Be it ever so stormy there’s nothing like place,
A vapour from hell seems to shield us when there,
Which seek through the world you’ll ne’er meet with elsewhere.
Place! place! sweet, sweet, place.
There’s nothing like place, No! there’s nothing like place.
An exile from place levees dazzle in vain.
Oh! give me my Downing Street house once again,
The subs slaving daily that came at my call,
Give me them, with a sinecure, dearer than all.
Place! place! sweet, sweet, place.
There’s nothing like place. No! there’s nothing like place.
_Figaro in London._ Sept. 22. 1832.
――――
BEIGNET DE POMME.
’Mid fritters and lollipops though we may roam,
On the whole, there is nothing like Beignet de Pomme.
Of flour a pound, with a glass of milk share,
And a half pound of butter the mixture will bear.
Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme!
Of Beignets there’s none like Beignet de Pomme.
A Beignet de Pomme, you will work at in vain,
If you stir not the mixture again and again;
Some beer, just to thin it may into it fall;
Stir up that, with three whites of eggs, added to all.
Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme!
Of Beignets there’s none like the Beignet de Pomme!
Six apples, when peeled, you must carefully slice,
And cut out the cores――if you’ll take my advice;
Then dip them in batter, and fry till they foam,
And you’ll have in six minutes your Beignet de Pomme.
Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme!
Of Beignets there’s none like the Beignet de Pomme
ANONYMOUS.
――――
THE UNFINISHED HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT.
When Lord Brougham said there was no more dependence to be placed on
BARRY’S promises than on a broken reed, he was not perhaps aware that
it was really REID, and not BARRY, that acted as a barrier to the
completion of the Houses of Parliament. Since it has been discovered
that REID is the culprit, the following melody has been expressly
written for LORD BROUGHAM, who has sung it twice at the Beef Steak
Club, with considerable gusto.
“’Mid Westminster’s palace, while REID still shall roam
The Lords will ne’er taste of the blessings of home;
If BARRY e’er tries the new house to prepare,
His efforts by REID are all blown into air.
REID, REID, DOCTOR REID!
Of all great mistakes, there is not one like REID.
“While exil’d from home, all my speeches seem vain;
Oh give me my old House of Commons again.
The ‘cheers’ and the ‘hears,’ once my own I could call
Give me them, or that sack of wool, dearer than all,
REID, REID,” &c.
_Punch._ April 14, 1846.
――――
PARODY FOR PUSEYITES.
Though crosses and candles we play with at home,
To go the whole gander, there’s no place like Rome;
We’ve statues and relics to hallow us there,
Which, save in museums, you’ll not find elsewhere,
Rome, Rome, sweet, sweet Rome!
For all us Tractarians there’s no place like Rome
_Punch._ 1850.
――――
THE POLICEMAN’S HOME.
Up courts and round palaces long may they roam,
But ancient policemen have no sort of home
To offer them shelter, and comfort, and care,
The curbstone no more when their highlows can wear.
Home! home! they’ve no home:
For poor old Policemen there’s no place like home!
* * * * *
Then let a snug station await Life’s decline,
When once sturdy fists must their truncheons resign;
And ere his worn frame is consign’d to the loam,
Oh, grant the Policemen a few years of home!
Home! home! short, short home!
Let worn out Policemen have some place like home
_Punch._ December 6, 1851.
――――
SONGS OF THE CIRCUIT.
From Circuit to Circuit although we may roam,
Be it ever so briefless, there’s none like the Home;
A fee from the skies p’rhaps may follow us there,
Which, seek through the Courts is ne’er met with elsewhere
Home, Home, sweet sweet Home,
There’s none of the Circuits can equal the Home.
When out on the Home, lodgings tempt you in vain,
The railroad brings you back to your chambers again:
On the Home the expenses for posting are small;
Give me that――’tis the Circuit, the cheapest of all.
Home, Home, sweet sweet Home,
There’s none of the Circuits can equal the Home.
_Punch._ March 23, 1884.
――――
HOME, SWEET HOME!
_Modern Version._
’Midst mansions and palaces worthy of Rome,
How pleasant, great Bumble, is Poverty’s home!
Gehenna-like gloom seems to circle us there,
Which, seek through the world, is scarce met with elsewhere.
Foul fume as from Styx seems to hang o’er the spot,
Its gutters that reek and its rafters that rot,
Its rain-sodden dwellings that threaten to fall,
And its squalid, sad denizens, drearer than all.
Home, Home, Sweet, Sweet Home!
As ruled by King Bumble, a sweet place is Home!
An outcast from comfort, a bondsman to pain,
The shivering prey of the frost and the rain,
The thrall of King Bumble must patiently dwell,
’Midst scenes that might fit the grim Florentine’s Hell.
Foul garbage-choked footways snake on through the slum,
Where the sweet airs of heaven seem never to come,
Where a bird shuns to ’light, where a flower ne’er waves;
Where the grass will not grow, though it grows amidst graves.
Home, Home, Sweet, Sweet Home!
As ruled by King Bumble, a sweet place is Home!
Close-stacked, crazy rookeries, rotting and rank,
Pest-pregnant, plague-foul in each timber and plank,
Rear thick-huddled frontages, row upon row,
The smoke-pall above, and the swamp-ooze below.
Each garret-roof covers its horde――though it leaks,
Each cellar slough hides its pale crowd――though it reeks.
Dumb thralls, voiceless victims, none heeds their mute call;
But Dirt and Disease are the masters of all.
Home, Home, Sweet, Sweet Home!
As ruled by King Bumble, a sweet place is Home!
Hence Mammon draws tithe, and here Moloch takes toll;
Here conscienceless wealth, of the spiderish soul,
Sucks fatness from foulness in fœtid beast-lairs;
Whilst somnolent Bumble, as deaf to all pray’rs
As a drowsing King Log, all his powers lets fall,
And skulks in prone impotence. What though they crawl
From their dens to his knees, the poor souls, in appeal?
His brains are of wool, and his heart is of steel.
Home, Home, Sweet, Sweet Home!
As ruled by King Bumble, a sweet place is Home!
Deaf, blind to all pleas sense or feeling can urge,
Till King Pest, with his fierce, indiscriminate scourge,
Sallies forth from the loathsome, the horrible lair,
That himself and his imps with our pariahs share.
Then, who so affrighted, so helpless as he,
King Log, brainless Bumble? Ah! when shall we see
Some stout modern ghoul-slaying Champion come
To teach our poor outcasts the meaning of Home?
Home, Home, Sweet, Sweet Home!
As ruled by King Bumble, a sweet place is Home!
_Punch._ November 12, 1881.
――――
SONG OF THE PROFESSIONAL BEAUTY’S HUSBAND.
’Midst mansions and palaces so much I roam,
That it’s useless to long for an evening at home;
The charm from the heavens that falls on us there
I’ve never a chance to experience or share.
Home, home, sweet sweet home,
Be it ever so humble,
There’s no place like home!
An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain,
O give me my villa at Tooting again;
My pipe at the fireside; the lawn where I bowled;
And that sweet peace of mind, far more precious than gold!
Home, home, sweet home,
Be it ever so quiet,
There’s no place like home!
But parties perpetual now are my lot.
I’ve a home,――but I never enjoy it one jot;
It is only a place where I put on white ties――
Whence I drive with my wife in our nightly-jobbed flies.
Home, home, sweet home,
Be it ever so humdrum,
There’s no place like home!
O woe to the morning when, foolishly vain,
I gazed on my wife in the shopkeeper’s pane;
It was only a _carte_――but with anger I foam
When I think how it’s carted us both from our home.
Home, home, sweet home,
Be it ever so “homey”
There’s no place like home!
_Truth Christmas Number_, 1882.
――――
THE WEEKLY DISPATCH.
(PRIZE PARODY. January 28, 1883.)
’Mid hardships and hovels
Though we may roam,
From Dan to Beersheba,
There’s no place like home.
A fiend from below
Seems to worry us there,
Which, search through the world,
Is not met elsewhere.
Home, home! vile, vile home!
There’s no place like home;
There’s no place like home.
How hateful the squalling
Of children and wife!
While doctors and duns
Make a limbo of life.
Of all human dwellings
Beneath heaven’s dome,
Be they ever so shocking,
There’s no place like home.
Home, home! vile, vile home!
There’s no place like home;
There’s no place like home.
DAVID REID.
――――
“PLACE, SWEET PLACE.”
(Sung by an Old Whip).
Though clubdoms’s fair palaces
Welcome my face,
I cannot but grumble
There’s nothing like place.
A chance may arise
For a fellow who’s there,
But he’ll travel the world
Ere he meets it elsewhere.
An exile from “place,”
Fashion dazzles in vain,
Oh, give me my showy
Appointment again!
With members who tremble
And come at my call,
Give me this――or a pension,
More valued than all!
EXE.
――――
THE BARRISTER’S LAMENT ON LEAVING THE OLD COURTS,
AND GOING INTO THE NEW COURTS.
’Mid new courts and chambers,
Where’er I may roam,
There no place familiar――
I don’t feel at home.
A shade from the old hall
Has followed me here,
As a friend that’s departed,
Whose mem’ry is dear.
An exile from home,
Splendour dazzles in vain;
Oh, give me my dirty
Old Law Courts again!
I can’t say a word here,
My brief I let fall,
When the old place I think of,
And that dear, grimy Hall.
C. W. SCOTT.
――――
A VERSE TO HOME RULE.
In Westminster Palaces
We bluster and foam,
And say, if its bumble,
There’s no Rule like Home.
St. Stephen’s is charming,
St. Stephen’s is fair,
But it’s not the St. Stephen’s
We long for elsewhere.
Home, Home, sweet Rule of Home!
There’s no Rule like Home Rule,
No Rule like Home!
ANONYMOUS.
――――
In 1885 _Truth_ had two competitions on the song “Home, Sweet Home,”
the first (April 23, 1885), was for parodies, when twenty-five were
printed; the second (June 4, 1885) was for original third verses, and
twenty-eight replies were printed.
Selections from both these numbers are given below.
ORIGINAL AND THIRD VERSES TO “HOME SWEET HOME.”
Though bidden to roam, the world’s face to its end,
The power of home will attractiveness lend;
Then dearest and fairest of memories all,
Bid me come, and with rapture I’ll answer the call.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!
CUYUNI.
――――
Fond hearts bear it? sweetness o’er land, and o’er sea,
It’s mem’ry is with us where’er we may be;
Though time’s changes ringing nought else should remain,
Sweet home and its loved ones our hearts shall retain.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!
PICAFLOR.
――――
In the Soudan desert, ’neath Afric’s fierce sun,
After butchering Arabs, no honour being won;
Worn out by hard marches, we lay on the sand,
And longed for sweet home and our lov’d native land.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!
TOMMY ATKINS.
――――
Though far from dear England our lot may be cast
Our love and allegiance she’ll hold till the last,
New ties we contract, and affections we gain,
But Britain we mean when we sing the refrain:
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!
DALETH.
――――
In joy or in sadness, in care or in grief,
We fly to its bosom, and there find relief;
There love reigns supremely, and on till life’s wane
Our hearts shall re-echo that sweetest refrain:
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home!
PICAPTOR.
――――
Tho’ rich be our portion, or poor be our lot,
Tho’ years flying swiftly all else be forgot;
Tho’ fortune disdain us and friendship should veer,
Home’s mem’ry our hearts in their loneness shall cheer,
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!
PICAPTOR.
――――
I pray that I reach the old homestead once more,
And see the loved faces around, as of yore;
Of all fortune’s gifts, methinks this were the best,
At home, at life’s close, thus to peacefully rest.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!
W. P. (TENERIFFE).
――――
How many in dreams only shadow the bliss
Of home, where, alas, a mother’s last kiss
Is all that sustains them o’er life’s weary strand
Away from sweet home, and their dear native land.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home,
There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!
A. ATWOOD.
――――
Like bird to its nest, or like sheep to the fold,
I turn to my home from the world’s bitter cold;
For true, faithful hearts beckon me from afar,
And the flame of my ingle is my guiding star.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!
WINSTEAD.
_Truth._ June 4, 1885.
――――:o:――――
LAW, CHEAP LAW.
’Mid falsehood and fallacies, jingle and jaw,
Though often we stumble, there’s nothing like law!
There’s a charm in the wig, there’s a grace in the gown,
And say what they will, ’tis the best trade in town.
Law, law, cheap, cheap law,
There’s no trade like law; there’s no trade like law.
For counsel-at-law clients whistle in vain,
“Oh, give us our wasted retainers again;
The bright, golden guineas we paid at your call,
Give us these, and the ‘Fees on Brief,’ greater than all.”
Law, law, cheap, cheap law, &c.
LEX.
――――
BEEF, ROAST BEEF.
