III.
He plucked his toothpick in his pocket, But sheathed it ere the point was bare; He rolled his eye within its socket, And passed his fat hand through his hair; Nay more――he took his meerschaum then, And gazed upon it with a look Of absent wonder, then he took And put it in its case again; And mopped his brow all cold and damp, And blew his nose, and lit his lamp, Then in his arm chair sat and numbered The weary minutes till he slumbered.
From _Lays of Modern Oxford_. By Adon. London. Chapman and Hall, 1874.
(These lines parody stanzas 4, 5, and 7 of _Parasina_. The same volume contains a parody of _The Prisoner of Chillon_, entitled _Snowed Up_, but it is not of sufficient interest to be quoted.)
――――:o:――――
MISCELLANEOUS PARODIES OF LORD BYRON’S WORKS.
A very large number of Parodies of Byron’s poems have been produced in the form of small pamphlets, either on political or social events, or of purely local interest. It will be sufficient to enumerate the principal of these, the curious in such matters can easily refer to them in the Library of the British Museum.
_The Age of Soapsuds._ A Satire, by Lord Vyron. London. W. Edwards, 1839; pp. 15.
In his preface the author remarks: “We live in an age of bubbles, and if the ‘Soapsud’ of the following lines seem blown about on the gale of fancy――all I can say is, I write to please myself, and not the critics.”
_Despair_: A Vision. _Derry Down and John Bull_: A Simile. Being two Political Parodies on “Darkness,” and a scene from “The Giaour,” by Lord Byron. London. T. Hughes 1820.――Political, and of no interest at present.
_Arlis’s Pocket Magazine for_ 1825, contained a parody of “The Maid of Athens,” entitled _Sarah, I Love Thee_.
_Railway Adventures and Anecdotes_, edited by Richard Pike, 1884, contains a parody on the lines commencing――“There was a sound of Revelry by night.”
_The Mongrelites; or, The Radicals so-called._ A Satiric Poem. By ――――. Published in New York, by Van Evrie, Horton and Co., in 1866 (59 pp.)
This is said by the author to be an imitation of Byron’s “English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,” but as it relates to the party politics of the United States it does not come within the scope of this collection.
Two prize poems, in imitation of _English Bards and Scotch Reviewers_ were printed in _The World_, April 14, 1880. The subject chosen was _Electioneering Speeches_, the poems were therefore of merely passing interest.
In 1834 a small sixpenny pamphlet was published by Chalmers and Son, of Edinburgh, entitled _Lays of Straiton House_. It contained several poems, written in imitation of Lord Byron, Thomas Moore, and of a few popular songs. These were descriptive of the Caledonian Bazaar and its contents were of local interest only, and are now quite out of date.
_Abel_: written, but with great humility, in reply to Lord Byron’s _Cain_. By Owen Howell. London: John Mardon, 1843; pp. 22.
“The object of Lord Byron in his drama ‘Cain,’ was to embody all the emotions of Despair as they act upon the human mind; in the present poem (if it deserves the name) the author has endeavoured to personify Hope, and to bring together as many pleasing expectations as possible.”
_Cain_: A Poem, intended to be published in Parts, containing an Antidote to the Impiety and Blasphemy of Lord Byron’s Cain. By Henry Wilkinson, Stone-gate, York. London: Baldwin, Cradock and Joy. 1824. pp. 97.
(A short poem, with voluminous notes, violently abusive of Lord Byron’s poem, and his theological views.)
Several of Lord Byron’s poems have been produced upon the stage, the most notable examples being _Manfred_, brought out at Drury Lane Theatre some years since, with grand scenic effects; and _Mazeppa_, at Astley’s Theatre, with Ada Isaacs Menken in the title _rôle_. _Mazeppa_ has, however, long been quite a stock piece with Circus proprietors, and as far back as December 27, 1858, a burlesque of it (written by the late Henry James Byron) was produced at the Olympic Theatre, with F. Robson, H. Wigan, Miss Wyndham, and Mrs. Emden in the caste, which had a long and successful run.
The late Mr. Gilbert Abbot a’Beckett wrote a burlesque, entitled _Man-Fred_ in 1828; and Mr. H. Such Granville wrote “_Sardanapolus_, or The Light of other Days, an original Ninevitish Burlesque,” which was first performed at St. George’s Hall, on December 23, 1868, when the author performed the part of _Zarina_.
“_The Bride of Abydos_; or, The Prince, the Pirate, and the Pearl” was the title of another Burlesque, written by the late Henry James Byron,[116] and produced at the Strand Theatre, with a strong caste, including Mr. H. J. Turner, Miss M. Oliver, and Miss Swanborough.
As a rule these burlesques merely give a ludicrous turn to the plot of the original poems, and contain little which could be quoted as interesting parodies.
Amongst the numerous Parodies, Imitations and continuations of Lord Byron’s unfinished poem, _Don Juan_, the following may be mentioned:
_Don Juan Unmasked_, 1819. _Gordon_, a review of Don Juan, 1821. _The Templar_. A Poem in the Stanza and Spirit of Don Juan, with allusions to Lord Byron. 1822. _A Sequel to Don Juan_, London, 1825. _Juan Secundus_, 1825. _An Apology for Don Juan_, Cantos I and II, 1824. _The Seventeenth Canto of Don Juan_, London, 1829. _Don Juan Junior_, a poem (with notes), by Byron’s Ghost, edited by G. K. Wythen Baxter, 1839. _Don Juan reclaimed_, 1840. _Termination of Don Juan_, H. W. Wetton, 1864. _Don Juan_, Canto the Seventeenth. London, Thomas Cooper and Co., 1870. (In this curious production the author has spread his scanty materials over 56 pages, by the simple expedient of leaving about a quarter of them blank.) _Some Rejected Stanzas of Don Juan_, with Byron’s own curious notes. From an unpublished manuscript in the possession of Captain Medwin. A very limited number printed at Charles Clarke’s private press, Great Totham, Essex, 1845.
This consists of twenty stanzas relating to the early history of Ireland, is coarse in its language, and of no general interest, _The Royal Progress_, a Canto, with notes written on the occasion of his Majesty’s visit to Ireland, August, 1821, London, 1821.
Dedicated to Lord Byron, and written in imitation of his _ottava rima_ metre in Don Juan. p.p. 95.
_Don Juan_, Canto the third, London. Printed by R. Greenlaw, Holborn, 1821. p.p. 103. (An imitation.)
_An Apology for Don Juan_, by John W. Thomas, London, Partridge and Oakey, 1850.
New Don Juan, and the Last Canto of the Original ‘Don Juan.’ From the papers of the Contessa Guiccioli. 12mo. pp. 61, 1876.
_The Vampire._ This publication was at one time ascribed to Byron, but a letter of his exists, denying this. It is dated April 27, 1819, from Venice. This Letter is not to be found in Moore’s Collection of Byron’s Letters, its discovery having been first announced in the _Academy_, April 23, 1881.
“I am not the author, and never heard of the work in question until now. In a more recent paper I perceive a formal annunciation of ‘The Vampire,’ with the addition of an account of my ‘residence in the Island of Mitylene,’ an island which I have occasionally sailed by in the course of travelling some years ago through the Levant――and where I should have no objection to reside――but where I have never yet resided.… Neither of these performances are mine, and I presume that it is neither unjust nor ungracious to request that you will favour me by contradicting the advertisement to which I allude. If the
## book is clever it would be hard to deprive the real
writer――whoever he may be――of his honours; and if stupid――I desire the responsibility of nobody’s dulness but my own.… The imputation is of no great importance, and as long as it was confined to surmises and reports I should have received it as I have received many others――in silence. But the formality of a public advertisement of a
## book I never wrote――and a residence where I never
resided――is a little too much, particularly as I have no notion of the contents of one, nor the incidents of the other. I have, besides, a personal dislike to ‘Vampires,’ and the little acquaintance I have with them would by no means induce me to divulge their secrets.”
_Brum: A Parody._ By old Sarbot. A small pamphlet of 29 pages, without author’s or publisher’s name, date, or place, but evidently printed in Birmingham, and dealing with persons and incidents connected with that town.
Ossian’s Address to the Sun. Lines supposed to have been written by Byron on a leaf of the second volume of Macpherson’s ‘Ossian.’ These volumes are preserved in the library at Harvard University. The MS. notes and the ‘Address’ are now known to be forgeries.
The Vampyre. Letters, spurious. By Dr. Polidori, Sherwood, Neely and Jones, 1819.
The Suppressed Letters of Lord Byron. Collected by H. Schultess-Young. R. Bentley, 1869. Publication suspended.
A Spiritual Interview with Lord Byron: his Lordship’s Opinion about his New Monument. 12mo. pp. 18. 1875.
Strange Visitors, a series of original papers, embracing philosophy, religion, poetry, art, fiction, satire, humor, etc., by the spirits of Thackeray, Bronte, Byron, Browning and others now dwelling in the spirit-world, dictated through a Clairvoyant state, _Boston_, 1884.
This curious volume contains:――By W. M. Thackeray, _His Post-Mortem Experience_; by Lord Byron, _To His Accusers_; by Edgar A. Poe, _The Lost Soul_; and by Charlotte Bronte, _Agnes Reef, a tale_.
――――:o:――――
DON JUAN UNREAD (1819.) _By Dr. W. Maginn, Trin. Coll., Dublin._
Of Corinth Castle we have read, Th’ amazing scene unravell’d; Had swallowed Lara and the Giaour. And with Childe Harold travell’d. And so we followed Cloven-foot, And faithfully as any, Until he cried, “Come, turn aside And read of Don Giovanni.
“Let Whiggish folk, frae Holland House, Who have been lying, prating, Read Don Giovanni, ’tis their own, A child of their creating. On jests profane they love to feed, And there they are――and many, But we, who link not with the crew, Regard not Don Giovanni.
“There’s Goodwin’s daughter, Shelley’s wife A’writing fearful stories; There’s Hazlitt, who with Hunt and Keats, Brays forth in Cockney chorus. There’s pleasant Thomas Moore, a lad Who sings of Rose and Fanny; Why throw away, their wits so gay To take up Don Giovanni.
“What’s Juan but a shameless tale That bursts all rules asunder? There are a thousand such elsewhere As worthy of your wonder―― Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn His lordship looked not canny; And took a pinch of snuff, to think I flouted Don Giovanni!
“O, rich,” said I, “are Juan’s rhymes, And warm the verse is flowing Fair crops of blasphemy it bears, But we will leave them growing. In Pindar’s strain, in prose of Paine, And many another Zany As gross we read, so where’s the need To wade through Don Giovanni?
“Let Colburns’ town-bred cattle snuff The sweets of Lady Morgan; Let Maturin to amorous themes Attune his barrel organ. We will not read them, will not hear The Parson or the granny, And, I dare say, as bad as they, Or worse, is Don Giovanni.
“Be Juan, then, unseen, unknown; It must, or we shall rue it. We may have virtue of our own, Ah! why should we undo it? The treasured faith of days long past We still would prize o’er any, And grieve to hear the ribald jeer Of scamps like Don Giovanni.
“When Whigs with freezing rule shall come And piety seems folly, When Cam and Isis, curbed by Brougham, Shall wander melancholy; When Cobbet, Wooler, Watson, Hunt, And all the swinish many, Shall rough shod ride o’er Church and State, Then hey! for Don Giovanni.”
――――
Thomas Moore,
_Born May_, 28, 1780. _Died February_, 25, 1852.
’Tis THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.
’Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them; Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o’er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow, When friendships decay; And from Love’s shining circle The gems drop away! When true hearts lie wither’d, And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone?
THOMAS MOORE.
――――
THE FIRST ROSE OF SUMMER.
’Tis the first rose of summer that opes to my view, With its bright crimson bosom all bathed in the dew; It bows to its green leaves, with pride from its throne, ’Tis the queen of the valley, and reigneth alone.
O! why, lovely stranger, thus early in bloom? Art thou here to assure us that summer is come? The primrose and harebell appear with the spring, But tidings of summer the young roses bring.
Thou fair gift of nature, I welcome the boon; Was’t the lark of the morning that ’woke thee so soon? Yet I weep, thou sweet flow’ret; for soon from the sky The lark shall repose, where thy leaves withered lie.
O! if beauty could save thee, thou ne’er would’st decay, But, alas! soon thou’lt perish and wither away; And thy kindred may blossom, and blossom as fair, Yet I’ll mourn, lonely rose-bud, when thou art not there.
ROBERT GILFILLAN. 1831.
――――
THE FIRST ROSE OF SUMMER.
’Tis the first rose of summer That blushing steals forth, Still doubtful, and fearing The blight of the north; Her sister buds cower, Beneath on the stem, While yon lone one is smiling In fragrance o’er them.
I’ll not pluck thee young rose bud, Nor mar thy fresh bloom; Soon yon dark cloud may wrap thee In coldness and gloom: Then bask while thou may’st, In the bright sun’s lov’d smile And dream of light dewdrops, And blue skies the while.
So in life’s sunny morning Spreads forth hope’s fair flow’r, How soon to be blighted In sorrow’s drear hour; Still, while friendship smiles o’er it, And joy brightens round, May no demon’s dark malice, To blight it be found.
From _Wiseheart’s Fashionable Songster_ or Gems of Melody. Dublin.
――――
EPSOM RACES.
’Tis the last man in London Left lounging alone, All his bottle companions To Epsom are gone: No friend of the Regent Or Bond do I see, To kill on this pavement His cursed ennui.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine in this street, Since Verey has jellies, We’ll stroll in and eat. Thus at Epsom they’re crowded, In London we’re cramm’d, And whilst we are _jellied_, They’re probably _jamm’d_.
_The National Omnibus_, May 27, 1831.
――――
THE OLD MAID.
I’m the last Rose of summer, And wither alone; All my lovely companions Are wedded and gone. No soul of my kindred, No maiden is nigh, To reflect back my wrinkles, And heave sigh for sigh.
Yet peaceful I rest me Upon my lone bed, No tyrant molests me, I mourn no Babe dead. Thus cheerful I scatter Regrets to the air, And rejoice in my freedom From discord and care.
Alone must I perish, Alone I decay: No daughter to cherish, No son for a stay. I sink to the slumber, Of Death’s calm repose, Till the Bridegroom, rejoicing, Shall claim his last Rose.
From _The Maids’, Wives’, and Widows’ Penny Magazine_, December 29, 1832.
――――
THE LAST SUMMER BONNET.
’Tis the last summer bonnet, The worse for the wear; The feathers upon it Are dimm’d by sea air: Gay places it went to, But lingers at last, A faded momento Of sunny days past.
The prejudice still is For poets to moan, When roses and lillies Are going and gone: But fashion her sonnet Would rather compose On summer’s last bonnet, Than summer’s last rose!
Though dreary November Has darken’d the sky, You still must remember That day in July, When, after much roaming, To Carson’s we went For something becoming To take into Kent.
You, long undecided What bonnet to choose, At length chose, as I did, The sweetest of blues; _Yours_ now serves to show, dear, How fairest things fade; And _I_ long ago, dear, Gave mine to my maid.
Oh! pause for a minute, Ere _yours_ is resign’d: Philosophy in it A moral may find: To past scenes I’m hurried,―― That relic revives The beaux that we worried Half out of their lives.
’Twas worn at all places Of public resort: At Hogsnorton races, So famous for sport; That day, when the Captain Would after us jog, And thought us entrapt in His basket of prog!
He gave _me_ a sandwich, And not being check’d He offered a hand――which I chose to reject! And then _you_ were teased with The gentleman’s heart, Because you seemed pleased with His gooseberry tart!
’Twas worn at the ladies Toxopholite fête. (That sharpshooting trade is A thing that I hate; Their market they mar, who Attempt, for a prize, To shoot with an arrow Instead of their eyes.)
And don’t that excursion By water forget; Sure summer diversion Was never so wet! To sit there and shiver And hear the wind blow, The rain and the river, Above, and below!
But hang the last bonnet What is it to us, That we should muse on it, And moralize thus? A truce to reflecting: To Carson’s we’ll go, Intent on selecting A winter chapeau.
Then let Betty take it, For Betty likes blue; And Betty can make it Look better than new: In taste Betty’s fellow Was never yet seen; She’ll line it with yellow, And trim it with green!
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY, in _The New Monthly Magazine_, 1833.
――――
’TIS THE LAST BIT OF CANDLE.
’Tis the last bit of candle, With flickering light, All its pound of companions, Have finished their night; While here we sit toping, And waking the sun, To shine on the revel, As merely begun.
Thou sink’st in the socket, The grease of thy wick, Is failing and failing, As smiles of the sick; The lips most bewitching, The eyes most divine, Are scarcely less fleeting, In ceasing to shine.
O, My last bit of candle, Thou’lt not be alone, Go stink in the grease pot, Thy brethren are gone: Though moon ne’er should light us, Though gone be thy spark, We can all find our glasses, And mouths in the dark.
From _Wisehearts Merry Songster_. Dublin.
――――
THE LAST LAMP OF GRAFTON’S ALLEY――CORK.
The last lamp of the Alley, Is burning alone! All its brilliant companions Are shiver’d and gone. No lamp of her kindred, No burner is nigh To rival her glimmer, Or light to supply.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one, To vanish in smoke; As the bright ones are shatter’d Thou, too, shalt be broke. Thus kindly I scatter Thy globe o’er the street Where the watch in his rambles Thy fragments shall meet.
Then home will I stagger As well as I may, By the light of my nose sure I’ll find out the way. When thy blaze is extinguished, Thy brilliancy gone, Oh! my beak shall illumine The Alley alone.
WILLIAM MAGINN.
――――
THE LAST CIGAR.
’Tis a last choice Havana I hold here alone; All its fragrant companions In perfume have flown. No more of its kindred To gladden the eye, So my empty cigar-case I close with a sigh.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine; but the stem I’ll bite off and light thee To waft thee to them. And gently I’ll scatter The ashes you shed, As your soul joins its mates in A cloud overhead.
A pleasure is fleeting, It blooms to decay From the weed’s glowing circle, The ash drops away. A last whiff is taken, The butt-end is thrown, And with empty cigar-case I sit all alone.
――――
THE STRAW HAT OF SUMMER.
’Tis the straw hat of summer All tattered and torn; All the brim has departed, Its crown is well worn. But no hat is there like it So dear to my heart; It has kept off the sunshine In meadow and mart.
There it hangs o’er the window; Its glory is shorn, For my foolish affection Don’t laugh me to scorn; It is grimy and greasy, And ragged ’tis true, But its value in mem’ry Is more than when new.
Though a horse would not eat it In such a sad state, It is worthy of meeting A far better fate. It is hardly sufficient To kindle a fire But I’ll make of its fragments A funeral pyre.
Oh! companion of summer, Go with thee my joy, Thou hast served me with ardour That knew no alloy. So then peace to thy ashes Thy loss grieves me sore, I shed o’er thee tear drops Of friendship of yore.
――――
THE LAST OF THE FANCY. A Lament for the Anticipated Extinction of the Prize Ring.
’Tis the last of the Fancy, Left pining alone, All his “nobby” companions Are mizzled and gone! No “pal” of his kindred No bruiser is nigh, To exchange broken noses Or give a black eye!
“I’ll not leave thee, thou game one, To pine in the ring; Since the strong ones have mizzled, Go――do the same thing. Thus, kindly I gather The ropes from the ground, Where thy pals of the Fancy Have fought the last round!”
The Art none will follow When prizes decay, And from patrons and backers The “tin” drops away; When all, e’en a novice, To mill with have flown, Ah! who, then, would flourish His “mauleys” alone?
_Judy_, July 10, 1867.
――――
AN OXFORD PARODY. ON SMOKING.
’Tis the last weed of Hudson’s Left lying alone; All his dark brown Regalias Are vanished and gone. No cigar of its colour, No “Lopez” is mine, To delight with its perfume And fragrance divine.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one I’ll ring for a light; Thy companions are ashes, I’ll smoke thee to-night. Thy halo and incense Shall rise o’er my head, As I sigh for the beauties All scentless and dead.
And soon may I follow Those loved ones’ decay; Since from each tempting bundle They’ve faded away. When Regalias are smoked out, And “Lopez” are blown, Oh! who would still linger, Cigarless, alone? J. R. G.
From _Hints to Freshmen in the University of Oxford_. (J. Vincent, Oxford.)
――――
The following parody of _The Last Rose of Summer_ is rather slangy, and would not have been inserted, but for the fact that it originally appeared in part 9 of _The Snob_ (June 4, 1829), a small paper published in Cambridge, to which it is known that Thackeray contributed. It is, therefore, not improbable that he was the author of this parody.
’Tis the last little tizzy My pocket what’s in, O, its pale-faced companions I’ve changed ’em for gin! There’s not a brass farden To rub ’gainst his ribs, For ah! in my pocket There’s never no dibs!
I’ll not keep thee, thou lone one, Here moping with me, With thy friends in the gin-shop Go tizzy, and spree; So down on the counter That sixpence I vacks, And has ’stead of him, Sir, Four glasses of max!
But they vont give no credit, So I has no more, I’ll go and pick pockets By Drury-Lane door; About the Theaturs There’s lots to be had And ven I gets flush, vy I’ll guzzle like mad.
――――
AN AUTUMN SESSION.
’Tis the last of the members Left spouting alone; Half the Whigs and the Tories Are grouse shooting gone. Not the creatures of Althorp,―― No hireling is nigh To defend all his blunders And give lie for lie.
Will they force you, ye lone ones, To sit till Septem- Ber? No; others are sporting, Go sport ye with them. Then fain would I scatter. This ghost of a house, Where their mates of St. Stephen’s Are bagging the grouse.
So soon may you rise when Debates do decay, And from all the divisions Each side keeps away. For when Whigs are all vanished, And Tories are flown, Oh, who would attend at The Bleak house alone.
_Figaro in London_, August 17, 1833.
――――
’TIS THE LAST FLY OF SUMMER.
’Tis the last fly of summer, Left buzzing alone, All its black-legged companions Are dried up or gone: Not one of its kindred, No bluebottles nigh, To sport ’mid the sugars, Or in the milk die.
I’ll not doom thee, thou lone one, A victim to be, Since the rest are all vanish’d, Come dine thou with me. Thus kindly I scatter Some crumbs of my bread, Where thy mates on the table Lie withered and dead.
