VIII.
And now, ye English, old and young, who may this story read, To tales from coves――of distant shores, I pray you ne’er give heed; Unto the crafty Colonist, close heart, and ear, and eye, And heed this version of the tale of “The Spider and the Fly.”
From _Emigration Realised_, a poem, &c., by S. C. C. (_i.e._ Chase), London. Saunders & Otley, 1855.
――――
THE SONG OF THE BANK DIRECTOR.
“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the spider to the fly! “Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy. “You’ve only got to pop your head just inside of the door, “You’ll see so many curious things you never saw before” “Will you let me see your pocket?” said the spider to the fly! “To handle your bright gold I’ve a great curiosity.”
Said the fly, “If once you’d hold of it, a wager I would lay “Of ten to one you very soon would take it all away.” “What handsome purse, what lots of cash!” quoth spider to the fly. “If I had so much money, some nice Bank shares I would buy. “Look here!” And here he ope’d a safe, and said, “Dear fly, just see “These lovely shares, big divs., and unlim’d liability.”
“What lovely wings they’d make you! How much higher you could fly! “For the last time, now, I ask you, pretty creature, will you buy?” And the silly fly, intoxicated with his flattery, Bought lots of shares with unlimited liability. But when the time came for the dividends to be received, The poor fly found that he had been most woefully deceived.
When he went into the parlour, quick the spider shut the door, And tightly round him spun his web, and hurled him on the floor―― And laughed, “Ha! ha!” and said, “I’ll show you now, my pretty fly, “What comes of buying shares with unlim’d liability.” And first he plundered all his gold, and all he had beside, And then he crushed him utterly, and sucked him till he died.
From _Dizzi-Ben-Dizzi_, 1878.
――――
THE IRISH SPIDER AND THE ENGLISH FLY.
“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly. “We can talk without disturbance, and no Tories can espy. It is just across the Channel, you can very soon get there. And I’ve curious things to show you which I’m sure will make you stare.” “Excuse me,” said the Grand Old Fly, “your manner has a charm, But are you really sure, dear sir, you do not mean me harm?”
Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, “Dear friend, what can I do To prove the warm affection I have always felt for you? I’ve eighty-six companions too so pleasant, kind, and nice, Who’ll welcome any friend of mine and help him in a trice.” “Forgive me,” said the Grand Old Fly, “because I make so bold, But about that Irish party there are awful stories told,”
“Sweet creature,” said the Spider, “you’re witty and you’re wise, On you the universal world now turns its wondering eyes, I have an Irish looking-glass upon my parlour shelf―― You’ll be surprised if in that glass you but behold yourself,” “I thank you, gentle sir, indeed for what you’ve pleased to say, And bidding you good morning now I’ll call another day.”
The Spider waited for a time inside his Irish den, For well he knew the Grand Old Fly would soon come back again. He wove his subtle Home Rule web in a little corner sly And set his eighty-six _confrères_ to watch the Grand Old Fly. Then wandered to his door again and merrily did say, “Come hither, hither, dearest Fly――a moment step this way.”
There was no limit to the pride of that poor silly Fly. He listened to the Spider’s voice, which flattered him sky high; He buzzed about, he tossed his head, and near and nearer drew―― Deceived by his own vanity he thought the Spider true. “No English Fly has soared so high,” said he, but now at last, Caught in the cunning Home Rule web, the Spider held him fast.
_Moonshine._ June 5, 1886.
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A CHARITABLE INSTITUTION. (_A Hint to some Hospitals nearer Home._)
“Will you walk into our death-trap?” Say the surgeons so serene, “’Tis the neatest little death-trap That there ever yet has been; The beds are most inviting, The sheets are nice and white―― And when you get between ’em You can bid the world good-night.”
“We have wards to suit all parties,” Say the surgeons so serene, “But the one we’re recommending Is that special ward――eighteen. Kindly cut your little finger, And select your little bed―― Then, before a week is over, You will certainly be dead.”
“If you fracture say your elbow, And come here to get it dress’t―― Well, your arm is amputated And you find eternal rest; For your blood is surely poisoned, And so deadly is the taint That you’re here, perchance, one morning, And, to-morrow, here you ain’t.
