Or write them with caution and care;
For, faith, they may fasten your fetters,
If wearing a conjugal air.
Unless you’re a knowing old stager,
’Tis here you’ll most likely be lost;
As a certain much-talked-about Major[43]
Had very near found to his cost.
_Woo’d and married an’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
They are perilous things, pen and ink,
To get woo’d and married an’ a’._
I ought now to tell the unwary,
That into the noose they’ll be led,
By giving a promise to marry,
And acting as if they were wed.
But if, when the promise you’re plighting,
To keep it you think you’d be loath,――
Just see that it isn’t in writing,
And then it must come to your oath.
_Woo’d and married ah’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
I’ve shown you a dodge to avoid
Being woo’d and married an’ a’._
A third way of tying the tether,
Which sometimes may happen to suit,
Is living a good while together,
And getting a married repute.
But you who are here as a stranger,
And don’t mean to stay with us long,
Are little exposed to that danger,
So here I may finish my song.
_Woo’d and married an’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
You’re taught now to seek or to shun
Being woo’d and married an’ a’._
CHARLES, LORD NEAVES.
――――:o:――――
PROMISE AND PERFORMANCE.[44]
AIR――“_Charley is my darling._”
Charley was so daring, so daring, so daring,
Charley was so daring, yet somehow durstn’t fight;
For Cronstadt looked so scaring, so scaring, so scaring,
Cronstadt looked so scaring, it frightened him outright.
Its forts he vowed he’d shatter, he’d shatter, he’d shatter,
The forts he swore he’d shatter, no stone of them should stand:
But this was merely chatter, mere after-dinner chatter,
He changed his note when soberly the stones themselves he
scanned.
“Your cutlasses prepare boys, prepare boys, prepare boys,
For victory depends upon the sharpness of your fire;
But at Cronstadt we’ll but stare boys, but stare boys, but stare
boys,
Then home again in safety all right gallantly retire.
And if they ask us why, boys, our strength we didn’t try, boys,
’Stead of taking it for granted if we fought that we’d be beat;
’Twas the fault of Jimmy Graham, the swab (I’d like to flay him!)
Who with boys and with old women had manned our precious fleet.”
And now the War is over, Sir Charley’s turned a rover,
And arm in arm with Constantine inside the forts has seen;
And he swears ’twas deuced lucky he more prudent was than plucky,
Or sunk and smashed and shattered every ship of his had been!
Now with all respect for Charley, who did his work so rarely,
_Punch_ holds that British oak’s as tough as ’twas in Dibdin’s
day;
And _Punch_ states without shrinking, he’s not alone in thinking,
That a Nelson would have taken where a Napier turned away.
_Punch_, November 29, 1856.
――――:o:――――
THE MANAGER TO MRS. LANGTRY.
AIR――“_Oh, Nanny, wilt thou gang wi’ me?_”
O Langtry, wilt thou gang wi’ me,
On lime-lit boards to win renown?
Can crowded stalls have charms for thee――
The painted scene and tinsel crown?
No more mere Photo’ed-Beauty’s Queen,
No more restrained to Park and Square,
Say, canst thou quit Belgravia’s scene,
Where thou art fairest of the fair?
O Langtry, when ’tis thine to play
“Big parts,” their “keeping” keep in mind;
Though Beauty’s charming in its way,
In acting “there is more behind.”
Some say, so stately is thy mien,
High tragic _rôles_ thou well could’st bear;
Let’s hope as Genius thou’lt be seen,
As well as fairest of the fair.
O Langtry, canst thou act so true,
Through long and trying scenes to go,
Not pleased by Flattery’s smooth review,
Nor grieved when critics “slate” the “show?”
As yet, they don’t agree at all
What praise or blame shall be thy share;
And critics, whether great or small,
Are _not_ the _fairest_ of the fair.
And when at last thy Muse shall try
_Ophelia_, _Juliet_, _Queen Macbeth_,
Say, canst thou make thy audience cry,
Or, scared and spellbound, hold their breath?
And wilt thou from thy handsome pay,
Of poorer players take due care?
If so, then _still_ the world will say
That thou art fairest of the fair.
――――:o:――――
ROBIN ADAIR.
When General Dumourier, after unparalleled victories, deserted the
army of the French Republic, in 1793, and took refuge from the
infuriated Convention with the enemies he had lately beaten, someone
expressed joy in the event where Burns was present, when he chanted,
almost extempore, the following sarcastic stanzas:――
ON GENERAL DUMOURIER.
_A Parody on Robin Adair._
You’re welcome to Despots, Dumourier;
You’re welcome to Despots, Dumourier,
How does Dampiere do?
Ay and Bournonville too?
Why did they not come along with you, Dumourier?
I will light France with you, Dumourier;
I will fight France with you, Dumourier.
I will fight France with you;
I will take my chance with you;
By my soul I’ll have a dance with you, Dumourier.
Then let us fight about, Dumourier;
Then let us fight about, Dumourier:
Then let us fight about,
Till Freedom’s spark is out,
Then we’ll be damn’d, no doubt――Dumourier.
――――:o:――――
A SONG.
Tune――“_Robin Adair._”
Hark! to yon glorious shout,
Canning, O rare!
Echo proclaims it out,
Canning, Huzza!
Beauty, each step you see,
Displaying loyalty,
Whose charms keep Britons free,
Canning, Huzza!
O! ’tis a lovely sight,
Canning, O rare!
Thrills each heart with delight
Canning, Huzza!
What! though no freeman true,
What! though their eyes are blue,
Still are their lips for you,
Canning, Huzza!
Lips whose persuasive touch,
Canning, O rare!
Strengthens our cause so much,
Canning, Huzza!
Thou’lt think when far away,
Where red rose held its sway,
On Bosoms, pure as day,
Canning, Huzza!
Heroes wait their command,
Canning, O rare!
When waves their lily hand.
Canning, Huzza!
Whilst you with smiles approve,
Naught can our bosoms move,
Save Mars, or God of Love,
Canning, Huzza!
Mark as in lines they lead,
Canning, O rare!
See England’s hero tread
Canning, Huzza!
Whose bosoms void of care,
Wounds from your eyes but fear,
Whence falls the tender tear,
Canning, Huzza!
View their faces with surprise,
Canning, O rare!
Lovely tints lips and eyes,
Canning, Huzza!
Mark coalitions wile,
Join’d by a heavenly smile,
That can each hour beguile,
Canning, Huzza!
You whom all hearts adore,
Canning, O rare!
’Tis you to guard our shore,
Canning, Huzza!
Tell wandering nations far,
Our’s is bright honour’s war,
Shine Salamanca’s star,
Canning, Huzza!
From _An Impartial Collection of Addresses, Songs, Squibs, &c.,
published during the Liverpool Election_, October, 1812.
The Candidates were the Right Hon. George Canning; Lieut.-General
Isaac Gascoyne; Henry Brougham; Thomas Creevey; and General B.
Tarleton. (Messrs. G. Canning and Gascoyne, both Tories, were
elected.)
――――:o:――――
ROBERT BURNS.
In order to make this collection of Scotch Parodies as nearly complete
as possible, a few additional Parodies of Robert Burns, and Thomas
Campbell will be here inserted.
ADDRESS TO THE G.O.M.
(After Burns’s _Address to the De’il_.)
O thou, whatever be the name
Your silly pride wad gar ye claim
As likely best to spread your fame
Owre land an’ sea,
Great People’s Will, or G.O.M.,
Listen a wee.
D’ye mind the time, I mind it weel,
When fu’ o’ misbegotten zeal,
Ye pranced through Scotland like a deil,
Verbose an’ rash,
Bletherin’ about the “Land o’ Leal,”
An’ sic like trash?
To reckon a’ your wild harangues
Frae platforms, trains, to gapin’ thrangs,
About the countra’s woes and wrangs,
A gruesome tale
O’ Tory rule, the memory dangs
An’ time wad fail.
In short, ye kicked up sic a splore,
Pourin’ out speeches by the score,
An’ vendin’ rousin’ whids galore
Through a’ the land,
The countra’ bid ye tak the oar
An’ try your hand.
How stands the case? Ye’ve had your fling,
Upset or bungled everything,
Mair waste and shame contrived to bring
Down on the land
Than tongue can tell, or muse can sing
Or understand.
Despite your boasts about finance,
An’ a’ your grand cheap wines frae France,
The whisky duties, sad mischance,
Hae laid ye low,
An’ stopped ye in your reckless dance
At ae fell blow.
I’m wae to think upon your state,
Headlang ye’ve rushed upon your fate,
An’ tho’ advice I ken ye hate,
Tak thought and mend,
Consider, while it’s no owre late
Your hinner end.
“MIDLOTHIAN” in _Moonshine_, July 1885.
――――:o:――――
FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT.
_A new Version, respectfully recommended to sundry whom it concerns._
More luck to honest poverty,
It claims respect, and a’ that;
But honest wealth’s a better thing,
We dare be rich for a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
And spooney cant and a’ that,
A man may have a ten-pun note,
And be a brick for a’ that.
What though on soup and fish we dine,
Wear evening togs and a’ that,
A man may like good meat and wine,
Nor be a knave for a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their fustian talk and a’ that,
A gentleman, however clean,
May have a heart for a’ that.
You see yon prater called a Beales,
Who bawls and brays and a’ that,
Tho’ hundreds cheer his blatant bosh,
He’s but a goose for a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,
His Bubblyjocks, and a’ that,
A man with twenty grains of sense,
He look and laughs at a’ that.
A prince can make a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a’ that,
And if the title’s earned, all right,
Old England’s fond of a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Beales’ balderdash, and a’ that,
A name that tells of service done
Is worth the wear, for a’ that.
Then let us pray that come it may
And come it will for a’ that,
That common sense may take the place
Of common cant and a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Who cackles trash and a’ that,
Or be he lord, or be he low,
The man’s an ass for a’ that.
SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1868.
――――:o:――――
IF A PROCTOR MEET A BODY.
“_Accusator erit qui verbum dixerit ‘Hic est.’_”
If a Proctor meet a body
Coming down the High,
If a Proctor greet a body
Need a body fly?
Every Proctor has his bulldog,
Dog of mickle might,
When he marches forth in full tog
At the fall of night.
Every bulldog, when he spies a
Man without a gown,
Promptly chases him and tries a-
Main to run him down.
From _Lays of Modern Oxford_, by Adon, 1874.
――――:o:――――
THE WALLACE TOWER
_The Auctioneer’s Address to his Audience._
“The Wallace Tower at Stirling cannot be completed for want of funds,
so the project is to be discontinued, and the materials are to be sold
by auction.”――_Scotch Papers._
Scots, wha won’t for Wallace bleed,
Scots, who’d see such humbug d’d,
Welcome; each condition read――
Then make bids to me.
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour,
Yon’s the rock, and yon’s the tower,
Ere it’s in the Sheriff’s power,
Pay the _£ s. d._
Wha would hear an English knave,
Just pretending to look grave,
Drawl, “Is that unfinished shave,
Place for shrimps and tea?”
Wha would see the cursed law,
Grab it in its cruel paw,
Sell up Wallace, Bruce and a’
Sae contemptuously?
By your sturdy Scottish brains,
By your wealth of Union games,
Shows that Scotland’s sense disdains
An anomalie.
Lay provincial pedants low,
Give the cant of Race a blow,
England’s one――and that you know――
One――from Thames to Dee.
SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1865.
――――:o:――――
GAELIC SPEECH; OR, “AULD LANG SYNE” DONE UP IN TARTAN.
Should Gaelic speech be e’er forgot,
And never brocht to min’,
For she’ll be spoke in Paradise
In the days of auld langsyne.
When Eve, all fresh in beauty’s charms,
First met fond Adam’s view,
The first word that he’ll spoke till her
Was “_cumar achum dhu_.”
And Adam in his garden fair,
Whene’er the day did close,
The dish that he’ll to supper teuk
Was always Athole brose.
When Adam from his leafy bower
Cam oot at broke o’ day,
He’ll always for his morning teuk
A quaich o’ usquebae.
An’ when wi’ Eve he’ll had a crack,
He’ll teuk his sneeshin’ horn,
An’ on the tap ye’ll well micht mark
A pony praw Cairngorm.
The sneeshin’ mull is fine, my friens――
The sneeshin’ mull is gran’;
We’ll teukta hearty sneesh, my friens,
And pass frae han’ to han’.
When man first fan the want o’ claes,
The wind an’ cauld to fleg.
He twisted roon’ about his waist
The tartan philabeg.
An’ music first on earth was heard
In Gaelic accents deep,
When Jubal in his oxter squeezed
The blether o’ a sheep.
The praw bagpipes is gran’, my friens,
The praw bagpipes is fine;
We’ll teukta nother pibroch yet,
For the days o’ auld langsyne!
――――:o:――――
ADDITIONAL VERSES TO “WILLIE BREW’D A PECK O’ MAUT.”
Thus Willie, Rab and Allan sang,
Thus pass’d the night wi’ mirth and glee,
And aye the chorus, a’ night lang,
Was, “As we’re now, we hope to be.”
And aye they sang, “We are nae fou,
But just a drappie in our e’e;
The cock may craw, the day may draw,
And aye we’ll taste the barley bree.”
That time for them the cock did craw,
The harbinger of morn to be;
That time for them the day did daw’,
Wi’ gouden tint o’er tour and tree.
And aye they sang, &c.
That time for them the moon’s pale horn
Did wax and wain o’er land and sea,
But now has dawn’d the hapless morn,
That gilds the grave o’ a’ the three,
Nae mair they sing “We are nae fou,
Nae mair the drappie’s in their e’e,
Nor cock does craw, nor day does daw’,
Nae mair they’ll taste the barley bree.”
