deputation of bankers and merchants of the City of London.
The matter was brought before Parliament, but was allowed to
drop through.]
The Merchant Prince of England,
What a glorious name he bears!
No minstrel tongue has ever sung
The deeds the hero dares.
Enlist that soldier in your cause,
No dangers bar his way,
But gallantly he draws his――cheque,
If the Cause will only pay.
Where Freedom waves her banners
He stands her champion bold,
The noble English merchant Prince
For her unlocks his gold.
For her the Prince’s glowing pulse
With generous ardour thrills,
If only sure that Freedom
Will duly meet her bills.
When scarce the gory bayonet
Upholds the Despot’s throne,
The Merchant Prince, all chivalry,
Springs forward with a loan.
And vain a nation’s cry to scare
That dauntless friend-in-need,
Provided only that the loan
Is safely guaranteed.
See, where a sovereign’s crown rewards
A venturous Parvenu,
Crouches the Merchant Prince to kiss
His royal brother’s shoe.
For trampled law, for broken vow,
No doit his Princeship cares,
If that salute can raise an eighth
His gain on railway shares,
You Christian of the slop-shop,
And you usurious Jew,
Assert your royal blood, for both
Are Merchant-Princes, too.
One common creed unites you,
Devout professors of it,
“There’s but one Allah――Mammon,
And Cent. per Cent.’s his profit.”
What, blame some petty huckster,
That his vote is bought and sold:
What, chide some wretched juryman
That he blinked at guilt, for gold:
What, whip some crouching mendicant,
Who fawned that he might eat――
With the Merchant Prince of England
At the Third Napoleon’s feet?
SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1853
――――
THE CABS OF LONDON.
The dirty Cabs of London!
How lazily they stand
About the public thoroughfares,
Or crawl along the Strand;
The omnibuses pass them by
With a contempt supreme;
E’en the coal-cart overtakes them
With slow and heavy team.
The crazy Cabs of London!
How wretched is the sight
Of one of those old vehicles
That ply for hire by night!
There, cracked is every window-pane,
The door is weak and old;
The former lets in all the rain,
The latter all the cold.
The shaky Cabs of London!
How impotent the powers
Of one poor nervous female fare,
When fierce the driver lowers,
Swearing, with impudence sublime
And ruffianly frown,
He can’t afford to lose his time;
“His fare will be a crown.”
The dear, bad Cabs of London!
In vain the public call
For a better class of vehicles
That can’t be got at all.
Extortion must for ever thrive,
Cabs must be bad and dear,
Till Legislation looks alive,
And deigns to interfere.
_Punch_, February 26, 1853.
Paragraphs have recently appeared in the London newspapers announcing
that a public company has been formed to provide the metropolis with
improved cabs. It is to be hoped the news is true, for whilst similar
announcements have been often made before, the London four-wheeled cab
remains, what it was described by _Punch_ in 1853, the worst public
vehicle to be found in any large European city.
――――
NATIONAL SONG.
(By an Ex-Patriot, compelled by circumstances over which he has no
control, to absent himself from his native country, and trying to
persuade himself that he likes it.)
The _Duns_ of merry England! how terrible their air,
With brows like midnight low’ring, and eyes with fiendish glare;
And never-ceasing questions, when you really mean to pay
The Duns of merry England, what nuisances are they!
The _Meats_ of merry England! how limited their range,
Of roast and boiled, or boiled and roast, by way of start startling
change;
Of chops and steaks, and steaks and chops, on each alternate day,
The meats of merry England, what sad affairs are they!
The _Colds_ of merry England, how easy to be caught!
How hard to be got rid of, and with what discomforts fraught!
Swelled eyes, red noses, puff’d out cheeks,――the mildest they
display.
The colds of merry England, how torturing are they!
The _Wines_ of merry England! the Port at half-a-crown!
The pure Amontillado, and the nutty-flavoured Brown;
Their horrors e’en while swallowing, and worse effects next day,
The wines of merry England, how villainous are they!
Then here’s to France the smiling, where the weather’s always
clear;
The wines are light and wholesome, and as cheap as English beer;
Where a man may grow moustaches, and――blissful thing to say!
The Writs of merry England, how powerless are they!
(The Exile turning sadly from the pier, seeketh forgetfulness of his
abandoned country in a petit-verre, for which he disburseth two sous.
He groweth reconciled).
_Diogenes_, January, 1853.
――――
THE BARRISTERS OF ENGLAND.
The Barristers of England, how hungrily they stand
About the Hall of Westminster, with wig, and gown, and band;
With brief bag full of dummies, and fee book full of _oughts_,
Result of the establishment of the New County Courts.
The Barristers of England, how listlessly they sit,
Expending on each other a small amount of wit;
Without the opportunity of doing something worse,
By talking nonsense at the cost of some poor client’s purse.
The Barristers of England, how when they get a cause,
They (some of them) will disregard all gentlemanly laws;
And bullying the witnesses upon the adverse side,
Will do their very utmost the honest truth to hide.
The Barristers of England, how with _sang froid_ sublime,
They undertake to advocate two causes at one time;
And when they find it is a thing impossible to do,
They throw one client overboard, but take the fees of two.
The Barristers of England, how rarely they refuse,
The party they appear against with coarseness to abuse;
Feeling a noble consciousness no punishment can reach
The vulgar ribaldry they call the “privilege of speech.”
The Barristers of England, how often they degrade
An honourable calling to a pettifogging trade,
And show how very slight the lines of separation are.
Between the cabman’s license, and the “licence of the Bar.”
The Barristers of England, how, if they owe a grudge,
They try with insolence to goad a poor Assistant-Judge;
And after having bullied him, their bold imposture clench
By talking of their high respect for the Judicial Bench.
The Barristers of England, how sad it is to feel
That rant will pass for energy, and bluster goes for zeal;
But ’tis a consolation that ’mid their ranks there are
Sufficient gentlemen to save the credit of the Bar.
_Punch_, November 26, 1853.
――――
THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.
(By Infelicia Shemans.)
The compo’d homes of England!
’Tis wonderful they stand
Their weight of shaky chimney-pots,
Smoke-drying all the land.
Adown their flimsy tissue roofs
Slate after slate fast slips;
Each gentle rain that on them falls
Through crack and crevice drips.
The drafty homes of England!
Alas! how one must squeeze
Close round the grate in winter time
Unless one quite would freeze.
There every voice continually
Of some vile ache complains;
Lumbago, or sciatica,
Or stiff rheumatic pains.
The stifling homes of England!
In summer’s sunny time
More close and suffocating
Than hot India’s burning clime!
No breath of coolness finds its way
From morn till evening’s close;
But countless vile impurities
Assail each inmate’s nose.
The smoky homes of England!
Spread o’er the smoky land,
If smoke were only grandeur
We’d all be passing grand.
The dull blue vapour pours itself
Increasingly adown
Each chimney, and provokingly
Turns everything black-brown.
Oh, may the homes of England
Long, long in freedom rise,
But may the homes of England
Be built by men more wise;
Let air and light be one chief aim,
Sufficient warmth another;
And let them bear in mind as well,
Our great want is _not_――smother.
_The Figaro_, August 24, 1872.
――――
BALLAD――BY VISCOUNT BLANK.
The stately homes of England,
Conveniently they stand;
For helping co-respondent’s games,
’Twould seem they had been planned.
Their lords preserve their game with care,
But cannot keep their wives;
They hunt, they shoot, they fish, they ride
And Hannen’s business thrives!
The blessed homes of England,
How snugly in their bowers,
Their owners soak on liquor fetched
Ere interdicted hours,
Solemn, yet sweet, the church bells chime,
But piggishly they snore.
For well they know whilst those bells clang
Close shuts the public’s door.
The cottage homes of England,
By thousands on her plains,
Are wretched hovels as a rule,
And quite devoid of drains.
There’s sodden thatch upon their roofs,
And mildew on their walls,
And yet they’re what the poetess,
“Sweet smiling dwellings” calls.
The free fair homes of England!
Well, these do not exist;
And if you doubt me just read through
What’s on a jury list.
Think of the things you’re forced to do,
And all you dare not try;
The free, fair homes, in sooth! Go to
Free fiddlesticks, say I!
_Truth_, Christmas Number, 1877.
――――
COTTAGE HOMES.
“The Cottage-homes of England,
How beautiful they stand!”
(So once Felicia Hemans sang),
Throughout the lovely land!
By many a shining river-side
These happy homes are seen,
And clustering round the commons wide,
And ’neath the woodlands green.
The Cottage-homes of England――
Alas, how strong they smell!
There’s fever in the cesspool,
And sewage in the well.
With ruddy cheeks and flaxen curls,
Though their tots shout and play,
The health of those gay boys and girls
Too soon will pass away.
The Cottage-homes of England!
Where each crammed sleeping-place
Foul air distils whose poison kills
Health, modesty and grace.
Who stables horse, or houseth kine,
As these poor peasants lie,
More thickly in their straw than swine
Are herded in a stye?
* * * * *
(_Three verses omitted._)
_Punch_, May 23, 1874.
――――
THE HAUNTED HOMES OF ENGLAND.
[Mr. Ingram had published a weirdly fascinating volume called
“The Haunted Homes of England;” a kind of Postal Directory,
or Court Guide, to British Haunted Houses.]
The Haunted Homes of England,
How eerily they stand,
While through them flit their ghosts――to wit,
The Monk with the Red Hand,
The Eyeless Girl――an awful spook――
To stop the boldest breath;
The boy that inked his copy-book,
And so got “wopped” to death!
Call them not shams――from haunted Glamis
To haunted Hawthornden,
I mark in hosts the griesly ghosts
Of women, priests, and men!
I know the spectral dog that howls
Before the deaths of Squires;
In my “Ghost-guide” addresses hide
For Gurney and for Myers!
I see the Vampire climb the stairs
From vaults below the church;
And hark! the Pirate’s spectre swears!
Oh, Psychical Research,
Cans’t _thou_ not hear what meets my ear,
The viewless wheels that come?
The wild Banshee that wails to thee?
The Drummer with his drum?
Oh, Haunted Homes of England,
Though tenantless ye stand,
With none content to pay the rent,
Through all the shadowy land,
Now, Science true will find in you
A sympathetic perch,
And take you all, both Grange and Hall,
For Psychical Research!
A.L.
_The Pall Mall Gazette_, December 21, 1883.
――――
THE MEN OF ENGLAND.
_By a blighted being turned pessimist through
disappointed ambition._
I.
The stately men of England,
How eloquent the band;
Setting their sails to catch the breeze
Which they themselves have fanned!
With argument, not over sound
Patched up with awkward seam,
Whig versus Tory――both a’ground
On life’s tumultuous stream!
II.
The merry men of England,
Who take a strange delight,
In making jokes that none can see
Unless he’s extra bright!
Who volunteer a comic song
Some pointless tale retold!
Or try and make you think you’re wrong
And roar to see you sold!
III.
The saintly men of England,
Teaching their screeching choirs;
Full of huge pedantic words!
Their sermons lasting hours!
Though down upon “life’s idle whims!”
Though _other_ men they scorn,
You’ll see them――well――not chanting hymns
On many a tennis lawn.
IV.
The free, fair trade of England,
Long, long in shop and stall,
May harmless customers be fleeced
Of their small and little all!
Thus, to my thinking it behoves
Him who earth’s paths hath trod
To mind and not spoil other coves
By sparing satire’s rod.
From _Cribblings from the Poets_, by Hugh Cayley, Cambridge, 1883.
――――
THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.
The unhealthy Homes of England!
How jauntily they stand
Among their long-untended drains
By crafty builders planned!
The deer would shun them like the pest,
Though beautiful they seem,
And the Doctor’s face, in passing by,
Lights with a sickly gleam.
The drainy Homes of England!
In Summer’s sultry heat
What sniffs of not unmixed delight
Each varied odour greet!
Then woman’s voice is heard to say
She thinks there’s something wrong,
While manly lips the landlord bless
In language rather strong.
The typhoid Homes of England!
How pleasant ’tis to know
That liquid _microbes_ of disease
Keep up a constant flow!
Simple, yet sure, the plan whereby
The sewer-gas ascends;
They’re perfect masters of their art,
Our homicidal friends.
The fever-dens of England!
By thousands on her plain,
They smile at the defective pipes
Which link them with the “main.”
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
And gardens all abloom,
And hygienic dullards sleep
Unconscious of their doom.
The scamping rogues of England!
Long, long in hut and hall
May heads of wisdom still be reared
To circumvent them all!
And trapped for ever be the drains,
And pure the watery store
Where first the child’s glad spirit learns
What lurks beneath the floor.
_Punch_, August 30, 1884.
――――
COTTAGE HOMES
_Theoretical_――
Ye Cottage Homes of England!
