ you promis’d last Sunday to walk in the mall, With Susan from Deptford, and likewise with Sall, In silence I stood your unkindness to hear, And only upbraided my Tom with a tear. Why should Sall or should Susan than me be more prized? For the heart that is true, Tom, should ne’er be despis’d; Then be constant and kind, nor your Molly forsake, Still your trowsers I’ll wash, and your grog too, I’ll make.

THE KNIGHTLY GUERDON.

Untrue to my Ulric I never could be, I vow by the saints and the blessed Marie, Since the desolate hour when we stood by the shore, And your dark galley waited to carry you o’er: My faith then I plighted, my love I confess’d, As I gave you the BATTLE-AXE marked with your crest!

When the bold barons met in my father’s old hall, Was not Edith the flower of the banquet and ball? In the festival hour, on the lips of your bride, Was there ever a smile save with THEE at my side? Alone in my turret I loved to sit best, To blazon your BANNER and ’broider your crest.

The knights were assembled, the tourney was gay! Sir Ulric rode first in the warrior-mélée. In the dire battle hour, when the tourney was done, And you gave to another the wreath you had won! Though I never reproached thee, cold, cold was my breast, As I thought of that BATTLE-AXE, ah! and that crest!

But away with remembrance, no more will I pine, That others usurped for a time what was mine! There’s a FESTIVAL HOUR for my Ulric and me: Once more, as of old, shall he bend at my knee; Once more by the side of the knight I love best, Shall I blazon his BANNER and ’broider his crest.

W. M. THACKERAY. ――――

OCEAN MELODIES. (Refined from the original SEA SONGS, for the use of the Yacht Clubs.)

(The Wife wishes to go upon the Continent.)

Adelina has flirted――not once, she declares, Since you placed on her finger the ring that she wears; Since at gloomy St. George’s your bride she became, And you gave her an Opera-box marked with her name.

When I sailed in that yacht a whole fortnight with you, Did I say I was bored (if I did it was true), With my Alfred for hours at ecarté I played, And his meerschaum I lit, and his coffee I made.

When, the night we’d a box at St. Jullien’s last bal, And――goodness knows why――you deserted the salle, I gave you a smile when you chose to appear, Nor asked whom you knew on that horrid top tier.

Why won’t you, dear Al, by mamma be advised? A wife who don’t pout, Al, deserves to be prized―― So to Constance and Rome Adelina you’ll take, Or a nice piece of work that young person will make.

Punch. September 17, 1853.

THE ALMACK’S ADIEU.

Your Fanny was never false-hearted And this she protests and she vows, From the triste moment when we parted On the staircase of Devonshire House! I blushed when you asked me to marry, I vowed I would never forget; And at parting I gave my dear Harry A beautiful vinegarette!

We spent en province all December, And I ne’er condescended to look At Sir Charles, or the rich county member, Or even at that darling old Duke. You were busy with dogs and with horses, Alone in my chamber I sat, And made you the nicest of purses, And the smartest black satin cravat!

At night with that vile Lady Frances (Je faisais moi tapisserie), You danced every one of the dances And never once thought of poor me! Mon pauvre petit cœur! what a shiver I felt as she danced the last set, And you gave, oh, mon Dieu! to revive her, My beautiful vinegarette.

Return, love! away with coquetting; This flirting disgraces a man! And ah! all the while you’re forgetting The heart of your poor little Fan! Reviens! break away from those Circes, Reviens, for a nice little chat; And I’ve made you the sweetest of purses, And a lovely black satin cravat!

W. M. THACKERAY.

ADVICE TO OLD WOMEN. (Of both sexes.)

Your money will never be safe, Punch declares, While you keep with it parting for rotten Bank shares: It more safe in old stockings or teapots had lain, Or in some carpet-bag or box marked with your name. Not a bubble now bursts, not a Bank falls to ground, But shows how directors keep robbing around; How the company’s funds to their own use they take, Then suspend their cash payments, and scarce themselves make.

Punch. March 21, 1857.

TOM BOWLING.

Here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew; No more he’ll hear the tempest howling, For death has broach’d him to. His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was kind and soft; Faithful below he did his duty, But now he’s gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare; His friends were many, and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair: And then he’d sing so blithe and jolly, Ah! many’s the time and oft; But mirth is turned to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When he who all commands, Shall give (to call life’s crew together) The word to pipe all hands, Thus death, who kings and tars despatches, In vain Tom’s life has doff’d; For tho’ his body’s under hatches His soul is gone aloft.

CHARLES DIBDIN. ――――

A CAROL FOR CRICKETERS.

Here a sheer hulk from fierce round bowling, We mourn a batsman true; No more he’ll send the ball a-rolling; He’s battered black and blue. Long at the stumps he did his duty, And puzzled many a scout, For though swift balls might spoil his beauty, They rarely put him out.

Ne’er from the wicket he departed Without a decent score; And seldom were his timbers started Until his legs were sore. At pads and gloves, as things new-fangled, With pleasant scorn he’d laugh; But now so grievously he’s mangled, No more we’ll fear his chaff.

Punch. September 22, 1855.

AN ELEGY OF THE ADMIRALTY.

Here, on the floor stands famed TOM BRASSEY, The darling of his friends, He built the Arethusa saucy, But did not plate her ends!

For Tom was faithful to his Party, (His virtues were so rare!) So economical and hearty, He seemed upon the square!

His ships we took for things of beauty (Though REED, and others, scoffed), And doubtless they would do their duty, But ah! their ends are soft!

Yet still, comparatively little They cost, as REED admits; Unlucky that they are so brittle, They’ll get blown into bits!

And when the shot the foe dispatches Has raked them, oft and oft, The sea will pour beneath their hatches, Because――their ends are soft.

LORD TOM NODDY.

But, a sheer wreck, sits Lord Tom Noddy, The last made of our Peers, Who joins our legislative body Amidst a nation’s jeers. As M.P. he could not do duty, His brain had grown too soft; So――mark our Constitution’s beauty―― He’s now been sent aloft!――aloft! He’s now-ow been――ah sen-n-n-n-t a-a-loft!

Lord Tom for nothing good was noted, Of virtues he had none; But with his side he always voted, And was his father’s son. So, as upon his last appearance He publicly was scoff’d, The Premier, to effect a clearance, Has sent Lord Tom aloft!――aloft! Has sen-n-n-nt Lord Tom-o-om ma-aloft!

There is another parody on Tom Bowling, by L. M. Thornton, entitled Drunken Sally, but it is too vulgar to be inserted. It may occasionally be seen amongst the penny ballads on street walls.

THE JOLLY YOUNG WATERMAN.

And did you ne’er hear of a jolly young waterman, Who at Blackfriars Bridge used for to ply, And he feather’d his oars with such skill and dexterity, Winning each heart and delighting each eye. He look’d so neat, and he row’d so steadily, The maidens all flock’d in his boat so readily, And he eyed the young rogues with so charming an air, That this waterman ne’er was in want of a fare.

What sights of fine folks he oft rowed in his wherry; ’Twas clean’d out so nice, and so painted withal; He was always first oars when the fine city ladies In a party to Ranelagh went, or Vauxhall; And oftentimes would they be gigling and leering; But ’twas all one to Tom their gibing and jeering; For loving or liking he little did care, For this waterman ne’er was in want of a fare.

And yet, but to see how strange things happen, As he row’d along, thinking of nothing at all, He was ply’d by a damsel so lovely and charming, That she smil’d, and so straight-way in love he did fall. And would this young damsel but banish his sorrow He’d wed her to-night――before to-morrow, And how should this waterman ever know care When he’s married, and never in want of a fare.

CHARLES DIBDIN.

THE JOLLY YOUNG BARRISTER.

And did you not hear of a jolly young Barrister, At the Old Bailey who used for to ply? He made out his case with such skill and dexterity, Twisting each fact, while he glozed o’er each lie. He stuck at nothing; and that so steadily, The felons all sought his aid so readily, And he saved from conviction so many a thief, That this barrister ne’er was in want of a brief.

What sights of fine rogues he got off by his blarney; His tongue was so glib, and so specious withal: He was always retained by the great City forgers To Newgate from Mansion House sent, or Guildhall. And often the Press would be gibing and jeering, But ’twas all one to him, its carping and sneering; He’d swear black was white on behalf of a thief, So this barrister ne’er was in want of a brief.

And yet, only think what strange morals have lawyers The Bar of such conduct think nothing at all; Whilst should any poor counsel report for a paper, “To Coventry with him!” that instant they call; From their mess they’ll expel him, he’ll find, to his sorrow; But they’ll dine with the housebreaker’s hireling to-morrow. Then hurrah!――though his client be swindler or thief,―― For the barrister never in want of a brief.

The late Albert Smith wrote a piece entitled “Novelty Fair, or hints for 1851,” which was produced at the Lyceum Theatre, on May 21, 1850. In this, Father Thames enters with a goblet of dirty water in his hand, and exclaims:――

“Oh, did you e’er hear of such jolly bad water, man, As at Blackfriars Bridge comes out of I? No wonder they talk of my stream with severity, Sickening each nose, and disgusting each eye!”

THE JOLLY OLD WATERMAN.

And did you ne’er hear of a jolly old Waterman Who at the cabstand used for to ply? He feathered his nest with the passengers’ halfpennies, Smoking his pipe, with a drop in each eye, He looked so drunk――yet stood so steadily, The drivers all flocked to his stand so readily; And he eyed the old rogues with so knowing an air, For this Waterman knew they would cheat every fare.

What sights of gents drunk and incapable, very, He’d clean out so nice, and politely withal, As he called the first cab, when the finely-dressed victims Came staggering out from Cremorne or Vauxhall. And oftentimes would they be quizzing and queering, And ’twas all one to Tom, all this chaffing and jeering: For laughing or chaffing he little did care, For this Waterman wished but to rifle the fare.

And yet but to see how strangely things happen, As he jogged along, thinking of nothing at all, He was caught by a Cab Act so awfully stringent, That it caused all the tricks of the cab-stand to fall. But would this old Waterman feel proper sorrow, For all his old tricks, and turn honest to-morrow; And should this old Waterman act with more care, He’ll be licensed, and never impose on a fare.

Punch. July 30, 1853.

THE HANDSOME YOUNG CLERGYMAN.

Oh! did you not hear of a handsome young clergyman, Who in his pulpit was wont for to cry? He handled his text with such seeming sincerity, Melting each heart and suffusing each eye. He sighed so hard and groaned so steadily, The ladies all flocked to his church so readily; And he turned up his eye with so saintly an air, That this clergyman greatly was liked by the fair.

His features were fine, and his views Sabbatarian, So by both young and old he was made a great pet; What teapots and slippers this predestinarian, Young disciple of CALVIN did constantly get! He had won such credit and fame for piety, That he had the run of the best society; And a girl with lots of tin did pair With this parson esteemed such a duck by the fair.

Punch. May 31, 1856.

THE JOLLY YOUNG TRILOBITE.

Oh, did you ne’er hear of a jolly young trilobite, That lived in Siluria once on a time, And some years ago turned to stone in a terrible fright, And forgot all about the deeds done in his prime; But harden’d and horny his tail no more wags, For he now lies entombed in the Lingula flags.

Some doubt as to what was the cause of his fright, Some say that the sea where he lived got too hot, Some say too cold, and some vanished quite, But one thing is certain, whatever is not, That harden’d and stony, his tail no more wags For he now lies entombed in the Lingula flags.

The jolly young fellow has had his day out, And doubtless once relished like others a spree, Made love to the Lingulas roaming about, Was lively and affable, funny and free, But hardened and slaty his tail no more wags, For he now lies entombed in the Lingula flags.

This parody refers to some rare specimens of trilobites contained in Dr. Grindrod’s Museum at Malvern.

From Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch. By J. B. Oddfish. London: Simpkin, Marshall & Co., 1865.

THE LUCKLESS YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

And did you not hear of that luckless “Young Gentleman,” Who at St. Stephen’s but lately did ply His pencil and paper with skill and dexterity? (Till his sly toil caught the SULLIVAN’S eye.) He looked so calm, and he worked so steadily, His Pitman’s Phonetics he marshalled so readily, And he eyed the debate with such business-like air, You’d have sworn his proceedings were all square and fair.

What sights of long speeches he heard in his gallery, So frothy, so fierce, and so foolish withal! How his ears must have ached when the Home-Rule Circassians Gave the rein to their penchant for shindy and squall; And oft times would they be snapping and sneering, But ’twas all one to him their jibing and jeering; Not a figs-end for party or brogue did he care, His task was reporting them all square and fair.

And yet but to see now how strangely things happen! As he scribbled on, thinking of nothing at all, He was spotted by SULLIVAN, POWER, and CALLAN, Who “protisted,” and straightway began such a brawl! “Obnoxious and unprecedented Reporther!” The Shindyites yelled, and a world of hot wather Was caused by that luckless “Young Gentleman” there, MR. SPEAKER’S note-taker so square and so fair!

Punch. July 26, 1879

THE JOLLY OLD WOODCUTTER.

Oh! did you ne’er hear of a jolly old woodcutter, Who at Hawarden Castle used for to stop; He handled his axe with such skill and dexterity, Treating his friends to a generous “chop.” He looked so grand, and chopped so steadily, That toadies all flocked to admire so readily; And he eyed the old geese with an ogle so sweet, That this woodcutter ne’er was in want of a seat.

What sights of soft folks he cajol’d with his speeches, All polished so fair, and so “painted” withal; His partisans stuck to his side like leeches, And the G.O.M. lorded it over them all. Oft times were his enemies gibing and jeering, But ’twas all one to Bill, their groaning or cheering; For praise or for blame he but little did care, So long as he filled the Prime Minister’s chair.

And yet, but to see how strangely things happen! As he chopped away, bowing and smiling as well, He was ply’d by an Irishman, caught by his blarney, One known by the name of Charles Stewart Parnell. And would this Parnell but keep him in power, He’d banish the clouds that o’er Erin did lower, Defying old Salisbury, and “Randy” so glib, E’en though it would cost him full many a fib.

Truth. July 15. 1886.

THE JOLLY YOUNG RIFLEMAN. (A Roundelay for Ranelagh.)

Did you ever hear tell of a jolly young Rifleman, Who as Adonis his charms used to try? He curled his side-locks with such skill and dexterity, Winning each heart and enchanting each eye. He stood so straight, he marched so steadily, The Volunteers came at his call so readily, And he pranced at their head with so princely an air, That he had the good word of the Brave and the Fair.

This Rifleman young never seemed to grow older, So trim was his mien, and so chirpy withal; He was always A 1 to each beauteous beholder, And youths mustered proudly at RANELAGH’S[11] call And though some folk might be chaffing or jeering, ’Twas all one to him their flouting and fleering, For how should our Rifleman ever know care, While he wins the good word of the Brave and the Fair?

Punch. March 24, 1883.

TOO JOLLY BY HALF.

Did you ever hear tell of the jolly young waterman, Writ of by Dibdin and sung of by Reeves? He has gone up aloft, but his grandson surviving him, Though jollier still, no such homage receives.

Said this jolly young sprig from a jolly old waterman, “Dear Mr. Bull, I can steer in a style Such as no foreigner ever could rival yet; Do let me manage your boats on the Nile.

“I can shoot all the rapids and likewise your enemies, Oh! how for nautical glory I pant! Shall I be suffered to win it right jollily?” Quoth dear Mr. Bull, “You’re too jolly. You shant!”

Judy. September 10, 1884.

(Canadian boatmen were employed in the Soudan Expedition.)

THE HIGH-METTLED RACER.

See, the course throng’d with gazers, the sports are begun, What confusion, but hear!――“I’ll bet you, Sir!”――“Done, done!” A thousand strange murmurs resound far and near, Lords, hawkers, and jockeys, assail the tired ear; While, with neck like a rainbow, erecting his crest, Pamper’d, prancing, and pleased, his head touching his breast, Scarcely snuffing the air, he’s so proud and elate, The high-mettled racer first starts for the plate.

Next Reynard’s turn’d out, and o’er hedge and ditch rush Hounds, horses, and huntsmen, all hard at his brush; They run him at length, and they have him at bay, And by scent or by view, cheat a long tedious day; While alike born for sports in the field or the course, Always sure to come through――a staunch and fleet horse; And when fairly run down, the fox yields up his breath, The high-mettled racer is in at the death.

Grown aged, used up, and turn’d out of the stud, Lame, spavin’d, and wind-gall’d, but yet with some blood; While knowing postilions his pedigree trace, Tell his dam won that sweepstakes, his sire won that race; And what matches he’d won too the ostlers count o’er, As they loiter their time by some hedge-alehouse door; Whilst the harness sore galls, and the spurs his sides goad, The high-mettled racer’s a hack on the road.

At length, old and feeble, trudging early and late, Bow’d down by diseases, he bends to his fate; Blind, old, lean, and feeble, he tugs round a mill, Or draws sand, till the sand of his hour-glass stands still; And now, cold and lifeless, exposed to the view In the very same cart which he yesterday drew; Whilst a pitying crowd his sad relics surrounds The high-mettled racer is sold to the hounds.

This, being a sporting song, would be quite out of place here, but that Dibdin followed it up, by writing an imitation of it, on a naval topic. This is one of the somewhat rare cases of an author composing a parody on one of his own poems:――

THE PRIDE OF THE OCEAN.

See the shore lined with gazers, the tide comes in fast, The confusion, but hear! bear a hand there, avast! The blocks and the wedges the mallets obey, And the shores and the stanchions are all cut away: While with head like a lion, built tight fore and aft, Broad amidships, lean bows, and taper abaft In contempt of all danger from quicksands and rocks, The pride of the ocean is launched from the stocks.

Now the signal is flying, and, fleet in her course, She chases a sail, far superior her force; And now the brisk broadside is merrily pour’d, And splinters, cut ropes, and masts go by the board; Next, yard-arm and yard-arm entangled they lie, The tars loudly swearing to conquer or die; ’Till hull’d and cut up, getting more than she likes, To the pride of the ocean the enemy strikes.

The prize is sent home, and, alert in a trice, They make gaskets and points, and they knot and they splice; While knowing Jack tars of their gallantry talk, Tell who served well Boscawen, and Anson, and Hawke; ’Till, all of a sudden, a calm, then a scud, A tempest brings on that the face of the flood, The thunder and lightning, and wind, so deform, The pride of the ocean scarce lives out the storm.

And now, having nobly defended the cause Of the nation, of freedom, religion, and laws, Her timbers all crazy, all open her seams, Torn and wounded her planks, and quite rotten her beams, To the last humbly fated her country to aid, Near the very same slip where her keel was first laid, No trace of her rate but her ports and her bulk, The pride of the ocean’s cut down a sheer hulk.

THE HIGH-METTLED POLITICIAN.

See, the house throng’d with members; debate is begun The confusion――“hear, hear,” cries of “spoke,” and “well done.” A hundred strange voices resound far and near, Whigs, Tories, and Radicals greet the tir’d ear, While with neck well cravatted, arranging his vest, Proud, pert, and a puppy with hand on his breast, Slightly turning his hair, with a dandyish grace, The young politician first starts for a place.

Now the premier’s turn’d out, to succeed him they rush, Whigs and Tories both making a desperate push. They plot and intrigue, and by craft every day, Expect into office to find a quick way; While alike born for liberal or aristocrat, Always sure to come over, a regular rat. When the premier’s blown out by a party’s foul breath, The young politician is in at the death.

Grown stale quite us’d up and turn’d out of the stud Of treasury protégés yet with some blood, While keen boroughmongers his pedigree trace, How he made this long speech, how he gained that good place, And what pensions he won his companions count o’er As they stand with lank purse at the treasury door; While disgrace sorely galls, with his remnant of nouse, The young politician’s a hack in the house.

Till at last in St. Stephen’s both early and late, To divide for his party he bends to his fate, Despis’d, poor and feeble he votes for each bill, Brought in by the minister’s paramount will, And now blank and silent an object of scorn, On the very same bench he was used to adorn, While his memory the treasury whipper-in jogs, The young politician is gone to the dogs.

Figaro in London. October 13, 1832.

THE HIGH-METTLED RAZOR.

Since of course we want razors when manhood’s begun, Lest profusion of beard should our faces o’errun, A thousand strange methods are found every year, And Mechi and Rodgers assail our young ear, When we next, like a vain beau, direct that our crest, Silver-mounted, should be on the handle impressed, Scarcely scraping a hair in our downy estate, The High-mettled Razor first ranks among plate.

The next ten years turn out, and we need not now blush To be caught when we’re soaping our beard with a brush, For we have one at length, and we need not say nay, Should any one ask if we shave every day. While alike born for scrapes in our life’s daily course, Always sure to come through with a cut, if not worse; When we’re barely shaved down just to what Fashion saith, The High-mettled Razor now bores us to death.

Grown rusty, used up, and turned dull as a spud, Notched, blunted, and always, when used, drawing blood; While, knowing its past deeds, its misdeeds we trace, Tell, “This notch cut my finger, and this cut my face;” And what dangers we’ve run, we could quickly count o’er, As we wasted our time, and our temper, and gore; When the shaving doth gall, and the steel our chins goad. The Dull-mettled Razor’s put out of the road.

At length they’ve improved it, before ’tis too late, And Mechi and Rodgers must bend to their fate; And barbers will soon have to work the tread-mill, If their razors are brought to a daily stand-still. For now, with its works nearly hid from our view, In the very same chair in which we must sit too, While a music-box plays like a musical elf, The High-mettled Razor doth shave us itself.”

CUTHBERT BEDE.

(This amusing parody, by the author of Verdant Green, originally appeared in Punch. It was afterwards included in Medley, a small shilling volume of light reading published by James Blackwood in 1856. The last verse referred to the invention by a joiner, at North Shields, of a machine which was to lather and shave a man whilst seated in an arm-chair.)

THE HIGH METTLED GUARDSMAN.

See the pier throng’d with gazers! The War is begun! The soldiers are coming――“Let’s see them!” “Run, run!” A thousand loud voices resound far and near, With the hearty “huzza” and the soul-stirring “cheer.” While with mien like a hero――erecting his crest, Proud and pleas’d――with true courage inflaming his breast, With the prospect of glory, his ardour increas’d, The High Mettled Guardsman embarks for the East.

From the ship now turned out his way he must push, Through mud and through marshes, through rain, cold, and slush. They leave him to struggle as well as he may From the shore to the camp after leaving the bay. Sustained by the pluck that he shows in the field, He is sure to come through, for he never will yield; And though nearly worn-out, weary, hungry, and wet, The High Mettled Guardsman has life in him yet.

Exposed to the cold, and turned out in the mud, Still ready to shed for his country his blood; While knowing officials――the precedents trace, Of what are the ancient traditions of place. What appointments were made――in what heads will reside The patronage Government has to divide. Thus the High Mettled Guardsman, ’tis easily seen, The victim becomes of official routine.

At length ill and weak, working early and late, Bowed down by disease to a pitiful state; Expos’d to the wet――a continual drench, He feebly turns over the mud in the trench. And now, cold and lifeless, he silently lies On the soil where he hoped to win victory’s prize: Whilst official routine on contentedly jogs, And the High Mettled Guardsman has gone to the dogs.

Punch. January, 1855.

A parody, entitled The Village-Born Beauty, appeared in “The Universal Songster,” vol. 1, p. 356, and was also printed as a halfpenny ballad, by Taylor, of Brick Lane, Bethnal Green. This song described the adventures of the Village-born Beauty, (who had strayed from the paths of virtue) in language somewhat too free to be admitted in this collection.

THE BOATSWAIN CALLS.

My name d’ye see’s Tom Tough, I’ve seen a little service, Where mighty billows roll and loud tempests blow; I’ve sail’d with gallant Howe, I’ve sailed with noble Jervis, And in valiant Duncan’s fleet I’ve sung out yo, heave ho! Yet more ye shall be knowing, I was coxon to Boscawen, And even with brave Hawke have I nobly faced the foe. Then put round the grog, So we’ve that and our prog, We’ll laugh in Care’s face, and sing yo heave ho!

And now at last laid up in a decentish condition, For I’ve only lost an eye and got a timber toe; But old ships must expect in time to be out of commission. Nor again the anchor weigh with yo, heave ho! So I smoke my pipe and sing old songs, My boys shall well revenge my wrongs, And my girls shall breed young sailors nobly for to face the foe; Then to country and king, Fate can no danger bring, While the tars of old England sing out yo, heave ho!

A WORD FROM TOM TOUGH.

Yes, my name, d’ye see’s Tom Tough, and I’ve seed a sight o’ service Where the waves have rolled like mountains and the howling winds have blown, And I’ve never shirked my dooty, and to feel what want of nerve is Is a thing――I says it proudly――as I’ve never, never known. No; I’ve tried with my lot to be always content, And never gone in for a railer, But I’ve taken the things as Dame Fortune has sent, Like a honest and brave British sailor!

And I’m not complainin’ now. No! I’d scorn the very notion. Though I fear as ’ow Shipowners isn’t quite the best o’ men; But you see I’m gettin’ older than when fust I sailed the ocean. And there’s reasons for my speakin’ which was not existin’ then. For now I’ve a wife and four little ones, too, More sober and cautious to make me; For it’s Heaven only knows what it is they could do, If disaster and death overtake me.

’Lor! I’ve been to sea in ships as I knowed was well-nigh rotten; I’ve a-sailed with big deck cargoes as was scandalus to see; And I’ve run so many risks that I’ve half o’ them forgotten, And I never once protested, no, nor grumbled, sir――not me! But, then, as I’ve said, there was only Tom Tough, And no one to bother about him; And if he comed to grief, why, ’twas certain enough That the world could get well on without him.

But the matter’s changed entirely since the bonniest o’ lasses, Swore she’d ever love me truly; for since then, where’er I roam, Why, my heart with fervent longing, that all other thoughts surpasses, Keeps a-turning ever constant towards my happy little home, For there sits my Polly a-waiting for me, Her heart, with the billows, time beating, Whilst each of our little ones bend at her knee―― A prayer for its father repeating.

Yes, it is for Polly’s sake, and the bairns, I’ve been attending, To all that they’ve been saying of Shipowners and their craft, And been brooding o’er those wrongs, sir, which the Board o’ Trade means mending, And at which, when I was reckless, why, I only took and laughed. So you, please, mustn’t think that Tom Tough is a shirk, Nor in anyways flustered or frighted, If he should ask you, whilst he sticks to his work, To try if those wrongs can’t be righted.

For you see I ain’t no spouter, and I’ve not the gift o’ patter, But all the same I knows full well that many things is wrong; And drownding is for me and mine so serious a matter, That if the case is put for us, it can’t be put too strong. So whilst I continues my duty to do, Until my last trip is completed, I hope that the Board will do its dooty, too, And see that Tom’s properly treated.

There’s such talk about insoorance and the likes, I’ve often wonder’d If there’s any human feeling in this great and Christian land, For all the while they’re chatt’ring, men is drownding by the hunderd, Through the acts o’ greedy owners, if I rightly understand. Aye, it’s this that is makin’ a coward of the best, And turning good hands into railers: It’s this that is crushing the pluck and the zest From the hearts o’ your brave British sailors.

So it ain’t for no great favour that Tom Tough just now is praying, He wants to have fair chances in the struggle, that is all; And if Englishmen loves justice, why there’ll be no more delaying In list’ning and attending to his very urgent call. Or, leastways, if they at my language still sneer, And pass my petition unheeding, I knows very well they won’t turn a deaf ear To my wife and my little ones’ pleading!

Truth. March 27, 1884.

A SAILOR’S PLEA FOR THE “YO, HEAVE HO!”

Yes, my name, d’ye know’s Tom Tough, and I’ve seed a sight o’ service, Where the waves roll mountains high, and the stormy winds do blow; But my heart’s as true as steel, and right taut my every nerve is, As when, in eighteen forty, I first sung out, “Yo, heave ho!” No, I’ve never yet been ailing, Since the time I went a-sailing; An’ though I’ve been around this world some twenty times or so; Aye, although I ain’t a stranger, To any kind o’ danger, Yet I’m ready still to meet ’em with a “Yo, heave ho!”

But although I’m able-bodied, and still fit to furl a “topsel,” Or to reef a “maintop-gallant” in a stiff nor’-eastern gale: Though I’m sober and quick-handed, yet just like a hulk I’m stranded, And I cannot get a skipper for to answer to my hail. So as no one me engages, Why, of course, my bit o’ wages I’d saved up for a rainy day is bound to quickly go; And my hopes, I own, is sinking, For I somehow can’t help thinking That I shan’t get the chance again to sing out “Yo, heave ho!”

Yes, the times is changed completely since I first sailed on the ocean, For then a British ship, you see, was worked by British tars, And every British skipper would have scoffed the very notion Of having lots of furriners to man the capstan bars. But now, I’ll take my davy, ’Cepting sometimes in the Navy, You will not find a British ship in which they do not stow Heaps o’ Danes, and Swedes, and Rooshians, Greeks, Malays, and Fins, and Prooshians, Who couldn’t, for to save their lives sing out a “Yo, heave ho!”

Why, the crews I used to ship with were all chaps with bone and muscle, And with lots o’ pluck and courage, and with hearts to England true; But what some calls “competition” has so changed the whole position, That now to serve for sailors any furrin’ scum will do. And if a crew you muster, P’rhaps of English there’s a cluster, But there’s Chinamen and Lascars, and there’s Coolies in a row, All a-chattering in their lingo, ’Till it’s precious hard, by jingo, To hear aboard a British ship the good old “Yo, heave ho!”

They say I shouldn’t grumble, seeing that which I complain of Is all owing, as they tell us, to, “a known commercial cause”; But it’s not much consolation to a chap what fears starvation To tell him that his suff’ring’s due to “economic laws,” With such things I cannot wrestle, But I know a British vessel Is very, very different to what ’twas years ago; Since its crew now as a rule is, Three parts furriners and Coolies With scarcely British tars enough to give a “Yo, heave ho!”

Now, of course, it may be cheaper, or, at leastways, for the present, To ship a lot o’ furrin’ trash, and sack my mates and me; But I’m thinking in the future it may turn out most unpleasant, And that what’s now the cheapest may the dearest come to be. Say, for instance, there was fighting, And the time came for uniting The Navy with the merchantmen to keep away the foe, Do ye think the Greeks and Prooshians, And the Chinamen and Rooshians, Would be eager for to help you with a “Yo, heave ho”?

Do ye think they’d care a button what became of our old country, Or raise their little fingers to help England rule the seas? No, they’d all be in a flurry just to bolt off, hurry-skurry, Would your Coolies and your Kroomen and your Arabs and Chinese; Whilst the tars on whose assistance May depend the land’s existence In the day of sore extremity, which it too soon may know, Will be found prepared no longer England’s Navy to make stronger, Or to volunteer for service, with a “Yo, heave ho!”

Aye, the new crews may be cheaper, but I’d ask you was it Lascars And John Chinamen and such like that first England’s Empire made? Was it furriner’s devotion sailed her ships o’er every ocean, And opened every corner of the world up to her trade? For the sake, then, of the story Of old England’s naval glory, You surely now some justice to our sailors ought to show, And let British brain and sinew Still on British ships continue, Nor let a furrin lingo drown the British “Yo, heave ho!”

Truth, April 15, 1886.

THE SAILOR’S JOURNAL.

’Twas post meridian, half-past four, By signal I from Nancy parted, At six she linger’d on the shore, With uplift hands and broken hearted. At seven, while taughtening the forestay, I saw her faint, or else ’twas fancy; At eight we all got under weigh, And bade a long adieu to Nancy!

At last,――’twas in the month of May,―― The crew, it being lovely weather, At three A.M. discover’d day And England’s chalky cliffs together. At seven up Channel how we bore, While hopes and fears rushed on my fancy, At twelve I gaily jumped ashore, And to my throbbing heart pressed Nancy.

A SAILOR’S JOURNAL. (Adapted from Dibdin to the sad Circumstances of the Day.)

’Twas Prime Meridian, twelve at noon, By signal I from Nancy parted; At eight she watched the rising moon, With wringing hands, half broken-hearted. At nine, while tautening the fore-stay, I saw her faint, unless ’twas fancy: At ten we all got under weigh, And bade a long adieu to Nancy!

Night came. The theme of every tongue Was the Meridian Conference. Weary Of that at last, we piped and sung, And chawed our quids in confab cheery; But something weighed upon my mind, The wildest dreams possessed my fancy, And fate seemed whispering on the wind, I ne’er again should meet my Nancy!

And now arrived the happy time Which every true Tar’s spirit rouses, When safe at home (Meridian Prime) We hoped to meet sweethearts and spouses. But round and round the world went we, Seeking that Prime Meridian! Fancy! The darned thing wasn’t fixed, ye see, And I could not find home or Nancy!

It was, of course, the beastliest bore. Those stupid Frenchmen had a notion That fixing it on England’s shore,―― England, whose vessels scour the ocean, And who is owned to rule the waves,―― Insulted France! A foolish fancy! The vanity to which they’re slaves Fooled them――and kept me from my Nancy.

We sailed about, all round we steered, ’Midst sunshine’s gleam and tempest’s rattle. No Prime Meridian appeared! The Conference was still at battle. The Frenchman still maintained the strife To please his egotistic fancy, Kept many a Tar from his true wife, And me from my beloved Nancy!

Alas! Confound the Frogs, I says! Though fair the wind and fine the weather, I cannot yet forecaste the day When Nance and I shall come together. That Prime Meridian serves to floor My fondest hopes, my warmest fancy. It’s still unfixed, and never more I fear shall I see it or Nancy.

Punch. October 25, 1884.

THE LAST SHILLING.

As pensive one night in my garret I sate, My last shilling produced on the table, That adventurer, cried I, might a history relate, If to think and to speak it were able. Whether fancy or magic ’twas played me the freak, The face seemed with life to be filling; And cried, instantly speaking, or seeming to speak, “Pay attention to me, thy last shilling!”

THE OLD OAK TABLE.

I had knocked out the dust from my pipe t’other night, Old Time t’wards midnight was creeping; The last smoke from its ashes had taken its flight,―― I felt neither waking nor sleeping; When a voice, loud and hollow, and, seemingly, near, You’ll say ’twas a dream or a fable, Directed towards me, said, audibly clear, “List, list, list to me, thy oak table.”

“I was once of the forest, the monarch so bold, “Nor tempest nor storm made me tremble; “And oft, very oft, the famed Druids of old “Would under my branches assemble: “Their mysterious rights they’d perform before me,―― “Those rites to unfold I am able, “But be that now forgot, I was then an oak tree, “And now I am but an oak table.

“When the axe brought me down, and soon lopped was each bough, “And to form a ship I was converted, “Manned by true hearts of oak, the wide ocean to plough, “And by victory never deserted. “But, worn out by Time, and reduced to a wreck, “Bereft of my anchor and cable, “A carpenter bought me, and, with part of my deck, “Made what you see me now――an oak table.

“Now thrust in a corner, put out of the way,―― “But I fear I your patience am tiring. “I expect nothing less than, some forthcoming day, “To be broke up and used for your firing.” “No never,” cried I, as I started awake, “I’ll keep thee as long as I’m able “And each friend that my humble cheer will partake, “Shall be welcome around my oak table.”

ALL’S WELL.

Deserted by the waning moon, When skies proclaim night’s cheerless noon, On tower, or fort, or tented ground The sentry walks his lonely round; And should a footstep haply stray, Where caution marks the guarded way, “Who goes there? Stranger, quickly tell.” “A friend”――“The word.” “Good night;” “All’s well.”

Or sailing on the midnight deep, When weary messmates soundly sleep, The careful watch patrols the deck, To guard the ship from foes or wreck; And while his thoughts oft homewards veer, Some friendly voice salutes his ear―― “What cheer? Brother, quickly tell; Above――below.” “Goodnight,” “All’s well.”

THOMAS DIBDIN

THE EMPTY PURSE.

Deserted by the waning purse, When frowns proclaim the worldling’s curse, On garret’s high poetic ground, The poor man walks his lonely round. And should some bailiff chance to stray, Where breaches mark the stairs’ decay, Who’s there? Ah me! these red capes tell, Pay this I can’t; to jail――All’s well!

Or gliding through this busy life, With doctors, nurses, babies, wife; The careful wight patrols the shop, And guards the house from toe to top. And while his thoughts oft debt-ward veer, Some well-known voice salutes his ear, What cheer, old friend, old playmate tell? Cash low, child sick, wife cross――All’s well!

ANOTHER PARODY.

Deserted by declining day, When weary wights benighted stray; From bush, or cavern, we appear, And scare the traveller’s frighted ear With――“Stand or die, good night. All’s well.”

Or riding home from fair or feast, Some farmer plodding o’er his beast; His wit o’erstopped by humming ale, While thus the joskins we assail; “Down every stiver, quickly tell, Your watch, your purse, good night. All’s well!”

Hot from the guard-room’s reeking stew, His spongy great-coat sodden through, His head with senseless shako crowned, The sentry walks rheumatic round. And should civilian querist stray, And question in his saucy way, “What cheer, oh! Sentry, quickly tell.” “In fact, all wrong: in word, All’s well!”

From guard-bed comrades’ steaming heap, Turned out all standing, half-asleep, Great-coat on back and stock on neck, His perspiration gets a check; And while, half-starved, he dreams of beer, Could civil question catch his ear, “What cheer, ho! Sentry, quickly tell.” “In fact, all wrong: in word, All’s well!”

Punch. March 13, 1858.

MAY WE NE’ER WANT A FRIEND, NOR A BOTTLE TO GIVE HIM.

Since the first dawn of reason that beam’d on my mind And taught me how favoured by fortune my lot, To share that good fortune, I still was inclined, And impart to who wanted, what I wanted not. ’Tis a maxim entitled to ev’ry one’s praise, When a man feels distress, like a man to relieve him, And my motto, tho’ simple, means more than it says, “May we ne’er want a friend, or a bottle to give him.”

The heart by deceit or ingratitude rent, Or by poverty bow’d, tho’ of evils the least, The smiles of a friend may invite to content, And we all know content is an excellent feast; ’Tis a maxim entitled to ev’ry one’s praise, When a man feels distress, like a man to relieve him. And my motto, tho’ simple, means more than it says, “May we ne’er want a friend, nor a bottle to give him.

THOMAS DIBDIN.

A NEW VERSION. (Addressed to the shades of Dibdin.)

Since the first dawn of reason on――Dibdin――your mind. Very little experience, it seems, that you got: If you――after your fortune was shared――did not find That those you had shared it with, wanted you not It’s a maxim of mine, if a friend you’d sift out From the crowd, do not test with too searching a sieve him, And this motto you then may adopt past a doubt―― “I shall not want a friend, while I’ve lots I can give him!”

But a grateful return of a farthing per cent When by poverty bowed, don’t expect in the least: With the fact, that you’ve proved you’re an ass be content, And we all know content is as good as a feast; Yet it makes one a little inclined to dispraise To know from experience, as sure as you live, you Of this motto the truth will learn, some of these days, “May you ne’er want a friend――for no jot’ll he give you!”

TOM HOOD, the Younger.

THE ARETHUSA.

(Words by Prince Hoare, F.S.A., Dramatic Author, born 1755, died December 22, 1834. Music by William Shield.)

Come, all ye jolly sailors bold, Whose hearts are cast in honour’s mould, While English glory I unfold―― Huzza for the Arethusa! She is a frigate tight and brave As ever stemm’d the dashing wave; Her men are staunch To their fav’rite launch; And when the foe shall meet our fire, Sooner than strike, we’ll all expire On board of the Arethusa.

’Twas with the spring fleet she went out The English Channel to cruise about, When four French sail, in shore so about, Bore down on the Arethusa. The famed Belle Poule straight ahead did lie―― The Arethusa seem’d to fly: Not a sheet or a tack, Or a brace did she slack; Though the Frenchman laugh’d, and thought it stuff; But they knew not the handful of men how tough On board of the Arethusa.

On deck five hundred men did dance, The stoutest they could find in France; We with two hundred did advance On board of the Arethusa. Our captain hail’d the Frenchman, “Ho!” The Frenchman then cried out, “Hollo!” “Bear down, d’ye see, To our admiral’s lee.” “No, no!” says the Frenchman, “that can’t be” “Then I must lug you along with me,” Says the saucy Arethusa.

The fight was off the Frenchman’s land; We forced them back upon the strand; For we fought till not a stick would stand Of the gallant Arethusa. And now we’ve driven the foe ashore, Never to fight the Britons more, Let each fill a glass To his fav’rite lass, A health to the captains and officers true, And all that belong to the jovial crew On board of the Arethusa.

THE ARIEL’S CREW, SIR.

Come every jolly rower bold, Whose heart is cast in honour’s mould, While Nuneham’s glories I unfold, Huzza for the Ariel’s crew, Sir. She is a vessel tight and brave As ever skimm’d the ruffled wave; Her lads are staunch to their fav’rite launch, And when the race shall try our fire, Sooner than yield we’ll all expire, The dauntless “Ariel” crew, Sir.

’Twas in the Regatta she went out In Nuneham’s reach to cruise about, Three rival boats, in show so stout, Bore down on the “Ariel” crew, Sir; The “Isis” bold straight ahead did ply, The sprightly “Ariel” seemed to fly; Not an arm, nor a back, nor a nerve did she slack; Though the foemen laugh’d, and thought it was stuff, Knowing not the handful of lads how tough Were the dauntless “Ariel” crew, Sir.

Eight strong-arm’d men on their oars did bend, The stoutest Oxford Town could send; We eight bold youngsters did contend, The plucky “Ariel” crew, Sir. Our cockswain hail’d the “Isis,” “Ho,” The Isis-men roared out “Hallo!” “You’ll ne’er win the cup, so you’d better give it up;” “No, no,” cries the “Ariel,” “that can’t be, For I mean to lug it along with me, For the use of the ‘Ariel’ crew, Sir.”

The race was off the Nuneham shore, (Such a race as ne’er was seen before,) We pressed them hard, and beat them sore, The youthful “Ariel” crew, Sir. And now we’ve beat the rival crew, And shown what skill and pluck can do, Let each fill a glass to his fav’rite lass: Here’s a health to Maclean and conservatives all, And may success and honour befall The lads of the “Ariel” crew, Sir,!

G. V. Cox. August, 1839.

[“Oxford, in the long vacation 1839, was enlivened by a Nuneham Regatta, a conservative festivity, at which Mr. Maclean (M.P. for Oxford City, and M.A. of Balliol College) was the presiding genius, as well as the chief payer of the piper. I am tempted to introduce here a parody on the famous song of ‘The Gallant Arethusa,’ in honour of the nine young gentlemen, natives of Oxford, who, as the crew of the ‘Ariel’ carried off the chief honours of this regatta.” p. 309, Recollections of Oxford. 1789-1860, by G. V. Cox.]

THE MAN WHO MENDED THE BOILER.

“Mr. Benbow, the engineer of one of the steamers in which the rescue of General Gordon was attempted, arrived in London yesterday. Mr. Benbow was engineer of the steamer on which Lord Charles Beresford performed his deeds of gallantry on the Upper Nile; and among his friends he is popularly known as ‘the Man who Mended the Boiler.’ He has come to this country in response to an official telegram.”

Come, all ye Britons, brave and bold, Whilst I this story do unfold―― (A better tale is seldom told) The Man who Mended the Boiler! An Engineer as deft as brave, With a name that smacks of the salt sea wave, And a heart as staunch As the hull of his launch; And whenever Britons must meet the foe, May they have such fellows as brave Benbow, The Man who Mended the Boiler!

’Twas with the Nile fleet he set out, With Lord Charles Beresford, gay and stout, Midst the cataract’s roar, and the Arabs’ shout, The Man who Mended the Boiler. Khartoum and Gordon ahead did lie, When a plate in the boiler did start and fly, With a puff and a crack, And the pace did slack, And the Arabs howled at that bang and that puff, But they knew not that handful of tars so tough, Nor the Man who Mended the Boiler!

Whilst the jubilant Arabs did howl and dance, He surveyed the smash with a workman’s glance, And saw at once that they couldn’t advance, With a big blank hole in the boiler. Did he turn up the job like a muff? Oh, no! That wasn’t the fashion of brave Benbow, Midstream and still He worked with a will Through a dark Nile night and by morning’s light, He had patched up everything right and tight The Man who Mended the Boiler!

The Arabs looked from the sandy strand, And thought that the Britons were brought to a stand; But those Britons they did not understand, Nor the Man who Mended the Boiler. Up steam once more! Midst a roar from the shore, Away up the Nile the steamer bore. Let each brim a glass, Whether lad or lass, In a health to Lord Charles and his gallant crew, With a bumper to Benbow stout and true, The Man who Mended the Boiler!

Punch. April 25, 1885.

THE BAY OF BISCAY, O!

Loud roared the dreadful thunder, The rain a deluge showers, The clouds were rent asunder By lightning’s vivid powers; The night both drear and dark, Our poor devoted bark, Till next day, there she lay, In the Bay of Biscay, O!

Her yielding timbers sever, Her pitchy seams are rent. When Heaven, all bounteous ever, Its boundless mercy sent; A sail in sight appears, We hail her with three cheers, Now we sail, with the gale, From the Bay of Biscay, O!

ANDREW CHERRY. (Comedian. 1762-1812.)

THE NEW-BUILT PLAYHOUSE, O!

Loud roar’d the watchman’s rattle, Dust-bells began the din, Announc’d the hour of battle! ’Twas half-price rushing in: Whilst o’er the rascal crew, Vast consternation flew At the fight, On that night, In the new-built playhouse, O!

The catcalls next shrill sounding ’Midst O. P.’s vocal strain; The magic dance, resounding, Near rent the walls in twain! Our victors strengthen’d grew, O’er turned the Bow Street crew, At the fight, On that night, In the new-built playhouse, O!

Then, must’ring up our forces, Attack’d the thieves again; But numbered in our losses A few brave O. P. men. The victory was ours, Brave O. P. loudly roars, At the fight, On that night, In the new-built playhouse, O!

From The Covent Garden Journal. Vol. 2, (London 1810). Containing an account of the O. P. (old prices) riots at the New Covent Garden Theatre.

THE BAY OF CHELSEA, OH!

Loud roar’d the smoking funnel, The blacks came down in showers; The steam-pipe coughs like one ill, The smoke above us lowers; The mud both thick and dark Impedes our wretched bark: There we lay, Half a day, In the Bay of Chelsea, oh!

Now dashed against the gravel, We crumble, crash, and creak; At this rate we shan’t travel A mile within a week Cries of “Return the fare!” Now rend the startled air: “Did we pay, Here to stay, In the Bay of Chelsea, oh!”

At length a wished-for wherry ’Long side of us drew nigh; The prospect made us merry, The laugh rose loud and high; But when, alas! we knew, ’Twould not hold half our crew, None were gay, As they lay In the Bay of Chelsea, oh!

A little ease to give her (To make her float we meant), At once into the river Her heavy chimney sent. To swim she now appears, We give three hearty cheers, As we scud Off the mud, In the Bay of Chelsea, oh!

Punch 1847.

AIR, “The Bay of Biscay.”

“I cut the ball right under At least an inch or more; It was a fatal blunder, For forty was his score. I gave him in the dark Fifteen, so did remark, ’Odds I’ll lay Any day, If he’ll give me a bisque, heigh ho!”

From Tennis Cuts and Quips. London: Field and Tuer, 1884.

HEARTS OF OAK.

Come, cheer up, my lads! ’tis to glory we steer, To add something more to this wonderful year; To honour we call you, not press you like slaves; For who are so free as the sons of the waves? Hearts of oak are our ships, Hearts of oak are our men, We always are ready: Steady, boys, steady! We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again.

We ne’er see our foes but we wish them to stay, They never see us but they wish us away: If they run, why, we follow, or run them ashore; For if they won’t fight us, we cannot do more. Hearts of oak, &c.

They swear they’ll invade us, these terrible foes! They frighten our women, our children, and beaux; But should their flat bottoms in darkness get o’er, Still Britons they’ll find to receive them on shore. Hearts of oak, &c.

Britannia, triumphant, her ships sweep the sea, Her standard is Justice――her watchword, “Be free;” Then cheer up, my lads! with one heart let us sing, “Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen and king.” Hearts of oak, &c.

DAVID GARRICK.

A NEW SONG.

Come cheer up, my lads, ’tis to Freedom we steer; No tyrant dictators shall manage us here; No more shall they send vile dependents on Court, The birthright of Britons they ne’er will support. United by Freedom, in freedom remain; See Fox still is ready, To our cause ever steady; Huzza! we’ll elect him again and again.

Since first we adopted THE FOX,[12] as our choice, To injure the nation he ne’er lent his voice: His unshaken heart, stout, manly, and bold, Could ne’er be corrupted our cause to have sold. United by Freedom &c.

From The History of the Westminster Election. 1784.

COME, CHEER UP, MY LADS, MERRY CHRISTMAS IS NEAR.

Come, cheer up, my lads, merry Christmas is near, And I hope we shall all have a Happy New Year! Then eat your plum-pudding and drink your strong ale, And may plenty and peace, in old England ne’er fail; O, still may our flag be with lustre unfurl’d! Let’s ever be ready, steady boys, steady, And true to ourselves we defy all the world. Oh, still may our flag, &c.

There are five verses in all in this imitation, which may be found in Volume III. (page 37) of The Universal Songster.

ANOTHER NEW SONG.

Come, cheer up my lads, ’tis to glory we steer, To add something new to this wonderful year. We’ll rout the old soldiers in spite of their skill, And send Brougham and Creevey to make known our will.

CHORUS.――Then firm, my hearts of oak, Your votes give like Freemen, To Liberty steady, With hearts always ready, To fight and to conquer, Again and again.

M’Kerrell declares when the times have proved good, The people of England have three times too much food; And Gladstone, his friend――deserter of our cause―― The King’s Jester has named, to help t’make our laws. Then firm, my hearts of oak. Your votes give like Freemen, To Liberty steady, You’ll always be ready To keep out a Canning, Again and again.

Then Tarleton comes forth with his vote-winning smile, “If I have turned my coat, my heart’s yours all the while; “Besides, my good friends, by constantly turning “I must keep your interest on all sides from burning. “Then listen to my ditty, “And send me up once more, “To changing sides steady, “I always am ready “To come to the side “I deserted before,”

Our wise Corporation, poor Gascoyne descry―― His back one sad wound, and tearful his eye―― The flogging they gave him, his hopes had quite damped, And the fear of defeat on his visage was stamped. Cries Bourne, “My dear Gascoyne, “Don’t take it so to heart. “Indeed we didn’t mean it, “Let Hollingshead clean it, “And then, my dear fellow, “You’ll soon lose the smart.”

Then cheer up, my lads, ’tis to glory we steer, To add something new to this wonderful year, We’ll rout the old soldiers in spite of their skill, And send Brougham and Creevey to make known our will. Then firm, my hearts of oak, Your votes give like Freemen, To Liberty steady, With hearts always ready, To fight and to conquer, Again and again.

From An Impartial Collection of Addresses, Songs, Squibs, &c., published during the Liverpool Election. October, 1812.

(The candidates were the Right Hon. George Cannings Lt.-General Isaac Gascoyne, Henry Brougham, Thomas Creevey, and General B. Tarleton. George Canning and General Gascoyne, both Tories, were elected.)

DOWN WITH THE LORDS.

Unfurl the old flag once again to the fore, While firmly we march as our fathers of yore; Our war-cry is “Freedom,” our cause is our right, Our well-trusted leaders are Gladstone and Bright.

Chorus. Then down with the Lords! our duty is plain; For the fray we are ready; Steady, men, steady; We have conquered before, and we’ll conquer again.

The flouts and the sneers of these senators born, And their impotent threats we can laugh them to scorn, Arise, and like phantoms they’ll fade from our view, For we are the million, and they are the few.

What think they, these Peers, in their arrogant pride? Are we slaves that their hauteur can put us aside? Do they think that their cunning we cannot requite, When they’d filch with their left what they’d give with their right?

Rouse, brothers, rouse! ’tis our own that we claim, And the power that they wield, why, it is but a name; Then let them beware in their tinselled array, Ere a blast of our anger shall sweep them away!

