We quailed beneath her frown, sir,
With nought but fear and hate for one
So worthy of the crown, sir.
As abject traitors round her throne
We fulsome homage paid her,
Though more than half of us were known
To plot with the invader.
To her for ducal coronets
We never were beholden;
To us the days of “Good Queen Bess”
Were anything but “golden.”
When slobbering James of coin was short,
He baronets invented,
And to creating lords for gold
Right gladly he consented;
A handsome “tip” was all he asked
To make you duke or lord, sir――
No question ever of your _worth_,
’Twas what you could _afford_, sir.
To be a peer, “your grace,” “my lord,”
O, Lord! how fine it sounded!
And thus, by shelling out of cash,
Were noblest houses founded.
When Charles the First, the public right
To crush but now applies him,
And willing help he gets from us;
As friends we stand beside him.
His acts of tyranny and fraud
Scarce one of us opposes――
The fine, the prison, or the whip,
Or slitting people’s noses.
To curb the tyrant of his will
Was no way in our line, sir,
All human rights were forfeited,
And merged in “Right Divine,” sir.
The Second Charles just suited us,
We joined his lewd carouses,
And concubines became the source
Of many ducal houses.
And, as reward of services
That history rarely mentions,
You still enjoy the privilege
Of paying us the pensions;
And this we swear, by all that’s blue,
Despite that prudes cry “Hush, sir!”
That whatsoever we may do
You’ll never find us blush, sir.
In James’s Court we flourished still;
Like sycophants we vied, sir;
To be a royal mistress formed
Our daughters’ highest pride, sir;
For Whigs though tortures were devised,
Their legs with wedges broke, sir,
We ate and drank, and laughed and played,
But ne’er a word we spoke, sir.
For mingled cruelty and wrong
We never did upbraid him;
But when a _paying_ chance came round,
Right quickly we betrayed him.
When William came, with righteous rule,
We proved but glum consenters;
The King we deemed was but a fool,
To tolerate Dissenters;
Whilst on his part his Majesty
Distrusted us with reason,
For ’gainst our chosen lord and king
We still kept plotting treason.
And so against all righteous things
We’ve struggled from the first, sir,
To vex and thwart the better kings,
And sided with the worst, sir.
In reign of Anne, ’twas one of us,[33]
Gave notice to the foe, sir,
Against his port and arsenal
We aimed a warlike blow, sir;
And thus were lost, in dire defeat,
Eight hundred sailors bold, sir――
But what of that, when France’s bribe
Our “noble duke” consoled, sir?
Betrayal of the State’s designs
By this colossal traitor――
What wonder now the lordlings praise
His humble imitator!
With George the Third it was essayed
To purge our code from blood, sir,
But we the arm of mercy stayed,
Its efforts all withstood, sir;
To hang for e’en a paltry theft――
Though tempted sore by hunger――
Was God’s own justice, so it seemed
To every boroughmonger.
And so poor wretches, one or more,
At every fair or wake, sir,
Performed “the dance without a floor,”
Our thirst for blood to slake, sir.
Yet had the self-same laws been tried
On us without distinction,
Their action surely had implied
The peerage’s extinction.
But while the gallows we upheld,
“Offence’s gilded hand,” sir,
Had all our lordly acres swelled
With thefts of common land, sir.
While wicked prizes thus we claw,
And justice shove aside, sir
“Not ’gainst the law, but by the law,”
Has ever been our guide, sir.
When Pitt the Irish Parliament
Resolved to bring to London,
He had to buy their peer’s consent
Or else his scheme was undone,
So English coronets galore
Were scattered through their tribe, sir,
Besides a million pounds or more――
Their stipulated bribe, sir.
And by this opportunity
They drove their dirty trade, sir,
To show to all posterity
How lords and dukes are made, sir.
When Wesleyans and Baptists, too,
For right of education,
At public universities
Did press their application,
’Twas we their just demand refused――
Denied their common right, sir,
And all our special powers abused
To gratify our spite, sir.
When Jews to sit in Parliament
Had duly been elected,
’Twas we kept shut the Commons’ door,
Their right to vote rejected.
On Railway Bills our conduct calls
For no detailed narration;
No line could pass our lands without
Outrageous compensation.
Like gorging vultures at the feast,
Our greed surpassed all bounds, sir,
Our blackmail figured, at the least,
One hundred million pounds, sir.
Of pa_y_-triotism we’ll never tire,
For it we’ll live and die, sir,
And, if the reason you inquire.
We spell it with a _y_, sir.
In reason’s name or righteousness,
You vainly may reprove us,
For scorn, contempt, and threats possess
The only power to move us.
To mutilate, reject, delay,
Obstruct whene’er we dare it,
We’ll persevere in our old way
So long as you will bear it.
Of this be sure, until that day
Such things shall ne’er be mended,
Till million voices join to say,
“The House of Lords is ended!”
C. F.
_The Weekly Dispatch._ December 7, 1884.
There was another short parody of the same song in _The Weekly
Dispatch_ of August 24, 1884. It also was directed against the House
of Lords, and concluded:――
“So bend and mend, proud peers, or end
In signal dissolution.”
――――
THE NEW VICAR OF BRAY.
(Mr. Gladstone _Loquitur_.)
In good King William’s peaceful reign, when loyalty no harm meant,
A zealous Tory then was I, and showed no small discernment;
To teach the crowd I never failed, that Tories were appointed
To save the King and Church and State from rebels unannointed.
And this is law I will maintain unto my dying day, sir,
That whatsoever parties reign still I’ll in office stay,
sir.
When Peel at length assumed the reins, and Free Trade came in
fashion,
Protective laws I hooted down, as hurtful to the nation.
The Treasury Bench I found would fit full well my Constitution;
And there I first began to air my matchless elocution.
And this is law, &c.
When Palmerston look things in hand to ease a Nation’s grievance,
With this new wind I steered about, and swore to him allegiance;
Old principles I did revoke, set conscience at a distance,
Sent Derby to the right about, and laughed at all resistance.
And this is law, &c.
When Disraeli began to shine, and seemed to dim my glory,
A downright Liberal I became, and grew to hate a Tory.
The Whigs began to look askance; I scouted moderation,
And held my own in spite of all by much prevarication.
And this is law, &c.
When Chamberlain came on the stage, with precepts Communistic,
I joined the crowd with him and Dilke, and other folks deistic.
Propped up by them I kept my place and promised less taxation;
Then straight sent up the Income Tax, and went for confiscation.
And this is law, &c.
When Salisbury and Churchill came I made out at a glance, sir,
That Parnell and his motley crew were now my only chance, sir;
So now for Home Rule straight I go, unheeding revolution,
And fondly hope before I die to smash the Constitution.
And this is law I will maintain unto my dying day, sir――
That whatsoever parties reign I will in office stay, sir.
S. H.
_The Globe._ March 24, 1886.
――――:o:――――
OLD TOWLER.
Bright Chanticleer proclaims the dawn,
And spangles deck the thorn,
The lowing herds now quit the lawn,
The lark springs from the corn:
Dogs, huntsmen, round the window throng,
Fleet Towler leads the cry,
Arise the burden of my song,
This day a stag must die.
With a hey, ho, chevy!
Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy!
Hark! hark! tantivy!
This day a stag must die.
The cordial takes its merry round,
The laugh and joke prevail,
The huntsman blows a jovial sound,
The dogs snuff up the gale;
The upland wilds they sweep along,
O’er fields, through brakes they fly,
The game is roused, too true the song,
This day a stag must die.
With a hey, ho, &c.
Poor stag; the dogs thy haunches gore,
The tears run down thy face,
The huntsman’s pleasure is no more,
His joys were in the chase;
Alike the gen’rous sportsman burns,
To win the blooming fair,
But yet he honours each by turns,
They each become his care.
With a hey, ho, &c.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
THIS DAY A STAG MUST DIE.
(_An imitation of “Old Towler.”_)
The op’ning morn dispels the night,
Her beauties to display,
The sun breaks forth, in glory bright,
And hails the new-born day;
Diana like, behold me then
The silver arrow wield,
And call on horses, dogs, and men,
Arise, and take the field.
With a hey ho chivy,
Hark forward tantivy!
Arise, bold hunters, cheerly rise,
This day a stag must die.
O’er mountains, valleys, hills, and dales,
The fleet-foot coursers fly,
Nor heed whate’er the sport assails,
Resolved a stag shall die!
Roads, trees, and hedges seem, to move,
Such joys does hunting yield;
While Health a handmaid deigns to prove,
When huntsmen take the field.
With a hey ho chivy, &c.
Thus virgins are by man pursued,
And beauty made his aim,
’Till, by his wily craft subdued,
He hunts for other game;
And since e’en life is but a race
We run till forced to yield;
Yo, ho, tantivy, join the chase,
Arise, and take the field.
With a hey ho chivy, &c.
――――
SONG OF THE MATCHMAKING MAMMA.
Bright chandeliers the room adorn,
Each thing’s arranged with care,
And gayest smiles and silks are worn
This night to catch the Heir.
With a heigho! Letty!
Hark forward, you forward Miss Betty,
To-night we hunt the He-e-e-i-r――
To-night we hunt the Heir!
Poor Heir! you feel our sport a bore,
We read it in your face;
If you’ll propose to one――no more
You’ll find us give you chase.
With a sigh from Letty!
Or forward, too forward Miss Betty!
No more we’ll hunt the He-e-e-ir――
No more we’ll hunt the Heir!
From _George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack for 1848_.
――――
A HUNTING SONG.
(_Dedicated to the Jamaica Committee._)
Our chance at EYRE we claim this dawn――
Our witnesses are sworn――
A new indictment we have drawn,
Despite the public’s scorn.
Dogged hither by a yelping throng,
The Governor draws nigh――
So raise the burden of our song――
“Peccavi” he must cry!
_Chorus_――With a hey, oh, levy
Subscriptions our victim to chevy.
Law charges heavy!
(_Here comes a yelping of hounds._)
“Peccavi” he must cry.
* * * * *
Despair! Our Christian sport is o’er,
The judge has spoilt our case;
“A colony preserved” no more
Can we pronounce disgrace.
The jury no true bill returns,――
To cheer the public dare!
No gratitude our labour earns――
We can’t hunt down our (H)EYRE.
_Chorus._――With a heigho, heavy
The legal expenses to levy!
Vain our chevy!
(_Here the yelping grows faint_),
“Peccavimus,” we cry!
_Fun._ June 13, 1868.
――――
HUMANITY HUNTING SONG.
“OPENING MEET OF THE WINDSOR GARRISON DRAG-HOUNDS.――On Saturday, in
miserably wet weather, this pack of draghounds commenced their hunting
season…. The hounds will be hunted twice a week (every Wednesday and
Saturday) during the season.”――_Morning Paper._
We’re going to have a glorious run,
This murk and mizzling morn.
Our Hunt inferior is to none,
Except not even the Quorn.
A substitute will, scent as strong
As Reynard’s own, supply.
Excuse the burden of my song;
This day a Drag must die!
_Chorus_――
With a hey, ho, chivy;
Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy!
Excuse the burden of my song;
This day a Drag must die!
Because, although a herring red
May, like a fox, be tracked,
The Drag is absolutely dead
In point of literal fact.
Yet hounds and horses after go,
With huntsmen’s horns, and cry
Of “Yoicks!” and shout of “Tallyho!”
This day a Drag must die!
_Chorus_――With a hey, ho, &c.
A Drag’s as good to ride behind
As ever a fox’s tail,
Well drawn about, with turn and wind,
O’er many a hill and dale.
Fence, hedgerow, palings, turnpike gate,
The rider’s pluck will try,
As much as though ’twere true to state,
This day a Drag must die!
_Chorus_――With a hey, ho, &c.
Each man as much risks life or limb
As when a fox is slain;
The sport is all the same to him,
And we give no animal pain.
Humane excitement whilst we seek,
No victim in our eye;
Except as now, when so to speak,
This day a Drag must die!
_Chorus_――With a hey, ho, &c.
_Note._――WILLIAM COBBETT, in one of his charming works, tells a
delightful story of the revenge he, when a young clodhopper, once took
of a huntsman who had fetched him a cut of his whip; in repayment for
which injury Cobbett went and trailed a red herring over the
hunting-ground, and then, mounted on a hill-top commanding a view all
round, stood enjoying the satisfaction of seeing the hounds thrown off
the scent, and the fox-hunt turned into a drag-hunt, to his enemy’s
vexation.
_Punch._ November 5, 1881.
――――:o:――――
OLD KING COAL.
(_Air_: “OLD KING COLE.”)
I.
Old King Coal was a merry old soul:
“I’ll move the world,” quoth he;
“My England’s high, and rich, and great,
But greater she shall be!”
And he call’d for the pick, and he call’d for the spade,
And he call’d for his miners bold;
“And it’s dig,” he said, “in the deep, deep earth;
You’ll find my treasures better worth
Than mines of Indian gold!”
II.
Old King Coal was a merry old soul,
Yet not content was he;
And he said, “I’ve found what I’ve desired,
Though ’tis but one of three.”
And he call’d for water, he call’d for fire,
For smiths and workmen true:
“Come, build me engines great and strong;
We’ll have,” quoth he, “a change ere long;
We’ll try what Steam can do.”
III.
Old King Coal was a merry old soul:
“’Tis fairly done,” quoth he,
When he saw the myriad wheels at work
O’er all the land and sea.
