VII.
I’ve become a by-word and a jest, And though I pretend I don’t care, I feel I’m a bore and a pest, Why, they laugh at the things that I wear, I’ll pick my man, my pistols and place, I know a very nice little spot―― Hand him one, with most infinite grace. And either shoot him, or be shot!
From _Cribblings from the Poets_, by Hugh Cayley. Jones and Piggott. Cambridge. 1883.
――――
VERSES
_Supposed to have been written by Salisbury Selkirk, during his solitary abode in a Desert Chamber._
I am monarch of all I survey; My facts there are none to dispute; I can sneer in my nastiest way, And the Government Benches are mute, Oh, why do I constantly sit In this roofless and desolate house? For the Peers have had “notice to quit,” And ’tis left to the spider and mouse.
I am out of Democracy’s reach, My place the political shelf, Never hear the sweet sound of a speech―― Except those I make to myself. The policemen who haunt Palace Yard My form with indifference see; To a Marquis they pay no regard, Which seems dreadfully “bad form” to me.
* * * * *
Oh, GRANVILLE! I wish I had known What pleasure there lay in your talk, Then I should not be pining alone Where I once was the cock of the walk! But the sound of the Lobby-going bell These moth-eaten seats never hear, Never fill at the voice of a “Swell,” Or empty when dinner-time’s near!
_Punch_, November 8, 1884.
――――
THE TORTURES OF TOURISTS.
Yes, I am the monarch of all I survey, My right, at the Club, there is none to dispute; The whole of the papers are mine every day, And no one esteems me a bore or a brute, The waiters, too glad to have something to do, Are eager to wait on the one man in town; I get my pet chair, without strategy too, And my button-hole’s free from the finger of Brown.
The Park is my own, I can loll as I will, I can sit where I wish, I can dress as I please; And at home or abroad, though a Londoner still, I, with no one to censure, can live at my ease. No longer condemned in a whirl to exist, Nor my time in most senseless pursuits to employ, I pass the glad hours of the week as I’ll sit, And London, at last, to the full can enjoy.
But go where I will, be my tasks what they may, As heedless of Fashion I linger at home, My thoughts ever dwell, both by night and by day, On my ill-advised friends who from happiness roam. Nor can I deny it is one of my joys To muse on the woes of that sorrowful band, As victims to heat, to extortion, and noise, They wander afar o’er the sea and the land.
* * * * *
As I dally awhile o’er my toast and the _Times_, I picture these tourists, for time ever pressed, Like spirits condemned, for most heinous of crimes, To forfeit for ever the semblance of rest; From foul-smelling places to towns fouler still, I see them dragged hither and thither away; Doomed mountains to climb, and spa waters to swill, To touts and to guides and to vergers a prey.
I see them, deprived of the comforts they need, Diurnally grow more distraught and distress’d, And doom’d at hotels in succession to feed On food that they loathe, and can never digest. Whilst worse than all else, there is death in the air, And rumours the stoutest of hearts to appal, As each _Galignani_ increases the scare, And dread of the Cholera broods over all!
And then when at night I retire to my bed―― To my own cosy bed in my big airy room―― I think of those friends who from London have fled To find on the coast of these islands their doom. For I see them condemned――for the heed that they pay To Fashion’s decrees――in a cupboard to sleep, Where the lodging-house flea works its merciless way, And causes its victims long vigil to keep.
Poor wretches! I think of the sum that they pay, To be cheated by harpies who ruin their peace; To be bitten by night and be bullied by day, And poisoned by cooking all reeking with grease; Whilst e’en the ozone that they yearn to obtain, And which to inhale they ’midst miseries tarry, Can only be breathed by the side of the main Arm-in-arm, so to speak, with gay ’Arriet and ’Arry
In a month or two’s time I shall welcome them back―― Save those too unwell from abroad to return―― And some Roman Fever to England will track, Whilst others with ague will shiver and burn; And all will be writing complaints to the _Times_, To re-tell the story which every one knows, As couriers’ guile and hotel-keepers’ crimes They sadly repeat, and most sternly expose.
_Truth_. August 13, 1885.
――――
THE LIMITED MONARCH.
“Her Majesty’s ship _Monarch_, having then continued on her course at a speed of barely eight knots an hour, finally, when she was distant from Malta fully 250 miles, came to a dead stop, and broke down.”
I’m the Monarch of all I survey, And Brassey the fact won’t dispute, For here I’ve been sticking all day Like some waterlogged sea-going brute! O Cheeseparing, where are the charms That Northbrook has seen in thy face! Look at _me_――in the midst of alarms!―― And yet mine’s but a typical case.
But the upshot of all is quite clear; If matters go on as they do, Well, the Navy will soon disappear, And “My Lords,” well――they’ll disappear too! So now that I’m docked, and they find That I never was fit for the main, Let us hope that a thing of the kind Won’t occur――till it happens again!
_Punch._ April 25, 1885
――――
A SONG FOR MR. JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN.
O Society, where are the charms That once I could see in thy face? To escape from these Duchesses’ arms, I would live in a desolate place! But alas! since I’ve turned on my chief, My peace has been wrecked in this way, And nothing can bring me relief Whilst I still with the Unionists stay!
Ah, me! I once said of the Primrose, ’Twas at best but a poor faded flow’r! But now Primrose Dames are my tyrants, And threaten my peace to devour. And instead of the orchid so famous My buttonhole once used to bear, ’Tis a primrose (of silver enamel) That now I’m expected to wear!
__Truth. Christmas Number_, 1886.
――――
THE LAMENT OF THE SPORTIVE M.P.