’Mid soup, fish, and entrées our stay will be brief,
Be it ever so gristly, there’s no meat like beef;
A true English taste seems to hallow this fare,
Which, eat what we will, is not met with elsewhere.
Beef, beef, roast, roast beef,
There’s no meat like beef; there’s no meat like beef.
Debarred from my beef, kickshaws tempt me in vain,
Oh, give me my plainly-cooked sirloin again;
The greens, piping hot, to be brought to my call,
Give me them with the under-cut, dearer than all.
Beef, beef, roast, roast beef,
There’s no meat like beef; there’s no meat like beef.
FRIAR TUCK.
――――
TEA, SWEET TEA.
’Midst mansions or cottages, where’er we may be,
Be it ever so feeble, there’s nothing like tea.
A balm that restores seems to perfume the air,
Which, seek through all comforts, is not met elsewhere.
Tea, tea, sweet, sweet tea!
There’s nothing like tea! there’s nothing like tea!
Forbidden my tea, all else tempts me in vain,
Oh, give me my Chinese infusion again.
The urn, singing gladly, responds to my call,
And brings back the soothing draught, cheering to all.
EDIORA.
――――
THE LONDON POOR’S LAMENT.
’Mid gin-shops or “palaces” though I may roam,
’Tis better than starving and freezing at home!
No food, fire, or candle is ever found there,
Such comforts, alas! must be sought for elsewhere.
Home, home, bleak, bleak home!
For sorrow and want there’s no place like home!
As exiles from home I and mine would be fain,
We pine for a log-hut or cottage in vain.
In a land where the poor are not forced “_to the wall_.”
Give us this and some “pieces” down――better than all!
Home, home, bleak, bleak home!
There’s no place in England, there’s no place called home.
CRYSTAL PALACE.
――――
(“Men are merriest when they are from home.――_Shakespeare._)
’Mid pleasures and palaces fain would I roam,
Be it ever so stately there’s no peace at home;
All bores ’neath the sky seem to follow us there,
Which, seek thro’ the world, may not meet us elsewhere.
Roam, roam, sweet to roam!
There’s no peace at home! there’s no peace at home!
A captive at home, comfort’s sought for in vain;
Oh, give me my bachelor freedom again;
The little club dinners, they came at my call;
Give me them, with the “pipe of peace,” dearest than all.
Roam, roam, sweet to roam! &c.
MOONSHINE.
――――
’Mid worry and bustle, where’er you may roam,
There is nothing can beat the Spring cleaning of home;
There’s a fuss and confusion then reigns in the air,
That, search where you will, is not met with elsewhere.
When Spring cleaning times come,
There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.
Exiled from my room, I must grumble in vain,
For they’re cleaning my lowly thatched cottage again;
Those sweetbirds, the charwomen, chatter and bawl,
’Till I give them a “piece of mind” louder than all.
When Spring cleaning time’s come, &c.
ANON.
――――
RUM, GOOD RUM.
Of all the strong drinks that are loved in the slum,
Be they ever so fiery, there’s none like good rum;
Its quickness in levelling a man with the ground
In no other liquor will ever be found.
Rum, rum, good rum, good rum,
There’s nothing like rum; there’s nothing like rum.
Though it’s hastening my ruin and my life is a stain,
Fill up the fire-water, I’ll drink it again;
Speak not of the pleasures I lose by my fall,
I tell you good rum is the dearest of all.
Rum, rum, good rum, good rum, &c.
MONA.
――――
JONES STILL JONES.
In islands or continents, this parodist depones,
Wherein he has wandered he’s always met Jones
In steamboats or trains, or balloons in the air.
If he sought for a change, Jones was sure to be there!
Jones, Jones, still, still Jones,
There’s no shirking Jones, there’s no shirking Jones.
In prairies and deserts again and again,
I have striven to dodge him, but always in vain;
On the top of Mount Blanc, and the Great Chinese Wall
When I paused to take breath, there was Jones after all!
Jones, Jones, still, still Jones,
There’s no dodging Jones, there’s no dodging Jones!
PRIMA DONNA.
――――
HOME RULER’S SONG.
’Neath measures and policies though we may groan,
Be we ever so humble we long for our own.
’Tis liberty’s charm bids us “Home Rule” declare,
And we’ll stir all the world if we don’t get our share.
Home Rule, rule at home!
There’s no rule like “Home,” there’s no rule like “Home!”
An exile from home is both cruel and vain,
So give us our coveted “Home Rule” again,
With a Parliament pledged to destroy British thrall;
And Charles Stewart Parnell as king over all,
Home Rule, rule at home! &c.
ROGGEE SHURT.
――――
When worries and creditors force you to groan,
For safety and freedom there’s nought like Boulogne,
In vain will bum-bailiffs or writs seek you there,
Very short is the distance, very cheap is the fare.
Boulogne! oh, Boulogne!
There’s nought like Boulogne, there’s nought like Boulogne.
I can laugh at all duns, bailiffs threaten in vain,
By Jove! they shan’t catch me on their side again.
By my wits I can manage to keep up the ball,
To be lagged for contempt would not suit me at all.
Boulogne! oh, Boulogne, &c.
NUTSHELL.
――――
ROME, SWEET ROME.
’Mid Ritualistic clergy, though we may roam,
Be they ever so High Church, there’s no place like Rome;
No Forty-nine articles harass one there,
No Penzance to rule what a parson must wear.
Rome, Rome! Sweet, sweet Rome!
There’s no place like Rome! There’s no place like Rome!
A concert from Rome, livings dazzle in vain,
Oh, give me my stole and my incense again;
The maids sighing daily who came to my call,
The piece of mind then that I gave to them all.
Rome, Rome! Sweet, sweet Rome!
CLERICUS.
――――
A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD SONG.
“She had a voice like a siren, and when she sang:――
“Mid play sure, sand pal aces, thoug heam a Rome,
Be it averse, oh! wum bull there, snow play sly comb,
H, arm from thesk eyeseam stew wallow a sheer,
Whitch seek through the whirl disneerm et twithel swear!”
――――there wasn’t a dry eye in the Tabernacle; but if the programme
hadn’t said, in clear, unmistakable print, that she was going to sing
“Home, Sweet Home,” a man might have thought his teeth loose without
ever guessing it.”
_American Paper._
――――
DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE EYES.
(From “The Forest,” by Ben Jonson,
born 1574, died 1637.)
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I’ll not look for wine.
The thirst that from my soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine:
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It would not wither’d be,
But thou thereon did’st only breathe,
And sent it back to me;
Since then, it grows and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.
――――
A PARODY.
Drink to me only from a jug,
And I will pledge in mine;
So fill my glass with whisky punch,
And I’ll not look for wine.
The thirst that in my throat doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove’s nectar sip,
That honour I’d resign.
* * * * *
(The Editor felicitously adds that the second verse is not worth
parodying.)
_Blackwood’s Magazine._ July, 1823.
――――
TO LYDIA’S GLASS EYE.
“From particulars supplied to the reporter of a Chicago paper by a
dealer in glass eyes in that city, it appears that there are as many
as a thousand wearers of these eyes in Chicago…. Twenty years ago
there were sold many more dark eyes than light … about twenty light
eyes are now sold to one dark.”――_Times._
Wink at me only with glass eye,
And I’ll respond with mine,
And smile not when the harmless fly
Goes crawling over thine.
I care not for the colour there,
Dark brown, or black, or blue,
Or even if you wink, _ma chère_,
With eyes of different hue.
I sent thee late a new glass eye,
Impervious to the tear,
Tinged with some new æsthetic dye,
And quite “too utter” dear.
You’ll wear it, won’t you, when you think
How faithful it must be,
For it is warranted to wink
At nobody but me?
_Punch._ April, 1881.
――――
Bring to me only, if you’re wise,
The ale that’s clear and fine;
Place but a quart within the cup,
I’ll call that quart divine.
――――
DRINKING SONGS FOR THE MEN OF THE PERIOD.
“What can you expect from a nation that lives chiefly upon
tonics.”――Vide _Saturday Review_. 1866.
1.
Drink wine only with thy Drugs
And I will drink with mine,――
Or leave a “peg” within the cup,
And I’ll not seek Quinine!
2.
O some may praise John Barleycorn,
And some the juice of Cadiz,
But I will sing of Chlorodyne,
That keeps me out of Hades.
3.
Boast not thyself in Sherries gold,
Or Claret’s crimson river,
There’s nothing like Taraxacum
To spur a sluggish liver!
4.
Ah hapless youth, life’s honey-sweets
Too deeply you beguile!
Soon must you quaff its bitter cup,
Quassia and Camomile!
5.
Pledge me a draught of the Pepsine Wine
To comfort thy spirit sore,
To-morrow you’ll play a knife and fork
As you never have played before
6.
Hey nonny, nonny,
Champagne is bonny,
At summer pic-nic or wedding feast;
But more for your weal,
Is Citrate of Steel,
Effervescing like German Yeast!
7.
On an Iron Age we fall――
Iron steeds, and Iron rail,
Iron ships and, worst of all,
Iron drinks instead of Ale!
8.
Life is cruel, false, and cold,
Steel thy heart against the scorner,
Steel it with the Tincture sold
At the Chemist’s round the corner!
9.
Iron drops such conquerors be
Over death, that hoary croaker,
That you’ll quite immortal be
When you’ve swallowed all your porter.
_Will-o-the-Wisp._ July 10, 1869.
――――
THE RINKER’S SONG.
Rink to me only with thine ice,
And I will sledge with mine;
Or heave a hiss but inly up,
And I’ll not look for whine.
The thirst that from a sole doth rise,
Doth ask a rink divine,
But might I on Jove’s necktie slip,
I would not change for thine.
I went to thee, late, a rosy youth,
Not so much honoring thee
As in the hope that, taking care,
I should not “Spiller’d” be.
But thou me send’st, in groanly truth,
Plump on back, ah me!
Since when my “ditto” suit I swear,
Smells asphaltely of thee!
_The Figaro._ June 10, 1876.
――――
THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE.
Talk to me only with thine eyes,
And I will hear with mine;
Turn hither all the light that lies
In those twin orbs of thine.
I shall not miss an H or two,
Nor find as many slips
Of grammar as I daily do
From these bewitching lips.
In such a deep impassioned glance
Could any eye suspect
A double negative, perchance;――
Which never ain’t correct.
Could any dazzled gaze descry,
In stars thus blue and bright,
A tendency to say, “Says I;”――
Which, I says, can’t be right.
Nay, Love and Prosody combined
Sit smiling evermore.
Within those eyes that speak a mind
Above grammatic lore.
Those lips may err――they often do;
But why should that surprise?
My love has nothing of the Blue
About her but her eyes.
From _A Town Garland_. By HENRY S. LEIGH. (Chatto and Windus. London,
1878.)
――――
PHILLIS IS MY ONLY JOY.
Phillis is my only joy,
Faithless as the wind or seas;
Sometimes coming, sometimes coy,
Yet she never fails to please.
If with a frown
I am cast down
Phillis smiling
And beguiling,
Makes me happier than before.
Though, alas! too late I find
Nothing can her fancy fix;
Yet the moment she is kind,
I forgive her all her tricks;
Which though I see,
I can’t get free;
She deceiving,
I believing,
What need lovers wish for more?
CHARLES SEDLEY.
――――
A RHYME OF THE HOAX.
Fillies _is_ my only joy――
Slippery jades as e’er one sees,
Sometimes forward, sometimes coy,
Sometimes game to win with ease.
If I’ve ill luck,
And back the ruck,
Yet disaster
Makes me faster.
Bet each year upon the Oaks.
Though, alas! I always find
There’s no guessing all their tricks,
Yet I still with constant mind
Risk my monkey’s, five or six;
This year may be
A case for me
Of cash――bereavement;
O ACHIEVEMENT.
Win! or ’tis a frightful _Hoax_.
_Echoes from the Clubs._ May 22, 1867.
――――
Fillies is my only joy!
Faithless though the jades oft be
Transient ever such annoy.
’Tis but so much £ s. d.;
Done are we brown
On Epsom Down,
Fillies shying,
Shiners flying,
Spooners sappier than before!
Though, alas! too late I find,
Fails the goal my fancy picks;
Since she’s not of womankind,
Freely I forgive her tricks.
Fortune’s slippy, ah!
Get on HIPPIA,[4]
I believing,
Ne’er misgiving,
Mean to risk my “tin” once more.
_Echoes from the Clubs._ May 29, 1867.
――――:o:――――
PARODIES OF ALFRED BUNN’S OPERATIC SONGS.
THE SOT BOWED DOWN.
The sot bowed down by too much drink,
To nearest post will cling;
Or in the gutter p’rhaps will sink,
Which can no comfort bring;
For all exciting spirits tend
The senses having flown,
To make a fool the only friend
That drink can call its own.
