Through thee were the dreams of her earliest love――

The news that she wished to be mine――

By Greenwich conveyed. Therefore since I must move,

My seat unto thee I resign.

Oh! Happy Joe Arch, should he chance to receive

The post now vacated by me,

While one thought serves my last parting pang to relieve,

I’ve resigned――not been kicked out by thee.

From _They are Five_, by W. E. G. (D. Bogue, London, 1880.)

――――:o:――――

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA’S HALLS.

The harp that once through Tara’s halls[119]

The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls

As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory’s thrill is o’er.

And hearts that once beat high for praise,

Now feel that pulse no more.

* * * * *

T. MOORE.

――――

COLBURN’S PUFF.

(_Supposed to be chanted over the grave of that eminent publisher_, by

MISS L. E. LANDON)

The Puff that once thro’ Colburn’s halls

The soul of humbug shed,

Now lies as mute ’neath Colburn’s walls

As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the praise of many books,

Whose sale, alas! is o’er,

And men who once were gull’d thereby,

Will now be gull’d no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright

The Puff of Colburn swells,

For those who con _Court Journal_ now,

Heed not the tales it tells,

And people who read _paragraphs_,

In _Courier_ or in _Post_,

Think no more of them than old maids

Of tea and butter’d toast.

_The National Omnibus._ April 29, 1831.

――――

THE BELT WHICH ONCE THE CHAMPION BRAC’D.

The Belt which once the CHAMPION brac’d

When boxing honour reigned,

In modern times has been disgraced,

And all its glory stain’d;

For he, whose pugilistic fame

Each Fancy Bard should sing,

Now hides his head in conscious shame,

And banish’d from the Ring.

TOM CRIBB, thy manly form no more,

In fight we shall behold;

But matchless were thy deeds of yore,

As generous as bold.

Base acts your gallant spirit spurned,

And manfully you dealt,

And honestly, though hardly, earn’d

The English CHAMPION’S Belt.

Thy praise shall long resound afar,

The Champion long wert thou,

And honor was thy leading star,

And triumph deck’d thy brow:

But glory now is on the wane,

The Fancy in despair,

When shall we see thy like again,

The Champion’s Belt to wear?

From _Pierce Egan’s Book of Sports_, 1832.

――――

POETICAL ADVERTISEMENTS.

The harp that once in WARREN’S Mart

The soul of music shed,

Now mutely lies in WARREN’S cart,

Or under WARREN’S bed.

So sleeps the source of MOSES’ lays,

So ROWLAND’S puffs are o’er;

And heads once wreathed in poets’ bays

Are thumped for rhymes no more.

No more by stanzas, songs, and odes,

WARREN his blacking sells;

The van alone the carman loads,

The name of WARREN tells.

Thus MOSES’ muse so seldom wakes;

The only sign she gives

Is when some silly rhymes she makes,

To show that still she lives.

_Punch_, December, 1853.

――――

SARAH’S HALLS.

The broom that once through Sarah’s halls

In hole and corner sped,

Now useless leans gainst Sarah’s walls

And gathers dust instead.

So sweeps the slavey now-a-days

So work is shifted o’er,

And maids that once gained honest praise

Now earn that praise no more!

No more the cobweb from its height

The broom of Sarah fells;

The fly alone unlucky wight

Invades the spider’s cells.

Thus energy so seldom wakes,

All sign that Sarah gives

Is when some dish, or platter breaks,

To show that still she lives.

_Judy_, March, 1869.

――――

THE WALLFLOWER.

The girl that oft in lighted halls

Enchantment round her shed,

Now sits neglected by the walls

Her bloom and temper fled.

So fades the belle of garrisons

Till she becomes a bore,

And hearts that once beat high for her

Now feel that pulse no more.

From _The Girl of the Period Miscellany_, June, 1869.

――――

THE VOICE THAT ONCE.

The voice that once thro’ senate halls

Would set the echoes free,

Is silent now when Randy calls,

And mute to Ashmead B.

So sleeps the speech of former days,

So hearing’s thrill is o’er,

And Tories famed for teasing ways

Now earn reproof no more.

No more, supreme in wordy fight,

The voice of Gladstone swells;

The cough alone that breaks at night

Its tale of ruin tells,

Thus Eloquence no longer seeks

To conquer near and far――

How can it, when each wheeze bespeaks

Laryngeal catarrh?

_Funny Folks_. March, 1884.

――――

LUKE SHARP WHO ONCE IN NEWGATE’S WALLS.

(_By an Ex-Warder H.M. Prison, Newgate._)

Luke Sharp who once in Newgate’s walls

The tear of penance shed,

And listened to the warders’ calls

And wished those warders dead,

Now feeds no more on prison fare

Loosed are the chains he bore

The cell that once confined him there

Can find him there no more.

No more he weeps in durance vile

Or mourns o’er man’s decline,

He wanders far from Britain’s isle

And Binns[120]――the hangman’s-line.

Fond memory holds his shadow dear

Old Newgate loves him yet,

And though he is no longer there

He ought to be, you bet.

_Hal Berte_, in _Detroit Free Press_, March 21, 1885.

(This parody was written at the expense of the popular _Detroit Free

Press_ writer, known as Luke Sharp, the author of the piece being also

connected with that amusing paper.)

――――

FLY NOT TO WINE.

Fly not to wine――’tis just the hour

The House divides――the lobbies scour,

And Bellamy’s――for once be bright,

The Whigs are strong――we’re beat to-night,

If friends won’t muster soon.

That Tory Members might be paid,

Were boroughs, taxes, titles made;

Fly――tell our friends the loaves are going,

The fishes fast away are flowing.

Oh! pray!――oh! pray.

The Whigs ne’er wove so strong a chain,

To bind our wrists, our places gain,

If we don’t break it soon.

Fly, like our friend, the black-faced blade,

Our long-tailed saint has taught his trade;

Through all our souls his precepts ran,

Since we, like imps and fiends, began

The people’s hearts to tear.

If Members game at White’s or Brookes

And will not vote to-night, odd zooks――

Office we shall ne’er return in,

Hell their recreant souls shall burn in.

Oh, pray! oh, pray!

Oh, let not Tory spirits quake――

The people rouse――they’re quite awake――

We’re beat to-night――oh, dear!

From _The Blue Bag_; _or, Toryana_. (Effingham Wilson, London,

1832.)

――――

FLY NOT YET.

_Sung by the Right Honorable W. E. Forster, M P_

(“Owing to the near approach of the passing of the Coercion Act a

number of Transatlantic personages, who have been going about Dublin

for some time, have disappeared. It has also had the effect of

inducing others to remove to England.”――_Dublin News letter._)

Fly not yet! ’tis just the hour

When murder, like the midnight flower

That scorns the eye of vulgar light,

Begins to bloom for sons of night,

And bhoys who love the moon.

’Twas but to guard these hours of shade

That the Coercion Bill was made;

Let not its penal clauses glowing

Set all mine honest friends agoing.

Oh! stay,――oh! stay,――

Law so seldom weaves a chain

Like this, so tight, that oh! ’tis plain

You shun its links so soon.

Fly not yet. The pluck displayed

In times of old in ambuscade,

Though icy cold by day it ran,

Yet still, with blackened face, began

To shoot when night was near;

And thus the leaguer’s heart and looks,

Though smooth at noon as winter brooks,

Should kindle when the night returning

Brings their usual hour for burning.

Oh! stay,――oh! stay!

Alas! ’tis now too late to take

Revenge on rogues so wide awake

As these embarking here!

From _The St. James’s Gazette_, March 5, 1881.

――――:o:――――

RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE.

Rich and rare were the gems she wore,

And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore;

But oh! her beauty was far beyond

Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand.

* * * * *

T. MOORE.

――――

“_Rich and rare were the gems she wore._”

(_Apropos of the late Alderman Wood and Queen Caroline._)

Rich and furred was the robe he wore,

And a bright gold chain on his breast he bore,

But ah! his speaking was far beyond

Waithman himself with his snow-white wand.

“Humpty, dost thou not fear to stray

With the lady so far from the king’s _highway_?

Are Britain’s sons so dull or so cold

As still to be cheated with tinsel for gold?”

“Mistress Dumpty, I feel not the least alarm,

No placeman ever dare do me harm;

For though they vote her and me a bore,

They love their own heads and places more.”

“On he went――in her coach to ride,

While he cozened the lady who sat by his side;

And lost for ever was she who was led

By Humpty’s honour and Dumpty’s head.”

THEODORE HOOK.

_The Spirit of the Public Journals_, 1824.

――――

RAGGED AND ROUGH.

Ragged and rough were the clothes she wore,

And a bottle and glass in her hands she bore;

But, oh! her red nose shone far beyond

The sparkling rum in her dark brown hand.

“Nancy, oh, Nan! don’t you fear to stray,

Before the morn, on the king’s highway,

When the sons of London are shiv’ring cold,

And may run away with the bottle you hold?”

“Get out, for I don’t feel the least alarm,

I’m too ugly and old for to do me harm;

Though they love young girls, and a plentiful store,

Yet they’ll look on a faded old woman no more!”

On she went to the famed Turnstile,

And, tired enough, she sat down awhile;

Till, _non se ipse_, all care she defied,

For she drank so much, that she hiccupped and died.

――――

ERIN’S CHIVALRY.

Rich and rare were the arms she bore:

A brace of Colts at her waist she wore;

And, oh! her beauty was hidden with fear,

As on she fled like a hunted deer.

Lady, why dost thou fear to stray,

Alone and unarmed, in the ancient way?

If Erin’s sons were not blameless or cold,

They used to spare women in days of old!

“In days of old” she answered, “Sir Knight,

Honor and virtue were Erin’s delight;

But this cursed League”――Ere more was said

She ducked, and a brick-bat missed her head.

On, like the hunted deer she went――

Her only crime that she’d paid her rent;

And the stranger said, “Sure, we’ll change the song

Of “Erin-go-bragh” into “Erin gone wrong.”

_Funny Folks._

――――

ROUGH AND RED.

Rough and red was the cloak she wore,

And a cup of potheen in her hand she bore;

But, oh! from her short black pipe the smoke,

Was more fragrant by far than her rough red cloak.

’Lady! dost thou not fear to stray,

So lonely and laden o’er this bleak way?

Are Erin’s sons in virtue so ripe

As not to be tempted by potheen and pipe?

“Och misther! I fear not a boy in the place,

For I’m the girl that can batther a face;

And though they love potheen and pipes d’ye see,

The devil a drop will they get from me!”

On she went with her cup in her hand,

In safety all over that lonely land;

And barefoot and saucy was she who relied

On that fist of her own, that swung by her side.

――――

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet

As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;

Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,

Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

* * * * *

T. MOORE.

――――

PATERNOSTER ROW.

There is not in this city an alley so sweet

As the Row, in whose houses the Publishers meet;

Oh the last ray of feeling must bid me farewell,

E’re the books in those houses shall half of them sell.

Yet it was not the volumes that piled up were seen,

On the high shelves of Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown and Green

’Twas not what old Lardner yet labours to fill.

Oh no, it was something more readable still,

’Twas that Whittaker, Baldwin, and Simpkin were there

With cheap useful knowledge that others sold dear;

’Twas that Hurst, Duncan, Kelly, all published away,

With Sherwood and Gilbert, and the _Piper_ to pay!

Sweet Row Paternoster, I’d like very well,

To see you and your Publishers marching to hell;

There the devils might rub them behind and before

And they’d never be troubled with the Cholera more.

_The National Omnibus._ July 8, 1831.

――――

THOMAS MOORE[121](_Loq._) “I am the English Anacreon, the biographer

of Byron and Sheridan, the inditer of Lalla Rookh, and the _Man of

Melodies_. I would suggest to my noble patrons that:――

There is not in the palace a wide room so sweet

As the room on whose table the dinner things meet;

Oh the last _gout_ for good things from life must depart

Ere the love of that table shall fade from my heart.

Yet it wasn’t that turtle had shed o’er the dish

Its richest of gravy (that notable fish!)

’Twas not the soft magic of guzzle and fill――

Oh no, it was something more drinkable still.

’Twas that wines, the beloved of my palate, were there

That made every dear slice of the turkey more dear,

And which taught me to feel that my looks were not hurt,

When, I saw them reflected in bottles of port.

Sweet room of the dinner, how calm could I rest

Near thy table and chair, with the wine I love best,

When the ladies should leave us, restraint to release

And, damme, we’d drink off a dozen a piece!

_The National Omnibus_, December 30, 1831.

――――

There’s not in Saint Stephen’s so pleasant a seat,

As that Bench where each evening the Ministers meet:

Oh, the last Tory yearning for place must depart,

Ere that Bench’s remembrance will fade from my heart.

’Twas not that the upholsterer had covered each form,

With the greenest of baizes, so genial and warm;

’Twas not the soft cushions well padded with skill――

Oh no, it was something more exquisite still:――

’Twas that _place_, the beloved of the Tories was near,

Making every dear seat on those Benches more dear;

And which taught how the strongest of scruples will move,

When we find them assaulted with pay that we love.