“When some nasty broken chilblains Give you trouble with your toes, Oh! we take your leg, and presto! In a moment off it goes. It is getting on quite nicely, Is that amputated pin, When, as certain as the sunrise, Erysipelas sets in.
“Then walk into our death-trap―― Harry, Tommy Johnny, Bob―― We have instruments in plenty And are always on the job; ’Tis the very surest death-trap That the world has ever seen, Make your wills and have a shake-down In our special ward――eighteen.”
_The Sydney Bulletin._ August 7, 1886.
――――
HARCOURT AND CHAMBERLAIN.
“Will you walk into our parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly; “’Tis the cosiest little parlour, friend, that ever you did spy―― The way into this parlour is quite wide, as you’re aware, And, oh! we’ll do such wondrous things when once we get _you_ there! Then, won’t you, won’t you, won’t you, won’t you, Pretty little fly?”
Now, as I’ve heard, this little fly was young, but wary, too, And so he thought, I’ll mind my eye――the thing may be a do! So “No, no!” said that little fly; “kind Sir, that cannot be, I’ve heard what’s in your parlour, and I do not wish to see.”
That Spider he was portly, and that Spider he was bland, And he played the part of siren for an even Older Hand. Says he, “Oh, Fly, you must be tired of being on the shelf, Why don’t you just step in awhile, if but to rest yourself?”
“Our parlour’s snugly furnished, for expense we never spare, We’ve such a nice Round Table; you shall have an easy chair. It seems incomplete without you as a sort of settled guest; Turn up solitary buzzing now; step in and take a rest.”
That little Fly looked longingly. Thinks he, “I _do_ feel tired, I’m fond of cosy parties, and I like to be admired. Yet I have a slight suspicion that the thing may be a trap―― I twig something in the corner――I distrust that fat old chap.”
So “I’ll wait a little longer,” to the Spider said the Fly, As he spread his wings (with friend Col-lings), and fluttered towards the Skye. But whether he’ll come back again, and try that parlour yet, Is a thing on which a cautious man would hardly like to bet.
_Punch._ March 19, 1887.
_The Spider_, by Sir W. Y. Harcourt. _The Fly_, by Mr. Joseph Chamberlain.
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“Will you walk a little faster?” said a whiting to a snail, “There’s a porpoise close behind us, and he’s treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle――will you come and join the dance? Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance? Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance.”
* * * * *
From _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_.
There was a parody in _Will-o’-the-Wisp_, March 20, 1869, entitled “The Abbess and the Maid” concerning a law suit which attracted much attention at the time, but is now forgotten. It commenced:――
“Will you walk into my convent?” said the abbess to the maid. “’Tis the prettiest little cloister ever nestled in the shade.”
Another long political parody in _The London Figaro_, August 7, 1886, commenced:――
“Will you come into our Chamber?” said the Marquis to “Grand Cross” “’Tis a finely gilded chamber” (so went on the Tory Boss.)
Another appeared in _Punch_, June 30, 1888, soon after Mr. W. E. Gladstone had given his vote in favour of Watkin’s scheme for the Channel Tunnel. Two verses may be quoted:――
THE WATKIN SPIDER AND THE GLADSTONE FLY.
“Will you walk into my Tunnel?” said the Spider to the Fly, “’Tis the handiest little Tunnel that ever you did spy. You’ve only got to pop your head inside and peep, no more, And you’ll see a many curious things you never saw before. Will you, will you, will you, will you, walk in, Grand Old Fly?”
Said the Spider to the Fly, “It’s most absurd, upon my soul, To see so big a nation scared about so small a hole. To share the scare that’s in the air is worthy, don’t you know, Not of a Grand Old Fly like you, but of a midge like Joe! Then won’t you, won’t you, won’t you, won’t you, plucky Grand Old Fly?”
* * * * *
_Punch._ June 30, 1888.
――――
Pray come along to Hawarden, says the Grand Old Man so fly, (Or p’rhaps I should say spider), to convince you let me try. Home Rule’s the grandest principle since first the earth began, And to vote for C. S. Parnell and his friend, the Grand Old Man. Pop in the train at Euston and to Chester then run down, And don’t make speeches on the way (such conduct makes me frown,) If but a Post-card you will send to say when you’ll arrive, The Home Rule van shall meet you, and the Grand Old whip will drive.
