Page 260 to 280. Alfred Tennyson.
NOTES AND CORRECTIONS.
The Parody of “The Village Blacksmith,” on page 9, signed SPHINX,
was written by Mr. W. Sappe, of Forest Hill.
Foot Note, page 112.――Mr. Artemus Ward is here credited with the
advice “Never to prophecy unless you know,” an Aberdeen
correspondent points out that Mr. R. Lowell was the real author, the
phrase occurs in “The Biglow Papers:”――
My gran’ther’s rule was safer’n’t is to crow, _Don’t never
prophesy――onless ye know_.
Page 232. Milton’s Epitaph on W. Shakespeare, the fourth line should
read:――
“Under a star y-pointing pyramid.”
Page 24. Read _Charles Baudelure_, not Beaudelaire.
Page 219. _Wine, a Poem._ The Copy of this old poem in the Editor’s
possession, was published anonymously in 1702. It has been ascribed
to John Gay, who was born in 1688, the poem is certainly a
remarkable production for a youth of twenty-one.
INDEX.
――――――――
The authors of the original poems are arranged in alphabetical order;
the titles of the original poems are printed in small capitals,
followed by the Parodies, the authors of which are named wherever
possible.
――――――――
Albert Grant, M.P. and Leicester Square 2
Home, Sweet Home 3
Trial by Jury, in 1884, a Burlesque Law Report, from
the _Pall Mall Gazette_ 20
The Art of Parody, an Article reprinted from _The
Saturday Review_ of February 14th, 1885 103
Tracy Turnerelli and the Golden Wreath 237 238
NATIONAL ANTHEM OF THE UNITED STATES.――
Orpheus C. Kerr’s report of the Prize Competition
for a National Hymn, with copies of the rejected
compositions ascribed to Longfellow, Everett,
Whittier, Wendell Holmes, Emerson, Cullen
Bryant, Morris, Willis, Aldwick, and Stoddart 22
――――:o:――――
Matthew Arnold.
SONNET TO GEORGE CRUIKSHANK 236
_World_――Prize Parody, by V. Amcotts 237
Do. do. by Goymour Cuthbert 237
Do. Competition Parody by Nocturne 237
Do. do. do., by Caraway 237
The subject selected was “Mr. Charles Warner in _Drink_,”
August 20, 1879.
THE FORSAKEN MERMAN 237
_The World_――Prize Parody, by Mrs. Winsloe 238
Do, do. by Miss M. C. Kilburn 238
The subject selected was “Mr. Tracy Turnerelli in the
Provinces, with the Golden Wreath.” September 24, 1879.
The Wreath, from _The World_, July, 1879 238
――――:o:――――
John Dryden’s Epigram on Milton.
“THREE POETS, IN THREE DISTANT AGES BORN” 233
Epigram on Orator Henley, Rock, and Dr. John
Hill 233
” on Chatterton, Ireland, Lauder, and
Macpherson 233
” by D. O’Connell on Three Colonels 233
” on Three Pens, advertisement 234
” on Hemans, Hallam, and Hogg 234
Parody Competition in _Truth_, March 27, 1884――
Epigrams on Brandy and Soda 234
” on Grog and Baccy 234
” on Generals Wolseley, Roberts, and
Graham 234
” on _Truth_ 234
” on Beau Nash, Beau D’Orsay, and
Beau Brummel 234
” on Three Champion Batsmen 234
” on the Midge, the Gnat, and the
Mosquito 234
” on the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle 234
” on Tyndall, Huxley, and Darwin 234
” on a Beau, a Dandy, and a Masher 234
” on Gladstone, Sir S. Northcote, and
Randolph Churchill 234
” on the Members for Eye, Bridport,
and Woodstock 235
” on Lord Salisbury, Sir S. Northcote,
and Lord R. Churchill (several) 235
” on Gladstone, John Bright, and J.
Chamberlain 235
” on Gambetta, Prince Bismarck, and Gladstone 235
” on the Irish Party (several) 235
” on Lord Beaconsfield, Mr. Gladstone, and
Lord R. Churchill 235
” on Whigs, Parnellites, and Tories 233
” on Sir Wilfrid Lawson 235
” on Pitt, Fox, and Gladstone 236
” on Irving, Bancroft, and Toole 236
” on Toole, Sullivan, and Irving 236
” on Irving, Augustus Harris, and Wilson
Barrett 236
” on Mrs. Langtry, Miss Ellen Terry, Miss
Mary Anderson 236
――――:o:――――
Bret Harte.
DICKENS IN CAMP 1
Parodies in print, November, 1884 1
PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES――
That Hebrew Ben D――――, 1878 1
Plain Language from Truthful Robert 3
That Greenwich M.P. (on Mr. Gladstone) 244
The Heathen M.P. (on Mr. Disraeli, in 1876) 245
“Ben Diz was his name” 245
On Chang, the Chinese Giant 245
THE AGED STRANGER――
“I was with Grant” (Albert Grant) 1874 2
Home, sweet Home, with variations, by Bret
Harte, 1881 3
His Finger, a Prose Parody 4
THE RETURN OF BELISARIUS――
To “Auld Willie,” September, 1884 3
“JIM”――
On Bret Harte 246
――――:o:――――
Thomas Hood.
THE SONG OF THE SHIRT――
The Night “Comp” 4
The Song of the Dirt (Covent Garden in 1884) 4
A Song of the Follies of Fashion, 1880 5
The Overseer’s Lament in Australia, 1853,
by M. P. Stoddart 255
The Song of the Dirt, 1858 256
The Song of the Student, 1854 256
The Song of Exams. (Aberdeen) 257
The Song of the Drink 257
The Song of the Wheel 258
The Song of the Sponge 258
The Song of the Streets 259
I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER――
A Parody of, by Phœbe Carey 4
A Parody of, by Tom Hood, junior 5
What it may come to (the House of Lords) 5
Reminiscences of a Grinder (Aberdeen, 1854) 258
Manchester Musings 259
THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM――
The Wanstead Home 5
The Blue-coat Boys’ Ghost 5
A Case of Conscience 259
The Lost Child, or Russell’s Lament on the
Loss of his Reform Bill, 1867 5
“Our heads have met, and if thine smarts,” 258
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS――
The Age of Sighs, 1868 259
Old Year unfortunate (1885) 259
――――:o:――――
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
EXCELSIOR――
Higher 6
Diogenes, 1854 6
Upwards, 1873 6
M. Duruof, 1874 7
The Excelsior Climbing Boy, 1875 7
“The Swampy State of Illinois” 8
The Dowager-Duchess at a Drawing Room 8
“’Brellas to mend” 8
On Mr. Disraeli’s first speech in Parliament 17
The Workhouse (Bob) 17
The Griffin 17
The Country Fair (Minnie Mum.) 17
What Roads! W. F. Field 18
Sloper 18
Divitior, 1858 250
Nettle-rash (from St. Bartholomew’s) 251
Young Lambs to sell 251
U-pi-dee, by F. C. Burnand 251
“Loved Arabella,” 1867 252
Ye poor Mahdi, 1884 252
“Ten thousand pounds” 253
(_re_ Maskelyne v. Irving Bishop)
A PSALM OF LIFE――
What the young woman said to the old maid,
by Phœbe Carey, 1854 11
“Tell me not in doleful murmurs,” by
Thomas Thatcher 11
“Please be cheerful,” advice to Novelists 11
A Psalm of Farming 12
A Song of St. Stephen’s, 1882 12
A Psalm of Burial (on Cremation) 12
On Reading a Life and Letters 12
An Imitation, by C. Baudelaire 24
A Christmas Psalm of Life 246
A Psalm for the Trade 246
The Yankee Merchant to his book-keeper 247
The Psalm of Life as exhibited in Christmas
Annuals 247
THE DAY IS DONE――
A parody of, by Phœbe Carey, 1854 12
THE ARROW AND THE SONG 13
The Birds and the Pheasant, 1867 13
The Ex-Premier (Mr. Gladstone), 1877 13
The Arrow and the Hound, 1884 13
The Bubble and the Bullet, by William Sawyer 248
BEWARE!――
“I know a maiden fair to see” (Kate Vaughan) 9
“I know a masher dark to see” 9
“I know a youth who can flirt and flatter” 247
“I know a Barber who in town doth dwell” 248
“I know a maiden with a bag” 248
The Song of the Oyster Land 248
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
Under Britannia’s spreading Oak, 1884 9
The Low Bohemian, 1878 10
The Village Schoolboy 10
“Beside a Dingy Public-house,” 10
The War Blacksmith, 1866 18
The Lord Chancellor, Finis, 1877 19
The Village Pet. R. E. Blow 21
The City Blackleg 249
“Before a Study of the Nude” 249
THE NORMAN BARON――
The Roman Prelate, by Walter Parke 249
VOICES OF THE NIGHT――
Voices of our Nights, 1861 9
THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS 23
Imitated by C. Baudelaire 24
FLOWERS――
Flowers of Rotten Row in 1858 250
THE BRIDGE――
“I lay in my bed at midnight” 250
THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD――
The Soirée, by Phœbe Carey, 1854 14
EVANGELINE――
Dollarine; a tale of California, 1849 14
The Lost tails of Miletus, by Bret Harte 15
Mabel, the Made-up, Finis 1877 21
THE SONG OF HIAWATHA――
Marks and Remarks on the Royal Academy, 1856 15
The Great Medicine-Man, Punch, 1867 15
Revenge, a Rhythmic Recollection 16
The Song of Big Ben (Truth) 16
The Song of Progress, 1884 16
Le Calumet de Paix, by C. Baudelaire 24
The Great Tichborne Demonstration 253
Pahtahquahong, by Walter Parke 253
The Song of Cetewayo, 1882 254
The Printer’s Hiawatha 254
La Belle Sauvage (Princess Pocahontas), 1870 255
――――:o:――――
John Milton.
The Splendid Shilling, in imitation of Milton,
by John Philips, 1700 217
The Crooked Sixpence, by Bramston 219
Wine, a Poem, 1709 219
A Panegyric on Oxford Ale, 1822 221
The Suet Dumpling 222
The Copper Farthing, by Miss Pennington 222
The School boy, by the Rev. Mr. Maurice 224
The Opening of Parliament, (Prize Parody)
by John Foote, 1880 225
Another version, by H. Hamilton, 1880 226
Prae-Existence, a poem in imitation of John
Milton, by J. B., 1714 226
Dr. Bentley’s alterations of Milton 226
L’ALLEGRO, AND IL PENSEROSO――
Whitsuntide, by the Rev. George Huddersford, 1793 227
Christmas do. do. 227
The Garrulous Man, 1776 227
L’Allegro; or Fun, a Parody 227
The Hare Hunter, by Mundy, 1824 229
Fashion, a Paraphrase of L’Allegro, 1814 229
Ode on the Centennial Birthday of Burns, by
Samuel Lover, 1859 231
Football, by the Author of “The Idylls of the
Rink,” 1883 231
A Reading Man, 1824 233
A Seaside Sonnet, after Milton-Oysters 233
MILTON’S EPITAPH ON SHAKESPEARE 232
Two Parodies on the same, from Punch, dated
1856 & 1863 232
――――:o:――――
Edgar Allan Poe.
Sketch of his Career 25
The Philosophy of Composition 26
THE RAVEN 27
A Gentle Puff, 1845 28
The Gazelle, by C. C. Cooke, 1845 28
The Whippoorwill, 1845 29
The Vulture, by Robert B. Brough, 1853 30
The Tankard, by Edmund H. Yates, 1855 31
The Parrot, by R. B. Brough, 1856 32
The Cat-Fiend (in prose), 1868 32
The Craven (Napoleon III), 1867 33
The Tailor, by A. Merion, 1872 34
The Shavin’, John F. Mill 35
Chateaux d’Espagne, by H. S. Leigh 35
A Ravin’. The Figaro, 1873 36
Dunraven. Punch, 1881, 1884 36 57
The Dove, a Sentimental Parody. J. W. Scott 37
Lines on the Death of Poe. Sarah J. Bolton 38
My Christmas Pudding 39
On a Fragment of a Five-dollar Bill 40
Nothing More 40
Her Pa’s Dog 40
The Phantom Cat, by F. Field, 1868 41
The Croaker, 1875 42
The Stoker (on Dr. Kenealy), 1875. J. Verey 43
The Raven, from the Liverpool _Porcupine_, 1875 44
A Black Bird that could sing, but wouldn’t sing, 1876 45
Cowgate Philanthrophy, 1876 46
Lines to the Speaker of the House of Commons,
from _Truth_, 1877 47
The Baby, from _Finis_, 1877 48
The Maiden. D. J. M., 1879 49
The Promissory Note, Bayard Taylor 50
The “Ager,” by J. P. Stelle 50
The Chancellor and the Surplus, 1579 51
The Raven, dedicated to the Duke of Somerset 52
The Gold Digger, 1880 53
Quart Pot Creek, by J. Brunton Stephens 54
A Sequel, The Spirits, W. T. Ross 55
The Drama Despondent, 1882 56
A Voice 57
The Ravenous Bull and the Bicycle 58
A Cat-as-Trophy, in prose, 1866 58
The End of “The Raven,” 1884 59
Sequel to the Raven, by R. A. Lavender (a Spirit poem) 59
A Vigil Vision, by H. Bickford 60
Isadore, by Alfred Pike, 1843 61
Plutonian Shore, by J. E. Tuel, 1849 70
The Goblin Goose. _Punch_, 1881 71
The College Craven. P. G. S., 1884 71
The (C)raven Student 72
Le Corbeau, by S. Mallarmé, 1875 72
Vox Corvi, 1694 73
Poe-tical Forgeries 73
The Fire Fiend, September, 1864, by Charles
D. Gardette 73
Golgotha, by Charles D. Gardette 75
The Raven, in Dublin 92
The Raven, said to have been translated by Poe
from a Persian Poem 92
Sequel to the Raven, a Spiritual Poem by R.
