――――
VERSES ACCIDENTALLY OMITTED AT THE SAVOY THEATRE.
At this General Election some have met with their rejection,
Who never will be missed, who never will be missed!
At last they’ve been found out, although they’ve long escaped
detection,
And we’ve scratched them off the list, we’ve scratched them
off the list,
There’s the foul-mouthed Joseph Leicester sent to “studdy” at
his ease,
With Rogers, whose crude Billingsgate has somehow failed to
please;
And Joseph Arch the humbug, who against the labourers votes,
Has leisure now to understand what’s meant by “hinds” and “goats;”
And Gibb, and Firth, and plenty more, we’ve scratched them off
the list,
But they’ll none of them be missed, they’ll none of them be
missed!
But some there are who’ve scrambled through we well could do
without;
Though they’re still upon the list, they’re still upon the
list!
The traitors who have managed to escape the general rout,
Though they never would be missed, they never would be missed!
First, there’s the Grand Old Madman and his silly little son,
And that “genial ruffian,” Labby, with his weak attempts at fun;
There’s Bombastes Falstaff Harcourt, and J. Morley, prince of
prigs,
Flabby Childers, blatant Russell, half a dozen recreant Whigs,
And all those empty Gladstone bags who’ve got upon the list;
Oh, they’d none of them be missed, they’d none of them be missed!
W.
_St. Stephen’s Review._ July, 1886.
――――
Messrs. Lever Brothers, of Warrington, have published a small pamphlet
describing the manufacture of their “Sunlight Soap.” It contains “A
respectful Per-version of the Mikado,” from which the following
extracts are given, by permission of Messrs. Lever Brothers:――
SONG――BY A LADY OF QUALITY.
As some day a washing soap that is harmless may be found,
I’ve got a little list! I’ve got a little list
Of gowns and things all stowed away, as safe as underground.
Which have constantly been missed! How much they’ve all been
missed!
There’s my charming Dolly Varden, which, alas! is rather
soiled,
My parasol of once white lace, though dirty, it’s not
spoiled.
My chintzes and chinchillas, China crape, and cream
brocade,
My bombazines and silks of every style, and sort, and
shade;
That fetching little bonnet too, in which I first was
kissed,
They’ve all of them been missed! They’ve all been sadly
missed.
_Chorus_――She’s got ’em on her list! She’s got ’em on her list;
And they’ve all of ’em been missed! They’ve all been sadly
missed.
One day a friend said Sunlight Soap I really ought to try,
And as she did insist, I hunted up my list;
For, hearing her experience, I remembered with a sigh,
How much they’d all been missed! How much they’d all been
missed.
So I sent at once for Sunlight Soap, and soon unpicked the
lace,
From that old discarded sunshade and I tacked it in its
place;
Round a muslin-covered bottle, as their little books
direct,
And used the Sunlight Soap with most astonishing effect,
The lace washed quite as good as new――encouraged to persist,
I wondered if it would restore the other things I’d missed.
_Chorus_――She hunted up her list! She got her little list,
And wondered if it would restore the other things she’d
missed.
So one by one I brought to light the things I’d laid aside
For I’d got them on my list! They were all upon my list;
The same success attended each experiment I tried,
And they’ll never more be missed They’ll never more be missed!
The finest fabrics were unharmed, the tints remained intact,
You may think I’m romancing, I assure you it’s a fact;
You try the Sunlight Soap, you’ll find your labour much
reduced,
I only wish that years ago it had been introduced!
Henceforth no more soiled garments will appear upon my list,
For, thanks to harmless Sunlight Soap, they’ll none of them
be missed.
_Chorus_――She’s crossed ’em off her list! She’s crossed ’em off her
list,
For, thanks to harmless Sunlight Soap, they’ll none of ’em
be missed!
TRIO OF SUNLIGHT SOAP TABLETS.
Three little aids to health are we,
Powerful aids in tablets three,
Harbingers all of purity,
Three little aids to health!
Everyone will our virtues own,
Everywhere is our value known,
Everything that is foul hath flown,
From three little aids to health!
Three little tablets, all expelling
Germs of disease from dress and dwelling,
Purity’s advent e’er foretelling――
Three little aids to health!
Three little foes to dire decay,
Driving disease and dirt away,
Pleased to disperse their dread array――
Three little aids to health!
All that is foul we render fair,
No earthly boon can with us compare,
Life is a burden few could bear
But for three little aids to health!
Three little tablets, all expelling
Germs of disease from dress and dwelling,
Purity’s advent e’er foretelling――
Three little aids to health!
THE REASON WHY.
The flowers that bloom in the spring,
Tra la,
Breathe promise of merry Sunlight――
As we merrily dance and we sing,
Tra la,
We welcome the hope that they bring,
Tra la,
Of a summer of roses so bright;
And that’s what we mean when we say that a thing
Is welcome as flowers that bloom in the spring.
Tra la la la la la, &c.
Lever’s Sunlight Soap’s a thing,
Tra la,
That brings sunshine wherever it goes
If you ask us to which we should cling,
Tra la,
It won’t be the flowers of spring,
Tra la,
For they’re useless for washing of clothes;
And that’s what we mean when we say, or we sing,
“It’s better than flowers that bloom in the spring!”
Tra la la la la la, &c.
A PATHETIC BALLAD.
In a cot by a river a lady forlorn
Sang “willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
And I said to her, “pretty one, why do you mourn,
Singing ‘willow, titwillow, titwillow?’
Your love will return ere the sun will have set,
Your honeymoon scarce is completed, and yet
With a shake of your head you reply in a pet,
“Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
But alas! she had wedded for love, not for pelf,
Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!
So she had to get through all the washing herself,
Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!
She sobbed and she sighed, and a gurgle she gave,
Then she threw herself into the billowy wave,
And an echo arose from the suicide’s grave――
“Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
Now I feel just as sure as I’m sure that my name
Isn’t willow, titwillow, titwillow,
’Twas inferior soap that thus made her exclaim,
“Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
If Lever’s Sunlight Soap she’d happened to buy,
Her work had been done without trouble, and I
Should never have heard that most desolate cry――
“Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
――――:o:――――
RUDDIGORE;
OR, THE WITCH’S CURSE.
This opera, produced at the Savoy Theatre on Saturday, January 22,
1887, did not at first receive that approval which the Press and the
public have hitherto accorded to Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan’s
pieces. Objection was taken to the title, and in deference to public
opinion the first word was altered from _Ruddygore_ to _Ruddigore_,
whilst several passages which occur in the published version of the
libretto are either altered, or omitted, in representation, and
generally the piece runs more smoothly than it did when first
produced.
That Mr. Gilbert himself had some mistrust of his own passion for
logical paradoxes may be inferred from the fact that the following
passage has, from the first, been omitted in the performance:
_Rod._ It’s not too late, is it?
_Han._ Oh Roddy! (_bashfully_).
_Rod._ I’m quite respectable now, you know.
_Han._ But you’re a ghost, ain’t you?
_Rod._ Well yes――a kind of ghost.
_Han._ But what would be my legal _status_ as a ghost’s wife?
_Rod._ It would be a very respectable position.
_Han._ But I should be the wife of a dead husband, Roddy!
_Rod._ No doubt.
_Han._ But the wife of a dead husband is a widow, Roddy
_Rod._ I suppose she is.
_Han._ And a widow is at liberty to marry again, Roddy!
_Rod._ Dear me, yes――that’s awkward. I never thought of that.
_Han._ No, Roddy――I thought you hadn’t.
_Rod._ When you’ve been a ghost for a considerable time it’s
astonishing how foggy you become!
The acting copy now also dispenses with the equally ingenious quibbles
which appeared to give offence to the audience on the first night, as
follows:――
_Robin._ Stop a bit――both of you.
_Rod._ This intrusion is unmannerly.
_Han._ I’m surprised at you.
_Robin._ I can’t stop to apologise――an idea has just occurred
to me. A Baronet of Ruddygore can only die through
refusing to commit his daily crime.
_Rod._ No doubt.
_Robin._ Therefore, to refuse to commit a daily crime is
tantamount to suicide!
_Rod._ It would seem so.
_Robin._ But suicide is, itself, a crime――and so, by your own
showing, you ought none of you to have ever died at all!
_Red._ I see――I understand! We are all practically alive!
_Robin._ Every man jack of you!
_Rod._ My brother ancestors! Down from your frames! (_The
Ancestors descend._) You believe yourselves to be
dead――you may take it from me that you’re not, and an
application to the Supreme Court is all that is necessary
to prove that you never ought to have died at all!
(_The Ancestors embrace the Bridesmaids._)
From the omission of this conversation it now follows that the
“ancestors,” having once returned to their picture frames, remain
there.
――――:o:――――
AN APPEAL, AFTER E. A. POE.
Once upon a midnight dreary, Gilbert pondered weak and weary,
Thinking of a curious title his new Comic Opera for,
When a volume from him flinging, suddenly there came a ringing,
As of some one madly clinging to the bell at his front door;
“It is D’Oyly Carte,” he muttered, “ringing at my big front door,
Merely this, and nothing more.”
Poking then the glowing ember, for ’twas cold as bleak December,
Gilbert said, “Ah, I remember in the olden time of yore,
Yea, and shall forget it never, though I were to live for ever,
How I vainly did endeavour once to see my ‘Pinafore;’
Sat and suffered awful anguish in the stalls at ‘Pinafore,’
Just that once, but nevermore.”
“For the feeling sad uncertain, at the rising of the curtain.
Thrilled me, filled me with such terrors, that a solemn oath I
swore,
And the oath have oft repeated, that though kings and queens
entreated,
I would ne’er again be seated in the stalls as once before,
There to try and see the piece through, as I tried to do before,
Now to do so nevermore.”
Open here was flung the portal by a pompous powdered mortal,
Who then ushered Mr. Carte in, as he oft had done before;
Not a moment stopped or stayed he, but a slight obeisance made
he,
And in voice of thunder said he, “Mr. Carte,”――then slammed the
door,
And in tones stentorian said he, “Mr. Carte,”――then slammed the
door,
Only this, and nothing more.
Mr.Carte then said quite coolly, “Mr. Gilbert, tell me truly,
Have you found a proper title our new Comic Opera for?
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, as you hope to go to Aidenn,
Have you really, really made ’un? Tell, O tell me, I implore!
Tell me what its funny name is――tell, O tell me, I implore!”
Answered Gilbert――“Ruddygore!”
Carte uprose, alarmed, astounded, by this title much confounded,
For this word of dreadful meaning such a world of horror bore;
And he said, “This title gruesome, I feel very sure will do some
Injury, and we shall lose some thousands ere this piece is o’er;
Such a name will surely ruin both your words and Arthur’s score;
Therefore change it, I implore.”
Then said Gilbert, calmly smoking, “D’Oyly Carte, you must be
joking;
I have never found a title that I liked so much before,
For it gives the play the seeming of a drama that is teeming
With deeds of blood all streaming, which the people gloat so o’er;
Of those deeds all grim and ghastly that the people gloat so o’er;
Therefore be it Ruddygore,”
And with title so unfitting, people still are nightly sitting
In the gallery, stalls, and boxes, from the ceiling to the floor;
And although they can’t help glancing at D. Lely when he’s
dancing,
Think Miss Brandram’s song entrancing, and give Grossmith an
encore,
Still all cry, “Oh, Gilbert, Gilbert, change this title,
‘Ruddygore.’
Not in spelling――we want more.”
E. B. V.
_Pall Mall Gazette._ February 12, 1887.
――――:o:――――
THE PLAYWRIGHT’S LAMENT.
_With Chorus of Professional Supers from_ “Ready Goer.”
(_Note._――The long lines are by the Playwright; the short lines are
by the Chorus of Supers.)
Oh, why am I gloomy and sad?
Can’t guess.
And why am I wicked and bad?
Confess.
Because I am _thoroughly_ MAD!
Oh, yes.
You may tell by the rage in my face.
Do you know that I’ve written a play?
Don’t say!
And it was produced yesterday?
Hurrah!
Do the papers a single word say?
Not they!
Now I think that’s a very hard case.
’F I were Gilbert or Sully-vi-_an_――
Oh, ho!
Bronson Howard, the Ah-merry-khan――
Ah, no!
H. A. Jones, or his partner Her_mann_――
Just so!
George R. Sims or Henry Pet-_tett_.
If I were the author of “Jan”――
Who’s he!
Or a thoroughly noted young man――
Dear me!
Or Verdi at distant Mil-_an_――
I see!
I’d get half a column, you bet!
But being at present unknown――
Oh, dear!
No preference for me is shown――
No fear!
So I have to play it alone――
Hear! Hear!!
But I’ll even up with them yet.
LUKE SHARP.
_The Detroit Free Press._ March 19, 1887.
――――:o:――――
COERCION COMING.
_Duet_――Lord Londonderry (_Despard_) and Sir M. Hicks-Beach
(_Mad Margaret_).
_Lond._ I once was a very abandoned person――
_Beach._ Spoiling the hard-up landlords’ chances;
_Lond._ Such people couldn’t conceive a worse ’un――
_Beach._ Or one more subject to sickly fancies.
_Lond._ I blush for my mild extravagances;
But be so kind
To bear in mind
_Beach._ We were the victims of circumstances! [_Dance_
This is one of our contrite dances.
_Beach._ I was as soft as a sweet young lady――
_Lond._ Troubled by Nationalistic vapours.
_Beach._ The squires declared that my ways were shady――
_Lond._ They hinted at penitential tapers.
_Beach._ The Plan of “Pressure” amused the gapers.
My ways were strange
Beyond all range――
_Lond._ And grumbles got into Tory papers! [_Dance._
Here goes to cut coercionist capers.
_Lond._ I’m sorry now for each weak proceeding――”
_Beach._ My taste for a merciful method’s waning.
_Lond._ It’s gag and shackle that Erin’s needing――
_Bench._ We _can’t_ have the Unionists complaining.
_Lond._ Our party’s praises we’d be obtaining.
We’ll try a rule
Of the Iron School.
_Beach._ It won’t be nice, but we’ll stop Campaigning! [_Dance._
Our steps will mend when we’ve had some training.
_Funny Folks._ March 5, 1887.
――――:o:――――
GOOD FOR GOSCHEN.
(_Owed by a De-lighted Pipe._)
Come hither, ye slaves of the weed,
And read;
All ye of fumiferous breed
Take heed;
Through minimised taxing,
The prices they’re axing
For fragrant tobaccos――recede
With speed!