How pleasantly ye stand,
With bees and bowers and birds and flowers,
And rich allotment land!
How happy, too, each owner,
As fearless, free, and frank,
He thanks his landlord that he has
His “oven, porch, and tank!”
_Practical_――
Ye Cottage Homes of England,
That reek with filth and smells;
There’s rheumatism in your roofs,
There’s typhus in your wells;
And many an ill-fed tenant――
His landlord’s helpless fief――
Looks forward to his workhouse home
With positive relief!
_Truth Christmas Number_, 1885.
[Illustration]
CASABIANCA, THE HEROIC BOY.
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck
Shone round him o’er the dead;
Yet beautiful and bright he stood
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud though child-like form!
The flames rolled on――he would not go
Without his father’s word;
That father faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud――“Say, father, say.
If yet my task is done!”
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.
“Speak, father!” once again he cried,
“If I may yet be gone!
And”――but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair;
And looked from that lone post of death
In still, yet brave despair!
He shouted yet once more aloud,
“My father! must I stay?”
While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way:
They wrapped the ship in splendour wild.
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.
Then came a burst of thunder sound――
The boy――oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds, that far around
With fragments strewed the sea,
With mast and helm and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part――
But the noblest thing that perished there,
Was that young faithful heart.
MRS. HEMANS.
――――
EXPLOITS OF THE EMINENT I.
(The character of Macbeth was not one of Mr. Irving’s theatrical
successes.)
Macbeth stood on the new built stage,
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit his tragic rage
Shone round his classic head.
Yes――beautiful and bright he stood,
A stalwart, graceful form,
And raved about old Duncan’s blood,
Whose corpus still was warm.
(_Six verses omitted here._)
The gods applaud with thunder sound:
Irving――O! Where was he?
Ask of the wise ones grouped around,
Who came _Macbeth_ to see.
His eye had then no lurid glare,
He bowed, with grateful heart;
But a noble thing was murdered there――
’Twas Shakespeare’s tragic art,
_The Figaro_, October 13, 1875.
――――
THE MULE.
The Mule stood on the steamboat deck,
For the land he would not tread;
They tied an halter round his neck
And whacked him on the head,
Yet obstinate and braced he stood,
As born the sea to rule,
A creature of the old pack brood,
A stubborn steadfast mule.
They cursed and swore, but he would not go
Until he felt inclined,
And though they thundered blow on blow,
He altered not his mind.
The ship’s boy to his master cried,
“The varmint’s bound to stay,”
And still upon that old mule’s hide
The sounding lash made play.
His master from the shore replied,
The ship’s about to sail,
And as all other means you’ve tried,
Suppose you twist his tail;
I think that that will make him land.
The ship’s boy, brave though pale,
Then nearer drew, with outstretched hand,
To twist that old mule’s tail.
There came a sudden kick behind,
The boy, oh! where was he?
Ask of the softly blowing wind,
The fishes in the sea.
For a moment not a sound was heard,
And that mule he winked his eye,
As though to say to him who’d gone,
“How was that for high?”
――――
A PROSE VERSION.
“The boy stood on the back-yard fence whence all but he had fled. The
flames that lit his father’s barn shone just above the shed. One bunch
of crackers in his hand, two others in his hat; with piteous accent
loud he cried, ‘I never thought of that.’ A bunch of crackers to the
tail of one small dog he tied; the sparks flew wide, and red, and hot;
they fell upon the brat; they fired the crackers in his hand and lit
those in his hat. Then came a burst of rattling sound――the boy, where
was he gone? Ask of the winds that far around strewed bits of flesh
and bone, and scraps of clothes, and balls, and tops, and nails, and
books, and yarn, the relics of that dreadful boy that burned his
father’s barn.”
――――
CASABIANK.
The dog lay on the butcher’s stoop
And in a pleasant doze,
Forgot his lack of bed and board
And all his canine woes.
He dreamed of one fair pup he loved
And soft his tail he wagged;
’Twas in those days when he was young,
And kennelled, fed, and tagged.
Her spirit seemed to hover ’round,
For from the shop behind
A fragrance came which somehow brought
That she-dog to his mind.
And of those pugs who’d scratched with him,
And barked and gambolled ’round,
Some ate the poisoned chop and died,
Some perished in the pound.
The dog dreamed on――the butcher-man
Looked down on him and said,
“A roly-poly sausage skin
Shall be your final bed.
With pepper and sweet marjoram
And fragrant allspice grains,
Casabiank, ’twill be my task
To mingle your remains.
And though you’re old and tough, embalmed
In spices of the East,
You’ll for my faithful customers
Provide a dainty feast.”
He took three paces toward the dog,
That pup――O, where was he?
Ask of the reeking knives that tore
Through hide and hair and flea.
And since that day though many a neck
Has felt that cleaver keen,
No fairer dog-meat ever fed
The butcher’s dread machine.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
THE FATE OF THE PEERS.
The Peer stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled;
The storm that meant his Order’s wreck
Roared round his puzzled head.
Yet masterful and mad he stood,
As though all threats were vain;
A creature of most noble blood,
But of a childish brain.
The storm raged on――he would not go
Without his leader’s word;
That leader, fooled by friend or foe,
No warning voices heard.
He called aloud: “See, Cecil, see
How thick the people loom!”
He knew not that Lord Salisburee
Was reckless of his doom.
“Oh, let me go,” again he cried,
“I surely can be spared?”
“Nay, you must stay,” the “Whip” replied,
“Since you’ve remained ‘unpaired.’”
Upon his brow he felt the weight
Of unaccustomed care,
And tried “to follow the debate,”
But ended in despair.
And shouted but once more aloud:
“Oh, Cecil, _must_ I stay!”
But Cecil, still unwisely proud,
Would have his wilful way.
There came a burst, a shock, a jar!
The Peer――oh! where was he?
Ask of the Chief who scattered far
Our old Nobilitee.
Dukes, Earls, and Barons went to smash
Amidst a grateful cheer;
But the crassest victim of the crash
Was that deluded Peer!
_Truth_, October 16, 1884.
――――
THE OLD MAN LINGERED.
The girl stewed on the burning deck,
For Rockaway she fled;
The sun which blazed down on her neck,
Turned all her tresses red.
Yet innocent by Pa she sat,
While glances shy and warm
Shot from beneath her saucy hat
At every manlike form.
Pa left to see a friend, he told:
And then her smile was sweet
On Mr. Jones, who growing bold,
Took by her side a seat.
The boat rolled on. Jones would not go
Without her father’s word;
That father at the bar below
Her laugh no longer heard.
She called (not loud) “Stay, father, stay
Until thy task is done.”
She knew, too well, the old man’s way,
Unconscious of her fun.
The wind had freshened to a gale,
The boat tossed on the sea,
“Oh, miss,” cried Jones, “why art thou pale?
Why talk’st thou not to me?”
“Speak, maiden!” once again he cried;
“Art ailing? Tell me quick.”
And but the drooping maid replied,
“Oh, I――I feel so sick.”
Upon her brow then came his breath;
He smoothed her frizzled hair.
She looked for all the world like death;
He looked like grim despair.
She murmured but once more aloud,
“Oh Jones, a basin――quick!”
Not one was left, for in that crowd
Each female, too was sick.
Oh, when was gallant like to Jones;
Or, rather, one so flat!
With one heroic smile, he groans,
“Here, darling, is my hat.”
Then came a burst of lightning sound;
The girl!――oh, where was she?
A-spoiling Jones’s hat, which crowned
His cup of misery.
Oh! Knights of old and heroes rare;
Oh! lovers think of that,
The noblest thing which perished there
Was Jones’s new silk hat.
_American Paper._
――――
A poetical squib which has gone the round of the U. S. papers is
evidently based on the same original:
The boy stood by the stable door
And watched the pensive mule;
A thoughtful attitude it wore,
An air serenely cool.
That boy approached its hinder end――
Let fall the pitying tears,
“He’s gone to meet his brother, and
His age was seven years.”
[Illustration]
THE BETTER LAND.
“I hear thee speak of the Better Land,
Thou callest its children a happy band;
Mother, oh where is that radiant shore?
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire flies glance through the myrtle boughs?’
――‘Not there, not there, my child!”
“Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or ’midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?’
――‘Not there, not there, my child!”
“Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o’er sands of gold?
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?――
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?’
――‘Not there, not there, my child!”
“Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair.――
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
――It is there, it is there, my child!”
MRS. HEMANS.
――――
THE BEST HOTELS.
“I’ve heard thee speak of a good hotel,
Where they charged thee little and fed thee well;
Mother, oh where is this hostel of thine,
Shall we not seek it and go there to dine?
Is’t in some fair city of the far North East,
By the winding Wear?” “Oh! not in the least,
Not there, not there, my child.”
“Is’t among the people who love to boast
Of their “Town Improvements” the princely cost?
Who say that, to keep their bodies sound
They have spent £100,000?[48]
Where (when small-pox is absent[49]) Hygeia dwells,
Is it there, is it there, this best of hotels!”
“Not there, not there, my child.”
“Is it where, through the small though festive rooms
A drainpipe sheds its rich perfumes――
O’er the strange old birds with skinny wings,
Which the languid waiter to table brings,
With tottering steps that betoken, alas!
The chronic effects of sewer gas?”
“Not there, not there, my child.”
Is it far away in some region cold
Where the visitor’s welcome; if he have gold
That he’s willing to spend on most villainous wine
At the regally privileged “Bleed him fine?”
here the whole concern abounds in “sells”――
Is it there, sweet mother, this best of hotels?
“Not there, not there, my child.”
Full many a city, my gentle boy
Hath hostels in plenty where thou may’st enjoy
Good viands well cooked, rooms sweet and large,
Decent wines, and good waiting, at moderate charge;
But, unless to thy soul disappointment is dear,
Seek them not in the town by the mouth of the Wear;
“Not there, not there, my child!”
――――
THE “THREE ACRES AND A COW” LEGEND.
The familiar joke, that every labourer was promised three acres and a
cow, arose, as myths usually arise, out of an inversion of actual
facts. Nobody ever seriously believed that such promises were made,
and everybody knows that the substratum of truth on which the
misrepresentation rested was that some machinery must be set up to
promote the restoration of the people to the soil. There was, however,
no desire to injure the landowners.
Mr. Chamberlain speaking at the Westminster Palace Hotel, in January,
1886, observed that:――
“The Tories have universally asserted that we promised to
every labourer, as a free gift, three acres of land and a
cow. (Laughter.) Well, I don’t think the labourers are
fools. They have not shown it at the last election; and I
don’t suppose many of them have been deceived by this
falsehood. I sometimes think we were a little too eager to
contradict it. (Laughter.) At all events, if we see it
necessary to repudiate this burlesque of our intentions and
our promises, let us take care to do nothing to discourage
the expectation, perfectly praiseworthy and reasonable in
itself, that facilities should be made by legislation for
every thrifty, industrious labourer to obtain at a fair
price an adequate, independent, and secure interest in the
soil which he cultivates.”
_The Globe_, (London), in an article on _The Three Acres Legend_,
observed:――
“Whether anybody ever said, in jest or earnest, that Mr.
Chamberlain had promised three acres and a cow to every elector
who voted Liberal, we do not know. But someone has been writing
to him to ask whether such a statement, supposing it to have been
made, would be true, and the inquirer has received the answer
which he might have looked for. The statement is not true. Mr.
Chamberlain’s secretary goes on to suggest to the right hon.
gentleman’s correspondent that he has only to challenge those who
make the assertion to prove it by quotation, adding, that if they
decline the challenge he will know how to deal with them. He
will, in fact, be able to charge them with uttering falsehoods.”
THREE ACRES AND A COW.
I have heard you speak of “three acres of land,”
With “a cow” to belong to each peasant band;
Tell me, oh! where are those acres found,
That promised spot of domestic ground?
Tell me, oh! where is that happy shore
Where we all shall settle, and starve no more;
Not here, not here, my man!
Where father shall sit ’neath his sheltering vine,
And smoke his own pipe, and drink his wine,
And mother and sisters, at tea in the shade,
Bless the rosy bowers their hands have made;
While the cow untethered, and ranging free,
Crops the summer wealth of our acres three?
Not here, not here, my man!
Say, are they then where rich travellers roam
O’er the heathery hills of the “Scot at home”?
Or are they where Erin’s gay sons abide,
By the Liffey’s stream or the Shannon’s tide?
Or are they in Northern or Southern Wales,
Where St. David’s cliffs woo the Western gales?
Not there, not there, my man!
Eye hath not seen them, my gentle Will;
Ear hath not heard of them; valley or hill,
Pasture, or moorland, or woodland fair,
John Hodge and his brats may not settle there;
Not there, not there, my man!
