IV.
Then Sunday comes and, it must be confessed, They wonder how to pass the “Day of Rest.” Many, with wearied limbs and aching head, Resolve to spend it cosily in bed; Some drive to Richmond, if the weather’s fine, And at the Star and Garter go to dine; Some, as I’ve said before, to church repair, “Not for the doctrine but the music there;” While others, and indeed they’re not a few, Resolve to spend some hours at the Zoo. These seem to think Religion is displayed In noting how their fellow Creature’s made: They throng the walks, but oft so queerly dressed, Although ’tis true they wear their “Sunday best,” That e’en the animals opine, no doubt, Their relatives have got a “Sunday out.” The monkeys at each other grin and wink, And whisper in Ape-language, “missing link!” The grissly bear himself, with outstretched claw Politely asks a passer for “his paw;” The loving seal oft thinks he sees his kin, But quite as often finds he’s taken in, For now-a-days folks do not seem to feel That seal-skin jackets are not always seal. They see the lions feed, which call to mind The fact that they themselves have not yet dined; So home to dine, and pass with mis-timed jest The rest of Sunday, not the Sunday’s rest, Well-satisfied, howe’er, to feel and know They’ve shown themselves, as well as seen the show.
A. W. MACKENZIE. (Author of “_The Idylls of the Rink_.”)
From _Pastime_ September 28, 1883.
――――
Pope’s prologue to Addison’s tragedy of _Cato_ is justly considered one of the finest prologues in the language. The following parody of it is taken from a little tract entitled “_A Succinct Description of that Elaborate Pile of Art_, _called the Microcosm_. With a short account of the Solar System.” Coventry. Printed for the Proprietor Mr. Edward Davis, 1763. The _Microcosm_ was constructed by Mr. Henry Bridges of Waltham Abbey, architect, it was in the form of a Roman Temple, ten feet high by six feet broad in the basis, and was designed to give the spectator instruction in architecture, sculpture and astronomy.
“The following parody (on Pope’s prologue to Cato) was addressed to Mr. Henry Bridges, constructor of that elaborate piece of mechanism. _The Microcosm_, by Dr. Burton, of Yarmouth.”
To sooth the Soul by tender Strokes of art, To raise the Genius and to rouse the Heart, To make Mankind by Harmony elate, Soften the Breast and banish direful Hate, The ruffled Passions potent to asswage, To conquer Fear and to enervate Rage, Was _music’s_ Power, by _Orpheus_ first ordain’d; Fierce Beasts were tam’d, and fiercer Tyrants Chain’d. Th’ enchanting Sounds through their whole Fabrick crept, And _Savage_ Mortals wonder’d why they wept. Our _Artist_ shuns by vulgar Springs to move His mimic Race below, or Orbs above, Here Pleasure flows from _Scientific_ Cause, Whilst Ingenuity extorts applause: He bids your breast with Emulation rise, And tho’ you’re e’er so learn’d, e’er so wise, By Arts _Mechanick_ you will here be taught More than _Rome_ knew, or _Grecian_ Sages thought. Those Objects to your Senses he displays, Which the Spectator of our Globe surveys; The various Movements and the changing State. Of Beings active and inanimate. Whilst _Bridges_ gives his _Microcosm_ Laws, What Bosom beats not in Invention’s Cause? Who sees him work, but envies every Deed? Who hears him lecture hears e’en _Newton_ read. _Britons_ attend, be Worth like his approv’d, And shew you have the Virtue to be mov’d. With honest Scorn our wond’rous Artist view’d Meer Machinations on the World obtrude: _French_ and _Italian_ Puppets pleas’d too long, And _British_ sense was barter’d for a Song. Dare to invent yourselves, to _Fame_ aspire, Be justly warm’d with your own native Fire. _Bridges!_ those Sounds must ravish every Ear, Which _Handel’s_ Self did not disdain to hear.
――――
THE RAPE OF THE CAKE. A COVENT-GARDEN ECLOQUE.
Inscribed to the Musical Band of Covent-garden theatre, on account of the recent theft of their twelfth-cake.