You say that the Budget’s not strong?――
You’re wrong.
You say it contents not the throng?――
Go ’long!
Good smokes it arranges,
And rings in the changes,
And rings out the old with a song――
Ding-dong!
What, say you it’s all for a _puff_?
That’s rough:
_Here_ Goschen deserves no rebuff――
Enough!
Indulgers will glory
In Whig or in Tory
Who’ll give them in ’baccy or snuff
Good stuff!
High duty on weeds they revoke――
Smart stroke――
It’s certain to finish in smoke
(Good joke!)
We welcome, in brief, sir,
Less liquid, more leaf, sir!
When ’baccy in water they soak――
We choke!
When Goschen Pride’s high pyramid
Bestrid,
We openly own that we chid
The kid.
But he gained by _this_ action
The thanks of each faction
That loveth the succulent quid――
He did!
_Funny Folks._ April 30, 1887.
――――:o:――――
Although _Ruddigore_ is, in itself, a burlesque, it occurred to Mr.
Toole that some fun might be got out of a caricature of it, and
accordingly Messrs. Taylor and Percy Reeve composed a “musical parody”
entitled _Ruddy George_, which was produced at Toole’s Theatre. Much
talent for mimicry was displayed by the principal performers, and
especially by Mr. E. D. Ward, as Robin Redbreast (after George
Grossmith) and Mr. Skelton, as Sir Gaspard, in a droll imitation of
Rutland Barrington’s portentious manner. The burlesque was, however,
most successful in so far as it caricatured the idiosyncracies and
eccentricities of Sir Arthur Sullivan’s music. In imitation of the
scene in Act II. of the original, where the portraits of Sir Ruthven’s
forefathers descend from their frames, kitcat panel likenesses of Mr.
Gilbert, Sir Arthur Sullivan, and Mr. D’Oyly Carte suddenly become
endowed with life, and utter some mild, and rather pointless jests.
――――:o:――――
KO-KO ON “THE COW AND THREE ACRES.”
(_The Mikado._)
The Rads all the yokels to gain, tra la!
Gave promise of land and a cow.
They argued, “They’re all half-insane, tra la!
“Majority we shall obtain, tra la!
By the help of the sons of the plough.”
And that’s what they meant, as you’ll quite understand,
When they promised a cow and three acres of land,
And told-’em-a-lie-or-two, told-’em-a-lie-or-two――
Promised a cow and some land.
They’ve voted for them, and so now, tra la!
My advice to the “clods” is “Away!
And tell ’em you’re sick of the plough,” tra la!
That you’ve come for your acres and cow, tra la!
And they’ll turn round to you and they’ll say,
“My friends, we would give you the acres and cow,
But, alas! we’ve not got them――at least, not just now.
But we’ve told-you-a-lie-or-two, told-you-a-lie-or-two――
Live by the sweat of your brow!”
_The Sporting Times._ 1886.
――――:o:――――
ODE TO A LONDON FOG.
Roll on, thick haze, roll on!
Through each familiar way
Roll on!
What though I must go out to-day?
What though my lungs are rather queer?
What though asthmatic ills I fear?
What though my wheeziness is clear?
Never _you_ mind!
Roll on!
Roll on, thick haze, roll on!
Through street and square and lane
Roll on!
It’s true I cough and cough again;
It’s true I gasp and puff and blow;
It’s true my trip may lay me low――
But that’s not your affair, you know.
Never _you_ mind!
Roll on!
_Funny Folks Annual._ 1885.
――――:o:――――
A small volume has recently been published by Messrs. Chatto and
Windus (London), entitled Mr. Gilbert’s _Original Comic Operas_, it
contains The Sorcerer, H. M. S. Pinafore, The Pirates of Penzance,
Iolanthe, Patience, Princess Ida, The Mikado, and Trial by Jury. It
gives the dates when these pieces were first produced, but
unfortunately omits the names of the performers, which all playgoers
and collectors of theatrical curiosities will regret.
Numerous imitations and parodies exist of Mr. Gilbert’s writings,
other than those connected with Sir Arthur Sullivan’s music, thus his
mythological play _Pygmalion and Galatea_ was burlesqued by Miss Alice
Maud Meadows in “_Chiselling Pygmalion_,” which was performed in
London in December, 1883, by the members of the Grantham Lawn Tennis
Club.
A jocular guide to the Edinburgh Exhibition of 1886 was compiled by
Mr. George Stronach, and published by Robert Mitchell, of Edinburgh.
It was entitled “_Our Own-eries_; or, The Show in the Meadows; a
_dog_-gerel _cat_-alogue,” and was profusely and humourously
illustrated. It contained several amusing parodies on _The Mikado_,
and one on Tennyson’s _Brook_, but as they related only to the
Exhibition they were of purely local interest, and are now out of
date.
In _The Bab Ballads_, which originally appeared in _Fun_ (London), may
be found the germs of several of Mr. Gilbert’s plays and operas,
sketches of plots afterwards amplified, and snatches of song which
were, later on, to be linked to Arthur Sullivan’s music, and so made
famous.
The following, which appeared in _Fun_ twenty years ago, contains part
of the plot of _H. M. S. Pinafore_:――
JOE GOLIGHTLY;
OR, THE FIRST LORD’S DAUGHTER.
A tar but poorly prized
Long, shambling, and unsightly,
Thrashed, bullied, and despised,
Was wretched Joe Golightly.
He bore a workhouse brand,
No pa or ma had claimed him,
The Beadle found him, and
The Board of Guardians named him
P’raps some princess’s son――
A beggar p’raps his mother!
_He_ rather thought the one,
_I_ rather think the other.
He liked his ship at sea,
He loved the salt sea-water;
He worshipped junk, and he
Adored the First Lord’s daughter.
The First Lord’s daughter proud,
Snubbed earls and viscounts nightly――
She sneered at barts aloud,
And spurned poor Joe Golightly.
Whene’er he sailed afar
Upon a Channel cruise, he
Unpacked his light guitar
And sang this ballad (Boosey).
_Ballad._
The moon is on the sea,
Willow!
The wind blows towards the lee,
Willow!
But though I sigh and sob and cry,
No Lady Jane for me,
Willow!
She says, “Twere folly quite,
Willow!
For me to wed a wight,
Willow!
Whose lot is cast before the mast;”
And possibly she’s light,
Willow![26]
His skipper (Captain Joyce)
He gave him many a rating,
And almost lost his voice
From thus expostulating:
“Lay out, you lubber, do!
What’s come to that young man, Joe?
Belay!――’vast heaving! you!
Do kindly stop that banjo!”
“I wish, I do――oh, lor!
You’d shipped aboard a trader:
_Are_ you a sailor, or
A negro serenader?”
But still the stricken cad,
Aloft or on his pillow,
Howled forth in accents sad
His aggravating “Willow!”
Stern love of duty had
Been Joyce’s chiefest beauty――
Says he, “I love that lad,
But duty, damme! duty!”
“Twelve years blackhole, I say,
Where daylight never flashes;
And always twice a day
Five hundred thousand lashes!”
But Joseph had a mate.
A sailor stout and lusty,
A man of low estate,
But singularly trusty.
Says he, “Cheer hup, young Joe!
I’ll tell you what I’m arter,
To that Fust Lord I’ll go
And ax him for his darter.
“To that Fust Lord I’ll go
And say you love her dearly.”
And Joe said (weeping low),
“I wish you would, sincerely!”
That sailor to that Lord
Went, soon as he had landed,
And of his own accord
An interview demanded.
Says he, with seaman’s roll,
“My captain (wot’s a Tartar),
Guv Joe twelve years’ black hole,
For lovering your darter.
“He loves Miss Lady Jane
(I own she is his betters),
But if you’ll jine them twain,
They’ll free him from his fetters.
“And if so be as how
You’ll let her come a-boardship,
I’ll take her with me now”――
“Get out!” remarked his Lordship.
That honest tar repaired
To Joe upon the billow,
And told him how he’d fared:
Joe only whispered, “Willow!”
And for that dreadful crime
(Young sailors learn to shun it)
He’s working out his time:
In ten years he’ll have done it.
_Fun._ October 12, 1867.
――――
_The Bab Ballads_ have been often imitated (it is scarcely possible to
_parody_ them successfully), but the imitations are for the most part
very inferior to the originals, besides which they are generally very
long, so that only a few examples can be quoted. The three following
appeared in a prize competition in _The World_, the subject selected
by the editor being:――
KING THEEBAW OF BURMAH.
FIRST PRIZE.
(_Model: “Sir Guy the Crusader.”_)
Theebaw was a potentate mighty,
“The Magnificent One,
Grandchild of the Sun,”
To put foreign armies to flight he
Shook his magical spear――it was done.
John Bull was his special objection,
A contemptible cad,
An upstart who had
Not a single celestial connection,
And whose form altogether was bad.
Yet this snob, with the coolest assurance,
Sent a party named Shaw
To the court of Theebaw
To remonstrate――O cheek past endurance!――
When he strangled his brothers-in-law.
Says Theebaw, “Shall this prig of a Briton
Be allowed to object――
Such a want of respect!――
When I’ve got a man-torturing fit on?
It’s hard lines if my fun be thus checked!”
So he tried of that prying external
His kingdom to rid,
Which he finally did,
Having scared him to death; but a colonel
Named Browne to replace him was bid.
Now Theebaw, it is right here to mention,
Had very strong views
On the subject of shoes;
At an afternoon call their retention
Was a slip that he could not excuse.
The colonel thought this very cruel,
Took cold in his head,
And before going to bed
Put his feet in hot water, supped gruel,
Packed up the next morning and fled.
Said Bull to Theebaw, “I’m disgusted;
If my delegates are
Thus exposed to catarrh,
With a colonel you shall not be trusted.”
Whereto Theebaw answered with “Yah-r!”
So St. Barbe was left there to be worried,
Till he’d reason to dread,
Being relieved of his head
In a manner less pleasant than hurried;
Then he, too, packed baggage and fled.
So Theebaw was alone in his glory.
He drowned everybody
In the deep Irrawaddy,
And then, as an end to the story,
He finished himself with rum-toddy.
ODD FISH.
SECOND PRIZE.
_The Tale of King Theebaw._
Theebaw was the King of the golden toe,
And the monarch of Mandalay,
And he laughingly said, as he got out of bed,
In a casual sort of way:
“I’m tired of my dozens of uncles and cousins;
My connections are far too extensive;
My hundreds of mothers and legions of brothers,
Though dear, yet are very expensive.
I’ll polish off all the sons of my pa,
And then, with due justice, I can’t
But smother my nieces, and cut into pieces
My grandmother’s aged aunt.”
“No, really you mustn’t, august Theebaw,”
Said the spirited British Envoy.
“Pray think of it twice, for it wouldn’t be nice,
You exceedingly naughty boy!”
“’Tis plainly my duty to warn you that we――
Though we’d rather not say, ‘You shan’t!’――
Shouldn’t like it at all, if you cut up quite small
Your grandmother’s aged aunt.”
Then up rose the King of the golden toe,
And he tore off his Chancellor’s wig.
“You idiot,” said he, “have you no repartee
To answer this son of a pig?
Now listen, you ugly preposterous man,
You wretchedly lily-white cus
I’ll make you regret that you got in a pet,
And made such a deuce of a fuss!
I’ll cut every one of my brothers in half;
Their mothers I’ll tenderly boil;
And I’ll frizzle each niece in buffalo-grease,
And fry all my uncles in oil.
O yes, you may threaten; I don’t care a d――
For you and your silly ‘You shan’t!’
And I’ll certainly smother my aged grandmother,
As well as her elderly aunt.
For am I not King of the golden toe,
And the monarch of Mandalay?
And I laugh in my sleeve, for I’m led to believe
That England is far away.
And your army I read in my _Daily News_――
Three men and one little wee boy――
Has sufficient to do with King Cetewayo:
Good morning, my dear Envoy!
And please have the goodness to leave me alone,
For my temper’s uncommonly quick.
Don’t think me uncivil――but――go to the devil!
And――send me some rum, there’s a brick!”
SCOAD.
A VERY DRY TALE.
(_To the air of the ‘Precocious Baby.’_)
A monarch of Burmah, I cannot tell why,
With his sips and ‘nips’
For his parched-up lips,
Was plagued with a throat so excessively dry,
’Twas useless to try
To ‘wet t’other eye,’
Because he was perfectly, perfectly dry.
’Twas shocking in one of exalted degree,
With his ‘Pour a drop more,
Encore and encore,’
’Twas painfully sad for the monarch of B.,
As thirsty was he
As a fish from the sea,
As thirsty, as thirsty, as thirsty could be.
His ministers tried to relieve him at first
With coffee and tea
And soda-and-b.,
But couldn’t relieve his insatiable thirst;
They all did their worst
For the King, who was curst
From youth with a singular, singular thirst.
Of each kind of tipple they brought a supply
(With whisky and brandy,
And other drinks handy),
And wept that their monarch should still remain dry;
But laugh when he’d try
With his jester to vie,
For even his jokes were exceedingly dry.
They gathered in Hungary, Portugal, Spain,
On the banks of the Rhine,
Many hogsheads of wine,
Which were drunk (so was _he_), but he still cried ‘A drain!’
’Twas perfectly plain
All their labours were vain;
He kept on repeating, ‘Go fetch me a drain!’
Then a royal commission his Majesty sent,
With his ‘Pass me a glass
Of the bitter of Bass!’
To buy all the liquor of Burton-on-Trent.
But after they went
He wasn’t content,
Though he drank all the liquor of Burton-on-Trent.
It remained for a Hebrew a cure to propose――
He knew that his highness
Was famed for his dryness,
And melted him down to make waterproof clo’s!
And history shows the fame of him rose――
His dryness made excellent waterproof clo’s!
PEMBROKE.
_The World._ October 29, 1879.
――――
A parody on the same topic will also be found on page 413 of Mr. F. B.
Doveton’s _Sketches in Prose and Verse_, published by Sampson Low &
Co., London, in 1886. But a much more amusing imitation of a Bab
ballad is that on page 456 of the same volume, which, by Mr. Doveton’s
kind permission, is here given:――
THE BISHOP AND THE BALLET.
