IV.

The free, fair trade of England, Long, long in shop and stall, May harmless customers be fleeced Of their small and little all! Thus, to my thinking it behoves Him who earth’s paths hath trod To mind and not spoil other coves By sparing satire’s rod.

From _Cribblings from the Poets_, by Hugh Cayley, Cambridge, 1883.

――――

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

The unhealthy Homes of England! How jauntily they stand Among their long-untended drains By crafty builders planned! The deer would shun them like the pest, Though beautiful they seem, And the Doctor’s face, in passing by, Lights with a sickly gleam.

The drainy Homes of England! In Summer’s sultry heat What sniffs of not unmixed delight Each varied odour greet! Then woman’s voice is heard to say She thinks there’s something wrong, While manly lips the landlord bless In language rather strong.

The typhoid Homes of England! How pleasant ’tis to know That liquid _microbes_ of disease Keep up a constant flow! Simple, yet sure, the plan whereby The sewer-gas ascends; They’re perfect masters of their art, Our homicidal friends.

The fever-dens of England! By thousands on her plain, They smile at the defective pipes Which link them with the “main.” Through glowing orchards forth they peep, And gardens all abloom, And hygienic dullards sleep Unconscious of their doom.

The scamping rogues of England! Long, long in hut and hall May heads of wisdom still be reared To circumvent them all! And trapped for ever be the drains, And pure the watery store Where first the child’s glad spirit learns What lurks beneath the floor.

_Punch_, August 30, 1884.

――――

COTTAGE HOMES

_Theoretical_―― Ye Cottage Homes of England! How pleasantly ye stand, With bees and bowers and birds and flowers, And rich allotment land! How happy, too, each owner, As fearless, free, and frank, He thanks his landlord that he has His “oven, porch, and tank!”

_Practical_―― Ye Cottage Homes of England, That reek with filth and smells; There’s rheumatism in your roofs, There’s typhus in your wells; And many an ill-fed tenant―― His landlord’s helpless fief―― Looks forward to his workhouse home With positive relief!

_Truth Christmas Number_, 1885.

[Illustration]

CASABIANCA, THE HEROIC BOY.

The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but he had fled; The flame that lit the battle’s wreck Shone round him o’er the dead; Yet beautiful and bright he stood As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud though child-like form!

The flames rolled on――he would not go Without his father’s word; That father faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. He called aloud――“Say, father, say. If yet my task is done!” He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.

“Speak, father!” once again he cried, “If I may yet be gone! And”――but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on. Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair; And looked from that lone post of death In still, yet brave despair!

He shouted yet once more aloud, “My father! must I stay?” While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way: They wrapped the ship in splendour wild. They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky.

Then came a burst of thunder sound―― The boy――oh! where was he? Ask of the winds, that far around With fragments strewed the sea, With mast and helm and pennon fair, That well had borne their part―― But the noblest thing that perished there, Was that young faithful heart.

MRS. HEMANS.

――――

EXPLOITS OF THE EMINENT I.

(The character of Macbeth was not one of Mr. Irving’s theatrical successes.)

Macbeth stood on the new built stage, Whence all but he had fled; The flame that lit his tragic rage Shone round his classic head. Yes――beautiful and bright he stood, A stalwart, graceful form, And raved about old Duncan’s blood, Whose corpus still was warm.

(_Six verses omitted here._)

The gods applaud with thunder sound: Irving――O! Where was he? Ask of the wise ones grouped around, Who came _Macbeth_ to see. His eye had then no lurid glare, He bowed, with grateful heart; But a noble thing was murdered there―― ’Twas Shakespeare’s tragic art,

_The Figaro_, October 13, 1875.

――――

THE MULE.

The Mule stood on the steamboat deck, For the land he would not tread; They tied an halter round his neck And whacked him on the head, Yet obstinate and braced he stood, As born the sea to rule, A creature of the old pack brood, A stubborn steadfast mule.

They cursed and swore, but he would not go Until he felt inclined, And though they thundered blow on blow, He altered not his mind. The ship’s boy to his master cried, “The varmint’s bound to stay,” And still upon that old mule’s hide The sounding lash made play.

His master from the shore replied, The ship’s about to sail, And as all other means you’ve tried, Suppose you twist his tail; I think that that will make him land. The ship’s boy, brave though pale, Then nearer drew, with outstretched hand, To twist that old mule’s tail.

There came a sudden kick behind, The boy, oh! where was he? Ask of the softly blowing wind, The fishes in the sea. For a moment not a sound was heard, And that mule he winked his eye, As though to say to him who’d gone, “How was that for high?”

――――

A PROSE VERSION.

“The boy stood on the back-yard fence whence all but he had fled. The flames that lit his father’s barn shone just above the shed. One bunch of crackers in his hand, two others in his hat; with piteous accent loud he cried, ‘I never thought of that.’ A bunch of crackers to the tail of one small dog he tied; the sparks flew wide, and red, and hot; they fell upon the brat; they fired the crackers in his hand and lit those in his hat. Then came a burst of rattling sound――the boy, where was he gone? Ask of the winds that far around strewed bits of flesh and bone, and scraps of clothes, and balls, and tops, and nails, and books, and yarn, the relics of that dreadful boy that burned his father’s barn.”

