The Project Gutenberg eBook of Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. III

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Title: Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. III

Compiler: Walter Hamilton

Release date: April 14, 2023 [eBook #70545]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: Reeves & Turner, 1886

Credits: Carol Brown, Chris Curnow and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARODIES OF THE WORKS OF ENGLISH & AMERICAN AUTHORS, VOL. III ***

PARODIES

OF THE WORKS OF

ENGLISH and AMERICAN AUTHORS,

COLLECTED AND ANNOTATED BY

WALTER HAMILTON,

Fellow of the Royal Geographical and Royal Historical Societies;
Author of “A History of National Anthems and Patriotic Songs,” “A Memoir of George Cruikshank”
“The Poets Laureate of England,” “The Æsthetic Movement in England,” etc.


“We maintain that, far from converting virtue into a paradox, and degrading truth by ridicule, Parody will only strike at what is chimerical and false; it is not a piece of buffoonery so much as a critical exposition. What do we parody but the absurdities of writers, who frequently make their heroes act against nature, common-sense, and truth? After all, it is the public, not we, who are the authors of these Parodies.”

DIsraeli’s Curiosities of Literature.


VOLUME III.

CONTAINING PARODIES OF

LORD BYRON.SCOTCH SONGS.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.ROBERT SOUTHEY.

CHARLES KINGSLEY. THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THE POETRY OF THE ANTI-JACOBIN.

Miss C. FANSHAWE. THOMAS MOORE.

A. C. SWINBURNE.ROBERT BURNS.

Mrs. FELICIA HEMANS.OLIVER GOLDSMITH.


REEVES & TURNER, 196, STRAND, LONDON, W.C.
1886.

All these things here collected are not mine,
But divers grapes make but one kind of wine;
So I from many learned authors took
The various matters written in this book;
What’s not mine own shall not by me be fathered,
The most part I, in many years, have gathered.

John Taylor, the Water Poet.

It was because Homer was the most popular poet, that he was most susceptible of the playful honours of the Greek parodist; unless the prototype is familiar to us, a parody is nothing.

Isaac DIsraeli.


BROWN & DAVENPORT, 40, SUN STREET, FINSBURY, LONDON, E.C.

i

INDEX.

Illustration: Line with diamond

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, in italics, wherever possible.

A Chapter on Parodies
By Isaac D’Israeli 1
——:o:——
The Poetry of the “Anti-Jacobin.”
A List of Parodies contained in “The Anti-Jacobin” 181
La Sainte Guillotine, Song; The Progress of Man, after Mr. R. Payne Knight; Chevy Chase; The Loves of the Triangles, after Dr. Darwin; Brissot’s Ghost, after Glover’s Ballad; Ode to Jacobinism, after Gray’s Hymn to Adversity; The Jacobin, after Southey’s Sapphics; Ode to a Jacobin, after Suckling.
The Rovers — George Canning 181
The University of Gottingen 182
A New Gottingen Ballad, Morning Herald, 1802 182
The Constitutional Association, William Hone 183
The University we’ve got in town, R. H. Barham 183
The Universal Penny Postage, 1840 184
The Humorous M.P. for Nottingham, Fun, 1867 185
The Union Oxoniensis, the Shotover Papers 185
The Oxford Installation Ode, Diogenes, 1853 186
The Universal Prayer of Paddington, Punch, 1882 186
The University at Nottingham, Punch 1882 186
The Hor-Ticultural Society (Cambridge, 1830) 280
——:o:——
Robert Burns.
Bruce’s Address to his Army
“Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled.” 1793 48
“Gulls who’ve heard what Hobhouse said” 49
“Britons who have often bled!” 49
“Folks who’ve oft at Dolby’s fed!” The Fancy 49
“Whigs! who have with Michael dined!” 49
“Whigs whom Fox and Petty led,” John Bull, 1823 49
“Scots, wha hae the duties paid,” Robert Gilfillan 50
“Cooks, who’d roast a sucking-pig,” Punch 50
“Bunn! wha hae wi’ Wallace sped,” The Man in the Moon 50
“Jews — as every one has read,” The Puppet Show, 1848 51
“Guards! who at Smolensko fled,” W. E. Aytoun 51
“Britons! at your country’s call” 51
Wing-Kee-Fum’s address to the Patriot Army, Diogenes, 1853 51
“Travellers, who’ve so oft been bled,” Diogenes 52
“Ye, whose chins have often bled,” Diogenes 52
“Serfs, wha hae wi’ Kut’soff bled!” Diogenes 52
“A’ wha hae wi’ Russell sped,” W. Lothian 52
“Scots! wha are on oatmeal fed,” They are Five, 53
“Scott, wha ha’ your Jumbo fed,” Punch, 1882, 53
“Friends, by Whig retrenchment bled,” Poetry for the Poor, 1884 53
“Men by wise example led,” Songs for Liberal Electors, 1885 53
“Scots! although in New York bred,” Funny Folks, 1877 67
“Scots, wha won’t for Wallace bleed,” Shirley Brooks, 1865 107
Address to the De’il
Address to the G. O. M., Moonshine, 1885 106
John Anderson, my Jo 54
“Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane,” John Jones, 1831 54
“George Anderson, my Geo., George,” Punch 55
“My bonny Meg, my Jo, Meg” 55
“When Nature first began, Jean” 55
“Joe Chamberlain, my Jo, John,” Punch, 1886 55
“John Alcohol, my foe, John,” Home Tidings 107
“Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, Sir,” Punch, 1885 56-69
“John Barleycorn, my foe, John,” Charles F. Adams 69
“Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad,” Funny Folks, 1885 69
“Ted Henderson, my Jo, Ted,” Moonshine, 1886 108
For a’ that and a’ that 56
Quoi! Pauvre honnête, baisser la tête, Father Prout 56
“A man’s a man,” says Robert Burns 57
“Dear Freedom! sair they’ve lightlied thee” The Wreath of Freedom. 1820 57
“Success to honest usury.” Diogenes, 1853 57
“More luck to honest poverty,” Shirley Brooks 106
“Is there a lady in all the land?” Once a Week 57
“Is there a Jingo, proud and high?” Punch, 1878 58
“Is there, for princely opulence?” Fun, 1879 58
“Is there, for double U. E. G.?” Funny Folks 58
Sir Arthur Guinness and a Peerage 58
“Is there for Whig and Tory men?” John Stuart Blackie, Alma Mater, 1885 59
Political Parody in Funny Folks, March 14, 1885 67
A new song to an old tune, Sir Walter Scott, 1814 67
To Women of the Period 67
Coming through the Rye 59
“Tak cauler water I” 59
“Gin’ a nursey meet a bobby,” Judy, 1879 60
Parody in Funny Folks, 1879 66
“If a Proctor meet a body,” Lays of Modern Oxford. 1874 106
Duncan Gray 60
“Oor Tam has joined the Templars noo.” Rev. R. S. Bowie 108
“Sam Sumph cam’ here for Greek” John Stuart Blackie, Alma Mater, 1885 60
The Whigs of Auld Lang Syne, Punch, 1865 61
Sir M. Hicks Beach on Auld Acquaintance, Truth 61
“We twa hae dune a little Bill,” Punch, 1848 66
Paraphrase of Auld Lang Syne, Comic Offering 66
Should Gaelic speech be e’er forgot? 107
Green Grow the Rashes 61
Life in Malvern. Malvern Punch, 1865 61
“Hey, for Social Science, O!” Lord Neaves 61
“There’s nought but talk on every han’,” Punch 109
Holy Willie’s Prayer, Newcastle Weekly Chronicle 62
The Fishers’ Welcome, Doubleday. “We twa ha’ fished the Kale sae clear” 63
To Burns, Joseph Blacket, 1811 64
Tam o’ Shanter
Origin of the Poem 64
The Political Tam o’ Shanter, Punch, 1884 65
Here’s a Health to Them that’s Awa’ 66 ii
“Here’s a health to the ladies at home,” The Mirror, 1828 66
“Willie Brew’d a Peck of Maut,” Punch, 1884 66
“Thus Willie, Rab, and Allan sang” 107
“O, never touch the drunkard’s cup” 108
The Ballad of Sir Tea-Leaf, Punch, 1851 68
My Heart’s in the Highlands 68
“My harts in the Highlands,” Punch, 1856 68
“O, whistle, and I will arrest you, my lad” 68
“Lilt your Johnnie”—A nonsense Parody, George Cruikshank’s Almanac, 1846 69
Justice to Scotland—A nonsense Parody, Shirley Brooks 70
“Greet na mair, ma sonsie lassie,” a Nonsense Parody. Judy, 1884 70
A history of the Burns Festival at the Crystal Palace, January 25, 1859 70
Prize Poem in honour of Burns, Isa Craig 70
Rival Rhymes in honour of Burns, Samuel Lover 70
Gang wi’ me to Lixmaleerie 70
Poems on Burns, William Cadenhead, 1885 71
——:o:——
Lord Byron.
The First Kiss of Love 190
The Maiden I love, P. F. T., 190
Well! Thou art Happy 190
To Mary. Phœbe Carey’s Poems and Parodies, 1854 191
Maid of Athens, 1810 191
Anticipation in “The Monthly Mirror,” 1799. “I conjure thee to love me, Sophia” 191
Polka mou sas Agapo, Punch, 1844 191
Pay, oh! Pay us what you owe, Punch, 1847 192
Man of Mammon, e’er we part 192
People’s William! do not start, Truth, 1877 193
Maid of Athens! ere we start, Punch, 1878 193
Maid of Clapham! ere I part, Jon Duan 193
Made of Something! ere we part, Free Press Flashes, 1882 193
Made of Something! (Zoedone) Punch, 1880 194
Calf’s Heart, “Maid of all work, as a part,” 194
Madame Rachel! ere we smash, Judy, 1868 194
Unkind Missis! e’er the day, Grins and Groans 194
Maid of Ganges! thou that art, The Etonian, 1884 195
Maid of all work! we must part 195
Joe, my Joseph! ere we part, St. James’s Gazette, 195
I would I were a Careless Child. 195
The old Fogey’s Lament, Funny Folks 196
Napoleon’s Farewell 196
The Bohemian’s Farewell, Worthy a Crown? 1876 196
The spell is broken, Judy 1880 196
War Song of the Radical Philhellene, The Saturday Review, 1886 197
Enigma on the Letter H. (Ascribed to Byron.)
“’Twas whispered in Heaven” 197
“I dwells in the Herth,” Henry Mayhew 197
The Letter H. his petition, and a reply 197
The Petition of the Letter W. to Londoners, and a reply, 198
A Riddle on the letter U 278
Lord Byron’s Address, spoken at the opening of Drury Lane Theatre, October, 1812 198
Cui Bono? from the Rejected Addresses, H. and J. Smith 199
The Genuine Rejected Addresses 201
The Destruction of Sennacherib.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold 201
The Destruction of the Aldermen, Punch, 1841 201
Sir Robert came down on the Corn Laws so bold, 201
The Russian came down like a thief in the night, 202
The Blizzard came down like a thousand of brick, 202
The Belgravians came down on the Queen in her hold, Jon Duan 202
Miss Pussy jumped down, Don Diego 202
The Diplomats came like a wolf on the fold, Truth 203
The Yankee came down with long Fred on his back, Punch, 1881 203
All the papers came down (on melting the Statue of the Duke of Wellington), Truth 203
The Tories came forth in their pride, Alick Sinclair, The Weekly Dispatch, 1884 203
The Premier came down to the House as of old, C. Renz, The Weekly Dispatch. 1886 203
Great Gladstone came down his new Bill to unfold, F. B. Doveton, 1886 204
“Dan O’Connell came down,” The Spirit of the Age Newspaper, 1828 209
Belasco came down like a bruiser so bold 279
To Thomas Moore
“My boat is on the Shore” 208
“My cab is at the door.” The National Omnibus 208
“My cab is at the door,” Punch, 1846 208
“My boat has run ashore,” Punch, 1875 208
A Farewell to Jenny Lind, Punch, 1848 210
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
“Adieu, adieu! my native shore” 209
“Adieu, adieu! place once so sure,” 209
“Adoo! adoo! my fav’rite scheme,” Punch, 1846 209
There was a sound of revelry by night 209
There was a sound that ceased not (on the Railway Panic), Our Iron Roads, F. S. Williams 210
Waterloo at Astley’s Theatre, Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack, 1846 210
The Battle of the Opera, Punch 1849 210
There was a sound of orat’ry by night 210
There was a clash of Billiard balls, A. H. Smith 211
Stop; for your tread is on a Poet’s dust! (on Henry Irving as Othello), Figaro, 1876 211
London’s Inferno, Truth, 1884 212
Childe Snobson’s Pilgrimage, Punch, 1842 212
Childe Chappie’s Pilgrimage, by E. J. Milliken 212
Darkness
“I had a dream, which was not all a dream” 204
“I had a hat—it was not all a hat” 204
“I had a dream” (On Smoking) The Spirit of the Age, 1828 204
Tis time this Heart should be Unmoved 205
’Tis time that I should be removed, Punch’s Pocket Book, 1856 205
Lord Byron’s Marriage 205
Fare thee Well!
Yes, farewell; farewell for ever 206
And fare Thee well, too—if, for ever 207
Fare thee well! Lyrics and Lays, 1867 207
Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Article on Byron 207
The Un-true Story, dedicated to Mrs. Stowe “Know ye the land where the Novelists blurt all,” Walter Parke, Punch and Judy, 1870 208
To Inez. “Nay, smile not at my garments now,” Phœbe Carey 213
“I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs” 213
Venice Unpreserved, Punch, 1851 214
Practical Venice, Punch, 1882 214
“Roll on thou drunk and dark blue peeler” 214
There is pleasure in a cask of wood, Hugh Cayley 214
Arcades Ambo, C. S. Calverley, Fly Leaves, 1878 214
Beer, C. S. Calverley 215
The Guerilla, James Hogg, The Poetic Mirror 215
The Last Canto of Childe Harold 215
The Giaouriii
“He who hath bent him o’er the dead” 215
“He that hath gazed upon this head,” The Gownsman, 1830 216
“He that hath bent him o’er a goose,” The Gossip, 1821 216
“He who hath bent him o’er the bed,” Beauty and the Beast, 1843 216
“He that don’t always bend his head, Punch, 1847 216
“He who hath looked with aching head” 216
The Bride of Abydos
Know ye the Land? 217
Know’st thou the land? Thomas Carlyle 217
Know ye the land where the leaf of the myrtle? 217
Know ye the town of the turkey and turtle? 217
Know ye the house in which Vestris and Nisbett? 217
Know’st thou the land where the kangaroos bound? 217
Know ye the house where the Whigs and the Tories? Punch 1842 217
Where ye the scene where the clerks and the tailors? Punch, 1844 218
Know ye the loss of the beautiful turtles? 218
Know ye the land where the hot toast and muffin? 218
Know ye the town where policemen and navvies? 218
Know ye the stream where the cesspool and sewer? 218
Know’st thou the spot where the venison and turtle? Diogenes, 1853 218
Know ye the Inn where the laurel and Myrtle? 219
Know’st thou the land (of Greece)? Shirley Brooks, 1854 219
Know you the lady who does’nt like turtle? Shirley Brooks, 1856 219
Know ye the land of molasses and rum? 219
Know ye the Hall where the birch and the myrtle? 220
O, know you the land where the cheese tree grows? 220
Know’st thou the land where the hardy green thistle? An Address to Lord Byron 220
Know ye the land where the novelists blurt all? Walter Parke 1870 208
Know ye the place where they press and they hurtle? Jon Duan, 1874 220
Is it where the cabbage grows so fast? 221
Know ye the land of reeds and of rushes? 221
They stood upon his nose’s bridge of size. Lays of Modern Oxford, 1874 221
Prisoner of Chillon.—Snowed up 228
Sublime Tobacco! which from East to West 279
Sublime Potatoes; that from Antrim’s shore 279
Cabul, September, 1879. In imitation of the Siege of Corinth. The World, 1879 221
The Civic Mazeppa, Punch, 1844 221
Mazeppa Travestied. 1820 279
Don Juan
“Bob Southey! you’re a poet” 222
“Ben Dizzy! you’re a humbug,” Jon Duan 222
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece 222
The Isle of Eels! the Isle of Eels, Punch, 1844 223
The Smiles of Peace, Shirley Brooks, 1856 223
The Wines of Greece, Punch, 1865 224
The Ills of Greece Punch, 1879 224
The Claims of Greece, G. A. Sala 224
The aisles of Rome, Jon Duan, 1874 224
The Isles decrease, Faust and Phisto, 1876 225
The Claims of Greece, Punch, 1881 225
The Town of Nice, Herman Merivale, 1883 225
The Smiles of Peace, Funny Folks, 1885 225
The Liberal Seats, Pall Mall Gazette, 1886 226
The Fields of Tothill; a Fragment 49
The Childe’s Pilgrimage, W. F. Deacon 226
“Without one lingering look he leaves,” Lays of Modern Oxford. 1874 227
Miscellaneous Parodies of Lord Byron’s Poems 228
Don Juan Unread (1819), Dr. W. Maginn (A Parody of Wordsworth’s “Yarrow Unvisited”) 229
——:o:——
Thomas Campbell.
Lord Ullin’s Daughter 21
Sir Robert’s Bill. Protectionist Parodies 21
John Thompson’s Daughter, Phœbe Carey, 1854 22
Lambeth Ferry 22
The New Lord Ullin’s Daughter 23
“In London when the funds are low,” Coronation Lays, 1831 113
“To London ’ere the sun is low,” Hyde Parker 112
Hohenlinden 23
Bannockburn, Archie Aliquis, 1825 23
The Battle of Peas-Hill, from The Gradus ad Cantabrigiam, 1824 23
Jenny-Linden, Punch, 1847 23
The Bal-Masqué at Crockford’s—The Man in the Moon 25
Row-in-London, The Puppet Show, 1848 25
The Battle of the Boulevard, W. E. Aytoun 25
Hohen-London, Punch, 1851 26
Swindon Station 26
Hotel Swindling, Diogenes, 1853 26
The Battle of Bull-Run 27
“At Seacliff, when the time passed slow,” College Rhymes, 1861, L. E. S 27
“At Belton, ere the twilight grew” 27
“At Oxford when my funds were low,” Lays of Modern Oxford, 1874 27
At Prince’s when the sun is low, 1876 28
The Tay Bridge Disaster, F. B. Doveton, 1880 28
“In Erin where the Praties grow,” J. M. Lowry 28
Hohenlinden, Latin translations of 28
The Tay Bridge Disaster, J. F. Baird 43
 ”  ”    ”    ”   L. Beck 43
The Lawn Tennis Match, F. B. Doveton 47
The Soldier’s Dream 29
“We were wet as the deuce,” Punch 1853 29
The Boat Race: “We had stripped off our coats,” Lays of Modern Oxford, 1874 29
The Tory Premier’s Dream, Funny Folks, 1880 29
The Fatal Gallopade, The Comic Magazine, 1834 30
Lochiel’s Warning 30
1879, its glory and its shame. Prize Poem. The World. 1880, Goymour Cuthbert
“Old year, old year, I’m glad of the day” 30
“Chieftain, O, Chieftain, lament for the year” 31
“Old women! old women! prepare for the day,” J. H. Wheeler 31
“O, Cecil! O, Cecil! beware of the day,” James Robinson, 31
“O, Salisbury, Salisbury, beware of the day,” Albert Otley 32
“O, Tories! O, Tories! beware of the day” 32
The Student’s Warning, 1838 45
Ye Mariners of England 32
Ye Kite-flyers of Scotland, Thomas Love Peacock 32
Young gentlemen of England, Punch, 1844 33
Ye Peasantry of England, Punch, 1845 33
Ye Constables of London, Puppet Show, 1848 34
Ye Ship builders of England, Punch, 1849 34
Ye Subalterns in England Punch, 1854 34
Ye Clergymen of England, Punch, 1856 35
March, March, Make-rags of Borrowdale, T. L. Peacock 33
You rustic maids of England, Punch, 1857 35 iv
Ye Commoners of England, Echoes from the Clubs, 1867 35
You sneaking Skunks of England, Lyrics and Lays, 1867 35
Ye Gentlemen of Ireland, Punch, 1870 36
Ye Scavengers of England, Punch, 1880 36
Ye Milliners of England, Hugh Cayley, 1883 36
Ye Mariners of England (Torpedo Terrors) 37
Ye Infantry of England, Punch 37
Ye Gentlemen of England, Truth, 1884 37
Ye Mariners of England (and Mr. J. Chamberlain) Funny Folks, 1884 38
 ”    ”   ”    ”    Punch 1884 38
 ”    ”   ”    ”    Globe, 1885 39
Ye Radicals of Brumm’gem, 1884 39
Ye Gentlemen of England (Cricket Match) 39
Ye Shopkeepers of London, Truth, 1884 40
Ye Ministers of England, Truth, 1879 40
You faithful Muggletonians, 40
Ye Mariners of England (on Chinese Sailors) 47
The Maid’s Remonstrance
The Bench of Bishops. James Turner 40
Randolph’s Remonstrance to Sir Stafford. H. L. Brickel 40
Britannia’s Remonstrance. J. A. Elliott 40
Staffy’s Remonstrance. Gossamer 41
The Exile of Erin 41
Parody from Figaro in London, May, 1833 41
Mitchell in Norfolk Island, The Puppet Show, 1848 42
The Ex-premier’s Visit to Erin, 1877 42
Ireland’s Distress, Captain Walford 42
  ”    ”   Miss E. Chamberlayne 42
The Sorrows of Ireland. Rejected Odes, 181 47
Ye Mariners of England (as sung by Lord Ellenborough), Punch, 1846 110
You Managers of Railways, Punch, 1847 110
Ye Husbandmen of Scotland 110
Ye Liberals of England, Funny Folks, 1880 111
“There came to the beach a poor landlord of Erin,” M. O’Brien. The Irish Fireside, 1886 111
Battle of the Baltic 43
Battle of the Balls. The University Snowdrop. 44
Stanzas on a Late Battle   ”     ” 45
The Burning of the Play House (Covent Garden.) Shirley Brooks 45
“Of Scotia and the North.” Rival Rhymes, 1859 47
The Escape of the Aldermen. Punch, 1845 111
The Last Man
The Last Growler. Punch, 1885 46
The Last Duke. Punch, 1846 109
The Last Man in Town. Funny Folks, 1878 109
The Massacre of Glenho. Puck on Pegasus 46
The Pleasures of Hope. 47
Campbell, undone and outdone. Joseph G. Dalton 47
Portrait of Campbell. Maclise Portrait Gallery 47
Lines on Campbell. Dr. W. Maginn 47
——:o:——
Miss Catherine Fanshawe.
The Enigma on the Letter H 197
A Parody on the above—Henry Mayhew 197
The Letter H’s Petition and a Reply 197
Petition of the letter W, and reply 198
An Enigma on the letter U. The Gownsman, 1830 278
——:o:——
Dr. Oliver Goldsmith.
When lovely Woman stoops to folly 3
“Lorsqu’une femme,” Ségur 3
“When woman,” as Goldsmith declares, Barham 3
When Harry Brougham turns a Tory. Punch, 1844 3
When lovely woman wants a favour. Phœbe Carey 3
When lovely woman, prone to folly. Punch, 1854 3
When lovely woman stoops. Diogenes, 1853 4
When lovely woman, hooped in folly. Punch, 1857 4
When lovely woman, lump of folly. S. Brooks 4
When managers have stooped to folly. Fun, 1866 4
When lovely woman takes to lollies. Grasshopper. 4
When lovely woman, still a maiden. Kottabos. 4
When lovely woman stoops to fashion. 4
When lovely woman takes to rinking 4
When lovely woman reads Le Follet. Figaro, 1873 4
When foolish man consents to marry 4
When lovely woman, once so jolly 5
When lovely woman finds that breaches 5
When lovely woman’s melancholy. Fun, 1885 5
When lovely woman longs to marry 5
When stupid Odger stoops to folly. Judy 5
When foolish woman stoops to fashion. 1882 5
When man, less faithful than the colley. Judy. 5
If lovely woman seeks to enter. Gossip, 1885 5
When lovely woman pines in folly—1885 5
When lovely woman stoops to Foli 5
When a grave Speaker stoops to folly 17
An Elegy on the death of a Mad Dog 6
An Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize 6
Le Fameux la Galisse, by Gilles de Ménage, 1729 6
The Happy Man. The Mirror, 1823 8
Le Chanson de La Palice, by Bernard de la Monnoye 8
John Smith, he was a guardsman bold. The Comic Magazine, 1834 9
There was a man, so legends say. Tom Hood 10
An Elegy on Mrs. Grimes. The Century Magazine 10
Description of an Author’s Bed Chamber 10
The Street Artist. The Month, 1851 10
The Deserted Village 10
The Doomed Village 10
The Deserted Village (London). The Tomahawk 11
London in September. Lord John Russell 12
Innovation. Anthony Pasquin. 1786 18
The Frequented Village. E. Young 19
The Deserted School. James E. Thompson, 1885 19
The Hermit 12
“Gentle Herdsman tell to me” 12
The Friar of Orders Gray 14
The Hermit—a Prophetic Ballad. The St. James’s Gazette, 1881 15
The Hermit of Vauxhall, G. A. à Beckett, 1845 17
Retaliation
The Speaker’s Dinner. Posthumous Parodies 15
Home, sweet Home. H. C. Bunner, 1881 17
The Tears of Genius. Courtney Melmoth, 1774 (Thomas Jackson Pratt) 19
The Vicar of Wakefield, and Olivia. W. G. Wills 19
The Vicar of Wide-a-Wakefield, or the Miss-Terryous Uncle, a burlesque by H. P. Stephens and W. Yardley 19
The Caste of the Burlesque 20
Jupiter and Mercury. David Garrick 20
——:o:—— v
Mrs. F. D. Hemans.
The Stately Homes of England 129
The Donkey-boys of England. Punch, 1849 129
The Garden Grounds of England 130
The Merchant Prince of England. Shirley Brooks 130
The dirty Cabs of London. Punch, 1853 130
The Duns of Merry England. Diogenes, 1853 131
The Barristers of England. Punch, 1853 131
The Compo’d Homes of England. The Figaro 131
The Stately Homes of England. Truth, 1877 132
The Cottage Homes of England. Punch, 1874 132
The Haunted Homes of England. Pall Mall Gazette, 1883 132
The Stately Men of England. Hugh Cayley 132
The Unhealthy Homes of England. Punch, 1884 133
Ye Cottage Homes of England. Truth, 1885 133
The Graves of a Household. The Man in the Moon 138
He never wrote again. Phœbe Carey, 1854 139
Leaves have their Time to Fall.
Fish have their times to bite. College Rhymes 139
Casabianca 133
“Macbeth stood on the new-built Stage” (Mr. Henry Irving as Macbeth.) The Figaro, 1875 134
The Mule stood on the Steamboat Deck” 134
“The boy stood on the back-yard fence” 134
“The dog lay on the butcher’s stoop” 134
“The Peer stood on the burning deck.” Truth, 1884 134
“The girl stewed on the burning deck” 135
“The boy stood by the stable door” 135
The Better Land 135
“I’ve heard thee speak of a good hotel” 136
“I have heard you speak of ‘Three acres of land.’” Edward Walford, M.A. Life, 1885 136
“I hear thee speak of a bit o’ land” 136
“I hear thee speak of a ‘Plot of Land’” 137
An answer to the preceding 137
“I hear thee speak of a Western land” 137
“I hear them speak of a Happy Land.” Fun 138
——:o:——
Charles Kingsley.
Three Fishers went Sailing away to the West 117
“Three Merchants went riding.” Punch, 1858 117
“Four Merchants who thought themselves.” 117
The Lasher at Iffley. College Rhymes, 1861.
“Eight coveys went out in their college boat.” 117
“Three mothers sat talking.” Punch, 1861 118
“Three freshmen went loafing.” College Rhymes 118
“Three fellahs went out to a house in the west.” 118
“Three husbands went forth.” Banter, 1867 118
“Three Children were playing.” The Mocking Bird, F. Field, 1868 119
“Three Students sat writing.” The Cantab, 1873 119
“Three gourmands invited were into the West.” 119
“Three ladies went skating.” Idyls of the Rink 119
“Three regiments went sailing away to the East,” 119
“Three practical men went strolling west.” 120
“Three profits had got to come out of the land.” 120
“Three lambkins went larking.” Judy, 1879 120
“Three rascals went ranting round in the West.” Gobo, The World, 1879 120
“Three land agitators went down to the West.” 121
“Three Paddies went spouting away at Gurteen.” F. B. Doveton 121
“Three fishes were floating about in the Sea.” 121
“Three Tories went bravely.” Grins and Groans 121
“There were three pussy cats.” Fun. 1882 121
“Three Fishmongers looked for a sale.” 1883 122
“Three Potters set out all dressed in their best.” 122
“Three Champions went stumping.” Punch 1884 122
“Three Fossils sat perched in the Whitehall Zoo.” 122
“Three fishermen went gaily out into the North.” 122
“Three acres seemed pleasant to Countryman Hodge.” Punch, 1885 123
“Three Farmers went driving up into the town.” 123
“Three Topers went strolling out into the East.” Hyde Parker. 1886 123
“Three Poets went sailing down Boston streets.” Lilian Whiting 123
“Three Filchers went cadging.” The Free Lance 124
“Three Students were walking.” The Lays of the Mocking Sprite 124
“Three Melons went sailing out in the West.” 124
“Three Carpets hung waiving abroad in the breeze.” 124
“Three worthless young fellows went out in the night.” 124
“Three Sports got into a railroad car.” 125
“Three husbands went reeling home out of the West.” Mrs. G. L. Banks 125
“Three young men who never went astray.” 125
“Three Anglers went down to fish Sunbury Weir.” The Angler’s Journal, 1886 139
“Three Freshers went sailing out into the street.” 139
“An Umpire went sallying out into the East.” 140
Three women went sailing out into the street. 279
Three little fishers trudged over the hill. F. H. Stauffer 279
Three cows were seized for tithe rent in the West. 280
Three fishers went fishing out into the sea. H. C. Dodge 280
Ode to the North-East Wind.
“Welcome, wild North-Easter!” 125
The Surgeon’s Wind. Punch, 1857 126
Hang thee, vile North-Easter. Punch, 1858 126
“Welcome, wild North-Easter,” as sung by a Debutante at the last Drawing Room 127
Welcome, English Easter. Fun, 1867 128
Kingsley, and the South-west Trains 128
“I once saw a sweet pretty face.” 128
The Dirdum. A parody of C. Kingsley’s Scotch poem on an Oubit, 1862 129
——:o:——
Thomas Moore.
’Tis the last Rose of Summer 230
’Tis the first rose of Summer, R. Gilfillan 230
   Do.    do.    Wiseheart’s Songster 230
’Tis the last man in London. The National Omnibus, 1831 230
I’m the last Rose of Summer, 1832 231
’Tis the last summer bonnet. T. H. Bayly, 1833 231
’Tis the last bit of candle. Wiseheart’s Songster 231
The last lamp of the alley. Dr. Maginn 232
’Tis the last choice Havana 232
’Tis the straw hat of summer 232
’Tis the last of the Fancy. Judy, 1867 232
’Tis the last weed of Hudson’s. J. R. G. 233
’Tis the last little tizzy. The Snob, 1829 233
’Tis the last of the members. Figaro in London 233
’Tis the last fly of summer. Punch’s Pocket Book, 1848 233
He’s the last “Vivâ Voce.” College Rhymes 234
’Tis the last belle of summer. Funny Folks 234
’Tis the last pipe this winter. Funny Folks, 1879 234
’Tis the last jar of pickles 234 vi
He’s the last of his party. R. H. Lawrence 234
’Tis the last baked potato. W. W. Dixon 235
’Tis a prime leg of mutton. Lizzie Griffin 235
’Tis the last rose of Windsor. F. Rawkins 235
’Tis the last blow of a drummer. Hugh Cayley 235
’Tis the last ruse of someone. The Globe, 1886 236
Let Erin remember. Punch. 1885 236
When he who adores thee 236
To a Bottle of old Port. Dr. Maginn 236
When he who adjures thee 236
When he who now bores thee 264
The Harp that once through Tara’s Halls 236
The Puff that once thro’ Colburn’s halls. 1831 237
The Belt which once. Egan’s Book of Sports, 1832 237
The Harp that once in Warren’s Mart. Punch 237
The Broom that once through Sarah’s halls. Judy 237
The Girl that oft in lighted halls, 1869 237
The Voice that once thro’ Senate halls. Funny Folks, 1884 237
Luke Sharpe, who once. Detroit Free Press, 1885 238
The Plate that once through Fashion’s halls 264
Fly not yet, ’tis just the hour. Figaro, 1833 260
Fly not to wine. The Blue Bag, 1832 238
Fly not yet. St. James’s Gazette, 1881 238
Rich and rare were the Gems she wore 238
Rich and furred was the robe he wore, T. Hook 238
Ragged and rough were the clothes she wore 239
Rich and rare were the arms she bore 239
Rough and red was the cloak she wore 239
Quaint and queer were the gems she wore 264
There is not in the wide world 239
There is not in this city an alley so sweet. National Omnibus, 1831 239
There is not in the palace. National Omnibus 239
There’s not in Saint Stephen’s. Figaro in London 239
There is not in all London. Punch, 1842 240
There’s not in the wide world a country so sweet 240
There’s not in the wide world an odour less sweet 240
O, There’s not in the West-end, Punch. 1872 240
There’s not in all London a tavern so gay. G. W. M. Reynolds 240
On Stephen Kemble 240
The Irish welcome 241
The Trifle. Punch, 1852 241
The Bitter cry of outcast London. Two parodies from the Weekly Dispatch, by T. A. Wilson and Aramis 241
The meteing of the waters. Punch, 1884 241
The Thames. B. Saunders. 1884 242
The House of Lords. H. B., 1884 242
There is not to the poet. E. A. Horne, 1884 242
The Heiress. Aramis. 1884 242
The Club Smoking-room. J. Pratt, 1884 242
The Meeting of the Emperors. Moonshine, 1884 243
There’s not in old Ireland. Walter Parke 270
Come, send round the wine. 1825 243
Believe me, if all those endearing young charms 243
Mr. Colburn to Lady Morgan’s Books, 1831 243
On the House of Lords and Reform. Figaro in London, 1831 243
Believe me, dear Susan. Diogenes, 1854 243
To a lady in a crinoline. Punch, 1857 244
John Bull to Paddy, 1867 244
John Bright to his place, 1869 244
To an Ancient Coquette 244
On College Don 244
On Roast pork. F. B. Doveton, 1881 244
On Tory election promises, 1886 244
Oh, blame not the Bard. Fun, 1883 245
Oh! the days are gone when beauty bright. 1869 245
Lesbia hath a beaming eye 245
Peggy hath a squinting eye 245
Lesbia hath a fowl to cook 246
Lesbia’s skirt doth streaming fly. Punch, 1856 246
Lemon is a little hipped. Charles Dickens, 1855 246
This suit is all chequer’d 246
Oh! the Shamrock 247
Oh! the Scarecrows. United Ireland, 1885 247
One more try at parting. Punch’s Almanac, 1883 247
The Young May Moon 248
The Irishman’s serenade 248
The Bladder of whiskey 248
The Cat’s serenade 248
The old March moon. Diogenes, 1854 248
Song of the Signalman, Punch, 1885 248
Defeated Manœuvres 249
The Minstrel Boy 249
Mister Sheil into Kent has gone. W. M. Thackeray 249
The Sailor Boy on a tour is gone. 1832 249
The leary cove to the Mill is gone. 1832 249
The fiddler’s boy to the fair is gone 249
The Koh-i-noor to the wall has gone. Punch, 1851 250
The Cordon Bleu (M. A. Soyer). Punch, 1855 250
The Draper’s man. Punch, 1857 250
The Chinese Boy to the War is gone 250
The Errand Boy. Judy, 1869 250
The Beardless Boy. Punch, 1875 250
The Minstrel Boy in the train. Funny Folks 250
Bradlaugh to protest is gone. S. J. Miott 251
The Warrior Duke (of Cambridge) 251
The Alderman from Guildhall has gone. Judy, 1880 251
The Girton Girl to Exam’ has gone. Funny Folks 251
The Grand old Boy. Punch, 1882 251
The Noble Lord to the stores is gone. Judy, 1882 251
Sir D. V. Gay to the poll is gone. United Ireland 252
Our Bradlaugh boy 252
The ’prentice boy to the street has gone 252
The Grand Young Man. F. B. Doveton 252
The Grand old man to the North has gone. Life 253
The Grand old man. Songs for Liberal electors 253
The Shy Bo-Peep to the sea is gone. A. H. S. 276
The time I’ve lost in “screwing” 253
Come, rest on this gridiron. Punch, 1881 253
To the Finish I went. Dr. W. Maginn 253
I saw up the steps. Lays of the Mocking Sprite 253
I saw from my window. Girl of the Period, 1869 254
Sail on, Sail on, thou Fearless Bark 254
Scale on, scale on, oh! tuneless strummer 254
Thee, thee, only thee 254
Tea, Tea, only Tea. Punch, 1884 254
Oh! Call it by some Better Name 254
Oh, try, good sirs, some better game. 1886. B. Saunders 254
Oh! try some worthier, better game. D. Evans 255
Oh! call it by some better name. J. Fitzpatrick 255
Oh! call it by some fitter name. Gossamer 255
Oh! call him by some stronger name. Robert Puttick 255
I knew by the Smoke that so Gracefully curl’d 255
I knew by the wig that so gracefully curl’d 255
I knew by the post that so gaily display’d. The Mirror, 1823 255 vii
We knew by the string that so gracefully curl’d 256
I saw by the steam that so gracefully curl’d 256
I knew by the smoke that so heavily curl’d 256
To Dizzy, “When time hath bereft thee,” 1867 256
By the Thames to the right, is the flat shore of Erith 256
Had I a shilling left to spare, Bertie Vyse 256
A Canadian Boat Song.
“Faintly as tolls the evening chime” 257
The Cabinet’s Boat Song, 1878 257
“Plainly as tolls disruption’s chime,” 1886 257
Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers! 257
“Hither, Flora of the street. T. A. Wilson 257
“Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers.” Aramis 258
   ”    ”    ”    ”    Thistle 258
When in gaol I shall calm recline 258
When in death I shall quiet be found 258
When in death I shall calm recline. 1832 271
Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour 259
To Tory hearts a round, boys 259
A nice Devill’d Biscuit. Punch 259
Apple pie. “All new dishes fade.” 259
Those Evening Bells 259
Those Christmas Bills. W. Hone, 1826 259
That Chapel Bell. The Gownsman, 1830 260
My white moustache. Figaro, 1832 260
Those London belles. Miss Bryant 260
Those Ball-room belles. Diogenes, 1853 261
Those Scotch hotels, Diogenes, 1853 261
Those Gresham chimes. Punch, 1853 261
Those Tramway bells. Funny Folks 261
Those Evening bells. Tom Hood 261
Those London Bells. Shirley Brooks, 1855 261
Those Pretty Girls. J. W. W. 261
Those Vatted Rums. Punch, 1855 262
Those evening belles. Pan the Pilgrim 262
That Muffin bell. Punch, 1880 262
The Parcel Post. Judy, 1883 262
Those Evening belles. Moonshine, 1886 262
Oft, in the Stilly Night 262
Oft, o’er my tea and toast. Figaro in London 263
Oft, in his present plight. The Puppet Show, 1848 263
Oft, in the chilly night. Memoirs of a Stomach 263
Oft, on a “silly” night. Funny Folks, 1878 263
Oft, in election’s fight. Truth, 1886 263
Here’s the bower she loved so much 264
Here’s the box that held the snuff 264
Here’s the bottle she loved so much. J. Bruton 264
There’s a bower of roses by Bendemeer’s Stream 264
There’s of benches a row in St. Stephen’s extreme 264
There’s a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard. Phœbe Carey, 1854 264
One morn a Tory at the gate. Figaro, 1832 265
A Peri at the “Royal” gate. Truth. 1877 265
This week a Peeress at the gate. Truth, 1883 265
One morn Ben Dizzy at the gate 266
Farewell, Farewell to thee, Araby’s daughter 266
Farewell, farewell to thee, desolate Erin! 266
Farewell, farewell to thee, Arabi darling! 266
Begone, begone with thee, son of Shere Ali! 267
Away, away, with the Ameer unlucky! 267
Farewell, farewell to thee, Ireland’s protector! 270
Oh! ever thus, from childhood’s hour 267
I never wrote up “Skates to Sell” 267
I never loved a dear gazelle 268
I never rear’d a young gazelle. H. S. Leigh 268
I never had a piece of toast 268
A Parody by Tom Hood the younger 268
Wus! ever wus! H. Cholmondeley-Pennell 268
’Twas ever thus! C. S. Calverley 268
I never bought a young Gazelle 269
The young Gazelle, a Moore-ish tale. Walter Parke 269
Come hither, come hither, by night and by day 270
A Parody. On the House of Commons, 1832 270
Sweet Borough of Tamworth 1832 270
The Sweet Briar. C. S. K. 271
Miscellaneous Parodies on “Paradise and the Peri” 271
Lalla Rookh Burlesque. Vincent Amcotts 272
One more Irish Melody, 1869 272
On Lord Brougham, 1833 272
Loves of the Mortals 272
Loves of the New Police 273
Jack Randall’s Diary, 1820 273
Young Love once fell through a straw-thatched shed 273
The Bencher, or whitewashing day 273
The Living Lustres. Rejected Addresses 273
A Fallen Angel over a Bowl of Rum-Punch. Christopher North, 1823 274
Love and the Flimsies. Thomas Love Peacock 275
The Bard of Erin’s Lament 275
Old Sherry. (An Anacreontic, 1828) 275
Anacreon’s Ode xxi.
“Observe when mother earth is dry” 276
Earlier translations by Ronsard, Capilupus, Shakespeare, Lord Rochester, and Abraham Cowley 276
On Moore’s Plagiarisms. An article in Fraser’s Magazine, June, 1841 276
Lays of the Saintly. Walter Parke 270
“The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass,” by Thomas Moore 260
——:o:——
Sir Walter Scott.
Rebecca and Rowena. W. M. Thackeray 71
A Tale of Drury Lane. Rejected Addresses 72
Blue Bonnets over the Border 73
Blue Stockings over the Border. Mirror 1828 74
Write, write, tourist and traveller. Robert Gilfillan 74
Read, read, Woodstock and Waverley, Robert Gilfillan, 1831 74
Tax, tax, Income and Property. Punch, 1851 75
March, march, pipe-clayed and belted in 75
Take, take, lobsters and lettuces. Punch 75
Take, take, blue pill and colocynth. Punch 75
Drill, drill, London and Manchester. Punch, 1859 75
Mr. Kemple’s Farewell Address, 1817
“As the worn war-horse at the trumpet’s sound” 75
Mr. Patrick Robertson’s farewell to the Bar
“As the worn show horse whom Ducrow so long” 76
Lament for Tabby, or the Cat’s Coronach. The Satirist, 1814 76
The Lay of the last Minstrel
 Introduction—
77
“The way was long, the wind was cold” 77
“The tide was low, the wind was cold.” Funny Folks, 1875 77
“The sun was hot, the day was bright.” Weekly Echo, 1885 77
The Lay of the last Cab-Hack. Funny Folks 78
The Bray of the last Donkey 78
The Lay of the last Ministry. Fun, 1885 78
Mr. Barnum’s Experience of Travelling 116
Canto III.viii
“And said I that my limbs were old” 78
“And thought they I was growing old.” They are Five. 1880, 79
Canto VI.
“Breathes there the man with soul so dead” 79
A declamation, by Miss Mudge, the Blue Stocking 79
“Breathes there a Scot with soul so dead.” O. P. Q. P. Smiff. The Figaro, 1874 79
Pilosagine. Advertisement parody 80
“Lives there a man with soul so dead” 80
“Breathes there a man with taste so dead.” The Figaro, 1876 80
“O Caledonia! very stern and wild.” Jon Duan 80
Don Salisbury’s Midnight Vigil. Truth, 1885 81
Parody from the Lays of the Mocking Sprite 82
Albert Graeme.
“It was an English ladye bright” 81
“It was a toper one Saturday night” 81
“It was an Oxford Scholar bright.” The Shotover Papers, 1874 82
The Lay of the Poor Fiddler, 1814 81
St. Fillan’s Arm. From Lays of the Saintly, by Walter Parke 83
The Blue Brother. Walter Parke 83
The Lay of the Scottish Fiddle, 1814. James Kirke Paulding 84
A Lay to the Last Minstrel. Edward Churton 84
Marmion.
O Woman! in our hours of ease 84
Oh! Scotsman! in thine hour of ease 84
A good Wife 85
A Dedication to Women. Finis, 1877 85
The Mansion House Marmion (Lord Mayor Fowler). Truth, 1883 85
Lochinvar 86
Lock-and-Bar. Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine 86
“O young William Jones is come out of the West.” 87
“The big-booted Czar had his eye on the East.” Shirley Brooks, 1854 87
“It was Albert of Wales and his troop of Hussars. Judy, 1871 88
“Choice of Stoke-upon-Trent, lo, Kenealy confest.” Punch, 1875 88
“O young Stephey Cave is come out of the East.” 89
Young Lochinvar in Blank Verse. Free Press Flashes, 1883 89
“Oh! A Bishop from Surrey is come here to pray.” From Marmion Travesty, by Peter Pry 90
Epigrams on the Duke of York 91
A Parody concerning Mr. Digby Pigott. 1877. 116
The Lady of the Lake, 1810 91
The Lady of the Wreck, or Castle Blarneygig. George Colman 91
“The stag at eve had drunk his fill” 91
“The pig at eve was lank and faint” 91
Boat Song
“Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances” 91
“Hail our Chief! now he’s wet through with whiskey.” George Colman 92
“Hail to the Chief” (Gladstone). Punch, 1880 92
The Nile Song. Punch, 1863 99
Mountain Dhu; or, the Knight, the Lady, and the Lake. Burlesque. Andrew Halliday, 1866 92
The Lady of the Lake, plaid in a new tartan. Burlesque by R. Reece 92
“Raising the “Fiery Cross.” Punch, 1884 93
Rokeby, 1813 94
Jokeby, by an amateur of Fashion, 1813 (attributed to John Roby, also to Thomas Tegg, and to the Brothers Smith) 94
“O, Brignall banks are wild and fair” 94
“Oh, Giles’s lads are brave and gay” 94
Smokeby, in Ephemerides, 1813 94
Rokeby the second, in the Satirist, 1813 94
MacArthur, an Epic Poem, ascribed to Walter Scott. The Satirist, 1808 95
Valentines. The Satirist, 1810 95
The Ovation of the Empty Chair. The Satirist, 1811 95
Walter Scott, Esq., to his Publishers. Accepted Addresses, 1813 96
The Poetic Mirror, or the Living Bards of Britain, by James Hogg, 1816 96
“O, heard ye never of Wat o’ the Cleuch” 97
The Battle of Brentford Green. Warreniana, 1824 97
The Bridal of Caolchairn. John Hay Allan, 1822 99
Rejected Odes. Humphrey Hedgehog, 1813 99
A Border Ballad. Thomas Love Peacock, 1837 99
“Carle, now the King’s come” 99
“Sawney, now the King’s come” 99
The Battle of Wimbledon. Punch, 1862 99
Kenilworth Burlesque, by R. Reece and H. B. Farnie 99
The Lay of the Lost Minstrel 112
Coronation Lays.
The New Monthly Magazine, July, 1831. Containing parodies of Walter Scott, The Lay of the Lost Minstrel. T. Campbell, The Show in London. S. T. Coleridge, “The Sun it shone on spire and wall.” W. Wordsworth, Sonnets on the Coronation. L. E. Landon, The Little Absentee. George Crabbe, A Reflection. Thomas Moore, A Melody. Thomas Hood, A Glance from a Hood. Robert Southey, P.L., The Laureate’s Lay 112
——:o:——
Scotch Songs.
The London University
“March, march, dustmen and coal-heavers.” The Spirit of the Age, 1829 99
“Smoke, smoke! Arcade and College Green” 100
Oh Where, and oh Where 100
“Oh where, and oh where, is my Harry Brougham gone?” Punch, 1846 100
“Oh, where, and oh where, has my learned counsel gone?” Punch, 1848 100
The great kilt Reform. Diogenes, 1854 100
“Oh where, and oh where, has our Wand’ring Willie gone.” Judy, 1879 101
Bonnie Dundee
“To the gents of the pantry ’twas Yellow-plush spoke,” 1872 101
The Maidens of Bonnie Dundee
“And did they its meeting turn into a joke”
101
“Tis a jolly conception”!—’twas Truscott who spoke.” (The Temple Bar Obstruction) 101
“In the House of St. Stephen’s Britannia thus spoke” 102
“To the lords of Creation ’twas Chamberlain spoke” 102
The Campbells are Coming. ix
The Pop’ an’ Jock Cumming, oh dear, oh dear 102
Hey, Johnny Cumming! are ye waukin’ yet? 103
The Camels are coming, at last, at last! The Globe, 1884 103
My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands. Punch, 1883 103
Woo’d and Married an’ a’ 103
The Tourists’ Matrimonial Guide through Scotland. Lord Neaves 103
Charley is my Darling
“Charley was so daring” (Sir Charles Napier) 104
“O, Langtry, wilt thou gang wi’ me” 105
Robin Adair
“You’re welcome to Despots, Dumourier,” Robert Burns, 1793 105
“Canning, O rare!” Liverpool election, 1812 105
——:o:——
Robert Southey, Poet Laureate.
Thalaba the Destroyer
“How beautiful is night?” 140
“How troublesome is day?” T. L. Peacock 141
“How beautiful is green?” Charterhouse Poems 141
The Curse of Kehama
“Midnight, and yet no eye.” 141
“Midnight, yet not a nose.” The Rebuilding James Smith. The Rejected Addresses 141
Justice. Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon, 1874 144
The Cataract of Lodore
“How does the water come down at Lodore?” 145
Before and after Marriage
How do the gentlemen do before marriage? 145
How do they do after marriage 146
How the Daughters come down at Dunoon. Puck on Pegasus. H. C. Pennell 146
How does the drunkard go down to the tomb? 147
How do the jolly days pass in the Holidays? Banter, 1867 147
How the Horses come round at the Corner. Fun 148
May in Lincolnshire. Once a week, 1872 148
How do the ’Varsities come to the Race 149
Ready for the Derby Start. Funny Folks, 1878 149
How does the water come down at Niagara? Funny Folks, 1878 150
How the Customers come to the Sandown Bazaar. W. J. Craig, 1879 150
Is it how the Home Rulers make spaches, me boys? Miss Story 151
Here they come broguing, together colloquing. C. J. Graves 152
Here they come wrangling. Pembroke 152
Just out of one bother into another. Hoyle 152
The World. Parody Competition. Nov., 1879
How the Home Rulers behave at St. Stephens. F. B. Doveton, 1880 153
How do cheap trippers come down to the shore? 153
How do the waters come down on the public? 154
How the Commons rush in through the door? 154
How do the Landlords “come down on” the Act? 155
How the Tourists come down to the shore. Detroit Free Press, 1885 155
The Falls of Niagara. E. H. Bickford 156
You are old, Father William 156
A Parody from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland 156
“You are cold, Father William.” The Figaro 157
“You air old, Father William. Zoz, 1878 157
“You are old, Father William.” Mayfair, 1878 157
“You are sad, People’s William.” Truth, 1878 157
“You are old, turkey gobbler.” Free Press Flashes, 1882 158
“You look young, little Randolph.” Punch, 1882 158
Parody Competition in Truth, April 5, 1883
“You are old, Father William.” Repealer 159
“You are young, Master Randolph.” Pickwick 159
“You’re a Peer, now, Lord Wolseley.” Skriker 159
“New Honours, Lord Wolseley.” Old Log 159
“You are old, Lady William.” Third Raven 159
“You are old, Kaiser Wilhelm.” T. S. G. 160
“You are plain, Mr. Biggar.” Paste 160
“You are young, Randolph Churchill.” Yash 160
“You are old, Father William.” Don Juan 160
“You have told, Lady Florence.” Ohr 161
“You are old, Noble Senate.” Poetry for the Poor. 1884 161
“You are old, Father William” (Mr. Gladstone.)] Truth, 1884 161
Old William Archer interviewed. The Sporting Times, 1885 162
On the danger of licking postage stamps. Funny Folks, 1885 162
Sequel to a great Poem. Once a Week, 1886 162
On Irish Policy. A new Alphabet of Irish Policy 162
A Valentine from Miss Hibernia to W. E. G. 163
The Battle of Blenheim
“It was a summer evening” 163
Notes on the Poem, 163
A Battle with Billingsgate. G. Cruikshank’s Comic Almanac 164
A Seasonable Gossip. The Puppet Show, 1848 164
The Battle of Jobbing. Diogenes, 1853 164
The Battle of Berlin. Funny Folks, 1878 165
Children at the Pantomime. F. B. Doveton. The World, 1880 165
Another Parody on the same topic. A. Salter 165
The Battle of Brummagem. William Bates 166
A Famous Holiday. Punch, 1880 166
A Glorious Victory (in Cricket). Punch, 1882 167
A Famous Victory (in Egypt). Clapham Free Press, 1884 168
The Battle of Blenheim House. Birmingham Daily Mail, 1885 168
The old Gladstonite and his Son. Morning Post 169
The Jackanape Jock, Cribblings from the Poets 169
Southey’s Early Political Poems 170
Bob Southey! you’re a poet 171
The Anti-Jacobin Review 171
Inscription—Henry Marten, the Regicide 171
Inscription—Mrs. Brownrigg, the Prentice-cide 172
The Widow. (Southey’s Sapphics)
“Cold was the night-wind” 172
The Friend of Humanity, and the Knife Grinder 172
The Friend of Humanity, and the Bricklayer’s Labourer. John Bull, 1827 173
Sapphics of the Cabstand. Punch, 1853 173
Lay of the Proctor. The Shotover Papers, 1874 174
The Friend of Humanity, and Seafaring Person. Punch, 1874 174
The Friend of Humanity, and John Bull. Funny Folks, 1878 174
The Friend of Agriculture, and the needy new Voter. Punch, 1886 174
The Soldier’s Wife. Dactylics, 1795 175 x
The Soldier’s Friend. (Canning’s Contrast.) 175
The Soldier’s Wife. Imitation Dactylics 175
Southey’s Official Poems 176
The Curse of the Laureate. James Hogg 176
The Vision of Judgment 176
The Vision of Judgment. Lord Byron 176
A Slap at Slop. William Hone 177
“The New Times” and “The Constitutional Association” 177
A New Vision. William Hone 177
Carmen Triumphale. W. F. Deacon. Warreniana 179
“The Satirist or Monthly Meteor,” 1813 180
Epitaph for Robert Southey, Esq., Poet Laureate, The Spirit of the Public Journals, 1824 180
——:o:——
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
The Commonweal, July 1, 1886 187
The Old Cause, A Counterblast. The Daily News, July 2, 1886 187
The Common Squeal. Punch, 1886 189
The Weekly Dispatch. Parodies by A. Whalley, and F. B. Doveton 189

CONTENTS OF PARTS I. to XXXVI. PARODIES.

