Now John and Joe ye’ll smile at this?_Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. IV

(Ye’re naething else but asses, oh!)

The langest tongue the warld e’er saw

Has ceased to move the masses, oh!

Dame Gladstone swears the Nobs and Peers

Are clean against the masses, oh!

Her ’prentice han’ for Grand Old Man

Had failed to drive the classes, oh!

_Chorus._

A’ fools and asses, oh!

Ding doon the classes, oh!

In spite of breath an’ siller spent,

We cannot move the masses, oh!

_The Globe._ London, July 9, 1886.

――――:o:――――

“GREEN GROW THE RASHES, O!”

There’s naught but care on every han’,

In every hour that passes, O!

What signifies the life of man,

An’ ’twere not for the lasses, O!

Green grow the rashes, O!

The sweetest hours that e’er I spent,

Were spent amang the lasses, O!

The warly race may riches chase,

And riches still may flee thee, O!

And when at last they catch them fast,

Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them, O!

Green grow the rashes, O!

The sweetest hours that e’er I spent,

Were spent amang the lasses, O!

Give me a canny hour at e’en,

My arms about my deary, O!

Then warly cares and warly men

May all gang tapsalteery, O!

Green grow the rashes, O!

The sweetest hours that e’er I spent

Were spent amang the lasses, O!

For ye sae douce ye sneer at this,

Ye’re naught but senseless asses, O!

The wisest man the warld e’er saw,

He dearly loved the lasses, O!

Green grow the rashes, O!

The sweetest hours that e’er I spent,

Were spent amang the lasses, O!

Dame Nature swears the lovely dears

Her noblest work she classes, O!

Her prentice han’ she tried on man,

And then she made the lasses, O!

Green grow the rashes, O!

The sweetest hours that e’er I spent,

Were spent among the lasses, O!

ROBERT BURNS.

――――

Curæ corrodunt Urbem, Rus,

Et sapientûm cellulas,

Nec vitâ vellem frui plus

Nî foret ob puellulas――

Virent arundines!

At me tenellulas

Tædet horarum nisi queis

Inter fui puellulas

Divitias avaro dem,

Insudet auri cumulo,

Quærat quocumque modo rem,

Inops abibit tumulo.

Virent arundines

At me tenellulas

Tædet horarum nisi queis

Inter fui puellulas!

Cùm Sol obscurat spicula,

Mî brachio tunc niveo,

Stringente, fit, amiculâ,

Rerum dulcis oblivio!

Virent arundines!

At me tenellulas

Tædet horarum nisi queis

Inter fui puellulas!

Num dices contrà? canum grex!

An fuit vir sagacior

Quàm Solomon? aut unquam rex

In virgines salacior?

Virent arundines!

At me tenellulas

Tædet horarum nisi queis

Inter fui puellulas!

Quas cum de terræ vasculo

Natura finxit bellulas,

Tentavit manum masculo

Formavit tunc puellulas.

Virent arundines!

At me tenellulas,

Tædet horarum nisi queis

Inter fui puellulas!

FATHER PROUT.

(The Rev. Francis Mahony.)

In the “Works of Father Prout,” published by George Routledge & Sons,

London, there will also be found a Latin translation of “John

Anderson, my jo, John.”

――――

THE WEARING O’ THE SASHES, OH!

All people bow at Fashion’s Shrine,

Especially where there cash is, O!

And the latest thing in Fashion’s line

Is most extensive sashes, O!

_Chorus._

_We’ve_ seen those sashes, O!

Red and yellow sashes, O!

In fact, all hues the ladies choose

For vast and varied sashes, O!

That lovely and all-conquering sex,

Who in man’s heart makes gashes, O!

Will now still more man’s mind perplex

By flying such big sashes, O!――(_Chorus._)

For now, where Fashion’s nymphs are seen,

Through man this thought now flashes, O!

That maybe all the darlings mean

To hide themselves in sashes, O!――(_Chorus._)

And, oh! if Woman _should_ do this,

_We’d_ need sackcloth and ashes, O!

Then do not rob us of our bliss

You fine and large new sashes, O!――(_Chorus._)

Who but reveres the lovely dears?

Love meant us for their “mashes,” O!

And so, why plan to draw poor man

By adding large-sized sashes, O!

_Chorus._

But still they wear those sashes, O!

And sweet are all those sashes, O!

Like window-frames our maids and dames

Now need a lot of sashes, O!

_Fun._ August 4, 1886.

――――

MY KITTY O!

Dull books, good bye! No more shall I

In you seek recreation, O;

I’ll pore no more o’er musty lore

For fruitless information, O,

I’ll o’er the foam, I’ll hie me home,

I’ll leave the dreary city, O,

O’er hill and dale, through glen and vale,

I’ll roam alone with Kitty, O,

My Kitty, O! My Kitty, O!

Oh, what are joys of city, O,

Long years compared with one hour shared

In converse sweet with Kitty O?

Her eye is bright, her step so light

It scarcely bends the daisy, O.

If men her laugh like wine could quaff

’Twould surely send them crazy, O.

Soft ringlets press in fond caress

Around her ears so pretty, O,

And brow of snow, and lips aglow,

And rosy cheeks has Kitty, O.

My Kitty, O! My Kitty, O!

She’s handsome, winsome, witty, O;

Seek far and near, from Bann to Clear,

You’ll meet no peer for Kitty. O!

From _Irish Songs and Poems_. By M. Fahy. 1887.

――――:o:――――

A MAN’S A MAN FOR A’ THAT.

‘A man’s a man,’ says Robert Burns,

’For a’ that, and a’ that;’

But though the song be clear and strong,

It lacks a note for a’ that.

The lout who’d shirk his daily work,

Yet claim his wage and a’ that,

Or beg when he might earn his bread,

Is _not_ a man for a’ that.

II.

If all who ‘dine on homely fare’

Were true and brave and a’ that,

And none whose garb is ‘hodden grey’

Was fool or knave and a’ that,

The vice and crime that shame our time

Would disappear and a’ that,

And ploughmen be as good as Kings,

And churls as earls for a’ that.

III.

But ’tis not so; yon brawny fool,

Who swaggers, swears, and a’ that,

And thinks because his strong right arm

Might fell an ox and a’ that,

That he’s as noble, man for man,

As Duke or Lord and a’ that,

Is but an animal at best,

And _not_ a man for a’ that.

IV.

A man may own a large estate,

Have palace, park, and a’ that,

And not for birth, but honest worth,

Be thrice a man for a’ that.

And Donald herding on the moor,

Who beats his wife and a’ that,

Is nothing but a brutal boor,

Nor half a man for a’ that.

It comes to this, dear Robert Burns,

The truth is old and a’ that,

‘The rank _is_ but the guinea’s stamp,

The man’s the gowd for a’ that.’

And though you’d put the self-same mark

On copper, brass, and a’ that,

The lie is gross, the cheat is plain,

And will not pass for a’ that.

VI.

For a’ that and a’ that,

’Tis soul and heart and a’ that

That makes the king a gentleman,

And not his crown and a’ that,

And whether he be rich or poor,

The best is he for a’ that

Who stands erect in self-respect,

And acts the man for a’ that.

CHARLES MACKAY.

――――

HE’S THE MAN FOR A’ THAT.

Is there for tenets Liberal

That hangs his head and a’ that,

And thinks the de’il is in us all――

Bah! he’s a fool for a’ that.

For a’ that and a’ that,

Perhaps he’s right for a’ that;

But what’s the odds, we’ve ta’en an oath

To vote wi’ Glad. for a’ that.

What tho’ he beaten ten times o’er is,

Cried down, despised and a’ that,

By fools of Rads and knaves of Tories.

Why, he’s the man for a’ that.

For a’ that and a’ that,

Perhaps he’s wrong for a’ that;

But what’s the odds if he mistake,

We’re pledged to him for a’ that.

Ye see yon members, Liberals ca’ed,

They fume and fret and a’ that,

When asked to vote they hummed and ha’ed,

They’ve a just cause for a’ that.

For a’ that and a’ that,

They’re honest perhaps for a’ that;

But whoso hangs by Gladstone’s tail

He scoffs at them for a’ that.

_Moonshine._ May 8, 1886.

A parody on the same song, but taking exactly the opposite view of the

question, appeared in _The Liberal Home Ruler_ for January 8, 1887. It

was written by W. E. Sadler, and commenced, “_Is there for honest

policy_.”

――――:o:――――

A RADICAL’S LAMENT.

Joe Chamberlain, my Joe,

“When we were first acquent,”

Your speech was like a Radical’s,

With us your life was spent;

But now you’ve sadly changed, Joe,

Your voice we hardly know,

While Tories have your sympathy,

Joe Chamberlain, my Joe.

(_Two verses omitted._)

Joe Chamberlain, my Joe,

The right is on our side;

And we have gallant leaders, Joe,

All trusty, true, and tried.

And though you have deserted us

And gone to join the foe,

We mean to fight and conquer yet,

Joe Chamberlain, my Joe!

Joe Chamberlain, my Joe,

With us you climbed the hill;

And hand to hand we helped you up,

With Radical good-will.

Now, hand in hand with Salisbury,

You down again will go,

And you’ll “sleep together at the foot,”

Joe Chamberlain, my Joe!

_The Liberal Home Ruler._ April 9, 1887.

_Punch_ for June 21, 1879, contained a parody of this song relative to

the Golden Wedding of the Emperor of Germany, and there were also

political parodies of it in _England_ for May 30, 1885, and the _St.

James’s Gazette_ for March 19, 1886.