――――

CASABIANK.

The dog lay on the butcher’s stoop And in a pleasant doze, Forgot his lack of bed and board And all his canine woes. He dreamed of one fair pup he loved And soft his tail he wagged; ’Twas in those days when he was young, And kennelled, fed, and tagged.

Her spirit seemed to hover ’round, For from the shop behind A fragrance came which somehow brought That she-dog to his mind. And of those pugs who’d scratched with him, And barked and gambolled ’round, Some ate the poisoned chop and died, Some perished in the pound.

The dog dreamed on――the butcher-man Looked down on him and said, “A roly-poly sausage skin Shall be your final bed. With pepper and sweet marjoram And fragrant allspice grains, Casabiank, ’twill be my task To mingle your remains.

And though you’re old and tough, embalmed In spices of the East, You’ll for my faithful customers Provide a dainty feast.” He took three paces toward the dog, That pup――O, where was he? Ask of the reeking knives that tore Through hide and hair and flea.

And since that day though many a neck Has felt that cleaver keen, No fairer dog-meat ever fed The butcher’s dread machine.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE FATE OF THE PEERS.

The Peer stood on the burning deck, Whence all but he had fled; The storm that meant his Order’s wreck Roared round his puzzled head. Yet masterful and mad he stood, As though all threats were vain; A creature of most noble blood, But of a childish brain.

The storm raged on――he would not go Without his leader’s word; That leader, fooled by friend or foe, No warning voices heard. He called aloud: “See, Cecil, see How thick the people loom!” He knew not that Lord Salisburee Was reckless of his doom.

“Oh, let me go,” again he cried, “I surely can be spared?” “Nay, you must stay,” the “Whip” replied, “Since you’ve remained ‘unpaired.’” Upon his brow he felt the weight Of unaccustomed care, And tried “to follow the debate,” But ended in despair.

And shouted but once more aloud: “Oh, Cecil, _must_ I stay!” But Cecil, still unwisely proud, Would have his wilful way. There came a burst, a shock, a jar! The Peer――oh! where was he? Ask of the Chief who scattered far Our old Nobilitee.

Dukes, Earls, and Barons went to smash Amidst a grateful cheer; But the crassest victim of the crash Was that deluded Peer!

_Truth_, October 16, 1884.

――――

THE OLD MAN LINGERED.

The girl stewed on the burning deck, For Rockaway she fled; The sun which blazed down on her neck, Turned all her tresses red. Yet innocent by Pa she sat, While glances shy and warm Shot from beneath her saucy hat At every manlike form.

Pa left to see a friend, he told: And then her smile was sweet On Mr. Jones, who growing bold, Took by her side a seat. The boat rolled on. Jones would not go Without her father’s word; That father at the bar below Her laugh no longer heard.

She called (not loud) “Stay, father, stay Until thy task is done.” She knew, too well, the old man’s way, Unconscious of her fun. The wind had freshened to a gale, The boat tossed on the sea, “Oh, miss,” cried Jones, “why art thou pale? Why talk’st thou not to me?”

“Speak, maiden!” once again he cried; “Art ailing? Tell me quick.” And but the drooping maid replied, “Oh, I――I feel so sick.” Upon her brow then came his breath; He smoothed her frizzled hair. She looked for all the world like death; He looked like grim despair.

She murmured but once more aloud, “Oh Jones, a basin――quick!” Not one was left, for in that crowd Each female, too was sick. Oh, when was gallant like to Jones; Or, rather, one so flat! With one heroic smile, he groans, “Here, darling, is my hat.”

Then came a burst of lightning sound; The girl!――oh, where was she? A-spoiling Jones’s hat, which crowned His cup of misery. Oh! Knights of old and heroes rare; Oh! lovers think of that, The noblest thing which perished there Was Jones’s new silk hat.

_American Paper._

――――

A poetical squib which has gone the round of the U. S. papers is evidently based on the same original:

The boy stood by the stable door And watched the pensive mule; A thoughtful attitude it wore, An air serenely cool.

That boy approached its hinder end―― Let fall the pitying tears, “He’s gone to meet his brother, and His age was seven years.”

[Illustration]

THE BETTER LAND.

“I hear thee speak of the Better Land, Thou callest its children a happy band; Mother, oh where is that radiant shore? Shall we not seek it, and weep no more? Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire flies glance through the myrtle boughs?’ ――‘Not there, not there, my child!”

“Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies? Or ’midst the green islands of glittering seas, Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings, Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?’ ――‘Not there, not there, my child!”

“Is it far away, in some region old, Where the rivers wander o’er sands of gold? Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?―― Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?’ ――‘Not there, not there, my child!”

“Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy; Dreams cannot picture a world so fair.―― Sorrow and death may not enter there; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, ――It is there, it is there, my child!”

MRS. HEMANS.

――――

THE BEST HOTELS.