* * * * *
This not very brilliant political parody will be found in an anonymous pamphlet entitled “_Glad-Par-Stonell-Iana_.” Waterlow & Sons, 1889.
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NURSERY RHYMES.
Parodies on Nursery Rhymes and Children’s Songs, which were interrupted in order to introduce those relating to Smoking, can now be resumed, as a few good ones still remain to be quoted. When the late Mr. J. O. Halliwell (Halliwell-Phillipps) first brought out his collection of Nursery Rhymes, his friend James Robinson Planché, the dramatist, wrote some little humourous skits on them. These were merely meant for playful badinage, but a few lines may be quoted from them:――
Ride-a-cockhorse To Kennington-Cross; Come and see Planché, Who works like a horse Sucking his fingers, And roasting his toes; He would have you come Wherever he goes.
Halliwell-Halliwell, My pretty man, Make me a book As fast as you can; Write it and print it, And mark it with P., And send it by Parcels Delive_rye_.
Ding dong bell, Planché’s at Stockwell. What took him there? His wife, you may swear. When will he come back? As soon as he can――good lack.
――――
The Prince of Wales was christened on January 25, 1842, for which occasion a very handsome cake was prepared, but it was remarked that it remained uncut, the Queen appearing unwilling to spoil this remarkable specimen of confectionary.
A Nursery Ballad, entitled “The Christening Cake,” was published on the occasion, (by Mr. John Lee, of 440, West Strand,) from which a few extracts may be quoted:――
When great Victoria ruled the land, She ruled it like a Queen; She had a Princess and a Prince Not very far between. The Princess was a girl, you’ll guess, A pretty little thing; Yet parties all agreed in this―― She never could be King. But ere the year its course had run, What universal joy! On Lord Mayor’s Day there came to light A glorious princely Boy! The Queen gazetted him next week, The caudle ran in pails; She girded on his little sword, And called him “Prince of Wales.” “The christening shall be superb, And worthy of our state.” So spoke the Queen to Albert, her Most true and royal mate.
* * * * *
The Banquet served, the brilliant throng Proceed their seats to take; The plate was grand, yet every eye Was fixed upon the Cake! The thistle, rose, and shamrock twined The Prince’s arms and crest; The Prussian Eagle, raised on high, To please the Royal Guest. In matchless beauty stood the cake, The glory of the day; And now each lady hoped to take A little bit away. Prince Albert raised a knife and fork, Victoria looked a frown! So, with a disappointed air, He laid the weapons down. She rose――and the distinguished guests Their last obeisance make! All murmuring, as they left the room, “She never cut the Cake!” The Queen and Prince, like other folks, Their party gone away, Sat for five minutes, chatting o’er The pleasures of the day. “When I’ve enjoyed a _fete_ so much I really cannot tell; From early morn till now midnight, All things went off so well!” “Nay, dear Victoria, pardon me, You make a slight mistake; For every thing _did not go off_.” (He glanced towards the cake.) “Consider our expenses, love; Outgoings are so great, Receiving foreign Potentates With all this form and state. Our family increases fast, And cakes are _very_ dear; The Prussian Eagle laid aside, We’ll keep it for next year!”
This ballad shows that the Queen had a reputation for parsimony as long ago as 1842, the moral it enforces is similar to that contained in the old Nursery Rhyme the ballad parodies, concerning the famous plum Pudding of King Arthur:――
“The King and Queen ate of the same, And all the Court beside; And what they could not eat that night, The Queen next morning _fried_.”
It is somewhat curious that Poets should so often select incidents in the lives of Royal personages as topics for their poems, considering how ephemeral is the interest they excite.
The above ballad was, of course, only a burlesque, and had no claim to longevity, but of all the _serious_ adulatory poems written about the Queen, and her family, during the last fifty years how many have survived? With the exception of some few lines in Tennyson’s Dedications and Odes, the present generation knows nothing of them.