――――:o:――――

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

Thomas Campbell’s version of the above song was given (as well as

several parodies based upon it) in Volume III. (Part 26), but no

mention was made of the fact that Campbell had borrowed the main idea

from the following old song by Martyn Parker:――

Ye gentlemen of England.

That live at home at ease,

Ah! little do you think upon

The dangers of the seas.

Give ear unto the mariners,

And they will plainly show

All the cares and the fears,

When the stormy winds do blow.

When the stormy, &c.

If enemies oppose us

When England is at war

With any foreign nation,

We fear not wound or scar;

Our roaring guns shall teach ’em

Our valour for to know,

Whilst they reel on the keel,

And the stormy winds do blow.

And the stormy, &c.

Then courage, all brave mariners,

And never be dismay’d,

Whilst we have bold adventurers,

We ne’er shall want a trade:

Our merchants will employ us

To fetch them wealth, we know;

Then be bold――work for gold,

When the stormy winds do blow.

When the stormy, &c.

――――

YE PUGILISTS OF ENGLAND.[73]

Ye Pugilists of England,

Who guard your native sod,

Whose pluck has braved a thousand years,

Cross-buttock, blow, and blood,

Your corky canvas sport again,

To mill another foe,

As you spring, round the ring,

While the betters noisy grow;

While the banging rages loud and long,

And the betters noisy grow.

II.

A Briton needs no poniards,

No bravos ’long his street――

His trust is in a strong roped ring,

A square of twenty feet.

With one-twos from his horny fists,

He floors the coves below,

As they crash, on the grass,

When the betters noisy grow;

When the banging rages loud and long,

And the betters noisy grow.

III.

The spirits of prime pugilists

Shall rise at every round;

For the ring it was their field of fame,

To them ’tis holy-ground.

Where Slack and mighty Belcher fell,

Your manly hearts shall glow,

As you peel, true as steel.

While the betters noisy grow.

While the banging rages loud and long,

And the betters noisy grow.

IV.

The Randal-rag of England

Must yet terrific burn,

Till Ireland’s troublesome knight be beat,

And the star of Crib return!

Then, then, ye glutton-pugilists,

The claret red shall flow,

To the fame, of your name,

When the noise of bets is low.

When Sir Dan lies levelled loud and long,

And the noise of bets is low.

_Blackwood’s Magazine._ September, 1819.

――――:o:――――

MARK SPROT’S LAMENT.

Ye President’s and L’Amy’s men,

Who drill on foot at ease,

O, little do you think upon

The dangers of our knees!

My song shall make your legs to shake

Within your pantaloons:

We such woe undergo

When we ride with the Dragoons.

Our Quarter-Master, _Donald_,

Is up at peep of day;

A whacking fine he doth design,

If you remain away.

When he doth call the muster-roll,

His pipe each yeoman times――

Spare me, lo! here I go,

To ride with the Dragoons.

Then out speaks Sergeant _Whigham_,

And an angry man is he;

If you’ve that day forgot pipe-clay,

Or put your belt ajee,

Quoth great _Whigham_, “Resolved I am,

To trounce such awkward loons――

Please pay down, half-a-crown,

To the fund of our Dragoons.”

Then out speaks Captain _Cockburn_,

With accents stern and gruff,

“Count one, two, three, that I may see

How many files go off.”

We jog along, some eighty strong,

Despising absent spoons――

A gay band, o’er the sand,

The Volunteer Dragoons.

Although the sand is flying,

And the sun is burning hot,

And every soul is frying,

We must not shrink a jot.

We don’t give o’er, though basted sore,

But halt and fire platoons.

O, the shock, when we cock!

O, the falls of the Dragoons!

Sometimes the thing will happen,

The rear rides o’er the front;

Myself, I once came slapping.

And fell with such a dunt!

I hate the gloom of _Borthwick’s_ plume!

There’s wisdom in my tune,

“Make your will ere you drill,

Each desperate Dragoon.”

But O! the cup of blessing,

That washes down our pain!

I would not lose our messing,

Though I must ride again.

Care killed a cat, remember that,

To-night enjoy your lunes:

Fairly fill, deeply swill,

Bellygerent Dragoons.

From _Songs of the Edinburgh Troop_. July, 1820. Edinburgh: James

Ballantyne & Company. 1825.

A curious, and now very scarce little collection of songs relating to

the Edinburgh Yeomanry Cavalry, which was privately printed, and

afterwards suppressed. There were nine songs in all, of which this was

the first, dating from July 1820 to July 1823; they were written

jointly by John Gibson Lockhart and Patrick F. Tytler, author of _The

History of Scotland_, &c.

In the article on Lockhart in _The Maclise Portrait Gallery_ Mr. W.

Bates mentions the _brochure_ as being very scarce. The above song has

been kindly sent by Mr. James Gordon, F.S.A., Scotland.

――――:o:――――

A prize parody competition on Campbell’s song took place in _Truth_,

and fifteen versions were printed on July 1, 1886. Of these the first

verses of a few may be quoted:――

You Grand Old Man of England,

So fond of felling trees.

Ah, little did you think your Bill

Would stir up such a breeze.

Give ear unto your trusted friends,

Who vainly try to show

All their doubts and their fears,

When your honeyed words do flow.

AGELASTES.

――――

Ye barristers of England,

Who live upon our pleas,

How pleasant could you moderate

Your too inflated fees;

Give ear unto poor suitors,

And you shall plainly know

All their care and despair,

As those fees so swiftly grow, &c.

NUTSHELL.

――――

Ye gentlemen of England,

Who bat with “Grace” and ease,

What think ye of Australian teams

Arrived a’yont the seas?

Be careful that the colonists

Don’t make too great a show,

For they play, everyday,

In their island home below, &c.

CRYSTAL PALACE.

――――

Ye Liberals of England,

Attention, if you please,

Pray let me know which you prefer,

_My_ programme or J. C.’s.

Give ear unto your Grand Old Man,

And he will plainly show,

’Tis the cads, not the Rads,

That are in the swim with Joe, &c.

MAVIS.

――――

You gentlemen of England

That live the fair to please,

Ah, little do you think upon

The fancies of the shes;

Give ear unto the dressmakers,

And they will plainly show,

The dresses made with tears

With dead birds in a row.

J. MCGREGOR ALLAN.

――――

You noblemen of England,

That boast of pedigrees,

Ah! little do you think of those

Who fare on bread and cheese.

Give ear unto the people,

For soon they mean to show

They’re a power, in the hour

When the Lords we overthrow, &c.

W. VAL ENGLISH.

――――

YE UNIONISTS OF ENGLAND.

Ye Unionists of England,

Who grace our native land,

Whose Union Jack has braved so long

The whole Gladstonian band.

That glorious standard launch again

To meet the Liberal foe,

As you rave like the brave

While you follow after “Joe!”

The spirit of the Tories

In every heart burns bright.

Coercion is your field of fame,

Obstruction your delight.

The hatred of all Irishmen

Your burning zeal shall fan,

As you shout and you spout

That you’ll crush the Grand Old Man.

When Brand and noble Goschen fell

Your Tory breasts still glow,

As you stand at command

Of your mighty leader “Joe.”

The meteor flag of Brummagem

Terrific still shall burn,

Till Gladstone’s troubled course be run

And Joseph’s star return.

_Pall Mall Gazette._ June 16, 1887.

――――

YE CRICKETERS.

Ye cricketers of England,

That guard the timbers three;

Whose game has brav’d a thousand years

All other games that be!

Your pliant willow grasp again

To match another foe.

As ye stand, bat in hand

Where the ripping swift uns go;

Or the crafty Clark with peerless twist

Sends in his teazers slow.

The spirit of your fathers,

Look on from nook and shade;

Their ghosts, in ancient flannels clad,

Peer forth from every glade.

Where Pilch and mighty Alfred move

Their spectres long to show

How to stand, bat in hand,

Where the ripping swift uns go;

Or the crafty Clark with peerless twist

Sends in his teazers slow.

Long, long, on lawn of noble,

And in the cottage field,

This game of games to English hearts,

Its healthy joys shall yield;

And oft at eve, when stumps are drawn,

The fragrant weed shall glow;

As ye tell, how they fell,

Where the ripping swift uns go;

Or the crafty Clark with peerless twist

Sends in his teazers slow.

From _Hints to Freshmen in the University of Oxford_. J. Vincent.

――――

THE CRICKETER.

There’s a game that bears a well-known name, in castle, hall, and

cot,

’Tis the first in boyhood’s happy years, in this our island plot.

The stripling thinks himself a man, when once he owns a bat;

A flush beams on his youthful brow when comrades vote for that.

’Tis a noble game, deny it who can!

The pride of a fine young Englishman!

’Tis, &c.

It nurtures a deep and lasting love for manly deeds and true,

And trains our youth in nerve and eye――things well to keep in

view;

It teaches deeds of chivalry, to friends to be sincere,

And teaches him in play or sport there nothing is to fear,

’Tis a noble game, &c.

There are names that bring a well-known charm to peasant and to

peer:

Old England, Ireland, Scotland, send out a ringing cheer;

Canada adds a loving word, America its praise,

Of giants in this isle of ours, and oft our spirits raise.

’Tis a noble game, &c.

To gallant South and noble North a welcome tribute bring

Of Lillywhite, old Fuller, Mynn, this day, my boys, we sing;

Still Parr and Daft are words that burn――W. G. the champion is;

The Walkers, Littletons are grand! Whoever should them quiz.

’Tis a noble game, &c.

’Tis a noble land that bears such sons, who fight in love and

peace.

May concord, truth, and unity through all the world increase;

May those who win and those who lose united ever be――

Old England’s pride shall be, my boys, good cricketers to see.