I am weary of all I survey, I am sick to the heart of debate; It is something too awful, I say, To be thus kept in London so late. O Parliament! where are the charms That candidates in thee can trace? For, worn out by the “Whips’” false alarms, I am sick of the horrible place!
I am out of Society’s reach; At the Club I am well-nigh alone; And not e’en the smile of Hicks-Beach For my dulness extreme can atone. Yet the Irishmen, brutally stern, Have not the least pity on me, But they all make long speeches in turn In garments most shocking to see.
Had I known it was certainly meant The House through September should meet, My money I’d never have spent In order to carry a seat! It is shameful, this tax on my brain, And this daily compulsion to work; And yet fussy voters complain If by chance a division I shirk!
Each post brings to me a report That but makes my position more hard, As I read of the excellent sport From which I am wholly debarr’d. Whilst the “guns” I had asked to my moor, At Pittwithiebothie, N.B.; Big bags are content to secure By blazing away without me!
Yes, I think of these fortunate men, As I aimlessly wander about, Or rush to my place now and then, When Biggar attempts a “count out.” And sometimes I doze till I dream Of the things which my thoughts always fill, Till I wake with disgust most extreme, To find Dr. Tanner up still!
And then there are Radicals too, Who want all the votes to discuss, Instead of “Supply” rushing through At one sitting, without any fuss. Whilst some seek the people’s applause By stating that we of the House Had better be there making laws Than shooting at blackcock and grouse.
Such rubbish I never have heard, For what, pray, becomes of my ease? It seems to me too, too absurd That I’m not to do what I please. The people elected me, true, But that, let me say, to be frank, Was the very least thing they could do, Consid’ring my fortune and rank;
And yet they now tell me, forsooth, That, since I’ve become an M.P., I must give up the sports that in truth Make life most worth living to me; And, heedless what fashion may claim, In London continue to live; And the days I’d intended for game, To Crofters and Irishmen give!
What nonsense it is, I repeat, That a rich young patrician like me Should be forced, for the sake of a seat, With a view so advanced to agree. But I will not submit; they shall find That I’ll start off for Scotland this day―― But what’s this, though――a whip five times lined? I suppose, after all, I must stay!
__Truth._ September 16, 1886.
――――
THE MODERN ALEXANDER SELKIRK. (_By Sir Charles Warren._)
I am monarch of all I survey; My might there is none to dispute; I will prosecute all whom I see If they argue, remonstrate, or hoot. O Liberty, where is the charm That Socialists see in thy face? The tradesmen have taken alarm At such views being heard in the place.
I am out of society’s reach, I can issue my edicts alone; I laugh at the rights of free speech, For I tolerate none but my own. The mobs that collect in the Square I can’t with indifference see, So outspoken, so bold――I declare Their language is shocking to me,
How sweet is the constable’s stave For putting the rabble to flight, When they bludgeon some vagabond knave, Then arrest him for brawling outright! Who talks of a free native land? I’ll teach them ’tis otherwise there, With the cells and police-court at hand, And no speaking allowed in the Square.
So let orators note my behest, Let each pauper slink back to his lair; They can go to the workhouse for rest, While I to my mansion repair. There’s a workhouse in everyplace, And the guardians (encouraging thought) Give relief when they’ve sifted each case―― Why ain’t they content with their lot?
_Pall Mall Gazette._ November 25, 1887.
――――
Several other parodies of this poem are scattered about in various Magazines, but they are not of sufficient interest to be reprinted. See
_Punch._ January 10, 1880. _Judy._ June 30, 1880. _St. James’s Gazette._ April 22, 1881. _Moonshine._ January, 1882.
――――:o:――――
BURBABAN’S DEFEAT. _A Warwickshire Lay._
Count Peste, he was a nobleman, Of credit and renown, A jockey-club man, too, was he, Of old Newmarket town.
Count Peste said to his love, “My dear, Though with me you have been These many tedious years, yet you No racing yet have seen.
To-morrow is a racing day, And we will then repair Unto the town of Warwickshire And see the racing there.
I am a nobleman so bold, As all the world doth know, So I will ride old ‘Burbaban,’ You’ll see how we will go.”
Quoth Lady Peste, “That is well said, For jockey’s fees are dear, So you can ride, and be your own, That is both nice and clear.”
* * * * *
He lost the race, he lost it quite, And back he got to town; All wished he never had been up, For it was up and down.
Now let us sing, “Long live the Queen! And Count Peste, long live he! And when he next a race does ride, May I be there to see!”
There are twenty-two verses in all in this not very interesting parody, which is to be found in _Lays of the Turf_, by Rose Grey. London: G. H. Nichols, 1863.
――――:o:――――
A RIDDLE.
I am just two and two, I am warm, I am cold, And the parent of numbers that cannot be told; I am lawful, unlawful――a duty, a fault, I am often sold dear, good for nothing when bought; An extraordinary boon, and a matter of course, And yielded with pleasure when taken by force.
The answer, not given by Cowper, is “A Kiss.” The riddle was first published in _The Gentleman’s Magazine_ in 1806. In a later number the following answer was given, the initials “J. T.” being appended to it:――
A riddle by Cowper Made me swear like a trooper, But my anger, alas! was in vain; For remembering the bliss Of beauty’s soft kiss, I now long for such riddles again.
In _Notes and Queries_ April 2, 1887, a poem was printed as having been written by William Cowper, but not hitherto included in his works. This gave rise to some controversy, the general opinion being, that although probably not actually written by Cowper, the poem was a by no means poor imitation of his lighter style.
BLESS MY HEART, HOW COLD IT IS.