Sweet Treasury Benches, how calm could I rest,

On thy surface of green, with the friends I love best;

When the radical howl for Reform shall quite cease,

And the Bill, like my speeches, be buried in peace.

_Figaro in London_, 1833.

――――

PUNCH OFFICE.

There is not in all London an _endroit_ so sweet

As the office of PUNCH, in famed Wellington Street,

Oh, the last ray of feeling and life will depart,

Ere the love of that office shall fade from my heart.

It is not that painters have spread o’er the scene

A coat of red paint, while the shutters are green;

’Tis not the vile lucre that chokes up the till――

Oh, no! it is something more exquisite still.

’Tis that PUNCH, the beloved of my bosom is near,

Making every dear inch of the office more dear;

And which shows how the worst furnished rooms will improve,

When we see the shelves loaded with works that we love.

Sweet office of PUNCH! oh, how calm could I rest

In thy little back room though for space rather press’d;

When publishing time should be over and cease,

And my frame, like that Artist’s, shall slumber in peace.

PUNCH, Volume 2, 1842.

――――

AN OXFORD PARODY. ON HUNTING.

There is not in the wide world a country so sweet,

As the valley renown’d where “the Heythrop” pack meet;

Oh! the last dreams of hunting and hounds shall depart,

Ere the runs I’ve there witness’d shall fade from my heart.

Yet it was not that nature had here laid the scene,

’Midst her thickets of “Bullfinch” and pasturage green;

’Twas not the sweet music o’er fence, brook, and hill,

Oh! no, it was something more heart-stirring still.

’Twas that those we had long known were oftentimes near,

Who could make our pursuits and amusements more dear;

And who felt how the true joys of hunting improve,

When riding _with_ friends and _to_ hounds that we love.

Sweet vale of the Evenlode! ne’er may I rest

Deposed in thy blue mud, but on with the best

May I ride, till our pastime with daylight shall cease,

And our brandies-and-waters be mingled in peace.

J. R. G.

From _Hints to Freshmen in the University of Oxford_. (J. Vincent,

Oxford.)

――――

METROPOLITAN MELODIES.

There’s not in the wide world an odour less sweet

Than the stench that’s exhaled where the Thames’ waters meet!

Oh, the last sense of smelling my nostrils must close,

Ere the stench of those waters offends not my nose!

Vile scent of Thamesis, howe’er can I rest,

And know you, perchance, may engender a pest

Till the law, bidding shameful monopolies cease,

Let’s us wash in, or drink, our pure water in peace?

_Punch_, June, 1850.

Another, and a very similar parody, on the same unsavoury topic,

appeared in _Punch_, July 17th, 1858.

――――

“A SONG OF THE SEASON”

O, there’s not in the West-End a valet so sweet

As our JEAMES when with drawing-room bouquet complete;

With the light “_œil de poudré_” on his side-curls so smart,

And where his back-hairs so symmetrically part!

’Tis not that he shows his six feet all serene,

In the reddest of red and the greenest of green:

’Tis not his _grand airs_――gazing nursemaids that kill――

O no, it is something more wonderful still!

’Tis the thought how amazing a product is bred

From the finest of shapes and the emptiest head,

When in folly’s first flight launched to dazzle the eye,

Clad in all that’s most foolish of fashions gone by!

Most fragrant of valets, sought Folly a nest,

The sweetest she’d find in thy Glenfield-starched breast!

Potten Row shall be riderless, Kensington dark,

Ere the calves of that valet are driven from the Park!

_Punch_, April 20, 1872.

――――

There’s not in all London a tavern so gay,

As that where the knowing ones meet of a day;

So long as a farthing remains to my share,

I’ll drink at that tavern, and never elsewhere!

Yet it is not that comforts there only combine,

Nor because it produces good brandy and wine;

’Tis not the sweet odour of pipe nor cigar,

Oh! no――’tis a something more cozie by far!

’Tis that friends of the Hell and the Turf are all nigh,

Who’d drink till the cellar itself should be dry,

And teach you to feel how existence may please,

When pass’d in the presence of cronies like these.

Sweet Sign of the Fiddle! how long could I dwell

In thy tap full of smoke, with the friends I love well!

When bailiffs no longer the alleys infest,

And duns, like their bills, have relapsed into rest!

From _Pickwick Abroad_, by George W. M. Reynolds.

――――

STEPHEN KEMBLE.

The following parody on the “Meeting of the Waters” emanated from the

“Durham Wags,” and originally appeared in the _Durham Chronicle_. It

was aimed at the late Stephen Kemble, whose frequent visits to Wynyard

(the seat of Lord Stewart, afterwards Marquis of Londonderry) used to

be celebrated by the _great_ actor in poetry that was anything but

“first rate.” “Noble Stewart the Patriot” was a favorite expression

with him:――

“There is not in the wide world a mansion so sweet

As the Hall where ‘my Lord’ and ‘my Lady’ I meet:

Their kind invitations such pleasure impart,

_That_ house can be never erased from my heart.

“It is not that well-polished tables so fine

Within its apartments resplendently shine;

It is not the green trees that round it I see:

Oh no! there is something more pleasing to _me_!

“’Tis because ‘Noble Stewart the Patriot’ is there,

With his Lady so lovely, so charming, and fair;

And who make all their tables in beauty improve

When they spread them with dishes that dearly I love.

“Hail, sweetest of mansions! how should I be blest,

If I e’er might dwell _there_ with the food I love best;

Then the pangs I now draw from my crack’d harp should end,

And in stuffing and cramming my days would I spend.

Mr. S. Kemble resided for many years at “The Grove” near Durham. He is

buried in the “Chapel of the Nine Altars,” in Durham Cathedral.

――――

THE IRISH WELCOME.

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet,

As the vale where the beef and the white cabbage meet;

With potatoes galore, and strong beer at one end,

In one corner yourself, in the other your friend.

But it was not that Nature had shed o’er those scenes

The head of white cabbage, instead of bad greens;

But, when that was all over we had potheen in store,

With a welcome I’d give it, which makes it much more,

Then no more of your valleys, with your mountains so high,

Where there’s nought to be had but a bleak wind and sky!

But come to the cottage, where plenty you’ll see,

With a “_Keith mille falthee_,” you’re welcome to me.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE TRIFLE.

There’s not in the wide world so tempting a sweet

As that Trifle where custard and macaroons meet;

Oh! the latest sweet tooth from my head must depart,

Ere the taste of that Trifle shall not win my heart.

Yet it is not the sugar that’s thrown in between,

Nor the peel of the lemon so candid and green;

’Tis not the rich cream that’s whipp’d up by a mill,

Oh, no! it is something more exquisite still.

’Tis that nice macaroons in the dish I have laid,

Of which a delicious foundation is made;

And you’ll find how the last will in flavor improve,

When soak’d with the wine that you pour in above.

Sweet _plateau_ of Trifle! how great is my zest

For thee, when spread o’er with the jam I love best,

When the cream white of eggs――to be over thee thrown,

With the whisk kept on purpose――is mingled in one!

_Punch_, March 20, 1852.

――――

THE BITTER CRY OF OUTCAST LONDON.

Prize parody in _The Weekly Dispatch_, November 25, 1883.

There is not in the wide world a fester so foul

As the slums where the outcasts of Babylon prowl,

Oh, the last trace of pity and ruth must depart

Ere the gloom of those alleys shall pass from my heart.

Yet it was not that squalor had shed o’er the spot

The stench of her stews and the reek of her rot;

’Twas not the grim presence of Death and Disease――

Oh, no! it was something more shocking than these.

’Twas that fiends――the familiars of Mammon――were here,

Who made every dear scene of extortion more dear,

And who felt no remorse, while they left unimproved,

The dens whence they drew the rack-rents that they loved.

Sad outcasts of Babylon! How shall ye rest

While the vampires are sucking the blood from your breast?

Or how shall the storms that beat over you cease,

While your hearts, like your quarters, are strangers to peace?

T. A. WILSON.

――――

Highly commended:

There is not in the wide world a city so great

As the Babylon mistress of Britain’s proud State,

Oh, the last rays of feeling and life must depart

Ere the mem’ries of London shall fade from my heart.

Yet it was not that wealth had made radiant the scene

With splendour of pomp and with glory of sheen!

’Twas not the bright magic of palace or hall――

Oh, no! it was something more wondrous than all.

’Twas that Poverty’s sin-stricken children were there,

Darkly gathered, and pent in foul homes of despair;

And I felt as I gazed on their black haunts of shame,

That, though evil defiled them, mankind’s was the blame.

Dark city of London! Within thy deep breast

There are poor without hope, and forlorn without rest.

And, ah! when shall the woes of thy wretched ones cease,

And a wise-taught humanity kindly give peace?

ARAMIS.

――――

THE METEING OF THE WATERS.

There is not, in the Session, a joke so complete

As the sight when the Tories and Turtlemen meet

In conflict direct about water-supply,

And when Randy to Fowler gives “one in the eye.”

That double-chinn’d joker, great Harcourt, must shake

As Coope the Conservative benches doth rake

With his verbal stern-chasers; acidulous Firth

Must be moved to a Mephistophelian mirth.

Oh, it _must_ be some sly compensation, if slight,

For delay of _their_ Measure, to witness the fight

’Twixt the old Corporation, their long-threatened foe,

And those bad Water Companies, equally so.

The Municipal Bill may be under a cloud,

But to hear cheeky Churchill demanding aloud

What’s the _use_ of an Alderman, verily, this

Must mitigate bile by one moment of bliss.

The meteing of waters may be a small point,

When they hold the whole City is quite out of joint;

But this pleasant reflection must comfort their breast,

“When rogues tumble out,”――well, the world knows the rest!

_Punch_, March, 1884.

――――

THE WEEKLY DISPATCH PARODY COMPETITION.

“The Meeting of the Waters” was again chosen for imitation by the

above journal, and the following parodies were published on August 10,

1884. The prize of two guineas was awarded to Mr. B. Saunders for the

following:――

THE THAMES.

There is not in broad England so doubtful a treat

As a trip on the Thames ’twixt Blackwall and Purfleet.

Oh, the slumbers of Death on my eyelids must close

Ere the bare recollection shall fade from my nose.

Yet ’twas not that the banks were more grimy than green,

Nor rough were the waters that glided between;

’Twas neither sea-sickness nor fear made me ill;

Oh, no, it was something more horrible still.

’Twas that London had poured all its filth and its stink

In the river, which flowed with the blackness of ink;

And I smelt――O ye gods! can no measure improve

This river of sewage that Londoners love?

Sweet valley of Thames――(here I speak of the west,

Where Richmond and Kew smile on waters more blest);

Oh, when shall this plague spot polluting thee cease,

And thy waters to ocean flow purely in peace?

Highly commended:――

There is not in the wide world a maiden so sweet

As the lass for whose favour my bosom doth beat.

Oh, the best hope I cherish in gloom would depart

If that maid should grow fickle, and heed not my heart.

Yet it is not that Nature hath dowered her face

With brightest of beauty and sweetest of grace;

’Tis not the dear magic of figure or feet;

Oh, no, she’s the ugliest girl in the street.

’Tis that gold, the desired of my bosom, is there,

Which makes ev’ry grim line of deformity fair;

And which gives me the courage to smile when I see

Her blue nose at the window reflected on me,

Sweet maiden, so wealthy, how happy I’d rest

Quaffing “fizz” on thy gold with the chums I love best;

Then the tortures I feel in borrowing would cease,

And my duns, like old friends, be all smiling in peace.

ARAMIS.

There is not in this wide world a fraud so complete

As the vetoing power of the Lords’ _corps d’élite_;

Oh, faint must the heart be that beats in his breast,

Who in serfdom like this is contented to rest.

It is not that Nature unkindly denies

To his lordship a brain of the average size;

Nor because he resembles the people he rules,

Who, according to Carlyle, are most of them fools.

’Tis because, not content with his ill-gotten swag,

He would tear from the toiler his last tattered rag,

And give to the Franchise the knock on the head

That he tried on the measure for giving him bread.

Gilded Chamber of Horrors! you’re fated to go――

There is room for your relics with Madame Tussaud;

For the time has come round when Obstruction must cease,

Hark! the cry of “Move off!” from the Commons’ police!

H.B.

There is not, to the poet, a pleasure so sweet

As to win the two guineas for which we compete.

Oh, the joy I’d be feeling if you’d only “part”

Would instil some new energy into my heart.

Yet it is not that lately I’ve frequently seen

That my name ’mongst the “highly commended” has been;

’Tis not the sweet pleasure of this that can fill;

Oh, no, I want something more tangible still.

’Tis the money that’s useful in ev’ry career,

And the first fruit of authorship ever most dear;

And I wonder if ever my verse will improve

Till, no longer rejected, I gain what I love.

Good judge of our excellence, calm would I rest

If I thought you’d adjudge this endeavour the best;

When the guineas would come, my small store to increase,

And the coins in my pocket be jingled in peace.

EDWARD A. HORNE.

There is not in the wide club a room that’s so sweet

As the lounge in whose bosom the baccy wreaths meet;

Oh, the last train may go, the last hansom depart,

Ere the charm of the smoke-room shall cease for my heart.

