(By Haynes Bayly the Second.)
The Broadwood is opened, its tapers are lit,
And my hostess implores me to play;
She would hear me accompany lines full of wit,
In my truly musicianlike way.
But my lyrics were made for the careless and free,
When my heart and my spirits were light:
Seek the lays of the lively from others, not _me_,
Let my song be a sad one to-night.
Leave, leave me, fair lady, to cherish my gloom
In a corner far far from the throng;
Let me carry some chair to the end of the room
And retreat from the dance and the song,
Let me hide my depression and veil my despair
From the crowd of the brilliant and bright;
Or in case you _insist_ upon hearing an air,
Let my song be a sad one to-night.
I could give you “The Last Rose of Summer,” perhaps,
In a plaintive and exquisite style:
But I know I should simply and feebly collapse
In my efforts to conjure a smile.
The low-comedy manner, the sickly grimace,
Would be rather too painful a sight:
With a load on my bosom, a cloud on my face,
Let my song be a sad one to-night.
Not a particle, thank you. No fluids can cheer
Such a state of dejection as mine.
It resists the seductive advances of beer,
And refuses the solace of wine.
No, I cannot be comic, fair lady. I trust
You regard my refusal aright.
Well, of course, if you _must_ have a ballad, you _must_,
Let my song be a sad one to-night.
_Fun._ November 18, 1871.
――――
MORE STANZAS.
(By Haynes Bayly the Second.)
I have taken ten glasses of sherry;
I hope they will ask me to sing;
I am feeling uncommonly merry,
And pine to go in for my fling.
I would give them no die-away ditty;
My lay should be jocund and light.
Bother sentiment――let me be witty;
Oh! let me be comic to-night.
As I sit here alone in a corner――
A slighted though eminent guest――
I resemble poor little Jack Horner,
Except that the pie is _non est_.
Yet I fain would be awfully jolly,
I fain would be gay if I might;
I am ready for frolic and folly――
Oh, let me be comic to-night.
I was grieved when my opulent uncle
Was taken so terribly ill.
’Tis a fearful affair, a carbuncle,
And baffles all medical skill.
He is gone, and has left me to suffer;
But Time puts our sorrows to flight.
He left me his money, poor buffer:――
Oh, let me be comic to-night.
Let me try; I am perfectly ready,
I’ve sat in my corner too long,
But my legs are a little unsteady――
That wine was remarkably strong.
Did you say I was tipsy? Oh gammon!
Just lift me up gently. All right――
I can sing, Sir. ’Twas only the salmon.
Oh, let me be comic to-night.
_Fun._ December 9, 1871.
These two imitations of Bayly’s style were written by the late Mr.
Henry Sambrook Leigh, who died June 16, 1883. They were also included
in a volume of his poems, entitled _A Town Garland_, published by
Chatto & Windus, London, in 1878.
――――:o:――――
OUT.
Out, John! out, John! what are you about, John?
If you don’t say out at once, you make the fellow doubt, John!
Say I’m out, whoever calls, and hide my hat and cane, John!
Say you’ve not the least idea when I shall come again, John!
Let the people leave their bills, but tell them not to call,
John!
Say I’m courting Miss Rupee, and mean to pay them all, John!
Out, John! out, John! what are you about, John?
If you don’t say out at once, you make the fellow doubt, John!
Run, John! run, John! there’s another dun, John;
If it’s Prodger, bid him call to-morrow week at one, John!
If he says he saw me at the window as he knocked, John!
Make a face, and shake your head, and tell him you are shocked,
John!
Take your pocket handkerchief, and put it to your eye, John!
Say your master’s not the man to bid you tell a lie, John!
Out, John! out John! &c.
Oh, John! go, John! there’s Noodle’s knock, I know, John
Tell him that all yesterday you sought him high and low, John!
Tell him just before he came, you saw me mount the hill, John!
Say you think I’m only gone to pay his little bill, John!
Then I think you’d better add, that if I miss to-day, John!
You’re sure I mean to call when next I pass his way, John!
Out, John! out, John! &c.
Hie, John! fly, John! I will tell you why, John!
If there is not Grimshawe at the corner, let me die, John!
He will hear of no excuse, I’m sure he’ll search the house, John!
Peeping into corners hardly fit to hold a mouse, John!
Beg he’ll take a chair and wait, I know he won’t refuse, John!
I’ll pop through the little door that opens on the mews, John!
Out, John! out, John! &c.
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.
――――
LORD BRUMMAGEM, LATE JOHN BRIGHT.
Out, John! out, John! What have you been about, John,
To thus oppose your Grand Old Chief, and try to cause his rout,
John?
We’d news of late which said your health was very much amiss,
John;
But, sick or well, we never thought that you would come to this,
John!
Fie, John! fie, John! We wish you’d tell us why, John,
You’ve now become of selfish Whigs and Tories the ally, John?
It can’t, of course, be from mere spite, or any such mean end,
John,
That you have, in an honoured age, thus turned upon your friend,
John!
Yet, John! yet, John! we very much regret, John,
That better reason for your acts we’ve wholly failed to get, John.
You hint that Mr. Gladstone’s mad, which is not very kind, John;
But, come now, are you sure that _you_ are in your own right mind,
John?
Come, John! come, John! Nay, nay, you can’t be dumb, John.
You _must_ speak out if we begin your past life’s deeds to sum,
John;
For hitherto you have been bold upon the side of right, John.
What, then, has changed your principles, if it be not mere spite,
John?
Why, John! why, John! you in the days gone by, John,
Full many a time have pleaded for the race you now defy, John;
Freedom was sacred then to you, and justice very dear, John,
But now, though, you attack them both, whilst stupid Tories cheer,
John.
Think, John, think, John! ere you much lower sink, John,
That those who cheer you are the crew from whom you used to
shrink, John;
Yes; stupid Tories, grasping Whigs, and Jingoes wild for war,
John,
_These_ are your brand-new friends――and we would ask again “What
for, John?”
Yes, John! yes, John! Most sadly we confess, John
We, for the sake of “Auld Lang Syne,” for explanation press, John.
Had you wax’d weary of the right, and tired of being true, John,
When you across a noble life this sombre shadow threw, John?
Stay, John! stay, John! Hear all we have to say, John!
Falls like to that of Chamberlain in no wise us dismay, John.
Joseph is an ambitious man, and full of self-conceit, John;
He’s shallow, too, like young men are, and vain and indiscreet,
John!
But oh, John! oh, John! it was a cruel blow, John,
When, with desertion not content, you went and joined the foe,
John!
Aye, when at Gladstone his old friend, John Bright, propelled a
stone, John!
’Twas not his son alone that gave a deep and heartfelt groan,
John!
Aye, John! aye John! you can’t yourself deny, John,
That thousands who once loved your name begin to it decry, John;
Whilst those too young your worthy deeds of past years to recall,
John,
Already ask in wonderment why it is loved at all, John!
But, stay, John! stay, John! There yet remains a way, John,
In which, though stubborn, you may still this tendency allay,
John;
Yes, you may keep the name of Bright un-slurred in any case, John.
By simply taking, as a Peer, a title in its place, John!
True, John! true John! you may this plan eschew, John,
But, ere you do so, please recall the things you’ve stooped to do,
John;
You’ve shown yourself, though old in years, quite greedy of renown,
John――
You as an Oxford D.C.L. flaunt in a scarlet gown, John
More, John! more, John! with feeling we deplore, John,
You have most bitterly denounced the friends of heretofore, John!
You’ve caused true Radicals to mourn――you’ve raised a Tory cheer,
John:
The climax, then, is natural――you mean to die a Peer, John!
Yes, John! yes, John! your recent acts express, John,
That you in your maturer years a curious craze possess, John;
Which, having made you do the things you’ve all your life abhorr’d,
John,
Now fills you with a silly wish――’twould seem――to be a Lord, John!
Eh, John! eh, John? “It isn’t so!” you say, John?
Then let it be your aim henceforth, most earnestly we pray, John;
Yes, please, as fitting climax to those Whig and Tories, cheers,
John,
To Bramwell, Lowe, and Brabourne join in our great House of Peers,
John!
Yes, John! yes, John! most urgently we press, John,
That you should from the Upper House declaim your next address,
John;
So that “John Bright” may still remain a prized and honoured name,
John,
Whilst with “Lord Brummagem” instead we link your Tory fame, John!
_Truth._ July 8, 1886.
――――
NAY, JOHN.
(A Temperance Song,)
“Nay,” John, “Nay,” John, that’s what you must say John,
Wherever you are asked to drink, or you’ll be led astray, John
Say that though you are not old,
Nor yet so very wise, John,
Yet what is right and good and true,
You’re old enough to prize, John.
Let the people drink who will,
But when they come to you, John,
Boldly say, “I’VE SIGNED THE PLEDGE,
AND MEAN TO KEEP IT TOO,” John.
“Nay,” John, “Nay,” John, that’s what you must say John,
Whenever you are asked to drink, or you’ll be led astray, John.
Think, John, think, John, what a thing is drink, John,
From bad to worse, it mostly leads to death and ruin’s brink,
John.
You know your uncle Robert had
As nice a house as mine, John,
But, years ago, you know, as well,
He swallowed it in wine, John,
His trade is dead, his shop is shut,
’Twas drink that made him fail, John;
He started with a single glass,
And now he’s in the gaol, John.
Use, John, use, John, winks at this abuse, John,
And when you recommend the pledge, will patch up some excuse,
John.
Many drink because they’re cold,
And some because they’re hot, John
Many drink because they’re old,
And some because they’re not, John;
Many drink because they’re thin,
And some because they’re stout, John;
Many drink because they’re in,
And some because they’re out, John.
“Nay,” John. “Nay,” John, whatever they may say, John.
Never touch and never taste, but always answer “Nay,” John.
If they ask you only just
To taste a little drop, John,
Say you would if you knew where
The “little drop” would stop, John.
Tell them by gin and rum,
By wine and malt and hops, John,
That life and health, and peace and fame,
Are drowned in “little drops,” John.
Oh, John, oh, John, I’ll tell you what I know, John:
_A drunken man o’er all the world, has most of grief and woe,
John_.
Then on the land and on the sea,
In seasons hot and cold, John,
Keep the pledge when you are young,
And keep it when you’re old, John,
Let the people drink who will,
But when they come to you, John,
Boldly say, “I’VE SIGNED THE PLEDGE,
AND MEAN TO KEEP IT TOO, JOHN.”
――――
When Sir Thomas Brassey lost his seat in the House of Commons, he was
promoted to a peerage for his services to his party. Some snobbish
toadies immediately set to work to trace a pedigree for the new Baron,
and asserted that one of his ancestors came over with the Duke William
from Normandy. Whereas it was well known that the father of Sir Thomas
was of very poor and humble origin, and made his money by honorable
hard work as a Railway Contractor. _Truth_ represented Sir Thomas,
attired in a suit of mail as a Norman Knight, appearing to his father,
who sits smoking a short pipe, in the loose and easy costume of his
early calling, a “navvy,” or road excavator. The father thus addresses
the newly made Baron:――
Out, Tom! Out, Tom! what have you been about, Tom?
Though, if you truly know yourself, I’m very much in doubt, Tom!
To think, though, that a man of sense, for you are not a fool,
Tom!
Should act in such a way, oh, dear! I hardly can keep cool, Tom!
What’s that you say? “You’ve only claimed what should be yours by
right,” Tom?
And that Le Sieur Bresci was indeed a Norman knight, Tom?
My poor, poor boy! Come, tell me who has told you of such stuff,
Tom!
I should have thought your father’s name for you’d be good enough,
Tom!
What’s that? “The Heralds searched for you, and found you our old
crest,” Tom?
For any Brassey’s crest I think my pickaxe would serve best, Tom;
While for a motto, here is one that cannot be attackt, Tom,
For it is merely “We enlarge the more that we contract,” Tom.
But, come, let me be serious, and this, at least, I’d pray, Tom:
Do not, in common-sense’s name, go on in such a way, Tom.
If you’ve been made a Lord, why I suppose you must be one, Tom,
But do now try to be more like your poor old father’s son, Tom.
Don’t make the people laugh at you, by silly, empty pride, Tom;
And don’t your father’s honest trade be so inclined to hide, Tom.
You always were a clever boy, so let me then implore, Tom,
That of these Norman ancestors I never may hear more, Tom.
_Truth._ Christmas Number, 1886.
――――:o:――――
THE OLD HOUSE AT HOME.
Oh! the old house at home where my forefathers dwelt,
Where a child at the feet of my mother I knelt,
When she taught me the prayer, where she read me the page,
Which, if infancy lisps, is the solace of age;
My heart, ’mid all changes, wherever I roam,
Ne’er loses its love for the old house at home!
’Twas not for its splendour that dwelling was dear,
’Twas not that the gay or the noble were near;
O’er the porch the wild rose and wood-bine entwined,
And the sweet-scented jessamine waved in the wind;
Yet dearer to me than proud turret or dome
Were the halls of my fathers, the old house at home!
But now the old house is no dwelling for me,
The home of the stranger henceforth it shall be;
And ne’er will I view it, nor rove as a guest,
O’er the ever-green fields which my father possessed;
Yet still, in my slumbers, sweet visions will come
Of the days that are pass’d, and the old house at home!
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.
――――
A CONTRAST.
Oh! the old house at home where my forefathers dwelt,
Was a tumble-down place, where most dismal I felt;
For my friends kept few servants, and taught me the page
Could not wait upon me, for I was not of age.
Oh! my heart ’midst all changes, from London to Rome,
Finds each place more gay than the old house at home!
’Twas not for its rent that the dwelling was dear,
But it wanted no end of repairs every year.
From the roof had been stolen the coating of lead,
And the rain pelted through till it dripped on your head;
And a dark narrow passage, with no space to roam,
Was the hall of my father,――the old house at home.
But now the old house is no dwelling for me;
I’m settled in London, where sooner I’d be;
And ne’er will return there, except as a guest,
Just for two or three days,――if I do, I am blest!
The dulness would kill me, and slumber would come,
In the small dingy rooms of the old house at home.
From _A Bowl of Punch_, by ALBERT SMITH, London: D. Bogue, 1848.
[Illustration]
PARODIES OF LEWIS CARROLL.
“Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,” and “Through the Looking-Glass,
and what Alice found there” have so long been familiar, and are so
universally popular, that their recent production on the Stage at the
Prince of Wales’s Theatre only causes a feeling of surprise that they
have not been dramatised hitherto.
