PART 48. Songs by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and various old English

Songs. Tennyson’s Jubilee Ode.

[Illustration]

AN

INTRODUCTION

TO THE

Parodies of Popular Songs.

[Illustration: A]cting on the suggestion of numerous friends and

subscribers I have determined to devote the Fourth Volume of my

Collection to Parodies of _Popular Songs and Ballads_, which are

probably the most amusing and witty of all Parodies.

The Songs of Sheridan, Henry Carey, Dibdin, Thomas Haynes Bayly,

Samuel Lover, Eliza Cook, Charles Mackay, Henry Russell, the Hon. Mrs.

Norton, Lady Dufferin, Barry Cornwall, and W. S. Gilbert, have been

frequently parodied, as well as separate songs, written by the minor

poets, such as Rule Britannia; The Roast Beef of Old England; The Bay

of Biscay; The British Grenadiers; The Vicar of Bray; The Fine Old

English Gentleman; Home, Sweet Home; The Mistletoe Bough; The Ivy

Green; In the Gloaming; My Queen; The Message; The Lost Chord; Some

Day; Far, far away, etc.

Parodies of many of the best songs written by the earlier poets, such

as Sir John Suckling, Sir Charles Sedley, Ben Jonson, Herrick, George

Wither, Edmund Waller, and Richard Lovelace, will also be included.

In the previous volumes the songs of Shakespeare, Burns, Campbell, Sir

Walter Scott, Byron, Moore, and Alfred Tennyson have already been

dealt with in connection with their other poetical works.

Following this Volume of Songs, there will be another containing

parodies of the poems of Thomas Gray, William Wordsworth, S. T.

Coleridge, William Cowper, Lord Macaulay, Dante G. Rossetti, Robert

Browning, A. C. Swinburne, and of some of the minor English and

American Poets, Nursery Rhymes, etc.

Another Volume will contain selections from the most amusing Parodies

of the principal prose writers, Sterne, Dean Swift, Dr. Johnson,

Walter Scott, Charles Dickens, W. M. Thackeray, Lord Macaulay, Thomas

Carlyle, Captain Marryat, Benjamin Disraeli, John Ruskin, G. P. R.

James, Ouida, and Miss Braddon.

The last Volume will give full details, historical, bibliographical,

and anecdotal, of all the principal works in the English language

consisting of, or containing, Parodies and Imitations. A list of all

the most important Theatrical Burlesques will be included, with

Authors’ names, the names of the principal actors and actresses, the

date and place of first performance, and much other information useful

to the dramatic critic or collector.

It will thus be seen that the scheme of the Work embraces a complete

Collection and History of every kind of Parody and Burlesque, British

and American, in a form admitting of easy reference, and particularly

suitable for Public Entertainments, Readings, and Comic Recitations.

The plan of the Collection is such that any one knowing the name of

the author of any particular work, either in verse or in prose, or the

title of the work itself, will be at once enabled to find all the best

parodies or imitations of it, together with an enumeration of such

others as are either too long to reprint, or not sufficiently

interesting.

A work devoted to the history of English Parody is not so frivolous as

it may appear at first sight. Thackeray wrote many parodies, so did

Dickens, Sheridan, Fielding, and Dryden, yet, strange to say, no

attempt has yet been made to classify and collect them. A few short

occasional articles have appeared in the magazines, but these are of

little value for purposes of reference.

It will be seen that the object of a Parody is very seldom to ridicule

its original, more often, on the contrary, it does it honour, if only

by taking it as worthy of imitation, or burlesque. Poets are parodied

in proportion to their popularity, as was pointed out in an

interesting article which appeared in _The Daily News_ (London),

October 16th, 1886, from which I venture to quote the following

paragraphs:――

“Why should there be no parodies? The world has come to a pretty pass

of virtue if we are to denounce them as a ‘debasing of the moral

currency.’ Parody has two values. It is an admirably effective form of

criticism; and it is often a harmless and legitimate source of

amusement. Parody is valuable as criticism, because it is a placing in

a bright light of the faults (exaggerated) of a work of art. Clearly

some forms of art defy this mode of treatment. No fun could be got out

of a parody of ‘Adam Bede.’ No legitimate fun can be got out of an

honest parody of ‘Hamlet.’ Any fun that is got must be lugged in from

without, in the shape of comic songs and music, and antics in general.

But a great deal of mirth may be got out of a parody of the ‘Corsican

Brothers,’ especially when the mannerisms of the actors are well hit

off. To ridicule mannerisms by slightly exaggerating them is one of

the chief functions of parody. Probably any artist might learn more

from a good, and not ill-natured, parody of himself than from any

other form of criticism. Parody is sometimes so amusing that even the

victims must laugh, and it is always more or less of a compliment.

Nobody parodies an actor, or a novel, or a poem, or a picture that has

not artistic qualities and a considerable share of success.”

“As to literary parody, that seldom gives offence. The vast flock of

ravens which follow Edgar Poe’s are the bird’s courtiers, not his

enemies. No man can parody with any effect, a poem which has not

striking and original features. ‘Excelsior’ and the ‘Psalm of Life’

are examples: each of them has scores of parodies. Miss Fanshawe’s

parody of Wordsworth is an astonishing example of skill in catching a

measure only marked by a strained effort at simplicity. Perhaps this

is the very best parody in the English language; better even than any

in the ‘Rejected Addresses.’ There, too, the Wordsworth, Scott, and

Byron are admirable, and Scott was justly pleased with the success of

his imitator. Whether William Wordsworth was pleased is not so

certain. But authors are not so touchy as actors, as the ancients

knew, or they would not have feigned that Homer was his own parodist

in the ‘Battle of the Frogs and Mice.’ Greek parody probably reached

its height in Aristophanes, but there is not much fun in jokes that we

have to elucidate with a dictionary and German notes. Poets are

parodied in proportion to their popularity; if a bard wishes to know

his exact standing in popular repute, let him ask himself ‘Am I

parodied, and how much?’ Lord Tennyson is parodied far and wide, but

who ever tries to parody Shelley? Mr. Swinburne’s ’Dolores’ is the

parent of an innumerable flock of parodies. Yes; she is mother of

parodies painful, by many a wandering pen; but she frowns on them,

dark and disdainful, the mirth and the mockings of men! They

alliterate boldly and blindly, but none to her music attain; and she

turns from them, cold and unkindly, Our Lady of Pain. Mr. Browning

also has been well beparodied, and a shot or two has been taken at Mr.

William Morris; but the other contemporary poets have missed the

crown, thorny yet desirable, of Parody.”

The classification of the Parodies of Songs presents some

difficulties, but the following arrangement will be adopted as far as

possible; Popular sentimental and amatory songs; National and

Patriotic (English, Irish, Welsh and Scotch); Naval and Military;

Sporting, Convivial, Social and Humorous Songs.

WALTER HAMILTON.

57, GAUDEN ROAD,

CLAPHAM, LONDON, S.W.

_December_, 1886.

――――:o:――――

SENT TO HEAVEN.

I had a message to send her,

To her whom my soul loved best;

But I had my task to finish,

And she had gone home to rest.

To rest in the far bright heaven,

Oh, so far away from here;

It was vain to speak to my darling,

For I knew she could not hear.

* * * * *

And I know that at last my message

Has passed through the golden gate;

So my heart is no longer restless,

And I am content to wait.

This poem first appeared in _The Cornhill Magazine_, November, 1860,

in 13 four-lined verses, over the initials A. A. P. (Adelaide Anne

Proctor). It is now better known as _The Message_, and has been

frequently parodied.

THE MESSAGE.

I had a message to send her,

To her whom my soul loves best,

For I had my task to finish,

And she had gone home to the west,

To our pretty suburban villa,

At least five miles from here,

And my dear affectionate darling

Will be very anxious, I fear.

I wrote a letter to send her,

So tender, and loving, and sweet,

I longed for a seraph to bear it,

And lay it down at her feet.

I gave it the clerk in the morning,

And the post was only next door,

But the stupid, forgetful fellow

Didn’t post it till half-past four.

I cried in my passionate longing,

“Has the earth no angel friend

Who will carry my love the message

My heart desires to send!”

The message at last was sent her,

And at midnight to Hyacinth Grove,

The telegraph boy brought my warning――

“Don’t keep dinner waiting, my love.”

_Funny Folks._ April 27, 1878.

――――

THE MESSAGE.

(_Of the Future._)

I had a message to send her,

To her whom my soul loves best,

But I had some letters to finish,

And it couldn’t go out with the rest――

With the rest to the first post-office,

Oh, so far away from here;

It was vain to call back the porter,

He was deaf and could not hear.

I had a message to send her:

Some friends I intended to treat,

And I longed for a hansom to bear it,

But there wasn’t a cab in the street.

I placed it (that summer noontide)

In the pocket which lay on my breast,

But when I went out for my luncheon

I had on a different vest.

I gave it a boy, with a copper,

And he twirl’d it o’er and o’er,

But his fingers were faint and weary

And it fluttered to earth once more.

And I cried, midst my passionate swearing,

“Have I got no bosom friend

Who will kindly deliver the message,

That I am so anxious to send?”

Then I heard a strain of music,

And I wondered all cats weren’t dead,

But I found ’twas the wind that was passing

Through the telephone wires overhead.

It rose in harmonious rushings

Like a fiddle-bow over the strings,

And I thought I would send my message,

By one of those new-fangled things.

And I heard it float farther and farther,

In sound it resembled my speech,

Farther than I could travel,

Farther than eye could reach.

And I knew that at last my message

Had been telephoned down to my wife,

And my mind was no longer uneasy

For I knew she’d expect us at five.

_Funny Folks._ October 19, 1878.

――――

I had a message to give her,

But she too early had fled;

I thought of it since we parted,

And she had gone home to bed

To rest in the highest attic,

Far up near the starry sky:

And she never could hear me calling――

Her window was much too high.

I had a message to give her

(A line which I here repeat),

But I thought it would not be proper

To shout it from out the street;

So I tried to attract attention

By flinging aloft a stone,

But I only broke a window,

And left her――in haste――alone.

I gave it to “milk” next morning,

And I watched if she took it in.

But ’twas somebody else who did it

(I’d to stand the “milk” some gin).

And I cried in my passionate longing,

“Oh! is there no other way

I can get to my love the message,

And say what I have to say?”

Then I heard a sweet voice singing

Up high in the morning air;

She was cleaning the first-floor windows,

And I beckoned her down the stair.

And she came to the front door quickly――

For her mistress was not yet up――

And she said I must come that ev’ning

(For the cook was going out) to sup.

So I hastened home to my breakfast

(I had coffee and salted fish),

And went to my work as happy

As lover who’s got his wish;

For I knew I should give my message――

And I felt it was not too late――

I should meet her that night at supper,

So I was content to wait.

_Fun._ October 17, 1883.

――――:o:――――

“OH! DON’T YOU REMEMBER SWEET ALICE?”

[According to _England_, some of the Radicals were very annoyed that

Mr. Gladstone should have written a letter of congratulation to Prince

Albert Victor Edward on the attainment of his majority.]

Oh! don’t you remember Sweet William, Ben Bolt,

Sweet William wot chops treeses down?

How you wept with delight wen you gave him your wote

And said he’d soon down with the Crown.

Like an old churchyard of no walley, Ben Bolt,

Or a hactor hobscure and halone,

He have positive shown in a letter so gay

That he still have regard for the Throne.

Oh! don’t you remember Sweet William, Ben Bolt?

His tongue it would never keep still;

And its sweet-flavoured clack had a fatherly smack

To the click of the Radical mill.

Them wentursome words wos but words, Ben Bolt

And I looks for their meaning around;

For them lines to a Prince, they only ewince

That he’s artful and werry profound!

Oh! don’t you remember the school, Ben Bolt,

With its master, the Brummagem screw?

And the screeches we screeched, and the speeches we speeched?――

A howling Republican crew!

I’m not quite so green as the grass, Ben Bolt,

For that letter have made me feel dry:

And if you can bolt all this flummery, Ben,

YOU’RE A DONKEY, BEN BOLT, AND NOT I!!!

_England_, January 24, 1885.

――――:o:――――

THE LOST CHORD.

――――

THE LOST BALL.

(A Parody on The Lost Chord, by Miss Adelaide Anne Proctor. Music by

Sir Arthur Sullivan.)

Batting one day at the Oval,

I was scoring and quite at ease,

And I “placed” the bowling neatly,

Piling up twos and threes.

I know not whom we were playing

Or what was my total then,

But I struck one ball of Morley’s

Like the sound of a great “Big Ben.”

It fled in the golden sunlight

Like the devil away from psalms,

And swiftly, though long-leg fielded,

It slipped like an eel through his palms.

It quieted chaff and chatter

Like loves overcoming dears,

And raised a harmonious echo

Of loud, discordant cheers.

It left the perplexéd fieldmen,

Simple as perfect geese,

And rolled away in the distance

As if it were loth to cease.

I have sought and still seek vainly

Of the lost ball a sign,

That came from the shoulder of Morley

And travelled away from mine.

It may be some man from the gas-works

Will find it on his domain;

It may be that only next season

I shall strike at that ball again.

Written by the late Doctor G. F. Grace, the celebrated Cricketer.

――――

THE LOST CORD.

(Words by an Organ-grinder. Music by Sir Arthur Sullivan.)