“_Quid Rapuisti?_”
The night was dark! fast clos’d the plunderer’s hand! And idle Jehu’s slept upon the stand! The lone Piazza, erst the gay resort Of flash and fun, and meritricious sport, Then only echo’d to th’ unvarying sound Of drowsy watchmen, pacing their dull round, Kiddies no more at _Glue_ or _Brilliant_ sup, And e’en the far-fam’d _Finish_ was _done up_. All rest in sleep! save――_those who were awake_―― The wicked wags who stole the _fiddlers’ cake_. Not in more silence did Ulysses tread, When he relentless struck king Rhesus dead; Not with more caution did the invading Gaul Attempt to storm the Capitolian wall; Not with more care did valorous Smith advance To burn the navy of insulting France; Not with more ease did Belcher beat poor Burke, Then those vile plunderers did the dreadful work!!! But say, my muse, what prodigies appear’d? The rain fast pour’d, and horrid screams were heard! Loud thunder shook the gay theatric pile, And Kemble first relax’d into a smile! The theft announc’d, the _band_ were in dismay, And nought were heard, but ‘Oh!’ and ‘Well-a-day!’ The leader _Ware_, with anger in his soul, _While his limbs tremble_, _and his eyeballs roll_, “D――n!” cried, “this insults too imposing, Shall we bear this, ye _scraping sons of Rosin_?” The puffy _Parke_, who never was a starter, Said, “In this cause I wish to die a _Martyr_!” _Hawtin_, with face inflated like a crumpet, “Lord bless us,” said, and dropp’d his brazen _trumpet_. And smirking _Davy_, with his _powder’d_ pate, Plump’d snug upon his seat and _grinn’d_ in state. While feeble _Woodcock_ let his anger loose, And fix’d the theft on harmless _Mother Goose_!!! But say, my muse, and then I’ll cry farewell! Who stole the _cake_?――“Indeed I cannot tell! And this I swear, in accents strong and slow, _I cannot tell!_――because _I do not know!_”
――――
A volume of poems by T. Flatman, published in 1674, contains a poem entitled _A Thought on Death_ from which Pope must have borrowed his ode “_The Dying Christian to his Soul_:”――
“Vital spark of heavenly flame! Quit, oh quit this mortal frame! Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!”
* * * * *
“Hark! they whisper; angels say, Sister spirit, come away!”
So far Pope, compare Flatman:――
“When on my sick bed I languish, Full of sorrow, full of anguish―― Fainting, grasping, trembling, crying, Panting, groaning, speechless, dying.”
* * * * *
“Methinks I hear some gentle spirit say, Be not fearful――come away!”
Pope was the author of numerous imitations of other Poets, such as Chaucer, Spenser, Waller, Abraham Cowley, the Earl of Rochester, the Earl of Dorset, and Dean Swift. The poem in imitation of Chaucer is somewhat coarse, that after Dr. Swift will be quoted later on, under that author’s name.
[Illustration]
COLIN’S COMPLAINT.
NICHOLAS ROWE, Born 1673, Died 1718.
_Poet Laureate_ 1715 to 1718.
Despairing beside a clear stream, A shepherd forsaken was laid; And while a false nymph was his theme. A willow supported his head: The wind that blew over the plain, To his sighs with a sigh did reply, And the brook, in return to his pain, Ran mournfully murmuring by.
Alas! silly swain that I was, Thus sadly complaining, he cried; When first I beheld that fair face, ’Twere better by far I had died: She talk’d, and I bless’d her dear tongue; When she smil’d, ’twas a pleasure too great; I listen’d and cry’d when she sung, Was nightingale ever so sweet!
How foolish was I to believe She could doat on so lowly a clown, Or that her fond heart would not grieve, To forsake the fine folk of the town: To think that a beauty so gay, So kind and so constant would prove, Or go clad like our maidens in grey, Or live in a cottage on love?
What though I have skill to complain, Tho’ the muses my temples have crown’d; What tho’ when they hear my soft strain, The virgins sit weeping around? Ah, Colin! thy hopes are in vain, Thy pipe and thy laurel resign, Thy false one inclines to a swain, Whose music is sweeter than thine.
All you, my companions so dear, Who sorrow to see me betray’d, Whatever I suffer, forbear, Forbear to accuse the false maid. Tho’ thro’ the wide world I should range, ’Tis in vain for my fortune to fly, ’Twas her’s to be false and to change,―― ’Tis mine to be constant and die.
If while my hard fate I sustain, In her breast any pity is found, Let her come with the nymphs of the plain, And see me laid low in the ground: The last humble boon that I crave, Is to shade me with cypress and yew And when she looks down on my grave Let her own that her shepherd was true.
Then to her new love let her go, And deck her in golden array; Be finest at every fine show, And frolic it all the long day: While Colin, forgotten and gone, No more shall be talked of or seen, Unless when beneath the pale moon, His ghost shall glide over the green.
Nicholas Rowe wrote several tragedies and some poems, but the above is almost the only specimen which has any life in it. A Latin version, entitled “Corydon Querens” will be found in Vincent Bourne’s works.
A PARODY. (Ascribed to George Canning.)
By the side of a murmuring stream An elderly gentleman sat; On the top of his head was his wig, On the top of his wig was his hat. The wind it blew high and blew strong Where this elderly gentleman sat, And took from his head in a trice, And plunged in the river his hat.