Postures antic
Drove him frantic
Seized he pen and paper――
“Young men, stop it,
Pray you, drop it,
Watching damsels caper――
’Gainst this awful
Vain, unlawful
Folly set your faces;
Though they charm ye,
Girls will harm ye
More than wine or races!”
They replying,
Answered, sighing――
Hawing, hemming, humming――
“Not for Joe, sir
For you know, sir,
Short skirts are becoming!
Ballet dancing,
Is entrancing,
We enjoy it――_rather!_”
But stern “London”
Thought them undone――
Spoke out like a father.
“_Dare_ ye dally
With the ballet?”
Said the bishop, coldly.
“_You_ may see, sir,
More than _we_, sir,”
Young men answered boldly.
“Go along, boys,
You are wrong, boys,
_I_ have years in plenty;
Whilst these lasses,
Through my glasses,
All seem under twenty!”
Dancer clever
_Hardly ever_
Finds a _man_ who’ll scold her.
Leant one fairy
Light and airy,
On his lordship’s shoulder;
Bishop kissed her
Like a sister,
When he _should_ have smacked her
To delight her,
Doffed his mitre,
And became an _Actor!_
F. B. DOVETON.
[Illustration]
LORD TENNYSON’S JUBILEE ODE.
[Illustration]
The April number of _Macmillan’s Magazine_ contained the Poet
Laureate’s contribution to Jubilee literature. As usual, portions of
the Ode were quoted in the London papers almost before the magazine
was published, and _The Daily News_ went so far as to reprint the
whole of the Ode, an infringement of Messrs. Macmillan’s rights, for
which an apology had to be made. As to the poetical merits of the Ode
public opinion has been tolerably well expressed by the parodies on it
which have appeared. A few verses of the original are here given, to
lead up to the parodies.
CARMEN SÆCULARE.
AN ODE
_IN HONOUR OF_
The Jubilee of Queen Victoria.
I.
Fifty times the rose has flower’d and faded,
Fifty times the golden harvest fallen,
Since our Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre.
II.
She beloved for a kindliness
Rare in Fable or History,
Queen, and Empress of India,
Crown’d so long with a diadem
Never worn by a worthier,
Now with prosperous auguries
Comes at last to the bounteous
Crowning year of her Jubilee.
* * * * *
VI.
You, that wanton in affluence,
Spare not now to be bountiful,
Call your poor to regale with you,
Make their neighbourhood healthfuller,
Give your gold to the Hospital,
Let the weary be comforted,
Let the needy be banqueted,
Let the maim’d in his heart rejoice
At this year of her Jubilee.
* * * * *
VIII.
You, the Patriot Architect,
Shape a stately memorial,
Make it regally gorgeous,
Some Imperial Institute,
Rich in symbol, in ornament,
Which may speak to the centuries,
All the centuries after us,
Of this year of her Jubilee.
IX.
Fifty years of ever-broadening Commerce!
Fifty years of ever-brightening Science!
Fifty years of ever-widening Empire!
X.
You, the Mighty, the Fortunate,
You, the Lord-territorial,
You, the Lord-manufacturer,
You, the hardy, laborious,
Patient children of Albion,
You, Canadian, Indian,
Australasian, African,
All your hearts be in harmony,
All your voices in unison,
Singing “Hail to the glorious
Golden year of her Jubilee!”
XI.
Are there thunders moaning in the distance?
Are there spectres moving in the darkness?
Trust the Lord of Light to guide her people.
Till the thunders pass, the spectres vanish,
And the Light is Victor, and the darkness
Dawns into the Jubilee of the Ages.
――――
_The Globe_ remarked:――
“It is to be feared that the Laureate’s Jubilee Ode will
sadly disappoint all his admirers. It has a certain
rhetorical neatness, no doubt; but it cannot be regarded as
adequate to the occasion. The poet has chosen, for the most
part, very prosaic rhythms, and the Ode, trite and even
common in ideas, is not even endowed with occasional
felicities of expression, On the contrary, it is sometimes
positively unlucky in its phraseology, as when the world is
most unnecessarily assured that Her Majesty has about her――
‘Nothing of the lawless, of the Despot,
Nothing of the vulgar, or vain-glorious.’
“By no means happy are the references to those who ‘wanton
in affluence’ (why ‘wanton?’) to the ‘Lord manufacturers,’
and to the ‘Imperial Institute,’ which latter surely
savours a little of bathos? The six concluding lines have
more inspiration, perhaps, than most; but they do not
harmonise very well in their allusion to ‘thunders moaning
in the distance,’ with the Laureate’s allusion elsewhere to
the ‘prosperous auguries’ of the Jubilee. On the whole,
Lord Rosslyn, Mr. Morris, and Lord Tennyson having all
spoken, it must be confessed that the Jubilee still lacks a
_vates sacer_.”
ANOTHER ODE.
Fifty times the Laureate sharpened his pencil:
Fifty times he turned over the Rhyming Dictionary:
Then he decided to give up rhymes altogether.
HE, the Patriot Laureate,
He, the Lord-manufacturer,
Shaped a stately memorial,
Made it regally gorgeous
After Walt Whitman’s pattern,
Rich in blackness, in dullness,
Which might speak to the centuries
Through the _Magazine Macmillan_,
Of this year of our Jubilee.
* * * * *
Fifty lines at last completed!
Fifty more at least to make a century;
Where the dickens shall the other fifty come from?
But――
Is that the printer’s boy moaning in the passage?
Is that the ――――? ――――! There goes my lead pencil.
Trust the public to make out the glory of these verses.
_The Globe._ March 29, 1887.
――――
VERY HARD LINES.
HOW THEY WERE WRITTEN TO ORDER.
(_Leaf from a Laureate’s Diary._)
9 A.M.――Bother the Jubilee! What in the name of fortune, can one do
with such a rubbishing subject? But here’s _Macmillan_ waiting, and I
haven’t done a single line yet. Must get something put on to paper, if
only to quiet him. But how on earth to begin! Get in “fifty” somehow.
Want fifty somethings that come but once a year. Christmas? Good. That
suggests Clown. I have it.
_Fifty times the Clown has grinned and tumbled._
No. That won’t do. It’s too shoppy, stagey. Has a _soupçon_ of the
_Promise of May_ about it. Wants something wider Ha! The Row,
suggesting the Season, of course.
_Fifty times the Row has filled and emptied._
No. Don’t like it. Reads as if I was talking of a cistern. Too heavy.
Try something lighter. Pastry? Feathers? Flowers? Ha! _that’s_ it.
Flowers, of course. Here, I’ve got it!
_Fifty times the Rose has flowered and faded._
Anyhow, _that_’ll do to go off with. Let’s see. I want fifty something
elses to follow it up with. What shall it be? Cartloads? Handfuls?
Armfuls? Autumns? Harvests? Good again. Not that there’s any precise
connection between them; but one must stick down something, How’ll
this do?
_Fifty times the golden harvest fallen._
Yes, that reads all right. Is there any other way of putting “fifty?”
Yes, “twice twenty-five.” But that won’t come in. Then there’s “four
times twelve and a half.” No; that won’t do. Enough “fifty.” _Now_ we
want some allusion to Her Majesty. Must get in a “since.” I have it,
“Since our Queen assumed,” Capital. Here you are!
_Since our Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre._
Come; that’s a beginning anyhow. Three lines! But they’ve quite dried
me up. Besides, I can’t go on in blank verse like this. Don’t feel up
to it. Must try another metre. What metre. And then what on earth am I
to say in it? I haven’t had such a job as this for a long time. Could
weep over it. A precious Ode I shall make of it.
For though I, know not anything,
Yet must I not my lot upbraid;
Since as the Laureate I am paid,
And, being paid, am bound to sing.
But, “a glass of sherry, will make me merry.” I’ll try one.!
6 P.M.――Confound the Jubilee Ode! Have now been at it all day, and am
floundering worse than ever. Have got in something about
illuminations, sanitary improvements, subscribing to a Hospital and
Penny dinners, and given a kind of back-hander to George the Third,
but who, on earth, I refer to as the “Patriot Architect,” and what I
mean by asking him to _Shape a stately memorial_, _Make it
regularly――no, “regally”――gorgeous_, _Some Imperial Institute_, I
don’t know. But if I arrange it in parallel lines it will look like
poetry, and that’ll be near enough.
Feel I’m making a horrible hash of it. Might go for a turn on my
bicycle. May clear my head. Might try it. Will.
* * * * *
Have dined, and now, at 9 P.M., have again settled down to it over a
pipe and a glass of grog. Am in a more hopeless muddle than ever.
Trying to bring in everybody in a kind of wind-up appeal. But look at
this,――
_You, the snubbed, the unfortunate
You, the Lord-Undertaker,
You, the Lord-Omnibus-Conductor,_
That doesn’t seem to run very well, but it’s the kind of idea I want
to work in. Don’t seem able to manage it.
_You, the Lady-Amateur Actor?_
No, _that_ won’t do! Shall never get it done to-night.
* * * * *
10 P.M.――After awful hammering, managed to knock off two more lines.
Head spinning, but must stick to it. Feel I’ve never turned out such
stuff in my life before. Hopeless!
* * * * *
10.30 P.M.――Two more lines screwed out. But _what_ lines! Won’t scan,
and as to rhyme,――ha! ha!――catch me rhyming to-night!
* * * * *
11 P.M.――Have come to a dead stand-still. Equal to it. Have had
recourse to _the wet towel_. Refreshes me. Ha! I see light. Happy
thought! As I can’t do it in verse, why not write it all in prose, and
then cut it up into poetry afterwards? Sure to get cut up when it
appears. Why not do it myself first? I will. Anyhow, here goes.
* * * * *
MIDNIGHT.――Done it! Labelled it _Carmen Sæculare_. Looks all right,
but quite the toughest piece of work I’ve ever had to turn out. Posted
it to Macmillan. Hope he’ll like it.
_Punch._ April 9, 1887.
ANOTHER JUBILEE ODE.
I.
Fifty times the lines have slipped and halted;
Fifty times some golden lines have fallen
Since this man――the poet――became the Laureate.
II.
He, renowned for a wordiness,
Rare in fable or history,
Poet――and Rhymster of England,
Crowned at last by strawberry leaf,
Never worn by a wordier.
Now with numbers unmusical,
Comes at last to the psalm-front,
Singing the year of Jubilee.
* * * * *
VI.
You whose bank balance is right side
Spare not of cheques the distributing.
Ask your labourers to dine with you,
Make cleanlier their cottages,
Double infirmary subscriptions,
Let the ragged all be clothed,
Let the hungry have bellies full,
Let those one-legged have a wooden one
At this year of the Jubilee.
* * * * *
Fifty years of ever-growing taxes;
Fifty years of ever world-mending
Fifty years of ever muddling Ireland.
* * * * *
You――the taxpayer unfortunate,
You――the Lord Knows-who, and lady,
You――the Lord, shoddy-mixer,
You――the almighty working man,
Patient grumblers of England.
You――all sorts of men――and others,
Irish, Yankee, dynamiters――
All your hearts be in harmony,
All your pockets open lib’rally
To the numerous funds in progress,
Gilding the year of Jubilee.
* * * * *
XI.
Were there poets living in past ages?
Are there poets writing still amongst us?
Pray the Lord of Rhyme to guide weak pens
Till the bards do pass. Song giants come back,
And old sweet Poetry as the victor
Dawns into a Jubilee of the ages.
_Scraps._ April 16, 1887.
――――
OWED TO LORD TENNYSON.
(_Carmen Sequel-airy._)
I.
Fifty times our nose has twirled and tilted,
Fifty times our silvern laughter fallen,
Since, my Lord, we read your Ode――your metre.
II.
You, renowned for a stateliness
Rare in Prose, or in Poetry,
Keen with impress of Genius,
Crowned so long with a laurel-wreath
Seldom worn by a worthier,
Now with preposterous flummeries
Come at last to this flatulent
Droning Ode on the Jubilee!
III.
Nothing of the flawless――but the tin pot――
Nothing of the dulcet, or strain glorious,
All is fussy, feeble, flat――writ poorly.
* * * * *
VI.
You that wanton in epithets,
Spare not now to be bountiful,
Call Tom Moore to regale with you,
Make your sentiments mirthfuller,
Send your spleen to the hospital,
Let the reader be comforted,
Let the seedy be junketed,
Let MacM. in his purse rejoice
At your Ode on the Jubilee.
VII.
Henry’s fifty _truths_ are all in shadows,
Green with envy Edmund’s fifty t’others,
Ananias’ forti-tude forgotten.
VIII.
You, the Patriot Laureate,
Write a better memorial!――
Something really gorgeous
’Bout th’ Imperial Institute,
Rich in jingle, in ornament,
Which may fetch South Kensington,
All South Kensington after us,
In this year of the Jubilee.
IX.
Fifty lines of ever-broadening Outlook,
Fifty lines of ever-brightening Promise,
Fifty lines of ever-widening Meaning.
X.
You, the Flighty, the Fortunate,
You, the Lord-_in-Memoriam_,
You, the Word-manufacturer.
* * * * *
All your parts be in harmony,
All your verses in unison,
Singing――“There’ll be a glorious
Golden harvest, this Jubilee!”
XI.
Are there blunders glooming in the Navy?
Are inspectors moving in the darkness?
Trust My Lords aright to guide the people
Till the blunders pass, th’ inspectors vanish,
And the Press is Victor, and the darkness
Dawns into the――Jubilee of the Pages.
_Moonshine._ April 6, 1887.
――――
THE HOME RULE JUBILATION ODE.
Fifty times seven days are past and ended,
Eighty Whigs have ratted and turned Tory,
Since your William burned his boats, his bridges
He renowned for a wordiness
Rare in fable or history,
King and God of the Radicals,
Crowned with Papal diadem
Never worn by a wordier,
Now with splendid audacity
Reigns the King of Obstructionists.
Partner with Parnell, chief of Irish despots,
Stewed in his juice with Harcourt the vainglorious,
Yet is your William noble, great, and god-like.
You then noisily, all of you
Stump the towns for Disunion.
Let Misrule hold high festival;
Everywhere let the multitude,
Home Rule each to the heart of it,
Raise the standard of Anarchy;
Hail the monarch of egotism,
_Quod sic volo sic jubeo_.
Be as true to England as to Gordon,
Glorying in the trials of her Rulers,
Sorrowing with the griefs of the disloyal.
You that, wanting in intellect,
Spare not now to be boisterous,
Call your thousands to demonstrate,
Make it hot for your neighbourhood.