EACH PART MAY BE PURCHASED SEPARATELY.

Part 1. Alfred Tennyson’s Early Poems.
Part 2. Alfred Tennyson’s Early Poems.
Part 3. Alfred Tennyson’s Later Poems.
Part 4. Page 49 to 62. Tennyson’s Poems.
Page 62 to 64. H. W. Longfellow.
Part 5. Page 65. A Parody of William Morris.
Page 65 to 80. H. W. Longfellow.
Part 6. Page 81 to 96. H. W. Longfellow.
Part 7. Page 97 to 105. H. W. Longfellow. Hiawatha.
Page 105 to 112. Rev. C. Wolfe. Not a Drum was heard.
Part 8. Page 113. Not a Drum was heard.
Page 113 to 128. The Song of the Shirt.
Part 9. Page 129 to 135. Thomas Hood.
Page 135 to 140. Bret Harte.
Pages 140 & 141. Not a Drum was heard.
Page 142 to 144. Alfred Tennyson.
Part 10. Page 145 to 160. Alfred Tennyson.
Part 11. Page 161 to 176. Alfred Tennyson.
Part 12. Page 177 to 186. Alfred Tennyson.
Page 187 to 190. Not a Drum was heard.
Page 190 to 192. Song of the Shirt.
Part 13. Page 1 to 4. Bret Harte.
Pages 4 and 5. Thomas Hood.
Page 6 to 16. H. W. Longfellow.
Part 14. Page 17 to 24. H. W. Longfellow.
Page 25 to 40. Edgar Allan Poe.
Part 15. Page 41 to 64. Edgar Allan Poe.
Part 16. Page 65 to 88. Edgar Allan Poe.
Part 17. Page 89 to 103. Edgar Allan Poe.
Pages 103, 4 & 5. The Art of Parody.
Page 106 to 112. My Mother, by Miss Taylor.
Part 18. Page 113 to 135. My Mother.
Page 136 The Vulture, (After “The Raven.”)
Page 136 A Welcome to Battenberg.
Part 19. Page 137 to 141. Tennyson’s The Fleet, etc.
Page 141 to 143. My Mother.
Page 144 to 160. Hamlet’s Soliloquy.
Part 20. Page 161 to 184. W. Shakespeare. The Seven Ages of Man, etc.
Part 21. Page 185 to 206. W. Shakespeare. Account of the Burlesques of his Plays.
Page 206 to 208. Dr. Isaac Watts.
Part 22. Page 209 to 217. Dr. Isaac Watts.
Page 217 to 232. John Milton.
Part 23. Page 233 John Milton.
Page 233 to 236. Dryden’s Epigram on Milton.
Page 236 to 238. Matthew Arnold.
Page 239 to 244. W. Shakespeare.
Page 244 to 246. Bret Harte.
Page 246 to 255. H. W. Longfellow.
Pages 255 and 256 Thomas Hood.
Part 24. Page 257 to 259. Thomas Hood.
Page 260 to 280. Alfred Tennyson.
Part 25. A Chapter on Parodies, by Isaac D’Israeli.
Page 3 to 16. Oliver Goldsmith.
Part 26. Page 17 to 20. Oliver Goldsmith.
Page 20 to 40. Thomas Campbell.
Part 27. Page 41 to 47. Thomas Campbell.
Page 48 to 64. Robert Burns.
Part 28. Page 65 to 71. Robert Burns.
Page 71 to 88. Sir Walter Scott.
Part 29. Page 89 to 99. Sir Walter Scott.
Page 99 to 105. Scotch Songs.
Page 106 to 109. Robert Burns.
Page 109 to 112. Thomas Campbell.
Part 30. Page 113 to 116. Coronation Lays.
Page 117 to 129. Charles Kingsley.
Page 129 to 136. Mrs. Hemans.
Part 31. Page 137 to 140. Mrs. Hemans.
Page 140 to 160. Robert Southey.
Part 32. Page 161 to 181. Robert Southey.
Page 181 to 184. The Anti-Jacobin.
Part 33. Page 185 to 186. The Anti-Jacobin.
Page 187 to 189. A. C. Swinburne.
Page 189 to 208. Lord Byron.
Part 34. Page 209 to 229. Lord Byron.
Page 230 to 232. Thomas Moore.
Part 35. Page 233 to 256. Thomas Moore.
Part 36. Page 257 to 278. Thomas Moore.
Page 278. Lord Byron.
Pages 279 & 280. Charles Kingsley.
Illustration: squiggly line

NOTES AND CORRECTIONS.

Page 19. Courtney Melmoth was the assumed name of T. J. Pratt, who wrote “The Tears of Genius” lamenting the death of Oliver Goldsmith.

Page 20, Line 3. For Cast read Caste.

Page 71, Column 2, line 6. Read “Mr. William Cadenhead.”

Page 80, Foot Note.—For “dear runs” read deer runs.

Page 197. The Enigma on the letter H. here ascribed to Lord Byron was written by Miss Catherine Fanshawe.

Page 208. “The Un-True Story” was written by Mr. Walter Parke for Punch and Judy, in 1870. The fifth line should read:—

Know ye the land of the dollar and dime?

Page 218. Foot Note. Read, “Parody of a song in The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan.”

Page 229. Don Juan Un-Read. This is a parody of Wordsworth’s Yarrow Unvisited.

1
Illustration: Chapter on Parodies

A lady of bas bleu celebrity (the term is getting odious, particularly to our savantes) had two friends, whom she equally admired—an elegant poet, and his parodist. She had contrived to prevent their meeting as long as her stratagems lasted, till at length she apologised to the serious bard for inviting him when his mock umbra was to be present. Astonished, she perceived that both men of genius felt a mutual esteem for each other’s opposite talent; the ridiculed had perceived no malignity in the playfulness of the parody, and even seemed to consider it as a compliment, aware that parodists do not waste their talent on obscure productions; while the ridiculer himself was very sensible that he was the inferior poet. The lady-critic had imagined that PARODY must necessarily be malicious; and in some cases it is said those on whom the parody has been performed, have been of the same opinion.

Parody strongly resembles mimicry, a principle in human nature not so artificial as it appears. Man may well be defined a mimetic animal. The African boy who amused the whole kafle he journeyed with, by mimicking the gestures and the voice of the auctioneer who had sold him at the slave market a few days before, could have had no sense of scorn, of superiority, or of malignity; the boy experienced merely the pleasure of repeating attitudes and intonations which had so forcibly excited his interest. The numerous parodies of Hamlet’s soliloquy were never made in derision of that solemn monologue, no more than the travesties of Virgil by Scarron and Cotton; their authors were never so gaily mad as that. We have parodies on the Psalms by Luther; Dodsley parodied the book of Chronicles, and Franklin’s most beautiful story of Abraham is a parody on the Scripture-style; not one of these writers, however, proposed to ridicule their originals; some ingenuity in the application was all that they intended. The lady-critic alluded to had suffered by a panic, in imagining that a parody was necessarily a corrosive satire. Had she indeed proceeded one step further, and asserted that Parodies might be classed among the most malicious inventions in literature, in such parodies as Colman and Lloyd made on Gray’s odes, in their odes to “Oblivion and Obscurity,” her readings possibly might have supplied the materials of the present research.

Parodies were frequently practised by the ancients, and with them, like ourselves, consisted of a work grafted on another work, but which turned on a different subject by a slight change of the expressions. It might be a sport of fancy, the innocent child of mirth; or a satirical arrow drawn from the quiver of caustic criticism; or it was that malignant art which only studies to make the original of the parody, however beautiful, contemptible and ridiculous. Human nature thus enters into the composition of parodies, and their variable character originates in the purpose of their application.

There is in “the million” a natural taste for farce after tragedy, and they gladly relieve themselves by mitigating the solemn seriousness of the tragic drama; for they find, as one of them told us, that it is but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous; and if this taste be condemned by the higher order of intellectual persons, and a critic said he would prefer to have the farce played before the tragedy, the taste for parody would be still among them, for whatever tends to level a work of genius is usually very agreeable to a great number of contemporaries. In the history of PARODIES, some of the learned have noticed a supposititious circumstance, which it is not improbable happened, for it is a very natural one. When the rhapsodists, who strolled from town to town to chant different fragments of the poems of Homer, and had recited some, they were immediately followed by another set of strollers—buffoons who made the same audience merry by the burlesque turn which they gave to the solemn strains which had just so deeply engaged their attention. It is supposed that we have one of these travesties of the Iliad in one Sotades, who succeeded by only changing the measure of the verses without altering the words, which entirely disguised the Homeric character; fragments of which are scattered in Dionysius Halicarnassensis, which I leave to the curiosity of the learned Grecian.[1] Homer’s battle of the Frogs and Mice, a learned critic, the elder Heinsius, asserts, was not written by the poet, but is a parody on the poem. It is evidently as good humoured an one as any in the “Rejected Addresses.” And it was because Homer was the most popular poet, that he was most susceptible of the playful honours of the parodist; unless the prototype is familiar to us, a parody is nothing! Of these parodists of Homer we may regret the loss of one. Timon of Philius, whose parodies were termed Silli, from Silenus being their chief personage; he levelled them at the sophistical philosophers of his age: his invocation is grafted on the opening of the Iliad, to recount the evil doings of those babblers, whom he compares to those bags in which Æolus deposited all his winds; balloons inflated with empty ideas! We should like to have appropriated some of these silli, or parodies of Timon the Sillograph, which, however, seem to have been at times calumnious.[2] Shenstone’s “School Mistress,” and some few other ludicrous poems, derive much of their merit from parody.

This taste for parodies was very prevalent with the Grecians, and is a species of humour which perhaps has been too rarely practised by the moderns: Cervantes has some passages of this nature in his parodies of the old chivalric romances; Fielding in some parts of his Tom Jones and Joseph Andrews, in his burlesque poetical descriptions; and Swift in his “Battle of Books,” and “Tale of a Tub,” but few writers have equalled the delicacy and felicity of Pope’s parodies in the “Rape of the Lock.” Such parodies give refinement to burlesque.

The ancients made a liberal use of it in their satirical comedy, and sometimes carried it on through an entire work, as in the Menippean satire, Seneca’s mock Eloge of Claudius, and Lucian in his Dialogues. There are parodies even in Plato, and an anecdotical one recorded of this philosopher shows them in their most simple state. Dissatisfied with his own poetical essays he threw them into the flames; that is, the sage resolved to sacrifice his verses to the god of fire; and in repeating that line in Homer where Thetis addresses Vulcan to implore his aid, the application became a parody, although it required no other change than the insertion of the philosopher’s name instead of the goddess’s:[3]

“Vulcan, arise! ’tis Plato claims thy aid!”

Boileau affords a happy instance of this simple parody. Corneille, in his Cid, makes one of his personages remark,

“Pour grands que soient les rois ils sont ce que nous sommes,
Ils peuvent se tromper comme les autres hommes.”

A slight alteration became a fine parody in Boileau’s “Chapelain Décoiflé.”

“Pour grands que soient les rois ils sont ce que nous sommes,
Ils se trompent en vers comme les autres hommes.”

We find in Athenæus the name of the Inventor of a species of parody which more immediately engages our notice—DRAMATIC PARODIES. It appears this inventor was a satirist, so that the lady-critic, whose opinion we had the honour of noticing, would be warranted by appealing to its origin to determine the nature of the thing. A dramatic parody, which produced the greatest effect, was “the Gigantomachia.” as appears by the only circumstance known of it. Never laughed the Athenians so heartily as at its representation, for the fatal news of the deplorable state to which the affairs of the republic were reduced in Sicily arrived at its first representation—and the Athenians continued laughing to the end! as the modern Athenians, the volatile Parisians, might in their national concern of an OPERA COMIQUE. It was the business of the dramatic parody to turn the solemn tragedy, which the audience had just seen exhibited, into a farcical comedy; the same actors who had appeared in magnificent dresses, now returned on the stage in grotesque habiliments, with odd postures and gestures, while the story, though the same, was incongruous and ludicrous. The Cyclops of Euripides is probably the only remaining specimen; for this may be considered as a parody of the ninth book of the Odyssey—the adventures of Ulysses in the cave of Polyphemus, where Silenus and a chorus of satyrs are farcically introduced, to contrast with the grave narrative of Homer, of the shifts and escape of the cunning man “from the one-eyed ogre.” The jokes are 2 too coarse for the French taste of Brumoy, who, in his translation, goes on with a critical growl and foolish apology for Euripides having written a farce; Brumoy, like Pistol, is forced to eat his onion, but with a worse grace, swallowing and execrating to the end.

In dramatic composition, Aristophanes is perpetually hooking in parodies of Euripides, whom of all poets he hated, as well as of Æschylus, Sophocles, and other tragic bards. Since that Grecian wit, at length, has found a translator saturated with his genius, and an interpreter as philosophical, the subject of Grecian parody will probably be reflected in a clearer light from his researches.

Dramatic parodies in modern literature were introduced by our vivacious neighbours, and may be said to constitute a class of literary satires peculiar to the French nation. What had occurred in Greece a similar gaiety of national genius unconsciously reproduced. The dramatic parodies in our own literature, as in “The Rehearsal,” “Tom Thumb,” and “The Critic,” however exquisite, are confined to particular passages, and are not grafted on a whole original; we have neither naturalised the dramatic parody into a species, nor dedicated to it the honours of a separate theatre.

This peculiar dramatic satire, a burlesque of an entire tragedy, the volatile genius of the Parisians accomplished. Whenever a new tragedy, which still continues the favourite species of drama with the French, attracted the notice of the town, shortly after up rose its parody at the Italian theatre. A French tragedy is most susceptible of this sort of ridicule, by applying its declamatory style, its exaggerated sentiments, and its romantic out-of-the-way nature to the commonplace incidents and persons of domestic life; out of the stuff of which they made their emperors, their heroes, and their princesses, they cut out a pompous country justice, a hectoring tailor, or an impudent mantua-maker; but it was not merely this travesty of great personages, nor the lofty effusions of one in a lowly station, which terminated the object of parody; it intended a better object, that of more obviously exposing the original for any absurdity in its scenes, or in its catastrophe, and dissecting faulty characters; in a word, critically weighing the nonsense of the poet. It sometimes became a refined instructor for the public, whose discernment is often blinded by party or prejudice. It was, too, a severe touch-stone for genius: Racine, some say, smiled, others say he did not, when he witnessed Harlequin, in the language of Titus to Berenice, declaiming on some ludicrous affair to Columbine; La Motte was very sore, and Voltaire and others shrunk away with a cry—from a parody! Voltaire was angry when he witnessed his Mariamne parodied by La mauvaise Mênage; or “Bad House-keeping:” the aged, jealous Herod was turned into an old cross country justice; Varus, bewitched by Mariamne, strutted a dragoon; and the whole establishment showed it was under very bad management. Fuzelier collected some of these parodies,[4] and not unskilfully defends their nature and their object against the protest of La Motte, whose tragedies had severely suffered from these burlesques. His celebrated domestic tragedy of Inez de Castro, the fable of which turns on a concealed and clandestine marriage, produced one of the happiest parodies in Agnes de Chaillot. In the parody the cause of the mysterious obstinacy of Pierrot the son, in persisting to refuse the hand of the daughter of his mother-in-law Madame la Baillive, is thus discovered by her to Monsieur le Baillif:—

“Mon mari, pour le coup j’ai découvert l’affaire,
Ne vous étonnez plus qu’à nos désirs contraire,
Pour ma fille, Pierrot, ne montre que mépris:
Voilà l’unique objet dont son cœur est épris.”
(Pointing to Agnes de Chaillot.

The Baillif exclaims,

“Ma servante?”

This single word was the most lively and fatal criticism of the tragic action of Inez de Castro, which, according to the conventional decorum and fastidious code of French criticism, grossly violated the majesty of Melpomene, by giving a motive and an object so totally undignified to the tragic tale. In the parody there was something ludicrous when the secret came out which explained poor Pierrot’s long concealed perplexities, in the maid-servant bringing forward a whole legitimate family of her own! La Motte was also galled by a projected parody of his “Machabees”—where the hasty marriage of the young Machabeus, and the sudden conversion of the amorous Antigone, who, for her first penitential act, persuades a youth to marry her, without first deigning to consult her respectable mother, would have produced an excellent scene for the parody. But La Motte prefixed an angry preface to his Inez de Castro; he inveighs against all parodies, which he asserts to be merely a French fashion (we have seen, however, that it was once Grecian), the offspring of a dangerous spirit of ridicule, and the malicious amusement of superficial minds.—“Were this true,” retorts Fuzelier, “we ought to detest parodies; but we maintain, that far from converting virtue into a paradox, and degrading truth by ridicule, Parody will only strike at what is chimerical and false; it is not a piece of buffoonery so much as a critical exposition. What do we parody but the absurdities of dramatic writers, who frequently make their heroes act against nature, common sense and truth? After all” he ingeniously adds, “it is the public, not we, who are the authors of these PARODIES; for they are usually but the echoes of the pit, and we parodists have only to give a dramatic form to the opinions and observations we hear. Many tragedies,” Fuzelier, with admirable truth, observes, “disguise vices into virtues, and PARODIES unmask them.” We have had tragedies recently which very much required parodies to expose them, and to shame our inconsiderate audiences, who patronised these monsters of false passions. The rants and bombast of some of these might have produced, with little or no alteration of the inflated originals, “A Modern Rehearsal,” or a new “Tragedy for Warm Weather.”

Of PARODIES, we may safely approve of their legitimate use, and even indulge their agreeable maliciousness; while we must still dread that extraordinary facility to which the public, or rather human nature, are so prone, as sometimes to laugh at what, at another time, they would shed tears.

Tragedy is rendered comic or burlesque by altering the station and manners of the persons; and the reverse may occur, of raising what is comic and burlesque into tragedy. On so little depends the sublime or the ridiculous! Beattie says “In most human characters there are blemishes, moral, intellectual, or corporeal; by exaggerating which, to a certain degree, you may form a comic character; as by raising the virtues, abilities, or external advantages of individuals, you form epic or tragic characters;” a subject humourously touched upon by Lloyd, in the prologue to “The Jealous Wife.”

“Quarrels, upbraidings, jealousies, and spleen,
Grow too familiar in the comic scene;
Tinge but the language with heroic chime,
’Tis passion, pathos, character sublime.
What big round words had swell’d the pompous scene,
A king the husband, and the wife a queen!”

——:o:——

This apology for Parody, extracted from “The Curiosities of Literature,” was written by the late Mr. Isaac D’Israeli more than fifty years ago. Mr. Isaac D’Israeli was a Jewish gentleman of great literary attainments, and of a most amiable character. He was the father of the late Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield. Mr. Isaac D’Israeli died in 1848.

3

Dr. Oliver Goldsmith,

Born at Pallas, in the County of Longford, Ireland, Nov. 29, 1728,

Died in Brick Court, Temple, London, April 4, 1774.

Illustration: decorated line

B efore quoting the Parodies on the Poems of Oliver Goldsmith, mention must be made of three instances, in which he, himself, borrowed ideas from French sources. These are the well-known “Elegy on the Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize,” the “Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog,” and the favourite verses, entitled “Stanzas on Woman,” commencing “When lovely woman stoops to folly,” which appeared in “The Vicar of Wakefield,” when first published in 1765. Before Goldsmith settled down in London as a struggling man of letters, he had spent some time wandering about on the Continent, and had obtained a fairly good insight into foreign literature. He had, therefore, in all probability seen the poems of Ségur, printed in Paris in 1719, in which the following lines occur:—

“Lorsqu’une femme, après trop de tendresse,
D’un homme sent la trahison,
Comment, pour cette si douce foiblesse,
Peut-elle trouver une guérison?
Le seul remède qu’elle peut ressentir.
La seule revanche pour son tort
Pour faire trop tard l’amant repentir,
Hélas! trop tard,—est la mort.”[5]

These he appears to have almost literally translated, thus:—

When lovely woman stoops to folly
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from ev’ry eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom—is to die.

A Paraphrase.

“When Woman,” as Goldsmith declares, “stoops to folly,”
And finds out too late that false man can “betray,”
She is apt to look dismal, and grow “melan-choly,”
And, in short, to be anything rather than gay.
He goes on to remark that “to punish her lover,
Wring his bosom, and draw the tear into his eye,
There is but one method” which he can discover
That’s likely to answer—that one is “to die!”
He’s wrong—the wan and withering cheek;
The thin lips, pale, and drawn apart;
The dim yet tearless eyes, that speak
The misery of the breaking heart;
The wasted form, th’enfeebled tone
That whispering mocks the pitying ear;
Th’ imploring glances heaven-ward thrown
As heedless, helpless, hopeless here;
These wring the false one’s heart enough
If made of penetrable stuff.
From The Black Mousquetaire (The Ingoldsby Legends.)

A Song For the Million.
When Harry Brougham turns a Tory,
Too late convinc’d that Whigs betray,
What can revive his tarnish’d glory?
What his desertion best repay?
The only robe his shame to cover,
To hide the brand upon his back,
And best reward this faithless lover—
That Peel can give him is—the sack.
Punch February, 1844.

When Lovely Woman.
When lovely woman wants a favour,
And finds, too late, that man won’t bend,
What earthly circumstance can save her
From disappointment in the end?
The only way to bring him over,
The last experiment to try,
Whether a husband or a lover,
If he have feeling, is—to cry!
From Poems and Parodies, by Phœbe Carey. Boston, 1854.

A Song.
When lovely woman, prone to folly,
Finds that e’en Rowland’s oils betray;
What charm can soothe her melancholy?
What art can turn gray hairs away?
The only art gray hairs to cover,
To hide their tint from every eye,
To win fresh praises from her lover,
And make him offer—is to dye.
Punch, April, 1854.

4
A Remedy.
When lovely woman stoops to poli-
Tics, and finds it doesn’t pay,
What charm can wean her from her folly,
And put her in the proper way?
The only plan we can discover,
Is the one we now propose;
That she should obtain a lover,
Marry him, and mend his hose.
Diogenes, 1853.

Canzonet on Crinoline.
By a Wretch.
When lovely woman, hooped in folly,
Grows more expansive every day,
And makes her husband melancholy
To think what bills he’ll have to pay.
When in the width of fashion swelling,
With air-balloons her skirts may vie,
The truth—(what hinders Punch from telling?)—
Is that she looks a perfect Guy!
Punch, February 21, 1857.

Another Way.
When lovely woman, Lump of Folly,
Would show the world her vainest trait;
Would treat herself as child her dolly,
And warn each man of sense away.
The surest method she’ll discover
To prompt a wink from every eye,
Degrade a spouse, disgust a lover,
And spoil a scalp-skin—is to dye,
Shirley Brooks. 1866.

A Silly Manager.
When Managers have stooped to folly,
And find vulgarity won’t pay,
And audiences won’t be jolly,
But boldly rise and hiss the play:
In order their misdeeds to cover,
Some clap-trap for the gods they try
Before the farce is halfway over,
And insult add to injury.
Fun, November 24, 1866.

Goldsmith Improved.
When lovely woman takes to lollies,[6]
And finds, too late, her teeth decay,
What penitence can cure her follies,
What chloroform her pain allay?
If beauteous, she’ll be kindly pitied;
If ugly, each good-tooth’d one’s butt.
So she must get her mouth refitted,
Or, what is better—keep it shut!
The Grasshopper, July 1, 1869.

Beautiful for Ever.
When lovely woman, still a maiden,
Finds her locks are turning grey,
What art can keep their hue from fading?
What balm can intercept delay?
The only art her age to cover,
To hide the change from every eye,
To quell repentance in her lover,
And soothe his bosom is—to dye.
Kottabos. Dublin, W. McGee, 1872.

Fashion.
When lovely woman stoops to fashion
And finds it like man’s fancy change,
What can reclaim the truant passion,
And capture it no more to range?
The only way to curb love’s passion.
And charm her fickle lover’s eye,
To bring the colour to her chignon—
As the old joke says is—to dye.
The Hornet.

Stanzas on Woman—by o. g.
When lovely woman takes to rinking,
And finds how hard the asphalte’s got,
What charm can save her heart from sinking,
What art can heal the injured spot?
The only plan she can pursue,
To save herself another fall,
In fact the only thing to do,
In future’s not to rink at all.
The Idylls of the Rink, 1876.

Stanzas on Woman.
By a modern Goldsmith.
When lovely woman reads Le Follet,
And tries her best to men betray;
She makes herself a pretty dolly,
But fritters all her soul away.
When she grows old, and charms decay,
And crow’s-feet come beneath each eye;
When skin is wrinkled—hair is grey—
Her only chance is then—to dye!
The Figaro, January 1, 1873.

Stanzas on Man.
By Dr. Silversmith.
When foolish man consents to marry,
And finds, too late, his wife a shrew,
When she her point in all must carry,
’Tis hard to say what’s best to do!
In hopes the breeches to recover,
To hide his shame from every eye.
To be as free as when her lover
His only method is—to fly.

5
A Bit of Goldsmith’s Work New Gilt.
When lovely woman once so jolly,
Finds, late in life, that hair grows grey,
How make her case less melancholy,
How hide Time’s step that none can stay?
The only way his track to cover,
To mask her age from every eye,
And if she have a spoon for lover
To keep him still “spoons,” is—to dye!

On a Breach of Promise.
When lovely woman finds that breaches
Of promise are her suitor’s wear,
What is it the black record bleaches,
And comforts the deserted fair?
To punish the unfaithful lover,
Where only he’ll his falsehood rue,
Substantial damages recover—
Pursue him not, but his purse sue!

Venus Imitatrix.
[Another Ladies Club is starting at the
West-end.—See Society Journals.]
(Sung by a Clubbess).
When lovely woman’s melancholy
Because her husband stays away
From home, pursuing some mad folly,
(“’Tis business, love,” they always say).
The only plan to teach him manners,
And cure the midnight latchkey hub,
Is, dears, to march beneath our banners—
So, ladies, come and join our club.

Stanzas on Woman.
When lovely woman longs to marry,
And snatch a victim from the beaux,
What charms the soft design will carry?
What art will make the men propose?
The only art her schemes to cover,
To give her wishes sure success,
To gain, to fix a captive lover,
And “wring his bosom,” is TO DRESS.

On Mr. Odger.
(Formerly Candidate for Southwark.)
When stupid Odger stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What thought can make him once more jolly?
What hope can drive his spite away?
The only thought his rage to smother
Is one we’ll hope will turn out true;
’Tis thus he mutters, “You’re another;
As you’ve Hughes’d me, they’ll use you too.”
Judy.

Fashion.
When foolish woman stoops to fashion,
And finds tight-lacing doesn’t pay,
But turns her grey, and brings a rash on
Her nose no powder charms away;
What best the horrid tints can cover?
What hide the truth from every eye,
Defying e’en keen sighted lover?
’Tis to Enamel and to Dye.
Grins and Groans, 1882.

Mint Sauce for Lamb.
(After Goldsmith.)
When man, less faithful than the colley,
Deserts his love and goes astray,
What art can make the maiden jolly?
What charm can drive her grief away?
The way her grief to overcome is,
Instead of lying down to die,
To claim three thou for breach of promise,
And show her swain the reason why.
Judy, August 24, 1881.

Woman’s Rights.

[Mrs. Longshore Potts says that, if a woman fall in love, custom ought not to debar her making some proposal.]

When lovely woman’s melancholy,
And finds she’s in a love-sick way,
Must she be bound by custom’s folly,
And never more her love betray?
No! Helen must her heart discover
To Modus; but if all in vain,
And he should scorn to be her lover,
Her sole resource is—try again.
Fun, March 25, 1885.

The Omnibus.
(By an Old Bachelor.)
If lovely woman seeks to enter
The crowded ’bus in which you ride,
Have you the heart to discontent her.
Or would you rather go outside?
I’m brute enough, I dare to state,
Although it may the lady vex,
To keep my seat, and let her wait—
I’ve “bussed” too many of the sex.
Gossip, May 16, 1885.

When lovely woman pines in folly
Because her hair is turning gray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy?
What art can drive her grief away?
The only art her woe to cover,
To hide her age from every eye,
To come the gum-game o’er her lover
And to make her happy—is to dye!
Detroit Free Press, August, 1885.

The following, signed “By the Ghost of Goldsmith,” was picked up in the Queen’s Bench Division Court after the termination of the trial, Foli v. Bradshaw, that being an action for assault brought by the eminent singer, in May, 1884:—

“When lovely woman stoops to Foli,
And lets her son with cudgels play,
An action soon brings melancholy,
And damages one has to pay.”
6

The two other before-named poems by Goldsmith, which can be traced to a French source, are so similar in style that they may be both given together, followed by the French original:—

An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog.

Good people all of every sort,
Give ear unto my song,
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran
Whene’er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends;
But, when a pique began,
The dog, to gain his private ends,
Went mad and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To ev’ry Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,
That shew’d the rogues they ly’d;
The man recover’d of the bite,
The dog it was that dy’d.

An Elegy.
On the Glory of her Sex,
Mrs. Mary Blaize.
Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word—
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom passed her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor—
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning,
And never followed wicked ways—
Unless when she was sinning.
At church in silk and satin new,
With hoop of monstrous size;
She never slumbered in her pew—
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The King himself has followed her—
When she has walk’d before.
But now her wealth, and finery fled,
Her hangers on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead—
Her last disorder, mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
For Kent-street well may say,
That had she lived a twelvemonth more,
She had not died to-day!
Goldsmith.

The following Chanson du Fameux la Galisse, taken from Ménagiana, 1729, must have supplied hints for the construction of the foregoing poems:—

“LE FAMEUX LA GALISSE.”
Messieurs, vous plait-il d’ouir
L’air du fameux la Galisse,
Il pourra vous rejouir,
Pourvû qu’il vous divertisse.
La Gallisse eut peu de bien,
Pour soutenir sa naissance;
Mais il ne manqua de rien,
Dès qu’il fut dans l’abondance.
Bien instruit dès le berçeau,
Jamais, tant il fut honnête,
Il ne mettoit son chapeau
Qu’il ne se couvrit la tête.
Il étoit affable et doux,
De l’humeur de feu son père,
Et n’entroit guère en courroux,
Si ce n’est dans la colere.
Il buvoit tous les matins
Un doight tiré de la tonne,
Et mangeant chez les voisins,
Il s’y trouvoit en personne.
Il vouloit dans ses repas
Des mets exquis et fort tendres,
Et faisoit son Mardi gras,
Toujours la veille des Cendres.
Ses valets étoient soigneux
De le servir d’andouillettes,
Et n’oublioient pas les œufs
Surtout dans les omelettes.
De l’inventeur du raisin
Il révéroit la mémoire,
Et pour bien gouter le vin,
Jugeoit qu’il en falloit boire.
Il disoit que le nouveau
Avoit pour lui plus d’amorce,
Et moins il y mettoit d’eau
Plus il y trouvoit de force.
Il consultoit rarement
Hippocrate et sa doctrine,
Et se purgeoit seulement,
Quand il prenoit médecine.
Au piquet par tout payis,
Il jouoit suivant sa pante,
Et comptoit quatre vingt dix,
Lorsqu’il marquoit un nonante.
Il savoit les autres jeux
Qu’on joue à l’Académie,
Et n’etoit pas malheureux
Tant qu’il gagnoit la partie.
7
On s’étonne sans raison
D’une chose très commune;
C’est qu’il vendit sa maison,
Il faloit qu’il en eut une.
Il aimoit à prendre l’air,
Quand la saison étoit bonne,
Et n’attendoit pas l’hyver,
Pour vendanger en automne.
Il épousa, ce dit on,
Une vertueuse Dame;
S’il avoit vêcu garçon,
Il n’auroit point eu de femme.
Il en fut toujours cheri,
Elle n’étoit point jalouse;
Si tot qu’il fut son mari,
Elle devint son épouse.
Il passa près de huit ans
Avec elle, fort à l’aise,
En eut jusqu’à huit enfans,
C’étoit la moitié de seize.
On dit que dans ses amours,
Il fut caressé des belles,
Que le suivirent toujours,
Tant qu’il marcha devant elles.
D’un air galant et badin,
Il courtisoit sa Caliste,
Sans jamais être chagrin
Qu’au moment qu’il etoit triste.
Il brilloit comme un Soleil,
Sa Chevelure étoit blonde:
Il n’eut pas eu son pareil,
S’il eût été seul au monde.
Il eût des talens divers,
Meme on assure une chose,
Quand il écrivoit en vers,
Qu’il n’écrivoit pas en prose.
En matiére de rébus
Il n’avoit pas son semblable:
S’il eût fait des impromtus,
Il en eût été capable.
Il savoit un triolet
Bien mieux que sa patenôtre:
Quand il chantoit un couplet,
Il n’en chantoit pas un autre.
Il expliqua doctement
La Physique et la Morale.
Et soutint qu’une jument
Etoit toujours une cavale.
Par un discours sérieux
Il prouva que la berluë,
Et les autres maux des yeux
Sont contraires à la vûe.
Chacun alors applaudit
A sa science inouïe,
Tout homme qui l’entendit,
N’avoit das perdu l’ouïe.
Il prétendit en un mois
Lire toute l’Ecriture,
Et l’auroit lue une fois,
S’il en eût fait la lecture.
Par son esprit, et son air
Il s’aquit le don de plaire:
Le Roi l’eut fait Duc et Pair
S’il avoit voulu le faire.
Mieux que tout autre il savoit
A la Cour jouer son role,
Et jamais lorsqu’il buvoit
Ne disoit une parole.
Il choisissoit prudemment
De deux choses la meilleure,
Et répétoit fréquemment,
Ce qu’il disoit à toute heure.
Il fut à la verité
Un danseur assez vulgaire;
Mais il n’eut pas mal chanté
S’il avoit voulu se taire.
Il eut la goute à Paris
Long tems cloué sur sa couche
En y jettant les hauts cris,
Il ouvroit bien fort la bouche.
Lorsqu’en sa maison des champs
Il vivoit libre et tranquille,
On auroit perdu son temps
De le chercher à la ville.
On raconte, que jamais
Il ne pouvoit se résoudre
A charger ses pistolets
Quand il n’avoit pas de poudre.
Un jour il fut assiné
Devant son Juge ordinaire.
S’il eût été condamné
Il eut perdu son affaire.
On ne le vit jamais las,
Ni sujet à la paresse,
Tandis qu’il ne dormoit pas,
On tient qu’il veillait sans cesse.
Il voyageoit volontiers,
Courant partout le Royaume
Quand il étoit à Poitiers
Il n’étoit pas à Vendôme.
Il se plaisoit en bateau,
Et soit en paix, soit en guerre,
Il alloit toujours par eau
A moins qu’il n’alla par terre.
Une fois s’étant fourré
Dans un profond marécage,
Il y seroit demeuré,
S’il n’eut pu trouver passage.
Il fuioit asses l’excês,
Mais dans les cas d’importance,
Quand il se mettoit en frais,
Il se mettoit en dépense.
Dans un superbe tournoi
Pret a fournir sa carrière,
Il parut devant le Roi,
Il n’etoit donc pas derrière.
Monté sur un cheval noir,
Les Dames le reconnurent,
Et c’est la qu’il se fit voir,
A tout ceux qui l’apperçurent.
Mais bien qu’il fût vigoureux,
Bien qu’il fit le Diable à quatre
Il ne renversa que ceux
Qu’il eut l’addresse d’abattre.
C’etoit un homme de cœur
Insatiable de gloire;
Lorsqu’il etoit le vainqueur
Il remportoit la victoire.
8
Les places qu’il attaquoit
A peine osoient se défendre,
Et jamais il ne manquoit
Celles qu’on lui voyait prendre.
Un devin pour deux testons
Lui dit d’une voix hardie,
Qu’il mourroit de là les monts,
S’il mourrait en Lombardie.
Il y mourut ce Heros,
Personne aujourd’hui n’en doute;
Si tôt qu’il eut les yeux clos,
Aussitot il ne vit goute.
Il fut par un triste sort,
Blessé d’une main cruelle:
On croit, puisqu’il en est mort,
Que la plaie etoit mortelle.
Regretté de ses soldats,
Il mourut digne d’envie
Et le jour de son trépas
Fut le dernier de sa vie.
J’ai lu dans les vieux écrits
Qui contiennent son histoire,
Qu’il iroit en Paradis
S’il etoit en Purgatoire.

Some verses of this song were translated, and published in The Mirror, November 8, 1823. They do not adhere very closely to the original.

The Happy Man.
La Gallisse now I wish to touch,
Droll air! if I can strike it,
I’m sure the song will please you much;
That is, if you should like it.
La Gallisse was indeed, I grant,
Not used to any dainty,
When he was born—but could not want,
As long as he had plenty.
Instructed with the greatest care,
He always was well-bred,
And never used a hat to wear,
But when ’twas on his head.
His temper was exceeding good,
Just of his father’s fashion;
And never quarrels broil’d his blood,
Except when in a passion.
His mind was on devotion bent,
He kept with care each high day,
And Holy Thursday always spent,
The day before Good Friday.
He liked good claret very well,
I just presume to think it;
For ere its flavour he could tell,
He thought it best to drink it.
Than doctors more he loved the cook,
Though food would make him gross;
And never any physic took,
But when he took a dose.
Oh, happy, happy is the swain
The ladies so adore;
For many followed in his train,
Whene’er he walk’d before.
Bright as the sun his flowing hair
In golden ringlets shone;
And no one could with him compare,
If he had been alone.
His talents I cannot rehearse,
But every one allows,
That whatsoe’er he wrote in verse
No one could call it prose.
He argued with precision nice,
The learned all declare;
And it was his decision wise,
No horse could be a mare.
His powerful logic would surprise,
Amuse, and much delight.
He prov’d that dimness of the eyes
Was hurtful to the sight.
They lik’d him much—so it appears,
Most plainly—who preferred him;
And those did never want their ears,
Who any time had heard him.
He was not always right, ’tis true,
And then he must be wrong;
But none had found it out, he knew,
If he had held his tongue.
Whene’er a tender tear he shed,
T’was certain that he wept;
And he would lay awake in bed,
Unless, indeed, he slept.
In tilting everybody knew
His very high renown;
Yet no opponents he o’er-threw,
But those that he knocked down.
At last they smote him in the head—
What hero e’re fought all?
And when they saw that he was dead,
They knew the wound was mortal.
And when at last he lost his breath,
It closed his every strife;
For that sad day that sealed his death,
Deprived him of his life.

——:o:——

Ménage introduces Le Chanson de la Galisse without any other explanation than that it relates to the adventures of an imaginary character, he does not mention the Author’s name, nor does he refer to any other poem having any resemblance to it. Yet there was a “Chanson” written in exactly the same style and metre, recording (in burlesque it is true) the adventures of a brave French officer, named La Palice. And what makes it more remarkable is, that this poem was written by a friend of M. Gilles de Ménage, the grave and religious Bernard de la Monnoye, who conceived the idea of personifying nonsensical truths in his Complaint upon the Life and Death of La Palice; careless of attaching popular ridicule to a name which should excite only recollections of heroic and military virtue.

Concerning this Chanson de la Palice there was a long article in Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal, as 9 far back as July, 1845, from which the following notes are extracted:—

“Thanks to this strange production, we know that the famous La Palice died in losing his life, and that he would not have had his equal had he been alone in the world. Doubtless it is satisfactory to know that he could never make up his mind to load his pistols when he had no powder; and that when he wrote verse he did not write prose; or that while drinking he never spoke a word. These are certainly notable details concerning the habits and character of this great man, but it is also certain that La Palice had greater claims to admiration which may be brought to light in illustrating some stanzas of the biographical ballad. The song begins thus:—

‘Please you, gentlemen, to hear
The song of La Palice;
It surely will delight you all,
Provided that it please,’

Besides this proposition, the historian would have done well to tell us that La Palice was of noble race, for his grandfather, an earlier Jacques de Chabannes, after valiantly defending Castillon against Talbot, the English Achilles, died of his wounds at the siege of this city, which, two years afterwards (17th July, 1453), cost the life of his illustrious enemy.

‘La Palice but little wealth
To his renown could bring;
And when abundance was his lot,
He lacked no single thing.’

Abundance of glory, of honours, of treasures, of war on battle fields; this was surely what the poet meant to say. He ought to have been rich indeed, when three sovereigns successively invested him with the titles of marshal of France, governor of Bourbonnais, of Auvergne, of Forez and the Lyonnais.

‘He was versed in all the games
Played at the academy;
And never was unfortunate
When he won the victory.’

Those which he gained are faithfully chronicled in history. First, stands Marignan in 1515, next Fontarabia, in 1521; then Bicocca, in Lombardy, where La Palice, being second in command, made incredible exertions to recover the fortunes of the day; and last, Marseilles, which went to sleep one night Spanish, and woke up French the next morning, because a great Captain, Chabannes de la Palice, had scaled her walls, and effaced by dint of courage the shame with which the desertion of Bourbon had tarnished the name of French gentlemen.

‘To do and dare in his career,
He readily inclined;
And when he stood before the king,
He was not, sure, behind.
Fate dealt to him a cruel blow.
And stretched him on the ground;
And ’tis believed that since he died,
It was a mortal wound.
His death was sore and terrible,
Upon a stone his head;
He would have died more easily
Upon a feather bed.’

Chabannes made a sortie with a handful of brave fellows from the fort which he defended against the Spanish army, and saw all those who followed fall around him. A Spanish soldier climbs over the barrier of corpses piled before him, aims a tremendous blow at his head, beneath which the brave La Palice fell senseless to the earth,

‘Deplored and envied by his braves,
He shut his eyes to strife;
And we are told his day of death
Was the last of his life.’

——:o:——

The Right and Marvellous History of
John Smith.
John Smith he was a guardsman bold,
A stouter never fought;
He would have been a grenadier,
But he was one foot short.
But to a man of John Smith’s mind
The love of power had charms;
So when his captain ordered him,
John Smith order’d his arms.
An active, bustling blade was he,
At drill and eke at mess,
Who never thought to stand at ease
When Captains called out “dress,”
Attentive always to the word,
It never was his wont
To turn his eyes or right or left—
When Captains cried “eyes front!”
Though he was ever thought correct,
Once, during an assault,
He ne’er advanced a single foot—
’Cause he was told to halt.
But still he was not coward called,
Why,—we can soon detect;
His foes all fell dead at his feet,—
When his shots took effect.
But tired of knapsack and of gun
And firing in platoons,
The infantry he quitted when—
He entered the dragoons.
His saddle now became his home,
His horse and he seemed one;
And he was ne’er known to dismount,—
Unless he first got on.
How brave and bold a man he was,
From one small fact is clear;
Whole regiments fled before him when,—
He followed in their rear.
He was a steady soldier then.
And sober too, of course,
And ne’er into a tap-room went,—
Mounted upon his horse.
In fact his conduct was so good,
His Captains all confess
He never got into a scrape,—
Though always in a mess.
Though as to what fights he’d been in
Men differed,—none denied
That the last battle he e’er fought
Was that in which he died.
The soldiers there who saw him fall,
Exclaimed, as with one breath,
“Unless his wound’s a mortal one,
It will not cause his death.”
10
Unlike most epitaphs, John Smith’s
Nought but the truth did tell;
But this none ever stopped to read,
Who had not learn’d to spell.
“Stop, passenger, and weep;—one tear
To him you can’t refuse,
Who stood—high in his regiment,
And five feet in his shoes.”
The Comic Magazine, 1834.

A History.
There was a man, so legends say,
And he—how strange to tell!—
Was born upon the very day,
Whereon his birthday fell.
He was a baby first. And then
He was his parents’ joy;
But was a man soon after, when
He ceased to be a boy.
And when he got to middle life,
To marry was his whim;
The self-same day he took a wife,
Some woman wedded him.
None saw him to the other side
Of Styx by Charon ferried;
But ’tis conjectured that he died
Because he has been buried.
Tom Hood, the younger.

The Century Magazine for November, 1883, contained an Elegy on Mrs. Grimes, written in the same vein of humour as Goldsmith’s Elegy on Madam Blaize.

——:o:——

Description of an Author’s Bed-Chamber.

Where the Red Lion staring o’er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay;
Where Calvert’s butt, and Parson’s black champaign.
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury Lane;
There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,
The Muse found Scroggen stretch’d beneath a rug;
A window patch’d with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly shew’d the state in which he lay;
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread:
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread:
The Royal game of goose was there in view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
The seasons, fram’d with listing, found a place,
And brave Prince William shew’d his lamp-black face:
The morn was cold, he views with keen desire
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire:
With beer and milk arrears, the frieze was scor’d,
And five cracked tea-cups dress’d the chimney-board;
A night-cap deck’d his brows instead of bay
A cap by night—a stocking all the day!
Oliver Goldsmith.

Beauties of the Great Masters.
The Street Artist.
Where sturdy beggars, blocking up the way,
Molest each passing pilgrim that can pay;
Where generous souls, unused to sights of pain,
Toss half-pence to the cripples in the lane;
There on a wintry morning, clad in rags,
The Kid found Tompkins shivering on the flags—
A ragged beard disguised his sallow cheeks,
Which plainly showed he hadn’t shaved for weeks;
And o’er the pavement—green, and blue, and red—
In coloured chalk, his paltry pictures spread;
Maxims of charity were there in view,
And next a bunch of grapes the artist drew,
Then half a mackerel, (or perhaps a plaice),
And great Napoleon showed his well-known face—
The morn was cold—he takes with down-cast eye
The offerings of the pitying passers-by—
How changed the scene, when, to his home returned,
He meets his pals, and boasts the tin he’s earned—
With steaks and beer his vigour is restored,
And crack companions grace his festive board—
He dons a coat—his rags he throws away—
A swell by night—a beggar all the day.
The Month. By Albert Smith and John Leech. Dec. 1851.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

The following imitation was originally published by Messrs. Parker, of 377, Strand, London, but no date is given.

The Doomed Village.
A Poem, dedicated to the Right Honourable John Bright.
“Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,”
Could thy true Poet visit earth again,
How would his patriot spirit grieve to see
A hundred Auburns doomed to die like thee!
The decent church abandoned to the owl,
The ruined parsonage, the roofless school,
The village of its preacher’s voice bereft,
The little flock without a shepherd left,
Without “the man to all the country dear,”
Whose part it was to teach, to warn, to cheer;
“Unskilful he to fawn or seek for power
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
Still in his duty prompt at every call,
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all;
And as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt her new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds and led the way.”
Will then the State suppress the godly man,
And bid him buy his dwelling if he can,
That hospitable roof and open door
Sought by the friendless, loved by all the poor,
Steal the small stipend from a treasure paid
Which pious ages gifts to God had made,
Leave the bewildered peasant tempest-tost,
His faith unaided and his altar lost,
To quit for distant lands his long-loved home,
Or helpless sink beneath the foot of Rome?
Where shall he look for succour? shall he trust
That Royal womanhood will still be just?
Will their dear Queen their loyal love disown,
And let her statesmen drive them from her throne?
The man of State who wants a heart to feel
Wants that which most concerns the public weal;
No nice distinction will he stoop to make
Between the power to seize, and right to take.
11
“The Lord forbid it,” cry the poor “that we
Should give our fathers’ heritage to thee.”
False allegations then a pretext yield;
And Ahab takes possession of the field.
Wild as the wind is such a Statesman’s mind;
No law can fix him, and no treaty bind;
He burns the poor man’s charter with its seal,
And bids him trust in voluntary zeal,
Go beg the bread that has been all his own,
Along a road untravelled and unknown,
Ardent alike to pare a Church away,
And lay a tax for charities to pay.
Why are so many Auburns doomed to groan?
Whither are Equity and Pity flown?
Are all the virtues melted down in one,
Of neutral colour much resembling none?
A large, loose, Liberality of mind,
True to no faith, not generous, just, nor kind.
Time was, each Virtue was distinctly known,
And Faith and Justice sat beside the throne;
Time was, when Justice owned prescriptive right,
And Policy disdained to side with spite,
Not hounding on the envious pack which pant
To tear away the bone they do not want,
Ere yet she summed each ancient grievance up,
As if they all still mantled in the cup,
And loved by antiquated tales to shew,
How Britain always has been Erin’s foe;
Till Erin dreams she feels a present grief,
And seeks in self-inflicting blows relief.
Behold! a glorious band by Heaven inspired,
By many hearts revered, by all admired;
In Erin’s sky as burning lights they shone;
Will Erin cease to claim them for her own?
Will she no more repeat her Usher’s[7] name,
Of old ascendant on the rolls of fame?
Will she her Bedell’s[8] pious memory blot,
With the blest book he gave the Irish cot?
Will it grate harshly on her altered ear,
Of Taylor’s[9] golden eloquence to hear?
Will she no longer boast that God had given
“To Berkeley[10] all the virtues under heaven?”
Deems she what was, and is, should ne’er have been,
The Norman Conquest, and the British Queen?
Are these the thoughts that vex the Celtic heart?
Beneath such wrongs do Erin’s millions smart,
The signs and records of an alien band,
Which troubles with its rule a peaceful land?
“It is not we who troubling Liffey’s stream
Foul it with blood,” the threatened sheep exclaim;
“It was your fathers then that fouled it so,”
Retorts the wolf “a hundred years ago.”
The shepherd comes; he hears the distant howl
Of the wild beasts that o’er the country prowl;
In his right hand he wields a butcher’s knife,
And bids the lamb lie still and yield its life,
An offering to peace, a needful feast,
To stay the hunger of the savage beast.
The neighbouring swains, to whom for help it cries,
Applaud the prudence of their Chief’s device,
The struggles of the bleeding victim mock,
And join the wolf in ravaging the flock.
But oh! may Heaven avert the fatal end,
And Britain’s heart to juster counsels bend,
Raise many a champion through the land to lead
A growing host for poverty to plead,
The sacred voice of conscience wake within,
Forbid the fatal policy of sin,
Leave the just laws to deal with factious hate,
Calm down the public mind, and save the State.
Pause, Britain, pause, ere yet advanced too far
Thy hand lets slip the dogs of civil war,
Ere yet the vultures hovering in the sky
On the self-immolated quarry fly.
So shall pure Faith’s long-hallowed altar stand!
Still unprofaned by state-craft’s ruthless hand;
So shall the threatened Auburn cease to weep,
Peace be restored, and passion lulled to sleep;
So shall the flood of Ultramontane pride,
By justice checked, within its banks subside;
So shall the Candle, which the Lord has lit,
Revived and cherished, well its place befit,
And through the time to come serenely bright
Shine forth a beacon-flame of Gospel light.
Immortal Light, that can’st alone control
The brutal instincts of the savage soul,
’Tis thine to teach the murderous bands of strife
The deep significance of human life,
Teach the wild untaught Kerne who knows not God,
The awful sanctions of His penal code;
Teach Faith her hope and end in LOVE to read,
The height and depth of every Christian’s Creed.