The sot will in his muddy lair,
Still ponder o’er the last
Strong glass he took, and could’nt bear,
But which he swallowed fast.
Till the police assistance lend,
And in a cell of stone;
Lock up all night the only friend
That drink can call its own.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
SONG OF JANUARY.
When other months amid the range
Of time’s revolving year,
Exhibit symptoms of a change
From what they should appear;
Though April fails to bring her showers;
Though March is mild and tame;
Though May forgets her buds and flowers,
You’ll find me still the same.
They say that Janus sways my lot,
That I two faces wear;
But, let me ask them, who does not?
In this false world of care.
Oh! I’m a month that’s always cold,
And who shall dare to blame,
If they’re at such a moment told
That I am still the same.
_Punch’s Almanac._ 1846.
――――
SELF-EVIDENT.
When other lips and other eyes
Their tales of love shall tell,
Which means the usual sort of lies
You’ve heard from many a swell;
When, bored with what you feel is bosh,
You’d give the world to see,
A friend, whose love you know will wash,
Oh, then remember me!
When Signor Solo goes his tours,
And Captain Craft’s at Ryde,
And Lord Fitzpop is on the moors,
And Lord knows who beside;
When to exist you feel a task
Without a friend at tea,
At such a moment I but ask
That you’ll remember me.
J. R. PLANCHE.
――――
A YULE-TIDE PARODY.
When other wits and other bards,
Their tales at Christmas tell,
Or praise on cheap and coloured cards,
The time they love so well;
Secure from scorn and ridicule
I hope my verse may be,
If I can still remember Yule,
And Yule remember me.
The days are dark, the days are drear,
When dull December dies;
But, while we mourn an ended year,
Another’s star will rise,
I hail the season formed by rule
For merriment and glee;
So let me still remember Yule,
And Yule remember _me_.
The rich plum-pudding I enjoy,
I greet the pie of mince;
And loving both while yet a boy,
Have loved them ever since,
More dull were I than any mule
That eyes did ever see,
If I should not remember Yule,
And Yule remember _me_.
ANONYMOUS.
From _London Society_. Christmas Number for 1881.
――――:o:――――
SONG FOR THE HALL PORTER.
I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls,
With tradesmen and duns outside,
And a large assembly of morning calls,
In carriage pomp and pride.
There were crowds too great to count, and most
For Bills unsettled came;
But I also dreamt that at my post
I sat dozing all the same.
I dreamt that footmen raised their hand,
And knock’d to a high degree,
With a noise few porters’ ears could withstand,
But they wasted it all on me,
I dreamt that one of the noisy host
Came forth and bawl’d my name;
But I also dreamt that fast as a post
I slept there all the same.
I slept there all the same.
From _George Cruikshank’s Table Book_. Edited by Gilbert Abbot à
Beckett.
――――
THE ALARMIST’S DREAM ABOUT THE GREAT EXHIBITION.
I dreamt that I stood in the Crystal Halls,
With Chartists and Reds at my side,
And that all who assembled in those glass walls,
Came there the contents to divide.
Of riches too great to count it could boast,
And jewels of world-wide fame;
But I found, when I woke, which surprised me most,
They remained there all the same.
I dreamt the swell mob was there in a band
With thieves of every degree,
And with skill that no police could withstand,
They picked all the pockets of we.
And I dreamt that one of the scampish host
To grab the Koh-i-Noor came;
But I found when I woke, which surprised me most,
It was safe there all the same.
_Punch._ June 14, 1851.
――――
LORD BROUGHAM’S DREAM.
“The foul, the false charge, that I have changed a single
opinion.”――_Vicar of Bray_.
I dreamt that I dined in Conservative halls,
With Peel and the Duke at my side;
That I went like their shadow, to morning calls,
To concerts, the club, or the ride.
And seldom or never to meet, did I seem,
With a Whig or a Radical name;
And yet――the most curious part of my dream――
My opinions were still the same!
And I dreamt of a Chancellor (strangely, of course,
For my senses were running a rig,)
Who said that “Persuasion was better than force,”
As he dazzled my eyes with his wig.
“Oh, beautiful wig!” thought I, “could I for thee
Turn this coat? Ay, or part with my name?”
And yet――the most wonderful matter to me――
My opinions were still the same!
_Punch._ April 13, 1844.
――――
BALLAD.
I dreamt that I sat in the House of Lords,
As Monteagle spoke at my side,
And into that sleep which his tone affords
I did imperceptibly glide.
There were lions too many to count――a host
Of creatures I knew not by name;
And I also dreamt――which puzzled me most――
That the figures were all the same.
I dreamt that huge monsters――a fearful band――
Were staring to such a degree
That the sight was more than I could withstand,
For they turn’d all their eyes upon me.
And I dreamt that King John’s unearthly ghost
Stepped forth my homage to claim,
When I woke and I found ’twas my bedstead’s post,
But it frightened me all the same.
――――
DREAMS OF MABILLE BALLS.
(The famous Moulin Rouge Restaurant and Mabille disappear together
from the Champs Elysées this month.)
(RETROSPECTIVE BALLADS.)
(_Sung confidentially by the Old “Bohemian Boy_.”)
I dreamt that I danced at Mabille balls――
That again at the Cancan I shied:
But to judge from the set that now honoured those walls,
I had far best have Cancan’d outside!
For, spite JULES’S antics, once good as a feast――
Spite Music, Nymphs, flare――still the same.
I noticed, what certainly pleased me the least,
That the whole thing seemed horribly tame,
Oh, so tame!
So depressingly, horribly tame!
_Punch._ March 4, 1882.
――――
MARBLED BEEF.
(Ballad for the Modern Butcher, with acknowledgments to the Shade of
Bunn.)
I dreamt that I dined on Marbled Beef,
And found it the best I had tried;
And of all its good points I held this the chief,――
The figure at which ’twas supplied.
But when, as Prime English, I found it as nice
You tried on the same old game,
And though every carcass cost you half the price,
You charged me still the same!
You charged me still the same!
_Punch._ April 18, 1885.
――――:o:――――
BEAUTIFUL STAR.
――――
Beautiful star! on each opera night,
Watching with wonder your diamonds bright,
And hearing your cadences echo afar,
I envy your fortune, fair opera star――
Star of the evening, beautiful star.
I hear sad Amina’s cantabile ring,
I see the bouquets which by dozens they fling;
Watch gaily Rosina her guardian cajole,
And weep when Medea entrances my soul――
Star of the evening, beautiful star.
I love thee in _Norma_ and fair Marguerite,
And _Lohengrin_ even thy tones can make sweet:
But I sigh that no journal will pay me to write
At the rate of thy two hundred guineas per night――
Star of the evening, beautiful star.
_Funny Folks._
――――
Beautiful Pit, behind the stalls,
For treatment kind thy memory calls;
Who could fail to thy use admit,
Pit of the Haymarket, Haymarket Pit!
Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!
In fancy’s eyes you seem to say,
Think of the Drama’s bright hey-day;
When first-night critics would views emit
From the famed front row of the Haymarket Pit!
Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!
To your cheap seats the people come
In a vigorous crowd with a hearty hum;
And where is the manager who’d permit
One seat to be filched from the Haymarket Pit?
Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!
The stalls are cynical, boxes sneer
At the warm applause to actors dear;
And the cheer that cometh their hearts to knit,
Is sent from the rows of the crowded pit.
Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!
So, Pit, last on! and hold your own,
Whatever else may be overthrown;
And let fond hands your each seat refit,
Pit of the Haymarket, Haymarket Pit!
Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!
_Truth._ Christmas Number, 1884.
(Old Play-goers still remember, with a sigh, that in the palmy days of
Buckstone’s management, the Haymarket Pit was the most comfortable in
London.)
――――
The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and began, in a voice sometimes choked
with sobs, to sing this:――
Beautiful soup, so rich and green,
Waiting in a hot tureen!
Who for such dainties would not stoop?
Soup of the evening, beautiful soup!
Soup of the evening, beautiful soup!
Beau――ootiful Soo-oop!
Beau――ootiful Soo-oop!
Soo-oop of the e-e-evening,
Beautiful, beautiful soup!
Beautiful soup! Who cares for fish,
Game, or any other dish?
Who would not give all else for two-
pennyworth only of beautiful soup?
Pennyworth only of beautiful soup?
Beau-ootiful Soo-oop!
Beau-ootiful Soo-oop!
Soo-oop of the e-e-evening,
Beautiful, beauti――FULL SOUP!
From _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_, by LEWIS CARROLL. (Macmillan
& Co., London.)
――――:o:――――
MORE LOST CHORDS.
On page 3 a parody of “The Lost Chord” was given which had originally
appeared in _Judy_ in 1880. This was written by Mr. Alfred Greenland,
junior, and has been included by him in an amusing volume, entitled
_Lunatic Lyrics_ (published by Tinsley Brothers, London), which also
contains one of the very best parodies of Swinburne ever written,
entitled _A Matcher_.
The last verse of _The Lost Cord_ as given in this volume differs
slightly from the _Judy_ version, it runs as follows:――
_Grandioso._
It may be my truant monkey,
Will come with that cord again;
It may be he only skedaddles
When he hears the organ-men!
It may be my truant monkey
Will come with that cord again;
It may be he only SKEDADDLES
When he hears the organ men!!
As mentioned above this parody was printed in 1880, but curiously
enough, another rather similar parody has been sent in, dated
December, 1879.
THE LOST APE.
Seated one day on an organ,
A monkey was ill at ease,
When his fingers wandered idly,
In search of the busy fleas.
I know not what he was slaying,
Or what he was dreaming then,
But a sound burst forth from that organ,
Not at all like a grand Amen.
It came through the evening twilight
Like the close of the feline psalm,
But the melody raised by their voices,
Compared to this noise, was balm!
It was worse than Salvation’s Sorrow
With their band of drum and fife,
And cut, like an evening “Echo,”
The _Tit-Bits_ out of “Life.”
I upset my table and tea things,
And left not one perfect piece;
I gazed at the wreck in silence,
Not loth, but unable to speak!
Then I sought him, alas! all vainly,
The source of that terrible whine,
With his cracked and tuneless organ,
And its melodies undivine.
Of course there was no policeman
To move him away,――and men
Who grind organs smile demurely
At your curses, and smile again.
It may be that I could choke him――
Could kill him――but organ men
If you kill a dozen to-day,
To-morrow will come again!
J. W. G. W.
December, 1879.
――――
THE LOST RENT.
(Copied, _without permission_, from a Christmas card in the shape of a
“Dicky,”)
Seated one day at the window,
I was weary and ill at ease,
And my coat I handled lightly,
As I tried to extract the grease.
I had no hopes of a dinner;
My stomach was aching then,
When a knock at the door of my chamber.
Like the sound of the broker men!
It may be they thought I would open;
But I stepped through the window then,
Leaving one chair and a shirt front,
To amuse the broker men.
――――
THE LOST KEY.
The following parody was written, composed, and sung with great
success by Mr. George Grossmith. It carries the idea of “The Lost
Chord” throughout, yet the air is different, and the quaint and
laughable words form a strong contrast to the mystical language of the
original. The music is published by J. Bath, Berners Street, London.
Seated one day in her carriage,
She was lounging well back at her ease,
And her fingers wandered idly,
In her pocket for her keys.
She thought――as the bunch was missing,
In her wardrobe it must be,
So she struck one note of discord,
Like the sound of a big, big D.
Like the sound of a big, big D.
She thought of the sweet little trinkets,
Whose loss she would sadly mourn,
Then she thought of her frocks and mantles,
Some of which she had not yet worn.
She thought of her precious diamonds,
She thought of the square plate-chest,
For at home, in that large old wardrobe,
She kept everything she possess’d.
Then she thought of the sweet love letters,
Received with many a ruse,
Then she suddenly thought that the servants
Those letters would surely peruse.
Then she thought, with a feeling of horror!
That the neighbours would surely be shown,
A piece of black hair neatly plaited,
Which was not exactly her own.
So she dived to the bottom of her carriage,
Turned the matting all upside down,
Then she dived beneath the cushions,
And the lining of her green silk gown.
She dived in the depths of her mantle,
And into her muff dived she,
But only at home in her wardrobe,
Would be found that lost, lost key!
――――:o:――――
’TWAS ONLY A YEAR AGO, LOVE.
(Music by F. Paolo Tosti.)
It came with the merry May, love,
That neat little billet doux,
And I much regret to say, love,
The measles and rates came too:
The passion may fade away, love,
But the rates I shall always owe.
’Twas only a year ago, love,
Only a year ago!
It came with the merry May, love,
That tip for the big event;
I shall ne’er forget the day, love,
I plank’d on my ev’ry cent.
But the animal stopped to sneeze, love,
Which much increas’d my woe,
’Twas absolutely last, love,
Only a year ago!