It is true, that Colonel Lynes, of the Royal Artillery, selected the
subject of “Alice in Wonderland” for the Soldiers’ pantomime at
Woolwich, more than six months ago, and at his suggestion Mr. J.
Addison wrote a very ingenious play, which was produced in the Theatre
of the Royal Artillery Barracks at Christmas 1886.
But this was far less complete as a representation of Alice’s
adventures, than the Musical Dream Play, in two acts by H. Savile
Clarke, produced at the Prince of Wales’s Theatre in December, 1886.
All who have read Alice’s Adventures (and who has not read them?)
should see how admirably they have been realised on the boards, and
recognise in Miss Phœbe Carlo the charming little heroine of Mr.
Carroll’s invention. Mr. H. Savile Clarke thus introduces the subject
of his play:――
A Nursery Magician took
All little children by the hand;
And led them laughing through the book,
Where Alice walks in Wonderland:
Ours is the task with Elfin dance
And song, to give to Childhood’s gaze
That Wonderland; and should it chance
To win a smile, be his the praise.
――――
By the kind permission of Mr. Lewis Carroll the following poems are
selected from his books, with some parodies and imitations of them.
THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER.
The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might;
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright――
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done.
“It’s very rude of him,” she said,
“To come and spoil the fun.”
The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead――
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
“If this were only cleared away,”
They said, “It _would_ be grand!”
“If seven maids, with seven mops,
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose,” the Walrus said,
“That they could get it clear?”
“I doubt it,” said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
“Oh, Oysters, come and walk with us!”
The Walrus did beseech.
“A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beech;
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each.”
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head――
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat――
And this was odd, because, you know,
They had’nt any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four:
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more――
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
“The time has come,” the Walrus said,
“To talk of many things:
Of shoes――and ships――and sealing-wax――
Of cabbages-and kings――
And why the sea is boiling hot――
And whether pigs have wings.”
“But wait a bit,” the Oysters cried,
“Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!”
“No hurry!” said the Carpenter:
They thanked him much for that.
“A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said,
“Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed――
Now, if you’re ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed.”
“But not on us,” the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
“After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!”
“The night is fine,” the Walrus said.
“Do you admire the view?
“It was so kind of you to come,
And you are very nice!”
The Carpenter said nothing, but
“Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf――
I’ve had to ask you twice!”
“It seems a shame,” the Walrus said,
“To play them such a trick,
After we’ve brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!”
The Carpenter said nothing but
“The butter’s spread too thick!”
“I weep for you,” the Walrus said:
“I deeply sympathize.”
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
“Oh, Oysters,” said the Carpenter,
“You’ve had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?”
But answer came there none――
And this was scarcely odd, because
They’d eaten every one.
Lewis Carroll (_Through the Looking Glass_).
――――
THE VULTURE AND THE HUSBANDMAN.
BY LOUISA CAROLINE.
(A _Vulture_ is a rapacious and obscene bird, which destroys its prey
by _plucking_ it limb from limb, with its powerful beak and talons. A
_Husbandman_ is a man in a low position of life who supports himself
by the use of the _plough_.――_Johnson’s Dictionary._)
The rain was raining cheerfully,
As if it had been May,
The senate-house appeared inside
Unusually gay;
And this was strange, because it was
A _vivâ-voce_ day.
The men were sitting sulkily,
Their paper-work was done,
They wanted much to go away
To row, or ride, or run;
“It’s very rude,” they said, “to keep
Us here and spoil our fun.”
The papers they had finished lay
In piles of blue and white.
They answered everything they could,
And wrote with all their might;
But though they wrote it all by _rote_
They did not write it right.
The Vulture and the Husbandman
Beside these piles did stand,
They wept like anything to see
The work they had in hand;
“If this were only finished up,”
Said they “it would be grand.
If seven D’s or seven C’s
We give to all the crowd,
Do you suppose,” the Vulture said,
“That we could get them ploughed?”
“I think so,” said the Husbandman,
‘But, pray, don’t talk so loud.’
“O undergraduates, come up!”
The Vulture did beseech,
“And let us see if you can learn
As well as we can teach.
We cannot do with more than two,
To have a word with each.”
Two undergraduates came up,
And slowly took a seat,
They knit their brows and bit their thumbs
As if they found them sweet;
And this was odd, because, you know,
Thumbs are not good to eat.
“The time has come,” the Vulture said
“To talk of many things,
Of accidence and adjectives,
And names of Jewish kings,
How many notes a sackbut has,
And whether shawns have strings.”
“Please sir,” the undergraduates said
Turning a little blue,
“We did not know that was the sort
Of thing we had to do.”
“We thank you much,” the Vulture said,
“Send up another two.”
Two more came up, and then two more
And more, and more, and more,
And some looked upwards at the roof
Some down upon the floor;
But none were any wiser than
The pair that went before.
“I weep for you,” the Vulture said
“I deeply sympathize;”
With sobs and tears he gave them all
D’s of the largest size,
While at the Husbandman he winked
One of his streaming eyes.
“I think,” observed the Husbandman,
“We’re getting on too quick,
Are we not putting down the D’s
A little bit too thick?”
The Vulture said, with much disgust,
“Their answers make me sick!”
“Now, undergraduates,” he cried,
“Our fun is nearly done,
Will anybody else come up?”
But answer came there none,
And this was scarcely odd, because
They’d ploughed them every one.
_The Light Green._ Cambridge, 1872.
――――
THE NYUM――NYUM.
The Nyum Nyum chortled by the sea,
And sipped the wavelets green:
He wondered how the sky could be
So very nice and clean;
He wondered if the chamber-maid
Had swept the dust away,
And if the scrumptious Jabberwock
Had mopped it up that day.
And then in sadness to his love
The Nyum Nyum weeping said,
I know no reason why the sea
Should not be white or red.
I know no reason why the sea
Should not be red, I say;
And why the slithy Bandersnatch
Has not been round to-day.
He swore he’d call at two o’clock.
And now its half-past four.
“Stay,” said the Nyum Nyum’s love, “I think
I hear him at the door.”
In twenty minutes in there came
A creature black as ink,
Which put its feet upon a chair
And called for beer to drink.
They gave him porter in a tub,
But, “Give me more!” he cried;
And then he drew a heavy sigh,
And laid him down, and died.
He died, and in the Nyum Nyum’s cave
A cry of mourning rose;
The Nyum Nyum sobbed a gentle sob,
And slily blew his nose.
The Nyum Nyum’s love, we need not state,
Was overwhelmed, and sad:
She said, “Oh, take the corpse away,
Or you will drive me mad!”
The Nyum Nyum in his supple arms
Took up the gruesome weight,
And, with a cry of bitter fear,
He threw it at his mate.
And then he wept, and tore his hair,
And threw it in the sea,
And loudly sobbed with streaming eyes
That such a thing could be.
The ox, that mumbled in his stall,
Perspired and gently sighed,
And then, in sympathy, it fell
Upon its back and died.
The hen that sat upon her eggs,
With high ambition fired,
Arose in simple majesty,
And, with a cluck, expired.
The jubejube bird, that carolled there,
Sat down upon a post,
And, with a reverential caw,
Gave up its little ghost.
And ere its kind and loving life
Eternally had ceased,
The donkey, in the ancient barn,
In agony deceased.
The raven, perched upon the elm.
Gave forth a scraping note,
And ere the sound had died away,
Had cut its tuneful throat.
The Nyum Nyum’s love, was sorrowful;
And, after she had cried,
She, with a brand-new carving knife,
Committed suicide.
“Alas!” the Nyum Nyum said, “alas!
With thee I will not part;”
And straightway seized a rolling-pin
And drove it through his heart.
The mourners came and gathered up
The bits that lay about;
But why the massacre had been,
They could not quite make out.
One said there was a mystery
Connected with the deaths;
But others thought the silent ones
Perhaps had lost their breaths.
The doctor soon arrived, and viewed
The corpses as they lay:
He could not give them life again;
So he was heard to say.
But, oh! It was a horrid sight
It made the blood run cold,
To see the bodies carried off
And covered up with mould.
The Toves across the briny sea
Wept buckets-full of tears;
They were relations of the dead,
And had been friends for years.
The Jabberwock upon the hill
Gave forth a gloomy wail,
When in his airy seat he sat,
And told the awful tale.
And who can wonder that it made
That loving creature cry?
For he had done the dreadful work,
And caused the things to die.
That Jabberwock was passing bad――
That Jabberwock was wrong.
And with this verdict, I conclude
One portion of my song.
I contend that there is a great deal of natural beauty in the poem of
which this extract forms part. Some people say there isn’t a scrap. A
man, I am aware, mixed up something of the sort in a book called
“Alice through the Looking Glass.”
――――:o:――――
JABBERWOCKY.
Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand
Long time the manxome foe he sought――
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
ame whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came.
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!
He chortled in his joy.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves,
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
LEWIS CARROLL (_Through the Looking Glass_).
――――
WAGGAWOCKY.
(_On the Tichborne Trial_)
“Merely interpolating the note that the word ‘wabe’ is explained by
the Poet to mean ‘a grassplot round a sundial,’ but that it also means
a Court of Justice, being derived from the Saxon _waube_, a wig-shop,
we proceed to dress the prophetic ode in plain English:――
’Twas May time, and the lawyer coves
Did jibe and jabber in the wabe,
All menaced were the Tichborne groves,
And their true lord, the Babe.
“Beware the Waggawock, my son,
The eyelid twitch, the knees’ incline,
Beware the Baigent network, spun
For gallant Ballantine.”
He took his ton-weight brief in hand,
Long time the hidden clue he sought,
Then rested he by the Hawkins tree,
And sat awhile in thought.
And as in toughish thought he rocks,
The Waggawock, _sans_ truth or shame
Came lumbering to the witness box,
And perjured out his Claim.
“Untrue! untrue!” Then, through and through
The weary weeks he worked the rack;
But March had youth, ere with the Truth
He dealt the final whack.
“And hast thou slain the Waggawock
Come to my arms, my Beamish Boy!
O Coleridge, J.! Hoorah! hooray!”
_Punch_ chortled in his joy.
SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1872.
In _Truth_, October 4, 1883, twenty-one imitations of the
_Jabberwocky_ were printed. They are now rather heavy reading, and
only the two following seem worth reprinting:――
THE CRUISE OF THE “P. C.” BY A. T.[9]
Across the swiffling waves they went,
The gumly bark yoked to and fro;
The jupple crew on pleasure bent,
Galored, “This is a go!”
Beside the poo’s’l stood the Gom,
He chirked and murgled in his glee;
While near him, in a grue jipom,
The Bard was quite at sea.
“Gollop! Golloy! Thou scrumjous Bard!
Take pen (thy stylo) and endite
A pome, my brain needs kurgling hard,
And I will feast to-night.”
That wansome Bard he took his pen,
A flirgly look arnund he guv;
He squoffled once, he squirled, and then
He wrote what’s writ above.
HERMON.
――――
THE BURGLAR.
’Twas grilling hot, the bloky cove
Had burgled through the shop,
When Bobbles caughtled him, and shove
Him into quod flip-flop.
He chore his hair right fistfully,
He rowled his squinty eyne;
He waggled, grovelling fitfully,
His lithy form and lean.
Then Bobbles sweart agin him straight,
So off they chustled him
To horrid Zone for seasons eight,
And chortled at his din.
So all ye pals, come gristle up
Unto my doleful tale:
Ne’er fake away, nor jumble sup,
Though nix my Dolly fail.
ALMA.
――――:o:――――
_Air._――“Will you walk into my parlour.”
“Can you move a little faster?” said a tall man to a stout,
“I’ve an enemy behind me, and I want to keep him out.
See how eagerly the flatterers all throng round the great man;
Now he is looking for their votes, can’t you spoil his little
plan?
Can you, can’t you, can you, can’t you spoil his little plan?
Can you, can’t you, can you spoil his little plan?
“You can really have no notion how delightful it would be,
If you get into the House, you will have many a fee.”
And the stout one said, “No! I’ve worked in vain, I’m beat,
My opponent’s firmly settled, and I cannot take his seat.
Will not, cannot, cannot, will not now take his seat.
Will not, cannot, will not now take his seat.”
“What matters it? you are not beat!” his tall friend to him said,
“There’s another man to take your place, you know, when you are
dead.
If you’ll leave Ireland alone, you’ll then get on like fun,
So don’t give up, but go and sup, and we will pay your dun.
Won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you soon cry.
Will you, won’t you, will you soon cry, ‘I’ve won!’”
MISS SHAW.
_Truth_. 15 July, 1886.
Not only has Lewis Carroll given many themes to the parodists, but he
has himself produced some amusing parodies, a short one on Dr. Watts,
that on Southey’s, “You are old, Father William,” already quoted on
page 156, Volume III. of Parodies, and “Soup of the evening, beautiful
Soup” given on page 35, all appear in _Alice’s Adventures in
Wonderland_.
That this book should have been translated into German, French, and
Italian, tells of its well deserved popularity:――
_And, though the shadow of a sigh
May tremble through the story,
For happy summer days gone by,
And vanish’d summer glory――
It shall not touch with breath of bale
The pleasance of that fairy-tale._
――――:o:――――
MEET ME BY MOONLIGHT.
Meet me by moonlight alone,
And then I will tell you a tale,
Must be told by the moonlight alone,
In the grove at the end of the vale.
You must promise to come, for I said,
I would show the night-flowers their queen;
Nay, turn not away thy sweet head,
’Tis the loveliest ever was seen.
Oh! meet me by moonlight alone.
Daylight may do for the gay,
The thoughtless, the heartless, the free;
But there’s something about the moon’s ray,
That is sweeter to you and to me.
Oh! remember, be sure to be there,
For though dearly the moonlight I prize,
I care not for all in the air,
If I want the sweet light of your eyes.
So meet me by moonlight alone.
J. A. WADE.
――――
MEET ME, MISS MOLLY MALONE.
Meet me, Miss Molly Malone,
At the grove at the end of the vale;
But be sure that you don’t come alone,
Bring a pot of your master’s strong ale,
With a nice bit of beef and some bread,
Some pickled, or cucumbers green,
Or a nice little dainty pig’s head,
’Tis the loveliest tit-bit e’er seen.
Then meet me, Miss Molly Malone.
Pastry may do for the gay,
Old maids may find comfort in tea;
But there’s something about ham and beef
That agrees a deal better with me.
Remember my cupboard is bare,
Then come, if my dear life you prize,
I’d have lived the last fortnight on air,
But you sent me two nice mutton pies.
Then meet me, Miss Molly Malone.
