IX.
Fond, impious man, think’st thou thy puny fist, Thy “_Wood_-en sword” has broke a British club? The Treasurer soon augments our growing list, We rise more numerous from this transient rub, Enough for me: with joy I see, The different doom our fates assign; Be thine contempt and big-wigged care, To triumph and to die are mine.”
He spoke, and headlong from the window’s height Deep in a dung-cart near, he plung’d to endless night.
“This Society is now happily restored, and is supported by men of every standing. The Debates, however, are restricted to events previous to 1800: and no new subject is allowed to be introduced after 10 o’clock.” So says the “_Gradus ad Cantabrigiam_, or New University Guide to the Academical Customs, and Colloquial or Cant terms peculiar to the University of Cambridge,” written by a Brace of Cantabs, and published by John Hearne, London, 1824. The parody is taken from that amusing volume, it may also be found in _Facetiæ Cantabrigiensis_ (London: Charles Mason, 1836), an anonymous collection of anecdotes and smart sayings written by, or relating to, celebrated Cantabs.
――――
THE BARBER.
The following imitation of “The Bard” is ascribed to the Hon. Thomas Erskine (afterwards Lord Erskine) who wrote it when a student at Trinity College, Cambridge. Having been disappointed of the attendance of his college-barber, at his lodgings over the shop of Mr. Jackson, an apothecary, he was compelled to forego his _commons_ in hall. Determined to have his revenge, and to give his hairdresser a good _dressing_ he composed the following “Fragment of a Pindaric Ode” wherein he poured forth his curses upon the whole race of barbers, predicting their ruin in the simplicity of style to be adopted by a future generation. The exact date of the parody is not known, part of it is quoted in the _Gradus ad Cantabrigiam_, which was published in 1824, it is also given in full in _Oxford and Cambridge Nuts to Crack_. A. H. Baily & Co., 1835. London.
“Ruin seize thee, scoundrel Coe! Confusion on thy frizzing wait, Hadst thou the only comb below, Thou never more should’st touch my pate. Club nor queue, nor twisted tail, Nor e’en thy chattering, barber! shall avail To save thy horsewhipped back from daily fears, From Cantabs’ curse, from Cantabs’ tears!” Such were the sounds that o’er the powder’d pride Of Coe the barber scatter’d wild dismay, As down the steep of Jackson’s slippery lane He wound with puffing march his toilsome tardy way.
In a room where Cambridge town Frowns o’er the kennels’ stinking flood, Robed in a flannel powdering gown, With haggard eyes poor Erskine stood! (Long his beard, and blowzy hair, Stream’d like an old wig to the troubled air); And with clung guts, and face than razor thinner, Swore the loud sorrows of his dinner. Hark! how each striking clock and tolling bell, With awful sounds, the hour of eating tell! O’er thee, oh Coe! their dreadful notes they wave, Soon shall such sounds proclaim thy yawning grave; Vocal in vain, through all this lingering day, The grace already said, the plates all swept away.
“Cold is Beau **** tongue, That soothed each virgin’s pain; Bright perfumed M ** has cropp’d his head: Almacks, you moan in vain! Each youth whose high toupee Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-capp’d head In humble Tyburn-top we see; Esplash’d with dirt and sun-burn’d face; Far on before the ladies mend their pace, The Macaroni sneers, and will not see. Dear lost Companions of the coxcomb’s art, Dear as a turkey to these famish’d eyes, Dear as the ruddy port which warms my heart, Ye sunk amidst the fainting misses’ cries―― No more I weep――They do not sleep: At yonder ball, a slovenly band, I see them sit; they linger yet Avengers of fair Nature’s hand; With me in dreadful resolution join To crop with one accord, and starve thy cursed line.
“Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding sheet of barber’s race, Give ample room and verge enough Their lengthen’d lanthorn jaws to trace. Mark the year, and mark the night, When all their shops shall echo with affright, Loud screams shall through St James’s turrets ring, To see, like Eton boy, the King! Puppies of France, with unrelenting paws That scrape the foretops of our aching heads, No longer England owns thy fribblish laws, No more her folly Gallia’s vermin feeds. They wait at Dover for the first fair wind, Soup-meagre in the van, and snuff roast beef behind.
“Mighty barbers, mighty lords, Low on a greasy bench they lie! No pitying heart or purse affords A sixpence for a mutton pie! Is the mealy ’prentice fled? Poor Coe is gone all supperless to bed. The swarm that in thy shop each morning sat, Comb their lank hair on forehead flat: Fair laughs the morn, when all the world are beaux, While vainly strutting through a silly land, In foppish train, the puppy barber goes, Lace on his shirt, and money at command, Regardless of the skulking bailiff’s sway, That hid in some dark court expects his evening prey.
“The porter mug fill high, Baked curls and locks prepare; Reft of our heads, they yet by wigs may live! Close by the greasy chair Fell thirst and famine lie, No more to art will beauteous nature give. Heard ye the gang of Fielding say, Sir John,[65] at last we’ve found their haunt To desperation driven by hungry want, Through the crammed laughing Pit they steal their way. Ye towers of Newgate! London’s lasting shame, By many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere poor Mr. Coe, the blacksmith’s[66] fame, And spare the grinning barber’s chuckle head.
“Rascals! we tread ye under foot, (Weave we the woof; the thread is spun): Our beards we pull out by the root: (The web is wove; your work is done).” Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn, Leave me uncurl’d, undinner’d here to mourn. Through the broad gate that leads to College Hall, They melt, they fly, they vanish all. But oh! what happy scenes of pure delight, Slow moving on their simple charms unroll. Ye rapturous visions, spare my aching sight, Ye unborn beauties, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Coventry we wail: All hail, ye genuine forms; fair Nature’s issue, hail!
“Not frizz’d and fritter’d pinn’d and roll’d, Sublime their artless locks they wear, And gorgeous dames and judges old Without their têtes and wigs appear; In the midst a form divine, Her dress bespeaks the Pennsylvanian line: Her port demure, her grave religious face Attemper’d sweet to virgin grace. What sylphs and spirits wanton through the air, What crowds of little angels round her play. Hear from thy sepulchre, great Penn! Oh hear! A scene like this might animate thy clay. Simplicity now, soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of Heaven her Quaker-colour’d wings.
“No more toupees are seen That mock at Alpine height, And queues with many a yard of ribbon bound; All now are vanish’d quite. No tongs or torturing pin, But every head is trimm’d quite snug around: Like boys of the cathedral choir, Curls, such as Adam wore, we wear, Each simpler generation blooms more fair, ’Till all that’s artificial shall expire, Vain puppy boy! think’st thou yon essenced cloud, Raised by thy puff, can vie with Nature’s hue, To-morrow see the variegated crowd With ringlets shining like the morning dew! Enough for me: with joy I see The different dooms our fates assign! Be thine to love thy trade and starve; To wear what Heaven bestow’d be mine!”
He said, and headlong from the trap-stairs’ height, Quick through the frozen street he ran in shabby plight.
THOMAS ERSKINE.
――――:o:――――
“THE WORLD” PARODY COMPETITION.
The first prize for a composition on “Mr. Gladstone in Midlothian,” in the style of Gray’s Pindaric ode, “The Bard,” was awarded to Etonensis; the second to Apis Matina.
FIRST PRIZE.
“Ruin seize thee, ruthless Earl! Confusion on thy banner fall, Though courtly gales its silk unfurl Above St. George’s fretted stall. Coronet, nor Garter’s twist, Nor e’en thy works of fiction, novelist, Shall purge thy conscience from election fears, From Scotia’s curse, from Scotia’s tears!” Such were the strains of wild Homeric war That struck down England’s Premier with dismay. From market-hall they came, from Pullman car, From every vantage-ground on William’s way. Stafford turned pale; but Salisbury’s sterner mood Couched in his mind some ultimatum rude.
“Weave the warp and weave the woof, Lord Beaconsfield to bury in; Give ample room and verge enough To trace the Treaty of Berlin. Mark the year and mark the night When Westminster reëchoes with affright; Shrieks of defeat from every poll that ring, And fagot votes in anguish sputtering. O Torydom, with unrelenting fangs, Thou tear’st the bowels of this mangled State; A Turnerelli wreath above thee hangs, And Cyprian flowers; but; O, what terrors wait! Afghanistan, with massacre combined, And Cetewayo’s form, and all the Boers behind.
Fill high the loving bowl, The turtle-soup prepare; Reft of majority, he shares the feast: Close by the Lord Mayor’s chair The civic magnates scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. A voice as of a financier Gales from blooming Budgets bear; And distant surpluses thrill on my ear, And lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, think’st thou thy sanguine cloud Has blurred the Liberal programme from the skies? To-morrow rises its resistless flood Round fleet and army, church and colonies.
Enough for me; with joy I see The different doom our fates assign―― Be thine Despair and Gartered care; To translate and to hew are mine.” Thus spake the Bard; and, from the mountain’s brow, Swinging his axe, he vanished in the snow.
ETONESIS. (The Rev. J. S. VAUGHAN.)
――――
SECOND PRIZE.
“Ruin seize thee, reckless guide, All nations’ scourge, thy country’s shame, Though folly, greed, and senseless pride Combine to glorify thy name: Hedging speech, nor specious phrase, Nor all thy followers’ boasts and fulsome praise, Shall shield thy whitening locks from vengeance dire: From Erin’s curse, from Albion’s ire.” Such were the sounds that through the serried ranks Of Jingo’s henchmen, winged with hatred, thrilled; Rolled the harsh words on Lothian’s braes and banks, Spread as they rolled, and Britain’s boundaries filled. Sly Beaconsfield looked on with pitying smile; “Revenge!” wild Cranbrook cried, and conned a speech the while.
On a stump, whose leafy crown Had erst Dalmeny’s wood adorned, Wrapt in an agèd Ulster brown, Tireless the statesman stood and mourned. Plaudits replied, and from the distant shore Mingled the wild wind’s sighs and sorrowing ocean’s roar.
Raise the voice, and swell the cry! The cry of sweet Hibernia’s woe; From Asia myriad tongues reply, And Afric bears a burden low. Hear the wind, and hear the wave! That bear the stifled wail of Cypriote slave: Mingled with vexed Bulgaria’s murmurs hoarse, Plaints of the yet unburied corse, All――all in fearful unison combine: “Thine was the hand that struck, the voice that doomed us thine!”
Count we the hoarded gold, Tell out the augmented store! Stripped of renown, we yet have wealth behind―― Void is the chest. No more, Where countless millions rolled, Aught but thy bills shall future rulers find. Men of Midlothian! ever shrewd and keen, These are your wasted goods, your fruitless toil, The life-blood wrung alike from great and mean Squandered in titles, or a trickster’s spoil! The mild Hindoo, the brave Zulu, To vex and harass these we waste; But prostrate trade, and bills unpaid, Naught of the wild profusion taste; While venal voters of the false Buccleuch Quell our indignant voice, and mask our utterance true,
More might have followed; but he felt it rain, Hailed the first cab, and left by special train.
APIS MATINA. (H. PATTINSON.)
_The World._ December 17, 1879.
――――
GLADSTONE IN MIDLOTHIAN.
“Plague upon thee, Earl of B―――― Bad luck attend thy servile crew, Though gull’d awhile, they bend the knee In worship of a wily Jew! Inscrutability, nor sham Veil’d in a wealth of brilliant epigram, Shall prop for long thy fast-decaying power, Or stave off Dissolution’s dreaded hour!”
Such were the words that fill’d with wild despair The ruling Tories and their ductile lambs, Indignant Dizzy raved and tore his hair, As to his chums he read the telegrams. Stout Stafford stared――his senses in a mist―― “What cheek!” cried angry Cross, and clench’d his brawny fist!