The Deserted Village.
Sweet London, loveliest village of the plain,
Where wealth and fashion cheered the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring the earliest visit paid,
And the rich summer dinner-tables laid.
Dear lovely bowers of indolence and ease,
Seats of my youth when every card could please,
How often have I done thy park so green
Where humble iron chairs endeared the scene;
How often have I paused the throng to tell,
Th’ unnoticed clerk, the cultivated swell,
The never-failing talk, the riders’ skill,
The indecent duke that topt the neighbouring hill,
The moving row with spots beneath the shade
For timid horseman’s ease and whisperings made:
How often have I blest the late-born day,
When play remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village swells from dinner free,
Led up the sports that fashion loves to see,
While much flirtation circled in the shade,
The young ones spooning as the old surveyed,
And many a galop frolicked o’er the ground,
And valses, lancers, and quadrilles went round;
And still as each repeated partner tired,
Succeeding suppers one more turn inspired.
The dancing man, who simply sought renown
By leading all the cotillons in town,
The swain mistrustful of his smutty face,
While secret riddles tittered round the place,
The younger son’s shy sidelong looks of love,
The chaperons who would those looks reprove,
These were thy charms, sweet village, sports like these
With sweet succession taught e’en town to please,
These round thy bowers their genial influence shed,
These were thy charms, but all those charms are fled.
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,
Thy sports are fled, and all thy swells withdrawn,
Within thy doors upholsterers are seen,
And water-carts alone the park keep green;
Almighty dulness grasps thy whole domain,
12
Of all thy people none with thee remain.
No more thy babbling talk reflects the day,
But in the country winds its shallow way;
Along thy park a solitary guest,
A sole policeman now laments the rest,
Amid thy drawing-rooms the spider toils,
Thy draperies the moth relentless spoils;
Gone are thy dinners, dances, parties all,
And early bed o’ertops the byegone ball,
And trembling, lest they last should join the band,
Far, far away, thy children leave the land.
Ill fares the land to hastening ills a prey,
Where working men increase and swells decay,
Leaguers and roughs may flourish or may fade,
Hardy may make them as Walpole has made,
But fashionable swells, their country’s pride,
Once out of town can never be supplied.
The Tomahawk, September 7, 1867.

The following Parody appeared in Vol. XVIII. of The Mirror:

“Lord John Russell, even amidst all the turmoil of Office has contributed:—

London in September
(Not in 1831),
By Lord John Russell.
(After The Traveller, by Oliver Goldsmith).
“Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
A single horseman passes Rotten row;
In Brookes’s sits one quidnunc to peruse
The broad dull sheet which tells the lack of news.
At White’s a lonely Brummell lifts his glass
To see two empty Hackney Coaches pass;
The timid housemaid, issuing forth, can dare
To take her lover’s arm in Grosvenor square.
From shop deserted hastes the prentice dandy,
And seeks—Oh bliss—the Molly—a tempora fandi.
Meantime the battered pavement is at rest,
And waiters wait in vain to spy a guest,
Thomas himself, Cook, Hanen, Fenton, Long,
Have all left town to join the Margate throng.
The wealthy tailor on the Sussex shore
Displays and drives his blue barouche and four,
The Peer who made him rich, with dog and gun,
Toils o’er a Scottish moor, and braves a scorching sun.”

——:o:——

THE HERMIT.

This favourite poem originally appeared in “The Vicar of Wakefield,” which was published in the year 1765. Dr. Goldsmith was accused of having borrowed the idea of the ballad from “The Friar of Orders Gray,” and in June, 1767, he sent the following reply to the St. James’s Chronicle:

“A correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad I published sometime ago, from one by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me with his usual good humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakespeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it.”

In confirmation of this statement Bishop Percy afterwards added a note to “The Friar of Orders Gray,” stating that it was only just to declare that Goldsmith’s Poem was written first, and that if there had been any imitation in the case, they would be found to be both indebted to the beautiful old ballad Gentle Herdsman. This ballad is reprinted below, with Goldsmith’s The Hermit, and a few verses from Bishop Percy’s Friar of Orders Gray.

It will be seen that although the poems have several points of resemblance, yet each has a distinct individuality of its own.

Gentle Herdsman Tell to Me.
Gentle herdsman, tell to me,
Of curtesy I thee pray—
Unto the towne of Wallsingham
Which is the right and ready way?
“Unto the towne of Walsingham,
The way is hard for to be gone,
And very crooked are those pathes
For you to find out all alone.”
Were the miles doubled thrise
And the way never so ill,
It were not enough for mine offence;
It is so grevous and so ill.
“Thy yeares are young, thy face is faire,
Thy wits are weake, thy thoughts are greene;
Time hath not given thee leave as yet
For to commit so great a sinne!”
Yes, herdsman, yes, soe wou’dst thou say,
If thou knewest so much as I;
My wits, and thoughtes, and all the rest,
Have well deserved for to dye.
I am not what I seeme to bee,
My cloths and sexe doe differ fare;
I am a woman, woe is mee!
Born to greeffe, and irksome care.
For my beloved, and well beloved,
My wayward cruelty could kill;
And though my teares will naught avail,
Most dearely I bewail him still.
He was the flower of noble wights,
None ever more sincere colde bee,
Of comelye mien and shape he was,
And tenderlye he loved mee.
When thus I sawe he loved me well,
I grew so proude his paine to see,
That I, who did not know myselfe,
Thought scorne of such a youth as hee.
And grew so coy, and nice to please,
As women’s lookes are often soe,
He might not kisse, nor hand forsooth,
Unlesse I willed him soe to doe.
Thus being wearyed with delayes,
To see I pityed not his greeffe,
He goes him to a secret place,
And there he dyed without releeffe.
13
And for his sake these weedes I weare,
And sacrifice my tender age;
And every day I’ll beg my bread,
To undergoe this pilgrimage.
Thus every day I’ll fast and praye,
And ever will do till I dye;
And get me to some secrett place,
For so did hee, and soe will I.
Now, gentle herdsman, ask no more,
But keep my secretts I thee pray;
Unto the towne of Wallsingham
Shew me the right and readye waye.
“Now goe thy wayes, and God before,
For he must ever guide thee still;
Turn down the dale the righte hand pathe,
And so, fair pilgrim, fare thee well.”

——:o:——

The Hermit.
“Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.
“For here forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slow;
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go.”
“Forbear, my son,” the Hermit cries,
“To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.
“Here to the houseless child of want
My door is open still:
And though my portion is but scant
I give it with good will.
“Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate’er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.
“No flocks that range the valley free,
To slaughter I condemn;
Taught by that Power that pities me,
I learn to pity them:
“But from the mountain’s grassy side
A guiltless feast I bring;
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,
And water from the spring.
“Then, pilgrim, turn thy cares forego;
All earthborn cares are wrong:
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long.”
Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell:
The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay;
A refuge to the neighbouring poor,
And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master’s care;
The wicket, opening with a latch
Received the harmless pair.
And now when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimmed his little fire,
And cheered his pensive guest:
And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily prest, and smil’d;
And skill’d in legendary lore
The lingering hours beguil’d.
Around in sympathetic mirth
Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket churrups in the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart
To sooth the stranger’s woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the Hermit spy’d,
With answ’ring care opprest:
“And whence, unhappy youth,” he cry’d
“The sorrows of thy breast?
“From better habitations spurn’d,
Reluctant dost thou rove?
Or grieve for friendship unreturn’d,
Or unregarded love?
“Alas! the joys that fortune brings,
Are trifling and decay;
And those who prize the paltry things,
More trifling still than they.
“And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep;
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
But leaves the wretch to weep?
“And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair-one’s jest;
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle’s nest.
“For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,
And spurn the sex” he said
But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray’d.
Surpris’d he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view;
Like colours o’er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast
Alternate spread alarms:
The lovely stranger stands confest,
A maid in all her charms.
“And, ah! forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn.” she cried;
“Whose feet unhallow’d thus intrude
Where Heaven and you reside.
“But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray:
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.
“My father lived beside the Tyne,
A wealthy lord was he;
And all his wealth was mark’d as mine
He had but only me.
“To win me from his tender arms,
Unnumber’d suitors came;
Who praised me for imputed charms,
And felt, or feign’d a flame.
14
“Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove;
Amongst the rest young Edwin bow’d,
But never talk’d of love.
“In humblest, simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor pow’r had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.
“And when, beside me in the dale,
He carol’d lays of love,
His breath lent fragrance to the gale,
And music to the grove.[11]
“The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of Heav’n refin’d,
Could nought of purity display
To emulate his mind.
“The dew, the blossom on the tree,
With charms inconstant shine;
Their charms were his, but, woe to me,
Their constancy was mine.
“For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain;
And while his passion touch’d my heart
I triumph’d in his pain.
“Till quite dejected with my scorn
He left me to my pride;
And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret, where he died.
“But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay:
I’ll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.
“And there forlorn, despairing, hid,
I’ll lay me down and die;
’Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I.”
“Forbid it, Heaven!” the Hermit cried,
And clasped her to his breast:
The wandering fair one turned to chide;—
’Twas Edwin’s self that press’d.
“Turn Angelina, ever dear,
My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restor’d to love and thee.
“Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And ev’ry care resign:
And shall we never, never part,
My life—my all that’s mine?
“No never, from this hour to part
We’ll live and love so true,
The sigh that rends thy constant heart
Shall break thy Edwin’s too.”

——:o:——

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.

This poem is given in Bishop Percy’s Reliques of Ancient English Poetry with the following note:—

“Dispersed through Shakespeare’s plays are innumerable little fragments of Ancient ballads, the entire copies of which could not be recovered. Many of these being of the most beautiful and pathetic simplicity, the Editor was tempted to select some of them, and with a few supplemental stanzas to connect them together, and form them into a little tale, which is here submitted to the reader’s candour.”

It was a friar of orders gray
Walkt forth to tell his beades;
And he met with a lady faire
Clad in a pilgrime’s weedes.
“Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,
I pray thee tell to me,
If ever at yon holy shrine
My true love thou didst see?”
“And how should I know your true love
From many another one?”
“O, by his cockle hat and staff,
And by his sandal shoone.”[12]
“But chiefly by his face and mien,
That were so faire to view,
His flaxen locks that sweetly curl’d,
And eyne of lovely blue.”
O, lady he is dead and gone!
Lady, he’s dead and gone!
And at his head a green grass turfe,
And at his heels a stone.
“Within these holy cloysters long
He lanquisht, and he dyed,
Lamenting of a ladyes love,
And ’playning of her pride.”
*  *  *  *  *
“And art thou dead, thou gentle youth!
And art thou dead and gone!
And dids’t thou dye of love of me!
Break, cruel heart of stone!”
“O, weep not, lady, weep not soe;
Some ghostly comfort seek;
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,
Ne tears bedew thy cheek.”
“O, do not, do not, holy friar,
My sorrow now reprove;
For I have lost the sweetest youth,
That e’er wan ladyes love.
And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse,
I’ll evermore weep and sigh;
For thee I only wisht to live,
For thee I wish to dye.”
(Eleven stanzas here omitted.)
*  *  *  *  *
“O, stay me not, thou holy friar;
O stay me not, I pray;
No drizzly rain that falls on me,
Can wash my fault away.”
“Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,
And dry those pearly tears;
For see, beneath this gown of gray
Thy own true-love appears.
Here forc’d by grief, and hopeless love,
These holy weeds I sought;
And here amid these lonely walls
To end my days I thought.
15
But haply, for my year of grace[13]
Is not yet past away,
Might I still hope to win thy love,
No longer would I stay.
Now farewell grief, and welcome joy
Once more unto my heart;
For since I have found thee, lovely youth,
We never more will part.

The Hermit.
A Prophetic Ballad.
“Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way
To where some shanty cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.
“For as, forlorn and lost, I tread
This weary waste, and slow,
My skirts immeasurably spread
Impede me as I go.”
“Welcome, sweet girl!” the Hermit cries,
“My roof shall give thee shade;
I call thee girl, although mine eyes
Behold no tender maid.
“But, exiled from the world, I find—
However old she be—
That any one of womankind
Is as a girl to me.
“A kiss I beg, just one! what no?
Is kissing then so wrong?
Man wants a little here below
Though not perhaps, for long.
“Hold! hold!” the wand’rer cried, “nor dare
My modesty invade!”
Fury inspired the conscious fair,
And fury her betrayed.
That bristling cheek, that stubborn breast,
Those thewy, threatening arms!
The lonely stranger stands confest—
A man in all his charms.
“And, ah! excuse a stranger rude,
A hunted wretch,” he cried;
“Indeed I hope I don’t intrude
Where you in peace reside.
“But pity a poor trader who
Has mixed in public fray,
And learned what politics can do
In leading men astray,
“My chief the Land League party led
In Parliament and out,
And by his side I fought and bled
With constancy devout.
“Pretenders to the Chiefship came
To win me from his band;
But still I loved but Parnell’s name
And bow’d to his command.
“And length to ’scape arrest, one morn
He deemed it best to hide;
And sought some solitude forlorn
In secret, where he died.
“Though ‘wanted’ too I fled uncaught
In feminine array
And seek the solitude he sought
To stretch me where he lay.
“There, my identity thus hid
I’ll lay me down and die
For Ireland so my Parnell did
And so for him will I.”
“Forbid it Heaven!” the Hermit cried,
And clasped him to his breast
The wondering stranger turn’d to chide
’Twas Parnell’s self that prest!
“Turn Joey Biggar, ever dear!
My comrade turn to see
Thine own, thy long-lost Parnell here,
True to the League and thee!”
The St. James’s Gazette, February 28, 1881.

——:o:——

THE SPEAKER’S DINNER.

The following political paraphrase of Oliver Goldsmith’s pleasing poem Retaliation, is taken from an anonymous collection, published in 1814, entitled “Posthumous Parodies and other Pieces, composed by several of our most celebrated Poets, but not published in any former Edition of their Works.” Several pieces from this collection have already been quoted in Parodies; they have nearly all a strong party bias in favour of the Tory Government of the day. The Politicians alluded to in the poem are, the Earl of Liverpool, Premier 1812 to 1827, died in 1828; Viscount Castlereagh (afterwards Marquis of Londonderry) Foreign Secretary, committed suicide in 1822; Lord Grenville, died in 1834; the Right Hon. George Canning author of the witty parodies in the “Anti-jacobin,” died 1827; Sir Francis Burdett, an opposition M.P., father of Lady Burdett Coutts, died 1844; Viscount Sidmouth, died 1844; the Right Hon. John Wilson Croker, died 1857; Samuel Whitbread, M.P., died 1815; the Right Hon. R. B. Sheridan, died 1816; Lord Chief Justice Ellenborough, died 1818; William Cobbett, M.P., for Oldham, died 1835; and Robert Waithman, M.P., Alderman and Lord Mayor of London, who died in 1833.

Of late, when the pic-nics their parties invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united;
If the Speaker will get us the loaves and the fishes,
We’ll serve up ourselves for the rest of the dishes.
Our L—v—rp—l’s beef at the top let us find,
Old England’s famed diet for time out of mind:
Let C—strl—gh’s turtle at bottom be placed,
Restoring the system and pleasing the taste:
And Gr—nv—lle’s fat haunch in the middle be put on,
The rump very large, but a taint in the mutton,
Our C—nn—ng is salt; for his talents are such
That they heighten the taste of whatever they touch,
While B—rd—tt resembles the onion that throws
A vulgar effluvium wherever it goes.
16
With a chicken well boiled, gentle S—dm—th will treat us,
And Cr—k—r shall serve for our Irish potatoes:
Brown stout shall be Wh—tbr—d, the dregs of the cup,
And Shr—d—n, spruce, not sufficiently up.
Push about, Mr. Speaker—I’ll sit, if I’m able,
Till all these grave statesmen sink under the table;
And while they are lying unconscious before us,
We’ll talk of the men who have lorded it o’er us.
Now L—v—rp—l’s Earl lies along at our feet,
Who was eloquent often, and always discreet.
If failings he had, he has left us in doubt,
Though the Whigs spared no trouble in finding them out,
But Scandal has said, he had more admiration
For old-fashioned practice, than fresh speculation.
Here sleeps the bold Wh—tbr—d, whose temper was such
That we scarce can admire or condemn it too much:
Who, born for high purposes, lowered his mind,
And gave to a mob what was meant for mankind:
Who, proud in his nature, still wearied his throat
In wheedling a cobler to lend him a vote:
Who, too wild for utility, wander’d so far
That his passion for peace kept him always at war:
Though equal to most things, for all things unfit;
Too pert for a statesman, too coarse for a wit:
Untrue to the Talents, uncouth to the Regent,
And fond of all changes, howe’er inexpedient:—
So ’twas always his fate to find fault out of season,
Most strongly to speak, and most weakly to reason.
Here C—tl—r—gh lies, with a mind like the mint,
Exhaustless and sterling the stores that were in’t.
His well-bred demeanour still bore him along
Unhurt through a roaring and riotous throng,
Where staunch to his duty, yet slow to offend,
He softened the means, but to strengthen the end.
Would you know, more at large, by what talents he shone?
His country will tell you—for all was her own.
Here slumbers poor Sh—rry, whose fate I must sigh at!
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet.
What spirits were his, how elastic and subtle!
Now cracking a jest, and now cracking a bottle!
Now swift as an archer to tickle and gall,
Now strong as a phalanx to shake and appal!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wished him full ten times a day at old Nick,
But missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wished to have Dick back again.
Here S—dm—th reposes, whose virtues and parts
Were a light and a model to well-ordered hearts:
A friend of religion, who made it his care
To live as men ought to be, not as they are.
Yet perhaps he has sometimes exceeded the line,
And wire-drawn his measures too piously fine.
To a coming millenium has fashioned his views,
Or the ancient theocracy marked for the Jews.
Say, where has his genius this malady caught,
Of reasoning on man, as if man had no fault?
Say, was it, that tired of applying his mind
To estimate coolly the mass of mankind,
Quite sick of pursuing each versatile elf,
At last he grew lazy, and judged from himself?
Here B—rd—tt retires, from his rows to relax,
The scourge of all kings and the king of all quacks.
O come, ye quack scribblers, and patriots by trade;
Come and weep o’er the spot where your member is laid!
When, dreading the Tow’r, he distracted the town,
I fear’d for its safety, I fear’d for my own;
But wanting the aid of this giant detractor,
The press may yet cease its unclean manufacture;
The lightnings of G—rr—w may slumber at length,
And the thunder-toned justice of Ell—nb’r—gh’s strength;
The Whites[14] and the Hunts[14] shall desist from sedition,
No leader remaining to spur their ambition;
Pale Envy her taper shall quench to a spark,
And C—bb—tt meet W—thm—n, and wail in the dark!
Here sleeps my Lord Gr—nv—lle, describe him who can,
A compression of all that was solid in man.
For bottom, confess’d without rival to shine:
For head, if not first, in the very first line,
Yet, with pow’rs thus confess’d, and a lofty condition,
He was duped by his own over-weening ambition;
Like Satan of old from authority fell,
And left service in Heaven for empire in Hell.
In foreign concerns he was skill’d to a wonder:
’Twas only at home he was fated to blunder:
For, straining too far to secure the command,
He cut off all hope from himself and his band,
Invited to pow’r, yet too proud to come in,
Unless he could storm what ’twas easy to win.
He cast his old friends, as a huntsman his pack—
But found not the secret to whistle them back,
He loved popularity, swallow’d what came,
And the puffs of the papers he fancied was fame;
Till the fall of his cabinet humbled their tone,
And the shouts of their extacy died in a groan.
Long lauded by Journals and minor Reviews,
He paid for their praises by sending them news.
Pamphlet-writers! Reporters! and Critics so grave!
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!
How aptly, on both sides, the eulogy fitted,
When you were be-Junius’d, and he was be-Pitted;
But peace to his errors, whatever his fate,
For his former deserts had been many and great:
The measures of Pitt, as matured by his skill,
Shall plead his apology, happen what will;
His lore and his science shall Shelburne approve,
And Windham and Burke be his colleagues above.
Here Cr—k—r reclines, a most smart, clever creature,
And ev’n opposition allow him good nature.
He was true to his country, his friends, and his king:
Yet one fault he had! a most scandalous thing,
Perhaps you may ask, was he wanting in spirit?
Oh no, that was never an Irish demerit.
Perhaps a too bigotted aristocrat?
I do not intend to impeach him of that.
Perhaps he would trust to the chance of the day,
And so became careless and indolent? Nay,
Then what was his failing? Come, come, let us know it—
He was—could he help it?—by nature a poet!
Here C—nn—ing is laid, and, to tell you my mind,
He has not left a brighter or better behind:
His speeches were brilliant, resistless, and grand,
His character cordial, attaching, and bland:
Still born to improve us in every part,
His wisdom our judgment, his genius our heart.
The terror of coxcombs, the wonder of wits,
He could hit all their blots, he could ward all their hits;
When they blunder’d, and thunder’d, and smarted, and swore,
He but quizz’d them the quicker, and cut them the more!—
Illustration: dragon
17
The Hermit of Vauxhall.[15]
(A Ballad after Oliver Goldsmith.)
Turn, gentle hermit of Vauxhall,
And let me know the way
In which, within that cavern small,
You pass your time away.
There’s nothing but a little lamp,
A pitcher and a cat!
The place must be extremely damp—
Why don’t you wear a hat?
No chaff, my son, the hermit cries,
But walk your chalks along;
Your path to the rotunda lies—
They’re going to sing a song.
Father, I care not for the strain
Of that young girl in blue,
But, if you please, I will remain,
And have a chat with you.
My son, you surely wish to hear
The music of the band;
But if you stop—a drop of beer
I think you ought to stand.
Father, to grant what you require,
I’ll not a moment fail;
Here, waiter, bring the holy friar
A pint of Burton ale.
The waiter brought the welcome draught,
I took a little sup;
The liquor then the hermit quaff’d,
He fairly mopped it up.
Father, I cried, now if you please,
Philosophy we’ll talk—
As the wind murmurs through the trees,
Skirting the long dark walk.
My son, forbear, exclaimed the sage,
Nor on me make a call—
My life is but a pilgrimage
From Lambeth to Vauxhall.
At eve when shops their shutters shut,
And tolls the curfew bell,
I quit my room in the New Cut,
To sit within this cell.
A friendly ounce of Cheshire cheese
My landlady provides,
Save, what to give the public please,
I’ve nothing, son, besides.
Father, your salary, of course,
You must receive, I said;
Your sitting here is not by force:
How do you get your bread?
The sage replied, Alas, my son,
I light the lamps by day—
The hermit’s work, at evening done,
Brings me no extra pay.
And get you cheese alone to eat,
I asked the good old man.
Sometimes, he said, I buy a treat
From baked potato can.
The luxury sometimes I bring
With butter—a small lump,
With water from the crystal spring
That rises ’neath our pump.
Father, I cried, your tale is long,
You tire my patience quite;
I’m off to hear the comic song,
Lull-li-e-tee, good night,
Gilbert A. a’Beckett.
From George Cruikshank’s Table Book, 1845.

——:o:——

In Scribner’s Magazine for 1881 appeared a set of variations on “Home, Sweet Home,” treated in the different styles of Swinburne, Bret Harte, Austin Dobson, Walt Whitman and Oliver Goldsmith. This amusing contribution has since been included by its Author, Mr. H. C. Bunner, in his pretty little Volume, entitled “Airs from Arcady and elsewhere,” published by Mr. C. Hutt.

Home, Sweet Home.
(As it might have been constructed in 1744.
Oliver Goldsmith, at 19, writing the first stanza, and
Alexander Pope, at 52, the second.)
Home! at the word, what blissful visions rise:
Lift us from earth, and draw us toward the skies!
’Mid mirag’d towers, or meretricious joys
Although we roam, one thought the mind employs:
Or lowly hut, good friend, or loftiest dome,
Earth knows no spot so holy as our Home.
There, where affection warms the father’s breast.
There is the spot of heav’n most surely blest:
Howe’er we search, though wandering with the wind
Through frigid Zembla, or the heats of Ind,
Not elsewhere may we seek, nor elsewhere know,
The light of heav’n upon our dark below.
When from our dearest hope and haven reft,
Delight nor dazzles nor is luxury left,
We long, obedient to our nature’s law,
To see again our hovel thatched with straw:
See birds that know our avenaceous store
Stoop to our hand, and thence repleted soar:
But, of all hopes the wanderer’s soul that share,
His pristine peace of mind’s his final prayer.
From Scribner’s Monthly, May, 1881.

——:o:——

A Brand-New Song,
(After Goldsmith.)
(On the Speaker of the House of Commons,
Sir H. B. W. Brand, having his pocket picked of his watch
at the Folly Theatre.)
When a grave Speaker stoops to Folly,
And finds with tickers roughs make way,
What charm can soothe his melancholy—
Can Laughing gas his loss repay?
The only way to hide vexation,
To shield himself from pungent chaff,
Save dignity of House and nation,
And keep his temper, is—to laugh.
Punch, May 5, 1877.

18
On Mr. Warton, M.P.
When they talked of their progress, improvement, and stuff,
He blocked all their bills, snorted loud, and took snuff,

——:o:——

In that amusing book, “The Reminiscences of Henry Angelo” (published by Colburn and Bentley in 1830), some account is given of the satirical writer, Anthony Pasquin, whose real name, by the way, was Williams. This man who had been originally brought up to the profession of an Engraver, threw aside the graving tool, and adopted the less respectable calling of a satirical lampoonist. He was an unprincipled impudent sponge, who spoke ill of every one, and forced himself on the hospitality of all who knew him, so that it was said of him that “he never opened his mouth but at another man’s expence.” In 1786 he contributed to a weekly paper then appearing, entitled The Devil, from which Angelo quotes part of a long Parody upon the Deserted Village, written by Pasquin asserting the inferiority of the actors then upon the stage, to their predecessors, an assertion frequently made by elderly people even in these days.

Innovation.
Sweet Playhouse! best amusement of the town,
Where often, at half-price, for half-a-crown,
I’ve with such glee my opening visit paid,
When oysters first are sold, and farces play’d:
Dear boxes! where I scarce my nose could squeeze,
Where play, and dance, and song were sure to please;
How often happier than a king or queen,
While loud applause has marked the well-play’d scene.
How often have I paused on ev’ry charm,
The speaking silence, the expression warm,
The never-failing start, the gushing tear,
The broken accents trembling on the ear;
The moon that vainly tried to pierce the shade,
Impervious scene for love or murder made;
How often have I blessed the parting day,
When, tea removed, I hurried to the play;
And both the galleries, from labour free,
Wept at the actor’s woe, or shar’d his glee;
While many a first appearance has been made,
The young contending as the old survey’d,
And many a gentleman walk’d o’er the ground,
While hisses, cat-calls, off! and groans, went round;
And still as each repeated effort tir’d,
The stage-struck wight became still more inspir’d.
The rival Romeos that sought renown,
By holding out, to tire each other down;
The Scrub right conscious of his well-chalk’d face;
While bursts of laughter echo’d round the place;
The timid Juliet’s side-long looks of love,
The critic’s glance, who would those looks reprove:
These were thy charms, sweet playhouse, joys like these,
With quick succession taught e’en Rich to please.
These round the theatre alternate shed
Laughter and tears—but all these charms are fled.
Joy-giving Playhouse! best delight in town,
Thy merit’s fled, and any stuff goes down.
’Midst thy bays the pruning knife is seen,
And critic fury tears away the green;
Monopoly now grasps the whole domain,
And authors, actors, starve, nor dare complain.
No wit or humour marks the lively play,
But puns and quibbles make their saucy way;
Along thy tragedies, a sleepy guest,
Dull Declamation snores herself to rest.
The place of elegance a stare supplies,
And affectation that nor laughs nor cries.
Ease, nature, grace, are now neglected all,
For he acts best who can the loudest bawl;
Or by a squint, or grin, or squeak engage,
To fright astonish’d reason from the stage.
Ill fares the town, to vicious tastes a prey,
Where op’ras multiply, and plays decay;
Pageants and shows may flourish or may fade,
A puff can make them, as a puff has made,
But well-writ plays, the stage’s noblest pride,
When once destroy’d, can never be supplied.
*  *  *  *  *
Sweet was the sound when at the music’s close,
Obedient to the bell, the curtain rose;
There Garrick as he sadly stepp’d, and slow,
In Hamlet—looked unutterable woe!
Here, torn with jealous rage ’gainst her he loved,
Barry grew agonised in—“not much mov’d.”
There noisy bacchanals from Comus’ court,
Milton and Arne taught how to laugh and sport.
There Boyce and Dryden wak’d with hound the morn.
Or vocal Johnny Beard, with early horn.
There the apt tune in timely moment play’d,
To fill each pause the exeunt had made.
But now simplicity’s soft accents fail,
And Irish jigs th’insulted ear assail.
No friends to Nature on the boards now tread,
But all truth’s faithful portraiture is fled!
*  *  *  *  *
Beside Charles-street, where hackney coaches meet,
Where two blue posts adorn fam’d Russell-street,
There, in an ale-house, taught to play the fool,
Good Master Shuter first was put to school.
Nature’s adopted son, though mean and low,
“Alas! I knew him well, Horatio.”
Well did the tittering audience love to trace
The miser’s thrift, depicted in his face;
Well would the busy whisper circle round,
When, in Corbaccio, at Volpone he frown’d;
Yet he was kind—but if absurd in aught,
The love he bore to blackguards was in fault.
The chimney-sweeper swore how much he knew,
’Twas certain he could act, and mimic too.
While Quaker’s sermons, given in drawling sound,
Amazed the prigs, and kiddies rang’d around:
And still they gap’d, and still the wonder grew,
That one droll head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame—the Rose and Crown,
Where he so oft got tipsy—is burnt down.
Near to the wardrobe stairs, one story high,
Where ermined robes and jewels caught the eye;
Dull is that dressing-room—by Quin inspir’d,
Where, once, choice wits after the play retir’d;
When play-house statesmen talk’d, with looks profound,
And apt quotations—meant for wit—went round;
Imagination fondly stoops to trace,
The tinsell’d splendours of the motley place;
The warlike truncheon, prone upon the floor,
19
The herald’s coat, that hung behind the door:
The clothes—their different duties made to pay,
To deck the stage by night, the street by day;
The pictures slyly drawn on Hogarth’s plan,
Garrick i’ the lanthorn—Quin in the sedan;
The toilet stocked to decorate the play,
Paint, Indian ink, burnt cork, and whiting gay;
While on the clothes-pins rang’d in gaudy show,
Robes deck’d with foil-stones, glittered in a row.
Vain transitory splendours could not all
Reprieve the mimic monarch from his fall.
Obscure he sinks, forgot his worth and name,
For Sheridan forbids the smallest fame;
To paltry players, no more shall he impart
An hour’s delight to the convivial heart:
Thither no more shall witty lords repair,
To sweet oblivion of the senate’s care!
No more the anecdote, the luscious tale,
The mirth-inspiring good-thing shall prevail;
No more the fop his cobweb’d sconce shall cheer,
Padlock his flippant tongue, and learn to hear;
Fat Quin himself no longer shall be found,
Careful to see the chuckling fun go round;
Nor the young actress, anxious to be tried,
Shall blush to speak a smutty speech aside.

——:o:——

There was another Poem written in imitation of The Deserted Village entitled “The Frequented Village, a Poem dedicated to Oliver Goldsmith,” by E. Young, L.L.D. (J. Godwin). Unfortunately there does not appear to be any copy of this Poem in the Library of the British Museum.

Oliver Goldsmith, died on April 4th, 1774, and within a few days of his death a poem, written by Courtney Melmoth, was published by T. Beckett, in the Strand. “The Tears of Genius,” as the Poem was called, was dedicated to Sir Joshua Reynolds; part being written in imitation of the style of The Deserted Village, whilst another part, deploring the death of the poet Gray, was written in imitation of his Elegy in a Country Churchyard. There were also allusions to several other minor Poets but the whole effusion lacks interest.

——:o:——

The Deserted School.
Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
With hands in pockets, down Cheapside I go,
And onward where one hears that dismal yell
Of “Echo, Standard, Special, or Pall Mall,”
Or where that dear old School forsaken lies
A weary waste expanding to the skies.
Where’er I roam whatever realms to see,
My heart untravell’d fondly turns to thee;
My thoughts to “Homer” turn, with ceaseless pain,
“Physics” and “Newth” I ne’er shall do again.
*  *  *  *  *
And oft a sigh prevails and sorrows fall
To see humanity of man so small;
To turn us all away from that dear School,
And sacrifice her to the workman’s tool.
But my worn soul now deems it for the best
At Kensington to see my fellows blest.
James E. Thompson.
From Pauline, the Magazine of St. Paul’s School,
in the City of London, October, 1885.

——:o:——

The Vicar of Wakefield is probably, of all English stories, the one which has been most widely read, (perhaps only excepting Robinson Crusoe), and has taken most thoroughly hold of the hearts of English speaking people. It was first printed at Salisbury, by Collins, and was issued by Francis Newberry, in 2 vols., in March 1766. A dainty facsimile of this original Edition has recently been published by Mr. Elliot Stock.

A dramatic version of The Vicar of Wakefield, by W. G. Wills, entitled Olivia, has for some time past been attracting large audiences to the Lyceum Theatre, to see Henry Irving and Miss Ellen Terry in the parts of the Vicar and his daughter. The success of Olivia tempted the inevitable travestie, and on Saturday, August 8, 1885, “The Vicar of Wide-a-Wakefield, or the Miss-Terry-ous Uncle.” a Respectful Burlesque Perversion by H. P. Stephens and W. Yardley, was produced at the Gaiety Theatre. The burlesque had but little humour, or literary merit, and although Mr. Arthur Roberts’s imitation of Henry Irving as Dr. Primrose was at times quaint and amusing, the entire success of the production was due to the extraordinary caricature of Miss Ellen Terry given by Miss Laura Linden, who has a perfect genius for such mimicry. Not only in voice, but in gestures, movements, and delivery, the resemblance was striking, and wonderfully sustained throughout the piece, with only just sufficient exaggeration to produce the intended effect of caricature. The plan of the authors of the burlesque consists in making the virtuous persons of the original appear to be more or less villainous and unprincipled, while the villain of the original is made out to be the only pure-minded and moral individual in the piece. For instance, the Vicar is a terrible old scoundrel, who only pretends to have lost all his money, who knows that Mr. Burchell is the baronet in disguise, and who schemes to get his daughters and son married, and performs the nuptials himself, under different disguises, so as to pocket the fees. Burchell is another villain, having unlawfully possessed himself of his nephew’s titles and estates. Olivia is a very forward minx, who tells the virtuous Squire Thornhill all about the pleasures of London, especially the gay and giddy Inventories, and who begs and induces him to run away with her. Even Sophia is cunning enough to discover Burchell’s 20 identity, and to sum up all the worldly advantages of catching him matrimonially.

The Cast when the Burlesque was first produced was as follows:—

THE VICAR OF

WIDEAWAKEFIELD,

OR

THE MISS-TERRY-OUS UNCLE,

Written by H. P. Stephens & W. Yardley,

The Original Music by Florian Pascal.

The Dances arranged by Madame Katti Lanner.

The New Scenery by Mr. E. G. Banks.

CHARACTERS.

Dr. Primrose (Vicar of Wideawakefield) Mr. A. Roberts
Squire Thornhill Miss Violet Cameron
Mr. Burchell Mr. T. Squire
Moses The Mr. J. Jarvis
Bill Vicar’s Miss M. Pearce
Dick Sons Miss G. Tyler
Leigh (a Vagabond) Miss Lesley Bell
Farmer Flamborough Mr. Corry
Mrs. Primrose Miss Harriet Coveney
Olivia her Miss Laura Linden
Sophia Daughters Miss Agnes Hewitt
Polly Flamborough Miss Sylvia Grey
Gipsy Woman Miss M. Rayson

In The Retaliation Goldsmith treated David Garrick with some severity, and the cause may perhaps be found in some lines written by Garrick, descriptive of the curious character of Goldsmith, and therefore forming a fitting conclusion to this Collection of Parodies of his works:—

Jupiter and Mercury, a Fable,
Here, Hermes says Jove, who with Nectar was mellow,
Go, fetch me some clay—I will make an odd fellow:
Right and wrong shall be jumbled,—much gold and some dross:
Without cause be he pleas’d, without cause be he cross;
Be sure, as I work to throw in contradictions,
A great love of truth, yet, a mind turned to fictions;
Now mix these ingredients, which warm’d in the baking,
Turn’d to learning and gaminq, religion and raking.
With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste;
Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste;
That the rake and the poet o’er all may prevail,
Set fire to the head, and set fire to the tail;
For the joy of each sex, on the world I’ll bestow it,
This Scholar, Rake, Christian, Dupe, Gamester, and Poet;
Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame,
And among brother mortals—be Goldsmith his name;
When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear,
You—Hermes—shall fetch him—to make us sport here.
Illustration: Large scrolls with cherubs

Thomas Campbell,

Born July 27, 1777.   Died June 15, 1844.

Illustration: decorated line

H aving already given Parodies of several of the most celebrated English, Irish, and American Poets, it is advisable to turn now to Scotland for an Author, and although, perhaps, the genius and writings of Campbell were not very distinctly Scotch, most of his poems have achieved world-wide fame, and have consequently been very frequently parodied.

Thomas Campbell was born and educated in Glasgow, where he achieved remarkable success in his studies; after travelling some time upon the Continent, he came to London, married, and went to reside at Sydenham. His writings soon attracted considerable attention, he was appointed Professor of Poetry to the Royal Institution, and became Editor of the New Monthly Magazine, to which he contributed many interesting articles. But an Act of Parliament should be passed to prohibit men of genius from acting as Editors, the work and worry kill them, and the duties leave no time for original compositions. It is, therefore, not surprising that Campbell was not a prolific poet, and Washington Irving relates that he once 21 expressed his regret to Mrs. Campbell that her husband did not write more verse. “It is unfortunate,” she replied, “that he lives in the same age with Scott and Byron who write so much, and so rapidly. He is apt to undervalue his own works, and to consider his little light put out, whenever they come blazing out with their great torches.” Irving subsequently repeated this to the great Sir Walter, who, with his usual kindness, and good humour, replied, “How can Campbell mistake the matter so much? Poetry goes by quality, not by bulk. My poems are mere cairngorms, wrought up, perhaps, with a cunning hand, but they are mere Scotch pebbles, after all; now Tom Campbell’s are real diamonds, and diamonds of the first water.”

Of the “diamonds” produced by Campbell, some of the most popular are Lochiel’s Warning, Hohenlinden, the Soldier’s Dream, Lord Ullin’s Daughter, and The Exile of Erin, but no one of his poems has been so often parodied as his famous naval ode “Ye Mariners of England.”

——:o:——

LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER.

A Chieftain to the Highlands bound,
Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry!
And I’ll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o’er the ferry.”
“Now who be ye, would cross Lockgyle,
This dark and stormy water?”
“Oh, I’m the Chief of Ulva’s Isle,
And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.”
“And fast before her father’s men
Three days we’ve fled together,
For should he find us in the Glen,
My blood would stain the heather.
“His horsemen hard behind us ride!
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?”
Outspoke the hardy Highland wight
“I’ll go, my chief—I’m ready:—
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady:
And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
So though the waves are raging white,
I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”
By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heav’n each face
Grew dark as they were speaking,
But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.
“Oh haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,
Though tempests round us gather;
I’ll meet the raging of the skies:
But not an angry father.”
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,
When oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gather’d o’er her.
And still they row’d amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,
His wrath was chang’d to wailing.
For sore dismay’d, through storm and shade
His child he did discover:—
One lovely hand she stretch’d for aid,
And one was round her lover.
“Come back, come back!” he cried in grief,
Across this stormy water:
And I’ll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter!—Oh my daughter!”
’Twas vain: the loud waves lash’d the shore,
Return or aid preventing:—
The waters wild went o’er his child—
And he was left lamenting.
Thomas Campbell.

Sir Robert’s Bill.[16]
Sir Robert, to the Commons bound,
Cries, “Cobden, do not tarry,
And I’ll gie ye ‘Repeal’ all round,
If now my bill you’ll carry!”
“And who be you would pass ‘Repeal’
My own peculiar treasure?”
“Oh! I’m the man, ye ken full weel,
That does just what’s my pleasure.
And fast before the farmers’ friends,
I’ve fled in your direction
And, should they gain their private ends,
My bill would meet rejection!”
“George Bentinck follows fast along,
From him great harm I feel, Sir,
And, should he prove so very strong,
Oh! who could rescue Peel, Sir?”
Out spoke the hardy Leaguer, then—
“I’ll help ye, Peel, I’m ready—
It is not for yourself, ye ken,
But for the League so seedy!
“And, by my word, the Cotton Lords
In danger shall not tarry—
And, tho’ the farmers whet their swords,
Your measure I will carry!”
“Then haste ye, haste, and no more words,
Nor wait till it be calmer—
I’ll meet the raging of the Lords,
But not an angry farmer!”
The stormy Council Peel has left,
A stormy House before him—
And see, the Tories, all a drift,
Have soon begun to bore him.
Yet still he waged the wordy war,
With foemen justly railing—
Lord Stanley ventured to the “Bar,”
From wrath he turned to wailing.
22
For on that night in dismal plight,
Sir Peel he saw to sob then—
One hand out-stretched for aid to Bright,
And one was round his Cobden!
“Go hence, go hence,” he cried in grief,
Across the stormy lobby,
“We’ll ne’er forgive our turn-coat chief,
Sir Bobby, Oh! Sir Bobby!”
’Twas true—the turn-coats vainly rave,
Protection’s friends preventing,
The Tories brave kick’d out the knave,
And he was left repenting.
From Protectionist Parodies, by “A Tory.”
Oxford, J. Vincent, 1850.

——:o:——

John Thompson’s Daughter.
A Fellow near Kentucky’s clime,
Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry,
And I’ll give thee a silver dime
To row us o’er the ferry.”
“Now, who would cross the Ohio,
This dark and stormy water?”
“O, I am this young lady’s beau,
And she, John Thompson’s daughter.
“We’ve fled before her fathers’ spite
With great precipitation,
And should he find us here to-night,
I’d lose my reputation.
“They’ve missed the girl and purse beside,
His horsemen hard have pressed me,
And who will cheer my bonny bride,
If yet they shall arrest me?”
Out spoke the boatman then in time,
“You shall not fail, don’t fear it;
I’ll go, not for your silver dime,
But for your manly spirit.
“And by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
For though a storm is coming on,
I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”
By this the wind more fiercely rose,
The boat was at the landing,
And with the drenching rain their clothes
Grew wet where they were standing,
But still, as wilder rose the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Just back a piece came the police,
Their tramping sounded nearer.
“O, haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,
“It’s anything but funny;
I’ll leave the light of loving eyes,
But not my Father’s money!”
And still they hurried in the face
Of wind and rain unsparing;
John Thompson reached the landing place,
His wrath was turned to swearing.
For by the lightning’s angry flash,
His child he did discover;
One lovely hand held all the cash,
And one was round her lover!
“Come back, come back,” he cried in woe.
Across the stormy water,
“But leave the purse, and you may go,
My daughter, Oh! my daughter!”
Twas vain, they reached the other shore,
(Such dooms the Fates assign us),
The gold he piled went with his child,
And he was left there, minus.
From Poems and Parodies, by Phœbe Carey.
Boston, United States, 1854.

Lambeth Ferry.
A cove vot had come from Lambeth Town
Cried “Boatman do not tarry:
I don’t mind giving you ’arf-a-crown
To row me over with Mary.”
“Now who be he vould cross the Thames
Ven it’s dark and ’tis high vater?”
“Vy Billy Downey is my name,
And this is Black Joe’s Daughter.
“Afore her daddy’s ’prentice boys!
An hour we’ve run away, man!
Should they catch us they’d make a noise,
And my poor back vould pay, man.”
Up jumps the vaterman, “I’ll pull;
Jump in my boat, be jolly;
It’s not for the sake of half-a-bull,
But for your charming Polly.
“And so help me tater, the darlen creetur,
Though in danger you have brought her,
But if it should rain both cats and dogs,
I’ll row you o’er the vater.”
And then the vind it howled apace,
The rain vas fast a pattering.
They stared in each other’s face
As they stood there a chattering.
And still as the rain made more noise,
And as the vind blow’d hoarser,
They heard the sound of the ’prentice boys
As if they vos coming closer.
“Oh! sparkle up,” poor Polly said,
“Though the veather be ever so cold, man,
I’d rather meet a vatery bed
Than meet my angry old man.”
The boat has left the Thames’ famed shore,
They pulled away, ahoy! sir,
Ven oh! too strong for his weak hand,
They run against a buoy, sir.
My eyes! how the wild waves did roar,
Poor Bill thought Poll vos dying,
Black Joe, he reached the fatal shore,
Ven he begun a-crying.
For ven towards the wreck he look’d
His child he did discover.
Von mutton fist in her hair was hook’d
Tother vos round her lover.
“Come back, come back!” he cried, “to me,”
“Come back, vot are you arter,
And I’ll forgive you, Billy Downey,
My daughter! oh, my daughter.”
But a wave came vot upset the boat
In the vater they vos drivelling.
Joe viped his eye vith the tail of his coat,
And he began a snivelling!
Anonymous.

23
The New Lord Ullin’s Daughter.
A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry;
And I’ll give thee a silver pound
To row us o’er the ferry.”
The boatman did not even smile,
But looked across the water;
He kenned the Chief of Ulva’s Isle,
And eke Lord Ullin’s daughter.
“Oh, haste thee!—haste!” the lady cried,
“This youth and I, eloping,
Would cross at once to t’other side,
So aid us in our sloping!”
The boatman budged no inch, and then
The clue Lord U. discovers;
And down the glen ride armed men,
And catch the brace of lovers.
“Curst boatman;” shouted Ulva’s chief,
“If I were free I’d show ye”—
We’d rather dee on Loch Maree
Than on the Sawbath row ye!
Funny Folks, July 13, 1878.

——:o:——

HOHENLINDEN.

On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th’ untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast array’d,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neigh’d,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shock the hills with thunder riv’n
Then rush’d the steeds to battle driv’n,
And louder than the bolts of Heaven,
Far flash’d the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow,
On Linden’s hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulph’rous canopy.
The combat deepens, on ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave!
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few, shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet,
Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre!
Thomas Campbell.

The Battle of Hohenlinden was fought on December 3, 1800, when the French, under General Moreau gained a victory over the Austrians. Campbell witnessed the battle from the monastery of St. Jacob, it is therefore somewhat surprising that his poem should, in its details, be so completely at variance with the reality of history. The Colonel of the Sixteenth Lancers, in describing the battle said that the “victory was obtained almost without an effort of the General, or any very great bravery on the part of his troops.” Some of the poetical allusions, as for instance “the black Iser,” “bannered Munich,” and the “night scene” were altogether imaginary, and nothing can be called true but the beautiful stanza that concludes the Ode. Whilst a writer in “Notes and Queries” suggested that even this stanza was poetically faulty, and proposed it should be altered to:

“And every sod beneath their feet
Shall bear a soldier’s Elegy.”

BANNOCKBURN.
(An imitation of Hohenlinden.)
Near Stirling’s tower, by Fortha’s wave
The rising sun its radiance gave,
Upon the armour of the brave
That burned for battle brilliantly.
And Scotland by that soaring sun
Beheld her brightest day begun—
Her greenest wreath of glory won
By deeds of dauntless bravery.
On Bannockburn’s camp covered field
The men of war were met to wield,
With hostile hand, the sword and shield,
For conquest or for liberty!
How gaily glanced that field before
Began the battle’s rage and roar!
That reddened with the reeking gore
As raved the dreadful revelry.
The wild war-yell rose hoarse and high,
St. George! for Edward was the cry,
And Scotland’s shout shook earth and sky,
St. Andrew! Bruce! and liberty!
Then closed the conflict deep and dread!
Then strained the bow and struck the blade,
Its dirge of death the trumpet brayed,
As thinn’d the ranks of rivalry!
What feelings fired each hero’s heart,
For conquest or a country’s part,
As from each eye the flash did dart,
That spoke the spirits enmity:
But fast the Southrons fell and fled
Where Bruce—brave Bruce! his patriots led,
And Scotland’s lion rampant—red
Pranced proudly on to victory!
And may each land, as Scotland, scorn
The tyrant’s threat—his thraldom spurn
With such success as Bannockburn
Of dear and deathless memory!
Archie Aliquis.
From The Scrap-book of Literary Varieties.
Printed by Edward Lacey, 1825.

The Battle of Peas Hill.

“The following effusion was penned the day after the memorable 13th of November, 1820, which must be a day of pleasant recollection to all Cantabs, as long as there shall be a Snob or Radical amongst them, or a fist to bate them with. This is the only Matriculation Day which is registered in letters of blood in the archives of the Vice-Chancellor; 24 and we are sure there never was, nor ever will be, such an occasion for calling Freshmen from the science of mechanics to the application of its theory in the science of war.”

On Granta, when the sun was low,
No symptoms lower’d of fearless row,
But all was silent as the flow
Of Camus rolling tardily.
But Granta saw another sight,
When Radicals presumed at night,
With Carter’s[17] mutton-wicks to light
Their Caroline’s base treachery.
Round Hobson’s conduit quick array’d,
Each Gownsman rush’d the cause to aid,
And fast about him each one laid,
With blows that told most terribly.
Then rushing forth the Snobs among,
Fierce from the ranks the Johnian sprung,
And loud and clear the market rung,
With shouts of dreadless liberty.
But redder yet shall be each cheek,
And louder yet each tongue shall speak,
And fiercer yet each soon shall wreak
His vengeance most undauntedly.
’Tis rushlight all—but what can shew
The Gownsman from the Gownsman’s foe,
As shouting in thick files they go
To battle all so merrily?
No banners there were waving high,
To cheer the brave to victory,
No pennon floating to the sky,
With rare device wrought curiously.
No plumes of crested pride were seen,
But tassels black of silken sheen,
With gold and silver mix’d between,
Emblems of unanimity!
No sound was heard of martial drum,
No bugle blast, but one wild hum
Floated o’er all: “The Snobs! they come,
On! on! and meet them cheerily.”
And then was shout, and noise, and din,
As rallying forwards poured in,
Hundreds and hundreds to begin
The work of fame so gloriously.
Then rush’d undaunted, to the fight,
The tall—the low—the strong—the light;
And, oh! it was a glorious sight,
That strife of Town and Gown to see.
As fist to fist, rais’d high in air,
And face to face opposed were,
As shone the conflict in the glare
Of lights that told of Bergami.
Then rushed to fight the hardy Soph,
Regardless of the townsmen’s scoff,
As one by one they sallied forth
To war in ambush warily.
Then rush’d the Freshman to essay
His maiden valour in the fray,
And who that valour shall gainsay,
And wrong not such effrontery?
Then with one cry so loud and shrill,
It echoed to the Castle Hill,
They charged the Snobs against their will,
And shouted clear and lustily.
Then all distinctions were forgot—
Then, silk and velvet had one lot
With tatter’d stuffs, upon that spot
Which sacred was to bravery.
No signs of fear, no signs of dread,
Of bloody nose or broken head,
Of wretch by Proctors homeward led
For “acting contumaciously.”
No thoughts were there, but such as grace
The memory of that crowded place,
The memory of that gallant race
Who took and gave so heartily.
The combat deepens; on, ye brave,
Who rush to conquest, or to save;
Wave all your stuffs and poplins wave!
And charge with all your chivalry!
Few, few, shall part where many meet,
Dull soon shall be each crowded street,
Responsive, now, to thousand feet
Pursuing on to Victory.
From The Gradus ad Cantabrigiam, by a Brace of Cantabs,
John Hearne, London, 1824.

