Was the word that the billmen overthrew――
When we left our acceptance, ne’er fearing a writ,
And at Boulogne moustaches we grew?
The sea is thought nothing, and now when “Bolt”
We do, we the law can’t defy;
For the New Law Procedure Act lets them pursue
The debtor where’er he may fly.
_Diogenes._ Vol. 3, page 132. March, 1854.
I have not met with any other parodies of _Ben Bolt_, although it is
probable that many have been written, as the song was very popular
some years since.
――――:o:――――
THE STORM.
Cease, rude Boreas, blust’ring railer!
List, ye landsmen, all to me!
Messmates, hear a brother sailor
Sing the dangers of the sea;
From bounding billows, first in motion,
When the distant whirlwinds rise,
To the tempest troubled ocean,
Where the seas contend with skies!
* * * * *
The topsail-yards point to the wind, boys,
See all clear to reef each course;
Let the fore-sheet go, don’t mind, boys,
Though the weather should be worse.
Fore and aft the sprit-sail yard get,
Reef the mizen, see all clear,
Hands up, each preventure brace set,
Man the fore-yard, cheer, lads, cheer!
G. A. STEVENS (died 1784.)
――――
CEASE, RUDE BOREAS.
(_By a worried Editor._)
Cease to bore us, and assail us,
Writers! with your pens so free!
List the tale――though’t won’t avail us,
And our troubles you shall see!
While around us roars the thunder,
Of the Postman’s double knocks;
Till our Housemaid stares with wonder,
And our Tiger’s nerves it shocks.
We have things oft sent that fright us,
And regard them all with scorn,
Pieces too that oft delight us,
And our breasts with rapture warm!
For the _first_――why we reject ’em
Or affront our readers sense,
For the _second_――we accept ’em,
Or we drive Subscribers hence!
Do not then too harsly judge us,
When we cast your trash aside;
Or of feelings good begrudge us
The exercise, both broad and wide!
We’re IMPARTIAL! though you doubt us,
And to each give merit due;
Full as honest――though you flout us,
As the mass of STOCKINGS BLUE!
_The Monthly Belle Assemblée._ September, 1836.
――――
SONG FOR THE DOUCHE.
Cease to lure us ’bout the ocean,
Neptune’s is an easy couch,
Listen while a fellow patient
Sings the dangers of the Douche;
Stripped and shivering――quite defenceless――
Stunned by its terrific roar――
Now you’re shouting――now you’re senseless――
Now you’re dashed upon the floor.
Hark! the bathman loudly bawling,――
“Stand up, ’twouldn’t hurt a child;”
Still in vain for mercy calling,――
“Bathman, please to ‘draw it mild’.”
Now ’tis over, rub and dress you;
Now the nerves are in full play,
“Bathman I’m all glowing――bless you,
Can’t I have one every day?”
Now all you in sick beds lying,
Victims to each false alarm;
Pill and potion vainly trying
Only doing further harm.
Try the Douche, its shocks and terrors
Are but fancies of the brain,
They must smile at vulgar errors,
Who would health and strength regain.
Would you climb the rugged mountain,
Would you hear sweet warblers sing,
Come and taste the crystal fountain,――
Nature’s pure life-giving spring;
Breathe the tainted air no longer,
Leave your sickly painful couch,
Every bath shall make you stronger,
Nervous sufferers try the Douche.
From _Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch_, by J. B. Oddfish.
(London. Simpkin, Marshall, & Co., 1865.)
――――:o:――――
“POLY.”
(A new ballad of the Fleet, sung by a British Tar àpropos
of the “Polyphemus.”)
Do you want to know the ugliest craft
That ever put from port?
Well that’s the _Poly_, the steel ram’d _Poly_,
And she’s a rare rum sort.
Open your peepers and look my lads,
She’s lobbing agen the quay,
The sootiest craft afore and abaft
That ever shamed the sea.
Afloat, afloat, d’ye call _her_ a boat?
Black deck, no white sails furled!
_Poly_, grim _Poly_,
Tame as “loblolly,’
The ugliest craft in the world!
Do you want to know the latest thing
To make a true tar dull?
Well, that’s the _Poly_, this precious _Poly_,
And darn her dirty hull!
Come, you’ll see the horror a lyin’ there,
Like a porpoise heavy with grog;
Her sides full of rivets, her turret of guns,
Her hull like a lifeless log.
Afloat, afloat, like a leaky boat,
Low down, no sail unfurled;
_Poly_, grim _Poly_,
Our nautical folly,
The ugliest craft in the world!
Do you want a toast to-night, my lads,
Afore we says good-bye?
Well, here’s short life to the lumbering _Poly_,
And blarm her hulk, says I.
Fill your grog-glasses high, my lads,
Drink in sepulchral tones:
“May a storm soon send this confounded _Poly_
To supper with David Jones.”
Afloat, afloat, is she worth a groat,
When the waves in heaps are hurled?
_Poly_, black _Poly_,
Fraud melancholy,
The ugliest craft in the world!
_Punch._ July 23, 1881.
――――:o:――――
THE DEATH OF NELSON.
From the Opera of “The Americans.”
RECITATIVE
O’er Nelson’s tomb, with silent grief oppressed,
Britannia mourns her hero, now at rest;
But those bright laurels ne’er shall fade with years,
Whose leaves are watered by a nation’s tears.
AIR.
Twas in Trafalgar’s bay
We saw the Frenchmen lay;
Each heart was bounding then.
We scorn’d the foreign yoke,
Our ships were British oak,
And hearts of oak our men
Our Nelson mark’d them on the wave,
Three cheers our gallant seamen gave,
Nor thought of home and beauty.
Along the line this signal ran――
“England expects that every man
This day will do his duty.”
* * * * *
England confess’d that every man
That day had done his duty.
S. J. ARNOLD.
――――
THE BATTLE OF SPITHEAD.
_Recitative._
O’er Thompson’s nose, by Swiggins’ fist imprest,
Britannia weeps,――that face with bandage dress’d,
But that bright nose shall never fade with years,
Whose tip, once blue, now blue and red appears.
’Twas in the Spithead Bay
We saw Bill Swiggins lay,
He loudly swearing, then;
We owed him for a joke
Which at the British Oak,
He levell’d at our men――
Our Thompson mark’d the wily knave,
Three screams our outraged sweethearts gave,
Nor thought of home or duty;
Before the shine this signal ran,
“We owe a grudge to that ’ere man;
This day we’ll spoil his beauty.”
And now we ply the oar,
And stretching from the shore,
Our Thompson clove the spray;
His ship the Sarah named,
Long Sarah had been famed
For squabbles night and day;
But dearly was our victory bought,
Our hero’s nose a stinger caught,
For Sarah, home, and duty;
He cried, as to his foe he ran,
“We owe a grudge to that ’ere man,
This day we’ll spoil his beauty.”
But, oh! the dreadful wound,
Which sent the “claret” round,
The hero’s nose received.
Then, sinking on his side,
“Our boat’s going o’er,” he cried;
“But long enough I’ve lived,
I’ve black’d his other eye at last,
Have had revenge for insults pass’d
On Sarah, home, and duty!”
Thus ends the row as it began――
Portsmouth confess’d that each brave man
Had spoilt the other’s beauty!
_Diogenes._ July, 1853.
――――
THE GREAT UNEMPLOYED.
(_A Song for Scotland Yard._ Air――“_The Death of Nelson._”)
’Twas in Trafalgar Square
We heard Sedition blare;
Each heart was sickened then.
We’d scorned the foreign Reds
Who cracked each other’s heads,
But here were madder men.
Henderson marked them howl and rave,
But little heed that hero gave.
Let Roughdom smash and loot, he
Stirred not, appeared not, formed no plan.
And London owned at least one man
That day that shirked his duty.
And now the rabble roar,
And plunder as they pour;
No Bobbies stop the way.
London, for order famed,
Is startled, shocked, and shamed
By this disgraceful day!
Right dearly is experience bought,
The maddened Mob surged, smashed, and fought,
Unchecked, for drink and booty.
From mouth to mouth the murmur ran,
“London has found a trusted man
This day has shirked his duty.”
Pride feels a painful wound,
Dismay is spread around;
Our trust has been deceived.
But shirkers must be tried,
If need be, thrust aside,
Our credit be retrieved.
Policedom’s honour is at stake,
Policedom from its drowse must wake,
It guards home, wealth, age, beauty,
From Chief to youngest guardian,
London _must_ know that every man
Is equal to his duty!
_Punch._ February, 1886.
――――
_Innes’s London Comic Songster_――(London: Simpkin & Marshall,
N. D.)――contained a coarse parody, entitled:――
PADDY’S GRAVE.
’Twas at the Pig and Cat
Where Judy met her Pat,
With his big nose so red:
“Oh!” says she, “you are untrue;
And faith, I’ll punish you,”
And then she broke his head!
Her brother Ted was standing by,
Who nately black’d her father’s eye,
For he was bold and frisky;
Yet through the bogs this was the cry,
Ireland expects you won’t be shy,
But fight for love and whiskey!
(_Two verses omitted._)
[Illustration]
THE BRITISH GRENADIERS.
Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules,
Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these;
But of all the world’s brave heroes, there’s none that can
compare,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, to the British
grenadier.
Those heroes of antiquity ne’er saw a cannon-ball,
Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal;
But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears,
Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, to the British
grenadiers.
Then Jove the god of thunder, and Mars the god of war,
Brave Neptune with his trident, Apollo in his car,
And all the gods celestial, descending from their spheres,
Behold with admiration the British grenadiers.
Whene’er we are commanded to storm the palisades,
Our leaders march with fusees, and we with hand grenades;
We throw them from the glacis about the Frenchman’s ears,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the British
grenadiers.
And when the siege is over, we to the town repair,
The townsmen cry huzza, boys, here comes a grenadier,――
Here come the grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears.
Then sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the British
grenadiers.
Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those
Who carry caps and pouches, and wear the loopèd clothes.
May they and their commanders live happy all their years,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the British
grenadiers!
ANONYMOUS. (_Written about_ 1760.)
――――
THE BRITISH GRENADIERS.
Upon the plains of Flanders,
Our fathers long ago,
They fought like Alexanders
Beneath old Marlborough;
And still in fields of conquest,
Our valour bright has shown,
With Wolfe and Abercrombie,
And Moore and Wellington.
Our plumes have waved in combats,
That ne’er shall be forgot,
Where many a mighty squadron
Reeled backwards from our shot.
In charges with the bayonet,
We led our bold compeers;
But Frenchmen like to stay not
For British Grenadiers.
Once bravely at Vimiera
They hoped to play their parts,
And sing fal lira, lira,
To cheer their drooping hearts.
But English, Scotch, and Paddy whacks,
We gave three hearty cheers,
And the French soon turned their backs
To the British Grenadiers.
At St. Sebastiano,
And Badajos’s town,
Though raging like volcanoes
The shell and shot came down,
With courage never wincing,
We scaled the ramparts high,
And waved the British ensign
In glorious victory.
And what could Bonaparte,
With all his cuirassiers,
In battle do, at Waterloo,
With British Grenadiers?
Then ever sweet the drum shall beat
That march unto our ears,
Whose martial roll awake the soul
Of British Grenadiers.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
――――
BROOK GREEN VOLUNTEER.
Some talk of Alexander,
And some of Wellington,
Of Blucher and Lysander,
And of Napoleon.
But of all the gallant heroes,
There’s none for to compare,
With his Quick march! to the right about! Face!
To the Brook Green Volunteer.
Without the least occasion,
He rushes to the field,
From peril of invasion
Old Hammersmith to shield.
The geese loud cackling round him,
The donkies braying near,
Appal not the truly British heart
Of the Brook Green Volunteer.
Retreating do not mention,
Nor talk of War’s alarms,
When Duty cries, Attention!
And Valour, Shoulder Arms!
The soul despises danger,
The bosom knows no fear
Of that fine, handsome, spirited young man,
The Brook Green Volunteer.
In spite of vilest weather
Erect, and proud of mien,
Each night, for hours together,
He guards his native Green;
Catarrh and cough defying,
No matter how severe;
What a downright, thorough-going trump
Is the Brook Green Volunteer!
At this inclement season
The hero must be bold,
For no particular reason
To brave a death of cold.
Then yield the palm of glory,
And stand a drop of beer
To that gay, gallant, promising recruit,
The Brook Green Volunteer.
_Punch._ February 28, 1846.
This parody refers to the rumours of a threatened invasion of England
by the Prince de Joinville, and ridicules the proposals then made to
call out the Militia. There was another parody of this song in
_Punch_, 1849, relating how two Grenadiers robbed two French National
Guards during their visit to London. The parody, entitled “The
Blackguard Grenadier,” commenced thus:――
“Most regiments have some varlet,
Some rascal mean and base,
A stain upon their scarlet,
Their scandal and disgrace.”
This disgraceful incident created great indignation, and there was a
loud outcry as to the want of proper discipline amongst the Guards
stationed in London. Yet they still enjoy the undeserved, and
exceptional, privileges they then possessed, and are better fed,
clothed, and paid than their comrades in the Line regiments.
――――
THE GALLANT SPECIALS.
(During the Chartist agitation in 1848, about 150,000 men were sworn
in as special constables.)
They may talk if they like of their Horse Guards Red,
They may talk of their Horse Guards Blue;
They may boast if they please, of such troops as these,
And of all the exploits they’d do.
But London town acknowledges,
That in spite of their fine fal-de-rals,
They’re not up to the mark, in the street or the park,
Of the gallant Spe-ci-als.
The Peelers, no doubt, are a stout brigade,
And partial to kitchen stuff;
The Detectives, too, are by no means a do,
But perfectly up to snuff,
For what are they, I should like to know,
When the voice of duty calls,
To the jolly old bricks, who flourish the sticks
Of the Cockney Spe-ci-als?
Oh! ’tis they are the boys for the Chartist mob,
Who thought insurrection to hatch;
And who spoke out so bold, in their John Street hold,
But funk’d when it came to the scratch.
Who swore that they did not care one whit,
For grapeshot, or rockets, or balls;
But who cut right away, with the devil to pay,
At the sight of the Spe-ci-als.
_The Man in the Moon_, Vol. III.
――――
THE THIEVISH PRIVATEER.
Oh! some talk about Jack Sheppard;
Bill Sikes a hero call;
And some speak of a worthy,
Whose name it is Sam Hall;
But there’s a thief in our belief
Whose crimes e’en worse appear,
Who in war’s dark hour doth the ocean scour――
’Tis the thievish Privateer.
While nations are contending――
While principles at stake,
Upon the strife depending,
The world’s foundation shake.
No thought has he of liberty,
No hopes of glory cheer;
But alone for the pelf,
To enrich himself,
Fights the thievish Privateer.
* * * * *
Then shall we suffer longer,
That letters called “of Marque,”
Shall save from England’s vengeance,
Each cut-throat pirate bark?
Oh, no! let’s hope henceforth a rope
Shall be knotted ’neath the ear,
As pirates to hang
Every man of the gang
Of each thievish Privateer.
_Diogenes_, Vol. III., p. 122. March, 1854.
――――
THE ORDER OF VALOUR (The V. C.)
Some talk of ALEXANDER,
And some of HERCULES,
And many a great commander
As glorious as these;
But if you want a hero
Of genuine pluck and pith,
It’s perfectly clear there’s none comes near
To full British PRIVATE SMITH.
Its easy to fight, with glory
At hand to gild your name,
And stick it up in story,
Among the sons of fame.