In the hall, cramm’d to excess With all “Auld Reekie’s” Liberal blood, Attir’d in his sombre dress, With piercing eyes Mac Gladstone stood (His tie awry, his locks of grey Had not known comb for many a day), And with a silvery tongue and eyes that flamed He thus to canny Scots declaimed:―― “Behold, in each event of this strange time A thousand signs the Tories’ reign is o’er; For thee, oh Benjamin, thou man of crime, A deadly retribution is in store! Hush’d is poor Harty’s tongue, That erst was loosed in scorn; Brave Bright is half asleep, I sometimes fear; Liberals, ye may not mourn Roebuck, who wildly flung Alike at friend or foe his caustic jeer. But _ye_, tried sailors in the Liberal ship, Dear as potatoes shortly will become―― Dear as the ruddy claret that I sip―― I cannot brook to think that _ye_ are dumb! No more regret――they’ll help us yet―― In fancy now I see them both, Inspired by my eloquence, Shake off their censurable sloth! Weave _we_ slowly, day by day, The winding-sheet of Torydom; Give our foes rope enough, and they Will hang themselves, and our turn come! Mark the day when we, no doubt, Shall send them to the right-about!” He spoke, and once again resumed his chair, Whilst hearty Scottish plaudits rent the air!
From _Snatches of Song_, by F. B. Doveton. London, Wyman & Sons. 1880.
――――
“_The Bostonian Prophet._” An Heroi-comico-serious-Parodical-Pindaric ODE, in imitation of _The Bard_. With Notes Critical, Satirical, and Explanatory, by the Editor. London. C. Etherington, 1779. Quarto. This was a parody relating to the American War of Independence, the first act of which occurred in Boston in November, 1773, when the populace refused to pay the obnoxious tax upon tea, and cast hundreds of chests of it into the sea. The parody describes the corruption and inefficiency of the English statesmen and commanders in language too coarse to reprint, even if the Parody were of sufficient present interest to render it desirable to do so.
There is another parody of Gray’s “Bard” which cannot be inserted here, it may be found in “_The Authentic and Impartial Life of Mrs. Mary Anne Clarke_,” by W. Clarke, London. T. Kelly, 1809. This Mistress Clarke lived for some time “under the protection” of H.R.H. the Duke of York, Commander-in-Chief of the British Army. She obtained large sums of money by the sale of the commissions, appointments, and promotions which were at the disposal of her royal, but ever needy, lover. Finally an enquiry was held, and the Duke of York was compelled to resign the office he had disgraced. The parody above mentioned gives a history of the scandal, but it would be unintelligible unless accompanied by details of profligacy and corruption, such as are unsuited for any work but the Newgate Calendar. In addition to these parodies and imitations, _The Bard_ was translated into Welsh in 1822.
――――:o:――――
THE DESCENT OF ODIN.
The following Parody of Gray’s “Descent of Odin” was written by James Hay Beattie, son of James Beattie, L.L.D., author of “The Minstrel.” Young Beattie was born in 1768 and died in 1790. In 1794, Dr. Beattie printed “Essays and Fragments in Prose and Verse” by his son, but only for private circulation.
Young Beattie had a clerical friend who made a sea voyage from Aberdeen to Rotherhithe, and suffered therefrom as described in
THE DESCENT OF TIMOTHY.
Tim crawl’d on board; no phiz e’er sadder; Stepp’d backward down the coal-black ladder; Then twisting sidelong, like a crab, in, Stagger’d into the after cabin. Him spied the dog of Newfoundland, That by a bulk-head chanced to stand; His chaps, whence fat and froth distill’d, With well-gnaw’d bones of bull-beef fill’d. Straight with neck upstretch’d he howls, Eyes that glare, and throat that growls, And with vociferations vain Stuns the poor preacher’s dizzy brain. Onward his tottering Reverence hitches, The deck beneath him rolls and pitches, Till from its shelf an empty keg Down dancing drives against his leg.
Pensive on a cask of gin He sat, and stroked his aching shin; While near him snored in drunken state The carcase of the slumbering mate. Facing to a starboard beam Tim put to flight the seaman’s dream, Discharging thrice, in accents dread, Yells that almost might wake the dead; Till the toss’d blankets part asunder, And forth these sullen grumblings thunder.
_Mate._ What rascal with his thumps and screaming Dares break the quiet of my dreaming? Whose hand is this that pulls my head, Labouring to lug me out of bed? These ears have heard for weeks together The long, long roar of wintry weather, Pumps, waves, ropes rattling, tempest squalling; But such a pinching and a bawling―― Zounds! I believe he’ll twist my neck―― On deck, there, ho! ye dogs on deck, What means this execrable yelling? Have ye let all the fiends of Hell in?
_Tim._ A traveller I, to thee unknown, An honest man’s and woman’s son, By hunger, thirst, and sickness undone, And bound to Redriff first, then London. But whose is that mug, pray? and spread, For whom yon comfortable bed?
_Mate._ The bed’s our Captain’s bed, d’ye see―― I wish you’d let a body be―― The mug, you mean that has the grog in? That, master, is the captain’s noggin. He, good soul, must have his potion: Thirst can reach the sons of ocean. Unwilling I my lips unclose; Leave me, leave me, to repose.
_Tim._ Once again my call obey, Master mate, awake, and say, Which way I to bed may go; Pray have ye one for me or no?
_Mate._ There on the floor mattress and bolster are, Who wish for more may ask the upholsterer. Now my weary lips I close; Leave me, leave me, to repose.
_Tim._ Master mate, my call obey, Rouse yourself once more, and say, If in this ship a poor starved sinner May sup; to day I had no dinner.
_Mate._ Sure, when you were on deck, Sir, you heard Our cook a-scraping pots to leeward: A sooty seaman blusters there, Who never comb’d his lamp-black hair, Nor scrub’d his angry brow, nor pared The bristles of his shaggy beard. He by your chop or steak shall sit, Hissing on gridiron, or on spit, Now my weary lips I close: Leave me, I beg you, to repose.
_Tim._ Once yet again awake, and tell us Who are those surly ragged fellows; Why each about so madly hops, Howling, and tugging tarry ropes; Why at the slacken’d cords they swear, And fluttering sails that flap in air: Tell me whence this hubbub rose, Then I leave thee to repose.
_Mate._ Ha! no traveller art thou; Fresh-water fiend, I smoke thee now As ignorant a rogue as ever――
_Tim._ No mate genteel, polite, and clever, Art thou; nor ever wert a sailor; But, as I rather guess, a tailor.
_Mate._ Hie thee hence, and thank my mercy, Or rather drowsiness, that spares ye. Hence! or I’ll drive you; for no fellow Shall break my sleep with his vile bellow, Till this cold pitchy cloud of night Melt in the warmth of morning light; That is, till four o’clock, or three, Sir, What, won’t you go!――――Here, Cæsar, Cæsar.
_Desunt caetera._
――――:o:――――
THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN.[67] _By the Muse of the Museum._ (_Slightly altered from Gray._)
Owen’s praise demands my song. Owen wise and Owen strong, But in spite of Owen stout, All the beasts must toddle out. Out with weazles, ferrets, skunks, Elephants, come pack your trunks; You no longer dwell with us, Yawning hippopotamus.
Dusty, straddling, split giraffe, You have stayed too long by half, Go and take some nice fresh air With that grim-eyed Polar bear. “Fish, fish, fish,” your Duty calls Somewhere else than in these walls, Flounders, you must go, that’s flat, With the salmon and the sprat.
Cloud of birds, ascend and fly, Migrate to some kinder sky Perky, shiny, glittering things, Leave the wing that holds your wings. Fossil Man, you too must pack, Take your slab, Sir, on your back, Or if you’d prefer a ride, Mount the Mammoth by your side.
Eggs, be blowed, if you’d not break, You your eggsit now must make; Yes, your yolk must turn to legs, Yes, as sure as eggs is eggs. All those myriad butterflies, Pins and all, must please to rise, We can use in other ways Miles of camphor-scented trays.
Diamonds black, and diamonds bright, Henceforth charm suburban sight, Follow beasts and birds and bones, All you tons of labelled stones. From that yellowish liquor take, Every coil, you spotted snake, “Bonny beetles in a row,” Stir your stumps, for you must go.
Mother Nature, beat retreat, Out, M’m, from Great Russell Street! Here, in future, folks shall scan Nothing but the works of Man. Yet look glad, for Owen stands Moulding Gladstone to his hands; Soon you’ll have a Palace new, Worthy Owen, us, and you.
SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1861.
――――
Gray’s Pindaric Odes were not very favorably received, their chief fault being obscurity. Gray was pressed by his friends to append explanatory notes, which, for a long time, he declined to do, writing “I would not have put another note to save the souls of all the owls in London. It is extremely well as it is――nobody understands me, and I am perfectly satisfied.” In 1760 there appeared two burlesque odes by G. Colman and R. Lloyd, one inscribed to “Obscurity”――That, said Gray, is me――the other to “Oblivion,” which was directed against Mason. In these parodies the friends Gray and Mason, are treated with contempt both as men and poets. Gray wrote to his fellow victim, “Lest people should not understand the humour, letters come out in _Lloyd’s Evening Post_ to tell them who and what it was that he meant, and says it is like to produce a great combustion in the literary world. So if you have any mind to _combustle_ about it, well and good, for me, I am neither so literary nor so combustible.” He also informed Dr. Wharton that a bookseller to whom he was unknown, had recommended him to purchase the satire upon himself as “a very pretty thing.” Gray was too proud to show that he was hurt by these satires, but he was too sensitive not to be annoyed at the ridicule, and except a single piece which was written upon compulsion (the Ode for the Installation of the Duke of Grafton), he attempted no more serious verse. These “Odes to Obscurity and Oblivion” are not now of sufficient interest to be reprinted in full:――
Daughter of Chaos and old Night, Cimmerian Muse! all hail! That wrapt in never-twinkling gloom canst write, And shadowest meaning with thy dusky veil!
What poet sings, and strikes the strings? It was the mighty Theban spoke. He, from the ever-living lyre, With magic hand elicits fire.
Heard ye the din of modern Rhymer’s bray? It was cool Mason, or warm Gray Involv’d in tenfold smoke The shallow fop, in antic vest, Tir’d of the beaten road, Proud to be singularly drest, Changes, with ev’ry changing moon the mode.
Say, shall not then the heaven-born Muses too Variety pursue!
* * * * *
――――:o:――――
Gray’s _Ode for Music_, performed in the Senate House at Cambridge, July 1, 1769, at the installation of the Duke of Grafton, Chancellor of the University, commenced as follows:――
AIR.
Hence! avaunt! ’tis holy ground, Comus and his midnight crew, And ignorance with looks profound, And dreaming Sloth of pallid hue!
Mad Sedition’s cry prophane, Servitude that hugs her chain, Nor in these consecrated bow’rs Let painted Flatt’ry hide her serpent train in flow’rs.
CHORUS.
Nor Envy pale, nor creeping Gain, Dare the Muse’s walk to stain, While bright-ey’d Science walks around; Hence! avaunt! ’tis holy ground.
* * * * *
Two long parodies of this ode may be found in Volume IV. of _The New Foundling Hospital for Wit_, London, 1786, both treat of the political questions of the day, and refer to persons long since forgotten, so that it is unnecessary to quote more than a verse or two from each:――
TRAVESTIE
_Air._
Hence! avaunt! ’tis venal ground, Wilkes, and all his free-born crew; Within our pale no room is found, Ye modern Algernons, for you. Mute be the bold Alcaic strain Of liberty, that spurns a chain, Nor in these pliant courtly bow’rs Let harsh Phillippic weeds choke adulation’s flowers.
_Chorus._
Virtue hence! with brow severe! Public spirit come not near, While servile int’rest walks around; Hence! avaunt! ’tis venal ground!