’Tis a noble game, &c.

ANONYMOUS.

(_Written about the time of the Canadian Cricketers’ tour._)

[Illustration]

IRISH SONGS.

――――

MOLLY BAWN (OR, FAIR MOLLY).

Oh, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining,

All lonely, waiting here for you?

While the stars above are brightly shining,

Because they’ve nothing else to do.

The flowers late were open keeping,

To try a rival blush with you;

But their mother, Nature, set them sleeping,

With their rosy faces wash’d with dew,

Oh, Molly Bawn, &c.

Now the pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear,

And the pretty stars were made to shine;

And the pretty girls were made for the boys, dear,

And may be you were made for mine;

The wicked watch-dog here is snarling,

He takes me for a thief you see;

For he knows I’d steal you, Molly, darling,

And then transported I should be.

Oh, Molly Bawn, &c.

SAMUEL LOVER.

There was a parody of this song in the first volume of _The Man in the

Moon_, unfortunately it is very coarse:――

Oh! Molly, pawn without repining,

That wedding-ring I gave to you,

Where three gilt balls are brightly shining,

Because they’ve customers to do.

* * * * *

――――

A VOICE FROM CANNES.

OH, ROBERT Bawn, why leave me pining,

Lone waiting here for news from you?

With LEADER now I’m idly dining,

Because I’ve nothing else to do.

The Whigs were into office creeping,

We hear, to try a brush with you;

But their nurse, RUSSELL, set them sleeping,

Their sanguine faces turn’d to blue.

Oh, ROBERT Bawn, why leave me pining, &c.

The pretty flowers were made to bloom, BOB;

The pretty moon to wax and wane;

A tidy wig was made for BROUGHAM, BOB――

Ah! cruel, was it made in vain?

There’s wicked CAMPBELL at me snarling;

He takes me for a rat, you see:

I wish you’d take me, Robert darling!

Then ratified my hopes would be.

Oh Robert, &c.

_Punch._ 1846.

The above song refers to a rumour that Lord Brougham (then residing at

Cannes) was making overtures to Sir Robert Peel, in the hope that if

Sir Robert returned to power, he, Brougham, would again be made Lord

Chancellor.

“Brougham was still amused by the prospect of holding the Great Seal

under Sir Robert Peel.”――_Life of Lord Brougham._

――――:o:――――

THE ANGEL’S WHISPER.

A baby was sleeping, its mother was weeping,

For her husband was far on the wild raging sea;

And the tempest was swelling round the fisherman’s dwelling,

And she cried, “Dermot, darling, oh! come back to me.”

Her beads while she numbered, the baby still slumbered,

And smiled in her face as she bended the knee.

“Oh! blessed be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning,

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.”

* * * * *

SAMUEL LOVER.

――――

A woman half sleeping, o’er a window was peeping,

For her husband had not come to dinner or tea:

And the watchman was telling the hour that was knelling,

And he cried, “Past eleven,” most vociferously.

The hours while she number’d, her anger still slumber’d,

And she thought where the deuce her wild husband could be!

Oh! where is he snoring till this hour of the morning,

Oh! I’m certain he can’t be in good companie.

Sich hours to be keeping, is quite overleaping

The bounds of decorum and all modesty;

I think it is rather improper in a father,

Who might sit quietly at home, in his wife’s companie.

And five in the morning, saw Jenkins returning,

And the wife gloom’d, her husband half-drunk for to see,

And he, while undressing, his folly confessing,

Cried, I’ll never take up with such bad companie.

_The Irish Comic Vocalist._ 1862.

――――:o:――――

THE LAND OF THE WEST.

O come to the Wild West, O come there with me,

To see th’ exhibition of Buffalo B――,

Where the fair ladies shoot at the glass balls up-thrown;

O come to the wild west――and come not alone.

I’ll treat you, I’ll show you the pictures, and best

Of all, I will show you Bill Cody’s Wild West.

The North has attractions, I do not deny;

It’s Hampstead, its Hall, and its Palace on high.

Let ’Arrys at Hampstead enjoy themselves best,

The Indian location is down in the west.

So go there with me, and it will be confessed,

You’ll have fun for your money at Cody’s Wild West.

The South has its Palace of Crystal, ’tis true;

All sparkling in sunlight, and lamps not a few;

Half greenhouse, half theatre, it hasn’t the zest,

It’s right small potatoes compared to “Wild West.”

So come to the “Yankeries”――Earl’s Court is best

Place for a ticket――the Bully Wild West!

From _Max in the Metropolis_. By Max P. Romer. 1887. George Routledge

& Sons. London.

――――

A parody of Samuel Lover’s _The Low-Backed Car_, entitled _The Gin

Shop Bar_, was written by J. A. Hardwick. It was, however, very coarse

and slangy. Another long parody was in _Diogenes_, Volume III, 1854,

entitled _The Haughty Czar_:

When first I saw the Emperor,

’Twas on the Ascot day.

Beside our gracious Queen he sat,

And chatted free and gay:

And when the cup was won, they named

The horse “The Emperor,”

No compliment to the horse, we thought,

But flattering to the Czar:

The bullying northern Czar:

The crazy northern Czar,

As fast as that steed to run he’ll have need,

When with us he goes to war.

(_Three verses omitted._)

――――:o:――――

CAVOUR.

In July, 1859, the Emperor Napoleon III. concluded a sudden and

unexpected armistice with Austria, just at a time when all the world

was expecting to see Italy freed from the hated rule of the Hapsburgs,

and the Bourbons. Count Cavour resigned his ministerial posts, the

indignation of the Italians was unbounded, and revolutions broke out

all over the Peninsula.

Count O’Cavourneen, the bubble is breaking

You’ve had the last scene, Solferino’s red hill,

The cannons no longer the echoes are waking,

Count O’Cavourneen, what, Minister still?

O, hast thou forgot the diplomacy clever

In which thou didst bear so distinguished a part,

Thy vow to clear out all the Hapsbugs for ever?

The vermin still linger, Cavour of my heart.

Cavourneen, Cavourneen, the dead lie in numbers

Beneath the torn turf where the living made fight;

In the bed of My Uncle the Emperor slumbers,

But Italy’s Hapsbugs continue to bite.

Well done, my Cavour, they have cut short the struggle

That fired all the pulses of Italy’s heart;

And in turning thy back on the humbug and juggle;

Cavour, thou hast played a proud gentleman’s part.

SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1859.

――――

KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN.

(_Her Answer._)

Oh! Dermot Asthore, though the gray dawn is breaking,

To open the window would give me a chill,

The lark――of last evening――has left my head aching,

So don’t sing outside there, but let me lie still.

My hair is in papers――three screws on each side, dear,――

Not very romantic for lovers to see.

The “Voice of your heart” has a thrifle of pride, dear,

And that’s why I’m silent, which pray let me be.

Oh! Dermot Asthore, is it still are ye there, now;

Don’t throw up the pebbles, you’ll break every pane;

Just take yourself off, for I vow and declare, now,

I’ll get very mad if you wake me again.

It may be for five years, it may be eleven

Or even fourteen, or for life we must part,

But this is no reason to wake me at seven,

So don’t come again, till I’ve made myself smart.

――――:o:――――

THE BELLS OF SHANDON.[74]

With deep affection

And recollection

I often think of

Those Shandon bells,

Whose sounds so wild would,

In the days of childhood,

Fling round my cradle

Their magic spells.

On this I ponder

Where’er I wander,

And thus grow fonder,

Sweet Cork, of thee;

With thy bells of Shandon,

That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

I’ve heard bells chiming,

Full many a clime in,

Tolling sublime in

Cathedral shrine;

While at a glibe rate

Brass tongues would vibrate;

But all their music

Spoke naught like thine.

For memory, dwelling

On each proud swelling

Of thy belfry, knelling

Its bold notes free,

Made the bells of Shandon

Sound far more grand on

The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

I’ve heard bells tolling

Old “Adrian’s Mole” in

And cymbals glorious

Swinging uproarious

In the gorgeous turrets

Of Notre Dame;

But thy sounds were sweeter

Than the dome of Peter

Flings o’er the Tiber,

Pealing solemnly.

Oh! the bells of Shandon

Sound far more grand on

The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

There’s a bell in Moscow,

While on tower and kiosk O!

In Saint Sophia

The Turkman gets,

And loud in air,

Calls men to prayer

From the tapering summit

Of tall minarets.

Such empty phantom

I freely grant them;

But there is an anthem

More dear to me――

’Tis the bells of Shandon

That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

REV. FRANCIS MAHONY (_Father Prout_).

――――

In Memoriam.

FATHER PROUT.

(REV. FRANCIS MAHONY.)

In deep dejection, but with affection,

I often think of those pleasant times

In the days of “Frazer” ere I touched a razor,

How I read and revelled in thy racy rhymes;

When in wine and wassail we to thee were vassal,

Of Water-grass Hill, O renowned P. P.――――

May “The Bells of Shandon,”

Toll blythe and bland on

The pleasant waters of thy memory!

Full many a ditty, both wise and witty,

In this social city, have I heard since then――

(With the glass before me, how the dream comes o’er me,

Of those Attic suppers and those vanished men!)

But no song hath woken, whether sung or spoken.

Or hath left a token of such joy in me,

As “The Bells of Shandon,

That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee.”

The songs melodious, which――a new Harmodius――

“Young Ireland” wreathed round its rebel sword;

With their deep vibrations and aspirations,

Fling a glorious madness o’er the festive board;

But to me seems sweeter the melodious metre

Of the simple lyric that we owe to thee――

Of the bells of Shandon

That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

There’s a grave that rises on thy sward, Devizes,

Where Moore lies sleeping from his land afar,

And a white stone flashes o’er Goldsmith’s ashes,

In the quiet cloister by Temple Bar;

So where’er thou sleepest, with a love that’s deepest,

Shall thy land remember thy sweet song and thee,

While the bells of Shandon

Shall sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY.