JAMES TILSON WRIGHT.

The Weekly Dispatch. August 24, 1884.

TRUTH AND RIGHT.

The day dawns upon us, the fight is at hand, When the voice of the people shall ring through the land; Peace, Progress, Reform and Retrenchment――our guide―― Shall be the man’s watchword in whom we confide.

Chorus. Truth and Right are our weapons, untarnished with stain; Our forces are ready, trusty and steady―― We’ll vote for the men who can lead the campaign.

Deserted, forgotten, our rights, long ignored, Have been tossed to the winds for coercion and sword―― The yoke of taxation has burdened our isle. Our trades and our industries ne’er seem to smile.

We will send forth the men who will zealously toil To improve the condition of “sons of the soil,” Whose hearts beat with ours, who know what we feel―― The labouring masses who grind at the wheel.

And men who are staunch to the cause they profess, Who will grapple each task to relieve our distress, Who can write on their banner――for ever unfurled―― “A prosperous country, at peace with the world!”

JESSE H. WHEELER. The Weekly Dispatch. October 25, 1885.

GLADSTONE’S POLICY.

Arouse, men of England, the strife’s drawing near, Stand fast for the Right and the man we revere, ’Tis but justice we ask for our friends o’er the waves: Let Ireland be free, not a nation of slaves.

Chorus. A fig for the Whigs, and for Salisbury’s men; They fear us already, Steady, boys, steady, For Ireland and Gladstone again and again!

Seceders may sneer at the chief they betrayed, And boast how the game of the Tory they played; Let them stand, hand in hand, where Coercion’s in store, Their names will be scorned when themselves are no more.

Chorus. We care not for Whigs nor for Salisbury’s men; They fear us already, Steady, boys, steady, For Ireland and Gladstone again and again!

D. EVANS. The Weekly Dispatch. June 27, 1886.

GLADSTONE’S MISTAKE.

Awake, sons of Britain, don’t let it be said When comes the election that Reason was dead. ’Tis important to all that a measure so rash As Gladstone’s should speedily fall with a crash.

Chorus. He’s made a mistake, though the greatest of men; The bill’s doomed already, Then, Will, pray be steady, You know you’ll be sorry again and again.

Admirers of William, who cling to him strong, All seem to imagine he cannot do wrong; By sticking to him through this “mad-headed” plan Gives rise to the thought that they worship the “man,”

Chorus. He’s made a mistake, so be honest, be men, The bill’s doomed already, Be up and ready; If not, you’ll repent it again and again.

The Weekly Dispatch. July 4, 1886.

THE SKIPPER’S SONG. (Air――Obvious.)

A death on the ocean wave, And a grave in the rolling deep, For the Skipper whose owners save On a foreign crew, dirt-cheap! I’ve French, Dutch, Turk, and Greek, Swede, Fin, and Portugee―― And all the lingoes they speak Are heathen Greek to me! So a death on the Ocean Wave, And a grave in the rolling deep, When I’m knived or knocked on the head, Some night, when no watch I keep.

For they all of ’em wear long knives, And some have got pistols too, And mine and my mates’ dear lives Aren’t worth a tobaccy-screw! They will take us unawares. Like stuck pigs we shall die, With no time to say our prayers, And no chance to exchange “Good-bye.” For a death on the Ocean Wave, And a grave in the rolling deep, Is the Skipper’s whose owners save On a foreign crew, dirt-cheap!

Punch. May 27, 1876.

A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAIVE. (Composed by Mr. Twitters, after a rough passage from Boulogne.)

A life on the ocean waive, Don’t try for a home on the deep―― For your scattered senses rave, If well you expect to keep. Like a puppy whipt you’ll whine, For the fresh and wholesome shore. Or, heaving upon the brine, For a “Basin, steward,” roar. Then a life, &c.

On deck I tried to stand, But I could not, with all my craft; I asked them to let me land, But the feelingless sailors laughed. For to me was the sparkling foam Ipecacuanah tea. Oh! the tartar emetic’s home Is certainly on the sea. So a life, &c.

The sky turned to black from blue, And didn’t the rain come down! “You’d be better below,” said the crew. I only replied by a frown! But my counsel now shall be, Unless you, a madman, rave, Don’t live on the tossing sea―― A home on the billows waive. Yes, a life on the ocean waive, &c.

From The Man in the Moon. Vol. 3.

I’M AFLOAT.

(The Premier’s vacation parody on board Sir Donald Currie’s ship, “The Pembroke Castle.”)

I’m afloat! I’m afloat! on the swift rolling tide. In the “liner” which Currie has lent me with pride. Up, up with my flag, let it wave o’er the sea, I’m afloat! I’m afloat! and the Old Man is free. I fear not my critics, I laugh at their jaw, They shall find that for once I’m not easy to “draw;” For now at my breakfast no rage can I feel At the journal report of some Tory stump squeal.

Quick, quick, stoke her fires, and come calm or come wind, I will warrant we’ll soon leave land worries behind. Up, up with my flag, let it wave o’er the sea, I’m afloat! I’m afloat! and the Old Man is free.

Though that growler should carp, and this snarler be heard, The steamer, unheeding, skims on like a bird. What to us is the shout of Conservative pain? As we’re well out of hearing, it’s uttered in vain. The enemy’s strokes ineffectively fall, Be they never so smart they’ve no power to appal, As with fresh air on deck, and snug comfort below, Through the holiday waters right onward we go.

Hurrah! then my mates, we may lounge, we may sleep, Party rancour is hushed, we’re alone on the deep; Our flag of defiance still waves o’er the sea―― We’re afloat!――we’re afloat! and the Old Man is free.

Funny Folks. September 22, 1883.

SONG OF THE PICKPOCKET.

There’s a flat, there’s a flat, on the opposite side, The country’s his home, and his nose is his guide, Quick, quick, trip him up, knock his hat o’er his eyes, And we’ll take out his wipe on the ground as he lies.

I heed not the beaks, I fear not their claws; My object I’ll compass in spite of the laws; I ne’er will give up to a tyrant of Peel’s, Nor yield to a soul while I still have my heels.

The Puppet Show. April 1, 1848.

I’M A SHOT.

I’m a shot, I’m a shot, I’m my Company’s pride, The range is my home, and my rifle my bride, Up, up with the flag, let it wave o’er the plain, I’ve hit the bull’s eye, and I’ll hit it again.

I fear not the serjeant, I heed not the cells, I’ve a ball in my pouch on the target that tells; And ne’er as a slave, but a soldier I’ll kneel With a most inconvenient seat on my heel. I’m a shot, I’m a shot, &c.

THE SONG OF THE FLOAT.

I’m a float! I’m a float; on the deep rolling tide, I rest calmly still or triumphantly ride; The bright crystal flood is my natural home, Be it smooth as a mirror, or flashing with foam. My body’s of cork, of an olive green hue, And my tip as the needle magnetic is true. I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job, If the fishes below only give me a bob!

When Phœbus is bright and young zephyr at rest, I lazily lie on the water’s calm breast; And I think all the time how hot it must be Over there where my master lies under the tree, A shady old elm on the grass-covered ground, Where the wopses and honey-bugs tumble around! I’m a float! I’m a float; and I’m fair on the job, If the fishes below only give me a bob!

When the sky like a friar is shrouded in gray, And winds whistle wild o’er the watery way, I top the white waves, or laugh in great glee, As a ducking I get when they top over me. And I think, oh! how jolly my master must feel, With the rain at his back, and the mud at his heel! I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job, If the fishes below only give me a bob!

Sometimes, when the water’s not “soupy” in tint, At the pebbly bottom I take a sly squint; And then, if I see a big scaly’un look With a half-doubting eye at the worm-covered hook, A thrill of excitement runs all down my quill, And, in spite of the water, I try to keep still. I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job, If the fishes below only give me a bob!

But then if the scaly ’un goes for that bait, To my master the news in a crack I relate―― Yes!――no!――eh?――bravo?――“bob!”――right under I go! But I’m drawn up again in a minute or so. Slow but sure towards land a forced passage I make, A big golden carp pulling well in my wake! I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job, If the fishes below only give me a bob!

I’m a float! I’m a float! on the deep rolling tide, I rest calmly still or triumphantly ride! I’m the fisherman’s friend, his mark on the stream, No bite I let pass, from roach, perch or bream. So all you gay rodsters, pray treat me with care, For your pleasures and pains I’ll happily share. I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job, If the fishes below only give me a bob!

The Angler’s Journal. April 3, 1886.

OH! DON’T YOU REMEMBER SWEET ALICE, BEN BOLT?

Two parodies of this song were published by Ryle & Co., Monmouth Court, Seven Dials, London, as street ballads. Both were very coarse, one began:――

Now don’t you remember old Alice, Ben Bolt, At the cook-shop a little up town, How she grinned with delight when you gave her the brass, For the pannum you sent rolling down?

The other commenced thus:――

Oh! don’t you remember sweet Sal, Harry Holt, Sweet Sally wot lived at the Crown? How she danced all the night, and drank with delight, Just to keep up her fame and renown.

WHEN “BOLT.”

Oh! dont you remember the days when “Bolt” Was the dodge that did landlords so “brown,” When on quarter day morns we have oft “shot the moon,” And been off to a new part of town? The old watchman always would let us then bolt, Of our actions no knowledge would own; But policeman are so wide awake now-adays, We should surely be caught ere we’d flown.

Oh! don’t you remember our tradesmen, when “Bolt” Was the way to stop duns for small bills―― When they knew that to claim their demands would entail Declarations, court-fees, and such ills? The system has gone to decay, and when “Bolt” Is the rule, or some game of the sort, They straight bring an action, and us they can take For contempt of a vile County Court.

Oh! don’t you remember the days when “Bolt” Was the word that the billmen overthrew―― When we left our acceptance, ne’er fearing a writ, And at Boulogne moustaches we grew? The sea is thought nothing, and now when “Bolt” We do, we the law can’t defy; For the New Law Procedure Act lets them pursue The debtor where’er he may fly.

Diogenes. Vol. 3, page 132. March, 1854.

I have not met with any other parodies of Ben Bolt, although it is probable that many have been written, as the song was very popular some years since.

THE STORM.

Cease, rude Boreas, blust’ring railer! List, ye landsmen, all to me! Messmates, hear a brother sailor Sing the dangers of the sea; From bounding billows, first in motion, When the distant whirlwinds rise, To the tempest troubled ocean, Where the seas contend with skies!

The topsail-yards point to the wind, boys, See all clear to reef each course; Let the fore-sheet go, don’t mind, boys, Though the weather should be worse. Fore and aft the sprit-sail yard get, Reef the mizen, see all clear, Hands up, each preventure brace set, Man the fore-yard, cheer, lads, cheer!

G. A. STEVENS (died 1784.)

CEASE, RUDE BOREAS. (By a worried Editor.)

Cease to bore us, and assail us, Writers! with your pens so free! List the tale――though’t won’t avail us, And our troubles you shall see! While around us roars the thunder, Of the Postman’s double knocks; Till our Housemaid stares with wonder, And our Tiger’s nerves it shocks.

We have things oft sent that fright us, And regard them all with scorn, Pieces too that oft delight us, And our breasts with rapture warm! For the first――why we reject ’em Or affront our readers sense, For the second――we accept ’em, Or we drive Subscribers hence!

Do not then too harsly judge us, When we cast your trash aside; Or of feelings good begrudge us The exercise, both broad and wide! We’re IMPARTIAL! though you doubt us, And to each give merit due; Full as honest――though you flout us, As the mass of STOCKINGS BLUE!

The Monthly Belle Assemblée. September, 1836.

SONG FOR THE DOUCHE.

Cease to lure us ’bout the ocean, Neptune’s is an easy couch, Listen while a fellow patient Sings the dangers of the Douche; Stripped and shivering――quite defenceless―― Stunned by its terrific roar―― Now you’re shouting――now you’re senseless―― Now you’re dashed upon the floor.

Hark! the bathman loudly bawling,―― “Stand up, ’twouldn’t hurt a child;” Still in vain for mercy calling,―― “Bathman, please to ‘draw it mild’.” Now ’tis over, rub and dress you; Now the nerves are in full play, “Bathman I’m all glowing――bless you, Can’t I have one every day?”

Now all you in sick beds lying, Victims to each false alarm; Pill and potion vainly trying Only doing further harm. Try the Douche, its shocks and terrors Are but fancies of the brain, They must smile at vulgar errors, Who would health and strength regain.

Would you climb the rugged mountain, Would you hear sweet warblers sing, Come and taste the crystal fountain,―― Nature’s pure life-giving spring; Breathe the tainted air no longer, Leave your sickly painful couch, Every bath shall make you stronger, Nervous sufferers try the Douche.

From Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch, by J. B. Oddfish. (London. Simpkin, Marshall, & Co., 1865.)

“POLY.” (A new ballad of the Fleet, sung by a British Tar àpropos of the “Polyphemus.”)

Do you want to know the ugliest craft That ever put from port? Well that’s the Poly, the steel ram’d Poly, And she’s a rare rum sort. Open your peepers and look my lads, She’s lobbing agen the quay, The sootiest craft afore and abaft That ever shamed the sea. Afloat, afloat, d’ye call her a boat? Black deck, no white sails furled! Poly, grim Poly, Tame as “loblolly,’ The ugliest craft in the world!

Do you want to know the latest thing To make a true tar dull? Well, that’s the Poly, this precious Poly, And darn her dirty hull! Come, you’ll see the horror a lyin’ there, Like a porpoise heavy with grog; Her sides full of rivets, her turret of guns, Her hull like a lifeless log. Afloat, afloat, like a leaky boat, Low down, no sail unfurled; Poly, grim Poly, Our nautical folly, The ugliest craft in the world!

Do you want a toast to-night, my lads, Afore we says good-bye? Well, here’s short life to the lumbering Poly, And blarm her hulk, says I. Fill your grog-glasses high, my lads, Drink in sepulchral tones: “May a storm soon send this confounded Poly To supper with David Jones.” Afloat, afloat, is she worth a groat, When the waves in heaps are hurled? Poly, black Poly, Fraud melancholy, The ugliest craft in the world!

THE DEATH OF NELSON. From the Opera of “The Americans.”

RECITATIVE

O’er Nelson’s tomb, with silent grief oppressed, Britannia mourns her hero, now at rest; But those bright laurels ne’er shall fade with years, Whose leaves are watered by a nation’s tears.

AIR.

Twas in Trafalgar’s bay We saw the Frenchmen lay; Each heart was bounding then. We scorn’d the foreign yoke, Our ships were British oak, And hearts of oak our men

Our Nelson mark’d them on the wave, Three cheers our gallant seamen gave, Nor thought of home and beauty. Along the line this signal ran―― “England expects that every man This day will do his duty.”

England confess’d that every man That day had done his duty.

S. J. ARNOLD.

THE BATTLE OF SPITHEAD.

Recitative.

O’er Thompson’s nose, by Swiggins’ fist imprest, Britannia weeps,――that face with bandage dress’d, But that bright nose shall never fade with years, Whose tip, once blue, now blue and red appears.

’Twas in the Spithead Bay We saw Bill Swiggins lay, He loudly swearing, then; We owed him for a joke Which at the British Oak, He levell’d at our men―― Our Thompson mark’d the wily knave, Three screams our outraged sweethearts gave, Nor thought of home or duty; Before the shine this signal ran, “We owe a grudge to that ’ere man; This day we’ll spoil his beauty.”

And now we ply the oar, And stretching from the shore, Our Thompson clove the spray; His ship the Sarah named, Long Sarah had been famed For squabbles night and day; But dearly was our victory bought, Our hero’s nose a stinger caught, For Sarah, home, and duty; He cried, as to his foe he ran, “We owe a grudge to that ’ere man, This day we’ll spoil his beauty.”

But, oh! the dreadful wound, Which sent the “claret” round, The hero’s nose received. Then, sinking on his side, “Our boat’s going o’er,” he cried; “But long enough I’ve lived, I’ve black’d his other eye at last, Have had revenge for insults pass’d On Sarah, home, and duty!” Thus ends the row as it began―― Portsmouth confess’d that each brave man Had spoilt the other’s beauty!

Diogenes. July, 1853.

THE GREAT UNEMPLOYED. (A Song for Scotland Yard. Air――“The Death of Nelson.”)

’Twas in Trafalgar Square We heard Sedition blare; Each heart was sickened then. We’d scorned the foreign Reds Who cracked each other’s heads, But here were madder men. Henderson marked them howl and rave, But little heed that hero gave. Let Roughdom smash and loot, he Stirred not, appeared not, formed no plan. And London owned at least one man That day that shirked his duty.

And now the rabble roar, And plunder as they pour; No Bobbies stop the way. London, for order famed, Is startled, shocked, and shamed By this disgraceful day! Right dearly is experience bought, The maddened Mob surged, smashed, and fought, Unchecked, for drink and booty. From mouth to mouth the murmur ran, “London has found a trusted man This day has shirked his duty.”

Pride feels a painful wound, Dismay is spread around; Our trust has been deceived. But shirkers must be tried, If need be, thrust aside, Our credit be retrieved. Policedom’s honour is at stake, Policedom from its drowse must wake, It guards home, wealth, age, beauty, From Chief to youngest guardian, London must know that every man Is equal to his duty!

Punch. February, 1886.

Innes’s London Comic Songster――(London: Simpkin & Marshall, N. D.)――contained a coarse parody, entitled:――

PADDY’S GRAVE.

’Twas at the Pig and Cat Where Judy met her Pat, With his big nose so red: “Oh!” says she, “you are untrue; And faith, I’ll punish you,” And then she broke his head! Her brother Ted was standing by, Who nately black’d her father’s eye, For he was bold and frisky; Yet through the bogs this was the cry, Ireland expects you won’t be shy, But fight for love and whiskey!

THE BRITISH GRENADIERS.

Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules, Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these; But of all the world’s brave heroes, there’s none that can compare, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, to the British grenadier.

Those heroes of antiquity ne’er saw a cannon-ball, Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal; But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears, Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, to the British grenadiers.

Then Jove the god of thunder, and Mars the god of war, Brave Neptune with his trident, Apollo in his car, And all the gods celestial, descending from their spheres, Behold with admiration the British grenadiers.

Whene’er we are commanded to storm the palisades, Our leaders march with fusees, and we with hand grenades; We throw them from the glacis about the Frenchman’s ears, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the British grenadiers.

And when the siege is over, we to the town repair, The townsmen cry huzza, boys, here comes a grenadier,―― Here come the grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears. Then sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the British grenadiers.

Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those Who carry caps and pouches, and wear the loopèd clothes. May they and their commanders live happy all their years, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the British grenadiers!

ANONYMOUS. (Written about 1760.)

Upon the plains of Flanders, Our fathers long ago, They fought like Alexanders Beneath old Marlborough; And still in fields of conquest, Our valour bright has shown, With Wolfe and Abercrombie, And Moore and Wellington.

Our plumes have waved in combats, That ne’er shall be forgot, Where many a mighty squadron Reeled backwards from our shot. In charges with the bayonet, We led our bold compeers; But Frenchmen like to stay not For British Grenadiers.

Once bravely at Vimiera They hoped to play their parts, And sing fal lira, lira, To cheer their drooping hearts. But English, Scotch, and Paddy whacks, We gave three hearty cheers, And the French soon turned their backs To the British Grenadiers.

At St. Sebastiano, And Badajos’s town, Though raging like volcanoes The shell and shot came down, With courage never wincing, We scaled the ramparts high, And waved the British ensign In glorious victory.

And what could Bonaparte, With all his cuirassiers, In battle do, at Waterloo, With British Grenadiers? Then ever sweet the drum shall beat That march unto our ears, Whose martial roll awake the soul Of British Grenadiers.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

BROOK GREEN VOLUNTEER.

Some talk of Alexander, And some of Wellington, Of Blucher and Lysander, And of Napoleon. But of all the gallant heroes, There’s none for to compare, With his Quick march! to the right about! Face! To the Brook Green Volunteer.

Without the least occasion, He rushes to the field, From peril of invasion Old Hammersmith to shield. The geese loud cackling round him, The donkies braying near, Appal not the truly British heart Of the Brook Green Volunteer.

Retreating do not mention, Nor talk of War’s alarms, When Duty cries, Attention! And Valour, Shoulder Arms! The soul despises danger, The bosom knows no fear Of that fine, handsome, spirited young man, The Brook Green Volunteer.

In spite of vilest weather Erect, and proud of mien, Each night, for hours together, He guards his native Green; Catarrh and cough defying, No matter how severe; What a downright, thorough-going trump Is the Brook Green Volunteer!

At this inclement season The hero must be bold, For no particular reason To brave a death of cold. Then yield the palm of glory, And stand a drop of beer To that gay, gallant, promising recruit, The Brook Green Volunteer.

Punch. February 28, 1846.

This parody refers to the rumours of a threatened invasion of England by the Prince de Joinville, and ridicules the proposals then made to call out the Militia. There was another parody of this song in Punch, 1849, relating how two Grenadiers robbed two French National Guards during their visit to London. The parody, entitled “The Blackguard Grenadier,” commenced thus:――

“Most regiments have some varlet, Some rascal mean and base, A stain upon their scarlet, Their scandal and disgrace.”

This disgraceful incident created great indignation, and there was a loud outcry as to the want of proper discipline amongst the Guards stationed in London. Yet they still enjoy the undeserved, and exceptional, privileges they then possessed, and are better fed, clothed, and paid than their comrades in the Line regiments.

THE GALLANT SPECIALS.

(During the Chartist agitation in 1848, about 150,000 men were sworn in as special constables.)

They may talk if they like of their Horse Guards Red, They may talk of their Horse Guards Blue; They may boast if they please, of such troops as these, And of all the exploits they’d do. But London town acknowledges, That in spite of their fine fal-de-rals, They’re not up to the mark, in the street or the park, Of the gallant Spe-ci-als.

The Peelers, no doubt, are a stout brigade, And partial to kitchen stuff; The Detectives, too, are by no means a do, But perfectly up to snuff, For what are they, I should like to know, When the voice of duty calls, To the jolly old bricks, who flourish the sticks Of the Cockney Spe-ci-als?

Oh! ’tis they are the boys for the Chartist mob, Who thought insurrection to hatch; And who spoke out so bold, in their John Street hold, But funk’d when it came to the scratch. Who swore that they did not care one whit, For grapeshot, or rockets, or balls; But who cut right away, with the devil to pay, At the sight of the Spe-ci-als.

The Man in the Moon, Vol. III.

THE THIEVISH PRIVATEER.

Oh! some talk about Jack Sheppard; Bill Sikes a hero call; And some speak of a worthy, Whose name it is Sam Hall; But there’s a thief in our belief Whose crimes e’en worse appear, Who in war’s dark hour doth the ocean scour―― ’Tis the thievish Privateer.

While nations are contending―― While principles at stake, Upon the strife depending, The world’s foundation shake. No thought has he of liberty, No hopes of glory cheer; But alone for the pelf, To enrich himself, Fights the thievish Privateer.

Then shall we suffer longer, That letters called “of Marque,” Shall save from England’s vengeance, Each cut-throat pirate bark? Oh, no! let’s hope henceforth a rope Shall be knotted ’neath the ear, As pirates to hang Every man of the gang Of each thievish Privateer.

Diogenes, Vol. III., p. 122. March, 1854.

THE ORDER OF VALOUR (The V. C.)

Some talk of ALEXANDER, And some of HERCULES, And many a great commander As glorious as these; But if you want a hero Of genuine pluck and pith, It’s perfectly clear there’s none comes near To full British PRIVATE SMITH.

Its easy to fight, with glory At hand to gild your name, And stick it up in story, Among the sons of fame. But SMITH, full British private, Is expected to be brave, With the cold “cold shade” above his head, At his feet a nameless grave.

For Generals there’s the peerage, With grant of public tin; There’s regiments for Colonels, For Captains steps to win. But for PRIVATE SMITH the utmost, (If he avoided beer) Was a Chelsea berth, and a pension worth Some fifteen pounds a-year.

Till now the stars and garters, Were for birth’s or fortune’s son, And as oft in snug home-quarters, As in fields of fight were won. But at length a star arises, Which as glorious will shine On SMITH’S red serge vest as upon the breast Of SMYTH’S scarlet superfine.

Though carpet-knights may grumble, Routine turn up its nose, Though CARDIGANS and LUCANS, And AIREYS may oppose, Yet shall the star of valour Defy their scoffs and jeers―― As its bronze rays shine on plain SMITH of the Line, And plain SMITH of the Grenadiers.

Too long mere food for powder We’ve deem’d our rank and file, Now higher hopes and prouder. Upon the soldier smile. And if no Marshal’s bâton PRIVATE SMITH in his knapsack bears, At least in the War, the chance of the star With his General he shares.

Punch. February 23, 1856.

There was another parody of the same song in Punch, February 27, 1858, complaining of the shameful manner in which our soldiers were then clothed, lodged, and fed. As most of the evils therein alluded to have been remedied, the parody is now obsolete. A parody entitled “Aitcheson’s Carabineers,” appears on page 112 of the 1869 edition of Logan’s “Pedlar’s Pack of Ballads and Songs.”

THROUGH FIRE AND WATER; OR, THE LONDON VOLUNTEERS.

Some talk of Alexander, And some of Hercules,―― The Chief whose martial dander, Asked worlds to stand at ease―― The Sayers of the prize ring, In high Olympian spheres,―― But both, I’ll be bound, now-a-days would be found Enrolled in the Volunteers.

Our soldiers they are heroes, We know, in facing fire; Our tars reduce to zeros All fears the seas inspire. But for going through fire and water, ――To say nothing of small boys’ jeers―― There’s no service, I swear, that can compare With the London Volunteers.

In June we’re now parading, Last month was merry May, But for Volunteer brigading We’ve not had one dry day! The aforesaid Alexander, As a hero of Greece appears Of our kin to be, for dripping are we Poor London Volunteers!

Umbrellas and alpacas We scorn, and oil-skin capes; And the rain-drops from our shakos May trickle down our napes. We may continue drilling, And manœvuring about for years, But “Wetter’uns” some needn’t hope to become In the London Volunteers.

But yet there’s no complaining; Rheumatics we defy, And though cats and dogs it’s raining, We keep our powder dry. Little think the small boys shouting “Who shot the dog?” in our ears, What an inward fire flares up to inspire Us London Volunteers.

Then a fig for showers and sneerers, Let’s show Sir Robert yet; We can laugh at fire and fleerers, As we’ve laughed at heavy wet. And we hope to teach the foeman, Who on our shore appears, If home rains we’ve borne, French reins we scorn, As London Volunteers.

Three cheers for all who’re willing To be wetted through and through! For those who stick to drilling Till all is damp and blue. May none of us blow our heads off, Whether privates or brigadiers, And the Queen, I pray, have one dry day, For reviewing the Volunteers.

Punch. June 16, 1860.

The first year of the Volunteer movement will be long remembered as an exceptionally wet season.

THE SOIREE OF THE CIVIL ENGINEERS.

Some talk of Archimedes, and some of Euclid prose, Of Dædalus, Hæphæstus, and such great swells as those, But of all the men of genius there’s none can prove a peer, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, of the Civil Engineer!

Those ancient men of science, ne’er saw the power of steam, Or knew of bridges tubular across the ocean stream; But ours are far more knowing:――their triumphs skill uprears, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the Civil Engineers!

Oh! Jove the god of thunder, and Mars the god of war, Old Neptune with his trident, Apollo with his car―― These heathen swells celestial in their respective spheres, Can’t come in competition with the Civil Engineers!

Whene’er their skill’s demanded, great works are to be made, Their navvies march with pickaxe, with crowbar, and with spade; And soon the progress traces in cuttings, banks, and piers, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, of the Civil Engineers!

And when their Soirée’s given, to George Street they repair, And all the men most noted you’re sure to meet with there; The most distinguished people adorning modern years, Are on the very best of terms with the Civil Engineers!

Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to these, Bright ornaments of science and progress, if you please, For enterprise and genius we’ll gladly raise three cheers, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the Civil Engineers!

Fun. June 9, 1866.

HAXELL’S VOLUNTEERS (Dedicated to the particularly active hotel service corps).

Come all ye dilettanti bold Who fear not Gladstone’s frown, Announce yourselves as Cids enrolled (The fee is half a crown.) The uniform is cheap and bright, And ought to last for years, For it’s likely they’ll not have to fight In the Haxell’s Volunteers.

To stem the Russian’s reeking tide We’ve pilots stout of limb; We’ve Forsyth, Wheelhouse on our side, And Captain Bedford Pim! The Bard of Peterborough-court With odes our efforts cheers, And music-hall trouvères support The Haxell’s Volunteers.

Think of old England’s righteous claims, Her noble-minded fils; Make haste and put down all your names―― They’re just concluding peace! For craven Muscovite and Sclav Are quaking with their fears; Ah, what a muster we shall have Of the Haxell’s Volunteers!

So seize a gun, the times are ripe For Englishmen to act; You’re bound to keep your names in type, And eke your skins intact. Perhaps there may be some brigade Worth ours in distant spheres, At least we’re mighty in parade, We Haxell’s Volunteers.

Funny Folks. May, 1878.

Written during the War Fever, when some of the newspapers were clamouring for war with Russia. It was then proposed to form a Corps of Active Service Volunteers, but the Government discouraged the idea.

STANZA BY A SERGEANT-MAJOR.

In Egypt there’s an old stream A long time known to fame; But now beside the Coldstream, The Nile must yield his name. For of all the finest fellahs There’s none for to compare (With a right-fol-de-riddle-iddle-lol) To the British Grenadier!

Punch. September 16, 1882.

THE BRITISH HOUSE OF PEERS.

Some swear by Wilfred Lawson, And some by Labouchere, And some applaud Joe Chamberlain, While some by Bradlaugh swear. Down, down with cant and caucas, Let’s greet the right with cheers, And praise their pluck, and wish them luck, The British House of Peers.

For when they were commanded To pass a Franchise Bill, They bade a tyrant Premier Inquire the nation’s will. John Bright may rant like Rabshakeh, And Rogers vent his sneers; Let’s praise their pluck, and wish them luck, The British House of Peers.

The Morning Post. August, 1884.

THE ASTON RIOT. (During the Birmingham Election in 1884.)

Some talk of Alexander, And some of Hercules, But Chamberlain’s commander Far, bigger far than these; For he commands at his demands, A power rather tough; In the vulgar shape of that beastly ape The blackguard Brummy Rough!

Chorus――With a blackguard Brum, And a Brummy black, And a blackguard Brummy Rough!

The Radical of Brummagem Possesseth strength to bray, With his beery mouth and black pipe stem, In a beastly sort of way; But we’d never known how bad he’s grown, Had he not shown such stuff At the Aston storm, in his proper form, As the blackguard Brummy Rough!

England. October, 1884.

“THE SONG OF MRS. JENNY GEDDES. (Tune――’British Grenadiers.’)

“Some praise the fair Queen Mary, and some the good Queen Bess, And some the wise Aspasia, beloved by Pericles; But o’er all the world’s brave women there’s one that bears the rule, The valiant Jenny Geddes that flung the four-legged stool. With a row-dow――at them now!――Jenny fling the stool!

“’Twas the twenty-third of July, in the sixteen thirty-seven, On Sabbath morn from high St. Giles’, the solemn peal was given; King Charles had sworn that Scottish men should pray by printed rule: He sent a book, but never dreamt of danger from a stool. With a row-dow――yes, I trow!――there’s danger in a stool!

“The Council and the Judges with ermined pomp elate, The Provost and the Bailies in gold and crimson state, Fair-silken vested ladies, grave Doctors of the school, Were there to please the King, and learn the virtue of a stool. With a row-dow――yes, I trow!――there’s virtue in a stool!

“The Bishop and the Dean came wi’ mickle gravity, Right smooth and sleek, but lordly pride was lurking in their e’e; Their full lawn sleeves were blown and big, like seals in briny pool; They bore a book, but little thought they soon should feel a stool. With a row-dow――yes, I trow!――they’ll feel a four-legged stool!

“The Dean he to the altar went, and wi’ a solemn look, He cast his eyes to heaven, then read a curious-printed book: In Jenny’s heart the blood upwelled with bitter anguish full; Sudden she started to her legs, and stoutly grasped the stool! With a row-dow――at them now!――firmly grasp the stool!

“As when a mountain cat springs upon a rabbit small, So Jenny on the Dean springs, with gush of holy gall; Wilt thou say the mass at my lug thou Popish puling fool? No! no! she said, and at his head she flung the four-legged stool. With a row-dow――at them now!――Jenny fling the stool!

“A bump, a thump! a smash, a crash! now gentle folks beware! Stool after stool, like rattling hail, came tirling through the air, With, Well done, Jenny! bravo, Jenny! that’s the proper tool! When the Diel will out, and show his snout, just meet him with a stool. With a row-dow――at them now!――there’s nothing like a stool!

“The Council and the Judges were smitten with strange fear, The ladies and the Bailies their seats did deftly clear, The Bishop and the Dean went, in sorrow and in dool, And all the Popish flummery fled, when Jenny showed the stool! With a row-dow――at them now!――Jenny show the stool!

“And thus a mighty deed was done by Jenny’s valiant hand, Black Prelacy and Popery she drave from Scottish land; King Charles he was a shuffling knave, priest Laud a pedant-fool, But Jenny was a woman wise, who beat them with a stool! With a row-dow――yes, I trow!――she conquered by the stool!”

By Professor JOHN STUART BLACKIE.

The Inverness Courier. January 8, 1885.

OUR BRITISH PREMIER.

Some talk of Bright and Cobden, And some of Palmerston, Of Chamberlain and Goschen, And some of Hartington. But of all old England’s heroes, There’s none that can compare To the Grand Old Man, the Grand Old Man, Our British Premier!

Then up! for now he bids us To rout the renegades. Our Hawarden star is quenchless By “Harden Star-Grenades!” Up, up! with shouts and cheering We’ll stun the traitor’s ear, For the Grand Old Man, the Grand Old Man, Our British Premier!

So, fill, fill up a bumper, His health let none refuse; Who wears the high, high collar, Who wears the plaided trews. Long may he live――our jewel, Our stone without a peer; The Grand Old Man, the Grand Old Man, Our British Premier!

AMBULATOR. Truth. July 15, 1886.

LET ME LIKE A SOLDIER FALL.

O, let me like a soldier fall, Upon some tented plain! This breast expanding for the ball, To blot out every stain. Brave manly hearts confer my doom, That gentler ones may tell, Howe’er forgot, unknown my tomb, I like a soldier fell.

I only ask, for that proud race, Which ends its blaze in me, To die the last, and not disgrace, Its ancient chivalry. Although no banners o’er me wave, trumpet requiem swell Enough, they murmur o’er my grave, He like a soldier fell.

LET ME LIKE A FEATHER FALL.

Yes, let me like a feather fall, If tumble then I must; Not I desire that vulgar sprawl To rudely kiss the dust. No, I’ll recline as gracefully As if ’twas by a spell, And they that stay and see shall say, “He like a feather fell.”

Yes, from the pig skin I’ll descend. And on the dust recline So gently, that a smiling friend May claim it all sublime. But the pig skin I shall try to keep, For to part like that’s a sell, Yet they shall say, if we part that way, “He like a feather fell.”

Yes, the vile cropper I despise, The gentle I admire, And all are free to criticise The spill that I desire. But when I tumble give the song, And true that song shall tell, How through what space, and with what grace “He like a feather fell.”

Whizz; the Christmas number of The Bicycling Times. 1880.

THE GIRLS THEY’VE LEFT BEHIND THEM.

Our gallant Guards have marched away, Each eye with pleasure flashing, On Eastern shores to join the fray, And give the Bear a thrashing. To Englishmen they still are dear, And absent ties shall bind them, Thus our first care shall be to cheer The girls they’ve left behind them.

(Two verses omitted).

Diogenes, Vol. III., page 104. 1854.

THE WIVES THEY LEFT BEHIND THEM.

We cheer our soldiers on their way, We crowd and we huzza them, And as they go to seek the fray Effusively “Ta-ta” them. Then ere they’re safe upon the foam, And distance serves to blind them, We cry, “Turn out of house and home, The wives they’ve left behind them.”

And so our fighters meet the foe, And bleed, should duty bid them; A thrust may come to lay them low, Of life a bullet rid them. Oh, gladly must these heroes face The dangers that may find them, Who know how we, to our disgrace, Treat those they’ve left behind them.

We don’t think much of Tommy A.’s―― Indeed, we rather scout them In times of peace――yet these are days When we can’t do without them. In future, let us recollect This fact, and oft remind them That England’s ready to protect The wives they’ve left behind them.

Funny Folks. March 7, 1885.

A TALE OF THE TENTH HUSSARS.

When the sand of the lonely desert has covered the plains of strife, Where the English fought for the rescue, and the Arab stood for his life; When the crash of the battle is over, and healed are our wounds and scars, There will live in our island story a Tale of the Tenth Hussars.

They had charged in the grand old fashion with furious shout and swoop, With a “Follow me, lads!” from the Colonel, and an answering roar from the troop; From the Staff, as the troopers pass’d it, in glory of pride and pluck. They heard and they never forgot it, one following shout, “Good luck!”

Wounded and worn he sat there, in silence of pride and pain, The man who’d led them often, but was never to lead again. Think of the secret anguish! think of the dull remorse! To see the Hussars sweep past him, unled by the old White Horse!

An alien, not a stranger; with heart of a comrade still, He had borne his sorrow bravely, as a soldier must and will; And when the battle was over, in deepening gloom and shade, He followed the Staff in silence, and rode to grand parade;

For the Tenth had another hero, all ripe for the General’s praise, Who was called to the front that evening by the name of Trooper Hayes; He had slashed his way to fortune, when scattered, unhorsed, alone, And saving the life of a comrade had managed to guard his own.

The General spoke out bravely as ever a soldier can―― “The Army’s proud of your valour; the Regiment’s proud of their man!” Then across that lonely desert, at the close of the General’s praise, Came a cheer, then a quick short tremble on the lips of Trooper Hayes.

“Speak out,” said the kindly Colonel, “if you’ve anything, lad, to say; Your Queen and your dear old country shall hear what you’ve done to-day!” But the trooper gnawed his chin strap, then sheepishly hung his head; “Speak out, old chap!” said his comrades. With an effort, at last, he said――

“There sits by your side on the Staff, sir, a man we are proud to own! He was struck down first in the battle, but never was heard to groan; If I’ve done aught to deserve it,”――then the General smiled, “Of course!”―― “Give back to the Tenth their Colonel――the Man on the old White Horse!

“I came to the front with my pals here, the boys, and the brave old tars, I’ve fought for my Queen and my country, and rode with the Tenth Hussars; I’m proud, of the fine old regiment!”――then the Colonel shook his hand―― “So I’ll ask one single favour from my Queen and my native land!

“If ever a man bore up, sir, as a soldier should with pluck, And fought with a savage sorrow the demon of cursed ill-luck―― That man he sits before you! Give us back, with his wounds and scars, The man who has sorely suffered, and is loved by the Tenth Hussars!”

Then a cheer went up from his comrades, and echoed across the sand, And was borne on the wings of mercy to the heart of his native land, Where the Queen on her throne will hear it, and the Colonel Prince will praise The words of a simple soldier just uttered by Trooper Hayes!

Let the moralist stoop to mercy, that balm of all souls that live; For better than all forgetting is the wonderful word “Forgive!”

Punch. March 15, 1884.

A TALE OF THE TENTH HUSSARS. (Not to-day, Baker.)

When the train, on its lonely journey, was near to the scene of strife Where the woman fought for her honour――far dearer to her than life; When the crash of the opening doorway left her standing outside the cars, It gave to our island a story of one of the Tenth Hussars.

He was “charged” in the good old fashion, as one of the criminal troop, With a “Follow me sharp!” from the “Bobby,” which made him tremble and droop; And his staff, as the “Peeler” shewed it in glory of pride and pluck, Was seen as he went to prison, but nobody cried “Good luck!”

Wounded and hurt she sat there, in silence of pride and pain, Her womanhood all insulted, her honour left under a stain. Think of her secret anguish! think of her dull remorse! When she got away from the fellow, who now rides an old white horse.

An alien, not a stranger, but yet ’twould be stranger still, Tho’ he’s borne his rightful sentence, to hail him with right good will; For when Teb’s battle was over, and thousands there were slayed, He reached his port in safety, with few on the grand parade;

But the Tenth had another hero, quite right for the General’s praise, A thick and thin thoro’ Briton, his name was Trooper Blaze; He had never insulted a woman, and scattered unhorsed, alone, He had saved the life of a pal of his, and managed to save his own.

The General spoke out bravely as ever a General can:―― For once the swell and Private could speak as man to man; And across the lonely desert, at the close of the General’s praise, Came a shout of wonder that the swell could talk to Trooper Blaze.

“Speak out,” said the splendid Colonel, “if you’ve anything, lad, to say; Your Queen and your dear old country shall hear what you’ve done to-day!” But the Trooper knawed his chin-strap, and sheepishly hung his head; “Speak out, old man,” said his comrades, and here’s what he should have said――

“There sits on your side by the Staff, sir, a man whom the world has known As not a protector of woman, when one’s by herself alone; And all he’s got he deserves it――the General smiled, “Of course;” And nobody thought the better of the man on the old White Horse!

“I’ve fought very well for my pals here, along with the boys and tars, And I have never――no, never――dishonoured the Tenth Hussars; But one has done that for the regiment”――then the Colonel shook his hand―― “So I’ll ask one simple favour from my Queen and my native land!”

“If ever a man did wrong, sir, as a thing devoid of pluck, And fought with a poor, weak woman, and trusted then to luck―― That man he sits before you, the hero of railway cars―― Don’t let that man be e’er replaced to d――n the Tenth Hussars!”

Then a cheer went up from the regiment, and echoed across the sand, And was borne on the wings of justice to a woman-loving land, When the Queen on her throne will heed it, and the Colonel Prince won’t dare To reinstate a man who tried a lady to ensnare.

Let the aristocrats call “mercy,” but let England’s honour live―― There are crimes to be forgotten――there is one we can’t forgive!

Valentine Baker, Colonel of the Tenth Hussars, was found guilty of having committed a dastardly attack on a young lady in a railway carriage, sentenced to imprisonment and dismissed from the English army. He subsequently took part in the Campaign, as an officer of the Egyptian government.

THE “JINGO” WAR SONG.

“The men of action got a nickname, they were dubbed the Jingo Party. The term, applied as one of ridicule and reproach, was adopted by chivalrous Jingoes as a name of pride. The Jingoes of London, like the Beggars of Flanders, accepted the word of contumely as a title of honour. In order to avoid the possibility of any historical misunderstanding hereafter about the meaning of Jingo, such as we have heard of concerning that of Whig and Tory, it is well to explain how the term came into existence. Some Tyrtaeus of the tap-tub, some Körner of the music-halls, had composed a ballad which was sung at one of these caves of harmony every night, amid the tumultuous applause of excited patriots. The refrain of this war song contained the spirit-stirring words:――

‘We don’t want to fight; but, by Jingo! if we do We’ve got the ships, we’ve got the men, we’ve got the money too.’

Some one whose pulses this lyrical outburst of national pride failed to stir, called the party of its enthusiasts the Jingoes. The writer of this book is under the impression that the invention of the name belongs to Mr. George Jacob Holyoake. The name was caught up at once, and the party were universally known as the Jingoes. The famous adjuration of the lady in the ‘Vicar of Wakefield’ had proved to be too prophetical; she had sworn ‘by the living Jingo,’ and now indeed the Jingo was alive.”――A History of Our Own Times, by Justin McCarthy, M.P. 1882.

So much for the words, as to the melody, which was not unmusical, Sir William Fraser wrote to Notes and Queries in May, 1886, saying that it was taken from Mozart’s Twelfth Mass. But next week the following denial appeared in N. & Q., “I beg to state, as author and composer of the above song, that this statement is unwarrantable and devoid of truth, and in justice to my reputation as a composer, I must request that you will insert this my denial.――G. W. HUNT.”

ON THE WARLIKE NEWSPAPERS.

We don’t want to fight, But by Jingo! if you do, We’ve got the ink, we’ve got the pens, And we’ve got the papers too.

THE DUKE OF CONNAUGHT WITH THE RESERVES.

There’s Connaught does not want to fight, But, by Jingo, if he do; He has to be kept out of range, And out of danger too. He’s been to battle once, But if report be true, When he marched upon the field the fight was over!

SEE, THE CONQUERING HERO COMES! (On the return of Lord Beaconsfield from Berlin with “Peace and Honour.”)

See, the Conquering Jingo comes Sound the trumpets, beat the drums! Let all Jingodom rejoice, And raise to heaven its cheerful voice.

Come and join the rabble rout; Gentiles, Jews, and Jingoes shout! Britons! hail his glorious feats; Drag him, drag him through the streets!

Safe from lowering Channel fog: Safe from Bismarck’s biting dog; Safe from tedious long discussions With the Prussians, Turks, and Russians.

On his brow are leaves of laurel―― Victor in the bloodless quarrel. Honour sits upon his crest, Secret treaties in his vest!

All his foemen swiftly dwindling, Dished by most successful * * * Sound the trumpets, beat the drums! See, the Conquering Jingo comes!

LINGO. The Echo. July 17, 1878.

THE DREAM OF THE BILIOUS BEADLE.

So many subscribers have asked for a copy of this clever parody of Thomas Hood’s Dream of Eugene Aram that it is given here, although it somewhat interferes with the arrangement of the Song Parodies. “The Bilious Beadle” is admirably adapted for public recitation. The author, Mr. Arthur Shirley, is a well-known dramatist.

T’was in the grimy winter time, an evening cold and damp, And four and twenty work’us boys, all of one ill-fed stamp, Were blowing on blue finger tips, bent double with the cramp; And when the skilly poured out fell into each urchin’s pan They swallowed it at such a pace as only boyhood can. But the Beadle sat remote from all, a bilious-looking man―― His hat was off, red vest apart, to catch the evening breeze―― He thought that that might cool his brow; it only made him sneeze, So pressed his side with his hand, and tried to seem as if at ease.

Heave after heave his waistcoat gave, to him was peace denied, It tortured him to see them eat, he couldn’t though he tried! Good fare had made him much too fat, and rather goggle eyed, At length he started to his feet, some hurried steps he took, Now up the ward, now down the ward, with wild dyspeptic look, And lo! he saw a work’us boy, who read a penny book―― “You beastly brat! What is’t you’re at? I warrant ’tis no good! What’s this? ‘The life of Turpin Bold!’ or ‘Death of Robin Hood’?” “It’s Hessays on the Crumpet, sir, as a harticle of food!”

He started from that boy as tho’ in’s ear he’d blown a trumpet, His hand he pressed upon his chest, then with his fist did thump it, And down he sat beside the brat and talked about the crumpet. “How now and then that muffin men of whom tradition tells, Fortunes had made by pastry trade, and come out awful swells, While their old patrons suffered worse than Irving in ‘The Bells!’ And well, I know,” said he, “forsooth, for plenty have I bought, The sufferings of foolish folk who eat more than they ought.

With pepsine pills and liver pads is their consumption fraught, Oh! oh! my boy, my pauper boy! Take my advice, ’tis best shun All such tempting tasty things, tho’ nice beyond all question, Unless you wish like me to feel the pangs of indigestion! One, who had ever made me long――a muffin man and old―― I watched into a public-house, he called for whisky cold, And for one moment left his stock within green baize enrolled. I crept up to them, thinking what an appetite I’d got, I gloated o’er them lying there elastic and all hot; I thought of butter laid on thick, and then I prigged the lot!

I took them home, I toasted them, p’raps upwards of a score, And never had so fine a feast on luscious fare before, ‘And now,’ I said, ‘I’ll go to bed, and dream of eating more.’ All night I lay uneasily, and rolled from side to side, At first without one wink of sleep, no matter how I tried; And then I dreamt I was a ’bus, and gurgled ‘Full inside!’ I was a ’bus by nightmares drawn on to some giddy crest, Now launched like lightning through the air, now stop’d, and now compressed; I felt a million muffin men were seated on my chest!

I heard their bells――their horrid bells――in sound as loud as trumpets, Oh, curses on ye, spongy tribe! Ye cruffins and ye mumpets! I must be mad! I mean to say ye muffins and ye crumpets! Then came a chill like Wenham ice; then hot as hottest steam; I could not move a single limb! I could not even scream! You pauper brat, remember that――all this was but a dream!”

The boy gazed on his troubled brow, from which big drops were oozing, And for the moment all respect for his dread function losing, Made this remark, “Well, blow me tight, our Beadle’s been a-boozing!” That very week, before the beak, they brought that beadle burly; He pleaded guilty in a tone dyspeptically surly, And he lives still at Pentonville with hair not long or curly!

ARTHUR SHIRLEY.

Bob shave great GEORGE our King! Make him look just the thing! Bob shave the King! Razor and razor rag, Powder and powder bag, Hold up your chin, my Lad, Bob shave the KING!

THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER.

The subject of the following song is a comparison between the manners of the old gentry, as still subsisting in the times of Elizabeth, and the modern refinements affected by their sons in the reigns of her successors. It is given in Volume II. of Percy’s Reliques of Ancient Poetry, where it is stated that it was first printed in the reign of James the First. Bishop Percy says he found it among some poems and songs in a book entitled “Le Prince d’ Amour,” dated 1660.

It will at once be seen that it is the original of the more familiar song, The Fine Old English Gentleman, which immediately follows it, and which, has itself, been the subject of numerous imitations and parodies.

An old song made by an aged old pate, Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a greate estate, That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate; Like an old courtier of the Queen’s, And the Queen’s old courtier.

With an old lady, whose anger one word asswages; They every quarter paid their old servants their wages, And never knew what belong’d to coachmen, footmen, nor pages, But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges; Like an old courtier, &c.

With an old study filled full of learned old books, With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks, With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, And an old kitchen, that maintain’d half a dozen old cooks; Like an old courtier, &c.

With an old hall hung about with pikes, guns, and bows, With old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewde blows, And an old frize coat, to cover his worship’s trunk hose. And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose; Like an old courtier, &c.

With a good old fashion, when Christmasse was come, To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum, With good cheer enough to furnish every old room, And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb; Like an old courtier, &c.

With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds, That never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds, Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds, And when he dyed gave every child a thousand good pounds; Like an old courtier, &c.

But to his eldest son, his house and land he assign’d, Charging him in his will to keep the old bountifull mind, To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclin’d; Like a young courtier of the King’s, And the King’s young courtier.

Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land, Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command, And takes up a thousand pound upon his father’s land, And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go nor stand; Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare, Who never knew what belong’d to good house-keeping, or care, Who buys gaudy-colour’d fans to play with wanton air, And seven or eight different dressings of other women’s hair; Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new-fashion’d hall, built where the old one stood, Hung round with new pictures, that do the poor no good, With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood, And a new smooth shovel-board, whereon no victuals ne’er stood; Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new study, stuft full of pamphlets, and plays, And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays. With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days; And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws and toys; Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on, On a new journey to London straight we all must begone, And leave none to keep house, but our new porter John, Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone; Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new gentleman usher, whose carriage is compleat, With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat, With a waiting-gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat, Who when her lady has dined, lets the servants not eat; Like a young courtier, &c.

With new titles of honour[13] bought with his father’s old gold, For which sundry of his ancestors’ old manors are sold; And this is the course most of our new gallants hold, Which makes that good housekeeping is now grown so cold, Among the young courtiers of the King, Or the King’s young courtiers.

THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.

I’ll sing you a good old song, Made by a good old pate, Of a fine old English gentleman, Who had an old estate; And who kept up his old mansion At a bountiful old rate; With a good old porter to relieve The old poor at his gate. Like a fine old English gentleman, All of the olden time.

His hall, so old, was hung around With pikes, and guns, and bows, And swords, and good old bucklers, That had stood against old foes; ’Twas there “his worship” held his state, In doublet and trunk hose; And quaff’d his cup of good old sack, To warm his good old nose. Like a fine, &c.

