V.

With ye, my bonny boys, I’ll go The fastest pace that’s set; With hopes to lead the field, you know, And cut all record yet, Welcome, the riskiest game that’s on! Brim, brim the beaker high! Life’s fizz till the last bubble’s gone! My early Home-good-bye!

_Canto the First._

――――

CANTO THE SEVENTH.

I stood in London, on the bridge which lies Tall tower and swelling dome on either hand. From out the stream Saint Stephen’s spires arise, St. Paul’s huge summit dominates the land; Between them runs the noisy, wheel-worn Strand, Hushed now awhile, for early morning smiles O’er the swift river, and the grey, yet grand Wide-winged old city of Titanic piles, Huge capital of our little, lordliest of all isles.

She looks a sprawling Mammoth from the river Risen, with unspanned bulk and ungauged powers, O’er league on league the silver morn-mists quiver Upon her mighty maze of roofs and towers. And what brings she, what are her dearest dowers To wealth-spoilt golden youth? The Comus feast, The Rahab lap piled high with gems and flowers, The Circe draught proffered by Pleasure’s priest, Which lures the eager lip, and leaves the man――a beast,

But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, Who ’midst this city lived the life called “fast”? Doth he upon his pillow tarry long? He comes no more――those flutterings were his last; The butterfly is stricken, netted, cast, Wing-bruised, bloom-robbed aside, a thing that was; To-day a phantasy, not to be classed With “form” maintainers――these must let him pass, Vanish in Limbo’s gloom, sink in Despair’s morass.

Scattered his substance, linked life, honour, all With――what? A thing that silence fain must shroud, “Gone to the bad, poor beggar! What a fall!” “Under the very dingiest kind of cloud.” “Thought he was ’cuter, or at least more proud.” “Yes――regular church and ring affair, a craze Most melancholy,――can’t be squared, _too_ loud!” So cackle they, in vague slang-garnished phrase, The “other Johnnies,”――chums of his exuberant days.

What profits prying into the abyss Where plunge the witless dupes of flaunting shame, Of vulgar Mélusines who writhe and hiss, Too late detected? Chappie’s lost to fame. Who’ll wipe the dirt from the dishonoured name Society no more hears? For never more Shall he who’s siren-mated be the same, Unless high genius hush the social roar―― Genius whose spell to miss were “quite too great a bore.”

But I must end. My Pilgrim’s shrine is won, And he and I must part――so let it be. His task in life was the pursuit of “Fun;” In Babylon there are thousands such as he; Each year breaks hundreds, and the wrecks few see. That venturous Muse were voted all too bold Who golden youth in their gregarious glee Should paint, or the veracious tale unfold Of dull esurient lives in gilded styes outrolled.

* * * * *

Roll on, thou shallow stream of Pleasure!――roll! Ten thousand skiffs float over thee in vain, Prows prone to rapids, helms beyond control; Awhile they dance upon thy watery plain, Then fleet to wreck, and nothing doth remain Save a sad memory of the bitter groan When one more struggler, slackening the fierce strain, Sinks wave-choked, weed-encumbered, stark, alone, Gone to the dogs, unstayed, unfriended, and unknown.

――――

TO INEZ.

Nay, smile not at my garments now; Alas! _I_ cannot smile again: Yet Heaven avert that ever thou Should’st dress, and haply dress so plain.

And dost thou ask, why should I be The jest of every foe and friend? And wilt thou vainly seek to see A garb, even thou must fail to mend?

It is not love, it is not hate, Nor low Ambitions’ honors lost That bids me loathe my present state, And fly from all I loved the most.

It is the contrast which will spring From all I meet, or hear, or see, To me no garments tailors bring,―― Their shops have scarce a charm for me.

It is a something all who rub Would know the owner long had wore; That may not look beyond the tub, And cannot hope for help before.

What fellow from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where’er I be, The blight of life,――the ragged Coat.

Yet others wrapt in broadcloth seem, And taste of all that I forsake! O, may they still of transport dream, And ne’er, at least like me, awake!

Through many a clime ’tis mine to go, With many a retrospection curst, And all my solace is to know, Whate’er I wear, I’ve worn the worst.

What is the worst? Nay, do not ask,―― In pity from the search forbear: Smile on,――nor venture to unclasp My vest, and view the shirt that’s there.

From _Poems and Parodies_. By Phœbe Carey. (Ticknor, Reed, and Fields, Boston, United States, 1854.)

――――:o:――――

CHILDE HAROLD.

_Canto IV._

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand: I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying Glory smiles O’er the far times, when many a subject land Look’d to the wingèd Lion’s marble piles, Where Venice sat in state, throned on her hundred isles!

She looks a sea Cybele fresh from ocean, Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic motion, A ruler of the waters and their powers: And such she was; her daughters had their dowers From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East Pour’d in her lap all gems in sparkling showers, In purple was she robed, and of her feast Monarchs partook, and deem’d their dignity increased.

In Venice Tasso’s echoes are no more, And silent rows the songless gondolier; Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, And music meets not always now the ear: Those days are gone――but Beauty still is here. States fall, arts fade――but nature doth not die, Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.

BYRON.

――――

VENICE UNPRESERVED.

“Steamers have been started on the Grand Canal at Venice.” ――_Globe._

I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand. I saw from out the wave black funnels rise Whence clouds of densest smoke I saw expand, And common steamboats, at a penny a mile, O’er the canal――saw many a person land Upon the piers. O Anguish! it does rile The Bard to see all this――and what a smell of ile!

_Punch_, November 12, 1881.

――――

PRACTICAL VENICE. (_By a Commercial Childe Harold._)

I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs; A factory, a mill on either hand, I saw from out the wave tall chimneys rise, And wharves and busy steam-cranes edge the strand, And palaces to warehouses expand: A murky air, where sunshine never smiles, As black as Bradford. This was once the land Where poets sang its countless marble piles, And RUSKIN wrote and revelled in its sunny isles!

In Venice RUSKIN’S echoes are no more, And steam has stopped the songless gondolier; Her palaces are crammed with goods galore, And barcarolles no longer meet the ear; Those days are past――but Enterprise is here. Shares fall, Stocks fade, but Commerce doth not die But reckons dodges more than Doges dear, And gain above artistic sanctity; Accounting best on earth, the Trade of Italy.

_Punch_, December 9, 1882.