But soon you will perish I’m sadly afraid, For the glass is at sixty Just now in the shade. When wasps have all vanish’d And bluebottles flown, No fly can inhabit This bleak world alone.
_Punch’s Pocket Book_, 1848.
――――
THE LAST “VIVA VOCE.”
He’s the last “Vivâ Voce” Left sitting alone; All his lucky companions Have finished and gone: Not a man from his College, No friend is there nigh To get his “Testamur,” And walk down the “High.”
“I’ll not keep thee, thou lone one, To pine in these ‘quads,’―― Since your papers are ‘satis’―― We’ll let you through ‘mods.’ Thus kindly I give thee Our leave to go down, Where thy mates of the College Await thee in town.”
“So soon may _I_ follow, When friends will not stay, And the ‘Common Room’ circle Has melted away. When rooms are all empty, And their tenants are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This slow place alone?
From _College Rhymes_, 1868.
――――
THE LAST BELLE OF SUMMER.
’Tis the last belle of summer, Left blooming alone, For her lovely companions All seaward have gone. No dame of her kindred, No chaperon’s nigh―― I will see if see if she blushes, Or gives sigh for sigh,
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine in the square, While thy sisters are breathing The ozoned sea air. Though thy flowers in the garden Lie scentless and dead, I will bring thee a bouquet From Johnson’s instead.
Say, love, may I follow When thou goest away To the family circle Beside the salt spray? For when “swells” have all vanished, And “belles” have all flown, I could not inhabit Belgravia alone.
_Funny Folks._
――――
THE LAST PIPE.
’Tis the last pipe this winter, Left squirting alone; All its leaden companions Are frozen and gone, No turncock was handy, No plumber was nigh; And each cistern kept running Until it was dry.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one, While icicles gem Thy tap, or else, bursting, Thou wilt be like them; But gaily I’ll scatter Some straw o’er thy bed, And the crack I discover Will stop with white-lead.
I thus shall get water, Though turncocks delay Round the plug’s shining circle Fixed over the way. While lead pipes have frozen, And iron ones flown, I see thee with gladness Still squirting alone.
_Funny Folks._ February 1, 1879.
――――
THE LAST JAR OF PICKLES.
’Tis the last jar of pickles, Left standing alone, All its other companions Are eaten and gone! No one of its kindred, No pickle is nigh, To tickle my stomach, And draw forth a sigh,
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one, Tho’ I’ve just finished three, And the others are eaten, I’ll likewise eat thee; Thus kindly I’ll swallow Thee down, like the rest, Go! find your companions, They’re under my vest:
So soon may I follow When pickles are scarce, And from friendship’s circle Withdraw my bluff face. When walnuts, and cabbage, And onions are gone, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone?
ANONYMOUS.
――――
In _The Weekly Dispatch_ for May 22, 1881, there was a parody competition, and the prize of Two Guineas was awarded for the following poem:
LORD RANDOLPH CHURCHILL.
[Since the defection of his three friends, the once famous “Fourth” party consists of Lord Randolph alone.――Daily Paper.]
He’s the last of his party Left sitting alone; All his brilliant companions Have left him and gone. No Gorst of his kidney―― No Balfour is nigh, To reflect his bright flashes Or applaud him sky high!
They have left him, the lone one, To speak all alone; His audience are sleeping, They cough and they groan. Yet pertly he’ll patter (Though he should be abed), For his tongue’s ever ready, Though senseless his head!
So soon may he follow His “party’s” decay; From whose brilliant circle Those three dropped away, With Gorst, Wolff, and Balfour Seceded and flown, He can’t long inhabit That bleak bench alone!
R. H. LAWRENCE.
Several of the non-successful parodies were also printed, of which the best are here given:――
’Tis the last baked potato Left swelt’ring alone; All her mealy companions Are parted and gone, No floury kidney―― No ash leaf is nigh, To share her seclusion And rest eye to eye.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one, To shrivel apart; Since the mealy digest well, Come――sleep near my heart. Thus kindly I scatter Thy peel at my feet, Where the whelk and the orange Perfume the dull street.
Soon, too, will I follow Thy chariot away, As the glimmering gas lights Fade into the day. When winkles lie soulless, And ’taties are strown, Oh, who then would wander, The pavement alone?
W. W. DIXON.
――――
THE POLICEMAN’S LAY.
’Tis a prime leg of mutton, Cut near to the bone; All the greens and potatoes Are surely not gone! No haughty inspector―― No sergeant is nigh, To reflect on what he’d do If hungry and dry.
I’ll not leave that nice bone――one May see ’tis a gem; Since the folks are all sleeping, It’s nothing to them, Thus gaily I’m feasting―― For freely I’m fed―― While my mates on their night beat Are famished instead.
Some strong beer I’ll swallow, Then forth I must stray, And from kitchen and “cooky” Steal gently away. When prog is demolished, And liquor is gone, Oh, who would be a p’liceman This bleak night alone?
LIZZIE GRIFFIN.
――――
’Tis the last rose of Windsor[117] Left blooming alone; All the other Princesses To Hymen have gone, No kindred as suitors At present are nigh, But “Monty,” ’tis whisper’d,[118] Receives sigh for sigh.
And will he be grafted On royalty’s stem? And will he be happy When quite one of them? What more borrow’d honours Must o’er him be shed, From the name of the living, The fame of the dead?
The bay and the laurel May soon fade away; His brow has a circle Which cannot decay, And if he can marry So near to the throne, Why should he inhabit This bleak world alone?
FRED. RAWKINS.
――――
’TIS THE LAST BLOWS OF A DRUMMER. _By a Poor and Unmusical Civilian._
’Tis the last blow of a drummer, Who stands all alone, And calls the battalions With monotonous moan No hour ever passes, No day e’er goes by, But this sound my ear crushes Though from it I fly.
I lived near the barracks, Till well nigh insane, And now, when I’m sleeping I hear that refrain. Thus blindly I flatter The thing I most dread, Since my thoughts don’t discard it When even in bed.
So soon as the morrow Succeeds to to-day May that drum and its drummer Be wafted away; For if they continued their rub-a-drum call, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world at all?
From _Cribblings from the Poets_, by Hugh Cayley, Cambridge, 1883.
――――
HOME RULE.
’Tis the last _ruse_ of someone Left blooming alone; All his lovely companions, Are faded and gone; No flower of his kidney Save Rosebery’s nigh, To reflect back his gushes, Or give sigh for sigh.
I’ll not leave thee, thou “old hand,” To skulk in thy den, Till the landlords are settled, We’ve Home Rule again; Thus kindly I flourish My rod o’er thy head, While the mates of thy Council Lie senseless and dead.
How soon may I follow Should friendship decay. And from eighty-five “mimbers” The funds fall away; If Home Rule lies withered, And Parli’mint’s flown, Oh! who would inhabit Bleak Erin alone?
E.L. _The Globe_ (London), April 12, 1886.
――――:o:――――
THE MANIFESTO.
(_Mr. Parnell addressed the Irish People on the subject of the Royal Visit._)
Let Erin remember each craze of old, Now her foremost foes invade her, America send the dollar of gold In the sacred task to aid her; To aid her to see all her banners are furled―― Let who will not look out for danger;―― Turn the emerald gem to a brick to be hurled At the helpless head of the Stranger.
When far from the revels the Home-Ruler strays, Whiskey hot, whiskey cold, declining, He’ll dream of the glories of other days, And scorn the low joys of dining! Thus shall Saxons be taught by a pose sublime That their pride and their prestige are over, And the Prince and the Princess will know next time What thick heads a few caubeens do cover!
_Punch_, March 21, 1885.
――――:o:――――
WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE.
When he, who adores thee, has left but the name Of his fault and his sorrows behind. Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame Of a life that for thee was resign’d?
* * * * * T. MOORE.
――――
TO A BOTTLE OF OLD PORT.
When he who adores thee has left but the dregs Of such famous old stingo behind; Oh! say, will he bluster or weep,――no――’ifegs! He’ll seek for some more of the kind. He’ll laugh, and though doctors perhaps may condemn, Thy tide shall efface the decree, For many can witness, though subject to phlegm, He has always been faithful to thee!
With thee were the dreams of his earliest love, Every rap in his pocket was thine, And his very last prayer, ev’ry morning, by Jove, Was to finish the evening in wine. How blest are the tipplers whose heads can outlive The effects of four bottles of thee; But the next dearest blessing that heaven can give, Is to stagger home muzzy from thee!
W. MAGINN.
――――
TO JOLLY.
When he who adjures thee has left but the shame Of his pamphlets and postcards behind, Oh! say――wilt thou weep when they darken the fame Of a seat that by me was resigned? Yes weep! but, although in your heart you condemn, Remember ’twas only through me You attained to the right to put after your name The coveted letters “J.P.”
Through thee were the dreams of her earliest love―― The news that she wished to be mine―― By Greenwich conveyed. Therefore since I must move, My seat unto thee I resign. Oh! Happy Joe Arch, should he chance to receive The post now vacated by me, While one thought serves my last parting pang to relieve, I’ve resigned――not been kicked out by thee.
From _They are Five_, by W. E. G. (D. Bogue, London, 1880.)
――――:o:――――
THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA’S HALLS.
The harp that once through Tara’s halls[119] The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory’s thrill is o’er. And hearts that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more. * * * * * T. MOORE.
――――
COLBURN’S PUFF.
(_Supposed to be chanted over the grave of that eminent publisher_, by MISS L. E. LANDON)
The Puff that once thro’ Colburn’s halls The soul of humbug shed, Now lies as mute ’neath Colburn’s walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the praise of many books, Whose sale, alas! is o’er, And men who once were gull’d thereby, Will now be gull’d no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright The Puff of Colburn swells, For those who con _Court Journal_ now, Heed not the tales it tells, And people who read _paragraphs_, In _Courier_ or in _Post_, Think no more of them than old maids Of tea and butter’d toast.
_The National Omnibus._ April 29, 1831.
――――
THE BELT WHICH ONCE THE CHAMPION BRAC’D.
The Belt which once the CHAMPION brac’d When boxing honour reigned, In modern times has been disgraced, And all its glory stain’d; For he, whose pugilistic fame Each Fancy Bard should sing, Now hides his head in conscious shame, And banish’d from the Ring.
TOM CRIBB, thy manly form no more, In fight we shall behold; But matchless were thy deeds of yore, As generous as bold. Base acts your gallant spirit spurned, And manfully you dealt, And honestly, though hardly, earn’d The English CHAMPION’S Belt.
Thy praise shall long resound afar, The Champion long wert thou, And honor was thy leading star, And triumph deck’d thy brow: But glory now is on the wane, The Fancy in despair, When shall we see thy like again, The Champion’s Belt to wear?
From _Pierce Egan’s Book of Sports_, 1832.
――――
POETICAL ADVERTISEMENTS.
The harp that once in WARREN’S Mart The soul of music shed, Now mutely lies in WARREN’S cart, Or under WARREN’S bed. So sleeps the source of MOSES’ lays, So ROWLAND’S puffs are o’er; And heads once wreathed in poets’ bays Are thumped for rhymes no more.
No more by stanzas, songs, and odes, WARREN his blacking sells; The van alone the carman loads, The name of WARREN tells. Thus MOSES’ muse so seldom wakes; The only sign she gives Is when some silly rhymes she makes, To show that still she lives.
_Punch_, December, 1853.
――――
SARAH’S HALLS.
The broom that once through Sarah’s halls In hole and corner sped, Now useless leans gainst Sarah’s walls And gathers dust instead. So sweeps the slavey now-a-days So work is shifted o’er, And maids that once gained honest praise Now earn that praise no more!
No more the cobweb from its height The broom of Sarah fells; The fly alone unlucky wight Invades the spider’s cells. Thus energy so seldom wakes, All sign that Sarah gives Is when some dish, or platter breaks, To show that still she lives.
_Judy_, March, 1869.
――――
THE WALLFLOWER.
The girl that oft in lighted halls Enchantment round her shed, Now sits neglected by the walls Her bloom and temper fled. So fades the belle of garrisons Till she becomes a bore, And hearts that once beat high for her Now feel that pulse no more.
From _The Girl of the Period Miscellany_, June, 1869.
――――
THE VOICE THAT ONCE.
The voice that once thro’ senate halls Would set the echoes free, Is silent now when Randy calls, And mute to Ashmead B. So sleeps the speech of former days, So hearing’s thrill is o’er, And Tories famed for teasing ways Now earn reproof no more.
No more, supreme in wordy fight, The voice of Gladstone swells; The cough alone that breaks at night Its tale of ruin tells, Thus Eloquence no longer seeks To conquer near and far―― How can it, when each wheeze bespeaks Laryngeal catarrh?
_Funny Folks_. March, 1884.
――――
LUKE SHARP WHO ONCE IN NEWGATE’S WALLS. (_By an Ex-Warder H.M. Prison, Newgate._)
Luke Sharp who once in Newgate’s walls The tear of penance shed, And listened to the warders’ calls And wished those warders dead, Now feeds no more on prison fare Loosed are the chains he bore The cell that once confined him there Can find him there no more.
No more he weeps in durance vile Or mourns o’er man’s decline, He wanders far from Britain’s isle And Binns[120]――the hangman’s-line. Fond memory holds his shadow dear Old Newgate loves him yet, And though he is no longer there He ought to be, you bet.
_Hal Berte_, in _Detroit Free Press_, March 21, 1885.
(This parody was written at the expense of the popular _Detroit Free Press_ writer, known as Luke Sharp, the author of the piece being also connected with that amusing paper.)
――――
FLY NOT TO WINE.
Fly not to wine――’tis just the hour The House divides――the lobbies scour, And Bellamy’s――for once be bright, The Whigs are strong――we’re beat to-night, If friends won’t muster soon. That Tory Members might be paid, Were boroughs, taxes, titles made; Fly――tell our friends the loaves are going, The fishes fast away are flowing. Oh! pray!――oh! pray. The Whigs ne’er wove so strong a chain, To bind our wrists, our places gain, If we don’t break it soon.
Fly, like our friend, the black-faced blade, Our long-tailed saint has taught his trade; Through all our souls his precepts ran, Since we, like imps and fiends, began The people’s hearts to tear. If Members game at White’s or Brookes And will not vote to-night, odd zooks―― Office we shall ne’er return in, Hell their recreant souls shall burn in. Oh, pray! oh, pray! Oh, let not Tory spirits quake―― The people rouse――they’re quite awake―― We’re beat to-night――oh, dear!
From _The Blue Bag_; _or, Toryana_. (Effingham Wilson, London, 1832.)
――――
FLY NOT YET. _Sung by the Right Honorable W. E. Forster, M P_
(“Owing to the near approach of the passing of the Coercion Act a number of Transatlantic personages, who have been going about Dublin for some time, have disappeared. It has also had the effect of inducing others to remove to England.”――_Dublin News letter._)
Fly not yet! ’tis just the hour When murder, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night, And bhoys who love the moon. ’Twas but to guard these hours of shade That the Coercion Bill was made; Let not its penal clauses glowing Set all mine honest friends agoing. Oh! stay,――oh! stay,―― Law so seldom weaves a chain Like this, so tight, that oh! ’tis plain You shun its links so soon.
Fly not yet. The pluck displayed In times of old in ambuscade, Though icy cold by day it ran, Yet still, with blackened face, began To shoot when night was near; And thus the leaguer’s heart and looks, Though smooth at noon as winter brooks, Should kindle when the night returning Brings their usual hour for burning. Oh! stay,――oh! stay! Alas! ’tis now too late to take Revenge on rogues so wide awake As these embarking here!
From _The St. James’s Gazette_, March 5, 1881.
――――:o:――――
RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE.
Rich and rare were the gems she wore, And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore; But oh! her beauty was far beyond Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand.
* * * * * T. MOORE.
――――
“_Rich and rare were the gems she wore._” (_Apropos of the late Alderman Wood and Queen Caroline._)
Rich and furred was the robe he wore, And a bright gold chain on his breast he bore, But ah! his speaking was far beyond Waithman himself with his snow-white wand.
“Humpty, dost thou not fear to stray With the lady so far from the king’s _highway_? Are Britain’s sons so dull or so cold As still to be cheated with tinsel for gold?”
“Mistress Dumpty, I feel not the least alarm, No placeman ever dare do me harm; For though they vote her and me a bore, They love their own heads and places more.”
“On he went――in her coach to ride, While he cozened the lady who sat by his side; And lost for ever was she who was led By Humpty’s honour and Dumpty’s head.”
THEODORE HOOK. _The Spirit of the Public Journals_, 1824.
――――
RAGGED AND ROUGH.
Ragged and rough were the clothes she wore, And a bottle and glass in her hands she bore; But, oh! her red nose shone far beyond The sparkling rum in her dark brown hand.
“Nancy, oh, Nan! don’t you fear to stray, Before the morn, on the king’s highway, When the sons of London are shiv’ring cold, And may run away with the bottle you hold?”
“Get out, for I don’t feel the least alarm, I’m too ugly and old for to do me harm; Though they love young girls, and a plentiful store, Yet they’ll look on a faded old woman no more!”
On she went to the famed Turnstile, And, tired enough, she sat down awhile; Till, _non se ipse_, all care she defied, For she drank so much, that she hiccupped and died.
――――
ERIN’S CHIVALRY.
Rich and rare were the arms she bore: A brace of Colts at her waist she wore; And, oh! her beauty was hidden with fear, As on she fled like a hunted deer.
Lady, why dost thou fear to stray, Alone and unarmed, in the ancient way? If Erin’s sons were not blameless or cold, They used to spare women in days of old!
“In days of old” she answered, “Sir Knight, Honor and virtue were Erin’s delight; But this cursed League”――Ere more was said She ducked, and a brick-bat missed her head.
On, like the hunted deer she went―― Her only crime that she’d paid her rent; And the stranger said, “Sure, we’ll change the song Of “Erin-go-bragh” into “Erin gone wrong.”
_Funny Folks._
――――
ROUGH AND RED.
Rough and red was the cloak she wore, And a cup of potheen in her hand she bore; But, oh! from her short black pipe the smoke, Was more fragrant by far than her rough red cloak.
’Lady! dost thou not fear to stray, So lonely and laden o’er this bleak way? Are Erin’s sons in virtue so ripe As not to be tempted by potheen and pipe?
“Och misther! I fear not a boy in the place, For I’m the girl that can batther a face; And though they love potheen and pipes d’ye see, The devil a drop will they get from me!”
On she went with her cup in her hand, In safety all over that lonely land; And barefoot and saucy was she who relied On that fist of her own, that swung by her side.
――――
THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.
There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
* * * * * T. MOORE.
――――
PATERNOSTER ROW.
There is not in this city an alley so sweet As the Row, in whose houses the Publishers meet; Oh the last ray of feeling must bid me farewell, E’re the books in those houses shall half of them sell.
Yet it was not the volumes that piled up were seen, On the high shelves of Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown and Green ’Twas not what old Lardner yet labours to fill. Oh no, it was something more readable still,
’Twas that Whittaker, Baldwin, and Simpkin were there With cheap useful knowledge that others sold dear; ’Twas that Hurst, Duncan, Kelly, all published away, With Sherwood and Gilbert, and the _Piper_ to pay!
Sweet Row Paternoster, I’d like very well, To see you and your Publishers marching to hell; There the devils might rub them behind and before And they’d never be troubled with the Cholera more.
_The National Omnibus._ July 8, 1831.
――――
THOMAS MOORE[121](_Loq._) “I am the English Anacreon, the biographer of Byron and Sheridan, the inditer of Lalla Rookh, and the _Man of Melodies_. I would suggest to my noble patrons that:――
There is not in the palace a wide room so sweet As the room on whose table the dinner things meet; Oh the last _gout_ for good things from life must depart Ere the love of that table shall fade from my heart.
Yet it wasn’t that turtle had shed o’er the dish Its richest of gravy (that notable fish!) ’Twas not the soft magic of guzzle and fill―― Oh no, it was something more drinkable still.
’Twas that wines, the beloved of my palate, were there That made every dear slice of the turkey more dear, And which taught me to feel that my looks were not hurt, When, I saw them reflected in bottles of port.
Sweet room of the dinner, how calm could I rest Near thy table and chair, with the wine I love best, When the ladies should leave us, restraint to release And, damme, we’d drink off a dozen a piece!
_The National Omnibus_, December 30, 1831.
――――
There’s not in Saint Stephen’s so pleasant a seat, As that Bench where each evening the Ministers meet: Oh, the last Tory yearning for place must depart, Ere that Bench’s remembrance will fade from my heart.
’Twas not that the upholsterer had covered each form, With the greenest of baizes, so genial and warm; ’Twas not the soft cushions well padded with skill―― Oh no, it was something more exquisite still:――
’Twas that _place_, the beloved of the Tories was near, Making every dear seat on those Benches more dear; And which taught how the strongest of scruples will move, When we find them assaulted with pay that we love.
Sweet Treasury Benches, how calm could I rest, On thy surface of green, with the friends I love best; When the radical howl for Reform shall quite cease, And the Bill, like my speeches, be buried in peace.
_Figaro in London_, 1833.
――――
PUNCH OFFICE.
There is not in all London an _endroit_ so sweet As the office of PUNCH, in famed Wellington Street, Oh, the last ray of feeling and life will depart, Ere the love of that office shall fade from my heart.
It is not that painters have spread o’er the scene A coat of red paint, while the shutters are green; ’Tis not the vile lucre that chokes up the till―― Oh, no! it is something more exquisite still.
’Tis that PUNCH, the beloved of my bosom is near, Making every dear inch of the office more dear; And which shows how the worst furnished rooms will improve, When we see the shelves loaded with works that we love.
Sweet office of PUNCH! oh, how calm could I rest In thy little back room though for space rather press’d; When publishing time should be over and cease, And my frame, like that Artist’s, shall slumber in peace.
PUNCH, Volume 2, 1842.
――――
AN OXFORD PARODY. ON HUNTING.
There is not in the wide world a country so sweet, As the valley renown’d where “the Heythrop” pack meet; Oh! the last dreams of hunting and hounds shall depart, Ere the runs I’ve there witness’d shall fade from my heart.
Yet it was not that nature had here laid the scene, ’Midst her thickets of “Bullfinch” and pasturage green; ’Twas not the sweet music o’er fence, brook, and hill, Oh! no, it was something more heart-stirring still.