_Andante Moderato._

Seated one day on the organ

Was my monkey, but ill at ease,

For his fingers wandered idly,

Searching for――what you please.

I know not what I was playing,

Or what I was dreaming, quite,

But I dropped his cord and, quickly,

With a bound he was out of sight!

With a bound he was out of sight!

Then forth he came through a skylight,

With some clothes on his outstretched arm;

And the way that he sought to wear them

Had a touch of infinite charm.

While riot and shrieks of sorrow

Above, from a plundered wife,

Recalled the harmonious echo

Of my discordant life.

The things perplexed the monkey,

He spoilt them piece by piece:――

_Animato._

I trembled away in my silence,

In fear of the dread police!

_Agitato._

I have sought, but I seek it vainly,

That one last cord, and pine

For him, for the soul of my organ――

That vanished ape of mine!

_Grandioso._

It may be my truant monkey

Will come with that cord again;

It may be he only decamps

When he hears the organ-men

(_Repeat._)

_Judy_, March 3, 1880.

――――

THE LOST VOICE.

Seated at Church in the winter

I was frozen in every limb,

And the village choir shrieked wildly

Over a noisy hymn.

I do not know what they were singing

But while I was watching them

Our Curate began his sermon

With the sound of a slight “Ahem!”

It frightened the female portion

Like the storm which succeeds a calm,

Both maidens and matrons heard it

With a touch of inane alarm.

It told them of pain and sorrow,

Cold, cough, and neuralgic strife,

Bronchitis, and influenza

All aimed at our Curate’s life.

It linked all perplex’d diseases

Into one precious frame;

They trembled with rage if a sceptic

Attempted to ask its name.

They have wrapped him in mustard plasters,

Stuffed him with food and wine,

They have fondled, caressed, and nursed him

With sympathy divine.

It may be that other Curates

Will preach in that church to them,

Will there be every time, Good Heavens!

Such fuss for a slight――Ahem!

A. H. S.

――――

THE CORRECT CHORD.

Seated for years at the organ,

Just trying the stops and keys,

And wondering how the pedals

Might be got to work with ease:

By ear, with my notes in my pocket,

Performing――as few men can,

I struck such a chord that the organ

Burst out “You’re a Grand Old Man.”

It flooded the daily papers,

Like the name of a comic song,

And I felt several inches taller

As I quietly bowled along.

I think that it nettled NORTHCOTE,

Polite as he can be in strife,

Though it seemed a sensible echo

From the din of my public life.

But it brought down chaff by the cartload,

That possibly may increase;――

For till CHURCHILL’S in with his Party,

I never shall know any peace.

But I take the whole thing calmly,

For the cord has a swell that’s fine;

And I’m glad the popular organ

Has a touch that answers mine.

And whether I stick to the Commons,――

And I certainly will if I can,――

Or go to the Peers,――no matter,

I shall still hear “_that Grand, Old Man!_”

_Punch._ March 10, 1883.

――――

THE LOST DRINK.

Seated one day at a _café_,

I was thirsty and hot as the sphinx,

And my tongue went babbling idly

Over the names of drinks.

I knew not what I was saying,

Nor what I had uttered then;

But the _garçon_ brought me a mixture

Like a gift of the gods to men.

Its colour was crimson _foncé_

Like the tip of a toper’s nose,

And it tickled my fever’d palate

With a touch of infinite “goes.”

It trickled down my gullet

Like oil down a red-hot pipe;

It seemed the harmonious echo

From some supernal swipe.

It linked _vin rouge_ and choice _liqueur_

Into one perfect drop,

And guggled away down my gullet

As if it were loth to stop.

I have sought――but I seek it vainly――

That one lost drink divine,

Which was mixed by that _garçon du café_

With curaçoa and red wine.

It may be that some chance _garçon_

May bring me that drink again;

It may be that some day in Paris

I may utter its name. But then

I never could find that _café_,

And lost to mortal ken

Is that supernal _boisson_

Like a gift of the gods to men!

_Judy._ October 27, 1886.

IN THE GLOAMING.

――――

A PARODY OF LADY ARTHUR HILL’S SONG.

In the gloaming, oh, my Proctor,

When your ways are mean and low,

And the sons of Alma Mater

Loudly come and softly go;

When you prowl around my college,

With your Bull-dogs in a row,

Will you watch for me and catch me

As you did one term ago?

In the gloaming, oh, my Proctor,

Think not bitterly of me!

Tho’ I tripped you up instanter,

Left you prostrate, and was free.

For my diggings were quite handy,

Five bob more could never be;

It was best to floor you thus, sir,

Worst for you, but best for me

University College, Oxford. A. HASKETT SMITH.

――――

“IN THE GLOAMING;”

OR,

THE WAILINGS OF A DISAPPOINTED NOVICE.

In the gloaming, oh! my darling!

Don’t I curse the thoughts of thee!

Crowding ever like grim phantoms,

Haunting me unceasingly.

Oh! my heart is sad with longing,

What I dreamed will never be:[1]

It were best to “chuck you up,” dear,

Best for you and best for me.

In the gloaming, oh! my darling!

When thy light burns dim and low,

And the vision of a bobby,[2]

Sets my ruby all aglow!

When with pain my limbs are aching,

As I “hook it” awful slow,

Withering condemnations hearty

Of thy maker often flow.

In the gloaming, oh! my darling!

I will mount thee not in vain;

Take thee to a near relation,

“Pop thee up the spout” for gain!

Thus I’ll rid me of thy torments,

Instrument of make insane!

I have learned by sad experience,

Cycling ain’t an easy game.

“AB INITIO.”

_Icycles_. 1880.

――――

MORE GLOAMINGLY.

In the gloaming, O my darling,

Now our credit’s very low,

And the tax-collectors calling,

Often come and unpaid go;

Now the landlord’s asking quaintly

For the rent you know we owe,

Will you let me have some money,

As you did――once――long ago?

In the gloaming, O my darling,

Think not bitterly on me,

If we bolt away in silence,

Bilk our duns, and thus be free!

For their hearts are crushed with longing,――

Paid their bills can never be;

It is best to leave them thus, love,

Best for you and best for me!

It is best to leave them thus, love,

Best for you and best for me!

_Judy._ March 2, 1881.

――――

AN OXFORD SHOOTING EXPEDITION

In the shooting, oh, my comrade,

When the birds are flying low,

And the hares and wily bunnies

Swiftly come and swiftly go:

When the beaters cry, “Mark over!”

And a cock comes skimming low,

Will you blaze away, and pot me,

As you did once long ago?

In the shooting, oh, my comrade,

Think not bitterly of me,

Though I shammed that you had killed me,

And you rushed up pale to see.

For I taught you then a lesson

Which will ne’er forgotten be,

It was best to teach it roughly,

Best for all your friends and me!

A HASKETT SMITH, Oxford.

――――

“IN THE GLOAMING.”

(Dedicated to the Ladies of the Studio, South Kensington.)

In the gloaming, O my darlings,

When our hearts are sinking low,

When our mouths are wide with yawning,

And our backs are aching so;

When the thought of painting longer

Fills us with an untold woe;

How we think of tea, and love it,

While the shadows deeper grow!

In the gloaming, O my darlings,

We think tenderly of tea,

Till our hearts are crushed with longing

Round our steaming cups to be.

(It is only _green_ in mem’ry,

And at times――’twixt you and me――

A malignant grocer sends us

An inferior bohea.)

In the gloaming, O my darlings,

When our hearts are sinking low,

When our mouths are wide with yawning,

And our backs are aching so;

Will the tea be weak? we wonder

(What has been, again may be);

But perhaps ’tis best for us, dears――

Best for you and best for me.

HELEN MARION BURNSIDE.

_The Girls’ Own Paper._ February 23, 1884.

――――

THE OLD ARM CHAIR.

I love it, I love it! and who shall dare

To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?

I’ve treasured it long as a sainted prize,

I’ve bedew’d it with tears, I’ve embalm’d it with sighs,

’Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;

Not a tie will break, not a link will start;

Would you know the spell?――a mother sat there!

And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

* * * * *

ELIZA COOK

――――

MY OLD ARM CHAIR.

I loathe it, I loathe it! and who shall dare

To chide me for loathing my own arm-chair?

It haunts me daily, and wheels its flight

Into the dreams that I dream by night.

When I look at its cover of outworn chintz,

Where age and washing have blurred the tints,

No earthly passion can well compare

With my deadly hate for that old arm-chair.

I loved with a love of the noblest kind;――

Sensitive, delicate, most refined.

But she spurned my love and betrayed her vow,

And is only a Mrs. McKenzie now.

I cannot forget, though I might forgive;

My wrongs will follow me whilst I live.

But this is the memory worst to bear;――

She once took tea in that old arm-chair.

I owned a creditor――(frightful man!)

Who bored me as creditors only can.

He vaguely talked of a small amount

Which took the shape of an old account,

Twice in the week, I remember well,

He banged my knocker or twanged my bell.

If he found me without any cash to spare,

He called me names from that old arm-chair.

Incubi, demons, nightmares, owls,

Vampires, goblins, ghosts, and ghouls,

Visit that seat, and around it swarm

In every possible shape and form.

My life is a torture, a perfect curse――

My home is a dungeon, or something worse.

I shall never be happy or freed from care

Until I get rid of that old arm-chair.

From _A Town Garland_, by HENRY S. LEIGH.

(Chatto & Windus, London, 1878.)

――――

ON THE NEW ARM CHAIR.

(Presented to Mr. Gladstone.)

_The Pleased Premier Sings_:――

I love it, I love it; will WORMS, now, dare

To nag me for loving my new Arm-chair?

I shall treasure it long, ’tis a genuine prize,

Of cosy make, of convenient size.

’Twill be bound to my heart by a thousand links,

By memories pleasant of “forty winks.”

Thanks, men of Greenwich, whose thoughtful care

Supplies me this capital new Arm-chair.

I have sat in the Commons this many a day,

Till my eyes are dimmish, my locks gone grey:

Oh, the hours I have lounged, and――with trouble――smiled

Whilst CHURCHILL cheeked or the Pats ran wild;

Till the Treasury cushions seemed cold as lead,

And hard as a prisoner’s timber bed.

By Jove, how I wish I could wheel _you_ there

And lounge on your cushions, my new Arm-chair!

But HARCOURT’S waiting, and I _must_ go;

He can’t stand his Whitebait cold, you know.

Were it not for the feed and these swells at my side,

My talk might flow on in a lava-like tide.

Ah! excuse this tear that bedews my cheek,

I should very much like to talk on for a week.

Now myself from your presence I really _must_ tear,

But I thank you once more for my new Arm-chair.

_Punch._ August 27, 1881.

――――

SCENE.――The House of Commons. The EX-SPEAKER is discovered gazing

sadly at the seat he has lately vacated. At length, satisfying himself

that he is alone, he relieves his soul in song as follows;――

“I loved it, I loved it; and who would dare

To chide me for loving that Grand Old Chair?

When they chose me first to its seat to rise,

I looked on it then as a precious prize,

And my heart with joy and with pride was big

When I put on my new full-bottomed wig.

I was under a spell as I first sat there,

And a sacred thing was that Grand Old Chair!

“And all at first happened well for me,

And my life was calm as calm could be;

The ‘Ayes’ were gentle, the ‘Noes’ were kind,

And rarely to sitting late inclined;

Whilst night after night ’twas my happy fate

To retire for my ‘chop’ at half-past eight;

To retire and return, unvexed by care,

To sit――aye, and doze, in that Grand Old Chair!

“But as years rolled on, and the sessions sped,

My idol was shattered, my hopes all fled:

For there came o’er the scene a parlous change,

As the new M.P.’s brought their manners strange;

Till one night, alas! was ‘Obstruction’ born,

And I knew what it was to sit till morn;

Ah! I learned what a Speaker’s strength could bear,

As I sat out my life in that Grand Old Chair.

“’Tis past! ’tis past! but I gaze on it now

With quivering lips and with throbbing brow;

For there full oft have I sat in vain,

Till the day has peeped through the window pane;

’Twas there I was badgered; ’twas there I heard

My solemn rulings declared absurd――

But I loved it! I loved it! and cannot tear

My soul from that once-prized Grand Old Chair.”

As the above is being softly sung, the SPEAKER ELECT, attracted by the

sound, returns to the House, and remains an unobserved listener till

the conclusion of the song, when, remarking MR. PEEL’S presence, the

EX-SPEAKER thus addresses him:――

“Ah, ’tis well, my new successor,

Aye, ’tis meet you thus have found me

Lingering here in semi-darkness,

And addressing mournful lyrics

To the furniture about me.”

_Truth._ February 28, 1884.

――――

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

[“A German Professor has discovered that all the woodwork about our

houses has power to absorb ‘noxious juices’ while still growing in its

native forest, and that when a tree becomes part of the domestic

furniture, and is cut up into chairs and tables and bookshelves, it

immediately begins to pour its ‘noxious juices’ out into the air of

the room.”――_Daily Paper_.]

I dread it, I dread it! and who shall dare

To chide me for dreading that old arm-chair?

I’ve treasured it long as an antique prize,

But Science has suddenly opened my eyes;

So now I say to my startled heart

That ’twere better the chair and I should part.

Would you know my reason?――a mother sat there,

And became the prey of that old arm-chair.