They spared the bones and strength of men,
They hammer’d, wove, and spun;
There was nought too great, too mean, or small,
The giant STEAM had power for all;――
His task was never done.
IV.
Old King Coal was a merry old soul:
Quoth he, “We travel slow;
I should like to roam the wide world round,
As fast as the wild winds blow.”
And he call’d for his skilful engineers;
And soon through hills and vales,
O’er rivers wide, through tunnels vast,
The flying trains like lightning pass’d,
On the ribs of the mighty Rails.
V.
Old King Coal was a merry old soul,
A merry old soul is he;
May he never fail in the land we love,
Who has made us great and free!
While his miners mine, and his engines work,
Through all our happy land,
We shall flourish fair in the morning light,
And our name and our fame, and our might and our right,
In the front of the world shall stand!
CHARLES MACKAY.
――――
QUEEN COLE.
Oh! little Queen Cole was as nice a little soul
As any in this company;
And she loved the King more than anything
Else――but a green monkey.
So, when Old King Cole did call for his bowl,――
As in truth, very oft did he,――
If he’d send away the fellows, to make merry in the cellars,
Why, a sly little drop took she,
Why, a sly, &c.
But little Queen Cole (and it’s true upon my soul,
Strange though the fact may be)
She scolded the King like anything,
For smoking of tobaccy!
Though of angels the type, she couldn’t bear a pipe,
She hated it mortally;
And she’d make such a rout as put the King’s pipe out,
Oh! most confoundedly.
Oh! most confoundedly.
Now, little Queen Cole had a musical soul,
So she sent for her pianists three;
When Mr. Chopin he soon came a-hopping,
Such a very nimble chap was he.
While Thalberg and Liszt, each with ten-finger’d fist,
As no mortal e’er did see;
And never till now was there heard such a row
On one poor piano-for_te_.
On one poor piano-for_te_.
Also, little Queen Cole had a singing soul,
And she sent for her singers three,
And she liked the notes from the musical throats
Of Grisi and Persiani.
But, the third one, to wit, she said could not sing a bit,
’Cause his name didn’t end in “I.”
Some fellow from town, some Jones or Brown;
So very soon snubb’d was he.
Oh, very soon, &c.
This was all very well, but I must also tell
That she hated the secretary;
For he always would look in the royal cash-book;
Such an aggravating chap was he.
“Vot’s this?” says he, “Fippence do I see, for taters
Three pounds; bless me!
Vy, taters, I’ll be bound, may be had three pound
Tuppence-ha’penny!”
“Ah! tuppence-ha’penny!”
Well, little Queen Cole, as time did roll,
Fulfilled her destiny;
That is to say, in a genteel kind of way,
She had a large family.
So that Old King Cole felt anxious in his soul,
And with a deep sigh said he,
“Drat the people, if I ax ’em, why they won’t let me tax ’em,
For to fill my treasury.”
“For to fill, &c.”
But little Queen Cole was as coaxing a little soul,
As you’d find on a summer’s day;
So said she, “If I axes, now I know they’ll pay the taxes.”
“We’ll be smother’d if we do!” said they.
“For ve werry much winces at this long list of princes,
Vich is longer than it ought for to be!”
But the Queen, too proud to wrangle, oh! she set up a mangle,
And her subjects they went tax free.
And her subjects, &c.
But the people grew ashamed, when they heard the story named,
How she mangled for the whole family;
So they swore “Blood and ’ounds,” and they fumbled out the
“browns,”
Just in time for their old country.
For a very old foe saw the royal coffer low,
And a very fierce attack made he;
And it would have served them right (they were shabby fellows
quite),
If he’d gain’d the victory.
If he’d gained, &c.
From _Sharp’s Vauxhall Comic Song Book_. No date.
――――
OLD KING COAL.
Old King Coal paid a very high toll,
And a very high toll paid he;
And it went in the bottle, and it went in the bowl,
In green fat, callipash, callipee.
What a shame, what a shame, what a shame! said the people,
What a wrong that this should be!
And there’s none whate’er that can compare
To the sons of gluttony.
Old King Coal paid a very high toll,
And a very high toll paid he:
And the City of London eat up the whole,
By consent of the Powers that be.
This won’t do, this won’t do, this won’t do! says the people;
This must not, shall not be;
And we now declare we’ll no longer bear
Such a monstrous robbery!
_Punch._ November 29, 1851.
(Notwithstanding Mr. Punch’s virtuous indignation the City of London
still levies the obnoxious Coal Tax, and Parliamentary Reports have
recently shown in what manner some of the money is expended.)
HENRY COLE, C.B.[34]
“We write in a state of great depression. Our readers will forgive us
if we are not sprightly this week; there is a time for everything, and
now with us it is the time for grieving. We have fallen under the
displeasure of Mr. HENRY COLE, C.B.!!
Gentle Public pity us!
Oh! Henry Cole, C.B., deal gently with us.
Oh! creator of South Kensington; oh! author of Mumbo Jumbo, don’t be
too hard on us.
We are sorry, and our heart is heavy within us. Oh! inexhaustible
Cole, consume us not in thine ire!
What have we done that we should be smitten with thy fury? Did we ever
insult thee by coupling thy name with high Art? Did we ever accuse
thee of holding the interests of thy country higher than thine own?
Listen while we praise thee.
Yes, we will now praise the great, the mighty, the gentle Cole. We
will show him how deep, how sincere, is our love, our veneration, our
worship, of Henry Cole, C.B.
Who is the very greatest architect of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who
is the greatest painter of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the
greatest military hero of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the
greatest author of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the handsomest
man of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the most immaculate statesman
of this age? Henry Cole, C.B.
Oh! Henry Cole, C.B., will you forgive us now?”
_The Coming “Strife.”_
Old King Cole was a savage old soul,
And a savage old soul was he;
Captain Coles was his intimate friend,
And almost as savage as he.
Said Old King Cole, the savage old soul,
As savage as ever could be,
“My friend you must lend me a turret ship
In which I can put to sea?”
Says Captain Coles, while his eyeball rolls,
As savage as ever you see,
“For what do you want a turret ship,
And why sail o’er the sea?”
Says Old King Cole, the savage old soul,
As savage as ever could be;
“I want it to smash, and crash, and to dash,
The Ed. of the TOMAHAWKIE?”
Says Captain Coles while his eyeball rolls,
As savage as ever you see;
“I heard he had threatened you with 68 pound,
Of the finest gunpowder tea!”
Says Old King Cole, the savage old soul,
As savage as ever could be;
“If you’ll only lend me a turret ship,
I’ll soon annihilate he!”
_The Tomahawk._ September 7, 1867.
――――
YOUNG KING COAL.[35]
_New Version of an Old Song._
Young King COAL was a merry young soul,
And a merry young soul was he;
He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl,
And he called for his fiddlers three.
There was CHAMBERLAININI, and HARTINGTONINI,
And, GOSCHENI to make up the three;
For young King C., oh, was fond of a tri-o,
Very fond of a trio was he.
Young King COAL left his rivals in the hole,
When he took the Chancelle-rie
Of the British Exchequer, and, to keep up their pecker,
They slanged him unmercifull-y.
So himself to cloak from the very provoking jeers of the Rad
Part-y,
Young King COAL their old mantle stole,
And a very smart Rad made he.
Young King COAL loved “smoking” in his soul,
And his Brummagem Best Bird’s-eye,
And his “Cavendish,” went faster than was pleasing to the master
Of the House where his new baccy’s he would try.
And our young King C., and his fiddlers three,
Thy kicked up such a shine and such a fume,
Mr. IRVING’S worst witch-riot in a _Faust_-scene’s clear and quiet,
To the Tory-Democratic Big Boom.
Young King COAL he called for his bowl,
And he called for his fiddlers three,
And he served ’em out a dozen pounds of best Union rosin,
And they all played a symphonee.
CHAMBERLAININI and GOSCHENI played like STRAUSS and like ZERBINI,
And then HARTING-TON-I-NI
Played “_God Save the Queen!_” and the others all joined in,
In a way to make a patriot pipe his eye.
Young King COAL he laid down his bowl,
And a dickens of a speech made he;
And he talked so loud that he frightened half the crowd,
And broke up the symphonee.
At least some (in the Chorus) cried, “_This_ music can’t be for
us,”
But as for those fiddlers three,
Whilst the Chorus cried, “We’re diddled!” they symphonically
fiddled,
And muttered “O, fiddlededee!”
Young King COAL still waves his pipe and bowl,
Though they reek of Rad flavour still.
Some say it’s far from right, that he’ll set himself a-light,
And blow up like a gunpowder-mill.
But as for the whole of the “principles” of COAL,
When he was a true Toree,
If you want ’em you may see ’em in the British Museum,
Or the writings of Lord SALISBUREE.
_Punch._ December 4, 1886.
――――:o:――――
WHEN THIS OLD CAP WAS NEW.
_From a black-letter copy among the Roxburgh Songs and Ballads._
When this old cap was new――
’Tis since two hundred year――
No malice then we knew,
But all things plenty were:
All friendship now decays,
(Believe me, this is true)
Which was not in those days,
When this old cap was new.
The nobles of our land
Were much delighted then
To have at their command
A crew of lusty men;
Which by their coats were known,
Of tawny, red, or blue,
With crests on their sleeves shown,
When this old cap was new.
Now pride hath banish’d all,
Unto our lands reproach,
When he whose means are small
Maintains both horse and coach:
Instead of an hundred men,
The coach allows but two;
This was not thought on then,
When this old cap was new.
ANONYMOUS, about 1666.
――――
A CHANGE OF STYLE.
When this old hat was new
The railroad was a stage;
And a six-mile team
Made plenty of steam,
For the broadest kind of gauge.
You caught a goose when you wanted a pen,
The ink you used was blue;
And the women you loved didn’t want to be men
When this old hat was new.
A Spade was only a spade,
And Jennie was just plain “Jane”
For his impudent lip
A boy would skip
At the end of a rattan cane.
There were sixteen ounces in every pound,
Four quarts made a gallon true;
But things don’t seem as they used to be
When this old hat was new.
But we’ve shortened the time since then,
And we’re running a faster heat,
And the boys of ten
Are full-blown men,
Who run the store and the street.
We blush to giggle and we should smile;
We’re cute and we never say die;
We’re up to snuff and we’re full of guile;
And we’re just too awfully fly;
And father is governor, old man, dad,
And his old day is gone;
We run things fast and a little bad,
Since we put this new hat on.
ROBERT JONES BURDETTE.
_The Cincinnati Inquirer._
――――
WHEN THIS OLD JOKE WAS NEW.
When this old joke was new,
This time worn heritage,
The monkey-man its points did scan
On pre-historic page.
His footmark was the only print;
His leaves were leaves that grew;
The only tint was Nature’s tint
When this old joke was new.
When this old joke was new,
Our literature was scant,
And _literateurs_ had no reviewers
With hearts of adamant;
No wild-eyed poets raved of “Spring”
We had our tails it’s true,
But novels were’nt a general thing
When this old joke was new.
When this old joke was new,
We drew an easier breath;
For we had then no funny men
To make us long for death;
There was no _Punch_ austere and flat,
To paint our faces blue;
They wouldn’t have tolerated that
When this old joke was new.
When this old joke was new,
We somehow hadn’t hit
That loss of shame which builds a “name”
On other people’s wit.
Perhaps folks were more honest then;
Had consciences a few,
And different from _our_ race of men,
When this old joke was new.
HAL BERTE,
_The Detroit Free Press._
――――:o:――――
SAID A SMILE TO A TEAR.
Said a Smile to a Tear,
On the cheek of my dear,
And beamed like the sun in spring weather,
In sooth, lovely Tear,
It strange must appear,
That we should be both here together.
I came from the heart,
A soft balm to impart,
To yonder sad daughter of grief:
And I, said the Smile,
That heart now beguile,
Since you gave the poor mourner relief.
Oh! then, said the Tear,
Sweet Smile, it is clear,
We are twins, and soft Pity our mother:
And how lovely that face
Which together we grace,
For the woe and the bliss of another!
JAMES KENNEY.
An amusing parody of this song, entitled _The Loves of the Plants_
will be found on page 70 of Volume I. of the Universal Songster.
Unfortunately it is too long, as well as too broad, to be inserted in
this collection.
――――
THE STEAK AND THE CHOP.
Said a steak to a chop,
On a hook in a shop,
In the dog-days, and very hot weather,
“Dear chop, it is clear,
If we long tarry here,
We shall certainly melt both together.”
Said the chop from the chump,
To the steak from the rump,
“Unless there’s a change in the weather,
Lovely steak, I agree,
In a mess we shall be,
And be kitchen-stuff made both together.”
“Oh!” then, with a sigh,
Midst the sound, What d’ye buy!”
Said the steak to the chop with emotion,
“A long or short six,
In some save-all to fix,
Will at last be our doom, I’ve a notion!”
――――
SAID A FOX TO A GOOSE.
Said a fox to a goose,
(From a farm-house let loose)
And chanced to be pluming a feather,
“Dear goose, how d’ye do?
’Tis strange, and yet true,
That you and I meet here together!
Said the goose (with a stare),
“Mr. Fox, are you there?
And to see you indeed is a pleasure!
In truth I must say,
That your visit to-day,
Is really _delight_ beyond measure!”
Says the fox, “Then, we’ll walk,
And like friends so dear talk,
And never was seen finer weather.”
Says the goose, “Gander Grange
Has forbade me to range
Or else we would travel together.
