XV.
Perfect rancour, wrath eternal, everlasting objurgation, Freedom? Yes, I’ve always praised it, and may be It may do for France or Italy. But that curst Irish nation?―― Rather slay them man by man from sea to sea!
_Punch_, July 10, 1886.
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THE WEEKLY DISPATCH PARODY COMPETITION. PRIZE POEM.
Men, whose fathers went to battle hounded on by bards and singers, Deafened by loud cymbals and the sounding drum, Show your spirit now, if any trace of courage in you lingers; Something worse than all these evils now has come.
Who is this most dreary driveller, rowdy ranter, prating poet? Whence comes all this filthy flood of nasty rhyme? See the tongue that talked of truth so steeped in lies that none may know it; See the man of poesy besmeared with slime.
Quarrelling cats upon your housetop, cocks and hens in your back garden. Dogs that in the silent midnight bay the moon, Next-door neighbour’s cracked piano, wild excursionists to Hawarden, Are a sweet relief compared with this man’s tune.
Perfect nonsense, utter rubbish, everlasting shameless drivel, Still to some it sounds like truth. To you and me There’s still time to kill the slander, put to shame the lying devil; Spitting venom o’er our land from sea to sea.
A. WHALLEY.
Highly commended:――
THE COMMON SQUEAL: A SONG FOR THE SLEEPLESS.
What are these that scream and squeal upon the roof of this, my dwelling? Who are they who flood my ears with nightly squall? See the tabby join the horrid band that sets the neighbours yelling―― See Grimalkin lord it grimly over all!
Hear the words wherein I sharply rate, and execrate this babel “Ye are they who are disturbers of my peace. Till I bring forth my revolver, what is slumber but a fable? When I use it――then shall hope of sleep increase!”
Who would fear to shoot a double-faced, unmusical old tabby, Harsh of language, lank of limb, and sharp of claw? “Night is well-nigh spent,” I cry; “you vote me cruel, tricksy, shabby? I am riled and will not give you any law!”
Many a night that caterwauling has continued, I remember, On my housetops and my neighbour’s in the town; Many a time I’ve blazed at him――the fell band’s grey and grizzled member―― But, unluckily, I’ve never brought him down!
F. B. DOVETON. From _The Weekly Dispatch_, July 18, 1886.
――――
George Gordon, Lord Byron,
_Born January_ 22, 1788. _Died April_ 19, 1824.
[Illustration: B]yron’s first published volume, entitled _Hours of Idleness_, contained few poems of note, or that gave promise of his future fame, although the greater number were far too good to justify the savage attack made on them in _The Edinburgh Review_. Only a few of these poems have been thought worthy of imitation, that entitled “_Maid of Athens_” apparently being the favourite theme chosen for parodies.
THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE.
Away with your fictions of flimsy romance; Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove! Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.
Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow, Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove; From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love!
If Apollo should e’er his assistance refuse, Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove, Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse, And try the effect of the first kiss of love!
I hate you, ye cold compositions of art! Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove, I court the effusions that spring from the heart Which throb with delight to the first kiss of love!
Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes, Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move. Arcadia displays but a region of dreams: What are visions like these to the first kiss of love?
Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth, From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove; Some portion of paradise still is on earth, And Eden revives in the first kiss of love.
When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past, For years fleet away with the wings of the dove, The dearest remembrance will still be the last, Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.
BYRON.
――――
THE MAIDEN I LOVE.
Away with fictitious and flimsy expanse Of those tresses of falsehood which folly has wove; Give me the real hair, and unmedicalled glance The beauties that dwell in the maiden I love.
Ye charmers whose bosoms with cosmetics glow Whose passions are put on and off like a glove; I’m blessed if your long studied acting can show, With the natural charms of the maiden I love.
If Rachel should e’er her assistance refuse Or her kin, for that lady has taken a move Invoke them no more, bid adieu to your _ruses_ And copy the forms of the maiden I love.
I hate you, ye cold compositions of art, All young men despise ye, and old ones reprove I court the emotions that spring from the heart The unpractised charms of the maiden I love.