Father Prout (Francis Sylvester Mahony) was an early contributor to

_Frazer’s Magazine_, he died on Friday, May 18, 1866, and the author

of the above imitation of his poem died on Good Friday, 1882. Mahony

was buried in Cork, on the banks of the river Lee, and within sound of

the Bells of Shandon.

――――

“FRAZER.”[75]

_Obit._――A.D. 1882.

Oh, the bells of Shandon, that sound so grand on,

The pleasant waters of the river Lee,

Ne’er tolled so sadly where once so gladly

They pealed their merriest old “Yorke,” for thee,

As when they laid thee with those that made thee

Of “broths of boys” that blithest company,

That round the table (while they were able)

Of friendly Frazer held rare revelry.

_Eheu, fugaces!_ Their vacant places,

Like empty tumblers tell of vanished glee,

Of jokes and jokers now stiff as pokers,

Of silent singers, shut-up repartee,

Of wits phosphoric all dumb as “Yorick,”

Fun, fire and fancy, and philosophy;

With that rich cargo at Death’s embargo,

The good ship “Frazer” ne’er more sails the sea.

Ah! well they knew it (why did they do it?)

Who spoilt the gallant rig we loved to see?

That double column grown broad as solemn,

The old brown coat turned modern filagree.

Yet while there lingers of those sweet singers,

That jovial crew still pleasant memory

In mood as frisky, we’ll fill the whisky.

And make sweet end in mirth and melody.

Maclise’s pencil, that rare utensil,

It gives those brave boys immortality,

As still they’re sitting, the swift wit flitting,

Like lightning forked round Frazer’s snuggery――

Sage, singer, joker, from Crusty Croker,

Gay Theodore, that “divil” for a spree,

To th’ Reverend Barham (garter and star him!)

The prince of ballad-singers, Ingoldsby.

There’s the gentle Barry (Cornwall won’t marry

With rhyme at all) famed for sweet minstrelsy,

And that rare old thinker, the whisky drinker,

Brave Father Prout――ould Irish Mahony,

Blockhead and blockheart who loves not Lockhart,

Singing the brave old song of chivalry;

But of those brave brothers, above all others

Bold Barry Lyndon! turn our hearts to thee.

_Eheu, fugaces_! e’en younger faces

No more will gather ’neath thy old roof-tree――

Those “boys” so curly, the slashing “Shirley,”

Hypatia’s hero, dull “A. K. H. B.”

All――all are vanished, for ever banished

From their old happy haunt of life and glee,

But as sons to father come home, they’ll gather

With joy to welcome, dear old “Frazer,” thee.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

“THE BELLS I’VE SHAMM’D ON.”[76]

The Bells I’ve Shamm’d on,

This town so grand on,

Have made me famous among greater names.

Though silent swinging,

Nor proudly ringing,

They’ve sent no music over Father Thames.

I’ve stood all tremblin’,

’Neath the vaulted Kremlin,

While aisles vibrated with a solemn hum.

But what’s all _their_ mettle

To Westminster’s kettle?

That gave one bang out, and then was dumb.

Men were well wearied

Of chimes so varied,

And longed some simple song to hear;

And _my_ cracked pitcher,

If it were not richer,

At least was newer to the world’s ear.

At midnight waking,

And thro’ silence breaking,

Some bells would seem a solemn sound to tell;

A song of nations,

In the deep vibrations,

Sending the echo, thro’ many a far-off dell.

But _my_ harsh screamer,

With the shrill cry of steamer,

Awakes no memory of distant times,

Nor rings a benizon,

But the knell of DENISON,

Who first invented these cruel chimes.

――――:o:――――

BRIAN O’LIN.

Brian O’Lin had no coat to put on,

He borrow’d a goat skin to make him a one,

He planted the horns right under his chin,

“They’ll answer for pistols,” says Brian O’Lin. &c.

* * * * *

A NEW IRISH MELODY.

(_To an old Air, viz., “Brian O’Lin.”_)

Daniel O’Connell’d no mischief to brew,

So he started Repeal just for something to do,

And the watch-word like mad through Hibernia ran;

“Och! the rint is a mighty fine income,” says DAN.

Daniel O’Connell found nothing would do

But to keep up a regular hullabaloo,

Till he found himself frying like fat in a pan;

“Faith, I’m thinking I’d like to be out on’t,” says DAN.

Daniel O’Connell said rather too much,

About blackguards, and tyrants, and Sassenachs, and such,

Till the Government shut up the turbulent man;

“Arrah! here’s a gintale situation,” says DAN.

Daniel O’Connell had friends to his back,

So he got out of prison again in a crack;

And he now is exactly just where he began,

“Arrah! What in the world will I do now,” says DAN.

_Punch._ 1844.

――――:o:――――

TOM MOODY.

You all knew Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well;

The bell just done tolling was honest Tom’s knell,

A more able sportsman ne’er followed a hound

Through a country well known to him fifty miles round.

No hound ever open’d, with Tom near the wood,

But he’d challenge the tone, and could tell if ’twere good;

And all with attention would eagerly mark,

When he cheer’d up the pack, “Hark! to Rockwood, hark! hark!

High!――wind him! and cross him!

Now, Ratler, boy!――Hark!

* * * * *

ANDREW CHERRY.

PAT FAGAN.

You all knew Pat Fagan, the labourer, well;

The bell just done tolling, was poor Paddy’s knell:

A more able hodsman can never be found,

St. Giles’s well known to him every inch round.

No pal that e’er cross’d him, whether little or big,

But he’d challenge the boy, and flourish his sprig;

And all with attention would eagerly fix,

When they cheered up the boy with, “Paddy, more bricks!

A little water!――more mortar!

Below, Pat, below!”

Six whacking big chairmen, with togs queerly dress’d,

Supported poor Pat to his last place of rest;

His hod, which he styled the best hod in the world,

(On whose top hung his jacket, like a flag that’s unfurled,)

His cap, boots, and shovel, in a trophy was bound,

And the spalpeens all join’d in the “hubbaboo” sound;

But no more, sure, the boys his loud “hollo” will fix,

Nor the buildings resound with, “Paddy, more bricks!

A little water!――more mortar!

Hollo, Pat, hollo!”

Thus Pat spoke, “My honies, now I give up de ghost,

I hope of my death you’ll all make de most;

One favour I’ll ask――the same I will crave――

Kick a thundering big row up, now, over my grave;

And, unless I jump up and flourish my sprig,

My boys, you’ll conclude I’m as dead as a pig!”

Honest Pat was obey’d――the howls rent the sky,

And the spalpeens all join’d in the “hubbaboo” cry.

“Hubbaboo!――philliloo!

Arrah, my darling, why did you die?

Och, murder!――Pat, come back!”

ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

WADE’S VERSION.

Meet me by moonlight alone,

And then I will tell you a tale

Must be told by the light of the moon,

In the grove at the end of the vale.

O remember! be sure to be there;

For though dearly the moonlight I prize,

I care not for all in the air,

If I want the sweet light of thine eyes.

Then meet me by moonlight alone.

Daylight was made for the gay,

For the thoughtless, the heartless, the free!

But there’s something about the moon’s ray

That is dearer to you, love, and me.

Oh! be sure to be there, for I said

I would show to the night-flowers their queen.

Nay, turn not aside that sweet head――

’Tis the fairest that ever was seen.

Then meet me by moonlight alone.

ABBÉ DE PROUT.

Viens au bosquet, ce soir, sans témoin,

Dans le vallon, au clair de la lune;

Ce que l’on t’y dira n’a besoin

Ni de jour ni d’oreille importune.

Mais surtout rends-toi là sans faillir,

Car la lune a bien moins de lumière

Que l’amour n’en sçait faire jaillir

De ta languissante paupière.

Sois au bosquet au clair de la lune.

Pour les cœurs sans amour le jour luit,

Le soleil aux froids pensers préside;

Mais la pale clarté de la nuit

Favorise l’amant et le guide.

Les fleurs que son disque argentin

Colore, en toi verront leur reine.

Quoi! tu baisses ce regard divin,

Jeune beauté, vraiment souveraine?

Rends-toi là donc au clair de la lune.

FRANCIS S. MAHONY.

――――:o:――――

THE WIDOW MALONE.

Did ye hear of the Widow Malone,

Ohone!

Who lived in the town of Athlone

Alone?

Oh! she melted the hearts

Of the swains in them parts,

So lovely the Widow Malone,

Ohone!

So lovely the Widow Malone.

Of lovers she had a full score,

Or more;

And fortunes they all had galore,

In store;

From the minister down

To the clerk of the crown,

All were courting the Widow Malone,

Ohone!

All were courting the Widow Malone.

* * * * *

CHARLES LEVER.

――――

Thackeray, as is well known, had a knack of writing humorous burlesque

Irish songs, in imitation of the brogue and whiskeyiana of Lover and

Lever. The following is, perhaps, the best of its kind, the metre

resembles that of Lever’s “_Widow Malone_.”

LARRY O’TOOLE.

You’ve all heard of Larry O’Toole,

Of the beautiful town of Drumgoole;

He had but one eye,

To ogle ye by――

Och, murther, but that was a jew’l!

A fool

He made of de girls, dis O’Toole.

’Twas he was the boy didn’t fail,

That tuck down pataties and mail;

He never would shrink

From any strong dhrink,

Was it whiskey or Drogheda ale;

I’m bail

This Larry would swallow a pail.