“I’ve heard thee speak of a good hotel, Where they charged thee little and fed thee well; Mother, oh where is this hostel of thine, Shall we not seek it and go there to dine? Is’t in some fair city of the far North East, By the winding Wear?” “Oh! not in the least, Not there, not there, my child.”

“Is’t among the people who love to boast Of their “Town Improvements” the princely cost? Who say that, to keep their bodies sound They have spent £100,000?[48] Where (when small-pox is absent[49]) Hygeia dwells, Is it there, is it there, this best of hotels!” “Not there, not there, my child.”

“Is it where, through the small though festive rooms A drainpipe sheds its rich perfumes―― O’er the strange old birds with skinny wings, Which the languid waiter to table brings, With tottering steps that betoken, alas! The chronic effects of sewer gas?” “Not there, not there, my child.”

Is it far away in some region cold Where the visitor’s welcome; if he have gold That he’s willing to spend on most villainous wine At the regally privileged “Bleed him fine?” here the whole concern abounds in “sells”―― Is it there, sweet mother, this best of hotels? “Not there, not there, my child.”

Full many a city, my gentle boy Hath hostels in plenty where thou may’st enjoy Good viands well cooked, rooms sweet and large, Decent wines, and good waiting, at moderate charge; But, unless to thy soul disappointment is dear, Seek them not in the town by the mouth of the Wear; “Not there, not there, my child!”

――――

THE “THREE ACRES AND A COW” LEGEND.

The familiar joke, that every labourer was promised three acres and a cow, arose, as myths usually arise, out of an inversion of actual facts. Nobody ever seriously believed that such promises were made, and everybody knows that the substratum of truth on which the misrepresentation rested was that some machinery must be set up to promote the restoration of the people to the soil. There was, however, no desire to injure the landowners.

Mr. Chamberlain speaking at the Westminster Palace Hotel, in January, 1886, observed that:――

“The Tories have universally asserted that we promised to every labourer, as a free gift, three acres of land and a cow. (Laughter.) Well, I don’t think the labourers are fools. They have not shown it at the last election; and I don’t suppose many of them have been deceived by this falsehood. I sometimes think we were a little too eager to contradict it. (Laughter.) At all events, if we see it necessary to repudiate this burlesque of our intentions and our promises, let us take care to do nothing to discourage the expectation, perfectly praiseworthy and reasonable in itself, that facilities should be made by legislation for every thrifty, industrious labourer to obtain at a fair price an adequate, independent, and secure interest in the soil which he cultivates.”

_The Globe_, (London), in an article on _The Three Acres Legend_, observed:――

“Whether anybody ever said, in jest or earnest, that Mr. Chamberlain had promised three acres and a cow to every elector who voted Liberal, we do not know. But someone has been writing to him to ask whether such a statement, supposing it to have been made, would be true, and the inquirer has received the answer which he might have looked for. The statement is not true. Mr. Chamberlain’s secretary goes on to suggest to the right hon. gentleman’s correspondent that he has only to challenge those who make the assertion to prove it by quotation, adding, that if they decline the challenge he will know how to deal with them. He will, in fact, be able to charge them with uttering falsehoods.”

THREE ACRES AND A COW.

I have heard you speak of “three acres of land,” With “a cow” to belong to each peasant band; Tell me, oh! where are those acres found, That promised spot of domestic ground? Tell me, oh! where is that happy shore Where we all shall settle, and starve no more; Not here, not here, my man!

Where father shall sit ’neath his sheltering vine, And smoke his own pipe, and drink his wine, And mother and sisters, at tea in the shade, Bless the rosy bowers their hands have made; While the cow untethered, and ranging free, Crops the summer wealth of our acres three? Not here, not here, my man!

Say, are they then where rich travellers roam O’er the heathery hills of the “Scot at home”? Or are they where Erin’s gay sons abide, By the Liffey’s stream or the Shannon’s tide? Or are they in Northern or Southern Wales, Where St. David’s cliffs woo the Western gales? Not there, not there, my man!

Eye hath not seen them, my gentle Will; Ear hath not heard of them; valley or hill, Pasture, or moorland, or woodland fair, John Hodge and his brats may not settle there; Not there, not there, my man!

Trust not, oh trust not, to statesmen’s smiles; These visions so fair are delusion’s wiles And the acres are only “_Chateaux en Espagne_,” Built up in the head of Joe Chamberlain; They are there, they are there, my man!

EDWARD WALFORD, M.A.

_Life_, December 10, 1885.

――――

THE BIT O’ LAND.

I hear thee speak of a bit o’land, And a cow for every labouring hand; Tell me, dear mother, where is that shore, Where shall I find it and work no more? Is it at home, this unoccupied ground, Where the three acres and cow will be found? Is it where Pheasants and Partridges breed, Or in the fields where the farmer is sowing his seed? Is it upon the moors, so wild and so grand, I shall find this bit of arable land? Not there, not there, my Giles.