Trust not, oh trust not, to statesmen’s smiles;
These visions so fair are delusion’s wiles
And the acres are only “_Chateaux en Espagne_,”
Built up in the head of Joe Chamberlain;
They are there, they are there, my man!
EDWARD WALFORD, M.A.
_Life_, December 10, 1885.
――――
THE BIT O’ LAND.
I hear thee speak of a bit o’land,
And a cow for every labouring hand;
Tell me, dear mother, where is that shore,
Where shall I find it and work no more?
Is it at home, this unoccupied ground,
Where the three acres and cow will be found?
Is it where Pheasants and Partridges breed,
Or in the fields where the farmer is sowing his seed?
Is it upon the moors, so wild and so grand,
I shall find this bit of arable land?
Not there, not there, my Giles.
Is it far away on the Rio Grande?
In Zululand or Basutoland?
Is it far away on forbidding shores,
Where Unicorns fight and the Lion roars?
Or will it in Soudan be found,
Where English bones manure the ground?
Or on the banks of ancient Nile?
Perhaps ’tis on some Coral Isle,
With dusky groves and silver strand,――
Is it there, dear mother, that bit o’ land?
Not there, not there, my Giles.
Eye hath not seen that fair land, my child,
Ear hath but heard an echo wild,――
The nightmare of excited brain
That dreamers, have, like Chamberlain
Far away, beyond the ken
Of sober, practical, business men;
Far away beyond the sight
Of men whose heads are screwed on right;
Where castles in the air do stand,
Behold the cow and the bit o’ land!
’Tis there, ’tis there, my Giles.
1885.
――――
“THE PROMISED LAND!”
(Three Acres.)
“I hear thee speak of a ‘Plot of Land,’
For each and all of the Peasant band;
Where! Oh Where! is this garden store?
Shall we not till it and starve no more?
Is it where the lordling sits in his pride,
’Mid wealth that to me has been denied?
Is it where the flocks on the hill-side graze,
Or the stag in the forest leaps and plays;
Or the hare runs wild on every hand
Is it there? Is it there? That Promised Land!”
“Not there! Not there! my Giles!”
“Is it far away in some distant spot,
This promised parcel of garden plot?
Where nothing is heard but the murmuring bees,
And the sound of the wind among the trees;
Where no turnips are planted, or apples grown,
Or the fruits of the earth in season sown;
Where the land is idle, and nought is seen
But the fragrant flowers and woodland green,
And the sun shines down on a desolate spot,――
Is it there? Is it there? ‘My three-acre plot!’”
“Not there! Not there! my Giles!”
“It is deeply hid in the _mazy_ brain
Of the venturesome Joseph Chamber_lain_!
’Tis but a bribe to catch a vote,
A bait to hook fish by the throat;
In vulgar phrase it’s ‘_All my eye_’!
A newly invented election cry.
It has _no existence in sober sense_,――
It is but the product of impudence!
It lives but in _Chamberlain’s speech so bland_,
This tempting plot of that Promised Land――
It is there! only there! my Giles!”
――――
THE PROMISED LAND: THREE ACRES.
(An answer to the preceding Parody.)
I hear thee speak of a Plot of Land
For every one of the peasant band,
Tories! Oh, where is that garden store?
Shall we not till it and starve no more?
Is it where the lordling sits in his pride,
’Mid wealth that to me has been denied?
Is it where the flocks on the black hills graze,
Or the stag in the forest leaps and plays?
Or the hare runs wild on every hand,
Is it there, dear friend, that better land?
Not there, not there, my man.
Is it far away in some distant spot,
The promised parcel of garden plot
Where nothing is heard but the murmuring bees,
And the sighs of the winds among the trees;
Where no turnips are sown or sweet apples grown,
Or fruit of the earth in its season known;
Where the land is idle and nought is seen
But the dear wild flowers and woodland green,
And the sun shines down on a desolate spot――
Is it there, is it there, my three acre plot?
Not there, not there, my man.
It only exists in the “Tory” brain.
Though they always “father it” on Chamberlain;
They think we want bribes to get a vote,
Like the Tories from Parnell, then cut his throat;
But in vulgar phrase, it is all in “my eye,”
“A great, big, thumping,” Tory “lie;”
It has no existence in sober sense,
It’s the product of Tory insolence;
It’s author I think was the man in the moon,
And if you expect to find such a boon――
It is there, it is there, my man.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
OUT WEST.
I hear thee speak of a Western land,
Thou callest its children a wide-awake band――
Father, oh, where is that favored spot?
Shall we not seek it and build us a cot?
Is it where the hills of Berkshire stand
Whence the honey comes already canned,
Not there, not there, my child.
Is it far away in the Empire state
Where Horace Greeley feels first rate,
Where the people are ruled by Tammany ring,
And Mr. Fisk is a Railroad King,
With two thousand men at his command,
Besides a boat with a big brass band?
Not there, not there, my child!
Is it where the little pigs grow great
In the fertile vales of the Buckeye State?
And get so fat on acorns and meal
That they sell every bit of them all but the squeal,
Where the butchers have such a plenty of hogs
That they don’t make sausages out of dogs.
Not there, not there, my child!
Or is it where they fortunes make,
Where they’ve got a tunnel under the lake,
Where the stores are full of wheat and corn
And divorces are plenty as sure as you’re born,
Where Long John Wentworth is right on hand――
Is it there, dear father, that Western land?
Not there, not there, my child.
Is it in the dominions of Brigham Young
The most married man that is left unhung,
Where every man that likes can go
And get forty wives or more you know,
Where “saints” are plenty with “cheeks” sublime,
Can that be the gay and festive clime?――
Not there, not there, my child!
Is it where Nevada’s mountains rise
From the Alkali plains which we all despise,
Where a man may beg, or borrow, or steal,
Yet he often will fail to get a square meal,
Where the rocks are full of silver ore――
Is it there we’ll find that Western Shore,
Not there, not there, my child.
Eye hath not seen it my verdant youth,
Tongue cannot name it and speak the truth;
For though you go to the farthest state
And stand on the rocks by the Golden Gate,
They’ll point you across the Western sea
To the land whence cometh the “heathen Chinee,”
Saying “’Tis there my child.”
_American Paper._
――――
THE HAPPY LAND.
I hear them speak of a Happy Land,
Is it at the Gaiety――Vaudeville――Strand――
Or where, secure from the public gaze,
Mr. Buckstone privately Hamlet plays?
Is it where the acting gives go and life
To Wilkie Collins’s “Man and Wife?”
――” Not there, not there, my friend!”
“Is it where the Lord Chamberlain weakly tries
To interfere with the actors’ guise,
Because it gave us a portrait true
Of the gentle Ayrton, and Lowe, and you[50]――
Though you now as three music hall cads appear,
Which makes the satire much more severe?”
――“Not there, not there, my friend!”
“Is it where Jack Sheppard they fail to hang;
Where Macbeth’s broad Scotch has a German twang;
Or where many a bonny and bouncing lass
To Nature holds up a Bohemian glass;
Where Rosa Dartle’s consummate skill
Inclines you to hiss her against your will?”
――“Not there, not there, my friend!”
“I have not seen it, my gentle bore,
For five or six years――or rather more,
Its joys are calmer by far than those
That the Ministerial Bench bestows,
For the scene of the Happy Land is laid
In Opposition’s refreshing shade,
――It is there, it is there, my friend!”
_Fun._
――――
THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.
THEY sucked their pap spoons side by side,
They filled one house with shines――
Their graves are lying severed wide,
By many railway lines.
The same nurse tied the plain night cap
At evening, on each brow:
She gave each naughty child a slap――
Where are those screamers now?
One by the broad gauge line which goes
To Exeter, is laid.
They ran into a luggage train,
And mincemeat of him made.
The Eastern Counties line hath one――
He sleeps his last long sleep――
Near where an engine chose, slap off,
A viaduct to leap.
Another went from Euston-square
By an ill-fated train;
They buried him at Coventry,
With others of the slain.
And one――’neath her an axle broke,
And stayed life’s running sand――
She perished on the Dover line――
The last of that bright band.
And parted thus they lie, who play’d
At hop-scotch in the court.
Who after every cab that passed,
Cried “Whip behind,” in sport.
Who played upon the Nigger bones,
And jumped Jim Crow with glee――
Oh, steam! if thou wert everywhere,
Where would poor mortals be?
_The Man in the Moon_. Edited by Albert Smith, Vol. II.
――――:o:――――
“HE NEVER WROTE AGAIN.”
His hope of publishing went down,
The sweeping press rolled on;
But what was any other crown
To him who hadn’t one?
He lived――for long may man bewail
When thus he writes in vain;
Why comes not death to those who fail?――
He never wrote again!
Books were put out, and “had a run,”
Like coinage from the Mint;
But which could fill the place of one,
That one they wouldn’t print?
Before him passed, in calf and sheep,
The thoughts of many a brain:
His lay with the rejected heap:――
He never wrote again.
He sat where men who wrote went round,
And heard the rhymes they built;
He saw their works most richly bound,
With portraits and in gilt.
Dreams of a volume all forgot
Were blent with every strain;
A thought of one they issued not:――
He never wrote again!
Minds in that time closed o’er the trace
Of books once fondly read,
And others came to fill their place,
And were perused instead.
Tales which young girls had bathed in tears
Back on the shelf were lain:
Fresh ones came out for other years:――
_He_ never wrote again!
From _Poems and Parodies_, by Phœbe Carey, Boston, U.S., 1854.
――――:o:――――
FISH HAVE THEIR TIMES TO BITE.
“_Leaves have their time to fall._”
MRS. HEMANS.
Fish have their times to bite――
The bream in summer, and the trout in spring,
That time the hawthorn buds are white,
And streams are clear, and winds low-whispering.
The pike bite free when fall
The autumn leaves before the north-wind’s breath,
And tench in June, but there are all――
There are all seasons for the gudgeon’s death.
The trout his ambush keeps
Crafty and strong, in Pangbourne’s eddying pools,
And patient still in Marlow deeps
For the shy barbel wait expectant fools.
Many the perch but small
That swim in Basildon, and Thames hath nought
Like Cookham’s pike, but, oh; in all――
Yes, in all places are the gudgeon caught.
The old man angles still
For roach, and sits red faced and fills his chair;
And perch, the boy expects to kill,
And roves and fishes here and fishes there.
The child but three feet tall
For the gay minnows and the bleak doth ply
His bending hazel, but by all――
Oh! by all hands the luckless gudgeon die.
C.
From _College Rhymes_, Oxford.
W. Mansell, 1861.
[Illustration]
CHARLES KINGSLEY.
The following parodies have come to hand since Part 30 was published.
“THE THREE FISHERS.”
Three anglers went down to fish Sunbury Weir,
To fish Sunbury Weir, when the morn did break;
But though the morn broke, so bright and so clear,
Ne’er a one of those three a fish did take.
For though a South wind the trout likes best,
It’s sure to be North, or East, or West,
To set the angler groaning.
Three anglers got down from Sunbury Weir,
Where they had been fishing from break of day;
Yet though their bag from trout was clear,
A fourteen-pounder they’d seen at play.
For though a cold wind the trout likes least,
That day half-a-gale blew up from the East,
To set those anglers groaning.
They tried that old trout at Sunbury Weir,
With a choice selection of baits, so fine;
But although that fish was devoid of fear,
With that cold East wind he declined to dine.
So away they sped from Sunbury Weir,
And out came the trout when the coast was clear,
And gobbled the bleaks “in the gloamin’.”
OTTER.
From _The Angler’s Journal_, May 1, 1886.
――――
THREE FRESHERS.
Three Freshers went sailing out into the street,
Out into the street for a ‘town and gown,’
Each thought of the foeman he longed to meet
And the Bull-dogs stood watching them out in the town.
Through ‘High’ and ‘Broad’ the Proctor must sweep,
And the fifth of November is hard to keep
When such myrmidons are roaming.
Three times that night near the Magdalen tower,
Did the dim gas lamps show a ‘town and gown’;
They looked out for squalls, but alas! for the hour
That the Proctor came up and was neatly knocked down;
For men their hands from Proctors must keep
Though blows be sudden, and black-eyes cheap,
When our gallant blades are roaming.
Three heroes set out for their native strands,
When the morning gleam saw them all ‘sent down.’
And the tradesmen of Oxford are wringing their hands
For those who may never come home to the town.
And Fathers storm, and Mothers must weep,
And the Freshers have sworn a great oath they will keep
Of goodbye to the fifth and its roamings.
A.H.S.
Univ. Coll., Oxford.
――――
THREE WOMEN.
Three women went sailing out into the street
To the brown-stone front where the red flag hung.
They jostled the crowd all day on their feet,
While “going and going and gone” was sung.
For women must go where bargains are had.
And buy old trash, if never so bad,
And husbands must ever be groaning.
Three husbands, all hungry, went homeward to dine,
But when they arrived there was nothing to eat.
