When people liked the belfry’s bray,
With Lord Mayor’s Shows and Thames’s smells
We class those pestering London Bells,
Were wringers’ swipes and swindle gone,
That vulgar noise would _not_ go on.
The fact from every steeple knells
That Pewter Pots are London Bells.
SHIRLEY BROOKS. November 1855.
――――
THOSE PRETTY GIRLS.
Those pretty girls, those pretty girls,
How many a glance their bright eye whirls,
Of love, and hope, and that fond ray
That lures us on from day to day.
How many a spirit that was bright,
When first he looked on beauty’s light,
Walks sorrowing where the cascade purls,
And sees no more those pretty girls.
Thus, too, when silence quells my lyre,
Will beauty’s eyes still flash with fire,
And other poets twine your curls,
And sing your praises, pretty girls.
J. W. W.
――――
THOSE VATTED RUMS.
Those Vatted Rums, those Vatted Rums!
How very cheap a quartern comes,
When of that liquor pure and prime,
You take two gallons at a time.
The fumes will quickly pass away,
And many an evening will be gay――
While nothing like a headache comes,
Through drinking these delicious Rums.
And so ’twill be, when I am gone;
Those Vatted Rums will still sell on,
And other fingers, pens, and thumbs
Will sing your praise――ye Vatted Rums.
_Punch._ August 25, 1855.
――――
THOSE EVENING BELLES.
Those evening belles, those evening belles
How much of faded youth it tells
That red red rouge thick painted on,
Of waning charms, of beauties gone.
Soon e’en red rouge will pass away,
And sunken cheek and mind’s decay
Will dull those eyes where sparkle dwells,
Leave old and grim those evening belles.
Yet then, as now, when they are gone
Some red rouged belles will still laugh on,
And yawning o’er them other “swells,”
Discourse their charms, rouged evening belles.
From _Pan, the Pilgrim_. (Weldon & Co., London).
――――
THAT MUFFIN BELL.
That Muffin-Bell! That Muffin-Bell!
How many a tale its tinklings tell.
Of youth, and hope, and that glad time
When my digestion yet was prime!
The bilious discs I then could eat,
The bell’s wild whangling down the street
Was one of boyhood’s special joys:
I never, never thought it noise.
How joyously at even rang
The tintinnabulary clang!
The gawping jaw, the raucous yell,
I loved them, loved them passing well
Those happy hours are passed away.
Age must not with its peptics play.
Strange qualms within me darkly dwell
Whene’er I hear the Muffin-Bell.
And yet soft memories of old times
Linger about the jangling chimes,
And, like DE RUTZEN, I’d be tender
To the too noisy Muffin Vendor.
But oh! methinks when I am gone
That tuneless peal will _not_ ring on;
For Man, with street-law ordered well,
Will hear no more the Muffin-Bell!
_Punch_, December 18, 1880.
――――
THE PARCEL POST.
The Parcel Post, the Parcel Post!
To Fawcett pledge the joyous toast――
May no ill fortune e’er restrain
This glorious bantling of his brain.
Deliv’ry companies no more
Delay and “cheek”――their day is o’er;
What now has laid the Carrier’s ghost?――
The Parcel Post, the Parcel Post!
When Christmas comes with jovial fare,
Of turkeys, geese, and viands rare,
What then shall be my hope and boast?――
The Parcel Post, the Parcel Post!
The postman, staggering ’neath the weight
Of welcome presents, opes my gate;
’Tis then I prize and honour most
The Parcel Post, the Parcel Post!
_Judy_, August 3. 1883.
――――
EVENING BELLES.
Those evening belles, those evening belles,
How many a tale their costume tells
Of Fashion, in its latest show,
Reviving modes of long ago.
Our grandmothers have passed away,
Yet in their habits girls look gay,
As in last century gowns the swells
To dinner take the evening belles.
And so ’twill be when we are gone,
Fashion’s caprices will go on;
A century hence, what now repels
Will serve to deck the evening belles.
_Moonshine_, July 31, 1886.
――――:o:――――
OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT.
Oft, in the stilly Night,
Ere Slumber’s chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.
* * * * *
T. MOORE.
――――:o:――――
SONG BY THE MARQUIS OF LONDONDERRY.
Oft o’er my tea and toast,
When I a speech have sported,
I take the _Morning Post_,
To see how its reported.
The frequent “hears,”
“Continued cheers,”
The witty things ne’er spoken,
The “oh’s” left out,
And nought about
The coughs with which t’was broken.
When I behold it all
in columns neat and taper,
Precisely made to fall
By Brougham’s in the paper――
I feel like one,
Who’s really done
A thing too bright to sully,
And dream with head
As thick as lead,
That I’m the modern Tully.
_Figaro in London_, March 31, 1832.
――――
OFT IN HIS PRESENT PLIGHT.
Oft in his present plight,
Now bolts and bars have bound him
Calls Mitchell, with affright,
The late events around him;
His bragging talk of sharp pitchfork,
And words of pikes, too, spoken――
The boys who cheered, now disappeared,
The heads at Limerick broken.
When he remembers all
The facts thus linked together,
He feels uncommon small,
And aught but in full feather;
If all’s confessed, he feareth lest,
By Jurors ill supported,
Their maws to stay, he perchance may
Be, after all, transported.
_The Puppet Show_, May 27, 1848.
――――
THE POET AND THE STOMACH.
(_The Stomach complaineth that his Master writes love ballads when he
should be sleeping._)
Oft in the chilly night,
When slumber should have bound him,
Pale Phosphor gives its light,
His dressing-gown around him.
He rushes then
For ink and pen,
To write some lines in measure,
The while poor I
Can only sigh,
Nor glow with Poet’s pleasure.
Thus, in the chilly night,
When slumber should have bound him;
Sad Phosphor gives its light,
His dressing-gown around him.
When I remember all
The many hours wasted;
Those dainties turned to gal
Which I had lately tasted.
I must lament
The time misspent,
The hours snatched from slumber
The Stomach’s curse
Is midnight verse,
Without regard to number!
Thus, in the chilly night,
When slumbers should have bound him;
Sad Phosphor pales its light,
His dressing-gown around him.
From _Memoirs of a Stomach_. Written by himself, that all who eat may
read. (W. E. Painter, 342, Strand, London, 1853.)
――――
THE SILLY SEASON.
[_By a Used-up Journalist._]
Oft, on a “silly” night,
When lack of news has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me:
Physicians’ fees,
The Channel seas,
Words “out of Season” spoken;
Ill-treated Clerks,
The Public Parks,
And nerves by railways broken.
Oft on a silly plight,
When printers’ devils hound me,
Kind memory brings the light
Of other days around me.
When I remember all
The themes, so mix’d together,
Which regularly call,
Like duns in autumn weather,
I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some prison mill deserted:
Each topic dead,
Each interest fled,
And all but me departed.
Thus, when a “silly” night
Completely “stumped” has found me,
Kind Memory flings the light
Of brighter days around me.
_Funny Folks._ October 5, 1878.
――――
_Air._――“Oft in the Stilly Night.”
W. E. G. sings:――
Oft in Election’s fight,
Ere “Home Rule’s” chains had bound me,
Mem’ry brings before my sight
Companions then around me;
The rows, the sneers,
The poll-booth jeers,
The slanging words then spoken;
The eyes that shone
How blacked! and bone
How smashed! and heads how broken!
Thus in election’s fight, &c.
When I remember all
The friends, then linked together,
Sloping off, to wait my fall,
Like crows in rainy weather,
I feel like one
Who breasts alone
A tide of vile coercion;
With justice fled,
And honour dead,
And on all sides aversion.
Thus in election’s fight, &c.
CANICULUS
_Truth._ Parody Competition. July 15, 1886.
――――:o:――――
HERE’S THE BOWER.
Here’s the bower she lov’d so much,
And the tree she planted;
Here’s the harp she used to touch――
Oh, how that touch enchanted!
* * * * *
T. MOORE.
――――
Here’s the box that held the snuff,
And the bean so famous;
Here’s the pipe he used to puff,――
Oh! how that puff o’er came us!
Strasburgh, Tonquin,――both are dry,――
Where’s the hand to soak them?
Pipes around extinguished lie,――
Where’s the lip to smoke them?
Gin may fall, but he who loved
It, ne’er shall feel its cheapness;
Porter pots may be improved,――
Lost on him their deepness.
Quarts were pints where’er he stayed,――
Pints were to quarterns nearer;
Whiff ne’er warmed a jollier blade,
Nor drinking killed a dearer.
ANONYMOUS.
J. Bruton wrote a similar parody, commencing――
Here’s the bottle she loved so much,
And here’s the glass she drank from,
Here’s the max her lips oft touched,
The stuff they never shrank from.
――――:o:――――
_Punch’s Almanac_ for 1881 contained several parodies of Moore’s
songs, of which the opening lines were as follows:――
Quaint and queer were the gems she wore,
A golden “pig” in each ear she bore
She’d flies and beetles and snake-shaped bands,
And the rummiest rings on her snow-white hands,
(Three more verses.)
――――
The plate that once through Fashion’s halls
Æsthetic rapture shed,
Now hangs upon the kitchen walls
Its ancient glories fled.
So pass the fads of former days.
So fashion’s whim is o’er.
Old China that was once the craze
Now “fetches” fools no more.
(One more verse.)
――――
When he who now bores thee has left but the fame
Of his one little weakness behind,
Oh! say wilt thou smile when they mock at his name,
_Thou_, to boredom so sweetly resigned.
Nay, weep, and however my face may condemn
Thy tears shall efface their decree;
For though I have often been shut up by them
I have always found patience in thee.
To buttonhole thee was my constant delight,
Every cock and bull story was thine,
Each mare’s nest I found I exposed to thy sight,
To my twaddle thine ear thoud’st incline.
Oh! blest be thy kindness which hearing would give
To my fulsomest fiddle-de-dee.
The great race of Buttonhole-Bores could not live,
Were it not for Pill-Garlics like thee!
――――:o:――――
LALLA ROOKH.
There’s a bower of roses by Bendemeer’s stream
And the nightingale sings round it all the day long;
In the time of my childhood ’twas like a sweet dream,
To sit in the roses and hear the bird’s song.
T. MOORE.
_The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan._
SONG.
There’s of benches a row in St. Stephen’s extreme,
And the minister’s sitting there all the night long,
In the time of my power ’twas like a sweet dream,
To sit on those rows in the Cabinet throng.
That bench and its placemen I never forget,
But oft when alone at the close of the year,
I think are conservatives sitting there yet,
Are the subs to their speeches still clamouring “hear!”
No, the Tories are ousted each plundering knave,
But rich harvests they pluck’d while the sun on them shone,
And wealth was amassed from their jobbing which gave
All the profits of place when their places were gone.
Thus the minister takes, from his power e’er it dies,
A pension that gives him some thousands a year.
So lucrative either in fall or in rise,
Is a seat on some bench in the treasury sphere.
_Figaro in London_, November 10, 1832.
――――
“THERE’S A BOWER OF BEAN-VINES.”
There’s a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard,
And the cabbages grow round it, planted for greens;
In the time of my childhood ’twas terribly hard
To bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans.
That bower and its products I never forget,
But oft, when my landlady presses me hard,
I think, are the cabbages growing there yet,
Are the bean-vines still bearing in Benjamin’s yard?
No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used to wave,
But some beans had been gathered, the last that hung on
And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave
All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.
Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,
An essence that breathes of it awfully hard;
And thus good to my taste as ’twas then to my eyes,
Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard.
Poems and Parodies_, By PHŒBE CAREY, Boston, U. S.,
1854.
――――:o:――――
PARLIAMENT AND THE TORY.
“Every one is acquainted with Moore’s beautiful poem of Paradise and
the Peri, in which the fallen spirit is represented as seeking on
earth for a boon to regain the heaven she has lost. The story
assimilates closely to a late affair, in which a certain military Tory
(the Duke of Wellington), having lost the heaven of place (to him far
more desirable than any _place in heaven_) devised all kinds of tricks
to regain his former position.
One morn a Tory at the gate
Of Stephen’s stood disconsolate;
And as he listened to the words
Of Whigs within, like poison flowing,
And caught the sense of what he heard,
The downfall of his party knowing,
He wept to think his plundering race
Should e’er have lost that glorious place
* * * * *
The Devil, who is always keeping
The doors, beheld the Tory weeping,
And as he nearer drew and listened
To the complaint, a tear-drop glistened
Within his eyelids, like the spray
From Eldon’s fountain, when he cries
With tears which those who know him say
Proceed from no where but his eyes.
“Thou scion of a plundering line,”
The Devil said “one hope is thine.”
I think it is not yet too late
The Tory may again get power,
Who brings to this infernal gate
Some trick or bribe to suit the hour;
“Go seek it,” said he with a grin,
“’Tis sweet to let the Tories in.”
* * * * *
Downward the Tory turns his gaze,
And through excitement’s lowering haze,
Beholds a noble premier stand
Desponding, ’mid the people crying
Reform, just falling from his hand,
And his last hope to save it dying.
He tried what chance he found remain,
A threat of Peers, but all in vain.
False flew the shaft, though pointed well
Corruption lingered, freedom fell;
Yet marked the Tory where it lay,
And, when the rush of rage had past,
As he imagined to allay
The nation’s ire, he seized the last
Last copy of the Bill, as read,
Just ere the noble premier fled.
“Be this,” he cried, as he wing’d his flight
“My welcome gift in the house to night,
Though poison to me is this odious bill,
Fram’d by Whigs in power, to rat like this,
For conservative ends so noble is,
It would stain not the purest of those who still
Long to sit on the treasury bench of bliss.
Oh, if there be on this earthly sphere
A boon that the Devil holds truly dear,
’Tis the false _eclat_ which knavery draws
From a premier who falls with the people’s cause.
“Sweet,” said the Devil, as he gave
The gift unto his grasping hand,
“Sweet is our welcome of the brave
Who such a hellish trick has plann’d;”
But see, alas! the golden bar
Of office moves not――craftier far
Than even this trick, the means must be
To open the gates of place for thee.
_Figaro in London_, 1832.
――――
THE ROYAL ENCLOSURE AT ASCOT.
A Peri at the “Royal” gate
At Ascot stood disconsolate,
And as she gazed upon the forms
Of those who passed that jealous portal,
With envy, then, her bosom warms,
For she was feminine and mortal.
She all but wept to think her feet
Trod not that most select retreat.