Is it far away on the Rio Grande? In Zululand or Basutoland? Is it far away on forbidding shores, Where Unicorns fight and the Lion roars? Or will it in Soudan be found, Where English bones manure the ground? Or on the banks of ancient Nile? Perhaps ’tis on some Coral Isle, With dusky groves and silver strand,―― Is it there, dear mother, that bit o’ land? Not there, not there, my Giles.

Eye hath not seen that fair land, my child, Ear hath but heard an echo wild,―― The nightmare of excited brain That dreamers, have, like Chamberlain Far away, beyond the ken Of sober, practical, business men; Far away beyond the sight Of men whose heads are screwed on right; Where castles in the air do stand, Behold the cow and the bit o’ land! ’Tis there, ’tis there, my Giles.

1885.

――――

“THE PROMISED LAND!” (Three Acres.)

“I hear thee speak of a ‘Plot of Land,’ For each and all of the Peasant band; Where! Oh Where! is this garden store? Shall we not till it and starve no more? Is it where the lordling sits in his pride, ’Mid wealth that to me has been denied? Is it where the flocks on the hill-side graze, Or the stag in the forest leaps and plays; Or the hare runs wild on every hand Is it there? Is it there? That Promised Land!” “Not there! Not there! my Giles!”

“Is it far away in some distant spot, This promised parcel of garden plot? Where nothing is heard but the murmuring bees, And the sound of the wind among the trees; Where no turnips are planted, or apples grown, Or the fruits of the earth in season sown; Where the land is idle, and nought is seen But the fragrant flowers and woodland green, And the sun shines down on a desolate spot,―― Is it there? Is it there? ‘My three-acre plot!’” “Not there! Not there! my Giles!”

“It is deeply hid in the _mazy_ brain Of the venturesome Joseph Chamber_lain_! ’Tis but a bribe to catch a vote, A bait to hook fish by the throat; In vulgar phrase it’s ‘_All my eye_’! A newly invented election cry. It has _no existence in sober sense_,―― It is but the product of impudence! It lives but in _Chamberlain’s speech so bland_, This tempting plot of that Promised Land―― It is there! only there! my Giles!”

――――

THE PROMISED LAND: THREE ACRES. (An answer to the preceding Parody.)

I hear thee speak of a Plot of Land For every one of the peasant band, Tories! Oh, where is that garden store? Shall we not till it and starve no more? Is it where the lordling sits in his pride, ’Mid wealth that to me has been denied? Is it where the flocks on the black hills graze, Or the stag in the forest leaps and plays? Or the hare runs wild on every hand, Is it there, dear friend, that better land? Not there, not there, my man.

Is it far away in some distant spot, The promised parcel of garden plot Where nothing is heard but the murmuring bees, And the sighs of the winds among the trees; Where no turnips are sown or sweet apples grown, Or fruit of the earth in its season known; Where the land is idle and nought is seen But the dear wild flowers and woodland green, And the sun shines down on a desolate spot―― Is it there, is it there, my three acre plot? Not there, not there, my man.

It only exists in the “Tory” brain. Though they always “father it” on Chamberlain; They think we want bribes to get a vote, Like the Tories from Parnell, then cut his throat; But in vulgar phrase, it is all in “my eye,” “A great, big, thumping,” Tory “lie;” It has no existence in sober sense, It’s the product of Tory insolence; It’s author I think was the man in the moon, And if you expect to find such a boon―― It is there, it is there, my man.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

OUT WEST.

I hear thee speak of a Western land, Thou callest its children a wide-awake band―― Father, oh, where is that favored spot? Shall we not seek it and build us a cot? Is it where the hills of Berkshire stand Whence the honey comes already canned, Not there, not there, my child.

Is it far away in the Empire state Where Horace Greeley feels first rate, Where the people are ruled by Tammany ring, And Mr. Fisk is a Railroad King, With two thousand men at his command, Besides a boat with a big brass band? Not there, not there, my child!

Is it where the little pigs grow great In the fertile vales of the Buckeye State? And get so fat on acorns and meal That they sell every bit of them all but the squeal, Where the butchers have such a plenty of hogs That they don’t make sausages out of dogs. Not there, not there, my child!

Or is it where they fortunes make, Where they’ve got a tunnel under the lake, Where the stores are full of wheat and corn And divorces are plenty as sure as you’re born, Where Long John Wentworth is right on hand―― Is it there, dear father, that Western land? Not there, not there, my child.

Is it in the dominions of Brigham Young The most married man that is left unhung, Where every man that likes can go And get forty wives or more you know, Where “saints” are plenty with “cheeks” sublime, Can that be the gay and festive clime?―― Not there, not there, my child!

Is it where Nevada’s mountains rise From the Alkali plains which we all despise, Where a man may beg, or borrow, or steal, Yet he often will fail to get a square meal, Where the rocks are full of silver ore―― Is it there we’ll find that Western Shore, Not there, not there, my child.

Eye hath not seen it my verdant youth, Tongue cannot name it and speak the truth; For though you go to the farthest state And stand on the rocks by the Golden Gate, They’ll point you across the Western sea To the land whence cometh the “heathen Chinee,” Saying “’Tis there my child.”

