XI.

“And every one the MAJOR prais’d, Who this great fight did win;”―― “Then, after all,” the boy he cried, ’Twas BURNABY got in?” “Well,――not exactly that,”――said he, ’Twas but a _virtual_ victory!”

By the late William Bates, B.A.

_The Town Crier_, Birmingham, April, 1880.

――――

A FAMOUS HOLIDAY.

It was a summer evening, The pointsman’s work was done; And he before his own box door Felt precious glad for one; And by him loafed about the line The night-watch due at half-past nine.

And, as he loafed about, he came On something flat and round, That smashed had caught his shuffling feet Upon the gravelled ground. And then he asked what he had found That was so smashed――yet flat and round.

The pointsman took it from his mate Who stood all sleepy by; And then he clapped it on his head And said, “Lor’ bless you――why, It’s what some bloke dropped by the way On that there last bank ’oliday!

“I often come across ’em here, There’s many round about; Why, if you had to find your ’ats, That ditch would rig you out! There’s scores of ’em, so I’ve heard say, Wos dropped on that there ’oliday.”

“Now, tip us ’ow it come about,” The other, drowsy, cries, The while, the crownless chimney-pot Upon his head he tries. “Now, tip us: say, whose job it wor? What did he smash the ’_Scursion_ for?”

“Jim’s wor that job,” the pointsman said; “He ’ad too long a bout! But what he smashed the ’_Scursion_ for I never could make out. He fell a blinkin, I dus say, And took _his_ little ’oliday!

“But them as was a-takin’ theirs (And some――it was their last), Was ’appy, singin’ of their songs: And, as she busted past, You might ’ave heard ’em, laughin’ say, ‘This ’ere’s a famous ’oliday!’

“So, when she come upon them points, As crammed as you could pack, And not a soul a-chaffin’ there Know’d death lay on the track,―― It did seem ’ard in that there way To end their ‘famous ’oliday!’

“And, oh! it was a ’orrid sight, When off the line she run, With dozens lying stiff and still, Who started full of fun! But, there――had Jim now not give way, They’d ’ad a famous ’oliday!

“He got it precious ’ot for that!” The other stroked his chin. “Maybe. But it’s the Company,” Said he, “I’d like to skin! I’d let ’em all at Bot’ny Bay Just try _their_ famous ’oliday!”

The pointsman faced his mate. Quoth he, “Where can your reck’ning be? Here’s parties pays a bob or two. And gets three hours o’ sea; And, _if they ain’t smashed up_, I say, That there’s a famous ’oliday.”

“And, what’s to come,” the other asked, “Of scares now like this ’ere?” The pointsman smiled. “My mate,” he said, “_You_’re green, that’s pretty clear. Why, ‘what’s to come?’ Next year, I’ll lay, _Another famous oliday_!”

_Punch_, September 25, 1880.

――――

A GLORIOUS VICTORY.

It was a summer evening, Old Roger’s work was done, And he his fragrant honey-dew Was smoking in the sun, And by him sported, bright and fair, His little grandchild, Golden Hair.

She saw her brother, Curly Head, Bring something hard and round Which he, upon the mantel-shelf, Beneath a shade, had found. She came to ask what he had found That was so hard, and smooth, and round.

Old Roger took it from the boy Who stood expectant by, And then the old man told the tale―― (Fire kindled in his eye)―― “This is the Cricket-Ball,” said he, “That tells of a great Victory.

“I prize it more than all I have, It’s worth can ne’er be told; ’Tis true ’tis only leather, but ’Tis more to me than gold! Go, place it back again,” said he,―― “It was a famous Victory.”

“Please tell us what it is you mean.” Young Curly Head he cries; And little Golden Hair looks up With wonder-waiting eyes:―― “Yes, tell us, for we long to know The reason why you prize it so.”

“It was the Colonists,” he said, Of now undying fame, Who met Eleven picked Englishmen And put them all to shame: For everybody said,” quoth he, “That ’twas a famous Victory.

“The contest, at the Oval was―― The noted ground hard by―― ’Twas there that Spofforth smashed the stumps, And made the bails to fly; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous Victory.

“Not even Grace, of matchless skill (No worthier in the land), The ‘Demon’s’ onslaughts could resist, His awful speed withstand; By lightning smit, as falls the oak, The wickets fell beneath his stroke!

“And more than twenty thousand men, With bated breath, looked on―― The threatening rain deterred them not, Nor did the scorching sun; Their time and money gave to see Who’d gain the famous Victory.

“And when at last the crisis came―― When _one_ must quickly yield―― When Peate, the famous Yorkshireman, His wicket failed to shield, All over was the splendid play―― The Englishmen had lost the day!

“They say it was a wondrous sight, After the match was done, To see so many thousand men After the Victors run; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous Victory.

“Great praise the ‘Demon’ Spofforth gained, His bowling was so rare.” “I think he must have frightened them,” Said little Golden Hair. “Well, well, my little girl,” quoth he, “It was a famous Victory!”

“And everyone the ‘Demon’ cheered, So many low he laid”―――― “_But what could they be all about To let him?_” Curley said: “Why _that_――I cannot tell,” said he: “But ’twas a famous Victory!”

_Punch_, September 16, 1882.

――――

A FAMOUS VICTORY.

It was a spring-tide evening, When he who speaks of jams, And many more mysterious things, Sat reading telegrams; And, while he scanned them through and through, The British public read them too.