When Winter’s cold brought frost and snow, He open’d house to all; And though three score and ten his years, He fleetly led the ball; Nor was the houseless wanderer, E’er driven from his hall; For while he feasted all the great, He ne’er forgot the small. Like a fine, &c.

But time, tho’ sweet, is strong in flight, And years roll swiftly by; And Autumn’s falling leaves proclaim’d The old man――he must die! He laid him down right tranquilly, Gave up life’s latest sigh; And mournful stillness reign’d around, And tears bedewed each eye. For this good, &c.

Now surely this is better far Than all the new parade, Of Theatres and Fancy Balls, “At Home,” and Masquerade: And much more economical, For all his bills were paid. Then leave your new vagaries quite, And take up the old trade Of a fine old English gentleman, &c.

THE FINE YOUNG ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.

I’ll sing you a prime new song, That was made by a young chap’s pate, Of a fine young English gentleman, Who’d come to an estate; Who kept his hunters and his hounds At a d――――d expensive rate. With servants gay, to drive away The poor folks from his gate; Like a fine young English gentleman, Born in the modern times.

His study it was strew’d around With what?――Lord only knows! Foils, boxing-gloves, and pistols, Which he us’d with friends and foes: ’Twas there “the squire” took his wine And cigar whene’er he chose; Perusing the Court Journal, Or Blackwood’s tedious prose. Like a fine, &c.

He was, when merry winter came, The gayest of them all; At five-and-twenty he was seen At ev’ry fancy ball. At each theatre――masquerade―― This gentleman would call; And while he feasted with the great, He quite forgot the small. Like a fine, &c.

But cash, alas! too soon takes flight, And sov’reigns roll away; And creditors, who have long bills, At last will call for “pay;” They came upon him tranquilly, And caught him out one day; “My cash is gone,” he cried, “so I Must in the Queen’s Bench lay.” Like a fine, &c.

Now this he thought was better far Than all the old parade―― Of taking tea in peace at home, Along with some old maid. It must be economical,―― The bills were all unpaid; You cannot show me one, I know, Who does so much for trade As a fine, &c.

THE FAST YOUNG UNDERGRADUATE.

I’ll sing you a modern song, that was writ by a man of late, Of an independent gentleman who had a small estate, And kept up his rooms in Trinity at a d――――d expensive rate, And was always on the books of the porter at the gate, Like a fast young Undergraduate, all of the modern time.

(Chorus)――Like a fast, &c.

These rooms so fine were hung about with boxing-gloves and sticks, Wherewith when TOWN and GOWN was cried, he floored the snobs like bricks; And there he often used to sit, and his gin-and-water mix, For he was also partial to the flooring of his lips.

His custom was, when drunk, to go to Barnwell in a fly, With Poll and Kate to joke and flirt, and that continually. He was always getting into rows with the dons of Trinity. For he never went to chapel but of necessity.

But terms and seasons roll along: an idle man was he―― Examination came at last――he was plucked for his degree; And when he mounted on the coach to leave the ’Varsity, His creditors stood round about, a mournful sight to see.

(Chorus)――For this fast, &c.

But though this Undergraduate hath eloped and cut away, But though other Undergraduates have got no cash to pay, But though our credit may not be so boundless as before, We’ve tradesmen left who’ll credit give as they were wont of yore.

(Chorus)――To other fast young Undergraduates, All of the modern time.

From The Individual. Cambridge, November 29, 1836.

THE RAAL OULD IRISH GINTLEMAN, THE BOY OF THE OLDEN TIME.

I’ll sing you a dacent song, that was made by a Paddy’s pate, Of a raal ould Irish Gintleman who had a fine estate, Whose mansion, it was made of mud, wid thatch and all complate, With a hole at top thro’ which the smoke so graceful did retrate; Hurrah for the Irish Gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.

His walls so cold were cover’d with the divil a thing for show, Except an ould shilaleh, which had knock’d down many a foe, And there ould Barney sits at ease, without a shoes or hose, And quaffs his noggin of potteen to warm his big red nose, Like a fine ould Irish Gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.

At Donnybrook his custom was, to be at every fair, For tho’ he’d seen a threescore years, he still was young when there; And while the rich they feasted him, he oft among the poor, Would sing, and dance, and hurl, and fight, and make the spalpeens roar, Like a raal ould Irish Gintleman――the boy of the oulden time.

But och! mavrone! once at a row, ould Barney got a knock, And one that kilt him――’case he couldn’t overget the shock; They laid him out so beautiful, and then set up a groan, Och! Barney, darlint, jewel dear, why did ye die? och hone! Then they wak’d this Irish Gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.

Tho’ all things in their course must change, and seasons pass away, Yet Irish hearts of oulden time, were just as at this day. Each Irish boy he took a pride to prove himself a man―― To serve a friend, and bate a foe, it always was the plan Of a raal ould Irish Gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.

THE OLD AND NEW CANTAB.

There’s a fine old song for fine old gents, with fine old wine elate, Of a fine old, etcetera――the rest I needn’t state; And Punch unto that fine old air new-fashioned words would mate, Of the fine old Cantab as he was before this change of late―― The fine old Cantab as he was, all in the olden time!

His rooms their range of ballet-girls and running-horses showed, And a fox-brush, meant to indicate that up to hounds he rode; There at vingt-un or loo he’d sit, until the cocks they crowed, Nor ever thought of how to pay the various ticks he owed―― This fine old Cantab as he was, all in the olden time!

From Eton or from Harrow he came cramm’d with longs and shorts, An ambition to drive tandem, and a taste for fruity Ports; And his hardest work was playing, till he deafened half the Courts, Concertos on the cornet, in keys of different sorts―― This fine old Cantab as he was, all in the olden time.

As a Freshman he wore sober ties, and gave a Don the wall, But came out, his second year, in short coat and fancy shawl, And treated the authorities with no respect at all. Was seldom seen at lectures, and never dined in Hall―― This fine old Cantab as he was, all in the olden time.

So he managed to forget the trifling all he once did know, And by a very narrow shave got through his little-go, And then he took “a coach” with cram what brains he’d left to stow―― Arithmetic to the Rule of Three, and some Algebra, also―― This fine old Cantab as he was, all in the olden time.

Thus, loo, larks, liquor, and late hours, made time and money fly, Till when three years brought on the Poll, he was plucked disgracefully, And his disgusted gov’rnor came and paid off, with a sigh, Ticks to a tune which nearly sucked the poor old pump quite dry, For his fine old Cantab of a son, one of the olden time.

But times are changed henceforth, we know; for, from eighteen-forty-nine, The sons of Alma Mater must choose a different line; And if you try the Muses round, not a lady of the nine Out of whom he won’t be qualified with ease to take the shine―― Our fine young Cantab that’s to be, all in the future time.

For reading and not racing he’ll have to keep his book, He’ll blush at his own pink, and hang his tops upon the hook; And if e’er he use a cue, ’twill be for motion’s laws to look; And for milk punch he’ll drink his toast――and water from the brook―― Our fine young Cantab that’s to be, all in the future time.

He’ll put off the old Adam for the new one――Adam Smith; Political Economy will bring private, p’r’aps, therewith: At Ge―― or else The――ology he’ll spend his pluck and pith, Tea and Theorems ousting loo and lush, which will be all a myth To our new Cantab that’s to be, all in the future time.

Save for studying the pendulum, he’ll never try a tick; A novel definition he’ll invent for the word “brick;” Not one who braves the Proctor, or bargee can slang or lick, But who digs up Hebrew roots like beans, and knocks off Morals slick―― Such our new Cantab is to be, all in the future time.

Old Dons will shake their heads, no doubt, and the good old days deplore, When reading men were voted slow, and lectures all a bore; But still let’s hope that Cambridge will furnish, as of yore, All the wisdom of our ancestors, and perhaps a leetle more, To the fine new Cantab that’s to be, all in the future time!

Punch. November 25, 1848.

THE FINE RICH JEWISH NOBLEMAN.

I’ll sing you a fine new song, that was penned by a Christian hand, Of a fine new Jewish Baron with a foreign name so grand, Whose money heaped around him was as plentiful as sand, So he said, “By the beard of my forefathers, for the City I will stand, Like a fine rich Jewish nobleman, One of a wealthy kind.”

The Common-hall was crowded then with all the Christian’s foes, And the Lord Mayor came forward there the Baron to propose, Loud shouted many a Hebrew voice; and many a Hebrew nose It’s hook up-raised and Rothschild praised, the man the Hebrews chose. He was such a fine Jewish autocrat, One of a wealthy kind!

When Manners came (a man whose name we all have heard before) And raised his voice, the Hebrew choice to negative once more, The Baron showed a wondrous zeal to help the voters poor, None seeking his Committee-room unpitied left the door, Of this fine rich Jewish millionaire, One of a wealthy kind.

But gold, tho’ much, can’t all things do, and money’s power will fly―― An English House of Lords again the Baron’s seat deny! He won’t resign quite tranquilly, and still again will try, But tho’ his City friends may howl, they know it’s “all my eye,” About this fine rich Jewish nobleman, One of a wealthy kind.

But tho’ Free-trade our land may crush (to Cotton Lords the prey), Still Christian is the Commons House that doth old England sway; Tho’ Rome may thrive, and rank Dissent our Church assail to-day, Our Christian test no Jewish gold shall ever thrust away.[14] Not for this fine rich Jewish nobleman, One of a wealthy kind.

From Protectionist Parodies, by a Tory. Oxford: J. Vincent. 1850.

THE FINE OLD ENGLISH INNKEEPER.

I’ll sing you a new song on a theme much stirred of late, Of a fine old English Innkeeper, grown rather out of date, Who keeps up his establishment in almost princely state, And don’t forget to charge you there at quite a princely rate, Like a fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.

His house, you’re told, is fitted up “regardless of expense,” Although one half is obsolete, and t’other make pretence; Exploded old four-posters, built in George the Second’s reign, Mock plate to serve mock-turtle in, sham ice-pails for champagne; At this fine old English Innkeeper’s, one of the olden time.

The swipes he draws is sour enough to turn a navvy pale, Tho’ by a bitter raillery he calls it bitter ale; And tho’ perhaps you don’t see half a waiter all the day, For “attendance” quite as much as for a lawyer’s you must pay To this fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.

Then if to wine your tastes incline some home-made Cape you’ll get, Served up in a decanter like a vinegar-cruet, As a “bottle of Madeira” this will in the bill be set, And however nasty it may be a nice sum you’re in debt, To the fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.

And if your wife be with you, you must have a private room, And use a pair “of wax-lights” (with a muttony perfume), For which you’ll pay a crown a day, and ’tis a burning shame That whether they be lit or not, they’re charged for just the same, By this rare old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.

But soon these fine old Innkeepers will find their race is run, For men are up and doing, and no longer will be done: And shortly we may hope to see a really good hotel Where we may be admitted, and not taken in as well, As we were by our old Innkeeper, one of the fleecing time.

Punch. October 29, 1853.

THE FINE OLD STANDARD TRAGEDY.

I’ll sing you a fine new song, tho’ it’s subject’s out of date, Of a fine old standard tragedy that was once pronounced first-rate, To which our great-great-grandmothers would go in all their state, And drag their time out drearily, for ’twas “legitimate,” Was this fine old standard tragedy, all of the olden time.

This play so old was writ throughout in blank verse ’stead of prose, And in blank terms the characters detailed their loves and woes; And there the audience sat it out, or took a quiet doze, And roused themselves up vig’rously to see the dismal close Of this fine old standard tragedy, all of the olden time.

When winter brought the theatres that open’d house to all, Although one score and ten its scenes, through each they yet would bawl: Nor was the slightest interest e’er given to enthral, And, until five dull acts were o’er, the curtain would not fall, On this fine old standard tragedy, all of the olden time.

But better taste must come at last, and such plays be put by, And empty houses soon proclaimed this tragedy must die; They gave it up right grudgingly, and not without a sigh, And found they must at last look round for sterling novelty, Instead of standard tragedies, all of the olden time.

And surely this is better far when managers are made To shelve these tragedies that have of interest not a shade; And much more economical――for actors then are paid―― Exchequers filled, and houses cramm’d, to see the dramas play’d, In place of standard tragedies, all of the olden time.

From Motley, by Cuthbert Bede. London: James Blackwood, 1855. (This Parody had previously appeared in Albert Smith’s Town and Country Miscellany.)

THE FINE OLD ENGLISH OMNIBUS.

I’ll sing you a new song at once, before it is too late, Of a fine old public vehicle, grown sadly out of date, Which, though a perfect nuisance in more ways than I can state, Is suffered in our thoroughfares still to perambulate. A fine old English Omnibus, one of the present time.

Its windows old let in the cold whene’er the east wind blows, And drip by drip the wet admit, whene’er it rains or snows; But how to get them open without breaking no one knows, When with “12 inside” the atmosphere a little “stuffy” grows, In this fine old fusty Omnibus, one of the present time.

Its cushions, when inspected in the light of other days, With the richest (cotton) velvet of a crimson hue did blaze; But now their threadbare covering’s a dingy brickdust red, And what was horsehair stuffing once now feels like lumps of lead, In this rare old English Omnibus one that is past its prime.

Its seats so close together bring the sitters nose to nose, And everybody’s forced to tread on everybody’s toes, Whence cheerful conversation springs, especially from those Who’ve corns or gout, and glare about as though you’re mortal foes, In this nice old City Omnibus, just to beguile the time.

Then if outside for air you’d ride, the clambering to your seat Would, if performed at Astley’s, be pronounced a “daring feat;” For ere you’re half-way up you hear them coolly cry “All right!” And then the “knife-board” cramps you so, with pain you can alight From this height of inconvenience, the subject of my rhyme.

And then the cad who tends the ’bus――his virtues who may tell? How with his every breath there comes a fragrant beery smell: How when he’s bound for Brompton he’ll engage to put you down Within a “heasy walk” of any part of Camden Town, By his fine old English Omnibus, one of the present time.

Nor should our praises be withheld from him who holds the reins, Who constantly is pulling up for furtive “little drains:” And ’specially on muddy days is rarely found to fail Of stopping in mid street to pick up passengers who hail This fine old English Omnibus: fun of the present time.

Now months have rolled since we were told this fine old ’bus must die, That another and a cleanlier its place was to supply: Yet for that “good ’bus coming, boys,” all vainly still we sigh, And when we take our walks abroad that nuisance we espy―― The fine old English Omnibus: blot on the present time.

Punch. November 22, 1856.

THE FINE OLD BRITISH SUBALTERN.

I’ll sing you a right good song, made by an honest pate, Of a fine old British Subaltern, whose pay was his estate, And who grumbled at the service at a beautiful rate, Because for his promotion he was made so long to wait, This fine old British Subaltern, born in the olden time.

His room, so small, was hung around with many a map and plan, Of sieges, storms, and battles, he had fought both boy and man, And every regulation sword worn since the world began, And dresses of the nations of Bengal and Astracan. This fine old, &c.

His room was open to a few each night when mess was o’er. To those who’d laugh at his old jokes he’d never close his door, And none of his old favourites e’er voted him a bore, But kindly laughed at tales they’d heard a thousand times before, From this fine old, &c.

And every year to town he went to state his wretched case, And to Lord Fitzroy’s lévee never failed to show his face; And though he gets some promises, and time wears on apace, Still, still his name’s reposing in it’s old accustomed place, This fine old, &c.

Then let us hope this fine old sub will be promoted yet, Though in these days a company’s no easy thing to get; Yet we will hope that by ill-luck he’ll cease to be beset, And look for his promotion in the very next Gazette, This fine old, &c.

From Wiseheart’s New Comic Songster. Dublin. No date.

THE FINE YOUNG ENGLISH OFFICER, (As he is to be,)

I sing of one whom now that we’ve begun to educate, The House of Commons lately made the subject of debate: Whose qualities each Member vied with each to numerate, And what their fancy painted him I’ll now proceed to state; ’Tis the fine young English Officer, as he is to be――in time.

His head so old on shoulders young with knowledge overflows, Acquaintance with all sciences and arts its stores disclose, All books and in all languages by heart almost he knows, And he’s able to write legibly, and what is more, compose: Like a wise young English Officer, the reason of my rhyme.

Italian, French, and Spanish, and Dutch, high or low, he’ll speak, Count Troy-weight like a Trojan, tell the time of day in Greek; And if to serve in India he be a chosen man, he Will astonish all the natives in the choicest Hindostanee; Like a polyglot young officer, fit for the future time.

Nor are his powers of body less than are those of his mind; Quick eye, strong arm, and foot so fleet as ne’er to lag behind; Good lungs, and constitution such as no fatigue can feel, With iron nerves and sinews, and a heart as true as steel, Has this brave young English Officer, to serve us in his prime.

A Centaur in his horsemanship, an Angelo to fence, In every manly pastime he makes way, nor makes pretence; From battle-fight to fisticuffs good generalship he proves. In glory’s race a winner, and a “wunner” with the gloves, Like the plucky British Officer, of past and present time.

He can draw with equal credit an earthwork or a cheque, Keeps a spotless reputation, and accounts without a speck, Knows staff-duties and horseflesh, can out-bargain Greek or Jew, Has ready wit at his command, and ready money too: This accomplished English Officer, one of the coming time.

Punch. August 22, 1857.

A FYTTE OF THE BLUES.

Of woman’s rights and woman’s wrongs we’ve heard much talk of late, The first seem most extensive, and the latter very great; And Mrs. Ellis warns men, not themselves to agitate, For ’neath petticoats and pinafores is hid the future fate Of this wondrous nineteenth century, the youngest child of Time!

The Turks they had a notion, fit alone for Turks and fools, That womankind has no more mind than horses or than mules; But this idea’s exploded quite, as to your cost you’ll find, If you intend to change or bend some stalwart female mind, In this Amazonian century, precocious child of Time.

If by external signs you seek this strength of mind to trace, You’ll observe a very “powerful” expression in her face; The lady’s stockings will be blue, and inky be her hand, And her head quite full of something hard she doesn’t understand, Like a puzzle-pated Bluestocking, one of the modern time.

And her dress will be peculiar both in fabric and in make, An artistic classic tragic highly-talented mistake; Which is what she calls “effective,” though I’d rather not express The effect produced on thoughtless minds by such a style of dress, When worn by some awful Bluestocking, one of the modern time.

She’ll talk about statistics, and ask if you’re inclined To join the progress movement for development of mind. If you enquire what that means, she’ll frown and say ’tis best Such matter should be understood, but never be express’d, By a stern suggestive Bluestocking in this mystic modern time.

She’ll converse upon aesthetics, and then refer to figures, And turn from angels bright and fair to sympathise with niggers, Whom she’ll style “our sable brethren,” and pretend are martyrs quite; And with Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, she’ll swear that black is white, Like a trans-Atlantic Bluestocking, one of the modern time.

She never makes a pudding, and she never makes a shirt, And if she’s got some little ones, they’re black and blue with dirt; When the wretched man her husband comes, though tired he may be, She’ll regenerate society instead of making tea, Like a real strong-minded Bluestocking, The plague of the modern time.

The moral of my song is this, just leave all “ics” and “ologies” For men to exercise their brains, on platforms and in colleges; Let woman’s proud and honour’d place be still the fireside, And still man’s household deities, his mother and his bride, In this our nineteenth century, The favour’d child of Time.

FRANK E. SMEDLEY. Gathered Leaves. London, Virtue Brothers, 1865.

(This parody originally appeared in Mirth and Metre.)

THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN OF THE PRESENT TIME.

I’ll sing you a fine old song, improved by a modern pate, Of a fine Old English Gentleman, who owns a large estate, But pays the labourers on it at a very shabby rate. Some seven shillings each a week for early work and late, Gives this fine Old English Gentleman, one of the present time.

His hall so brave is hung around with pictures, all in rows, Of oxen that have gained the prize at agricultural shows, And pigs so fat that they can’t see an inch before their nose; For the whole of his attention on his cattle he bestows, Like a fine Old English Gentleman, one of the present time.

In winter’s cold, when poor and old, for some assistance call, And come to beg a trifle at the portals of his hall, He refers them to the workhouse, that stands open wide for all; For this is how the parish great relieve the parish small, Like this fine Old English Gentleman, one of the present time.

When any of his working men are bold enough to press For a trifle more of wages in a season of distress, He answers like a thorough-going man of business:―― “Must I pay this or that for work which I could get for less?” Says the fine Old English Gentleman, one of the present time.

But rolling years will onwards flow, and Time, alas! will fly, And one of these fine days this fine Old Gentleman will die! Ah! will he then bethink him as he heaves life’s last sigh, That he has done to others quite as he would be done by? As the true Old Englishman did all in the olden time.

THE FINE YOUNG LONDON GENTLEMAN.

I’ll sing you a fine new song all about a fine young spark, Who’s a fine Young London Gentleman quite up to any lark; Who takes supper very early, and breakfasts in the dark; Who’s a real “dear old chappie,” as I needn’t p’raps remark, Of a fine Young London Gentleman, Quite of the present style.

He’ll bet in “monkeys,” “ponies,” though he has seldom ready cash; If his Tailor isn’t paid, yet he has rings and pins to flash; At his fav’rite burlesque theatre he’s known as “such a Mash,” When to a fifth-rate Actress he bouquets down will dash, Like a fine Young London Gentleman, Quite of the present style.

He round the corner hurries when the sparkling piece is o’er, To see his favourite Beauties coming out by the stage-door; He will jostle with his fellows to obtain a smile――nay, more, To simply stare at her he’s seen some hundred times before, Like a fine Young London Gentleman, Quite of the present style.

He will hie him off to Hurlingham to join the dove battue; He will “plank his pieces” down to join in battle with the Jew; He will seek the same antagonist his “paper” to renew, When he’s had the bank at baccarat, or “lost the quids” at loo, Like a fine Young London Gentleman, Quite of the present style.

He will say that port and sherry his nice palate always cloy; He’ll drink nothing but “B. and S.” and big magnums of “the Boy;” He’s the darling of the Barmaid, and the honest Waiter’s joy, As he quaffs his Pommery “extra sec,” his “Giesler;” or “Irroy,” Like a fine Young London Gentleman, Quite of the present style.

On a Racecourse he imagines that he knows what he is at, He talks so scornfully of “mugs,” and says he knows a “flat;” So wisely speaks of “roping,” and he always “smells a rat,” But it very often happens that he’s put “into a hat,” Is this fine Young London Gentleman, Quite of the present style.

But there comes a time when barmaids and when theatres are no go, When the “Boy” is voted nasty, and burlesques considered slow, When ev’rything too stale is, and when life has lost its flow, And the spirits once so high become dull, sluggish, bad, and low, Of the fine Young London Gentleman, Quite of the present style.

Then he recognises sadly there are others come, like he, To make merry with the “fizz,” and likewise quaff the “S. and B.” He is growing old and weary, having just turned twenty-three, Existence is so tedious, all “life” a vast ennui To the fine young London gentleman, Quite of the present style.

A FINE OLD ENGLISH GENERAL.

I’ll sing you a good old song, That was made by a good old pate, Of a fine old English General, Of a very modern date, Who helped to keep his country In a fit defensive state, And every quarter drew his pay At a bountiful old rate―― Like a fine old English General, One of the modern time!

How Horatio kept the bridge In the good old times you’ve read; But this fine old English General He kept, as a rule, his bed; For he suffered from obeseness. And had swimming in his head; Whilst the gout, like an active foeman, About his body fled―― This fine old English General, &c.

But like a brave old warrior, Prepared to do and dare, This fine old English General, Kept ready his Bath-chair; That if the foe should threaten, He to the front might fare, And with limbs swathed in flannel, The victory he might share―― This brave old English General, &c.

He’d never been in actual fight, But had in fun fought hard; And right through many a desperate night At the Bank had he kept guard; Whilst many a day had he “relieved” In St. James’s Palace Yard; And once on duty in the streets Was wounded by a shard―― This brave old English General, &c.

But though in no campaign he’s been, Of medals he’s a score; And every year that he can live His honours will be more; And should he reach four score and ten Still higher he will soar; For he will be Field-Marshal then, Before his life is o’er―― This fine old English General, &c.

Nor let the country mourn that she But one such General owns; She has a hundred at the least, That scarce can move their bones; A hundred gouty sons of Mars, Who, gulping down their groans, May from their beds command their troops Through patent Telephones―― These fine old English Generals, &c.

THE FINE OLD ATOM-MOLECULE.

(To be sung at all gatherings of advanced Sciolists and “Scientists”).

We’ll sing you a grand new song, evolved from a ’cute young pate, Of a fine old Atom-Molecule of pre-historic date, In size infinitesimal in potencies though great, And self-formed for developing at a prodigious rate―― Like a fine old Atom-Molecule, Of the young World’s proto-prime!

In it slept all the forces in our cosmos that run rife, To stir Creation’s giants or its microscopic life; Harmonious in discord, and coöperant in strife, To this small cell committed, the World lived with his Wife―― In this fine old Atom-Molecule, Of the young World’s proto-prime!

In this autoplastic archetype of Protean protem lay All the humans Space has room for, or for whom Time makes a day, From the Sage whose words of wisdom Prince or Parliament obey, To the Parrots who but prattle, and the asses who but bray―― So full was this Atom-Molecule, Of the young World’s proto-prime!

All brute-life, from Lamb to Lion, from the Serpent to the Dove, All that pains the sense or pleases, all the heart can loathe or love, All instincts that drag downwards, all desires that upwards move, Were caged a “happy family” cheek-by-jowl and hand in glove, In this fine old Atom-Molecule, Of the young World’s proto-prime!

In it Order grew from Chaos, Light out of Darkness shined, Design sprang up by Accident, Law’s rule from Hazard blind, The Soul-less Soul evolving――against, not after, kind―― As the Life-less Life developed, and the Mind-less ripened Mind, In this fine old Atom-Molecule, Of the young World’s proto-prime!

Then bow down, Mind, to Matter; from brain-fibre, Will, withdraw; Fall Man’s heart to cell Ascidian, sink Man’s hand to Monkey’s paw; And bend the knee to Protoplast in philosophic awe―― Both Creator and Created, at once work and source of Law, And our Lord be the Atom-Molecule, Of the young World’s proto-prime!

ON SIR STAFFORD NORTHCOTE.

Yes, I’ll sing you a good old song that, alas, seems out of date, Of a fine old English statesman who for long had served the State, And a sterling reputation had been able to create For his courtesy and honour and strict fairness in debate, Like a fine Old English Gentleman, One of the good old kind.

He never stooped to treachery, nor can he comprehend, How politicians can to tricks and throwing mud descend. Nor will he principle forsake nor sacrifice a friend, Though he is ready to the last his party to defend, Like a fine Old English Statesman, One of the good old times!

Truth Christmas Number, 1885.

THE GRAND OLD MAN.

I’ll sing to you a brave new song, about the Grand Old Man, Whose tongue and pen are ever found to forward freedom’s plan, Who in the march of liberty has always led the van, And ever stretched his strong right hand to help his fellow man This brave, true-hearted, Grand Old Man, Who stands up for the right.

This Grand Old Man wears on his brow no coronet of gold, He does not claim a long descent from titled rogues of old, He owns no broad domains for which he hath his country sold, But looks the whole world in the face, for honour makes him bold―― This brave, true-hearted, Grand Old Man, Plain Gladstone is his name.

In times gone by this Grand Old Man the cause of Free Trade led, With Bright and Cobden he has helped to give the poor man bread, And in dark homes of poverty, the light of plenty shed, And little children bless his name, for he their lips hath fed―― This brave, true-hearted, Grand Old Man, Who pleads the people’s cause.

The page of knowledge to the poor had never been unrolled, And poor men’s papers all were taxed to spare the rich man’s gold. But the Grand Old Man removed the ban with purpose brave and bold, And now we’ve schools――and papers too――and what we have we’ll hold―― Thanks to the brave and Grand Old Man, Who is the poor man’s friend.

The Grand Old Man with tongue of fire St. Stephen’s echoes woke, And wrong and cruelty stood ashamed whenever Gladstone spoke, And as his strong and brave right hand could fell the noble oak, So cowards and tyrants toppled down beneath the sturdy stroke Of this brave, true-hearted Grand Old Man, Who fights in Freedom’s cause.

With vision clear the Grand Old Man looked on Fair Erin’s Isle, And saw the land lie desolate for many a barren mile; He vowed he would our Sister save from force and fraud and guile, And Ireland’s hills and fertile vales should wear their ancient smile―― So said the brave and Grand Old Man, Who is Green Ireland’s friend.

Then weeping Ireland dried her tears, and took him at his word, She knew his cry of Justice! is far mightier than the sword; His plan it shall not fade and shrink like Prophet Jonah’s gourd, But triumph still till Briton’s sons are all of one accord With the bold and faithful Grand Old Man, Who’ll triumph in the end.

Then Britons rally round his flag and aid him in the fight, Though foes and traitors show their teeth he does not fear their bite, For tyrant lords must hide their heads before the people’s might: Then vote for the good old Liberal cause, for Justice and the right, And for that brave and Grand Old Man Who pleads in Ireland’s name.

J. F. B.

Published by the National Liberal Printing and Publishing Association, Limited. 1886.

AN OXFORD PARODY.

I’ll sing you a sporting song, for you all love well the chase, Of a gallant pack, and huntsman too, who go the fastest pace, He rides right bravely to his hounds, whatever be his steed And says “Let scent be ne’er so bad, this day the fox shall bleed,” Like a first-rate English fox-hunter, One of the present time.

His room at home is hung around with emblems of his pride, With sporting prints and fox’s heads, which in good runs have died: Th’ Oxonians on hacks, in “teams,” do gladly gather here To view his hounds and horses, and to taste the hearty cheer, Of this first rate, &c.

And when at break of early day he sallies to “the meet,” How well appointed! ain’t it, boys? how sportsmanlike! how neat! In Heythrop’s grassy avenue, a goodly sight, I ween, Is Redesdale’s lordly turn out, and the lads in Lincoln green! They’re first-rate English fox-hunters, Men of the present time.

“The silent system” Jim forswears: how to his voice they run! See now they’re in the covert: look out, my boys, for fun! “The varmint” trembles as he hears the foe approaching nigh And hopes it is the ――――[15] or else he sure must die For this first-rate, &c.

List! list! Old Vanguard challenges: the pack in turn reply; And Jim’s “Hark forward!” now is heard as on they quickly fly: He leads the van on Spangle: next Jack[16] upon his mare; There’s neither wall nor water shall stop the gallant pair Of first-rate, &c.

A check! a check! now freshman bold, “hold hard, Sir, if you please:” Just watch Jim’s clever casts, Sir, just watch his “busy bees:[17] He has it now! Right merrily “that sweetest music” rang; So press your steeds, my gallant lads, and catch him if you can―― This first-rate English fox-hunter. One of the present time.

And now the pace doth tell a tale: press on, ye happy few; ’Tis forty minutes racing speed――we run him now in view; His tongue hangs out, his brush lies low, whoop! he’s down, indeed! Dismount, ye joyous ones, dismount! and light the soothing weed, Ye first-rate English fox-hunters, Men of the present time.

Thus, thus this gallant huntsman keeps up the merry game; His head, his heart, his hand, my boys, for ever are the same And a parting toast I’ll give you, with a ringing three times three, May Jim long hunt “the Heythrop” and we be there to see This first-rate English fox-hunter, One of the present time.

From Hints to Freshmen in the University of Oxford. Oxford. J. Vincent. No date.

THE SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT.

I’ll sing you a good old song of the powerful Fourth Estate, Of a bold and reckless Special of the very latest date, Who is able countless horrors to in print accumulate, And will wire false news from anywhere at the usual cable rate.

Chorus.――Like a Special Correspondent, all of the modern time!

When on the war-path he proceeds and takes his daily rides, The enemy sends shots at him, and then in terror hides, As he clears whole batteries at once with the steed that he bestrides, And from a hissing shell a light for his cigarette provides.

Chorus.――Does this Special Correspondent, all of the modern time!

He knows not fear――’tis grand to see how he his nerves controls, As midst the grape and canister, he calmly caracoles, Whilst bullets in his pocket-book make inconvenient holes; And a well-pitched ball from out his hands the pencil often bowls.

Chorus.――Of the Special Correspondent, all of the modern time!

When incidents are dull or few, he’ll reckless lies invent, Or he’ll date his telegrams from towns to which he never went; To vilify a famous man he’ll readily consent, And will act on orders sent from home to any base extent.

Chorus.――Will this Special Correspondent, all of the modern time!

He loves to don a uniform and swagger with the best, And when no English are about wears medals on his chest; And for the news he cables home attention to arrest, That British troops are cowardly curs he glibly will suggest.

He has an altogether strange and wondrous sense of sight, For he can see a brilliant moon upon a moonless night; And has been known the lowest types of passion to excite, By writing of a fabulous “Baboon and Potboy” fight.[18]

Chorus.――Has this Special Correspondent, all of the modern time!

“Untamed and ancient Savages” he also can espy, And many other curious sights――if no one else be nigh! But, if he should have company, why, then, his magic eye No longer non-existent moons and mortals can descry.

Chorus.――For this Special Correspondent, all of the modern time!

When brought to mix with gentlemen, he acts in such a way, That they are bound to rid themselves of him without delay; For he toadies to gain confidence, which straightway he’ll betray; And there’s no trick too mean for him to readily essay.

Chorus.――This Special Correspondent, one of the modern time!

In short, he’s arrogant and false; he gushes to excess, He makes his facts to suit the views his master may express; His self-conceit’s contemptible, so are his style and dress, And he’s brought already quite enough dishonour on the Press.

Chorus.――Has the Special Correspondent, all of the modern time!

Truth Christmas Number. 1882.

THE FINE YOUNG AGRICULTURIST.

The winter comes, as winter came some fifty years ago―― Sometimes muggy, warm, and wet, and sometimes frost and snow; And, weather notwithstanding, comes the Christmas Cattle Show; But the modern English farmer our forefathers wouldn’t know, In the fine Young Agriculturist――one of the modern time.

He don’t take days to travel up by daily coach and mail, And stop at roadside posting-houses, drinking rum and ale. Or waste his time to dine, and hear the landlord’s oft-told tale, But speeds at forty miles an hour to town express by rail. This fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

In former days his dress was baggy sandy-coloured suits, A great top-coat, with pockets deep, knee-breeches and top-boots, And all his thoughts were how to grow the finest crops and roots, And all his talk of ripening corn and rearing Christmas brutes. Not the fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

But now the modern farmer is a transformation quite―― His coat made small, and cutaway――his trousers fitting tight. His Balmoralish patent leather button boots are light, A Champagne Charley glossy hat, curl’d brim, and small in height, On this fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

The past young English farmer was so vulgar and ill-bred―― A gross, fat, clumsy lump of human nature over-fed; His goggle-eyes were lustreless――his bacon chops all red, His hair hung coarse and shaggy all about his pumpkin-head. Not the fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

But the modern English farmer, now, ’tis pretty well agreed, Is a very different person――of a very different breed; He comes up to the Cattle Show a gentleman indeed, And doesn’t lounge about the town, and drink, and overfeed. Not the fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

He’s quite a genteel fellow, nothing “fast,” and nothing “flash”; Can very soon distinguish good amusements from the trash; His nature full of spirits, and his pocket full of cash, And he cultivates your friendship――and a very large moustache. Does this fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

He talks to you of chemical manures――salts and phosphates, Discusses freely politics of home or foreign states; In science, too, is well read up to hold out long debates; Can play the “fancy” science, too, for punishing rogue’s pates. This fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

He’s not a Tony Lumpkin now, to muddle time away In public-house, or skittle-ground, and smoke the vulgar clay. But, having more refinement, can the game of billiards play, Or join the ladies on the lawn at love-making croquet. Can this nice Young Agriculturist, &c.

Look round, too, at his Christmas stock――the same improvement own; No longer for a tallow show the Christmas cattle grown: No more beneath oppressive fat shall porkers lie and moan, But well-developed form and flesh, and very little bone. By this fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

Now, isn’t this much better that the live-stock should be so, Than as seen by our grandfathers some fifty years ago? And may the price of butchers’ meat a great deal cheaper grow; Then success attend exhibitors, and the Christmas Cattle Show! And the fine Young Agriculturist, one of the modern time.

From Banter, Edited by G. A. Sala. December 9, 1867.

THE ROMANCE OF KELLY’S POST-OFFICE DIRECTORY.

We hear of days long passed away, and glorious times of old, And how Young England’s sons affirm we’re getting dull and cold; But yet romance is not quite dead――in common daily life She still exists; of which great fact you’ll find examples rife In the Post-office Directory, all of the present year.

The mighty minds of every age you’ll meet therein combined, John Milton, as a tea dealer, in Mary’bone you’ll find; And Isaac Walton in the East, has stores of pens and quills; And Hogarth trades in ham and beef, and Butler deals in pills, In the Post-office Directory, &c.

(The Author continues to string notable names together in this style for six more verses.)

In fact, there’s nought or nobody the keen compilers spare, And all we have immortalised are bona fide, there; Just turn to the last copy, and you’ll find them all forthwith, Unless you chance to lose yourself amongst the tribes of Smith, In Kelly’s last Directory, all of the present year.

From A Pottle of Strawberries, by Albert Smith. 1848.

In the following notes, extracts are given from a few parodies which are not sufficiently amusing to be quoted in full.

An uninteresting political parody of the “The fine old English Gentleman” in eight verses, is contained in a small pamphlet entitled Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet, published by Houlston and Sons, London, about 1883.

It commences thus:――

I sing a brand new song which may old faiths eradicate, About the B. whose buzzing has been heard so much of late, Whose craze it is to scheme to be Protector of the State, And thinks that being bulky is the same as being great, A much mistaken demagogue, Of the self-anointed line.

The Christmas number of The World for 1885 had a parody commencing,

“A good old English gentleman, all of the olden school, Is a person who our sympathy commands”

which dealt with political topics; whilst the very unpoetical subject of the Irish Land Acts was considered at great length, and in a rather heavy style, in a parody which appeared in Kottabos for 1881, over the signature M.

THE INDEFEASIBLE TITLE.

I’ll sing you all a song that was made by an honest pate, Of a fine old Irish gentleman, who mortgaged his estate To a bluff old English mortgagee, who swore he couldn’t wait, But would sell the lands at any price and at an early date, Like a business-like old Englishman, all of the olden time.

* * * * * (Nine verses omitted.)

Kottabos was a small magazine issued from Trinity College, Dublin, and published by William McGee.

A PARODY BY CHARLES DICKENS.

The following parody, written by Charles Dickens, appeared in The Examiner for Saturday, August 7, 1841. Mr. Forster thus refers to it in his Life of Charles Dickens: “The last of these rhymes I will give entire. This has no touch of personal satire in it, and he would himself, for that reason, have least objected to its revival.” Thereupon Mr. Forster quotes seven only out of the eight stanzas he professes to give in full, omitting one which quite destroys his assertion that there was no personal satire in the parody. Mr. Forster was once described by a cabman as “that ’ere harbitrary cove;” to give a garbled quotation, and state that it is the entire poem is indeed an arbitrary act. The following is a complete reproduction of Mr. Dickens’s parody:――

THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN. New version (to be said or sung at all Conservative Dinners.)

I’ll sing you a new ballad, and I’ll warrant it first-rate, Of the days of that old gentleman who had that old estate; When they spent the public money at a bountiful old rate, On ev’ry mistress, pimp, and scamp, at ev’ry noble gate, In the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again!

The good old laws were garnished well with gibbets, whips, and chains, With fine old English penalties, and fine old English pains, With rebel heads, and seas of blood, once hot in rebel veins; For all these things were requisite to guard the rich old gains, Of the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again!

This brave old code, like Argus, had a hundred watchful eyes, And ev’ry English peasant had his good old English spies, To tempt his starving discontent with fine old English lies, Then call the good old Yeomanry to stop his peevish cries, In the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again!

The good old times for cutting throats, that cried out in their need, The good old times for hunting men who held their father’s creed, The good old times when William Pitt, as all good men agreed, Came down direct from Paradise at more than railroad speed. Oh, the fine old English Tory times; When will they come again?

In those rare days, the press was seldom known to snarl or bark, But sweetly sang of men in power like any tuneful lark; Grave judges, too, to all their evil deeds were in the dark; And not a man in twenty score knew how to make his mark. Oh, the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again!

(The following stanza was omitted by Mr. Forster.)

Those were the days for taxes, and for war’s infernal din; For scarcity of bread, that fine old dowagers might win; For shutting men of letters up, through iron bars to grin, Because they didn’t think the Prince was altogether thin, In the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again!

But Tolerance, though slow in flight, is strong-wing’d in the main; That night must come on these fine days, in course of time was plain; The pure old spirit struggled, but its struggles were in vain; A nation’s grip was on it, and it died in choking pain, With the fine old English Tory days, All of the olden time.

The bright old day now dawns again; the cry runs through the land, In England there shall be――dear bread! in Ireland――sword and brand, And poverty and ignorance, shall swell the rich and grand, So, rally round the rulers with the gentle iron hand, Of the fine old English Tory days; Hail to the coming time!

The allusions contained in the sixth stanza require some explanation. In 1813 Leigh Hunt and his brother, as proprietors of The Examiner, were sentenced to undergo two years imprisonment, and each to pay a fine of five hundred pounds, for publishing an article in that paper containing the following remarks on the Prince Regent:――

“What person would imagine in reading these astounding eulogies in The Morning Post, that this ‘Glory of the people’ was the subject of millions of shrugs and reproaches! That this ‘Conqueror of Hearts’ was the disappointer of hopes! That this ‘Exciter of Desire’ (Bravo, Morning Post!), this ‘Adonis in Loveliness,’ was a corpulent man of fifty! In short, this delightful, blissful, wise, pleasureable, honourable, virtuous, true and immortal Prince was a violator of his word, a libertine over head and ears in disgrace, a despiser of domestic ties, the companion of gamblers and demireps, a man who has just closed half a century without one single claim on the gratitude of his country, or the respect of posterity.”

The Hunts were informed that if they would undertake to abstain from commenting on the actions of the Prince Regent for the future the sentence would be remitted. They declined to give the required undertaking, but paid their fines, and went to prison. The severity of the sentence caused great delight to the friends of the Prince Regent, and Theodore Hook wrote the following apropos parody of Cowper’s poem on Alexander Selkirk:――

VERSES.

(Supposed to be written by the Editor of the Examiner, whilst in prison.)

I am tenant of nine feet by four, My title no lawyer denies, From the ceiling quite down to the floor, I am lord of the spiders and flies.

Oh, Justice! how awkward it is To be griped by thy terrible squad! I did but indulge in a quiz, And the Quorum have sent me to quod.

Dear scandal is out of my reach, I must pass my dull mornings alone. Never hear Mr. Brougham make a speech, Nor get audience for one of my own!

The people, provokingly quiet, My fate with indifference see: They are so unaccustomed to riot, Their tameness is shocking to me.

Personality, libel, and lie, Ye supports of our Jacobite train, If I had but the courage to try, How soon I would sport you again!

My ranklings I then might assuage By renewing my efforts to vex, By profaning the rev’rence of age, And attacking the weakness of sex.

A libel! what treasure untold Resides in that dear little word, More rich than the silver and gold Which the Bank is reported to hoard!

But the Bench have no bowels for pity, No stomach for high-season’d leaven, And though we be never so witty, They trim us when judgment is given.

O ye, who were present in Court, In pity convey to me here Some well-manufactured report, Of a lady, a prince, or a peer.

Do my writings continue to tell? Does the public attend to my lines? O say that my Newspapers sell Though the money must go for my fines!

How fleet is the growth of a fib! The astonishing speed of its flight Outstrips the less mischievous squib Let off on a holiday night.

Then who would not vamp up a fudge, “When he knows how it helps off his papers Were it not――that the thought of the judge Overcasts him, and gives him the vapours?

But Cobbett has got his discharge―― The beast is let loose from his cover: Like him I shall yet be at large, When a couple of years shall be over.

For law must our liberty give, Though Law for a while may retard it Even I shall obtain it, who live By sapping the bulwarks that guard it.

Severe as was the punishment inflicted on the Hunts it did not have a deterrent effect; indeed the trial was a political blunder, it gave enormous publicity to a libel which would otherwise have been seen by few, and have soon been forgotten; it offended many, who whilst having no sympathy with the Hunts, were still in favour of a free Press; and finally it encouraged the publication and sale of many other attacks upon the Prince Regent, and his friends. The most active and zealous purveyor of this kind of literature was William Hone, of Ludgate Hill, who published numerous pamphlets, leaflets, parodies and squibs; most of these were written by Hone himself, and illustrated by George Cruikshank. The Prince Regent’s personal appearance, his intemperance, his vanity, and his conduct towards his wife, were mercilessly exposed and ridiculed; whilst the actions of the ministry were also held up to public scorn and contempt.

Eventually the government took legal proceedings against Hone for publishing political parodies, namely, John Wilkes’s Catechism, the Political Litany, and the Sinecurist’s Creed.

There were three separate trials held in the Guildhall, London, on December 18, 19 and 20, 1817, and in each trial the Jury found a verdict of Not Guilty. Here, again, the government prosecutions defeated their own ends. Hone became the hero of the day, the martyr in the cause of the liberty of the Press; a large sum of money was raised for him by public subscription, and what was worse, the parodies were republished, and, owing to the publicity given to them by the trials, the sales were enormous. Even now these little pamphlets are eagerly sought after by collectors of literary curiosities, and of Cruikshankiana, especially those relating to the Prince Regent and his illtreated wife. The most successful example of Hone’s skill was a parody entitled “The House that Jack built,” of which more than fifty editions were rapidly sold off. A few extracts will show the bitter tone of this parody; and Cruikshank’s portrait of the Dandy of Sixty was scarcely more complimentary than Leigh Hunt’s written description of the “fat Adonis of fifty.” The subjects of Cruikshank’s illustrations are given within parenthesis.

THIS IS THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT.

(A Temple of Liberty.)

This is the WEALTH that lay in the House that Jack built.

(Magna Charta, Habeas Corpus, Bill of Rights.)

These are the VERMIN that plunder the Wealth, that lay in the House that Jack built.

(Court Official, Bishops, Lawyers, Army, Tax-collectors.)

This is the THING, that in spite of new Acts, And attempts to restrain it by Soldiers or Tax, Will poison the Vermin, that plunder the Wealth, That lay in the House, that Jack built.

(A Printing Press.)

This is the PUBLIC INFORMER, Who would put down the Thing, That in spite of new Acts, And attempts to restrain it by Soldiers or Tax, Will poison the Vermin, that plunder the Wealth, That lay in the House, that Jack built.

(The Attorney General.)

These are the REASONS OF LAWLESS POWER, That back the Public Informer, Who would put down the Thing, That in spite of new Acts, &c., &c.

(A Gaoler, an Artilleryman, a Horse Guard, and a Grenadier.)

This is THE MAN――all shaven and shorn, All cover’d with Orders――and all forlorn; THE DANDY OF SIXTY, Who bows with a grace, And has taste in wigs, collars, cuirasses, and lace; Who, to tricksters and fools, leaves the State and its treasure, And, when Britain’s in tears, sails about at his pleasure, Who spurn’d from his presence the Friends of his youth, And now has not one who will tell him the truth; Who took to his counsels, in evil hour, The Friends to the Reasons of Lawless Power; That back the Public Informer Who would put down the Thing, That, in spite of New Acts, And attempts to restrain it, by Soldiers or Tax, Will poison the Vermin, That plunder the Wealth, That lay in the House that Jack Built.

(A crowd of starving people.)

These are the PEOPLE All tattered and torn, Who curse the day wherein they were born, On account of taxation too great to be borne, And pray for relief, from night to morn: Who, in vain, Petition in every form, Who, peaceably meeting to ask for Reform, Were sabred by Yeomanry Cavalry, Who were thanked by The Man, All shaven and shorn, all covered with Orders And all forlorn; THE DANDY OF SIXTY, Who bows with a grace, &c., &c.

The Report of Hone’s three Trials is an interesting work, full of curious parodies, of which a detailed account will be given in the Bibliographical Volume of this Collection. But for the present Leigh Hunt, William Hone, George Cruikshank, and George, Regent, and King, must be dismissed, and Thackeray’s burlesque Epitaph will fitly close this chapter.

[Illustration: GEORGE IV.]

He never acted well, by man or woman. And was as false to his mistress as to his wife. He deserted his friends and his principles. He was so ignorant he could scarcely spell; But he had skill in cutting out coats, And an undeniable taste for cookery. He built the palaces of Brighton And of Buckingham, And for these qualities and proofs of genius, An admiring aristocracy Christened him the “First Gentleman in Europe.” Friends, respect the King whose statue is here, And the generous aristocracy who admired him.

THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND.

When mighty Roast Beef was the Englishman’s food, It ennobled our hearts, and enriched our blood; Our soldiers were brave, and our courtiers were good. Oh! the Roast Beef of Old England, And, oh! for Old England’s Roast Beef!

Then, Britons, from all nice dainties refrain, Which effeminate Italy, France, and Spain; And mighty roast beef shall command on the main. Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

But since we have learnt from effeminate France, To eat their ragouts, as well as to dance; We are fed up with nothing but vain complaisance, Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

Our fathers of old were robust, stout and strong, And kept open house, with good cheer all day long, Which made their plump tenants rejoice in this song,―― Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

When good Queen Elizabeth sat on the throne, Ere coffee and tea and such slipslops were known; The world was in terror if e’en she did frown, Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

In those days, if fleets did presume on the main, They seldom or never returned back again, As witness the vaunting Armada of Spain. Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

Oh! then we had stomachs to eat and to fight. And when wrongs were cooking, to set ourselves right,―― But now, we’re a――hum!――I could, but Good night, Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

This song was first printed complete in Walsh’s “British Miscellany” about 1740. It was written and composed by Richard Leveridge, with the exception of the first two verses which were written by Henry Fielding, for a comedy entitled “Don Quixote in England.” This piece was acted at the New-Theatre in the Haymarket, 1733.

KAIL-BROSE O’ AULD SCOTLAND.

When our ancient forefathers agreed wi’ the laird For a piece o’gude ground to be a kail-yard, It was to the brose that they paid their regard: O! the kail-brose o’ auld Scotland, And O! the Scottish kail-brose.

When Fergus, the first of our Kings, I suppose. At the head of his nobles, had vanquished our foes, Just before they began, they’d been feasting on brose, O! the Kail-brose, &c.

Our sodgers were drest in their kilts and short hose, Wi’ their bonnets and belts, which their dress did compose, And a bag of oatmeal on their backs to be brose, O! the Kail-brose, &c.

But now since the thistle is joined to the rose, And the English nae longer are counted our foes, We’ve lost a great deal o’our relish for brose. O! the Kail-brose &c.

Yet each true-hearted Scotsman, by nature jocose, Likes always to feed on a cog o’ gude brose, And, thanks be to heaven, we’ve yet plenty of those. O! the Kail-brose, &c.

THE GROCER’S DELIGHT, OR A SUGAR PLUM FOR MASTER BILLY.

When good George the Second did sit on the throne, A Pitt we could boast, and a Pitt of our own, A true Whig was he to the very back-bone. Oh, the true Whigs of old England, And oh, the Old English true Whigs.

He went to the city to dine with the mayor, The King and the Queen, and the courtiers were there, The people huzza’d him, which made the King stare. Oh, the true Whigs, &c.

The feast of the Grocers is not the same thing, His son, Master Billy, is all for the King, And therefore a different song we must sing Oh, the back-stairs of St. James’s, And oh, the St. James’s back-stairs.

Billy bluster’d and vapour’d, and gave himself airs, He spoke for the people, and swore he was theirs, Till Jenkinson usher’d him up the back stairs. Oh, the back stairs, &c.

Dundas is his counsel, and Thurlow his guide, The lords of the bed-chamber with him divide, The bishops, God mend’em, are all of his side. Oh, the back stairs, &c.

He holds his head high and he talks very big, For the Commons of England he don’t care a fig; But the House of Lords swear he’s an excellent Whig. Oh, the poor Whigs of Old England! And oh, the poor Old English Whigs.

Since the fortunate days of King William the Third, When Nassau to Stuart was wisely prefer’d, Such doctrines as these are, sure never were heard, By the staunch Whigs of Old England, By the Old English staunch Whigs.