In childhood’s hour I lingered near

That treacherous seat without a fear,

And mother, poor soul, no tremour knew

As she worked at her knitting the morning through,

For German savants had yet to produce

Their ghastly theory of “noxious juice,”

And my parent guessed at no cause for scare

In the poisoned breath of her old arm-chair.

The doctor watched her many a day,

While she took her physic and pined away;

And it failed to strike him that p’raps her cure

Might be found in a smash of furniture.

Time passed on, and I heard with glee

That mater intended to try the sea;

But though she recovered in Brighton air,

I never suspected the old arm-chair.

I was guileless then, but I gaze on it now

With a fluttering pulse and a bended brow,

’Twas there she sickened and almost died――

Of chair――as professors sage decide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

For my “creepy” spine and my blanching cheek;

But I dread it, I dread it! and mean to bear

To the broker’s shop that old arm-chair.

_Funny Folks._ May 29, 1886.

――――

THE DENTIST’S CHAIR.

I hate it, I hate it, and who shall dare

To chide me for hating that dentist’s chair?

I hated it first in my early youth,

When I groaned in its depths with an aching tooth.

And many and keen are the pangs through my soul,

And the terror I feel is beyond control;

I could gnash my teeth in my wild despair,

As I gaze on that terrible, terrible chair.

It has held me many and many a day,

When I fain would have been in the fields at play

And I hated the dentist when first I sat

In the chair, and he said, “Take off your hat.”

Years roll on and are quickly fled,

And my teeth became shattered within my head:

But I know how much the heart can bear,

When I sit in that horrible, horrible chair.

Will it ever be thus? I gaze on it now,

With affright in my soul and care on my brow;

’Twas there they were stopped; ’twas there they were scaled;

’Twas there with the forceps that I was assailed.

Say it is folly, and call me weak,

While the raging nerves puff out my cheek,

But I hate it to-day in my toothless despair,

And I’ll hate it for ever, that vile arm-chair.

A. L. D.

_Modern Society._ April 17, 1886.

――――:o:――――

SONG OF NOVEMBER.

(_Another parody of Eliza Cook_,)

That gridiron by the mantel-piece,

Its look gives every nerve a thrill;

That thing of home begrimed with grease,

Whereon our sprats we learn’d to grill.

November――month to childhood dear,

Old month of Civic feasts and sights,

To see that gridiron so near,

Fills my sad heart with home delights.

November――I remember well

The day when I to market hied,

In search of one with sprats to sell――

Sprats in which childhood might confide.

I bought them, and the savoury fish

On yonder gridiron then were broiled

Experience is a bitter dish,

I had it then――the sprats were spoiled!

_Punch’s Almanac_, 1846.

――――:o:――――

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.

As several of the following parodies are rather out of date extracts

only are given.

PUNCH TO THE WOODS AND FORESTS.

Lincoln, spare that tree,

Touch not a single bough,

Though in the way to be,

Oh, stand up for it now.

Still, let its shade expand,

Where, round the social pot,

The HANSOM cabmen stand――

Oh, LINCOLN, harm it not!

* * * * *

Thy sire, great Clumber’s King,

Thou’st certain to offend――

_His_ son do such a thing!――

The world draws to an end

Old Laws, old Dukes, old Trees,

Delay, decay, dry-rot:

Let PEEL do as he please,

But, LINCOLN, harm them not!

_Punch._ 1846.

[While Lord Lincoln, son of the Duke of Newcastle, was First

Commissioner of Woods and Forests, a proposal was made to cut down

some of the old trees in the West-end of London, which were said to be

in the way.]

THE HYDE PARK CORNER CLOCK.

Gasman, light that clock,

The time I cannot see;

It can’t be more than twelve,

And yet it looks like three!

Its hands are all confused,

Its numbers none can trace:

Say, is that humble clock

Ashamed to show its face!

It can’t be very late:

True, I’ve been out to sup:

But, ho! what says the clock?

Come, Gasman, light it up.

Say, can the mist be caused

By fumes of generous wine?

Is it three-quarters past eleven,

Or is it only nine!

Is it half after twelve,

Or six, or eight, or two?

That dismal rushlight kept inside

No good on earth can do.

When I go home to bed

I’m quite afraid to knock,

If I’ve no notion of the hour――

So, Gasman light that clock.

_Punch._ 1846.

――――

THE “TREE OF LIBERTY.”

Frenchman, spare that tree,

Its roots lie very low;

You’d better let it be――

Elsewhere ’twill never grow

* * * * *

Vitality, to-day,

Within it there may be,

It perishes when moved away――

So, Frenchman, spare that tree.

_Punch._ 1848.

――――

AN IMPASSIONED APPEAL TO THE PREMIER.

(By a very Common Councilman).

Gladstone, spare that _Tree_!

(_Of course I means the Corporation._)

Touch not a single _bough_;

(_That is, neither the Court of Aldermen or

the Court of Common Council._)

In _youth_ it sheltered me,

(_When I was bound a Prentice._)

And I’ll protect it _now_.

(_Now that I’m a full-blown Common Councilman._)

’Twas my forefather’s hand

(_A jolly long time ago, when the Saxons and Danes was here._)

That placed it near this spot;

(_At the bottom of King Street, Cheapside._)

Then, GLADSTONE, _let it stand_,

(_Till it’s blowed down as well as blowed up._)

_Thy Ax_ should harm it not.

(_Ax of Parlement, of course._)

Oft, when a careless child,

(_Summut about 17,_)

Beneath its shades I heard,

(_Guildhall, of course,_)

The woodnotes sweet and wild,

(_But rather expensive,_)

Of many a foreign bird.

(_From the Italian Opera._)

My Mother kissed me _there_,

(_In the Chamberlain’s Office, when I took up my Freedom._)

My Father pressed my _hand_

(_With a sovereign in it, the fust I ever had:_)

I ask then, with a _tear_,

(_Of course, that’s all my eye,_)

To let the old _Oak_ stand!

(_Too obvious to require explanation._)

I’ve crossed the foaming wave;

(_Dover to Calais――oh, Steward!_)

I’ve braved the cannon-shot!

(_Figuratively, at the Tower;_)

While I’ve a hand to save,

(_That is, till I’ve lost ’em both,_)

Thy _Ax_ shall harm it not!

_(Ax of Parlement, as before._)

_Punch._ February 11, 1882.

――――

“SPENCER, SPARE THAT TREE!”

[“It is beyond all measure the finest tree in London, and being of a

kind that defies London smoke, it actually seems to enjoy and thrive

upon it. It is sad to think that we have Vandals paid by the public to

do such irreparable, wanton mischief.”――_Mr. Nasmyth on the cutting

down of the old South Kensington plane tree._]

SPENCER, spare that tree!

Touch not a single bough!

For years you’ve let it be:――

Why set upon it _now_?

I know not whose the hand

That placed it on that spot;

But, SPENCER, let it stand,

Or else you’ll get it hot!

The old familiar plane

That decks this end of town:――

Why, those are scarcely sane

Who want to cut it down.

South Kensington secures

Its end with many a joke;

But if you must have yours,――

O SPENCER, spare _this_ stroke!

When, in my childhood’s joy,

T’wards Fulham’s fields I strayed;

CHARLES MATTHEWS still a boy,

Grew young beneath its shade.

And later, it was here,

Ere Brompton saw its close,――

Forgive this foolish tear,

The dear old _boilers_ rose!

So, if you’ve work in view,

Cut down――I’ll not repine――

A salary or two,

But _not_ this tree of mine!

And though in wild dismay

Your underlings complain,――

O SPENCER, cut away,

But _don’t cut down my plane!_

_Punch._ July 23, 1881.

――――

“CHILDERS, SPARE THAT COIN.”

[The Chancellor of the Exchequer proposed to abolish the old

half-sovereign and issue a new one, which should be worth only nine

shillings in gold.]

Childers, spare that coin,

Historically grand,

Thou wouldst its tenth purloin,

But, prithee, stay thy hand.

It aye has held for me

A pure ten-shilling joy.

So, Childers, let it be,

Nor mix it with alloy.

That old familiar piece,

Whose glory and renown

Would straightway sink and cease,

If thou shouldst chip it down!

Childers, forbear this stroke,

’Gainst which we all protest;

Oh, say that when you spoke,

You only spoke in jest.

Oft, when a careless lad,

The golden chink I heard,

For I an uncle had

Who tipped me “like a bird.”

On sweetstuff, apt to smear

One’s clothes, the coin was spent;

I ask thee with a tear,

Oh, drop thy ten per cent.

My heartstrings round thee cling

Close as thy rim, old friend――

Remain a handy thing

To borrow or to lend.

Old piece, still circulate,

And, Childers, of thy grace,

Think well and hesitate,

Ere thou our coin debase.

_Funny Folks._ May 10, 1884.

――――:o:――――

THE IVY GREEN.

Oh! a dainty plant is the Ivy green,

That creepeth o’er ruins old!

Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,

In his cell so lone and cold.

The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed,

To pleasure his dainty whim;

And the mouldering dust that years have made,

Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,

And a staunch old heart has he.

How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,

To his friend the huge Oak Tree!

And slyly he traileth along the ground,

And his leaves he gently waves,

And he joyously hugs and crawleth round

The rich mould of dead men’s graves.

Creeping where grim death has been,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,

And nations have scattered been;

But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,

From its hale and hearty green.

The brave old plant in its lonely days,

Shall fatten upon the past:

For the stateliest building man can raise,

Is the Ivy’s food at last.

Creeping on, where time has been,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

CHARLES DICKENS.

This song first appeared in Chapter VI. of _The Pickwick Papers_,

which were originally published in monthly parts, commencing in April,

1836. Ten years later Dickens started _The Daily News_, the first

number of which was published in London on January 21, 1846. For many

years the paper had but a struggling existence. Although Dickens only

edited it for a few months, it was well known that he was interested

in its success, so that the author of the following poem, whilst

sneering at _The Daily News_, had a motive in choosing Dickens’s poem

as the model for his parody.

THE DAILY NEWS.

Oh! a dreary print is _The Daily News_,

And its life is a wonder to all.

It puts in advertisements others refuse,

But sooner or later must fall.

Its leaders are heavy, confused its page,

And dismal its general tone.

In club, or in coffee-house, nothing but rage

Is, when it is offered, shown.

Sent for nothing to all who choose,

A losing game is _The Daily News_.

Oh! _The Daily News_ began with a bang,

And was going to shut up _The Times_.

And twaddled that murderers never should hang,

And printed “large sympathy” rhymes.

But still the old gallows its reign enjoyed:

And still did “The People” refuse,

To trust to the rhymes that their friends deployed,

In the sheets of _The Daily News_.

What large sums they have learnt to lose,

Who first embarked in _The Daily News_.

Oh! _The Daily News_ never publishes “wants”

Of footmen, or nurses, or cooks.

Nor many announcements of ships or of sales,

But only the Whitefriars books;

Which pretty well shows what everyone knows,

By no one it ever is seen,

And soon shall we, when it ceases to be,

Forget that it ever has been.

Let it abuse or praise if it choose,

There’s nobody minds _The Daily News_.

_The Man in the Moon._ Vol. III. 1848.

――――

GREEN PEA SOUP.

Oh! a splendid soup is the true Pea Green,

I for it often call;

And up it comes in a smart tureen,

When I dine in my banquet hall.

When a leg of mutton at home is boiled,

The liquor I always keep,

And in that liquor (before ’tis spoil’d)

A peck of peas I steep.

When boil’d till tender they have been,

I rub through a sieve the peas so green.

Though the trouble the indolent may shock,

I rub with all my power;

And having returned them to the stock,

I stew them for more than an hour;

Then of younger peas I take some more,

The mixture to improve,

Thrown in a little time before,

The soup from the fire I move,

Then seldom a better soup is seen,

Than the old familiar Soup Pea Green.

Since first I began my household career,

How many my dishes have been!

But the one that digestion never need fear,

Is the simple old soup Pea Green.

The giblet may tire, the gravy pall,

And the turtle lose its charm;

But the Green Pea triumphs over them all,

And does not the slightest harm.

Smoking hot in a smart tureen,

A rare old soup is the true Pea Green!

_Punch._ 1852.

――――

“OFFICIAL ROUTINE.”

(_A New Song to an old Tune, as sung in the War Office._)

Oh, a dainty growth is Official Routine,

That crawleth o’er systems old:

With red-tape tendrils clasping keen,

And choking where they fold!

What stores have rotted, what ships decayed,

To pleasure his dainty whim!

How he fettereth hand, and blindeth head,

So terrible and so trim!

For knaves and fools a sheltering screen,

Oh a glorious growth is Official Routine.

He worketh his way, with men and things,

Alike by land and sea;

And the weaker his root, the tighter he clings

By the _vis inertiæ_.

You may see him trailing along the ground,

O’er an army’s new-made graves;

Or barring their way that stand around

To save wrecked stores from waves.

At Balaklava all serene――

A flourishing growth is Official Routine!

Let men and ministers have their day,

And be as they had not been,

Official routine still holdeth sway,

In its mingled gray and green.

The brave old creeper, in these our days,

Still fattens, as in the past,

And the noblest host a nation could raise,

Hath fallen, its prey at last!

Creeping still where life has been――

A terrible plant is Official Routine!

_Punch._ February 10, 1855.

――――

THE CABBAGE GREEN.