Your eyebrows, your locks, your fantastical dresses Perhaps may amuse, but never can move; The arcade exhibits a thousand such tresses What are Mummies like these to the maiden I love?
Oh! cease to affirm that your sex since its birth From Eve until now, has with coming age strove, Some portion of nature still is on earth In the delicate blush of the maiden I love.
When age chills your blood, and your pleasures are passed, And your youth fled away on the wings of the dove; Why caricature you, still to the last _The natural_ bloom of the _maiden I love_.
P. F. T.
――――
WELL! THOU ART HAPPY.
Well! thou art happy, and I feel That I should thus be happy too; For still my heart regards thy weal Warmly, as it was wont to do.
Thy husband’s blest――and ’twill impart Some pangs to view his happier lot; But let them pass――Oh! how my heart Would hate him, if he loved thee not!
When late I saw thy favourite child, I thought my jealous heart would break, But when the unconscious infant smiled, I kissed it for its mother’s sake.
I kissed it――and repressed my sighs, Its father in its face to see; But then it had its mother’s eyes, And they were all to love and me.
Mary, adieu! I must away: While thou art blest I’ll not repine; But near thee I can never stay; My heart would soon again be thine.
I deem’d that time, I deem’d that pride Had quenched at length my boyish flame; Nor knew, till seated by thy side, My heart in all,――save hope,――the same.
Yet was I calm: I knew the time My breast would thrill before thy look; But now to tremble were a crime―― We met, and not a nerve was shook.
BYRON.
――――
TO MARY.
Well! thou art happy, and I say That I should thus be happy too; For still I hate to go away As badly as I used to do.
Thy husband’s blest,――and ’twill impart Some pangs to view his happier lot; But let them pass,――O, how my heart Would hate him, if he clothed thee not!
When late I saw thy favourite child, I thought, like Dutchmen, “I’d go dead,” But when I saw its breakfast piled, I thought how much ’t would take for bread.
I saw it, and repressed my groans, Its father in its face to see, Because I knew my scanty funds Were scarce enough for you and me.
Mary, adieu! I must away; While thou art blest, to grieve were sin; But near thee I can never stay, Because I’d get in love again.
I deemed that time, I deemed that pride, My boyish feeling had subdued, Nor knew, till seated by thy side, I’d try to get you if I could.
Yet was I calm: I recollect, My hand had once sought yours again, But now your husband might object, And so I kept it on my cane.
I saw thee gaze upon my face, Yet meet with neither woe nor scoff; One only feeling couldst thou trace, A disposition to be off.
Away! away! my early dream, Remembrance never must awake; O, where is Mississippi’s stream? My foolish heart, be still, or break!
From _Poems and Parodies_, by Phœbe Carey, Boston, United States, 1854.
――――:o:――――
MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART.
Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh, give me back my heart! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest! Hear my vow before I go, _Zoe mou sas agapo_.[99]
By those tresses unconfined, Woo’d by each Ægean wind; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks’ blooming tinge By those wild eyes like the roe, _Zoe mou sas agapo_.
By that lip I long to taste; By that zone-encircled waist; By all the token-flowers that tell What words can never speak so well; By love’s alternate joy and woe _Zoe mou sas agapo_.
Maid of Athens! I am gone. Think of me, sweet! when alone, Though I fly to Istambol, Athens holds my heart and soul: Can I cease to love thee? No! _Zoe mou sas agapo_.
The heroine of this poem died in London ten or twelve years ago. For some time previously she had been in poverty and when, about 1870, a subscription was started for her, Gounod composed an air to Byron’s “Maid of Athens” which produced about £20 towards the fund for the benefit of Mrs. Black, as she then was. It is said that Lord Byron wrote the poem in Athens, about 1810, when he was quite a young man, but I have never yet seen any mention made of the wonderful similarity between it, and the following ballad which appeared in _The Monthly Mirror_, November 1799:――
BALLAD. _Addressed “to her_ I DEARLY LOVE.”
By those orbits which, oft, I enraptur’d survey, Which, sparkling Content, the mind’s image pourtray, While sweet Affability tempers their ray, I conjure thee to love me Sophia!