――――
ANOTHER TRAVESTIE.
_Air._
Hence avaunt, ’tis sacred ground; Let pallid freedom ever fly, Let innocence in chains be bound, Nor e’er come truth or virtue nigh! Opposition’s cry prophane, Liberty that scorns the chain, Nor in these consecrated fields, Let injur’d justice weep, that she to tyrants yields.
_Chorus._
Nor dare bright truth, the patriot’s friend, The minister’s high walk offend, While stern-ey’d Fitzroy stalks around; Hence! avaunt! ’tis sacred ground.
_Recitative._
From yonder realms of ministerial sway Bursts on my ear th’ applauding lay: There sit the pension’d sage, the peer prophane, The few whom interest gives to reign O’er every unborn place or yet unclaim’d domain, Deep in the nation’s business they, Yet hither oft a glance from high, They send of triumph and of joy, To bless the place, where first, on freedom’s soul. He bade the Scottish thunder roll. ’Twas N――t――n rais’d that deep-ton’d voice, And as discordant murm’rings round him rose, The Speaker’s self bends from his chair on high, And shakes his awful wig, and joins the courtly cry.
_Air._
Ye high o’er-hanging walls That sure no monarch loves, Where fain would freedom linger with delight, Oft at the break of day He’s sought your wearied way, Oft by the glare of flambeaux glitt’ring light, In chariot close, fresh from the haunts of folly, With Nancy by his side, sworn foe to melancholy.
_Recitative._
But hark! the door’s unbarr’d, and marching forth, With gouty steps and slow Gen’rals and shrives, and peers of royal birth, And mitred bishops home to dinner go; North, with th’ exchequer laurels on his brow, From haughty Greville torn, And sad Fitzpatrick on his bridal morn, That weeps his fault too late; and proud Dundas; And watchful Dy――n; and the paler Burke, The rival of his fortune, and his place; And either Onslow there.
_Quartette._
What are pensions without power? Heavy toil, insipid pain. Who but would wish like thee to gain The guidance of the public weal? Sweet is Dundas’s golden show’r, Cli――e’s visionary treasure sweet, Sweet Holland’s rise but sweeter yet, The still small place of privy seal.
“_A Long Story_,” which Gray himself considered unworthy a place amongst his Poems, does not appear to have attracted enough attention to be parodied, but a _sequel_ to it was written by John Penn, and inserted in Hakewill’s _History of Windsor_, and a further sequel to that by the Poet Laureate, Henry James Pye.
“_Poems by Mr. Gray._” Dublin. Printed by William Sleater, at No. 51 in _Castle Street_, 1775. This volume, published only four years after the death of Gray, contains poems which show that his reputation had already made its way to the Continent. It contains several Latin translations of the Elegy; a Latin address “_Ad Poetam_,” and an Italian version of the Elegy written by Signor Abbate Crocchi of Sienna. It also gives Mason’s continuation of Gray’s fragmentary _Ode on the Pleasure arising from Vicissitude_; the Ode to Raneleigh, a Parody; An Evening Contemplation in a College, a Parody; and Lloyd and Colman’s Burlesque Ode, all of which parodies have already been quoted.
“_Runic Odes, imitated from the Norse Tongue_,” in the manner of Mr. Gray. By Thomas James Mathias. Quarto. London, 1781. Price one shilling and sixpence. This imitation of Gray by the learned author of the once famous _Pursuits of Literature_, has nothing of a burlesque character, indeed it opens with a complimentary address to Gray:――
“Pardon me, Mighty Poet, that I turn My daring steps to thy supreme abode, And tread with awe the solitary road, To deck with fancied wreaths thy hallow’d urn.”
[Illustration]
WILLIAM COWPER,
_Born, November_ 15, 1731. _Died, April_ 25, 1800.
――――
THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN.
_Showing how he went farther than he intended, and came safe home again._
The story of John Gilpin’s ride was related to Cowper by his friend, Lady Austen, who had heard it as a child. It caused the poet a sleepless night, we are told, as he was kept awake by laughter at it. During these restless hours he turned it into the famous ballad. It appeared in the “Public Advertiser,” November 14th, 1782, anonymously.
A celebrated actor named Henderson took it for one of his public recitations at Freemasons’ Hall. It became immediately so popular that it was printed everywhere――in newspapers, magazines, and separately. It was even sung as a common ballad in the streets. It has fully preserved its popularity to the present date.
The original John Gilpin was, it is said, a Mr. Beyer, a linendraper, who, lived at the Cheapside corner of Paternoster Row. He died in 1791, at the age of nearly a hundred years.
John Gilpin was a citizen Of credit and renown, A trainband captain eke was he Of famous London town.
John Gilpin’s spouse said to her dear, “Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen.
“To-morrow is our wedding day, And we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton, All in a chaise and pair.
“My sister, and my sister’s child, Myself, and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we.”
He soon replied, “I do admire Of womankind but one, And you are she, my dearest dear, Therefore it shall be done.
“I am a linendraper bold, As all the world doth know, And my good friend the calender Will lend his horse to go.”
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, “That’s well said And for that wine is dear, We will be furnished with our own, Which is both bright and clear.”
John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; O’erjoyed was he to find That, though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind.
The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allowed To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud.
So three doors off the chaise was stayed, Where they did all get in; Six precious souls, and all agog To dash through thick and thin.
Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, Were never folks so glad! The stones did rattle underneath As if Cheapside were mad.
John Gilpin at his horse’s side Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got in haste to ride,―― But soon came down again;
For saddle-tree scarce reached had he, His journey to begin, When, turning round his head, he saw Three customers come in.
So down he came; for loss of time, Although it grieved him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, Would trouble him much more.
’Twas long before the customers Were suited to their mind, When Betty screaming, came downstairs―― “The wine is left behind!”
“Good lack!” quoth he; “yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise, In which I bear my trusty sword When I do exercise.”
Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) Had two stone bottles found, To hold the liquor that she loved, And keep it safe and sound.
Each bottle had a curling ear, Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side, To make his balance true.
Then over all, that he might be Equipped from top to toe, His long red coat, well brushed and neat, He manfully did throw.
Now see him mounted once again Upon his nimble steed, Full slowly pacing o’er the stones, With caution and good heed.
But finding soon a smoother road Beneath his well-shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot, Which galled him in his seat.
So “Fair and Softly,” John he cried, But John he cried in vain; That trot became a gallop soon, In spite of curb and rein.
So stooping down, as needs he must Who cannot sit upright, He grasped the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his might.
His horse, who never in that sort Had handled been before, What thing upon his back had got Did wonder more and more.
Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; Away went hat and wig; He little dreamt when he set out, Of running such a rig.
The wind did blow, the cloak did fly Like streamer long and gay, Till loop and button failing both, At last it flew away.
Then might all people well discern The bottles he had slung; A bottle swinging at each side, As hath been said or sung.
The dogs did bark, the children screamed. Up flew the windows all; And every soul cried out, “Well done!” As loud as he could bawl.
Away went Gilpin――who but he? His fame soon spread around: “He carries weight!” “He rides a race!” “’Tis for a thousand pound!”
And still, as fast as he drew near, ’Twas wonderful to view How in a trice the turnpike men Their gates wide open threw.
And now, as he went bowing down His reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back Were shattered at a blow.
Down ran the wine into the road, Most piteous to be seen, Which made his horse’s flanks to smoke As they had basted been.
But still he seemed to carry weight, With leathern girdle braced; For all might see the bottle-necks Still dangling at his waist.
Thus all through merry Islington These gambols he did play, Until he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay;
And there he threw the Wash about, On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild goose at play.
At Edmonton, his loving wife From the balcony spied Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride.
“Stop, stop, John Gilpin!――Here’s the house!” They all at once did cry; “The dinner waits, and we are tired.” Said Gilpin, “So am I!”
But yet his horse was not a whit Inclined to tarry there; For why?――his owner had a house Full ten miles off, at Ware.
So like an arrow swift he flew, Shot by an archer strong; So did he fly――which brings me to The middle of my song.
Away went Gilpin, out of breath, And sore against his will, Till, at his friend the calender’s, His horse at last stood still.
The calender amazed to see His neighbour in such trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him:――
“What news? what news? your tidings tell? Tell me you must and shall―― Say why bareheaded you are come, Or why you come at all?”
Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, And loved a timely joke; And thus unto the calender In merry guise he spoke:――
“I came because your horse would come; And, if I well forbode, My hat and wig will soon be here,―― They are upon the road.”
The calender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Returned him not a single word, But to the house went in;
Whence straight he came with hat and wig; A wig that flowed behind, A hat not much the worse for wear, Each comely in its kind.
He held them up, and in his turn Thus showed his ready wit: “My head is twice as big as yours, They therefore needs must fit.
“But let me scrape the dirt away That hangs upon your face; And stop and eat, for well you may Be in a hungry case.”
Said John, “It is my wedding day, And all the world would stare If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware.”
So turning to his horse, he said, “I am in haste to dine; ’Twas for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine.”
Ah! luckless speech, and bootless boast, For which he paid full dear; For while he spoke, a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear;
Whereat his horse did snort, as he Had heard a lion roar, And galloped off with all his might, As he had done before.
Away went Gilpin, and away Went Gilpin’s hat and wig: He lost them sooner than at first, For why?――they were too big.
Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down Into the country far away, She pulled out half a crown;
And thus unto the youth she said That drove them to the Bell, “This shall be yours, when you bring back My husband safe and well.”
The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain Whom in a trice he tried to stop By catching at his rein;
But not performing what he meant, And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more, And made him faster run.
Away went Gilpin, and away Went postboy at his heels, The postboy’s horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels.
Six gentlemen upon the road, Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With postboy scampering in the rear, They raised the hue and cry:――
“Stop thief! stop thief!――a highwayman!” Not one of them was mute; And all and each that passed that way Did join in the pursuit.
And now the turnpike-gates again Flew open in short space; The tollmen thinking as before, That Gilpin rode a race.
And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town; Nor stopped till where he had got up He did again get down.
Now let us sing long live the King, And Gilpin, long live he; And when he next doth ride abroad, May I be there to see!
W. COWPER.
――――
MRS. GILPIN RIDING TO EDMONTON.
Then Mrs. Gilpin sweetly said Unto her children three, “I’ll clamber o’er this style so high And you climb after me.”
But having climbed unto the top, She could no further go, But sate, to every passer by A spectacle of woe,
Who said, “Your spouse and you this day Both show your horsemanship, And if you stay till he comes back, Your horse will need no whip.”
The above verses in the handwriting of Cowper were found among Mrs. Unwin’s papers, with a drawing, supposed to be by Romney, of Mrs. Gilpin sitting on the top of a gate. The idea seems to be that Mrs. Gilpin having tired waiting for her husband, wandered into the fields, and in an attempt to get over one of those awkward styles for which Enfield was then famous, got upon the top, but could not get down again. The drawing is very ludicrous.
_From Hone’s Table Book_, Vol. II., pp. 79-80.
――――
THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF MOORE’S LIFE OF BYRON.
_Shewing how the Poet burnt the original, and afterwards published the copy._
Lord Byron was a nobleman, Of wonderful renown, A splendid poet eke was he, Of famous London Town.
Lord Byron said to Tommy Moore, Tho’ living I have been At Newstead, ten long years, yet I No happiness have seen.
To-morrow I shall sail for Greece And you may then repair To London (or to Jericho, [Aside] for what I care.)
I’ll leave my life unto your child, Whenever I may die; And mind John Murray pays him well For my Biography.
Tom Moore replied, I do admire Of Poet-kind but one―― And you are he, my dearest Lord, Therefore, it shall be done.
I really am not worth a damn, As all the world doth know, But if Lord Byron says I am, Why, then, it must be so.