Said the fox, “Let him be,
Take an airing with me,
And hear both the goldfinch and linnet!
On the _love_ of a _friend_,
You can, goosy, _depend_,
And”――snapt off her head in a minute.
――――:o:――――
SONG.
(_By a Person of Quality. Written in the year 1733._)
Fluttering spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o’er my heart:
I, a slave in thy dominions;
Nature must give way to art.
Mild _Arcadians_, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o’er your flocks,
See my weary days consuming,
All beneath yon flowery rocks.
Thus the _Cyprian_ goddess weeping,
Mourn’d _Adonis_, darling youth;
Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gored with unrelenting tooth.
_Cynthia_, tune harmonious numbers;
Fair _Discretion_, string the lyre;
Soothe my ever-waking slumbers:
Bright _Apollo_, lend thy choir.
Gloomy _Pluto_, king of terrors,
Arm’d in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors,
Watering soft Elysian plains.
Mournful cypress, verdant willow,
Gilding my _Aurelia’s_ brows,
_Morpheus_, hovering o’er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.
Melancholy smooth _Meander_,
Swiftly purling in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander,
With thy flowery chaplets crown’d.
Thus when _Philomela_, drooping,
Softly seeks her silent mate,
See the bird of _Juno_ stooping;
Melody resigns to fate.
This mellifluous piece of nonsense was published in the _Miscellanies_
of Alexander Pope, but it was also inserted amongst the poems of Dean
Swift, where it was entitled _A Love Song in Modern Taste_. It
ridiculed an affected style of poetry then much in vogue, and which
continued in fashion for many years, culminating in the writings of a
clique, known as the _Della Cruscans_, which was originated by a few
English, of both sexes, assembled at Florence in 1785. They were named
_Della Cruscans_ because their leader, one Robert Merry, signed his
trashy effusions as a member of the Acadamy Della Crusca at Florence.
Merry wrote a tragedy, entitled _Lorenzo_, which was more successful
than many comedies, for it made the audience laugh immoderately,
besides innumerable poems long since forgotten. By a deliberate system
of mutual puffing the Della Cruscans forced their absurd productions
upon the public, and in the early years of the present century nearly
every journal contained some of their poems, published over assumed
names, such as Laura Maria, Edwin, Anna Matilda, &c. These were
afterwards gathered into volumes, with a few poems by really able
writers such as M. G. Lewis, Robert Southey, and S. T. Coleridge, and
published by subscription.
There is no knowing how long this twaddle might have held the public
taste had not William Gifford (Editor of the Quarterly Review)
produced his famous satires _The Baviad_, and _The Maeviad_, in which
he mercilessly exposed the inflated nonsense written by the Della
Cruscans; and by well chosen extracts from their poems turned the
laugh so completely against them that they slunk back into their
native obscurity.
Gifford’s satires are still read with pleasure, and the extracts given
in the notes show that Pope’s nonsense verses were excelled by the
would-be-serious Della Cruscans; as for example――
“Slighted love the _soul_ subduing
_Silent_ sorrow _chills_ the _heart_,
_Treach’rous_ fancy still _pursuing_,
Still _repels_ the _poisoned_ dart.
_Soothing_ those fond _dreams_ of pleasure
_Pictur’d_ in the _glowing_ breast,
_Lavish_ of her sweetest _treasure_,
Anxious _fear_ is _charm’d_ to _rest_.
Fearless o’er the whiten’d _billows_,
_Proudly_ rise, sweet bird of night,
_Safely_ through the bending _willows_
_Gently_ wing thy _aery_ flight.”
When the brothers Smith projected their famous _Rejected Addresses_
they included an imitation of the Della Cruscan poetry, entitled
Drury’s Dirge, of which Lord Jeffery wrote “The verses are very smooth
and very nonsensical――as was intended; but they are not so good as
Swift’s celebrated song by a Person of Quality; and are so exactly in
the same measure, and on the same plan, that it is impossible to avoid
making the comparison.”
――――
DRURY’S DIRGE.
BY LAURA MATILDA.[36]
“You praise our sires: but though they wrote with force
Their rhymes were vicious, and their diction coarse:
We want their _strength_, agreed; but we atone
For that, and more, by _sweetness_ all our own.”――GIFFORD.
I.
Balmy Zephyrs, lightly flitting,
Shade me with your azure wing;
On Parnassus’ summit sitting,
Aid me, Clio, while I sing.
II.
Softly slept the dome of Drury,
O’er the empyreal crest,
When Alecto’s sister-fury,
Softly slumb’ring sunk to rest.
III.
Lo! from Lemnos limping lamely,
Lags the lowly Lord of Fire,
Cytherea yielding tamely
To the Cyclops dark and dire.
IV.
Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness,
Dulcet joys and sports of youth,
Soon must yield to haughty sadness;
Mercy holds the veil to Truth.
V.
See Erostratus the second
Fires again Diana’s fane;
By the Fates from Orcus beckon’d,
Clouds envelope Drury Lane.
VI.
Lurid smoke and frank suspicion
Hand in hand reluctant dance:
While the God fulfils his mission,
Chivalry resign thy lance.
VII.
Hark! the engines blandly thunder,
Fleecy clouds dishevell’d lie,
And the firemen, mute with wonder,
On the son of Saturn cry.
VIII.
See the bird of Ammon sailing,
Perches on the engine’s peak,
And, the Eagle firemen hailing,
Soothes them with its bickering beak.
IX.
Juno saw, and mad with malice,
Lost the prize that Paris gave:
Jealousy’s ensanguined chalice,
Mantling pours the orient wave.
X.
Pan beheld Patroclus dying,
Nox to Niobe was turn’d;
From Busiris Bacchus flying,
Saw his Semele inurn’d.
XI.
Thus fell Drury’s lofty glory,
Levell’d with the shuddering stones;
Mars, with tresses black and gory,
Drinks the dew of pearly groans.
XII.
Hark! what soft Eolian numbers
Gem the blushes of the morn!
Break, Amphion, break your slumbers,
Nature’s ringlets deck the thorn.
XIII.
Ha! I hear the strain erratic
Dimly glance from pole to pole;
Raptures sweet and dreams ecstatic
Fire my everlasting soul.
XIV.
Where is Cupid’s crimson motion?
Billowy ecstasy of woe,
Bear me straight, meandering ocean,
Where the stagnant torrents flow.
XV.
Blood in every vein is gushing,
Vixen vengeance lulls my heart;
See, the Gorgon gang is rushing!
Never, never let us part!
HORACE SMITH.
From _The Rejected Addresses_, 1812.
――――
ALBUM VERSES.
_By a Fond Lover._
Lovely maid, with rapture swelling,
Should these verses meet thine eye,
Clouds of absence soft dispelling,
Vacant memory heaves a sigh.
As the rose, with fragrance weeping,
Trembles to the tuneful wave,
So my heart shall twine unsleeping,
Till it canopies the grave!
Though another’s smiles requited,
Envious fate my doom should be:
Joy for ever disunited,
Think, ah! think, at times on me!
Oft amid the spicy gloaming,
Where the brakes their songs instil,
Fond affection silent roaming,
Loves to linger by the rill――
There when echo’s voice consoling,
Hears the nightingale complain,
Gentle sighs my lips controlling,
Bind my soul in beauty’s chain.
Oft in slumbers deep recesses,
I thy mirror’d image see;
Fancy mocks the vain caresses,
I would lavish like a bee!
But how vain is glittering sadness!
Hark, I hear distraction’s knell!
Torture gilds my heart with madness!
Now for ever fare thee well!
From _The Comic Latin Grammar_ by Paul Prendergast (Percival Leigh),
illustrated by John Leech. London, David Bogue.
――――:o:――――
LORD LOVEL.
Lord Lovel he stood at his castle gate,
Combing his milk-white steed,
When up came Lady Nancy Bell,
To wish her lover good speed, speed, speed,
Wishing her lover good speed.
“Where are you going, Lord Lovel? (she said),
Oh, where are you going?” said she;
“I’m going, my Lady Nancy Bell,
Strange countries for to see, see, see,
Strange countries for to see.”
“When will you be back, Lord Lovel? (said she)
Oh, when will you come back?” said she.
“In a year or two, or three at most,
I’ll return to my Lady Nancy-cy-cy,
I’ll return to my Lady Nancy.”
But he had not been gone a year and a day,
Strange countries for to see,
When languishing thoughts came into his head,
Lady Nancy Bell he would go see, see, see,
Lady Nancy Bell he would go see.
So he rode, and he rode on his milk-white horse,
Till he came to London town,
When he heard St. Pancras’ church bells ring,
And the people all mourning around, round, round,
And the people all mourning around.
“Oh, what is the matter?” Lord Lovel he said,
“Oh, what is the matter?” said he.
“A lord’s lady is dead,” an old woman said,
“And some call her Lady Nancy-cy-cy,
And some call her Lady Nancy.”
So he ordered the grave to be opened wide,
And the shroud to be turned down;
And there he kissed her clay-cold lips,
Till the tears came trickling down, down, down,
Till the tears came trickling down.
Lady Nancy she died as it might be to-day,
Lord Lovel he died as to-morrow;
Lady Nancy she died out of pure, pure grief,
Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow, sorrow, sorrow,
Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow.
Lady Nancy was laid in St. Pancras’ churchyard,
Lord Lovel was laid in the choir,
And out of her bosom there grew a red rose,
And out of her lover’s a brier-rier, rier,
And out of her lover’s a brier.
It grew and it grew to the church steeple top,
And then it could grow no higher;
So there it entwin’d in a true lover’s knot,
For true lovers all to admire,-rire,-rire,
For true lovers all to admire.
――――
FRAGMENT OF A BRADLAUGHABLE BALLAD.
He strode and he strode till he reached the lan_ding_,
And then he couldn’t “strode” any higher,
And there he saw Mister Inspector Den_ning_,
Who asked him at once to retire-’ire-’ire.
Suggesting that he should retire.
He tackled the Sergeant and his depu_tee_,
A Messenger too in the Lobby,
When in came a lot of Constabula_ree_,――
Mister Bradlaugh he collared a Bobby――’obby――’obby;
But _was_ collared too by that Bobby.
They fought and they tussled away down the stairs,
With many a gasp and a guggle,
And poor Daddy Longlegs, who won’t say his prayers,
Lost his collar and tails in the struggle――’uggle――’uggle.
Lost his temper and tails in the struggle.
Who profits by this? The reply’s not remote,
Not the Rough, nor the Bobby, nor Gaoler,
But _as_ Mister Bradlaugh must have a new coat,
’Tis a capital thing for his tailor――’ailor――’ailor,
A very good thing for the tailor.
_Punch._ August 13, 1881.
――――
THE TALE OF LORD LOVELL.
Lord Lovell he stood at his own front door,
Seeking the hole for the key;
His hat was wrecked, and his trousers bore
A rent across either knee,
When down came the beauteous Lady Jane
In fair white draperee.
“Oh, where have you been, Lord Lovell?” she said:
“Oh, where have you been?” said she:
“I have not closed an eye in bed,
And the clock has just struck three.
Who has been standing you on your head
In the ash-barrel, perdee?”
“I am not drunk, Lady Shane,” he said:
“And so late it cannot be;
The clock struck one as I enter-ed――
I heard it two times or three;
It must be the salmon on which I fed
Has been too many for me.”
“Go tell your tale, Lord Lovell,” she said:
“To the maritime cavalree,
To your grandam of the hoary head――
To any one but me.
The door is not used to be open-ed
With a cigarette for a key.”
THE TUNEFUL LIAR.
“_Quips._” (Liverpool), March 18, 1887.
――――
JOE MUGGINS AND SALLY BELL.
Joe Muggins he stood at his own cottage door,
A-brushing down his black moke,
When up came his ladylove, Sally Bell,
And thus to her lovier she spoke――oke――oke――
And thus to her lovier she spoke.
Oh! where are you going, Joe Muggins, she said,
Oh! where are you going? said she.
I’m going, my lass, to Smith’ll markèt,
To Smith’ll to sell my donkey――key――key――
To Smith’ll to sell my donkey.
When will you come back, Joe Muggins? she said,
When will you come back to me?
In an hour or two, or three at the most,
So get me a herring for tea――tea――tea――
So get me a herring for tea.
Now he had not been gone an hour or more,
To Smithfield, and sold his donkey,
When a thought of the herring came into his head
I hope it’s a soft roe, said he――he――he――
I hope it’s a soft roe, said he.
* * * * *
(_Three coarse verses omitted._)
――――
LORD FADDLE’S ELECTION FOR BOSH.
Lord Fitz-Faddle he lived in Bel-gra-vi-a,
And being tired of town and ennui
He resolved to put up for M.P. somewhere,
A Parliament Member to be-e-e,
An honorable M.P. to be.
Lord Fitz-Faddle he asked what sum in hard “posh,”
Of his Tory friend, “W.B.”
It required, to get in for the City of Bosh,
And what the expenses might be-e-e,
And what the expenses would be.
Said “W.B.” a “safe, good man and true,”
“You must send down to Bosh speed-i-ly,
With a check on the Bank for a thousand or two,
Or perhaps he may want two or three-ree-ree,
Or perhaps he may want, &c.”
Lord Fitz he declared, with a smile, to his friend,
That he didn’t mean bri-ber-y;
Oh, dear, not at all!――not a shilling he’d spend,
But what was quite nec-ess ary-ry-ry,
But what was quite, &c.