Oh, a dainty plant is the cabbage green

Wot grows in a garden bold;

With a gammon of bacon, half fat and lean,

He’s good either hot or cold.

His heart must be tender and not decay’d,

To please your dainty whim;

And the chap as loves cabbage, I’ll tell the blade

It’s a precious meal for him.

Sprouting out of the ground is seen,

A rare old plant is the cabbage green;

Sprouting out of the ground is seen,

A rare old plant is the cabbage green.

Fast he sprouts, for he’s food for kings,

And a nice white heart has he;

How close he sticks and how tight he clings

To the stump, till he’s quite stumpy;

In a waggon he’s jolted along the town,

And his leaves no longer waves,

For he’s pack’d like a _conwict_, and quite done brown,

As his way to _Common_ Garden he paves.

Sprouting out, &c.

Full wages have fled, hard work’s ill paid,

And grub _werry_ scarce has been;

But the rare old cabbage shall never fade

From being a chap _wots_ green.

The hearty old plant in future days

Shall fatten you up so fast;

For the best of wegables man can raise,

Is a cabbage, my boys, at last,

Sprouting out, &c.

J. LABERN.

From _Sharp’s Vauxhall Comic Song Book_.

――――

THE YARD OF CLAY.

A fine old thing is the yard of clay,

The zest of a social throng,

It driveth the clouds of grief away,

From the old as well as the young.

The hearts may be wrung by the hand of care,

Or with joyous mirth be crown’d

But a lofty hope, for the spirit’s wear,

In a yard of clay is found,

Puffing all our cares away,

A fine old thing is the yard of clay.

God Bacchus hath many a trophy won,

From the pipe for his glorious shrine,

And till his career on the earth is done,

It ever must be divine.

It heeds not the frowns of the rich or poor,

It beareth no factions sway,

And where is a friend in the world so sure

As this fine old yard of clay?

Puffing, &c.

The beardless boy with his meerschaum fine

Or famous Principee,

To fashion’s strange follies may still incline,

They never will do for me.

The Stoic, too, dead to our joys, may blame,

And barter his peace away,

But while life still throbs in this mortal frame

I’ll cling to the yard of clay.

Puffing, &c.

Our fathers who loved the pipe, have died.

Their vacant seats we find,

And we cling with steadfast pride,

To the faith they left behind.

And when from the spot where we now appear,

Our spirits are called away,

May those who are sent to succeed us here,

Still honour the yard of clay.

Puffing all our cares away,

A fine old thing is the yard of clay.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

I. V. GREEN.

(“I. V.” is short for John Villiam.)

Oh, a rare old toper was I. V. GREEN,

With his nose so fiery and bold;

’Twas redden’d by dips in the tankard, I ween,

That had grown in his service old.

Drunk, when he should not have been,

A rare old toper was I. V. GREEN!

Though I. V. GREEN he pull’d so hard,

’Twas mostly at something “short;”

He was half-seas over within the bar,

And yet never got into port.

Sober never was he seen:

A rare old toper was I. V. GREEN!

He needed no bier to carry his bones,

For he carried his beer in his head;

And instead of a winding-sheet, he was found

“Three sheets in the wind,” when dead.

Dead? dead drunk is what I mean:

A rare old toper was I. V. GREEN!

_Judy._ April 19, 1876.

――――:o:――――

LITTLE NELL.

This Song was founded upon the pathetic story in Dickens’s _Old

Curiosity Shop_, the first line is:――

_They told him gently she was dead._

And the refrain is――

“_She’ll come again to-morrow._”

MAN’S PLACE IN NATURE.

(_Dedicated to Darwin and Huxley._)

They told him gently he was made

Of nicely tempered mud,

That man no lengthened part had played

Anterior to the Flood.

’Twas all in vain; he heeded not,

Referring plant and worm,

Fish, reptile, ape, and Hottentot,

To one primordial germ.

They asked him whether he could bear

To think his kind allied

To all those brutal forms which were

In structure Pithecoid;

Whether he thought the apes and us

Homologous in form:

He said, “Homo and Pithecus

Come from one common germ.”

They called him “atheistical,”

“Sceptic,” and “infidel.”

They swore his doctrines without fail

Would plunge him into hell.

But he with proofs in no way lame,

Made this deduction firm,

That all organic beings came

From one primordial germ.

That as for the Noàchian flood,

’Twas long ago disproved,

That as for man being made of mud,

All by whom truth is loved.

Accept as fact what, malgré strife,

Research tends to confirm――

That man, and everything with life,

Came from one common germ.

_Tinsley’s Magazine._ 1868.

Contrast this refined _jeu d’esprit_ with the following specimen of

the kind of literature that is sold by street ballad singers. It was

printed at _Taylor’s_ Song Mart, Brick Lane, Bethnal Green, and sold

for one half-penny:――

FAITHLESS NELLY.

They told him gently she was gone

To the station house, and smil’d;

They led him to a dark back cell,

Where laid his squalling child.

For gin she had sold everything,

And spent all she could borrow;

“In the station house she sleeps,” says he,

“She’ll be out again to-morrow.”

Six policemen bore her to the cell,

Next day before the beak,

And for blacking a big policeman’s eye

She was sent up for a week.

Outside the Court the old man watch’d

Her into the van with sorrow;

Says he, “If I take you home to day,

You will be here again to morrow.”

They took her straight to Tothill Fields,

To grind wind on the mill,

But she scream’d aloud for a drop of gin,

They gave her an extra drill.

Six days after the old man saw

Her through the bars with sorrow;

Says she, “Old boy, I’m lock’d in now,

I shall be out again to-morrow.”

――――:o:――――

WINGS.

(Composed by DOLORES.)

Wings! to bear me over

Mountain and vale away;

Wings! to bathe my spirit

In morning’s sunny ray.

Wings! that I may hover

At morn above the sea;

Wings! thro’ life to bear me

And death triumphantly.

Wings! like youth’s fleet moments

Which swiftly o’er me pass’d,

Wings! like my early visions,

Too bright, too fair, to last:

Wings! that I might re-call them

The lov’d, the lost, the dead;

Wings! that I might fly after

The past long vanished.

Wings! to lift me upward,

Soaring with eagle flight,

Wings! to waft me heav’nward

And back in realms of light.

Wings! to be no more wearied,

Lull’d in eternal rest.

Wings! to be sweetly folded

Where faith and love are bless’d.

From the German by PERCY BOYD.

――――

CURLS.

(A Parody by a Flirt.)

Curls, that I might roll them

In paper coils at night;

Curls that I might hide them,

Away till morning light.

Curls, to hang in clusters,

Of silken texture fair;

Curls, to kiss me gently,

In evening’s balmy air.

Curls, that I might sever

For my own lover true;

Curls, perhaps to give one,

To other lovers too.

Curls, that all may see them,

Curls, reaching to my knee;

Curls, that men might press them

To hearts that beat for me.

Curls of jet or golden,

I care not which they be;

Curls, to waft me lovers

In shoals triumphantly.

Curls, that girls may gaze on

With longing, wond’ring eyes;

Curls, to flit before them

And draw their envious sighs.

Curls, that men might hover

Around me lovingly;

Curls, that I might conquer

Mankind, and yet be free.

HARPER.

_The Cheltonian._ June, 1873.

――――:o:――――

IT CAME WITH THE MERRY MAY, LOVE.

――――

A Parody by the G. O. M. (_Solo_).

It came with the joyful June, love,

That vote against taxing beer;

And your William resigned eft soon, love,

The place that he held so dear.

To the nation it seemed like a boon, love,

But to me it was bitter woe;

Only a year ago love,

Only a year ago.

It came with the joyful June, love,

The smash of my Irish Bill,

And again as a poor gone coon, love

You wept for your fallen Will.

The majority it was more, love,

Than that which struck the blow,

And made me so very sore, love,

Only a year ago.

_Solo resumed_

It came with the joyful June, love,

My need for the Irish vote;

I was not such a witless loon, love;

But I knew how to turn my coat;

So I vowed that the men of reason

Were Mr. Parnell and Co.,

Though I thought they were steeped in treason.

Only a year ago.

It came with the joyful June, love.

My love for the National League.

And morning and noon and night, love,

I revelled in dark intrigue.

The worth of their vote had risen,

So I felt my affection glow

For the men I’d have clapt in prison

Only a year ago.

It came with the joyful June, love,――

The General election came;

And the persons who _light_ the _moon_, love,

Were my partners in the game.

But the voters were rude and cruel――

They called me the Empire’s foe,

Though they deemed me a priceless jewel

Only a year ago.

_St. Stephen’s Review._ June 12 & 19, 1886.

――――:o:――――

“MY MOTHER BIDS ME BIND MY HAIR.”

――――

THE MOMENTOUS QUESTION

(Answered with great wisdom by a Black-haired Beauty.)

My mother bids me dye my hair

The fashionable hue,

Which women now so often wear,

And Nature never grew.

She bids me at their _chignons_ peep,

And see how fair are they:

But _will_ dyed hair its colour keep?

And won’t it soon turn grey?

I see girls in the gay saloon,

Or on the grand parade,

And wonder in my heart how soon

Their hair’s light hue will fade.

Each night before they go to sleep

They dye it, I dare say:

But _will_ dyed hair its colour keep?

And won’t it soon turn grey?

My hair is like the raven’s wing,

So jet black are its curls:

What if away my fears I fling,

And dye, like other girls?

In potash if my head I steep,

I may be fair as they:

But _will_ died hair its colour keep?

And won’t it soon turn grey.

And then, who knows? “Revenge!” may be

Soon outraged Nature’s call,

And, haply, on fair heads you’ll see

The blight of baldness fall!

While such dread thoughts upon me creep,

O ne’er say Dye; Ma, pray!

’Twere best my own black hair to keep,

Till old age turns it grey.

_Punch._ January 6, 1866.

――――

THE GIRL (NOT) OF THE PERIOD.

(_After the jolly_ HAYDN.)

[LITTLE SECRETS.――Mouches pour bal. Eaux Noirs, Brun, et Chatain, Dyes

the Hair any shade in one minute. Kohhl, for the Eyelids. Blanc de

Perle, pâte et liquide. Rouge de Lubin, does not wash off. Eau de

Violette, pour la bouche. Powder Bloom, pour blonde et brunette.

Persian Antimony and Egyptian Henna. Bleu pour les veines. Rouge of

Eight Shades. Sympathetic Blush, poudre pour polir les Ongles.

Pistachio Nut Toilet Powder. Florimel of Palm. Opoponax Oil. All

these, and many other little Secrets.――_See Advertisement._]

My mother bids me dye my hair

The fashionable hue;

And change my _chataigne_ locks with care

To red――through green, or blue!

“You can’t,” she cries, “my dear, do less――

Or what will people say?”

But, ah! I only wish that PIESSE

And LUBIN were away!

[_An interval of two years is supposed to elapse._]

’Tis sad to think the colour’s gone.

That men have called so dear;

I leave unturned, I’m sure, no stone,

But sigh for my head-gear!

How I shall look, I dare not guess.

Perhaps quite white or grey!

And folks will laugh aloud when PIESSE

And LUBIN _are_ away.

_Fun._ May 30, 1868.

――――

THE “LANCET” BIDS ME BE A PEER.

[The _Lancet_ urges, on medical grounds, that Mr. Gladstone should

accept a peerage, and thus avoid the continued fatigue which

leadership of the Commons necessarily involves.]

The _Lancet_ bids me be a Peer,

With robes of gorgeous hue,

Tie up my form in lordly gear,

And act on Beaky’s cue――

Tie up my form in lordly gear,

And act, and act on Beaky’s cue.

For why, it hints, sit still and bear

The tease of Tories gay?

Alas! I own it has me there,

And long to get away――

Alas! I own it has me there.

And long, and long to get away.

’Tis sad to think how Randies clown,

And Wolffs and Wartons jeer;

I gulp this horrid cough-drop down,

And sigh when none can hear――

I gulp this horrid cough-drop down,

And sigh, and sigh when none can hear.

And while the gargle I apply,

Which really isn’t nice.

“The counsel’s good,” I _almost_ cry

To _Lancet_-framed advice――

“The counsel’s good,” I _almost_ cry

To _Lan_, to _Lancet_-framed advice.

_Funny Folks._ April 5, 1884.

――――

_Song._――CINDERELLA.

My mother bids me pinch my waist

Another inch or two,

For, though already tightly laced,

She says it will not do!

And, oh! she says that I must wear

A body cut so low――

My cheeks will flame with honest shame

As through the streets I go!

She says I must expose my charms,

And cause the roughs rare sport.

And leave quite bare my neck and arms,

Because we’re going to Court;

But I have heard our Court is pure――

I know our Queen is so――

She cannot, then, require, I’m sure,

Poor me half-dressed to go!

_Truth._ Christmas Number, 1884.

――――:o:――――

LOVE NOT.

Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay;

Hope’s gayest wreaths are made of earthly flow’rs――

Things that are made to fade and fall away.

When they have blossom’d but a few short hours.

Love not, love not.

Love not, love not: the thing you love may die――

May perish from the gay and gladsome earth;

The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky,

Beam on its grave as once upon its birth.

Love not, love not.

Love not, love not: the thing you love may change,

The rosy lip may cease to smile on you;

The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange,

The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true.

Love not, love not.