_American Paper._

――――

THE HAPPY LAND.

I hear them speak of a Happy Land, Is it at the Gaiety――Vaudeville――Strand―― Or where, secure from the public gaze, Mr. Buckstone privately Hamlet plays? Is it where the acting gives go and life To Wilkie Collins’s “Man and Wife?” ――” Not there, not there, my friend!”

“Is it where the Lord Chamberlain weakly tries To interfere with the actors’ guise, Because it gave us a portrait true Of the gentle Ayrton, and Lowe, and you[50]―― Though you now as three music hall cads appear, Which makes the satire much more severe?” ――“Not there, not there, my friend!”

“Is it where Jack Sheppard they fail to hang; Where Macbeth’s broad Scotch has a German twang; Or where many a bonny and bouncing lass To Nature holds up a Bohemian glass; Where Rosa Dartle’s consummate skill Inclines you to hiss her against your will?” ――“Not there, not there, my friend!”

“I have not seen it, my gentle bore, For five or six years――or rather more, Its joys are calmer by far than those That the Ministerial Bench bestows, For the scene of the Happy Land is laid In Opposition’s refreshing shade, ――It is there, it is there, my friend!”

_Fun._

――――

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

THEY sucked their pap spoons side by side, They filled one house with shines―― Their graves are lying severed wide, By many railway lines. The same nurse tied the plain night cap At evening, on each brow: She gave each naughty child a slap―― Where are those screamers now?

One by the broad gauge line which goes To Exeter, is laid. They ran into a luggage train, And mincemeat of him made. The Eastern Counties line hath one―― He sleeps his last long sleep―― Near where an engine chose, slap off, A viaduct to leap.

Another went from Euston-square By an ill-fated train; They buried him at Coventry, With others of the slain. And one――’neath her an axle broke, And stayed life’s running sand―― She perished on the Dover line―― The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they lie, who play’d At hop-scotch in the court. Who after every cab that passed, Cried “Whip behind,” in sport. Who played upon the Nigger bones, And jumped Jim Crow with glee―― Oh, steam! if thou wert everywhere, Where would poor mortals be?

_The Man in the Moon_. Edited by Albert Smith, Vol. II.

――――:o:――――

“HE NEVER WROTE AGAIN.”

His hope of publishing went down, The sweeping press rolled on; But what was any other crown To him who hadn’t one? He lived――for long may man bewail When thus he writes in vain; Why comes not death to those who fail?―― He never wrote again!

Books were put out, and “had a run,” Like coinage from the Mint; But which could fill the place of one, That one they wouldn’t print? Before him passed, in calf and sheep, The thoughts of many a brain: His lay with the rejected heap:―― He never wrote again.

He sat where men who wrote went round, And heard the rhymes they built; He saw their works most richly bound, With portraits and in gilt. Dreams of a volume all forgot Were blent with every strain; A thought of one they issued not:―― He never wrote again!

Minds in that time closed o’er the trace Of books once fondly read, And others came to fill their place, And were perused instead. Tales which young girls had bathed in tears Back on the shelf were lain: Fresh ones came out for other years:―― _He_ never wrote again!

From _Poems and Parodies_, by Phœbe Carey, Boston, U.S., 1854.

――――:o:――――

FISH HAVE THEIR TIMES TO BITE.

“_Leaves have their time to fall._” MRS. HEMANS.

Fish have their times to bite―― The bream in summer, and the trout in spring, That time the hawthorn buds are white, And streams are clear, and winds low-whispering.

The pike bite free when fall The autumn leaves before the north-wind’s breath, And tench in June, but there are all―― There are all seasons for the gudgeon’s death.

The trout his ambush keeps Crafty and strong, in Pangbourne’s eddying pools, And patient still in Marlow deeps For the shy barbel wait expectant fools.

Many the perch but small That swim in Basildon, and Thames hath nought Like Cookham’s pike, but, oh; in all―― Yes, in all places are the gudgeon caught.

The old man angles still For roach, and sits red faced and fills his chair; And perch, the boy expects to kill, And roves and fishes here and fishes there.

The child but three feet tall For the gay minnows and the bleak doth ply His bending hazel, but by all―― Oh! by all hands the luckless gudgeon die.

C. From _College Rhymes_, Oxford. W. Mansell, 1861.

[Illustration]

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

The following parodies have come to hand since Part 30 was published.

“THE THREE FISHERS.”

Three anglers went down to fish Sunbury Weir, To fish Sunbury Weir, when the morn did break; But though the morn broke, so bright and so clear, Ne’er a one of those three a fish did take. For though a South wind the trout likes best, It’s sure to be North, or East, or West, To set the angler groaning.

Three anglers got down from Sunbury Weir, Where they had been fishing from break of day; Yet though their bag from trout was clear, A fourteen-pounder they’d seen at play. For though a cold wind the trout likes least, That day half-a-gale blew up from the East, To set those anglers groaning.