“How lucky!” thought she, “aye, past compare,
Are the happy houris who wander there,
Where the feet of real princes fall.
If the Royal Enclosure’s not for me,
The joys of the season cease to be;
A ticket from Hardwicke exceeds them all.”
* * * * *
_Truth._ June 14, 1877.
This parody is much too long to give in full, as is also the
following, on a similar topic, and which, by a curious coincidence,
appeared in _Truth_ exactly six years later:――
PARADISE LOST.
This week a Peeress at the gate
Of Ascot stood disconsolate――
(The Royal Enclosure Gate is meant)
And as in misery she bent,
And gazed upon the lonely scene
Where life a week before was teeming,
She sighed for what long since had been――
A past now lost beyond redeeming,
And wept to think the privileged place
No more was held a sacred place.
“How happy!” she cried, in an accent drear
“We used to be who gained entrance here.
How mixed with our joy, too, was pleasant spite,
’Gainst others who lacked our privileged right.
Aye! it well-might upset _our_ tried composure
To first get cards for the Royal Enclosure,
And nothing on earth was too great a price
To pay to enter the Paradise.
* * * * *
_Truth_, June 14, 1883.
――――
THE POLITICAL PERI.
One morn Ben Dizzy at the gate
Of office stood disconsolate,
He wept to think he’d run his race,
And left for aye that glorious place.
“How happy” exclaimed that child of air――
And ’twas true, though he hadn’t much truth to spare――
“Are Gladstone and Bright in clover there!
But I’ve made a mess they’ll find hard to repair
I’ve shed innocent blood in every clime,
Sent thousands of men to death in their prime,
Have carried my rule by falsehood and crime,
Done deeds that will stink the end of time,――
And I leave my country my heir!”
“Woe, woe for ever!
The Election’s done,
The votes are cast――
And I’ve not won!”
_Bits of Beaconsfield._ (ABEL HEYWOOD & SON, Manchester.)
――――:o:――――
THE LAMENT OF THE PERI.
Farewell――farewell to thee, ARABY’S daughter
(Thus warbled a PERI beneath the dark sea,)
No pearl ever lay, under Oman’s green water,
More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee.
Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing,
How light was thy heart till Love’s witchery came,
Like the wind of the south o’er a summer lute blowing,
And hush’d all its music, and wither’d its flame!
* * * * *
Farewell, farewell――until Pity’s sweet fountain
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave,
They’ll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain,
They’ll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave.
T. MOORE.
_The Fire Worshippers._
――――
“The wrongs of Ireland which are exciting so much sympathy on all
hands at this moment, naturally call to recollection one of her most
devoted advocates, as well as one of her brightest ornaments.
AIR.――_Farewell――farewell to thee, Araby’s daughter._
Farewell――farewell to thee desolate Erin,
(Thus warbled a patriot beneath a dark tree,)
No curl ever lay on Law’s visage so leering,
More bright in its oil than thy spirit in thee.
Oh fair as the flowers all over thee growing,
How light was thy heart till curs’d Castlereagh came,
Like the breath of a Croker o’er eloquence blowing,
To hush all its music, and render it tame.
But yet when to Parliament they are returning,
There will still be amongst both the young and the old,
Some who with disgust most indignantly burning,
Will weep when they think how thy freedom was sold
The new made elector whene’er he advances,
To vote on some Irish Electoral day,
Will think of thy fate, till forgetting his franchise,
He mournfully turns from the poll-booth away.
Nor shall Daniel[124] beloved of thy people forget thee,
Though tyrants watch over his tears as they start.
Close, close in his bosom that hero will set thee,
Embalmed in the innermost shrine of his heart.
_Figaro in London_, February 23, 1833.
――――
THE SONG OF THE SULTAN
Farewell――farewell to thee, ARABI darling!
(Thus murmured the SULTAN beneath his moustache.)
No help for it now: the curst Giaour is snarling;
Complete is the sell, and most utter the hash.
Oh! sweet as the whiff from my chibouque soft blowing,
Our joint little game till the Britisher came,
Like the wind from the desert rose-gardens o’erthrowing
And blew it to bits. ’Tis a thundering shame!
But long upon ARABI’S Orient guile and
Astuteness shall ABDUL sit brooding in gloom.
To be bowled out at last by that crass Western Island!
Would, _would_ it were swept by the blasting Simoom!
And now by Old Nilus SIR GARNET is burning,
And calls to his standard the young and the old.
E’en the Guards, such home pastime as Polo stern spurning,
In sunshine Egyptian can broil yet be bold.
I’ve played fast and loose, but the Giaour’s successes
My dark schemes have dished in the dismallest way;
I must leave thee to fate, though my bosom still blesses
The nice little game I must trust thee to play.
Nor shall Islam, who hails thee as hero, forget thee――
Those tyrants of Infidel dogs are too smart,
But _if_ thou shouldst lick them, by Allah, she’d set thee
Supreme in the innermost shrine of her heart.
Farewell!――be it mine still to squat on this pillow,
And muse upon dodges exceedingly deep;
But those sons of burnt fathers who’ve come o’er the billow
Will crumple my rose-leaves, and trouble my sleep.
I’ve ground my poor teeth till I’ve shivered the amber,
My bloated pipe-bearer I’ve kicked till he wept.
(He lies at this moment, and howls, in yon chamber,
Most sore-footed slave that on blisters e’er stept.)
I’ll dive where Intrigue’s deepest plots still lie darkling
But this Proclamation _must_ hurl at thy head.
Thy prospects on Egypt’s hot sands scarce look sparkling.
They gather, the Giaours, the Nile’s in his bed.
Farewell――farewell! ’Tis a pity――but counting
The chances, at present, by Nilus’s wave,
Thy star, my dear ARABI, scarcely seems mounting.
And so――go to blazes, recalcitrant slave!
[_Signs reluctantly._
_Punch_, September 16, 1882.
――――
On January 7, 1880 _The World_ published four parodies on the same
poem which had been sent in for Competition, the subject selected
being:――
THE AMEER OF CABUL, YAKOOB KHAN.
FIRST PRIZE.
Begone, begone with thee, son of Shere Ali!
(Thus chanted a Mollah on Gandamak’s brow.)
No cursèd Hindu, timid servant of Kali,
Is feeble in heart and in spirit as thou.
O, brave as the chieftains thy palace adorning
How high was thy pride ere the Englishman came,
Like the frost of the north on the flow’r of the morning,
And silenced thy boasting, and withered thy fame
Not long, by the Prophet, on Cabul’s green highlands,
Shall we and thy warriors mourn for the doom
Of thee, whom, afar in the Andaman Islands,[125]
Some infidel hireling may bear to the tomb.
Nor yet when the glorious trumpet is sounding,
And summons to combat the bold and the strong,
Shall one Barakzai, on the enemy bounding,
Ever call on thy name as he rushes along.
So shall Cabul, beloved of Shere Ali, forget thee,
As soon as her tyrants have bid thee depart;
Far, far from the pride of thy father shall set thee,
And curse thee from out of her innermost heart.
Begone! Be it ours to atone for thy meekness,
With ev’ry revenge that a victor may deal;
Each sign of submission, each token of weakness,
Shall hasten our footsteps and sharpen our steel.
We’ll charge where the thickest the foe is deploying,
And lose in the battle the thought of thy name;
We’ll seek where the Angel of Death is destroying,
And gather new laurels to cover thy shame.
Begone, begone, until life is departed,
And still are the hearts of the true and the brave!
We’ll weep for the warriors who died noble-hearted;
We’ll curse at the coward who sued like a slave.
TOFFER.
(Sir Louis Cavagnari, the English Envoy to Afghanistan, and his staff
having been murdered in the Cabul, English troops hastened to that
city which was captured on Christmas Eve, 1879. Yakoob Khan, accused
of complicity in the massacre, was sent as a prisoner to India.)
SECOND PRIZE.
Away, away with the Ameer unlucky!
(Thus murmured the Viceroy o’er India’s plain;)
No oyster fished up by a pearl-diver plucky,
Ever proved such a sell as thy spiritless reign.
O, bright as the passion-flower by the wall creeping,
How fair was thy promise till treachery came!
Like the storm of the desert through rose-garden sweeping
And quenched thy brief glory in blood and in flame.
But long by Cabul’s rapid glacier-fed fountains
Shall the young and the old shudder over the fate
Of the fifty men hanging beneath the great mountains
With jackals for mourners to howl by the gate.
And when the cold winter and snows are returning,
They’ll tell the old tale how the infidels fell;
As they huddle together around the logs burning
They’ll bitterly think of our vengeance as well.
The vendor of kabobs, while deftly preparing
His wares, will remember brave Roberts’ return
Till, losing himself in his cursing and swearing
He carelessly leaves all the kabobs to burn.
Nor shall England, great mother of heroes, forget him,
Who worthily wiped out the stain on her fame;
High up on the roll of her heroes she’ll set him
Inscribed, that her children may honour his name.
Away! Be it mine to surround thy seclusion
With everything innocent, harmless and bright
Tin trumpets and drums in the richest profusion,
And candy to sweeten the wearisome night.
My cook shall prepare thee the daintiest dishes,
My doctor shall ease thee whene’er thou’rt in pain;
I’ll willingly grant thee whate’er thy heart wishes,
But ne’er shalt thou see Afghanistan again.
QUANTOX.
――――:o:――――
THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.
Oh! ever thus, from childhood’s hour,
I’ve seen my fondest hopes decay;
I never lov’d a tree or flower,
But ’twas the first to fade away.
I never nurs’d a dear gazelle,
To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well,
And love me, it was sure to die.
* * * * *
T. MOORE.
――――
THE CUTLER’S LAMENT.
I never wrote up “Skates to Sell,”
Trusting to fickle Nature’s law,
But――when I’d advertised them well,
And puffed them――it was sure to thaw,
Yes, it was ever thus――the Fates
Seem adverse to the trade in skates
If a large stock I chanced to buy,
Thinking ’twas likely still to freeze,
Up the thermometer would fly――
All in a day――some ten degrees.
Their presence in my window-pane
Turns ice to mud, and snow to rain.
_Punch_, February, 1848.
――――
’TWAS EVER THUS.
I never loved a dear gazelle,
In fact, I never knew one;
And though I’ve loved a sweet mam’zelle
I’ve ne’er had pluck to woo one.
’Twas ever thus, ’twas ever thus
From boyhood’s early prime, sirs,
It’s been my fate to be too late――
I never was in time, sirs!
I never went to dance or ball,
But there I made a blunder;
My partners always had a fall,
And I was always under.
A martinet I’ve got to wife
Oh, quite an acid tartar:
_She_ has all the sweets of life,
While _I’m_ a bilious martyr.
’Twas ever thus, ’twas ever thus;
I thought her parents wealthy;
I’ve found them poor――they live next door,
And are _so_ beastly healthy.
I speculated all my cash
In her relations’ ventures;
Of course the comp’nies went to smash――
And I’d to pay debentures!
’Twas ever thus, ’twas ever thus:
My life is far from sweet, sirs,
My cash is gone, I’ve nought to pawn
So I must beat retreat, sirs.
I’ll take a trip across the seas
To-day for other nations;
For I shall never be at ease,
With wife, or wife’s relations.
’Twas never thus, ’twas never thus,
I’d ne’er in view such blisses;
In ecstasy I’d fly to thee,
Sweet freedom, joy, and kisses――
Oh, wretched dog, I now must jog,
For here comes dreadful missus.
ANONYMOUS.
――――
’TWAS EVER THUS.
I never rear’d a young gazelle,
(Because, you see, I never tried;)
But, had it known and loved me well,
No doubt the creature would have died.
My rich and aged Uncle John
Has known me long and loves me well,
But still persists in living on――
I would he were a young gazelle.
I never loved a tree or flower;
But, if I _had_, I beg to say,
The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower
Would soon have wither’d it away.
I’ve dearly loved my uncle John,
From childhood till the present hour,
And yet he _will_ go living on――
I would he were a tree or flower!
From _Carols of Cockayne_. By Henry S. Leigh. (Chatto and Windus,
London, 1874.)
――――
A FEW MUDDLED METAPHORS BY A MOORE-OSE MELODIST.
Oh, ever thus, from childhood’s hour,
I’ve seen my fondest hopes recede!
I never loved a tree or flow’r
That did’nt trump its partner’s lead.
I never nursed a dear gazelle,
To glad me with its dappled hide,
But when it came to know me well,
It fell upon the buttered side.
I never taught a cockatoo
To whistle comic songs profound.
But, first when “Jolly Dogs” it knew
It failed for ninepence in the pound
I never reared a walrus-cub
In my aquarium to plunge,
But, when it learnt to love its tub
It placidly threw up the sponge!
I never strove a metaphor
To every bosom home to bring
But――just as it had reached the door
It went and cut a pigeon’s wing!
_Tom Hood_, the younger.
――――
“I never had a piece of toast,
Particularly long and wide,
But fell upon the sanded floor,
And always on the buttered side.”
――――
WUS, EVER WUS.
Wus! ever wus! By freak of Puck’s
My most exciting hopes are dashed;
I never wore my spotless ducks
But madly――wildly! they were splashed.
I never roved by Cynthia’s beam,
To gaze upon the starry sky;
But some old stiff-backed beetle came,
And charged into my pensive eye:
And oh! I never did the swell
In Regent street, amongst the beaux,
But smuts the most prodigious fell,
And always settled on my NOSE!
From _Puck on Pegasus_, by H. Cholmondeley-Pennell.
(Chatto and Windus, London,)
――――
DISASTER.
’Twas ever thus from childhood’s hour!
My fondest hopes would not decay:
I never loved a tree or flower
Which was the first to fade away!
The garden, where I used to delve
Short-frock’d, still yields me pinks in plenty
The Peartree that I climbed at twelve
I see still blossoming, at twenty.
I never nursed a dear gazelle;
But I was given a parroquet――
(How I did nurse him if unwell!)
He’s imbecile, but lingers yet.
He’s green, with an enchanting tuft;
He melts me with his small black eye
He’d look inimitable stuff’d
And knows it――but he will not die!
I had a kitten――I was rich
In pets――but all too soon my kitten
Became a full-sized cat, by which
I’ve more than once been scratch’d and bitten,
And when for sleep her limbs she curl’d
One day beside her untouch’d plateful,
And glided calmly from the world,
I freely own that I was grateful.
And then I bought a dog――a queen
Ah Tiny, dear departing pug!
