Names ne’er to be forgot in town,
In swarms like Banquo’s long is-sue――
Turk, Papist, Infidel and Jew,
Come trooping on to join the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town,
-niversity we’ve Got in town.
To crown the whole with triple queue
Another such there’s not in town,
Twitching his restless nose askew,
Behold tremendous HARRY BROUGH-[98]
AM! law professor at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town――
-niversity we’ve Got in town.
_Grand Chorus_:
Huzza! huzza! for HARRY BROUGH-
AM! law professor at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town,
-niversity we’ve Got in town.
――――
PENNY POSTAGE.
The Penny Postage commenced on January 10, 1840. The following
parody was issued during the same month.
THE UNIVERSAL PENNY POSTAGE.
From universal suffrage some
Say every blessing’s sure to come,
As clear as one and one make two;
But others say it’s all a hum,
And there’s no blessing like the U-
-niversal Penny Postage.
Of all the penn’orths Nature gave――
A penny show, a penny shave,
There’s blacking for a penny too,
A penny biscuit――all must waive
Their claims in favour of the U-
-niversal Penny Postage.
For all things now there’s some new way――
To write, to seal, to fold, to pay;
And you must talk in idioms new,
And when you mean Post-paid must say,
“Prepaid,” by order of the U-
-niversal Penny Postage.
If aught’s _not_ new the wonder’s great,
The tables are so turned of late,
E’en useful tables, though so true:
Your half-ounce makes one _penny-weight_,
According to the school of U-
-niversal Penny Postage.
Who’d think our great authorities
Would do a thing so (penny) wise?
(Pound foolish things we know they do!)
How now in history they’ll rise!――
The Government that gave the U-
-niversal Penny Postage.
Oh, Rowland Hill, immortal man,
How can we pay you for your plan!
To _you_ our thanks, our pence are due;
It was the Emperor of Japan
As much as _they_ that gave the U-
-niversal Penny Postage.
Send up a column to the sky,
Five thousand office inkstands high;
Take for a basement fair to view,
As many reams of “wove demy”;
Write――“To the author of the U-
-niversal Penny Postage.”
ANONYMOUS.
――――
SONG.
_Sung by Dodge-ero_ (COLONEL T-YL-R) _in the Burlesque Play of “The
Reform Rovers.”_
It is a most provoking do!
To think that I was potting ’em――
The guileless DILLWYN and his crew,
When who should twig us but the hu-
-morous M.P. for Nottingham――
-morous M.P. for Nottingham.
(_Weeps and pulls out a true blue Reform bill. Gazing tenderly at it,
he proceeds_――
Sweet Measure! checks of truest blue
They soon had found garotting ’em,
If they had helped to pass you through,
Without detection by the hu-
-morous M.P. for Nottingham――
-morous M.P. for Nottingham.
(_At each repetition of this line Dodge-ero cracks his whip in
cadence._)
Bah! Bah! As RAREY trotted Crui-
ser, I was calmly trotting ’em,
When, hang it! who should enter――who?
But that confounded pest――the hU-
-morous M.P. for Nottingham――
-morous M.P. for Nottingham.
The very form, in which they drew
My words up, clearly spotting ’em,
He offered to the House as scrU-
-tineers――he did indeed, the hU-
-morous M.P. for Nottingham――
-morous M.P. for Nottingham.
My eyes! (with soda corks, it’s true,
I have a way of dotting ’em
At awkward times)――a rare to-do
Was thus created by the hU-
-morous M.P. for Nottingham――
-morous M.P. for Nottingham.
And since they can’t escape the crU-
-el sentence he’s alloting ’em,
Their only chance is to abU-
-se, and heap strong terms upon the hU-
-morous M.P. for Nottingham――
-morous M.P. for Nottingham.
(_During the last stanza Dodge-ero perceives that he has run his head
against a wall, so hard as to produce a visible confusion. The curtain
drops._)
_Fun_, April 27, 1867.
――――
THE ORATOR’S SONG.
“_Glory, Glory, to the Union._”
My years are many――they were few
(The flight of time immense is)
My cap and gown were both brand new
When first a member of the U-
-nion Oxoniensis,
-nion Oxoniensis.
A Literal _then_ of deepest hue
(_Now_ Time’s restored my senses)
My jokes were old, my facts were few
When first a speaker at the U-
-nion Oxoniensis,
-nion Oxoniensis.
I’d done myself, as others do
In railing at th’ expenses,
Yet thought such criticism stu-
pid when the Treasurer at the U-
-nion Oxoniensis,
-nion Oxoniensis.
And still with pride I can review
How I sternly fined offences,
And rigorously enforced them too
When I was President at the U-
-nion Oxoniensis,
-nion Oxoniensis.
What fights from those old frescoes grew,
They drove us into frenzies,
Whether their charms should shine anew,
Or, whitewashed, vanish from the U-
-nion Oxoniensis,
-nion Oxoniensis.
When first my beard and whiskers grew
(A Bachelor in all senses)
I’m afraid I swaggered――(so would you,)
An hon’rary member of the U-
-nion Oxoniensis,
-nion Oxoniensis.
Ah, me, perhaps those days I view
Thro’ gaudy-tinted lenses,
Yet, sad, I bid my last adieu
To all thy well-known rooms, O, U-
-nion Oxoniensis.
-nion Oxoniensis.
From _The Shotover Papers_, or Echoes from Oxford. March 1874.
The “Union” is a well known Club for Oxford Students, having reading
and smoking rooms, a good library, and a debating room, in which some
of our finest public speakers have made their maiden efforts. The
frescoes above referred to were painted in 1857 by Dante Gabriel
Rossetti, and are, unfortunately, rapidly fading away.
There was another Oxford parody of this song in “_Diogenes_” for July,
1853, entitled _The Oxford Installation Ode_. The celebrities to whom
it alluded are now all dead, and the parody is quite out of date.
――――
THE PLEA OF PADDINGTON.
The Board of Works, a thrifty crew,
Oppose in cold, heart-sadding tone,
The Park! Ah! Bumble may pooh-pooh,
But “Let us have it!” is the U-
-niversal prayer of Paddington.
_Non possumus_? Nay, that won’t do!
Pray drop official fadding tone!
Builderdom’s selfish bosh eschew,
And listen kindly to the U-
-niversal cry of Paddington.
Asphyxia on our Town, too true,
Weighs yet in many a madding ton;
Give us another “lung,” pray do,
Is now the hearty, ardent U-
-niversal plea of Paddington.
Are Cockney souls as dull of hue
As Babylon’s pervading tone?
“Let’s look upon the heavenly blue
From one more vantage,” is the U-
-niversal wish of Paddington.
Posterity, on its turf pursue-
-ing pleasant sports, in gladding tone
Will bless the foresight, wise and true,
Which _timely_ listened to the U-
-niversal prayer of Paddington.
_Punch_, February 11, 1882.
――――
A SONG OF SOCIAL SCIENCE.
“The Association was founded to elucidate the economical and moral
principles on which the Constitution of Society should be based, and
to influence, by the light of those principles, the course of future
legislation.”――Mr. G. W. HASTINGS, M.P., _in his Address at the
Opening of the 25th Annual Meeting of the Social Science Congress,
in the new Lecture Hall of the University at Nottingham_.
If “principles” are “nuts” to you,
And promptly you’d be spotting ’em,
Best take a turn, Sir, at the new
Big lecture-rooms that grace the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!
There Blues orate till all is blue,
(Knights and M.P.’s “big-potting” ’em)
If you the social maze would view,
They’ll guide you through it at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!
Twenty-five years since first they blew
Big Guns, Lord Brougham shotting ’em,
And now there’s nothing new or true
But they’ll bang at you――at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!
If you would dish the Landlord crew,
By laws, _without_ Boycotting ’em,
The Settled Land Act’s action scru-
-tinise as pictured at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!
If you’d rejoice in skies of blue,
With no big chimneys blotting ’em,
You’ll probably learn what to do
By patient listening at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!
If you tight-lacing would eschew,
See girls with “bags” _culotte_-ing ’em,
Or “dual garmenture,” why few
Subjects more “fetch” them at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!
You’d learn how Women’s rights first grew,
And how Man shirked allotting ’em,
On all such questions they’ll adju-
-dicate serenely at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!
Our Social Factors you’d review,
And learn the art of “totting” ’em?
Bless you! Statistics stiff are stu-
-diously fed on at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!
Facts about drains, the Workman’s “screw,”
Girls’ boots, would you be jotting ’em?
They’ll stuff you with enough to ru-
-minate for years on at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!
Would you the World of Hobbies view,
Behold their riders trotting ’em,
_That_ Universe they will elu-
-cidate completely at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!
Battle of Hastings! Pun, Sir? Pooh!
Poor wags are always plotting ’em.
Yet twenty-five years’ war, ’tis true,
Culminates _this_ year at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!
_Punch_, October 7, 1882.
Algernon Charles Swinburne
ON
MR. GLADSTONE AND HOME RULE.
During the recent election _The Times_ newspaper was strongly opposed
to Mr. Gladstone’s policy, and on July 1, 1886, it published a poem by
A. C. Swinburne, entitled “_The Commonweal_” to which it thus solemnly
drew attention in its leading article:――
“None can accuse Mr. Swinburne of sympathy with oppression,
or with failure to champion the cause of struggling
nationalities. But he is clear-sighted enough to see on
which side in this struggle lie the great interests of human
liberty, and the vigorous poem which we print to-day from
his pen is a worthy contribution to the battle now being
waged. “See the man of words embrace the man of
blood”――points an alliance which English Liberals may well
blush to acknowledge; and an appeal to all that is sound in
this nation cannot better end than in Mr. Swinburne’s
words:――
“Yet an hour is here for answer; now, if here be yet a nation,
“Answer, England, man by man, from sea to sea!”
THE COMMONWEAL.
A Song for Unionists.
1.
Men, whose fathers braved the world in arms against our isles in
union,
Men, whose brothers met rebellion face to face,
Shew the hearts ye have, if worthy long descent and high communion,
Shew the spirits, if unbroken, of your race.
2.
What are these that howl and hiss across the strait of westward
water,
What is he who floods our ears with speech in flood;
See the long tongue lick the dripping hand that smokes and reeks
of slaughter!
See the man of words embrace the man of blood!
3.
Hear the plea whereby the tonguester mocks and charms the gazing
gaper――
“We are they whose works are works of love and peace;
Till disunion bring forth union, what is union, Sirs, but paper?
Break and rend it, then shall trust and strength increase.”
4.
Who would fear to trust a double-faced but single-hearted dreamer,
Pure of purpose, clean of hand, and clear of guile?
“Life is well-nigh spent,” he sighs, “you call me shuffler,
trickster, schemer?
I am old――when young men yell at me, I smile.”
5.
Many a year that priceless light of life has trembled, we remember,
On the platform of extinction――unextinct;
Many a month has been for him the long year’s last――life’s calm
December:
Can it be that he who said so, saying so, winked?
6.
No: the lust of life, the thirst for work and days with work to
do in,
Drove and drives him down the road of splendid shame;
All is well, if o’er the monument recording England’s ruin
Time shall read, inscribed in triumph, Gladstone’s name.
7.
Thieves and murderers, hands yet red with blood and tongues yet
black with lies,
Clap and clamour――“God for Gladstone and Parnell!”
Truth, unscared and undeluded by their praise or blame, replies――
“Is the gaol of fraud and bloodshed heaven or hell?”
8.
Old men eloquent, who truckle to the traitors of the time,
Love not office――power is no desire of theirs:
What if yesterday their hearts recoiled from blood and fraud and
crime?
Conscience erred――an error which to-day repairs.
9.
Conscience only now convinces them of strange though transient
error:
Only now they see how fair is treason’s face;
See how true the falsehood, just the theft, and blameless is the
terror,
Which replaces just and blameless men in place.
10.
Place and time decide the right and wrong of thought and word and
action;
Crime is black as hell, till virtue gain its vote;
Then――but ah, to think or say so smacks of fraud or smells of
faction:――
Mercy holds the door while Murder hacks the throat.
11.
Murder? Treason? Theft? Poor brothers who succumb to such
temptations,
Shall we lay on you or take on us the blame?
Reason answers, and religion echoes round to wondering nations,
“Not with Ireland, but with England rests the shame.”
12.
Reason speaks through mild religion’s organ, loud and long and
lusty――
Profit speaks through lips of patriots pure and true――
“English friends, whose trust we ask for, has not England found
us trusty?
Not for us we seek advancement, but for you.
13.
“Far and near the world bears witness of our wisdom, courage,
honour;
Egypt knows if there our fame burns bright or dim.
Let but England trust as Gordon trusted, soon shall come upon her
Such deliverance as our daring brought on him.
14.
“Far and wide the world rings record of our faith, our constant
dealing,
Love of country, truth to friends, contempt for foes.
Sign once more the bond of trust in us that here awaits but
sealing,
We will give yet more than all our record shows.