’Twas that those we had long known were oftentimes near, Who could make our pursuits and amusements more dear; And who felt how the true joys of hunting improve, When riding _with_ friends and _to_ hounds that we love.
Sweet vale of the Evenlode! ne’er may I rest Deposed in thy blue mud, but on with the best May I ride, till our pastime with daylight shall cease, And our brandies-and-waters be mingled in peace.
J. R. G. From _Hints to Freshmen in the University of Oxford_. (J. Vincent, Oxford.)
――――
METROPOLITAN MELODIES.
There’s not in the wide world an odour less sweet Than the stench that’s exhaled where the Thames’ waters meet! Oh, the last sense of smelling my nostrils must close, Ere the stench of those waters offends not my nose!
Vile scent of Thamesis, howe’er can I rest, And know you, perchance, may engender a pest Till the law, bidding shameful monopolies cease, Let’s us wash in, or drink, our pure water in peace?
_Punch_, June, 1850.
Another, and a very similar parody, on the same unsavoury topic, appeared in _Punch_, July 17th, 1858.
――――
“A SONG OF THE SEASON”
O, there’s not in the West-End a valet so sweet As our JEAMES when with drawing-room bouquet complete; With the light “_œil de poudré_” on his side-curls so smart, And where his back-hairs so symmetrically part!
’Tis not that he shows his six feet all serene, In the reddest of red and the greenest of green: ’Tis not his _grand airs_――gazing nursemaids that kill―― O no, it is something more wonderful still!
’Tis the thought how amazing a product is bred From the finest of shapes and the emptiest head, When in folly’s first flight launched to dazzle the eye, Clad in all that’s most foolish of fashions gone by!
Most fragrant of valets, sought Folly a nest, The sweetest she’d find in thy Glenfield-starched breast! Potten Row shall be riderless, Kensington dark, Ere the calves of that valet are driven from the Park!
_Punch_, April 20, 1872.
――――
There’s not in all London a tavern so gay, As that where the knowing ones meet of a day; So long as a farthing remains to my share, I’ll drink at that tavern, and never elsewhere!
Yet it is not that comforts there only combine, Nor because it produces good brandy and wine; ’Tis not the sweet odour of pipe nor cigar, Oh! no――’tis a something more cozie by far!
’Tis that friends of the Hell and the Turf are all nigh, Who’d drink till the cellar itself should be dry, And teach you to feel how existence may please, When pass’d in the presence of cronies like these.
Sweet Sign of the Fiddle! how long could I dwell In thy tap full of smoke, with the friends I love well! When bailiffs no longer the alleys infest, And duns, like their bills, have relapsed into rest!
From _Pickwick Abroad_, by George W. M. Reynolds.
――――
STEPHEN KEMBLE.
The following parody on the “Meeting of the Waters” emanated from the “Durham Wags,” and originally appeared in the _Durham Chronicle_. It was aimed at the late Stephen Kemble, whose frequent visits to Wynyard (the seat of Lord Stewart, afterwards Marquis of Londonderry) used to be celebrated by the _great_ actor in poetry that was anything but “first rate.” “Noble Stewart the Patriot” was a favorite expression with him:――
“There is not in the wide world a mansion so sweet As the Hall where ‘my Lord’ and ‘my Lady’ I meet: Their kind invitations such pleasure impart, _That_ house can be never erased from my heart.
“It is not that well-polished tables so fine Within its apartments resplendently shine; It is not the green trees that round it I see: Oh no! there is something more pleasing to _me_!
“’Tis because ‘Noble Stewart the Patriot’ is there, With his Lady so lovely, so charming, and fair; And who make all their tables in beauty improve When they spread them with dishes that dearly I love.
“Hail, sweetest of mansions! how should I be blest, If I e’er might dwell _there_ with the food I love best; Then the pangs I now draw from my crack’d harp should end, And in stuffing and cramming my days would I spend.
Mr. S. Kemble resided for many years at “The Grove” near Durham. He is buried in the “Chapel of the Nine Altars,” in Durham Cathedral.
――――
THE IRISH WELCOME.
There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, As the vale where the beef and the white cabbage meet; With potatoes galore, and strong beer at one end, In one corner yourself, in the other your friend.
But it was not that Nature had shed o’er those scenes The head of white cabbage, instead of bad greens; But, when that was all over we had potheen in store, With a welcome I’d give it, which makes it much more,
Then no more of your valleys, with your mountains so high, Where there’s nought to be had but a bleak wind and sky! But come to the cottage, where plenty you’ll see, With a “_Keith mille falthee_,” you’re welcome to me.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
THE TRIFLE.
There’s not in the wide world so tempting a sweet As that Trifle where custard and macaroons meet; Oh! the latest sweet tooth from my head must depart, Ere the taste of that Trifle shall not win my heart.
Yet it is not the sugar that’s thrown in between, Nor the peel of the lemon so candid and green; ’Tis not the rich cream that’s whipp’d up by a mill, Oh, no! it is something more exquisite still.
’Tis that nice macaroons in the dish I have laid, Of which a delicious foundation is made; And you’ll find how the last will in flavor improve, When soak’d with the wine that you pour in above.
Sweet _plateau_ of Trifle! how great is my zest For thee, when spread o’er with the jam I love best, When the cream white of eggs――to be over thee thrown, With the whisk kept on purpose――is mingled in one!
_Punch_, March 20, 1852.
――――
THE BITTER CRY OF OUTCAST LONDON. Prize parody in _The Weekly Dispatch_, November 25, 1883.
There is not in the wide world a fester so foul As the slums where the outcasts of Babylon prowl, Oh, the last trace of pity and ruth must depart Ere the gloom of those alleys shall pass from my heart.
Yet it was not that squalor had shed o’er the spot The stench of her stews and the reek of her rot; ’Twas not the grim presence of Death and Disease―― Oh, no! it was something more shocking than these.
’Twas that fiends――the familiars of Mammon――were here, Who made every dear scene of extortion more dear, And who felt no remorse, while they left unimproved, The dens whence they drew the rack-rents that they loved.
Sad outcasts of Babylon! How shall ye rest While the vampires are sucking the blood from your breast? Or how shall the storms that beat over you cease, While your hearts, like your quarters, are strangers to peace?
T. A. WILSON.
――――
Highly commended:
There is not in the wide world a city so great As the Babylon mistress of Britain’s proud State, Oh, the last rays of feeling and life must depart Ere the mem’ries of London shall fade from my heart.
Yet it was not that wealth had made radiant the scene With splendour of pomp and with glory of sheen! ’Twas not the bright magic of palace or hall―― Oh, no! it was something more wondrous than all.
’Twas that Poverty’s sin-stricken children were there, Darkly gathered, and pent in foul homes of despair; And I felt as I gazed on their black haunts of shame, That, though evil defiled them, mankind’s was the blame.
Dark city of London! Within thy deep breast There are poor without hope, and forlorn without rest. And, ah! when shall the woes of thy wretched ones cease, And a wise-taught humanity kindly give peace?
ARAMIS.
――――
THE METEING OF THE WATERS.
There is not, in the Session, a joke so complete As the sight when the Tories and Turtlemen meet In conflict direct about water-supply, And when Randy to Fowler gives “one in the eye.”
That double-chinn’d joker, great Harcourt, must shake As Coope the Conservative benches doth rake With his verbal stern-chasers; acidulous Firth Must be moved to a Mephistophelian mirth.
Oh, it _must_ be some sly compensation, if slight, For delay of _their_ Measure, to witness the fight ’Twixt the old Corporation, their long-threatened foe, And those bad Water Companies, equally so.
The Municipal Bill may be under a cloud, But to hear cheeky Churchill demanding aloud What’s the _use_ of an Alderman, verily, this Must mitigate bile by one moment of bliss.
The meteing of waters may be a small point, When they hold the whole City is quite out of joint; But this pleasant reflection must comfort their breast, “When rogues tumble out,”――well, the world knows the rest!
_Punch_, March, 1884.
――――
THE WEEKLY DISPATCH PARODY COMPETITION.
“The Meeting of the Waters” was again chosen for imitation by the above journal, and the following parodies were published on August 10, 1884. The prize of two guineas was awarded to Mr. B. Saunders for the following:――
THE THAMES.
There is not in broad England so doubtful a treat As a trip on the Thames ’twixt Blackwall and Purfleet. Oh, the slumbers of Death on my eyelids must close Ere the bare recollection shall fade from my nose.
Yet ’twas not that the banks were more grimy than green, Nor rough were the waters that glided between; ’Twas neither sea-sickness nor fear made me ill; Oh, no, it was something more horrible still.
’Twas that London had poured all its filth and its stink In the river, which flowed with the blackness of ink; And I smelt――O ye gods! can no measure improve This river of sewage that Londoners love?
Sweet valley of Thames――(here I speak of the west, Where Richmond and Kew smile on waters more blest); Oh, when shall this plague spot polluting thee cease, And thy waters to ocean flow purely in peace?
Highly commended:――
There is not in the wide world a maiden so sweet As the lass for whose favour my bosom doth beat. Oh, the best hope I cherish in gloom would depart If that maid should grow fickle, and heed not my heart.
Yet it is not that Nature hath dowered her face With brightest of beauty and sweetest of grace; ’Tis not the dear magic of figure or feet; Oh, no, she’s the ugliest girl in the street.
’Tis that gold, the desired of my bosom, is there, Which makes ev’ry grim line of deformity fair; And which gives me the courage to smile when I see Her blue nose at the window reflected on me,
Sweet maiden, so wealthy, how happy I’d rest Quaffing “fizz” on thy gold with the chums I love best; Then the tortures I feel in borrowing would cease, And my duns, like old friends, be all smiling in peace.
ARAMIS.
There is not in this wide world a fraud so complete As the vetoing power of the Lords’ _corps d’élite_; Oh, faint must the heart be that beats in his breast, Who in serfdom like this is contented to rest.
It is not that Nature unkindly denies To his lordship a brain of the average size; Nor because he resembles the people he rules, Who, according to Carlyle, are most of them fools.
’Tis because, not content with his ill-gotten swag, He would tear from the toiler his last tattered rag, And give to the Franchise the knock on the head That he tried on the measure for giving him bread.
Gilded Chamber of Horrors! you’re fated to go―― There is room for your relics with Madame Tussaud; For the time has come round when Obstruction must cease, Hark! the cry of “Move off!” from the Commons’ police!
H.B.
There is not, to the poet, a pleasure so sweet As to win the two guineas for which we compete. Oh, the joy I’d be feeling if you’d only “part” Would instil some new energy into my heart.
Yet it is not that lately I’ve frequently seen That my name ’mongst the “highly commended” has been; ’Tis not the sweet pleasure of this that can fill; Oh, no, I want something more tangible still.
’Tis the money that’s useful in ev’ry career, And the first fruit of authorship ever most dear; And I wonder if ever my verse will improve Till, no longer rejected, I gain what I love.
Good judge of our excellence, calm would I rest If I thought you’d adjudge this endeavour the best; When the guineas would come, my small store to increase, And the coins in my pocket be jingled in peace.
EDWARD A. HORNE.
There is not in the wide club a room that’s so sweet As the lounge in whose bosom the baccy wreaths meet; Oh, the last train may go, the last hansom depart, Ere the charm of the smoke-room shall cease for my heart.
Yet it is not that care has spread over the scene The easiest chairs in their leather of green; ’Tis not in the sodas and B. that we fill; Oh, no, there is something more exquisite still.
’Tis that chums of the oldest are all puffing near, With stories and jokes to club gossips most dear; And who feel how the odours of baccy improve When surrounding the humorous faces we love.
Sweet haunt of a smoker! here weary brains rest In thy fragrance and shade with the pipes they love best; Where the worries of life for an hour or two cease, And our meerschaums, like autumn leaves, colour in peace.
J. PRATT.
――――:o:――――
THE MEETING OF THE EMPERORS AT SKIERNIEVICE.
There is not in the wide world a town with a name Queer as that to whose bosom the Emperors came; Oh! ev’n than the treadmill the labour were worse―― That town with the queer name to squeeze into verse!
But not of that town or its name do we treat, But the reason would know why the Emperors meet; The _quid-nuncs_ look wise, but――explain it who can?―― What the mischief’s the mischief those Emperors plan?
Are those heads, so beloved of their peoples, brought near To bring on a war ere the close of the year, Or, adopting the principle, “_Lex sibi Rex_,” The unoccupied parts of the globe to annex?
Ah! town with the queer name, how calm should we rest Could our hearts of the comforting thought be possessed That the storms we most dread in this dark world would cease, And that meeting of Emperors really mean Peace!
_Moonshine_, September 27, 1884.
――――:o:――――
COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE.
Come, send round the wine, and leave plans of reform To patriot asses and radical tools; In the den of corruption we fatten and swarm, Then let’s keep our places and laugh at the fools. Your place may be easy, and mine may be hard; But while the cash comes from the Treasury chest, The fool who’d relinquish his _honest_ reward, Deserves not to eat or to drink of the best.
Shall I ask the _old fogie_, who sits by my side And plunders the hive, if our tenets agree? Shall I give up my friend, who for bribery was tried? If he kneel not before the same altar with me? From the Catholic girl of my heart shall I fly To seek somewhere else for a Protestant kiss? No. Perish the placeman that ever would try To value his place by a standard like this.
To us ’tis all one whether Catholic Peers Get into the House or for ever stay out; And as for the Radicals, we have no fears, Though they bawl for retrenchment and kick up a rout. Then feather your nests well, and push round the bowl Success to TAXATION! that magical word Is the true source of plenty, and sheds o’er the soul Of a placeman more joy than aught else can afford.
From _The Spirit of the Public Journals_, 1825.
――――:o:――――
BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS.
Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly to day, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away. Thou would’st still be ador’d, as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still.
* * * * * T. MOORE.
_Mr. Colburn’s reflections when gazing on the piles of unsold, copies of_ LADY MORGAN’S _works_.
Believe me if all those damn’d musty old works, Which I gaze on so sadly to-day, Were to sell by to-morrow to Heathens or Turks, And so be got out of my way, They might still be abused, as this moment they must, Let their pages be read as they will, And around their cloth binding the dirt and the dust Might entwine themselves verdantly still!
It was not till old Lady Morgan had flown To my neighbours in Conduit-street dear, That the worthless, _half-price_ of her works could be known Which so long have laid mouldering here. Oh, the books that are truly damn’d never will sell, But are truly damn’d on to the close; So their publishers wished, when their value so fell, They had fall’n on her Ladyship’s toes.
_The National Omnibus_, April 15, 1831.
――――
ON THE HOUSE OF LORDS THROWING OUT THE REFORM BILL.
Believe me if all that demolish’d plate glass, Which I cannot observe without pain; Could be made by to-morrow one glittering mass, And fixed in your windows again. They would soon be in holes, as this moment they are, Let the panes be as thick as they will; And around thy fine mansion each mob from afar Would collect itself angrily still!
Oh! it is not while windows thus smash’d are thine own, Presenting an aspect so drear, That the furious rage of a mob can be known, ’Gainst a proud Borough-mongering Peer! No, the vote of the Tory will ne’er be forgot Till the bill has passed into an act; Like your head, my dear Marquis, repair them or not, Your windows till then will be crack’d!
_Figaro in London_, December 17, 1831.
――――
BELIEVE ME, DEAR SUSAN, IF ALL THOSE YOUNG CHARMS.
Believe me, dear Susan, if all those young charms Which I meet on my beat ev’ry day, Were to seek for protection B. 53’s arms, Like the maiden does Brown’s in the play, I should still from your area, dear, never depart, But notice each dish on the sill; And if in the safe there were only sheep’s heart, I should gull you――for you’re verdant still.
It is not while cold pigeon pies are your own, Or you spill master’s cask of best beer, That the faith of a p’liceman can always be known, That’s all gammon, you know, Susan dear. For the peeler that’s steadfast of course never lets Life’s poetry mix with its prose; For his love is as warm as the sun, when it sets On the larder which steams ’neath his nose.
_Diogenes_, Vol. 3, p. 209, 1854.
――――
TO A LADY.
Believe me, if all those voluminous charms Which thy fondness for fashion betray, And keep e’en thy nearest relations at arm’s Distance――some paces away: Were those air tubes now blown up exploded outright, And those hoops trundled off thee as well, With less ample a skirt thou would’st look less a fright, And more belle-like when less like a bell.
’Tis not by mere Swells taste in dressing is shown, And that size is not beauty ’tis clear; Nay, the shapeliest forms when balloon-like out blown, Both distorted and ugly appear. Then heed not what fashions _le Follet_ may set, Be enslaved by no follies like those; For be sure that your dresses, the wider they get, The more narrow your mind is disclose.
_Punch_, October 17, 1857.
(Ladies were then wearing very large crinolines.)
――――
JOHN BULL TO PADDY
Believe me, if all those unfounded alarms, Which circulate every day, Proved true by to-morrow, and Fenian arms Were uplifted to plunder and slay, We should still hold our own, with unterrified heart, Let the outrages be what they will, And our motto (however our injuries smart) Should be “JUSTICE TO IRELAND!” still.
It is not to scoundrels, whom patriots disown, And whom Erin has reason to fear, That the meaning of FREEDOM can truly be known, Nor the cause of “OLD IRELAND” be dear. No! the heart of the PATRIOT never forgets ’Tis not _thus_ he should conquer his foes, And the emblem on which his reliance he sets IS THE SHAMROCK ENTWINED WITH THE ROSE.
_Echoes from the Clubs_, December 25, 1867
――――
JOHN BRIGHT TO HIS PLACE.
Believe me if all those endearing young charms That I share with such rapture to-day, Were to fade by to-morrow at Tory alarms, Collapsing both office and pay! Thou wouldst still be as dear as this moment thou art, Let Conservatives boast as they will, And round the lost Council each wish of my heart Would entwine itself Liberal still.
It is not when Gladstone and Lowe are thine own, And thy Childers confiscates the pens That the ferment and fume of a Bright can be thrown, Who can roar down the biggest of Bens―― Oh! the tongue of the Demagogue never can rest, But as glibly runs on to the close, For the Cabinet’s glories are brief at the best, And a mob may be useful, who knows.
_Will-o’-the wisp_, May 15, 1869.
――――
TO AN ANCIENT COQUETTE.
Believe me if all those affected young charms Which I gaze on so sadly to-day, Were to change by to morrow and fleet in my arms, Like fairy gifts fading away. Thou would’st still be abhorred as this moment thou art Mocking beauty so vainly and ill, For around such a ruin no wish of my heart Could entwine itself, or ever will.
Nay, rather leave rouge and pearl powder alone, And thy cheeks unprofaned by a smear, That nature’s own beauty in age may be known, And the autumn of life calm and clear. The heart that is true to itself never frets For the tints of the lily and rose, And the sun of affection should glow when it sets, Even purer than when it arose.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
Believe me, if all those most solemn-faced dons, Whom we’ve seen at St. Mary’s to-day, Were to get in a body, and tuck up their gowns, And down Market-place caper away; They would still be _adored_ as this moment they are, Let their dignity fare as it will; And at them, with wondering awe from afar, The Freshmen gaze _verdantly_ still.
But while they are clothed in glossy silk gown And cap best obtainable here, Their features are scanned by the Freshmen and known, So that time only makes them _less dear_, For when once he’s been gated he never forgets, But steadily swears to the close At the Tutor, who bounds to his out-goings sets, Or for Chapel disturbs his repose.
_The Lays of the Mocking Sprite_, by E. B. (Cambridge.)
――――
Believe me, if all that roast pork which with zest I devoured at dinner to-night, Were to bring indigestion and lie on my chest Like a log, putting slumber to flight, It would still be my favourite dish, as of yore, Let my sufferings be what they will, And round the crisp crackling and stuffing galore My thoughts linger lovingly still!
It is not while playing a good knife and fork, When your frame’s undisturbed by a throe, That the thought of the horrors attendant on pork Will be likely to fill you with woe. No! ’tis only when several _hours_ have flown, That pale Nemesis steals from her lair, And as on your pillow you fidget and groan, You feel that “roast pig” is a snare!
F. B. DOVETON. _Judy_, March 9, 1881.
――――
Believe me, that all these delusive alarms That the Tories so recklessly float Are but meant, like the silly cry, “Ulster to arms!” As a trap for the Liberal vote. Since you gave them the sack, they imagine (good lack!) They can wriggle, by foul means or fair, In spite of consistency, just to get back Into Downing-street, Parliament-square!
But you know very well, from my action of old, It’s on me you can always depend; If you lean on the Dissidents, then you’ll be sold―― It’s not Joseph, but William’s your friend! All their high-sounding talk hides but envy and pride, Though their tone is so soft and so fair; ’Tis for you to decide whom you’ll have to preside At 10, Downing-street, Parliament-square.
ABRACADABRA. _The Weekly Dispatch._ June 27, 1886.
――――:o:――――
“OH, BLAME NOT THE BARD.”
Ah, blame not the Bard if his frantic endeavours At compassing _kudos_ should constantly fail, Nor blame Mr. Warden when circumstance severs The ties of his home and consigns him to jail; The Bard would be willing, and yearns to be able, To thrill the whole world to its innermost soul, And Warden would cheerfully grace his own table, But “circumstance over which _we’ve_ no control.”
Oh, blame not the British Museum for showing Its autotype Raphaels all of a row, For wert thou “originals” on them bestowing They’d hang them with pleasure I happen to know; And blame not the troops in the Soudan for straying Unlinked with their base as they press to their goal―― It is, though, undaunted the front they’re displaying, A “circumstance over which _they’ve_ no control.”
* * * * *
Oh, blame not the walrus that’s come to West_minster_ If loneliness makes him to set up a howl, How often the same has occurred to the spinster Who sits by her parrot and cat, cheek by jowl; And blame not the Frenchman with China who quarrels, Though sad be his lot and unhappy his dole, But just count his strange international morals A “circumstance over which _he’s_ no control.”
Oh, blame not the people in Salt Lake its city, Who’re sending out parties to proselytize; They’ve suffered from wives, and they think it’s a pity That others should not have to suffer likewise; And blame not the Bard if his verses are prosy, And move with a steadily slumberous roll, The fact that he makes all the universe dozy Is “a circumstance over which _he’s_ no control.”
_Fun_, November, 1883.
――――:o:――――
(_Air_――“Love’s young dream.”)