Then as Billy[19] stands up for Prerogative strong, If the Father was right, sure the Son must be wrong, So let every Englishman join in my song, Success to the Whigs of Old England! Success to the Old English Whigs!

From The History of the Westminster Election, 1784.

OH! THE WHITE VESTS OF YOUNG ENGLAND!

Oh! the vests of Young England are perfectly white, And they’re cut very neatly and sit very tight; And they serve to distinguish our Young Englishmen From the juvenile MANNERS to CONINGSBY BEN; Sing, “Oh! the white vests of Young England, And Oh! the Young English white vests!”

Now the Old English vest was some two yards about, For Old England was rather inclined to be stout; But the Young English waist is extremely compress’d, By the very close fit of the Young English vest. Sing, “Oh! &c.”

The Young English white vest, upon one little score, May perhaps be considered a bit of a bore, For it makes the resemblance exceedingly near ’Twixt the Young English Waiter and Young English Peer. Sing, “Oh! &c.”

But what are the odds as concerning the vest, So long as felicity reigns in the breast? And Young England to wear what it pleases may claim, Let us hope all its tailors are paid for the same. Sing, “Oh! &c.”

Punch 1844.

O! THE BROWN BEER OF OLD ENGLAND.

When humming brown beer was the Englishman’s taste, Our wives they were merry, our daughters were chaste; Their breath smelt like roses whenever embraced; O! the brown beer of old England, And, O! the Old English brown beer.

Ere coffee and tea found their way to the town, Our ancestors by their own fire-sides sat down, Their bread it was white, and their beer it was brown. O! the brown beer &c.

Our heroes of old, of whose conquests we boast, Could make a good meal of a pot and a toast; O! did we so now, we should soon rule the roast. O! the brown beer &c.

When the great Spanish fleet on our coast did appear, Our sailors, each one, drank a jorum of beer And sent them away with a flea in their ear. O! the brown beer, &c.

Our clergymen then took a cup of good beer; Ere they mounted the rostrum, their spirits to cheer; Then preached against vice, though courtiers were near. O! the brown beer, &c.

Their doctrines were then authentic and bold, Well grounded on scripture and fathers of old But now they preach nothing but what they are told. O! the brown beer, &c.

For since the geneva and strong ratafee, We are dwindled to nothing,――but stay――let me see Faith, nothing at all but mere fiddle-de-dee. O! the brown beer, &c.

From The Universal Songster. Vol. III.

THE FROG AND THE BULL.

As once on a time a young frog, pert and vain, Beheld a large ox grazing on the wide plain, He boasted his size he could quickly attain. Oh, the Roast Beef of Old England, And O for Old England’s Roast Beef.

Then eagerly stretching his weak little frame; Mamma, who stood by, like a cunning old dame. Cried, “Son, to attempt it you’re surely to blame,” Oh, the Roast Beef, &c.

But, deaf to advice, he for glory did thirst, An effort he ventured more strong than the first, Till swelling and straining too hard made him burst. Oh, the Roast Beef, &c.

Then Britons, be careful, the moral is clear; The ox is Old England, the frog is Monsieur, Whose threats and bravadoes we never need fear, While we have Roast Beef in Old England. Sing O for Old England’s Roast Beef.

ANONYMOUS. ――――

THE BOILED BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND.

That mighty Roast Beef was the Englishman’s food, And spoon-meat the Frenchman’s was once understood, And mess-bugles at dinner-time still stir the blood, With “Oh, the Roast Beef of Old England, And Oh, for Old English Roast Beef.”

Yes, “Oh, for Roast Beef,” well our soldiers may sigh, They may sniff it down areas, in cook-shops may eye; But save in that music, bid life-long good bye, To the famous Roast Beef of Old England, The mighty Old English Roast Beef.

For as if we’d ta’en lesson from soup-stewing France, In our barracks Roast Beef is a dream of romance, And the man who enlists is condemned in advance, To sing, “Blow the Boiled Beef of Old England,” And “Blow that Old English Boiled Beef!”

If against civil broils barrack-rules still must preach, And our troops rule the roast, but in figure of speech, Then surely we’re bound our mess-bugles to teach To play “Blow the Boiled Beef of Old England,” And “Blow the Old English Boiled Beef!”

What’s the odds if at Bouilli the soldier looks blue? ’Tis the rule of the service, and can’t be broke through. Against roast, fry, or bake Colonel North in a stew Would cry, “Where’s the Boiled Beef of Old England, Oh, where’s the Old English Boiled Beef?”

What with those leather collars, their throttles that lock, And those weary camp-kettles, their hunger that mock, Our poor British soldiers must surely hate stock, And sing, “Blow the Boiled Beef of Old England, Oh, Blow the Old English Boiled Beef!”

With the shako that lets the rain into his neck, And the pack, pouch, and cross-belts, his breathing that check, And the barrack-room reeking like any slave-deck, Keep up the Boiled Beef of Old England. Keep up the Old English Boiled Beef.

At huge cost let recruits still be drilled, dressed, and taught, To have them die off twice as fast as they ought, Let General Routine still set reason at nought, And sing, “Oh, the Boiled Beef of Old England,” And “Oh, the Old English Boiled Beef!”

By all means let our soldiers be served, in the way, That famed Dr. Kitch’ner said cucumbers may, First dress ’em with care, and then throw them away, And sing, “Oh, the Boiled Beef of Old England,” And “Oh, the Old English Boiled Beef!”

Punch. March 6, 1858.

THE PAUPER’S CHAUNT.[20]

O we’re very well fed, so we must not repine, Though turkey we’ve cut, and likewise the chine But, oh! once a year we should just like to dine On the Roast Beef of Old England, Oh, the Old English Roast-Beef.

O, the gruel’s delicious, the taters divine―― And our very small beer is uncommonly fine; But with us we think you would not like to dine, Without the Roast-Beef of Old England, Oh, the Old English Roast-Beef!

Our soup’s very good, we really must own. But of what it is made arn’t very well-known; So, without any soup we would much rather dine On the Roast-Beef of Old England, Oh, the Old English Roast-Beef!

Mince-pies they are nice, and plum-pudding is fine, But we’d give up them both for “ribs” or “Sir Line,” If for once in the year we could but just dine On the Roast-Beef of Old England, Oh, the Old English Roast-Beef!

“Roast Beef and plum-pudding” is true Christmas fare, But they think that our morals such dainties won’t bear. Oh, oh! it is plain ne’er more shall we share In the Roast-Beef of Old England, Oh, the Old English Roast-Beef!

From George Cruikshank’s Omnibus.

THE SIRLOIN SUPERSEDED.

Once mighty roast beef was the Englishman’s food. It has now grown so dear that ’tis nearly tabooed. But Australian beef, potted, is cheap and is good. O, the Boiled Beef of Australia! And O, the Australian Boiled Beef!

It is capital cold; it is excellent hot; And, if a large number of children you’ve got, ’Twill greatly assist you in boiling the pot. O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

First-rate is Australian mutton, likewise, For curries, and rissoles and puddings, and pies. The thrifty good housewife no butcher’s meat buys. O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

It will make you a hash that is fit for a king. And the young ones all like it, and that’s a great thing. So Paterfamilias it causes to sing, O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

For the small boys and girls eat the fat with the lean, Don’t leave underdone, but their plates nicely clean―― Where pigs are not kept which helps make all serene. O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

Australian meat from the bone being free, The more economical needs must it be. As there are no joints there’s no carving you see. O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

The fleshpots of Egypt were once in high fame; Australian fleshpots have more than the same, Old England’s roast beef is now rivalled in name. O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

The privileged victims who Income-tax pay, Whose earnings precarious are taken away, While ceasing to deal with a Butcher, can say O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

’Tis true that your servants, fastidious and fine, Australian meat in their folly decline. On skilligolee they hereafter may dine. O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

Now pour out the wine which we could not afford Except for Antipodes’ meat on the board. Its inventors’ good health!――whilst my helping’s encored. O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

Punch. August 24, 1872.

STIRRING THE PUDDING, A Song for the Christmas Season.

The National Padding all parties protest By themselves is best planned, and compounded the best, And each eager spoon wielder will stoutly aver All would turn out quite well had himself but a stir. At the glorious Plum-Padding of England, Old England’s unequalled Plum-Pudding!

The Stirrers-in-Chief, who’ve their spoons in the pan, Have been stirring away on their own special plan For a tidy long time, and triumphantly say That no Season has shown, for this many a day, Such a splendid Plum-Pudding for England, Such a genuine English Plum-Padding!

Well we know the old Saw about too many cooks; But a Saw is not always so sage as it looks; And a Pudding so big as JOHN BULL’s may require All the hands and the spoons that toil on and ne’er tire Of stirring the Pudding of England, The mighty old English Plum-Pudding!

The proof of the Pudding’s in eating, they say; And JOHN BULL, who must eat it has likewise to pay; And so, at this season, let’s wish them success, And hope that among them they won’t make a mess Of the rare old Plum-Pudding of England, The old English Christmas Plum-Pudding!

(Four verses omitted.)

Punch. Dec. 27, 1879.

THE RED, WHITE, AND BLUE.

Oh, Britannia, the pride of the ocean, The home of the brave and the free, It is time that with zealous devotion, We saw to the Navy for thee. If tyrants thou still wouldst make tremble, Thou needest some armour-clads new, Or else――it is vain to dissemble―― It’s all up with the Red, White, and Blue. It’s all up with the Red, White, and Blue, It’s all up with the Red, White, and Blue; It is useless to longer dissemble, ’Tis all up with the Red, White, and Blue.

THE ELECTION.

Great, great is the task set before us―― Once more ’tis for us to decide The men who shall freely rule o’er us, And still by our bidding abide. Then choose we the leaders whose story Will ever bear telling anew, Whose work in the past is their glory, And stamps them as honest and true.

Chorus.

Then choose we the tried, wise, and true, Then seek we the tried, wise, and true; Let truth and consistency rule us, And choose we the tried, wise, and true.

We know what the task is whose splendour Our country will light on its way, When Justice and Progress attend her, And class has forgotten its sway; When hope for the thousands who labour Is real in their toil-weary view―― When right for each man and his neighbour Shall end in a union that’s true!

J. PRATT. The Weekly Dispatch. October 25, 1885.

AN AMERICAN IMITATION.

Oh, Columbia, the gem of the ocean, The home of the brave and the free; The shrine of each patriot’s devotion, A world offers homage to thee. Thy mandates make heroes assemble, When liberty’s form stands in view; Thy banners make tyranny tremble, When borne by the red, white and blue.

When borne by the red, white and blue. When borne by the red, white and blue, Thy banners make tyranny tremble, When borne by the red, white and blue.

When war waged its wide desolation, And threatened our land to deform, The ark then of freedom’s foundation, Columbia rode safe through the storm. With her garland of victory o’er her, When so proudly she bore her bold crew, With her flag proudly floating before her, The boast of the red, white and blue.

The wine cup, the wine cup bring hither, And fill you it up to the brim, May the memory of Washington ne’er wither, Nor the star of his glory grow dim. May the service united ne’er sever And each to our colors prove true: The army and navy forever, Three cheers for the red, white and blue.

Three cheers for the red, white and blue, Three cheers for the red, white and blue, The army and navy forever, Three cheers for the red, white and blue.

THE ENGLISHMAN.

There’s a paper bears a well-known name, Though it is but a sorry lot; On the English journals’ scroll of fame It seems but a dirty blot. On the scribbling ones who by it live I’ll not waste word of song; Nor for all the ex-Q.C.[21] could give To that paper would I belong. It’s a scurrilous journal, deny it who can―― A disgrace to the name of ENGLISHMAN.

From Faust and ’Phisto. 1876.

THE JINGO-ENGLISHMAN. (New Version of an old Song, adapted to the tastes of the Patriot of the Period.)

There’s a Land that’s Cock of Creation’s walk, Though it is but a tiny isle, And to hear its brag, and its tall tall talk, Might make e’en Bombastes smile. It holds itself holiest, first in fight, Most brave, most wise, most strong, And will ne’er admit what it fancies right Can by any chance be wrong. ’Tis the pink of perfection, deny it who can, The Home of the Jingo Englishman!

There’s a Flag that floats o’er every sea, And claims to control the brine; And if any dare hint that it makes too free, The result is a deuce of a shine. For the bouncing boys who walk the deck Deem the Ocean their own little lot, And if foreign fools at their pride should check, They will catch it exceedingly hot. Right-divine’s in its bunting, deny it who can, Is the Flag of the Jingo-Englishman!

There’s a Heart that leaps with a generous glow A paying cause to defend, Lets interest rule it in fixing a foe, And profit in choosing a friend. It nurtures a deep and abiding love For possession of power and pelf, And deems that the duty all others above Is enshrined in that sweet word “self.” ’Tis a rare tough organ, deny it who can, The Heart of your Jingo-Englishman!

The Briton may traverse the Pole or the Zone, And annex on sea or shore; He calls an immense domain his own, But he means going in for more. Let the wandering stranger seek to know To what charter such “rights” are owed, And a flush will rise to the Briton’s brow As he answers――“You be blowed!” There’s no end of a pull, deny it who can, In the words, “I’m a Jingo-Englishman!”

Punch. November 9, 1878.

THE CHANCERY COURT.

There’s a place that bears a well-known name, Tho’ ’tis but a seedy spot; ’Tis the first in the blazing scroll of shame, And who dare say it is not? Of the big-wigged ones who shine and live On laws, on “Flats” and fees, The choicest the Devil to earth can give In this little spot one sees; For a gem in its way, as we’ve always been taught, Is that grand Institution――a Chancery Court.

There’s a thing that’s a terror to every tongue, No matter when or where, And to treat that thing as a mere old song Is more than the richest dare. For the foolish spirits, who seek that Court, To its Vultures once fallen a prey, May struggle in vain to’ escape what they sought―― They never can get away. ’Tis a gem in its way, spite of evil repute, No friend sticks so close as a Chancery suit.

The Briton may traverse each legal port And pay, yet have something to spare; He may pass the “Insolvent Debtors’ Court,” And merge at the most nearly bare. But if once in a Chancery suit he’s caught, Though the world be all his own, In those hungry clutches, ’twill be as nought, And they’ll fight for his skin and bone. For a gem in its way, spite of evil report, Is the sacred shade of a Chancery Court.

From Grins and Groans, Social and Political, (London, W. Swan Sonnenschein & Co.)

RULE BRITANNIA.

Robert Southey calls this “the political hymn of our Country,” and it may certainly be regarded as the British National Song. There has been some controversy as to its authorship, it is generally ascribed to James Thomson, author of “The Seasons,” whilst others have assigned it to David Mallet. The arguments are too lengthy to be reproduced here, but the chief points of the discussion are to be found in letters from Mr. William Chappell, and Mr. Julian Marshall, published in “Notes and Queries,” August 14, November 20, and December 18, 1886. Possibly both Thomson and Mallet joined in the composition of the ode (as they styled it), but this question can now never be authoritatively settled. No doubt exists however that the music was composed by Dr. Thomas Arne, and by it, and the chorus, Rule Britannia is known all the world over.

On the 1st August, 1740, a Masque styled Alfred, written by James Thomson and David Mallet, was performed in the gardens of Cliefdon House, in commemoration of the accession of George I., before the Prince and Princess of Wales. The plot of the Masque was based on the gallant struggles of King Alfred with the Danes, it abounded with patriotic allusions, and Rule Britannia was thus introduced in scene 5, Act 2.

“Here is seen the Ocean in prospect, and ships sailing along. Two boats land their crews. One Sailor sings the following ode; after which the rest join in a lively Dance.”

When Britain first, at Heaven’s command, Arose from out the azure main; This was the charter, the charter of the land, And guardian angels sung the strain; Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! Britons never will be slaves.

The nations, not so blest as thee, Must in their turns to tyrants fall; While thou shalt flourish great and free, The dread and envy of them all. Rule, Britannia! &c.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that rends the skies, Serves but to root thy native oak. Rule, Britannia! &c.

Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame: All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame―― And work their woe, and thy renown. Rule, Britannia! &c.

To thee belongs the rural reign: Thy cities shall with commerce shine; All thine shall be the subject main, And ev’ry shore it circles thine. Rule Britannia! &c.

The Muses, still with freedom found, Shall to thy happy coasts repair, Blest isle! with matchless beauty crown’d, And manly hearts to guard the fair. Rule, Britannia! Britannia rule the waves! Britons never will be slaves.

LATIN VERSION.

Jubente cum primum Deo Britannia Pelagi cavis recessibus caput extulit, Ei in manus hæc charta magna tradita est, Cælestiumque omnis melos cæcinit chorus; Fluctus regas, domina regas Britannia; Nunquam Britannus imperanti serviet.

Sua quamque gentium minus felicium Manet vicissim sors, jugum hostile: interim Tu, Nostra, pulcra, tu vigebis libera, Gens invidenda, gens timendaque omnibus. Fluctus, &c.

Per damna tu cædesque surges celsior, Ferrumque opes dabit peregrinum tibi: Procella ceu, quæ miscet æthera et salum, Novas tuis vires ministrat quercubus. Fluctus, &c.

Non te tyrannus perdomabit insolens, Ut sæviat thronoque te dejectum eat: Virtus tua, acriore calcare incita, Illi ruinam, gloriam tibi pariet. Fluctus, &c.

Ruris colonos imperia beant tua; Cives beant in urbibus commercia; Tibi æquor omne obtemperabit subditum, Et omne, cujus alluit litus, solum. Fluctus, &c.

Camæna, Libertatis usque hæc est comes, Viset tuam, visamque amabit insulam; Felix nimis! nam filias armat Venus, Et filias qui protegant, Mars filios. Fluctus regas, domina regas Brittania; Nunquam Brittanus imperanti serviet.

From Blackwood’s Magazine. April, 1819.

ELECTION SONG.

When Canning’s name was first proclaim’d, Resounding Mersey’s strand along; A man for worth and talents fam’d, This was the Freemen’s fav’rite song: Hail great Statesman! the Statesman of our choice! We bid thee welcome and rejoice!

The Candidates opposing thee, Must daily find their ardour cool; Whilst thou our pride shall surely be, Declar’d triumphant at the poll. Hail &c.

Still as their friends assemble round, With energy our cause to gain; Thy foes shall sicken at the sound, To hear the Freeman’s fav’rite strain. Hail &c.

Our commerce round the world shall flow, Surpassing any former time; To thee our native town shall owe, The right to trade to every clime. Hail, &c.

From An Impartial Collection of Addresses, Songs, Squibs, &c., published during the Liverpool Election, October 1812.

When Britain first, impell’d by pride, Usurp’d dominion o’er the main, Blest peace she vainly threw aside, And gave her sons the galling chain. View, Britannia, Britannia view the waves, On which thy darling sons are slaves.

The nations now more blest than thee Shall see their haughty Despots fall, What time thy hapless fate shall be The scorn and pity of them all. View, Britannia, &c.

Thy haughty Tyrants ne’er shall bend The glorious cause of Freedom down; Their rage shall fan the sacred flame, And work their woes and her renown. View, Britannia, &c.

Thee best becomes the contrite strain, For cities drench’d with human gore, For crimes which tinge the orient main, And banish peace from Afric’s shore View, Britannia, &c.

The Muses still with Freedom found, Shall from thy venal court repair, To sing on Gallia’s freer ground, Or breathe Columbia’s purer air. View, Britannia, &c.

From The Wreath of Freedom, or Patriot’s Song Book. Newcastle 1820.

A CORN LAW RHYME.

When Freedom’s foes mock’d labours’ groan, And, drunk with power, contemn’d the throne, God bade great William rule the waves; And William scorn’d to govern slaves. Rule, great William, rule the free! William Britain’s shield will be!

On their hard hearts they ground their words, And made them sharp as traitors’ swords, But cower’d, like dogs, beneath his eye, When millions shouted to the sky, Rule, great William, rule the free! William Freedom’s shield shall be!

He broke his bonds o’er Rapine’s head; “Free men! Free bread!” great William said, And like a second Alfred stood, King of the happy and the good; While the free, from sea to sea, Sang, Great William rules the free!

EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

In this, Elliott’s wish was father to the thought, for William IV., did not live to see the repeal of the Corn Laws. Another long imitation of Rule Britannia, entitled “The Triumph of Reform,” also appears amongst the Corn Law Rhymes, which were collected and published by Benjamin Steill, London, in 1844.

RULE SLAVEOWNIA. (The National Hymn of the Confederate States.)

When first the South, to fury fanned, Arose and broke the Union’s chain, This was the Charter, the Charter of the land, And Mr. Davis sang the strain: Rule Slaveownia, Slaveownia rules, and raves “Christians ever, ever, ever have had slaves.”

The Northerns, not so blest as thee, At Aby Lincoln’s foot may fall, While thou shalt flourish, shalt flourish fierce and free, The whip, that makes the Nigger bawl, Rule Slaveownia, Slaveownia rules, and raves “Christians ever, ever, ever should have slaves.”

Thou, dully savage, shalt despise Each freeman’s argument, or joke: Each law that Congress, that Congress thought so wise, Serves but to light thy pipes for smoke. Rule Slaveownia, Slaveownia rules, and raves “Christians ever, ever, ever must have slaves.”

And Trade, that knows no God but gold, Shall to thy pirate ports repair: Blest land, where flesh――where human flesh is sold, And manly arms may flog that air, Rule Slaveownia, Slaveownia rules, and raves “Christians ever, ever, ever shall have slaves.”

SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1861.

HOME-RULE HIBERNIA!

When Faction at the De’il’s command Arose within the Em’rald Isle, This was the chorus through the land, And traitors sang it in this style: Home Rule, Hibernia! Britannia her rule waives! Britons ne’er shall make us slaves.

The Scotchmen not so blest as thee, Put up with Richmond at Whitehall, Whilst thou, with flourish fierce and free, Wilt have Home Rule, or none at all. Home Rule, Hibernia! Britannia her rule waives! Britons ne’er shall make us slaves.

Still more cantank’rous shalt thou rise More dreadful from each Parnell stroke, Till Commerce from the country flies, And all thy native banks are broke. Home Rule, Hibernia! Britannia her rule waives! Britons ne’er shall make us slaves.

Thee haughty Viceroys ne’er shall tame, All their attempts to rub thee down Will but arouse the “pathriot’s” flame, And work their woe, but thy renown. Home Rule, Hibernia! Britannia her rule waives! Britons ne’er shall make us slaves.

To thee belongs red Terror’s reign; Thy cities shall with arson shine; All thine be the shillelah’s bane, And every head it circles thine. Home Rule, Hibernia! Britannia her rule waives! Britons ne’er shall make us slaves.

Thee Furies, oft in Erin found, To thy unhappy coast repair; Green Isle, with matchless folly crown’d. And hearts that blackguard all that’s fair. Home Rule, Hibernia! Britannia her rule waives! Britons ne’er shall make us slaves.

Moonshine. January 2, 1886.

IMPERIUM ET LIBERTAS. Competition Parodies in The World.

First Prize.

When Beaconsfield, at civic board, Uprose ’mid fellow-guests’ acclaim, This was the welcome London roared, Filling a bumper to his name―― Hail, Imperial, Imperial Statesman, hail! Thy majority shall never, never fail!

Let Gladstone boast of silver axe, And prate of upas-trees cut down; Thine be the care of income-tax, And thine be Turnerelli’s crown. So hail, &c.

‘Great Gladstone, less astute than we, From place and power defeated fell; I taught an Empire to be free, And grow Conservative as well. Then hail, Imperial freedom, hail! My majority shall never fail.

Me dissolution ne’er shall shock, Midlothian voters ne’er dismay; The epigrams I have in stock Will serve me in the coming fray. Then hail, &c.

“Libertas et Imperium,” My watchword and my battle-call, Will silence, when the elections come, The loudest varlet of them all. Then hail, &c.

Still more secure shall be my lease Of Downing-street and county votes, Whilst licensed victuallers increase, And borough members turn their coats. So hail, &c.

Here, when November days come round, Is happiness enough for me: Blest halls, where every bowl is crowned With calipash and calipee! Then hail, &c.

So Truscott,[22] when the circling year Has withered all thy civic bays, Again I’ll sip my turtle here, And sing again an Empire’s praise. Then hail, &c.’

COMMON PLEAS.

Second Prize.

When on us burst, at thy command, A party legend once again, This was the cry throughout the land―― At least the Liberals sang the strain―― Fools! how can ye, how can ye trust such shaves? Jingoes ever will be knaves!

The motto duly blessed by thee, Great Earl, and by thy Tory class, Runs ‘Government and Liberty’ (Imperium et Libertas). Fools, &c.

(Six stanzas omitted).

LINDENFIELD.

The World. December 3, 1879.

A so-called comic song, entitled “Brickbats never will be Slates,” was brought out about two years ago, but it possesses no literary interest as a parody.

GOD SAVE THE KING.

The most remarkable feature about “God save the King,” (or Queen) is the great uncertainty which exists as to its origin. There seems little doubt that the melody is German, but it is not known when, or by whom, it was imported, whilst the words have been handed down, with slight verbal alterations, since the days when James the First was congratulated on his escape from the Gunpowder Plot.

The words as they were then sung were written by Dr. John Bull, to whom some also ascribe the melody; Germans assert that it was imported into England by Handel, whilst others state that either Lulli, or Purcell, was the composer.

George Saville Carey claimed both the words and the melody as the productions of his father, Henry Carey (the author of “Sally in our Alley,”) and one hypothesis is, that no other song writer could have been guilty of such atrocious rhymes as are to be found in the anthem:

Victorious. Laws. Glorious. Cause. Over us. Voice.

There is no doubt that Henry Carey had some part in settling the words, as they are now known, whilst as to the melody the most likely supposition is that he adopted German music in honour of the House of Brunswick, for the same air was at once the Royal Hymn for Prussia, Saxony, Weimar, Brunswick and Hanover; the German version known as “Heil Dir im Sieger Kranz” is still the official anthem of the German Empire. This theory is far more probable than are the various other conjectures as to its origin, such as that it was either a Scotch, French, or Jacobite Song. The grand simplicity of the air is almost sufficient proof of its German origin, and it is far more probable that it was introduced here with the Hanoverian dynasty than that an English melody should have been adopted as the Royal Hymn by nearly all the states of central Europe.

A good many years ago it was stated in Edinburgh that the manuscript memoirs of the Duchess of Perth contained an account of the establishment of St. Cyr, in which she stated that――“When the most Christian king Louis XIV entered the chapel, all the choir of noble damsels sung each time the following words, to a very fine air by the Sieur de Sully:――

Grand Dieu, sauvez le Roy! Grand Dieu, vengez le Roy Vive le Roy! Que toujours glorieux, Louis victorieux! Voye ses ennemis, Toujours soumis! Grand Dieu, sauvez le Roy! Grand Dieu, vengez le Roy! Vive le Roy!

The tradition is, that the composer Handel, obtained leave to copy the air and words, which he submitted to George the First as his own composition.”

The importation of the air of “God save the King,” appears undeniable, but it certainly did not come from France, neither is there anything to show that Handel passed it off as his own composition. Indeed in a court mainly composed of Germans, and before a German King, to whom the air must have been familiar from early childhood, such an attempt would have been ridiculous.

Many interesting facts bearing on these disputed questions will be found in an account of the National Anthem, entitled, “God save the King,” by Richard Clarke; London, W. Wright, Fleet Street, 1822; also in “Old National Airs,” by W. Chappell; “The Music of the Church,” by Thomas Hirst; and “An Introduction to the study of National Music,” by Carl Engel, London, 1866.

These authorities are not agreed as to the origin of the melody, but they all assert that words, somewhat similar to those now in use, were written to congratulate James the First on his escape from the Gunpowder Plot, and were sung for the first time at an entertainment given to that King in July 1607 in the Hall of the Merchant Tailors’ Company, in the City of London.

Indeed, the balance of evidence tends to prove that the song never was intended for the House of Hanover, whose anthem it has become, but for the Stuart family. Up to the time of Charles I. the national anthem-sung in honour of the king was “Vive le Roy”――an English song with a Norman burden. After the revolution that made Cromwell Protector, the Cavaliers, without utterly discarding the old song, made themselves a new one――“When the King shall enjoy his own again,” which, with its by no means contemptible poetry, and its exceedingly fine music, kept up the heart of the party in their adversity, and did more for the royal cause than an army.

In the reigns of Charles II. and James II., when the King had come into the full possession of his own, the loyal song was, “Here’s a Health unto his Majesty.” Later on, when the Stuarts were in exile, it would seem that Carey revived “God save the King,” but that it did not become popular until 1745, about two years after his death.

George Saville Carey in The Balnea (London, 1801) gives the following account of the origin of God save the King:

“In spite of all literary cavil and conjectural assertion there has not yet appeared one identity to invalidate the truth that my father was the author of that important song, some have given the music to Handel, others to Purcell, some have signified that it was produced in the time of Charles I. others James I. and some, in their slumbers, have dreamed that it made its appearance in the reign of Henry VIII. it might as well have been carried still further back, to the reign of song-singing Solomon, or psalm singing David. I have heard the late Mr. Pearce Galliard assert, time after time, that my father was the author of “God save the King”; that it was produced in the year 1745-6, and printed in the year 1750, for John Johnson, opposite Bow Church, in Cheapside. But, for the satisfaction of my readers, I will insert the song of ‘God save the King,’ as it is printed in the original text, where it is called a song for two voices:――

God save Great George our King Long Live our noble King, God save the King, Send him victorious, Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us, God save the King.

O Lord our God, arise, Scatter our enemies, And make them fall; Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish tricks, On him our hopes we fix, God save us all.

III.

Thy choicest gifts in store, On him be pleased to pour, Long may he reign, May he defend our laws, And ever give us cause To sing, with heart and voice God save the King.

IV.

Lord grant that MARSHALL WADE,[23] May, by thy Mighty aid, Victory bring; May he sedition hush, And like a torrent rush, Rebellious Scots to crush, God save the King.

There can be little doubt that Henry Carey was the author of the first three verses of this particular version of the song, but he could not have written the fourth verse, as he committed suicide in 1743, two years before the Scotch rebellion to which the verse refers.

The first time that the song or anthem of “God save the King” was made known generally to the public was at the end of the month of September, 1745 after the young Pretender’s forces had beaten Sir John Cope, and Prince Charles himself had made his triumphant entry into Holyrood Palace. “On Saturday night,” says the Daily Advertiser of September 30th, 1745, “the audience at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane were agreeably surprised by the gentlemen belonging to that house performing the anthem of ‘God save our noble King.’” Another paper, the General Advertiser, of October 2nd, said――“At the Theatre in Goodman’s Fields, by desire, ‘God save the King,’ as it was performed at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, was sung with great applause.” That the song was a novelty is proved not only by these records, but by a letter from Benjamin Victor to David Garrick, bearing date October, 1745. The writer says――“The stage at both houses is the most pious as well as the most loyal place in the three kingdoms. Twenty men appear at the end of every play, and one stepping forward from the rest, with uplifted hands and eyes, begins singing to an old anthem tune the following words:――

‘Oh, Lord our God, arise, Confound the enemies Of George our King; Send him victorious, Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us God save the King.

He adds, “These are the very words and music of an old anthem that was sung at St James’s Chapel for King James II., when the Prince of Orange landed to deliver us from Popery and Slavery, which God Almighty, in his goodness, was pleased not to grant.”

From that time God save the King became the recognised official and loyal song, or anthem, but it is, of course, incorrect to style it the National Anthem, in the sense that Rule Britannia is National, as it is simply a prayer for the Royal Family. Richard Brinsley Sheridan wrote an impromptu verse, which was sung at Drury Lane Theatre, in 1800, on the night when Hatfield fired from the pit of that theatre at George III. It is scarcely necessary to observe that Sheridan’s verse, as poetry, is immeasurably superior to the older portion of the anthem:――

“From every latent foe, From the assassin’s blow, God save the King! O’er him thine arm extend, For Britain’s sake defend Our father, prince and friend―― God save the King!”

In 1795 The Gentleman’s Magazine published the following Latin version:――

“DOMINE, SALVUM FAC REGEM.

O vivas, omnibus, Salvus ab hostibus, GEORGI, O REX! Tibi victoriam Deus, et Gloriam Det, et memoriam Optime rex.

Hostes, O Domine Ut cadant omine Horrido, da; Praebe, cœlicolens, Deus omnipotens! Atque omnisciens, Auxilia.

Fiat clarissimus Et beatissimus GEORGIUS REX; Cujus judicio, Cujus auspicio, Et beneficio Floreat lex!”

On the accession of William IV. a new version of the anthem was prepared:――

God save our noble King, William the Fourth we sing. God save the King. Send him victorious, Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us, God save the King.

O Lord our God arise, Guard him from enemies, Or make them fall; May peace with plenty crown’d Throughout his realms abound, So be his name renown’d, God save us all.

Or should some foreign band Dare to this favour’d land Discord to bring, May our brave William’s name, Proud in the lists of fame, Bring them to scorn and shame. God save the King.

Thy choicest gifts in store On William deign to pour, Joy round him fling; May he defend our laws, And ever give us cause To sing with heart and voice God save the King.

VICTORY! FREEDOM! AND FOX.

Britons, let’s all unite In defence of our right And liberty: For us we’ll distance drive Scare-Crow Prerogative Nor ever, whilst alive, Cease to be free.

Time-servers, wond’ring, shall View us determin’d all Spite of the Court; Spite of their wily tricks, And Back-stair politics, Fox is the man we fix On to support.

We, like Sir Judas Wray, Will not our friends betray, But, orthodox In aid of liberty, Let the whole nation see True and staunch we will be Ever to Fox.

Void of all treachery, To guard our liberty, Foremost stands Fox: Let, then, be this our cry Conquer, or let us die. Huzza! boys, VICTORY! FREEDOM, and FOX.

In 1790 Charles James Fox brought forward a motion in the House of Commons for the repeal of the test and corporation acts. Pitt and Burke opposed any such concession to the dissenters, and the motion was rejected by nearly three to one. A great agitation was got up, all over the country, by the Tory party, against the dissenters, who were ridiculed and abused in pamphlets, poems, and caricatures. Councillor Morfit, of Birmingham, composed a parody of God save the King which became very popular, it was extensively printed with a large caricatured representation of the chief dissenters brooding over sedition. It was entitled:――

OUR MOTHER CHURCH.

God save great George our King! Long live our noble King, God save the King, Send him victorious, Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us, God save the King!

Old mother Church disdains The vile dissenting strains, That round her ring; She keeps her dignity, And, scorning faction’s cry, Sings with sincerity, God save the King!

Sedition is their creed; Feigned sheep, but wolves indeed, How can we trust? Gunpowder Priestley would Deluge the throne with blood, And lay the great and good Low in the dust.

History, thy page unfold, Did not their sires of old Murder their King! And they would overthrow King, lords and bishops too, And, while they gave the blow, Loyally sing,

“O Lord our God arise Scatter our enemies, And make them fall; Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish tricks; On thee our hopes we fix, God save us all.”

OLD PRICES.

A parody of God Save the King circulated in Covent Garden Theatre, on the night of October 18, 1809, during the celebrated O.P. riots.

God save great Johnny Bull, Long live our noble Bull, God save John Bull. Send him victorious, Loud and uproarious, With lungs like Boreas, God save John Bull.

O Johnny Bull be true, Oppose the prices new, And make them fall; Curse Kemble’s politics, Frustrate his knavish tricks, On thee our hopes we fix. Confound them all.

No private boxes let Intriguing ladies get, Thy right, John Bull. From little pigeon-holes Defend us jolly souls; And we will sing, by goles, God save John Bull.

The Covent Garden Journal. Vol. II. London, 1810.

These volumes contain full accounts of the O.P. Riots in the new Covent Garden Theatre, which arose from some injudicious alterations made in the prices, and structural arrangements by John Kemble. He raised the prices partly in order to pay high salaries to Madame Catalani and other foreigners. The war cries of the rioters were “Old Prices! No Private Boxes! No Catalani! The English Drama!”, many songs and parodies were written to annoy Kemble, who had, eventually, to compromise matters, and Madame Catalani’s name was withdrawn from the bills. This lady had a fine voice, but was so ignorant of the English language that the following version of “God save the King” was prepared to assist her pronunciation when she had to sing the solo:――

Oh, Lord avar God Arais, schaeter Is enemis and Mece them fol Confond tear Politekse frosstre Their nevise trix On George avar hopes We fix. God save the Kin.

HAIL! MASONRY DIVINE.

Hail! Masonry divine Glory of ages shine, Long may’st thou hold; Where’er thy lodges stand May they have great command, And always grace the land: Thou Art divine.

Great fabrics still arise, And touch the azure skies, Great are thy schemes; Thy noble orders are Matchless beyond compare, No art with thee can share, Thou art divine.

Hiram, the architect, Did all the craft direct How they should build; Solomon, great Israel’s King, Did mighty blessings bring, And left us room to sing, Hail! Royal Art.

From The Universal Songster.

GOD SAVE THE RIGHTS OF MAN.

God save the Rights of Man, Give him a heart to scan Blessings so dear: Let them be spread around, Where ever man is found, And with the welcome sound Ravish his ear.

See, from the universe, Darkness and clouds disperse; Mankind awake; Reason and Truth appear, Freedom advances near, Monarchs with terror hear; See how they quake!

O’er the Germanic Powers Loud indignation showers, Ready to fall. Let the rude savage host, In their long numbers boast, Freedom’s Almighty trust, Laughs at them all.

Let us with Spain agree, And bid the world be free, Leading the way: Let tyrants all conspire, Fearless of sword and fire, Freedom shall ne’er retire, Freedom shall sway.

Fame let thy trumpet sound, Tell all the world around, Tell each degree; Tell ribbons, crowns, and stars, Kings, traitors, troops, and wars, Holy Leagues, plots, and jars, Spaniards are free.

God save the Rights of Man, Give him a heart to scan Blessings so dear: Let them be spread around, Wherever man is found, And with the welcome sound Ravish his ear.

From The Wreath of Freedom, or Patriot’s Song Book. (J. Marshall, Newcastle. 1820.)

SAVE YOURSELVES.

In 1871, Mr. Gladstone addressed a large meeting of the electors of Greenwich on Blackheath. In the course of his speech he referred to the number of reforms that had been carried out during his political career; but, he added, that whilst much remained to be done, we must not flatter ourselves that all the evils of humanity could be cured by legislation. He then quoted the first verse of the following parody, stating that he had met with it in a “questionable book.” The “questionable book” was The Secularist’s Manual of Songs and Ceremonies. Edited by Austin Holyoake and Charles Watts, with a Preface by Charles Bradlaugh. There was a loud outcry against Mr. Gladstone for quoting from such a source.

People throughout the land, Join in one social band, And save yourselves; If you would happy be, Free from all slavery, Banish all knavery, And save yourselves.

Why will you always toil, While others share the spoil? Work for yourselves! Let them who live so high Work for themselves, or try, Tell them ’tis time to try To keep themselves.

Parsons and peers may preach, And endless falsehoods teach, Think for yourselves; Then let your watchword be “Justice and Liberty”―― And toil unwearedly To save yourselves.

THE NATIONAL ANTHEM. (For use in the Bradlaughable Republic.) God = X. Title of Freethinker’s Text Book.

“X” save our graceless Chief, Reward his unbelief, “X” save our B. O’er Church victorious, And Throne, once glorious, Now sole Lord over us―― Xtol our B!

SCIENCE, our “X”! arise! Xplode B.’s enemies, And squash them small! Confound their politics! Frustrate their knavish tricks, Oh “X”! these heretics Xtinguish all!

Thy Xcellent gifts in store. Great “X”! be pleased to pour, On sacred B.! May he repeal the laws Which make our conscience pause, (Oaths merely move our jaws) And win loud lip-applause. “X”! (pelled) M.P.

From Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet, London: Houlston & Sons. About 1884.

“A clergyman――decidedly of the Church militant――sends us the following proposed ‘national anathema.’ His motto is from the ‘Magnificat’”:――

DEPOSUIT POTENTES DE SEDE.

Down with their lofty seats, Down with their vain conceits, Down with the Lords! Confound their false pretence, Confound their want of sense, Confound their impudence, Down with the Lords!

Down with their arrogant, Reckless, extravagant, Insolent words! Shall they reject the bill? Shall they dissolve at will? Shall they obstruct us still? Down with the Lords!

Commons of England, yet Shall the proud Lords regret Their futile aim. Make then our hearts rejoice, You are the People’s choice, You are the People’s voice, They but a name.

The Pall Mall Gazette. October 3, 1884.

GOD SAVE GLADSTONE.

God save the People’s Friend! May he our cause defend! Trusted and brave. Lengthen his span of years, Deepen the tyrants fears, Until the right appears, Gladstone still save!

God save the noble band Who long have led the van Of Freedom’s host! May faith and courage be Watchwords of Liberty! Until the goal we see, Each to his post!

Gladstone, the People’s Friend! Our aid we gladly lend Thy work to do: Yielding no inch of ground He will his foes confound, So shall our cause abound―― Liberty true.

From Songs for Liberal Electors, Manchester. A. Heywood and Sons, 1885.

A NATIONAL ANTHEM. (The Queen was to open Parliament on the 21st January.)

Soon will our gracious Queen In town again be seen―― Our long-lost Queen; Let us be glorious, Yea, quite laborious With mirth uproarious To――oo――oo greet our Queen!

Thus will Victoria Reg. Give us this privilege Too seldom seen. For she (oh, great event!) Hath stated her intent To o――o――open Parliament Parliament―― O――o――oh! gracious Queen!

Hail, then, with all your pow’r, That joyous brief half-hour, When she’ll be seen! Thanks to our politics (Which, through our M.P.’s tricks, Often are in a fix) We――e shall see our Queen!

Fun. January 20, 1886.

ADDITIONAL VERSE COMPOSED ON THE QUEEN’S MARRIAGE.

O, grant our earnest prayer, Smile on the Royal pair, Bless Prince and Queen! May Albert’s name be dear To every Briton’s ear, The peasant and the peer―― God save the Queen.

A JUBILEE VERSION.

The Vicar of Ryde, at the conclusion of an entertainment recently held at the Town Hall, Ryde, in aid of parochial charities, called upon the audience to join in singing the National Anthem, and “gave out” an additional verse which had been written “for the occasion” was as follows:――

God bless her Majesty, In this her Jubilee, Long may she reign! May she be near to us, Ever more dear to us, Oftener appear to us, God save the Queen!

Truth. February 17, 1887.

AN IMPROVED “NATIONAL ANTHEM.”

At the opening of the People’s Park, Manchester, by Prince Albert, a greatly improved “National Anthem” was sung, it would make an excellent substitute for the objectionable old version. As an improved “National Anthem,” perhaps there is none more worthy than the following, by Mr. W. E. Hickson, and its adoption would be an excellent Jubilee memento:――

God bless our native land, May heaven’s protecting hand Still guard our shore; May peace her power extend, Foe be transformed to friend, And Britain’s power depend On war no more.

Thro’ every changing scene O Lord preserve our Queen, Well may she reign. Her heart inspire and move With wisdom from above, And in the nation’s love Her throne maintain.

May just and prudent laws Uphold the public cause, And bless our Isle; Home of the brave and free, The land of liberty, We pray that still on thee Kind heaven may smile.

And not this land alone, But be Thy mercies known From shore to shore. Let all the nations see That men should brothers be, And form one family The wide world o’er.

THE SONGS OF

Mr. W. S. GILBERT.

Although Mr. W. S. Gilbert has long been before the public as a dramatist and humorous author, his chief title to fame rests upon the long series of successful comic operas produced either at the Opera Comique, or the Savoy Theatre. In all of these the quaint fancies and humorous dialogues of Mr. Gilbert, were supplemented by the brilliant and tuneful music of Sir Arthur Sullivan. Their creations, placed upon the stage with attention to every detail, and interpreted by a powerful company, have, for the last ten years, been the chief theatrical attraction, of a lighter sort, in the metropolis. The following is a list of these operas, with parodies of some of the favourite songs contained in them:――

Thespis; or, The Gods grown old.

Trial by Jury. A novel and original dramatic Cantata. Opera Comique Theatre. 1876.

The Sorcerer. A modern Comic opera 1877. It was in this opera that the inimitable actor, Mr. George Grossmith, made his first appearance on the stage in the part of “John Wellington Wells, a dealer in magic and spells.”

H.M.S. Pinafore; or, The Lass that loved a Sailor. An entirely original Nautical Comic opera. Opera Comique Theatre. May 25, 1878.

The Pirates of Penzance; or, The Slave of Duty. An original Melo-Dramatic opera. Opera Comique Theatre. 1880.

Patience; or, Bunthorne’s Bride. An Æsthetic opera. Opera Comique Theatre. April 23, 1881.

Iolanthe; or, The Peer and the Peri. An entirely original Fairy opera. Savoy Theatre, November 25, 1882.

Princess Ida; or, Castle Adamant. Savoy Theatre January 5, 1884.

The Mikado; or, The Town of Titipu. An entirely original Japanese opera. Savoy Theatre. March 14, 1885.

Ruddygore; or, The Witch’s Curse. An entirely original Supernatural opera. (The leading word in the title was afterwards altered to Ruddigore.) Savoy Theatre. January 22, 1887.

TRIAL BY JURY.

THE JUDGE’S SONG.

When I, good friends, was called to the Bar, I’d an appetite fresh and hearty, But I was, as many young barristers are, An impecunious party. I’d a swallow-tail coat of a beautiful blue―― A brief which I bought of a booby―― A couple of shirts and a collar or two, And a ring that looked like a ruby!

Chorus.――A couple of shirts, &c.

In Westminster Hall I danced a dance, Like a semi-despondent fury; For I thought I never should hit on a chance, Of addressing a British jury―― But I soon got tired of third class journeys, And dinners of bread and water; So I fell in love with a rich attorney’s Elderly, ugly daughter.

Chorus.――So he fell in love, &c.

The rich attorney he jumped with joy, And replied to my fond professions: “You shall reap the reward of your pluck, my boy “At the Bailey and Middlesex Sessions. “You’ll soon get used to her looks,” said he, “And a very nice girl you’ll find her! “She may very well pass for forty-three “In the dusk, with a light behind her!”

Chorus.――She may very well, &c.

The rich attorney was good as his word; The briefs came trooping gaily, And every day my voice was heard At the Sessions or Ancient Bailey. All thieves who could my fees afford Relied on my orations, And many a burglar I’ve restored, To his friends and his relations.

Chorus.――And many a burglar, &c.

At length I became as rich as the Gurneys―― An incubus then I thought her, So I threw over that rich attorney’s Elderly, ugly daughter. The rich attorney my character high, Tried vainly to disparage―― And now, if you please, I’m ready to try This Breach of Promise of Marriage!

Chorus.――And now, if you please, &c.

W. S. GILBERT.

BREACH OF PROMISE OF MARRIAGE.

Mr. Herschel’s motion for the abolition of actions for breach of promise of marriage, excepting where actual pecuniary loss had been incurred, was carried in the House of Commons by a substantial majority. He thus addresses an aspiring youth of the Temple:――

When you, my friend, are called to the Bar, Your wit may be fresh and hearty; You may be, as many young barristers are, A somewhat jocular party. But you won’t, in the course of your legal journeys, Be required to cross the water To plead, as advised by ’cute attorneys, For somebody’s jilted daughter.

A cute attorney jumps with joy When he hears a maid’s confession, And chuckles to think how he’ll bully the boy, In revenge for his retrogression. “You’ll get big damages, sure,” he’ll say, And cautiously remind her That her mother should bring her to court on the day, And her brother stand close behind her.

No, no. You won’t grow rich as the Gurneys Through accustomed legal slaughter; To the courts no more shall ’cute attorneys Bring somebody’s jilted daughter. That species of extortion I Most heartily disparage, And mean that henceforward no judge shall try A Breach of Promise of Marriage.”

Funny Folks. May 17, 1879.

H.M.S. PINAFORE.

THE MAHDI OF MID-LOTHIAN. (The Mahdi and Chorus of Radicals.)

The Mahdi――I am the Mahdi of Mid-Lothian.

Chorus―― And a very queer Mahdi too.

The Mahdi――You are very, very rude; And I’d have it understood I command a motley crew. Though a Tory I was born, My creed I have forsworn, And am a Rad of a deepish dye, I never turn my coat With a view to catch a vote, And I never tell a big, big――――official statement.

Chorus―― What, never?

The Mahdi――No, never.

The Mahdi――Well, hardly ever.

Chorus―― Then give three cheers for the Grand Old Man, The Grand Old Mahdi of Mid-Lothian; Then give three cheers for the Grand Old Man, For the Mahdi of Mid-Lothian.

The Mahdi――I’ve trimmed my sails to satisfy you all.

Chorus―― And we never knew what you meant.

The Mahdi――Why, that’s my little game But I tell you all the same You are most impertinent. An insincere excuse I never, never use, Whatever the emergency. And I never, never ape, In any form or shape, The conduct of the late Lord B.

Chorus―― Then give three cheers for the Grand Old Man, The Grand Old Mahdi of Mid-Lothian: Then give three cheers for the Grand Old Man, For the Mahdi of Mid-Lothian.

Manchester Courier. 1885.

H.M. HOME RULE CORPS.

Captain Gladstone――I am the captain of this Home Rule Corps!

All―― And a right good captain too!

Captain―― You’re a very mix’d lot, Some are cold, some are hot, But you’re safe “pretty far” to go.

All―― We’re a very mix’d lot, Some are cold, some are hot, But we’re safe “pretty far” to go.

Captain―― I care for no Whig mutineer, For “three courses” I can steer, Bold pilot in extremity, I’ve never miss’d my mark, With Tory, Turk, or Bismarck. Nor lost the Lib’ral ship at sea!

All―― What, never?

Captain―― No, never!

All―― What, NEVER?

Captain―― HARDLY ever!

All―― Hardly ever lost ship at sea! Then give three cheers and one cheer more, For the hardy captain of this Home Rule Corps.

Captain―― I’ll do my best to satisfy you all――

All―― But will you satisfy Parnell?

Captain―― That is neither here nor there, I play upon the square, And will “box the compass” well!

All―― We’re neither here nor there, He plays upon the square, And he’ll “box the compass” well

Captain―― Veil’d words I never use, Nor Lib’ral trust abuse, Whatever the emergency; Lose my temper I may, But friend nor foe can say I ever do it with a big, big D――――

Captain―― No, never!

All―― Hardly ever does it with a big, big D―――― Then give three cheers and one cheer more For the well-bred captain of the Home Rule Corps.

All―― For he is the captain of this Home Rule Corps; And a right good captain too!

Captain―― I’ve had many a sore fall, Ere made captain of you all, But you’re a promising crew!

All―― He’s had many a sore fall, Ere made captain of us all, And we’re a promising crew.

Captain―― I’ll hit upon a plan, To please the Parnell clan, Yet keep united Nations Three; They’ll play Parli’ment for diversion, Ne’er bother ’bout coercion Nor brick-bat Constabul’ry!

All―― Hardly ever brick-bat Constabul’ry! Then give three cheers and one cheer more, For the daring captain of this Home Rule Corps.

The North British Daily Mail. February 8, 1886.

GIANT LANDLORD.

I’m the curse of my country, the terror of all, Especially those who are feeble and small; I’m a grabber of land, and the people know me As a big-acred Landlord and J. of the P. Yes, I am a J. of the big, big P., And a very funny J. I’m too; For I never, never saw any practice in the law, And I never know what to do. But the clerk to whom I look, finds the law out in a book, And he whispers what it ought to be; And the pris’ners at the bar, Who or what-so-e’er they are, They never mercy get from me!

Jack―― What, never?

Giant L.――No, never!

Giant L.――No, never! No, never mercy get from me!

Jack and the Villagers―― Then give three groans, and three times three, For the cruel J. of the big, big P. Aye, give three groans, and three times three, For the J, of the big, big P.

Truth. Christmas Number. 1884.

LORD BEACONSFIELD’S SONG.