Och, many a night at the bowl,

With Larry I’ve sot cheek by jowl;

He’s gone to his rest,

Where there’s dhrink of the best,

And so let us give his old sowl

A howl,

For ’twas he made the noggin to rowl.

W. M. THACKERAY.

――――

NORDISA.

Did you hear of _Nordisa’s_ first night?

A sight!

“Old Drury” choke full. First Act bright

And light.

The Second was dull,

But it wasn’t a mull,

As an Avalanche put it all right,

We quite

Screamed _de Gus-tibus_ Harris in fright!

The Third Act took place in a _serre_,

Plants rare!

The Avalanche had arrived there,

You stare?

And the storm being strong,

Took _Nordisa_ along,

And carried her in ’twixt the pair

Who were

Being married! Oh my! What a scare!

Then _Oscar_ (M’Guckin), in throes

Soon shows

His heart is less false than his nose

(_I_ knows),

Miss Burns becomes riled,

And this makes _Oscar_ wild,

Reparation _Nordisa_ he owes

For woes

He has caused, so he turns to propose.

Then enter old man with a crook,

Or hook,

He’s hither “conducted by Cook”

(Aynsley Cook).

He says _Nordi’s_ mother,

Was some swell or other.

Perhaps she’s the heiress of Snook――

I’ll look,

But I do not see this in the book.

_Punch._ May 14, 1887.

――――:o:――――

ERIN GO BRAGH.

Towards the close of the last century, when a French invasion seemed

imminent, a caricature was published, entitled “The Allied Republics

of France and Ireland,” in which the French are represented as having

enriched themselves by plunder with the assistance of the Irish

rebels. A Frenchman mounted on Ireland, which is represented as a

donkey, sings:――

From Brest in the Bay of Biskey,

We come for de very fine whisky,

To make de Jacobin friskey,

While Erin may go bray.

We have got de mealy potato

From de Irish democrato,

To make de Jacobin fat, O,

While Erin may go bray.

I get by de guillotine axes,

De wheats and de oats, and de flaxes,

De rents, and de tydes, and de taxes,

While Erin may go bray.

I put into requisition,

De girl of every condition,

For Jacobin coalition,

And Erin may go bray.

De linen I get in de scuffle,

Will make de fine shirt to my ruffle,

While Pat may go starve in his hovel,

And Erin may go bray.

Fitzgerald and Arter O’Connor,

To Erin have done de great honour,

To put me astride upon her,

For which she now does bray.

She may fidget and caper and kick, O,

But by de good help of Old Nick, O,

De Jacobin ever will stick, O,

And Erin may go bray.

――――:o:――――

THE SHAN VAN VOGHT.[77]

Oh! the French are on the sea,

Says the Shan Van Voght;

The French are on the sea,

Says the Shan Van Voght;

Oh! the French are in the Bay,

They’ll be here without delay,

And the Orange will decay,

Says the Shan Van Voght.

Oh! the French are in the Bay,[78]

They’ll be here by break of day,

And the Orange will decay,

Says the Shan Van Voght.

And where will they have their camp?

Says the Shan Van Voght;

Where will they have their camp?

Says the Shan Van Voght;

On the Curragh of Kildare,

The boys they will be there

With their pikes in good repair,

Says the Shan Van Voght.

To the Curragh of Kildare

The boys they will repair,

And Lord Edward will be there,

Says the Shan Van Voght.

Then what will the yeomen do?

Says the Shan Van Voght;

What _will_ the yeomen do?

Says the Shan Van Voght;

What _should_ the yeomen do,

But throw oft the red and blue,

And swear that they’ll be true

To the Shan Van Voght?

What should, &c.

And what colour will they wear?

Says the Shan Van Voght;

What colour will they wear?

Says the Shan Van Voght;

What colour should be seen

Where our Fathers’ homes have been,

But their own immortal Green?

Says the Shan Van Voght.

What colour, &c.

And will Ireland then be free?

Says the Shan Van Voght;

Will Ireland then be free?

Says the Shan Van Voght;

Yes! Ireland SHALL be free,

From the centre to the sea;

Then hurra for Liberty!

Says the Shan Van Voght.

Yes! Ireland, &c.

There are many other versions of this song. It has always been a

favourite with the Irish people at all times of political excitement;

either varied or re-written, according to circumstances. At the time

of the celebrated Clare election, carried by Daniel O’Connell while

the “Catholic Emancipation” cause was yet pending, they sang a street

ballad in Dublin running thus:――

“Into Parliament you’ll go, (meaning O’Connell,) says the Shan

Van Voght,

To extricate our woe, says the Shan Van Voght;

Our foes you will amaze,

And all Europe you will plaze;

And ould Ireland’s now at aise,

Says the Shan Van Voght.

“Our worthy brave O’Connell, says the Shan Van Voght,

To have you in we’re longing, says the Shan Van Voght;

Sure you we well have tried,

And you’re always at our side,

And you never took a bribe,

Says the Shan Van Voght.”

During the “Repeal” movement (about 1840) the

original song was revived, with the exception of the first

verse, and the name of O’Connell was substituted for that

of Lord Edward.

――――

JAN VAN BEERS.

There’s a Dutchman in the town,

Says the Jan Van Beers;

There’s a Dutchman in the town;

Though he’s more than half a clown,

Still folks pay their shillings down,

Says the Jan Van Beers.

Oh! what should the English do?

Says the Jan Van Beers;

What should the English do,

But admire my red and blue,

And swear that I’m “too too!”

Says the Jan Van Beers.

And shall not Artists kneel?

Says the Jan Van Beers.

No! Artists will _not_ kneel,

But express contempt they feel

For your incense and _pastille_,

Mister Jan Van Beers.

So said _Punch_ about an exhibition of clap-trap foreign pictures

which, in 1886, attracted sightseers of morbid tastes, in search of

the horrible and the grotesque. Cunning arrangements of black

curtains, grinning skeletons, headless bleeding bodies, and ghastly

wounds made up a show, in which but little true art could be found.

――――:o:――――

The rollicking Irish song _Ballyhooly_, which was introduced in the

highly successful burlesque _Monte Cristo junior_, was written by Mr.

R. Martin, according to rumour an officer in the Royal Artillery.

THE PARLIAMENTARY BALLYHOOLY,

A Parody of “_Ballyhooly_.”

There’s a dashing sort of bhoy who was once his country’s joy,

But his ructions and his rows no longer charm me.

He often takes command in a fury-spouting band

Called the “Ballyhooly” Parliamentary Army.

At Donnybrook’s famed fair he might shine with radiance rare,

A “Pathriot” he’s called, and may be truly,

It is catching, I’m afraid, for when _he_ is on parade

There seems scarce a sober man in “Ballyhooly.”

_Chorus._

Whililoo, hi ho! Faith they all enlist, ye know,

Though their ructions and their shindies fail to charm me,

Bad language, howls, and hate put an end to fair debate,

In the “Ballyhooly” Parliamentary Army.

The Spayker, honest soul, finds they’re quite beyond control,

Discussion takes a most extinded radius,

It’s about as fine and clear as the stalest ginger-beer.

But the “bhoys,” they never seem to find it “tadyious.”

And what is worse, to-day all the Army march one way,

That is in being ructious and unruly,

If a Mimber in debate wants to argue fair and straight,

Faith, they howl him out of court in “Ballyhooly.”

_Chorus_――Whililoo, hi, ho, &c.

They’re supposed to hould debate in the interests of the State,

Which one and all they do their best to injure;

I have said their talk’s as clear as the stalest ginger-beer,

And they mix the vilest vitriol with the ginger.

The bhoys are not alone, for in sorrow one must own

The young Tories are as noisy and unruly,

And the Rads they rave and rail till one longs to lodge in gaol

The intemperate brigade of “Ballyhooly.”

_Chorus_――Whililoo, hi, ho, &c.

There’s a moral to my song, and it won’t detain yez long,

Of Party spirit e’en the merest “nip” shun.

It’s poison, that is clear, Ballyhooly “ginger-beer,”

As ye’ll own when I have given the prescription.

You take heaps of Party “rot,” spirit mean, and temper hot,

Lies, blasphemy, and insult; mix them duly;

For sugar put in salt, bitter gall for honest malt,

Faith, they call it “Statesmanship” in “Ballyhooly.”

_Chorus_――Whililoo, hi, ho, &c.

_Punch._ August 13, 1887.

――――:o:――――

MARY, I BELIEVED THEE TRUE.

Mary, I believed thee true,

And I was blest in thus believing;

But now I mourn that e’er I knew――

A girl so fair and so deceiving!

Few have ever loved like me,――

Oh! I have loved thee too sincerely!

And few have e’er deceived like thee,――

Alas! deceived me too severely!

* * * * *

THOMAS MOORE

――――

LINES TO MARY.

O Mary, I believed you true,

And I was blest in so believing;

But till this hour I never knew――

That you were taken up for thieving!

Oh! when I snatched a tender kiss,

Or some such trifle when I courted,

You said, indeed, that love was bliss,

But never owned you were transported!

But then to gaze on that fair face――

It would have been an unfair feeling

To dream that you had pilfered lace――

And Flints had suffered from your stealing.

Or when my suit I first preferred,

To bring your coldness to repentance,

Before I hammered out a word,

How could I dream you’d heard a sentence?

Or when with all the warmth of youth

I strove to prove my love no fiction,

How could I guess I urged a truth

On one already past conviction?

How could I dream that ivory part,

Your hand――where I have looked and lingered;

Altho’ it stole away my heart,

Had been held up as one light-fingered?