But SMITH, full British private,
Is expected to be brave,
With the cold “cold shade” above his head,
At his feet a nameless grave.
For Generals there’s the peerage,
With grant of public tin;
There’s regiments for Colonels,
For Captains steps to win.
But for PRIVATE SMITH the utmost,
(If he avoided beer)
Was a Chelsea berth, and a pension worth
Some fifteen pounds a-year.
Till now the stars and garters,
Were for birth’s or fortune’s son,
And as oft in snug home-quarters,
As in fields of fight were won.
But at length a star arises,
Which as glorious will shine
On SMITH’S red serge vest as upon the breast
Of SMYTH’S scarlet superfine.
Though carpet-knights may grumble,
Routine turn up its nose,
Though CARDIGANS and LUCANS,
And AIREYS may oppose,
Yet shall the star of valour
Defy their scoffs and jeers――
As its bronze rays shine on plain SMITH of the Line,
And plain SMITH of the Grenadiers.
Too long mere food for powder
We’ve deem’d our rank and file,
Now higher hopes and prouder.
Upon the soldier smile.
And if no Marshal’s bâton
PRIVATE SMITH in his knapsack bears,
At least in the War, the chance of the star
With his General he shares.
_Punch._ February 23, 1856.
There was another parody of the same song in _Punch_, February 27,
1858, complaining of the shameful manner in which our soldiers were
then clothed, lodged, and fed. As most of the evils therein alluded to
have been remedied, the parody is now obsolete. A parody entitled
“Aitcheson’s Carabineers,” appears on page 112 of the 1869 edition of
Logan’s “Pedlar’s Pack of Ballads and Songs.”
――――
THROUGH FIRE AND WATER; OR, THE LONDON VOLUNTEERS.
Some talk of Alexander,
And some of Hercules,――
The Chief whose martial dander,
Asked worlds to stand at ease――
The Sayers of the prize ring,
In high Olympian spheres,――
But both, I’ll be bound, now-a-days would be found
Enrolled in the Volunteers.
Our soldiers they are heroes,
We know, in facing fire;
Our tars reduce to zeros
All fears the seas inspire.
But for going through fire _and_ water,
――To say nothing of small boys’ jeers――
There’s no service, I swear, that can compare
With the London Volunteers.
In June we’re now parading,
Last month was merry May,
But for Volunteer brigading
We’ve not had one dry day!
The aforesaid Alexander,
As a hero of _Greece_ appears
Of our kin to be, for _dripping_ are we
Poor London Volunteers!
Umbrellas and alpacas
We scorn, and oil-skin capes;
And the rain-drops from our shakos
May trickle down our napes.
We may continue drilling,
And manœvuring about for years,
But “_Wetter’uns_” some needn’t hope to become
In the London Volunteers.
But yet there’s no complaining;
Rheumatics we defy,
And though cats and dogs it’s raining,
We keep our powder dry.
Little think the small boys shouting
“Who shot the dog?” in our ears,
What an inward fire flares up to inspire
Us London Volunteers.
Then a fig for showers and sneerers,
Let’s show Sir Robert yet;
We can laugh at fire and fleerers,
As we’ve laughed at heavy wet.
And we hope to teach the foeman,
Who on our shore appears,
If home rains we’ve borne, French reins we scorn,
As London Volunteers.
Three cheers for all who’re willing
To be wetted through and through!
For those who stick to drilling
Till all is damp and blue.
May none of us blow our heads off,
Whether privates or brigadiers,
And the Queen, I pray, have one dry day,
For reviewing the Volunteers.
_Punch._ June 16, 1860.
The first year of the Volunteer movement will be long remembered as an
exceptionally wet season.
――――
THE SOIREE OF THE CIVIL ENGINEERS.
Some talk of Archimedes, and some of Euclid prose,
Of Dædalus, Hæphæstus, and such great swells as those,
But of all the men of genius there’s none can prove a peer,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, of the Civil Engineer!
Those ancient men of science, ne’er saw the power of steam,
Or knew of bridges tubular across the ocean stream;
But ours are far more knowing:――their triumphs skill uprears,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the Civil Engineers!
Oh! Jove the god of thunder, and Mars the god of war,
Old Neptune with his trident, Apollo with his car――
These heathen swells celestial in their respective spheres,
Can’t come in competition with the Civil Engineers!
Whene’er their skill’s demanded, great works are to be made,
Their navvies march with pickaxe, with crowbar, and with spade;
And soon the progress traces in cuttings, banks, and piers,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, of the Civil Engineers!
And when their Soirée’s given, to George Street they repair,
And all the men most noted you’re sure to meet with there;
The most distinguished people adorning modern years,
Are on the very best of terms with the Civil Engineers!
Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to these,
Bright ornaments of science and progress, if you please,
For enterprise and genius we’ll gladly raise three cheers,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the Civil Engineers!
_Fun._ June 9, 1866.
――――
HAXELL’S VOLUNTEERS
(Dedicated to the particularly active hotel service corps).
Come all ye dilettanti bold
Who fear not Gladstone’s frown,
Announce yourselves as Cids enrolled
(The fee is half a crown.)
The uniform is cheap and bright,
And ought to last for years,
For it’s likely they’ll not have to fight
In the Haxell’s Volunteers.
To stem the Russian’s reeking tide
We’ve pilots stout of limb;
We’ve Forsyth, Wheelhouse on our side,
And Captain Bedford Pim!
The Bard of Peterborough-court
With odes our efforts cheers,
And music-hall _trouvères_ support
The Haxell’s Volunteers.
Think of old England’s righteous claims,
Her noble-minded _fils_;
Make haste and put down all your names――
They’re just concluding peace!
For craven Muscovite and Sclav
Are quaking with their fears;
Ah, what a muster we shall have
Of the Haxell’s Volunteers!
So seize a gun, the times are ripe
For Englishmen to act;
You’re bound to keep your names in type,
And eke your skins intact.
Perhaps there _may_ be some brigade
Worth ours in distant spheres,
At least we’re mighty in _parade_,
We Haxell’s Volunteers.
_Funny Folks._ May, 1878.
Written during the War Fever, when some of the newspapers were
clamouring for war with Russia. It was then proposed to form a Corps
of Active Service Volunteers, but the Government discouraged the idea.
――――
STANZA BY A SERGEANT-MAJOR.
In Egypt there’s an old stream
A long time known to fame;
But now beside the Coldstream,
The Nile must yield his name.
For of all the finest fellahs
There’s none for to compare
(With a right-fol-de-riddle-iddle-lol)
To the British Grenadier!
_Punch._ September 16, 1882.
――――
THE BRITISH HOUSE OF PEERS.
Some swear by Wilfred Lawson,
And some by Labouchere,
And some applaud Joe Chamberlain,
While some by Bradlaugh swear.
Down, down with cant and caucas,
Let’s greet the right with cheers,
And praise their pluck, and wish them luck,
The British House of Peers.
For when they were commanded
To pass a Franchise Bill,
They bade a tyrant Premier
Inquire the nation’s will.
John Bright may rant like Rabshakeh,
And Rogers vent his sneers;
Let’s praise their pluck, and wish them luck,
The British House of Peers.
_The Morning Post._ August, 1884.
――――
THE ASTON RIOT.
(_During the Birmingham Election in 1884._)
Some talk of Alexander,
And some of Hercules,
But Chamberlain’s commander
Far, bigger far than these;
For he commands at his demands,
A power rather tough;
In the vulgar shape of that beastly ape
The blackguard Brummy Rough!
_Chorus_――With a blackguard Brum,
And a Brummy black,
And a blackguard Brummy Rough!
The Radical of Brummagem
Possesseth strength to bray,
With his beery mouth and black pipe stem,
In a beastly sort of way;
But we’d never known how bad he’s grown,
Had he not shown such stuff
At the Aston storm, in his proper form,
As the blackguard Brummy Rough!
_Chorus_――With a blackguard Brum,
And a Brummy black,
And a blackguard Brummy Rough!
* * * * *
_England._ October, 1884.
――――
“THE SONG OF MRS. JENNY GEDDES.
(_Tune_――’British Grenadiers.’)
“Some praise the fair Queen Mary, and some the good Queen Bess,
And some the wise Aspasia, beloved by Pericles;
But o’er all the world’s brave women there’s one that bears the
rule,
The valiant Jenny Geddes that flung the four-legged stool.
_With a row-dow――at them now!――Jenny fling the stool!_
“’Twas the twenty-third of July, in the sixteen thirty-seven,
On Sabbath morn from high St. Giles’, the solemn peal was given;
King Charles had sworn that Scottish men should pray by printed
rule:
He sent a book, but never dreamt of danger from a stool.
_With a row-dow――yes, I trow!――there’s danger in a stool!_
“The Council and the Judges with ermined pomp elate,
The Provost and the Bailies in gold and crimson state,
Fair-silken vested ladies, grave Doctors of the school,
Were there to please the King, and learn the virtue of a stool.
_With a row-dow――yes, I trow!――there’s virtue in a stool!_
“The Bishop and the Dean came wi’ mickle gravity,
Right smooth and sleek, but lordly pride was lurking in their e’e;
Their full lawn sleeves were blown and big, like seals in briny
pool;
They bore a book, but little thought they soon should feel a
stool.
_With a row-dow――yes, I trow!――they’ll feel a four-legged stool!_
“The Dean he to the altar went, and wi’ a solemn look,
He cast his eyes to heaven, then read a curious-printed book:
In Jenny’s heart the blood upwelled with bitter anguish full;
Sudden she started to her legs, and stoutly grasped the stool!
_With a row-dow――at them now!――firmly grasp the stool!_
“As when a mountain cat springs upon a rabbit small,
So Jenny on the Dean springs, with gush of holy gall;
_Wilt thou say the mass at my lug thou Popish puling fool?_
No! no! she said, and at his head she flung the four-legged
stool.
With a row-dow――at them now!――Jenny fling the stool!
“A bump, a thump! a smash, a crash! now gentle folks beware!
Stool after stool, like rattling hail, came tirling through the
air,
With, Well done, Jenny! bravo, Jenny! that’s the proper tool!
When the Diel will out, and show his snout, just meet him with
a stool.
_With a row-dow――at them now!――there’s nothing like a stool!_
“The Council and the Judges were smitten with strange fear,
The ladies and the Bailies their seats did deftly clear,
The Bishop and the Dean went, in sorrow and in dool,
And all the Popish flummery fled, when Jenny showed the stool!
_With a row-dow――at them now!――Jenny show the stool!_
“And thus a mighty deed was done by Jenny’s valiant hand,
Black Prelacy and Popery she drave from Scottish land;
King Charles he was a shuffling knave, priest Laud a pedant-fool,
But Jenny was a woman wise, who beat them with a stool!
_With a row-dow――yes, I trow!――she conquered by the stool!_”
By Professor JOHN STUART BLACKIE.
_The Inverness Courier._ January 8, 1885.
――――
OUR BRITISH PREMIER.
Some talk of Bright and Cobden,
And some of Palmerston,
Of Chamberlain and Goschen,
And some of Hartington.
But of all old England’s heroes,
There’s none that can compare
To the Grand Old Man, the Grand Old Man,
Our British Premier!
Then up! for now he bids us
To rout the renegades.
Our Hawarden star is quenchless
By “Harden Star-Grenades!”
Up, up! with shouts and cheering
We’ll stun the traitor’s ear,
For the Grand Old Man, the Grand Old Man,
Our British Premier!
So, fill, fill up a bumper,
His health let none refuse;
Who wears the high, high collar,
Who wears the plaided trews.
Long may he live――our jewel,
Our _stone_ without a peer;
The Grand Old Man, the Grand Old Man,
Our British Premier!
AMBULATOR.
_Truth._ July 15, 1886.
――――:o:――――
LET ME LIKE A SOLDIER FALL.
O, let me like a soldier fall,
Upon some tented plain!
This breast expanding for the ball,
To blot out every stain.
Brave manly hearts confer my doom,
That gentler ones may tell,
Howe’er forgot, unknown my tomb,
I like a soldier fell.
I only ask, for that proud race,
Which ends its blaze in me,
To die the last, and not disgrace,
Its ancient chivalry.
Although no banners o’er me wave,
trumpet requiem swell
Enough, they murmur o’er my grave,
He like a soldier fell.
――――
LET ME LIKE A FEATHER FALL.
Yes, let me like a feather fall,
If tumble then I must;
Not I desire that vulgar sprawl
To rudely kiss the dust.
No, I’ll recline as gracefully
As if ’twas by a spell,
And they that stay and see shall say,
“He like a feather fell.”
Yes, from the pig skin I’ll descend.
And on the dust recline
So gently, that a smiling friend
May claim it all sublime.
But the pig skin I shall try to keep,
For to part like that’s a sell,
Yet they shall say, if we part that way,
“He like a feather fell.”
Yes, the vile cropper I despise,
The gentle I admire,
And all are free to criticise
The spill that I desire.
But when I tumble give the song,
And true that song shall tell,
How through what space, and with what grace
“He like a feather fell.”
_Whizz_; the Christmas number of _The Bicycling Times_. 1880.
――――:o:――――
THE GIRLS THEY’VE LEFT BEHIND THEM.
Our gallant Guards have marched away,
Each eye with pleasure flashing,
On Eastern shores to join the fray,
And give the Bear a thrashing.
To Englishmen they still are dear,
And absent ties shall bind them,
Thus our first care shall be to cheer
The girls they’ve left behind them.
* * * * *
(_Two verses omitted_).
_Diogenes_, Vol. III., page 104. 1854.
――――
THE WIVES THEY LEFT BEHIND THEM.
We cheer our soldiers on their way,
We crowd and we huzza them,
And as they go to seek the fray
Effusively “Ta-ta” them.
Then ere they’re safe upon the foam,
And distance serves to blind them,
We cry, “Turn out of house and home,
The wives they’ve left behind them.”
And so our fighters meet the foe,
And bleed, should duty bid them;
A thrust may come to lay them low,
Of life a bullet rid them.
Oh, gladly must these heroes face
The dangers that may find them,
Who know how we, to our disgrace,
Treat those they’ve left behind them.
We don’t think much of Tommy A.’s――
Indeed, we rather scout them
In times of peace――yet these are days
When we can’t do without them.
In future, let us recollect
This fact, and oft remind them
That England’s ready to protect
The wives they’ve left behind them.
_Funny Folks._ March 7, 1885.
――――:o:――――
A TALE OF THE TENTH HUSSARS.
When the sand of the lonely desert has covered the plains of
strife,
Where the English fought for the rescue, and the Arab stood for
his life;
When the crash of the battle is over, and healed are our wounds
and scars,
There will live in our island story a Tale of the Tenth Hussars.
They had charged in the grand old fashion with furious shout and
swoop,
With a “Follow me, lads!” from the Colonel, and an answering roar
from the troop;
From the Staff, as the troopers pass’d it, in glory of pride and
pluck.
They heard and they never forgot it, one following shout, “Good
luck!”
Wounded and worn he sat there, in silence of pride and pain,
The man who’d led them often, but was never to lead again.
Think of the secret anguish! think of the dull remorse!
To see the Hussars sweep past him, unled by the old White Horse!
An alien, not a stranger; with heart of a comrade still,
He had borne his sorrow bravely, as a soldier must and will;
And when the battle was over, in deepening gloom and shade,
He followed the Staff in silence, and rode to grand parade;
For the Tenth had another hero, all ripe for the General’s praise,
Who was called to the front that evening by the name of Trooper
Hayes;
He had slashed his way to fortune, when scattered, unhorsed,
alone,
And saving the life of a comrade had managed to guard his own.