Yet it is not that care has spread over the scene

The easiest chairs in their leather of green;

’Tis not in the sodas and B. that we fill;

Oh, no, there is something more exquisite still.

’Tis that chums of the oldest are all puffing near,

With stories and jokes to club gossips most dear;

And who feel how the odours of baccy improve

When surrounding the humorous faces we love.

Sweet haunt of a smoker! here weary brains rest

In thy fragrance and shade with the pipes they love best;

Where the worries of life for an hour or two cease,

And our meerschaums, like autumn leaves, colour in peace.

J. PRATT.

――――:o:――――

THE MEETING OF THE EMPERORS AT SKIERNIEVICE.

There is not in the wide world a town with a name

Queer as that to whose bosom the Emperors came;

Oh! ev’n than the treadmill the labour were worse――

That town with the queer name to squeeze into verse!

But not of that town or its name do we treat,

But the reason would know why the Emperors meet;

The _quid-nuncs_ look wise, but――explain it who can?――

What the mischief’s the mischief those Emperors plan?

Are those heads, so beloved of their peoples, brought near

To bring on a war ere the close of the year,

Or, adopting the principle, “_Lex sibi Rex_,”

The unoccupied parts of the globe to annex?

Ah! town with the queer name, how calm should we rest

Could our hearts of the comforting thought be possessed

That the storms we most dread in this dark world would cease,

And that meeting of Emperors really mean Peace!

_Moonshine_, September 27, 1884.

――――:o:――――

COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE.

Come, send round the wine, and leave plans of reform

To patriot asses and radical tools;

In the den of corruption we fatten and swarm,

Then let’s keep our places and laugh at the fools.

Your place may be easy, and mine may be hard;

But while the cash comes from the Treasury chest,

The fool who’d relinquish his _honest_ reward,

Deserves not to eat or to drink of the best.

Shall I ask the _old fogie_, who sits by my side

And plunders the hive, if our tenets agree?

Shall I give up my friend, who for bribery was tried?

If he kneel not before the same altar with me?

From the Catholic girl of my heart shall I fly

To seek somewhere else for a Protestant kiss?

No. Perish the placeman that ever would try

To value his place by a standard like this.

To us ’tis all one whether Catholic Peers

Get into the House or for ever stay out;

And as for the Radicals, we have no fears,

Though they bawl for retrenchment and kick up a rout.

Then feather your nests well, and push round the bowl

Success to TAXATION! that magical word

Is the true source of plenty, and sheds o’er the soul

Of a placeman more joy than aught else can afford.

From _The Spirit of the Public Journals_, 1825.

――――:o:――――

BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,

Which I gaze on so fondly to day,

Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,

Like fairy-gifts fading away.

Thou would’st still be ador’d, as this moment thou art,

Let thy loveliness fade as it will,

And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart

Would entwine itself verdantly still.

* * * * *

T. MOORE.

_Mr. Colburn’s reflections when gazing on the piles of unsold, copies

of_ LADY MORGAN’S _works_.

Believe me if all those damn’d musty old works,

Which I gaze on so sadly to-day,

Were to sell by to-morrow to Heathens or Turks,

And so be got out of my way,

They might still be abused, as this moment they must,

Let their pages be read as they will,

And around their cloth binding the dirt and the dust

Might entwine themselves verdantly still!

It was not till old Lady Morgan had flown

To my neighbours in Conduit-street dear,

That the worthless, _half-price_ of her works could be known

Which so long have laid mouldering here.

Oh, the books that are truly damn’d never will sell,

But are truly damn’d on to the close;

So their publishers wished, when their value so fell,

They had fall’n on her Ladyship’s toes.

_The National Omnibus_, April 15, 1831.

――――

ON THE HOUSE OF LORDS THROWING OUT THE REFORM BILL.

Believe me if all that demolish’d plate glass,

Which I cannot observe without pain;

Could be made by to-morrow one glittering mass,

And fixed in your windows again.

They would soon be in holes, as this moment they are,

Let the panes be as thick as they will;

And around thy fine mansion each mob from afar

Would collect itself angrily still!

Oh! it is not while windows thus smash’d are thine own,

Presenting an aspect so drear,

That the furious rage of a mob can be known,

’Gainst a proud Borough-mongering Peer!

No, the vote of the Tory will ne’er be forgot

Till the bill has passed into an act;

Like your head, my dear Marquis, repair them or not,

Your windows till then will be crack’d!

_Figaro in London_, December 17, 1831.

――――

BELIEVE ME, DEAR SUSAN, IF ALL THOSE YOUNG CHARMS.

Believe me, dear Susan, if all those young charms

Which I meet on my beat ev’ry day,

Were to seek for protection B. 53’s arms,

Like the maiden does Brown’s in the play,

I should still from your area, dear, never depart,

But notice each dish on the sill;

And if in the safe there were only sheep’s heart,

I should gull you――for you’re verdant still.

It is not while cold pigeon pies are your own,

Or you spill master’s cask of best beer,

That the faith of a p’liceman can always be known,

That’s all gammon, you know, Susan dear.

For the peeler that’s steadfast of course never lets

Life’s poetry mix with its prose;

For his love is as warm as the sun, when it sets

On the larder which steams ’neath his nose.

_Diogenes_, Vol. 3, p. 209, 1854.

――――

TO A LADY.

Believe me, if all those voluminous charms

Which thy fondness for fashion betray,

And keep e’en thy nearest relations at arm’s

Distance――some paces away:

Were those air tubes now blown up exploded outright,

And those hoops trundled off thee as well,

With less ample a skirt thou would’st look less a fright,

And more belle-like when less like a bell.

’Tis not by mere Swells taste in dressing is shown,

And that size is not beauty ’tis clear;

Nay, the shapeliest forms when balloon-like out blown,

Both distorted and ugly appear.

Then heed not what fashions _le Follet_ may set,

Be enslaved by no follies like those;

For be sure that your dresses, the wider they get,

The more narrow your mind is disclose.

_Punch_, October 17, 1857.

(Ladies were then wearing very large crinolines.)

――――

JOHN BULL TO PADDY

Believe me, if all those unfounded alarms,

Which circulate every day,

Proved true by to-morrow, and Fenian arms

Were uplifted to plunder and slay,

We should still hold our own, with unterrified heart,

Let the outrages be what they will,

And our motto (however our injuries smart)

Should be “JUSTICE TO IRELAND!” still.

It is not to scoundrels, whom patriots disown,

And whom Erin has reason to fear,

That the meaning of FREEDOM can truly be known,

Nor the cause of “OLD IRELAND” be dear.

No! the heart of the PATRIOT never forgets

’Tis not _thus_ he should conquer his foes,

And the emblem on which his reliance he sets

IS THE SHAMROCK ENTWINED WITH THE ROSE.

_Echoes from the Clubs_, December 25, 1867

――――

JOHN BRIGHT TO HIS PLACE.

Believe me if all those endearing young charms

That I share with such rapture to-day,

Were to fade by to-morrow at Tory alarms,

Collapsing both office and pay!

Thou wouldst still be as dear as this moment thou art,

Let Conservatives boast as they will,

And round the lost Council each wish of my heart

Would entwine itself Liberal still.

It is not when Gladstone and Lowe are thine own,

And thy Childers confiscates the pens

That the ferment and fume of a Bright can be thrown,

Who can roar down the biggest of Bens――

Oh! the tongue of the Demagogue never can rest,

But as glibly runs on to the close,

For the Cabinet’s glories are brief at the best,

And a mob may be useful, who knows.

_Will-o’-the wisp_, May 15, 1869.

――――

TO AN ANCIENT COQUETTE.

Believe me if all those affected young charms

Which I gaze on so sadly to-day,

Were to change by to morrow and fleet in my arms,

Like fairy gifts fading away.

Thou would’st still be abhorred as this moment thou art

Mocking beauty so vainly and ill,

For around such a ruin no wish of my heart

Could entwine itself, or ever will.

Nay, rather leave rouge and pearl powder alone,

And thy cheeks unprofaned by a smear,

That nature’s own beauty in age may be known,

And the autumn of life calm and clear.

The heart that is true to itself never frets

For the tints of the lily and rose,

And the sun of affection should glow when it sets,

Even purer than when it arose.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

Believe me, if all those most solemn-faced dons,

Whom we’ve seen at St. Mary’s to-day,

Were to get in a body, and tuck up their gowns,

And down Market-place caper away;

They would still be _adored_ as this moment they are,

Let their dignity fare as it will;

And at them, with wondering awe from afar,

The Freshmen gaze _verdantly_ still.

But while they are clothed in glossy silk gown

And cap best obtainable here,

Their features are scanned by the Freshmen and known,

So that time only makes them _less dear_,

For when once he’s been gated he never forgets,

But steadily swears to the close

At the Tutor, who bounds to his out-goings sets,

Or for Chapel disturbs his repose.

_The Lays of the Mocking Sprite_, by E. B. (Cambridge.)

――――

Believe me, if all that roast pork which with zest

I devoured at dinner to-night,

Were to bring indigestion and lie on my chest

Like a log, putting slumber to flight,

It would still be my favourite dish, as of yore,

Let my sufferings be what they will,

And round the crisp crackling and stuffing galore

My thoughts linger lovingly still!

It is not while playing a good knife and fork,

When your frame’s undisturbed by a throe,

That the thought of the horrors attendant on pork

Will be likely to fill you with woe.

No! ’tis only when several _hours_ have flown,

That pale Nemesis steals from her lair,

And as on your pillow you fidget and groan,

You feel that “roast pig” is a snare!

F. B. DOVETON.

_Judy_, March 9, 1881.

――――

Believe me, that all these delusive alarms

That the Tories so recklessly float

Are but meant, like the silly cry, “Ulster to arms!”

As a trap for the Liberal vote.

Since you gave them the sack, they imagine (good lack!)

They can wriggle, by foul means or fair,

In spite of consistency, just to get back

Into Downing-street, Parliament-square!

But you know very well, from my action of old,

It’s on me you can always depend;

If you lean on the Dissidents, then you’ll be sold――

It’s not Joseph, but William’s your friend!

All their high-sounding talk hides but envy and pride,

Though their tone is so soft and so fair;

’Tis for you to decide whom you’ll have to preside

At 10, Downing-street, Parliament-square.

ABRACADABRA.

_The Weekly Dispatch._ June 27, 1886.

――――:o:――――

“OH, BLAME NOT THE BARD.”

Ah, blame not the Bard if his frantic endeavours

At compassing _kudos_ should constantly fail,

Nor blame Mr. Warden when circumstance severs

The ties of his home and consigns him to jail;

The Bard would be willing, and yearns to be able,

To thrill the whole world to its innermost soul,

And Warden would cheerfully grace his own table,

But “circumstance over which _we’ve_ no control.”

Oh, blame not the British Museum for showing

Its autotype Raphaels all of a row,

For wert thou “originals” on them bestowing

They’d hang them with pleasure I happen to know;

And blame not the troops in the Soudan for straying

Unlinked with their base as they press to their goal――

It is, though, undaunted the front they’re displaying,

A “circumstance over which _they’ve_ no control.”

* * * * *

Oh, blame not the walrus that’s come to West_minster_

If loneliness makes him to set up a howl,

How often the same has occurred to the spinster

Who sits by her parrot and cat, cheek by jowl;

And blame not the Frenchman with China who quarrels,

Though sad be his lot and unhappy his dole,

But just count his strange international morals

A “circumstance over which _he’s_ no control.”

Oh, blame not the people in Salt Lake its city,

Who’re sending out parties to proselytize;

They’ve suffered from wives, and they think it’s a pity

That others should not have to suffer likewise;

And blame not the Bard if his verses are prosy,

And move with a steadily slumberous roll,

The fact that he makes all the universe dozy

Is “a circumstance over which _he’s_ no control.”

_Fun_, November, 1883.

――――:o:――――

(_Air_――“Love’s young dream.”)

Oh! the days are gone when beauty bright

Her own hair wore,

Oh, a girl was not an awful fright

In days of yore.

Now, eyes may leer――false teeth appear,

And painted be each face;

But there nothing half so beautiful

As Grace――sweet Grace.

Oh! those lovely girls are ne’er forgot,

Mine eye once traced:

No “Chignons” huge, or scanty skirts,

Their forms disgraced.

Now “Taste” has fled――from heel to head,

All ugliness we trace,

Ah! there’s nothing half so beautiful

As Grace――sweet Grace.

From _The Girl of the Period Miscellany_, May 1869.

――――:o:――――

LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.

Lesbia hath a beaming eye,

But no one knows for whom it beameth;

Right and left its arrows fly,

But what they aim at no one dreameth.

Sweeter ’tis to gaze upon

My Nora’s lid that seldom rises;

Few its looks, but every one,

Like unexpected light, surprises!

Oh, my Nora Creina, dear,

My gentle, bashful Nora Creina,

Beauty lies

In many eyes,

But love in yours, my Nora Creina.

* * * * *

T. MOORE.

――――

THE SLOE-BLACK PEEPER.

Peggy hath a squinting eye,

But no one knows at what it squinteth;

Right and left her glances fly,

But what they glance at, no one hinteth;

Sweeter ’tis to gaze upon

My Nancy’s roguish sloe-black peeper;

Few its looks, but every one

Strikes sly Cupid’s arrows deeper!