――――:o:――――

ON SEEING AN INTOXICATED POLICEMAN.

Roll on thou drunk and dark blue peeler――roll! Thy bâton now thou wieldest quite in vain; Thou’rt conquered by blue ruin――self controul Hath ceased with thee; the gin and watery bane Doth mar thy course, nor dost thou now retain One sign of human reason save alone, When for a moment with thy might and main Thou cling’st unto some lamp-post with a groan, Without a hat, and luckily, unseen, unknown. His steps shake on the path――the hat he wears Is but a sport for him――he doth arise, And kick it from him; the vile nap it bears, For four and ninepence, he doth all despise, Spurning it from the pavement towards the skies, And sends it shivering in his playful way Into the gutter, where perchance it lies Till, stumbling over it as well he may, He falls beside it; there together let them lay.

_The Puppet Show_, March 25, 1848.

――――

ADDRESS TO A WINE BARREL. (_By a Poetical Butler._)

There is pleasure in cask of wood, There is a rapture on a stony floor, _There_ is society where none intrude, The vaulted roof above and nothing more! I love not master less, but more his store, From these our interviews in which I steal, From all I may be, or have been before To mingle two good brews and feel, What I can ne’er express, yet cannot (hic) all conceal!――

From _Cribblings from the Poets_, by Hugh Cayley. (Jones and Piggott, Cambridge, 1883.)

――――:o:――――

ARCADES AMBO.

The “Childe Harold” metre is comically reproduced and ridiculed in “Arcades Ambo,” where Mr. C. S. Calverley thus addresses the beadles of the Burlington Arcade:――

Why are ye wandering aye ’twixt porch and porch, Thou and thy fellow――when the pale stars fade At dawn, and when the glow-worm lights her torch, O Beadle of the Burlington Arcade? ――Who asketh why the Beautiful was made? A wan cloud drifting o’er the waste of blue, The thistledown that floats above the glade, The lilac blooms of April――fair to view, And naught but fair are these; and such, I ween, are you.

Yes, ye are beautiful. The young street boys Joy in your beauty. Are ye there to bar Their pathway to that paradise of toys, Ribbons, and rings? Who’ll blame ye if ye are? Surely no shrill and clattering crowd should mar The dim aisle’s stillness, where in noon’s mid-glow Trip fair-haired girls to boot-shop or bazaar; Where, at soft eve, serenely to and fro The sweet boy-graduates walk, nor deem the pastime slow

And O! forgive me, Beadles, if I paid Scant tribute to your worth, when first ye stood Before me, robed in broadcloth and brocade, And all the nameless grace of Beadle-hood! I would not smile at ye――if smile I could, Now as erewhile, ere I had learned to sigh; Ah, no! I know ye beautiful and good, And evermore will pause as I pass by, And gaze, and gazing think, how base a thing am I.

From _Fly Leaves_, by C. S. Calverley. Bell and Sons, London, 1878.

Mr. Calverley also wrote, when quite a young man, some most amusing Byronic stanzas (in Don Juan style), in praise of

BEER.

In those old days which poets say were golden―― (Perhaps they laid the gilding on themselves: And, if they did, I’m all the more beholden To those brown dwellers in my dusty shelves, Who talk to me “in language quaint and olden” Of gods and demigods, and fawns and elves, Pan with his pipes, and Bacchus with his leopards, And staid young goddesses who flirt with shepherds:)

In those old days, the Nymph called Etiquette (Appalling thought to dwell on) was not born, They had their May, but no Mayfair as yet, No fashions varying as the hues of morn. Just as they pleased they dressed, and drank, and ate, Sang hymns to Ceres (their John Barleycorn), And danced unchaperoned, and laughed unchecked, And were, no doubt, extremely incorrect.

Yet do I think their theory was pleasant: And oft, I own, my “wayward fancy roams” Back to those times, so different from the present; When no one smoked cigars, nor gave At-homes, Nor smote a billiard-ball, nor winged a pheasant, Nor “did” her hair by means of long-tailed combs, Nor migrated to Brighton once a year, Nor――most astonishing of all――drank Beer.

* * * * *

So to proceed. That abstinence from Malt Has always struck me as extremely curious. The Greek mind must have had some vital fault, That they should stick to liquors so injurious―― (Wine, Water, tempered p’raps with Attic salt)―― And not at once invent that mild, luxurious, And artful beverage Beer. How the digestion Got on without it, is a startling question.

* * * * *

O Beer! O Hodgson, Guinness, Allsop, Bass! Names that should be on every infant’s tongue! Shall days, and months, and years, and centuries pass, And still your merits be unrecked, unsung? Oh! I have gazed into my foaming glass, And wished that lyre could yet again be strung Which once rang prophet-like through Greece, and taught her Misguided sons that the best drink was water.

* * * * *

Coffee is good, and so no doubt is cocoa; Tea did for Johnson and the Chinamen: When “Dulce est desipere in loco” Was written, real Falernian winged the pen. When a rapt audience has encored “Fra Poco” Or “Casta Diva,” I have heard that then The Prima Donna, smiling herself out, Recruits her flagging powers with bottled stout.

But what is coffee, but a noxious berry, Born to keep used-up Londoners awake? What is Falernian, what is Port or Sherry But vile concoctions to make dull heads ache? Nay, stout itself――(though good with oysters, very)―― Is not a thing your reading man should take. He that would shine, and petrify his tutor Should drink draught Allsop in its “native pewter.”

But hark! a sound is stealing on my ear―― A soft and silvery sound――I know it well, Its tinkling tells me that a time is near Precious to me――it is the Dinner Bell. O blessed Bell! Thou bringest beef and Beer, Thou bringest good things more than tongue may tell: Seared is, of course, my heart――but unsubdued Is, and shall be, my appetite for food.

I go. Untaught and feeble is my pen: But on one statement I may safely venture: That few of our most highly gifted men Have more appreciation of the trencher. I go. One pound of British beef, and then What Mr. Swiveller called a “modest quencher;” That home-returning, I may “soothly say,” “Fate cannot touch me: I have dined to-day.”[110]

_Verses and Translations_, by C. S. C.――London, George Bell and Sons.