Jenny-Linden.
A Dreadful Engagement between the
Swedish Nightingale, and the Poet Bunn.
On Lind, when Drury’s sun was low,
And bootless was the wild-beast show,
The lessee counted for a flow
Of rhino to the treasury.
But Jenny Lind, whose waken’d sight
Saw Drury in a proper light,
Refused, for any sum per night,
To sing at the Menagerie.
With rage and ire in vain displayed
Each super drew his wooden blade,
In fury half and half afraid,
For his prospective salary.
Bunn in a flaming frenzy flew,
And speedily the goosequill drew
With which he is accustomed to
Pen such a deal of poetry.
He wrote the maiden, to remind
Her of a compact she had signed,
To Drury Lane’s condition blind,
And threaten’d law accordingly.
Fair as in face in nature, she
Implored the man to set her free,
Assuring him that he should be
Remunerated handsomely.
Two thousand pounds she offered, so
That he would only let her go:
Bunn, who would have his bond, said, No!
With dogged pertinacity.
And now his action let him bring,
And try how much the law will wring
From her to do the handsome thing,
Who had proposed so readily!
The Swedish Nightingale to cage
He fail’d; she sought a fitting stage,
And left him to digest his rage,
And seek his legal remedy.
25
Then shook the House with plaudits riven,
When Jenny’s opening note was given,
The sweetest songstress under heaven
Forth bursting into melody,
But fainter the applause shall grow,
At waning Drury’s wild-beast show,
And feebler still shall be the flow
Of rhino to the treasury.
The Opera triumphs! Lumley brave,
Thy bacon thou shalt more than save;
Wave, London, all thy ’kerchiefs wave,
And cheer with all thy chivalry.
’Tis night, and still yon star doth run;
But all in vain for treasurer Dunn,
And Mr. Hughes, and Poet Bunn,
And quadrupeds, and company.
For Sweden’s Nightingale, so sweet,
Their fellowship had been unmeet,
The sawdust underneath whose feet
Hath been the Drama’s sepulchre.
Punch, May 15, 1847.

Mr. Alfred Bunn, then lessee and manager of Drury Lane Theatre, had endeavoured to secure the services of Miss Jenny Lind, but she accepted an engagement under Mr. Lumley, and made her first appearance at Her Majesty’s Theatre, Haymarket, on May 4, 1847. Her début was a brilliant triumph, and for the short time she remained on the lyric stage she was extremely popular. But in 1851 she married M. Otto Goldschmidt, and retired from the stage, although she has occasionally performed since, principally for the benefit of public charities, or other philanthropic objects.


The Bal Masqué at Crockford’s.
On Thursday, ere the time was come
For supper’s joys—the guests were glum,
And deep as thunder was the hum
Of thousands polking sullenly.
But Crockford’s saw another sight,
When rang the bell at dead of night,
Commanding streams of gas to light
Her supper-room’s gay scenery.
In Hart’s and Nathan’s costumes lent,
Each polkeuse chose some visor’d Gent,
And eagerly the cash was spent,
To join the coming revelry.
Then rushed the crowds, by hunger driven,
Then rang the room, with laughter riven,
And loudly were the orders given
For Champagne popping merrily.
But louder yet the noise shall grow,
Ere Crockford’s masquers thence shall go,
And faster yet the wine shall flow,
From bottles emptied rapidly.
’Tis day, and scarce the exhausted band
Can sleep’s o’er-powering charms withstand,
While Jullien waves his wearied hand,
And leads the final galopade.
The pace now quickens. On, ye slow!
Or crushed by numbers, down you’ll go.
Blow, Kœnig! loud thy posthorn, blow,
And make the walls re-echo thee!
Few, few, remain that sound to greet,
The dancers rest their burning feet;
And each cab in St. James’s-street
Bears home some worn-out reveller.
The Man in the Moon, Vol. 1.

Row-in-London.
Caused by the Invasion of the
French National Guards, in
1848.
In London, when the funds were low,
And business was uncommon slow,
The Quadrant only on the go,
And that kept moving sluggishly.
But London saw another sight
When National Guards arrived at night,
And Lumber troopers took to flight,
Across the pavement slippery.
In shirt and stockings fast arrayed,
The Lord Mayor gasped out, sore afraid,
And with the Aldermen essayed
To join the flying Cavalry.
To cut and run they’d stoutly striven,
But back to battle they were driven,
And then the foremost rank was given
The Bunhill Row Artillery.
But bolder yet that troop must grow,
Or, London conquered by the foe,
The Gallic cock will proudly crow
On Temple Bar right merrily.
’Tis morn—but Specials in a swoon,
Won’t reach the Mansion House by noon,
Where frantic Gibbs and “pale-faced Moon”[18]
Groan in the butler’s pan-t-ry.
The combat deepens—on ye brave,
Who rush to Guildhall, or the grave;
Save, Magog! oh, the city save,
And charge with all the Livery.
Few French shall tread where freemen meet
Turtle on Lord Mayor’s Day to eat;
But hung on high, with dangling feet,
Swing opposite St. Sepulchre’s!
The Puppet Show, September 30, 1848.

The Battle of the Boulevard.
On Paris, when the sun was low,
The gay “Comique” made goodly show,
Habitués crowding every row
To hear Limnandier’s opera.
But Paris showed another sight,
When, mustering in the dead of night,
Her masters stood, at morning light,
The crack chasseurs of Africa.
26
By servants in my pay betrayed,
Cavaignac, then, my prisoner made,
Wrote that a circumstance delayed
His marriage rite and revelry.
Then shook small Thiers with terror riven;
Then stormed Bedeau, while gaol-ward driven;
And, swearing (not alone by Heaven),
Was seized, bold Lamoricière.
But louder rose the voice of woe,
When soldiers sacked each cit’s depôt,
And tearing down a helpless foe,
Flashed Magnan’s red artillery.
More, more arrests! Changarnier brave
Is dragged to prison like a knave,
No time allowed the swell to shave,
Or use the least perfumery.
’Tis morn, and now Hortense’s son,
(Perchance her spouse’s too) has won
The imperial crown. The French are done,
Chawed up most incontestably.
Few, few shall write, and none shall meet;
Suppressed shall be each journal-sheet!
And every serf beneath my feet
Shall hail the soldier’s Emperor.

These lines on the Coup d’Etat of Napoleon III. were written by the late Professor W. E. Aytoun, a most determined and persistent opponent of the Napoleon régime. The doubt as to the Emperor Napoleon’s paternity has been frequently expressed, it did not originate with Aytoun.


Hohen-London.
The result of an awful Engagement on the part of
her Majesty to honour the City Ball with her presence.
In London, when folks’ taste was low,
They used to like the Lord Mayor’s show;
But now ’tis voted very slow—
A dull affair, decidedly.
But London showed another sight,
When the Queen came on Wednesday night,
Escorted, through a blaze of light
To join the City revelry.
At every window smart array’d,
Sat civic lass, and Cockney blade;
And all the populace hoorayed
To see the Royal pageantry.
Then shook St. Paul’s, with shouting riven;
Then rushed the steeds, up Cheapside driven;
And still more stunning cheers were given
By noisy British loyalty.
But noisier yet the crowd will grow,
Through King Street, as the Queen shall go
To Guildhall, there—on gouty toe—
To see her hosts dance heavily.
The concourse thickens! Heroes brave,
Who flash the bull’s eye on the knave,
Wave, Crushers, all your truncheons wave,
And charge them with the cavalry.
The Hall is gained; but lo! what fun!
As to a ball, the Sovereign’s done!
Except her suite, there’s room for none
To dance before her Majesty.
Few, few can polk where many meet,
And have no space to kick their feet;
The Hop a failure was complete;
The Supper went off decently.
Punch, July 19, 1851.

Swindon.
At Swindon when the night drew nigh,
Few were the trains that went thereby,
And very dreary was the sigh,
Of damsels waiting dolefully.
But Swindon saw another sight,
When the train came at dead of night,
Commanding oil and gas to light
Much stale confectionery.
By soups and coffee fast allured,
Each passenger his choice secured,
Excepting those lock’d in, immured
By sly policeman’s treachery.
Then rushed the mob, by hunger driven;
Then vanished buns, in pieces riven;
And louder than the orders given,
Fast popped the beer artillery.
But farther yet the train shall go,
And deeper yet shall be their woe,
And greater horrors shall they know,
Who bolt their food so speedily.
Time’s up; but scarce each sated one
Can pierce the steam cloud, rolling dun,
Where curious tart and heavy bun
Lie in dyspeptic sympathy.
The combat thickens. On, ye brave!
Who scald your throats, in hope to save
Some spoonsful of your soup, the knave
Will charge for all he ladles ye!
Few, few, digest where many eat,
The nightmare shall wind up their feat,
Each carpet bag beneath their seat
Shall seem a yawning sepulchre.
Anonymous.

Hotel Swindling.
In Dover, when my purse was low,
One luckless night, ’twixt sheets of snow,
At an hotel most travellers know,
Did I, Sir, slumber cosily.
But Dover shock’d at morn my sight
With such a bill for that brief night,
Such whacking sums for wax to light
The darkness of its hostelry!
My tea and crumpets’ cost array’d,
That a rogue drew the bill betray’d,
And furious overcharges made,
The whole a dreadful robbery.
Then shrank my purse, to plunder given:
Then wagg’d my tongue, to scolding driven;
And at these scamps, on cheating thriven,
Fierce flash’d my eyes’ artillery.
But fiercer yet did those eyes glow,
When reft of means “express” to go,
From Dover, in the third-class low,
Was I, Sir, rolling crawlingly.
27
’Twas morn, but deuce a bit of sun
Pierced through the clouds; they were as “dun”
As I,—excuse the horrid pun—
In that infernal hostelry.
The subject sickens. On, thou knave!
And dig base Imposition’s grave;
Shave, landlords! all your guests close shave,
And overcharge in rivalry!
Few, few return, where many meet,
Or press again the snow-white sheet;
The Times, ye hosts, who foully cheat,
Will be your swindling’s sepulcre.
Diogenes, November, 1853.

The Battle of Bull-Run.
At Bull-run, when the sun was low,
Each Southern face was pale as snow;
And shrill as jackdaws, rose the crow
Of Yankees boasting rabidly!
But Bull-Run saw another sight,
When in the deepening shades of night
Towards Fairfax Court-house, streamed the flight
Of Yankees running rapidly!
Then shook the corps, with terror riven
Then rushed the steeds, from battle driven;
The men of “Battery number seven”
Forsook their red artillery.
Now from McDonald’s furthest left,
The roar of cannon strikes one deaf;
Where furious “Abe” and fiery “Jeff”
Contend for death or victory.
The panic thickens; Off ye Brave!
Throw down your arms; your bacon save!
Waive Washington, each scruple waive,
And fly with all your chivalry.

Sic Vos, Non Vobis, Versificatis Ave.
At Seacliff, when the time passed slow,
And summer’s sun refused to show,
Relentless was the steady flow
Of raindrops pattering drearily.
But Seacliff saw another sight,
The band struck up at ten at night,
And Volunteers in leggings tight,
Awoke the dance right cheerily.
By willing steward’s friendly aid
The warrior sought the smiling maid,
And charged, as each musician played,
Adown the hall, hung tastily.
Then shook the floor to twinkling feet,
While some did dance and some did eat,
Or strove to stay the increasing heat
By swallowing ices hastily.
But shorter yet these lights shall burn,
And faster yet the waltzers turn,
Before the chaperones discern
That day is surely slipping in.
’Tis morn; but all that’s young and fair
Of Seacliff beauties linger there,
Full loath to seek the outer air
And leave the hall they’re tripping in.
The ball is over. Read ye now
Who read for honours,—or a plough,
May Oxford’s laurels grace the brow
Of him who works most steadily.
Too soon we part; but when we meet
In bonds of recollections sweet,
We’ll chat of Seacliff’s snug retreat
That welcomed us so readily.
L. E. S.
From College Rhymes. W. Mansell, Oxford, 1861.

Belton.[19]
(August 12, 1863.)
At Belton, ere the twilight grew,
Untrodden was the avenue,
Save by Papas and Mas a few
With their sight-seeing progeny.
But Belton saw another sight,
When the mob came at nine at night,
And with a thousand flambeaux light
Illumined all her scenery.
With od’rous torch and British cheer,
To Brownlow’s home they drew them near,
His Lordship’s honour—not his beer—
The motive of their revelry.
Forth flowed the ale. Ye know not its
Peculiar virtues, O ye cits,
’Twould beat e’en Burton tap to fits,
Though Bass be its auxiliary.
And hours that amber stream shall flow,
And men shall come and scorn to go,
The thirsty souls shall thirstier grow,
Though quarts it empties rapidly.
’Tis midnight. For one “level son,”
A hundred bawl they “havn’t done,”
And as the barrels run and run,
Shout in their beery jollity.
The beer grows thicker: now they go—
They could not drink for aye, you know—
Grantham thy banners (calico)
Should wave o’er these (thy chivalry?).
Few, few can stand, though all have feet,
They need no counterpane or sheet,
When ev’ry turf that e’er they meet
Destroys a perpendicular.

Bills.
At Oxford when my funds were low,
And I was ploughed for “Little-go,”
How fast and furious was the flow
Of Bills that came in rapidly!
But Oxford saw another sight,
When my rich aunt went off one night,
For then I’d gold, and cheques could write,
And shopkeepers came fawningly:
“Our stupid clerks the error made,
We never were the least afraid
About our small bills being paid;”
And so they went on lyingly.
28
“We hope,” they said with glistening eye,
“You’ll still allow us to supply
All articles you want; we’ll try
To please you, sir, in every way.”
Oh! rare and comic was the fun
To see each humbly cringing dun,
The oily and the sugary one,
All full of meek apology.
I paid their bills upon the spot,
And the receipts from each I got,
And then I looked at all the lot,
As they stood bowing smilingly.
“Get out each fawning drivelling knave,”
I shouted out with features grave;
My hand towards the door I wave,
And clench it simultaneously.
I heard the sound of hurrying feet
Haste down the stairs and up the street,
And then in fits of laughter sweet,
I went off unrestrainedly.
From Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon.
Chapman and Hall, London, 1874.

Ho! in Prince’s.
At Prince’s when the sun is low,
See all the fashion skating go,
And bright and brilliant is the flow,
Of ladies rinking rapidly.
Ah! Prince’s is a splendid sight,
From break of day till fall of night,
For all combine to render bright,
The dull surrounding scenery.
In gorgeous dresses see arrayed,
The haughty dame, the tender maid,
Who join, with not a thought dismayed,
The fascinating revelry.
From morn till eve a throng is found,
Of rapid rinkers rolling round,
Amid the light and joyous sound
Of music’s varied melody.
Then on, ye fair ones, one by one,
Who rink for fashion, or for fun,
From early morn till setting sun
You’ll always meet with chivalry.
And if, perchance at fearful pace,
You charge another face to face,
Then cry, when in that close embrace,
“’Tis I, Sir, rinking rapidly,”
Few will forget the hours sweet,
They spent with skates upon their feet,
Nor friends that they were wont to meet
At Prince’s, rinking rapidly.
From Idyls of the Rink.
London: Judd & Co., 1876.

The Tay Bridge Disaster.
That fatal eve, as darkness died,
It spann’d the Firth in conscious pride,
And far beneath it rolled the tide
Of Tay, lamenting sullenly.
But later met that bridge its doom,
When fiery showers pierced the gloom,
To light to their tempestuous tomb,
A wild despairing company.
Struck midway by the raging blast,
The girders crash’d and crumbled fast,
And down that living freight was cast
Into a sea of agony.
Lost was the falling metals roar
Amid the elemental war,
And fast the flaming sparks flew o’er
The chasm’s dense obscurity.
But soon those sparks are lost to sight,
Quenched in the river’s rayless night,
And still rejoicing in his might,
Tay sweepeth seawards sullenly.
’Tis midnight! scarce yon barque can make
Her way where seething billows break,
And still the winds and waters shake
The heavens in their rivalry.
Though darker yet the airy dome,
Speed, gallant ship, across the foam!
On! on! Dundee! and gather home
Those wrecks of frail humanity!
But none shall wake where many sleep,
Their bier shall be the trackless deep;
And ever shall the surges sweep
Above their lonely sepulchre.
From Snatches of Song, by F. B. Doveton.
Wyman and Sons, London, 1880.

The Tay Bridge broke down on December 28, 1879, carrying with it a train which was passing over at the time, and many lives were lost.


Erin-Lieder.
In Erin where the Praties grow
When rents were high and prices low
Ejected Paddies had to go,
Across the ocean rapidly.
But Erin saw another sight,
When tenants struck for tenant right,
And gallant Parnell led the fight,
Against a Landlord tyranny.
By torch-light leaders were conveyed
To platforms, furious speeches made,
And every tenant farmer bade,
To “hold the harvest” steadily,
Few, few the rents that any got,
And if an Agent was not shot,
He had to undergo Boycott-
Ing, by a furious peasantry.
J. M. Lowry, 1884.

It is said that Campbell sent the MS. of Hohenlinden to the Greenock Advertiser, but that it was rejected, with a polite intimation “that it did not come up to the Editor’s standard, and that poetry was evidently not the forte of the contributor.”

A version of Hohenlinden in Latin sapphics, probably written by Father Prout (the Rev. Francis Mahony) appeared in Blackwood’s Magazine, in 1834; and another version, in Latin Alcaics, “Prælium Lindenium” by the Rev. William Fellowes A.M., appeared in the Sabrinæ Corolla, 1850.

29

——:o:——

THE SOLDIER’S DREAM.

Our bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw;
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field’s dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track,
’Twas autumn—and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft,
In life’s morning march, when my bosom was young,
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore,
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kissed me a thousand times o’er,
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.
“Stay—stay with us!—rest, thou art weary and worn!”
(And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay,)
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away!
Thomas Campbell.

The Soldier’s Dream.
(After T. Camp-Bell, by A. Camp-Beau.)
We were wet as the deuce; for like blazes it poured,
And the sentinels’ throats were the only things dry;
And under their tents Chobham’s heroes had cowered,
The weary to snore, and the wakeful to sigh.
While dozing that night in my camp bed so small,
With a mackintosh over to keep out the rain—
After one glass of grog, cold without—that was all—
I’d a dream, which I hope I shall ne’er have again.
Methought from damp Chobham’s mock-battle array,
I had bowled off to London, outside of a hack;
’Twas the season, and wax lights illumined the way
To the balls of Belgravia that welcomed me back.
I flew to the dancing rooms, whirled through so oft
With one sweet little partner, who tendril-like clung,
I saw the grim chaperons, perched up aloft,
And heard the shrill notes Weippert’s orchestra flung.
She was there—I would “pop”—and a guardsman no more,
From my sweet little partner for life ne’er would part,
When sudden I saw—just conceive what a bore—
A civilian, by Jove! laying siege to her heart!
“Out of sight, out of mind!” It was not to be borne—
To cut her, challenge him I was rushing away—
When sudden the twang of that vile bugle horn
Scared my visions, arousing the camp for the day.
Punch, July 9, 1853.

The Boat Race,
Verrimus et proni certantibus æquora remis.
We had stripped off our coats, for the first gun had fired;
Our starter intent on his watch set his eye;
On the bank there were hundreds in flannels attired,
The lean ones to run, and the fat ones to try.
The last gun was fired, we are off and away,
With fast flashing oars, on the foremost boat’s track;
’Twas pumping—my knees, too, got in my way,
And a troublesome horse-fly was biting my back.
The flush of exertion broke out on my face,
And the skin-wearing car handle gave me great pain,
And I vowed in my heart this should be my last race,
And thrice ere the finish I vowed it again.
Put it on—well-rowed all—now you’re gaining—full oft
I heard on the bank from many a tongue,
And the cheers of our comrades that went up aloft
From many a loud-shouting ear-splitting lung.
Then we spurted like mad, and gained more and more,
Till the two boats were scarcely six inches apart,
Our coxswain alternately cheered us and swore,
To let off the steam from his fast-beating heart.
Easy all! ’Tis a bump! ’Tis a bump, I’ll be sworn!
I was glad, for my back had begun to give way.
Our cheers on the wings of the evening were borne,
And our boat became head of the river that day.
From Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon.
Chapman and Hall, London, 1874.

The Tory Premier’s Dream.
Our leaders sang truce—for the session had lowered,
And a cloud had come o’er the political sky;
And the Parliament sank on the ground over-powered,
The Liberals to shout, and the Tories to cry.
After feeding that night on my pork chop so raw
With the vote-guarding “faggot” still haunting my brain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice e’er the cock crew I dreamed it again.
Methought from the Polling-booth’s dreadful array
Triumphant I rose, for of votes I’d no lack.
’Twas delightful to hear all constituents say.
“We idolize Jingo, and welcome you back!”
I flew to the policy traversed so oft,
The secrecy whence my “surprises” have sprung;
My motto, “Imperium,” floated aloft,
And I laughed in my sleeve at the softness of Bung.
Then pledged we the Water Bill; fondly we swore
From our spirited policy never to part;
The stockjobbers blessed me a thousand times o’er,
And the public it cursed in its hardness of heart.
Stay, stay with us—rest till an Empire is born;
And fain was the Novelist-Statesman to stay;
But Gladstone returned with the dawning of morn,
And all my majority melted away.
Funny Folks, April 17, 1880.
30
The Fatal Gallopade.
A Parody upon the style of Thomas Campbell,
Author of “Theodric,” etc.
’Twas night—a damp—dark—misty—murky night,
Scarce thro’ the gloom could pierce the gas-lamp’s light,
When to the square, which bears proud Grosvenor’s name,
A crowd of carriages and chariots came,
Stopping in turns, successively before
A mansion’s wide and double-knockered door;
And there was heard the carriage door’s quick slam,—
Anon a halt—and then a sudden jam
Of poles retrorsally thro’ chariots driven,
And shrieks of “Coachman!—Thomas! John!—oh Heaven!”
At length, in safety’s reached the drawing room,
Where gold, and platina, and pearl, and plume,
Floating and shining o’er neck, head, and ears,[20]
Like stars and white clouds seemed in heav’nly spheres
From the high roof where gold and azure blended,
In hues designed to typify the sky,
Bright chandeliers of crystallised glass depended
In colours each of too resplendent dye
For human art with one of them to vie.
Oh! ’twas a scene too dazzling to the sight—
Too grandly gay—too beautifully bright!
And now the music and the dance began,—
The beaux to ogle, and the belles to fan;
And oft between the pauses of each dance,
To lull the listener to a dreamy trance,
Soft melting sounds around his heart-strings wreathed,
To which a voice responsive accents breathed,
Filling with such sweet harmony the air,
It seemed an angel had been wafted there!
But who is he of foreign garb and air,
That roams about with sentimental stare?
No common personage; his star-lit breast
Bespeaks him noble—little boots the rest;
Russian he is, a rich ambassador.
And oh!—propitious fact! a batchelor!
A faded heiress looks on him intent;
But, ah! his eyes are on another bent,—
And such another! who her charms can paint?
Description waxes in the effort faint;
Pure as an infant in its first repose—
Mild as a summer evening at its close—
Pensive and pale as Dian in decline,—
Meek as the lily—tender as the vine—
Chaste as the Vestal,—modest as the ray,
Which the sun leaves for night to scare away!
These, and a thousand other charms, to boot
Struck folly dumb, and admiration mute!
Ceased the quadrille, the gallopade began,
And partners briskly to their stations ran;
Now thought the amorous Ambassador,
Now let me dance—yes, now, or never more!
With this he rushed to where his loved one stood,
Asked her to dance—sweet girl!—she said she would;
Joy to the Russian! he is blest indeed,
And soon outstrips the fashionable speed;—
Too fatal speed! the floor’s vanished chalk
Which pairs, more careful, step o’er in a walk,
Arrests not them too fond to look below,
Till down they suddenly together go!
Smile not, ye fools!—the fair one’s head is broke!
They raised her up, but never more she spoke!
Ah! well with anguish may her partner start,
For what hath broke her head, hath also broke his heart!
The Comic Magazine, 1834.

——:o:——

LOCHIEL’S WARNING

The Wizard
Lochiel! Lochiel, beware of the day
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight,
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight:
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown;
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war,
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?
’Tis thine, oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await,
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate,
Asteed comes at morning; no rider is there;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led!
Oh, weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead;
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave,
Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave!
Lochiel
Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.
The Wizard
Ah! laughs’t thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn?
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn!
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth,
From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north?
Lo! the death shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad;
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high!
Ah! home let him speed—for the spoiler is nigh.
Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast,
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast?
’Tis the fire shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven.
Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might,
Whose banners arise on the battlements height,
Heaven’s fire is around thee, to blast and to burn;
Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return!
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,
And a wild mother scream o’er her famishing brood.

*  *  *  *  *

These lines are from Campbell’s “Lochiel’s Warning,” which poem is said to have been formed upon the skeleton of bouts-rimés, it certainly displays little trace of such a mode of construction.


On January 14, 1880, The World published two competition poems on the model of “Lochiel’s Warning”; the topic selected being:

“1879, its Glory and its Shame.”

First Prize.

John Bull——Old Year.
John Bull
Old Year, Old Year, I’m glad of the day
That beholds thee, like evil dream, vanish away!
For dejection and shame have companioned thy flight,
From the morn of thy birth to thy final midnight.
Look, look, where on reeking Isandula’s plain,
Outflanked and outnumbered, our bravest are slain!
Ah, see how cruel assegais enter the breast,
31
Undismayed to the last, of our comrade and guest!
Hark, hark, where the waters of Afghan’s dark river
Fling back a sad cry, and then still it for ever,
And where blood-stained Cabul with fanatical yells
Of an envoy’s foul slaughter exultingly tells.
Old Year
Peace, pessimist, peace! I have shattered the power
Of the Zulu man-slayer, have curbed the rude Boer;
Secocoeni is captive. Shere Ali is dead,
And back from your borders the Russian I’ve sped;
And no brighter pages can valour display.
John Bull
Old Year, Old Year, I’m glad of the day—
From thy frost-bitten spring to thine autumn of blight
Rain, rain hath oppressed us noon, morning, and night;
Scant produce, unripened, mocks garden and farm;
Flood and Tempest have waited on Famine’s alarm;
While Leisure and Labour and Pleasure and Pain
Have pined for the breath of thy summer in vain.
With Sedition’s loud cry, have our annals been shamed,
With a Senate obstructed, a credit defamed,
With the cheers of a mob and the sneers of a press
To rash to condemn and too prompt to caress,
While the pulse of our commerce beats fitful and low—
Old Year
False libeller, silence! and hark, ere I go:
All my life throughout Europe the sword hath been sheathed;
I have soothed the war-passions my brothers bequeathed;
If want and Disaster have marched by my hand,
They have knit class to class, and endeared land to land;
And hardier and wiser, you shall not repine
At the trials you have passed through in ’Seventy-nine.
Ziegelstein. (Goymour Cuthbert).

Second Prize.

Wizard (of the North)——Chieftain B.
Wizard
Chieftain, O Chieftain, lament for the year!
Of distress and disaster a history drear:
For Cabul with its slain rises red on my sight;
And grim Isandula, that massacre fight.
They fought and they perished by field and by flood;
But their victories rest bootless, and blood calls for blood.
Weep, Albion, thy losses, thy glory grown pale!
Weep, though gagged correspondents can’t tell the whole tale!
Chief
Go, prate to Midlothian, thou peace-preaching seer!
If the wars of thy country so dreadful appear,
Let the fields of Ulundi, Rorke’s Drift, and Ekowe
Dispel with their glory such phantoms of woe.
Wizard
Ha! then turn to the East, who will there take thy side?
Proud Chief, thou must break with the land of thy pride.
Say, how strutted proud Turkey! how low now he lies!
And new nations spring round while the old tyrant dies.
Flourish freedom and peace where oppression once stood,
And poor Turkey may scream for the loss of that brood.
Chief
Verbose rhetor, avaunt! I’ve well managed my clan;
Right or wrong, I rely on their votes to a man,
With our endless resources, no foeman we fear,
So woe to king Theebaw—
WizardYet weep for the year.
Trade’s bad, sir, whatever your chemicals meant;
And outside of Ireland, folks will not pay rent.
Home interests were shelved, though oft Ministers met—
And look how the country has got into debt!
They’ve finished, their blunders are done in the House;
The Session was lost, just because they’d no nous,
And where are those bothering Irishmen—where?
Making trouble afresh, which may you have to bear!
Yet, no! for departure from office is near;
Peace, retrenchment, reform—
ChiefYou be—! Well, I don’t fear.
For though weighted by taxes and harassed by foes,
Still England, while life in each British breast glows,
Shall, queen among nations in ages to come,
Exult in libertas—
WizardBut not imperium.
Rad

In March, 1882, “The Weekly Dispatch” had a Competition for Parodies of the first eighteen lines of “Lochiel’s Warning,” having reference to the House of Lords’ Select Committee on the Irish Land Act. The first prize was awarded to Mr. Jesse H. Wheeler, for the following:—

Old women! old women! prepare for the day
When the Commons shall rule with an unopposed sway;
For a dream of the future behold we to-night,
While the hosts of Will Gladstone are massed for the fight.
They guide us, they lead e’en their country and Queen—
Accursed be the puppets that trespass between!
Poor Salisbury’s bunkum and muddling are vain,
And the “shut up committee” is baffled, ’tis plain.
For hark! that harangue, and those deep telling words—
What voice of the people defies the great Lords?
’Tis thine, William Gladstone, whose hearers await
That scathing rebuff on the meddlers of State,
A calm comes at finish, no challenge is there,
But a silence prevails, then a sigh of despair.
Shout, people! the Lords in humility bend;
Oh, shout! this submission foreshadows the end.
For this triumphant army the Lords can’t withstand,
The Lords—whose foundations fast sink in the sand.

The following Parody was also printed:—

O Cecil! O Cecil! beware of the day
When the Commons shall meet thee in battle array;
When the people’s stern will rushes on in its might,
And the clans of the landlords are scattered in flight,
Their standard shows ever “For kingdom and crown,”
Hail! ye who shall trample the false device down,
Proud sons of the people, as honest as plain,
While their selfish bosoms throb only for gain.
But see! through the storm-clouds that gather afar,
32
What falchion gleams like a meteor star?
’Tis thine, William Ewart; in dread they await
The time when thy summons is heard at their gate.
Already its prelude resounds in the air,
And soon will be heard their last sigh of despair.
Oh! Albion, long in captivity led,
Soon, soon, will the term of thy thraldom be sped,
And the standard of freedom shall gallantly wave
Where rule by a class finds a dishonoured grave!
James Robinson.

——:o:——

The same original was again selected for a competition in the Weekly Dispatch, and the following prize poem was printed in that paper on September 14, 1884:—

O, Salisbury, Salisbury, beware of the day
When the people shall meet thee in hostile array!
For what can it end in excepting thy flight?
Whilst thy Tory companions are scattered in fight,
It is not a contest ’twixt people and crown,
And woe to the lords who would trample them down!
Brave Gladstone advances his arguments plain,
And Tory mis-statements are routed and slain.
And hark! ’mid the mutt’rings of those you would dare,
What cry loud and earnest is borne on the air?
’Tis “Down with the Lords!” and, though Gladstone deplores,
The people in anger will surge at your doors.
Then take Gladstone’s warning, your error repair,
Ere we wring our just rights from your fear and despair;
Stay, Salisbury, then, ere the hour is too late,
And you and your lords meet a merited fate!
Albert Otley.

Gladstone’s Warning.
(Nothing to do with Lochiel’s Warning.)
O Tories! O Tories! beware of the day
When my legions shall meet you in battle array!
For the state of the poll in a vision I trace,
With a name at the top, and a name at the base;
Ye rally and cry: “For ourselves and the Crown!”
And ye hoodwink the people and trample them down.
Proud Salisbury, descending, declares to the poor,
That he works for them now—though he did not before.
But hark! through the thunder and speech-laden air,
Who is he that flies howling in rage and despair?
’Tis the loud Democrat, so triumphant of late,
The country has snubbed him, and—shown him the gate!
Weep, Tories! your tricks to the country are plain,
O weep!—can ye hope to deceive them again?
They know, though your speeches sound pleasant and smart,
That the truth on your lip is a lie at your heart!
The Judge, November 28, 1885.

——:o:——

Ye MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

A Naval Ode.
Ye Mariners of England!
That guard our native seas:
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle, and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe!
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!—
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave.
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o’er the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below,—
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger’s troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
Thomas Campbell.

Campbell began this famous Ode, in Edinburgh, in 1799, and finished it at Altona in 1800. He at first styled it “Alteration of the old ballad ‘Ye Gentlemen of England’ composed on the prospect of a Russian War;” it was published early in 1801, in the Naval Chronicle, with the line “Where Granvill (boast of freedom) fell,” instead of

“Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,”

this being an allusion to the brave Sir Richard Granvill, who was killed in 1591, in the fight of the “Revenge” against the Spanish Armada.

After the death of Lord Nelson, at Trafalgar, in 1805, Campbell revised the poem, and then introduced the beautiful line

“Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell.”

The poem is frequently printed with the original date of 1800, and with the line about the fall of Nelson, without any explanation of these facts, thus making it appear that Campbell, had anticipated the loss of the great sailor five years before it occured.


Ye Kite-Flyers of Scotland.
Ye kite-flyers of Scotland,
Who live from home at ease;
Who raise the wind, from year to year,
In a long and strong trade breeze:
Your paper-kites let loose again
33
On all the winds that blow;
Through the shout of the rout
Lay the English ragmen low;
Though the shout for gold be fierce and bold,
And the English ragmen low.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall peep from every leaf;
For the midnight was their noon of fame,
And their prize was living beef.
Where Deloraine on Musgrave fell,
Your paper kites shall show,
That a way to convey
Better far than their’s you know,
When you launch your kites upon the wind
And raise the wind to blow.
Caledonia needs no bullion,
No coin in iron case;
Her treasure is a bunch of rags
And the brass upon her face;
With pellets from her paper mills
She makes the Southrons trow,
That to pay her sole way
Is by promising to owe,
By making promises to pay
When she only means to owe.
The meteor rag of Scotland
Shall float aloft like scum,
Till credit’s o’erstrained line shall crack,
And the day of reckoning come:
Then, then, ye Scottish kite-flyers,
Your hone-a-rie must flow,
While you drink your own ink
With your old friend Nick below,
While you burn your bills and singe your quills
In his bonny fire below.
Thomas Love Peacock.

The above parody is one of a series entitled Paper Money Lyrics, which were written in 1825-26, and published in a collected form in 1837. They had reference to the commercial panic of the winter 1825-26, and are consequently somewhat obsolete now. The other authors imitated besides Campbell, were Robert Southey, Poet Laureate; William Wordsworth, Thomas Moore, Samuel T. Coleridge, and Sir Walter Scott; whilst several old Scotch songs were also parodied, as for instance,

Chorus of Northumbrians.
(On the prohibition of Scotch One Pound Notes in England.)
March, march, Make-rags of Borrowdale,
Whether ye promise to bearer or order;
March, march, Take-rag and Bawbee-tail,
All the Scotch flimsies must over the border:
Vanity you snarl anent
New Act of Parliament,
Bidding you vanish from dairy and “lauder”
Dogs you have had your day,
Down tail and slink away;
You’ll pick no more bones on this side of the border.
Hence to the hills where your fathers stole cattle;
Hence to the glens where they skulked from the law;
Hence to the moors where they vanished from battle,
Crying, “De’il tak the hindmost” and “Charlie’s awa’.”
*  *  *  *  *
Comic Songs for Young Ladies.
Young gentlemen of England,
That only mind your ease,
Ah, little do you think how hard
Young ladies try to please!
Give ear unto the Milliners,
And they will plainly show
How the waist must be laced,
By the Fashion-books to go.
She who’d attract attention
Must laugh at common sense,
For when one goes to choose a dress,
One mustn’t mind expense;
Nor think how Pa will scold one,
Whene’er he comes to know
How he’s let into debt,
By the Fashion-books to go.
What terrible privations
Young ladies must endure,
A lovely face and form of grace
From damage to secure!
Their appetites they must control,
Lest they too stout should grow,
And in vain strive and strain
By the Fashion-books to go.
In days of bitter weather,
Which winter doth enforce,
One cannot think of such a thing
As good thick boots, of course;
With instep undefended,
In rain, and hail, and snow,
All so bold one gets cold,
By the Fashion-books to go.
Punch, December 14, 1844.

Ye Peasantry of England.[21]
(Dedicated to the Duke of Norfolk.)
Ye Peasantry of England,
Who till our fertile leas,
How little do ye think a man
May live on, if he please?
Your weekly wages, it is plain,
As far again would go,
And keep you so cheap,
(For Norfolk’s Duke says so)
If, when hunger rages fierce and strong,
To curry you would go,
This powder, hungry fathers,
From all expense will save;
For if your children eat thereof,
No other food they’ll crave;
And any time that wages fall,
(As oft they fall, you know,)
’Twill come cheap, a pinch to steep
In water—a pint or so;
And when hunger rages fierce and strong,
To your curry powder go.
34
Our labourers need no dainties,
But something strong and cheap;
No steak from off the rump they crave,
No chop from off the sheep:
With curry powder thrice a week,
Warm into bed they’ll stow,
Nor ever roar out for more—
Their place so well they know;
But when hunger rages fierce and strong,
To the curry powder go.
The ’tato crops of England
May all to gangrene turn,
While Norfolk’s Duke about your lot
His wise head shall concern.
Meanwhile, ye hardy labourers,
Your song of thanks should flow
To the fame of his name
Who the powder made you know:
Which, when hunger rages fierce and strong,
Will set you in glow.
Punch, January, 1845.

Ode to theSpecials.
Ye Constables of London,
That guard our Cockney plain,
Whose staves have braved for several hours
The Chartists and the rain,
To Clerkenwell come forth once more
To meet your ancient foe,
And go then at the men
Who never struck a blow
At the men who spout so loud and long,
But never strike a blow!
Our London needs no barriers,
No forts along the street;
Her faith is in her Specials’ staves,
Her trust is in their feats!
With their truncheons of old oak
They fright the Chartists so,
That they roar all the more,
But they never strike a blow!
Yes, although they spout so loud and long,
They never strike a blow.
The maniac mob of England
Shall yet some reason learn,
Till humbug’s dreary night depart,
And the star of sense return!
Then, then, ye cockney warriors,
Our half and half shall flow
To the fame of your name,
And every one shall know
Of your prowess ’gainst the noisy mob
Who never struck a blow.
The Puppet Show, June 10, 1848.

(Written at the time of the Chartist movement, when the late Emperor Napoleon III, was sworn in as a special Constable.)


Ye Ship Builders of England.
Ye Ship builders of England,
That load our native seas
With craft not fit to brave a year
The battle or the breeze:
Such rubbish do not launch again,
Top heavy, dull, and slow
As they creep through the deep
Whatever wind may blow.
The spirits of retrenchment
Shall start from every wave,
For in the sea economy
Through you has found a grave.
Thousands and thousands you have sunk
In ships that will not go;
For they creep through the deep
Whatever wind may blow.
The costly ships of England
For fire-wood yet may burn,
Till to the models of the past
Her shipwrights shall return.
Then, then, ye clumsy shipbuilders,
Our song no more will throw
All the blame on your name,
Which now merits every blow.
Punch, December, 1849.

Ye Subalterns in England.
From Tuff, of the Fusiliers in the Crimea,
to
Muff, of the Grenadiers, at St. James’s.
Ye subalterns in England,
Who live a life of ease,
How little do ye think upon
Our sufferings o’er the seas.
To sup, lunch, dine, and lunch again,
Upon fried pork we go,
And three-deep, we’ve to sleep,
In the trenches all a-row,
With the batteries roaring loud and long,
Four hundred guns or so!
The ghosts of clothing colonels
Would shudder in their graves;
For no two of us are rigged the same,
And scarce a fellow shaves.
Light cavalry and heavy swell
Black as coal-heavers show;
You can keep clean so cheap,
But here a tub’s no go;
For water you’ve to shell out strong,
And then it’s salt, you know.
Out here we need no boot-jacks,
For in our boots we sleep,
One never sees a dressing-case,
And hair brushes are cheap.
Deuce a cigar one gets to smoke;
Short pipes we’re glad to blow;
And we draw rum from store,
As we can’t have Bordeaux—
The point is, something short and strong,
Although it may be low.
But round the flag of England
We’ll our last cartridge burn,
Till we have made the Russians smart,
And victors home return.
Then, when, as veteran warriors,
At fête and ball we show,
With the fame of our name,
The ladies’ hearts will glow,
And while you swells are voted bores,
The pace, oh, shan’t we go!
Punch, November 18, 1854.
35

Another Parody on “Ye Mariners” appeared in Punch, December 11, 1852. It referred to a fracas which had taken place between two Members of Parliament, and has now no interest whatever.

——:o:——

A Ballad by a Bishop.
(With Brass Accompaniment.)
Ye clergymen of England,
Who livings hold at ease,
How little do you think upon
The troubles of the Sees!
Give ear unto my plaintive lay,
And I’ll engage to show
That a bishop’s poor and needy—whom for being rich and greedy,
Up the stormy Times doth blow—oh! oh! oh! oh!
Chorus expressive of Woe.
’Tis a law of human nature,
As you all of you must grant,
That of worldly things, the more man has
The more he’s sure to want,
Then wonder not that we, on whom
Such fatness men bestow,
Are in heart sick and sore, and in want, far, far more
Than you who sit below—oh! oh! oh! oh!
That bishops who have been brought up
Regardless of expense,
In luxury must dine and sup,
Seems merely common sense:
And neither few nor far between
Can be their wants, you know,
When in health and at ease their appetites increase
For the good things here below—O! O! O! O!
Then think ye not a bishop’s less
To be envied than be pitied,
Rememb’ring that to meet distress
So little he is fitted.
Nor wonder he for pension wants
Six thousand pounds or so—
Or I fear in a year, tho’ he’s lived like a Peer,
On the parish he would go—o—o—o—Oh!
(Refrain) On the Parish he would go!
Punch. October 11, 1856.

Crinoline’s Raging Fury;
Or, the Fashionable Female’s Sufferings.
You rustic maids of England,
Who dress yourselves with ease,
Ah, little do you think how hard
It is French taste to please.
Give ear unto the milliners,
And they will plainly show,
With what care, tight with air,
They our Crinolines do blow.
*  *  *  *  *
(Five verses omitted.)
The husband, and the lover,
May simple gowns prefer,
That fit the form, and, in a storm,
With safety let one stir,
Reproaches fierce, our hearts that pierce,
Against our taste they throw,
Which we poor things endure,
Whilst our Crinolines we blow.
We put on costly merchandise
Of most enormous price,
So much we need of drapery,
To follow this device;
We spend so much in drapery,
Of such a size to show,
And with toil our shape spoil,
When our Crinolines we blow.
Punch, January 31, 1857.

Ye Commoners of England.
Ye Commoners of England,
Who cannot sit at ease
In the house designed by Barry
Four hundred odd to squeeze,
Your straitened bounds enlarge again
To hold two hundred more,
Who now creep, in a heap,
Through the narrow lobby door,
When division bells ring loud and long,
To the over-crowded floor.
The sluggard and late comer
Their right to seats must waive,
But a card stuck on the bench at prayers
Will disappointment save.
For architects will fail again
Where Barry failed before,
And ye’ll creep, like penned sheep,
Through another crowded door,
While uttering curses loud and deep,
To the over-crowded floor.
In the present House of Commons
But few attempt to speak,
For some have not the gift of tongue,
And some not that of cheek.
But in the new Reformed House
There be at least ten score
Who, like Bright, every night,
Forth their eloquence will pour,
And speeches make, both loud and long,
As ne’er were heard before.
To meet your wants in future,
And find you room in turn.
Gives Headlam, Thomson Hankey,
And Bazley great concern:
O’er plans and elevations
Right patiently they pore,
For they know ’tis no go
To find space for any more,
When debates are waxing loud and long,
And the Speaker’s heard to snore.
Echoes from the Clubs, November 27, 1867.

The Scream of the American Eagle;
or, The Crow of Yankee-Doodle.
You sneaking skunks of England,
Who stay at home at ease,
Who think because you never fight
You’re rulers of the seas:
Another pirate launch again
36
To match a New York foe,
For the fame of your name
Which has had so sad a blow,
While we Yankees bluster loud and long,
And over England crow.
The shattered “Alabama”
Lies deep beneath the wave,
Your finest guns and gunners
Their vessel couldn’t save,
When our noble ship, the “Kearsarge,”
Her shot and shell did throw,
To the bottom in an hour
Did the “Alabama” go,
And we Yankees bluster loud and long,
And over England crow.
The flag of old Columbia
Shall ne’er again be furled
Till, having scourged the Southern States,
We whip the whole wide world;
With real lightning from our guns
Our thunderbolts we’ll throw,
Till not a single Britisher
Upon the seas doth show,
Then won’t we bluster loud and long
And over England crow.
Yes, then, you sneaking Britishers,
Our song and feast shall flow
When we sink your Island, Queen and all,
Old ocean’s depths below,
And masters of the ’varsal airth
We’ll liquor to and fro,
Drink gin-slings with our Irish slaves
And trumpets loudly blow
To the fame of our name,
And o’er the whole world crow.
From Lyrics and Lays, by Pips
(Wyman Bros., Calcutta, 1867).

The Fenians’ Raging Fury:
Or, Legal Ireland’s Sufferings.
Ye gentlemen of Ireland
Who live abroad at ease,
A mighty little wonder ’tis
That you are absentees.
Give heed unto the newspapers,
And they will daily show
All the crimes—see the Times
When the crimson drops do flow.
All we that would live landlords
Must bear arrears of rent,
And little though we should be paid
Or none, must be content;
Or else, a tenant’s bullet
Will quickly lay us low;
With a ball he pays all,
Whilst the crimson drops do flow.
*  *  *  *  *
Not Irish landlords only,
Thus live in care and dread;
Their stewards and their agents too
May look to be shot dead.
Whoever makes an enemy
Is very soon let know,
What is what, by a shot,
When the crimson drops do flow.
*  *  *  *  *
If all conciliation
Is wasted, nought remains
But to renew an iron rule,
Stern penalties and pain,
At least empower our magistrates
To cage each public foe,
With the speed which we need
When the crimson drops do flow.
Punch, March 12, 1870.

Ye Scavengers of England.
Ye Scavengers of England!
Whose cart one seldom sees
Without unpleasant consciousness
There’s something in the breeze!
Leave other garbage to its fate,
And here your prowess show!
And sweep through the heap
From King Street up to Bow;
Where the struggle rages all day long,
From King Street up to Bow!
The Duke may wish you farther,
The question try to waive;
But, bear in mind, that filthy slush
Might prove his Grace’s grave!
And should he, by some chance, go down
Himself, he’d swear you’re slow,
As ye sweep through the heap
From King Street up to Bow!
We boast we need no bulwarks
Our social rights to keep;
Yet, if we wish to purchase plums,
We do it—ankle deep!
And though we often, through the Times,
Our indignation show,
The while we roar, the loads still pour
From King Street and from Bow;
And the struggle lasts the whole day long,
From King Street down to Bow!
The dirty flags of Mudford
At last shall have their turn!
No more for rotting refuse prove
A putrid public churn!
So up, ye British Scavengers,
A decent garden show,
Where Duchesses henceforth may—leap!
From King Street up to Bow!
And thank their stars you’ve made a sweep
From King Street up to Bow!
Punch, October 16, 1880.

This Parody was accompanied by a portrait of the Duke of Bedford, the owner of this filthy, inconvenient, and mismanaged market.


To Milliners and Millionares.
A modiste address by an Æsthetic Renegade.
Ye milliners of England,
Who clothe so many shes,
Whose stuffs have never found their peers,
Oh, listen if you please.
37
Your standard prices pray keep down,
To hold the trade in tow,
For thus you’ll reap and you’ll keep
Of customers a flow;
Though you make toilettes loud and long
Now trains have ceased to grow.
The spirits of your tailors
Shall start with every fold,
For Paris ’twas from whence they came,
And their reward was gold;
Where Worth and mighty Felix dwell
There is a better show,
Where they do reap and do keep
Of customers a flow,
And say you haven’t the “haut ton,”
And are most sadly slow.
Britannia needs no bustles,
No heels of slender height,
Her walk should e’er be straight and sure,
Her dresses not too tight.
With simple taste do loop them up
And trim them down below:
Ah! but you say, “that’s not the way
O’er other firms to crow!”
Well, then—(despairingly)—make your toilettes loud and long,
We will not say you “No!”
(Sarcastically—)
May the ladies fair of England
Ever live and learn
To be extra grateful for your deeds
And give you some return!
We sing to you, fair modistes,
To Messrs. Worth and Co.,
To the fame of your name,
And may fools of fashion flow,
While you make dresses more and more,
And bows and buttons grow.
From Cribblings from the Poets, by Hugh Cayley
(Jones and Piggott, Cambridge, 1883.)

Torpedo Terrors.
Our Poet has revised Campbell’s Lyric
in accordance with the
New System of Naval Warfare
).
Ye mariners of England,
Be vigilant to seize
The flag that braved a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze;
And if your ships be launched again
To meet a foreign foe,
Ere ye sweep through thöe deep
Send your divers down below,
For that dread explosive swift and strong,
The sneaking Tor-pe-dö.
When your heroic fathers
Their foes a thrashing gave,
On the deck above they sought for fame,
Not underneath the wave.
When Blake and mighty Nelson fought
They dealt no dastard blow,
But now we sweep o’er the deep,
Both cautiously and slow,
Fearing the din and the secret fire
Of the Brigand Tor-pe-dö.
Britannia needs new bulwarks,
New towers along the steep,
If far below the mountain wave
These hidden reptiles creep;
No thunders from our broadsides now
May quell the floods below,
If when the proud ships float along
The swift steam launches throw
Beneath the keels of ironclads strong
The coward Tor-pe-dö.
Though soon beneath our vessels
They may terrific burn,
With ships of steel and hearts of oak
We trust their power to spurn;
That still our ocean warriors
To sea may safely go,
And win new fame for England’s name
With an open-handed blow,
While the enemy’s fleet is blown sky high
With their own vile Tor-pe-dö.
Funny Folks.

Ye Infantry of England.
A Military Ode.     Imitated from Campbell.
Fas est et ab hoste doceri.
Ye Infantry of England,
Supposed to guard our shores,
Who made a precious mess of it
In trying to pot the Boers,
Your ready rifles take again,
And try another style;
Nor fool by old rule
While the foreign critics smile,
Whilst the Dutchman chuckles loud and long,
And our foreign critics smile.
Britannia needs instructors
To teach her boys to shoot,
Fixed targets and mere red-tape drill
Have borne but bitter fruit.
Our blunders are a standing joke,
The scandal of our Isle,
And the Boer loud doth roar,
Whilst our foreign critics smile.
Whilst the Teuton guffaws loud and long,
And our foreign critics smile.
The cartridges of England
In waste terrific burn;
In sighting and in snap-shots, we
From foes have much to learn.
Then come, ye pipeclayed Infantry,
And go to school awhile,
Till the fame of your aim
Shall no more make foemen smile;
Till the Dutchman’s chuckle’s heard no more,
And your foes have ceased to smile.
Punch.

The Perils of Parliament.
Ye Gentlemen of England,
Who stay at home at ease,
Ye little think upon the ills
That threaten our M.P.’s!
38
Now that throughout the House again
The flood of talk will flow,
And will roar
O’er the floor
While the storms of party blow,
While discussion rages loud and long,
And the storms of party blow!
The Spirit of Obstruction
Will start from every side;
New coalitions will be formed,
Old combinations tried;
The Alderman will shout “Yah! Yah!”
Lord Randolph talk more stuff,
Whilst a roar
O’er the floor
Will proclaim his new rebuff,
And noises weird and varied tell
That Warton’s taking snuff.
His meteor pocket-handkerchief,
Shall oft terrific burn,
Whilst weary legislators long,
But vainly, to adjourn;
Shall wave whilst dreary platitudes
Tempt Ministers to weep,
Or some bore
On the floor
Talks the faithful few to sleep;
Whilst the dazed but ever-active “whips”
Their endless vigil keep.
Yes, Gentlemen of England,
Do picture, if you please,
The fate that probably awaits
Your sorely-tried M.P.’s.
Think of those frequent dinners
Of which they’ll get no bite
When the bell
Sounds their knell,
And compels them to the fight;
Till the lobbies echo with the groan
Of outraged appetite!
Think of the miles of walking
Divisions will impose,
On those who, spite their gouty pains,
Must follow “Ayes” or “Noes.”
Think of the cramps they must endure
When furtive naps they take,
With what racks
In their backs
They will suddenly awake;
When they have slumbered in their seats
For their constitution’s sake.
“Britannia needs no bulwark”—
Or so her poets claim—
But he who makes Britannia’s laws
Should have an iron frame.
Yes, he does need a bulwark
’Gainst all the session woes,
’Gainst the roar
Of the bore,
And the battle’s stress and blows!
If his digestion be not sound,
He scarce will see its close.
For dark is the horizon,
And on the rising breeze,
Clouds, shaped like “all-night sittings,”
The weather-prophet sees;
And fears that even pheasants
The Sportsman shall lay low
Ere the last
Of the blast
Through St. Stephen’s halls shall go;
Ere the sharp “Hear, hear,” is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
Truth, February 7, 1884.

Ye Mariners of England.

The Salisbury Version of Campbell’s Song.

[It would appear from one of his recent speeches that Lord Salisbury considers Mr. Chamberlain a sham philanthropist, who only wishes to injure the poor innocent shipowners, and has no real desire to benefit seamen by his Merchant Shipping Bill.]