――――
MEET ME THIS EVENING ALONE.
Meet me this evening alone,
Friend Bite, and we’ll hatch up a tale;
We’ll chat when the day’s work is done,
O’er a pipe and a jug of good ale:
A plate of cold meat and some bread,
With salad or cucumbers green,
And part of a sucking pig’s head
’Tis the loveliest of tit-bits e’er seen.
Then meet me &c.
Pastry may do for the gay,
The thoughtless, the young, and the free,
But there’s something in cold beef, they say,
More tempting to you and to me;
Then remember, be sure to be there,
If good eating and drinking you prize,
You’ve liv’d the last fortnight on air,
I can tell by those hollow-sunk eyes.
Then meet me, &c.
From _Wiseheart’s New Comic Songster_. Dublin.
――――
Many years ago (it was in February, 1844), _Punch_ had a parody
entitled “Meet me with Wimbush alone,” alluding to Wimbush’s omnibus,
which then ran from Belgrave Square to the Bank. It was jocularly
reported never to carry more than one passenger at a time. But the
following parody, from the same source, is not only more modern, but
also more likely to appeal to the present generation, than a satire on
a long forgotten omnibus:――
RED HERRINGS.
Meet me at breakfast alone,
And then I will give you a dish
Which really deserves to be known,
Though it’s not the genteelest of fish.
You must promise to come, for I said
A splendid red Herring I’d buy――
Nay, turn not away your proud head;
You’ll like it, I know, when you try.
If moisture the Herring betray,
Drain, till from moisture ’tis free;
Warm it through in the usual way,
Then serve it for you and for me.
A piece of cold butter prepare,
To rub it when ready it lies;
Egg sauce and potatoes don’t spare,
And the flavour will cause you surprise.
_Punch._
――――
PARODIES OF
“WHERE ARE YOU GOING TO, MY PRETTY MAID?”
Miss Emily Faithful’s paper was responsible for the following:――We saw
a Christmas card the other day which had been sent to a young lady at
a school of design. It represented a grotesque figure at a lecturer’s
desk, and underneath were these lines:
“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?”
“I’m going to lecture, sir,” she said.
“And what is the subject, my pretty maid?”
“Total extinction of man,” she said.
“Then nobody’ll marry you, my pretty maid.”
“Advanced women _don’t_ marry, good sir,” she said.
March 1, 1879.
――――
VENUS AND ADONIS.
“Men who suffer their wives’ photographs to be exhibited for sale in
the shop-windows run the risk of being thought to get some profit by
so doing, for they otherwise would hardly sanction such publicity.”
Where are you going to, my pretty maid?
I’m going to be Photographed, Sir, she said.
May I go with you, my pretty maid?
Yes, if you like it, she calmly said.
What is your fortune, my pretty maid?
My face is my fortune, Sir, she said.
How do you live on’t, my pretty maid?
By selling my photos, she promptly said.
Then may I marry you, my pretty maid?
If you’ve a title, perhaps――she said.
_Punch._ June, 1878.
“WHERE ARE YOU GOING TO, MY PRETTY MAID.”
(_New Reading._)
With the pail for the milk hung over her arm,
Across the green fields tripped Mary;
The smiles on her face gave additional charm,
And caused you to call her a fairy.
Now a spruce young clerk was out for a ride,
And happened to come across Mary;
Said he to himself, “I will make her my bride,
And make her keep me with her dairy.”
But altho’ she was rustic, and simple as well,
As proud as a queen was our Mary;
Tho’ her bonny blue eyes of mischief could tell,
The sequel will show she was wary.
“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?”
Said this gay young spark from the neighb’ring town;
“I am going a-milking, sir,” she said.
A blush on her face, and her eyes cast down.
“May I be your escort, my pretty maid?
Nay turn not away those cheeks rosy red;
To carry your pail I’ll not be afraid,
And if you’ll consent, I’m willing to wed.”
“What, sir, is your fortune?” cried the young maid,
And around her lips a merry smile played.
“My face is my fortune! my pretty maid.”
“Then you’ve plenty of brass, kind sir,” she said.
――――
TRUE.
Oh, where are you going, my pretty maid?”
“I’m going a chestnutting, sir,” she said.
And she spoke sober truth, in sooth, for lo!
She had a ticket for the minstrel show.
_Detroit Free Press._ July 24, 1886.
(Chestnuts――Americanism for stale jokes.)
――――
Where are you going to my pretty maid?
“I’m going to publish, sir,” she said.
Perhaps you’ve a fortune, my pretty maid?
“My verse is my fortune, sir,” she said.
Then you’d better not try it, my pretty maid,
There’s an item for printing, and when it is paid,
There’s “commission on sales,” oh, innocent maid!
In your rural retreat have you heard of THE TRADE?
Oh, _where_ are you going to, my pretty maid?
ERNEST RADFORD.
――――
AN IDYLLIC DUET.
(A New Version, as Sung under the Gallery with the Greatest Success by
the Sergeant-at-Arms, and the Junior Member for Northampton, Mr.
Charles Bradlaugh.)
“Where are you going to, my stubborn head?
Where are you going to, my stubborn head?”
“I’m going a-swearing, GOSSET,” he said;
“I’m going a-swearing, GOSSET,” he said.
“Then I must come after you, my stubborn head;
Then I must come after you, my stubborn head,”
“You may come if you like, old GOSSET,” he said;
“You may come if you like, old GOSSET,” he said.
“Now you’re tempting your fortune, my stubborn head,
Now you’re tempting your fortune, my stubborn head.”
“Why,――my Oath is my fortune, GOSSET,” he said;
“Why,――my Oath is my fortune, GOSSET,” he said.
“Then, I don’t think much of you, my stubborn head,
Then, I don’t think much of you, my stubborn head.”
“Nobody axed you to, GOSSET,” he said;
“Nobody axed you to, GOSSET,” he said.
(_Dance up the middle, touch shoulder, and down again._)
_Punch_, May 21, 1881.
――――
“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?”
“I’m going to Spelling Bee, sir,” she said,
“Where is your lexicon, my pretty maid?”
“I do not want one, sir,” she said.
“What can you spell, pray, my pretty maid?”
“I can spell prize, kind sir,” she said.
“Let’s hear you spell it, my pretty maid!”
“P-r-e-y-e-s, prize,” she said.
“I wouldn’t give much for your ‘preyes,’ pretty maid!”
“’Cause you ain’t got it to give, sir,” she said.
[_Exeunt ambo._
――――
“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?”
“I’m going to a lecture, sir,” she said.
“May I come with you, my pretty maid?”
“You won’t understand it, sir,” she said.
“What is the subject, my pretty maid?”
“The _final extinction of man_,” she said,
“Then you won’t marry, my pretty maid?”
“_Superior_ girls _never_ marry,” she said.
_Modern Society._ September 12, 1885.
“WHIZZ,” the Christmas number of _The Bicycling Times_, 1880, has a
long parody, entitled “A Bicyclist’s Song,” after _My Rattling Mare
and I_; also a parody on “My Pretty Maid,” entitled _The Wheelman and
the Maid_, which concludes thus:――
“Shall I have any croppers?” asked my pretty maid,
“Shall I have any croppers?” asked my pretty maid,
“You’ll often go over, sweet girl, I said, sweet girl I
said,” &c.
“Then I cannot ride it,” said my pretty maid,
“Then I cannot ride it,” said my pretty maid,
“Then I’ll wish you good morning, sweet girl, I said, sweet
girl I said,” &c.
And still another, commencing:――
“Will you come and see my Humber?” said the rider on the tri,
’Tis the scorchingest of trycycles that ever you did spy;
You’ve only got to pop your leg the easy saddle o’er,
And you’ll go along at such a pace as ne’er was seen before;
Will you, will you, will you, will you come and see my tri?
There is also a prose imitation of Captain Mayne Reid, entitled, _On
the Prairie_, by Jak Strauz Karsel.
――――:o:――――
I’VE BEEN ROAMING.
I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,
Where the meadow dew is sweet,
And I’m coming, and I’m coming,
With its pearls upon my feet.
I’ve been roaming, &c.
I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,
O’er the rose and lily fair,
And I’m coming, and I’m coming,
With their blossoms in my hair.
I’ve been roaming, &c.
I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,
Where the honey-suckle sips,
And I’m coming, and I’m coming,
With its kisses on my lips.
I’ve been roaming, &c.
I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming
Over hill and over plain,
And I’m coming, and I’m coming,
To my bower back again.
I’ve been roaming, &c.
ANONYMOUS. 1832.
――――
I’VE BEEN SHOPPING.
I’ve been shopping――I’ve been shopping
To John Brown’s in Regent Street,
And I’m hopping――and I’m hopping
With his shoes upon my feet.
I’ve been roaming――I’ve been roaming,
For rose oil and lily rare,
And I’m coming――and I’m coming
With a bottle for my hair.
I’ve been roaming――I’ve been roaming
To the pastrycook’s, old Phipps,
And I’m coming――and I’m coming
With some kisses for my lips.
I’ve been roaming――I’ve been roaming
Up Bond Street and down Park Lane
And I’m coming――and I’m coming
To my own house back again.
――――
THE WANDERING JEW.
I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,
Vid a merry, merry strain,
And I’m coming, and I’m coming,
Home to Rosemary Lane.
I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,
Through ev’ry street and square,
And I’m coming, and I’m coming
Vith the pargains I got there.
I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,
I have upon my life,
And I’m coming, and I’m coming,
To my children and my vife.
I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming
For to pargain I’ve the knack,
And I’m coming, and I’m coming,
Vith my pag upon my pack.
I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,
Quite hungry full of vo,
But I’m a coming, I’m a coming,
To eat fish and _buckle yow_.
I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,
Vere the people call out “Pork,”
But I am coming, I am coming,
To be rested from my vork.
I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming
But our _shaboth_ it is nigh,
So I’m coming, so I’m coming,
To vish you all good-bye.
_Universal Songster_, Vol. 3.
――――
I’VE BEEN EATING.
I’ve been eating, I’ve been eating,
In the north and in the south
And I’m coming, and I’m coming,
With the crumbs about my mouth.
I’ve been stuffing, I’ve been stuffing
Plates of beef, of pork and veal;
And my corporation’s puffing,
With an out-and-out good meal.
I’ve been drinking, I’ve been drinking,
Heavy wet and Hodges’ gin,
And I’m going, and I’m going,
To my attic back again.
I’ve been eating, I’ve been eating,
In the north and in the south;
From the shops I’m now retreating,
With the crumbs about my mouth!
――――
SONG BY A SHIFTY POLITICIAN.
(_Not_ dedicated to Mr. Robert Lowe.)
I’ve been turning――I’ve been turning,
Tory, Radical, and Whig,
And I’m earning, and I’m earning,
Something handsome by the rig.
I’ve been turning,――I’ve been turning,
Over politic’s wide range,
But I’m earning, yes I’m earning,
Money by each little change.
I’ve been turning,――I’ve been turning,
Till I have been made a Peer,
And I’m earning, oh, I’m earning,
Several thousand pounds a year.
I’ve been turning,――I’ve been turning,
Almost every way ’tis plain,
And I’m yearning, yes I’m yearning
To be Chancellor again.
Almost every way, ’tis plain,
To be Chancellor again;
And I’m yearning, and I’m yearning,
To be Chancellor again.
――――:o:――――
AFLOAT.
In the steamer, O my darling! when the foghorns scream and blow,
And the footsteps of the steward softly come and softly go.
When the passengers are groaning with a deep and sincere woe,
Will you think of me and love me, as you did not long ago?
In the cabin, O my darling! think not bitterly of me,
Though I rushed away and left you in the middle of our tea:
I was seized with a sudden longing to gaze upon the damp, deep
sea――
It was best to leave you then, dear; best for you and best for
me.
_Liverpool Weekly Post._ January 1, 1887.
――――:o:――――
SOME DAY
(_To an Extortionate Tailor._)
I know not when your bill I’ll see,
I know not when that bill fell due
What interest you will charge to me,
Or will you take my I.O.U.?
It may not be till years have passed,
Till chubby children’s locks are grey;
The tailor trusts us, but at last
His reckoning we must meet some day
Some day――some day――some day I must meet it,
Snip, I know not when or how,
Snip, I know not when or how;
Only this――only this――this that once you _did_ me――
Only this――I’ll do _you_ now――I’ll do you now――
I’ll do you now.
I know not are you far or near――
Are you at rest? or cutting still?
I know not who is held so _dear_!
Or who’s to pay your “little bill!”
But when it comes, some day――some day――
These eyes an awful tote may see;
And don’t you wish, my tailor gay,
That you may get your _£_ _s._ _d._?
Some day――some day――some day I must meet it,
Snip, I know not when or how,
Snip, I know not when or how,
Only this――only this――this that once you _did_ me――
Only this――I’ll do you now――I’ll do you now――
I’ll do you now!
From _Sketches in Prose and Verse_, by F. B. Doveton, author of
_Snatches of Song_. London: Sampson Low & Co., Fleet Street. 1886.
(This amusing volume also contains a number of Parodies on the poems
of Moore, Alfred Tennyson, Campbell, Hood, Byron, Coleridge, Southey,
Poe, and Swinburne.)
――――:o:――――
MY MOTHER BIDS ME FIND AN HEIR.
My mother bids me find an heir
And give up Cousin Hugh,
Who came so often to the square,
Poor cornet――Horse Guards Blue.
“For why,” she cries, “a younger son,
While plainer girls win peers,
Alas! another season’s done,
And still you’re all _Miss Veres_.”
The _Post_ announces _he_ has gone
To shoot and stalk the deer;
I canter through the lanes alone,
And wish it was next year:
And as I draw the amber thread,
_His_ slippers to adorn,
No novel that I ever read,
Had heroine so forlorn.
_Punch_ September 22, 1866.
――――
SONG.
My mother bids me spend my smiles,
On all who come and call me fair,
As crumbs are thrown upon the tiles
To all the sparrows of the air.
But I’ve a darling of my own
For whom I hoard my little stock,――
What if I chirp him all alone
And leave mamma to feed the flock?
THOMAS HOOD.
――――:o:――――
O! ’TIS LOVE! ’TIS LOVE!
O! ’Tis love! ’tis love! ’tis love!
From woman’s bright eye glancing,
O! ’tis love! ’tis love! ’tis love!
Every heart entrancing.
What claims the monarch’s duty?
What soothes the peasant’s pain?
What melts the haughty beauty,
And conquers her disdain?
O! ’tis love, &c.
O! ’tis love! ’tis love! ’tis love!