Hark! the blustering Boreas blows. See! the waters round are froze. The trees that skirt the dreary plain All day a murmuring cry maintain; The trembling forest hears their groan, And sadly answers moan for moan. Such is the tale, O’er hill and dale, Each traveller may behold it is; While low and high Are heard to cry, “Bless my heart, how cold it is!”
Now slumbering sloth, that cannot bear The question of the piercing air, Lifts up her unkempt head, and tries, But cannot from her bondage rise; The while the housewife swiftly throws Around the wheel, and quickly shows The healthful cheek industry brings (It is not in the gift of Kings). To her long life, Devoid of strife, And justly, too, unfolded is, The while the sloth To stir is loth, And trembling cries, “How cold it is!”
Now lisps Sir Fopling, tender weed, All shivering like a shaken reed, “How sharp the wind attacks my back! John, put some list across that crack; Go, sandbag all the sashes round, And see there’s not an air-hole found.” Indulgence pale Tells this sad tale Till he in furs enfolded is; Still, still complains, O’er all his pains, “Bless my heart, how cold it is!”
Now the poor newsman from the town Explores his way across the down, His frozen fingers sadly blows, And still he seeks, and still it snows. “Go take his paper, Richard, go, And give a dram to make him glow.” Such was thy cry, Humanity, More precious far than gold it is, Such gifts to deal, When newsmen feel, All clad in snow, how cold it is.
Humanity, delightful tale, When we feel the winter gale, May the cit in ermined coat Lend his ear to sorrow’s note; And when with misery’s weight oppressed A fellow sits, a shivering guest, Full, ample may his bounty flow, To cheer the bosom dulled by woe. In town or vale, Where’er the tale Of real grief unfolded is, Oh, may he give The means to live To those who feel how cold it is,
Perhaps some soldier, blind or maimed, Some tar for independence maimed; Remember these. For thee they bore The loss of limbs, and suffered more. Oh, pass them not; for if you do, I’ll blush to think they fought for you. Through winter’s reign Relieve their pain, For what they’ve done, sure bold it is; Their wants supply Whene’er they cry, “Bless my heart, how cold it is!”
And now, ye sluggards, sloths, and beaux, Who dread the breath that winter blows, Pursue the counsel of a friend Who never found it yet offend. When winter deals his blasts around, Go beat the air and pace the ground; With cheerful spirits exercise, ’Tis there life’s balmy blessing lies. O’er hill and dale, Though sharp the gale, And frozen you behold it is, Your blood shall glow, And swiftly flow, And you’ll not cry, “How cold it is!”
[Illustration]
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
_Born April_ 7, 1770. _Died April_ 23, 1850. _Appointed Poet Laureate_, _April_ 6, 1843.
――――
WE ARE SEVEN.
――A simple Child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?
I met a little cottage Girl; She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad: Her eyes were fair, and very fair; ――Her beauty made me glad.
“Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?” “How many, Seven in all,” she said, And wondering looked at me.
“And where are they? I pray you tell,” She answered, “Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea.
“Two of us in the churchyard-lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother.”
“You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven!――I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be.”
Then did the little Maid reply, “Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the church-yard lie; Beneath the church-yard tree.”
“You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five.”
“Their graves are green, they may be seen,” The little Maid replied, “Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door, And they are side by side.
“My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem: And there upon the ground I sit, I sit and sing to them.
“And often after sun-set, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer And eat my supper there.
“The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away.
“So in the church-yard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I.
“And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side.”
“How many are you, then,” said I, “If they two are in heaven?” The little Maiden did reply, “O Master! we are seven.”
“But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!” ’Twas throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, “Nay, we are seven!”
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
――――
NEW PEERS.
The Poet Wordsworth is supposed to propose to King William IV. that he, with Coleridge, Southey, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Croly shall be made Peers, there being then a necessity to create Peers in order to carry the Reform Bill, which had already passed the Commons.
A driver of a rattling cab, Or gorgeous omnibus, That passeth every great man by, What could he know of us?
I met a driver such as this, And I knew that he was king, For his steeds trod over classic ground, And they made its echoes ring.
He bore a thousand books along, The best their authors had, And his praise was fair, and very fair, But his censure made me mad.
“Why come you here, why come you here, And how many may you be?” “We each come here to be made a peer,” I said, “and seven are we.”
“And where are the seven――I see but one?” I answered, “seven are we;” But Rogers is digging up some old pun, And Southey has gone to see.
“Tom Campbell is shaking Bentley’s hands, And Croly a sermon giving, In praise of the good Lord Chancellor, Who popped him into his living.
“Coleridge is now expounding why The Latin for “fish” is pisces, While Moore has lunched on one lady’s sigh, And will dine on another’s kisses.”
Then did the mighty king reply, “Seven are ye, I see, But the devil a peer in all the lot Shall ever be made by me.”
With a rolling eye, and a visage sage, I gazed on the glorious heaven, Then turned away in a furious rage, And shouted, “_We are seven._”
_The National Omnibus_, November 4, 1831.
――――
THE TRUSTEE. (_A True Story._)
The subject is that of a Trustee, who has been persuaded to accept a trust under the persuasion that as a mere trustee of property, the enjoyment of which he has nothing to do with, no liability of any kind can possibly attach to him. The simplicity with which he adheres to the impression of his being only a trustee, while suits at Law and in Equity, with their consequent costs, shower down upon him, will remind the reader of the innocent exclamation of “We are Seven!” so affectingly persisted in by the little child in the famous poem of Wordsworth.
A simple creature Gaffer Jones, A Court he never saw; An income adequate he owns; What should he know of Law?
He had a quiet stupid air, And he was richly clad; I thought if he’s got cash to spare, ’Tis easy to be had.