15.
“Perfect ruin, shame eternal, everlasting degradation,
Freedom bought and sold, truth bound and treason free”
Yet an hour is here for answer; now, if here be yet a nation,
Answer, England, man by man from sea to sea!
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
June 30, 1886.
_The Times_, July 1, 1886.
――――
The next day _The Daily News_, which was in favor of Mr. Gladstone’s
policy of Home Rule for Ireland, published a parody of the poem, and,
in one of its articles, alluded to Mr. Swinburne in the following
terms of reproach:――
“Every topic of prejudice is being urged by the opponents of
Home Rule. All the sins of the Irish people, all the errors
of their leaders, are being daily enumerated by critics who
have made it their business to stir up international hatred
between the two countries as the best means of consolidating
union. The latest ally of the Tories is a red republican,
who happens also to be the foulest-mouthed and
foulest-minded poet of the age. Mr. Swinburne is alleged by
Mr. Theodore Watts to be a man of genius, and he has
unquestionably a marvellous command of rhythmical and
sonorous verse. But the words in which he attacks Mr.
Gladstone are faint and feeble when compared with the
language in which he has previously inveighed against
Christianity, morality, and Almighty God.”
THE OLD CAUSE.
A Counterblast.
1.
Men, whose fathers did most grievous wrong in ignorance and
blindness,
Men whose brothers wrought our Commonweal’s disgrace,
Show the hearts ye have, if holding honour high and human
kindness,
Show the courage, conscience-guided, of your race.
2.
What are these that shriek and shout against the resolute
wrong-righter?
What is he that sets their wrath to tuneful chimes?
See the lyric tongue swift tripping aid the furious party fighter!
See the men of wrath embrace the man of rhymes!
3.
Hear the plea whereby the poet helps the swaggering patriot-aper――
“We are they whose fathers never failed in fight.”
And the clamour of the Club-room and the prating of the Paper
Hail the vain and vapid vaunting with delight.
4.
Who will care to hear the poet when he turns a parrot screamer?
At the party Yahoo’s yelling men may smile,
But the fieriest Muse must sigh when the fine and fluent dreamer
Stoops like rancorous Lord Randolph to revile.
5.
What, _you_ echo the coarse railings of the rude and rabid rabble,
Who cackle, and calumniate, and curse?
_You_ drape their silly slander and their base insulting babble
With the brave, dishonoured vesture of your verse?
6.
Many a year your Muse has fulminated fiercely, we remember,
Against tyrants. Is that righteous rage extinct?
How you smote the scourge of Italy, the false Man of December!
Can it be that he who did so, doing so, winked?
7.
No: the lust of right, the thirst for noble freedom, Sir, live
in you,
Splendid brighteners of the splendour of your fame.
All is well with that; but wherefore should the scurril chorus
win you
To cast dust upon another noble name?
8.
It is stale and slanderous fustian, all this talk of “blood” and
“lies,”
Clap-trap clamour that ’tis poor of you to swell.
Leave carrion to the crows, Sir, and putrescence to the flies,
Our goal is one――what need to rage and yell?
9.
Old men eloquent may err, and are poets safe from error?
All hearts recoil from blood, and fraud, and crime;
But to say that we to traitors mean to truckle, and from terror,
Is plain falsehood, whether put in prose or rhyme.
10.
When tyranny makes traitors then the tyrant’s plea is “treason!”
We through love would make men loyal to just law,
Our means _may_ be ill-chosen, but our aim is right and reason,
An Union without gyves but without flaw.
11.
The Commonweal? Go to, Sir! We all love it, in our fashion,
He most whom you mistakenly malign;
Not with fiery patriot vauntings or with wild hysteric passion,
But with justice, which we deem yet more divine.
12.
If we differ――let us differ, but like gentlemen and brothers,
And fight the fight out fairly to the end,
These Isles shall bear our children, as they bare our sires and
mothers;
Where lives the traitor-fool who’s not their friend?
13.
Not in our shapes, Sir Singer, nor in his whom you bespatter
With too stale slime, but whom we love and trust.
He traitor, trickster, coward? Well, let time decide the matter;
Our hearts are hot, but history’s cool and just.
14.
O “man of words”――and wild ones――“men of blood,” by sorrow
maddened,
Have made the task we toil at sorely hard;
Yet must we toil unhalting, though unaided and ungladdened
By the Song of England’s tyrant-scourging bard.
15.
Such causes long are championed amidst slander, shame, and
sorrow,
But ever to one issue. Well know we,
Heard by our ears to-day or by other ears to-morrow,
Our England’s “Aye!” shall ring from sea to sea!
_The Daily News_, July 2, 1886.
――――
THE COMMON SQUEAL.
A Song for Shriekers.
I.
Men, whose fathers lied, and tricked, and bribed to bring about
the Union,
Men, whose brothers at the Music Hall grimace,
I will show you that the Poet with your spirits own communion,
I will show you that the Bard is of your race.
II.
What are those that shriek and squeal against the Isle across the
water.
What is he that crams our ears with patriot cant?
See the lyrist lick the party hack at breathing fire and slaughter?
See the man of rhymes embrace the man of rant?
III.
Here the plea whereby the Poet apes, and charms, the Penny Paper――
“We are they whose works sensationally shine,
I was ever good at curses, Victor Hugo I’ll out-vapour,
And if there is a scurril tongue ’tis mine.”
IV.
Who would fear to back the Poet as a double-barrelled screamer,
Pure of morals, clean of language, free from bile?
Do you want old Gladstone scarified, the sanguinary schemer?
_I_ will show you how to slander and revile.
(_Does so in nine violent verses, savage and scathing, but scarcely
suited for publication._)
* * * * *
XIV.
There! That cuts every record in the way of party squealing,
That’s the style to pelt and pulverise your foes.
You thought Lord Randolph rabid, but this comes as a revealing,
And there’s lots more where it comes from――verse or prose.
XV.
Perfect rancour, wrath eternal, everlasting objurgation,
Freedom? Yes, I’ve always praised it, and may be
It may do for France or Italy. But that curst Irish nation?――
Rather slay them man by man from sea to sea!
_Punch_, July 10, 1886.
――――
THE WEEKLY DISPATCH PARODY COMPETITION.
PRIZE POEM.
Men, whose fathers went to battle hounded on by bards and singers,
Deafened by loud cymbals and the sounding drum,
Show your spirit now, if any trace of courage in you lingers;
Something worse than all these evils now has come.
Who is this most dreary driveller, rowdy ranter, prating poet?
Whence comes all this filthy flood of nasty rhyme?
See the tongue that talked of truth so steeped in lies that none
may know it;
See the man of poesy besmeared with slime.
Quarrelling cats upon your housetop, cocks and hens in your back
garden.
Dogs that in the silent midnight bay the moon,
Next-door neighbour’s cracked piano, wild excursionists to
Hawarden,
Are a sweet relief compared with this man’s tune.
Perfect nonsense, utter rubbish, everlasting shameless drivel,
Still to some it sounds like truth. To you and me
There’s still time to kill the slander, put to shame the lying
devil;
Spitting venom o’er our land from sea to sea.
A. WHALLEY.
Highly commended:――
THE COMMON SQUEAL: A SONG FOR THE SLEEPLESS.
What are these that scream and squeal upon the roof of this,
my dwelling?
Who are they who flood my ears with nightly squall?
See the tabby join the horrid band that sets the neighbours
yelling――
See Grimalkin lord it grimly over all!
Hear the words wherein I sharply rate, and execrate this babel
“Ye are they who are disturbers of my peace.
Till I bring forth my revolver, what is slumber but a fable?
When I use it――then shall hope of sleep increase!”
Who would fear to shoot a double-faced, unmusical old tabby,
Harsh of language, lank of limb, and sharp of claw?
“Night is well-nigh spent,” I cry; “you vote me cruel, tricksy,
shabby?
I am riled and will not give you any law!”
Many a night that caterwauling has continued, I remember,
On my housetops and my neighbour’s in the town;
Many a time I’ve blazed at him――the fell band’s grey and grizzled
member――
But, unluckily, I’ve never brought him down!
F. B. DOVETON.
From _The Weekly Dispatch_, July 18, 1886.
――――
George Gordon, Lord Byron,
_Born January_ 22, 1788. _Died April_ 19, 1824.
[Illustration: B]yron’s first published volume, entitled _Hours of
Idleness_, contained few poems of note, or that gave promise of his
future fame, although the greater number were far too good to justify
the savage attack made on them in _The Edinburgh Review_. Only a few
of these poems have been thought worthy of imitation, that entitled
“_Maid of Athens_” apparently being the favourite theme chosen for
parodies.
THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE.
Away with your fictions of flimsy romance;
Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove!
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,
Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.
Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow,
Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove;
From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow,
Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love!
If Apollo should e’er his assistance refuse,
Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove,
Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse,
And try the effect of the first kiss of love!
I hate you, ye cold compositions of art!
Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove,
I court the effusions that spring from the heart
Which throb with delight to the first kiss of love!
Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes,
Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move.
Arcadia displays but a region of dreams:
What are visions like these to the first kiss of love?
Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth,
From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove;
Some portion of paradise still is on earth,
And Eden revives in the first kiss of love.
When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past,
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove,
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.
BYRON.
――――
THE MAIDEN I LOVE.
Away with fictitious and flimsy expanse
Of those tresses of falsehood which folly has wove;
Give me the real hair, and unmedicalled glance
The beauties that dwell in the maiden I love.
Ye charmers whose bosoms with cosmetics glow
Whose passions are put on and off like a glove;
I’m blessed if your long studied acting can show,
With the natural charms of the maiden I love.
If Rachel should e’er her assistance refuse
Or her kin, for that lady has taken a move
Invoke them no more, bid adieu to your _ruses_
And copy the forms of the maiden I love.
I hate you, ye cold compositions of art,
All young men despise ye, and old ones reprove
I court the emotions that spring from the heart
The unpractised charms of the maiden I love.
Your eyebrows, your locks, your fantastical dresses
Perhaps may amuse, but never can move;
The arcade exhibits a thousand such tresses
What are Mummies like these to the maiden I love?
Oh! cease to affirm that your sex since its birth
From Eve until now, has with coming age strove,
Some portion of nature still is on earth
In the delicate blush of the maiden I love.
When age chills your blood, and your pleasures are passed,
And your youth fled away on the wings of the dove;
Why caricature you, still to the last
_The natural_ bloom of the _maiden I love_.
P. F. T.
――――
WELL! THOU ART HAPPY.
Well! thou art happy, and I feel
That I should thus be happy too;
For still my heart regards thy weal
Warmly, as it was wont to do.
Thy husband’s blest――and ’twill impart
Some pangs to view his happier lot;
But let them pass――Oh! how my heart
Would hate him, if he loved thee not!
When late I saw thy favourite child,
I thought my jealous heart would break,
But when the unconscious infant smiled,
I kissed it for its mother’s sake.
I kissed it――and repressed my sighs,
Its father in its face to see;
But then it had its mother’s eyes,
And they were all to love and me.
Mary, adieu! I must away:
While thou art blest I’ll not repine;
But near thee I can never stay;
My heart would soon again be thine.
I deem’d that time, I deem’d that pride
Had quenched at length my boyish flame;
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,
My heart in all,――save hope,――the same.
Yet was I calm: I knew the time
My breast would thrill before thy look;
But now to tremble were a crime――
We met, and not a nerve was shook.
BYRON.
――――
TO MARY.
Well! thou art happy, and I say
That I should thus be happy too;
For still I hate to go away
As badly as I used to do.
Thy husband’s blest,――and ’twill impart
Some pangs to view his happier lot;
But let them pass,――O, how my heart
Would hate him, if he clothed thee not!
When late I saw thy favourite child,
I thought, like Dutchmen, “I’d go dead,”
But when I saw its breakfast piled,
I thought how much ’t would take for bread.
I saw it, and repressed my groans,
Its father in its face to see,
Because I knew my scanty funds
Were scarce enough for you and me.
Mary, adieu! I must away;
While thou art blest, to grieve were sin;
But near thee I can never stay,
Because I’d get in love again.
I deemed that time, I deemed that pride,
My boyish feeling had subdued,
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,
I’d try to get you if I could.
Yet was I calm: I recollect,
My hand had once sought yours again,
But now your husband might object,
And so I kept it on my cane.
I saw thee gaze upon my face,
Yet meet with neither woe nor scoff;
One only feeling couldst thou trace,
A disposition to be off.
Away! away! my early dream,
Remembrance never must awake;
O, where is Mississippi’s stream?
My foolish heart, be still, or break!
From _Poems and Parodies_, by Phœbe Carey, Boston, United
States, 1854.
――――:o:――――
MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART.
Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give me back my heart!
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
Hear my vow before I go,
_Zoe mou sas agapo_.[99]
By those tresses unconfined,
Woo’d by each Ægean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks’ blooming tinge
By those wild eyes like the roe,
_Zoe mou sas agapo_.
