Suppressed shall be each journal-sheet!
And every serf beneath my feet
Shall hail the soldier’s Emperor.
These lines on the Coup d’Etat of Napoleon III. were written by the
late Professor W. E. Aytoun, a most determined and persistent opponent
of the Napoleon régime. The doubt as to the Emperor Napoleon’s
paternity has been frequently expressed, it did not originate with
Aytoun.
――――
HOHEN-LONDON.
_The result of an awful Engagement on the part of her Majesty to
honour the City Ball with her presence._
In London, when folks’ taste was low,
They used to like the Lord Mayor’s show;
But now ’tis voted very slow――
A dull affair, decidedly.
But London showed another sight,
When the Queen came on Wednesday night,
Escorted, through a blaze of light
To join the City revelry.
At every window smart array’d,
Sat civic lass, and Cockney blade;
And all the populace hoorayed
To see the Royal pageantry.
Then shook St. Paul’s, with shouting riven;
Then rushed the steeds, up Cheapside driven;
And still more stunning cheers were given
By noisy British loyalty.
But noisier yet the crowd will grow,
Through King Street, as the Queen shall go
To Guildhall, there――on gouty toe――
To see her hosts dance heavily.
The concourse thickens! Heroes brave,
Who flash the bull’s eye on the knave,
Wave, Crushers, all your truncheons wave,
And charge them with the cavalry.
The Hall is gained; but lo! what fun!
As to a ball, the Sovereign’s done!
Except her suite, there’s room for none
To dance before her Majesty.
Few, few can polk where many meet,
And have no space to kick their feet;
The Hop a failure was complete;
The Supper went off decently.
_Punch_, July 19, 1851.
――――
SWINDON.
At Swindon when the night drew nigh,
Few were the trains that went thereby,
And very dreary was the sigh,
Of damsels waiting dolefully.
But Swindon saw another sight,
When the train came at dead of night,
Commanding oil and gas to light
Much stale confectionery.
By soups and coffee fast allured,
Each passenger his choice secured,
Excepting those lock’d in, immured
By sly policeman’s treachery.
Then rushed the mob, by hunger driven;
Then vanished buns, in pieces riven;
And louder than the orders given,
Fast popped the beer artillery.
But farther yet the train shall go,
And deeper yet shall be their woe,
And greater horrors shall they know,
Who bolt their food so speedily.
Time’s up; but scarce each sated one
Can pierce the steam cloud, rolling dun,
Where curious tart and heavy bun
Lie in dyspeptic sympathy.
The combat thickens. On, ye brave!
Who scald your throats, in hope to save
Some spoonsful of your soup, the knave
Will charge for all he ladles ye!
Few, few, digest where many eat,
The nightmare shall wind up their feat,
Each carpet bag beneath their seat
Shall seem a yawning sepulchre.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
HOTEL SWINDLING.
In Dover, when my purse was low,
One luckless night, ’twixt sheets of snow,
At an hotel most travellers know,
Did I, Sir, slumber cosily.
But Dover shock’d at morn my sight
With _such_ a bill for that brief night,
Such whacking sums for wax to light
The darkness of its hostelry!
My tea and crumpets’ cost array’d,
That a rogue drew the bill betray’d,
And furious overcharges made,
The whole a dreadful robbery.
Then shrank my purse, to plunder given:
Then wagg’d my tongue, to scolding driven;
And at these scamps, on cheating thriven,
Fierce flash’d my eyes’ artillery.
But fiercer yet did those eyes glow,
When reft of means “express” to go,
From Dover, in the third-class low,
Was I, Sir, rolling crawlingly.
’Twas morn, but deuce a bit of sun
Pierced through the clouds; they were as “dun”
As I,――excuse the horrid pun――
In that infernal hostelry.
The subject sickens. On, thou knave!
And dig base Imposition’s grave;
Shave, landlords! all your guests close shave,
And overcharge in rivalry!
Few, few return, where many meet,
Or press again the snow-white sheet;
The _Times_, ye hosts, who foully cheat,
Will be your swindling’s sepulcre.
_Diogenes_, November, 1853.
――――
THE BATTLE OF BULL-RUN.
At Bull-run, when the sun was low,
Each Southern face was pale as snow;
And shrill as jackdaws, rose the crow
Of Yankees boasting _rabidly_!
But Bull-Run saw another sight,
When in the deepening shades of night
Towards Fairfax Court-house, streamed the flight
Of Yankees running _rapidly_!
Then shook the corps, with terror riven
Then rushed the steeds, _from_ battle driven;
The men of “Battery number seven”
Forsook their red artillery.
Now from McDonald’s furthest left,
The roar of cannon strikes one deaf;
Where furious “Abe” and fiery “Jeff”
Contend for death or victory.
The _panic_ thickens; Off ye Brave!
Throw down your arms; _your bacon save_!
Waive Washington, each scruple waive,
And fly with all your chivalry.
――――
SIC VOS, NON VOBIS, VERSIFICATIS AVE.
At Seacliff, when the time passed slow,
And summer’s sun refused to show,
Relentless was the steady flow
Of raindrops pattering drearily.
But Seacliff saw another sight,
The band struck up at ten at night,
And Volunteers in leggings tight,
Awoke the dance right cheerily.
By willing steward’s friendly aid
The warrior sought the smiling maid,
And charged, as each musician played,
Adown the hall, hung tastily.
Then shook the floor to twinkling feet,
While some did dance and some did eat,
Or strove to stay the increasing heat
By swallowing ices hastily.
But shorter yet these lights shall burn,
And faster yet the waltzers turn,
Before the chaperones discern
That day is surely slipping in.
’Tis morn; but all that’s young and fair
Of Seacliff beauties linger there,
Full loath to seek the outer air
And leave the hall they’re tripping in.
The ball is over. Read ye now
Who read for honours,――or a plough,
May Oxford’s laurels grace the brow
Of him who works most steadily.
Too soon we part; but when we meet
In bonds of recollections sweet,
We’ll chat of Seacliff’s snug retreat
That welcomed us so readily.
L. E. S.
From _College Rhymes_. W. Mansell, Oxford, 1861.
――――
BELTON.[19]
(August 12, 1863.)
At Belton, ere the twilight grew,
Untrodden was the avenue,
Save by Papas and Mas a few
With their sight-seeing progeny.
But Belton saw another sight,
When the mob came at nine at night,
And with a thousand flambeaux light
Illumined all her scenery.
With od’rous torch and British cheer,
To Brownlow’s home they drew them near,
His Lordship’s honour――not his beer――
The motive of their revelry.
Forth flowed the ale. Ye know not its
Peculiar virtues, O ye cits,
’Twould beat e’en Burton tap to fits,
Though Bass be its auxiliary.
And hours that amber stream shall flow,
And men shall come and scorn to go,
The thirsty souls shall thirstier grow,
Though quarts it empties rapidly.
’Tis midnight. For one “level son,”
A hundred bawl they “havn’t done,”
And as the barrels run and run,
Shout in their beery jollity.
The beer grows thicker: now they go――
They could not drink for aye, you know――
Grantham thy banners (calico)
Should wave o’er these (thy chivalry?).
Few, few can stand, though all have feet,
They need no counterpane or sheet,
When ev’ry turf that e’er they meet
Destroys a perpendicular.
――――
BILLS.
AT Oxford when my funds were low,
And I was ploughed for “Little-go,”
How fast and furious was the flow
Of Bills that came in rapidly!
But Oxford saw another sight,
When my rich aunt went off one night,
For then I’d gold, and cheques could write,
And shopkeepers came fawningly:
“Our stupid clerks the error made,
_We_ never were the least afraid
About our small bills being paid;”
And so they went on lyingly.
“We hope,” they said with glistening eye,
“You’ll still allow us to supply
All articles you want; we’ll try
To please you, sir, in every way.”
Oh! rare and comic was the fun
To see each humbly cringing dun,
The oily and the sugary one,
All full of meek apology.
I paid their bills upon the spot,
And the receipts from each I got,
And then I looked at all the lot,
As they stood bowing smilingly.
“Get out each fawning drivelling knave,”
I shouted out with features grave;
My hand towards the door I wave,
And clench it simultaneously.
I heard the sound of hurrying feet
Haste down the stairs and up the street,
And then in fits of laughter sweet,
I went off unrestrainedly.
From _Lays of Modern Oxford_, by Adon. Chapman and
Hall, London, 1874.
――――
HO! IN PRINCE’S.
At Prince’s when the sun is low,
See all the fashion skating go,
And bright and brilliant is the flow,
Of ladies rinking rapidly.
Ah! Prince’s is a splendid sight,
From break of day till fall of night,
For all combine to render bright,
The dull surrounding scenery.
In gorgeous dresses see arrayed,
The haughty dame, the tender maid,
Who join, with not a thought dismayed,
The fascinating revelry.
From morn till eve a throng is found,
Of rapid rinkers rolling round,
Amid the light and joyous sound
Of music’s varied melody.
Then on, ye fair ones, one by one,
Who rink for fashion, or for fun,
From early morn till setting sun
You’ll always meet with chivalry.
And if, perchance at fearful pace,
You charge another face to face,
Then cry, when in that close embrace,
“’Tis I, Sir, rinking rapidly,”
Few will forget the hours sweet,
They spent with skates upon their feet,
Nor friends that they were wont to meet
At Prince’s, rinking rapidly.
From _Idyls of the Rink_. London: Judd & Co., 1876.
――――
THE TAY BRIDGE DISASTER.
That fatal eve, as darkness died,
It spann’d the Firth in conscious pride,
And far beneath it rolled the tide
Of Tay, lamenting sullenly.
But later met that bridge its doom,
When fiery showers pierced the gloom,
To light to their tempestuous tomb,
A wild despairing company.
Struck midway by the raging blast,
The girders crash’d and crumbled fast,
And down that living freight was cast
Into a sea of agony.
Lost was the falling metals roar
Amid the elemental war,
And fast the flaming sparks flew o’er
The chasm’s dense obscurity.
But soon those sparks are lost to sight,
Quenched in the river’s rayless night,
And still rejoicing in his might,
Tay sweepeth seawards sullenly.
’Tis midnight! scarce yon barque can make
Her way where seething billows break,
And still the winds and waters shake
The heavens in their rivalry.
Though darker yet the airy dome,
Speed, gallant ship, across the foam!
On! on! _Dundee_! and gather home
Those wrecks of frail humanity!
But none shall wake where many sleep,
Their bier shall be the trackless deep;
And ever shall the surges sweep
Above their lonely sepulchre.
From _Snatches of Song_, by F. B. Doveton. Wyman and
Sons, London, 1880.
The Tay Bridge broke down on December 28, 1879, carrying with it a
train which was passing over at the time, and many lives were lost.
――――
ERIN-LIEDER.
In Erin where the Praties grow
When rents were high and prices low
Ejected Paddies had to go,
Across the ocean rapidly.
But Erin saw another sight,
When tenants struck for tenant right,
And gallant Parnell led the fight,
Against a Landlord tyranny.
By torch-light leaders were conveyed
To platforms, furious speeches made,
And every tenant farmer bade,
To “hold the harvest” steadily,
Few, few the rents that any got,
And if an Agent was not shot,
He had to undergo Boycott-
Ing, by a _furious_ peasantry.
J. M. LOWRY, 1884.
――――
It is said that Campbell sent the MS. of Hohenlinden to the _Greenock
Advertiser_, but that it was rejected, with a polite intimation “that
it did not come up to the Editor’s standard, and that poetry was
evidently not the _forte_ of the contributor.”
A version of Hohenlinden in Latin sapphics, probably written by Father
Prout (the Rev. Francis Mahony) appeared in Blackwood’s Magazine, in
1834; and another version, in Latin Alcaics, “Prælium Lindenium” by
the Rev. William Fellowes A.M., appeared in the _Sabrinæ Corolla_,
1850.
THE SOLDIER’S DREAM.
Our bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw;
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field’s dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track,
’Twas autumn――and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft,
In life’s morning march, when my bosom was young,
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore,
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kissed me a thousand times o’er,
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.
“Stay――stay with us!――rest, thou art weary and worn!”
(And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay,)
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away!
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
――――
THE SOLDIER’S DREAM.
(_After_ T. CAMP-BELL, _by_ A. CAMP-BEAU.)
We were wet as the deuce; for like blazes it poured,
And the sentinels’ throats were the only things dry;
And under their tents Chobham’s heroes had cowered,
The weary to snore, and the wakeful to sigh.
While dozing that night in my camp bed so small,
With a mackintosh over to keep out the rain――
After one glass of grog, cold without――that was all――
I’d a dream, which I hope I shall ne’er have again.
Methought from damp Chobham’s mock-battle array,
I had bowled off to London, outside of a hack;
’Twas the season, and wax lights illumined the way
To the balls of Belgravia that welcomed me back.