She lives, but she is past sixteen
And scarce can crawl across the rug,
I loved her beautiful and kind;
Delighted in her pert Bow-wow:
But now she snaps if you don’t mind;
’Twere lunacy to love her now.
I used to think, should e’er mishap
Betide my crumple-visaged Ti,
In shape of prowling thief, or trap,
Or coarse bull-terrier――I should die.
But Ah! disasters have their use;
And life might e’en be too sunshiny:
Nor would I make myself a goose,
If some big dog should swallow Tiny.
From _Fly Leaves_ by C. S. Calverley. (George Bell and Sons, London,
1878.)
――――
Oh, ever thus, since Childhood’s hour
We’ve seen our fondest hopes decay,
We never raised a Calf or Cow or
Hen that laid an Egg a day,
But it was marked and stol’n away,
We never raised a sucking pig
To glad us with its sunny eye
But when ’twas grown up fat and big
And fit to roast, or boil, or fry
We could not find it in the stye.
――――
BY OUR BUTCHER.
I never loved a dear gazelle,
Nor would I care for one if cheap
All my affections centres on
Such things as bullocks, pigs and sheep;
Yet often, when a little lamb,
Whose price was low, has caught my eye,
I’ve purchased it; but, sad to say,
Next morning it was sure to die;
――――
I never bought a young gazelle.
To glad me with its soft black eye,
But, when it came to know me well,
’Twas sure to butt me on the sly.
I never drilled a cockatoo,
To speak with almost human lip,
But, when a pretty phrase it knew,
’Twas sure to give some friend a nip.
I never trained a collie hound
To be affectionate and mild,
But, when I thought a prize I’d found,
’Twas sure to bite my youngest child
I never kept a tabby kit
To cheer my leisure with its tricks,
But, when we all grew fond of it,
’Twas sure to catch the neighbour’s chicks,
I never reared a turtle-dove,
To coo all day with gentle breath,
But, when its life seemed one of love,
’Twas sure to peck its mate to death.
I never――well, I never yet――
And I have spent no end of pelt――
Invested money in a pet
That didn’t misconduct itself.
_Funny Folks Annual_, 1886.
――――
THE YOUNG GAZELLE.
_A Moore-ish Tale._
In early youth, as you may guess,
I revelled in poetic lore,
And while my schoolmates studied less,
I resolutely studied _Moore_.
Those touching lines from “Lalla Rookh”――
“Ah! ever thus”――you know them well,
Such root within my bosom took,
I wished _I_ had a young Gazelle.
Oh, yes! a sweet, a sweet Gazelle,
“To charm me with its soft black eye,”
So soft, so liquid, that a spell
Seems in that gem-like orb to lie.
Years, childhood passed, youth fled away,
My vain desire I’d learnt to quell,
Till came that most auspicious day
When _some one gave me a Gazelle_.
With care, and trouble, and expense,
’Twas brought from Afric’s northern cape;
It seemed of great intelligence,
And oh! so beautiful a shape.
The little creature grew so tame,
He “learned to know (the neighbours) well,”
And, then the ladies, when they came,
Oh! how they “nursed that dear Gazelle,”
But woe is me! on earthly ground
Some ill with every blessing dwells;
And soon to my dismay I found
That this applies to young Gazelles.
When free allowed to roam in doors,
The mischief that he did was great;
The walls, the furniture, the floors,
He made in a terrific state.
He nibbled at the table cloth,
And trod the carpet into holes,
And in his gambols, nothing loth,
Kicked over scuttles full of coals.
* * * * *
In short the mischief was immense
That from his gamesome pranks befel,
And truly, in a double sense
He proved a _very_ “dear gazelle.”
At length I sighed――“Ah! ever thus
Doth disappointment mock each hope;
But ’tis in vain to make a fuss
You’ll have to go, my antelope.”
I said “This antler’d desert child
In Turkish Palaces may roam
But he’s much too free and wild
To keep in any English home.”
Yes, though I gave him up with tears
Experience had broke the spell,
And if I live a thousand years,
I’ll never have a young gazelle!
This humorous poem was written by Mr. Walter Parke the dramatist, and
author of many skilful and amusing parodies. _Lays of the Saintly_, by
the same gentleman, (Vizetelly and Co., London.) contains the lives of
the principal Saints, told in rhymes imitating Swinburne, Tennyson,
Longfellow, and other poets. One of the best of these legends is
undoubtedly that devoted to the adventures of St. Patrick, the patron
Saint of Ireland. Most appropriately this is written after Moore’s
style, and parodies of a number of his melodies are ingeniously woven
into the narrative. Amongst these are “_Eveleen’s Bower_,” “_Love’s
Young Dream_,” “_She is far from the Land_,” “_Oft in the Stilly
night_,” “_The Harp that Once_,” “_The Woodpecker_,” “_Let Erin
remember_,” and “_The Meeting of the Waters_.” Perhaps the last is the
best imitation of style:――
There’s not in old Ireland an islet more sweet
Than the Isle where the penitents annually meet:
Oh! the last spark of faith from the land must depart
Ere pilgrims forbear on that journey to start.
It is not for Nature they go to the scene,
However romantic, sublime, or serene;
’Tis not just for pleasure or holiday’s sake,
They pay sixpence each to be row’d o’er the lake.
’Tis that Patrick the Great made a station for pray’r
With chapels and cells purgatorial there,
’Twas his own blessed crozier that hallowed the cave,
The heathen to vanquish, the faithful to save.
Sweet Isle of Lough Dearg! by thy devotees blest,
If ever I’m near thee, I’ll go with the rest;
Oh! may they in multitude yearly increase,
And the boatmen grow rich by their sixpence apiece
Farewell, farewell to thee, Ireland’s protector,
Thy mem’ry I drink in a draught of “L. L.”
If ever a “medium” should show me thy spectre,
How gladly I’ll bow to his mystical spell!
Farewell, farewell to fair Erin, thy daughter,
And may she grow ever more lovely and gay,
Forgetting the troubles the past may have brought her,
Till each shade of sorrow has vanished away.
But there is not a dull page in the whole of this dainty volume, it is
full of fun and refined humour, and the imitations are in many cases,
of exceptional literary merit.
――――:o:――――
THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM.
Come hither, come hither――by night and by day
We linger in pleasures that never are gone
Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away,
Another as sweet and as shining comes on.
And the love that is o’er, in expiring gives birth
To a new one as warm, as unequall’d in bliss;
And, oh! if there be an Elysium on Earth,
_It is this, it is this_.
* * * * *
T. MOORE.
――――:o:――――
THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.
Come hither, come hither: by night and by day,
We list to the members that never are gone――
Like the moan of the east wind, as one dies away,
Another as dull and as prosing comes on.
And the speech that is o’er, in expiring gives birth,
To a new one as wretched as barren of _nous_,
And oh! if there be an Inferno on earth,
It’s the house! it’s the house!
Here Tories are raving――their voices are high,
As the bray of a jack-ass, or yelp of a hound,
And dirty their spleen as that rain from the sky,
Which turns into mud as it falls on the ground.
Oh! think what the conscience or mind must be worth,
When the speech and the satire are weak as a louse,
Then own if there be an Inferno on earth,
It’s the house! it’s the house!
Here prosper the Whigs that with lucre’s vile love,
Have come down from their own vaunted honesty’s sphere
Who put power all former professions above,
And forgot pledges past in the places they’ve here.
And bless’d with the money our pockets give forth,
What placemen the sweets of his office would douse,
For oh! if there be an Inferno on earth,
It’s the house! it’s the house!
* * * * *
There’s a pest beyond all that the minstrel has told
When the Whigs that are bound in one powerful tie,
With principles changing and hearts ever cold,
Drain the country of wealth and drain on till ’tis dry.
One hour of so hateful a ministry’s worse,
Than whole ages of harm done by Tory or rat,
And oh! if there be an Inferno――or curse,
It is that! it is that!!
_Figaro in London_, September 1, 1832.
――――:o:――――
SWEET BOROUGH OF TAMWORTH.
(The following song, supposed to be sung by the late Sir Robert Peel,
who long represented Tamworth, is a parody of “_Fanny of Timmol_.”
Sweet borough of Tamworth, when first I go in
To the dear House of Commons in which I was hurl’d,
I found it a place of such pelf and such sin,
And for humbug the funniest place in the world.
For the Minister’s lips to their destiny true,
Seem’d to know I was born to be sold as anothers;
And to put me in mind of what I ought to do,
They whispered rich places for me and my brothers.
And then he was darting from eye-lids so sly,
Half squinting, half winking such gold beaming light;
Let them say what they will, I could read in his eye,
“Here’s a bait for you, Peel, if you know how to bite.”
So on Treasury benches I mingled my feet,
I felt a pulsation I cannot tell whether
Of joy shame or guilt――’twas bitter yet sweet;
But my heart and my face got as tough as cow’s leather.
At length when arrived in my office I sat,
And I heard of its tricks, with a slight twinge of pain,
But Castlereagh whispered, if once you should rat,
Dear Peel, you can never get office again.
Oh Liverpool, Castlereagh, never were any
Statesmen more pious, to place-men more true,
Of snug roguish places, you both had so many,
That my conscience was drill’d like a sieve through and through.
But Bexley would preach, and Eldon so grieved,
That a suckling like me should be lost in a jiffey――
And Cumberland swore they could not be deceived
If they sent me to humbug the folks on the Liffey.
Professions, manœuvres, smiles, bowing, I used,
Oh the orange sword waved without shame or relenting;
And the Papists were crushed, and their church I abused,
Whilst I swore that their sighs were but signs of consenting.
How the Catholic claims I scorned and denied,
Till I found my reward in a better place here;
When the Duke, rest his soul, his old principles shied,
Saying “Rat with me, Peel, or your places forbear.”
In vain did I whisper, there’s no danger nigh,
Bags, Bexley, and Sellis’s Duke did implore,
He promised a title, a sinecure sly;
I acknowledged them both, and I asked for no more.
Was I right?――oh, I cannot believe I was wrong,
Though Whigs, King and People may shout their disdain;
In cursed schedule B. thou shalt not be kept long,
Sweet Tamworth, I’ll rat for thee over again.
By heaven! Rotten Boroughs I’d rather forswear――
The Reform Bill, I’d hug to my plausible breast――
Than lose thee, sweet Tamworth, thy Peel will yet share
Place, power and title――you know all the rest.
From _The Blue Bag; or, Toryana_. By the Speaker of the House of
Commons. (Effingham Wilson, London, 1832.)
The same little pamphlet contains another parody on Moore, supposed to
be spoken by William Frederick, Duke of Gloucester, nephew of George
III. Many amusing anecdotes of the stupidity of this Royal Duke were
current during his lifetime, and earned for him the sobriquet
SILLY-BILLY.
When in death I shall calm recline,
More dozy I can’t be than I have been here;
No power could rouse me by smiles or wine,
Silly Billy, at Cambridge they called me, dear.
I never could feel either joy or sorrow,
My heart is so spongy, my liver so white;
But very large sums from the taxes I borrow,
And humbug the people, by family right.
* * * * *
Curse the Whigs, they are overthrowing
Our lazy, vicious, and well-paid rest;
My moon-calf uncle’s debt that’s owing,
Makes all people his name detest.
When fools, and tyrants, and peers are over,
England’s glad cup will flow over its brim;
John Bull our impudent _rights_ will uncover,
Repaying the woes we’ve inflicted on him.
The Duke of Gloucester had been educated at Cambridge. He died in
1834, leaving the large fortune he had amassed from the numerous
sinecure offices he held during his parsimonious lifetime, to his
widow.
――――
THE SWEET BRIAR.
I thought t’other day while attempting to thin
A Briar which over my palings had curled,
As _La Pompadour_ said, “If this were but a sin
It might be the jolliest job in the world.”
For its dear little thorns to their destiny true
Seemed to know they were made to be scratchers and stingers,
And to show me what I was attempting to do
Kept eternally gripping and pricking my fingers.
And whenever we mingled our shoots, and our feet,
I muttered “d * * * n” and cannot tell whether
Through your fault or mine――but, O! Briar called sweet,
I _think_ that we fell and we suffered together.
And at last I found out you belonged to my neighbour,
And when I had brought you exceedingly low
I discovered that I had been spending my labour
On a plant _he_ was very desirous should grow.
In vain did I mutter “There’s nobody nigh,”
In vain curse the taste of my neighbour next door,
Your response was a scratch on the lid of my eye,
And I left it at that, and I asked for no more.
Was I right? I can hardly believe I was wrong,
Though the Briar has grown through the paling again,
And the devil may guide it uninjured along
E’er I put myself twice to such horrible pain.
By Heavens! I would rather forever forswear
The pleasure that lies in a garden that’s neat
Than disturb for a moment the thorns that are there,
Or banish the Briar which people call sweet!
C. S. K.
――――:o:――――
_The Melbourne Punch_ for July 1, 1880, contained a long, and very
dreary parody, entitled _Paradise and the Berri_. It dealt with local
politics, and was chiefly devoted to insulting a politician named
Berry, it had no literary merit whatever. _The Melbourne Punch_ is
published at double the price of its London namesake, of which it is
but a very poor imitation.
_Paradise and the Peeler_ is the title of another long parody
contained in _Lyrics and Lays_, by Pips. Published in 1867, by Wyman,
Bros., Calcutta. This relates how the Eden gardens in Calcutta were
closed to the general public, by order of the Commissioner of the
Police, until a general outcry forced him to withdraw the obnoxious
edict.
During Oxford Commemoration in 1866, the S. S. Amateurs performed in
the Masonic Hall an “Oriental Extravaganza,” entitled _Lalla Rookh_.
This was written by Mr. Vincent Amcotts, of Balliol College, (founded
upon Moore’s poem), and the numerous songs it contained were set to
music selected from Offenbach’s “_Barbe Bleu_.” This amusing travestie
was published by T. Shrimpton and Son, Broad Street, Oxford.
Another Extravaganza, with the same title, was produced at the
unfortunate Novelty Theatre, London, in May, 1884. The libretto was
written by Mr. Horace Lennard, the musical arrangements were by Mr. P.
Bucalossi, and the caste included Miss Kate Vaughan, as _Lalla Rookh_,
Mr. Harry Nicholls, and Mr. Fred Story; the piece, however, had but a
brief career.
Several other dramatic arrangements of _Lalla Rookh_ have been
produced, there was a burletta by Horn; a cantata by Messrs. W. G.
Wills and Frederick Clay; and forty years ago the famous Cerito
delighted the opera-goers in a ballet founded on Moore’s poem.