Quoth young Childe Harold that’s well said, But for, that I’m a man! Be sure you do not murder me As you did Sheridan.
Tom Little shook him by the hand, O’erjoyed was he to find, That when he went, he meant to leave His manuscript behind.
The morning came――the Poet went, And when his life was o’er, The tale of all his wicked loves Was left with Tommy Moore.
So, on his table it was laid, And he turned o’er the leaves; Two precious volumes all agog, And thick as any thieves.
Smack went the pen into the ink, Was never Tom so glad? His chin did chuckle up and down, As if his jaws were mad.
From _The National Omnibus_. April 1, 1831.
Thomas Moore’s biography of Lord Byron was severely criticised, both for what it contained and for what it omitted. That Moore, the cherished friend of the great poet, should display all the faults and frailties of Lord Byron was ungenerous and ungrateful, but his ill-judged suppression of certain important matters of fact was far more inexcusable and damaging to Byron’s reputation.
――――
A BALLAD MADE FOR THE DELECTATION OF ALL TRUE SPORTSMEN.
Prince Albert is a sportsman bold, And eager for the chase, Out with the hounds, like GILPIN oft He seems to ride a race.
And oft in Windsor’s courtly Park He loves to ply the gun, Where hares so well bred are, that they Up to his muzzle run.
Now when her gracious Majesty To Stowe a visit paid, (The newspapers contained a list Of all the cavalcade.)
Scarce had the royal pair arrived At BUCKINGHAM’S proud seat, The Prince began in sportsman’s style, The noble Duke to greet
“What shooting have you here, proud Duke?” “Shooting, great Prince,” he cried, “Not vainly in my choice preserves I feel a housewife’s pride.”
* * * * *
A sporting suit his Highness donn’d, On murderous thought intent He sallies forth, his every look Betrays the sporting gent.
Not far behind, the portly form Of ROBERT PEEL was seen, His mind, less sporting than his coat, Is far away I ween.
Five times ten keepers armed with sticks Entered in close array, And beat the cover, where the hares Like lords in waiting lay.
Once and again PRINCE ALBERT shot, Once and again shot he; The hare, that erst on four legs ran, Now limped away on three.
Each keeper raised his stick and struck The hare upon the head; The Prince he shot, the keepers knocked, Until each hare was dead.
_Dulce et decorum est_, say some, _Pro patria mori_, And ’tis a fine thing for a hare, By princely hand to die.
’Twas this perhaps the game inspired To court their Prince’s aim, They died to give PRINCE ALBERT sport, And therefore they died game.
How many fell _The Court Gazette_ Better than I may say, Hares that escaped will live to tell Their children of that day.
Long live the Game Laws, though with ills Some people say they’re fraught, Long live the laws by which our Prince Enjoyed such glorious sport.
_Punch._ 1845.
――――
THE POLITICAL JOHN GILPIN.
GEORGE BENTINCK was a sporting man Of credit and renown, A stud in training eke had he, For Epsom’s famous down.
GEORGE BENTINCK to himself, said he, Though M.P. I have been For many years, yet in debate My name is seldom seen.
JOHN RUSSELL to the Commons goes, As rumour doth declare, A bill for Ireland to propose, And I will meet him there.
There’s BORTHWICK, simple as a child, Myself and DISRAEL(EE); We’ll start the game, and other fools Are sure to follow we.
I am a rider free and bold, As all the world doth know, And my good friend the Railway King Lends me a dodge or so.
The evening came, the dodge was plann’d, An Irish railway grant, And sixteen million little pounds Was all, they said, they’d want.
So BENTINCK, HUDSON, BORTHWICK, BEN, The measure did bring in; Four precious souls, and all agog To dash through thick and thin.
Away they rush’d, on went their tongues, No rest their hearers had; The speeches seem’d to be composed Of eloquence run mad.
GEORGE BENTINCK his steam hobby rode With all his might and main; And up he kept himself awhile, But soon came down again.
Away went BENTINCK, neck or nought, ’Gainst every timid Whig; They little dreamt when he set out He would run such a rig.
Some Irish members cheer’d him on; Protectionists and all Cried out “Go at it, GEORGE; well done!” As loud as they could bawl.
Away went BENTINCK, who but he Could run such pace around? He carries weight, he rides a race For sixteen million pound.
And every one that saw him run Believed it was for place; Against JOHN RUSSELL they declared GEORGE BENTINCK rode a race.
And so he did, and lost it too, For every one in town Where he had been on getting up, Found him on sitting down.
Let’s sing I wean, long live the QUEEN, And BENTINCK long live he; When next he his steam hobby rides May we be there to see.
――――
THE NEW JOHN GILPIN.
_Showing how Robert Peel went further than he intended, and came safe home again._
Sir Robert was a Minister Of credit and renown; And eke, by virtue of his place, Adviser to the Crown.
Now Richard Cobden said to him, “Protected Corn has been Thro’ thrice ten tedious years, since eight- Teen hundred and fifteen.
“Yet landlords and eke tenants say Of profits they despair; Despite Protection, growing corn Is a losing affair.
“There’s Mr. Bright, and there’s myself, And Mr. Fox――make three; We’ve raised a League, and you must ride (As Ben says) after we.”
Said Peel, “Your doctrines I admire, But I am only one; Still, if the Duke will stick to me, I’ll try what can be done.
“I am a Premier stout and bold, As all my party know; And my good friends in Manchester Will lend their horse to go.”
Now see him in his new Tariff, On Free Trade――noble steed! Full slowly taking duties off, With caution and good heed.
Then came the blight, and fears arose We’d not have food to eat, Free Trade, from walking, ’gan to trot, Which shook Peel in his seat.
“Fairly and softly,” Peel he cried, But Peel he cried in vain; The trot became a gallop soon, And Free Trade flew amain.
Then giving up, as needs he must Who cannot help his plight Peel seized Free Trade, and like a shot Flew past Protection quite.
Free Trade, who by a Tory lord Had ne’er been cross’d before, What thing upon his back had got Did wonder more and more.
Away went Robert――neck or nought Past Radical and Whig; He little thought when he began His bill would be so big.
The _Post_ did bark, the _Herald_ scream’d, Out spoke the farmers all, And every Duke cried out “For shame!” As loud as he could bawl.
Away went Robert! Who but he? Free Trade still gaining ground, He carries weight――he’ll win his race, His horse’s wind is sound.
Still, as Division-day drew near ’Twas wonderful to view How overboard the men in place Their old convictions threw.
Thro’ manufactures of all kinds His gambols he did play, And came to Corn Laws at the last, Which stood dead in the way.
The sliding-scale he knock’d about Unto his friend’s dismay, And fix’d how that at three years’ end The tax should die away.
Free Trade, not satisfied at all To wait for three years more, Straight galloped off with all his might, As he had done before.
Away went Robert, with the League Still thundering at his heel, Insisting loud in total and Immediate repeal.
The county members in the House, Thus seeing Robert fly, With Lord John Russell in his rear, Set up a hue and cry:
“Stop thief! Stop thief! a highway man:” Not one of them was mute, And Ben D’Israeli and Colquhoun Did join in the pursuit.
In the “Protection” heavy coach, The Upper House gave chase; But Free Trade’s bottom, bone, and wind, Made it a hopeless race.
The race is run, the race is won With credit and renown; Nor did Free Trade draw breath until The Corn Laws he ran down.
Now let us sing “Long live the League, And Cobden, long live he, And when Peel next doth ride Free Trade, May _Punch_ his Laureat be.”
_Punch._ February 14, 1846.
――――
THE MODERN PEEPING TOM.
Lord Trallala a noble was, Of credit and renown, A brave old Volunteer was he Of famous London town.
A well known connoisseur was he Of things antique and fine――a His taste was good in rare old wine. Old women, and old china.
A noted champion was he, Of damsels in distress; But as Companion of the Bath He got into a mess.
A witch there was in Bond Street dwelt, Whom RACHEL men did call; She took in women young and old, And beautified them all.
With powders and with cosmetique, And eastern bloom of Ninon; And added to their tresses bright The decorative chignon.
The bath the next essential was, To clarify their skins―― Let’s hope it cleansed their conscience too, And washed away their sins.
For if not so, why one would think Such folks as these could never, By any other process be Made “_beautiful for ever_.”
Behind the bath a snuggery lay, Though doors were hung _a plomb_; And TRALLALA went in to play The part of peeping TOM.
And now it is conjectured by Each erudite surmiser, He went, he saw, he came away Considerably wiser.
From _The Hornet_. Sept. 9, 1868.
Tom Jones, Viscount Ranelagh, Colonel of the South Middlesex Volunteer Rifles, was called as a witness in an action brought by Mrs. Borrowdale against Madame Rachel of Bond Street, who professed to make ladies “_Beautiful forever_.” Rachel was convicted for obtaining money under false pretences, and died in Brixton Gaol.
――――
THE RAILWAY GILPIN.
JOHN GILPIN is a citizen; For lineage of renown, The famed JOHN GILPIN’S grandson, he Abides in London town.
To our JOHN GILPIN said his dear, “Stewed up here as we’ve been Since Whitsuntide, ’tis time that we Should have a change of scene.
“To-morrow is a leisure day, And we’ll by rail repair Unto the Nell at Dedmanton, And take a breath of air.
“My sister takes our eldest child; The youngest of our three Will go in arms, and so the ride Won’t so expensive be.”
JOHN soon replied, “I don’t admire That railway, I, for one; But you know best, my dearest dear, And so it must be done.
“I, as a linen draper bold, Will bear myself, and though ’Tis Friday by the calendar Will risk my limbs, and go.”
Quoth MISTRESS GILPIN, “nicely said And then, besides, look here, We’ll go by the Excursion Train, Which makes it still less dear,”
JOHN GILPIN poked his clever wife, And slightly smiled to find That though on peril she was bent, She had a careful mind.
The morning came; a cab was sought: The proper time allow’d To reach the station door; but lo! Before it stood a crowd.
For half an hour they there were stay’d, And when they did get in―― “No train! a hoax!” cried clerks agog To swear through thick and thin.
“Yaa!” went the throats; stamp went the heels; Were never folks so mad, The disappointment dire beneath: All cried “it was too bad.”
JOHN GILPIN home would fain have hied, But he must needs remain, Commanded by his wilful bride, And take the usual train.
’Twas long before our passengers Another train could find, When――stop! one ticket for the fares Was lost or left behind!
“Good lack,” quoth JOHN, “yet try it on.” “’Twon’t do,” the guard replies, And bearing wife and babes on board, The train without him flies.
Now see him in a second train, Behind the iron steed, Borne on, slap-dash for life or bones With small concern or heed.
Away went GILPIN neck or naught, Exclaiming, “Dash my wig! Oh, here’s a game, oh, here’s a go! A running such a rig!”
A signal, hark!――the whistle screamed, Smash! went the windows all: “An accident!” cried out each one, As loud as he could bawl,
Away went GILPIN, never mind, His brain seemed spinning round; Thought he, “This speed a killing pace Will prove, I’ll bet a pound!”
And still, as stations they drew near, The whistle shrilly blew, And in a trice, past signal-men The train like lightning flew.
Thus, all through merry Killbury, Without a stop shot they; But paused to ’scape a second smash, At Dedmanton so gay.
At Dedmanton his loving wife, On platform waiting, spied Her tender husband, striving much To let himself outside,
“Hallo! JOHN GILPIN, here we are―― Come out!” they all did cry; “To death with waiting we are tired!” “Guard!” shouted GILPIN, “Hi!”
But no――the train was not a bit Arranged to tarry there, For why? because ’twas an Express, And did dispatches bear.
So, in a second, off it flew Again, and dashed along, As if the deuce ’twere going to, With motive impulse strong.
Away went GILPIN, on the breath Of puffing steam, until They came unto their journey’s end, Where they at last stood still.