In melting verse your charms I drew,

The charms in which my Muse delighted;

Alas! the lay, I thought, was new,

Spoke only what had been _indicted_!

Oh! when that form, a lovely one,

Hung on the neck its arms had flown to,

I little thought that you had run

A chance of hanging on your own too!

You said you picked me from the world――

My vanity it now must shock it,

And down at once my pride is hurled,

You’ve picked me――and you’ve picked a pocket?

Oh! when our love had got so far,

The banns were read by Doctor Daly,

Who asked if there was any _bar_――

Why did not some one shout “Old Bailey”?

But when you robed your flesh and bones

In that pure white that angel garb is,

Who could have thought you, Mary Jones,

Among the Joans that link with _Darbies_!

And when the parson came to say

My goods were yours, if I had got any,

And you should honour and obey,

Who could have thought――“O Bay of Botany!”

But, oh!――the worst of all your slips

I did not till this day discover――

That down in Deptford’s prison ships,

O Mary! you’ve a hulking lover!

THOMAS HOOD.

――――:o:――――

PLAIN COLD WATER.

The days are gone when claret bright

Inspired my strain,

When I sang on every festive night

About champagne.

Prime thirty-four in floods may pour,

And glasses gaily clatter.

But there’s nothing half so safe to drink

As plain cold water.

Though the bard may make a greater noise

Over his wine,

When with other Bacchanalian boys

He chances to dine.

Yet if he wake, with a headache,

And wonders what’s the matter,

He learns there’s nought so safe to drink

As plain cold water.

There’s Doctor Hassall, he proclaims

That water’s full

Of curious brutes, with curious names

In every pool.

Now you will see that this must be

A most important matter,

For it’s clear there’s meat as well as drink

In plain cold water.

Professor Clarke, of Aberdeen,

Says chalk is there,

And Monsieur Chatin, iodine

Finds everywhere.

If this be true, ’tis clear to you

It’s just so much the better,

For there’s meat and drink, and physic too,

In plain cold water.

From _Health and Pleasure_, or Malvern Punch. By J. B. Oddfish.

London: Simpkin, Marshall & Co. 1865.

――――:o:――――

THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

HORATII ROSARUM.

Eheu rosarum floruit ultima!

Vel mille nuper cincta sororibus,

At nunc amicarum cohorti

Floribus et sociis superstes!

Nec una mansit conscia quæ propé

Suspiriorum suavë olentium,

Suspiret ultro――quæ rubenti

Erubeat, pia frons, vicissim.

Non te relinquam stemmate, lugubre.

Quæ singulari fers caput, unica!

Iere dormitùm sodales,

Tu ceteris comes ito――dormi!

Sparsis amicà sic foliis manu,

Finire tristes pergo tibi moras;

Siccis odoratas per hortum

Frondibus i superadde frondes.

Et mi sit olim sors eadem, precor!

Quando sodales, quæque micantia,

Ornant amicorum coronam

Gemmata, depereunt――perire!

Abrepta fato dissociabili

Quando tot eheu! corda jacent humi

Quis poscat annos? vita talis

Nonne foret mera solitudo?

FATHER PROUT.

――――

THE FIRST ROSE OF SUMMER.

’Tis the first rose of summer, I saw it come out,

Its arrival I hailed with a rapturous shout.

I took off my hat (for politeness I’m famed),

And striking an attitude, thus I exclaimed:――

“Oh! clear first rose of summer, it gladdens my heart,

To behold thee thus lovely and bright, as thou art;

I had feared that the east wind, which well-nigh killed _me_,

Would have proved as destructive, sweet darling, to thee.

“But _thou_ hast no cough, I may fairly suppose,

Such as I had all winter, delectable rose――

A cough to my heirs most enchanting to hear;

And so thou art blooming and beauteous, my dear!

“I’ll not leave thee, enchantress, to pine on the tree,

Thou shalt make a gay button-hole, loved one, for me.

This summer’s the last that will ever be thine,

And I somehow believe ’tis the last, too, of mine.

_Judy._

――――

THE LAST “QUID.”

’Tis the last “quid” of many

Left sadly alone,

All its golden companions

Are changed, and are gone;

No coin of its kindred,

No “fiver” is here,

To burn in tobacco,

Or melt into beer.

I’ll not leave thee, thou last one,

All lonely to pine,

As the others have left thee,――

Go seek them in wine.

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy shillings away,

Like those of thy comrades,

To moisten my clay.

So soon as I’ve changed thee

To silver, alas!

It flies like the sparkle

Of froth in the glass;

I’ll seek, when I’ve spent thee――

If credit’s not flown――

What’s hard to obtain in

This bleak world-a loan!

_Fun._ July 20, 1887.

――――

THE LAST FLY.

’Tis the last fly of summer

Left buzzing alone,

All its club-footed comrades

Have buzzed and passed on.

No remnant pestiferous

Save this one is nigh,

To tickle our proboscis,

Or bob in our eye.

I’ll not leave thee, old buzzer,

To feast upon me――

Take that, thou tormentor――

To other lands flee.

It is folly to spare thee

Swear words to maintain,

When the mates of thy raidin’

Stick flat on the pane.

Sound, sound, shall we slumber,

When thou art away――

When the bedroom is quiet

In cool of the day.

Really, all things considered,

Both beauty and tone.

We’d much rather inhabit

This queer world alone.

WILLIAM LYLE.

――――:o:――――

THOSE BICYCLES.

Those bicycles, those bicycles!

How merry a tale their image tells,

Of youth and health, and that fleet time

When last I heard their whistle’s chime.

Those boyous hours are passed away;

And many a heart that then was gay,

Out of or in town darkly dwells,

And rides not now those bicycles.

Again ’twill be――they are not gone;

That gleeful wheel will still roll on,

While I help bards _to wire_ their shells

And sing your praise, fleet bicycles.

From _Lyra Bicyclica_, by J. G. Dalton. Boston, U.S., 1880.

――――:o:――――

STRONG AND SURE.

Strong and sure were the skates she wore,

And a neat little hat on her head she bore;

But, oh! her grace, so wondrous that,

Beyond her skates, or her dainty hat.

“Lady! dost thou not fear to rink,

So hard is the ground should’st thou chance to sink?

Are Plimpton’s skates of so great renown

As not to be tempted to let you down?”

“Nay, nay! I feel not the least alarm,

No skate of Plimpton’s will bring me to harm:

Though at night I love dancing on polish’d floor,

By day――I love skating and rinking more.”

On she went, and her magic skill

Guided her safely without a spill;

And happy are they who trust their fates

To Plimpton’s rollers and Plimpton’s skates.

From _Idyls of the Rink_, by A. W. Mackenzie. Second Edition. 1877.

――――:o:――――

ON AN UNANSWERED LETTER.

I knew by the dirt that so greasefully lined

All its corners and sides, that an answer was due;

And I said if a sheet in my desk I can find,

My pen that is ready shall fill it for you.

――――:o:――――

THE TEMPLE BAR MEMORIAL OBSTRUCTION.

Where stood the Bar, we’re building love,

A something all stone, and some gilding, love,

Ah! the best of all ways

Can be stopped up by drays,

When we steal a few feet from the road, my love.

_Punch._ October 9, 1880.

――――:o:――――

Oh, there is not in nature

A bliss so complete

As the _first glass of toddy_――

Strong, smoking, and sweet.

All care it dispels,

Drives blue devils away,

’Tis the _first glass of toddy_,

That makes our hearts gay.

――――:o:――――

Oft in the chilly night,

Ere solar rays had bound us,

Have we for heat cried out

With blankets all around us.

But now when Sol has got the call

To dry us up like leather.

We sigh for ice, with breezes nice,

And civil-service weather.

――――:o:――――

A BALFOUR BALLAD.

Air――“_The Young May Moon._”

Most Irish questions are about

A Peeler, a Pauper, or Carman, O!

They’re quite beneath _me_,

As Chief Se-cre-ta-_ree_――

I hand ’em all o’er to King-Harman, O!

――――:o:――――

THE BATTLE OF BEER.

(At a meeting of the United Kingdom Alliance, Sir Wilfred Lawson said

the publicans were like a great army armed with bottles.)

The publican on his raid has gone.

All over the land you’ll find him;

A bottle of Bass he has girded on,

And a barrel is slung behind him.

“Oh, drink divine,” said Boniface,

“What though teetotallers make thee

A thing of scorn and of black disgrace,

_I_ never will forsake thee!”

He did _not_ fall, for Common Sense

Soon brought the enemy under,

And the bottle of Bass we Britons dense

Refused to smash asunder.

Sir Wilfred――well, he looked quite demure,

For, fallen out of favour, he

Was shown that we Britons will not endure

Stern prohibition’s slavery.

_Judy._ July, 1887.

――――:o:――――

THE MILITIAMAN.

The militia man to parade is gone,

In single file you’ll find him;

The Albert hat he was fain to don,

His blunt spade left behind him.

“Land of wheat,” said the warrior-clod,

“Tho’ Sir Robert now neglect thee,

_One_ bayonet still upholds the sod,

_One_ plough-boy will ‘protect’ thee.”

* * * * *

From _Mephystopheles_. February 28, 1846.

This illustrated satirical journal commenced, as a rival to _Punch_,

on December 13, 1845, and lasted until March 28, 1846. It contains

several other parodies, all of which are uninteresting at the present

time, but they may be enumerated.

_The Medical Gent_, à la Tennyson.

_Pledge Rescinding_, after Campbell’s Hohenlinden.

_“When other lips with other arts.”_

_The Schoolmaster_, after Oliver Goldsmith.