A suit I heard was ’gainst him brought, Which must expensive be. “Expense!” he cried; Pooh pooh, ’tis nought; I’m only a trustee.”
“But how is that? I pray you tell.” He answered, “Don’t you see? I’d got some property to sell―― Only as a trustee.
“Two purchasers they did apply, Whilst, to prevent all bother, When one hung back I by and by Concluded with the other.
“The first from Chancery got a writ, And served it straight on me; But why am I to care a bit?―― I’m only a trustee.”
“You say in Chancery you are thrown; Great the expense will be; And since the fault has been your own, The costs will fall on thee.”
Then did the simpleton reply, “’Tis true the first vendee Has filed a bill――I can’t tell why―― I’m only a trustee.”
“You’re in a mess, my little man, As sure as you’re alive, Unless to hit upon a plan For safety you contrive.”
“You’re rather green, it may be seen,” The silly man replied; The purchase-money paid has been. The fund I did divide;
“And when I’d parted with it, Sir, Another suit they brought; Because, they said, I’d sold it for Less money than I ought.
“First, the original vendee Had filed a bill to say, His purchase-money paid would be, Upon a certain day.
“But as it happen’d, I’d been paid By number two, and I To him had the estate consign’d, Passing the first one by:
“And as I did not better know With whom I ought to side, I’ve let the money from me go―― The fund I did divide.
“So the executors have brought An action ’gainst me, too, Yet I’ve proceeded as I thought ’Twere best for me to do.”
“How many suits must you defend, In numbers odd or even?” Said he, “To say I can’t pretend: I think, though, there are seven.
“But then, you know, you’ll understand It matters not to me; For though no fund I’ve got in hand, I still am a trustee.”
“The cash is gone, the suits run on, Each day requires a fee!” ’Twas waste of argument, for still He said, “I’ve not to pay a bill, I’m only a trustee.”
――――
ONLY SEVEN. _A Pastoral Story, after Wordsworth._
I marvell’d why a simple child, That lightly draws its breath, Should utter groans so very wild, And look as pale as Death.
Adopting a parental tone, I ask’d her why she cried; The damsel answer’d, with a groan, “I’ve got a pain inside!
“I thought it would have sent me mad Last night about eleven;” Said I, “What is it makes you bad? How many apples have you had?” She answer’d, “Only seven!”
“And are you sure you took no more, My little maid?” quoth I. “Oh! please, sir, mother gave me four, But _they_ were in a pie!”
“If that’s the case,” I stammer’d out, “Of course you’ve had eleven;” The maiden answer’d, with a pout, “I ain’t had more nor seven!”
I wonder’d hugely what she meant, And said, “I’m bad at riddles, But I know where little girls are sent For telling taradiddles.”
“Now, if you don’t reform,” said I, “You’ll never go to heaven.” But all in vain; each time I try, That little idiot makes reply, “I ain’t had more nor seven.”
POSTSCRIPT.
To borrow WORDSWORTH’S name was wrong, Or slightly misapplied; And so I’d better call my song, “Lines after ACHE-INSIDE.”
From _Carols of Cockayne_, by Henry. S. Leigh. London: Chatto & Windus, 1874.
(This originally appeared in _Fun_. November 11, 1865.)
――――
THEY ARE THREE.
――――A simple youth That sits and smokes with fools, And looks a fop in face and mien, What should he know of Schools?
I met an undergraduate boy: He was three times ploughed, I heard; His head was like a pretty toy, His language was absurd.
He had a town-bred London air, And he was sprucely clad; His face was soft, so was his hair; His ‘side’ it made me sad.
“Of lectures, undergraduate sir, How many may you keep?” “How many? Three,” he did aver. And cunning looked and deep.
“And what are they? I’d gladly know.” He answered, “Three are they; To one of them I never go, And one I cut each day.
“But one of them is given by My Tutor and my Dean, So in the early morning I Must go to that I ween.”
“You say that one you cut alway, To one you do not go, Yet you have three! Explain, I pray, Sweet youth, how this is so.”
The wily youth thus answered me, “Three lectures――three in all The list of lectures you may see Upon the board in hall.”
“You wander in your talk, I wot, Or else you are in fun, If one you cut, to one go not, Then you have only one.”
“The list is there, that can I swear,” The wily youth replied; “In the second row of the letter O, The three are side by side.
“I oft do paper work in hall, My letters there I write; And, though the dons are cutish all, I sit and crib outright.
“And often, when the sun is down, Beneath the gaslight’s glare, I take my tattered cap and gown, And eat my dinner there.
“The first I cut was Latin Prose; In bed one morn I lay Till ten had struck, and then I rose, But ’twas too late that day.
“So in my room I sat and smoked, And when my pipe was out, To Russell’s lazily we walked, I and my terrier, Snout.
“And when the clock eleven had struck, I scarce had chalked my cue; And though perhaps the schools I’ll muck, I cut my Mods, Books too.”
“How many have you then,” said I, “If two you cut each day?” The wily youth would still reply, “Three, if you please, we’ll say.”
“But one you cut, nay two you cut! You never go, you see!” ’Twas throwing words away, for still This wily youth would have his will, And said, “Nay, they are three.”
From _The Shotover Papers_. Oxford: J. Vincent, 1874.
――――
“I’VE GOT SEVEN.”
――――A little boy, A schoolboy he might be, That shows his joy in every smile, Of figures what knows he?
I met a little London boy, He was nine years old, he said; His face shone bright with mottled soap, His hair curled on his head.
He had a cockney, saucy air, And he was sparely clad: His eyes were black, and very black; ――He looked a thorough cad.
“All sorts of marbles, little boy, How many may there be?” “How many? Seven in all,” he said, And, whistling, winked at me.