The gentleman then took his cane, Which lay by his side as he sat, But he dropp’d in the river his wig In attempting to get out his hat. And now in the depth of despair, Though still from the place where he sat, He flung in the river his cane, To swim with his wig and his hat.
But cooler reflection at length, As this elderly gentleman sat, Said “Jump up and follow the stream, And look for your wig and your hat.” But, alas for the thought! for so soon As he rose from the place where he sat, He slipp’d and fell plump over head, To swim with his wig and his hat.
――――
BOW BELLS.
At the brink of a murmuring brook A contemplative Cockney reclined; And his face wore a sad sort of look, As if care were at work on his mind. He sigh’d now and then as we sigh When the heart with soft sentiments wells; And a tear came and moisten’d each eye As he mournfully thought of Bow Bells.
I am monarch of all I survey! (Thus he vented his feelings in words)―― But my kingdom, it grieves me to say, Is inhabited chiefly by birds. In this brook that flows lazily by I believe that _one_ tittlebat dwells, For I saw something jump at a fly As I lay here and long’d for Bow Bells.
I am partial to trees, as a rule; And the rose is a beautiful flower. (Yes, I once read a ballad at school Of a rose that was wash’d in a shower.) But, although I may doat on the rose, I can scarcely believe that it smells Quite so sweet in the bed where it grows As when sold within sound of Bow Bells.
No; I’ve tried it in vain once or twice, And I’ve thoroughly made up my mind That the country is all very nice―― But I’d much rather mix with my kind. Yes; to-day――if I meet with a train―― I will fly from these hills and these dells; And to-night I will sleep once again (Happy thought!) within sound of Bow Bells.
From _Carols of Cockayne_, by Henry S. Leigh. London, Chatto and Windus, 1874.
[Illustration]
LORD LYTTLETON.
A BURLESQUE ODE BY TOBIAS SMOLLETT.
Lord Lyttleton was not only the patron of poets, but was also a minor poet himself. He married, in 1741, Miss Lucy Fortescue, whose death five years afterwards gave him a theme for a monody which contained the following lines:――
In vain I look around O’er all the well-known ground, My Lucy’s wonted footsteps to descry; Where oft we used to walk, Where oft in tender talk We saw the summer sun go down the sky; Nor by yon fountain’s side, Nor where its waters glide Along the valley, can she now be found: In all the wide-stretched prospect’s ample bound, No more my mournful eye Can aught of her espy, But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie. Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns, By your delighted mother’s side: Who now your infant steps shall guide?
* * * * *
Smollett, who considered that his merits had been neglected by Lord Lyttleton, wrote the following parody on this monody:――
Where wast thou, wittol Ward, when hapless fate, From these weak arms mine aged grannam tore: These pious arms essay’d too late, To drive the dismal phantom from the door. Could not thy healing drop, illustrious Quack, Could not thy salutary pill prolong her days; For whom, so oft, to Marybone, alack! Thy sorrels dragg’d thee, thro’ the worst of ways!
Oil-dropping Twick’nham did not then detain Thy steps, tho’ tended by the Cambrian maids; Nor the sweet environs of Drury Lane; Nor dusty Pimlico’s embow’ring shades; Nor Whitehall, by the river’s bank, Beset with rowers dank Nor where th’ Exchange pours forth its tawny sons; Nor where to mix with offal, soil and blood, Steep Snow Hill rolls the sable flood; Nor where the Mint’s contaminated kennel runs; Ill doth it now beseem, That thou should’st doze and dream, When death in mortal armour came, And struck with ruthless dart the gentle dame. Her lib’ral hand and sympathising breast, The brute creation kindly bless’d: Where’er she trod grimalkin purr’d around, The squeaking pigs her bounty own’d; Nor to the waddling duck or gabbling goose, Did she glad sustenance refuse; The strutting cock she daily fed, And turkey with his snout so red; Of chickens careful as the pious hen, Nor did she overlook the tomtit or the wren; While redbreast hopp’d before her in the hall, As if the common mother of them all. For my distracted mind; What comfort can I find; O best of grannams! thou art dead and gone, And I am left behind to weep and moan, To sing thy dirge in sad funereal lay, Oh! woe is me! alack! and well-a-day!
――――:o:――――
IT IS NOT THAT MY LOT IS LOW. (After _Henry Kirke White_.)
It is not that my “place” was low, That bids my foolish tear to flow; It is not that that makes me moan, But ’tis, that all my money’s gone.
Thro’ slummy back-streets now I roam, Whene’er I venture out from home; To luckier souls I leave the rest, The streets that once I knew the best.