It came with the merry May, love,
That big furniture van,
It took all my goods away, love,
It thwarted my fondest plan.
I thought I could shoot the moon, love,
But destiny grunted “No”;
They were there a bit too soon, love,
Only a year ago!
It came with the merry May, love.
That beautiful big black eye,
The kick I received for aye, love,
Will live in my memory,
And oh! I have got such a bruise, love,
I regret I’m unable to show,
I have to stand up to my meals, love,
Though it’s over a year ago.
It came with the merry May, love,
It looked about forty three,
And much to my dismay, love,
It fixed itself on to me.
I know that it foolish sounds, love,
I promised and breached, you know.
It cost me five hundred pounds, love,
Just over a year ago!
FREDERICK BOWYER.
(This parody was sung, with great success, by Mr. Arthur Roberts, in
the Burlesque of _Kenilworth_ at the Avenue Theatre in 1885.)
――――:o:――――
THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, and hills and fields,
The woods or steepy mountains yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls,
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers and a kirtle,
Embroidered o’er with leaves of myrtle.
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
Thy silver dishes for thy meat,[5]
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall on an ivory table be
Prepared each day for thee and me.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing,
For thy delight, each May morning;
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.
――――
THE NYMPH’S REPLY.
If all the World and Love were young,
And truth on every Shepherd’s tongue,
These pleasures might my passion move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.
But time drives flocks from field to fold,[5]
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb,
And all complain of cares to come.
But fading flowers in every field,
To winter floods their treasures yield;
A honey’d tongue, a heart of gall,
Is Fancy’s spring, but Sorrow’s fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Are all soon wither’d, broke, forgotten,
In Folly ripe, in Reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw, and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs,
Can me with no enticements move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.
What should we talk of dainties, then,[5]
Of better meat than’s fit for men?
These are but vain; that’s only good
Which God hath blessed and sent for food.
But could Youth last, could Love still breed,
Had Joy no date, had Age no need;
Then those delights my mind might move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.
SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
――――
In _The Complete Angler_ Izaak Walton introduced these two songs, with
some modifications, which are here produced from the First Edition
(preserving the old orthography) of _The Complete Angler_, published
in 1653:――
“As I left this place, and entered into the next field, a second
pleasure entertained me, ’twas a handsome milk-maid, that had cast
away all care, and sung like a _Nightingale_; her voice was good, and
the Ditty fitted for it; ’twas that smooth Song which was made by _Kit
Marlow_, now at least fifty years ago; and the milk-maid’s mother sung
an answer to it, which was made by _Sir Walter Raleigh_, in his
younger days. They were old fashioned Poetry, but choicely good, I
think much better than that now in fashion in this critical age:”
THE MILKMAID’S SONG.
Come live with me, and be my Love,
And we wil all the pleasures prove
That vallies, Groves, or hils, or fields,
Or woods and steepie mountains yeelds.
Where we will sit upon the _Rocks_,
And see the Shepherds feed our _flocks_,
By shallow _Rivers_, to whose falls
Mellodious birds sing _madrigals_.
And I wil make thee beds of _Roses_,
And then a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers and a Kirtle,
Imbroidered all with leaves of Mirtle.
A Gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty Lambs we pull,
Slippers lin’d choicely for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.
A belt of straw and ivie buds,
With Coral clasps, and Amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my Love.
The Shepherds Swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight, each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my Love.
――――
THE MILKMAID’S MOTHER’S ANSWER.
If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherd’s tongue?
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy Love.
But time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And _Philomel_ becometh dumb,
The Rest complains of cares to come.
The Flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward Winter reckoning yields,
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancies spring, but sorrows fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of Roses,
Thy Cap, thy Kirtle, and thy Posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivie buds,
Thy Coral clasps and Amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy Love.
But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need;
Then those delights my mind might move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.
A little farther on _Viator_ observes:――
“Yes, master, I will speak you a coppie of verses that were made by
Doctor DONNE, and made to shew the world that he could make soft and
smooth verses, when he thought them fit and worth his labour; and I
love them the better, because they allude to rivers and fish, and
fishing. They bee these:――”
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove,
Of golden sands, and Christal brooks,
With silken lines and silver hooks,
There will the River wispering run,
Warm’d by thy eyes more then the Sun;
And there th’ inamel’d fish wil stay,
Begging themselves they may betray.
When thou wilt swim in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channel hath
Most amorously to thee will swim,
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.
If thou, to be so seen, beest loth,
By Sun or Moon, thou darknest both:
And, if mine eyes have leave to see,
I need not their light, having thee.
Let others freeze with Angling Reeds,
And cut their legs with shels and weeds.
Or treacherously poor fish beset;
With strangling snares, or windowy net.
Let coarse bold hands, from slimy nest,
The bedded fish in banks outwrest;
Let curious Traitors sleave silk flies,
To ’witch poor wandring fishes eyes.
For thee, thou needst no such deceit,
For thou thyself art thine own bait;
That fish that is not catch’d thereby,
Is wiser far, alas! then I.
――――
THE MILKMAID’S SONG.
Come live with me, and be my spouse,
We’ll keep a cottage, pigs and cows;
And I will dress in lace and silk,
While you shall pig, and dig, and milk.
There you will work and hoe all day,
While I enjoy myself, away.
If this you’ll do, we’ll have no rows,
Come live with me, and be my spouse.
From _The Incomplete Angler_, by F. C. Burnand. 1876.
――――
THE PASSIONATE STATISTICIAN TO HIS LOVE.
“For my part, I am a passionate Statistician…. Go with me into the
study of statistics, and I will make you all enthusiasts in
statistics.”
_Mr. Goschen at Whitechapel._
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That facts and figures can supply
Unto the Statist’s ravished eye.
And we will sit ’midst faction’s shocks
And calculate the price of Stocks,
The music of whose rise and fall
Beats most melodious madrigal.
We’ll learn how the last Census closes
And the art of counting noses;
And taste the pleasures, sweetly solemn,
Of abstract brief, and lengthy column.
We’ll tot the figures fair and full
Relating to the price of wool,
The annual range of heat and cold,
The death-rate, and the price of gold.
Per-centages shall stir our blood
Analyses as clear as mud.
Oh, if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
The marriage rate, the price of meat,
Shall yield us raptures calm and sweet;
And analytic “Tables” be
Prepared each day to give us glee.
Economists our praise shall sing,
The Statesman’s eloquence we’ll wing
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
_Punch._ March 21, 1885.
――――
THE RINKER’S SONG.
Come, rink with me, and be my love!
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That better far than hills or fields
The slippery floor of asphalte yields.
Of skates with rubber ties a pair,
Thee o’er the asphalte safely bear;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come, rink with me, and be my love!
THE RINKMAID’S ANSWER.
If all the world and love were young,
And truth on every rinker’s tongue,
These asphalte pleasures might me move
To rink with thee and be thy love.
Talk to me not of flowers and posies;
Suppose we fall and break our noses?
Thou’lt not prevail on me at all;
In truth, it is no joke to fall!
_Judy._ April 12, 1876.
――――:o:――――
“WON’T YOU TELL ME WHY, ROBIN?”
――――
The late Mr. Whalley, formerly M.P. for Peterborough, was a firm
believer in the truth of the claim of Arthur Orton to the Tichborne
title and estates. He, and Dr. Edward Vaughan Kenealy, were the most
devoted adherents to the cause of “the unfortunate nobleman.” When Mr.
Whalley rose in the House of Commons, he was generally greeted with
the cry,――“Sing, Whalley, Sing!”
_Several Scoffers._ Sing, sir! sing!
_Mr. W_.
Well, if you like, I have a little thing:
It’s somewhat sad in tone and very terse,
My own sad feelings put in ballad verse.
_Song_: Mr. WHALLEY.
_Tune_: “_Won’t you tell me why, Robin?_”
Oh, won’t you tell me why, doctor,
You are so stern and strange?
Come, ope your heart and tell, doctor,
What ’tis has made you change!
You never come to see me now,
As once you used to do;
I miss you at the Tichborne fetes,
Where once I went with you.
_Chorus_. Won’t you tell me why, doctor,
Won’t you tell me why;
Won’t you tell me why, doctor,
Oh, won’t you tell me why?
I’m very sad at heart, doctor,
To think you hate me so;
And why you call me names, doctor,
I really do not know.
You shouldn’t use such naughty words
About your once dear friend;
Oh! why not, for dear Tichborne’s sake,
Let this sad difference end?
_Chorus._ Won’t you tell me why, doctor, &c., &c.
We’ve both pressed Roger’s hand, doctor,
More times than I can tell;
We both have loved that man, doctor,
Not wisely, but too well.
And now the _Englishman_ declares
I’m more than three-parts mad;
I did not think you’d do it, Vaughan,
It really is too bad!
_Chorus._ Won’t you tell me why, doctor, &c., &c.
From _Finis_.
――――
THE COOK’S LAMENT.
A Pathetic Ballad of a Policeman’s Perfidy.
Oh, won’t you tell me why, Bobby,
Won’t you tell me why?
You never speaks when’er we meets,
You always pass me by!
You never takes me for a walk,
As was the case afore;
You never comes to have a talk,
Nor see me to the door!
Oh, won’t you tell me why, Bobby,
Policeman X Y Zad?
Why pass my airey by, Bobby?
Your cookey’s awful sad?
Oh, won’t you tell me why, Bobby,
Won’t you tell me why?
When on your beat, you beats retreat,
If o’er the gate I spy?
The mutton cold and taties hot,
As oft I’ve give to you!
Likewise “cold fourp’ny” in a pot,
And now you are not true.
Oh, please to tell me why, Bobby?
My heart’s a-breaking fast;
My bosom’s one big sigh, Bobby――
My figure, long, can’t last!
Oh, won’t you tell me why, Bobby,
Won’t you tell me why?
The reason now, you’ve broke your vow,
To your own Sophy-i?
The “public” we was going to take
Is fading from my view;
And sadly from my dreams I wake――
Deceitful wretch in blue!
Oh, will you tell me why, Bobby,
You’ve gone and broke your word?
And left your love to die, Bobby――
The facts shall all be heard!
I’ve learnt the reason why, Bobby,
I knows the reason why!
I see ’tis plain that Mary Jane
Is lurking in your eye――
The wicked slut! perfidious man!
I’ll go to law, of course!
I’d sooner wed the buttons, Dan,
Than all the blessed Force!
You need not tell me why, Bobby,
Policeman X Y Zad;
For I shall never cry, Bobby――
In fact I’m rather glad!
S. J. A. F.
There was a political parody of the same song in _They are Five_,
published by David Bogue. It is out of date now, and of no general
interest.
――――:o:――――
PARODIES OF ROBERT HERRICK.
(ROBERT HERRICK was born in Cheapside in 1591. Died October, 1674.)
――――
TO DAFFODILS.
Fair Daffodils we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early rising sun
Has not attained his noon.
Stay, stay,
Until the hast’ning day
Has run
But to the even-song;
And, having prayed together, we
Will go with you along.
We have short time to stay, like you:
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay
As you, or anything.
We die
As your hours do, and dry
Away,
Like to the summer’s rain;
Or, as the pearls of morning’s dew
Ne’er to be found again.
ROBERT HERRICK.
――――
UNEXPECTED ACCOUNTS; OR, THE QUARTERLY
“BILL-EST-DUE.”
I.
Dear little bills, we weep to see
You come again so soon;
Our dividends are not paid in,
And yet, you crave this boon;
“Pay, pay,
On reckoning day,
The Tin!”
Thus, Christmas with its charms,
And mirthful glow and glee,
Hath also its alarms!
II.
We did not think that you were due
Till some time in the spring:
You grow, like toadstools, in a night,
As quick as anything;
And though we do
Fight shy of you――and taxes too,
In spite
You fall like drops of summer rain,
Save you are many and they are few.
And――still you come again!
_Cribblings from the Poets_, by Hugh Cayley. Cambridge, Jones and
Piggott, 1883.
――――:o:――――
ADVICE.
(_Freely adapted from Herrick_).
Order ye Wallsends while ye may,
Though prices are surprising;
For this same coal that’s high to day,
To-morrow may be rising.
The winter quarter has begun,
The sun is sooner setting,
Best coals are now two pounds a ton,
And dearer will be getting.
That man is blest whose cellar’s full,
For days will not grow warmer;
But what we want to see, John Bull,
Is some great coal reformer.
Then be not rash, but take advice――
All ye who wish to marry!
With coals and meat at such a price,
You would be wise to tarry.
――――:o:――――
LOVE’S REASONS.
(_After Herrick._)
Why do I love my love?
Her eyes are deepest blue,
Bluer than sky above,
She’s pure, and sweet, and true.
’Tis not for every grace
That sparkles in her face,
Although each one of these
My wayward fancy please,
I love my love because I do.