――――:o:――――
ONE MORE IRISH MELODY.
I
O weep for the hour
When to Peers’ tranquil bower
The Premier of England with Church Bill came;
The Primate made light
Of the crisis that night,
But loudly Lord Derby declared ’twas a shame.
The Peers caved in soon,
Like the famous “gone ’coon,”
And the Commons protested they’d bear all the blame;
But none will see the day
When the mischief clears away
Which that dark hour left on the Parliament fame.
II
Strange arguments lay
On the crooked pathway
Where the Premier of England slipp’d off from the right;
And many a deep print
On his policy’s tint
Showed the track of his veering towards Lowe and towards Bright.
To-morrow’s new men
May undo all again
Every trace in our laws where the false chief came:
But the babes yet unborn
Shall record it with scorn,
That blot on the scutcheon of England’s fair fame!
_Will-o’-the Wisp_, July 24, 1869.
――――
LORD BROUGHAM.
“Now that the speedy ejection of the Whigs from office, is looked for
on all sides and by all parties with a high anticipatory relish, the
humane mind naturally turns with compassion to the fate of Lord
Brougham, who is on the eve of losing that for which he staked and
lost, all his once splendid popularity. He stands a detected apostate
from the cause of liberality, and we can only pay to his deplorable
condition the melancholy tribute of a commiserating melody.”
AIR――_Eveleen’s Bower_.
Oh! weep for the hour
When to Brougham’s bower,
The Lord of the Treas’ry with large bribes came,
The Lib’rals held their light
From the House that night,
And staid to weep at home for their old chum’s shame.
The clouds have pass’d
From the Liberals at last,
And freedom smiles again with her vestal flame;
But none will see the day,
When the clouds will pass away,
Which taking office cast upon Brougham’s fame.
The road to place lay
Through a crooked path-way,
When Brougham cross’d over the House’s floor,
And many a deep hint,
Which I’ve seen in print,
Show’d the reason of his walk to the Treasury door.
But freedom’s ray
Will soon melt away,
Every trace of the ministry with which he came;
But there’s no light I fear,
Which ever can clear
The stain upon the brightness of Brougham’s fame.
_Figaro in London_, June 22, 1833.
――――:o:――――
Sixty or seventy years ago when Moore’s poems were in the height of
their popularity they were made the subject of a vast number of
parodies. Of these the majority would now be of no interest whatever,
relating as they do to persons and events long since forgotten. Some
of the best of these old parodies have already been given, a few
others may be enumerated to which reference could easily be made by
any reader desirous of seeing them.
_The Spirit of the Public Journals_ for 1823 contained a great
many travesties of Moore’s Irish melodies, nearly all of which
were political. The first lines of these are as follows:――
Go where Plutus waits thee.
Remember the Deeds of Sir Billy the Fat.
Rich and rare were the gems she wore
If in death I should lie supine.
When first I met thee, fat and fair.
’Tis the last squeak of _Derry_, left nearly alone.
We can roam through the Town, and of _Flats_ make a feast.
Peggy hath a squinting eye. (See page 245.)
Come send round the wine. (See page 243.)
Though numerous our debts are.
Oh! had I some nice little lass of my own.
Come rest in this bosom, my sweet pretty dear!
Rich and furred was the robe he wore. (See page 238.)
Fly not yet.
Blesington hath a beaming eye.
Go where Bennett waits thee.
The Old Whig Club is meeting, Duke.
The same Volume also contains a Burlesque review, or, as it is termed,
a criticism extraordinary, upon a supposed poem, entitled _Loves of
the Mortals_, by Timothy Tickle, Esq. This _jeu d’esprit_ was
published a few days after _The Loves of the Angels_, and the extracts
given from the imaginary poem parody that work.
_Figaro in London_, a sarcastic paper published in London in
1831-32-33, contained many parodies of Moore’s Melodies, the best of
these have already been given.
_Punch_ for 1847 contained _The Loves of the New Police_, in several
parts. In December 13, 1856, it had a set of verses addressed to a
certain _Mr. Morris Moore_, parodying several of Moore’s Songs.
_Funny Folks_, May 10, 1884, on the Dynamite scare: “Believe me that
all these explosive alarms.”
_The Humourous Works_ of the late Theodore Hook (London, 1873), in
addition to the parody quoted on page 238, contain another on _The
young May-Moo_n but it is quite out of date. A review of “_Mr. Minus
the Poet_” is also included in the above collection; it is a skit upon
Moore’s versification and philosophy, and contains a short imitation
of his poetry, entitled _Fanny’s Bower_, somewhat resembling _The
Living Lustres_ in the Rejected Addresses.
“_Jack Randall’s Diary_, or proceedings at the House of Call for
Genius,” written by Mr. Breakwindow. London, Simpkin, 1820.
This is a small book which cannot be found in the Library of the
British Museum. J. C. Hotten, in his “Bibliography of Slang and Cant,”
says (p. 103) this was written by Thomas Moore; but further
information is wanted on this point.
――――:o:――――
YOUNG LOVE.
Young Love once fell through a straw-thatched shed,
Where pigs were feeding
And, nowise heeding
What cause the god had thither led,
While wash they swilled, and were well fed,
They thrived and flourished,
For Stickem nourished
Their hog-ships with good new-made grains;
And pigs, though grubby, must be fed,
For even they feel Hunger’s pains.
Alas! that mankind’s greedy eye
Should e’er go thither,
Their loves to wither,
But pigs must know they’re born to die
And should not squeal when the knife draws nigh.
Stickem came that morning,
While love was yawning,
And seized him, with intent to slay;
“Oh, oh!” says Love, “this is all my eye!”
So he kicked him over, and flew away.
――――
THE BENCHER; OR, WHITEWASHING DAY.
_Air_――“Though dark are our sorrows, to-day we’ll forget them.”
Though num’rous our debts are, yet soon we forget them,
When free from a bailiff’s or turnkey’s rude powers;
For never were hearts, if the _nabmen_ would let them,
More formed to be jovial and light than ours.
But though without cash
We oft cut a dash,
And _credit_ besprinkles our path with flowers,
Yet the day will come
When we’re _found at home_!
Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles,
Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay;
But though ’twere the last little spark on our souls,
Let us light it up now――for ’tis _whitewashing day_!
The devil take tradesmen, who say we’re ungrateful;
Though we fly from _grabs_, to our friends we are true!
If we can’t pay, we can’t! then what is more hateful
Than taking one’s body for sums over-due?
Vile creditors blight
Our prospects outright;
And when they have nailed us, cry “Pay me, sir, pay!”
So unless we give bail,
We’re lugg’d off to jail;
But since I’m now _up_, were I summon’d next minute,
I’d laugh, drink, and sing, look cheerful and gay,
And shew what the head of a _Bencher_ has in it,
Who has passed the ordeal of _Whitewashing Day_!
We no longer are _green_, and our _sprees_ are recorded
By men who have suffer’d too much to forget;
With hope they were gull’d, and with promise rewarded,
While our quarterly pilgrimage spong’d out the debt.
_Their_ hearts may be broke,
Yet _we_ laugh at the joke,
For nothing can make an _old Bencher_ pay;
He’s _up_ and he’s _down_
To the tricks of the Town;
He lives by his wits, and plays a bold part
With an impudent air that ne’er will decay;
Though his poverty’s great, still greater’s his art,
For he clears off all scores by _Whitewashing Day_,
From _The Spirit of the Public Journals_, 1825.
――――:o:――――
THE LIVING LUSTRES.[126]
The following imitation of Tom Moore’s style is taken from _The
Rejected Addresses_. It was written by Horace Smith. Early editions of
_The Rejected Addresses_ contained three verses which have recently
been generally omitted. These are here supplied within parenthesis.
“Jam te juvaverit
Viros relinquere,
Doctæque conjugis
Sinu quiescere.”
SIR T. MORE.
I.
O Why should our dull retrospective addresses
Fall damp as wet blankets on Drury Lane fire?
Away with blue devils, away with distresses,
And give the gay spirit to sparkling desire!
II.
Let artists decide on the beauties of Drury,
The richest to me is when woman is there;
The question of houses I leave to the jury;
The fairest to me is the house of the fair.
III.
When woman’s soft smile all our senses bewilders,
And gilds while it carves, her dear form on the heart,
What need has New Drury of carvers and gilders?
With Nature so bounteous, why call upon Art?
(IV.
Each pillar that opens our stage to the circle, is
Verdant antique, like Ninon de l’Enclos,
I’d ramble from them to the pillars of Hercules,
Give me but Rosa wherever I go.)
IV.
How well would our actors attend to their duties,
Our house save in oil, and our authors in wit,
In lieu of yon lamps, if a row of young beauties
Glanced light from their eyes between us and the pit!
V.
The apples that grew on the fruit-tree of knowledge
By woman were pluck’d, and she still wears the prize,
To tempt us in theatre, senate, or college――
I mean the love-apples that bloom in the eyes.
(VI.
Attun’d to the scene, when the pale yellow moon is on
Tower and tree they’d look sober and sage,
And when they all wink’d their dear peepers in unison,
Night, pitchy night, would envelop the stage.
VII.
Ah! could I some girl from yon box for her youth pick,
I’d love her as long as she blossomed in youth;
Oh! white is the ivory case of her tooth pick,
But when beauty smiles how much whiter the tooth.)
VI.
There too is the lash which, all statues controlling,
Still governs the slaves that are made by the fair;
For man is the pupil, who, while her eye’s rolling,
Is lifted to rapture, or sunk in despair.
VII.
Bloom, theatre, bloom, in the roseate blushes
Of beauty illumed by a love-breathing smile!
And flourish, ye pillars,[127] as green as the rushes
That pillow the nymphs of the Emerald Isle!
VIII.
For dear is the Emerald Isle of the ocean,
Whose daughters are fair as the foam of the wave,
Whose sons, unaccustom’d to rebel commotion,
Tho’ joyous are sober――tho’ peaceful, are brave.
IX.
The shamrock their olive, sworn foe to a quarrel,
Protects from the thunder and lightning of rows;
Their sprig of shillelagh is nothing but laurel,
Which flourishes rapidly over their brows.
X.
O! soon shall they burst the tyrannical shackles
Which each panting bosom indignantly names,
Until not one goose at the capital cackles
Against the grand question of Catholic claims.
XI.
And then shall each Paddy, who once on the Liffey
Perchance held the helm of some mackerel-hoy,
Hold the helm of the State, and dispense in a jiffy
More fishes than ever he caught when a boy.
XII.
And those who now quit their hods, shovels, and barrows,
In crowds to the bar of some ale-house to flock,
When bred to _our bar_ shall be Gibbses and Garrows,
Assume the silk gown, and discard the smock-frock.
XIII.
For Erin surpasses the daughters of Neptune,
As Dian excels each encircling star;
And the spheres of the heavens could never have kept tune
Till set to the music of Erin-go-bragh!
――――:o:――――
The great Christopher North (Professor Wilson) had but a poor opinion
of Thomas Moore, and in _Noctes Ambrosianæ_ (Blackwood’s Magazine July
1823) he thus expressed himself;――
“Moore will not live long as a song writer, he has not the
stamina in him at all. His verses are elegant, pretty,
glittering, anything you please in that line; but they have
defects which will not allow them to get down to posterity.
His strong party views, his affectation of learning, his
parade of his knowledge of botany, zoology, and the other
’ologies, these are serious defects, and then the mixed
metaphors, and often down-right nonsense to be found in his
songs, all detract from his chances of immortality.”
“Here” says Wilson “is a song he intended to be sung by:――
A FALLEN ANGEL OVER A BOWL OF RUM-PUNCH.
Heap on more coal there,
And keep the glass moving,
The frost nips my nose,
Though my heart glows with loving.
Here’s the dear creature,
No skylights――a bumper;
He who leaves heel taps
I vote him a mumper.
With hey cow rumble O,
Whack! populorum,
Merrily, merry men,
Push round the jorum.
What are Heaven’s pleasures
That so very sweet are?
Singing from psalters,
In long or short metre.
Planked on a wet cloud
Without any breeches,
Just like the Celtic,
Met to make speeches.
With hey cow rumble &c.
Wide is the difference,
My own boozing bullies,
Here the round punch-bowl,
Heap’d to the full is.
Then if some wise one
Thinks that up “yonder”
Is pleasant as we are,
Why――he’s in a blunder.
With hey cow rumble, &c.
――――:o:――――
LOVE AND THE FLIMSIES.
Little Cupid one day on a sunbeam was floating,
Above a green vale where a paper mill played;
And he hovered in ether, delightedly noting
The whirl and the splash that the water-wheel made.
The air was all filled with the scent of the roses,
Round the Miller’s veranda that clustered and twined;
And he thought if the sky were all made up of noses,
This spot of the earth would be most to his mind.
And forth came the Miller, a Quaker in verity,
Rigid of limb and complacent of face,
And behind him a Scotchman was singing “Prosperity,”
And picking his pocket with infinite grace.
And “Walth and prosparity,” “Walth and prosparity,”
His bonny scotch burthen arose on the air,
Is a song all in praise of that primitive charity,
Which begins with sweet home, and which terminates there.
But sudden a tumult arose from a distance,
And in rushed a rabble with steel and with stone.
And ere the scared miller could call for assistance,
The mill to a million of atoms was blown.
Scarce mounted the fragments in ether to hurtle,
When the Quaker was vanished, no eye had seen where;
And the Scotchman thrown flat on his back, like a turtle,
Was sprawling and bawling, with heels in the air.
Little Cupid continued to hover and flutter,
Pursuing the fragments that floated on high,
As light as the fly that is christened from butter,
Till he gathered his hands full and flew to the sky.
“Oh, mother,” he cried, as he showed them to Venus,
What are these little talismans cyphered――One――One?
If you think them worth having, we’ll share them between us,
Though their smell is like, none of the newest, poor John!”
“My darling,” says Venus, “away from you throw them,
They’re a sort of fool’s gold among mortals ’tis true;
But we want them not here, though I think you might know them,
Since on earth they so often have bought and sold you.”
THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.
(From Paper Money Lyrics, written during the commercial panic,
in the winter 1825-26.)
――――:o:――――
Another imitation of Moore’s style is given in _The Book of Ballads_,
edited by _Bon Gaultier_, and published by William Blackwood & Sons.
