V.

Must we but weep o’er days more blest? Must we but blush?――our fathers bled. Earth, render back from out thy breast A remnant of our martyred dead! Of all the hundreds grant but three To fight anew Mackonochie.

From _Jon Duan_, by the authors of _The Coming K――――_ and _The Siliad_. Weldon and Co., London, 1874.

Another imitation of the same original commencing――

“The isles decrease, the isles decrease, The last fog-signal now has rung,”

occurs in _Faust and Phisto_, Beeton’s Christmas Annual for 1876, but it has no literary interest, nor merit as a parody.

――――

THE CLAIMS OF GREECE.

The Claims of Greece! The Claims of Greece! No doubt Miss SAPPHO loved and sung, But how can Europe keep the peace, The wily Greek and Turk among: Eternal summer may be there, But noise of war is in the air.

The nations look on Marathon, And wonder sometimes will there be A fight like that which erst went on Between the mountains and the sea: Where Turk and Greek may find a grave, If neither party will behave.

A BISMARCK sat with furrowed brow, And scanned the Treaty of Berlin, Quoth he, “There’ll be a fearful row, My interference must begin. We’ll arbitrate.” He spoke, when lo! Both Greece and Turkey answered “No!”

“Trust not for freedom to the Franks,” Was BYRON’S sage remark to Greece He bids the Hellenes close their ranks, Their only hope for full release. They’ve ta’en his counsel it would seem; Yet surely ’tis an idle dream?

“Fill the high bowl with Samian wine,” Whatever Samian wine may be; And still let Grecian temples shine, Be Greece inviolate and free: But ne’er shall European peace Be broken for the claims of Greece!

_Punch_, January 29, 1881.

――――

NICE IN MAY 1874.

“The town of Nice! the town of Nice! Where once mosquitoes buzzed and stung And never gave man any peace, The whole year round, when he was young! Eternal winter chills it yet; It’s always cold, and mostly wet.

Lord Brougham sat on the rocky brow Which looks on sea-girt Cannes, I wis; But wouldn’t like to sit there now, Unless ’twere warmer than it is. I went to Cannes the other day, But found it much too damp to stay.

The mountains look on Monaco, And Monaco looks on the sea And, playing their some hours ago, I meant to win enormously; But, though my need of coin was bad I lost the little that I had.

Ye have the Southern charges yet Where is the Southern climate gone Of two such blessings, why forget The cheaper and the better one? My weekly bill my wrath inspires; Think ye I meant to pay for fires?

Why should I stay? no worse art thou, My country! On the genial shore The local east winds whistle now, The local fogs spread more and more; But in the sunny South the weather Beats all you know of put together.

I cannot eat――I cannot sleep―― The waves are not so blue as I; Indeed, the waters of the deep Are dirty brown, and so’s the sky. I get dyspepsia when I dine―― Oh, dash that pint of country wine!”

This parody appeared in _Temple Bay_ for March 1886, in a paper entitled _Humours of Travel_ by Herman Merivale, but it had previously been printed in a volume entitled “_The White Pilgrim, and other Poems_” by the same author, and published by Chapman and Hall, London 1883.

――――

THE SMILES OF PEACE.

The smiles of Peace, the smiles of Peace, Which Gladstone in Midlothian sung! A song we hope may never cease Though Jingoes yell, with blatant tongue, To fight――not for themselves, you bet! And howl for blood, and――“Heavy Wet!”

We look up to the Grand Old Man, And he looks out upon the sea Of stormy politics, which can Be still’d by none so well as he! For standing at the Nation’s helm, He safely guides the British Realm.

Fill high the bowl with Gladstone wine―― The sunny purple wine he gave―― Let fame and Bacchus round him twine The wreaths that crown the good and brave! His solid worth the nation rules, Though worried by bombastic fools.

Trust not to Tories for a peace―― They have a chief who longs for war, Let tax and income tax increase. Pay! ’tis what we’re created for, Better to fight, and glory win, Than hoard a pile of useless “tin.”