The General spoke out bravely as ever a soldier can――
“The Army’s proud of your valour; the Regiment’s proud of their
man!”
Then across that lonely desert, at the close of the General’s
praise,
Came a cheer, then a quick short tremble on the lips of Trooper
Hayes.
“Speak out,” said the kindly Colonel, “if you’ve anything, lad,
to say;
Your Queen and your dear old country shall hear what you’ve done
to-day!”
But the trooper gnawed his chin strap, then sheepishly hung his
head;
“Speak out, old chap!” said his comrades. With an effort, at last,
he said――
“There sits by your side on the Staff, sir, a man we are proud to
own!
He was struck down first in the battle, but never was heard to
groan;
If I’ve done aught to deserve it,”――then the General smiled, “Of
course!”――
“Give back to the Tenth their Colonel――the Man on the old White
Horse!
“I came to the front with my pals here, the boys, and the brave
old tars,
I’ve fought for my Queen and my country, and rode with the Tenth
Hussars;
I’m proud, of the fine old regiment!”――then the Colonel shook
his hand――
“So I’ll ask one single favour from my Queen and my native land!
“If ever a man bore up, sir, as a soldier should with pluck,
And fought with a savage sorrow the demon of cursed ill-luck――
That man he sits before you! Give us back, with his wounds and
scars,
The man who has sorely suffered, and is loved by the Tenth
Hussars!”
Then a cheer went up from his comrades, and echoed across the
sand,
And was borne on the wings of mercy to the heart of his native
land,
Where the Queen on her throne will hear it, and the Colonel
Prince will praise
The words of a simple soldier just uttered by Trooper Hayes!
Let the moralist stoop to mercy, that balm of all souls that
live;
For better than all forgetting is the wonderful word “Forgive!”
_Punch._ March 15, 1884.
――――
A TALE OF THE TENTH HUSSARS.
(Not to-day, Baker.)
When the train, on its lonely journey, was near to the scene of
strife
Where the woman fought for her honour――far dearer to her than
life;
When the crash of the opening doorway left her standing outside
the cars,
It gave to our island a story of one of the Tenth Hussars.
He was “charged” in the good old fashion, as one of the criminal
troop,
With a “Follow me sharp!” from the “Bobby,” which made him tremble
and droop;
And his staff, as the “Peeler” shewed it in glory of pride and
pluck,
Was seen as he went to prison, but nobody cried “Good luck!”
Wounded and hurt she sat there, in silence of pride and pain,
Her womanhood all insulted, her honour left under a stain.
Think of her secret anguish! think of her dull remorse!
When she got away from the fellow, who now rides an old white
horse.
An alien, not a stranger, but yet ’twould be stranger still,
Tho’ he’s borne his rightful sentence, to hail him with right good
will;
For when Teb’s battle was over, and thousands there were slayed,
He reached his port in safety, with few on the grand parade;
But the Tenth had another hero, quite right for the General’s
praise,
A thick and thin thoro’ Briton, his name was Trooper Blaze;
He had never insulted a woman, and scattered unhorsed, alone,
He had saved the life of a pal of his, and managed to save his
own.
The General spoke out bravely as ever a General can:――
For once the swell and Private could speak as man to man;
And across the lonely desert, at the close of the General’s
praise,
Came a shout of wonder that the swell could talk to Trooper
Blaze.
“Speak out,” said the splendid Colonel, “if you’ve anything, lad,
to say;
Your Queen and your dear old country shall hear what you’ve done
to-day!”
But the Trooper knawed his chin-strap, and sheepishly hung his
head;
“Speak out, old man,” said his comrades, and here’s what he should
have said――
“There sits on your side by the Staff, sir, a man whom the world
has known
As not a protector of woman, when one’s by herself alone;
And all he’s got he deserves it――the General smiled, “Of course;”
And nobody thought the better of the man on the old White Horse!
“I’ve fought very well for my pals here, along with the boys and
tars,
And I have never――no, never――dishonoured the Tenth Hussars;
But one has done that for the regiment”――then the Colonel shook
his hand――
“So I’ll ask one simple favour from my Queen and my native land!”
“If ever a man did wrong, sir, as a thing devoid of pluck,
And fought with a poor, weak woman, and trusted then to luck――
That man he sits before you, the hero of railway cars――
Don’t let that man be e’er replaced to d――n the Tenth Hussars!”
Then a cheer went up from the regiment, and echoed across the sand,
And was borne on the wings of justice to a woman-loving land,
When the Queen on her throne will heed it, and the Colonel Prince
won’t dare
To reinstate a man who tried a lady to ensnare.
Let the aristocrats call “mercy,” but let England’s honour live――
There are crimes to be forgotten――there is one we can’t forgive!
Valentine Baker, Colonel of the Tenth Hussars, was found guilty of
having committed a dastardly attack on a young lady in a railway
carriage, sentenced to imprisonment and dismissed from the English
army. He subsequently took part in the Campaign, as an officer of the
Egyptian government.
[Illustration]
THE “JINGO” WAR SONG.
“The men of action got a nickname, they were dubbed the Jingo Party.
The term, applied as one of ridicule and reproach, was adopted by
chivalrous Jingoes as a name of pride. The Jingoes of London, like the
Beggars of Flanders, accepted the word of contumely as a title of
honour. In order to avoid the possibility of any historical
misunderstanding hereafter about the meaning of Jingo, such as we have
heard of concerning that of Whig and Tory, it is well to explain how
the term came into existence. Some Tyrtaeus of the tap-tub, some
Körner of the music-halls, had composed a ballad which was sung at one
of these caves of harmony every night, amid the tumultuous applause of
excited patriots. The refrain of this war song contained the
spirit-stirring words:――
‘We don’t want to fight; but, by Jingo! if we do
We’ve got the ships, we’ve got the men, we’ve got the money too.’
Some one whose pulses this lyrical outburst of national pride failed
to stir, called the party of its enthusiasts the Jingoes. The writer
of this book is under the impression that the invention of the name
belongs to Mr. George Jacob Holyoake. The name was caught up at once,
and the party were universally known as the Jingoes. The famous
adjuration of the lady in the ‘Vicar of Wakefield’ had proved to be
too prophetical; she had sworn ‘by the living Jingo,’ and now indeed
the Jingo was alive.”――_A History of Our Own Times_, by Justin
McCarthy, M.P. 1882.
So much for the words, as to the melody, which was not unmusical, Sir
William Fraser wrote to _Notes and Queries_ in May, 1886, saying that
it was taken from Mozart’s Twelfth Mass. But next week the following
denial appeared in _N. & Q._, “I beg to state, as author and composer
of the above song, that this statement is unwarrantable and devoid of
truth, and in justice to my reputation as a composer, I must request
that you will insert this my denial.――G. W. HUNT.”
ON THE WARLIKE NEWSPAPERS.
We don’t want to fight,
But by Jingo! if _you_ do,
We’ve got the ink, we’ve got the pens,
And we’ve got the papers too.
_Punch._
[Illustration]
THE DUKE OF CONNAUGHT WITH THE RESERVES.
There’s Connaught does not want to fight,
But, by Jingo, if he do;
He has to be kept out of range,
And out of danger too.
He’s been to battle once,
But if report be true,
When he marched upon the field the fight was over!
_Truth._ Christmas Number, 1886.
――――
SEE, THE CONQUERING HERO COMES!
(_On the return of Lord Beaconsfield from Berlin with
“Peace and Honour.”_)
See, the Conquering Jingo comes
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!
Let all Jingodom rejoice,
And raise to heaven its cheerful voice.
Come and join the rabble rout;
Gentiles, Jews, and Jingoes shout!
Britons! hail his glorious feats;
Drag him, drag him through the streets!
Safe from lowering Channel fog:
Safe from Bismarck’s biting dog;
Safe from tedious long discussions
With the Prussians, Turks, and Russians.
On his brow are leaves of laurel――
Victor in the bloodless quarrel.
Honour sits upon his crest,
Secret treaties in his vest!
All his foemen swiftly dwindling,
Dished by most successful * * *
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!
See, the Conquering Jingo comes!
LINGO.
_The Echo._ July 17, 1878.
――――
THE DREAM OF THE BILIOUS BEADLE.
――――:o:――――
So many subscribers have asked for a copy of this clever parody of
Thomas Hood’s _Dream of Eugene Aram_ that it is given here, although
it somewhat interferes with the arrangement of the Song Parodies. “The
Bilious Beadle” is admirably adapted for public recitation. The
author, Mr. Arthur Shirley, is a well-known dramatist.
T’was in the grimy winter time, an evening cold and damp,
And four and twenty work’us boys, all of one ill-fed stamp,
Were blowing on blue finger tips, bent double with the cramp;
And when the skilly poured out fell into each urchin’s pan
They swallowed it at such a pace as only boyhood can.
But the Beadle sat remote from all, a bilious-looking man――
His hat was off, red vest apart, to catch the evening breeze――
He thought that that might cool his brow; it only made him sneeze,
So pressed his side with his hand, and tried to seem as if at
ease.
Heave after heave his waistcoat gave, to him was peace denied,
It tortured him to see _them_ eat, _he_ couldn’t though he tried!
Good fare had made him much too fat, and rather goggle eyed,
At length he started to his feet, some hurried steps he took,
Now up the ward, now down the ward, with wild dyspeptic look,
And lo! he saw a work’us boy, who read a penny book――
“You beastly brat! What is’t you’re at? I warrant ’tis no good!
What’s this? ‘The life of Turpin Bold!’ or ‘Death of Robin Hood’?”
“It’s _Hessays on the Crumpet_, sir, as a harticle of food!”
He started from that boy as tho’ in’s ear he’d blown a trumpet,
His hand he pressed upon his chest, then with his fist did thump
it,
And down he sat beside the brat and talked about the crumpet.
“How now and then that muffin men of whom tradition tells,
Fortunes had made by pastry trade, and come out awful swells,
While their old patrons suffered worse than Irving in ‘The Bells!’
And well, I know,” said he, “forsooth, for plenty have I bought,
The sufferings of foolish folk who eat more than they ought.
With pepsine pills and liver pads is their consumption fraught,
Oh! oh! my boy, my pauper boy! Take my advice, ’tis best shun
All such tempting tasty things, tho’ nice beyond all question,
Unless you wish like me to feel the pangs of indigestion!
One, who had ever made me long――a muffin man and old――
I watched into a public-house, he called for whisky cold,
And for one moment left his stock within green baize enrolled.
I crept up to them, thinking what an appetite I’d got,
I gloated o’er them lying there elastic and all hot;
I thought of butter laid on thick, and then I prigged the lot!
I took them home, I toasted them, p’raps upwards of a score,
And never had so fine a feast on luscious fare before,
‘And now,’ I said, ‘I’ll go to bed, and dream of eating more.’
All night I lay uneasily, and rolled from side to side,
At first without one wink of sleep, no matter how I tried;
And then I dreamt I was a ’bus, and gurgled ‘Full inside!’
I was a ’bus by nightmares drawn on to some giddy crest,
Now launched like lightning through the air, now stop’d, and now
compressed;
I felt a million muffin men were seated on my chest!
I heard their bells――their horrid bells――in sound as loud as
trumpets,
Oh, curses on ye, spongy tribe! Ye cruffins and ye mumpets!
I must be mad! I mean to say ye muffins and ye crumpets!
Then came a chill like Wenham ice; then hot as hottest steam;
I could not move a single limb! I could not even scream!
You pauper brat, remember that――all this was but a dream!”
The boy gazed on his troubled brow, from which big drops were
oozing,
And for the moment all respect for his dread function losing,
Made this remark, “Well, blow me tight, our Beadle’s been
a-boozing!”
That very week, before the beak, they brought that beadle burly;
He pleaded guilty in a tone dyspeptically surly,
And he lives still at Pentonville with hair not long or curly!
ARTHUR SHIRLEY.
[Illustration]
Bob shave great GEORGE our King!
Make him look just the thing!
Bob shave the King!
Razor and razor rag,
Powder and powder bag,
Hold up your chin, my Lad,
Bob shave the KING!
――――
THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER.
The subject of the following song is a comparison between the manners
of the old gentry, as still subsisting in the times of Elizabeth, and
the modern refinements affected by their sons in the reigns of her
successors. It is given in Volume II. of Percy’s _Reliques of Ancient
Poetry_, where it is stated that it was first printed in the reign of
James the First. Bishop Percy says he found it among some poems and
songs in a book entitled “Le Prince d’ Amour,” dated 1660.
It will at once be seen that it is the original of the more familiar
song, _The Fine Old English Gentleman_, which immediately follows it,
and which, has itself, been the subject of numerous imitations and
parodies.
An old song made by an aged old pate,
Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a greate estate,
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate,
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate;
Like an old courtier of the Queen’s,
And the Queen’s old courtier.
With an old lady, whose anger one word asswages;
They every quarter paid their old servants their wages,
And never knew what belong’d to coachmen, footmen, nor pages,
But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges;
Like an old courtier, &c.
With an old study filled full of learned old books,
With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks,
With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks,
And an old kitchen, that maintain’d half a dozen old cooks;
Like an old courtier, &c.
With an old hall hung about with pikes, guns, and bows,
With old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewde blows,
And an old frize coat, to cover his worship’s trunk hose.
And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose;
Like an old courtier, &c.
With a good old fashion, when Christmasse was come,
To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum,
With good cheer enough to furnish every old room,
And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb;
Like an old courtier, &c.
With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds,
That never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds,
Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds,
And when he dyed gave every child a thousand good pounds;
Like an old courtier, &c.
But to his eldest son, his house and land he assign’d,
Charging him in his will to keep the old bountifull mind,
To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind
But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclin’d;
Like a young courtier of the King’s,
And the King’s young courtier.
Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land,
Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command,
And takes up a thousand pound upon his father’s land,
And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go nor stand;
Like a young courtier, &c.
With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare,
Who never knew what belong’d to good house-keeping, or care,
Who buys gaudy-colour’d fans to play with wanton air,
And seven or eight different dressings of other women’s hair;
Like a young courtier, &c.
With a new-fashion’d hall, built where the old one stood,
Hung round with new pictures, that do the poor no good,
With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood,
And a new smooth shovel-board, whereon no victuals ne’er stood;
Like a young courtier, &c.
With a new study, stuft full of pamphlets, and plays,
And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays.
With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days;
And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws and toys;
Like a young courtier, &c.
With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on,
On a new journey to London straight we all must begone,
And leave none to keep house, but our new porter John,
Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone;
Like a young courtier, &c.
With a new gentleman usher, whose carriage is compleat,
With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat,
With a waiting-gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat,
Who when her lady has dined, lets the servants not eat;
Like a young courtier, &c.
With new titles of honour[13] bought with his father’s old gold,
For which sundry of his ancestors’ old manors are sold;
And this is the course most of our new gallants hold,
Which makes that good housekeeping is now grown so cold,
Among the young courtiers of the King,
Or the King’s young courtiers.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.
I’ll sing you a good old song,
Made by a good old pate,
Of a fine old English gentleman,
Who had an old estate;
And who kept up his old mansion
At a bountiful old rate;
With a good old porter to relieve
The old poor at his gate.
Like a fine old English gentleman,
All of the olden time.