These Ballads were written by Professor W. E. Aytoun, and Theodore
Martin. A few of them may be considered amusing as parodies, but the
greater number are really clever imitations of style, with a little
burlesque introduced here and there. Thus, the following would pass
very well for one of Moore’s lighter songs:
THE BARD OF ERIN’S LAMENT.
Oh! weep for the hours when the little blind boy
Wove around me the spells of his Paphian bower;
When I dipped my light wings in the nectar of joy,
And soared in the sunshine, the moth of the hour!
From beauty to beauty I passed, like the wind;
Now fondled the lily, now toyed with the rose;
And the fair, that at morn had enchanted my mind,
Was forsook for another ere evening’s close.
* * * * *
But weep for the hour! Life’s summer is past,
And the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow;
And my soul as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast,
Can not turn to a fire that glows inwardly now.
No, its ashes are dead――and, alas! Love or Song
No charm to Life’s lengthening shadows can lend,
Like a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong,
And a seat by the fire _tête-à-tête_ with a friend.
――――:o:――――
OLD SHERRY.
(_A Parody on the Anacreontic Song._)
To old Sheridan once as he sat in full glee,
A few duns for hard money sent a petition;
And prayed that his cash or bank notes they might see,
But this answer received from the sturdy old Grecian:――
“My friends, I declare
I have no cash to spare,
And for all your distresses one damn I dont care,
But then I’ll instruct you like me how to dine,
And make creditors pay for the banquet and wine.”
By this answer appalled, at the statesman they stared,
And then fell to bowing, beseeching, and coaxing,
But their time and their talking they well might have spared,
For old Sherry’s grand forte was cajoling and hoaxing.
“My good friends,” says he,
“The thing cannot be,
For my purse can’t produce to you one mar’vedie;
But if to discount some more bills you incline,
You all shall partake of my banquet and wine.”
The duns with amazement on each other gazed,
Then threatened attornies, arrests, executions,
But old Sheridan smiled, and was mightily pleased
At their impotent threats, and their vain resolutions.
“Goods and chattels,” says he,
“You can’t get from me,
And from all your arrests, I’m by privilege free;
Disappointed and vex’d, let my creditors whine,
I’ll still make them pay for my banquets and wine.
“Dame Justice, that hobbling old Beldam I’ve found,
With brisk Generosity ne’er can keep pacing;
All my debts I would pay if the cash could be found,
But my wants my finances are always outracing.
Then submit with good grace,
For while I’m out of place
All payment of debt is quite out of the case;
But if once I get in, ’tis my serious design,
That the nation shall pay for my banquet and wine.”
The duns one and all from his presence withdrew,
In sullen despair of e’er touching the rhino.
And they’d never come there if old Sherry they knew
But one half so truly as you or I know.
In passing this quiz,
So flushed was his phiz,
That the nose of old Bardolph were ice matched to his;
He returned to his friends, who’d just helped him to dine,
And laughed at the dupes who found banquet and wine.
From _The Spirit of the Age Newspaper for_ 1828.
The Right Hon. R. B. Sheridan here referred to, the celebrated wit,
orator, and dramatist, was continually in debt, and as, in addition to
being thriftless and extravagant, he was intemperate, his once
handsome features became, in the later years of his life, so bloated,
distorted, and discoloured, that he seemed but a hideous caricature of
his former self.
――――:o:――――
THE SHY BO-PEEP.
(_A sea-side fact._)
The shy Bo-Peep to the sea is gone,
In a bathing frock you’ll find her;
A swimming belt she has girded on,
And a life buoy slung behind her.
“Bathe, I wont!” said this maiden shy,
“Tho’ disappointment rankles,
“In such a garb some man might spy
My pettitoes and ankles!”
Her friends protest, but the task is vain
To make Bo-peep knock under,
The frock was never worn again,
For she tore its seams asunder;
And said, “No more embarrass me
“Thou cumbersome monstrosity!
“I’ll bathe ‘au naturel’ and free
In despite of curiosity!”
A.H.S.
――――:o:――――
ANACREON’S ODE XXI.
Observe when mother earth is dry,
She drinks the droppings of the sky;
And then the dewy cordial gives
To every thirsty plant that lives.
The vapours, which at evening weep,
Are beverage to the swelling deep;
And when the rosy sun appears,
He drinks the ocean’s misty tears.
The moon too quaffs her paly stream
Of lustre from the solar beam.
Then, hence with all your sober thinking
Since Nature’s holy law is drinking;
I’ll make the laws of Nature mine,
And pledge the universe in wine.
T. MOORE.
Moore has been often accused of plagiarism, and more often perhaps in
connection with the above translation from Anacreon than any other
poem. A few examples of the versions of earlier writers will show how
far the charge can be substantiated.
_Pierre de Ronsard_ (who died in 1585) wrote a version; which, given
in the old orthography, runs thus:――
“La terre, les eaux va boivant.
L’arbre la boit par sa racine.
La mer salée boit le vent,
Et le soleil boit la marine.
Le soleil est beu de la lune,
Tout boit soit en haut ou en bas.
Suivant ceste règle commune
Pourquoy donc ne boirons nous pas?”
_Capilupus_ imitated the ode, in an epitaph on a drunkard, which has
thus been rendered:――
While life was mine, the little hour
In drinking still unvaried flew;
I drank as earth imbibes the shower,
Or as the rainbow drinks the dew;
As ocean quaffs the rivers up,
Or flushing sun inhales the sea:
Silenus trembled at my cup,
And Bacchus was outdone by me!
In scene 3, act iv., of _Timon of Athens_, Shakespeare has a similar
passage;――
“I’ll example you with thievery.
The sun’s a thief, and with his great attraction
Robs the vast sea; the moon’s an arrant thief,
And her pale fire she snatches from the sun;
The sea’s a thief, whose liquid surge resolves
The moon into salt tears.”
Another version:――
The heavens carouse each day a cup,
No wonder Atlas holds them up!
The trees suck up the earth and ground,
And in their brown bowls drink around;
The sea, too, whom the salt makes dry,
His greedy thirst to satisfy,
Ten thousand rivers drink, and then
Gets drunk, and brings them up again.
The sun, and who as right as he?
Sits up all night to drink the sea;
The moon quaffs up the sun, her brother,
And wishes she could tope another;
If all things fuddle; why should I,
Of all things, be the one that’s dry?
Well, I’ll be content to thirst,
But too much drink shall make me first.
LORD ROCHESTER (Died 1680).
――――:o:――――
THE THIRSTY EARTH.
(Freely translated from Anacreon.)
ABRAHAM COWLEY (Died 1667.)
The thirsty earth drinks up the rain
And thirsts, and gapes for drink again;
The plants suck in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair.
The sea itself (which one would think
Should have but little need of drink)
Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,
So fill’d that they o’erflow the cup.
The busy sun (and one would guess
By’s drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks up the sea, and when he’s done,
The moon and stars drink up the sun,
They drink and dance by their own light,
They drink and revel all the night:
Nothing in nature’s sober found,
But an eternal health goes round.
Fill up the bowl then, fill it high,
Fill all the glasses here; for why
Should every creature drink but I?
Why, man of morals, tell me why?
Whilst referring to Thomas Moore’s plagiarisms mention must be made of
an article on the subject contained in Fraser’s Magazine, June 1841.
It is too long to quote in full, but some of its principal statements
may be given:
“Moore’s plagiarisms are intolerable. There is not a single
original thought, conception, metaphor, or image, in the
whole range of his works,――from the _Posthumous Poems of Tom
Little_ to his last dying speech――The _Travels of an Irish
Gentleman in Search of a Religion_. Even the title of this
nonsense is stolen from Erasmus’s _Peregrinatio Religionis
ergo_. The man is an indefatigable thief. He has laid under
contribution every imaginable book, from the biography of
his namesake, Tom Thumb, to the portly folios of the fathers
of the church. Perfectly unscrupulous in his marauding
expeditions, and impartial in his attacks, he is found at
one moment rifling a saint, and in the next pillaging a
sinner. You have asked me for some specimens of his
plagiarisms. You shall have them. Time will permit me to
expose only a very few, so I shall plunge at once _in medias
res_:――
LITTLE’S POEMS.
“_Your mother says, my little Venus,
There’s something not correct between us,
And you’re in fault as well as I;
Now on my soul, my little Venus,
I think ’twould not be right between us,
To let your mother tell a lie._”
This is plagiarised from an old collection of English epigrams
published in 1785:――
“The lying world says naughty words
Of you and I, my dearest love;
You know, my dear, the world’s the Lord’s
Let ’em no longer liars prove.”
LITTLE’S POEMS. _To Julia_
“_Why let the stingless critic chide
With all that fume of vacant pride
Which mantles o’er the pedant fool,
Like vapour on a stagnant pool._”
Lloyd
“Must thou whose judgment dull and cool
Is muddy as the stagnant pool.”
LITTLE’S POEMS.
“_Here is one leaf reserved for me
From all thy sweet memorials free,
And here my simple song might tell
The feelings thou must guess so well.
But could I thus within thy mind
One little vacant corner find,
Where no impression yet is seen,
Where no memorial yet has been,
Oh, it should be my sweetest care
To write my name for ever there._”
These are stolen from some lines of Pope’s:――
“With what strange raptures would my soul be blest,
Were but her book an emblem of her breast,
As I from that all former marks efface,
And, uncontroll’d, put new ones in their place,
So might I chase all others from her heart,
And my own image in the stead impart;
But ah! how short the bliss would prove if he
Who seized it next might do the same by me.”
LITTLE’S POEMS.
“_Oh, shall we not say thou art Love’s duodecimo;
Few can be prettier, none can be less, you know,
Such a volume in sheets were a volume of charms,
Or if bound, it should only be bound in our arms._”
Wit restored. _In several select poems._ 1658.
“A woman is a book, and often found
To prove far better in the sheets than bound;
No marvail, then, why men take such delight
Above all things to study in the night,”
LITTLE’S POEMS.
“_If Mahomet would but receive me,
And Paradise be as he paints,
I’m greatly afraid (God forgive me)
I’d worship the eyes of his saints._”
Dryden. _Epilogue to “Constantine the Great._”
“Th’ original Trimmer, though a friend to no man,
Yet in his heart adored a pretty woman,
He knew that Mahomet laid up for ever
Kind black-eyed rogues for every true believer,
And, which was more than mortal man e’er tasted,
One pleasure that for threescore twelvemonths lasted,
To burn for this may surely be forgiven,
Who’d not be circumcised for such a heaven?”
LITTLE’S POEMS.
“_Weep on, and as thy sorrows flow
I’ll taste the luxury of woe._”
Langhorne. _Precepts of Conjugal Happiness_
“For once this pain, this frantic pain forego,
And feel at least _the luxury of woe_.”
MOORE. _Anacreon._
“_When the sunshine of the bowl
Thaws the ice about the soul._”
Cawthorne.
“However, when the sprightly bowl
Had _thaw’d the ice about the soul_,”
MOORE’S MELODIES.
“_And when he said, Heaven rest her soul
Round the lake-like music stole,
And her ghost was seen to glide
Smiling o’er the fatal tide._”
Kirke White. _Gondoline._
“The maid was seen no more; but oft
Her ghost is known to glide
At midnight’s silent, solemn hour
Along the ocean’s tide.”
MOORE’S MELODIES.
“_Sweet Vale of Avoca, how calm could I rest
In the bosom of shade with the friends I love best;
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace._”
This simile of friendly hearts blending together like waters is
as old as
Sir John Suckling. _Aglaura_, act iv.
“Alas! we two
Have mingled souls more than two meeting brooks.”
Dryden. _All for Love_, act iii., sc. 3.
“We were so closed within each other’s breasts,
The rivets were not found that join’d us first,
That does not reach us yet,――we were so mixt
As meeting streams, both to ourselves were lost.”
Wilson. _City of the Plague_, act iii. sc. 3.
“We shall die
Like two glad waves, that, meeting on the shore
In moonlight and in music melt away
Quietly mid the quiet wilderness.”
MOORE’S MELODIES.
“_My only book
Were woman’s looks,
And folly’s all they’ve taught me._”
John Heywood. _Of a most noble Ladye._
“The vertue of her looks
Excels the precious stone,
Ye need none other books
To read or look upon.”
MOORE’S MELODIES.
“_No, Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign,
Go tell our invaders, the Danes,
That ’tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine
Than to sleep but a moment in chains._”
Addison. _Cato_, act ii. sc. 1.
“A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty
Is worth a whole eternity of bondage.”
MOORE’S MELODIES.
“_Long, long be my heart with such memories fill’d,
Like the vase in which roses have once been distill’d;
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will.
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still._”
Sir John Suckling. _Brennoralt_, act v.
“Thou motion’st well, nor have I taken leave.
It keeps a sweetness yet, [_Kisses her_].
As stills from roses when the flowers are gone.”
Philip Massinger. _Roman Actor_, act iv. sc. 2.
“But that thou, whom oft I’ve seen
To personate a gentleman, noble, wise,
Faithful and gainsome, and what virtues else
The poet pleases to adorn you with;
But that (_as vessels still partake the odour
Of the sweet precious liquors they contain’d_)
Thou must be really in some degree
The thing thou dost present.”
MOORE’S MELODIES.
“_As a beam o’er the face of the waters may glow
While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below,
So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile,
Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while._”
James Mervyn. _On Shirley’s Plays._
“They might, like waters in the sunshine set,
Retain his image, not impart his heat.”
MOORE’S MELODIES.
“_The moon looks
On many brooks,
The brook can see no moon but this._”
Sir William Jones.
“The moon looks upon many night-flowers, the night-flowers
see but one moon.”
MOORE’S MELODIES.
“_Though dark are our sorrows to-day, we’ll forget them,
And smile through our tears like a sunbeam in showers._”
Sir E. Brydges. _Restituta_, vol. ii. p. 337.
“Golden storms
Fell from their eyes, as when the sun appears;
And yet it rains, so shew’d their eyes their tears.”
MOORE’S MELODIES.
“_I flew to her chamber, ’twas lonely,
As if the loved tenant lay dead;
Ah, would it were death and death only!
But no, the young false one had fled.
And there hung the lute that could soften
My very worst pains into bliss;
While the hand that had waked it so often,
Now throbb’d to a proud rival’s kiss._”
Thomas Heywood. _A Woman Killed with Kindness. Grief of Frankford
after discovering his wife’s infidelity._
“_Nic._ Master, here’s her lute flung in a corner!
_Frank._ Her lute! Oh, God! upon this instrument
Her fingers have ran quick division,
Swifter than that which now divides our hearts.