They tried that old trout at Sunbury Weir, With a choice selection of baits, so fine; But although that fish was devoid of fear, With that cold East wind he declined to dine. So away they sped from Sunbury Weir, And out came the trout when the coast was clear, And gobbled the bleaks “in the gloamin’.”

OTTER.

From _The Angler’s Journal_, May 1, 1886.

――――

THREE FRESHERS.

Three Freshers went sailing out into the street, Out into the street for a ‘town and gown,’ Each thought of the foeman he longed to meet And the Bull-dogs stood watching them out in the town. Through ‘High’ and ‘Broad’ the Proctor must sweep, And the fifth of November is hard to keep When such myrmidons are roaming.

Three times that night near the Magdalen tower, Did the dim gas lamps show a ‘town and gown’; They looked out for squalls, but alas! for the hour That the Proctor came up and was neatly knocked down; For men their hands from Proctors must keep Though blows be sudden, and black-eyes cheap, When our gallant blades are roaming.

Three heroes set out for their native strands, When the morning gleam saw them all ‘sent down.’ And the tradesmen of Oxford are wringing their hands For those who may never come home to the town. And Fathers storm, and Mothers must weep, And the Freshers have sworn a great oath they will keep Of goodbye to the fifth and its roamings.

A.H.S. Univ. Coll., Oxford. ――――

THREE WOMEN.

Three women went sailing out into the street To the brown-stone front where the red flag hung. They jostled the crowd all day on their feet, While “going and going and gone” was sung. For women must go where bargains are had. And buy old trash, if never so bad, And husbands must ever be groaning.

Three husbands, all hungry, went homeward to dine, But when they arrived there was nothing to eat. Three women, all crazy and feeling so fine, Were gabbling of bargains along in the street For women must talk of bargains they buy. And homes must suffer, and babes must cry, And husbands must ever be groaning.

Three women were showing their husbands with glee Their bargains at prices that never were beat, Three husbands, all starving and mad as could be Were tossing the bargains out into the street. For men don’t know when bargains are cheap And women, poor creatures do nothing but weep, And husbands must ever be groaning.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE UMPIRE’S VALEDICTORY. (_After a Base-ball Match._)

An umpire went sallying out into the east, Out into the east, ere the sun went down. He thought of the club that loved him least And the quickest way to leave the town. But men must chin and boys must cheer, And the umpire’s lot is hard and drear, Along with the crowd and its groaning.

A man stood up and called out Foul! And called out Foul! with an angry frown; Then made for the gate with a sudden howl, While the mob with bricks tried to knock him down. For men will fight and boys will jeer, And luck is best when the gate is near, To escape from the crowd and its groaning.

A doctor was working the best he knew how. The best he knew how, as the sun went down, He thought as he plastered the broken brow Of the awful yells and the missiles thrown. For clubs will play and mobs will fight, And the umpire’s lucky if he lives till night To escape from the crowd and its groaning.

_United States Paper._

[Illustration]

Robert Southey,

POET LAUREATE. _Born August_ 12, 1774. _Died March_ 21, 1843.

[Illustration:A]lthough this voluminous author was Poet-Laureate from 1813 until his death, and produced a great quantity of poetry, yet only a very few of what he would have considered his minor poems, ever achieved any success. Of his more ambitious works, some of which contain passages of undoubted power and originality, even the very names are now generally forgotten, or only remembered in connection with the Satires and Lampoons of his political adversaries. Southey commenced life as an ardent Republican, and wrote poems which were ridiculed by Tories such as George Canning; he concluded by becoming a Tory himself and was mercilessly satirised by Whigs, such as Byron and Macaulay. It will therefore be necessary to divide the parodies of his poems into three distinct classes, the non-Political, the early Political, and the later Political. Of Southey’s non-political poems the best known are “_The Cataract of Lodore_,” “_The Battle of Blenheim_,” and “_You are Old Father William_,” of each of which there are many amusing parodies. But before treating of these a few imitations of detached passages taken from Southey’s epic poems may be given. These epics were never very popular, and are now almost forgotten, yet they contain some beautiful descriptive poetry, as for instance the opening lines of “_Thalaba the Destroyer_”:――

“How beautiful is night! A dewy freshness fills the silent air; No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain Breaks the serene of heaven: In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine Rolls through the dark-blue depths, Beneath her steady ray The desert-circle spreads, Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky, How beautiful is night!”

Amongst the “Paper Money Lyrics” contained in the poems of Thomas Love Peacock, there is an imitation of these lines, commencing――

“How troublesome is day! It calls us from our sleep away; It bids us from our pleasant dreams awake, And sends us forth to keep or break Our promises to pay. How troublesome is day!”