Oh! the days are gone when beauty bright Her own hair wore, Oh, a girl was not an awful fright In days of yore. Now, eyes may leer――false teeth appear, And painted be each face; But there nothing half so beautiful As Grace――sweet Grace.
Oh! those lovely girls are ne’er forgot, Mine eye once traced: No “Chignons” huge, or scanty skirts, Their forms disgraced. Now “Taste” has fled――from heel to head, All ugliness we trace, Ah! there’s nothing half so beautiful As Grace――sweet Grace.
From _The Girl of the Period Miscellany_, May 1869.
――――:o:――――
LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.
Lesbia hath a beaming eye, But no one knows for whom it beameth; Right and left its arrows fly, But what they aim at no one dreameth. Sweeter ’tis to gaze upon My Nora’s lid that seldom rises; Few its looks, but every one, Like unexpected light, surprises! Oh, my Nora Creina, dear, My gentle, bashful Nora Creina, Beauty lies In many eyes, But love in yours, my Nora Creina. * * * * * T. MOORE.
――――
THE SLOE-BLACK PEEPER.
Peggy hath a squinting eye, But no one knows at what it squinteth; Right and left her glances fly, But what they glance at, no one hinteth; Sweeter ’tis to gaze upon My Nancy’s roguish sloe-black peeper; Few its looks, but every one Strikes sly Cupid’s arrows deeper! Oh, my black-eyed Nancy, dear! My pretty, roguish black-eyed Nancy! I despise Peg’s squinting eyes, But sloe black peepers please my fancy.
Peggy wears her dresses high, And then her stays so tight she’ll lace ’em; Not a charm can one espy, Tho’ busy fancy tries to trace ’em. Oh, my Nancy’s gown for me, That floats as wild as mountain breezes, Leaving every beauty free, To rise or fall as nature pleases! Yes, my black-eyed Nancy, dear! My plump and playful black-eyed Nancy! Nature’s dress Is loveliness, And _yours_, like _hers_, just suits my fancy.
Peggy’s mouth to grin’s inclin’d, But ’mongst her teeth there’s ne’er a white one; And then they look as if design’d To snap at, or perhaps, to bite one! But Nancy’s iv’ries, oh, how clean! And then her breath is sweet as roses; And lips were never redder seen, Nor aught more straight than Nancy’s nose is: Oh, my black-eyed Nancy dear! My pretty, roguish black-eyed Nancy! How I prize Your sloe-black eyes, But squinting Peg’s I ne’er can fancy.
From _The Spirit of the Public Journals_, 1825.
――――
BOILED CHICKEN.
Lesbia hath a fowl to cook But, being anxious not to spoil it, Searches anxiously our book, For how to roast, and how to boil it. Sweet it is to dine upon―― Quite alone, when small its size is And, when cleverly ’tis done, Its delicacy quite surprises. Oh! my tender pullet dear! My boiled――not roasted――tender chicken, I can wish No other dish, With thee supplied, my tender chicken!
Lesbia, take some water cold, And having on the fire placed it, And some butter, and be bold―― When ’tis hot enough――taste it. Oh! the chicken meant for me Boil before the fire grows dimmer, Twenty minutes let it be, In the saucepan left to simmer, Oh! my tender chicken dear! My boil’d delicious, tender chicken! Rub the breast (To give a zest) With lemon-juice, my tender chicken,
Lesbia hath with sauce combined Broccoli white, without a tarnish; ’Tis hard to tell if ’tis designed For vegetable or for garnish. Pillow’d on a butter’d dish, My chicken temptingly reposes, Making gourmands for it wish, Should the savor reach their noses. Oh, my tender pullet dear! My boiled――not roasted――tender chicken! Day or night, Thy meal is light, For supper, e’en, my tender chicken.
_Punch._
――――
CRINOLINA.
Lesbia’s skirt doth streaming fly, But none observes how full it streameth; Right and left the men go by, But of remarking no one dreameth. Bolder ’tis to dare put on My Lina’s skirts of extra sizes; Light she seems, but every one By unexampled bulk surprises. Oh, my Crinolina dear, My pavement-filling Crinolina, Beauty lies In mod’rate size, But _Ton_ in your’s, my Crinolina!
Lesbia’s dress keeps out the cold, Good taste, good sense, all feel, have graced it; But _Ton_ approval must withhold, There’s not a breadth of stuff in’t wasted! Oh, my Lina’s skirt for me, That swells balloon-like on the breezes, Letting everybody see How far stuff _can_ go, if it pleases! Yes, my Crinolina dear, My rustling bell-shaped Crinolina, Taste in dress Can’t well be less Than _you_ display, my Crinolina!
Lesbia hath a waist refined, But with such mod’rate drapery round it, Who can tell her heart’s confined, From breaking bounds, when Love hath found it. Pillowed safe, my Lina’s heart Within her miles of skirt reposes, Beyond the flight of Cupid’s dart,―― Poor Love quite lost among the rows is. Oh, my Crinolina dear, Expansive and expensive Lina, Waist less tight, Skirts less a sight, Indulge in, do, my Crinolina!
_Punch_, November 8, 1856.
――――
TO MARK LEMON, ESQ. SONG. (Air: _Lesbia hath a Beaming Eye_.)
Lemon is a little hipped, And this is Lemon’s true position; He is not pale, he’s not white-lipped, Yet wants a little fresh condition.
Sweeter it is to gaze upon Old Ocean’s rising, falling billers, Than on the houses every one That form the street called Saint Anne’s Villers.
Lemon hath a coat of frieze, But all so seldom Lemon wears it, That it is a prey to fleas, And every moth that’s hungry tears it.
Oh! that coat’s the coat for me, That braves the railway sparks and breezes, Leaving every engine free To wear it till the owner sneezes.
Then, my Lemon, sound and fat, Oh, my bright, my right, my tight ’un, Think a little what you’re at―― On Tuesday next come down to Brighton.
CHARLES DICKENS, 1855. Published in _London Society_, October, 1875.
――――
THE CHAUNT OF THE COCKNEY SWELL. (AIR――“_This Life is all Chequer’d with Pleasures and Woes._”)
This suit is all chequer’d with crosses and stripes, Which I wear as I walk by the wide winkley deep. I am one of the tourist world’s toppingest types, And I purchased these togs in Cheapside on the cheap. So closely they fit to my elegant shape, That the fall in my back every optic may see; And, if you should take an Apollo and drape Him in chocolate tweed, he would look much like me. Just tottle me up! I’m all in it, dear boy, With tile ever shiny and boots ever tight; Like all Things of Beauty, for ever a joy, The envy of toffs, and the ladies’ delight.
When I stroll on the sands all the girls try to count The number of pockets my garments display: There are twenty, all told,――’tis a tidy amount, Though there is’nt much in them, I’m sorry to say. There are many like me who in youth would have tasted The fountain of Pleasure that flows by the brine, But their precious small “screws” they on tipsters have wasted, And left all their pockets as empty as mine. But let’s have a liquor! ’tis jolly good fun To do the cheap toff in the Hall by the Sea! Though I may’nt sport a mag when my holiday’s done, Go it stiff while you can, is the motto for me!
――――:o:――――
OH! THE SHAMROCK.
Through Erin’s Isle, To sport awhile, As Love and Valour wander’d, With Wit, the sprite, Whose quiver bright A thousand arrows squander’d. Where’er they pass A triple grass Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming, As softly green As Emerald’s seen Through purest crystal gleaming. Oh the Shamrock, the green immortal Shamrock! Chosen leaf Of Bard and Chief, Old Erin’s native Shamrock!
T. MOORE.
* * * * *
THE SCARECROWS.
O’er Erin’s Isle, in rule awhile, What British knaves have blundered! Their state misused, and power abused―― And prisoned, packed, and plundered. But soon or late, they met the fate, That evil in despair knows; We tore in rags, their tinsel tags, And set them up as scarecrows. Oh, the scarecrows, No wind that foul or fair blows, But shakes awhile The tatters vile Of Ireland’s sorry scarecrows.
First Forster came, and linked his name With certain ammunition, His burly nod sent folks to quod, Of high and low condition; Yet came the day when far away, We saw the Yorkshire bear go And take his place in dire disgrace A grim and gruffy scarecrow! Oh, the scarecrow No village bantam dare crow, Till Buckshot fell In Failure’s Hell From which ne’er rose a scarecrow!
Came Cowper next with tidy text (To gospel-writ a stranger), Deep under ground to drive where found All discontent and danger; But if he did, the seeds he hid The morrow saw in air grow, While prospects marred he mounted guard, A most disgusted scarecrow. Oh, the scarecrow Can annals anywhere show A weaker fool Sent, _men_ to rule Than this poor ragged scarecrow.
Trevelyan tried, sneered, whined and lied, To please his precious master, But “Indian meal” nor “even keel” Could save him from disaster. Alas, poor Pinch! we inch by inch, Brought you to wreck and care low, It seems to me, of all the three, You made the meanest scarecrow. Oh, the scarecrow, We’d honour give to fair foe, But scorn and hate Must ever wait The memory of this scarecrow.
Not last nor least, the great Arch Priest, Of red and raw repression, Whom Fame shall yoke with deeds unspoke, And devil-wrought transgression; Ah, Foxy Jack, your British pack, Shall shortly in the rear go, Of him who fled in gloom and dread, A failed and beaten scarecrow. Oh, the scarecrow Our boys from Howth to Clare know, To hear the joints Of Johnny Poyntz Groan dry like any scarecrow.
So friends shall fall the strangers all, Who seek to crush our nation; Nor rope nor “soap” can hope to cope With grim determination; And while our tree of liberty, More branching green and fair grows, Our museum shall filled become With sick and sorry scarecrows. Oh, the scarecrows! No wind that foul or fair blows, But shakes awhile The tatters vile Of Ireland’s sorry scarecrows.
DRAILIN. From _United Ireland_ October 10, 1885.
――――:o:――――
SONG FOR A THIN-THATCHED DANDY. (Air――“_One Bumper at Parting._”)
One more try at parting! Not many Locks circle my head, I regret; But a few, the most hardy of any, Are left on the crown of it yet. ’Tis a ticklish task to divide them, In well-balanced head-central fringe; These patches cost labour to hide them, Give vanity many a twinge. But come――every sproutling I treasure―― Thine aid O Macassar! I beg; Though I own――who can face it with pleasure?―― I’m getting as bald as an egg!
As older we grow, how unpleasant To pause and reflect with distaste That the few scattered spikes seen at present, Must merge in wide calvity’s (?) waste! But Time, a most pitiless master, Cries “Onward!” and mows off one’s crop, Ah! never does Time travel faster Than when one desires him to stop. No, Age cannot trip to Youth’s measure, With paunch and a spindle shanked leg, And I own――though it is not with pleasure―― I’m getting as bald as an egg!
_Punch’s Almanac_, 1883.
――――:o:――――
THE YOUNG MAY MOON.
The young May moon is beaming, love, The glow worm’s lamp is gleaming, love, How sweet to rove Through Morna’s grove, When the drowsy world is dreaming, love.
* * * * * T. MOORE.
――――
THE IRISHMAN’S SERENADE.
The full new moon is old, my love, You’ve got plenty of money, I’m told, my love, So your knocker I’ll ring, And my love I will sing, Though I’ve get a most shocking bad cold, my love,
Then awake, for my love is so hot, my dear, That without you I’ll soon go to pot, my dear; For my shirt, at your clack, Would stick close to my back,―― But the devil a shirt have I got, my dear.
Like a cat my watch I’m keeping, love, For no bed have I got to sleep in, love; So honey look down, And smile me a frown, From your eye so beautiful peeping, love.
Old Time, like the gutter does run, my dear, So pry thee mock modesty shun, my dear; Have me, I’ll have you, And though still we’ll be two, All Kilkenny will take us for one, my dear.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
THE BLADDER OF WHISKEY.
The Cats on the tiles are squalling, love And the watchmen past twelve are bawling, love, So step down this ladder, For I’ve, in a bladder, Some whisky, that “drink me” is calling, love.
I’ve had nothing to-day but porter love, With some glasses of gin and water, love, So if you come down, I’ll lay you a crown That this bladder we quickly will slaughter, love.
I’ve some onions, and bread, and cheese, my love, And some Scotch snuff to make you sneeze, my love, So since I’m so pressing, Pray don’t wait for dressing, But come down as quick as you please, my love.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
THE CAT’S SERENADE.
The lamps are faintly gleaming, love, The thief on his walk is scheming, love! And its sweet to crawl O’er the dead wall, While the tabbies are gently screaming, love. Then put out one paw so white, my dear, The housetops are covered with light, my dear, Through the day, at our ease, We’ll sleep when we please, And we’ll ramble abroad through the night, my dear.
Now all the world is sleeping, love! But the _bobby_ his night-watch keeping, love! And I who wait, On this cold, cold slate, While you’re at the mouse-hole peeping, love! Then, awake, till rise of sun, my dear, And we’ll have a rare old time, my dear; But if you look shy, Faith it’s all in my eye, For away with another I’ll run, my dear.
――――
THE OLD MARCH MOON.
The old March moon is beaming, love; The quarter-day dawn is gleaming, love, ’Tis meet to move From the floor above, When the landlord below is dreaming, love. Wide awake! for the peeler’s light is near, And I yesterday made him “all right” my dear. And the best of all ways Upon quarter-rent days, Is to make him wink at our flight, my dear,
Now the landlord, I’ve said, is sleeping, love, And his watch the peeler is keeping, love, And you and I are To be off and afar Ere he at our actions be peeping, love. So, awake! let it quickly be done, my dear; For if he tired become, my dear, He may turn on his light, As on thieves in flight, And take us two for one, my dear.
_Diogenes_, March 1854.
――――
SONG OF THE SIGNALMAN.
The rain through the night is streaming, love, The signal lamps are gleaming, love, I _must_ keep on the move, Or this somnolent cove Would soon be asleep and a-dreaming, love! So awake!――the Express is in sight, my dear, I’ve been at it since dawn of light, my dear, For one of the ways By which Railwaydom pays, Is to keep us at work day and night, my dear!
You, and most people, now are sleeping, love, But my watch, in my box, I am keeping, love, For the red or green star I must note from afar, Though the sleep ’neath my eyelids is creeping, love. I’ve been working since rise of sun, my dear. Fourteen hours, and I’m not yet done, my dear. Oh, to watch day and night For the signal light Is――Directors think――capital fun my dear!
_Punch_, October 10, 1885.
――――
DEFEATED MANŒUVRES.
“The Marquis is _not_ to be won, Mamma; My advances he seems to shun, Mamma! I appeal to you What _am_ I to do? Oh, tell me what’s next to be done, Mamma.”
“Have you sat by his lordship’s side, my child? And every blandishment tried, my child? Have you heaved deep sighs And looked in his eyes? And adroitly flattered his pride my child?”
“O yes, and I’ve done even more, Mamma: Things I never have done before, Mamma; For I fainted quite, In his arms last night, As we stood on the sea-girt shore, Mamma!”
“If the man is proof against _that_, my child, Why the sooner he takes his hat, my child; Between you and me, The better ’twill be. For you see he’s _not_ such a flat, my child!”
ANONYMOUS.
――――:o:――――
THE MINSTREL BOY.
The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you’ll find him: His father’s sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him.―― “Land of song” said the warrior-bard, “Though all the world betrays thee, “_One_ sword, at least thy rights shall guard, “_One_ faithful harp shall praise thee!”
* * * * * T. MOORE.
ON THE CATHOLIC EMANCIPATION MEETING AT PENENDEN HEATH.
Mister Sheil into Kent has gone, On Penenden Heath you’ll find him; Nor think you that he came alone, There’s Doctor Doyle behind him. “Men of Kent” said this little man, “If you hate Emancipation, You’re a set of fools,” he then began A “cut and dry” oration.
He strove to speak, but the men of Kent Began a grievous shouting, When out of his waggon the little man went, And put a stop to his spouting. “What though these heretics heard me not,” Quoth he to his friends Canonical; “My speech is safe in the _Times_ I wot, And eke in the _Morning Chronicle_.”
W. M. THACKERAY.
This parody is supposed to be the first composition by Thackeray that was ever published. It appeared in an Exeter newspaper soon after the great meeting, on the question of Catholic Emancipation, had been held on Penenden Heath.
――――
THE SAILOR BOY.
The Sailor Boy on a tour is gone―― In an Oxford crib you’ll find him His boxing gloves on his fives are drawn, And care is cast behind him. “Alic Reid,” said the bouncing cove, Are you the man to fight me? A turn-up let us have for love, And to _floor_ you will delight me.
But the Sailor Hero soon found out That for once he had made a blunder, For the Snob contriv’d to tap his snout, And poor Harry Jones knock’d under. “Ah!” he exclaim’d, to repine is vain, Why to fight did I feel so eager? I’ll never set to with the Snob again, When my head is confus’d with Seager.[122]
From Pierce Egan’s _Book of Sports_, 1832.
――――
THE “FANCY” PARODY.
The _leary cove_ to the mill is gone, In the P.C. ring you’ll find him, His blue bird’s eye he has girded on, And has left his flame behind him. Fancy sport, cried the _leary cove_, Though every _Beak_ betrays thee, One soul at least thy _sprees_ shall love, One faithful _chaunt_ shall praise thee.
The cove was _floor’d_, but he show’d high game, Nor like a cur knocked under. His _chaunt_ will ne’er be _clear_ again, For his nose was split asunder. Leary cove, said his _flame_ in a pet, Thou _pink_ of love and bravery, Since thou art floor’d, I’ll a service get, And spend my days in slavery.
From _Pierce Egan’s Book of Sports_, 1832.
――――
THE MINSTREL BOY.
The fiddlers boy to the fair is gone, In a rattling booth you’ll find him, With his master’s fiddle (for his own’s in pawn) In a green bag slung behind him. ‘House of malt.’ says the fiddling bard, Though all the world despise thee, One fiddler is left and will spend his last, If its only to patronize thee.
The fiddler drank till it got quite late, And the table he fell under, His fiddle was broke by the fall and weight And the cat-gut tore asunder. Says he ‘No one shall ever know, Thy sounds of jolly bravery,’ So he smacked across his knee the bow And he went to sleep quite savoury.
From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_, Dublin.
――――
A STRING OF POETIC PEARLS, APROPOS OF THE GREAT DIAMOND IN THE EXHIBITION OF 1851.
The Koh-i-noor to the wall has gone, Neglected now you’ll find it, With scarcely any one looking on, But a constable set to mind it.
How oft some silly wight, When prejudice has bound him, Gapes o’er the Mount of Light, With pickpockets around him!
All eyes and ears, the gem he nears; Away the crowd has started; While he looked on his purse is gone, And all but he departed.
_Punch_, August 9, 1851.
――――
THE CORDON BLEU. (_On the departure of M. Alexis Soyer for the Crimea_, July 1855.)
The Cordon Bleu to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you’ll find him: His snow white apron is girded on, And his magic Stove’s behind him. “Army beef” said the Cordon Bleu, “Though a stupid bungler slays thee, One skilful hand thy steaks shall stew, One artist’s pan shall braise thee.”
The cook went forth, and the foe in vain On his pets and pans did thunder, He thicked thin gravy, he sauced the plain, And he sliced coarse lumps asunder, And he cried “a cook can defy, you see, A Commissariat’s knavery; The soldier who saves a nation free, Should have a ration savoury.”
_Punch._ July 28, 1855.
――――
The Draper’s man to the war is gone In the foremost ranks you’ll find him, His knapsack he has buckled on, His tape yard left behind him. “Hands so strong,” cried the warrior, fired, “No woman’s work were made for; “Such sinew now for war’s required, “And more――will be well paid for!”
_Punch._ October 17, 1857.
There was another parody of the same original, commencing
“The Chinese boy to the war is gone”
in _Punch_, May 7, 1857, but it is of no interest now.
――――
THE ERRAND BOY TO THE BEERSHOP’S GONE.
The errand boy to the beershop’s gone, In front of the bar you’ll find him; His hat he has’nt stopp’d to put on, Nor to shut the door behind him. “Another pint?” says the barmaid there; “Yes, when you’ve paid for the first one! Of all the young rascals who come here, You really are the worst one!”
The youngster fell!――He had paid the cash, He’d got it for a wonder―― When over the step he tumbled――smash! His jug was broken asunder. He picked himself up:――Hurt? not he; He looked down at the running liquor: “Well, if I’d taken it home,” quoth he, “We could’nt have swallow’d it quicker.”
_Judy_, November 17, 1869.
――――
THE BEARDLESS BOY.
The Beardless Boy to the Race has gone, In the Betting Ring you’ll find him; His father’s till he has drawn upon, And his race-glass slung behind him. “‘Land’ I must, or it will go hard Should all my luck forsake me,” Remarked the youth, as he bought a Card, “And Policeman X may take me.”
* * * * *
He lost his bets, and his watch and chain, At which you’ll scarcely wonder; And as he rushed to catch a train, He tore his coat asunder; And said, “No one shall bully me, I’ll not submit to slavery! I won’t go home, but I’ll wander free, And take to a life of knavery!”
_Punch_, June 5, 1875.
――――
THE MINSTREL BOY.
The Minstrel Boy in the train has gone, In the third class you will find him, His concertina he plays upon, Or the fiddle that hangs behind him; “Child of Song,” cries the railway-guard, “Though bobbies oft betray thee, The Underground will thee reward, These foolish folk will pay thee.”
The Minstrel entered the railway train, But a rival knocked him under, Causing the Child of Song much pain, And his fiddle broke asunder, And said “Go back to your own countree, Thou dupe of Italian knavery; Music was made for the brave and free; And not to be used for slavery.”
_Funny Folks._
――――
REPUBLICANS, COME IN YOUR THOUSANDS.
Bradlaugh to protest is gone; In Hyde-park you will find him, Royal trips to speak upon: Now _who_ will stand beside him? “Sons of toil,” says the Radical bold, “Though all the Whigs betray ye, “One voice at least shall cry ‘_Withhold!_’ “One faithful heart shall serve ye.”
The grant is made! and once again The public purse they plunder; But if they try it on again, We’ll speak in tones of thunder:―― Milton wrote, Cromwell fought, Hampden died for freedom; Can heirs of liberty be taught To suffer slavish serfdom?
S. J. MIOTT, 1875.
――――
ON THE DUKE OF CAMBRIDGE.