The warrior doth inspire.
O! ’tis love! ’tis love! ’tis love!
That kindles soft desire.
On rocks or lonely mountains,
In palaces or vales,
In gay saloons near fountains,
’Tis love alone prevails.
O! ’tis love! &c.
――――
OH ’TIS BEEF!
Oh, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef,
(’Pon my soul I’m not joking),
Oh, ’tis Beef,
Affords relief,
When hunger’s most provoking.
Though many may doat upon mutton,
And some prefer veal or lamb,
Upon Beef I could feed like a glutton,
Nor sigh for poultry and ham;
Flank, brisket, or the sir-loin,
I never could let alone,
But nice tit-bits would I purloin
From buttock, round, or edgebone.
Oh, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef,
(’Pon my soul I’m not joking).
Oh,’tis Beef,
Affords relief,
When hunger’s most provoking.
Though Mrs. Glass I daily look in,
(No _reflection_ on that cook, the chief),
Of all dishes her famous book in,
There’s none can compare with Beef.
How sweet when after my toiling,
And cutting joints up, down, across,
To behold on the gridiron broiling,
A rump-steak for my oyster sauce,
Oh, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef,
(’Pon my soul I’m not joking),
Oh, ’tis Beef,
Affords relief,
When hunger’s most provoking.
D. A. O’MEARA.
――――
OH! ’TIS LOVE!
Oh! ’tis love, ’tis love, ’tis love,
That makes the world go round;
Ev’ry day, beneath his sway,
Fools, old and young, abound;
Love often turns young ladies’ brains,
At which mamma will scold,
So, in revenge, Love thinks it fair
To shoot sometimes the old;
With love some folks go mad,
’Tis love makes some quite thin,
Some find themselves so bad,
The sea they must jump in.
Oh! ’tis love, &c.
_The Universal Songster._
――――
OH! THIS LOVE! THIS LOVE! TO ME’S A FUNNY THING.
Oh! this love! this love! this love
To me’s a funny thing,
It smites the heart of every cove,
From beggar up to king.
It never is found absent,
From the breast of any one,
But, like a cruel stab sent,
One touch and you’re undone!
The cure, too, is so hard
That very few will try,
Then, girls, be on your guard
When love approaches nigh.
For this love! this love, &c.
Oh! this love! this love! this love!
It takes away one’s rest,
So, after all, as I can prove,
A single life is best,
As, when once you’re married,
You’ll find out to your cost,
You’ll wish you’d longer tarried,
Before your heart you’d lost,
For then, too late, repentance
Comes into your head,
And, after Hymen’s sentence,
A precious life is led,
For this love! this love &c.
_The Universal Songster._
――――:o:――――
I KNOW A “HIGH.”
(Parody on John Oxenford’s song, “_I Know an Eye_.”)
I know a “High” so fair and bright,
When glistening ’neath the moon’s pale light,
Whence men, with many a glance behind,
To dodge the lurking Dons unkind,
Rush to the “Star,”[10] where, pure and clear,
They quaff their mild and sparkling beer.
Belovèd “High,” beloved “Star,”
Dear to my heart your memories are.
That “High,” where once, when violent blew
The gale of war the whole night through,
I fought the town with joyous glee,
Though pain with joy possessed me;
For whirled and kicked, ’mid scream and yell,
With two black orbs at last I fell.
Belovèd “High,” beloved “Star,”
Dear to my heart your triumphs are.
And when at last that radiant “High” shall be
Untrod, for e’er untrod by me;
When absence throws her dim pale light
O’er distant scenes of past delight;
That “High,” that “Star” shall ever shine
In Memory’s eye, with power divine;
Belovèd “High,” beloved “Star,”
Dear to my heart your glories are.
C. E. W. B.
Worcester College, Oxford.
From _College Rhymes_. 1866.
――――:o:――――
ANOTHER MESSAGE.
I’d another message to send her,
To her whom my heart knows best,
But a twinge of gout came o’er me,
And I was compelled to rest.
And she was above――and dressing――
A duty to her most dear:
It was useless to shout to my darling,
For I knew she would never hear.
I’d another message to send her,
To hungry folks most sweet,
It was that the dinner was ready,
And the fire was spoiling the meat.
I tied it this summer’s evening
To her lapdog’s bushy breast,
But the canine rascal tore it,
And ate it with wondrous zest.
I gave it to baby next moment,
And saw him climb and climb,
But his little legs grew weary,
And he fell in a little time.
Then I yelled, in my hungry longing,
Has an invalid no friend,
Who will carry a wife a message
Her ravenous spouse would send?
Then I smelt a scent of cooking,
So savory and so sweet,
That my very heart stood silent,
And my pulse refused to beat.
It rose in enticing rushing
From meats and soups and things,
So I laid my anxious message
On its appetising wings.
Then I saw the steam rise higher,
In smell more telling than speech,
And I knew it would find her chamber,
I knew her dear nose ’twould reach.
Yes, I knew she would get my message,
And I should not have to wait,
So my soul grew calm and peaceful
Though dinner, alas! was late.
From _The Corkscrew Papers_, London: W. H. Guest, Paternoster Row,
1876.
――――:o:――――
WAPPING OLD STAIRS.
Your Molly has never been false, she declares,
Since the last time we parted at Wapping Old Stairs;
When I swore that I still would continue the same,
And gave you the ’bacco-box mark’d with my name.
When I pass’d a whole fortnight between decks with you,
Did I e’er give a kiss, Tom, to one of your crew?
To be useful and kind to my Thomas I stay’d,
For his trowsers I wash’d, and his grog, too, I made.
Tho’ you promis’d last Sunday to walk in the mall,
With Susan from Deptford, and likewise with Sall,
In silence I stood your unkindness to hear,
And only upbraided my Tom with a tear.
Why should Sall or should Susan than me be more prized?
For the heart that is true, Tom, should ne’er be despis’d;
Then be constant and kind, nor your Molly forsake,
Still your trowsers I’ll wash, and your grog too, I’ll make.
――――
THE KNIGHTLY GUERDON.
Untrue to my Ulric I never could be,
I vow by the saints and the blessed Marie,
Since the desolate hour when we stood by the shore,
And your dark galley waited to carry you o’er:
My faith then I plighted, my love I confess’d,
As I gave you the BATTLE-AXE marked with your crest!
When the bold barons met in my father’s old hall,
Was not Edith the flower of the banquet and ball?
In the festival hour, on the lips of your bride,
Was there ever a smile save with THEE at my side?
Alone in my turret I loved to sit best,
To blazon your BANNER and ’broider your crest.
The knights were assembled, the tourney was gay!
Sir Ulric rode first in the warrior-mélée.
In the dire battle hour, when the tourney was done,
And you gave to another the wreath you had won!
Though I never reproached thee, cold, cold was my breast,
As I thought of that BATTLE-AXE, ah! and that crest!
But away with remembrance, no more will I pine,
That others usurped for a time what was mine!
There’s a FESTIVAL HOUR for my Ulric and me:
Once more, as of old, shall he bend at my knee;
Once more by the side of the knight I love best,
Shall I blazon his BANNER and ’broider his crest.
W. M. THACKERAY.
――――
OCEAN MELODIES.
(_Refined from the original_ SEA SONGS, _for the use of
the Yacht Clubs_.)
(The Wife wishes to go upon the Continent.)
Adelina has flirted――not once, she declares,
Since you placed on her finger the ring that she wears;
Since at gloomy St. George’s your bride she became,
And you gave her an Opera-box marked with her name.
When I sailed in that yacht a whole fortnight with you,
Did I say I was bored (if I did it was true),
With my Alfred for hours at _ecarté_ I played,
And his meerschaum I lit, and his coffee I made.
When, the night we’d a box at St. Jullien’s last _bal_,
And――goodness knows why――you deserted the _salle_,
I gave you a smile when you chose to appear,
Nor asked whom you knew on that horrid top tier.
Why won’t you, dear Al, by mamma be advised?
A wife who don’t pout, Al, deserves to be prized――
So to Constance and Rome Adelina you’ll take,
Or a nice piece of work that young person will make.
_Punch._ September 17, 1853.
――――
THE ALMACK’S ADIEU.
Your Fanny was never false-hearted
And this she protests and she vows,
From the _triste moment_ when we parted
On the staircase of Devonshire House!
I blushed when you asked me to marry,
I vowed I would never forget;
And at parting I gave my dear Harry
A beautiful vinegarette!
We spent _en province_ all December,
And I ne’er condescended to look
At Sir Charles, or the rich county member,
Or even at that darling old Duke.
You were busy with dogs and with horses,
Alone in my chamber I sat,
And made you the nicest of purses,
And the smartest black satin cravat!
At night with that vile Lady Frances
(_Je faisais moi tapisserie_),
You danced every one of the dances
And never once thought of poor me!
_Mon pauvre petit cœur!_ what a shiver
I felt as she danced the last set,
And you gave, oh, _mon Dieu!_ to revive her,
My beautiful _vinegarette_.
Return, love! away with coquetting;
This flirting disgraces a man!
And ah! all the while you’re forgetting
The heart of your poor little Fan!
_Reviens!_ break away from those Circes,
_Reviens_, for a nice little chat;
And I’ve made you the sweetest of purses,
And a lovely black satin cravat!
W. M. THACKERAY.
――――
ADVICE TO OLD WOMEN.
(_Of both sexes._)
Your money will never be safe, _Punch_ declares,
While you keep with it parting for rotten Bank shares:
It more safe in old stockings or teapots had lain,
Or in some carpet-bag or box marked with your name.
Not a bubble now bursts, not a Bank falls to ground,
But shows how directors keep robbing around;
How the company’s funds to their own use they take,
Then suspend their cash payments, and scarce themselves make.
* * * * *
_Punch._ March 21, 1857.
――――:o:――――
TOM BOWLING.
Here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of our crew;
No more he’ll hear the tempest howling,
For death has broach’d him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful below he did his duty,
But now he’s gone aloft.
Tom never from his word departed,
His virtues were so rare;
His friends were many, and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair:
And then he’d sing so blithe and jolly,
Ah! many’s the time and oft;
But mirth is turned to melancholy,
For Tom is gone aloft.
Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,
When he who all commands,
Shall give (to call life’s crew together)
The word to pipe all hands,
Thus death, who kings and tars despatches,
In vain Tom’s life has doff’d;
For tho’ his body’s under hatches
His soul is gone aloft.
CHARLES DIBDIN.
――――
A CAROL FOR CRICKETERS.
Here a sheer hulk from fierce round bowling,
We mourn a batsman true;
No more he’ll send the ball a-rolling;
He’s battered black and blue.
Long at the stumps he did his duty,
And puzzled many a scout,
For though swift balls might spoil his beauty,
They rarely put him out.
Ne’er from the wicket he departed
Without a decent score;
And seldom were his timbers started
Until his legs were sore.
At pads and gloves, as things new-fangled,
With pleasant scorn he’d laugh;
But now so grievously he’s mangled,
No more we’ll fear his chaff.
_Punch._ September 22, 1855.
――――
AN ELEGY OF THE ADMIRALTY.
Here, on the floor stands famed TOM BRASSEY,
The darling of his friends,
He built the _Arethusa_ saucy,
But did not plate her ends!
For Tom was faithful to his Party,
(His virtues were so rare!)
So economical and hearty,
He seemed upon the square!
His ships we took for things of beauty
(Though REED, and others, scoffed),
And doubtless they would do their duty,
But ah! their ends are soft!
Yet still, comparatively little
They cost, as REED admits;
Unlucky that they are so brittle,
They’ll get blown into bits!
And when the shot the foe dispatches
Has raked them, oft and oft,
The sea will pour beneath their hatches,
Because――their ends are soft.
_Punch._ March 21, 1885.
――――
LORD TOM NODDY.
But, a sheer wreck, sits Lord Tom Noddy,
The last made of our Peers,
Who joins our legislative body
Amidst a nation’s jeers.
As M.P. he could not do duty,
His brain had grown too soft;
So――mark our Constitution’s beauty――
He’s now been sent aloft!――aloft!
He’s now-ow been――ah sen-n-n-n-t a-a-loft!
Lord Tom for nothing good was noted,
Of virtues he had none;
But with his side he always voted,
And was his father’s son.
So, as upon his last appearance
He publicly was scoff’d,
The Premier, to effect a clearance,
Has sent Lord Tom aloft!――aloft!
Has sen-n-n-nt Lord Tom-o-om ma-aloft!
_Truth._ Christmas Number, 1886.
There is another parody on _Tom Bowling_, by L. M. Thornton, entitled
_Drunken Sally_, but it is too vulgar to be inserted. It may
occasionally be seen amongst the penny ballads on street walls.
――――:o:――――
THE JOLLY YOUNG WATERMAN.
And did you ne’er hear of a jolly young waterman,
Who at Blackfriars Bridge used for to ply,
And he feather’d his oars with such skill and dexterity,
Winning each heart and delighting each eye.
He look’d so neat, and he row’d so steadily,
The maidens all flock’d in his boat so readily,
And he eyed the young rogues with so charming an air,
That this waterman ne’er was in want of a fare.
What sights of fine folks he oft rowed in his wherry;
’Twas clean’d out so nice, and so painted withal;
He was always first oars when the fine city ladies
In a party to Ranelagh went, or Vauxhall;
And oftentimes would they be gigling and leering;
But ’twas all one to Tom their gibing and jeering;
For loving or liking he little did care,
For this waterman ne’er was in want of a fare.
And yet, but to see how strange things happen,
As he row’d along, thinking of nothing at all,
He was ply’d by a damsel so lovely and charming,
That she smil’d, and so straight-way in love he did fall.
And would this young damsel but banish his sorrow
He’d wed her to-night――before to-morrow,
And how should this waterman ever know care
When he’s married, and never in want of a fare.
CHARLES DIBDIN.
――――
THE JOLLY YOUNG BARRISTER.
And did you not hear of a jolly young Barrister,
At the Old Bailey who used for to ply?
He made out his case with such skill and dexterity,
Twisting each fact, while he glozed o’er each lie.
He stuck at nothing; and that so steadily,
The felons all sought his aid so readily,
And he saved from conviction so many a thief,
That this barrister ne’er was in want of a brief.
What sights of fine rogues he got off by his blarney;
His tongue was so glib, and so specious withal:
He was always retained by the great City forgers
To Newgate from Mansion House sent, or Guildhall.
And often the Press would be gibing and jeering,
But ’twas all one to him, its carping and sneering;
He’d swear black was white on behalf of a thief,
So this barrister ne’er was in want of a brief.