By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love’s alternate joy and woe
_Zoe mou sas agapo_.
Maid of Athens! I am gone.
Think of me, sweet! when alone,
Though I fly to Istambol,
Athens holds my heart and soul:
Can I cease to love thee? No!
_Zoe mou sas agapo_.
The heroine of this poem died in London ten or twelve years ago. For
some time previously she had been in poverty and when, about 1870, a
subscription was started for her, Gounod composed an air to Byron’s
“Maid of Athens” which produced about £20 towards the fund for the
benefit of Mrs. Black, as she then was. It is said that Lord Byron
wrote the poem in Athens, about 1810, when he was quite a young man,
but I have never yet seen any mention made of the wonderful similarity
between it, and the following ballad which appeared in _The Monthly
Mirror_, November 1799:――
BALLAD.
_Addressed “to her_ I DEARLY LOVE.”
By those orbits which, oft, I enraptur’d survey,
Which, sparkling Content, the mind’s image pourtray,
While sweet Affability tempers their ray,
I conjure thee to love me Sophia!
By those features, which Grief of her tears can beguile,
Aid the gambols of Mirth, light the burthen of Toil,
Dispensing delight when bedeck’d with a smile,
I conjure thee to love me Sophia!
By thy tongue, which I ne’er have heard prattle amiss,
By thy teeth, snow-drop white, thy lips, teeming with bliss,
By the exquisite rapture you breathe in a kiss,
I conjure thee to love me Sophia!
By thy temper as gentle as Spring’s mildest shower,
By the accents so soft, which rob Grief of its power,
By the _form_ my eyes doat on, the _mind_ I adore,
I conjure thee to love me Sophia!
By thy wish to alleviate Misery’s smart,
By the genial solace that wish does impart,
By the fond heart you’ve won, and your own little heart,
I conjure thee to love me Sophia!
By those vows at the altar our souls did approve,
By that union so sacred recorded above,
A compact divine, which demands _love for love_!
I conjure thee _still_ love me Sophia!
BENEDICT.
――――
PRETTY POLKA.
The sentimental young lady at the close of the season 1844.
Darling Polka! ere we part,
Hear th’ outpourings of my heart!
Since the season now is o’er,
Wretched, I can Polk no more.
Hear my vow before I go
_Polka mou sas agapo_!
By those steps so unconfined,
By that neat kick-up behind,
COULON’S hop, and MICHAU’S slide,
Backward, forward, or aside,
By the alternate heel and toe
_Polka mou sas agapo_.
By the waltz’s giddy round,
By the galop’s maddening bound,
By the obsolete quadrille,
Polka mine! “I love thee still.”
Compared with thee each dance is slow
_Polka mou sas agapo_.
Happy season! thou art gone,
I, alas! must Polk alone!
Though the country now I roll to,
Almacks holds my heart and soul too.
Can I cease to love thee? No!
_Polka mou sas agapo_.
_Punch_, August, 1844.
――――
PAY, OH! PAY US WHAT YOU OWE.
_Song for the London Tradesmen._
Higher classes, ere we part,
For the country ere you start,
Let your tradespeople distress’d
Trouble you with one request:
Just a word before you go――
Pay, oh! pay us what you owe.
By those orders unconfined,
Which for goods of every kind
You so readily did give,
Think, oh! think that we must live――
Just a word before you go――
Pay, oh! pay us what you owe.
By those dresses of the best,
Silken robe and satin vest,
In whose splendour, by our aid,
You so gaily were arrayed:
Hear us cry before you go――
Pay, oh! pay us what you owe.
By the Opera and the Rout,
Recollect who rigged you out;
By the drawing-room and ball,
Bear in mind who furnished all:
Just a word before you go――
Pay, oh! pay us what you owe.
By the fête and the soirée,
And the costly déjeuner,
By your plate and ormulu,
Let your tradesmen get their due:
Just a word before you go――
Pay, oh! pay us what you owe.
_Punch_, July 31, 1847.
――――
“The figure advances upon me, flourishing its umbrella in the most
deadly manner.
I discover it to be a man――a creature with a long clerically-cut coat,
a white linen stock――a creature with its hair parted down the middle
to make the most of an inch-and-a-quarter of forehead――a young――a
_very_ young ritualist priest.
He flourishes his umbrella in my face, and bursts out in the following
alarming way”:――
AM I RIGHT FOR COLNEY HATCH?
I.
Man of Mammon, e’er we part
Read the words upon my heart;
Or, if that has left my breast,
Go to Rome and read the rest.
By my vesper-breathing watch
Am I right for Colney Hatch?
II.
By mine alb and stole and cope,
By my tonsured head and Pope,
By my banners’ silken flow,
By my chalice veil of snow,
By the laces that attach,
Am I right for Colney Hatch?
III.
By the chancel dossals hung,
By the incense burnt and swung,
By the candles lit at noon,
By the Sacramental spoon,
By my napkins, cutters, such,
Am I right for Colney Hatch?
IV.
By my chasuble and stool,
By Loyola’s holy rule,
By the font’s baptismal jugs,
By my maniples and mugs,
By my altar-cloths to match,
Am I right for Colney Hatch?
V.
By the acolytes that file
In procession down the aisle,
By the silken flags they bear,
By the holy Cross that’s there,
By my vigil, fast, and watch,
Am I right for Colney Hatch?
VI.
By my piping treble tones,
By my loved Gregorian groans,
By the priest’s Confessional,
By man’s faults transgressional;
Ah! that whispered word I catch――
Yes, I’m right for Colney Hatch.
BENJAMIN D――――. _His Little Dinner._ 1876.
――――
MR. GLADSTONE AND THE “DAILY TELEGRAPH.”
(_The hour of midnight strikes._)
MR. GLADSTONE (_at his casement._)
This is the hour when churchyards yawn, they say;
I wish that I could do the same. All day
I’ve worked right hard, yet sleep I cannot woo;
Oh! how I wish the weary night were through.
_As he speaks, a form clad in large sheets of newspaper is seen
stealing from the neighbouring copse, and sinking on its knees on the
gravel before Mr. Gladstone’s window, plaintively sings_:――
People’s William, do not start,
Nor reply in accents tart;
See thy “Telly” kneel in pain,
Vowing thee to serve again;
See, and say before I go――
Is it all made up or no?
True it is I turned on thee;
Fate for this has punished me.
For, despite my subtle art,
Joseph M. is not a Bart.
Pity, then, thou’lt surely show!――
Is it all made up or no?
Should’st thou come again to pow’r,
William, recollect this hour!
That thy “Telly” on the stones
Knelt and prayed in piteous tones,
That thou should’st not be its foe――
Is it all made up or no?
Ere thou seek’st thy night’s repose,
Tell me, are we friends or foes?
Wilt thou in our interests work,
If I drop the wicked Turk?
Tell me quickly ere I go,
Is it all made up or no?
_Duo._――WILLIE AND HIS TELLY.
_Willie_: Telly, Telly, like a jelly, shiver I at what you’ve said,
_Telly_: Gladdie, Gladdie, lowland laddie, pardon here to seek I’ve
sped,
_Willie_: Telly, Telly, quite _Pall-Mally_, have you been in all you
wrote,
_Telly_: Willie, Willie, I was silly; on the Turk no more I’ll dote.
_Willie_: You I’ll pardon, ere you harden! Go, and don’t your word
forget.
_Telly_: Joseph Moses, too, supposes he may be Sir Joseph yet, If
right gaily, we now daily, puff the Muscovs up, and you?
_Willie_: You will see, T., how ’twill be, T.; trust, meantime, in
what I do!
_Solo._――TELLY.
Fare thee well, and if for ever,
Thou can’st say I’ve not been clever;
But remember, please, this hour,
When thou com’st again to pow’r.
[_Exit_ Telly, _dancing, and_ Mr. Gladstone _retires to rest_.]
――_Truth_. October, 1877
(At one time _The Daily Telegraph_ (London), was very strong in its
support of Mr. Gladstone’s policy, but it afterwards completely veered
round, and whilst Lord Beaconsfield was in power, he became the God of
its idolatry. This change of front was popularly supposed to arise
from the fact that the proprietor of the paper was very anxious to
obtain a baronetcy.)
――――
MAID OF ATHENS.
JOHN BULL _loquitur_.――
Maid of Athens, ere we start,
Take my arm――I’ll take your part.
Be my partner. All the rest
Have paired off as suits them best.
Hear me swear, before we go,
_Zoe mou sas agapo_.
Bismarck’s bland, but over-kind;
Gortschakoff would Argus blind;
Coy Andrassy’s coldly cute.
No: such partners will not suit.
You are small, but safe, I trow.
_Zoe mou sas agapo._
Hobson’s Choice? Oh, not at all!
I’ve my business at the ball:
What it is I need not tell;
Attic nous should guess right well.
Come! together let us go!
_Zoe mou sas agapo._
Maid of Athens! though alone,
Think not, dear, that I’ll be “done.”
They’ve an eye to Istambol,
Fain would leave me in the hole――
Do I mean to let them? No!
_Zoe mou sas agapo._
_Punch_, March 23, 1878.
――――
THE MAID OF CLAPHAM.
Maid of Clapham! ere I part,
Tell me if thou hast a heart!
For, so padded is thy breast,
I begin to doubt the rest!
Tell me now before I go――
Αῥτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπὁρνῶ?
Are those tresses thickly twined,
Only hair-pinned on behind!
Is thy blush which roses mocks,
Bought at three-and-six per box?
Tell me, for I ask in woe――
Αῥτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπὁρνῶ?
And those lips I seem to taste,
Are they pink with cherry-paste?
Gladly I’d the notion, scout,
But do those white teeth take out?
Answer me, it is not so――
Αῥτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπὁρνῶ?
Maid of Clapham! come, no larks!
For thy shoulders leave white marks――
Tell me! quickly tell to me
What is really real in thee?
Tell me, or at once I go――
Αῥτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπὁρνῶ?
_Jon Duan._
――――
MADE OF SOMETHING.
Made of Something! ere we part,
Tell me, truly, what thou art!
For, it needs must be confessed,
There is mystery at best
Lurking in thine amber glow――
Λαγερ μου σάς ἀγαπῶ!
Tell me, doth the glucose shine
In this chalky foam of thine?
Is it malt of barley true,
Mingled in thy cheery brew?
Hops, not drugs, thy tincture? O
Λαγερ μου σάς ἀγαπῶ!
Howsoe’er it be, I fear,
Made of Something, you are queer!
For you make my head to ache,
And my stomach cause to quake,
After twenty Drinks or so――
Λαγερ μου σάς ἀγαπῶ!
_Free Press Flashes_, 1882.
――――
ZOEDONE.
“Zoedone is a tonic, no doubt about it; but being rather sweetish, it
must be thoroughly iced; then――put a liqueur glass of brandy into a
small tumbler of Zoe, and, if you like shandygaffian sort of drinking,
you will find this, what the leading Counsel finds his occasional
fifty guineas, a gentle and agreeable Refresher. _Solvitur
drink-no-endo. Verb. sap._ We dedicate to Zoedone this Byronic
verse”:――
Made of something, ere we part,
Tell me, tell me what thou art?
If the truth must be confest,
With a nip thou goest best.
With liqueur, one little “go,”
Ζώη-δῶν σάς ἀγαπῶ.
_Punch_, September 18, 1880.
――――
CALF’S HEART.
Maid of all work as a part
Of my dinner, cook a heart;
Or, since such a dish is best,
Give me that, and leave the rest,
Take my orders, ere I go;
Heart of calf we’ll cook thee so.
Buy, to price you’re not confined――
Such a heart as suits your mind;
Buy some suet――and enough
Of the herbs required to stuff,
Buy some lemon――peel――and, oh!
Heart of calf, we’ll fill thee so.
Buy some onions――just a taste――
Buy enough, but not to waste;
Buy two eggs of slender shell,
Mix, and stir the mixture well;
Crumbs of bread among it throw;
Heart of calf we’ll roast thee so.
Maid of all work, when ’tis done,
Serve it up to me alone:
Rich brown gravy round it roll,
Marred by no intruding coal;
Currant jelly add――and lo!
Heart of calf, I’ll eat thee so.
_Punch_, January 1852.
――――
“BEAUTIFUL FOR EVER.”[100]
Madam Rachel, ere we smash,
Give, oh, give me back my cash;
Or, since that has left my chest,
Let me have a little rest.
Hear my vow before I go,――
Upon my life, I’ll sue you!
By these powdered tresses fine,
Falling from a brow divine;
By the beautiful gamboge;
By these soft cheeks’ blooming rouge;
By these eyes, so like the roe,――
It is――it is no go!
By this lip he longed to taste;
By this zone-encircled waist;
By “dear William’s” quenched love,
Which I never more can move;
Give me――solace in my woe――
All the cash, and let me go!
Madam Rachel, I’ll be gone:
Think of me sweet, when alone.