Love not, love not: oh! warning vainly said,

In present years, as in the years gone by;

Love flings a halo round the dear one’s head;

Faultless, immortal-till they change or die.

Love not, love not.

HON. MRS. NORTON.

――――

SMOKE NOT.

Smoke not! smoke not your weeds nor pipes of clay,

Cigars are made from leaves of cauliflowers;

Things that are doomed no duty e’er to pay,

Grown, made, and smoked in a few short hours.

Smoke not! smoke not!

Smoke not! smoke not! the weed you smoke may change,

The healthiness of your stomachic tone;

Things to the eye grow queer, and passing strange,

All thought seems undefined――save one――to be alone.

Smoke not! smoke not!

Smoke not! the tradesman whose weeds you smoke may die,

May perish from the cabbage bearing earth;

The sordid dun may to your chamber hie

Sent by the Trustees in their tinless dearth.

Smoke not! smoke not!

Smoke not! smoke not! O warning vainly said,

Cane and cap-paper since we first did try;

Smoke flings a halo round the smoker’s head,

And all in vain do anxious mothers cry

Smoke not! smoke not!

(Popular in Oxford in 1861).

――――

“STAY” NOT!

THE SURGEON’S SONG TO THE SEX.

(_Sung by Dr. Richardson._)

“Stay” not! No longer don

Tight cincture to your hurt,

Trust Lady Harberton,

Try the divided skirt.

Most parlous is your state,

Your only hope of cure

Lies――try it ere too late――

In dual garmenture.

“Stay” not! “Stay” not!

“Stay” not! The torturing steel,

The rib-compressing lace,

Will mar the human weal,

Will wreck the human race.

What profits waist of wasp.

Shape on the hour-glass model,

When you don’t breathe, but gasp,

When you don’t walk, but waddle?

“Stay” not! “Stay” not!

[_And they stay not――to listen_.

_Punch._ February 17, 1883.

――――

SONG OF THE ELECTION.

Vote not, vote not for me, I pray,

There’s fatal weakness in your vaunted powers,

My foes will laugh, my friends will slink away

Soon as they hear that you are one of ours.

Vote not! Vote not!

Vote not for me! Oh, keep your word to Wild,

’Twill serve me better than if faith you broke,

I knew the value of your hate, and smiled,

But, oh! to have you for me is no joke!

Vote not! Vote not!

Vote not! Vote not! Oh, warning vainly given;

Oh, why be generous at another’s cost?

Against your vote alone I might have striven,

But when you used your influence all was lost.

He votes! all’s lost!

From _Poems of a Life_, by Lord Sherbrooke (Robert Lowe.)

――――:o:――――

SOME DAY.

(_Music by Milton Wellings._)

A PARODY.

We know not when the day shall be;

We know not how the cost to meet;

What sites to choose, should all agree;

Or will our plans work when complete.

It may not be till years have passed,

Till crowded hordes plague sweeps away.

Debate is long――but, poor, at last

Our wordy wars may end――Someday.

Someday, Someday, Someday we shall house you,

Though we know not when or how; though we know not when or how;

Tories first, Tories first――first have said they’d house you;

Think of this, Vote for us now, good artisans, Vote for us now.

We cared not once your woes to hear,

Nor how you died, nor how you live;

But now election time grows near,

Your votes to us we’d have you give;

And when we’re in, Someday, Someday,

Streets wider grown, well built, you’ll see;

And ev’ry man, new quartered, may

Have first-rate rooms, almost rent free.

Someday, Someday, Someday we shall house you,

Though we know not when or how; though we know not when or how;

Tories first, Tories first――first have said they’d house you;

Think of this, Vote for us now, good artisans, Vote for us now.

REPEALER.

_Truth._ November 15, 1883.

――――:o:――――

STRANGERS NOW.

(After “Strangers yet” by R. Monckton Milnes, Lord Houghton.)

Set to Music by Claribel.

Years of chequered life together,

Days of fair and stormy weather,

Hours of toil and weary pain,

Moments of eternal gain――

All are gone――we know not how

And have left us strangers now!

Words that flowed to lighten care,

Thoughts which others could not share

Hopes too bright for mortal eyes,

Prayers for wisdom from the skies,――

All have ceased――we know not how

And have left us strangers now!

Will it evermore be thus?

Shall the past be lost to us

Can the souls united here

Never once again be near?

Must we to the sentence bow

“Strangers ever――Strangers now!”

Thorns amid the roses press

Earth is but a wilderness;

Flitting o’er a fallen race

Love can find no resting place.

Where his flowers immortal grow

Shall we strangers be as now?

_Once a Week._ 1869.

――――:o:――――

“THE BEATING OF MY OWN WIFE.”

(Air――“The beating of my own heart,” by Lord Houghton).

I’d melted all my wages,

Ere of beer I had my fill,

For a bob I asked the Missus

――There’s a way where there’s a will.

She refused, I took the poker,

The neighbours never stirred,

For the beating of my own wife

Was the only sound they heard.

A sneak blowed to the Crushers,

I was lugged afore the Beak――

But I know’d that it was nothing:

The old gal had her squeak:

They fined me forty shillings,

I paid it like a bird,

And the beating of my own wife,

Perhaps, that night was heard.

But rights is rights no longer;

CROSS swears he’ll eat his hat,

Or jolly dogs, as wops their gals,

Shall suffer from the Cat.

If that brutal measure passes,

Take WILLIAM SIKES, his word,

That the beating of his own wife

Will not again be heard.

_Punch._ November 21, 1874.

――――

LOVE AND SCIENCE.

[The Sphygmophon is an apparatus connected with the telephone, by the

help of which the movements of the pulse and heart may be rendered

audible.]

I wandered by the brookside,

I wandered by the mill;

The Sphygmophon was fixed there,

Its wires ran past the hill.

I heeded not the grasshopper,

Nor chirp of any bird,

For the beating of my own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

To test this apparatus,

One end I closely press’d,

The other, at a distance,

I hoped was next his chest.

I listened for his footfall,

I listened for his word,

Still the bumping of my own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

He came not, no, he came not――

The night came on alone;

And thinking he had tricked me,

I loosed the Sphygmophon.

The evening air passed by my cheek,

The leaves above were stirr’d,

When――the thumping of his own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

With joy I grasped the magnet,

When some one stood behind,

His hand was on my shoulder

(But that I did not mind).

Each spoke then――nearer――nearer,

We shouted every word;

But the booming of our own hearts

Was all the sound we heard.

_Funny Folks._ March 29, 1879.

――――

MY KING.

(After “My Queen.” Music by Blumenthal.)

When and how shall I meet him, if ever?

What are the words he first will say?

How will the barriers now that sever

Our kindred spirits be rolled away?

This self-same daylight on him is shining,

Shining somewhere the while I sing――

The only one who, my will resigning,

Could I acknowledge my King, my King!

Whether his hair be golden or raven,

Whether his eye be dark or blue,

I know not now, but ’twould be engraven

Some day hence as the loveliest hue.

Many a face I have liked for a minute,

Been charmed by a voice with a pleasant ring

But ever and aye there was something in it,

Something that could not be his, my King!

I will not dream of him, handsome and strong,

My ideal love may be weak and slight;

It matters not to what class he belong,

He would be noble enough in my sight.

He may not be brilliantly gifted, my lord,

Or he may be learned in everything,

But if ever he comes he will touch the chord

Whose melody waits for the hand of its King!

But he must be courteous towards the lowly,

To the weak and sorrowful, loving too;

He must be courageous, refined, holy,

By nature exalted, and firm, and true.

To such I might fearlessly give the keeping

Of love that would never out-grow its spring:

There would be few tears of a woman’s weeping

If they loved such men as my King, my King!

_London Society._

“My Queen,” which appeared originally in _London Society_ some time

before the above imitation, consisted of four verses, but as arranged

by Blumenthal the second verse is omitted:――

Whether her hair be golden or raven,

Whether her eyes be hazel or blue,

I know not now but ’twill be engraven,

On that white day as my perfect hue.

Many a girl I have loved for a minute,

Worshipped many a face I have seen;

But ever and aye there was something in it,

Something that could not be hers, My Queen.

――――

MY SCHEME.

(As sung with great success by the L-d Ch-nc-ll-r).

Why and when were we driven to moot it?

Was it knocked off in an afternoon?

Will the Roman-Catholic Bishops hoot it?

Have we set it afloat too late?――too soon?

Did we try it because we feared a flounder?

No matter.――Since still we reign supreme,

Admitting that nothing simpler, sounder,

Have we ever turned out than, “My Scheme, my Scheme!”

* * * * *

_Punch._ July, 12, 1879.

――――

ONLY A LOCK OF HIS HAIR.

(Companion to the popular song, “Only a lock of Her Hair.”)

Only a lock of his hair,

Last of some twenty and seven;

Souvenirs all to the fair,

In the heyday of ecstacy given.

Lost in the frolics of youth――

In the time to which thought has recalled one;

To the Phrynes, declaring, forsooth,

That the lover for them’s not a bald one.

Only a lock of his hair,

Last of the twenty and seven;

And then the bald pate, which the wag

Has wittily likened to heaven

(And whatever we think of the taste,

The wit there can be no denying)――

As a place bright and shining above,

Where there’s never more parting nor dye-ing.

――――

ONLY.

Only a common door yard

Back of a common flat;

Only a kitchen doorstep.

And an old J. Thos. cat

Lazily in the sunshine

Dozing on the mat.

Only an open window

Directly overhead;

Only a fiendish boarder,

His face with grins o’erspread

(All of which implies a big surprise

For that sleeping quadruped).

Only a pitcher of water

Dumped with precision square

Icy down upon that J. T. C.

So calmly sleeping there――

And a frenzied chunk of cat-meat

Jumps six ft. in the air.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

Only a hair on his shoulder,

Long, and wavy, and brown,

Only a cock-and-bull story

In exchange for his wife’s deep frown.

Only a broken broomstick

Wildly waved in the air;

Only a strip of court-plaster――

His wife had discovered the hair.

_The Evening Gazette._ [Aberdeen], _February_ 5, 1886.

――――

A CAT-ASTROPHE.

Only a cyclist gigantic,

Astride on a sixty-inch wheel,

Eyeing sidewise a maiden romantic,

As he drives on his swift steed of steel.

Only a poor little tabby,

Slinking slyly across the smooth street,

Her mottled fur dirty and shabby,

Out she darts from beneath the girl’s feet.

Only a sky-rocket header,

While the maiden just stands still and stares;

A poor feline, who couldn’t be deader,

And a whopping old bill for repairs.

_Once a Week._ June, 1886.

――――:o:――――

THE LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

I’m sitting on the stile, Mary, where we sat side by side,

On a bright May morning, long ago, when first you were my

bride.

The corn was springing fresh and green, and the lark sang loud

and high,

And the red was on your lip, Mary, and the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary, the day is bright as then,

The lark’s loud song is in my ear, and the corn is green again,

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, and your breath warm on

my cheek;

And I still keep listening for the words you never more may speak!

’Tis but a step down yonder lane, and the little church stands

near,

The church where we were wed, Mary――I see the spire from here:

But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, and my step might break

your rest;

For I’ve laid you, darling, down to sleep, with your baby on your

breast.

I’m very lonely now, Mary, for the poor make no new friends;

But oh, they love the better far, the few Our Father sends!

And you were all I had, Mary, my blessing and my pride:――

There’s nothing left to care for now, since my poor Mary died!

Yours was the brave good heart, Mary, that still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul, and my arm’s young

strength was gone:

There was comfort ever on your lip, and the kind look on your

brow;

I bless you for the same, Mary, though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile, when your heart was like to

break,

When the hunger-pain was gnawing there, and you hid it for my

sake!

I bless you for the pleasant word, when your heart was sad and

sore;

Oh! I am thankful you are gone, Mary, where grief can sting no

more.

I’m bidding you a long farewell, my Mary, kind and true,

But I’ll not forget you, darling, in the land I’m going to,

They say there’s bread and work for all, and the sun shines

always there;

But I’ll not forget Old Ireland, were it fifty times as fair!

And often, in those grand old woods, I’ll sit and shut my eyes,

And my heart will travel back again to the place where Mary lies;

And I’ll think I see that little stile where we sat side by side,

And the springing corn, and the bright May morn, when first you

were my bride!

LADY DUFFERIN.

――――

THE TENANT’S FAREWELL.

(_A Lay of the 24th of December_.)

I’m flitting in the style, Mary,

Which each half year we’ve tried,

At Michaelmas and Lady-day,

Since first you were my bride.

The quarters follow quickly on,

And the rents mount up so high;

But there’s brass upon my cheek, Mary,

And there’s no green in my eye.

The place is greatly changed, Mary,

We’ve boned the fixtures all;

We’ve torn the locks from off each door,

The bell-pulls from each wall.

And we’ll miss our soft warm beds to-night,

To-morrow’s quarter day;

And the landlord’s waiting for the rent

I never mean to pay.

I’m very busy now, Mary,

The while yon cart attends,

For I’m packing up our furniture,

And all our odds and ends:

For these goods are all we have, Mary

Our household’s joy and pride;

And there’s nothing left to seize on now,

We’ve packed them all inside.

We’re bidding now a long farewell,

My Mary, to our den;

And we’ll not forget next Quarter-day

To do the same again.