Thus Learning makes for Willie main,
For Robin, Poesy wipes her e’e,
And Science wails for Allan gane,
Since death’s dark house hauds a’ the three.
Then Britons mourn for genius rare,
A’ victims o’ the barley bree,
And ban the bree that could na spare
The youthfu’ lives o’ a’ the three.
――――:o:――――
MY FOE.
John Alcohol, my foe, John,
When we were first acquaint,
I’d siller in my pockets, John,
Which noo, ye ken, I want;
I spent it all in treating, John,
Because I loved you so;
But mark ye, how you’ve treated me,
John Alcohol, my foe.
John Alcohol, my foe, John,
We’ve been ower lang together,
Sae ye maun tak’ ae road, John
And I will tak’ anither;
For we maun tumber down, John,
If hand in hand we go;
And I shall hae the bill to pay,
John Alcohol, my foe.
John Alcohol, my foe, John,
Ye’ve blear’d out a’ my een,
And lighted up my nose, John,
A fiery sign atween!
My hands wi’ palsy shake, John,
My locks are like the snow;
Ye’ll surely be the death o’ me,
John Alcohol, my foe.
John Alcohol, my foe, John,
T’was love to you, I ween,
That gart me rise sae ear’, John,
And sit sae late at e’en;
The best o’ friens maun part, John;
It grieves me sair, ye know;
But “we’ll nae mair to yon town,”
John Alcohol, my foe.
John Alcohol, my foe, John,
Ye’ve wrought me muckle skaith;
And yet to part wi’ you, John,
I own I’m unko’ laith;
But I’ll join the temperance ranks, John,
Ye needna say me no;
It’s better late than ne’er do weel,
John Alcohol, my foe.
_Home Tidings_, January, 1886.
――――
TED HENDERSON MY JO.
Ted Henderson,[45] my Jo, Ted,
When we were fast acquent,
On giving Bobbies martial drill
Your mind was wholly bent:
But burglars have revolvers now,
And mobs to riot go,
And Hugh thinks you behind the times,
Ted Henderson, my Jo.
Ted Henderson, my Jo, Ted,
It is a little hard
The men in blue you won’t review
Again in Scotland Yard.
That you were not alone to blame
Is what we all well know,
But take your pension and depart,
Ted Henderson my Jo.
_Moonshine_, March 13, 1886.
――――:o:――――
The following imitations are selected from some _New Temperance
Songs_, written by the Rev. R. S. Bowie, of Glasgow:――
THE WIFE’S APPEAL.
Tune――“_O Willie brewed a Peck o’ Maut._”
O never touch the drunkard’s cup,
It drumly makes your sparkling e’e,
And changes a’ your features sae,
My kind gudeman nae mair I see.
Then get na fou’, no, ne’er get fou’,
Aye keep the wee drap oot your e’e;
And at cock-craw, when day does daw,
You’ll blyther far than drunkards be.
Ne’er waste your hours wi’ _merry_ boys,
Who to strong drink for pleasure flee;
For if at night they _merry_ be,
You know the pains next morn they dree.
Then get na fou’, etc.
“The moon, that frae her silver horn,
Pours radiance over tower and tree,”
Should never shine “to wile folk hame,”
Frae tipplin’ o’ the barley bree.
Then get nae fou’, etc.
Shun a’ the gilded snares o’ vice,
“The cuckold coward loon is he,”
Who dare not say that wee word No!
And act the man where’er he be.
Then get na fou’, etc.
――――
TIB’S SANG――“OOR TAM HAS JOINED THE TEMPLARS NOO.”
Tune――“_Duncan Gray._”
Oor Tam has joined the Templars noo,――
Ha, ha, the doing o’t!
Ne’er again ye’ll see him fou,――
Ha, ha, the doing o’t!
When a’ the lave tak’ to the drink,
An’ gar the change-house glasses clink,
While they themselves like howlets wink,
He ne’er thinks o’ preein’ o’t.
Takin’ drink baith late an’ ear’,――
Weary fa’ the brewing o’t!
Aft he made oor hearts richt sair,――
Weary fa’ the brewing o’t!
But what cared he for wife an’ weans――
For a’ oor sighs and heavy granes!
We micht as weel ha’ saved oor pains,――
He couldna see the meanin’ o’t.
Drink had seared his heart within,――
Weary fa’ the brewing o’t!
He ne’er was pleased till he was blin’,――
Weary fa’ the brewing o’t!
His wife and weans micht hungry be;
Tam ne’er cared a single flee,
As lang’s he’d got the barley bree.――
Weary fa’ the brewing o’t!
Hame he reeled fu’ late at nicht,――
Weary fa’ the brewing o’t!
Gi’ein’ wife an’ weans a fricht,――
Weary fa’ the brewing o’t!
An’ when ance atowre the door,
He wad stamp, an’ shout, an’ roar;
Oh! it was an unco splore,――
Weary fa’ the brewing o’t!
Noo, oor hame’s a heaven on earth,――
Ha, ha, the doing o’t!
Life, in sooth, is something worth,――
Ha, ha, the doing o’t!
We’re a’ weel clad frae tap to tae,
An’ meat in plenty, too, we ha’e,
An’ something for a rainy day,――
Ha, ha, ha, the doing o’t!
Wha wad thocht to see me here,――
Ha, ha, the doing o’t!
Singing sangs o’ hearty cheer,――
Ha, ha, the doing o’t!
Nae mair the weans an’ me think shame
To hear folk mention “daddy’s” name;
We’re prood our kinship noo to claim,――
Ha, ha, ha, the doing o’t!
――――
SONG OF THE SESSION.
There’s nought but talk on every han’;
On every night that passes, oh!
’Tis wonderful how Members can
Behave so much like Asses, oh!
Loud bray the Asses, oh!
Loud bray the Asses, oh!
While business wails amid debates;
And so the Session passes, oh!
All this delay, from day to day
Arrears of work amasses, oh!
By sum on sum, till August’s come,
When Statesmen look like Asses, oh!
Loud, &c.
The Income Tax upon our backs,
With leaden weight is pressing, oh!
And Ireland’s grief demands relief,
The Debtor’s wrongs redressing, oh!
Loud, &c.
The Poor-Law Bill is standing still,
While Gentlemen are jawing, oh!
At fists and foils, in private broils,
Each other clapper-clawing, oh!
Loud, &c.
Give them their hour to spend at night,
In altercation dreary, oh!
And England’s good, and England’s light,
May gang all tapsalteerie, oh!
Loud, &c.
Although the above lines appeared in _Punch_ more than forty years
ago, they apply almost equally well to the present Parliament.
[Illustration]
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
THE LAST DUKE.
(After _The Last Man_.)
All selfishness must meet its doom;
Humbug itself must die,
Before the Dukes give us their room
’Stead of their company.
I saw a vision in my sleep,
Of Tainboffcoon, a fearful heap,
And Belgian cattle prime:――
I saw the last of Ducal race,
Who in the steamer took his place,
To seek a foreign clime.
His Grace had quite a bilious air;
His cheek with woe was wan;
The Ducal glories center’d were,
All in that lonely man!
Some had gone to Boulogne――the hands
Of mortgagees were on their lands――
To Rome and Baden some;
The House of Peers was drear and dead,
And _Punch_ himself as dull as lead,
Now that the Dukes were dumb.
Yet, donkey-like that lone one stood,
In seediness still high,
And, turning on the pier of wood
To England gave good bye:
Saying, “Thou hast set, my country’s sun!
Thou may’st shut up――the thing is done;
The Dukes are forc’d to go;
The Corn Laws, that for eighteen years
Have kept up rents and paid the Peers,
Have fallen at a blow!
“What though beneath them we had dearth,
And no reward for skill?
What though the tillers of the earth
Their bellies ne’er could fill?
Henceforth to men in toil grown grey,
The new coat with its buttons gay,
No Ducal hand imparts――
Henceforth no Duke shall teach the throng,
With curry-powder warm and strong,
To cheer the labourers’ hearts.
“But I, for one, won’t vote supplies
To men who thus conspire
To lower the Duke in vulgar eyes,
And poke fun at the Squire.
I quit my country, doomed to death;
Hard soil, where first I drew my breath,
Where long I ruled the roast;
I’ll take the Corn-Laws for a pall,
And, wrapping them around me, fall――
Wept by the _Morning Post_!
“Go, JOHN――the steam will soon be up,
A sandwich I would taste;
I shall be too sea-sick to sup――
Unto SIR ROBERT haste;
Tell that man to his brazen face,
Thou saw’st the last of Ducal race
Quitting this classic spot,
PEEL and Potato-blight defy
To make him hold his tongue, or try
To talk aught else but ‘rot’!”
_Punch_, 1846.
(The Duke of Richmond opposed the repeal of the Corn Laws, and
declared that if they were repealed, landed proprietors would be
driven out of the country.)
――――
THE LAST MAN.
(_A Study after Campbell._)
The Park has quite a sickly glare,
The trees are brown as tan,
The spectres of the season are
Around that lonely man.
His world has vanished――ah, ’tis hard,
He cannot find a single card
For party on the lawn,
For picnic, flower show, or dance;
To Greece, Spain, Italy, and France
Or Cyprus they have gone.
Sad and perplexed the lone one stood,
And muttered with a sigh,
“I have no friends by field or flood,
By moor or mountain high.
The opera’s over, Goodwood done,
And sport with fishing-rod or gun
Alone is very slow.
Until the ‘Upper Ten’ appear,
About the closing of the year,
I know not where to go.
“And wearily each moment flies,
For stale amusements tire;
An idle man’s in agonies
When seasons thus expire.
Belgravia is as still as death,
And in Mayfair I hold my breath;
Or on some absent host
Make quite unnecessary calls;
Or haply in familiar halls
I linger like a ghost.”
He sought the club――“Bring claret cup
Oh, waiter, and with haste;
Something to keep my spirits up
In mercy let me taste.
And if a pilgrim seeks the place
Tell him the last swell of his race
This afternoon hath trod,
The squares, the drives, and Rotten Row,
And met no single belle or beau
To greet his listless nod.”
_Funny Folks_, August 24, 1878.
――――:o:――――
THE SONG OF THE FIRST LORD OF THE ADMIRALTY.
(The Earl of Ellenborough.)
Ye mariners of England,
I’ll thank you if you please,
To come and tell me something of
The service of the seas:
I’ve something heard of horse marines
But nothing do I know;
Though a trip in a ship
I to India once did go.
If enemies oppose me,
And say I’m very far
From being what I ought to be,
I’ll say that others are.
So come, brave tars, and teach me
A vessel for to know:
If the heel is the keel――
Or abaft means down below.
Then courage, all you admirals,
And never be dismay’d,
For I’m a bold adventurer,
That never learnt my trade.
Our ministers employ me
To vote for them, you know;
Then be bold, when you’re told
That by interest things go.
Then here’s a health to Wellington,
Who made of me the choice;
And to his worthy colleagues bold,
Who scorn the public voice.
Tell France and tell America
They may begin to crow;――
While I reign o’er the main
Is the time to strike a blow.
_Punch_, January, 1846.
(The Earl of Ellenborough was sent to India, as Governor-General, in
1842, and remained there till 1844. On his return there was some
difficulty to find a place in the Government for him. By Sir Robert
Peel he was appointed First Lord of the Admiralty, a post which he
probably owed to the friendship and interest of the Duke of
Wellington.)
THE RAILWAYS GROSS MISMANAGEMENT;
Or, The Complaint of the “Engine-driver” versified.
(_Written in_ 1847, _when Railways were in their infancy_.)
You Managers of Railways,
Who meet to talk and dine,
Ah! little do you think upon
The dangers of the line;
Give ear unto your engineers,
And they will plainly show
All the wrack, which, alack!
From mismanagement doth flow.
All who are engine-drivers
Must have tremendous pluck,
For when you get upon your seat
You trust your life to luck;
You must not be faint-hearted
For crash or overthrow,
And the spills from the ills
Of mismanagement that flow.
Sometimes our trains are mixed up,
Of common sense in spite,
With several heavy carriages,
And others that are light;
Out rolls the train, and no man
What next may come can know;
And whate’er happens here
From mismanagement doth flow.
But our worst source of peril
By far, is when we find
An engine put before the train,
And one to push behind;
Then jamm’d and crush’d together
Of carriages the row
Oft will be――which, you see,
From mismanagement doth flow.
Unto our trains of breaksmen
There is a shameful lack;
And hence it is our lives and limbs
So often go to wrack,
For want of due assistance
Our peril when we know:
This defect from neglect
And mismanagement doth flow.
Ye legislative sages!
On you it is we call!
For as for our proprietors,
Gain is their all in all,
Which, for the public safety,
They somewhat must forego,
Or your bills stop those ills
From mismanagement that flow.
_Punch_, 1847.
――――
“A great deal more attention will have to be given than heretofore by
the agriculturists of England, and perhaps even Scotland, to the
production of fruits, vegetables and flowers. You know that in
Scotland a great example of this kind has been set in the cultivation
of strawberries.”――Mr. Gladstone at West Calder, Nov. 27, 1879.
Ye husbandmen of Scotland,
Who till our native soil,
How vain your high-class farming!
How profitless your toil!
Your fields of grain are humbug,
Your flocks and herds are “bam”――
Go cultivate the strawberry,
And make it into jam!
* * * * *
――――
THE LIBERALS OF ENGLAND.
(Campbell’s “_Mariners of England_” applied to recent events.)