Where is Leigh Hunt’s poem on the birth of the Princess Royal? Where is Professor Aytoun’s Ode on the Marriage of the Prince of Wales? Where, oh, where is Mr. _Lewis_ Morris’s Ode for the Opening of the Imperial Institute? Forgotten, all forgotten, and nearly as obsolete as the Birthday Odes of the Poets-Laureate Eusden, Warton, and Pye.
Who reads or remembers Martin F. Tupper’s Welcome to the Princess Alexandra?
“And thus they warbled, in the style of Tupper, Whose ode to our Princess is thought a fine Sample of metre _Alexandra_-ine―― A poet arithmetical in fame, Who lisp’d in numbers, for the numbers came:”
THE JOY BIRDS’ ODE.
100,000 welcomes![34] 100,000 welcomes!! And 100,000 more!!! Oh! happy birds of Eden, Sing like the Star of Sweden, Yes, yes, like Nilsson sing, birds, And make the island ring, birds, As no land rang before; And let the welkin roar, To wel_kin_ her to shore; Let miles of echo shout it, And sparkling fountains spout it, Let leagues of lightning flash it, And tons of thunder crash it; Let pouring rainfalls hail her name, And fiery earthquakes sound her fame, Till sky, and sea, and shore Join in a vast _encore_, 100,000 welcomes, And 100,000 more!
* * * * *
In justice to Mr. Tupper it must be admitted that these are not _exactly_ his lines, but only a very fair parody of them taken from _The Lays of the Saintly_, by Mr. Walter Parke. (London, Vizetelly, 1882.)
――――:o:――――
DR. FELL.
I do not like thee, Dr. Fell, The reason why I cannot tell; But this alone, I know full well, I do _not_ like thee, Dr. Fell.
This little nursery rhyme claims ancient lineage. In Thomas Forde’s “Virtus Rediviva,” 1661, in a collection of familiar letters, is the following passage:――
“There are some natures so Hetrogenious, that the streightest, and most gordion knot of Wedlock is not able to twist, of which the Epigrammatist (Martial) speaks my mind better than I can myself:――
Non amo te Sabide, nec possum dicere quare, Hoc tantum possum dicere, non amo te.
Take the English in the words of a gentleman to his wife:――
I love thee not, Nel, But why, I can’t tell; But this I can tell, I love thee not, Nel.”
The following is Clément Marot’s version as given in Chapsal’s ‘Modèles de Littérature Française,’ ii. p. 26:――
Jan, je ne t’aime point, beau sire: Ne sais quelle mouche me point, Ni pourquoi c’est je ne puis dire Sinon que je ne t’aime point.
Another version, by Roger de Bussy, Comte de Rabutin (_ob._ 1693), ran as follows:――
Je ne vous aime pas, Hylas, Je n’en saurois dire la cause; Je sais seulement une chose; C’est que je ne vous aime pas.
[Illustration]
JOHN DRYDEN.
BORN August 9, 1631. | DIED May 1, 1700.
(_Was Poet Laureate from 1670 till the accession of William III. in 1688, when he was superceded by a Protestant poet, Thomas Shadwell._)
In the year 1683, a musical society was formed in London for the celebration of St. Cecilia’s Day, and from that time a festival was held annually on November the 22nd in Stationers’ Hall, and an Ode, composed for the occasion, was sung. These festivals continued, with a few interruptions, down to the year 1744, and some were held at even a later date; but these celebrations must not be confounded with the performances given by the “Cecilian” Society, which was established in 1785.
A collection of the Odes, written for the Festival of St. Cecilia’s Day, was first formed by Mr. William Henry Husk, Librarian of the Sacred Harmonic Society, and published by Bell and Daldy in 1857, in “_An Account of the Musical Celebrations on St. Cecilia’s Day_. To which is appended a Collection of Odes on St. Cecilia’s Day.” It is unnecessary to enumerate them all here, but as Odes written by Nahum Tate, John Dryden, Thomas Shadwell, Samuel Wesley, Joseph Addison, William Congreve, Alexander Pope, and the burlesque Ode by Bonnell Thornton are included, the volume has considerable literary interest.