Lord Fitz he went down, found a deal of distress
Pervading the coun-ter-y;
And, being a kind man, why, he couldn’t do less,
Than pity the poor Voters free-ree-ree,
Than help the Electors so free.
Then he ordered hotels to be open-ed wide,
The “Bell,” and the “George,” and the “Crown,”
And forced, when a poor Voter hard-up he spied,
A few onion tears to roll down-own-own,
The crocodile tears to roll down.
He suddenly took a great interest in pigs,
The crops, and all kinds of manure;
Vowed he’d nothing in common with Tories or Whigs,
But he was the real friend of the poor-oor-oor,
That he was the real friend, &c.
Then the “Free, Independent Electors,” somehow,
All got in the sun mer-ri-ly;
For a week, on the cheap, with mine host of the “Plough,”
They feasted con-tin-u-ally-ly-ly,
They kept up the game merrily.
’Twas astonishing, what a vast lot of new boots,
On a sudden, the Voters displayed;
And incredible, what a great number of suits
They got, for which “nobody” paid-aid-aid,
They wore, for which, &c.
* * * * *
Lord Fitz was returned, and the Liberals _beat_,
But soon comes up petitions, to see
Into some queer affairs, and he loses his seat,
For “treating,” and “grogs” bri-ber-y-y-y-y,
For treating, &c.
The Committee declare that corruption prevails,
But Lord Fitz didn’t know it――_oh, no_!
It was all through his Agents, the “Flukers” & “Frails,”
That his four or five thousand did go-o-o,
That his four or five, &c.
Lord Fitz gets elected, as it might be to-day,
But Lord Fitz gets unseated to-morrow;
And that all the expenses he’s forced to defray,
He knows very well to his sorrow-orrow-orrow,
He knows very well, &c.
So Lord Fitz in Bel-gra-vi-a biteth his nails,
Minus Parliament honours, and “posh,”
And he thinks, as do most, till the Ballot prevails,
There’ll be many more Cities like Bosh-osh-osh,
That there’ll be more elections like Bosh.
――――:o:――――
THE BROWN JUG.
(From the Opera of the “Poor Soldier,” by J. O’KEEFFE. The song itself
is attributed to the Rev. FRANCIS FAWKES, who imitated it from the
Latin of Hieronymus Amaltheus.)
Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale
(Out of which I now drink to sweet Nan of the vale),
Was once Toby Filpot, a thirsty old soul
As e’er crack’d a bottle, or fathom’d a bowl.
In boozing about ’twas his pride to excel,
And among jolly topers he bore off the bell.
It chanced, as in dog-days he sat at his ease
In his flow’r woven arbour, as gay as you please,
With a friend and a pipe, puffing sorrow away,
And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay,
His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut,
And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt.
His body, when long in the ground it had lain,
And Time into clay had resolved it again,
A potter found out in its covert so snug,
And with part of fat Toby he form’d this brown jug,
Now, sacred to friendship, to mirth and mile ale,
So here’s to my lovely sweet Nan of the vale.
――――
“DEAR BILL, THIS STONE-JUG.”
(_Being an Epistle from_ TOBY CRACKSMAN, _in Newgate, to_ BILL SYKES.)
Dear Bill, this _stone-jug_,[a] at which flats dare to rail,
(From which till the next Central sittings I hail)
Is still the same snug, free-and-easy old hole,
Where MACHEATH met his _blowens_,[b] and WYLDE floor’d his bowl.
In a ward with one’s _pals_,[c] not locked up in a cell,
To an old hand like me it’s a _fam-ly_[d]-_hotel_.
In the day-rooms the _cuffins_[e] we queer at our ease,
And at _Darkman’s_[f] we run the rig just as we please;
There’s your _peck_[g] and your _lush_, hot and reg’lar, each day.
All the same if you work, all the same if you play.
But the lark’s when a _goney_[h] up with us they shut,
As ain’t up to our _lurks_,[i] our _flash-putter_,[j] and smut;
But soon in his eye nothing green will remain,
He knows what’s o’clock when he comes out again.
And the next time he’s _quodded_,[k] so downy and snug,
He may thank us for making him _fly to the jug_.[l]
But here comes a cuffin――which cuts short my tale,
It’s agin rules is _screevin’_[m] to pals out o’ goal.
(_The following postscript seems to have been added when the Warder
had passed._)
For them coves in Guildhall and that blessed LORD MAYOR, _Prigs on
their four bones should chop whiners_,[n] I swear: That long over
Newgit their Worships may rule, As the _High-toby, mob, crack and
screeve_[o] model school; For if Guv’ment was here, not the Alderman’s
Bench, Newgit soon ’ud be bad as “_the Pent_” or “_the Tench_.”[p]
_Note._――We subjoin a Glossary of MR. CRACKSMAN’S lingo:――
[a] Prison.
[b] Ladies of a certain description.
[c] Comrades or fast friends.
[d] Thieves speak of themselves as “family-men.”
[e] Warders.
[f] Night.
[g] Meat and drink.
[h] A greenhorn.
[i] Tricks of the trade.
[j] Talking slang.
[k] Imprisoned.
[l] Up to prison ways.
[m] Writing.
[n] Thieves should pray on their knees.
[o] Highway-robbers, swell-mobsmen, burglars, and forgers.
[p] Slang names for Pentonville Model Prison, and Milbank
Penitentiary.
_Punch._ January 31, 1857.
――――
FANCY PORTRAIT OF A BISHOP FILL-POTS.[37]
Dear Tom, this black pot, which now foams with vile gall,
Out of which you now see lies abundantly fall,
Was once Toby Phillpots, as venal a soul
As e’er stretched his conscience t’wards interest’s goal,
In telling a lie ’twas his praise to excel,
And amongst Major Longbows he bore off the bell.
It chanced, as in London he sat at his ease,
In want of preferment, as hot as you please,
With a pen and some ink pamphleteering away,
That Wellington made him a Bishop one day;
In the Lords, as his mouth he could never keep shut,
He lied till he soon was the Chancellor’s _butt_.
Yes, ’gainst Catholics long time he had laboured for gain,
Till pay set his principle all on the wane,
When the Duke found him out in _incognito_ snug,
And contrived to a Bishoprick Toby to lug,
Who sacred in office, but damned in himself,
Now is wholly divided ’twixt venom and pelf.
_Figaro in London._ July 14, 1832.
――――
THE WHITE MUG.
“Dear Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I fill,
And drink to the health of sweet Nan of the Hill,
Was once Tommy Tosspot’s, as jovial a sot,
As e’er drew a spigot, or drain’d a full pot.
In drinking, all round ’twas his joy to surpass,
And with all merry tipplers he swigg’d of his glass.”
“One morning in summer, while seated so snug,
In the porch of his garden, discussing his jug,
Stern Death, on a sudden, to Tom did appear,
And said, ‘Honest Thomas, come take your last bier;’
We kneaded his clay in the shape of this can,
From which let us drink to the health of my Nan.”
W. M. THACKERAY.
――――
THE GIPSY KING.
’Tis I am the Gipsy King,
And where is the king like me?
No troubles my dignities bring;
No other is half so free.
In my kingdom there is but one table,
All my subjects partake in my cheer;
We would all have champagne were we able,
As it is, we have plenty of beer;
And ’tis I am the gipsy king.
A king, and a true one, am I;
No courtiers nor ministers here!
I see everything with my own eye,
And hear everything with my own ear.
No conspiracies I apprehend,
Among brothers and equals I rule;
We all help both to gain and to spend,
And get drunk when the treasury’s full;
And ’tis I am the gipsy king.
* * * * *
This song is founded upon a number of earlier songs recounting the
supposed joys of a gipsy life, a few of which may be enumerated for
comparison. The first is taken from an old play, entitled “_More
Dissemblers besides Women_,” printed in 1657:――
_Song of the Gipsies._
Come, my dainty doxies,
My dells, my dells most dear;
We have neither house nor land,
Yet never want good cheer.
We never want good cheer.
We take no care for candle rents,
We lie, we snort, we sport in tents,
Then rouse betimes and steal our dinners.
Our store is never taken
Without pigs, hens, or bacon,
And that’s good meat for sinners:
At wakes and fairs we cozen
Poor country folk by dozen.
If one have money, he disburses;
Whilst some tell fortunes, some pick purses?
Rather than be out of use,
We’ll steal garters, hose, or shoes,
Boots, or spurs, with gingling rowels,
Shirts or napkins, smocks or towels.
Come live with us, come live with us.
* * * * *
A somewhat similar song occurs in _The Spanish Gipsy_, first printed
in 1653, it commences:――
Trip it, gipsies, trip it fine,
Show tricks and lofty capers;
At threading-needles we repine,
And leaping over rapiers:
Pindy pandy rascal toys!
We scorn cutting purses;
Though we live by making noise,
For cheating none can curse us.
――――
THE RAILWAY KING.
Oh! ’tis I am the Railway King,
And where’s there a king like me,
No trouble my shareholders bring,
No monarch is half so free;
In my kingdom there’s but one table,
And that is the time-table here,
We all go as fast as we’re able,
And steam is our charioteer!
For ’tis I am the Railway King!
Ha! ha!
’Tis I am the Railway King!
* * * * *
(Three verses omitted).
_Joe Miller the younger._ October 25, 1845.
――――
OH! ’TIS I AM A FRISKY KING.
(_As sung by his Majesty of Bavaria with the greatest
applause, at Munich._)
Oh! ’tis I am a frisky King
And where is the King like me?
Into trouble myself I shall bring,
For I am so easy and free.
My kingdom’s affairs are unstable;
My subjects suspect I am queer;
_Lola Montez_ I’d wed were I able,
As it is, she’s my sweetheart so dear.
For I am the Frisky King, ha! ha!
For I am the Frisky King.
A King, and a rum one am I,
No Jesuit nor minister fear;
Their counsels I think all my eye,
And give them a flea in their ear.
No conspiracy I apprehend,
To Lola I’ve given the rule,
She helps me to gain and to spend,
And in fact, she has got quite the pull.
For I am the Frisky King, ha! ha!
For I am the Frisky King.
I confess that I am but a man,
My failings, who pleases, may know;
I’m fond of my girl, and I can,
If she likes, let her kick up a row,
My subjects are kind unto me,
They don’t mind my being an ass;
Nor yet that I hold on my knee,
At this moment, the prettiest lass,
For I am the Frisky King, ha! ha!
For I am the Frisky King.
_The Man in the Moon_, Vol. I.
Charles Louis, King of Bavaria, caused great dissatisfaction in his
dominions by his reckless extravagance, and his utter incapacity to
fulfil the duties of his position. He formed a disgraceful _liaison_
with a scheming adventuress generally known under the assumed name of
_Lola Montes_, but whom he created Countess Von Landfeldt. At length
the interference of Lola Montes in state affairs became too notorious,
and she was banished the Kingdom. She afterwards led a wandering life,
delivered some lectures in London in 1859, thence proceeding to the
United States. She died in New York, January 17, 1861. Charles Louis
was compelled to abdicate in March, 1848, but survived his fall for
twenty years, living to see the throne occupied by his grandson, Louis
II., the Mad King and patron of Wagner, who recently committed suicide.
――――
THE GIPSY “KING.”
(A CAVEAT FROM THE DULWICH ENCAMPMENT.)
Oh, ’tis I am a gipsy king,
And where is there king like me?
From my freehold land defiance I fling,
And scoff at the powers that be;
For my court is my caravan,
Where in dozens my subjects “pig,”
And drink and fight like a riotous clan,
And for nobody trouble a fig.
They say that a nuisance am I
To the householders far and near,
That my ribald rabble make women fly,
And our raids fill tenants with fear.
We’re a pest, a disturbance, a curse
(So I hear that the gentlefolks say),
But they’d find it hard were we ten times worse
To frighten the gipsies away.
They may talk of the Vagrant Act,
And the Nuisance Inspector send
(My dog the medical officer pack’d),
And the School Board its aid may lend;
The Vestry its powers may bring,
And the Courts and the Parleyment,
But they’re only amusing the gipsy king,
And his court in the van and tent.
_Funny Folks_, June 22, 1878.
――――:o:――――
WHEN WE WENT OUT A GIPSYING.
In the days when we went gipsying,
A long time ago,
The lads and lasses in their best,
Were drest from top to toe.
We danc’d and sung the jocund song,
Upon the forest green,
And nought but mirth and jollity,
Around us could be seen.
And thus we pass’d the merry time,
Nor thought of care or woe,
In the days when we went gipsying,
A long time ago.
All hearts were light, and eyes were bright,
And nature’s face was gay,
The trees their leafy branches spread,
And perfume filled the May;
’Twas there we heard the cuckoo’s note,
Steal softly through the air,
While every scene around us look’d,
Most beautiful and fair,
And thus we pass’d, &c.
* * * * *
――――
THE DAYS WHEN WE WENT GIPSYING.
Oh, the days when we went gipsying,
A long time ago,
Though meant to be amusing trips,
Proved nothing else but woe.
The fire-place would never draw,
The wood was always green,
And naught but flies and creeping things
Were in the milkpot seen.
And thus we passed the hours away,
In pastime very slow,
In the days when we went gipsying,
A long time ago.
The tea was always very bad,
The water never boiled;
We wore the smartest things we had,
And they were always spoiled.
And if along the meadows damp
We felt inclined to roam,
It usually began to rain,
Before we got safe home.
And thus we passed the hours away,
In pastime very slow,
In the days when we went gipsying,
A long time ago.