And soon that public stared to see A column filled with blood, Which though set forth in plainest print, No mortal understood: They came to ask that statesman good What looked so red with human blood.

The statesman took it from the crowd Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And heaved a worried sigh―― “’Tis some news-monger’s scrawl,” said he, “About the grand new victory.”

“Now tell us what ’twas all about,” The British public cries, While in that good man’s face it looks With wonder-waiting eyes―― “Now tell us all about our war, And what we killed these Arabs for.”

“It was we English,” out he cried, “Put Osman’s blacks to rout; What else can Liberals want to know Why else marched Graham out? And e’en the Tories own,” quoth he, “That ’twas a famous――victory.”

“We thrashed the Arabs once at Teb―― I can’t say why ’twas so; For Tokar needed no relief, And Sinkat less you know: And Gordon promised t’other day, The Soudanese should have their way.

“Oh, ’twas a glorious sight to see How great god Jingo rose, And at my bidding swept from life Whole hosts of gallant foes: How British soldiers dare and die With, or without a reason why,

“They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won: For full four thousand bodies there Lay dead beneath the sun: But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory.

“Great praise my energy has gained, And laurels crown my head.” “Why, ’twas a downright massacre!” The simple public said. “Nay, nay, my friends: nay, nay,” said he “It was a famous victory!”

“Famous, by――Jingo!” so he swore. Yet still they asked, perplext, “But what good comes of it at last? And what’s to follow next?” “_Why, that I cannot tell_,” said he: “_But――’twas a_ FAMOUS VICTORY!”

_Clapham Free Press_, April 5, 1884.

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THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM (HOUSE).

It was a winter evening, In dull November’s gloom, When J. B. Stone sat doing sums, In the club smoking-room; And by him Rowlands sat serene Blowing the fragrant nicotine.

They heard a voice both shrill and loud Calling out “_Daily Mail_, Result in Central Birmingham!” Then turned a little pale; And Rowlands hoarsely whispered “Stone,” I――rather――think――the verdict’s known.”

They sent the spacious serving man―― A ha’p’ny in his hand―― To fetch with tongs th’ accursed sheet, Which eagerly they scanned: A fearful thing there met their sight, “GREAT VICTORY FOR MR. BRIGHT!”

Quoth Rowlands: “This looks very blue, Poor Churchill――what a sell! I think I’ll have a brandy hot,” And forthwith pulled the bell; While Stone sat still with stony stare, Gazing profoundly on the air.

But soon he gave a sudden jerk, And pulled his pencil out, And figured over several sheets, Then raised a joyous shout: “Ah, ah, ’tis not so bad you see, We’ve won a virtual victory.

“’Tis true that Bright is just ahead, By hundreds nine to ten, But I can show he should have won By just us much again: We’ve lower’d their proud majority, And that’s a virtual victory.”

“Ahem!” said Rowlands, looking glum, “That doesn’t count, I fear, A win’s a win, and we must sing Political small beer. Your best arithmetic won’t score Twice two as anything but four.”

“Cheer up, cheer up, my trusty friend.” Stone cheerily chirped out, “I’m rather good at ciphering, And know what I’m about: I say we ought to sing with glee For such a virtual victory:

“Send off the news to Blenheim House That Marlborough may know, Despatch a score of ‘tannergrams’ To humble Highbury Joe; ’Twill make him shake with fear to see We’ve won a virtual victory.

“Come, run with me to High Street quick, And show to the _Gazette_ How to display this joyful news In type triumphant set; How fine upon the bill ’twill be To read “Great Virtual Victory!”

“But tell me,” Rowlands answered him, “What ’vantage we shall gain, When Bright will sit, and Bright will vote, While Churchill’s with the slain?” “Oh that,” quoth Stone, “Don’t trouble me, ’Tis such a virtual victory!”

_Birmingham Daily Mail_, November, 1885.

――――

THE OLD GLADSTONITE AND HIS SON. A.D. CIRCA 1900.

“Tell me, dear father, if the time When this poor paltry Island’s might, Was held enough to conquer Crime, And even Anarchy to fight; Explain to me how Gladstone’s acts―― So noble in themselves――yet made Our ruin and our fall two facts, And put our glory in the shade.” His explanation only ran, “He was a very grand old man.”

“But father, dear, when all the dead And tortured loyalists who fell For deeming that what Gladstone said, Was true; and only when the yell Of Dynamiting Fenian crew Came on their ears, saw their reward, For so believing, surely you Don’t think ’twas right to steal their sword?” He murmured, as his tears began, “He was a very Grand Old Man.”

“And England’s honour, credit, name, Her colonies, her army, fleet, All gone――her prestige turned to shame, Her altered battle cry ‘Retreat:’ Was not all this a biggish price To pay for keeping even him To talk, and make distinctions nice. And be so eloquent and dim?” He glared as only fathers can, “He was a very Grand Old Man.”

“Father, I know we should be still While foes are taking all we prize; ’Tis Gladstone-good to think no ill Of murderers in moral guise; But, somehow, if our forbears had Just shut him up, I’d almost bet That Englishmen might now be glad, And England might be England yet.” Poor Father’s tears in buckets ran, “He was a very Grand Old Man.”

DESART. The _Morning Post_, June 5, 1886.

――――:o:――――

THE JACKANAPE JOCK. (_From our Special Sporting Correspondent._)

Great stir in the air, great stir on the lea, Stands, paddock and ring all noisy with glee, All backing the favourite, for none had a notion Except his sly owner, he’d been drugged with a potion.