The warrior duke to the review had gone, Amid the volunteers they find him; His hat and plume he had fastened on, And his gingham slung behind him. “Sangster’s best,” sang the warrior duke, “Though all the world does mock thee, “One eye at least shall on thee look, “To see no chaff shall shock thee.”
The rain came down, but the warrior duke Could not get his gingham under; The gingham he loved, by some awful fluke, Had its ribs all broken asunder. He wailed “The rain will fall on me, “The chief of England’s army; “My brand new clothes will spoil’d be; “Oh, take me home and dry me!”
――――
SONG FOR A CIVIC BANQUET, 1880.
The alderman from Guildhall has gone In the coffee tavern you’ll find him, The temperance badge he has girded on, And his old port chucked behind him. “Cold water pure!” sang the civic knight, “Though tipplers all deride thee, No other drink will I touch to-night, Though the teapot stands beside thee!”
The alderman fell! ’twas not champagne, But turtle, that brought him under The festive board, for the glass again He never touched, for a wonder! “Cold water is the drink for me,” Sang he in his Templar bravery; “A total abstainer I will be And shun King Alcohol’s slavery!”
_Judy_, December 1, 1880.
――――
THE GIRTON GIRL.
The Girton girl to Exam. has gone, In the Tripos list you’ll find her; In mathematics she always shone, And had left her mates behind her. “Woman’s rights,” said the learned fair, Though all the world may scold ye, _One_ brain at least for you shall dare, _One_ practised pen uphold ye!”
The men they failed!――since the papers set Very quickly knock’d them under; But no Examiner could get Anyhow that girl to blunder. She cried, “You Dons shan’t bully me, For fame I’m now an angler!” And fame rewarded her ways so free, As she came out Senior Wrangler!
_Funny Folks_, March 12, 1881.
(The Senate of Cambridge University had recently decided to admit female students, resident at either Girton or Newnham College, to the Tripos Examination.)
――――
THE GRAND OLD MINSTREL BOY.
THE NATIONAL EISTEDDFOD OF WALES.――Towards defraying the expenses of this annual literary meeting, the Prince of Wales had sent a sum of twenty guineas. Mr. Gladstone had consented to act as President on the closing day.
The Grand Old Boy to the wars will go, In the Jingoes’ ranks you’ll find him; With Dizzy’s sword he will strike a blow, And his own harp sling behind him. “Land of the Sphinx,” this warrior Bard Sings out, “Though tricks they play thee, One Grand Old Boy thy rights shall guard; By Jove, he won’t betray thee!”
So the Grand Old Boy takest rain from town―― With his harp the seat tucked under; And the Prince pays twenty guineas down To be out of it――and no wonder! But the closing day a song shall hear (May be noisier, may be quieter), With an _encore_ verse, that the heart will cheer Of a Music Hall Proprietor!
_Punch_, August 5, 1882.
――――
THE ECONOMICAL PEER.
The noble lord to the stores is gone, ’Mid the groceries you’ll find him; His biscuit-box he has girded on, And his jam-pot’s slung behind him. His parcels of goods he can scarce convey, All the brushes and soap he’s dropping; And he staggers about in a senseless way ’Neath the weight of his various shopping.
“Here economy reigns,” said the noble bard, “And it gladdens my heart to view it; A flea I’d skin for the worth of its lard, And here is the place to do it. What care _I_ for scoffs? They may jeer who please, I despise their paltry scandals! I shall twopence save on ten pounds of cheese, And three-halfpence on my candles!”
_Judy_, February 1, 1882.
――――
THE NORTH-WEST BOY.
Sir D. V. gay to the poll is gone, In the Tory ranks you’ll find him; A roll of pigtail he has girded on, And a grey goose slung behind him. “Blarney-lane,” said the feathery knight. “Though all the world betrays thee, Sweet spot where first I saw the light, One faithful heart shall praise thee!
But the knight he fell――’twas Hooper’s gain―― And it brought his small soul under; For the North-west Ward he’ll ne’er speak again; Nor her true burgesses sunder. “Alas!” said he, “my civic knell Was rung the day I left Parnell, For my country’s foes and bent the knee, To Buckshot and Castle slavery.”
MARY SHANDON. From _United Ireland_, December 8, 1883.
――――
A DIRGE! (_To be said, or sung, by the Electors of Northampton._)
Our Bradlaugh boy to the House is gone, In the Lobby there you’ll find him; Erskine his sword has girded on, And Denning is close behind him. “You can’t go in!” cried this trusty guard; “The Commons so decide it; The House perhaps acts rather hard, But _you_ must stay _out_side it!”
The Members fell to; but ’twas in vain To try “Denning to get under;” “Braddy” was floored again and again, And his top coat torn asunder; His hat was knocked right o’er his head, His corns and his bunions stampt on, And down he went more live than dead, To where he came from――Northampton!
――――
THE WAIL OF A DISTURBED SOUL.
The ’prentice boy to the street has gone, Among his chums you’ll find him; And he has ta’en his mel-o-de-on, His favourite tunes to grind ’em. “Balm of Gilead” loud they sing, As if they’d been hob-nobbin’; And then the midnight echoes ring To the wail of “Poor Cock Robin.”
“There now it’s “Over the Garden Wall”―― Shut up, you noisy crew, you! But list, the liquid rise and fall Of “Glory Hallelujah!” Will no one from a window take An aim, and damp their ardour? Alike for peaceful slumber’s sake, And for the tunes they murder!
I wonder will they knock off soon Great Handel! what a hobby! Ah, now they carol “Bonny Doon.” Confound it! Where’s the bobby? With their last notion I agree, And back that move to “carry” The bloomin’ lot to “Tennessee,” Or better, to “Old Harry”!
Oh, wandering minstrels of the night, A victim I would pray you, If you must put sweet dreams to flight, Rehearse “Far, far away,” do!
A. B.
――――
“THE GRAND YOUNG MAN”; OR THE MISLEADING BOY. (_A prophecy about Mr. Joseph Chamberlain._)
1885. “The Grand Young Man” to the front has come, At the head of the Rads you’ll find him: The mild Whig leaders are under his thumb, The G.O.M.’s far behind him. “Land for the mob” cries Brummagem Joe, “Let any one dare deny me; _One_ class alone has the right to crow―― Capitalists such as I be!”
1895. The “Young One” fell; but no sense of shame Could bring _his_ proud soul under, Though his wretched party earned the name Of “‘rifle, rob and plunder.’” Cried he “the blame don’t rest with me, Not in the knave’s the knavery, But in the fools who ought to see Yet sell themselves to slavery.”
_Moonshine_, October 10, 1885.
――――
THE GRAND YOUNG MAN.
The “Grand Young Man” on the “stump” has gone, In the Rads’ front rank you’ll find him, The spoilers’ axe he has girded on, And his Programme slung behind him. “Working Men,” said the “people’s Joe,” “Though Tories all neglect thee, _One_ trump, at least thy “rights” shall blow, _One_ faithful arm protect thee.”
The “party” fell, but the Tories reign Could not bring the bold boy under; The “tongue” he loved was loosed again, In threats of “blood and thunder,” And said “no man shall bully _me_, The soul of truth and bravery; My voice shall sound till the land is free, And never be gagged by knavery.”
_Society_, October 24, 1885. F. B. DOVETON.
Several Parodies of “_The Minstrel Boy_” were published in “_Life_” November 26, 1885. As they all related to Mr. Gladstone’s electioneering journey to the north, one specimen will suffice, as there is a great similarity between them.
The Grand Old Man to the North has gone, ’Neath a “Primrose” roof you’ll find him, His “four point” poster he has girded on, And his family travel behind him. “Liberals all,” said the canny chief “Let not disunion rend ye; “Though by my _deeds_ ye have come to grief “In _Speech_ I’ll aye defend ye!”
“Unite, Unite;” he pleads in vain, Too late he sees his blunder, The “Party” is split, for the Caucus strain Has forced its links asunder Hope in him dies, yet still he cries, Though his spell of power has vanished, “The Rads may come in, what care I if they win So the Tories from office be banished!”
――――
THE GRAND OLD MAN.
The Grand Old Man to the war has come, Confronting the foe you’ll find him; We’ll beat the charge on the Liberal drum, And close our ranks behind him. Grand old warrior, stout and bold, Though faithless friends betrayed him, We’ll place the helm in his honest hold, And with hearts and voices aid him.
His battle-cry on the foe shall fall Like the roll of distant thunder, ’Twill pale their cheeks and their souls appal, And their blustering turn to wonder. For the grand old man, with heart of gold, Has burst our bonds of slavery; And freed the land from its burden old Of Tory craft and knavery.
From _Songs for Liberal Electors_.
――――
SONG OF THE PAUNCHY TENNIS-PLAYER. (AIR――“_The Time I’ve Lost in Wooing._”)
The time I’ve lost in “screwing,” In watching and pursuing The ball that flies, On fall or rise, Has been my trade’s undoing. Though Business hath besought me, I’ve shirked the truths she taught me, I left my books To partner Snooks, And ruin’s what he’s brought me.
By Tennis still enchanted, Of late I’ve puffed and panted, I once was light, And slim and slight, Ere Anti-fat I wanted. But now young Beauties shun me, For stoutness grows upon me: When asked to play, They turn away, Old Blobbs can now outrun me!
And is my good time going? And is my figure growing So huge in size That sparkling eyes Brim o’er to see me “blowing?” Yes――vain alas! th’ endeavour, To charm with back-play clever, Love nevermore―― _Save in the score_―― Shall bless me――never! never!
_Punch’s Almanac_, 1883.
――――:o:――――
SONG FOR A HIGH ART HOSTESS.
Come, rest on this gridiron, my own dear _Æsthete_, Though the herd may contemn, ’tis a true High art seat; These, these the contours that art yearns to create, A leg that is spindly, a back that is straight.
Oh, where is the taste that is worthy the name Loves not the stiff lines of this cast-iron frame? I know not, I ask not if ease they impart, I but know they are true to the canons of Art.
Do they call it all corners? they know not the bliss Of the angular style in a seat such as this. In furnishing, firmly High-Art I’ll pursue, And I’ll crouch on my gridiron couch till all’s blue.
_Punch._ April 16, 1881.
――――:o:――――
AIR (“_I saw from the Beach._”)
To the Finish I went, when the moon it was shining, The jug round the table moved jovially on; I staid till the moon the next morn was declining; The jug still was there, but the punch was all gone And such are the joys that your brandy will promise, (And often these joys at the finish I’ve known) Every copper it makes in the evening ebb from us, And leaves us next day with a head ache alone!
Ne’er tell me of puns, or of laughter adorning, Our revels, that last till the close of the night; Give me back the hard cash that I left in the morning, For clouds dim my eye, and my pocket is light. Oh, who’s there who welcomes that moment’s returning, When daylight must throw a new light on his frame, When his stomach is sick, and his liver is burning―― His eyes, shot with blood, and his brow in a flame!
WILLIAM MAGINN.
――――
I saw up the steps, when the morning was shining, The undergrads crowding so hopefully on; I came when the sun o’er those steps was declining, There the Senate-House was, but the students had gone.
Oh! what was the fate of the morning’s fair promise, How ended the hopes that we students had known? Each question we longed for kept cruelly from us, And those that we knew not set for us alone.
Ne’er tell of surmises but coldly adorning The close of Exams at the coming of night. Give me back, give me back the fond hopes of the morning; Its alarms and its fears in the evening seem light.
Ah! who would not welcome that moment’s returning, When bravely he up to the Senate-House came, Nor deem’d that ’ere long from that building returning, In the “list” he would look out in vain for his name.
_The Lays of the Mocking Sprite_, by E. B. (Cambridge).
――――
I saw from my window, when morning was smiling. A “Girl of the Period” come tripping along, When, sudden, the wild blast like fury came howling―― The girl was still there――but her “chignon” was gone!
Ah! such is the fate of the wigs we put on us! So fleeting the false hair of which we’re so proud: Our darling excrescence the rough wind blows from us, And leaves us exposed to the jeers of the crowd.
From _The Girl of the Period Miscellany_, June, 1869.
――――:o:――――
SAIL ON, SAIL ON.
Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark―― Wherever blows the welcome wind, It cannot lead to scenes more dark, More sad than those we leave behind. * * * * *
T. MOORE.
――――
SONG FOR A DWELLER IN A QUIET STREET.
Scale on, scale on, oh! tuneless strummer, Rum-tum-ti-tiddy-iddy-tum! You’ve thumped and twangled all the summer, You tootle still now winter’s come. The notes you thrum out seem to say, “Though out of time and tune we be, Less flat we are, less false than they Whose clang _shall_ rack thy wife and thee.”
Scale on, scale on――through endless time―― Through morn, noon, evening――stop no more! To slaughter you were scarce a crime, Oh, plaguy and persistent bore! Were there indeed some quiet street Where ne’er piano maddened men, Where never “Scales” this ear should greet, Then might I rest,――but not till then.
_Punch’s Almanac_, 1883.
――――:o:――――
THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE.
The dawning of morn, the daylight’s sinking, The night’s long hours still find me thinking Of thee, thee, only thee. When friends are met, and goblets crown’d, And smiles are near that once enchanted, Unreach’d by all that sunshine round, My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted By thee, thee, only thee.
* * * * * T. MOORE.
――――
The dawn of the morn, the daylight’s sinking, Five’s cosy hour shall find me drinking Of Tea, Tea, only Tea! When friends are met, and cups go round, And scandals fresh have all enchanted, When buttered toast is bravely browned, My soul, like _Stiggins’s_, is haunted By Tea, Tea, only Tea!
When crisply curls the breakfast bacon, Coffee by me shall be forsaken For Tea, Tea, only Tea! Like Ocean, which by light or dark Gulps down the rivers, resting never, The cup that cheers when cares do cark I sip or sing of, doting ever On Tea, Tea, only Tea!
I have no joy but of its bringing, And “nerves” themselves seem nice when springing From Tea, Tea, only Tea! Tea’s spell there’s nought on earth can break (Though tea-cups _can_, alas! be broken); Bohea the toper’s scorn may wake, By _me_ for aye the praise be spoken Of Tea, Tea, only Tea!
_Punch_, June 7, 1884.
――――
OH! CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME
Oh, call it by some better name, For FRIENDSHIP sounds too cold, While LOVE is now a worldly flame Whose shrine must be of gold; And passion, like the sun at noon, That burns o’er all he sees, Awhile as warm, will set as soon―― Then, call it none of these. * * * * * T. MOORE.
This poem was chosen as the original for a parody competition in the _Weekly Dispatch_, and the following specimens were published in that newspaper on February 21, 1886.
PRIZE POEM.
JUSTICE FOR IRELAND.
Oh, try, good sirs, some better game, Coercion is too old, And Charity is statecraft’s shame, That gilds a wrong with gold; And Pity, like some plaintive tune Which, hackneyed, fails to please, Awhile as sweet, will pall as soon―― Oh! trust to none of these.
Imagine measure surer far, More free from lust of sway, Than pity, alms, coercion are, Yet nobler still than they; And if your skill for need like this No mortal plan can frame, Go, ask God’s Justice what it is, And try that better game!
B. SAUNDERS.
Highly commended:――
OH! TRY SOME WORTHIER, BETTER GAME.
Oh, try some worthier, better game, Coercion’s knell is tolled, And force would fan the slumbering flame That burnt so fierce of old; And Home Rule’s but a jangling tune, A signal on the breeze For Orange hounds to bay the moon―― Oh! pray try none of these.
But when some plan that’s simpler far Evolves to glad the day, Home Rule shall with Coercion far Betake themselves away; And if thou’lt end such strife as this, Not vain the strength that’s spent; Go, ask――the answer comes, it is But Local Government.
D. EVANS.
Oh! call it by some better name, Land Purchase is too cold, And Separation is a scheme Too venturesome and bold; And Home Rule, like a tropic sun That burns o’er all it sees, Might scorch us when its aims were won―― Oh! call it none of these.
Imagine something safer far, As potent and as free As those Utopian measures are With which we can’t agree; And if thy lip for Rule like this No mortal word can frame, Go ask the “Old Man” what it is And call it by that name.
J. FITZPATRICK.
Oh! call it by some fitter name, For Justice is too cold. And Peace is a decrepit dame, Who limps on crutch of gold; And Pity, like a melting moon That sways the tidal seas, Awhile as fond, will set as soon―― Oh! call it none of these.
Imagine something freer far From stain of Saxon sway Than Justice, Peace, or Pity are―― Abstractions dim and gray! And if thy lips it overtax A fitting phrase to frame, Go, ask of Erin what she lacks, And call it by that name.
GOSSAMER.
――――
THE IRISH LANDLORD.
Oh! call him by some stronger name, For Landlord is too cold; A plundering Wolf his acts might shame, When worrying the fold. A Tyrant, like an Egypt sun, May burn up all he sees, But soon his frantic course is run―― Call him no names like these.
Imagine something more unkind, More free from mercy’s sway, Than Landlord, Tyrant, Wolf combined, More cruel ev’n than they. And if no name for work like this Your Saxon tongues can frame, Ask the “Ould Divil” what it is, And call him by that name!
ROBERT PUTTICK.
――――:o:――――
BALLAD STANZAS
(_The Woodpecker._)
I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curl’d Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, And I said, “If there’s peace to be found in the world, A heart that was humble might hope for it here!” It was noon, and on flowers that languish’d around In silence repos’d the voluptuous bee; Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree.
* * * * * T. MOORE.
――――
THE TAXGATHERER’S KNOCKING.
I knew by the wig that so gracefully curl’d Above a high cape, that the Regent was there, And I said, if there’s _ton_ to be found in the world, The Dandy of fashion will look for it here―― Half the shops were shut up, and I heard not a sound, But Taxgath’rers knocking, while going their dull round!
* * * * *
On pretence of NECESSITY, frequent large dips In my now emptied pockets have made me repine; In vain does RETRENCHMENT rise up to my lips, The _Regent_ must _live_, though starvation be mine―― Though my shop be deserted, and heard not a sound, But Taxgath’rers knocking, while going their dull round!
WILLIAM HONE.
――――
THE COMFORTS OF AN INN.
I knew by the post that so gaily display’d The sign of a _Bear_, that a tavern was near; And said, if a cask of good ale e’er was made, The man that was thirsty might wish for it here. It was noon, and in mud puddles scatter’d around, In silence repos’d the voluptuous hog―― Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound, Save the innkeeper flogging a mischievous dog.
And here in this little lone spot, I exclaim’d With a pipe in my mouth, and a drop in my eye; With a cask of good liquor, old rye coffee named, How blest could I live, and how calm could I _lie_ By the side of yon oak, where an old toper sips His glass of gin toddy, how sweet to recline, And to know that the liquor I rais’d to my lips, Had never been tasted by any but mine.
From _The Mirror_, 1823.
――――
AN EDITOR’S TROUBLES.
We knew by the string that so gracefully curl’d Round the “proofs to correct,” that our troubles were near, And we said if there’s peace to be found in the world, ’Tis not in a MAGAZINE-EDITOR’S sphere! All the house was at rest, and we heard not a sound, But the little mouse scratching the wainscotting through; And enraged at his noise and his toils to confound, We knock’d down the inkstand, and stamp’d with our shoe!
And here in this lone little room, we exclaimed, How many a manuscript fair to the eye, (But of which the poor author would soon be ashamed, Did we _print_ it,) the flame of our grate will supply! All the house was at rest, and we heard not a sound, But the little mouse scratching the wainscotting through, And as slowly together the “Copy” we bound, The clock in the kitchen (a cuckoo), sang two!
_The New Monthly Belle Assemblée._ April, 1836.
――――
THE GOOD-PECKER.
I saw by the steam that so gracefully curl’d Above the black saucepan, that dinner was near; And I said, “If there is a good thing in this world, ’Tis a boiled leg of pork, which methinks is in here.” Every table was spread, and I heard underground, The landlady tapping a cask of old ale.
And here, in a snug little inn of its sort, With a landlord that’s jolly, a waiter that’s cute, A weed of Havannah, a glass of old port, If a man were not happy with these, he’s a brute. Every table, &c.
By the tinge of the parson’s red nose, that he dips, With a smile of contentment, so oft in his wine, How glorious to bask, and not open my lips, Save to tell to the world how divinely I dine. Every table, &c.
_Diogenes_, vol. 3, p. 200. 1854.
――――
CLUBS NOT TRUMPS.
I knew by the smoke that so heavily curled From the roof of each club-house the Carlton was near; And I said if there’s fog to be found in the world, The lungs that love asthma may look for it here.
_Punch_, December 1880.
* * * * *
TO DIZZY. (_By a Country Squire._)
When time hath bereft thee Of votes now divine; When the boroughs have left thee, Nor counties be thine. When the faces shall vanish, That circle thee now; And the groans thou wouldst banish, Shall grow to a row. In the hour of thy sadness, Then think upon me. And that thought shall be madness, Deceiver to thee.
When Bright, who could turn thee, From virtue and fame, Shall spurn thee and leave thee, To sorrow and shame. When by Gladstone requited, Thy brain shall be stung; When thy name shall be blighted, And linked with “unhung.” In the depth of thy sadness, Then think upon me. And that thought shall be madness, Deceiver to thee.
_The Tomahawk_, August 24, 1867.
――――:o:――――
A RIVER MELODY.
By the Thames, to the right, lies the flat shore of Erith, For Gents by the _Gem_ and the _Topaz_ conveyed; But you, when the steamer that landing-place neareth, Say “No, I’m for Rosherville”――sensible blade.
By the Red House――that stands like a murder-stained dwelling, Where pigeons (called blue rocks) lie sleeping in gore―― By the tide at Cremorne, which so seldom, high swelling, Has saved you the walk from the bridge to the door.
We swear it’s a do! for the beer that we tasted At Erith was muddy, and acid, and dead; Her fields are all bare, and her gardens are wasted, And boots get in chalk at each step that you tread.
No, Erith,――though snobbish the Gravesend refection, Though the “Whittington” shop boys call _polks_ in the hall, Though its obstinate poultry resists one’s digestion, Your fare, _fêtes_, and fun, are more dreary than all.
From _The Man in the Moon_, Volume 2.
――――:o:――――
JUST OF AGE.
Had I a shilling left to spare, I should not pay it you; For, though arrest you did not dare, You’ve dunned me like a Jew. Nor hope to prove my friends more kind To thy complaining tongue; For, misers in the old you’ll find, And beggars in the young!