I flew to the dancing rooms, whirled through so oft
With one sweet little partner, who tendril-like clung,
I saw the grim chaperons, perched up aloft,
And heard the shrill notes WEIPPERT’S orchestra flung.
_She_ was there――I would “pop”――and a guardsman no more,
From my sweet little partner for life ne’er would part,
When sudden I saw――just conceive what a bore――
A civilian, by Jove! laying siege to her heart!
“Out of sight, out of mind!” It was not to be borne――
To cut her, challenge him I was rushing away――
When sudden the twang of that vile bugle horn
Scared my visions, arousing the camp for the day.
_Punch_, July 9, 1853.
――――
THE BOAT RACE,
“_Verrimus et proni certantibus æquora remis._”
We had stripped off our coats, for the first gun had fired;
Our starter intent on his watch set his eye;
On the bank there were hundreds in flannels attired,
The lean ones to run, and the fat ones to try.
The last gun was fired, we are off and away,
With fast flashing oars, on the foremost boat’s track;
’Twas pumping――my knees, too, got in my way,
And a troublesome horse-fly was biting my back.
The flush of exertion broke out on my face,
And the skin-wearing car handle gave me great pain,
And I vowed in my heart this should be my last race,
And thrice ere the finish I vowed it again.
Put it on――well-rowed all――now you’re gaining――full oft
I heard on the bank from many a tongue,
And the cheers of our comrades that went up aloft
From many a loud-shouting ear-splitting lung.
Then we spurted like mad, and gained more and more,
Till the two boats were scarcely six inches apart,
Our coxswain alternately cheered us and swore,
To let off the steam from his fast-beating heart.
Easy all! ’Tis a bump! ’Tis a bump, I’ll be sworn!
I was glad, for my back had begun to give way.
Our cheers on the wings of the evening were borne,
And our boat became head of the river that day.
From _Lays of Modern Oxford_, by Adon. Chapman and
Hall, London, 1874.
――――
THE TORY PREMIER’S DREAM.
Our leaders sang truce――for the session had lowered,
And a cloud had come o’er the political sky;
And the Parliament sank on the ground over-powered,
The Liberals to shout, and the Tories to cry.
After feeding that night on my pork chop so raw
With the vote-guarding “faggot” still haunting my brain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice e’er the cock crew I dreamed it again.
Methought from the Polling-booth’s dreadful array
Triumphant I rose, for of votes I’d no lack.
’Twas delightful to hear all constituents say.
“We idolize Jingo, and welcome you back!”
I flew to the policy traversed so oft,
The secrecy whence my “surprises” have sprung;
My motto, “Imperium,” floated aloft,
And I laughed in my sleeve at the softness of Bung.
Then pledged we the Water Bill; fondly we swore
From our spirited policy never to part;
The stockjobbers blessed me a thousand times o’er,
And the public it cursed in its hardness of heart.
Stay, stay with us――rest till an Empire is born;
And fain was the Novelist-Statesman to stay;
But Gladstone returned with the dawning of morn,
And all my majority melted away.
_Funny Folks_, April 17, 1880.
――――
THE FATAL GALLOPADE.
A Parody upon the style of Thomas Campbell, Author of “Theodric,” etc.
’Twas night――a damp――dark――misty――murky night,
Scarce thro’ the gloom could pierce the gas-lamp’s light,
When to the square, which bears proud Grosvenor’s name,
A crowd of carriages and chariots came,
Stopping in turns, successively before
A mansion’s wide and double-knockered door;
And there was heard the carriage door’s quick slam,――
Anon a halt――and then a sudden jam
Of poles retrorsally thro’ chariots driven,
And shrieks of “Coachman!――Thomas! John!――oh Heaven!”
At length, in safety’s reached the drawing room,
Where gold, and platina, and pearl, and plume,
Floating and shining o’er neck, head, and ears,[20]
Like stars and white clouds seemed in heav’nly spheres
From the high roof where gold and azure blended,
In hues designed to typify the sky,
Bright chandeliers of crystallised glass depended
In colours each of too resplendent dye
For human art with one of them to vie.
Oh! ’twas a scene too dazzling to the sight――
Too grandly gay――too beautifully bright!
And now the music and the dance began,――
The beaux to ogle, and the belles to fan;
And oft between the pauses of each dance,
To lull the listener to a dreamy trance,
Soft melting sounds around his heart-strings wreathed,
To which a voice responsive accents breathed,
Filling with such sweet harmony the air,
It seemed an angel had been wafted there!
But who is he of foreign garb and air,
That roams about with sentimental stare?
No common personage; his star-lit breast
Bespeaks him noble――little boots the rest;
Russian he is, a rich ambassador.
And oh!――propitious fact! a batchelor!
A faded heiress looks on him intent;
But, ah! his eyes are on another bent,――
And such another! who her charms can paint?
Description waxes in the effort faint;
Pure as an infant in its first repose――
Mild as a summer evening at its close――
Pensive and pale as Dian in decline,――
Meek as the lily――tender as the vine――
Chaste as the Vestal,――modest as the ray,
Which the sun leaves for night to scare away!
These, and a thousand other charms, to boot
Struck folly dumb, and admiration mute!
Ceased the quadrille, the gallopade began,
And partners briskly to their stations ran;
Now thought the amorous Ambassador,
Now let me dance――yes, now, or never more!
With this he rushed to where his loved one stood,
Asked her to dance――sweet girl!――she said she would;
Joy to the Russian! he is blest indeed,
And soon outstrips the fashionable speed;――
Too fatal speed! the floor’s vanished chalk
Which pairs, more careful, step o’er in a walk,
Arrests not them too fond to look below,
Till down they suddenly together go!
Smile not, ye fools!――the fair one’s head is broke!
They raised her up, but never more she spoke!
Ah! well with anguish may her partner start,
For what hath broke her head, hath also broke his heart!
_The Comic Magazine_, 1834.
――――
LOCHIEL’S WARNING
_The Wizard_――
Lochiel! Lochiel, beware of the day
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight,
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight:
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown;
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war,
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?
’Tis thine, oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await,
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate,
A steed comes at morning; no rider is there;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led!
Oh, weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead;
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave,
Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave!
_Lochiel_――
Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.
_The Wizard_――
Ah! laughs’t thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn?
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn!
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth,
From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north?
Lo! the death shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad;
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high!
Ah! home let him speed――for the spoiler is nigh.
Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast,
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast?
’Tis the fire shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven.
Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might,
Whose banners arise on the battlements height,
Heaven’s fire is around thee, to blast and to burn;
Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return!
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,
And a wild mother scream o’er her famishing brood.
――――
These lines are from Campbell’s “Lochiel’s Warning,” which poem
is said to have been formed upon the skeleton of
_bouts-rimés_, it certainly displays little trace of such a
mode of construction.
――――
On January 14, 1880, _The World_ published two competition poems on
the model of “Lochiel’s Warning”; the topic selected being:
“1879, its Glory and its Shame.”
FIRST PRIZE.
_John Bull――――Old Year._
_John Bull_――
Old Year, Old Year, I’m glad of the day
That beholds thee, like evil dream, vanish away!
For dejection and shame have companioned thy flight,
From the morn of thy birth to thy final midnight.
Look, look, where on reeking Isandula’s plain,
Outflanked and outnumbered, our bravest are slain!
Ah, see how cruel assegais enter the breast,
Undismayed to the last, of our comrade and guest!
Hark, hark, where the waters of Afghan’s dark river
Fling back a sad cry, and then still it for ever,
And where blood-stained Cabul with fanatical yells
Of an envoy’s foul slaughter exultingly tells.
_Old Year_――
Peace, pessimist, peace! I have shattered the power
Of the Zulu man-slayer, have curbed the rude Boer;
Secocoeni is captive. Shere Ali is dead,
And back from your borders the Russian I’ve sped;
And no brighter pages can valour display.
_John Bull_――
Old Year, Old Year, I’m glad of the day――
From thy frost-bitten spring to thine autumn of blight
Rain, rain hath oppressed us noon, morning, and night;
Scant produce, unripened, mocks garden and farm;
Flood and Tempest have waited on Famine’s alarm;
While Leisure and Labour and Pleasure and Pain
Have pined for the breath of thy summer in vain.
With Sedition’s loud cry, have our annals been shamed,
With a Senate obstructed, a credit defamed,
With the cheers of a mob and the sneers of a press
To rash to condemn and too prompt to caress,
While the pulse of our commerce beats fitful and low――
_Old Year_――
False libeller, silence! and hark, ere I go:
All my life throughout Europe the sword hath been sheathed;
I have soothed the war-passions my brothers bequeathed;
If want and Disaster _have_ marched by my hand,
They have knit class to class, and endeared land to land;
And hardier and wiser, you shall not repine
At the trials you have passed through in ’Seventy-nine.
ZIEGELSTEIN. (_Goymour Cuthbert_).
――――
SECOND PRIZE.
_Wizard (of the North)――――Chieftain B._
_Wizard_――
Chieftain, O Chieftain, lament for the year!
Of distress and disaster a history drear:
For Cabul with its slain rises red on my sight;
And grim Isandula, that massacre fight.
They fought and they perished by field and by flood;
But their victories rest bootless, and blood calls for blood.
Weep, Albion, thy losses, thy glory grown pale!
Weep, though gagged correspondents can’t tell the whole tale!
_Chief_――
Go, prate to Midlothian, thou peace-preaching seer!
If the wars of thy country so dreadful appear,
Let the fields of Ulundi, Rorke’s Drift, and Ekowe
Dispel with their glory such phantoms of woe.
_Wizard_――
Ha! then turn to the East, who will there take thy side?
Proud Chief, thou must break with the land of thy pride.
Say, how strutted proud Turkey! how low now he lies!
And new nations spring round while the old tyrant dies.
Flourish freedom and peace where oppression once stood,
And poor Turkey may scream for the loss of that brood.
_Chief_――
Verbose rhetor, avaunt! I’ve well managed my clan;
Right or wrong, I rely on their votes to a man,
With our endless resources, no foeman we fear,
So woe to king Theebaw――
_Wizard_―― Yet weep for the year.
Trade’s bad, sir, whatever your chemicals meant;
And outside of Ireland, folks will not pay rent.
Home interests were shelved, though oft Ministers met――
And look how the country has got into debt!
They’ve finished, their blunders are done in the House;
The Session was lost, just because they’d no _nous_,
And where are those bothering Irishmen――where?
Making trouble afresh, which may you have to bear!
Yet, no! for departure from office is near;
Peace, retrenchment, reform――
_Chief_―― You be――! Well, I don’t fear.
For though weighted by taxes and harassed by foes,
Still England, while life in each British breast glows,
Shall, queen among nations in ages to come,
Exult in libertas――
_Wizard_―― But _not_ imperium.
RAD
――――
In March, 1882, “The Weekly Dispatch” had a Competition for Parodies
of the first eighteen lines of “Lochiel’s Warning,” having reference
to the House of Lords’ Select Committee on the Irish Land Act. The
first prize was awarded to Mr. Jesse H. Wheeler, for the following:――
Old women! old women! prepare for the day
When the Commons shall rule with an unopposed sway;
For a dream of the future behold we to-night,
While the hosts of Will Gladstone are massed for the fight.
They guide us, they lead e’en their country and Queen――
Accursed be the puppets that trespass between!
Poor Salisbury’s bunkum and muddling are vain,
And the “shut up committee” is baffled, ’tis plain.
For hark! that harangue, and those deep telling words――
What voice of the people defies the great Lords?
’Tis thine, William Gladstone, whose hearers await
That scathing rebuff on the meddlers of State,
A calm comes at finish, no challenge is there,
But a silence prevails, then a sigh of despair.
Shout, people! the Lords in humility bend;
Oh, shout! this submission foreshadows the end.
For this triumphant army the Lords can’t withstand,
The Lords――whose foundations fast sink in the sand.
――――
The following Parody was also printed:――
O Cecil! O Cecil! beware of the day
When the Commons shall meet thee in battle array;
When the people’s stern will rushes on in its might,
And the clans of the landlords are scattered in flight,
Their standard shows ever “For kingdom and crown,”
Hail! ye who shall trample the false device down,
Proud sons of the people, as honest as plain,
While _their_ selfish bosoms throb only for gain.
But see! through the storm-clouds that gather afar,
What falchion gleams like a meteor star?
’Tis thine, William Ewart; in dread they await
The time when thy summons is heard at their gate.
Already its prelude resounds in the air,
And soon will be heard their last sigh of despair.
Oh! Albion, long in captivity led,
Soon, soon, will the term of thy thraldom be sped,
And the standard of freedom shall gallantly wave
Where rule by a class finds a dishonoured grave!