John Dryden wrote a song for the Festival of November, 1687, but his great Ode, “Alexander’s Feast; or, the Power of Music,” was written and performed in 1697. For this poem it is said Dryden received forty pounds, its success was so great that it was frequently performed at later festivals, and in 1736 “Alexander’s Feast” was set to music by Handel. The poem has been frequently parodied, it will therefore be convenient to give the original Ode, followed by the parodies, or such parts of them as are fit for re-publication, for it must be confessed that some of the earlier imitations are excessively coarse.
ALEXANDER’S FEAST.
’Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won, By Philip’s warlike son, Aloft in awful state, The god-like hero sate On his imperial throne. His valiant peers were placed around, Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound: (So should desert in arms be crown’d.) The lovely Thais, by his side, Sate like a blooming eastern bride, In flower of youth, and beauty’s pride.
_Chorus._ Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair.
Timotheus placed on high, Amid the tuneful choir, With flying fingers touched the lyre; With trembling notes ascend the sky, And heavenly joys inspire. The Song began from Jove, Who left his blissful seat above Such is the power of mighty love: A dragon’s fiery form belied the god; Sublime on radiant spheres he rode, When he to fair Olympia press’d, And while he sought her snowy Breast, Then round her slender waist he curl’d, And stamp’d an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. The listening crowd admire the lofty sound; “A present deity!” they shout around; “A present deity!” the vaulted roofs rebound.
_Chorus._ With ravish’d ears The monarch hears, Assumes the God, Affects to nod, And seems to shake the spheres.
The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musican sung, Of Bacchus, ever fair and ever young!―― The jolly god in triumph comes! Sound the trumpets! beat the drums! Flush’d with a purple grace, He shows his honest face, Now give the hautboys breath! he comes! he comes! Bacchus ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain:
_Chorus._ Bacchus’ blessings are a treasure; Drinking is the soldier’s pleasure: Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, Sweet is pleasure, after pain!
Sooth’d with the sound, the king grew vain; Fought all his battles o’er again; And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain! The master saw the madness rise; His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; And while he heaven and earth defied―― Changed his hand, and check’d his pride. He chose a mournful Muse, Soft Pity to infuse: He sang Darius great and good! By too severe a fate, Fallen! fallen! fallen! fallen! Fallen from his high estate And weltering in his blood! Deserted at his utmost need By those his former bounty fed, On the bare earth exposed he lies, With not a friend to close his eyes! With downcast look the joyless victor sate.
_Chorus._ Revolving, in his alter’d soul, The various turns of fate below; And now, and then, a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow!
The mighty master smil’d to see That love was in the next degree: ’Twas but a kindred sound to move: For pity melts the mind to love. Softly sweet, in Lydian measures. Soon he sooth’d his soul to pleasures War, he sung, is toil and trouble: Honor but an empty bubble; Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying, If the world be worth thy winning, Think, oh think it worth enjoying! Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee! The many rend the skies with loud applause, So Love was crown’d; but Music won the cause.
_Chorus._ The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair Who caused his care, And sigh’d and look’d, sigh’d and look’d, Sigh’d and look’d, and sigh’d again: At length, with love and wine at once oppress’d, The vanquish’d victor sank upon her breast!
Now strike the golden lyre again! A louder yet, and yet a louder strain! Break his bands of sleep asunder, And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark! hark! the horrid sound Has raised up his head, As awaked from the dead; And, amazed, he stares around! “Revenge! revenge!” Timotheus cries―― See the Furies arise! See the snakes that they rear, How they hiss in the air, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! Behold a ghastly band, Each a torch in his hand! Those are Grecian ghosts that in battle were slain, And unburied remain Inglorious on the plain! Give the vengeance due, To the valient crew! Behold; how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes, And glittering temples of their hostile gods;―― The princes applaud, with a furious joy!
_Chorus._ And the king seized a flambeau, with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way, To light him to his prey! And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.
Thus, long ago, Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, While organs yet were mute, Timotheus, to his breathing flute And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame: The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, With Nature’s mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
_Chorus._ Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown: He raised a mortal to the skies! She drew an angel down!
JOHN DRYDEN.
――――
SHAKESPEARE’S FEAST.
_An Ode on the recent rehearsal in the Town Hall of Stratford._