We never mean to pay again
A visit to the scene,
And seat ourselves on emmets’ nests――
We are not now so green.
We do not love it overmuch,
But when we want our tea,
We’ll take it on a table, where
It always ought to be.
And thus we’ll drink it properly,
Provided ’tis not sloe,
Much better than the gipsying
A long time ago!
From _A Bowl of Punch_, by Albert Smith. London. 1848.
――――
AN OXFORD SONG.
Oh, the days we read those musty books, a short time ago,
Were certainly the seediest a man could ever know.
We filled no glass, we kissed no lass, our hacks grew fat and
sleek,
We thought it dissipation if we rode them twice a week.
We rose up early in the morn, we sat up late at e’en,
And nought but horrid lexicons about us could be seen!
Unheeded lay our meerchaums then, our “Lopez” bound in green;
The undisturbed blue-bottle was on our team-whip seen;
The goblets in our foxes’ heads ne’er shone with good Bordeaux,
But we took a glass of something mild, and talked about “_Great
go_.”
We rose up early, &c.
We got parental letters then, in which ’twas gravely vowed,
How _harrowed_ all would be at home, if we perchance were
_ploughed_:
And what was worse, those sordid _duns_ an early payment wished,
’Till, what ’twixt ticks and tutors too, we felt extremely
“fish’d.”
We rose up, &c.
’Tis past! ’tis past! ’tis won at last! my Muse no longer grieves;
We sweep adown the High Street now in our long silken sleeves;
And envious Under-graduates sigh forth as we draw near,
“O, crickey! how I wish I was a ‘new-made Bacalere.’
They rise up when they like at morn, they sit up late at e’en,
And hunt and quaff, and smoke and laugh, the whole Term thro’,
I ween.”
From _Hints to Freshmen_. Oxford: J. Vincent.
――――
THE LAY OF THE LOVER’S FRIEND.
I would all womankind were dead,
Or banished o’er the sea;
For they have been a bitter plague
These last six weeks to me:
It is not that I’m touched myself,
For that I do not fear:
No female face hath shown me grace
For many a bygone year.
But ’tis the most infernal bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.
When e’er we steam it to Blackwall,
Or down to Greenwich run,
To quaff the pleasant cider cup,
And feed on fish and fun;
Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill,
To catch a breath of air:
Then, for my sins, he straight begins
To rave about his fair.
Oh, ’tis the most tremendous bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.
In vain you pour into his ear
Your own confiding grief;
In vain you claim his sympathy,
In vain you ask relief;
In vain you try to rouse him by
Joke, repartee, or quiz;
His sole reply’s a burning sigh,
And “What a mind it is!”
O Lord! it is the greatest bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.
I’ve heard her thoroughly described,
A hundred times, I’m sure;
And all the while I’ve tried to smile,
And patiently endure;
He waxes strong upon his pangs,
And potters o’er his grog;
And still I say, in a playful way
“Why, you’re a lucky dog!”
But oh! it is the heaviest bore
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.
I really wish he’d do like me
When I was young and strong;
I formed a passion every week,
But never kept it long.
But he has not the sportive mood,
That always rescued me,
And so I would all women could
Be banished o’er the sea.
For ’tis the most egregious bore,
Of all the bores I know.
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.
WILLIAM E. AYTOUN.
Professor Aytoun died in 1865. These verses are taken from a
collection, published in Boston, entitled _The Humorous Poetry of the
English Language_, by J. Parton, but I do not know where they first
appeared.
――――
OLD SIMON THE CELLARER.
Old Simon, the cellarer, keeps a rare store――
Of malmsey and malvoisie,
And cyprus, and who can say how many more,
For a chary old soul is he,
Of sack and canary he never doth fail,
And all the year round there is brewing of ale;
Yet he never aileth, he quaintly doth say,
While he keeps to his sober six flagons a day;
But ho, ho, ho, his nose doth show,
How oft the black-jack to his lips doth go.
Dame Margery sits in her own still room,
And a matron sage is she;
From thence oft at curfew is wafted a fume.
She says it is rosemary.
But there’s a small cupboard, behind the back stair,
And the maids say they often see Margery there――
Now Margery says she grows very old,
And must take a something to keep out the cold;
But ho, ho, ho, old Simon doth know――
Where many a flask of his best doth go.
Old Simon reclines in his high-backed chair,
And talks of taking a wife,
And Margery oft has been heard to declare,
She ought to be settled for life.
Now, Margery has, so the maids say, a tongue;
She’s not very handsome, nor yet very young;
So, somehow, it ends with a shake of the head,
And Simon he brews him a tankard instead――
With ho, ho, ho, he’ll chuckle and crow
What, marry old Margery! no, no, no.”
J. L. HATTON.[38]
――――
CAVEAT VENDITOR.
Joe Podgers, the farmer, he keeps a rare store
Of sheep, as his neighbours can see,
And oxen, and _I_ can’t tell how many more,
For a well-to-do fellow is he.
Of beef and of mutton he never doth fail,
And craftily qualified is his milk-pail;
But he never paleth, he quaintly doth say,
As his meat goes to London on each market day.
But oh! oh! oh! his books do show
Where many a cow of his worst doth go.
Bill Choppers he sits in his little back room,
For a butcher discreet is he:
But oft from his premises comes a queer fume,
He says it is “only his tea.”
But there’s a small yard just behind the loft stair,
And folks say they see some strange carcases there;
But Choppers he says, and he _looks_ very bold,
That the meat which he sells is the best ever sold.
But oh! oh! oh! Joe Podgers doth know
Where many a calf of his worst doth go.
Joe Podgers reclines in his easy chair
Without ever dreaming of strife:
But the dead-meat inspector is heard to declare
That the time for a summons is rife.
And the magistrate has a most critical tongue,
And condemns Podgers’ meat to the dogs to be flung.
So somehow Joe Podgers don’t go home to bed,
But finds himself lodged in a prison instead.
And oh! oh! oh! doth he chuckle and crow
As he tramps on the treadmill? Oh! _no!_ NO!
_Fun._ March 17, 1869.
――――
“OLD TIM THE TEETOTALLER.”
Old Tim the Teetotaller keeps a rare store,
Of black and strong green tea,
Of Souchong――and who can tell how many more,
For a thirsty old Soul is he-e!
A thirsty old Soul is he.
Of Pekoe and Twankay he never doth fail,
Which all the day long he drinks out of a pail.
For he never ale-th, he quaintly doth say,
While he sticks to his fifty-two cups in a day――
For ho! ho! ho!
Old Tim can’t know
How much of birch-broom there is in Pekoe.
_Chorus_――“For ho! ho! ho!” &c.
His Landlady sits in her own still-room,
Alone with the cat sits she;
Except when she asks in the maid or the groom,
To join her in taking tea-e,
To join her in taking tea.
Now, Tim has a tea-chest, but isn’t aware,
That his Landlady helps herself freely from there.
Tho’ the maid and the groom of the Landlady told,
Yet Tim held his tongue,――it was no use to scold.
For ho! ho! ho!
He now doth know,
Where all his Bohea and Souchong doth go.
_Chorus_――“For ho! ho! ho!” &c.
Old Tim he reclines in his high-backed chair,
And plays a few tunes on a fife;
He blows it for joy for he doesn’t care,
Since he puzzled _her_ out of her life.
Yes! his landlady out of her life,
For he’s got a lock on his tea-chest so strong,
And the Landlady tried it for ever so long
With hammer and tongs till she fainted away,
And was then handed over to P’liceman 1 A.
And ho! ho! ho!
Old Tim will show
His Landlady up in the Court of Bow.
_Chorus of Teetotallers in their Cups_――
For ho! ho! ho!
Old Tim will show
His Landlady up in the Court of Bow!
_Punch._ February 4, 1871.
――――
TAURUS THE CELLARER.
(_During the Russian War scare._)
Old Taurus our cellarer keeps a rare store
Of Malmsey and Malvoisie,
Of Cyprus, and who shall say how many more?
For a chary old soul is he!
With sacks of canaries he never can fail
And all the year round he is hearty and hale,
And those who once cavilled are now heard to say,
“We are all of us proud of old Taurus to-day.”
And ho! ho! ho! Things seem to show
That England’s not like to the dogs to go!
Dame Ursa she sits in her cold, bare room,
A Christian dame is she,
From thence oft at curfew she steals in the gloom,
On errands of charity.
Now there’s half a turkey that’s not gone as yet,
Which folks say that Ursa would much like to get,
And Dame Ursa she says she is hungry and cold;
But old Taurus he wakes, and he thunders forth “Hold!”
With ho! ho! ho! that game is no go!
Caught napping by Ursa, no, no, no, no!
_Judy._ July 24, 1878.
――――
A parody in three verses, entitled _Simmonds, the Bellower_, was
written by J. A. Hardwick. The first verse is given, the other two are
omitted, owing to their coarseness:――
SIMMONDS, THE BELLOWER.
Old Simmonds, the Bellower, keeps a coal store,
Of “Clinkers,” and “Slates” nub-bel-y,
And light weights, and who can say what he does more?
For a pious old cock is he.
The sack to have holes in, he never does fail,
And all the day long he keeps “slanging” the scale;
Yet they’ll never nail him, he bluntly does say,
While he makes a ton out of six waggons a day.
And oh, dear! oh, his nose does show,
How oft the “three-out” to his lips does go.
* * * * *
――――
WILLIAM THE CLÔTURER.
Old William the Clôturer sets great store
By his hard-won majori_tee_,
And he wants it in good working order once more,
For an ardent old toiler is he――
A _tre_mendous old toiler is he.
Of business and progress the Commoners fail,
For all the year round they do nothing but rail;
But William declares he this shindy will stay,
And stick to his Clôture――his _gag_ as some say.
And ho! ho! ho!
His demeanour would show
That he on this point to the country would go.
_Chorus_ (_heartily_)――But ho! ho! ho! &c.
Old William the Clôturer weareth the air
Of one who is weary of strife,
And Salisbury oft has been heard to declare
He would have his――political――life,
His――strictly political――life.
And Salisbury hath a most terrible tongue;
But William is warlike, though no longer young;
And to prove that he isn’t――in politics――dead,
He his Clôture-gage hurls at sour Salisbury’s head.
While ho! ho! ho!
He’ll chuckle and crow,
What, cave in to Salisbury? No, no, no!
_Chorus_ (_lustily_)――While ho! ho! ho! &c.
_Punch._ April 22, 1882.
――――:o:――――
I AM A FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY,
_From the Opera of “Merry Sherwood.”_
I am a Friar of orders grey,
And down in the valleys I take my way,
I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip,
Good store of venison fills my scrip;
My long bead roll I merrily chaunt,
Wherever I walk no money I want;
And why I’m so plump the reason I’ll tell――
Who leads a good life is sure to live well.
What baron or squire,
Or knight of the shire,
Lives half so well as a holy friar.
After supper of Heaven I dream,
But that is fat pullet and clouted cream,
Myself, by denial, I mortify――
With a dainty bit of a warden pie;
I’m cloth’d in sack-cloth, for my sin;
With old sackwine I’m lined within;
A chirping cup is my matin song,
And the vesper’s bell is my bowl, ding, dong.
What baron or ’squire, &c.
J. O’KEEFFE.
――――
A BRADLAUGH BALLAD.
I am the Demagogue of the day,
And down ’mongst the mob I make my way,
It’s years since of poverty I felt a nip
Good store of the Sovereigns I love fill my scrip
Republican patter I merrily chant
Wherever I stump no money I want;
And why I’m so plump the reason I’ll tell――
Who fattens on martyrdom’s sure to live well:
No bishop or squire
Can hope to aspire
To the glorious height of the law defier.
After orating, of fame I dream,
And Cromwell-cum-Wilkes-cum Washington seem,
Myself as a model I mortify
With a thumping cupful of wine when dry;
I wear best broadcloth, black as sin,
My breeches pockets are lined with “tin;”
I’m Liberal with a strong Radical dash,
But I’m strictly Conservative of my cash.
No lord of the shire
Nor prince is higher
In _my_ esteem than C. B., Esquire.
My dusk performances are my best
While working men work, I take my rest,
I bid my disciples prevent new lives,
Reading “Fruits of Philosophy” with their wives.
And to save their pence, as they’ve got no soul
To help me to win at Northampton poll,
For the House is the only Heaven I know
Though they say I make it a Hell below,
Where I’ll play the lyre
And kindle its ire,
Till oblivion swallows the law defier.
From _Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet_. By Ion. London. Houlston &
Sons.
――――:o:――――
OLD SONG.
Gently touch the warbling lyre,
Chloe seems inclin’d to rest;
Fill her soul with fond desire,
Softest notes will soothe her breast:
Pleasing dreams assist in love,
Let them all propitious prove.
On the mossy bank she lies
(Nature’s verdant velvet bed),
Beauteous flowers meet her eyes,
Forming pillows for her head;
Zephyrs waft their odours round,
And indulging whispers sound.
A. BRADLEY.
HOW SHALL I DINE.
Gently blow and stir the fire,
Lay the mutton down to roast,
Dress it nicely I desire,
In the dripping put a toast,
That I hunger may remove:
Mutton is the meat I love.
On the dresser see it lie,
Oh! the charming white and red!
Finer meat ne’er met my eye,
On the sweetest grass it fed:
Let the jack go swiftly round,
Let me have it nicely browned.