JAMES ROBINSON.
――――:o:――――
The same original was again selected for a competition in the Weekly
Dispatch, and the following prize poem was printed in that paper on
September 14, 1884:――
O, Salisbury, Salisbury, beware of the day
When the people shall meet thee in hostile array!
For what can it end in excepting thy flight?
Whilst thy Tory companions are scattered in fight,
It is not a contest ’twixt people and crown,
And woe to the lords who would trample them down!
Brave Gladstone advances his arguments plain,
And Tory mis-statements are routed and slain.
And hark! ’mid the mutt’rings of those you would dare,
What cry loud and earnest is borne on the air?
’Tis “Down with the Lords!” and, though Gladstone deplores,
The people in anger will surge at your doors.
Then take Gladstone’s warning, your error repair,
Ere we wring our just rights from your fear and despair;
Stay, Salisbury, then, ere the hour is too late,
And you and your lords meet a merited fate!
ALBERT OTLEY.
――――
GLADSTONE’S WARNING.
(_Nothing to do with Lochiel’s Warning._)
O Tories! O Tories! beware of the day
When my legions shall meet you in battle array!
For the state of the poll in a vision I trace,
With a name at the top, and a name at the base;
Ye rally and cry: “For ourselves and the Crown!”
And ye hoodwink the people and trample them down.
Proud Salisbury, descending, declares to the poor,
That he works for them now――though he did not before.
But hark! through the thunder and speech-laden air,
Who is he that flies howling in rage and despair?
’Tis the loud Democrat, so triumphant of late,
The country has snubbed him, and――shown him the gate!
Weep, Tories! your tricks to the country are plain,
O weep!――can ye hope to deceive them again?
They know, though your speeches sound pleasant and smart,
That the truth on your lip is a lie at your heart!
_The Judge_, November 28, 1885.
――――:o:――――
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.
A NAVAL ODE.
Ye Mariners of England!
That guard our native seas:
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle, and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe!
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!――
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave.
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o’er the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below,――
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger’s troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
Campbell began this famous Ode, in Edinburgh, in 1799, and finished it
at Altona in 1800. He at first styled it “Alteration of the old ballad
‘Ye Gentlemen of England’ composed on the prospect of a Russian War;”
it was published early in 1801, in the _Naval Chronicle_, with the
line “Where Granvill (boast of freedom) fell,” instead of
“Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,”
this being an allusion to the brave Sir Richard Granvill, who was
killed in 1591, in the fight of the “Revenge” against the Spanish
Armada.
After the death of Lord Nelson, at Trafalgar, in 1805, Campbell
revised the poem, and then introduced the beautiful line
“Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell.”
The poem is frequently printed with the original date of 1800, and
with the line about the fall of Nelson, without any explanation of
these facts, thus making it appear that Campbell had anticipated the
loss of the great sailor five years before it occured.
――――
YE KITE-FLYERS OF SCOTLAND.
Ye kite-flyers of Scotland,
Who live from home at ease;
Who raise the wind, from year to year,
In a long and strong trade breeze:
Your paper-kites let loose again
On all the winds that blow;
Through the shout of the rout
Lay the English ragmen low;
Though the shout for gold be fierce and bold,
And the English ragmen low.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall peep from every leaf;
For the midnight was their noon of fame,
And their prize was living beef.
Where Deloraine on Musgrave fell,
Your paper kites shall show,
That a way to convey
Better far than their’s you know,
When you launch your kites upon the wind
And raise the wind to blow.
Caledonia needs no bullion,
No coin in iron case;
Her treasure is a bunch of rags
And the brass upon her face;
With pellets from her paper mills
She makes the Southrons trow,
That to pay her sole way
Is by promising to owe,
By making promises to pay
When she only means to owe.
The meteor rag of Scotland
Shall float aloft like scum,
Till credit’s o’erstrained line shall crack,
And the day of reckoning come:
Then, then, ye Scottish kite-flyers,
Your hone-a-rie must flow,
While you drink your own ink
With your old friend Nick below,
While you burn your bills and singe your quills
In his bonny fire below.
THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.
The above parody is one of a series entitled _Paper Money Lyrics_,
which were written in 1825-26, and published in a collected form in
1837. They had reference to the commercial panic of the winter
1825-26, and are consequently somewhat obsolete now. The other authors
imitated besides Campbell, were Robert Southey, Poet Laureate; William
Wordsworth, Thomas Moore, Samuel T. Coleridge, and Sir Walter Scott;
whilst several old Scotch songs were also parodied, as for instance,
CHORUS OF NORTHUMBRIANS.
(_On the prohibition of Scotch One Pound Notes in England._)
March, march, Make-rags of Borrowdale,
Whether ye promise to bearer or order;
March, march, Take-rag and Bawbee-tail,
All the Scotch flimsies must over the border:
Vanity you snarl anent
New Act of Parliament,
Bidding you vanish from dairy and “lauder”
Dogs you have had your day,
Down tail and slink away;
You’ll pick no more bones on this side of the border.
Hence to the hills where your fathers stole cattle;
Hence to the glens where they skulked from the law;
Hence to the moors where they vanished from battle,
Crying, “De’il tak the hindmost” and “Charlie’s awa’.”
* * * * *
COMIC SONGS FOR YOUNG LADIES.
Young gentlemen of England,
That only mind your ease,
Ah, little do you think how hard
Young ladies try to please!
Give ear unto the Milliners,
And they will plainly show
How the waist must be laced,
By the Fashion-books to go.
She who’d attract attention
Must laugh at common sense,
For when one goes to choose a dress,
One mustn’t mind expense;
Nor think how Pa will scold one,
Whene’er he comes to know
How he’s let into debt,
By the Fashion-books to go.
What terrible privations
Young ladies must endure,
A lovely face and form of grace
From damage to secure!
Their appetites they must control,
Lest they too stout should grow,
And in vain strive and strain
By the Fashion-books to go.
In days of bitter weather,
Which winter doth enforce,
One cannot think of such a thing
As good thick boots, of course;
With instep undefended,
In rain, and hail, and snow,
All so bold one gets cold,
By the Fashion-books to go.
_Punch_, December 14, 1844.
――――
YE PEASANTRY OF ENGLAND.[21]
(_Dedicated to the Duke of Norfolk._)
Ye Peasantry of England,
Who till our fertile leas,
How little do ye think a man
May live on, if he please?
Your weekly wages, it is plain,
As far again would go,
And keep you so cheap,
(For Norfolk’s Duke says so)
If, when hunger rages fierce and strong,
To curry you would go,
This powder, hungry fathers,
From all expense will save;
For if your children eat thereof,
No other food they’ll crave;
And any time that wages fall,
(As oft they fall, you know,)
’Twill come cheap, a pinch to steep
In water――a pint or so;
And when hunger rages fierce and strong,
To your curry powder go.
Our labourers need no dainties,
But something strong and cheap;
No steak from off the rump they crave,
No chop from off the sheep:
With curry powder thrice a week,
Warm into bed they’ll stow,
Nor ever roar out for more――
Their place so well they know;
But when hunger rages fierce and strong,
To the curry powder go.
The ’tato crops of England
May all to gangrene turn,
While Norfolk’s Duke about your lot
His wise head shall concern.
Meanwhile, ye hardy labourers,
Your song of thanks should flow
To the fame of his name
Who the powder made you know:
Which, when hunger rages fierce and strong,
Will set you in glow.
_Punch_, January, 1845.
――――
ODE TO THE “SPECIALS.”
Ye Constables of London,
That guard our Cockney plain,
Whose staves have braved for several hours
The Chartists and the rain,
To Clerkenwell come forth once more
To meet your ancient foe,
And go then at the men
Who never struck a blow
At the men who spout so loud and long,
But never strike a blow!
Our London needs no barriers,
No forts along the street;
Her faith is in her Specials’ staves,
Her trust is in their feats!
With their truncheons of old oak
They fright the Chartists so,
That they roar all the more,
But they never strike a blow!
Yes, although they spout so loud and long,
They never strike a blow.
The maniac mob of England
Shall yet some reason learn,
Till humbug’s dreary night depart,
And the star of sense return!
Then, then, ye cockney warriors,
Our half and half shall flow
To the fame of your name,
And every one shall know
Of your prowess ’gainst the noisy mob
Who never struck a blow.
_The Puppet Show_, June 10, 1848.
(Written at the time of the Chartist movement, when the late Emperor
Napoleon III, was sworn in as a special Constable.)
――――
YE SHIP BUILDERS OF ENGLAND.
Ye Ship builders of England,
That load our native seas
With craft not fit to brave a year
The battle or the breeze:
Such rubbish do not launch again,
Top heavy, dull, and slow
As they creep through the deep
Whatever wind may blow.
The spirits of retrenchment
Shall start from every wave,
For in the sea economy
Through you has found a grave.
Thousands and thousands you have sunk
In ships that will not go;
For they creep through the deep
Whatever wind may blow.
The costly ships of England
For fire-wood yet may burn,
Till to the models of the past
Her shipwrights shall return.
Then, then, ye clumsy shipbuilders,
Our song no more will throw
All the blame on your name,
Which now merits every blow.
_Punch_, December, 1849.
――――
“YE SUBALTERNS IN ENGLAND.”
_From_ TUFF, _of the Fusiliers in the Crimea, to_ MUFF, _of the
Grenadiers, at St. James’s_.
Ye subalterns in England,
Who live a life of ease,
How little do ye think upon
Our sufferings o’er the seas.
To sup, lunch, dine, and lunch again,
Upon fried pork we go,
And three-deep, we’ve to sleep,
In the trenches all a-row,
With the batteries roaring loud and long,
Four hundred guns or so!
The ghosts of clothing colonels
Would shudder in their graves;
For no two of us are rigged the same,
And scarce a fellow shaves.
Light cavalry and heavy swell
Black as coal-heavers show;
You can keep clean so cheap,
But here a tub’s no go;
For water you’ve to shell out strong,
And then it’s salt, you know.
Out here we need no boot-jacks,
For in our boots we sleep,
One never sees a dressing-case,
And hair brushes are cheap.
Deuce a cigar one gets to smoke;
Short pipes we’re glad to blow;
And we draw rum from store,
As we can’t have Bordeaux――
The point is, something short and strong,
Although it may be low.
But round the flag of England
We’ll our last cartridge burn,
Till we have made the Russians smart,
And victors home return.
Then, when, as veteran warriors,
At fête and ball we show,
With the fame of our name,
The ladies’ hearts will glow,
And while you swells are voted bores,
The pace, oh, shan’t we go!
_Punch_, November 18, 1854.
Another Parody on “Ye Mariners” appeared in _Punch_, December 11,
1852. It referred to a _fracas_ which had taken place between two
Members of Parliament, and has now no interest whatever.
――――:o:――――
A BALLAD BY A BISHOP.
(_With Brass Accompaniment._)
Ye clergymen of England,
Who livings hold at ease,
How little do you think upon
The troubles of the Sees!
Give ear unto my plaintive lay,
And I’ll engage to show
That a bishop’s poor and needy――whom for being rich and greedy,
Up the stormy _Times_ doth blow――oh! oh! oh! oh!
_Chorus expressive of Woe_.
’Tis a law of human nature,
As you all of you must grant,
That of worldly things, the more man has
The more he’s sure to want,
Then wonder not that we, on whom
Such fatness men bestow,
Are in heart sick and sore, and in want, far, far more
Than you who sit below――oh! oh! oh! oh!
That bishops who have been brought up
Regardless of expense,
In luxury must dine and sup,
Seems merely common sense:
And neither few nor far between
Can be their wants, you know,
When in health and at ease their appetites increase
For the good things here below――O! O! O! O!
Then think ye not a bishop’s less
To be envied than be pitied,
Rememb’ring that to meet distress
So little he is fitted.
Nor wonder he for pension wants
Six thousand pounds or so――
Or I fear in a year, tho’ he’s lived like a Peer,
On the parish he would go――o――o――o――Oh!
(_Refrain_) ON THE PARISH HE WOULD GO!
_Punch_. October 11, 1856.
――――
CRINOLINE’S RAGING FURY;
_Or, the Fashionable Female’s Sufferings_.
You rustic maids of England,
Who dress yourselves with ease,
Ah, little do you think how hard
It is French taste to please.
Give ear unto the milliners,
And they will plainly show,
With what care, tight with air,
They our Crinolines do blow.
* * * * *
(_Five verses omitted._)
The husband, and the lover,
May simple gowns prefer,
That fit the form, and, in a storm,
With safety let one stir,
Reproaches fierce, our hearts that pierce,
Against our taste they throw,
Which we poor things endure,
Whilst our Crinolines we blow.