The poem deals with questions of Banking, paper money, and other very unpoetical topics:――

Come listen to my lay, While I the wild and wond’rous tale array, How Fly-by-Night went down, And set a bank up in a country town; How like a king his head he reared, And how the coast of cash he cleared, And how one night he disappeared, When many a scoffer jibed and jeered; And many an old man rent his beard; And many a young man cursed and railed; And many a woman wept and wailed; And many a mighty heart was quailed; And many a wretch was caged and jailed; Because great Fly-by-Night had failed. And many a miserable sinner Went without his Sunday dinner, Because he had not metal bright, And waved in vain before the butcher’s sight, The promises of Fly-by-night. And little Jackey Horner Sate sulking in the corner, And in default of Christmas pie Whereon his little thumb to try, He put his finger in his eye, And blubbered long and lustily. * * * * *

From _The Works of Thomas Love Peacock_. R. BENTLEY & SON, LONDON, 1875.

――――

The well-known antiquarian writer, and Editor, Mr. Edward Walford, M.A., has recently published, at his own expense, many interesting records of the Charterhouse School, together with some poems and parodies which will greatly interest old Carthusians. From amongst them Mr. Walford has kindly allowed me to select the following:――

ODE IN IMITATION OF SOUTHEY.

How beautiful is green Where grass has every colour but its own, Black, dingy, dirty brown, with noxious weeds o’ergrown. Lo, the trees Shaking and waving in the autumn breeze; Black as the Devil, Father of evil, With soot and smoke, Enough to choke Any unfortunate who walks below, When the winds blow; So beautiful the trees, How beautiful the Cods.[51]

Each one in chapel nods, While Pritchett drawls the lessons of the day, And long-drawn snores proclaim their senses dozed away; Till the organ’s thund’ring peal Wakes again their slumb’ring zeal; And soon no more condemned with sleep to grapple, They toddle out of chapel, So beautiful are Cods. Thou passer by, Who traversed the famed Carthusian square, Raise thy admiring eye, And view the gloom which long inhabits there; And as thou journeyest on thy way, Do say, Within that wall How beautiful is all!

――――:o:――――

Of all the amusing poems in _The Rejected Addresses_ perhaps the only one which can be truly styled a _parody_ is _The Rebuilding_, which closely mimics the Funeral of Arvalan in Southey’s _Curse of Kehama_. Not only is the metre closely followed, but James Smith, the author of this particular “Address,” has shown great ingenuity in bringing in the same characters as Southey has introduced into his poem. Lord Jeffrey, writing in _The Edinburgh Review_, said, “_The Rebuilding_ is in the name of Mr. Southey, and is one of the best in the collection. It is in the style of the Kehama of that multifarious author, and is supposed to be spoken in the character of one of his Glendoveers. The imitation of the diction and measure, is nearly perfect; and the descriptions are as good as the original.” It may here be mentioned that Southey borrowed his description of the Glendoveers from the “Life and Adventures of Peter Wilkins,” published in London, in 1751.

THE REBUILDING.

――――“Per audaces nova dithyrambos Verba devolvit, numerisque fertur Lege solutis.” HORAT.

[_Spoken by a Glendoveer._]

I am a blessed Glendoveer;[52] ’Tis mine to speak, and yours to hear. Midnight, yet not a nose From Tower-Hill to Piccadilly snored! Midnight, yet not a nose[53] From Indra drew the essence of repose! See with what crimson fury, By Indra fann’d, the god of fire ascends the walls of Drury!

Tops of houses, blue with lead, Bend beneath the landlord’s tread. Master and ’prentice, serving man and lord, Nailor and tailor, Grazier and brazier, Through streets and alleys pour’d―― All, all abroad to gaze, And wonder at the blaze. Thick calf, fat foot, and slim knee, Mounted on roof and chimney,[54] The mighty roost, the mighty stew To see; As if the dismal view Were but to them a Brentford jubilee. Vainly, all-radiant Surya, sire of Phaeton (By Greeks call’d Apollo)[55] Hollow Sounds from thy harp proceed; Combustible as reed, The tongue of Vulcan licks thy wooden legs: From Drury’s top, dissever’d from thy pegs, Thou troublest, Humblest, Where late thy bright effulgence shone on high: While, by thy somerset excited, fly Ten million Billion Sparks from the pit, to gem the sable sky.

Now come the men of fire to quench the fires: To Russell Street see Globe and Atlas run, Hope gallops first, and second Sun; On flying heel, See Hand-in-Hand O’ertake the band! View with what glowing wheel He nicks Phœnix! While Albion scampers from Bridge Street, Blackfriars―― Drury Lane! Drury Lane! Drury Lane! Drury Lane! They shout and they bellow again and again.