And then――best thing that he could do―― He book’d himself for Town; They stopped at every station up, Till he again got down
Says GILPIN, “Sing, long live the Queen, And eke long life to me; And ere I’ll trust that line again; Myself I blest will see!”
ANONYMOUS.
From _Partron’s Collection of Humorous Poetry_. Boston, 1881.
――――
THE TRUE AND DIVERTING HISTORY OF TOM TUCKER.
John Tucker was a broker bold, Of very great renown: A dab at putting bedsteads _up_, And pulling bedsteads _down_.
A broker too in politics, Had words at his command, But, like his goods, his speeches are Retail’d at _second-hand_.
(There are 16 verses in all of this, not very amusing, parody.)
From “_The Argus_, or Record of Politics, etc.” Southampton, 1831.
――――
A long parody also appeared in _Edgbastonia_, June 1885. of which only a few verses need be quoted:――
A SECOND HOLIDAY FOR JOHN GILPIN;
_Or, a voyage to Vauxhall, where tho’ he had better luck than before, he was far from being contented._
John Gilpin was a citizen Of credit and renown, A common councilman was he, Of famous London Town.
Most folks had heard of Gilpin’s fame, And of the race he won, When he on horseback did set out All unto Edmonton
And never since that luckless time Which gave him such dismay, For ten whole years, had he and spouse, Enjoyed a holiday.
The main chance minding still at home, On bus’ness quite intent; He made amends, there is no doubt, For what that day was spent.
Their daughters, rising in their teens, Were innocent and gay, And as young girls, they often begg’d To have a holiday.
Good Mistress Gilpin had a heart Her pretty girls to please; But how to win John Gilpin to’t Was not a task of ease.
“Howe’er,” said she, “leave that to me, It never will cause strife; And he will sure comply once more, To please his loving wife.”
She mark’d the time, in cheerful mood John Gilpin for to see; Then unto him thus did she speak, One evening o’er their tea.
“My dear you must a favour grant, Your tenderness to prove.” Said Gilpin, “What is your desire? I can’t deny my love.”
“Why, there’s my sweetest life,” said she, And strok’d his smirking face; At which he kissed his dearest dear, And smiled with kindly grace.
“You know,” said she, “since that sad day, Which we could not foresee, That we have never thought upon Another holiday.
“Ten circling years have made their round, And time comes stealing on; Next Tuesday is our wedding day, Then pray let us have one.”
John Gilpin hum’d and ha’d awhile, Then cried, “It shall be so, Yet hope, you do not mean, my dear, To Edmonton to go.
“That cursed jaunt I can’t forget Which brought me such disgrace.” “No, no, my dear,” she quick reply’d, “I mean a nearer place.
“Amusements round the town are found, Delighting unto all; Therefore with me, if you’ll agree, We’ll go to sweet Vaux-hall.
“A sculler, sure, will take us all, The purchase can’t be great; And then along the silver Thames, How we shall ride in state.”
“Thy will be done,” John Gilpin cry’d, “I like thy thought in this; The evening is not all the day, Much business we can’t miss.”
Then Mistress Gilpin said to John, “That we may all be gay Your very suit you shall have on, Made for your wedding day.
“Your lac’d cravat, and beaver hat, Your cane, with head of gold, With roll’d up hose, and then you’ll be Most charming to behold.”
At length the happy time arrived, John Gilpin, neatly dressed, Look’d like a citizen, indeed, Array’d in all his best.
* * * * *
――――
_Davy Jones_, a Gilpinic Tale, by Barnard de Burgh, 1823. This little work has some amusing illustrations, but a very misleading title, for it is not a parody of “John Gilpin.”
“John Gilpin” translated into Latin, was published some years ago by Mr. J. Vincent of Oxford. The pamphlet was entitled “Johannis Gilpiniiter, Latine Redditum,” and may probably still be obtained in Oxford.
――――
Two other parodies of _John Gilpin_ may be mentioned, one which appeared in “_The Yorkshireman_” for August 1876, entitled _The Connaught Rangers_, and commencing:
Bold Sutcliffe was a citizen Of credit and renown, A Bowling dyer eke was he And Mayor of Bradford town.
The other appeared in “_The Idel News_” in August 1878, and commenced thus:――
PADDY AND THE MORMON. _An Episode of Idel Green, Yorks._
Childe Evins was a citizen Of credit and renown, A Mormon Elder too was he Of famous Utah town.
His latest wife said in his ear―― “Though wedded we have been These twelve long tedious months yet we No holiday have seen.
To-morrow is our wedding day, And we will then prepare To take a voyage o’er the sea, To greet the old folks there.
Sall, Ruth, and Ann, and Tabitha, Thy other wives, shall stay To nurse their bairns, and keep the home The time we are away.
* * * * *
The latter parody was written by Mr. J. Horsfall Turner, unfortunately both poems are very long, and of only local interest.
――――:o:――――
THE ROSE.
The Rose had been washed, just washed in a shower, Which Mary to Anna conveyed; The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower, And weighed down its beautiful head.
The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet And it seemed, to a fanciful view, To weep for the buds it had left with regret On the flourishing bush where it grew.
I hastily seized it, unfit as it was For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned; And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas! I snapped it――it fell to the ground!
And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part Some act by the delicate mind; Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to sorrow resigned.
This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloomed with its owner awhile; And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be followed perhaps by a smile.
WILLIAM COWPER.
――――
Mr. Frederick Locker-Lampson, author of _London Lyrics_, has in his possession the first draft of William Cowper’s poem of _The Rose_, in the poet’s autograph. It is interesting, as it shows how much he altered and improved his poems:――
“The Rose that I sing had been bathed in a show’r, Profusely and hastily shed, The plentiful moisture incumber’d the flow’r, And weigh’d down its elegant head.
The cup was all fill’d, and the leaves were all wet, And it seem’d to a fanciful view To weep for the home it had left with regret In the flowery bush where it grew.
Unfit as it was for the use of the Fair, With foliage so dripping and drown’d, I shook it and swung it with too little care―― I snapp’d it, it fell to the ground.
And such, I exclaim’d is the pitiless part, Some act by the delicate mind, Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to sorrow resign’d.
This Rose might have held, had I shaken it less, Its unblemish’d beauty awhile, And the tear that is wiped by a little address, May be follow’d perhaps by a smile.”
――――
MY UNIFORM. _By a Damp but Determined Volunteer._
The corps had been washed, newly-washed in a shower, Which, as usual, had spoiled our parade, The plentiful moisture, poured down for an hour, With our uniforms havoc had played.
My belts were all sodden, my shako so wet, That it seemed to a fanciful view, As if mere _papier-maché_ ’twould prove, and forget For what it had duty to do.
I hastily seized it, unfit as it was―― Poor shako――a shaking to stand! And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas! The peak came off, limp, in my hand!
“And such,” I exclaimed, “was the Dons[68] foolish act With his helmet so neatly combined, He exposed it to thwacks, which the joints rudely cracked, Not for use but appearance designed.
“This elegant cap, had I shaken it less, Might have bloomed, ’neath its _pompon_ awhile; And accoutrements wiped with a little address May adorn next Review’s rank and file!”
_Punch._ July 28, 1860. (The wet summer.)
――――
APRIL: _Or, the New Hat._
My Boots had been wash’d――well wash’d――in a show’r; But little I griev’d about that: What I felt was the havoc a single half hour, Had made with my costly new Hat.
For the Boot, tho’ its lustre be dimm’d, shall assume Fresh sprightliness after a while: But what art may restore its original bloom, When once it hath flown, to the Tile?
I clomb to my perch, and the horses (a bay And a brown) trotted off with a clatter: The Driver look’d round in his affable way And said huskily, “Who is your hatter?”
I was pleas’d that he’d notic’d its shape and its shine, And as soon as we reached the _Old Druid_, I begg’d that he’d drink to my new Four-and-nine In a glass of his favourite fluid,
A gratified smile sat, I own, on my lips When the landlady called to the master (He was standing hard by with his hands on his hips), To “look at the gentleman’s Castor!”
I laugh’d, as an organ-man paus’d in mid-air (’Twas an air that I happen’d to know, By a great foreign Maestro) expressly to stare At _ze gent wiz ze joli chapeau_.
Yet how swift is the transit from laughter to tears! Our glories, how fleeting are they! That Hat might (with care) have adorn’d me for years; But ’twas ruin’d, alack, in a day!
How I loved thee, my Bright One! I wrench in remorse, My hands from my coat-tail and wring ’em: “Why did not I, why, as a matter of course, When I purchas’d thee, purchase a Gingham!”
CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
(_This poem is a double acrostic._)
――――
THE RINK HAD BEEN WASHED.
The rink had been washed, just washed in a shower, Where Mary and Charley did skate, While plentiful moisture enveloped the bower, Where to rest or to flirt they would wait.
The eaves were all dripping――my spirits did sink, For it seemed to a sensible view, That it was not at all a good day for a rink, Save perhaps for a venturesome few.
But they would go and skate, unfit though it was, And cut figures so neat and so round, When in turning round sharply, too sharply, alas! They slipped and then――fell to the ground.
And such, I exclaimed, is the result of a whim, That might, could, and should have been saved, Regardless of falling and breaking a limb, They brave what should ne’er have been braved.
Had the rain kept away, or their speed had been less, They ne’er would have tumbled at all, But the figure that’s cut without skill or address, May be followed perhaps by a fall.
A. W. MACKENZIE (Author of _Idyls of the Rink_.)
From _Mirth_, edited by H. J. Byron. May 1878.
――――
THE ROSE AND THE BUCKETS.
One day, old George Rose, in a fit of finance Saw, or thought that he saw, in two buckets, The two gasping nations of England and France, Not worth by their warfare three ducats.
* * * * *
This is the first of five verses of an old political parody, which originally appeared in _The Morning Chronicle_, but was afterwards republished in _The Spirit of the Public Journals_ for 1812. (Volume XVI.)
――――:o:――――
MARY ANDERSON.[69] (_A parody of Cowper’s lines “To Mary.”_)
She came; she trod our English land: A masterpiece from Phidias’ hand―― Antique and classical and grand Looked Mary.
And mashers flew the maid to greet, Leaving the playhouse o’er the street, And Nelly of the twinkling feet, For Mary.
In vain for one sweet smile they sued, She thought their conduct very rude; You see that something of a prude Is Mary.
Though titled splendour bade her come And share the festive “kettledrum,” Nothing could tempt the maid to roam―― Unless a Bishop was “at home” To Mary.
Said Britain’s Heir, “She’ll not refuse If I should seek to introduce Myself to this dramatic Muse―― Miss Mary.”
But little noble Albert recked The haughty damsel’s self-respect. “I keep my circle most select,” Says Mary.
So with a calm impassive eye She gave his Highness the “go by.” “Who wants to know you, Sir? Not I!” Said Mary.
Across the Atlantic wave to-day Columbia’s children proudly say, “Guess naow who snubbed a Coming K.? Why, Mary.”
_Judy._ October 24, 1883.
――――
THE NEGRO’S COMPLAINT.
Forced from home and all its pleasures, Afric’s coast I left forlorn; To increase a stranger’s treasures, O’er the raging billows borne. Men from England bought and sold me, Paid my price in paltry gold; But, though slave they have enrolled me, Minds are never to be sold.
Still in thought as free as ever, What are England’s rights, I ask, Me from my delights to sever, Me to torture, me to task? Fleecy locks and black complexion Cannot forfeit nature’s claim; Hues may differ, but affection Dwells in white and black the same.
Why did all-creating Nature Make the plant for which we toil? Sighs must fan it, tears must water, Sweat of ours must dress the soil. Think, ye masters, iron-hearted, Lolling at your jovial boards, Think how many backs have smarted For the sweets your cane affords.