We put on costly merchandise
Of most enormous price,
So much we need of drapery,
To follow this device;
We spend so much in drapery,
Of such a size to show,
And with toil our shape spoil,
When our Crinolines we blow.
_Punch_, January 31, 1857.
――――
YE COMMONERS OF ENGLAND.
Ye Commoners of England,
Who cannot sit at ease
In the house designed by BARRY
Four hundred odd to squeeze,
Your straitened bounds enlarge again
To hold two hundred more,
Who now creep, in a heap,
Through the narrow lobby door,
When division bells ring loud and long,
To the over-crowded floor.
The sluggard and late comer
Their right to seats must waive,
But a card stuck on the bench at prayers
Will disappointment save.
For architects will fail again
Where BARRY failed before,
And ye’ll creep, like penned sheep,
Through another crowded door,
While uttering curses loud and deep,
To the over-crowded floor.
In the present House of Commons
But few attempt to speak,
For some have not the gift of tongue,
And some not that of cheek.
But in the new Reformed House
There be at least ten score
Who, like BRIGHT, every night,
Forth their eloquence will pour,
And speeches make, both loud and long,
As ne’er were heard before.
To meet your wants in future,
And find you room in turn.
Gives HEADLAM, THOMSON HANKEY,
And Bazley great concern:
O’er plans and elevations
Right patiently they pore,
For they know ’tis no go
To find space for any more,
When debates are waxing loud and long,
And the SPEAKER’S heard to snore.
_Echoes from the Clubs_, November 27, 1867.
――――
THE SCREAM OF THE AMERICAN EAGLE;
OR, THE CROW OF YANKEE-DOODLE.
You sneaking skunks of England,
Who stay at home at ease,
Who think because you never fight
You’re rulers of the seas:
Another pirate launch again
To match a New York foe,
For the fame of your name
Which has had so sad a blow,
While we Yankees bluster loud and long,
And over England crow.
The shattered “Alabama”
Lies deep beneath the wave,
Your finest guns and gunners
Their vessel couldn’t save,
When our noble ship, the “Kearsarge,”
Her shot and shell did throw,
To the bottom in an hour
Did the “Alabama” go,
And we Yankees bluster loud and long,
And over England crow.
The flag of old Columbia
Shall ne’er again be furled
Till, having scourged the Southern States,
We whip the whole wide world;
With real lightning from our guns
Our thunderbolts we’ll throw,
Till not a single Britisher
Upon the seas doth show,
Then won’t we bluster loud and long
And over England crow.
Yes, then, you sneaking Britishers,
Our song and feast shall flow
When we sink your Island, Queen and all,
Old ocean’s depths below,
And masters of the ’varsal airth
We’ll liquor to and fro,
Drink gin-slings with our Irish slaves
And trumpets loudly blow
To the fame of our name,
And o’er the whole world crow.
From _Lyrics and Lays_, by PIPS (Wyman Bros., Calcutta, 1867).
――――
THE FENIANS’ RAGING FURY:
_Or, Legal Ireland’s Sufferings_.
Ye gentlemen of Ireland
Who live abroad at ease,
A mighty little wonder ’tis
That you are absentees.
Give heed unto the newspapers,
And they will daily show
All the crimes――see the _Times_――
When the crimson drops do flow.
All we that would live landlords
Must bear arrears of rent,
And little though we should be paid
Or none, must be content;
Or else, a tenant’s bullet
Will quickly lay us low;
With a ball he pays all,
Whilst the crimson drops do flow.
* * * * *
Not Irish landlords only,
Thus live in care and dread;
Their stewards and their agents too
May look to be shot dead.
Whoever makes an enemy
Is very soon let know,
What is what, by a shot,
When the crimson drops do flow.
* * * * *
If all conciliation
Is wasted, nought remains
But to renew an iron rule,
Stern penalties and pain,
At least empower our magistrates
To cage each public foe,
With the speed which we need
When the crimson drops do flow.
_Punch_, March 12, 1870.
――――
YE SCAVENGERS OF ENGLAND.
Ye Scavengers of England!
Whose cart one seldom sees
Without unpleasant consciousness
There’s something in the breeze!
Leave other garbage to its fate,
And here your prowess show!
And sweep through the heap
From King Street up to Bow;
Where the struggle rages all day long,
From King Street up to Bow!
The Duke may wish you farther,
The question try to waive;
But, bear in mind, _that_ filthy slush
Might prove his Grace’s grave!
And should he, by some chance, go down
_Himself_, he’d swear you’re slow,
As ye sweep through the heap
From King Street up to Bow!
We boast we need no bulwarks
Our social rights to keep;
Yet, if we wish to purchase plums,
We do it――ankle deep!
And though we often, through the _Times_,
Our indignation show,
The while we roar, the loads still pour
From King Street and from Bow;
And the struggle lasts the whole day long,
From King Street down to Bow!
The dirty flags of Mudford
At last shall have their turn!
No more for rotting refuse prove
A putrid public churn!
So up, ye British Scavengers,
A decent garden show,
Where Duchesses henceforth may――leap!
From King Street up to Bow!
And thank their stars you’ve made a sweep
From King Street up to Bow!
_Punch_, October 16, 1880.
This Parody was accompanied by a portrait of the Duke of Bedford, the
owner of this filthy, inconvenient, and mismanaged market.
――――
TO MILLINERS AND MILLIONARES.
_A modiste address by an Æsthetic Renegade._
Ye milliners of England,
Who clothe so many shes,
Whose stuffs have never found their peers,
Oh, listen if you please.
Your standard prices pray keep down,
To hold the trade in tow,
For thus you’ll reap and you’ll keep
Of customers a flow;
Though you make toilettes loud and long
Now trains have ceased to grow.
The spirits of your tailors
Shall start with every fold,
For Paris ’twas from whence they came,
And their reward was gold;
Where Worth and mighty Felix dwell
There is a better show,
Where they _do_ reap and _do_ keep
Of customers a flow,
And say you haven’t the “haut ton,”
And are most sadly slow.
Britannia needs no bustles,
No heels of slender height,
Her walk should e’er be straight and sure,
Her dresses not too tight.
With simple taste _do_ loop them up
And trim them down below:
Ah! but you say, “that’s not the way
O’er other firms to crow!”
Well, then――(_despairingly_)――make your toilettes loud and long,
We will not say you “No!”
(_Sarcastically_――)
May the ladies fair of England
Ever live and learn
To be extra grateful for your deeds
And give you some return!
We sing to _you_, fair modistes,
To Messrs. Worth and Co.,
To the fame of your name,
And may fools of fashion flow,
While you make dresses more and more,
And bows and buttons grow.
From _Cribblings from the Poets_, by Hugh Cayley (Jones and
Piggott, Cambridge, 1883.)
――――
TORPEDO TERRORS.
_Our Poet has revised Campbell’s Lyric in accordance with the New
System of Naval Warfare_).
Ye mariners of England,
Be vigilant to seize
The flag that braved a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze;
And if your ships be launched again
To meet a foreign foe,
Ere ye sweep through thöe deep
Send your divers down below,
For that dread explosive swift and strong,
The sneaking Tor-pe-dö.
When your heroic fathers
Their foes a thrashing gave,
On the deck above they sought for fame,
Not _underneath_ the wave.
When Blake and mighty Nelson fought
They dealt no dastard blow,
But now we sweep o’er the deep,
Both cautiously and slow,
Fearing the din and the secret fire
Of the Brigand Tor-pe-dö.
Britannia needs new bulwarks,
New towers along the steep,
If far below the mountain wave
These hidden reptiles creep;
No thunders from our broadsides now
May quell the floods below,
If when the proud ships float along
The swift steam launches throw
Beneath the keels of ironclads strong
The coward Tor-pe-dö.
Though soon beneath our vessels
They may terrific burn,
With ships of steel and hearts of oak
We trust their power to spurn;
That still our ocean warriors
To sea may safely go,
And win new fame for England’s name
With an open-handed blow,
While the enemy’s fleet is blown sky high
With their own vile Tor-pe-dö.
_Funny Folks._
――――
YE INFANTRY OF ENGLAND.
A Military Ode. Imitated from Campbell.
“_Fas est et ab hoste doceri._”
Ye Infantry of England,
Supposed to guard our shores,
Who made a precious mess of it
In trying to pot the Boers,
Your ready rifles take again,
And try another style;
Nor fool by old rule
While the foreign critics smile,
Whilst the Dutchman chuckles loud and long,
And our foreign critics smile.
BRITANNIA needs instructors
To teach her boys to shoot,
Fixed targets and mere red-tape drill
Have borne but bitter fruit.
Our blunders are a standing joke,
The scandal of our Isle,
And the Boer loud doth roar,
Whilst our foreign critics smile.
Whilst the Teuton guffaws loud and long,
And our foreign critics smile.
The cartridges of England
In waste terrific burn;
In sighting and in snap-shots, we
From foes have much to learn.
Then come, ye pipeclayed Infantry,
And go to school awhile,
Till the fame of your aim
Shall no more make foemen smile;
Till the Dutchman’s chuckle’s heard no more,
And your foes have ceased to smile.
_Punch._
――――
THE PERILS OF PARLIAMENT.
Ye Gentlemen of England,
Who stay at home at ease,
Ye little think upon the ills
That threaten our M.P.’s!
Now that throughout the House again
The flood of talk will flow,
And will roar
O’er the floor
While the storms of party blow,
While discussion rages loud and long,
And the storms of party blow!
The Spirit of Obstruction
Will start from every side;
New coalitions will be formed,
Old combinations tried;
The Alderman will shout “Yah! Yah!”
Lord Randolph talk more stuff,
Whilst a roar
O’er the floor
Will proclaim his new rebuff,
And noises weird and varied tell
That Warton’s taking snuff.
His meteor pocket-handkerchief,
Shall oft terrific burn,
Whilst weary legislators long,
But vainly, to adjourn;
Shall wave whilst dreary platitudes
Tempt Ministers to weep,
Or some bore
On the floor
Talks the faithful few to sleep;
Whilst the dazed but ever-active “whips”
Their endless vigil keep.
Yes, Gentlemen of England,
Do picture, if you please,
The fate that probably awaits
Your sorely-tried M.P.’s.
Think of those frequent dinners
Of which they’ll get no bite
When the bell
Sounds their knell,
And compels them to the fight;
Till the lobbies echo with the groan
Of outraged appetite!
Think of the miles of walking
Divisions will impose,
On those who, spite their gouty pains,
Must follow “Ayes” or “Noes.”
Think of the cramps they must endure
When furtive naps they take,
With what racks
In their backs
They will suddenly awake;
When they have slumbered in their seats
For their constitution’s sake.
“Britannia needs no bulwark”――
Or so her poets claim――
But he who makes Britannia’s laws
Should have an iron frame.
Yes, he _does_ need a bulwark
’Gainst all the session woes,
’Gainst the roar
Of the bore,
And the battle’s stress and blows!
If his digestion be not sound,
He scarce will see its close.
For dark is the horizon,
And on the rising breeze,
Clouds, shaped like “all-night sittings,”
The weather-prophet sees;
And fears that even pheasants
The Sportsman shall lay low
Ere the last
Of the blast
Through St. Stephen’s halls shall go;
Ere the sharp “Hear, hear,” is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
_Truth_, February 7, 1884.
――――
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.
_The Salisbury Version of Campbell’s Song._
[It would appear from one of his recent speeches that Lord
Salisbury considers Mr. Chamberlain a sham philanthropist,
who only wishes to injure the poor innocent shipowners, and
has no real desire to benefit seamen by his Merchant Shipping
Bill.]
Ye mariners of England,
That trust in Joseph C.,
Whose tale has gulled a thousand ears,
Receive the truth from me.
He champions you for selfish ends,
Does philanthropic Joe,
And you’re “had” by the Rad,
When the stormy winds do blow.
Our sailors need no Bill-wark
To guard them on the deep;
Shipowners all are worthy folk,
And calumny is cheap.
Their vessels stand the tempests’ test,
And never go below,
So no more on that score,
When the stormy winds do blow.
Obstruction’s flag in Parliament
Shall yet terrific burn,
Till Gladstone’s rabble rout depart,
And the Tory clan return.
Then, then, ye ocean simpletons,
Brum tactics we shall “stow,”
None will back Merchant Jack,
When the stormy winds do blow.
_Funny Folks_, June 21, 1884.
――――
RULING THE WAVES.
(_Freely adapted from Campbell._)
Ye Mariners of England!
Who’d guard our native seas,
What think ye, lads, every few years
Of this confounded breeze?
They tell us we must launch more ships
Ere we may match the foe,
And weep
O’er the deep,
Whilst the Pressmen’s trumpets blow,
While the squabble rages loud and long,
And the Pressmen’s trumpets blow.