I’ll tell you of my love,
She tender is and true,
Kind as turtle dove,
Too fair for mortal view.
And if you fain would know
Why I must love her so,
I love my love, but I
Could hardly tell you why,
I love my love because I do.
From _The Figaro_. October 28, 1874.
――――:o:――――
CHERRY RIPE.
Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry,
Full and fair ones, come and buy;
If so be you ask me where
They do grow? I answer there,
Where my Julia’s lips do smile
There’s the land, or cherry isle.
Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry
Full and fair ones come and buy
There plantations fully show
All the year where cherries grow.
Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry,
Full and fair ones, come and buy.
ROBERT HERRICK.
This song having been adapted to a pleasing melody by Mr. Charles
Horn, became very popular about 60 years ago.
――――
It is probable that “Cherry Ripe” was suggested to Herrick by Richard
Allison’s earlier poem, entitled:――
THERE IS A GARDEN IN HER FACE.
There is a garden in her face,
Where roses and white lillies grow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
There cherries grow that none may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do inclose,
Of orient pearl a double row;
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose buds fell’d with snow;
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still,
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threatening with piercing frowns to kill
All that approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.
――――
“WATER-PIPES.”
(Paterfamilias’s song of the frost.)
“Water-pipes, water-pipes, pipes” I cry!
“Been and busted!” Low and High.
If I ask the housemaid. “Where?”
She will answer, “Here, and there,――
Here and there and everywhere.”
Whence they come and where they go,
Is just the thing I want to know!
But I don’t, and that is why
“Plumber! Plumber!” is the cry.
Plumber! Plumber! left and right;
Plumber! Plumber! day and night.
Why are you and I such fools
As submit to Builders’ rules?
You and I, my friend, and all,
High and Low, and great and small?
One thing Builder understands――
How to play in Plumber’s hands:
And for one thing Builder cares
To leave openings for “repairs:”
So loose, tiles and slates defends,
Drains that finish in “dead ends,”
Tanks and boilers safe to leak,
Chimneys warranted to reek;
Doors and windows placed with craft,
Still to catch you in a draught;
Green-wood panels in the doors,
Warping new deal in the floors;
Pipes that run just where they shouldn’t,
And burst each frost. O, if they wouldn’t!
_Punch._ January 28, 1871.
――――
COFFEE HOT.
Coffee hot, coffee hot, hot, I cry,
Full and fair cups, come and buy;
But if so be you axes where
I makes it hot? I answer there,
Over the fire where hangs my pot,
That’s where I make coffee hot.
Coffee hot, coffee hot, &c.
Coffee hot, coffee hot, hot I cry,
Full and fair cups, if you’re dry;
Here the milk galore doth flow,
Here is butter, bread, also,
If you have the ready got,
That’s the time for coffee hot.
Coffee hot, coffee hot, &c.
Coffee hot, coffee hot, hot, I cry,
Full and fair cups, come and buy;
Here is milk and sugar nice;
Come here, I’ll serve you in a trice:
If you have the ready got
Then’s the time for coffee hot.
Coffee hot, coffee hot, &c.
JAMES BRUTON.
――――
ROSY WINE.
Rosy wine, rosy wine, wine we sip,
Sweeter far than woman’s lip;
If green-eyed grief assail the soul,
Why, drown him in the flowing bowl;
’Twere folly now to grieve or pine,
While seated near such rosy wine.
Rosy wine, &c.
Rosy wine, rosy wine, wine, they cry,
Doth beauty’s cheek by far outvie;
Thou to the soul art more sincere,
Her love is weaker than her tear;
Then wreathe my brow with laughing vine
While I quaff the rosy wine.
Rosy wine, &c.
JAMES BRUTON.
――――
HEAVY WET.
Heavy wet, heavy wet, still I cry,
Full and fair pots when I’m dry,
If so be, you ask me where,
They are drawn, I answer there,
Where our lips their thirst forget,
That’s the place for heavy wet!
Heavy wet, heavy wet, still I cry,
Meux’s, Whitbread’s, nought care I;
To the Blue Posts let us go,
There we’ll clouds of backey blow;
And, while we our cares forget,
All the year quaff heavy wet!
W. T. MONCRIEFF.
――――
CHERRY PIE.
Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry,
Kentish cherries you may buy.
If so be you ask me where
To put the fruit, I’ll answer “There!”
In the dish your fruit must lie,
When you make your Cherry Pie.
Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! &c.
Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry
Full and fair ones mind you buy
Whereabouts the crust should go,
Any fool, of course will know;
In the midst a cup may lie
When you make your Cherry Pie.
Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! &c.
_Punch._
――――
MUTTON CHOPS.
Mutton chops, mutton chops, chops I cry,
Fat or lean ones, both I’ll buy;
But if so be you’d have my coin
You must cut them off the loin!
When the cook for nothing stops,
That’s the time for mutton chops!
Mutton chops, mutton chops, chops I cry,
I as hungry am as dry;
Let me have them nice and hot.
With a murphy and shalot!
Heaven bless the butchers’ shops,――
All the year they’ve mutton chops!
――――
CHERRY BOUNCE.
Cherry bounce, cherry bounce, bounce, I cry,
Fill a full glass on the sly;
If so be you ask me where,
To the wine-vaults we’ll repair,
When we heavy wet renounce,
That’s the time for cherry bounce!
Cherry bounce, cherry bounce, bounce I cry,
When my flame is standing nigh;
When with love I’m quite beguiled,
And I wish to draw it mild,
Then, each vulgar fear to trounce,
Then I call for cherry bounce!
――――
GUINEA-PIGS.
Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,――
As Directors qualify!
At your feet your shares we lay,――
Not a penny there’s to pay!
’Tis high-sounding names we want,
As decoy-ducks for our plant:
Names to draw the public in,
Place our shares, and sack their tin.
Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,――
From the West-End, come and try!
Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,――
Of the City why fight shy?
With shares for the taking, if you please,
And, besides, Directors’ fees:
Office work――an hour a day,
Lots to get, and nought to pay…
Flats agog to risk their tin.
Giv’n good names to draw them in.
So Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,――
As Directors Qualify!
_Punch._ March 6, 1875.
Herrick had no occasion to steal, yet there is little doubt but that
his _Cherry Ripe_ was adapted from Allison’s earlier, and prettier
poem, _There is a Garden in her Face_; whilst the following lines
(which occur in his poem upon Mistress Susanna Southwell,)
Her pretty feet
Like snails did creep
A little out, and then,
As if they playéd at bo-peep,
Did soon draw in again.
were stolen (and spoilt in the stealing), from Sir John Suckling’s
inimitable _Ballad upon a Wedding_:
Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,
As if they feared the light:
But oh! she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter-day
Is half so fine a sight.
――――
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.
(Born in Bath, 1797. Died at Cheltenham, April 22, 1839.)
[Illustration: T]he songs of this prolific writer, which but sixty
years ago were exceedingly popular, are now nearly forgotten, A few
old-fashioned people may be heard to warble “She wore a wreath of
Roses,” or “I’d be a butterfly,” whilst “Perfection,” perhaps the best
known of Bayly’s dramatic pieces, is still occasionally played to
afford some graceful actress an opportunity of displaying her varied
attainments. The author of “Perfection” had to contend with many
difficulties before he could get his piece performed. It was rejected
at Covent Garden Theatre and several other houses, but was finally
accepted at Drury Lane. With Madame Vestris, as Kate O’Brien, it
achieved a great success, but several of Bayly’s other dramatic
productions were less fortunate, and he had nothing to depend upon but
the precarious income of a journalist for his support. His songs,
though exceedingly popular, brought him small pecuniary returns during
his lifetime, but after his death his widow derived a small sum from
the sale of his collected works. Although but a poor and struggling
author, it suited the editor of _Fraser’s Magazine_ to sneer at this
amiable and harmless versifier, and in volume iv. of that magazine
these lines will be found in the _Lay of the Twaddle School_:――
“Satins and silks I sang gravely and gaily,
And the bard of the boudoir was Thomas Haynes Bayly;
With my butterflies, buttercups, butter-flowers daily,
I buttered my bread,――heigh, for Thomas Haynes Bayly.
With my songs and my sonnets, the girls I wooed frailly,
Tom Moore, the chaste model of Thomas Haynes Bayly;
Apollo,――though radiant his rays,――shines but palely,
When the eyes of the fair shine on Thomas Haynes Bayly.
With miniature Lyrics, the muse did I waylay,
And a miniature picture of Thomas Haynes Bayly;
I sang about Bath, till I bothered them really,
And eclipsed was Kit Anstey by Thomas Haynes Bayly;
Herrick, Waller, Burns, Byron, Moore, Morris and Shelley,
Were poor sing-song strummers to Thomas Haynes Bayly.”
But these songs, which sixty years ago every one was singing, are now
so seldom heard, that some of the parodies would be quite
unintelligible unless accompanied by the originals.
SHE WORE A WREATH OF ROSES.
She wore a wreath of roses that night when first we met,
Her lovely face was smiling beneath her curls of jet;
Her footsteps had the lightness, her voice the joyous tone,
The tokens of a youthful heart where sorrow is unknown.
I saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now,
With a wreath of summer flowers upon her snowy brow.
A wreath of orange flowers when next we met she wore,
The expression of her features was more thoughtful than before,
And standing by her side, was one, who strove, and not in vain,
To soothe her leaving that dear home she ne’er might view again.
I saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now,
With a wreath of orange blossoms upon her snowy brow.
And once again I saw that brow, no bridal wreath was there,
The widow’s sombre cap concealed her once luxuriant hair;
She weeps in silent solitude, for there is no one near,
To press her hand within his own, and wipe away the tear!
I see her broken-hearted, and methinks I see her now,
In the pride of youth and beauty, with a wreath upon her brow.
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.
――――
THE BANDIT’S FATE.
He wore a brace of pistols the night that first we met,
His deep-lined brow was frowning beneath his wig of jet;
His footsteps had the moodiness, his voice the hollow tone,
Of a bandit-chief who feels remorse and tears his hair alone.
I saw him but at half-price, yet methinks I see him now,
In the tableau of the last act with the blood upon his brow.
A private bandit’s belt and boots, when next we met he wore,
His salary, he told me, was lower than before;
And standing at the O.P. wing he strove, and not in vain,
To borrow half a sovereign, which he never paid again.
I saw it but a moment――and I wish I saw it now――
As he buttoned up his pocket with a condescending bow.
And once again we met; but no bandit-chief was there;
His rouge was off, and gone that head of once luxuriant hair:
He lodges in a two-pair back, and at the public near,
He cannot liquidate his “chalk,” or wipe away his beer.
I saw him sad and seedy, yet methinks I see him now,
In the tableau of the last act with the blood upon his brow.
_Punch_, November 11, 1843.
――――
HE DINED AT BERTHOLINI’S.
He dined at Bertholini’s, the day when first we met,
A pint of single stout was on the board before him set;
His dinner had the lightness――his voice the humble tone
Of one to whom a shilling was not intimately known;
I saw him but a moment, but I think I see him now,
In that hat of time-worn gossamer that drooped upon his brow.
A new dark Llama Paletot when next we met he wore,
The expression of his dress was not so seedy as before;
And, dining at his side, was one, in Hemming’s room upstairs,
Who deem’d his Line a good one, and who took five hundred shares.
I saw him but a moment, but methinks I see him still,
At the _café_ in the Haymarket, where yet he owes the bill!
And once again I saw him, but this time it was not here;
In coat of questionable age he traversed Boulogne Pier!
He stept in shabby solitude, for, on one fated day
The bubble of his Line had burst, and he had run away.
I saw him quite down-hearted, with his paletot all but rags,
As he underwent the fate of all Provisionary Stags.
ALBERT SMITH.
――――
HE WORE GREY WORSTED STOCKINGS.
He wore grey worsted stockings the term when first we met,
His trousers had no straps, his highlows had no jet;
His look it had the greenness, his voice the sleepy tone,
The tokens of a raw young man who’d lately left his home.
I saw him but a moment, yet methinks I see him now,
With his cap the wrong end foremost upon his freshman’s brow.
A pink and snowy buckskins, when next we met he wore,
The expression of his banker was more thoughtful than before;
And riding by his side was one who strove, and not in vain
To borrow five and twenty pounds he ne’er might see again;
I saw him lend the money; and methinks I see him now,
With his hunting cap of velvet upon his sportsman’s brow.
And once again I see that brow; no sporting cap is there:
An article at four-and-nine sits on its untrimmed hair;
I see him playing racquets in the Fleet,[6] yet even now
Methinks I see my freshman with verdure on his brow.
The face is somewhat dirty, yet methinks I see it now,
With the cap the wrong end foremost upon the freshman’s brow.
From _Hints to Freshmen_. Oxford: J. Vincent.