* * * * *
Deem our nation brutes no longer, Till some reason ye shall find Worthier of regard and stronger Than the colour of our kind. Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings Furnish all your boasted powers; Prove that you have human feelings Ere you proudly question ours!
WILLIAM COWPER.
――――
Two parodies of this poem appeared in _Figaro in London_ more than fifty years ago, they are consequently rather out of date, and it is unnecessary to give them in full.
The first referred to Henry Phillpotts, the stern, mercenary, and bigoted Bishop of Exeter, the bitter opponent of Roman Catholic emancipation, and the apologist for the Peterloo massacre. The second is supposed to be a complaint made by Lord Grey on his rejection from the office of premier by his late colleagues.
NO. 1. BISHOP PHILLPOTTS’ COMPLAINT.
Forced from dissipation’s pleasures, Oxford’s walls I left forlorn, To increase my worldly treasures, Up to town a stranger borne. Men in office bought and sold me, Paid my price in shining gold, But though theirs they then enrolled me, Sentiments may twice be sold.
Still in thought as Whig as ever, What are Brougham’s rights I ask, Me with irony so clever Cruelly to take to task? Whigs may proudly all connection With the Tories now disclaim, But for place a fond affection Dwells, we know, in both the same.
Why did Whigs the all engrossing, Take the place for which we toil, Tories now must keep them close in, Lest our future hopes we spoil. Think, ye ministers so grasping, Lolling on the Treasury boards, Think, what lots of us are gasping, For the sweets your place affords.
Is it, as ye sometimes tell us, That our gracious sovereign, Bill, Gives you power to compel us To Reform against our will. Ask him if your Irish scourges, Taxes――acts that press like screws, Are the measures that he urges Lib’ral ministers to use.
Hark! he answers, fierce coercion Washing Ireland’s shores with blood, Wasting towns, with a subversion Of the rights to which it stood. He foreseeing what oppression Erin’s sons must undergo, Kept the Whigs another session, That they might lay freedom low.
(_Two verses omitted._)
_Figaro in London._ March 9, 1833.
NO. 2. LORD GREY’S COMPLAINT.
Forced from place and all its pleasures, Treasury bench I left forlorn, To advance old Brougham’s measures, In his cunning _caput_ born. All my former colleagues sold me, Ousted me by tricks that told; But though _out_ at last they’ve bowl’d me, Whigs are always to be sold.
Still in principle as ever, I can shortly change my mind; Join the Tories, ’twould be clever, Leaving former friends behind. Whig professions, Tory practice, Both may sometimes kindred claim; Names may differ, but the fact is Whig and Tory are the same.
Why did all creating nature Make us wish for place to toil, Lies must earn it――which we ought to Shun, lest we our souls should soil. Think ye Ministers while boasting, Lolling at your treasury boards; How our souls must get a roasting, For the sweets that place affords?
* * * * *
_Figaro in London._ August 2, 1834.
――――
JUMBO’S JEREMIAD.
Forced from fogs and all their pleasures, England’s shore I leave forlorn, To increase base BARNUM’S treasures O’er the foaming billows borne. Yankee scamps have bought and sold me, Paid my price――two thousand pounds; And because their bonds enfold me London with my roar resounds.
Still in thought as free as ever, What is BARNUM’S right, I ask, Me from Regent’s Park to sever, Me to torture, me to task? In the Zoo I’m never beaten, Children hail me with three cheers; Buns unnumbered have I eaten To amuse the little dears.
Like tall ladders wearing trousers Are the Guardsmen who have sat On my back, the red carousers, While they talked in loving chat With the nursemaid, prim and pretty, Who those soldiers so adore,―― Chat was theirs, both fond and witty, Shall I never hear it more?
Now, to fill the bitter chalice Of my grief, my foes discreet Fain would make my lovely ALICE Lure me from my dear retreat. ALICE, ALICE, don’t succumb, O! Either to their smiles or sneers, Listen to your husband, JUMBO, Oh, have pity on his tears!
ALICE, Darling, we’ll be jolly, We won’t wander from the Zoo, I’ll not go upon their trolly, Smash my trunk, pet, if I do!
_Judy_, March 1, 1882,
(Alas, poor Jumbo! He was afterwards accidentally killed by a locomotive engine.)
――――
THE SCHOOL BOY’S COMPLAINT
1
Forced from home and all its pleasures, Father’s house I left forlorn; To increase a master’s treasures, To Carthusia’s mansions borne. My lot was fixed, my place was taken; Paid for too in paltry gold; And thus by all my friends forsaken, Unwillingly at school enrolled.
2
Still in thought as free as ever, What are master’s rights, I ask, Though they think themselves so clever. Me to torture, me to task? Vainly Saunders, Chapman, Penny, Claim their right to power and rule, Though they seldom call us any Names but “stupid ass,” and “fool!”
3
Why did all-creating Nature Plant that tree, the school-boy’s bane? Sighs must fan it, tears must water; Cause of woe and bitter pain. Think, ye masters, iron-hearted, Frowning from your desks of state, Think how many backs have smarted ’Neath the object of our hate!
4
Are there, as ye sometimes tell us, Mighty lords, who govern all, Suff’ring boys and masters jealous. Meeting in the Founders’ Hall? Do they order impositions, Learning in our brains to hammer? Will they teach our repetitions? Or instruct us in the grammar?
5
No, we never rule so cruel, Never shall our spirits brook; Desks and blocks shall turn to fuel, Lighted by the dread Black-Book. Now’s the hour, and now’s the season For one well-directed blow: Can they call such daring, treason? Hark! our injuries answer, No.
6
By the years which we have wasted In this dreary place of woe; By the mis’ries we have tasted, By the ills we undergo; By our suff’rings since we entered Chapman’s portals, op’ning wide; When our joy in freedom centred, Hope, alas! remained outside,
7
Deem us, therefore, fools no longer, ’Till some reason ye shall find, Worthier of regard and stronger Than _your_ judgment of our mind. Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings All your precepts vain belie; Destitute of human feeling, Subjects fit for mockery!
F. N.
From the _Charterhouse Collection of Poems, &c._ Collected by Edward Walford, M.A.
――――:o:――――
FAREWELL TO THE CAMP. (_A Lyric for the 20th August_, 1853.)
A military camp was held during the summer months of 1853 at Chobham, and became a favourite place of resort for Londoners.
The Camp has departed!――farewell the parade, And the earth-shaking march of the stern Colonade:[70] The bands play no longer from manuscript leaves, Nor detectives prowl stealthily watching the thieves.
The City of War, which immense fun we’ve had in Is fled like the palace that flew with Aladdin; And musketry’s crack, and artillery’s roar Astonish the echoes of Chobham no more.
The Lancer in scarlet, the Rifle in green, And the Horse-guard in blue, have abandoned the scene; And we’ve witness’d the last of the blood-stirring frays Where gallop’d in glory those terrible Greys.
No longer in toothsome libation is spilt The Dew that is dear to the sons of the kilt; No longer falls plashing in pleasantness here, The frothy cascade of the black British beer,
O! Chobham Olympics, your games are all done, The last close is wrestled, the last race is run, The stone’s “put” away, to the leap-frog there’s truce, And the ultimate caber is pitched to the deuce.
Rejoice in thy stable, thou omnibus steed! For thee the campaign-times were wiry indeed, No more shalt thou toil on that villanous road, With a cargo of snobs for thy heart-breaking load.
Weep, rascally drivers of ramshackle flies, Adieu your extortions, your sauce, and your lies, Farewell to that Station, the cheating point where You’ve so oft charged a pound for a two shilling fare.
Well, everything passes; a Camp like the rest, But this ends while its novelty still has a zest; And we’re free to confess that we see with regret The Flutters Hill’s sun, like the Austerlitz set.
Here’s a health to the officer――liner or guard―― Who with Cambridge and Seaton has laboured so hard, Here’s a health to his men, whose good looks and good will Did such excellent credit to messman and drill.
The object was good, and the object is gained, Right sound is the teaching the troops have obtained; And we’ll mark that M.P. for a short-sighted scamp Who grudges one mil for the Chobhamite Camp.
SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1853.
――――:o:――――
ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE, OF WALES. (_In imitation of Cowper’s dirge on the loss of the “Royal George.”_)
Wail for the dead! And rend thy streaming hair, Thou fairest Island-Queen That ever ocean bare!
All lonely on the rock, To every passing sail, Let thy deep shriek of woe Fly pinioned on the gale.
Not light that tale of woe is, No trouble of a day; Thy cup of Joy is dashed, Is dashed in haste away.
Wail for the dead! The high-born and the good! Long years must pass before Her equal shall be viewed.
Three kingdoms longed to trust The sceptre in her hand, And send it down her race, While their white cliffs should stand.
Each heart on tiptoe stood, To hail a new-born son, And merry bells were ready, To make the welcome known.
Wail for the dead! The babe lies cold in death! Mother and offspring need But one sad funeral wreath.
Stars sunk in ocean blue ’Merge from the eastern main; But England’s star of glory Shall never rise again.
(_Several verses omitted._)
CLIO.
From _The Pocket Magazine_, Vol. III. Published by John Arliss, London. 1819.
――――:o:――――
SOLITUDE.
_Supposed to have been written by Alexander Selkirk, a shipwrecked sailor, who lived four years in the uninhabited Island of Juan Fernandez._
I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute; From the centre all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute. Oh, Solitude! where are the charms Which sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this desolate place.
I am out of humanity’s reach, I must finish my journey alone,―― Never hear the sweet music of speech, I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with man, Their tameness is shocking to me.
Society, friendship, and love, Divinely bestowed upon man, Oh! had I the wings of a dove, How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage In the ways of religion and truth―― Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheered by the sallies of youth.
Religion! what treasures untold Reside in that heavenly word, More precious than silver and gold, Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell These valleys and rocks never heard; Never sighed at the sound of a knell, Never smiled when a Sabbath appeared.
Ye winds! that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial, endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me; Oh! tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see.
How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But, alas, recollection at hand, Soon hurries me back to despair!
But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, The beast is laid down in his lair; Even here is a season of rest, And I to my cabin repair. There is mercy in every place, And mercy, (encouraging thought!) Gives every affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot.
WILLIAM COWPER.
In 1813 Leigh Hunt and his brother, as proprietors of _The Examiner_, were sentenced to undergo two years imprisonment, and each to pay a fine of five hundred pounds, for publishing an article in that paper containing the following remarks on the Prince Regent:――
“What person would imagine in reading these astounding eulogies in _The Morning Post_, that this ‘Glory of the people’ was the subject of millions of shrugs and reproaches! That this ‘Conqueror of Hearts’ was the disappointer of hopes! That this ‘Exciter of Desire’ (Bravo, _Morning Post_!), this ‘Adonis in Loveliness’ was a corpulent man of fifty! In short, this _delightful_, _blissful_, _wise_, _pleasureable_, _honourable_, _virtuous_, _true and immortal_ Prince was a violator of his word, a libertine over head and ears in disgrace, a despiser of domestic ties, the companion of gamblers and demireps, a man who has just closed half a century without one single claim on the gratitude of his country, or the respect of posterity.”
The Hunts were informed that if they would undertake to abstain from commenting on the actions of the Prince Regent for the future, the sentence would be remitted. They declined to give the required undertaking, but paid their fines, and went to prison. The severity of the sentence caused great delight to the friends of the Prince Regent, and Theodore Hook wrote the following apropos parody of Cowper’s poem on Alexander Selkirk:――
VERSES.
(Supposed to be written by the Editor of the _Examiner_, whilst in prison.)
I am tenant of nine feet by four, My title no lawyer denies. From the ceiling quite down to the floor, I am lord of the spiders and flies.
Oh, Justice! how awkward it is To be griped by thy terrible squad! I did but indulge in a _quiz_, And the Quorum have sent me to _quod_.