Three women, all crazy and feeling so fine,
Were gabbling of bargains along in the street
For women must talk of bargains they buy.
And homes must suffer, and babes must cry,
And husbands must ever be groaning.
Three women were showing their husbands with glee
Their bargains at prices that never were beat,
Three husbands, all starving and mad as could be
Were tossing the bargains out into the street.
For men don’t know when bargains are cheap
And women, poor creatures do nothing but weep,
And husbands must ever be groaning.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
THE UMPIRE’S VALEDICTORY.
(_After a Base-ball Match._)
An umpire went sallying out into the east,
Out into the east, ere the sun went down.
He thought of the club that loved him least
And the quickest way to leave the town.
But men must chin and boys must cheer,
And the umpire’s lot is hard and drear,
Along with the crowd and its groaning.
A man stood up and called out Foul!
And called out Foul! with an angry frown;
Then made for the gate with a sudden howl,
While the mob with bricks tried to knock him down.
For men will fight and boys will jeer,
And luck is best when the gate is near,
To escape from the crowd and its groaning.
A doctor was working the best he knew how.
The best he knew how, as the sun went down,
He thought as he plastered the broken brow
Of the awful yells and the missiles thrown.
For clubs will play and mobs will fight,
And the umpire’s lucky if he lives till night
To escape from the crowd and its groaning.
_United States Paper._
[Illustration]
Robert Southey,
POET LAUREATE.
_Born August_ 12, 1774. _Died March_ 21, 1843.
[Illustration:A]lthough this voluminous author was Poet-Laureate from
1813 until his death, and produced a great quantity of poetry, yet
only a very few of what he would have considered his minor poems, ever
achieved any success. Of his more ambitious works, some of which
contain passages of undoubted power and originality, even the very
names are now generally forgotten, or only remembered in connection
with the Satires and Lampoons of his political adversaries. Southey
commenced life as an ardent Republican, and wrote poems which were
ridiculed by Tories such as George Canning; he concluded by becoming a
Tory himself and was mercilessly satirised by Whigs, such as Byron and
Macaulay. It will therefore be necessary to divide the parodies of his
poems into three distinct classes, the non-Political, the early
Political, and the later Political. Of Southey’s non-political poems
the best known are “_The Cataract of Lodore_,” “_The Battle of
Blenheim_,” and “_You are Old Father William_,” of each of which there
are many amusing parodies. But before treating of these a few
imitations of detached passages taken from Southey’s epic poems may be
given. These epics were never very popular, and are now almost
forgotten, yet they contain some beautiful descriptive poetry, as for
instance the opening lines of “_Thalaba the Destroyer_”:――
“How beautiful is night!
A dewy freshness fills the silent air;
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain
Breaks the serene of heaven:
In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine
Rolls through the dark-blue depths,
Beneath her steady ray
The desert-circle spreads,
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky,
How beautiful is night!”
Amongst the “Paper Money Lyrics” contained in the poems of Thomas Love
Peacock, there is an imitation of these lines, commencing――
“How troublesome is day!
It calls us from our sleep away;
It bids us from our pleasant dreams awake,
And sends us forth to keep or break
Our promises to pay.
How troublesome is day!”
The poem deals with questions of Banking, paper money, and other very
unpoetical topics:――
Come listen to my lay,
While I the wild and wond’rous tale array,
How Fly-by-Night went down,
And set a bank up in a country town;
How like a king his head he reared,
And how the coast of cash he cleared,
And how one night he disappeared,
When many a scoffer jibed and jeered;
And many an old man rent his beard;
And many a young man cursed and railed;
And many a woman wept and wailed;
And many a mighty heart was quailed;
And many a wretch was caged and jailed;
Because great Fly-by-Night had failed.
And many a miserable sinner
Went without his Sunday dinner,
Because he had not metal bright,
And waved in vain before the butcher’s sight,
The promises of Fly-by-night.
And little Jackey Horner
Sate sulking in the corner,
And in default of Christmas pie
Whereon his little thumb to try,
He put his finger in his eye,
And blubbered long and lustily.
* * * * *
From _The Works of Thomas Love Peacock_.
R. BENTLEY & SON, LONDON, 1875.
――――
The well-known antiquarian writer, and Editor, Mr. Edward Walford,
M.A., has recently published, at his own expense, many interesting
records of the Charterhouse School, together with some poems and
parodies which will greatly interest old Carthusians. From amongst
them Mr. Walford has kindly allowed me to select the following:――
ODE IN IMITATION OF SOUTHEY.
How beautiful is green
Where grass has every colour but its own,
Black, dingy, dirty brown, with noxious weeds o’ergrown.
Lo, the trees
Shaking and waving in the autumn breeze;
Black as the Devil,
Father of evil,
With soot and smoke,
Enough to choke
Any unfortunate who walks below,
When the winds blow;
So beautiful the trees,
How beautiful the Cods.[51]
Each one in chapel nods,
While Pritchett drawls the lessons of the day,
And long-drawn snores proclaim their senses dozed away;
Till the organ’s thund’ring peal
Wakes again their slumb’ring zeal;
And soon no more condemned with sleep to grapple,
They toddle out of chapel,
So beautiful are Cods.
Thou passer by,
Who traversed the famed Carthusian square,
Raise thy admiring eye,
And view the gloom which long inhabits there;
And as thou journeyest on thy way,
Do say,
Within that wall
How beautiful is all!
――――:o:――――
Of all the amusing poems in _The Rejected Addresses_ perhaps the only
one which can be truly styled a _parody_ is _The Rebuilding_, which
closely mimics the Funeral of Arvalan in Southey’s _Curse of Kehama_.
Not only is the metre closely followed, but James Smith, the author of
this particular “Address,” has shown great ingenuity in bringing in
the same characters as Southey has introduced into his poem. Lord
Jeffrey, writing in _The Edinburgh Review_, said, “_The Rebuilding_ is
in the name of Mr. Southey, and is one of the best in the collection.
It is in the style of the Kehama of that multifarious author, and is
supposed to be spoken in the character of one of his Glendoveers. The
imitation of the diction and measure, is nearly perfect; and the
descriptions are as good as the original.” It may here be mentioned
that Southey borrowed his description of the Glendoveers from the
“Life and Adventures of Peter Wilkins,” published in London, in 1751.
THE REBUILDING.
――――“Per audaces nova dithyrambos
Verba devolvit, numerisque fertur
Lege solutis.” HORAT.
[_Spoken by a Glendoveer._]
I am a blessed Glendoveer;[52]
’Tis mine to speak, and yours to hear.
Midnight, yet not a nose
From Tower-Hill to Piccadilly snored!
Midnight, yet not a nose[53]
From Indra drew the essence of repose!
See with what crimson fury,
By Indra fann’d, the god of fire ascends the walls of Drury!
Tops of houses, blue with lead,
Bend beneath the landlord’s tread.
Master and ’prentice, serving man and lord,
Nailor and tailor,
Grazier and brazier,
Through streets and alleys pour’d――
All, all abroad to gaze,
And wonder at the blaze.
Thick calf, fat foot, and slim knee,
Mounted on roof and chimney,[54]
The mighty roost, the mighty stew
To see;
As if the dismal view
Were but to them a Brentford jubilee.
Vainly, all-radiant Surya, sire of Phaeton
(By Greeks call’d Apollo)[55]
Hollow
Sounds from thy harp proceed;
Combustible as reed,
The tongue of Vulcan licks thy wooden legs:
From Drury’s top, dissever’d from thy pegs,
Thou troublest,
Humblest,
Where late thy bright effulgence shone on high:
While, by thy somerset excited, fly
Ten million
Billion
Sparks from the pit, to gem the sable sky.
Now come the men of fire to quench the fires:
To Russell Street see Globe and Atlas run,
Hope gallops first, and second Sun;
On flying heel,
See Hand-in-Hand
O’ertake the band!
View with what glowing wheel
He nicks
Phœnix!
While Albion scampers from Bridge Street, Blackfriars――
Drury Lane! Drury Lane!
Drury Lane! Drury Lane!
They shout and they bellow again and again.
All, all in vain!
Water turns steam;
Each blazing beam
Hisses defiance to the eddying spout:
It seems but too plain that nothing can put it out!
Drury Lane! Drury Lane!
See, Drury Lane expires!
Pent in by smoke-dried beams, twelve moons or more,
Shorn of his ray,
Surya in durance lay:
The workmen heard him shout.
But thought it would not pay
To dig him out.
When lo! terrific Yamen, lord of hell,
Solemn as lead,
Judge of the dead,
Sworn foe to witticism,
By men call’d criticism,
Came passing by that way:
Rise! cried the fiend, behold a sight of gladness!
Behold the rival theatre!
I’ve set O.P. at her,[56]
Who, like a bull-dog bold,
Growls and fastens on his hold.
The many-headed rabble roar in madness;
Thy rival staggers: come and spy her
Deep in the mud as thou art in the mire.
So saying, in his arms he caught the beaming one,
And crossing Russell Street,
He placed him on his feet
’Neath Covent Garden Dome. Sudden a sound,
As of the bricklayers of Babel, rose:
Horns, rattles, drums, tin trumpets, sheets of copper,
Punches and slaps, thwacks of all sorts and sizes,
From the knobb’d bludgeon to the taper switch,[57]
Ran echoing round the walls; paper placards
Blotted the lamps, boots brown with mud the benches;
A sea of heads roll’d roaring in the pit;
On paper wings O.P.’s
Reclined in lettered ease;
While shout and scoff,
Ya! ya! off! off!
Like thunderbolt on Surya’s ear-drum fell,
And seemed to paint
The savage oddities of Saint
Bartholomew in hell.
Tears dimm’d the god of light――
“Bear me back, Yamen, from this hideous sight;
Bear me back, Yamen, I grow sick.
Oh! bury me again in brick;
Shall I on New Drury tremble,
To be O.P.’d like Kemble?
No,
Better remain by rubbish guarded,
Than thus hubbubish groan placarded;
Bear me back, Yamen, bear me quick,
And bury me again in brick.”
Obedient Yamen
Answered, “Amen,”
And did
As he was bid.
There lay the buried god, and Time
Seemed to decree eternity of lime;
But pity, like a dew-drop, gently prest
Almighty Veeshnoo’s[58] adamantine breast:
He, the preserver, ardent still
To do whate’er he says he will
From South-hill wing’d his way,
To raise the drooping lord of day.
All earthly spells the busy one o’erpower’d;
He treats with men of all conditions,
Poets and players, tradesmen and musicians;
Nay, even ventures
To attack the renters,
Old and new:
A list he gets
Of claims and debts,
And deems nought done, while aught remains to do.
Yamen beheld, and withered at the sight;
Long had he aimed the sunbeam to control,
For light was hateful to his soul:
“Go on!” cries the hellish one, yellow with spite;
“Go on!” cried the hellish one, yellow with spleen,
“Thy toils of the morning, like Ithaca’s queen
I’ll toil to undo every night.”
Ye sons of song, rejoice!
Veeshnoo has still’d the jarring elements,
The spheres hymn music;
Again the god of day
Peeps forth with trembling ray,
Wakes, from their humid caves, the sleeping Nine,
And pours at intervals a strain divine.
“I have an iron yet in the fire,” cried Yamen;
“The vollied flame rides in my breath,
My blast is elemental death;
This hand shall tear your paper bonds to pieces;
Ingross, your deeds, assignments, leases,
My breath shall every line erase
Soon as I blow the blaze.”
The lawyers are met at the Crown and Anchor,
And Yamen’s visage grows blanker and blanker;
The lawyers are met at the Anchor and Crown,
And Yamen’s cheek is a russety brown:
Veeshnoo, now thy work proceeds;
The solicitor reads,
And, merit of merit!
Red wax and green ferret
Are fixed at the foot of the deeds!
Yamen beheld and shiver’d;
His finger and thumb were cramp’d;
His ear by the flea in’t was bitten,
When he saw by the lawyer’s clerk written,
Sealed and delivered,
Being first duly stamped
“Now for my turn!” the demon cries, and blows
A blast of sulphur from his mouth and nose.
Ah! bootless aim! the critic fiend
Sagacious Yamen, judge of hell,
Is judged in his turn;
Parchment won’t burn!
His schemes of vengeance are dissolved in the air
Parchment wont tear!
Is it not written in the Himakoot book
(That mighty Baly from Kehama took)
“Who blows on pounce
Must the Swerga renounce?”
It is! it is! Yamen, thine hour is nigh:
Like as an eagle claws an asp,
Veeshnoo has caught him in his mighty grasp,
And hurl’d him, in spite of his shrieks and his squalls,
Whizzing aloft, like the Temple fountain,
Three times as high as Meru Mountain,
Which is
Ninety-nine times as high as St. Paul’s.