Know that of age I soon shall be, And of the _ready_ flush; All bowing then you’ll come to me, And for this rudeness blush; So, with my custom, lest you learn Another I have blest, Let _now_ a civil tongue return And saucy dunnings rest.
BERTIE VYSE. _The Comic Magazine_, 1832.
――――
A CANADIAN BOAT SONG.
Faintly as tolls the evening chime Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We’ll sing at St. Ann’s our parting hymn. Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight’s past.
* * * * * T. MOORE.
――――
THE CABINET’S BOAT SONG. June 1878.
Faintly as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time. What though the Whigs and their friends look blue? We’ll sing and we’ll chaunt, to each other true, Pull, brothers, Pull! the stream runs fast, The Congress is near, and the danger’s past.
Why should we yet our hand display? There is not a card that Russia can play, But when it’s played――be it ace or king―― We still can trump it,――and still can sing―― Pull, brothers, pull! the game goes fast, But the Congress is near, and the danger’s past.
Muscovy’s bluster and Gladstone’s tongue But steady our boat the surges among, God of our fathers! guide our hand For justice, freedom, and fatherland. So shall we thankfully sing at last, “Peace is secured and all danger past.”
_They are Five_ by W. E. G. (D. Bogue. London. 1880.)
――――
Plainly as tolls disruption’s chime Our fears we’ll keep quiet and vote in time. Soon as the polling hours begin, We’ll vote our St. Gladstone “items” in. Poll, brothers, poll! events run fast, Defeat may be near, and our day be past.
Why should we “union” flags unfurl? We’ll not spend a breath their blue folds to curl, But when its last link leaves our shore, We’ll rest ’neath the old umbrella once more. Poll, brothers, poll, &c.
Politics’ tide, this July moon Shall see us float proudly, or sink full soon; King of the green isle hear our prayers, Oh, grant in this crisis thy favouring airs. Poll; brothers, poll, &c.
ROGGEE SHURT.
_Truth._ Parody Competition. July 15, 1886.
――――:o:――――
_The Weekly Dispatch_ had a Parody Competition on Thomas Moore’s
WREATHS FOR THE MINISTERS. An Anacreontic.
Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers! Haste thee from Old Brompton’s bowers―― Or (if sweeter that abode) From the King’s well-odour’d Road, Where each little nursery bud Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud! Hither come, and gaily twine Brightest herbs and flowers of thine Into wreaths for those who rule us. Those who rule and (some say) fool us―― Flora, sure, will love to please England’s Household Deities! First you must then, willy-nilly, Fetch me many an Orange lily―― Orange of the darkest dye Irish Gifford can supply! Choose me out the longest sprig, And stick it in old Eldon’s wig!
Find me next a Poppy posy, Type of his harangues so dozy, Garland gaudy, dull and cool, For the head of Liverpool! ’Twill console his brilliant brows For that loss of laurel boughs Which they suffered (what a pity) On the road to Paris city.
* * * * *
And the following parodies were published in that paper on February 7, 1886:――
PRIZE POEM.
Hither, Flora of the street! Haste from Bumble on his beat―― Or (if there thou chance to dwell) From “The Garden,” odoured well, Where the citizens of Lud Sniff the stench of putrid mud! Hither come, with what of bloom Dares defy our brumal gloom; Bring the flowers as you find ’em Round our rulers’ brows to bind ’em. First, since near to Piccadilly Flames not now the Orange lily, And ’Tis only some such dye Irish G――bs――n can supply, Stick a yellow Primrose sprig Into A――hb――e’s brand-new wig.
Failing of a Poppy posy For Lord I――dd――h, dear and dozy, Could there fitter emblem be Than the everlasting Pea? Then on C――c――l’s black brows set Spotted Dog’s-tooth Violet, Or――which would beseem them well―― Rue and Spurge and Asphodel.[123]
Next, C――rn――n’s brows to crown, Bring me here from Dublin town Shamrock that has served its turn, Withered leaf and broken fern. But for Ch――ch――ll we must find Blossoms of a gaudier kind: Stitch the garland through and through With flimsy threads of every hue; And as Goddess――_entre nous_―― His lordship loves (though least of men) The grandiose――like poor old Ben―― Twine amid his close-cropped locks Artificial Hollyhocks!
Cr――b――k, M――nn――s, Sm――h, and B――ch, Spriggs of Cypress pluck for each. C――ss may smile a sickly smile ’Neath a crown of Camomile; But time presses――let the rest Wear whatever likes them best!
T. A. WILSON.
Highly commended:――
Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers! Hence from Covent Garden’s bowers, Where each blighted country bud Droops in vegetable mud; Haste, if such a haunt be thine, Choicest herbs and flowers to twine Into wreaths for those who’d rule us, Those who’d not the wit to fool us―― Flora, sure, will love to please Her own Tory votaries! First, then, it is my behest That a Cowslip be thy quest; With it to the Commons hie―― Need I state the reason why?―― And stick it in Sir Michael’s crest.
Gather next a bunch of Rue, To his speech a fitting cue―― Garland grim and strange to see, For the head of Salisbury. It will suit his bitter brows, Now they’ve lost their laurel boughs―― (Smith, too, lost his――what a pity!―― On the road to Dublin city).
Next for Churchill bring a few Flowers of any shade or hue; Leaves of evanescent sheen; Mellow almost while they’re green; Add a little Indian Cress―― Warlike spoil it doth express.
That’s enough――away, away!―― Had I leisure I could say, Naught for Bartlett’s brains of fret Like the Russian Violet; How Lord Iddesleigh’s brow supine Would ’neath modest Primrose shine; But time presses――for, I wot, Men like these are soon forgot.
ARAMIS.
Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers! Haste from Bedford’s ducal bowers―― Covent Garden’s sweet domain, Grimy Eden of Cockayne; Where each vendor of the spud Breathes the dust and treads the mud! Hither come, and daily twine Brightest herbs and flowers of thine Into wreaths for those who would Have ruled (and fooled) us if they could. Flora, sure, will love to please England’s Tory Deities! First bring London Pride and Rue, These for S――l――sb――y will do―― Place the wreath with gesture gladsome Where his hair was when he had some. Cockscomb, next, of brightest red, Find for Ch――rch――lls’s modest head; And, fair Goddess, if thy search Leads thee by the classic Birch. Pluck a tribute switch to grace R――nd――lph in another place!
Shamrock, then, we fain would see―― Four-leaved shamrock let it be, And with this botanic myth Deck the brows of Mr. Sm――th. Let “Old Woman”――homely plant―― Crown C――rn――rv――n’s ringlets scant; And Thistle, loved of asses ever, Were not amiss for Cr――ss the clever!
That’s enough――away, away!―― Had I leisure, I could say H――cks B――ch would seem Adonis still Wreathed in transient Daffodil; But time presses――to thy taste I leave the rest, so prithee haste!
THISTLE.
――――:o:――――
THE LEGACY.
“_When in death I shall calmly recline._”
“When in gaol I shall calm recline, Bear my best coat to some pawnbroker near, Show him how stylish the gilt buttons shine, And ask him a price that’s not too dear.
Bid him not search for bank notes in the pocket, For they were lugged out to pay an old debt, And all he’ll find will be an old locket Of Sal’s, she gave me when last we met.”
――――
WHEN IN DEATH I SHALL QUIET BE FOUND.
When in death I shall quiet be found, Pray bear my clothes to some pawnbroker near, Tell him to lend you a couple of pound, And mind he don’t charge for the ticket too dear.
Bid him not search too close for gamboge In the breeches, nor nicely examine the coat, But tell him that he may send if he choose, All he can spare ’bove a two-pound note.
Then with the money pray buy me a coffin, And bury me safe ’neath a table of chance; Haply e’en there my memory may soften The pangs of ill-luck and the want of finance.
But should some cruel and opulent Greek Revile at my state as he stamps o’er my grave, Oh! let some thought of its master bespeak, Your favour for him who was gambling’s slave.
Take, then, these cards, which now are neglected, And bury them with me when I am at rest; Never! oh, never! in cheating detected, Though seldom by hands that were pure were they prest.
But should some fortunate gambling rover Come here to seek them in frolic and fun, Oh, then around my genius shall hover, And teach him to spend the cash he has won.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
A FAREWELL [_Sung by Mr. Cross to the Ratepayers of London._)
Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour When the Pekoe is fragrant in boudoir and bower, Then think of your Cross who had made the dear brew At the ratepayer’s cost even dearer to you!
* * * * *
You may boil, you may filter, the stuff as you will But the scent of the Sewage will hang round it still!
_Punch_ May 1, 1880.
――――:o:――――
TO TORY HEARTS.
To Tory hearts a round, boys, You can’t refuse, you can’t refuse, When Lib’rals so abound, boys, ’Tis time to choose, ’tis time to choose, For thick as stars that lighten, Our London stage, our London stage Are Whigs that fain would brighten The present age, the present age.
To Tories fill, where’er boys, Your choice may fall, your choice may fa Be sure you’ll find truth there, boys, So drink them all, so drink them all. * * * * *
_Spirit of the Age Newspaper_ for 1828.
――――:o:――――
DEVILLED BISCUIT (“_A Temple to Friendship._”)
“A nice Devill’d Biscuit” said JENKINS enchanted, “I’ll have after dinner――the thought is divine!” The biscuit was bought, and he now only wanted―― To fully enjoy it――a glass of good wine. He flew to the pepper, and sat down before it, And at peppering the well-butter’d biscuit he went Then, some cheese in a paste mix’d with mustard spread o’er it, And down to be grill’d to the kitchen ’twas sent.
“Oh! how,” said the Cook, “can I this think o grilling, When common the pepper? the whole will be flat. But here’s the Cayenne; if my master is willing, I’ll make, if he pleases, a devil with that.” So the Footman ran up with the Cook’s observation To JENKINS, who gave him a terrible look: “Oh, go to the devil!” forgetting his station, Was the answer that JENKINS sent down to the Cook.
_Punch._
――――:o:――――
APPLE PIE. (“_All that’s bright must fade._”)
All new dishes fade―― The newest oft the fleetest Of all the pies now made, The Apple’s still the sweetest; Cut and come again, The syrup upward springing! While my life and taste remain, To thee my heart is clinging. Other dainties fade―― The newest oft the fleetest; But of all the pies now made, The Apple’s still the sweetest.
Who absurdly buys Fruit not worth the baking? Who wastes crust on pies That do not pay for making? Better far to be An Apple Tartlet buying, Than to make one at home, and see On it there’s no relying: That all must be weigh’d, When thyself thou treatest Still a pie home-made Is, after all, the sweetest.
Who a pie would make, First his apple slices; Then he ought to take Some cloves――the best of spices: Grate some lemon rind, Butter add discreetly; Then some sugar mix――but mind The pie’s not made too sweetly, Every pie that’s made With sugar, is completest; But moderation should pervade Too sweet is not the sweetest.
Who would tone impart, Must――if my word is trusted―― Add to his pie or tart A glass of port――old crusted If a man of taste, He, complete to make it In the very finest paste Will inclose and bake it. Pies have each their grade; But, when this thou eatest Of all that e’er were made. You’ll say ’tis best and sweetest.
_Punch._
――――:o:――――
THOSE EVENING BELLS.
Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells, Of youth, and home, and that sweet time, When last I heard their soothing chime.
Those joyous hours are pass’d away; And many a heart, that then was gay, Within the tomb now darkly dwells, And hears no more those evening bells.
And so t’will be when I am gone; That tuneful peal will still ring on, While other bards shall walk these dells, And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!
T. MOORE.
――――
THESE CHRISTMAS BILLS. (_A commercial melody_ 1826).
These Christmas bills, these Christmas bills How many a thought their number kills, Of notes and cash, and that sweet time When oft I heard my sovereigns chime.
Those golden days are past away, And many a bill I used to pay Sticks on the file, and empty tills Contain no cash for Christmas bills.
And so ’twill be――though these are paid, More Christmas bills will still be made, And other men will fear these ills, And curse the name of Christmas bills.
From Hone’s Every Day Book.
――――
ON REVISITING COLLEGE.
That chapel bell-that chapel bell! Ah, once I knew its music well―― It tells of youth――of wasted time―― Of folly, happiness, and crime.
But now those joyous days are gone, Yet still its peal is ringing on―― While others wish its tongue in hell, And daily curse that chapel bell!
_The Gownsman_, (_Cambridge_), February 18, 1830.
――――
THE FATAL MOUSTACHE.
The Duke of Cumberland had grossly insulted some ladies in the public high road near Barnes. He attempted to deny his identity, but was recognised by his white moustache.
My white moustache, my white moustache, You speak the truth, however harsh, Of Barnes and Kew, and of the time When I rode past with air sublime.
The curs’d excrescence does away With every lie that Q―――― may say; And oh, its ghastly whiteness tells The truth to the insulted _belles_.
And so they knew when I had gone The moustache that my lips had on. “No other pair so whitely swells We know them,” say the Chiswick belles.
_Figaro in London_, October 6, 1832.
Moore, himself, wrote a parody on this subject, in imitation of the old song:
“A Master I have, and I am his man, Galloping dreary dun.”
The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass, Galloping, dreary Duke; The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass, He’s an ogre to meet, and the devil to pass, With his charger prancing, Grim eye glancing, Chin, like a Mufti, Grizzled and tufty, Galloping, dreary Duke.
Ye misses, beware of the neighbourhood Of this galloping, dreary Duke; Avoid him, all, who see no good In being run o’er by a Prince of the Blood. For, surely, no nymph is Fond of a grim phiz, And of the married, Whole crowds have miscarried At sight of this dreary Duke.
Song supposed to be addressed by Lord Eldon to Ernest Augustus, Duke of Cumberland (afterwards King of Hanover) on his leaving England:――
FLY NOT YET.
Fly not yet, ’tis just the hour, When place――like a black midnight flower, Which scorns the rude and vulgar light, Begins to woo us sons of night, And scamps who covet cash. ’Twas but to bless us sons of shade, That place and pay were ever made. ’Tis then their rich attractions glowing, From the public purse are flowing. Oh stay! oh stay.
The Whigs are at a discount now, And while they are, indeed I vow For you to leave is rash.
_Grand Chorus._ The Whigs are at a discount now, And while they are, indeed I vow For you to leave is rash.
_Figaro in London_, September 28, 1833.
(The Duke of Cumberland was the least popular of all the sons of George III. His manners were rude, overbearing, and sometimes even brutal, and he was profligate, selfish, and quarrelsome. On the accession of Queen Victoria, the throne of Hanover passed to him in virtue of the Salic law, and the greatest public satisfaction was felt on his departure for his new kingdom, where his breaches of faith, and tyrannical conduct, soon led to commotions which had to be quelled by severe military measures. He died in 1851).
――――:o:――――
Those London belles, those London belles, Ah! what a tale their beauty tells, Of suff’ring beaux and wounded hearts, The dire effect of Cupid’s darts.
Perhaps that maid, with eyes of blue, Has often made a sad to do; And many a heart with anguish swells, While thinking of the London belles.
Ah! yes, how sweet it is to me. To take a social cup of tea, And while the heart in comfort dwells, To hear the chat of London belles.
For then they scan their dress,――the play, Though woe to those who are away, For Scandal often leaves her cells, To join the chat of London belles.
Ev’n Jove peeps down, with looks of love, And Juno, jealous, frowns above, To see young Beauty gladly dwells, To deck the charms of London belles.
And so ’twill be in other times, Fond hearts will sing in softer rhymes, And cloud the praise this ditty swells While ages grace the London belles.
MISS BRYANT.
――――
THOSE BALL-ROOM BELLES.
Those ball-room belles! those ball-room belles! How many a tale their memory tells Of polka, waltz and galopade, Of D’Albert, Linter, and Musard.
“The season” now has pass’d away, And many “a man” that then was gay Now climbs the alps or Scotia’s fells, And whirls no more those ball-room belies.
And so ’twill be when next they meet, In Belgrave-square and Berkeley-street; The waltz shall rouse embroider’d “swells” To _deux-temps_ with those ball-room belles.
_Diogenes_, August, 1853.
――――
THOSE SCOTCH HOTELS.
Those Scotch hotels! Those Scotch hotels Each tourist of their robberies tells: My pocket to its bottom thrills, When I reflect upon their bills.
Some pleasant hours soon pass’d away, But when I learned what was to pay, I wish’d the devil had those swells―― The landlords of the Scotch hotels.
And so ’twill be when I am gone, The greedy race will still rob on; And other tourists through these dells Shall rail upon the Scotch Hotels.
_Diogenes_, September, 1853.
――――
THOSE GRESHAM CHIMES.
Those Gresham chimes, those Gresham chimes! They take us back to Tudor times, When Merchant Princes felt no shame To bear a civic magnate’s name.
That name has sunk below disdain, No GRESHAM dons the civic chain, A Merchant Prince as soon would wear The garb of Beadle as of Mayor.
But Mayors, and such, will soon be gone, A new _régime_ is coming on; We’ll hope to hear, in better times, Some Gresham hailed by Gresham chimes.
_Punch_, December, 1853.
(A new set of Chimes had just been fixed in the tower of the Royal Exchange, London.)
――――
THOSE TRAMWAY BELLS.
Those tramway bells, those tramway bells, How many a joy their discord quells; My temper, thoughts, and this sweet rhyme They knock completely out of time.
Those fearful sounds ne’er pass away, But mar with discord night and day; And tin-tin-nabulation swells To horror in those tramway bells.
The railway bell has bulk of tone, The muffin――sweetness of its own; But frenzy in this tinkling dwells―― Like Mr. Irving’s in “The Bells.”
Not thus ’twill be when steam has come, For then this clangour will be dumb; Whilst other force the car propels, We’ll hear no more those tramway bells.
_Funny Folks._
――――
THOSE EVENING BELLS.
Those Evening Bells, those Evening Bells, How many a tale their music tells. Of Yorkshire cakes and crumpets prime. And letters only just in time!――
The Muffin-boy has pass’d away, The Postman gone――and I must pay, For down below Deaf Mary dwells, And does not hear those Evening Bells.
And so ’twill be when she is gone, The tuneful peal will still ring on, And other maids with timely yells Forget to stay those Evening Bells.
_Tom Hood._
――――
LONDON BELLS.
Those London Bells, those London Bells, How plain a tale that nuisance tells, Of fees and beer, that buy the time Of those who raise that senseless chime
Those foolish times are passed away When people liked the belfry’s bray, With Lord Mayor’s Shows and Thames’s smells We class those pestering London Bells,
Were wringers’ swipes and swindle gone, That vulgar noise would _not_ go on. The fact from every steeple knells That Pewter Pots are London Bells.
SHIRLEY BROOKS. November 1855.
――――
THOSE PRETTY GIRLS.
Those pretty girls, those pretty girls, How many a glance their bright eye whirls, Of love, and hope, and that fond ray That lures us on from day to day.
How many a spirit that was bright, When first he looked on beauty’s light, Walks sorrowing where the cascade purls, And sees no more those pretty girls.
Thus, too, when silence quells my lyre, Will beauty’s eyes still flash with fire, And other poets twine your curls, And sing your praises, pretty girls.
J. W. W.
――――
THOSE VATTED RUMS.
Those Vatted Rums, those Vatted Rums! How very cheap a quartern comes, When of that liquor pure and prime, You take two gallons at a time.
The fumes will quickly pass away, And many an evening will be gay―― While nothing like a headache comes, Through drinking these delicious Rums.
And so ’twill be, when I am gone; Those Vatted Rums will still sell on, And other fingers, pens, and thumbs Will sing your praise――ye Vatted Rums.
_Punch._ August 25, 1855.
――――
THOSE EVENING BELLES.
Those evening belles, those evening belles How much of faded youth it tells That red red rouge thick painted on, Of waning charms, of beauties gone.
Soon e’en red rouge will pass away, And sunken cheek and mind’s decay Will dull those eyes where sparkle dwells, Leave old and grim those evening belles.
Yet then, as now, when they are gone Some red rouged belles will still laugh on, And yawning o’er them other “swells,” Discourse their charms, rouged evening belles.
From _Pan, the Pilgrim_. (Weldon & Co., London).
――――
THAT MUFFIN BELL.
That Muffin-Bell! That Muffin-Bell! How many a tale its tinklings tell. Of youth, and hope, and that glad time When my digestion yet was prime!
The bilious discs I then could eat, The bell’s wild whangling down the street Was one of boyhood’s special joys: I never, never thought it noise.
How joyously at even rang The tintinnabulary clang! The gawping jaw, the raucous yell, I loved them, loved them passing well
Those happy hours are passed away. Age must not with its peptics play. Strange qualms within me darkly dwell Whene’er I hear the Muffin-Bell.
And yet soft memories of old times Linger about the jangling chimes, And, like DE RUTZEN, I’d be tender To the too noisy Muffin Vendor.
But oh! methinks when I am gone That tuneless peal will _not_ ring on; For Man, with street-law ordered well, Will hear no more the Muffin-Bell!
_Punch_, December 18, 1880.
――――
THE PARCEL POST.
The Parcel Post, the Parcel Post! To Fawcett pledge the joyous toast―― May no ill fortune e’er restrain This glorious bantling of his brain.
Deliv’ry companies no more Delay and “cheek”――their day is o’er; What now has laid the Carrier’s ghost?―― The Parcel Post, the Parcel Post!
When Christmas comes with jovial fare, Of turkeys, geese, and viands rare, What then shall be my hope and boast?―― The Parcel Post, the Parcel Post!
The postman, staggering ’neath the weight Of welcome presents, opes my gate; ’Tis then I prize and honour most The Parcel Post, the Parcel Post!
_Judy_, August 3. 1883.
――――
EVENING BELLES.
Those evening belles, those evening belles, How many a tale their costume tells Of Fashion, in its latest show, Reviving modes of long ago.
Our grandmothers have passed away, Yet in their habits girls look gay, As in last century gowns the swells To dinner take the evening belles.
And so ’twill be when we are gone, Fashion’s caprices will go on; A century hence, what now repels Will serve to deck the evening belles.
_Moonshine_, July 31, 1886.
――――:o:――――
OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT.
Oft, in the stilly Night, Ere Slumber’s chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me.
* * * * * T. MOORE.
――――:o:――――
SONG BY THE MARQUIS OF LONDONDERRY.
Oft o’er my tea and toast, When I a speech have sported, I take the _Morning Post_, To see how its reported. The frequent “hears,” “Continued cheers,” The witty things ne’er spoken, The “oh’s” left out, And nought about The coughs with which t’was broken.