Keep firm on Ministerial height He who nor man nor nation fears―― He who seeks peace, yet fears not fight―― Whose strength and knowledge come with years―― Who knows that peace on earth’s divine! Here’s Gladstone’s health in Gladstone wine!

_Funny Folks_ May 23, 1885.

――――

RENOUNCE THE PAPER UNION CREED.

The Liberal seats! the Liberal seats! That we in ’eighty proudly won! Whence――while we suffered few defeats―― We saw the Stupid Party run! Again we fight these borough’s, yet Nothing, except disgrace, we get!

The Unionist and Tory crews, Led on, alas! by honest Bright, Have gained the day; and men refuse To vote the Grand Old Chieftain right, Save in the Island of the West, Where scarce a Tory dares contest.

The Liberals look to Chamberlain, And Chamberlain looks sour and glum; Yet, seeing what he had to gain, We’d hoped that Joseph round would come. For, gazing back upon his past, We could not think his――spleen?――would last.

The chief sat in St. Stephen’s, where He’d nobly worked for fifty years; He saw the Liberals crowded there, And heard with joy their hearty cheers. He looked at them one winter’s day―― And in the summer――where were they?

And where are they? And where art thou, O Gladstone? In thy voiceless age The heroic task comes harder now; Soon must thou quit “the ungrateful stage.” And must thy part, praised in all lands, Degenerate into pigmy hands?

’Tis something, in this shameful hour, When beaten, with the fettered race, To know at least that those in power This question cannot choose but face. And they may yield to craven fear, However brave they now appear.

Why should we moan o’er times more blest? Why should we wail? Our fathers worked! The Tory must not peaceful rest, The Irish Bill must not be burked! ’Tis but delayed, and time shall see Another Ireland, glad and free!

Coercion now? Repression still? Ah, no!――that sort of thing is dead! You may reject our Home Rule Bill, But tell us, what have you instead? The eighty-six recruited come,―― Say, can coercion make them dumb?

In vain, in vain! Strike other chords! Renounce your Paper Union Creed! In spite of thirty thousand swords, The Irish nation will be freed! See! rising at their country’s call, Who fronts you in St. Stephen’s Hall!

You have the Liberal leader yet; Where is the Liberal phalanx gone? You have two courses. Why regret To take the nobler, manlier one? You have the path that Justice shows―― And you’ve a nation to oppose!

Renounce the Paper Union creed! You cannot govern men with this Your Irish brethren you may need When foreign foes around you hiss, Renounce it, and the Irish then Will prove themselves your countrymen.

The peasant of the sister Isle has with our best and bravest bled, That peasant now is all that’s vile―― Or――is your sense of justice dead? Do right, and you perhaps will find Him generous still, and brave, and kind.

No more these idle fictions whine! On Liffey’s banks, on Shannon’s shore, Exists the remnant of a line Such as your English mothers bore. And there, perhaps, some seed is sown The British blood might proudly own.

Trust not the Tories and their pranks, Despite the tales their leader tells; In Irish hearts and Irish ranks The old, strong love of justice dwells! But Tory force and Tory fraud Would crimson swift Rebellion’s sword!

Renounce the Paper Union Creed! Our party, though now in the shade, Shall still, with glorious Gladstone, lead! Repulsed we are; not yet dismayed. No isle whose shore the Atlantic laves Can ever be the land of slaves.

Place what you will before the House, There nothing, save an Irish bill, Will pass. Meanwhile, let Liberals rouse―― Prove Liberal England’s Liberal still! The Irish claim we must concede, And have no Paper Union Creed.

G.W. _Pall Mall Gazette._ July 13, 1886.

――――:o:――――

_Warreniana_, by Mr. William F. Deacon (London, 1824), contained an excellent parody on _Childe Harold_, unfortunately it is too long to give in full, but some stanzas may be quoted.

THE CHILDE’S PILGRIMAGE.

1.