Ye Liberals of England
Who vote by land and seas,
Who stamped your names in other years,
On Parliament’s decrees――
Your glorious party launch again
To meet its ancient foe,
And sweep, swift and deep,
And no hesitation know,
Till a Liberal army, brave and strong,
Shall Tories overthrow.
The great deeds of your fathers
Still speak from many a grave;
For the Commons was their field of fame,
Their native land to save.
Again let noble Gladstone tell,
While every heart doth glow,
How to leap o’er the deep
Machinations of the foe,
Till England echoes with the song
Of the Tory overthrow.
Britannia needs no bulwarks
On every savage steep;
At keeping rebel hordes in awe
Small glory will she reap.
She smiles at “Foreign Policy,”
While “Peace and Honour” grow,
And Jingoes roar abroad no more
About a savage foe.
But John Bull sees ’twixt right and wrong,
Through the Tory overthrow.
The Liberal strength of England
Shall fill the voting urns,
Till Tory fictions fade away,
And common sense returns.
Then, then, ye Liberal warriors,
The song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
And the glory of the blow
That struck a Sham with the force of Truth,
And laid the Tories low.
_Funny Folks_, April 17, 1880.
――――:o:――――
THE LANDLORD’S FAREWELL.
A respectful Perversion of _The Exile of Erin_.
There came to the beach a poor landlord of Erin,
The _due_ on his rent-roll was heavy and chill,
For his garments he sighed, for they needed repairin’,
While the boots on his feet were just “tenants-at-will;”
But a steamer attracted his eye’s sad devotion,
And he thought as he watched it glide over the ocean,
“There’s one thing that keeps my poor grinders in motion,
And that’s emigration from “Erin-go-Bragh.”
“Sad is my fate!” groaned the purple-nosed stranger,
To beg I’m ashamed, and to dig I don’t agree;
I have no refuge from famine and danger
But to set up a pub in the Land of the Free.
Never again, at the midnight’s small hours,
Shall I swig the old port in those well-furnished bowers,
Which my grandfather got from the governing powers,
When penal laws flourished in Erin-go-bragh.
Erin, my country! you’ll soon be forsaken
By all the respectable landlords of yore;
Then will those rascally tenants awaken,
With their nose to some grindstone they knew not before.
Oh, cruel fate, could you ever replace me
In my seat in the House, where no bagman could chase me;
I’d vote for Coercion――though Healy should face me――
And prove my relations were hanged by the score!
Where is my hunting lodge, deep in the wild wood
(Hounds that are poisoned can’t answer the call),
Where are the tenants I bullied since childhood?
And where are my rack-rents? They’re gone to the wall.
Ah, my sad pocket ’tis easy to measure,
Land Leagues and lawsuits exhausted your treasure,
Fifty per cent. I’d abate now with pleasure
But the devil a ha’penny they’ll give me at all!
New Year is here now, and creditors pressing,
One dying wish! ere I’m forced to withdraw
Davitt! a landlord bequeaths thee his blessing,
(’Tis all that you’ve left him in Erin-go-Bragh).
And (in my shirt-sleeves across the broad ocean)
I’ll pray for Parnell who put voters in motion,
And filled their thick heads with this new-fangled notion
That leaves them the masters of Erin-go-Bragh.
M. O’BRIEN.
From _The Irish Fireside_, February 6, 1886.
――――:o:――――
THE ESCAPE OF THE ALDERMEN.
(_After The Battle of the Baltic._)
Sing the adventure rare
Of those worthies of renown,
The Right Honourable LORD MAYOR
Of great London’s famous town,
And the Sheriffs, and the Aldermen, at large
On diversion they were bent,
And on junketting intent;
So they up the river went
In their barge.
Like porpoises afloat
Roll’d their Worships in their craft,
In that truly jolly boat
It was merry fore and aft:
The thirtieth of September was the day,
They were sitting at dessert,
With their waistcoats all ungirt,
So extremely full of tur-
-tle were they.
MICHAEL GIBBS was in his chair,
In his chair of civic state;
And the Sheriffs near him were,――
The elect as well as late;
And the Aldermen the board were sitting round,
As they drifted up the tide,
In their cabin big and wide,
Each took care of his inside,
I’ll be bound.
In a moment from his seat
Was the MAYOR OF LONDON thrown,
And the Aldermen――like wheat
By the sickle newly mown:
And the Sheriffs four were stretched their length along,
And the mace joined in the fall,
With decanters, plates and all,
Which the company did sprawl
Prone among.
Out bawled his Lordship then,
And the Corporation, too,
Loudly raised those Aldermen
Of affright the wild halloo:――
“What’s the matter, what’s the matter” was the cry;
And the answer to their shout
Was “Quick! put the barge about;
Now, you fellow there, look out,
For your eye!”
And then it did appear,
By bad steering, or bad luck,
The barge against a pier
Of Westminster Bridge had struck:
Their escape was most miraculous, indeed,
Now, your Worships, have a care
Who your navigators are
When on board you next repair
For a feed.
_Punch_, 1845.
――――:o:――――
OH! IN LONDON
To London ere the sun is low,
The unemployed in thousands go,
Where the Trafalgar fountains flow,
Like Hyndman speaking rapidly.
But London saw another sight,
When Hyndman bade his friends unite
To make o’erladen shops more light
Of their superfluous jewelry.
By word and gesture fast arrayed,
Whitechapel thieves of ev’ry grade――
Who rushed upon their westward raid
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the streets to riot given,
Then rushed King Mob to havoc driven,
And louder than the bolts of Heaven
They roared in all their devilry.
But more defiant yet they grow,
As down South Audley Street they go,
Bottles and legs of mutton throw
In Socialistic bravery.
The havoc deepens! On, ye brave,
To win no glory――risk no grave――
Wave, Riot, thy red banner wave,
And charge with East-end chivalry.
’Tis eve, and all the damage done,
Police stroll up to see the fun,
And from each thousand capture one
Who joined not in the knavery.
Few, few shall smart, tho’ many meet,
And carpenters and glaziers greet
A day dear to South Audley Street,
The famous eighth of February.
HYDE PARKER.
[Illustration]
CORONATION LAYS.
(_Picked up in the Crowd_.)
An article, having the above title, appeared in the _New Monthly
Magazine_, July, 1831. It referred to the forthcoming coronation of
King William IV. and Queen Adelaide, which took place on September 8,
1831. The scraps of poetry were supposed to proceed from the pens of
Sir Walter Scott, Thomas Campbell, S. T. Coleridge, W. Wordsworth,
L.E.L. (Miss Landon), the Rev. G. Crabbe, Thomas Moore, Thomas Hood,
and Robert Southey, then Poet Laureate. As the imitations of Scott and
Campbell lead the way, the article may as well be inserted here. The
little introductory notices alluding to Moore’s well-known love of a
Lord, Southey’s objection to write the official odes hitherto expected
from the Poet Laureate, &c., sufficiently indicate the authors
referred to. Some of the imitations are not very striking, and those
on Crabbe and L.E.L. might perhaps have been omitted as possessing
little to interest the modern reader. However, the whole of the poetry
is given, the comments only having been slightly shortened.
THE LAY OF THE LOST MINSTREL.
(_Sir Walter Scott._)
[A tall “stalwart figure,” with a good-humoured Scotch face, a
sturdy-looking stick, and a style of dress indicative of something
between the farmer and the philosopher, should be represented seated
upon a pile of novels, marked “fiftieth edition,” writing, with a pen
in each hand two volumes at once of a new work――at the same time
dictating a third to an amanuensis at his elbow.]
Long years have pass’d, since lyre of mine
Awoke the short and easy line
That now unbidden flows;
Tell, Constable, tell thou, how long
My steps have shunned the halls of Song,
And sent, for sundry reasons strong,
My pages, an uncounted throng,
To bear the train of Prose!
But now my harp anew is strung;
And eager grows my tuneful tongue,
Like panting steed that paws the earth,
To burst and tell its tale of mirth.
And visions float, like those that danced
Before my eyes, when George the Fourth,
Be-tartaned o’er, erewhile advanced
With knightly train, and quite entranced
The fondly-frantic North.
Again I see such glittering show,
Again such pageants gleam and go,
As well might form the golden theme
Of minstrel-song or morning-dream.
The last excursion formed, I ween,
To charm our gentle King and Queen,
Was on the tide of Thames;
A sight that few may e’er forget,
That bards, enrapt, are singing yet:
Then all the court, defying wet,
Embarked at House of Somerset;
But now the Royal party met
At Palace of St. James!
Sunny was that September morn;
And groups grotesque were there;
The beef-eaters――and those who scorn
To taste such vulgar fare――
And those again who daily mourn,
Condemned to dine on air.
Highest and lowest of the land
Were met, and saw no vacant stand;
Ladies with white and waving hand,
And troops, a fine mustachio’d band,
With brandished weapons bare.
And coachmen, comely, sleek, and big,
Beneath a curly world of wig;
And pages slim, a countless race,
So dazzlingly disguised in lace,
So like a line of dukes they stood,
That had their thousand mothers old
Beheld them in those suits of gold,
They had not known their blood.
Now, now the standard fondlier floats,
The cannons speak with hoarser throats,
And cheek of trumpeter denotes
The coming of the king!
Each lady now her kerchief throws,
Each exquisite with ardour glows,
Each treads upon his fellow’s toes,
And deems he sees the monarch’s nose,――
Ah! no, ’tis no such thing.
Yet hark! now, now in truth he comes,
He comes as sure as drums are drums;
The drums, the guns, the shouts, the cheers,
You hear――or you have lost your ears.
Let all look now, or look no more;
What stands at yonder palace-door?
Gaze, wonderers, gaze; a coach-and-eight
Is passing through that palace-gate――
A coach of gold, with steeds of cream,
It moves, the marvel of a dream.
With coursers six, are some that bring
The suite and kindred of the King;
Bold Sussex, honest Duke;
And him, the darling of renown,
A nation’s idol, hope and crown,
Great Cumberland――whom yet the town
Salutes with sharp rebuke.
And not one lazy lacquey there
But glance of rapture drew,
Like tinselled hero at the fair
Of old Bartholomew.
Some rode, some walk’d, some trumpets blew,
Some were with wands and some without;
And all along the line of view
From pavement and from housetop too
Rose one continual shout;
That Charles the First at Charing-cross
His head, amazed, might seem to toss.
Rang all the Mall with needless noise,
From topmost Sams to Moon and Boys!
――――:o:――――
THE SHOW IN LONDON.
(THOMAS CAMPBELL.)
[Let the design represent a middle-sized and middle-aged poet, habited
in blue, with buttons bearing the initials “P.L.U.C.” He must be
leaning on an anchor, reading the last account of the capture of
Warsaw. His books must be numerous and classical, but none bound in
Russia, as it reminds him of despotism. A volume of his own poems
should be lying before him, opened at “Hohenlinden,” as that exquisite
composition has evidently suggested the idea of his new one, called
“The Show in London.”]
In London when the funds are low,
And state-distresses deeper grow,
The rule is this――to have a show,
Designed with strict economy.
We here this cheapened show have had;
Who now shall deem the nation sad!
Distress was there superbly clad,
And Sorrow stalked not shabbily.
All, all the troops were out; who choose
To read the list their time may lose;
The gaudy Guards, the Oxford Blues,
Besides the Surrey Yeomanry.
And many a line of Foot appears,
With drummer-boys and pioneers,
And last, the Loyal Volunteers,
The drollest of the Infantry.
Not last; for of the New Police
Behold how one, in pure caprice,
The hat knocks off――to keep the peace――
Of idler, answering snarlingly.
That morn was seen by all the town
King William’s brow without a crown;
But ere yon autumn sun went down,
’Twas circled most expensively.
The Debt still deepens. Could we save
A trifle, Hume might cease to rave.
Waive, Rundell, half your profits waive,
And charge as low as possible.
Few, few shall gain where many pay;
The people must the cost defray,
And give their guineas too to-day
For seats to see the pageantry.
――――:o:――――
THE ANCIENT MARINER.
(_S. T. Coleridge._)
[The author of “The Ancient Mariner,” should be delineated after the
poet’s definition of him, as a “noticeable man with small grey eyes.”
A crowd of listeners should be around him, catching up with eagerness
and ecstasy every syllable as it falls from his lips; and in a corner
of the room there might be one or two persons reading his works,
apparently puzzled at times to make out his meaning. On the walls
should be representations of a giant devoting his life to catching
flies; of a philosopher straying on the sea-shore to pick up shells,
while the sails of the vessel that was to waft him to his home are
scarcely to be descried in the distance.]
The sun it shone on spire and wall,
And loud rang every bell;
Wild music, like a waterfall,
Upon my spirit fell;
But the old grey Abbey was brighter than all,
Each spire was like a spell.
I breathed within that Abbey’s bound,
It was a hallowed spot;
The walls they seemed alive with sound,
And hues the sky hath not.
Good lord, my brain was spinning round,
And methought, I knew not what.
Eleven o’clock, eleven o’clock!
My spirit feels a passing shock;
Eleven o’clock――you heard the chime;
Oh! many shall see the King this time.
My very heart it seems to sing,
And it leapeth up to see the King.
What flattering music meets his ear,
What loving voices greet!
He sitteth now in presence here,
With a nation at his feet.
And (joy for him!) he’s not alone;
Yon lady, look――_she_ shares his throne.
The bishops, a right reverend race,
Bring first, then take away,
Rare things of gold that through the place
Dispense a brighter day
They robe him next with a robe of grace,
The supertunica.
And many a ring, and staff, and sword,
He takes from many a mumbling lord,
Enwrapt in richest silk and fur;
On head and hand the oil is poured,
And now they touch his foot with a spur,
And crown that Ancyente Marynere!