I will fly to Mr. Knox;
Every nerve this system shocks,
Can I cease to sue thee? No!
Madam Rachel, oh dear, no!
_Judy_, June 24. 1868.
――――
MAID OF ALL-WORK.
(To her Mistress.)
Unkind Missis, e’er the day
Speed my willing feet away,
Let my injured spirit speak,
Prick your conscience, tinge your cheek,
Hear my words before I go:
If I’m bad, you’ve made me so.
By my weary hours confined
To work and dirt and heat combined;
By my ever-lengthening day,
By my ever-shortening pay:
By these grievances you know――
If I’m bad, you’ve made me so.
By the joints I ne’er might taste,
By the rows about the waste;
By your harsh, discordant voice
Scolding with expletives choice!
By my lot of work, and woe,――
If I’m bad, you’ve made me so.
Cruel Missis! never more
Shall midnight find my toil scarce o’er――
Never more! And Missis, yet,
My parting words you’ll ne’er forget,
As changing slaveys come――and go:
_If they’re bad, you’ve made them so_!
From _Grins and Groans, Social and Political_.
――――
MAID OF GANGES.
By a Heart-broken Hindoo.
Maid of Ganges! thou that art
Maharanee of my heart,
Thou that fairest art in all
Rajpootana or Nepaul:
It were happiness to be
Syce or Ayah unto thee;――
Then one glance of pity fling
To Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh.
Had I mines of gems and gold,
All Golconda’s wealth untold;
Myriads of precious stones,
Begum’s crowns and Nizam’s thrones;
Lakhs of annas, pies, rupees,――
These I’d bring and more than these.
I have them not: and so I bring
Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh.
Maid of Ganges! thou shalt feast
On all the dainties of the east;
Curry will I bring to thee,
Chutnee, rice, and cadgeree,
All that can delight the sense――
Thy lover will not spare expense.
He will buy thee anything,
Will Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh.
Maid of Ganges? thou shalt wear
A Tuggaree twined in thy hair.
And about thy head shall play
A sportive punkah all the day;
While the bulbul’s song by night
Shall fill thee with supreme delight,
And to the tomtom’s plaintive string
Shall Koot Nerbudda Chundra sing.
Maid of Ganges! dost thou love
To watch the smoke-rings curl above?
Dost thou smoke? Then so do I,
So lay thy proud demeanour by
And sit beneath yon banyan tree
And share a narghili with me,
Or hubble-bubble murmuring
With Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh.
Maid of Ganges! thou dost lave
Thy houri form in Jumna’s wave;
Thou dost waste thy sunny smiles
On the sacred crocodiles,
As beneath thine eyes they bask
They have what I vainly ask.
Then one glance of kindness fling
To Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh.
_The Etonian_, February 15, 1884.
――――
TO A SLAVEY.
Maid-of-all-work we must part,
You are not a pleasing tart,
Smashing things with such a zest,
You must surely need a rest.
Anyway, one thing I know:
Holy Moses! out you go!
[_Takes her by the birdcage and the chignon and hands her out
like a sack of coals._]
_The Topical Times_, March, 1886.
――――
The following verses were said to have been copied from an intercepted
post card:――
Joe, my Joseph, ere we part,
Ere you break an old man’s heart,
You that hold the Rads in check,
Ere the Cabinet you wreck,
Pause, nor let Trevelyan go:
Ιώη μοῦ, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ
Leave, oh leave us not alone;
Hartington and James are gone;
Forster, Goschen, stand aside;
Bright (they say) to you’s allied;
But the world I fain would show,
Ιώη μοῦ, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ
Even those I reckon true:
Harcourt, heavy――Morley new――
Childers, blundering――Granville, old――
Some afraid, some rashly bold;
Wanting all, too much to know:
Ιώη μοῦ, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ
If with us you’ll only stay,
In aught else we’ll all give way;
Each shall have (if you’ll show how)
His three acres and a cow;
“Ransom” shall be all the “go:”
Ιώη μοῦ, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ
_St. James’s Gazette_, March 22, 1886.
(Mr. Joseph Chamberlain had just resigned his seat in the Cabinet.)
――――
I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD
I would I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o’er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride
Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain’s craggy side,
And seeks the rocks where billows roll
Fortune! take back these cultured lands,
Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,
I hate the slaves that cringe around.
Place me along the rocks I love,
Which sound to Ocean’s wildest roar;
I ask but this――again to rove
Through scenes my youth hath known before.
* * * * *
I loved――but those I loved are gone;
Had friends――my early friends are fled;
How cheerless feels the heart alone
When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions o’er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart――the heart――is lonely still.
How dull! to hear the voice of those
Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power,
Have made, though neither friends nor foes,
Associates of the festive hour.
Give me again a faithful few,
In years and feelings still the same,
And I will fly the midnight crew,
Where boist’rous joy is but a name.
* * * * *
LORD BYRON.
――――
THE OLD FOGEY’S LAMENT.
I would I were a careless child,
Still knowing not how to behave,
With dirty face and hair all wild
And not a bit of need to shave.
The cumbrous ways of manhood’s day
Accord not with my boyish soul;
Again in dreams I “rounders” play,
The top I spin, the ball I roll.
Fortune, take back my house and lands,
For nuisances I them have found;
I want a tipcat in my hands,
I want to make the football bound.
Give me again the “rock” I loved
(Ah, it was sold in penny sticks!)
Which, in my trousers’ pocket shoved,
With fluff and marbles used to mix.
I loved――but what I loved is gone.
Where are those soldiers made of lead
They could not leave my kite alone,
It now has altogether fled.
Let those who will seek Fortune’s track,
And to Ambition’s projects cling!
I only want my jew’s-harp back,
My hoop, my silkworms, and my string.
How dull to hear the voice of those
Whom rank or chance, or wealth or power,
Have made, though neither friends nor foes,
Associates of the present hour.
Give me again my faithful “chums,”
Who ate my cake and jam at school;
Who let me copy off their sums,
Then thrashed me ’cause I was a fool.
Oh, would my boyhood could return,
With all its appetite and joys!
Now doughy cake I’m bound to spurn,
And raspberry jam, by potfulls, cloys.
Life is a weariness, in fact;
And could I rid me of its pain,
With Fate I’d make a willing pact,
And gladly be a boy again.
_Funny Folks._
――――:o:――――
NAPOLEON’S FAREWELL.
_From the French._
Farewell to the land, where the gloom of my glory
Arose and o’ershadowed the earth with her name――
She abandons me now――but the page of her story,
The brightest or blackest, is filled with my fame.
I have warr’d with a world which vanquished me only
When the meteor of conquest allured me too far;
I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely,
The last single Captive to millions in war.
Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crown’d me,
I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth――
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee,
Decay’d in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth.
Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted
In strife with the storm, when their battles were won――
Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted
Had still soar’d with eyes fixed on victory’s sun.
Farewell to thee France!――but when Liberty rallies
Once more in thy regions, remember me then――
The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys;
Though wither’d, thy tear will unfold it again――
Yet, yet I may baffle the hosts that surround us,
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice――
There are links which must break in the chain that has bound us,
_Then_ turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice!
LORD BYRON.
――――
THE BOHEMIAN’S FAREWELL.
Farewell to the Strand, and my uppermost story,
Which bore on the door in rude letters my name;
Whose shelter I’ve courted with countenance gory,
When street rows had soiled both my linen and fame!
I’ve warred with the landlord, who conquered me only
When liquor and love had allured me too far,
And the lodger made love to his fair daughter lonely,
While she giggled softly, and murmured “Ask ma!”
Farewell to the Strand! While the money had crown’d me,
Of coin for sprees I ne’er yet felt the dearth;
But Poverty says, I must leave as I found thee,
Decayed in my garments, and sunk in my worth!
Oh! for the numberless sov’reigns I’ve wasted
In strife with the p’lice ere my orgies were done!
Oh! for the numberless liquors I’ve tasted,
With blackened eyes fixed upon multiplied sun.
Farewell to thee, Strand! But when Bankruptcy rallies,
And calls me once more to thy regions, why then,
As the old well-known footstep recrosses thine alleys,
Welcome me back to Bohemia again!
E’en yet I may baffle the duns that surround me,
E’en yet may thy street be aroused by my voice;
And when for a spree you have gathered around me,
_Then_ turn, and call on the chief of your choice!
JOHN J. BOSWORTH.
_Worthy a Crown?_ 1876.
――――:o:――――
THE SPELL IS BROKEN.
The spell is broken when we own
The girl who made us feel love’s fever;
We madly smile, and wish we’d known
Her temper, ere too late to leave her.
Each curtain lecture brings the thought
Of all the woes of wedding’s charter;
And he who had an angel sought
But lives to find he’s caught a tartar.
_Judy_, December 29, 1880,
――――:o:――――
THE WAR SONG OF THE RADICAL PHILHELLENE.
(_After Lord Byron’s translation of a famous Greek War Song._)
Sons of the Greeks, our eyes
Are on your little State;
We view with pained surprise
The move you meditate.
_Chorus._
Sons of the Greeks! to go
In arms against the foe
Would be just now, you know,
Inopportune indeed.
Your glorious uprising,
Are you aware, my friends?
Is gravely jeopardizing
Your patrons private ends.
With Philhellenic fervour
He burns, and so do I,
As any close observer
May, if he can, descry.
Gladly would he, I take it,
Extend support to you,
If he could only make it
Convenient so to do.
But asking him to father
Your game, with _his_ to play,
Sons of the Greeks, is rather
A strongish order, eh?
_Chorus._
Sons of the Greeks, etc.
Yet, O ye patriots banded!
Sons of the Greeks, I own
There _has_ been, to be candid,
A certain change of tone.
I’ve not forgot full surely,
Nor shall I all my life,
How somewhat prematurely
I woke the Spartan fife.
I made a bold diversion,
Leonidas-like; but _he_――
He went in for coercion,
And left me up a tree.
And so amid back numbers,
From which I do not quote,
Now, hushed for ever, slumbers
That hasty battle-note.
_Chorus._
Sons of the Greeks, etc.
Well, to correct my blunder,
The least that I can do
Is just to preach knock-under
Perpetually to you.
And, after all, there’s reason
In a filibustering raid,
For which ’tis _not_ the season,
To seek our Gladstone’s aid.
He’s not at leisure, is he?
To cut up other Powers,
Just now when he’s so busy
Carving this realm of ours.
Though loath then, I assure you,
To stay the lifted cup,
I solemnly adjure you,
Sons of the Greeks, dry up!
_Chorus._
Sons of the Greeks, etc.
_The Saturday Review_, April. 1886.
――――:o:――――
ENIGMA
’Twas whispered in heaven, ’twas muttered in hell,
And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell:
On the confines of earth ’twas permitted to rest,
And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed.
’Twill be found in the sphere when ’tis riven asunder,
Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder,
’Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,
Attends at his birth, and awaits him in death;
It presides o’er his happiness, honour, and health,
Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth.
Without the soldier and seaman may roam,
But woe to the wretch who expels it from home.
In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,
Nor e’en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned.
’Twill not soften the heart, and tho’ deaf to the ear,
’Twill make it acutely and instantly hear,
But in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower――
Oh! breathe on it softly――it dies in an hour.
LORD BYRON.
――――
A Parody on the above, by Henry Mayhew.
I dwells in the Herth, and I breathes in the Hair;
If you searches the Hocean, you’ll find that I’m there.
The first of all Hangels, in Holympus am Hi,
Yet I’m banished from ’Eaven, expelled from on ’Igh.
But though on this Horb I’m destined to grovel,
I’m ne’er seen in an ’Ouse, in an ’Ut, nor an ’Ovel;
Not an ’Oss nor an ’Unter e’er bears me, alas!
But often I’m found on the top of a Hass.
I resides in a Hattic, and loves not to roam,
And yet I’m invariably absent from ’Ome.
Tho’ ’ushed in the ’Urricane, of the Hatmosphere part,
I enters no ’Ed, I creeps into no ’Art;
Only look, and you’ll see in the Heye I appear,
Only ’ark, and you’ll ’ear me just breathe in the Hear.
Though in sex not an ’E, I am (strange paradox)
Not a bit of an ’Effer, but partly a Hox.
Of Heternity Hi’m the beginning! and mark,
Tho I goes not with Noar, I’m the first in the Hark.
I’m never in ’Ealth――have with Fysic no power;
I dies in a Month, but comes back in a Hour!
――――
THE LETTER H’S PETITION.
Whereas, I have by you been driven
From house, from home, from hope, from heaven,
And placed by your most learned society
In exile, anguish, and anxiety,
And used, without one just pretence,
With arrogance and insolence;
I here demand full restitution,
And beg you’ll mend your elocution.
ANSWER.
Whereas we’ve rescued you, Ingrate,
From handcuff, horror, and from hate,
From hell, from horse-pond, and from halter,
And consecrated you in altar;
And placed you where you ne’er should be,
In honour, and in honesty;――――
We deem your prayer a rude intrusion,
And will not mend our elocution.