Yet when the plates, of varied size, With hunger-stirring symphonies Resound, I think――“A nice grilled bone!” And sigh that all my money’s gone.
My friends now pass me, cut me dead; I’m only happy when in bed; I cannot get more “whisker-dye” Without committing felony.
My creditors, with angry wail, Tell all the same relentless tale. I’ve none to smile with, or make free Or, when I want it, lend to me
Yet in my dreams a cheque I view, That’s meant for me――a large one too. I start, and when the vision’s flown, I weep that all my money’s gone.
From _The Lays of the Mocking Sprite_. Cambridge. W. Metcalfe & Sons.
――――:o:――――
ODE, (_In the Manner of Dr. Samuel Johnson._) Addressed to a Girl in the Temple, 1777.
While the calescent, sanguine flood, By vile Vulgarity call’d Blood, Pervades this mortal frame; Amaz’d at your translucid charms, You I solicit to these arms, Tho’ of procacious name!
When in your dim nocturnal rounds, Erratic from the Temple’s bounds Thro’ devious lanes you stray; With friendly auscultation deign To audit amatorial pain Subvected in this lay.
Satellite of the Paphian dame, Whose rays, tho’ darken’d by thy fame, Illuminate my mind: Desert the street, resume the plain, Rejoin your derelicted swain―― Be prudent, as you’re kind.
My brows, obumbrated with age, Hang scowling o’er life’s latter-page―― But you, like Lunar beam, Thro’ my nimbosity arise; Dispensing, from your lucid eyes, Refocillating gleam.
From _The Wiccamical Chaplet_. Edited by George Huddesford. London, Leigh, Sotheby & Son, 1804.
――――
Dr. Johnson wrote the following lines as a skit on the style of Dr. Warton, then Poet-Laureate:――
Hermit hoar, in solemn cell Wearing out life’s evening grey; Strike thy bosom sage, and tell What is bliss, and which the way.
Thus I spoke, and speaking sighed, Scarce repress’d the starting tear, When the hoary sage replied, “Come, my lad, and drink some beer.”
_Imitation of the Above._
“Crested warrior, on whose helm Nodding plumes encircling bind, Tell me in what happy realm Valour such as thine to find?”
Thus I said, and envious sighed. He, who ne’er from battle run, The mighty warrior, eager cried,―― “_Show me how to hold my gun!_”
――――
Dr. Johnson wrote the Prologue for the opening of Drury Lane Theatre, in 1747, which was spoken by David Garrick, it commenced with the well known lines:――
“When Learning’s triumph o’er her barbarous foes First rear’d the stage, immortal _Shakespeare_ rose; Each change of many colour’d life he drew, Exhausted Worlds, and then imagined new: Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign, And panting time toil’d after him in vain,”
* * * * *
This was the subject of a political parody in _Posthumous Parodies_ (London, 1814) of which it is only necessary to quote a few lines:――
When Europe’s peril from her Gallic foes First roused the age, immortal Pitt arose, Each plot of many colour’d France o’erthrew, Saved the old world, and overawed the new. Commerce beheld him stretch her golden reign, And jealous Whigs toil’d after him in vain: His lofty thoughts his lofty phrase impress’d, And admiration throbb’d in ev’ry breast.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
EDMUND SPENSER.
BORN 1553. | DIED January 16, 1599. Appointed Poet-Laureate 1590.
Although there are not many parodies extant of Spenser’s poetry, yet the beautiful metre which he invented, and used with such success in _The Faerie Queene_, has been since imitated, or adopted by many of our leading poets. This will be seen by the following list of works, written in the Spenserian stanza, which has been compiled with great care, by Mr. Jonathan Bouchier, of Ropley.
Allan’s ‘Bridal of Caolchaiarn’ and ‘Last Deer of Brenn Doran’ (or Dran).
Beattie’s ‘Minstrel.’
Bedingfield ‘The Education of Achilles.’
William Lisle Bowles ‘Childe Harold’s Last Pilgrimage,’ six stanzas.
Burns’s ‘Cotter’s Saturday Night.’
W. C. Bryant ‘The Ages.’
Byron’s ‘Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.’
Campbell’s ‘Gertrude of Wyoming.’
Campbell’s ‘Chaucer and Windsor.’
Cooper’s ‘Purgatory of Suicides.’
Edward’s ‘Tour of the Dove.’
Hood’s ‘Irish Schoolmaster.’
Howitt’s ‘Desolation of Eyam.’
Keats’s ‘Imitation of Spenser’ (his first, or nearly his first verses).
Keats’s ‘Eve of St. Agnes.’
Keats’s ‘The Cap and Bells.’