Folks say it is but fair to pay

One’s landlord, I don’t care;

For I ne’er intend to do so,

Were it fifty times as fair.

_Diogenes._ 1853.

――――

THE LAY OF THE HENPECKED.

_By Lady Sufferin._

I’m sitting in a style, Mary,

Which doesn’t coincide

With what I’ve been accustomed to

Since you became my bride;

The men are singing comic songs,

The lark gets loud and high,

For I’ve ask’d――since you’re from home, Mary――

A party on the sly.

The place is rather changed, Mary,

Of smoke it slightly smells,

And the table and the floor are strewn

With heaps of oyster shells;

And the men have marked your damask chairs

With many a muddy streak,

And they’ve drawn burnt cork moustaches on

Your mother’s portrait’s cheek.

I’m very jolly now, Mary,

’Midst old and valued friends,

(Though they’ve in the carpet burnt some holes,

With their Havannahs’ ends).

For thou wert somewhat cross with me,

And ever apt to chide,

But there’s nothing left to care for now

You’re gone to the sea-side.

And yet I fear when all you’ve learnt,

This ev’ning’s work I’ll rue;

And I’ll not forget it, darling, for

You won’t allow me to.

In vain they sing “The Pope he leads,”

Likewise “Begone dull Care;”

For at thought of you, I vow I can’t

Sit easy in my chair.

_Our Miscellany_, edited by E. H. Yates, and R, B. Brough,

(London, Routledge & Co., 1856).

This amusing Parody had already been published in Albert Smith’s _The

Man in the Moon_.

――――

SONG FOR THE SITZ.

I’m sitting in this style, Mary,

The bathman by my side;

And if you saw me now, Mary,

You would not be my bride;

They call this hatching health, Mary,

I cannot tell you why;

There’s water to my waist, Mary,

And water in each eye.

From _Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch_, by J. B, Oddfish.

London: Simpkin Marshall & Co., 1865. The same amusing little work

contains parodies of the following songs:――“Still so Gently;” “Kiss me

quick, and go my Honey;” “The Storm” (Cease Rude Boreas); and a long

one on “We’re a ’Noddin,” entitled “We’re all Pressing.” These Songs

are explanatory of the treatment adopted at the various Hydropathic

Establishments in Malvern.

――――

CHANGED FOR THE WORST.

I’m sitting at my window, Jack,

Where we’ve sat side by side,

Many a bright ev’ning long ago,

In life’s thoughtless, gay spring tide,

When we thought more of pleasure, Jack,

Than three per cents or four:

Ah, those were pleasant days, my boy――

But days we’ll see no more!

This place is greatly changed, Jack,

The fields are all “clean gone,”

The shady lanes through which we strolled

Have all been built upon:

My house is flanked by a “Dun Cow,”

A “Green Man,” and a “Duke,”

A chandler’s shop is opposite――

The owner’s name is Snook!

“Solitude” is now “Victoria-street,”

“The Hermitage” “Albert-square,”

“The Fairies’ Haunt” a Music Hall,

In which I’ve got a share.

A cab-stand’s near “Our Lady’s Well,”

A workhouse in “Love Lane,”

A church and schools in “Lovers’ Walk”

From near which starts the train!

We’re treated to all “London cries”

From morn till dewy eve,

And strong-lunged preachers in the streets

Beseech us to “believe;”

We’re taxed for water, streets, and gas,

And “Bobbies” by the score――

Ah, everything is changed, Jack,

From the happy days of yore!

But, worse than all, the weather, Jack,

Has quite “gone to the dogs”――

In May we’d sleet, in June we’ve frost,

In July we’ll have fogs;

I cannot leave the house, Jack,

But I shiver with the cold――

Ah, the weather’s not the same, boy,

As in the days of old!

And _I_ am greatly changed, Jack,

I do not walk so straight

As when each day beheld us

At pic-nic, race, or _fête_;

My hair has grown quite thin, Jack,

My lungs are far from right,

I’ve rheumatism, lumbago, gout,

I cannot sleep at night.

I think if I’d a wife, Jack,

She’d make me soon all right,

By watching o’er my comfort, boy,

Both morn, and eve, and night:

I’ll take one,――if I find a girl

Of beauty, youth, and wealth,

Who wants a husband sound at heart,

Though not quite sound in health!

_The Hornet._ June 21, 1871.

――――

THE CHURCHYARD STILE.

(An Imitation).

I left thee young and gay, Mary,

When last the thorn was white;

I went upon my way, Mary,

And all the world seemed bright;

For though my love had ne’er been told,

Yet, yet I saw thy form

Beside me in the midnight watch;

Above me, in the storm.

And many a blissful dream I had,

That brought thy gentle smile,

Just as it came when last we leaned

Upon the Churchyard Stile.

I’m here to seek thee now, Mary,

As all I love the best;

To fondly tell thee how, Mary,

I’ve hid thee in my breast.

I came to yield thee up my heart,

With hope, and truth, and joy,

And crown with Manhood’s honest faith

The feelings of the Boy.

I breathed thy name, but every pulse

Grew still and cold the while

For I was told thou wert asleep

Just by the Churchyard Stile.

* * * * *

ELIZA COOK.

――――

THE LOW-BACKED CAR.

When first I saw sweet Peggy,

’Twas on a market day,

A low-back’d car she drove, and sat

Upon a truss of hay;

But when that hay was blooming grass,

And deck’d with flowers of spring,

No flow’r was there that could compare

With the blooming girl I sing.

As she sat in the low-back’d car――

The man at the turnpike bar

Never asked for the toll,

But just rubb’d his old poll,

And looked after the low-back’d car.

* * * * *

――――

THE LOW-NECK’D DRESS.

When first I saw Miss Clara,

A west-end ball ’twas at,

A low-neck’d dress she wore, and near

The open door she sat;

But when that door was thriving oak,

Exposed to tempests keen

And biting air

So much, ’twas ne’er

As the blooming girl I mean,

As she sat in her low-neck’d dress,

Becoming I must confess;

For of all the men round,

Not one could be found,

But looked after the low-neck’d dress.

The polka’s tumult over,

The fondest of mammas

Her daughter calls, and hints at shawls;

But scornful “hums” and “ha’s”

From Clara (artful goddess!)

The kind proposal meet――

Quite faint she feels――

She fairly reels――

She never could bear the heat!

So she sits in her low-neck’d dress;

But the heat would have troubled her less,

For long weeks will have roll’d

Ere she’s rid of her cold,

That she caught from the Low-neck’d dress.

I’d rather see those shoulders

’Neath dowdy cloak of fur,

Or pilot coat, and round that throat

A ploughman’s comforter;

For I’d know that tender bosom

Was safe from climate’s ill,

And the heart so sweet

Would much longer beat

Than I now feel sure it will

While she clings to her low-neck’d dress

I’ve proposed, and she answer’d “yes.”

Next week it’s to be,

But make sure I shall see

That it’s not in a low-neck’d dress.

_Diogenes._ October, 1853.

――――

THE DINING CAR.

When first I used the railway,

’Twas in Mugby Junction days,

With their sandwiches so salt and stale,

Their buns with the fly-blown glaze,

Their Melton pies of weight and size,

Soup too hot down to fling,

And sausage-rolls, if not men’s souls,

Their stomachs made to wring.

As you jumped from your first-class car,

The minxes at Mugby Bar

Your change tossed down,

With a flounce and a frown,

And a haughty, “There you are!”

Five minutes, a frantic fixture,

You strove with might and main

To gulp some scalding mixture,

While the bell rang――for the train!

Your tea or soup you swallowed,

As much as did not fly

On your shirt-front or your waistcoat,

From the dense crowd hustling by:

While the minxes at Mugby Bar,

Smiled, serene, upon the war,

For they’d learnt the art,

And looked the part――

Of “We are your betters far.”

But in PULLMAN’S dining-car, Sir,

Now run on the Northern Line,

You’ve a soup, and a roast and _entrées_,

And your cheese and your pint of wine.

At his table snug the passenger sits,

Or to the smoke-room moves,

While on either side the landscape flits,

Like a world in well-greased grooves.

Thanks to PULLMAN’S dining-car,

No more Mugby Junction Bar――

No more tough ham and chicken,

Nor passenger-pickin’

For the minxes behind the Bar!

Then success to the Dining-Car, Sir,

With elbow-room allowed,

And leisure to dine and sip your wine,

And blow the digestive cloud.

_Punch_ takes off his hat to PULLMAN,

And his sleeping and eating car,

In the cause of British digestions,

Against Mugby Junction Bar!

Be the journey never so far,

With his dining and sleeping-car,

At our ease in our inn,

Along we spin,

Nor dread Mugby Junction Bar!

_Punch._ November 1, 1879.

――――:o:――――

THE OLD BRIGADE.

Where are the boys of the Old Brigade

Who fought with us side by side?

Shoulder to shoulder, and blade by blade,

Fought till they fell and died!

Who so ready and undismayed?

Who so merry and true?

Where are the boys of the Old Brigade;

Where are the lads we knew?

Then steadily, shoulder to shoulder

Steadily blade by blade!

Ready and strong, marching along,

Like the boys of the Old Brigade.

* * * * *

F. E. WEATHERLY.

This stirring song, set to a martial air by Odoardo Barri, was

dedicated to the Royal Artillery Brigade, it is also a favourite march

of the celebrated old corps, the London Rifle Brigade, whose band

generally plays it on parade after the Regimental march “Ninety-five,”

of which a parody is given on page 20.

――――

THE LIBERAL BRIGADE.

Sons of the old and staunch brigade,

Who marched on side by side,

Muster your forces of every grade,

And scatter the foemen wide.

Let us be ready and none dismayed,

Let us be steady and true;

As sons of the old and staunch brigade,

The old pioneers we knew.

Steadily shoulder to shoulder,

Ready and none dismayed,

Marching along, steady and strong,

Like sons of the old brigade.

Form in the streets of the busy town,

Form in the rural lane,

Form where the turreted mansions frown,

And form on the open plain.

Liberals all, give your cheerful aid,

Manfully play your part;

And, like your sires of the old brigade,

You’ll live in your country’s heart.

Steadily shoulder to shoulder,

Ready and none dismayed;

Marching along, steady and strong.

Like sons of the old brigade.

From _Songs for Liberal Electors_, 1886.

――――

PROFESSOR BROWNE’S WONDERFUL TONIC LOTION.

Rare were the joys when our hair decayed,

We’d naught but to hide our pride:

Older and older, shade did fade,

Naught but to tell it died.

Who so ready as Browne to aid

With Tonic Lotion true?

Try, and with joy see, undismayed,

Hair where before none grew.

Then steadily bolder and bolder,

Steadily shade by shade,

Healthy and strong, hairs come along,

Oh! the joys of Browne’s potent aid.

Over the sea far and wide they cry――

“Browne’s Tonic Lotion we love;

Roots gain new strength, young shoots look spry,

And fresh comes a crop above.

Not weak and shabby, now they are made

Strong, full of grace, and smart;

So great our joy, thanks to Browne’s best aid.

That deeply we’ll praise Browne’s art.”

Then steadily bolder and bolder,

Steadily shade by shade,

Healthy and strong, hairs come along.

Oh! the joys of Browne’s potent aid.

――――:o:――――

_Solo._――MRS. KENDAL.

I’m thirty-five! I’m thirty five!

And so to keep I shall contrive,

Until I long enough have played

An ample fortune to have made,

Then I, with bitter scorn, intend

The stage to fiercely reprehend,

And publicly to set my face

Against this national disgrace.

Meanwhile, ’till I can this contrive,

I’m thirty-five! I’m thirty-five!

When I the age of forty see,

No more the stage shall know of me;

No more will I take leading parts

With actresses who show their _cartes_;

That is, I won’t unless, of course,

Things unforeseen my hand should force.

If all goes well, though, at that age

I mean to gladly quit the stage!

Meantime, until my time arrive,

I’m thirty-five! I’m thirty-five!

_Truth Christmas Number._ 1884.

Mrs. Kendal (of the St. James’s Theatre, London) read a paper on the

modern stage at the Social Science Congress, held in Birmingham, in

September, 1884. Some of the opinions she expressed gave great offence

in theatrical circles.

――――:o:――――

FAR AWAY.

_A Song of Swindling Directors._

Where is our last big _coup_?

Far, far away!

Where are our profits, too?

Far, far away!

’Till, in our indigence,

We think of getting hence,

Perhaps clients have less sense,

Far, far away!

Far away! Far away!

Where are those “specs” we made?

Far, far away!

Where is our quiet trade!

Far, far away!

Once we had mansions fine,

Now lodgings are our line;

In two-pair backs we pine――

Far, far away!

Far away! Far away!

Gone are our prancing steeds,

Far, far away!

Gone those expensive weeds.

Far, far away!

Gone with our mashing suits,

Gone with our varnished boots;

Gone with our hothouse fruits――

Far, far away!

Far away, far away!

Once there were “bogus” lines,

Far, far away!

Likewise much “salted” mines,

Far, far away!

O how we “bulled” their shares,

Then how we turned to “bears,”

None now such “sells” prepares,

Far, far away!

Far away, far away!

P’rhaps folks can still be “done,”

Far, far away!

So we will cut and run,

Far, far away!

Here swindles now are vain,

But, once across the main,

We may pick up again,

Far, far away!