――――
THE HUMBLE PETITION OF THE LETTER W TO THE
INHABITANTS OF LONDON.
Whereas by you I have been hurled
From the first station in the _w_orld,
Condemned in _v_ice to find a place,
And with the _v_ulgar show my face;
I humbly ask to be restored,
In all that’s proper, to a _w_ord.
But what I most complain of now,
Is that the _w_omen cut me so;
When any girl becomes a _w_ife,
I’m turned away for all her life――
And even in her _w_idowhood
I mayn’t return to her abode.
Therefore with reason I complain,
Oh! let me not be heard in _v_ain;
And born within the sound of Bo_w_,
I trust I’m not your care below:
ANSWER.
Your prayer is graciously received,
But you can never be believed;
With _v_’s you often spell your name――
Then is it just your dupes to blame?
As long as you act parts so _double_,
We cannot deem you worth our trouble;
But rest assured that nought will hurt you,
So long as you remain in _v_irtue.
[Illustration]
DRURY-LANE THEATRE.
On the 14th of August, 1812, the following advertisement appeared in
most of the daily papers:――
“_Rebuilding of Drury-Lane Theatre_.
“The Committee are desirous of promoting a free and fair
competition for an Address to be spoken upon the opening of
the Theatre, which will take place on the 10th of October
next. They have, therefore, thought fit to announce to the
public, that they will be glad to receive any such
compositions, addressed to their Secretary, at the
Treasury-office, in Drury-Lane, on or before the 10th of
September, sealed up, with a distinguishing word, number, or
motto, on the cover, corresponding with the inscription on a
separate sealed paper, containing the name of the author,
which will not be opened unless containing the name of the
successful candidate.”
Many addresses were sent in, but the Committee rejected them all, much
to the annoyance of the competitors, who, having expended their time
and paper, by the implied engagement on the part of the committee that
the best bidder should have the contract, had a right to protest
against the injustice of this wholesale rejection. The committee made
an absurd engagement; but surely they were bound to keep to it.
In the dilemma to which that learned body was reduced by the rejection
of all the biddings, they put themselves under the care of Lord Byron,
who produced the following:――
ADDRESS.
_Spoken at the opening of Drury-Lane Theatre, Saturday,
October_ 10_th_, 1812.
In one dread night our city saw, and sighed,
Bow’d to the dust, the Drama’s tower of pride;
In one short hour beheld the blazing fane,
Apollo sink, and Shakespere cease to reign.
Ye who beheld (oh! sight admir’d and mourn’d,
Whose radiance mocked the ruin it adorn’d!)
Through clouds of fire the massive fragments riven,
Like Israel’s pillar, chase the night from heaven;
Saw the long column of revolving flames
Shake its red shadow o’er the startled Thames,
While thousands, throng’d around the burning dome,
Shrank back appall’d, and trembled for their home,
As glared the volum’d blaze, and ghastly shone
The skies, with lightnings awful as their own,
Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall
Usurp’d the Muse’s realm, and mark’d her fall;
Say――shall this new, nor less aspiring pile,
Rear’d where once rose the mightiest in our isle,
Know the same favour which the former knew,
A shrine for Shakspere――worthy him and _you_?
Yes――it shall be――the magic of that name
Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame;
On the same spot still consecrates the scene,
And bids the Drama _be_ where she has _been_:
This fabric’s birth attests the potent spell――
Indulge our honest pride, and say, _How well_!
As soars this fane to emulate the last,
Oh! might we draw our omens from the past,
Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost.
On Drury first your Siddons’ thrilling art
O’erwhelmed the gentlest, storm’d the sternest heart
On Drury, Garrick’s latest laurels grew;
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew,
Sigh’d his last thanks, and wept his last adieu;
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom,
That only waste their odours o’er the tomb.
Such Drury claim’d and claims――nor you refuse
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse;
With garlands deck your own Menander’s head![101]
Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead!
Dear are the days which made our annals bright,
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write.
Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs,
Vain of _our_ ancestry as they of _theirs_;
While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo’s glass
To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass,
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine
Immortal names emblazoned on our line,
Pause――ere their feebler offspring you condemn,
Reflect how hard the task to rival them!
Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Play
Must sue alike for pardon or for praise,
Whose judging voice and eye alone direct
The boundless power to cherish or reject;
If e’er frivolity has led to fame,
And made us blush that you forbore to blame,
If e’er the sinking stage could condescend
To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend,
All past reproach may present scenes refute,
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute!
Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama’s laws,
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause;
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor’s powers,
And reason’s voice be echo’d back by ours.
This greeting o’er, the ancient rule obeyed,
The Drama’s homage by her herald paid,
Receive _our_ welcome too, whose every tone
Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own.
The curtain rises――may our stage unfold
Scenes not unworthy Drury’s days of old!
Britons our judges, Nature for our guide,
Still may _we_ please――long, long may _you_ preside.
Hereon followed “The Rejected Addresses” by the brothers Horace and
James Smith, published in 1812 by John Miller, 25, Bow Street, Covent
Garden, London, and the wonderfully clever and amusing imitations and
parodies contained in the book made it at once popular, and caused it
to prominently attract the attention of the literati of the day. The
imitation of Lord Byron is not perhaps so successful as some of the
other poems. As Lord Jeffrey remarked in _The Edinburgh Review_. “The
author has succeeded better in copying the melody and misanthropic
sentiments of _Childe Harold_, than the nervous and impetuous diction
in which his noble biographer has embodied them.” It is not to be
expected that the burlesque address, by the brothers Smith, should
present any resemblance to Lord Byron’s opening address at Drury Lane.
CUI BONO?
(_Ascribed to Lord Byron._)
I.
Sated with home, of wife, of children tired,
The restless soul is driven abroad to roam;[102]
Sated abroad, all seen, yet nought admired,
The restless soul is driven to ramble home;
Sated with both, beneath new Drury’s dome
The fiend Ennui awhile consents to pine,
There growls, and curses, like a deadly Gnome,
Scorning to view fantastic Columbine,
Viewing with scorn and hate the nonsense of the Nine.
II.
Ye reckless dupes, who hither wend your way
To gaze on puppets in a painted dome,
Pursuing pastimes glittering to betray,
Like falling stars in life’s eternal gloom,
What seek ye here? Joy’s evanescent bloom?
Woe’s me! the brightest wreaths she ever gave
Are but as flowers that decorate a tomb.
Man’s heart, the mournful urn o’er which they wave,
Is sacred to despair, its pedestal the grave.
III.
Has life so little store of real woes,
That here ye wend to taste fictitious grief?
Or is it that from truth such anguish flows,
Ye court the lying drama for relief?
Long shall ye find the pang, the respite brief:
Or if one tolerable page appears
In folly’s volume, ’tis the actor’s leaf,
Who dries his own by drawing others’ tears,
And, raising present mirth, makes glad his future years.
IV.
Albeit, how like young Betty doth he flee!
Light as the mote that daunceth in the beam,
He liveth only in man’s present e’e;
His life a flash, his memory a dream,
Oblivious down he drops in Lethe’s stream.
Yet what are they, the learned and the great?
Awhile of longer wonderment the theme!
Who shall presume to prophesy _their_ date,
Where nought is certain, save the uncertainty of fate?
V.
This goodly pile, upheaved by Wyatt’s toil,
Perchance than Holland’s edifice[103] more fleet,
Again red Lemnos’ artisan may spoil;
The fire alarm and midnight drum may beat,
And all bestrewed ysmoking at your feet!
Start ye? perchance Death’s angel may be sent,
Ere from the flaming temple ye retreat;
And ye who met, on revel idlesse bent,
May find, in pleasure’s fane, your grave and monument.
VI.
Your debts mount high――ye plunge in deeper waste
The tradesman duns――no warning voice ye hear!
The plaintiff sues――to public shows ye haste;
The bailiff threats――ye feel no idle fear.
Who can arrest your prodigal career?
Who can keep down the levity of youth?
What sound can startle age’s stubborn ear?
Who can redeem from wretchedness and ruth
Men true to falsehood’s voice, false to the voice of truth.
VII.
To thee, blest saint! who doffed thy skin to make
The Smithfield rabble leap from theirs with joy,
We dedicate the pile――arise! awake!――
Knock down the Muses, wit and sense destroy
Clear our new stage from reason’s dull alloy,
Charm hobbling age, and tickle capering youth
With cleaver, marrow-bone, and Tunbridge toy;
While, vibrating in unbelieving tooth,[104]
Harps twang in Drury’s walls, and make her boards a booth.
VIII.
For what is Hamlet, but a hare in March?
And what is Brutus, but a croaking owl?
And what is Rolla? Cupid steeped in starch,
Orlando’s helmet in Augustin’s cowl.
Shakespeare, how true thine adage, “fair is foul!”
To him whose soul is with fruition fraught,
The song of Braham is an Irish howl,
Thinking is but an idle waste of thought,
And nought is everything, and everything is nought.
IX.
Sons of Parnassus! whom I view above,
Not laurel-crown’d, but clad in rusty black;
Not spurring Pegasus through Tempè’s grove,
But pacing Grub-street on a jaded hack;
What reams of foolscap, while your brains ye rack,
Ye mar to make again! for sure, ere long,
Condemn’d to tread the bard’s time-sanction’d track,
Ye all shall join the bailiff-haunted throng,
And reproduce, in rags, the rags ye blot in song,
X.
So fares the follower in the Muses’ train!
He toils to starve, and only lives in death!
We slight him, till our patronage is vain,
Then round his skeleton a garland wreathe,
And o’er his bones an empty requiem breathe――
Oh! with what tragic horror would he start,
(Could he be conjured from the grave beneath)
To find the stage again a Thespian cart,
And elephants and colts down-trampling Shakespeare’s art.
XI.
Hence, pedant Nature! with thy Grecian rules!
Centaurs (not fabulous) those rules efface;
Back, sister Muses, to your native schools;
Here booted grooms usurp Apollo’s place,
Hoofs shame the boards that Garrick used to grace,
The play of limbs succeeds the play of wit,
Man yields the drama to the Hou’yn’m race,
His prompter spurs, his licenser the bit,
The stage a stable-yard,[105] a jockey-club the pit.
XII.
Is it for these ye rear this proud abode?
Is it for these your superstition seeks
To build a temple worthy of a god,
To laud a monkey, or to worship leeks!
Then be the stage to recompense your freaks,
A motley chaos, jumbling age and ranks,
Where Punch, the lignum-vitæ Roscius, squeaks,
And Wisdom weeps and Folly plays his pranks,
And moody Madness laughs and hugs the chain he clanks.
From _The Rejected Addresses_.
Following close upon _The Rejected Addresses_, by J. and H. Smith,
appeared a small volume entitled,
THE GENUINE REJECTED ADDRESSES,
_Presented to the Committee of Management for Drury-Lane Theatre,
preceded by that written by Lord Byron, and adopted by the Committee._
London: B. McMillan, 1812.――This contained a collection of as many of
the Addresses, sent in to the Committee for the competition, as the
Editor could gather from the various authors. He admits that it is not
a complete collection, nor do the authors’ real names appear with
every poem.
Several of the addresses were really written by authors who had been
parodied in _The Rejected Addresses_, notably W. T. Fitzgerald, and
Dr. Busby.
――――:o:――――
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass’d;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,
But through it there roll’d not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
LORD BYRON.
――――
THE DESTRUCTION OF THE ALDERMEN.
_A Mansion House Melody._
Apoplexia came down on the Alderman fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming with jaundice like gold,
And the sheen of the spectres that own’d his behest
Glimmer’d bright as the gas at a new Lord Mayor’s feast.
Every fiend that humanity shrinks from was there,
Hepatitis, Lumbago, with hollow-eyed Care,
Hypochondria, and Gout, grinning ghastly with pain,
And of Incubi phantoms a horrible train.
* * * * *
Then he straightway amongst them his grisly form cast,
And breathed on each puffing red face as he pass’d;
And the eyes of the feasters wax’d deadly and chill,
And their stomachs once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And the turtle devourers were stretched on the floor――
Each cheek changed to purple――so crimson before!
Their dewlaps all dabbled with red wine and ale,
And extremities cold as a live fish’s tale!
And there lay the Liv’ryman, breathless and lorn,
With waistcoat and new inexpressibles torn;
And the Hall was all silent, the band having flown,
And the waiters stared wildly on, sweating and blown.
And Cripplegate windows are loud in their wail,
And Mary-Axe orphans all trembling and pale!
For the Alderman glory has melted away,
As mists are dispersed by the glad dawn of day.
_Punch_, November 13, 1841.
――――
A NEW SENNACHERIB.
Sir Robert came down on the Corn Laws so bold,
And his backers felt savage, and sorry, and sold;
But the Premier of votes had a majority,
Amounting, in all, to about ninety-three.