By those features, which Grief of her tears can beguile, Aid the gambols of Mirth, light the burthen of Toil, Dispensing delight when bedeck’d with a smile, I conjure thee to love me Sophia!
By thy tongue, which I ne’er have heard prattle amiss, By thy teeth, snow-drop white, thy lips, teeming with bliss, By the exquisite rapture you breathe in a kiss, I conjure thee to love me Sophia!
By thy temper as gentle as Spring’s mildest shower, By the accents so soft, which rob Grief of its power, By the _form_ my eyes doat on, the _mind_ I adore, I conjure thee to love me Sophia!
By thy wish to alleviate Misery’s smart, By the genial solace that wish does impart, By the fond heart you’ve won, and your own little heart, I conjure thee to love me Sophia!
By those vows at the altar our souls did approve, By that union so sacred recorded above, A compact divine, which demands _love for love_! I conjure thee _still_ love me Sophia!
BENEDICT.
――――
PRETTY POLKA. The sentimental young lady at the close of the season 1844.
Darling Polka! ere we part, Hear th’ outpourings of my heart! Since the season now is o’er, Wretched, I can Polk no more. Hear my vow before I go _Polka mou sas agapo_!
By those steps so unconfined, By that neat kick-up behind, COULON’S hop, and MICHAU’S slide, Backward, forward, or aside, By the alternate heel and toe _Polka mou sas agapo_.
By the waltz’s giddy round, By the galop’s maddening bound, By the obsolete quadrille, Polka mine! “I love thee still.” Compared with thee each dance is slow _Polka mou sas agapo_.
Happy season! thou art gone, I, alas! must Polk alone! Though the country now I roll to, Almacks holds my heart and soul too. Can I cease to love thee? No! _Polka mou sas agapo_.
_Punch_, August, 1844.
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PAY, OH! PAY US WHAT YOU OWE. _Song for the London Tradesmen._
Higher classes, ere we part, For the country ere you start, Let your tradespeople distress’d Trouble you with one request: Just a word before you go―― Pay, oh! pay us what you owe.
By those orders unconfined, Which for goods of every kind You so readily did give, Think, oh! think that we must live―― Just a word before you go―― Pay, oh! pay us what you owe.
By those dresses of the best, Silken robe and satin vest, In whose splendour, by our aid, You so gaily were arrayed: Hear us cry before you go―― Pay, oh! pay us what you owe.
By the Opera and the Rout, Recollect who rigged you out; By the drawing-room and ball, Bear in mind who furnished all: Just a word before you go―― Pay, oh! pay us what you owe.
By the fête and the soirée, And the costly déjeuner, By your plate and ormulu, Let your tradesmen get their due: Just a word before you go―― Pay, oh! pay us what you owe.
_Punch_, July 31, 1847.
――――
“The figure advances upon me, flourishing its umbrella in the most deadly manner.
I discover it to be a man――a creature with a long clerically-cut coat, a white linen stock――a creature with its hair parted down the middle to make the most of an inch-and-a-quarter of forehead――a young――a _very_ young ritualist priest.
He flourishes his umbrella in my face, and bursts out in the following alarming way”:――
AM I RIGHT FOR COLNEY HATCH?
Man of Mammon, e’er we part Read the words upon my heart; Or, if that has left my breast, Go to Rome and read the rest. By my vesper-breathing watch Am I right for Colney Hatch?
By mine alb and stole and cope, By my tonsured head and Pope, By my banners’ silken flow, By my chalice veil of snow, By the laces that attach, Am I right for Colney Hatch?
By the chancel dossals hung, By the incense burnt and swung, By the candles lit at noon, By the Sacramental spoon, By my napkins, cutters, such, Am I right for Colney Hatch?
By my chasuble and stool, By Loyola’s holy rule, By the font’s baptismal jugs, By my maniples and mugs, By my altar-cloths to match, Am I right for Colney Hatch?
By the acolytes that file In procession down the aisle, By the silken flags they bear, By the holy Cross that’s there, By my vigil, fast, and watch, Am I right for Colney Hatch?