Keble’s ‘Mourners following the Cross.’
William Julius Mickle ‘The Concubine’ (title afterwards altered to ‘Sir Martyne’), a poem in two cantos.
Neale’s ‘Edom.’
Read’s (American) ‘New Village.’
Miss Frances Rolleston, ‘The Pilgrimage of Harmonia,’ 1874.
Sir W. Scott, Fitztraver’s Song in ‘The Lay of the Last Minstrel,’
## canto vi.
‘Vision of Don Roderick,’ and introductory stanzas to each canto of the ‘Lady of the Lake,’ and the ‘Lord of the Isles.’
Shelley’s ‘Revolt of Islam’ (sometimes called ‘Laon and Cythna’), and ‘Adonais.’
Shenstone’s ‘Schoolmistress.’
Smith, Alexander ‘Lady Barbara.’
Edmund Neale Smith, _obiit_ 1710: ‘Thales: a Monody, sacred to the memory of Dr. Pococke. In imitation of Spenser.’――First published in 1751, forty years after Smith’s death.
‘Psyche, or the Great Metamorphosis’ (query author), in Dodsley’s ‘Collection of Poems by Several Hands,’ ed. 1775, vol. iii.
Southey ‘A Tale of Paraguay.’
Tennyson’s ‘Lotos-Eaters’ (introduction).
Thomson’s ‘Castle of Indolence.’
Mrs. Tighe’s ‘Psyche.’
Walker, William Sidney: ‘Wandering Thoughts.’
West, Gilbert ‘Education’ and ‘On the Abuse of Travelling.’
White, Kirke ‘Christiad.’
Wiffen’s Translation of Tasso’s ‘Jerusalem Delivered.’
Isaac William’s, ‘Rule of Faith’ (‘Lyra Apostolica’).
Wilson’s ‘Children’s Dance’ and ‘Scholar’s Funeral.’
Wordsworth’s ‘Guilt and Sorrow,’ an imitation of Thomson, written in 1802.
Worsley’s Homer’s ‘Iliad.’
Worsley’s Homer’s ‘Odyssey.’
――――
THE ALLEY. (_A Burlesque imitation of Spenser._)
In every town, where Thamis rolls his tyde, A narrow pass there is, with houses low; Where, ever and anon, the stream is eyed, And many a boat soft sliding to and fro. There oft are heard the notes of infant woe, The short thick sob, loud scream, and shriller squall: How can ye, mothers, vex your children so? Some play, some eat, some lean against the wall, And as they crouchen low, for bread and butter call.
And on the broken pavement, here and there, Doth many a stinking sprat and herring lie: A brandy and tobacco shop is near, And hens, and hogs, and dogs are feeding by; And here a sailor’s jacket hangs to dry. At every door are sun-burnt matrons seen, Mending old nets to catch the scaly fry; Now singing shrill, and scolding oft between; Scolds answer foul-mouth’d scolds; bad neighbourhood I ween.
The snappish cur (the passengers’ annoy) Close at my heel with yelping treble flies; The whimpering girl, and hoarser-screaming boy, Join to the yelping treble, shrilling cries; The scolding quean to louder notes doth rise, And her full pipes those shrilling cries confound; To her full pipes the grunting hog replies; The grunting hogs alarm the neighbours round, And curs, girls, boys, and scolds, in the deep bass are drown’d.
Hard by a sty, beneath a roof of thatch, Dwelt Obloquy, who in her early days Baskets of fish at Billingsgate did watch, Cod, Whiting, oyster, mackarel, sprat or plaice; There learn’d the speech from tongues that never cease. Slander beside her, like a magpie, chatters, With Envy, (spitting cat) dread foe to peace; Like a cursed cur, Malice before her clatters, And vexing every wight, tears clothes and all to tatters.
(_One very coarse verse omitted._)
Such place hath Deptford, navy-building town, Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch; Such Lambeth, envy of each band and gown, And Twickenham such, which fairer scenes enrich, Grots, statues, urns, and John’s dog and bitch, Ne village is without, on either side, All up the silver Thames, or all adown; Ne Richmond’s self, from whose tall front are eyed Vales, spires, meandering streams, and Windsor’s towery pride.
ALEXANDER POPE.
――――
THE HOLIDAYER.
The sportive swain in Sunday clothes is dressed, And struts he proudly, head high held in air; His sweetheart, who’s with charms like his impressed, Thinketh, perdie, ‘Are we not both all there’? Nor lacketh she adornment’s artful aid, But with enticements rare is she yclout; My pen, I ween, would fail describe the maid, But she with practised skill is trickéd out, And that she pleaseth Lubin fair Chloe doth not doubt.