――――:o:――――

In “_The Poetic Mirror, or The Living Bards of Britain_,” written by James Hogg, there is a poem entitled _The Guerilla_, written in the Spenserian stanza adopted by Lord Byron in his _Childe Harold_. As _The Guerilla_ is a serious poem, not a parody, it would be out of place here. It consists of 47 stanzas, and is the first poem in _The Poetic Mirror_, of which volume a full account will be found on page 96.

A parody, entitled _The Last Canto of Childe Harold_, by Lamartine, was published in London in 1827, but is now difficult to find.

――――:o:――――

THE GIAOUR.

He who hath bent him o’er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress, (Before Decay’s effacing fingers, Have swept the lines where beauty lingers), And mark’d the mild angelic air, The rapture of repose that’s there, The fix’d yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek, And――but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not, wins not, weeps not now, And but for that chill, changeless brow, Where cold Obstruction’s apathy Appals the gazing mourner’s heart, As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; Yes, but for these and these alone, Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the tyrant’s power; So fair, so calm, so softly seal’d, The first, last look by death reveal’d!

Such is the aspect of this shore; ’Tis Greece, but living Greece no more! So coldly sweet, so deadly fair. We start, for soul is wanting there. Hers is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breath; But beauty with that fearful bloom, That hue which haunts it to the tomb, Expression’s last receding ray, A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of Feeling pass’d away! Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish’d earth!

BYRON.

――――

LINES WRITTEN ON SEEING A “CALF’S HEAD” HANGING UP IN BENE’T STREET.

He that had gazed upon this head Ere yet the spark of life was fled, Before the butcher’s cursed fingers “Had swept the lines where beauty lingers,” Had playful seen in Nature’s pride The offspring at its mother’s side―― Oh! who could think that tyrant man Could e’er curtail its narrow span―― In fetters drag it helpless thence, And slay it in its innocence! E’en now methinks its looks implore, Tho’ fixed in death, tho’ stain’d with gore; “And but for that sad shrouded eye,” That gives the rising thought the lie, One yet might think it breath’d with life, And gaz’d upon the threat’ning knife!

The sturdy ox falls in his prime, The sheep is happy for a time, This only feels man’s ceaseless hate;―― I mused――and pond’ring o’er its fate, And on the butcher’s cruel steel, I vow’d I’d never eat of veal! Alas! our best resolves are vain, Repentance leads to sin again! That selfsame minute――callous sinner! I hastened to my friend and dinner; And, as a mistress at her lover, Impatient eyed each envious cover: Which, lo! disclosed――that Fate should will it! Calf’s head, mock turtle, and a fillet! What could I do? To end my story, I acted like a modern Tory; For after all my long debate On justice, cruelty and fate. Like him I took the loaves and fishes, And paid my court to all the dishes!

ANONYMOUS.

From _The Gownsman_, (Cambridge) December 31, 1830.

――――

Another Parody appeared in The _Gossip_ (London,) June 9, 1821, commencing:

He that hath bent him o’er a goose, When the first slice of breast is loose―― The first prime slice for tenderness, The last for grateful savouriness; (Before the glutton’s eager fingers Have swept the dish where gravy lingers) And mark’d the brown inviting air, The harvest of fine cuts that’s there, The firm yet greasy lumps that deck The roundness of its luscious neck.

He who hath bent him o’er the bed On which some dreamer rests his head, Before the housemaid’s tapping fingers Disturb the room where slumber lingers, May possibly have pondered o’er The fitful start and vacant snore; And wondered, as his vision caught The working of the slumberer’s thought, How different a turn ’twould take When he should be once more awake.

From _Beauty and the Beast_, by Albert Smith, 1843.

――――

THE BLIND NUISANCE.

He that don’t always bend his head When London streets he fain would tread, But with a mild and stately air, From left to right doth idly stare, Or looking round him, slightly lingers, Twirling his guard-chain round his fingers, Will, as he gives a look behind, Not seeing where he means to go, Receive from a tremendous blind, An almost stupifying blow. So darkly low, so lowly dim, It breaks the hat from crown to rim. The taller victim as he goes, Receives the blind below his nose; While the less loftier passer-by, Sheathes the fierce ledge-point in his eye. A cry of vengeance fills the air―― ’Tis vain, police are wanting there.

_Punch_, 1847.

――――

THE NEXT MORNING. (_Desecrated from Byron._)

HE who hath looked with aching head Where pipes and glasses still are spread, In the first hour of seediness, The last of seeing such a mess (Before the housemaid’s clumsy fingers Have swept the rooms where smoke still lingers) And marked the rank unwholesome air, The evidence of gin that’s there, The upset trays that plainly speak Of what has caused that pallid cheek; And but for that strong stale cheroot Which sickens now his very soul, And but for that half-empty bowl, Where sugar, limes, and rum to boot, Appal the seedy gazers heart, As if they ne’er had formed a part Of what he’d lavished praise upon―― Yes, but for these, and these alone Some moments, aye, till office hour, He still might doubt false whiskey’s power. But no, to bed he faintly reels, So sad the sight that room reveals.

_The Puppet Show_, April 8, 1848.

(The above lines were reproduced, without the slightest acknowledgment, in the Summer Number of “_The Chiel_,” 1885.)

――――

THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS.

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime! Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress’d with perfume, Wax faint o’er the Gardens of Gul in her bloom; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute: Where the tints of the earth and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine? ’Tis the clime of the East; ’tis the land of the Sun―― Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? Oh! wild as the accents of lovers’ farewell Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.

BYRON.

This will remind those who have read Goethe’s _Wilhelm Meister_ of some verses sung by Mignon, which also form the theme of one of the gems of the beautiful opera founded on that tale. In Carlyle’s translation the poem opens thus:――

Know’st thou the land where lemon-trees do bloom, And oranges like gold in leafy gloom; A gentle wind from deep blue heaven blows, The myrtle thick, and high the laurel grows? Know’st thou it, then? ’Tis there! ’tis there O my belov’d one, I with thee would go!

――――

INSCRIBED TO AN ALDERMAN.

Know ye the land where the leaf of the myrtle Is bestowed on good livers in eating sublime? Where the rage for _fat ven’son_ and love of the _turtle_ Preside o’er the realms of an epicure clime? Know ye the land where the juice of the vine Makes Aldermen learned, and Bishops divine? Where each _Corporation_, deep flushed with its bloom, Waxes fat o’er the eyes of the claret’s perfume? Thick spread is the table with choicest of fruit, And the voice of the reveller never is mute: Their rich robes, though varied, in beauty may vie. Yet the purple of BACCHUS is deepest in dye:―― ’Tis the clime of the EAST――the return of the sun Looks down on the deeds which his children have done: Then wild is the note, and discordant the yell, When, reeling and staggering, they hiccup――_Farewell._

From _Hone’s Year Book_, Vol. I., p. 1337――38.