On the table spread the cloth,
Let the knives be sharp and clean:
Pickles get and salad both,[39]
Let them each be fresh and green:
With small beer, good ale, and wine,
O ye gods! how I shall dine.
Attributed to DEAN SWIFT.
――――:o:――――
WHY SO PALE AND WAN.
Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can’t move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee, why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can’t win her,
Saying nothing do’t?
Prithee, why so mute?
Quit, quit for shame, this will not move,
This cannot take her;
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her,
The devil take her.
SIR JOHN SUCKLING.
AN IMITATION OF THE ABOVE.
I.
Why so sad and pale, fond lover?
Pr’ythee, why so dull?
How can tears the cause discover
Why these eyes are full?
Pr’ythee why so dull?
Shall a hopeful maiden take
A baby to her arms?
Oh, prove a man, and for her sake,
Caress, not grieve her charms.
II.
Thou hast no heart, fearful wooer,
And love ye give, not gain;
Then, with the heart that ye gave to her,
Why give her not its pain?
Cease to murmur, hapless whiner,
Sigh that sob away,
Think, if caring much won’t win her,
Caring little may;
Then scorn, with scorning pay.
R. J.
From _Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine_. May, 1819.
Sir John Suckling also wrote what is, perhaps, the finest ballad in
the English language, _A Ballad upon a Wedding_, this appears to have
escaped parody. An imitation of it, however, is contained in _Elegant
Extracts from the British Poets_, 1824. It is entitled _Aylesbury
Races_, and is attributed to Sir J. H. Moore; it is very long, and
does not sufficiently follow its original to entitle it to a place in
this collection.
――――:o:――――
THE MAD SHEPHERDESS.[40]
My lodging is on the cold ground,
And very hard is my fare;
But that which troubles me most is
The unkindness of my dear;
Yet still I cry, O turn love,
And I prithee, love, turn to me,
For thou art the man that I long for,
And alack! what remedy!
I’ll crown thee with a garland of straw then,
And I’ll marry thee with a rush ring,
My frozen hopes shall thaw then,
And merrily we will sing;
O turn to me my dear love,
And I prithee, love, turn to me,
For thou art the man who alone canst
Procure my liberty.
But if thou wilt harden thy heart still,
And be deaf to my pitiful moan!
Then I must endure the smart still,
And lie in my straw all alone;
Yet still I cry, O turn love,
And I prithee, love, turn to me,
For thou art the man that alone art
The cause of my misery.
――――
SONG BY FUSBOS.
My lodging is in Leather-lane,
A parlour that’s next to the sky;
’Tis exposed to the wind and the rain,
But the wind and the rain I defy:
Such love warms the coldest of spots,
As I feel for Scrubinda the fair,
Oh! she lives by the scouring of pots,
In Dyot-street, Bloomsbury Square.
Oh! was I a pint, quart or jill,
To be scrubb’d by her delicate hands;
Let others possess what they will,
Of learning, and houses and lands;
My parlour that’s next to the sky
I’d quit her blest mansions to share;
So happy to live and to die
In Dyot-street, Bloomsbury Square.
And, oh! would this damsel be mine!
No other provision I’d seek;
On a _look_ I could breakfast and dine,
And feast on a _smile_ for a week.
But ah! should she false-hearted prove,
Suspended, I’d dangle in air;
A victim to delicate love,
In Dyot-street, Bloomsbury Square.
From _Bombastes Furioso_, by William Barnes Rhodes.
――――:o:――――
THE WOLF.
At the peaceful midnight hour,
Every sense and every power
Fetter’d lies in downy sleep,
Then our careful watch we keep.
When the wolf, in nightly prowl,
Bays the moon with hideous howl;
Gates are barr’d, a vain resistance;
Females shriek, but no assistance.
“Silence or you’ll meet your fate――
Your keys, your jewels, cash, and plate!”
Locks, bolts, and bars, soon fly asunder,
Then to rifle, rob and plunder!
J. O’KEEFFE.
A PARODY.
At the peaceful midnight hour,
When by love and hunger’s power,
I am kept from downy sleep,
Nightly I to Molly creep;
Whilst the cats upon the tiles
Mew their loves for many miles,
O’er the gutters lightly hopping,
Thro’ the garret window dropping.
Silence! or my master wakes,
Lay the cloth and broil the steaks;
Beef-steaks and onions crown our blisses;
Bread and cheese and balmy kisses.
――――:o:――――
THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.
The light of other days is faded
And all their glory’s past;
For grief with heavy wing hath shaded
The hopes too bright to last.
The world with morning’s mantle clouded,
Shines forth with purer rays;
But the heart ne’er feels in sorrow shrouded,
The light of other days.
The leaf which Autumn’s tempests wither,
The bird which then take wing,
When Winter’s blasts are past, come hither,
To welcome back the Spring.
The very ivy on the ruin,
In Spring new life displays;
But the heart alone sees no renewing
Of the light of other days.
ALFRED BUNN.
THE COAT OF OTHER DAYS.
The coat of other days is faded,
And all its beauty past:
My shoes no longer look as they did,
But, like it, are fading fast!
When first I sported it, a new one,
My uncles cash ’twould raise,
But now no longer ’tis a new one,
The coat of other days.
The cuffs and collar now are greasy,
Not a bit of nap is there;
’Twas tight, but now it fits me easy,
’Twill soon be at Rag-fair!
My four-and-nine look rather rummy,
Expos’d to Sol’s bright rays,
And ’tis too late for renovating
The coat of other days!
Another parody of this song, by J. James, entitled _The Foggy
Gin-Fluenza Days_ occurs in Vol. II., of Punch’s Popular Song Book, but
it is slangy and vulgar.
――――:o:――――
THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL.
On Richmond Hill there lives a lass
More bright than May-day morn,
Whose charms all other maids surpass
A rose without a thorn.
This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet,
Has won my right good-will;
I’d crowns resign to call her mine,
Sweet lass of Richmond Hill.
* * * * *
Mr. Upton, who wrote the above song, also wrote many others for the
convivial entertainments at Vauxhall Gardens towards the close of the
last century. The music was composed by Mr. Hook, father of Theodore
Hook, the celebrated wit and practical jokist.
THE LASS OF RICHMOND ILL.
[The Richmond Select Vestry, having sent to the Home Office a memorial
with reference to the deplorable condition of the Thames in that
district, Sir W. V. Harcourt has entered into communication with the
Conservators, and has been informed by them that nothing can be done
until a radical change is effected in the disposal of the London
sewage.]
On Richmond Hill there lives a lass
Who on a bright May morn,
By sweeps of sewage mud must pass,
On Thames’s waters borne.
What does she meet? Spring breezes sweet?
No, muck is master still.
“Deposit’s” cake, and stink, and make
The Lass of Richmond ill!
How happy might that maiden be
If _sweet_ Thames-tide might run.
But no; Conservators agree
That “Nothing can be done.”
Lips she must close, must nip her nose,――
The Stench-fiend lords it still,
And laughs with glee――grim ghoul――to see
The Lass of Richmond ill!
――――
WILLIAM’S BILL.
Of William’s bill we’ll see the last,
No more it holds the field;
We’ve nailed our standard to the mast,
The harp we’ll never yield.
The Irish fry in vain may try
To gild the Home Rule pill,
But soon we’ll see, ’twixt you and me,
The last of William’s bill.
’Tis past dispute, the kingdoms three
Together stand or fall,
And measures of autonomy
Should be the same for all;
But this that tends to part old friends
Shall ne’er have our goodwill;
No, no, friend Pat, we’ll veto that
By “chucking” William’s bill.
DARJEW.
_The Weekly Dispatch._ July 4, 1886.
――――:o:――――
THE BRAVE OLD OAK.
A Song to the Oak, the brave old Oak,
Who hath ruled in the green wood long,
Here’s health and renown to his broad green crown,
And his fifty arms so strong.
There’s fear in his frown, when the sun goes down,
And the fire in the west fades out,
And he showeth his might on a wild midnight,
When the storms through his branches shout.
Then here’s to the Oak, the brave old Oak,
Who stands in his pride alone,
And still flourish he a hale green tree,
When a hundred years are gone.
* * * * *
H. F. CHORLEY.
A BIT OF A PARODY.
A Song of the Dukes, of the dense old Dukes,
That have rul’d in the land so long;
With small renown to the Ducal crown,
By dint of legal wrong.
There’s rage in their frown when Peel goes down,
And for Free Trade’s cause speaks out;
And they show him their spite in the Lords each night
That the subject is talk’d about.
Then here’s to the Dukes, to the dense old Dukes,
Who live for themselves alone;
And still live they, though no more to prey
On the country’s blood and bone.
They talk of the times when the Christmas chimes
Were a merry sound to hear;
And pretend that the poor were regaled, galore,
With old English beef and beer.
That tale is all stuff, it is much too tough;
It won’t even hoax an ass;
And don’t we know, they who tell us so,
The New Poor Law allow’d to pass?
Then here’s to the Dukes, to the dense old Dukes,
Who live for themselves alone;
And still live they, though no more to prey
On the country’s blood and bone.
_Punch._ April 11, 1846.
――――:o:――――
FRAGMENT OF A TRANSLATION FROM SAPPHO.
Blessed as the immortal gods is he,
The Youth who fondly sits by thee;
And hears and sees thee, all the while,
Softly speak, and sweetly smile.
’Twas this deprived my soul of rest,
And rais’d such tumults in my breast;
For while I gazed, in transport tossed,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost.
My bosom glow’d the subtle flame
Ran quickly thro’ my vital frame;
O’er my dim eyes a darkness hung,
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.
In dewy damps my limbs were chill’d,
My blood with gentle horrors thrill’d;
My feeble pulse forgot to play,
I fainted, sunk, and died away.
AMBROSE PHILIPS.
――――
A PARODY OF THE FOREGOING.
Drunk as a dragon sure is he,
The youth who sups or dines with thee;
And sees and hears thee, full of fun,
Loudly laugh, and quaintly pun.
’Twas this first made me love my dose,
And rais’d such pimples on my nose;
For while I fill’d to every toast,
My health was gone, my senses lost.
I found the claret and champagne
Inflame my blood, and mad my brain;
The toast fell falt’ring from my tongue,
I hardly heard the catch I sung.
I felt my gorge and sickness rise;
The candle danc’d before my eyes;
My sight grew dim, the room turn’d round,
I tumbled senseless to the ground.
HENRY ERSKINE.
――――:o:――――
DEAR BETTY.
Dear Betty, come give me sweet kisses,
For sweeter no girl ever gave;
But why, in the midst of our blisses,
Do you ask me how many I’d have?
I’m not to be stinted in pleasure;
Then prithee, dear Betty be kind;
For as I love _thee_ beyond measure,
To numbers I’ll not be confined.
Count the bees that on Hybla are straying,
Count the flowers that enamel the fields,
Count the flocks that on Tempé are playing,
Or the grains that each Sicily yields;
Count how many stars are in Heaven;
Go reckon the sands on the shore,
And when so many kisses you’ve given,
I still will be asking for more.
To a heart full of love let me hold thee,
A heart, that dear Betty is thine;
In my arms I’ll for ever enfold thee,
And curl round thy neck like a vine.
What joy can be greater than this is?
My life on thy lips shall be spent;
But those who can number their kisses,
Will always with few be content.
SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.
――――
THE NUMBERING OF THE CLERGY.
Come, give us more Livings and Rectors,
For richer no realm ever gave;
But why, ye unchristian objectors,
Do you ask us how many we crave?
Oh, there can’t be too many rich livings,
For souls of the Pluralist kind,
Who, despising old Cocker’s misgivings,
To numbers can ne’er be confin’d.
Count the cormorants hovering about,
At the time their fish season sets in,
When these models of keen diners-out
Are preparing their beaks to begin.
Count the rooks that, in clerical dresses,
Flock round when the harvest’s in play,
And not minding the farmer’s distresses,
Like devils in grain peck away.
Go, number the locusts in heaven,
On their way to some titheable shore;
And when so many parsons you’ve given,
We still shall be craving for more.
Then, unless ye the Church would submerge, ye
Must leave us in peace to augment,
For the wretch who could number the Clergy,
With few will be ever content.
THOMAS MOORE.
(Suggested by the Bishop of London’s Charge, in which he said:――“_We
want more Churches, and more Clergymen_.”)
――――:o:――――
LINES TO AN EDITOR.
(_On sending a Book for Review._)
_After Ben Jonson._
Print for me only just one word,
And I will pledge thee mine,
If thou wilt give a wholesome “puff,”
That I will not repine.
I think my work should be preferr’d
(’Tis very large and fine),
Though dullards may not like my stuff,
_I_ would not change a line.
FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.
(_On the non-appearance of a Notice._)
I sent thee late my able book,
Not so much honouring thee,
As hoping something would appear
That might bring L. S. D.
But thou thereon did’st neither look
Nor sent’st it back to me,
Since when I feel inclined to swear
Both at myself and thee.
――――:o:――――
DELIGHT IN DISORDER.
(_Adapted from Herrick._)
“There is nothing in the pit-brow work, nor in the costume
necessitated, that tells against modesty. It makes fine, healthy,
strapping women――not exactly after the pattern of _Fenella_ or
_Miranda_――but women who are the fit mates for the men whose wives and
mothers they are.”――_Mrs. Lynn Linton on the “Pit-brow Women._”
A fine frank roughness in the dress,
Is better than _La Mode’s_ excess;
Flannel about the shoulders thrown,
A stayless bodice and loose zone;
Stout clogs or highlows and a pair
Of coarse hose much the worse for wear;
A kerchief-cap, and trailed thereby,
Wild locks that flow confusedly;
A dual garb deserving note,
As more――or less――than petticoat;
A leathern shoe-string in whose tie
The slattern speaks to every eye,
Do more bewitch me, for my part,
Than Regent Street with all its Art.