――――
THE BETTING-OFFICE FREQUENTER’S PROGRESS.
He wore a suit of Moses,
The night when first we met,
And knowingly his hat was cocked
Upon his curls of jet;
Flash “Publics” he frequented,
Where “Sporting cards” were seen;
And many a Derby Sweep got up
To ease them of their “tin.”
I saw him in his glory――
(The word seems doubtful now),
When to his stable wisdom
His admiring chums would bow.
A betting-book he’d started,
When next this youth I saw;
And hourly he was lounging at
Some Betting-office door;
Or standing treat to stable-boys,
With a “weed” between his lips,
And listening to their sage discourse
Of “great events” and “tips.”
He told me then he stood to win
A fi’ pun’ note or two,
Upon a “certain” prophecy――
I doubt if it came true.
And once again I see this youth,
No betting-book is there:
The prison scissors close have cropped
His once luxuriant hair.
They tell that “cleaned” completely “out,”
He closed his short career
By bolting with his master’s till,
When “settling” time drew near.
I see him shipped――the Government
His passage out will pay:
And at some penal settlement,
He’ll spend his Settling Day.
_Punch._
――――
THREE VISIONS OF ONE HEAD.
She wore a wreath of roses
The night that first we met;
Her lovely face was smiling,
Beneath her curls of Jet.
Her curls of jetty brightness,
Were charmingly in tone,
With the colour on her features,
For the hue was Nature’s own.
I saw her but a moment,
Yet methinks I see her now;
With the hair that Nature gave her,
Above her snowy brow.
A head of Paris fashion
When next we met, she wore;
The expression of her features,
Was sharper than before.
And standing by her side was one,
Who seemed to give her pain,
As he rubbed the reddening fluid on
What should have held a brain.
I saw her but a moment,
Yet methinks I see her now,
With the barber’s nasty liquid,
Smeared on her snowy brow.
And once again I met her,
No radiant locks were there;
An unmistaken wig she wore
Instead of lovely hair.
She weeps in silent solitude,
Because she looks so queer!
The barber’s poison has destroyed
Her hair from ear to ear.
I saw her but a moment,
Nor want to see her now,
With those ugly proofs of folly
Above her snowy brow.
SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1866.
――――
HE WORE A PAIR OF “MITTENS.”[7]
He wore a pair of “mittens,”
That day when first we met,
His stony face was smiling
As on himself he bet;
He stood with saucy firmness,
Or danced upon his feet,
In token of a confidence
That had not known defeat.
I saw him but a moment,
Yet methinks I see him now,
With his hands well up for boxing,
All eager for the row.
Two eyes, both black and swollen
When next we met he wore,
The expression of his features,
Was less pleasant than before;
And standing close beside was one,
Who strove with might and main
To make them still less beauteous,
Nor did he strive in vain.
I saw him but a moment,
Yet methinks I see him now,
As he diligently sought a tooth,
He’d swallowed in the row.
And once again I saw that man,
No joy at all was his;
For many knocks had quite effaced
Expression from his “phiz.”
He wept as weeps a boy at school
When beaten in the rear,
Nor did he bless his second,
Who sponged away the tear.
I saw him but a moment,
Yet methinks I see him now,
As his length on earth he measured,
Less eager for the row.
From _The Corkscrew Papers_. London: W. H. Guest, Paternoster Row.
1876.
――――
THE GRAVEL RASH.
He rode a tandem trycycle
The day when first we met,
He wore a pair of spectacles,
Perhaps he has them yet!
I saw him but a moment,
But methinks I see him now
With the same old cap upon his head
And frown upon his brow.
His face looked white as driven snow
Against his bags of blue,
His pedalling was marvellous
As round the track he flew.
I saw him but a moment,
But methinks I see him now,
Lying whole length o’er the track,
And the frown still on his brow.
The last I heard of that young man,
Was through the weekly WHEELING;
“Whee-ling”-er o’er those words of his
So full of kindly feeling.
I saw them but a moment,
But methinks I see them now
With the author bending o’er them,
And that frown yet on his brow.
MORAL.
When people speak of others’ faults,
It’s time they knew their own,
So take a lesson, dear young man,
And try ye to atone.
_Wheeling Annual_, 1885.
――――
“I SAW HER BUT A MOMENT.”
“The trains to Notting Hill run every half-hour.”
_Information given by Company._
“Do they? Ha! ha!” _Remark by one who had tried them._
I saw her but a moment,
Yet, methinks, I see her still――
’Twas at Victoria Station,
And she wanted “Notting Hill.”
Comes a “Notting Hill Gate” quickly――
Comes one more, then one more still;
But they suit not our poor maiden,
For she wants a “Notting Hill.”
That face, so wan and weary,
Was sure enough to fill
With pity, heart of marble,
In this case of Notting Hill.
I saw her but a moment,
Yet, perhaps, she’s waiting still――
Or, better still, has given up
All hopes of “Notting Hill.”
――――
BUT A MOMENT.
I saw her but a moment
Beneath the apple tree;
There was no one to listen,
No eyes were there to see.
I heard her soft voice singing,
Her song was one of love;
Her bright eyes seemed to borrow
Light from the stars above.
I saw her but a moment
As ’neath the tree she sat;
I threw at her the poker――
(She was――my neighbour’s cat).
――――:o:――――
OH! NO, WE NEVER MENTION HER.
Oh! no, we never mention her, her name is never heard,
My lips are now forbid to speak, that once familiar word;
From sport to sport they hurry me, to banish my regret,
And when they win a smile from me they think that I forget.
They bid me seek in change of scene the charms that others see,
But were I in a foreign land, they’d find no change in me.
’Tis true that I behold no more the valley where we met,
I do not see the hawthorn tree, but how can I forget?
For oh! there are so many things recall the past to me,
The breeze upon the sunny hills, the billows of the sea;
The rosy tint that decks the sky before the sun is set,
Aye, every leaf I look upon forbids that I forget.
They tell me she is happy now, the gayest of the gay,
They hint that she forgets me too, but I heed not what they say;
Perhaps like me she struggles with each feeling of regret,
But if she loves as I have loved, she never can forget.
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.
――――
ANSWER TO “OH! NO, WE NEVER MENTION HER!”
Oh! am I then remembered still,
Remembered too by thee!
Or am I quite forgot by one,
Whom I no more shall see?
Yet, say not so, for that would add
Fresh anguish to my lot.
I dare not hope to be recall’d,
Yet would not be forgot.
Had they who parted us but known
How hearts like our’s can feel,
They would have spared us both a pang,
Beyond their power to heal.
I know not if my heart retains,
Its wonted warmth or not;
Though I’m forbid to think of thee,
Thou’lt never be forgot.
May’st thou enjoy that peace of mind,
Which I can never know,
If that’s denied my prayer shall be,
That I may share thy woe.
Where’er thou art my every wish,
Will linger o’er that spot,
My every thought will be of thee,
Though I may be forgot.
If we should meet in after years,
Thou’lt find that I am changed;
My eyes grow dim, my cheeks grow pale,
But not my faith estrang’d:
From mem’ry’s page the hand of death,
Alone thy name shall blot,
Forget, forsake me, if thou wilt,
Thou’lt never be forgot.
――――
Lines suggested by the failure of Mr. Thomas Haynes Bayly’s Farce,
“Decorum.”
Oh no! we’ll never mention him;
We won’t, upon our word!
“Decorum” now forbids to name
An unsuccessful bard.
From Drury Lane we’ll toddle to
Our office with regret,
And if they ask us, “Who’s been dished!”
We’ll say that We forget!
We’ll bid him now forsake the “Scene,”
And try his ancient strain;
He’d better “be a butterfly”
Than write a farce again.
’Tis true that he can troll a song,
Or tender chansonette;
But if you ask us, “What beside”?
Why, really, we forget.
R. H. BARHAM, Author of _The Ingoldsby Legends_.
――――
A SONG.
_Written by a rusticated Trinity man, while brooding over the conduct
of the Proctor of 1827._
Oh! no we never mention him,
His name is never heard,
My lips are now so loth to speak
That once familiar word;
From street to street he followed me
One evening thro’ the west,
Then brought me to the Vice, which now
He thinks that I forget.
They bade me seek in rustic ease
A quiet man to be,
But when I come to Trin: again
They’ll find no change in me.
’Tis true that I behold no more
The alley where we met,
I do not see dear Mr. T.
But still I shan’t forget.
They tell me he is happy now,
But each dog has his day,
They tell me he forgets me now
But he soon shall dearly pay;
For when near me he struggles with
A crowd of snobs beset,
Then if I hit as I have hit,
He never shall forget.
M.
_The Gownsman._ February 18, 1830, (or 1831?)
――――
SONG BY SIR ROBERT PEEL.
Notwithstanding the length of time that has now elapsed since the
breaking up of the Tory Administration, there is scarcely a member of
it who does not still look back with a feeling of the most melancholy
regret to the days when he once fingered the public money within the
walls of the Treasury. On Sir Robert Peel the effect that has been
produced is as vivid as it seemed the first hour after his
resignation, and the unhappy baronet is often heard to give vent to
his sensations, after the debate of the night, in the following
exquisitely touching stanzas:――
Oh no we never finger it,
Its name we never say,
My fingers are forbid to grasp
The once familiar pay.
From Bill to Bill they hurry me,
To banish my regret,
And when they win a speech from me,
They think that I forget.
They bid me seek by change of note
The place where rivals be,
But were I e’en to turn a Whig,
There’d be no place for me.
’Tis true that I no more behold
The council where we met,
I do not see the Treasury,
But how can I forget?
They tell me Lyndhurst’s happy now,
The gayest of the gay,
They hint that he forgets, but pshaw!
I heed not what they say.
Perhaps th’ Exchequer brings him in
A pretty penny yet,
But if he grasp’d as I have grasp’d,
He never can forget.
_Figaro in London._ April 6, 1833.
――――
THE NOTORIOUS UNKNOWN.
“Oh! no! we never mention HER, HER name is never heard!
And now the deuce to find it out, I know not, on my word.
But tho’ I could not tell HER name, HER face I’d often seen,
“She stood among the glittering throng,” with Jacky in the green.
A ladle in one hand she bore, a salt box in the other;
And of the Sooty Cupids near, she seemed the teeming mother.
“I met HER at the Fancy fair,” with fancy lads around her,
And with a blow she laid one low, as flat as any flounder.
“I saw HER at the Beulah Spa,” along with Gipsy Joe,
A-riding on a donkey rough, vitch, somehow vouldn’t go.
I saw HER ply her sybil art, and pick up cash like fun,
For heads and tails she gave them hearts, and pleasur’d every
one.
“I saw HER at the Masquerade,” along with Nimming Ned,
Achieve those feats, where fingers light work nimbler than the
head.
I saw HER too at All-Max once (not Almack’s in the west,)
“’Twas in the crowd,”――her voice was loud: I must’nt tell the
rest.
I saw HER at the “Central Court,” (it gave me quite a shock),
Surrounded by her body guard, she stood within the dock.
And then I heard a little man, with solemn voice proclaim,
(’Twas rue to me, and wormwood too), that ALIAS was her name.
From George Cruikshank’s _Comic Almanack_, 1836.
――――
LORD NON-CONTENT.
_Lord Lyndhurst_ (_Lord Chancellor_): Content or Non-content? _Lord
Brougham_ (_Ex_-_Lord Chancellor_): Oh! Non-content, of course.
Oh! no I say; don’t mention it,
’Tis really too absurd;
I don’t admit a single thing:
I won’t believe a word.
From all that Noble Lords have said,
_In toto_ I dissent;
Why, doesn’t everybody know
I’m always “Non-Content?”
They tell me I’m an obstinate,
Impracticable man;
I’m open to conviction――but
Convince me if you can.
I blame your views, deny your facts,
Dispute your argument;
Then why the question put to me?
Of course I’m “Non-Content.”
Content indeed! I never was,
From childhood’s dawn till now;
And I should greatly like to see
The statement I’d allow.
To differ only I’ll agree;
On that I’m firmly bent,
I am, I will, I must, I shall,
Be always “Non-Content.”
_Punch._ 1844.
――――
OH! NO, I NEVER NAME MY WIFE.
Oh no, I never name my wife
But let her lie at rest;
Although she used to pull my nose,
Now I am truly blest.
Each morn for cash she’d worry me,
To purchase heavy-wet;
And how she stagger’d home at eve
I never shall forget.
I strove to find in change of scene,
A tranquil hour or two,
But if, alas, she found me out
She’d thump me black and blue.
’Tis true, I now appear no more
With eyes as black as jet;
But _how the poker she could wield_,
_I never can forget_.
They hint that she is happy now,
In sooth, and so am I,
And, as she can return no more
’Twere wrong in me to sigh.
When I prepared to bury her
And friends and neighbours met,
The sort of sorrow I then felt
I never can forget.