When I was a lad I served a term As clerk to a decent attorney’s firm; But the trammels of the office were so vile a bore, That I longed to be stepping from the big front-door! I slipped through that portal so readilee, That now I am a noble and, to boot, K.G.!

As novel-writer I made such a mark, That a Seat was discovered for the lawyer’s clerk; Then I sneered and flouted with a smile so bland, Till at last I had the Tories in my own right hand! I chaffed my opponents in a style so free, That now I am a noble, and a big K.G.!

By “slanging” Liberals I made such a name, That a full-blown Premier I soon became; With a “brute majority” to dance to my flute, I made an Indian Empress, and an Earl to boot! And that smart, Imperial juggle did so well for me, That now I am a noble and, you know, K.G.!

I grew so trusted that I was sent To the Congress, Britain for to represent. I cut up Turkey and insulted Greece; But you know I collared Cyprus, and I “brought back peace.” For a “peace with honour” they rewarded me By making of a nobleman a brave K.G.!

Now, statesmen all, whoever you may be, If you’re wishful to emulate this “big, big D.,” If your souls are not fettered to the Lower House, Be careful to be guided by the rule of nous: Stick close to the Crown, and never chop down trees, And you all may be noblemen, and all K.G.’s.

Funny Folks. September 7, 1878.

PRESIDENT GARFIELD.

When he was a lad he served a term On a big canal with a boatman’s firm: With a heart so free, and a will so strong, On the towpath drove two mules along; And he drove those mules so carefullee He’s a candidate now for the Presidencee.

As a driver boy he made such a mark He came to the deck of the inland barque And all of the perils to boat and crew He stood at the helm and guided thro’. He stood at the helm so manfullee He’s a candidate now for the Presidencee.

He did so well with the helm and the mules, They made him a teacher of district schools; And when from college in a bran new suit, A Greek professor at the Institute, Where Greek and Latin he taught so free He’s a candidate now for the Presidencee.

The song traces General Garfield’s history through ten stanzas, and closes in this moral and improving strain:――

Now boys who cherish ambitious schemes, Though now you may be but drivers of teams, Look well to the work you may chance to do, And do it with a hand that is kind and true. Whatever you do, do it faithfullee, And you may aspire to the Presidencee.

From a United States pamphlet, entitled Republican Campaign Songs, 1880.

A political parody of the same original, but of purely local interest, was published in Melbourne Punch, August 26, 1880, describing the career of Mr. Berry, an Australian politician.

LITTLE PRIMROSE’S SONG. (After Little Buttercup.)

Lord B.―― A many years ago, When I became a Tory, My brain was all aglow With dreams of fame and glory.

Ministers―― Now hear his artless story! When he became a Tory He dreamt of fame and glory A many years ago.

Lord B.―― One tender thought I “nussed”―― To gain a high position, And mix with upper crust Was ever my ambition.

Ministers―― Now, hear his frank admission! To be a sham patrician Was always his ambition A many years ago.

Lord B.―― Oh, bitter was my lot! Oh, vast was my vexation! They never once forgot My former humble station.

Ministers―― Oh, what humiliation! They seized on each occasion To mock his humble station A many years ago.

Lord B.―― But soon I made a hit, And nobody could doubt it: They cheered my ready wit, They couldn’t do without it!

Ministers―― Now this is all about it―― He’d wit and none could doubt it, Nor could they do without it A many years ago.

Lord B.―― My Party wanted power, And I so aptly taught it, That in a lucky hour To Office back I brought it.

Ministers―― So artfully he taught it, That back to Place he brought it; Now who’d have ever thought it A many years ago?

Funny Folks. March 6, 1880.

DUET. (By two Persons of Quality.)

First Person of Quality.

Your Grace, we have important information―― Sing hey, the silly Liberal that you are!―― About a certain intimate relation Between the artful Afghan and the CZAR. Sing hey, the artful Afghan, The crafty, treacherous Afghan, The sneaking, dangerous Afghan, and the CZAR!

Second Person of Quality.

My Lord, in your romantic vein you’re speaking―― Sing hey, the wily Hebrew that you are!―― We don’t believe there’s any kind of sneaking Between the virtuous Afghan and the CZAR. Sing hey, the virtuous Afghan, The well-intentioned Afghan, The harmless, truthful Afghan, and the CZAR!

Your Grace has not a spark of patriot feeling―― Sing hey, the factious Radical you are!―― Or you’d know we cannot letters be revealing, That touch a friendly Potentate, the CZAR. (Con expressione.) Sing hey, the friendly Monarch, The much-respected Monarch, Our best of foreign relatives, the CZAR.

Second Person of Quality (Con furia).

My Lord, we give you fair and timely warning―― Sing hey, the Tory criminal you are!―― We’ll talk to the Electors, one fine morning, About the ill-used Afghan, and the CZAR. (Lagrimando.) ’Bout the poor ill-usèd Afghan, The much malignèd Afghan, The loyal faithful Afghan, and the CZAR!

Punch. March 13, 1880.

The Tichborne Claimant wrote:――“It is a fine thing to be an Englishman. Fool that I used to be to think so! I should feel prouder now if I could say I was an American Indian. For if ever a man felt ashamed to own a country as his native land, I do this.”

“For he himself has said it, That it’s much to his discredit That he’s an Englishman. He would rather be a Rooshan, A Turk, or Greek, or Prooshan, Or else Red In-di-an; And his future aspirations Will be turned to other nations, Not to be an Englishman.”

Funny Folks. ――――

THE PIRATES OF PENZANCE.

SONG FOR A POLICEMAN.

Hem! I represent the law, ’Sent the law. Of the Beak upon the Bench, well, I’m the claw, I’m the claw. I’m a terror and a snare To all not upon the square; And some envy me my uniform of blue, Yes, they due, Many envy me my uniform of blue.

Duty calls me on some roads, On some roads, Where, I own, I meet with pleasant episodes, Episodes; Where the housemaids have good looks, And obliging are the cooks, With no beastly barracks near to make ’em rue, Make ’em rue; Yes, it’s valued then, this uniform of blue.

For the credit of the Force, Of the Force, A proper pride I cultivate, of course, ’Vate, of course; But, though sad, it must be told, All that glitters is not gold, And the statement Mr. Gilbert made is true, Made is true,―― No! it’s not all joy to wear this dress of blue.

Judy. July 11, 1883.

Song.――BY THE PRINCE OF WALES.

When a Prince is not engaged in his employment―― His employment, Such as laying by the score foundation stones―― ’Dation stones, His capacity for innocent enjoyment―― ’Cent enjoyment, For the cares of Princely etiquette atones―― ’Quette atones――

When he’s finished holding Levée’s for his mother―― For his mother, And has done official duties for the day―― For the day, He contrives his Princely weariness to smother―― ’Ness to smother, By indulging in a visit to the play―― To the play!

So he’s often at one playhouse or another―― Or another, When there is no public dinner to be done―― To be done; And take one consideration with another―― With another, A Prince’s lot might be a sadder one―― Sadder one! When there’s no official business to be done, A Prince’s life might be a sadder one!

AN ELECTION EFFUSION.

When the Free and Independent goes a voting――goes voting, He is very apt to make his presence felt; And election-news is nowadays denoting――a denoting, That a nasty knock to Gladstone he has dealt―― Amid the Separation dust, and smother――dusty smother, The Unionists their task have bravely done, Taking one consideration with another――with another, They all wisely took the tip of Mr. FUN――wondrous FUN! When preserving of the Empire’s to be done――to be done, It’s always safe to follow Mr. FUN.

Fun. July 21, 1886.

THE WHEELISTS’ CHORUS.

When the city man has finished his employment, ――His employment; When anxiety and all its cares are o’er, ――Cares are o’er; He devotes his mind to wheeling as enjoyment, ――As enjoyment And voteth all his business is a bore, ――Is a bore.

His feelings he’ll with difficulty smother; ――Culty smother; When after all his daily toil is done, Toil is done; Taking one consideration with another, With another; The Wheelist’s lot it is a happy one, Happy one.

When the enterprising Wheelist’s not a wheeling, Not a wheeling, When the Wheelist isn’t occupied on wheels, ――Pied on wheels, He loves to saunter in the evening early, Evening early, And listen to the distant village peals, Village peals.

When the tourist’s not engaged in his vocation, His vocation. He loves to go a touring in the sun, In the sun; Taking all things into due consideration, ――Sideration, The Wheelist’s lot it is a happy one, Happy one.

ALFRED GIBBONS. Wheeling Annual 1885.

Another very long song, on the same model, was printed in Wheeling, January 14, 1885, signed G. F. Benson.

SONG AND CHORUS. (Picked up near the Opera Comique.)

When Lord Beaky’s not engaged in lamentation―― Lamentation, He’s tearing all his pretty curly hair―― Curly hair; When Northcote can control his agitation―― Agitation, He is asking “How the rabid nation dare?” Nation dare? When the enterprising Cross is not a-sobbing―― Not a-sobbing, When Manners is not making dismal rhymes―― Dismal rhymes, The former big big D’s his water-jobbing―― Water-jobbing, The last inveighs ’gainst Telegraph and Times―― -graph and Times. When Smith has finished dancing in ill-humour―― In ill-humour, He grinds his little tootsicums like fun―― -cums like fun; Oh! despite the Disappointed Party’s rumour―― Party’s rumour, The Tories’ lot is not a happy one―― Happy one!

Funny Folks. April 24, 1880.

THE SECRETARY’S SONG.

When a fellow finds in Tennis his enjoyment, Or maturing his pot-hunting little plans, If the Secretarial duty’s his employment, He had rather it were any other man’s. He wishes he’d a cousin or a brother, Who would do the little job and think it fun, Oh, take one consideration with another, His official lot is not a happy one; Ah! When a Secretary’s duty’s to be done, His official lot is not a happy one.

When the cunning young mug-lumb’rer’s not mug-lumb’ring, When the shirker doesn’t fail to come to time, Still the Secretary mustn’t be caught slumb’ring, Nor waiting for the distant village chime. When the players fall a-wrangling with each other, Or the Referee’s dry sherry short has run, Oh, take one consideration with another, His official lot is not a happy one, Ah! When the Secretary’s duty’s to be done, His official lot is not a happy one.

When the grass is very hard, or wet and sloppy, Or your spikes are ploughing furrows in the ground, Every ball will be “found dead,” or much too hoppy, And, of course, will “hardly ever” fairly bound, Then you’ll surely find the cause of all the bother In the Secretary’s duty badly done; Oh, take one consideration with another, His official lot is not a happy one. Ah! When the Secretary’s duty’s to be done, His official lot is not a happy one.

When the weather is propitious, bright, and sunny, Our tournament successfully we hold; Then how gleefully we gather up the money, And the Secretary gladly counts the gold. But, when clouds and wind and rains the heavens smother, Then the Secretary’s blamed for lack of sun; Oh, take one consideration with another, His official lot is not a happy one. Ah! When the Secretary’s duty’s to be done, His official lot is not a happy one.

From Tennis Cuts and Quips. London, Field and Tuer.

THE WHEELIST KING. (Parody on “The Pirate King.”――Pirates of Penzance.)

Oh, better far to ride a bike Through the air on a frosty night, And catch the breezes as they blow Till cheeks all ruddy and a glow, You feel as though you’re a man of might, And fly through the air as a thing of light, Than stay at home and mope away The length’ning night of a winter’s day. For I am the wheeling king. I am the wheeling king, And it is, it is a glorious thing To be the wheeling king.

Oh, better far the path to ride Of cinders, merrily side by side, And rank as a racing man of might, Than dwindle away a summer’s night. For honour is due to racer brave, And scoff the reward of the moping slave; So still I’ll ride, and the song I’ll sing Will be that I’m the wheeling king. For I am the wheeling king, I am the wheeling king, And it is, it is a glorious thing To be the wheeling king.

A. GIBBONS. Wheeling Annual. 1885.

PATIENCE; OR, BUNTHORNE’S BRIDE!

This delightful opera was produced on Saturday, 23rd April, 1881, at a time when the Æsthetic movement was the talk of London, and Mr. Burnand’s vamped-up old play, with the new and meaningless title, The Colonel, was drawing crowded houses. The plot of The Colonel was taken from Mr. Morris Barnett’s The Serious Family, produced in 1849, whereas Mr. Gilbert’s plot was entirely original, and although it was not performed until April, 1881, the libretto of Patience was completed in November, 1880.

In both pieces the main idea was to ridicule Æstheticism and the Æsthetes; in The Colonel this was effected by representing the movement as a sham, and its votaries as humbugs and swindlers; in Patience the style, manners, and conversation of the extreme Æsthetes were so gently and gracefully exaggerated, that even the most Utter and Intense amongst them could scarcely take offence at its lively sarcasms.

The excitement about Æstheticism has now subsided, but the beneficial results of this artistic movement are to be seen on every side. In house building, furniture, and decoration; in china, pottery, and glass, even in ladies costumes, far more taste and skill are now displayed than prior to this much ridiculed Renaissance of Art and Culture, which was inaugurated by the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood, consisting of Dante Gabriel Rossetti; W. M. Rossetti; William Morris; John Ruskin; Holman Hunt; and Thomas Woolner.

Further details on this subject would be out of place in this collection, but a full account will be found in The Æsthetic Movement in England, published by Messrs. Reeves and Turner, London, 1882.

THE COLONEL’S SONG. (Patience.)

When I first put this uniform on, I said, as I looked in the glass, “It’s one to a million That any civilian, My figure and form will surpass. Gold lace has a charm for the fair, And I’ve plenty of that, and to spare, While a lover’s professions, When uttered in Hessians, Are eloquent everywhere!” A fact that I counted upon, When I first put this uniform on!

Chorus of Dragoons――

By a simple coincidence, few Could ever have reckoned upon, The same thing occurred to me too, When I first put this uniform on!

THE IMPECUNIOUS OFFICER.

But I’m bound to confess that it comes rather hard Upon those who’ve not much but their pay, To have all the Horse Guards commands to regard As to how we’ve ourselves to array. It is now――let me see――close on twenty-one years Since I had my regimentals to don; And, oh, how they’ve changed them, And re-re-arranged them, Since I first put this uniform on.

The Duke, our commander, an excellent man, Has seemingly spent all his days In trying original methods to plan For putting on lace in new ways; For cutting out tunics and altering caps, To similar lengths he has gone; Scores of times he has changed them, And re-re-arranged them, Since I first put this uniform on!

Truth, Christmas Number. 1882.

SONG BY PRINCE HENRY OF BATTENBERG.

“When I first had the garments to don, Which are worn by the Highlander bold, The kilt I’d to wear Left my kneecaps so bare, That I shiver’d and shook with the cold! But for dear mamma-in-law’s sake, I continued to shiver and shake; Yes, though the keen breeze Seem’d my marrow to freeze, Her favour I knew was at stake And ’twas this that I reckoned upon, When I still kept that uniform on.

“But though I continued to wear Those very remarkable clothes, I am sorry to say There was scarcely a day That I did not use strong (German) oaths For the mists were so damp and so chill, And the wind grew so cuttingly shrill, That at length I was fain To in sorrow complain That the kilt would me certainly kill―― A fact p’rhaps not counted upon When they put me that Highland dress on.

“Yet though I the tartan foreswore, And the kilt and the philibeg too, And was able to shirk Both the sporran and dirk, And the bonnet of Roderick Dhu, Yet still I in public, ’twas clear, In some uniform must appear; So my mother-in-law Colonel Atherley saw, And I soon was a bold Volunteer! The Colonel, by fiction polite, Of the valorous Fifth Isle of Wight.

“But when I its uniform donned, Of a dull and invisible green, With green, too, for facings, And few tags or lacings, I own that I thought it looked mean, Compared with the liveries splendid Of those on the Queen who attended. Aye, I felt it was hard That the Yeoman on guard Had a costume that mine far transcended; Whilst the flunkeys, I had to confess, Beat me too in the matter of dress.

* * * * *

“And so it at length was agreed, When we many projects had weigh’d, For me to petition A Captain’s Commission In Her Majesty’s Household Brigade; And as it was felt the jack-boot Would my legs most undoubtedly suit; And that I to assume The cuirass and the plume Was fine enough, past all dispute, ’Twas further decided that I The Life Guards to join should apply.

“Meanwhile, though, I’m sorry to say, There has been some strange opposition; And I haven’t as yet Been enabled to get This much-desired Captain’s commission; And so I at present don’t dare, The uniform, handsome, to wear, But still must be seen, In my Volunteer Green, Whene’er in State functions I share; A fact I think well to disclose, To those who my purpose oppose.

“And I, amongst these, I am told, Not only M.P.’s must include, But the officers, too, Who essay to taboo What they call my attempt to obtrude. But, surely, they will not maintain Their attitude now I’ve made plain Why it is that I fear To in public appear As a Volunteer Colonel again. No; when they my plight think upon They’ll let me their uniform don!

Truth. March 4, 1886.

WHEN I FIRST PUT JOE’S UNIFORM ON. (Dissident Liberal.)

When I first put Joe’s uniform on, I said as I looked in the glass, “A conscience that’s hearty Should rise above Party, And trust for support to the Mass. Independence of spirit is rare, But I’ll prove that of that I’ve to spare, While a patriot’s pleadings, Though backed by secedings. Are eloquent everywhere!” A fact that I counted upon, When I first put Joe’s uniform on!

Chorus of other Dissident Liberals――

By a simple coincidence, few Could ever have reckoned upon, The same thing occurred to me, too! When I first put Joe’s uniform on!

I said, when I first put it on, “It is plain to the veriest dunce, That every voter With duty for motor, Must plump for the Empire at once! They will see that a statesman debased By our Chamberlain squad has been placed In an odd situation To pass Separation. Which will surely be quite to their taste. Yes, that’s what I counted upon, When I first put Joe’s uniform on!

By a simple coincidence, &c.

But alas! now it’s come to the pinch, I discover, unfortunate man! That the Lib’ral elector Is not an objector To Gladstone’s deplorable plan. He ranks me with Tories――oh, dear! Nor do arguments specious appear To gammon the Caucus That’s striving to baulk us, And my chance in especial to “queer”! Which I never counted upon When I first put Joe’s uniform on!

By a simple coincidence, few Could ever have reckoned upon, I damaged my prospects――like you―― When I first put Joe’s uniform on!

Funny Folks. June 26, 1886.

Another parody of this song appeared in The Wheel World for June, 1882.

THE COLONEL’S SONG.

If you want a receipt for that popular mystery, Known to the world as a Heavy Dragoon, Take all the remarkable people in history, Rattle them off to a popular tune. The pluck of Lord Nelson on board of the Victory―― Genius of Bismarck devising a plan; The humour of Fielding (which sounds contradictory,) Coolness of Paget, about to trepan. Take of these elements all that is fusible, Melt them all down in a pipkin or crucible, Set them to simmer and take off the scum, And a heavy Dragoon is the residuum!

Chorus――Yes! yes! yes! yes! A Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!

ADVISE TO A SHORTHAND JENIUS.

If you want a resiet for a novel stenografy, a paragon sistem, fonetik and true, and which in a trise shal extinguish Phonography, list, and I’l tel you just what you shud do. Note what inventions old authorz hav hit upon, boldly appropriate all that you kan; take the quintessens ov all that you’v lit upon, arranje it anew on a different plan; shuffel the strokes til you’v got a new alfabet; skatter the dots here and there for the vowelz: the serkelz and kurvz you must mix up yourself a bit; abbreviate words by ejekting their bowelz; lengthen your outlinez to make an addition; shorten them now to show an omission; kompile a whole pajeful ov neat intersektionz; ov rulez and exseptionz make bulky kollektionz; ov frazez and grammalogz next ad a few; turn on some digrafs and poligrafs too. Take ov theze elements all that’s most horribel; stir them together in fashion deplorribel; set them to simmer, and take of the skum; and a new shorthand sistem’z the re-sid-u-um. Yes, yes, yes, yes! A new shorthand sistem’z the re-sid-u-um!

If you want a resiet for th’ advertisement part ov it, don’t let dul modesty stand in the way. Write a tall prefase, extolling the art ov it; ’gainst every rival most loudly inveigh: announs that none other dezervz popularity; state that ther’z everything exsellent in it, that its writerz’ attain an astounding selerity―― nine hundred and ninety-nine wordz in a minit! Next kritisize Pitman in languaje sensorious; deklare that hiz sistem’z playd out and effete, that your own method’z quickly bekuming viktorious, and wil soon make Phonography take a back seat. What tho your outlinez be shocking monstrositiz, useles, exsept az sublime kuriositiz; what tho your sistem abound with absurditiz so that when a sign’z written you kan’t tel what word it iz: pen pamflets, and posterz, and frendly reviewz; hand-billz and serkularz widely diffuze. If singly theze elements don’t seem respektabel, mix them together in fashion delektabel, set them to simmer, and take of the scum, and a short span ov fame iz the resid-u-um. Yes, yes, yes, yes! A short span ov fame is the re-sid-u-um.

From The Phonetic Journal, 1886.

BUNTHORNE’S SONG.

If you’re anxious for to shine in the high æsthetic line As a man of culture rare, You must get up all the germs of the transcendental terms, And plant them everywhere. You must lie upon the daisies and discourse in novel phrases Of your complicated state of mind. The meaning doesn’t matter if it’s only idle chatter Of a transcendental kind. And everyone will say, As you walk your mystic way, “If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for me, Why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must be!”

THE CULTURED ASSISTANT.

If you want to cut a shine in Professor Attfield’s line Of high-class pharmacy, You must get up all the germs and the new-notation terms Of everything you see. You must learn about the daisies, and cram botanic phrases On every flower you find. If you’ve only got a smattering, be everlasting chattering To expose your “cultured mind.” And every one shall say, as you walk your mystic way, “If this young man converses in terms that are far too deep for me, Why, what a pharmaceutically-deep young man, then, this young man must be.”

Be sure you never praise those very ancient days When trade was sure to pay, But make them plainly see that eighteen eighty-three Is “culture’s” palmiest day. Of course you will pooh pooh whate’er they used to do, And pronounce it crude and mean, And declare “that oil and smalts, or pennyworths of salts, Are things you’ve never seen.” And everyone will say, as you walk your mystic way, “If that’s not good enough for him, that is good enough for me, Why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of youth must be.”

You must study sight and sound, for these, it has been found, Are required in making pills; And in keeping up your stock, the philosophy of Locke A wond’rous power instills. And mind you never drop a word about the “shop” For it’s plain as plain can be, You bid farewell to trade, when acquaintance has been made With high-class pharmacy; Though employers oft may say, as you walk your “cultured” way, “If he’s content with scientific lore, he’ll certainly not suit me, For a money-making, practical, and business man my kind of man must be.”

PHIL. BOSECIC. From a Chemical Journal.

DUET. Patience and Grosvenor.

Grosvenor――

Prithee, pretty maiden――prithee tell me true, (Hey, but I’m doleful, willow willow waly!) Have you e’er a lover a dangling after you? Hey, willow waly O! I would fain discover If you have a lover? Hey, willow waly O!

Patience――

Gentle Sir, my heart is frolicsome and free―― (Hey, but he’s doleful, willow willow waly!) Nobody I care for comes a courting me―― Hey, willow waly O! Nobody I care for Comes a courting――therefore, Hey, willow waly O!

When The Times had some pretensions to the title of the leading English newspaper, it was known as “The Thunderer of Printing House Square,” but it has recently been re-christened The Blunderer; or, the Political Weathercock, a name which recalls the subsidiary titles Mr. Gilbert gives to all his operas. The silly misprints, and other errors, which are to be found daily in The Times show the careless manner in which it is edited, whilst several disgraceful hoaxes practised upon it by the compositors on its staff, prove how unpopular the management must have been, and that a chronic state of mutiny existed in Printing House Square. One of these practical jokes was perpetrated on The Times by an audacious compositor, who altered an advertisement which appeared on Tuesday, February 21, 1882, so that it read:――On the 20th instant, at ―― Park Lane, W., the wife of ALBERT EDWARD, of a son.” Whilst a still worse hoax appeared in The Times of Monday, June 12, 1882, in an advertisement of a book entitled Every-Day Life in our Public Schools, which title was amplified in a manner never contemplated by the editor.

But the grossest case of all was that contained in the report of a speech delivered at Burton-on-Trent by Sir William Vernon Harcourt, then Home Secretary. This speech was reported at length in The Times of Monday, January 23, 1882, and thousands of copies were sold before the infallible authorities found out that the pompous Sir W. V. Harcourt’s speech had been adorned, by their compositors, with flowers of speech of a very unclassical nature. Every effort was then made to call in the unsold copies, but the mischief was done, and for weeks The Times was the laughing stock of London, and fabulous prices were given for copies containing the objectionable paragraph.

DUET. Mr. Gladstone, and Sir W. Vernon Harcourt.

Mr. Gladstone――

Prithee, Vernon Harcourt, prithee tell me true (Hey, but it’s shocking, willow, willow waly!) Did you speak the words attributed to you? Hey, willow, waly, oh! I should like to know, sir, How far did you go, sir? Hey, willow, waly, oh!

Sir W. Vernon Harcourt――

Gentle chief, my words may frolicsome have been (Hey, but it’s surprising, willow, willow, waly!) Yet to such a length I did not go, I ween. Hey, willow, waly, oh! There was nought indecent, In my speech so recent, Hey, willow, waly, oh!

Prithee, Vernon Harcourt, will you sell to me (Hey, but I’m anxious, willow, willow, waly!), The paper, where reported, I your speech shall see? Hey, willow, waly, oh! Anything, I’ll pay you; What’s your price? Come, say you; Hey, willow, waly, oh!

Gentle chief, although to purchase you design (Hey, but it’s tempting, willow, willow, waly!) My paper’s not for sale, so I fear I must decline; Hey, willow, waly, oh! Money will not buy it, It’s no good to try it; Hey, willow, waly oh!

(Together.)

Sir W. V. Harcourt――

Though to use such words would very wicked be.

(Hey, but it’s shameful, willow, willow, waly!) Printed in The Times, they’d most amusing be!

Hey, willow, waly, oh! I shall get a chaffing, All the world is laughing; Hey, willow, waly, oh!

The Sporting Times. January 28, 1882.

A DUET OF THE DAY.

(In consequence of the numerous applications which have been made at the Home Office for an appointment to the place of public executioner, the Secretary of State has published a statement that it is neither his right, nor his duty, to make such appointment, as the selection in reality rests with the Sheriffs.)

Candidate――

Prithee, Secretary, what’s the latest news? (Hey, but I’m eager, willow, willow waly!) Has another Marwood stepped into his shoes? Hey, willow waly, O! Never mind the pang, man―― Have they got a hangman? Hey, willow waly, O!

Secretary of State――

Gentle sir, the post unoccupied you see―― (Hey, but he’s eager, willow, willow waly!) But you’ll p’raps explain now why you’re teasing me―― Hey, willow waly, O! Kindly, please, inform one Why you come and storm one, Hey, willow waly, O!

Prithee, Secretary, give the place to me―― (Hey, but I’m hopeful, willow willow waly!) I may say, at once, I shall scrag ’em properlee―― Hey, willow waly, O! Only deign to try me, Come, you can’t deny me, Hey, willow waly, O!

Gentle sir, although I honour your design―― (Hey, but he’s hopeful, willow, willow waly!) I’ve not the appointment, and so I must decline, Hey, willow waly, O! To sheriffs straightway go you―― Observe the door I show you. Hey, willow waly, O!

A NEW DUET FROM “PATIENCE.”

Salisbury――

Prithee, gentle working-man, once my bugaboo, (Hey, but he’s civil, isn’t he now, rale-y?) Are there any Radicals dangling after you, Hey, willow waly, O! I would fain climb over your shoulder into clover, Hey, willow waly, O!

Working-Man――

Noble lord, my vote is quite unpledged and free, (Hey, but he’s civil, isn’t he now, rale-y?) The Rads don’t seem to care for to take the stump for me, Hey, willow waly, O! And what you are there for――oh, well I know the wherefore, Hey, willow waly, O!

Prithee, gentle working-man, won’t you vote for me? (Hey, but I’m hopeful, willow waly), And leave the Grand Old Man at home to chop his tree, Hey, willow waly, O?

Truth. November 15, 1883.

TRIO IN “PATIENCE.” (Duke, Colonel, and Major.)

It’s clear that Mediæval art alone retains its zest, To charm and please its devotees we’ve done our little best. We’re not quite sure if all we do has the Early English ring; But, as far as we can judge, it’s something like this sort of thing; You hold yourself like this, You hold yourself like that, By hook and crook you try to look both angular and flat. We venture to expect That what we recollect, Though but a part of true High Art will have its due effect.

If this is not exactly right, we hope you won’t upbraid; You can’t get high Æsthetic tastes, like trousers, ready made. True views on Mediævalism, Time alone will bring, But, as far as we can judge, it’s something like this sort of thing: You hold yourself like this &c., &c.

THE TROUBLESOME TRIO. Appearing nightly during the Performance of “Impatience,” at St. Stephen’s.

We’ve long opined the House should prove a sort of hornet’s nest; At least to turn it into one we’ve done our little best; And though our pranks upon ourselves no credit seem to bring, Still, when the Grand Old Man’s our game――we’re up to anything! We gibe at him like this, we snap at him like that; We yawn or laugh: sometimes we chaff, or contradict him flat; And, if he make a slip, We roar and yell and skip, And trust our brass may muster pass Somehow for Statesmanship!

If you should think our posturings our Party but degrade, Reflect, “Our Party’s” but ourselves, and we’re all ready made: Tact, reason, judgment to their work, wise politicians bring, But when the Grand Old Man’s the butt――why, fools can have their fling. So, we gibe at him like this, we snap at him like that; We yawn and laugh; sometimes we chaff, or contradict him flat; And, if he make a slip, We have him by the hip! By Jove, our brass, though not high-class, Is all our Statesmanship.

It isn’t that we really mean to irritate the Chair, Or worry old Sir Stafford till he’s fit to tear his hair, Nor o’er our friends do we desire our party mud to fling, But when the Grand Old Man gets up――we’re up to anything! So, we gibe at him like this, we snap at him like that, We yawn, we laugh; sometimes we chaff, or contradict him flat; And, if he make a slip, Like Cannibals we skip, And show the House what depths of nous, Has Jingo Statesmanship!

Punch. November 11, 1882.

The cartoon at the head of this parody, drawn by Sambourne, represented Lord Randolph Churchill, with a note of interrogation; Mr. Ashmead Bartlett, with a peacock’s feather; and Sir Drummond Wolff, with a sunflower; clad in Patience costumes, and adopting the attitudes assumed by the Duke, the Colonel, and the Major, when singing the original trio.

SONG.――THE SOCIAL BELLE.

It’s clear, if I’m to hold my own, I must, with ardent zest, To supplement my natural charms attempt my artful best. What Nature’s done is very well, but Art can do yet more To round, to smooth, to renovate, to polish, and restore. So I lace myself like this (does so), I pad myself like that (does so), Make what is angular look round, and what bony is look fat. I hair-pin on this hair (does so), Frisettes I stick in there (does so), And to be in the fashion quite this bird-cage thus I wear.

I take my blushes from a box, complexion from a jar, My dimples are to order made (a guinea each they are), My curls were purchased through the Stores (a very cheap job lot), The alabaster of my neck is four-and-six per pot. And I line my eyes like this (does so). I mark my veins like that (does so), Fill up this wrinkle so, lay this excrescence flat (does so) I fix and I cement (does so), I powder, puff, and scent (does so), Until, at last, my form is fit in public to present!

“THE ST. JAMES’S GAZETTE” ON MR. JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN IN 1885.

When first I went to Parliament I gazed with mock humility, On Gladstone and on Hartington, on Derby and on Bright; I followed their directions with unquestioning docility, And said that what they bid me do must certainly be right. I flattered all and each of them, And daily did beseech of them Some counsel or advice, which I accepted with civility. I hastened to defer to them; When talking, I said “Sir” to them; And all my early conduct was remarkably polite, I bowed to them, Kowtowed to them, Each day from morn till night: I laughed with them, And chaffed with them, And played the parasite.

But as the proverb predicates, complete familiarity Affects a mam’s ideals with a kind of moral blight: And G. and H. and D. and B. (observe the singularity!) Revealed defects of character that shocked their proselyte. I could no longer follow them, or go to them as reference; Their methods, I discovered, differed totally from mine: And therefore I reluctantly, and quite against my preference, Informed them, “Either you or I, good people must resign.”

They simply would not hear of it: They had the greatest fear of it: They treated what I said to them with unaccustomed deference: They never would demur to me: They even whispered “Sir” to me; And one and all they flattered me, and asked me home to dine. They bowed to me, Kowtowed to me: And how could I decline? I sneered at them And jeered at them, But went, and drank their wine.

Don’t talk to me of impudence, deception, or audacity. I worried them, I flurried them, I worked upon their fears: And now they duly recognise my value and capacity, And meekly let me lead them by their noses and their ears.

“WHO ARE THEY?”

A very long-nosed young man, An evil-disposed young man, An oily-tongued, empty pate, Down with the Church and State―― Brother to Dilke young man.

A very astute young man, A remarkably ’cute young man, A very good act is his Gainst corrupt practices―― Try it at Taunton young man.

A “Rabbit and Hares” young man, Confront-me-who-dares young man, A modern Trebonius, Mighty Pomponius―― Take-care-of-himself young man.

A slap-at-the-Crown young man, A levelling down young man; A robbery, jobbery, Quakery, snobbery, Chamberlain-Bright young man.

A dignified grand young man, A lord of the land young man; A stand-no-rebukery, Heir to a dukery, Devonshire House young man.

A genial and kind young man, Who does all the good that he can; But the job quite bewilders Poor darling old Childers, Our army reform young man.

A stolid and square young man, A troubled-with-care young man; A buckshotty, bullety, Utter futility, Message-of-peace young man.

A plausible, bland old man; A shifty-as-sand old man; To aid Revolution Laws, Land, Constitution, He’d fling to the winds, old man.

The Morning Post. January, 1882.

THE FLIPPITY-FLOP YOUNG MAN.

I once was a matter of fact young man, And thrived on port and sherry; But now I’m a kind of a cracked young man, The reverse of or-din-ary. I flip and I flop (echo) All over the shop (echo) And take it for granted you can; I’m a very Sunflowery, Aprily showery, Eastcheapy, Towery man.

Chorus――

I’m a very æsthetic young man, A non energetic young man, Slippity sloppity over the shoppity, Flippity flop young man.

I once was a hymny and tract young man, And sternly opposed to stooping; A kind of a stick up the back young man, But now I incline to drooping, Consummately if (echo) On no account stiff (echo) I scarcely know how I began; I’m a bitter and mildy, naturey childy, Oscary Wylde-y man.

I’m a Fuller’s earth colour young man, A greeny and “yuller” young man: Pretty externally “Patience” and “Colonelly,” Utterly, utter young man.

I once was a cobby and hack young man. And a little bit calico bally, A picture card out of the pack young man, And frequently Music Hally. I’d sing and I’d shout (echo) “Poor ’Liza” about (echo) And after the ladies I ran, Said Jenny to Amily, Oh, he’s a jammily, “Morally, family man.”

But I’m now a good goody young man, A head rather “Woody” young man: Body quite rickety, pose plas-tickety, Never go wrong young man.

I once was a three-and-six dinner young man, And at table knew which was the best end; But now you would not find a thinner young man Tho’ you walk from the East to the West End. Two steps and a stop (echo) A skip and a hop (echo) I require but a puff and a fan; I’m a Regent Street cuttery, skip o’er the guttery, New bread and buttery man.

I’m a worship the lily young man, Crutch and tooth pick-a-dilly young man, Cracked in the filberty, Burnand and Gilberty, Strike you with paper young man.

HARRY ADAMS.

This song was set to music by E. Jonghmans, and published by Francis, Bros. & Day, London. There were also some additional verses, but they were inferior to the above.

SIR WILFRID LAWSON.

A down-with-the-Tories M.P., A never-drink-spirits M.P., A won’t-touch-a-drop-ery Ginger-y, pop-ery, Friend-to-the-pump M.P.

Judy. October 5, 1881.

F. C. BURNAND.

A threepenny Punch Young Man, A Happy-Thought Young Man; A try-to-make Punch, The best of the bunch, But bad is the best Young Man.

HENRY IRVING AND MISS TERRY.

A very-much sought Young Pair, An angular, well-matched Pair; A worship-the-Bard, Whilst he proves a safe card, Then fall back on Wills Young Pair!

GENERAL AND MRS. BOOTH.

A very acute Old Pair, A ranting and roaring Pair; A bawling, fanatical. Send-round-the-hat-i-cal, Pick-up-the-pence Old Pair!

THE DAILY TELEGRAPH.

A caught in the act D. T., A swiftly-condemned D. T.; A basely sensational, False informational, Properly hanged D. T.!

MR. GLADSTONE.

A regular Grand Old Man, An easily-drawn Old Man; A noli-me-tangere, Quickly-made-anger-y, Not to be chaffed Old Man.

MARQUIS OF SALISBURY.

A reckless and fierce Old Man, A not-mind-a-fib Old Man; A Schouvaloff-Treatery, Up-to-deceitery, Berlin fiasco Old Man!

SIR STAFFORD H. NORTHCOTE.

A worthy but weak Old Dame, A limp and defied Old Dame; An often-defeated, Ungratefully-treated, Can’t-manage-her-brats Old Dame.

Truth. Christmas Number, 1882.

AN AMERICAN IDEAL.

A common-place young girl; A decidedly rare young girl; Stay home at night, Do what is right. Help-her-old-mother young girl.

A hard-to-find young girl; A reader-of-fact young girl; An extra poetical, Anti-æsthetical, Care-nothing-for-novels young girl.

A minus her bangs young girl; A show-on-her-brains young girl; With an unpowdered face; One that don’t lace, A dress-for-her-health young girl.

An up-in-the-morning young girl; A help-in-the-wash young girl; One that can rub, Not afraid of the tub, A roll-up-her-sleeves young girl.

A quiet-and-modest young girl; A sweet-and-pure young girl; An upright, ambitious, Lovely, delicious, A pride-of-the-home young girl.

A remarkably scarce young girl; A very much wanted young girl; A truly-American, Too-utter paragon, The kind-that-I-like young girl.

New York Independent.

IOLANTHE; OR, THE PEER AND THE PERI.

PLAYERS AT PLAYING.

Chorus of Fashionable Amateurs.

When upon the stage we play, Tantantara! Our acting that of pro’s surpasses, Yaas! So pro’s and public, please, make way, And view us through your opera-glasses, Tantantara! Make room!

Bow, bow, ye playhouse-loving masses, We’re taught by “coaches” and in classes, Such the power of brass is, that, although we’re asses To act we all presume.

Though we boast high rank and station, Acting is our recreation, And we startle all the nation, Tantantara! Make room!

Solo.

Spurn not the wealthy swell (Whose mind’s affected), Nor with disdain repel Pro’s self-elected. Once we would sink with shame If actors near us came, Now by rich swell and dame That art’s respected. We swells! We swells! Fair actresses would once select And them “protect,” But now we act ourselves――we swells!

In tragedy and comedy to shine is our intention.

Swells.

Yaas, yaas――for acting is in vogue; And we hope the pwo’s appweciate our gwacious condescension.

Pro’s.

To Colney Hatch you ought to be removed, we say, You noodles pay to act, and of engagements you defraud us, And often through your little game adversity has gnawed us.

But look how it amuses us, and how our fwiends applaud us―― Besides, it is “the thing,” you know, at acting now to play.

When we seek the “coach” or the S.D.A., And wish some famous part to play, The “coach” wesponds to us, “Just so; At a matinée you must show.

“To a matinée you must go, Sir (or ma’am) of highest quality, You’ll appear at the Fwivolity, At a matinée you shall show!”

Then each of us fwom gay Belgwaviah Thinks himself the Stage’s saviah; And all our fwiends their plaudits thunder, Voting each of us a wonder.

Pro’s and Public.

When Billy Shakespeare ruled the stage In good Queen Bess’s reign, The swells did not to act attempt; But they wern’t then, as now, exempt From anything like brain. And yet Thalia won her bays In quaint Queen Bess’s glorious days.

When David Garrick drew the town, With Woffington la belle, No Upper-Ten folks paid to play, And yet the Drama, strange to say, Succeeded very well, It did without the swellish craze In David Garrick’s glorious days.

And then again, in later times, (Say, up at Sadler’s Wells), The Drama, somehow, kept alive, And still it managed to survive Without the aid of swells. And actors won renown and praise In dear old Samuel Phelps’s days.

Carados.

To escape there is a way: Don’t go! Whene’r these idiots play, Don’t go! They’ve L.S.D., These would-be pro’s Each fancies he Great genius shows. But no: Take warning from this lay: Don’t go!

CARADOS. The Referee. April, 1883.

THE LAY OF THE LORD CHIEF JUSTICE.[24]

A Lord Chief Justice, by common consent, Is Law’s most lovely embodiment; For the Chancellor, though a thing of dread, Is a sort of a perfunctory figurehead. And that is why the American Bar Have selected Me to travel afar. A very agreeable jaunt, and one That will lead, I trust, to some excellent fun, And furnish a capital holiday For a most mellifluous Lord Chief J. All――And furnish, &c.

But though the compliment implied Inflates me with legitimate pride, It nevertheless can’t be denied That it has a――ahem!――dangerous side. For I’m not so old or melancholic As to be quite proof ’gainst the love of frolic, And there’d be the deu―――― well, a certain risk, If the Lord Chief Justice began to frisk. A possibility, I should say, For a peripatetic Lord Chief J. All――A possibility, &c.

I must keep on myself strict watch and ward, Lest in more than one sense I should be abroad; For the Themis young of America Is a very agreeable girl, they say; She has affable manners――and customs free―― And――she laughs at wigs! Oh! deary me. I must be as careful as careful can be, Lest I should forget Law’s dignitee. ’Tis a sore temptation to throw in the way Of such a susceptible Lord Chief J.!

All――’Tis a sore temptation, &c.

Punch. September 1, 1883.

A SUSCEPTIBLE CHANCELLOR.

“That is a specimen of the complaints which are poured into the letter-box of a susceptible Chancellor of the Exchequer.”――Mr. Goschen at the Mansion House.

The cry is still “They come,” and I Could almost wriggle with agony, For while one man would a tax impose, Another, remission would fain propose; One worthy our tea would from duty free. And another would tax up our mild Bohea; While many would gladly change the law, And put the screw upon whisky raw. Which is exasperating, for I’m such a susceptible Chancellor.

Then, in the interest of the rats, I’m asked to discourage the spread of cats; While a widow lady whose dog is blind Protests the afflicted should not be fined; The naughty, some say, a tax should pay Whenever they go to see the play; And broadly speaking, the wickeder you, The worse the penance you ought to do. Which is to me distressing, for I’m such a susceptible Chancellor.

The Liverpool Weekly Post. April 2, 1887.

THE SONGS OF THE PROFESSIONS. The Church.

When I went to the Church, as a very young man, (Said I to myself, said I) I’ll work on the good old pluralist plan (Said I to myself, said I). I’ll marry the daughter of Bishop or Dean; To the best paying side in church politics lean, And whatever the work, remain idly serene (Said I to myself, said I). And I’ve managed, I fancy, to do what I say, For you see what I am by my apron to-day; And if you but look at the papers you’ll know To what bigoted lengths I am willing to go. It is true I’m too weak to my diocese work, But no one can say my chief duty I shirk. No, I quarterly draw my prelatical pay, In the fine, old, full-flavoured Episcopal way!

The Army.

When I took my commission as a silly young man (Said I to myself, said I), I will certainly work on a Barnumesque plan――[25] (Said I to myself, said I). I will flatter my General, get in a clique, My own self-advancement at all times bespeak, And to puff my own bravery always will seek (Said I to myself, said I). So I did it, and thus, as you see me to-day, Have worked very high in the Army my way, And now am quite busy in doing my best The course of my rivals to forthwith arrest, By striving that they, although equally wise, May no army discover in which they can rise. Yes, thanks to the fads in which I persist, Our army, I take it, will not long exist.

The Law.

When I went to the bar as a priggish young man (Said I to myself, said I), I’ll work on the regular, old legal plan, (Said I to myself, said I). I’ll take more briefs than I can read through, Nor care though my clients my carelessness rue. I will stick to my fees whatever I do (Said I to myself, said I) Well. I think I have managed to score a success, And have ruined more clients than ever you’d guess; And besides, when a chance was presented to me, I my politics changed and became an M.P.; And my coat having turned (’twas a very slight wrench), I soon shall be called as a judge to the bench, From there to pass sentence, for many an act In no wise so bad as my deeds were in fact.

Medicine.

When I hospitals walked as a merry young man (Said I to myself, said I), I’ll proceed to success on a Specialist plan, (Said I to myself, said I). I’ll stick to one part of our wonderful frame, And, spite of my fellow-practitioners’ blame, I think it will bring me both lucre and fame (Said I to myself, said I). The result, I am glad to report, has been good, For I’ve earned the large fortune I said that I would, And as to my fame, it is easy to tell From the way that I’m hated I’ve won that as well. So jealous, in fact, are my rivals, I think They hardly from my vivisection would shrink, In order to find, by their treatment of me, Where this Nerve most successful they grudge me can be!

Truth Christmas Number. 1883.

SOME NEW YEAR’S EVE RESOLVES.

Said a Barrister, low to himself, said he, “Next year I will keep no unearned fee, I will hold no briefs that I cannot read, Nor sully my ‘silk’ with dishonest greed. Next year I will not be paid for work Which I know full well that I mean to shirk. Nay, more, I will make my clerk return Those cheques which now in my pocket burn. Aye, straight is the course that I mean to steer Through the Legal Terms of the Glad New Year!”

* * * *

Said a British General, “I will try To learn that the Alphabet’s not all ‘I.’ With the year now dawning I mean to seek To become less bumptious and grow more meek; And learn to remember in former days There were Generals, too, who deserved some praise; And that British soldiers could fight and storm, Though nought had been heard of my reform. Yes, all that the Army esteem most dear I will cease to vex in the Glad New Year!”

Said a West-end Tradesman, “I hereby vow That reckless credit I’ll not allow, Nor will I make up for it e’er again By the shameful profits that I maintain; Nor will I longer essay to trade By adulteration’s scurvy aid; No! I henceforth what is pure will sell, And the demon of commerce forthwith expel, Resolved to my vows to close adhere Through the coming months of the Glad New Year!

Said a Jerry Builder, “Next year shall see No Jerry dwellings put up by me! I will purchase no fever-reeking site; Nor, having bribed to the left and right, Will I there run up those frail abodes Which the life of each hapless tenant loads With cramps and chills and with torture grim, ’Till Death itself seems a boon to him; No, I as a fiend will not appear In the happy days of the Glad New Year!”

Said a City Alderman, “I will try My enemies’ sneers to falsify; I’ll curb, as much as ever I’m able, My gluttonous taste at the Civic table; I’ll do my best, too, myself to force To become less bigoted, dull, and coarse; I will also strive to promote no job, And to cease the poor any more to rob. ’Though, I’m bound to add, I already fear I’ve promised too much for the Glad New Year!”

Said a Man of Fashion, “Hereby I swear To think much less of the clothes I wear; To gamble less when I cannot pay, Less spirits to drink, less slang essay; The spiteful talk of the Club to ban, To take my sport as becomes a man, To shoot no pigeons, to sell no race, Nor a gentleman’s name to in aught disgrace: All this I swear, so I think ’tis clear I have much to change in the Glad New Year!”

Truth. January 3, 1884.

SAID I TO MYSELF, SAID I. (As sung by Mr. Henry Irving).

When I took to the stage as a gifted young man, Said I, &c., I’ll act on a new, if peculiar plan, Said I, &c. I’ll never consider the rôle that I play, My method need change to a different way, From the path that I’ve chosen I never will stray, Said I &c.

The public are ready for anything new Said I, &c., The æsthetes are raving o’er all that I do, Said I, &c. My plan is successful, my manner attracts, No matter the play, if ’tis Irving that acts, And places are booked two months off. These are facts Said I, &c.

I’ll swagger and stagger, I’ll roar and I’ll rant, Said I, &c., I’ll suddenly cease, roll my eyes, gasp and pant, Said I, &c. In mounting most costly I’ll not be outdone, Though in comedy vague my idea of fun, Yet soon on the boards I shall be number one, Said I, &c.

I always will keep my peculiar stride, Said I, &c., In Hamlet, Charles, Richelieu, and Romeo beside, Said I, &c. With pre-Raffaelite Ellen my woes to assuage, In London be burlesqued, in Scotland the rage, We triumph on every American stage. Said I, &c.

ONNY BRIDGE Truth. November 15, 1883.

THE MASHER CLERK.

(A city firm have just advertised in the Daily News for a clerk, adding that they want “no mashers.”)

When I went to the City a knowing young man (Said I to myself, said I), I’ll follow the fashion as much as I can (Said I to myself, said I), I’ll live upon credit when minus of cash, In the eyes of the world I will cut such a dash, That envious chappies shall cry, “Can’t he ‘mash’!” (Said I to myself, said I).

I’ll never drink anything else but best “cham.” (Said I to myself, said I), Or “cotton” to fairies who’re not “real jam” (Said I to myself, said I); But of dear little pets I will have the first pick, And dress in a style most decidedly “chick.” I’ll get from my tailor unlimited tick (Said I to myself, said I).

When the “shop” is shut up, and the evening begun (Said I to myself, said I), I’ll then sally forth for some frolic and fun (Said I to myself, said I), I’ll ogle the girls at the Gaiety bar, Or, soothed by the smoke of a pipe or cigar, I’ll list to the song of the music-hall star (Said I to myself, said I).

If I must be a clerk to be perched on a stool (Said I to myself, said I), I’ll not give up “mashing,” I’m not such a fool (Said I to myself, said I). So now where’s that berth advertised in the News? I’m sure with my figure they cannot refuse―――― Hallo! what is this――“No mashers!” the deuce! (Said I to myself, said I).

Funny Folks. May, 1884.

A political imitation of this song appeared in England for July 4, 1885, but it had little interest, and is now out of date.

THE FAIRY QUEEN’S SONG. “OH, NATION GAY.”

(Mr. Shaw claimed ten thousand pounds as compensation for his unjust imprisonment by the French.)

England sings to France.

Oh, nation gay. Think you, because Your brave array Poor China awes, I’d disobey Stern Justice’ laws? Because you’re sly, And not above A tendency The weak to shove, Resemble I The timid dove? Oh, timid dove! Bird of Ovidius Naso! This heart of mine Is not as thine, And no man dares to say so!

On ire that glows With heat intense Turn, France, the hose Of pounds and pence, And out it goes At some expense! I must maintain Stern Justice’ law―― That fact is plain; So kindly draw A cheque, and gain The heart of Shaw! Oh, Mister Shaw! Long by the Gaul kept under, Would thy crusade Without my aid Attain its end, I wonder?

Funny Folks. September, 1883.

SONG OF THE LAWN TENNIS CHAMPIONSHIP.

Oh, foolish swain, Think you, because On grassy plain I mind each clause Of sovereign Lawn-tennis laws,―― In brightest gleam That fancy owns, Think you, I dream My cranial bones With rules can teem Like those of Jones? Oh, Mr. Jones, Type of Lawn-tennis Draco, This head of mine Is not as thine, Although it sometimes ache, Oh!

When heaven glows With heat intense, And grass ne’er grows In any sense, We ply the hose At great expense! When eager calls And fervent prayers For brand-new balls Are heard from players, The onus falls On F. H. Ayres. Oh, Mr. Ayres, Vendor of balls sewn-under, How are they made, Or sold, or paid For, at such price, I wonder?

Fame’s made or marr’d At Wimbledon, And matches hard Are deftly won, And scored on card, Ere set of sun: But no young gent Scores with such art A tournament In every part As heaven-sent Young Mr. Schacht. Oh, Mr. Schacht, Type of Lawn-tennis umpire, Perched up on high, In summer sky, No grasshopper could jump higher!

The lists are set, The ties are drawn, And anxious yet, Ere morning dawn, We pray, no wet May spoil our lawn. The play begins, Without a flaw, The fastest spins We ever saw; The fav’rite wins,―― ’Tis still Renshaw! Oh, Will Renshaw, Type of Lawn-tennis champions, None e’er so quick The world to lick From Land’s End to the Grampians!