Give your gold to Invincibles,
Let the landlords be boycotted,
Let the juries be browbeaten,
Let the maimed make the best of it,
Spread the gospel of Anarchy.
Henry’s ears are pricked to catch your brayings,
Gray your ravings to report is burning,
Even my Granny joins the Home Rule chorus.
You, the Paddy-American,
Shape a missile of Dynamite;
Make it really dangerous,
Some explosive material
Like the missile of Clerkenwell,
Which may frighten the Unionists,
All the Unionists terrify,
Frighten them into anarchy.
Fifty times repeat the loud explosion,
Fifty times the midnight crime and outrage,
Till at length you rend the mighty empire.
You, the ruler, the democrat;
You, the serf territorial;
You, the crime-manufacturer;
You, the grimy, uproarious,
Bastard children of Albion,
You, Milesian, Hibernian,
You, the Gael and the Cambrian,
You, the Tyke and the Tynesider,
All your hearts be in harmony,
All your throats shout in unison,
Singing, Hail to the godlike
Grand Old Man, the Obstructionist!
Are there Tories raving in the distance?
Are there landlords moving in the darkness?
Trust the Grand Old Man to blind the people,
Till the Tories fall, the landlords vanish,
And the League is victor, and the darkness
Falls upon the Anarchy of Ireland.
_The St. James’s Gazette._ April 14, 1887.
PRIZE COMPETITION PARODIES.
_The Weekly Dispatch_ awarded the prize of two guineas for the best
Parody of a part of Tennyson’s Jubilee Ode to the following:――
X.
You, the Laureate (O Fortunate),
You, the Bard-territorial,
You, the Verse-manufacturer,
You, whose lines so laborious
Patient children of Albion
Have perused in bewilderment――
List awhile to another “pote.”
All your tones lack in harmony,
All your verse is confusion,
Sing in style less inglorious,
Try these lines for the Jubilee:――
XI.
Hear the thunders moaning not far distant!
See the spectre Want step out from darkness!
Trust we that the Right will guide our people
When they reach that pass, that sceptres vanish,
And the Light is Victor, and these ages
Seem to them the Jubilee of Darkness!
C. R. IRELAND.
The following were highly commended:――
II.
He revered for a genius
Rare in annals of poesy,
Poet Laureate of Albion,
Crowned so long with the evergreens
Never donned by a doughtier,
Now with puerile versicles,
Comes at last to inaugurate
This last year of her Jubilee.
VI.
You, that joy in celebrity,
Spare us now more inanities;
Tell your Muse you have done with her,
Make your countrymen happier.
Give way now to the younger men,
Let the critic be quieted,
Let admirers be comforted,
Let your Queen in her heart rejoice
In this year of her Jubilee.
F. B. DOVETON.
――――
“Fifty times the rose has flower’d and faded,”
Fifty times it would have bloomed without her――
Smelt as sweet without “the crown, the sceptre.”
XI.
Are there thunders moaning in the distance?――
’Tis the German band of near relations;
Trust the mother Queen to guide her people
Where they’ll live in plenty without labour,
And her Alberts, Victors, Georges, Henries,
Families raise for Jubilees for ages.
T. A. H.
――――
I.
Fifty times the State has fooled and blundered,
Fifty times the royal pension’s risen
Since the Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre.
XI.
Are there children starving in our alleys?
Are there famine-stricken homes in cities?
Trust not Queen or Lords to feed the people;
Till the nation rules no troubles vanish.
When the Right is Victor, then the darkness
Dawns into the liberty of the ages.
ALFRED LOVETT.
――――
ON INTERNATIONAL COPYRIGHT.
VI.
Ye, who revel in authorship,
Spare not now to be practical;
Call your “chums” to discuss with you,
Make their industry hopefuller,
Give your works to the publisher.
Let the printer be recompensed,
Let the trader be profited,
Let the scribe in his work rejoice
At the prospect of copyright.
X.
You, the poet, th’ essayist,
You, the faithful historian,
You, the play manufacturer,
You, the writer sensational,
Patient newspaper editor,
You, th’ obscure, the illustrious,
Author, artist, and type-cutter――
All your aims be in harmony,
All your efforts in unison,
Till you succeed in obtaining
International copyright.
J. MARSHALL.
――――
MY LANDLADY.
II.
She disliked for a craftiness
Rare in kitchen or scullery,
Queen, and slave in a lodging-house,
Crowned so long with a widow’s cap
Never worn by an artfuller,
Now, with sanctified countenance,
Comes to fleece us and plunder us,
Growling, “Here is your weekly bill.
VI.
“You, that wanton in affluence,
Spare not now to be bountiful;
Scan not what I regale you on,
Swear no neighbourhood’s healthfuller,
Leave your gold on your looking-glass,
Let your beer and your tea be boned,
Let the needy (that’s _me_) be fed,
Let your landlady line her nest
While she tinkers the weekly bill.”
SHAWRNLAM.
From _The Weekly Dispatch_. April 17, 1887.
――――:o:――――
CARMEN EXPOSTULATORY.
I.
Fifty times my nose I’ve rubbed, and jaded
Is my brain with trying to make out wherein
Of poesy an ounce to find in Carmen Seculare.
II.
He, who as Laureate attained a fame
Rare and great in History,
Babbles now in frothy talk,
Unlike his wonted measure.
And speaks of Empress Queen
And Jubilee, like Whitman would
With ruggedness of diction
To crown this year of Jubilee.
III.
Nothing of the Poetic, but the Crackpot,
Who, with vulgar words bepraising,
All in humdrum rant and rubbish anent the Queen.
IV.
You then mournfully, all of you
Wear your sackcloth, your ashes,
For the sad falling off of one
Who wrote of Arthur Hallam,
In the grand “In Memoriam.”
So will you not with heart
Or voice, Hail this of Tennyson’s
Other than the twaddle tribute
Spawned of this year of Jubilee.
V.
Oh! Alfred, once so true to manhood,
Glorying in the strength to fight all shams.
Sorrowing only with the people in their wrongs.
VI.
You that once in affluence
Of diction, caught the ear of time,
Call we now no longer ours
The people’s friend. Spoiled child
With diadem, and much belorded.
We cannot now be comforted,
Our maimed heart for you doth bleed,
At this, your twaddle talk of Jubilee.
VII.
Who is Henry, that for fifty years in shadow,
Consorts for fifty summers with Edward in gray distance,
And the grandsire’s fifty half forgotten?
VIII.
You, the Patriot Leader,
Shape a stately Memorial.
Record of wrongs not righted,
Of Ireland’s cry not silenced:
But still the symbol badge
Of Saxon oppression,
Which she has worn for centuries.
How will fair Erin
Hail this golden year of Jubilee?
IX.
Fifty years of ever-growing Taxation.
Fifty years of Civil Lists most heavy.
Fifty years of Royal Pauperism.
X.
You, the Mighty, the Fortunate,
Think of the poor who have fallen.
You, the Lord-manufacturer,
Made rich by the hard, laborious,
Patient to suffer――but about to rise.
XI.
Yes, the thunders moan forth in the distance.
See gaunt spectred Poverty moveth in the land.
Trust your common sense to guide you, oh! my people,
So shall thunders pass and spectres vanish,
And Demos crowned a victor, out of darkness’s
Dawn shall come, the Jubilee of the Ages.
ANONYMOUS.
[Illustration]
Algernon Charles Swinburne’s Question
AND
THE ANSWER.
THE QUESTION.
1887.
Shall England consummate the crime
That binds the murderer’s hand, and leaves
No surety for the trust of thieves?
Time pleads against it――truth and time――
And pity frowns and grieves.
The hoary henchman of the gang,
Lifts hands that never dew nor rain
May cleanse from Gordon’s blood again,
Appealing: pity’s tenderest pang
Thrills his pure heart with pain.
THE ANSWER.
1887.
Shall England shirk the task sublime
That Justice to her honour leaves,
Of blotting out a shame that grieves
Her soul, because in raving rhyme
Slander a songster weaves?
The furious fugler of the gang
His rabid epithets may rain
On that grey head in vain, in vain,
Though England’s heart may feel a pang,
And England’s pride a stain.
Grand helmsman of the clamorous crew,
The good grey recreant quakes and weeps,
To think that crime no longer creeps
Safe toward its end: that murderers too,
May die when mercy sleeps.
While all the lives were innocent
That slaughter drank, and laughed with rage,
Bland virtue sighed, “A former age
Taught murder: souls long discontent
Can aught save blood assuage?
“You blame not Russian hands that smite
By fierce and secret ways the power,
That leaves not life one chainless hour;
Have these than they less natural right
To claim life’s natural dower?
“The dower that freedom brings the slave
She weds, is vengeance: why should we,
Whom equal laws acclaim as free,
Think shame, if men too blindly brave
Steal, murder, skulk, and flee?
“At kings they strike in Russia: there
Men take their life in hand who slay
Kings: these, that have not heart to lay
Hands save on girls whose ravaged hair
Is made the patriot’s prey.
“These, whom the sight of old men slain
Makes bold to bid their children die,
Starved, if they hold not peace, nor lie,
Claim loftier praise: could others deign
To stand in shame so high?
“Could others deign to dare such deeds
As holiest Ireland hallows? Nay,
But justice then makes plain our way:
Be laws burnt up like burning weeds
That vex the face of day.
“Shall bloodmongers be held of us
Blood-guilty? Hands reached out for gold
Whereon blood rusts not yet we hold
Bloodless and blameless: ever thus
Have good men held of old.
“Fair Freedom, fledged and imped with lies,
Takes flight by night where murder lurks,
And broods on murderous ways and works,
Yet seems not hideous in our eyes
As Austrians or as Turks.
“Be it ours to undo a woful past,
To bid the bells of concord chime,
To break the bonds of suffering crime,
Slack now, that some would make more fast;
Such teaching comes of time.”
So pleads the gentlest heart that lives,
Whose pity, pitiless for all
Whom darkling terror holds in thrall,
Toward none save miscreants yearns, and gives
Alms of warm tears――and gall.
Hear, England, and obey; for he
Who claims thy trust again to-day,
Is he who left thy sons a prey
To shame whence only death sets free;
Hear, England, and obey.
Great shrieker of the shrieking crew,
The lyric recreant raves and rails
At Justice, who adjusts her scales,
At last, at last, for Erin too,
His fire of freedom fails.
When Italy was militant
For liberty, his muse could rage
In rolling rhetoric page on page,
His poet bosom swell and pant
With wrath――which songs assuage.
But blame not British hands that smite
Their brethren in fierce pride of power,
Leave Ireland not one chainless hour.
Is ruling not our native right,
Our Heaven-appointed dower?
“The dower that freedom brings the slave
She weds, is vengeance.” Aye, the free
In other lands may strike; but we
Are sacrosanct; the fools who brave
Our wrath, must cease to be.
At kings they strike in Russia; there
Tis duty, bliss, to stab, to slay
Kings; but the Landlord, whose harsh sway
Drives pillaged thralls to mad despair,
He is no patriot’s prey.
Those whom the thought of fathers slain,
Of roofless children doomed to die
Starved, maddens by its memory――
These poets pardon not, nor deign
To lift a lyric sigh.
A sigh of pity for such deeds
As hapless Ireland harass? Nay,
Justice shall not make straight our way
Till ruthless Law hath crushed like weeds
All who dare disobey.
Shall soulmongers be held of us
Blood-guilty? Hands that grab the gold,
Whereon blood rests, from the weak hold
Of poor men homeless? Nay, not thus,
Lest British Mammon scold.
Dear Mammon, fledged and fed with lies,
The tale of suffering blurs and burkes,
Hides his own murderous ways and works.
Great Heaven, such shame would shock our eyes――
In Russians, or in Turks.
What, prate about a shameful past?
Ask who began the tale of crime?
Smirch England’s robes with tyrant slime?
The patriot poet in full blast
Shall brand you to all time.
So raves the fieriest bard that lives,
Whose pity for the tyrant’s thrall,
Set to rich music’s rise and fall,
So nobly rang one half forgives
This recreant mud and gall.
Hear, England, and be sad; for he
Who peals this palinode to-day,
The oppressor once could scathe and flay.
Shame that his muse no more is free
When England blocks the way.
Thy spoils he gave to deck the Dutch;
Thy noblest pride, most pure, most brave,
To death forlorn and sure he gave;
Nor now requires he overmuch
Who bids thee dig thy grave.
Dig deep the grave of shame, wherein
Thy fame, thy commonweal, must lie;
Put thought of aught save terror by,
To strike and slay the slayer is sin;
And Murder must not die.
Bind fast the true man; loose the thief;
Shamed were the land, the laws accursed,
Were guilt, not innocence, amerced;
And dark the wrong and sore the grief,
Were tyrants too coerced.
The fiercest cowards that ever skulked,
The cowardliest hounds that ever lapped
Blood, if their horde be tracked and trapped,
And justice claimed their lives for mulct,
Gnash teeth that flashed and snapped.
Bow down for fear, then, England: bow,
Lest worse befall thee yet; and swear
That nought save pity, conscience, care
For truth and mercy, moves thee now
To call foul falsehood fair.
So shalt thou live in shame, and hear
The lips of all men laugh thee dead;
The wide world’s mockery round thy head
Shriek like a storm-wind; and a bier
Shall be thine honour’s bed.
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
_The Daily Telegraph._ April 29, 1887.
――――
Our sore no patriot hand must touch
Even for healing: song shall rave
Against the Statesman old, but brave
Who dares――where youth, craven o’ermuch,
Shrinks――the sharp strokes that save.
Beware that grave of shame wherein
His fame, his honour――by a lie
Put with false lyric fervency――
You fain would thrust. His cause shall win,
His glory shall not die.
You voice their virulence――whose sheaf
Of poisoned darts, for blood athirst,
Fall blunt and harmless――_you_, the first
Of lyric freemen, once the chief
Of patriots? Fate accurst!
Not thus had he, your Hugo, skulked
’Midst the traducer’s, limed and trapped
By patriot shams; _you_ jingo-capped,
Whose views of Freedom broadlier bulked
Caste’s curs have snarled and snapped
In chorus long; but will you bow
To yelp at Freedom’s heels, and tear
Her noblest champion? Have a care!
The fading laurels round your brow
Slander shall not make fair.
At least you have our Answer. Hear!