Ye mariners of England,
That trust in Joseph C.,
Whose tale has gulled a thousand ears,
Receive the truth from me.
He champions you for selfish ends,
Does philanthropic Joe,
And you’re “had” by the Rad,
When the stormy winds do blow.
Our sailors need no Bill-wark
To guard them on the deep;
Shipowners all are worthy folk,
And calumny is cheap.
Their vessels stand the tempests’ test,
And never go below,
So no more on that score,
When the stormy winds do blow.
Obstruction’s flag in Parliament
Shall yet terrific burn,
Till Gladstone’s rabble rout depart,
And the Tory clan return.
Then, then, ye ocean simpletons,
Brum tactics we shall “stow,”
None will back Merchant Jack,
When the stormy winds do blow.
Funny Folks, June 21, 1884.

Ruling the Waves.
(Freely adapted from Campbell.)
Ye Mariners of England!
Who’d guard our native seas,
What think ye, lads, every few years
Of this confounded breeze?
They tell us we must launch more ships
Ere we may match the foe,
And weep
O’er the deep,
Whilst the Pressmen’s trumpets blow,
While the squabble rages loud and long,
And the Pressmen’s trumpets blow.
The spirits of your fathers
Would look extremely grave
At doubts thus thrown upon the fact
That Britain rules the wave.
39
Officials on each other fall;
One “Yes!” says, t’other “No!”
And sweep
O’er the deep,
Of big figures in a row,
Tabled Statistics stiff and long,
And figures in a row.
Britannia needs a Navy
Her world-wide watch to keep,
To ward her isle-encircling waves,
And to patrol the deep.
That’s truth, and far beyond all joke,
Plain facts from them we’d know,
Who roar
And deplore,
That our Navy’s running low,
That the Frank and Teuton fleets grow strong,
Whilst our Navy’s running low.
The money-bags of England
The balance yet can turn.
We’re quite prepared to freely “part,”
Cheese-paring fudge we’d spurn.
Facts, facts, ye ocean-warriors,
Are what we fain would know!
For the fame
Of your name
Every British heart will glow,
When Party fights are heard no more
And the Windbags cease to “blow.”
Punch, October 4, 1884.

Ye Radicals of Brumm’gem.
(A Song for the next Election.)
Ye Radicals of Brumm’gem,
With all your Caucuses,
Whose noise has rung a year or two
Just on a passing breeze,
Your voice shall ne’er be raised again
To deafen another foe;
You shall fall, spouters all,
When our party strikes the blow,
And the battle will be short, I say,
When our party strikes the blow!
The demagogues and stumpers
No more shall rant and rave,
The platform was their field of fame,
Th’ election is their grave.
Where Bunkum, Humbug, Bluster spoke,
Now silence you shall know,
For you fall, stumpers all,
When our party strikes the blow,
And the battle will be short indeed
When our party strikes the blow.
Britannia’ll have no rebels
Her soil in blood to steep;
Her strength can crush the blustering knave—
Her wit the sly and deep;
And class with class she reconciles
And fuses high and low—
They unite for the fight
And together strike the blow,
And they make the battle short, I say,
When, allied, they strike the blow.
Conservatives of England;
A light enlightening burn
To help the poor and guide the rich
Right Members to return.
Then, then, you ranting Radicals,
Our song and feast shall flow,
As we tell how you fell
When the nation struck the blow,
How the battle was uncommon short
When the nation struck the blow.
A Pen’orth o’ Poetry for the Poor,
London, 1884.

Parodies by a Premier.
(Addressed to the L——s of the A——y.)
“Ye Mariners of England,”
(I’ll term you if you please),
Whose brag has raised, a hundred times,
A Parliament’ry “breeze!”
Your gallant features blanch again
Beneath another blow.
As ye creep down the steep
“Companion” stairs below;
While the crisis rages loud and long,
And you have to keep below.
“The spirits of your fathers”
Won’t “start from every wave”—
For the deck “it was their field of fame,”
And Kensal Green “their grave,”
“Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell”
You’ll have no chance to go,
Nor to creep down the steep
“Companion” stairs below;
While the crisis rages loud and long,
And you have to keep below.
“Britannia needs” her “bulwarks”
And “towers along the steep;”
Her ships crawl “o’er the mountain waves,”
Her navy’s “on the cheap,”
With blunders from her naval L—ds
She riles the tars below,
And they swear—you’re aware—
“When the stormy winds do blow,”
’Cause their awkward squadrons all go wrong,
“When the stormy winds do blow.”
“The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn”—
They say—when Liberal L—ds depart,
And Tory ones return.
Then, then, ye ocean-amateurs!
Their song and jest shall flow,
To make game of your name
When you’ve ceased to go below;
When my fiery flights are heard no more,
And you’ve ceased to go below.
The Globe, June 18, 1885.

Song at Scarborough.
During the Match Gentlemen of England v.
Players of England, September 3, 1885.
Ye Gentlemen of England,
Who smite for twos and threes,
One bat has swiped for twenty years,
That bat is W. G.’s.
40
That wondrous willow waves again
To match the old, old foe,
And spanks through their ranks
Whilst the bowlers puff and blow,
Though Tom Emmett sends them swift and straight,
And the “field” do all they know.
Britannia need not tremble
Whilst he his “block” can keep,
And slog for sixes and for fours,
Though the field stand close or deep
There’s “powder” yet in every stroke,
His “drives” like lightning go,
And men roar as the score
Swells at every swashing blow,
Though Ulyett “sends ’em down” like hail,
And Peate his best doth show!
The Cricket fame of England
Shall yet in brightness burn,
And we can wait without blue funk
That Cornstalk Team’s return,
Whilst W. G. can show such form
After twenty years or so;
The fame of his name
Sounds wherever Britons go,
And the mighty score on Scarborough’s shore
Should bring him “one cheer mo’!”
Punch, September 12, 1885.

On conceding the Saturday
in Christmas Week
, 1884.
Ye Shopkeepers of London,
Who live in lavish ease;
We beg of you for once to hear
Your poor employés pleas.
There is no need for us to say
How hard their daily task;
Then give the one short Saturday
Which they this Christmas ask!
*  *  *  *  *
Ye Merchants, too, of London,
Who Christmas will enjoy,
Until a glut of luxuries
Your appetites will cloy;
Come, think of those whose tired hands shake,
As at your books they toil;
And, oh, do not, for pity’s sake,
Their taste of Yule-tide spoil!
*  *  *  *  *
Truth, December 18, 1884.

Another long imitation of the same original appeared in Truth, Sept. 25, 1879, commencing

“Ye Ministers of England.”

Amongst the curiosities of literature may be classed an extraordinary collection entitled “Divine Songs of the Muggletonians,” printed in 1829, and now very scarce. Amongst these so-called Divine Songs are some to be sung to such tunes as “God save the King,” “Hearts of Oak,” “De’il tak the wars,” and one there is which commences as follows, in imitation of Campbell’s Mariners:—

“You faithful Muggletonians who truly do believe
The doctrine of Muggleton to be the same as Reeve;
Let no wise anti-followers infuse into your ear,
That a Prayer, Christ does hear, from us mortals here below.”

——:o:——

Campbell’s poems seem to be especially favored by the Editor of the Parody Competitions in The Weekly Dispatch, as, in addition to those already alluded to, he also selected “The Maid’s Remonstrance” for political parodies, and the following examples were printed, March 1, 1885:—

The Bench of Bishops.
Never working, ever wooing,
Loving fat things, wealth pursuing;
Know ye not the wrong ye’re doing,
O ye favoured few?
All your lives obstruction brewing.
Cease, or else be true!
Measures banished, wrongs not righted.
See your Church, how disunited!
See the scores of bills you’ve blighted
In the House of Peers!
Cringing, wav’ring, and benighted,
’Midst your country’s tears.
Yet you deem yourselves a blessing—
Sleek and fat, and self-caressing,
Time is short, and needs are pressing;
Soon you’ll have to go.
Dull and useless, always messing;
Dotard’s all, and slow.
James Turner.

Randolph’s Remonstrance to Sir Stafford.
Never fighting, ever cooing,
Still a fruitless course pursuing;
Read you not the wrong you’re doing
In my cheek’s pale hue?
All my lifelong hopes eschewing—
Fight, or cease to coo!
Gordon murdered, pledges slighted,
Still our ways are disunited.
When the goal is well-nigh sighted
Feeble funk appears;
Vacillation so benighted.
Is for Lib’ral fears.
Office—once your dearest blessing;
Place—we both would be possessing!
Hopes—a mutual soul confessing,
Soon you’ll make them grow
Dim, and worthless our caressing—
Yours with age, mine woe.
Henry L. Brickel.

Britannia’s Remonstrance.
Never peaceful, ever doing,
Still the phantom, Fame, pursuing,
And askance the straight path viewing—
All for pow’r and place!
Future storms for me you’re brewing;
Cease, or veil my face!
41
Where is now the troth we plighted?
Both our hearts are disunited;
Freedom’s lamp one day we lighted,
Now ’tis quenched with tears.
Heroes murdered, great hopes blighted,
Roused are all our fears.
Once you earned my richest blessing,
Thrilled my soul with your caressing
Each a mutual love confessing,
Soon its sweets you’ll miss,
For your love’s not worth possessing
While War’s lips you kiss.
J. Arthur Elliott.

Staffy’s Remonstrance.
Never winning, ever wooing,
Still the sweets of place pursuing,
And the cause of my undoing,
Randolph—it is you!
All your life seems spent in brewing
Mischief ever new,
Rivals bullied and indicted,
Still our ranks are disunited;
When your glowworm lamp is lighted
Mine half-quenched appears;
I must wander on benighted
’Mid’st the groans and cheers.
Would you but bestow your blessing,
How I’d purr at your caressing!
But your pranks are so distressing
Soon you’ll make me trow
Place itself’s not worth possessing
If you plague me so!
Gossamer.

——:o:——

THE EXILE OF ERIN.

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill:
For his country he sigh’d, when at twilight repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
But the day-star attracted his eye’s sad devotion,
For it rose o’er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,
He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh!
“Sad is my fate”! said the heart-broken stranger,
“The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee;
But I have no refuge from famine and danger,
A home and a country remain not to me.
Never again, in the green sunny bowers,
Where my forefathers liv’d, shall I spend the sweet hours,
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh!”[22]
*  *  *  *  *
Thomas Campbell.

English Melodies.

“Unhappy little John, the once popular representative of Westminster, is, as every body knows, kicked out of the seat he has so long occupied, and has resigned the office in which he, for so short a period, was suffered to luxuriate. In the expressive words of the poet we may exclaim,

Joy, joy for ever! the task is done,
The city’s free and Evans has won.

It will be seen from the following splendid ebulition of true pathos, that little Hobby in all his misery for the loss of his office and his seat, has not yet forgotten his kind patron ‘Dear De Vear,’ to whom his heart still turns with a most appropriate gratitude.”

Air.Erin go bragh.
There came to the hustings an exile from office,
The damp at his heart it was heavy and chill,
For his sal’ry he sigh’d, when one night he threw off his
Patriotic disguise just assum’d for the bill.
But the poll booth attracted his ancient devotion,
As it stood, and he saw the electors in motion,
And thinks he “pon my soul I’ve a very strong notion,
They’ll return Colonel Evans! De Vear then go bragh.”
“Oh sad is my fate,” said the wretched ex-placeman,
“Some Tories or Whigs to a borough can flee,
But I have no chance, for so great’s my disgrace man,
A seat in St. Stephen’s remains not for me.
Ah, never again from John Bull’s breeches pocket,
Whence my dad draws a pension; (God grant they won’t dock it),
My pay shall I take in my coffers to lock it,
Unless re-elected, De Vear then go bragh.
Oh office my haven, though by me forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy lucrative store,
But alas, by the Colonel thrown out I awaken,
And sigh for the votes that support me no more.
And thou my Lord Grey, will you never replace me,
In a post where electors no longer can chase me;
Ah, never again shall old Glory embrace me,
Or will he too go out with his Hob to deplore.
Where now is the Westminster rump that supported
Sir Frank and myself? we must weep for its fall,
And where is the junta, that influence sported,
And where is De Vear too the dearest of all?
Alas what an ass I have been for declining
My seat! what a fool I have been for resigning
My office! but now there is no use in whining,
It cannot my seat or my office recal.
But yet all my bitter reflections repressing,
There is one dying wish my fond bosom shall draw,
De Vear, thy old protegé gives thee his blessing,
Thou ghost of the rump! my De Vear then go bragh.
Kicked out of my seat, when (oh bitterest potion)
I’ve no longer the means of proposing a motion
In the House, I’ll still out of it sing with devotion,
You’ve been a kind friend dear De Vear then go bragh.”
Figaro in London, May 18, 1833.

This Parody refers to the late Sir John Cam Hobhouse (Lord Broughton), who long represented Westminster in Parliament, he was succeeded by Sir De Lacy Evans, then Colonel De Lacy Evans. The “Sir Frank” alluded to in the fourth verse was Sir Francis Burdett, a very advanced Radical politician for those days. He was the father of Lady Burdett Coutts, whose husband has recently been elected member for Westminster in the Conservative interest.


42
The Exile of Erin;
Or, Mitchell in Norfolk Island.
There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,
The dew on his breeches was heavy and chill;
He thought of the days of his spouting and “beering,”
As he rattled his chains on the wind-beaten hill.
He looked towards the north with an air of devotion,
And thought of the very green isle of the ocean,
Which once he had put in such awful commotion
By bawling and roaring out Erin-go-bragh!
“Sad is my fate,” said the gray-coated stranger,
“My cousins, the apes to their caverns can flee,
But I in a chain-gang of convicts must range here;
Repose or tobacco exist not for me;
Ne’er again in the snug little bar
Where my ancestors dwelt, shall I smoke the cigar.
Or cheer on the rabble of Dublin to war
By bawling and roaring out Erin-go-Bragh!
The Puppet Show, May 27, 1848.

The Visit to Erin.
There came an ex-Premier from England to Erin,
If not to his tongue, to give rest to his quill.
From his country he came in the hope of repairing
Some errors whose memory clings to him still.
Can we doubt that e’en now, as he traversed the ocean,
His conscience recalled with a doubtful emotion
The day when, to show to the priests his devotion,
He danced to the music of Erin-go-bragh?
O fond is my breast, said the time-serving stranger,
O Erin! dear Erin! my heart yearns to thee.
The day still I rue when we parted in anger,
For a place and a party remain not in me.
Then grant me once more for a day or an hour
The pleasures of office, the semblance of power.
O cover my head with the shamrock’s green flower,
And I’ll dance to the measure of Erin-go-bragh.
O Erin! dear island! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit the Speaker’s right hand;
But, alas! with the dawn’s reappearing I waken,
Regretful I broke with the Irish brass band.
O fate, cruel fate! would’st thou only replace me
On the Treasury Bench, with few Tories to face me,
With Biggar, O’Donnell, Parnell to embrace me,
I’d seem like their leader, though they might command.
Where is my great University measure?
Prelates and priests, did ye weep o’er its fall?
O how can you dwell on its failure with pleasure,
Which gave to you Trinity College and all?
O my poor pen, long abandoned to railing!
O my sad tongue, is thy influence failing?
Pamphlets and speeches are both unavailing,
My power and my party they cannot recall.
O that, all sad recollections suppressing,
From the future one bright grain of hope I could draw,
I’d sing, over-coming, all memories distressing,
Home Rule for ever! sweet Erin-go-bragh!
Sea-sick and ill when I feel the ship’s motion,
Still joyously homeward I’ll traverse the ocean,
And murmur, in token of grateful devotion,
Home Rule for ever! and Erin-go-bragh!
From “They are Five,” by W. E. G., 1877.

In the thirtieth of the Poem Competitions in “The World,” two prizes were offered for poems on “Ireland’s Distress,” the model selected being Campbell’s “Exile of Erin.” The first prize was gained by Captain Walford (Kommitop); the second by Miss Chamberlayne (Hypophosphate.) The Poems were printed in “The World” March 3, 1880.

Ireland’s Distress.
I saw in a dream the sad angel of Erin;
Her green robe hung loosely, so withered her form;
For her country she sighed, as though almost despairing,
Of shelter and rest from the pitiless storm.
Though the day-star of Hope, rising fair o’er the ocean,
Shone bright on the mist of her eye’s sad devotion;
Yet scarcely her lips, in their trembling emotion,
Could whisper the anthem of Erin-go-bragh.
‘Sad is my fate!’ said the heart-broken stranger;
‘The wild deer and fox shall be monarchs alone;
For, racked by the tortures of famine and danger,
To new homes and new countries my children have flown,
Never again, when the hill-tops are hoary
And the winter winds wail, shall they list to the story,
Which their forefathers loved, of their countrymen’s glory,
Nor join in the chorus of Erin-go-bragh.
Britannia, my sister, though sad and forsaken,
In hope I yet linger about thy rough shore;
Alas, has my anguish no power to awaken
Some pity to love, and some aid to restore?
O happy land, only thou can’st replace me
In a haven of peace! If thine arms shall embrace me,
Never again shall my children disgrace me,
Nor die at a distance, but live in my heart.
Now is the cabin-door open and shattered,
Father and mother are weeping within;
Gone are their kindred, their friends are all scattered,
Their children with famine are wasted and thin.
Ah, my sad heart, as I look on this sorrow,
Hopeless to-day, and despairing to-morrow,
How can I dare any comfort to borrow
From dreams which the future may blast and destroy?
Yet all the thoughts of its anguish suppressing,
One only fond wish my sad heart can desire—
That my sons’ bitter curses may change to a blessing,
As faction shall languish and discord expire!
Now wild with distress is my isle of the ocean;
Then gladness shall swell my fond breast with emotion,
And my children shall sing with new love and devotion,
Erin mavourneen, Erin-go-bragh!’
Kommitop (Captain Walford).

Second Prize.

There crept o’er the loveliest isle of the ocean
The foretaste of famine, foreshadow of pain,
And winter and want, with each fiercer emotion.
Long-suffering patience had worn to the wane;
For the food of the famishing people was rotten,
And the hate that is often of hunger begotten
Embittered the hearts with sedition besotten,
And the singers of Erin were silent again.
43
O, where is the ardour of Shiel and O’Connell,
The heart-burning eloquence poured in the cause?
Would it stimulate Parnell, impassion O’Donnell,
If of hunger they felt for a moment the claws?
For small is the gain and the glory ensuing
From the tortuous path that their feet are pursuing,
And slow the advance unto Ireland accruing,
From forcing the coach-wheels of Albion to pause.
‘Sad is our fate,’ cries the famishing peasant;
‘The wild bird is left to its home on the tree,
And corn is full lavishly flung to the pheasant,
But no roof and no food for my children and me.
O, harder our fate than the horrors of fiction!
When thrust by the merciless laws of eviction
From the home that is held by the heart’s predilection,
We are forced o’er the bare breast of Erin to flee.
Erin, our country, as, weak and heart-broken,
We wander half-starved over mountain and shore,
And search for a remnant of hope, or a token
That life may be glad to our spirits once more;
Can we trust that the hearths, now forlorn and forsaken,
To welfare shall warm and to laughter awaken,
And the dust from the wings of thy glory be shaken
To the future reëcho of Erin-go-bragh!
Sweet solace it were to the heart of the dying,
That throbs his last pulse out on pitiless ground,
Could he know that the land upon which he was lying
Would smile into gladness, with plenty abound;
And the trials and straights of despair and starvation
Through which he was fighting should end in salvation
To happier sons of a new generation,
Who will sing the old anthem of Erin-go-bragh.’
Hypophosphate (Miss E. Chamberlayne.)

——:o:——

HOHENLINDEN.

An imitation of Hohenlinden, written by Mr. F. B. Doveton, was given on page 28. It was descriptive of the Tay Bridge disaster, which happened in December, 1879.

The subject was chosen for a prize competition in The World, the model selected being Campbell’s Hohenlinden, and the following poems appeared in that journal on January 21, 1880:—

The Tay Bridge Disaster.
On Balgay when the sun was low,
Pale gleamed the distant Grampian snow,
And dark and muddy was the flow
Through Strath-Tay ebbing rapidly.
But Balgay saw another sight,
When rose the wind at fall of night,
And distant gleams of splendour light
The darkness of her scenery.
Mid light and darkness fast arrayed
The Storm-King’s hosts commenced their raid,
And every furious blast essayed
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the bridge with storm-gusts riven,
Then rushed the cloud-wrack tempest-driven,
And nearer ’neath the vault of heaven,
Out flashed the train lights ruddily.
But brighter still that light shall gleam,
With one last flash o’er land and stream,
And then shall vanish like a dream
At daylight passing wearily.
The coming sun shall light no more
Yon bridge that spans from shore to shore,
And dark Dundee bereft shall cower
Beneath her smoky canopy.
The horror deepens. Who can save
Those rushing to a watery grave?
Wave dashes wildly over wave,
And leaps in dreadful rivalry.
None, none shall part where many meet;
The sand shall be their winding sheet;
No churchyard turf shall veil their feet
In their untimely sepulchre.
Chevy Chase (J. F. Baird.)

Second Prize.

On Tay the summer sun sinks low,
Soaring above the broad Firth’s flow;
A thread athwart yon ruddy glow,
The wondrous bridge winds airily.
But halcyon days have taken flight,
Wild howls the storm this winter’s night,
And ’gainst that daring fabric light
The tempest rages furiously.
Homeward they wend from town and glade,
Husband and wife, and youth and maid,
For that dread race of death arrayed,
An all-unconscious company.
Forth speeds the train to ruin driven—
Is there no help, O pitying Heaven?
No warning voice in mercy given
Of the impending destiny?
The signal beckons—on they go;
Now o’er the bridge the lamp-lights glow,
Where, in the shuddering depth below,
The foam-flecked Firth roars hungrily.
With straining eyes the watchers run,
Longing to mark the passage done.
In vain: the blast his prey has won,
And on it swoops relentlessly.
That fiery flash the signal gave;
Down crashing through the maddened wave,
Both bridge and freight have found a grave,
Whelmed in one dire catastrophe.
With questioning eyes the mourners meet,
Blanched lips the fearful tale repeat;
The wild wave rolling at their feet
Mocks at their helpless misery.
Courthope (L. Beck.)

——:o:——

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

Of Nelson and the North,
Sing the glorious day’s renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark’s crown.
44
And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
By each gun the lighted brand,
In a bold determined hand,
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on!
*  *  *  *  *
But the might of England flush’d
To anticipate the scene;
And her van the fleeter rush’d
O’er the deadly space between.
“Hearts of Oak,” our captains cried! when each gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.
Again! again! again!
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back;—
Their shots along the deep slowly boom:—
Then ceas’d—and all is wail,
As they strike the shatter’d sail;
Or, in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom.
*  *  *  *  *
Thomas Campbell.

The two following parodies of this poem occur in The University Snowdrop, an Edinburgh College Magazine. These and the interesting explanatory notes which accompany them have been kindly furnished by Mr. James Gordon, F.S.A., Scotland.

The winter of 1837-8 was very severe, and there was a heavy fall of snow in Edinburgh. On the 10th January some snowballing took place in front of the College, in which the students took part. The warfare between the students and the townspeople was renewed on the 11th, and became more serious. Several shop windows were broken, the shops were closed, and the street traffic suspended. The students, believing that the constables took the side of the mob against them, appeared on the 12th armed with sticks, to defend themselves against the constables batons. Then a regular riot took place, sticks and batons being freely used, and matters became so serious that the magistrates found it necessary to send to the Castle for a detachment of soldiers of the 79th Highlanders, which arrived and drew up across the College quadrangle, and peace was restored. Five students who had been most active in the fray were tried by the Sheriff and were acquitted. The trial lasted three days. Among the witnesses for the prosecution were the Lord Provost, some Bailies, and the heads of the police force. The students were defended by Patrick Robertson, in a most amusing speech. He was made a Lord of Session, and wrote some volumes of poetry, now unsaleable, if ever they did sell. Lockhart wrote an epitaph for him:—

“Here lies that peerless paper lord, Lord Peter,
Who broke the laws of ‘gods and men’ and metre.”

A report of the trial was published, which was followed by “The University Snowdrop, an appendix to the Great Trial, containing a selection of squibs, old and new, descriptive of the wars of the quadrangle and the consequences thereof. With magnificent embellishments.” Edinburgh, 1838.

The “embellishments” are pen and ink portraits of the principal parties concerned in the riot, drawn by Edward Forbes, then a student, who became a Professor. (His widow married Major Yelverton, from which event sprang the famous case of Longworth against Yelverton.)

Battle of the Balls.
Of Alma and the North,
Sing the glorious day’s renown,
When the students all stood forth
’Gainst the minions of the town.
And their snowballs on the Bridge fleetly flew
I can’t tell how or why,
But each Student took a shy,
And floored were passers by
Not a few!
Like ravens to the row,
Came Pond and his Police,
(For breaking heads, we know,
Is their way of keeping peace,)
It was two post meridiem by the bell:
Up the Bridges as they dashed,
The boldest looked abashed,
For they knew they would be hashed
Very well!
Out the youth of Alma poured
To anticipate the scene—
And the balls the faster showered
O’er the deadly space between:
“We’ll be licked!” bellowed Pond, “that’s the fact.”
So around his band he looks,
“Now go, B20, Snooks,
And summon Bailie Crooks
With the Act.”
The Act was read in vain—
And the havoc did not slack,
Till Crooks had fled again
To the Council chambers back,
And that there was a riot he would vouch:
Then came the soldiers all,
With their captains stout and tall,
And sixty rounds of ball
In their pouch.
Out spake the Major then,
And he trembled as he spoke—
“We are brothers—we are men—
By the Lord, my nose is broke!
Are your cartridges, my men, duly rammed;
Our patience you will tire
Peace is all we require,
Then yield, or we shall fire!”
“You be d——d!”
Then the Provost forth he came,
For he saw it was no go:
Said he “It is a shame
To treat the Students so,—
If you’ll promise, my young friends, to withdraw,
No longer at the gate
The Policemen shall await,
And the vengeance I’ll abate
Of the law.”
“That will do,” the Students cried,
And each band departed straight.
And one by one they hied
Through the lofty College gate.
But they knew not how severely they were watched;
45
For Pond and all his rout
Raised a horrid shout,
And as every man came out
He was cotched.
Brave hearts! who fought so well
Once so faithful and so true,
In your dungeon’s gloomy cell
Our eyes shall weep for you.
We’ll be bail for every one of you and bond!
And when you all are freed,
I think we are agreed
On one article of creed,
Down with Pond!!!

Stanzas on a Late Battle.
Of the combat in the North,
Sing the glorious days’ renown,
When the Charlies’ fierce came forth,
To defend the trembling town,
While the ragged crew without, hiss and groan.
Each student took his stand,
Till the College gates were mann’d,
And shillellahs in each hand,
Proudly shone.
Intent upon a row,
Rose their clamour wild and loud,
And in showers the snowballs flew,
At the ragamuffin crowd.
It was just two o’clock by the time;
When the medicals came out,
As each waved his cudgel stout,
Cried “To crack a Charlie’s snout
Is no crime.”
So down the stairs they dashed,
Spreading terror far and wide;
Right and left the crabsticks smash’d;
Yells were heard on every side.
“Hit ’em hard,” was the cry—when each man
With an adamantine whack,
Made their empty noddles crack,
Now, ye Charlies, pay them back!!
If ye can!!!
Again, again, again,
And the havoc did not slack,
Till to cut their sticks, they deign,
And within the gates fly back.
Stones and dirt along the streets, slowly boom;
And the Charlies’ bruised and pale,
With the mob behind their tail,
Our environs to assail,
Did presume.
With joy ye students shout,
At the tidings of your might,
How ye made the claret spout!
How the scoundrels mauled took flight!
Until midst their howling and uproar,
The Lobsters in were led,
And the Riot Act was read,
While the Provost popp’d his head
Through the door.
Brave hearts! turn out’s the word;
Though you’ve leathered the police,
Yet a baton’s not a sword,
So leave the field in peace.
And our bards shall sing the glory of the day,
How many a skull and hat,
To the tune of “Tit for Tat,”
Was bash’d and batter’d flat,
In the fray.
Kilspendie.

In the same volume (which is now very scarce) there are also Parodies of “Lochiel’s Warning,” entitled the “Student’s Warning,” one of a passage from Marmion, and another imitating The Lady of the Lake:—

“Hail to the chief who in triumph advances,” &c.

headed “Clan Charlie’s Pibroch,” and a parody of Hamlet’s Soliloquy, commencing, “To stand or not to stand, that is the question?” This is headed, “The Policeman’s Soliloquy.”

——:o:——

The Burning of the Play-house.

(Improved from Campbell.)

[Covent Garden Theatre was destroyed by fire on March 5, 1856, during a masked ball conducted by Anderson, the self-styled “Wizard of the North.”]

Of the “Wizard of the North
Sing the Tuesday’s night renown,
When he let the gas break forth
And burn the play-house down.
And illuminated London brightly shown,
While a masquerading band,
Almost too drunk to stand,
But all holding hand in hand,
Revelled on.
Detesting every note,
(They’d been playing there from nine),
The orchestra scarce kept
From kicking up a shine.
It was five of Wednesday morn, by the chime,
And as each fiddler saith,
Tobacco choked his breath,
And he played, fatigued to death,
Out of time.
Any decent folks had blushed
To assist at such a scene—
But, sudden, firemen rushed
Where before they should have been,
And “Fire! fire!” the Wizard cried, and the fun
Stopped upon pallid lips,
For the ceiling and the slips
Glowed like a mountain’s tips
In the sun.
The Main! the Main! the Main!
But beams came tumbling whack,
And a shower of fiery rain
Falls on the frightened pack,
And each hurries from the menaced doom,
And gents with terror pale
Pay no heed to woman’s wail,
And the flames at once prevail
And consume.
46
Down went Covent Garden then,
Vain was the engine’s wave,
Vainly the gallant men
Struggled the wealth to save—
The clock twice saved away indeed they bring,
But the Muse’s ancient seat
Is a ruin most complete;
Ashes, where song’s élite
Used to sing.
And London’s blame was chief
For the stupid heads of those
Who have doubtless come to grief
Through the Wizard’s vulgar shows.
A play-house is intended for a play;
If you let it for a night
To a Quack, you but invite
A fate that serves you right,
You may say.
Now joy old opera raise
For the tidings of the night,
Once more thy gas shall blaze,
Once more thy songs delight,
And though losing our fine house is a bore,
Let us think of those who weep
Their tools—by no means cheap—
A charred and melted heap
On its floor.
Shirley Brooks.

——:o:——

The Last Growler.

(After Thomas Campbell’s Last Man—also after the Official Report that there are one hundred and fifty seven fewer Four-wheeled Cabs in London now than last year.)

Four million souls without a Fly!
Shall we then realise
Our lack of common comforts, born
From lack of enterprise?
I saw a vision in my sleep
That caused me from my bed to leap,
And skip around the room;
I saw the Final Growler go
Unhonoured, hideous, mean and slow,
To its appointed doom!
The gas-lamps had a sickly glare,
And not a heart did bleed
As passed that bony hulk along.
Drawn by its bony steed;
The Hansom Cabmen winked and leered,
The very Crossing-Sweeper jeered,
The street-boys raised a yell:
And bliss o’er troubled spirits slid
To see that Four-wheeled Monster bid
To fares a long farewell!
Yet, martyr-like, the Driver sat;
He knew the end was near
Of over-charge and under-pay,
And did not shed a tear;
Saying—“Too long I have delayed;
My Cab is old, my Horse decayed,
’Tis mercy bids me bolt;
For fifty years of mortal breath,
We’ve jolted Passengers to death,
And shall no longer jolt.
“What though upon my seats have writhed
The Great, perhaps the Good.
Condemned in this proud Capital
To use my box of wood?
Yet now repentance, all too late,
Makes me confess that ne’er did Fate
A vehicle provide
More maddening in each palsied shake,
Or where long-suffering Fares might take,
A more atrocious ride?
“’Tis done! Oblivion’s curtain falls
Upon the myriad men
Who’ve blown me up, and knocked me down,
And ‘had me up’ again.
Those frowsy cushions bring not back
Nor stretch four souls upon the rack
By Nature made for twain!
Oh, let this cramped roof-tree go,
Also thy dirty straw below,
Thou Vehicle of Pain!
“Even I am weary now of playing
My customary pranks;
Rank idiocy it was to place
Such Cabs upon the ranks!
How came it, else, that London’s sons
To stable-owning Goths and Huns
For aid in vain did cry,
While every Gent, and every Cad,
In Aberdeen and Glasgow had
His reputable Fly?
“Go, Kings of Cabland, and reflect
On London’s awful waste
By not a single Four-wheeled Cab
From Kew to Greenwich graced!
Go, tell the world how you beheld
A Jehu, bowed with shame and eld,
Guiding his Growler mean,—
The general universe defy,
To match for sheer obliquity,
That ramshackle machine!
Punch, September, 1885.

——:o:——

The Massacre of Glenho.
Through deep Glenho the owlet flits,
That valley weird and lone;
The chieftain’s aged widow sits
Beside the bare hearth stone.
Beside the bare and blighted hearth
Whose fires, now quenched and black,
Had seen five gallant sons go forth,
And never one come back.
’Tis silent all! but hark—a cry
And ghastly clamours wake
The midnight glen. Then rose proudly
That ancient dame, and spake—
“What mingled sounds of woe and wail
Up Mortham’s valley spread?
What shrieks upon the gusty gale
Come pealing overhead?
“I hear the pibroch’s piercing swell,
The banshee’s scream I hear,
And hark! again that stifled yell—
The boderglas is near!!
47
“The Boderglas with bloody brow
And tresses dripping red—
I see him at the window now
He shakes his gory head!
“Then, daughter, to thy mother’s arms,
Thus, thus, in close embrace,
The messenger of death we’ll meet—
The slayer of our race.
“Then do not weep, my daughter!”—
“Oh mother, ’tis not that—
But Donald Roy the carrotty boy
Has killed our old tom cat.
From Puck on Pegasus, by H. Cholmondeley-Pennell.
Chatto and Windus, London,)

——:o:——

The Lawn Tennis Match.
The summer day proved all too short,
But light forbade the pleasant sport,
And silent lay the tennis court,
Where time had flown so rapidly.
But morning saw another sight,
When, after slumbers soft and light,
The girls, once more, rushed forth to fight
Upon the level greenery.
On either side the net they stand,
Each with her tennis bat in hand,
The fairest maidens in the land,
Opposed in bloodless rivalry!
Then “faults” no longer were forgiven,
Then o’er the net their balls were driven,
And like the deadly bolts of Heaven,
The “serves” in their velocity!
But faster yet the balls shall fly
Beneath the cloudless summer sky,
And still more frequent be the cry
Of “Deuce” that sounds so naughtily!
’Tis noon, but still resounds the blow,
Though scorching hours may come and go,
Those maidens, fleeter than the roe,
Are ever darting rapidly!
The combat deepens, Grace will win,
In Jersey, fitting like her skin,
Just give the ball a subtle spin,
And snatch from Maud the victory!
A few games more, and Grace has won!
“Ho! Claret Cup! we both are done!”
And from the fury of the sun
They scamper most bewitchingly!
F. B. Doveton.
From Society.

——:o:——

We are ruined by Cheap Chinese Labour.

In Punch for January 16, 1886, a Parody (in four verses) appeared apropos of an assertion that Chinamen were being largely employed on vessels of the Royal Navy, stationed in the China Seas. It commenced:—

Ye Mariners of England
Who watch our distant seas,
’Tis very odd that you should be
The half of you Chinese.
It scarcely fits our notions
To have you down below;
And though your keep, perhaps is cheap,
The news comes like a blow;
To think we’ve got a Mongol Jack
Gives one a dreadful blow.
*  *  *  *  *

THE PLEASURES OF HOPE.

At Summer eve, when Heav’n’s aërial bow
Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below,
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye,
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky?
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near?
’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,
And robes the mountain in its azure hue.
*  *  *  *  *
Thomas Campbell.

Campbell, undone and outdone.
When oftentimes the young aerial beau
Spans on bright arch the glittering wheels below,
Why to yon upland turns the ’cycling eye,
Whose misty outline mingles with the sky?
Why do those tracts of soberer tint appear
More meet than all the landscape shining near?
’Tis distance sends enchantment to his view,
And lures the mounted with its azure hue.
From Lyra Bicyclica, by Joseph G. Dalton.
(Hodges and Co., Boston, 1885.)

——:o:——

Amongst the various other imitations of Campbell’s style the following are noteworthy:—

In “Rival Rhymes in honour of Burns,” by Samuel Lover (London, 1859), is a long poem entitled “A Spirit Lay from Hades,” imitating “The Battle of the Baltic,” it commences thus:—

Of Scotia and the North
A loving son would sing,
And to laud surpassing worth
Would wake the silent string,
Untouch’d since it sank to the tomb;
But bardic fires still burn
In the ashes of the urn,
And glimmering back return
Through the gloom.
For Burns this spirit lay
Is wafted to the earth,
In honour of the day
That gave the poet birth.
*  *  *  *  *

“Rejected Odes,” edited by Humphrey Hedgehog, Esq., published by J. Johnston, London, 1813, a dreary little book, which was, no doubt, brought into existence in consequence of the success of “The Rejected Addresses,” contains poems which are supposed to bear some resemblance to those of Lord Byron, Walter Scott, Wordsworth, Southey, and others. Specimen the Ninth is devoted to the description of the sorrows of Ireland, written after the style of Campbell’s Exile of Erin.

In “The Maclise Portrait Gallery” (Chatto and Windus) there is an excellent portrait of Campbell, who, comfortably seated in an arm chair, is enjoying a long pipe and a glass of whisky toddy:—

“There’s Tom Campbell in person, the poet of Hope,
Brimful of good liquor, as gay as the Pope;
His shirt collar’s open, his wig is awry,
There’s his stock on the ground, there’s a cock in his eye.
Half gone his last tumbler—clean gone his last joke,
And his pipe, like his college, is ending in smoke.
What he’s saying who knows, but perhaps it may be
Something tender and soft of a bouncing ladye.”
W. Maginn.
48

Robert Burns,

Born January 25, 1759.   Died July 21, 1796.

Illustration: decorated line

T he date of the birth of Burns has been variously given as January 25 and January 29, the former date is probably correct judging from the lines:

“Our monarch’s hindmost year but ane.
Was five and twenty days begun,
’Twas then a blast o’ Janwar win’
Blew hansel in our Robin.”

It is now generally adopted, and the celebration of the Centenary of Burns’s birth was certainly held at the Crystal Palace, Sydenham, on January 25, 1859.

Of all the Poems written by Burns no one is so grand, or so generally popular as Bruce’s address to his troops, which Burns is said to have composed as he rode home through a heavy storm. He sent the following draft of it to his friend Mr. George Thomson, in September, 1793, suggesting that the poem might be set to the old Scotch air Hey Tuttie Taittie.

Bruce to his Troops.
On the Eve of the Battle of Bannockburn.
(As originally written by Burns.)
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie!
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour,
See the front o’ battle lower:
See approach proud Edward’s power—
Chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor-knave?
Wha can fill a cowards grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland’s king and law
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or Free-man fa’,
Let him follow me?
By oppression’s woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!
Let us DO or DIE!

Mr. Thompson, in acknowledging the Poem, remarked:—

“Your heroic ode is to me the noblest composition of the kind in the Scottish language. I happened to dine yesterday with a party of your friends to whom I read it. They were all charmed with it, entreated me to find out a suitable air for it, and reprobated the idea of giving it a tune so totally devoid of interest or grandeur as ‘Hey tuttie taittie.’

I have been running over the whole hundred airs, of which I lately sent you the list; and I think ‘Lewie Gordon’ is most happily adapted to your ode; at least with a very short variation of the fourth line, which I shall presently submit to you. There is in ‘Lewie Gordon’ more of the grand than the plaintive, particularly when it is sung with a degree of spirit which your words would oblige the singer to give it. I would have no scruple about substituting your ode in the room of ‘Lewie Gordon,’ which has neither the interest, the grandeur, nor the poetry that characterize your verses. Now the variation I have to suggest on the last line of each verse, the only line too short for the air, is as follows:—

Verse 1st, Or to glorious victorie.
2nd, Chains—chains and slaverie.
3rd, Let him, let him turn and flee.
4th, Let him bravely follow me.
5th, But they shall, they shall be free.
6th, Let us, let us do, or die!

If you connect each line with its own verse, I do not think you will find that either the sentiment or the expression loses any of its energy.”

Acting upon these suggestions Burns altered his Poem to suit the music, but in simplicity and grandeur the first version was far superior to the second.

Bannockburn.

Robert Bruce’s address to his Army.


Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled:
Scots, wham Bruce has often led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to glorious victory!
Now’s the day and now’s the hour;
See the front o’ battle lour
See approach proud Edward’s power—
Edward! chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward’s grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Traitor! coward! turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland’s king and law
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or Freeman fa’,
Caledonia! on wi’ me!
By oppression’s woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins.
But they shall be—shall be free!
49
Lay the proud usurper low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!
Forward: let us do or die!

Curiously enough one of the earliest Parodies of this Poem is a satirical effusion directed against a victim of foul wrong and oppression, Caroline of Brunswick, wife of George IV., and her sympathisers, Sir John Cam Hobhouse, Joseph Hume, Alderman Wood, and her advocate Henry Brougham (Broom), afterwards Lord Chancellor. Brandenburgh House, at Hammersmith, was the residence of Queen Caroline.

Gulls, who’ve heard what Hobhouse said!
Gulls whom Joseph Hume has led!
Who deem that Pater Moore has head
For Plans of Liberty!
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour,
See the face of Gifford lour,
See approach the lawyer’s power,
Bags and knavery.
Who’ll believe Italian spies?
When honest Times indignant cries,
That all they say are monstrous lies,
Foul conspiracy!
Who for England’s Queen so bright,
To purchase Plate subscribes his mite,
Or signs addresses, wrong or right,
To Brandenburgh with me!
By our Wood that shields the Queen,
By our Broom that sweeps all clean,
We will go through thick and thin,
But she shall be free!
Lay her proud accusers low,
Pure she’ll prove as “unsunned snow,”
Can we but persuade them so,
Let us on and see!

Britons who have often Bled.
Britons who have often bled
In the cause that Hampden led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory,
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour,
See the front of battle lour,
See approach your tyrant’s power,
Chains and slavery!
Who would be a traitor knave?
Who would fill a coward’s grave?
Who so base as be a slave?
Traitor, coward, turn and flee!
Who at Liberty’s sweet cry
Freedom’s sword would raise on high?
Freeman stand, or freeman die,
Hark! your chief cries “on with me!”
By oppression’s woes and pains,
By your sons in servile chains,
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay your proud oppressors low!
Tyrants fall in every blow!
For the cause of God below,
Is the cause of Liberty.
From The Republican, October 8, 1819.
R. Carlile, printer, 55, Fleet Street, London.

Glee.
Folks who’ve oft at Dolby’s fed!
Folks who’ve nibbled Batson’s bread!
Folks who’ve ta’en a Hummum’s bed!
Come not o’er the sea:
Victuals here are but so, so;
Hollands, too, run very low;
Scarce is coffee and cocoa;
Sojourn where you be.
Now’s the time and now’s the hour,
For little bread, there being no flour;
Liberty’s a glorious dower—
Though ragged, let’s be free!
We will walk the unlopp’d wood,
And taste what Nature grows for food—
Grumbling here does little good!
So hail, glad Liberty!
From The Fancy, a selection from the
Poetical remains of the late
Peter Corcoran, 1820.

The same volume also contains a poem entitled The Fields of Tothill: A Fragment. This is written in imitation of Lord Byron’s Don Juan.


In 1823 the John Bull newspaper contained a parody of “Scots wha hae,” entitled “Wilson’s Subscription,” but the subject is obsolete, and the parody inferior. It commenced:

Whigs! who have with Michael dined,
Whigs! who have with Bennet whined,
Hasten now to raise the wind,
For a Knight’s dismissed.

In the same year another skit at the Whig party appeared. The allusions it contains are to Lord Grey, who eventually passed the Reform Bill, Joseph Hume, the political economist and exposer of Parliamentary corruption; R. Carlile, the publisher of Tom Paine’s, and other advanced Radical works; Leigh Hunt, part proprietor of the Examiner, who had been imprisoned for calling the Prince Regent a “Fat Adonis of Fifty”; Henry Hunt, who had suffered a long imprisonment for attending a meeting at Manchester to agitate for the Reform of the House of Commons, in 1819; and Henry Brougham, afterwards Lord Chancellor, who was instrumental in eventually passing that measure.

Whigs whom Fox and Petty led,
Whigs who under Lord Grey fled,
Welcome, though three in a bed,
To the Treasury:
50
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour—
Starve the Tories out of power—
Cent. per cent. their wages lower,
They cannot choose but flee.
Who would be a grumbling knave,
Though but half a loaf he have?
Who prefer to toil and slave
Without pay or fee?
Who in spite of King and Laws,
Faction’s darling weapon draws,
Calls Hume’s and Bennet’s—Freedom’s cause,
Let him follow me!
Let Bennet boast his purity
In politics and pedigree,
Talk loud of his nihil-ity
By long service won.
Let Hume dissect each place and fee,
Each clerk, although a brother he,
And prove that Cocker’s Rule of Three
Means only Number One.
Whigs, with Carlile who condole,
Whigs, with Hunt now cheek by jowl,
Whigs, whom Tierney can’t control,
And swears at horribly!
Hume vows he has made a breach,
(Not a pair, as hirelings teach),
Out of little Bennet’s reach,
By Financery!
Let Wilson rear his fallen crest,
Let Log-Wood’s wisdom be confess’d,
Leave Creevey’s virtues—to be guess’d,
And Cam to form the line.
Let Brougham be taken off the shelf,
And make his fees from Michael’s pelf;
Michael’s a host, sirs, in himself,
So—let us in and dine!
By our long and hopeless pains,
By despair of office gains,
We will draw our dearest veins,
But we will get in.
Lay Lord Londonderry low,
Placemen fell at every blow;
Every placeman is our foe;
Let us—pray begin.

Parody.
Written when part of the Duty was taken
off Whiskey, in October
, 1823.
Scots wha hae the duties paid;
Scots wham whiskies aft made glad:
Welcome, for the duty’s fled,
And it shall be free!
Now’s the time and now’s the hour;
See the shades of evening lour;
See the streams of toddy pour—
Pledge it three-times-three!
Wha wad be a brandy slave?
Wha wad shilpit claret lave?
Wha of rum wad ever rave?
When the whisky’s free?
Wha for Scotia’s ancient drink,
Will fill a bicker to the brink!
Scotsmen wake or Scotsmen wink,
Aquavitæ aye for me!
By taxation’s woes and pains!
By the smuggler’s ill-got gains!
We shall raise our wildest strains,
For it shall be free!
Lay the big gin bottle low!
In the fire the port wine throw!
Let the tide of whiskey flow!
Like liberty, aye free!
Robert Gilfillan.

Roasted Sucking Pig.
Cooks who’d roast a sucking-pig,
Purchase one not over big;
Coarse ones are not worth a fig
So a young one buy.
See that he is scalded well
(That is done by those who sell),
Therefore on that point to dwell,
Were absurdity.
Sage and bread, mix just enough,
Salt and pepper quantum suff.,
And the Pig’s interior stuff,
With the whole combined.
To a fire that’s rather high,
Lay it till completely dry;
Then to every part apply
Cloth, with butter lined.
Dredge with flour o’er and o’er,
Till the Pig will hold no more;
Then do nothing else before
’Tis for serving fit—
Then scrape off the flour with care;
Then a butter’d cloth prepare;
Rub it well; then cut—not tear—
Off the head of it.
Then take out and mix the brains
With the gravy it contains;
While it on the spit remains,
Cut the Pig in two.
Chop the sage, and chop the bread
Fine as very finest shred;
O’er it melted butter spread—
Stinginess won’t do.
When it in the dish appears,
Garnish with the jaws and ears;
And when dinner-hour nears,
Ready let it be.
Who can offer such a dish
May dispense with fowl and fish;
And if he a guest should wish,
Let him send for me!

Bunn! Wha Hae.
Bunn! wha hae wi’ Wallace sped,
Bunn! for whom Bruce oft has led,
Bunn! whom Jenny Lind doth dread,
Strike for victory!
Now’s the day and now’s the hour,
Don’t to Lumley’s programme cower;
See proud Beale approach in power,
Back’d by Royalty.
51
Though the [23] contract’s void, they say,
Though your ballet go away,
Though Baderna cannot stay,
Don’t desponding get.
By fair Thillon’s eyes and curls,
By Carlotta Grisi’s trils,
“Bondmen” and “Bohemian” girls,
You may be happy yet.
The Man in the Moon, Vol. I,

A Novel Turn,
to an Auld Sang.
Jews—as every one has read—
Jews—as Charles Bruce lately said—
Know that you are born and bred
The World’s Aristocracie,
Now’s the day and now’s the hour,
See auld Inglis looking sour;
On you he abuse doth shower—
Inglis, Cant, and Mummerie!
Wha would be a Jew-boy, Jew?
Sell auld almanacks for new,
When he’s one of—Bruce says true—
The World’s Aristocracie!
Wha for Israel’s right, by law,
In the house to sit, will draw—
Member stand, or member fa’—
Son of Judah, on wi’ me!
By auld London’s streets and lanes,
By great Rothschild’s cunning brains,
We will spend our hard earn’d gains
But he shall be an M.P.
Lay our proud opponents low—
Agnews[24] fall in every foe—
Parliament’s in every blow—
Opposition’s all my eye!
The Puppet-Show, April 15, 1848.

Louis Napoleon’s Address to his Army.
Guards! who at Smolensko fled—
No—I beg your pardon—bled!
For my Uncle blood you’ve shed,
Do the same for me.
Now’s the day and now’s the hour,
Heads to split and streets to scour;
Strike for rank, promotion, power,
Swag, and eau de vie.
Who’s afraid a child to kill?
Who respects a shopman’s till?
Who would pay a tailor’s bill?
Let him turn and flee.
Who would burst a Goldsmith’s door,
Shoot a dun, or sack a store?
Let him arm, and go before—
That is, follow me!
See the mob, to madness riled
Up the barricades have piled;
In among them, man and child,
Unrelentingly.
Shoot the men! there’s scarcely one
In a dozen’s got a gun:
Stop them, if they try to run,
With Artillery.
Shoot the boys! each one may grow
Into—of the state—a foe
(Meaning by the state, you know,
My supremacy!)
Shoot the girls and women old!
Those may bear us traitors bold—
These may be inclined to scold,
Our severity.
Sweep the streets of all who may
Rashly venture in the way,
Warning for a future day
Satisfactory.
Then, when still’d is ev’ry voice,
We, the nation’s darling choice,
Calling on them to rejoice,
Tell them, France is Free.
William E. Aytoun.

A Briton’s Address
to his Brother Countrymen.
Britons! at your country’s call,
Freely live, or bravely fall;
Honour’d death awaits us all,
Death, or glorious victory.
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour!
See the front of battle lour:
See approach proud Gallia’s power—
Gallia! chains and slavery!
Who will be a traitor knave?
Who can fill a coward’s grave?
Who so base as be a slave?
Traitor! coward! turn and flee.
No—in this our sacred cause
For Britannia’s King and Laws,
Freedom’s sword each Freeman draws
’Gainst the insulting enemy.
Who would fear, or who would flee?
Fix’d is Britain’s destiny—
Death with Glory welcome be,
If not Life with Liberty.
Briton! by thy wife’s warm tear,
By thy spotless Daughter’s fear,
By thy menac’d Altars swear
That this Island shall be free.
Lay the base Invaders low,
Tyrants fall in every foe.
Freedom hangs on every blow,
Oh! to conquer or to die!
Printed for J. Hatchard, 190, Piccadilly,
Price Three-pence per dozen.
J. Hales, Old Boswell Court. No date.

Wing-Kee-Fum’s

Address to the Patriot’s Army.