_Punch_, May 28, 1887.
――――:o:――――
HERRICK IN THE HOUSE.
_After Herrick’s Lines to Ben Jonson._
(_By a Troubled Tory._)
Ah, Ben![41]
Say how or when
Shall we, thy sheep,
Less scattered order keep?
Or have such fun
As when you led us on,
When we such musters had
As made us with great joy half mad?
Ah, sure one speech of thine
Outdid nine Randolphs and Smiths nine times nine.
My Ben!
Oh, come again,
Or send to us
Thy wit’s great overplus;
But teach us yet
Wisely to husband it.
Lest we that talent spend,
And, having once brought to an end
That precious stock, the store
Of will, wit, tact, our Party have no more!
_Punch._ February 5, 1887.
――――
SONG.
_On seeing the Speaker asleep in his Chair, in one of the Debates of
the first Reformed Parliament._
(_Parody of the well-known Lullaby in Guy Mannering._)
“Sleep, Mr. Speaker, ’tis surely fair,
If you mayn’t in your bed that you should in your chair;
Louder and longer now they grow,
Tory and Radical, Aye and No,
Talking by night, and talking by day,
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, slumber lies
Light and brief on a Speaker’s eyes.
Fielden or Finn in a minute or two
Some disorderly thing will do;
Riot will chase repose away,
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.
“Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sweet to men
Is the sleep that cometh but now and then,
Sweet to the weary, sweet to the ill,
Sweet to the children that work in the mill;
You have more need of repose than they,
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.
“Sleep, Mr. Speaker, Harvey will soon
Move to abolish the sun and the moon;
Hume will no doubt, be taking the sense
Of the House on a question of sixteen pence;
Statesmen will howl and patriots bray:
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.
“Sleep, Mr. Speaker, and dream of the time
When loyalty was not yet quite a crime,
When Grant was a pupil in Canning’s school,
And Palmerston fancied Wood was a fool.
Lord! how principles pass away!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.”
W. M. PRAED.
――――:o:――――
MY HEART AND LUTE.
I give thee all,――I can no more,――
Though poor the offering be:
My heart and lute are all the store
That I can bring to thee:
A lute whose gentle heart reveals
The soul of love full well,
And better far a heart who feels
Much more than lute can tell.
Though love and song may fail, alas!
To keep life’s clouds away,
At least ’twill make them lighter pass,
Or gild them if they stay:
If ever care his discord flings
O’er life’s enchanted strain.
Let love but gently touch the strings,――
’Twill all be sweet again.
I give thee all, &c.
――――
STEWED DUCK AND PEAS.
I give thee all, I can no more,
Though poor the dinner be;
Stew’d Duck and Peas are all the store
That I can offer thee.
A Duck, whose tender breast reveals
It’s early youth full well;
And better still, a Pea that peels
From fresh transparent shell.
Though Duck and Peas may fail, alas!
One’s hunger to allay;
At least for luncheon they may pass,
The appetite to stay.
If seasoned Duck an odour bring
From which one would abstain,
The Peas, like fragrant breath of Spring,
Set all to rights again.
I give thee all my kitchen lore,
Though poor the offering be;
I’ll tell thee how ’tis cook’d, before
You come to dine with me:
The Duck is truss’d from head to heels,
Then stew’d with butter well;
And streaky bacon, which reveals
A most delicious smell.
When Duck and Bacon in a mass
You in the stew-pan lay,
A spoon around the vessel pass,
And gently stir away:
A table-spoon of flour bring,
A quart of water bring,
Then in it twenty onions fling,
And gently stir again.
A bunch of parsley, and a leaf
Of ever-verdant bay,
Two cloves――I make my language brief,
Then add your Peas you may!
And let it simmer till it sings
In a delicious strain,
Then take your Duck, nor let the strings
For trussing it remain.
The parsley fail not to remove,
Also the leaf of bay;
Dish up your Duck――the sauce improve
In the accustom’d way,
With pepper, salt, and other things,
I need not here explain
And if the dish contentment brings,
You’ll dine with me again.
_Punch._
――――:o:――――
EARNEST REMONSTRANCE.
_Addressed to the Young Lady World, on the “Fringes” now in Fashion._
AIR.――“_Long, Long Ago._”
Twine me the curls I delighted to see
Long, long ago――long, long ago;
Bring the old curling-tongs hither to me
Of long ago, long ago!
Since they are gone, all my grief has begun;
Those queer “waving fronts” do not please me, for one
I pine for the hair as it used to be done
Long, long ago, long ago!
Don’t you remember the ringlets that flow’d
Long, long ago――long, long ago;
The beautiful ringlets that then were the mode,
Long, long ago, long ago?
Some called them “corkscrews”――a gross malaprop,
Save that when met at a squeeze, or a hop,
Lovers, like corks, would come out with a pop,
Long, long ago, long ago!
Oh, if the Whigs their old fame would renew,
(Quite _rococo_――quite _rococo_)
And rival the glories of Brian Boroo,
Long, long ago, long ago.
Let them but give us, our thanks to secure,
Instead of a Bill for removing the Poor,
A Bill for removing the shady _coiffure_
Now all the go, all the go!
_Punch._
――――:o:――――
THE BEAUTIFUL MAID.
_A Parody of Liston’s “Beautiful Maid.”_
My fishmonger he swore that his soles were most dear,
I trembled to hear what he said;
For salmon and shrimps ’twas the wrong time of year,
So I pitched on a beautiful maid;
I brought home my beautiful maid:
“Here, cook! dress this beautiful maid;
Go boil it,――don’t spoil it,
But see it well done,
And I’ll dine on my beautiful maid!”
But an ugly black cat, I speak it with grief,
My delicate tit-bit waylaid,
The cook turned her back, and the long-whiskered thief
Ran off with my beautiful maid;
She clawed up my beautiful maid;
She swore o’er my beautiful maid;
Oh, pussy, you hussey,
Oh, what have you done?
You have eaten up my beautiful maid!
――――:o:――――
OH! SAY NOT WOMAN’S HEART IS BOUGHT.
_From the Opera of “Clari, the Maid of Milan.”_
Oh! say not woman’s heart is bought
With vain and empty treasure.
Oh! say not woman’s heart is caught
By every idle pleasure.
When first her gentle bosom knows
Love’s flame, it wanders never,
Deep in her heart the passion glows,
She loves, and loves for ever.
Oh! say not woman’s false as fair,
That like the bee she ranges!
Still seeking flowers more sweet and rare,
As fickle fancy changes.
Ah! no, the love that first can warm,
Will leave her bosom never;
No second passion e’er can charm,
She loves, and loves for ever.
T. L. POCOCK.
――――
OH, SAY NOT THAT MY HEART IS CAUGHT.
Oh, say not that my heart is caught,
By Mary’s face bewitching;
For other charms my love has bought,
Those charms her mind enriching;
Unfriendly fate may soon us part
And fickle fortune sever,
But she who holds this throbbing heart
I’ll love and love for ever.
And must I then those charms resign,
All I esteem a treasure,
And give up what I hoped was mine
To fix a rival’s pleasure?
The stars may fall, the sun decay,
The earth’s whole fabric waver,
But firm as heaven my love shall stay,
Unquenched, unceasing never.
MONTAGUE.
――――
HE DRINKS, AND DRINKS FOR EVER.
Oh, say not life is dearly bought
By him who seeks for pleasure;
Oh, say not joy is wrongly sought
When whiskey’s thought a treasure!
When first a youthful toper knows
Its fumes he wanders never;
He gladdens at his rosy nose,
He drinks and drinks for ever.
Oh, say not whiskey does impair,
Nor like a poison rages;
Still seeking ev’ry vein to tear,
Nor cause such deadly changes!
Oh, no! the draught that first can warm
Will leave his stomach never,
Though all his friends may rant and storm,
He’ll drink, and drink for ever.
ANONYMOUS.
――――:o:――――
DUNOIS THE BRAVE.
It was Dunois the young and brave,
Was bound for Palestine,
But first he made his orisons
Before St. Mary’s shrine!
“Oh! grant, immortal queen of heaven,”
Was still the soldier’s prayer,
“That I may prove the bravest knight
And love the fairest fair.”
His oath of honour on the shrine,
He graved it with his sword,
And followed to the holy land
The banner of his Lord.
Where, faithful to his noble vow,
His war-cry filled the air:
Be honoured, aye, the bravest knight,
Beloved the fairest fair.
They owed the conquest to his arm,
And then his liege-lord said,
“The heart that has with honour beat,
By bliss must be repaid.
My daughter Isabel and thou
Shall be a wedded pair;
For thou art bravest of the brave,――
She, fairest of the fair.”
And then they bound the holy knot,
Before St. Mary’s shrine,
That makes a Paradise on earth,
If hearts and hands combine.
And every lord and lady bright,
That were in chapel there,
Cried, “Honoured be the bravest knight,
Beloved the fairest fair.”
This is a translation by Sir Walter Scott, of the French song _Partant
pour la Syrie_, written by De Laborde, to music said to have been
composed by Queen Hortense, mother of Napoleon III. Under the Empire
_Partant pour la Syrie_ was the officially recognised French national
song, but it never became so popular as _La Marseillaise_.
――――
PARTANT POUR LA RUE BAKER.[42]
It was Bill Noyes, the yeoman brave,
Was in the tillage line,
But first he set his heart upon
His stock of beeves and swine;
His mind to cattle most was given,
And “darn,” he swore, “my wig!
But I will breed the hugest ox,
And rear the fattest pig.”
This point of honour, weight of swine,
And ox as highly scored,
He proved it at the Smithfield Club,
Before both squire and lord,
And cried as to the judges’ view
He bore the monsters big,
“Now bain’t this here the hugest ox?
That there the fattest pig?”
They owned his victory――due the palm――
And then the chairman said:
“The ox that is for honour grown,
On oilcake must be fed;
On barley-meal, hog, boar, or sow,
And tubs of wash to swig;
That’s how you cram the hugest ox,
And stuff the fattest pig.”
So round his neck the prize was tied,
And then they went to dine,
Which makes a farmer’s heaven on earth,
When beef and beer combine;
And every yeoman, lord, and ’squire,
Conservative and Whig,
Drank “Honour to the hugest ox,
Be praised the fattest pig!”
_Punch._ December 17, 1859.
There was another parody commencing:――
It was Dunupp, the hard beset,
Was bound to far Boulogne;
But first a hansom he must get,
And money he had none!
“Alas,” he cried, “they’re safe to nab,
No time have I to spare;
If I can find the fastest cab
I’ll prove the fairest fare.”
in _The Hornet_ for January 10, 1872, and another, of no interest or
literary merit, on page 134 of _The Literary Lounger_, London 1826.
――――:o:――――
CHEVY-CHACE.
It is quite unnecessary to quote this noble old ballad in full, it may
be found in Percy’s Reliques, Robert Bell’s _Early Ballads_, and many
other collections of old English Songs and Ballads.
God prosper long our noble king,
Our lives and safetyes all;
A woefull hunting once there did
In Chevy-Chace befall;
To drive the deere with hound and horne,
Erle Percy took his way;
The child may rue that is unborne,
The hunting of that day.
The stout Erle of Northumberland
A vow to God did make,
His pleasure in the Scottish woods
Three summer days to take;
The cheefest harts in Chevy-Chace
To kill and beare away.
The tydings to Erie Douglas came,
In Scottland where he lay:
Who sent Erle Percy present word,
He would prevent his sport.
The English Erle, not fearing that,
Did to the woods resort
With fifteen hundred bow-men bold;
All chosen men of might,
Who knew full well in time of neede
To ayme their shafts arright.
* * * * *
Lord Percy to the quarry went,
To view the slaughter’d deere;
Quoth he “Erle Douglas promised
This day to meet me heere:
But if I thought he would not come,
Noe longer wold I stay.”
With that, a brave young gentleman
Thus to the Erle did say:
“Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come,
His men in armour bright;
Full twenty hundred Scottish speres
All marching in our sight.”
* * * * *
The newes was brought to Eddenborrow,
Where Scottland’s king did raigne,
That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye
Was with an arrow slaine.
O heavy newes, King James did saye,
Scottland may my witnesse bee,
I have not any captaine more
Of such account as hee.
Like tydings to King Henry came,
Within as short a space,
That Percy of Northumberland
Was slaine in Chevy-Chace:
Now God be with him, said our king,
Sith it will noe better bee;
I trust I have, within my realme,
Five hundred good as hee.
Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say,
But I will vengeance take:
I’ll be revenged on them all,
For brave Erle Percye’s sake.
This vow full well the king perform’d
After, at Humbledowne;
In one day, fifty knights were slaine;
With lords of great renowne:
And of the rest, of small account,
Did many thousands dye:
Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace,
Made by the Erle Percy.
God save our king, and bless this land
With plentye, joy, and peace;
And grant henceforth, that foule debate
’Twixt noblemen may cease.
――――
CHEVY CHACE.[43]
God prosper long our noble King,
Our lives and safeties all:
A woeful story late there did
In Britain’s Isle befall.