Oh, my black-eyed Nancy, dear!

My pretty, roguish black-eyed Nancy!

I despise

Peg’s squinting eyes,

But sloe black peepers please my fancy.

Peggy wears her dresses high,

And then her stays so tight she’ll lace ’em;

Not a charm can one espy,

Tho’ busy fancy tries to trace ’em.

Oh, my Nancy’s gown for me,

That floats as wild as mountain breezes,

Leaving every beauty free,

To rise or fall as nature pleases!

Yes, my black-eyed Nancy, dear!

My plump and playful black-eyed Nancy!

Nature’s dress

Is loveliness,

And _yours_, like _hers_, just suits my fancy.

Peggy’s mouth to grin’s inclin’d,

But ’mongst her teeth there’s ne’er a white one;

And then they look as if design’d

To snap at, or perhaps, to bite one!

But Nancy’s iv’ries, oh, how clean!

And then her breath is sweet as roses;

And lips were never redder seen,

Nor aught more straight than Nancy’s nose is:

Oh, my black-eyed Nancy dear!

My pretty, roguish black-eyed Nancy!

How I prize

Your sloe-black eyes,

But squinting Peg’s I ne’er can fancy.

From _The Spirit of the Public Journals_, 1825.

――――

BOILED CHICKEN.

Lesbia hath a fowl to cook

But, being anxious not to spoil it,

Searches anxiously our book,

For how to roast, and how to boil it.

Sweet it is to dine upon――

Quite alone, when small its size is

And, when cleverly ’tis done,

Its delicacy quite surprises.

Oh! my tender pullet dear!

My boiled――not roasted――tender chicken,

I can wish

No other dish,

With thee supplied, my tender chicken!

Lesbia, take some water cold,

And having on the fire placed it,

And some butter, and be bold――

When ’tis hot enough――taste it.

Oh! the chicken meant for me

Boil before the fire grows dimmer,

Twenty minutes let it be,

In the saucepan left to simmer,

Oh! my tender chicken dear!

My boil’d delicious, tender chicken!

Rub the breast

(To give a zest)

With lemon-juice, my tender chicken,

Lesbia hath with sauce combined

Broccoli white, without a tarnish;

’Tis hard to tell if ’tis designed

For vegetable or for garnish.

Pillow’d on a butter’d dish,

My chicken temptingly reposes,

Making gourmands for it wish,

Should the savor reach their noses.

Oh, my tender pullet dear!

My boiled――not roasted――tender chicken!

Day or night,

Thy meal is light,

For supper, e’en, my tender chicken.

_Punch._

――――

CRINOLINA.

Lesbia’s skirt doth streaming fly,

But none observes how full it streameth;

Right and left the men go by,

But of remarking no one dreameth.

Bolder ’tis to dare put on

My Lina’s skirts of extra sizes;

Light she seems, but every one

By unexampled bulk surprises.

Oh, my Crinolina dear,

My pavement-filling Crinolina,

Beauty lies

In mod’rate size,

But _Ton_ in your’s, my Crinolina!

Lesbia’s dress keeps out the cold,

Good taste, good sense, all feel, have graced it;

But _Ton_ approval must withhold,

There’s not a breadth of stuff in’t wasted!

Oh, my Lina’s skirt for me,

That swells balloon-like on the breezes,

Letting everybody see

How far stuff _can_ go, if it pleases!

Yes, my Crinolina dear,

My rustling bell-shaped Crinolina,

Taste in dress

Can’t well be less

Than _you_ display, my Crinolina!

Lesbia hath a waist refined,

But with such mod’rate drapery round it,

Who can tell her heart’s confined,

From breaking bounds, when Love hath found it.

Pillowed safe, my Lina’s heart

Within her miles of skirt reposes,

Beyond the flight of Cupid’s dart,――

Poor Love quite lost among the rows is.

Oh, my Crinolina dear,

Expansive and expensive Lina,

Waist less tight,

Skirts less a sight,

Indulge in, do, my Crinolina!

_Punch_, November 8, 1856.

――――

TO MARK LEMON, ESQ. SONG.

(Air: _Lesbia hath a Beaming Eye_.)

Lemon is a little hipped,

And this is Lemon’s true position;

He is not pale, he’s not white-lipped,

Yet wants a little fresh condition.

Sweeter it is to gaze upon

Old Ocean’s rising, falling billers,

Than on the houses every one

That form the street called Saint Anne’s Villers.

Lemon hath a coat of frieze,

But all so seldom Lemon wears it,

That it is a prey to fleas,

And every moth that’s hungry tears it.

Oh! that coat’s the coat for me,

That braves the railway sparks and breezes,

Leaving every engine free

To wear it till the owner sneezes.

Then, my Lemon, sound and fat,

Oh, my bright, my right, my tight ’un,

Think a little what you’re at――

On Tuesday next come down to Brighton.

CHARLES DICKENS, 1855.

Published in _London Society_, October, 1875.

――――

THE CHAUNT OF THE COCKNEY SWELL.

(AIR――“_This Life is all Chequer’d with Pleasures and Woes._”)

This suit is all chequer’d with crosses and stripes,

Which I wear as I walk by the wide winkley deep.

I am one of the tourist world’s toppingest types,

And I purchased these togs in Cheapside on the cheap.

So closely they fit to my elegant shape,

That the fall in my back every optic may see;

And, if you should take an Apollo and drape

Him in chocolate tweed, he would look much like me.

Just tottle me up! I’m all in it, dear boy,

With tile ever shiny and boots ever tight;

Like all Things of Beauty, for ever a joy,

The envy of toffs, and the ladies’ delight.

When I stroll on the sands all the girls try to count

The number of pockets my garments display:

There are twenty, all told,――’tis a tidy amount,

Though there is’nt much in them, I’m sorry to say.

There are many like me who in youth would have tasted

The fountain of Pleasure that flows by the brine,

But their precious small “screws” they on tipsters have wasted,

And left all their pockets as empty as mine.

But let’s have a liquor! ’tis jolly good fun

To do the cheap toff in the Hall by the Sea!

Though I may’nt sport a mag when my holiday’s done,

Go it stiff while you can, is the motto for me!

――――:o:――――

OH! THE SHAMROCK.

Through Erin’s Isle,

To sport awhile,

As Love and Valour wander’d,

With Wit, the sprite,

Whose quiver bright

A thousand arrows squander’d.

Where’er they pass

A triple grass

Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming,

As softly green

As Emerald’s seen

Through purest crystal gleaming.

Oh the Shamrock, the green immortal Shamrock!

Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,

Old Erin’s native Shamrock!

T. MOORE.

* * * * *

THE SCARECROWS.

O’er Erin’s Isle, in rule awhile,

What British knaves have blundered!

Their state misused, and power abused――

And prisoned, packed, and plundered.

But soon or late, they met the fate,

That evil in despair knows;

We tore in rags, their tinsel tags,

And set them up as scarecrows.

Oh, the scarecrows,

No wind that foul or fair blows,

But shakes awhile

The tatters vile

Of Ireland’s sorry scarecrows.

First Forster came, and linked his name

With certain ammunition,

His burly nod sent folks to quod,

Of high and low condition;

Yet came the day when far away,

We saw the Yorkshire bear go

And take his place in dire disgrace

A grim and gruffy scarecrow!

Oh, the scarecrow

No village bantam dare crow,

Till Buckshot fell

In Failure’s Hell

From which ne’er rose a scarecrow!

Came Cowper next with tidy text

(To gospel-writ a stranger),

Deep under ground to drive where found

All discontent and danger;

But if he did, the seeds he hid

The morrow saw in air grow,

While prospects marred he mounted guard,

A most disgusted scarecrow.

Oh, the scarecrow

Can annals anywhere show

A weaker fool

Sent, _men_ to rule

Than this poor ragged scarecrow.

Trevelyan tried, sneered, whined and lied,

To please his precious master,

But “Indian meal” nor “even keel”

Could save him from disaster.

Alas, poor Pinch! we inch by inch,

Brought you to wreck and care low,

It seems to me, of all the three,

You made the meanest scarecrow.

Oh, the scarecrow,

We’d honour give to fair foe,

But scorn and hate

Must ever wait

The memory of this scarecrow.

Not last nor least, the great Arch Priest,

Of red and raw repression,

Whom Fame shall yoke with deeds unspoke,

And devil-wrought transgression;

Ah, Foxy Jack, your British pack,

Shall shortly in the rear go,

Of him who fled in gloom and dread,

A failed and beaten scarecrow.

Oh, the scarecrow

Our boys from Howth to Clare know,

To hear the joints

Of Johnny Poyntz

Groan dry like any scarecrow.

So friends shall fall the strangers all,

Who seek to crush our nation;

Nor rope nor “soap” can hope to cope

With grim determination;

And while our tree of liberty,

More branching green and fair grows,

Our museum shall filled become

With sick and sorry scarecrows.

Oh, the scarecrows!

No wind that foul or fair blows,

But shakes awhile

The tatters vile

Of Ireland’s sorry scarecrows.

DRAILIN.

From _United Ireland_ October 10, 1885.

――――:o:――――

SONG FOR A THIN-THATCHED DANDY.

(Air――“_One Bumper at Parting._”)

One more try at parting! Not many

Locks circle my head, I regret;

But a few, the most hardy of any,

Are left on the crown of it yet.

’Tis a ticklish task to divide them,

In well-balanced head-central fringe;

These patches cost labour to hide them,

Give vanity many a twinge.

But come――every sproutling I treasure――

Thine aid O Macassar! I beg;

Though I own――who can face it with pleasure?――

I’m getting as bald as an egg!

As older we grow, how unpleasant

To pause and reflect with distaste

That the few scattered spikes seen at present,

Must merge in wide calvity’s (?) waste!

But Time, a most pitiless master,

Cries “Onward!” and mows off one’s crop,

Ah! never does Time travel faster

Than when one desires him to stop.

No, Age cannot trip to Youth’s measure,

With paunch and a spindle shanked leg,

And I own――though it is not with pleasure――

I’m getting as bald as an egg!

_Punch’s Almanac_, 1883.

――――:o:――――

THE YOUNG MAY MOON.

The young May moon is beaming, love,

The glow worm’s lamp is gleaming, love,

How sweet to rove

Through Morna’s grove,

When the drowsy world is dreaming, love.

* * * * *

T. MOORE.

――――

THE IRISHMAN’S SERENADE.

The full new moon is old, my love,

You’ve got plenty of money, I’m told, my love,

So your knocker I’ll ring,

And my love I will sing,

Though I’ve get a most shocking bad cold, my love,

Then awake, for my love is so hot, my dear,

That without you I’ll soon go to pot, my dear;

For my shirt, at your clack,

Would stick close to my back,――

But the devil a shirt have I got, my dear.

Like a cat my watch I’m keeping, love,

For no bed have I got to sleep in, love;

So honey look down,

And smile me a frown,

From your eye so beautiful peeping, love.

Old Time, like the gutter does run, my dear,

So pry thee mock modesty shun, my dear;

Have me, I’ll have you,

And though still we’ll be two,

All Kilkenny will take us for one, my dear.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE BLADDER OF WHISKEY.

The Cats on the tiles are squalling, love

And the watchmen past twelve are bawling, love,

So step down this ladder,

For I’ve, in a bladder,

Some whisky, that “drink me” is calling, love.

I’ve had nothing to-day but porter love,

With some glasses of gin and water, love,

So if you come down,

I’ll lay you a crown

That this bladder we quickly will slaughter, love.

I’ve some onions, and bread, and cheese, my love,

And some Scotch snuff to make you sneeze, my love,

So since I’m so pressing,

Pray don’t wait for dressing,

But come down as quick as you please, my love.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE CAT’S SERENADE.

The lamps are faintly gleaming, love,

The thief on his walk is scheming, love!

And its sweet to crawl

O’er the dead wall,

While the tabbies are gently screaming, love.

Then put out one paw so white, my dear,

The housetops are covered with light, my dear,

Through the day, at our ease,

We’ll sleep when we please,

And we’ll ramble abroad through the night, my dear.

Now all the world is sleeping, love!

But the _bobby_ his night-watch keeping, love!

And I who wait,

On this cold, cold slate,

While you’re at the mouse-hole peeping, love!

Then, awake, till rise of sun, my dear,

And we’ll have a rare old time, my dear;

But if you look shy,

Faith it’s all in my eye,

For away with another I’ll run, my dear.

――――

THE OLD MARCH MOON.

The old March moon is beaming, love;

The quarter-day dawn is gleaming, love,

’Tis meet to move

From the floor above,

When the landlord below is dreaming, love.

Wide awake! for the peeler’s light is near,

And I yesterday made him “all right” my dear.

And the best of all ways

Upon quarter-rent days,

Is to make him wink at our flight, my dear,

Now the landlord, I’ve said, is sleeping, love,

And his watch the peeler is keeping, love,

And you and I are

To be off and afar

Ere he at our actions be peeping, love.