Not e’en your lips shall laugh Truth dead,
Nor your fierce mockery bow his head
At whom fools shriek in hate and fear,
And despots howl in dread.
From _The Daily News_. April 30, 1887.
[Illustration]
THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.
On page 93 a parody of the above song, entitled _The Fine Old Standard
Tragedy_, was inserted, with a note stating that it had first appeared
in Albert Smith’s _Town and Country Miscellany_. The author of the
parody, the Rev. E. Bradley, has written to point out that it was
originally published in _The Month_ for October, 1851, a small
magazine edited by Albert Smith, and illustrated by John Leech. _The
Month_ only ran to six numbers, from July to December, 1851, when it
was discontinued. Bradbury and Evans, the publishers, had lost money
by it, and the fact was, as stated by poor Albert Smith, _The Month_
was far too good for the public taste of that day. Mr. Bradley kindly
sends another parody, of the same original, which was very popular
amongst University men about 1845; the author’s name is not known.
THE FINE YOUNG ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.
I’ll sing you a fine new song, ’twas made by a mad young pate,
Of a fine young English gentleman, who lives on no estate,
But who keeps up appearances at a very dashing rate,
And also his poor old landlady by coming home so late,
Like a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.
He lives in a smart new lodging up a rather narrow stair,
And the furniture is fine enough, though a little the worse for
wear,
For, two or three gay young friends of his are fond of smoking
there,
And though they spoil the new carpet, this brave young man don’t
care;
For, he’s a fine young English gentleman, one of the present
time.
His custom of an afternoon, if he’s anything of a swell,
Is to ride a friend’s horse in Hyde Park, and chat with some
first-rate belle;
Or to dine with a few nice friends of his at the Clarendon Hotel,
Upon capital good turtle soup, and champagne that’s iced so well;
Like a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.
And, as for the rest of the evening, why I really cannot say,
Except that the cold punch was excellent, and the company very
gay;
And he challenged two or three men; but then, they settle it next
day;
And he does not quite remember how, or when he came away;
For, he’s a fine young English gentleman, one of the present
time.
Now, instead of being seen next day at his desk at half past ten,
He doesn’t find himself there till one, p’raps not even then;
And his head aches so, and his hand shakes so, he can scarcely
hold his pen;
But, “these little accidents will occur to the steadiest of men!”
Says this fine young English gentleman, one of the present
time.
Now, the senior clerk is a horrid old man, as strict as he is sly,
And he calls up this fine young gentleman, and he asks him the
reason why;
And this good young man replies to him――for, he “scorns to tell
a lie”――
That he sat up all night with a poor sick friend, to the best of
his memory!
Like a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.
Then he goes back to his brother clerks, if nothing else
intervenes.
And they’re neither quite as wise as judges, nor yet as grave as
deans;
And a great deal is said about “flaring up,” and “going it like
bricks and beans;”
And they call each other “slap up trumps!” I’m told the expression
means
A fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.
ANONYMOUS (about 1845.)
――――
THE OLD ENGLISH PUBLICAN.
I’ll sing you a song, a good old song, which I have sung before,
About an English publican who lived in days of yore,
The bush then served him for a sign, with chequers at the door,
His ale was fine, and choice his wine, of which he had good store,
The fine old English publican, who served in olden times.
Upon the hearth the fire then blaz’d with logs and roots of trees,
The chimney corner held a score who sat round at their ease;
’Twas there the song and ale went round the social guests to
please,
’Till morning chimes bid them depart; we’ll ne’er see times like
these.
The fine, &c.
They brewed their ale and bak’d their bread, bacon on the rack,
And poultry which the ale-wife fed, and flour in by the sack:
Mine host then had his gun and dog, the fox or hare could track,
And in his pouch when on the chase had malmsey, ale, or sack,
The fine, &c.
You might then play a game at cards, could sing and dance at ease,
Nor heeded an informer’s dread, for such vile knaves displease;
And men could enjoy themselves, and might their fancies please,
Nor could the taxman come as now, the landlord’s purse to squeeze.
The fine, &c.
You ne’er heard of excisemen then, and every house was free;
Nor paltry base informing men that seek for fine and fee;
No new beer shop, to guile the poor about the town you’d see.
No tax on house or windows then, on spirits, or on tea.
The fine, &c.
I hope that all my brother bungs, residing in this land
May have long life and enjoy themselves, and all join hand in hand
To put down the informing crew, who are all a base band,
And fearlessly, with heart and purse, against them make a stand.
For the fine, &c.
ANONYMOUS (written about 1820.)
――――
A FINE OLD HEAVY VILLAIN.
Oh, I’m a deep died villain of a somewhat bygone age,
When T. P. Cooke and N. T. Hicks were heroes of the stage;
Such heroes old playgoers vow they look for now in vain,
What thunders of applause in those old days I used to gain,
When a fine old heavy villain
Of the Drama’s palmy days.
Now having rested silently for nearly fifty years,
The very Deep Red Rover for a short time reappears,
Although not quite so heavy pr’aps as in those days of yore,
He’ll try to soothe the grief of those playgoers who deplore
All the fine old heavy villains
Of the Drama’s palmy days.
Lines in “Deep Red Rover,” an O’piratic burlesque, by Westmacott
Chapman.
――――
THE FINE OLD COMMON COUNCILMAN.
I’ll sing you a fine new song at once, before it is too late,
Of a very Common-Councilman who’s trembling for his state,
Who guzzling at his hall comes out particularly great,
But whom his friends in early life forgot to educate,
Like a vulgar Common-Councilman, one of the present time.
His wife so fine was hung about with feathers, lace, and bows,
Contrived by city milliners, whose fashions no one knows,
And though she dropped her H’s, yet she wore expensive clothes,
And “wot’s the hodds,” she oft would say, “which way the money
goes?”
Of this fine old Common-Councilman, all of the present time.
And when the Queen was to be seen he rushed into Guildhall,
And took his wife, and his wife’s aunt, and daughters, sons, and
all.
And swore and push’d, perspired and crush’d, and fought his way
about,
And showed his wife Prince Halbert, when desired to ‘pint him
hout,’
Did this fine old Common-Councilman, all of the present time.
Few names I wot, those guests had got, that England loves to
claim,
But those the civic wards supplied did every bit the same,
And figged-out dames with cheeks in flames, did on the throne
entrench
Who could not well speak English, not to say a word of French,
Nor those fine old Common Councilmen, all of the present time.
But “which there is,” (as they would say) a paper called _The
Times_,
Which drags up by the roots, all old abuses, cheats, and crimes;
And when its heavy ordnance soon was pointed at Guildhall,
They quaked in dread, because they knew their power soon would
fall,
Did these fine old Common-Councilmen, all of the present time.
And surely ’twill be better far, by universal frown,
When following dirty Smithfield, they themselves should be put
down,
Who are more vulgar than the most uneducated clown,
And ought to feel at last, that they are not of much renown,
These fine old Common-Councilmen, all of the present time.
_The Month._ August, 1851.
A VARIETY OF VICARS.
Let us sing of a worthy type that is well-nigh out of date,
Of the good old English Vicar, who, though small was his estate,
Did all he could the poor to aid and suffering to abate,
And sought the cottage door more oft than the mansion of the
great,
Like a good old English Vicar, one of the olden time!
He never made himself the priest of an exclusive creed;
His house was ever open wide to all that were in need;
And ’twas his joy to cheer the sick, the hungry one to feed;
And little children by the hand with loving care to lead;
Like a good old English Vicar, one of the olden time!
He did not social honour seek, or church preferment crave,
Nor did he let base lucre’s love his kindly soul deprave,
To his dear people his whole life most willingly he gave,
And all the village when he died stood mourning round the grave
Of this good old English Vicar, one of the olden time!
But look at his successor now, a change most marked you’ll see.
He is a very learned man who’s gained a high degree,
And who, expecting in due course that he’ll a bishop be,
Cares little for the humble folks who crave his ministry,
Like a learned modern Vicar, one of the present time!
Shut in his study he essays some treatise to complete,
And rarely do you see his form about the village street;
His voice is never heard, alas! the toiling hind to greet,
And at the bedside of the poor you never, never meet
This learned, modern Vicar, one of the present time!
But even he is better than his neighbour, who, we find
Forgetting that his Master was all merciful and kind!
And who when ’mongst the magistrates he proudly sits enshrined,
To stern and harsh severity’s persistently inclined,
Like a modern J.P. Vicar, one of the present time.
He preaches charity, and bids all men forgive their foes,
And yet, when on the bench next day, no sign of mercy shows;
But far beyond the lay J.P.’s most eagerly he goes,
To crushing sentences inflict, and cruel fines impose;
Like a modern J.P. Vicar, one of the present time!
The parish next to his as priest an Honourable can claim,
Who that fat living holds because he bears his father’s name;
And who, the simple truth to tell, a clergyman became,
Because too mentally obtuse to otherwise win fame;
Like the high-born modern Vicar, one of the present time!
Lawn-tennis is the only thing on which he seems intent,
And he each week for half-a-crown from town has sermons sent――
That is, when at the vicarage, a rather rare event,
For at his father’s London house his time is mostly spent,
Like a high-born modern Vicar, one of the present time!
* * * * *
Just now, these very varied types at least in this agree:
They think their snug emoluments in jeopardy may be;
And rushing to the danger meet, which though far off they see,
They make their long-neglected flocks the pretext for their plea,
Like self-interested Vicars, all of the present time!
Be they Broad Church, or be they High, or Narrow they, or Low,
They all unite to hold their own against the common foe;
Their hearts ’twould seem, with one desire, with one high impulse
glow,
Which animates the sermons which from all Church pulpits flow,
From these much-excited Vicars, all of the present time!
* * * * *
Too late is their anxiety the Church may long endure,
In order that the masses may its services secure.
Too late have come these loud appeals for mercy for the poor,
From those whose one chief aim has been to make their own pay sure,
As grasping English Vicars, all of the present time!
* * * * *
(_Seven verses omitted._)
_Truth._ November 5, 1885.
――――:o:――――
MY NELLIE’S BLUE EYES.
My Nellie’s eyes are blue,
Hair of bright and golden hue,
Like her eyes, her heart is true,
My Nellie my own!
Never reigned a queen more fair,
Who with Nellie could compare,
By her side my life I’d share,
My Nellie my own!
Ne’er was culled from nature’s bower
Half so sweet or rare a flower――
With my Nellie hour by hour,
My Nellie my own!
_Chorus._
My Nellie’s blue eyes,
My Nellie’s blue eyes,
Bright as the stars that shine above,
My Nellie’s blue eyes.
* * * * *
The above is part of the original song which inspired Mr. Charles
Coborn with the idea of one of the most popular parodies of modern
times, _Two Lovely Black Eyes_.
TWO LOVELY BLACK EYES;
_or_, _No more Politics for me_.
Strolling so happy down Bethnal Green,
This gay youth you might have seen,
Tompkins and I with his girl between;
Oh, what a surprise!
I praised the Conservatives frank and free,
Tompkins got angry so speedilee,
All in a moment he handed to me,
Two lovely black eyes.
_Chorus._
Two lovely black eyes,
Oh what a surprise!
Only for telling a man he was wrong,
Two lovely black eyes.
Next time I argued I thought it best,
To give the Conservative side a rest,
The merits of Gladstone I freely pressed,
When oh, what a surprise!
The chap I had met was a Tory true,
Nothing the Liberals right could do,
This was my share of that argument too,
Two lovely black eyes!
_Chorus._
Two lovely black eyes,
Oh what a surprise!
Only for telling a man he was wrong,
Two lovely black eyes.
The moral you’ve caught I can hardly doubt,
Never on politics rave and shout,
Leave it to others to fight it out,
If you would be wise.
Better, far better, it is to let
Lib’rals and Tories alone, you bet,
Unless you’re willing and anxious to get
Two lovely black eyes!
_Chorus._
Two lovely black eyes,
Oh, what a surprise!
Only for telling a man he was wrong,
Two lovely black eyes.
The music for this amusing song was arranged by Mr. Edmund Forman, and
it is published by Francis Bros. and Day, of Oxford Street, London.
“Two Lovely Black Eyes” created such a furore at the Trocadero Music
Hall (formerly the Argyll Rooms) that it was christened “The Trocadero
Anthem,” and on February 8, 1887, _The Pall Mall Gazette_ gave an
account of the wild enthusiasm with which the singer was nightly
received, and reported the following remarks, made by Mr. Coborn, as
to the origin of the song.
“OH, WHAT A SURPRISE!”
“It was a fluke; in fact, I may say ‘a surprise.’ Such things
generally are. ‘Two Lovely Black Eyes’ is a parody of an American song
of which the chorus is ‘Nellie’s Lovely Blue Eyes.’ The air is the
same, and had been sung in London by some lady vocalists, even at the
Trocadero, long before I thought of it. I had an engagement at the
Paragon in the Mile-end Road, and had to sing a new song one Saturday
night. That was a Tuesday, I think. I hummed ‘Nellie’s Blue Eyes,’ and
thought the tune would catch them; but I doubted about the ‘blue’
eyes. I thought they would appreciate ‘black’ more. So I get my
chorus――’Two Lovely Black Eyes.’ That is always my starting point. I
had now to find my words. I was walking down Bethnal Green, thinking
about it; the elections were on at the time, and I turned it over. So
I got the first line:――
‘Strolling so happy down Bethnal Green,’
Who? Why,
‘This gay youth you might have seen,’
You see, ‘seen,’ ‘green?’ Then you would naturally meet some one. I
met Tompkins. I wanted a word to rhime with ‘seen’ and ‘green,’ so I
gave Tompkins a young lady:――
‘Tompkins and I with his girl between.”
I had written ‘Harry’ at first, but it was too prosaic, so I changed
it to Tompkins, which sounded funnier. Then I thought of the
elections, and the rest followed easily. What more natural than that
we should fall out, and that Tompkins should hand me ‘two lovely black
eyes’? That is how it grew. Here is the original which I wrote coming
home in the train.” And Mr. Coborn produced a little black-covered
note-book, every page of which was covered with writing. Songs and
scraps of dialogue and bits of street conversation which Mr. Coborn
will introduce into his patter. “I have sung it about one thousand
times in English, French, and German,” and the popular comic gave me
some samples. He is not a polyglottist, but he has a quick ear, and
his accent is pronounced to be marvellous. Here are the French and
German renderings:――
“Deux beaux yeux noirs,
Oh ciel! quel horreur,
Seulement pour dire a quelqu’un qu’il a tort
Deux beaux yeux noirs.”