From Tennis Cuts and Quips. (London: Field & Tuer, 1884.)

PRINCESS IDA.

THE DISAGREEABLE MAN.

As Sung by Mr. Henry George, the “Land Nationalization” Comique.

If you give me your attention, I will tell you what I am: I’m a genuine philanthropist――all other sorts are sham. Each stupid freak of Fortune and each soc-i-al defect By my lectures and my volumes I endeavour to correct; To all their little grievances I ope the people’s eyes, And pretty plans to crucify the landlords I devise. I love my fellow creatures――I do all the good I can―― Yet Property declares that I’m a disagreeable man! And I can’t think why!

To Smith and to Ricardo I’ve a withering reply; Malthusians I always do my best to mortify; Political economy I skilfully dissect, And crevices within its mail I’m ready to detect. I know everybody’s income and what everybody earns, And I prove that honest labour doesn’t win its due returns; But to benefit humanity, however much I plan, Yet Property will have it I’m a disagreeable man! And I can’t think why!

I’m sure I am no Marat, I’m as gentle as can be; The guillotine in Leicester Square I should regret to see. I merely want the populace to grab all “real estate,” Without regard to owners’ cry of “Please to compensate.” To those same owners’ prejudice, I know a thing or two; I can show them to be curses of the nation――and I do. But though I try to make myself as pleasant as I can, Yet Property asserts that I’m a disagreeable man―― And I can’t think why!

THOSE CLEVER CONSERVATIVES.

“Mr. J. W. Harris won Poole for the Conservatives by declaring to the working classes that the Liberals had brought the bad trade, and the Tories would revive the industry of the place, and make everybody rich.”

If green Cheddar you desire From the moon――from the moon―― They’ll supply what you require Very soon――very soon. Then they hope to fill lean purses, Lacking pence――lacking pence―― With the coin Weg-born reverses Steal from thence――steal from thence. And as harvests shirk a nation ’Neath Sol’s ban――’neath Sol’s ban, To aid farmers by taxation They’ve a plan――they’ve a plan. They’ve a firmly-rooted notion They can bridge Depression’s ocean, And they’ll set all trades in motion, If they can――if they can! These are the phenomena That Poole expects to come in a Crack or a jiffee Now that Harris is M.P.

As for failure, they forswear it, So they say――so they say, And prosperity they’ll “square” it, Some fine day――some fine day. When the voter they would “sell” him―― Not too “fly”――not too “fly”―― “The Millennium’s,” they tell him “By-and-bye――by-and-bye!” So each newly-joined aspirant To their clan――to their clan―― Must pooh-pooh Hard Times, a tyrant Known to man――known to man. They mock at him and flout him, And they chaff the Rads about him, For they’re “going to do without him” If they can――if they can! These are the phenomena, &c.

From Funny Folks. May 3, 1884.

Another parody, of the same original, appeared in Pastime, February 13, 1884, relating to the London Athletic Club.

A WASTED “INFANCY.” (The Lay of a Man of Forty.)

I was not so very old, Twenty years ago! Quite an “infant,” I am told, Twenty years ago! How I might have gone the pace At the cost of tradesmen base, If I’d only had the face Twenty years ago!

But I was a trifle shy, Twenty years ago! Let the golden time slip by, Twenty years ago! Didn’t buy on tick, alas, “Necessary” things en masse―― All which branded me an ass, Twenty years ago!

THE SCUTTLE.

Of all the plans there are on earth For Statesmen still to cherish O Commend me to the Premier’s own Whose glory ne’er will perish O! O the Scuttle, the base, ignoble Scuttle. Chosen fad of Lib and Rad, Our dear old Gladstone’s Scuttle O!

Forth, forth, from Egypt let us slope As fast as we can manage O! And let the Mahdi work his will The B.P.’ll pay the damage O! O the Scuttle, the base, ignoble Scuttle, Chosen fad of Lib and Rad, Our dear old Gladstone’s Scuttle O!

Forth from Afghanistan as well In spite of all our bunkum O! The only way to beat the Russ Is evermore to funk ’em O! O the Scuttle, the base, ignoble Scuttle, Chosen fad of Lib and Rad, Our dear old Gladstone’s Scuttle O!

So wheresoever threats a foe, Or dangers England worry O! We will surmount them all by flight And out of trouble hurry O! O the Scuttle, the base, ignoble Scuttle, Chosen fad of Lib and Rad, Our dear old Gladstone’s Scuttle O! Moonshine. May, 1885.

THE ARGOSY BRACES

Ye who are cumbersome and slow, Awkward and ungainly, We would have you know The cause is BRACES! mainly Those of the old fashioned type, Impeding every movement. Really the time was ripe For marvellous improvement.

Then if you’re tired of the vice-like gripping Grasping, clutching, and irritating slipping, And your principal complaint Is physical restraint, You needn’t have a taint Of it now.

But when you’re next engaged in shopping, Into a hosier’s go you popping, Give the “ARGOSY” a trial; Then with a placid smile, Cast off the old ones vile, As we do.

KNOX ET PRÆTEREA NIHIL! (After King Gama’s song in the “Princess Ida.”)

SCENE.――Dromore. Leaders of the Local Orange Lodges discovered in Council.

First Orange Leader.

Common sense we bar, That is not our bent; On the whole we are Not intelligent.

Chorus of Leaders.

No, no! Not intelligent!

Second Orange Leader.

But with spiteful heart, Play we here anew Our abusive part―― Insult is our cue!

Yes, yes! Insult is our cue! Bigots fierce and strong, ha! ha! For the strife we burn; Who is in the wrong, ha! ha! We have no concern. So we wreak our spite, ha! ha! Little care we, then, Who is in the right, ha! ha! For we’re Orangemen!

Chorus of their followers who have gathered round.――

They are men of might, ha! ha! Bigots, moved by spite, ha! ha! Ready for the fight, ha! ha! Ready for the fight!

Solo.――THE HON. COLONEL KNOX.

“If you give me your attention I will tell you what I am; I’m a genuine Orange patriot! all other kinds are sham. I adore my dear old country, and most viciously I try To thwart the plan of statesmen who would peace to her supply; I am full of true devotion to my Queen, and so I use The most offensive epithets her Viceroy to abuse, See how I love the Irish! Why, their massacre I plan, Yet Liberal papers say I’m such an extremely dangerous man! And I can’t think why!

“I’m so loyally patriotic that I strive with all my might My Monarch’s chief advisers to humiliate and spite; I so yearn to see my Ireland free, and Protestant, and great, That I’d blast its hopes with bloodshed and its people decimate. No greater stickler for the Law was ever known than I, So long as it allows me its provisions to defy, Or assists me in developing some ultra-Orange plan; Yet moderate critics say I’m such a very odious man! And I can’t think why!

“I am always for upholding Ulster’s right to freely meet, To walk with yellow banners, and the noisy drum to beat; Aye, sweet Freedom is the birthright of us Orangemen so true: But it is not meant for rebels like Parnell and his black crew. So with pistol and shillelagh I would quickly smite them down, If they dare to hold a meeting or perambulate a town; Thus you see I try to make myself considerate as I can, Yet everybody says I’m such a disingenuous man! And I can’t think why!

“I’m blind to every party sin, and personal defect, But ready any Land League fault most sternly to correct; ’Gainst Orangemen’s besotted crimes I closely shut my eyes, But mark the slips of Nationalists with most severe surprise. And when their foul abuse of us I hear them trying at, Why, I feel they ought to know we claim monopoly of that! But although I’ve acted in this way since manhood I began, Yet people will insist I’m such an undesirable man! And I can’t think why!

“So come, my worthy farmers and poor peasants, look at me, And try if you as spiteful and intolerant can be; Denounce the things in others you do without demur, And make repeated efforts their passions fierce to stir. Be prejudiced as I am, my spite and malice share, And as becomes true patriots, for civil war prepare. In short, I’d have you act upon my patriotic plan, Though everybody says I’m such a bad, contentious man, And I can’t think why!”

Final chorus of Orange Leaders.

Yes, with spiteful heart Here we’ve played anew Our abusive part―― Insult is our cue! Yes! yes! Insult is our cue!

Truth. January 10, 1884.

THE MIKADO.

“JAMWILLOW.”

[According to the Times correspondent at Suakin, the frequent “jamming” of the Martini-Henry rifles was due to the defective cartridge in use. The cartridge is regarded, as “a theoretical one;” and a theoretical cartridge might as well be a blank one at once.]

On a battlefield gory a soldier was seen, Who sang “Willow, jamwillow, jamwillow;” And I said to him “Warrior, what do you mean By your ‘Willow, jamwillow, jam willow’? Act at once, since the foe is approaching,” I cried, “You had better take aim, or they’ll humble our pride.” With a shake of his helmet, the fighter replied, “Oh, willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!”

He pulled at the trigger again and again, Singing, “Willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!” But, alas! all his struggles were clearly in vain, Oh, “willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!” He threw down the arm, and a “Drat it!” he gave; Then he turned and he ran, though undoubtedly brave, And he shouted, while striving his bacon to save, “Oh, willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!”

Now, I feel just as sure as I’m sure that my name Isn’t Willow, jamwillow, jamwillow; That a cartridge defective had made him exclaim, “Oh, willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!” And if something’s not done by the War Office――why, We shall suffer defeat in the sweet by-and-bye, And our soldiers will wail as they perish or fly, “Oh, willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!”

Funny Folks. May 9, 1885.

THE “WATERBURY” MAIDS.

Three little maids from school are we, Proper and good, as we ought to be; The reason why, you will shortly see, Three little maids from school. We were once “real wild,” we “took the bun” For mischievous pranks and daring fun, So they put a watch on us, every one, Three little maids from school. Three little maids so quick and wary. The best of all watches was necessary, That’s why they picked out the “Waterbury,” Three little maids at school. But now we are all “real nice,” you know, And always act as our watches go, Not the least bit “fast,” but by no means “slow,” Three little maids from school. From three little maids take these away, And three little maids would be all astray―― For we’d never be up to the time of day, Three little maids from school. Three little maids, delightful very, Laughing always, so bright and merry, Everyone with a “Waterbury,” Three little maids from school.

SEWING.

On a seat in the garden A sweet pretty maid Was sewing, so sewing, so sewing And I said to her, “Dearest one! Why thus so staid? So sewing, so sewing, so sewing. Is it stitching for somebody over the sea, Or a slipper you’re making for impudent me?” But without looking up she continued to be Sewing, so sewing, so sewing.

And she sighed a deep sigh as She sat on that seat So sewing, so sewing, so sewing; And her forehead was flushed with A feverish heat, So sewing, so sewing, so sewing, But she still maintained silence And answered me naught, Though a smile or a whisper was all that I sought. She was certainly angry at having been caught So sewing, so sewing, so sewing.

But when Dick had come back from His voyage at sea, She was sewing, so sewing, so sewing; And the slippers were finished, As such work should be, By sewing, so sewing, so sewing. Now a wedding took place, But alas! ’twas not mine; And when Dick is away, if the weather be fine, She will sit on that seat and her fingers incline To sewing, so sewing, so sewing.

SAML. PEEL. From Gems.

WORDS FOR MUSIC.

The flowers that bloom in the pot, tra-la, Have the bulge on the flowers of Spring, For whether its cold or its hot, tra-la, They’re placed in temperate spot, tra-la, And in this have a very soft thing; So they don’t care a jot If it freezes or not, For they feel pretty certain that they have the pot, Tra-la-la la-la, tra-la-la-la-la. Oh, theirs is a fortunate lot.

Rare Bits. February 5, 1887.

THE SPRING CLEANING.

The flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la, You buy for the girl you adore, For a beautiful smile they bring, tra-la, And cause her your praises to sing, tra-la, Till you wish that you’d only bought more, And that’s what we mean when we say that a thing Is as welcome as flowers that bloom in the Spring.

The blushes that bloom on her cheek, tra la, Are painted the men to deceive; If you doubt, just notice this week, tra la, When her curls on your arm a rest seek, tra la, How the blushes will soil your coat-sleeve. And that’s what we mean when we angrily speak: A brush for the blushes that bloom on her cheek.

The flour that blooms in the spring, tra la, We find in confectioner’s cakes The children unto ’em will cling, tra la, Though they’re spongy and tough as a string, tra la, And simply are leathery fakes! And that’s why we’re sad when they pass us a thing, Made out of the flour that blooms in the spring.

The houses we clean in the spring, tra la, Give a blow to all social sunshine, And we profanely say as we sing, tra la, That we’d like to be hanged on a string, tra la, But we find that it’s useless to whine. And this is the refrain that we dolefully sing, Oh, bother the houses we clean in the spring.

THE TUNEFUL LIAR.

Quips (Liverpool.) March 4, 1887.

VERSES ACCIDENTALLY OMITTED AT THE SAVOY THEATRE.

At this General Election some have met with their rejection, Who never will be missed, who never will be missed! At last they’ve been found out, although they’ve long escaped detection, And we’ve scratched them off the list, we’ve scratched them off the list, There’s the foul-mouthed Joseph Leicester sent to “studdy” at his ease, With Rogers, whose crude Billingsgate has somehow failed to please; And Joseph Arch the humbug, who against the labourers votes, Has leisure now to understand what’s meant by “hinds” and “goats;” And Gibb, and Firth, and plenty more, we’ve scratched them off the list, But they’ll none of them be missed, they’ll none of them be missed!

But some there are who’ve scrambled through we well could do without; Though they’re still upon the list, they’re still upon the list! The traitors who have managed to escape the general rout, Though they never would be missed, they never would be missed! First, there’s the Grand Old Madman and his silly little son, And that “genial ruffian,” Labby, with his weak attempts at fun; There’s Bombastes Falstaff Harcourt, and J. Morley, prince of prigs, Flabby Childers, blatant Russell, half a dozen recreant Whigs, And all those empty Gladstone bags who’ve got upon the list; Oh, they’d none of them be missed, they’d none of them be missed!

W. St. Stephen’s Review. July, 1886.

Messrs. Lever Brothers, of Warrington, have published a small pamphlet describing the manufacture of their “Sunlight Soap.” It contains “A respectful Per-version of the Mikado,” from which the following extracts are given, by permission of Messrs. Lever Brothers:――

SONG――BY A LADY OF QUALITY.

As some day a washing soap that is harmless may be found, I’ve got a little list! I’ve got a little list Of gowns and things all stowed away, as safe as underground. Which have constantly been missed! How much they’ve all been missed! There’s my charming Dolly Varden, which, alas! is rather soiled, My parasol of once white lace, though dirty, it’s not spoiled. My chintzes and chinchillas, China crape, and cream brocade, My bombazines and silks of every style, and sort, and shade; That fetching little bonnet too, in which I first was kissed, They’ve all of them been missed! They’ve all been sadly missed.

Chorus――She’s got ’em on her list! She’s got ’em on her list; And they’ve all of ’em been missed! They’ve all been sadly missed.

One day a friend said Sunlight Soap I really ought to try, And as she did insist, I hunted up my list; For, hearing her experience, I remembered with a sigh, How much they’d all been missed! How much they’d all been missed. So I sent at once for Sunlight Soap, and soon unpicked the lace, From that old discarded sunshade and I tacked it in its place; Round a muslin-covered bottle, as their little books direct, And used the Sunlight Soap with most astonishing effect, The lace washed quite as good as new――encouraged to persist, I wondered if it would restore the other things I’d missed.

Chorus――She hunted up her list! She got her little list, And wondered if it would restore the other things she’d missed.

So one by one I brought to light the things I’d laid aside For I’d got them on my list! They were all upon my list; The same success attended each experiment I tried, And they’ll never more be missed They’ll never more be missed! The finest fabrics were unharmed, the tints remained intact, You may think I’m romancing, I assure you it’s a fact; You try the Sunlight Soap, you’ll find your labour much reduced, I only wish that years ago it had been introduced! Henceforth no more soiled garments will appear upon my list, For, thanks to harmless Sunlight Soap, they’ll none of them be missed.

Chorus――She’s crossed ’em off her list! She’s crossed ’em off her list, For, thanks to harmless Sunlight Soap, they’ll none of ’em be missed!

TRIO OF SUNLIGHT SOAP TABLETS.

Three little aids to health are we, Powerful aids in tablets three, Harbingers all of purity, Three little aids to health! Everyone will our virtues own, Everywhere is our value known, Everything that is foul hath flown, From three little aids to health!

Three little tablets, all expelling Germs of disease from dress and dwelling, Purity’s advent e’er foretelling―― Three little aids to health! Three little foes to dire decay, Driving disease and dirt away, Pleased to disperse their dread array―― Three little aids to health!

All that is foul we render fair, No earthly boon can with us compare, Life is a burden few could bear But for three little aids to health! Three little tablets, all expelling Germs of disease from dress and dwelling, Purity’s advent e’er foretelling―― Three little aids to health!

THE REASON WHY.

The flowers that bloom in the spring, Tra la, Breathe promise of merry Sunlight―― As we merrily dance and we sing, Tra la, We welcome the hope that they bring, Tra la, Of a summer of roses so bright; And that’s what we mean when we say that a thing Is welcome as flowers that bloom in the spring. Tra la la la la la, &c.

Lever’s Sunlight Soap’s a thing, Tra la, That brings sunshine wherever it goes If you ask us to which we should cling, Tra la, It won’t be the flowers of spring, Tra la, For they’re useless for washing of clothes; And that’s what we mean when we say, or we sing, “It’s better than flowers that bloom in the spring!” Tra la la la la la, &c.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

In a cot by a river a lady forlorn Sang “willow, titwillow, titwillow!” And I said to her, “pretty one, why do you mourn, Singing ‘willow, titwillow, titwillow?’ Your love will return ere the sun will have set, Your honeymoon scarce is completed, and yet With a shake of your head you reply in a pet, “Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!”

But alas! she had wedded for love, not for pelf, Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow! So she had to get through all the washing herself, Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow! She sobbed and she sighed, and a gurgle she gave, Then she threw herself into the billowy wave, And an echo arose from the suicide’s grave―― “Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!”

Now I feel just as sure as I’m sure that my name Isn’t willow, titwillow, titwillow, ’Twas inferior soap that thus made her exclaim, “Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!” If Lever’s Sunlight Soap she’d happened to buy, Her work had been done without trouble, and I Should never have heard that most desolate cry―― “Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!”

RUDDIGORE; OR, THE WITCH’S CURSE.

This opera, produced at the Savoy Theatre on Saturday, January 22, 1887, did not at first receive that approval which the Press and the public have hitherto accorded to Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan’s pieces. Objection was taken to the title, and in deference to public opinion the first word was altered from Ruddygore to Ruddigore, whilst several passages which occur in the published version of the libretto are either altered, or omitted, in representation, and generally the piece runs more smoothly than it did when first produced.

That Mr. Gilbert himself had some mistrust of his own passion for logical paradoxes may be inferred from the fact that the following passage has, from the first, been omitted in the performance:

Rod. It’s not too late, is it?

Han. Oh Roddy! (bashfully).

Rod. I’m quite respectable now, you know.

Han. But you’re a ghost, ain’t you?

Rod. Well yes――a kind of ghost.

Han. But what would be my legal status as a ghost’s wife?

Rod. It would be a very respectable position.

Han. But I should be the wife of a dead husband, Roddy!

Rod. No doubt.

Han. But the wife of a dead husband is a widow, Roddy

Rod. I suppose she is.

Han. And a widow is at liberty to marry again, Roddy!

Rod. Dear me, yes――that’s awkward. I never thought of that.

Han. No, Roddy――I thought you hadn’t.

Rod. When you’ve been a ghost for a considerable time it’s astonishing how foggy you become!

The acting copy now also dispenses with the equally ingenious quibbles which appeared to give offence to the audience on the first night, as follows:――

Robin. Stop a bit――both of you.

Rod. This intrusion is unmannerly.

Han. I’m surprised at you.

Robin. I can’t stop to apologise――an idea has just occurred to me. A Baronet of Ruddygore can only die through refusing to commit his daily crime.

Rod. No doubt.

Robin. Therefore, to refuse to commit a daily crime is tantamount to suicide!

Rod. It would seem so.

Robin. But suicide is, itself, a crime――and so, by your own showing, you ought none of you to have ever died at all!

Red. I see――I understand! We are all practically alive!

Robin. Every man jack of you!

Rod. My brother ancestors! Down from your frames! (The Ancestors descend.) You believe yourselves to be dead――you may take it from me that you’re not, and an application to the Supreme Court is all that is necessary to prove that you never ought to have died at all!

(The Ancestors embrace the Bridesmaids.)

From the omission of this conversation it now follows that the “ancestors,” having once returned to their picture frames, remain there.

AN APPEAL, AFTER E. A. POE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

E. B. V. Pall Mall Gazette. February 12, 1887.

THE PLAYWRIGHT’S LAMENT. With Chorus of Professional Supers from “Ready Goer.”

(Note.――The long lines are by the Playwright; the short lines are by the Chorus of Supers.)

Oh, why am I gloomy and sad? Can’t guess. And why am I wicked and bad? Confess. Because I am thoroughly MAD! Oh, yes. You may tell by the rage in my face.

Do you know that I’ve written a play? Don’t say! And it was produced yesterday? Hurrah! Do the papers a single word say? Not they! Now I think that’s a very hard case.

’F I were Gilbert or Sully-vi-an―― Oh, ho! Bronson Howard, the Ah-merry-khan―― Ah, no! H. A. Jones, or his partner Hermann―― Just so! George R. Sims or Henry Pet-tett.

If I were the author of “Jan”―― Who’s he! Or a thoroughly noted young man―― Dear me! Or Verdi at distant Mil-an―― I see! I’d get half a column, you bet!

But being at present unknown―― Oh, dear! No preference for me is shown―― No fear! So I have to play it alone―― Hear! Hear!! But I’ll even up with them yet.

LUKE SHARP. The Detroit Free Press. March 19, 1887.

COERCION COMING. Duet――Lord Londonderry (Despard) and Sir M. Hicks-Beach (Mad Margaret).

Lond. I once was a very abandoned person――

Beach. Spoiling the hard-up landlords’ chances;

Lond. Such people couldn’t conceive a worse ’un――

Beach. Or one more subject to sickly fancies.

Lond. I blush for my mild extravagances; But be so kind To bear in mind

Beach. We were the victims of circumstances! [Dance This is one of our contrite dances.

Beach. I was as soft as a sweet young lady――

Lond. Troubled by Nationalistic vapours.

Beach. The squires declared that my ways were shady――

Lond. They hinted at penitential tapers.

Beach. The Plan of “Pressure” amused the gapers. My ways were strange Beyond all range――

Lond. And grumbles got into Tory papers! [Dance. Here goes to cut coercionist capers.

Lond. I’m sorry now for each weak proceeding――”

Beach. My taste for a merciful method’s waning.

Lond. It’s gag and shackle that Erin’s needing――

Bench. We can’t have the Unionists complaining.

Lond. Our party’s praises we’d be obtaining. We’ll try a rule Of the Iron School.

Beach. It won’t be nice, but we’ll stop Campaigning! [Dance. Our steps will mend when we’ve had some training.

Funny Folks. March 5, 1887.

GOOD FOR GOSCHEN. (Owed by a De-lighted Pipe.)

Come hither, ye slaves of the weed, And read; All ye of fumiferous breed Take heed; Through minimised taxing, The prices they’re axing For fragrant tobaccos――recede With speed!

You say that the Budget’s not strong?―― You’re wrong. You say it contents not the throng?―― Go ’long! Good smokes it arranges, And rings in the changes, And rings out the old with a song―― Ding-dong!

What, say you it’s all for a puff? That’s rough: Here Goschen deserves no rebuff―― Enough! Indulgers will glory In Whig or in Tory Who’ll give them in ’baccy or snuff Good stuff!

High duty on weeds they revoke―― Smart stroke―― It’s certain to finish in smoke (Good joke!) We welcome, in brief, sir, Less liquid, more leaf, sir! When ’baccy in water they soak―― We choke!

When Goschen Pride’s high pyramid Bestrid, We openly own that we chid The kid. But he gained by this action The thanks of each faction That loveth the succulent quid―― He did!

Funny Folks. April 30, 1887.

Although Ruddigore is, in itself, a burlesque, it occurred to Mr. Toole that some fun might be got out of a caricature of it, and accordingly Messrs. Taylor and Percy Reeve composed a “musical parody” entitled Ruddy George, which was produced at Toole’s Theatre. Much talent for mimicry was displayed by the principal performers, and especially by Mr. E. D. Ward, as Robin Redbreast (after George Grossmith) and Mr. Skelton, as Sir Gaspard, in a droll imitation of Rutland Barrington’s portentious manner. The burlesque was, however, most successful in so far as it caricatured the idiosyncracies and eccentricities of Sir Arthur Sullivan’s music. In imitation of the scene in Act II. of the original, where the portraits of Sir Ruthven’s forefathers descend from their frames, kitcat panel likenesses of Mr. Gilbert, Sir Arthur Sullivan, and Mr. D’Oyly Carte suddenly become endowed with life, and utter some mild, and rather pointless jests.

KO-KO ON “THE COW AND THREE ACRES.” (The Mikado.)

The Rads all the yokels to gain, tra la! Gave promise of land and a cow. They argued, “They’re all half-insane, tra la! “Majority we shall obtain, tra la! By the help of the sons of the plough.” And that’s what they meant, as you’ll quite understand, When they promised a cow and three acres of land, And told-’em-a-lie-or-two, told-’em-a-lie-or-two―― Promised a cow and some land.

They’ve voted for them, and so now, tra la! My advice to the “clods” is “Away! And tell ’em you’re sick of the plough,” tra la! That you’ve come for your acres and cow, tra la! And they’ll turn round to you and they’ll say, “My friends, we would give you the acres and cow, But, alas! we’ve not got them――at least, not just now. But we’ve told-you-a-lie-or-two, told-you-a-lie-or-two―― Live by the sweat of your brow!”

The Sporting Times. 1886.

ODE TO A LONDON FOG.

Roll on, thick haze, roll on! Through each familiar way Roll on! What though I must go out to-day? What though my lungs are rather queer? What though asthmatic ills I fear? What though my wheeziness is clear? Never you mind! Roll on!

Roll on, thick haze, roll on! Through street and square and lane Roll on! It’s true I cough and cough again; It’s true I gasp and puff and blow; It’s true my trip may lay me low―― But that’s not your affair, you know. Never you mind! Roll on!

Funny Folks Annual. 1885.

A small volume has recently been published by Messrs. Chatto and Windus (London), entitled Mr. Gilbert’s Original Comic Operas, it contains The Sorcerer, H. M. S. Pinafore, The Pirates of Penzance, Iolanthe, Patience, Princess Ida, The Mikado, and Trial by Jury. It gives the dates when these pieces were first produced, but unfortunately omits the names of the performers, which all playgoers and collectors of theatrical curiosities will regret.

Numerous imitations and parodies exist of Mr. Gilbert’s writings, other than those connected with Sir Arthur Sullivan’s music, thus his mythological play Pygmalion and Galatea was burlesqued by Miss Alice Maud Meadows in “Chiselling Pygmalion,” which was performed in London in December, 1883, by the members of the Grantham Lawn Tennis Club.

A jocular guide to the Edinburgh Exhibition of 1886 was compiled by Mr. George Stronach, and published by Robert Mitchell, of Edinburgh. It was entitled “Our Own-eries; or, The Show in the Meadows; a dog-gerel cat-alogue,” and was profusely and humourously illustrated. It contained several amusing parodies on The Mikado, and one on Tennyson’s Brook, but as they related only to the Exhibition they were of purely local interest, and are now out of date.

In The Bab Ballads, which originally appeared in Fun (London), may be found the germs of several of Mr. Gilbert’s plays and operas, sketches of plots afterwards amplified, and snatches of song which were, later on, to be linked to Arthur Sullivan’s music, and so made famous.

The following, which appeared in Fun twenty years ago, contains part of the plot of H. M. S. Pinafore:――

JOE GOLIGHTLY; OR, THE FIRST LORD’S DAUGHTER.

A tar but poorly prized Long, shambling, and unsightly, Thrashed, bullied, and despised, Was wretched Joe Golightly.

He bore a workhouse brand, No pa or ma had claimed him, The Beadle found him, and The Board of Guardians named him

P’raps some princess’s son―― A beggar p’raps his mother! He rather thought the one, I rather think the other.

He liked his ship at sea, He loved the salt sea-water; He worshipped junk, and he Adored the First Lord’s daughter.

The First Lord’s daughter proud, Snubbed earls and viscounts nightly―― She sneered at barts aloud, And spurned poor Joe Golightly.

Whene’er he sailed afar Upon a Channel cruise, he Unpacked his light guitar And sang this ballad (Boosey).

Ballad.

The moon is on the sea, Willow! The wind blows towards the lee, Willow! But though I sigh and sob and cry, No Lady Jane for me, Willow!

She says, “Twere folly quite, Willow! For me to wed a wight, Willow! Whose lot is cast before the mast;” And possibly she’s light, Willow![26]

His skipper (Captain Joyce) He gave him many a rating, And almost lost his voice From thus expostulating:

“Lay out, you lubber, do! What’s come to that young man, Joe? Belay!――’vast heaving! you! Do kindly stop that banjo!”

“I wish, I do――oh, lor! You’d shipped aboard a trader: Are you a sailor, or A negro serenader?”

But still the stricken cad, Aloft or on his pillow, Howled forth in accents sad His aggravating “Willow!”

Stern love of duty had Been Joyce’s chiefest beauty―― Says he, “I love that lad, But duty, damme! duty!”

“Twelve years blackhole, I say, Where daylight never flashes; And always twice a day Five hundred thousand lashes!”

But Joseph had a mate. A sailor stout and lusty, A man of low estate, But singularly trusty.

Says he, “Cheer hup, young Joe! I’ll tell you what I’m arter, To that Fust Lord I’ll go And ax him for his darter.

“To that Fust Lord I’ll go And say you love her dearly.” And Joe said (weeping low), “I wish you would, sincerely!”

That sailor to that Lord Went, soon as he had landed, And of his own accord An interview demanded.

Says he, with seaman’s roll, “My captain (wot’s a Tartar), Guv Joe twelve years’ black hole, For lovering your darter.

“He loves Miss Lady Jane (I own she is his betters), But if you’ll jine them twain, They’ll free him from his fetters.

“And if so be as how You’ll let her come a-boardship, I’ll take her with me now”―― “Get out!” remarked his Lordship.

That honest tar repaired To Joe upon the billow, And told him how he’d fared: Joe only whispered, “Willow!”

And for that dreadful crime (Young sailors learn to shun it) He’s working out his time: In ten years he’ll have done it.

Fun. October 12, 1867.

The Bab Ballads have been often imitated (it is scarcely possible to parody them successfully), but the imitations are for the most part very inferior to the originals, besides which they are generally very long, so that only a few examples can be quoted. The three following appeared in a prize competition in The World, the subject selected by the editor being:――

KING THEEBAW OF BURMAH.

FIRST PRIZE. (Model: “Sir Guy the Crusader.”)

Theebaw was a potentate mighty, “The Magnificent One, Grandchild of the Sun,” To put foreign armies to flight he Shook his magical spear――it was done.

John Bull was his special objection, A contemptible cad, An upstart who had Not a single celestial connection, And whose form altogether was bad.

Yet this snob, with the coolest assurance, Sent a party named Shaw To the court of Theebaw To remonstrate――O cheek past endurance!―― When he strangled his brothers-in-law.

Says Theebaw, “Shall this prig of a Briton Be allowed to object―― Such a want of respect!―― When I’ve got a man-torturing fit on? It’s hard lines if my fun be thus checked!”

So he tried of that prying external His kingdom to rid, Which he finally did, Having scared him to death; but a colonel Named Browne to replace him was bid.

Now Theebaw, it is right here to mention, Had very strong views On the subject of shoes; At an afternoon call their retention Was a slip that he could not excuse.

The colonel thought this very cruel, Took cold in his head, And before going to bed Put his feet in hot water, supped gruel, Packed up the next morning and fled.

Said Bull to Theebaw, “I’m disgusted; If my delegates are Thus exposed to catarrh, With a colonel you shall not be trusted.” Whereto Theebaw answered with “Yah-r!”

So St. Barbe was left there to be worried, Till he’d reason to dread, Being relieved of his head In a manner less pleasant than hurried; Then he, too, packed baggage and fled.

So Theebaw was alone in his glory. He drowned everybody In the deep Irrawaddy, And then, as an end to the story, He finished himself with rum-toddy.

ODD FISH.

SECOND PRIZE. The Tale of King Theebaw.

Theebaw was the King of the golden toe, And the monarch of Mandalay, And he laughingly said, as he got out of bed, In a casual sort of way:

“I’m tired of my dozens of uncles and cousins; My connections are far too extensive; My hundreds of mothers and legions of brothers, Though dear, yet are very expensive.

I’ll polish off all the sons of my pa, And then, with due justice, I can’t But smother my nieces, and cut into pieces My grandmother’s aged aunt.”

“No, really you mustn’t, august Theebaw,” Said the spirited British Envoy. “Pray think of it twice, for it wouldn’t be nice, You exceedingly naughty boy!”

“’Tis plainly my duty to warn you that we―― Though we’d rather not say, ‘You shan’t!’―― Shouldn’t like it at all, if you cut up quite small Your grandmother’s aged aunt.”

Then up rose the King of the golden toe, And he tore off his Chancellor’s wig. “You idiot,” said he, “have you no repartee To answer this son of a pig?

Now listen, you ugly preposterous man, You wretchedly lily-white cus I’ll make you regret that you got in a pet, And made such a deuce of a fuss!

I’ll cut every one of my brothers in half; Their mothers I’ll tenderly boil; And I’ll frizzle each niece in buffalo-grease, And fry all my uncles in oil.

O yes, you may threaten; I don’t care a d―― For you and your silly ‘You shan’t!’ And I’ll certainly smother my aged grandmother, As well as her elderly aunt.

For am I not King of the golden toe, And the monarch of Mandalay? And I laugh in my sleeve, for I’m led to believe That England is far away.

And your army I read in my Daily News―― Three men and one little wee boy―― Has sufficient to do with King Cetewayo: Good morning, my dear Envoy!

And please have the goodness to leave me alone, For my temper’s uncommonly quick. Don’t think me uncivil――but――go to the devil! And――send me some rum, there’s a brick!”

SCOAD.

A VERY DRY TALE. (To the air of the ‘Precocious Baby.’)

A monarch of Burmah, I cannot tell why, With his sips and ‘nips’ For his parched-up lips, Was plagued with a throat so excessively dry, ’Twas useless to try To ‘wet t’other eye,’ Because he was perfectly, perfectly dry.

’Twas shocking in one of exalted degree, With his ‘Pour a drop more, Encore and encore,’ ’Twas painfully sad for the monarch of B., As thirsty was he As a fish from the sea, As thirsty, as thirsty, as thirsty could be.

His ministers tried to relieve him at first With coffee and tea And soda-and-b., But couldn’t relieve his insatiable thirst; They all did their worst For the King, who was curst From youth with a singular, singular thirst.

Of each kind of tipple they brought a supply (With whisky and brandy, And other drinks handy), And wept that their monarch should still remain dry; But laugh when he’d try With his jester to vie, For even his jokes were exceedingly dry.

They gathered in Hungary, Portugal, Spain, On the banks of the Rhine, Many hogsheads of wine, Which were drunk (so was he), but he still cried ‘A drain!’ ’Twas perfectly plain All their labours were vain; He kept on repeating, ‘Go fetch me a drain!’

Then a royal commission his Majesty sent, With his ‘Pass me a glass Of the bitter of Bass!’ To buy all the liquor of Burton-on-Trent. But after they went He wasn’t content, Though he drank all the liquor of Burton-on-Trent.

It remained for a Hebrew a cure to propose―― He knew that his highness Was famed for his dryness, And melted him down to make waterproof clo’s! And history shows the fame of him rose―― His dryness made excellent waterproof clo’s!

PEMBROKE. The World. October 29, 1879.

A parody on the same topic will also be found on page 413 of Mr. F. B. Doveton’s Sketches in Prose and Verse, published by Sampson Low & Co., London, in 1886. But a much more amusing imitation of a Bab ballad is that on page 456 of the same volume, which, by Mr. Doveton’s kind permission, is here given:――

THE BISHOP AND THE BALLET.

Postures antic Drove him frantic Seized he pen and paper―― “Young men, stop it, Pray you, drop it, Watching damsels caper―― ’Gainst this awful Vain, unlawful Folly set your faces; Though they charm ye, Girls will harm ye More than wine or races!”

They replying, Answered, sighing―― Hawing, hemming, humming―― “Not for Joe, sir For you know, sir, Short skirts are becoming! Ballet dancing, Is entrancing, We enjoy it――rather!” But stern “London” Thought them undone―― Spoke out like a father.

“Dare ye dally With the ballet?” Said the bishop, coldly. “You may see, sir, More than we, sir,” Young men answered boldly. “Go along, boys, You are wrong, boys, I have years in plenty; Whilst these lasses, Through my glasses, All seem under twenty!”

Dancer clever Hardly ever Finds a man who’ll scold her. Leant one fairy Light and airy, On his lordship’s shoulder; Bishop kissed her Like a sister, When he should have smacked her To delight her, Doffed his mitre, And became an Actor!

F. B. DOVETON.

LORD TENNYSON’S JUBILEE ODE.

The April number of Macmillan’s Magazine contained the Poet Laureate’s contribution to Jubilee literature. As usual, portions of the Ode were quoted in the London papers almost before the magazine was published, and The Daily News went so far as to reprint the whole of the Ode, an infringement of Messrs. Macmillan’s rights, for which an apology had to be made. As to the poetical merits of the Ode public opinion has been tolerably well expressed by the parodies on it which have appeared. A few verses of the original are here given, to lead up to the parodies.

CARMEN SÆCULARE.

AN ODE IN HONOUR OF The Jubilee of Queen Victoria.

Fifty times the rose has flower’d and faded, Fifty times the golden harvest fallen, Since our Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre.

She beloved for a kindliness Rare in Fable or History, Queen, and Empress of India, Crown’d so long with a diadem Never worn by a worthier, Now with prosperous auguries Comes at last to the bounteous Crowning year of her Jubilee.

VI.

You, that wanton in affluence, Spare not now to be bountiful, Call your poor to regale with you, Make their neighbourhood healthfuller, Give your gold to the Hospital, Let the weary be comforted, Let the needy be banqueted, Let the maim’d in his heart rejoice At this year of her Jubilee.

VIII.

You, the Patriot Architect, Shape a stately memorial, Make it regally gorgeous, Some Imperial Institute, Rich in symbol, in ornament, Which may speak to the centuries, All the centuries after us, Of this year of her Jubilee.

IX.

Fifty years of ever-broadening Commerce! Fifty years of ever-brightening Science! Fifty years of ever-widening Empire!

X.

You, the Mighty, the Fortunate, You, the Lord-territorial, You, the Lord-manufacturer, You, the hardy, laborious, Patient children of Albion, You, Canadian, Indian, Australasian, African, All your hearts be in harmony, All your voices in unison, Singing “Hail to the glorious Golden year of her Jubilee!”

XI.

Are there thunders moaning in the distance? Are there spectres moving in the darkness? Trust the Lord of Light to guide her people. Till the thunders pass, the spectres vanish, And the Light is Victor, and the darkness Dawns into the Jubilee of the Ages.

The Globe remarked:――

“It is to be feared that the Laureate’s Jubilee Ode will sadly disappoint all his admirers. It has a certain rhetorical neatness, no doubt; but it cannot be regarded as adequate to the occasion. The poet has chosen, for the most part, very prosaic rhythms, and the Ode, trite and even common in ideas, is not even endowed with occasional felicities of expression, On the contrary, it is sometimes positively unlucky in its phraseology, as when the world is most unnecessarily assured that Her Majesty has about her――

‘Nothing of the lawless, of the Despot, Nothing of the vulgar, or vain-glorious.’

“By no means happy are the references to those who ‘wanton in affluence’ (why ‘wanton?’) to the ‘Lord manufacturers,’ and to the ‘Imperial Institute,’ which latter surely savours a little of bathos? The six concluding lines have more inspiration, perhaps, than most; but they do not harmonise very well in their allusion to ‘thunders moaning in the distance,’ with the Laureate’s allusion elsewhere to the ‘prosperous auguries’ of the Jubilee. On the whole, Lord Rosslyn, Mr. Morris, and Lord Tennyson having all spoken, it must be confessed that the Jubilee still lacks a vates sacer.”

ANOTHER ODE.

Fifty times the Laureate sharpened his pencil: Fifty times he turned over the Rhyming Dictionary: Then he decided to give up rhymes altogether. HE, the Patriot Laureate, He, the Lord-manufacturer, Shaped a stately memorial, Made it regally gorgeous After Walt Whitman’s pattern, Rich in blackness, in dullness, Which might speak to the centuries Through the Magazine Macmillan, Of this year of our Jubilee.

Fifty lines at last completed! Fifty more at least to make a century; Where the dickens shall the other fifty come from? But―― Is that the printer’s boy moaning in the passage? Is that the ――――? ――――! There goes my lead pencil. Trust the public to make out the glory of these verses.

The Globe. March 29, 1887.

VERY HARD LINES. HOW THEY WERE WRITTEN TO ORDER. (Leaf from a Laureate’s Diary.)

9 A.M.――Bother the Jubilee! What in the name of fortune, can one do with such a rubbishing subject? But here’s Macmillan waiting, and I haven’t done a single line yet. Must get something put on to paper, if only to quiet him. But how on earth to begin! Get in “fifty” somehow. Want fifty somethings that come but once a year. Christmas? Good. That suggests Clown. I have it.

Fifty times the Clown has grinned and tumbled.

No. That won’t do. It’s too shoppy, stagey. Has a soupçon of the Promise of May about it. Wants something wider Ha! The Row, suggesting the Season, of course.

Fifty times the Row has filled and emptied.

No. Don’t like it. Reads as if I was talking of a cistern. Too heavy. Try something lighter. Pastry? Feathers? Flowers? Ha! that’s it. Flowers, of course. Here, I’ve got it!

Fifty times the Rose has flowered and faded.

Anyhow, that’ll do to go off with. Let’s see. I want fifty something elses to follow it up with. What shall it be? Cartloads? Handfuls? Armfuls? Autumns? Harvests? Good again. Not that there’s any precise connection between them; but one must stick down something, How’ll this do?

Fifty times the golden harvest fallen.

Yes, that reads all right. Is there any other way of putting “fifty?” Yes, “twice twenty-five.” But that won’t come in. Then there’s “four times twelve and a half.” No; that won’t do. Enough “fifty.” Now we want some allusion to Her Majesty. Must get in a “since.” I have it, “Since our Queen assumed,” Capital. Here you are!

Since our Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre.

Come; that’s a beginning anyhow. Three lines! But they’ve quite dried me up. Besides, I can’t go on in blank verse like this. Don’t feel up to it. Must try another metre. What metre. And then what on earth am I to say in it? I haven’t had such a job as this for a long time. Could weep over it. A precious Ode I shall make of it.

For though I, know not anything, Yet must I not my lot upbraid; Since as the Laureate I am paid, And, being paid, am bound to sing.

But, “a glass of sherry, will make me merry.” I’ll try one.!

6 P.M.――Confound the Jubilee Ode! Have now been at it all day, and am floundering worse than ever. Have got in something about illuminations, sanitary improvements, subscribing to a Hospital and Penny dinners, and given a kind of back-hander to George the Third, but who, on earth, I refer to as the “Patriot Architect,” and what I mean by asking him to Shape a stately memorial, Make it regularly――no, “regally”――gorgeous, Some Imperial Institute, I don’t know. But if I arrange it in parallel lines it will look like poetry, and that’ll be near enough.

Feel I’m making a horrible hash of it. Might go for a turn on my bicycle. May clear my head. Might try it. Will.

Have dined, and now, at 9 P.M., have again settled down to it over a pipe and a glass of grog. Am in a more hopeless muddle than ever. Trying to bring in everybody in a kind of wind-up appeal. But look at this,――

You, the snubbed, the unfortunate You, the Lord-Undertaker, You, the Lord-Omnibus-Conductor,

That doesn’t seem to run very well, but it’s the kind of idea I want to work in. Don’t seem able to manage it.

You, the Lady-Amateur Actor?

No, that won’t do! Shall never get it done to-night.

10 P.M.――After awful hammering, managed to knock off two more lines. Head spinning, but must stick to it. Feel I’ve never turned out such stuff in my life before. Hopeless!

10.30 P.M.――Two more lines screwed out. But what lines! Won’t scan, and as to rhyme,――ha! ha!――catch me rhyming to-night!

11 P.M.――Have come to a dead stand-still. Equal to it. Have had recourse to the wet towel. Refreshes me. Ha! I see light. Happy thought! As I can’t do it in verse, why not write it all in prose, and then cut it up into poetry afterwards? Sure to get cut up when it appears. Why not do it myself first? I will. Anyhow, here goes.

MIDNIGHT.――Done it! Labelled it Carmen Sæculare. Looks all right, but quite the toughest piece of work I’ve ever had to turn out. Posted it to Macmillan. Hope he’ll like it.

Punch. April 9, 1887.

ANOTHER JUBILEE ODE.

Fifty times the lines have slipped and halted; Fifty times some golden lines have fallen Since this man――the poet――became the Laureate.

He, renowned for a wordiness, Rare in fable or history, Poet――and Rhymster of England, Crowned at last by strawberry leaf, Never worn by a wordier. Now with numbers unmusical, Comes at last to the psalm-front, Singing the year of Jubilee.

You whose bank balance is right side Spare not of cheques the distributing. Ask your labourers to dine with you, Make cleanlier their cottages, Double infirmary subscriptions, Let the ragged all be clothed, Let the hungry have bellies full, Let those one-legged have a wooden one At this year of the Jubilee.

Fifty years of ever-growing taxes; Fifty years of ever world-mending Fifty years of ever muddling Ireland.

You――the taxpayer unfortunate, You――the Lord Knows-who, and lady, You――the Lord, shoddy-mixer, You――the almighty working man, Patient grumblers of England. You――all sorts of men――and others, Irish, Yankee, dynamiters―― All your hearts be in harmony, All your pockets open lib’rally To the numerous funds in progress, Gilding the year of Jubilee.

Were there poets living in past ages? Are there poets writing still amongst us? Pray the Lord of Rhyme to guide weak pens Till the bards do pass. Song giants come back, And old sweet Poetry as the victor Dawns into a Jubilee of the ages.

Scraps. April 16, 1887.

OWED TO LORD TENNYSON. (Carmen Sequel-airy.)

Fifty times our nose has twirled and tilted, Fifty times our silvern laughter fallen, Since, my Lord, we read your Ode――your metre.

You, renowned for a stateliness Rare in Prose, or in Poetry, Keen with impress of Genius, Crowned so long with a laurel-wreath Seldom worn by a worthier, Now with preposterous flummeries Come at last to this flatulent Droning Ode on the Jubilee!

Nothing of the flawless――but the tin pot―― Nothing of the dulcet, or strain glorious, All is fussy, feeble, flat――writ poorly. * * * * *

You that wanton in epithets, Spare not now to be bountiful, Call Tom Moore to regale with you, Make your sentiments mirthfuller, Send your spleen to the hospital, Let the reader be comforted, Let the seedy be junketed, Let MacM. in his purse rejoice At your Ode on the Jubilee.

VII.

Henry’s fifty truths are all in shadows, Green with envy Edmund’s fifty t’others, Ananias’ forti-tude forgotten.

You, the Patriot Laureate, Write a better memorial!―― Something really gorgeous ’Bout th’ Imperial Institute, Rich in jingle, in ornament, Which may fetch South Kensington, All South Kensington after us, In this year of the Jubilee.

Fifty lines of ever-broadening Outlook, Fifty lines of ever-brightening Promise, Fifty lines of ever-widening Meaning.

You, the Flighty, the Fortunate, You, the Lord-in-Memoriam, You, the Word-manufacturer.

All your parts be in harmony, All your verses in unison, Singing――“There’ll be a glorious Golden harvest, this Jubilee!”

Are there blunders glooming in the Navy? Are inspectors moving in the darkness? Trust My Lords aright to guide the people Till the blunders pass, th’ inspectors vanish, And the Press is Victor, and the darkness Dawns into the――Jubilee of the Pages.

Moonshine. April 6, 1887.

THE HOME RULE JUBILATION ODE.

Fifty times seven days are past and ended, Eighty Whigs have ratted and turned Tory, Since your William burned his boats, his bridges

He renowned for a wordiness Rare in fable or history, King and God of the Radicals, Crowned with Papal diadem Never worn by a wordier, Now with splendid audacity Reigns the King of Obstructionists.

Partner with Parnell, chief of Irish despots, Stewed in his juice with Harcourt the vainglorious, Yet is your William noble, great, and god-like.

You then noisily, all of you Stump the towns for Disunion. Let Misrule hold high festival; Everywhere let the multitude, Home Rule each to the heart of it, Raise the standard of Anarchy; Hail the monarch of egotism, Quod sic volo sic jubeo.

Be as true to England as to Gordon, Glorying in the trials of her Rulers, Sorrowing with the griefs of the disloyal.

You that, wanting in intellect, Spare not now to be boisterous, Call your thousands to demonstrate, Make it hot for your neighbourhood. Give your gold to Invincibles, Let the landlords be boycotted, Let the juries be browbeaten, Let the maimed make the best of it, Spread the gospel of Anarchy.

Henry’s ears are pricked to catch your brayings, Gray your ravings to report is burning, Even my Granny joins the Home Rule chorus.

You, the Paddy-American, Shape a missile of Dynamite; Make it really dangerous, Some explosive material Like the missile of Clerkenwell, Which may frighten the Unionists, All the Unionists terrify, Frighten them into anarchy.

Fifty times repeat the loud explosion, Fifty times the midnight crime and outrage, Till at length you rend the mighty empire.

You, the ruler, the democrat; You, the serf territorial; You, the crime-manufacturer; You, the grimy, uproarious, Bastard children of Albion, You, Milesian, Hibernian, You, the Gael and the Cambrian, You, the Tyke and the Tynesider, All your hearts be in harmony, All your throats shout in unison, Singing, Hail to the godlike Grand Old Man, the Obstructionist!

Are there Tories raving in the distance? Are there landlords moving in the darkness? Trust the Grand Old Man to blind the people, Till the Tories fall, the landlords vanish, And the League is victor, and the darkness Falls upon the Anarchy of Ireland.

The St. James’s Gazette. April 14, 1887.

PRIZE COMPETITION PARODIES.

The Weekly Dispatch awarded the prize of two guineas for the best Parody of a part of Tennyson’s Jubilee Ode to the following:――

You, the Laureate (O Fortunate), You, the Bard-territorial, You, the Verse-manufacturer, You, whose lines so laborious Patient children of Albion Have perused in bewilderment―― List awhile to another “pote.” All your tones lack in harmony, All your verse is confusion, Sing in style less inglorious, Try these lines for the Jubilee:――

Hear the thunders moaning not far distant! See the spectre Want step out from darkness! Trust we that the Right will guide our people When they reach that pass, that sceptres vanish, And the Light is Victor, and these ages Seem to them the Jubilee of Darkness!

C. R. IRELAND.

The following were highly commended:――

He revered for a genius Rare in annals of poesy, Poet Laureate of Albion, Crowned so long with the evergreens Never donned by a doughtier, Now with puerile versicles, Comes at last to inaugurate This last year of her Jubilee.

You, that joy in celebrity, Spare us now more inanities; Tell your Muse you have done with her, Make your countrymen happier. Give way now to the younger men, Let the critic be quieted, Let admirers be comforted, Let your Queen in her heart rejoice In this year of her Jubilee.

“Fifty times the rose has flower’d and faded,” Fifty times it would have bloomed without her―― Smelt as sweet without “the crown, the sceptre.”