――――

FIFTY YEARS AGO.

Know ye the town of the turkey and turtle? Fit emblems of tales that are told in their clime, Where stems of the laurel and leaves of the myrtle Grow broad in balconies and glorious in rhyme! Where the tongue of the news-seller never is mute, And the orange-stands glow with their yellow cheek’d fruit, Where the stains of the street and the smoke of the sky And the purple of faces are darkest in dye? Where statesmen are pure as the papers they sign. And even the cloth of their coats superfine?―― O large as the sigh at a lover’s farewell Are the fees which they take, and the fibs which they tell!

* * * * *

_The Theatrical Journal_, 1816.

――――

“Know ye the house in which Vestris and Nisbett Are sparkling and bright as the pieces they act, Where the wretch who wants money may safely make this bet Five to one on Madame ’gainst the world――that’s a fact.”

This parody proceeded to describe the various members of the Covent Garden Theatre Company.

_Punch_, Volume 2, 1842.

Another parody, of the same original, appeared in Punch, December 16, 1848, describing the advantages of emigration to Australia:――

Know’st thou the land where the kangaroos bound, And the queer looking ornithorhynci are found? The land of the south, that lies under our feet, Deficient in mouths, overburdened with meat, Know’st thou that land, JOHN BULL, my friend? Thither, oh! thither, poor people should wend!

(Four verses omitted.)

――――

KNOW YE THE HOUSE.

Know ye the House where the Whigs and the Tories Are emblems of deeds that are constantly done; Where the prosing of Peel, when in candour he glories, Now sinks into twaddle, now rises to fun? Know ye the house, of the benches all green, Where dozing at night many members are seen; Where the dull words of Borthwick,――the figures of Hume Wax faint, e’en to those whom to gull they assume; Where parties but squabble for place and its fruit, Where the voice of self-interest never is mute; Where the Minister’s speech, and opponent’s reply, In phrases though varied, in falsehood may vie, And the strongest assertion’s the cleverest lie; Where the heads are as soft as the yarns that they spin, And all wish for change save the few that are in! ’Tis the House of the Commons――and Peel is its sun; Can he smile when he thinks how the country is done? Oh! vile as the votes which at Ipswich they sell, Are the measures they pass, and the lies that they tell.

_Punch_, Volume 2, 1842.

――――

THE VAUXHALL MASQUERADE.

Know ye the scene where the clerks and the tailors Are deck’d out in costume both dirty and fine; Where till-robbing shop boys, as soldiers and sailors, Now stoop down to beer――now ascend up to wine? ’Tis the place for a feast: not the region of fun. Can we smile on the jokes that are made there?――not one. Oh, pointless and dull, as Ojibbeway yell, Are the tricks which they play, and the _bon mots_ they tell.

There a bevy of noodles, by puffing extreme,[111] Are tempted to muster in numerous throng; They’re off to Vauxhall, where they drink, dance, and scream, And fancy they come it exceedingly strong. Vauxhall’s Great _Bal Masqué_ I ne’er can forget; And oft when alone, at the close of the year, I think, are the vagabonds dancing there yet? Are they still at their brandy and water, and beer?

_Punch_, 1844.

――――

THE MAYOR’S LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF THE TURTLES.

“Several hundred lively turtles were thrown overboard a little while ago from a ship bound for Liverpool. The Mayor of that town, who is remarkable for hospitality, has been, ever since the sad event, in a state of fearful despondency. The following touching lament has been heard to issue from his windows at fitful and feverish intervals――

Know ye the loss of the beautiful turtles, The emblems of soup, had they lived to this time? Oh bind up my brows with the leaves of some myrtles, Let me mourn for the loss of a feast so sublime. Did they do it from fear?――did they do it in fun? Sure no one could smile at the mischief they’ve done. Had shipwreck been threaten’d, and had it been known, That everything must have been overboard thrown. Though the whole of the freight in the ocean were cast, The turtles should always be kept till the last. Oh, had I been there in that terrible hour, As Mayor I’d at once have exerted my power, And made the most active endeavours to save The turtle alive, from a watery grave, I envy thee, NEPTUNE――for thou art possess’d Of a treasure by which I had hoped to be blessed; I’m almost disposed to make one of thy group, And drown myself, just to come in for the soup.”

_Punch_, 1846.

――――

REFLECTIONS ON A TEA TABLE.

Know ye the land where the hot toast and muffin Are emblems of deeds that are done in their spheres; Where scandalous stories and hints about nuffin, Now melt into whispers, now rise into sneers? Know ye the land where the liquids and cake Their circumvolutions consecutive make; Where POMPEY’S strong arms are oppressed with Pekoe, And the air waxes faint with the scent of the sloe; Where malice produces its bitterest fruit, And the voice of detraction can never be mute; Where the tints of the story, the shades of the lie In number though varied, in falsehood may vie, And the venom of scandal is deepest in dye; Where virgins of fifty strange ringlets entwine, In the fond misconception of looking divine? ’Tis the land of the teapot, the realm of the tray. Can we smile when we know what their votaries say? Oh! false as the curls of their ancientest belle, Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.

_Punch_, December, 1846.

――――

THE FOREIGNER’S LAY OF LONDON.

Know ye the town where policemen and navvies, Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime! Where the noise of the clocks, and the cries of the tabbies, E’er rouse you to madness o’er roofs as they climb? Know ye that Smithfield, abounding in kine, Where the dirt ever blossoms, and beams never shine? Know ye the land where their coffee is beans? Their milk chalk and brains, and their tea is but greens, Where they polish their apples and all other fruit, And the voice of the muffin-man never is mute? Where the tints of your nose and the chimney-pot high, In colour not varied with blackness may vie, And the soot that falls on you is deepest in dye? ’Tis the town of the North, and of great Exhibitions, Of pickpockets, thieves, and of base impositions! Can you smile as you ride and you know all the while, That the cabman will charge you five shillings a mile? Oh, false as the bills of an actor’s “farewell,” Are the hearts that they bear, and the lies that they tell.