Dear scandal is out of my reach, I must pass my dull mornings alone. Never hear Mr. Brougham make a speech, Nor get audience for one of my own!
The people, provokingly quiet, My fate with indifference see: They are so unaccustomed to riot, Their tameness is shocking to me.
Personality, libel, and lie, Ye supports of our Jacobite train, If I had but the courage to try, How soon I would sport you again!
My ranklings I then might assuage By renewing my efforts to vex, By profaning the rev’rence of age, And attacking the weakness of sex.
A libel! what treasure untold Resides in that dear little word, More rich than the silver and gold Which the Bank is reported to hoard!
But the Bench have no bowels for pity, No stomach for high-seasoned leaven, And though we be never so witty, They trim us when judgment is given.
O ye, who were present in Court, In pity convey to me here Some well-manufactured report, Of a lady, a prince, or a peer.
Do my writings continue to tell? Does the public attend to my lines? O say that my Newspapers sell Though the money must go for my fines!
How fleet is the growth of a fib! The astonishing speed of its flight Outstrips the less mischievous squib Let off on a holiday night.
Then who would not vamp up a fudge, When he knows how it helps off his papers Were it not――that the thought of the judge Overcasts him, and gives him the vapours?
But Cobbett has got his discharge―― _The beast_ is let loose from his cover; Like him I shall yet be at large, When a couple of years shall be over.
For law must our liberty give, Though _Law_ far a while may retard it Even I shall obtain it, who live By sapping the bulwarks that guard it.
This parody was given in Volume IV. (Part 41) of this collection, with George Cruikshank’s caricature of the Prince Regent,
“The Dandy of Sixty Who bows with a grace, And has taste in wigs, collars, Cuirasses and lace,”
but it is necessary to repeat it here in its proper place, under the poet Cowper.
――――
VERSES.
(_Supposed to have been written by Arthur, Duke of Wellington, during his late solitary visit to Downing Street._).
However horrible may have been the situation of that wretched man Alexander Selkirk, the Duke of Wellington’s place in 1832 must have been equally appalling. Thrown by the sea of politics on the rock of Government, out of the reach of all help, he found himself Prime Minister of England, without a single associate in his solitary Administration.
I am master of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute, All the cormorants feeding on pay; Yes, I’m Lord of each time-serving brute. Oh Premiership! where are the charms I formerly saw in thy face? Better herd with the underling swarms, Than alone in my horrible place.
I am out of humanity’s reach, I must make up my council alone; I am taxed by my foes in each speech, And they cough at the sound of my own. The clerks that loll over the desks, My form with indifference see; The supplies will, they know, meet with checks, Oh! their apathy’s shocking to me.
Ye Liberals-aye, even more, Whigs, Radicals, either or both, Oh, had I ne’er ratted before, To join you I’d be nothing loth. My errors I then might atone, By supporting the BILL with all zeal, Though taunted with Winchelsea’s groan, Or jeered by the sallies of Peel.
* * * * *
_Figaro in London._ June 2, 1832.
――――
THE MONARCH OF ALL THEY SURVEY. (_By a Railway Director._)
I am monarch of all they Survey, My right there is none to assail; O’er Great Britain Victoria may sway, I am lord of the Line and the Rail!
Oh, Pimlico! where are the charms Thy Buckingham Palace can boast? What is sporting proud royalty’s arms Of Railways to ruling the roast?
Prince Albert to prance on his nag, And follow the lame deer is free; But my quarry’s a different stag, And the Engine’s the hunter for me.
An army our Queen may possess, On the Ocean her navy may roll; Of the Line I have regiments, no less, And more numerous navies control.
My seat of imperial state I’d not swop for Her Majesty’s throne, Nor for that of my Sovereign vacate The boiler that serves for my own.
Lords in Waiting are all very grand, Maids of Honour are all very fine; But the deft Engineer to command, And to rule the sharp Stoker be mine.
_Punch._ November 15, 1845.
――――
VERSES.
_Supposed to be written by William Smith O’Brien, during his solitary Abode in the Cellar of the House of Commons._
I am monarch of all I survey; My right there is none to dispute; From the break-fast time round to the tay, I see neither Saxon nor brute. O Solitude! where’s the atthractions, That sages have seen in your face? Better dwell in the midst of the Saxons, Then reign in this horrible place.
I am out of humanity’s reach, I must finish the Session alone, Ne’er cry “hear!” to an illigant speech,―― Sure I start at the sound of my own. Them beasts, the attindants and waithers, My form with indifference see; They are so unaccustomed to Marthyrs, Their coolness is shocking to me.
Society――blarney――abuse―― Gifts dear to the boys of my name! O if I had the _wings_ of a goose, It’s soon I’d be out of this same. I then might enliven my gloom In the ways of repalers and men, Might learn from the wisdom of HUME, And be cheer’d by the sallies of BEN.
Ye Mimbers, that make me your sport, O convey to this desolate door A _Times_, with a faithful report Of the House I shall visit no more. My frinds, sure they now and then sind A joke or a laugh after me? O tell me I yet have a frind Though BENTINCK I’m never to see.
The attindant is gone to his rest, The Saxon lies down in his lair;―― While I think of the Isle of the West, And turn up my bed[71] in dispair. But whisky is still to be had; And the whisky――encouraging thought! As it is not by any means bad, Half reconciles me to my lot.
_Punch._ 1846.
――――
THE ORIGINAL SONG OF ROBINSON CRUSOE.
I’m monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute: No Poors Rates nor taxes I pay, Nor take out a license to shoot. No bailiffs or brokers I dread To carry off me or my sticks, And this hut I built over my head Though of mud, is as jolly as bricks. They may talk of residing abroad, With limited means for a plea, But of all the cheap places to live, Uninhabited islands for me.
Quite out of my fashion I strike All habits defying my ease; I wear my clothes just as I like, And I think they are “rather the cheese.” No poachers nor bailiffs I fear, Nor e’er shot a man by mistake. My venison though cheap still is “deer,” And game of the game-laws I make. They may talk of residing abroad, At Boulogne, or Brussels, or Brest, But of all the cheap places to live, Uninhabited islands are best.
I’ve no Mrs. Caudle to twit, But go to sleep just when I choose, And corn-laws don’t fret me a bit, For I always wear very large shoes. I’ve nothing to purchase, and so With bills I am never afflicted, And quarrels I never shall know, Because I am ne’er contradicted. They may talk of residing abroad, Or of flight to the land of Yankee, But of all the cheap places to live, Uninhabited islands for me.
From _A Bowl of Punch_, by Albert Smith. London. D. Bogue. 1848.
――――
THE MODERN SELKIRK. (_Ballad of the Exeter Arcade Beadle._)
I am beadle of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute; From the centre to over the way, I’m lord of the playbills and fruit. O, solitude, where are thy joys? O, would I could see but one face! ’Tis but to be chaffed by the boys I am left in this horrible place.
I am out of humanity’s reach, I must walk up and down all day long, I’ve no one to list to my speech, I have not the pluck for a song. The newspaper boys they peep in, And laugh and insult me with glee; To them it is very good fun―― Their jesting is shocking to me.
Lyceum! what pleasures untold Reside in thy laugh-loving crowd; But I may grow owlish and old, Ere to witness a play I’m allowed. The sound of the drop-raising bell, Not once, as a beadle, I’ve heard; Never sighed at a tragedy swell, Nor laughed when a burlesque appear’d.
Shareholders, who’ve made me your sport, Convey to this dreary arcade A drop of that something called short, Or with me ’tis all up, I’m afraid, If my friends would but now and then send A small drop of comfort to me, I might know that I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see.
From _A Bowl of Punch_, by Albert Smith. London. 1848.
―――― A SAVAGE PARODY.
(Born 1845; couldn’t be borne any longer, 1866; retired from society, is buried in the seclusion of a garret, 1867.)
I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute, For my creditors can’t do away With their dread for the toe of my boot O Solitude! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face, If forebodings one’s bosom alarms That a bailiff may come to the place?
I am out of my landlady’s reach; She knows it, and leaves me alone, My skill there is none will impeach At grilling a chop or a bone. The clo’men in Petticoat-Lane My form with indifference see, For though making of most things some gain They cannot make ought out of me.
New trousers! what visions unfold! I dare not now venture abroad, For the trousers I’ve on are too holed, And a new pair I cannot afford. The sound of the muffin-man’s bell Makes me ready with anguish to bust, For of money I’ve only heard tell, And the beggars decline to give trust.
The pot boy has made me his sport! He conveys to this desolate floor From the pub at the end of the court The bottles of Guinness no more. My friends, when they wish to convey, The hint that for me they have sorrowed, “Feel very much hurt,” so they say, I return not the trifle I borrowed!
But my landlady’s gone to her rest, And the bailiff’s away in despair, And everything seems to suggest That I may with safety repair To the printers――benevolent race, Whose mercy may grant me a pot, Which lends e’en affliction a grace And reconciles man to his lot.
_The Hornet._ July 15, 1867.
――――
LINES BY THE “HEAD OF THE FAMILY.”
I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute; From my husband right down to the cat, I am mistress of man and of brute. O servitude! where are thy charms That pages and housemaids can trace? Better reign in a sphere I won’t name Than serve in the opposite place.
I either society seek, Or live in my boudoir alone. I can’t bear from others free speech, Though fond of the sound of my own. My husband, a sweet little man, Has ceased a free agent to be; In fact, he’s so under my thumb, His tameness is shocking to me.
Society, friendship, and love, For him I have placed under ban; And made him as meek as a dove, The nice little, mild little man. He once used to get in a rage, Till I taught him religion and truth. He has learnt all the wisdom of age,―― He has cut all the “Sallies” of youth.
Submission! what treasure untold I brought when I taught him that word; Far better than silver and gold,―― Though these he’d perhaps have preferr’d. “The sound of the church-going bell” Till married to me he ignored; And p’raps that he did was as well, Since all through the sermon he snored.
But, since he first paid me his court, I’ve never allowed him to snore; His rollicking ways I’ve cut short,―― He slumbers serenely no more. My friends――I have many a friend―― Drop in rather often to tea; And ma comes a twelvemonth to spend, Which makes it quite pleasant for me.
How sweet ’tis a husband to find Submissive and innocent quite; Himself to assert not inclined; Whatever I tell him is right. When I think of my maidenhood’s home―― He bore me thence blushing and fair―― To this one conclusion I come, I’m glad that no longer I’m there.
My husband has feathered his nest; My progeny’s prospects are fair; My own way, it must be confess’d, I’ve got rather more here than there. So, since he’s resigned to his place, And no silly notions has got, I very serenely say grace, And reconciled feel to my lot.
_The Hornet._ November 1, 1871.
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WOMAN.
She is monarch of all she surveys, Her right there is none to dispute, On her altar submissively lays Its choicest, each fowl and each brute.
Behold her surrounded by those Whose homage is lavishly done, The world at the tip of her toes, All its denizens crouching, save one.
Look proud, pretty Queen from thy shrine, And thy vassals so loftily scan―― But tell them their labour, and thine, Is to make thee seem fair to――a man!
_Punch’s Almanack._ 1874.
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SOLITUDE.
I’m monarch of all I survey; I had no one my wrong to dispute, So was forcibly hurried away By an uniformed muscular brute. Oh solitude! where is thy charm? It’s certainly not in this place, For my heart is filled with alarm At the thought of a magistrate’s face.
I haven’t a friend to go bail; I must drag out the night here, alone, And it goes at the rate of a snail; Was there ever so sad a wretch known. The cause of all this to me’s plain, My folly and wrong I now see! Never more will I drink champagne, But stick to the weakest of tea.