Whileome in Limehouse docks there dwelt a youth, Childe Higgins hight, the childe of curst ennui, Despair, shame, sin, with aye assailing tooth, Had worn his beauty to the bone.――Ah me! A lone unloving libertine was he; For reft of health and hope’s delusive wiles, And tossed in youth on passion’s stormy sea, He stood a wreck ’mid its deserted isles, Where vainly pleasure wooes and syren woman smiles.

2.

He was a merchant, ’till ennui’d with toil Of counting house turned but to small account, Sated of home, and Limehouse leaden soil, Nee more to his dried heart a freshening fount Of kindly feelings; he aspired to mount To intellectual fame, for when the brain Is dulled by thoughts, aye fearful to surmount, When youth, hope, love, essay their charms in vain, The rake-hell turns a blue as doth his sky again.

3.

Thus turned the Childe, when in the Morning Post, The Herald, Chronicle, and eke the Times, He read with tasteful glee a daily host Of the Strand bard’s self eulogistic rhymes; He read, and fired with zeal, resolv’d betimes A pilgrim to that minstrel’s shrine to move, As Allah’s votaries in Arabian climes To far Medina’s hallowed altar rove, There low to bend before the idol of their love.

4.

He left his home, his wife without a sigh, And trod with pilgrim-pace the Limehouse Road; The morn beamed laughing in the dark blue sky, And warm the sun on post and pavement glowed: Each varied mile new charms and churches showed, But sceptic Higgins jeered the sacred band; For his full tide of thought with scorn o’erflowed, Or deep immersed in objects grave and grand, Dwelt on the Warren’s fame at number Thirty, Strand.

* * * * *

11.

Th’ Exchange is past, the Mansion House appears, Surpris’d the Childe surveys its portly site, Dim dreams assail him of convivial years, And keener waxes his blunt appetite, Luxurious visions whelm his fancy quite, Of calipash and ekecalipee, While sylphs of twenty stone steal o’er his sight, Smiting their thighs with blythe Apician glee, And licking each his lips right beautiful to see.

12.

’Twas here they tucked, these unctuous city sprites, ’Twas here like geese they fattened and they died. Here turtle reared for them her keen delights, And forests yielded their cornuted pride.―― But all was vain, ’mid daintiest feasts they sighed; Gout trod in anger on each hapless toe; Stern apoplexy pummelled each fat side, And dropsy seconded his deadly blow, ’Till floored by fate they sunk to endless sleep below.

* * * * *

15.

Something too much of this; but now ’tis past, And Fleet Street spreads her busy vale below: Lo! proud ambitious gutters hurry past, To rival Thames in full continuous flow; The inner temple claims attention now, That Golgotha of thick and thread-bare skulls, Where modest merit pines in chambers low, And impudence his oar in triumph pulls Along the stream of wealth, and snares its rich sea-gulls.

* * * * *

19.

Thus mused the Childe as thoughtful he drew near The sacred shrine of number Thirty, Strand, And saw bright glittering in the hemisphere Like stars on moony nights――a sacred band Of words that formed the bard’s cognomen grand Each letter shone beneath the eye of day, And the proud sign-boot, by spring breezes fanned, Shot its deep brass reflections o’er the way, As shoots the tropic morn o’er meads of Paraquay.

* * * * *

21.

But I forgot――my pilgrim’s shrine is won And he himself――the lone unloving Childe His Limehouse birth, his name, his sandal-shoon, And scallop shell are dreams by fancy piled: His dull despairing thoughts alone――once mild As love――now dark as fable’s darkest hell, Are stern realities; but o’er the wild Drear desert of their blight the soothing spell Of Warren’s verse flits rare as sun-beams o’er Pall Mall.

22.

Farewell――a word that must be and hath been Ye dolphin dames who turn from blue to grey Ye dandy drones who charm each festive scene With brainless buzz, and frolic in your May, Ye ball-room bards who live your little day, And ye who flushed in purse parade the town, Booted or shod――to you my muse would say, “BUY WARREN’S BLACKING” as ye hope to crown Your senseless souls or soulless senses with renown.

――――:o:――――

AFTER THE EXAMINATION.