“And where are they? I pray you tell.” He answered, “Seven there be; Two ‘alley-tors,’ one ‘commoney,’ And all belong to me.
“The ‘alley-tors’ for three a-piece Do count, and thus you see, That they are seven in all, although Their number’s only three.”
“You say you’ve got two ‘alley-tors’ And one small ‘commoney;’ Yet you’ve got seven! I pray you tell, Youngster, how this may be?”
Then did the little boy reply, “Seven marbles I possess; Two, you observe, are ‘alley-tors’ And count for six――no less.”
“You cut along, my lively lad, You’re gamesome, I can see; Although for seven your marbles count, Still they are only three.”
“They’re striped with red in lines of three,” The little chap replied. “Twelve yards or more from my mammy’s door I place them side by side.
“My spelling there I try to learn, My tables there to say; And there upon the ground I kneel, And, knuckling, with them play.
“And often after ‘washing up,’ When the tea-table’s bare, I take my bread and treacle, and I eat my supper there.
“The first I had was given me By my big brother, Bill; He bought it with a ha’penny which He cribbed from mother’s till.
“The next my sister Poll gave me; She found it as she brushed My Uncle Jack’s cord’roys, and then With it to me she rushed.
“The third, the ‘commoney,’ I got From out the kitchen drawer; I nailed it when I went to fetch Pa’s usual spirit――raw.”
“How many have you, then,” said I, “If two to you were given; And one you ‘nailed,’ you wicked boy?” “Lord love you! I’ve got seven.”
“Fie! if you tell such fibs, my boy, You’ll never go to Heaven!” ’Twas wasting breath to talk; for still, The little wretch would have his will, And would say, “I’ve got seven.”
EDWARD COMPTON.
_Touchstone._ November, 1878.
――――
A SIMPLE LAY. _By the Archbishop of Canterbury._
――――A Rural Dean That with the Church content, Brooked not in any shape or form The schism of Dissent.
He met an aged cottager, He was eighty-two, he said, His hair――as will to you occur―― Had some time left his head.
He had a dazed and rustic air, In kettle-smock was clad; The Dean a minute had to spare, So spoke to this gran’-dad:
“Of sons and daughters cottager, How many may you be?” “I have had seven, they’re all in heaven, Not one is left to me!”
“And what were they?” the Dean asked then; “What were they?” echoed he; “Why, three was Plymouth Bretheren, And two turned Methodee.
“And two was Baptistes, I think, The heldest an ’is brother; The heldest, well, he tookt to drink, An’ used to whack ’is mother.
“But in the hend he did reform, An’ gived up bein’ cranky; He was converted in a storm By Moody an’ that Sankey!”
“That two were Methodists, you said, And Plymouth Brethren three, And Baptists two, then why say you That seven in heaven there be?”
Then did that cottager reply, “Seven boys and gals had we, And now they’re dead, as I’ve a-said, In heaven I hopes they be.”
“You’re very green!” observed the Dean, “And won’t be long alive; Your children seven are not in heaven, Nor three, nor four, nor five!
“For all of them, by what you say, Dissenters I must call; And so you make a great mistake. There’s none in heaven at all!”
“Their graves are green, they may be seen,” The cottager replied. “Ah, yes, I see, they are on the Unconsecrated side.”
“The first that went was Mary Jane,” The cottager did say; “A rare good gal, too, in the main, ’Twere fine to yeer ’er pray!
“So in the ground, sir, she was laid, Then Bill the fever caught; A rare good workman with ’is spade, And good in deed an’ thought!
“It seemed a despard cruel blow!”―― And here the old man sighed―― “For ’fore the ground was white with snow, God help us! all ’ad died!”
“How many were you?” said the Dean, “I think you mentioned seven?” Then said the cottager, serene, “Yes, we have seven in heaven!”
“They were dissenters!” cried the Dean, “They cannot be in heaven!” ’Twas throwing words away, for still The cottager would have his will, “And said “We’ve seven in heaven!”
From _Finis_, 1877.
――――
THE BALLAD OF THE ’BUS.
――――A simple ’Bus, Belonging to a London “Co,” That gets its ten per cent. with ease, ――Why should it crowd us so?
I hailed a raucous little “Cad,”―― “There’s room for one!” he cried; But when I stood upon the step, The facts his word belied.
He bore a bag to give you change; His voice was very loud. The simpleton he overcharged, And timid ladies cowed.
“Within this vehicle,” I asked, “How many may there be?” “How many?” roughly he replied; “Why don’t you look and see.”
“But where is room? I see no room?” My wrath I tried to smother. He answered――“On one side are six, And only five on t’other.”
“Two of the five,” I pointed out, “Must weigh a ton between ’em; Two others have such tattered garbs As barely serve to screen ’em.”
Then did the little “Cad” rejoin, “Yet they are only five; If you’re a-coming by this ’bus, I wish you’d look alive!”
“’Tis shameful,” angrily I said, “To play your fares such tricks! If two do take the room of three, Then surely there are six.”
“You’re jolly green, that may be seen!” The rude Conductor cried; “Until I’ve got twelve passengers, I am _not_ ’full inside.”
“I always travel in a ’bus,” I thought it right to say, “And frequently am over-pressed In this atrocious way.
“My little bag I love to bring, My paper here I read, And, when there’s proper elbow-room, ’Tis very nice indeed.
“A Magistrate has just declared You have no right to pack us, And――ah, I see _that_ person is A votary of Bacchus!
“A nice quintette! The more I look I seem to grow the sicker; Two elephants――two more in rags―― The fifth, he is in liquor!