The spirits of your fathers
Would look extremely grave
At doubts thus thrown upon the fact
That Britain rules the wave.
Officials on each other fall;
One “Yes!” says, t’other “No!”
And sweep
O’er the deep,
Of big figures in a row,
Tabled Statistics stiff and long,
And figures in a row.
Britannia needs a Navy
Her world-wide watch to keep,
To ward her isle-encircling waves,
And to patrol the deep.
_That’s_ truth, and far beyond all joke,
Plain facts from them we’d know,
Who roar
And deplore,
That our Navy’s running low,
That the Frank and Teuton fleets grow strong,
Whilst our Navy’s running low.
The money-bags of England
The balance yet can turn.
We’re quite prepared to freely “part,”
Cheese-paring fudge we’d spurn.
Facts, facts, ye ocean-warriors,
Are what we fain would know!
For the fame
Of your name
Every British heart will glow,
When Party fights are heard no more
And the Windbags cease to “blow.”
_Punch_, October 4, 1884.
――――
YE RADICALS OF BRUMM’GEM.
(A Song for the next Election.)
Ye Radicals of Brumm’gem,
With all your Caucuses,
Whose noise has rung a year or two
Just on a passing breeze,
Your voice shall ne’er be raised again
To deafen another foe;
You shall fall, spouters all,
When our party strikes the blow,
And the battle will be short, I say,
When our party strikes the blow!
The demagogues and stumpers
No more shall rant and rave,
The platform was their field of fame,
Th’ election is their grave.
Where Bunkum, Humbug, Bluster spoke,
Now silence you shall know,
For you fall, stumpers all,
When our party strikes the blow,
And the battle will be short indeed
When our party strikes the blow.
Britannia’ll have no rebels
Her soil in blood to steep;
Her strength can crush the blustering knave――
Her wit the sly and deep;
And class with class she reconciles
And fuses high and low――
They unite for the fight
And together strike the blow,
And they make the battle short, I say,
When, allied, they strike the blow.
Conservatives of England;
A light enlightening burn
To help the poor and guide the rich
Right Members to return.
Then, then, you ranting Radicals,
Our song and feast shall flow,
As we tell how you fell
When the nation struck the blow,
How the battle was uncommon short
When the nation struck the blow.
_A Pen’orth o’ Poetry for the Poor_, London, 1884.
――――
PARODIES BY A PREMIER.
(_Addressed to the L――――s of the A――――y._)
“Ye Mariners of England,”
(I’ll term you if you please),
Whose brag has raised, a hundred times,
A Parliament’ry “breeze!”
Your gallant features blanch again
Beneath another blow.
As ye creep down the steep
“Companion” stairs below;
While the crisis rages loud and long,
And you have to keep below.
“The spirits of your fathers”
Won’t “start from every wave”――
For the deck “it was their field of fame,”
And Kensal Green “their grave,”
“Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell”
You’ll have no chance to go,
Nor to creep down the steep
“Companion” stairs below;
While the crisis rages loud and long,
And you have to keep below.
“Britannia needs” her “bulwarks”
And “towers along the steep;”
Her ships crawl “o’er the mountain waves,”
Her navy’s “on the cheap,”
With blunders from her naval L――ds
She riles the tars below,
And they swear――you’re aware――
“When the stormy winds do blow,”
’Cause their awkward squadrons all go wrong,
“When the stormy winds do blow.”
“The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn”――
They say――when Liberal L――ds depart,
And Tory ones return.
Then, then, ye ocean-amateurs!
Their song and jest shall flow,
To make game of your name
When you’ve ceased to go below;
When my fiery flights are heard no more,
And you’ve ceased to go below.
_The Globe_, June 18, 1885.
――――
SONG AT SCARBOROUGH.
_During the Match Gentlemen of England_ v. _Players of England,
September_ 3, 1885.
Ye Gentlemen of England,
Who smite for twos and threes,
One bat has swiped for twenty years,
That bat is W. G.’s.
That wondrous willow waves again
To match the old, old foe,
And spanks through their ranks
Whilst the bowlers puff and blow,
Though Tom Emmett sends them swift and straight,
And the “field” do all they know.
Britannia need not tremble
Whilst he his “block” can keep,
And slog for sixes and for fours,
Though the field stand close or deep
There’s “powder” yet in every stroke,
His “drives” like lightning go,
And men roar as the score
Swells at every swashing blow,
Though Ulyett “sends ’em down” like hail,
And Peate his best doth show!
The Cricket fame of England
Shall yet in brightness burn,
And we can wait without blue funk
That Cornstalk Team’s return,
Whilst W. G. can show such form
After twenty years or so;
The fame of his name
Sounds wherever Britons go,
And the mighty score on Scarborough’s shore
Should bring him “one cheer mo’!”
_Punch_, September 12, 1885.
――――
ON CONCEDING THE SATURDAY
IN CHRISTMAS WEEK, 1884.
Ye Shopkeepers of London,
Who live in lavish ease;
We beg of you for once to hear
Your poor employés pleas.
There is no need for us to say
How hard their daily task;
Then give the one short Saturday
Which they this Christmas ask!
* * * * *
Ye Merchants, too, of London,
Who Christmas will enjoy,
Until a glut of luxuries
Your appetites will cloy;
Come, think of those whose tired hands shake,
As at your books they toil;
And, oh, do not, for pity’s sake,
Their taste of Yule-tide spoil!
* * * * *
_Truth_, December 18, 1884.
Another long imitation of the same original appeared in _Truth_, Sept.
25, 1879, commencing
“Ye Ministers of England.”
Amongst the curiosities of literature may be classed an extraordinary
collection entitled “DIVINE SONGS OF THE MUGGLETONIANS,” printed in
1829, and now very scarce. Amongst these so-called Divine Songs are
some to be sung to such tunes as “God save the King,” “Hearts of Oak,”
“De’il tak the wars,” and one there is which commences as follows, in
imitation of Campbell’s _Mariners_:――
“You faithful Muggletonians who truly do believe
The doctrine of Muggleton to be the same as Reeve;
Let no wise anti-followers infuse into your ear,
That a Prayer, Christ does hear, from us mortals here below.”
――――:o:――――
Campbell’s poems seem to be especially favored by the Editor of the
Parody Competitions in _The Weekly Dispatch_, as, in addition to those
already alluded to, he also selected “The Maid’s Remonstrance” for
political parodies, and the following examples were printed, March 1,
1885:――
THE BENCH OF BISHOPS.
Never working, ever wooing,
Loving fat things, wealth pursuing;
Know ye not the wrong ye’re doing,
O ye favoured few?
All your lives obstruction brewing.
Cease, or else be true!
Measures banished, wrongs not righted.
See your Church, how disunited!
See the scores of bills you’ve blighted
In the House of Peers!
Cringing, wav’ring, and benighted,
’Midst your country’s tears.
Yet you deem yourselves a blessing――
Sleek and fat, and self-caressing,
Time is short, and needs are pressing;
Soon you’ll have to go.
Dull and useless, always messing;
Dotard’s all, and slow.
JAMES TURNER.
――――
RANDOLPH’S REMONSTRANCE TO SIR STAFFORD.
Never fighting, ever cooing,
Still a fruitless course pursuing;
Read you not the wrong you’re doing
In my cheek’s pale hue?
All my lifelong hopes eschewing――
Fight, or cease to coo!
Gordon murdered, pledges slighted,
Still our ways are disunited.
When the goal is well-nigh sighted
Feeble funk appears;
Vacillation so benighted.
Is for Lib’ral fears.
Office――once your dearest blessing;
Place――we both would be possessing!
Hopes――a mutual soul confessing,
Soon you’ll make them grow
Dim, and worthless our caressing――
Yours with age, mine woe.
HENRY L. BRICKEL.
――――
BRITANNIA’S REMONSTRANCE.
Never peaceful, ever doing,
Still the phantom, Fame, pursuing,
And askance the straight path viewing――
All for pow’r and place!
Future storms for me you’re brewing;
Cease, or veil my face!
Where is now the troth we plighted?
Both our hearts are disunited;
Freedom’s lamp one day we lighted,
Now ’tis quenched with tears.
Heroes murdered, great hopes blighted,
Roused are all our fears.
Once you earned my richest blessing,
Thrilled my soul with your caressing
Each a mutual love confessing,
Soon its sweets you’ll miss,
For your love’s not worth possessing
While War’s lips you kiss.
J. ARTHUR ELLIOTT.
――――
STAFFY’S REMONSTRANCE.
Never winning, ever wooing,
Still the sweets of place pursuing,
And the cause of my undoing,
Randolph――it is you!
All your life seems spent in brewing
Mischief ever new,
Rivals bullied and indicted,
Still our ranks are disunited;
When your glowworm lamp is lighted
Mine half-quenched appears;
I must wander on benighted
’Mid’st the groans and cheers.
Would you but bestow your blessing,
How I’d purr at your caressing!
But your pranks are so distressing
Soon you’ll make me trow
Place itself’s not worth possessing
If you plague me so!
GOSSAMER.
――――:o:――――
THE EXILE OF ERIN.
There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill:
For his country he sigh’d, when at twilight repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
But the day-star attracted his eye’s sad devotion,
For it rose o’er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,
He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh!
“Sad is my fate”! said the heart-broken stranger,
“The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee;
But I have no refuge from famine and danger,
A home and a country remain not to me.
Never again, in the green sunny bowers,
Where my forefathers liv’d, shall I spend the sweet hours,
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh!”[22]
* * * * *
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
――――
ENGLISH MELODIES.
“Unhappy little John, the once popular representative of Westminster,
is, as every body knows, kicked out of the seat he has so long
occupied, and has resigned the office in which he, for so short a
period, was suffered to luxuriate. In the expressive words of the poet
we may exclaim,
Joy, joy for ever! the task is done,
The city’s free and _Evans_ has won.
It will be seen from the following splendid ebulition of true pathos,
that little Hobby in all his misery for the loss of his office and his
seat, has not yet forgotten his kind patron ‘_Dear De Vear_,’ to whom
his heart still turns with a most appropriate gratitude.”
AIR.――_Erin go bragh._
There came to the hustings an exile from office,
The damp at his heart it was heavy and chill,
For his sal’ry he sigh’d, when one night he threw off his
Patriotic disguise just assum’d for the bill.
But the poll booth attracted his ancient devotion,
As it stood, and he saw the electors in motion,
And thinks he “pon my soul I’ve a very strong notion,
They’ll return Colonel Evans! De Vear then go bragh.”
“Oh sad is my fate,” said the wretched ex-placeman,
“Some Tories or Whigs to a borough can flee,
But I have no chance, for so great’s my disgrace man,
A seat in St. Stephen’s remains not for me.
Ah, never again from John Bull’s breeches pocket,
Whence my dad draws a pension; (God grant they won’t dock it),
My pay shall I take in my coffers to lock it,
Unless re-elected, De Vear then go bragh.
Oh office my haven, though by me forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy lucrative store,
But alas, by the Colonel thrown out I awaken,
And sigh for the votes that support me no more.
And thou my Lord Grey, will you never replace me,
In a post where electors no longer can chase me;
Ah, never again shall old Glory embrace me,
Or will he too go out with his Hob to deplore.
Where now is the Westminster rump that supported
Sir Frank and myself? we must weep for its fall,
And where is the junta, that influence sported,
And where is De Vear too the dearest of all?
Alas what an ass I have been for declining
My seat! what a fool I have been for resigning
My office! but now there is no use in whining,
It cannot my seat or my office recal.
But yet all my bitter reflections repressing,
There is one dying wish my fond bosom shall draw,
De Vear, thy old _protegé_ gives thee his blessing,
Thou ghost of the rump! my De Vear then go bragh.
Kicked out of my seat, when (oh bitterest potion)
I’ve no longer the means of proposing a motion
In the House, I’ll still out of it sing with devotion,
You’ve been a kind friend dear De Vear then go bragh.”
_Figaro in London_, May 18, 1833.
This Parody refers to the late Sir John Cam Hobhouse (Lord Broughton),
who long represented Westminster in Parliament, he was succeeded by
Sir De Lacy Evans, then Colonel De Lacy Evans. The “Sir Frank” alluded
to in the fourth verse was Sir Francis Burdett, a very advanced
Radical politician for those days. He was the father of Lady Burdett
Coutts, whose husband has recently been elected member for Westminster
in the Conservative interest.
――――
THE EXILE OF ERIN;
_Or, Mitchell in Norfolk Island_.
There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,
The dew on his breeches was heavy and chill;
He thought of the days of his spouting and “beering,”
As he rattled his chains on the wind-beaten hill.
He looked towards the north with an air of devotion,
And thought of the very green isle of the ocean,
Which once he had put in such awful commotion
By bawling and roaring out Erin-go-bragh!