And yet, only think what strange morals have lawyers
The Bar of such conduct think nothing at all;
Whilst should any poor counsel report for a paper,
“To Coventry with him!” that instant they call;
From their mess they’ll expel him, he’ll find, to his sorrow;
But they’ll dine with the housebreaker’s hireling to-morrow.
Then hurrah!――though his client be swindler or thief,――
For the barrister never in want of a brief.
_Punch._ 1845.
――――
The late Albert Smith wrote a piece entitled “Novelty Fair, or hints
for 1851,” which was produced at the Lyceum Theatre, on May 21, 1850.
In this, Father Thames enters with a goblet of dirty water in his
hand, and exclaims:――
“Oh, did you e’er hear of such jolly bad water, man,
As at Blackfriars Bridge comes out of I?
No wonder they talk of my stream with severity,
Sickening each nose, and disgusting each eye!”
――――
THE JOLLY OLD WATERMAN.
And did you ne’er hear of a jolly old Waterman
Who at the cabstand used for to ply?
He feathered his nest with the passengers’ halfpennies,
Smoking his pipe, with a drop in each eye,
He looked so drunk――yet stood so steadily,
The drivers all flocked to his stand so readily;
And he eyed the old rogues with so knowing an air,
For this Waterman knew they would cheat every fare.
What sights of gents drunk and incapable, very,
He’d clean out so nice, and politely withal,
As he called the first cab, when the finely-dressed victims
Came staggering out from Cremorne or Vauxhall.
And oftentimes would they be quizzing and queering,
And ’twas all one to Tom, all this chaffing and jeering:
For laughing or chaffing he little did care,
For this Waterman wished but to rifle the fare.
And yet but to see how strangely things happen,
As he jogged along, thinking of nothing at all,
He was caught by a Cab Act so awfully stringent,
That it caused all the tricks of the cab-stand to fall.
But would this old Waterman feel proper sorrow,
For all his old tricks, and turn honest to-morrow;
And should this old Waterman act with more care,
He’ll be licensed, and never impose on a fare.
_Punch._ July 30, 1853.
――――
THE HANDSOME YOUNG CLERGYMAN.
Oh! did you not hear of a handsome young clergyman,
Who in his pulpit was wont for to cry?
He handled his text with such seeming sincerity,
Melting each heart and suffusing each eye.
He sighed so hard and groaned so steadily,
The ladies all flocked to his church so readily;
And he turned up his eye with so saintly an air,
That this clergyman greatly was liked by the fair.
His features were fine, and his views Sabbatarian,
So by both young and old he was made a great pet;
What teapots and slippers this predestinarian,
Young disciple of CALVIN did constantly get!
He had won such credit and fame for piety,
That he had the run of the best society;
And a girl with lots of tin did pair
With this parson esteemed such a duck by the fair.
_Punch._ May 31, 1856.
――――
THE JOLLY YOUNG TRILOBITE.
Oh, did you ne’er hear of a jolly young trilobite,
That lived in Siluria once on a time,
And some years ago turned to stone in a terrible fright,
And forgot all about the deeds done in his prime;
But harden’d and horny his tail no more wags,
For he now lies entombed in the Lingula flags.
Some doubt as to what was the cause of his fright,
Some say that the sea where he lived got too hot,
Some say too cold, and some vanished quite,
But one thing is certain, whatever is not,
That harden’d and stony, his tail no more wags
For he now lies entombed in the Lingula flags.
The jolly young fellow has had his day out,
And doubtless once relished like others a spree,
Made love to the Lingulas roaming about,
Was lively and affable, funny and free,
But hardened and slaty his tail no more wags,
For he now lies entombed in the Lingula flags.
This parody refers to some rare specimens of trilobites contained in
Dr. Grindrod’s Museum at Malvern.
From _Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch_. By J. B. Oddfish.
London: Simpkin, Marshall & Co., 1865.
――――
THE LUCKLESS YOUNG GENTLEMAN.
And did you not hear of that luckless “Young Gentleman,”
Who at St. Stephen’s but lately did ply
His pencil and paper with skill and dexterity?
(Till his sly toil caught the SULLIVAN’S eye.)
He looked so calm, and he worked so steadily,
His Pitman’s Phonetics he marshalled so readily,
And he eyed the debate with such business-like air,
You’d have sworn his proceedings were all square and fair.
What sights of long speeches he heard in his gallery,
So frothy, so fierce, and so foolish withal!
How his ears must have ached when the Home-Rule Circassians
Gave the rein to their _penchant_ for shindy and squall;
And oft times would they be snapping and sneering,
But ’twas all one to him their jibing and jeering;
Not a figs-end for party or brogue did he care,
His task was reporting them all square and fair.
And yet but to see now how strangely things happen!
As he scribbled on, thinking of nothing at all,
He was spotted by SULLIVAN, POWER, and CALLAN,
Who “protisted,” and straightway began _such_ a brawl!
“Obnoxious and unprecedented Reporther!”
The Shindyites yelled, and a world of hot wather
Was caused by that luckless “Young Gentleman” there,
MR. SPEAKER’S note-taker so square and so fair!
_Punch._ July 26, 1879
――――
THE JOLLY OLD WOODCUTTER.
Oh! did you ne’er hear of a jolly old woodcutter,
Who at Hawarden Castle used for to stop;
He handled his axe with such skill and dexterity,
Treating his friends to a generous “chop.”
He looked so grand, and chopped so steadily,
That toadies all flocked to admire so readily;
And he eyed the old geese with an ogle so sweet,
That this woodcutter ne’er was in want of a seat.
What sights of soft folks he cajol’d with his speeches,
All polished so fair, and so “painted” withal;
His partisans stuck to his side like leeches,
And the G.O.M. lorded it over them all.
Oft times were his enemies gibing and jeering,
But ’twas all one to Bill, their groaning or cheering;
For praise or for blame he but little did care,
So long as he filled the Prime Minister’s chair.
And yet, but to see how strangely things happen!
As he chopped away, bowing and smiling as well,
He was ply’d by an Irishman, caught by his blarney,
One known by the name of Charles Stewart Parnell.
And would this Parnell but keep him in power,
He’d banish the clouds that o’er Erin did lower,
Defying old Salisbury, and “Randy” so glib,
E’en though it would cost him full many a fib.
_Truth._ July 15. 1886.
――――
THE JOLLY YOUNG RIFLEMAN.
(A Roundelay for Ranelagh.)
Did you ever hear tell of a jolly young Rifleman,
Who as Adonis his charms used to try?
He curled his side-locks with such skill and dexterity,
Winning each heart and enchanting each eye.
He stood so straight, he marched so steadily,
The Volunteers came at his call so readily,
And he pranced at their head with so princely an air,
That he had the good word of the Brave and the Fair.
This Rifleman young never seemed to grow older,
So trim was his mien, and so chirpy withal;
He was always A 1 to each beauteous beholder,
And youths mustered proudly at RANELAGH’S[11] call
And though some folk might be chaffing or jeering,
’Twas all one to him their flouting and fleering,
For how should our Rifleman ever know care,
While he wins the good word of the Brave and the Fair?
_Punch._ March 24, 1883.
――――
TOO JOLLY BY HALF.
Did you ever hear tell of the jolly young waterman,
Writ of by Dibdin and sung of by Reeves?
He has gone up aloft, but his grandson surviving him,
Though jollier still, no such homage receives.
Said this jolly young sprig from a jolly old waterman,
“Dear Mr. Bull, I can steer in a style
Such as no foreigner ever could rival yet;
_Do_ let me manage your boats on the Nile.
“I can shoot all the rapids and likewise your enemies,
Oh! how for nautical glory I pant!
_Shall_ I be suffered to win it right jollily?”
Quoth dear Mr. Bull, “You’re too jolly. _You shant!_”
_Judy._ September 10, 1884.
(Canadian boatmen were employed in the Soudan Expedition.)
――――:o:――――
THE HIGH-METTLED RACER.
See, the course throng’d with gazers, the sports are begun,
What confusion, but hear!――“I’ll bet you, Sir!”――“Done, done!”
A thousand strange murmurs resound far and near,
Lords, hawkers, and jockeys, assail the tired ear;
While, with neck like a rainbow, erecting his crest,
Pamper’d, prancing, and pleased, his head touching his breast,
Scarcely snuffing the air, he’s so proud and elate,
The high-mettled racer first starts for the plate.
Next Reynard’s turn’d out, and o’er hedge and ditch rush
Hounds, horses, and huntsmen, all hard at his brush;
They run him at length, and they have him at bay,
And by scent or by view, cheat a long tedious day;
While alike born for sports in the field or the course,
Always sure to come through――a staunch and fleet horse;
And when fairly run down, the fox yields up his breath,
The high-mettled racer is in at the death.
Grown aged, used up, and turn’d out of the stud,
Lame, spavin’d, and wind-gall’d, but yet with some blood;
While knowing postilions his pedigree trace,
Tell his dam won that sweepstakes, his sire won that race;
And what matches he’d won too the ostlers count o’er,
As they loiter their time by some hedge-alehouse door;
Whilst the harness sore galls, and the spurs his sides goad,
The high-mettled racer’s a hack on the road.
At length, old and feeble, trudging early and late,
Bow’d down by diseases, he bends to his fate;
Blind, old, lean, and feeble, he tugs round a mill,
Or draws sand, till the sand of his hour-glass stands still;
And now, cold and lifeless, exposed to the view
In the very same cart which he yesterday drew;
Whilst a pitying crowd his sad relics surrounds
The high-mettled racer is sold to the hounds.
CHARLES DIBDIN.
This, being a sporting song, would be quite out of place here, but
that Dibdin followed it up, by writing an imitation of it, on a naval
topic. This is one of the somewhat rare cases of an author composing a
parody on one of his own poems:――
THE PRIDE OF THE OCEAN.
See the shore lined with gazers, the tide comes in fast,
The confusion, but hear! bear a hand there, avast!
The blocks and the wedges the mallets obey,
And the shores and the stanchions are all cut away:
While with head like a lion, built tight fore and aft,
Broad amidships, lean bows, and taper abaft
In contempt of all danger from quicksands and rocks,
The pride of the ocean is launched from the stocks.
Now the signal is flying, and, fleet in her course,
She chases a sail, far superior her force;
And now the brisk broadside is merrily pour’d,
And splinters, cut ropes, and masts go by the board;
Next, yard-arm and yard-arm entangled they lie,
The tars loudly swearing to conquer or die;
’Till hull’d and cut up, getting more than she likes,
To the pride of the ocean the enemy strikes.
The prize is sent home, and, alert in a trice,
They make gaskets and points, and they knot and they splice;
While knowing Jack tars of their gallantry talk,
Tell who served well Boscawen, and Anson, and Hawke;
’Till, all of a sudden, a calm, then a scud,
A tempest brings on that the face of the flood,
The thunder and lightning, and wind, so deform,
The pride of the ocean scarce lives out the storm.
And now, having nobly defended the cause
Of the nation, of freedom, religion, and laws,
Her timbers all crazy, all open her seams,
Torn and wounded her planks, and quite rotten her beams,
To the last humbly fated her country to aid,
Near the very same slip where her keel was first laid,
No trace of her rate but her ports and her bulk,
The pride of the ocean’s cut down a sheer hulk.
CHARLES DIBDIN.
――――
THE HIGH-METTLED POLITICIAN.
See, the house throng’d with members; debate is begun
The confusion――“hear, hear,” cries of “spoke,” and “well done.”
A hundred strange voices resound far and near,
Whigs, Tories, and Radicals greet the tir’d ear,
While with neck well cravatted, arranging his vest,
Proud, pert, and a puppy with hand on his breast,
Slightly turning his hair, with a dandyish grace,
The young politician first starts for a place.
Now the premier’s turn’d out, to succeed him they rush,
Whigs and Tories both making a desperate push.
They plot and intrigue, and by craft every day,
Expect into office to find a quick way;
While alike born for liberal or aristocrat,
Always sure to come over, a regular rat.
When the premier’s blown out by a party’s foul breath,
The young politician is _in_ at the death.
Grown stale quite us’d up and turn’d out of the stud
Of treasury _protégés_ yet with some blood,
While keen boroughmongers his pedigree trace,
How he made this long speech, how he gained that good place,
And what pensions he won his companions count o’er
As they stand with lank purse at the treasury door;
While disgrace sorely galls, with his remnant of nouse,
The young politician’s a hack in the house.
Till at last in St. Stephen’s both early and late,
To divide for his party he bends to his fate,
Despis’d, poor and feeble he votes for each bill,
Brought in by the minister’s paramount will,
And now blank and silent an object of scorn,
On the very same bench he was used to adorn,
While his memory the treasury whipper-in jogs,
The young politician is gone to the dogs.
_Figaro in London._ October 13, 1832.
――――
THE HIGH-METTLED RAZOR.
Since of course we want razors when manhood’s begun,
Lest profusion of beard should our faces o’errun,
A thousand strange methods are found every year,
And Mechi and Rodgers assail our young ear,
When we next, like a vain beau, direct that our crest,
Silver-mounted, should be on the handle impressed,
Scarcely scraping a hair in our downy estate,
The High-mettled Razor first ranks among plate.
The next ten years turn out, and we need not now blush
To be caught when we’re soaping our beard with a brush,
For we _have_ one at length, and we need not say nay,
Should any one ask if we shave every day.
While alike born for scrapes in our life’s daily course,
Always sure to come through with a cut, if not worse;
When we’re barely shaved down just to what Fashion saith,
The High-mettled Razor now bores us to death.
Grown rusty, used up, and turned dull as a spud,
Notched, blunted, and always, when used, drawing blood;
While, knowing its past deeds, its misdeeds we trace,
Tell, “This notch cut my finger, and this cut my face;”
And what dangers we’ve run, we could quickly count o’er,
As we wasted our time, and our temper, and gore;
When the shaving doth gall, and the steel our chins goad.
The Dull-mettled Razor’s put out of the road.
At length they’ve improved it, before ’tis too late,
And Mechi and Rodgers must bend to their fate;
And barbers will soon have to work the tread-mill,
If their razors are brought to a daily stand-still.
For now, with its works nearly hid from our view,
In the very same chair in which we must sit too,
While a music-box plays like a musical elf,
The High-mettled Razor doth _shave us itself_.”
CUTHBERT BEDE.
(This amusing parody, by the author of _Verdant Green_, originally
appeared in _Punch_. It was afterwards included in _Medley_, a small
shilling volume of light reading published by James Blackwood in 1856.