* * * Oh, Master Cranwell!
Oft hath she made this melancholy wood
(Now mute and dumb, for her disastrous change)
Speak sweetly many a note, sound many a strain,
To her own ravishing voice, which being well strung,
What pleasant, strange airs, have they jointly rung!”
These are specimens of Moore’s rogueries; and now having heard them,
will you not agree with me in the propriety of addressing him with the
same compliment which Homer pays to Mercury.――
“Immortal honour awaits thee, oh, Thomas Little! for thou
shalt be known to all posterity as the chief of thieves.”
[Illustration]
LORD BYRON.
On page 197 was inserted “_The Enigma on the letter H_,” with several
parodies on it. This poem has been generally ascribed to Lord Byron,
but from correspondence recently published in “Notes and Queries”
there seems little doubt but that it was written by Miss Catherine
Fanshawe. The following imitation of it appeared in _The Gownsman_
(Cambridge) November 1830.
A RIDDLE.
I was fashion’d by nat_u_re, and formed in the s_u_n,
And I’ve followed him since in the race he has run;
Not a co_u_ntry he warms but I’ve wandered it through,
From Kerg_u_elens land to the verge of Per_u_;
Not a soul has been born, not a creature on earth,
But I have been there in the ho_u_r of birth;
I was present each min_u_te in life as it pass’d,
And I mix’d with the d_u_st it return’d to at last.
In the c_u_p of the lily I love to repose,
And I guard, like a spirit, the b_u_d of the rose.
In the feverish thoughts, and the do_u_bt of a dream,
In the m_u_rmur that wakes from the bed of the stream;
In the str_u_ggle we hear when the tempest is high,
In the th_u_nder that breaks ere we dream it is nigh;
In the fort_u_ne of war, in the pl_u_me of the brave,
In the s_u_rge, as it chafes on the crest of the wave,
I have ever been present, and ever must be,
Though the _U_niverse had its beginning with me;
Though my fate is entwined with fut_u_rity too,
Yet I cannot last long, for I finish in yo_u_.
U.
――――:o:――――
TOBACCO.
Sublime Tobacco! which from East to West
Cheers the tar’s labour or the Turkman’s rest;
Which on the Moslem’s ottoman divides
His hours, and rivals opium and his brides;
Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand,
Though not less loved, in Wapping or the Strand;
Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe,
When tipp’d with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe;
Like other charmers, wooing the caress,
More dazzlingly when daring in full dress,
Yet thy true lovers more admire by far
Thy naked beauties――Give me a cigar!
THE ISLAND.
――――
THE POTATO.
“Sublime potatoes! that, from Antrim’s shore
To famous Kerry, form the poor man’s store;
Agreeing well with every place and state――
The peasant’s noggin, or the rich man’s plate.
Much prized when smoking from the teeming pot,
Or in turf-embers roasted crisp and hot.
Welcome, although you be our only dish;
Welcome, companion to flesh, fowl, or fish;
But to the real gourmands, the learned few,
Most welcome, steaming in an Irish stew.”
T. CROFTON CROKER.
――――:o:――――
“MAZEPPA TRAVESTIED: a Poem,” is the title of a small anonymous
pamphlet published by C. Chapple, Pall Mall, London, in 1820. Price,
Half-a-crown. It has an introductory address to “_The Goddess of
Milling, and her worshippers, The Fancy_.”
The preface contains the following sensible passage “With regard to
Travesty, or Parody in general, it may be observed that the use of it
by no means necessarily implies a design of holding up the original to
ridicule and contempt.” The parody itself, however, is so full of
slang, and deals with such unsavoury topics, that no extracts from it
can be given. Suffice it to say that it describes the adventures and
amours of prize-fighters and their friends, in language worthy of the
theme, although it must be admitted, the parody closely imitates the
original poem in its construction. Following the _Mazeppa Travestie_
comes a short parody descriptive of the defeat of Belasco, the Jewish
prize-fighter.
THE DEFEAT OF CRACK-A-RIB.
Belasco came down like a bruiser so bold,
And his _bellows_ was good, and his nobbers all told:
And the shout of his backers was like the hurrah
Of the _Black Diamond’s_ friends, when he _queer’d Quashee’s_ jaw.
Like sheep in the pens, in that business so green,
All sporting their _flimsies_, the kiddies were seen;
Like those sheep, when the shearer has thought them full grown,
And fleeced them, those kiddies stood chilly and lone.
For the genius of _Milling_ came down on the blast,
And _bung’d_ up the eyes of the Jew pretty fast;
And the _glims_ of the _green_ ones with gloom ’gan to fill,
When they saw how the gilding was gone from their pill.
And there lay the _cove_ with his mouth open wide
But through it there came not the sounds that defied;
And those who have _made_ him are wild on the turf,
That the _swell_ they had raised should prove nothing but surf.
And the pugilist’s _fancy_ is loud in her wail,
For fear that her man should be clapt into jail;
And the _queer’d ones_ of Israel no _blunt_ can afford,
To _flash_ in the ring, since their _swell_ has been _floor’d_.
[Illustration]
CHARLES KINGSLEY.
THE AUCTION.
Three women went sailing out into the street
To the brown stone front where the red flag hung
They jostled the crowd all day on their feet,
While “going and going and gone” was sung.
For women must go where bargains are had,
And buy old trash, if ever so bad,
And husbands must never be groaning.
Three husbands all hungry went homeward to dine,
But when they arrived there was nothing to eat,
Three women, all crazy, and looking so fine,
Were gabbling of bargains along on the street,
For women must talk of bargains they buy,
And homes must suffer, and babies must cry,
And husbands must ever be groaning.
Three women were showing their husbands with glee
Their bargains at prices that never were beat:
Three husbands all starving and mad as could be,
Were tossing the bargains out into the street.
For men don’t know when bargains are cheap,
And women, poor creatures, do nothing but weep,
And husbands must ever be groaning.
――――
THREE LITTLE FISHERS.
Three little fishers trudged over the hill,
Over the hill in the sun’s broad glare,
With rods and crook’d pins, to the brook by the mill,
While three fond mothers sought them everywhere.
For boys will go fishing, though mothers deny;
Watching their chance they sneak off on the sly
To come safely back in the gloaming.
Three mothers waited outside of the gate;
Three little fishers, tired, sunburnt and worn,
Came into sight as the evening grew late:
Their chubby feet bleeding, their clothing all torn,
For “boys will be boys”――have a keen eye for fun,
While mothers fret, fume, scold, and――succumb,
And welcome them home in the gloaming.
Three little fishers were called to explain――
Each stood condemned, with a thumb in his eye,
They promised never to do so again,
And were hung up in the pantry to dry.
Three mothers heaved great sighs of relief,
An end had been put to their magnified grief,
When the boys came home in the gloaming.
FRANK H. STAUFFER.
_Detroit Free Press_, July 10, 1886.
――――
THREE COWS.
Three cows were seized for the tithe rent in the West,
For the parson’s tithe in old Ruthin’s town,
And the Taffies flocked, with a lively zest,
To the farm to see the crummies knocked down
For parsons want tithes, and farmers must pay,
Though crops may fail, and quarter-day,
And bankruptcy they be reaching.
Three bailiffs ran after the cows in the park,
After the cows amid laughter and groan,
Policeman and people enjoying the lark;
And the cattle weren’t caught when the bailies were blown.
But parsons want tithes, and farmers must pay,
Or their kine will be sold and be harried away,
To provide for the Church and the preaching.
Three constables guarded the auctioneer,
And three milch beauties fetched twenty pounds;
The tithe was paid with expenses clear,
And the knight of the hammer was hissed off the ground
For parsons want money, and tithes must be paid;
But the sooner they’re done with the better ’tis said,
Or good-bye to the Church and its teaching.
――――
THREE FISHERS.
Three fishers went fishing out into the sea
With bottles well filled with the regular bait:
They burned in the sun and told stories with glee
And caught one sea-robin, a crab and a skate;
But, as they were told, on the previous day,
More fishes were caught than were carried away,
And then were these fishers a-groaning.
Three fishers all blistered crawled homeward intent
With cussing their luck and without any bait,
And also without the small fortune they’d spent
For one old sea-robin, a crab and a skate,
But then――if the wind or the tide had been right,
Or different bait, or fishes would bite,
These fishers would not be a-groaning.
Three fishers went telling some terrible lies
Of how they returned with a ton or so weight;
The fish, they kept growing in numbers and size
As fast as the fishers could swallow more “bait.”
For spinning of yarns is the only delight
Of fishers who fish without getting a bite
And who, when alone, are a-groaning.
H. C. DODGE.
_Detroit Free Press_, August 21, 1886.
――――:o:――――
HORTICULTURAL EMBLEMS.
A Parody of Rogero’s Song in THE ANTI-JACOBIN.
Snobs of Cambridge, you must all
Have a piece of garden ground,
Well enclosed with a wall,
Or with a fence well guarded round.
Get of plants that none e’er saw
A beautiful variety;
Then be a _member_ of the Hor-
-Ticultural Society!
Work and toil both night and day,
Rearing flowers choice and rare;
And then――if you like you may
With them to the show repair.
But since a SNOB, expect a flaw,
In spite of your anxiety;
’Tis never heeded by the Hor-
-Ticultural Society.
_Humble plants_ in order stand,
And _sensitives_ in order too:
Shrinking from the Floral wand
Of _Mister Touch-me-not_ and Co.
Such _humble plants_ you never saw,
Waiting for their moiety
Awarded to them by the Hor-
-Ticultural Society.
_Cocks-combs_ leave their native seat,
_Cocks-combs_ dwarf and _cocks-combs_ tall,
Other _cocks-combs_ here to meet,
And whisper, “SNOBS, we’ve done you all.”
Oh! what are those great baskets for――
Those looks of such anxiety?
Why! for the _Sweepstakes_ of the Hor-
-Ticultural Society!
Grow a Pine that’s worth a guinea,
And they’ll award you just a crown;
_Quere?_――who is such a ninney?
Some there are――their names are down;
But the pine’s his own!――O, no, ’tis for
One _Mister Sec-Satiety_:
_Wot_ drives the members of the Hor-
-Ticultural Society!!
_The Gownsman_ (Cambridge), November 26, 1830.
END OF VOLUME III.
[Illustration]
Footnotes:
[1] Henry Stephens appears first to have started this
subject of _parody_; whose researches have been borrowed by
the Abbé Sallier, as I am in my turn occasionally indebted
to Sallier. His little dissertation is in the French
Academy’s Memoirs, tome vii, 398.
[2] See a specimen in Aulus Gellius, where this parodist
reproaches Plato for having given a high price for a book,
whence he drew his noble dialogue of the Timæus. Lib. iii.
c. 17.
[3] See Spanheim, Les Césars de l’Empéreur Julien in his
“Preuves,” Remarque 8. Sallier judiciously observes, “Il
peut nous donner une juste idee de cette sorte d’ouvrage,
mais nous ne savons pas précisément en quel tems il a été
composé;” no more, truly, than the Iliad itself!
[4] Les Parodies du Nouveau Théätre Italien, 4 vol. 1738.
Observations sur la Comédie et sur le Génie de Molière, par
Louis Riccoboni. Liv. iv.
[5] I am indebted to James Gordon, Esq., F.S.A., (Scotland)
for the reference to this poem, and for many other useful
memoranda.
[6] Nursery abbreviation of lollipops.
[7] James Usher, Primate of Ireland.
[8] William Bedell, Bishop of Kilmore.
[9] Jeremy Taylor, Bishop of Dromore.
[10] George Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne.
[11] This stanza is often omitted.
[12] These were the distinguishing marks of a Pilgrim.
[13] The year of noviciate.
[14] Editors of two newspapers of the Opposition.
[15] The once beautiful and famous Vauxhall Gardens, in
the south of London. The last performance in the Gardens took
place on 25th July, 1859, and the ground has since been almost
entirely built over.
[16] In 1846, Sir Robert Peel carried the Repeal of the Corn
Laws, in the face of much conservative and protectionist
opposition.
[17] A noted vendor of wax moulds, short sixes, farthing
rushlight and all other _wick_-ed wares.
[18] Alderman Moon.
[19] Celebration of the coming of age of the late Earl
Brownlow.
[20] Campbell has, in his Gertrude of Wyoming, “All gladness
to the heart, nerve, ear and sight.”
[21] At a time of great agricultural distress the Duke of
Norfolk had suggested that the poor people should provide
themselves with a curry powder of his own device, as a
palliative for hunger. He had perhaps forgotten that when
Marie Antoinette was told that the poor in Paris were
starving for the lack of bread, she replied “Poor things,
why don’t they buy some cake.”)
[22] “Ireland for ever.”
[23] For the engagement of Jenny Lind, that young lady
having deserted to Mr. Lumley, the rival manager, at Her
Majesty’s Theatre.
[24] Sir Andrew Agnew, M.P., an opponent of the admission of
Jews to Parliament.
[25] In the letter which accompanied this song, Professor
Blackie stated that “Sam Sumph,” was a great favorite with
the Edinburgh Students, but that it had not previously been
published. Another great favorite with the Students is the
eminent Professor himself, whose handsome presence, and
genial character are so well known in Auld Reekie. There is
an anecdote related of him, that having to transact some
private business one day, he left a label on his door:
“_Professor Blackie regrets that he cannot meet his
classes to-day._”
A Student coming up effaced the _c_, and left the message――
“_Professor Blackie regrets that he cannot meet his
lasses to-day._”
But the Professor, returning sooner than he expected,
removed another letter, and the intimation on his door for
the rest of the day stood thus:――
“_Professor Blackie regrets that he cannot meet his
asses to-day._”
Se non e vero, e ben trovato.
[26] Sir Stafford Northcote.
[27] _Lixmaleerie_ a corruption of _L’Eglise de Marie_.
[28] Alluding to the then great distance between the picture
frame, in which the green curtain was set, and the band.
[29] The old name for London.
[30] Old Bedlam, at that time, stood “close by London Wall.”
It was built after the model of the Tuileries, which is said
to have given the French king great offence. In front of it
Moorfields extended, with broad gravel walks crossing each
other at right angles. These the writer well recollects; and
Rivaz, an underwriter at Lloyd’s, has told him that he
remembered when the merchants of London would parade these
walks on a summer evening with their wives and daughters.
But now as a punning brother bard sings, “Moorfields are
fields no more.”
[31] “‘Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on’
Were the last words of Marmion.”