“Sad is my fate,” said the gray-coated stranger,
“My cousins, the apes to their caverns can flee,
But I in a chain-gang of convicts must range here;
Repose or tobacco exist not for me;
Ne’er again in the snug little bar
Where my ancestors dwelt, shall I smoke the cigar.
Or cheer on the rabble of Dublin to war
By bawling and roaring out Erin-go-Bragh!
_The Puppet Show_, May 27, 1848.
――――
THE VISIT TO ERIN.
There came an ex-Premier from England to Erin,
If not to his tongue, to give rest to his quill.
From his country he came in the hope of repairing
Some errors whose memory clings to him still.
Can we doubt that e’en now, as he traversed the ocean,
His conscience recalled with a doubtful emotion
The day when, to show to the priests his devotion,
He danced to the music of Erin-go-bragh?
O fond is my breast, said the time-serving stranger,
O Erin! dear Erin! my heart yearns to thee.
The day still I rue when we parted in anger,
For a place and a party remain not in me.
Then grant me once more for a day or an hour
The pleasures of office, the semblance of power.
O cover my head with the shamrock’s green flower,
And I’ll dance to the measure of Erin-go-bragh.
O Erin! dear island! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit the Speaker’s right hand;
But, alas! with the dawn’s reappearing I waken,
Regretful I broke with the Irish brass band.
O fate, cruel fate! would’st thou only replace me
On the Treasury Bench, with few Tories to face me,
With Biggar, O’Donnell, Parnell to embrace me,
I’d seem like their leader, though they might command.
Where is my great University measure?
Prelates and priests, did ye weep o’er its fall?
O how can you dwell on its failure with pleasure,
Which gave to you Trinity College and all?
O my poor pen, long abandoned to railing!
O my sad tongue, is thy influence failing?
Pamphlets and speeches are both unavailing,
My power and my party they cannot recall.
O that, all sad recollections suppressing,
From the future one bright grain of hope I could draw,
I’d sing, over-coming, all memories distressing,
Home Rule for ever! sweet Erin-go-bragh!
Sea-sick and ill when I feel the ship’s motion,
Still joyously homeward I’ll traverse the ocean,
And murmur, in token of grateful devotion,
Home Rule for ever! and Erin-go-bragh!
From “_They are Five_,” by W. E. G., 1877.
――――
In the thirtieth of the Poem Competitions in “The World,” two prizes
were offered for poems on “Ireland’s Distress,” the model selected
being Campbell’s “Exile of Erin.” The first prize was gained by
Captain Walford (Kommitop); the second by Miss Chamberlayne
(Hypophosphate.) The Poems were printed in “The World” March 3, 1880.
IRELAND’S DISTRESS.
I saw in a dream the sad angel of Erin;
Her green robe hung loosely, so withered her form;
For her country she sighed, as though almost despairing,
Of shelter and rest from the pitiless storm.
Though the day-star of Hope, rising fair o’er the ocean,
Shone bright on the mist of her eye’s sad devotion;
Yet scarcely her lips, in their trembling emotion,
Could whisper the anthem of Erin-go-bragh.
‘Sad is my fate!’ said the heart-broken stranger;
‘The wild deer and fox shall be monarchs alone;
For, racked by the tortures of famine and danger,
To new homes and new countries my children have flown,
Never again, when the hill-tops are hoary
And the winter winds wail, shall they list to the story,
Which their forefathers loved, of their countrymen’s glory,
Nor join in the chorus of Erin-go-bragh.
Britannia, my sister, though sad and forsaken,
In hope I yet linger about thy rough shore;
Alas, has my anguish no power to awaken
Some pity to love, and some aid to restore?
O happy land, only thou can’st replace me
In a haven of peace! If thine arms shall embrace me,
Never again shall my children disgrace me,
Nor die at a distance, but live in my heart.
Now is the cabin-door open and shattered,
Father and mother are weeping within;
Gone are their kindred, their friends are all scattered,
Their children with famine are wasted and thin.
Ah, my sad heart, as I look on this sorrow,
Hopeless to-day, and despairing to-morrow,
How can I dare any comfort to borrow
From dreams which the future may blast and destroy?
Yet all the thoughts of its anguish suppressing,
One only fond wish my sad heart can desire――
That my sons’ bitter curses may change to a blessing,
As faction shall languish and discord expire!
Now wild with distress is my isle of the ocean;
Then gladness shall swell my fond breast with emotion,
And my children shall sing with new love and devotion,
Erin mavourneen, Erin-go-bragh!’
KOMMITOP (CAPTAIN WALFORD).
――――
SECOND PRIZE.
There crept o’er the loveliest isle of the ocean
The foretaste of famine, foreshadow of pain,
And winter and want, with each fiercer emotion.
Long-suffering patience had worn to the wane;
For the food of the famishing people was rotten,
And the hate that is often of hunger begotten
Embittered the hearts with sedition besotten,
And the singers of Erin were silent again.
O, where is the ardour of Shiel and O’Connell,
The heart-burning eloquence poured in the cause?
Would it stimulate Parnell, impassion O’Donnell,
If of hunger they felt for a moment the claws?
For small is the gain and the glory ensuing
From the tortuous path that their feet are pursuing,
And slow the advance unto Ireland accruing,
From forcing the coach-wheels of Albion to pause.
‘Sad is our fate,’ cries the famishing peasant;
‘The wild bird is left to its home on the tree,
And corn is full lavishly flung to the pheasant,
But no roof and no food for my children and me.
O, harder our fate than the horrors of fiction!
When thrust by the merciless laws of eviction
From the home that is held by the heart’s predilection,
We are forced o’er the bare breast of Erin to flee.
Erin, our country, as, weak and heart-broken,
We wander half-starved over mountain and shore,
And search for a remnant of hope, or a token
That life may be glad to our spirits once more;
Can we trust that the hearths, now forlorn and forsaken,
To welfare shall warm and to laughter awaken,
And the dust from the wings of thy glory be shaken
To the future reëcho of Erin-go-bragh!
Sweet solace it were to the heart of the dying,
That throbs his last pulse out on pitiless ground,
Could he know that the land upon which he was lying
Would smile into gladness, with plenty abound;
And the trials and straights of despair and starvation
Through which he was fighting should end in salvation
To happier sons of a new generation,
Who will sing the old anthem of Erin-go-bragh.’
HYPOPHOSPHATE (MISS E. CHAMBERLAYNE.)
――――:o:――――
HOHENLINDEN.
An imitation of Hohenlinden, written by Mr. F. B. Doveton, was given
on page 28. It was descriptive of the Tay Bridge disaster, which
happened in December, 1879.
The subject was chosen for a prize competition in _The World_, the
model selected being Campbell’s Hohenlinden, and the following poems
appeared in that journal on January 21, 1880:――
THE TAY BRIDGE DISASTER.
On Balgay when the sun was low,
Pale gleamed the distant Grampian snow,
And dark and muddy was the flow
Through Strath-Tay ebbing rapidly.
But Balgay saw another sight,
When rose the wind at fall of night,
And distant gleams of splendour light
The darkness of her scenery.
Mid light and darkness fast arrayed
The Storm-King’s hosts commenced their raid,
And every furious blast essayed
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the bridge with storm-gusts riven,
Then rushed the cloud-wrack tempest-driven,
And nearer ’neath the vault of heaven,
Out flashed the train lights ruddily.
But brighter still that light shall gleam,
With one last flash o’er land and stream,
And then shall vanish like a dream
At daylight passing wearily.
The coming sun shall light no more
Yon bridge that spans from shore to shore,
And dark Dundee bereft shall cower
Beneath her smoky canopy.
The horror deepens. Who can save
Those rushing to a watery grave?
Wave dashes wildly over wave,
And leaps in dreadful rivalry.
None, none shall part where many meet;
The sand shall be their winding sheet;
No churchyard turf shall veil their feet
In their untimely sepulchre.
CHEVY CHASE (J. F. BAIRD.)
――――
SECOND PRIZE.
On Tay the summer sun sinks low,
Soaring above the broad Firth’s flow;
A thread athwart yon ruddy glow,
The wondrous bridge winds airily.
But halcyon days have taken flight,
Wild howls the storm this winter’s night,
And ’gainst that daring fabric light
The tempest rages furiously.
Homeward they wend from town and glade,
Husband and wife, and youth and maid,
For that dread race of death arrayed,
An all-unconscious company.
Forth speeds the train to ruin driven――
Is there no help, O pitying Heaven?
No warning voice in mercy given
Of the impending destiny?
The signal beckons――on they go;
Now o’er the bridge the lamp-lights glow,
Where, in the shuddering depth below,
The foam-flecked Firth roars hungrily.
With straining eyes the watchers run,
Longing to mark the passage done.
In vain: the blast his prey has won,
And on it swoops relentlessly.
That fiery flash the signal gave;
Down crashing through the maddened wave,
Both bridge and freight have found a grave,
Whelmed in one dire catastrophe.
With questioning eyes the mourners meet,
Blanched lips the fearful tale repeat;
The wild wave rolling at their feet
Mocks at their helpless misery.
COURTHOPE (L. BECK.)
――――:o:――――
BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.
Of Nelson and the North,
Sing the glorious day’s renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark’s crown.
And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
By each gun the lighted brand,
In a bold determined hand,
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on!
* * * * *
But the might of England flush’d
To anticipate the scene;
And her van the fleeter rush’d
O’er the deadly space between.
“Hearts of Oak,” our captains cried! when each gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.
Again! again! again!
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back;――
Their shots along the deep slowly boom:――
Then ceas’d――and all is wail,
As they strike the shatter’d sail;
Or, in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom.
* * * * *
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
The two following parodies of this poem occur in _The University
Snowdrop_, an Edinburgh College Magazine. These and the interesting
explanatory notes which accompany them have been kindly furnished by
Mr. James Gordon, F.S.A., Scotland.
The winter of 1837-8 was very severe, and there was a heavy
fall of snow in Edinburgh. On the 10th January some
snowballing took place in front of the College, in which the
students took part. The warfare between the students and the
townspeople was renewed on the 11th, and became more
serious. Several shop windows were broken, the shops were
closed, and the street traffic suspended. The students,
believing that the constables took the side of the mob
against them, appeared on the 12th armed with sticks, to
defend themselves against the constables batons. Then a
regular riot took place, sticks and batons being freely
used, and matters became so serious that the magistrates
found it necessary to send to the Castle for a detachment of
soldiers of the 79th Highlanders, which arrived and drew up
across the College quadrangle, and peace was restored. Five
students who had been most active in the fray were tried by
the Sheriff and were acquitted. The trial lasted three days.
Among the witnesses for the prosecution were the Lord
Provost, some Bailies, and the heads of the police force.
The students were defended by Patrick Robertson, in a most
amusing speech. He was made a Lord of Session, and wrote
some volumes of poetry, now unsaleable, if ever they did
sell. Lockhart wrote an epitaph for him:――
“Here lies that peerless paper lord, Lord Peter,
Who broke the laws of ‘gods and men’ and metre.”
A report of the trial was published, which was followed by
“_The University Snowdrop_, an appendix to the Great Trial,
containing a selection of squibs, old and new, descriptive
of the wars of the quadrangle and the consequences thereof.
With magnificent embellishments.” Edinburgh, 1838.
The “embellishments” are pen and ink portraits of the
principal parties concerned in the riot, drawn by Edward
Forbes, then a student, who became a Professor. (His widow
married Major Yelverton, from which event sprang the famous
case of Longworth against Yelverton.)
BATTLE OF THE BALLS.
Of Alma and the North,
Sing the glorious day’s renown,
When the students all stood forth
’Gainst the minions of the town.
And their snowballs on the Bridge fleetly flew
I can’t tell how or why,
But each Student took a shy,
And floored were passers by
Not a few!
Like ravens to the row,
Came Pond and his Police,
(For breaking heads, we know,
Is their way of keeping peace,)
It was two post meridiem by the bell:
Up the Bridges as they dashed,
The boldest looked abashed,
For they knew they would be hashed
Very well!
Out the youth of Alma poured
To anticipate the scene――
And the balls the faster showered
O’er the deadly space between:
“We’ll be licked!” bellowed Pond, “that’s the fact.”
So around his band he looks,
“Now go, B20, Snooks,
And summon Bailie Crooks
With the Act.”
The Act was read in vain――
And the havoc did not slack,
Till Crooks had fled again
To the Council chambers back,
And that there was a riot he would vouch:
Then came the soldiers all,
With their captains stout and tall,
And sixty rounds of ball
In their pouch.
Out spake the Major then,
And he trembled as he spoke――
“We are brothers――we are men――
By the Lord, my nose is broke!
Are your cartridges, my men, duly rammed;
Our patience you will tire
Peace is all we require,
Then yield, or we shall fire!”