Descending, he twisted like Levy the Jew,[59]
Who a durable grave meant
To dig in the pavement
Of Monument-yard:
To earth by the laws of attraction he flew,
And he fell, and he fell
To the regions of hell;
Nine centuries bounced he from cavern to rock,
And his head, as he tumbled, went nickety-nock,
Like a pebble in Carisbrook well.
Now Veeshnoo turned round to a capering varlet,
Array’d in blue and white and scarlet,
And cried, “Oh! brown of slipper as of hat!
Lend me, Harlequin, thy bat!”
He seized the wooden sword, and smote the earth;
When lo! upstarting into birth
A fabric, gorgeous to behold,
Outshone in elegance the old,
And Veeshnoo saw, and cried, “Hail, playhouse mine!”
Then, bending his head, to Surya he said:
“Soon as thy maiden sister Di
Caps with her copper lid the dark blue sky,
And through the fissures of her clouded fan
Peeps at the naughty monster man
Go mount yon edifice,
And show thy steady face
In renovated pride,
More bright, more glorious than before!”
But ah! coy Surya still felt a twinge,
Still smarted from his former singe;
And to Veshnoo replied,
In a tone rather gruff,
“No, thank you! one tumble’s enough!”
――――:o:――――
JUSTICE.
“_She hath escaped very well,” Kehama cried;
“She hath escaped_ - - - _but thou art here_.”
I.
It chanced that at an old tobacconist’s,
Outside the door a painted figure stood,
A Kilted Scotchman neatly carved in wood;
’Twas new and rather good.
Now Tomkins bent upon a spree,
Walked down the street the various sights to see;
But when the painted image Tomkins view’d,
To this he sprung, to this he clung,
And ran like mad along the High with this
Across his shoulder swung.
II.
Two bobbies seized him as he turned the street,
Before he was aware;
He dropped the image, and with wingèd feet
Shinned them, and bolted like a started hare;
The angry bobbies baffled now,
Unto each other vow
To make it hot for any gownsmen there
They meet; and Wilkins passing, full of fun,
Began to chaff the bobbies; wrathful they
Seized him instead, and carried him away;
He neither struggled, kicked, nor tried to run,
Nor the least show of opposition made,
Although they grasped him with their dirty hands
Courageously, for they don’t feel afraid
When still their victim stands.
III.
Thus are they always bold when they have made
Some crippled beggar old,
Or unresisting girl, or boy, their prey,
But somehow they are never in the way
If a strong ruffian has been throwing stones,
Or punching some one’s head in self-sought fray,
For they are careful of their bones.
IV.
“The culprit hath escaped,” the bobbies cried,
He hath escaped, but one is here,
Will do as well;
Now let us go and tell
The Proctor that ’twas he; and so they went
And told their story well.
Next morning Wilkins gets a note,
Brought by the Proctor’s man,
To call upon the Proctor at his rooms
With all the haste he can.
V.
And when he came within the Proctor’s room,
Young Wilkins roused himself,
And told the Proctor ’twas a lie,
Invented by those blue-clad menials base;
That he was in the ‘High’
Walking alone, and never even saw
The wooden figure that they talked about.
And that these bobbies
Came and pounced on him as he walked about,
Because the real culprit they
Had been so baulked about.
VI.
The velvet-sleeved one deigned him no reply,
The narrow-minded man――his gooseberry eye
Looked idiotic: not the smallest part
Had right and justice in his foolish heart.
At last he uttered loud each measured word,
Long in his breast confined,
Unjust, severe, proctorial, absurd――
The index of his mind.
VII.
“You must go down,
Away from this town,
For here you would
Never do any good.
You have made a row,
Which I cannot allow,
And so I must take you,
An example to make you;
You must pay me a fine
Of five pounds to-day,
And then go away;
For you must not stay,
At Oxford, lest others
Should follow your track;
And your caution-money
You’ll not get back.
And now Mr. Wilkins,
My words are plain,
You must never again,
Though it gives you pain,
Come up to Oxford.
If you think to do so,
You think it in vain,
You’ll have to obey me,
Mr. Wilkins, for ever:
You can go away now, Sir,
And return again never.”
VIII.
There with those bugbears of the town
Before him, stood the wretched man;
There stood young Wilkins with loose-hanging gown.
Was it a dream? Ah! no,
He heard his sentence flow,
He heard the ready bobbies lie,
And felt all hope within him die.
Ah! who could have believed
That he the velvet-sleeved
Could have so small, so weak a mind,
And ever trust those worms of dust,
Those banes of student kind.
With indignation flashing from his eye,
He left the room, nor cast one look behind.
From _Lays of Modern Oxford_, by Adon.
LONDON, CHAPMAN & HALL, 1874
[Illustration]
THE CATARACT OF LODORE.
HOW DOES THE WATER COME DOWN AT LODORE.
Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Here smoking and frothing,
Its tumult and wrath in,
It hastens along, conflicting, strong,
Now striking and raging,
As if a war waging,
Its caverns and rocks among.
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and flinging,
Showering and springing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Twining and twisting,
Around and around,
Collecting, disjecting,
With endless rebound;
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in;
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzing and deafening the ear with its sound.
Reeding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and growing,
And running and stunning,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And dinning and spinning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And heaving and cleaving,
And thundering and floundering,
And falling and crawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering,
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,
And thumping and flumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o’er, with a mighty uproar,――
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
――――:o:――――
BEFORE AND AFTER MARRIAGE.
BEFORE.
How do the Gentlemen do before marriage?
Oh! then they come flattering,
Soft nonsense chattering,
Praising your pickling.
Playing at tickling,
Love verses writing,
Acrostics inditing,
If your finger aches, fretting,
Fondling and petting,
“My loving,”――“my doving,”
“Petseying,”――“wetseying,”
Now sighing, now dying,
Now dear diamonds buying,
Or yards of Chantilly, like a great big silly,
Cashmere shawls――brandy balls,
Oranges, apples――gloves, _Gros de Naples_,
Sweet pretty “skuggies”――ugly pet puggies;
Now with an ear-ring themselves endearing,
Or squandering guineas upon _Sevignés_
Now fingers squeezing or playfully teazing,
Bringing you bull’s eyes, casting you sheep’s eyes,
Looking in faces while working braces;
Never once heeding what they are reading,
But soiling one’s hose by pressing one’s toes;
Or else so zealous, and nice, and jealous of all the fellows,
Darting fierce glances, if ever one dances, with a son of
France’s;
Or finding great faults, and threatening assaults whenever you
“Valtz;”
Or fuming and fussing enough for a dozen if you romp with your
cousin;
Continually stopping, when out-a-shopping, and bank notes dropping,
Not seeking to win money, calling it “tin” money, and promising
pin-money;
Liking picnics at Twickenham, off lovely cold chicken, ham and
champagne to quicken ’em;
Detesting one’s walking without John too goes stalking, to prevent
the men talking;
Think you still in your teens, wont let you eat “greens,” and hate
Crinolines;
Or heaping caresses, if you curl your back tresses, or wear
low-neck’d dresses;
Or when up the river, almost sure to _diskiver_ that it beats all
to shiver the sweet Guadalquiver;
Or seeing death-fetches if the toothache one catches, making
picturesque sketches of the houses of wretches;
Or with loud double knocks bring from Eber’s a box, to see “BOX
AND COX,” or pilfer one’s locks to mark their new socks;
Or, whilst you are singing a love song so stinging, they vow
they’ll be swinging, or in serpentine springing, unless to them
clinging your’ll go wedding-ringing, and for life mend their
linen.
Now the gentlemen sure I’ve no wish to disparage,
But this is the way they go on _before_ marriage.
AFTER.
How do they do after marriage?
Oh, then nothing pleases ’em,
But everything teases ’em;
Then they’re grumbling and snarling――
You’re a “fool,” not a “darling”;
Though they’re rich as the _Ingies_,
They’re the stingiest of stingies;
And what is so funny,
They’ve _never_ got money;
Only ask them for any
And they haven’t a penny;
But what passes all bounds,
On themselves they’ll spend pounds――
Give guineas for lunch
Off real turtle and punch;
Each week a noise brings about, when they pitch all the things
about
Now bowing in mockery, now smashing the crockery;
Scolding and swearing, their bald heads tearing,
Storming and raging past all assuaging.
Heaven preserve us! it makes one so nervous,
To hear the door slam to, be called simple ma’am too:
(I wonder if Adam called Mrs. Eve _Madam_;)
As a matter of course they’ll have a divorce;
Or “my Lord Duke” intends to send you home to your friends;
Allow ten pounds a quarter for yourself and your daughter;
Though you strive all your might you can do nothing right;
While the maids――the old song――can do nothing wrong;
“Ev’ry shirt wants a button”! Every day they’ve cold mutton;
They’re always a-flurrying one, or else they’re a-hurrying one,
or else they’re a-worrying one;
Threatening to smother your dear sainted mother, or kick your
big brother;
After all your fine doings, your strugglings and stewings――why
“the house is in ruins!”
Then the wine goes like winking, and they cannot help thinking
you’ve taken to drinking;
They’re perpetually rows keeping, ’cause out of house-keeping
they’re in bonnets their spouse keeping;
So when they’ve been meated if with pies they’re not treated, they
vow that they’re cheated;
Then against Ascot Races, and all such sweet places, they set their
old faces;
And they’ll never leave town, nor to Broadstairs go down, though
with bile you’re quite brown;
For their wife, they unwilling are, after cooing and billing her,
to stand a cap from a Milliner――e’en a paltry twelve shillinger;
And it gives them the vapours to witness the capers, of those
bowers and scrapers the young linen drapers;
Then to add to your woes, they say nobody knows how the money all
goes, but they pay through the nose for the dear children’s
clothes;
Though you strive and endeavour, they’re so mightily clever, that
please them you’ll never, till you leave them for ever!――Yes!
the hundredth time sever――“_for ever and ever_”!!
Now the gentlemen sure I’ve no wish to disparage,
But this is the way they go on _after_ marriage.
From _George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanac_, for 1850.
* * * * *
HOW THE DAUGHTERS COME DOWN AT DUNOON.
_“There standyth on one side of Dunoon, a hill or moleock of
passynge steepnesse, and right slipperie withal;
whereupon, in gaye times, ye youths and ye
maidens of that towne do exceedingly disport
themselves and take their pleasaunce;
runnynge both uppe and downe
with great glee and joyous-
nesse, to the much en-
dangerment of their
fair nekkes.”_
KIRKE’S _Memoirs_.
How do the daughters
Come down at Dunoon?
Daintily, slidingly,
Gingerly, slippingly,
Tenderly, trippingly,
Fairily, skippingly,
Glidingly, clippingly,
Dashing and flying,
And clashing and shying,
And starting and bolting,
And darting and jolting,
And rushing and crushing,
And leaping and creeping.
Feathers a-flying all――bonnets untying all――
Crinolines rapping and flapping and slapping all,
Balmorals dancing and glancing, entrancing all,
Feats of activity――
Nymphs on declivity――
Sweethearts in ecstacies――
Mothers in vexaties――
Lady-loves whisking and frisking and clinging on
True lovers puffing and blowing and springing on,
Flushing and blushing and wriggling and giggling on,
Teasing and pleasing and wheezing and squeezing on,
Everlastingly falling and bawling and sprawling on,
Flurrying and worrying and hurrying and skurrying on,
Tottering and staggering and lumbering and slithering on,
Any fine afternoon
About July or June
That’s how the daughters
Come down at Dunoon!
From _Puck on Pegasus_, by H. Cholmondeley Pennell―― London, Chatto
and Windus.
――――
HOW DOES THE DRUNKARD GO DOWN TO THE TOMB?
Here he comes crawling,
And there he lies sprawling,
Here growling and muttering,
His gloomy thoughts uttering,
He totters along, with passions so strong,
Now striking and raging.
Or wordy war waging,
His drunken companions among.
Sitting and drinking, ogling and winking,
Rising and leaping, peering and peeping,
Humming and singing, swelling and flinging,
Turning and twisting, around and around,
Hallooing and cooing, with endless rebound;
Sparring and fighting,
Lewd pieces reciting,
Blundering, thundering,
Disgusting and deafening the ear with the sound.
Laughing and scoffing, sneering and jeering,
Hissing and kissing, sporting and courting,
Spouting and shouting, rhyming and chiming,
Smoking and joking, jesting, detesting,
Huffing and puffing, bouncing and pouncing,
Sweating and betting, winning and dinning,
Slapping and rapping, whipping and skipping,
Scuffling and shuffling, rattling and battling,
Ranting and panting, blustering and flustering,
Reading, receding,
With antic so frantic,
Conceited, pedantic.
Jumping and bumping and thumping,
Dancing and glancing and prancing,
Bawling and squalling and calling,
Chattering and shattering and battering,
Scaring and swearing and tearing,
Tiring, persevering,
The fumes are expiring;
Money gone, credit none,
Kicked about, bolted out.