From train and chaise they run to where the sands Invite the lovers――many joys be there. They foot it to the strains of German bands, And at time-honoured Punch and Judy stare. The wheedling portrait-taker catcheth them, Their likeness taketh, and their cash also; The wily boatman useth stratagem, And out upon the billows they do go―― Not soon will they forget what followeth, I trow.
Then viands meet for holiday they buy―― Pork pies, fresh “natives,” sausages, cold beef―― And as, forsooth, such cakes make folk’s mouth dry, The flowing cans do furnish much relief. At length the railway bell doth loudly ring, To tell them they no longer mote there stay; They crowd in train, they songs again do sing, As from the festive scene they go away. When morrow cometh――ah, that dreadful holiday!
_Funny Folks_, June 12, 1886.
The following is the title of a small book written in imitation of Spenser’s style:――
“An original Canto of _Spencer_ (sic): Designed as part of his Fairy Queen, but never Printed.”――Now made Publick by NESTOR IRONSIDE Esq.――The Second Edition. LONDON. Printed for James Roberts, near the Oxford Arms in Warwick Lane, MDCCXIV.
[Illustration]
JONATHAN SWIFT.
BORN, 1667. | DIED, October 29, 1745.
THE STATE-COACH. (_In Imitation of the Manner of Dr. Swift._)
Once on a time a grand lord-may’r (No matter when, no matter where) Kept a huge pompous coach of state, Of most enormous bulk and weight; And on the times of public joy, To wheel about the pond’rous toy, He kept besides a noble string Of horses, fit to draw a king; All of high blood, all beasts of breeding, But vicious from excess of feeding; Of course, intractable and heady, Yet in one point perversely steady, Viz., each good steed was true and hearty To his own interest and his party; Nay, this curs’d spirit hast possest To such degree each sturdy beast, That not a single chuff would move From threats or soothing, fear or love, Unless in partnership he drew With those of his confed’rate crew, Though thus the clumsy and the clever, Ill-pair’d oft hobbled on together. Hence when the coach was order’d out, Buck would refuse to match with Stout, At least one inch would not proceed Unless impetuous Di’mond led, Who when of late our grand premier, And then uncheck’d in his career, While he tugg’d on the vast machine O’er rough and smooth, through thick and thin, Would often with their rapid turn Make the wheels creak and axle burn; Yet give the haughty devil his due, Though bold his quarterings, they were true: Yes, let us not his skill disparage, He never once o’erset the carriage, Though oft he whirl’d it, one would think, Just o’er the pitfall’s headlong brink; While at each hair-breadth ’scape, his foes Would cry, there, there, by G――d, it goes! And as stiff Buck would ne’er submit But on these terms to champ the bit, Stout in return was full as sullen, Nor the same harness would he pull in, Unless by cautious Duke preceded, Or by pacific Sawney headed: The body-coachman, hence unable To rule the refractory stable, Was forc’d to leave the saucy brutes To terminate their own disputes; And when they deign’d to wear the traces, Chuse their own partners and their places; But, tir’d themselves with these distractions, Resolv’d at last the several factions (For in their anger all had wit) Some terms of union to admit, Which, that more firmly they might bind, Drawn in this form by all were sign’d:
We the contracting steeds, (exprest Here was the name of each prime beast, As Di’mond, Sawney, Duke) however Determined not to work together, Yet by these presents are agreed Together peaceably to feed: On this account then (work or play) Let each receive his ’custom’d pay; Confirm we by concurring votes To each his daily peck of oats: Besides, omit we by no means Proportion’d quantities of beans; Nor yet warm mashes when we chuse ’em, Nor Bracken’s balls when pleas’d to use ’em; For as ’tis likely from full feeding, At times, diseases may be breeding, ’Tis right for ev’ry horse that is sick, Who finds the food should find the physic.
These previous articles now clos’d, Here prudent Di’mond interpos’d, Long fam’d for his contempt of pelf, And views which center’d not in self, “How chang’d at present!” (or no more Wears he that mask which once he wore.) Quoth he (wrapp’d round with many a clout His greasy heels, the horses gout) “Snug now ourselves and our dependants, Shall we neglect our dear descendants? Nay e’en from Scripture we should learn For our own households due concern; Lest we incur then, to our shame, Of infidels th’ accursed name. Provide we next (if such your will is) For all your present colts and fillies; No matter, tho’ for this supply We drain our master’s coffers dry: Stretch we the grant too, if ye please, E’en to the future colts of these; Then to their coltlings in entail, ’Till issue of such issue fail: Well, bullies, are you all content?” Each steed here snorted his assent; And now adjusted their pretensions, And thus secur’d their long-breath’d pensions, Like porkers fattening in the sty, On their fat sides at ease they lie; Uplitter’d to their ears in straw, Yet not a single beast will draw.