His hall, so old, was hung around
With pikes, and guns, and bows,
And swords, and good old bucklers,
That had stood against old foes;
’Twas there “his worship” held his state,
In doublet and trunk hose;
And quaff’d his cup of good old sack,
To warm his good old nose.
Like a fine, &c.
When Winter’s cold brought frost and snow,
He open’d house to all;
And though three score and ten his years,
He fleetly led the ball;
Nor was the houseless wanderer,
E’er driven from his hall;
For while he feasted all the great,
He ne’er forgot the small.
Like a fine, &c.
But time, tho’ sweet, is strong in flight,
And years roll swiftly by;
And Autumn’s falling leaves proclaim’d
The old man――he must die!
He laid him down right tranquilly,
Gave up life’s latest sigh;
And mournful stillness reign’d around,
And tears bedewed each eye.
For this good, &c.
Now surely this is better far
Than all the new parade,
Of Theatres and Fancy Balls,
“At Home,” and Masquerade:
And much more economical,
For all his bills were paid.
Then leave your new vagaries quite,
And take up the old trade
Of a fine old English gentleman, &c.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
THE FINE YOUNG ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.
I’ll sing you a prime new song,
That was made by a young chap’s pate,
Of a fine young English gentleman,
Who’d come to an estate;
Who kept his hunters and his hounds
At a d――――d expensive rate.
With servants gay, to drive away
The poor folks from his gate;
Like a fine young English gentleman,
Born in the modern times.
His study it was strew’d around
With what?――Lord only knows!
Foils, boxing-gloves, and pistols,
Which he us’d with friends and foes:
’Twas there “the squire” took his wine
And cigar whene’er he chose;
Perusing the _Court Journal_,
Or Blackwood’s tedious prose.
Like a fine, &c.
He was, when merry winter came,
The gayest of them all;
At five-and-twenty he was seen
At ev’ry fancy ball.
At each theatre――masquerade――
This gentleman would call;
And while he feasted with the great,
He quite forgot the small.
Like a fine, &c.
But cash, alas! too soon takes flight,
And sov’reigns roll away;
And creditors, who have long bills,
At last will call for “pay;”
They came upon him tranquilly,
And caught him out one day;
“My cash is gone,” he cried, “so I
Must in the Queen’s Bench lay.”
Like a fine, &c.
Now this he thought was better far
Than all the old parade――
Of taking tea in peace at home,
Along with some old maid.
It must be economical,――
The bills were all unpaid;
You cannot show me one, I know,
Who does so much for trade
As a fine, &c.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
THE FAST YOUNG UNDERGRADUATE.
I’ll sing you a modern song, that was writ by a man of late,
Of an independent gentleman who had a small estate,
And kept up his rooms in Trinity at a d――――d expensive rate,
And was always on the books of the porter at the gate,
Like a fast young Undergraduate, all of the modern time.
(_Chorus_)――Like a fast, &c.
These rooms so fine were hung about with boxing-gloves and sticks,
Wherewith when TOWN and GOWN was cried, he floored the snobs like
bricks;
And there he often used to sit, and his gin-and-water mix,
For he was _also_ partial to the _flooring_ of his lips.
(_Chorus_)――Like a fast, &c.
His custom was, when drunk, to go to Barnwell in a fly,
With Poll and Kate to joke and flirt, and that continually.
He was always getting into rows with the dons of Trinity.
For he never went to chapel but of necessity.
(_Chorus_)――Like a fast, &c.
But terms and seasons roll along: an idle man was he――
Examination came at last――he was plucked for his degree;
And when he mounted on the coach to leave the ’Varsity,
His creditors stood round about, a mournful sight to see.
(_Chorus_)――For this fast, &c.
But though this Undergraduate hath eloped and cut away,
But though other Undergraduates have got no cash to pay,
But though our credit may not be so boundless as before,
We’ve tradesmen left who’ll credit give as they were wont of yore.
(_Chorus_)――To _other_ fast young Undergraduates,
All of the modern time.
From _The Individual_. Cambridge, November 29, 1836.
――――
THE RAAL OULD IRISH GINTLEMAN, THE BOY OF THE OLDEN TIME.
I’ll sing you a dacent song, that was made by a Paddy’s pate,
Of a raal ould Irish Gintleman who had a fine estate,
Whose mansion, it was made of mud, wid thatch and all complate,
With a hole at top thro’ which the smoke so graceful did retrate;
Hurrah for the Irish Gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.
His walls so cold were cover’d with the divil a thing for show,
Except an ould shilaleh, which had knock’d down many a foe,
And there ould Barney sits at ease, without a shoes or hose,
And quaffs his noggin of potteen to warm his big red nose,
Like a fine ould Irish Gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.
At Donnybrook his custom was, to be at every fair,
For tho’ he’d seen a threescore years, he still was young when
there;
And while the rich they feasted him, he oft among the poor,
Would sing, and dance, and hurl, and fight, and make the spalpeens
roar,
Like a raal ould Irish Gintleman――the boy of the oulden time.
But och! mavrone! once at a row, ould Barney got a knock,
And one that kilt him――’case he couldn’t overget the shock;
They laid him out so beautiful, and then set up a groan,
Och! Barney, darlint, jewel dear, why did ye die? och hone!
Then they wak’d this Irish Gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.
Tho’ all things in their course must change, and seasons pass away,
Yet Irish hearts of oulden time, were just as at this day.
Each Irish boy he took a pride to prove himself a man――
To serve a friend, and bate a foe, it always was the plan
Of a raal ould Irish Gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.
――――
THE OLD AND NEW CANTAB.
There’s a fine old song for fine old gents, with fine old wine
elate,
Of a fine old, etcetera――the rest I needn’t state;
And _Punch_ unto that fine old air new-fashioned words would mate,
Of the fine old Cantab as he was before this change of late――
The fine old Cantab as he was, all in the olden time!
His rooms their range of ballet-girls and running-horses showed,
And a fox-brush, meant to indicate that up to hounds he rode;
There at vingt-un or loo he’d sit, until the cocks they crowed,
Nor ever thought of how to pay the various ticks he owed――
This fine old Cantab as he was, all in the olden time!
From Eton or from Harrow he came cramm’d with longs and shorts,
An ambition to drive tandem, and a taste for fruity Ports;
And his hardest work was playing, till he deafened half the
Courts,
Concertos on the cornet, in keys of different sorts――
This fine old Cantab as he was, all in the olden time.
As a Freshman he wore sober ties, and gave a Don the wall,
But came out, his second year, in short coat and fancy shawl,
And treated the authorities with no respect at all.
Was seldom seen at lectures, and never dined in Hall――
This fine old Cantab as he was, all in the olden time.
So he managed to forget the trifling all he once did know,
And by a very narrow shave got through his little-go,
And then he took “a coach” with cram what brains he’d left to
stow――
Arithmetic to the Rule of Three, and some Algebra, also――
This fine old Cantab as he was, all in the olden time.
Thus, loo, larks, liquor, and late hours, made time and money fly,
Till when three years brought on the Poll, he was plucked
disgracefully,
And his disgusted gov’rnor came and paid off, with a sigh,
Ticks to a tune which nearly sucked the poor old pump quite dry,
For his fine old Cantab of a son, one of the olden time.
But times are changed henceforth, we know; for, from
eighteen-forty-nine,
The sons of Alma Mater must choose a different line;
And if you try the Muses round, not a lady of the nine
Out of whom he won’t be qualified with ease to take the shine――
Our fine young Cantab that’s to be, all in the future time.
For reading and not racing he’ll have to keep his book,
He’ll blush at his own pink, and hang his tops upon the hook;
And if e’er he use a cue, ’twill be for motion’s laws to look;
And for milk punch he’ll drink his toast――and water from the
brook――
Our fine young Cantab that’s to be, all in the future time.
He’ll put off the old Adam for the new one――Adam Smith;
Political Economy will bring private, p’r’aps, therewith:
At Ge―― or else The――ology he’ll spend his pluck and pith,
Tea and Theorems ousting loo and lush, which will be all a myth
To our new Cantab that’s to be, all in the future time.
Save for studying the pendulum, he’ll never try a tick;
A novel definition he’ll invent for the word “brick;”
Not one who braves the Proctor, or bargee can slang or lick,
But who digs up Hebrew roots like beans, and knocks off Morals
slick――
Such our new Cantab is to be, all in the future time.
Old Dons will shake their heads, no doubt, and the good old days
deplore,
When reading men were voted slow, and lectures all a bore;
But still let’s hope that Cambridge will furnish, as of yore,
All the wisdom of our ancestors, and perhaps a leetle more,
To the fine new Cantab that’s to be, all in the future time!
_Punch._ November 25, 1848.
――――
THE FINE RICH JEWISH NOBLEMAN.
I’ll sing you a fine new song, that was penned by a Christian hand,
Of a fine new Jewish Baron with a foreign name so grand,
Whose money heaped around him was as plentiful as sand,
So he said, “By the beard of my forefathers, for the City I will
stand,
Like a fine rich Jewish nobleman,
One of a wealthy kind.”
The Common-hall was crowded then with all the Christian’s foes,
And the Lord Mayor came forward there the Baron to propose,
Loud shouted many a Hebrew voice; and many a Hebrew nose
It’s hook up-raised and Rothschild praised, the man the Hebrews
chose.
He was such a fine Jewish autocrat,
One of a wealthy kind!
When Manners came (a man whose name we all have heard before)
And raised his voice, the Hebrew choice to negative once more,
The Baron showed a wondrous zeal to help the voters poor,
None seeking his Committee-room unpitied left the door,
Of this fine rich Jewish millionaire,
One of a wealthy kind.
But gold, tho’ _much_, can’t _all_ things do, and money’s power
will fly――
An English House of Lords again the Baron’s seat deny!
He won’t resign quite tranquilly, and still again will try,
But tho’ his City friends may howl, they know it’s “all my eye,”
About this fine rich Jewish nobleman,
One of a wealthy kind.
But tho’ Free-trade our land may crush (to Cotton Lords the prey),
Still Christian is the Commons House that doth old England sway;
Tho’ Rome may thrive, and rank Dissent our Church assail to-day,
Our Christian test no Jewish gold shall ever thrust away.[14]
Not for this fine rich Jewish nobleman,
One of a wealthy kind.
From _Protectionist Parodies_, by a Tory. Oxford: J. Vincent. 1850.
――――
THE FINE OLD ENGLISH INNKEEPER.
I’ll sing you a new song on a theme much stirred of late,
Of a fine old English Innkeeper, grown rather out of date,
Who keeps up his establishment in almost princely state,
And don’t forget to charge you there at quite a princely rate,
Like a fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.
His house, you’re told, is fitted up “regardless of expense,”
Although one half is obsolete, and t’other make pretence;
Exploded old four-posters, built in George the Second’s reign,
Mock plate to serve mock-turtle in, sham ice-pails for champagne;
At this fine old English Innkeeper’s, one of the olden
time.
The swipes he draws is sour enough to turn a navvy pale,
Tho’ by a bitter raillery he calls it bitter ale;
And tho’ perhaps you don’t see half a waiter all the day,
For “attendance” quite as much as for a lawyer’s you must pay
To this fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.
Then if to wine your tastes incline some home-made Cape you’ll get,
Served up in a decanter like a vinegar-cruet,
As a “bottle of Madeira” this will in the bill be set,
And however nasty it may be a nice sum you’re in debt,
To the fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.
And if your wife be with you, you must have a private room,
And use a pair “of wax-lights” (with a muttony perfume),
For which you’ll pay a crown a day, and ’tis a burning shame
That whether they be lit or not, they’re charged for just the
same,
By this rare old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.
But soon these fine old Innkeepers will find their race is run,
For men are up and doing, and no longer will be done:
And shortly we may hope to see a really good hotel
Where we may be admitted, and not taken in as well,
As we were by our old Innkeeper, one of the fleecing time.
_Punch._ October 29, 1853.
――――
THE FINE OLD STANDARD TRAGEDY.
I’ll sing you a fine new song, tho’ it’s subject’s out of date,
Of a fine old standard tragedy that was once pronounced
first-rate,
To which our great-great-grandmothers would go in all their state,
And drag their time out drearily, for ’twas “legitimate,”
Was this fine old standard tragedy, all of the olden time.
This play so old was writ throughout in blank verse ’stead of
prose,
And in blank terms the characters detailed their loves and woes;
And there the audience sat it out, or took a quiet doze,
And roused themselves up vig’rously to see the dismal close
Of this fine old standard tragedy, all of the olden time.
When winter brought the theatres that open’d house to all,
Although one score and ten its scenes, through each they yet
would bawl:
Nor was the slightest interest e’er given to enthral,
And, until five dull acts were o’er, the curtain would not fall,
On this fine old standard tragedy, all of the olden time.
But better taste must come at last, and _such_ plays be put by,
And empty houses soon proclaimed this tragedy must die;
They gave it up right grudgingly, and not without a sigh,
And found they must at last look round for sterling novelty,
Instead of standard tragedies, all of the olden time.
And surely this is better far when managers are made
To shelve these tragedies that have of interest not a shade;
And much more economical――for actors then are paid――
Exchequers filled, and houses cramm’d, to see the dramas play’d,
In place of standard tragedies, all of the olden time.
From _Motley_, by Cuthbert Bede. London: James Blackwood, 1855. (This
Parody had previously appeared in Albert Smith’s _Town and Country
Miscellany_.)
――――
THE FINE OLD ENGLISH OMNIBUS.
I’ll sing you a new song at once, before it is too late,
Of a fine old public vehicle, grown sadly out of date,
Which, though a perfect nuisance in more ways than I can state,
Is suffered in our thoroughfares still to perambulate.
A fine old English Omnibus, one of the present time.
Its windows old let in the cold whene’er the east wind blows,
And drip by drip the wet admit, whene’er it rains or snows;
But how to get them open without breaking no one knows,
When with “12 inside” the atmosphere a little “stuffy” grows,
In this fine old fusty Omnibus, one of the present time.
Its cushions, when inspected in the light of other days,
With the richest (cotton) velvet of a crimson hue did blaze;
But now their threadbare covering’s a dingy brickdust red,
And what was horsehair stuffing once now feels like lumps of lead,
In this rare old English Omnibus one that is past its prime.
Its seats so close together bring the sitters nose to nose,
And everybody’s forced to tread on everybody’s toes,
Whence cheerful conversation springs, especially from those
Who’ve corns or gout, and glare about as though you’re mortal
foes,
In this nice old City Omnibus, just to beguile the time.
Then if outside for air you’d ride, the clambering to your seat
Would, if performed at Astley’s, be pronounced a “daring feat;”
For ere you’re half-way up you hear them coolly cry “All right!”
And then the “knife-board” cramps you so, with pain you can alight
From this height of inconvenience, the subject of my rhyme.
And then the cad who tends the ’bus――his virtues who may tell?
How with his every breath there comes a fragrant beery smell:
How when he’s bound for Brompton he’ll engage to put you down
Within a “heasy walk” of any part of Camden Town,
By his fine old English Omnibus, one of the present time.
Nor should our praises be withheld from him who holds the reins,
Who constantly is pulling up for furtive “little drains:”
And ’specially on muddy days is rarely found to fail
Of stopping in mid street to pick up passengers who hail
This fine old English Omnibus: fun of the present time.
Now months have rolled since we were told this fine old ’bus must
die,
That another and a cleanlier its place was to supply:
Yet for that “good ’bus coming, boys,” all vainly still we sigh,
And when we take our walks abroad that nuisance we espy――
The fine old English Omnibus: blot on the present time.