A. Lavender 93
A Grand Poem, by Lizzie Doten, 1872 94
Farewell to Earth, by Lizzie Doten 95
The Vulture, by Somers Bellamy, 1885 136
SPIRITUAL POEMS, in imitation of Poe, by Mrs. Lydia
Tenney 93
The Raven, by R. Allston Lavender 93
A Grand Poem, by Lizzie Doten 94
The Kingdom, ” ” 94
Farewell to Earth ” ” 95
Improvisations from the Spirit, by Dr. J. J.
Garth Wilkinson, 1857 95
POT-POURRI, reprinted from the scarce New York
Edition of 1875――
The Ruined Palace. (The Haunted Palace) 96
Dream-Mere. (Dreamland) 96
Israfiddlestrings. (Israfel) 97
The Ghouls in the Belfry. (The Bells) 98
Hullaloo. (Ulalume) 99
To Any. (For Annie) 100
Hannibal Leigh. (Annabel Lee) 101
Raving. (The Raven) 102
The Monster Maggot. (The Conqueror Worm) 102
Poetic Fragments 103
Under-Lines 103
THE BELLS 75
The Swells, by R. B. Brough, 1857 76
The Ball-Room Belles. Fun. 1865 77
Pills, by Damer Cape, 1866 77
The Hells. The Tomahawk, 1867 78
Christmas Fancies. Fun, 1867 79
The Bells 79
The Bills, by Thomas Hood, the younger, 1870 80
The Flute 81
The Chimes done in Rhymes, an American parody, 1871 81
The Bills, from the Light Green, 1872 82
The Bells, by an overworked Waiter, 1875 82
The Girls 83
The Bills, by a Mercantile Poet, 1875 83
The Belles, Benjamin D――――, 1876 83
The Bills. The Corkscrew Papers, 1876 84
The Swells. Worthy a Crown? 85
The Bells. Fiz, 1878 85
The Bills. Funny Folks, 1879 86
The Hose. Puck, 1879 87
The Bills. Punch, 1879 87
Bills. Truth, 1880 88
The Bells, Mr. Irving in, 1883 89
The Voice of the Bells, by W. A. Eaton 89
The Bills. Detroit Free Press 89
“O! The Hammers,” by William Allan, 1883 90
Reminiscences of Summer, 1883 90
That Amateur Flute, an American Parody 90
The Office Boy’s Mother in America 91
ISRAFEL――
Bisakel, by J. E. Dalton, 1880 91
The Steed of Fire ” ” 91
ANNABEL LEE 61
Samuel Brown, by Phœbe Carey, 1854 61
The Cannibal Flea, by Tom Hood, the younger 62
The L. C. D. and the L. S. D. by Joseph Verey 62
St. Rose of Lima, by Walter Parke, 1882 63
Beautiful B―――― (Wilson Barrett), J. W. G. W. 63
Annabel Lee, from “Mr. and Mrs. Spoopendyke,”
by Stanley Huntley 64
ULALUME 64
Paralune. Punch, 1881 64
The Willows, by Bret Harte 65
What is in a Name, by Thomas Hood, junior 65
You’ll Resume. Punch, 1882 66
Hope; An Allegory, by John H. Ingram 66
Covent Garden. Fun, 1867 68
The Kingdom, a Spirit poem, by Lizzie Doten 94
LENORE
The Supper of the Four, by A. Merion, 1872 67
FOR ANNIE 68
Tristan and Isolde, by J. W. G. W. 68
LIGIEA――
Hygiea. Punch, 1880 69
The Demon of the Doldrums 69
――――:o:――――
William Shakespeare.
A PROLOGUE, in imitation of Othello’s address to
the Senate 144
Correspondence in _The Daily News_, 1883, concerning
the Gaiety burlesques of _The Tempest_, and
_Hamlet_, including letters from Mr. Moy Thomas,
Mr. W. Kennedy, Mr. John Hollingshead, and
Mr. F. C. Burnand 144
The Daily News on Shakespearian Burlesques,
October 25, 1884 205
Dreary Song for Dreary Summer, by Shirley Brooks,
1860 205
Shakespoke’s Epigram, by J. G. Dalton 205
The Shakespeare Monument Committee, 1823 205
The “New Shakspere Society,” and Mr. F. J. Furnivall 162
――――――――
THE TEMPEST――
The Tempest; or, the Enchanted Isle, by Sir W. Davenant
and John Dryden 146
The Enchanted Isle; or, Raising the Wind, by R. B.
and W. Brough, produced at the Adelphi Theatre,
1848, with the cast 203
Ariel, by F. C. Burnand, produced at the Gaiety
Theatre, October, 1883, with the cast 204
WHERE THE BEE SUCKS 204
Who would be Great Grand Lord High? By J. R. Planché 204
“OUR REVELS NOW ARE ENDED” 204
“Those Golden pallaces,” by Lord Stirling 204
“Our Parodies are ended” 204
――――――――
MEASURE FOR MEASURE――
“TAKE, O, TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY” 188
Take, O, take that bill away 188
Take, O, take the haunch away, by W. H. Ireland, 1803 188
Take, O, take that wreath away (to Mr. Tracy
Turnerelli) 189
I bought thee late a golden wreath (after Ben
Jonson) 189
Take, O, take Parnell away, 1882 189
AY, BUT TO DIE, AND GO WE KNOW NOT WHERE 244
Ay, but to love, and not be loved again 244
Oh, but to fade, and live we know not where,
by Phœbe Carey 169
――――――――
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING――
“SIGH NO MORE, LADIES” 202
Rail no more, Tories, 1823 202
Sigh no more, Dealers, 1867 203
――――――――
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM――
Act I. A Midsummer Nightmare, 1885 197
Act II. The Casting of the Cabinet, 1885 197
“That very time I saw,” by Phœbe Carey 169
I KNOW A BANK 198
I know a Bank (a monody on Money), 1879 198
I know a Bank (at Paddington), 1883 198
I am that merry wanderer of the night (Lord
R. Churchill) 199
――――――――
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE――
Shylock; or, the Merchant of Venice Preserved; by
F. Talfourd. Produced at the Olympic Theatre, 1853 179
“What find I here? Fair Portia’s counterfeit” 180
TELL ME, WHERE IS FANCY BRED? 180
Tell me, what is Fancy Bread? 180
A Parody by J. R. Planché, 1843 204
THE QUALITY OF MERCY IS NOT STRAINED――
The Jollity of Nursey is not feigned, 1883 180
This Quality of Jelly must be strained, 1880 180
The Quality of Flirting is not strained 204
――――――――
AS YOU LIKE IT――
THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN 169
“All the Town’s a Slide,” 1850 172
“All the World’s a Stable” 174 242
“All the World’s away” (for the holidays) 241
“All Parliament’s a Stage” (Political) 241
“All the Night’s a Stage” (on noises) 242
“All the Day’s a Plague” (on street noises) 242
“All the World’s a Newspaper,” 1824 195
The Stage Coach Company, 1803 170
The Patriot’s Progress, 1814 170
The Seven Ages of Woman 170 174
The Seven Ages of Æstheticism 171
The Seven Ages of Intemperance, 1834 171
The Poetry of the Steam Engine, 1846 172
The Seven Ages of the French Republic, 1848 172
The Seven Ages of a Public Man, 1855 172
The Catalogue of the British Museum 173
The Seven Ages in Mincing Lane, 1868 173
The Politician’s Seven Ages, 1868 173
The Seven Ages of Acting, 1884 174
The Seven Ages of Love, 1881 174
The Seven Carriages of Man, 1885 174
The Seven Drinks of Man, 1885 175
The Seven Courses at Dinner 241 242
The Seven Ages of Cricket 242
The Seven Ages of a Clergyman 243
The Seven Ages of a Politician 243
The Seven Forms of Insanity 243
The Seven Ages of a Sailor 243
The Seven Ages of Fashion 244
“Dinner is a Stage,” by F. B. Doveton 240
“Parliament’s a Stage” (Political) 241
Bud, Blossom, and Decay, by T. F. D. Croker 195
Jaques in Capel Court, 1845 (Gambling on the Stock
Exchange) 171
A Paraphrase, by E. L Blanchard, 1866 196
Oxford is a Stage, 1868 196
A Shakespearian after-dinner Recitation, by F. Upton, 196
A FOOL, A FOOL! I MET A FOOL I’ THE FOREST 194
The same, with a cold in the head (at Combe) 194
A Dude――a dude! I met a dude 195
Blow, blow thou Winter Wind, a parody on 176
Lines on Mrs. Langtry as _Rosalind_, 1882 176
Lines on Miss Mary Anderson as _Rosalind_, at
Stratford-on-Avon, August, 1885 244
UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE 196
Under the Greenwood Shed, by Shirley Brooks, 1866 197
――――――――
A WINTER’S TALE――
Perdita, or the Royal Milkmaid, by William Brough.
Produced at the Lyceum Theatre, 1856, with the cast 200
Zapolya, a Christmas Tale by S. T. Coleridge, 1817 200
――――――――
KING JOHN――
King John Burlesque, by G. A. A’Beckett. Produced at
the St. James’s Theatre in 1837 199
Cast of Characters in the burlesque, and extracts
from it 199
――――――――
KING HENRY V.――
PROLOGUE ACT IV. 201
Lord Mayor’s Day, 1827 201
――――――――
RICHARD THE THIRD――
“NOW IS THE WINTER OF OUR DISCONTENT” 189
“The World” Parody, Competition. The return of
Lord Chelmsford from Zululand 190
Cetewayo’s Soliloquy 190
King Richard ye Third, by Charles Selby, at the
Strand Theatre in 1844 190
The Rise and Fall of Richard III., or a new Front to
an old Dicky, by F. C. Burnand, at the Royalty
Theatre in 1868, with the Cast 191
Richard III, Travestie, by William By, 1816 191
Richard III. Burlesque, by J. Sterling Coyne, 1844 191
――――――――
KING HENRY VIII.――
CARDINAL WOLSEY’S FAREWELL 191
Henry Irving’s Farewell, 1875 191
Mr. Gladstone’s Farewell to his Old China, 1875 191
A Parody in _College Rhymes_ 192
――――――――
ROMEO AND JULIET――
I do remember an old Bachelor, 1832 176
I do remember a Cook’s shop 176
I do remember a young pleader, by G. Wentworth, 1824 176
I do remember a strange man, a herald, by R. Surtees 177
Ha! I remember a low sort of shop, by J. R. Planché 204
THE SHAKESPEARE OF THE PERIOD, 1869――
Romeo and Juliet, as arranged by T. W. Robertson 177
Romeo and Juliet, as arranged by T. Maddison Morton 178
Romeo and Juliet as arranged by H. J. Byron 178
Do. Do. as arranged by Dion Boucicault 178
Romeo and Juliet Travestie, by Andrew Halliday.
Produced at the Strand Theatre, 1859 179
Romeo and Juliet; or, the Shaming of the True.
Performed at Oxford during Commemoration, 1868 179
――――――――
JULIUS CÆSAR.
THE SPEECH OF BRUTUS OVER THE BODY OF CÆSAR 192
The Poacher’s Apology 192
MARC ANTONY’S SPEECH 192
Parody Competition in _The Weekly Dispatch_,
June 28, 1885. 193
A Speech by Sir W. Harcourt, by T. A. Wilson 193
A Speech by John Bright, by H. L. Brickel 193
On Mr. Gladstone leaving Office, by George Mallinson 193
――――――――
MACBETH.
Macbeth, in a Song from _Rejected Addresses_ 181
The Incantation on Penenden Plain, 1828 181
Is this a Sovereign which I feel behind me? 1852 182
Macbeth Travestie, in _Accepted Addresses_ 182
Macbeth Travestie, by F. Talfourd, 1847. Performed
at Henley; at the Strand Theatre in 1848; and at
the Olympic Theatre in 1853 182
Making the Pudding; a Christmas Incantation 183
The Modern Macbeth. H. Savile Clarke, 1885 183
Shakespeare’s Recipe for cooking a Beef Steak 184
M. Alexis Soyer’s Soup for the Poor (on the
Incantation Scene) 239
Macbeth’s Soliloquy parodied, 1830 240
Shakespeare’s Ghost on the New Apocalypse August, 1885 240
――――――――
HAMLET.