“You be d――――d!”
Then the Provost forth he came,
For he saw it was no go:
Said he “It is a shame
To treat the Students so,――
If you’ll promise, my young friends, to withdraw,
No longer at the gate
The Policemen shall await,
And the vengeance I’ll abate
Of the law.”
“That will do,” the Students cried,
And each band departed straight.
And one by one they hied
Through the lofty College gate.
But they knew not how severely they were watched;
For Pond and all his rout
Raised a horrid shout,
And as every man came out
He was cotched.
Brave hearts! who fought so well
Once so faithful and so true,
In your dungeon’s gloomy cell
Our eyes shall weep for you.
We’ll be bail for every one of you and bond!
And when you all are freed,
I think we are agreed
On one article of creed,
DOWN WITH POND!!!
――――
STANZAS ON A LATE BATTLE.
Of the combat in the North,
Sing the glorious days’ renown,
When the Charlies’ fierce came forth,
To defend the trembling town,
While the ragged crew without, hiss and groan.
Each student took his stand,
Till the College gates were mann’d,
And shillellahs in each hand,
Proudly shone.
Intent upon a row,
Rose their clamour wild and loud,
And in showers the snowballs flew,
At the ragamuffin crowd.
It was just two o’clock by the time;
When the medicals came out,
As each waved his cudgel stout,
Cried “To crack a Charlie’s snout
Is no crime.”
So down the stairs they dashed,
Spreading terror far and wide;
Right and left the crabsticks smash’d;
Yells were heard on every side.
“Hit ’em hard,” was the cry――when each man
With an adamantine whack,
Made their empty noddles crack,
Now, ye Charlies, pay them back!!
If ye can!!!
Again, again, again,
And the havoc did not slack,
Till to cut their sticks, they deign,
And within the gates fly back.
Stones and dirt along the streets, slowly boom;
And the Charlies’ bruised and pale,
With the mob behind their tail,
Our environs to assail,
Did presume.
With joy ye students shout,
At the tidings of your might,
How ye made the claret spout!
How the scoundrels mauled took flight!
Until midst their howling and uproar,
The Lobsters in were led,
And the Riot Act was read,
While the Provost popp’d his head
Through the door.
Brave hearts! turn out’s the word;
Though you’ve leathered the police,
Yet a baton’s not a sword,
So leave the field in peace.
And our bards shall sing the glory of the day,
How many a skull and hat,
To the tune of “Tit for Tat,”
Was bash’d and batter’d flat,
In the fray.
KILSPENDIE.
In the same volume (which is now very scarce) there are also Parodies
of “Lochiel’s Warning,” entitled the “Student’s Warning,” one of a
passage from _Marmion_, and another imitating _The Lady of the
Lake_:――
“Hail to the chief who in triumph advances,” &c.
headed “Clan Charlie’s Pibroch,” and a parody of Hamlet’s Soliloquy,
commencing, “To stand or not to stand, that is the question?” This is
headed, “The Policeman’s Soliloquy.”
――――:o:――――
THE BURNING OF THE PLAY-HOUSE.
(_Improved from Campbell._)
[Covent Garden Theatre was destroyed by fire on March 5, 1856,
during a masked ball conducted by Anderson, the self-styled
“Wizard of the North.”]
Of the “Wizard of the North
Sing the Tuesday’s night renown,
When he let the gas break forth
And burn the play-house down.
And illuminated London brightly shown,
While a masquerading band,
Almost too drunk to stand,
But all holding hand in hand,
Revelled on.
Detesting every note,
(They’d been playing there from nine),
The orchestra scarce kept
From kicking up a shine.
It was five of Wednesday morn, by the chime,
And as each fiddler saith,
Tobacco choked his breath,
And he played, fatigued to death,
Out of time.
Any decent folks had blushed
To assist at such a scene――
But, sudden, firemen rushed
Where before they should have been,
And “Fire! fire!” the Wizard cried, and the fun
Stopped upon pallid lips,
For the ceiling and the slips
Glowed like a mountain’s tips
In the sun.
The Main! the Main! the Main!
But beams came tumbling whack,
And a shower of fiery rain
Falls on the frightened pack,
And each hurries from the menaced doom,
And gents with terror pale
Pay no heed to woman’s wail,
And the flames at once prevail
And consume.
Down went Covent Garden then,
Vain was the engine’s wave,
Vainly the gallant men
Struggled the wealth to save――
The clock twice saved away indeed they bring,
But the Muse’s ancient seat
Is a ruin most complete;
Ashes, where song’s _élite_
Used to sing.
And London’s blame was chief
For the stupid heads of those
Who have doubtless come to grief
Through the Wizard’s vulgar shows.
A play-house is intended for a play;
If you let it for a night
To a Quack, you but invite
A fate that serves you right,
You may say.
Now joy old opera raise
For the tidings of the night,
Once more thy gas shall blaze,
Once more thy songs delight,
And though losing our fine house is a bore,
Let us think of those who weep
Their tools――by no means cheap――
A charred and melted heap
On its floor.
SHIRLEY BROOKS.
――――:o:――――
THE LAST GROWLER.
(After Thomas Campbell’s _Last Man_――also after the Official Report
that there are one hundred and fifty seven fewer Four-wheeled Cabs in
London now than last year.)
Four million souls without a Fly!
Shall we _then_ realise
Our lack of common comforts, born
From lack of enterprise?
I saw a vision in my sleep
That caused me from my bed to leap,
And skip around the room;
I saw the Final Growler go
Unhonoured, hideous, mean and slow,
To its appointed doom!
The gas-lamps had a sickly glare,
And not a heart did bleed
As passed that bony hulk along.
Drawn by its bony steed;
The Hansom Cabmen winked and leered,
The very Crossing-Sweeper jeered,
The street-boys raised a yell:
And bliss o’er troubled spirits slid
To see that Four-wheeled Monster bid
To fares a long farewell!
Yet, martyr-like, the Driver sat;
He knew the end was near
Of over-charge and under-pay,
And did not shed a tear;
Saying――“Too long I have delayed;
My Cab is old, my Horse decayed,
’Tis mercy bids me bolt;
For fifty years of mortal breath,
We’ve jolted Passengers to death,
And shall no longer jolt.
“What though upon my seats have writhed
The Great, perhaps the Good.
Condemned in this proud Capital
To use my box of wood?
Yet now repentance, all too late,
Makes me confess that ne’er did Fate
A vehicle provide
More maddening in each palsied shake,
Or where long-suffering Fares might take,
A more atrocious ride?
“’Tis done! Oblivion’s curtain falls
Upon the myriad men
Who’ve blown me up, and knocked me down,
And ‘had me up’ again.
Those frowsy cushions bring not back
Nor stretch four souls upon the rack
By Nature made for twain!
Oh, let this cramped roof-tree go,
Also thy dirty straw below,
Thou Vehicle of Pain!
“Even I am weary now of playing
My customary pranks;
Rank idiocy it was to place
Such Cabs upon the ranks!
How came it, else, that London’s sons
To stable-owning Goths and Huns
For aid in vain did cry,
While every Gent, and every Cad,
In Aberdeen and Glasgow had
His reputable Fly?
“Go, Kings of Cabland, and reflect
On London’s awful waste
By not a single Four-wheeled Cab
From Kew to Greenwich graced!
Go, tell the world how you beheld
A Jehu, bowed with shame and eld,
Guiding his Growler mean,――
The general universe defy,
To match for sheer obliquity,
That ramshackle machine!
_Punch_, September, 1885.
――――:o:――――
THE MASSACRE OF GLENHO.
Through deep Glenho the owlet flits,
That valley weird and lone;
The chieftain’s aged widow sits
Beside the bare hearth stone.
Beside the bare and blighted hearth
Whose fires, now quenched and black,
Had seen five gallant sons go forth,
And never one come back.
’Tis silent all! but hark――a cry
And ghastly clamours wake
The midnight glen. Then rose proudly
That ancient dame, and spake――
“What mingled sounds of woe and wail
Up Mortham’s valley spread?
What shrieks upon the gusty gale
Come pealing overhead?
“I hear the pibroch’s piercing swell,
The banshee’s scream I hear,
And hark! again that stifled yell――
The _boderglas_ is near!!
“The Boderglas with bloody brow
And tresses dripping red――
I see him at the window now
He shakes his gory head!
“Then, daughter, to thy mother’s arms,
Thus, thus, in close embrace,
The messenger of death we’ll meet――
The slayer of our race.
“Then do not weep, my daughter!”――
“Oh mother, ’tis not that――
But Donald Roy the carrotty boy
HAS KILLED OUR OLD TOM CAT.”
From _Puck on Pegasus_, by H. Cholmondeley-Pennell. Chatto and
Windus, London,)
――――:o:――――
THE LAWN TENNIS MATCH.
The summer day proved all too short,
But light forbade the pleasant sport,
And silent lay the tennis court,
Where time had flown so rapidly.
But morning saw another sight,
When, after slumbers soft and light,
The girls, once more, rushed forth to fight
Upon the level greenery.
On either side the net they stand,
Each with her tennis bat in hand,
The fairest maidens in the land,
Opposed in bloodless rivalry!
Then “faults” no longer were forgiven,
Then o’er the net their balls were driven,
And like the deadly bolts of Heaven,
The “serves” in their velocity!
But faster yet the balls shall fly
Beneath the cloudless summer sky,
And still more frequent be the cry
Of “Deuce” that sounds so naughtily!
’Tis noon, but still resounds the blow,
Though scorching hours may come and go,
Those maidens, fleeter than the roe,
Are ever darting rapidly!
The combat deepens, Grace will win,
In Jersey, fitting like her skin,
Just give the ball a subtle spin,
And snatch from Maud the victory!
A few games more, and Grace _has_ won!
“Ho! Claret Cup! we both are done!”
And from the fury of the sun
They scamper most bewitchingly!
F. B. DOVETON.
From _Society_.
――――:o:――――
“WE ARE RUINED BY CHEAP CHINESE LABOUR.”
In _Punch_ for January 16, 1886, a Parody (in four verses) appeared
apropos of an assertion that Chinamen were being largely employed on
vessels of the Royal Navy, stationed in the China Seas. It
commenced:――
Ye Mariners of England
Who watch our distant seas,
’Tis very odd that you should be
The half of you Chinese.
It scarcely fits our notions
To have you down below;
And though your keep, perhaps is cheap,
The news comes like a blow;
To think we’ve got a Mongol Jack
Gives one a dreadful blow.
* * * * *
THE PLEASURES OF HOPE.
At Summer eve, when Heav’n’s aërial bow
Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below,
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye,
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky?
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near?
’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,
And robes the mountain in its azure hue.
* * * * *
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
――――
CAMPBELL, UNDONE AND OUTDONE.
When oftentimes the young aerial beau
Spans on bright arch the glittering wheels below,
Why to yon upland turns the ’cycling eye,
Whose misty outline mingles with the sky?
Why do those tracts of soberer tint appear
More meet than all the landscape shining near?
’Tis _distance_ sends enchantment to his view,
And lures the mounted with its azure hue.
From _Lyra Bicyclica_, by Joseph G. Dalton. (Hodges and Co.,
Boston, 1885.)
――――:o:――――
Amongst the various other imitations of Campbell’s style the following
are noteworthy:――
In “Rival Rhymes in honour of Burns,” by Samuel Lover (London, 1859),
is a long poem entitled “A Spirit Lay from Hades,” imitating “The
Battle of the Baltic,” it commences thus:――
Of Scotia and the North
A loving son would sing,
And to laud surpassing worth
Would wake the silent string,
Untouch’d since it sank to the tomb;
But bardic fires still burn
In the ashes of the urn,
And glimmering back return
Through the gloom.
For BURNS this spirit lay
Is wafted to the earth,
In honour of the day
That gave the poet birth.
* * * * *
“Rejected Odes,” edited by Humphrey Hedgehog, Esq., published by J.
Johnston, London, 1813, a dreary little book, which was, no doubt,
brought into existence in consequence of the success of “The Rejected
Addresses,” contains poems which are supposed to bear some resemblance
to those of Lord Byron, Walter Scott, Wordsworth, Southey, and others.
Specimen the Ninth is devoted to the description of the sorrows of
Ireland, written after the style of Campbell’s Exile of Erin.
In “The Maclise Portrait Gallery” (Chatto and Windus) there is an
excellent portrait of Campbell, who, comfortably seated in an arm
chair, is enjoying a long pipe and a glass of whisky toddy:――
“There’s Tom Campbell in person, the poet of Hope,
Brimful of good liquor, as gay as the Pope;
His shirt collar’s open, his wig is awry,
There’s his stock on the ground, there’s a cock in his eye.
Half gone his last tumbler――clean gone his last joke,
And his pipe, like his college, is ending in smoke.