Far away, far away!

_Truth Christmas Number_, 1884.

――――

THE FARNBOROUGH SOW.

During the Anti-Tithe Agitation in Kent, in 1885, the following Parody

was sung by the Farmers, one verse only is omitted, on account of its

coarseness. In other respects the song is an exact copy of one

obtained at an Anti-Tithe Meeting in Farnborough, April, 1885:――

There is a fine old sow,

Down Farn-boro’ way,

She belongs to Brave Joe Stow.

And people say,

The Parson tried to sneak that sow

In a dirty way.

But Joe, he made the mud to fly,

Splashed the Bailiffs hip and thigh,

And made them from the village hie

Far, far, away.

Oh! where is the old Sow now?

Safe Farn-boro’ way.

And where is the Parson gone,

Nobody can say.

But Kentish Farmers all have swore

To pay his monstrous tithes no more,

And spite of Bailiffs by the score,

The Farmers win the day.

Let us lend Joe Stow a hand,

Down Farn-boro’ way.

To fight the Parson and his band

Who will ruin him they say:

Let’s fight against this cruel law,

Which from our labours fill the maw

Of hungry Parsons Rook and Daw,

Let’s sweep the curse away.

――――

There was another parody of _Far Away_ which was very popular in the

Music Halls a short time ago. Several of the verses were coarse and

slangy, the following were the best:――

FAR, FAR AWAY.

Where is a bobby found,

Far, far away!

It’s ten to one he’s off his round,

Far, far away!

Should you do wrong and hold the pelf,

And tip to some blue coated elf,

Where does he take himself,

Far, far away!

I sent off thirty stamps so meek,

Far, far away!

To learn to earn five pounds per week,

Far, far away!

It turned out a swindling plan,

The answer came, and thus it ran,

Start a baked potato can;

Far, far away!

Where are my Sunday clothes?

Far, far away!

Resting in sweet repose,

Far, far away!

Well looked after there’s no doubt,

They are simply up the spout,

But where’s the coin to get them out?

Far, far away!

The cry of outcast London’s known,

Far, far away!

All may hear their bitter moan,

Far, far away!

Homeless, starved, without a friend,

While we to savages attend,

All our Charity we send,

Far, far away!

――――

NUNEHAM.

“_Dulce est desipere in loco._”

Where is now the merry party

I was with a month ago,

At that jovial Nuneham picnic,

Where the ladies flirted so?

On that balmy summer evening

Chaperons behind did stay;

All the rest dispersed and wandered

In the woods, far away.

Some of us in paths secluded.

With the girls we loved did roam,

Mothers’ knew their pretty daughters

Soon would find another home;

So they like indulgent mothers

Were content to let them stay,

With us as we strolled in silence

Far away, far away.

Some unwed are still remaining,――

Will remain so to the last;

Some have changed their names, and like their

New names better than their past.

And they bless with all their little

Hearts that balmy summer day,

When in Nuneham’s woods they wandered

Far away, far away.

From _Lays of Modern Oxford_. By Adon. (London, Chapman and Hall,

1874).

――――:o:――――

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

Of all the girls that are so smart,

There’s none like pretty Sally,

She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

There is no lady in the land

Is half so sweet as Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,

And lives in our alley.

* * * * *

HENRY CAREY.

――――

A parody of this famous song, entitled _The Rhino_, appeared in _The

Spirit of the Public Journals_, 1824. It was devoted to insulting

Queen Caroline (the unfortunate wife of George IV). and her advisers,

Lord Brougham and Alderman Wood, and is quite obsolete now.

In “The Bentley Ballads” (London. Richard Bentley) is a complete Latin

version of _Sally in our Alley_, entitled _In Saram_. It will be found

on page 406 of the 1862 edition, and is signed G. K. Gillespie, A.M.

――――

SOLLY IN OUR ALLEY.

(By a grateful Cadger.)

Of all the flats with blunt that part,

There’s none so green as Solly;

He’s got a kind benevolent ’art,

And is know’d in our Alley.

Oh, don’t I like the blessed day

As comes afore the Monday!

Cause why, it is old Solly’s way

To go to church on Sunday.

And there a-watching nigh the door,

We beggars waits for Solly;

He takes sitch pity on the poor――

My eye, wot precious folly!

In mud and wet I slops about

Without a shoe or stockin,’

And all in rags, there’s not a doubt

But what my looks is shockin’.

But wet and dirt I never minds:

A hobjec’ melancholy,

I bears it all, because I finds

Thereby a friend in Solly.

I’m bound I’d get a underd pounds,

By cadgin’ out of Solly,

His wealth and riches so abounds,

And he’s a muff so jolly.

_Punch._ September 18, 1852.

――――

A SALLY IN FAVOUR OF OLD HARRY.

Of all the Peers within the House,

(And pretty well I know ’em),

There isn’t one with half the nouse

Of gallant HENRY BROUGHAM.

* * * * *

We for his equals look in vain,

’Twill take some time to grow ’em:

So let us hope we shall retain

Some long time yet――old BROUGHAM.

_Punch._ June 23, 1855.

――――

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

[As corrected by the Rev. Howling Blazes, of Clapham, to meet the

views of the Directors of Exeter Hall, who refused to allow the song

to be sung with the “objectionable” verse describing the singer’s

enjoyment of Sunday.]

Of all the days that’s in the week,

I ’umbly love but one day,

To which I give a Jewish name,

But heathens call a Sunday;

For then between three sermon-times,

I sit in my dark alley,

And think upon the wickedness,

Of this here worldly Walley.

_Punch._ March 29, 1856:

―――

BALLAD FOR JOHN BULL.

Of all the folks in purse that smart

I best know money’s valley;

My pocket lies so near my heart――

I _do_ hate that Shere Ali!

I ne’er enjoy a mind serene

On any blesséd one day;

Not e’en on that which comes between

The Saturday and Monday.

Those telegraphs, they break my rest;

From one ere I can rally,

Another comes about that pest

Of pests, Ameer Shere Ali!

But, for a hundred million pounds,

I must not shilly-shally:

With Russia close behind his bounds,

’Twon’t do to stand Shere Ali.

_Punch._ October 26, 1878.

――――

SALLY. (Sarah Bernhardt.)

(From a Comédie Francaise Point of View.)

Of all tragediennes so smart,

There’s none like famous Sally;

She’d be the darling of each heart

If she would’nt shilly shally,

There is no actress in the land

Who knows so well her “valley;”

No spoiled child of a noble art

So paid and puffed as Sally.

Of all the pets of the Francaise

There was but one the fashion,

And that’s when Sarah had to play

In scene of love and passion;

And then decked out in fine array,

With Hollingshead to rally,

They cared not what they had to pay

If they could witness Sally.

They thought of Sarah when at church,

And for her voice of honey

They left poor Irving in the lurch

To spend unbounded money

Upon this famous Gallic wench,

Who spoke so musically;

And those who knew the least of French.

Were loudest praising Sally.

’Tis true that many an English star

Was prone to rail at Sally,

And say the slaves of fashion are

Like slaves who row a galley.

Since, therefore, at the Gaiety

She can no longer dally,

How happy they――and we――shall be

To hear no more of Sally.

_Funny Folks._ July 19, 1879.

――――

BULLY IN OUR ALLEY.

Of all the brutes I loathe to meet,

One lives in our alley;

He leaves his wife with nought to eat

When he for drink doth sally.

Of all the days within the week

He only loves but one day,

And that’s the day that comes between

The Saturday and Monday.

For then, until his cash is gone,

He fills a flowing measure,

And ere he goes to bed at dawn,

He kicks his wife for pleasure.

Poor soul! she drinks a little too,

And gets in debt with “Tally,”

For which he beats her black and blue――

That Bully in our Alley.

She locks him up, but lets him free

By answering shilly-shally,

And he half kills her in his glee,

That Bully in our Alley.

May Justice, lately something slack,

And much inclined to dally,

Soon leave her mark upon his back――

That Bully in our Alley!

_Funny Folks._

THE LAST DAYS OF SALLY AND OUR ALLEY.

(_A Sanitary Comic Song by_ S. BRETT.)

Of all the girls in our town

There was none that suffered like Sally;

For Sal and her parents got broken down,

And with them, our alley.

Her mother sold sprats, and her father caught rats,

Round Holborn Hill and its valley;

And Sal sold mats and bought old hats,

When out she chose to sally. Chorus.

One unlucky night, the cats did afright,

And broke the sweet slumbers of Sally;

Then she threw all her hats, at the wicked old cats

That kicked up a row in the alley.

_Repeat 1st verse for Chorus._

The very next night, the cats out of spite,

Stole a first-class door mat from Sally,

Then the rest of her mats she threw at the cats

That stole all the lost goods in the alley.

Next day, the same cats, stole a bushel of sprats,

That belonged to the mother of Sally;

Then Sal let loose her father’s rats,

That destroyed all the cats in the alley.

Now the landlord, an old sot, a bull terrier had got,

And he tarried to bully poor Sally,

And he sat on his dog, which went the whole hog,

And destroyed all the rats in the alley.

Then the neighbours joined the cat’s meat men,

To have their revenge upon Sally,

And they set all their dogs at her, and then

Sal slew all the dogs in the alley.

The nan inspector came, said he, Whose to blame?

The neighbours said, ’twas Sally!

But the landlord quite calm, said hold out your palm,

And never mind the alley.

Then a fever came hot, and put an end to the plot,

And Sal’s neighbours and parents, and Sally,

And to complete the fun, when the mischief was done,

The School Board took the alley.

――――

THE GAIETY BAR.

Of all the days that’s in the week,

Your actor loves but one day;

And that’s the day that comes betwixt

The Friday and the Sunday.

For then he’s dressed all in his best,

At Spiers and Pond’s he’ll dally;

The ghost has walked, and he doth “part”

Like a Prince in Prosser’s Alley.

――――

SHILLY-SHALLY.

Of all the follies on _our_ part

There’s none like Shilly Shally,

A weakness that the Liberal cart

Upsets continually.

There’s not a cry,――Home-Rule, Church, Land,――

To which I will not rally,

But there’s one thing I _cannot_ stand,

That’s foreign Shilly-Shally.

Of policies absurd and weak

_The_ worst is Shilly-Shally.

If Office we’re about to seek,

I fear that principally.

Put to the test, I’ll do my best

Enthusiastically,

And follow Gladstone like the rest,

But oh! _don’t_ Shilly-Shally!

Let “Pussy”[3] be allowed to purr,

As Leader, musically;

But _not_ as Foreign Minister,

To play at Shilly-Shally!

If at the F. O. we may see

True nerve and _nous_, O Halle-

Lujah! how happy we shall be

Saved, saved from Shilly-Shally!

_Punch._ February 6, 1886.

――――:o:――――

ALICE GRAY.

She’s all my fancy painted her, she’s lovely, she’s divine,

But her heart it is another’s, it never can be mine;

Yet I have lov’d as man ne’er lov’d, a love without decay,

Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking for the love of Alice Gray.

* * * * *

LORD GREY.

“The poor Duke of Wellington has not yet got over his attempt to

supplant Lord Grey’s ministry. The remembrance of his discomfiture

still haunts him by day and night, and in the evenings, just before

sun-set, he may be heard by the stranger passing underneath the

windows of Apsley, to sing in pathetic tones, the following plaintive

melody:――

It’s all my fancy painted it,

It’s lovely, it’s divine;

But, alas! it is another’s,

It never can be mine.

Yet strove I as he never strove,

Efforts without decay;

Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking,

For the place of premier Grey.

His table now is loaded,

With notes in black and white,

And his salary so liberal,

He clutches with delight.

The cash, alas! is not for me,

The money’s turned away;

Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking

For the place of premier Grey.

For that I’d take the liberal side,

For that the bill call good,

For that I’d dare the rabble strife,

Though it cost a sea of blood.

By night I’d take no slumbers,

Whate’er e’en Praed might say,

But scorn’d is the heart that’s breaking,

For the place of premier Grey.

I’ve sunk beneath Reform’s bright sun,

I’ve shook ’neath Brougham’s blast;

But my pilgrimage is nearly done,

The heavy conflict’s pass’d.

And when the great Act digs my grave,

Party will haply say,

“Oh! his heart, his heart was broken,

For the place of premier Grey.”

_Figaro in London._ August 11, 1832.

――――

SALLY MAY.

She’s naught my fancy painted her,

She’s not at all divine;

I wish she was another’s

But fate has made her mine:

I’m used as man was never used;

I never have my way――

My peace, my peace is broken,

By cruel Sally May!

Her sandy hair is scattered o’er

A face of dingy white,

Her goggle eye now sleepy looks,

Now flashes fierce with spite!

Her sandy hair I hate to see――

Her eyes are set awry,

My rest, my rest is broken,

By cruel Sally May.

From her I’ve climb’d the mountain’s side,

From her have braved the flood!

With her I’ve felt the battle’s strife,

For she has shed my blood――

By night she breaks my slumbers,

And watches me by day,

My rest, my rest is broken,

By ugly Sally May.

I’ve sung beneath that noisy tongue,

And trembled as she passed,

But, now my business is done,

She’s broke my head at last,

And when the doctor binds my wound,

In pity he will say,

His head, his heart was broken

By wicked Sally May!

From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin.

――――

CAPTAIN GRAY.