TO BE, OR NOT TO BE (from the 1623 folio edition) 146
Oh, say! To be, or not to be? As a song, from
George Cruikshank’s Almanac, 1846 146
To Be, or not to Be? By T. Thatcher 146
To Be, or not to Be? On London’s Municipal
Reform, 1884 147
To Be, or not to Be? By Mark Twain 147
To Be, or not to Be? As supposed to be amended by
Mr. F. J. Furnivall 163
To Act, or not to Act? (on Speculation) 147
To Affiliate, or not to Affiliate? 148
To Bake, or not to Bake? Advertisement 148
To Bathe, or not to Bathe? 148
To Bee, or not to Bee? (Spelling Bee) 148
To Be, or not to Be? (Gladstone’s Soliloquy)
Prize Parody by Jessie H. Wheeler 149
To Box, or not to Box? 149
Burgh, or No-Burgh? From the _Ardrossan Herald_ 146
Canal, or no Canal? By F. B. Cottier (on the
Suez Canal) 150
To Cheat, or not to Cheat? By an Attorney 150
Clôture or no Clôture? Punch, 1882 151
To Come, or not to Come? For a Bashful Reciter,
by Henry J. Finn 151
Compromise, or no Compromise? 1884 151
To Dance, or not to Dance? Judy, 1871 151
To Drink, or not to Drink? American Paper 152
Ditto ditto Punch, 1841 152
Ditto ditto From Hamlet Travestie,
by F. Talfourd, 1849 152
To Dun, or not to Dun? The Mirror, 1823 152
To Dye, or not to Dye? The Tomahawk, 1869 153
To Dig, or not to Dig? J. M. Dron (Another proposed
Suez Canal) 150
Etre, ou ne pas être! A French version 162
A Flea, or not a Flea? by James Robinson 153
To Fight, or not to Fight? 1823 202
To Go, or not to Go? Ophelia’s Version. 153
To Have it out, or not? A Dental Soliloquy 153
To Hiss, or not to Hiss? The Puppet Show 154
To Hunt, or not to Hunt? The Mirror, 1823 154
To Pay, or not to Pay? The Debtor’s Soliloquy,
by F. J. Overton, 1881 154
To Pay, or not to Pay? (on the Suez Canal).
by Leonard Harding 150
To be, or not to be Polite? Gossip, 1885 155
To Print, or not to Print? Rev. R. Jago 155
To Yield, or not to Yield? (To the Tories) 149
To Rat, or not to Rat? Once a Week, 1868 155
To Smoke, or not to Smoke? 244
To Sleep, or not to Sleep? O. P. Q. P. Smiff 162
To Shave, or not to Shave? Diogenes, 1854 155
Ditto ditto by T. F. Dillon-Croker 156
To Starve, or not to Starve? W. H. Ireland 156
To Sniggle, or to Dibble? by F. C. Burnand 202
To Stick to Hoy, or not? The Argus, 1831 157
To Stitch, or not to Stitch? The Mirror 157
To Strike, or not to Strike? by a Cabman, 1867, 157
To Stand, or not to Stand, 1808 161
Trousers, or no Trousers? (The Bloomer Question)
The Month, 1851 158
Tubby, or not Tubby? by F. C. Burnand 161
To Urn, or not to Urn? by William Sawyer 161
To Vaccinate, or not? 1881 158
To Wash, or not to Wash? by J. P. Roberdeau, 1803 158
To Write, or not to Write? The New Lady’s
Magazine, 1786 160
_On the Marriage Question._
To Wed, or not to Wed? The New Lady’s Magazine, 1786 158
To Woo, or not to Woo? Posthumous Parodies, 1814 159
To Wed, or not to Wed? by W. A. Clouston 159
Marry, or not to Marry? Political Note Book, 1824 159
To Wed, or not to Wed? Echoes from the Clubs, 1868 159
Ditto ditto, Anonymous 161
To Be, or not to Be (married)? by W. H. Edmunds 160
To Pop, or not to Pop the fatal question? 160
When a man becomes tired of his life (Song founded
on the Soliloquy) 162
The Soliloquy in Hebrew, 1880 202
Hamlet in Prose, 1848 202
The Ghost Scene parodied 203
Hamlet Travestie, by John Poole, 1810 161
Hamlet, or, not such a fool as he looks, by the Author
of “The Light Green” 1882 160
Very Little Hamlet, by W. Yardley, at the Gaiety
Theatre, 1884 164
Hamlet Travestie, by F. Talfourd, 1849 164
Three Children sliding on the Ice 162
Furnivallos Furioso and the Newest Shakespeare
Society, 1876 163
The advice of Polonius to Laertes, a Parody of, by
H. J. Byron 164
Hamlet’s instructions to the Players, Parody of, by
W. S. Gilbert, in _The Pretty Druidess_, 1869 165
See what an incubus sits on our City, 1882 165
Look here upon this picture, and on this 165
A Parody Cigarette Advertisement 165
Parody of the scene between Polonius and Ophelia,
by F. Talfourd 165
The Barrow Diggers, an Antiquarian conversation
in imitation of the Grave Diggers Scene, 1839 167
An Irish Play bill, 1793 169
Ben Dizzy patch’d and mended for to-day, Fiz, 1879 169
Hamlet from a new point of view 164
――――――――
OTHELLO――
OTHELLO’S SPEECH TO THE SENATE 184
The Strolling Player’s Apology 184
Kenealy’s Speech to the Senate, 1875 184
“Good name, in Man and Woman” 185
A Parody in the Ingoldsby Legends 185
FAREWELL, THE TRANQUIL MIND! 185
A Parody, by George Colman 185
The Undertaker’s Farewell, 1849 185
Farewell the quiet chop! (at Evans’s) 1879 185
Shakespeare’s Farewell 185
Address by J. P. Kemble. (O.P. Riots, 1810) 186
William IV. and Reform, 1832, Parody of a scene
from _Othello_ 186
Punch and Lord John Russell, 1848 187
Henry Irving as Othello 187
Othello Travestie, an Operatic Burlesque Burletta,
by Maurice G. Dowling, produced at Liverpool
in 1834, and at the Strand Theatre 188
――――――――
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA――
An Extravaganza, founded on Antony and Cleopatra,
by F. C. Burnand, produced at the Haymarket
Theatre, 1866 201
――――――――
CYMBELINE――
FEAR NO MORE THE HEAT O’ THE SUN 193
Fear no more the voice of the don, 1872 194
“Our Parodies are ended” 204
――――:o:――――
King Queer, and his Daughters Three, at the Strand
Theatre, 1855 205
A Coriolanus Travestie, by J. Morgan, produced in
Liverpool, 1846 205
――――:o:――――
Miss Ann Taylor.
MY MOTHER 106
A History of the poem “My Mother” 106
My Mary, by William Cowper 107
My Mother, by an Outcast 107
” ” by F. Talfourd 167
My Mother-in-Law 108
Mothers. The Humourist 143
My Baedeker, from Tracts in Norway 143
My Banker. Punch 1855 111
” ” Judy 1879 142
My Barrett (Mr. Wilson Barrett), 1884 111
My Bismarck. Judy 1867 112
My Broker. Punch 1875 111
My Brother 142
” ” The Boys Own Paper, 1884 109
My Father 134
My Mother 134
My Brother 134
My Sister 135
My Boot-Hooks. The Man in the Moon 113
My Bicycle. J. G. Dalton 113
My Bishop. Thomas Moore 123
My Chignon. Girl of the Period 113
My Client. Punch, 1875 111 112
My Dentist. R. E. Egerton-Warburton 113
My Father. Truth, 1877 127
My Godwin. J. and H. Smith 121
My Hairs. Thomas Hood 114
My Hookah 114
My Jenny (on Jenny Lind) 114
My Landlady. Figaro Album 115
My Lodger. Judy, 1869 115
My Little-go. College Rhymes, 1865 115
My Member. Punch, 1852 116
My Murray. Punch, 1857 116
My Miguel. Thomas Moore 122
My Nose. John Jones 116
My Punch 117
My Relations. Funny Folks, 1879 108
My Stockings 117
My Tutor. Paulopostprandials, 1883 143
My Tailor, by a Man of Fashion 117
My Ticker. Punch, 1842 118
My Uncle (ascribed to Louis Napoleon) 118
My Uncle. Punch, 1845 118
My Uncle. John Taylor 118
My Uncle. Punch, 1871 119
My Valentine. Judy, 1880 119
My Whalley. The Tomahawk, 1867 119
My Whiskers. The Belle Assemblée, 1833 120
My Yot. Punch, 1880 120
A Lay of Real Life 109
Audi Alteram Partem 110
Harry’s Complaint 110
A Sister’s Complaint 110
“Another,” by J. W. G. W. 135
Avitor, by Bret Harte 132
“Baby” at the Strand Theatre, Fun, 1879 128
Blucher, Cambridge Odes 123
Cattle Show Queries 132
Free Trade v. Protection, Punch, 1849 124
Her Mother, Finis 109
Her Mother, Funny Folks 132
King Clicquot, Punch, 1855 125
Lines by a Girl of the Future, 1869 126
L. S. D. (Money), Figaro, 1874 127
Nobody 132
Nursy-Pursy, The Tomahawk, 1869 108
Our Bishops, Jon Duan, 1874 127
Our Sunday down East, Punch, 1880 129
Our Marquis, Truth, 1884 130
The Turncock, Punch, 1843 124
The Ramoneur, Punch, 1843 124
The Baker. Punch, 1853 124
The Poet, C. Rae Brown, 1855 125
The Baby Show, Cuthbert Bede, 1856 126 108
The Russians, Benjamin D――――, 1876 127
The “Doctor,” Funny Folks, 1877 128
The Weather, Truth, 1879 128
The Weather, Punch, 1881 129
The Egyptian Baby (Tewfik) 130
The Fog, Judy, 1882 130
The Mahdi, The Referee, 1884 130
The Lords. H. E. Harker 131
The “Comp.” 131
The Newspaper, 1823 122
The Proctor, The Gownsman, 1831 123
The Slug, Judy, 1873 141
The Fog, Judy, 1876 141
The Nervous, The Argosy, 1866 142
The Bible 133
The Orange 133
The People’s William, Ipswich Journal, 1885 131
Tight Lacing, Truth, 1879 128
Your Friend, Countess of Blessington 120
Another Friend (a Stick) 121
Woman, L. O. Shaw 1815 121
Velluti, 1828 122
Valentine (the Curate) 142
What the Seasons bring 130
Who? Ah, who? The Figaro, 1874 110
Who’s who in 1851. Punch, 1851 112
――――:o:――――
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
MARIANA――
Mariana on the Second Floor, 1851 260
Mary Anne; or the Law of Divorce, 1858 260
The Owl’d Yarn, by R. F. Hind 261
ORIANA――
Yule Tide (Oh, my Gracious!) 261
The Ballad of Hoary Anna 261
Idadæca, from Kottabos, 1881 262
Randy-Pandy, by George Cotterell, 1885 203
LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE――
Miss Matilda Johnson Jones, by Gilbert Abbot
à Beckett, 1845 263
THE MERMAN――
The Mer(ry)man, by George Cotterell 264
THE MAY QUEEN――
“You must save me from the Jingoes,” by
J. Arthur Elliott 139
Hodge’s Emancipation, by John H. Gibson 140
Outside the Lyceum, April, 1885 140
The Lord Mayor 264
The May Queen with a cold 264
Russia to England 265
At the Play 265
THE LOTUS EATERS――
The Onion Eaters 140
A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN――
A Vision of Great Men 265
A Dream of Fair Drinking 265
A Dream of Unfair Trade 265
ULYSSES――
The Czar of Russia 265
LOCKSLEY HALL――
Lay of Boxing Night, 1847 266
Lincoln’s Inn, by Albert Smith, 1851 266
St. Stephen’s Revisited, by G. Cotterell 267
The Grinder, March, 1885 267
Digwell’s Lament, 1865 267
GODIVA――
Whittington, 1858 268
THE EAGLE, and a Parody 268
BREAK, BREAK, BREAK――
“Block, block, block,” by G. Cotterell 263
“Sleep, sleep, sleep,” by F. Field 209
The Lost Joke 269
“Talk, talk, talk!” (to Mr. Parnell) 269
“Wake, wake, wake!” by R. H. W. Yeabsley 269
“Thirst, thirst, thirst!” 269
“Broke, broke, broke!” 269
Who breaks pays 269
Gladstone hath us in his net 270
THE BROOK――
The Song of the Flirt 270
The Mont Cenis Train, 1868 270
The Corn, by Jayhay, 1878 271
The River, a Steamboat version 271
The Song of the Steam Launch 272
The Sherbrooke. A Lowe Ballad 272
A Lay of Lawn Tennis 272
HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD――
Home they brought her “Worrier” dead 273
“Let me lie here,” by John Cotton 273
Give me no more 140
“The Slander falls in different halls” 273
TEARS, IDLE TEARS――
Tears, maudlin Tears 141
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE――
The Light (Blue) Brigade――The University Boat Race 273
The Gas Stoker’s Strike, by J. Verey, 1873 274
Clapham Junction, by J. Verey 274
The Charge of the “Light” Brigade, by C. T. Druery 274
The Charge of the Heavy Brigade at Kassassin 275
The Charge of the Fire Brigade 275
A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA――
Stradella, by Rose Grey, 1863 275
A Welcome to Battenberg, Funny Folks 136
In Tennysoniam, by Albert Smith, 1851 276
A Parody of Tennyson’s Prefatory Sonnet for
“The Nineteenth Century” 276
Wages, Judy 140
IDYLLS OF THE KING――
A Parody of the Dedication (on John Brown) 276
A little rift within the lute 277
“Too soon, too soon” 277
“Little Miss Muffet” as an Arthurian Idyll 277
DESPAIR, 1881――
Never say die 278
Hands all round, by John Phelan 278
THE FLEET (April, 1885), The Times 137
The Bard (on his reported imbecility) 137 138
A Laurel. J. Fox Turner 137
“We, we.” E. S. Watson 137
Tennyson (on his reported lunacy) 137
Tennyson Tackled. Punch 137
Our Fleet. Moonshine 138
Parody Competition Poems on _The Fleet_.――
Prize Parody, by Mrs. Emily Lawrence 138
A Conservative (on his leader’s reported inefficiency).
Henry L. Brickell 138
The Government. John Carter 139
The Laureate. Exe 135
The Corporation. Thomas H. Knight 139
To the Jingo. George Mallinson 139
To the Jingo. Edward Scott 139
Gladstone’s Rebuke. Jesse H. Wheeler 139
The Unfitness of the Meat, by F. B. Doveton 279
LINES TO PRINCESS BEATRICE ON HER MARRIAGE 279
Two Suns of Love make day of human life 279
Two Moons for thee of honey and of strife 279
Two sums of cash will fill a German purse 279
Two tones of love make woe of married life 279
Two things, no doubt, make day of married life 280
Two tricks of trade make bearable my life 280
Two sorts of grants make rich the royal train 280
Two bridal loves make laugh of “You, you’s” song 280
Tennyson on General Gordon 141
――――:o:――――
Isaac Watts, D.D.
HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE 206
How doth the little busy Flea 206 208
How doth the ever busy Wasp 207
How doth the busy Russian Bee, 1875 207
How doth the dizzy Disraeli, 1858 207
How doth the lively Spelling Bee, 1876 207
How doth the little busy Wheeze 207
How doth the busy Parliament, 1876 208
How doth the little Crocodile 208
How doth the little Mosquito 208
How doth the honest Land League man, 1881 208
How doth the little coal-hole top 208
How doth the very Bizzy Bee (Bismarck) 209
How doth the gorging, greedy Bee 209
How doth the wobbling, wily wops 209
Buggins’s Variations of the Busy Bee 209
A Prose Version 207
LET DOGS DELIGHT TO BARK AND BITE 210
Let Canine Animals, 1847 210
Let Austria delight to bark and bite, 1854 210
Let peaceful Bright in speech delight, 1854 210
Let Lords delight to bark and bite, 1869 210
Let Rads delight to bark and bite 211
Let Bigots write with sneers of spite 211
Let Fools and Bullies brawl and fight 211
Let Cads delight with fists to fight 212
Let Frenchmen fight with kick and bite 215
Whigs in their cosy berths agree, 1849 210
Birds in their little nests agree 211
Oh, Marcus! You should never let 211
On a Fracas at Newmarket, 1883 211
To a Policeman 212
When Bishops, who in wealth abound 216
’TIS THE VOICE OF THE SLUGGARD 212
’Tis the moan of old Louis (of France), 1823 212
’Tis the voice of the lobster 212
’Tis the voice of the Czar, 1879 213
’Tis the voice of the Rinker 213
’Tis the voice of Britannia 213
’Tis the voice of the glutton 213
’Tis the voice of the oyster 213
’Twas the voice of the “Special” 213
A Parody from _Funny Folks_ 212
The Wise one and the Foolish 213
WHENE’ER I TAKE MY WALKS ABROAD 214
Do. do. in London Streets 214
The Irish Landlord’s Song 214
I cannot take my walks abroad 214
Another Version, by Shirley Brooks 215
Whene’er abroad we take our walks (in Covent Garden) 215
Abroad in the Boroughs 215
How sweet a thing it is to dwell 216
Why should I relieve my neighbour 216
A Paraphrase on Dr. Watts’ Distich on the Study
of Languages, 1792 216
――――――――
Bret Harte.
DICKENS IN CAMP.
Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting,
The river sang below;
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting
Their minarets of snow.
The roaring camp-fire, with rude humour, painted
The ruddy tints of health
On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted
In the fierce race for wealth;
Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasure
A hoarded volume drew,
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure
To hear the tale anew;
And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,
And as the firelight fell,
He read aloud the book wherein the Master
Had writ of “Little Nell.”
Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy,――for the reader
Was youngest of them all,――
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar
A silence seemed to fall;
The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,
Listened in every spray,
While the whole camp, with “Nell” on English meadows,
Wandered and lost their way.
And so in mountain solitudes――o’ertaken
As by some spell divine――
Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken
From out the gusty pine.
Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire:
And he who wrought that spell?――
Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
Ye have one tale to tell!
Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story
Blend with the breath that thrills
With hop-vines’ incense all the pensive glory
That fills the Kentish hills.
And on that grave where English oak and holly
And laurel wreaths intwine,
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,――
This spray of Western pine!
BRET HARTE.
July, 1870.
――――――――
PARODIES IN PRINT.
Among the books the gloom was darkly drifting,
The writer’s spirits low;
The duller serials, and the weeklies, lifting
But melodies of woe.
The older authors, with rude humour, painted
The glowing fun of health
Now lost in dreary prose, jokes died or fainted
In sterner race for wealth;
Till one arose, and from the past’s great treasure
Of hundred volumes drew,
A scheme to tap the hoard untold of pleasure
And bid it flow anew;
And so the parodies unearthed grew vaster,
Than ever one could tell,
All mimicking some mighty poet Master,
In many a sprightly “Sell.”
Perhaps ’tis too fond fancy,――that the reader
Should leave the weeklies all,
Let _Punch_ go prosing, scorn the _D. T._ leader,
And let _Police News_ pall;
While ’mid these gambols of poetic shadows,
Listening to bygone play,
As each mad parody evokes the glad “Ohs!”
(As Browning p’raps would say).
See Tennyson, in mighty verse――o’ertaken,
Mimicked in tripping line――
When jokes from Longfellow, so grave, are shaken
Like gush in penny-a-line.
To find in rush of their poetic fire,
A comic theme told well,
While stately verse, and song, and culture higher,
Are used some joke to tell.
Lost be that scamp, who would no funny story
Tell in the rhyme that thrills
Like farthing rushlight posing as the glory
Of sun o’er ancient hills.
If, in the crowd of puppets, some poor dolly
Should ape a bard sublime,
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly――
To jest is not a crime.
J. W. G. W.
November, 1884.
――――――――
THAT HEBREW BEN D――――
_House of Lords, January_, 1878.
Which I wish to remark――
And my language is plain――
That for ways that are dark,
And for tricks that are vain,
The Hebrew Ben D―――― is peculiar,
Which the same I would like to explain.
I have mentioned his name,
And I shall not deny,
In regard to the same
He is wary and sly;
And his smile it is mocking and ice-like
And there isn’t no green in _his_ eye.
Now, some rumours had spread,
Which Ben D―――― could not burke,
And every one said
He’d been at his old work.
(It was strange, you must know, how he doated
Upon the “Unspeakable Turk.”)
It was Gran-Vil who rose,
And quite soft was his style;
But you must not suppose
That he hasn’t no guile;
Yet D―――― played it that day upon Gran Vil
In a way that made most of them smile.
Which some questions he’d brought,
And Ben rose――as ’twas planned――
To reply. What was sought
He did well understand;
But he smiled, as he stood at the table,
With a smile that was artfully bland.
How he trifled with sense,
You would scarcely believe;
And with cunning intense,
Fancy statements did weave:
Whilst he kept back his facts by the dozen,
And the same, with intent to deceive.
Yes, the tricks that were play’d
By that Hebrew, Ben D――――,
And the points that he made
Were quite shocking to me;
Till at last he sat down amid laughter,
And chuckling himself, I could see.
Then up sprang Ar-Gyle,
With his hair flowing free,
And he gave a wild snort,
And said, “Shall this be?
We are humbugged by Asian myst’ries,
And he went for that Hebrew, Ben D――――.
Which the war-dance he had
Was exciting to watch,
Though I feared, lest too mad,
His job he might botch,
For he whooped, and he raved, and he ranted;――
You see he’s so pepp’ry and Scotch.
Still, the scene that ensued
Was uncommonly grand,
For the floor it was strewed,
Like the leaves on the strand,
With the facts that Ben D―――― had been hiding,
The facts “He did well understand.”
For his head, which is long,
Contained facts by the score;
Which, with effort so strong,
Ar-Gyle out of it tore;
Till Ben D――――, if he has any feelings,
Must have, morally, felt very sore.
Which expressions is strong,
Yet but feebly imply
What I think of the wrong――
Not to call it a lie――
As was worked off by Benjy on Gran-Vil,
Which he can’t go for it to deny.
Which is why I remark――
And my language is plain――
That for ways that are dark,
And tricks that are vain,
The Hebrew Ben D―――― is peculiar,
Which the same I am bold to maintain.
_Truth_, January 31, 1878.
――――――――
THE AGED STRANGER.
(_An Incident of the War_).
“I was with Grant――” the stranger said,
Said the farmer, “Say no more,
But rest thee here at my cottage porch,
For thy feet are weary and sore.”
“I was with Grant――” the stranger said;
Said the farmer, “Nay, no more,――
I prithee sit at my frugal board.
And eat of my humble store.
“How fares my boy,――my soldier boy,
Of the Old Ninth Army Corps?
I warrant he bore him gallantly
In the smoke and the battle’s roar!”
“I know him not,” said the aged man,
“And, as I remarked before,
I was with Grant――” “Nay, nay, I know,”
Said the farmer, “Say no more;
“He fell in battle,――I see alas!
Thou’dst smooth these tidings o’er,――
Nay: speak the truth, whatever it be,
Though it rend my bosom’s core.
“How fell he,――with his face to the foe,
Upholding the flag he bore?
O, say not that my boy disgraced
The uniform that he wore!”
“I cannot tell,” said the aged man,
“And should have remarked, before,
That I was with Grant,――in Illinois,――
Some three years before the war.”
Then the farmer spake him never a word,
But beat with his fist full sore
That aged man, who had worked for Grant
Some three years before the war.
BRET HARTE.
The following parody appeared in _Jon Duan_, one of Beeton’s Christmas
Annuals. The original poem refers to General Ulysses S. Grant,
President of the United States; the parody is in allusion to Mr.
Albert Grant, M.P., who presented Leicester Square to the public in
July, 1874, and whose name was then prominently before the public in
connection with numerous financial schemes:――
“I WAS WITH GRANT.”
“I was with Grant――――” the stranger said;
Said McDougal, “Say no more,
But come you in――I have much to ask――
And please to shut the door.”
“I was with Grant――――” the stranger said;
Said McDougal, “Nay, no more,――
You have seen him sit at the Emma Board?
Come, draw on your mem’ry’s store.
“What said my Albert――my Baron brave,
Of the great financing corps?
I warrant he bore him scurvily
’Midst the interruption’s roar!”
“No doubt he did,” said the stranger then;
“But, as I remarked before,
I was with Grant――――” “Nay, nay, I know,”
Said McDougal; “but tell me more.”
“He’s presented another square!――I see,
You’d smooth the tidings o’er――
Or started, perchance, more Water-works
On the Mediterranean shore?
“Or made the Credit Foncier pay,
Or floated a mine with ore?
Oh, tell me not he is pass’d away
From his home in Kensington Gore!”
“I cannot tell,” said the unknown man,
“And should have remarked before,
That I was with Grant――Ulysses, I mean――
In the great American war.”
Then McDougal spake him never a word,
But beat, with his fist, full sore
The stranger who’d been with Ulysses Grant,
In the great American war.
_Jon Duan_, 1874.
――――――――
PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL ROBERT.
(_With Apologies to Bret Harte’s “Truthful James.”_)
Do I sleep? Do I dream?
(I’m sarcastic, no doubt.)
Are things what they seem?
Or is visions about?
Is our wonderful whistle a failure, and are rattle
and truncheon played out?
Which expressions is strong;
Yet I beg to declare
That the constable throng
Have a grievance to air
While they’re forced to meet murderous cracksmen
upon terms which are far, far from fair.
Charley Peaces abound
In the subbubs to-day;
And they’re apt, when they’re found,
To go blazing away
At a constable all unpertected, which the same
has the worst of the fray.
Can you tap a cove’s head
If you’re progress is checked
By the neat bit o’ lead
That a Colt does eject?
And when bullets is lodged in your stummick, can
you tootle with proper effect?
That you _can’t_, I submit,
And the truth must be faced
That the Force will get hit,
And the town be disgraced,
Till each Bobby with Billy――that’s Sikes, sir――on a
more equal footing is placed.
Are these shootings a dream?
(I’m sarcastic, no doubt.)
Are things what they seem?
Or is visions about?
Is our wonderful whistle a failure, and are rattle
and truncheon played out?
_Funny Folks_, August 2, 1884.
_Scribners’ Monthly_ for May, 1881, contained a humorous collection of
imitations of various authors, entitled “Home, Sweet Home, with
Variations.” It commences by giving a couple of verses from the
original poem by John Howard Payne; next comes a variation such as
might have been written by Algernon Charles Swinburne. Walt Whitman,
Austin Dobson, Oliver Goldsmith, and Alexander Pope are also supposed
each to contribute a new setting of the old song, the imitation of
Walt Whitman is exquisitely humorous; but that which principally
concerns us here is the third imitation, which is entitled:――
HOME, SWEET HOME
as Mr. Francis Bret Harte might have woven it into a touching tale of
a western gentleman in a red shirt――
Brown, o’ San Juan,
Stranger, I’m Brown.
Come up this mornin’ from ’Frisco――
Ben a-saltin’ my specie-stacks down.
Ben a-knockin’ around,
Fer a man from San Juan,
Putty considable frequent――
Jes’ catch onter that streak o’ the dawn!
Right thar lies my home――
Right thar in the red――
I could slop over, stranger, in po’try
Would spread out old Shakspoke cold dead.
Stranger, you freeze to this: there aint no kinder gin-palace,
Nor no variety-show lays over a man’s own ranche.
Maybe it hain’t no style, but the Queen in the Tower o’ London
Aint got naathin’ I’d swop for that house over thar on the hill-side.
Thar is my ole gal, ’n’ the kids, ’n’ the rest o’ my live-stock;
Thar my Remington hangs, and thar there’s a griddle-cake br’ilin’
Fer the two of us, pard――and thar, I allow, the heavens
Smile more friendly-like than on any other locality.
Stranger, nowhere else I don’t take no satisfaction.
Gimme my ranch, ’n’ them friendly old Shanghai chickens――
I brung the original pair f’m the States in eighteen-’n’-fifty――
Gimme them, and the feelin’ of solid domestic comfort.
Yer parding, young man――
But this landscape a kind
Er flickers――I ’low ’twuz the po’try――
I thought thet my eyes bed gone blind.
* * * * *
Take that pop from my belt!
Hi, thar――gimme yer han’――
Or I’ll kill myself――Lizzie! she’s left me――
_Gone off with a purtier man!_
Thar, I’ll quit――the ole gal
An’ the kids! run away!
I be derned! Howsomever, come in, pard――
The griddle-cake’s thar, anyway.
――――――――
TO “AULD WILLIE.”