_Punch._ November 22, 1856.
――――
THE FINE OLD BRITISH SUBALTERN.
I’ll sing you a right good song, made by an honest pate,
Of a fine old British Subaltern, whose pay was his estate,
And who grumbled at the service at a beautiful rate,
Because for his promotion he was made so long to wait,
This fine old British Subaltern, born in the olden time.
His room, so small, was hung around with many a map and plan,
Of sieges, storms, and battles, he had fought both boy and man,
And every regulation sword worn since the world began,
And dresses of the nations of Bengal and Astracan.
This fine old, &c.
His room was open to a few each night when mess was o’er.
To those who’d laugh at his old jokes he’d never close his door,
And none of his _old_ favourites e’er voted him a bore,
But kindly laughed at tales they’d heard a thousand times before,
From this fine old, &c.
And every year to town he went to state his wretched case,
And to Lord Fitzroy’s lévee never failed to show his face;
And though he gets some promises, and time wears on apace,
Still, still his name’s reposing in it’s old accustomed place,
This fine old, &c.
Then let us hope this fine old sub will be promoted yet,
Though in these days a company’s no easy thing to get;
Yet we will hope that by ill-luck he’ll cease to be beset,
And look for his promotion in the very next _Gazette_,
This fine old, &c.
From _Wiseheart’s New Comic Songster_. Dublin. No date.
――――
THE FINE YOUNG ENGLISH OFFICER,
(_As he is to be_,)
I sing of one whom now that we’ve begun to educate,
The House of Commons lately made the subject of debate:
Whose qualities each Member vied with each to numerate,
And what their fancy painted him I’ll now proceed to state;
’Tis the fine young English Officer, as he is to
be――in time.
His head so old on shoulders young with knowledge overflows,
Acquaintance with all sciences and arts its stores disclose,
All books and in all languages by heart almost he knows,
And he’s able to write legibly, and what is more, compose:
Like a wise young English Officer, the reason of my
rhyme.
Italian, French, and Spanish, and Dutch, high or low, he’ll speak,
Count Troy-weight like a Trojan, tell the time of day in Greek;
And if to serve in India he be a chosen man, he
Will astonish all the natives in the choicest Hindostanee;
Like a polyglot young officer, fit for the future time.
Nor are his powers of body less than are those of his mind;
Quick eye, strong arm, and foot so fleet as ne’er to lag behind;
Good lungs, and constitution such as no fatigue can feel,
With iron nerves and sinews, and a heart as true as steel,
Has this brave young English Officer, to serve us in
his prime.
A Centaur in his horsemanship, an Angelo to fence,
In every manly pastime he makes way, nor makes pretence;
From battle-fight to fisticuffs good generalship he proves.
In glory’s race a winner, and a “wunner” with the gloves,
Like the plucky British Officer, of past and present
time.
He can draw with equal credit an earthwork or a cheque,
Keeps a spotless reputation, and accounts without a speck,
Knows staff-duties and horseflesh, can out-bargain Greek or Jew,
Has ready wit at his command, and ready money too:
This accomplished English Officer, one of the coming
time.
_Punch._ August 22, 1857.
――――
A FYTTE OF THE BLUES.
Of woman’s rights and woman’s wrongs we’ve heard much talk of
late,
The first seem most extensive, and the latter very great;
And Mrs. Ellis warns men, not themselves to agitate,
For ’neath petticoats and pinafores is hid the future fate
Of this wondrous nineteenth century, the youngest child of
Time!
The Turks they had a notion, fit alone for Turks and fools,
That womankind has no more mind than horses or than mules;
But this idea’s exploded quite, as to your cost you’ll find,
If you intend to change or bend some stalwart female mind,
In this Amazonian century, precocious child of Time.
If by external signs you seek this strength of mind to trace,
You’ll observe a very “powerful” expression in her face;
The lady’s stockings will be blue, and inky be her hand,
And her head quite full of something hard she doesn’t understand,
Like a puzzle-pated Bluestocking, one of the modern time.
And her dress will be peculiar both in fabric and in make,
An artistic classic tragic highly-talented mistake;
Which is what she calls “effective,” though I’d rather not express
The effect produced on thoughtless minds by such a style of dress,
When worn by some awful Bluestocking, one of the modern time.
She’ll talk about statistics, and ask if you’re inclined
To join the progress movement for development of mind.
If you enquire what that means, she’ll frown and say ’tis best
Such matter should be understood, but never be express’d,
By a stern suggestive Bluestocking in this mystic modern time.
She’ll converse upon aesthetics, and then refer to figures,
And turn from angels bright and fair to sympathise with niggers,
Whom she’ll style “our sable brethren,” and pretend are martyrs
quite;
And with Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, she’ll swear that black is
white,
Like a trans-Atlantic Bluestocking, one of the modern time.
She never makes a pudding, and she never makes a shirt,
And if she’s got some little ones, they’re black and blue with
dirt;
When the wretched man her husband comes, though tired he may be,
She’ll regenerate society instead of making tea,
Like a real strong-minded Bluestocking,
The plague of the modern time.
MORAL.
The moral of my song is this, just leave all “ics” and “ologies”
For men to exercise their brains, on platforms and in colleges;
Let woman’s proud and honour’d place be still the fireside,
And still man’s household deities, his mother and his bride,
In this our nineteenth century,
The favour’d child of Time.
FRANK E. SMEDLEY.
_Gathered Leaves._ London, Virtue Brothers, 1865.
(This parody originally appeared in _Mirth and Metre_.)
――――
THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN OF THE PRESENT TIME.
I’ll sing you a fine old song, improved by a modern pate,
Of a fine Old English Gentleman, who owns a large estate,
But pays the labourers on it at a very shabby rate.
Some seven shillings each a week for early work and late,
Gives this fine Old English Gentleman, one of the present
time.
His hall so brave is hung around with pictures, all in rows,
Of oxen that have gained the prize at agricultural shows,
And pigs so fat that they can’t see an inch before their nose;
For the whole of his attention on his cattle he bestows,
Like a fine Old English Gentleman, one of the present
time.
In winter’s cold, when poor and old, for some assistance call,
And come to beg a trifle at the portals of his hall,
He refers them to the workhouse, that stands open wide for all;
For this is how the parish great relieve the parish small,
Like this fine Old English Gentleman, one of the present
time.
When any of his working men are bold enough to press
For a trifle more of wages in a season of distress,
He answers like a thorough-going man of business:――
“Must I pay this or that for work which I could get for less?”
Says the fine Old English Gentleman, one of the present
time.
But rolling years will onwards flow, and Time, alas! will fly,
And one of these fine days this fine Old Gentleman will die!
Ah! will he then bethink him as he heaves life’s last sigh,
That he has done to others quite as he would be done by?
As the true Old Englishman did all in the olden time.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
THE FINE YOUNG LONDON GENTLEMAN.
I’ll sing you a fine new song all about a fine young spark,
Who’s a fine Young London Gentleman quite up to any lark;
Who takes supper very early, and breakfasts in the dark;
Who’s a real “dear old chappie,” as I needn’t p’raps remark,
Of a fine Young London Gentleman,
Quite of the present style.
He’ll bet in “monkeys,” “ponies,” though he has seldom ready
cash;
If his Tailor isn’t paid, yet he has rings and pins to flash;
At his fav’rite burlesque theatre he’s known as “such a Mash,”
When to a fifth-rate Actress he bouquets down will dash,
Like a fine Young London Gentleman,
Quite of the present style.
He round the corner hurries when the sparkling piece is o’er,
To see his favourite Beauties coming out by the stage-door;
He will jostle with his fellows to obtain a smile――nay, more,
To simply stare at her he’s seen some hundred times before,
Like a fine Young London Gentleman,
Quite of the present style.
He will hie him off to Hurlingham to join the dove _battue_;
He will “plank his pieces” down to join in battle with the Jew;
He will seek the same antagonist his “paper” to renew,
When he’s had the bank at baccarat, or “lost the quids” at loo,
Like a fine Young London Gentleman,
Quite of the present style.
He will say that port and sherry his nice palate always cloy;
He’ll drink nothing but “B. and S.” and big magnums of “the Boy;”
He’s the darling of the Barmaid, and the honest Waiter’s joy,
As he quaffs his Pommery “extra sec,” his “Giesler;” or “Irroy,”
Like a fine Young London Gentleman,
Quite of the present style.
On a Racecourse he imagines that he knows what _he_ is at,
He talks so scornfully of “mugs,” and says he knows a “flat;”
So wisely speaks of “roping,” and he always “smells a rat,”
But it very often happens that he’s put “into a hat,”
Is this fine Young London Gentleman,
Quite of the present style.
But there comes a time when barmaids and when theatres are no go,
When the “Boy” is voted nasty, and burlesques considered slow,
When ev’rything too stale is, and when life has lost its flow,
And the spirits once so high become dull, sluggish, bad, and low,
Of the fine Young London Gentleman,
Quite of the present style.
Then he recognises sadly there are others come, like he,
To make merry with the “fizz,” and likewise quaff the “S. and B.”
He is growing old and weary, having just turned twenty-three,
Existence is so tedious, all “life” a vast _ennui_
To the fine young London gentleman,
Quite of the present style.
_Punch._ February 11, 1882.
――――
A FINE OLD ENGLISH GENERAL.
I’ll sing you a good old song,
That was made by a good old pate,
Of a fine old English General,
Of a very modern date,
Who helped to keep his country
In a fit defensive state,
And every quarter drew his pay
At a bountiful old rate――
Like a fine old English General,
One of the modern time!
How Horatio kept the bridge
In the good old times you’ve read;
But this fine old English General
He kept, as a rule, his bed;
For he suffered from obeseness.
And had swimming in his head;
Whilst the gout, like an active foeman,
About his body fled――
This fine old English General, &c.
But like a brave old warrior,
Prepared to do and dare,
This fine old English General,
Kept ready his Bath-chair;
That if the foe should threaten,
He to the front might fare,
And with limbs swathed in flannel,
The victory he might share――
This brave old English General, &c.
He’d never been in actual fight,
But had in fun fought hard;
And right through many a desperate night
At the Bank had he kept guard;
Whilst many a day had he “relieved”
In St. James’s Palace Yard;
And once on duty in the streets
Was wounded by a shard――
This brave old English General, &c.
But though in no campaign he’s been,
Of medals he’s a score;
And every year that he can live
His honours will be more;
And should he reach four score and ten
Still higher he will soar;
For he will be Field-Marshal then,
Before his life is o’er――
This fine old English General, &c.
Nor let the country mourn that she
But one such General owns;
She has a hundred at the least,
That scarce can move their bones;
A hundred gouty sons of Mars,
Who, gulping down their groans,
May from their beds command their troops
Through patent Telephones――
These fine old English Generals, &c.
From _Finis_.
――――
THE FINE OLD ATOM-MOLECULE.
(_To be sung at all gatherings of advanced Sciolists and
“Scientists”_).
We’ll sing you a grand new song, evolved from a ’cute young pate,
Of a fine old Atom-Molecule of pre-historic date,
In size infinitesimal in potencies though great,
And self-formed for developing at a prodigious rate――
Like a fine old Atom-Molecule,
Of the young World’s proto-prime!
In it slept all the forces in our cosmos that run rife,
To stir Creation’s giants or its microscopic life;
Harmonious in discord, and coöperant in strife,
To this small cell committed, the World lived with his Wife――
In this fine old Atom-Molecule,
Of the young World’s proto-prime!
In this autoplastic archetype of Protean protem lay
All the humans Space has room for, or for whom Time makes a day,
From the Sage whose words of wisdom Prince or Parliament obey,
To the Parrots who but prattle, and the asses who but bray――
So full was this Atom-Molecule,
Of the young World’s proto-prime!
All brute-life, from Lamb to Lion, from the Serpent to the Dove,
All that pains the sense or pleases, all the heart can loathe or
love,
All instincts that drag downwards, all desires that upwards move,
Were caged a “happy family” cheek-by-jowl and hand in glove,
In this fine old Atom-Molecule,
Of the young World’s proto-prime!
In it Order grew from Chaos, Light out of Darkness shined,
Design sprang up by Accident, Law’s rule from Hazard blind,
The Soul-less Soul evolving――against, not after, kind――
As the Life-less Life developed, and the Mind-less ripened Mind,
In this fine old Atom-Molecule,
Of the young World’s proto-prime!
Then bow down, Mind, to Matter; from brain-fibre, Will, withdraw;
Fall Man’s heart to cell Ascidian, sink Man’s hand to Monkey’s
paw;
And bend the knee to Protoplast in philosophic awe――
Both Creator and Created, at once work and source of Law,
And our Lord be the Atom-Molecule,
Of the young World’s proto-prime!
ANONYMOUS.
――――
ON SIR STAFFORD NORTHCOTE.
Yes, I’ll sing you a good old song that, alas, seems out of date,
Of a fine old English statesman who for long had served the State,
And a sterling reputation had been able to create
For his courtesy and honour and strict fairness in debate,
Like a fine Old English Gentleman,
One of the good old kind.
He never stooped to treachery, nor can he comprehend,
How politicians can to tricks and throwing mud descend.
Nor will he principle forsake nor sacrifice a friend,
Though he is ready to the last his party to defend,
Like a fine Old English Statesman,
One of the good old times!
_Truth Christmas Number_, 1885.
――――
THE GRAND OLD MAN.
I’ll sing to you a brave new song, about the Grand Old Man,
Whose tongue and pen are ever found to forward freedom’s plan,
Who in the march of liberty has always led the van,
And ever stretched his strong right hand to help his fellow man
This brave, true-hearted, Grand Old Man,
Who stands up for the right.
This Grand Old Man wears on his brow no coronet of gold,
He does not claim a long descent from titled rogues of old,
He owns no broad domains for which he hath his country sold,
But looks the whole world in the face, for honour makes him bold――
This brave, true-hearted, Grand Old Man,
Plain Gladstone is his name.
In times gone by this Grand Old Man the cause of Free Trade led,
With Bright and Cobden he has helped to give the poor man bread,
And in dark homes of poverty, the light of plenty shed,
And little children bless his name, for he their lips hath fed――
This brave, true-hearted, Grand Old Man,
Who pleads the people’s cause.
The page of knowledge to the poor had never been unrolled,
And poor men’s papers all were taxed to spare the rich man’s gold.
But the Grand Old Man removed the ban with purpose brave and bold,
And now we’ve schools――and papers too――and what we have we’ll
hold――
Thanks to the brave and Grand Old Man,
Who is the poor man’s friend.
The Grand Old Man with tongue of fire St. Stephen’s echoes woke,
And wrong and cruelty stood ashamed whenever Gladstone spoke,
And as his strong and brave right hand could fell the noble oak,
So cowards and tyrants toppled down beneath the sturdy stroke
Of this brave, true-hearted Grand Old Man,
Who fights in Freedom’s cause.
With vision clear the Grand Old Man looked on Fair Erin’s Isle,
And saw the land lie desolate for many a barren mile;
He vowed he would our Sister save from force and fraud and guile,
And Ireland’s hills and fertile vales should wear their ancient
smile――
So said the brave and Grand Old Man,
Who is Green Ireland’s friend.
Then weeping Ireland dried her tears, and took him at his word,
She knew his cry of Justice! is far mightier than the sword;
His plan it shall not fade and shrink like Prophet Jonah’s gourd,
But triumph still till Briton’s sons are all of one accord
With the bold and faithful Grand Old Man,
Who’ll triumph in the end.