The last verse referred to the invention by a joiner, at North
Shields, of a machine which was to lather and shave a man whilst
seated in an arm-chair.)
――――
THE HIGH METTLED GUARDSMAN.
See the pier throng’d with gazers! The War is begun!
The soldiers are coming――“Let’s see them!” “Run, run!”
A thousand loud voices resound far and near,
With the hearty “huzza” and the soul-stirring “cheer.”
While with mien like a hero――erecting his crest,
Proud and pleas’d――with true courage inflaming his breast,
With the prospect of glory, his ardour increas’d,
The High Mettled Guardsman embarks for the East.
From the ship now turned out his way he must push,
Through mud and through marshes, through rain, cold, and slush.
They leave him to struggle as well as he may
From the shore to the camp after leaving the bay.
Sustained by the pluck that he shows in the field,
He is sure to come through, for he never will yield;
And though nearly worn-out, weary, hungry, and wet,
The High Mettled Guardsman has life in him yet.
Exposed to the cold, and turned out in the mud,
Still ready to shed for his country his blood;
While knowing officials――the precedents trace,
Of what are the ancient traditions of place.
What appointments were made――in what heads will reside
The patronage Government has to divide.
Thus the High Mettled Guardsman, ’tis easily seen,
The victim becomes of official routine.
At length ill and weak, working early and late,
Bowed down by disease to a pitiful state;
Expos’d to the wet――a continual drench,
He feebly turns over the mud in the trench.
And now, cold and lifeless, he silently lies
On the soil where he hoped to win victory’s prize:
Whilst official _routine_ on contentedly jogs,
And the High Mettled Guardsman has gone to the dogs.
_Punch._ January, 1855.
A parody, entitled _The Village-Born Beauty_, appeared in “The
Universal Songster,” vol. 1, p. 356, and was also printed as a
halfpenny ballad, by Taylor, of Brick Lane, Bethnal Green. This song
described the adventures of the Village-born Beauty, (who had strayed
from the paths of virtue) in language somewhat too free to be admitted
in this collection.
――――:o:――――
THE BOATSWAIN CALLS.
My name d’ye see’s Tom Tough, I’ve seen a little service,
Where mighty billows roll and loud tempests blow;
I’ve sail’d with gallant Howe, I’ve sailed with noble Jervis,
And in valiant Duncan’s fleet I’ve sung out yo, heave ho!
Yet more ye shall be knowing,
I was coxon to Boscawen,
And even with brave Hawke have I nobly faced the foe.
Then put round the grog,
So we’ve that and our prog,
We’ll laugh in Care’s face, and sing yo heave ho!
* * * * *
And now at last laid up in a decentish condition,
For I’ve only lost an eye and got a timber toe;
But old ships must expect in time to be out of commission.
Nor again the anchor weigh with yo, heave ho!
So I smoke my pipe and sing old songs,
My boys shall well revenge my wrongs,
And my girls shall breed young sailors nobly for to face the foe;
Then to country and king,
Fate can no danger bring,
While the tars of old England sing out yo, heave ho!
CHARLES DIBDIN.
――――
A WORD FROM TOM TOUGH.
Yes, my name, d’ye see’s Tom Tough, and I’ve seed a sight o’
service
Where the waves have rolled like mountains and the howling
winds have blown,
And I’ve never shirked my dooty, and to feel what want of nerve is
Is a thing――I says it proudly――as I’ve never, never known.
No; I’ve tried with my lot to be always content,
And never gone in for a railer,
But I’ve taken the things as Dame Fortune has sent,
Like a honest and brave British sailor!
And I’m not complainin’ now. No! I’d scorn the very notion.
Though I fear as ’ow Shipowners isn’t quite the best o’ men;
But you see I’m gettin’ older than when fust I sailed the ocean.
And there’s reasons for my speakin’ which was not existin’ then.
For now I’ve a wife and four little ones, too,
More sober and cautious to make me;
For it’s Heaven only knows what it is they could do,
If disaster and death overtake me.
’Lor! I’ve been to sea in ships as I knowed was well-nigh rotten;
I’ve a-sailed with big deck cargoes as was scandalus to see;
And I’ve run so many risks that I’ve half o’ them forgotten,
And I never once protested, no, nor grumbled, sir――not me!
But, then, as I’ve said, there was only Tom Tough,
And no one to bother about him;
And if _he_ comed to grief, why, ’twas certain enough
That the world could get well on without him.
But the matter’s changed entirely since the bonniest o’ lasses,
Swore she’d ever love me truly; for since then, where’er I roam,
Why, my heart with fervent longing, that all other thoughts
surpasses,
Keeps a-turning ever constant towards my happy little home,
For there sits my Polly a-waiting for me,
Her heart, with the billows, time beating,
Whilst each of our little ones bend at her knee――
A prayer for its father repeating.
Yes, it is for Polly’s sake, and the bairns, I’ve been attending,
To all that they’ve been saying of Shipowners and their craft,
And been brooding o’er those wrongs, sir, which the Board o’ Trade
means mending,
And at which, when I was reckless, why, I only took and laughed.
So you, please, mustn’t think that Tom Tough is a shirk,
Nor in anyways flustered or frighted,
If he should ask you, whilst he sticks to his work,
To try if those wrongs can’t be righted.
For you see I ain’t no spouter, and I’ve not the gift o’ patter,
But all the same I knows full well that many things is wrong;
And drownding is for me and mine so serious a matter,
That if the case is put for us, it can’t be put too strong.
So whilst I continues my duty to do,
Until my last trip is completed,
I hope that the Board will do _its_ dooty, too,
And see that Tom’s properly treated.
There’s such talk about insoorance and the likes, I’ve often
wonder’d
If there’s any human feeling in this great and Christian land,
For all the while they’re chatt’ring, men is drownding by the
hunderd,
Through the acts o’ greedy owners, if I rightly understand.
Aye, it’s this that is makin’ a coward of the best,
And turning good hands into railers:
It’s this that is crushing the pluck and the zest
From the hearts o’ your brave British sailors.
So it ain’t for no great favour that Tom Tough just now is
praying,
He wants to have fair chances in the struggle, that is all;
And if Englishmen loves justice, why there’ll be no more delaying
In list’ning and attending to his very urgent call.
Or, leastways, if they at my language still sneer,
And pass my petition unheeding,
I knows very well they won’t turn a deaf ear
To my wife and my little ones’ pleading!
_Truth._ March 27, 1884.
――――
A SAILOR’S PLEA FOR THE “YO, HEAVE HO!”
Yes, my name, d’ye know’s Tom Tough, and I’ve seed a sight o’
service,
Where the waves roll mountains high, and the stormy winds do
blow;
But my heart’s as true as steel, and right taut my every nerve is,
As when, in eighteen forty, I first sung out, “Yo, heave ho!”
No, I’ve never yet been ailing,
Since the time I went a-sailing;
An’ though I’ve been around this world some twenty times or so;
Aye, although I ain’t a stranger,
To any kind o’ danger,
Yet I’m ready still to meet ’em with a “Yo, heave ho!”
But although I’m able-bodied, and still fit to furl a “topsel,”
Or to reef a “maintop-gallant” in a stiff nor’-eastern gale:
Though I’m sober and quick-handed, yet just like a hulk I’m
stranded,
And I cannot get a skipper for to answer to my hail.
So as no one me engages,
Why, of course, my bit o’ wages
I’d saved up for a rainy day is bound to quickly go;
And my hopes, I own, is sinking,
For I somehow can’t help thinking
That I shan’t get the chance again to sing out “Yo, heave ho!”
Yes, the times is changed completely since I first sailed on the
ocean,
For then a British ship, you see, was worked by British tars,
And every British skipper would have scoffed the very notion
Of having lots of furriners to man the capstan bars.
But now, I’ll take my davy,
’Cepting sometimes in the Navy,
You will not find a British ship in which they do not stow
Heaps o’ Danes, and Swedes, and Rooshians,
Greeks, Malays, and Fins, and Prooshians,
Who couldn’t, for to save their lives sing out a “Yo, heave ho!”
Why, the crews I used to ship with were all chaps with bone and
muscle,
And with lots o’ pluck and courage, and with hearts to England
true;
But what some calls “competition” has so changed the whole
position,
That now to serve for sailors any furrin’ scum will do.
And if a crew you muster,
P’rhaps of English there’s a cluster,
But there’s Chinamen and Lascars, and there’s Coolies in a row,
All a-chattering in their lingo,
’Till it’s precious hard, by jingo,
To hear aboard a British ship the good old “Yo, heave ho!”
They say I shouldn’t grumble, seeing that which I complain of
Is all owing, as they tell us, to, “a known commercial cause”;
But it’s not much consolation to a chap what fears starvation
To tell him that his suff’ring’s due to “economic laws,”
With such things I cannot wrestle,
But I know a British vessel
Is very, very different to what ’twas years ago;
Since its crew now as a rule is,
Three parts furriners and Coolies
With scarcely British tars enough to give a “Yo, heave ho!”
Now, of course, it may be cheaper, or, at leastways, for the
present,
To ship a lot o’ furrin’ trash, and sack my mates and me;
But I’m thinking in the future it may turn out most unpleasant,
And that what’s now the cheapest may the dearest come to be.
Say, for instance, there was fighting,
And the time came for uniting
The Navy with the merchantmen to keep away the foe,
Do ye think the Greeks and Prooshians,
And the Chinamen and Rooshians,
Would be eager for to help you with a “Yo, heave ho”?
Do ye think they’d care a button what became of our old country,
Or raise their little fingers to help England rule the seas?
No, they’d all be in a flurry just to bolt off, hurry-skurry,
Would your Coolies and your Kroomen and your Arabs and Chinese;
Whilst the tars on whose assistance
May depend the land’s existence
In the day of sore extremity, which it too soon may know,
Will be found prepared no longer
England’s Navy to make stronger,
Or to volunteer for service, with a “Yo, heave ho!”
Aye, the new crews may be cheaper, but I’d ask you was it Lascars
And John Chinamen and such like that first England’s Empire
made?
Was it furriner’s devotion sailed her ships o’er every ocean,
And opened every corner of the world up to her trade?
For the sake, then, of the story
Of old England’s naval glory,
You surely now some justice to our sailors ought to show,
And let British brain and sinew
Still on British ships continue,
Nor let a furrin lingo drown the British “Yo, heave ho!”
_Truth_, April 15, 1886.
――――:o:――――
THE SAILOR’S JOURNAL.
’Twas post meridian, half-past four,
By signal I from Nancy parted,
At six she linger’d on the shore,
With uplift hands and broken hearted.
At seven, while taughtening the forestay,
I saw her faint, or else ’twas fancy;
At eight we all got under weigh,
And bade a long adieu to Nancy!
* * * * *
At last,――’twas in the month of May,――
The crew, it being lovely weather,
At three A.M. discover’d day
And England’s chalky cliffs together.
At seven up Channel how we bore,
While hopes and fears rushed on my fancy,
At twelve I gaily jumped ashore,
And to my throbbing heart pressed Nancy.
CHARLES DIBDIN.
――――
A SAILOR’S JOURNAL.
(_Adapted from Dibdin to the sad Circumstances of the Day._)
’Twas Prime Meridian, twelve at noon,
By signal I from Nancy parted;
At eight she watched the rising moon,
With wringing hands, half broken-hearted.
At nine, while tautening the fore-stay,
I saw her faint, unless ’twas fancy:
At ten we all got under weigh,
And bade a long adieu to Nancy!
Night came. The theme of every tongue
Was the Meridian Conference. Weary
Of that at last, we piped and sung,
And chawed our quids in confab cheery;
But something weighed upon my mind,
The wildest dreams possessed my fancy,
And fate seemed whispering on the wind,
I ne’er again should meet my Nancy!
And now arrived the happy time
Which every true Tar’s spirit rouses,
When safe at home (Meridian Prime)
We hoped to meet sweethearts and spouses.
But round and round the world went we,
Seeking that Prime Meridian! Fancy!
The _darned thing wasn’t fixed_, ye see,
And I could not find home or Nancy!
It was, of course, the beastliest bore.
Those stupid Frenchmen had a notion
That fixing it on England’s shore,――
England, whose vessels scour the ocean,
And who is owned to rule the waves,――
Insulted France! A foolish fancy!
The vanity to which they’re slaves
Fooled them――and kept me from my Nancy.
We sailed about, all round we steered,
’Midst sunshine’s gleam and tempest’s rattle.
No Prime Meridian appeared!
The Conference was still at battle.
The Frenchman still maintained the strife
To please his egotistic fancy,
Kept many a Tar from his true wife,
And me from my beloved Nancy!
Alas! Confound the Frogs, I says!
Though fair the wind and fine the weather,
I cannot yet forecaste the day
When Nance and I shall come together.
That Prime Meridian serves to floor
My fondest hopes, my warmest fancy.
It’s still unfixed, and never more
I fear shall I see it or Nancy.
_Punch._ October 25, 1884.
――――:o:――――
THE LAST SHILLING.
As pensive one night in my garret I sate,
My last shilling produced on the table,
That adventurer, cried I, might a history relate,
If to think and to speak it were able.
Whether fancy or magic ’twas played me the freak,
The face seemed with life to be filling;
And cried, instantly speaking, or seeming to speak,
“Pay attention to me, thy last shilling!”
* * * * *
CHARLES DIBDIN.
――――
THE OLD OAK TABLE.
I had knocked out the dust from my pipe t’other night,
Old Time t’wards midnight was creeping;
The last smoke from its ashes had taken its flight,――
I felt neither waking nor sleeping;
When a voice, loud and hollow, and, seemingly, near,
You’ll say ’twas a dream or a fable,
Directed towards me, said, audibly clear,
“List, list, list to me, thy oak table.”
“I was once of the forest, the monarch so bold,
“Nor tempest nor storm made me tremble;
“And oft, very oft, the famed Druids of old
“Would under my branches assemble:
“Their mysterious rights they’d perform before me,――
“Those rites to unfold I am able,
“But be that now forgot, I was then an oak tree,
“And now I am but an oak table.
“When the axe brought me down, and soon lopped was each bough,
“And to form a ship I was converted,
“Manned by true hearts of oak, the wide ocean to plough,
“And by victory never deserted.
“But, worn out by Time, and reduced to a wreck,
“Bereft of my anchor and cable,
“A carpenter bought me, and, with part of my deck,
“Made what you see me now――an oak table.
“Now thrust in a corner, put out of the way,――
“But I fear I your patience am tiring.