“Zwei Augen so schwartz,
Ach, ist dass ein Spass?
Gesagt hab’ ich nur das er Unrecht gehabt,
Zwei Augen so schwartz!”
“I propose to sing it in Hebrew and modern Greek. But the song has
been a fluke right through its career. I thought it would suit the
Paragon audiences (we must consider our public). I thought they would
like the chorus. But when I came to the ‘Trocadero’ I was a little
doubtful, thinking it might be too coarse. So I asked the conductor,
and if he had said ‘yes’ I should have changed it at once. It is my
principle rather to sacrifice a laugh, than to offend a prejudice.”
――――
OH, WHAT A SURPRISE!
The popular Budget Ballad, sung with general rounds of applause at the
St. Stephen’s Music Hall, by the new Exchequer Startler, G. J.
Goschen.[27]
Air――“_Two Lovely Black Eyes_.”
Down at the House, in the days that have been,
This grave sage you might often have seen,
Harcourt and I, and the Chief between,
But oh, what a surprise!
I joined the Conservatives frank and free;
Gladstone got angry right speedilee,
All in a jiff to see G. J. G.
Rat to the To-ries.
_Chorus._――I join the To-ries?
Oh, what a surprise!
Rads were all telling me G. J. was wrong
To join the To-ries.
When to resign Randolph thought it was best,
The Chancellorship upon me was press’d.
A humdrum Budget I feared, I confessed.
When oh, what a surprise!
A surplus I found; it was small, ’tis true,
Less than a million, but what did I do?
By a neat little dodge made it more than two!
That opened their eyes!
_Chorus._――Revenue on the rise!
Oh, what a surprise!
Harcourt was dumbfoundered, Churchill was dished;
Loud cheered the To-ries!
Didn’t the Chaplinites hallo and shout?
Harcourt and others, of course, expressed doubt,
But the Tories may leave me to fight it out;
In that they’ll be wise.
Cut down the Annual Charge on the Debt;
Penny off Income Tax――good bait, you bet,
Lib’rals or Tories, they’re all glad to get
_That_ little surprise.
_Chorus._――Long it has been on the rise.
Ah! what a surprise!
Who will be telling G. J. he is wrong?
This _is_ penny-wise!
Working men’s ’baccy tax――give that a wipe,
Please the poor feeders on porter and tripe
Friend of the “Masses,” put _that_ in your pipe,――
Ain’t that a surprise?
Fancy my Budget’s a fine work of Art.
Randolph may sneer, shows he’s feeling the smart.
’Tisn’t so bad, eh, my friends?――for a start,
With my new allies.
_Chorus_.――Give ’em a fall, not a rise!
Oh! what a surprise!
As for Retrenchment――well that in the sweetest
Of “sweet By-and Byes!”
_Punch._ April 30, 1887.
――――:o:――――
UPROUSE YE THEN, MY MERRY MEN.
_Gipsy Glee._
The chough and crow to roost are gone,
The owl sits on the tree,
The hush’d wind wails with feeble moan,
Like infant charity.
The wildfire dances on the fen,
The red star sheds its ray,
Uprouse ye, then, my merry men,
It is our op’ning day.
Uprouse ye, then, &c.
Both child and nurse are fast asleep,
And clos’d is every flower,
And waking tapers faintly peep
High from my lady’s bower;
Bewildered hinds, with shorten’d ken,
Shrink on their murky way,
Uprouse ye, then, my merry men,
It is our op’ning day.
Uprouse ye, then, &c.
Nor board nor garner own we now,
Nor roof, nor latched door,
Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow,
To bless a good man’s store;
Noon lulls us in a gloomy den,
And night is grown our day,
Uprouse ye, then, my merry men,
And use it as you may.
Uprouse ye, then, &c.
JOANNA BAILLIE.
――――
A SEASONABLE GLEE.
(_To be sung in bed on any Frosty day._)
With Cough and Cold to bed I’ve gone,
My boot is on the tree;[28]
The weather out of doors this morn
(_With a shiver._)
Is cold as charity.
(_With several shivers._)
Is co-o-o-o-old as charity.
The bright fire sparkles sparkles o’er the fen-
-der with its steel array-ay-ay,
-der-with its steel array,
-der with it’s steel array.
(_Shake with cold ad lib. Rings for the Servants._)
Uprouse ye then, my merry merry men,
I’ll not get up to-day;
Uprouse ye then, my merry merry men,
I’ll not get up to-day.
Beneath the blankets full three deep
All snuggled up I cower,
All snuggled up I cower,
Above the counter-pane I peep
To see what is the hour,
To see what is the hour.
My watch I find says half-past ten,
Then dow-ow-own myself I lay,
Then down myself I lay,
Then down myself I lay.
(_To the Footman._)
Bring tea and toast, my merry merry men,
I don’t get up to-day;
Bring tea and toast, my merry merry men,
I don’t get up to-day.
Some friends drop in to ask me “how
I am” (pray shut the door);
_Drop_ in! Their frost is melting now,
And deluging the floor,
And de-lu-ging the floor!
“Get up!” No! no! I trust them when
They say ’tis a_n ice_ day,
They say ’tis an ice day.
They say ’tis an ice day.
I’ll house me then, my merry merry men,
Abuse me as you may;
I’ll house me then, my merry merry men,
Abuse me as you may!
(_Turns in bed, and goes to sleep till dinner time._)
_Punch._ January 16, 1864.
There was a short political parody, of the same song, in _Punch_ for
August 9, 1856, but it is now of no interest.
――――
CHANT OF SMALL CRITICS.
_In the Royal Academy._
The Private Day and Feast are gone,
The public comes to see,
The poor Rejected grunt and groan.
Nor speak with charity.
The shillings flood the porter’s den,
The Red Star sheds its ray,[29]
Uprouse ye, then, my men of merry pen,
It is the Opening Day.
Now for the witticisms cheap,
That sting with knat-bite power:
The sentence based on hasty peep,
And visit of an hour:
Bewildered boobies (nine in ten)
Admire our sportive way:
Uprouse ye then, my men of merry pen,
It is the Opening Day.
Who heeds the painter’s saddened brow,
The wolf he keeps from door,
The pale wife’s timid trust that, now,
His work shall swell their store?
Let’s scare his hope and chance again,
As boys pelt boys in play:
Uprouse ye then, my men of merry pen,
And slang him as ye may.
SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1867.
――――
OUR OPENING DAY.
(_Trio and Chorus for the Political Huntsmen at St. Stephen’s._)
The _Ins_ and _Outs_ from rest are back,
The Speaker’s in his chair.
The talk-mill now resumes its clack,
As birds begin to pair.
The wild-fire quickens tongue and pen,
Wit’s bow is strung to slay.
Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men,
It is our op’ning day!
_Chorus_――Uprouse ye then, &c.
Both Whigs and Rads are wide awake,
Unclosed are Tory’s eyes;
The morning papers now will make
Less room for fads and lies.
Bewilder’d Cits through columns ten
Once more will plod their way;
Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men,
It is our op’ning day.
_Chorus_――Uprouse ye then, &c.
The _Cloture’s_ power own we now
To silence faction’s jaw;
Pat shall not raise eternal row,
In spite of taste and law.
Home-legislation looms in ken,
England shall have _her_ day.
Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men,
And use it as ye may!
_Chorus_:――
Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men!
Uprouse ye then, I say!
Fill up your horns, and let the glen
Resound with echoes gay!
The hunt is up,
Brim high the cup,
Big game we’ll bring to bay.
Uprouse ye then,
My merry, merry men,
It is our op’ning day!
_Punch._ February 17, 1883.
――――:o:――――
TO BE THERE.
_Parody of a well-known Salvation Army Song._
Now I have been a warm ’un in my time,
I have drank and been in rows by the score,
But now I’ve given it up and signed the pledge,
And vowed that I would do so never more.
’Tis true that I have joined a goodly crew,
That never, hardly ever, say sware;
The dark half-hours are nice, I’ve been in them once or twice,
So I know what it is to be there.
When first I saw this very happy band,
They were singing hymns and preaching in the street,
A lady came and shook me by the hand,
And whispered words of piety so sweet;
I squeezed her little fingers rather tight,
And tried to kiss her lovely face so fair,
But she said, if you will come to our sweet Salvation home,
You will know what it is to be there.
(_Chorus._)――To be there, &c.
I very soon began to preach and prate,
And with the sisters played some funny pranks,
I was so good at nobbing with the plate,
They soon made me a Captain of the ranks;
And often when our meetings were dispersed,
With Sister Jane I’d offer up a prayer,
I’d such a jolly spree, when she took me home to tea,
For I knew what it was to be there.
(_Chorus._)――To be there, &c.
I’m troubled with a vixen for a wife,
And often sigh for liberty once more,
She leads me such a very wretched life,
And with the poker warms me on the floor;
She summoned me before the beak one day,
Who said I’d used her shamefully unfair,
Then he ordered me a spell, at the jail in Clerkenwell,
So I know what it is to be there!
(_Chorus._)――To be there, &c.
_Encore Verses._
I’m a most unlucky man, I am, indeed,
Misfortune’s cup I’ve emptied to the dregs,
I’ve tried my best, but find I can’t _succeed_,
And so at last I took to sucking eggs;
My uncle in the best friend that I’ve got,
He keeps a pawnshop close to Leicester Square,
And sometimes I drop in, when I’m rather short of tin,
For I know what it is to be there!
(_Chorus._)――To be there, &c.
To Epsom I went down one Derby day,
And thought that I should have a jolly spree,
When a fellow came and wanted me to pay,
He said he backed the winning horse with me;
I told him I had never made a bet,
When a crowd got round and soon began to swear,
And when they tore my clothes, blacked my eyes, and broke my nose,
Oh, I knew what it was to be there!
(_Chorus._)――To be there, &c.
Written by C. A. Page. Composed by J. Iliffe. Published by Messrs.
Francis Bros. & Day, 195, Oxford Street London.
――――:o:――――
THE TAILOR’S HOLIDAY.
_A Parody of Jack’s Yarn._
’Twas on a Monday morn, and the Tailor played the horn,
On which he’d been a blowing all the way;
He was sitting on a van, and out on the randan,
A going to Rye House to spend the day.
For a few hours free from strife, ’cos he’d got a nagging wife,
But his plan to keep it quiet was in vain,
For a pal just for a game, went and told the Tailor’s dame,
So she took her eighteenpenn’orth down by train.
Singing, Hilly holly ho, listen to my tale of woe,
Of this Tailor’s dinner anniversary,
When every jolly snip, was enjoying of his trip,
Singing, Hilly holly hilly holly ho!
When the Tailor ceased to play, he was looking far from gay.
He showed us where his face and neck were scored;
When we got to the Rye, the first thing we did spy,
Was his wife, and Holy Moses, how she jawed!
And then it was such fun, for to see the Tailor run,
Round the river bank, she in pursuit of he;
’Till at length she tripped and fell, in the water with a yell,
I reckon you’d a heard across the Lea.
(_Chorus._)――Singing, &c.
Every man to this day brags, how long it took to find the drags,
Tho’ they hung near, and handy on a tree,
The drags not being found, of course the old girl drowned,
And so the poor old snip was free.
So here’s good luck and life, to the man what drowned his wife,
And so saved the heavy undertaker’s fee.
All the dragging was in vain, she ne’er was seen again,
That’s why there’s good eel fishing in the Lea.
Singing, Hilly holly ho, listen to my tale of woe,
Of this Tailor’s dinner anniversary,
When every jolly snip, was enjoying of his trip,
Singing, Hilly holly, hilly holly ho!
――――:o:――――
THE GUNPOWDER PLOT
I sing a doleful tragedy,――
Guy Fawkes, the prince of sinisters,
Who once blew up the House of Lords,
The King, and all his Ministers;
That is, he would have blown them up,
(And folks will ne’er forget him,)
His will was good to do the deed,――
That is, if they’d have let him!
Tow, row, row! tol di ridy, tol di ridy, tow, row, row!
He straightway came from Lambeth side,
And wished the State was undone,
And crossing over Vauxhall Bridge,
That way came into London:
That is, he would have come that way,
To perpetrate his guilt, sirs,
But a little thing prevented him――the bridge it wasn’t built,
sirs!
Then sneaking through the dreary vault,
With portable gas light, sirs,
About to touch the powder train
At witching hour of night, sirs;
That is, I mean, he would have used
The gas, but was prevented,
’Cause gas, you see, in James’s time,
It had not been invented!
Now, James, you know, was always thought
To be a very sly fox,
So, he bid ’em search th’ aforesaid vault,
And there they found poor Guy Fawkes;
For that he meant to blow them up,
I think there’s little doubt, sirs,
That is, I mean, provided he
Had not been found out, sirs.
And when they caught him in the fact,
So very near the Crown’s end,
They straightway sent to Bow Street,
For that brave old runner, Townsend;
That is, they would have sent for him,
For fear he was no starter at,
But Townsend wasn’t living then――
He wasn’t born till after that!
So then they put poor Guy to death,
For ages to remember,
And boys now kill him once a year
In dreary dark November;
That is, I mean his effigy,
For truth is strong and steady,
Poor Guy, they cannot kill again,
Because he’s dead already!
Then bless her gracious Majesty
And bless her royal son, sirs,
And may he never get blown up
(That is, if she gets one, sirs)
And if she does, I’m sure he’ll reign,
So prophecies my song, sirs,
And if he don’t, why then he won’t,
And so I can’t be wrong, sirs!
(This version was written about 1840, but the original song is of a
much earlier date.)
――――
NEW LAMPS FOR OLD ONES.
In the story of “Aladdin,” sir, that veritable history,
A certain downy dodger of a new Light made a mystery;
And all for Peoples good, of course, his words were very bold
ones.
The cry he gulled the Public with, was “New lamps for Old ones.”
Buy――Buy――Buy, “New Lamps for Old Ones,”
Buy――Buy――Buy.
Now, it wasn’t out of love at all for darkness, poor humanity,
He offered them New Lamps for Old Ones, but only out of vanity;
That Arabian Mr. Cockrane, knew the value of the old one,
And he thought a sounding one of _brass_ might bring him in a
gold one.
Buy――Buy――Buy, &c.