Then Britons rally round his flag and aid him in the fight,
Though foes and traitors show their teeth he does not fear their
bite,
For tyrant lords must hide their heads before the people’s might:
Then vote for the good old Liberal cause, for Justice and the
right,
And for that brave and Grand Old Man
Who pleads in Ireland’s name.
J. F. B.
Published by the National Liberal Printing and Publishing Association,
Limited. 1886.
――――
AN OXFORD PARODY.
I’ll sing you a sporting song, for you all love well the chase,
Of a gallant pack, and huntsman too, who go the fastest pace,
He rides right bravely to his hounds, whatever be his steed
And says “Let scent be ne’er so bad, this day the fox shall
bleed,”
Like a first-rate English fox-hunter,
One of the present time.
His room at home is hung around with emblems of his pride,
With sporting prints and fox’s heads, which in good runs have
died:
Th’ Oxonians on hacks, in “teams,” do gladly gather here
To view his hounds and horses, and to taste the hearty cheer,
Of this first rate, &c.
And when at break of early day he sallies to “the meet,”
How well appointed! ain’t it, boys? how sportsmanlike! how neat!
In Heythrop’s grassy avenue, a goodly sight, I ween,
Is Redesdale’s lordly turn out, and the lads in Lincoln green!
They’re first-rate English fox-hunters,
Men of the present time.
“The silent system” Jim forswears: how to his voice they run!
See now they’re in the covert: look out, my boys, for fun!
“The varmint” trembles as he hears the foe approaching nigh
And hopes it is the ――――[15] or else he sure must die
For this first-rate, &c.
List! list! Old Vanguard challenges: the pack in turn reply;
And Jim’s “Hark forward!” now is heard as on they quickly fly:
He leads the van on Spangle: next Jack[16] upon his mare;
There’s neither wall nor water shall stop the gallant pair
Of first-rate, &c.
A check! a check! now freshman bold, “hold hard, Sir, if you
please:”
Just watch Jim’s clever casts, Sir, just watch his “busy bees:[17]
He has it now! Right merrily “that sweetest music” rang;
So press your steeds, my gallant lads, and catch him if you can――
This first-rate English fox-hunter.
One of the present time.
And now the pace doth tell a _tale_: press on, ye happy few;
’Tis forty minutes racing speed――we run him now in view;
His tongue hangs out, his brush lies low, whoop! he’s down,
indeed!
Dismount, ye joyous ones, dismount! and light the soothing weed,
Ye first-rate English fox-hunters,
Men of the present time.
Thus, thus this gallant huntsman keeps up the merry game;
His head, his heart, his hand, my boys, for ever are the same
And a parting toast I’ll give you, with a ringing three times
three,
May Jim long hunt “the Heythrop” and we be there to see
This first-rate English fox-hunter,
One of the present time.
From _Hints to Freshmen in the University of Oxford_.
Oxford. J. Vincent. No date.
――――
THE SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT.
I’ll sing you a good old song of the powerful Fourth Estate,
Of a bold and reckless Special of the very latest date,
Who is able countless horrors to in print accumulate,
And will wire false news from anywhere at the usual cable rate.
_Chorus._――Like a Special Correspondent, all of the
modern time!
When on the war-path he proceeds and takes his daily rides,
The enemy sends shots at him, and then in terror hides,
As he clears whole batteries at once with the steed that he
bestrides,
And from a hissing shell a light for his cigarette provides.
_Chorus._――Does this Special Correspondent, all of the
modern time!
He knows not fear――’tis grand to see how he his nerves controls,
As midst the grape and canister, he calmly caracoles,
Whilst bullets in his pocket-book make inconvenient holes;
And a well-pitched ball from out his hands the pencil often bowls.
_Chorus._――Of the Special Correspondent, all of the
modern time!
When incidents are dull or few, he’ll reckless lies invent,
Or he’ll date his telegrams from towns to which he never went;
To vilify a famous man he’ll readily consent,
And will act on orders sent from home to any base extent.
_Chorus._――Will this Special Correspondent, all of the
modern time!
He loves to don a uniform and swagger with the best,
And when no English are about wears medals on his chest;
And for the news he cables home attention to arrest,
That British troops are cowardly curs he glibly will suggest.
_Chorus._――Will this Special Correspondent, all of the
modern time!
He has an altogether strange and wondrous sense of sight,
For he can see a brilliant moon upon a moonless night;
And has been known the lowest types of passion to excite,
By writing of a fabulous “Baboon and Potboy” fight.[18]
_Chorus._――Has this Special Correspondent, all of the
modern time!
“Untamed and ancient Savages” he also can espy,
And many other curious sights――if no one else be nigh!
But, if he should have company, why, then, his magic eye
No longer non-existent moons and mortals can descry.
_Chorus._――For this Special Correspondent, all of the
modern time!
When brought to mix with gentlemen, he acts in such a way,
That they are bound to rid themselves of him without delay;
For he toadies to gain confidence, which straightway he’ll betray;
And there’s no trick too mean for him to readily essay.
_Chorus._――This Special Correspondent, one of the modern
time!
In short, he’s arrogant and false; he gushes to excess,
He makes his facts to suit the views his master may express;
His self-conceit’s contemptible, so are his style and dress,
And he’s brought already quite enough dishonour on the Press.
_Chorus._――Has the Special Correspondent, all of the
modern time!
_Truth Christmas Number._ 1882.
――――
THE FINE YOUNG AGRICULTURIST.
The winter comes, as winter came some fifty years ago――
Sometimes muggy, warm, and wet, and sometimes frost and snow;
And, weather notwithstanding, comes the Christmas Cattle Show;
But the modern English farmer our forefathers wouldn’t know,
In the fine Young Agriculturist――one of the
modern time.
He don’t take days to travel up by daily coach and mail,
And stop at roadside posting-houses, drinking rum and ale.
Or waste his time to dine, and hear the landlord’s oft-told
tale,
But speeds at forty miles an hour to town express by rail.
This fine Young Agriculturist, &c.
In former days his dress was baggy sandy-coloured suits,
A great top-coat, with pockets deep, knee-breeches and top-boots,
And all his thoughts were how to grow the finest crops and roots,
And all his talk of ripening corn and rearing Christmas brutes.
Not the fine Young Agriculturist, &c.
But now the modern farmer is a transformation quite――
His coat made small, and cutaway――his trousers fitting tight.
His Balmoralish patent leather button boots are light,
A Champagne Charley glossy hat, curl’d brim, and small in height,
On this fine Young Agriculturist, &c.
The past young English farmer was so vulgar and ill-bred――
A gross, fat, clumsy lump of human nature over-fed;
His goggle-eyes were lustreless――his bacon chops all red,
His hair hung coarse and shaggy all about his pumpkin-head.
Not the fine Young Agriculturist, &c.
But the modern English farmer, now, ’tis pretty well agreed,
Is a very different person――of a very different breed;
He comes up to the Cattle Show a gentleman indeed,
And doesn’t lounge about the town, and drink, and overfeed.
Not the fine Young Agriculturist, &c.
He’s quite a genteel fellow, nothing “fast,” and nothing “flash”;
Can very soon distinguish good amusements from the trash;
His nature full of spirits, and his pocket full of cash,
And he cultivates your friendship――and a very large moustache.
Does this fine Young Agriculturist, &c.
He talks to you of chemical manures――salts and phosphates,
Discusses freely politics of home or foreign states;
In science, too, is well read up to hold out long debates;
Can play the “fancy” science, too, for punishing rogue’s pates.
This fine Young Agriculturist, &c.
He’s not a _Tony Lumpkin_ now, to muddle time away
In public-house, or skittle-ground, and smoke the vulgar clay.
But, having more refinement, can the game of billiards play,
Or join the ladies on the lawn at love-making croquet.
Can this nice Young Agriculturist, &c.
Look round, too, at his Christmas stock――the same improvement own;
No longer for a tallow show the Christmas cattle grown:
No more beneath oppressive fat shall porkers lie and moan,
But well-developed form and flesh, and very little bone.
By this fine Young Agriculturist, &c.
Now, isn’t this much better that the live-stock should be so,
Than as seen by our grandfathers some fifty years ago?
And may the price of butchers’ meat a great deal cheaper grow;
Then success attend exhibitors, and the Christmas Cattle Show!
And the fine Young Agriculturist, one of
the modern time.
From _Banter_, Edited by G. A. Sala. December 9, 1867.
――――
THE ROMANCE OF KELLY’S POST-OFFICE DIRECTORY.
We hear of days long passed away, and glorious times of old,
And how Young England’s sons affirm we’re getting dull and cold;
But yet romance is not quite dead――in common daily life
She still exists; of which great fact you’ll find examples rife
In the Post-office Directory, all of the
present year.
The mighty minds of every age you’ll meet therein combined,
John Milton, as a tea dealer, in Mary’bone you’ll find;
And Isaac Walton in the East, has stores of pens and quills;
And Hogarth trades in ham and beef, and Butler deals in pills,
In the Post-office Directory, &c.
_(The Author continues to string notable names together in this
style for six more verses.)_
In fact, there’s nought or nobody the keen compilers spare,
And all we have immortalised are _bona fide_, there;
Just turn to the last copy, and you’ll find them all forthwith,
Unless you chance to lose yourself amongst the tribes of Smith,
In Kelly’s last Directory, all of the
present year.
From _A Pottle of Strawberries_, by Albert Smith. 1848.
――――
In the following notes, extracts are given from a few parodies which
are not sufficiently amusing to be quoted in full.
An uninteresting political parody of the “The fine old English
Gentleman” in eight verses, is contained in a small pamphlet entitled
_Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet_, published by Houlston and Sons,
London, about 1883.
It commences thus:――
I sing a brand new song which may old faiths eradicate,
About the B. whose buzzing has been heard so much of late,
Whose craze it is to scheme to be Protector of the State,
And thinks that being bulky is the same as being great,
A much mistaken demagogue,
Of the self-anointed line.
The Christmas number of _The World_ for 1885 had a parody commencing,
“A good old English gentleman, all of the olden school,
Is a person who our sympathy commands”
which dealt with political topics; whilst the very unpoetical subject
of the Irish Land Acts was considered at great length, and in a rather
heavy style, in a parody which appeared in _Kottabos_ for 1881, over
the signature M.
THE INDEFEASIBLE TITLE.
I’ll sing you all a song that was made by an honest pate,
Of a fine old Irish gentleman, who mortgaged his estate
To a bluff old English mortgagee, who swore he couldn’t wait,
But would sell the lands at any price and at an early date,
Like a business-like old Englishman, all of the olden time.
* * * * *
(_Nine verses omitted._)
_Kottabos_ was a small magazine issued from Trinity College, Dublin,
and published by William McGee.
――――:o:――――
A PARODY BY CHARLES DICKENS.
The following parody, written by Charles Dickens, appeared in _The
Examiner_ for Saturday, August 7, 1841. Mr. Forster thus refers to it
in his _Life of Charles Dickens_: “The last of these rhymes I will
give _entire_. This has no touch of personal satire in it, and he
would himself, for that reason, have least objected to its revival.”
Thereupon Mr. Forster quotes seven only out of the eight stanzas he
professes to give in full, omitting one which quite destroys his
assertion that there was no personal satire in the parody. Mr. Forster
was once described by a cabman as “that ’ere _h_arbitrary cove;” to
give a garbled quotation, and state that it is the entire poem is
indeed an arbitrary act. The following is a complete reproduction of
Mr. Dickens’s parody:――
THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.
New version (_to be said or sung at all Conservative Dinners_.)
I’ll sing you a new ballad, and I’ll warrant it first-rate,
Of the days of that old gentleman who had that old estate;
When they spent the public money at a bountiful old rate,
On ev’ry mistress, pimp, and scamp, at ev’ry noble gate,
In the fine old English Tory times;
Soon may they come again!
The good old laws were garnished well with gibbets, whips, and
chains,
With fine old English penalties, and fine old English pains,
With rebel heads, and seas of blood, once hot in rebel veins;
For all these things were requisite to guard the rich old gains,
Of the fine old English Tory times;
Soon may they come again!
This brave old code, like Argus, had a hundred watchful eyes,
And ev’ry English peasant had his good old English spies,
To tempt his starving discontent with fine old English lies,
Then call the good old Yeomanry to stop his peevish cries,
In the fine old English Tory times;
Soon may they come again!
The good old times for cutting throats, that cried out in their
need,
The good old times for hunting men who held their father’s creed,
The good old times when William Pitt, as all good men agreed,
Came down direct from Paradise at more than railroad speed.
Oh, the fine old English Tory times;
When will they come again?
In those rare days, the press was seldom known to snarl or bark,
But sweetly sang of men in power like any tuneful lark;
Grave judges, too, to all their evil deeds were in the dark;
And not a man in twenty score knew how to make his mark.
Oh, the fine old English Tory times;
Soon may they come again!
(The following stanza was omitted by Mr. Forster.)
Those were the days for taxes, and for war’s infernal din;
For scarcity of bread, that fine old dowagers might win;
For shutting men of letters up, through iron bars to grin,
Because they didn’t think the Prince was altogether thin,
In the fine old English Tory times;
Soon may they come again!
But Tolerance, though slow in flight, is strong-wing’d in the
main;
That night must come on these fine days, in course of time was
plain;
The pure old spirit struggled, but its struggles were in vain;
A nation’s grip was on it, and it died in choking pain,
With the fine old English Tory days,
All of the olden time.
The bright old day now dawns again; the cry runs through the
land,
In England there shall be――dear bread! in Ireland――sword and
brand,
And poverty and ignorance, shall swell the rich and grand,
So, rally round the rulers with the gentle iron hand,
Of the fine old English Tory days;
Hail to the coming time!
The allusions contained in the sixth stanza require some explanation.
In 1813 Leigh Hunt and his brother, as proprietors of _The Examiner_,
were sentenced to undergo two years imprisonment, and each to pay a
fine of five hundred pounds, for publishing an article in that paper
containing the following remarks on the Prince Regent:――
“What person would imagine in reading these astounding
eulogies in _The Morning Post_, that this ‘Glory of the
people’ was the subject of millions of shrugs and
reproaches! That this ‘Conqueror of Hearts’ was the
disappointer of hopes! That this ‘Exciter of Desire’
(Bravo, _Morning Post_!), this ‘Adonis in Loveliness,’ was
a corpulent man of fifty! In short, this _delightful,
blissful, wise, pleasureable, honourable, virtuous, true
and immortal_ Prince was a violator of his word, a
libertine over head and ears in disgrace, a despiser of
domestic ties, the companion of gamblers and demireps, a
man who has just closed half a century without one single
claim on the gratitude of his country, or the respect of
posterity.”
The Hunts were informed that if they would undertake to abstain from
commenting on the actions of the Prince Regent for the future the
sentence would be remitted. They declined to give the required
undertaking, but paid their fines, and went to prison. The severity of
the sentence caused great delight to the friends of the Prince Regent,
and Theodore Hook wrote the following apropos parody of Cowper’s poem
on Alexander Selkirk:――
VERSES.
(Supposed to be written by the Editor of the _Examiner_,
whilst in prison.)
I am tenant of nine feet by four,
My title no lawyer denies,
From the ceiling quite down to the floor,
I am lord of the spiders and flies.
Oh, Justice! how awkward it is
To be griped by thy terrible squad!