DUKE SMITHSON, of NORTHUMBERLAND,[44]
A vow to God did make,
The choicest gifts in fair England,
For him and his to take.
“Stand fast, my merry men all,” he cried,
“By MOIRA’S Earl and me,
And we will gain place, wealth, and pow’r,
As arm’d neutrality.
Excise and Customs, Church and Law,
I’ve begged from _Master_ ROSE;
The Garter too――but still _the Blues_
I’ll have, or I’ll oppose.”
“Now God be with him,” quoth the KING,
“Sith ’twill no better be;
I trust we have within our realm,
Five hundred good as he.”
The DUKE then join’d with Charley Fox
A leader ware and tried,
And ERSKINE, SHERIDAN, and GRAY
Fought stoutly by his side.
Throughout our English Parliament
They dealt full many a wound;
But in his King’s and country’s cause,
PITT firmly stood his ground.
And soon a law like arrow keen,
Or spear, or curtal-axe,
Struck poor DUKE SMITHSON to the heart,
In shape of Powder-tax.[45]
Sore leaning on his crutch, he cried,
“Crop, crop, my merry men all;
No guinea for your heads I’ll pay,
Though Church and State should fall.”
Again the taxing-man appeared――
No deadlier foe could be;
A schedule of a cloth-yard long,
Within his hands bore he.
“Yield thee, DUKE SMITHSON, and behold
The assessment thou must pay;
Dogs, horses, houses, coaches, clocks,
And servants in array.”
“Nay,” quoth the DUKE, “in thy black scroll,
Deductions I espye,
For those who, poor, and mean, and low,
With children burthen’d lie.
And though full sixty thousand pounds
My vassals pay to me,
From Cornwall to _Northumberland_,
Through many a fair countée;
Yet England’s Church, its King, its laws,
Its cause I value not,
Compar’d with this, my constant text――
_A penny sav’d, is got_.
No drop of Princely PERCY’S blood
Through these cold veins doth run;
With _Hotspur’s_ castles, blazon, name,
I still am _poor_ SMITHSON.
Let England’s youth unite in arms,
And every liberal hand
With honest zeal subscribe their mite
To save the native land.
I at _St. Martin’s_ Vestry Board,
To swear shall be content,
That I have children eight, and claim
_Deductions, ten per cent_.”
God bless us all from factious foes,
And French fraternal kiss;
And grant the King may never make,
Another DUKE like this.
From _The Anti-Jacobin_, March, 1798.
――――
Another parody of Chevy-Chace, entitled _The Battle of Putney Hill_
appeared in the Morning Herald in 1799. It commenced thus:
God prosper long our noble King,
And guard our Statesmen all
From foul mishaps of every sort,
That vulgar folk enthral.
Two orators, whose venom tongues
Had left a point in doubt,
With weapons of more deadly mould
Resolv’d to fight it out.
The one a squire, of manners blunt,
A patriot staunch within;
The other of a lordly breed,
A courtier tall and thin.
Forth went these wights one Sabbath morn;
Ill luck such acts betide!
Was there no other to be found,
Of all the days beside?
* * * * *
The complete parody may be found in Vol. III of _The Spirit of the
Public Journals_ for 1799.
――――
THE NEW CHEVY CHACE.
(_On the occasion of the O. P. Riots._)
God prosper long our noble _King_,
Our cash and comforts all,
In Covent Garden, while I sing,
The _row_ that did befal.
To chase the CAT with howl and horn
JOHN BULL went to the play;
And though she laughed him to scorn,
I trow he won the day.
THE KEMBLES, HARRIS, SON and CO.
Did vow to God――God willing
That for GRIMALKIN and their show
They’d touch――the _other shilling_!
For they a theatre had made,
This famous CAT to squall in;
With “_Annual Boxes_” for the trade
No doubt of caterwalling;
JOHN’S native drama to undo,
With foreign airs and vices――
And so they e’en impos’d their New
And banish’d his “_Old Prices_.”
Their _bowmen_ bold from Bow Street brought,
All chosen men of might
Resolv’d to stuff down Johnny’s throat,
Their prices――wrong or right.
But JOHN whose skull with brains is cramn’d,
Their schemes did soon unriddle,
“And if I have, may I be damn’d,
(Quoth he) your _Cat_ and _Fiddle_!
“What! think you me to tax and gull,
“For building _this here house_!
“Or thinks a _Cat_ to catch JOHN BULL
“Just as she’d catch a mouse?
“Your modesty, upon my soul,
“Much with the ton increases,
“That fain would cram _each pigeon-hole_
“With _seven-shilling pieces_!
“No, no――it will not do, _Black_ JACK
“It shall not do, by Jingo;
“_Old plays and prices_ we’ll have back,
And no outlandish lingo!”
The orchestra struck up in vain,
_Macbeth_ and _wife_ were hiss’d!
And “_Birnham Wood_ to _Dunsinane_”
Unnotic’d pass’d, I wist.
For “_banners on the outward wall_”
The tyrant had no use
Their scrolls within so thick did fall,
Though _ne’er a flag of truce_!
On Monday first the _row_ begun.
Or call it what you may,
’Tis certain they kept up the fun
Until the Saturday.
The actors ran through every scene,
As fast as they could go――
As it a pantomime had been
Or eke, a puppet show.
And though the people that were there
Most loud did roar and rage,
Their backs they all, with special care,
Did turn upon the stage.
O Jove! it was a grief to see,
For word you could not hear――
(Except the speech of Mister Leigh)
A tragedy so queer.
To catgut, cat-call did reply,
With bell and bugle brazen!
And all _the Gods_, that sat on high,
Help’d out the diapason.
Yet bides JACK KEMBLE on the bent,
A Don of thorough blood;
With _aitches_ though his head was rent,
Firm as a mule he stood.
“Show me,” said he, “_what ’tis you want_?
“_What want_ ye here?” he cried
“We neither want your CAT or _cant_,”
Our Englishmen replied.
“Our _notes_, for her’s you shan’t command;
“And for her pipe, perdie,
“We trust we have within the land
“_Five hundred good as she_!”
With that there came a glorious roar,
Of rattles and of row-sticks;
As such there never did before
Confound the _catacousticks_!
Then look’d our manager, I trow,
Like one in doleful dumps;
His pride was humbled to a bow,
Almost upon his stumps.
As thus he said――“At length I yield,
“You’ve got what you have wish’d;
“You’ve won, JOHN BULL, you’ve won the field,
“And so――_the cat is dish’d_!”
God save the King, and bless the land,
Our liberties and laws,
And thus may Britons ever stand,
United in their cause.
From _The Morning Chronicle_. September 30, 1809.
This parody refers to the most extraordinary series of disturbances,
known as the O.P. Riots, which took place in the new Covent Garden
Theatre, commencing on the opening night, September 18, 1809, and
lasting, almost without intermission, till December 16, when the old
charges were restored. John Philip Kemble, the tragedian, and manager
of the theatre, was singled out for special disapproval, the outcries
against the _Cat_ (Madame Catalani) were also very bitter, as it was
generally supposed the prices had been raised owing to her exorbitant
salary. Madame Catalani’s business agent used to ask five hundred
guineas for her appearance at a concert, which was considered an
enormous sum in those days.
Kemble (styled _Black Jack_, on account of his dark complexion and
black hair), had a pedantic way of pronouncing _ache_ as _aitche_.
A PROTECTIONIST PARODY.
God prosper long our noble Queen,
Our lands and purses all;
A woeful ruin once there did
In Parliament befall.
The sly Sir Robert Turnabout,[46]
A solemn vow did make,
To scout the aristocracy,
And make the farmers quake.
The Landowners to terrify,
The Corn-laws to repeal.
These tidings to Lord Bentinck came,
Who wished his country’s weal.
He sent Sir Robert present word,
He shouldn’t pass his bill;
Sir Turnabout, not fearing this,
Replied, “Indeed, I will.”
For full three hundred backed him up,
A force in numbers strong,
Who knew full well in time of need
To give their votes a-wrong.
The “Turncoats” mustered in the “House,”
Taunts able to endure;
Their faces all that day were made
Of brass, you may be sure.
And long before midnight they had
Their pledges rendered vain;
And when they’d dined, the _whipper-in_
Soon drove them back again.
Sir Robert went――his speech complete――
To view his friends so queer;
Quoth he, “Lord Bentinck promised
This night should cost me dear:
Now, if I thought he would not come,
I’d have my Com-mit-tee.”
With that, says Bright, “Friend Turnabout,
A sight you now may see.
Lo! yonder doth Lord Bentinck stand,
His friends replete with spite;
Two hundred stout Protectionists,
To _cheer_ the live-long night;
All sturdy agriculturists,
True to their pledges still.”
“Then leave your dinners,” Bobby said,
“And Treasury benches fill,
And now with me, my Turnabouts,
Set forth fallacious words,
For never was there statesman yet,
In Commons House, or Lords,
That e’er did with statistics come,
But if he proved too strong,
I durst cook up some others quick,
To show that his were wrong.”
Lord Bentinck, on his hobby-horse,
Most like an honest man,
Stood foremost of his company,
And straightway thus began:
“Show me,” said he, “What right have ye,
The farmer’s gains to steal,
To rob the agriculturists,
The Corn-laws to Repeal?”
The man who longest answer made,
Was turn-coat Bobby, he
Who said, “We have the right of power
And of _majority_.”
* * * * *
Forth stept a manufacturer
(Dick Cobden was his name)
Who said, “I would not have it told
Unto ‘The League’ for shame,
That e’er this bill was fairly passed,
To make our traffic free,
And I took not that time t’abuse
The Aristocracy.
I’ll jaw as long as jaw I may,
Although I’m proved quite wrong,
Whilst I have place in Parliament
I’ll never hold my tongue.”
* * * * *
The fight did last twelve live long nights,
(The matter was so deep;)
And when they cleared the gallery,
The Speaker fell asleep!
Two hundred men and seventy
That day remained true;
The rest did rat with Turnabout,
And voted black was blue.
Then tidings to Lord Stanley came,
That Bentinck’s lord was beat,
And that at last Protection’s cause
Had suffered sore defeat.
“Now heaven be with us,” Stanley said,
“And Robert, what is he?
I trust we have within this Isle,
Leaders more trustworthy.
Yet shall not Bob nor turn-coats say,
But we will vengeance take:
We’ll be revenged upon them all,
For our good farmers’ sake.
This vow full well the chief performed,
As _Irish bills_ explain,
For Turnabout was then kicked out,
And won’t come in again.
Honour to you, Protectionists,
Bob and his lot shall fall,
For if _they kept_ their _places, you_
Have _kept your pledges all_!
(_26 verses are here given, the complete Parody contains 48._)
From _Protectionist Parodies_. By a Tory. J. Vincent Oxford. 1850.
――――
CHEVY CHASE.
_New Version of the old Ballad of Chivalry, adapted to our unchivalric
days._
God prosper long our gracious Queen,
And may no more befall,
So foul a fight as that rude fray,
Which Chevy[47] Chase we call.
To lead the House, with care and pain,
Grey Gladstone did essay.
The churl may shame that is unborn
The manners of that day.
The suave Sir Stafford[48] to oppose
His _devoir_ did with grace;
A gentler pair of gallant foes
Stood never face to face.
But forth there stepped a cheeky Squire,
Randolpho[49] was his name,
Who cried, “You don’t call _this_ a fight?
Your style is much too tame!
“You shall not fool about like this,
And I stand looking on.
You be too muffs,” Randolpho[49] said,
“I’d lick the pair alone!
“I’ll do the best that do I may,
Although not Old or Grand.
All this punctilio is rot;
I’ll fight for my own hand!”
Then straight arose a vulgar row,
Shaming good hearts and true;
Coarse words like poisoned arrows went,
And smirched where they not slew.
To still the storm, with broken voice,
Grey Gladstone did his best;
A Captain he of mickle might,
Who never stooped his crest.
But howls rose fast on every side,
No courtesy was found;
And yahoo yells of laughter rude,
His struggling accents drowned.
O Saints! it was great grief to see
How pale he did appear,
While flout and shout flew all about,
Rude laugh, and ruthless jeer.
This fight did last till Gladstone grey
Shamed _some_ of such coarse fun.
Hoarse was that voice, erst like a bell,
That long-tried strength foredone.
Lo! conscience pricks the brave Sir Hicks,[50]
A Knight of courtesie;
On that black bench churl hearts might blench,
And fail of their cad glee.
For Randolpho needs must I wail
As one in doleful dumps,
Aping the rough who kicks his foe,
And on his body jumps.
Smart Squire, who well might be brave Knight,
Him pity ’tis to see
Hounding rude clowns on, in despite
Of gallant Chivalry.
Let Irish churls of small account
Thus play the unknightly lout;
Let inarticulate Tory sumphs
Thus rudely yell and shout;
But one of brain and gentle blood
Should deem it less disgrace
To join some Cockney Epping Hunt
Than lead a Chevy Chase!
God save the Queen, and bless the land
With plenty, joy, and peace;
And grant henceforth that foul debate
’Twixt gentlemen may cease!
_Punch._ May 30, 1885.
――――:o:――――
LORD BATEMAN.
One of the best known of our old Ballads is _Lord Beichan_, or
_Buchan_. This is corrupted in the modern English form to _Lord
Bateman_; the ballad commences thus:
“Lord Bateman was a noble lord,
A noble lord of high degree;
He shipped himself on board a ship,
He longed strange countries for to see.”