Soon about the Queen they’ll stir,
Crowning William, crowning her.
To kiss the cheek, with aspects meek
Now on their knees the bishops fall;
Oh! every peer must kiss the cheek,
But great Lord Brougham the last of all.
Oh! yes, Lord Harry he came the last,
But the roof it rang as on he passed;
The people laugh, and the peers they stare
For they never had thought to have seen him there.
I guess ’twas curious there to see
A baron so oddly clad as he,
Ludicrous exceedingly.
――――:o:――――
SONNETS ON THE CORONATION.
By a Lyrist from the Lakes.
(_William Wordsworth._)
[Our Lyrist of the Lakes must be figured as an “old man eloquent” in
all that can interest and elevate our nature. He should be somewhat
tall, and somewhat drooping, with a head that scarcely seems to know
that there is a halo round it, an expression of quiet dignity and
simplicity of character, an unaffected familiarity of demeanour, and a
suit of _brown_, properly fitted for one whose studies are sometimes
of the same complexion. The white doe, the “solitary doe” of Rylstone,
might be playing in the back-ground, and it would not be amiss to have
a glimpse of the other solitary and immortal quadruped, that Peter
Bell encountered in the forest.]
NATIONAL HAPPINESS.
Oh! ardent gazers! happy, happy herd
Of creatures, who your parlours, back or front,
Have left in litters; and in scorn of Hunt
And all who once your darker feelings stirred,
Have risen this morning with the earliest bird――
Breakfastless haply, or with some such thing
As a dry biscuit satisfied; your King
May justly prize the crown this day conferred
Upon him, and for you his power employ,
Was ever love like this! That maiden pale
Was there at seven this morn; of cap and veil
Despoiled, yon matron laughs. Behold that boy
Loyally standing on a spiked rail.
Oh! what can damp a nation’s natural joy.
EFFECTS OF RAIN AT A CORONATION.
What, what but RAIN! When brightest shines the sun,
Now as the pageant gorgeous back returns,
Down, down it comes! Each honied aspect learns
The sour vexation; all delight is done.
The King is now forgotten. Many run
For shelter, where strange phrases (strange to me)
Of “perkins,” “meux,” and “barclay,” seem to be
Signs of glad welcome and of social fun.
Meanwhile each cloud some cherished comfort mars;
Those, envied, on the roofs, slide down again
Now envying those below, Rheumatic men,
With ague in perspective, curse their stars.
Wives, with their dresses dabbled, mourn the sum
Thus washed away, and wish they had not come.
THE SUBJECT CONTINUED.
The very soldiers fly: with dripping plumes
Depending, the whole staff, at furious pace,
Retreats, most tender of its limbs and lace.
On tiptoe creep the carriage-seeking grooms
Of many who, among the Abbey-tombs
Had prayed for a “long reign!” but not for showers
Like this that seems disposed to last for hours!
Oh! happy they who, shut within their rooms,
Were disappointed of their seats to-day!
’Tis wisely ordered that――――
* * * * *
I have forgot what I was going to say.
――――:o:――――
THE LITTLE ABSENTEE.
(_Miss L. E. Landon._)
[The only illustration to this contribution should be three
elegantly-ornamented letters “L.E.L.” Through the clouds in the
background might be dimly discerned a face, whose expression seems to
hover between Romance and Reality――that indicates a spirit bound by
every natural tie to the altar of song, yet stealing a sidelong look
at the shrine of prose, as if inclined to offer up half its worship
there.]
I see the bright procession wind
“Like a golden snake” along;
And I gaze around the Abbey, lined
With a proud and jewelled throng.
I see fair Lady Harrington;
And rich St. Albans, clad
In gems that drive, though ill put on,
The peeresses half mad.
The little princes too are there,
Those pure and pretty peers;
But oh! the scene, to others fair,
To me is dimmed with tears.
One speck upon this earthly sun,
That soon, alas! must fade,
One little spot, and only one,
Throws on my heart a shade.
Of all the myriads met to-day,
Oh! tell me which is she
The gentle child I saw at play
By Kensington’s green tree.
My eye it rests on every spot,
Ladye and cavalier;
But that fair child, I see her not
Of all the thousands here.
She is not here――the reason why[46]
Is neither there nor here;
At home she heaves the infant sigh,
And dries the childish tear.
The humblest maid will murmur when
Refused its cup of bliss;
How must a princess suffer then,
To lose a sight like this!
Thus, mid the rich magnificence,
A vision sad and wild
Presents unto my inmost sense
An image of that child.
――――:o:――――
A REFLECTION.
(_Rev. George Crabbe._)
[The author of this “Reflection,” who would have given a “Tale of the
_Hall_,” but that it happened to be closed this Coronation, should be
represented by a river side, moralizing on the state of some Crabs
that have just been captured, and quite insensible to the increasing
tide which is washing over him. He should be figured as a poet prone
to consider things “too curiously”――as one who, if he had a centipede
to describe, would dissect you every separate leg, and instruct you in
its anatomy; who would enlist your sympathies for a beggar by painting
the shape and colour of every patch upon his vest, and whose picture
of a battle would be merely the Army-List turned into rhyme. A
workhouse should be in the centre of the picture, with a prison on one
side, and an hospital on the other.]
Turn from the court your eyes, and then explore
Those gloomier courts where dwell the pining poor.
Just think what hungry families might dine
On that laced jacket, framed of superfine.
How large a nation may a little net
Confine――what traps are in those trappings set!
Will the King give, what he has gained, a crown,
To Jones, Clark, Thompson, Jackson, Smith, or Brown?
All penceless pockets theirs――the man with cakes
For them stands still, or eats the tarts he makes.
Yet see yon lady; fifty pearls at least
Circle her arms, and might an army feast.
That zone for which a princess might have pined,
Her waist confining, seems to waste consigned.
On those red coats, ten buttons meet the view;
Ten plated buttons; ten divide by two,
It leaves you five, and five we know would do.
These five, if sold, would buy yon lad a hat,
Provide a dinner, and a tea to that.
――――:o:――――
A MELODY. (MOORISH.)
(_Thomas Moore._)
“The Moor, I know his trumpet!”――OTHELLO.
[A very _small_ space will suffice for the present illustration. The
poet must be figured at his desk inditing an epistle, commencing with
“My dear Lord.” Volumes of poetry that exhibit signs of having been
read over and over again are thrown in profusion about him, mingled
with which are some biographies that seem to have been cast aside with
many of the leaves uncut. Invitations to dinner are piled before him,
with some resolutions proposing him as President of the Silver Fork
Club.]
There’s a beauty as bright as the sunshine of youth,
Or the halo that beams round the temples of truth;
An odour like that from the spring-lily thrown
When a breathing from Araby blends with its own.
But the lustre is not on that Peeress’s hair,
Though gems and a circlet of gold glisten there;
And the odour is not by that Exquisite cast,
Though his robe left a scent on the air as he pass’d.
This odour, ’tis not from the Abbey at all,
But breathes round the banquet in Westminster Hall;
This light, that outsparkles the courtliest class,
Is the dazzling of dishes, the glitter of glass.
Let, let but that lustre encircle me still!
’Tis the true light of love, we may say what we will.
Oh! give me a breath of that odour sublime,
It is worth all the flowers perfuming my rhyme.
* * * * *
No banquet, dear Lansdowne? no banquet to-day!
You cannot mean _that_!――I’ll appeal then to Grey.
My lord, you have blotted the beauty, while new,
Of the rainbow that rises round Althorp and you.
Your music should mix with the drawing of corks,
Your glory should gleam in the flashing of forks.
Economy charms me――but first I must dine;
You may tamper with all constitutions――but mine.
Let Lord What’s-his-title exult in his curls,
Let Lady The-other still dote on her pearls;
What is all this to me, who my loss must deplore
’Till the Dinnerless Administration be o’er!
No dinner!――not even a sandwich――――
[The poet was here overcome by his feelings. He was carried off in a
carriage decorated with a coronet, and was shortly afterwards set down
at a very satisfactory side-table.]
――――:o:――――
A GLANCE FROM A HOOD.
(_Thomas Hood._)
[Represent a grave and rather anti-pun-like looking person, turning
over the leaves of a pronouncing dictionary, and endeavouring to
extract a pun from some obstinate and intractable word, that everybody
else had discovered and abandoned years ago. Now and then he finds
something that repays him, not because it is good but because it is
new. If unsuccessful, he puts the first word he comes to in _italics_,
and leaves the reader to fasten any joke upon it he pleases.]
He comes, he comes! the news afar
Is spread by gun and steeple;
He seems (what many princes are)
The _Father_ of his People.
That echoing cheer――it rises higher
And seems to reach the stars;
No Life-Guard escort he requires
Who meets with such _Huzzas_!
A poet-King; nay, do not scoff!
The Monarch hath his _Mews_;
Like those whose pensions he cuts off,
He’s followed by the _Blues_.
Yet some our King and Queen must hate,
For see, besides a star,
Their houses they illuminate
With “W. A. R.”
He’s near the Abbey; on the air
The guns their echoes threw;
And now the bishops make him swear
To mind _their_ canons too.
That organ seems on _ours_ to play
As if our love to nourish;
Be ruined by reform who may,
Those trumpeters must _flourish_.
A crown is brought, they make him King;
A King! why they mistake;
_Two_ crowns, each child must know the thing,
But _half_ a sovereign make.
Well, he is ours; along the way
He hears his people’s vow;
And as he goes, he seems to say,
“Your _Bill_ is passing now!”
――――:o:――――
THE LAUREATE’S LAY.
(_Robert Southey_, Poet Laureate.)
[The Laureate’s Lay will of course exist only in a blank page. His
lyre hath no chord left. He hath taken out a patent in the Court of
Apollo, for treating birthdays and coronations with contempt. He basks
in the sunshine of idleness――the poetical privilege of doing nothing,
except calling at the treasury once a-year. As he could not be
conveniently omitted among the contributors to this collection, some
emblematic device may be introduced――a chamelion, or a rainbow: or you
may paint him, if you will, glancing back upon the light of his
earlier years, and paraphrasing the story of “Little Wilhelmine” and
the “famous victory:”――
“They say it was a splendid sight,
Such sums were lavished then,
Although the nation at the time
Was full of famished men;
But things like _that_, you know, must be
At every famous pageantry.
“Much praise our gentle Monarch won,
And so did Grey and Brougham;”
“_But what good came of it at last_,”
Quoth simple Mr. Hume.
“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he,
“But ’twas a famous pageantry.”
[Illustration]
MR. BARNUM’S EXPERIENCE OF TRAVELLING IN ENGLAND.
The way was short, the wind was cold,
The voyage on Mr. B. had told;
His yielding knees, his tottering gait,
Showed what had lately been his fate;
His sunken eyes, his face so pale,
Bespoke the scarcely-finished gale.
His bag, in which he took such joy,
Was carried by a dockside boy;
And undistributed remained
The store of handbills it contained.
He had not far to go to gain
The platform where the London train
Stood waiting, and with wistful eye
He saw his welcome bourne so nigh;
And soon sank down, with yearning face,
Into the nearest vacant place.
It was a dark and fusty den,
In which were huddled several men,
Who gave, as Barnum came, a groan,
Which died away into a moan,
As, with their chins close to their knees,
They watched their new companion squeeze
Into his seat, and try in vain
Room for his legs, or arms to gain.
When he had struggled moments twain,
His wrath, which he could not restrain,
Impelled him suddenly to rise;
But no, he found, to his surprise,
’Twas useless, he was now, alas!
Part of a packed and groaning mass.
And as he, too, felt weak and ill,
He gave one groan and sat him still;
Till, moved by his increasing ire,
He cried, “Allow me to enquire
If we poor victims truly are
Now seated in a first-class car?”
“We are!” they moaned, then Barnum said,
“I’m sure I’d much prefer instead
Inside a cattle-truck to ride!”
“You’re right!” his fellow martyrs cried.
“Then why,” exclaimed P. Barnum “then,
If you are true, brave Englishmen,
Do you submit without a battle
To thus be served far worse than cattle?”
Then, strengthened by his indignation,
He uttered this denunciation:――
“BREATHES there a man that England’s bred,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is a scandal to my land?
Whose wrath has not within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned
From travelling on a foreign strand,
When he’s been put to ache and freeze
In such disgraceful trucks as these?
If such there be, one soon can tell
That ’tis the shares he holds impel
Him to condone the line’s disgrace;
Or ’cause connection he can trace
With some large holder of its scrip,
Or one on its directorship.
That any other man of sense
Should find conceivable pretence
So great an outrage to defend
Does probability transcend.”
_Truth, Christmas Number_, 1883.
The Christmas Number of _Truth_, 1877, contained a parody on
_Lochinvar_, concerning the appointment of Mr. Digby Piggott, as
controller of the stationery office, by Lord Beaconsfield. This was
characterised, at the time, as a gross piece of jobbery, but the
subject has lost all interest now, and the parody was not a
particularly good one.
[Illustration]
Charles Kingsley.
_Born June_ 12, 1819. _Died January_ 23, 1875.
CHARLES KINGSLEY.
Charles Kingsley, rector of Eversley, was born June 12, 1819, at Holne
Vicarage, Dartmoor, Devonshire, and died January 23, 1875. His poems,
though comparatively few in number, are marked by much power, pathos,
and originality. The two which have most frequently suffered parody
are _The Three Fishers_, and the _Ode to the North-East Wind_.
THE THREE FISHERS.
Three fishers went sailing away to the West,
Away to the west as the sun went down;
Each thought of the woman who loved him best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town.