I did but indulge in a _quiz_,
And the Quorum have sent me to _quod_.
Dear scandal is out of my reach,
I must pass my dull mornings alone.
Never hear Mr. Brougham make a speech,
Nor get audience for one of my own!
The people, provokingly quiet,
My fate with indifference see:
They are so unaccustomed to riot,
Their tameness is shocking to me.
Personality, libel, and lie,
Ye supports of our Jacobite train,
If I had but the courage to try,
How soon I would sport you again!
My ranklings I then might assuage
By renewing my efforts to vex,
By profaning the rev’rence of age,
And attacking the weakness of sex.
A libel! what treasure untold
Resides in that dear little word,
More rich than the silver and gold
Which the Bank is reported to hoard!
But the Bench have no bowels for pity,
No stomach for high-season’d leaven,
And though we be never so witty,
They trim us when judgment is given.
O ye, who were present in Court,
In pity convey to me here
Some well-manufactured report,
Of a lady, a prince, or a peer.
Do my writings continue to tell?
Does the public attend to my lines?
O say that my Newspapers sell
Though the money must go for my fines!
How fleet is the growth of a fib!
The astonishing speed of its flight
Outstrips the less mischievous squib
Let off on a holiday night.
Then who would not vamp up a fudge,
“When he knows how it helps off his papers
Were it not――that the thought of the judge
Overcasts him, and gives him the vapours?
But Cobbett has got his discharge――
_The beast_ is let loose from his cover:
Like him I shall yet be at large,
When a couple of years shall be over.
For law must our liberty give,
Though _Law_ for a while may retard it
Even I shall obtain it, who live
By sapping the bulwarks that guard it.
Severe as was the punishment inflicted on the Hunts it did not have a
deterrent effect; indeed the trial was a political blunder, it gave
enormous publicity to a libel which would otherwise have been seen by
few, and have soon been forgotten; it offended many, who whilst having
no sympathy with the Hunts, were still in favour of a free Press; and
finally it encouraged the publication and sale of many other attacks
upon the Prince Regent, and his friends. The most active and zealous
purveyor of this kind of literature was William Hone, of Ludgate Hill,
who published numerous pamphlets, leaflets, parodies and squibs; most
of these were written by Hone himself, and illustrated by George
Cruikshank. The Prince Regent’s personal appearance, his intemperance,
his vanity, and his conduct towards his wife, were mercilessly exposed
and ridiculed; whilst the actions of the ministry were also held up to
public scorn and contempt.
Eventually the government took legal proceedings against Hone for
publishing political parodies, namely, John Wilkes’s Catechism, the
Political Litany, and the Sinecurist’s Creed.
There were three separate trials held in the Guildhall, London, on
December 18, 19 and 20, 1817, and in each trial the Jury found a
verdict of _Not Guilty_. Here, again, the government prosecutions
defeated their own ends. Hone became the hero of the day, the martyr
in the cause of the liberty of the Press; a large sum of money was
raised for him by public subscription, and what was worse, the
parodies were republished, and, owing to the publicity given to them
by the trials, the sales were enormous. Even now these little
pamphlets are eagerly sought after by collectors of literary
curiosities, and of _Cruikshankiana_, especially those relating to the
Prince Regent and his illtreated wife. The most successful example of
Hone’s skill was a parody entitled “The House that Jack built,” of
which more than fifty editions were rapidly sold off. A few extracts
will show the bitter tone of this parody; and Cruikshank’s portrait of
the _Dandy of Sixty_ was scarcely more complimentary than Leigh Hunt’s
written description of the “fat Adonis of fifty.” The subjects of
Cruikshank’s illustrations are given within parenthesis.
THIS IS THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT.
(_A Temple of Liberty._)
This is the WEALTH that lay in the House that Jack built.
(_Magna Charta_, _Habeas Corpus_, _Bill of Rights_.)
These are the VERMIN that plunder the _Wealth_, that lay in the
House that Jack built.
(_Court Official_, _Bishops_, _Lawyers_, _Army_, _Tax-collectors_.)
This is the THING, that in spite of new Acts,
And attempts to restrain it by Soldiers or Tax,
Will poison the _Vermin_, that plunder the _Wealth_,
That lay in the House, that Jack built.
(_A Printing Press_.)
This is the PUBLIC INFORMER,
Who would put down the _Thing_,
That in spite of new Acts,
And attempts to restrain it by Soldiers or Tax,
Will poison the _Vermin_, that plunder the _Wealth_,
That lay in the House, that Jack built.
(_The Attorney General_.)
These are the REASONS OF LAWLESS POWER,
That back the _Public Informer_,
Who would put down the _Thing_,
That in spite of new Acts, &c., &c.
(_A Gaoler, an Artilleryman, a Horse Guard, and a Grenadier_.)
This is THE MAN――all shaven and shorn,
All cover’d with Orders――and all forlorn;
THE DANDY OF SIXTY,
Who bows with a grace,
And has taste in wigs, collars, cuirasses, and lace;
Who, to tricksters and fools, leaves the State and its treasure,
And, when Britain’s in tears, sails about at his pleasure,
Who spurn’d from his presence the Friends of his youth,
And now has not one who will tell him the truth;
Who took to his counsels, in evil hour,
The Friends to the _Reasons of Lawless Power_;
That back the _Public Informer_
Who would put down the _Thing_,
That, in spite of New Acts,
And attempts to restrain it, by Soldiers or Tax,
Will poison the _Vermin_,
That plunder the _Wealth_,
That lay in the _House that Jack Built_.
(_A crowd of starving people_.)
These are the PEOPLE
All tattered and torn,
Who curse the day wherein they were born,
On account of taxation too great to be borne,
And pray for relief, from night to morn:
Who, in vain, Petition in every form,
Who, peaceably meeting to ask for Reform,
Were sabred by Yeomanry Cavalry,
Who were thanked by _The Man_,
All shaven and shorn, all covered with Orders
And all forlorn;
THE DANDY OF SIXTY,
Who bows with a grace, &c., &c.
* * * * *
The Report of Hone’s three Trials is an interesting work, full of
curious parodies, of which a detailed account will be given in the
Bibliographical Volume of this Collection. But for the present Leigh
Hunt, William Hone, George Cruikshank, and George, Regent, and King,
must be dismissed, and Thackeray’s burlesque Epitaph will fitly close
this chapter.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: GEORGE IV.]
He never acted well, by man or woman.
And was as false to his mistress as to his wife.
He deserted his friends and his principles.
He was so ignorant he could scarcely spell;
But he had skill in cutting out coats,
And an undeniable taste for cookery.
He built the palaces of Brighton
And of Buckingham,
And for these qualities and proofs of genius,
An admiring aristocracy
Christened him the “First Gentleman in Europe.”
Friends, respect the King whose statue is here,
And the generous aristocracy who admired him.
W. M. THACKERAY.
――――
THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND.
When mighty Roast Beef was the Englishman’s food,
It ennobled our hearts, and enriched our blood;
Our soldiers were brave, and our courtiers were good.
Oh! the Roast Beef of Old England,
And, oh! for Old England’s Roast Beef!
Then, Britons, from all nice dainties refrain,
Which effeminate Italy, France, and Spain;
And mighty roast beef shall command on the main.
Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.
But since we have learnt from effeminate France,
To eat their ragouts, as well as to dance;
We are fed up with nothing but vain complaisance,
Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.
Our fathers of old were robust, stout and strong,
And kept open house, with good cheer all day long,
Which made their plump tenants rejoice in this song,――
Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.
When good Queen Elizabeth sat on the throne,
Ere coffee and tea and such slipslops were known;
The world was in terror if e’en she did frown,
Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.
In those days, if fleets did presume on the main,
They seldom or never returned back again,
As witness the vaunting Armada of Spain.
Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.
Oh! then we had stomachs to eat and to fight.
And when wrongs were cooking, to set ourselves right,――
But now, we’re a――hum!――I could, but Good night,
Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.
This song was first printed complete in Walsh’s “British Miscellany”
about 1740. It was written and composed by Richard Leveridge, with the
exception of the first two verses which were written by Henry
Fielding, for a comedy entitled “Don Quixote in England.” This piece
was acted at the New-Theatre in the Haymarket, 1733.
――――
KAIL-BROSE O’ AULD SCOTLAND.
When our ancient forefathers agreed wi’ the laird
For a piece o’gude ground to be a kail-yard,
It was to the brose that they paid their regard:
O! the kail-brose o’ auld Scotland,
And O! the Scottish kail-brose.
When Fergus, the first of our Kings, I suppose.
At the head of his nobles, had vanquished our foes,
Just before they began, they’d been feasting on brose,
O! the Kail-brose, &c.
Our sodgers were drest in their kilts and short hose,
Wi’ their bonnets and belts, which their dress did compose,
And a bag of oatmeal on their backs to be brose,
O! the Kail-brose, &c.
But now since the thistle is joined to the rose,
And the English nae longer are counted our foes,
We’ve lost a great deal o’our relish for brose.
O! the Kail-brose &c.
Yet each true-hearted Scotsman, by nature jocose,
Likes always to feed on a cog o’ gude brose,
And, thanks be to heaven, we’ve yet plenty of those.
O! the Kail-brose, &c.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
THE GROCER’S DELIGHT, OR A SUGAR PLUM FOR MASTER BILLY.
When good George the Second did sit on the throne,
A Pitt we could boast, and a Pitt of our own,
A true Whig was he to the very back-bone.
Oh, the true Whigs of old England,
And oh, the Old English true Whigs.
He went to the city to dine with the mayor,
The King and the Queen, and the courtiers were there,
The people huzza’d him, which made the King stare.
Oh, the true Whigs, &c.
The feast of the Grocers is not the same thing,
His son, Master Billy, is all for the King,
And therefore a different song we must sing
Oh, the back-stairs of St. James’s,
And oh, the St. James’s back-stairs.
Billy bluster’d and vapour’d, and gave himself airs,
He spoke for the people, and swore he was theirs,
Till Jenkinson usher’d him up the back stairs.
Oh, the back stairs, &c.
_Dundas_ is his counsel, and _Thurlow_ his guide,
The lords of the bed-chamber with him divide,
The bishops, God mend’em, are all of his side.
Oh, the back stairs, &c.
He holds his head high and he talks very big,
For the Commons of England he don’t care a fig;
But the House of Lords swear he’s an excellent Whig.
Oh, the poor Whigs of Old England!
And oh, the poor Old English Whigs.
Since the fortunate days of King William the Third,
When Nassau to Stuart was wisely prefer’d,
Such doctrines as these are, sure never were heard,
By the staunch Whigs of Old England,
By the Old English staunch Whigs.
Then as Billy[19] stands up for Prerogative strong,
If the Father was right, sure the Son must be wrong,
So let every Englishman join in my song,
Success to the Whigs of Old England!
Success to the Old English Whigs!
From _The History of the Westminster Election_, 1784.
――――
OH! THE WHITE VESTS OF YOUNG ENGLAND!
Oh! the vests of Young England are perfectly white,
And they’re cut very neatly and sit very tight;
And they serve to distinguish our Young Englishmen
From the juvenile MANNERS to CONINGSBY BEN;
Sing, “Oh! the white vests of Young England,
And Oh! the Young English white vests!”
Now the Old English vest was some two yards about,
For Old England was rather inclined to be stout;
But the Young English waist is extremely compress’d,
By the very close fit of the Young English vest.
Sing, “Oh! &c.”
The Young English white vest, upon one little score,
May perhaps be considered a bit of a bore,
For it makes the resemblance exceedingly near
’Twixt the Young English Waiter and Young English Peer.
Sing, “Oh! &c.”
But what are the odds as concerning the vest,
So long as felicity reigns in the breast?
And Young England to wear what it pleases may claim,
Let us hope all its tailors are paid for the same.
Sing, “Oh! &c.”
_Punch_ 1844.
――――
O! THE BROWN BEER OF OLD ENGLAND.
When humming brown beer was the Englishman’s taste,
Our wives they were merry, our daughters were chaste;
Their breath smelt like roses whenever embraced;
O! the brown beer of old England,
And, O! the Old English brown beer.
Ere coffee and tea found their way to the town,
Our ancestors by their own fire-sides sat down,
Their bread it was white, and their beer it was brown.
O! the brown beer &c.
Our heroes of old, of whose conquests we boast,
Could make a good meal of a pot and a toast;
O! did we so now, we should soon rule the roast.
O! the brown beer &c.
When the great Spanish fleet on our coast did appear,
Our sailors, each one, drank a jorum of beer
And sent them away with a flea in their ear.
O! the brown beer, &c.
Our clergymen then took a cup of good beer;
Ere they mounted the rostrum, their spirits to cheer;
Then preached against vice, _though courtiers were near_.
O! the brown beer, &c.
Their doctrines were then authentic and bold,
Well grounded on scripture and fathers of old
But now they preach nothing but what they are told.
O! the brown beer, &c.
For since the geneva and strong ratafee,
We are dwindled to nothing,――but stay――let me see
Faith, nothing at all but mere fiddle-de-dee.
O! the brown beer, &c.
ANONYMOUS.
From _The Universal Songster_. Vol. III.
――――
THE FROG AND THE BULL.
As once on a time a young frog, pert and vain,
Beheld a large ox grazing on the wide plain,
He boasted his size he could quickly attain.
Oh, the Roast Beef of Old England,
And O for Old England’s Roast Beef.
Then eagerly stretching his weak little frame;
Mamma, who stood by, like a cunning old dame.
Cried, “Son, to attempt it you’re surely to blame,”
Oh, the Roast Beef, &c.
But, deaf to advice, he for glory did thirst,
An effort he ventured more strong than the first,
Till swelling and straining too hard made him burst.
Oh, the Roast Beef, &c.
Then Britons, be careful, the moral is clear;
The ox is Old England, the frog is Monsieur,
Whose threats and bravadoes we never need fear,
While we have Roast Beef in Old England.
Sing O for Old England’s Roast Beef.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
THE BOILED BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND.
That mighty Roast Beef was the Englishman’s food,
And spoon-meat the Frenchman’s was once understood,
And mess-bugles at dinner-time still stir the blood,
With “Oh, the Roast Beef of Old England,
And Oh, for Old English Roast Beef.”
Yes, “Oh, for Roast Beef,” well our soldiers may sigh,
They may sniff it down areas, in cook-shops may eye;
But save in that music, bid life-long good bye,
To the famous Roast Beef of Old England,
The mighty Old English Roast Beef.
For as if we’d ta’en lesson from soup-stewing France,
In our barracks Roast Beef is a dream of romance,
And the man who enlists is condemned in advance,
To sing, “Blow the Boiled Beef of Old England,”
And “Blow that Old English Boiled Beef!”
If against civil broils barrack-rules still must preach,
And our troops rule the roast, but in figure of speech,
Then surely we’re bound our mess-bugles to teach
To play “Blow the Boiled Beef of Old England,”
And “Blow the Old English Boiled Beef!”
What’s the odds if at _Bouilli_ the soldier looks blue?
’Tis the rule of the service, and can’t be broke through.
Against roast, fry, or bake Colonel North in a stew
Would cry, “Where’s the Boiled Beef of Old England,
Oh, where’s the Old English Boiled Beef?”
What with those leather collars, their throttles that lock,
And those weary camp-kettles, their hunger that mock,
Our poor British soldiers must surely hate _stock_,
And sing, “Blow the Boiled Beef of Old England,
Oh, Blow the Old English Boiled Beef!”
