Who’s afraid a child to kill?

Who respects a shopman’s till?

Who would pay a tailor’s bill?

Let him turn and flee.

Who would burst a Goldsmith’s door,

Shoot a dun, or sack a store?

Let him arm, and go before――

That is, follow me!

See the mob, to madness riled

Up the barricades have piled;

In among them, man and child,

Unrelentingly.

Shoot the men! there’s scarcely one

In a dozen’s got a gun:

Stop them, if they try to run,

With Artillery.

Shoot the boys! each one may grow

Into――of the state――a foe

(Meaning by the state, you know,

My supremacy!)

Shoot the girls and women old!

_Those_ may bear us traitors bold――

_These_ may be inclined to scold,

Our severity.

Sweep the streets of all who may

Rashly venture in the way,

Warning for a future day

Satisfactory.

Then, when still’d is ev’ry voice,

We, the nation’s darling choice,

Calling on them to rejoice,

Tell them, FRANCE IS FREE.

WILLIAM E. AYTOUN.

――――

A BRITON’S ADDRESS TO HIS BROTHER COUNTRYMEN.

Britons! at your country’s call,

Freely live, or bravely fall;

Honour’d death awaits us all,

Death, or glorious victory.

Now’s the day, and now’s the hour!

See the front of battle lour:

See approach proud Gallia’s power――

Gallia! chains and slavery!

Who will be a traitor knave?

Who can fill a coward’s grave?

Who so base as be a slave?

Traitor! coward! turn and flee.

No――in this our sacred cause

For Britannia’s King and Laws,

Freedom’s sword each Freeman draws

’Gainst the insulting enemy.

Who would fear, or who would flee?

Fix’d is Britain’s destiny――

DEATH WITH GLORY WELCOME BE,

IF NOT LIFE WITH LIBERTY.

Briton! by thy wife’s warm tear,

By thy spotless Daughter’s fear,

By thy menac’d Altars swear

THAT THIS ISLAND SHALL BE FREE.

Lay the base Invaders low,

Tyrants fall in every foe.

Freedom hangs on every blow,

Oh! to conquer or to die!

Printed for J. HATCHARD, 190, Piccadilly, Price Three-pence

per dozen. J. Hales, Old Boswell Court. No date.

――――

WING-KEE-FUM’S

_Address to the Patriot’s Army_.

A Parody, with the above title, was published in _Diogenes_ (a London

comic journal), in September, 1853. It was in reference to the

Revolution in China against the Tartar dynasty, when the rebels made

it incumbent upon their adherents to shave off their pigtails,

hitherto the badge of the conquered race. As the parody has little

merit or historical interest, the following extracts will suffice:――

Cut away! No coward fears

Shall restrain our warlike shears;

We shout defiance in the ears

Of all the Tartar race.

Now the day is nobly won,

Now the deed is nobly done;

We hurl our pigtails, every one,

In the Mantchoo’s face!

Victory! our country’s free!

The pigtail gone, no longer we

By any alien race shall be

Trampled on――kept down.

The day’s our own――we’ll wear our hair

Just as we please; and boldly swear

The Mantchoo’s pigtail now shall ne’er

Aspire to China’s crown.

* * * * *

――――

TRAVELLERS, WHO’VE SO OFT BEEN BLED.

Travellers, who’ve so oft been bled,

When you’re poorly lodged and fed,

At the Blue Boar, or King’s Head.

Or the Victory;

Ye who’ve paid a crown, or so,

For a pint of Cape, or sloe,

Join your powers to overthrow

Such cool knavery!

Down with every monstrous tax,

Chambermaids, and lights of wax!

Who will pay for these, I ax,

Shillings two or three?

With each breast the feeling chimes,

Well to punish such foul crimes;

To the castigating _Times_,

Biffin, write with me!

By the dinners, dear and bad,

By the items, never had,

Charged and paid for, yet too glad

To escape so free,――

Deal mine host a deadly blow:

Tell the boots that he may go

To the gentleman below!

Forward――what a spree!

_Diogenes_, October 15, 1853.

――――

SONG, _by an “Old Shaver_.”

Ye whose chins have often bled,

Who, no doubt, each morn have said,

“Why should blood of mine be shed

To please Society?”

Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;

Though your close-shorn friends look sour,

Defiance bid to _barberous_ power,

Soap and slavery!

Who’d be goose enough to shave

When he might the trouble save?

Who’d to custom be a slave,

Lest folks call him, Guy?

Who, from old-established raw,

Fresh blood each day are wont to draw

While scraping at your nether jaw,

Fling your razors by!

By the cuts upon my chin,

By the smarting of my skin,

By the rage it puts me in,

No more shave for me!

Let moustache and whisker grow,

O’er your breast the long beard flow;

Let the barefaced shavers know

What a beard should be!

_Diogenes_, February, 1854.

――――

THE CZAR’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.

Serfs, wha hae wi’ Kut’soff bled!

Serfs, like beasts of burden led,

Though readier far to go to bed――

Come to glorious victory!

Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;

Let Europe taste despotic power;

Make the base pretenders cower;

Down with Right and Liberty!

Who will be a traitor knave,

Shun the knout our fathers gave,

And freedom from the Saxon crave?

Patriot rebel, turn and flee!

Who would feast on tallow fat,

Strike a blow at Kalafat!

Cossacks, lick your lips at that;

Valiant Finsmen, on wi’ me!

By our nobles’ crafty gains,

By our vassals’ cherish’d chains,

We will give our dullest brains;

But we won’t, we won’t be free!

Lay the Gaul and Saxon low;

Crush a Turk at every blow;

Liberty’s our greatest foe!

Forward, or you’ll all be d――――!

_Diogenes_, 1854.

――――

THE LIBERAL PARTY.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ECHO.

Sir,――If you think the enclosed worthy of appearing in the

_Echo_ I shall be glad.――Yours respectfully,

W. LOTHIAN.

31, Ferntower-road, Highbury, Jan. 31.

ADDRESS TO THE LIBERAL ARMY.

A’ wha hae wi’ Russell sped,

A’ wham Gladstone’s often led;

Welcome to a Tory bed

Or to victory!

Now’s the day and now’s the hour;

See the front o’ battle lour,

See approach a would-be power――

Lord B. Disraeli!

Wha will be a traitor knave?

Wha can fill a coward’s grave?

Wha sae base as be a slave?

Follow Disraeli.

Wha, for Parliament and Law,

Freedom’s sword will strongly draw;

Freemen stand, while Tories fa’,

Let him Liberal be!

By Oppression’s woes and pains!

We’ll not brook Imperial chains,

For the blood in Liberal veins

Boils at Disraeli!

Lay all such usurpers low!

Tories fall in every foe!

Liberty’s in every blow!

Down wi’ Disraeli!

_The Echo_, February 1, 1879.

――――

“SCOTS WHA’ ARE.”

Scots! wha are on oatmeal fed,

Scots! wha sold your Royal Head

To his foeman to behead――

For a mere baubee,

Now’s the day and now’s the hour

To throw your noble landlord ower,

And bring your Willie into power,

Scotsmen, I am he!

Wha can be a traitor knave?

Wha his chance of power to save

Shame and infamy can brave?

Scotsmen, I am he!

Wha’s for Disestablishment?

Wha can’t tell whatever’s meant

By “Home Rule” and “Don’t pay rent,”

Let him follow me.

By the law of hypothec,

Hung like chains around your neck,

Scotsmen join with me to wreck

The Tory Ministry.

England to the wall may go,

Russia jubilant may crow

O’er her fall. Yet be it so,

I avenged shall be.

March, 1850.

From “_They are Five_,” by W. E. G. (A small collection of

Conservative parodies published by David Bogue, London, 1880).

――――

“SCOTT WHA HA’;”

_Or Jumbo’s Address to his Keeper_.

Scott wha ha’ your Jumbo fed,

Scott wham Jumbo aft hath led,

Soonest mended least that’s said

Of your shabby victory!

Wha dare ask how I behave?

Here I’m caged up like a slave;――

Guess if I’d got loose, a shave

They’d all had to turn and flee!

What’s the good of British law?

CHITTY only finds a flaw!――

Though I bang my head half raw,

Their sole game is “On wi’ me!”

There,――I call the whole thing low:

E’en my trumpet I can’t blow;

_Off!_ Here, let me gang below――

Steward! Let me do, or die!

_Punch_, 1882.

When the elephant Jumbo was sent from the Zoological Gardens, London,

to the United States he was accompanied by his keeper, Scott, who was

with him when he was killed by a locomotive engine.

――――

SALISBURY TO THE CONSERVATIVES.

Friends, by Whig retrenchment bled,

Friends, whom Beaconsfield has led,

Rally round your Tory head,

On to victory come!

Now’s the day and now’s the hour,

See the front of Gladstone lour,

See laid low the Caucus’ power,

Rads and Brummagem!

Who would come at Bradlaugh’s call,

Who would see Great Britain Small,

Who would be a Radical,

Let him turn and flee!

Who “For God and Queen” will cry

Eager he to do as I,

Loyal live and loyal die,

Let him follow me!

By the woes seditions bring,

We would rather have one King

Than five hundred in the ring

Brummagem would give.

Lay the platform-spouters low!

Liberty is ours we know!

Change may tyrants bring and woe!

Change we not and――live!

From _A Pen’orth o’ Poetry for the Poor_. London, 1884.

――――

A CALL TO ARMS.

Men by wise example led,

From England’s greatest statesmen dead;

Men whose fathers fought and bled

For England’s liberty;

Now’s the day and now’s the hour,

See the front of battle lour,

Scatter wide the Tory power,

And let us still be free!

Who would be a Jingo knave?

Who would Tory banners wave?

Let him ever be a slave

To Tory tyranny.

Who would justice, right and law,

Free from Tories’ greedy maw,

To the poll in thousands draw,

And poll for liberty!

Ere oppression’s woes and pains

Load your sons with servile chains,

Poll your full elect’ral gains

To keep the people free;

Lay the Tory braggarts low,

A tyrant falls in every foe,

Strike! for every Liberal blow

Is dealt for liberty!

From _Songs for Liberal Electors_, 1885.

――――:o:――――

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

When we were first acquent,

Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonnie brow was brent:

But now your brow it beld, John,

Your locks are like the snaw;

But blessings on your frosty pow.

John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither;

And mony a canty day, John,

We’ve had wi ane anither.

Now we maun totter down, John,

But hand in hand we’ll go;

And sleep thegither at the foot,

John Anderson my jo.

ROBERT BURNS.

The above is the version of this song as given in the Works of Burns,

but _John Anderson, my jo_, existed as a song, under different forms,

long before his time. In Percy’s _Reliques of Ancient Poetry_ it is

traced back to the time of the Reformation, when many ridiculous and

obscene songs were composed to be sung to the tunes of favorite hymns

in the Latin Service, to ridicule the Roman Catholic faith. The

explanation is important, and should be borne in mind, as accounting

for the fact that many of the absurd and nonsensical old Scotch Songs,

which Burns either entirely re-wrote, or remodelled, were wedded to

really grand original music.

The first, and only, verse fit to quote originally ran thus:

“John Anderson, my jo, cum in as ye gae bye,

And ye sail get a sheips heid, weel baken in a pye;

Weel baken in a pye, and the haggis in a pot:

John Anderson, my jo cum in, and ye’s get that,”

In the first volume of a collection entitled, _Poetry Original and

Selected_, printed by Brash & Reid, of Glasgow, this song is given as

follows:

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO, IMPROVED.

_By Robert Burns._

John Anderson, my jo, John, I wonder what you mean,

To rise so soon in the morning, and sit up so late at e’en,

Ye’ll blear out all your e’en, John, and why should you do so

Gang sooner to your bed at e’en, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature first began

To try her canny hand, John, her master-work was man;

And you amang them a’, John, sae trig frae tap to toe,

She proved to be nae journey-work, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my first conceit,

And ye need na think it strange, John, tho’ I ca’ ye trim and neat.

Tho’ some folk say ye’re auld, John, I never think ye so,

But I think ye’re aye the same to me, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, we’ve seen our bairns’ bairns,

And yet, my dear John Anderson, I’m happy in your arms,

And sae are ye in mine, John――I’m sure ye’ll ne’er say no,

Tho’ the days are gane, that we have seen, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, what pleasure does it gie,

To see sae mony sprouts, John, spring up ’tween you and me,

And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go,

Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were first acquent,

Your locks were like the raven, your bonnie brow was brent.

But now your head’s turned bald, John, your locks are like the

snaw,

Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, frae year to year we’ve past,

And soon that year maun come, John, will bring us to our last;

But let nae that affright us, John, our hearts were ne’er our foe,

While in innocent delight we lived, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, we clamb the hill thegither,

And mony a canty day, John, we’ve had wi’ane anither:

Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in hand we’ll go.

And we’ll sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo.

The stanza with which this song begins, is the chorus of the old song

under this title; and though perfectly suitable to that wicked but

witty ballad, it has no accordance with the strain of delicate and

tender sentiment of this improved song. With regard to the five

additional stanzas, though they are in the spirit of the two stanzas

that are unquestionably by Burns, every reader of discernment will see

they are by an inferior hand; and the real author of them, ought

neither to have given them, nor suffered them to be given, to the

world, as the production of Burns.

――――

JANE BARNABY.

Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane,

I’m wearing wan, and old

As herds at close of eve, Jane,

Are summon’d to the fold,

I soon to mine shall be, Jane,

My close of life is near,

And much I need our Shepherd’s care,

Jane Barnaby, my dear.

* * * * *

Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane,

Thy tenderness is sweet,

And grateful is this heart

That soon will cease to beat.

Thou wert its earliest love, Jane,

Thou art its solace here,

Thou’lt be its last remembrance.

Jane Barnaby, my dear.

* * * * *

Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane,

Life’s flood is ebbing fast,

A few more soft’ning sighs, Jane,

The shoals will all be past.