Staggering, swaggering, whirling, twirling,
Wheeling, reeling, tumbling, grumbling,
Pondering, wandering, moping, groping,
Here he goes with broken nose,
Battered face, sad grimace,
Chairs he crashes, crockery smashes,
Wife he thrashes, children lashes,
Passions deadly, such a medley.
Sighing, crying, snoring, roaring,
Groaning, moaning, sleeping, weeping.
Screaming, dreaming, screeching, retching
All the night, till morning light;
Then on waking, head is aching,
Shaking, quaking, shivering, quivering,
Whining, pining, quailing, wailing,
He seems to see spirits dire,
With eyes of fire, and fiendish glee,
Mocking at his misery.
Yet spite of all his pain
And woes, he goes
And seeks it yet again.
To himself he’s a fool,
To liquor a slave,
To the landlord a tool,
To his friends he’s a knave,
And he makes his own winding-sheet, digs his own grave.
Cut down in his bloom,
He seals his own doom,
And this way the drunkard goes down to the tomb.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
ALL THE LUXURIES OF THE SEASON.
How do the jolly days
Pass in the holidays?
Joking, and smoking,
In Wales or at Woking,
And riding, and hunting,
And lazily punting,
Canoeing, and boating,
And swimming, and floating,
And using in bathing,
The sea as a plaything,
And watching with glasses
Each ship as she passes;
And punning, and rhyming,
And glacier-climbing,
And fishing and shooting:
New theories mooting
In desolate islands,
Or up in the Highlands;
And yachting, rope-knotting,
And random notes jotting,
And sailing and baling,
And picnic-regaling,
Deerstalking and walking,
And merrily talking,
And skipping and prancing,
And glancing and dancing,
And flirting, exerting
Each talent diverting;
And playing at racquets
In white flannel jackets;
Golf, cricket, and touring,
Hard labour enduring,
In quest of new pleasure,
And spending your leisure
In dicing and gambling,
And quietly rambling,
And trudging with trouble
O’er turf and o’er stubble,
Exploding your cartridge
At grouse or at partridge;
Returning to table,
And feeling well able
To eat a whole elk up
Washed down with moselle cup
And drinking, and eating,
At each merry meeting,
Beef, venison, and mutton,
Not caring a button,
Because indigestion
Is out of the question;
Or, better and better,
Avoiding a debtor.
(Perhaps growing pale, if
You think of a bailiff,)
And audience attracting
By Amateur acting,
And singing, and playing,
And modestly staying
At Ramsgate or Margate,
Destroying a target
By accurate aiming,
And sporting and gaming
And draining the bubbly can
Of beer-bearing publican,
Chastising a slow moke
With cudgel of holm-oak,
Your animal thrashing,
And beating and lashing,
To carry his master
A little bit faster;
At croquet excelling,
And tale of love telling
To charming young lady
With hair black and raidy;
Oh! sweetly the jolly days
Pass in the holidays!
From _Banter_, edited by G. A. Sala. September 23, 1867
――――
HOW THE HORSES COME ROUND AT THE CORNER.
How do the horses come round at The Corner?
When eyes are all straining,
To see which is gaining,
And far-distant humming
Grows louder and clearer,――Grows stronger and nearer.
“They’re off!” “They are coming!”
“Who leads?” “Black and red!”――“No! Green, by a head!”
“The Earl!” “No, the Lady!”――” Typhœus looks shady!”
“Orion! Orion,――To live or to die on!”
“Twenty pounds to a crown――On the little Blue Gown.”
“I’ll venture my whole in――That colt by Tom Bowline!”
“Paul Jones!” “Rosicrucian!”
“Green Sleeve!” “Restitution!”
“Le Sarrazin!” “Pace!”
“It’s Mercury’s race!”
Then on they come lashing, and slashing, and dashing,
Their colours all flashing like lightning-gleams gashing
The darkness, where, clashing, the thunder is crashing!
With whipping and thrashing,
With crowding and smashing,
With pressing and stirring,
With lifting and spurring,
With pulling and striving,
With pushing and driving,
With kicking and sporting,
With neighing and snorting,
With frisking and whisking,
With racing and chasing,
With straining and gaining,
With longing and thronging,
With plunging and lunging,
With fretting and sweating,
With bustling, and hustling, and justling,
With surging, and urging and scourging,
With rushing, and brushing, and crushing,
With scattering, and pattering, and clattering,
With hurrying, and scurrying, and flurrying, and worrying,
With sliding, and gliding, and riding, and striding,
With crying, and flying, and shying, and plying,
With tying, and vying, and trying, and hieing!
Till rapidly spinning,
The ranks quickly thinning,
The crowd is beginning
To see which is winning:――
Some faces grow brighter――and some grow forlorner:
And that’s how the horses come round at The Corner!
_Fun_, May 30, 1868.
――――
MAY IN LINCOLNSHIRE.
(_After the manner of Southey’s Cataract of Lodore._)
What are the chief delights of May――
This season, verdant, sweet, and gay?
The leafy trees, the fragrant flowers,
The genial sun, the reviving showers,
The feathered songsters of the grove――
All nature redolent of love.
So poets write, and write it true;
Alas! there’s a prosaic view,
Dwellings are turned quite inside out;
The household madly rush about――
Cleaning and changing,
Counting and ranging,
Painting and lining,
Tinting and priming,
Stirring and mixing,
Glueing and fixing,
Mounting and glazing,
Hauling and raising,
Thatching and tiling,
Crowding and piling,
Dragging and trailing,
Sprigging and nailing,
Stitching and lining,
Twisting and twining,
Turning and clipping,
Sorting and ripping,
Fing’ring and thumbing,
Sticking and gumming,
Stretching and climbing,
Draining and griming,
Rembling[60] and raving,[61]
Tewing[62] and taving,[63]
Noising and clatting,[64]
Rightling and scratting,[65]
Sanding and grinding,
Fussing and finding,
From garret to ground
No peace to be found!
Slaving and laving,
Shoving and moving,
Working and shirking,
Lifting and shifting,
Soaping and groping,
Washing and splashing,
Routing and clouting,
Messing and pressing,
Bending and rending,
Greasing and squeezing,
Kneeling and wheeling,
Humming and drumming,
Pailing and baling,
Lugging and tugging,
Laughing and chaffing,
Dusting and thrusting,
Tripping and dripping,
Unbedding, blackleading,
Upsetting and wetting,
They come with their brooms,
Invading the rooms,
Carry off all the books,
In spite of black looks,
Such confusion and riot,
Destruction to quiet!
And filling, and swilling, and spilling;
And mopping, and flopping, and slopping;
And racing, and chasing, and placing;
And hustling, and rustling, and bustling;
And holding, and folding, and scolding;
And sudding, and flooding, and thudding;
And banging, and clanging, and hanging;
And clapping, and rapping, and frapping;
And pasting, and hasting, and wasting;
Inspecting, selecting, rejecting;
Varnishing, tarnishing, garnishing;
Hurrying, scurrying, flurrying;
Bothering, pothering, smothering;
Unrusting, adjusting, disgusting;
Clattering, spattering, chattering;
Whitening, tightening, brightening;
Ransacking, attacking, unpacking;
Reviewing, renewing, and doing.
Charing, and airing, hammering, and clamouring;
And mending, and sending, and spending, and ending;
And tacking, and blacking, and cracking, and packing;
And oiling, and soiling, and moiling, and toiling;
And creaking and squeaking, and reeking, and seeking;
And racking, and sacking, and smacking, and clacking;
And thumping, and bumping, and lumping, and pumping;
And wrapping, and strapping, and tapping, and clapping;
And heaping, and steeping, and creeping, and sweeping;
And wringing, and dinging, and bringing, and singing;
And knocking, and rocking, and flocking, and shocking;
And jamming, and cramming, and slamming, and ramming;
And rubbing, and scrubbing, and tubbing, and grubbing;
And huddling, and muddling, and puddling, and ruddling;[66]
And patching, and matching, and catching, and snatching;
And rushing, and gushing, and slushing, and brushing;
And rumbling, and jumbling, and tumbling, and grumbling;
Thus, in the manner that I have been telling,
May-fever spreads over the whole of the dwelling.
This clever parody appeared, anonymously, in _Once a Week_, June 8,
1872.
――――
THE BOAT-RACE.
(_A Retrospect._)
How do the ’Varsities come to the Race?――
All a-rowing, and knowing their pluck they are showing,
And blowing, and going the deuce of a pace;
With the ending depending on strong arms extending,
And bending oars rending the waves in the chase.
With a spurting, exerting their muscles, and hurting
Their hearts, say the Doctors (but that’s a rare case),
With too much book-making, and arms next day aching――
And that’s how the Varsities come to the Race?
How do the Ladies come down to the Race?――
With a rustle and bustle, and zest for the tussle,
With a hustle and jostle, and tearing of lace.
With a gushing and blushing, and little feet rushing,
And pushing and crushing to get a good place.
With a petting and getting the odds in the betting,
And letting their fretting be seen in their face:
With a swarming so charming, in toilettes alarming,
And that’s how the Ladies come down to the Race!
How do the Gentlemen come to the Race?――
With a walking and talking, and pleasant “dear”-stalking;
Uncorking and forking out “pegs” from a case.
With a smoking and joking, and badinage-poking,
Invoking the Stroke in the boat that they “place.”
With a laughing, Bass-quafting, and eke shandy-gaffing
And chaffing the cads till they’re black in the face,
And hurraying, and laying the odds――and then paying――
And that’s how the Gentlemen come to the Race!
How do the Roughs and Cads come to the Race?――
With a cheering and beering, and sneering and jeering;
“My dear”-ing and leering at each pretty face.
With a scowling, and fouling the air with their howling,
And prowling and growling, and grin and grimace,
With a swearing and tearing, and blue rosettes wearing,
And a daring uncaring what things they abase――
And a reeling, and feeling for fighting, and stealing――
And that’s how the Roughs and Cads come to the Race!
_Punch_, April 27, 1878.
――――
READY FOR THE START.
Here they come sparkling,
There they go darkling,
A tide that flows onward conflicting and strong:
Some betting, some fretting
At losing relations
At choked railway stations,
And storming and raging,
And hansoms engaging,
Or aught upon wheels that will drag them along;
While tramps, the path keeping,
Are running and leaping,
And slinking and creeping,
Eddying and whisking,
Panting and frisking,
Slouching and twisting,
Planning for trysting
When reaching the ground,
Collecting, expecting
Where flats may be found.
Smiting and fighting
Some crowds fun delighting,
Strong language abounding,
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound;
Feeding and speeding,
And shockingly mocking,
And tripping and skipping,
And sipping and whipping,
And nipping and slipping,
Quivering and shivering,
And vainly endeavouring
By pushing and rushing,
And craving and raving,
And waving and staving,
And tossing and crossing,
And working and jerking,
And wriggling and giggling,
And hugging and mugging,
And boring and roaring,
And thundering and blundering,
And hauling, and falling, and sprawling,
And frequently naughty names calling,
And striving and hiving and driving,
And sounding and rounding and bounding,
And grumbling and tumbling, much humbling,
And chattering and battering and shattering,
And thumping and bumping, and plumping and stumping,
And flashing and splashing, and dashing and crashing,
Such sounds and such motions for evermore blending,
Till at last, with a tumult that seems never ending,
By train, carriage, drag, coach, cab, wheelbarrow, cart,
The thousands reach Epsom in time for the start.
_Funny Folks_, June 8, 1878.
――――
THE FALLS OF NIAGARA.
(Lord Dufferin has suggested that Ontario and New York should combine
to make a Public International Park at Niagara Falls. All visitors to
the World’s Wonder must hope that his proposition may succeed.)
“How does the water
Come down at Niagara?”
Somebody asked me
Thus once on a time;
And moreover he tasked me
To tell him in rhyme
How the Rapids’ broad tracts
And the Falls might be seen.
So without hesitation
I made explanation
And gave him the facts,
For I feared he was green.
When you leave your hotel,
To enjoy the sight well,
And, in wonder
At the thunder,
To Goat Island go,
Fifty cents is the pittance
They charge for admittance
To gaze at the show.
Again you pay fifty
(Unless you are thrifty)
To take a not very
Smooth trip o’er the ferry;
And the victim soon finds
It is three times as much to the Cave of the Winds.
It is twenty cents here, and it’s forty cents there;
Half dollars and more when you’ve money to spare.
At all the good places
For seeing the way
In which the flood races,
There’s something to pay.