When I behold it all in columns neat and taper, Precisely made to fall By Brougham’s in the paper―― I feel like one, Who’s really done A thing too bright to sully, And dream with head As thick as lead, That I’m the modern Tully.
_Figaro in London_, March 31, 1832.
――――
OFT IN HIS PRESENT PLIGHT.
Oft in his present plight, Now bolts and bars have bound him Calls Mitchell, with affright, The late events around him; His bragging talk of sharp pitchfork, And words of pikes, too, spoken―― The boys who cheered, now disappeared, The heads at Limerick broken.
When he remembers all The facts thus linked together, He feels uncommon small, And aught but in full feather; If all’s confessed, he feareth lest, By Jurors ill supported, Their maws to stay, he perchance may Be, after all, transported.
_The Puppet Show_, May 27, 1848.
――――
THE POET AND THE STOMACH.
(_The Stomach complaineth that his Master writes love ballads when he should be sleeping._)
Oft in the chilly night, When slumber should have bound him, Pale Phosphor gives its light, His dressing-gown around him. He rushes then For ink and pen, To write some lines in measure, The while poor I Can only sigh, Nor glow with Poet’s pleasure. Thus, in the chilly night, When slumber should have bound him; Sad Phosphor gives its light, His dressing-gown around him.
When I remember all The many hours wasted; Those dainties turned to gal Which I had lately tasted. I must lament The time misspent, The hours snatched from slumber The Stomach’s curse Is midnight verse, Without regard to number! Thus, in the chilly night, When slumbers should have bound him; Sad Phosphor pales its light, His dressing-gown around him.
From _Memoirs of a Stomach_. Written by himself, that all who eat may read. (W. E. Painter, 342, Strand, London, 1853.)
――――
THE SILLY SEASON. [_By a Used-up Journalist._]
Oft, on a “silly” night, When lack of news has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me: Physicians’ fees, The Channel seas, Words “out of Season” spoken; Ill-treated Clerks, The Public Parks, And nerves by railways broken. Oft on a silly plight, When printers’ devils hound me, Kind memory brings the light Of other days around me.
When I remember all The themes, so mix’d together, Which regularly call, Like duns in autumn weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some prison mill deserted: Each topic dead, Each interest fled, And all but me departed. Thus, when a “silly” night Completely “stumped” has found me, Kind Memory flings the light Of brighter days around me.
_Funny Folks._ October 5, 1878.
――――
_Air._――“Oft in the Stilly Night.”
W. E. G. sings:――
Oft in Election’s fight, Ere “Home Rule’s” chains had bound me, Mem’ry brings before my sight Companions then around me; The rows, the sneers, The poll-booth jeers, The slanging words then spoken; The eyes that shone How blacked! and bone How smashed! and heads how broken! Thus in election’s fight, &c.
When I remember all The friends, then linked together, Sloping off, to wait my fall, Like crows in rainy weather, I feel like one Who breasts alone A tide of vile coercion; With justice fled, And honour dead, And on all sides aversion. Thus in election’s fight, &c.
CANICULUS _Truth._ Parody Competition. July 15, 1886.
――――:o:――――
HERE’S THE BOWER.
Here’s the bower she lov’d so much, And the tree she planted; Here’s the harp she used to touch―― Oh, how that touch enchanted! * * * * *
T. MOORE.
――――
Here’s the box that held the snuff, And the bean so famous; Here’s the pipe he used to puff,―― Oh! how that puff o’er came us! Strasburgh, Tonquin,――both are dry,―― Where’s the hand to soak them? Pipes around extinguished lie,―― Where’s the lip to smoke them?
Gin may fall, but he who loved It, ne’er shall feel its cheapness; Porter pots may be improved,―― Lost on him their deepness. Quarts were pints where’er he stayed,―― Pints were to quarterns nearer; Whiff ne’er warmed a jollier blade, Nor drinking killed a dearer.
ANONYMOUS.
J. Bruton wrote a similar parody, commencing――
Here’s the bottle she loved so much, And here’s the glass she drank from, Here’s the max her lips oft touched, The stuff they never shrank from.
――――:o:――――
_Punch’s Almanac_ for 1881 contained several parodies of Moore’s songs, of which the opening lines were as follows:――
Quaint and queer were the gems she wore, A golden “pig” in each ear she bore She’d flies and beetles and snake-shaped bands, And the rummiest rings on her snow-white hands,
(Three more verses.)
――――
The plate that once through Fashion’s halls Æsthetic rapture shed, Now hangs upon the kitchen walls Its ancient glories fled. So pass the fads of former days. So fashion’s whim is o’er. Old China that was once the craze Now “fetches” fools no more.
(One more verse.)
――――
When he who now bores thee has left but the fame Of his one little weakness behind, Oh! say wilt thou smile when they mock at his name, _Thou_, to boredom so sweetly resigned. Nay, weep, and however my face may condemn Thy tears shall efface their decree; For though I have often been shut up by them I have always found patience in thee.
To buttonhole thee was my constant delight, Every cock and bull story was thine, Each mare’s nest I found I exposed to thy sight, To my twaddle thine ear thoud’st incline. Oh! blest be thy kindness which hearing would give To my fulsomest fiddle-de-dee. The great race of Buttonhole-Bores could not live, Were it not for Pill-Garlics like thee!
――――:o:――――
LALLA ROOKH.
There’s a bower of roses by Bendemeer’s stream And the nightingale sings round it all the day long; In the time of my childhood ’twas like a sweet dream, To sit in the roses and hear the bird’s song.
T. MOORE. _The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan._
SONG.
There’s of benches a row in St. Stephen’s extreme, And the minister’s sitting there all the night long, In the time of my power ’twas like a sweet dream, To sit on those rows in the Cabinet throng.
That bench and its placemen I never forget, But oft when alone at the close of the year, I think are conservatives sitting there yet, Are the subs to their speeches still clamouring “hear!”
No, the Tories are ousted each plundering knave, But rich harvests they pluck’d while the sun on them shone, And wealth was amassed from their jobbing which gave All the profits of place when their places were gone.
Thus the minister takes, from his power e’er it dies, A pension that gives him some thousands a year. So lucrative either in fall or in rise, Is a seat on some bench in the treasury sphere.
_Figaro in London_, November 10, 1832.
――――
“THERE’S A BOWER OF BEAN-VINES.”
There’s a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard, And the cabbages grow round it, planted for greens; In the time of my childhood ’twas terribly hard To bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans.
That bower and its products I never forget, But oft, when my landlady presses me hard, I think, are the cabbages growing there yet, Are the bean-vines still bearing in Benjamin’s yard?
No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used to wave, But some beans had been gathered, the last that hung on And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.
Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, An essence that breathes of it awfully hard; And thus good to my taste as ’twas then to my eyes, Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard.
Poems and Parodies_, By PHŒBE CAREY, Boston, U. S., 1854.
――――:o:――――
PARLIAMENT AND THE TORY.
“Every one is acquainted with Moore’s beautiful poem of Paradise and the Peri, in which the fallen spirit is represented as seeking on earth for a boon to regain the heaven she has lost. The story assimilates closely to a late affair, in which a certain military Tory (the Duke of Wellington), having lost the heaven of place (to him far more desirable than any _place in heaven_) devised all kinds of tricks to regain his former position.
One morn a Tory at the gate Of Stephen’s stood disconsolate; And as he listened to the words Of Whigs within, like poison flowing, And caught the sense of what he heard, The downfall of his party knowing, He wept to think his plundering race Should e’er have lost that glorious place
* * * * *
The Devil, who is always keeping The doors, beheld the Tory weeping, And as he nearer drew and listened To the complaint, a tear-drop glistened Within his eyelids, like the spray From Eldon’s fountain, when he cries With tears which those who know him say Proceed from no where but his eyes.
“Thou scion of a plundering line,” The Devil said “one hope is thine.” I think it is not yet too late The Tory may again get power, Who brings to this infernal gate Some trick or bribe to suit the hour; “Go seek it,” said he with a grin, “’Tis sweet to let the Tories in.”
* * * * *
Downward the Tory turns his gaze, And through excitement’s lowering haze, Beholds a noble premier stand Desponding, ’mid the people crying
Reform, just falling from his hand, And his last hope to save it dying. He tried what chance he found remain, A threat of Peers, but all in vain.
False flew the shaft, though pointed well Corruption lingered, freedom fell; Yet marked the Tory where it lay, And, when the rush of rage had past, As he imagined to allay The nation’s ire, he seized the last Last copy of the Bill, as read, Just ere the noble premier fled.
“Be this,” he cried, as he wing’d his flight “My welcome gift in the house to night, Though poison to me is this odious bill, Fram’d by Whigs in power, to rat like this, For conservative ends so noble is, It would stain not the purest of those who still Long to sit on the treasury bench of bliss. Oh, if there be on this earthly sphere A boon that the Devil holds truly dear, ’Tis the false _eclat_ which knavery draws From a premier who falls with the people’s cause.
“Sweet,” said the Devil, as he gave The gift unto his grasping hand, “Sweet is our welcome of the brave Who such a hellish trick has plann’d;” But see, alas! the golden bar Of office moves not――craftier far Than even this trick, the means must be To open the gates of place for thee.
_Figaro in London_, 1832.
――――
THE ROYAL ENCLOSURE AT ASCOT.
A Peri at the “Royal” gate At Ascot stood disconsolate, And as she gazed upon the forms Of those who passed that jealous portal, With envy, then, her bosom warms, For she was feminine and mortal. She all but wept to think her feet Trod not that most select retreat.
“How lucky!” thought she, “aye, past compare, Are the happy houris who wander there, Where the feet of real princes fall. If the Royal Enclosure’s not for me, The joys of the season cease to be; A ticket from Hardwicke exceeds them all.”
* * * * *
_Truth._ June 14, 1877.
This parody is much too long to give in full, as is also the following, on a similar topic, and which, by a curious coincidence, appeared in _Truth_ exactly six years later:――
PARADISE LOST.
This week a Peeress at the gate Of Ascot stood disconsolate―― (The Royal Enclosure Gate is meant) And as in misery she bent, And gazed upon the lonely scene Where life a week before was teeming, She sighed for what long since had been―― A past now lost beyond redeeming, And wept to think the privileged place No more was held a sacred place.
“How happy!” she cried, in an accent drear “We used to be who gained entrance here. How mixed with our joy, too, was pleasant spite, ’Gainst others who lacked our privileged right. Aye! it well-might upset _our_ tried composure To first get cards for the Royal Enclosure, And nothing on earth was too great a price To pay to enter the Paradise.
* * * * *
_Truth_, June 14, 1883.
――――
THE POLITICAL PERI.
One morn Ben Dizzy at the gate Of office stood disconsolate, He wept to think he’d run his race, And left for aye that glorious place. “How happy” exclaimed that child of air―― And ’twas true, though he hadn’t much truth to spare―― “Are Gladstone and Bright in clover there! But I’ve made a mess they’ll find hard to repair I’ve shed innocent blood in every clime, Sent thousands of men to death in their prime, Have carried my rule by falsehood and crime, Done deeds that will stink the end of time,―― And I leave my country my heir!” “Woe, woe for ever! The Election’s done, The votes are cast―― And I’ve not won!”
_Bits of Beaconsfield._ (ABEL HEYWOOD & SON, Manchester.)
――――:o:――――
THE LAMENT OF THE PERI.
Farewell――farewell to thee, ARABY’S daughter (Thus warbled a PERI beneath the dark sea,) No pearl ever lay, under Oman’s green water, More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee.
Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, How light was thy heart till Love’s witchery came, Like the wind of the south o’er a summer lute blowing, And hush’d all its music, and wither’d its flame!
* * * * *
Farewell, farewell――until Pity’s sweet fountain Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They’ll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain, They’ll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave.
T. MOORE. _The Fire Worshippers._
――――
“The wrongs of Ireland which are exciting so much sympathy on all hands at this moment, naturally call to recollection one of her most devoted advocates, as well as one of her brightest ornaments.
AIR.――_Farewell――farewell to thee, Araby’s daughter._
Farewell――farewell to thee desolate Erin, (Thus warbled a patriot beneath a dark tree,) No curl ever lay on Law’s visage so leering, More bright in its oil than thy spirit in thee.
Oh fair as the flowers all over thee growing, How light was thy heart till curs’d Castlereagh came, Like the breath of a Croker o’er eloquence blowing, To hush all its music, and render it tame.
But yet when to Parliament they are returning, There will still be amongst both the young and the old, Some who with disgust most indignantly burning, Will weep when they think how thy freedom was sold
The new made elector whene’er he advances, To vote on some Irish Electoral day, Will think of thy fate, till forgetting his franchise, He mournfully turns from the poll-booth away.
Nor shall Daniel[124] beloved of thy people forget thee, Though tyrants watch over his tears as they start. Close, close in his bosom that hero will set thee, Embalmed in the innermost shrine of his heart.
_Figaro in London_, February 23, 1833.
――――
THE SONG OF THE SULTAN
Farewell――farewell to thee, ARABI darling! (Thus murmured the SULTAN beneath his moustache.) No help for it now: the curst Giaour is snarling; Complete is the sell, and most utter the hash.
Oh! sweet as the whiff from my chibouque soft blowing, Our joint little game till the Britisher came, Like the wind from the desert rose-gardens o’erthrowing And blew it to bits. ’Tis a thundering shame!
But long upon ARABI’S Orient guile and Astuteness shall ABDUL sit brooding in gloom. To be bowled out at last by that crass Western Island! Would, _would_ it were swept by the blasting Simoom!
And now by Old Nilus SIR GARNET is burning, And calls to his standard the young and the old. E’en the Guards, such home pastime as Polo stern spurning, In sunshine Egyptian can broil yet be bold.
I’ve played fast and loose, but the Giaour’s successes My dark schemes have dished in the dismallest way; I must leave thee to fate, though my bosom still blesses The nice little game I must trust thee to play.
Nor shall Islam, who hails thee as hero, forget thee―― Those tyrants of Infidel dogs are too smart, But _if_ thou shouldst lick them, by Allah, she’d set thee Supreme in the innermost shrine of her heart.
Farewell!――be it mine still to squat on this pillow, And muse upon dodges exceedingly deep; But those sons of burnt fathers who’ve come o’er the billow Will crumple my rose-leaves, and trouble my sleep.
I’ve ground my poor teeth till I’ve shivered the amber, My bloated pipe-bearer I’ve kicked till he wept. (He lies at this moment, and howls, in yon chamber, Most sore-footed slave that on blisters e’er stept.)
I’ll dive where Intrigue’s deepest plots still lie darkling But this Proclamation _must_ hurl at thy head. Thy prospects on Egypt’s hot sands scarce look sparkling. They gather, the Giaours, the Nile’s in his bed.
Farewell――farewell! ’Tis a pity――but counting The chances, at present, by Nilus’s wave, Thy star, my dear ARABI, scarcely seems mounting. And so――go to blazes, recalcitrant slave!
[_Signs reluctantly._ _Punch_, September 16, 1882.
――――
On January 7, 1880 _The World_ published four parodies on the same poem which had been sent in for Competition, the subject selected being:――
THE AMEER OF CABUL, YAKOOB KHAN.
FIRST PRIZE.
Begone, begone with thee, son of Shere Ali! (Thus chanted a Mollah on Gandamak’s brow.) No cursèd Hindu, timid servant of Kali, Is feeble in heart and in spirit as thou.
O, brave as the chieftains thy palace adorning How high was thy pride ere the Englishman came, Like the frost of the north on the flow’r of the morning, And silenced thy boasting, and withered thy fame
Not long, by the Prophet, on Cabul’s green highlands, Shall we and thy warriors mourn for the doom Of thee, whom, afar in the Andaman Islands,[125] Some infidel hireling may bear to the tomb.
Nor yet when the glorious trumpet is sounding, And summons to combat the bold and the strong, Shall one Barakzai, on the enemy bounding, Ever call on thy name as he rushes along.
So shall Cabul, beloved of Shere Ali, forget thee, As soon as her tyrants have bid thee depart; Far, far from the pride of thy father shall set thee, And curse thee from out of her innermost heart.
Begone! Be it ours to atone for thy meekness, With ev’ry revenge that a victor may deal; Each sign of submission, each token of weakness, Shall hasten our footsteps and sharpen our steel.
We’ll charge where the thickest the foe is deploying, And lose in the battle the thought of thy name; We’ll seek where the Angel of Death is destroying, And gather new laurels to cover thy shame.
Begone, begone, until life is departed, And still are the hearts of the true and the brave! We’ll weep for the warriors who died noble-hearted; We’ll curse at the coward who sued like a slave.
TOFFER.
(Sir Louis Cavagnari, the English Envoy to Afghanistan, and his staff having been murdered in the Cabul, English troops hastened to that city which was captured on Christmas Eve, 1879. Yakoob Khan, accused of complicity in the massacre, was sent as a prisoner to India.)
SECOND PRIZE.
Away, away with the Ameer unlucky! (Thus murmured the Viceroy o’er India’s plain;) No oyster fished up by a pearl-diver plucky, Ever proved such a sell as thy spiritless reign.
O, bright as the passion-flower by the wall creeping, How fair was thy promise till treachery came! Like the storm of the desert through rose-garden sweeping And quenched thy brief glory in blood and in flame.
But long by Cabul’s rapid glacier-fed fountains Shall the young and the old shudder over the fate Of the fifty men hanging beneath the great mountains With jackals for mourners to howl by the gate.
And when the cold winter and snows are returning, They’ll tell the old tale how the infidels fell; As they huddle together around the logs burning They’ll bitterly think of our vengeance as well.
The vendor of kabobs, while deftly preparing His wares, will remember brave Roberts’ return Till, losing himself in his cursing and swearing He carelessly leaves all the kabobs to burn.
Nor shall England, great mother of heroes, forget him, Who worthily wiped out the stain on her fame; High up on the roll of her heroes she’ll set him Inscribed, that her children may honour his name.
Away! Be it mine to surround thy seclusion With everything innocent, harmless and bright Tin trumpets and drums in the richest profusion, And candy to sweeten the wearisome night.
My cook shall prepare thee the daintiest dishes, My doctor shall ease thee whene’er thou’rt in pain; I’ll willingly grant thee whate’er thy heart wishes, But ne’er shalt thou see Afghanistan again.
QUANTOX.
――――:o:――――
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.
Oh! ever thus, from childhood’s hour, I’ve seen my fondest hopes decay; I never lov’d a tree or flower, But ’twas the first to fade away.
I never nurs’d a dear gazelle, To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well, And love me, it was sure to die. * * * * *
T. MOORE.
――――
THE CUTLER’S LAMENT.
I never wrote up “Skates to Sell,” Trusting to fickle Nature’s law, But――when I’d advertised them well, And puffed them――it was sure to thaw, Yes, it was ever thus――the Fates Seem adverse to the trade in skates
If a large stock I chanced to buy, Thinking ’twas likely still to freeze, Up the thermometer would fly―― All in a day――some ten degrees. Their presence in my window-pane Turns ice to mud, and snow to rain.
_Punch_, February, 1848.
――――
’TWAS EVER THUS.
I never loved a dear gazelle, In fact, I never knew one; And though I’ve loved a sweet mam’zelle I’ve ne’er had pluck to woo one.
’Twas ever thus, ’twas ever thus From boyhood’s early prime, sirs, It’s been my fate to be too late―― I never was in time, sirs!
I never went to dance or ball, But there I made a blunder; My partners always had a fall, And I was always under.
A martinet I’ve got to wife Oh, quite an acid tartar: _She_ has all the sweets of life, While _I’m_ a bilious martyr.
’Twas ever thus, ’twas ever thus; I thought her parents wealthy; I’ve found them poor――they live next door, And are _so_ beastly healthy.
I speculated all my cash In her relations’ ventures; Of course the comp’nies went to smash―― And I’d to pay debentures!
’Twas ever thus, ’twas ever thus: My life is far from sweet, sirs, My cash is gone, I’ve nought to pawn So I must beat retreat, sirs.
I’ll take a trip across the seas To-day for other nations; For I shall never be at ease, With wife, or wife’s relations.
’Twas never thus, ’twas never thus, I’d ne’er in view such blisses; In ecstasy I’d fly to thee, Sweet freedom, joy, and kisses―― Oh, wretched dog, I now must jog, For here comes dreadful missus.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
’TWAS EVER THUS.
I never rear’d a young gazelle, (Because, you see, I never tried;) But, had it known and loved me well, No doubt the creature would have died. My rich and aged Uncle John Has known me long and loves me well, But still persists in living on―― I would he were a young gazelle.
I never loved a tree or flower; But, if I _had_, I beg to say, The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower Would soon have wither’d it away. I’ve dearly loved my uncle John, From childhood till the present hour, And yet he _will_ go living on―― I would he were a tree or flower!
From _Carols of Cockayne_. By Henry S. Leigh. (Chatto and Windus, London, 1874.)
――――
A FEW MUDDLED METAPHORS BY A MOORE-OSE MELODIST.
Oh, ever thus, from childhood’s hour, I’ve seen my fondest hopes recede! I never loved a tree or flow’r That did’nt trump its partner’s lead.
I never nursed a dear gazelle, To glad me with its dappled hide, But when it came to know me well, It fell upon the buttered side.
I never taught a cockatoo To whistle comic songs profound. But, first when “Jolly Dogs” it knew It failed for ninepence in the pound
I never reared a walrus-cub In my aquarium to plunge, But, when it learnt to love its tub It placidly threw up the sponge!
I never strove a metaphor To every bosom home to bring But――just as it had reached the door It went and cut a pigeon’s wing!
_Tom Hood_, the younger.
――――
“I never had a piece of toast,
## Particularly long and wide,
But fell upon the sanded floor, And always on the buttered side.”
――――
WUS, EVER WUS.
Wus! ever wus! By freak of Puck’s My most exciting hopes are dashed; I never wore my spotless ducks But madly――wildly! they were splashed.
I never roved by Cynthia’s beam, To gaze upon the starry sky; But some old stiff-backed beetle came, And charged into my pensive eye:
And oh! I never did the swell In Regent street, amongst the beaux, But smuts the most prodigious fell, And always settled on my NOSE!
From _Puck on Pegasus_, by H. Cholmondeley-Pennell. (Chatto and Windus, London,)
――――
DISASTER.