With the shako that lets the rain into his neck,
And the pack, pouch, and cross-belts, his breathing that check,
And the barrack-room reeking like any slave-deck,
Keep up the Boiled Beef of Old England.
Keep up the Old English Boiled Beef.
At huge cost let recruits still be drilled, dressed, and taught,
To have them die off twice as fast as they ought,
Let General Routine still set reason at nought,
And sing, “Oh, the Boiled Beef of Old England,”
And “Oh, the Old English Boiled Beef!”
By all means let our soldiers be served, in the way,
That famed Dr. Kitch’ner said cucumbers may,
First dress ’em with care, and then throw them away,
And sing, “Oh, the Boiled Beef of Old England,”
And “Oh, the Old English Boiled Beef!”
_Punch._ March 6, 1858.
――――
THE PAUPER’S CHAUNT.[20]
O we’re very well fed, so we must not repine,
Though turkey we’ve _cut_, and likewise the chine
But, oh! once a year we should just like to dine
On the Roast Beef of Old England,
Oh, the Old English Roast-Beef.
O, the gruel’s delicious, the taters divine――
And our very small beer is uncommonly _fine_;
But with us we think you would not like to dine,
Without the Roast-Beef of Old England,
Oh, the Old English Roast-Beef!
Our soup’s very good, we really must own.
But of what it is made arn’t very well-known;
So, without any soup we would much rather dine
On the Roast-Beef of Old England,
Oh, the Old English Roast-Beef!
Mince-pies they are nice, and plum-pudding is fine,
But we’d give up them both for “ribs” or “Sir Line,”
If for once in the year we could but just dine
On the Roast-Beef of Old England,
Oh, the Old English Roast-Beef!
“Roast Beef and plum-pudding” is true Christmas fare,
But they think that our _morals_ such dainties won’t bear.
Oh, oh! it is plain ne’er more shall we share
In the Roast-Beef of Old England,
Oh, the Old English Roast-Beef!
From _George Cruikshank’s Omnibus_.
――――
THE SIRLOIN SUPERSEDED.
Once mighty roast beef was the Englishman’s food.
It has now grown so dear that ’tis nearly tabooed.
But Australian beef, potted, is cheap and is good.
O, the Boiled Beef of Australia!
And O, the Australian Boiled Beef!
It is capital cold; it is excellent hot;
And, if a large number of children you’ve got,
’Twill greatly assist you in boiling the pot.
O, the Boiled Beef, &c.
First-rate is Australian mutton, likewise,
For curries, and rissoles and puddings, and pies.
The thrifty good housewife no butcher’s meat buys.
O, the Boiled Beef, &c.
It will make you a hash that is fit for a king.
And the young ones all like it, and that’s a great thing.
So Paterfamilias it causes to sing,
O, the Boiled Beef, &c.
For the small boys and girls eat the fat with the lean,
Don’t leave underdone, but their plates nicely clean――
Where pigs are not kept which helps make all serene.
O, the Boiled Beef, &c.
Australian meat from the bone being free,
The more economical needs must it be.
As there are no joints there’s no carving you see.
O, the Boiled Beef, &c.
The fleshpots of Egypt were once in high fame;
Australian fleshpots have more than the same,
Old England’s roast beef is now rivalled in name.
O, the Boiled Beef, &c.
The privileged victims who Income-tax pay,
Whose earnings precarious are taken away,
While ceasing to deal with a Butcher, can say
O, the Boiled Beef, &c.
’Tis true that your servants, fastidious and fine,
Australian meat in their folly decline.
On skilligolee they hereafter may dine.
O, the Boiled Beef, &c.
Now pour out the wine which we could not afford
Except for Antipodes’ meat on the board.
Its inventors’ good health!――whilst my helping’s encored.
O, the Boiled Beef, &c.
_Punch._ August 24, 1872.
――――
STIRRING THE PUDDING,
A Song for the Christmas Season.
The National Padding all parties protest
By themselves is best planned, and compounded the best,
And each eager spoon wielder will stoutly aver
All would turn out quite well had himself but a stir.
At the glorious Plum-Padding of England,
Old England’s unequalled Plum-Pudding!
The Stirrers-in-Chief, who’ve their spoons in the pan,
Have been stirring away on their own special plan
For a tidy long time, and triumphantly say
That no Season has shown, for this many a day,
Such a splendid Plum-Pudding for England,
Such a genuine English Plum-Padding!
Well we know the old Saw about too many cooks;
But a Saw is not always so sage as it looks;
And a Pudding so big as JOHN BULL’s may require
All the hands and the spoons that toil on and ne’er tire
Of stirring the Pudding of England,
The mighty old English Plum-Pudding!
The proof of the Pudding’s in eating, they say;
And JOHN BULL, who must eat it has likewise to pay;
And so, at this season, let’s wish them success,
And hope that among them they won’t make a mess
Of the rare old Plum-Pudding of England,
The old English Christmas Plum-Pudding!
(_Four verses omitted._)
_Punch._ Dec. 27, 1879.
――――:o:――――
THE RED, WHITE, AND BLUE.
Oh, Britannia, the pride of the ocean,
The home of the brave and the free,
It is time that with zealous devotion,
We saw to the Navy for thee.
If tyrants thou still wouldst make tremble,
Thou needest some armour-clads new,
Or else――it is vain to dissemble――
It’s all up with the Red, White, and Blue.
It’s all up with the Red, White, and Blue,
It’s all up with the Red, White, and Blue;
It is useless to longer dissemble,
’Tis all up with the Red, White, and Blue.
_Truth Christmas Number._ 1884.
――――
THE ELECTION.
Great, great is the task set before us――
Once more ’tis for us to decide
The men who shall freely rule o’er us,
And still by our bidding abide.
Then choose we the leaders whose story
Will ever bear telling anew,
Whose work in the past is their glory,
And stamps them as honest and true.
_Chorus._
Then choose we the tried, wise, and true,
Then seek we the tried, wise, and true;
Let truth and consistency rule us,
And choose we the tried, wise, and true.
We know what the task is whose splendour
Our country will light on its way,
When Justice and Progress attend her,
And class has forgotten its sway;
When hope for the thousands who labour
Is real in their toil-weary view――
When right for each man and his neighbour
Shall end in a union that’s true!
J. PRATT.
_The Weekly Dispatch._ October 25, 1885.
――――
AN AMERICAN IMITATION.
Oh, Columbia, the gem of the ocean,
The home of the brave and the free;
The shrine of each patriot’s devotion,
A world offers homage to thee.
Thy mandates make heroes assemble,
When liberty’s form stands in view;
Thy banners make tyranny tremble,
When borne by the red, white and blue.
When borne by the red, white and blue.
When borne by the red, white and blue,
Thy banners make tyranny tremble,
When borne by the red, white and blue.
When war waged its wide desolation,
And threatened our land to deform,
The ark then of freedom’s foundation,
Columbia rode safe through the storm.
With her garland of victory o’er her,
When so proudly she bore her bold crew,
With her flag proudly floating before her,
The boast of the red, white and blue.
The wine cup, the wine cup bring hither,
And fill you it up to the brim,
May the memory of Washington ne’er wither,
Nor the star of his glory grow dim.
May the service united ne’er sever
And each to our colors prove true:
The army and navy forever,
Three cheers for the red, white and blue.
Three cheers for the red, white and blue,
Three cheers for the red, white and blue,
The army and navy forever,
Three cheers for the red, white and blue.
――――:o:――――
THE ENGLISHMAN.
There’s a paper bears a well-known name,
Though it is but a sorry lot;
On the English journals’ scroll of fame
It seems but a dirty blot.
On the scribbling ones who by it live
I’ll not waste word of song;
Nor for all the ex-Q.C.[21] could give
To that paper would I belong.
It’s a scurrilous journal, deny it who can――
A disgrace to the name of ENGLISHMAN.
From _Faust and ’Phisto_. 1876.
――――
THE JINGO-ENGLISHMAN.
(_New Version of an old Song, adapted to the tastes of the
Patriot of the Period._)
There’s a Land that’s Cock of Creation’s walk,
Though it is but a tiny isle,
And to hear its brag, and its tall tall talk,
Might make e’en _Bombastes_ smile.
It holds itself holiest, first in fight,
Most brave, most wise, most strong,
And will ne’er admit what it fancies right
Can by any chance be wrong.
’Tis the pink of perfection, deny it who can,
The Home of the Jingo Englishman!
There’s a Flag that floats o’er every sea,
And claims to control the brine;
And if any dare hint that it makes too free,
The result is a deuce of a shine.
For the bouncing boys who walk the deck
Deem the Ocean their own little lot,
And if foreign fools at their pride should check,
They will catch it exceedingly hot.
Right-divine’s in its bunting, deny it who can,
Is the Flag of the Jingo-Englishman!
There’s a Heart that leaps with a generous glow
A paying cause to defend,
Lets interest rule it in fixing a foe,
And profit in choosing a friend.
It nurtures a deep and abiding love
For possession of power and pelf,
And deems that the duty all others above
Is enshrined in that sweet word “self.”
’Tis a rare tough organ, deny it who can,
The Heart of your Jingo-Englishman!
The Briton may traverse the Pole or the Zone,
And annex on sea or shore;
He calls an immense domain his own,
But he means going in for more.
Let the wandering stranger seek to know
To what charter such “rights” are owed,
And a flush will rise to the Briton’s brow
As he answers――“You be blowed!”
There’s no end of a pull, deny it who can,
In the words, “I’m a Jingo-Englishman!”
_Punch._ November 9, 1878.
――――
THE CHANCERY COURT.
There’s a place that bears a well-known name,
Tho’ ’tis but a seedy spot;
’Tis the first in the blazing scroll of shame,
And who dare say it is not?
Of the big-wigged ones who shine and live
On laws, on “Flats” and fees,
The choicest the Devil to earth can give
In this little spot one sees;
For a gem in its way, as we’ve always been taught,
Is that grand Institution――a Chancery Court.
There’s a thing that’s a terror to every tongue,
No matter when or where,
And to treat that thing as a mere old song
Is more than the richest dare.
For the foolish spirits, who seek _that_ Court,
To its Vultures once fallen a prey,
May struggle in vain to’ escape what they sought――
_They never can get away_.
’Tis a gem in its way, spite of evil repute,
No friend sticks so close as a Chancery suit.
The Briton may traverse each legal port
And pay, yet have something to spare;
He may pass the “Insolvent Debtors’ Court,”
And merge at the most _nearly_ bare.
But if once in a Chancery suit he’s caught,
Though the world be all his own,
In those hungry clutches, ’twill be as nought,
And they’ll fight for his skin and bone.
For a gem in its way, spite of evil report,
Is the sacred shade of a Chancery Court.
From _Grins and Groans_, Social and Political, (London,
W. Swan Sonnenschein & Co.)
――――:o:――――
RULE BRITANNIA.
――――
Robert Southey calls this “the political hymn of our Country,” and it
may certainly be regarded as the British National Song. There has been
some controversy as to its authorship, it is generally ascribed to
James Thomson, author of “The Seasons,” whilst others have assigned it
to David Mallet. The arguments are too lengthy to be reproduced here,
but the chief points of the discussion are to be found in letters from
Mr. William Chappell, and Mr. Julian Marshall, published in “Notes and
Queries,” August 14, November 20, and December 18, 1886. Possibly both
Thomson and Mallet joined in the composition of the _ode_ (as they
styled it), but this question can now never be authoritatively
settled. No doubt exists however that the music was composed by Dr.
Thomas Arne, and by it, and the chorus, Rule Britannia is known all
the world over.
On the 1st August, 1740, a Masque styled _Alfred_, written by James
Thomson and David Mallet, was performed in the gardens of Cliefdon
House, in commemoration of the accession of George I., before the
Prince and Princess of Wales. The plot of the Masque was based on the
gallant struggles of King Alfred with the Danes, it abounded with
patriotic allusions, and _Rule Britannia_ was thus introduced in scene
5, Act 2.
“Here is seen the Ocean in prospect, and ships sailing along. Two
boats land their crews. One Sailor sings the following ode; after
which the rest join in a lively Dance.”
When Britain first, at Heaven’s command,
Arose from out the azure main;
This was the charter, the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sung the strain;
Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!
Britons never will be slaves.
The nations, not so blest as thee,
Must in their turns to tyrants fall;
While thou shalt flourish great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.
Rule, Britannia! &c.
Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
As the loud blast that rends the skies,
Serves but to root thy native oak.
Rule, Britannia! &c.
Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame:
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame――
And work their woe, and thy renown.
Rule, Britannia! &c.
To thee belongs the rural reign:
Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
All thine shall be the subject main,
And ev’ry shore it circles thine.
Rule Britannia! &c.
The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coasts repair,
Blest isle! with matchless beauty crown’d,
And manly hearts to guard the fair.
Rule, Britannia! Britannia rule the waves!
Britons never will be slaves.
――――
LATIN VERSION.
Jubente cum primum Deo Britannia
Pelagi cavis recessibus caput extulit,
Ei in manus hæc charta magna tradita est,
Cælestiumque omnis melos cæcinit chorus;
_Fluctus regas, domina regas Britannia_;
_Nunquam Britannus imperanti serviet_.
Sua quamque gentium minus felicium
Manet vicissim sors, jugum hostile: interim
Tu, Nostra, pulcra, tu vigebis libera,
Gens invidenda, gens timendaque omnibus.
_Fluctus, &c._
Per damna tu cædesque surges celsior,
Ferrumque opes dabit peregrinum tibi:
Procella ceu, quæ miscet æthera et salum,
Novas tuis vires ministrat quercubus.
_Fluctus, &c._
Non te tyrannus perdomabit insolens,
Ut sæviat thronoque te dejectum eat:
Virtus tua, acriore calcare incita,
Illi ruinam, gloriam tibi pariet.
_Fluctus, &c._
Ruris colonos imperia beant tua;
Cives beant in urbibus commercia;
Tibi æquor omne obtemperabit subditum,
Et omne, cujus alluit litus, solum.
_Fluctus, &c._
Camæna, Libertatis usque hæc est comes,
Viset tuam, visamque amabit insulam;
Felix nimis! nam filias armat Venus,
Et filias qui protegant, Mars filios.
_Fluctus regas, domina regas Brittania_;
_Nunquam Brittanus imperanti serviet_.
From _Blackwood’s Magazine_. April, 1819.
――――
ELECTION SONG.
When Canning’s name was first proclaim’d,
Resounding Mersey’s strand along;
A man for worth and talents fam’d,
This was the Freemen’s fav’rite song:
Hail great Statesman! the Statesman of our choice!
We bid thee welcome and rejoice!
The Candidates opposing thee,
Must daily find their ardour cool;
Whilst thou our pride shall surely be,
Declar’d triumphant at the poll.
Hail &c.
Still as their friends assemble round,
With energy our cause to gain;
Thy foes shall sicken at the sound,
To hear the Freeman’s fav’rite strain.
Hail &c.
Our commerce round the world shall flow,
Surpassing any former time;
To thee our native town shall owe,
The right to trade to every clime.
Hail, &c.
From _An Impartial Collection of Addresses, Songs, Squibs,
&c., published during the Liverpool Election_, October 1812.
――――
RULE BRITANNIA.
When Britain first, impell’d by pride,
Usurp’d dominion o’er the main,
Blest peace she vainly threw aside,
And gave her sons the galling chain.
View, Britannia, Britannia view the waves,
On which thy darling sons are slaves.