All, all in vain! Water turns steam; Each blazing beam Hisses defiance to the eddying spout: It seems but too plain that nothing can put it out! Drury Lane! Drury Lane! See, Drury Lane expires! Pent in by smoke-dried beams, twelve moons or more, Shorn of his ray, Surya in durance lay: The workmen heard him shout. But thought it would not pay To dig him out. When lo! terrific Yamen, lord of hell, Solemn as lead, Judge of the dead, Sworn foe to witticism, By men call’d criticism, Came passing by that way: Rise! cried the fiend, behold a sight of gladness! Behold the rival theatre! I’ve set O.P. at her,[56] Who, like a bull-dog bold, Growls and fastens on his hold. The many-headed rabble roar in madness; Thy rival staggers: come and spy her Deep in the mud as thou art in the mire. So saying, in his arms he caught the beaming one, And crossing Russell Street, He placed him on his feet ’Neath Covent Garden Dome. Sudden a sound, As of the bricklayers of Babel, rose: Horns, rattles, drums, tin trumpets, sheets of copper, Punches and slaps, thwacks of all sorts and sizes, From the knobb’d bludgeon to the taper switch,[57] Ran echoing round the walls; paper placards Blotted the lamps, boots brown with mud the benches; A sea of heads roll’d roaring in the pit; On paper wings O.P.’s Reclined in lettered ease; While shout and scoff, Ya! ya! off! off! Like thunderbolt on Surya’s ear-drum fell, And seemed to paint The savage oddities of Saint Bartholomew in hell. Tears dimm’d the god of light―― “Bear me back, Yamen, from this hideous sight; Bear me back, Yamen, I grow sick. Oh! bury me again in brick; Shall I on New Drury tremble, To be O.P.’d like Kemble? No, Better remain by rubbish guarded, Than thus hubbubish groan placarded; Bear me back, Yamen, bear me quick, And bury me again in brick.” Obedient Yamen Answered, “Amen,” And did As he was bid.

There lay the buried god, and Time Seemed to decree eternity of lime; But pity, like a dew-drop, gently prest Almighty Veeshnoo’s[58] adamantine breast: He, the preserver, ardent still To do whate’er he says he will From South-hill wing’d his way, To raise the drooping lord of day. All earthly spells the busy one o’erpower’d; He treats with men of all conditions, Poets and players, tradesmen and musicians; Nay, even ventures To attack the renters, Old and new: A list he gets Of claims and debts, And deems nought done, while aught remains to do.

Yamen beheld, and withered at the sight; Long had he aimed the sunbeam to control, For light was hateful to his soul: “Go on!” cries the hellish one, yellow with spite; “Go on!” cried the hellish one, yellow with spleen, “Thy toils of the morning, like Ithaca’s queen I’ll toil to undo every night.”

Ye sons of song, rejoice! Veeshnoo has still’d the jarring elements, The spheres hymn music; Again the god of day Peeps forth with trembling ray, Wakes, from their humid caves, the sleeping Nine, And pours at intervals a strain divine. “I have an iron yet in the fire,” cried Yamen; “The vollied flame rides in my breath, My blast is elemental death; This hand shall tear your paper bonds to pieces; Ingross, your deeds, assignments, leases, My breath shall every line erase Soon as I blow the blaze.”

The lawyers are met at the Crown and Anchor, And Yamen’s visage grows blanker and blanker; The lawyers are met at the Anchor and Crown, And Yamen’s cheek is a russety brown: Veeshnoo, now thy work proceeds; The solicitor reads, And, merit of merit! Red wax and green ferret Are fixed at the foot of the deeds!

Yamen beheld and shiver’d; His finger and thumb were cramp’d; His ear by the flea in’t was bitten, When he saw by the lawyer’s clerk written, Sealed and delivered, Being first duly stamped

“Now for my turn!” the demon cries, and blows A blast of sulphur from his mouth and nose. Ah! bootless aim! the critic fiend Sagacious Yamen, judge of hell, Is judged in his turn; Parchment won’t burn! His schemes of vengeance are dissolved in the air Parchment wont tear!

Is it not written in the Himakoot book (That mighty Baly from Kehama took) “Who blows on pounce Must the Swerga renounce?” It is! it is! Yamen, thine hour is nigh: Like as an eagle claws an asp, Veeshnoo has caught him in his mighty grasp, And hurl’d him, in spite of his shrieks and his squalls, Whizzing aloft, like the Temple fountain, Three times as high as Meru Mountain, Which is Ninety-nine times as high as St. Paul’s. Descending, he twisted like Levy the Jew,[59] Who a durable grave meant To dig in the pavement Of Monument-yard: To earth by the laws of attraction he flew, And he fell, and he fell To the regions of hell; Nine centuries bounced he from cavern to rock, And his head, as he tumbled, went nickety-nock, Like a pebble in Carisbrook well.

Now Veeshnoo turned round to a capering varlet, Array’d in blue and white and scarlet, And cried, “Oh! brown of slipper as of hat! Lend me, Harlequin, thy bat!” He seized the wooden sword, and smote the earth; When lo! upstarting into birth A fabric, gorgeous to behold, Outshone in elegance the old, And Veeshnoo saw, and cried, “Hail, playhouse mine!” Then, bending his head, to Surya he said: “Soon as thy maiden sister Di Caps with her copper lid the dark blue sky, And through the fissures of her clouded fan Peeps at the naughty monster man Go mount yon edifice, And show thy steady face In renovated pride, More bright, more glorious than before!” But ah! coy Surya still felt a twinge, Still smarted from his former singe; And to Veshnoo replied, In a tone rather gruff, “No, thank you! one tumble’s enough!”

――――:o:――――

JUSTICE.

“_She hath escaped very well,” Kehama cried; “She hath escaped_ - - - _but thou art here_.”