To bear my spirit hence, Jane,

Death’s bark is hov’ring near;

Adieu, adieu, a short adieu,

Jane Barnaby, my dear.

(Seven verses in all.)

From _Attempts in Verse_, by John Jones, an old servant.

(Edited by Robert Southey, Poet Laureate. 1831.)

――――

BY A GLASGOW BOOKMAKER.

(DEDICATED TO G. ANDERSON, M.P.)

GEORGE ANDERSON my GEO., GEORGE, before you did invent

That Bill of yours, I made a book on every big event;

But now my book is blank, GEORGE, and now my purse is low,

So cusses on your Betting Bill, GEORGE ANDERSON, my GEO.

GEORGE ANDERSON, my GEO., GEORGE, my clerk and I together,

With lists in hand, would brave it out, in fine or rainy weather;

Now we must take them down, GEORGE (for lists we must not show).

And shout the prices out instead, GEORGE ANDERSON, my GEO.!

_Punch._

――――

PARODY ON JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.

My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg,

When we were first acquent,

A tighter hizzy never brush’d

The dew frae aff the bent.

But now ye’re turn’d as stiff’s a tree,

And your pow’s as white’s the snow,

There’s naething supple but your tongue

My bonnie Meg, my jo.

My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg,

I wonder what ye mean,

Ye’re flyting everlastingly――

Frae morning light till e’en.

Some folks say that ye’re failing Meg

But I scarce can think it so,

For ye flyte as weel as ere ye did,

My bonny Meg, my jo.

My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg,

When nature first began,

She gaed every wife a yard o’ tongue

To torture her gudeman.

She’s been kind to you aboon the lave,

An’ I can prove it so,

For she’s gien you half a yard to boot,

My bonny Meg, my jo.

My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg,

We clamb the hill thegither,

And mony a devilish dust we’ve had

Sin’ we met ane anither.

Now we maun totter down, Meg,

And cheek for chow we’ll go,

And we’ll girn at ither at the fit,

My bonnie Meg, my jo.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

JEAN ANDERSON, MY JO.

(_An Imitation._)

When nature first began, Jean,

To try her canny hand,

It’s true she first made man, Jean,

And gave him great command;

But naething wad content him, Jean,

Though king o’ a’ below,

Till heaven in pity sent him, Jean,

What maist he wish――a jo.

Tho’ some may say I’m auld, Jean.

And say the same o’ thee,

Ne’er fret to hear it tauld, Jean,

You still look young to me;

And weel I mind the day, Jean,

Your breast was white as snow,

An waist sae jimp one might it span,

Jean Anderson, my jo.

Our bonnie bairns’ bairns, Jean,

Wi’ rapture do I see,

Come todlin’ to the fireside,

Or sit upon my knee;

If there is pleasure here, Jean,

Or happiness below,

This surely maun be likest it,

Jean Anderson, my jo.

Tho’ age has siller’d o’er my pow,

Sin’ we were first acquent,

An’ changed my glossy raven locks,

It’s left us still content;

And eld ne’er comes alane, Jean

But oft brings many a wo.

But we’ve nae cause for sic complaints,

Jean Anderson, my jo.

In innocence we’ve spent our days,

An’ pleasant looks the past.

Nae anxious thoughts alarm us,

We’re cheerful to the last;

Till death knock at our door, Jean,

And warn us baith to go,

Contented we will live and love,

Jean Anderson, my jo.

It’s now a lang lang time, Jean,

Sin’ you and I begun,

To sprachel up life’s hill, Jean,

Our race is nearly run;

We baith hae done our best, Jean

Our sun is wearin low,

Sae let us quietly sink to rest,

Jean Anderson, my jo.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

JOHN BULL AND JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN.

[“I should like to see this Government drink to the dregs the

cup of humiliation which they have filled for themselves.”――

_Birmingham Speech_, December 17, 1885.]

Joe Chamberlain, my Jo――John

Has still his word to say;

Although you rate him low, John

Was not born yesterday:

Though acres three seem fair to men,

And cows in fancy low,

Yet Bulls will answer now and then,

Jo Chamberlain, my Jo!

There’s Radical and Radical;

In that time-honoured throng

Men stout and bold have battled all

’Gainst many a grievous wrong:

Then think you never man on earth

That sturdy name might owe,

Till Birmingham brought you to birth,

Jo Chamberlain, my Jo?

So loud your trumpets clang and slang,

That doubts John often feels,

Bewildered by the “_sturm und drang_,”

Which are his head and heels:

For Liberal Captains staunch and true,

Is he bestead so sorely,

That he’s but Morley, Dilke, and you,

And――you, and Dilke, and Morley?

Is Forster but a poor pretence?

Is Goschen but a traitor?

Upon a Tory providence

Is Hartington a waiter?

Is Gladstone but the Tame Old Man

Whose strings you deign to pull?

You’ve much to do before you can

Prove all these facts to Bull.

Observe, good Joseph, if you’re wise,

The Winkles you condemn

Got pretty round majorities,

To show my trust in them:

Would you my loyal servant stay,

(I’m stedfast, if I’m slow),

A little modesty, I pray,

Jo Chamberlain, my Jo.

You’d have your foes “drain to the dregs”

The cup you say they fill?

If so, John Bull your pardon begs――

_He_ pays the liquor-bill.

Ye Jacobins and Josephins,

’Tis time to think, you know,

Less of yourselves and Outs and Ins,

And more of me――come Jo!

_Punch_, January 2, 1886.

In _Punch_ of October 3, 1885, there was another parody commencing

“Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, Sir,” being an appeal by a moderate Liberal

to Mr. J. Chamberlain not to endanger the unity of the party at the

coming general election.

――――:o:――――

FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT.

Is there, for honest poverty,

That hangs his head, and a’ that!

The coward slave, we pass him by,

We dare be poor for a’ that!

For a’ that and a’ that,

Our toils obscure, and a’ that!

The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,

The man’s the gowd for a’ that,

What though on hamely fare we dine,

Wear hoddin’ grey, and a’ that:

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,

A man’s a man for a’ that!

For a’ that, and a’ that.

Their tinsel show, and a’ that,

The honest man, though e’er sae poor;

Is king o’ men for a’ that!

You see yon birkie, ca’d a lord,

Wha struts, and stares, and a’ that.

Though hundreds worship at his word,

He’s but a coof for a’ that;

For a’ that, and a’ that,

His riband, star, and a’ that,

The man of independent mind,

He looks and laughs at a’ that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,

A marquis, duke and a’ that;

But an honest man’s aboon his might,

Guid faith, he manna fa’ that!

For a’ that, and a’ that,

Their dignities, and a’ that,

The pith o’ sense, and pride o’ worth,

Are higher ranks than a’ that!

Then let us pray that come it may――

As come it will for a’ that――

That sense and worth o’er a’ the earth,

May bear the gree, and a’ that,

For a’ that, and a’ that,

Its comin’ yet, for a’ that,

That man to man, the warld o’er,

Shall brothers be for a’ that!

ROBERT BURNS.

This Song was rendered into French, by Father Prout, and published in

Bentley’s Miscellany:――

Quoi! Pauvre honnête, baisser la tête?

Quoi! rougir de la sorte?

Que l’âme basse s’éloigne et passe

Nous――soyons gueux! n’importe travail obscur――

N’importe!

Quand l’or est pur, n’importe!

Qu’il ne soit point marqué au coin

D’un noble rang――qu’importe?

Quoiqu’on dût faire bien maigre chère

Et vêtir pauvre vêtement;

Aux sots leur soie, leur vin, leur joie;

Ca fait il L’HOMME? eh, nullement

Luxe et grandeur, qu’importe!

Train et splendeur, qu’importe!

Cœurs vils et creux, un noble gueux

Vaut toute la cohorte!

Voyez ce fat, un vain éclat

L’entoure, et on l’encense,

Mais après tout ce n’est qu’un fou,――

Un sot, quoiqu’il en pense;

Terre et maison,――qu’il pense――

Titre et blazon,――qu’il pense――

Or et ducats, Non! ne font pas

La vraie indépendence!

Un roi peut faire Duc, dignitaire,

Comte et marquis, journellement;

Mais ce qu’on nomme un HONNETE HOMME,

Le peut-il faire? eh, nullement!

Tristes faveurs! Réellement;

Pauvres honneurs! Réelement;

Le fier maintien des gens de bien

Leur manque essentiellement.

Or faisons vœu, qu’à tous, sous peu,

Arrive un jour de jugement;――

Amis, ce jour aura son tour,

J’en prends, j’en prends, l’engagement.

Espoir et encouragement,

Aux pauvres gens soulagement;

’Lors sur la terre vivrons en frères,

Et librement, et sagement!

――――

“FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT”

“A man’s a man,” says Robert Burns,

“For a’ that and a’ that,”

But though the song be clear and strong,

It lacks a note for a’ that.

The lout who’d shirk his daily work,

Yet claim his wage and a’ that,

Or beg when he can earn his bread,

Is not a man for a’ that.

If all who dine on homely fare

Were true and brave, and a’ that;

And none whose garb is “hodden grey”

Was fool and knave and a’ that;

The vice and crime that shame our time,

Would fade and fall and a’ that;

And ploughmen be as good as kings,

And churls as earls, for a’ that.

You see yon brawny, blustering sot,

Who swaggers, swears, and a’ that;

And thinks, because his strong right arm

Might fell an ox, and a’ that.

That he’s as noble, man for man,

As duke or lord and a’ that,

He’s but a brute, beyond dispute,

And _not_ a man for a’ that.

A man may own a large estate,

Have palace, park, and a’ that;

And not for birth, but honest worth,

Be thrice a man for a’ that;

And Donald herding on the muir,

Who beats his wife and a’ that,

Be nothing but a rascal boor,

Nor half a man for a’ that.

It comes to this, dear Robert Burns,

The truth is old and a’ that,

The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,

The man’s the gowd for a’ that.

And though you put the minted mark

On copper, brass, and a’ that,

The lie is gross, the cheat is plain,

And will not pass, for a’ that.

For a’ that and a’ that

’Tis soul and heart, and a’ that,

That makes the king a gentleman,

And not his crown, and a’ that.

And man with man, if rich or poor,

The best is he, for a’ that,

Who stands erect in self-respect,

And acts the man for a’ that.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

DEAR FREEDOM.

TUNE.――_A Man’s a Man for a’ that._

Dear Freedom! sair they’ve lightlied thee,

An’ ca’ed thee thief an’ a’ that,

Thy faithfu’ friens hae borne for thee

Baith scorn an’ grief an’ a’ that.

An’ a’ that an’ a’ that,

Baith scorn an’ grief an’ a’ that,

Thy faithfu’ friens hae borne for thee

Baith scorn an’ grief an’ a’ that.

We dare na meet, we dare na speak,

We dare na sing nor a’ that:

Our dearest rights we dare na seek――

We’ll see them swing for a’ that, &c.

And then the de’il will be to pay,

Wi’ tyrants, priests, an’ a’ that,

Wi’ a’ their childish trumpery,

Their fasts an’ feasts, and a’ that, &c.

Whan peace an truth wi’ freedom dwell,

Fraternity an’ a’ that,

Nae mair we’ll need the fear o’ hell,

Eternity an’ a’ that, &c.

Their auld wives cants at length grown stale,

(The light will soon do a’ that)

Plain truth will e’en support hersel,

But priestcraft mauna fa’ that, &c.

Then cheerfully wi’ harmless mirth,

We’ll spend our days an’ a’ that,

And bless the hour that gae us birth,

An’ Freedom praise for a’ that, &c.

From _The Wreath of Freedom_, or _Patriots Song Book_.

Newcastle, 1820.

――――

FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT.

(_Supposed to be sung by a chorus of Jews, in the neighbourhood of

Bevis Marks._)

Success to honest usury,

And flying kites and a’ that;

Post obit bonds, and mortgages,

With notes of hand a’ that;

For a’ that and a’ that,

We’ll drive a trade in a’ that,

Receipts are but a penny stamp:

A bills’ a bill for a’ that.

When needy spendthrifts seek our dens,

With embryo lord and a’ that,

We tell them that we’re short of cash――

We’ll try a friend for a’ that,

For a’ that and a’ that,

We know the dodge for a’ that,

And only ask our cent. per cent.

For kindly doing a’ that.

Our friend a mixture p’rhaps may have,

Which we Madeira ca’ that;

And daubs which bear a heavy price,

They’re “_vary sheep_” for a’ that,

For a’ that and a’ that,

We’ll drive a trade in a’ that;

Receipts may be a penny stamp,

We’ll do our bills for a’ that.

_Diogenes._ August, 1853.

――――

“A GIRL’S A GIRL FOR A’ THAT.”

Is there a lady in all the land

That boasts her rank and a’ that?

With scornful eye we pass her by,

And little care for a’ that;

For nature’s charm shall bear the palm――

A girl’s a girl for a’ that.

What though her neck with gems she deck,

With folly’s gear and a’ that,

And gaily ride in pomp and pride;

We can dispense with a’ that.

An honest heart acts no such part――

A girl’s a girl for a’ that.

The nobly born may proudly scorn

A lonely lass and a’ that;

A pretty face has far more grace

Than haughty looks and a’ that!

A bonny maid needs no such aid――

A girl’s a girl for a’ that.

Then let us trust that come it must,

And sure it will for a’ that,

When faith and love, all arts above,

Shall reign supreme and a’ that,

And every youth confess the truth――

A girl’s a girl for a’ that.

N. E. R., Fence Houses.

_Once a Week_, 1869.

――――

A CAD’S A CAD FOR A’ THAT.

Is there a Jingo, proud and high,

“Who cocks his nose and a’ that?

The swaggering sumph, we pass him by――

We dare be just for a’ that!

For a’ that, and a’ that,

His sniggering scorn, and a’ that:

The sneer is but the club-room’s stamp,

The clay is Cad’s for a’ that!