So, even in the present day, in almost every nation,
Designing knaves can profit by a “Brummagem” imitation,
They cry out “Change, good people, change,” around your dwellings
hovering,
And many are so fond of _change_, they cannot keep a _Sovereign_.
Buy――Buy――Buy, &c.
Here, Agitators bawl “Free Trade,” while others shout “Protection.”
“The Suffrage,” and every week a General Election;
With many other Party cries, my metaphors are bold ones,
But the principle is all the same, it’s “New Lamps for Old ones.”
Buy――Buy――Buy, &c.
Conservatives “to the Country” cry out “New Lamps for Old Ones;”
They put the Whig small candles _out_, and introduced their mould
ones;
But the blessed Lights in Downing Street don’t much improve the
business,
They only splutter, and _waste_ away, with a dismal, _dizzy_
dizziness.
Buy――Buy――Buy,
“New Lamps of Derby and Disraeli, buy――buy.”
In France long for a new Lamp they were in darkness plunging,
So they threw away _a Louis_[30] for a brass one from a dungeon.
But as for any Light it gives, more t’other, though aspiring,
It just serves the Bill Sykes Emperor[31] for _Cooking_ and for
_Firing_.
Buy――Buy――Buy,
The counterfeit, brass Strasburg Lamp out will soon die.
In Rome they rose en-masse one day, and _Pious_ Nino goosed, too;
The wily Pontiff said such a _mass_ he wasn’t used to;
He “stepped it,” and their New Lamp for awhile flared up quite
glittering,
But the French soon put it out, and the Pope’s old Lantern lit
again.
Buy――Buy――Buy, &c.
About Australian “Diggins” Agitators they keep crying,
“New Lamps for Old Ones,” and thousands them are buying;
But oh, beware, or else you’ll find, as Jason did in Greece, Sir,
You’re ruined _Muttons_ after all, all through the _Golden
fleece_, Sir.
Buy――Buy――Buy, &c.
In a country which you all know well, close to the one that we’re
in,
They bawled “New Lamps for Old Ones,” to all who were _in hearing_
(Erin);
They bought the Lamp up eagerly, from men so much distinguished.
But it only kept alight a week, and then it was extinguished.
Buy――Buy――Buy, &c.
Now, of course you’ve got a right to change your ancient gold for
glitter,
But which is best, a steady Light, or one that can but flitter,
And die away, till in the dark, you find you’re but a sold one?
So unless you’re sure it’s a better one, why, never change the old
one.
Don’t――Buy――Buy,
“New Lamps for Old Ones” of Meddlers never buy.
J. A. HARDWICK. About 1852.
――――
THE UNCONSCIOUS GUY FAWKES; OR, IN THE WRONG CELLAR.
(_On the Marquis of Salisbury and the Franchise Bill._)
I sing a song of foolishness, of GUY FAUX, chief of sinisters,
Who fain would blow the Commons up, the PREMIER and his Ministers:
That is, he piles combustibles as he were game to do it;
Let’s hope he’ll be prevented, or he’ll be the first to rue it.
A sort of GUIDO FAUX _pour rire_ he seems for all his swaggering,
Displaying boylike rashness that to thoughtful men is staggering,
That is, it would be staggering, and Statesmen wiser, truer rile,
But that he’s played so many games, and most of them so puerile.
Although he’s bearded like the pard, and looks all fierce virility,
At least as a Conspirator he shows some juvenility.
That is, the juvenility of urchins who complacently
Will let off squibs and crackers when combustibles adjacent lie.
If you should call him GUY FAUX, he’d deny it quite indignantly.
None could regard the House of Lords more fondly and benignantly.
That is, whilst they will follow him; and any plans explosive
About _them_ he’d repudiate with invective most corrosive.
But there’s a horrid Incubus, a Demogorgon hideous,
Who dominates the country by his blandishments perfidious.
That is, he artfully pretends that he the country dominates,
Though everybody――more or less――his rigid rule abominates.
His crafty head to blast from him and skyward swiftly send it sure,
Would justify, in gunpowder, a very large expenditure.
That is, if some perchance might shrink from sheer decapitation,
At least to blow him from his seat would gratify the Nation.
And so――and so, to mine below the Commons-swaying throne of him,
Might end at least in bursting up the power overblown of him.
That is, the game is worth a try, and――well――_if_ not a bit of him.
Remain to tell the dreadful tale, the Commons are well quit of him.
The stars in their calm courses may be confidently trusted
To fight against this Lucifer until his rule is “busted.”
That is, one might feel confidence in influences stellar,
But our poor unconscious Guy Faux has got _into the wrong cellar!_
It _is_ the House of Lords, alas! that he is mining under,
And it and he will presently go up in flame and thunder,
That is, they _may_ in flame go up, if Guy Faux do not falter;
But we’ll hope at the last moment his explosive plan he’ll alter.
_Punch._ November 8, 1884.
――――
A BRADLAUGH BALLAD.
I sing a comic-tragedy,
Of Bradlaugh, Anti-Royalist,
Who once dethroned Victoria,
And stamped out every loyalist;
That is, he would have changed our rule,
That folks might ne’er forget him,
His will was good to do the deed,
That is――if they’d have let him.
With his bow, wow, wow,
B. the Bashful at the helm,
The Queen B. at the prow.
He marched his mob to Palace Yard,
Stalked right up to the Speaker,
Prostrated all the Treasury Bench,
Turned Brand into a squeaker;
That is, he fully meant to make
This brilliant _coup de grace_, sir,
But Bobbies don’t like rowdies,
So they wouldn’t let him pass, sir,
With his row, row, row.
He laid about him with the mace,
Sent statesmen sprawling left and right,
Then rushed and popped beneath the Throne
A ha’pennyworth of dynamite;
That is, he would have blown ’em up
(In metaphor, I mean, sir)
If Northcote had helped Gladstone’s trick,
But he wasn’t quite so green, sir.
Not just now――ow――ow.
When he’d made the Peerage disappear,
The Queen an abdicator,
He made the Chanc’llor his cashier,
And dubbed himself Dictator;
Thought he, if Dilke or Chamberlain,
Or Bright can turn “Court flunkey,”
There’s something in’t,――but hopelessness
Of winning made him funky.
Bow――ow――ow.
He gave himself the Church’s spoils,
Crown lands to the Residuum,
Re-named our loved Victorian Realm,
The Republic of Besantium;
That is, he would this tribute pay,
To woman’s worth and station,
But the People’s will did sore confound
This moral combination.
Somehow――ow――ow.
And as for those Allegiance Oaths,
Let them remain he wouldn’t;
The poor must have no children,
Because Malthus said they shouldn’t;――
That is, he thought it just as well
The Statute Books to wipe out,
But Gladstone’s lot cold-shouldered him,
And Juries put his pipe out,
And his yow――ow――ow.
He confiscated all the wealth,
That spoiled the upper classes,
But did not share it with his mob,
Whom he somehow called “the-m-asses;”
That is, he feared that lucre might
Pollute the people’s mind, sir,
But then he never got the power,
Pooh! nothing of the kind, sir.
Bow――ow――ow.
And so, of ill-got property,
The rich he’d disencumber,
To secure the greatest benefit
For the greatest number;
That is, he’d thus have ruled the folk,
If they hadn’t said “Begone, sir!”
For they guessed his greatest number might
Perhaps, be Number One, sir,
With his bow, wow, wow, sirs.
You can’t make silken purses from
The best ears of a sow, sirs.
_Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet_, by ION. London: Houlston & Sons.
――――
A DAMP WATER PARTY.
I sing a doleful tragedy that gives one quite a shiver, sir,
All of a water party that once sail’d upon a river, sir,
That is, they would have sailed on it, if there they’d chanced to
get, sir;
But the rain came down in torrents, and the river was quite wet,
sir!
Oh! dear, oh!
Now, wasn’t this a stop to all their row, row, row?
At Where-was-it this party was, and there, at many tea-tables,
The guests were gathered in a tent, intent upon the eatables;
That is, they would all have been out on the verdant grass, sir,
But al-fresco luncheons ain’t the thing when the rain comes in
your glass, sir!
Oh! dear, oh! &c.
Upon the table there was set each kind of cake and custard,
And every dish that cooks have e’er invented there was mustered;
That is, there would have been had they been laid within the
house, sir,
But the rain converted every dish, and turned it into “souse,” sir!
Oh! dear, oh &c.
Good things abounded on all sides, and every kind of wine was
there,
And empty bottles prov’d that many a votary of the vine was there;
That is, they would have proved so if the wine they’d chanced to
get, sir,
But Teetotallers got water, the rest had “heavy wet,” sir!
Oh! dear, oh! &c.
And when champagne had brought real joy, and all the lunch was
ended,
They look’d up at the bright blue sky, and said, “The weather’s
splendid!”
That is, they would have said so, but――to use a vulgar name, sir――
The blue was all a “blue look out,” and the weather was the same,
sir!
Oh! dear, oh! &c.
* * * * *
(_Three verses omitted._)
And so all things were turned to fun, and dancing closed the
night, sir,
And music played, and hearts were light, and eyes were shining
bright, sir;
So long may water parties reign, and always have fine weather,
sir,
To shine upon the company that there have met together, sir,
So, be it so,
For then they may take boats and barge, and Row, row, row!
From _Medley_; by Cuthbert Bede, author of _Verdant Green_. London: J.
Blackwood.
――――
HOME RULE ALL ROUND.
The question for the country now is no mere choice of Ministers,
’Twixt Liberals and Conservatives, the Dexters ’gainst the
Sinisters,
A party warfare waging, with designs and dodges tactical.
Within the sphere of Politics, which common minds call practical.
Bow-wow-wow, &c.
Home Rule’s at most a moiety of a measure far more national,
The uppermost in every mind that’s sensible and rational
A measure to eradicate the vice of inebriety,
By interdicting liquors to all classes of Society.
Bow-wow-wow, &c.
Needs must Home Rule for Ireland be domestic legislation,
Laid down on Father Mathew’s lines to pacify the nation;
’Twould Irishmen from whiskey wean, on thin drink strictly diet
’em,
And let them have no more potheen! which possibly might quiet ’em.
Bow-wow-wow, &c.
Electors, in this crisis you’ve a splendid opportunity,
For the only Cause of consequence to all of the community.
Vote for no candidate, whose line in politics a fad I call;
But poll for the Teetotaller, Conservative or Radical.
Bow-wow-wow, &c.
Home Rule the United Kingdom craves, that claim of its Alliance is
The only thing to care about――therein our sole affiance is.
None other do we want to press on Parliament’s adoption
Home Rule for every parish, Universal Local Option.
Bow-wow-wow, &c.
_Punch._ July 10, 1886.
――――
THE G.O.M. FOX.
I sing about a Grand Old Man, whom everybody knows, sir,
Who once disjoined the Emerald Isle from us, her “foreign” foes,
sir;
That is, I mean, he would have given her “National” authority,
But for the fact that he for once was not with the majority.
Bow, wow, wow!
What’s the good of balking when it’s all done now?
He summoned all the Cabinet, and there in consultation,
His colleagues helped him form the bill to bring before the
nation;
That is, he might have sought their aid, for most of them are
’cute, sir,
Had he not planned and settled all himself to save dispute, sir.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
Then fifty million pounds he raised to buy the landlords out, sir,
And England――it is she who pays――there’s not the slightest doubt,
sir;
That is, we should have had to pay the bill if nothing stopped it,
But, fortunately just in time, the Grand Old Man he dropped it.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
And now his plébiscite has brought him once more into power,
All Liberals and Radicals united like a tower;
That is, the fight would thus have turned, and have been from the
starting won
But for his lack of openness――and Chamberlain and Hartington.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
JOHN LOWRESS.
_The Weekly Dispatch._ July 4, 1886.
――――
THE PILGRIM OF LOVE.
_Recitative._
Orynthia, my beloved, I call in vain!
Orynthia! Orynthia! echo hears and calls again,
A mimic voice repeats the name around,
And with Orynthia all the rocks resound.
_Air._
A hermit who dwells in the solitudes cross’d me,
As wayworn and faint up the mountain I press’d;
The aged man paus’d on his staff to accost me,
And proffered his cell as a mansion of rest.
Ah! nay, courteous father, right onward I rove,
No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love,
For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love,
No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.
Yet tarry, my son, till the burning noon passes,
Let boughs of the lemon tree shelter thine head;
The juice of ripe muscadel flows in my glasses,
And rushes fresh pulled for siesta are spread.
Ah! nay, courteous father, right onward I rove,
No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.
For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love,
No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.
――――
BLOWSABEL.
_Recitative._
Oh! Blowsabel! my detested, you call in vain,
Oh! Blowsabel! echo hears and squalls again;
Her horrid voice repeats my name around,
And with her bawling all the streets resound.
_Air._
A landlord who kept a snug liquor-shop pass’d me,
As flurried and hot I up Summer Hill pressed;
The knowing one smiled as he stayed to accost me,
And proffered his crib for a glass and a rest.
Oh! no, jolly father, I will not, I vows,――
No rest but the grave from the tongue of my spouse.
Yet, tarry, my son, till your wife’s fury passes,
The “George and the Dragon” shall shelter thy head;
My whiskey is good, and full measure my glasses,
If fuddled too soon you shall share half my bed;
No, no, jolly father, I will not, I vows,――
No rest but the grave from the tongue of my spouse.
From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin.
(The same volume contains another parody, entitled _Raw Lobsters_,
which is vulgar, and not funny.)
――――
THE VICTIM OF LOVE.
_Recitative._
Angelina, my chickabiddy!
I calls upon Angelina! Angelina!
A bobby hears, and says “Move on!”
His comic voice repeats the name around,
And with “Angelina” all the streets resound!
_Air._
A damsel there dwells in a court down in Stepney,
In disgraceful apparel she ever is drest,
This fair one I lov’d and I asked her to have me,
Oh! have me sweet gender, and I shall be blest!
Ah! nay, courteous masculine, the dear one replied,
“This virgin don’t mean to be not no man’s bride.”
So I’m the victim of love, I’m the victim of love,
There’s no cure for consumption, nor the victim of love.
Yet stay, scrumptious maid, like a beautiful Queen,
You shall dress in fine calico, silks, laces and shawls,
You shall ever wear the _thingamys_ and your dear crinoline
Shall be three times as big as the dome of Saint Pauls;
“Ah! nay, simple Simon, she answered so cool,
I’d rather keep single than amalgamate with a fool,
So I’m the victim of love, I’m the victim of love,
There’s no cure for dislocation of the vertebræ, nor the victim
of love.