As sheep follow the wether, submissive and mean,
That host at the heels of their leader were seen;
As sheep scatter wide when you leave them alone,
That host, says the _Times_, are now broke and o’erthrown.
For the Iron Duke set his fate on the cast,
And nailed, for the Corn-laws, his flag to the mast;
And the Cabinet’s hopes felt a sensible chill,
When they thought of the Duke, and his potent “I will.”
And there sat the Premier, his head on one side;
His arguments pooh-poohed, his statements denied;
And tho’ he tried hard, he had need of his nerve,
A decent composure of face to preserve.
And there sat grim Grahame, so nervous and pale,
With his hat on his head, and his mouth to his nail;
And their measures were done for, their plans overthrown,
And Peel had to leave his own trumpet unblown.
And Conservative gentry are loud in their wail,
That the country is ruined if Peel should turn tail;
And repeal of the Corn-laws, we soon shall record,
Has been won, not by Peel, but a certain small lord.
_Punch_, on Sir Robert Peel and the Duke of Wellington in the
struggle for the repeal of the Corn-laws in 1846.
――――
THE DESTRUCTION OF NICHOLAS.
The Russian came down like a thief in the night,
And his legions were arm’d with all weapons, save Right;
And the sheen of their spears to the Turks seem’d afar
Like the passion that burn’d in the heart of the Czar.
Like the loaves of the baker, when breakfast is laid,
That host in their armour of “plate” were array’d;
Like the loaves of the baker, ere tea time next day,
That host lay all “cut up,” and crumbled away!
For the warcry of England is borne on the air,
And France sends her brave in the conflict to share;
And link’d with the Moslem, they shout as they go,
And all Europe is thrill’d with the groans of the foe.
And there lay the sea, but no more on its tide
_His_ vessels shall float in their strength and their pride;
And the foam of its billows shall dash o’er the graves
Of the serfs, who had come to make other men _slaves_.
And there lay the Czar, all dejected and pale,
With a frown on his brow, and his teeth at his nail;
His palace all silent, deserted, alone;
He trembled to think on his tottering throne!
And the widows of Russia are loud in their cries,
Though idle the tears that may flow from their eyes;
And the might of the tyrant, down-struck by the gun,
Hath melted, like butter when placed in the sun.
_Diogenes._ October, 1853.
――――
THE BLIZZARD.
The blizzard came down like a thousand of brick:
His breathings were cakes of ice four inches thick,
And his hair streamed far out in a stiffness that bent
With the swirl and the speed of the pathway he went.
His beard that found roots to the lids of his eyes
Hid his face in a hairy, unpierced disguise,
And spread out in ice-like rigidity far
From his one eye that flashed like a pivotal star.
Unseen was the rest of the demon-like form
Of the swift-moving blizzard, the god of the storm,
But the presence was felt of an unconquered will,
For the fast-running rivers stood suddenly still.
And the noses of people who travelled the street
Turned white with affright, and the hurrying feet
Were stung as with sting of a hundred bees,
While the blood crept away and allowed them to freeze.
_Columbus Dispatch._
――――
THE ROUT OF BELGRAVIA.
The Belgravians came down on the Queen in her hold,
And their costumes were gleaming with purple and gold,
And the sheen of their jewels was like stars on the sea,
As their chariots roll’d proudly down Piccadill-ee.
Like the leaves of _Le Follet_ when summer is green,
That host in its glory at noon-tide was seen;
Like the leaves of a toy-book all thumb-marked and worn,
That host four hours later was tattered and torn.
For the crush of the crowd, which was eager and vast,
Had rumpled and ruin’d and wreck’d as it pass’d;
And the eyes of the wearer wax’d angry in haste,
As a dress but once-worn was dragged out of waist.
And there lay the feather and fan, side by side,
But no longer they nodded or waved in their pride;
And there lay lace flounces, and ruching in slips,
And spur-torn material in plentiful strips.
And there were odd gauntlets, and pieces of hair;
And fragments of back-combs, and slippers were there;
And the gay were all silent; their mirth was all hush’d;
Whilst the dew-drops stood out on the brows of the crush’d.
And the dames of Belgravia were loud in their wail,
And the matrons of Mayfair all took up the tale;
And they vow, as they hurry, unnerved, from the scene,
That it’s no trifling matter to call on the Queen.
_Jon Duan._
――――
THE DESTRUCTION OF A CAT.
Miss Pussy jumped down, like a thief in the night,
From the cream in the cupboard with eyes gleaming bright;
And the ends of her whiskers bedabbled her face,
When Somnus had chloroform’d Europa’s race.
Like all guilty creatures, she feared to be seen,
And crawled o’er the carpet so spotlessly clean;
Like the streaks of the sunlight so daintily thrown,
The whiskers of Pussy a demon had drawn.
This image of death spread its wings o’er the cat,
And rising on tip-toe he lifted his hat;
But the eyes of Miss Pussy grew deadly and chill,
For something had told her――and told her still――
That she had ta’en poison, there could be no doubt,
For there she lay gasping and rolling about,
And as she lay sprawling and thumping the floor,
The demon arose and went out at the door.
And then Puss was silent, distorted, and pale,
From the point of her nose to the end of her tail,
And all the night long she lay there all alone,
Till out of the window at last she was thrown.
And the maid in the kitchen is loud in her joy,
For now “There’s no ’orrible cat to annoy,”
“No dishes is broke,” and “Missus can’t say
As ever I put the poor Pussy away.”
DON DIEGO.
――――
_Truth_ for January 25, 1877 contained a long parody on “Sennacherib.”
It related to the Conference, and commenced:――
The Diplomats came like a wolf on the fold,
With their uniforms gleaming in green, blue and gold;
And they all were picked men, there was never a fool,
That recently met to confer in Stamboul.
――――
IROQUOIS.
The Yankee came down with long Fred on his back,
And his colours were gleaming with cherry and black.
He flashed to the front, and the British Star paled,
As the field died away, and the favourite failed.
Like the leaves of the summer when summer is green,
The faces of _Peregrine’s_ backers were seen;
Like the leaves of the autumn when autumn is red,
Flushed the cheeks of the Yanks as their champion led.
Iroquois!!!――then the shoutings shook heaven’s blue dome,
As the legs of the Tinman safe lifted him home.
Oh! A was an Archer, A 1 at this fun.
And A was America, too,――and _A won_!
And B was the Briton who, ready to melt,
A sort of a _je ne sais_ (_Iro_)-_quois_ felt,
To see his Blue Riband to Yankeeland go,
B too, none the less, was the hearty “Bravo!”
Which, per _Punch_, he despatched to “our kin o’er the sea,”
Who, for not the first time, get the pull of J. B.
The Brokers of Wall Street are loud in delight,
And the _belles_ of New York grow more beamingly bright;
Fizz creams like the foam of the storm-beaten surf,
To Jonathan’s triumph on John’s native turf,
And _Punch_ brims _his_ beaker in Sparkling Champagne,
Your health Brother J.! Come and beat us again!
And cold grudge at a victory honestly scored
Melts away like the snow when the wine is outpoured.
_Punch_, June 11, 1881.
――――
THE MELTING OF THE IRON DUKE.
“The effect produced by the erection of a life-size _silhouette_ of
the statue of the Iron Duke and his war-steed opposite the St. James’s
Park front of the Horse Guards has quickly resulted in a decision to
melt down Mr. Wyatt’s equestrian effort, and to shape the materials
into another, and, it is hoped, a better statue.”――_Weekly Paper._
All the papers came down, like a wolf on the fold,
And their leaders were trenchant, and fearlessly bold;
And their cynical sneers were as lively and free
As the shrimps on the foreshore of Gravesend-on-Sea.
Thick as leaves of the Forest, when Epping is green,
Had the jokes and the jeers of the “comics” been seen;
Thick as leaves in the Park when the season has flown
Had the jibes of the critics been ruthlessly thrown.
For the chosen Committee an effort had made,
And put up a Duke on the Horse Guards Parade;
But one sight of this model more ludicrous still,
Made those who passed by feel dejected and ill.
For there stood the steed with his nostril all wide,
And his nose all turned up in his evident pride,
And his tail that seemed dressed with the stiffest of starch,
Stood out ’midst the trees, as it had on the Arch.
And there sat the rider, distorted and stern,
That long years of scoffing had failed to o’erturn,
And his hat was still cocked at the angle of yore,
And the same scrubby cape on his shoulders he wore.
And those that passed by gave one shuddering look,
And vowed such a Duke they no longer would brook.
They cried, “Take him off to some near melting-pot!”
And hastened forthwith from the terrible spot.
And the chosen Committee itself had to own
That nought could the horse’s appearance condone;
Whilst as to the rider, they had to confess
That melting alone could his failings redress.
So it straightway decided no site could be found
For this effigy vile of a warrior renowned;
And ere very long they put forth a decree
That the Duke and his charger both melted should be!
* * * * *
And the Statues of London were loud in their wail,
And the Griffin, in agony, waggled his tail,
Exclaiming, “Alas! if the Duke’s melted thus,
What chance can there be, then, for eyesores like us?”
_Truth_, August 16, 1883.
――――
THE DESTRUCTION OF THE TORY (NOT SENNACHERIB’S) ARMY.
The Tories came forth in their pride and their strength,
And flooded the land through its breadth and its length
With speeches whose burden no varying knew――
“Down with Gladstone the traitor and all his base crew!”
Like leaves of the forest when summer is green,
The hosts of the Tories in August were seen;
Like leaves of the forest when autumn has blown,
These hosts in September were withered and strown.
For “Gladstone the traitor” went up to the North,
And tackled the foe on the banks of the Forth;
And the hopes of the Tories waxed deadly and chill,
And their tongues wagged but once, and for ever were still.
And the Tory old women are loud in their whines,
For their idols are broke, both at Hatfield and Pynes;
And their army, unsmote by the sword or the lance,
Has melted like snow at old Gladstone’s advance.
ALICK SINCLAIR.
_The Weekly Dispatch_, September 14, 1884.
――――
MR. GLADSTONE’S HOME RULE BILL.
The Premier came down to the House as of old,
With a smile on his face and a step light and bold,
And the cheers of the Parnellites smote on the air
As he rose in his place and saluted the Chair.
And the senators sat like men under a spell
While the rythmical tones of his voice rose and fell.
Like sleepers who wake from their dreams at the dawn,
Sober reason returned when the glamour was gone.
For the false light that blinded has vanished at last,
Revealing the pitfalls all round as it passed;
The Magician has failed in his task, and the wand
Has dropped from the “old parliamentary hand.”
And intriguers and Leaguers are loud in their wail,
And Coercion has carried the day o’er “Repale”;
For till whittled away into Councils and Boards
The scheme of Home Rule has no chance in the Lords.
C. RENZ.
_The Weekly Dispatch_, April 18, 1886.
――――
THE CUTTING OF THE KNOT.
Great Gladstone came down his new Bill to unfold,
And his cohorts awaited their Leader so bold,
And the noise of their cheers was like tars of the sea,
When they’re given the toast of old England’s nav_ee_.
Like the geese of the farm-yard when summer is green,
The Cock-a-Hoop Tories at noon-day were seen,
Like the geese of the farm-yard when autumn has come,
Those Tories at midnight were nerveless and dumb.
For the King of Debate his opponents did blast,
And glared in the face of each foeman aghast,
And the hopes of the Tories waxed presently chill;
And their groans but once rose, then for ever grew still.
And the sturdy Home Rulers are loud in their cheers,
And the faces are blank in the House of the Peers.
And the knot of the hour, uncut by the sword;
Dissolves at the touch of the Cabinet’s Lord!
F. B. D., 1886.
――――:o:――――
The two parodies following are written partly in imitation of Byron’s
_The Dream_, and partly after _Darkness_, which commences thus:――
DARKNESS.
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went――and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light;
And they did live by watchfires――and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings――the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons.
* * * * *
MY OLD HAT.
I had a hat――it was not all a hat,
Part of the brim was gone――yet still I wore
It on, and people wondered as I passed.
Some turned to gaze――others just cast an eye
And soon withdrew it, as ’twere in contempt.
But still my hat, although so fashionless
In complement extern, had that within
Surpassing show――my head continued warm;
Being sheltered from the weather, spite of all
The want (as has been said before) of brim.
A change came o’er the colour of my hat.
That which was black grew brown――and then men stared
With both their eyes (they stared with one before)
The wonder now was twofold; and it seemed
Strange that a thing so torn and old should still
Be worn by one who might――――but let that pass!
I had my reasons, which might be revealed
But for some counter-reasons, far more strong,
Which tied my tongue to silence. Time passed on.
Green spring, and flowery summer, autumn brown.
And frosty winter came,――and went and came,
And still through all the seasons of two years,
In park and city, yea at parties――balls――
The hat was worn and borne. Then folks grew wild
With curiosity, and whispers rose,
And questions passed about――how one so trim
In coats, boots, ties, gloves, trousers, could insconce
His caput in a covering so vile.