Are there thunders moaning in the distance?―― ’Tis the German band of near relations; Trust the mother Queen to guide her people Where they’ll live in plenty without labour, And her Alberts, Victors, Georges, Henries, Families raise for Jubilees for ages.

T. A. H. ――――

Fifty times the State has fooled and blundered, Fifty times the royal pension’s risen Since the Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre.

Are there children starving in our alleys? Are there famine-stricken homes in cities? Trust not Queen or Lords to feed the people; Till the nation rules no troubles vanish. When the Right is Victor, then the darkness Dawns into the liberty of the ages.

ALFRED LOVETT.

ON INTERNATIONAL COPYRIGHT.

Ye, who revel in authorship, Spare not now to be practical; Call your “chums” to discuss with you, Make their industry hopefuller, Give your works to the publisher. Let the printer be recompensed, Let the trader be profited, Let the scribe in his work rejoice At the prospect of copyright.

You, the poet, th’ essayist, You, the faithful historian, You, the play manufacturer, You, the writer sensational, Patient newspaper editor, You, th’ obscure, the illustrious, Author, artist, and type-cutter―― All your aims be in harmony, All your efforts in unison, Till you succeed in obtaining International copyright.

J. MARSHALL.

MY LANDLADY.

She disliked for a craftiness Rare in kitchen or scullery, Queen, and slave in a lodging-house, Crowned so long with a widow’s cap Never worn by an artfuller, Now, with sanctified countenance, Comes to fleece us and plunder us, Growling, “Here is your weekly bill.

“You, that wanton in affluence, Spare not now to be bountiful; Scan not what I regale you on, Swear no neighbourhood’s healthfuller, Leave your gold on your looking-glass, Let your beer and your tea be boned, Let the needy (that’s me) be fed, Let your landlady line her nest While she tinkers the weekly bill.”

SHAWRNLAM. From The Weekly Dispatch. April 17, 1887.

CARMEN EXPOSTULATORY.

Fifty times my nose I’ve rubbed, and jaded Is my brain with trying to make out wherein Of poesy an ounce to find in Carmen Seculare.

He, who as Laureate attained a fame Rare and great in History, Babbles now in frothy talk, Unlike his wonted measure. And speaks of Empress Queen And Jubilee, like Whitman would With ruggedness of diction To crown this year of Jubilee.

Nothing of the Poetic, but the Crackpot, Who, with vulgar words bepraising, All in humdrum rant and rubbish anent the Queen.

You then mournfully, all of you Wear your sackcloth, your ashes, For the sad falling off of one Who wrote of Arthur Hallam, In the grand “In Memoriam.” So will you not with heart Or voice, Hail this of Tennyson’s Other than the twaddle tribute Spawned of this year of Jubilee.

V.

Oh! Alfred, once so true to manhood, Glorying in the strength to fight all shams. Sorrowing only with the people in their wrongs.

You that once in affluence Of diction, caught the ear of time, Call we now no longer ours The people’s friend. Spoiled child With diadem, and much belorded. We cannot now be comforted, Our maimed heart for you doth bleed, At this, your twaddle talk of Jubilee.

Who is Henry, that for fifty years in shadow, Consorts for fifty summers with Edward in gray distance, And the grandsire’s fifty half forgotten?

You, the Patriot Leader, Shape a stately Memorial. Record of wrongs not righted, Of Ireland’s cry not silenced: But still the symbol badge Of Saxon oppression, Which she has worn for centuries. How will fair Erin Hail this golden year of Jubilee?

Fifty years of ever-growing Taxation. Fifty years of Civil Lists most heavy. Fifty years of Royal Pauperism.

You, the Mighty, the Fortunate, Think of the poor who have fallen. You, the Lord-manufacturer, Made rich by the hard, laborious, Patient to suffer――but about to rise.

Yes, the thunders moan forth in the distance. See gaunt spectred Poverty moveth in the land. Trust your common sense to guide you, oh! my people, So shall thunders pass and spectres vanish, And Demos crowned a victor, out of darkness’s Dawn shall come, the Jubilee of the Ages.

Algernon Charles Swinburne’s Question AND THE ANSWER.

THE QUESTION. 1887.

Shall England consummate the crime That binds the murderer’s hand, and leaves No surety for the trust of thieves? Time pleads against it――truth and time―― And pity frowns and grieves.

The hoary henchman of the gang, Lifts hands that never dew nor rain May cleanse from Gordon’s blood again, Appealing: pity’s tenderest pang Thrills his pure heart with pain.

THE ANSWER. 1887.

Shall England shirk the task sublime That Justice to her honour leaves, Of blotting out a shame that grieves Her soul, because in raving rhyme Slander a songster weaves?

The furious fugler of the gang His rabid epithets may rain On that grey head in vain, in vain, Though England’s heart may feel a pang, And England’s pride a stain.

Grand helmsman of the clamorous crew, The good grey recreant quakes and weeps, To think that crime no longer creeps Safe toward its end: that murderers too, May die when mercy sleeps.

While all the lives were innocent That slaughter drank, and laughed with rage, Bland virtue sighed, “A former age Taught murder: souls long discontent Can aught save blood assuage?

“You blame not Russian hands that smite By fierce and secret ways the power, That leaves not life one chainless hour; Have these than they less natural right To claim life’s natural dower?

“The dower that freedom brings the slave She weds, is vengeance: why should we, Whom equal laws acclaim as free, Think shame, if men too blindly brave Steal, murder, skulk, and flee?

“At kings they strike in Russia: there Men take their life in hand who slay Kings: these, that have not heart to lay Hands save on girls whose ravaged hair Is made the patriot’s prey.

“These, whom the sight of old men slain Makes bold to bid their children die, Starved, if they hold not peace, nor lie, Claim loftier praise: could others deign To stand in shame so high?

“Could others deign to dare such deeds As holiest Ireland hallows? Nay, But justice then makes plain our way: Be laws burnt up like burning weeds That vex the face of day.

“Shall bloodmongers be held of us Blood-guilty? Hands reached out for gold Whereon blood rusts not yet we hold Bloodless and blameless: ever thus Have good men held of old.

“Fair Freedom, fledged and imped with lies, Takes flight by night where murder lurks, And broods on murderous ways and works, Yet seems not hideous in our eyes As Austrians or as Turks.

“Be it ours to undo a woful past, To bid the bells of concord chime, To break the bonds of suffering crime, Slack now, that some would make more fast; Such teaching comes of time.”

So pleads the gentlest heart that lives, Whose pity, pitiless for all Whom darkling terror holds in thrall, Toward none save miscreants yearns, and gives Alms of warm tears――and gall.

Hear, England, and obey; for he Who claims thy trust again to-day, Is he who left thy sons a prey To shame whence only death sets free; Hear, England, and obey.

Great shrieker of the shrieking crew, The lyric recreant raves and rails At Justice, who adjusts her scales, At last, at last, for Erin too, His fire of freedom fails.

When Italy was militant For liberty, his muse could rage In rolling rhetoric page on page, His poet bosom swell and pant With wrath――which songs assuage.

But blame not British hands that smite Their brethren in fierce pride of power, Leave Ireland not one chainless hour. Is ruling not our native right, Our Heaven-appointed dower?

“The dower that freedom brings the slave She weds, is vengeance.” Aye, the free In other lands may strike; but we Are sacrosanct; the fools who brave Our wrath, must cease to be.

At kings they strike in Russia; there Tis duty, bliss, to stab, to slay Kings; but the Landlord, whose harsh sway Drives pillaged thralls to mad despair, He is no patriot’s prey.

Those whom the thought of fathers slain, Of roofless children doomed to die Starved, maddens by its memory―― These poets pardon not, nor deign To lift a lyric sigh.

A sigh of pity for such deeds As hapless Ireland harass? Nay, Justice shall not make straight our way Till ruthless Law hath crushed like weeds All who dare disobey.

Shall soulmongers be held of us Blood-guilty? Hands that grab the gold, Whereon blood rests, from the weak hold Of poor men homeless? Nay, not thus, Lest British Mammon scold.

Dear Mammon, fledged and fed with lies, The tale of suffering blurs and burkes, Hides his own murderous ways and works. Great Heaven, such shame would shock our eyes―― In Russians, or in Turks.

What, prate about a shameful past? Ask who began the tale of crime? Smirch England’s robes with tyrant slime? The patriot poet in full blast Shall brand you to all time.

So raves the fieriest bard that lives, Whose pity for the tyrant’s thrall, Set to rich music’s rise and fall, So nobly rang one half forgives This recreant mud and gall.

Hear, England, and be sad; for he Who peals this palinode to-day, The oppressor once could scathe and flay. Shame that his muse no more is free When England blocks the way.

Thy spoils he gave to deck the Dutch; Thy noblest pride, most pure, most brave, To death forlorn and sure he gave; Nor now requires he overmuch Who bids thee dig thy grave.

Dig deep the grave of shame, wherein Thy fame, thy commonweal, must lie; Put thought of aught save terror by, To strike and slay the slayer is sin; And Murder must not die.

Bind fast the true man; loose the thief; Shamed were the land, the laws accursed, Were guilt, not innocence, amerced; And dark the wrong and sore the grief, Were tyrants too coerced.

The fiercest cowards that ever skulked, The cowardliest hounds that ever lapped Blood, if their horde be tracked and trapped, And justice claimed their lives for mulct, Gnash teeth that flashed and snapped.

Bow down for fear, then, England: bow, Lest worse befall thee yet; and swear That nought save pity, conscience, care For truth and mercy, moves thee now To call foul falsehood fair.

So shalt thou live in shame, and hear The lips of all men laugh thee dead; The wide world’s mockery round thy head Shriek like a storm-wind; and a bier Shall be thine honour’s bed.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. The Daily Telegraph. April 29, 1887.

Our sore no patriot hand must touch Even for healing: song shall rave Against the Statesman old, but brave Who dares――where youth, craven o’ermuch, Shrinks――the sharp strokes that save.

Beware that grave of shame wherein His fame, his honour――by a lie Put with false lyric fervency―― You fain would thrust. His cause shall win, His glory shall not die.

You voice their virulence――whose sheaf Of poisoned darts, for blood athirst, Fall blunt and harmless――you, the first Of lyric freemen, once the chief Of patriots? Fate accurst!

Not thus had he, your Hugo, skulked ’Midst the traducer’s, limed and trapped By patriot shams; you jingo-capped, Whose views of Freedom broadlier bulked Caste’s curs have snarled and snapped

In chorus long; but will you bow To yelp at Freedom’s heels, and tear Her noblest champion? Have a care! The fading laurels round your brow Slander shall not make fair.

At least you have our Answer. Hear! Not e’en your lips shall laugh Truth dead, Nor your fierce mockery bow his head At whom fools shriek in hate and fear, And despots howl in dread.

From The Daily News. April 30, 1887.

On page 93 a parody of the above song, entitled The Fine Old Standard Tragedy, was inserted, with a note stating that it had first appeared in Albert Smith’s Town and Country Miscellany. The author of the parody, the Rev. E. Bradley, has written to point out that it was originally published in The Month for October, 1851, a small magazine edited by Albert Smith, and illustrated by John Leech. The Month only ran to six numbers, from July to December, 1851, when it was discontinued. Bradbury and Evans, the publishers, had lost money by it, and the fact was, as stated by poor Albert Smith, The Month was far too good for the public taste of that day. Mr. Bradley kindly sends another parody, of the same original, which was very popular amongst University men about 1845; the author’s name is not known.

I’ll sing you a fine new song, ’twas made by a mad young pate, Of a fine young English gentleman, who lives on no estate, But who keeps up appearances at a very dashing rate, And also his poor old landlady by coming home so late, Like a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.

He lives in a smart new lodging up a rather narrow stair, And the furniture is fine enough, though a little the worse for wear, For, two or three gay young friends of his are fond of smoking there, And though they spoil the new carpet, this brave young man don’t care; For, he’s a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.

His custom of an afternoon, if he’s anything of a swell, Is to ride a friend’s horse in Hyde Park, and chat with some first-rate belle; Or to dine with a few nice friends of his at the Clarendon Hotel, Upon capital good turtle soup, and champagne that’s iced so well; Like a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.

And, as for the rest of the evening, why I really cannot say, Except that the cold punch was excellent, and the company very gay; And he challenged two or three men; but then, they settle it next day; And he does not quite remember how, or when he came away; For, he’s a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.

Now, instead of being seen next day at his desk at half past ten, He doesn’t find himself there till one, p’raps not even then; And his head aches so, and his hand shakes so, he can scarcely hold his pen; But, “these little accidents will occur to the steadiest of men!” Says this fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.

Now, the senior clerk is a horrid old man, as strict as he is sly, And he calls up this fine young gentleman, and he asks him the reason why; And this good young man replies to him――for, he “scorns to tell a lie”―― That he sat up all night with a poor sick friend, to the best of his memory! Like a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.

Then he goes back to his brother clerks, if nothing else intervenes. And they’re neither quite as wise as judges, nor yet as grave as deans; And a great deal is said about “flaring up,” and “going it like bricks and beans;” And they call each other “slap up trumps!” I’m told the expression means A fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.

ANONYMOUS (about 1845.)

THE OLD ENGLISH PUBLICAN.

I’ll sing you a song, a good old song, which I have sung before, About an English publican who lived in days of yore, The bush then served him for a sign, with chequers at the door, His ale was fine, and choice his wine, of which he had good store, The fine old English publican, who served in olden times.

Upon the hearth the fire then blaz’d with logs and roots of trees, The chimney corner held a score who sat round at their ease; ’Twas there the song and ale went round the social guests to please, ’Till morning chimes bid them depart; we’ll ne’er see times like these. The fine, &c.

They brewed their ale and bak’d their bread, bacon on the rack, And poultry which the ale-wife fed, and flour in by the sack: Mine host then had his gun and dog, the fox or hare could track, And in his pouch when on the chase had malmsey, ale, or sack, The fine, &c.

You might then play a game at cards, could sing and dance at ease, Nor heeded an informer’s dread, for such vile knaves displease; And men could enjoy themselves, and might their fancies please, Nor could the taxman come as now, the landlord’s purse to squeeze. The fine, &c.

You ne’er heard of excisemen then, and every house was free; Nor paltry base informing men that seek for fine and fee; No new beer shop, to guile the poor about the town you’d see. No tax on house or windows then, on spirits, or on tea. The fine, &c.

I hope that all my brother bungs, residing in this land May have long life and enjoy themselves, and all join hand in hand To put down the informing crew, who are all a base band, And fearlessly, with heart and purse, against them make a stand. For the fine, &c.

ANONYMOUS (written about 1820.)

A FINE OLD HEAVY VILLAIN.

Oh, I’m a deep died villain of a somewhat bygone age, When T. P. Cooke and N. T. Hicks were heroes of the stage; Such heroes old playgoers vow they look for now in vain, What thunders of applause in those old days I used to gain, When a fine old heavy villain Of the Drama’s palmy days.

Now having rested silently for nearly fifty years, The very Deep Red Rover for a short time reappears, Although not quite so heavy pr’aps as in those days of yore, He’ll try to soothe the grief of those playgoers who deplore All the fine old heavy villains Of the Drama’s palmy days.

Lines in “Deep Red Rover,” an O’piratic burlesque, by Westmacott Chapman.

THE FINE OLD COMMON COUNCILMAN.

I’ll sing you a fine new song at once, before it is too late, Of a very Common-Councilman who’s trembling for his state, Who guzzling at his hall comes out particularly great, But whom his friends in early life forgot to educate, Like a vulgar Common-Councilman, one of the present time.

His wife so fine was hung about with feathers, lace, and bows, Contrived by city milliners, whose fashions no one knows, And though she dropped her H’s, yet she wore expensive clothes, And “wot’s the hodds,” she oft would say, “which way the money goes?” Of this fine old Common-Councilman, all of the present time.

And when the Queen was to be seen he rushed into Guildhall, And took his wife, and his wife’s aunt, and daughters, sons, and all. And swore and push’d, perspired and crush’d, and fought his way about, And showed his wife Prince Halbert, when desired to ‘pint him hout,’ Did this fine old Common-Councilman, all of the present time.

Few names I wot, those guests had got, that England loves to claim, But those the civic wards supplied did every bit the same, And figged-out dames with cheeks in flames, did on the throne entrench Who could not well speak English, not to say a word of French, Nor those fine old Common Councilmen, all of the present time.

But “which there is,” (as they would say) a paper called The Times, Which drags up by the roots, all old abuses, cheats, and crimes; And when its heavy ordnance soon was pointed at Guildhall, They quaked in dread, because they knew their power soon would fall, Did these fine old Common-Councilmen, all of the present time.

And surely ’twill be better far, by universal frown, When following dirty Smithfield, they themselves should be put down, Who are more vulgar than the most uneducated clown, And ought to feel at last, that they are not of much renown, These fine old Common-Councilmen, all of the present time.

The Month. August, 1851.

A VARIETY OF VICARS.

Let us sing of a worthy type that is well-nigh out of date, Of the good old English Vicar, who, though small was his estate, Did all he could the poor to aid and suffering to abate, And sought the cottage door more oft than the mansion of the great, Like a good old English Vicar, one of the olden time!

He never made himself the priest of an exclusive creed; His house was ever open wide to all that were in need; And ’twas his joy to cheer the sick, the hungry one to feed; And little children by the hand with loving care to lead; Like a good old English Vicar, one of the olden time!

He did not social honour seek, or church preferment crave, Nor did he let base lucre’s love his kindly soul deprave, To his dear people his whole life most willingly he gave, And all the village when he died stood mourning round the grave Of this good old English Vicar, one of the olden time!

But look at his successor now, a change most marked you’ll see. He is a very learned man who’s gained a high degree, And who, expecting in due course that he’ll a bishop be, Cares little for the humble folks who crave his ministry, Like a learned modern Vicar, one of the present time!

Shut in his study he essays some treatise to complete, And rarely do you see his form about the village street; His voice is never heard, alas! the toiling hind to greet, And at the bedside of the poor you never, never meet This learned, modern Vicar, one of the present time!

But even he is better than his neighbour, who, we find Forgetting that his Master was all merciful and kind! And who when ’mongst the magistrates he proudly sits enshrined, To stern and harsh severity’s persistently inclined, Like a modern J.P. Vicar, one of the present time.

He preaches charity, and bids all men forgive their foes, And yet, when on the bench next day, no sign of mercy shows; But far beyond the lay J.P.’s most eagerly he goes, To crushing sentences inflict, and cruel fines impose; Like a modern J.P. Vicar, one of the present time!

The parish next to his as priest an Honourable can claim, Who that fat living holds because he bears his father’s name; And who, the simple truth to tell, a clergyman became, Because too mentally obtuse to otherwise win fame; Like the high-born modern Vicar, one of the present time!

Lawn-tennis is the only thing on which he seems intent, And he each week for half-a-crown from town has sermons sent―― That is, when at the vicarage, a rather rare event, For at his father’s London house his time is mostly spent, Like a high-born modern Vicar, one of the present time!

Just now, these very varied types at least in this agree: They think their snug emoluments in jeopardy may be; And rushing to the danger meet, which though far off they see, They make their long-neglected flocks the pretext for their plea, Like self-interested Vicars, all of the present time!

Be they Broad Church, or be they High, or Narrow they, or Low, They all unite to hold their own against the common foe; Their hearts ’twould seem, with one desire, with one high impulse glow, Which animates the sermons which from all Church pulpits flow, From these much-excited Vicars, all of the present time!

Too late is their anxiety the Church may long endure, In order that the masses may its services secure. Too late have come these loud appeals for mercy for the poor, From those whose one chief aim has been to make their own pay sure, As grasping English Vicars, all of the present time!

(Seven verses omitted.)

Truth. November 5, 1885.

MY NELLIE’S BLUE EYES.

My Nellie’s eyes are blue, Hair of bright and golden hue, Like her eyes, her heart is true, My Nellie my own! Never reigned a queen more fair, Who with Nellie could compare, By her side my life I’d share, My Nellie my own! Ne’er was culled from nature’s bower Half so sweet or rare a flower―― With my Nellie hour by hour, My Nellie my own!

My Nellie’s blue eyes, My Nellie’s blue eyes, Bright as the stars that shine above, My Nellie’s blue eyes.

The above is part of the original song which inspired Mr. Charles Coborn with the idea of one of the most popular parodies of modern times, Two Lovely Black Eyes.

TWO LOVELY BLACK EYES; or, No more Politics for me.

Strolling so happy down Bethnal Green, This gay youth you might have seen, Tompkins and I with his girl between; Oh, what a surprise! I praised the Conservatives frank and free, Tompkins got angry so speedilee, All in a moment he handed to me, Two lovely black eyes.

Two lovely black eyes, Oh what a surprise! Only for telling a man he was wrong, Two lovely black eyes.

Next time I argued I thought it best, To give the Conservative side a rest, The merits of Gladstone I freely pressed, When oh, what a surprise! The chap I had met was a Tory true, Nothing the Liberals right could do, This was my share of that argument too, Two lovely black eyes!

The moral you’ve caught I can hardly doubt, Never on politics rave and shout, Leave it to others to fight it out, If you would be wise. Better, far better, it is to let Lib’rals and Tories alone, you bet, Unless you’re willing and anxious to get Two lovely black eyes!

Two lovely black eyes, Oh, what a surprise! Only for telling a man he was wrong, Two lovely black eyes.

The music for this amusing song was arranged by Mr. Edmund Forman, and it is published by Francis Bros. and Day, of Oxford Street, London.

“Two Lovely Black Eyes” created such a furore at the Trocadero Music Hall (formerly the Argyll Rooms) that it was christened “The Trocadero Anthem,” and on February 8, 1887, The Pall Mall Gazette gave an account of the wild enthusiasm with which the singer was nightly received, and reported the following remarks, made by Mr. Coborn, as to the origin of the song.

“OH, WHAT A SURPRISE!”

“It was a fluke; in fact, I may say ‘a surprise.’ Such things generally are. ‘Two Lovely Black Eyes’ is a parody of an American song of which the chorus is ‘Nellie’s Lovely Blue Eyes.’ The air is the same, and had been sung in London by some lady vocalists, even at the Trocadero, long before I thought of it. I had an engagement at the Paragon in the Mile-end Road, and had to sing a new song one Saturday night. That was a Tuesday, I think. I hummed ‘Nellie’s Blue Eyes,’ and thought the tune would catch them; but I doubted about the ‘blue’ eyes. I thought they would appreciate ‘black’ more. So I get my chorus――’Two Lovely Black Eyes.’ That is always my starting point. I had now to find my words. I was walking down Bethnal Green, thinking about it; the elections were on at the time, and I turned it over. So I got the first line:――

‘Strolling so happy down Bethnal Green,’

Who? Why,

‘This gay youth you might have seen,’

You see, ‘seen,’ ‘green?’ Then you would naturally meet some one. I met Tompkins. I wanted a word to rhime with ‘seen’ and ‘green,’ so I gave Tompkins a young lady:――

‘Tompkins and I with his girl between.”

I had written ‘Harry’ at first, but it was too prosaic, so I changed it to Tompkins, which sounded funnier. Then I thought of the elections, and the rest followed easily. What more natural than that we should fall out, and that Tompkins should hand me ‘two lovely black eyes’? That is how it grew. Here is the original which I wrote coming home in the train.” And Mr. Coborn produced a little black-covered note-book, every page of which was covered with writing. Songs and scraps of dialogue and bits of street conversation which Mr. Coborn will introduce into his patter. “I have sung it about one thousand times in English, French, and German,” and the popular comic gave me some samples. He is not a polyglottist, but he has a quick ear, and his accent is pronounced to be marvellous. Here are the French and German renderings:――

“Deux beaux yeux noirs, Oh ciel! quel horreur, Seulement pour dire a quelqu’un qu’il a tort Deux beaux yeux noirs.”

“Zwei Augen so schwartz, Ach, ist dass ein Spass? Gesagt hab’ ich nur das er Unrecht gehabt, Zwei Augen so schwartz!”

“I propose to sing it in Hebrew and modern Greek. But the song has been a fluke right through its career. I thought it would suit the Paragon audiences (we must consider our public). I thought they would like the chorus. But when I came to the ‘Trocadero’ I was a little doubtful, thinking it might be too coarse. So I asked the conductor, and if he had said ‘yes’ I should have changed it at once. It is my principle rather to sacrifice a laugh, than to offend a prejudice.”

OH, WHAT A SURPRISE!

The popular Budget Ballad, sung with general rounds of applause at the St. Stephen’s Music Hall, by the new Exchequer Startler, G. J. Goschen.[27]

Air――“Two Lovely Black Eyes.”

Down at the House, in the days that have been, This grave sage you might often have seen, Harcourt and I, and the Chief between, But oh, what a surprise! I joined the Conservatives frank and free; Gladstone got angry right speedilee, All in a jiff to see G. J. G. Rat to the To-ries.

Chorus.――I join the To-ries? Oh, what a surprise! Rads were all telling me G. J. was wrong To join the To-ries.

When to resign Randolph thought it was best, The Chancellorship upon me was press’d. A humdrum Budget I feared, I confessed. When oh, what a surprise! A surplus I found; it was small, ’tis true, Less than a million, but what did I do? By a neat little dodge made it more than two! That opened their eyes!

Chorus.――Revenue on the rise! Oh, what a surprise! Harcourt was dumbfoundered, Churchill was dished; Loud cheered the To-ries!

Didn’t the Chaplinites hallo and shout? Harcourt and others, of course, expressed doubt, But the Tories may leave me to fight it out; In that they’ll be wise. Cut down the Annual Charge on the Debt; Penny off Income Tax――good bait, you bet, Lib’rals or Tories, they’re all glad to get That little surprise.

Chorus.――Long it has been on the rise. Ah! what a surprise! Who will be telling G. J. he is wrong? This is penny-wise!

Working men’s ’baccy tax――give that a wipe, Please the poor feeders on porter and tripe Friend of the “Masses,” put that in your pipe,―― Ain’t that a surprise? Fancy my Budget’s a fine work of Art. Randolph may sneer, shows he’s feeling the smart. ’Tisn’t so bad, eh, my friends?――for a start, With my new allies.

Chorus.――Give ’em a fall, not a rise! Oh! what a surprise! As for Retrenchment――well that in the sweetest Of “sweet By-and Byes!”

Punch. April 30, 1887.

UPROUSE YE THEN, MY MERRY MEN.

Gipsy Glee.

The chough and crow to roost are gone, The owl sits on the tree, The hush’d wind wails with feeble moan, Like infant charity. The wildfire dances on the fen, The red star sheds its ray, Uprouse ye, then, my merry men, It is our op’ning day. Uprouse ye, then, &c.

Both child and nurse are fast asleep, And clos’d is every flower, And waking tapers faintly peep High from my lady’s bower; Bewildered hinds, with shorten’d ken, Shrink on their murky way, Uprouse ye, then, my merry men, It is our op’ning day. Uprouse ye, then, &c.

Nor board nor garner own we now, Nor roof, nor latched door, Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow, To bless a good man’s store; Noon lulls us in a gloomy den, And night is grown our day, Uprouse ye, then, my merry men, And use it as you may. Uprouse ye, then, &c.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

A SEASONABLE GLEE. (To be sung in bed on any Frosty day.)

With Cough and Cold to bed I’ve gone, My boot is on the tree;[28] The weather out of doors this morn

(With a shiver.)

Is cold as charity.

(With several shivers.)

Is co-o-o-o-old as charity. The bright fire sparkles sparkles o’er the fen- -der with its steel array-ay-ay, -der-with its steel array, -der with it’s steel array.

(Shake with cold ad lib. Rings for the Servants.)

Uprouse ye then, my merry merry men, I’ll not get up to-day; Uprouse ye then, my merry merry men, I’ll not get up to-day.

Beneath the blankets full three deep All snuggled up I cower, All snuggled up I cower, Above the counter-pane I peep To see what is the hour, To see what is the hour. My watch I find says half-past ten, Then dow-ow-own myself I lay, Then down myself I lay, Then down myself I lay.

(To the Footman.)

Bring tea and toast, my merry merry men, I don’t get up to-day; Bring tea and toast, my merry merry men, I don’t get up to-day.

Some friends drop in to ask me “how I am” (pray shut the door); Drop in! Their frost is melting now, And deluging the floor, And de-lu-ging the floor! “Get up!” No! no! I trust them when They say ’tis an ice day, They say ’tis an ice day. They say ’tis an ice day.

I’ll house me then, my merry merry men, Abuse me as you may; I’ll house me then, my merry merry men, Abuse me as you may!

(Turns in bed, and goes to sleep till dinner time.)

Punch. January 16, 1864.

There was a short political parody, of the same song, in Punch for August 9, 1856, but it is now of no interest.

CHANT OF SMALL CRITICS. In the Royal Academy.

The Private Day and Feast are gone, The public comes to see, The poor Rejected grunt and groan. Nor speak with charity. The shillings flood the porter’s den, The Red Star sheds its ray,[29] Uprouse ye, then, my men of merry pen, It is the Opening Day.

Now for the witticisms cheap, That sting with knat-bite power: The sentence based on hasty peep, And visit of an hour: Bewildered boobies (nine in ten) Admire our sportive way: Uprouse ye then, my men of merry pen, It is the Opening Day.

Who heeds the painter’s saddened brow, The wolf he keeps from door, The pale wife’s timid trust that, now, His work shall swell their store? Let’s scare his hope and chance again, As boys pelt boys in play: Uprouse ye then, my men of merry pen, And slang him as ye may.

SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1867.

OUR OPENING DAY. (Trio and Chorus for the Political Huntsmen at St. Stephen’s.)

The Ins and Outs from rest are back, The Speaker’s in his chair. The talk-mill now resumes its clack, As birds begin to pair. The wild-fire quickens tongue and pen, Wit’s bow is strung to slay. Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men, It is our op’ning day!

Chorus――Uprouse ye then, &c.

Both Whigs and Rads are wide awake, Unclosed are Tory’s eyes; The morning papers now will make Less room for fads and lies. Bewilder’d Cits through columns ten Once more will plod their way; Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men, It is our op’ning day.

The Cloture’s power own we now To silence faction’s jaw; Pat shall not raise eternal row, In spite of taste and law. Home-legislation looms in ken, England shall have her day. Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men, And use it as ye may!

Chorus:――

Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men! Uprouse ye then, I say! Fill up your horns, and let the glen Resound with echoes gay! The hunt is up, Brim high the cup, Big game we’ll bring to bay. Uprouse ye then, My merry, merry men, It is our op’ning day!

TO BE THERE. Parody of a well-known Salvation Army Song.

Now I have been a warm ’un in my time, I have drank and been in rows by the score, But now I’ve given it up and signed the pledge, And vowed that I would do so never more. ’Tis true that I have joined a goodly crew, That never, hardly ever, say sware; The dark half-hours are nice, I’ve been in them once or twice, So I know what it is to be there.

When first I saw this very happy band, They were singing hymns and preaching in the street, A lady came and shook me by the hand, And whispered words of piety so sweet; I squeezed her little fingers rather tight, And tried to kiss her lovely face so fair, But she said, if you will come to our sweet Salvation home, You will know what it is to be there.

(Chorus.)――To be there, &c.

I very soon began to preach and prate, And with the sisters played some funny pranks, I was so good at nobbing with the plate, They soon made me a Captain of the ranks; And often when our meetings were dispersed, With Sister Jane I’d offer up a prayer, I’d such a jolly spree, when she took me home to tea, For I knew what it was to be there.

I’m troubled with a vixen for a wife, And often sigh for liberty once more, She leads me such a very wretched life, And with the poker warms me on the floor; She summoned me before the beak one day, Who said I’d used her shamefully unfair, Then he ordered me a spell, at the jail in Clerkenwell, So I know what it is to be there!

Encore Verses.

I’m a most unlucky man, I am, indeed, Misfortune’s cup I’ve emptied to the dregs, I’ve tried my best, but find I can’t succeed, And so at last I took to sucking eggs; My uncle in the best friend that I’ve got, He keeps a pawnshop close to Leicester Square, And sometimes I drop in, when I’m rather short of tin, For I know what it is to be there!

To Epsom I went down one Derby day, And thought that I should have a jolly spree, When a fellow came and wanted me to pay, He said he backed the winning horse with me; I told him I had never made a bet, When a crowd got round and soon began to swear, And when they tore my clothes, blacked my eyes, and broke my nose, Oh, I knew what it was to be there!

Written by C. A. Page. Composed by J. Iliffe. Published by Messrs. Francis Bros. & Day, 195, Oxford Street London.

THE TAILOR’S HOLIDAY.

A Parody of Jack’s Yarn.

’Twas on a Monday morn, and the Tailor played the horn, On which he’d been a blowing all the way; He was sitting on a van, and out on the randan, A going to Rye House to spend the day. For a few hours free from strife, ’cos he’d got a nagging wife, But his plan to keep it quiet was in vain, For a pal just for a game, went and told the Tailor’s dame, So she took her eighteenpenn’orth down by train.

Singing, Hilly holly ho, listen to my tale of woe, Of this Tailor’s dinner anniversary, When every jolly snip, was enjoying of his trip, Singing, Hilly holly hilly holly ho!

When the Tailor ceased to play, he was looking far from gay. He showed us where his face and neck were scored; When we got to the Rye, the first thing we did spy, Was his wife, and Holy Moses, how she jawed! And then it was such fun, for to see the Tailor run, Round the river bank, she in pursuit of he; ’Till at length she tripped and fell, in the water with a yell, I reckon you’d a heard across the Lea.

(Chorus.)――Singing, &c.

Every man to this day brags, how long it took to find the drags, Tho’ they hung near, and handy on a tree, The drags not being found, of course the old girl drowned, And so the poor old snip was free. So here’s good luck and life, to the man what drowned his wife, And so saved the heavy undertaker’s fee. All the dragging was in vain, she ne’er was seen again, That’s why there’s good eel fishing in the Lea.

Singing, Hilly holly ho, listen to my tale of woe, Of this Tailor’s dinner anniversary, When every jolly snip, was enjoying of his trip, Singing, Hilly holly, hilly holly ho!

THE GUNPOWDER PLOT

I sing a doleful tragedy,―― Guy Fawkes, the prince of sinisters, Who once blew up the House of Lords, The King, and all his Ministers; That is, he would have blown them up, (And folks will ne’er forget him,) His will was good to do the deed,―― That is, if they’d have let him!

Tow, row, row! tol di ridy, tol di ridy, tow, row, row!

He straightway came from Lambeth side, And wished the State was undone, And crossing over Vauxhall Bridge, That way came into London: That is, he would have come that way, To perpetrate his guilt, sirs, But a little thing prevented him――the bridge it wasn’t built, sirs!

Then sneaking through the dreary vault, With portable gas light, sirs, About to touch the powder train At witching hour of night, sirs; That is, I mean, he would have used The gas, but was prevented, ’Cause gas, you see, in James’s time, It had not been invented!

Now, James, you know, was always thought To be a very sly fox, So, he bid ’em search th’ aforesaid vault, And there they found poor Guy Fawkes; For that he meant to blow them up, I think there’s little doubt, sirs, That is, I mean, provided he Had not been found out, sirs.

And when they caught him in the fact, So very near the Crown’s end, They straightway sent to Bow Street, For that brave old runner, Townsend; That is, they would have sent for him, For fear he was no starter at, But Townsend wasn’t living then―― He wasn’t born till after that!

So then they put poor Guy to death, For ages to remember, And boys now kill him once a year In dreary dark November; That is, I mean his effigy, For truth is strong and steady, Poor Guy, they cannot kill again, Because he’s dead already!

Then bless her gracious Majesty And bless her royal son, sirs, And may he never get blown up (That is, if she gets one, sirs) And if she does, I’m sure he’ll reign, So prophecies my song, sirs, And if he don’t, why then he won’t, And so I can’t be wrong, sirs!

(This version was written about 1840, but the original song is of a much earlier date.)

NEW LAMPS FOR OLD ONES.

In the story of “Aladdin,” sir, that veritable history, A certain downy dodger of a new Light made a mystery; And all for Peoples good, of course, his words were very bold ones. The cry he gulled the Public with, was “New lamps for Old ones.”

Buy――Buy――Buy, “New Lamps for Old Ones,” Buy――Buy――Buy.

Now, it wasn’t out of love at all for darkness, poor humanity, He offered them New Lamps for Old Ones, but only out of vanity; That Arabian Mr. Cockrane, knew the value of the old one, And he thought a sounding one of brass might bring him in a gold one.

Buy――Buy――Buy, &c.

So, even in the present day, in almost every nation, Designing knaves can profit by a “Brummagem” imitation, They cry out “Change, good people, change,” around your dwellings hovering, And many are so fond of change, they cannot keep a Sovereign.

Here, Agitators bawl “Free Trade,” while others shout “Protection.” “The Suffrage,” and every week a General Election; With many other Party cries, my metaphors are bold ones, But the principle is all the same, it’s “New Lamps for Old ones.”

Conservatives “to the Country” cry out “New Lamps for Old Ones;” They put the Whig small candles out, and introduced their mould ones; But the blessed Lights in Downing Street don’t much improve the business, They only splutter, and waste away, with a dismal, dizzy dizziness.

Buy――Buy――Buy, “New Lamps of Derby and Disraeli, buy――buy.”

In France long for a new Lamp they were in darkness plunging, So they threw away a Louis[30] for a brass one from a dungeon. But as for any Light it gives, more t’other, though aspiring, It just serves the Bill Sykes Emperor[31] for Cooking and for Firing.

Buy――Buy――Buy, The counterfeit, brass Strasburg Lamp out will soon die.

In Rome they rose en-masse one day, and Pious Nino goosed, too; The wily Pontiff said such a mass he wasn’t used to; He “stepped it,” and their New Lamp for awhile flared up quite glittering, But the French soon put it out, and the Pope’s old Lantern lit again.

About Australian “Diggins” Agitators they keep crying, “New Lamps for Old Ones,” and thousands them are buying; But oh, beware, or else you’ll find, as Jason did in Greece, Sir, You’re ruined Muttons after all, all through the Golden fleece, Sir.

In a country which you all know well, close to the one that we’re in, They bawled “New Lamps for Old Ones,” to all who were in hearing (Erin); They bought the Lamp up eagerly, from men so much distinguished. But it only kept alight a week, and then it was extinguished.

Now, of course you’ve got a right to change your ancient gold for glitter, But which is best, a steady Light, or one that can but flitter, And die away, till in the dark, you find you’re but a sold one? So unless you’re sure it’s a better one, why, never change the old one.

Don’t――Buy――Buy, “New Lamps for Old Ones” of Meddlers never buy.

J. A. HARDWICK. About 1852. ――――

THE UNCONSCIOUS GUY FAWKES; OR, IN THE WRONG CELLAR. (On the Marquis of Salisbury and the Franchise Bill.)

I sing a song of foolishness, of GUY FAUX, chief of sinisters, Who fain would blow the Commons up, the PREMIER and his Ministers: That is, he piles combustibles as he were game to do it; Let’s hope he’ll be prevented, or he’ll be the first to rue it.

A sort of GUIDO FAUX pour rire he seems for all his swaggering, Displaying boylike rashness that to thoughtful men is staggering, That is, it would be staggering, and Statesmen wiser, truer rile, But that he’s played so many games, and most of them so puerile.

Although he’s bearded like the pard, and looks all fierce virility, At least as a Conspirator he shows some juvenility. That is, the juvenility of urchins who complacently Will let off squibs and crackers when combustibles adjacent lie.

If you should call him GUY FAUX, he’d deny it quite indignantly. None could regard the House of Lords more fondly and benignantly. That is, whilst they will follow him; and any plans explosive About them he’d repudiate with invective most corrosive.

But there’s a horrid Incubus, a Demogorgon hideous, Who dominates the country by his blandishments perfidious. That is, he artfully pretends that he the country dominates, Though everybody――more or less――his rigid rule abominates.

His crafty head to blast from him and skyward swiftly send it sure, Would justify, in gunpowder, a very large expenditure. That is, if some perchance might shrink from sheer decapitation, At least to blow him from his seat would gratify the Nation.

And so――and so, to mine below the Commons-swaying throne of him, Might end at least in bursting up the power overblown of him. That is, the game is worth a try, and――well――if not a bit of him. Remain to tell the dreadful tale, the Commons are well quit of him.

The stars in their calm courses may be confidently trusted To fight against this Lucifer until his rule is “busted.” That is, one might feel confidence in influences stellar, But our poor unconscious Guy Faux has got into the wrong cellar!

It is the House of Lords, alas! that he is mining under, And it and he will presently go up in flame and thunder, That is, they may in flame go up, if Guy Faux do not falter; But we’ll hope at the last moment his explosive plan he’ll alter.

Punch. November 8, 1884.

A BRADLAUGH BALLAD.

I sing a comic-tragedy, Of Bradlaugh, Anti-Royalist, Who once dethroned Victoria, And stamped out every loyalist; That is, he would have changed our rule, That folks might ne’er forget him, His will was good to do the deed, That is――if they’d have let him. With his bow, wow, wow, B. the Bashful at the helm, The Queen B. at the prow.

He marched his mob to Palace Yard, Stalked right up to the Speaker, Prostrated all the Treasury Bench, Turned Brand into a squeaker; That is, he fully meant to make This brilliant coup de grace, sir, But Bobbies don’t like rowdies, So they wouldn’t let him pass, sir, With his row, row, row.

He laid about him with the mace, Sent statesmen sprawling left and right, Then rushed and popped beneath the Throne A ha’pennyworth of dynamite; That is, he would have blown ’em up (In metaphor, I mean, sir) If Northcote had helped Gladstone’s trick, But he wasn’t quite so green, sir. Not just now――ow――ow.

When he’d made the Peerage disappear, The Queen an abdicator, He made the Chanc’llor his cashier, And dubbed himself Dictator; Thought he, if Dilke or Chamberlain, Or Bright can turn “Court flunkey,” There’s something in’t,――but hopelessness Of winning made him funky. Bow――ow――ow.

He gave himself the Church’s spoils, Crown lands to the Residuum, Re-named our loved Victorian Realm, The Republic of Besantium; That is, he would this tribute pay, To woman’s worth and station, But the People’s will did sore confound This moral combination. Somehow――ow――ow.

And as for those Allegiance Oaths, Let them remain he wouldn’t; The poor must have no children, Because Malthus said they shouldn’t;―― That is, he thought it just as well The Statute Books to wipe out, But Gladstone’s lot cold-shouldered him, And Juries put his pipe out, And his yow――ow――ow.

He confiscated all the wealth, That spoiled the upper classes, But did not share it with his mob, Whom he somehow called “the-m-asses;” That is, he feared that lucre might Pollute the people’s mind, sir, But then he never got the power, Pooh! nothing of the kind, sir. Bow――ow――ow.

And so, of ill-got property, The rich he’d disencumber, To secure the greatest benefit For the greatest number; That is, he’d thus have ruled the folk, If they hadn’t said “Begone, sir!” For they guessed his greatest number might Perhaps, be Number One, sir, With his bow, wow, wow, sirs. You can’t make silken purses from The best ears of a sow, sirs.

Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet, by ION. London: Houlston & Sons.

A DAMP WATER PARTY.

I sing a doleful tragedy that gives one quite a shiver, sir, All of a water party that once sail’d upon a river, sir, That is, they would have sailed on it, if there they’d chanced to get, sir; But the rain came down in torrents, and the river was quite wet, sir! Oh! dear, oh! Now, wasn’t this a stop to all their row, row, row?

At Where-was-it this party was, and there, at many tea-tables, The guests were gathered in a tent, intent upon the eatables; That is, they would all have been out on the verdant grass, sir, But al-fresco luncheons ain’t the thing when the rain comes in your glass, sir! Oh! dear, oh! &c.

Upon the table there was set each kind of cake and custard, And every dish that cooks have e’er invented there was mustered; That is, there would have been had they been laid within the house, sir, But the rain converted every dish, and turned it into “souse,” sir! Oh! dear, oh &c.

Good things abounded on all sides, and every kind of wine was there, And empty bottles prov’d that many a votary of the vine was there; That is, they would have proved so if the wine they’d chanced to get, sir, But Teetotallers got water, the rest had “heavy wet,” sir! Oh! dear, oh! &c.

And when champagne had brought real joy, and all the lunch was ended, They look’d up at the bright blue sky, and said, “The weather’s splendid!” That is, they would have said so, but――to use a vulgar name, sir―― The blue was all a “blue look out,” and the weather was the same, sir! Oh! dear, oh! &c.

* * * * * (Three verses omitted.)

And so all things were turned to fun, and dancing closed the night, sir, And music played, and hearts were light, and eyes were shining bright, sir; So long may water parties reign, and always have fine weather, sir, To shine upon the company that there have met together, sir, So, be it so, For then they may take boats and barge, and Row, row, row!

From Medley; by Cuthbert Bede, author of Verdant Green. London: J. Blackwood.

HOME RULE ALL ROUND.

The question for the country now is no mere choice of Ministers, ’Twixt Liberals and Conservatives, the Dexters ’gainst the Sinisters, A party warfare waging, with designs and dodges tactical. Within the sphere of Politics, which common minds call practical. Bow-wow-wow, &c.

Home Rule’s at most a moiety of a measure far more national, The uppermost in every mind that’s sensible and rational A measure to eradicate the vice of inebriety, By interdicting liquors to all classes of Society. Bow-wow-wow, &c.

Needs must Home Rule for Ireland be domestic legislation, Laid down on Father Mathew’s lines to pacify the nation; ’Twould Irishmen from whiskey wean, on thin drink strictly diet ’em, And let them have no more potheen! which possibly might quiet ’em. Bow-wow-wow, &c.

Electors, in this crisis you’ve a splendid opportunity, For the only Cause of consequence to all of the community. Vote for no candidate, whose line in politics a fad I call; But poll for the Teetotaller, Conservative or Radical. Bow-wow-wow, &c.

Home Rule the United Kingdom craves, that claim of its Alliance is The only thing to care about――therein our sole affiance is. None other do we want to press on Parliament’s adoption Home Rule for every parish, Universal Local Option. Bow-wow-wow, &c.

Punch. July 10, 1886.

THE G.O.M. FOX.

I sing about a Grand Old Man, whom everybody knows, sir, Who once disjoined the Emerald Isle from us, her “foreign” foes, sir; That is, I mean, he would have given her “National” authority, But for the fact that he for once was not with the majority. Bow, wow, wow! What’s the good of balking when it’s all done now?

He summoned all the Cabinet, and there in consultation, His colleagues helped him form the bill to bring before the nation; That is, he might have sought their aid, for most of them are ’cute, sir, Had he not planned and settled all himself to save dispute, sir. Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Then fifty million pounds he raised to buy the landlords out, sir, And England――it is she who pays――there’s not the slightest doubt, sir; That is, we should have had to pay the bill if nothing stopped it, But, fortunately just in time, the Grand Old Man he dropped it. Bow, wow, wow, &c.

And now his plébiscite has brought him once more into power, All Liberals and Radicals united like a tower; That is, the fight would thus have turned, and have been from the starting won But for his lack of openness――and Chamberlain and Hartington. Bow, wow, wow, &c.

JOHN LOWRESS. The Weekly Dispatch. July 4, 1886.

THE PILGRIM OF LOVE.

Orynthia, my beloved, I call in vain! Orynthia! Orynthia! echo hears and calls again, A mimic voice repeats the name around, And with Orynthia all the rocks resound.

Air.

A hermit who dwells in the solitudes cross’d me, As wayworn and faint up the mountain I press’d; The aged man paus’d on his staff to accost me, And proffered his cell as a mansion of rest. Ah! nay, courteous father, right onward I rove, No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love, For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love, No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.

Yet tarry, my son, till the burning noon passes, Let boughs of the lemon tree shelter thine head; The juice of ripe muscadel flows in my glasses, And rushes fresh pulled for siesta are spread. Ah! nay, courteous father, right onward I rove, No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love. For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love, No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.

BLOWSABEL.

Oh! Blowsabel! my detested, you call in vain, Oh! Blowsabel! echo hears and squalls again; Her horrid voice repeats my name around, And with her bawling all the streets resound.

A landlord who kept a snug liquor-shop pass’d me, As flurried and hot I up Summer Hill pressed; The knowing one smiled as he stayed to accost me, And proffered his crib for a glass and a rest. Oh! no, jolly father, I will not, I vows,―― No rest but the grave from the tongue of my spouse.

Yet, tarry, my son, till your wife’s fury passes, The “George and the Dragon” shall shelter thy head; My whiskey is good, and full measure my glasses, If fuddled too soon you shall share half my bed; No, no, jolly father, I will not, I vows,―― No rest but the grave from the tongue of my spouse.

(The same volume contains another parody, entitled Raw Lobsters, which is vulgar, and not funny.)

THE VICTIM OF LOVE.

Angelina, my chickabiddy! I calls upon Angelina! Angelina! A bobby hears, and says “Move on!” His comic voice repeats the name around, And with “Angelina” all the streets resound!

A damsel there dwells in a court down in Stepney, In disgraceful apparel she ever is drest, This fair one I lov’d and I asked her to have me, Oh! have me sweet gender, and I shall be blest!

Ah! nay, courteous masculine, the dear one replied, “This virgin don’t mean to be not no man’s bride.” So I’m the victim of love, I’m the victim of love, There’s no cure for consumption, nor the victim of love.

Yet stay, scrumptious maid, like a beautiful Queen, You shall dress in fine calico, silks, laces and shawls, You shall ever wear the thingamys and your dear crinoline Shall be three times as big as the dome of Saint Pauls; “Ah! nay, simple Simon, she answered so cool, I’d rather keep single than amalgamate with a fool, So I’m the victim of love, I’m the victim of love, There’s no cure for dislocation of the vertebræ, nor the victim of love.

Angelina! said I, “put an end to my woes, My buzzum’s a busting, nay, cut me not short,” But all that she did was to turn up her nose, And wagging her tail she then waltz’d down the court. Like a blighted young flower expire I shall, For I’d cast my infections on that there young gal, So I’m the victim of love, I’m the victim of love, There’s no cure but extinction for the victim of love.

Written expressly for Mackney, the comic singer, by G. W. Hunt, and published by J. Bath, Berners Street, London.

THE SONG OF THE SEEDY COMMON-COUNCILLOR AFTER A WEEK’S FESTIVITIES.

A Doctor who dwells in my neighbourhood crossed me, As, seedy and queer, to my office I pressed; The able man paused on his way to accost me, And proffered advice that would give me some rest. “Ah no, courteous Doctor, though weary I be, No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C. For the seedy C. C., for the seedy C. C., No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C.”

“Yet tarry, my friend, till this sad attack passes; I’ll send you some pills to relieve your aching head. The juice of the grape must not flow in your glasses, And rush fast away from the most tempting spread.” “Ah no, courteous Doctor, though weary I be, No rest till Vacation, for the seedy C. C. For the seedy C. C., for the seedy C. C., No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C.”

Punch. July 3, 1886.

PADDY FLINN!

Och, Judy, my sweet darling, I bawl in vain Judy! dear Judy! I’m wet through quite with rain The dirty children mock me all around And with ‘dear Judy’ does each pig stye sound!

Tim Murphy, who dwells by the Cow and worsted stocking, I met near the bog at the end of the town; He swore by the powers, I desarved a dacent knocking, He was after knocking me up, but I knocked the varmint down. ’Och, now Patrick,’ said he, what is it you’d be at? Faith said I, you would get round me, but ye see I’ve laid ye flat, And remember when to Judy’s you betake yourself again, There’s sure to be a bating for the foe of Paddy Flinn. So I wished him better luck, and left the spalpeen sprawling, And hastened to you, Judy, wid a heart of love so true:―― Then listen to your Paddy, while his tender tale he’s tawling, In this hard shower to let me stand, sure’s very hard in you. But see the door is open’d, so I’ll boldly venture in, Here’s bad luck and better manners to the foes of Paddy Flinn.

J. W. BURDEN.

THE PILGRIM OF HATE.

(A popular song, sung by Mr. Chamberlain in Scotland and elsewhere.)

Chamberlain, my beloved!――he calls in vain. Chamberlain! Echo hears and calls again. A grand old voice repeats the name around, And with J. Chamberlain Scotland’s hills resound.