_The Month_, by Albert Smith and John Leech, October, 1851.

――――

THE PRIDE OF LONDON.

Know ye the stream where the cesspool and sewer Are emptied of all their foul slushes and slimes, Where the feculent tide of rich liquid manure Now sickens the City, now maddens the _Times_? Know ye the filth of that great open sink, Which no filter can sweeten, no “navvy” can drink; Where in boats overcrowded the Cockney is borne To the mud-bounded gardens of joyous Cremorne; Where the gas-works rain down the blackest of soot, And the oath of the coal-whipper never is mute: Where the liquified mud, which as “water” we buy, With the richest of pea-soup in colour may vie, And deodorisation completely defy; Where the air’s fill’d with smells that no nose can define, And the banks teem prolific with corpses canine? ’Tis the stream of the Thames! ’tis the Pride of the Town! Can a nuisance so dear to us e’er be put down? Oh! fouler than words can in decency tell Are the sights we see there, and the scents which we smell!

_Punch_, September 11, 1852.

――――

A BYRONIC VALENTINE. _A City Article._

Know’st thou the spot where the venison and turtle Meet best, from the heather and tropical clime; Where the fat of the latter is green as the myrtle, And the former as pink as the rose in her prime? Know’st thou the hall where old Magog and Gog Laugh a-sly at the centuries onward that jog? The spots where the markets dispense the cane fruit, Where Manilla has brokers to sell her cheroot? Where the “Bulls” ever raise, and the “Bears” e’er depress Consols to a quarter the more or the less? Where the rumours of earth, and the clouds of the sky Bid the sellers to hold, or the knowing ones buy, (Which the public in general thinks, “All my eye”)? ’Tis the place of the swain, ’tis the haunt of the one Who thy beauty unceasingly ponders upon; Whose passion for thee can ne’er suffer decline, And till further advice is Thine Own Valentine.

_Diogenes_, February, 1853.

――――

THE PRIDE OF ENGLAND.

Know ye the Inn where the laurel and myrtle Well emblem the green who are done ’neath its sign? Where they serve you on plate which is mock as their turtle, Now fleecing the tourist, now maddening the _Times_? Know ye the shams of that ill-managed house, Where the host ever bows, and the bills ever chouse; Where the “wax-lights” that don’t half illumine your room Give a muttonish rather than waxy perfume; Where although you don’t see half a waiter all day, For “attendance” as much as a lawyer’s you pay, And find even then there’s an extra for “Boots.” Nor the porters in asking for liquids are mutes; Where your “bottle of sherry” (Cape under disguise,) Scarce equals the vinegar-cruet in size, And analysation completely defies; Where the sofas are soft as yourself if you dine At eight shillings a head――perchance even nine, With the heaviest price for the lightest of wine?―― ’Tis the English Hotel: and ’tis twenty to one That, where’er you may enter it, brown you’ll be done. For more than e’en _Punch_ in a volume could tell, Are the shams they serve there, and the victims they sell.

_Punch_, 1853.

――――

GENERAL VIEW OF GREECE.

“Greece sided with Russia until France and England sent troops to the Piræus, whereupon King Otho promised to observe strict neutrality.”

Knows’t thou the land were a sly press’s dirt’ll Be flung upon all that won’t pay for it’s slime, When the merchant’s a Doo, and the soldier’s a Thurtell, And the lawyer’s their trusty accomplice in crime? Knows’t thou the land once beloved of the Nine, More lately the scene of Pacifico’s shine, Where a soft head like Otho’s the crown could assume, A King――with the mien of an underbred groom―― Where the traders in feats of rascality vie } Where they cheat if you sell, and they cheat if you buy, } And to list to a native’s to list to a lie. } Where, if trees (as we say) may be known by their fruit, One’s certain that Honesty never struck root. Where their dastardly banner wears Christendom’s sign, In type that each fight is a Cross, we opine? ’Tis the fair land of Greece, whose demoralised son Exults in the hope that the Russians have won. Oh! wild are his accents, when telegraphs tell That our soldiers are doing their duty right well.

SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1854.

――――

A LESSON FOR LADIES.

“While the Lord Mayor elect and some friends were inspecting the preparations for the Guildhall feast, the Lady Mayoress unhesitatingly declared with reference to the turtle, that ‘she did not like the nasty stuff!’”――_Daily News._

Know you the Lady who doesn’t like turtle, And had the fine courage to speak out her mind; Though Aldermen round her stood scowling like Thurtell, And even her Chaplain lisped, “Rather unkyind,” Long life to the woman who dared to declare it, Be her gay Lady-Mayoralty marked by good luck: Her robe fit divinely――her health last to wear it―― We don’t share her taste, but we honour her pluck.

The good City Queen sets a lesson to ladies Who haven’t got minds, or have minds they don’t know: Who don’t care if wine comes from China or Cadiz, And simper alike over venison and _veau_! We like a companion who knows what she’s eating, (What chance for your tastes if she’s none of her own?) So hip, hip, hurrah, for November that’s seating A Sovereign like this on the Mansion House throne.

SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1856.

――――

JAMAICA.

(Written in 1866, when Governor Eyre was being prosecuted for his excessive severity in suppressing the negro insurrection in Jamaica.)

Know ye the land of molasses, and rum Emblems of deeds that are done in their clime Where the cant of the nigger or the beat of his drum Now melts into humbug, now maddens to crime―― Know ye the land of the cocoa and pine, Where the trees that would blossom are left to decline Where those who would toil must bear the attacks Of those blood-thirsty vipers, Liberty’s Blacks? Where murder and treason are the fairest of fruit, And the voice of sedition never is mute Where the sloth of the negro, cries aloud to the sky And his vices tho’ varied, in horror may vie With those crimes of man that are deepest in dye. Where whites must bow down, if the negroes combine For is not a nigger a spirit divine? ’Tis the land of the negro who once was a slave How has he deserved the freedom we gave? ’Tis the clime of the west, ’tis the land of the sun Can he smile on the deeds that these darkies have done? Oh! fierce as the accents of foemen’s farewell Are the hearts which they bear, and the lies which they tell.

W.H.

――――

DESCRIPTION OF THE MURTLE LECTURE DELIVERED IN OUR PUBLIC SCHOOL.