What though on civic fare he dine,

Wear Court attire and a’ that;

Give churls their turtle, clowns their wine,

A Cad’s a Cad for a’ that:

For a’ that and a’ that,

Their patriot show and a’ that:

The selfish Snob, or rich or poor,

Is Cad at heart for a’ that!

Ye see yon trickster, late clubbed Lord,

Who dodges, dupes, and a’ that;

Though thousands shout at each smart word,

He’s charlatan for a’ that!

For a’ that and a’ that,

His riband, star, and a’ that;

The man of just considerate mind,

He smiles――or sighs――at a’ that!

A Cad may boast of power of fight,

Of patriot zeal, and a’ that;

But trust in right’s above his flight;

He has not pluck for a’ that!

For a’ that and a’ that,

Their blatant bounce and a’ that:

Fair play, stern justice, steadfast calm,

Show truer grit than all that!

Then let us pray that come it may――

As come it will for a’ that――

That Jingo rant and Cad-dom’s cant

May hush their row and a’ that!

For a’ that and a’ that,

It’s coming yet for a’ that,

When patriots true the wide world o’er

Shall brothers be for a’ that!

_Punch_, November 30, 1878.

――――

“OUR OLD NOBILITY.”

Is there, for princely opulence,

That hangs his head, and a’ that?

We wish the coward better sense,

And dare be rich for a’ that.

For a’ that and a’ that,

We’re noble Peers and a’ that.

The commoner’s a common scamp;

A Lord’s a Lord for a’ that!

What though on plate we daily dine,

Wear coronets and a’ that?

Let knaves have beer instead of wine,

We stick to hock and a’ that.

For a’ that and a’ that,――

Their pewter pots and a’ that,――

For all our gold we never blush,

A Lord’s a Lord for a’ that!

Yon bragging pauper struts about,

And rants and raves and a’ that;

However loudly he may shout

He’s but an ass for a’ that!

For a’ that and a’ that――

His People’s Rights and a’ that;

In pride of birth and money’s worth

A Lord’s a Lord for a’ that!

_Fun_, January 22, 1879.

――――

It is among the things not generally known that Sir Arthur Guinness is

a poet. He is said to have replied to the Prime-Minister’s offer of a

Peerage in the following strain:――

Your kind intention I must damp,

The game of rank’s not worth my candle;

It is, sir, but the Guinness’ stamp;

My honest pewter needs no handle.

――――

A SONG FOR MIDLOTHIAN.

Is there, for double U. E. G.,

That curls his lip and a’ that?

The Tory loon, we’ll let him be,

And gae oor ways for a’ that!

For a’ that and a’ that,

Election-cries, and a’ that;

The rank may be the guinea’s stamp,

The man’s the man for a’ that.

Ye see yon Dalkeith, ca’d a lord,

Wha tries to speak, and a’ that;

Tho’ hundreds worship at his word,

He’s nae sae great for a’ that;

For a’ that, and a’ that,

His ancestry, and a’ that;

The man o’ dauntless eloquence,

He comes and wins for a’ that.

A candidate may be a knight,

A lord, an earl, and a’ that,

But the ballot’s far aboon his might――

Guid faith, he mauna fa’ that!

For a’ that, for a’that,

Their faggot-votes, and a’ that,

The pith o’ sense and pride o’ speech

Do bigger things than a’ that.

Then let us pray that come it may,

As come it will for a’ that,

That Gladstone’s worth o’er a’ the earth

May bear the gree, and a’ that.

For a’ that and a’that,

It’s comin’ yet, for a’ that

When man to man the kingdom o’er,

Shall own his worth for a’ that.

This Parody appeared in _Funny Folks_, which contained another, on the

same original, on March 14, 1885, which is not now of sufficient

interest to be included.

――――

A POLITICAL SONG.

(_By a Man of no Party._)

Is there for Whig and Tory men

Who fumes and frets and a’ that,

Who dips in gall his loveless pen,

With wrath of man and a’ that.

For a’ that, and a’ that,

Their factions, feuds, and a’ that;

In quiet nook we know to brook,

A fruitful life for a’ that.

What though we make no mighty din

With place and power and a’ that;

We wear, within a healthy skin,

An honest heart for a’ that.

For a’ that, and a’ that,

There’s outs and inns and a’ that;

Let Whig and Tory bark and bite,

The good cause wins for a’ that!

You see yon loon who taks his stand

On blood and pedigree here,

And thinks the Lord God made the land

For him and his degree here,

For a’ that, and a’ that,

Their pridefu’ pranks and a’ that;

We turn the sod, and claim from God

Stout labours due for a’ that.

You see yon big-mouthed bawling boy,

Of bright millennium dreaming here,

From equal votes to ragged coats,

And brainless men and women here;

For a’ that, and a’ that,

Their high-flown prate and a’ that;

Clear heads, firm will, and subtle skill,

Will rule the State for a’ that.

You see yon keen-eyed lank-faced lad,

Who pleads the workmen’s cause here,

And knows to surgeon all things bad,

With patent brand new laws here.

For a’ that, and a’ that,

Their Communistic brag here;

The sharpest eye, the game to spy,

Will make the biggest bag here.

You see yon lean and lanky lad,

Who flings his pulpit ban here,

Save the elect of his own sect,

On all the human clan here,

For a’ that, and a’ that,

Though priests may curse and ban here,

The God who sits in heaven shall laugh

At vain conceit of man here.

You see yon chiel who wags his tongue

And bobs his wig and a’ that.

Though he can prove that right is wrong,

He’s but a prig for a’ that.

For a’ that, and a’ that,

Their shifty arts and a’ that;

The pulse of right will beat with might,

In human hearts for a’ that.

Then let us pray, though for a day

Wild seas may overwhelm here,

That counsel mild may bear the sway,

And wisdom hold the helm here!

For a’ that and a’ that,

Their party spite and a’ that;

We’ll win the fight for truth and right,

In God’s own time for a’ that.

JOHN STUART BLACKIE,

_Emeritus Prof. of Latin, Mar. Coll., Abdn._, 1841-52.

From _Alma Mater_: Aberdeen University Magazine November 11, 1885.

――――:o:――――

JENNY’S A WAT, POOR BODY.

Coming through the rye, poor body,

Coming through the rye,

She draiglet a’ her petticoatie,

Coming through the rye,

Jenny’s a’ wat, poor body,

Jenny’s seldom dry;

She draiglet a’ her petticoatie,

Coming through the rye,

Gin a body meet a body

Coming through the rye,

Gin a body kiss a body,

Need a body cry?

Gin a body meet a body

Coming through the glen,

Gin a body kiss a body,

Need the world ken.

ROBERT BURNS.

――――

TAK CAULER WATER I.

Gin a body meet a body,

When he’s passin’ by,

Need a body gar a body

Drink that isna dry?

Though ilka chap should tak his drap,

Tak ne’er a drap wad I,

’Mang friens or faes for a’ my days,

Tak cauler water I.

Gin a body meet a body,

Though to sell or buy,

Need a body gar a body

Drink that isna dry?

Though yon big sea were barley-bree

Tak ne’er a drap wad I;

Abroad, at hame, its a’ the same,

Tak cauler water I.

Gin a body meet a body

Whar folk wed or die,

Need a body gar a body

Drink that isna dry?

Amang the gay, amang the wae,

Tak ne’er a drap wad I;

The dram an’ pray’r are queer-like fare――

Tak cauler water I.

Gin a body meet a body.

His lass jist by the by,

Need a body gar a body

Drink that isna dry?

The lassie mine, I’d need nae wine,

Ne’er a drap wad I,

Though her sweet lip I’d aiblins sip,

Tak cauler water I.

WALNEERG.

――――

“MEETIN’ ON THE SLY.”

Gin a nursey meet a bobby,

Meet him on the sly,

Gin a nursey leave a babby,

Need a babby cry?

Gin a bobby to a babby

Acts in way unkind,

Need the nursey stop that bobby――

Need that babby mind?

Gin a nursey smack a babby

With a strength extreme,

Gin a nursey pinch a babby,

Need that babby scream?

Gin a bobby shake a babby,

Need that babby yell?

Gin a nursey kiss that bobby,

Need that babby tell?

_Judy_, December 10, 1879.

――――:o:――――

DUNCAN GRAY.

Duncan Gray cam here to woo,

Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,

On blythe Yule night when we were fu’,

Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,

Maggie coost her head fu’ high,

Look’d asklent and unco skeigh,

Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh:

Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

* * * * *

Time and chance are but a tide,

Ha, ha, &c.,

Slighted love is sair to bide,

Ha, ha, &c.,

Shall I like a fool, quoth he,

For a haughty hizzie die?

She may go to――France for me!

Ha, ha, &c.

* * * * *

ROBERT BURNS.

――――

SAM SUMPH.[25]

Sam Sumph cam’ here for Greek,

Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t!

Frae Dunnet Head he cam’ for Greek,

Wi’ sair thirst for the Greeking o’t;

Brains he had na unco much,

His schooling was a crazy crutch,

But like the crab he had a clutch,

Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t!

Latin Syntax vexed him sore,

When he tried the Greeking o’t,

For Cæsar stands at Homer’s door

When folks try the Greeking o’t.

_Quod_ and _ut_ he understood,

At “speech direct” they called him good,

But _qui_ with the subjunctive mood

Was the crook in the lot at the Greeking o’t!

One thing truth commands to tell,

Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t!

English he could hardly spell,

But what’s that to the Greeking o’t?

English fits the vulgar clan,

The buying and the selling man,

But for the learned the only plan

Is a close grip at the Greeking o’t.

How he wandered through the verb,

It pains my tongue the speaking o’t,

He said it was a bitter herb,

When he tried the Greeking o’t.

Wi’ mony a wrench and mony a screw,

At last he warstled bravely through,

All except a tense or two,

When he tried the Greeking o’t!

How he fared with ἣ and ἄν

When he tried the Greeking o’t.

Δὴ and γε, and all their clan,

It’s weel worth the speaking o’t.

These feckless dots of words, quo’ he.

They are nae bigger than a flea,

We’ll skip them ow’r, and let them be,

They’ll nae be missed at the Greeking o’t!

A’ the story for to tell,

Were nae end to the speaking o’t,

But this thing in the end befell,

When he tried the Greeking o’t;

Though his heart was free frae vice

(Men are sometimes trapped like mice),

They plucked him ance, they plucked him twice,

When he tried the Greeking o’t!

Sair cast doun was learned Sam

At this end o’ the Greeking o’t;

He could dae nae mair wi’ cram,

At this stage o’ the Greeking o’t,

But he was teugh as ony Scot,

He was plucked, but yield would not,

Sooner would he hang and rot,

Than thus be balked at the Greeking o’t.

At the door he made a din,

Rap, rap, for the Greeking o’t!

Is the Greek Professor in?

Yes, yes, for the Greeking o’t!

Sam his plea wi’ tears would win,

He fleeched and grat his een quite blin’,

To pluck him twice was just a sin,

For a sma’ fault at the Greeking o’t!

Professor was a kindly man,

Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t!

Felt for a’ the student clan

That swat sair at the Greeking o’t,

“Though your nae just in the van,

My heart is wae your worth to ban

Ye hae done the best ye can,

So ye may past at the Greeking o’t!”

Sam Sumph is now M.A.,

Ha, ha, for the Greeking o’t!

He can preach and he can pray,

That’s the fruit of the Greeking o’t.

He can thunder loud and fell,

An awfu’ power in him doth dwell,

To ope and shut the gates of hell,

That’s the prize o’ the Greeking o’t.

Wait a year and ye will see,

Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t!

High upon the tap o’ the tree,

Sam perch’d by the Greeking o’t!

In the Kirk Assembly he

Sits as big as big can be,

Moderator Sam, D.D.,

That’s the crown o’ the Greeking o’t!

JOHN STUART BLACKIE.

From _Alma Mater_; Aberdeen University Magazine,

December 9, 1885.

――――:o:――――

THE WHIGS OF AULD LANG SYNE.

(_The Premier and the New Peers._)

Should auld supporters be forgot,

And never brought to mind?

Should auld Whigs be remembered not

By Whigs of auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne my friends,

For auld lang syne;

We’ll gie ye baith a Peerage yet,

For auld lang syne.

We three hae tasted aft, at times,

The sweets of office fine;

And sighed for place for mony a day,

Sin’ auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

We three hae paddled, in our turn,

The River down, to dine,

And whiles without the whitebait gane,

’Sin auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

Noo, gie’s a lift, my trusty friends,

And here’s a lift o’ mine;

And we’ll tak’ a right guid Johnnie-waught

For auld lang syne.

For auld lang, &c.

And surely ye’ll be your staunch votes,

As sure ye’re friends o’ mine,

And we’ll tak’ a stoup o’Gladstone yet

For auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

_Punch_, December 30, 1865.

――――

SIR M. HICKS BEACH _singing_:――

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

As I’ve forgotten mine?

Yes, certainly; for it is rot

To talk o’ auld lang syne!

For auld lang syne forsooth!

For auld lang syne!

I stabbed my auld frien’[26] in the back,

For auld lang syne!

He’d been a trusty frien’ to me,

Right gude to me and mine;

And as I drove the foul blow home,

I cried “For auld lang syne!

For auld lang syne, kind frien,’

For auld lang syne!

Take that!” and so I laid him flat,

“For auld lang syne!”

[_He goes out._

_Truth_, _Christmas Number_, 1885.

――――:o:――――

GREEN GROW THE RASHES.

A FRAGMENT.

_Chorus._

Green grow the rashes, O!

Green grow the rashes, O!

The sweetest hours that e’er I spend,

Are spent amang the lasses, O!

There’s nought but care on every han’,

In every hour that passes, O!

What signifies the life o’ man,

An’ ’twere na for the lasses, O!

Green grow, &c.

* * * * *

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears,

Her noblest work she classes, O!