Society’s all very well; But from dinners and suppers refrain, Or one day you will certainly tell Of the troubles of which I complain! And remember, wherever you go, To be sure and return home in peace. If you don’t, well, you’ll very soon know What ’tis to be in the hands of P’lice.
From _The Figaro_. December 19, 1874.
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VERSES
_Supposed to be written by Edward Vaughan Kenealy in his seat in the House of Commons._
I am member for Stoke-upon-Trent, My right there is none to dispute, And the eyes of the million are bent Upon me, so I dare not be mute. O Parliament, where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place!
The strangers who come and “withdraw” My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with law, Their tameness is shocking to me. The Claimant――what treasures untold I found in that wonderful claim! More precious than silver and gold―― It added M. P. to my name.
Ye _Stokers_ who made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial, endearing report, Ere the public shall vote me a bore. The bar, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me? O! tell me I yet have a friend, Though but ONE in the lobby I see.
When I think how I stormed at the Bench In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! recollections that wrench Soon hurry me back to despair. But there’s comfort in every case; There are Prittlewells――glorious thought! Magna Charta’s a movement that pays; And the _Englishman_[72] freely is bought.
_Funny Folks._ May 15, 1875.
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COMPETITION PARODIES.
In 1879, _The World_ offered prizes for parodies on this poem, the subject selected being _The Frozen-out Fox Hunter_.
_First Prize._
I am rather left out in the cold―― Frozen out in more senses than one―― This skating is “jolly,” I’m told; I’ll be hanged, sir, if I see the fun! Society! What a dull part I must play with these ladies and men! I know nothing of music or art, I never read Mallock or _Gwen_.
They are dancing to-night――so I stand And sulk, with my back to the wall―― To the tune of “John Peel” by the band, And feel myself out of it all. I glance at the girls who go by, My looks with amusement they see; I’d ask them to dance, but I’m shy―― I know they are laughing at me.
How fresh are the breezes of morn, While over the meadows we go! What music can equal a horn? Toot! Gone away! Yoicks! Tally-ho! There’s a place we intended to draw To-morrow, just under those rocks―― O, tell me it’s going to thaw, You fellows who follow the fox!
But the ladies are going to bed; At least I feel piously glad That when all the good-nights have been said There is pool and a pipe to be had. Yes, while there’s a pipe and some grog, All pleasure in life is not lost; Come, throw on another pine log, And be jolly in spite of the frost!
FABULA SED VERA.
_Second Prize._
I can’t go a huntin’ to-day, That fact there is none can dispute―― In short, it’s the devil to pay; I feel like a funeral mute. O Leicestershire, these are the farms I dreamt would have shown me the pace That kills, with a scent! ’Tis the scent Of the drains in this horrible place.
If fiends who have robbed me of sport Should “wire,” to upset me still more, Some fabulous weather report, That _somewhere_ they’ve heard of a thaw, I’d saddle a reindeer or elk, And sleigh myself down to the meet With some couple of Esquimaux hounds―― By gad, we’d be tackle to beat!
“Gone away!” What eternity’s hopes To hark to that heavenly word, Were it whispered by mortal or beast, Or bullfinch that’s seen or that’s heard! Heaven’s frost-bitten rafters should ring To my thaw’d “Tally-ho!” for the first, While the “pack” on the “shove,” as they sing,[73] Split pipes in one musical burst.
But the cold has got into my chest, And the rime has got into my hair; This manilla is none of the best, So why am I maundering here? There’s water in every place, And water (encouraging thought!) Gives whisky an excellent taste, And reconciles man to it――hot.
KING’S CROSS.
_The World._ December 31, 1879.
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THE LAY OF THE NEW AMEER.
I am monarch of all I survey (Tho’ many my right may dispute), From Persia close down to Cathay, I’m lord (so, at least, I compute); I’m ruler from Káfiristan To Beloochee plains in the south, Where travellers reach Serawán, Thro’ Bolan’s leviathan mouth.
(_Three verses omitted._)
_Funny Folks._ March 15, 1879.
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EX-KING CETEWAYO’S LAMENT.
I was monarch of all I survey’d; My right there was none to dispute, From the Transvaal down to the sea I was lord both of man of brute. My men I could count by the score; I’d an army devoted to me; Of mealies and tusks I’d a store. I was happy, and savage, and free!
Oh, Civilisation! the charms That sages have seen in thy face, I have fail’d to observe; but alarms And dread thou did’st cause in their place. For I’ve found it is part of thy creed The blood of the helpless to spill, And so that thy plans may succeed, To burn, and to ravish, and kill!
And, oh, Christianity! blush At the things which were done in thy name; For that they my Zulus might crush, They put thee full often to shame; They robbed the poor neighbours they’re taught By thy laws as themselves they should love. And everywhere ruin they wrought, In the name of that God who is love!
They caught me at last, as you’ve read, And I now a State prisoner am; And a wearisome life I have led, Only temper’d with raspberry jam! On the ways of religion and truth, My captors as yet have been dumb, But I notice in age and in youth They are equally fond of ship rum.
In fact, we poor Zulus, I see, From Christians have little to learn, Unless it be vices which we Were compelled in my kingdom to spurn. And if to my desolate nation, To go you will not me allow, Your “religion” and “civilisation” Will soon be my ruin, I vow.
_Truth Christmas Number._ 1879.
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THE FROZEN-OUT FOX-HUNTER. _At a Leicestershire Country Inn_,
I am “Cock of the Walk” at “The Post,” My commands there are none to forestall, From the bandy-legged boots to the host I am lording it over them all! Oh! Leicestershire! where is the wag Who called thee “a region of bliss?” Better dine with “The Bore” at “The Rag,” Than freeze in a pot-house like this!
I am outside society’s bounds, Alone I must finish my weeds, Never hear the sweet music of hounds, I start at the neigh of my steeds! The foxes that roam o’er the wold Will soon get to laugh in my phiz; They are so little used to this cold, They’re shockingly tame as it is!
Tobacco! what solace divine Resides in that comforting word! More precious by far than such wine As yon beggarly bar can afford! But the click of a billiard ball These desolate walls never knew, Never heard the trim marker’s “Love-all,” Or rejoice at the sight of a cue!
But the cattle are safe in their shed, My hunters are wrapped in repose; Even here is that luxury――bed―― Where I may forget all my woes! It may thaw! I will hope for the best, And the _chance of a thaw_, and some sport Gives e’en to tough mutton a zest, And reconciles man to bad port!
From _Snatches of Song_, by F. B. Doveton. London.
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THE GRIFFIN’S LAMENT. (_As sung by the Fleet Street Selkirk._)
I am Monarch of naught I survey; E’en my site is a theme for dispute: Every omnibus horse that I see, As he passes me, says, “_What_ a brute!” Talk of dignity? What are its charms, When, thrust in the popular face, I fill the old street with alarms, Looking down from this _horrible_ place!
I’m out of humanity’s reach, Stuck up here on the summit alone; And as for the music of speech, All I get is a hiss or a groan! For no beast of the plain, old or new, No brute from the depths of the sea, No bird that you’ll find at the Zoo―― Has the vaguest resemblance to me!
But alas! spite rebuke and report, And letters, and threats by the score, I’ve been fixed! And, henceforth, without sport, I shall hear my name mentioned no more! My friends in the City, do they Send a wish or a thought after me? I trust that they do; for _this_ way Not a friend but old Birch shall I see!
So the traffic each night sinks to rest; The barrister turns to his square: The bustle all hurries due West, Yet still I sit here in the air! And if you could _then_ see my face, You’d say, “He has had it so hot―― Has that brute, that he knows his disgrace, And _admits_ he’s a precious bad lot!”
_Punch._ November 20, 1880.
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THE PARVENU.
I’m monarch of all I survey; At least, when I put it like that, I mean, if I’m willing to pay, There’s nothing that I can’t get at. I heard it was so from the fust, When I thought that I would be a swell, If I liked to come down with the dust, Why everything then would be well.
Now a wife was my most pressing need, That ’ad plenty of breeding and blood; Well, I bought ’er――I mean it, indeed―― Yes, bought ’er like one of my stud. For the Herl o’ Stoke Pogis was poor, And he couldn’t afford to say “No,” When he ’ad a good chance to secure Such a rich son-in-law at a blow.
Well, next, goaded on by the Herl, A seat in the ’Ouse ’twas I bought; Which was dear at the price, I may say, For it’s not so much fun as I thought. Then the Baronet hafter my name―― This, too, was a stiffish affair; But I don’t begrudge that, all the same, For I liked it no hend as Lord Mayor.
Then I bought a big Family Tree, With roots which to Normandy spread; Whilst my ancestors cost――let me see! Yes, close on two ’underd per ’ed. And though they look well on the wall, And come out exceedingly nice, Yet I’m bound to admit that I call ’Em uncommonly dear at the price.
Well, I’ve also bought dozens of “friends,” Not by paying ’em money down straight; No, it on their position depends, And there isn’t a regular rate. To some ’tis a loan that I make, Or berths to their boys I hallot; Some I buy for a dinner-card’s sake, Some by lending a horse or a yacht.
Why, I’ve Dooks as is under my thumb, And the proudest my cards don’t decline. Since I’ve heven got Princes to come And sit at my table and dine. In short, if he’s money, like me, There’s nothing, I’m ready to vow, That a man who is lavishly free Can’t do in Society now!
__Truth. Christmas Number_, 1882.
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LAWN-TENNIS.
I am monarch of all British Games, My right there is none to contest, For Britons all over the world Acknowledge that I am the best. Oh, Billiards! say where are the charms, That some people see in thy face; Better have a good “rally” with me, And endeavour “to keep up the pace.”
Other Games I admit are at hand, But conscience constrains me to own, There are maidens and men by the score, Who live but for Tennis alone. There is Croquet, that once was the rage, Folks now with indifference see, And candour compels me to say Its tameness is shocking to me.
There is Cricket, an old English sport, And a very good game in its way, But its votaries all must admit It is most inconvenient to play. For its players have nothing to do, Half the time that they own is so dear, And I’ve noticed, when once they are “out,” They hurry to ’baccy and beer.
And Archery, Rinking, and Bowls, Your charms are displayed but in vain; No one cares the least atom for you, Or desires to taste you again; But with me folks their troubles assuage, With me they are merry and gay; Each game they enjoy more and more, And are cheered by the “rallies” they play.
When driven with judgment and skill, How swiftly my balls cleave the air, And “topping the net” by an inch, Call for no little caution and care; How merrily, too, sound my cries, Though strangers can’t make out their use; My language is strange, I admit, “Fifteen, love,” “thirty, forty,” and “deuce.”
When worn with the troubles of life, Or harrassed with business and care, Cast your worries at once to the wind, And straight to your Tennis repair. In every “set” that you play, There is pleasure and health to be got, And I’m the best thing in the world, To reconcile man to his lot.
A. W. MACKENZIE.
From _Pastime_, July 20, 1883.
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ON THE ANNEXATION OF NEW GUINEA BY QUEENSLAND.
_Verses supposed to have been composed by the individual who annexed the Island._
I am monarch of all I survey, Where only the savage disputes My right to teach heathenish clay The graces of trousers and boots. O liberty! what are thy rules To men with the Papuan skin? Better bless them with churches and schools, And plenty of powder and gin!
I am out of a Parliament’s reach, And far from Gladstonian blame; No fear that a Radical speech Will spoil our Colonial game. The Papuans don’t care a straw If we claim all their acres in fee―― They are so unacquainted with law, Their darkness is shocking to me!
With railways, and taxes, and gaols, In store for this fortunate land, That native is mad who assails Such blessings so graciously planned. But his sorrows we soon shall assuage With this cheerfully practical test; “To till your own soil for a wage Is the pleasure of being annexed!”
__Truth._ April 26, 1883.
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A SOLITARY SOLILOQUY BY A DISGUSTED DANDY.