“But Mr. Partridge, _he_ will see These wrongs are not repeated――” ’Twas wasting words, for with a frown The ’Bus Conductor knocked me down, And cried. “_Now_ you are seated!”
_Punch._ April 18, 1885.
――――
THEY ARE SEVEN.
I marvelled why he looked so wild, And fiercely drew his breath; That Tory, who had lately smiled, But now looked pale as death.
His cranium seemed in such a whirl, He hated Fate, he said―― His hair was sadly out of curl, He lowly bent his head.
Said I, “The members in for ‘Brum,’ All one sort seem to be.” “Yes, seven in all,” he said, quite glum, But, there, _we’ve_ no M. P.!”
“And who are they?” I asked, “Say, do!” Quoth he, “Cook, Broadburst, Bright, And Williams, Kenrick, Dixon, too―― And ‘Joe’ has won _his_ fight!”
“What, not e’en Randolph in,” said I. “That Birmingham batch to leaven?” “Ah, no,” he sadly made reply, “Not _one_, while _they_ have Seven!”
“Nay raise your head,” I gently said, “Let mirth your mourning leaven; Why, look at Liverpool”――but he Still moaned “In ‘Brum’ we’ve no M. P., While Liberals they have Seven!”
_Fun._ December 2, 1885.
――――
“WE ARE SEVEN.”
――――A Radical, With tenets all complete, Whose name is Joseph Chamberlain―― How should _he_ know defeat?
I met――no little cottage gal, With curls around her head,―― But Joe, the conquering Radical, He’s more than seven, he said.
“In Brum what conquests have you made? How many may you be?” “How many? seven in all,” he said, And winked and smiled at me.
“The Tories? Pray you, where are they?” He answered: “Seven are we; The Tories stood awhile at bay, But they were all at sea!
“All of them knew the way to lie, They tutored one another, But each has gone to pipe his eye And whimper to his mother!
“And as they went I raised my hat, I smiled and coughed: Ahem! And there upon the poll I sat, I sat and laughed at them.
“The first to fail was Lord Chur-chill, Bright made him dull, by Joe! Then Showell showed extremely ill, And Lowe looked very low!”
“But they are fled――their hopes are done.” He said: “They are forgiven! Seven seats there are, but they have none, Seven seats――yet they have not won one,” He said, “But we are seven!”
_The Judge._ London. December 5, 1885.
――――
MORE THAN SEVEN. (_Wordsworth’s Poem Adapted to Modern Times._)
I met a little city child, A small and vulgar boy, His eyes were twinkling, and he smiled As with an inward joy.
He had a look of saucy pride, His legs were somewhat bent, He walked along with careless stride, And whistled as he went.
“Sisters and brothers, little child, How many may you be?” His whistle ceased, but still he smiled, And stood and looked at me.
I said, “How many may you be? Where dwell you under heaven?” He smiled a simple smile at me, And said “I’m more than seven!”
“I do not doubt your word,” I said, “It gives me no surprise.” I placed my hand upon his head, And looked into his eyes.
“But pray you tell me, too, of those To whom your love is given.” He laid his finger on his nose And said, “I am more than seven!”
“I asked you not your age to give,” I said, with mild caress, “But tell me if your parents live, And what is their address?”
He fumbled with his jacket hem, As only children can: “I never tell such things as them To any School Board man!”
“I’m not a School Board man, my child, I am your friend,” said I, But still he only stood and smiled, And made this strange reply:
“If you tell whoppers such as that You’ll never go to heaven!” I reasoned vainly, I suppose, For still he smiled and tapped his nose, And said, “I’m more than seven!”
A. St. J. A.
――――
WE ARE ONE. (_More’s the Pity._)
――――A single man, That leads a quiet life, Far from the din of family cares, What should he know of strife?
I met a tall and ancient girl―― She was nineteen, she said―― Her wig was thick with many a curl That bobbed about her head.
She had a very regal air, And she was thinly clad, As well befits an ancient girl Whose beauty makes one glad.
“Sweethearts and lovers, lovely maid, How many may they be?” “How many? Seven in all,” she said, And gave a leer at me.
“And where are they? I pray you tell.” She answered, “Seven are they, And two of them in Bedlam dwell, And two have run away.
“Two more of them are underground And then there is another Who ――――Ga ’long you naughty man, Or else I’ll call my mother.”
I went along. That beauteous maid Has followed me through life; But now, alas! I sue no more, Because――she is my wife.
――――
“WE ARE SEVEN.”
[The seven members who thus attained for a night a most unenviable notoriety were Mr. Parnell, Mr. O’Connor Power, Mr. Richard Power, Mr. O’Donnell, Captain Nolan, Major O’Gorman, and Mr. Whalley.]
’Tis Peterborough’s simple child, Who knows not what he saith, Replies to me in utterance wild, And somewhat out of breath.
He has a rustic woodland air, And he is strangely clad; His eyes are wild, unkempt his hair, As one a little mad.
“Of those who bring the House disgrace, How many may there be?” “Why, seven,” he said, with vacant face,―― “There’s seven――counting me!”
“But he who doth at Cavan dwell Foremost is wont to be; Yet you are ‘seven’――I pray you tell, My friend, how that may be.”
He kept to the same statement still, “Obstructives seven are we; Our task to hinder every bill, Aid spoil whate’er may be.
“And often after sunset, sir, Until the morning fair, The weary House we keep astir, And eat our breakfast there.”
“We thought that Biggar and Parnell Alone the House had driven”―――― Again the self-same accents fell, “Oh, master, we are seven!”
_Funny Folks._ July 21, 1877.
――――
THEY ARE FIVE.
I met a statesman old and worn, He was threescore years and more, And in his trembling hand were borne Vague Resolutions three or four.