Know ye the Hall where the birch and the myrtle Are emblems of things half profane, half divine, Where the hiss of the serpent, the coo of the turtle, Are counted cheap fun at a sixpenny fine? Know ye the Hall of the pulpit and form, With its air ever mouldy, its stove never warm; Where the chill blasts of Eurus, oppressed with the stench Wax faint at the window, and strong at the bench; Where Tertian and Semi are hot in dispute, And the voice of the Magistrand never is mute; Where the scrape of the foot and the audible sigh In nature though varied, in discord may vie, Till the accents of Wisdom are stifled and die; Where the Bajuns are dense as the cookies they chew, And all save the Regents have something to do:―― ’Tis our Hall of Assembly, our high moral School, Must its walls never rest from the bray of the fool? Oh, vain as the prospect of summer in May Are the lessons they learn and the fines that they pay.

All the public discipline, fines, &c., are arranged and levied at the Public School. The Bajuns, Semis, Tertians, and Magistrands are the four years of men. The Regents are the four Professors――Greek, Nat. Hist., Nat. Phil., and Mor. Phil.

From “_Life of Professor James Clerk Maxwell_” by Lewis Campbell and William Garrett, 1882.

――――

A LUNATIC’S LOVE SONG.

O, know you the land where the cheese tree grows, And the unicorn spins on the end of his nose; Where the sea-mew scowls on the circling bat, And the elephant hunts in an opera hat?

’Tis there that I lie with my head in a pond, And play with a valueless Tichborne bond; ’Tis there that I sip pure Horniman’s tea To the sound of the gong and the howling sea.

’Tis there that I revel in soapsuds and rum, And wait till my creditors choose to come; ’Tis there that I dream of the days when I Shall soar to the moon through the red-hot sky.

Then come, oh! come to that happy land! And don’t forget your galvanic band; We will play at cards in the lions den, And go to bed when the clock strikes ten.

――――

AN ADDRESS TO LORD BYRON.

Know’st thou the land where the hardy green thistle, The red-blooming heather and harebell abound? Where oft o’er the mountains the shepherd’s shrill whistle Is heard in the gloaming so sweetly to sound? Know’st thou the land of the mountain and flood, Where the pine of the forest for ages has stood, Where the eagle comes forth on the wings of the storm, And her young ones are rocked on high Cairngorm? Know’st thou the land where the cold Celtic wave Encircles the hills which its blue waters lave? Where the virgins are pure as the gems of the sea, And their spirits are light as their actions are free? Know’st thou the land where the sun’s lingering ray Streaks with gold the horizon, till dawns the new day, Whilst the cold feeble beam which he sheds on the sight Scarce breaks through the gloom of the cold winter’s night? ’Tis the land of thy sires!――’tis the land of thy youth, Where first thy young heart glowed with honour and truth; Where the wild fire of genius first caught thy young soul, And thy feet and thy fancy roamed free from control! Ah, why does that fancy still dwell on a clime Where Love leads to Madness, and Madness to Crime: Where courage itself is more savage than brave;―― Where man is a despot, and woman a slave? Though soft are the breezes, and sweet the perfume, And fair are the “gardens of Gul” in their bloom; Can the roses they twine, or the vines which they bear, Speak peace to the heart of suspicion and fear? Let Phœbus’ bright ray the Egean wave, But say, can it lighten the lot of a slave―― Or all that is beauteous in nature impart One virtue to soften the Moslem’s proud heart? Ah, no! ’tis the magic that glows in thy strain, Gives life to the action and soul to the scene! And the deeds which they do, and the tales which they tell, Enchant us alone by the power of thy spell! And is there no charm in thine own native earth? Does no talisman rest in the place of thy birth? Are the daughters of Albion less worthy thy care, Less soft than Zuleika, less bright than Gulnare? Are her sons less renowned, or her warriors less brave, Than the slaves of a Prince who himself is a slave? Then strike thy wild lyre, let it swell with the strain, Let the mighty in arms live and conquer again; Their past deeds of valour thy lays shall rehearse, And the fame of thy country revive in thy verse. The proud wreath of victory round heroes may twine, ’Tis the poet who crowns them with honour divine; And thy laurels, Pelides, had sunk in the tomb, Had the bard not preserved them immortal in bloom!

ANONYMOUS.

――――

JON DUAN’S TALE. A STORY OF THE CONFESSIONAL.

Know ye the place where they press and they hurtle, And do daring deeds for greed and for gain, Where the mellow milk-punch and the green-fatted turtle Now mildly digest, and now madden with pain? Know ye the land of Stone and of Vine, Where mayors ever banquet and aldermen dine; Where Emma[112] was wooed, and Abbott laid low, And they fly paper kites and big bubbles blow; Where Gold is a god unassail’d in his might, And neck-ties are loosened when stocks get too tight? If this district you know――it is E.C. to guess, And you go up a street which the Hebrews possess, And turn to the right,――why, then, for a wager, You come to the Church of St. Wackslite the Major; And list, as o’er noises that constantly swell, Comes the soul-stirring sound of its evensong bell.

From _Jon Duan_. London: Weldon and Co., 1874.

――――

THE COLORADO BEETLE.

A “Native of the Great American Desert” writes from Rosario on Colorado and its bug:――“We knew that potato bug before he was introduced into polite society and world-wide fame; he was then called the ‘camote spoiler,’ a name derived from a sweet tuber that grows wild all over Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona. Generations would have died ignorant of the very name of our newest State had it not been for the potato bug; newspapers wrote, orators eulogized, and poets sang about the advantages of Colorado, but all combined they could not command the attention of anybody east of the Mississippi river until that bug went booming across the Atlantic States and Ocean, and actually entered the House of Lords and the Privy Councils of various European monarchs. Since that day Colorado has become universally known, and one of its mountain poets something in ideas like Goethe, but in style after Byron, has chanted――

Is it where the cabbage grows so fast That it bursts with a noise like a thunder’s blast, Is it where thro’ the rich deep mellow soil The beet strikes down as if digging for oil, Is it where each irrigating sluice Is fed with water-melon juice, Where tatoes and onions are hard to beat And the cattle get fat on nothing to eat, Where everything grows to such a wondrous size That the simplest stories appear like lies, Tell me in sooth I’d like to know―― Is this the land they call Colorado? “You bet! old hoss, it is!”