From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin.
――――:o:――――
I’D BE A BUTTERFLY.
I’d be a butterfly born in a bower,
Where roses and lilies and violets meet,
Roving for ever from flower to flower,
And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet.
I’d never languish for wealth or for power,
I’d never sigh to see slaves at my feet;
I’d be a butterfly born in a bower,
And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet.
I’d be a butterfly, &c.
Oh! could I pilfer the wand of a Fairy,
I’d have a pair of those beautiful wings,
Their summer day’s ramble is sportive and airy,
They sleep in a rose where the nightingale sings;
Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary,
Power, alas! nought but misery brings.
I’d be a butterfly, sportive and airy,
Rock’d in a rose where the nightingale sings.
I’d be a butterfly, &c.
What though you tell me each gay little rover,
Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day,
Surely ’tis better when summer is over,
To die when all fair things are fading away:
Some in life’s winter may toil to discover
Means of procuring a weary delay.
I’d be a butterfly, living a rover,
Dying when fair things are fading away,
I’d be a butterfly, &c.
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.
In 1828 a small volume was printed at Malton, entitled “PSYCHÆ; _or
Songs of Butterflies. By T. H. Bayly, attempted in Latin Rhyme by the
Rev. Francis Wrangham, M.A., F.R.S. (Archdeacon of the East Riding of
York_.”) in which occurs the following admirable Latin version of the
above song:――
Ah sim Papilio, natus in flosculo,
Rosae ubi liliaque et violae patent;
Floribus advolans, avolans, osculo
Gemmulus tangens, quae suave olent!
Regna et opes ego neutiquam postulo,
Nolo ego ad pedes qui se volutent――
Ah sim Papilio, natus in flosculo,
Osculans gemmas quae suave olent!
Magicam si possem virgam furari,
Alas has pulchras aptem mi, eheu!
Æstivis actis diebus in aëre,
Rosâ cubant Philomelae cantu.
Opes quid afferunt? Curas, somnum rare;
Regna nil praeter aerumnas, eheu!
Ah sim Papilio, die volans aëre,
Rosâ cubans Philomelae cantu!
Quemque horum vagulum dicis horrore
Frigora Automni ferire suo;
Æstas quando abiit, mallem ego mori,
Omni quod dulce est cadente pulchro.
Bramae qui capiunt captent labore
Gaudia, et moras breves trahunto――
Ah sim Papilio; vivam in errore,
Concidamque omni cadente pulchro.
_January_, 1828.
――――
AN ANSWER TO MR. BAYLY.
I would not be a butterfly,
Nay, Mr. Bayly nay,
Although you rhyme to ear and eye
In such a dainty way.
Those pretty words, that pretty air
Admit but this reply,
It strikes me I should hardly care
To be a butterfly.
A charm there is in being born
Within a rosy bower,
Where sunshine and a summer morn
Should grace my natal hour.
But I was born a cockney, sir,
A cockney I shall die,
Pray why on earth should I prefer
To be a butterfly?
The plants that in a garden grow
Are fresh and very sweet,
But more befitting for a show
Than proper things to eat.
I love my soup, I love my fish,
My joint and apple-pie,
My menu never makes me wish
To be a butterfly.
’Tis only just a month or so
The things can keep alive,
One year’s career they never know,
And mine are forty-five.
I hope to earn a little fame
Ere many more go by,
It would not be a paying game
To be a butterfly.
I tell you frankly Mr. B.
I would not if I could,
In fact so far as I can see
I could not if I would.
To many things we all aspire,
For many things we sigh,
But why should mortal man desire
To be a _butterfly_?
HENRY S. LEIGH.
――――
I’D BE A PARODY.
I’d be a Parody, made by a ninny
Or some little song with a popular tune,
Not worth a halfpenny, sold for a guinea,
And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon.
I’d never sigh for the sense of a Pliny,
(Who cares for sense at St. James’s in June?)
I’d be a parody made by a ninny,
And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon.
Oh, could I pick up a thought or a stanza,
I’d take a flight on another bard’s wings
Turning his rhymes into extravaganza,
Laugh at his harp――and then pilfer its strings!
When a poll-parrot can croak the cadenza
A nightingale loves, he supposes he sings!
Oh! never mind, I will pick up a stanza,
Laugh at his harp――and then pilfer its strings!
What though you tell me each metrical puppy
May make of such parodies _two pair a day_;
Mocking birds think they obtain for each copy
Paradise plumes for the parodied lay:――
Ladder of fame! if man _can’t_ reach thy top, he
Is right to sing just as high up as he may;
I’d be a parody made by a puppy,
Who makes of such parodies two pair a day.
From _Sharpe’s Magazine_, 1829.
――――
SONG OF A RIFLEMAN.
I’d be a Rifleman, gallant and gay,
Longest and last at the banquet or ball;
Waltzing, Quadrilling, and flirting away,
Constant to none, yet a favourite with all.
True to the opera, concert, or play,
I’d never languish for wedlock’s dull thrall;
I’ll be a Rifleman, gallant and gay,
Constant to none, yet a favourite with all.
* * * * *
What though you tell me the jacket of scarlet
Is forwarder seen when the battle’s begun?
Yet the Rifleman sure you ought never to snarl at,
For he’ll safely return when the battle is done.
Others in conflict, while fighting may fall at
The stroke of a sabre, or shot of a gun,
But the Rifleman laughs at the jacket of scarlet,
Perch’d in a tree till the battle is done.
I’d be a Rifleman, I’d be a Rifleman,
Flirting in peace-time when battle is done.
From _The Bentley Ballads_. (London. Richard Bentley.)
――――
SONG OF THE COLLEGE BEDMAKER.
I make the butter fly all in an hour;
I put aside the preserves and cold meats,
Telling my master his cream has turned sour,
Hiding his pickles, purloining his sweets.
I never languish for husband or dower;
I never sigh to see gyps at my feet;
I make the butter fly, all in an hour,
Taking it home for my Saturday treat.
From _Horace at Athens_, by G. O. TREVELYAN.
――――
I’D BE A ROTHSCHILD.
I’d be a Rothschild! immortal in story,
As the fellows who live by their stanzas and brains,
Having a heart drunk with visions of glory,
When fifty per cent, on my table remains;
I’d have no poet to sway his lute o’er me,
A fig for the head that such nonsense contains.
I’d be a Rothschild! immortal in story,
As the fellows who live by their stanzas and brains.
Tell me of Southeys and Scotts, they are ninnies
To foolishly trifle with time as they do,
Give me the music of soul-witching guineas,
While they address lays to the “summer skies blue!”
What if they scribble like Virgils or Plinies,
At sixpence per line in each London review?
I’d be a Rothschild! and laugh at the ninnies,
Whose brains such absurd undertakings pursue.
Commerce shall wave her proud flag o’er the ocean,
When the wreath and the minstrel have vanished from hence,
Rhymes may give to the muse their devotion,
But mine is concentred in consols and rents
Of Tempe and Castaly I have no notion
Oh! they give song the importance of sense;
I’d be a Rothschild! with every emotion
Awake at the tune of _pounds, shillings, and pence_!
REGINALD AUGUSTINE.
From _The Mirror_, 1830.
――――
NEGRO LIBERTY.
Me be a nigger boy, born in de hovel,
What plantain da shade from de sun wha da shine,
Me learn to dig wid de spade and de shovel,
Me learn to hoe up de cane in a line.
Me drink my rum, in de calabash oval,
Me neber sigh for de brandy and wine;
Me be a nigger boy, born in de hovel,
What plantain da shade from de sun wha da shine.
Me be a nigger boy,
When me live happy, wha for me repine?
Me neber run from my massa’s plantation,
Wha for me run? me no want to get lick;
He gib me house, and me pay no taxation――
Food when me famish, and nurse when me sick.
Willy-force[8] nigger, he belly be empty,
He hab the freedom, dat no good for me;
My massa good man, he gib me plenty
Me no lobe Willy-force[8] better dan he.
Me be de nigger boy,
Me happy fellow, den why me want free?
From_ Fraser’s Magazine_, 1830.
――――
SONG BY THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.
I’d be a Minister born into power,
Grasping the pay and the patronage sweet,
Making fine speeches to last for an hour.
At night when the Members of Parliament meet
I’d never care for the Whigs looking sour,
I should have plenty of slaves at my feet.
I’d be a Minister born into power,
Grasping the pay and the patronage sweet.
Then could I pilfer the office of Grey now
I’d get a share of those nice little things,
Giving the patronage, drawing the pay now
And making the most of whatever it brings.
Those that are out, great complaints have to say now
Office around them complacency flings.
I’d be a Minister, like I see Grey now
I’d get a share of those snug little things.
_Figaro in London_, April 13, 1833.
――――
I’D BE A BUTTERFLY.
“_Master Butterfly_, Mr. Townley’s famous short-horn bull, to which
the first prize was awarded at the Chelmsford meeting, and who has
been bought for the sum of 1,200 guineas, by an Australian gentleman,
was shipped a few days ago for Melbourne by the _Copenhagen_.”――_Daily
Paper._
I’d be a Butterfly, bought for a power
Of gold from Australia, a short-horn complete,
Shelter’d in homestead from sun and from shower,
Fatten’d on oat-cake and mangold so sweet.
Think of the glory obtained by my breeder――
Of the medal at Chelmsford so gloriously won――
Think of the credit borne off by my feeder,
For the fat, layer by layer, my broad ribs laid upon!
In a fast clipper they’ve taken my passage,
And a cabin on deck they’ve constructed for me,
Padded and mattressed to ease ocean’s tossage,
Pitched and caulked close ’gainst the wash of the sea.
While roots of the choicest, and hay of the sweetest,
Are stored upon board for my use on the way,
A best Lipscombe’s filter ensures the completest
Regard for my water-supply, day by day.
As for the passenger bipeds――poor devils,
Herring-like packed in the dark hold below!
Think of sea-sickness, and all of its evils――
Hatches all down――when it comes on to blow!
My sweet hay, my good water, and cabin so cool,
Compare with their berths, junk, and Thames from the tank!
Surely all must perceive how a fine short-horn bull
And an emigrant labourer differ in rank!
_Punch._ August 23, 1856.
――――:o:――――
WE MET.
We met――’twas in a crowd,
And I thought he would shun me,
He came――I could not breathe,
For his eyes were upon me;
He spoke――his words were cold,
And his smile was unaltered;
I knew how much he felt,
For his deep-toned voice falter’d.
I wore my bridal robe,
And I rivall’d its whiteness;
Bright gems were in my hair,
How I hated their brightness.
He called me by my name――
As the bride of another――
Oh, thou hast been the cause
Of this anguish my mother!
And once again we met,――
And a fair girl was near him,
He smiled, and whispered low,
As I once used to hear him;
She leant upon his arm――
Once ’twas mine, and mine only
I wept――for I deserved
To feel wretched and lonely.
And she will be his bride!
At the altar he’ll give her
The love that was too pure
For a heartless deceiver.
The world may think me gay,
For my feelings I smother,――
Oh, thou hast been the cause
Of this anguish, my mother!
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.
――――
PARODY ON THE ABOVE.
We met, ’twas in a mob, and we looked at each other;
He came――I said to him, “That you have got another.
You know I saw you come out of yonder dark alley,
Along with that ere gal they call one-eyed Sally.”
And she wore her bridal dress,――’twas a sailor’s blue jacket;
Her face, it smiled at me, how I longed for to smack it,
I said that you was false when you gave me a milling!
Oh! thou hast been the cause of these black eyes, you villain!
I saw him once again, with that ’ere same _gal_ walking;
She grinn’d, and so did he; how I envied their talking.
My heart it burst with rage, when her smart cap I tore off,
And a piece of her black hair in triumph I bore off;
He made a rush at me to give me a feller,
But he missed his savage aim, and fell into a cellar:
I laughed――I said to him, “You remember the milling
You last did give to me, and those black eyes, you villain!”
――――
“Mr. Henry Colburn here led Lady Morgan to the harp, and requested her
to sing ‘WE MET.’ The wild Irish girl condescended thus to comply”:――
We met! ’twas in your shop,
And I thought you would shun me;
But you came――your words were sweet,
And your yellow-boys won me.
You bade me write a book,
And they damn’d it in Holborn:――
Oh! thou hast been the cause
Of this anguish, Hal Colburn!
You cut off half my price
When I went to another;
And I hate you for it well,
Though my feelings I smother.
God send you may be _burked_,
Some dark night in High Holborn――
And the puffs may bear your corpse
To the doctors, Hal Colburn!
From _The National Omnibus_. November 25, 1831.
――――
WE MET――’TWAS IN ST. GILES.
We met, ’twas in St. Giles, Ah my poor bosom flutter’d――
He spoke, so full of smiles――though a little he stutter’d.