A Parody, with the above title, was published in Diogenes (a London comic journal), in September, 52 1853. It was in reference to the Revolution in China against the Tartar dynasty, when the rebels made it incumbent upon their adherents to shave off their pigtails, hitherto the badge of the conquered race. As the parody has little merit or historical interest, the following extracts will suffice:—

Cut away! No coward fears
Shall restrain our warlike shears;
We shout defiance in the ears
Of all the Tartar race.
Now the day is nobly won,
Now the deed is nobly done;
We hurl our pigtails, every one,
In the Mantchoo’s face!
Victory! our country’s free!
The pigtail gone, no longer we
By any alien race shall be
Trampled on—kept down.
The day’s our own—we’ll wear our hair
Just as we please; and boldly swear
The Mantchoo’s pigtail now shall ne’er
Aspire to China’s crown.
*  *  *  *  *

Travellers, who’ve so oft been Bled.
Travellers, who’ve so oft been bled,
When you’re poorly lodged and fed,
At the Blue Boar, or King’s Head.
Or the Victory;
Ye who’ve paid a crown, or so,
For a pint of Cape, or sloe,
Join your powers to overthrow
Such cool knavery!
Down with every monstrous tax,
Chambermaids, and lights of wax!
Who will pay for these, I ax,
Shillings two or three?
With each breast the feeling chimes,
Well to punish such foul crimes;
To the castigating Times,
Biffin, write with me!
By the dinners, dear and bad,
By the items, never had,
Charged and paid for, yet too glad
To escape so free,—
Deal mine host a deadly blow:
Tell the boots that he may go
To the gentleman below!
Forward—what a spree!
Diogenes, October 15, 1853.

Song, by an “Old Shaver.”
Ye whose chins have often bled,
Who, no doubt, each morn have said,
“Why should blood of mine be shed
To please Society?”
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;
Though your close-shorn friends look sour,
Defiance bid to barberous power,
Soap and slavery!
Who’d be goose enough to shave
When he might the trouble save?
Who’d to custom be a slave,
Lest folks call him, Guy?
Who, from old-established raw,
Fresh blood each day are wont to draw
While scraping at your nether jaw,
Fling your razors by!
By the cuts upon my chin,
By the smarting of my skin,
By the rage it puts me in,
No more shave for me!
Let moustache and whisker grow,
O’er your breast the long beard flow;
Let the barefaced shavers know
What a beard should be!
Diogenes, February, 1854.

The Czar’s Address to his Army.
Serfs, wha hae wi’ Kut’soff bled!
Serfs, like beasts of burden led,
Though readier far to go to bed—
Come to glorious victory!
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;
Let Europe taste despotic power;
Make the base pretenders cower;
Down with Right and Liberty!
Who will be a traitor knave,
Shun the knout our fathers gave,
And freedom from the Saxon crave?
Patriot rebel, turn and flee!
Who would feast on tallow fat,
Strike a blow at Kalafat!
Cossacks, lick your lips at that;
Valiant Finsmen, on wi’ me!
By our nobles’ crafty gains,
By our vassals’ cherish’d chains,
We will give our dullest brains;
But we won’t, we won’t be free!
Lay the Gaul and Saxon low;
Crush a Turk at every blow;
Liberty’s our greatest foe!
Forward, or you’ll all be d——!
Diogenes, 1854.

The Liberal Party.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ECHO.

Sir,—If you think the enclosed worthy of appearing in the Echo I shall be glad.—Yours respectfully,

W. Lothian.

31, Ferntower-road, Highbury, Jan. 31.

Address to the Liberal Army.
A’ wha hae wi’ Russell sped,
A’ wham Gladstone’s often led;
Welcome to a Tory bed
Or to victory!
Now’s the day and now’s the hour;
See the front o’ battle lour,
See approach a would-be power—
Lord B. Disraeli!
53
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward’s grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Follow Disraeli.
Wha, for Parliament and Law,
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw;
Freemen stand, while Tories fa’,
Let him Liberal be!
By Oppression’s woes and pains!
We’ll not brook Imperial chains,
For the blood in Liberal veins
Boils at Disraeli!
Lay all such usurpers low!
Tories fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!
Down wi’ Disraeli!
The Echo, February 1, 1879.

Scots wha’ Are.
Scots! wha are on oatmeal fed,
Scots! wha sold your Royal Head
To his foeman to behead—
For a mere baubee,
Now’s the day and now’s the hour
To throw your noble landlord ower,
And bring your Willie into power,
Scotsmen, I am he!
Wha can be a traitor knave?
Wha his chance of power to save
Shame and infamy can brave?
Scotsmen, I am he!
Wha’s for Disestablishment?
Wha can’t tell whatever’s meant
By “Home Rule” and “Don’t pay rent,”
Let him follow me.
By the law of hypothec,
Hung like chains around your neck,
Scotsmen join with me to wreck
The Tory Ministry.
England to the wall may go,
Russia jubilant may crow
O’er her fall. Yet be it so,
I avenged shall be.
March, 1850.

From “They are Five,” by W. E. G. (A small collection of Conservative parodies published by David Bogue, London, 1880).


Scott Wha Ha’;”
Or Jumbo’s Address to his Keeper.
Scott wha ha’ your Jumbo fed,
Scott wham Jumbo aft hath led,
Soonest mended least that’s said
Of your shabby victory!
Wha dare ask how I behave?
Here I’m caged up like a slave;—
Guess if I’d got loose, a shave
They’d all had to turn and flee!
What’s the good of British law?
Chitty only finds a flaw!—
Though I bang my head half raw,
Their sole game is “On wi’ me!”
There,—I call the whole thing low:
E’en my trumpet I can’t blow;
Off! Here, let me gang below—
Steward! Let me do, or die!
Punch, 1882.

When the elephant Jumbo was sent from the Zoological Gardens, London, to the United States he was accompanied by his keeper, Scott, who was with him when he was killed by a locomotive engine.


Salisbury to the Conservatives.
Friends, by Whig retrenchment bled,
Friends, whom Beaconsfield has led,
Rally round your Tory head,
On to victory come!
Now’s the day and now’s the hour,
See the front of Gladstone lour,
See laid low the Caucus’ power,
Rads and Brummagem!
Who would come at Bradlaugh’s call,
Who would see Great Britain Small,
Who would be a Radical,
Let him turn and flee!
Who “For God and Queen” will cry
Eager he to do as I,
Loyal live and loyal die,
Let him follow me!
By the woes seditions bring,
We would rather have one King
Than five hundred in the ring
Brummagem would give.
Lay the platform-spouters low!
Liberty is ours we know!
Change may tyrants bring and woe!
Change we not and—live!
From A Pen’orth o’ Poetry for the Poor.
London, 1884.

A Call to Arms.
Men by wise example led,
From England’s greatest statesmen dead;
Men whose fathers fought and bled
For England’s liberty;
Now’s the day and now’s the hour,
See the front of battle lour,
Scatter wide the Tory power,
And let us still be free!
Who would be a Jingo knave?
Who would Tory banners wave?
Let him ever be a slave
To Tory tyranny.
Who would justice, right and law,
Free from Tories’ greedy maw,
To the poll in thousands draw,
And poll for liberty!
Ere oppression’s woes and pains
Load your sons with servile chains,
Poll your full elect’ral gains
To keep the people free;
54
Lay the Tory braggarts low,
A tyrant falls in every foe,
Strike! for every Liberal blow
Is dealt for liberty!
From Songs for Liberal Electors, 1885.

——:o:——

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.

John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent:
But now your brow it beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow.
John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a canty day, John,
We’ve had wi ane anither.
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we’ll go;
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.
Robert Burns.

The above is the version of this song as given in the Works of Burns, but John Anderson, my jo, existed as a song, under different forms, long before his time. In Percy’s Reliques of Ancient Poetry it is traced back to the time of the Reformation, when many ridiculous and obscene songs were composed to be sung to the tunes of favorite hymns in the Latin Service, to ridicule the Roman Catholic faith. The explanation is important, and should be borne in mind, as accounting for the fact that many of the absurd and nonsensical old Scotch Songs, which Burns either entirely re-wrote, or remodelled, were wedded to really grand original music.

The first, and only, verse fit to quote originally ran thus:

“John Anderson, my jo, cum in as ye gae bye,
And ye sail get a sheips heid, weel baken in a pye;
Weel baken in a pye, and the haggis in a pot:
John Anderson, my jo cum in, and ye’s get that,”

In the first volume of a collection entitled, Poetry Original and Selected, printed by Brash & Reid, of Glasgow, this song is given as follows:

John Anderson, my jo, Improved.
By Robert Burns.
John Anderson, my jo, John, I wonder what you mean,
To rise so soon in the morning, and sit up so late at e’en,
Ye’ll blear out all your e’en, John, and why should you do so
Gang sooner to your bed at e’en, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature first began
To try her canny hand, John, her master-work was man;
And you amang them a’, John, sae trig frae tap to toe,
She proved to be nae journey-work, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my first conceit,
And ye need na think it strange, John, tho’ I ca’ ye trim and neat.
Tho’ some folk say ye’re auld, John, I never think ye so,
But I think ye’re aye the same to me, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, we’ve seen our bairns’ bairns,
And yet, my dear John Anderson, I’m happy in your arms,
And sae are ye in mine, John—I’m sure ye’ll ne’er say no,
Tho’ the days are gane, that we have seen, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, what pleasure does it gie,
To see sae mony sprouts, John, spring up ’tween you and me,
And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go,
Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven, your bonnie brow was brent.
But now your head’s turned bald, John, your locks are like the snaw,
Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, frae year to year we’ve past,
And soon that year maun come, John, will bring us to our last;
But let nae that affright us, John, our hearts were ne’er our foe,
While in innocent delight we lived, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, we clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a canty day, John, we’ve had wi’ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in hand we’ll go.
And we’ll sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo.

The stanza with which this song begins, is the chorus of the old song under this title; and though perfectly suitable to that wicked but witty ballad, it has no accordance with the strain of delicate and tender sentiment of this improved song. With regard to the five additional stanzas, though they are in the spirit of the two stanzas that are unquestionably by Burns, every reader of discernment will see they are by an inferior hand; and the real author of them, ought neither to have given them, nor suffered them to be given, to the world, as the production of Burns.


Jane Barnaby.
Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane,
I’m wearing wan, and old
As herds at close of eve, Jane,
Are summon’d to the fold,
I soon to mine shall be, Jane,
My close of life is near,
And much I need our Shepherd’s care,
Jane Barnaby, my dear.
*  *  *  *  *
Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane,
Thy tenderness is sweet,
And grateful is this heart
That soon will cease to beat.
Thou wert its earliest love, Jane,
Thou art its solace here,
Thou’lt be its last remembrance.
Jane Barnaby, my dear.
*  *  *  *  *
Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane,
Life’s flood is ebbing fast,
A few more soft’ning sighs, Jane,
The shoals will all be past.
55
To bear my spirit hence, Jane,
Death’s bark is hov’ring near;
Adieu, adieu, a short adieu,
Jane Barnaby, my dear.
(Seven verses in all.)
From Attempts in Verse, by John Jones, an old servant.
(Edited by Robert Southey, Poet Laureate. 1831.)

By a Glasgow Bookmaker.
(Dedicated to G. Anderson, M.P.)
George Anderson my Geo., George, before you did invent
That Bill of yours, I made a book on every big event;
But now my book is blank, George, and now my purse is low,
So cusses on your Betting Bill, George Anderson, my Geo.
George Anderson, my Geo., George, my clerk and I together,
With lists in hand, would brave it out, in fine or rainy weather;
Now we must take them down, George (for lists we must not show).
And shout the prices out instead, George Anderson, my Geo.!
Punch.

Parody on John Anderson, my Jo.
My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg,
When we were first acquent,
A tighter hizzy never brush’d
The dew frae aff the bent.
But now ye’re turn’d as stiff’s a tree,
And your pow’s as white’s the snow,
There’s naething supple but your tongue
My bonnie Meg, my jo.
My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg,
I wonder what ye mean,
Ye’re flyting everlastingly—
Frae morning light till e’en.
Some folks say that ye’re failing Meg
But I scarce can think it so,
For ye flyte as weel as ere ye did,
My bonny Meg, my jo.
My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg,
When nature first began,
She gaed every wife a yard o’ tongue
To torture her gudeman.
She’s been kind to you aboon the lave,
An’ I can prove it so,
For she’s gien you half a yard to boot,
My bonny Meg, my jo.
My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a devilish dust we’ve had
Sin’ we met ane anither.
Now we maun totter down, Meg,
And cheek for chow we’ll go,
And we’ll girn at ither at the fit,
My bonnie Meg, my jo.
Anonymous.

Jean Anderson, My Jo.
(An Imitation.)
When nature first began, Jean,
To try her canny hand,
It’s true she first made man, Jean,
And gave him great command;
But naething wad content him, Jean,
Though king o’ a’ below,
Till heaven in pity sent him, Jean,
What maist he wish—a jo.
Tho’ some may say I’m auld, Jean.
And say the same o’ thee,
Ne’er fret to hear it tauld, Jean,
You still look young to me;
And weel I mind the day, Jean,
Your breast was white as snow,
An waist sae jimp one might it span,
Jean Anderson, my jo.
Our bonnie bairns’ bairns, Jean,
Wi’ rapture do I see,
Come todlin’ to the fireside,
Or sit upon my knee;
If there is pleasure here, Jean,
Or happiness below,
This surely maun be likest it,
Jean Anderson, my jo.
Tho’ age has siller’d o’er my pow,
Sin’ we were first acquent,
An’ changed my glossy raven locks,
It’s left us still content;
And eld ne’er comes alane, Jean
But oft brings many a wo.
But we’ve nae cause for sic complaints,
Jean Anderson, my jo.
In innocence we’ve spent our days,
An’ pleasant looks the past.
Nae anxious thoughts alarm us,
We’re cheerful to the last;
Till death knock at our door, Jean,
And warn us baith to go,
Contented we will live and love,
Jean Anderson, my jo.
It’s now a lang lang time, Jean,
Sin’ you and I begun,
To sprachel up life’s hill, Jean,
Our race is nearly run;
We baith hae done our best, Jean
Our sun is wearin low,
Sae let us quietly sink to rest,
Jean Anderson, my jo.
Anonymous.

John Bull and Joseph Chamberlain.

[“I should like to see this Government drink to the dregs the cup of humiliation which they have filled for themselves.”—Birmingham Speech, December 17, 1885.]

Joe Chamberlain, my Jo—John
Has still his word to say;
Although you rate him low, John
Was not born yesterday:
Though acres three seem fair to men,
And cows in fancy low,
Yet Bulls will answer now and then,
Jo Chamberlain, my Jo!
56
There’s Radical and Radical;
In that time-honoured throng
Men stout and bold have battled all
’Gainst many a grievous wrong:
Then think you never man on earth
That sturdy name might owe,
Till Birmingham brought you to birth,
Jo Chamberlain, my Jo?
So loud your trumpets clang and slang,
That doubts John often feels,
Bewildered by the “sturm und drang,”
Which are his head and heels:
For Liberal Captains staunch and true,
Is he bestead so sorely,
That he’s but Morley, Dilke, and you,
And—you, and Dilke, and Morley?
Is Forster but a poor pretence?
Is Goschen but a traitor?
Upon a Tory providence
Is Hartington a waiter?
Is Gladstone but the Tame Old Man
Whose strings you deign to pull?
You’ve much to do before you can
Prove all these facts to Bull.
Observe, good Joseph, if you’re wise,
The Winkles you condemn
Got pretty round majorities,
To show my trust in them:
Would you my loyal servant stay,
(I’m stedfast, if I’m slow),
A little modesty, I pray,
Jo Chamberlain, my Jo.
You’d have your foes “drain to the dregs”
The cup you say they fill?
If so, John Bull your pardon begs—
He pays the liquor-bill.
Ye Jacobins and Josephins,
’Tis time to think, you know,
Less of yourselves and Outs and Ins,
And more of me—come Jo!
Punch, January 2, 1886.

In Punch of October 3, 1885, there was another parody commencing “Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, Sir,” being an appeal by a moderate Liberal to Mr. J. Chamberlain not to endanger the unity of the party at the coming general election.

——:o:——

FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT.

Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a’ that!
The coward slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a’ that!
For a’ that and a’ that,
Our toils obscure, and a’ that!
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The man’s the gowd for a’ that,
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin’ grey, and a’ that:
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man’s a man for a’ that!
For a’ that, and a’ that.
Their tinsel show, and a’ that,
The honest man, though e’er sae poor;
Is king o’ men for a’ that!
You see yon birkie, ca’d a lord,
Wha struts, and stares, and a’ that.
Though hundreds worship at his word,
He’s but a coof for a’ that;
For a’ that, and a’ that,
His riband, star, and a’ that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a’ that.
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke and a’ that;
But an honest man’s aboon his might,
Guid faith, he manna fa’ that!
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their dignities, and a’ that,
The pith o’ sense, and pride o’ worth,
Are higher ranks than a’ that!
Then let us pray that come it may—
As come it will for a’ that—
That sense and worth o’er a’ the earth,
May bear the gree, and a’ that,
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Its comin’ yet, for a’ that,
That man to man, the warld o’er,
Shall brothers be for a’ that!
Robert Burns.

This Song was rendered into French, by Father Prout, and published in Bentley’s Miscellany:—

Quoi! Pauvre honnête, baisser la tête?
Quoi! rougir de la sorte?
Que l’âme basse s’éloigne et passe
Nous—soyons gueux! n’importe travail obscur—
N’importe!
Quand l’or est pur, n’importe!
Qu’il ne soit point marqué au coin
D’un noble rang—qu’importe?
Quoiqu’on dût faire bien maigre chère
Et vêtir pauvre vêtement;
Aux sots leur soie, leur vin, leur joie;
Ca fait il L’Homme? eh, nullement
Luxe et grandeur, qu’importe!
Train et splendeur, qu’importe!
Cœurs vils et creux, un noble gueux
Vaut toute la cohorte!
Voyez ce fat, un vain éclat
L’entoure, et on l’encense,
Mais après tout ce n’est qu’un fou,—
Un sot, quoiqu’il en pense;
Terre et maison,—qu’il pense—
Titre et blazon,—qu’il pense—
Or et ducats, Non! ne font pas
La vraie indépendence!
Un roi peut faire Duc, dignitaire,
Comte et marquis, journellement;
Mais ce qu’on nomme un Honnete Homme,
Le peut-il faire? eh, nullement!
Tristes faveurs! Réellement;
Pauvres honneurs! Réelement;
Le fier maintien des gens de bien
Leur manque essentiellement.
57
Or faisons vœu, qu’à tous, sous peu,
Arrive un jour de jugement;—
Amis, ce jour aura son tour,
J’en prends, j’en prends, l’engagement.
Espoir et encouragement,
Aux pauvres gens soulagement;
’Lors sur la terre vivrons en frères,
Et librement, et sagement!

For a’ that and a’ that
“A man’s a man,” says Robert Burns,
“For a’ that and a’ that,”
But though the song be clear and strong,
It lacks a note for a’ that.
The lout who’d shirk his daily work,
Yet claim his wage and a’ that,
Or beg when he can earn his bread,
Is not a man for a’ that.
If all who dine on homely fare
Were true and brave, and a’ that;
And none whose garb is “hodden grey”
Was fool and knave and a’ that;
The vice and crime that shame our time,
Would fade and fall and a’ that;
And ploughmen be as good as kings,
And churls as earls, for a’ that.
You see yon brawny, blustering sot,
Who swaggers, swears, and a’ that;
And thinks, because his strong right arm
Might fell an ox, and a’ that.
That he’s as noble, man for man,
As duke or lord and a’ that,
He’s but a brute, beyond dispute,
And not a man for a’ that.
A man may own a large estate,
Have palace, park, and a’ that;
And not for birth, but honest worth,
Be thrice a man for a’ that;
And Donald herding on the muir,
Who beats his wife and a’ that,
Be nothing but a rascal boor,
Nor half a man for a’ that.
It comes to this, dear Robert Burns,
The truth is old and a’ that,
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The man’s the gowd for a’ that.
And though you put the minted mark
On copper, brass, and a’ that,
The lie is gross, the cheat is plain,
And will not pass, for a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that
’Tis soul and heart, and a’ that,
That makes the king a gentleman,
And not his crown, and a’ that.
And man with man, if rich or poor,
The best is he, for a’ that,
Who stands erect in self-respect,
And acts the man for a’ that.
Anonymous.

Dear Freedom.
Tune.A Man’s a Man for a’ that.
Dear Freedom! sair they’ve lightlied thee,
An’ ca’ed thee thief an’ a’ that,
Thy faithfu’ friens hae borne for thee
Baith scorn an’ grief an’ a’ that.
An’ a’ that an’ a’ that,
Baith scorn an’ grief an’ a’ that,
Thy faithfu’ friens hae borne for thee
Baith scorn an’ grief an’ a’ that.
We dare na meet, we dare na speak,
We dare na sing nor a’ that:
Our dearest rights we dare na seek—
We’ll see them swing for a’ that, &c.
And then the de’il will be to pay,
Wi’ tyrants, priests, an’ a’ that,
Wi’ a’ their childish trumpery,
Their fasts an’ feasts, and a’ that, &c.
Whan peace an truth wi’ freedom dwell,
Fraternity an’ a’ that,
Nae mair we’ll need the fear o’ hell,
Eternity an’ a’ that, &c.
Their auld wives cants at length grown stale,
(The light will soon do a’ that)
Plain truth will e’en support hersel,
But priestcraft mauna fa’ that, &c.
Then cheerfully wi’ harmless mirth,
We’ll spend our days an’ a’ that,
And bless the hour that gae us birth,
An’ Freedom praise for a’ that, &c.
From The Wreath of Freedom,
or Patriots Song Book. Newcastle, 1820.

For a’ that and a’ that.
(Supposed to be sung by a chorus of Jews,
in the neighbourhood of Bevis Marks.
)
Success to honest usury,
And flying kites and a’ that;
Post obit bonds, and mortgages,
With notes of hand a’ that;
For a’ that and a’ that,
We’ll drive a trade in a’ that,
Receipts are but a penny stamp:
A bills’ a bill for a’ that.
When needy spendthrifts seek our dens,
With embryo lord and a’ that,
We tell them that we’re short of cash—
We’ll try a friend for a’ that,
For a’ that and a’ that,
We know the dodge for a’ that,
And only ask our cent. per cent.
For kindly doing a’ that.
Our friend a mixture p’rhaps may have,
Which we Madeira ca’ that;
And daubs which bear a heavy price,
They’re “vary sheep” for a’ that,
For a’ that and a’ that,
We’ll drive a trade in a’ that;
Receipts may be a penny stamp,
We’ll do our bills for a’ that.
Diogenes. August, 1853.

A Girl’s a Girl for a’ That.
Is there a lady in all the land
That boasts her rank and a’ that?
With scornful eye we pass her by,
And little care for a’ that;
For nature’s charm shall bear the palm—
A girl’s a girl for a’ that.
58
What though her neck with gems she deck,
With folly’s gear and a’ that,
And gaily ride in pomp and pride;
We can dispense with a’ that.
An honest heart acts no such part—
A girl’s a girl for a’ that.
The nobly born may proudly scorn
A lonely lass and a’ that;
A pretty face has far more grace
Than haughty looks and a’ that!
A bonny maid needs no such aid—
A girl’s a girl for a’ that.
Then let us trust that come it must,
And sure it will for a’ that,
When faith and love, all arts above,
Shall reign supreme and a’ that,
And every youth confess the truth—
A girl’s a girl for a’ that.
N. E. R., Fence Houses.
Once a Week, 1869.

A Cad’s a Cad for a’ That.
Is there a Jingo, proud and high,
“Who cocks his nose and a’ that?
The swaggering sumph, we pass him by—
We dare be just for a’ that!
For a’ that, and a’ that,
His sniggering scorn, and a’ that:
The sneer is but the club-room’s stamp,
The clay is Cad’s for a’ that!
What though on civic fare he dine,
Wear Court attire and a’ that;
Give churls their turtle, clowns their wine,
A Cad’s a Cad for a’ that:
For a’ that and a’ that,
Their patriot show and a’ that:
The selfish Snob, or rich or poor,
Is Cad at heart for a’ that!
Ye see yon trickster, late clubbed Lord,
Who dodges, dupes, and a’ that;
Though thousands shout at each smart word,
He’s charlatan for a’ that!
For a’ that and a’ that,
His riband, star, and a’ that;
The man of just considerate mind,
He smiles—or sighs—at a’ that!
A Cad may boast of power of fight,
Of patriot zeal, and a’ that;
But trust in right’s above his flight;
He has not pluck for a’ that!
For a’ that and a’ that,
Their blatant bounce and a’ that:
Fair play, stern justice, steadfast calm,
Show truer grit than all that!
Then let us pray that come it may—
As come it will for a’ that—
That Jingo rant and Cad-dom’s cant
May hush their row and a’ that!
For a’ that and a’ that,
It’s coming yet for a’ that,
When patriots true the wide world o’er
Shall brothers be for a’ that!
Punch, November 30, 1878.

Our Old Nobility.
Is there, for princely opulence,
That hangs his head, and a’ that?
We wish the coward better sense,
And dare be rich for a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,
We’re noble Peers and a’ that.
The commoner’s a common scamp;
A Lord’s a Lord for a’ that!
What though on plate we daily dine,
Wear coronets and a’ that?
Let knaves have beer instead of wine,
We stick to hock and a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,—
Their pewter pots and a’ that,—
For all our gold we never blush,
A Lord’s a Lord for a’ that!
Yon bragging pauper struts about,
And rants and raves and a’ that;
However loudly he may shout
He’s but an ass for a’ that!
For a’ that and a’ that—
His People’s Rights and a’ that;
In pride of birth and money’s worth
A Lord’s a Lord for a’ that!
Fun, January 22, 1879.

It is among the things not generally known that Sir Arthur Guinness is a poet. He is said to have replied to the Prime-Minister’s offer of a Peerage in the following strain:—

Your kind intention I must damp,
The game of rank’s not worth my candle;
It is, sir, but the Guinness’ stamp;
My honest pewter needs no handle.

A Song for Midlothian.
Is there, for double U. E. G.,
That curls his lip and a’ that?
The Tory loon, we’ll let him be,
And gae oor ways for a’ that!
For a’ that and a’ that,
Election-cries, and a’ that;
The rank may be the guinea’s stamp,
The man’s the man for a’ that.
Ye see yon Dalkeith, ca’d a lord,
Wha tries to speak, and a’ that;
Tho’ hundreds worship at his word,
He’s nae sae great for a’ that;
For a’ that, and a’ that,
His ancestry, and a’ that;
The man o’ dauntless eloquence,
He comes and wins for a’ that.
A candidate may be a knight,
A lord, an earl, and a’ that,
But the ballot’s far aboon his might—
Guid faith, he mauna fa’ that!
For a’ that, for a’that,
Their faggot-votes, and a’ that,
The pith o’ sense and pride o’ speech
Do bigger things than a’ that.
59
Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a’ that,
That Gladstone’s worth o’er a’ the earth
May bear the gree, and a’ that.
For a’ that and a’that,
It’s comin’ yet, for a’ that
When man to man the kingdom o’er,
Shall own his worth for a’ that.

This Parody appeared in Funny Folks, which contained another, on the same original, on March 14, 1885, which is not now of sufficient interest to be included.


A Political Song.
(By a Man of no Party.)
Is there for Whig and Tory men
Who fumes and frets and a’ that,
Who dips in gall his loveless pen,
With wrath of man and a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their factions, feuds, and a’ that;
In quiet nook we know to brook,
A fruitful life for a’ that.
What though we make no mighty din
With place and power and a’ that;
We wear, within a healthy skin,
An honest heart for a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
There’s outs and inns and a’ that;
Let Whig and Tory bark and bite,
The good cause wins for a’ that!
You see yon loon who taks his stand
On blood and pedigree here,
And thinks the Lord God made the land
For him and his degree here,
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their pridefu’ pranks and a’ that;
We turn the sod, and claim from God
Stout labours due for a’ that.
You see yon big-mouthed bawling boy,
Of bright millennium dreaming here,
From equal votes to ragged coats,
And brainless men and women here;
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their high-flown prate and a’ that;
Clear heads, firm will, and subtle skill,
Will rule the State for a’ that.
You see yon keen-eyed lank-faced lad,
Who pleads the workmen’s cause here,
And knows to surgeon all things bad,
With patent brand new laws here.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their Communistic brag here;
The sharpest eye, the game to spy,
Will make the biggest bag here.
You see yon lean and lanky lad,
Who flings his pulpit ban here,
Save the elect of his own sect,
On all the human clan here,
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Though priests may curse and ban here,
The God who sits in heaven shall laugh
At vain conceit of man here.
You see yon chiel who wags his tongue
And bobs his wig and a’ that.
Though he can prove that right is wrong,
He’s but a prig for a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their shifty arts and a’ that;
The pulse of right will beat with might,
In human hearts for a’ that.
Then let us pray, though for a day
Wild seas may overwhelm here,
That counsel mild may bear the sway,
And wisdom hold the helm here!
For a’ that and a’ that,
Their party spite and a’ that;
We’ll win the fight for truth and right,
In God’s own time for a’ that.
John Stuart Blackie,
Emeritus Prof. of Latin, Mar. Coll., Abdn., 1841-52.

From Alma Mater: Aberdeen University Magazine November 11, 1885.

——:o:——

JENNY’S A WAT, POOR BODY.

Coming through the rye, poor body,
Coming through the rye,
She draiglet a’ her petticoatie,
Coming through the rye,
Jenny’s a’ wat, poor body,
Jenny’s seldom dry;
She draiglet a’ her petticoatie,
Coming through the rye,
Gin a body meet a body
Coming through the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?
Gin a body meet a body
Coming through the glen,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need the world ken.
Robert Burns.

Tak Cauler Water I.
Gin a body meet a body,
When he’s passin’ by,
Need a body gar a body
Drink that isna dry?
Though ilka chap should tak his drap,
Tak ne’er a drap wad I,
’Mang friens or faes for a’ my days,
Tak cauler water I.
Gin a body meet a body,
Though to sell or buy,
Need a body gar a body
Drink that isna dry?
Though yon big sea were barley-bree
Tak ne’er a drap wad I;
Abroad, at hame, its a’ the same,
Tak cauler water I.
Gin a body meet a body
Whar folk wed or die,
Need a body gar a body
Drink that isna dry?
Amang the gay, amang the wae,
Tak ne’er a drap wad I;
The dram an’ pray’r are queer-like fare—
Tak cauler water I.
60
Gin a body meet a body.
His lass jist by the by,
Need a body gar a body
Drink that isna dry?
The lassie mine, I’d need nae wine,
Ne’er a drap wad I,
Though her sweet lip I’d aiblins sip,
Tak cauler water I.
Walneerg.

Meetin’ on the Sly.
Gin a nursey meet a bobby,
Meet him on the sly,
Gin a nursey leave a babby,
Need a babby cry?
Gin a bobby to a babby
Acts in way unkind,
Need the nursey stop that bobby—
Need that babby mind?
Gin a nursey smack a babby
With a strength extreme,
Gin a nursey pinch a babby,
Need that babby scream?
Gin a bobby shake a babby,
Need that babby yell?
Gin a nursey kiss that bobby,
Need that babby tell?
Judy, December 10, 1879.

——:o:——

DUNCAN GRAY.

Duncan Gray cam here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
On blythe Yule night when we were fu’,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Maggie coost her head fu’ high,
Look’d asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh:
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
*  *  *  *  *
Time and chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, &c.,
Slighted love is sair to bide,
Ha, ha, &c.,
Shall I like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie die?
She may go to—France for me!
Ha, ha, &c.
*  *  *  *  *
Robert Burns.

Sam Sumph.[25]
Sam Sumph cam’ here for Greek,
Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t!
Frae Dunnet Head he cam’ for Greek,
Wi’ sair thirst for the Greeking o’t;
Brains he had na unco much,
His schooling was a crazy crutch,
But like the crab he had a clutch,
Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t!
Latin Syntax vexed him sore,
When he tried the Greeking o’t,
For Cæsar stands at Homer’s door
When folks try the Greeking o’t.
Quod and ut he understood,
At “speech direct” they called him good,
But qui with the subjunctive mood
Was the crook in the lot at the Greeking o’t!
One thing truth commands to tell,
Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t!
English he could hardly spell,
But what’s that to the Greeking o’t?
English fits the vulgar clan,
The buying and the selling man,
But for the learned the only plan
Is a close grip at the Greeking o’t.
How he wandered through the verb,
It pains my tongue the speaking o’t,
He said it was a bitter herb,
When he tried the Greeking o’t.
Wi’ mony a wrench and mony a screw,
At last he warstled bravely through,
All except a tense or two,
When he tried the Greeking o’t!
How he fared with ἣ and ἄν
When he tried the Greeking o’t.
Δὴ and γε, and all their clan,
It’s weel worth the speaking o’t.
These feckless dots of words, quo’ he.
They are nae bigger than a flea,
We’ll skip them ow’r, and let them be,
They’ll nae be missed at the Greeking o’t!
A’ the story for to tell,
Were nae end to the speaking o’t,
But this thing in the end befell,
When he tried the Greeking o’t;
Though his heart was free frae vice
(Men are sometimes trapped like mice),
They plucked him ance, they plucked him twice,
When he tried the Greeking o’t!
Sair cast doun was learned Sam
At this end o’ the Greeking o’t;
He could dae nae mair wi’ cram,
At this stage o’ the Greeking o’t,
But he was teugh as ony Scot,
He was plucked, but yield would not,
Sooner would he hang and rot,
Than thus be balked at the Greeking o’t.
At the door he made a din,
Rap, rap, for the Greeking o’t!
Is the Greek Professor in?
Yes, yes, for the Greeking o’t!
Sam his plea wi’ tears would win,
He fleeched and grat his een quite blin’,
To pluck him twice was just a sin,
For a sma’ fault at the Greeking o’t!
Professor was a kindly man,
Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t!
61
Felt for a’ the student clan
That swat sair at the Greeking o’t,
“Though your nae just in the van,
My heart is wae your worth to ban
Ye hae done the best ye can,
So ye may past at the Greeking o’t!”
Sam Sumph is now M.A.,
Ha, ha, for the Greeking o’t!
He can preach and he can pray,
That’s the fruit of the Greeking o’t.
He can thunder loud and fell,
An awfu’ power in him doth dwell,
To ope and shut the gates of hell,
That’s the prize o’ the Greeking o’t.
Wait a year and ye will see,
Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t!
High upon the tap o’ the tree,
Sam perch’d by the Greeking o’t!
In the Kirk Assembly he
Sits as big as big can be,
Moderator Sam, D.D.,
That’s the crown o’ the Greeking o’t!
John Stuart Blackie.
From Alma Mater; Aberdeen University
Magazine, December 9, 1885.

——:o:——

The Whigs of Auld Lang Syne.
(The Premier and the New Peers.)
Should auld supporters be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld Whigs be remembered not
By Whigs of auld lang syne?
For auld lang syne my friends,
For auld lang syne;
We’ll gie ye baith a Peerage yet,
For auld lang syne.
We three hae tasted aft, at times,
The sweets of office fine;
And sighed for place for mony a day,
Sin’ auld lang syne.
For auld, &c.
We three hae paddled, in our turn,
The River down, to dine,
And whiles without the whitebait gane,
’Sin auld lang syne.
For auld, &c.
Noo, gie’s a lift, my trusty friends,
And here’s a lift o’ mine;
And we’ll tak’ a right guid Johnnie-waught
For auld lang syne.
For auld lang, &c.
And surely ye’ll be your staunch votes,
As sure ye’re friends o’ mine,
And we’ll tak’ a stoup o’Gladstone yet
For auld lang syne.
For auld, &c.
Punch, December 30, 1865.

Sir M. Hicks Beach singing:—
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
As I’ve forgotten mine?
Yes, certainly; for it is rot
To talk o’ auld lang syne!
For auld lang syne forsooth!
For auld lang syne!
I stabbed my auld frien’[26] in the back,
For auld lang syne!
He’d been a trusty frien’ to me,
Right gude to me and mine;
And as I drove the foul blow home,
I cried “For auld lang syne!
For auld lang syne, kind frien,’
For auld lang syne!
Take that!” and so I laid him flat,
“For auld lang syne!”
[He goes out.
Truth, Christmas Number, 1885.

——:o:——

GREEN GROW THE RASHES.

A Fragment.
Chorus.
Green grow the rashes, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e’er I spend,
Are spent amang the lasses, O!
There’s nought but care on every han’,
In every hour that passes, O!
What signifies the life o’ man,
An’ ’twere na for the lasses, O!
Green grow, &c.
*  *  *  *  *
Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears,
Her noblest work she classes, O!
Her ’prentice han’ she tried on man,
And then she made the lasses, O!
Green grow, &c.
Robert Burns.

Life in Malvern.
We’ve dinners, sprees, concerts and glees,
As yearly they come roun’ O!
We’ve social teas, and grand soirées,
For ever in the town, O!
The town, O! the town, O!
The lively, pleasant town, O!
There’s healthy strife and active life,
There’s spirit in the town, O!
Though whiles we dream and whiles we scheme
How we will yet sit down, O!
And end our days in rural braes;
We’ll never leave the town, O!
The town, O! the town, O!
The active, stirring town, O!
Old Zimmerman would change his plan
To live in Malvern town, O!
From Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch,
by Dr. J. B. Oddfish, London, 1865.

Hey for Social Science, O!
A Song for the Social Science Meeting,
at Glasgow, in
1860.
Air—Green grow the rashes, O!
A pleasant week I lately passed
In Glasgow town,—no city, O!
62
With men of state and merchants great,
And sages wise or witty, O!
Chorus:—Hey for social science, O!
Hey for social science, O!
When wisdom, wine, and wit combine,
They make a good alliance, O!
We meet to show that all below
To ruin fast is tending, O!
That laws and schools and prison rules
Are much in need of mending, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
But though, no doubt, t’was well made out
That things are old and wheezy, O!
O cursed spite! to set them right
Was not so very easy, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
Yet though the task may patience ask,
We’re here convened to try it, O!
To see if schools will root out fools,
Or crime be cured by diet, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
The blood-red sun had scarce begun
To shine out strong and hearty, O!
When up we rose and donned our clo’es
To join Bell’s breakfast-party, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
Delicious doles of meat and rolls
Disposed to mirth and laughter, O!
The inspiring tea brought out Macnee,
And others followed after, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
When hunger’s rage we thus assuage,
Succeeds the thirst for knowledge, O!
Then, horse and foot, we take the route,
And hurry to the college, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
Here in we press for some address
That lasts two hours or longer, O!
And if a word is seldom heard,
The applause is all the stronger, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
The section meetings next we try,
Some worse and others better, O!
But if the days are somewhat dry,
The nights will prove the wetter, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
That sense alone conspicious shone
I can’t declare in conscience, O!
But great’s the use to introduce
A safety-valve for nonsense, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
A few who well their tale could tell
Did ably fill the rostrums, O!
While many a goose his clack let loose,
And quacks proclaimed their nostrums, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
Just ere the welcome hour of six
We gladly cut our cable, O!
And in some port of refuge fix,
Hard by a well spread table, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
While all things good in drink and food
Our weary souls are cheering, O!
The ills of life, before so rife,
Seem quickly disappearing, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
Around us eyes and faces bright
Our softened hearts are winning, O!
Fair matrons in meridian light,
And morning stars beginning, O!
Hey for social science, O!
The best of social science, O!
Is when its power, in hall or bower,
To Beauty we affiance, O!
With ardour fired, by love inspired,
I rise and give “The Ladies,” O!
And they who shrink the toast to drink
May hang and go to Hades, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
We talk, we quaff, we sing and laugh,
Then part with tears and sighing, O!
And when at last the week is past
We’re dead with mirth—or dying, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
But I ordain that soon again,
These pleasant hours repeating, O!
We learn some more of social lore
At such an evening meeting, O!
Hey for social science, O!
For genuine social science, O!
A summons here to recompear
Would find a quick compliance, O!

This song was written by the late Charles Neaves, Advocate, who, on his elevation in 1854 to the Bench of the Supreme Court in Scotland, sat as Lord Neaves. He was an able judge, a genial, witty man, and a frequent contributor to Blackwood’s Magazine. Some of his best pieces were collected and published in a small volume, entitled “Songs and Verses, by an Old Contributor to Maga,” by W. Blackwood and Sons. Lord Neaves was over 77 years of age when he died in 1877.

——:o:——

HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER.

The following Parody was written after thanksgiving services had been used in the churches on account of the victory at Tel-el-Kebir.

Holy Willie’s Prayer.

(Supposed to be written by the Right Honourable W. E.
G—dst—e, assisted by his G—ce the A—b—p of York.)
O Thou, wha in the heav’ns dost dwell,
Wha, since it pleased best thysel’,
Sent Arabi, that chiel o’ hell,
A’ for thy glory,
To brew amaist as muckle ill
As ony Tory.
63
I bless and praise thy matchless might,
Whan thousands left our shores to fight,
Thou did’st uphaud Britannia’s right,
And, by thy grace,
We gied the Egyptian deils a fright
Ower a’ the place.
What was I or my ministry
That we should sae exalted be?
A glaikit mongrel company
O’ bleth’rin’ b——
Some three years syne—O L—— forgie
Our liein’ speeches.
When frae my post aewhile I fell,
I fum’d and sulk’d, and swore mysel’
Wad never mair wi’ office mell
In Church or State,
But wi’ the blust’ring outcasts dwell
Outlaw’d by fate.
Yet here I’m i’ the highest station,
To prove the power o’ thy salvation,
I’m noo the bulwark o’ the nation,
Strong as a rock,
Head maister o’ tergiversation
’Mang a’ the flock.
O L——, thou kens what zeal I bear,
When Liberals fyke, and Tories swear,
And speakin’ here, and scoffin’ there
Wi’ great and sma’,
O L—— confound them everywhere,
Ilk ane an a’.
But yet, O L——, confess I must,
I’m fash’d wi’ mad, ambitious lust,
Since me the doited fules still trust,
Thro’ thick an’ thin;
Sae I rave on, L——, I’m but dust,
Forgie my sin.
Besides, I further maun allow,
Wi’ Ireland, three times I trow,—
But L——, my hands are always fu’,
When I come near her,
Or else thou kens thy servant true
Wad safely steer her.
Maybe thou lets this Irish thorn—
Murder and outrage, night and morn—
Beset thy servant in their turn,
Cause he’s sae gifted;
Obstruction’s han’ maun e’en be borne
Until thou lift it.
L——, bless my followers in this place,
Puir goavan coofs—a haverel race
Led by the nose—but curse the face
And blast the name
O’ Northcote’s crew; bring them disgrace
An’ public shame.
L——, mind Rab Salisbury’s deserts,
He flouts and jeers, by fits and stairts,
Yet has sae mony takin’ airts
Wi’ grit an’ sma’,
I fear least he the people’s hairts
Should steal awa.’
And whan we chasten him therefore,
Thou kens how he breeds sic a splore,
As sets the country in a roar
O’ boist’rous laughin’;
Curse thou his ermine and his fur,
His sneers an’ chaffin’.
L——, hear my earnest supplication
Against that cause o’ my vexation,
The House o’ Lords—bane o’ the nation—
Curse on their heeds;
L——, visit them wi’ swift damnation
For their misdeeds.
O! L—— my G——, that glib-tongued Cowen,
Wi’ gall and bitterness o’erflowin’,
And a’ the ruck sae forward growin’
Still mair an’ mair;
Wha keep thy servants’ choler glowin’,
An’ fill wi’ fear.
L——, since I am sae plaguit by ’em,
Confound the loons wha’ do employ ’em,
And in the day o’ vengeance try ’em,
Heed not their prayer,
But for thy servant’s sake destroy ’em
For evermair.
But, L——, remember me and mine,
Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine,
For aye let me and H—b—t shine,
Excell’d by nane,
And a’ that glory shall be thine,
Amen, amen,
J. B. C., Northumberland,
The Newcastle Weekly Chronicle, July 5, 1884.

The Fisher’s Welcome.
We twa ha’ fished the Kale sae clear,
And streams o’ mossy Reed;
We’ve tried the Wansbeck and the Wear,
The Teviot and the Tweed;
An’ we will try them ance again,
When summer suns are fine;
An’ we’ll throw the flies thegither yet,
For the days o’ lang syne.
’Tis mony years sin’ first we sat
On Coquet’s bonny braes,
An’ mony a brither fisher’s gane,
An’ clad in his last claithes.
An’ we maun follow wi’ the lave,
Grim death he heucks us a’;
But we’ll hae anither fishing bout
Afore we’re ta’en awa’.
For we are hale and hearty baith,
Tho’ frosty are our pows,
We still can guide our fishing graith,
And climb the dykes and knowes;
We’ll mount our creels and grip our gads,
An’ throw a sweeping line,
An’ we’ll hae a splash amang the lads,
For the days o’ lang syne.
Tho’ Cheviot’s top be frosty still,
He’s green below the knee,
64
Sae don your plaid and tak’ your gad,
An’ gae awa’ wi’ me.
Come busk your flies, my auld Compeer,
We’re fidgen a’ fu’ fain,
We’ve fished the Coquet mony a year,
And we’ll fish her ance again.
An’ hameward when we toddle back,
An’ nicht begins to fa,
An’ ilka chiel maun hae his crack,
We’ll crack aboon them a’.
When jugs are toomed and coggens wet,
I’ll lay my loof in thine;
We’ve shown we’re gude at water yet,
An’ we’re little warse at wine.
We’ll crack how mony a creel we’ve filled,
How mony a line we’ve flung,
How many a ged and saumon killed,
In days when we were young.
We’ll gar the callants a’ look blue,
An’ sing anither tune;
They’re bleezing, aye, o’ what they’ll do,
We’ll tell them what we’ve dune.

This old Border ballad was written by Mr. Doubleday before 1855, and, whilst being professedly an imitation of Burns, has exquisite pathos and spirit of its own.

——:o:——

To Burns.
And wha is he that syngs sae weel,
And pens “Addresses to the Deil?”
Wha gies the sang syke bonny turns?
Daft Gowk! ye ken it’s sonsie Burns!
His gabby tales I looe to hear,
They please sae meikle, run sae clear;
That ilka time, good traith, I read,
I’se wiser baith i’ heart an’ head.
I wad advise, when runkled care
Begins to mak ye glow’r and stare,
That ye wad furst turn ow’r his leaf,
’T’will mak ye sune forget ye’r grief!
And should auld mokie sorrow freeten,
His blythesome tale ye’r hearts will leeten;
And sure I am, ye grief may banter,
By looking ow’r his “Tam O’ Shanter.”
And, while I breathe, whene’er I’se scant,
O’ cheerful friends—and fynde a want
Of something blythe to cure my glumps,
And free me frae the doleful dumps,
I’ll tak his beuk, and read awhile,
Until he mak me wear a smile;
And then, if I hae time to spare,
I’ll learn his “Bonny Banks of Ayr!”

From The Bards of Britain, contained in The Remains of Joseph Blachet, 1811, which work also contains imitations of Chatterton, Milton, Dryden, Pope, Young, Thompson, Shenstone, Collins, Gray, and Goldsmith.


TAM O’SHANTER.

In a recent number of Notes and Queries (December 19, 1885), there was a long article, by Mr. Shirley Hibberd, on the origin of Burns’s masterpiece. It contains so much interesting information that readers of Burns will, no doubt, be pleased to have the following extracts:—

“In the year 1790, when Burns wrote Tam o’Shanter, stories of witches were current in Scotland, and there was yet a large survival of popular belief in their power and the diabolical source thereof. The poem bears evidence of a reality that has hitherto failed of recognition.

The confession of certain Scotch witches at the assizes held at Paisley, February 15, 1678, must have been well known to Burns, for it was a theme of fireside conversation in his youth, and there were many living who remembered the whole of the circumstances. That confession establishes the reality of witchcraft. The confession is cited in Demonologia (Bumpus, 1827).

In a letter to Francis Grose, Burns gives three prose versions of the story. In one, a farmer who “had got courageously drunk in the smithy,” saw the “infernal junto” play their antics in Alloway Kirk, and managed to carry off the cauldron in which the hell-broth was prepared from the bodies of the unchristened children. In another, a farmer of Carrick witnessed the incantation, and, losing his self-command in admiring a buxom lass who danced with peculiar liveliness, shouted the dread words, “Weel luppen, Maggie, wi’ the short sark.” In this case the speed of the horse was insufficient for his complete escape, for at “the keystane o’ the brig” the witches despoiled the horse of its tail, and the stumpy steed became a witness of the truth of the farmer’s declaration. The third story is of no account in this connexion.

In Robert Chambers’s Life and Works of Burns, iii. 152, we are told that “the country people of Ayrshire unmythicise the narration, and point to a real Tam and Souter Johnny,” the first being Douglas Graham, farmer, of Shanter; the other, his neighbour, John Davidson, noted for telling the “queerest stories.”

That a drunken freak and the lies told to cover it explain the form of the poem is well enough. But we have in these “facts of the case” no explanation of the motive, no indication of the source of the inspiration, no key to the supernatural business. The moral is obvious for the dénoûment proves the impotency of witches, and mocks the prevalent belief in their powers. These considerations, however, do not remove witches and witchcraft from the category of historical facts.

An important commentary on the subject will be found in a volume entitled Interesting Roman Antiquities recently discovered in Fife, by Rev. Andrew Small (Edinburgh, 1823.) In this work it is stated that near the Castle Law, Abernethy, were twenty-two graves of witches, and near by is the hill on which they were burned. A Mr. Ross, laird of Invernethy in the reign of James VI., became, as justice of the peace, responsible for the apprehension of certain witches, and made the discovery that their names were entered in a book. He set his mind upon obtaining this written record, and, as one step thereto, he persuaded a women who was a member of the gang to permit him to accompany her to a meeting. The laird went to the meeting on a fast mare, and kept his seat while the orgies proceeded, and obtained possession of the book wherein to inscribe his name with his own blood. But 65 instead of complying with the rule he put spurs to his steed and fled with the book, “while out the hellish legion sallied.”

The witches swarmed upon him, but the laird kept his seat, and the mare kept her tail, and he outran them and got home, and quickly locked himself in and copied the names from the book. By this time the clamouring crowd had reached the house, and he dispersed them by throwing out the book, which they gladly seized and carried away.

In introducing the story Mr. Small says: “If ever the poet Burns had been in this part of the country, I would have said he had taken the leading ideas or hints from it in his humorous and excellent poem.”


The Political Tam O’Shanter.
Adapted, Fragmentarily, from Burns.
Application—obvious.
No man can tether time or tide,
And he who holds the reins must ride;
And such a night Weg takes the road in
As seldom rider was abroad in.
With Boreas at his fullest blast,
And Eurus whistling fierce and fast,
There was a shindy never fellowed.
Loud, deep, and long they raved and bellowed,
That night o’ nights a Scot might say
The Deil (of Hatfield) was to pay.
Well mounted on his mare was Weg,
(A stouter never lifted leg,)
Through Irish-bog-like mud and mire,
Wartonian wind, and Woodcock fire,
Fought iron frame and shrewd head on it.
Weg, holding fast his good Scots bonnet,
Looked sharp around with prudent care,
Lest bogies take him unaware,
Or watchful foemen “wipe his eye”
With that confounded thing, a “cry,”
By this time he was cross the ford
(Where he was very nearly floored),
And passed the bog so dark and dank
Where Snobdom’s “Charlie” sprawled and sank,
And through the sand-pit, Egypt-dark,
Where war-dogs seemed to lurk and bark;
And the thorn-thicket, wild and wide,
Where one had need be Argus-eyed.
Before him doom appears at flood,
Redoubling storm roars through the wood;
Tongued lightnings flash from pole to pole,
And vocal thunders fiercely roll.
*  *  *  *  *
But there was pluck in Weg’s shrewd noddle,
He cared no more for threats than twaddle,
His mare, though, was a bit astonished,
Until, by hand and heel admonished,
She ventured forward on the light,
And eh! Weg saw a wondrous sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance,
Egyptian whirls, and jigs from France;
Drum-thumpings loud, and fife-like squeals,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
High on a seat, with flaming eyes,
There sat old Nick in human guise;
Mastiff-like, stern, black, grim and large;
To set the measures was his charge.
He pitched the pipes and made them skirl,
Till the wild troop seemed all a-whirl.
Coffins stood round like open presses,
And showed dead Bills in foolscap dresses,
And by some dark, prophetic sleight
Each held a boding spectral light,
By which our wary Weg was able
To spy, spread out upon a table,
Late-murdered measures; cord or knife
Had robbed the innocents of life.
A proud Peer’s garter one had strangled,
And many more were maimed and mangled;
In short the scene was simply awful,
And Weg considered quite unlawful.
*  *  *  *  *
But Weg knew what was what right well,
And one young witch there bore the bell.
One late enlisted in the rout
(At Woodstock known and thereabout)
At many a measure she had shot,
And many a plan had sent to pot;
Made many a plucky wight feel queer,
And shook e’en her own side with fear.
Her “cutty sark” of true-blue yarn,
Which, up to now, the witch had worn,
In cut and fit was scant and strange,
Some thought she hankered for a change,
And that ’twas sad her youth’s bright riches
Should e’er have graced a dance of witches.
But here my muse must faster flutter,
’Tis scarce within her power to utter
How Rannie leapt, and twirled, and flung
(A supple jade she was and young),
And how Weg stood like one bewitched,
How his eyes gleamed, how his mouth twitched.
Even Satan glowered as though in pain,
And puffed and blew with might and main,
Till with one caper and another,
No longer Weg his words could smother,
But roars out “Well danced, Cutty Sark!”
When in a moment all was dark;
And scarce his mare and he had rallied
When out the yelling legion sallied.
As bees buzz round a sugar-tub,
Or workmen round an opening “pub,”
As M.P.’s rush to chase the grouse
When Prorogation clears the House,
So the mare runs, the witches follow,
With many an eldritch shriek and hollow.
Ah, Weg! ah, Weg! they’re nearing, nearing,
Like hounds on trail of a red herring.
Midlothian, Weg, awaits thy coming;
They’ll think you’re lost, dear Weg, or humming,
Now, ride thy very hardest, Weg!
If the bridge key-stane fees her leg,
Thy mare at them her tail may toss,—
That running stream they cannot cross.
But ere the key-stone she could make,
The deuce a tail had she to shake,
For Nickie, far before the rest,
Hard on that nag so nimble prest,
And flew at Weg with hope to settle;
But little knew he that mare’s mettle.
One spring brought Weg off safe and hale,
But left behind her own grey tail;
For with Nick’s pull and the mare’s jump,
Weg’s nag was left with ne’er a stump!
Punch, August 16, 1884.