For men must work, and women must weep,
And there’s little to earn and many to keep,
Though the harbour bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down
They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.
But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbour bar be moaning.
Three corpses lay out on the shining sands
In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands
For those who will never come home to the town.
For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner it’s over, the sooner to sleep;
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.
CHARLES KINGSLEY.
――――
AN OLD FRIEND IN A NEW DRESS.
Three merchants went riding out into the west,
On the top of the bus, as the sun went down;
Each talked of his wife, and how richly she drest,
And the growing circumference of her new gown;
For wives must dress, and husbands must pay,
And there’s plenty to get, and little to say,
While the Milliner’s Bill is running.
Three wives sat up in JANE CLARKE’S for hours.
And they told her to put every article down,
They ordered the silks, and they ordered the flowers
And the bill it kept rolling up, gown upon gown;
For wives must dress, and husbands _will_ pay,
Though perhaps they will be in a terrible way
When they’re dunned for the Bill that is running.
Three Bankrupts were figuring in the Gazette
On a Tuesday night when the sun went down,
And the women were weeping and quite in a pet,
For the dresses they never will show to the town;
For wives _will_ dress, though husbands _can’t_ pay,
And Bankruptcy’s surely the pleasantest way
To get rid of the bill and the dunning.
This parody, with three appropriate illustrations, appeared in
_Punch_, November 27, 1858.
――――
THE FOUR FISHERS,
(Who caught nothing)
Four Merchants who thought themselves wisest and best
Of all the folks in Liverpool town,
To the EMPEROR LOOEY a letter addressed,
Intended to do him uncommonly brown:
“We’ll sound his plans so dark and so deep,
From Liverpool brokers no secret he’ll keep,”
Said they, in their Lancashire toning.
Four Boobies went sniggering round all day
Among the folks in Liverpool town,
And thinking that none were so clever as they,
And how they should come to a great renown:
“We’ll strike LORD PALMERSTON all of a heap,
And show we can catch a French weasel asleep,”
Said they, their impertinence owning.
Four asses they hung down their lollopping ears,
When the post came in to Liverpool town,
And brought them a letter whereof it appears
Those donkeys could’nt translate a noun.
For LOOEY knows well how his secrets to keep,
And the Liverpool brokers unluckily reap
A harvest of jeering and groaning.
_Punch_, December 17, 1859.
(During the ridiculous panic about a supposed imminent French invasion
in 1859, four Liverpool gentlemen wrote a letter to Napoleon III.
asking him to publicly declare what his intentions were towards
England.)
――――
THE LASHER AT IFFLEY.
Eight coveys went out in their college boat,
And they feathered their oars as the water they cut,
Each thought of the races, and what they would do,
And Harvey stood watching them out of the gut.
For men must row and coxswains must steer,
And carefully too, as the races draw near,
While the lasher at Iffley is moaning.
These eight coveys went into training one day,
And they trimmed their boat, though at first it felt queer
Their pipes and their baccy were soon put away,
And they stuck to their steaks, and their chops, and their beer;
For men must train and coxswains must steer,
And if they don’t train they’ll get bumped I fear,
While the lasher at Iffley is moaning.
The races came on, and the guns went off,
The crew now are spurting――the boat does jump,
Their friends too are shouting, and waving their hats
For those who will never submit to a bump.
For men must spurt, and never say die,
And when their strength fails, on their pluck must rely,
While the lasher at Iffley is moaning.
The races are past, and the bumps are made,
The crew have been cheered, and the supper is won,
The pipes and the baccy are quickly renewed,
“The Eight” is deserted――the puntings begun.
For men must rest, and races must cease,
But Isis’ fair stream can ne’er be at peace
While the lasher at Iffley keeps moaning.
H. F. B.
_College Rhymes_, 1861. W. Mansell, Oxford.
――――
HOW THREE FISHERS WENT SALERING.
Three mothers sat talking who lived at the west,
The west end――as that eldest son went down,
Each thought him the husband that she liked the best,
For the girl who had watched him all over the town,
For men must pay or women weep
And their dress is expensive, and many to keep,
And their mothers are always wo-o-ning.
Three gentlemen lounged at the club-house door,
And they thought of those girls as the funds went down;
They thought of their bankers and thought them a bore,
And of bills that came rolling in “ragged and brown.”
But men must pay or women will weep――
Though debts be pressing――still mothers are deep,
And keep up a constant wo-o-ning.
Three gentlemen lay in three separate cells――
The last season’s “necessities” pulled them down――
And the women are weeping and ringing their bells,
For those who will never more show upon town,
For men must pay or women will weep,
And the sooner you do it the sooner you’ll sleep
And good-bye to the ma, and her wo-o-nings.
_Punch_, August 24, 1861.
――――
THE THREE FRESHMEN.
Three freshmen went loafing out into the High,
Out into the High, as the sun went down;
Each thought on his waistcoat and gorgeous tie;
And the nursemaids stood watching them all the way down.
For men won’t work, and their mothers must weep,
For nothing they earn, and their ticks run deep,
Though the College Dons be moaning.
Three townsmen met them near Magdalen Tower;
And the freshmen came up, and the sun went down;
And a battle ensued for the space of an hour,
And a bull-dog came running up, breathless and blown.
For when Townsmen meet gownsmen there’s always a riot,
And bull-dogs come sudden, some mischief to spy out,
While the College Dons are moaning.
The Proctors came up in their shining bands,
And they asked them their names, and they sent them down.
And their mothers are weeping and wringing their hands,
For those who will never come back to the town.
For men go to grief, and their mothers must pay,
And the sooner its over the better for they;
So good-bye to the Dons and their moaning.
DUNS SCOTUS.
_College Rhymes_, 1865. T. and G. Shrimpton, Oxford.
――――
THE THREE FELLAHS.
Three fellahs went out to a house in the west,
To a ball in the west as the sun went down;
Each thought how the women would like his new vest,
And the street-boys stood chaffing them walking thro’ town.
For men must flirt, and women will weep
If they can’t get a husband whose pocket is deep,
Though they don’t tell Pa what’s owing.
Three girls sat dressed to the best of their power,
And they trimmed their hair as the sun went down;
They thought of the ball, and they looked at the hour,
And the carriage came rolling up――coachman in brown――
For men must flirt, and women will weep
If they can’t get a husband whose pocket is deep,
Though they don’t tell Pa what’s owing,
Three swells are tied firmly in wedlock’s bands,
In the morning gleam as the ’bus went down;
And the women are laughing and shaking the hands
Of those who without them will ne’er leave the town.
But men should mind, and women are deep,
And the richer the husband the harder to weep,
And good-bye to the swells and their groaning.
_Judy_, September 4, 1867.
――――
THREE HUSBANDS.
Three husbands went forth from their homes in the West――
From their homes in the West to the City went down,
Each thought on the woman whom he loved best,
And said “shall I bring her to-night a gown?”
For men must work and women must dress,
Though it sometimes comes hard on the husband, I guess,
And gives rise to much grief and moaning.
Three wives sat up in a lady’s bower,
And each trimmed the dress that was brought from town,
Fixing here a ribbon, and there a flower;
And said one “’Twill look well trimmed with Bismarck brown,”
For men must work that women may dress,
And if it comes hard on the husbands I guess
It is not the least use their moaning.
Three husbands stood at the bankruptcy bar――
At the bankruptcy bar and their heads hung down,
For creditors pressing for dividends are
And three white-washed men will go forth to the town.
For if men must work that women may dress,
The former sometimes find themselves in a mess,
Which gives rise to tears and much moaning.
From _Banter_, edited by George Augustus Sala,
November 4, 1867.
――――
THREE CHILDREN WERE PLAYING.
Three children were playing, one day on the lawn,
One day on the lawn, ere the sun was high,
Their day had no shadow, their rose had no thorn,
Not one little cloud was abroad in the sky.
Their fathers were working when they were at play,
Though pleasant the season and early the day;
For the old world goes on rolling.
Three husbands once met in the street of a town,
In the street of a town as the crowd pass’d by;
And one had a heartache, and one was cast down,
And the other look’d gloomy, and said with a sigh,
“Yet we must toil that the children may play,
Though a night of disquiet oft follows the day;
And the old world goes on rolling.”
Three old men stood by the side of a tomb,
By the side of a tomb when the night drew nigh;
And they look’d to the westward, all shrouded in gloom,
But no beam of sunset was seen in the sky:
“Oh, let us to sleep; and the children will play
To-morrow at day break, when we are away:
For the old world goes on rolling.”
From _The Mocking Bird_, and other Poems, by Frederick
Field. J. Van Voorst, London, 1868.
――――
THREE STUDENTS.
Three Students sat writing with lips compressed
In a well-known house with their heads bent down;
Each thought of the “tip” that might serve him best,
And the Proctor came rustling up, all hood and gown.
For men must work, and little they’ll sleep,
If Dons be cruel, and papers be deep,
And the Church and Bar be waiting.
Three Dons sat sipping at something hot
By a flickering lamp when the sun went down;
They looked at each blunder, and crib phrase and “shot,”
And they marked down a D with a sigh and a frown.
For men must work――but little you’ll sleep
If a man with a cornet should under you keep,
And the Church and Bar be waiting.
Three travellers puffed out a fragrant cloud,
One Saturday morn when the sun went down;
Though they travelled first-class, you could see they
were ploughed,
And, oh! they were Robinson, Jones and Brown!
For men won’t work, and little they’ll sleep
If the wine be good, and tobacco be cheap,
Though the Church and Bar be waiting.
_The Cantab_, E. Johnson, Cambridge, 1873.
――――
THE THREE DINERS.
(_A Lay of Temple Bar in its present state, September_, 1874.)
Three gourmands invited were into the West,
Out of Cornhill by Lord Fitz-Brown;
They found they’d be late, and they thought it best
From Cheapside to cab it right into Town.
“For men will growl and women will weep,
If waiting for dinner my Lord we keep!”
Near Temple Bar they’re moaning.
They were blocked up in Fleet Street for nigh an hour,
And the lamps were lit as the sun went down;
They swore they’d walk, but there came a show’r:
’Twas long past the hour for Lord Fitz-Brown.
For cabs must walk and ’busses must creep,
Which causes a block from Fleet to Chepe,
While the Temple Bar is moaning.
Three “empties” drew up at Fitz-Brown’s house grand,
As the Devonshire cream and the tart went down;
And the ladies are smiling behind the hand
As the “empties” explain to Lord Fitz-Brown.
While cabs must crawl and ’busses must creep,
All long to say, from Fleet to Chepe,
“O, good-bye to the Bar and its moaning!”
_Punch_, September 26, 1874.
――――
THE THREE SKATERS.
Three ladies went skating at Prince’s one day,
And happy indeed were one and all;
For their hearts were light, and their dresses were gay,
But ’ere night they each had a terrible fall;
For women will skate, whate’er be their fate,
And its perfectly useless objections to state,
So heigh ho! for the rink and the skating.
Three husbands sat waiting for dinner that night,
And weary and hungry they were each one,
And the cook and the butler were both in a fright,
For they knew the fish would be overdone:
But men must wait, while women do skate,
And its just as well to put up with your fate,
So heigh ho! for the rink and the skating.
Three sufferers that night were brought home in alarm,
Bemoaning their fate with many a sigh;
One had broken her leg, another her arm,
And the third alas! had fractured her thigh:
For woman will skate, whate’er be their fate,
Though to mend we know it’s never too late,
So good-bye to the rink and the skating.
From _Idyls of the Rink_. Judd and Co, London, 1876.
――――
SONG ON CYPRUS, BY MR. GLADSTONE.
Three regiments went sailing away to the East――
Away to the East, to our Island new;
And the nearer they came their spirits increased,
For they were Englishmen brave and true:
For whilst we’ve an army our troops must fight;
And islands bought must be held by might,
In spite of the press’s groaning.
Three Regiments landed on Cyprus shores――
On Cyprus shores, there by Larnaca town;
And having no huts slept out of doors,
And a quarter next week were with fever down:
For officials will blunder, and men must die,
And it’s little use to be asking why;
For nought comes of the press and its groaning.
Three Regiments went sailing away to the West――
Away to the west, whence they first had come;
And none had escaped from the island’s pest,
But all were feeble, and limp and glum.
And soldiers must suffer and die, no doubt,
But why did they send those Regiments out?
Did they know at the time what they were about?
It’s for this that the press is groaning.
_Truth._ Christmas Number, 1878.
――――
THE THREE PRACTICAL MEN.
Three practical men went strolling West,
Out into the West as the Bar came down;
Each said to the workmen, “May you be blest,
For moving this obstacle out of the town!
For cabs still crawl, and ’busses still creep――
While stultified aldermen vainly weep,
Their ancient Bar bemoaning.”
Three barmaids stood in their gas-lit bower,
And filled each glass as the Bar came down;
And the practical gentlemen looked at the shower,
And the mud that was rolling up slimy and brown,
For men will drink, and women must keep
Replenishing beakers, while potions deep
Are quaffed to the Bar and its “boning.”
Three “lushingtons” lie in the roaring Strand,
’Neath the Law Courts’ shade as the Bar comes down,
And the barmaids are peeping――a giggling band――
For they know the police may be squared with a crown.
Ah! liquors are potent, and draughts are deep,
And the more you imbibe, why, the sooner you sleep,
An’ goo’-bye to th’ Bar an’s moaning!
_Funny Folks_, January 26, 1878,
――――
THE THREE PROFITS.
[“There must be three profits obtained from land.”――_Lord
Beaconsfield._]
“Three profits” had got to come out of the land――
Out of the land where the cash went down――
The farmer some capital still had in hand,
Which stood in his name at the bank in the town.