――――

PARODY. BY AN OLD SOLDIER.

Know ye the land of reeds and of rushes, Emblems of dampness innate in the clime, Where the toad and the viper to show itself blushes, And the damp air comes heavy impregnate with crime; Where landlords in daylight like woodcocks they shoot And the voice of the mendicant never is mute. ’Tis a land of the West, fair, glorious, and free, First flower of the land, first gem of the sea; I would we poor soldiers some method could learn, To the depths of its bosom, this gem to return.

――――:o:――――

OVERWORKED.

They stood upon his nose’s bridge of size―― His spectacles; a book in either hand. I saw a queer expression in his eyes, As if a sunstroke in some tropic land Had made his too colossal brain expand More than it ought; and on his face odd smiles Would come sometimes, and then he’d laughing stand, Clutching his gown, and talking loud meanwhiles. He wore a college cap, the mouldiest of tiles.

_Lays of Modern Oxford_, by Adon, 1874.

――――:o:――――

CABUL――SEPTEMBER, 1879.

The following poem obtained the first prize in a parody competition in _The World_. Subject: “Cabul in September, 1879,” treated in the style of Lord Byron’s _Siege of Corinth_.

’Tis done――the murd’rous work complete, The turbaned hordes acclaim the feat: Had fallen to a craven shot The chiefest victim of a plot: Brave leader! all too brave to date A warning from Macnaughten’s fate. His gallant comrades round him strown, An English youth stands――stands alone.[113] His gallant comrades round him lie Dead; it remains for one to die. Forth on the foe the soldier leapt; And, as his blade a circle swept, Five traitors felt the avenging brand, Ere dropped it from the lifeless hand―― A glorious tale indeed to tell―― ’Neath thousand blows one hero fell.

’Tis done――the slaughtered guests are spread Under a hecatomb of dead. No need of marble pile to show Where sleep the illustrious slain below; No need of graver’s art to trace In lettered brass their resting place, Their own right arms, in death still feared, Eternal monument have reared: Where, ere they fell, these warriors stood, They wrote their epitaph in blood.

These devotees of Islam’s creed Shrink not to violate at need The laws they worship; the behest Of reverence due to hallowed guest. Ah, but it were a goodly boast―― A stranger murdered by his host! Yet think not, dastards, England slow To recompense so foul a blow, If payment meet could deal the sword To miscreants honoured by the cord. Where to the skies their summits push The giant Alps of Hindu Kush; Where Cabul’s river hastes to hide His shame beneath a mightier tide; Where, with a scorn of time, proclaim The records of a bygone fame The ravished fanes, whose ruins trace The march of Timour’s conquering race And, mid her oft-beleagured towers, Dark Ghuzni’s fortress sternly lowers; Where many mouthèd Helmund makes His briny home in Seistan’s lakes―― Not long delayed, the cannon’s boom Shall sound the knell of Cabul’s doom.

MERTON. _The World_, October 1, 1879.

――――:o:――――

THE CIVIC MAZEPPA.

“The disappearance of GIBBS from the civic procession created some little astonishment, and many were the inquiries as to what had become of him. The following Poem gives a bold, but very probable, notion of how the Alderman was really occupied on the day of the opening of the Royal Exchange. It is supposed that some of his fellow parishioners, meeting with him in a back street, caught hold of him, and tied him on to a horse, which got dreadfully into a-rear, and was then suffered to run on without the smallest check――thus typifying the state of the accounts of St. Stephen’s, Walbrook. The Poem begins at the period when the Alderman is about to undergo his equestrian martyrdom.”

“Bring forth the horse!” the horse was brought; In truth he was a noble steed―― A creature of the hackney sort, Dash’d slightly with the dray-horse breed, His sire had drawn a fly, Into which six would often cram; His mother was of lineage high, Himself was worth――well worth his dam. He plunged, he kick’d, he reared, he snorted, With ears erect and eye distorted; He switched his tail, he show’d his hoof―― E’en WIDDICOMB had kept aloof At sight of such a noble steed, He was a precious beast indeed. They seized me fiercely by the daddle; They thrust me down into the saddle; They tied me strongly by the bridle: The horrid brute began to shy, To kick, to amble, and to sidle, And then away they let him fly; Away, away! my breath is gone; Still gallop, gallop, gallop on, Down, down the street, and up the Strand, Over the woman’s apple-stand. We pass the cabs, and here we are, Plunged at one bound through Temple Bar. The courser’s fleetness seems to mock The slowness of St. Dunstan’s Clock. Away, away, we madly whisk Along! past Waithman’s Obelisk! On, on we go, we gallop still Up Ludgate’s gently rising hill. A moment now our way seems barr’d, Oh! shall we stop at last? ’Tis the barrier at St. Paul’s Church Yard―― No, no, he gallops past. I pull’d the bridle, but in vain, The horse refused my will to heed; Each motion of the useless rein But madden’d him to wilder speed. I tried my voice; but nonsense, pooh! Onwards the brute contemptuous flew: At times I thought he must have stopp’d, When ’gainst an omnibus he whopp’d; But vain my hopes! the sudden blow Served but to make him faster go. Away, away, we turn and wind, Leaving the city far behind. He tears away, hock touching hock, Swift up the hill of Haverstock: Until, with just exhausted breath, At last he reaches Hampstead Heath. The brute has only strength to bound Into the well remembered Pound; Where in the morning we were found By a policeman going his round.

_Punch_ 1844.

The above poem was accompanied by a spirited, and very comical illustration, showing the worthy Alderman strapped on the bare-backed steed, which is urging on his wild career, followed by astonished beadles and policemen.)

――――

DON JUAN.

Bob Southey! You’re a poet――Poet-laureate, And representative of all the race; Although ’tis true that you turn’d out a Tory at Last,――yours has lately been a common case; And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at? With all the Lakers, in and out of place? A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye Like “four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye.”

* * * * * BYRON.

DEDICATION.

Ben Dizzy! You’re a humbug――Humbug-laureate, And representative of all the race; Although ’tis true that you turned out a Tory at Last, yours is still an enigmatic face. And now, O Sphyntic renegade, what are you at With all the Rurals in and out of place? Where will you leave the boobies in the lurch―― Have you resolved to double D―――― the Church?