“I expect nothing less than, some forthcoming day,
“To be broke up and used for your firing.”
“No never,” cried I, as I started awake,
“I’ll keep thee as long as I’m able
“And each friend that my humble cheer will partake,
“Shall be welcome around my oak table.”
――――:o:――――
ALL’S WELL.
Deserted by the waning moon,
When skies proclaim night’s cheerless noon,
On tower, or fort, or tented ground
The sentry walks his lonely round;
And should a footstep haply stray,
Where caution marks the guarded way,
“Who goes there? Stranger, quickly tell.”
“A friend”――“The word.” “Good night;” “All’s well.”
Or sailing on the midnight deep,
When weary messmates soundly sleep,
The careful watch patrols the deck,
To guard the ship from foes or wreck;
And while his thoughts oft homewards veer,
Some friendly voice salutes his ear――
“What cheer? Brother, quickly tell;
Above――below.” “Goodnight,” “All’s well.”
THOMAS DIBDIN
――――
THE EMPTY PURSE.
Deserted by the waning purse,
When frowns proclaim the worldling’s curse,
On garret’s high poetic ground,
The poor man walks his lonely round.
And should some bailiff chance to stray,
Where breaches mark the stairs’ decay,
Who’s there? Ah me! these red capes tell,
Pay this I can’t; to jail――All’s well!
Or gliding through this busy life,
With doctors, nurses, babies, wife;
The careful wight patrols the shop,
And guards the house from toe to top.
And while his thoughts oft debt-ward veer,
Some well-known voice salutes his ear,
What cheer, old friend, old playmate tell?
Cash low, child sick, wife cross――All’s well!
From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin.
――――
ANOTHER PARODY.
Deserted by declining day,
When weary wights benighted stray;
From bush, or cavern, we appear,
And scare the traveller’s frighted ear
With――“Stand or die, good night. All’s well.”
Or riding home from fair or feast,
Some farmer plodding o’er his beast;
His wit o’erstopped by humming ale,
While thus the joskins we assail;
“Down every stiver, quickly tell,
Your watch, your purse, good night. All’s well!”
ANONYMOUS.
――――
ALL’S WELL.
Hot from the guard-room’s reeking stew,
His spongy great-coat sodden through,
His head with senseless shako crowned,
The sentry walks rheumatic round.
And should civilian querist stray,
And question in his saucy way,
“What cheer, oh! Sentry, quickly tell.”
“In fact, all wrong: in word, All’s well!”
From guard-bed comrades’ steaming heap,
Turned out all standing, half-asleep,
Great-coat on back and stock on neck,
His perspiration gets a check;
And while, half-starved, he dreams of beer,
Could civil question catch his ear,
“What cheer, ho! Sentry, quickly tell.”
“In fact, all wrong: in word, All’s well!”
_Punch._ March 13, 1858.
――――:o:――――
MAY WE NE’ER WANT A FRIEND, NOR A BOTTLE TO GIVE HIM.
Since the first dawn of reason that beam’d on my mind
And taught me how favoured by fortune my lot,
To share that good fortune, I still was inclined,
And impart to who wanted, what I wanted not.
’Tis a maxim entitled to ev’ry one’s praise,
When a man feels distress, like a man to relieve him,
And my motto, tho’ simple, means more than it says,
“May we ne’er want a friend, or a bottle to give him.”
The heart by deceit or ingratitude rent,
Or by poverty bow’d, tho’ of evils the least,
The smiles of a friend may invite to content,
And we all know content is an excellent feast;
’Tis a maxim entitled to ev’ry one’s praise,
When a man feels distress, like a man to relieve him.
And my motto, tho’ simple, means more than it says,
“May we ne’er want a friend, nor a bottle to give him.
THOMAS DIBDIN.
――――
A NEW VERSION.
(_Addressed to the shades of Dibdin._)
Since the first dawn of reason on――Dibdin――your mind.
Very little experience, it seems, that you got:
If you――after your fortune was shared――did not find
That those you had shared it with, wanted you not
It’s a maxim of mine, if a friend you’d sift out
From the crowd, do not test with too searching a sieve him,
And this motto you then may adopt past a doubt――
“I shall not want a friend, while I’ve lots I can give him!”
But a grateful return of a farthing per cent
When by poverty bowed, don’t expect in the least:
With the fact, that you’ve proved you’re an ass be content,
And we all know content is as good as a feast;
Yet it makes one a little inclined to dispraise
To know from experience, as sure as you live, you
Of this motto the truth will learn, some of these days,
“May you ne’er want a friend――for no jot’ll he give you!”
TOM HOOD, the Younger.
――――:o:――――
THE ARETHUSA.
(Words by Prince Hoare, F.S.A., Dramatic Author, born 1755, died
December 22, 1834. Music by William Shield.)
Come, all ye jolly sailors bold,
Whose hearts are cast in honour’s mould,
While English glory I unfold――
Huzza for the Arethusa!
She is a frigate tight and brave
As ever stemm’d the dashing wave;
Her men are staunch
To their fav’rite launch;
And when the foe shall meet our fire,
Sooner than strike, we’ll all expire
On board of the Arethusa.
’Twas with the spring fleet she went out
The English Channel to cruise about,
When four French sail, in shore so about,
Bore down on the Arethusa.
The famed Belle Poule straight ahead did lie――
The Arethusa seem’d to fly:
Not a sheet or a tack,
Or a brace did she slack;
Though the Frenchman laugh’d, and thought it stuff;
But they knew not the handful of men how tough
On board of the Arethusa.
On deck five hundred men did dance,
The stoutest they could find in France;
We with two hundred did advance
On board of the Arethusa.
Our captain hail’d the Frenchman, “Ho!”
The Frenchman then cried out, “Hollo!”
“Bear down, d’ye see,
To our admiral’s lee.”
“No, no!” says the Frenchman, “that can’t be”
“Then I must lug you along with me,”
Says the saucy Arethusa.
The fight was off the Frenchman’s land;
We forced them back upon the strand;
For we fought till not a stick would stand
Of the gallant Arethusa.
And now we’ve driven the foe ashore,
Never to fight the Britons more,
Let each fill a glass
To his fav’rite lass,
A health to the captains and officers true,
And all that belong to the jovial crew
On board of the Arethusa.
――――
THE ARIEL’S CREW, SIR.
Come every jolly rower bold,
Whose heart is cast in honour’s mould,
While Nuneham’s glories I unfold,
Huzza for the Ariel’s crew, Sir.
She is a vessel tight and brave
As ever skimm’d the ruffled wave;
Her lads are staunch to their fav’rite launch,
And when the race shall try our fire,
Sooner than yield we’ll all expire,
The dauntless “Ariel” crew, Sir.
’Twas in the Regatta she went out
In Nuneham’s reach to cruise about,
Three rival boats, in show so stout,
Bore down on the “Ariel” crew, Sir;
The “Isis” bold straight ahead did ply,
The sprightly “Ariel” seemed to fly;
Not an arm, nor a back, nor a nerve did she slack;
Though the foemen laugh’d, and thought it was stuff,
Knowing not the handful of lads how tough
Were the dauntless “Ariel” crew, Sir.
Eight strong-arm’d men on their oars did bend,
The stoutest Oxford Town could send;
We eight bold youngsters did contend,
The plucky “Ariel” crew, Sir.
Our cockswain hail’d the “Isis,” “Ho,”
The Isis-men roared out “Hallo!”
“You’ll ne’er win the cup, so you’d better give it up;”
“No, no,” cries the “Ariel,” “that can’t be,
For I mean to lug it along with me,
For the use of the ‘Ariel’ crew, Sir.”
The race was off the Nuneham shore,
(Such a race as ne’er was seen before,)
We pressed them hard, and beat them sore,
The youthful “Ariel” crew, Sir.
And now we’ve beat the rival crew,
And shown what skill and pluck can do,
Let each fill a glass to his fav’rite lass:
Here’s a health to Maclean and conservatives all,
And may success and honour befall
The lads of the “Ariel” crew, Sir,!
G. V. Cox.
August, 1839.
[“Oxford, in the long vacation 1839, was enlivened by a Nuneham
Regatta, a conservative festivity, at which Mr. Maclean (M.P. for
Oxford City, and M.A. of Balliol College) was the presiding genius, as
well as the chief payer of the piper. I am tempted to introduce here a
parody on the famous song of ‘The Gallant Arethusa,’ in honour of the
nine young gentlemen, natives of Oxford, who, as the crew of the
‘Ariel’ carried off the chief honours of this regatta.” p. 309,
_Recollections of Oxford_. 1789-1860, by G. V. Cox.]
――――
THE MAN WHO MENDED THE BOILER.
“Mr. Benbow, the engineer of one of the steamers in which the rescue
of General Gordon was attempted, arrived in London yesterday. Mr.
Benbow was engineer of the steamer on which Lord Charles Beresford
performed his deeds of gallantry on the Upper Nile; and among his
friends he is popularly known as ‘the Man who Mended the Boiler.’ He
has come to this country in response to an official telegram.”
Come, all ye Britons, brave and bold,
Whilst I this story do unfold――
(A better tale is seldom told)
The Man who Mended the Boiler!
An Engineer as deft as brave,
With a name that smacks of the salt sea wave,
And a heart as staunch
As the hull of his launch;
And whenever Britons must meet the foe,
May they have such fellows as brave Benbow,
The Man who Mended the Boiler!
’Twas with the Nile fleet he set out,
With Lord Charles Beresford, gay and stout,
Midst the cataract’s roar, and the Arabs’ shout,
The Man who Mended the Boiler.
Khartoum and Gordon ahead did lie,
When a plate in the boiler did start and fly,
With a puff and a crack,
And the pace did slack,
And the Arabs howled at that bang and that puff,
But they knew not that handful of tars so tough,
Nor the Man who Mended the Boiler!
Whilst the jubilant Arabs did howl and dance,
He surveyed the smash with a workman’s glance,
And saw at once that they couldn’t advance,
With a big blank hole in the boiler.
Did he turn up the job like a muff? Oh, no!
That wasn’t the fashion of brave Benbow,
Midstream and still
He worked with a will
Through a dark Nile night and by morning’s light,
He had patched up everything right and tight
The Man who Mended the Boiler!
The Arabs looked from the sandy strand,
And thought that the Britons were brought to a stand;
But those Britons they did not understand,
Nor the Man who Mended the Boiler.
Up steam once more! Midst a roar from the shore,
Away up the Nile the steamer bore.
Let each brim a glass,
Whether lad or lass,
In a health to Lord Charles and his gallant crew,
With a bumper to Benbow stout and true,
The Man who Mended the Boiler!
_Punch._ April 25, 1885.
――――:o:――――
THE BAY OF BISCAY, O!
Loud roared the dreadful thunder,
The rain a deluge showers,
The clouds were rent asunder
By lightning’s vivid powers;
The night both drear and dark,
Our poor devoted bark,
Till next day, there she lay,
In the Bay of Biscay, O!
* * * * *
Her yielding timbers sever,
Her pitchy seams are rent.
When Heaven, all bounteous ever,
Its boundless mercy sent;
A sail in sight appears,
We hail her with three cheers,
Now we sail, with the gale,
From the Bay of Biscay, O!
ANDREW CHERRY. (_Comedian._ 1762-1812.)
――――
THE NEW-BUILT PLAYHOUSE, O!
Loud roar’d the watchman’s rattle,
Dust-bells began the din,
Announc’d the hour of battle!
’Twas half-price rushing in:
Whilst o’er the rascal crew,
Vast consternation flew
At the fight,
On that night,
In the new-built playhouse, O!
The catcalls next shrill sounding
’Midst O. P.’s vocal strain;
The magic dance, resounding,
Near rent the walls in twain!
Our victors strengthen’d grew,
O’er turned the Bow Street crew,
At the fight,
On that night,
In the new-built playhouse, O!
Then, must’ring up our forces,
Attack’d the thieves again;
But numbered in our losses
A few brave O. P. men.
The victory was ours,
Brave O. P. loudly roars,
At the fight,
On that night,
In the new-built playhouse, O!
From _The Covent Garden Journal_. Vol. 2, (London 1810). Containing an
account of the O. P. (old prices) riots at the New Covent Garden
Theatre.
――――
THE BAY OF CHELSEA, OH!
Loud roar’d the smoking funnel,
The blacks came down in showers;
The steam-pipe coughs like one ill,
The smoke above us lowers;
The mud both thick and dark
Impedes our wretched bark:
There we lay,
Half a day,
In the Bay of Chelsea, oh!
Now dashed against the gravel,
We crumble, crash, and creak;
At this rate we shan’t travel
A mile within a week
Cries of “Return the fare!”
Now rend the startled air:
“Did we pay,
Here to stay,
In the Bay of Chelsea, oh!”
At length a wished-for wherry
’Long side of us drew nigh;
The prospect made us merry,
The laugh rose loud and high;
But when, alas! we knew,
’Twould not hold half our crew,
None were gay,
As they lay
In the Bay of Chelsea, oh!
A little ease to give her
(To make her float we meant),
At once into the river
Her heavy chimney sent.
To swim she now appears,
We give three hearty cheers,
As we scud
Off the mud,
In the Bay of Chelsea, oh!
_Punch_ 1847.
――――
AIR, “_The Bay of Biscay._”
“I cut the ball right under
At least an inch or more;
It was a fatal blunder,
For forty was his score.
I gave him in the dark
Fifteen, so did remark,
’Odds I’ll lay
Any day,
If he’ll give me a bisque, heigh ho!”
* * * * *
From _Tennis Cuts and Quips_. London: Field and Tuer, 1884.
――――:o:――――
HEARTS OF OAK.
Come, cheer up, my lads! ’tis to glory we steer,
To add something more to this wonderful year;
To honour we call you, not press you like slaves;
For who are so free as the sons of the waves?
Hearts of oak are our ships,
Hearts of oak are our men,
We always are ready:
Steady, boys, steady!
We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again.
We ne’er see our foes but we wish them to stay,
They never see us but they wish us away:
If they run, why, we follow, or run them ashore;
For if they won’t fight us, we cannot do more.
Hearts of oak, &c.
They swear they’ll invade us, these terrible foes!
They frighten our women, our children, and beaux;
But should their flat bottoms in darkness get o’er,
Still Britons they’ll find to receive them on shore.
Hearts of oak, &c.
Britannia, triumphant, her ships sweep the sea,
Her standard is Justice――her watchword, “Be free;”
Then cheer up, my lads! with one heart let us sing,
“Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen and king.”
Hearts of oak, &c.
DAVID GARRICK.