(_After Bret Harte’s “The Return of Belisarius.”_)
So again you’ve been at it, old fellow,
The old game of four years ago;
You’ve given the Tories a drubbing;
You’ve had, so it seems, quite a go.
By Jove! and you _were_ down upon them,
Denouncing, and all that, you know;
But what about Egypt, old fellow,
And those vows of yours four years ago?
Ah! it’s far, far from jolly, old fellow,
To think it is four years ago,
And scarcely a measure effected,
Attempted, and all that, you know!
You denounce Lords and Tories with vigour;
But for all your palaver, I trow,
Matters are about much of a muchness
To-day, they were four years ago!
AVONICUS.
_The Weekly Dispatch_, September 14, 1884. (Parody Competition).
Bret Harte’s prose writings have been frequently parodied, and several
examples will be given when the subject of prose parodies is reached.
One of the best of these occurs on page 156 of _The Shotover Papers_
for November, 1874; it is entitled “His Finger.”
[Illustration]
Thomas Hood.
(_Continued from Part_ 12 )
THE NIGHT “COMP.”
With fingers weary and worn,
Eyelids heavy and red,
A “comp.” stood at his frame all night,
Picking up “stamps” for bread.
Full-point, comma, and rule,
Colon, and quad, and space,
“Setting” a line, “pie-ing” a line,
Dozing awhile at his “case.”
“Leader,” and “latest,” and “ads.”
“Nonp.” and “brevier” and all that;
Matter all solid, never a “break;”
Oh! for a trifle of “fat!”
Moon peeping in through the pane;
Gas, with its dull yellow glare;
Nought to be heard, save the solemn “click, click,”
And the Editor’s foot on the stair.
One o’clock! two o’clock chimed!
“Proofs,” coming up again, “read;”
Three o’clock! four o’clock! daylight is here;
Trudge away homeward to bed.
ANONYMOUS.
――――――――
THE SONG OF THE DIRT.
(_Covent Garden Market, August_, 1884)
With boots all dirty and worn,
And trousers heavy with mud,
A Londoner trudged on a market day
With a footfall’s dreary thud――
Splash, splash, splash!
While cabbage-leaves spatter and spirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
He sang “_The Song of the Dirt_.”
Splash, splash, splash!
From morn to even-time,
Splash, splash, splash!
Through garbage, filth and grime.
Stenches strong in the street,
Streets with stenches strong,
As over the flags I gingerly creep,
I wonder to whom they belong.
Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the man far away in the rear,
But I’m forced to hold my nose,
For I must with such odours near.
Oh! but for one short hour
An appetite good to feel!
I formerly used my dinner to want,
But a walk now costs a meal.
With boots all dirty and worn,
And trousers heavy with mud,
A Londoner trudged on a market-day
With a footfall’s dreary thud.
Splash, splash, splash!
While garbage may spatter and spirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch――
Would that its cry could reach the rich――
He sang “_The Song of the Dirt_.”
_Punch_, August 23, 1884.
[Illustration]
I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.
I remember, I remember,
The house where I was wed,
And the little room from which that night
My smiling bride was led;
She didn’t come a wink too soon,
Nor make too long a stay;
But now I often wish her folks
Had kept the girl away!
I remember, I remember,
Her dresses, red and white,
Her bonnets and her caps and cloaks,――
They cost an awful sight!
The “corner lot” on which I built,
And where my brother met
At first my wife, one washing-day,――
That man is single yet!
I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to court,
And thought that all of married life
Was just such pleasant sport:――
My spirit flew in feathers then,
No care was on my brow;
I scarce could wait to shut the gate,――
I’m not so anxious now!
I remember, I remember,
My dear one’s smile and sigh;
I used to think her tender heart
Was close against the sky;
It was a childish ignorance,
But now it soothes me not
To know I’m farther off from Heaven
Than when she wasn’t got!
_Poems and Parodies_, by Phœbe Carey, Boston, United States, 1854.
――――――――
The first number of _Truth_, which appeared January 4, 1877, contained
a long parody, signed by Thomas Hood. This, of course, was Tom Hood,
the Editor of _Fun_, and son of the author of the original “I
Remember.”
I remember, I remember,
The house――’twas Clunn’s Hotel,
The friends who knocked me up at eight,
I recollect as well;
They never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
For liquor flowed from when they came
Till when they went away.
I remember, remember,
The “brandies”――large and small――
The Chablis and the _Veuve Clicquot_,
The sodas split by all;
The caraffe at my bedside set,
With cognac well filled up――
And what a time it took to mix
The primal champagne cup.
(_Here five verses are omitted_).
I remember, I remember,――
Last and fresh this memory comes,――
They brought hot pickle sandwiches,
Which filled my bed with crumbs;
It was a heated taste I own;
But brandy’s apt to cloy,
Unless you pick your palate up
With devilled eggs and soy.
THOMAS HOOD.
――――――――
WHAT IT MAY COME TO.
I remember, I remember,
The House where I was bred;
The Woolsack, whence the CHANCELLOR
That annual Message read.
He never came till after four,
And rarely stayed till five;
For, if their dinners were delayed,
_Could_ Senators survive?
I remember, I remember,
The Marquises and Earls,
The peerless rows of Peeresses,
Those flowers decked in pearls.
The cross-bench, where the Princes sat;
And where the Prelates shone
In piety and lawn arrayed――
The Bishops now are gone!
I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to spout,
And thought the papers must be mad
To leave my speeches out.
My eloquence was practised then,
That now is left to rust;
And Statesmen oft, I’m sure, have winced
Before my boyish thrust!
I remember, I remember,
The Commons trooping in;
I used to think that in a fight
The Peers must always win.
It was a childish ignorance,
But now ’tis little joy
To know I’m kicked out of the House
I sat in when a boy!
_Punch_, September 6, 1884.
――――――――
An imitation of Hood’s _Dream of Eugene Aram_ was published in
_Truth_, February 22, 1877. Its twenty-six verses were descriptive of
the sorrows of a poor orphan girl on leaving the Wanstead Home to go
into service:――
’Tis in the prime of summer-time,
A sunny morn in May,
And scores of merry maidens cease
A moment from their play;
For from their Happy Wanstead Home,
A girl is going that day.
* * * * *
A still more melancholy poem, in imitation of the same original,
appeared in _Truth_, July 19, 1877. This was entitled _The Blue-coat
Boy’s Ghost_, and described, in twenty-seven verses, the horrible
manner in which a poor lad, named Arthur Gibbes, had been killed in
Christ’s Hospital. A public investigation was held, and the result
showed that a brutal system of fagging was in full force in the
school, and that scarcely any supervision was exercised over the elder
boys.
“Meeting in the Boudoir; or, a Song of the Follies of Fashion,” which
appeared in _Truth_, June 24, 1880, was a long parody of Hood’s _Song
of the Shirt_, in fourteen verses.
“The Lost Child, or Russell’s lament on the loss of his Reform Bill,”
a long, political parody of Hood’s _Lost Child_, appeared in _Punch_,
February 16, 1867.
[Illustration]
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
(_Continued from Part_ 12)
[Illustration: O]n page 101, Part VII., of _Parodies_ there is a poem
called _The Settler’s version of Excelsior_. It was taken from a MS.
copy, lent by a friend. The following is probably more correct. It is
an American attempt to translate _Excelsior_ into plain English:――
HIGHER.
The shadows of night were a-commin’ down swift,
And the dazzlin’ snow lay drift on drift,
As thro’ a village a youth did go,
A carryin’ a flag with this motto,――
Higher!
O’er a forehead high curled copious hair,
His nose a Roman, complexion fair,
O’er an eagle eye an auburn lash,
And he never stopped shoutin’ thro’ his moustache,
Higher!
He saw thro’ the windows as he kept gettin’ upper
A number of families sittin’ at supper,
But he eyed the slippery rocks very keen,
And fled as he cried, and cried while a fleein’――
Higher!
“Take care, you there!” said an old woman; “stop!
It’s blowin’ gales up there on top――
You’ll tumble off on t’other side!”
But the hurryin’ stranger loud replied,
Higher!
“Oh! don’t you go up such a shocking night.
Come sleep on my lap,” said a maiden bright.
On his Roman nose a tear-drop come,
But still he remarked, as he upward clomb,
Higher!
“Look out for the branch of that sycamore-tree!
Dodge rollin’ stones, if any you see!”
Sayin’ which the farmer went home to bed,
And the singular voice replied overhead,
Higher!
About quarter-past six the next afternoon,
A man accidentally goin’ up soon
Heard spoken above him as often as twice,
The very same word in a very weak voice,
Higher!
And not far, I believe, from quarter off seven――
He was slow gettin’ up, the road bein’ uneven――
Found the stranger dead in the drifted snow,
Still clutchin’ the flag with the motto――
Higher!
Yes! lifeless, defunct, without any doubt,
The lamp of his life being decidedly out,
On the dreary hillside the youth was a layin’!
And there was no more use for him to be sayin’
Higher!
――――――――
DIOGENES!
The carriages were filling fast,
When o’er a railway platform pass’d
A youth who bore, with tread precise,
A paper with this bold device,
DIOGENES!
His arm a parcel held beneath;
He drew a number from its sheath,
And shouted, with well-practised lung,
Accents that through the station rung,
DIOGENES!
In happy hours he saw the light,――
The Cynic’s lantern glowing bright;
Resolved to make its lustre known,
His lips soon gave the welcome tone,
DIOGENES!
“One hither pass,” an old man said,
(Life’s tempests snow’d his aged head;)
He oped his mouth with laughter wide,
While still the clamorous vendor cried,
DIOGENES!
“Oh stay!” a maiden cried; the rest
Around her were as much impress’d;
Each looking forth with eager eye,
Urging the vendor to supply!
DIOGENES!
Beware! the train moves from the branch;
The sheets fly like an avalanche!
The boy’s blue eyes with pleasure shine,
While voices shout far up the line,
DIOGENES!
Far on the way, with breaks down hard,
Two trains each other rush toward;
And midst the wreck so fearful there,
Voices are heard still loud and clear,
DIOGENES!
A traveller on a rugged mound
Was in a hundred pieces found;
His hand still grasping like a vice
That paper with its bold device,
DIOGENES!
There, as he cold and lifeless lay,
Smiles seem’d around his lips to play!
Still in the air his accents are,
And echo through each passing car,
DIOGENES!
From _Diogenes_, February 4, 1854.
_Diogenes_ was a comic paper, somewhat resembling _Punch_ in its
general features. It contained many good parodies, principally in
reference to the Crimean War.
――――――――
A pesky night was coming down,
As a young man pass’d through a rustic town;
And in his hand he clutch’d a flag,
And this is what was on the rag――
Upards!
As he pass’d by three windows he chanced to see
Three several families taking tea;
He smelt the cakes, but never swerved,
But as he drop’t a tear, observed――
Upards!
A nice girl holler’d “Stay, oh stay!
And I will marry you right away;”
While tears all down his cheeks did flow,
“Its no use, young woman, I’m bound to go――
Upards!”
Said a cute old cove, “Young man, take care,
There’s a rotten old pine-tree fix’d up there;
Sure as eggs is eggs it will fall on your head,”
The young man only wink’d and said――
Upards!
Next morning at the break of day,
A Shaker chanced to pass that way,
And thought he heard the voice of a coon,
A-singing to a service toon――
Upards!
His dog then sniff’d and smelt about,
And soon discover’d what, without doubt,
Was the young man’s body all cover’d with snow,
What carried the flag with the rum motto――
Upards!
All cover’d in snow the young man lay,
In a sort of uncomfortable kind of way;
And though as dead as any nail,
A voice was heard borne on the gale――
Upards!
A. Z.
_The Tonbridgian_, April 1873.
――――――――
M. DURUOF.
The shades of night were falling fast,
As from the table d’hôte there pass’d
A pair who cried that they would rise,
Obedient to the people’s cries,
Excelsior!
Their hearts were brave――with reckless breath,
They swore they both could face the Death!
And, answering to the mob’s fell clang,
Foolhardy were the boasts that rang,
Excelsior!
In Calais’ streets they saw the light
Of homes and gas-lamps gleaming bright,
Yet from their lips escaped no groan,
As onward flew the mad balloon,
Excelsior!
“Try not the air,” their friends had said,
“Dark storms are raging overhead;
The seas are tossing far beneath,
And you will meet with certain death,
Excelsior!”
“Come, let us go!” his wife had cried;
“We will not stay, for all beside
Will chaff us, if we do, and jeer;”
He answer’d, “You are right, my dear,
Excelsior!”
“Beware the Tempest’s awful blast!
’Twill sweep you out to sea at last!”
This was the Frenchman’s last good-night.
Cried some one, now far out of sight,
“Excelsior!”
Next morn some sailors out at sea
With nets were toiling wearily;
When loud resounded through the air
A cry that made them wondering stare,
Excelsior!
Two travellers at the dismal sound,
Half-buried in the waves were found,
Grasping with eager clutch the ropes,
On which depended all their hopes,
Excelsior!
There ’mid the tossing billows’ spray,
Wretched and shivering they lay;
The freed balloon then, with its car,
Shot upward like a rising star,
Excelsior!
_The Tonbridgian_, September, 1874.
――――――――
THE EXCELSIOR CLIMBING BOY.
(_Poëma partìm Canino-Latinum, post_ LONGUM――_seu
potiùs, meritò dicatur_,――EXCELSIOREM SOCIUM).
Some few, whose days are closing fast,
Remember, in their time long past,
How youth, in toil of little price,
Might yet have borne, for their device,
Excelsior!
These youngsters, in that distant time,
Swept chimneys, which they had to climb,
They could have cried as they clomb higher,
Like one who skywards did aspire,
Excelsior!