You’ve dished the Whigs before; we now would sing. What is the pie that you’re so busy making? A dainty dish to set before the Thing―― Or aught that its digestion will be shaking?―― Or is it Discord’s apple that you bring? Or will you set the good old Tories quaking, By saying that they hitherto have missed tricks, By not going in for equal polling districts?

You’ll educate them, won’t you, Master Ben? And make them think that they are clever, very, Until the trick is won, and they’ll wish then, They’d taken you _cum grano Salis_-bury. No wonder Mr. Miall’s making merry, And rallying his Liberation men―― He sees your tongue so plainly in your cheek, When in your Church’s champion _rôle_ you speak.

Go on, neat humbug, laughing in your sleeve. And winking, as you bid the Church not falter; We joy to see her aid from you receive, To guard her ’gainst the dangers that assault her; The English Church has had her last reprieve, Now _you_ are standing boldly by her altar.―― Already in the glass we see the image, Of an impending, big religious scrimmage.

* * * * *

_Jon Duan_, by the authors of _The Coming K――――_. 1874.

――――:o:――――

DON JUAN

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace,―― Where Delos rose, and Phœbus sprung. Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse; Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires’ “Islands of the Blest.”

The mountains look on Marathon―― And Marathon looks on the sea: And musing there an hour alone, I dream’d that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persian’s grave, I could not deem myself a slave. * * * * * Trust not for freedom to the Franks―― They have a king who buys and sells: In native swords and native ranks, The only hope of courage dwells; But Turkish force and Latin fraud, Would break your shield, however broad.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Our virgins dance beneath the shade―― I see their glorious black eyes shine; But, gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep, Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine―― Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

BYRON.

――――

MEDITATIONS BY A DESPAIRING ANGLER.

The Isle of Eels! The Isle of Eels! Where Mrs. Hopkins dined and sung; Where first (as this seared heart reveals), My passion for the Widow sprung! The pies are good, and so’s the ale―― But all to me is flat and stale!

Where Richmond looks on Teddington, In patient guise I threw my line; And fishing there (and catching none) I dreamt, that she might still be mine: For, dressed in Doudney’s light gambroon, I could not deem myself a spoon.

Fill high the glass with ginger wine!―― We will not think on this here theme; Nor for the charming Widow pine; Others may yet _more charming_ seem. More charming? Ah, it cannot be―― Her _equal_ never made the tea!

Fill high the glass with ginger wine!―― On Richmond’s bridge, or Twit’nam’s shore, Oft had I held my rod and line,―― But never had a bite before! There was a downright tug that day;―― But ah! he tugged, and swam away!

And where is he? And where art thou, My widow? At the Angler’s heart _Thou_ gav’st one mighty tug, and now Art fled――but hast received no smart! Such loss would sure a Stoic move―― My only fish! My only love!

Place me on Railton’s stunted post[114] (Queer pedestal for France’s Fear); And fishing there with Nelson’s Ghost, I’m sure I’d catch as much as here! Doudney and line no more be mine―― Dash down――no, don’t――that ginger wine!

_Punch_, 1844.

――――

THE SMILES OF PEACE.

The Smiles of Peace, the Smiles of Peace, By Foreign need from England wrung, Have bid the cannon’s war-shout cease, The Thanks be said, the Anthem sung: But there is that (besides our Debt) Which English hearts should not forget.

It was not, surely, to amuse The gossip’s hour of Club dispute, We sat down daily to peruse Those tales from Camp, where man and brute Alike endured the sternest test That ever crushed our brave, our best.

Disraeli looks on Palmerston, And Palmerston on Mr. D., And in debates that last till one They taunt each other skilfully; But there be questions far too grave To edge a mere debater’s glaive.

Ten thousand men of fearless brow, On lips they loved laid parting kiss―― O, titled soldiers! answer how A needless Death has claimed them his. They went, one well-remembered day―― Some few brief months, and where were they?

What! silent still, and silent all? O no, the damning charge is read―― Even now, in Chelsea’s trophied Hall, The judges sit, the scrolls are spread, And haughty blunderers blustering come―― Unknown the shame that makes men dumb.

In vain, in vain accuse those Lords, All Lords are right, by right divine, No, gild anew their tarnished swords, And let bereft plebeians whine: You ask for proof of soldier’s skill―― How vaunts each bungling Bobadil!

You’ve Lord John Russell’s lectures yet, Where’s William Russell’s teaching gone: Of two such lessons, why forget The bolder and the manlier one? You have the letters William gave Think you he meant them for a Shave?

Trust not men who lodge in banks The price of swords your System sells; Seek, in the people’s healthier ranks The fire that no disaster quells; But slang Routine, and jobbing Fraud Will break your back, however broad.

Along Pall-Mall a martial line! Our Life-Guards ride with helm and blade. I see each glittering cuirass shine, But, gazing on the gay parade, I own a wish to bite my nails, To think such horses ate their tails.

Her lofty place would England keep In Europe’s none too loving eye, She’d make one grand and final sweep Of all her System’s pedantry.[115] But no――she bows by right divine. Dash dumb that Punch’s impious shine!

SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1856.

――――

IN VINO VERITAS.

The wines of Greece! the wines of Greece! (T’was thus a Shambro’ merchant sung) It gives the tortured mind no peace, To think that Britons, old and young, Their Port and Sherry can forget, For Santorin, or mount Hymett.

* * * * *

Fill high the vat with Shambro’ wine! We will not think on themes like these Let’s call the mixture Sherry fine, Or any other name they please. Rebuke not, friends, the buyer’s voice: Who pays his cash should take his choice.

_Punch_, October 7, 1865.

――――

THE ILLS OF GREECE.

The ills of Greece, the ills of Greece, By glowing GLADSTONE warmly sung! Lord B. brought honour back with peace, And Greece aside is coolly flung, For wider boundaries yearning yet, Which don’t she wish that she may get?

Vague promise might awhile amuse, Make her for fight less resolute; Now help or counsel we refuse, And even sympathy is mute. We’ve urgent bothers East and West, And Greece’s claims may be――well, blest!

* * * * *

Fill high the bowl with Cyprus wine! Hang hopes of nationalities! The SULTAN’S much more in our line, He serves some schemes of cute Lord B’s. A tyrant?――well, perhaps; but then He plays our game, my countrymen!

_Punch_, April 26, 1879.

――――

MUSICAL NOTES. (_On the Claims of Greece._)