――――
A NEW SONG.
Come cheer up, my lads, ’tis to Freedom we steer;
No tyrant dictators shall manage us here;
No more shall they send vile dependents on Court,
The birthright of Britons they ne’er will support.
United by _Freedom,_ in _freedom_ remain;
See _Fox_ still is ready,
To our cause ever steady;
Huzza! we’ll elect him again and again.
Since first we adopted THE FOX,[12] as our choice,
To injure the nation he ne’er lent his voice:
His unshaken heart, stout, manly, and bold,
Could ne’er be corrupted our cause to have sold.
United by _Freedom_ &c.
* * * * *
From _The History of the Westminster Election_. 1784.
――――
COME, CHEER UP, MY LADS, MERRY CHRISTMAS IS NEAR.
Come, cheer up, my lads, merry Christmas is near,
And I hope we shall all have a Happy New Year!
Then eat your plum-pudding and drink your strong ale,
And may plenty and peace, in old England ne’er fail;
O, still may our flag be with lustre unfurl’d!
Let’s ever be ready, steady boys, steady,
And true to ourselves we defy all the world.
Oh, still may our flag, &c.
* * * * *
There are five verses in all in this imitation, which may be found in
Volume III. (page 37) of _The Universal Songster_.
――――
ANOTHER NEW SONG.
Come, cheer up my lads, ’tis to glory we steer,
To add something new to this wonderful year.
We’ll rout the old soldiers in spite of their skill,
And send Brougham and Creevey to make known our will.
CHORUS.――Then firm, my hearts of oak,
Your votes give like Freemen,
To Liberty steady,
With hearts always ready,
To fight and to conquer,
Again and again.
M’Kerrell declares when the times have proved good,
The people of England have _three times_ too much food;
And Gladstone, his friend――deserter of our cause――
The King’s Jester has named, to help t’make our laws.
Then firm, my hearts of oak.
Your votes give like Freemen,
To Liberty steady,
You’ll always be ready
To keep out a Canning,
Again and again.
Then Tarleton comes forth with his vote-winning smile,
“If I have turned my coat, my heart’s yours all the while;
“Besides, my good friends, by constantly turning
“I must keep your interest on all sides from burning.
“Then listen to my ditty,
“And send me up once more,
“To changing sides steady,
“I always am ready
“To come to the side
“I deserted before,”
Our wise Corporation, poor Gascoyne descry――
His back one sad wound, and tearful his eye――
The flogging they gave him, his hopes had quite damped,
And the fear of defeat on his visage was stamped.
Cries Bourne, “My dear Gascoyne,
“Don’t take it so to heart.
“Indeed we didn’t mean it,
“Let Hollingshead clean it,
“And then, _my dear_ fellow,
“You’ll soon lose the smart.”
Then cheer up, my lads, ’tis to glory we steer,
To add something new to this wonderful year,
We’ll rout the old soldiers in spite of their skill,
And send Brougham and Creevey to make known our will.
Then firm, my hearts of oak,
Your votes give like Freemen,
To Liberty steady,
With hearts always ready,
To fight and to conquer,
Again and again.
From _An Impartial Collection of Addresses, Songs, Squibs, &c.,
published during the Liverpool Election_. October, 1812.
(The candidates were the Right Hon. George Cannings Lt.-General Isaac
Gascoyne, Henry Brougham, Thomas Creevey, and General B. Tarleton.
George Canning and General Gascoyne, both Tories, were elected.)
――――
DOWN WITH THE LORDS.
Unfurl the old flag once again to the fore,
While firmly we march as our fathers of yore;
Our war-cry is “Freedom,” our cause is our right,
Our well-trusted leaders are Gladstone and Bright.
_Chorus._
Then down with the Lords! our duty is plain;
For the fray we are ready;
Steady, men, steady;
We have conquered before, and we’ll conquer again.
The flouts and the sneers of these senators born,
And their impotent threats we can laugh them to scorn,
Arise, and like phantoms they’ll fade from our view,
For we are the million, and they are the few.
What think they, these Peers, in their arrogant pride?
Are we slaves that their hauteur can put us aside?
Do they think that their cunning we cannot requite,
When they’d filch with their left what they’d give with their
right?
Rouse, brothers, rouse! ’tis our own that we claim,
And the power that they wield, why, it is but a name;
Then let them beware in their tinselled array,
Ere a blast of our anger shall sweep them away!
JAMES TILSON WRIGHT.
_The Weekly Dispatch._ August 24, 1884.
――――
TRUTH AND RIGHT.
The day dawns upon us, the fight is at hand,
When the voice of the people shall ring through the land;
Peace, Progress, Reform and Retrenchment――our guide――
Shall be the man’s watchword in whom we confide.
_Chorus._
Truth and Right are our weapons, untarnished with stain;
Our forces are ready, trusty and steady――
We’ll vote for the men who can lead the campaign.
Deserted, forgotten, our rights, long ignored,
Have been tossed to the winds for coercion and sword――
The yoke of taxation has burdened our isle.
Our trades and our industries ne’er seem to smile.
We will send forth the men who will zealously toil
To improve the condition of “sons of the soil,”
Whose hearts beat with ours, who know what we feel――
The labouring masses who grind at the wheel.
And men who are staunch to the cause they profess,
Who will grapple each task to relieve our distress,
Who can write on their banner――for ever unfurled――
“A prosperous country, at peace with the world!”
JESSE H. WHEELER.
_The Weekly Dispatch._ October 25, 1885.
――――
GLADSTONE’S POLICY.
Arouse, men of England, the strife’s drawing near,
Stand fast for the Right and the man we revere,
’Tis but justice we ask for our friends o’er the waves:
Let Ireland be free, not a nation of slaves.
_Chorus._
A fig for the Whigs, and for Salisbury’s men;
They fear us already,
Steady, boys, steady,
For Ireland and Gladstone again and again!
Seceders may sneer at the chief they betrayed,
And boast how the game of the Tory they played;
Let them stand, hand in hand, where Coercion’s in store,
Their names will be scorned when themselves are no more.
_Chorus._
We care not for Whigs nor for Salisbury’s men;
They fear us already,
Steady, boys, steady,
For Ireland and Gladstone again and again!
D. EVANS.
_The Weekly Dispatch._ June 27, 1886.
――――
GLADSTONE’S MISTAKE.
Awake, sons of Britain, don’t let it be said
When comes the election that Reason was dead.
’Tis important to all that a measure so rash
As Gladstone’s should speedily fall with a crash.
_Chorus._
He’s made a mistake, though the greatest of men;
The bill’s doomed already,
Then, Will, pray be steady,
You know you’ll be sorry again and again.
Admirers of William, who cling to him strong,
All seem to imagine he cannot do wrong;
By sticking to him through this “mad-headed” plan
Gives rise to the thought that they worship the “man,”
_Chorus._
He’s made a mistake, so be honest, be men,
The bill’s doomed already,
Be up and ready;
If not, you’ll repent it again and again.
_The Weekly Dispatch._ July 4, 1886.
――――:o:――――
THE SKIPPER’S SONG.
(Air――_Obvious_.)
A death on the ocean wave,
And a grave in the rolling deep,
For the Skipper whose owners save
On a foreign crew, dirt-cheap!
I’ve French, Dutch, Turk, and Greek,
Swede, Fin, and Portugee――
And all the lingoes they speak
Are heathen Greek to me!
So a death on the Ocean Wave,
And a grave in the rolling deep,
When I’m knived or knocked on the head,
Some night, when no watch I keep.
For they all of ’em wear long knives,
And some have got pistols too,
And mine and my mates’ dear lives
Aren’t worth a tobaccy-screw!
They will take us unawares.
Like stuck pigs we shall die,
With no time to say our prayers,
And no chance to exchange “Good-bye.”
For a death on the Ocean Wave,
And a grave in the rolling deep,
Is the Skipper’s whose owners save
On a foreign crew, dirt-cheap!
_Punch._ May 27, 1876.
――――
A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAIVE.
(Composed by Mr. Twitters, after a rough passage from
Boulogne.)
A life on the ocean waive,
Don’t try for a home on the deep――
For your scattered senses rave,
If well you expect to keep.
Like a puppy whipt you’ll whine,
For the fresh and wholesome shore.
Or, heaving upon the brine,
For a “Basin, steward,” roar.
Then a life, &c.
On deck I tried to stand,
But I could not, with all my craft;
I asked them to let me land,
But the feelingless sailors laughed.
For to me was the sparkling foam
Ipecacuanah tea.
Oh! the tartar emetic’s home
Is certainly on the sea.
So a life, &c.
The sky turned to black from blue,
And didn’t the rain come down!
“You’d be better below,” said the crew.
I only replied by a frown!
But my counsel now shall be,
Unless you, a madman, rave,
Don’t live on the tossing sea――
A home on the billows waive.
Yes, a life on the ocean waive, &c.
From _The Man in the Moon_. Vol. 3.
――――:o:――――
I’M AFLOAT.
(The Premier’s vacation parody on board Sir Donald Currie’s ship,
“_The Pembroke Castle_.”)
I’m afloat! I’m afloat! on the swift rolling tide.
In the “liner” which Currie has lent me with pride.
Up, up with my flag, let it wave o’er the sea,
I’m afloat! I’m afloat! and the Old Man is free.
I fear not my critics, I laugh at their jaw,
They shall find that for once I’m not easy to “draw;”
For now at my breakfast no rage can I feel
At the journal report of some Tory stump squeal.
Quick, quick, stoke her fires, and come calm or come wind,
I will warrant we’ll soon leave land worries behind.
Up, up with my flag, let it wave o’er the sea,
I’m afloat! I’m afloat! and the Old Man is free.
Though that growler should carp, and this snarler be heard,
The steamer, unheeding, skims on like a bird.
What to us is the shout of Conservative pain?
As we’re well out of hearing, it’s uttered in vain.
The enemy’s strokes ineffectively fall,
Be they never so smart they’ve no power to appal,
As with fresh air on deck, and snug comfort below,
Through the holiday waters right onward we go.
Hurrah! then my mates, we may lounge, we may sleep,
Party rancour is hushed, we’re alone on the deep;
Our flag of defiance still waves o’er the sea――
We’re afloat!――we’re afloat! and the Old Man is free.
_Funny Folks._ September 22, 1883.
――――
SONG OF THE PICKPOCKET.
There’s a flat, there’s a flat, on the opposite side,
The country’s his home, and his nose is his guide,
Quick, quick, trip him up, knock his hat o’er his eyes,
And we’ll take out his wipe on the ground as he lies.
I heed not the beaks, I fear not their claws;
My object I’ll compass in spite of the laws;
I ne’er will give up to a tyrant of Peel’s,
Nor yield to a soul while I still have my heels.
_The Puppet Show._ April 1, 1848.
――――
I’M A SHOT.
I’m a shot, I’m a shot, I’m my Company’s pride,
The range is my home, and my rifle my bride,
Up, up with the flag, let it wave o’er the plain,
I’ve hit the bull’s eye, and I’ll hit it again.
I fear not the serjeant, I heed not the cells,
I’ve a ball in my pouch on the target that tells;
And ne’er as a slave, but a soldier I’ll kneel
With a most inconvenient seat on my heel.
I’m a shot, I’m a shot, &c.
――――
THE SONG OF THE FLOAT.
I’m a float! I’m a float; on the deep rolling tide,
I rest calmly still or triumphantly ride;
The bright crystal flood is my natural home,
Be it smooth as a mirror, or flashing with foam.
My body’s of cork, of an olive green hue,
And my tip as the needle magnetic is true.
I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job,
If the fishes below only give me a bob!
When Phœbus is bright and young zephyr at rest,
I lazily lie on the water’s calm breast;
And I think all the time how hot it must be
Over there where my master lies under the tree,
A shady old elm on the grass-covered ground,
Where the wopses and honey-bugs tumble around!
I’m a float! I’m a float; and I’m fair on the job,
If the fishes below only give me a bob!
When the sky like a friar is shrouded in gray,
And winds whistle wild o’er the watery way,
I top the white waves, or laugh in great glee,
As a ducking I get when they top over _me_.
And I think, oh! how jolly my master must feel,
With the rain at his back, and the mud at his heel!
I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job,
If the fishes below only give me a bob!
Sometimes, when the water’s not “soupy” in tint,
At the pebbly bottom I take a sly squint;
And then, if I see a big scaly’un look
With a half-doubting eye at the worm-covered hook,
A thrill of excitement runs all down my quill,
And, in spite of the water, I try to keep still.
I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job,
If the fishes below only give me a bob!
But then if the scaly ’un goes for that bait,
To my master the news in a crack I relate――
Yes!――no!――eh?――bravo?――“bob!”――right under I go!
But I’m drawn up again in a minute or so.
Slow but sure towards land a forced passage I make,
A big golden carp pulling well in my wake!
I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job,
If the fishes below only give me a bob!
I’m a float! I’m a float! on the deep rolling tide,
I rest calmly still or triumphantly ride!
I’m the fisherman’s friend, his mark on the stream,
No bite I let pass, from roach, perch or bream.
So all you gay rodsters, pray treat me with care,
For your pleasures and pains I’ll happily share.
I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job,
If the fishes below only give me a bob!
_The Angler’s Journal._ April 3, 1886.
――――:o:――――
OH! DON’T YOU REMEMBER SWEET ALICE, BEN BOLT?
Two parodies of this song were published by Ryle & Co., Monmouth
Court, Seven Dials, London, as street ballads. Both were very coarse,
one began:――
Now don’t you remember old Alice, Ben Bolt,
At the cook-shop a little up town,
How she grinned with delight when you gave her the brass,
For the pannum you sent rolling down?
The other commenced thus:――
Oh! don’t you remember sweet Sal, Harry Holt,
Sweet Sally wot lived at the Crown?
How she danced all the night, and drank with delight,
Just to keep up her fame and renown.
――――
WHEN “BOLT.”
Oh! dont you remember the days when “Bolt”
Was the dodge that did landlords so “brown,”
When on quarter day morns we have oft “shot the moon,”
And been off to a new part of town?
The old watchman always would let us then bolt,
Of our actions no knowledge would own;
But policeman are so wide awake now-adays,
We should surely be caught ere we’d flown.
Oh! don’t you remember our tradesmen, when “Bolt”
Was the way to stop duns for small bills――
When they knew that to claim their demands would entail
Declarations, court-fees, and such ills?
The system has gone to decay, and when “Bolt”
Is the rule, or some game of the sort,
They straight bring an action, and us they can take
For contempt of a vile County Court.