So, awake! let it quickly be done, my dear;

For if he tired become, my dear,

He may turn on his light,

As on thieves in flight,

And take us two for one, my dear.

_Diogenes_, March 1854.

――――

SONG OF THE SIGNALMAN.

The rain through the night is streaming, love,

The signal lamps are gleaming, love,

I _must_ keep on the move,

Or this somnolent cove

Would soon be asleep and a-dreaming, love!

So awake!――the Express is in sight, my dear,

I’ve been at it since dawn of light, my dear,

For one of the ways

By which Railwaydom pays,

Is to keep us at work day and night, my dear!

You, and most people, now are sleeping, love,

But my watch, in my box, I am keeping, love,

For the red or green star

I must note from afar,

Though the sleep ’neath my eyelids is creeping, love.

I’ve been working since rise of sun, my dear.

Fourteen hours, and I’m not yet done, my dear.

Oh, to watch day and night

For the signal light

Is――Directors think――capital fun my dear!

_Punch_, October 10, 1885.

――――

DEFEATED MANŒUVRES.

“The Marquis is _not_ to be won, Mamma;

My advances he seems to shun, Mamma!

I appeal to you

What _am_ I to do?

Oh, tell me what’s next to be done, Mamma.”

“Have you sat by his lordship’s side, my child?

And every blandishment tried, my child?

Have you heaved deep sighs

And looked in his eyes?

And adroitly flattered his pride my child?”

“O yes, and I’ve done even more, Mamma:

Things I never have done before, Mamma;

For I fainted quite,

In his arms last night,

As we stood on the sea-girt shore, Mamma!”

“If the man is proof against _that_, my child,

Why the sooner he takes his hat, my child;

Between you and me,

The better ’twill be.

For you see he’s _not_ such a flat, my child!”

ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

THE MINSTREL BOY.

The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you’ll find him:

His father’s sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.――

“Land of song” said the warrior-bard,

“Though all the world betrays thee,

“_One_ sword, at least thy rights shall guard,

“_One_ faithful harp shall praise thee!”

* * * * *

T. MOORE.

ON THE CATHOLIC EMANCIPATION MEETING AT PENENDEN HEATH.

Mister Sheil into Kent has gone,

On Penenden Heath you’ll find him;

Nor think you that he came alone,

There’s Doctor Doyle behind him.

“Men of Kent” said this little man,

“If you hate Emancipation,

You’re a set of fools,” he then began

A “cut and dry” oration.

He strove to speak, but the men of Kent

Began a grievous shouting,

When out of his waggon the little man went,

And put a stop to his spouting.

“What though these heretics heard me not,”

Quoth he to his friends Canonical;

“My speech is safe in the _Times_ I wot,

And eke in the _Morning Chronicle_.”

W. M. THACKERAY.

This parody is supposed to be the first composition by Thackeray that

was ever published. It appeared in an Exeter newspaper soon after the

great meeting, on the question of Catholic Emancipation, had been held

on Penenden Heath.

――――

THE SAILOR BOY.

The Sailor Boy on a tour is gone――

In an Oxford crib you’ll find him

His boxing gloves on his fives are drawn,

And care is cast behind him.

“Alic Reid,” said the bouncing cove,

Are you the man to fight me?

A turn-up let us have for love,

And to _floor_ you will delight me.

But the Sailor Hero soon found out

That for once he had made a blunder,

For the Snob contriv’d to tap his snout,

And poor Harry Jones knock’d under.

“Ah!” he exclaim’d, to repine is vain,

Why to fight did I feel so eager?

I’ll never set to with the Snob again,

When my head is confus’d with Seager.[122]

From Pierce Egan’s _Book of Sports_, 1832.

――――

THE “FANCY” PARODY.

The _leary cove_ to the mill is gone,

In the P.C. ring you’ll find him,

His blue bird’s eye he has girded on,

And has left his flame behind him.

Fancy sport, cried the _leary cove_,

Though every _Beak_ betrays thee,

One soul at least thy _sprees_ shall love,

One faithful _chaunt_ shall praise thee.

The cove was _floor’d_, but he show’d high game,

Nor like a cur knocked under.

His _chaunt_ will ne’er be _clear_ again,

For his nose was split asunder.

Leary cove, said his _flame_ in a pet,

Thou _pink_ of love and bravery,

Since thou art floor’d, I’ll a service get,

And spend my days in slavery.

From _Pierce Egan’s Book of Sports_, 1832.

――――

THE MINSTREL BOY.

The fiddlers boy to the fair is gone,

In a rattling booth you’ll find him,

With his master’s fiddle (for his own’s in pawn)

In a green bag slung behind him.

‘House of malt.’ says the fiddling bard,

Though all the world despise thee,

One fiddler is left and will spend his last,

If its only to patronize thee.

The fiddler drank till it got quite late,

And the table he fell under,

His fiddle was broke by the fall and weight

And the cat-gut tore asunder.

Says he ‘No one shall ever know,

Thy sounds of jolly bravery,’

So he smacked across his knee the bow

And he went to sleep quite savoury.

From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_, Dublin.

――――

A STRING OF POETIC PEARLS, APROPOS OF THE

GREAT DIAMOND IN THE EXHIBITION OF 1851.

The Koh-i-noor to the wall has gone,

Neglected now you’ll find it,

With scarcely any one looking on,

But a constable set to mind it.

How oft some silly wight,

When prejudice has bound him,

Gapes o’er the Mount of Light,

With pickpockets around him!

All eyes and ears, the gem he nears;

Away the crowd has started;

While he looked on his purse is gone,

And all but he departed.

_Punch_, August 9, 1851.

――――

THE CORDON BLEU.

(_On the departure of M. Alexis Soyer for the Crimea_, July 1855.)

The Cordon Bleu to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you’ll find him:

His snow white apron is girded on,

And his magic Stove’s behind him.

“Army beef” said the Cordon Bleu,

“Though a stupid bungler slays thee,

One skilful hand thy steaks shall stew,

One artist’s pan shall braise thee.”

The cook went forth, and the foe in vain

On his pets and pans did thunder,

He thicked thin gravy, he sauced the plain,

And he sliced coarse lumps asunder,

And he cried “a cook can defy, you see,

A Commissariat’s knavery;

The soldier who saves a nation free,

Should have a ration savoury.”

_Punch._ July 28, 1855.

――――

The Draper’s man to the war is gone

In the foremost ranks you’ll find him,

His knapsack he has buckled on,

His tape yard left behind him.

“Hands so strong,” cried the warrior, fired,

“No woman’s work were made for;

“Such sinew now for war’s required,

“And more――will be well paid for!”

_Punch._ October 17, 1857.

There was another parody of the same original, commencing

“The Chinese boy to the war is gone”

in _Punch_, May 7, 1857, but it is of no interest now.

――――

THE ERRAND BOY TO THE BEERSHOP’S GONE.

The errand boy to the beershop’s gone,

In front of the bar you’ll find him;

His hat he has’nt stopp’d to put on,

Nor to shut the door behind him.

“Another pint?” says the barmaid there;

“Yes, when you’ve paid for the first one!

Of all the young rascals who come here,

You really are the worst one!”

The youngster fell!――He had paid the cash,

He’d got it for a wonder――

When over the step he tumbled――smash!

His jug was broken asunder.

He picked himself up:――Hurt? not he;

He looked down at the running liquor:

“Well, if I’d taken it home,” quoth he,

“We could’nt have swallow’d it quicker.”

_Judy_, November 17, 1869.

――――

THE BEARDLESS BOY.

The Beardless Boy to the Race has gone,

In the Betting Ring you’ll find him;

His father’s till he has drawn upon,

And his race-glass slung behind him.

“‘Land’ I must, or it will go hard

Should all my luck forsake me,”

Remarked the youth, as he bought a Card,

“And Policeman X may take me.”

* * * * *

He lost his bets, and his watch and chain,

At which you’ll scarcely wonder;

And as he rushed to catch a train,

He tore his coat asunder;

And said, “No one shall bully me,

I’ll not submit to slavery!

I won’t go home, but I’ll wander free,

And take to a life of knavery!”

_Punch_, June 5, 1875.

――――

THE MINSTREL BOY.

The Minstrel Boy in the train has gone,

In the third class you will find him,

His concertina he plays upon,

Or the fiddle that hangs behind him;

“Child of Song,” cries the railway-guard,

“Though bobbies oft betray thee,

The Underground will thee reward,

These foolish folk will pay thee.”

The Minstrel entered the railway train,

But a rival knocked him under,

Causing the Child of Song much pain,

And his fiddle broke asunder,

And said “Go back to your own countree,

Thou dupe of Italian knavery;

Music was made for the brave and free;

And not to be used for slavery.”

_Funny Folks._

――――

REPUBLICANS, COME IN YOUR THOUSANDS.

Bradlaugh to protest is gone;

In Hyde-park you will find him,

Royal trips to speak upon:

Now _who_ will stand beside him?

“Sons of toil,” says the Radical bold,

“Though all the Whigs betray ye,

“One voice at least shall cry ‘_Withhold!_’

“One faithful heart shall serve ye.”

The grant is made! and once again

The public purse they plunder;

But if they try it on again,

We’ll speak in tones of thunder:――

Milton wrote, Cromwell fought,

Hampden died for freedom;

Can heirs of liberty be taught

To suffer slavish serfdom?

S. J. MIOTT, 1875.

――――

ON THE DUKE OF CAMBRIDGE.

The warrior duke to the review had gone,

Amid the volunteers they find him;

His hat and plume he had fastened on,

And his gingham slung behind him.

“Sangster’s best,” sang the warrior duke,

“Though all the world does mock thee,

“One eye at least shall on thee look,

“To see no chaff shall shock thee.”

The rain came down, but the warrior duke

Could not get his gingham under;

The gingham he loved, by some awful fluke,

Had its ribs all broken asunder.

He wailed “The rain will fall on me,

“The chief of England’s army;

“My brand new clothes will spoil’d be;

“Oh, take me home and dry me!”

――――

SONG FOR A CIVIC BANQUET, 1880.

The alderman from Guildhall has gone

In the coffee tavern you’ll find him,

The temperance badge he has girded on,

And his old port chucked behind him.

“Cold water pure!” sang the civic knight,

“Though tipplers all deride thee,

No other drink will I touch to-night,

Though the teapot stands beside thee!”

The alderman fell! ’twas not champagne,

But turtle, that brought him under

The festive board, for the glass again

He never touched, for a wonder!

“Cold water is the drink for me,”

Sang he in his Templar bravery;

“A total abstainer I will be

And shun King Alcohol’s slavery!”

_Judy_, December 1, 1880.

――――

THE GIRTON GIRL.

The Girton girl to Exam. has gone,

In the Tripos list you’ll find her;

In mathematics she always shone,

And had left her mates behind her.

“Woman’s rights,” said the learned fair,

Though all the world may scold ye,

_One_ brain at least for you shall dare,

_One_ practised pen uphold ye!”

The men they failed!――since the papers set

Very quickly knock’d them under;

But no Examiner could get

Anyhow that girl to blunder.

She cried, “You Dons shan’t bully me,

For fame I’m now an angler!”

And fame rewarded her ways so free,

As she came out Senior Wrangler!

_Funny Folks_, March 12, 1881.

(The Senate of Cambridge University had recently decided to admit

female students, resident at either Girton or Newnham College, to the

Tripos Examination.)

――――

THE GRAND OLD MINSTREL BOY.

THE NATIONAL EISTEDDFOD OF WALES.――Towards defraying the expenses of

this annual literary meeting, the Prince of Wales had sent a sum of

twenty guineas. Mr. Gladstone had consented to act as President on the

closing day.

The Grand Old Boy to the wars will go,

In the Jingoes’ ranks you’ll find him;

With Dizzy’s sword he will strike a blow,

And his own harp sling behind him.

“Land of the Sphinx,” this warrior Bard

Sings out, “Though tricks they play thee,

One Grand Old Boy thy rights shall guard;

By Jove, he won’t betray thee!”

So the Grand Old Boy takest rain from town――

With his harp the seat tucked under;

And the Prince pays twenty guineas down

To be out of it――and no wonder!

But the closing day a song shall hear

(May be noisier, may be quieter),

With an _encore_ verse, that the heart will cheer

Of a Music Hall Proprietor!

_Punch_, August 5, 1882.

――――

THE ECONOMICAL PEER.

The noble lord to the stores is gone,

’Mid the groceries you’ll find him;

His biscuit-box he has girded on,

And his jam-pot’s slung behind him.

His parcels of goods he can scarce convey,

All the brushes and soap he’s dropping;

And he staggers about in a senseless way

’Neath the weight of his various shopping.

“Here economy reigns,” said the noble bard,

“And it gladdens my heart to view it;

A flea I’d skin for the worth of its lard,

And here is the place to do it.

What care _I_ for scoffs? They may jeer who please,

I despise their paltry scandals!

I shall twopence save on ten pounds of cheese,

And three-halfpence on my candles!”

_Judy_, February 1, 1882.

――――

THE NORTH-WEST BOY.

Sir D. V. gay to the poll is gone,

In the Tory ranks you’ll find him;

A roll of pigtail he has girded on,

And a grey goose slung behind him.