Angelina! said I, “put an end to my woes,
My buzzum’s a busting, nay, cut me not short,”
But all that she did was to turn up her nose,
And wagging her tail she then waltz’d down the court.
Like a blighted young flower expire I shall,
For I’d cast my infections on that there young gal,
So I’m the victim of love, I’m the victim of love,
There’s no cure but extinction for the victim of love.
Written expressly for Mackney, the comic singer, by G. W. Hunt, and
published by J. Bath, Berners Street, London.
――――
THE SONG OF THE SEEDY COMMON-COUNCILLOR
AFTER A WEEK’S FESTIVITIES.
A Doctor who dwells in my neighbourhood crossed me,
As, seedy and queer, to my office I pressed;
The able man paused on his way to accost me,
And proffered advice that would give me some rest.
“Ah no, courteous Doctor, though weary I be,
No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C.
For the seedy C. C., for the seedy C. C.,
No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C.”
“Yet tarry, my friend, till this sad attack passes;
I’ll send you some pills to relieve your aching head.
The juice of the grape must not flow in your glasses,
And rush fast away from the most tempting spread.”
“Ah no, courteous Doctor, though weary I be,
No rest till Vacation, for the seedy C. C.
For the seedy C. C., for the seedy C. C.,
No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C.”
_Punch._ July 3, 1886.
――――
PADDY FLINN!
_Recitative._
Och, Judy, my sweet darling, I bawl in vain
Judy! dear Judy! I’m wet through quite with rain
The dirty children mock me all around
And with ‘dear Judy’ does each pig stye sound!
_Air._
Tim Murphy, who dwells by the Cow and worsted stocking,
I met near the bog at the end of the town;
He swore by the powers, I desarved a dacent knocking,
He was after knocking me _up_, but I knocked the varmint _down_.
’Och, now Patrick,’ said he, what is it you’d be at?
Faith said I, you would get round me, but ye see I’ve laid ye
flat,
And remember when to Judy’s you betake yourself again,
There’s sure to be a bating for the foe of Paddy Flinn.
So I wished him better luck, and left the spalpeen sprawling,
And hastened to you, Judy, wid a heart of love so true:――
Then listen to your Paddy, while his tender tale he’s tawling,
In this hard shower to let me stand, sure’s very hard in you.
But see the door is open’d, so I’ll boldly venture in,
Here’s bad luck and better manners to the foes of Paddy Flinn.
J. W. BURDEN.
――――
THE PILGRIM OF HATE.
(A popular song, sung by Mr. Chamberlain in Scotland and elsewhere.)
_Recitative._
Chamberlain, my beloved!――he calls in vain.
Chamberlain! Echo hears and calls again.
A grand old voice repeats the name around,
And with J. Chamberlain Scotland’s hills resound.
_Air._
A Hermit who dwells down at H-w-rd-n had crossed me,
As wayward and proud up Fame’s mountains I pressed;
The aged man feared from his staff he had lost me,
And offered――a sell!――in his Cabinet rest.
“Ah! nay, Grand Old Hand, I would far rather wait;
No rest, save at top, for the Pilgrim of Hate.”
“Yet tarry, my Son, till my H. R. Bill passes;
Let’s bow to the League and Parnell, its great head.
_You’ll_ not leave the Masses and vote with the Classes?
Come in, take your seat. Reform’s banquet is spread.”
“Ah! nay, Grand Old Hand, I’m not caught with _that_ bait.
No rest under _you_ for the Pilgrim of Hate.”
_Punch._ April 30, 1887.
――――:o:――――
THE VICAR OF BRAY.
In good King Charles’s golden days,
When loyalty no harm meant,
A zealous high Churchman I was,
And so I got preferment:
To teach my flock I never miss’d,
Kings are by God appointed,
And damn’d are those that do resist,
Or touch the Lord’s anointed.
And this is law I will maintain
Until my dying day, sir,
That whatsoever king shall reign,
I’ll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.
When royal James obtain’d the crown,
And Popery came in fashion,
The penal laws I hooted down,
And read the Declaration:
The Church of Rome I found would fit
Full well my constitution;
And had become a Jesuit
But for the Revolution.
And this is law, &c.
When William was our king declared,
To ease the nation’s grievance,
With this new wind about I steer’d,
And swore to him allegiance;
Old principles I did revoke,
Set conscience at a distance;
Passive obedience was a joke,
A jest was non-resistance.
And this is law, &c.
When gracious Anne became our Queen,
The Church of England’s glory,
Another face of things was seen,
And I became a Tory:
Occasional conformists base,
I damned their moderation,
Although the Church in danger was
By such prevarication.
And this is law, &c.
When George in pudding-time came o’er,
And moderate men look’d big, sir,
I turn’d a cat-in-pan once more,
And so became a Whig, sir;
And thus preferment I procured,
From our new faith’s defender;
And almost every day abjured,
The Pope and the Pretender.
And this is law, &c.
Th’ illustrious House of Hanover,
And Protestant Succession;
To these I do allegiance swear――
While they can keep possession:
For in my faith and loyalty;
I never more will falter,
And George my lawful king shall be――
Until the times do alter.
And this is law, &c.
“The Vicar of Bray, in Berkshire,” says D’Israeli, in his “Curiosities
of Literature,” was a Papist under the reign of Henry the Eighth, and
a Protestant under Edward the Sixth. He was a Papist again under Mary,
and once more became a Protestant in the reign of Elizabeth. When
reproached for his versatility of religious creeds, and taxed with
being a turn-coat, and an inconstant changeling, as Fuller expresses
it, he replied: “Not so, neither; for if I changed my religion, I am
sure I kept true to my principle, which is to live and die the Vicar
of Bray.”
In a note in Nichols’ _Select Poems_, 1782, vol. viii., p. 234, it is
stated that _The song of the Vicar of Bray_ “is said to have been
written by an officer in Colonel Fuller’s regiment, in the reign of
King George the First. It is founded on an historical fact; and though
it reflects no great honour on the hero of the poem, is humourously
expressive of the complexion of the times, in the successive reigns
from Charles the Second to George the First.
As to the name of this famous Vicar there are several theories.
According to one authority, “Pendleton, the _celebrated_ Vicar of
Bray,” became rector of St. Stephen’s, Walbrook, in the City of
London, in the reign of Edward VI. But in a letter from Mr. Brome, to
Mr. Rawlins, dated June 14, 1735, he says, “I have had a long chase
after the Vicar of Bray. Dr. Fuller, in his _Worthies_, takes no
notice of him, I suppose he knew not his name. I am informed it was
_Simon Alleyn_ or _Allen_, who was Vicar of Bray about 1540, and died
1588, so was Vicar of Bray nearly fifty years. You now partake of the
sport that has cost me some pains to take.”
Camden, in his _Britannia_, says of Alleyn: “This is he of whom is the
proverb, ‘The Vicar of Bray still.’” The song however, refers to an
entirely different period, commencing in the reign of Charles II. and
lasting until “the illustrious House of Hanover.” There was a Vicar of
Bray, unknown to fame, who was vicar during the exact period covered
by the song. His tombstone is in the centre aisle of Bray Church, and
its record is that his name was Francis Carswell, that he was chaplain
to Charles II. and James II., Rector of Remenham and Vicar of Bray
forty-two years, and that he died in 1709.
――――
THE COURT CHAPLAIN.
When Pitt array’d the British arms,
To check the Gallic ferment,
I spread the regicide alarms,
And so I got preferment;
To teach my flock I never miss’d,
“Reform is revolution,
“And damn’d are those that do assist
“To mend a Constitution.”
And this is law, I will aver,
Tho’ stiff-neck’d fools may sneer, sir,
Whoe’er may be the Minister,
I’ll be the Chaplain here, sir.
When gentle Sidmouth sway’d the Crown
And peace came into fashion,
The lust of war I hooted down,
And puff’d pacification.
I vow’d the papists were agreed
To burn all honest men, sir:
And Methodism had been my creed――
But Pitt came in again, sir,
And this is law, &c.
When Grey and Grenville made the laws
For Britain’s tol’rant nation,
I took the cudgels for the cause
Of transubstantiation.
The Articles I made a joke,
(Finding I should not need ’em:)
And, Afric’s fetters being broke,
E’en grew a friend to Freedom.
And this is law, &c.
When Perceval advised our King,
(The Church of England’s glory)
My conscience was another thing,
For I had turn’d a Tory:
I cursed the Whigs, no more in place;
I damn’d their moderation,
And swore they shook the Church’s base,
By sinful toleration.
And this is law, &c.
Now that the Ministry relent,
And Erin’s sons look big, sir,
I feel a soft’ning sentiment,
Which makes me half a Whig, sir.
And thus preferment I procure,
In each new doctrine hearty――
Alike extol, neglect, abjure,
Pope, King, or Bonaparte.
At least ’tis law, &c.
The now prevailing politics,
The now administration,
On these allegiance do I fix――
While they can keep their station:
For in my faith and loyalty
I never more will falter,
To Liverpool and Castlereagh,
Until the times shall alter.
For thus I safely may aver,
However fools may sneer, sir,
That whoso be the Minister,
I must be Chaplain here, sir.
From _Posthumous Parodies_. London: John Miller. 1814.
――――
WHO’S YOUR RATTER?[32]
In Mr. Gladstone’s powerful days,
When Tories were a faction,
We used his every word to praise,
And glorify each action.
To teach our readers we ne’er miss’d,
Their William was perfection,
And traitors those who dared resist,
Or move his bill’s rejection!
But this the law is we’ll maintain,
Until it cease to pay, sir,
That whatsoever party reign,
We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir!
The People’s William lost his place,
And Dizzy was victorious;
The Tories we had called so base
Replaced the Liberals glorious.
But soon we found ’twould never do
To still support the latter;
We’d vow’d to do so, it is true,
But still that did not matter.
For this the law is we’ll maintain,
Until it cease to pay, sir,
That whatsoever party reign,
We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir!
And see how well our “ratting” pays,
For Ministers are grateful,
And from their table drop some scraps
Enough to fill a plateful.
And when we up back stair-ways creep,
To Salisbury see, or Dizzy,
They rarely kick us down again,
Unless they’re _very_ busy.
So this the law is we’ll maintain,
Until it cease to pay, sir,
That whatsoever party reign,
We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir!
Another fight will soon begin,
And p’rhaps, as some allege, sir,
The Liberals will th’ elections win,
In that case we must hedge, sir.
For should the Tories have to yield,
They would no further use be;
Oh, wouldn’t my Lord Beaconsfield
Rare subject for abuse be!
For this the law is we’ll maintain,
Until it cease to pay, sir,
That whatsoever party reign,
We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir!
_Truth Christmas Number._ 1879.
――――
BRADLAUGH’S BRAY.
In good Victoria’s palmy days,
When Chartism was prating,
I joined the Democratic craze,
And practised stump orating.
To teach my mob I never missed
That King-made law is bad law,
And damn’d be all who dare resist
The rise of righteous Bradlaugh.
For this is law, I will maintain,
Until my dying day, sir,
That over Parliament I’ll reign,
Or there’ll be the devil to pay, sir.
When first my stump career began,
Rank heresy I spouted,
Belief in God as Lord of man,
As lunacy I scouted.
Disguised as great “Iconoclast,”
In wrangling I waxed foxy,
Blew my own trumpet’s brazen blast,
And started my new ’doxy.
For this is THE true faith, I swear,
Nor dare to say me nay, sir,
Believe in Bradlaugh, Cromwell’s heir,
And for his triumph bray, sir.
But finding Atheists weak and thin,
I sought a higher mission,
And found much greater profit in
The vending of sedition.
Though mobs can’t think, they shun a bore,
They love a bright variety,
Which proved to me my forte was more
For politics than piety.
So this is law I do declare,
In this my trying day, sir,
That none shall judge me by my acts,
Nor yet by what I say, sir.
So down with Kings and Queens and Priests,
And Church and State and Pensions,
And up with Dilke’s Republic, and
My grand Freethought Conventions;
Saints Malthus, Knowlton, Besant――these
Are lights this dark world’s needing,
So up with population checks,
And down with all good breeding.
For if this had but been the law
In my good father’s day, sir,
One nuisance less of print and jaw,
Had not now blocked the way, sir.
Sometimes a nation’s destiny
By cobbler’s wax-end hangs, sir,
I found myself an M. P. by
M.P. rical harangues, sir,
And though my “lay” was strong and bold,
(For “takings” flowed in thereby)
The Crown I’d cursed――I’ll now uphold,
The Book Pd scorned I’ll swear by!
For this should be the law, I say,
And shall do to my grave, sir,
A man may swear his soul away,
His path to power to pave, sir.
Now to our Gracious Queen, her Heir,
And Protestant succession.
To each I will allegiance swear
(While they can keep possession),
So now, sweet Commons! hear my prayer,
Have pity on my grievin’,
_Please_ let me on that Bible swear
By Him I don’t believe in.
And when I’m Lord Protector, sir,
I’ll make the law to be, sir,
That whatsoe’er a man shall swear,
His conscience shall be free, sir.
From _Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet_, By ION. London, Houlston &
Sons.
――――
THE HOUSE OF LORDS.
When bluff King Hal grew tired of Kate,
And sued for his divorce, sir,
He cast about, and found in us
His willing tools, of course, sir.
What for her grief? We laughed at that,
And left her in the lurch, sir,
While every one of us grew fat
By plunder of the Church, sir.
To hold a candle to Old Nick
Has ever been our way, sir,
And still we’ll play the self-same trick,
So long as it will pay, sir.
Two other queens that underwent
“The long divorce of steel,” sir――
Do you suppose that e’er we wept,
Or for their fate did feel, sir?
We only sought to please the King,
And his worst wishes further;
And gaily did our order join
In each judicial murther.
For us no trick was e’er too base,
No crime too foul to shock, sir,
Nor innocence availed to save
E’en women from the block, sir.
When Mary came with fire and stake
Poor pious folks to kill, sir,
No single protest did we make,
But let her work her will, sir;
But when the Church reclaimed her lands,
And looked for smooth compliance,
We quickly raised our armèd bands
And gave her bold defiance.
Thus did the Queen her error learn,
To think (how gross the blunder!)
That, though we let her rack and burn,
We’d e’er restore our plunder.