For rents fall due, and tenants must pay,
And there’s little quarter on Quarter-day
From the lord the land who’s owning.
Three landlords sat in an ancient hall,
And mourned the way that their rents went down!
“Three profits!” they cried. “It is _ours_ that fall!
Where once we’d a sovereign, _now_ we’ve a crown!
We have to live――and our farms won’t let!
And we can’t exist upon what we get――
So what use is the land we’re owning!”
Three farmers consulted about their lands――
Each face was sad with a thoughtful frown
The profits were _all_ paid to farming “hands”――
The profits were all in the land sunk down!
“Three profits!” they cried, “there’s not a doubt
Our landlords and we must go without,
And ‘Good-bye’ to our old farms owning!”
_Funny Folks_, October 18, 1879.
――――
WHEN WE WERE BOYS.
_By an Old Boy._
Three lambkins went larking there out in the west,――
Out in the west at the dawn of day;
At pulling of knockers they all did their best,
And the bobbies looked on in a bobbylike way.
For boys will be boys, and bobbies will bob,
And when you get cotched you get one on the nob,
If you’re out on the spree of a morning.
Three lambkins got lagged and were shut up in quod,
Twenty-six knockers the bobbies they found.
Mr. WOOLRYCH, he said that such conduct was odd,
And he mulct each poor lambkin of twenty-one pound;
For beaks will be beaks, though boys may be boys.
You must grin and must bear, not kick up a noise
At the court when you show in the morning.
A marquess, a colonel, a captain, and I
Forty years gone went out on the spree;
To every trick on the cards we were fly,
And now of the four alive there’s but me.
For night will come and man must die,
And we come, to look back half ashamed by and by
On what we thought fun in the morning.
_Judy_, March 19, 1879.
――――
THE THREE LAND AGITATORS IN IRELAND.
The following were selected, from over one hundred parodies sent in to
_The World_, as worthy of the first and second prizes:――
FIRST PRIZE.
Three rascals went ranting round in the West,
Disturbing old Ireland, country and town;
“Bedad, it’s the landlords is bastes at the best!
And if ever they drive ye for rent, shoot ’em down!”
For rogues must rant, and good men must weep,
With starvation to earn, and prison to keep,
And a cry for Freedom sounding.
Three captives sat in the prison drear,
And they longed for their pipes as the sun went down;
And they sniffed their stale loaves, and they begged for some beer,
And they swore at their mattrasses rugged and brown.
For rogues who rant in prison must weep,
And planks are knotty, and treadmills are steep,
Though Freedom’s echoes be sounding.
Three cropped heads fresh from the barber’s shears,
Three bowls of thin gruel as salt as the sea,
Three curses on Parnell, three strong men in tears,
“Me boys, ye are marthers to Fradom!” says he.
For fools must smart, and victims must weep,
And the harder the mattrass the later to sleep,
So good-bye to the three in their “pounding.”
GOBO.
――――
SECOND PRIZE.
Three land agitators went down to the West,
Went down to the West, where the storm-clouds rise;
Each thought of fair Erin, the land of unrest,
And of fair Erin’s children, so poor, so unwise.
For times are hard, and harvests are bad,
And there’s little to comfort and little to glad,
And Famine’s throes impending.
Three men spoke up to the Gurteen throng,
And they trimmed their words by Home-Rule light;
They railed at the landlords, they raved about wrong,
And curses came rolling up black as the night,
For times are hard, and harvests are bad,
And troubles are many, and hearts grow sad,
With treason’s woes impending.
Three captives lay prisoned in Sligo jail,
Away in the West where the sun goes down;
And men mutter fiercely, and women bewail,
And Erin――poor Erin!――must reap the crop sown,
For times are hard and harvests are bad,
And famine and treason make misery mad,
Despair and death the ending.
OBSERVER.
_The World_, December 10, 1879.
――――
THE THREE AGITATORS.
Three Paddies went spouting away at Gurteen,
Away at Gurteen in old Erin’s Isle,
Each stormed at the Saxons, their laws and their Queen,
And the “boys” their shillaleghs stood twirling the while;
For tenants must shoot, and landlords must die,
Cold lead is cheap, and the rents are high,
So, hurray for the agitation!
Three Bobbies came up, and they tapp’d those Pats
On the shoulders, just in a friendly way,
And they look’d rather sold, as they put on their hats,
For the game was up, and it would’nt pay!
But tenants must shoot, and landlords must die,
Though a dirty Government plays the spy
On the Irish agitation!
Three martyrs lay lock’d in the Sligo gaol,
In the Sligo gaol as the sun went down,
And the loafers set up a discordant wail
For those whose orations were lost to the town!
For tenants must shoot, and landlords must die,
And the sooner they’re potted, the sooner we’ll cry
Farewell to the agitation!
From _Snatches of Song_, by F. B. DOVETON. (Wyman and
Sons, London, 1880.)
――――
THE JELLY FISHES.
Three fishes were floating about in the sea;
Three fishes which were of the Jelly-fish kind,
And being perceived by a certain grandee,
They called up at once, as he said, to his mind,
How much they resembled in form and degree,
Three colleagues he recently had left behind.
And men now will laugh and women must smile
At this very apt joke of the Duke of Argyll.
These fishes, he said, iridescent but limp
Seem’d all at first sight to be able to sail,
But examined had not e’en so much as the shrimp
The power of propelling themselves by the tail;
They neither had skeletons, nerve, nor backbone,
Were nothing but jelly, no will of their own,
So women must scoff at, and men will deride
These structureless creatures adrift in the tide.
This witty grandee has been wont to come out,
To come out of his house when the sun has gone down,
To meet with his compeers, tall, lean, short and stout,
And bishops arrayed in black gaiters and gown,
But no one could predicate till he’d begin,
With head well thrown back and with prominent chin,
Whether friends had to cheer or opponents to moan,
Over what would among them most surely be thrown.
But all must rejoice, and none can deplore,
Our having among us the Mac Allum More.
_Morning Post_, August 4, 1881.
――――
THE THREE FISHERS.
Three Tories[47] went bravely down into the North,
Away to the North which the “Rads” love best;
Each thought of the man that had driven him forth,
From the snug little berth that he once possessed:
For Placemen must live, though the country may starve,
And sometimes a blister, and sometimes a salve,
Will set party waves a-rolling.
Three Orators spoke for many an hour,
And told ’em the blunders that Gladstone had made,
Which they only could right if returned into power:
And they gave ’em some pious “opinions” on trade.
For Placemen must live, and――though hardly the thing,
Yet even to Newcastle coals you must bring,
To set Tory tides a-rolling.
Three “Failures” came back, as we’ve all of us read,
Sad, if not wiser, to London town;
For e’en Tory organs were shaking a head,
And hinted they’d better have not gone down.
But Placemen must live――every dog has a day,
And even “Fair Trade” may, for once in a way,
Keep party waves a-rolling.
From _Grins and Groans_. 1882.
――――
THE ACADEMY, 1882.
THE MEW-STONE. J. W. OAKES, A.R.A.
There were three pussy-cats sought the tiles,
They sought the tiles as the sun went down,
Their faces were wreathed with complacent smiles,
For they were about to “do it brown.”
And men may growl and women may weep,
But nobody gets him a wink of sleep
For pussy-cats’ caterwauling.
There were three parties who yearned for sleep,
Who yearned for sleep as the sun went down,
They used expressions “not loud but deep,”
At pussies’ commencing to “do it brown.”
For men may growl and women may weep,
But who, may I ask, can manage to sleep,
With pussy-cats caterwauling.
There were three parties who rose in rage,
Who rose in nocturnal cap and gown,
And one of the pussies was, I’ll engage,
A little surprised when they knocked her down.
A second succumbed to a pistol shot,
The other fell down a chimney-pot――
“Good bye to the cats a-wauling!”
From _Fun Academy Skits_, 1882.
――――
THREE LONDON FISHMONGERS.
Three fishmongers looked for a sale down west,
In the heart of the west, when the world’s in town,
Each thought of the neighbourhood paying him best
Where the prices go up but never come down;
For fools will pay when they can’t buy cheap,
So back to the sea every day goes a heap,
While the public look on groaning.
Three Stores were set up some miles from the Tower,
And the fish got west all over the town,
And the middlemen cried, “We’re in for a shower,
If this goes on! Why the price will come down!
For men will dine, and――if they can――cheap,
And the public seems waking at last from its sleep――
It’s so precious tired of groaning!”
Three bankrupts are showing their empty hands,
And all that they get for their pains is a frown,
And a “Serve you right――why, ’twas your demands
That for years have plundered and starved the town!”
But fools grow wise, and fish can get cheap,
Three halfpence a pound anywhere in the heap,
And the public has done with its groaning!
1883
――――
THE POTTERIES.
Three potters set out all dressed in their best,
All dressed in their best as the sun went down,
Each sought out the butcher who’d serve him the best,
It was Saturday night, and a crowd in the town――
For women must cook and men must eat,
And the nearer the bone the sweeter the meat,
Tho’ ’tis better by far with no bone in.
Three wives sat wearily “watching for pa,”
Till the sweet chimes jingled the midnight hour,
And they waited and watched with the doors ajar,
Oh, where were the joints, the spuds, and the flour!
For women can’t cook if the cupboard is bare,
And a dinnerless Sunday will make a saint swear,
With the poor little children moaning.
Three potters came home all dressed in their best,
All dressed in their best, but draggled and torn,
Nothing they brought――you may guess the rest,
And the wigging they got from their wives forlorn,
For men should be sober at each week end,
And give their wives their wages to spend,
Then there’d be no headaches and groaning.
(Stoke-upon-Trent, 1884)
――――
THE THREE CHAMPIONS.
Three Champions went stumping up into the North,
Up into the North with identical creeds;
Lord S. took the Clyde, and Sir STAFFORD the Forth,
While Lord RANDOLPH he posed as a Leader at Leeds,
For if Radicals rant, then Tories _will_ fret,
And there’s little to learn, and much to forget,
When our rival Chiefs are spouting.
Three Editors sat in their newspaper towers,
While the “flimsies” came pouring in fast as could be;
And they kindly cut short the rhetorical flowers,
And sighed when the language was “painful and free;”
For if Rads _will_ threaten, then Tories must scold,
Though Europe be angry and ironclads old,
And patriots hate this spouting.
Three crowds of admirers they chortled and cheered,
For the Leaders went up, and their speeches “went down;”
And the Editors swear by Lord BEACONSFIELD’S beard
That the country is with them as well as the Town.
But though Tories and Radicals scream themselves red,
The sooner it’s over, the sooner to bed,
And good-bye to this pestilent spouting!
_Punch_, October 11, 1884.
――――
THREE FOSSILS.
Three Fossils sat perched in the Whitehall Zoo,
Out far in the West where the sun goes down;
Each thought of his crotchet――the last one he knew;
And their fads and their whims were the talk of the town.
For men must work and women must weep,
Or there’ll be no money the Fossils to keep;
And the shipowning folks are groaning.
Three shipowners sat in their wild despair,
By East or by West they were all done brown!
For the Fossils had ruined the trade once so fair;
And the foreigners cut in to put the freights down.
But men must work and women must weep;
’Tis hard to do else when there’s nothing to eat,
While the Fossils go on droning.
Three ships were laid up in the stream hard by;
And the crews were discharged ere the sun went down;
And nothing was left for a roof but the sky;
And the moon’s not as warm as a quilt made of down.
But men must work and women must weep;
For none but a Fossil in comfort can sleep,
When the Shipping trade is groaning.
Three Fossils laid stretched on a Whitehall floor;
Right flat on the floor, on a carpet brown.
And their collars were dirty; and loud was their snore;
For they’d all been enjoying a night about town.
But men must work and women must weep,
And when the spree’s ended the Fossils can sleep,
While the hard-working world is moaning.
_Fairplay_, November 7, 1884.
――――
THREE FISHERMEN.
Three fishermen went gaily out into the North――
Out into the North ere the sun was high,
And they chuckled with glee as they sallied forth,
Resolved to capture the trout――or die.
For men will fish and men will lie,
About the fish they “caught on the fly,”
Their Sunday-school lessons scorning.
Three fishers lay under the trees at noon,
And “blamed” the whole of the finny race,
For never a nibble touched fly or spoon,
And each sighed as he wet the hole in his face,
For men will fish and men will lie,
And the way they caught trout when nobody’s nigh
Is something to tell――in the morning.
Three fishermen came into town at night,
And their “speckled beauties” were fair to see:
They talked of their “sports” with keen delight,
The envy of all the fraternity.
But men will fish and men will lie,
And what they can’t catch they’re sure to buy,
And never repeat in the morning.
U. N. NONE.
_The Saturday Evening Post_, Philadelphia, U.S.A.
June 27, 1885.
――――
NEW WORDS AND OLD SONGS.
Three acres seemed pleasant to Countryman Hodge;
With Countryman Hodge, too, the Cow went down;
The Acres and Cow were a capital dodge
For those who could never get in for the town.
The men may vote――the women may not――
But the Primrose League is the comfort they’ve got;
So the Knights and Dames go cadging!
Three Rads came out in the country to speak――
By the village-pumps where the Cow went down;
And they all kept talking on end for a week,
Till the rustics came polling up, horny and brown.
The men did vote――the women did not――
But though they didn’t, they canvassed a lot;
And the Knights and Dames went cadging!
Three Tories retired to their Primrose Lodge――
Left out in the cold when the Cow went down;
And the women sate cussing at Countryman Hodge,
For going and spoiling the votes of the town.
That men should vote――and women should not!
But if ever they do, ’twill for Members be hot,
So, good-bye to the Dames, and their cadging!