He’s all his agent painted him,

A captain in the line;

But his pay he spent on others,

And none has e’er been mine.

I work’d as ne’er a tailor work’d

For him without delay;

And I became a bankrupt,

Through trusting Captain Gray.

In dark blue coat all braided o’er,

In ducks of spotless white,

In bright velvet waistcoat,

He flashes out at night,

That coat was braided all by me;

Those ducks and waistcoat gay

I made, and am a bankrupt,

Through trusting Captain Gray.

I’ve sunk beneath the bailiffs touch,

I’ve into gaol been cast;

But my imprisonment is done,

And I’m white-washed at last.

Oh, when the court my schedule had,

My lawyer there did say,

Th’ insolvent was a bankrupt,

Through trusting Captain Gray.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

ALICK GREY.

He’s all my fancy painted him,

He’s all I thought divine;

But his heart it is decoy’d away,

He never can be mine:

Yet I ador’d, and dearly lov’d,

A love without decay:

Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking

For the love of Alick Grey.

I’ve sunk beneath the summer’s sun,

And tremble in the blast,

But now my course is nearly run,

The weary conflict’s past;

And when the turf lies o’er my grave,

May pity haply say,

Oh! her heart, her heart was broken,

For the love of Alick Grey.

From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin.

――――

THE SONG OF THE HUMBUGGED HUSBAND.

She’s not what fancy painted her――

I’m sadly taken in;

If some one else had won her heart, I

Should not have cared a pin.

I thought that she was mild and good

As maiden e’er could be;

I wonder how she ever could

Have so much humbugged me.

They cluster round and shake my hand――

They tell me I am blest:

My case they do not understand,

I think that I know best.

They say she’s fairest of the fair――

They drive me mad and madder,

What do they want by it? I swear,

I only wish they had her.

’Tis true that she has lovely locks,

That on her shoulders fall:

What would they say to see the box

In which she keeps them all?

Her taper fingers it is true,

’Twere difficult to match;

What would they say if they but knew

How terribly they scratch?

_Punch._ 1842.

――――

KITTY BROWN.

She’s all the chimney sweep described,

She’s eats as much as nine,

But her appetite it is her own,

And never can be mine;

Yet eat I more than any man,

In country or in town.

Oh! a bullock’s heart I’m frying

For the lunch of Kitty Brown.

Her false and crooked teeth fix in

A mouth both grim and wide,

Her pig like eyes squint now and then,

And sometimes leer aside.

She did not buy those teeth for me

But food to gobble down――

Oh! a bullock’s heart I’m frying

For the lunch of Kitty Brown.

For her I’d keep an eating-house

If she provided cash,

For her if she would send a haunch,

I’d make some venison hash;

Charms which I never saw I’d praise,

Change to a smile her frown――

Oh! scorch’d is the heart that’s frying

For the lunch of Kitty Brown.

I’ve felt repletion’s horrid pain,

And suffered hunger dread,

But the cursed cat has run away,

With my bonny baked sheep’s head;

And as I rove, some wag may say,

That fool without a crown.

His _head_ lost, while he _warmed_ his _heart_,

For the lunch of Kitty Brown.

From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin.

――――:o:――――

HER HAIR IS TURNING GREY.

No wonder that they’ve painted her,

With rouge and carmine high,

And made her look so beautiful,

I guess the reason why:

She long has pass’d her prime of life,

Her flesh now falls away,

And, few men ever choose a wife,

Whose hair is turning grey!

She dresses fine and very smart,

She buys the best of lace;

She uses _Rowland’s Kalydor_,

To wash her hands and face.

Her dress becomes her very well,

Her bonnet looks quite gay,

But I’m awake――yes, I can smell,

Her hair is turning grey

She’s sunk, at least an inch in height,

She does not walk so fast,

But, her virgin state is not yet done,

Her single life’s not past;

For when the men have ogled her,

I’ve heard them whispering say

She must be old, and so I’ve thought

For her hair is turning grey!

From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin.

――――:o:――――

I CANNOT SING THE OLD SONGS,

Words and Music by CLARIBEL.

I cannot sing the old songs

I sung long years ago,

For heart and voice would fail me,

And foolish tears would flow;

For bygone hours come o’er my heart,

With each familiar strain.

I cannot sing the old songs,

Or dream those dreams again.

I cannot sing the old songs,

Or dream those dreams again.

* * * * *

“I CANNOT SING THE OLD SONGS.”

“Of course not; they’re hackneyed and out of fashion, and nobody knows

what half of them mean. We will change them into new songs, adapted to

the taste of the day.

We met――’twas on the rink,

And I feared he’d upset me;

He curved――I tried to think

Who he was, and he let me!

She wore a “pull back” costume

That night when first we met;

As flat as any pancake,

Her tablier worked with jet.

Her footsteps had no lightness

(Though high her heels were shown)

How could they, with a tightness

To sprightliness unknown?

I saw her but a moment,

Yet methinks I see her now,

With a cloud of lace _à sortir_

About her sunny brow.

“Cherry ripe, cherry ripe, ripe, ripe,” I cry,

“Fresh and fair ones”――when no Bobby’s nigh.

_Funny Folks._

――――

I CANNOT EAT THE OLD HORSE.

(Written during the agitation in Paris in favor of eating horse

flesh).

I cannot eat the old horse,

I rode long years ago;

I’m sure my teeth would fail me,

And foolish tears might flow.

For bygone hunts come o’er my heart,

With cuts from round and side;

I cannot eat the old horse,

On which I used to ride.

I cannot eat the old horse,

For visions come again;

Of bygone meets departed,

And runs in soaking rain.

But perhaps when raging hunger,

Has set his hand on me;

Then I may eat the old horse,

And hope t’will tender be.

――――:o:――――

OH! THE MISTLETOE BOUGH.

The mistletoe hung on the castle hall,

The holly branch shone on the old oak wall,

And the baron’s retainers were blithe and gay;

And keeping their Christmas holiday:

The baron beheld with a father’s pride,

His beautiful child, young Lovell’s bride;

While she, with her bright eyes, seem’d to be

The star of that goodly company.

Oh! the mistletoe bough.

“I’m weary of dancing now,” she cried;

“Here tarry a moment――I’ll hide――I’ll hide;

And Lovell, be sure thou’rt the first to trace

The clue to my secret hiding place.”

Away she ran――and her friends began

Each tower to search, and each nook to scan;

And young Lovell cried, “Oh! where dost thou hide,

I’m lonesome without thee, my own dear bride.”

Oh! the mistletoe bough.

* * * * *

THE MICHAELMAS GOOSE.

The Michaelmas goose lay in Leadenhall,

On the outside of a poulterer’s stall;

The poulterer’s boys were blithe and gay,

Keeping of Leadenhall Market-day:

The poulterer, though his stock profuse,

Kept twigging with pride the Michaelmas goose;

Whilst she with her neck broke, seem’d to be

The best of all gooses that could be.

Oh! the Michaelmas goose,

Oh! the Michaelmas goose.

“I’m tired of walking,” an old maid did cry,

“I’ve walk’d to the market a goose for to buy:

And poulterer be sure that you give me, I pray;

The best of your gooses for Michaelmas day!”

Then a thief ran by, and straight began,

To finger the goose, and away he ran:

And he the poulterer out loud did call,

“Oh! I’ve lost the best goose in all Leadenhall!”

Oh! my Michaelmas goose, &c.

They sought it that hour, they sought it all day,

They sought it in vain till the night passed away!

“The cleanest――the dirtiest――the filthiest spot,

The old maid sought wildly but found it not;

At length, as onward she did roam,

She looked far the goose all the way she went home;

When the old maid appeared, oh! the children did cry,

“Twig the old woman that went a large goose to buy!”

Oh! the Michaelmas goose, &c.

The thief was caught at morning’s light,

They searched his pockets, when oh; what a sight;

For a bit of a goose lay hidden there,

In the breeches pocket, the thief did wear:

The thief laugh’d aloud, and swore it was fun;

To the Beak who heard how the trick was done,

Who decided against him, so now laugh your fill!

For three months he was sent to step at the mill.

All through prigging a goose,

Oh! the Michaelmas goose.

――――

THE VORKHOUSE BOY.

The cloth vos laid in the Vorkhouse hall,

And the greatcoats hung on the vhite-vashed vall;

The paupers all were blithe and gay,

Keeping their Christmas holiday;

Vhen the master he cried, with a roguish leer,

You’ll all get fat on your Christmas cheer;

And one by his looks he seemed to say,

I’ll have more soup on this Christmas day.

Oh, the poor Vorkhouse boy, &c.

At length all of us to bed vos sent,

The boy vos missing in search ve vent;

Ve sought him above, ve sought him below,

Ve sought him with faces of grief and voe:

Ve sought him that hour, ve sought him that night,

Ve sought him in fear, and ve sought him in fright,

Vhen a young pauper cried “I know ve shall

Get jolly vell vopt for losing our pall.”

Oh, the poor vorkhouse boy, &c.

Ve sought in each corner, each crevice ve knew,

Ve sought down the yard, and ve sought up the flue;

Ve sought in each saucepan, each kettle each pot,

In the vorter butt looked, but found him not;

And veeks rolled on, ve vere all of us told,

That somebody said he’d been burked and sold;

Vhen our master goes out the parishioners vild,

Cries, “there goes the cove that burked the poor child.”

Oh, the poor vorkhouse boy, &c.

At length the soup-coppers repairs did need,

The copper-smith came, and there he seed;

A dollop of bones lay grizzling there,

In the legs of the breeches the boy did vear;

To gain his fill the boy did stoop,

And, dreadful to tell, he vos boiled in the soup!

And ve all of us say it, and say with a sneer,

That he vos pushed in by the overseer!

Oh, the poor vorkhouse boy &c.

From _The Victoria Minstrel_.

Published by JAMES DUFFY, Dublin.

――――

THE FAMILY GHOST.

At the Old Manor House and ancestral Hall,

Where the ivy climbs over the gable-end wall,

A Rookery lends the domain a charm,

And the rats and the mice within-door swarm;

And, time out of mind, as the talk hath been,

There’s a spectral Thing to be heard and seen.

O, the Family Ghost!

O, the Family Ghost!

A sound, as it were, of a rustling train,

That sweeps into the chambers, and out again,

And anon there appeareth an ancient Dame,

Like a figure stept out of a picture-frame,

In a stomacher, frill, and farthingale,

And her eyes glimmer through an antique lace-veil.

O, the Family Ghost!

O, the Family Ghost!

There’s a room where the Ghost is given to keep

So in that one apartment that none dare sleep,

No man-servant, maid servant, girl, or groom,

Will adventure a night in the Haunted Room.

Should the Host any Stranger away there stow,

The Ghost of the Family lets him know.

O, the Family Ghost!

O, the Family Ghost!

A something in sooth it may be to boast,

That a fellow hath gotten a Family Ghost,

For a Family Ghost to a Family Name

Is a sort of appurtenance much the same

As a coat-of-arms, or a Family Tree;

No such Ghost but for persons of pedigree.

O, the Family Ghost!

O, the Family Ghost!

In your stuccoed Villas it scorns to dwell;

Stands only the hold of your high-born Swell.

It disdains to appear――having too much pride――

To the family circle at Christmastide,

Where, if ghost-stories then be but truly told,

It could, an it listed, a tale unfold.

O, the Family Ghost!

O, the Family Ghost!

_Punch._ December 29, 1883.

――――:o:――――

HOME, SWEET HOME.

By J. HOWARD PAYNE, in the opera of “Clari,

the Maid of Milan.”

’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,

Be it ever so humble there’s no place like home!

A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,

Which seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.

Home! home, sweet home!

There’s no place like home!

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain!

Oh! give me my lowly thatch’d cottage again!

The birds singing gaily that came at my call:――

Give me these and the peace of mind, dearer than all!

Home! home, &c.

In the winter of 1833. John Howard Payne called upon an American lady,

living in London, and presented to her a copy of “Home, Sweet Home,”

set to music, with the two following additional verses addressed to

her:――

To us, in despite of the absence of years,

How sweet the remembrance of _home_ still appears

From allurements abroad, which but flatter the eye,

The unsatisfied heart _turns_, and says with a sigh

Home, home, sweet, sweet home!

There’s no place like home!

There’s no place like home!

Your exile is blest with all fate can bestow,

But mine has been checkered with many a woe!

Yet, though different our fortunes, our thoughts are the same

And both, as we think of Columbia, exclaim,

Home, home, sweet, sweet home, &c.

Whilst the words are thus clearly of American origin, the melody was

introduced by Sir Henry Bishop as a national Sicilian air, in his

_National Melodies_. Sir Henry afterwards adapted it to the words

“Home, Sweet Home,” in Howard Payne’s opera of _Clari_, 1823, from

which time its popularity dates. It has subsequently been called a

National Swiss air; but Sir Henry Bishop seems to have the right to

it. Donizetti introduced it, with some alterations, in his _Anna

Bolena_, not as his own, but as a representative English melody.

――――

ON THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

“The melody of Home, sweet home, must be impressed on the memory of

all. The only sphere in which poor Wellington can feel himself at home

is in ‘place, sweet place,’ and having once tasted of its pleasures it

continues to haunt his memory. To him the splendour of palaces and the

favour of his sovereign offer no longer a charm, ‘It is all very

well,’ he sometimes frantically exclaims, but:――