[32] _Parliament_――A sweet biscuit now seldom met with.
[33] Whitbread’s shears. An economical experiment of that
gentleman. The present portico, towards Brydges Street, was
afterwards erected under the lesseeship of Elliston, whose
portrait in the Exhibition was thus noticed in the EXAMINER:
“Portrait of the great lessee, in his favourite character of
Mr. Elliston.”
[34] A Scotchman, who was on his dying bed was asked by the
clergyman of his parish “And where do you think you are
going to now?” replied “Hech, meenister, ye ken this is
neether the time nor place to be asking conundrums.” So,
too, it may be said, this is neither the time, nor the place
to discuss questions of political economy. Yet――in answer to
the writer of these bigoted lines――it may be pointed out
that the great, the chief reason for Scotchmen leaving their
own country, is to be found in the iniquitous land laws,
which doom so many of the finest parts of Scotland to be
depopulated for the formation of dear runs, and game
preserves.
And a Scotchman may point with pardonable pride to the fact,
that wherever Scotchmen go they are welcomed as honest,
thrifty, and law abiding citizens. Whilst by their industry,
their intelligence, and integrity, they win the success
which is denied them in their own country, through the
survival of an obsolete feudal system, not at all in keeping
with the spirit of the age.
[35] The writer will not guarantee the absolute correctness
of all these names of localities, but he has carefully
consulted the best authorities on the subject.
[36] The late Dr. E. V. Kenealy, M.P., for Stoke-upon-Trent,
and counsel for the Claimant in the famous Tichborne case.
[37] So says the _Englishman_. It is true the Gaikwar’s
agents in this country deny the assertion point-blank, but
that is nothing in the Doctor’s way.
[38] The Rt. Hon. Stephen Cave, M.P. for New Shoreham.
[39] EPIGRAM
(_On placing the Bankrupt Duke of York’s statue on a high
column_).
To put the Duke upon so high a column,
Appears to me a mockery rather solemn.
Such lofty place for him cannot be meet;
Surely the project they should straight abandon
Of placing him, who’d scarce a _leg to stand on_
Upon a thing of _near one hundred feet_.
_Figaro in London_, Dec., 1834.
EPIGRAM
(_On the Column to the Duke of York’s memory._
In former times th’ illustrious dead were burned,
Their hearts preserved in sepulchre inurned.
This column, then, commemorates the part
Which custom makes us single out――the heart;
You ask “How by a column this is done,”
I answer, “_’Tis a hollow thing of stone_.”
_Figaro in London_, March, 1833.]
[40] Here is to be observed the astonishing similarity of
manners and customs, between the Irish and Scotch, in former
days. How close is
“_Whack for O’Shaughnashane! Tooleywhagg, ho!_
to “_Roderigh Vich Alpine Dhu! ho ieroe!_”
――See _The Lady of the Lake_.
In the present instance, ’tis a _Song at a Banquet_; in the
latter, ’tis a _Song in a Boat_. ’Tis merely the difference
betwixt wine and water. The vassals on both occasions
express their attachment to their Chief, and their ardour
for his _Crest_; one being an _Evergreen Pine_, the other a
_Potato_.
[41] _Jokeby_ was said to have been written by an Amateur of
Fashion.
[42] The indefatigable researches of my friend, Mr. Francis
Douce, have at last enabled him to procure me one of these
celebrated banners. It is quartered according to the most
received military practices, and in the midst appears a
portrait, which I at first mistook for the effigy of a goose
and trimmings; but now find to compose the head and wig of
my friend Robert Warren. On either side are blazoned two
blacking brushes rampant, armed and langued gules, with a
pair of top boots argent. The whole forms a striking
heraldic curiosity, and is now deposited in the British
Museum.
[43] _Major Yelverton._
[44] The deeds of Admiral Sir Charles Napier, as commander
of the Baltic Fleet in the Russian War, bore a very
insignificant relation to his boasts before he assumed the
command.
[45] Sir Edmund Henderson, formerly Chief of the
Metropolitan Police.
[46] Much comment was made upon the fact that the Duchess of
Kent and her daughter, the Princess Victoria (heiress to the
throne), were not present at the coronation of William IV.
[47] [The Marquis of Salisbury, Sir Stafford Northcote, and
Mr. James Lowther.]
[48] Sunderland Times, 7th Jan., 1876, &c.
[49] Report of the Medical Officer of the Privy Council on
the Smallpox Epidemic of 1871-2.
[50] [_The Happy Land_ by F. Tomline and Gilbert A’Beckett
was a burlesque of The _Wicked World_. It was produced at
the Court Theatre on March 3, 1873, and prohibited by the
Lord Chamberlain on March 7, principally because three of
the actors were made up to represent Mr. Gladstone, Mr.
Ayrton, and Mr. Robert Lowe. It was afterwards reproduced
with sundry alterations and omissions.]
[51] Old Pensioners of Sutton’s hospital――so called by the
boys.
[52] For the Glendoveer, and the rest of the _dramatis
personæ_ of this imitation, the reader is referred to the
“Curse of Kehama.”
[53] Midnight, and yet no eye
Through all the Imperial City closed in sleep!
Behold her streets a blaze
With light that seems to kindle the red sky,
Her myriads swarming through the crowded ways!
Master and slave, old age and infancy,
All, all abroad to gaze;
House-top and balcony
Clustered with women, who throw back their veils,
With unimpeded and insatiate sight
To view the funeral pomp which passes by,
As if the mournful rite
Were but to them a scene of joyance and delight.
From Southey’s _The Curse of Kehama_.
[54] This couplet was introduced by the authors by way of
bravado, in answer to some one who alleged that the English
language contained no rhyme to chimney.
[55] Apollo. A gigantic wooden figure of this deity was
erected on the roof. The writer (_horrescit referens!_) is
old enough to recollect the time when it was first placed
there. Old Bishop, then one of the masters of Merchant
Taylors’ School, wrote an epigram upon the occasion, which,
referring to the aforesaid figure, concluded thus:
“Above he fills up Shakespeare’s place,
And Shakespeare fills up his below.”
Very antithetical; but quære as to the meaning? The writer,
like Pluto, “long puzzled his brain” to find it out, till he
was immersed “in a lower deep” by hearing Madame de Staël
say, at the table of the late Lord Dillon, “Buonaparte is
not a man, but a system.” Inquiry was made in the course of
the evening of Sir James Mackintosh as to what the lady
meant? He answered, “Mass, I cannot tell.” Madame de Staël
repeats this apophthegm in her work on Germany. It is
probably understood _there_.
[56] O.P. This personage, who is alleged to have growled
like a bull-dog, requires rather a lengthened note for the
edification of the rising generation. The “horns, rattles,
drums,” with which he is accompanied, are no inventions of
the poet. The new Covent Garden Theatre opened on the 18th
September, 1809, when a cry of “Old Prices” (afterwards
diminished to O.P.) burst out from every part of the house.
This continued and increased in violence till the 23rd, when
rattles, drums, whistles, and cat-calls, having completely
drowned the voices of the actors, Mr. Kemble, the stage
manager, came forward and said that a committee of gentlemen
had undertaken to examine the finances of the concern, and
that until they were prepared with their report the theatre
would continue closed. “Name them!” was shouted from all
sides. The names were declared, viz., Sir Charles Price, the
Solicitor-General, the Recorder of London, the Governor of
the Bank, and Mr. Angerstein. “All shareholders!” bawled a
wag from the gallery. In a few days the theatre re-opened:
the public paid no attention to the report of the referees,
and the tumult was renewed for several weeks, with even
increased violence. The proprietors now sent in hired
bruisers, to _mill_ the refractory into subjection. This
irritated most of their former friends, and, amongst the
rest, the annotator, who accordingly wrote the song of
“Heigh-ho, says Kemble,” which was caught up by the
ballad-singers, and sung under Mr. Kemble’s house windows in
Great Russell Street. A dinner was given at the Crown and
Anchor Tavern in the Strand, to celebrate the victory
obtained by W. Clifford in his action against Brandon, the
box-keeper, for assaulting him for wearing the letters O.P.
in his hat. At this dinner, Mr. Kemble attended, and matters
were compromised by allowing the advanced price (seven
shillings) to the boxes. The writer remembers a former riot
of a similar sort at the same theatre (in the year 1792),
when the price to the boxes was raised from five shillings
to six. That tumult, however, only lasted three nights.
[57] “From the knobb’d bludgeon to the taper switch.” This
image is not the creation of the poets: it sprang from
reality. The authors happened to be at the Royal Circus when
“God save the King” was called for, accompanied by a cry of
“stand up!” and “hats off!” An inebriated naval lieutenant,
perceiving a gentleman in an adjoining box slow to obey the
call, struck his hat off with his stick, exclaiming, “Take
off your hat, sir!” The other thus assaulted proved to be,
unluckily for the lieutenant, Lord Camelford, the celebrated
bruiser and duellist. A set-to in the lobby was the
consequence, where his lordship quickly proved victorious.
“The devil is not so black as he is painted,” said one of
the authors to the other; “let us call upon Lord Camelford,
and tell him that we were witnesses of his being first
assaulted.” The visit was paid on the ensuing morning at
Lord Camelford’s lodgings, in Bond Street. Over the
fire-place in the drawing-room were ornaments strongly
expressive of the pugnacity of the peer. A long thick
bludgeon lay horizontally supported by two brass hooks.
Above this was placed parallel one of lesser dimensions,
until a pyramid of weapons gradually arose, tapering to a
horsewhip.
“Thus all below was strength, and all above was grace.”
Lord Camelford received his visitants with great civility,
and thanked them warmly for the call; adding, that their
evidence would be material, it being his intention to indict
the lieutenant for an assault. “All I can say in return is
this,” exclaimed the peer with great cordiality, “if ever I
see you engaged in a row, upon my soul I’ll stand by you.”
The authors expressed themselves thankful for so potent an
ally, and departed. In about a fortnight afterwards (March
7, 1804), Lord Camelford was shot in a duel with Mr. Best.
[58] Veeshno. The late Mr. Samuel Whitbread, M.P., who
committed suicide in 1815 during a fit of insanity supposed
to have been occasioned by overwork, and anxiety in
connection with the involved financial affairs of Drury Lane
Theatre.
[59] Levy. An insolvent Israelite who threw himself from the
top of the Monument a short time before. An inhabitant of
Monument-yard informed the writer, that he happened to be
standing at his door talking to a neighbour; and looking up
at the top of the pillar, exclaimed, “Why, here’s the flag
coming down.” “Flag!” answered the other, “it’s a man.” The
words were hardly uttered when the suicide fell within ten
feet of the speakers.
[60] Rembling――shifting;
[61] Raving――tearing up;
[62] Tewing――troubling oneself;
[63] Taving――fidgeting;
[64] Clatting――dirtying;
[65] Scratting――scratching.
[66] Ruddle――red chalk for tiled floor.
[67] An affectionate term applied to Mr. Montagu Corry, (now
Lord Rowton,) Secretary to Lord Beaconsfield.
[68] The “Friend of Humanity” was intended for a satire on
Mr. Tierney, M.P., for Southwark, who in early times was
amongst the most zealous of the Reformers. He was an active
member of the _Society of Friends of the People_, and drew
up the justly celebrated Petition in which that useful body
laid before the House of Commons all the more striking
particulars of its defective title to be a body truly
representing the people, which that house then, as now, but
with far less reason, assumed.
[69] Evidently Giles now reads his newspaper.
[70] This stanza was supplied by S. T. Coleridge.
[71] George Canning, of the _Anti-Jacobin_.
[72] Mrs. Fitzherbert and Mary Robinson, the one the wife,
the other the mistress of George, Prince Regent.
[73] State Lotteries were then permitted, but were abolished
in 1826.
[74] Alluding to a coarse skit published by Sir John
Stoddart, in _The New Times_.
[75] The Bishop of Osnaburgh’s _Doxy_. The Duke of York was
Bishop of Osnaburgh, but the _Doxy_ here mentioned alludes
neither to Orthodoxy nor to Heterodoxy, but simply to Mrs.
Mary Anne Clarke, the wife of a stonemason. She became the
mistress of this reverend Bishop, who was also Commander of
the Forces, and to whose memory a column was erected――Heaven
only knows why――at the junction of Waterloo-place and St.
James’s-park. The Duke got into debt, and Mrs. Clarke had to
find money by the sale of commissions in the Army――it is
said, indeed, that she had also applications for bishoprics
and deaneries. The Duke of York had control of the Army, and
as the regulation price of a majority was £2,600 and of a
captaincy £1,500 while Mrs. Clarke only charged £900 and
£700 respectively, she drove, for awhile, a thriving trade;
but at last Colonel Wardle brought the scandal before the
House of Commons, and the Duke was obliged to resign his
post.
[76] Two Boots, an allusion to George IV., and the next few
lines refer to his ill-used wife, Caroline of Brunswick, who
died in August, 1821, shortly after his coronation.
[77] A favourite phrase of the worthy Poet Laureate.
[78] “Dilworth and Dyche are both mad at thy quantities.”
See Mr. Canning’s Parody on Mr. Southey’s Dactylics.
[79] Not only in “Seditious Sapphics,” but in divers kinds
of verse “without a name,” happily unknown to English
Poetry, before Mr. Southey.
[80] “Botany Bay Eclogues,” written in the Laureate’s youth,
full of thefts and theories worthy of the _Bay_, though the
poetry certainly is not.
[81] “Joan of Arc,” Mr. S. says, was written in six weeks,
It may be so――it is easier to _write_ than to _read_ such an
epic.
[82] “Thalaba, the destroyer,” a hotch-potch of all the
measures in the English (and a few more) without rhyme. The
catastrophe is precisely that of Tom Thumb.
[83] “Madoc,” a moral quarto, in which whatever is good for
anything is stolen without acknowledgment from Robertson’s
History of America, whose elegant prose Mr. Southey has
_traduced_ into barbarous blank, in applying all the
striking incidents in the story of Columbus, to a
buccaneering Welsh Chieftain of the 12th century.
[84] “Roderick the last of the Goths.”
[85] “Wat Tyler” was republished about the time Mr. S.
suffered the Laurel――which gave rise to some edifying and
curious contrasts of his new and old opinions.
[86] Mr. S. is guilty of sundry odes to the Holy Alliance,
&c., &c.