_Punch_, December 19, 1885.
――――
THREE FARMERS WENT DRIVING.
Three farmers went driving up into the town,
Up into the town when the sun was low;
Each thought what he’d do when the sun went down,
And the women came outward to see them go.
For farmers must carry their produce to town
To buy themselves clothes and the women a gown,
And the neighbours wives are groaning.
Three peelers stood out on their lonely beat
And swung their staves as the sun went down,
They looked at their helmets and looked at their feet,
And now and then squinted round through the town:
For “cops” must hunt for men who are full,
And finding them, ’tis their duty to “pull”
Though the prisoners may start howling.
Three farmers were locked in a cell that night,
Who, loaded with “lush” as the sun went down;
Their produce they sold and they soon got tight,
And started at once to take in the town.
For “cops” will “pull” whenever they see
Three farmers together out on a big spree,
Whose wives are at home a-growling.
_Scraps_, January 1886.
――――
THREE TOPERS.
Three topers went strolling out into the East,
Out into the East as the sun went down――
Each thought of the liquor that’s brewed with yeast,
And not of the wife with the tattered gown――
For men must drink, and women must weep,
For there’s little to earn and nothing to keep,
When the pot-house bar is groaning.
Three wives sat up in a garret bare,
And they lit their dips as the sun sank low,
And they gazed at the squalor and misery there
Till the night-rake comes rolling up stagg’ring slow.
For men must drink and women must weep,
And storms are sudden when men drink deep,
And the pot-house bar is groaning.
Three bodies lie out on the shining sands
Of the pot-house floor in the morning light,
And the women are weeping, and wringing their hands,
For there’s murder done in a drunken fight.
For men must drink, and women must weep;
Oh! would that the Temperance pledge they’d keep,
Bid adieu to the bar and its groaning.
HYDE PARKER, 1886.
――――
THE THREE POETS.
Three poets went sailing down Boston streets,
All into the East as the sun went down,
Each felt that the editor loved him best
And would welcome spring poetry in Boston town.
For poets must write tho’ the editors frown,
Their æsthetic natures will not be put down,
While the harbour bar is moaning!
Three editors climbed to the highest tower
That they could find in all Boston town,
And they planned to conceal themselves, hour after hour,
Till the sun or the poets had both gone down.
For Spring poets must write though the editors rage,
The artistic spirit must thus be engaged――
Though the editors all were groaning.
Three corpses lay out on the Back Bay sand,
Just after the first spring sun went down,
And the Press sat down to a banquet grand,
In honour of poets no more in the town.
For poets will write while editors sleep,
Though they’ve nothing to earn and no one to keep;
And the harbour bar keeps moaning.
LILIAN WHITING.
From an American collection, entitled _The Wit of Women_
by Kate Sanborn.
――――
THE THREE FILCHERS.
Three filchers went cadging in character dressed,
To every move most remarkably down,
Each thought on the fakement that suited him best;
And the peelers stood watching them out on the town.
“Oh, we don’t want no vork, ’cos ve goes on the cheap,
We prigs all ve can, though but little we keep,
And we are the boys for boning.”
Three bob-hobbies sat by the station fire,
And to trim these scamps they a plan laid down;
They looked very sly, but may need to look slyer,
For these night-hawks were old ’uns at doing ’em brown.
“Oh, vhen ve vork honest folks are asleep,
And in their strong boxes ve takes a sly peep,
And we are the boys for boning.”
Three convicts, connected with iron bands,
In the saddest plights of the “jug” went down,
And the peelers are grinning and rubbing their hands
At the coves who will never more cadge on the town.
“Now then ve must vork with our hands and our feet,
Sich a gitting up-stairs――oh, ain’t it a treat,
Besides we are barred from boning.”
From _The Free Lance_, Manchester.
――――
THREE STUDENTS.
Three students were walking, all dressed in their best,
On a Sunday in Term, without cap, without gown.
Each lit a cigar that came from the West,
And they thought they’d astonish the men of the town.
For men _will_ slum, tho’ their guv’nors weep,
Who have got to stump up to pay for their keep,
And the Tutor ’bout work may be groaning.
Three students sat up past the midnight chimes,
And they re-trimmed their lamps, as they oft ran down,
And they “mugged” at their Paley, and got up the rhymes,
And turned o’er their “Dictions,” so ragged and brown.
For men must work and give up their sleep,
Their livings to earn and themselves to keep,
Though o’er Euclid they be moaning
Three proctorised students the Proctor call’d up
On the Monday morning. He sent _them_ down;
But not for the _others_ did dons wring their hands,
Because they would nevermore wear cap and gown.
For if men won’t work by night or by day,
The sooner they go down the less there’s to pay,
When goodbye is said to the college.
From _The Lays of the Mocking Sprite_, by E. B. C.
Cambridge, W. Metcalfe and Sons.
(There is no date to this curious little collection, nor does the
Author’s name appear.)
――――
MELONCHOLIC.
Three Melons went sailing out in the West――
Nutmeg, water, and musk,
Three little boys at evening dusk,
While nature brooded in damp suspense,
Climbed over a ten rail, eight foot fence
And stowed a Melon beneath each vest.
Three little colics appeared that night
And tackled the cherubs three――
Oh, the groan, the pain, the misery,
The cramp, the gripe, and the inward hurt,
The fate that doctors couldn’t avert,
Three Undertakers at morning’s light.
Let Melons go sailing everywhere
And women are born to weep,
And boys will forage while farmers sleep,
And colics will come where melons go,
And so will doctors and every woe
That points the way to the golden stair.
_United States Paper._
――――
HOUSE CLEANING.
Three Carpets hung waiving abroad in the breeze
Abroad in the breeze as the sun went down,
And three husbands with patches of dust on their knees
Whacked whacks that were heard for miles up and down.
For men must work and women must clean
And the carpet be beaten, no matter how mean,
While neighbours do the bossing.
Three housewives leaned out of their windows raised
Of their windows raised where the light streamed in
And they scrubbed and scrubbed till their heads grew dazed,
And their ears were filled with a horrible din;
For pots will fall and kettles go bang,
And boilers refuse in the attic to hang,
While husbands do the swearing.
Three husbands went out in the hay mows to hide
In the hay mows to hide where their wives ne’er looked.
Each said as he rolled himself o’er on his side,
“I guess I will snooze, for I know I am booked,
For men may swear, but women will dust,
And before I’ll move that stove I’ll be cussed――
I’ll stay right here till morning!”
Three Judges sat up on their benches to judge
Three cases that came from a house-cleaning row;
The parties asserted they never would budge,
But wanted divorces “right here and right now.”
So the men went off and the women went home,
And hereafter will do their house-cleaning alone,
While their former partners snicker.
_United States Paper._
――――
THE THREE WORTHLESS FELLOWS.
Three worthless young fellows went out in the night,
Went out in the night when the sun went down,
They wandered along ’neath the moon’s pale light,
And smoked their cigars as they walked down town.
For men will go and women will weep,
’Tis useless to grieve, ’tis wiser to sleep,
Tho’ they don’t come home till morning.
Three worthless young fellows looked up at the moon,
Looked up at the moon as they went their way,
Each thought of O’Shaunnessy’s big saloon,
Where every night they could billiards play.
For men will play and women will weep,
’Tis useless to grieve, ’tis wiser to sleep,
Tho’ they don’t come home till morning.
Three worthless young fellows got safe to the door,
Got safe to the door as the clock struck nine,
Each well knew the place, they had been there before,
And drank of the brandy, and ale, and wine.
For men will drink and women will weep,
’Tis useless to cry, ’tis better to sleep,
Tho’ they don’t come home till morning.
Three worthless young fellows came out in the street,
Came out in the street as the clock struck three,
Two stalwart policemen they chanced to meet,
And were marched straight along to the armoury.
For men will sing and women will weep,
’Tis useless to grieve, ’tis wiser to sleep,
Tho’ they don’t come home till morning.
Three worthless young fellows came home in the morn,
Came home in the morn as the clock struck ten;
They “went out for wool,” but alas, were shorn,
And they wished themselves anywhere else just then.
For men will sin, and women will weep,
’Tis waste of affection, forget it in sleep,
And dream till the dawn of the morning.
_United States Paper._
――――
A ROYAL FLUSH.
Three Sports got into a railroad car,
A railroad car with a pack of cards;
They called “hear” “hyar,” and “there” was “thar,”
And they always spoke to each other as “paur”
For sports there are both good and poor,
Professional and amateur,
Where railroad trains are running.
They wanted a fourth at a poker hand,
Three were they, and they were one short,
And they asked a stranger if he’d the sand
To try a little game for sport;
For strangers there are when men abound,
And you’ll always find a stranger round
Where railroad trains are running.
The stranger didn’t know the game,
But he was willing to live and learn;
To him the cards were all the same――
“They was to all at first he’d hearn,”
And the Sports laughed loud and dealt the pack
And gave him four queens and a thick-legged Jack,
As they will when trains are running.
And then they bet on the poker hand,
And fattened the pot to a goodly pile,
And they asked the stranger if he would stand,
And the stranger stood with a simple smile.
And one sport raised the other two,
And the stranger won, as strangers do
Where railroad trains are running.
And then in a solemn breathless hush
The three Sports showed what they had got;
But aces won’t beat a royal flush,
And the stranger gobbled that obese pot,
For strangers and sports are natural foes,
And the former carry cauls in their clo’es
When railroad trains are running.
_United States Paper._
――――
THE “BAR” AND ITS MOANING.
(_Not a Parody._)
BY MRS. G. LINNÆUS BANKS.
Three husbands went reeling home out of the West,
Home out of the West ere the moon went down,
Nor thought of the women who loved them the best,
Or the children expecting them home from the town;
Oh! women must work and women must weep,
When there’s all to be earned, and many to keep,
And the tavern bar makes moaning.
Three wives sat up past the midnight hour,
And they trimmed their lamps till the moon went down,
They wept o’er their work, and looked out through the shower,
Till the night-rakes came reeling with menace and frown;
But women must work, and women must weep,
For storms are sudden when drink is deep,
And the tavern bar makes moaning.
Three husbands shake out life’s sodden sands
In the morning gleam when the moon goes down,
And women are weeping and wringing their hands,
For those who will never go back to the town;
But women must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner its over, the sooner to sleep,
And good-bye to the bar, and its moaning.
――――
Messrs. Hopwood and Crew have recently published a song, entitled
“_Three Young Men who never went astray_,” which has been sung with
some success in the Music Halls, but it has no literary merit as a
parody.
――――:o:――――
ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND.
Welcome, wild north-easter!
Shame it is to see
Odes to every zephyr;
Ne’er a verse to thee.
Welcome, black north-easter!
O’er the German foam;
O’er the Danish Moorlands,
From thy frozen home.
Tired we are of summer,
Tired of gaudy glare,
Showers soft and steaming,
Hot and breathless air.
Tired of listless dreaming,
Through the lazy day:
Jovial wind of winter
Turn us out to play!
Sweep the golden reed-beds,
Crisp the lazy dyke;
Hunger into madness
Every plunging pike.
Fill the lake with wild fowl;
Fill the marsh with snipe;
While on dreary moorlands
Lonely curlew pipe.
Through the black fir-forest
Thunder harsh and dry,
Shattering down the snow flakes
Off the curdled sky.
Hark! the brave north-easter!
Breast-high lies the scent,
On by holt and headland,
Over heath and bent.
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Through the sleet and snow.
Who can over-ride you?
Let the horses go!
Chime ye dappled darlings,
Down the roaring blast;
You shall see a fox die
Ere an hour be past.
Go! and rest to-morrow,
Hunting in your dreams,
While our skates are ringing
O’er the frozen streams.
Let the luscious south-wind
Breathe in lovers’ sighs,
While the lazy gallants
Bask in ladies’ eyes.
What does he but soften
Heart alike and pen?
’Tis the hard grey weather
Breeds hard English men.
What’s the soft south-wester?
’Tis the ladies’ breeze,
Bringing home their true loves
Out of all the seas:
But the black north-easter,
Through the snowstorm hurled,
Drives our English hearts of oak
Seaward round the world.
Come, as came our fathers,
Heralded by thee,
Conquering from the eastward,
Lords by land and sea.
Come, and strong within us
Stir the Vikings’ blood;
Bracing brain and sinew;
Blow, thou wind of God!
CHARLES KINGSLEY.
――――
THE SURGEON’S WIND.
The wind is North-East――so let it be!
The North-East wind is the wind for me,
To me it blows good if to none besides;
For the boys on the pavement cut out slides,
And the passenger on the hard flagstones
Comes down, ha, ha! and breaks his bones.
I have had a _radius_ to do,
And a compound fractured _tibia_, too,
And that had been scarce ten minutes gone,
When in came a case of _olecranon_,
There was next a dislocated hip,
Resulting also from a slip.
Zymotic diseases lend a charm
To genial autumn, moist and warm.
We have Scarlatina and Typhus then,
And Cholera good for medical men;
But practice is best, I always find,
In the bracing air of the North-East wind.
When the North-Easter whistles shrill,
It makes me think on the little bill
To many a patient that I shall send,
Whom that wind calls me to attend
And though its music may seem severe,
’Tis a strain to gladden a surgeon’s ear.
_Punch_, February 21, 1857.
――――
“BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTRY WIND.”