Our “Climbing Boys,” as they were called,
Howe’er they “Sweep!” and “Soot O!” bawled,
As they ascended up the flue
Were not instructed to halloo
Excelsior!
By reek and close air overcome,
The Climbing Boy was oft struck dumb,
And stifled soon, unless got out――
Of course he then no more could shout
Excelsior!
His knees were worn by rough ascent
Bare to the very ligament;
Flayed were his fingers and his toes;
Because he grazed them as he rose,
Excelsior!
When, jammed in, on his upward way
He stuck fast, oft, some used to say,
His master, in the grate below,
Would light a fire, to make him go
Excelsior!
These horrors having been at last
Dragged into day, an Act was passed
Declaring it, henceforth, a crime
To make a child a chimney climb
Excelsior!
Still certain Bumbles, it appears,
Against the law, these many years,
Have had their Town Hall’s chimneys swept
By means of little boys who crept
Excelsior!
May a new law, more strictly framed,
All parties hit at whom ’tis aimed,
Concerned in making children sweep
Foul flues, whilst painfully they creep
Excelsior!
Long brush, worked deftly by machine,
All chimneys must, ye Bumbles, clean,
Law must on cruel masters fall,
Who take to driving urchins small
Excelsior!
_Punch_, June 26, 1875.
――――――――
EXCELSIOR.
The swampy state of Illinois
Contained a greenish sort of boy,
Who read with idiotic joy――
Excelsior!
He tarried not to eat or drink,
But got a flag of lightish pink,
And traced on it, in violet ink――
Excelsior!
Though what he meant by that absurd,
Uncouth, and stupid, senseless word,
Has not been placed upon record――
Excelsior!
The characters were very plain,
In German text, yet he was fain,
With greater clearness to explain――
Excelsior!
And so he ran, this stupid wight,
And hollered out with, all his might,
(As to a person out of sight)――
Excelsior!
And everybody thought the lad
Within an ace of being mad,
Who cried in accents stern and sad――
Excelsior!
“Come to my arms,” the maiden cried:
The youth grinned sheepishly, and sighed,
And then appropriately replied――
Excelsior!
The evening sun is in the sky,
But still the creature mounts on high,
And shouts (nor gives a reason why)――
Excelsior!
But ere he gains the topmost crag
His feeble legs begin to lag;
Unsteadily he holds the flag――
Excelsior!
* * * * *
Now P. C. Nab is on his track!
He puts him in an empty sack,
And brings him home upon his back――
Excelsior!
Nab takes him to a lumber store,
They toss him in and lock the door,
Which only makes him bawl the more――
Excelsior!
_Edinburgh Sketches and Miscellanies_. By ERIC. (John Menzies and
Company, Edinburgh, 1876).
――――――――
THE DOWAGER-DUCHESS AT THE DRAWING ROOM.
(“A bleak, nipping south-easterly wind was blowing throughout
yesterday, the glass having again fallen, but the usual rules as to
the Court dress to be worn by all ladies who attended the Drawing Room
were strictly enforced. Low-cut bodies, both at back and front, were
_de rigueur_.”――_Weekly Paper_, February, 1880).
The Dowager-Duchess has been to the Palace,
And duly presented the Honourable Alice;
And now we will show in what sort of condition
Her grace, who is eighty, returned from this mission.
The shades of night were falling fast,
As up a Mayfair street there passed
A carriage with this strange device
As crest:――A _rampant_ cockatrice
And _enfant or_.
Within was seen an agèd dame,
Whose breath in gasps most frequent came;
Her face was white as Death’s own hue,
Her Roman nose was red; with blue
Her lips spread o’er.
The fair young maiden by her side,
By briskly rubbing, bravely tried
Her grandma’s blood to make reflow――
It seem’d a hopeless object, though,
She labour’d for!
“Oh joy!” this maiden cried, when she
Observed they’d stopped at forty-three;
“_We are at_ home, dear Grandma, come!
Do speak to me!” The Dame was dumb――
E’en as before.
And when she would have left her seat,
She all but tumbled in the street;
Her state, in fact, the house alarms,
When, leaning on the flunkey’s arms,
She gains her door.
“Be quick and heat my grandma’s bed!”
The Honourable Miss Alice said:
“Let well warmed bricks in flannel wrapp’d
Without delay be in it clapp’d,
And bottles hot!
“Beware no window open be,
And blankets bring at once to me!”
Thus was the maiden’s forethought shown――
Her Grandma scarce had strength to groan:
“Hot ginger, dear!”
And ere of minutes ten had fled,
The chilled old Duchess was in bed;
Where, thanks to measures prompt and sound,
She promised shortly to come round
To health once more.
Then in the firelight, thin and gray,
And cold, but not so cold, she lay,
Whilst from her lips, no longer blue,
A voice came, somewhat hoarse ’twas true,
And somewhat sore.
* * * * *
_Truth_, February 26, 1880.
――――――――
AFTER LONGFELLOW.
(_A Long Way_).
The western sun was sinking fast,
As through the quiet street there passed
A tinker with a blackened eye,
Who ever and anon did cry――
“’Brellas to mend.”
His brow was dark with smoke and soot,
His raiment, rags from head to foot;
And like a penny trumpet rung
The beery accents of his tongue――
“’Brellas to mend.”
He lingered at the corner “pub,”
He drew his last coin from his fob;
He quaffed his glass of half-and-half,
And only answered to their chaff――
“’Brellas to mend.”
“Go not again,” the landlord said,
“Wild blows the tempest overhead,
Your rags will lash you unto death.”
Our friend replied with bated breath――
“’Brellas to mend.”
“Oh, stay,” the daughter said, “and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast;
Why should’st thou from our presence fly?”
This was the tinker’s sad reply――
“’Brellas to mend.”
“Beware the stern blue-coated man――
Beware the falling chimney-can;”
Such was the landlord’s parting word,
And this was the reply they heard――
“’Brellas to mend.”
In Duke Street, at the break of day,
Within a court the tinker lay;
In falling he his leg had broke,
When gently raised, these words he spoke――
“’Brellas to mend.”
He died; his body calmly rests;
His ghost the lonely streets infests;
And often at the midnight hour
A voice cries, with sepulchral power――
“’Brellas to mend.”
_Teddy May and other Poems_, by William Thomson, Glasgow, 1883.
[Illustration]
VOICES OF OUR NIGHTS.
(Submitted to the American Poet, by Mr. Wrongfellow).
I heard the feline footsteps in the night
Pad through the Court and Hall!
I saw the sable wretch in the moon’s light
Climb MRS. COXE’S Wall!
I felt her (that I did! I’m sure I’m right!)
Step o’er me just above;
With shrill pathetic mewings through the night,
As of a cat in love.
I heard the sounds of passion and of fight,
The caterwauling chimes,
That fill each attic chamber in the night,
Where some starved poet rhymes.
My night-capped head in the cool midnight air
Sought vainly some repose;
The echo of perpetual squalls rose there,
From the new cistern rose.
Peace! peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend, you green-eyed fright!
I hate, while thus you screech, and spit, and swear,
The cat-infested night!
_Punch_, May 4, 1861.
――――――――
PICKED UP AT THE STALL ENTRANCE TO THE NOVELTY THEATRE.
I know a maiden fair to see――
K. V.! K. V.! (Cave!)
She dances most bewitchingly――
K. V.! K. V.!
Her twinkling feet, her ankles neat,
Her _pirouettes_, her glances sweet,
Will make your heart more quickly beat――
K. V.! K. V.!
When you are seeing “Lalla Rookh”――
K. V.! K. V.!
O keep your eyes upon the book――
K. V.! K. V.!
Or Kate’s fair face, and facile grace
Will “mash” you in a moment’s space;
Then yours will be a hopeless case――
K. V.! K. V.!
_Truth_, May 22, 1884.
(Referring to Miss Kate Vaughan’s performance of the part of Lalla
Rookh, in Mr. Horace Lennard’s burlesque extravaganza of Moore’s
poem).
――――――――
Picked up at the stage entrance to the Novelty Theatre:――
I know a masher dark to see,
J. D., J. D.
He mashes most bewitchingly,
J. D., J. D.
His varnished feet, his collars neat,
His buttonhole (gardenia sweet),
Must make her heart more quickly beat,
J. D., J. D.
When you are seeing _Lalla Rookh_,
J. D., J. D.
Pray keep your eyes upon the book,
J. D., J. D.
For Kate’s fair face and lower lace
Have made you change your mind apace;
Ah, yours must be a dreadful case!
J. D., J. D.
_The Topical Times_, May 24, 1884.
[Illustration]
SUGGESTED BY “THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.”
(_With Apologies to the Shade of Longfellow._)
Under Britannia’s spreading oak
The Grand Old Woodman stands;
A presentation axe he wields
With large and sinewy hands;
But the onslaught of his cruel arms
As yet the tree withstands.
His hair is white and dank and long
His collars none can span;
His brow is wet with honest sweat――
He chops down all he can;
He won’t look Duty in the face,
But he’ll talk with any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his speeches flow;
You can hear him wag his ceaseless tongue,
Dreary and loud and slow,
As the sexton’s song on the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
The children of his Rebel School
Crowd round his open door;
They love to watch his swelling gorge,
And hear his blatant roar,
And catch the myriad words that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach――
He hears his own loved voice,
Reading the daily lessons,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like an angel’s voice
Singing in Paradise!
Which reminds him he will talk no more
When in the grave he lies,
And with his collar end he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Talking――orating――promising,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begun,
Long years don’t see it close;
Too much attempted, nothing done,
How _can_ he seek repose?
Experience by thee, my friend,
Thy country has been taught;
Hadst though been doomed to silent life,
As reckless talkers ought,
Then had thy native land escaped
Much evil thou hast wrought.
SPHINX.
_The Globe_, September 10, 1884.
――――――――
THE LOW BOHEMIAN.
Before the _Cheshire Cheese’s_ bar
The low Bohemian stands;
A sallow, seedy man is he,
With dirty nails, and hands;
And ’tis in a gin-sodden voice
He “four of Cork” demands.
His nose is large and very red,
His mouth ’twere hard to span;
His daily work he likes to shirk,
He borrows when he can,
And he scans new comers anxiously,
For he owes to many a man.
Week in, week out, from morn to night,
He loiters bars before;
He knows the barmaids’ Christian names
(A fact they much deplore;)
Now here, now there, he, with a leer,
Slinks in at the swinging door!
He glories in the _Referee_,
And reads the _Weekly Times_,
In _Reynolds’_ finds congenial stuff,
And sends it jokes and rhymes;
For he’s a writer for the press,
When liquor duly primes.
Loafing――and loitering――liquoring――
Down to his grave he goes;
Each morning finds him “coppery,”
He’s “screw’d” ere night doth close;
Something attempted――some one “done,”
Whilst liquor always flows.
He dies at length, and round his grave
His boon companions tread,
Then go and drink at various bars
Till maudlin tears are shed――
Whilst their dead friend has left a wife
And children lacking bread!
But his lost life and early death,
Do they no sermon preach?
His doom, self-sought, has it no power
A lesson strong to teach?
No; his friends’ brains too sodden are,
The message them to reach.
_Truth_, Christmas Number, 1878.
――――――――
THE VILLAGE SCHOOLBOY.
Under the garden apple-tree
The village schoolboy stands;
The boy, a nasty boy is he,
With muddy, filthy hands;
And the mussel-shells he’s playing with
Are pick’d from dirty sands.
His hair is short, and red, and straight,
His face is like the tar;
He cries and bawls when mother calls,
You hear him near and far,
And when he gets a chance he steals
The sugar from the jar.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
He bellows and he cries,
And in the village there’s not one
So good at telling lies;
Big stones he throws at other boys,
And hits them in the eyes.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And every one annoys;
He pinches all the kids he’s near,
And asks them for their toys;
And when they sing up in the choir
He shouts out, “_Hold your noise!_”
His father smacks him in the face,
He pulls him by the nose,
The village schoolboy only cries,
And crying――off he goes;
His parents go to bed at night,
And THERE, they’ve no repose.
W. C. L.
_The Sporting Times_, July 5, 1884.
――――――――
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
Beside a dingy public-house, the village smithy stands,
The smith, a nasty man is he, with beastly dirty hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms a bruiser well might suit,
His face is void of any charm, he looks a nasty brute.
His brow is wet with beery sweat, he scarcely earns a bob;
But to drink up another’s drink he’s always on the job!
Week in, week out, from morn to night, he curses high and low.
You seldom hear his hammer’s beat, his step is dull and slow;
Communications from his mouth are seldom “yes” or “no.”
And children coming home from school run frightened past his door,
They fear to see the ugly beast, and shun his drunken roar,
They’d only catch a kick or blow, if they lingered near his door.
He never goes inside a church, and never sends his boys,
He never heard a parson preach, he hates his daughter’s voice,
Snarling over her kitchen work, it makes him swear like vice,
Reminding him of her mother’s voice――_that_ wasn’t over nice.
And when he thinks of her once more, how in the grave she lies,
He thinks in his heart that Providence is sometimes kind and wise,
Cursing, drinking, borrowing; onward through life he goes.
No morning sees good work begin, no evening sees its close.
Nothing attempted, nothing done, from gin he gets repose.
_The Topical Times_, September 13, 1884.
[Illustration]
The parody of “A Psalm of Life,” entitled “The Maiden’s Dream of
Life,” which was quoted on page 64, Part IV., of _Parodies_, was
copied from a Washington (U.S.) newspaper, dated December, 1871. The
idea of this parody had evidently been borrowed from one contained in
a small volume by Phœbe Carey, entitled “Poems and Parodies.” The
borrower made some verbal alterations, which were by no means
improvements on Miss Carey’s parody, which is decidedly the better of
the two:――
A PSALM OF LIFE.
(_What the Heart of the Young Woman
said to the Old Maid_).