A Hermit who dwells down at H-w-rd-n had crossed me, As wayward and proud up Fame’s mountains I pressed; The aged man feared from his staff he had lost me, And offered――a sell!――in his Cabinet rest. “Ah! nay, Grand Old Hand, I would far rather wait; No rest, save at top, for the Pilgrim of Hate.”

“Yet tarry, my Son, till my H. R. Bill passes; Let’s bow to the League and Parnell, its great head. You’ll not leave the Masses and vote with the Classes? Come in, take your seat. Reform’s banquet is spread.” “Ah! nay, Grand Old Hand, I’m not caught with that bait. No rest under you for the Pilgrim of Hate.”

THE VICAR OF BRAY.

In good King Charles’s golden days, When loyalty no harm meant, A zealous high Churchman I was, And so I got preferment: To teach my flock I never miss’d, Kings are by God appointed, And damn’d are those that do resist, Or touch the Lord’s anointed. And this is law I will maintain Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever king shall reign, I’ll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.

When royal James obtain’d the crown, And Popery came in fashion, The penal laws I hooted down, And read the Declaration: The Church of Rome I found would fit Full well my constitution; And had become a Jesuit But for the Revolution. And this is law, &c.

When William was our king declared, To ease the nation’s grievance, With this new wind about I steer’d, And swore to him allegiance; Old principles I did revoke, Set conscience at a distance; Passive obedience was a joke, A jest was non-resistance. And this is law, &c.

When gracious Anne became our Queen, The Church of England’s glory, Another face of things was seen, And I became a Tory: Occasional conformists base, I damned their moderation, Although the Church in danger was By such prevarication. And this is law, &c.

When George in pudding-time came o’er, And moderate men look’d big, sir, I turn’d a cat-in-pan once more, And so became a Whig, sir; And thus preferment I procured, From our new faith’s defender; And almost every day abjured, The Pope and the Pretender. And this is law, &c.

Th’ illustrious House of Hanover, And Protestant Succession; To these I do allegiance swear―― While they can keep possession: For in my faith and loyalty; I never more will falter, And George my lawful king shall be―― Until the times do alter. And this is law, &c.

“The Vicar of Bray, in Berkshire,” says D’Israeli, in his “Curiosities of Literature,” was a Papist under the reign of Henry the Eighth, and a Protestant under Edward the Sixth. He was a Papist again under Mary, and once more became a Protestant in the reign of Elizabeth. When reproached for his versatility of religious creeds, and taxed with being a turn-coat, and an inconstant changeling, as Fuller expresses it, he replied: “Not so, neither; for if I changed my religion, I am sure I kept true to my principle, which is to live and die the Vicar of Bray.”

In a note in Nichols’ Select Poems, 1782, vol. viii., p. 234, it is stated that The song of the Vicar of Bray “is said to have been written by an officer in Colonel Fuller’s regiment, in the reign of King George the First. It is founded on an historical fact; and though it reflects no great honour on the hero of the poem, is humourously expressive of the complexion of the times, in the successive reigns from Charles the Second to George the First.

As to the name of this famous Vicar there are several theories. According to one authority, “Pendleton, the celebrated Vicar of Bray,” became rector of St. Stephen’s, Walbrook, in the City of London, in the reign of Edward VI. But in a letter from Mr. Brome, to Mr. Rawlins, dated June 14, 1735, he says, “I have had a long chase after the Vicar of Bray. Dr. Fuller, in his Worthies, takes no notice of him, I suppose he knew not his name. I am informed it was Simon Alleyn or Allen, who was Vicar of Bray about 1540, and died 1588, so was Vicar of Bray nearly fifty years. You now partake of the sport that has cost me some pains to take.”

Camden, in his Britannia, says of Alleyn: “This is he of whom is the proverb, ‘The Vicar of Bray still.’” The song however, refers to an entirely different period, commencing in the reign of Charles II. and lasting until “the illustrious House of Hanover.” There was a Vicar of Bray, unknown to fame, who was vicar during the exact period covered by the song. His tombstone is in the centre aisle of Bray Church, and its record is that his name was Francis Carswell, that he was chaplain to Charles II. and James II., Rector of Remenham and Vicar of Bray forty-two years, and that he died in 1709.

THE COURT CHAPLAIN.

When Pitt array’d the British arms, To check the Gallic ferment, I spread the regicide alarms, And so I got preferment; To teach my flock I never miss’d, “Reform is revolution, “And damn’d are those that do assist “To mend a Constitution.”

And this is law, I will aver, Tho’ stiff-neck’d fools may sneer, sir, Whoe’er may be the Minister, I’ll be the Chaplain here, sir.

When gentle Sidmouth sway’d the Crown And peace came into fashion, The lust of war I hooted down, And puff’d pacification. I vow’d the papists were agreed To burn all honest men, sir: And Methodism had been my creed―― But Pitt came in again, sir, And this is law, &c.

When Grey and Grenville made the laws For Britain’s tol’rant nation, I took the cudgels for the cause Of transubstantiation. The Articles I made a joke, (Finding I should not need ’em:) And, Afric’s fetters being broke, E’en grew a friend to Freedom. And this is law, &c.

When Perceval advised our King, (The Church of England’s glory) My conscience was another thing, For I had turn’d a Tory: I cursed the Whigs, no more in place; I damn’d their moderation, And swore they shook the Church’s base, By sinful toleration. And this is law, &c.

Now that the Ministry relent, And Erin’s sons look big, sir, I feel a soft’ning sentiment, Which makes me half a Whig, sir. And thus preferment I procure, In each new doctrine hearty―― Alike extol, neglect, abjure, Pope, King, or Bonaparte. At least ’tis law, &c.

The now prevailing politics, The now administration, On these allegiance do I fix―― While they can keep their station: For in my faith and loyalty I never more will falter, To Liverpool and Castlereagh, Until the times shall alter.

For thus I safely may aver, However fools may sneer, sir, That whoso be the Minister, I must be Chaplain here, sir.

From Posthumous Parodies. London: John Miller. 1814.

WHO’S YOUR RATTER?[32]

In Mr. Gladstone’s powerful days, When Tories were a faction, We used his every word to praise, And glorify each action. To teach our readers we ne’er miss’d, Their William was perfection, And traitors those who dared resist, Or move his bill’s rejection! But this the law is we’ll maintain, Until it cease to pay, sir, That whatsoever party reign, We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir!

The People’s William lost his place, And Dizzy was victorious; The Tories we had called so base Replaced the Liberals glorious. But soon we found ’twould never do To still support the latter; We’d vow’d to do so, it is true, But still that did not matter. For this the law is we’ll maintain, Until it cease to pay, sir, That whatsoever party reign, We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir!

And see how well our “ratting” pays, For Ministers are grateful, And from their table drop some scraps Enough to fill a plateful. And when we up back stair-ways creep, To Salisbury see, or Dizzy, They rarely kick us down again, Unless they’re very busy. So this the law is we’ll maintain, Until it cease to pay, sir, That whatsoever party reign, We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir!

Another fight will soon begin, And p’rhaps, as some allege, sir, The Liberals will th’ elections win, In that case we must hedge, sir. For should the Tories have to yield, They would no further use be; Oh, wouldn’t my Lord Beaconsfield Rare subject for abuse be! For this the law is we’ll maintain, Until it cease to pay, sir, That whatsoever party reign, We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir!

Truth Christmas Number. 1879.

BRADLAUGH’S BRAY.

In good Victoria’s palmy days, When Chartism was prating, I joined the Democratic craze, And practised stump orating. To teach my mob I never missed That King-made law is bad law, And damn’d be all who dare resist The rise of righteous Bradlaugh. For this is law, I will maintain, Until my dying day, sir, That over Parliament I’ll reign, Or there’ll be the devil to pay, sir.

When first my stump career began, Rank heresy I spouted, Belief in God as Lord of man, As lunacy I scouted. Disguised as great “Iconoclast,” In wrangling I waxed foxy, Blew my own trumpet’s brazen blast, And started my new ’doxy.

For this is THE true faith, I swear, Nor dare to say me nay, sir, Believe in Bradlaugh, Cromwell’s heir, And for his triumph bray, sir.

But finding Atheists weak and thin, I sought a higher mission, And found much greater profit in The vending of sedition. Though mobs can’t think, they shun a bore, They love a bright variety, Which proved to me my forte was more For politics than piety.

So this is law I do declare, In this my trying day, sir, That none shall judge me by my acts, Nor yet by what I say, sir.

So down with Kings and Queens and Priests, And Church and State and Pensions, And up with Dilke’s Republic, and My grand Freethought Conventions; Saints Malthus, Knowlton, Besant――these Are lights this dark world’s needing, So up with population checks, And down with all good breeding.

For if this had but been the law In my good father’s day, sir, One nuisance less of print and jaw, Had not now blocked the way, sir.

Sometimes a nation’s destiny By cobbler’s wax-end hangs, sir, I found myself an M. P. by M.P. rical harangues, sir, And though my “lay” was strong and bold, (For “takings” flowed in thereby) The Crown I’d cursed――I’ll now uphold, The Book Pd scorned I’ll swear by!

For this should be the law, I say, And shall do to my grave, sir, A man may swear his soul away, His path to power to pave, sir.

Now to our Gracious Queen, her Heir, And Protestant succession. To each I will allegiance swear (While they can keep possession), So now, sweet Commons! hear my prayer, Have pity on my grievin’, Please let me on that Bible swear By Him I don’t believe in.

And when I’m Lord Protector, sir, I’ll make the law to be, sir, That whatsoe’er a man shall swear, His conscience shall be free, sir.

From Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet, By ION. London, Houlston & Sons.

THE HOUSE OF LORDS.

When bluff King Hal grew tired of Kate, And sued for his divorce, sir, He cast about, and found in us His willing tools, of course, sir. What for her grief? We laughed at that, And left her in the lurch, sir, While every one of us grew fat By plunder of the Church, sir.

To hold a candle to Old Nick Has ever been our way, sir, And still we’ll play the self-same trick, So long as it will pay, sir.

Two other queens that underwent “The long divorce of steel,” sir―― Do you suppose that e’er we wept, Or for their fate did feel, sir? We only sought to please the King, And his worst wishes further; And gaily did our order join In each judicial murther.

For us no trick was e’er too base, No crime too foul to shock, sir, Nor innocence availed to save E’en women from the block, sir.

When Mary came with fire and stake Poor pious folks to kill, sir, No single protest did we make, But let her work her will, sir; But when the Church reclaimed her lands, And looked for smooth compliance, We quickly raised our armèd bands And gave her bold defiance.

Thus did the Queen her error learn, To think (how gross the blunder!) That, though we let her rack and burn, We’d e’er restore our plunder.

Elizabeth, the mighty Queen, We quailed beneath her frown, sir, With nought but fear and hate for one So worthy of the crown, sir. As abject traitors round her throne We fulsome homage paid her, Though more than half of us were known To plot with the invader.

To her for ducal coronets We never were beholden; To us the days of “Good Queen Bess” Were anything but “golden.”

When slobbering James of coin was short, He baronets invented, And to creating lords for gold Right gladly he consented; A handsome “tip” was all he asked To make you duke or lord, sir―― No question ever of your worth, ’Twas what you could afford, sir.

To be a peer, “your grace,” “my lord,” O, Lord! how fine it sounded! And thus, by shelling out of cash, Were noblest houses founded.

When Charles the First, the public right To crush but now applies him, And willing help he gets from us; As friends we stand beside him. His acts of tyranny and fraud Scarce one of us opposes―― The fine, the prison, or the whip, Or slitting people’s noses.

To curb the tyrant of his will Was no way in our line, sir, All human rights were forfeited, And merged in “Right Divine,” sir.

The Second Charles just suited us, We joined his lewd carouses, And concubines became the source Of many ducal houses. And, as reward of services That history rarely mentions, You still enjoy the privilege Of paying us the pensions;

And this we swear, by all that’s blue, Despite that prudes cry “Hush, sir!” That whatsoever we may do You’ll never find us blush, sir.

In James’s Court we flourished still; Like sycophants we vied, sir; To be a royal mistress formed Our daughters’ highest pride, sir; For Whigs though tortures were devised, Their legs with wedges broke, sir, We ate and drank, and laughed and played, But ne’er a word we spoke, sir.

For mingled cruelty and wrong We never did upbraid him; But when a paying chance came round, Right quickly we betrayed him.

When William came, with righteous rule, We proved but glum consenters; The King we deemed was but a fool, To tolerate Dissenters; Whilst on his part his Majesty Distrusted us with reason, For ’gainst our chosen lord and king We still kept plotting treason.

And so against all righteous things We’ve struggled from the first, sir, To vex and thwart the better kings, And sided with the worst, sir.

In reign of Anne, ’twas one of us,[33] Gave notice to the foe, sir, Against his port and arsenal We aimed a warlike blow, sir; And thus were lost, in dire defeat, Eight hundred sailors bold, sir―― But what of that, when France’s bribe Our “noble duke” consoled, sir?

Betrayal of the State’s designs By this colossal traitor―― What wonder now the lordlings praise His humble imitator!

With George the Third it was essayed To purge our code from blood, sir, But we the arm of mercy stayed, Its efforts all withstood, sir; To hang for e’en a paltry theft―― Though tempted sore by hunger―― Was God’s own justice, so it seemed To every boroughmonger.

And so poor wretches, one or more, At every fair or wake, sir, Performed “the dance without a floor,” Our thirst for blood to slake, sir.

Yet had the self-same laws been tried On us without distinction, Their action surely had implied The peerage’s extinction. But while the gallows we upheld, “Offence’s gilded hand,” sir, Had all our lordly acres swelled With thefts of common land, sir.

While wicked prizes thus we claw, And justice shove aside, sir “Not ’gainst the law, but by the law,” Has ever been our guide, sir.

When Pitt the Irish Parliament Resolved to bring to London, He had to buy their peer’s consent Or else his scheme was undone, So English coronets galore Were scattered through their tribe, sir, Besides a million pounds or more―― Their stipulated bribe, sir.

And by this opportunity They drove their dirty trade, sir, To show to all posterity How lords and dukes are made, sir.

When Wesleyans and Baptists, too, For right of education, At public universities Did press their application, ’Twas we their just demand refused―― Denied their common right, sir, And all our special powers abused To gratify our spite, sir.

When Jews to sit in Parliament Had duly been elected, ’Twas we kept shut the Commons’ door, Their right to vote rejected.

On Railway Bills our conduct calls For no detailed narration; No line could pass our lands without Outrageous compensation. Like gorging vultures at the feast, Our greed surpassed all bounds, sir, Our blackmail figured, at the least, One hundred million pounds, sir.

Of pay-triotism we’ll never tire, For it we’ll live and die, sir, And, if the reason you inquire. We spell it with a y, sir.

In reason’s name or righteousness, You vainly may reprove us, For scorn, contempt, and threats possess The only power to move us. To mutilate, reject, delay, Obstruct whene’er we dare it, We’ll persevere in our old way So long as you will bear it.

Of this be sure, until that day Such things shall ne’er be mended, Till million voices join to say, “The House of Lords is ended!”

C. F. The Weekly Dispatch. December 7, 1884.

There was another short parody of the same song in The Weekly Dispatch of August 24, 1884. It also was directed against the House of Lords, and concluded:――

“So bend and mend, proud peers, or end In signal dissolution.”

THE NEW VICAR OF BRAY. (Mr. Gladstone Loquitur.)

In good King William’s peaceful reign, when loyalty no harm meant, A zealous Tory then was I, and showed no small discernment; To teach the crowd I never failed, that Tories were appointed To save the King and Church and State from rebels unannointed.

And this is law I will maintain unto my dying day, sir, That whatsoever parties reign still I’ll in office stay, sir.

When Peel at length assumed the reins, and Free Trade came in fashion, Protective laws I hooted down, as hurtful to the nation. The Treasury Bench I found would fit full well my Constitution; And there I first began to air my matchless elocution.

And this is law, &c.

When Palmerston look things in hand to ease a Nation’s grievance, With this new wind I steered about, and swore to him allegiance; Old principles I did revoke, set conscience at a distance, Sent Derby to the right about, and laughed at all resistance.

When Disraeli began to shine, and seemed to dim my glory, A downright Liberal I became, and grew to hate a Tory. The Whigs began to look askance; I scouted moderation, And held my own in spite of all by much prevarication.

When Chamberlain came on the stage, with precepts Communistic, I joined the crowd with him and Dilke, and other folks deistic. Propped up by them I kept my place and promised less taxation; Then straight sent up the Income Tax, and went for confiscation.

When Salisbury and Churchill came I made out at a glance, sir, That Parnell and his motley crew were now my only chance, sir; So now for Home Rule straight I go, unheeding revolution, And fondly hope before I die to smash the Constitution.

And this is law I will maintain unto my dying day, sir―― That whatsoever parties reign I will in office stay, sir.

S. H. The Globe. March 24, 1886.

OLD TOWLER.

Bright Chanticleer proclaims the dawn, And spangles deck the thorn, The lowing herds now quit the lawn, The lark springs from the corn: Dogs, huntsmen, round the window throng, Fleet Towler leads the cry, Arise the burden of my song, This day a stag must die. With a hey, ho, chevy! Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy! Hark! hark! tantivy! This day a stag must die.

The cordial takes its merry round, The laugh and joke prevail, The huntsman blows a jovial sound, The dogs snuff up the gale; The upland wilds they sweep along, O’er fields, through brakes they fly, The game is roused, too true the song, This day a stag must die. With a hey, ho, &c.

Poor stag; the dogs thy haunches gore, The tears run down thy face, The huntsman’s pleasure is no more, His joys were in the chase; Alike the gen’rous sportsman burns, To win the blooming fair, But yet he honours each by turns, They each become his care. With a hey, ho, &c.

THIS DAY A STAG MUST DIE. (An imitation of “Old Towler.”)

The op’ning morn dispels the night, Her beauties to display, The sun breaks forth, in glory bright, And hails the new-born day; Diana like, behold me then The silver arrow wield, And call on horses, dogs, and men, Arise, and take the field. With a hey ho chivy, Hark forward tantivy! Arise, bold hunters, cheerly rise, This day a stag must die.

O’er mountains, valleys, hills, and dales, The fleet-foot coursers fly, Nor heed whate’er the sport assails, Resolved a stag shall die! Roads, trees, and hedges seem, to move, Such joys does hunting yield; While Health a handmaid deigns to prove, When huntsmen take the field. With a hey ho chivy, &c.

Thus virgins are by man pursued, And beauty made his aim, ’Till, by his wily craft subdued, He hunts for other game; And since e’en life is but a race We run till forced to yield; Yo, ho, tantivy, join the chase, Arise, and take the field. With a hey ho chivy, &c.

SONG OF THE MATCHMAKING MAMMA.

Bright chandeliers the room adorn, Each thing’s arranged with care, And gayest smiles and silks are worn This night to catch the Heir. With a heigho! Letty! Hark forward, you forward Miss Betty, To-night we hunt the He-e-e-i-r―― To-night we hunt the Heir!

Poor Heir! you feel our sport a bore, We read it in your face; If you’ll propose to one――no more You’ll find us give you chase. With a sigh from Letty! Or forward, too forward Miss Betty! No more we’ll hunt the He-e-e-ir―― No more we’ll hunt the Heir!

From George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack for 1848.

A HUNTING SONG. (Dedicated to the Jamaica Committee.)

Our chance at EYRE we claim this dawn―― Our witnesses are sworn―― A new indictment we have drawn, Despite the public’s scorn. Dogged hither by a yelping throng, The Governor draws nigh―― So raise the burden of our song―― “Peccavi” he must cry! Chorus――With a hey, oh, levy Subscriptions our victim to chevy. Law charges heavy! (Here comes a yelping of hounds.) “Peccavi” he must cry.

Despair! Our Christian sport is o’er, The judge has spoilt our case; “A colony preserved” no more Can we pronounce disgrace. The jury no true bill returns,―― To cheer the public dare! No gratitude our labour earns―― We can’t hunt down our (H)EYRE. Chorus.――With a heigho, heavy The legal expenses to levy! Vain our chevy! (Here the yelping grows faint), “Peccavimus,” we cry!

Fun. June 13, 1868.

HUMANITY HUNTING SONG.

“OPENING MEET OF THE WINDSOR GARRISON DRAG-HOUNDS.――On Saturday, in miserably wet weather, this pack of draghounds commenced their hunting season…. The hounds will be hunted twice a week (every Wednesday and Saturday) during the season.”――Morning Paper.

We’re going to have a glorious run, This murk and mizzling morn. Our Hunt inferior is to none, Except not even the Quorn. A substitute will, scent as strong As Reynard’s own, supply. Excuse the burden of my song; This day a Drag must die!

Chorus―― With a hey, ho, chivy; Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy! Excuse the burden of my song; This day a Drag must die!

Because, although a herring red May, like a fox, be tracked, The Drag is absolutely dead In point of literal fact. Yet hounds and horses after go, With huntsmen’s horns, and cry Of “Yoicks!” and shout of “Tallyho!” This day a Drag must die! Chorus――With a hey, ho, &c.

A Drag’s as good to ride behind As ever a fox’s tail, Well drawn about, with turn and wind, O’er many a hill and dale. Fence, hedgerow, palings, turnpike gate, The rider’s pluck will try, As much as though ’twere true to state, This day a Drag must die! Chorus――With a hey, ho, &c.

Each man as much risks life or limb As when a fox is slain; The sport is all the same to him, And we give no animal pain. Humane excitement whilst we seek, No victim in our eye; Except as now, when so to speak, This day a Drag must die! Chorus――With a hey, ho, &c.

Note.――WILLIAM COBBETT, in one of his charming works, tells a delightful story of the revenge he, when a young clodhopper, once took of a huntsman who had fetched him a cut of his whip; in repayment for which injury Cobbett went and trailed a red herring over the hunting-ground, and then, mounted on a hill-top commanding a view all round, stood enjoying the satisfaction of seeing the hounds thrown off the scent, and the fox-hunt turned into a drag-hunt, to his enemy’s vexation.

Punch. November 5, 1881.

OLD KING COAL. (Air: “OLD KING COLE.”)

Old King Coal was a merry old soul: “I’ll move the world,” quoth he; “My England’s high, and rich, and great, But greater she shall be!” And he call’d for the pick, and he call’d for the spade, And he call’d for his miners bold; “And it’s dig,” he said, “in the deep, deep earth; You’ll find my treasures better worth Than mines of Indian gold!”

Old King Coal was a merry old soul, Yet not content was he; And he said, “I’ve found what I’ve desired, Though ’tis but one of three.” And he call’d for water, he call’d for fire, For smiths and workmen true: “Come, build me engines great and strong; We’ll have,” quoth he, “a change ere long; We’ll try what Steam can do.”

Old King Coal was a merry old soul: “’Tis fairly done,” quoth he, When he saw the myriad wheels at work O’er all the land and sea. They spared the bones and strength of men, They hammer’d, wove, and spun; There was nought too great, too mean, or small, The giant STEAM had power for all;―― His task was never done.

Old King Coal was a merry old soul: Quoth he, “We travel slow; I should like to roam the wide world round, As fast as the wild winds blow.” And he call’d for his skilful engineers; And soon through hills and vales, O’er rivers wide, through tunnels vast, The flying trains like lightning pass’d, On the ribs of the mighty Rails.

Old King Coal was a merry old soul, A merry old soul is he; May he never fail in the land we love, Who has made us great and free! While his miners mine, and his engines work, Through all our happy land, We shall flourish fair in the morning light, And our name and our fame, and our might and our right, In the front of the world shall stand!

CHARLES MACKAY.

QUEEN COLE.

Oh! little Queen Cole was as nice a little soul As any in this company; And she loved the King more than anything Else――but a green monkey. So, when Old King Cole did call for his bowl,―― As in truth, very oft did he,―― If he’d send away the fellows, to make merry in the cellars, Why, a sly little drop took she, Why, a sly, &c.

But little Queen Cole (and it’s true upon my soul, Strange though the fact may be) She scolded the King like anything, For smoking of tobaccy! Though of angels the type, she couldn’t bear a pipe, She hated it mortally; And she’d make such a rout as put the King’s pipe out, Oh! most confoundedly. Oh! most confoundedly.

Now, little Queen Cole had a musical soul, So she sent for her pianists three; When Mr. Chopin he soon came a-hopping, Such a very nimble chap was he. While Thalberg and Liszt, each with ten-finger’d fist, As no mortal e’er did see; And never till now was there heard such a row On one poor piano-forte. On one poor piano-forte.

Also, little Queen Cole had a singing soul, And she sent for her singers three, And she liked the notes from the musical throats Of Grisi and Persiani. But, the third one, to wit, she said could not sing a bit, ’Cause his name didn’t end in “I.” Some fellow from town, some Jones or Brown; So very soon snubb’d was he. Oh, very soon, &c.

This was all very well, but I must also tell That she hated the secretary; For he always would look in the royal cash-book; Such an aggravating chap was he. “Vot’s this?” says he, “Fippence do I see, for taters Three pounds; bless me! Vy, taters, I’ll be bound, may be had three pound Tuppence-ha’penny!” “Ah! tuppence-ha’penny!”

Well, little Queen Cole, as time did roll, Fulfilled her destiny; That is to say, in a genteel kind of way, She had a large family. So that Old King Cole felt anxious in his soul, And with a deep sigh said he, “Drat the people, if I ax ’em, why they won’t let me tax ’em, For to fill my treasury.” “For to fill, &c.”

But little Queen Cole was as coaxing a little soul, As you’d find on a summer’s day; So said she, “If I axes, now I know they’ll pay the taxes.” “We’ll be smother’d if we do!” said they. “For ve werry much winces at this long list of princes, Vich is longer than it ought for to be!” But the Queen, too proud to wrangle, oh! she set up a mangle, And her subjects they went tax free. And her subjects, &c.

But the people grew ashamed, when they heard the story named, How she mangled for the whole family; So they swore “Blood and ’ounds,” and they fumbled out the “browns,” Just in time for their old country. For a very old foe saw the royal coffer low, And a very fierce attack made he; And it would have served them right (they were shabby fellows quite), If he’d gain’d the victory. If he’d gained, &c.

From Sharp’s Vauxhall Comic Song Book. No date.

OLD KING COAL.

Old King Coal paid a very high toll, And a very high toll paid he; And it went in the bottle, and it went in the bowl, In green fat, callipash, callipee. What a shame, what a shame, what a shame! said the people, What a wrong that this should be! And there’s none whate’er that can compare To the sons of gluttony.

Old King Coal paid a very high toll, And a very high toll paid he: And the City of London eat up the whole, By consent of the Powers that be. This won’t do, this won’t do, this won’t do! says the people; This must not, shall not be; And we now declare we’ll no longer bear Such a monstrous robbery!

Punch. November 29, 1851.

(Notwithstanding Mr. Punch’s virtuous indignation the City of London still levies the obnoxious Coal Tax, and Parliamentary Reports have recently shown in what manner some of the money is expended.)

HENRY COLE, C.B.[34]

“We write in a state of great depression. Our readers will forgive us if we are not sprightly this week; there is a time for everything, and now with us it is the time for grieving. We have fallen under the displeasure of Mr. HENRY COLE, C.B.!!

Gentle Public pity us!

Oh! Henry Cole, C.B., deal gently with us.

Oh! creator of South Kensington; oh! author of Mumbo Jumbo, don’t be too hard on us.

We are sorry, and our heart is heavy within us. Oh! inexhaustible Cole, consume us not in thine ire!

What have we done that we should be smitten with thy fury? Did we ever insult thee by coupling thy name with high Art? Did we ever accuse thee of holding the interests of thy country higher than thine own? Listen while we praise thee.

Yes, we will now praise the great, the mighty, the gentle Cole. We will show him how deep, how sincere, is our love, our veneration, our worship, of Henry Cole, C.B.

Who is the very greatest architect of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the greatest painter of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the greatest military hero of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the greatest author of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the handsomest man of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the most immaculate statesman of this age? Henry Cole, C.B.

Oh! Henry Cole, C.B., will you forgive us now?”

The Coming “Strife.”

Old King Cole was a savage old soul, And a savage old soul was he; Captain Coles was his intimate friend, And almost as savage as he.

Said Old King Cole, the savage old soul, As savage as ever could be, “My friend you must lend me a turret ship In which I can put to sea?”

Says Captain Coles, while his eyeball rolls, As savage as ever you see, “For what do you want a turret ship, And why sail o’er the sea?”

Says Old King Cole, the savage old soul, As savage as ever could be; “I want it to smash, and crash, and to dash, The Ed. of the TOMAHAWKIE?”

Says Captain Coles while his eyeball rolls, As savage as ever you see; “I heard he had threatened you with 68 pound, Of the finest gunpowder tea!”

Says Old King Cole, the savage old soul, As savage as ever could be; “If you’ll only lend me a turret ship, I’ll soon annihilate he!”

The Tomahawk. September 7, 1867.

YOUNG KING COAL.[35] New Version of an Old Song.

Young King COAL was a merry young soul, And a merry young soul was he; He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl, And he called for his fiddlers three. There was CHAMBERLAININI, and HARTINGTONINI, And, GOSCHENI to make up the three; For young King C., oh, was fond of a tri-o, Very fond of a trio was he.

Young King COAL left his rivals in the hole, When he took the Chancelle-rie Of the British Exchequer, and, to keep up their pecker, They slanged him unmercifull-y. So himself to cloak from the very provoking jeers of the Rad Part-y, Young King COAL their old mantle stole, And a very smart Rad made he.

Young King COAL loved “smoking” in his soul, And his Brummagem Best Bird’s-eye, And his “Cavendish,” went faster than was pleasing to the master Of the House where his new baccy’s he would try. And our young King C., and his fiddlers three, Thy kicked up such a shine and such a fume, Mr. IRVING’S worst witch-riot in a Faust-scene’s clear and quiet, To the Tory-Democratic Big Boom.

Young King COAL he called for his bowl, And he called for his fiddlers three, And he served ’em out a dozen pounds of best Union rosin, And they all played a symphonee. CHAMBERLAININI and GOSCHENI played like STRAUSS and like ZERBINI, And then HARTING-TON-I-NI Played “God Save the Queen!” and the others all joined in, In a way to make a patriot pipe his eye.

Young King COAL he laid down his bowl, And a dickens of a speech made he; And he talked so loud that he frightened half the crowd, And broke up the symphonee. At least some (in the Chorus) cried, “This music can’t be for us,” But as for those fiddlers three, Whilst the Chorus cried, “We’re diddled!” they symphonically fiddled, And muttered “O, fiddlededee!”

Young King COAL still waves his pipe and bowl, Though they reek of Rad flavour still. Some say it’s far from right, that he’ll set himself a-light, And blow up like a gunpowder-mill. But as for the whole of the “principles” of COAL, When he was a true Toree, If you want ’em you may see ’em in the British Museum, Or the writings of Lord SALISBUREE.

Punch. December 4, 1886.

WHEN THIS OLD CAP WAS NEW.

From a black-letter copy among the Roxburgh Songs and Ballads.

When this old cap was new―― ’Tis since two hundred year―― No malice then we knew, But all things plenty were: All friendship now decays, (Believe me, this is true) Which was not in those days, When this old cap was new.

The nobles of our land Were much delighted then To have at their command A crew of lusty men; Which by their coats were known, Of tawny, red, or blue, With crests on their sleeves shown, When this old cap was new.

Now pride hath banish’d all, Unto our lands reproach, When he whose means are small Maintains both horse and coach: Instead of an hundred men, The coach allows but two; This was not thought on then, When this old cap was new.

ANONYMOUS, about 1666.

A CHANGE OF STYLE.

When this old hat was new The railroad was a stage; And a six-mile team Made plenty of steam, For the broadest kind of gauge. You caught a goose when you wanted a pen, The ink you used was blue; And the women you loved didn’t want to be men When this old hat was new.

A Spade was only a spade, And Jennie was just plain “Jane” For his impudent lip A boy would skip At the end of a rattan cane. There were sixteen ounces in every pound, Four quarts made a gallon true; But things don’t seem as they used to be When this old hat was new.

But we’ve shortened the time since then, And we’re running a faster heat, And the boys of ten Are full-blown men, Who run the store and the street. We blush to giggle and we should smile; We’re cute and we never say die; We’re up to snuff and we’re full of guile; And we’re just too awfully fly; And father is governor, old man, dad, And his old day is gone; We run things fast and a little bad, Since we put this new hat on.

ROBERT JONES BURDETTE. The Cincinnati Inquirer.

WHEN THIS OLD JOKE WAS NEW.

When this old joke was new, This time worn heritage, The monkey-man its points did scan On pre-historic page. His footmark was the only print; His leaves were leaves that grew; The only tint was Nature’s tint When this old joke was new.

When this old joke was new, Our literature was scant, And literateurs had no reviewers With hearts of adamant; No wild-eyed poets raved of “Spring” We had our tails it’s true, But novels were’nt a general thing When this old joke was new.

When this old joke was new, We drew an easier breath; For we had then no funny men To make us long for death; There was no Punch austere and flat, To paint our faces blue; They wouldn’t have tolerated that When this old joke was new.

When this old joke was new, We somehow hadn’t hit That loss of shame which builds a “name” On other people’s wit. Perhaps folks were more honest then; Had consciences a few, And different from our race of men, When this old joke was new.

HAL BERTE, The Detroit Free Press.

SAID A SMILE TO A TEAR.

Said a Smile to a Tear, On the cheek of my dear, And beamed like the sun in spring weather, In sooth, lovely Tear, It strange must appear, That we should be both here together.

I came from the heart, A soft balm to impart, To yonder sad daughter of grief: And I, said the Smile, That heart now beguile, Since you gave the poor mourner relief.

Oh! then, said the Tear, Sweet Smile, it is clear, We are twins, and soft Pity our mother: And how lovely that face Which together we grace, For the woe and the bliss of another!

JAMES KENNEY.

An amusing parody of this song, entitled The Loves of the Plants will be found on page 70 of Volume I. of the Universal Songster. Unfortunately it is too long, as well as too broad, to be inserted in this collection.

THE STEAK AND THE CHOP.

Said a steak to a chop, On a hook in a shop, In the dog-days, and very hot weather, “Dear chop, it is clear, If we long tarry here, We shall certainly melt both together.”

Said the chop from the chump, To the steak from the rump, “Unless there’s a change in the weather, Lovely steak, I agree, In a mess we shall be, And be kitchen-stuff made both together.”

“Oh!” then, with a sigh, Midst the sound, What d’ye buy!” Said the steak to the chop with emotion, “A long or short six, In some save-all to fix, Will at last be our doom, I’ve a notion!”

SAID A FOX TO A GOOSE.

Said a fox to a goose, (From a farm-house let loose) And chanced to be pluming a feather, “Dear goose, how d’ye do? ’Tis strange, and yet true, That you and I meet here together!

Said the goose (with a stare), “Mr. Fox, are you there? And to see you indeed is a pleasure! In truth I must say, That your visit to-day, Is really delight beyond measure!”

Says the fox, “Then, we’ll walk, And like friends so dear talk, And never was seen finer weather.” Says the goose, “Gander Grange Has forbade me to range Or else we would travel together.

Said the fox, “Let him be, Take an airing with me, And hear both the goldfinch and linnet! On the love of a friend, You can, goosy, depend, And”――snapt off her head in a minute.

SONG. (By a Person of Quality. Written in the year 1733.)

Fluttering spread thy purple pinions, Gentle Cupid, o’er my heart: I, a slave in thy dominions; Nature must give way to art.

Mild Arcadians, ever blooming, Nightly nodding o’er your flocks, See my weary days consuming, All beneath yon flowery rocks.

Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping, Mourn’d Adonis, darling youth; Him the boar, in silence creeping, Gored with unrelenting tooth.

Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers; Fair Discretion, string the lyre; Soothe my ever-waking slumbers: Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.

Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, Arm’d in adamantine chains, Lead me to the crystal mirrors, Watering soft Elysian plains.

Mournful cypress, verdant willow, Gilding my Aurelia’s brows, Morpheus, hovering o’er my pillow, Hear me pay my dying vows.

Melancholy smooth Meander, Swiftly purling in a round, On thy margin lovers wander, With thy flowery chaplets crown’d.

Thus when Philomela, drooping, Softly seeks her silent mate, See the bird of Juno stooping; Melody resigns to fate.

This mellifluous piece of nonsense was published in the Miscellanies of Alexander Pope, but it was also inserted amongst the poems of Dean Swift, where it was entitled A Love Song in Modern Taste. It ridiculed an affected style of poetry then much in vogue, and which continued in fashion for many years, culminating in the writings of a clique, known as the Della Cruscans, which was originated by a few English, of both sexes, assembled at Florence in 1785. They were named Della Cruscans because their leader, one Robert Merry, signed his trashy effusions as a member of the Acadamy Della Crusca at Florence. Merry wrote a tragedy, entitled Lorenzo, which was more successful than many comedies, for it made the audience laugh immoderately, besides innumerable poems long since forgotten. By a deliberate system of mutual puffing the Della Cruscans forced their absurd productions upon the public, and in the early years of the present century nearly every journal contained some of their poems, published over assumed names, such as Laura Maria, Edwin, Anna Matilda, &c. These were afterwards gathered into volumes, with a few poems by really able writers such as M. G. Lewis, Robert Southey, and S. T. Coleridge, and published by subscription.

There is no knowing how long this twaddle might have held the public taste had not William Gifford (Editor of the Quarterly Review) produced his famous satires The Baviad, and The Maeviad, in which he mercilessly exposed the inflated nonsense written by the Della Cruscans; and by well chosen extracts from their poems turned the laugh so completely against them that they slunk back into their native obscurity.

Gifford’s satires are still read with pleasure, and the extracts given in the notes show that Pope’s nonsense verses were excelled by the would-be-serious Della Cruscans; as for example――

“Slighted love the soul subduing Silent sorrow chills the heart, Treach’rous fancy still pursuing, Still repels the poisoned dart.

Soothing those fond dreams of pleasure Pictur’d in the glowing breast, Lavish of her sweetest treasure, Anxious fear is charm’d to rest.

Fearless o’er the whiten’d billows, Proudly rise, sweet bird of night, Safely through the bending willows Gently wing thy aery flight.”

When the brothers Smith projected their famous Rejected Addresses they included an imitation of the Della Cruscan poetry, entitled Drury’s Dirge, of which Lord Jeffery wrote “The verses are very smooth and very nonsensical――as was intended; but they are not so good as Swift’s celebrated song by a Person of Quality; and are so exactly in the same measure, and on the same plan, that it is impossible to avoid making the comparison.”

DRURY’S DIRGE. BY LAURA MATILDA.[36]

“You praise our sires: but though they wrote with force Their rhymes were vicious, and their diction coarse: We want their strength, agreed; but we atone For that, and more, by sweetness all our own.”――GIFFORD.

Balmy Zephyrs, lightly flitting, Shade me with your azure wing; On Parnassus’ summit sitting, Aid me, Clio, while I sing.

Softly slept the dome of Drury, O’er the empyreal crest, When Alecto’s sister-fury, Softly slumb’ring sunk to rest.

Lo! from Lemnos limping lamely, Lags the lowly Lord of Fire, Cytherea yielding tamely To the Cyclops dark and dire.

Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness, Dulcet joys and sports of youth, Soon must yield to haughty sadness; Mercy holds the veil to Truth.

See Erostratus the second Fires again Diana’s fane; By the Fates from Orcus beckon’d, Clouds envelope Drury Lane.

Lurid smoke and frank suspicion Hand in hand reluctant dance: While the God fulfils his mission, Chivalry resign thy lance.

Hark! the engines blandly thunder, Fleecy clouds dishevell’d lie, And the firemen, mute with wonder, On the son of Saturn cry.

See the bird of Ammon sailing, Perches on the engine’s peak, And, the Eagle firemen hailing, Soothes them with its bickering beak.

Juno saw, and mad with malice, Lost the prize that Paris gave: Jealousy’s ensanguined chalice, Mantling pours the orient wave.

Pan beheld Patroclus dying, Nox to Niobe was turn’d; From Busiris Bacchus flying, Saw his Semele inurn’d.

Thus fell Drury’s lofty glory, Levell’d with the shuddering stones; Mars, with tresses black and gory, Drinks the dew of pearly groans.

XII.

Hark! what soft Eolian numbers Gem the blushes of the morn! Break, Amphion, break your slumbers, Nature’s ringlets deck the thorn.

XIII.

Ha! I hear the strain erratic Dimly glance from pole to pole; Raptures sweet and dreams ecstatic Fire my everlasting soul.

XIV.

Where is Cupid’s crimson motion? Billowy ecstasy of woe, Bear me straight, meandering ocean, Where the stagnant torrents flow.

XV.

Blood in every vein is gushing, Vixen vengeance lulls my heart; See, the Gorgon gang is rushing! Never, never let us part!

HORACE SMITH. From The Rejected Addresses, 1812.

ALBUM VERSES. By a Fond Lover.

Lovely maid, with rapture swelling, Should these verses meet thine eye, Clouds of absence soft dispelling, Vacant memory heaves a sigh.

As the rose, with fragrance weeping, Trembles to the tuneful wave, So my heart shall twine unsleeping, Till it canopies the grave!

Though another’s smiles requited, Envious fate my doom should be: Joy for ever disunited, Think, ah! think, at times on me!

Oft amid the spicy gloaming, Where the brakes their songs instil, Fond affection silent roaming, Loves to linger by the rill――

There when echo’s voice consoling, Hears the nightingale complain, Gentle sighs my lips controlling, Bind my soul in beauty’s chain.

Oft in slumbers deep recesses, I thy mirror’d image see; Fancy mocks the vain caresses, I would lavish like a bee!

But how vain is glittering sadness! Hark, I hear distraction’s knell! Torture gilds my heart with madness! Now for ever fare thee well!

From The Comic Latin Grammar by Paul Prendergast (Percival Leigh), illustrated by John Leech. London, David Bogue.

LORD LOVEL.

Lord Lovel he stood at his castle gate, Combing his milk-white steed, When up came Lady Nancy Bell, To wish her lover good speed, speed, speed, Wishing her lover good speed.

“Where are you going, Lord Lovel? (she said), Oh, where are you going?” said she; “I’m going, my Lady Nancy Bell, Strange countries for to see, see, see, Strange countries for to see.”

“When will you be back, Lord Lovel? (said she) Oh, when will you come back?” said she. “In a year or two, or three at most, I’ll return to my Lady Nancy-cy-cy, I’ll return to my Lady Nancy.”

But he had not been gone a year and a day, Strange countries for to see, When languishing thoughts came into his head, Lady Nancy Bell he would go see, see, see, Lady Nancy Bell he would go see.

So he rode, and he rode on his milk-white horse, Till he came to London town, When he heard St. Pancras’ church bells ring, And the people all mourning around, round, round, And the people all mourning around.

“Oh, what is the matter?” Lord Lovel he said, “Oh, what is the matter?” said he. “A lord’s lady is dead,” an old woman said, “And some call her Lady Nancy-cy-cy, And some call her Lady Nancy.”

So he ordered the grave to be opened wide, And the shroud to be turned down; And there he kissed her clay-cold lips, Till the tears came trickling down, down, down, Till the tears came trickling down.

Lady Nancy she died as it might be to-day, Lord Lovel he died as to-morrow; Lady Nancy she died out of pure, pure grief, Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow, sorrow, sorrow, Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow.

Lady Nancy was laid in St. Pancras’ churchyard, Lord Lovel was laid in the choir, And out of her bosom there grew a red rose, And out of her lover’s a brier-rier, rier, And out of her lover’s a brier.

It grew and it grew to the church steeple top, And then it could grow no higher; So there it entwin’d in a true lover’s knot, For true lovers all to admire,-rire,-rire, For true lovers all to admire.

FRAGMENT OF A BRADLAUGHABLE BALLAD.

He strode and he strode till he reached the landing, And then he couldn’t “strode” any higher, And there he saw Mister Inspector Denning, Who asked him at once to retire-’ire-’ire. Suggesting that he should retire.

He tackled the Sergeant and his deputee, A Messenger too in the Lobby, When in came a lot of Constabularee,―― Mister Bradlaugh he collared a Bobby――’obby――’obby; But was collared too by that Bobby.

They fought and they tussled away down the stairs, With many a gasp and a guggle, And poor Daddy Longlegs, who won’t say his prayers, Lost his collar and tails in the struggle――’uggle――’uggle. Lost his temper and tails in the struggle.

Who profits by this? The reply’s not remote, Not the Rough, nor the Bobby, nor Gaoler, But as Mister Bradlaugh must have a new coat, ’Tis a capital thing for his tailor――’ailor――’ailor, A very good thing for the tailor.

Punch. August 13, 1881.

THE TALE OF LORD LOVELL.

Lord Lovell he stood at his own front door, Seeking the hole for the key; His hat was wrecked, and his trousers bore A rent across either knee, When down came the beauteous Lady Jane In fair white draperee.

“Oh, where have you been, Lord Lovell?” she said: “Oh, where have you been?” said she: “I have not closed an eye in bed, And the clock has just struck three. Who has been standing you on your head In the ash-barrel, perdee?”

“I am not drunk, Lady Shane,” he said: “And so late it cannot be; The clock struck one as I enter-ed―― I heard it two times or three; It must be the salmon on which I fed Has been too many for me.”

“Go tell your tale, Lord Lovell,” she said: “To the maritime cavalree, To your grandam of the hoary head―― To any one but me. The door is not used to be open-ed With a cigarette for a key.”

THE TUNEFUL LIAR. “Quips.” (Liverpool), March 18, 1887.

JOE MUGGINS AND SALLY BELL.

Joe Muggins he stood at his own cottage door, A-brushing down his black moke, When up came his ladylove, Sally Bell, And thus to her lovier she spoke――oke――oke―― And thus to her lovier she spoke.

Oh! where are you going, Joe Muggins, she said, Oh! where are you going? said she. I’m going, my lass, to Smith’ll markèt, To Smith’ll to sell my donkey――key――key―― To Smith’ll to sell my donkey.

When will you come back, Joe Muggins? she said, When will you come back to me? In an hour or two, or three at the most, So get me a herring for tea――tea――tea―― So get me a herring for tea.

Now he had not been gone an hour or more, To Smithfield, and sold his donkey, When a thought of the herring came into his head I hope it’s a soft roe, said he――he――he―― I hope it’s a soft roe, said he.

* * * * * (Three coarse verses omitted.)

LORD FADDLE’S ELECTION FOR BOSH.

Lord Fitz-Faddle he lived in Bel-gra-vi-a, And being tired of town and ennui He resolved to put up for M.P. somewhere, A Parliament Member to be-e-e, An honorable M.P. to be.

Lord Fitz-Faddle he asked what sum in hard “posh,” Of his Tory friend, “W.B.” It required, to get in for the City of Bosh, And what the expenses might be-e-e, And what the expenses would be.

Said “W.B.” a “safe, good man and true,” “You must send down to Bosh speed-i-ly, With a check on the Bank for a thousand or two, Or perhaps he may want two or three-ree-ree, Or perhaps he may want, &c.”

Lord Fitz he declared, with a smile, to his friend, That he didn’t mean bri-ber-y; Oh, dear, not at all!――not a shilling he’d spend, But what was quite nec-ess ary-ry-ry, But what was quite, &c.

Lord Fitz he went down, found a deal of distress Pervading the coun-ter-y; And, being a kind man, why, he couldn’t do less, Than pity the poor Voters free-ree-ree, Than help the Electors so free.

Then he ordered hotels to be open-ed wide, The “Bell,” and the “George,” and the “Crown,” And forced, when a poor Voter hard-up he spied, A few onion tears to roll down-own-own, The crocodile tears to roll down.

He suddenly took a great interest in pigs, The crops, and all kinds of manure; Vowed he’d nothing in common with Tories or Whigs, But he was the real friend of the poor-oor-oor, That he was the real friend, &c.

Then the “Free, Independent Electors,” somehow, All got in the sun mer-ri-ly; For a week, on the cheap, with mine host of the “Plough,” They feasted con-tin-u-ally-ly-ly, They kept up the game merrily.

’Twas astonishing, what a vast lot of new boots, On a sudden, the Voters displayed; And incredible, what a great number of suits They got, for which “nobody” paid-aid-aid, They wore, for which, &c.

Lord Fitz was returned, and the Liberals beat, But soon comes up petitions, to see Into some queer affairs, and he loses his seat, For “treating,” and “grogs” bri-ber-y-y-y-y, For treating, &c.

The Committee declare that corruption prevails, But Lord Fitz didn’t know it――oh, no! It was all through his Agents, the “Flukers” & “Frails,” That his four or five thousand did go-o-o, That his four or five, &c.

Lord Fitz gets elected, as it might be to-day, But Lord Fitz gets unseated to-morrow; And that all the expenses he’s forced to defray, He knows very well to his sorrow-orrow-orrow, He knows very well, &c.

So Lord Fitz in Bel-gra-vi-a biteth his nails, Minus Parliament honours, and “posh,” And he thinks, as do most, till the Ballot prevails, There’ll be many more Cities like Bosh-osh-osh, That there’ll be more elections like Bosh.

THE BROWN JUG.

(From the Opera of the “Poor Soldier,” by J. O’KEEFFE. The song itself is attributed to the Rev. FRANCIS FAWKES, who imitated it from the Latin of Hieronymus Amaltheus.)

Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale (Out of which I now drink to sweet Nan of the vale), Was once Toby Filpot, a thirsty old soul As e’er crack’d a bottle, or fathom’d a bowl. In boozing about ’twas his pride to excel, And among jolly topers he bore off the bell.

It chanced, as in dog-days he sat at his ease In his flow’r woven arbour, as gay as you please, With a friend and a pipe, puffing sorrow away, And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay, His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut, And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt.

His body, when long in the ground it had lain, And Time into clay had resolved it again, A potter found out in its covert so snug, And with part of fat Toby he form’d this brown jug, Now, sacred to friendship, to mirth and mile ale, So here’s to my lovely sweet Nan of the vale.

“DEAR BILL, THIS STONE-JUG.”

(Being an Epistle from TOBY CRACKSMAN, in Newgate, to BILL SYKES.)

Dear Bill, this stone-jug,[a] at which flats dare to rail, (From which till the next Central sittings I hail) Is still the same snug, free-and-easy old hole, Where MACHEATH met his blowens,[b] and WYLDE floor’d his bowl. In a ward with one’s pals,[c] not locked up in a cell, To an old hand like me it’s a fam-ly[d]-hotel.

In the day-rooms the cuffins[e] we queer at our ease, And at Darkman’s[f] we run the rig just as we please; There’s your peck[g] and your lush, hot and reg’lar, each day. All the same if you work, all the same if you play. But the lark’s when a goney[h] up with us they shut, As ain’t up to our lurks,[i] our flash-putter,[j] and smut;

But soon in his eye nothing green will remain, He knows what’s o’clock when he comes out again. And the next time he’s quodded,[k] so downy and snug, He may thank us for making him fly to the jug.[l] But here comes a cuffin――which cuts short my tale, It’s agin rules is screevin’[m] to pals out o’ goal.

(The following postscript seems to have been added when the Warder had passed.)

For them coves in Guildhall and that blessed LORD MAYOR, Prigs on their four bones should chop whiners,[n] I swear: That long over Newgit their Worships may rule, As the High-toby, mob, crack and screeve[o] model school; For if Guv’ment was here, not the Alderman’s Bench, Newgit soon ’ud be bad as “the Pent” or “the Tench.”[p]

Note.――We subjoin a Glossary of MR. CRACKSMAN’S lingo:――

[a] Prison. [b] Ladies of a certain description. [c] Comrades or fast friends. [d] Thieves speak of themselves as “family-men.” [e] Warders. [f] Night. [g] Meat and drink. [h] A greenhorn. [i] Tricks of the trade. [j] Talking slang. [k] Imprisoned. [l] Up to prison ways. [m] Writing. [n] Thieves should pray on their knees. [o] Highway-robbers, swell-mobsmen, burglars, and forgers. [p] Slang names for Pentonville Model Prison, and Milbank Penitentiary.