66
Here’s a Health.
Here’s a health to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health to them that’s awa,
And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause,
May never guid luck be their fa’!
It’s guid to be merry and wise,
It’s guid to be honest and true,
It’s guid to support Caledonia’s cause,
And bide by the bonnets of blue.
Here’s a health to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health to Charlie, the chief o’ the clan,
Although that his band be sae sma.’
Hurrah for the bonnets of blue
Hurrah for the bonnets of blue
It is guid to support Caledonia’s cause,
And bide by the bonnets of blue.
Here’s freedom to him that would read,
Here’s freedom to him that would write,
There’s nane ever feared that the truth should be heard,
But they who the truth would indite.
Hurrah for the bonnets of blue,
Hurrah for the bonnets of blue,
It’s guid to be wise, to be honest and true,
And bide by the bonnets of blue.

The above is a modern Jacobite song, author unknown. The original song from which it was taken is old, and was altered by Allan Ramsay and Burns, and several verses added. This version of it was very popular, and the following is a parody of it.


“The Brobdignag Bonnets” of Blue.A Parody.

(Dedicated most respectfully to the Play-going Ladies of the Pit.)

“If the following playful little parody should obtain a smile or two from some of the lady readers of the Mirror, the writer will feel amply rewarded. It will in some degree make up for the smiles of which he has been often deprived at the theatre, by having just before him three or four bonnets, three feet by two, or somewhere thereabout. He speaks feelingly, even if he has not written so.”

Here’s health to the ladies at home
Here’s health to the ladies awa’,
And wha winna pledge it wi’ a’ their soul,
May they ne’er be smiled on at a’.
It’s guid to be pretty and fair,
It’s guid to be smilin’ like you;
It’s guid to be stealin’ the gentlemen’s hearts,—
But na by broad bonnets of blue.
Awa’ wi’ those bonnets of blue,
Those Brobdignag bonnets of blue!
It’s guid to be stealin’ the gentlemen’s hearts,—
But nae by sic bonnets of blue.
Here’s health to the bright eyes at hame,
Here’s health to the bright eyes awa’,
Here’s health to the beauties of every clime,—
But na to their bonnets at a’.
I’ve a bracelet for her wha is wed,
For the maiden a sweet billet-doux:
Dear darlings, I’d give them whate’er they might ask,—
Except a broad bonnet of blue.
Then hence wi’ those bonnets of blue,
Those Brobdignag bonnets of blue!
Oh bright eyes beam brighter from bonnets when sma’,
Than hid by broad bonnets of blue.
The Mirror, Vol. II., March 1828.

See Dr. Charles Mackay’s “Jacobite Songs and Ballads of Scotland,” London and Glasgow, 1861.

——:o:——

We twa hae dune a little Bill.
Air—“Auld Lang Syne.
Should auld acceptance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acceptance be forgot,
All drawn, endorsed, and signed?
Endorsed, drawn, and signed, my friend,
Endorsed, drawn, and signed:
And noo ’tis time to tak’ it up,
The siller we must find!
We twa hae dune a little bill,
To raise the bonnie wind,
And, tak’ the matter hoo we will,
That document will bind.
Endorsed, &c.
And Shadrach will nae time alloo,
And therefore a’m inclined
To think that we had better do
Anither o’ the kind.
Endorsed, &c.
And surely ye’ll be your bit stamp,
And I’ll nae be behind,
And we’ll do a richt gude billie-wacht
The needfu’ cash to find.
Endorsed, drawn, and signed, my friend,
Endorsed, drawn, and signed,
We’ll do anither billie yet,
Just the wherewitha’ to find!
Punch, 1848.

There was a paraphrase of “Auld Lane Syne” in the second volume of “The Comic Offering,” for 1832, and a long, but very dull, parody of “Willie brewed a peck o’ Maut” in Punch of November 29, 1884, apropos of Bismarck and the Congo question. Funny Folks, for June 14, 1879, had a few lines on a young man who kissed a girl on Peckham Rye, and was fined for so doing. They ran thus:—

If a body meet a body
Coming through the Rye,
Can a body kiss a body?
Yes—if no one’s nigh.
Every bobby has his hobby,
And some like to spy
In a way distinctly “snobby,”
At young lovers spry.

In the same journal there was a poem (singularly 67 appropriate at present), referring to the importation of American meat, which the butchers retailed as Scotch, in the same way that they now openly sell Australian, or New Zealand frozen mutton as English, and realise enormous and unfair profits by so doing.

“Scots!” although in New York bred;
“Scots,” whom Yankees well have fed,
Welcome either live or dead
Safely o’er the sea.
Now we’re in the butcher’s power,
Who, complaining every hour,
Grudge to see us meat devour—
Cheap and savo-ree.
Every one has need to save,
Times are bad and prospects grave:
Why should butchers play the knave,
Or such tyrants be?
Wha sells “Scot” fat, firm and braw,
At a price that’s fair to a’,
Butcher stand, or butcher fa’,
He’s the man for me!
Funny Folks, February 10, 1877.

There was also a political Parody of “For a’ That” in Funny Folks of March 14, 1885.

——:o:——

For a’ that an a’ that.

The following imitation of Burns’s song was written by Sir Walter Scott, in praise of the “Holy Alliance,” and was sung at the first meeting of the Pitt Club of Scotland; and published in the Scots Magazine for July, 1814.

A New Song to an Old Tune.
1814.
Though right be aft put down by strength,
As mony a day we saw that,
The true and leilfu’ cause at length
Shall bear the grie for a’ that.
For a’ that, an a’ that,
Guns, guillotines, and a’ that,
The Fleur-de-lis, that lost her right,
Is Queen again for a’ that!
We’ll twine her in a friendly knot
With England’s Rose and a’ that;
The Shamrock shall not be forgot,
For Wellington made braw that.
The Thistle, though her leaf be rude,
Yet faith we’ll no misca’ that,
She shelter’d in her solitude
The Fleur-de-lis, for a’ that,
The Austrian Vine, the Prussian Pine
(For Blucher’s sake, hurra that),
The Spanish Olive, too, shall join,
And bloom in peace for a’ that.
Stout Russia’s Hemp, so surely twined
Around our wreath we’ll draw that,
And he that would the cord unbind,
Shall have it for his gra-vat!
Or, if to choke sae puir a sot,
Your pity scorn to thaw that
The Devil’s elbow be his lot,
Where he may sit and claw that.
In spite of slight, in spite of might,
In spite of brags and a’ that,
The lads that battled for the right
Have won the day, and a’ that!
There’s ae bit spot I had forgot,
America they ca’ that!
A coward plot her rats had got
Their father’s flag to gnaw that:
Now see it fly top-gallant high,
Atlantic winds shall blaw that,
And Yankee loon, beware your croun,
There’s kames in hand to claw that!
For on the land or on the sea,
Where’er the breezes blaw that,
The British Flag shall bear the grie,
And win the day for a’ that.
Walter Scott.

To Women of the Period.
Is it because she cannot rule,
That curls her lip and a’ that?
Such froward dame is but a fool,
And shames her sex for a’ that!
For a’ that and a’ that,
Poor worldly fame and a’ that,
She strives but for a gilded badge,
Herself’s the gold for a’ that.
What though we will not let her vote,
“Electioneer” and a’ that;
’Tis best that man should wear the coat,
The “breeches,” vest, and a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,
She’s but a “rib” for a’ that!
Man’s work requires a man complete,
Not “half” a man for a’ that.
She does not need Newmarket tribe,
The walking-stick and a’ that;
They but expose to jest and gibe
The cause they plead and a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,
Their wrongs and rights and a’ that,
The woman who respects herself,
Just looks and laughs at a’ that.
“Master Henpeck,” give a lady place,
At vestry boards and a’ that;
But she with bonnie modest face,
Will stay at home for a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that.
“Equality” and a’ that,
She was not made to rush and race,
And elbow man for a’ that.
The hearth and home are woman’s sphere,
Her proper place and a’ that;
Where she may bear and nurse and rear,
The “Babes of Grace” and a’ that.
68
For a’ that and a’ that,
She shows most sense and a’ that.
Who wins and wears the rank and name,
Of mother, wife, and a’ that.
Anonymous.

——:o:——

The Ballad of Sir T. Tea-leaf.
(Being a humble Parallel to
the Ballad of Sir John Barleycorn.
)
It was three gallant Chinamen,
With long tail and pig eye,
And they have sworn a solemn oath,
Sir T. Tea-leaf must die.
And they have ta’en and flung him down
Upon an iron bed,
And underneath, with cruel hand,
Have heaped the ashes red.
They’ve spread him out, and pressed him down,
And turned him o’er and o’er,
They’ve dried him up, until he curled,
And writhed in suffering sore.
In vain he twisted and he turned,
In vain he cried for grace;
They kept him so, and scorched him till
He grew black in the face.
But finding he was still alive,
Their malice waxed more keen;
They dosed him first with Prussian blue
Till his poor face turned green.
What sparks of life might still remain
Determined to foredo,
They gave him next a bitter draught
Of gum and catechu.
And on his death his name they changed,
Lest men their crime should know,
And when men asked, “Who’s that lies there?”
They answered, “Young Pekoe.”
Whereas his name and family,
It really was Souchong,
Related to the old Congous,
A race both rough and strong.
Lest men should recognise his dust,
To dust when passed away,
His calcined bones they kneaded up
With lumps of China clay.
Their poison’d victim then they wrapp’d
In lead, with well-feign’d grief,
And wrote the epitaph outside,
“Here lies Sir T. Tea-leaf.”
And though their grief was all a sham,
The epitaph was true,
For “here” it said, “a Tea-leaf lies.”
And “lie” such Tea-leaves do.
Now Tea-leaf’s name is in repute
In lands beyond the sea,
Where maiden ladies love him much,
Under the name Green-tea.
Ah! little dream these ancient maids
Of Chinaman’s vile craft,
Nor think, while chatting o’er their cups,
There’s poison in the draught.
And little know they of the fate
Poor Tea-leaf had to dree,
Or in their teapots they would weep
Tears bitter as their tea;
Till with the water of their woe
E’en the first brew was spiled,
And the presiding maid would be
Obliged to draw it mild!
Then to poor Tea-leaf drop a tear,
By poison doomed to fall;
And when there’s green-tea in the pot,
May I not drink—that’s all.
Punch, November 29, 1851.

——:o:——

MY HEARTS IN THE HIGHLANDS.

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe—
My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go.
*  *  *  *  *

Song for a Scotch Duke.
(Equally applicable to a Yankee Dog in the Manger.)
My harts in the Highlands shall have their hills clear,
My harts in the Highlands no serf shall come near—
I’ll chase out the Gael to make room for the roe,
My harts in the Highlands were ever his foe.
Punch, November 8, 1856.

——:o:——

O, Whistle, and I will come to you.

[A youth was prosecuted at Newcastle Petty Sessions, County Limerick, in 1881, for having whistled at Mr. Hugh Murray Gunn, J.P., in a tone of derision.]

O whistle, and I will arrest you, my lad,
O whistle, and I will arrest you, my lad;
Though your father and mother and all should go mad,
O, whistle, and I will arrest you, my lad,
But warily act, when you’re passing by me,
And do not indulge in irreverent glee;
Derisive deportment let nobody see,
And pass as you were not a passing by me.
O whistle, &c.
But mind you are always respectful to me,
Since rudeness with magistrates doesn’t agree;
But far from the converse of naughty boys flee,
For fear they should set you a-laughing at me.
O whistle, &c.

69
John Barley-Corn, My Foe.
John Barley-Corn, my foe, John,
The song I have to sing
Is not in praise of you, John,
E’en though you are a king.
Your subjects they are legion, John,
I find where’er I go;
They wear your yoke upon their necks,
John Barley-Corn, my foe.
John Barley-Corn, my foe, John,
By your despotic sway
The people of our country, John,
Are suffering to-day.
You lay the lash upon their backs;
Yet willingly they go
And pay allegiance at the polls,
John Barley-Corn, my foe.
John Barley-Corn, my foe, John,
You’ve broken many a heart,
And caused the bitter tear, John,
From many an eye to start.
The widow and the fatherless
From pleasant homes to go,
And lead a life of sin and shame,
John Barley-Corn, my foe.
John Barley-Corn, my foe, John,
May heaven speed the hour,
When Temperance shall wear the crown
And rum shall lose its power;
When from the East unto the West
The people all shall know
Their greatest curse has been removed,
John Barley-Corn, my foe!
Charles F. Adams.

To the Daring Duckling.
(By a Moderate Liberal)
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, Sir,
You seemed but lately bent
On preaching Liberal Unity,
To our extreme content.
But now you say you will not play,
Unless your pace we go.
How about Liberal Unity, now,
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe?
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, Sir,
We’re facing roughish weather;
Our only chance of victory, Joe,
Seems pulling all together.
Though slow the pace, why should you stop?
Up hill we all would go,
And we’ll meet together at the top,
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe!
Punch, October 3, 1885.

Joe Chamberlain, our Joe.

(A Radical Parody.)

[Mr. Chamberlain still adheres to the famous “three points” of the South London speech.]

Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad,
Conservatives may ban,
But more and more the rest of us
Support the “Grand Young Man.”
We do not grumble at your pace,
We would not have you slow,
So put your best leg foremost still,
Joe Chamberlain, our Joe!
Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad,
Though Stanhopes rise and row you,
You will not let their silly talk
“Three-acres-and-a-cow” you.
You wait not for the “jumping cat,”
Your mind you seem to know,
Which counts for something nowadays,
Joe Chamberlain, our Joe.
Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad,
Your colours are attractive,
And now you’ve nailed them to the mast,
The Whigs will grow more active.
Keep up the stride—press home those “points”
That rankle in the foe,
And leave the polls to do the rest,
Joe Chamberlain, our Joe.
Funny Folks, October 17, 1885.

——:o:——

Many short Parodies of Burns’s poems are scattered about in various old periodicals, but comparatively few are worthy of preservation, whilst some of the best, which have appeared in Scotch newspapers, are so broad in their dialect that few English readers would understand them. Trading on this ignorance of the northern dialect, some authors have composed poems, in imitation of Burns, which, whilst retaining some of the sound, contain none of the sense of the original.

A good example of this style of Parody is to be found in Cruikshank’s Comic Almanac for 1846, it is entitled:—

An Unpublished Poem.
By Robert Burns.
Lilt your Johnnie.
Wi’ patchit brose and ilka pen,
Nae bairns to clad the gleesome ken;
But chapmen billies, a’ gude men,
And Doon sae bonnie!
Ne’er let the scornfu’ mutchit ben;
But lilt your Johnnie!
For whistle binkie’s unco’ biel,
Wad haggis mak of ony chiel,
To jaup in luggies like the deil,
O’er loop or cronnie:
You wadna croop to sic a weel;
But lilt your Johnnie!
Sae let the pawkie carlin scraw,
And hoolie, wi’ outlandish craw,
Kail weedies frae the ingle draw
As blyth as honie;
Amang the thummart dawlit wa’
To lilt your Johnnie.

A still funnier parody was published in Punch, also said to be an unpublished poem by Burns. 70 It consisted of three verses, but the first is quite sufficient to show the nature of the joke:

Justice to Scotland.
(Communicated by the Edinburgh Society
for promoting civilization in England.
)
O Mickle yeuks the keckle doup,
An’ a’ unsicker girns the graith,
For wae and wae! the crowdies loup
O’er jouk an’ hallan, braw an’ baith.
Where ance the coggie hirpled fair,
And blithesome poortith toomed the loof,
There’s nae a burnie giglet rare
But blaws in ilka jinking coof.
*  *  *  *  *

Some Parodies of National Songs have appeared in Judy, amongst them was the following:—

Scotch National Song.
Air—“The Breeks o’ Balquidder.
Greet na mair, ma sonsie lassie,
Greet na mair, ma pawkie chiel,
Mither’s yout the wee bit hallan,
An’ ye ken I loe ye weel!
Gin your tocher’s guid, ma hinnie,
What for gar the tear-draps fa’,
Bring it ben, and pin the door, lass,
An’ your jo will tak’ it a’!
There’s a hantle Kebbuck waitin’,
Bonnie farls, and haggis richt,
Pit yere haffits gaily frae ye,
Brawly a’ will gang the nicht!
Dinna croon, the braxy’s ready,
Tane a tither’s i’ the brae,
Daddy’s fou ahint the bothy,
What suld gar ye fashin’ sae?
Loup an’ leuch, an’ skirl, ma lassie,
Blithely toone the collops ben,
Heed na lang thripplin—kame, luve,
Fear na mair the tappit-hen;
Till the kirk we’ll gang the morrow,
Whiles the pipes sae gaily blaw,
Syne we’ll crack o’ auld Balquidder,
Soughing ’neath the simmer snaw!
Judy. Sept. 10, 1884.

——:o:——

A HISTORY OF THE BURNS’ FESTIVAL;
or, Centenary Celebration of the Birth of Robert Burns,
held at the Crystal Palace, on January 25, 1859,

On November 9, 1858, the Directors of the Crystal Palace Company published an advertisement, stating their intention of celebrating the Centenary of the birth of Robert Burns, by a grand festival at the Crystal Palace. At the same time, they offered a prize of Fifty Guineas, under certain conditions, for the best poem celebrating the occasion, to be recited during the Festival, while they solicited the loan of relics and memorials of the Poet, which were to be exhibited on the occasion. An ample response was made. On the 2nd of January, 621 poems were collected, of which 9 came from America. Shortly before this, the Directors had solicited Monckton Milnes, Esq., M.P., Tom Taylor, Esq., and Theodore Martin, Esq., to act as judges to award the prize; and these gentlemen having kindly consented, commenced their examination. In order to carry out the competition with the utmost fairness, it was decided that the names of the authors should not be communicated, but that two mottoes should be inscribed, for identification, on each poem, and that the name of the author should be forwarded in a sealed envelope, which should bear corresponding mottoes to the poem which it accompanied. The Judges reported in favor of a poem bearing the mottoes “Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,” and “A man’s a’ man for a’ that.” On the day of the Festival there was a large attendance at the Crystal Palace, many interesting relics and several portraits of Burns were exhibited, and there was a concert of Scotch music, including many of Burns’s own songs.

The late Mr. S. Phelps opened the sealed envelope, and announced that the Prize poem was composed by a lady, named “Isa Craig.” He then recited the ode which, it must be confessed, was a somewhat disappointing work, with little that was either distinctively Scotch, or reminiscent of Burns in its composition. The poem was printed in full in the Crystal Palace programme for the day, also in the Times, of January 26, 1859.

That the Prize poem was unworthy of the occasion was pretty generally admitted, the Times sneered at the whole concern, principally because it was used by the C. P. Company as an attraction to the Palace, though why that should be a rebuke to managers of public entertainments is not very clear. And, of course, as in the case of all advertised poetical competitions, a collection of burlesque poems was published about the same time as the Festival, by Routledge, Warne and Routledge. This little volume has since been assigned to the pen of Samuel Lover, and it contains a few pieces of really smart, clever burlesque, but the general effect is not very inspiriting. It is entitled:

Rival Rhymes,
In honour of Burns;
With curious illustrative matter.
Collected and edited by
Ben Trovato

If Maevius scribble in Apollo’s spight,
There are who judge still worse than he can write.
Pope.

Contents.

Appendix.

Lord Brougham on Burns and the Language of Scotland.

(At the Burns’ Centenary Festival, held in the Music Hall in Edinburgh, when Lord Ardmillan presided, a letter from Lord Brougham was read by the Chairman. It was dated from Cannes, January 17, 1859.)

Several of the poems in this little volume have already been quoted in “Parodies.” It is only necessary here to give the lines, supposed to be from an early and unfinished work by Robert Burns. These lines are introduced with a statement that they were found in an old escritoire, and are worthy of being preserved with the other relics of Robert Burns.

Gang wi’ me to Lixmaleerie,[27]
Couthie dearie,
Paukie dearie,
71
Where Clinkumbell is clatterin’ cleerie,
And lasses buskit gaily, O!
Waukrife a’ the nicht I lay,
Whigmaleerie’s toom to spae,
Laith and lang, till blink o’ day
Wad gie to me my Mallie, O!
Gang wi’ me to Lixmaleerie,
Couthie dearie,
Paukie dearie,
Where Clinkumbell is clatterin’ cleerie,
We’re aiblin’s baith expeckit, O!
The hushion’d cowt afore the yett,
Wi’ chaup o’ cloot, and crankous fret,
Seems bletherin “Lassie, bide ye yet?
Mess-John maun’t be negleckit, O!”
*  *  *  *  *

Scotchmen are ever ready to do honour to the memory of Burns, and enthusiastically celebrate his birthday every year.

Last year the Aberdeen Burns Club had a dinner at the Imperial Hotel, after which, one of the members, Sir William Cadenhead read some poems on Burns, purporting to have been composed for the occasion by Lord Tennyson, Mr. Gladstone, and Mr. Oscar Wilde.

Unfortunately these Parodies are too long to reproduce here, but they may be found in The Aberdeen Daily Free Press, of January 26, 1885.

Illustration: Large scrolls with cherubs

Sir Walter Scott,

Born August 15, 1771.   Died September 21, 1832.

Illustration: decorated line

T he immense popularity of the writings of Sir Walter Scott is attested by the number of Parodies and imitations both in verse and in prose, they have given rise to.

Thackeray’s well known burlesque continuation of Ivanhoe entitled “Rebecca and Rowena” will be fully described, with several others of a similar nature, when dealing with prose parodies.

Several complete parodies of Scott’s poems exist, such as Jokeby, The Lay of the Scotch Fiddle, and Marmion Travestied, these are long, and rather tedious, the topics touched upon being now somewhat out of date. But there are many excellent parodies of his shorter poems, and of detached passages from The Lay of the Last Minstrel, etc.

Undoubtedly the finest imitation of Sir Walter Scott’s style is that contained in Rejected Addresses, the celebrated little volume by the Brothers James and Horace Smith. Horace Smith was the author of this imitation of Scott, a poem which was especially singled out for praise by the reviewers.

The Quarterly Review said “from the parody of Walter Scott we know not what to select—it is all good. The effect of the fire on the town, and the description of a fireman in his official apparel, may be quoted as amusing specimens of the misapplication of the style and metre of Mr. Scott’s admirable romances;” whilst The Edinburgh Review spoke of the poem as being admirably executed: “The burning is described with the mighty minstrel’s love of localities.” The authors of Rejected Addresses, in their very interesting preface to the eighteenth edition, state that not one of those whom they had parodied or burlesqued ever betrayed the least soreness or refused to join in the laugh that they had occasioned:—

“From Sir Walter Scott, whose transcendent talents were only to be equalled by his virtues and his amiability, we received favours and notice, which it will be difficult to forget, because we had not the smallest claim upon his 72 kindness. ‘I certainly must have written this myself!’ said that fine-tempered man to one of the authors, pointing to the description of the Fire, ‘although I forget upon what occasion.’”

A TALE OF DRURY LANE.

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

“Thus he went on, stringing one extravagance upon another, in the style his books of chivalry had taught him, and imitating, as near as he could, their very phrase.”—Don Quixote.

(To be spoken by Mr. Kemble,
in a suit of the Black Prince’s armour,
borrowed from the Tower.
)
Survey this shield, all bossy bright—
These cuisses twain behold!
Look on my form in armour dight
Of steel inlaid with gold:
My knees are stiff in iron buckles,
Stiff spikes of steel protect my knuckles.
These once belong’d to sable prince,
Who never did in battle wince;
With valour tart as pungent quince,
He slew the vaunting Gaul.
Rest there awhile, my bearded lance,
While from green curtain I advance
To yon foot-lights, no trivial dance,[28]
And tell the town what sad mischance
Did Drury Lane befall.
THE NIGHT.
On fair Augusta’s[29] towers and trees
Flitted the silent midnight breeze,
Curling the foliage as it past,
Which from the moon-tipp’d plumage cast
A spangled light, like dancing spray,
Then re-assumed its still array;
When, as night’s lamp unclouded hung,
And down its full effulgence flung,
It shed such soft and balmy power
That cot and castle, hall and bower,
And spire and dome, and turret height,
Appeared to slumber in the light.
From Henry’s chapel, Rufus’ hall,
To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul;
From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town,
To Redriffe, Shadwell, Horsleydown,
No voice was heard, no eye unclosed,
But all in deepest sleep reposed.
They might have thought, who gazed around
Amid a silence so profound,
It made the senses thrill,
That twas no place inhabited,
But some vast city of the dead—
All was so hush’d and still.
THE BURNING.
As Chaos, which, by heavenly doom,
Had slept in everlasting gloom,
Started with terror and surprise
When light first flash’d upon her eyes—
So London’s sons in nightcap woke,
In bed-gown woke her dames;
For shouts were heard ’mid fire and smoke,
And twice ten hundred voices spoke—
“The playhouse is in flames!”
And, lo! where Catherine Street extends,
A fiery tail its lustre lends
To every window-pane;
Blushes each spout in Martlet Court,
And Barbican, moth-eaten fort,
And Covent Garden kennels sport,
A bright ensanguined drain;
Meux’s new Brewhouse shows the light,
Rowland Hill’s Chapel, and the height
Where Patent Shot they sell;
The Tennis Court, so fair and tall,
Partakes the ray, with Surgeons’ Hall,
The Ticket-Porters’ House of Call,
Old Bedlam, close by London Wall,[30]
Wright’s shrimp and oyster shop withal,
And Richardson’s Hotel.
Nor these alone, but far and wide,
Across red Thames’s gleaming tide,
To distant fields, the blaze was borne,
And daisy white and hoary thorn
In borrow’d lustre seem’d to sham
The rose or red sweet Wil-li-am.
To those who on the hills around
Beheld the flames from Drury’s mound.
As from a lofty altar rise,
It seem’d that nations did conspire
To offer to the god of fire
Some vast stupendous sacrifice!
The summon’d firemen woke at call,
And hied them to their stations all:
Starting from short and broken snooze,
Each sought his pond’rous hobnail’d shoes,
But first his worsted hosen plied,
Plush breeches next, in crimson dyed,
His nether bulk embraced;
Then jacket thick, of red or blue,
Whose massy shoulder gave to view
The badge of each respective crew,
In tin or copper traced.
The engines thunder’d through the street,
Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete,
And torches glared, and clattering feet
Along the pavement paced.
And one, the leader of the band,
From Charing Cross along the Strand,
Like stag by beagles hunted hard,
Ran till he stopped at Vin’gar Yard.
The burning badge his shoulder bore,
The belt and oil-skin hat he wore,
The cane he had, his men to bang,
Show’d foreman of the British gang—
His name was Higginbottom. Now
’Tis meet that I should tell you how
The others came in view;
The Hand-in-Hand the race begun,
Then came the Phœnix and the Sun,
Th’ Exchange, where old insurers run,
The Eagle, where the new;
With these came Rumford, Bumford, Cole,
Robins from Hockley in the Hole,
Lawson and Dawson, cheek by jowl,
Crump from St. Giles’s Pound:
Whitford and Mitford join’d the train,
Huggins and Muggins from Chick Lane,
73
And Clutterbuck who got a sprain
Before the plug was found.
Hobson and Jobson did not sleep,
But ah! no trophy could they reap,
For both were in the Donjon Keep
Of Bridewell’s gloomy mound!
E’en Higginbottom now was posed,
For sadder scene was ne’er disclosed;
Without, within, in hideous show,
Devouring flames resistless glow,
And blazing rafters downward go,
And never halloo “Heads below!”
Nor notice give at all.
The firemen terrified are slow
To bid the pumping torrent flow,
For fear the roof should fall.
Back, Robins, back! Crump, stand aloof!
Witford, keep near the walls!
Huggins, regard your own behoof,
For, lo! the blazing rocking roof
Down, down, in thunder falls!
An awful pause succeeds the stroke,
And o’er the ruins volumed smoke,
Rolling around its pitchy shroud,
Conceal’d them from th’ astonish’d crowd.
At length the mist awhile was clear’d,
When, lo! amid the wreck uprear’d,
Gradual a moving head appear’d,
And Eagle firemen knew
’Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered,
The foreman of their crew,
Loud shouted all in signs of woe,
“A Muggins! to the rescue, ho!”
And pour’d the hissing tide:
Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain,
And strove and struggled all in vain,
For, rallying but to fall again,
He totter’d, sunk, and died!
Did none attempt, before he fell,
To succour one they loved so well?
Yes, Higginbottom did aspire
(His fireman’s soul was all on fire),
His brother chief to save;
But ah! his reckless generous ire
Served but to share his grave!
’Mid blazing beams and scalding streams,
Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke,
Where Muggins broke before.
But sulphry stench and boiling drench
Destroying sight o’erwhelm’d him quite.
He sunk to rise no more.
Still o’er his head, while Fate he braved,
His whizzing water-pipe he waved;
“Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps,
“You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps,
“Why are you in such doleful dumps?
“A fireman; and afraid of bumps!—
“What are they fear’d on? fools! ’od rot ’em!”
Were the last words of Higginbottom.[31]
THE REVIVAL.
Peace to his soul! new prospects bloom,
And toil rebuilds what fires consume!
Eat we and drink we, be our ditty,
“Joy to the managing committee!”
Eat we and drink we, join to rum
Roast beef and pudding of the plum;
Forth from thy nook, John Horner, come,
With bread of ginger brown thy thumb,
For this is Drury’s gay day.
Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops,
And buy, to glad thy smiling chops,
Crisp parliament[32] with lollypops,
And fingers of the Lady.
Didst mark, how toil’d the busy train,
From morn to eve, till Drury Lane
Leap’d like a roebuck from the plain?
Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again,
And nimble workmen trod;
To realise bold Wyatt’s plan
Rush’d many a howling Irishman;
Loud clatter’d many a porter-can,
And many a ragamuffin clan
With trowel and with hod.
Drury revives! her rounded pate
Is blue, is heavenly blue with slate;
She “wings the midway air” elate,
As magpie, crow, or chough;
White paint her modish visage smears,
Yellow and pointed are her ears,
No pendant portico appears
Dangling beneath, for Whitbread’s shears[33]
Have cut the bauble off.
Yes, she exalts her stately head;
And, but that solid bulk outspread,
Opposed you on your onward tread,
And posts and pillars warranted
That all was true that Wyatt said,
You might have deem’d her walls so thick
Were not composed of stone or brick,
But all a phantom, all a trick,
Of brain disturb’d and fancy sick,
So high she soars, so vast, so quick!

——:o:——

BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER.

[Scott introduces the following song in Chapter XXV. of The Monastery, with the remark that it was sung to the ancient air of “Blue Bonnets over the Border.”]

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,
Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order?
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale,
All the blue bonnets are bound for the border.
Many a banner spread,
Flutters above your head,
Many a crest that is famous in story,
Mount and make ready then,
Sons of the mountain glen,
Fight for the Queen and the old Scottish glory!
Come from the hills where the hirsels are grazing,
Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;
Come from the crag where the beacon is blazing,
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.
Trumpets are sounding,
War steeds are bounding,
Stand to your arms then, and march in good order,
England shall many a day
Tell of the bloody fray,
When the Blue Bonnets came over the border!
Walter Scott.

74
Blue Stockings over the Border.
Read, quickly read, for your honours, ye Oxford men!
Why don’t you read Greek and Latin in order?
Pass o’er the Ass’s Bridge, sons of the Cambridge Fen!
All the Blue Stockings are crossing the Border!
Their banner is flying,
They’re “victory” crying,
They’ll solve every problem in Euclid before ye—
Come from the rowing match,
Glee club, and merry catch,
Read for a class and the old College glory!
Ye Dons and Professors, arise from your slumbers,
Open your books,—set your studies in order—
The danger is pressing in spite of your numbers,
For the Blue Stockings are crossing the Border.
Descend from your Tilburies, Gents of the long robe,
Read briefs—for their steps to the Woolsack they bend:
The depths of your science, ye Doctors, they’ll soon probe,
With old Esculapius the Blues would contend!
Their clack is resounding,
With hard words abounding,
Steam guns their weapons, which cause great disorder.
By Gas they’re enlightened—
By nothing they’re frightened,
The dauntless Blue Stockings who pass’d o’er the Border.
Read for your honors, then, Oxford and Cambridge men!
Look, lawyers, look, are your Green Bags in order?
Oh! Sons of Galen, you will not escape the ken
Of the Blue Stockings who pass’d o’er the Border!
Look well to your counsels, ye sage Politicians—
They’ll change all your projects and plans for the State;
Examine your arguments, Metaphysicians—
In every department the Blues are first-rate.
Famed Craniologists!
Learned Phrenologists!
You’ll find, though each bump in their skulls is in order;
The organ of Prying
All others defying,
Stands first in the Blues who are crossing the Border.
Strain every nerve, then, all ye who have place and sway,
From Wellington down to the City Recorder.
Ye’ll be found bunglers, in office unfit to stay,
If the Blue Stockings come over the Border.
Stand to your posts, ye adepts in Astronomy,
A comet they’ll see whilst your glass ye arrange—
Find out some fault in Dame Nature’s economy—
Spots in the moon, which betoken a change.
Quake, ye Geologists!
Tremble, Conchologists!
Put Retorts and Crucibles, Chemists, in order!
Beware, Antiquarians,
They’re Disciplinarians,
These talented Blues who are passing the Border!
Put on your spectacles, star-gazing gentlemen—
Steam-boat inventors, avoid all disorder—
If there’s a blunder committed by Englishmen,
Each Blue will see it who passes the Border!
’Tis said they’ve discovered perpetual motion,
Attached to their tongues, ’twill be henceforth their own;
And this job completed, some folks have a notion
They’re all seeking now the Philosopher’s Stone.
An enemy slanders
Their ablest commanders,
Their heads vacuum engines he calls (’tis a joke),
Says Watts’ Steamer teaches
The plan of their speeches,
Beginning in noise, and concluding in smoke,
Believe not, my countrymen, this foolish story—
Come when they will, let them find you in order—
Delay not, I pray, till each Blue, crown’d with glory,
By paper kites drawn shall pass o’er the Border.

The above appeared in The Mirror, vol. II, 1828, p. 239. About that period “intellectual females” were in fashion as well as the Brobdignagian bonnets, mentioned in the parodies on Burns. The origin of “Blue Stocking” is given in Boswell’s Life of Johnson, edition 1835, vol. 8, p. 85, “About this time (1781) it was much the fashion for several ladies to have evening assemblies where the fair sex might participate in conversation with literary and ingenious men, animated by a desire to please. These societies were denominated Blue Stocking Clubs; the origin of which title being little known, it may be worth while to relate it. One of the most eminent members of those societies, when they first commenced, was Mr. Stillingfleet, whose dress was remarkably grave, and in particular it was observed that he wore blue stockings. Such was the excellence of his conversation, that his absence was felt as so great a loss, that it used to be said, ‘We can do nothing without the blue stockings;’ and thus by degrees the title was established. Miss Hannah More has admirably described a Blue Stocking Club in her ‘Bas Bleu,’ a poem in which many of the persons who were most conspicuous there are mentioned.”


Write, Write, Tourist and Traveller.
Write, write, tourist and traveller,
Fill up your pages and write in good order;
Write, write, scribbler and driveller,
Why leave such margins?—come nearer the border.
Many a laurel dead flutters around your head,
Many a tome is your memento mori!
Come from your garrets, then, sons of the quill and pen,
Write for snuff-shops, if you write not for glory.
Come from your rooms where the farthing wick’s burning,
Come with your tales full of gladness or woe;
Come from your small-beer to vinegar turning,
Come where the Port and the Burgundy flow!
Fame’s trump is sounding, topics abounding,
Leave, then, each scribb’ler, your high attic story;
Critics shall many a day speak of your book, and say,
“He wrote for the snuff-shop, he wrote not for glory!”
Write, write, tourist and traveller,
Fill up your pages and write in good order;
Write, write, scribb’ler and driveller,
Why leave such margins?—come nearer the border.
Robert Gilfillan, 1828.

Read, Read!
Read, read, Woodstock and Waverley,
Turn every page and read forward in order;
Read, read, every tale cleverly,
All the old novels are over the border!
75
Many a book lies dead, dusty, and never read,
Many a chiel wants a thread to his story;
While Walter, that king o’ men, just with his single pen,
Like a giant, well grogged, marches on in his glory!
Come from your tales full of murders amazing,
Come from romaunts gone to bed long ago;
Come from the scribb’lers whom pye-men are praising,
Come to Redgauntlet and brave Ivanhoe!
Scott’s fame is sounding, readers abounding,
May laurels long circle his locks thin and hoary!
Scotland shall many a day speak of her bard, and say,
“He lived for his country, and wrote for her glory!”
Robert Gilfillan, 1831.

Tax, Tax!
Tax, tax Income and Property,
Why the deuce don’t ye tax both in fair order?
Tax, tax, Genius and Industry—
Aye; but not so as on plunder to border!
Many, by hand or head
Earning precarious bread,
Suddenly ruin’d’s an often-told story.
Do, Johnny Russell, then,
Justice to working men;
If you refuse, we must call in a Tory!
Punch, May 17, 1851.

Valour under Difficulties.
March, march, pipe-clayed and belted in,
That is to say you must march in good order;
March, march, broiling sun melted in,
Stocks all so tight that on choking you border.
Martinet’s anger dread
If you can turn your head,
Martinet, stiff as the knights of old story,
Shave and make ready then,
Half-strangled Englishmen!
March on, as well as you’re able, to glory!
Punch.

Lobster Salad.
Take, take, Lobsters and lettuces;
Mind that they send you the fish that you order;
Take, take, a decent-sized bowl,
One that’s sufficiently deep in the border.
Cut into many a slice
All of the fish that’s nice,
Place in the bowl with due neatness and order;
Then hard-boiled eggs you may
Add in a neat array
All round the bowl, just by way of a border.
Take from the cellar of salt a proportion;
Take from the castor both pepper and oil,
With vinegar, too—but a moderate portion—
Too much of acid your salad will spoil.
Mix them together;
You need not mind whether
You blend them exactly in apple-pie order!
But when you’ve stirr’d away,
Mix up the whole you may—
All but the eggs, which are used as a border.
Take, take plenty of seasoning;
A teaspoon of parsley that’s chopped in small pieces.
Though, though, the point will bear reasoning,
A small taste of onion the flavour increases.
As the sauce curdle may,
Should it, the process stay;
Patiently do it again in due order.
For, if you chance to spoil
Vinegar, eggs, and oil.
Still to proceed would on lunacy border.
Punch.

Song by a Surgeon.
Take, take, blue pill and colocynth:
Hey, Sir! your liver is much out of order.
Take, take, rhubarb and aqua menth:
Close on acute inflammation you border.
Symptoms about your head,
Make me congestion dread,
When I take them with the rest in conjunction;
Leave off wine, beer and grog:
Arrowroot all your prog,
Let organs rest to recover their function.
Punch, November 12, 1859.

Riflemen both sides of the Border.
Drill, drill, London and Manchester,
Shoulder your Enfields and shoot in good order;
Drill, drill, Glasgow and Edinburgh;
Don’t be behind us, on your side the border.
Foreigners oft have said BRITAIN’S old fire is dead,
Let your array tell a different story:
Arm and make ready then, Squires, Shop, and Warehousemen,
Scotchman and Englishman, Liberal and Tory.
Come from the shops, where your goods you are praising,
Come from your moors, from the red deer and roe:
Come to the ground where the targets they’re raising,
Come from your ledgers, per contra and Co.
Bugles are sounding, drill sergeants grounding,
Practice your wind in loose skirmishing order,
Foes will think twice, I lay, ’ere they provoke a fray—
Once Britain stands in arms, both sides the Border.
Punch, December 3, 1859.

Written at the time the great Rifle Volunteer movement was starting into life in England and Scotland.

——:o:——

Mr. Kemble’s Farewell Address.

On taking leave of the Edinburgh Stage.

Mr. Kemble’s last appearance in Edinburgh was on the evening of Saturday, March 29, 1817, on which occasion he performed Macbeth. At the close of the tragedy Mr. Kemble recited a beautiful farewell address, which had been composed 76 for him by Walter Scott. It is only necessary to quote a few lines from the commencement and the end of this well-known poem:—

As the worn warhorse, at the trumpet’s sound,
Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the ground,
Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns,
And longs to rush on the embattled lines,
So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear,
Can scarce sustain to think our parting near;
To think my scenic hour for ever past,
And that these valued plaudits are my last.
*  *  *  *  *
But my last part is play’d, my knell is rung,
When e’en your praise falls faltering from my tongue;
And all that you can hear, or I can tell,
Is—Friends and Patrons, hail! and Fare you Well!

In “Reminiscences of the Court of Session (Scotland), as it was a few years ago,” by George Outram, Esq., Advocate, 1856, there is a parody of “Mr. Kemble’s farewell Address.” The subject of it is Mr. Patrick Robertson’s taking leave of the Bar on his promotion to the Bench. “Before assuming the judicial vestments, Robertson was entertained at a farewell dinner by the sorrowing friends he was to leave without the bar, and from whom he was henceforth by judicial decorum to be separated. The following address (written probably by either Douglas Cheape, Esq., Advocate, or by the late Lord Neaves, one of the judges,) was prepared to be spoken by the guest of the evening.”

As the worn show-horse whom Ducrow so long
Has taught to prance before the applauding throng,
Now all unfit to play his wonted part,
Turns the dull mill or tracts the ignoble cart;
If, midst his daily toils, perchance he hears
Great Wombell’s trumpets, and the attendant cheers,
Strives from his rear the cumbrous load to fling,
And longs to circle in his ancient ring—
So I, when loud your festive laughter swells,
Would gladly don once more my cap and bells,
So sad it is to deem my triumphs past,
And think these joyous plaudits are my last.
Warned by some symptoms of a certain age,
To-night a veteran quits the mirthful stage;
A certain age a certain post requires—
Not prematurely Robertson retires.
At eight-and-forty, when the locks are grey,
’Tis time to doff one’s comedy array,
And leave, while youth’s excesses we retrench,
Some space between the banquet and the Bench.
Time was, when even the rigid and the wise
Might scan my levities with lenient eyes;
Cast in a mould denied to other men—
(Great Jove will hardly use it soon again)—
If not with wit, at least with words at will,
The wish to please—and, shall I say, the skill?
Peers, parsons, players, applauded as I spoke,
And Huntly loved, and Scott endured the joke.
Each look would set the table in a roar:
And when the look was grave, men laughed the more.
Hard task! and how performed, Jove best can tell,
To serve two masters, and to serve them well;
For Momus can with Mammon ill agree,
And jealous Themis hates Euphrosyne.
But, now, farewell the mimic look and tone,
The general question, and the big trombone
That makes the orchestra nothing—Oh! farewell
To Oscar’s melody and Ossian’s shell;
The stammering cornet, the Italian air;
Farewell the bagman, and farewell the beer;
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious fun,
Farewell—for Peter’s occupation’s done.
Yet still the fire, that burned too fierce before,
May shed a chastened light your evenings o’er;
Sometimes the mountain may bring forth its mouse
To please the laughers in the Outer-House.
Nay, even in yonder niche installed on high,
Some jest or pun Lord Peter may let fly,
Clerk, counsel, agents, mid the weekly roll,
Shall vainly strive their muscles to control;
Wide spreads the infectious laugh, and even a while
The losing litigant consents to smile;
*  *  *  *  *
All but the macer, grieved to see no more
The classic gravity that Corehouse wore.
But to return: if you have owed to me
One witless jest, one pointless repartee—
If I at good mens’ feasts too long have lolled,
And seldom stirred when bells to church have knolled—
If censuring tongues might of my errors tell,
As loving mirth, not wisely but too well—
If even in caution’s course I missed my aim,
Tried jokes by stealth, and blushed to find them fame—
The few preposterous efforts I have made
By this too partial tribute are repaid.
Could my big bosom prop the sinking line,
Then I could speak what feelings now are mine.
But fancy fails, expression dies away;
In feeble murmers I can only say,
Amidst my throbbing heart’s tumultuous strife:
“This is the proudest moment of my life!”

——:o:——

Lament for Tabby;
or, The Cat’s Coronach.
And art thou fall’n, and lowly laid,
The housewife’s boast, the cellar’s aid,
Great mouser of thy day;
Whose rolling eyes, and aspect dread,
Whole whiskered legions oft have fled
In midnight battle fray.
There breathes not kitten of thy line,
But would have given his life for thine.
O! could I match the peerless strain,
That wailed for Black Sir Roderic slain,
Or that whose milder tone
O’er Gertrude, fall’n in beauty’s prime,
The grace of Pennsylvania’s clime,
Raised the sepulchral moan!
Such strain might burst th’ eternal bar,
And reach thy spirit from afar.
But thou remote from pain and strife.
Now reap’st the meed of virtuous life
In some Elysian grove,
Where endless streams of milk abound,
And soft valerian paints the ground,
77
Thy joyous footsteps rove;
With Tasso’s cat, by poets named,
And Whittington’s in story famed,
Requiescat in pace!
From The Satirist, March 1814.

——:o:——

THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.

The numerous Parodies of this poem are principally founded upon passages in the introduction, and the opening verses of Cantos the second, third, and sixth, a few lines from each of which will be given to recall them to the reader’s mind for comparison.

Introduction.
The way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old;
His wither’d cheek, and tresses gray,
Seem’d to have known a better day!
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the bards was he,
Who sung of Border chivalry;
For, well a day! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead;
And he, neglected and oppress’d
Wish’d to be with them, and at rest.
No more on prancing palfrey borne,
He caroll’d light as lark at morn;
No longer courted and caress’d,
High placed in hall, a welcome guest,
He pour’d, to lord and lady gay,
The unpremeditated lay:
Old times were changed, old manners gone
A stranger fill’d the Stuarts’ throne;
The bigots of the iron time
Had called his harmless art a crime.
A wandering Harper, scorn’d and poor,
He begg’d his bread from door to door,
And tuned, to please a peasant’s ear,
The harp, a king had loved to hear.
Walter Scott.
*  *  *  *  *

Another
Lay of the Last Minstrel.
The Tide was low, the wind was cold,
Upon the sands the minstrel strolled;
His burnt-cork cheek and croaking lay
Seemed to have known a better day;
His banjo, sole remaining joy,
Was thrummed by an obstreperous boy;
The last of all the band was he
Who sang of nigger minstrelsy.
For, well a day! their date was fled—
His tuneful brethren earned their bread
In other channels. He confessed
That had he done so it were best.
No more to fiddle, harp and horn,
He sang his melodies forlorn;
No longer courted and caressed,
The tenor squared his manly chest,
And poured to lord and lady gay
His unpremeditated lay.
Old times were changed, old music gone,
The folks had “scientific” grown,
Neglected his untutored chime,
Pronouncing Wagner quite sublime.
A wandering nigger, scorned and poor,
He hummed and strummed from door to door,
And tuned, to please a vagrant ear,
The banjo swells had loved to hear.
Funny Folks, May 22, 1875.

The Grand Old M—instrel.

[“Mr. Gladstone, attired in a light summer suit, and without any wrapper round his throat, walked on Tuesday afternoon up Whitehall from his residence in Richmond-terrace. On reaching Trafalgar Square the right hon. gentleman was closely followed by a considerable number of people. He repeatedly raised his hat in acknowledgment of the salutes he received from many persons as he proceeded. Turning up the Strand, Mr. Gladstone made his way in the direction of Covent Garden, still followed by about a hundred persons.”—Daily News, July, 1885.]

The sun was hot, the day was bright,
The statesman found his collars tight;
He threw the starchy things aside,
And round his neck no choker tied;
In summer suit he quickly dressed—
True Paisley cloth, and of the best,
Presented by admiring Scots
Who gave him presents, lots on lots.
“Ah, now,” he cried, in accents gay,
“I think I’ll take a walk to-day;
The crowd that oft my footsteps dogs,
Will never know me in these togs;
Not one can recognise in me,
The potent statesmen, W.G.!”
He first from Richmond Terrace hied,
Without policeman at his side;
And then up Whitehall took the air
Until he reached Trafalgar Square;
By twos and threes the folks came out
And welcomed Gladstone with a shout;
Others, attracted by the sound,
In tens and dozens gathered round;
Desiring but to be alone,
The baffled Statesman hurried on;
With eager steps he paced along,
But always followed by the throng;
He fled from crowded street to street,
Precipitately in retreat;
And yet, despite the pace he flew,
The crowd only the greater grew;
And now, though several days have gone,
That Statesman still is hurrying on;
And strangers in a London street
Perchance may any moment meet
An old man in a summer suit
Endeavouring to avoid pursuit,
But vainly; for where’er he goes
The crowd behind him cheers and grows.
The Weekly Echo, July 25, 1885.
78
The Lay of the Last Cab-hack.
The way was long, the wind was cold,
The cab-hack was infirm and old.
His withered hide, a dirty grey,
Seemed to have known a better day;
His nose-bag, sole remaining joy,
Was pilfered by a ragged boy.
The last of all the hacks was he,
Of bony frame and broken knee:
For, well-a-day, their date was fled,
His wretched brethren all were dead;
And he, neglected and oppressed,
Wished to be with them, and at rest.
No more ’neath damsel lightly borne,
He caracolled like lark at morn;
No longer curried and caressed,
Snug placed in stall of corn the best,
He pranced for lord and lady gay
Throughout the equine-octial day.
His form was changed, his strength was gone,
A stranger owned his frame of bone;
His master of the iron time
To starve him thought it not a crime—
A wandering cabby, scorned and poor,
He urged his hack from door to door,
And drove, to win a peasant’s fare,
The horse that once a lord did bear.
He crawled where London’s smoky Tower
Looks out from Thames’ muddy bower;
The cab-hack gazed with wistful eye,
Alas! no resting-place was nigh,
With weak and faltering step at last
The glaring sausage-shop he passed,
Whose ponderous chopping-up machine
The rest of all his race had seen.
The shopman marked his weary pace,
His hang-dog mien and bony face,
And bade his boy the cabby tell
He’d buy if he the hack would sell;
For he had bought much worse than he,
Though born of racing pedigree,
In pride of power, in beauty’s bloom—
They’d gone unwept to this same tomb.
Funny Folks.

The Bray of the Last Donkey.
The way was long, the wind was cold,
The donkey was infirm and old;
His wrinkled nose and rough coat grey,
Seemed to have known a better day;
A whip, that sadden’d all his joy,
Was wielded by an awful boy;
The last of all his race was he,
Who lived in age of chivalry.
For, well-a-day, their date had fled,
His long-ear’d brethren all were dead;
And he, o’er-loaded and oppress’d,
Would soon be with them—and at rest.
No more with light load gladly borne,
He caracolled from night till morn;
No longer well-fed and caress’d.
High placed in stall, a welcome guest,
He pour’d to lord and lady gay
His most unmusical of bray;
Old steeds were changed, the donkeys gone,
The stalls with horses filled alone,
Proud favourites of degenerate time—
Even his braying call’d a crime,
A groggy donkey, starved and poor,
He carried sand from door to door,
Hard words and blows still doomed to bear.
Till death relieves him from his care.
Anonymous.

The Lay of the Last Ministry.
The way was long, the voters cold,
The Minister was weak—not old;
His wither’d hopes and messes gay
Seem’d to have known a better day;
The lyre, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by the Office Boy;
The last of the stop-gaps was he,
And which his name was Salisbury.
His brethren to the towns had fled,
Expecting to be shortly dead,
And he, dejected and oppress’d,
Wished they were back, and feared for rest.
No more on wings of fancy borne
He chortled light as lark at morn;
No longer standing on the boards
As leader of the House of Lords,
To nobles young, and nobles grey,
He pour’d the Governmental lay:
His occupation nearly gone,
He felt he must vacate his throne;
For many at Election-time
Look’d on his policy as crime.
A Premier on a touting tour,
He begged for votes from door to door,
And tried to please the peasant’s ear
With tunes that few might care to hear.
Et cetera.
Fun, November 18, 1885.