Tell me not, in idle jingle,
Marriage is an empty dream,
For the girl is dead that’s single,
And things are not what they seem.
Married life is real, earnest,
Single blessedness a fib;
Taken from man, to man returnest,
Has been spoken of the rib.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Nearer brings the wedding day.
Life is long, and youth is fleeting,
And our hearts, if there we search,
Still like steady drums are beating
Anxious marches to the Church.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a woman, be a wife!
Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act――act in the living Present.
Heart within, and MAN ahead!
Lives of married folks remind us
We can live our lives as well,
And, departing, leave behind us
Such examples as will tell;――
Such examples, that another,
Sailing far from Hymen’s port,
A forlorn, unmarried brother,
Seeing, shall take heart, and court.
Let us then be up and doing,
With the heart and head begin;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour, and to win!
Poems and Parodies_. By Phœbe Carey, Boston, 1854.
――――――――
The following is an amusing specimen of advertisement parodies. It was
written by Mr. T. Thatcher, of College Green, Bristol:――
Tell me not in doleful murmurs
Ink is but a mouldy stream!
And the pen it rusts, and murders
Writing paper by the ream!
Thatcher’s Ink is Ink in earnest!
And to rust is not its goal;
Mud thou art, to mould returnest,
Was not spoken as its dole.
With enjoyment and not sorrow
Welcome thee in loudest lay:
Ink to write, that each to-morrow
Finds it blacker than to-day.
Blots begone! Vile ink be fleeting!
Penman, be no more a slave!
Let all other inks go beating
Funeral marches to their grave!
In the world’s wide field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Write not like dumb driven cattle!
Use this Ink and end thy strife!
Lines of this Ink all remind us
We may write with ease sublime,
And departing, leave behind us
Words to live as long as time!
Pen marks, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwreck’d brother,
Reading, shall take heart again.
Let us then be up and doing,
Seize this Ink before too late,
Thatcher’s now at once securing,
Neither hesitate nor wait!
SHORTFELLOW.
――――――――
PLEASE BE CHEERFUL.
(_Advice to Modern Novelists._)
Tell us not, in mournful numbers,
Life is all a ghastly dream!
Such as those we have in slumbers,
When the nightmare makes us scream.
Life is dark enough in earnest,
Without bringing in the gaol;
Only readers of the sternest
Like their heroines out on bail.
Not to swindle, or to borrow,
Is the reputable way;
Not to marry, and to-morrow
Kill your bride, and run away.
Arson’s wrong, and poisoning dreary,
And our hearts, though pretty brave,
Now and then get rather weary
Of the gallows and the grave.
In the great domestic battle,
In the matrimonial strife,
Be not like those Mormon “cattle,”
Give your hero but one wife.
Wives and daughters should remind you
There are women without crime;
Draw them, and you’ll leave behind you
Fictions that may weather time;――
Fictions free from that Inspector
Who is sent by RICHARD MAYNE,
And finds footmarks that affect a
Solemn butler in the lane.
Let us, then, have no more trials,
No more tampering with Wills;
Leave the poisons in the phials――
And the money in the tills.
_Punch_, December 1, 1866.
――――――――
A PSALM OF FARMING.
_Bell’s Messenger, December 9th_, 1878.
WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG FARMER
SAID TO THE OLD ’UN.
(_After Wrongedfellar_).
Tell me not in cheerful numbers
You have known when times was wuss,
Kip on sowin’ wutts and barley,
And things will come right for us.
Rents are too much, labour’s heavy,
And our fair share’s not the goal,
Landlords take all they can gather,
Cow and calf, both mare and foal.
Not enjoyment and not profit
Seems our destined end or way;
But to act that each to-morrow
Finds us poorer than to-day.
The world is big and steam is quick,
But our hearts, though stout and brave,
Do not like to leave the “dear” land,
’Cause our wives do look so grave!
With the world’s broad field for farming,
With the chance of a free life,
Be not like dumb, driven donkeys,
With such prospects have no strife.
Trust no landlord, howe’er pleasant;
Let the dead past bury its dead.
Act, act in the living present,
Heart within and God o’erhead.
Happy Colonists do teach us
We can go and be the same,
And, departing, leave behind us
Wiser landlords, much more tame.
Landlords, that perhaps another
Year or so might make so wise,
Might then know that ’tis quite certain
Rents must fall as well as rise.
Let us, then, be up and going,
With a heart for any fate,
Then succeeding, more persuading
That ’tis good to emigrate.
Reproduced in “Farming,” by Joseph Mangoldwurzel, London, W. Ridgway,
1879.
(A small pamphlet on Free Trade _versus_ Protection).
――――――――
A SONG OF ST. STEPHEN’S.
Tell me not in mocking numbers
We shall have to come to town,
And resume our wonted slumbers,
When the leaves are sere and brown.
* * * * *
Lives of patriots all remind us
We can show uncommon _nous_,
And, departing, leave behind us
Relays that shall “keep a House.”
Relays that perchance our Leaders
O’er that legislative main
May observe, while we are pleaders,
Autumn leisure to attain.
_Punch_, July 1, 1882.
――――――――
A PSALM OF BURIAL.
Tell me not with words inflated
Bodies were not meant to burn;
For the moo-cow when cremated
Doth to “frosted silver” turn.
Not the grave-yard, not interment
Is the cheapest, healthiest way;
But to rob the worm preferment
Finds with cultured men to-day.
Lights of learning all have told us
We can shunt the gloomy pall,
And, when churchyards will not hold us,
Roast our flesh for funeral.
Let us, then, keep time with culture:
“Earth to earth” is out of date――
Leave no carrion for the vulture,
Spurn the sexton, and cremate.
_Moonshine_, May 17, 1884.
――――――――
ON READING A LIFE AND LETTERS.
“Lives” of great men all remind us
Friends may after our last breath
Publish what we leave behind us,
Adding thus new fears to death.
Wives of rich men oft remind us,
We may make our wives sublime;
But ten pounds for a lady’s bonnet
Knocks a cheque-book out of time.
[Illustration]
“THE DAY IS DONE.”
The day is done, and darkness
From the wing of night is loosed,
As a feather, is wafted downward,
From a chicken going to roost.
I see the lights of the baker
Gleam through the rain and mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me,
That I cannot well resist.
A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not like being sick,
And resembles sorrow only
As a brickbat resembles a brick.
Come, get for me some supper――
A good and regular meal――
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the pain I feel.
Not from the pastry bakers,
Not from the shops for cake;
I wouldn’t give a farthing
For all that they can make.
For, like the soup at dinner,
Such things would but suggest
Some dishes more substantial,
And to-night I want the best.
Go to some honest butcher,
Whose beef is fresh and nice,
As any they have in the city,
And get a liberal slice.
Such things through days of labour,
And nights devoid of ease.
For sad and desperate feelings,
Are wonderful remedies.
They have an astonishing power
To aid and reinforce,
And come like the “finally, brethren,”
That follows a long discourse.
Then get me a tender sirloin
From off the bench or hook.
And lend to its sterling goodness
The science of the cook.
And the night shall be filled with comfort,
And the cares with which it begun
Shall fold up their blankets like Indians,
And silently cut and run.
_Poems and Parodies._ By Phœbe Carey, Boston, United States, 1854.
[Illustration]
The three parodies following are imitations of Longfellow’s
THE ARROW AND THE SONG.
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in his flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterwards, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
――――――――
THE BIRDS AND THE PHEASANT.
I shot a partridge in the air,
It fell in turnips, “Don,” knew where;
For just as it dropped, with my right
I stopped another in its flight.
I killed a pheasant in the copse,
It fell amongst the fir-tree tops;
For though a pheasant’s flight is strong,
A cock, hard hit, cannot fly long.
Soon, soon afterwards, in a pie,
I found the birds in jelly lie;
And the pheasant, at a fortnight’s end,
I found again in the _carte_ of a friend.
_Punch_, October 12, 1867.
――――――――
BALLAD. THE EX-PREMIER.
(_Mr. Gladstone_).
I wrote a pamphlet t’other day;
It fell still-born in the usual way;
For the public knew ’twas the old, old tale,
And they thought it just a wee bit stale.
I wrote an article in a “mag,”
And it made its circulation flag;
For the readers knew ’twas my only work
To speak about th’ unspeakable Turk!
Not long after my spirits sunk,
For I found the pamphlet lining a trunk;
And the article (degradation utter)
Was round a pat of the best salt butter.
_Truth_. Christmas Number, 1877.
――――――――
THE ARROW AND THE HOUND.
At Shanklin, in the Isle of Wight,
I shot an arrow such a height,
It fell to earth, I know not where,
And, sooth to say, I do not care.
A poem to a mag. I sent,
Receiving no acknowledgment;
The subject was, I know not what――
If e’er I knew I have forgot.
A traveller the arrow found
Half-buried in his faithful hound,
And what he said in his distress
I do not know――I dare not guess.
And soon, when reading in the train,
I found my poem once again;
But on the fire that in it burned,
A comic hydrant had been turned.
What verse with arrow had to do
I know not now――I never knew!
But that such things should hap no more
I called upon the editor.
I aimed an arrow with such care,
It hit I scarce remember where;
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
He turned, and called me with a sigh――
But what, to tell you were not right;
Besides, I have forgotten quite;
But arrow, editor, and hound,
Are famed to earth’s remotest bound.
EXCELSIOR JUNIOR.
_The Topical Times_, June 14, 1884.
――――――――
THE SOIRÉE.
(After “_The Arsenal at Springfield_.”)
This is the Soirée: from grate to entrance,
Like milliners’ figures, stand the lovely girls;
But from their silent lips no merry sentence
Disturbs the smoothness of their shining curls.
Ah! what will rise, how will they rally,
When shall arrive the “gentlemen of ease!”
What brilliant repartee, what witty sally,
Will mingle with their pleasant symphonies!
I hear even now the infinite sweet chorus,
The laugh of ecstacy, the merry tone,
That through the evenings that have gone before us
In long reverberations reach our own.
From round-faced Germans come the guttural voices,
Through curling _moustache_ steals the Italian clang,
And, loud amidst their universal noises,
From distant corners sounds the Yankee twang.
I hear the Editor, who from his office
Sends out his paper, filled with praise and puff,
And holy priests, who, when they warn the scoffers,
Beat the fine pulpit, lined with velvet stuff.
The tumult of each _saqued_, and charming maiden,
The idle talk that sense and reason drowns,
The ancient dames with jewelry o’erladen,
And trains depending from the brocade gowns――
The pleasant tone, whose sweetness makes us wonder,
The laugh of gentlemen, and ladies, too,
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of some lady blue,――
Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With pastimes so ridiculous as these,
Thou drownest Nature’s sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies?
Were half the wealth that fills the world with ladies,
Were half the time bestowed on caps and lace,
Given to the home, the husbands, and the babies,
There were no time to visit such a place.
_Poems and Parodies._ By Phœbe Carey (Ticknor, Reed, and Fields).
Boston, United States, 1854.
[Illustration]
The following old parody was written in imitation of the hexameters of
_Evangeline_:――
DOLLARINE; A TALE OF CALIFORNIA.
A FRAGMENT IN HEXAMETERS.
BY PROFESSOR W. H. LONGANDSHORTFELLOW,
_Of Cambridge, Connecticut_.
In St. Francisco located was NATHAN JEHOIAKIM BOWIE;
Down by the wharf on the harbour he traded in liquors and dry goods,
Darned hard knot at a deal, at Meetin’ a powerful elder.
There at his store, in the shade, they met, onbraced and enlightened
Traders and trappers and captings, and lawyers and editors also.
Freely they liquored and chewed, indulgin’ in expectoration,
Rockin’ with heels over heads, and whittling’, laborious, the counter.
Like dough-nut at a frolic, or yellow-pine stump in a clearin’,
Sharp as a backwoodsman’s axe, and cute as a bachelor beaver,
Glimmer’d, through clouds of Virginny, the cypherin’ mug of NATHANIEL.
Sweeter nor candy of maple, a’most too genteel to be raal,
Straight as a hickory sapling and clean as a Nar’ganset pacer
Tall _she_ moved through the bar, a-sarvin’ of juleps and cock-tails,
Sweetenin’ the cobblers with smiles, and firin’ Havannahs with
glances,
NATHAN J. BOWIE’S fair darter, splendiferous MISS DOLLARINA!
Tall she moved thro’ the bar, collectin’ the joes and the cents in:
Not that she needed to did it, but ’cause nigger helps there’s no
trustin’,
And she was too tender-hearted to get the black varmint cow-hided.
――There in pastoral peace, since first the location was ceded,
Dwelt the old man and his child, beneath their own vine and their
fig-tree,
Doin’ a good stroke of business, for cash or beaver-skins only.
On NAT’S. roof of split shingle, illustrious GOVERNOR TARBOX
Hoisted the Stars and the Stripes, representative there of the Mighty,
The Free, and the Fearless of airth, the Go-a-head ’Merican people;
Boarded there the great TARBOX, and took his horn like a mere man,
Paying four dollars _per diem_ for grub, grog, shake-down, and
washin’.
Then came down, like iled lightning, on St. Francisco a rumour――
Fame her brazen trump turned best mint metal to puff it――
How that the root of all evil was found growin’ wild up the country,
How gold stuck to folk’s fingers that washed in the St. Sacramento!
NAT. chawed two plugs extra to hear it; the editor swore he
Wished to be darned, if it wasn’t a caution how folks could be
gammoned.
“My!” sighed sweet DOLLARINA, and paused as she squoze a half lemon;
But the magnanimous TARBOX, he reckoned ’tmight be kinder likely,
Seein’ the States whipt the airth for men, and why not for metals?