“Blarney-lane,” said the feathery knight.

“Though all the world betrays thee,

Sweet spot where first I saw the light,

One faithful heart shall praise thee!

But the knight he fell――’twas Hooper’s gain――

And it brought his small soul under;

For the North-west Ward he’ll ne’er speak again;

Nor her true burgesses sunder.

“Alas!” said he, “my civic knell

Was rung the day I left Parnell,

For my country’s foes and bent the knee,

To Buckshot and Castle slavery.”

MARY SHANDON.

From _United Ireland_, December 8, 1883.

――――

A DIRGE!

(_To be said, or sung, by the Electors of Northampton._)

Our Bradlaugh boy to the House is gone,

In the Lobby there you’ll find him;

Erskine his sword has girded on,

And Denning is close behind him.

“You can’t go in!” cried this trusty guard;

“The Commons so decide it;

The House perhaps acts rather hard,

But _you_ must stay _out_side it!”

The Members fell to; but ’twas in vain

To try “Denning to get under;”

“Braddy” was floored again and again,

And his top coat torn asunder;

His hat was knocked right o’er his head,

His corns and his bunions stampt on,

And down he went more live than dead,

To where he came from――Northampton!

――――

THE WAIL OF A DISTURBED SOUL.

The ’prentice boy to the street has gone,

Among his chums you’ll find him;

And he has ta’en his mel-o-de-on,

His favourite tunes to grind ’em.

“Balm of Gilead” loud they sing,

As if they’d been hob-nobbin’;

And then the midnight echoes ring

To the wail of “Poor Cock Robin.”

“There now it’s “Over the Garden Wall”――

Shut up, you noisy crew, you!

But list, the liquid rise and fall

Of “Glory Hallelujah!”

Will no one from a window take

An aim, and damp their ardour?

Alike for peaceful slumber’s sake,

And for the tunes they murder!

I wonder will they knock off soon

Great Handel! what a hobby!

Ah, now they carol “Bonny Doon.”

Confound it! Where’s the bobby?

With their last notion I agree,

And back that move to “carry”

The bloomin’ lot to “Tennessee,”

Or better, to “Old Harry”!

Oh, wandering minstrels of the night,

A victim I would pray you,

If you must put sweet dreams to flight,

Rehearse “Far, far away,” do!

A. B.

――――

“THE GRAND YOUNG MAN”; OR THE MISLEADING BOY.

(_A prophecy about Mr. Joseph Chamberlain._)

1885.

“The Grand Young Man” to the front has come,

At the head of the Rads you’ll find him:

The mild Whig leaders are under his thumb,

The G.O.M.’s far behind him.

“Land for the mob” cries Brummagem Joe,

“Let any one dare deny me;

_One_ class alone has the right to crow――

Capitalists such as I be!”

1895.

The “Young One” fell; but no sense of shame

Could bring _his_ proud soul under,

Though his wretched party earned the name

Of “‘rifle, rob and plunder.’”

Cried he “the blame don’t rest with me,

Not in the knave’s the knavery,

But in the fools who ought to see

Yet sell themselves to slavery.”

_Moonshine_, October 10, 1885.

――――

THE GRAND YOUNG MAN.

The “Grand Young Man” on the “stump” has gone,

In the Rads’ front rank you’ll find him,

The spoilers’ axe he has girded on,

And his Programme slung behind him.

“Working Men,” said the “people’s Joe,”

“Though Tories all neglect thee,

_One_ trump, at least thy “rights” shall blow,

_One_ faithful arm protect thee.”

The “party” fell, but the Tories reign

Could not bring the bold boy under;

The “tongue” he loved was loosed again,

In threats of “blood and thunder,”

And said “no man shall bully _me_,

The soul of truth and bravery;

My voice shall sound till the land is free,

And never be gagged by knavery.”

_Society_, October 24, 1885. F. B. DOVETON.

Several Parodies of “_The Minstrel Boy_” were published in “_Life_”

November 26, 1885. As they all related to Mr. Gladstone’s

electioneering journey to the north, one specimen will suffice, as

there is a great similarity between them.

The Grand Old Man to the North has gone,

’Neath a “Primrose” roof you’ll find him,

His “four point” poster he has girded on,

And his family travel behind him.

“Liberals all,” said the canny chief

“Let not disunion rend ye;

“Though by my _deeds_ ye have come to grief

“In _Speech_ I’ll aye defend ye!”

“Unite, Unite;” he pleads in vain,

Too late he sees his blunder,

The “Party” is split, for the Caucus strain

Has forced its links asunder

Hope in him dies, yet still he cries,

Though his spell of power has vanished,

“The Rads may come in, what care I if they win

So the Tories from office be banished!”

――――

THE GRAND OLD MAN.

The Grand Old Man to the war has come,

Confronting the foe you’ll find him;

We’ll beat the charge on the Liberal drum,

And close our ranks behind him.

Grand old warrior, stout and bold,

Though faithless friends betrayed him,

We’ll place the helm in his honest hold,

And with hearts and voices aid him.

His battle-cry on the foe shall fall

Like the roll of distant thunder,

’Twill pale their cheeks and their souls appal,

And their blustering turn to wonder.

For the grand old man, with heart of gold,

Has burst our bonds of slavery;

And freed the land from its burden old

Of Tory craft and knavery.

From _Songs for Liberal Electors_.

――――

SONG OF THE PAUNCHY TENNIS-PLAYER.

(AIR――“_The Time I’ve Lost in Wooing._”)

The time I’ve lost in “screwing,”

In watching and pursuing

The ball that flies,

On fall or rise,

Has been my trade’s undoing.

Though Business hath besought me,

I’ve shirked the truths she taught me,

I left my books

To partner Snooks,

And ruin’s what he’s brought me.

By Tennis still enchanted,

Of late I’ve puffed and panted,

I once was light,

And slim and slight,

Ere Anti-fat I wanted.

But now young Beauties shun me,

For stoutness grows upon me:

When asked to play,

They turn away,

Old Blobbs can now outrun me!

And is my good time going?

And is my figure growing

So huge in size

That sparkling eyes

Brim o’er to see me “blowing?”

Yes――vain alas! th’ endeavour,

To charm with back-play clever,

Love nevermore――

_Save in the score_――

Shall bless me――never! never!

_Punch’s Almanac_, 1883.

――――:o:――――

SONG FOR A HIGH ART HOSTESS.

Come, rest on this gridiron, my own dear _Æsthete_,

Though the herd may contemn, ’tis a true High art seat;

These, these the contours that art yearns to create,

A leg that is spindly, a back that is straight.

Oh, where is the taste that is worthy the name

Loves not the stiff lines of this cast-iron frame?

I know not, I ask not if ease they impart,

I but know they are true to the canons of Art.

Do they call it all corners? they know not the bliss

Of the angular style in a seat such as this.

In furnishing, firmly High-Art I’ll pursue,

And I’ll crouch on my gridiron couch till all’s blue.

_Punch._ April 16, 1881.

――――:o:――――

AIR

(“_I saw from the Beach._”)

To the Finish I went, when the moon it was shining,

The jug round the table moved jovially on;

I staid till the moon the next morn was declining;

The jug still was there, but the punch was all gone

And such are the joys that your brandy will promise,

(And often these joys at the finish I’ve known)

Every copper it makes in the evening ebb from us,

And leaves us next day with a head ache alone!

Ne’er tell me of puns, or of laughter adorning,

Our revels, that last till the close of the night;

Give me back the hard cash that I left in the morning,

For clouds dim my eye, and my pocket is light.

Oh, who’s there who welcomes that moment’s returning,

When daylight must throw a new light on his frame,

When his stomach is sick, and his liver is burning――

His eyes, shot with blood, and his brow in a flame!

WILLIAM MAGINN.

――――

I saw up the steps, when the morning was shining,

The undergrads crowding so hopefully on;

I came when the sun o’er those steps was declining,

There the Senate-House was, but the students had gone.

Oh! what was the fate of the morning’s fair promise,

How ended the hopes that we students had known?

Each question we longed for kept cruelly from us,

And those that we knew not set for us alone.

Ne’er tell of surmises but coldly adorning

The close of Exams at the coming of night.

Give me back, give me back the fond hopes of the morning;

Its alarms and its fears in the evening seem light.

Ah! who would not welcome that moment’s returning,

When bravely he up to the Senate-House came,

Nor deem’d that ’ere long from that building returning,

In the “list” he would look out in vain for his name.

_The Lays of the Mocking Sprite_, by E. B. (Cambridge).

――――

I saw from my window, when morning was smiling.

A “Girl of the Period” come tripping along,

When, sudden, the wild blast like fury came howling――

The girl was still there――but her “chignon” was gone!

Ah! such is the fate of the wigs we put on us!

So fleeting the false hair of which we’re so proud:

Our darling excrescence the rough wind blows from us,

And leaves us exposed to the jeers of the crowd.

From _The Girl of the Period Miscellany_, June, 1869.

――――:o:――――

SAIL ON, SAIL ON.

Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark――

Wherever blows the welcome wind,

It cannot lead to scenes more dark,

More sad than those we leave behind.

* * * * *

T. MOORE.

――――

SONG FOR A DWELLER IN A QUIET STREET.

Scale on, scale on, oh! tuneless strummer,

Rum-tum-ti-tiddy-iddy-tum!

You’ve thumped and twangled all the summer,

You tootle still now winter’s come.

The notes you thrum out seem to say,

“Though out of time and tune we be,

Less flat we are, less false than they

Whose clang _shall_ rack thy wife and thee.”

Scale on, scale on――through endless time――

Through morn, noon, evening――stop no more!

To slaughter you were scarce a crime,

Oh, plaguy and persistent bore!

Were there indeed some quiet street

Where ne’er piano maddened men,

Where never “Scales” this ear should greet,

Then might I rest,――but not till then.

_Punch’s Almanac_, 1883.

――――:o:――――

THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE.

The dawning of morn, the daylight’s sinking,

The night’s long hours still find me thinking

Of thee, thee, only thee.

When friends are met, and goblets crown’d,

And smiles are near that once enchanted,

Unreach’d by all that sunshine round,

My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted

By thee, thee, only thee.

* * * * *

T. MOORE.

――――

The dawn of the morn, the daylight’s sinking,

Five’s cosy hour shall find me drinking

Of Tea, Tea, only Tea!

When friends are met, and cups go round,

And scandals fresh have all enchanted,

When buttered toast is bravely browned,

My soul, like _Stiggins’s_, is haunted

By Tea, Tea, only Tea!

When crisply curls the breakfast bacon,

Coffee by me shall be forsaken

For Tea, Tea, only Tea!

Like Ocean, which by light or dark

Gulps down the rivers, resting never,

The cup that cheers when cares do cark

I sip or sing of, doting ever

On Tea, Tea, only Tea!

I have no joy but of its bringing,

And “nerves” themselves seem nice when springing

From Tea, Tea, only Tea!

Tea’s spell there’s nought on earth can break

(Though tea-cups _can_, alas! be broken);

Bohea the toper’s scorn may wake,

By _me_ for aye the praise be spoken

Of Tea, Tea, only Tea!

_Punch_, June 7, 1884.

――――

OH! CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME

Oh, call it by some better name,

For FRIENDSHIP sounds too cold,

While LOVE is now a worldly flame

Whose shrine must be of gold;

And passion, like the sun at noon,

That burns o’er all he sees,

Awhile as warm, will set as soon――

Then, call it none of these.

* * * * *

T. MOORE.

This poem was chosen as the original for a parody competition in the

_Weekly Dispatch_, and the following specimens were published in that

newspaper on February 21, 1886.

PRIZE POEM.

JUSTICE FOR IRELAND.

Oh, try, good sirs, some better game,

Coercion is too old,

And Charity is statecraft’s shame,

That gilds a wrong with gold;

And Pity, like some plaintive tune

Which, hackneyed, fails to please,

Awhile as sweet, will pall as soon――

Oh! trust to none of these.

Imagine measure surer far,

More free from lust of sway,

Than pity, alms, coercion are,

Yet nobler still than they;

And if your skill for need like this

No mortal plan can frame,

Go, ask God’s Justice what it is,

And try that better game!

B. SAUNDERS.

Highly commended:――

OH! TRY SOME WORTHIER, BETTER GAME.

Oh, try some worthier, better game,

Coercion’s knell is tolled,

And force would fan the slumbering flame

That burnt so fierce of old;

And Home Rule’s but a jangling tune,

A signal on the breeze

For Orange hounds to bay the moon――

Oh! pray try none of these.

But when some plan that’s simpler far

Evolves to glad the day,

Home Rule shall with Coercion far

Betake themselves away;

And if thou’lt end such strife as this,

Not vain the strength that’s spent;

Go, ask――the answer comes, it is

But Local Government.

D. EVANS.

Oh! call it by some better name,

Land Purchase is too cold,

And Separation is a scheme

Too venturesome and bold;

And Home Rule, like a tropic sun

That burns o’er all it sees,

Might scorch us when its aims were won――

Oh! call it none of these.

Imagine something safer far,

As potent and as free

As those Utopian measures are

With which we can’t agree;

And if thy lip for Rule like this

No mortal word can frame,

Go ask the “Old Man” what it is

And call it by that name.