Her ’prentice han’ she tried on man,

And then she made the lasses, O!

Green grow, &c.

ROBERT BURNS.

――――

LIFE IN MALVERN.

We’ve dinners, sprees, concerts and glees,

As yearly they come roun’ O!

We’ve social teas, and grand soirées,

For ever in the town, O!

The town, O! the town, O!

The lively, pleasant town, O!

There’s healthy strife and active life,

There’s spirit in the town, O!

Though whiles we dream and whiles we scheme

How we will yet sit down, O!

And end our days in rural braes;

We’ll never leave the town, O!

The town, O! the town, O!

The active, stirring town, O!

Old Zimmerman would change his plan

To live in Malvern town, O!

From _Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch_, by Dr. J. B.

Oddfish, London, 1865.

――――

HEY FOR SOCIAL SCIENCE, O!

A SONG FOR THE SOCIAL SCIENCE MEETING, AT GLASGOW, IN 1860.

Air――_Green grow the rashes, O!_

A pleasant week I lately passed

In Glasgow town,――no city, O!

With men of state and merchants great,

And sages wise or witty, O!

CHORUS:――_Hey for social science, O!

Hey for social science, O!

When wisdom, wine, and wit combine,

They make a good alliance, O!_

We meet to show that all below

To ruin fast is tending, O!

That laws and schools and prison rules

Are much in need of mending, O!

_Hey for social science, &c._

But though, no doubt, t’was well made out

That things are old and wheezy, O!

O cursed spite! to set them right

Was not so very easy, O!

_Hey for social science, &c._

Yet though the task may patience ask,

We’re here convened to try it, O!

To see if schools will root out fools,

Or crime be cured by diet, O!

_Hey for social science, &c._

The blood-red sun had scarce begun

To shine out strong and hearty, O!

When up we rose and donned our clo’es

To join Bell’s breakfast-party, O!

_Hey for social science, &c._

Delicious doles of meat and rolls

Disposed to mirth and laughter, O!

The inspiring tea brought out Macnee,

And others followed after, O!

_Hey for social science, &c._

When hunger’s rage we thus assuage,

Succeeds the thirst for knowledge, O!

Then, horse and foot, we take the _route_,

And hurry to the college, O!

_Hey for social science, &c._

Here in we press for some address

That lasts two hours or longer, O!

And if a word is seldom heard,

The applause is all the stronger, O!

_Hey for social science, &c._

The section meetings next we try,

Some worse and others better, O!

But if the days are somewhat dry,

The nights will prove the wetter, O!

_Hey for social science, &c._

That sense alone conspicious shone

I can’t declare in conscience, O!

But great’s the use to introduce

A safety-valve for nonsense, O!

_Hey for social science, &c._

A few who well their tale could tell

Did ably fill the rostrums, O!

While many a goose his clack let loose,

And quacks proclaimed their nostrums, O!

_Hey for social science, &c._

Just ere the welcome hour of six

We gladly cut our cable, O!

And in some port of refuge fix,

Hard by a well spread table, O!

_Hey for social science, &c._

While all things good in drink and food

Our weary souls are cheering, O!

The ills of life, before so rife,

Seem quickly disappearing, O!

_Hey for social science, &c._

Around us eyes and faces bright

Our softened hearts are winning, O!

Fair matrons in meridian light,

And morning stars beginning, O!

_Hey for social science, O!_

_The best of social science, O!_

_Is when its power, in hall or bower,_

_To Beauty we affiance, O!_

With ardour fired, by love inspired,

I rise and give “The Ladies,” O!

And they who shrink the toast to drink

May hang and go to Hades, O!

_Hey for social science, &c._

We talk, we quaff, we sing and laugh,

Then part with tears and sighing, O!

And when at last the week is past

We’re dead with mirth――or dying, O!

_Hey for social science, &c._

But I ordain that soon again,

These pleasant hours repeating, O!

We learn some more of social lore

At such an evening meeting, O!

_Hey for social science, O!_

_For genuine social science, O!_

_A summons here to recompear_

_Would find a quick compliance, O!_

This song was written by the late Charles Neaves, Advocate, who, on

his elevation in 1854 to the Bench of the Supreme Court in Scotland,

sat as Lord Neaves. He was an able judge, a genial, witty man, and a

frequent contributor to Blackwood’s Magazine. Some of his best pieces

were collected and published in a small volume, entitled “_Songs and

Verses, by an Old Contributor to Maga_,” by W. Blackwood and Sons.

Lord Neaves was over 77 years of age when he died in 1877.

――――:o:――――

HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER.

The following Parody was written after thanksgiving services had been

used in the churches on account of the victory at Tel-el-Kebir.

HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER.

(Supposed to be written by the Right Honourable W. E.

G――dst――e, assisted by his G――ce the A――b――p of York.)

O Thou, wha in the heav’ns dost dwell,

Wha, since it pleased best thysel’,

Sent Arabi, that chiel o’ hell,

A’ for thy glory,

To brew amaist as muckle ill

As ony Tory.

I bless and praise thy matchless might,

Whan thousands left our shores to fight,

Thou did’st uphaud Britannia’s right,

And, by thy grace,

We gied the Egyptian deils a fright

Ower a’ the place.

What was I or my ministry

That we should sae exalted be?

A glaikit mongrel company

O’ bleth’rin’ b――――

Some three years syne――O L―――― forgie

Our liein’ speeches.

When frae my post aewhile I fell,

I fum’d and sulk’d, and swore mysel’

Wad never mair wi’ office mell

In Church or State,

But wi’ the blust’ring outcasts dwell

Outlaw’d by fate.

Yet here I’m i’ the highest station,

To prove the power o’ thy salvation,

I’m noo the bulwark o’ the nation,

Strong as a rock,

Head maister o’ tergiversation

’Mang a’ the flock.

O L――――, thou kens what zeal I bear,

When Liberals fyke, and Tories swear,

And speakin’ here, and scoffin’ there

Wi’ great and sma’,

O L―――― confound them everywhere,

Ilk ane an a’.

But yet, O L――――, confess I must,

I’m fash’d wi’ mad, ambitious lust,

Since me the doited fules still trust,

Thro’ thick an’ thin;

Sae I rave on, L――――, I’m but dust,

Forgie my sin.

Besides, I further maun allow,

Wi’ Ireland, three times I trow,――

But L――――, my hands are always fu’,

When I come near her,

Or else thou kens thy servant true

Wad safely steer her.

Maybe thou lets this Irish thorn――

Murder and outrage, night and morn――

Beset thy servant in their turn,

Cause he’s sae gifted;

Obstruction’s han’ maun e’en be borne

Until thou lift it.

L――――, bless my followers in this place,

Puir goavan coofs――a haverel race

Led by the nose――but curse the face

And blast the name

O’ Northcote’s crew; bring them disgrace

An’ public shame.

L――――, mind Rab Salisbury’s deserts,

He flouts and jeers, by fits and stairts,

Yet has sae mony takin’ airts

Wi’ grit an’ sma’,

I fear least he the people’s hairts

Should steal awa.’

And whan we chasten him therefore,

Thou kens how he breeds sic a splore,

As sets the country in a roar

O’ boist’rous laughin’;

Curse thou his ermine and his fur,

His sneers an’ chaffin’.

L――――, hear my earnest supplication

Against that cause o’ my vexation,

The House o’ Lords――bane o’ the nation――

Curse on their heeds;

L――――, visit them wi’ swift damnation

For their misdeeds.

O! L―――― my G――――, that glib-tongued Cowen,

Wi’ gall and bitterness o’erflowin’,

And a’ the ruck sae forward growin’

Still mair an’ mair;

Wha keep thy servants’ choler glowin’,

An’ fill wi’ fear.

L――――, since I am sae plaguit by ’em,

Confound the loons wha’ do employ ’em,

And in the day o’ vengeance try ’em,

Heed not their prayer,

But for thy servant’s sake destroy ’em

For evermair.

But, L――――, remember me and mine,

Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine,

For aye let me and H――b――t shine,

Excell’d by nane,

And a’ that glory shall be thine,

Amen, amen,

J. B. C., Northumberland,

_The Newcastle Weekly Chronicle_, July 5, 1884.

――――

THE FISHER’S WELCOME.

We twa ha’ fished the Kale sae clear,

And streams o’ mossy Reed;

We’ve tried the Wansbeck and the Wear,

The Teviot and the Tweed;

An’ we will try them ance again,

When summer suns are fine;

An’ we’ll throw the flies thegither yet,

For the days o’ lang syne.

’Tis mony years sin’ first we sat

On Coquet’s bonny braes,

An’ mony a brither fisher’s gane,

An’ clad in his last claithes.

An’ we maun follow wi’ the lave,

Grim death he heucks us a’;

But we’ll hae anither fishing bout

Afore we’re ta’en awa’.

For we are hale and hearty baith,

Tho’ frosty are our pows,

We still can guide our fishing graith,

And climb the dykes and knowes;

We’ll mount our creels and grip our gads,

An’ throw a sweeping line,

An’ we’ll hae a splash amang the lads,

For the days o’ lang syne.

Tho’ Cheviot’s top be frosty still,

He’s green below the knee,

Sae don your plaid and tak’ your gad,

An’ gae awa’ wi’ me.

Come busk your flies, my auld Compeer,

We’re fidgen a’ fu’ fain,

We’ve fished the Coquet mony a year,

And we’ll fish her ance again.

An’ hameward when we toddle back,

An’ nicht begins to fa,

An’ ilka chiel maun hae his crack,

We’ll crack aboon them a’.

When jugs are toomed and coggens wet,

I’ll lay my loof in thine;

We’ve shown we’re gude at water yet,

An’ we’re little warse at wine.

We’ll crack how mony a creel we’ve filled,

How mony a line we’ve flung,

How many a ged and saumon killed,

In days when we were young.

We’ll gar the callants a’ look blue,

An’ sing anither tune;

They’re bleezing, aye, o’ what they’ll do,

We’ll tell them what we’ve dune.

This old Border ballad was written by Mr. Doubleday before 1855, and,

whilst being professedly an imitation of Burns, has exquisite pathos

and spirit of its own.

――――:o:――――

TO BURNS.

And wha is he that syngs sae weel,

And pens “Addresses to the Deil?”

Wha gies the sang syke bonny turns?

Daft Gowk! ye ken it’s sonsie Burns!

His gabby tales I looe to hear,

They please sae meikle, run sae clear;

That ilka time, good traith, I read,

I’se wiser baith i’ heart an’ head.

I wad advise, when runkled care

Begins to mak ye glow’r and stare,

That ye wad furst turn ow’r his leaf,

’T’will mak ye sune forget ye’r grief!

And should auld mokie sorrow freeten,

His blythesome tale ye’r hearts will leeten;

And sure I am, ye grief may banter,

By looking ow’r his “Tam O’ Shanter.”

And, while I breathe, whene’er I’se scant,

O’ cheerful friends――and fynde a want

Of something blythe to cure my glumps,

And free me frae the doleful dumps,

I’ll tak his beuk, and read awhile,

Until he mak me wear a smile;

And then, if I hae time to spare,

I’ll learn his “Bonny Banks of Ayr!”

From _The Bards of Britain_, contained in _The Remains of Joseph

Blachet_, 1811, which work also contains imitations of Chatterton,

Milton, Dryden, Pope, Young, Thompson, Shenstone, Collins, Gray, and

Goldsmith.

――――

TAM O’SHANTER.

In a recent number of _Notes and Queries_ (December 19, 1885), there

was a long article, by Mr. Shirley Hibberd, on the origin of Burns’s

masterpiece. It contains so much interesting information that readers

of Burns will, no doubt, be pleased to have the following extracts:――

“In the year 1790, when Burns wrote _Tam o’Shanter_, stories

of witches were current in Scotland, and there was yet a

large survival of popular belief in their power and the

diabolical source thereof. The poem bears evidence of a

reality that has hitherto failed of recognition.

The confession of certain Scotch witches at the assizes held

at Paisley, February 15, 1678, must have been well known to

Burns, for it was a theme of fireside conversation in his

youth, and there were many living who remembered the whole

of the circumstances. That confession establishes the

reality of witchcraft. The confession is cited in

_Demonologia_ (Bumpus, 1827).

In a letter to Francis Grose, Burns gives three prose

versions of the story. In one, a farmer who “had got

courageously drunk in the smithy,” saw the “infernal junto”

play their antics in Alloway Kirk, and managed to carry off

the cauldron in which the hell-broth was prepared from the

bodies of the unchristened children. In another, a farmer of

Carrick witnessed the incantation, and, losing his

self-command in admiring a buxom lass who danced with

peculiar liveliness, shouted the dread words, “Weel luppen,

Maggie, wi’ the short sark.” In this case the speed of the

horse was insufficient for his complete escape, for at “the

keystane o’ the brig” the witches despoiled the horse of its

tail, and the stumpy steed became a witness of the truth of

the farmer’s declaration. The third story is of no account

in this connexion.

In Robert Chambers’s _Life and Works of Burns_, iii. 152, we

are told that “the country people of Ayrshire unmythicise

the narration, and point to a real Tam and Souter Johnny,”

the first being Douglas Graham, farmer, of Shanter; the

other, his neighbour, John Davidson, noted for telling the

“queerest stories.”

That a drunken freak and the lies told to cover it explain

the form of the poem is well enough. But we have in these

“facts of the case” no explanation of the motive, no

indication of the source of the inspiration, no key to the

supernatural business. The moral is obvious for the

_dénoûment_ proves the impotency of witches, and mocks the

prevalent belief in their powers. These considerations,

however, do not remove witches and witchcraft from the

category of historical facts.

An important commentary on the subject will be found in a

volume entitled _Interesting Roman Antiquities recently

discovered in Fife_, by Rev. Andrew Small (Edinburgh, 1823.)