――――

THE ROW.

I knew by the noise that I heard all around

In the street where I was, that a row it was near;

And I said, “If there’s fun this good night to be found,

As I love it so dearly, I shall sure find it here.”

Every tongue seem’d employ’d, and the row did increase,

Whilst the Charleys their rattles so cheerily spring.

I hopp’d into the crowd, the news for to catch,

But scarcely had open’d my mouth to inquire,

When a rascally thief made off with my watch,

Tript my heels, and so laid me flat down in the mire.

The watchmen surrounded, and bore me away,

And in limbo was kept till the dawn of next day.

To the justice they took me, to tell my sad tale,

Who ask’d me what in defence I’d to say,

I told him that rogues in the crowd did assail,

Used my person quite ill, and my watch bore away.

He looking quite grim, bade me good hours keep,

Pay a shilling――and go to my home with all speed.

――――

THE COOK SHOP.

I knew by the smoke that so greasefully curl’d,

From a kitchen below that a cook-shop was near,

And I said if a gorge’s to be found in the world,

The man that is hungry might hope for it here.

Ev’ry plate was at rest,

And I heard not a sound,

But the knives and forks rattling,

Sweet music for me.

And here in this snug little box would I sit,

With a joint that was lovely to nose and to view,

With a sirloin of beef, a turkey and chine,

How bless’d could I live, and how calm could I dine.

Ev’ry plate, &c.

――――:o:――――

The _New Whig Guide_ (London: W. Wright. 1819), contains several

parodies of the songs of Thomas Moore and of Lord Byron, but being all

on political topics they are now out of date, almost unintelligible,

and not generally interesting. They are styled _English Melodies_, the

first lines are as follows:――

“Oh! the time is past when quarter-day my cares would chase.”

(Moore’s _Love’s Young Dream_.)

“Old Tierney came down like a wolf on the fold.”

(Byron’s _Destruction of Sennacherib_.)

“Believe me, when all those ridiculous airs.”

(Moore’s _Believe me, if all those endearing young charms_.)

“Son of the faithless! melancholy rat!”

(Byron’s _Sun of the Sleepless_)

“Fare ye well――and if for Easter.”

(Byron’s _Fare you well――and if for ever_.)

In the early days of the century Moore and Byron were the Society

poets, their verses were on everyone’s lips, and naturally parodies of

them abounded. In addition to the translations of Moore’s melodies

already given, several other Greek, Latin, and French versions will be

found in the collected works of Francis S. Mahony.

[Illustration]

WELSH SONGS.

――――

TAFFY WAS A WELSHMAN.

“Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief;

Taffy came to my house and stole a shin of beef,

I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was not at home;

Taffy came to my house, and stole a marrow bone.

I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was not in;

Taffy came to my house and stole a silver pin;

I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was in bed,

I took up a poker and flung it at his head.”

Taffy is a corruption of Taffid, the Welsh form of David. This very

old nursery rhyme owes its origin to the continual raids and

cattle-lifting expeditions which took place on the Welsh borders in

the middle ages, but it has long since lost all serious meaning with

those who repeat it. Twenty years ago the late Mr. Shirley Brooks

completely re-modelled the poem very much in Taffy’s favour.

Taffy is a Welshman:

Taffy’s not a thief;

Taffy’s mutton’s very good,

Not so good his beef:

I went to Taffy’s house,

Several things I saw,

Cleanliness and godliness,

Obedience to the law.

If Taffy rides to my house,

Or unto Pat’s doth swim,

I think my Taffy will remark

That we might learn of him.

He does not drink, my Taffy,

(Not leastwise as a rule);

He goes to chapel regular,

And sends his boys to school;

He dresses well on Sunday,

His family the like;

He’s not too fond of over-work,

But seldom cares to strike;

He never lurks behind a hedge

To pay his rent with slugs.

Up craggy hills of steep incline

His garden mould he lugs;

And there he grows his garden,

His cabbages and leeks;

His kids get green meat in their mouths,

And roses in their cheeks.

Taffy is a Welshman,

And glories in the name,

To laugh at which enjoyment

Appears to me a shame.

You compliment the Scotchman

Who talks of Bruce and Burns;

You tolerate the Irishman

Who vaunts ancestral Kerns;

You’re nuts on your own pedigree,

Won’t call it English, fair,

But prate of “Anglo-Saxons,”

Till Reviewers nearly swear.

Why shouldn’t gallant Taffy

Have his relics and his bones,

Llewelyns and Cadwallos,

And Griffyevanjones?

To say nothing of the question

Whether Taffy’s mother-tongue

Wasn’t quite a fine old

When all of ours were young.

He says he has good poets,

Leave him his own opinion:

You like obscure old ballads,

And Taffy likes Englynion.

Pray are not “moel,” “afon,”

And “Morwyns” (pretty rogues),

At least as good as “birks” and “braes,”

“Mavourneens,” “Arrah Pogues!”

By all Nantfrancon’s Beavers,

Of the pre-historic age;

By Aberglaslyn’s hoary bridge,

And the Swallow’s roaring rage;

By the trout of Capel Curig,

By Carnarvon’s Eagled Tower,

The smile of placid Tan-y-bwlch,

And the frown of Penmaenmawr;

By yon lonely Puffin Island,

And the monster head of Orme,

The Castle of the Beauteous Marsh,

Llanberis, Pass of Storm;

By the magic bridge of Bangor,

Hung awful in the sky,

By the grave at sweet Beddgelert,

Where the Martyr-hound doth lie;

By the lightnings that on Snowdon

Glint, the jewels of his crown,

Stand up, brave Taffy, for thy right,

And never be put down.

If all Victoria’s subjects

Were half as good as thou,

Victoria’s subjects would kick up

Uncommon little row.

And _Punch_, Incarnate Justice,

Intends henceforth to lick

All who shall scorn or sneer at you,

You jolly little Brick!

SHIRLEY BROOKS.

The Welsh were naturally much pleased with this version, and speedily

translated it into their own language:

Cymro ydyw Taffy,

Lladratta byth ni wna;

Mae _mutton_ Taffy’n gampus,

Nid yw ei biff mor dda.

Mi eis i fwthyn Taffy,

I wel’d ei ddull o fyw――

Mae’n lân a duwiol yn ei dy,

I’r gyfraith ufudd yw,

Os merchyg Taffy yma,

At _Pat_ os nawf y lli,

Mi dybiwn y dyweda ef

Fod ganddo wers i ni:

Nid ydyw Taffy’n yfed.

Fel rheol, wrth ei chwant,

I’r capel cerdd yn gysson iawn,

I’r ysgol gyr ei blant;

Ymwisga ’n hardd y Sabbath,

A’i deulu yr un modd;

Ni fyn ei ladd â gormod gwaith,

A _strike_ ni fyn o’i fodd;

Ni lecha byth tu ol i’r gwrych,

I dalu ei rent a phlwm;

Mae’n llusgo pridd a gwrtaith

I fyny’r llechwedd llwm;

Ac yno tyf ei foron,

A’i genin yn ei ardd.

Rhydd wyrddfwyd yn ngeneuau ’i blant,

A gwrid i’w gruddiau hardd.

Cymro ydyw Taffy,

A dyna’i fynych fost,

Ymddengys gwawdio’r fath fwynhâd,

I mi’n gywilydd tost:

Canmolwch yr Ysgotyn

Am son am Bruce a Burns;

A goddef wnewch i’r Gwyddel tlawd

Ymffrostio ’n nheulu Kerns;

Ni fynwch chwithau chwaith,

Eich galw ’n Saeson teg,

Ond dwndro am “Anglo-Saxons” wnewch,

Nes peri i ddyn roi rheg.

Pa’m na chaiff Taffy ddewrwych

Am ei hynafiaid son――

Caswallon a Charadoc fawr.

A Gryffydd Ifan Shon?

Heb son dim oll am holi,

Allasai ’i famiaith fod

Yn hen iaith bur y pryd nad oedd

Ein holl rai ni mewn bod.

Mae’n d’weyd fod ganddo brif-feirdd,

Boed iddo ’i farn ar hyn;

Hen gerddi tywyll hoffwch chwi,

Englynion yntau fyn.

Ai nid yw “moel,” ac “afon,”

“Morwynion” (hudol rôgs),

Yn llawn mor dda a “birks,” a “braes,”

“Mavourneens,” “Arrah pôgs?”

Yn enw efeingc gwylltion

Nantffrancon oes a fu,

Y bont ar Aberglaslyn,

A’r Wennol groch ei rhu,

Britbylliaid Capel Curig,

Twr Eryr Arton hen.

Yn enw gwg y Penmaen mawr,

A Than y Bwlch a’i wên;

Yn enw Ynys Seiriol,

A’r Gogarth erch ei drwyn;

Y Castell ar y Morfa Hardd,

Bwlch oer Llanberis fwyn;

Yn enw Crog-bont Menai,

Sy’n hongian yn y nen;

Yn enw bedd dy Ferthyr gi

A’r garnedd uwch ei ben,

Yn enw mellt yr Wydfa,

Sy’n euro ei goron fawr.

Sa ’i fyny, Taffy, myn dy hawl,

Na’th fwrier byth i lawr,

Pe byddai deiliaid Buddug

Yn hanner mor ddi fai,

Fe fyddai terfysg yn eu plith

Yn llawer iawn yn llai;

Mae _Punch_, y Barnwr Cyfiawn,

Am roddi curfa ci

I bawb ro’nt ddirmyg it’ rhagllaw

Hen fachgen iawn wyt ti.

This translation is taken from a most entertaining as well as useful

work, entitled _The Gossiping Guide to Wales_, written by the late Mr.