[This is the first verse of a parody dated May, 1877, which occurs in a small anonymous pamphlet, entitled, _They are Five_, published by David Bogue, London. The parody consists of twelve dull verses, and is quite out of date.]
――――
“WE ARE SEVEN.” (_The Birmingham Version._)
――――A Grand Old Man, By self-conceit so eaten, He cannot bring himself to feel That he’s completely beaten.
He met a Midland Radical, From Birmingham came he, And eye-glass, orchid, monogram All showed ’twas Joseph C――――.
J. C.’d a perky, well-pleased air, His “frock” was buttoned tight, The glance that through his eye-glass shot Was jubilant and bright,
“Ah,” said the G. O. M. to him, “Your face I surely know. Methinks you hie from Birmingham. Say, how do things there go?”
“How many have elected been, I’ve not had time to see?” “How many? Seven in all,” said Joe, And smiled at William G.
“And who are they, I pray you tell?” He answered, “Seven are we; Four sit for North, East, South, and West, And one for Bordesley.
“This last one, by the bye’s my friend, Who, spite your verbal maulings, Has triumphed! need I add he is ‘A certain Jesse Collings?’”
“Collings?” the G. O. M. replied, As he his brows knit sore, “Oh, Jesse Collings; yes, I _may_ Have heard the name before.”
“But,” he went on――and he to keep His temper much did strive―― “You said that you were seven, but you Have only mentioned five.”
Then straight did Joseph C. reply, “Seven Unionists are we, For to the five you have to add, My brother-in-law and me.”
“But you’re against me,” Gladstone said, “I know your Caine-like tricks, So Birmingham has only sent For me supporters six?”
“What, do you mean you have not seen The polls?” J. C. replied, “Why, G. O. M., from Brummagem Not _one_ is on your side.”
(_Seven verses omitted._)
“Nay, nay,” cried Gladstone, “I refuse To own that things are so; “Birmingham went for me!” said Joe―― “It did――nine months ago.”
“But you have since brought in two bills So foolishly arranged That your devoted followers To bitter foes they’ve changed.”
“But they are dead; those bills are dead; They’re dead, I say, by Heaven!” The Old Man wasted breath, for still Would Midland Joseph have his will, And still exclaimed in accents shrill, “We Unionists are seven!”
_Figaro._ (London), July 10, 1886.
――――:o:――――
LUCY.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways, Besides the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love.
A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye; Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me!
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 1799.
Mr. W. Davenport Adams has asserted that the second verse of the above was written by Mrs. Wordsworth. Now Wordsworth was not married until 1802, three years after the poem on “Lucy” was written, and it seems very improbable that Mary Hutchinson would have contributed a verse praising a former sweetheart, even although she were dead.
――――
ON WORDSWORTH.
He lived amidst th’ untrodden ways To Rydal Lake[74] that lead; A bard whom there were none to praise, And very few to read.
Behind a cloud his mystic sense, Deep hidden who can spy? Bright as the night when not a star Is shining in the sky.
Unread his works――his “Milk White Doe”[75] With dust is dark and dim; It’s still in Longman’s shop, and oh! The difference to him.
This clever parody was written by Hartley Coleridge, whose character Wordsworth prophetically divined when he was but six years old:――
“O blessed vision! happy child! Thou art so exquisitely wild, I think of thee with many fears For what may be thy lot in future years.”
――――
JACOB.
He dwelt among “Apartments let,” About five stories high; A man, I thought, that none would get, And very few would try.
A boulder, by a larger stone Half hidden in the mud, Fair as a man when only one Is in the neighbourhood.
He lived unknown, and few could tell When Jacob was not free; But he has got a wife,――and O! The difference to me!
From _Poems and Parodies_, by Phœbe Carey. Boston, United States, 1854.
――――
EMANCIPATION.
She dwelt within unyielding stays That kept her bolt upright, A nymph whose waist won doubtful praise, She laced so very tight.
A maiden by a kirtle dun Half hidden from the eye, A single skirt when only _one_ Was worn by low and high.
She burst her bonds at last, and so With perfect ease can stir. She wears “_divided skirts_,” and oh! The difference to her!!
F. B. DOVETON.
――――:o:――――
THE REJECTED ADDRESSES.
Wordsworth was one of the authors selected to be imitated in _The Rejected Addresses_. These were supposed to be the compositions sent in by competing poets on the occasion of the opening of the new Drury Lane Theatre in October, 1812. They were all written by the Brothers James and Horace Smith, this imitation of Wordsworth being the work of James Smith.
_The Edinburgh Review_ for November, 1812, contained an article (written by Jeffrey) on _The Rejected Addresses_, in which, referring to this particular poem, the reviewer remarks:――“The author does not attempt to copy any of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth’s poetry; but has succeeded perfectly in the imitation of his mawkish affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering. We hope it will make him ashamed of his ‘Alice Fell,’ and the greater part of his last volumes――of which it is by no means a parody, but a very fair, and indeed we think a flattering imitation.”
THE BABY’S DEBUT.
“Thy lisping prattle and thy mincing gait, All thy false mimic fooleries I hate; For thou art Folly’s counterfeit, and she Who is right foolish hath the better plea; Nature’s true Idiot I prefer to thee.”
CUMBERLAND.
[_Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child’s chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle’s porter._]
My brother Jack was nine in May,[76] And I was eight on New-year’s-day; So in Kate Wilson’s shop Papa (he’s my papa and Jack’s) Bought me, last week, a doll of wax, And brother Jack a top.
Jack’s in the pouts, and this it is,―― He thinks mine came to more than his; So to my drawer he goes, Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars! He pokes her head between the bars, And melts off half her nose!