In this work it is stated that near the Castle Law,

Abernethy, were twenty-two graves of witches, and near by is

the hill on which they were burned. A Mr. Ross, laird of

Invernethy in the reign of James VI., became, as justice of

the peace, responsible for the apprehension of certain

witches, and made the discovery that their names were

entered in a book. He set his mind upon obtaining this

written record, and, as one step thereto, he persuaded a

women who was a member of the gang to permit him to

accompany her to a meeting. The laird went to the meeting on

a fast mare, and kept his seat while the orgies proceeded,

and obtained possession of the book wherein to inscribe his

name with his own blood. But instead of complying with the

rule he put spurs to his steed and fled with the book,

“while out the hellish legion sallied.”

The witches swarmed upon him, but the laird kept his seat,

and the mare kept her tail, and he outran them and got home,

and quickly locked himself in and copied the names from the

book. By this time the clamouring crowd had reached the

house, and he dispersed them by throwing out the book, which

they gladly seized and carried away.

In introducing the story Mr. Small says: “If ever the poet

Burns had been in this part of the country, I would have

said he had taken the leading ideas or hints from it in his

humorous and excellent poem.”

――――

THE POLITICAL TAM O’SHANTER.

_Adapted, Fragmentarily, from Burns. Application――obvious._

No man can tether time or tide,

And he who holds the reins must ride;

And such a night WEG takes the road in

As seldom rider was abroad in.

With Boreas at his fullest blast,

And Eurus whistling fierce and fast,

There was a shindy never fellowed.

Loud, deep, and long they raved and bellowed,

That night o’ nights a Scot might say

The Deil (of Hatfield) was to pay.

Well mounted on his mare was WEG,

(A stouter never lifted leg,)

Through Irish-bog-like mud and mire,

Wartonian wind, and Woodcock fire,

Fought iron frame and shrewd head on it.

Weg, holding fast his good Scots bonnet,

Looked sharp around with prudent care,

Lest bogies take him unaware,

Or watchful foemen “wipe his eye”

With that confounded thing, a “cry,”

By this time he was cross the ford

(Where he was very nearly floored),

And passed the bog so dark and dank

Where Snobdom’s “CHARLIE” sprawled and sank,

And through the sand-pit, Egypt-dark,

Where war-dogs seemed to lurk and bark;

And the thorn-thicket, wild and wide,

Where one had need be Argus-eyed.

Before him doom appears at flood,

Redoubling storm roars through the wood;

Tongued lightnings flash from pole to pole,

And vocal thunders fiercely roll.

* * * * *

But there was pluck in WEG’S shrewd noddle,

He cared no more for threats than twaddle,

His mare, though, was a bit astonished,

Until, by hand and heel admonished,

She ventured forward on the light,

And eh! WEG saw a wondrous sight!

Warlocks and witches in a dance,

Egyptian whirls, and jigs from France;

Drum-thumpings loud, and fife-like squeals,

Put life and mettle in their heels.

High on a seat, with flaming eyes,

There sat old Nick in human guise;

Mastiff-like, stern, black, grim and large;

To set the measures was his charge.

He pitched the pipes and made them skirl,

Till the wild troop seemed all a-whirl.

Coffins stood round like open presses,

And showed dead Bills in foolscap dresses,

And by some dark, prophetic sleight

Each held a boding spectral light,

By which our wary WEG was able

To spy, spread out upon a table,

Late-murdered measures; cord or knife

Had robbed the innocents of life.

A proud Peer’s garter one had strangled,

And many more were maimed and mangled;

In short the scene was simply awful,

And WEG considered quite unlawful.

* * * * *

But WEG knew what was what right well,

And one young witch there bore the bell.

One late enlisted in the rout

(At Woodstock known and thereabout)

At many a measure she had shot,

And many a plan had sent to pot;

Made many a plucky wight feel queer,

And shook e’en her own side with fear.

Her “cutty sark” of true-blue yarn,

Which, up to now, the witch had worn,

In cut and fit was scant and strange,

Some thought she hankered for a change,

And that ’twas sad her youth’s bright riches

Should e’er have graced a dance of witches.

But here my muse must faster flutter,

’Tis scarce within her power to utter

How RANNIE leapt, and twirled, and flung

(A supple jade she was and young),

And how WEG stood like one bewitched,

How his eyes gleamed, how his mouth twitched.

Even Satan glowered as though in pain,

And puffed and blew with might and main,

Till with one caper and another,

No longer WEG his words could smother,

But roars out “Well danced, Cutty Sark!”

When in a moment all was dark;

And scarce his mare and he had rallied

When out the yelling legion sallied.

As bees buzz round a sugar-tub,

Or workmen round an opening “pub,”

As M.P.’s rush to chase the grouse

When Prorogation clears the House,

So the mare runs, the witches follow,

With many an eldritch shriek and hollow.

Ah, WEG! ah, WEG! they’re nearing, nearing,

Like hounds on trail of a red herring.

Midlothian, WEG, awaits thy coming;

They’ll think you’re lost, dear WEG, or humming,

Now, ride thy very hardest, WEG!

If the bridge key-stane fees her leg,

Thy mare at them her tail may toss,――

That running stream they cannot cross.

But ere the key-stone she could make,

The deuce a tail had she to shake,

For Nickie, far before the rest,

Hard on that nag so nimble prest,

And flew at WEG with hope to settle;

But little knew he that mare’s mettle.

One spring brought WEG off safe and hale,

But left behind her own grey tail;

For with NICK’S pull and the mare’s jump,

WEG’S nag was left with ne’er a stump!

_Punch_, August 16, 1884.

――――

“HERE’S A HEALTH.”

Here’s a health to them that’s awa,

Here’s a health to them that’s awa,

And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause,

May never guid luck be their fa’!

It’s guid to be merry and wise,

It’s guid to be honest and true,

It’s guid to support Caledonia’s cause,

And bide by the bonnets of blue.

Here’s a health to them that’s awa,

Here’s a health to them that’s awa,

Here’s a health to Charlie, the chief o’ the clan,

Although that his band be sae sma.’

Hurrah for the bonnets of blue

Hurrah for the bonnets of blue

It is guid to support Caledonia’s cause,

And bide by the bonnets of blue.

Here’s freedom to him that would read,

Here’s freedom to him that would write,

There’s nane ever feared that the truth should be heard,

But they who the truth would indite.

Hurrah for the bonnets of blue,

Hurrah for the bonnets of blue,

It’s guid to be wise, to be honest and true,

And bide by the bonnets of blue.

The above is a modern Jacobite song, author unknown. The original song

from which it was taken is old, and was altered by Allan Ramsay and

Burns, and several verses added. This version of it was very popular,

and the following is a parody of it.

――――

“THE BROBDIGNAG BONNETS” OF BLUE.――A PARODY.

(_Dedicated most respectfully to the Play-going Ladies of the Pit._)

“If the following playful little parody should obtain a smile or two

from some of the lady readers of the Mirror, the writer will feel

amply rewarded. It will in some degree make up for the smiles of which

he has been often deprived at the theatre, by having just before him

three or four bonnets, three feet by two, or somewhere thereabout. He

speaks feelingly, even if he has not written so.”

Here’s health to the ladies at home

Here’s health to the ladies awa’,

And wha winna pledge it wi’ a’ their soul,

May they ne’er be smiled on at a’.

It’s guid to be pretty and fair,

It’s guid to be smilin’ like you;

It’s guid to be stealin’ the gentlemen’s hearts,――

But na by broad bonnets of blue.

Awa’ wi’ those bonnets of blue,

Those Brobdignag bonnets of blue!

It’s guid to be stealin’ the gentlemen’s hearts,――

But nae by sic bonnets of blue.

Here’s health to the bright eyes at hame,

Here’s health to the bright eyes awa’,

Here’s health to the beauties of every clime,――

But na to their bonnets at a’.

I’ve a bracelet for her wha is wed,

For the maiden a sweet _billet-doux_:

Dear darlings, I’d give them whate’er they might ask,――

Except a broad bonnet of blue.

Then hence wi’ those bonnets of blue,

Those Brobdignag bonnets of blue!

Oh bright eyes beam brighter from bonnets when sma’,

Than hid by broad bonnets of blue.

_The Mirror_, Vol. II., March 1828.

See Dr. Charles Mackay’s “_Jacobite Songs and Ballads of Scotland_,”

London and Glasgow, 1861.

――――:o:――――

WE TWA HAE DUNE A LITTLE BILL.

AIR――“_Auld Lang Syne._”

Should auld acceptance be forgot,

And never brought to mind?

Should auld acceptance be forgot,

All drawn, endorsed, and signed?

Endorsed, drawn, and signed, my friend,

Endorsed, drawn, and signed:

And noo ’tis time to tak’ it up,

The siller we must find!

We twa hae dune a little bill,

To raise the bonnie wind,

And, tak’ the matter hoo we will,

That document will bind.

Endorsed, &c.

And SHADRACH will nae time alloo,

And therefore a’m inclined

To think that we had better do

Anither o’ the kind.

Endorsed, &c.

And surely ye’ll be your bit stamp,

And I’ll nae be behind,

And we’ll do a richt gude billie-wacht

The needfu’ cash to find.

Endorsed, drawn, and signed, my friend,

Endorsed, drawn, and signed,

We’ll do anither billie yet,

Just the wherewitha’ to find!

_Punch_, 1848.

――――

There was a paraphrase of “_Auld Lane Syne_” in the second volume of

“The Comic Offering,” for 1832, and a long, but very dull, parody of

“_Willie brewed a peck o’ Maut_” in _Punch_ of November 29, 1884,

apropos of Bismarck and the Congo question. _Funny Folks_, for June

14, 1879, had a few lines on a young man who kissed a girl on Peckham

Rye, and was fined for so doing. They ran thus:――

If a body meet a body

Coming through the Rye,

Can a body kiss a body?

Yes――if no one’s nigh.

Every bobby has his hobby,

And some like to spy

In a way distinctly “snobby,”

At young lovers spry.

In the same journal there was a poem (singularly appropriate at

present), referring to the importation of American meat, which the

butchers retailed as Scotch, in the same way that they now openly sell

Australian, or New Zealand frozen mutton as English, and realise

enormous and unfair profits by so doing.

“Scots!” although in New York bred;

“Scots,” whom Yankees well have fed,

Welcome either live or dead

Safely o’er the sea.

Now we’re in the butcher’s power,

Who, complaining every hour,

Grudge to see us meat devour――

Cheap and savo-ree.

Every one has need to save,

Times are bad and prospects grave:

Why should butchers play the knave,

Or such tyrants be?

Wha sells “Scot” fat, firm and braw,

At a price that’s fair to a’,

Butcher stand, or butcher fa’,

He’s the man for me!

_Funny Folks_, February 10, 1877.

There was also a political Parody of “_For a’ That_” in _Funny Folks_

of March 14, 1885.

――――:o:――――

FOR A’ THAT AN A’ THAT.

The following imitation of Burns’s song was written by Sir Walter

Scott, in praise of the “Holy Alliance,” and was sung at the first

meeting of the Pitt Club of Scotland; and published in the Scots

Magazine for July, 1814.

A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE.

1814.

Though right be aft put down by strength,

As mony a day we saw that,

The true and leilfu’ cause at length

Shall bear the grie for a’ that.

For a’ that, an a’ that,

Guns, guillotines, and a’ that,

The Fleur-de-lis, that lost her right,

Is Queen again for a’ that!

We’ll twine her in a friendly knot

With England’s Rose and a’ that;

The Shamrock shall not be forgot,

For Wellington made braw that.

The Thistle, though her leaf be rude,

Yet faith we’ll no misca’ that,

She shelter’d in her solitude

The Fleur-de-lis, for a’ that,

The Austrian Vine, the Prussian Pine

(For Blucher’s sake, hurra that),

The Spanish Olive, too, shall join,

And bloom in peace for a’ that.

Stout Russia’s Hemp, so surely twined

Around our wreath we’ll draw that,

And he that would the cord unbind,

Shall have it for his gra-vat!

Or, if to choke sae puir a sot,

Your pity scorn to thaw that

The Devil’s elbow be his lot,

Where he may sit and claw that.

In spite of slight, in spite of might,

In spite of brags and a’ that,

The lads that battled for the right

Have won the day, and a’ that!

There’s ae bit spot I had forgot,

America they ca’ that!

A coward plot her rats had got

Their father’s flag to gnaw that:

Now see it fly top-gallant high,

Atlantic winds shall blaw that,

And Yankee loon, beware your croun,

There’s kames in hand to claw that!

For on the land or on the sea,

Where’er the breezes blaw that,

The British Flag shall bear the grie,

And win the day for a’ that.

WALTER SCOTT.

――――

TO WOMEN OF THE PERIOD.

Is it because she cannot rule,

That curls her lip and a’ that?

Such froward dame is but a fool,

And shames her sex for a’ that!

For a’ that and a’ that,

Poor worldly fame and a’ that,

She strives but for a gilded badge,

Herself’s the gold for a’ that.

What though we will not let her vote,

“Electioneer” and a’ that;

’Tis best that man should wear the coat,

The “breeches,” vest, and a’ that.

For a’ that and a’ that,

She’s but a “rib” for a’ that!

Man’s work requires a man complete,

Not “half” a man for a’ that.

She does not need Newmarket tribe,

The walking-stick and a’ that;

They but expose to jest and gibe

The cause they plead and a’ that.

For a’ that and a’ that,

Their wrongs and rights and a’ that,

The woman who respects herself,

Just looks and laughs at a’ that.

“Master Henpeck,” give a lady place,

At vestry boards and a’ that;

But she with bonnie modest face,

Will stay at home for a’ that.

For a’ that and a’ that.

“Equality” and a’ that,

She was not made to rush and race,

And elbow man for a’ that.

The hearth and home are woman’s sphere,

Her proper place and a’ that;

Where she may bear and nurse and rear,

The “Babes of Grace” and a’ that.