Wherever you walk,
As a bird by a hawk,
You are worried and flurried
By beggarly louts,
Importunate touts,
And hackmen who, swarming around,
Waylay you at starting,
And, never departing,
Keep stopping, confusing,
Annoying, abusing,
And plotting and scheming,
And often blaspheming,
And pumping and bumping,
And dunning and stunning,
And shouting and spouting,
And pressing and guessing,
And beckoning and reckoning,
And following and holloaing,
All over the ground;
Although so inviting,
Far, far from delighting,
Confounding, astounding,
Pestering and maddening the ear with their sound.
So with a sensation of great irritation,
Of native extortion quite out of proportion,
Of vanishing dollars and rather damp collars,
Of guides never ending, but always attending,
Wherever your fugitive footsteps are wending,
You may get, at a cost that will cause you to stagger, a
Precious dear sight of the Falls of Niagara.
_Funny Folks_, November 23, 1878.
――――
HOW THE CUSTOMERS COME TO THE SANDOWN BAZAAR.
(The following parody was written for the programme of the Sandown
Bazaar, Isle of Wight, in 1879. With a few verbal alterations it might
easily be applied to a similar purpose in any other locality.)
_If “Robert the Rhymer” were alive, I’d implore,
Forgiveness, for trying to copy “Lodore.”_
“What things do you want
For the Sandown Bazaar?”
My kind friends have ask’d me
Thus, time after time.
Moreover some wish’d me
To tell them in rhyme,
So what with one friend,
And then with another,
Eagerly urging
The request of each other;
I promised to tell them
What things we required
For the Sandown Bazaar
From near and afar,
As many a time
We have had them before;
And to tell them in rhyme,
For of rhymes I have store;
Though ’tis not my vocation,
But their recreation
That makes me thus sing,
Because I am anxious
To please in this thing.
From sources which well
In the heart’s deepest cell;
From fountains
In the mountains
Of thought and good will.
Through post and through rail
We expect things to come;
Then rest for awhile
In some kind friends home;
And thence at departing
After effort at starting,
They will quickly proceed,
With a general stampede,
To the Hall of the Town.
Helter-skelter,
Hurry-scurry,
Every one seems
In a terrible flurry.
Hammering and clammering,
The tumult and banging,
Making a furious
Terrible roar.
’Mid all this confusion,
The boxes are placed
On the Town Hall floor.
Then arms which are strong
Drag them along
To the stalls, where there falls
On the faces of “graces”――
All found in their places,
A light of delight.
Laughing and talking,
Smiling and walking,
Turning and twisting,
Walking and frisking,
Soon all are agreed
That a sight to delight in,
At last is displayed,
As the stalls are arrayed
In articles useful and fancy,
As if by the aid of necromancy.
Tatting and platting,
Matting and blacking,
And crochet and croquet
And crewls and jewels,
And baskets and caskets,
And brackets and rackets,
And lustres and dusters,
And feathers and leathers,
And towels and trowels,
And cradles and ladles,
And sables and tables,
And mittens and kittens,
And dresses and presses,
And dishes and fishes,
And cases and braces,
And pencils and lentils,
And pictures and tinctures,
And bangles and mangles,
And brushes and thrushes,
And coffee and toffee,
And bonnets and sonnets,
And pickles and sickles,
And papers and scrapers,
And slippers and nippers,
And sashes and taches,
And money and honey.
And screens and machines,
And ferns and epergnes,
And coseys and poseys,
And lamps and stamps,
And games and frames,
And spoons and balloons,
And quilts and stilts,
And yachts and whatnots,
And telephones and microphones,
And phonographs and photographs,
And oleographs and chromographs,
And telescopes and stereoscopes,
And pinafores and battledores,
And lemonade and gingerade,
And cheffoniers and caffetiers,
And letter racks and knickknacks,
And cocoatina and farina,
And barometers and thermometers,
And refrigerators and perambulators,
And chrysanthemums and kettle-drums,
And pelargoniums and harmoniums,
And canaries and cassowaries,
And clocks and socks and frocks.
And stools and wools and tools,
And bibs and cribs and nibs.
And rugs and jugs and mugs,
And muffs and cuffs and stuffs,
And caps and maps and scraps,
And thus without ceasing and ever increasing,
I might go on telling what things we’ll be selling,
If they only come here, from near and afar,
To make most successful the SANDOWN BAZAAR!
W. J. CRAIG. 1879.
――――
In November, 1879, the Editor of _The World_ selected Southey’s
_Cataract of Lodore_ as the original for a Parody Competition, on the
subject of THE HOME RULERS, and the following parodies were printed:――
FIRST PRIZE.
Is it how the Home Rulers,
Make spaches, me boys?
Whist! I’ll tell ye the tale
In a ‘three-cornered’ rhyme,
Wid the laste taste, iv brogue――
Be the mortial, its prime!
Where they riz thim quare clothes,
Sorra, one iv me knows!
Their wondherful ‘caubeens,’
Their illegant ‘dhudeens,’
Their rings and sich things,
But we saw them wid joy
Comin’ over the bogs,
In sich beautiful togs,
Each a broth iv a boy.
So they kem walking,
Chattering and talking,
Wid ivery long word
That iver ye heard,
Blarneying and fighting,
Dividing, uniting;
Wid the finest iv action
Explaining and proving,
All scruples removing,
To their own satisfaction.
Stamping, hurrahing,
Erin-go-bragh-ing,
Jumping and pushing,
Wildly ‘hoorooshing,’
Shaking shillalies,
Brandishing ‘dailies,’
Tearing their hair,
Sawing the air
(Be jabers, ’twas quare!)
Storming and raving,
Deluding, ‘desaving――’
Demosthenes would have been struck with despair.
Objecting, correcting,
Defying, denying,
Remarking and barking,
And shouting and spouting,
Rebelling and yelling and telling,
And growling and howling and scowling,
Deriding, deciding, and chiding and hiding,
Rejecting, reflecting, projecting, directing,
Refusing, abusing, confusing, amusing,
An’ taching and praching and shaking and spaking,
Wid the gift of the gab such a shindy awaking,
That the author of mischief might listen wid joy――
That’s the way the Home Rulers make spaches, me boy.
(_Miss Story._) FABULA SED VERA.
SECOND PRIZE.
_How do the Home Rulers behave in the House._
Here they come broguing,
Together colloquing,
Here jangling and wrangling,
The Queen’s English mangling,
Staircase and hall and lobby along:
Execrating, dilating,
On methods of baiting,
The Sassenach foe for their fancied wrong.
Then rising and bawling,
Caterwauling and squalling,
Perspiring, untiring,
And sputtering and spluttering,
With ceaseless outpour,
Blustering and flustering,
Explanation mistrusting,
A sight full disgusting,
Amazing, gorge-raising,
Half crazing the House by their senseless uproar.
For dry rot eternal
Commend me to Parnell:
For bosh by the gallon,
Go listen to Callan;
Like a train in a tunnel
Is the voice of O’Donnell;
For imbecile vigour
Unrivalled is Biggar.
Nagging and bragging,
And canting and ranting,
Speech-prolonging, sing-songing.
Face-contorting and snorting,
And stranger espying,
In gallery prying,
Mispronouncing and bouncing and flouncing,
Impeding Bill-reading proceeding,
And scorning the dawning of morning,
Rage inducing, time-losing, abusing,
Naught-revering but jeering and sneering.
Unremitting, late sitting, straw-splitting, and twitting,
Body-swaying, inveighing, and braying, and neighing;
Blue-book spouting and shouting, and doubting and pouting;
Ear-shattering, dirt-spattering, and clattering and smattering,
And so never stopping, but always upcropping,
Fresh batches in-dropping to keep up the ball,
Disloyal Obstructionist bores one and all;
From the start of the year till the shooting of grouse――
This is how the Home Rulers behave in the House.
(_C. L. Graves._) TROT.
――――
Here they come wrangling,
And there they go jangling,
Here mumbling and fumbling,
With tumult and grumbling,
They wander about in trouble and doubt;
Now calling and squalling,
As if they were brawling,
With many an angry shout.
Storming and groaning,
Scolding and moaning,
Their bad taste disowning,
With gibes and with jeers;
Fluttering and muttering
While uttering their sneers.
Now bouncing and flouncing,
And madly denouncing,
And filling the air with their wild Irish cheers.
Rebelling and yelling,
Haggling and naggling,
Jabbering and blabbering,
Sweating and fretting,
Exploding and goading,
Embarrassing, harrassing,
Chaffing and laughing,
And talking and balking,
Vapouring and capering,
Bewailing and railing,
And sparring and jarring,
And growling and howling,
Discussing and fussing,
Retorting and thwarting,
And thrashing and slashing,
Disquieting and rioting,
‘Bejaber’-ing and labouring,
And hustling and bustling and tussling,
And leaguing, fatiguing, and often intriguing,
Provoking and joking and choking and croaking,
And poking and prying, and ‘strangers espying,’
Delighting in smiting, inciting to fighting,
Interfering and jeering, domineering and sneering,
Exceeding good breeding by rudely impeding,
And figuring and sniggering, and Parnelling and Biggaring,
And always obstructing, and oft misconducting,
And flaring and daring and wearing and tearing,
And blundering and sundering and wondering and thundering,
And clustering and mustering and flustering and blustering;
Hindering and teasing, they bring without ceasing
Their ‘questions’ and ‘motions’ for ever increasing,
And rush to the fore with a mighty uproar,
These Irish Home Rulers whose freaks we deplore.
PEMBROKE.
――――
Just out of one bother
Into another.
Gone is the Fenian――
Here comes his brother,
Worse than the other.
Whence is this fooling
Of Irish Home Ruling?
From English invasion,
At Irish persuasion,
Of Paddy’s first unity
In village community――
Not with impunity;
From _his_ horror of digging,
From _his_ habit of pigging,
From _his_ love of things smooth
Better far than the truth;
From _our_ law-codes too drastic,
From our treatment too plastic――
Neither elastic;
Generally speaking,
Without further seeking――
From Irish obliquities,
From English iniquities;
Of such-like antiquities
Eight centuries reckoned
From Henry II.
Thence come Home Rulers,
Both fools and befoolers,
Here they stand spouting
Our Parliament flouting;
There they go shouting,
At this silly season
To Irish unreason
Murder and treason;
Lunging of gunning,
Plotting at potting,
Mooting of looting,
Hooting of shooting,
Braying of slaying,
Rent-paying delaying,
Some of them hedging,
Scruples alleging, while treason is fledging,
Hoping to get the thin end of their wedge in!
Yet they cut a poor figure,
This Parnell and Biggar.
With all their pretension.
As they linger and linger
With a trembling finger
On the racketty trigger
Of their glorious National Irish Convention!
HOYLE.
_The World_, November 5, 1879.
――――
HOW THE HOME RULERS BEHAVE AT ST. STEPHEN’S.
Here they come shouting,
And there they sit pouting;
Here fuming and raging.
A wordy war waging,
They stand a most irate throng
Now fussing and fretting
As though much regretting
They cannot fight all night long!
Collecting, dispersing,
Rejecting and cursing,
Hurrying and flurrying,
Tormenting and worrying
Like some snarling bow-wow;
Taking delight in
Abusing and fighting,
Deafening all with their terrible row!
Vapouring and capering,
Grumbling and mumbling,
And wrangling and jangling,
And growling and scowling,
And squalling and bawling,
And jumping and thumping,
And roaring and boring,
And moaning and groaning,
And laughing and quaffing,
And hissing and missing,
And tearing and swearing,
And thundering and blundering,
And querying and wearying,
And hating, and prating, and rating,
And leering, and peering, and jeering,
And dancing, and glancing, and prancing,
And masking, and asking, and tasking,
And stammering, and hammering, and clamouring,
And teasing, and wheezing, and sneezing,
And stunning, and funning, and punning,
And stumping, and pumping, and jumping, and thumping,
And twitting, and hitting, and sitting, and flitting,
And hashing, and gnashing, and lashing, and slashing,
And mustering, and clustering, and flustering, and blustering,
Replying, denying, and eyeing, and crying,
Tallying, and dallying, and rallying, and sallying,
And staring, and glaring, and daring, and flaring,
And railing, and wailing, and quailing, and failing,
And therefore the House they can never have peace in,
The tumult unceasing, for ever increasing,
Rolls restlessly on like some huge tidal wave,
And this is the way the Home Rulers behave!]
From _Snatches of Song_, by F. B. DOVETON. Wyman and
Sons, London, 1880.
――――
THE SHORE.
How do Cheap Trippers
Come down to the shore?
* * * * *
From their sources they wend
In the squalid East-end;
From Whitechapel,
Surge and grapple
Its ’Arries and its Carries.
Through court and through lane
They run and they shout
For awhile, till they’re out
By their own special train,
And thence, at departing
All bawling at starting,
They drink and they feed;
And away they proceed
Through the dark tunnels,
’Mid smoke from the funnels,
Where they shriek in their flurry,
Helter skelter, hurry skurry,
Now singing, now smoking,
Now practical joking,
Till, in this rapid ride
On which they are bent
They reach the sea-side
And make their descent.