He said, “Ah, how d’ye do,” but I could not say “Thank’ee!”
I looked so very blue, and he look’d so lankey.
I wore my new pelisse all satin and whiteness,
A new five shilling piece had never such brightness
I should have ta’en his arm, but there was another――
O, thou hast been the cause of this anguish――my mother.
And once again we met that dashing young fellow,
It rain’d heavy wet, he’d a green _umbrella_;
He said, a worthy Jew, for nine-pence did mend it,
He said, ’twas good as new, and offer’d to lend it.
I thought there was no harm――I was going to take it;
My mother pull’d my arm, ’till I thought she would break it!
Don’t you think that cut direct, all his loving must smother.
Ah! thou hast been the cause of this anguish my _mamma_.
From _The London Singer’s Magazine_.
――――
THE DUEL.――No. 1.
We met,――’twas on the ground――
And I thought he would fight me;
He came his looks were bold,
And his pistols did fright me.
He frown’d, and he whispered low
A dead shot he is reckoned;
Oh! thou hast been the cause
Of this duel, my second!
He trod the paces out,
With a deal of expertness;
His legs were very short,
How I hated their shortness.
He loaded, primed, and cocked,
To his friend then he beckon’d;
Oh! thou hast been the cause
Of this duel, my second!
From _The National Omnibus_, June 10, 1831.
――――
THE DUEL No. 2.
We met, ’twas in a field,
And I thought he would wing me;
He came, I made cock sure
That down he would bring me.
He spoke, his words were cool;
His smile was unalter’d;
I knew he did not fear,
For his hand never falter’d.
I wore my Russia ducks,
And I rivall’d their whiteness;
Two slight friends were there,
How I envied their slightness!
I call’d the fellow out,
And there could be no shrinkings:
Oh! thou hast been the cause
Of this duel――Miss Jinkins!
(_Two verses omitted._)
_The Comic Magazine_, Second Series, 1833.
――――
LOVE ON THE OCEAN.
“‘Oh! is there not something, dear Augustus, truly sublime in this
warring of the elements?’ But Augustus’s heart was too full to
speak.”――_MS. Novel by Lady ――――_
They met, ’twas in a storm,
On the deck of a steamer;
She spoke in language warm,
Like a sentimental dreamer.
He spoke――at least he tried;
His position he altered;
Then turn’d his face aside,
And his deep-ton’d voice faltered.
She gazed upon the wave,
Sublime she declared it;
But no reply he gave――
He could not have dared it.
A breeze came from the south,
Across the billows sweeping;
His heart was in his mouth,
And out he thought ’twas leaping.
“O, then, steward,” he cried,
With the deepest emotion;
Then totter’d to the side,
And leant o’er the ocean.
The world may think him cold,
But they’ll pardon him with quickness,
When the fact they shall be told,
That he suffered from sea-sickness.
_Punch._ 1845.
――――
LORD BROUGHAM AND DR. REID.
“I DON’T WANT EXPLANATION, I WANT AIR”――_Brougham on Ventilation, Vide
Times_. “LORD BROUGHAM has expressed a very natural repugnance to be
treated like an animal, shut up for the purpose of having ventilating
experiments tried upon him. Such, however, is the fate of all Members
of Parliament who are subjected to the horrors of DR. REID’S process.
We can fancy the agonies of the Ex-Chancellor, imprisoned in an
exhausted receiver, like one of those little figures we have seen
ascending and descending in a glass tube, according as the air was let
in upon or withdrawn from them. BROUGHAM’S _rencontre_ with REID would
be well worthy of a poetical celebration, in a strain somewhat similar
to the following:――
We met, ’twas in the House,
And I hoped he would shun me;
He came, I could not breathe,
For his tube was upon me.
He puff’d, the air was cold,
The thermometer alter’d:
I knew ’twas freezing point,
For my voice with shivering falter’d.
I wore my Russia ducks,
In their beautiful whiteness;
Cold gusts ran through the House――
How I hated their lightness!
I call’d for warmer air,
But the pipes never cock’d are――
Oh, thou hast been the cause
Of this humbug, my Doctor!
And once again we met,
And a workman was near him;
He smiled and whisper’d low,
And I waited to hear him.
He gave a gentle breeze;
I confessed it was pleasing:
But then there came a rush
Of air that was freezing.
Is no one at my side,
Poor BROUGHAM to deliver;
Or must he die shut in
An exhausted receiver?
The world may think him wise,
But the House he will smother;
Or blow it all away
On some day or other.
_Punch._ June, 1846.
――――
THE LOST WATCH.
We met――’twas in a mob――and I thought he had done me――
I felt――I could not feel――for no watch was upon me;
He ran――the night was cold――and his pace was unaltered,
I too, longed much to pelt――but my small-boned legs falter’d.
I wore my brand new boots――and unrivalled their brightness,
They fit me to a hair――how I hated their tightness!
I called, but no one came, and my stride had a tether,
Oh, _thou_ hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!
And once again we met――and an old pal was near him,
He swore, a something low, but ’twas no use to fear him.
I seized upon his arm, he was mine and mine only,
And stept, as he deserved ――to cells wretched and lonely:
And there he will be tried――but I shall ne’er receive her,
The watch that went too sure for an artful deceiver;
The world may think me gay――heart and feet ache together,
Oh, _thou_ hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!
TOM HOOD.
――――
THE IMPOSITION.
We met in upper school,
And I thought he would “draw” me;
He came, his words were stern,
And much did he jaw me.
He asked me for my task,
Which I could not to him show.
Oh! thou hast been the cause
Of this anguish, my “Impo.”
And once again we met.
And his black book was near him
He pored and mumbled low,
As often you may hear him;
He said that I seem’d
In my duty towards him slow.
Oh! thou hast been the cause
Of this anguish, my “Impo.”
I wore a clean white shirt,
And revelled in its whiteness,
Bright studs were in it too,
How I envied their brightness;
For they made my face look pale,
But I did not let him know
That thou wert the cause
Of this anguish, my “Impo.”
W. V.
From _The Charterhouse School Collection of Poems_.
――――:o:――――
THE SOLDIER’S TEAR.
Upon the hill he turn’d
To take a last fond look,
Of the valley and the village church,
And the cottage by the brook;
He listen’d to the sounds
So familiar to his ear;
And the soldier lean’d upon his sword,
And wip’d away a tear.
Beside the cottage porch
A girl was on her knees,
She held aloft a snowy scarf
Which flutter’d in the breeze:
She breath’d a prayer for him,
A prayer he could not hear,
But he paus’d to bless her as she knelt,
And wip’d away a tear.
He turn’d, and left the spot,
Oh! do not deem him weak,
For dauntless was the soldier’s heart,
Tho’ tears were on his cheek.
Go, watch the foremost ranks
In danger’s dark career,
Be sure the hand most daring there
Has wip’d away a tear.
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.
――――
THE RECTOR’S TEAR.
(Supposed to be sung by the Rev. George Croly.)
Beside the church he stood,
To take a last fond look
Of the pulpit and the vestry-room,
And the red morocco book.
He heard the beadle’s voice,
So familiar to his ear,
And he raised his surplice to his eyes,
And wiped away a tear.
Within the old church door,
The clerk was on his knees,
Groping about in the wooden box,
In which he kept his fees.
The parson heard the dub-ups chink
Said he to himself, oh! dear,
If I had those, I do not think
I’d wipe away a tear!
That fine old humbug turned
To leave the chapel door;
He’d pocketted a fortune there,
But now he longed for more.
Go watch the vacant bishoprics,
In the chancellor’s career;
If he pops into one of them
He’ll wipe away no tear!
From _The National Omnibus_, November 25, 1831.
――――
THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON’S TEAR.
“We cannot help calling the attention of our readers to the following
very touching melody, sung by the Duke of Wellington immediately on
his discovering his inability to form an Administration. The allusion
to his threatened retirement from the House, is replete with feeling;
and the reference to the broken windows of Apsley House, pathetic and
beautiful.”
Upon his heel he turned,
To take a last fond look,
Of their lordships and the ministers,
And the premier’s pleasant nook.
He listened to the sounds
So familiar to his ear,
And the soldier on his protest leant.
To wipe away a tear.
Upon the sack of wool,
Brougham was on his knees;
He held aloft the snow-white Bill,
That caused so many a breeze.
He breathed a prayer to him――
A prayer he could not hear;
But he paused to damn him as he went,
And wiped away a tear.
He turned to quit the House――
Oh, do not deem him weak;
For bloody were the soldier’s thoughts,
Though tears were on his cheek.
Go watch the broken panes,
Of Apsley, dark and drear,
For there the soldier now must go,
To wipe away his tear.
_Figaro in London_, May 26, 1832.
(At that time the Duke of Wellington was very unpopular, and Apsley
House had been attacked by the mob.)
――――
THE BLUES AGAIN.
Upon the ground he stood,
To take a last fond look
At the troopers as he entered them
In Mister Dixon’s book.
He listened to the neigh
So familiar to his ear;
But the soldier thought of bills to pay,
And wiped away a tear.
The soldier blew his nose,
Oh, do not deem him weak!
To meet his creditors he knows
He’s not sufficient cheek.
Go read the writ-book through,
And mid the names, I fear
You’re sure to find the very Blue
Who wiped away the tear.
_Punch._ 1845.
(“Punch had hoped that the regiment had been extricated from its
little pecuniary difficulties, but was horrified on finding that the
Commanding Officer had given instructions to sell twenty very superior
long-tailed troop-horses. The above lines were suggested to the mind
of a sentimentalist who attended the sale.”)
――――
THE FOOTMAN’S NOSE.
In the street he turn’d to take a last long look,
Of the palings and the garden wall, where he the carpets shook:
He saw the kitchen fire where oft he’d warm’d his toes,
The footman bent upon his stick, and stood to wipe his nose.
Upon those steps a girl was scrubbing on her knees,
The wind took off her bonnet which flutter’d in the breeze.
She pray’d that it might fall by him, as in the air it rose,
He grinn’d, but lest that she should see, he stood and wiped his
nose.
He turn’d and left the place where he had lived a week,
Too youthful was the footman’s heart, tho’ whiskered was his
cheek;
Yet he had gain’d that cooky’s love, and banish’d other beaux,
For sure the one she lov’d the most, was he who wiped his nose.
From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin.
――――
THE POLICEMAN’S TEAR.
Against the rails he leant,
To take a last fond look,
At the kitchen he was petted in,
And the open-handed cook.
He heard the pretty housemaid read――
“The Guards will soon be here,”
And the Peeler turned his bracelet round,
And wiped away a tear.
He thought on beef and pickles,
On the lobster and the crab,
And other dainties that the Force
So well knows how to grab.
He thought of Susan’s sixpences,
Of Sarah’s supper-beer,
And the Peeler turned his bracelet round
And wiped away a tear.
For the Guards, the Guards are coming――
A week, and we shall find
His nose put not less out of joint
Than our larder, when he’d dined,
Cousins from the Crimea
With his rights will interfere――
No wonder that the peeler sighed,
And wiped away a tear.
But there is vengeance in his head,
So do not deem him weak――
There’s many a soldier will be watched
And brought before the Beak.
And of his rivals he will try
To keep our kitchens clear,
No sharper eye the steps can guard
Than now lets fall the tear.
SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1856.
――――
AWFUL POSITION OF MR. DUNUP AT BOULOGNE.
Upon the pier he turned
To take a mental look
Of his credit and his creditors,
Whom basely he forsook.
He conjured up the sound
So familiar to his ear,
Of “please to settle this account;”
And answer’d with a sneer.
He reached his lodging door,
A trembling took his knees――
He found in Paris there had been
A most tremendous breeze.
“_A bas les Anglais!_” roar’d
Directly in his ear,
Told him there was not time to pause――
He sought again the pier.
He look’d on board the boat,
Oh! do not deem him weak;
For desperate was _Dunup’s_ game,
The game of hide-and-seek.
Go watch him at Boulogne,
You’ll find him on the pier;
He’d rather risk the bayonets there,
Than brave the bailiffs here!
_Punch_, 1848.
――――
THE SOLDIER’S FEAR.
He turn’d upon his heel,
To take an angry look
Of the baggage-waggon and the baggage
As they came o’er the brook;
He tried to lose the sounds
So familiar to his ear,
And the soldier leant upon his sword
His wife was in the rear.
She sat upon the baggage.
A child was on her knees:
She looked just such a sort of one
As loved to have a breeze;
She breathed a threat for him,
A threat he could not hear,
Or else he would have soundly drubb’d
His partner in the rear.
He turned and cursed the spot,
Oh! do not deem him weak;
Bursting with fury was his heart,
Tho’ pallid was his cheek.
Go watch the foremost rank
In danger’s dark career,
And mark the man most des’prate there
His wife is in the rear.
From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin.
――――