For a’ that and a’ that,

She shows most sense and a’ that.

Who wins and wears the rank and name,

Of mother, wife, and a’ that.

ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

THE BALLAD OF SIR T. TEA-LEAF.

(_Being a humble Parallel to the Ballad of Sir John Barleycorn._)

It was three gallant Chinamen,

With long tail and pig eye,

And they have sworn a solemn oath,

Sir T. Tea-leaf must die.

And they have ta’en and flung him down

Upon an iron bed,

And underneath, with cruel hand,

Have heaped the ashes red.

They’ve spread him out, and pressed him down,

And turned him o’er and o’er,

They’ve dried him up, until he curled,

And writhed in suffering sore.

In vain he twisted and he turned,

In vain he cried for grace;

They kept him so, and scorched him till

He grew black in the face.

But finding he was still alive,

Their malice waxed more keen;

They dosed him first with Prussian blue

Till his poor face turned green.

What sparks of life might still remain

Determined to foredo,

They gave him next a bitter draught

Of gum and catechu.

And on his death his name they changed,

Lest men their crime should know,

And when men asked, “Who’s that lies there?”

They answered, “Young Pekoe.”

Whereas his name and family,

It really was Souchong,

Related to the old Congous,

A race both rough and strong.

Lest men should recognise his dust,

To dust when passed away,

His calcined bones they kneaded up

With lumps of China clay.

Their poison’d victim then they wrapp’d

In lead, with well-feign’d grief,

And wrote the epitaph outside,

“Here lies Sir T. Tea-leaf.”

And though their grief was all a sham,

The epitaph was true,

For “here” it said, “a Tea-leaf lies.”

And “lie” such Tea-leaves do.

Now Tea-leaf’s name is in repute

In lands beyond the sea,

Where maiden ladies love him much,

Under the name Green-tea.

Ah! little dream these ancient maids

Of Chinaman’s vile craft,

Nor think, while chatting o’er their cups,

There’s poison in the draught.

And little know they of the fate

Poor Tea-leaf had to dree,

Or in their teapots they would weep

Tears bitter as their tea;

Till with the water of their woe

E’en the first brew was spiled,

And the presiding maid would be

Obliged to draw it mild!

Then to poor Tea-leaf drop a tear,

By poison doomed to fall;

And when there’s green-tea in the pot,

May I not drink――that’s all.

_Punch_, November 29, 1851.

――――:o:――――

MY HEARTS IN THE HIGHLANDS.

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;

My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;

Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe――

My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go.

* * * * *

――――

SONG FOR A SCOTCH DUKE.

(_Equally applicable to a Yankee Dog in the Manger._)

My harts in the Highlands shall have their hills clear,

My harts in the Highlands no serf shall come near――

I’ll chase out the Gael to make room for the roe,

My harts in the Highlands were ever his foe.

_Punch_, November 8, 1856.

――――:o:――――

“O, WHISTLE, AND I WILL COME TO YOU.”

[A youth was prosecuted at Newcastle Petty Sessions,

County Limerick, in 1881, for having whistled at Mr. Hugh

Murray Gunn, J.P., in a tone of derision.]

O whistle, and I will arrest you, my lad,

O whistle, and I will arrest you, my lad;

Though your father and mother and all should go mad,

O, whistle, and I will arrest you, my lad,

But warily act, when you’re passing by me,

And do not indulge in irreverent glee;

Derisive deportment let nobody see,

And pass as you were not a passing by me.

O whistle, &c.

But mind you are always respectful to me,

Since rudeness with magistrates doesn’t agree;

But far from the converse of naughty boys flee,

For fear they should set you a-laughing at me.

O whistle, &c.

――――

JOHN BARLEY-CORN, MY FOE.

John Barley-Corn, my foe, John,

The song I have to sing

Is not in praise of you, John,

E’en though you are a king.

Your subjects they are legion, John,

I find where’er I go;

They wear your yoke upon their necks,

John Barley-Corn, my foe.

John Barley-Corn, my foe, John,

By your despotic sway

The people of our country, John,

Are suffering to-day.

You lay the lash upon their backs;

Yet willingly they go

And pay allegiance at the polls,

John Barley-Corn, my foe.

John Barley-Corn, my foe, John,

You’ve broken many a heart,

And caused the bitter tear, John,

From many an eye to start.

The widow and the fatherless

From pleasant homes to go,

And lead a life of sin and shame,

John Barley-Corn, my foe.

John Barley-Corn, my foe, John,

May heaven speed the hour,

When Temperance shall wear the crown

And rum shall lose its power;

When from the East unto the West

The people all shall know

Their greatest curse has been removed,

John Barley-Corn, my foe!

CHARLES F. ADAMS.

――――

TO THE DARING DUCKLING.

(_By a Moderate Liberal_)

Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, Sir,

You seemed but lately bent

On preaching Liberal Unity,

To our extreme content.

But now you say you will not play,

Unless your pace we go.

How about Liberal Unity, now,

Joe Chamberlain, my Joe?

Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, Sir,

We’re facing roughish weather;

Our only chance of victory, Joe,

Seems pulling all together.

Though slow the pace, why should you stop?

Up hill we all would go,

And we’ll meet together at the top,

Joe Chamberlain, my Joe!

_Punch_, October 3, 1885.

――――

JOE CHAMBERLAIN, OUR JOE.

(_A Radical Parody._)

[Mr. Chamberlain still adheres to the famous “three points” of the

South London speech.]

Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad,

Conservatives may ban,

But more and more the rest of us

Support the “Grand Young Man.”

_We_ do not grumble at your pace,

We would not have you slow,

So put your best leg foremost still,

Joe Chamberlain, our Joe!

Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad,

Though Stanhopes rise and row you,

You will not let their silly talk

“Three-acres-and-a-cow” you.

You wait not for the “jumping cat,”

Your mind you seem to know,

Which counts for something nowadays,

Joe Chamberlain, our Joe.

Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad,

Your colours are attractive,

And now you’ve nailed them to the mast,

The Whigs will grow more active.

Keep up the stride――press home those “points”

That rankle in the foe,

And leave the polls to do the rest,

Joe Chamberlain, our Joe.

_Funny Folks_, October 17, 1885.

――――:o:――――

Many short Parodies of Burns’s poems are scattered about in various

old periodicals, but comparatively few are worthy of preservation,

whilst some of the best, which have appeared in Scotch newspapers, are

so broad in their dialect that few English readers would understand

them. Trading on this ignorance of the northern dialect, some authors

have composed poems, in imitation of Burns, which, whilst retaining

some of the sound, contain none of the sense of the original.

A good example of this style of Parody is to be found in Cruikshank’s

Comic Almanac for 1846, it is entitled:――

AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.

By Robert Burns.

“_Lilt your Johnnie._”

Wi’ patchit brose and ilka pen,

Nae bairns to clad the gleesome ken;

But chapmen billies, a’ gude men,

And _Doon_ sae bonnie!

Ne’er let the scornfu’ mutchit ben;

But lilt your Johnnie!

For whistle binkie’s unco’ biel,

Wad haggis mak of ony chiel,

To jaup in luggies like the deil,

O’er loop or cronnie:

You wadna croop to sic a weel;

But lilt your Johnnie!

Sae let the pawkie carlin scraw,

And hoolie, wi’ outlandish craw,

Kail weedies frae the ingle draw

As blyth as honie;

Amang the thummart dawlit wa’

To lilt your Johnnie.

A still funnier parody was published in _Punch_, also said to be an

unpublished poem by Burns. It consisted of three verses, but the first

is quite sufficient to show the nature of the joke:

JUSTICE TO SCOTLAND.

(_Communicated by the Edinburgh Society for promoting

civilization in England._)

O Mickle yeuks the keckle doup,

An’ a’ unsicker girns the graith,

For wae and wae! the crowdies loup

O’er jouk an’ hallan, braw an’ baith.

Where ance the coggie hirpled fair,

And blithesome poortith toomed the loof,

There’s nae a burnie giglet rare

But blaws in ilka jinking coof.

* * * * *

Some Parodies of National Songs have appeared in _Judy_, amongst them

was the following:――

SCOTCH NATIONAL SONG.

AIR――“_The Breeks o’ Balquidder._”

Greet na mair, ma sonsie lassie,

Greet na mair, ma pawkie chiel,

Mither’s yout the wee bit hallan,

An’ ye ken I loe ye weel!

Gin your tocher’s guid, ma hinnie,

What for gar the tear-draps fa’,

Bring it ben, and pin the door, lass,

An’ your jo will tak’ it a’!

There’s a hantle Kebbuck waitin’,

Bonnie farls, and haggis richt,

Pit yere haffits gaily frae ye,

Brawly a’ will gang the nicht!

Dinna croon, the braxy’s ready,

Tane a tither’s i’ the brae,

Daddy’s fou ahint the bothy,

What suld gar ye fashin’ sae?

Loup an’ leuch, an’ skirl, ma lassie,

Blithely toone the collops ben,

Heed na lang thripplin――kame, luve,

Fear na mair the tappit-hen;

Till the kirk we’ll gang the morrow,

Whiles the pipes sae gaily blaw,

Syne we’ll crack o’ auld Balquidder,

Soughing ’neath the simmer snaw!

_Judy._ Sept. 10, 1884.

――――:o:――――

A HISTORY OF THE BURNs’ FESTIVAL;

or, Centenary Celebration of the Birth of Robert Burns,

held at the Crystal Palace, on January 25, 1859,

On November 9, 1858, the Directors of the Crystal Palace Company

published an advertisement, stating their intention of celebrating the

Centenary of the birth of Robert Burns, by a grand festival at the

Crystal Palace. At the same time, they offered a prize of Fifty

Guineas, under certain conditions, for the best poem celebrating the

occasion, to be recited during the Festival, while they solicited the

loan of relics and memorials of the Poet, which were to be exhibited

on the occasion. An ample response was made. On the 2nd of January,

621 poems were collected, of which 9 came from America. Shortly before

this, the Directors had solicited Monckton Milnes, Esq., M.P., Tom

Taylor, Esq., and Theodore Martin, Esq., to act as judges to award the

prize; and these gentlemen having kindly consented, commenced their

examination. In order to carry out the competition with the utmost

fairness, it was decided that the names of the authors should not be

communicated, but that two mottoes should be inscribed, for

identification, on each poem, and that the name of the author should

be forwarded in a sealed envelope, which should bear corresponding

mottoes to the poem which it accompanied. The Judges reported in favor

of a poem bearing the mottoes “_Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled_,” and

“_A man’s a’ man for a’ that_.” On the day of the Festival there was a

large attendance at the Crystal Palace, many interesting relics and

several portraits of Burns were exhibited, and there was a concert of

Scotch music, including many of Burns’s own songs.

The late Mr. S. Phelps opened the sealed envelope, and announced that

the Prize poem was composed by a lady, named “Isa Craig.” He then

recited the ode which, it must be confessed, was a somewhat

disappointing work, with little that was either distinctively Scotch,

or reminiscent of Burns in its composition. The poem was printed in

full in the Crystal Palace programme for the day, also in the _Times_,

of January 26, 1859.

That the Prize poem was unworthy of the occasion was pretty generally

admitted, the _Times_ sneered at the whole concern, principally

because it was used by the C. P. Company as an attraction to the

Palace, though why that should be a rebuke to managers of public

entertainments is not very clear. And, of course, as in the case of

all advertised poetical competitions, a collection of burlesque poems

was published about the same time as the Festival, by Routledge, Warne

and Routledge. This little volume has since been assigned to the pen

of Samuel Lover, and it contains a few pieces of really smart, clever

burlesque, but the general effect is not very inspiriting. It is

entitled:

RIVAL RHYMES,

In honour of Burns;

With curious illustrative matter.

Collected and edited by

BEN TROVATO

“_If Maevius scribble in Apollo’s spight,

There are who judge still worse than he can write._”

POPE.

_Contents._

The Bard of Ayr. By Father Prout,

A Remonstrance to the Directors of the Crystal Palace.

By a Proverbial Philosopher.

A Spirit Lay from Hades. By Thomas Campbell.

A Voice from the Far West. By H. W. Longfellow.

A Few Words on Poets, &c. By the Ghost of Thomas Hood.

Ode by an Ardent Admirer of Milton.

Letter of Fergus McFash, enclosing an unpublished Poem, supposed

to be by Robert Burns.

The Penny-a-Liner’s Hope. By Barry Cornwall.

The Poet’s Birth; a Mystery. By the Poet Laureate.

Groves of Sydenham. By an Enraged Bard.

Battle of the Lake Glenlivit. By Lord Macaulay. Author of “The

Lays of Ancient Rum.”

Lay of the Rapt Spirit. By the Ghost of Alexander Pope.

Letter to the Directors of the Crystal Palace. By W. M. Thackeray

(prose).

APPENDIX.

Lord Brougham on Burns and the Language of Scotland.

(At the Burns’ Centenary Festival, held in the Music Hall in

Edinburgh, when Lord Ardmillan presided, a letter from Lord

Brougham was read by the Chairman. It was dated from Cannes,

January 17, 1859.)

Several of the poems in this little volume have already been quoted in

“_Parodies_.” It is only necessary here to give the lines, supposed to

be from an early and unfinished work by Robert Burns. These lines are

introduced with a statement that they were found in an old escritoire,

and are worthy of being preserved with the other relics of Robert

Burns.

Gang wi’ me to Lixmaleerie,[27]

Couthie dearie,

Paukie dearie,

Where Clinkumbell is clatterin’ cleerie,

And lasses buskit gaily, O!

Waukrife a’ the nicht I lay,

Whigmaleerie’s toom to spae,

Laith and lang, till blink o’ day

Wad gie to me my Mallie, O!

Gang wi’ me to Lixmaleerie,

Couthie dearie,

Paukie dearie,

Where Clinkumbell is clatterin’ cleerie,

We’re aiblin’s baith expeckit, O!