’Twas ever thus from childhood’s hour! My fondest hopes would not decay: I never loved a tree or flower Which was the first to fade away! The garden, where I used to delve Short-frock’d, still yields me pinks in plenty The Peartree that I climbed at twelve I see still blossoming, at twenty.
I never nursed a dear gazelle; But I was given a parroquet―― (How I did nurse him if unwell!) He’s imbecile, but lingers yet. He’s green, with an enchanting tuft; He melts me with his small black eye He’d look inimitable stuff’d And knows it――but he will not die!
I had a kitten――I was rich In pets――but all too soon my kitten Became a full-sized cat, by which I’ve more than once been scratch’d and bitten, And when for sleep her limbs she curl’d One day beside her untouch’d plateful, And glided calmly from the world, I freely own that I was grateful.
And then I bought a dog――a queen Ah Tiny, dear departing pug! She lives, but she is past sixteen And scarce can crawl across the rug, I loved her beautiful and kind; Delighted in her pert Bow-wow: But now she snaps if you don’t mind; ’Twere lunacy to love her now.
I used to think, should e’er mishap Betide my crumple-visaged Ti, In shape of prowling thief, or trap, Or coarse bull-terrier――I should die. But Ah! disasters have their use; And life might e’en be too sunshiny: Nor would I make myself a goose, If some big dog should swallow Tiny.
From _Fly Leaves_ by C. S. Calverley. (George Bell and Sons, London, 1878.)
――――
Oh, ever thus, since Childhood’s hour We’ve seen our fondest hopes decay, We never raised a Calf or Cow or Hen that laid an Egg a day, But it was marked and stol’n away, We never raised a sucking pig To glad us with its sunny eye But when ’twas grown up fat and big And fit to roast, or boil, or fry We could not find it in the stye.
――――
BY OUR BUTCHER.
I never loved a dear gazelle, Nor would I care for one if cheap All my affections centres on Such things as bullocks, pigs and sheep; Yet often, when a little lamb, Whose price was low, has caught my eye, I’ve purchased it; but, sad to say, Next morning it was sure to die;
――――
I never bought a young gazelle. To glad me with its soft black eye, But, when it came to know me well, ’Twas sure to butt me on the sly.
I never drilled a cockatoo, To speak with almost human lip, But, when a pretty phrase it knew, ’Twas sure to give some friend a nip.
I never trained a collie hound To be affectionate and mild, But, when I thought a prize I’d found, ’Twas sure to bite my youngest child
I never kept a tabby kit To cheer my leisure with its tricks, But, when we all grew fond of it, ’Twas sure to catch the neighbour’s chicks,
I never reared a turtle-dove, To coo all day with gentle breath, But, when its life seemed one of love, ’Twas sure to peck its mate to death.
I never――well, I never yet―― And I have spent no end of pelt―― Invested money in a pet That didn’t misconduct itself.
_Funny Folks Annual_, 1886.
――――
THE YOUNG GAZELLE. _A Moore-ish Tale._
In early youth, as you may guess, I revelled in poetic lore, And while my schoolmates studied less, I resolutely studied _Moore_.
Those touching lines from “Lalla Rookh”―― “Ah! ever thus”――you know them well, Such root within my bosom took, I wished _I_ had a young Gazelle.
Oh, yes! a sweet, a sweet Gazelle, “To charm me with its soft black eye,” So soft, so liquid, that a spell Seems in that gem-like orb to lie.
Years, childhood passed, youth fled away, My vain desire I’d learnt to quell, Till came that most auspicious day When _some one gave me a Gazelle_.
With care, and trouble, and expense, ’Twas brought from Afric’s northern cape; It seemed of great intelligence, And oh! so beautiful a shape.
The little creature grew so tame, He “learned to know (the neighbours) well,” And, then the ladies, when they came, Oh! how they “nursed that dear Gazelle,”
But woe is me! on earthly ground Some ill with every blessing dwells; And soon to my dismay I found That this applies to young Gazelles.
When free allowed to roam in doors, The mischief that he did was great; The walls, the furniture, the floors, He made in a terrific state.
He nibbled at the table cloth, And trod the carpet into holes, And in his gambols, nothing loth, Kicked over scuttles full of coals. * * * * * In short the mischief was immense That from his gamesome pranks befel, And truly, in a double sense He proved a _very_ “dear gazelle.”
At length I sighed――“Ah! ever thus Doth disappointment mock each hope; But ’tis in vain to make a fuss You’ll have to go, my antelope.”
I said “This antler’d desert child In Turkish Palaces may roam But he’s much too free and wild To keep in any English home.”
Yes, though I gave him up with tears Experience had broke the spell, And if I live a thousand years, I’ll never have a young gazelle!
This humorous poem was written by Mr. Walter Parke the dramatist, and author of many skilful and amusing parodies. _Lays of the Saintly_, by the same gentleman, (Vizetelly and Co., London.) contains the lives of the principal Saints, told in rhymes imitating Swinburne, Tennyson, Longfellow, and other poets. One of the best of these legends is undoubtedly that devoted to the adventures of St. Patrick, the patron Saint of Ireland. Most appropriately this is written after Moore’s style, and parodies of a number of his melodies are ingeniously woven into the narrative. Amongst these are “_Eveleen’s Bower_,” “_Love’s Young Dream_,” “_She is far from the Land_,” “_Oft in the Stilly night_,” “_The Harp that Once_,” “_The Woodpecker_,” “_Let Erin remember_,” and “_The Meeting of the Waters_.” Perhaps the last is the best imitation of style:――
There’s not in old Ireland an islet more sweet Than the Isle where the penitents annually meet: Oh! the last spark of faith from the land must depart Ere pilgrims forbear on that journey to start.
It is not for Nature they go to the scene, However romantic, sublime, or serene; ’Tis not just for pleasure or holiday’s sake, They pay sixpence each to be row’d o’er the lake.
’Tis that Patrick the Great made a station for pray’r With chapels and cells purgatorial there, ’Twas his own blessed crozier that hallowed the cave, The heathen to vanquish, the faithful to save.
Sweet Isle of Lough Dearg! by thy devotees blest, If ever I’m near thee, I’ll go with the rest; Oh! may they in multitude yearly increase, And the boatmen grow rich by their sixpence apiece
Farewell, farewell to thee, Ireland’s protector, Thy mem’ry I drink in a draught of “L. L.” If ever a “medium” should show me thy spectre, How gladly I’ll bow to his mystical spell!
Farewell, farewell to fair Erin, thy daughter, And may she grow ever more lovely and gay, Forgetting the troubles the past may have brought her, Till each shade of sorrow has vanished away.
But there is not a dull page in the whole of this dainty volume, it is full of fun and refined humour, and the imitations are in many cases, of exceptional literary merit.
――――:o:――――
THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM.
Come hither, come hither――by night and by day We linger in pleasures that never are gone Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away, Another as sweet and as shining comes on. And the love that is o’er, in expiring gives birth To a new one as warm, as unequall’d in bliss; And, oh! if there be an Elysium on Earth, _It is this, it is this_.
* * * * * T. MOORE.
――――:o:――――
THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.
Come hither, come hither: by night and by day, We list to the members that never are gone―― Like the moan of the east wind, as one dies away, Another as dull and as prosing comes on. And the speech that is o’er, in expiring gives birth, To a new one as wretched as barren of _nous_, And oh! if there be an Inferno on earth, It’s the house! it’s the house!
Here Tories are raving――their voices are high, As the bray of a jack-ass, or yelp of a hound, And dirty their spleen as that rain from the sky, Which turns into mud as it falls on the ground. Oh! think what the conscience or mind must be worth, When the speech and the satire are weak as a louse, Then own if there be an Inferno on earth, It’s the house! it’s the house!
Here prosper the Whigs that with lucre’s vile love, Have come down from their own vaunted honesty’s sphere Who put power all former professions above, And forgot pledges past in the places they’ve here. And bless’d with the money our pockets give forth, What placemen the sweets of his office would douse, For oh! if there be an Inferno on earth, It’s the house! it’s the house!
* * * * *
There’s a pest beyond all that the minstrel has told When the Whigs that are bound in one powerful tie, With principles changing and hearts ever cold, Drain the country of wealth and drain on till ’tis dry. One hour of so hateful a ministry’s worse, Than whole ages of harm done by Tory or rat, And oh! if there be an Inferno――or curse, It is that! it is that!!
_Figaro in London_, September 1, 1832.
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SWEET BOROUGH OF TAMWORTH.
(The following song, supposed to be sung by the late Sir Robert Peel, who long represented Tamworth, is a parody of “_Fanny of Timmol_.”
Sweet borough of Tamworth, when first I go in To the dear House of Commons in which I was hurl’d, I found it a place of such pelf and such sin, And for humbug the funniest place in the world.
For the Minister’s lips to their destiny true, Seem’d to know I was born to be sold as anothers; And to put me in mind of what I ought to do, They whispered rich places for me and my brothers.
And then he was darting from eye-lids so sly, Half squinting, half winking such gold beaming light; Let them say what they will, I could read in his eye, “Here’s a bait for you, Peel, if you know how to bite.”
So on Treasury benches I mingled my feet, I felt a pulsation I cannot tell whether Of joy shame or guilt――’twas bitter yet sweet; But my heart and my face got as tough as cow’s leather.
At length when arrived in my office I sat, And I heard of its tricks, with a slight twinge of pain, But Castlereagh whispered, if once you should rat, Dear Peel, you can never get office again.
Oh Liverpool, Castlereagh, never were any Statesmen more pious, to place-men more true, Of snug roguish places, you both had so many, That my conscience was drill’d like a sieve through and through.
But Bexley would preach, and Eldon so grieved, That a suckling like me should be lost in a jiffey―― And Cumberland swore they could not be deceived If they sent me to humbug the folks on the Liffey.
Professions, manœuvres, smiles, bowing, I used, Oh the orange sword waved without shame or relenting; And the Papists were crushed, and their church I abused, Whilst I swore that their sighs were but signs of consenting.
How the Catholic claims I scorned and denied, Till I found my reward in a better place here; When the Duke, rest his soul, his old principles shied, Saying “Rat with me, Peel, or your places forbear.”
In vain did I whisper, there’s no danger nigh, Bags, Bexley, and Sellis’s Duke did implore, He promised a title, a sinecure sly; I acknowledged them both, and I asked for no more.
Was I right?――oh, I cannot believe I was wrong, Though Whigs, King and People may shout their disdain; In cursed schedule B. thou shalt not be kept long, Sweet Tamworth, I’ll rat for thee over again.
By heaven! Rotten Boroughs I’d rather forswear―― The Reform Bill, I’d hug to my plausible breast―― Than lose thee, sweet Tamworth, thy Peel will yet share Place, power and title――you know all the rest.
From _The Blue Bag; or, Toryana_. By the Speaker of the House of Commons. (Effingham Wilson, London, 1832.)
The same little pamphlet contains another parody on Moore, supposed to be spoken by William Frederick, Duke of Gloucester, nephew of George III. Many amusing anecdotes of the stupidity of this Royal Duke were current during his lifetime, and earned for him the sobriquet SILLY-BILLY.
When in death I shall calm recline, More dozy I can’t be than I have been here; No power could rouse me by smiles or wine, Silly Billy, at Cambridge they called me, dear.
I never could feel either joy or sorrow, My heart is so spongy, my liver so white; But very large sums from the taxes I borrow, And humbug the people, by family right. * * * * * Curse the Whigs, they are overthrowing Our lazy, vicious, and well-paid rest; My moon-calf uncle’s debt that’s owing, Makes all people his name detest.
When fools, and tyrants, and peers are over, England’s glad cup will flow over its brim; John Bull our impudent _rights_ will uncover, Repaying the woes we’ve inflicted on him.
The Duke of Gloucester had been educated at Cambridge. He died in 1834, leaving the large fortune he had amassed from the numerous sinecure offices he held during his parsimonious lifetime, to his widow.
――――
THE SWEET BRIAR.
I thought t’other day while attempting to thin A Briar which over my palings had curled, As _La Pompadour_ said, “If this were but a sin It might be the jolliest job in the world.”
For its dear little thorns to their destiny true Seemed to know they were made to be scratchers and stingers, And to show me what I was attempting to do Kept eternally gripping and pricking my fingers.
And whenever we mingled our shoots, and our feet, I muttered “d * * * n” and cannot tell whether Through your fault or mine――but, O! Briar called sweet, I _think_ that we fell and we suffered together.
And at last I found out you belonged to my neighbour, And when I had brought you exceedingly low I discovered that I had been spending my labour On a plant _he_ was very desirous should grow.
In vain did I mutter “There’s nobody nigh,” In vain curse the taste of my neighbour next door, Your response was a scratch on the lid of my eye, And I left it at that, and I asked for no more.
Was I right? I can hardly believe I was wrong, Though the Briar has grown through the paling again, And the devil may guide it uninjured along E’er I put myself twice to such horrible pain.
By Heavens! I would rather forever forswear The pleasure that lies in a garden that’s neat Than disturb for a moment the thorns that are there, Or banish the Briar which people call sweet!
C. S. K.
――――:o:――――
_The Melbourne Punch_ for July 1, 1880, contained a long, and very dreary parody, entitled _Paradise and the Berri_. It dealt with local politics, and was chiefly devoted to insulting a politician named Berry, it had no literary merit whatever. _The Melbourne Punch_ is published at double the price of its London namesake, of which it is but a very poor imitation.
_Paradise and the Peeler_ is the title of another long parody contained in _Lyrics and Lays_, by Pips. Published in 1867, by Wyman, Bros., Calcutta. This relates how the Eden gardens in Calcutta were closed to the general public, by order of the Commissioner of the Police, until a general outcry forced him to withdraw the obnoxious edict.
During Oxford Commemoration in 1866, the S. S. Amateurs performed in the Masonic Hall an “Oriental Extravaganza,” entitled _Lalla Rookh_. This was written by Mr. Vincent Amcotts, of Balliol College, (founded upon Moore’s poem), and the numerous songs it contained were set to music selected from Offenbach’s “_Barbe Bleu_.” This amusing travestie was published by T. Shrimpton and Son, Broad Street, Oxford.
Another Extravaganza, with the same title, was produced at the unfortunate Novelty Theatre, London, in May, 1884. The libretto was written by Mr. Horace Lennard, the musical arrangements were by Mr. P. Bucalossi, and the caste included Miss Kate Vaughan, as _Lalla Rookh_, Mr. Harry Nicholls, and Mr. Fred Story; the piece, however, had but a brief career.
Several other dramatic arrangements of _Lalla Rookh_ have been produced, there was a burletta by Horn; a cantata by Messrs. W. G. Wills and Frederick Clay; and forty years ago the famous Cerito delighted the opera-goers in a ballet founded on Moore’s poem.
――――:o:――――
ONE MORE IRISH MELODY.
I
O weep for the hour When to Peers’ tranquil bower The Premier of England with Church Bill came; The Primate made light Of the crisis that night, But loudly Lord Derby declared ’twas a shame. The Peers caved in soon, Like the famous “gone ’coon,” And the Commons protested they’d bear all the blame; But none will see the day When the mischief clears away Which that dark hour left on the Parliament fame.
II
Strange arguments lay On the crooked pathway Where the Premier of England slipp’d off from the right; And many a deep print On his policy’s tint Showed the track of his veering towards Lowe and towards Bright. To-morrow’s new men May undo all again Every trace in our laws where the false chief came: But the babes yet unborn Shall record it with scorn, That blot on the scutcheon of England’s fair fame!
_Will-o’-the Wisp_, July 24, 1869.
――――
LORD BROUGHAM.
“Now that the speedy ejection of the Whigs from office, is looked for on all sides and by all parties with a high anticipatory relish, the humane mind naturally turns with compassion to the fate of Lord Brougham, who is on the eve of losing that for which he staked and lost, all his once splendid popularity. He stands a detected apostate from the cause of liberality, and we can only pay to his deplorable condition the melancholy tribute of a commiserating melody.”
AIR――_Eveleen’s Bower_.
Oh! weep for the hour When to Brougham’s bower, The Lord of the Treas’ry with large bribes came, The Lib’rals held their light From the House that night, And staid to weep at home for their old chum’s shame.
The clouds have pass’d From the Liberals at last, And freedom smiles again with her vestal flame; But none will see the day, When the clouds will pass away, Which taking office cast upon Brougham’s fame.
The road to place lay Through a crooked path-way, When Brougham cross’d over the House’s floor, And many a deep hint, Which I’ve seen in print, Show’d the reason of his walk to the Treasury door.
But freedom’s ray Will soon melt away, Every trace of the ministry with which he came; But there’s no light I fear, Which ever can clear The stain upon the brightness of Brougham’s fame.
_Figaro in London_, June 22, 1833.
――――:o:――――
Sixty or seventy years ago when Moore’s poems were in the height of their popularity they were made the subject of a vast number of parodies. Of these the majority would now be of no interest whatever, relating as they do to persons and events long since forgotten. Some of the best of these old parodies have already been given, a few others may be enumerated to which reference could easily be made by any reader desirous of seeing them.
_The Spirit of the Public Journals_ for 1823 contained a great many travesties of Moore’s Irish melodies, nearly all of which were political. The first lines of these are as follows:――
Go where Plutus waits thee. Remember the Deeds of Sir Billy the Fat. Rich and rare were the gems she wore If in death I should lie supine. When first I met thee, fat and fair. ’Tis the last squeak of _Derry_, left nearly alone. We can roam through the Town, and of _Flats_ make a feast. Peggy hath a squinting eye. (See page 245.) Come send round the wine. (See page 243.) Though numerous our debts are. Oh! had I some nice little lass of my own. Come rest in this bosom, my sweet pretty dear! Rich and furred was the robe he wore. (See page 238.) Fly not yet. Blesington hath a beaming eye. Go where Bennett waits thee. The Old Whig Club is meeting, Duke.
The same Volume also contains a Burlesque review, or, as it is termed, a criticism extraordinary, upon a supposed poem, entitled _Loves of the Mortals_, by Timothy Tickle, Esq. This _jeu d’esprit_ was published a few days after _The Loves of the Angels_, and the extracts given from the imaginary poem parody that work.
_Figaro in London_, a sarcastic paper published in London in 1831-32-33, contained many parodies of Moore’s Melodies, the best of these have already been given.
_Punch_ for 1847 contained _The Loves of the New Police_, in several parts. In December 13, 1856, it had a set of verses addressed to a certain _Mr. Morris Moore_, parodying several of Moore’s Songs.
_Funny Folks_, May 10, 1884, on the Dynamite scare: “Believe me that all these explosive alarms.”
_The Humourous Works_ of the late Theodore Hook (London, 1873), in addition to the parody quoted on page 238, contain another on _The young May-Moo_n but it is quite out of date. A review of “_Mr. Minus the Poet_” is also included in the above collection; it is a skit upon Moore’s versification and philosophy, and contains a short imitation of his poetry, entitled _Fanny’s Bower_, somewhat resembling _The Living Lustres_ in the Rejected Addresses.
“_Jack Randall’s Diary_, or proceedings at the House of Call for Genius,” written by Mr. Breakwindow. London, Simpkin, 1820.
This is a small book which cannot be found in the Library of the British Museum. J. C. Hotten, in his “Bibliography of Slang and Cant,” says (p. 103) this was written by Thomas Moore; but further information is wanted on this point.
――――:o:――――
YOUNG LOVE.
Young Love once fell through a straw-thatched shed, Where pigs were feeding And, nowise heeding What cause the god had thither led, While wash they swilled, and were well fed, They thrived and flourished, For Stickem nourished Their hog-ships with good new-made grains; And pigs, though grubby, must be fed, For even they feel Hunger’s pains.
Alas! that mankind’s greedy eye Should e’er go thither, Their loves to wither, But pigs must know they’re born to die And should not squeal when the knife draws nigh. Stickem came that morning, While love was yawning, And seized him, with intent to slay; “Oh, oh!” says Love, “this is all my eye!” So he kicked him over, and flew away.
――――
THE BENCHER; OR, WHITEWASHING DAY.
_Air_――“Though dark are our sorrows, to-day we’ll forget them.”
Though num’rous our debts are, yet soon we forget them, When free from a bailiff’s or turnkey’s rude powers; For never were hearts, if the _nabmen_ would let them, More formed to be jovial and light than ours. But though without cash We oft cut a dash, And _credit_ besprinkles our path with flowers, Yet the day will come When we’re _found at home_! Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles, Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay; But though ’twere the last little spark on our souls, Let us light it up now――for ’tis _whitewashing day_!
The devil take tradesmen, who say we’re ungrateful; Though we fly from _grabs_, to our friends we are true! If we can’t pay, we can’t! then what is more hateful Than taking one’s body for sums over-due? Vile creditors blight Our prospects outright; And when they have nailed us, cry “Pay me, sir, pay!” So unless we give bail, We’re lugg’d off to jail; But since I’m now _up_, were I summon’d next minute, I’d laugh, drink, and sing, look cheerful and gay, And shew what the head of a _Bencher_ has in it, Who has passed the ordeal of _Whitewashing Day_!
We no longer are _green_, and our _sprees_ are recorded By men who have suffer’d too much to forget; With hope they were gull’d, and with promise rewarded, While our quarterly pilgrimage spong’d out the debt. _Their_ hearts may be broke, Yet _we_ laugh at the joke, For nothing can make an _old Bencher_ pay; He’s _up_ and he’s _down_ To the tricks of the Town; He lives by his wits, and plays a bold part With an impudent air that ne’er will decay; Though his poverty’s great, still greater’s his art, For he clears off all scores by _Whitewashing Day_,
From _The Spirit of the Public Journals_, 1825.
――――:o:――――
THE LIVING LUSTRES.[126]
The following imitation of Tom Moore’s style is taken from _The Rejected Addresses_. It was written by Horace Smith. Early editions of _The Rejected Addresses_ contained three verses which have recently been generally omitted. These are here supplied within parenthesis.
“Jam te juvaverit Viros relinquere, Doctæque conjugis Sinu quiescere.” SIR T. MORE.
O Why should our dull retrospective addresses Fall damp as wet blankets on Drury Lane fire? Away with blue devils, away with distresses, And give the gay spirit to sparkling desire!
Let artists decide on the beauties of Drury, The richest to me is when woman is there; The question of houses I leave to the jury; The fairest to me is the house of the fair.