Came from the diggins a straanger, with two carpet-bags full of goold
dust;
NATHAN diskivered the fact, as he traded a pinch for a gin-sling;
And as that straanger loafed, thro’ the bar, from parlor to bedroom,
Streams of the glorious sand oozed out through a hole in his trousers.
――Gathered the rumour and grew, and soon rose a sudden demand for
Calabash, can, keg, and kettle; and NATHAN’S prime lot of tin fixin’s,
Crockery, also, went off at figgers that beat to eternal
Smash all prices he’d thought, in dreams e’en, of e’er realisin’.
Soon the traders upped hook, and the editor talked edifyin’
All about lucre and dross; and the lawyer convened it was awful;
Till one mornin’ trampoused the lawyer and editor with him.
Off were the trappers for beaver, they said, but “it warn’t noways
likely,”
NATHAN remarked, “they would strike beaver-trail in them there
locations.”
Then the captings went too, they said, to bring back their sailors;
And as it stands to natur’, their customers followed the captings.
Next the Meetin’s they thinned――that’s a fact――till, down to the
elders,
Dropped, like leaves in the fall, congregations of e’en the awakened.
Ontil the deacon was forced to look arter the flock of backsliders,
Minister mizzlin’ himself, before long, to look arter the deacon.
Why should NATHAN hold on, with his bar of its customers empty,
Strawers unsucked in the cobblers, and mint unplucked in the garding,
Swopped his prime tin doin’s, or sold to the uttermost pipkin?
So he went――but before him the helps, black and Irish, had vanished.
Lone in the shanty she lingered, the fair and forlorn DOLLARINA――
Lone like a flower, in the face of great natur’, and GOVERNOR TARBOX!
Blushin’ she bowed to the governor’s snigger, when first to his
bed-room,
Bearin’ his boots and his breakfast, she came like a minist’rin’
angel――
Blushin’ she raised her bright face――and the Governor swore catawampus,
“Burn my old bree――that is, boots――gals like you didn’t ought for to
do it.”
――Soft was the heart of Great TARBOX, and most horrid hansum the
maiden,
Loftily spoke he of goold, and the tarnal low hitch of the humans,
Leavin’ such gals all alone, to go the whole hog at the washin’s.
Sweetly she’d set there beside him, the while with his governor’s
hands he
Washed his own dicky or fried his simple repast of pork fixins;
Sweetly she sot there beside him, and TARBOX a-slavin’ was happy!
Still now and then that bright eye from its tail would glance up
to the mountains,
And a faint sigh be the echo of TARBOXES glowin’ soft sawder;
Oft in her pail of ablution he’d catch her a rinsin’ the water;
And once she ventured to murmur, “I wonder what nateral goold’s like.”
――Down came the moment at last――set TARBOX a-mendin’ his shoe-sole,
Breathin’ his love in a Sonnet, and chawin’ a plug of tobaccer――
Entered the maiden so stately――and bowin’ her beauty before him,
Smilingly, sobbingly uttered, “Adoo――I am off for the diggins!”
* * * * *
Burst the full heart of Great TARBOX――――
(_Here the MSS., becomes illegible, apparently from tears_).
_Punch_, January 20, 1849.
――――――――
THE LOST TAILS OF MILETUS.
High on the Thracian hills, half hid in the billows of clover,
Thyme, and the asphodel blooms, and lulled by Pactolian streamlet,
She of Miletus lay, and beside her an aged satyr
Scratched his ear with his hoof, and playfully mumbled his chestnuts.
Vainly the Mænid and the Bassarid gambolled about her,
The free-eyed Bacchante sang, and Pan――the renowned, the accomplished――
Executed his difficult solo. In vain were their gambols and dances!
High o’er the Thracian hills rose the voice of the shepherdess,
wailing――
“Ai! for the fleecy flocks,――the meek-nosed, the passionless faces;
Ai! for the tallow-scented, the straight-tailed, the high-stepping;
Ai! for the timid glance, which is that which the rustic, sagacious,
Applies to him who loves but may not declare his passion!”
Her then Zeus answered slow: “O daughter of song and sorrow,――
Hapless tender of sheep,――arise from thy long lamentation!
Since thou canst not trust fate, nor behave as becomes a Greek maiden,
Look and behold thy sheep.”――And lo! they returned to her tailless!
BRET HARTE.
――――――――
In 1856 a pamphlet was published (at the price of two shillings), by
W. J. Golbourn, of Princes Street, Leicester Square, entitled: “MARKS
AND REMARKS for the Catalogue of the Exhibition of the Royal Academy,
MDCCCLVI. (after the manner of ――――) by A. E., to which is added a
DIRGE (in imitation of another).” This very scarce pamphlet consists
of thirty-two pages, mostly occupied by descriptions of the pictures
in the Royal Academy for that year, and the author’s comments upon
them, in the metre of _Hiawatha_, commencing thus:――
“Should you ask me whence the Stories?
Whence the legends and traditions’
That have furnished forth our Artists
With the most attractive subjects
For the present exhibition?”
“I should answer, I should tell you,
They have drawn them from the Poets,
From the Book-of-books have drawn them,
From the best Historic sources,
From the Mountains, Lakes, and Rivers,
From the Hills, the Lanes, the Meadows,
From the Highland and the Lowland,
And the mighty surging Ocean;
And the Portraits, large and little,
And the Portraits of all sizes,
With their frequent repetitions,
Pillars, table cloths and curtains,
From the Court, the Camp, the Senate,
And plain Gentlemen and Ladies.”
* * * * *
――――――――
A long political parody appeared in _Punch_, February 23, 1867,
entitled “The Great Medicine-Man; a new Canto of Hiawatha.” This was
_apropos_ of Mr. Disraeli’s Reform proposals, then submitted to the
House of Commons in Thirteen Resolutions.
On page 95, Part VI., a long extract was given from a parody of
_Hiawatha_, entitled _The Song of Big Ben_, which appeared in _Truth_,
February 15, 1877. It was descriptive of the opening of Parliament,
and the subsequent proceedings in the Houses have since been related
in the same metre, and under the same title, in many other numbers of
_Truth_. On page 80 reference was made to a parody which appeared in
_Tom Hood’s Comic Annual for_ 1877; unfortunately, it is much too long
to give in full. The following short extract will, however, give an
idea of its style:――
REVENGE. A RHYTHMIC RECOLLECTION.
If you ask me where I found it, found this very dreadful
legend, with its strange coincidences and its tragic
repetitions, I should answer, I should tell you, in the
columns of the “Pleecenoos,” in the pages of the “Standard,”
in the Organ of the Knife Board, in all sheets of published
scandal, published in the month of August, published in the
midst of Fleet Street, where the tide of life rolls onward,
whilst the modest newsman murmurs low amid the noise of
traffic, “Buy the ‘Hecker,’ fifth edition! Buy the
‘Standard,’ latest war news! Buy the Organ of the Knife
Board!”
’Twas the pleasant April weather, and a coach was bound for
Cambridge, and four youths alike in feature sat together in
the rumble; each alike was bound for Cambridge, each alike in
air was noble, each alike in hair was curly, each in speech
was Hebraistic, and they all were bound for Cambridge.
Never had they met before this, though their fathers in four
townships wide apart had heard the rumours of each other’s
great successes in the art of habit-making, famed for
thirteen-shilling trousers; and each parent, little recking
of the others’ great successes, said, “My son shall rise to
swelldom; he shall have his fling at college, and shall dwell
among the nobles who, by my fair art made nobler, wear my
thirteen-shilling trousers.”
As in April’s pleasant weather all the four rolled on to
Cambridge, did they swear eternal friendship; and alighting
from the rumble, pledged each other in great beakers, drank
each other’s healths in “dogsnose;” sought the portals of the
college where they had matriculated, crossed the sunny green
quadrangle, and betook them to their chambers; parted tearful
on the landing, and betook them to their chambers.
* * * * *
Then they severed at the doorway; but by devious ways
returning, met again before the doorway.
Then with scowling brows they entered; and the barmaid――most
impartial of the race of British barmaids――sweetly winked in
turn upon them till their hearts within them gladdened; and
they drank the luscious “dogsnose,” and their friendly vows
repeated, till with arm-in-arm close linking they once more
the dim quadrangle crossed, and all was wrapped in silence.
* * * * *
D. CHRISTIE MURRAY.
――――――――
THE SONG OF PROGRESS.
Should you ask me, “Why this hubbub?
Why this coming strife of parties?
Why the Hyde Park Demonstration?
Why the mighty northern meeting?
Why Conservatives take counsel
With their own selected members,
Each admitted with a ticket?”
I should answer you in this wise,
“Harken to the Song of Progress,
Listen to the din of warfare――
Listen for the coming triumph
Of the People o’er the Peerage.”
By the dark and murky waters,
Foul and dank with filth and sewage,
Waters which are not pellucid,
Of the noble river Isis,
Stands a large and stately Palace,
Where th’ elected of the people
Meet for work of legislation.
One a Party firm, united,
Loved and trusted by the People.
They the Party are of Progress――
Ever have been, ever must be;
They the champions who do battle
’Gainst hereditary privilege.
Their opponents are a Party
Smaller far and disunited.
Dwarfed in mind, with doings crooked,
Quick to “execute a sharp curve,”
With no Policy whatever,
Save to stop the work of Progress,
They the Party are of Privilege,
Who oppose, and ever have done,
Social progress of the masses.
Should you ask me why the Peerage
Rule responsible to no one,
What their deeds of wondrous valour,
What their wisdom unsurpassed,
What their nobleness of nature,
What their learning, power, or goodness,
That they thus should reign supreme there,
I should answer you, “I know not.”
This I know, that tho’ their country
Scarcely knows the names of any,
On the racecourse every welcher,
Every gambling scoundrel, blackleg,
Knows them there by tens and dozens.
I should answer ’tis a relic
Of the ignorant Middle Ages,
When the king held all the country,
Shared it with his greater barons,
And the toilers were in bondage.
One by one the links of thraldom
Have been rent and burst asunder;
Few the fetters that are left us
Of the hateful Feudal system;
But this one stands trembling, tottering,
Till the breath of further Freedom,
Strengthened by the voice of Gladstone,
Bright, and Chamberlain, and Picton,
Broadhurst, Illingworth, and Lawson,
Shall abolish it for ever.
_Funny Folks_, August 16, 1884.
――――――――
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
(_Continued from Part_ 13.)
There was a competition for Parodies on “Excelsior” in _Truth_,
fourteen parodies appeared on November 11, 1880, and the following
week nine more were published, each consisting of five verses. The
parody with the refrain, “That Thirty-four,” which was selected as the
prize winner, has already appeared in Part VI. of _Parodies_. A few of
the others may be given here; the first evidently refers to Mr.
Disraeli’s entry into political life, when he was not favorably
received:――
The shades of night were falling fast,
When, through the House of Commons, passed
A youth, with curls not over nice,
Who bore as motto and device――
Excelsior!
His brow was dark, his eye beneath
Flashed from its eyelid’s dusky sheath,
And, with a nasal music, rung
The accents of his Hebrew tongue――
Excelsior!
“Thou offshoot of a withered branch!
Beware the scornful avalanche,
Which shall o’erwhelm thy speech to-night!”
A voice replied, in shame and spite,
Excelsior!
“Stay,” said the maiden Muse, “and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast;”
He either wept or winked his eye,
And said with simulated sigh,
Excelsior!
Now in life’s twilight, old and grey,
He seems to hear his rival say,
From his high place, serene and far,
“Ha, Lucifer! thou fallen star,”
Excelsior!
GOSSAMER.
――――――――
THE WORKHOUSE.
The shades of night were falling fast
As through a London alley passed
A woman, wan, with hands of ice,
The workhouse sought, from cold and vice――
Moritura!
In happy homes she saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
Above, the planets glittering shone,
From her pale lips escaped a groan――
Moritura!
“Try not to pass,” the porter said;
Dark lowers his visage overhead――
“No order; rules I must abide;”
And weak that weary voice replied,
Moritura!
“O stay,” a sister said, “and rest
Thy weary head upon my breast.”
A tear stood in her dull grey eye,
And still she answered with a sigh,
Moritura!
There, in the daybreak, cold and gray,
Lifeless, on workhouse steps she lay;
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
Est Mortua!
BOB.
――――――――
THE GRIFFIN.
The tawny folds of London fog
Fell round the lamp-lit Court of Gog.
Clarions and toasts were loud within;
A weird cry mingled with the din――
“One blunder more!”
Forth from that glorified Guildhall
A griffin reeled with easy sprawl;
Through mire and midnight, floundering west
He hooted, like a brute possessed――
“One blunder more!”
“Halt!” cried the watchmen of St. Bride,
As hastily they edged aside.
“Try Scotland Yard!” a small boy said;
The answer came, from far ahead――
“One blunder more!”
A pilgrim, under Street’s new clock,
Beheld him climb the Temple block,
A chuckle through the darkness passed――
“This blessed night we’ve crowned at last
“One blunder more!”
And when the morn broke, soft and fair,
Lifeless he stood, erect in air;
A stark and startling beast of brass,
Completing, in the Fleet-street pass
One blunder more!
GLEN JUNE.
――――――――
THE COUNTRY FAIR.
Night was fast falling o’er the scene,
As through the crowd on village green,
There passed a youth, who once or twice
Said, as he stopped to eat an ice,
Excelsior!
“Climb not the pole,” an old man said,
“The grease will spoil your trousers, Ned;”
With upward glance the youth replied,
“The mutton at the top is tied.”
Excelsior!
“O stay,” a maiden said, and sighed,
“And take me for a donkey ride;”
He grasped the pole, and in reply,
He softly murmured with a sigh,
Excelsior
“Beware!” a withered crone cried out,
“Take care, take care what you’re about:”
Far up the pole they heard him pant,
As though his breath was rather scant,
Excelsior!