The hushion’d cowt afore the yett,

Wi’ chaup o’ cloot, and crankous fret,

Seems bletherin “Lassie, bide ye yet?

Mess-John maun’t be negleckit, O!”

* * * * *

Scotchmen are ever ready to do honour to the memory of Burns, and

enthusiastically celebrate his birthday every year.

Last year the Aberdeen Burns Club had a dinner at the Imperial Hotel,

after which, one of the members, Sir William Cadenhead read some poems

on Burns, purporting to have been composed for the occasion by Lord

Tennyson, Mr. Gladstone, and Mr. Oscar Wilde.

Unfortunately these Parodies are too long to reproduce here, but they

may be found in _The Aberdeen Daily Free Press_, of January 26, 1885.

[Illustration]

Sir Walter Scott,

_Born August_ 15, 1771. _Died September_ 21, 1832.

[Illustration: T]he immense popularity of the writings of Sir Walter

Scott is attested by the number of Parodies and imitations both in

verse and in prose, they have given rise to.

Thackeray’s well known burlesque continuation of _Ivanhoe_ entitled

“_Rebecca and Rowena_” will be fully described, with several others of

a similar nature, when dealing with prose parodies.

Several complete parodies of Scott’s poems exist, such as _Jokeby_,

_The Lay of the Scotch Fiddle_, and _Marmion Travestied_, these are

long, and rather tedious, the topics touched upon being now somewhat

out of date. But there are many excellent parodies of his shorter

poems, and of detached passages from _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_,

etc.

Undoubtedly the finest imitation of Sir Walter Scott’s style is that

contained in _Rejected Addresses_, the celebrated little volume by the

Brothers James and Horace Smith. Horace Smith was the author of this

imitation of Scott, a poem which was especially singled out for praise

by the reviewers.

_The Quarterly Review_ said “from the parody of Walter Scott we know

not what to select――it is all good. The effect of the fire on the

town, and the description of a fireman in his official apparel, may be

quoted as amusing specimens of the _misapplication_ of the style and

metre of Mr. Scott’s admirable romances;” whilst _The Edinburgh

Review_ spoke of the poem as being admirably executed: “The burning is

described with the mighty minstrel’s love of localities.” The authors

of _Rejected Addresses_, in their very interesting preface to the

eighteenth edition, state that not one of those whom they had parodied

or burlesqued ever betrayed the least soreness or refused to join in

the laugh that they had occasioned:――

“From Sir Walter Scott, whose transcendent talents were only

to be equalled by his virtues and his amiability, we

received favours and notice, which it will be difficult to

forget, because we had not the smallest claim upon his

kindness. ‘I certainly must have written this myself!’ said

that fine-tempered man to one of the authors, pointing to

the description of the Fire, ‘although I forget upon what

occasion.’”

A TALE OF DRURY LANE.

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

“Thus he went on, stringing one extravagance upon another,

in the style his books of chivalry had taught him, and

imitating, as near as he could, their very phrase.”――DON

QUIXOTE.

(_To be spoken by Mr. Kemble, in a suit of the Black

Prince’s armour, borrowed from the Tower._)

Survey this shield, all bossy bright――

These cuisses twain behold!

Look on my form in armour dight

Of steel inlaid with gold:

My knees are stiff in iron buckles,

Stiff spikes of steel protect my knuckles.

These once belong’d to sable prince,

Who never did in battle wince;

With valour tart as pungent quince,

He slew the vaunting Gaul.

Rest there awhile, my bearded lance,

While from green curtain I advance

To yon foot-lights, no trivial dance,[28]

And tell the town what sad mischance

Did Drury Lane befall.

THE NIGHT.

On fair Augusta’s[29] towers and trees

Flitted the silent midnight breeze,

Curling the foliage as it past,

Which from the moon-tipp’d plumage cast

A spangled light, like dancing spray,

Then re-assumed its still array;

When, as night’s lamp unclouded hung,

And down its full effulgence flung,

It shed such soft and balmy power

That cot and castle, hall and bower,

And spire and dome, and turret height,

Appeared to slumber in the light.

From Henry’s chapel, Rufus’ hall,

To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul;

From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town,

To Redriffe, Shadwell, Horsleydown,

No voice was heard, no eye unclosed,

But all in deepest sleep reposed.

They might have thought, who gazed around

Amid a silence so profound,

It made the senses thrill,

That twas no place inhabited,

But some vast city of the dead――

All was so hush’d and still.

THE BURNING.

As Chaos, which, by heavenly doom,

Had slept in everlasting gloom,

Started with terror and surprise

When light first flash’d upon her eyes――

So London’s sons in nightcap woke,

In bed-gown woke her dames;

For shouts were heard ’mid fire and smoke,

And twice ten hundred voices spoke――

“The playhouse is in flames!”

And, lo! where Catherine Street extends,

A fiery tail its lustre lends

To every window-pane;

Blushes each spout in Martlet Court,

And Barbican, moth-eaten fort,

And Covent Garden kennels sport,

A bright ensanguined drain;

Meux’s new Brewhouse shows the light,

Rowland Hill’s Chapel, and the height

Where Patent Shot they sell;

The Tennis Court, so fair and tall,

Partakes the ray, with Surgeons’ Hall,

The Ticket-Porters’ House of Call,

Old Bedlam, close by London Wall,[30]

Wright’s shrimp and oyster shop withal,

And Richardson’s Hotel.

Nor these alone, but far and wide,

Across red Thames’s gleaming tide,

To distant fields, the blaze was borne,

And daisy white and hoary thorn

In borrow’d lustre seem’d to sham

The rose or red sweet Wil-li-am.

To those who on the hills around

Beheld the flames from Drury’s mound.

As from a lofty altar rise,

It seem’d that nations did conspire

To offer to the god of fire

Some vast stupendous sacrifice!

The summon’d firemen woke at call,

And hied them to their stations all:

Starting from short and broken snooze,

Each sought his pond’rous hobnail’d shoes,

But first his worsted hosen plied,

Plush breeches next, in crimson dyed,

His nether bulk embraced;

Then jacket thick, of red or blue,

Whose massy shoulder gave to view

The badge of each respective crew,

In tin or copper traced.

The engines thunder’d through the street,

Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete,

And torches glared, and clattering feet

Along the pavement paced.

And one, the leader of the band,

From Charing Cross along the Strand,

Like stag by beagles hunted hard,

Ran till he stopped at Vin’gar Yard.

The burning badge his shoulder bore,

The belt and oil-skin hat he wore,

The cane he had, his men to bang,

Show’d foreman of the British gang――

His name was Higginbottom. Now

’Tis meet that I should tell you how

The others came in view;

The Hand-in-Hand the race begun,

Then came the Phœnix and the Sun,

Th’ Exchange, where old insurers run,

The Eagle, where the new;

With these came Rumford, Bumford, Cole,

Robins from Hockley in the Hole,

Lawson and Dawson, cheek by jowl,

Crump from St. Giles’s Pound:

Whitford and Mitford join’d the train,

Huggins and Muggins from Chick Lane,

And Clutterbuck who got a sprain

Before the plug was found.

Hobson and Jobson did not sleep,

But ah! no trophy could they reap,

For both were in the Donjon Keep

Of Bridewell’s gloomy mound!

E’en Higginbottom now was posed,

For sadder scene was ne’er disclosed;

Without, within, in hideous show,

Devouring flames resistless glow,

And blazing rafters downward go,

And never halloo “Heads below!”

Nor notice give at all.

The firemen terrified are slow

To bid the pumping torrent flow,

For fear the roof should fall.

Back, Robins, back! Crump, stand aloof!

Witford, keep near the walls!

Huggins, regard your own behoof,

For, lo! the blazing rocking roof

Down, down, in thunder falls!

An awful pause succeeds the stroke,

And o’er the ruins volumed smoke,

Rolling around its pitchy shroud,

Conceal’d them from th’ astonish’d crowd.

At length the mist awhile was clear’d,

When, lo! amid the wreck uprear’d,

Gradual a moving head appear’d,

And Eagle firemen knew

’Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered,

The foreman of their crew,

Loud shouted all in signs of woe,

“A Muggins! to the rescue, ho!”

And pour’d the hissing tide:

Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain,

And strove and struggled all in vain,

For, rallying but to fall again,

He totter’d, sunk, and died!

Did none attempt, before he fell,

To succour one they loved so well?

Yes, Higginbottom did aspire

(His fireman’s soul was all on fire),

His brother chief to save;

But ah! his reckless generous ire

Served but to share his grave!

’Mid blazing beams and scalding streams,

Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke,

Where Muggins broke before.

But sulphry stench and boiling drench

Destroying sight o’erwhelm’d him quite.

He sunk to rise no more.

Still o’er his head, while Fate he braved,

His whizzing water-pipe he waved;

“Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps,

“You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps,

“Why are you in such doleful dumps?

“A fireman; and afraid of bumps!――

“What are they fear’d on? fools! ’od rot ’em!”

Were the last words of Higginbottom.[31]

THE REVIVAL.

Peace to his soul! new prospects bloom,

And toil rebuilds what fires consume!

Eat we and drink we, be our ditty,

“Joy to the managing committee!”

Eat we and drink we, join to rum

Roast beef and pudding of the plum;

Forth from thy nook, John Horner, come,

With bread of ginger brown thy thumb,

For this is Drury’s gay day.

Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops,

And buy, to glad thy smiling chops,

Crisp parliament[32] with lollypops,

And fingers of the Lady.

Didst mark, how toil’d the busy train,

From morn to eve, till Drury Lane

Leap’d like a roebuck from the plain?

Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again,

And nimble workmen trod;

To realise bold Wyatt’s plan

Rush’d many a howling Irishman;

Loud clatter’d many a porter-can,

And many a ragamuffin clan

With trowel and with hod.

Drury revives! her rounded pate

Is blue, is heavenly blue with slate;

She “wings the midway air” elate,

As magpie, crow, or chough;

White paint her modish visage smears,

Yellow and pointed are her ears,

No pendant portico appears

Dangling beneath, for Whitbread’s shears[33]

Have cut the bauble off.

Yes, she exalts her stately head;

And, but that solid bulk outspread,

Opposed you on your onward tread,

And posts and pillars warranted

That all was true that Wyatt said,

You might have deem’d her walls so thick

Were not composed of stone or brick,

But all a phantom, all a trick,

Of brain disturb’d and fancy sick,

So high she soars, so vast, so quick!

――――:o:――――

BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER.

[Scott introduces the following song in Chapter XXV. of _The

Monastery_, with the remark that it was sung to the ancient

air of “_Blue Bonnets over the Border_.”]

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,

Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order?

March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale,

All the blue bonnets are bound for the border.

Many a banner spread,

Flutters above your head,

Many a crest that is famous in story,

Mount and make ready then,

Sons of the mountain glen,

Fight for the Queen and the old Scottish glory!

Come from the hills where the hirsels are grazing,

Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;

Come from the crag where the beacon is blazing,

Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.

Trumpets are sounding,

War steeds are bounding,

Stand to your arms then, and march in good order,

England shall many a day

Tell of the bloody fray,

When the Blue Bonnets came over the border!

WALTER SCOTT.

――――

BLUE STOCKINGS OVER THE BORDER.

Read, quickly read, for your honours, ye Oxford men!

Why don’t you read Greek and Latin in order?

Pass o’er the Ass’s Bridge, sons of the Cambridge Fen!

All the Blue Stockings are crossing the Border!

Their banner is flying,

They’re “victory” crying,

They’ll solve every problem in Euclid before ye――

Come from the rowing match,

Glee club, and merry catch,

Read for a class and the old College glory!

Ye Dons and Professors, arise from your slumbers,

Open your books,――set your studies in order――

The danger is pressing in spite of your numbers,

For the Blue Stockings are crossing the Border.

Descend from your Tilburies, Gents of the long robe,

Read briefs――for their steps to the Woolsack they bend:

The depths of your science, ye Doctors, they’ll soon probe,

With old Esculapius the _Blues_ would contend!

Their clack is resounding,

With hard words abounding,

Steam guns their weapons, which cause great disorder.

By Gas they’re enlightened――

By nothing they’re frightened,

The dauntless Blue Stockings who pass’d o’er the Border.

Read for your honors, then, Oxford and Cambridge men!

Look, lawyers, look, are your Green Bags in order?

Oh! Sons of Galen, you will not escape the ken

Of the Blue Stockings who pass’d o’er the Border!

Look well to your counsels, ye sage Politicians――

They’ll change all your projects and plans for the State;

Examine your arguments, Metaphysicians――

In every department the Blues are first-rate.

Famed Craniologists!

Learned Phrenologists!

You’ll find, though each bump in their skulls is in order;

_The organ of Prying_

All others defying,

Stands first in the Blues who are crossing the Border.

Strain every nerve, then, all ye who have place and sway,

From Wellington down to the City Recorder.

Ye’ll be found bunglers, in office unfit to stay,

If the Blue Stockings come over the Border.

Stand to your posts, ye adepts in Astronomy,

A comet they’ll see whilst your glass ye arrange――

Find out some fault in Dame Nature’s economy――

Spots in the moon, which betoken a change.

Quake, ye Geologists!

Tremble, Conchologists!

Put Retorts and Crucibles, Chemists, in order!

Beware, Antiquarians,

They’re Disciplinarians,

These _talented_ Blues who are passing the Border!

Put on your spectacles, star-gazing gentlemen――

Steam-boat inventors, avoid all disorder――

If there’s a blunder committed by Englishmen,

Each Blue will see it who passes the Border!

’Tis said they’ve discovered perpetual motion,

Attached to _their tongues_, ’twill be henceforth their own;

And this job completed, some folks have a notion

They’re all seeking now the Philosopher’s Stone.