Quite cross, a bit of string I beg, And tie it to his peg-top’s peg, And bang, with might and main, It’s head against the parlour door: Off flies the head, and hits the floor, And breaks a window-pane.
This made him cry with rage and spite Well, let him cry, it serves him right. A pretty thing, forsooth! If he’s to melt, all scalding hot, Half my doll’s nose, and I am not To draw his peg-top’s tooth!
Aunt Hannah heard the window break, And cried, “O naughty Nancy Lake, Thus to distress your aunt: “No Drury-Lane for you to-day!” And while papa said, “Pooh, she may!” Mamma said, “No, she sha’n’t!”
Well, after many a sad reproach, They got into a hackney coach, And trotted down the street. I saw them go: one horse was blind, The tails of both hung down behind, Their shoes were on their feet.
The chaise in which poor brother Bill Used to be drawn to Pentonville, Stood in the lumber-room: I wiped the dust from off the top, While Molly mopp’d it with a mop, And brushed it with a broom.
My uncle’s porter, Samuel Hughes, Came in at six to black the shoes, (I always talk to Sam:) So what does he, but takes, and drags Me in the chaise along the flags, And leaves me where I am.
My father’s walls are made of brick, But not so tall and not so thick As these; and, goodness me; My father’s beams are made of wood, But never, never half so good As those that now I see.
What a large floor! ’tis like a town! The carpet, when they lay it down, Won’t hide it, I’ll be bound. And there’s a row of lamps――my eye! How they do blaze! I wonder why They keep them on the ground.
At first I caught hold of the wing, And kept away; but Mr. Thing- um bob, the prompter man, Gave with his hand my chaise a shove, And said, “Go on, my pretty love; Speak to ’em, little Nan.
“You’ve only got to curtsey whisp- er, hold your chin up, laugh, and lisp, And then you’re sure to take: I’ve known the day when brats, not quite Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night;[77] Then why not Nancy Lake?”
But while I’m speaking, where’s papa? And where’s my aunt? and where’s mamma? Where’s Jack? O, there they sit! They smile, they nod; I’ll go my ways, And order round poor Billy’s chaise, To join them in the pit.
And now, good gentlefolks, I go To join mamma, and see the show; So, bidding you adieu, I curtsey, like a pretty miss, And if you’ll blow to me a kiss, I’ll blow a kiss to you.
_Blows a kiss, and exit._
From _Rejected Addresses_, by Horace & James Smith. (London: John Miller. 1812.)
――――
THE PET LAMB.
The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; I heard a voice; it said, “Drink, pretty creature, drink!” And looking o’er the hedge, before me I espied A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its side.
No other sheep were near, the lamb was all alone, And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone; With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel, While to that mountain lamb she gave its evening meal.
* * * * *
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
――――
RINK, PRETTY CREATURE, RINK.
The dusk was falling fast, the lamps began to blink, I heard a voice, it said, “Rink, pretty creature, rink.” And looking o’er the edge, close by me I espied A gentle youth on wheels, with a maiden at his side.
No other folk were near, and they were quite alone, I saw the maiden sit upon a friendly stone.―― With one knee on the ground the gentle youth did kneel, And stooping down, her skates he tenderly did feel,
I saw, when in his hand her little foot he took, He seem’d with joy o’ercome, with sweet emotion shook, “Rink, pretty creature, rink,” he cried in such a tone, I saw that he had ta’en her heart into his own.
A handsome youth was he, while she had beauty rare, I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair; Now, hand in hand, again, I saw them start away, And as they passed me by, methought I heard him say:
“What ails thee, dear one? What? Why pull so at my hand? Are not thy skates yet firm? dost feel thou canst not stand? Ere long upon thy skates thou wilt be quite at home, And fly across the ground like any fairy gnome.
“Art tired, sweet, or hot? See here a cosy nook, Where we can sit and rest, and nobody can look; Or would’st thou skate alone, then start in all thy pride? One whistle and thou know’st that I am at thy side.
“Thou need’st not fear a fall when I am by thy side, My arm will hold thee up, as round and round we glide; Asphalte, I know, is hard, so it will always be, But if you feel you must fall, dearest, fall on me.”
I could not listen more, I had no time to stay But ponder’d o’er the scene as home I took my way; Methought the servant-maid who oped the door did shrink, For all I muttered was, “Rink, pretty creature, rink.”
A. W. MACKENZIE (Author of _Idyls of the Rink_).
From _Mirth_. May, 1887.
――――:o:――――
MY HEART LEAPS UP.
My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The child is father of the man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
――――
Extract from POEMS OF THE APPREHENSION.
My heart leaps up when I behold A bailiff in the street: ’Twas so since from one first I ran; ’Twas so even in the Isle of Man: ’Twill be so even in Newgate hold, Or in the Fleet! A trap is hateful to a man; And my whole course of life shall be Bent against them in just antipathy!
WILLIAM MAGINN.
This parody originally appeared in the _Literary Gazette_ for 1820, p. 427.
――――:o:――――
Lines originally intended to have been inserted in the last edition of WORDSWORTH’S Poems.
I met an old man on the road, His name was Robert Lake; Old man, said I, how do you do? He said his tooth did ache.
I think, good Sir, he cried in grief, My tooth’s not worth a pin! But now and then to get relief I fill my mouth with gin.
You fill your mouth with gin, said I, Your face, too, doth denote That now and then, by way of change, You pour it down your throat.
Indeed ’tis not a goodly drink, It fills the mind with doubt; And if your tooth doth ache, I think You’d better have it out.
So to his tooth a string I tied, And pull’d right strong, forsooth; The old man held tight by the post, And soon out came his tooth.