What he’s saying who knows, but perhaps it may be
Something tender and soft of a bouncing ladye.”
W. MAGINN.
Robert Burns,
_Born January_ 25, 1759. _Died July_ 21, 1796.
[Illustration: T]he date of the birth of Burns has been variously
given as January 25 and January 29, the former date is probably
correct judging from the lines:
“Our monarch’s hindmost year but ane.
Was five and twenty days begun,
’Twas then a blast o’ Janwar win’
Blew hansel in our Robin.”
It is now generally adopted, and the celebration of the Centenary of
Burns’s birth was certainly held at the Crystal Palace, Sydenham, on
January 25, 1859.
Of all the Poems written by Burns no one is so grand, or so generally
popular as Bruce’s address to his troops, which Burns is said to have
composed as he rode home through a heavy storm. He sent the following
draft of it to his friend Mr. George Thomson, in September, 1793,
suggesting that the poem might be set to the old Scotch air HEY TUTTIE
TAITTIE.
BRUCE TO HIS TROOPS.
On the Eve of the Battle of Bannockburn.
(_As originally written by Burns._)
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie!
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour,
See the front o’ battle lower:
See approach proud Edward’s power――
Chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor-knave?
Wha can fill a cowards grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland’s king and law
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or Free-man fa’,
Let him follow me?
By oppression’s woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!
Let us DO or DIE!
Mr. Thompson, in acknowledging the Poem, remarked:――
“Your heroic ode is to me the noblest composition of the
kind in the Scottish language. I happened to dine yesterday
with a party of your friends to whom I read it. They were
all charmed with it, entreated me to find out a suitable air
for it, and reprobated the idea of giving it a tune so
totally devoid of interest or grandeur as ‘Hey tuttie
taittie.’
I have been running over the whole hundred airs, of which I
lately sent you the list; and I think ‘Lewie Gordon’ is most
happily adapted to your ode; at least with a very short
variation of the fourth line, which I shall presently submit
to you. There is in ‘Lewie Gordon’ more of the grand than
the plaintive, particularly when it is sung with a degree of
spirit which your words would oblige the singer to give it.
I would have no scruple about substituting your ode in the
room of ‘Lewie Gordon,’ which has neither the interest, the
grandeur, nor the poetry that characterize your verses. Now
the variation I have to suggest on the last line of each
verse, the only line too short for the air, is as follows:――
Verse 1st, Or to _glorious_ victorie.
2nd, _Chains_――chains and slaverie.
3rd, Let him, _let him_ turn and flee.
4th, Let him _bravely_ follow me.
5th, But _they shall_, they shall be free.
6th, Let us, _let us_ do, or die!
If you connect each line with its own verse, I do not think
you will find that either the sentiment or the expression
loses any of its energy.”
Acting upon these suggestions Burns altered his Poem to suit the
music, but in simplicity and grandeur the first version was far
superior to the second.
BANNOCKBURN.
Robert Bruce’s address to his Army.
――――
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled:
Scots, wham Bruce has often led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to glorious victory!
Now’s the day and now’s the hour;
See the front o’ battle lour
See approach proud Edward’s power――
Edward! chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward’s grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Traitor! coward! turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland’s king and law
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or Freeman fa’,
Caledonia! on wi’ me!
By oppression’s woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins.
But they shall be――shall be free!
Lay the proud usurper low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!
Forward: let us do or die!
Curiously enough one of the earliest Parodies of this Poem is a
satirical effusion directed against a victim of foul wrong and
oppression, Caroline of Brunswick, wife of George IV., and her
sympathisers, Sir John Cam Hobhouse, Joseph Hume, Alderman Wood, and
her advocate Henry Brougham (_Broom_), afterwards Lord Chancellor.
Brandenburgh House, at Hammersmith, was the residence of Queen
Caroline.
Gulls, who’ve heard what HOBHOUSE said!
Gulls whom JOSEPH HUME has led!
Who deem that Pater Moore has head
For Plans of Liberty!
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour,
See the face of GIFFORD lour,
See approach the lawyer’s power,
Bags and knavery.
Who’ll believe Italian spies?
When honest _Times_ indignant cries,
That all they say are monstrous lies,
Foul conspiracy!
Who for England’s Queen so bright,
To purchase Plate subscribes his mite,
Or signs addresses, wrong or right,
To Brandenburgh with me!
By our _Wood_ that shields the Queen,
By our _Broom_ that sweeps all clean,
We will go through thick and thin,
But she shall be free!
Lay her proud accusers low,
Pure she’ll prove as “unsunned snow,”
Can we but persuade them so,
Let us on and see!
――――
BRITONS WHO HAVE OFTEN BLED.
Britons who have often bled
In the cause that Hampden led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory,
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour,
See the front of battle lour,
See approach your tyrant’s power,
Chains and slavery!
Who would be a traitor knave?
Who would fill a coward’s grave?
Who so base as be a slave?
Traitor, coward, turn and flee!
Who at Liberty’s sweet cry
Freedom’s sword would raise on high?
Freeman stand, or freeman die,
Hark! your chief cries “on with me!”
By oppression’s woes and pains,
By your sons in servile chains,
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay your proud oppressors low!
Tyrants fall in every blow!
For the cause of God below,
Is the cause of Liberty.
From _The Republican_, October 8, 1819. R. Carlile, printer,
55, Fleet Street, London.
――――
GLEE.
Folks who’ve oft at Dolby’s fed!
Folks who’ve nibbled Batson’s bread!
Folks who’ve ta’en a Hummum’s bed!
Come not o’er the sea:
Victuals here are but so, so;
Hollands, too, run very low;
Scarce is coffee and _cocoa_;
Sojourn where you be.
Now’s the time and now’s the hour,
For little bread, there being no flour;
Liberty’s a glorious dower――
Though ragged, let’s be free!
We will walk the unlopp’d wood,
And taste what Nature grows for food――
Grumbling here does little good!
So hail, glad Liberty!
From _The Fancy_, a selection from the Poetical remains of the
late Peter Corcoran, 1820.
The same volume also contains a poem entitled _The Fields of Tothill:
A Fragment_. This is written in imitation of Lord Byron’s _Don Juan_.
――――
In 1823 the John Bull newspaper contained a parody of “Scots wha hae,”
entitled “Wilson’s Subscription,” but the subject is obsolete, and the
parody inferior. It commenced:
Whigs! who have with Michael dined,
Whigs! who have with Bennet whined,
Hasten now to raise the wind,
For a Knight’s dismissed.
In the same year another skit at the Whig party appeared. The
allusions it contains are to Lord Grey, who eventually passed the
Reform Bill, Joseph Hume, the political economist and exposer of
Parliamentary corruption; R. Carlile, the publisher of Tom Paine’s,
and other advanced Radical works; Leigh Hunt, part proprietor of the
Examiner, who had been imprisoned for calling the Prince Regent a “Fat
Adonis of Fifty”; Henry Hunt, who had suffered a long imprisonment for
attending a meeting at Manchester to agitate for the Reform of the
House of Commons, in 1819; and Henry Brougham, afterwards Lord
Chancellor, who was instrumental in eventually passing that measure.
Whigs whom Fox and Petty led,
Whigs who under Lord Grey fled,
Welcome, though _three in a bed_,
To the Treasury:
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour――
Starve the _Tories_ out of power――
Cent. per cent. their wages lower,
They cannot choose but flee.
Who would be a grumbling knave,
Though but half a loaf he have?
Who prefer to toil and slave
Without pay or fee?
Who in spite of King and Laws,
Faction’s darling weapon draws,
Calls Hume’s and Bennet’s――Freedom’s cause,
Let him follow _me_!
Let Bennet boast his purity
In politics and _pedigree_,
Talk loud of his _nihil_-ity
By long service won.
Let Hume _dissect_ each place and fee,
Each clerk, _although a brother he_,
And prove that Cocker’s _Rule of Three_
Means only _Number One_.
Whigs, with Carlile who condole,
Whigs, with Hunt now cheek by jowl,
Whigs, whom Tierney can’t control,
And swears at horribly!
Hume vows _he_ has made a _breach_,
(_Not a pair_, as hirelings teach),
Out of little Bennet’s reach,
By _Financery_!
Let Wilson rear his fallen crest,
Let Log-Wood’s wisdom be confess’d,
Leave Creevey’s virtues――_to be guess’d_,
And Cam to form the line.
Let Brougham be taken off the shelf,
And make his fees from Michael’s pelf;
Michael’s a _host_, sirs, in himself,
So――let us in and dine!
By our long and hopeless pains,
By despair of office gains,
We will draw our dearest veins,
But we _will_ get in.
Lay Lord Londonderry low,
Placemen fell at every blow;
Every placeman is our foe;
Let us――_pray begin_.
――――
PARODY.
_Written when part of the Duty was taken off Whiskey, in October_,
1823.
Scots wha hae the duties paid;
Scots wham whiskies aft made glad:
Welcome, for the duty’s fled,
And it shall be free!
Now’s the time and now’s the hour;
See the shades of evening lour;
See the streams of toddy pour――
Pledge it three-times-three!
Wha wad be a brandy slave?
Wha wad shilpit claret lave?
Wha of rum wad ever rave?
When the whisky’s free?
Wha for Scotia’s ancient drink,
Will fill a bicker to the brink!
Scotsmen wake or Scotsmen wink,
Aquavitæ aye for me!
By taxation’s woes and pains!
By the smuggler’s ill-got gains!
We shall raise our wildest strains,
For it shall be free!
Lay the big gin bottle low!
In the fire the port wine throw!
Let the tide of whiskey flow!
Like liberty, aye free!
ROBERT GILFILLAN.
――――
ROASTED SUCKING PIG.
Cooks who’d roast a sucking-pig,
Purchase one not over big;
Coarse ones are not worth a fig
So a young one buy.
See that he is scalded well
(That is done by those who sell),
Therefore on that point to dwell,
Were absurdity.
Sage and bread, mix just enough,
Salt and pepper _quantum suff._,
And the Pig’s interior stuff,
With the whole combined.
To a fire that’s rather high,
Lay it till completely dry;
Then to every part apply
Cloth, with butter lined.
Dredge with flour o’er and o’er,
Till the Pig will hold no more;
Then do nothing else before
’Tis for serving fit――
Then scrape off the flour with care;
Then a butter’d cloth prepare;
Rub it well; then cut――not tear――
Off the head of it.
Then take out and mix the brains
With the gravy it contains;
While it on the spit remains,
Cut the Pig in two.
Chop the sage, and chop the bread
Fine as very finest shred;
O’er it melted butter spread――
Stinginess won’t do.
When it in the dish appears,
Garnish with the jaws and ears;
And when dinner-hour nears,
Ready let it be.
Who can offer such a dish
May dispense with fowl and fish;
And if he a guest should wish,
LET HIM SEND FOR ME!
――――
“BUNN! WHA HAE.”
Bunn! wha hae wi’ Wallace sped,
Bunn! for whom Bruce oft has led,
Bunn! whom Jenny Lind doth dread,
Strike for victory!
Now’s the day and now’s the hour,
Don’t to Lumley’s programme cower;
See proud Beale approach in power,
Back’d by Royalty.
Though _the_ [23]contract’s void, they say,
Though your ballet go away,
Though Baderna cannot stay,
Don’t desponding get.
By fair Thillon’s eyes and curls,
By Carlotta Grisi’s trils,
“Bondmen” and “Bohemian” girls,
You may be happy yet.
_The Man in the Moon_, Vol. I,
――――
A NOVEL TURN,
_to an Auld Sang_.
Jews――as every one has read――
Jews――as Charles Bruce lately said――
Know that you are born and bred
The World’s Aristocracie,
Now’s the day and now’s the hour,
See auld Inglis looking sour;
On you he abuse doth shower――
Inglis, Cant, and Mummerie!
Wha would be a Jew-boy, Jew?
Sell auld almanacks for new,
When he’s one of――Bruce says true――
The World’s Aristocracie!
Wha for Israel’s right, by law,
In the house to sit, will draw――
Member stand, or member fa’――
Son of Judah, on wi’ me!
By auld London’s streets and lanes,
By great Rothschild’s cunning brains,
We will spend our hard earn’d gains
But he shall be an M.P.
Lay our proud opponents low――
Agnews[24] fall in every foe――
Parliament’s in every blow――
Opposition’s all my eye!
_The Puppet-Show_, April 15, 1848.
――――
LOUIS NAPOLEON’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.
Guards! who at Smolensko fled――
No――I beg your pardon――bled!
For my Uncle blood you’ve shed,
Do the same for me.
Now’s the day and now’s the hour,
Heads to split and streets to scour;
Strike for rank, promotion, power,
Swag, and _eau de vie_.