A change came o’er the nature of my hat.
Grease spots appeared――but, still in silence, on
I wore it, and then family, and friends
Glared madly at each other. There was one
Who said――but hold――no matter what was said;
A time may come when I――away, away――
Not till the season’s ripe can I reveal
Thoughts that do lie too deep for common minds――
Till then the world shall not pluck out the heart
Of this my mystery. When I will, I will!
The hat was now greasy, and old, and torn,
But torn, old greasy, still I wore it on.
A change came o’er the business of this hat.
Women, and men, and children scowled on me――
My company was shunned――I was alone!
None would associate with such a hat――
Friendship itself proved faithless for a hat.
She that I loved, within whose gentle breast
I treasured up my heart, looked cold as death――
Love’s fires went out――extinguished by a hat,
Of those who knew me best, some turned aside,
And scudded down dark lanes; one man did place
His finger on his nose’s side, and jeered;
Others in horrid mockery laughed outright;
Yea, dogs, deceived by instinct’s dubious ray,
Fixing their swart glare on my ragged hat,
Mistook me for a beggar, and they barked.
Thus women, men, friends, strangers, lovers, dogs,
One thought pervaded all――it was my hat.
A change, it was the last, came o’er this hat,
For lo! at length the circling months went round:
The period was accomplished――and one day
This tattered, brown old greasy coverture
(Time had endeared its vileness) was transferred
To the possession of a wandering son
Of Israel’s fated race――and friends once more
Greeted my digits with the wonted squeeze:
Once more I went my way, along, along,
And plucked no wondering gaze; the hand of scorn
With its annoying finger, men, and dogs,
Once more grew pointless, jokeless, laughless, growlless――
And at last, not least of rescued blessings, love!
Love smiled on me again, when I assumed
A brand new chapeau of the Melton build;
And then the laugh was mine, for, then out came
The secret of this strangeness――’twas _a bet_,――
A friend had laid me fifty pounds to ten,
Three years I would not wear it――_and I did_!
ANONYMOUS.
――――
THE GENIUS OF SMOKING.
[_We have been favored with the following defence of smoking, by an
intimate literary friend of Lord Byron, who assures us it is selected
from several unpublished juvenile trifles, written at various times in
his album by the noble bard._]
I had a dream――it was not all a dream;
Methought I sat beneath the silver beam
Of the sweet moon, and you were with me there,
And everything around was free and fair;
And from our mouths upcurled the fragrant smoke,
Whose light blue wreaths can all our pleasures yoke,
In sweetest union to young Fancy’s car,
And waft the soul out thro’ a good cigar.
There as we sat and puff’d the hours away,
And talked and laughed about life’s little day,
And built our golden castles in the air,
And sigh’d to think what transient things they were,
As the light smoke around our heads was thrown,
Amidst its folds a little figure shone,
An elfin sprite, who held within her hand
A small cigar, her sceptre of command.
Her hair above her brow was twisted tight off,
Like a cigar’s end, which you must bite off;
Her eyes were red, and twinkling like the light
Of Eastern Hookah, or Meerchaum, by night;
A green tobacco leaf her shoulders graced,
And dried tobacco hung about her waist;
Her voice breathed softly, like the easy puffing
Of an old smoker, after he’s been stuffing.
Thus as she rolled aside the wanton smoke,
To us, her awe-struck votaries she spoke,――
“Hail, faithful slaves! my choicest joys descend
On him who joins the smoker to the friend,
Yours is a pleasure that shall never vanish
Provided that you smoke the best of Spanish;
Puff forth your clouds”――(with that we puff’d amain)
“Sweet is their fragrance”――(then we puff’d again)
“How have I hung, with most intense delight,
Over your heads when you have smoked at night,
And gratefully imparted all my powers
To bless and consecrate those happy hours;
Smoke on,” she said. I started and awoke,
And with my dream she vanished into smoke.
ANONYMOUS.
――――:o:――――
ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR.
_Missolonghi_, Jan. 22, 1824.
’Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it has ceased to move;
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!
My days are in the yellow leaf,
The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief,
Are mine alone!
* * * * *
Seek out――less often sought than found――
A soldier’s grave, for thee the best,
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.
BYRON.
――――
A LEAF FROM THE ALBUM OF MR. BRIEFLESS.
The following stanzas have no other heading than the pathetic words:
“_On this day I complete my forty-sixth year_.” A friend who was with
him at the time, made the following entry in his Dunn and Duncan’s
diary: “This morning Mr. Briefless came from his bedroom into the
apartment where Mr. Dunup and some other friends were sitting, and
said, with a smile, ‘You were remarking the other day that I never
draw any pleadings now. This is my birthday, and I have just finished
something which I think is better than I usually write.’ He then
produced these noble and affecting verses;――
’Tis time that I should be removed,
And the position I can prove.
For since by me there’s nothing moved,
I’d better move.
My gown is in the yellow leaf,
The curls from out my wig are gone,
The bands, the stock, the dummy brief,
Are mine alone.
The debts that on my bosom prey,
Have hopeless been this long, long while;
The bills which I can never pay
Are on that file.
The stamp’d receipt――the quittance fair,
The exacted portion of debts’ ills,
I never am allowed to share,
But keep the bills,
But ’tis not thus――and ’tis not here,
I should succumb to maddening thought,
At Westminster I will appear
This day in Court.
The wig, the bands, the stock, the gown,
All, all around me still I see;
To Westminster I’ll hurry down――
I will be free!
Awake! (not law, that’s wide awake,)
Awake myself! this very day,
The Exchequer’s roof my voice shall shake,
Yes――fire away.
Talk each opposing counsel down.
Unworthy Briefless――unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of Judges be.
If thou regret’st thy youth――why pause,
The way to occupation’s short,
There stands the place to find a cause;
The County Court.
Start not――less often sought than found,
A little fish will always please;
Sure shillings beat the uncertain pound,
Take lower fees.
_Punch’s Pocket Book_, 1856.
――――:o:――――
Lord Byron was married in January, 1815, and about the middle of
January, 1816, Lady Byron left London for her father’s house in
Leicestershire, on the understanding that Lord Byron was shortly to
follow her. But her father immediately wrote to acquaint Lord Byron
that she would never return to him. The reasons for this conduct have
never been satisfactorily explained, and though Lord Byron, and his
friends, tried their utmost to bring about a reconciliation, all
attempts to alter Lady Byron’s decision were in vain. This domestic
misfortune supplied the enemies of Lord Byron with a pretext for the
gratification of their envious and malignant feelings towards him. The
press teemed with slanderous and abominable insinuations in
explanation of the conjugal feud. The majority of his acquaintances
declared against him; and the proud spirit of the noble poet, stung to
the quick, impelled him to leave his country. On the 25th of April,
1816, Lord Byron left England, never to return.
A short time prior to his final departure from his native land, he
published the “Siege of Corinth” and “Parisina.” He also wrote two
short poems, which were highly popular, and which first appeared in
the public papers――“Fare Thee Well,” and “A Sketch from Private Life.”
In “Fare thee Well,” Byron pathetically alludes to his daughter,
Augusta Ada, the only child of his unfortunate marriage, who was born
on December 10, 1815.
FARE THEE WELL.
Fare thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare _thee well_;
Even though unforgiving, never
’Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o’er thee
Which thou ne’er canst know again:
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover
’Twas not well to spurn it so.
Though the world for this commend thee――
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another’s woe:
Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not:
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away;
Still thine own its life retaineth――
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;
And the undying thought which paineth
Is――that we no more may meet.
These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widow’d bed.
And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child’s first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say “Father!”
Though his care she must forego?
When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is pressed,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had bless’d!
Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more mayst see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where’er thou goest,
Wither, yet with _thee_ they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee――by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now:
But ’tis done――all words are idle――
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.
Fare thee well!――thus disunited,
Torn from every nearer tie,
Sear’d in heart, and lone, and blighted,
More than this I scarce can die.
BYRON.
――――
LADY BYRON’S REPLY TO LORD BYRON’S “FARE THEE WELL.”
“As to the author of the reply, I have for years been trying to find
out, but unsuccessfully. One or two gentlemen, whose opinions on this
subject are well worthy of attention, have said in a joking way that
the author must be Byron himself, as the lines are so very beautiful
and appropriate. I certainly do not think Lady Byron was the author.
From all that I can glean from the oldest inhabitants in this
neighbourhood she was always held in the highest respect, a good,
kind, domestic lady; but no one seems to give her credit for much
poetic taste, let alone faculty.”
Yes, farewell; farewell for ever;
Thou thyself hast fixed our doom;
Bade hope’s fairest blossom wither,
Never more for me to bloom!
Unforgiving thou hast called me;
Didst thou ever say forgive?
For the wretch whose wiles enthralled thee,
Thou didst seem alone to live.
Short the space which Time had given
To complete thy love’s decay!
By unhallowed passion driven,
Soon thy wishes wildly stray.
Lived for me that feeling tender,
Which thy verse so well can show?
From my arms why didst thou wander――
My endearments why forego?
Rapt in dreams of joy abiding,
On thy breast my head hath lain,
In thy love and truth confiding――
Bliss I ne’er can know again!
When thy heart, by me glanced over,
First displayed the guilty stain,
Would these eyes had closed for ever,
Not to weep thy crimes again!
But by Heaven’s recording spirit
May that wish forgotten be!
Life, though now a load, I’d bear it
For the babe I’ve born to thee――
In whose lovely features (let me
All my weakness here confess),
While the struggling tears permit me,
All her father’s I can trace;
His, whose image never leaves me,
Whose remembrance yet I prize;
Who this bitterest feeling gives me――
Loving where I most despise.
With regret and sorrow, rather,
When our child’s first accents flow,
I shall teach her to say “Father”――
But his guilt she ne’er shall know.
Whilst to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Wake me to a widowed bed;
In another’s arms no sorrow
Wilt thou feel, no tears wilt shed.
For the world’s applause I sought not
When I tore myself from thee;
Of its praise or blame I thought not――
What is blame or praise to me?
He in whom my soul delighted,
From his breast my image drove;
With contempt my truth requited,
And preferred a wanton love.
Thou art proud――and mark me, Byron!
Proud is my soul as thine own;
Soft to love――but hard as iron
When despite is on me thrown.
But, ’tis past!――I’ll not upbraid thee,
Nor shall ever wish thee ill;
Wretched though thy crimes have made me,
If thou canst, be happy still!
ANONYMOUS.
――――
Another reply was published entitled――
LADY BYRON’S RESPONSE TO “FARE THEE WELL.”
“What reader of Pope’s celebrated _Eloise_ ever thought that poem
really the work of its heroine? or who for a moment will conceive the
following to be the production of _Lady Byron’s_ pen?”
And fare _Thee_ well, too――if, for ever――
How dread the thought!――still fare thee well!
Yet think not time or space can sever
The heart that wont on thine to dwell!
O cherish not the sad illusion,
All thy high-wrought hopes deceiving,
Which whispers thee, _that_ heart’s profusion
Of love can end in “unforgiving!”
Too well I know thy conscious breast,
That form’d, how brief! my “placid” pillow,
Hath wandered from its ark of rest,
Far stretching o’er life’s cheerless billow.
(This is dated April 29, 1816, and consists of twenty-three verses in
all. It is unnecessary to quote the remainder, but the poem can be
found in the British Museum Library, 11642 b.b.b. 58.)
――――
ANOTHER REPLY TO “FARE THEE WELL.”
Fare thee well, and if for ever,
Then for ever let it be;
For again, false Byron, never
Canst thou be beloved by me.
If thy breast were bared before me,
What a cruel heart ’twould show;
False to her who did adore thee――
Cold as Russia’s wastes of snow.
’Twas not I who rent asunder
Ties which should have lived till death.
Thou hast been a wide world’s wonder
For thy scorn of love and faith.
Vain are now thy magic verses,
None to pity can they move;
Better far to send me curses
Than the mockery of love.
Though the world to soothe endeavour,
Though it sorrow for my pain
Can it, Byron, can it ever
Make thy false heart true again?
No! a heart once dead to feeling
True again can never prove,
And the wound that knows no healing
Is a woman’s trampled love.
Oh! to banish recollection
Of that early love of mine,
When my young heart’s deep affection
Thought it met the same in thine.
When in tones of gentle kindness
That false tongue love’s accents pour’d
Could I think my love was blindness?
Could I doubt I was adored?
Still there is a tie that binds me
To respect thy once loved name,
Though each passing morrow finds thee
Deeper still in guilt and shame.
Yes――our little infant smiling
As she climbs upon my knee,
Lisping with her voice beguiling,
Teaches me to think of thee.
When, as twilight’s shadows gather
She repeats her ev’ning prayer,
Then she prays for thee, her father,
Tho’ she sees no father there.
Thus it is, though love has vanished
From this torn and bleeding heart,
That the feeling is not banished
That thou still my husband art.