Dogs! to reduce you all to reason, I wish, at least, for some short season, That in your present master’s stead, Too meek to tame so rough a breed, Too mild to curb your factious spirit, Too good to treat ye as ye merit, Stern boisterous Cromwell from the dead, Or bluff old Hal would lift his head, That I might see you bound and skip Beneath their disciplining whip; That I might see your pamper’d hides Flogg’d, ’till from out your furrow’d sides Spun, in each part, the sizy blood, Too rich from sloth and copious food; That thus let out at all these sluices, It may purge off its vicious juices; While I should hear you, at each jerk, Cry, “Lash no more, we’ll work, we’ll work.”
From _The Foundling Hospital for Wit_, Vol. IV. 1786.
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THE HAPPY LIFE OF A COUNTRY PARSON. (_In Imitation of Dean Swift._)
Parson, these things in thy possessing Are better than the bishop’s blessing. A wife that makes conserves; a steed That carries double when there’s need; October store, and best Virginia, Tithe-pig, and mortuary guinea; Gazettes sent gratis down, and frank’d; For which thy patron’s weekly thank’d; A large Concordance, bound long since; Sermons to Charles the First, when Prince; A chronicle of ancient standing; A Chrysostom to smooth thy band in; The Polyglott――three parts,――my text: Howbeit,――likewise――now to my next: Lo here the Septuagint,――and Paul, To sum the whole,――the close of all.
He that has these, may pass his life, Drink with the Squire, and kiss his wife; On Sundays preach, and eat his fill; And fast on Fridays――if he will; Toast Church and Queen, explain the news, Talk with churchwardens about pews, Pray heartily for some new gift, And shake his head at Doctor Swift.
ALEXANDER POPE.
In the works of Oliver Goldsmith two poetical imitations of Dean Swift appear, one is entitled “A new Simile in the Manner of Swift,” the other, and the more amusing, is given below.
THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.
Logicians have but ill defin’d, As rational the human mind; Reason, they say, belongs to man, But let them prove it if they can. Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, By ratiocinations specious, Have strove to prove with great precision, With definition and division, _Homo est ratione preditum_; But for my soul I cannot credit ’em. And must in spite of them maintain, That man and all his ways are vain; And that this boasted lord of nature Is both a weak and erring creature. That instinct is a surer guide, Than reason, boasting mortal’s pride; And that brute beasts are far before ’em, _Deus est anima brutorum_. Who ever knew an honest brute At law his neighbour prosecute, Bring action for assault and battery, Or friend beguile with lies and flattery? O’er plains they ramble unconfin’d, No politics disturb the mind; They eat their meals, and take their sport, Nor know who’s in or out at court; They never to the levee go To treat as dearest friend, a foe; They never importune his Grace, Nor ever cringe to men in place; Nor undertake a dirty job, Nor draw the quill to write for Bob; Fraught with invective they ne’er go To folks at Pater-Noster Row: No judges, fiddlers, dancing masters, No pickpockets, or poetasters, Are known to honest quadrupeds, No single brute his fellows leads. Brutes never meet in bloody fray, Nor cut each other’s throats for pay. Of beasts, it is confess’d, the ape Comes nearest us in human shape. Like man he imitates each fashion, And malice is his ruling passion; But both in malice and grimaces, A courtier any ape surpasses. Behold him humbly cringing wait Upon the minister of state; View him soon after to inferiors Aping the conduct of superiors: He promises with equal air, And to perform takes equal care. He in his turn finds imitators, At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters, Their master’s manners still contract, And footmen, lords, and dukes can act, Thus at the court both great and small, Behave alike, for all ape all.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
[Illustration]
JAMES BROWN.
(_“Baron” Brown, the Durham Poet._)
Hone’s _Every Day Book_, (Vol. II, p. 1218) contains a record of the career, and a portrait of this eccentric individual, who lived in Newcastle-on-Tyne during the first quarter of the present century, when he published a series of extraordinary writings which he considered Poems, and assumed the title of Poet-Laureate. Brown was known to be inordinately vain, and many letters were sent him purporting to come from the leading poets and authors of the day. All of these he believed to be genuine, and would show them to his friends, (who were frequently the real authors) with much pride. These letters, which were chiefly in verse, were produced by the law and medical students of Durham and Newcastle, and of the Catholic College of Ushaw. In 1821, Brown received a large parchment signed G.R. attested by Messrs. Canning and Peel, to which was suspended a large unmeaning seal, which he believed to be the great seal of Great Britain, conferring upon him the title of Baron Brown of Durham, in the County Palatine of Durham, in consequence of a translation of his works having been the means of converting the Mogul empire. From that moment he assumed the name and style of “Baron Brown,” and had a wooden box made for the preservation of his patent. Of the poems that were sent to him only the following fragments have been preserved:――
The first is an imitation of Wilson’s _Isle of Palms_.