J. Askew Roberts, and published by Woodall, Minshall & Co., Oswestry

1886.

――――

Bouncer was a welsher,

Bouncer was a thief,

I won a bet of Bouncer,

And came to awful grief.

When I went to Bouncer,

He said he hadn’t bet it,

Put his thumb up to his nose,

And wished that I might get it.

――――

Of the favourite Welsh songs, such as _Jenny Jones_, _Ah hyd y nos_,

and _The Maid of Llangollen_, only a few parodies are to be found, and

they are scarcely worth reprinting.

TERM COMMENCES.

On by the love of costs we’re goaded――

“Term” begins then mischief’s boded,

For we’ve hearts as hard as steel

What care we for wrong or right,

When we hold a client tight,

Or the least compunction feel!

Like serpents now, we’re slyly creeping,

Then on our prey like tigers leaping.

In a twinkling we garotte him――

No escape when so we’ve got him.

While on him there is a stopper,

We clean him out of every copper.

Stick unto him till we bag

All he has to the last mag;

His body then, by way of ransom,

We seize and squeeze out something handsome.

Like skittles, debtors we keep flooring――

In our charges fast keep pouring;

Actions ne’er by us are stayed.

Ours is a safe and thriving trade;

To the Law Courts let’s away,

Expenses call and we obey.

――――

THE TORY MARCH.

With blaze of fireworks, fêtes, and dancing,

Lying speeches, vain romancing,

See the boastful foe advancing

Onward to the fray.

Banners now are gaily streaming!

In Liberal colours falsely gleaming,

Hoping by thus meanly scheming,

Yet to win the day.

Jingo shouts are hoarsely braying,

Brazen trumpets loudly playing,

High-toned churchmen warmly praying

For Tory victory.

Like the ass in olden fable,

Clothed in lion’s skin unstable,

They can but bray (to roar unable)

Of Tory liberty!

Turn from them with loathing,

Contempt and anger both in,

And ever they

Will rue the day

They dressed in Liberal clothing;

Honest truth will overcome them,

The stolen skin will not become them,

So tear the lion’s covering from them,

And show the ass beneath.

_Songs for Liberal Electors._ 1885.

――――

LIBERAL MARCHING SONG.

Brothers, up, to win new glory,

That shall brighten future story,

Sweeping off abuses hoary,

Shaping righteous laws;

To the Ballot early go, men;

That we mean to conquer, show, men;

Well, we vote to win, we know, men

For the good old cause.

For ourselves we’re fighting,

The people nobly righting;

Quick, come all, at Freedom’s call,

To do her will delighting.

On, your Blue to victory bearing:

Nought for all their vauntings caring:

For the Right all dangers daring――

Better lives and laws.

W. C. BENNETT.

――――:o:――――

OLD ENGLISH SONGS.

――――

SHALL I LIKE A HERMIT DWELL?

(Attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh.)

Shall I like a hermit dwell,

On a rock or in a cell,

Calling home the smallest part

That is missing of my heart,

To bestow it where I may

Meet a rival every day?

If she undervalue me,

What care I how fair she be?

Were her tresses angel-gold[79]

If a stranger may be bold

Unrebuked, unafraid

To convert them to a braid;

And with little more ado

Work them into bracelets, too;

If the mine be grown so free

What care I how rich it be?

Were her hands as rich a prize

As her hairs or precious eyes;

If she lay them out to take

Kisses for good manners’ sake;

And let every lover skip

From her hand unto her lip;

If she be not chaste to me

What care I how chaste she be?

No; she must be perfect snow,

In effect as well as show,

Warming but as snow-balls do,

Not like fire, by burning too;

But when she by change hath got

To her heart a second lot;

Then if others share with me,

Farewell her, whate’er she be!

The burden of this song probably suggested the far more beautiful poem

by George Wither, which follows:――

SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR.

(George Wither, born 1588, died 1667.)

Shall I, wasting in despair,

Die because a woman’s fair?

Or make pale my cheeks with care,

’Cause another’s rosy are?

Be she fairer than the day,

Or the flow’ry meads in May,

If she be not so to me,

What care I how fair she be?

Should my heart be grieved or pined

’Cause I see a woman kind

Or a well disposed nature

Joined with a lovely feature?

Be she meeker, kinder, than

Turtle-dove or pelican,

If she be not so to me,

What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman’s virtues move

Me to perish for her love?

Or, her well-deservings known,

Make me quite forget my own

Be she with that goodness blest

Which may gain her name of best,

If she be not such to me,

What care I how good she be?

’Cause her fortune seems too high,

Shall I play the fool and die?

Those that bear a noble mind,

Where they want of riches find,

Think what with them they would do

That without them dare to woo;

And, unless that mind I see,

What care I how great she be?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,

I will ne’er the more despair.

If she love me, this believe,

I will die ere she shall grieve:

If she slight me when I woo,

I can scorn and let her go:

For, if she be not for me,

What care I for whom she be?

From “_The Mistress of Philarete_,” published in 1622.

――――

SONG. MR. GLADSTONE.

Shall my heart be filled with care

’Cause the Whigs are so unfair?

Or, their services to keep,

Shall I sacrifice my sleep?

Or, lest they offence may take,

My great measures weaker make?

If they are not true to me,

What care I what Whigs they be.

’Cause they show such self-conceit,

Shall I risk severe defeat?

Or, in their good books to stay,

Scare good Radicals away?

Tho’ their talent be as great

As they never fail to state,

Yet, if they are not with me,

What care I what Whigs they be?

They have duped me far too long,

Threatening they were very strong,

Now I know they are at best

Fossils of no powers possest,

And methinks they soon will find

I am neither weak nor blind.

If their heats beat not for me,

What care I what Whigs they be?

They have thwarted me enough,

Tried to hinder and rebuff;

Why should I reward them, then,

To the loss of better men;

Better far to let them go,

And become an open foe!

If they will not work with me,

They may Tories be for me!

_Truth._ Christmas number 1882.

――――

MATILDA.

Shall I fret and fume and swear,

Because Matilda dyes her hair?

Or make pale my cheeks with care,

That hers so _very_ rosy are?

Though her raven locks to-day

Turn as yellow as the hay,

If she be but true to me,

What care I how blonde she be!

Shall a woman’s weakness move

Me such weakness to reprove?

Or her little failings known

Make me careless of my own?

Though her bills be longer than

Bill of duck or pelican,

If they be not paid by me,

What care I how long they be?

If her youth be left behind,

Shall I play the fool and mind?

She must be, the women say,

Forty-five if she’s a day――

But I swear she looks no more,

At the most, than forty-four:

If she’s young enough for me,

What care I how old she be?

Be she painted, fast, or old――

Be she flirt, or rake, or scold――

She has cash enough to make

Me submissive for her sake:

If she loose her money, though,

I can scorn and let her go;

If in poverty she be,

She may go to Bath for me!

From _The White Pilgrim, and other Poems_. By Herman Charles Merivale.

London, Chapman & Hall, 1883.

(_By the Author’s kind permission._)

――――:o:――――

THE COCKNEY SHEPHEARD TO HIS LOVE.

(ARCADIA.――Switchback railway now running through groves of trees, and

above a veritable Fairyland of flowers, foliage, and illuminations, to

strains of military music.)

Come, switch with me, my cockney Love,

And we will all the pleasures prove

Of hills, vales, groves, and flowery lands,

And strains of military bands.

And we will, sitting on the car,

Where other nymphs and shepheards are,

Shoot up and down, in rise and fall,

With catch (of breath) for madrigal.

My manly arm about thy waist,

For belt and clasp, Love, interlaced;

Thy skirt beflowered, and thy head-gear

The latest thing from Swan and Edgar.

My checks, my tie, my gilded studs,

Will vanquish all the rival “bloods.”

So, if such pleasures may thee move,

Come, switch with me, my cockney Love.

_The Globe._ September 19, 1887.

THE NYMPH’S REPLY

to the “Cockney Shepheard,” is unfavourable to his appeal to her to

come and switch with him in “Arcadia.” Much sympathy will be felt with

the “Shepheard” on this refusal of his love to “switch the world with

noble carmanship.”

Shepheard, an I were sweet seventeen,

And thou wert green and I were green,

These pretty pleasures might me move

To switch with thee, my cockney Love.

But hills and valleys have their fears

For maidens of discreeter years;

And nymphs when they have had their tea

Like to digest it quietlie.

These sudden flights, and jumps, and shoots

Plunge hearts from bosoms into boots;

And where in flowering Arcadee

Flow founts of Sal Volatile?

Thy checks, thy tie, thy gilt of stud,

Stir no bold humours in my blood;

And nothink, ’Arry, can me move

To switch with thee, my cockney Love.

_The Globe._ September 20, 1887.

――――:o:――――

AFTER HERRICK.

(_Upon seeing her picture in profile._)

I die

If I but spy

_One eye_;

Yet would I fain

See twain.

(_Upon receiving the same in a full view._)

In profile

’Twas vile;

But in th’ obverse

’Tis worse.

ERNEST RADFORD.

――――

Cats’ meat, cats’ meat――meat I cry

On a skewer――come and buy;

From Hyde Park Corner to Wapping Wall,

All the year I cats’ meat bawl;

Cats’ meat――cats’ meat――meat, I cry,

On a skewer――come and buy.

From _The Book of Cats_, by C. H. Ross. 1868.

――――:o:――――

THE WHIP’S SONG.

(After _Ben Jonson_.)

Come to my lobby with thy vote,

And give it in with mine;

Or pair with one who’d vote against,

And I’ll not ask for thine.

Divisions thus will make us still