Fare thee well, and, if for ever
In this world of grief and pain,
I will hope that those who sever
Here, will meet elsewhere again.
_Lyrics and Lays_, by Pips. Wyman Bros., Hare Street, Calcutta, 1867.
――――
Whatever were the causes of the separation of Lady Byron from her
husband (and many reasons have been assigned) will probably never be
known, nor do they concern us here, except in so far as regards the
statements made by Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe. In 1869 it pleased this
American authoress to contribute an article to a London magazine, in
which she deliberately accused Lord Byron of having committed the
foulest crimes imaginable, and stated that although Lady Byron was
aware of his depravity from their very wedding day, she yet continued
to reside with him until after the birth of their daughter. A violent
controversy ensued, many old scandals were revived, and whilst Mrs.
Stowe’s statements were generally disbelieved, Byron’s reputation
suffered considerably. For this result Thomas Moore was mainly to
blame, he having destroyed the memoirs entrusted to him by Lord Byron.
Had these memoirs been published, it is very improbable that Mrs.
Stowe’s article would have ever have been written. Moore was imprudent
enough to show these memoirs to several people, as well as the
concluding five Cantos of Don Juan, before he destroyed them, and it
is said that Lady Burghersh made copies of them. It is possible,
therefore that Byron’s view of the circumstances may yet be given to
the world, but however that may be, nothing can excuse the action of
Mrs. Stowe, whose article could serve no other purpose than that of
blackening the memory of a great but ill-used and unfortunate man:――
THE UN-TRUE STORY.
_Dedicated to Mrs. Stowe._
Know ye the land where the novelists _blurt_ all
The family secrets they learn in our clime;
Where skill in romance will contrive to _convert_ all
The deeds of our bard to the blackest of crime?
Know ye the land of the dollar divine,
Where Beecher’s considered a speaker sublime;
Where the dark wings of scandle will even presume
To flap o’er the great, long at rest in the tomb;
Where writers and editors all “high falute,”
And the voice of the slanderer never is mute,
Where all, who as authors or speakers stand high,
Though varied in views, in “tall-talking” may vie,
And the principal journal can stoop to a lie;
While lucre and puffs to support it combine
(Though Low and Macmillan adopt the same line)?
’Tis the clime of the west, ’tis the land of a STOWE:
Can ye marvel her libels have angered us so?
Oh! false as all things merely written to sell
Are the statements they make, and the tales which they tell!
_Punch and Judy_ (London) February 12, 1870.
――――:o:――――
TO THOMAS MOORE.
My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea:
But before I go Tom Moore.
Here’s a double health to thee!
Here’s a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky’s above me,
Here’s a heart for every fate.
Though the ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.
Were’t the last drop in the well,
As I gasped upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,
’Tis to thee that I would drink.
With that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour
Should be――peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore.
LORD BYRON.
――――
A NOBLE LORD TO HIS CREDITORS.
My cab is at the door,
Thou must raise the wind for me,
But ere you go, Tom Moore,
Here’s a snug douceur for thee!
Here’s a bond for those who’ll lend me,
And a bill at six month’s date――
I’ll sign whate’er you send me――
Get the cash at any rate!
Though boring duns surround me,
They still must trust me on,
Till you the cash have found me――
“Call again,” to every one!
Each knock I know full well,
And my fainting spirits sink
When they pull the area bell,
So be off, and fetch the chink!
Mind and bring me back by one,
Of thousands half a score,――
Hark! there’s another dun,――
Adieu! adieu! Tom Moore!
_The National Omnibus_, December 9, 1831.
――――
LES ADIEUX DU PREMIER.[106]
My cab is at the door,
Of my red-box here’s the key,
But before I go John Russell,
Here’s some good advice for thee,
Act, that honest hearts may love thee;
Act, that party knaves may hate;
And from office when they shove thee,
Have a heart to meet thy fate.
Tho’ Protection roar around thee,
As loud as roar it can,
Tho’ they set on to confound thee,
“Young Ben,” that “nice young man.――”
Tho’ county members yell,
Tho’ you sever Party’s link,
Tho’ Bedchamber Lords rebel,
Speak out boldly what you think.
Tho’ for shorter term than mine,
Quite sufficient of a bore
You’ll find office, I opine,
And be glad when it is o’er.
_Punch_, 1846.
――――
WARD HUNT AFTER BYRON.
My boat has run ashore,
And my barque’s beneath the sea
And I’m told I never more
Must rule the Admiraltee.
There’s a sigh from those who love me,
And a smile from those who hate;
And the man who’s put above me
Will tremble at my fate.
But though Commons rail around me,
They still shall hear me on;
Though the Upper House confound me,
It hath seats that may be won.
My boat has run ashore,
And my barque’s beneath the sea,
And I fear I never more
Shall rule the Admiraltee!
_Punch_, November, 1875.
――――:o:――――
THE CATHOLIC CANDIDATE.
Dan O’Connell came down like a wolf on the fold,
And his priest-ridden voters look’d bloody and bold;
And the noise of their cheering resembled the roar
Of galley-slaves plying the criminal oar.
Like the fell rebel Orr, in his livery of green,
O’Connell and Catholic Clergy were seen;
And their hopes and their actions, ’tis very well known,
Are to level our Church, and to hurl down the Throne.
But the _Protestant_ voice came strong on the blast,
And O’Connell and Treason grew sick as it passed,
And the hopes of his traitorous party grew chill,
And their hearts quaked with sorrow, their voices were still.
* * * * *
And the precious _Cat_._Ass_. were loud in their wail,
And mute was the Corn-Exchange temple of Baal;
For the might of the party, in spite of big words,
Must melt like the snow before Protestant Lords.
From “_Spirit of the Age Newspaper_” for 1828.
――――:o:――――
CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE.
_Canto I._
“Adieu, adieu! my native shore
Fades o’er the waters blue;
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight:
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native Land――Good Night!
* * * * *
“With thee, my bark, I’ll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine;
Nor care what land thou bear’st me to,
So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!
And when you fail my sight,
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!
My native land――Good Night!”
BYRON.
AS SUNG BY LORD GREY.
Adieu, adieu! place once so sure,
Sounds through the house I see,
The Whigs must sigh, the Tories roar,
And shrieks the new M.P.
Yon tax they’ve taken off the malt,
We follow in its flight,
Farewell! ’twere vain to try and halt,
My premiership, good night.
With thee, my Brough’m, I’ll swiftly go
And some new scheme design,
Nor care what shifts they put us to,
So ’tis not to resign.
Welcome, welcome, ye Whiggish slaves,
But should you fail to fight,
Welcome, ye ratting Tory knaves,
My premiership, good night.
_Figaro in London_, May 4, 1833.
――――
THE FLIGHT OF THE ALDERMEN.
A! doo, A! doo, my fav’rite scheme
Low in the market falls;
The lawyers sigh, the brokers scream,
They ask in vain for calls.
Yon bubble, bursting on the sea,
We follow in his flight:
Farewell! my simple allottee;
My engineer! good night.
With thee, my cash, I’ll swiftly go,
Athwart the foaming brine;
Nor care should fortune take me to
The equinoctial line.
Welcome, welcome! ye bulls and bears;
And when I’m out of sight,
You’re welcome to my worthless shares,
My Capel Court, good night!
_Punch_, 1846.
(_The above refers to the Railway Panic in 1846._)
――――:o:――――
THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium’s capital had gather’d then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look’d love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell[107]
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Did ye not hear it?――No; ’twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o’er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined,
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet――
But, hark!――that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! arm! it is――it is――the cannon’s opening roar!
Within a window’d niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick’s fated Chieftain: he did hear
That sound, the first amid’st the festival,
And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deem’d it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretch’d his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:
He rush’d into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blush’d at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne’er might be repeated: who would guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet, such awful morn could rise.
And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war:
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While throng’d the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering with white lips――“The foe! they come! they come!”
* * * * *
CHILDE HAROLD, _Canto III_.
――――
THE RAILWAY PANIC.
There was a sound that ceased not day or night,
Of Speculation. London gathered then
Unwonted crowds and moved by promise bright,
To Capel Court rushed women, boys and, men,
All seeking railway shares and scrip; and when
The market rose, how many a lad could tell,
With joyous glance, and eyes that spake again,
’Twas e’en more lucrative than marrying well;――
When, hark! that warning voice strikes like a rising knell.
Nay, it is nothing, empty as the wind,
But a ‘bear’ whisper down Throgmorton street;
Wild enterprise shall still be unconfined;
No rest for us, when rising premiums greet
The morn, to pour their treasures at our feet;
When, hark; that solemn sound is heard once more,
The gathering “bears” its echoes yet repeat――
’Tis but too true, is now the general roar,
The Bank has raised her rate, as she has done before,
And then and there were hurryings to and fro,
And anxious thoughts and signs of sad distress,
Faces all pale, that but an hour ago
Smiled at the thought of their own craftiness.
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The coin from hungry pockets,――mutual sighs
Of brokers and their clients. Who can guess
How many a “stag” already panting flies,
When upon times so bright such awful panics rise?
(_This alludes to the panic subsequent on the Railway Mania of_
1845-6)
From “_Our Iron Roads_,” by F. S Williams. London:
Bemrose and Sons.
――――
WATERLOO AT ASTLEY’S THEATRE.
“According to the latest Astley authorities, dated last June, the
Battle of Waterloo occupied six minutes exactly. Several French
soldiers walked undisguisedly into the quarters of the English army
before the fight commenced; and some, at the extreme back of the
scene, fought indiscriminately on either side, as occasion required.
But the gravest circumstance is, that in the heat of the action the
Duke of Wellington, approaching Marshall Soult, said to him, ‘Don’t
let your fellows fire until mine have’! a course which must have led
them to destruction, had not General Widdicombe roared, with a voice
of thunder, ‘what the devil are you doing there, you stupid asses?’
which produced the last grand charge. The following beautiful lines
are but little known, and well deserve a place in this report. They
are the production of Lord Byron, and were written at the request of
the late Andrew Ducrow, Esq., describing the scene immediately before
the commencement of the battle.”
There was a sound of revelry by night;
And Astley’s Manager had gathered then
His supers and his cavalry; and bright
The gas blazed o’er tall women and loud men.
The audience waited happily, and when
The orchestra broke forth with brazen swell,
Apples were sold for most extensive gain;
And ginger beer popped merrily as well!――
But hush! hark! what’s that noise, just like our parlour bell?
Did ye not hear it?――No, sir!――Never mind,
P’haps it was the Atlas bus to Oxford Street.
Strike up, you fiddlers! Now, young feller, mind!
Don’t scrouge, or you shall go where police meet,
To chase the knowing thieves with flying feet!――
But hark! that sound is heard again――once more!
And boys, with whistle shrill, its note repeat;
And nearer, clearer, queerer than before!
Hats off!――It is, it is――the bell from prompter’s door!
Ah! then was hurry-skurry, to and fro;
And authors’ oaths, and symptoms of a mess;
And men as soldiers, who, two nights ago,
Went round the circus in a Chinese dress!
And there were rapid paintings, such as press
On those who ply the arts, with choking size,
Which ne’er might be completed! Who could guess
How all would look before the public eyes,
When on that “Street in Brussels” the act drop would rise!
From _George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack_, 1846.
――――
A Farewell to Jenny Lind, after the Farewell to Thomas Moore, in five
verses, appeared in _Punch_, September, 1848, and a long parody
entitled “The Battle of the Opera,” in _Punch_, May 19, 1849,
commenced thus:――
“There was a sound――’tis JENNY LIND’S last night!
And England’s capital had gathered then,
Her beauty, rank, fashion and wealth――and bright
The gas shone o’er fair women and spruce men.”
* * * * *
――――
THE CHINESE WAR, 1856-7.[108]
There was a sound of orat’ry by night,
And Britain’s capital had gathered then
Her parliament’ry chivalry, and bright
The gas shone o’er these intellectual men;
Six hundred hearts beat hopefully; and when
Cobden arose, that slaughter-hating swell,
Dark eyes flash’d fire at eyes which flash’d again,
And Cobden felt a second William Tell,
Obsequious Hayter paled, and Pam’s bold visage fell!
Had’st thou but heard, O gentle reader mine,
The whispering talk, the noise of shuffling feet――
But mark’d the looks of men who wished to dine,
And dared not, for their lives, move from their seat,
Chafing within, without, with fervent heat,
Thou would’st have envied orators no more――
Thou would’st have owned no eyes could ever meet
A sight suggesting stronger the word “bore,”
And turned thee to thy bed contentedly to snore.
Ah! then and there were hurryings to and fro,
And notes delivered in a shocking mess,
And gents grew pale who, but a week ago,
Esteemed themselves “the cheese,” and nothing less;
And there were sudden partings――I confess
These coalitions, ruptures, did surprise
The public gen’rally. Could any guess
That villain Yeh would break old English ties,
And British statesmen stoop to puff his Chinese lies?