Poetic dreams float round me now, My spirit where art thou? Oh! art thou watching the moonbeams smile In the groves of palm in an Indian isle; Or dost thou hang over the lovely main And list to the boatswain’s boisterous strain; Or dost thou sail on sylphid wings Through liquid fields of air, Or, riding on the clouds afar, Dost thou gaze on the beams of the evening star So beautiful and so fair. Oh no! oh no! sweet spirit of mine Thou art entering a holy strain divine A strain which is so sweet, Oh! one might think ’twas a fairy thing, A thing of love and blessedness, Singing in holy tenderness, A lay of peaceful quietness, Within a fairy street! But _ah_! ’tis Brown. &c., &c.
The next was supposed to be written by Sir Walter Scott. (_Lady of the Lake._)
The heath-cock shrill his clarion blew Among the heights of Benvenue, And fast the sportive echo flew, Adown Glenavin’s vale. But louder, louder was the knell, Of Brown’s Northumbrian penance-bell,[46] The noise was heard on Norham fell, And rung through Teviotdale.
There was also a respectable burlesque of _The Ancient Mariner_, commencing:――
“It is a lion’s trumpeter, And he stoppeth one of three.”
It is a pity that only these few extracts were preserved by Mr. John Sykes in his “Local Records, or Historical Register of Remarkable Events,” 1824.
THE BISHOP’S WISH. (_After Robert Bloomfield._)
Be mine a modest pension clear Of just six thousand pounds a-year; And to complete my humble lot, Give Fulham Palace for my cot. Let me enjoy a quiet life, Away from controversial strife; My daily meal should ne’er disturb My tranquil mind! for meat or herb, Or fish or fowl, I ne’er would look, But leave it to my foreign cook. My drink――I ask no better sort, A bin of six-and-twenty port; With now and then, to warm my veins, Some Burgundy or brisk Champagnes. Of cash I need no large amount, But at the Bank a good account, On which――(my tradesmen not to vex)―― To draw from time to time my cheques. My simple wishes thus supplied, I into privacy will glide; My Bishop’s mitre I’ll resign, And calm contentment shall be mine, If they will only give me clear For life――six thousand pounds a-year.
_Punch._ August 9, 1856.
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THE POT-BOY.
Let poets sing the high-flown praise Of shepherds and of rural joys, Whilst I direct my humbler lays To town, its bustle and its noise.
The Pot-boy’s joys shall be my theme, Nor shall a barren subject be, When rising from some lightsome dream, Whitechapel streets he treads with glee.
Bliss is not always join’d to wealth, Nor dwells beneath the gilded roof; For poverty is bliss with health, Of that my Pot-boy stands a proof.
See him with steady footsteps here, How straight he bears the brimful jug, And sips with thirsty lips the beer, Which high o’ertops the pewter mug.
When night resumes her gloomy sway, The object of his fond desire; How happy then he’ll sport and play, Around the blazing kitchen fire.
Then to beguile away the time, He tells the kitchen nymphs his tale; His left hand bears some doggrel rhyme, And in his right――a pot of ale.
And hard must be that kitchen fair, Who could his am’rous tale neglect; And often Moll or Jenny dare, For him some stouter swain reject.
Then weary to his garret hies, Or if perchance the beds be spare, Upon the straw he’ll close his eyes, And sleep with Dapple or the mare.
These lines were written in August, 1808, by Connop Thirlwall, a precocious youth of eleven years of age, on the occasion of receiving the present of a copy of Bloomfield’s poem, “The Plough Boy.” The little work from which “The Pot-boy” is extracted, is entitled “_Primitiæ; or Essays and Poems_,” by Connop Thirlwall, with a preface by his father, the Rev, Thomas Thirlwall, M.A., who asserts that these Essays and Poems were entirely composed by his son before he was eleven years of age, a statement which requires considerable credulity from the reader.
[Illustration]
JOHN KEATS.
BORN Oct. 29, 1796. | DIED Dec. 27, 1820.
Who kill’d John Keats? “I” says the Quarterly, So savage and Tartarly; “’Twas one of my feats.”
Who shot the arrow? “The poet-priest Milman (So ready to kill man), Or Southey, or Barrow.”
LORD BYRON. July, 1821.
The following imitation of two Odes by John Keats is taken from _The Diversions of the Echo Club_, by Bayard Taylor:――
ODE ON A JAR OF PICKLES.