“SIR,――I have lived to see and hear a great many strange things, but I
never expected to live to hear an English poet singing the praises of
the North-East Wind, as I am amazed to find the Rev. Charles Kingsley
has been doing. What does the man mean? Has he a nerve in his body? Is
he susceptible of catarrh, influenza, bronchitis, and the other ills
that miserable flesh is heir to in this climate? Has he a constitution
of cast iron, a skin of triple brass, and muscles of steel wire? Does
he not know what it is, as he lies in bed of a morning, to feel that
twinge of indescribable all-overishness, which announces that the East
Wind is blowing outside the house? Does he not feel his eyes smart,
his skin scorch and shrivel, his every limb ache, appetite go, and his
temper break down altogether, whenever this same abominable wind
prevails, as it does three days out of four in this infernal climate
of ours?
Sir, if we are to have a song of the North East Wind, I submit that
mine is more the thing than Mr. Kingsley’s, and therefore beg to
enclose it for your journal, which has occasionally, though at distant
intervals, beguiled a miserable half-hour for,
“Your dyspeptic reader,
“MISERRIMUS MEAGRESON.”
MY SONG OF THE NORTH WIND.
Hang thee, vile North Easter;
Other things may be
Very bad to bear with,
Nothing equals thee.
Grim and grey North Easter,
From each Essex-bog,
From the Plaistow marshes,
Rolling London fog――
“Tired we are of summer”
KINGSLEY may declare,
I give the assertion,
Contradiction bare:
I, in bed, this morning
Felt thee, as I lay:
“There’s a vile North Easter
Out of doors to-day!”
Set the dust-clouds blowing
Till each face they strike,
With the blacks is growing
Chimney-sweeper like.
Fill our rooms with smoke gusts
From the chimney-pipe,
Fill our eyes with water,
That defies the wipe.
Through the draughty passage
Whistle loud and high,
Making door and windows
Rattle, flap and fly;
Hark, that vile North Easter
Roaring up the vent.
Nipping soul and body,
Breeding discontent!
Squall, my noisy children;
Smoke, my parlour grate;
Scold, my shrewish partner;
I accept my fate.
All is quite in tune with
This North Eastern blast;
Who can look for comfort
Till this wind be past?
If all goes contrary,
Who can feel surprise,
With this rude North Easter
In his teeth and eyes?
It blows much too often,
Nine days out of ten,
Yet we boast our climate,
Like true English men!
In their soft South Easters
Could I bask at ease,
I’d let France and Naples
Bully as they please,
But while this North Easter
In one’s teeth is hurled,
Liberty seems worth just
Nothing in the world.
Come, as came our fathers
Heralded by thee,
Blasting, blighting, burning
Out of Normandie.
Come and flay and skin us,
And dry up our blood――
All to have a KINGSLEY
Swear it does him good!
_Punch_, April 10, 1858.
――――
ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND.
_By a Débutante at the last Drawing Room._
Welcome, wild North-Easter?
Oh! most certainly!
_Here_ a girl _must_ gladly
Turn a verse to thee!
Welcome, black North-Easter?
Eugh! a German goddess,
Or a Danish nymph,
Never donned low bodice.
True it _looks_ like Summer,
There’s a chilly glare;
But the Sun seems hurtling
Ice-shafts through the air.
In their glad Spring greenery
All the trees look gay,
But through Summer’s scenery
Winds of Winter play;
Sweep my golden tassels,
To my bosom strike;
Make my toes feel tingling
In some frozen dyke;
Fill my eyes with tear-drops,
Cold――I hope as bright――
As those diamond ear-drops,
Dear Mamma’s delight;
Through this thin tulle-pleating
Worm their way until
My poor heart stops beating
With the deathly chill.
Hark! the brave North-Easter,
Like a blast from Norway,
Howls along the passage,
Whistles through the doorway.
Cringe, ye courtly darlings,
In your robes of snow,
Trimmed with pure white lilac!
Heavens! it _does_ blow!
Even the plump Duchess
In her _brocatelle_
Finds the draught _too_ much is,
Though _she’s_ covered well.
Her blue lips she closes,
Her chilled eyelids wink,
And her Roman nose is,
Like her train, shrimp-pink.
Mamma’s eye is on me,
Sparkling like a jewel.
Courage! but this wind is
Cruel, cruel, cruel!
Such a scene as this is
Every girl’s delight is;
But my throat’s _so_ raspy,
And _that_ means bronchitis:
One would rather die
Than not be presented;
But in a North-Easter?
KINGSLEY was demented!
Yes, the luscious South-wind
Which the goose decries,
Less afflicts our bosoms,
Better suits our eyes.
Why belaud and soften
With his tricky pen
What, alas! too often
Women slays――and men?
Says the soft South-Wester
Is the Ladies’ breeze!
Be it so, and let us
Have it, if you please!
But the black North-Easter
Through May’s mid-day hurled,
Drives poor English girls by scores
Death ward from “the world.”
Drawing-rooms are _lovely_,
But diaphanous dress
In a May North-Easter
Means――eugh! I can guess
By this inward quivering,
By this bosom chill:
E’en Mamma is shivering,
Spite of her strong will.
Oh! cannot our mothers
(From the dear Queen down)
Some less killing fashion
Set the foolish Town?
_Mode_ rules strong within us,
But――we’re flesh and blood,
Frozen by what KINGSLEY
Calls “the wind of God.”
_Punch_, May 30, 1885.
――――
ODE TO AN ENGLISH EASTER.
(_After a Muscular Poet_).
Welcome English Easter,
Cowards should we be,
Loving our vacations
Not to sing to thee;
Welcome English Easter
When we long to roam,
O’er the heights of Dover,
Far away from home.
Tired we are of working,
Sick and ill with care.
Weary of Reformers,
House of Commons air!
Sweep the busy city
Of the dust of years.
Prime with pluck and muscle
All our volunteers.
Shriek, ye snorting engines,
With your loads in tow,
Worried station-masters
Give the word to go!
Shriek, ye puffing engines,
For we want to see
Paris Exhibition
Now that we are free.
Let the lazy summer
Tempt us by and by
With its cosy pic-nics,
Ice, and pigeon-pie.
Lengthy expeditions,
Put them off till then,
’Tis this doubtful weather
Pleases Englishmen!
What’s the sunny summer!
’Tis the ladies’ hour,
Bringing lawns and crôquet,
Tea and toast in power;
But an English Easter
Often takes us in,
And ’midst our enjoyment
Soaks us to the skin.
Welcome English Easter,
We must have our spree,
Cheap excursion-tickets,
By the land and sea,
Take us for next to nothing
There and back again,
Blow the doubtful weather,
Never mind the rain!
_Fun_, April 27, 1867.
“THE SOUTH-WEST TRAINS AND THE SPEAKER’S CLOCK.――(To the Editor of the
_Daily News_.)――Sir,――The writer of an article in your edition of
to-day, in quoting these lines of Kingsley’s: ‘Oh, blessed south-west
train; Oh, blessed, blessed Speaker’s clock, All prophesying rain,’
describes them as being ‘rather mysterious.’ As it is quite unusual to
see anything of Kingsley’s thus characterised, it may perhaps be
instructive to your writer, and interesting to your readers, to know
that these lines simply have reference to the sounds which were wafted
towards Eversley Rectory from the South-Western Railway and the clock
at Heckfield Place, the residence of the then Speaker of the House of
Commons, when the ‘bless’d southwind’ was blowing; always welcome to
Kingsley as heralding a day’s fishing, when――
I’m off at eight to-morrow morn
To bring such fishes back.
――Faithfully yours, FRED. W. GILL.――Dartford, Kent.”――
_The Daily News_, April, 1885.
――――:o:――――
A HUSBAND’S LAMENT.
AIR――“_I once had a sweet little Doll, dears._” (_Kingsley’s Words,
set by A. Cecil._)
I once saw a sweet pretty face, boys:
Its beauty and grace were divine.
And I felt what a swell I should be, boys,
Could I boast that such charms were all mine!
I wooed. Every man I cut out, boys,
At my head deep anathemas hurled:――
But I said as I walked back from church, boys,
“I’m the luckiest dog in the world!”
As doves in a cot we began, boys,
A cosy and orthodox pair:
Till I found at my notable wife, boys,
The world was beginning to stare.
She liked it. At first so did I, boys,
But, at length, when all over the place
She was sketched, hunted, photo’d and mobbed, boys,
I cried, “Hang her sweet pretty face!”
Still, we went here and there,――right and left, boys;――
We were asked dozen’s deep,――I say “we,”
Though wherever I went not a soul, boys,
Could have pointed out Adam from _me_.
But we had a rare social success, boys,
Got mixed with the noble and great,
Till one’s friends, who say kind and nice things, boys,
Talked of me as “the man come to wait!”
So, I’ve no more a sweet pretty wife, boys;
For the one that I once hoped to own,
Belongs, as I’ve found to my cost, boys,
To the great British public alone.
So until they’ve got tired of her face, boys,
And a rival more touzled or curled,
Drives her home to her own proper place, boys――
I’m the dullest dull dog in the world!
_Punch_, January 7, 1882.
――――:o:――――
A correspondent writes from the United States, “I send you below an
attempt I made twenty-three years ago to parody an illegitimate poem
of Kingsley’s, and to show that even a foreigner having a moderate
familiarity with Scott’s novels, can write as good a piece of bad
Scotch poetry as an Englishman:――
NEW YORK CORRESPONDENCE.
NEW YORK CITY, June 21, 1862.
DEAR PRESS,――I saw in your Poet’s Corner some time since a
poem by Charles Kingsley about a beast termed an Oubit. What
is it? I was vexed at the poem. What business has Kingsley
to be writing fraudulent Scotch poetry? He can’t do it well.
It makes him look as ridiculous as the old philosopher in
the story, trying to put his toe in his mouth, because he
saw a baby do it. Besides, anybody can do it as well as
Kingsley. I can. _Exempli gratia_:
THE DIRDUM.
It was a fearfu’ Dirdum, ae morning in the spring,
He hirpled down the brae his lane, a sair and grewsome thing.
The muckle buirdly dirdum, wi’ pawky glarin een,
And couched himsel amang the grass, whare he could na be seen.
Wee leein’ Jamie Nagle cam daunderin’ up the glen;
A fusionless camsteary chiel, aye answering back again.
And when auld Jock the cadger tauld him where the dirdum lay,
And warned him aff, he leugh, and sware he’d surely gang that
way.
Sae on he went, and up he gat, and lang, fu’ lang, he staid――
For naebody saw Jamie e’er come back the gate he gaed.
But mony an eldritch screech was heard within the lonesome glen,
Though what the dirdum did wi’ him, I’m sure I dinna ken.
There. And yet I don’t think myself an eminently――scarcely a
moderately――successful Scotch poet! _Ne sutor_ I say.
[Illustration]
Mrs. Felicia Dorothea Hemans,
(_Née_ BROWNE)
_Born_ 1794. _Died in Dublin, May_ 16, 1835.
THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.
The stately Homes of England!
How beautiful they stand!
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O’er all the pleasant land.
The deer across their greensward bound
Through shade and sunny gleam;
And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.
* * * * *
THE DONKEY-BOYS OF ENGLAND.
(_A Song for the Sea-Side,_)
The Donkey-Boys of England, how merrily they fly,
With pleasant chaff upon the tongue and cunning in the eye.
And oh! the donkeys in a mass how patiently they stand,
High on the heath of Hampstead, or down on Ramsgate’s sand.
The Donkey-Boys of England, how sternly they reprove
The brute that won’t “come over,” with an impressive shove;
And oh! the eel-like animals, how gracefully they swerve
From side to side, but won’t advance to spoil true beauty’s curve,
The Donkey-Boys of England, how manfully they fight,
When a probable donkestrian comes suddenly in sight;
From nurse’s arms the babies are clutch’d with fury wild,
And on a donkey carried off the mother sees her child.
The Donkey-Boys of England, how sternly they defy
The pleadings of a parent’s shriek, the infant’s piercing cry;
As a four-year-old Mazeppa is hurried from the spot,
Exposed to all the tortures of a donkey’s fitful trot.
The Donkey-Boys of England, how lustily they scream,
When they strive to keep together their donkeys in a team;
And the riders who are anxious to be class’d among genteels,
Have a crowd of ragged Donkey-Boys “hallooing” at their heels.
The Donkey-Boys of England, how well they comprehend
The animal to whom they act as master, guide and friend;
The understanding that exists between them who’ll dispute――
Or that the larger share of it falls sometimes to the brute?
_Punch_, September 29, 1849.
――――
THE GARDEN GROUNDS OF ENGLAND.
The Garden Grounds of England! how hopeful they appear
When all things else are desolate at winter time of year;
For though the summer foliage no longer lends its screen,
The earth still wears her uniform of vegetable green.
The Cabbage Rows of England! how gaily they deploy,
With ranks of stout auxiliaries from Brussels and Savoy;
And regiments of native greens, which eloquently speak
Of dishes rich and savoury――of bubble and of squeak!
The Cel’ry Heads of England! how airily they rise,
High up above the trenches, where the root they spring from lies;
Types of the true nobility――bursting by force of worth
Out of the low position of circumstances and birth!
The Beetroot Beds of England! how sturdily they shoot,
The leaves the hardy produce of a stout and stalwart root;
A rough and tough exterior serves but to cover o’er
The rich internal saccharine――the sugar at the core!
The Endive Plants of England! how selfish is their plan,
Spreading at first their arms about to catch at all they can;
Then shutting up within themselves――like hypocrites demure,
With hearts as cold and white as snow, but wonderfully pure!
The Garden Grounds of England! how merrily they thrive;
They show there’s always something to keep the world alive;
For though deprived of Autumn’s fruits, and spring and summer
flowers,
There’s always green about the earth to brighten winter hours!
_Punch_, December 15, 1849.
――――
THE MERCHANT PRINCE.