[87] “Letter to W. Smith, M.P., from R. Southey, Esq.” of
the contents of which most of our readers are in a state of
happy ignorance――for the publisher, Mr. Murray, is the only
person who suffered from Mr. S.’s “branding iron.” It was
said of Joe Manton’s guns, that they were not _sold_ but
_given away_. As much might Mr. Murray say of this famous
Letter, except that nothing of the Laureate’s resembles the
said Joe’s in readiness _to go off_.
[88] “A Poet’s Pilgrimage to Waterloo,” in which Mr. S.
clearly explains Dryden’s bull――“twice he slew the slain.”
[89] A right melancholy “Lay of the Laureate,” inflicted on
the occasion of the nuptials of the late Princess Charlotte
and Prince Leopold.
[90] The author here alludes to that class of noble or
opulent students, who at Oxford are called _Gentlemen
Commoners_, and at Cambridge _Fellow Commoners_.
[91] A few of the names, indicated only by initials, are now
difficult to identify, but most of them refer to well-known
individuals.
[92] John Borthwick Gilchrist, L.L.D., an eminent oriental
scholar, died in 1841.
[93] Samuel Rogers, Poet and Banker, died in 1855.
[94] Francis, Lord Jeffrey, a Scotch Judge, chiefly
remembered on account of his long connection with, and
numerous contributions to _The Edinburgh Review_, (the “Blue
and Buff”) of which he was one of the founders. In an
article in that Review (July, 1806) he denounced Tom Moore
as “the most licentious of modern versifiers, and the most
poetical of the propagators of impiety.” On this charge,
which was too true to be answered in any other way, Moore
challenged Jeffrey to fight a duel, and the two met at Chalk
Farm, then a favourite spot with duellists. The proceedings
were stopped by the interference of the police, when it was
found that in loading the pistols, the bullets had been
carefully omitted. This circumstance became the talk of the
town, and Moore, especially, was subjected to much ridicule.
Byron thus alludes to the duel:――
“Health to great Jeffrey; Heaven preserve his life,
To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife,
And guard it sacred in its future wars,
Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars.
Can none remember that eventful day,
That ever glorious, almost fatal fray,
When Little’s leadless pistol met his eye,
And Bow Street myrmidons stood laughing by?”
_English Bards and Scotch Reviewers._
When Moore read these lines he was so incensed that he
addressed a challenge to Lord Byron, but by cautiously
confiding it to a discreet friend it somehow never reached
its destination. Moore afterwards became very intimate with
Byron, but he still had his revenge, for he wrote Byron’s
Life.
[95] George Birkbeck, M.D., president of the London
Mechanics’ Institute, and founder of the Birkbeck
Institution in Southampton Buildings, was a physician by
profession, and an ardent advocate for the education of the
people. He died in 1841.
[96] Lord Mayor Waithman, four times elected M.P. for
London, a strenuous advocate for popular rights. He died in
1833, and an obelisk was erected to his memory, in Ludgate
Circus.
[97] Jeremy Bentham, political economist, and father of the
Utilitarian School of writers, died in 1832.
[98] Henry Brougham, Lord Chancellor, who took great
interest in the spread of popular education, and was very
active in the formation of the London University.
[99] Pronounced, “Zo-ee mou sas ag-a-po,” a Romaic
expression of tenderness. It means, “My life, I love you!”
which sounds very prettily in all languages, and is as much
in fashion in Greece at this day, as, Juvenal tells us, the
first two words were amongst the Roman ladies, whose erotic
expressions were all Hellenized.
[100] The notorious Madame Rachel obtained large sums of
money from a certain foolish woman, on the pretences that
she could be made “_beautiful for ever_” and obtain the hand
of the late Viscount Ranelagh in marriage. Neither Madam
Rachel’s cosmetics, nor her matrimonial schemes succeeded,
and Madame Rachel was sentenced to a long term of
imprisonment for obtaining money under false pretences,
whilst her victim became the laughing stock of London.
Madame Rachel died before her term of imprisonment expired.
[101] R. B. Sheridan.
[102] This would seem to show that poet and prophet are
synonymous, the noble bard having afterwards returned to
England, and again quitted it, under domestic circumstances
painfully notorious. His good-humoured forgiveness of the
Authors has already been alluded to in the preface. Nothing
of this illustrious poet, however trivial, can be otherwise
than interesting. “We knew him well.” At Mr. Murray’s
dinner-table the annotator met him and Sir John Malcolm,
Lord Byron talked of intending to travel in Persia. “What
must I do when I set off?” said he to Sir John. “Cut off
your buttons!” “My buttons! what, these metal ones?” “Yes;
the Persians are in the main very honest fellows; but if you
go thus bedizened, you will infallibly be murdered for your
buttons! “At a dinner at Monk Lewis’s chambers in the
Albany, Lord Byron expressed to the writer his determination
not to go there again, adding, “I never will dine with a
middle-aged man who fills up his table with young ensigns,
and has looking-glass panels to his book-cases.” Lord Byron,
when one of the Drury-lane Committee of Management,
challenged the writer to sing alternately (like the swains
in Virgil) the praises of Mrs. Mardyn, the actress, who,
by-the-bye, was hissed off the stage for an imputed intimacy
of which she was quite innocent.
The contest ran as follows:
“Wake muse of fire, your ardent lyre,
Pour forth your amorous ditty,
But first profound, in duty bound,
Applaud the new committee;
Their scenic art from Thespis’ cart
All jaded nags discarding,
To London drove this queen of love,
Enchanting Mrs. Mardyn.
Though tides of love around her rove,
I fear she’ll choose Pactolus――
In that bright surge bards ne’er immerge,
So I must e’en swim solus.
‘Out, out, alas!’ ill-fated gas,
That shin’st round Govent Garden,
Thy ray how flat, compared with that
From eye of Mrs. Mardyn!”
And so on. The reader has, no doubt, already discovered
“which is the justice, and which is the thief.”
Lord Byron at that time wore a very narrow cravat of white
sarsnet, with the shirt-collar falling over it; a black coat
and waistcoat, and very broad white trousers, to hide his
lame foot. These were of Russia duck in the morning, and
jean in the evening. His watch-chain had a number of small
gold seals appended to it, and was looped up to a button of
his waistcoat. His face was void of colour; he wore no
whiskers. His eyes were gray, fringed with long black
lashes; and his air was imposing, but rather supercilious.
He undervalued David Hume: denying his claim to genius on
account of his bulk, and calling him, from the Heroic
epistle,
“The fattest hog in Epicurus’ sty.”
One of this extraordinary man’s allegations was, that “fat
is an oily dropsy.” To stave off its visitation, he
frequently chewed tobacco in lieu of dinner, alleging that
it absorbed the gastric juice of the stomach, and prevented
hunger. “Pass your hand down my side,” said his lordship to
the writer; “can you count my ribs?” “Every one of them.” “I
am delighted to hear you say so. I called last week on Lady
――――; ‘Ah, Lord Byron,’ said she, ‘how fat you grow!’ But
you know Lady ―――― is fond of saying spiteful things!” Let
this gossip be summed up with the words of Lord
Chesterfield, in his character of Bolingbroke: “Upon the
whole, on a survey of this extraordinary character, what can
we say, but ‘Alas, poor human nature!’”
His favourite Pope’s description of man is applicable to
Byron individually:――
“Chaos of thought and passion all confused,
Still by himself abused or disabused:
Created part to rise and part to fall,
Great lord of all things, yet a slave to all:
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled――
The glory, jest, and riddle of the world.”
The writer never heard him allude to his deformed foot
except upon one occasion, when, entering the green-room of
Drury-lane, be found Lord Byron alone, the younger Byrne and
Miss Smith the dancer having just left him, after an angry
conference about a _pas seul_. “Had you been here a minute
sooner,” said Lord B., “you would have heard a question
about dancing referred to me:――me! (looking mournfully
downward) whom fate from my birth has prohibited from taking
a single step.”
[103] “Holland’s edifice.” The late theatre was built by
Holland the architect. The writer visited it on the night of
its opening. The performances were _Macbeth_ and the _Virgin
Unmasked_. Between the play and the farce, an excellent
epilogue, written by George Colman, was excellently spoken
by Miss Farren. It referred to the iron curtain which was,
in the event of fire, to be let down between the stage and
the audience, and which accordingly descended, by way of
experiment, leaving Miss Farren between the lamps and the
curtain. The fair speaker informed the audience, that should
the fire break out on the stage (where it usually
originates), it would thus be kept from the spectators;
adding, with great solemnity――
“No! we assure our generous benefactors
’Twill only burn the scenery and the actors!”
A tank of water was afterwards exhibited, in the course of
the epilogue, in which a wherry was rowed by a real live
man, the band playing――
“And did you not hear of a jolly young waterman?”
Miss Farren reciting――
“Sit still, there’s nothing in it,
We’ll undertake to drown you in a single minute.”
“O vain thought!” as Othello says. Notwithstanding the boast
in the epilogue――
“Blow, wind――come, rack, in ages yet unborn,
Our castle’s strength shall laugh a siege to scorn”――
The theatre fell a victim to the flames within fifteen years
from the prognostic! These preparations against fire always
presuppose presence of mind and promptness in those who are
to put them into action. They remind one of the dialogue in
Morton’s _Speed the Plough_, between Sir Able Handy and his
son Bob:
“_Bob._ Zounds, the castle’s on fire!
_Sir A._ Yes.
_Bob._ Where’s your patent liquid for extinguishing fire?
_Sir A._ It is not fixed.
_Bob._ Then where’s your patent fire-escape?
_Sir A._ It is not fixed.
_Bob._ You are never at a loss?
_Sir A._ Never.
_Bob._ Then what do you mean to do?
_Sir A._ I don’t know.”
[104] A rather obscure mode of expression for _Jew’s_-harp;
which some etymologists allege, by the way, to be a
corruption of _Jaw’s_-harp. No connection, therefore, with
King David.
[105] “A four-in-hand” in early Editions.
[106] On the repeal of the Corn-laws Sir Robert Peel
resigned, and was succeeded by Lord John Russell.
[107] On the night previous to the action, a grand ball was
given at Brussels.
[108] In October 1856, the Chinese captured 12 of the crew
of the Lorcha _Arrow_ in Canton river, on the plea that they
were pirates. Commissioner Yeh, the Chinese commander,
released the prisoners but refused to apologise for the
outrage, thereupon Canton was bombarded and other acts of
war committed. In March 1857 the House of Commons, by a
majority of 19, censured Sir John Bowring, Governor of Hong
Kong, for the “violent measures” he had pursued. The
Ministry (who took his part) dissolved Parliament, and in
the new one a large majority was returned to support Lord
Palmerston, and the Chinese War. Messrs. Cobden, Bright,
Milner Gibson, Layard and many other leading opponents of
the Chinese policy were left without seats.
[109] Mr. Bright was absent on the continent for the benefit
of his health during the whole of the session, and
telegraphed from Rome his intention to stand again for
Manchester, but he was defeated.
[110] This line was borrowed from Sidney Smith.
[111] The last eight lines parody the first eight lines of
Zelica’s song in Moore’s _Lalla Rookh_.
[112] The _Emma_ Mines.
[113] Sir Louis Cavagnari murdered in Cabul.
[114] The Nelson Column.
[115] The system of the purchase of Commissions in the Army
was not abolished until 1871.
[116] In connection with these burlesques, it may be noted
that this prolific dramatic author and inveterate punster
was remotely connected with Lord Byron, to whom, indeed, he
bore a slight personal resemblance. Admiral John Byron, the
grandfather of the poet, was the great-great uncle of the
author of “Our Boys,” in other words, both the poet and the
dramatist were lineal descendants of William the fourth Lord
Byron.
[117] The Princess Beatrice.
[118] Lord Rowton.
[119] Tara is about six and a half miles south of Navan by
road crossing the Boyne by Kilcarn bridge. “Here, it is
supposed,” writes Seward, “there was anciently a magnificent
royal palace, the residence of the Kings of Ireland, where
triennial parliaments were held, in which all the nobility,
gentry, priests, etc. assembled, and here laws were enacted
and repealed, and the general advantage of the nation
consulted. This place is otherwise called Teagh-mor-Ragh,
the great house of the King, and much celebrated in ancient
Irish history.”
[120] Binns was hangman at this time.
[121] Thomas Moore was a great “Diner-out,” and we have it
on Byron’s authority “that he dearly loved a Lord.”
[122] Seager――a distiller noted for his fine flavoured _Old
Tom_, considered the best in the metropolis: whether tossed
off _short_, or mixed into _grog_.
[123] The plant known as asphodel to the later Greeks used
to be laid tombs as food for the dead.
[124] Daniel O’Connell. M.P.
[125] A possible place of exile for the Ameer, as it was
used for the King of Delhi’s prison.
[126] “_The Living Lustres_ appear to us a very fair
imitation of the fantastic verses which that ingenious
person, Mr. Moore, indites when he is merely gallant, and,
resisting the lures of voluptuousness, is not enough in
earnest to be tender.”――JEFFREY, _Edinburgh Review_.
[127] This alludes to two massive pillars of verd antique
which then flanked the proscenium, but which were afterwards
removed. Their colour reminds the bard of the Emerald Isle,
and this causes him (_more suo_) to fly off at a tangent,
and Hibernicise the rest of the poem.
Transcriber’s Note:
This book was written in a period when many words had not become
standardized in their spelling. Words may have multiple spelling
variations or inconsistent hyphenation in the text. These have been
left unchanged unless indicated below. Misspelled words were not
corrected.
Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_. Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and were moved to the
end of the book. Obvious printing errors, such as backwards, upside
down, or partially printed letters and punctuation, were corrected.
Unprinted punctuation and final stops missing at the end of sentences
and abbreviations were added. Commas were changed to stops at ends of
sentences and abbreviations. Duplicate words and letters at line
endings or page breaks were removed. Quotation marks were adjusted to
match as pairs.
Where there was a difference in punctuation, accents, hyphenation,
etc. between the index entry and the poem text, the index entry was
adjusted to match that of the poem.
Illustrated dropped capital letters are indicated within brackets,
thus: [Illustration: B]efore ...
There are two anchors to Footnote [14]. A word is not printed in
Footnote [123]: … used to be laid [in/on] tombs as food …
In the Contents of Parts, Page 187 was changed to Page 137 for Part 31.
In the index for March, March, Make-rags, the page number was changed
from 32 to 33.
“THE COMMONEWEAL, A Song for Unionists,” and “THE OLD CAUSE, A
Counterblast” were printed as side-by-side columns over three pages.
The poems were consolidated so that the stanzas of each poem are
sequential.