An enemy slanders

Their ablest commanders,

Their heads vacuum engines he calls (’tis a joke),

Says Watts’ Steamer teaches

The plan of their speeches,

Beginning in noise, and concluding in smoke,

Believe not, my countrymen, this foolish story――

Come when they will, let them find you in order――

Delay not, I pray, till each Blue, crown’d with glory,

By paper kites drawn shall pass o’er the Border.

The above appeared in _The Mirror_, vol. II, 1828, p. 239. About that

period “intellectual females” were in fashion as well as the

Brobdignagian bonnets, mentioned in the parodies on Burns. The origin

of “Blue Stocking” is given in Boswell’s Life of Johnson, edition

1835, vol. 8, p. 85, “About this time (1781) it was much the fashion

for several ladies to have evening assemblies where the fair sex might

participate in conversation with literary and ingenious men, animated

by a desire to please. These societies were denominated _Blue Stocking

Clubs_; the origin of which title being little known, it may be worth

while to relate it. One of the most eminent members of those

societies, when they first commenced, was Mr. Stillingfleet, whose

dress was remarkably grave, and in particular it was observed that he

wore blue stockings. Such was the excellence of his conversation, that

his absence was felt as so great a loss, that it used to be said, ‘We

can do nothing without the _blue stockings_;’ and thus by degrees the

title was established. Miss Hannah More has admirably described a

_Blue Stocking Club_ in her ‘_Bas Bleu_,’ a poem in which many of the

persons who were most conspicuous there are mentioned.”

――――

WRITE, WRITE, TOURIST AND TRAVELLER.

Write, write, tourist and traveller,

Fill up your pages and write in good order;

Write, write, scribbler and driveller,

Why leave such margins?――come nearer the border.

Many a laurel dead flutters around your head,

Many a _tome_ is your _memento mori_!

Come from your garrets, then, sons of the quill and pen,

Write for snuff-shops, if you write not for glory.

Come from your rooms where the farthing wick’s burning,

Come with your tales full of gladness or woe;

Come from your small-beer to vinegar turning,

Come where the Port and the Burgundy flow!

Fame’s trump is sounding, topics abounding,

Leave, then, each scribb’ler, your high attic story;

Critics shall many a day speak of your book, and say,

“He wrote for the snuff-shop, he wrote not for glory!”

Write, write, tourist and traveller,

Fill up your pages and write in good order;

Write, write, scribb’ler and driveller,

Why leave such margins?――come nearer the border.

ROBERT GILFILLAN, 1828.

――――

READ, READ!

Read, read, Woodstock and Waverley,

Turn every page and read forward in order;

Read, read, every tale cleverly,

All the old novels are over the border!

Many a book lies dead, dusty, and never read,

Many a chiel wants a thread to his story;

While Walter, that king o’ men, just with his single pen,

Like a giant, well _grogged_, marches on in his glory!

Come from your tales full of murders amazing,

Come from romaunts gone to bed long ago;

Come from the scribb’lers whom pye-men are praising,

Come to Redgauntlet and brave Ivanhoe!

Scott’s fame is sounding, readers abounding,

May laurels long circle his locks thin and hoary!

Scotland shall many a day speak of her bard, and say,

“He lived for his country, and wrote for her glory!”

ROBERT GILFILLAN, 1831.

――――

TAX, TAX!

Tax, tax Income and Property,

Why the deuce don’t ye tax both in fair order?

Tax, tax, Genius and Industry――

Aye; but not so as on plunder to border!

Many, by hand or head

Earning precarious bread,

Suddenly ruin’d’s an often-told story.

Do, JOHNNY RUSSELL, then,

Justice to working men;

If you refuse, we must call in a Tory!

_Punch_, May 17, 1851.

――――

VALOUR UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

March, march, pipe-clayed and belted in,

That is to say you must march in good order;

March, march, broiling sun melted in,

Stocks all so tight that on choking you border.

Martinet’s anger dread

If you can turn your head,

Martinet, stiff as the knights of old story,

Shave and make ready then,

Half-strangled Englishmen!

March on, as well as you’re able, to glory!

_Punch._

――――

LOBSTER SALAD.

Take, take, Lobsters and lettuces;

Mind that they send you the fish that you order;

Take, take, a decent-sized bowl,

One that’s sufficiently deep in the border.

Cut into many a slice

All of the fish that’s nice,

Place in the bowl with due neatness and order;

Then hard-boiled eggs you may

Add in a neat array

All round the bowl, just by way of a border.

Take from the cellar of salt a proportion;

Take from the castor both pepper and oil,

With vinegar, too――but a moderate portion――

Too much of acid your salad will spoil.

Mix them together;

You need not mind whether

You blend them exactly in apple-pie order!

But when you’ve stirr’d away,

Mix up the whole you may――

All but the eggs, which are used as a border.

Take, take plenty of seasoning;

A teaspoon of parsley that’s chopped in small pieces.

Though, though, the point will bear reasoning,

A small taste of onion the flavour increases.

As the sauce curdle may,

Should it, the process stay;

Patiently do it again in due order.

For, if you chance to spoil

Vinegar, eggs, and oil.

Still to proceed would on lunacy border.

_Punch._

――――

SONG BY A SURGEON.

Take, take, blue pill and colocynth:

Hey, Sir! your liver is much out of order.

Take, take, rhubarb and aqua menth:

Close on acute inflammation you border.

Symptoms about your head,

Make me congestion dread,

When I take them with the rest in conjunction;

Leave off wine, beer and grog:

Arrowroot all your prog,

Let organs rest to recover their function.

_Punch_, November 12, 1859.

――――

RIFLEMEN BOTH SIDES OF THE BORDER.

Drill, drill, London and Manchester,

Shoulder your Enfields and shoot in good order;

Drill, drill, Glasgow and Edinburgh;

Don’t be behind us, on your side the border.

Foreigners oft have said BRITAIN’S old fire is dead,

Let your array tell a different story:

Arm and make ready then, Squires, Shop, and Warehousemen,

Scotchman and Englishman, Liberal and Tory.

Come from the shops, where your goods you are praising,

Come from your moors, from the red deer and roe:

Come to the ground where the targets they’re raising,

Come from your ledgers, per contra and Co.

Bugles are sounding, drill sergeants grounding,

Practice your wind in loose skirmishing order,

Foes will think twice, I lay, ’ere they provoke a fray――

Once Britain stands in arms, both sides the Border.

_Punch_, December 3, 1859.

Written at the time the great Rifle Volunteer movement was starting

into life in England and Scotland.

――――:o:――――

MR. KEMBLE’S FAREWELL ADDRESS.

_On taking leave of the Edinburgh Stage._

Mr. Kemble’s last appearance in Edinburgh was on the evening of

Saturday, March 29, 1817, on which occasion he performed _Macbeth_. At

the close of the tragedy Mr. Kemble recited a beautiful farewell

address, which had been composed for him by Walter Scott. It is only

necessary to quote a few lines from the commencement and the end of

this well-known poem:――

As the worn warhorse, at the trumpet’s sound,

Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the ground,

Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns,

And longs to rush on the embattled lines,

So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear,

Can scarce sustain to think our parting near;

To think my scenic hour for ever past,

And that these valued plaudits are my last.

* * * * *

But my last part is play’d, my knell is rung,

When e’en your praise falls faltering from my tongue;

And all that you can hear, or I can tell,

Is――Friends and Patrons, hail! and FARE YOU WELL!

――――

In “Reminiscences of the Court of Session (Scotland), as it was a few

years ago,” by George Outram, Esq., Advocate, 1856, there is a parody

of “Mr. Kemble’s farewell Address.” The subject of it is Mr. Patrick

Robertson’s taking leave of the Bar on his promotion to the Bench.

“Before assuming the judicial vestments, Robertson was entertained at

a farewell dinner by the sorrowing friends he was to leave without the

bar, and from whom he was henceforth by judicial decorum to be

separated. The following address (written probably by either Douglas

Cheape, Esq., Advocate, or by the late Lord Neaves, one of the

judges,) was prepared to be spoken by the guest of the evening.”

As the worn show-horse whom Ducrow so long

Has taught to prance before the applauding throng,

Now all unfit to play his wonted part,

Turns the dull mill or tracts the ignoble cart;

If, midst his daily toils, perchance he hears

Great Wombell’s trumpets, and the attendant cheers,

Strives from his rear the cumbrous load to fling,

And longs to circle in his ancient ring――

So I, when loud your festive laughter swells,

Would gladly don once more my cap and bells,

So sad it is to deem my triumphs past,

And think these joyous plaudits are my last.

Warned by some symptoms of a certain age,

To-night a veteran quits the mirthful stage;

A certain age a certain post requires――

Not prematurely Robertson retires.

At eight-and-forty, when the locks are grey,

’Tis time to doff one’s comedy array,

And leave, while youth’s excesses we retrench,

Some space between the banquet and the Bench.

Time was, when even the rigid and the wise

Might scan my levities with lenient eyes;

Cast in a mould denied to other men――

(Great Jove will hardly use it soon again)――

If not with wit, at least with words at will,

The wish to please――and, shall I say, the skill?

Peers, parsons, players, applauded as I spoke,

And Huntly loved, and Scott endured the joke.

Each look would set the table in a roar:

And when the look was grave, men laughed the more.

Hard task! and how performed, Jove best can tell,

To serve two masters, and to serve them well;

For Momus can with Mammon ill agree,

And jealous Themis hates Euphrosyne.

But, now, farewell the mimic look and tone,

The general question, and the big trombone

That makes the orchestra nothing――Oh! farewell

To Oscar’s melody and Ossian’s shell;

The stammering cornet, the Italian air;

Farewell the bagman, and farewell the beer;

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious fun,

Farewell――for Peter’s occupation’s done.

Yet still the fire, that burned too fierce before,

May shed a chastened light your evenings o’er;

Sometimes the mountain may bring forth its mouse

To please the laughers in the Outer-House.

Nay, even in yonder niche installed on high,

Some jest or pun Lord Peter may let fly,

Clerk, counsel, agents, mid the weekly roll,

Shall vainly strive their muscles to control;

Wide spreads the infectious laugh, and even a while

The losing litigant consents to smile;

* * * * *

All but the macer, grieved to see no more

The classic gravity that Corehouse wore.

But to return: if you have owed to me

One witless jest, one pointless repartee――

If I at good mens’ feasts too long have lolled,

And seldom stirred when bells to church have knolled――

If censuring tongues might of my errors tell,

As loving mirth, not wisely but too well――

If even in caution’s course I missed my aim,

Tried jokes by stealth, and blushed to find them fame――

The few preposterous efforts I have made

By this too partial tribute are repaid.

Could my big bosom prop the sinking line,

Then I could speak what feelings now are mine.

But fancy fails, expression dies away;

In feeble murmers I can only say,

Amidst my throbbing heart’s tumultuous strife:

“This is the proudest moment of my life!”

――――:o:――――

LAMENT FOR TABBY;

or, _The Cat’s Coronach_.

And art thou fall’n, and lowly laid,

The housewife’s boast, the cellar’s aid,

Great mouser of thy day;

Whose rolling eyes, and aspect dread,

Whole whiskered legions oft have fled

In midnight battle fray.

There breathes not kitten of thy line,

But would have given his life for thine.

O! could I match the peerless strain,

That wailed for Black Sir Roderic slain,

Or that whose milder tone

O’er Gertrude, fall’n in beauty’s prime,

The grace of Pennsylvania’s clime,

Raised the sepulchral moan!

Such strain might burst th’ eternal bar,

And reach thy spirit from afar.

But thou remote from pain and strife.

Now reap’st the meed of virtuous life

In some Elysian grove,

Where endless streams of milk abound,

And soft valerian paints the ground,

Thy joyous footsteps rove;

With Tasso’s cat, by poets named,

And Whittington’s in story famed,

_Requiescat in pace!_

From _The Satirist_, March 1814.

――――:o:――――

THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.

The numerous Parodies of this poem are principally founded upon

passages in the introduction, and the opening verses of Cantos the

second, third, and sixth, a few lines from each of which will be given

to recall them to the reader’s mind for comparison.

INTRODUCTION.

The way was long, the wind was cold,

The Minstrel was infirm and old;

His wither’d cheek, and tresses gray,

Seem’d to have known a better day!

The harp, his sole remaining joy,

Was carried by an orphan boy.

The last of all the bards was he,

Who sung of Border chivalry;

For, well a day! their date was fled,

His tuneful brethren all were dead;

And he, neglected and oppress’d

Wish’d to be with them, and at rest.

No more on prancing palfrey borne,

He caroll’d light as lark at morn;

No longer courted and caress’d,

High placed in hall, a welcome guest,

He pour’d, to lord and lady gay,

The unpremeditated lay:

Old times were changed, old manners gone

A stranger fill’d the Stuarts’ throne;

The bigots of the iron time

Had called his harmless art a crime.

A wandering Harper, scorn’d and poor,

He begg’d his bread from door to door,

And tuned, to please a peasant’s ear,

The harp, a king had loved to hear.

WALTER SCOTT.

* * * * *

――――

ANOTHER

LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.

The Tide was low, the wind was cold,

Upon the sands the minstrel strolled;

His burnt-cork cheek and croaking lay

Seemed to have known a better day;

His banjo, sole remaining joy,

Was thrummed by an obstreperous boy;

The last of all the band was he

Who sang of nigger minstrelsy.

For, well a day! their date was fled――

His tuneful brethren earned their bread

In other channels. He confessed

That had he done so it were best.

No more to fiddle, harp and horn,

He sang his melodies forlorn;

No longer courted and caressed,

The tenor squared his manly chest,

And poured to lord and lady gay

His unpremeditated lay.

Old times were changed, old music gone,

The folks had “scientific” grown,

Neglected his untutored chime,

Pronouncing _Wagner_ quite sublime.

A wandering nigger, scorned and poor,

He hummed and strummed from door to door,

And tuned, to please a vagrant ear,

The banjo swells had loved to hear.

_Funny Folks_, May 22, 1875.