J. FITZPATRICK.

Oh! call it by some fitter name,

For Justice is too cold.

And Peace is a decrepit dame,

Who limps on crutch of gold;

And Pity, like a melting moon

That sways the tidal seas,

Awhile as fond, will set as soon――

Oh! call it none of these.

Imagine something freer far

From stain of Saxon sway

Than Justice, Peace, or Pity are――

Abstractions dim and gray!

And if thy lips it overtax

A fitting phrase to frame,

Go, ask of Erin what she lacks,

And call it by that name.

GOSSAMER.

――――

THE IRISH LANDLORD.

Oh! call him by some stronger name,

For Landlord is too cold;

A plundering Wolf his acts might shame,

When worrying the fold.

A Tyrant, like an Egypt sun,

May burn up all he sees,

But soon his frantic course is run――

Call him no names like these.

Imagine something more unkind,

More free from mercy’s sway,

Than Landlord, Tyrant, Wolf combined,

More cruel ev’n than they.

And if no name for work like this

Your Saxon tongues can frame,

Ask the “Ould Divil” what it is,

And call him by that name!

ROBERT PUTTICK.

――――:o:――――

BALLAD STANZAS

(_The Woodpecker._)

I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curl’d

Above the green elms, that a cottage was near,

And I said, “If there’s peace to be found in the world,

A heart that was humble might hope for it here!”

It was noon, and on flowers that languish’d around

In silence repos’d the voluptuous bee;

Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound

But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree.

* * * * *

T. MOORE.

――――

THE TAXGATHERER’S KNOCKING.

I knew by the wig that so gracefully curl’d

Above a high cape, that the Regent was there,

And I said, if there’s _ton_ to be found in the world,

The Dandy of fashion will look for it here――

Half the shops were shut up, and I heard not a sound,

But Taxgath’rers knocking, while going their dull round!

* * * * *

On pretence of NECESSITY, frequent large dips

In my now emptied pockets have made me repine;

In vain does RETRENCHMENT rise up to my lips,

The _Regent_ must _live_, though starvation be mine――

Though my shop be deserted, and heard not a sound,

But Taxgath’rers knocking, while going their dull round!

WILLIAM HONE.

――――

THE COMFORTS OF AN INN.

I knew by the post that so gaily display’d

The sign of a _Bear_, that a tavern was near;

And said, if a cask of good ale e’er was made,

The man that was thirsty might wish for it here.

It was noon, and in mud puddles scatter’d around,

In silence repos’d the voluptuous hog――

Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound,

Save the innkeeper flogging a mischievous dog.

And here in this little lone spot, I exclaim’d

With a pipe in my mouth, and a drop in my eye;

With a cask of good liquor, old rye coffee named,

How blest could I live, and how calm could I _lie_

By the side of yon oak, where an old toper sips

His glass of gin toddy, how sweet to recline,

And to know that the liquor I rais’d to my lips,

Had never been tasted by any but mine.

From _The Mirror_, 1823.

――――

AN EDITOR’S TROUBLES.

We knew by the string that so gracefully curl’d

Round the “proofs to correct,” that our troubles were near,

And we said if there’s peace to be found in the world,

’Tis not in a MAGAZINE-EDITOR’S sphere!

All the house was at rest, and we heard not a sound,

But the little mouse scratching the wainscotting through;

And enraged at his noise and his toils to confound,

We knock’d down the inkstand, and stamp’d with our shoe!

And here in this lone little room, we exclaimed,

How many a manuscript fair to the eye,

(But of which the poor author would soon be ashamed,

Did we _print_ it,) the flame of our grate will supply!

All the house was at rest, and we heard not a sound,

But the little mouse scratching the wainscotting through,

And as slowly together the “Copy” we bound,

The clock in the kitchen (a cuckoo), sang two!

_The New Monthly Belle Assemblée._ April, 1836.

――――

THE GOOD-PECKER.

I saw by the steam that so gracefully curl’d

Above the black saucepan, that dinner was near;

And I said, “If there is a good thing in this world,

’Tis a boiled leg of pork, which methinks is in here.”

Every table was spread, and I heard underground,

The landlady tapping a cask of old ale.

And here, in a snug little inn of its sort,

With a landlord that’s jolly, a waiter that’s cute,

A weed of Havannah, a glass of old port,

If a man were not happy with these, he’s a brute.

Every table, &c.

By the tinge of the parson’s red nose, that he dips,

With a smile of contentment, so oft in his wine,

How glorious to bask, and not open my lips,

Save to tell to the world how divinely I dine.

Every table, &c.

_Diogenes_, vol. 3, p. 200. 1854.

――――

CLUBS NOT TRUMPS.

I knew by the smoke that so heavily curled

From the roof of each club-house the Carlton was near;

And I said if there’s fog to be found in the world,

The lungs that love asthma may look for it here.

_Punch_, December 1880.

* * * * *

TO DIZZY.

(_By a Country Squire._)

When time hath bereft thee

Of votes now divine;

When the boroughs have left thee,

Nor counties be thine.

When the faces shall vanish,

That circle thee now;

And the groans thou wouldst banish,

Shall grow to a row.

In the hour of thy sadness,

Then think upon me.

And that thought shall be madness,

Deceiver to thee.

When Bright, who could turn thee,

From virtue and fame,

Shall spurn thee and leave thee,

To sorrow and shame.

When by Gladstone requited,

Thy brain shall be stung;

When thy name shall be blighted,

And linked with “unhung.”

In the depth of thy sadness,

Then think upon me.

And that thought shall be madness,

Deceiver to thee.

_The Tomahawk_, August 24, 1867.

――――:o:――――

A RIVER MELODY.

By the Thames, to the right, lies the flat shore of Erith,

For Gents by the _Gem_ and the _Topaz_ conveyed;

But you, when the steamer that landing-place neareth,

Say “No, I’m for Rosherville”――sensible blade.

By the Red House――that stands like a murder-stained dwelling,

Where pigeons (called blue rocks) lie sleeping in gore――

By the tide at Cremorne, which so seldom, high swelling,

Has saved you the walk from the bridge to the door.

We swear it’s a do! for the beer that we tasted

At Erith was muddy, and acid, and dead;

Her fields are all bare, and her gardens are wasted,

And boots get in chalk at each step that you tread.

No, Erith,――though snobbish the Gravesend refection,

Though the “Whittington” shop boys call _polks_ in the hall,

Though its obstinate poultry resists one’s digestion,

Your fare, _fêtes_, and fun, are more dreary than all.

From _The Man in the Moon_, Volume 2.

――――:o:――――

JUST OF AGE.

Had I a shilling left to spare,

I should not pay it you;

For, though arrest you did not dare,

You’ve dunned me like a Jew.

Nor hope to prove my friends more kind

To thy complaining tongue;

For, misers in the old you’ll find,

And beggars in the young!

Know that of age I soon shall be,

And of the _ready_ flush;

All bowing then you’ll come to me,

And for this rudeness blush;

So, with my custom, lest you learn

Another I have blest,

Let _now_ a civil tongue return

And saucy dunnings rest.

BERTIE VYSE.

_The Comic Magazine_, 1832.

――――

A CANADIAN BOAT SONG.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime

Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.

Soon as the woods on shore look dim,

We’ll sing at St. Ann’s our parting hymn.

Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,

The Rapids are near and the daylight’s past.

* * * * *

T. MOORE.

――――

THE CABINET’S BOAT SONG. June 1878.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime,

Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time.

What though the Whigs and their friends look blue?

We’ll sing and we’ll chaunt, to each other true,

Pull, brothers, Pull! the stream runs fast,

The Congress is near, and the danger’s past.

Why should we yet our hand display?

There is not a card that Russia can play,

But when it’s played――be it ace or king――

We still can trump it,――and still can sing――

Pull, brothers, pull! the game goes fast,

But the Congress is near, and the danger’s past.

Muscovy’s bluster and Gladstone’s tongue

But steady our boat the surges among,

God of our fathers! guide our hand

For justice, freedom, and fatherland.

So shall we thankfully sing at last,

“Peace is secured and all danger past.”

_They are Five_ by W. E. G. (D. Bogue. London. 1880.)

――――

Plainly as tolls disruption’s chime

Our fears we’ll keep quiet and vote in time.

Soon as the polling hours begin,

We’ll vote our St. Gladstone “items” in.

Poll, brothers, poll! events run fast,

Defeat may be near, and our day be past.

Why should we “union” flags unfurl?

We’ll not spend a breath their blue folds to curl,

But when its last link leaves our shore,

We’ll rest ’neath the old umbrella once more.

Poll, brothers, poll, &c.

Politics’ tide, this July moon

Shall see us float proudly, or sink full soon;

King of the green isle hear our prayers,

Oh, grant in this crisis thy favouring airs.

Poll; brothers, poll, &c.

ROGGEE SHURT.

_Truth._ Parody Competition. July 15, 1886.

――――:o:――――

_The Weekly Dispatch_ had a Parody Competition on Thomas Moore’s

WREATHS FOR THE MINISTERS.

An Anacreontic.

Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers!

Haste thee from Old Brompton’s bowers――

Or (if sweeter that abode)

From the King’s well-odour’d Road,

Where each little nursery bud

Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud!

Hither come, and gaily twine

Brightest herbs and flowers of thine

Into wreaths for those who rule us.

Those who rule and (some say) fool us――

Flora, sure, will love to please

England’s Household Deities!

First you must then, willy-nilly,

Fetch me many an Orange lily――

Orange of the darkest dye

Irish Gifford can supply!

Choose me out the longest sprig,

And stick it in old Eldon’s wig!

Find me next a Poppy posy,

Type of his harangues so dozy,

Garland gaudy, dull and cool,

For the head of Liverpool!

’Twill console his brilliant brows

For that loss of laurel boughs

Which they suffered (what a pity)

On the road to Paris city.

* * * * *

And the following parodies were published in that paper on February 7,

1886:――

PRIZE POEM.

Hither, Flora of the street!

Haste from Bumble on his beat――

Or (if there thou chance to dwell)

From “The Garden,” odoured well,

Where the citizens of Lud

Sniff the stench of putrid mud!

Hither come, with what of bloom

Dares defy our brumal gloom;

Bring the flowers as you find ’em

Round our rulers’ brows to bind ’em.

First, since near to Piccadilly

Flames not now the Orange lily,

And ’Tis only some such dye

Irish G――bs――n can supply,

Stick a yellow Primrose sprig

Into A――hb――e’s brand-new wig.

Failing of a Poppy posy

For Lord I――dd――h, dear and dozy,

Could there fitter emblem be

Than the everlasting Pea?

Then on C――c――l’s black brows set

Spotted Dog’s-tooth Violet,

Or――which would beseem them well――

Rue and Spurge and Asphodel.[123]

Next, C――rn――n’s brows to crown,

Bring me here from Dublin town

Shamrock that has served its turn,

Withered leaf and broken fern.

But for Ch――ch――ll we must find

Blossoms of a gaudier kind:

Stitch the garland through and through

With flimsy threads of every hue;

And as Goddess――_entre nous_――

His lordship loves (though least of men)

The grandiose――like poor old Ben――

Twine amid his close-cropped locks

Artificial Hollyhocks!

Cr――b――k, M――nn――s, Sm――h, and B――ch,

Spriggs of Cypress pluck for each.

C――ss may smile a sickly smile

’Neath a crown of Camomile;

But time presses――let the rest

Wear whatever likes them best!

T. A. WILSON.

Highly commended:――

Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers!

Hence from Covent Garden’s bowers,

Where each blighted country bud

Droops in vegetable mud;

Haste, if such a haunt be thine,

Choicest herbs and flowers to twine

Into wreaths for those who’d rule us,

Those who’d not the wit to fool us――

Flora, sure, will love to please

Her own Tory votaries!

First, then, it is my behest

That a Cowslip be thy quest;

With it to the Commons hie――

Need I state the reason why?――

And stick it in Sir Michael’s crest.

Gather next a bunch of Rue,

To his speech a fitting cue――

Garland grim and strange to see,

For the head of Salisbury.

It will suit his bitter brows,

Now they’ve lost their laurel boughs――

(Smith, too, lost his――what a pity!――

On the road to Dublin city).

Next for Churchill bring a few

Flowers of any shade or hue;

Leaves of evanescent sheen;

Mellow almost while they’re green;

Add a little Indian Cress――

Warlike spoil it doth express.

That’s enough――away, away!――

Had I leisure I could say,

Naught for Bartlett’s brains of fret

Like the Russian Violet;

How Lord Iddesleigh’s brow supine

Would ’neath modest Primrose shine;

But time presses――for, I wot,

Men like these are soon forgot.

ARAMIS.

Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers!

Haste from Bedford’s ducal bowers――

Covent Garden’s sweet domain,

Grimy Eden of Cockayne;

Where each vendor of the spud

Breathes the dust and treads the mud!

Hither come, and daily twine

Brightest herbs and flowers of thine

Into wreaths for those who would

Have ruled (and fooled) us if they could.

Flora, sure, will love to please

England’s Tory Deities!