* * * * *
The excursion crowd strong
Then plunges along,
Running and leaping
Over rocks creeping,
Kicking and flinging,
“Kiss-in-the-ring”-ing,
Pulls at the whisky,
Making them frisky.
Smiting and fightin’――
A thing they delight in――
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzying and deafening the ear with their sound.
* * * * *
Sea-weeding and feeding,
And mocking and shocking,
And kissing and missing,
And skipping and dipping,
And drinking and winking,
And wading and bathing,
Shell picking and sticking,
In mud-holes and kicking.
And going a rowing,
And fishing and wishing,
And roaming in gloaming,
Sight-seeing and teaing,
And larking and sparking,
Love-making and taking
To beering and jeering,
Donkey-riding and hiding,
And squeaking and seeking.
* * * * *
And galloping and walloping,
And wandering and maundering,
Uncoating and boating and floating,
Upsetting and getting a wetting,
And crying and drying and spying,
Immersing, dispersing, and cursing,
And meeting and greeting and seating and eating,
And fuddling and muddling and huddling and puddling;
And so never ending, but always descending,
The Cockneys for ever and ever are wending,
All at once and all o’er with a mighty uproar――
And this way Cheap-Trippers come down to the shore!
_Punch_, August 7, 1880.
――――
THE MEETING OF THE MEDICINAL “WATERS.”
How do the Waters come down on the public?
Here they come bouncing,
All rivals denouncing,
“Untradesmanlike falsehoods” tremendously trouncing,
Swearing that hurt is meant
By foe’s advertisement;
Public ear stuffing,
And rubbish be-puffing.
Greek meeting Greek――in the crackjawish names of ’em;
Polyglot rot setting forth bogus claims of ’em.
Loquaciously gassing
Of merits surpassing,
Phosphates and carbonates, jargon empirical
Blazoning each pseudo-medical miracle,
Taunting and vaunting,
Their praises loud chanting,
And bothering and pothering
And boasting, and posting
On hoardings and boardings
Their pictures and strictures,
And much advertising,
And circularising;
Till one wishes the roar
Of these Waters were o’er,
And votes the whole business no end of a bore.
_Punch_, June 4, 1881.
――――
A LEGISLATIVE CATARACT; OR HOW THE COMMONS RUSH IN THROUGH THE DOOR.
“How do the members,
Rush in through the door?”
A curious friend asked me
Last year at this time;
And, furthermore, tasked me
To tell him in rhyme.
So anon, thus possess’d
Of his wish in the matter,
My muse I entreated
To come when address’d
And describe how those seated
With clamour and clatter,
Rush in through the door,
And swarm over the floor
When so eager they are
To press to the bar
And to hear the Queen’s Speech
As they’ve heard it of yore!
The result of my prayer
To my Muse for her aid,
You will see in the rare
List of rhymes I have made.
Tho’ the strict truth to tell,
Robert Southey as well,
By writing before
Of the Falls of Lodore,
Has a prominent share,
In this little affair.
* * * * *
“From all parts of the town
Have the members come down,
To renew legislation――
For this favored nation;
From South, West, and North,
They have all issued forth;
Brought by brougham and train
They have mustered again;
And the signal awaiting
Are busy debating;
Excitement controlling,
And friends button-holing,
And some even napping,
Till Black-Rod comes rapping.
But, then, ere he’s done,
Off the nimble ones run
Up passages, stairs,
Four-a-breast, or in pairs,
Till some even swelter,
So fierce is their flurry;
Helter-skelter,
Hurry-scurry,
There they go rushing,
And here they come crushing,
And rudely rebuffing,
(But Warton is snuffing)
With a chorus of “oh’s,”
And much treading on toes,
Till increasing their pace,
For quite reckless they are,
They tear on in their race
To be at the Bar.
Some five hundred strong,
They hasten along,
Fuming and raging,
As though a war waging.
Slighting and smiting,
And old ones affrighting;
Dodging and darting,
With gouty feet smarting,
Limping and hustling,
And fussily bustling;
Talking whilst walking,
And punning whilst running,
Twisting and turning
Sharp corners around,
Selfishly spurning
The friends that abound;
Calling and bawling,
(Some actually sprawling),
And hooting and yelling,
With outcry so swelling,
That all who are near they completely astound.
Pressing, progressing,
Proceeding and speeding,
And threading and spreading,
And shocking and mocking,
And tattling and battling,
And coursing and forcing,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And going tip-toeing,
And hopping and stopping,
And gaining and straining,
And hieing and vieing,
And flouncing and bouncing,
And seizing and squeezing,
And catching and snatching,
And ambling and scrambling,
And stripping and slipping,
And singing and swinging,
And doubling and troubling,
And pining and whining,
And shifting and drifting,
And filing and smiling,
And dinning and winning,
And moaning and groaning;
And thundering and blundering,
And hurrying and scurrying,
And quivering and shivering,
And parrying and harrying,
And hastening and chastening,
And cantering and bantering;
Dividing, and sliding, and striding,
And bumping, and lumping, and jumping,
And stumbling, and tumbling, and grumbling,
And chasing, and racing, and pacing,
And clattering, and battering, and chattering
And bounding, and rounding, and pounding,
And steering, and jeering, and fearing.
And contriving, and driving, and striving,
And stooping, and whooping, and trooping;
Retreating, and eating, and meeting, and greeting,
Delaying, and straying, and staying, and saying,
Advancing, and prancing, and chancing, and glancing,
Recoiling, embroiling, turmoiling, and toiling,
And steaming, and beaming, and scheming, and teaming,
And clapping, and slapping, and rapping, and tapping,
And crushing, and brushing, and gushing, and rushing,
And backing, and tracking, and hacking, and packing,
And dashing, and clashing, and smashing, and crashing,
And glaring, and daring, and pairing, and flaring,
So seeming ne’er ending, but always ascending,
These sounds and these motions are loudly contending,
As five hundred and more with a mighty uproar,
On their way to the Bar, hurry in through the door.”
_Truth_, February 9, 1882.
――――
THE MEETING OF THE LANDLORDS.
_How do the Landlords “come down on” the Act?_
Here they come hurrying, there they come scurrying,
Their minds about destiny dreadfully worrying;
With big “Resolutions” and plaints against “Wrong,”
They hasten along, more sounding than strong.
Posing and glosing,
Dread dangers disclosing,
And hinting that Providence sure must be dozing.
Blaming, and shaming,
Declaiming, and flaming,
And large “Compensation” commandingly claiming.
Sobbing, and throbbing,
’Gainst Radical robbing,
Sighing and crying;
Rack-renting denying
With stinging jobation
Against confiscation,
And much botheration
About Valuation;
Spouting, and flouting, and doubting,
Denouncing, and bouncing, and flouncing;
And fluttering, and muttering, and sputtering;
And swearing repairing the past is uptearing,
Society’s self from its basis and bearing;
And flaring, and blaring, and simple souls scaring
By wild elocution
About Revolution;
Proclaiming that law is now putting a stopper
On Property’s game in a manner improper:
That Civilization is coming a cropper.
_So_ the Landlords galore,
Like Cassandras, deplore,
And down on the Land Act like Cataracts pour,
O’er and o’er, o’er and o’er,
With a mighty uproar.
While the World says,――“_We’ve heard all this Shindy before_!”
_Punch_, January 14, 1882.
――――
THAT’S HOW THE TOURISTS COME DOWN TO THE SHORE.
Cheerily,
Wearily,
Warily,
Merrily,
Slidingly,
Glidingly,
Trippingly,
Skippingly,
Leaping and creeping,
At nymphs slyly peeping,
Mashing and dashing,
In salt water splashing,
Billing and cooing,
The wooed and the wooing,
Hobbies entrancing all, beauty enhancing all,
Laughter and jollity ruling and schooling all,
Neptune from ocean arising surprising all.
Ceaseless vivacity,
Reckless audacity,
Some in high ecstasies,
Others in vextasies.
Merry girls spooning and flirting and catching on,
Elderly matrons with schemes of love matching on,
Old gents asthmatical, wheezing and sneezing on,
Artists all sketching and etching and painting on,
Geologists searching and peering and diving on,
Climbers ascending and wearily wending on,
Activity endless with never an ending on.
When the season arrives,
And the big billows roar,
That’s how the tourists
Come down to the shore.
_The Detroit Free Press_, Summer Number, 1885.
In 1880, Mr. E. Harris-Bickford, of Camborne, published a long poem on
the Falls of Niagara, it also was written in imitation of Southey’s
_Cataract of Lodore_.
[Illustration]
THE OLD MAN’S COMFORTS AND HOW HE GAINED THEM.
“You are old, father William,” the young man cried,
“The few locks that are left you are grey:
You are hale, father William, a hearty old man:
Now tell me the reason, I pray.”
“In the days of my youth,” father William replied,
“I remember’d that youth would fly fast,
And abus’d not my health and my vigour at first,
That I never might need them at last.”
“You are old, father William,” the young man cried,
“And pleasures with youth pass away,
And yet you lament not the days that are gone:
Now tell me the reason, I pray.”
“In the days of my youth,” father William replied,
“I remembered that youth could not last;
I thought of the future whatever I did,
That I never might grieve for the past.”
“You are old, father William,” the young man cried,
“And life must be hast’ning away;
You are cheerful and love to converse upon death;
Now tell me reason, I pray.”
“I am cheerful, young man,” father William replied,
“Let the cause thy attention engage;
In the days of my youth I remember’d my God,
And he hath not forgotten my age.”
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
――――
Father William.
“You are old, Father William,” the young man said,
“And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head,
_Do_ you think at your age it is right?”
“In my youth,” Father William replied to his son,
“I feared it might injure the brain,
But now that I’m perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again.”
“You are old,” said the youth, “as I mentioned before,
And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back sommersault in at the door,
Pray, _what_ is the reason of that?”
“In my youth,” said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
“I kept all my limbs very supple,
By the use of this ointment――one shilling the box,
Allow me to sell you a couple.”
“You are old,” said the youth, “and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet,
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak,
Pray how did you manage to do it?”
“In my youth,” said his father, “I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife,
And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life.”
“You are old,” said the youth, “one would hardly suppose,
That your eye was as steady as ever,
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose,
What made you so _awfully_ clever?”
“I have answered three questions and that is enough,”
Said his father. “don’t give yourself airs,
“Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I’ll kick you down stairs!”
From _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_, by Lewis Carroll. (Macmillan
and Co., London.)
――――
THE OLD MAN’S COLD, AND HOW HE GOT IT.
BY NORTHEY-SOUTHEY-EASTEY-WESTEY.
“You are cold, Father William,” the young man cried,
“You shake and you shiver, I say,
You’ve a cold, Father William, your nose it is red;
Now tell me the reason, I pray.”
“In the days of my youth,” Father William replied――
(He was a dissembling old man),
“I put lumps of ice in my grandpapa’s boots,
And snowballed my aunt Mary Ann.”
“Go along! Father William.” the young man cried,
“You are trying it on, sir, to-day;
What makes your teeth chatter like bone castanettes?
Come, tell me the reason, I pray.”
“In the days of my youth,” Father William replied,
“I went to the North Pole with Parry;
And now, my sweet boy, the Arc-tic doloreux
Plays with this old man the Old Harry.”
“Get out! Father William,” the young man cried,
“Come you shouldn’t go on in this way;
You are funny, but still you’ve a frightful bad cold――
Now tell me the reason I pray.”
“I am cold, then, dear youth,” Father William replied,
“I’ve a cold my impertinent son,
Because for some weeks my coals have been bought
At forty-eight shillings a ton!”
This parody appeared in _The Figaro_, (London,) March 1st, 1873, and
seems to have been so much admired by the editor of that journal, that
he served up a second edition of it, with some alterations, on July
15, 1874, as follows:――
You seem cold, Father William, the young man cried,
And chilblains are massed round your nose,
I rarely in all my experience before
Saw chilblains so broken as those.
You are right, my young man, Father William replied,
These chilblains you see are the fruits
Of the snowballs I put, when a youngster like you,
In my Aunt Mary Ann’s Sunday boots.
You seem cold, father William, the young man cried,
And if I may venture to say so,
You have influenza most awfully bad,
Come, why do you wheeze in that way so?
In the days of my youth, father William replied,
I found it uncommonly easy
To sit on the ice when I wanted to skate,
’Tis hence that I now am so wheezy.
You seem cold, father William, the young man cried,
And I see you incessantly shiver;
Do you think, aged pal, such a jellyish trick
Is good, at four score, for the liver?
I shiver, young man, father William replied,
Because, with your mirth bubbling o’er,
You slipped lumps of ice down the nape of my neck,
But I’m blowed if I stand any more!