First bring London Pride and Rue,

These for S――l――sb――y will do――

Place the wreath with gesture gladsome

Where his hair was when he had some.

Cockscomb, next, of brightest red,

Find for Ch――rch――lls’s modest head;

And, fair Goddess, if thy search

Leads thee by the classic Birch.

Pluck a tribute switch to grace

R――nd――lph in another place!

Shamrock, then, we fain would see――

Four-leaved shamrock let it be,

And with this botanic myth

Deck the brows of Mr. Sm――th.

Let “Old Woman”――homely plant――

Crown C――rn――rv――n’s ringlets scant;

And Thistle, loved of asses ever,

Were not amiss for Cr――ss the clever!

That’s enough――away, away!――

Had I leisure, I could say

H――cks B――ch would seem Adonis still

Wreathed in transient Daffodil;

But time presses――to thy taste

I leave the rest, so prithee haste!

THISTLE.

――――:o:――――

THE LEGACY.

“_When in death I shall calmly recline._”

“When in gaol I shall calm recline,

Bear my best coat to some pawnbroker near,

Show him how stylish the gilt buttons shine,

And ask him a price that’s not too dear.

Bid him not search for bank notes in the pocket,

For they were lugged out to pay an old debt,

And all he’ll find will be an old locket

Of Sal’s, she gave me when last we met.”

――――

WHEN IN DEATH I SHALL QUIET BE FOUND.

When in death I shall quiet be found,

Pray bear my clothes to some pawnbroker near,

Tell him to lend you a couple of pound,

And mind he don’t charge for the ticket too dear.

Bid him not search too close for gamboge

In the breeches, nor nicely examine the coat,

But tell him that he may send if he choose,

All he can spare ’bove a two-pound note.

Then with the money pray buy me a coffin,

And bury me safe ’neath a table of chance;

Haply e’en there my memory may soften

The pangs of ill-luck and the want of finance.

But should some cruel and opulent Greek

Revile at my state as he stamps o’er my grave,

Oh! let some thought of its master bespeak,

Your favour for him who was gambling’s slave.

Take, then, these cards, which now are neglected,

And bury them with me when I am at rest;

Never! oh, never! in cheating detected,

Though seldom by hands that were pure were they prest.

But should some fortunate gambling rover

Come here to seek them in frolic and fun,

Oh, then around my genius shall hover,

And teach him to spend the cash he has won.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

A FAREWELL

[_Sung by Mr. Cross to the Ratepayers of London._)

Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour

When the Pekoe is fragrant in boudoir and bower,

Then think of your Cross who had made the dear brew

At the ratepayer’s cost even dearer to you!

* * * * *

You may boil, you may filter, the stuff as you will

But the scent of the Sewage will hang round it still!

_Punch_ May 1, 1880.

――――:o:――――

TO TORY HEARTS.

To Tory hearts a round, boys,

You can’t refuse, you can’t refuse,

When Lib’rals so abound, boys,

’Tis time to choose, ’tis time to choose,

For thick as stars that lighten,

Our London stage, our London stage

Are Whigs that fain would brighten

The present age, the present age.

To Tories fill, where’er boys,

Your choice may fall, your choice may fa

Be sure you’ll find truth there, boys,

So drink them all, so drink them all.

* * * * *

_Spirit of the Age Newspaper_ for 1828.

――――:o:――――

DEVILLED BISCUIT

(“_A Temple to Friendship._”)

“A nice Devill’d Biscuit” said JENKINS enchanted,

“I’ll have after dinner――the thought is divine!”

The biscuit was bought, and he now only wanted――

To fully enjoy it――a glass of good wine.

He flew to the pepper, and sat down before it,

And at peppering the well-butter’d biscuit he went

Then, some cheese in a paste mix’d with mustard spread o’er it,

And down to be grill’d to the kitchen ’twas sent.

“Oh! how,” said the Cook, “can I this think o grilling,

When common the pepper? the whole will be flat.

But here’s the Cayenne; if my master is willing,

I’ll make, if he pleases, a devil with that.”

So the Footman ran up with the Cook’s observation

To JENKINS, who gave him a terrible look:

“Oh, go to the devil!” forgetting his station,

Was the answer that JENKINS sent down to the Cook.

_Punch._

――――:o:――――

APPLE PIE.

(“_All that’s bright must fade._”)

All new dishes fade――

The newest oft the fleetest

Of all the pies now made,

The Apple’s still the sweetest;

Cut and come again,

The syrup upward springing!

While my life and taste remain,

To thee my heart is clinging.

Other dainties fade――

The newest oft the fleetest;

But of all the pies now made,

The Apple’s still the sweetest.

Who absurdly buys

Fruit not worth the baking?

Who wastes crust on pies

That do not pay for making?

Better far to be

An Apple Tartlet buying,

Than to make one at home, and see

On it there’s no relying:

That all must be weigh’d,

When thyself thou treatest

Still a pie home-made

Is, after all, the sweetest.

Who a pie would make,

First his apple slices;

Then he ought to take

Some cloves――the best of spices:

Grate some lemon rind,

Butter add discreetly;

Then some sugar mix――but mind

The pie’s not made too sweetly,

Every pie that’s made

With sugar, is completest;

But moderation should pervade

Too sweet is not the sweetest.

Who would tone impart,

Must――if my word is trusted――

Add to his pie or tart

A glass of port――old crusted

If a man of taste,

He, complete to make it

In the very finest paste

Will inclose and bake it.

Pies have each their grade;

But, when this thou eatest

Of all that e’er were made.

You’ll say ’tis best and sweetest.

_Punch._

――――:o:――――

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

Those evening bells! those evening bells!

How many a tale their music tells,

Of youth, and home, and that sweet time,

When last I heard their soothing chime.

Those joyous hours are pass’d away;

And many a heart, that then was gay,

Within the tomb now darkly dwells,

And hears no more those evening bells.

And so t’will be when I am gone;

That tuneful peal will still ring on,

While other bards shall walk these dells,

And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!

T. MOORE.

――――

THESE CHRISTMAS BILLS.

(_A commercial melody_ 1826).

These Christmas bills, these Christmas bills

How many a thought their number kills,

Of notes and cash, and that sweet time

When oft I heard my sovereigns chime.

Those golden days are past away,

And many a bill I used to pay

Sticks on the file, and empty tills

Contain no cash for Christmas bills.

And so ’twill be――though these are paid,

More Christmas bills will still be made,

And other men will fear these ills,

And curse the name of Christmas bills.

From Hone’s Every Day Book.

――――

ON REVISITING COLLEGE.

That chapel bell-that chapel bell!

Ah, once I knew its music well――

It tells of youth――of wasted time――

Of folly, happiness, and crime.

But now those joyous days are gone,

Yet still its peal is ringing on――

While others wish its tongue in hell,

And daily curse that chapel bell!

_The Gownsman_, (_Cambridge_), February 18, 1830.

――――

THE FATAL MOUSTACHE.

The Duke of Cumberland had grossly insulted some ladies in the public

high road near Barnes. He attempted to deny his identity, but was

recognised by his white moustache.

My white moustache, my white moustache,

You speak the truth, however harsh,

Of Barnes and Kew, and of the time

When I rode past with air sublime.

The curs’d excrescence does away

With every lie that Q―――― may say;

And oh, its ghastly whiteness tells

The truth to the insulted _belles_.

And so they knew when I had gone

The moustache that my lips had on.

“No other pair so whitely swells

We know them,” say the Chiswick belles.

_Figaro in London_, October 6, 1832.

Moore, himself, wrote a parody on this subject, in imitation of the

old song:

“A Master I have, and I am his man,

Galloping dreary dun.”

The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass,

Galloping, dreary Duke;

The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass,

He’s an ogre to meet, and the devil to pass,

With his charger prancing,

Grim eye glancing,

Chin, like a Mufti,

Grizzled and tufty,

Galloping, dreary Duke.

Ye misses, beware of the neighbourhood

Of this galloping, dreary Duke;

Avoid him, all, who see no good

In being run o’er by a Prince of the Blood.

For, surely, no nymph is

Fond of a grim phiz,

And of the married,

Whole crowds have miscarried

At sight of this dreary Duke.

Song supposed to be addressed by Lord Eldon to Ernest Augustus, Duke

of Cumberland (afterwards King of Hanover) on his leaving England:――

FLY NOT YET.

Fly not yet, ’tis just the hour,

When place――like a black midnight flower,

Which scorns the rude and vulgar light,

Begins to woo us sons of night,

And scamps who covet cash.

’Twas but to bless us sons of shade,

That place and pay were ever made.

’Tis then their rich attractions glowing,

From the public purse are flowing.

Oh stay! oh stay.

The Whigs are at a discount now,

And while they are, indeed I vow

For you to leave is rash.

_Grand Chorus._ The Whigs are at a discount now,

And while they are, indeed I vow

For you to leave is rash.

_Figaro in London_, September 28, 1833.

(The Duke of Cumberland was the least popular of all the sons of

George III. His manners were rude, overbearing, and sometimes even

brutal, and he was profligate, selfish, and quarrelsome. On the

accession of Queen Victoria, the throne of Hanover passed to him in

virtue of the Salic law, and the greatest public satisfaction was felt

on his departure for his new kingdom, where his breaches of faith, and

tyrannical conduct, soon led to commotions which had to be quelled by

severe military measures. He died in 1851).

――――:o:――――

Those London belles, those London belles,

Ah! what a tale their beauty tells,

Of suff’ring beaux and wounded hearts,

The dire effect of Cupid’s darts.

Perhaps that maid, with eyes of blue,

Has often made a sad to do;

And many a heart with anguish swells,

While thinking of the London belles.

Ah! yes, how sweet it is to me.

To take a social cup of tea,

And while the heart in comfort dwells,

To hear the chat of London belles.

For then they scan their dress,――the play,

Though woe to those who are away,

For Scandal often leaves her cells,

To join the chat of London belles.

Ev’n Jove peeps down, with looks of love,

And Juno, jealous, frowns above,

To see young Beauty gladly dwells,

To deck the charms of London belles.

And so ’twill be in other times,

Fond hearts will sing in softer rhymes,

And cloud the praise this ditty swells

While ages grace the London belles.

MISS BRYANT.

――――

THOSE BALL-ROOM BELLES.

Those ball-room belles! those ball-room belles!

How many a tale their memory tells

Of polka, waltz and galopade,

Of D’Albert, Linter, and Musard.

“The season” now has pass’d away,

And many “a man” that then was gay

Now climbs the alps or Scotia’s fells,

And whirls no more those ball-room belies.

And so ’twill be when next they meet,

In Belgrave-square and Berkeley-street;

The waltz shall rouse embroider’d “swells”

To _deux-temps_ with those ball-room belles.

_Diogenes_, August, 1853.

――――

THOSE SCOTCH HOTELS.

Those Scotch hotels! Those Scotch hotels

Each tourist of their robberies tells:

My pocket to its bottom thrills,

When I reflect upon their bills.

Some pleasant hours soon pass’d away,

But when I learned what was to pay,

I wish’d the devil had those swells――

The landlords of the Scotch hotels.

And so ’twill be when I am gone,

The greedy race will still rob on;

And other tourists through these dells

Shall rail upon the Scotch Hotels.

_Diogenes_, September, 1853.

――――

THOSE GRESHAM CHIMES.

Those Gresham chimes, those Gresham chimes!

They take us back to Tudor times,

When Merchant Princes felt no shame

To bear a civic magnate’s name.

That name has sunk below disdain,

No GRESHAM dons the civic chain,

A Merchant Prince as soon would wear

The garb of Beadle as of Mayor.

But Mayors, and such, will soon be gone,

A new _régime_ is coming on;

We’ll hope to hear, in better times,

Some Gresham hailed by Gresham chimes.

_Punch_, December, 1853.

(A new set of Chimes had just been fixed in the tower of the Royal

Exchange, London.)

――――

THOSE TRAMWAY BELLS.

Those tramway bells, those tramway bells,

How many a joy their discord quells;

My temper, thoughts, and this sweet rhyme

They knock completely out of time.

Those fearful sounds ne’er pass away,

But mar with discord night and day;

And tin-tin-nabulation swells

To horror in those tramway bells.

The railway bell has bulk of tone,

The muffin――sweetness of its own;

But frenzy in this tinkling dwells――

Like Mr. Irving’s in “The Bells.”

Not thus ’twill be when steam has come,

For then this clangour will be dumb;

Whilst other force the car propels,

We’ll hear no more those tramway bells.

_Funny Folks._

――――

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

Those Evening Bells, those Evening Bells,

How many a tale their music tells.

Of Yorkshire cakes and crumpets prime.

And letters only just in time!――

The Muffin-boy has pass’d away,

The Postman gone――and I must pay,

For down below Deaf Mary dwells,

And does not hear those Evening Bells.

And so ’twill be when she is gone,

The tuneful peal will still ring on,

And other maids with timely yells

Forget to stay those Evening Bells.

_Tom Hood._

――――

LONDON BELLS.

Those London Bells, those London Bells,

How plain a tale that nuisance tells,

Of fees and beer, that buy the time

Of those who raise that senseless chime