This was accompanied by a cartoon representing the Marquis of Salisbury as the aged minstrel, with Lord Randolph Churchill as his boy carrying the lyre.

——:o:——

CANTO III.
And said I that my limbs were old,
And said I that my blood was cold,
And that my kindly fire was fled,
And my poor wither’d heart was dead,
And that I might not sing of love;—
How could I, to the dearest theme
That ever warm’d a minstrel’s dream,
So foul, so false a recreant prove!
How could I name love’s very name,
Nor wake my heart to notes of flame!
In peace, love tunes the shepherd’s reed;
In war, he mounts the warrior’s steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;
In hamlets, dances on the green,
Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And men below, and saints above;
For love is heaven, and heaven is love.
Walter Scott.
*  *  *  *  *
79
W. E. Gladstone in March, 1880.
And thought they I was growing old?
And hoped they that my hate was cold;
And that my vengeful fire was fled,
And that my hopes of power were dead;
And that I might not sigh for place?
How could I to the dearest theme
That ever warmed a statesman’s dream
Prove recreant so foul and base?
How could I name its very name,
Nor wake to life its smould’ring flame?
In Session prudence tunes the reed,
’Tis otherwise across the Tweed!
In Parliament, one’s forced to wear
Restraint that one can doft elsewhere!
St. Stephen’s needs a smoothened tongue,
In Scotland fierce can be my song!
Blest he who has a double face,
When place is Heaven and Heaven is place!
From They are Five, by W. E. G.
(London, David Bogue, 1880.)

——:o:——

CANTO VI.
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself has said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d,
As home his footsteps he hath turn’d,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour’d, and unsung.
O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child!
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e’er untie the filial band
That knits me to thy rugged strand!
*  *  *  *  *
Walter Scott.

A Declamation.
By Miss Mudge, the Blue Stocking.
Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never several times has read
The works of Spencer and of Mill!
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned,
As o’er the pages he has turned
Of Hamilton upon the Will!
If such there breathe, go rate him well,
For him no student’s raptures swell.
High though his titles, what of them?
I want a man whose diadem
Is the Binomial Theorem!
What matters it how proud his look,
He knows not Euclid’s second book!
His wealth is boundless—that may be;
But how about his Rule of Three?
Despite his titles, pride and pelf,
And all the books upon his shelf,
The wretch not knowing Algebra,
Shall greeted be with shouts of “Bah!”
Whilst many an one, his soul to vex,
Shall ask him what’s the power of x
And give him, heeding not his groans,
Equations with the three unknowns.
Until at last, his torture’s o’er,
He seeks a School Board’s open door;
And there, by jeers to action stung,
Begins on learning’s lowest rung,
O Conic Sections! oft reviled,
How sweet thou art to this young child!
And book eleven of Euclid too,
How sweet it is thy props, to do!
And then to draw from them deductions!
There’s but one thing still better—Fluxions!
Geometry! what mortal hand
Can e’er untie the knotted band
That knits me to thy propositions,
Thy postulates and definitions!
Strong too’s the cord which fastens me
To Statics and Geology!
Still stronger those which me affiance
To thee, my own, my Natural Science!
But strongest are the heavenly ones
That join me to Mars’ late-found suns!
[She collapses.
From Finis.

On Scotch Patriotism.
Breathes there a Scot with soul so dead,
Who never to himself has said
Farewell for aye, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned
As he his willing steps hath turned
To wander on a foreign strand!
Who has not with a spirit gay
From his loved Scotia trudged away
To join the fortune-hunting band!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no canny raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
He is an idiot all the same.
No pupil apt of Gaelic school,
He is a patriotic fool,
A simple and un-Scottish clown
Who, living, forfeits fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unsnuffed, unwhiskied, and unsung.
O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Thou did’st not suit the Scottish child!
Thy lovely scenery but tells
On those brave Scots who keep hotels;
Thy plain and mountain, loch and moor,
Are only dear to those who tour.
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Could e’er invite me to thy strand?
Still, as I view each well-known scene,
I think of what things might have been
80
And shudder as I think once more
That I might ne’er have left thy shore.
Whilst songs of triumph fill my mouth,
That I so early went down South.
O. P. Q. P. Smiff.
The Figaro, August 1, 1874.

Pilosagine.
Breathes there a man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
“To have moustaches would be grand.”
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned
As o’er the paper he hath turned
And Wright’s advertisement hath scanned?
If such there be, go, mark him well,
And in his ears the good news tell:
Pilosagine has gained a name,
All who have tried it own its fame:
While thousands prove its great renown
By the moustaches they have grown;
Whiskers and beards on many a face
Their origin likewise to it trace,
It contains no oil, is free from grease,
And now forsooth our rhyme must cease.
But what, you ask, is the expense?
’Tis sent post free for eighteenpence.
Old Advertisement.

Lives there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to his wife has said,
“I love a bit of home-made bread!”
Or can a man of aught be prouder,
Than to have cried in tones still louder,
“I like it made with Borwick’s Powder!”

Specimen of Smiff’s Literary Advertisements.

The Poetic Style.
Breathes there a man with taste so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
“This is the spirit of my choice,”
As he his steaming glass hath stirred?
Who hath not slightly raised his voice,
So that his words might all be heard—
O something Whiskey, strong yet mild,
Sweet spirit, pure and undefiled;
From thee, as doctors oft have proved,
The fusil oil has been removed;
Unlike the other spirits, thou
Bring’st not an aching to the brow.
Of thee no biliousness is born,
No coppers hot the following morn;
Men drink of thee at noon, at night,
And rise quite fresh at morning light;
Men drink of thee, and drink again,
To guard ’gainst rheumatism’s pain.
*  *  *  *  *
But there are some, I grieve to say,
Who act in quite a silly way;
Who every day their vitals spoil,
By drinking lots of fusil oil.
Yes, such there be, go—mark them well!
Their sallow cheeks the secret tell.
Sound though their stomachs may have been,
Their livers active, palates clean;
Yet, thanks to fusil’s deadly force,
Fell indigestion comes, of course.
The Figaro, October 4, 1876.

——:o:——

Canto vii.
O, Caledonia! very stern and wild,[34]
And only dear to those who travel through you:
The poet says you’re lov’d by each Scotch child,
But you do not believe such nonsense, do you?
What Scotchman is there that would not be riled,
If he was bound for life to stick close to you?
No, Land of heath, and loch, and shaggy moor,
You’re only dear, say we, to those who tour.
O, Land of Whisky, Oatmeal, Bastards, Bibles;
O Land of Kirks, Kilts, Claymores, Kail, and Cant,—
Of lofty mountains and of very high hills,
Of dreary “Sawbaths,” and of patriot rant
O land which Dr. Johnson foully libels,
To sound thy praises does our hero pant;
And to relate how, from engagements freed,
He calmly vegetated north of Tweed.
He saw “Auld Reekie,” climbed up Arthur’s Seat,
And thought the modern Athens a fine city;
Admired the view he got from Prince’s Street,
And wished the lassies could have been more pretty—
With smaller bones, and less decided feet;
He found the cabmen insolent, though witty:
The Castle “did,” and, ere he slept, had been on
The Calton Hill, and seen the new Parthenon.
The Edinburgh “Sawbath” bored him, though,
’Twas like being in a city of the dead;
With solemn steps, and faces full of woe,
The people to their kirks and chapels sped,
Heard damning doctrines, droned some psalms, and so
Went home again with Puritanic tread;
Pulled down their blinds, and in the evening glooms,
Got very drunk in their back sitting-rooms.
*  *  *  *  *
From Jon Duan.

Ye Grand Adventures

of some

Modern Men of Might.

Showing how Don Salisbury Quixote de la Hatfield set 81 out to keep watch over his arms and armour, ere he could be admitted a Knight of the Primrose.

The Don’s Midnight Vigil.
The sky was dark, the air was cold,
But firm Don Salisbury was and bold,
As, undeterred by nights alarms,
He vigil kept to watch his arms.
Above him, as he humbly kneel’d,
Rose the bronze form of Beaconsfield—
The man whom once he had reviled,
But whom long since, with fervour wild,
He’d seemed to love; but who looked down
As ’twere with a sardonic frown,
As, very far from being at ease,
Don Salisbury groaned upon his knees.
Each side him, on the Statue’s base,
He for his armour’d found a place,
And there he watch’d it, till, so sore,
That he could bear to kneel no more,
He staggered to his feet again,
And sighing from excessive pain,
His lance he grasped, and with a moan
Limped lamely on his vigil lone.
The gas-jets round but flickered dim,
And in their light it seemed to him
That with a look of scorn intent
The Statue’s eyes were on him bent.
Nay, more, as he returned the gaze,
He thought he saw the Statue raise
Its dexter arm and point south-west,
As though his notice to arrest.
Nor was the intimation vain,
For as the Don his eye did strain,
He saw folks in Victoria Street,
Caught, too, the tramp of many feet;
And, listening still, soon overheard
Such sounds that he at once inferred,
It was the promised delegation
Sent by the Primrose Habitation
To take him to the Hall of Light
Where he was to be dubbed a Knight.
*  *  *  *  *
Truth, Christmas Number, 1885.

Albert Graeme.
It was an English ladye bright,
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)
And she would marry a Scottish Knight,
For love will still be lord of all.
Blithely they saw the rising sun,
When he shone fair on Carlisle wall;
But they were sad ere day was done,
Though Love was still the lord of all.
*  *  *  *  *
Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove,
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle Wall,)
Pray for their souls who died for love,
For Love shall still be lord of all!
Walter Scott.
The Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto VI.

The Lay of the Poor Fiddler.
Willie.
It was a toper one Saturday night,
(The fire shines bright on yon Ale-house wall,)
And he would spend a shilling so bright,
For strong liquor will still be lord of all.
Blithely he posted with jolly red face,
To where the fire shines on yon Ale-house wall,
But that night was scarce o’er when in piteous case,
He found that strong liquor was lord of all.
He pawned his shirt and his breeches both,
Where the fire shines bright on yon Ale-house wall;
He then did swear a terrible oath,
For ire that liquor was lord of all.
In a hurry home he naked ran
From where the fire shines on yon ale-house wall;
The night was too cold for a naked man,
Tho’ strong liquor was still the lord of all.
His limbs were cold, though his face was red
As the fire that shines on yon ale-house wall;
He craved for admission, his wife was in bed,
For strong liquor was there the lord of all.
She looked through the window and bade him go
Where the fire shines bright on yon ale-house wall;
Or she on his hot skull would throw
The liquor that is not lord of all!
He shivering ran with might and main,
To where the fire shines on yon ale-house wall;
But the door was locked he bawled in vain,
For strong liquor was there the lord of all.
When morning came, quite dead he lay,
Close by the door in yon ale-house wall;
The frost his blood had chilled they say,
And strong liquor is still the lord of all.
Now all ye topers when ye view
The fire shining bright on an ale-house wall;
Pray for his soul who once did rue
That strong liquor was e’er the lord of all.

This ballad is from The Lay of the Poor Fiddler, by an admirer of Walter Scott. B. and R. Crosby & Co., London, 1814.

This scarce little volume of 167 pages, is a tolerably close Parody of “The Lay of the Last Minstrel.” It is, like the original, in six Cantos, and is accompanied by numerous notes, in which the legendary lore, and archæological learning of Scott, are humourously and ingeniously burlesqued.

The opening lines of each Canto are modelled upon those of Scott’s poem, a few extracts may be given:—

Introduction.
The night was dark, the wind did howl,
When Tom the Fiddler left his bowl;
His nose once of a fiery hue,
Was now deep tinged with modest blue;
Fierce o’er the heath the wind did blow,
And swiftly fell the drifting snow.
Tom was returning from the fair
With lightsome heart devoid of care;
His fiddle, as I’ve heard it sung,
Across one ample shoulder hung
In leathern case, and by his side,
82
A horn of snuff was well supplied;
A huge nob-stick he firmly grasped,
And to his breast a loaf he clasped,—
Poor Tom had once seen better days
Than fiddling for a looby’s praise;
At country club, or wake, or fair,
He would have scorned to scrape a hair;
But now alas! old times are gone,
He roams neglected and unknown;
And strangers claim that high renown
Which Tommy once had thought his own.

At length he reaches a large mansion, he craves admission and shelter from the storm:

The lady happened to be nigh,
She heard his voice and language high,
She marked his wet and dirty clothes,
His pimpled cheek and reverend nose,
And bade her maid the servants tell,
That they should use the fiddler well:
For she had known adversity,
Tho’ raised to such a high degree;
And sorrow too, for in her bloom
She wept o’er her third husband’s tomb.

After due attention to the creature comforts of the Fiddler, he obliges the company with his lay, in the manner of Scott’s last Minstrel, and at the end of each Canto refreshes himself with a draught of good October ale. The opening lines of the third Canto describe his partiality for strong liquor:—

I.
And said I that my throat was dry;
And said I that no cheer was nigh,
And that all giving souls were dead,
And that the good to heaven were fled.
And that I ne’er should put my nose
Again into a tankard’s brim;
And that I ne’er again should dose,
Before an ale-house hearth so grim?
How could I fancy such mishap,
Would e’er fall from Dame Fortune’s lap,
On me the happiest of mankind,
The merriest mortal you may find?
II.
In peace, malt liquor’s cheap and good;
In war, ’tis poor and badly brewed;
In kitchens, now they drink small beer;
Malt, hops and water, grow so dear.
Good liquor rules both church and state,
It brightens many a stupid pate;
And men and saints, to my own thinking,
Are often prone unto hard drinking.
Heaven, we are told, through a glass is seen;
A glass of grog is what they mean.
*  *  *  *  *

The poem closes with a description of Tommy’s fate:—

Hushed is the fiddle—Tommy’s gone;
But did he roam, unhoused, unknown,
Again thro’ wilds and deserts drear?
No succour nigh, or alehouse near?
Oh no:—close by this stately hall,
So snug, with newly white-washed wall,
Appears Tom’s cot; with lattice clean,
And window-shutters painted green,
A garden, hen-pen, and a stye,
Well stock’d with sundries, stand close by;
And every want is well supplied,
And every blessing is enjoyed.
*  *  *  *  *

Breathes there a Man with Soul so Dead.
Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
Confound that horrid Little-Go
Whose heart within him ne’er has burned,
As from the papers he has turned,
When them he found he did’nt know.
If such there be—go! mark him well
For him no Poll will do as well
As honours high, or wrangler’s name
A fellowship’s his only aim.
Not his to lie upon the shelf;
Poor wretch sustainer of himself
A living comes thro’ his renown.
Nor unrewarded goes he down
To the small hamlet whence he sprung,
A hero great as bards have sung.
From The Lays of the Mocking Sprite.
(Metcalfe and Sons, Cambridge.)

The Lay of the First Minstrel.
By Sir Walter Scott-free, Bart.
It was an Oxford Scholar bright,
(The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,)
And he would get him thoroughly tight,
For Gilbey’ll still be lord of all.
Blithely he saw the coming dun,
As bright as sun on Charsley’s Hall,
Alas! his race was well nigh run
And Gilbey’ll still be lord of all.
The dun drinks wine, and tastes it well,
(The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,)
Then came Cremation and he fell,
So Gilbey’ll still be lord of all.
He fell not by the “Old Red Heart,”
(The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,)
He fell by Gilbey’s fiery art,
To prove that Gilbey’s lord of all.
The scholar spurned the knife and fork,
(The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,)
And cut his throat with Gilbey’s cork,
So Gilbey’ll still be lord of all.
From The Shotover Papers
(Oxford), October 17, 1874.

——:o:——

The following extract is taken from a very amusing volume, entitled “Lays of the Saintly,” by Mr. Walter Parke, 83 published by Vizetelly and Co., London. The ballad introduced is a Parody of the style of ballads contained in Percy’s Reliques of Ancient English Poetry.

St. Fillan’s Arm.
(A Lay of Scott-land.)
Harp of the North, that hangs, or used to hang,
“On the witch-elm that shades St. Fillan’s spring”
(Which elm I know not), wake thy tuneful twang,
And keep thy wires in order while I sing
In verse of true Sir Walter Scottish ring;
And lest your Minstrel’s strength should haply faint
Glenlivat shall its inspiration bring;
Thus will we make the Sassenach acquaint
With blessed Fillan’s life, thy friend and patron Saint.

I.
If thou would’st view old Pittenweem aright,
Go visit it by the broad daylight,
For if the night were murky, pray
How couldst thou ken that fair Abbaye!
And should it eke come on to rain,
Thy pleasure would be turn’d to pain;
But when the golden sunbeams smile
On ruin’d nave and barren aisle,
When noontide rays enlivening fall
On thirstly floor and weedy wall.
So that thou need’st not break thy bones
Or shins against the rugged stones,
Then go, but take a trusty guide
Who knows the country far and wide,
And give him half-a-crown or so,
To tell thee all that he may know;
But should he show thee Fillan’s tomb
Within some cloister’s ivied gloom,
Believe him not, although he swear,
Because the Saint’s not buried there.
II.
Breathes there the man who having read
All that the Northern Bard has said,
All the particulars supplied
By travellers’ tomes and Murray’s Guide,
Of Scotia’s landscapes fair and grand,
Longs not to see that favour’d land?
Oh, would that I could get the chance
To view those regions of romance,
What pleasure to be climbing now
Ben Dizzy’s stern and lofty brow!
How sweet to stand beside the Frith
That owes its waters to Loch Smith,
To mark Bel-hangar’s ruin’d pile,
And Ion-munga’s charmed isle,
Whilst in the distance can be seen
The giant peaks of Ben Zoleen,[35]
And, if the weather be not dull,
The fragrant isle of Sneeshin-Mull;
And, floating like a mirage there,
That phantom ship, the “Brig of Ayr
Sails where Loch Toddy’s smile creates
A beauty that intoxicates.
Then view, my fancy, if thou wilt,
Knights tourneying within Glen-Tilt,
Hear Roderick Dhu and brave Fitz-James
Calling each other dreadful names,
And see them chase, through bosky dells
The hart that “in the Highlands” dwells.
Oh, if some friend would pay my fare,
How “like a bird” I’d wander there!
III.
The meal was over at Pittenweem;
The monks had gone to their cells to dream,
Or heavily sleep, as the case might be,
Till waked by the bell at half-past three;
The Abbot had gone to his private tower,
For he sat up till a later hour,
And oft he would have his under-prior
To sit and talk by the cosy fire;
For Abbots of old, you may suppose,
Could do in such matters as they chose,
And here, from the mill-stream’s outer loch
To the tippest top of the weather-cock,
Good Fillan the Abbot ruled supreme—
Such was the custom of Pittenweem.
IV.
The night was long, the weather cold;
A Minstrel, neither young nor old,
Whose ragged coat and shoes in holes
Wrung pity from those monkish souls,
Entered the Abbey’s lower hall,
Whence, duteous to the Abbot’s call,
He brought himself and harp upstairs
And ’gan show off his Scottish airs.
It was a charity to bring
Such warbler in the place to sing.
St. Fillan gave him ample cheer
And copious draughts of home-made beer,
Till, while that inspiration work’d,
This music from the wires he jerk’d:—

V.
BALLAD.
The Blue Brother.
(Parody of a Ballad in “Percy’s Reliques.”)
’Twas on Maxwelton’s bonny braes
(“Where early fa’s the dew.”)
That at the set of sun I met
A Friar of Orders blue.
With sigh, and frown, and eyes cast down,
His face was sad to see;
Some heavy care was settled there—
Whatever could it be?
“Come hither, come hither, thou Holy Friar,
Why dost thou look so blue?”
He answer’d stern—“I’ve yet to learn
What that’s to do with you.”
“Wert thou,” I asked, “a baron bold,
Who sought a hermit’s lot,
Because thy love so false did prove?”
He answer’d, “I was not.”
“And hast thou fought in distant climes,
Seen mighty cities fall,
84
And wounded been a score of times?”
He answered, “Not at all.”
“And did thy true love follow thee,
In page’s garb disguised?
And when thou foundest it was she,
Say, wert thou not surprised?”
“No true love ever follow’d me
Thus garbed; or if she had,
At once, I ween, I must have seen
’Twas she, and not a lad.”
“And did she, stricken by thy side
In thy embrace expire?”
“Good gracious! no—who told you so?
He must have been a liar.”
“Or hadst thou woed some ladye fair,
And wast about to wed,
But saw or heard that she preferr’d
Another knight instead?
“And didst thou seek their trysting-place,
And fiercely slay them both,
And there inter both him and her?”
“I did’nt, on my oath!”
“Or did’st thou quarrel with a maid,
Who loved thee all the time,
And seek a hermitage’s shade?
Far in a foreign clime;
“And did the maiden seek thee out,
Dress’d like a pilgrim-boy?
And, having found thee safe and sound,
Die, there and then, for joy?”
Fire flash’d from that Blue Brother’s eye;
“’Tis well,” he cried, “for you,
That I’m a Friar, else in mine ire
Some mischief might I do!
“Why should I tell to such as thou
The story of my youth?
My patience is exhausted now,
Denying each untruth.
“You’re right, so far, if you suppose
I’ve seen some woes and cares,
But, mark you well, I never tell
To strangers my affairs.”
The vesper-bell rang thro’ the dell;
Abrupt he sped away,
And not another syllable
Did to this minstrel say.
And tho’ upon Maxwelton’s braes
Since then I’ve often been,
I know not why, but never I
Have that Blue Brother seen.
VI.
The Abbot praised the Minstrel’s skill,
And gave him siller—better still;
What wonder that such vagrant men,
Encouraged thus, should come agen?
For Fillan’s heart was warm and large,
He never gave these folks in charge,
And tho’ the bagpipe made him groan,
He let his torturer alone.
Well used, I wot, were one and all
Within St. Fillan’s Abbey-wall;
Even the cats were fed on cream—
Such was the custom of Pittenweem.
*  *  *  *  *

Another imitation of The Lay of the Last Minstrel was “The Lay of the Scottish Fiddle,” a poem in Five Cantos (with notes in galore) supposed to be written by W——. S——., Esq., London, 1814. This parody was at first attributed to the pen of Washington Irving, but is now generally ascribed to his brother-in-law, James Kirke Paulding, a voluminous author, well-known on the other side of the Atlantic. The parody appears to have been first published in the United States, and then re-produced in London. The author, for the purpose of his burlesque, describes the unhappy war then raging between Great Britain and his own country, as predatory, and treats of the British officers as border chieftains and freebooters. Such poetical license, especially on the part of an avowed foe, seems quite excusable, yet the Editor of the English Edition, in his preface, is very severe both on the poem and the notes which accompany it. These notes are voluminous, occupying nearly as many pages as the parody itself, and they are partly humorous and satirical, but principally descriptive of events alluded to in the poem, which had occurred during the war.

There were some imitations of Scott’s Lay in Truth, January 18, 1877, and also in the Christmas number of Truth for 1877.

A Lay to the Last Minstrel,” inscribed to the memory of Sir Walter Scott, by Edward Churton (London, John Murray, 1874), is not, as one might suppose from the title, either an imitation, or a parody of Scott. It is merely an essay on his poetical genius, with some lines in his praise.

——:o:——

MARMION.

This was the next poem published by Scott after The Lay. It contains several passages which have been singled out for frequent imitation, notably Lady Heron’s Song, Lochinvar, and the well-known lines in Canto VI.:—

“O woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!”—
*  *  *  *  *

An English Poet to a Scotch Critic,
Oh! Scotsman! in thine hour of ease
Uncanny, slow, and hard to please,—
And querulous in thy tirade
As shrewish wife or sour old maid—
When too much “whusky” stings thy brow,
An unco’ sarcy devil thou!
(Slightly!) altered from Scott (to Scot).

85

A Good Wife.

“But, on the whole, Chloe is a good wife. If I have a cold she dresses me in linseed poultices, and doses me with all kinds of potions; and even in my suffering I can appreciate the poetic exclamation—

“Oh, woman! in our hours of ease,
Impatient, coy, and hard to please:
As ineffectual as the shade
By a defective gingham made:
As difficult wherewith to deal
As any sly and cunning eel;
But, oh! when hoarseness grasps the thorax,
How nimble, thou, with soothing borax!”

A Dedication.
O woman! in our hours of ease
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
Yet, barring pins, how soft to squeeze!
Unequall’d too at making cheese—
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made;
And “very able,” too thou jade,
In managing a shopping raid—
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
Well, one of two things then art thou:
That is, thou’rt either a born nurse;
Or else a nuisance, if not worse!
O Woman! too, in hours of woe,
Into hysterics apt to go:
When trouble levies its distraint,
How prompt art thou thereon to faint!
When danger’s for the time supreme,
How ready art thou, too, to scream!
In fact, what hour of night or day
Is there when thou’rt not in the way?
From Finis, 1877.

The Mansion House Marmion.

[In 1883, when there was much talk of impending and very desirable reforms in the Government of the Metropolis, Lord Mayor Fowler gave a dinner to the City magnates. He then expressed his great surprise that Mr. Forster should have recommended him to become first Lord Mayor of the new Corporation. “Far from that,” he asserted, “he would fight the new Bill, line by line and clause by clause;” and he then proceeded to declaim to his vociferous fellow-citizens Marmion’s speech to King James.]

The City Carlton merrily
With wassail rung, and mirth and glee,
For Tory City-Fathers there
Feasted the Marquis and Lord Mayor.
The spread outshone all banquets past;
The wine and wit flowed free and fast;
Till, ’midst approving sound,
The loyal toasts were drunk in turn;
And then, whilst civic hearts waxed stern,
The Loving-Cup went round.
And easy was the task, I trow,
The Marquis’ manly form to know,
When, his great courtesy to show,
He drank with Fowler, bending low
To meet the goblet’s brim;
And City men who saw the sight,
Demonstrative in their delight,
Gave several cheers for him.
Ere long, uprising from his chair
To toast the City, Mr. Mayor
Stood, in his new-found fame;
But for some moments could not speak—
His Tory heart swelled nigh to break—
And presently adown his cheek
A bitter tear there came.
Then memory did his wrath inspire,
Then burn’d his furrow’d face with fire,
And shook his very beard with ire,
As “This to me!” he cried.
“From Forster, too, a friend who knows
How I persistently oppose
Reforms on every side!
He little kens the thoughts that roll,
Like storm-clouds, through my haughty soul,
Or he would not declare
That I, a City Tory true,
Would of the Corporation new
Become the first Lord Mayor!”
Still on his cheek the flush of rage
O’ercame the ashen hue of age,
As he went on, “How dare he, then,
Thus beard the Lion in his den—
The Fowler at Guildhall!
Or thinks he Harcourt can o’erthrow,
And lay our Corporation low?
No! by St. Margaret Pattens, No!
Up, Tories, then! What, Carden, ho!
For your stout aid I call.”
Then Fowler turned and laughed, “Ha! ha!”
Deep quaffed the bowl and shouted “Bah!
Let Harcourt know, if he dare try
The City Fathers to defy,
That London has its treasures great—
Its funds invested, and its plate;
That turtle now is cheap as beef
(That Conger canard’s past belief);
And that, ere his vile Bill be passed,
Those hoards of wealth we have amassed
Shall be entirely spent,
In Swords of Honour by the score;
In Golden Boxes, rained galore,
In Banquets gross as those of yore,
In jobs still grosser than before,
And greater in extent!
“That we will many a time persist
In opening a Subscription List,
Far-off distress to aid;
Whilst those who starve about our gate,
We’ll leave to their unhappy fate,
And hunger unallayed.
Know, too, that ere from power we start,
We’ll patronise again High Art,
And raise the Griffin’s counterpart
To dominate the City;
That Billingsgate unmoved shall stay,
And block the fish-producing-way,
Spite what in Parliament they say,
Or argue in Committee.
“Know, too, that ere all London taste
This new reform, we oft will haste
Funds left in Charity to waste
In gorging and in guzzling;
86
And we, as Aldermen, will mock
At justice still; and surely shock
Those who are bound to us to flock
For our decisions puzzling.
“Yes, know, ere Harcourt shall succeed,
Shall many a poor man die of need,
And thousands suffer for the greed
Of our smug Corporation;
And London for long years shall bear
Fresh burdens that we still may share
The plunder, and well bait the snare
With which we trap the nation,
Pretending that at our own cost
We’ve freed the lands the City’d lost,
With generous intent;
Whereas it safely might be sworn
No penny from our hoard’s been torn—
’Tis duties placed on coal and corn
That we’ve so freely spent!”
Again, ’midst vehement applause,
Did Fowler for a moment pause;
Then, facing round to his brave band,
And fiercely shaking his clenched hand,
He with a sip his voice restored,
And once again defiance poured:
“Let Harcourt, Firth, and all their crew,”
Cried he, “their spiteful ends pursue,
I still am here, my friends, with you,
My opposition to renew;
And ere that Bill shall pass,
Full many a brother shall secure
Knighthood by rank expenditure;
Full many a Scandal we’ll commit;
Absorb full many a perquisite;
Full many a well-known man we’ll bribe
To join some Civic thievish tribe;
Full many a day reforms oppose;
Full many a time strike coward’s blows;
And often to the nation show
How small we are, how rude, how low,
How stubborn, ignorant, and dense,
How totally devoid of sense,
And how intensely crass!”
Here Fowler ceased, and sat him down,
While cheers from all sides came to crown
His spirited appeal;
Thrice went the Loving Cup around,
And thrice did fresh applause resound
As those brave City Tories found
Fresh impulse for their zeal!
Truth, November 29, 1883.

——:o:——

LOCHINVAR

This song, sang by Lady Heron, in Marmion, was partly founded on a ballad called “Katharine Janfarie,” which may be found in the “Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.”

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west!
Through all the wide border his steed was the best;
And, save his good broad-sword, he weapon had none;
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone!
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!
He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Esk river where ford there was none—
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented!—the gallant came late!—
For, a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar!
So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
’Mong bride’s-men and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword—
For the poor, craven bridegroom said never a word—
“O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war?—
Or to dance at our bridal?—young Lord Lochinvar!”
“I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied:
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide!
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine!—
There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!”
The bride kissed the goblet! The knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup!
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh—
With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—
“Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace!
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered, “’Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!”
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near—
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
“She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur!
They’ll have fleet steeds that follow!” quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting ’mong Græmes of the Netherby clan:
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea—
But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
Walter Scott.

Benet College, Cambridge, 1820.

Dear Mr. North,

We are rather flat here at present, but I enclose you a squiblet, which was written when Sir J. E. Smith, that knight of the gilly-flower, made his grand charge on our Botanical Chair.

Lock-and-Bar.
A Botany Bay Eclogue.
O Gallant Sir James is come out of the North,
Through all that wild region his fame had gone forth;
Yet, save the Vice-Chancellor, friend he had none;
He came all unask’d, and he came all alone.
So daring in heart, and so dauntless in pith,
There ne’er was Professor like President Smith.
He staid not for frown, and he stopp’d not for groan;
He put in his clamour where claim he had none;
But e’er he arriv’d at a Lecturer’s state,
The tutors conspir’d—and the lectures came late.
For a Churchman, God wot! and a botanist too,
Was to sit in the chair that Sir James had in view.
87
In a rage, then, he stalk’d into College and Hall,
Among Bedmakers, Bachelors, Doctors, and all;
Then spoke Mr. Marsh in a civilish way,
(For some of the Tutors had little to say),
“O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dine with the Fellows, or—what come ye for?”
“I long wish’d to lecture, my suit you denied,
I know you’d have lik’d them, if once you had tried;
And now am I come with this Pamphlet of mine,
To try a last measure—then leave you to pine;
There are students in London more civil by far,
That would gladly have welcom’d so brilliant a star.”
Sir James shew’d his Pamphlet, and Monk read it through;
He gulp’d the hard bits, but he saw ’twoul’d not do;
He look’d down to laugh, and pretended to sigh,
With a smile on his lip, and a sneer in his eye,
Then down comes the rogue with an “answer” forthwith.
“This is dealing hard measure!” says President Smith.
So stately the tone, and so lovely the print,
Even Freshmen conceiv’d there must something be in’t.
While Socinians did fret, and Professors did clap,
And Webb tore the tassel that deck’d his new cap;
And Reviewers did whisper, “’Twere better by far
To have match’d your brave knight in some gooseberry war.”
A hint such as this had just rung in his ear,
When he reach’d the stage-coach, and the coachman stood near;
So light to the box that tight coachman he sprung,
So snugly the reins o’er the dickey were flung—
We are off! we are off! over bank and o’er hill,
“Your pamphlet may follow,” cried James, “if it will.”
There is quizzing ’mong wags of the Trinity clan;
King’s, Queen’s-men, and Johnians, they all laugh that can,
There is joking and smoking in Norwich citiè,
But the lost Knight of Botany ne’er do we see,
—So daring in heart, and so dauntless in pith:
Was there e’er such a callant as President Smith.

This Parody appeared in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine for November, 1820. Many other excellent parodies and imitations are to be found in the early volumes of Blackwood, (which first appeared in April, 1817) but unfortunately most of them are quite out of date, and would be of little, or no interest to the modern reader.


Songs of the Rail.
O young William Jones is come out of the West,
Of all the bright engines, his engine’s the best!
And save his grim stoker, he helper had none,
He drove all unhelp’d, and he drove all alone,
So dauntless he rush’d midst his engine’s loud moans;
Did you e’er hear of driver like young William Jones?
He stopp’d not for water, he stopp’d not for coke,
And he skimm’d o’er the streams render’d black by his smoke;
But when at the station he slacken’d his rate,
The up-train had started, the down-train came late;
And a laggard in travel, a luggage-train guard,
Was to wed the fair Polly of Jones’s regard.
“I long woo’d your daughter, my suit you denied;
Love swells like a steam-valve, and bursts when it’s tied;
And now I am come, with my lost Polly B.
To walk once the platform, drink one cup of tea:
There are maidens who’d gladly give body and bones,
To jump at the tender of young William Jones.”
The bride stirred the Congou, the spoon took it up,
He quaff’d off the tea, and he put down the cup;
She stoop’d on the pavement her sandal to tie,
And she show’d her neat foot with a tear in her eye:
He took her soft hand, ere her mother said nay;
“Now walk on the platform,” said young William J.
So stately his form, and so beauteous her face,
That never a plank such a couple did grace;
While the stoker did fret; and the engine did fume,
And the station-clerk wink’d in his little back-room,
And the navvys all whisper’d, “Ay, Bill, what d’ye say?
They’d make a neat couple, that gal and young J.”
One touch of her hand, and one word in her ear,
And they open’d a carriage that by them stood near;
So light o’er the cushions the fair lady sprung—
So light the policeman the bright brass bell rung—
“She is won! we are off! there’s no train in the way,
And the next does not stop here” said young William J.
There was laughing and roaring with every man;
They laugh’d and they roar’d till their eyes briny ran:
They must get a new maiden to hand out the tea,
For the fair Mrs. Jones there they never will see;
And each one that knows her will laughingly say,
“That’s a deucid ’cute fellow, that young William J.!”
Punch, January 22, 1848.

The Russian Lochinvar.

[The first encounter in the Crimean War took place at Oltenitza, on November 4, 1854, when the Russians were defeated. A few days later the Turks retired to Kalafat where they kept the Russians in check for some time.]

The big-booted Czar had his eye on the East,
For treaties and truces he cares not the least,
And save his good pleasure he conscience hath none,
He talks like the Vandal and acts like the Hun.
So faithless in peace, and so ruthless in war,
Have ye e’er heard of King like the big-booted Czar?
He stayed not for speech, but with sabre and gun,
He rushed into Turkey, though cause there was none;
But when he got near to the old Iron Gate,
He found certain reasons which urged him to wait.
For down by the Danube stood Omar Pasha,
Prepared to encounter our big-booted Czar,
So he drew up his legions—serf, vassal and thrall,
His footmen, and horsemen, and cannons, and all,
Then out spake bold Omar, his hand on his sword,
In an attitude fitting an Ottoman Lord,
“O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to see St. Sophia, you big-booted Czar?”
“I’ve long asked your homage, my suit you denied,
And my holy religion you’ve scorned and decried,
So now I’ve come down with this army of mine,
The rights and the wrongs of the case to define,
And you have not a chance, for the Musselman star
Must pale when it looks on the flag of the Czar.”
He flung down his challenge, the Turk took it up
(Remarking on slips ’twixt the lip and the cup),
88
And deigned to his logic the briefest reply,
“That the claim was unjust, and its proof was a lie,”
And he brought up some thousands of swords as a bar
To further advance by the big-booted Czar.
So before Oltenitza the battle took place,
And the Russian thought proper to right about face,
For the guns of Stamboul had a menacing boom,
And a bombshell sent flying the Dannenburg plume,
And the Cossacks all grumbled, “’Twere better by far
To eat tallow at home than dine out with the Czar”,
One hint would not do, nor one word in his ear,
The despot commands, and his men persevere—
So again to the breezes their standards are flung,
And Kalafat echoes the war-trumpet tongue,
And the Ottoman, charging, has scattered afar
The ill-fated troops of the big-booted Czar.
There was wild disarray in the rear and the van,
The Moslem they rode, and the Cossacks they ran.
There was racing and chasing—’twas pleasing to see
The Russ as well beat as a Russian can be.
May this, and much worse, be all fortune of war
That awaits the old pirate, the big-booted Czar.
Shirley Brooks, 1854.

The Prince of Wales’s Ride.

(à la Lochinvar.)

The Prince of Wales was present at the autumn manœuvres in 1871, and the Times gave the following account of a part he took in a sham fight:—

“A party of the dashing 10th Hussars had pushed on too far up the hill, and were captured by our cavalry, and given in as killed by an umpire. They were standing—dead men all—on the ridge, when the Prince and his staff rode up the hill-side, and made towards three of Staveley’s guns. In a few seconds His Royal Highness had discovered whose the guns were, and galloped up to the troop of the 10th, who were prisoners (but he did not know it), placed himself at their head, and ordered them to charge the guns. The gunners, perceiving this manœuvre, with great smartness, but little loyalty, put four rounds into the Prince and his Hussars before they were ridden down. The Prince claimed the battery, and an umpire was sent for. Sir H. Grant, Sir C. Staveley, and others came, and the Prince and his party were given in as prisoners; but when Sir Charles claimed them, the Prince laughed and galloped off. Then was seen the Heir Apparent, flying before a general of division and his staff, who kept up the pursuit with a will, to loud cries of “Stop him!” “Don’t let him go!” “Seize the Prince!” One of Sir Charles’s aides-de-camp got so close that he could have laid his hand on the Prince’s shoulder, but neither for big guns, nor small arms, nor shouts would the Prince draw bridle, and he got clear away, and vanished into the woods below the hill.”

It was Albert of Wales and his troop of Hussars,
Who took horse one fine day to go off to the wars;
And their trappings were brilliant, their sabres were bright,
As they rode to the Sham (for it was a sham) Fight.
“And if any would take the wind out of our sails,
They must look sharp about it!” says Albert of Wales.
“It is rather slow work, this,” then Albert said he.
“And to stand and do nothing will hardly suit me.
At the side of yon hill, where those clouds of smoke hang,
Are the enemy’s cannon—hark! there they go—Bang!
Let us try to surprise them—a rush seldom fails:
Balaclava the Second!” shouts Albert of Wales.
With a crash and a waving of sabres in air,
Down they swoop on the gunners—and how these last stare!
But although they are startled, not one of them runs:
They are Britons, and doggedly stick to their guns,
“Now surrender!” (a bombardier thus the Prince hails):
“Do you yield?”—“No, but you do!” says Albert of Wales.
“You are captured, each man Jack!” says he with a laugh.—
“I beg pardon, your Highness, it’s you and your staff.”—
“Oh dear, no!”—“Yes, yes, really,” the umpire submits,
“As your Highness’s men would be knocked all to bits,
You must yield yourselves up—no resistance avails.”—
“Don’t you wish you may get it?” says Albert of Wales.
With a jerk at his rein, and a stroke of his whip,
Then the Prince turns his charger, and gives them the slip.
“You have not got me yet,” says he: “follow who may,
He must gallop who’s going to take me to-day!
You’ll excuse my not stopping to talk of details—
I am off in a hurry!” says Albert of Wales.
Then in haste follows Staveley, and off gallops Grant:
“Hallo there!”—“Hold him, now!”—“Oh, I’ll stop him!”—“You Can’t!”
Down the Hill the Prince goes, seeming little to reck
That the Heir to the Throne can break only one neck.
“It’s at this sort of speed that they carry the mails;
Let who can overtake me!” cries Albert of Wales.
Judy, October 11, 1871.

The Late Light of the Bar.
Choice of Stoke-upon-Trent, lo, Kenealy[36] confest,
Pledged to see the foul wrongs of Sir Roger redressed!
Save his grievance and gingham he weapons had none;
He went unabashed, and he went all alone,
As though stainless in ’scutcheon, in fame without scar,—
Who e’er equalled for brass this late Light of the Bar?
He stayed not for scoff, and he stopped not for groan;
What were “Orders” to him, who takes orders from none?
But ere he alighted at Westminster Gate,
The House was well-filled, though the doctor came late;
For the night’s blushing honours were shared, and at par,
’Twixt John Mitchel and him, this late Light of the Bar.
So boldly he entered the High Commons’ hall,
Among Whigs, Rads, Conservatives, alien all,
While calm, cold, and cutting, the Speaker was heard,
Through the silence, unbroken by cheer or by word,
“In breach of the House-Standing-Order you are,
Without introducers thus passing our Bar!”
“I stuck to the Claimant: his claims were denied:
Bench might beard me and Bar; Bar and Bench I defied!
And now I am come, with this lost cause of mine,
Like Cromwell, to bid hence that ‘bauble’ of thine:
Learn how wide-spread my fame, whom the much-wrongèd Gaikwâr
Had retained,[37] had there not been that sinister Bar.”
89
Dropped by all like hot poker, John Bright took him up—
“Not e’en from such lips should this House dash the cup.
If Whalley has spirit to lend me a hand,
By Stoke-upon-Trent’s new-made Member I’ll stand.”
But Disraeli moved, “Waive the rule, better far:
Some will force their way over, some under, the Bar.”
So the Order was waived, and unblushing in face
He shook hands with the Speaker, swore, scowled at the Mace;
’Twas some time e’er the House could its business resume,
What with Decency’s fret and Propriety’s fume:
While an old stager whispered, “We’re best as we are;
Stick to Orders, that serve, now and then, as a Bar.”
He touched Whalley’s hand, who fought shy, it was clear,
And he reached the Hall-door, with the cabs standing near;
So light in the air his green gingham he swung;
So light to his faithful four-wheeler he sprung—
“I have won! The trick’s done! To the knife it is war!
See The Englishman!”—quoth this Ex-light of the Bar.
There were posters (four-sheet) on The Englishman’s van
With its damp quires the newsboys they roared and they ran:
Vollied dirt at M.P.’s, as at Judges, there flew.
But the lost case of Orton they would not review!
So persistent to pelt, from the mark though so far,
Was e’er Member like this late Light of the Bar!
Punch, March 6, 1875.

Young Stephey Cave.[38]
O, young Stephey Cave is come out of the East,
Through borders Levantine his steed was the beast!
And save his grey goosequill he weapon had none;
He rode all unharm’d, and he rode all alone.
So renowned at accounts, so financially brave,
There never was knight like the young Stephey Cave.
He staid not for passport, he stopped not for Stone;
He took the first steamer where train there was none;
But ere he alighted at Ismail’s gate
The Khedive was ruined; the banker came late,
For a babe at accounts and a scripholding slave
Had forestalled the proud mission of young Stephey Cave.
So boldly he entered proud Ismail’s hall,
Among Pashas and Agas, Effendis and all.
Then spoke those Egyptians, ineffably bored,
(For the poor craven Khedive said never a word,)
“O, come ye to fleece us, or come ye to save,
Or to prove us insolvent, thou young Stephey Cave?”
“I long thought ye bankrupt—the truth ye denied;
Loans swell like the Solway, but ebb like its tide,
And now I am come with this ledger of mine
To go through your figures. You dare not decline!
There are countries in Europe as bankrupt, proud knave,
Who’d gladly be tipped by the young Stephey Cave.”
They threw down the records, bills, bonds, and such stuff;
He tested the figures through sums on his cuff;
He bent down to blush, and he got up to sigh,
With a curl on his lip and disdain in his eye;
He gave his right hand a most tragical wave—
“They’ve swindled thee proper,” said young Stephey Cave.
One pull at the bell, and one crocodile’s tear,
And they ope’d the hall-door, and the Khedive stood near.
So plain to his Highness the plan that he showed,
So strongly perceiving the same he avowed—
“We are saved! We are saved! spite of loan, bond, and knave!”
“They’ll have sharp wits that beat us,” said young Stephey Cave.
There was raving and stamping ’mong Pashas galore;
Frenchmen, Germans, and Yankees, they cursed and they swore;
There was hoping and waiting ’mong bondholders free,
But the fruits of his mission ne’er did they see.
So renowned at accounts, so financially brave,
Have ye e’er heard of banker like young Stephey Cave?
Benjamin D——. His Little Dinner, 1876.

Young Lochinvar.
The True Story in Blank Verse.
Oh! young Lochinvar has come out of the West,
Thro’ all the wide border his horse has no equal,
Having cost him forty-five dollars at the market,
Where good nags, fresh from the country,
With burrs still in their tails are selling
For a song; and save his good broad sword
He weapon had none, except a seven-shooter
Or two, a pair of brass knuckles, and an Arkansaw
Toothpick in his boot, so, comparatively speaking,
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone,
Because there was no one going his way.
He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for
Toll-gates; he swam the Erke River where ford
There was none, and saved fifteen cents
In ferriage, but lost his pocket-book, containing
Seventeen dollars and a half, by the operation.
Ere he alighted at the Netherby mansion
He stopped to borrow a dry suit of clothes,
And this delayed him considerably, so when
He arrived the bride had consented—the gallant
Came late—for a laggard in love and a dastard in war
Was to wed the fair Ellen, and the guests had assembled.
So, boldly he entered the Netherby Hall
Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and
Brothers-in-law and forty or fifty cousins;
Then spake the bride’s father, his hand on his sword
(For the poor craven bridegroom ne’er opened his head):
“Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in anger,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”
“I long wooed your daughter, and she will tell you
I have the inside track in the free-for-all
For her affections! my suit you denied; but let
That pass, while I tell you, old fellow, that love
Swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide,
And now I am come with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one glass of beer;
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far
That would gladly be bride to yours very truly.”
The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the nectar and threw down the mug,
Smashing it into a million pieces, while
He remarked that he was the son of a gun
90
From Seven-up and run the Number Nine.
She looked down to blush, but she looked up again
For she well understood the wink in his eye;
He took her soft hand ere her mother could
Interfere, “Now tread we a measure; first four
Half right and left; swing,” cried young Lochinvar.
One touch to her hand and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall door and the charger
Stood near on three legs eating post hay;
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,
Then leaped to the saddle before her.
“She is won! we are gone! over bank, bush, and spar,
They’ll have swift steeds that follow”—but in the
Excitement of the moment he had forgotten
To untie the horse, and the poor brute could
Only gallop in a little circus around the
Hitching-post; so the old gent collared
The youth and gave him the awfullest lambasting
That was ever heard of on Canobie Lee;
So dauntless in war and so daring in love,
Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
Free Press Flashes, 1883.

——:o:——

Marmion Travesty.

Marmion was published in February, 1808, when the Duke of York was Commander-in-Chief of the British Army. A scandal in connection with this office gave rise to a very successful burlesque of Marmion, about which a few explanatory notes must be given. Frederic, Duke of York (the second son of George III., born in 1763), having proved his utter incapacity as a general in the field, during several disastrous campaigns in Flanders and Holland, was raised to the lucrative post of Commander-in-Chief of the Army. Notwithstanding that he was married to a daughter of the King of Prussia, he took several ladies under his protection, one of whom, Mrs. Mary Anne Clarke, was also married. The Duke, in addition to an unfortunate attachment to the pleasures of the table, was also an inveterate and unlucky gamester, consequently the allowance of £1,000 a year which he had promised to Mrs. Clarke was always in arrear.

Unable to support the expensive establishment which she had started at the Duke’s instigations, Mrs. Clarke proceeded, with much business aptitude, to sell Commissions in the Army, to arrange promotions, and to effect transfers, pocketing very large sums for her services, which, in most cases, were crowned with success. Colonel Wardle, M.P. for Oakingham, brought the subject before the House of Commons, an enquiry was instituted, Mrs. Clarke was examined as a witness, and stated that she always found the Duke of York willing to promote the gentlemen whose names she recommended to his notice. The evidence taken before the Committee was so damaging to the character of the Duke that he resigned his office before the House had fully decided on its report. Sir David Dundas was appointed Commander-in-Chief, but he only held the position for a short time. As soon as the public indignation had in some degree subsided, the Duke of York resumed the office, having by the clever ruse of a temporary resignation, escaped the almost certain vote of censure of the House of Commons.

Upon these circumstances was founded “Marmion travestied; a tale of Modern Times, by Peter Pry, Esq. London; Thomas Tegg, Cheapside. 1809.” The keynote of this amusing volume is given by the motto, taken from Gay:—

’Tis Woman that seduces all mankind;
By her we first are taught the wheedling arts;
Her very eyes can cheat when most she’s kind;
She tricks us of our money with our hearts.

The Travesty was inscribed by its author to “Walter Scott, Esq., Advocate.” Each canto is introduced by lines addressed either to Sir Francis Burdett, R. B. Sheridan, Sir David Dundas, Sir Robert Peel, or Lord Ellenborough.

The poem consists of 277 pages, octavo, and deals very closely with the Clarke case, so that unless the reader has by him the Report containing the evidence taken before the House, some of the allusions would be unintelligible, especially as the names are only indicated by italics, and the volume is destitute of any explanatory notes.

As one of the longest and most important burlesques in the language it could not be passed over, but unfortunately it offers few passages, which detached from the context, would interest the modern reader, and even these might be considered rather broad in their allusions.

The parody it contains of Lady Heron’s song, Lochinvar, is entitled “The Bishop,” an allusion to the fact that the Duke of York was Prince-Bishop of Osnaburg, a post for which his high moral character admirably fitted him.

The Bishop.
O, a Bishop from Surrey is come here to pray,
Throughout our dominions no man is more gay;
And save one in a corner, he favourites had none,
For he was so moderate, he lov’d only one;
So faithful in love and so fervent in pray’rs
That never did man better manage affairs.
He staid not for cash—tho’ he ask’d for a loan,
But he that cur’d tooth-aches, provided him none;
And ere he’d neglect things of love or of state
He came without money, for fear he’d come late,
For a laggard in love, is a fool, he declares,
Unworthy of Cupid, or e’en state affairs.
To worship his saint did he thus take a trip,
And, quite pilgrim-like, with no cash in his scrip;
When one of the vestals, the Bishop attacked,
(It seems that the altar some sacrifice lack’d),
Oh! come you with money, or come you with pray’rs,
Or come you with vows that you’ll settle affairs?
Without you have cash must your suit be denied,
Love swells like the ocean but ebbs like its tide;
So now I observe—and observe very true,
That if you’ve no money, your kissing won’t do;
Your Grace need not take empty pockets upstairs,
It is a long-purse that must manage affairs.
The saint then appear’d and the Bishop soon pray’d;
His vows—but not one of the house-bills—were paid.
She look’d up for more and she look’d down in vain,
For searching his small clothes, they nought did contain.
She wish’d to know how she should settle arrears,
“Good morrow,” said he, and thus managed affairs.
How sudden his exit—how wild was her look,
For now his departure she scarcely could brook;
While her sister did fret and her housemaid did fume,
And her friends in a passion walk’d all round the room,
91
And the servants too whisper’d, “She’s wrong, who e’er dares,
To meddle so much with a Bishop’s affairs.”
One hint by the way—and one word in your ear
If ever you wish to be darling and dear
Ne’er talk to a Bishop ’bout mammon, but know
His blessing’s enough, as the sequel will show;
“She is false—then farewell—let her rail, but who cares;
Another I’ll find that can manage affairs.”
And to manage affairs is a business of art,
A secret which prudence forbids to impart,
A secret which e’en in the Cabinet reigns,
For statesmen can always display ways and means;
In love or in war whoe’er stratagem spares,
Deserves not a blessing to prosper affairs.

The Duke of York died early in 1827, to the great regret of all—his numerous creditors, and the nation erected an expensive monument to commemorate his military genius, and domestic virtues.[39] Perhaps the money might have been as well employed in the payment of some of his debts.

——:o:——

THE LADY OF THE LAKE.

The success of Marmion encouraged Scott to produce another poem, and in May, 1810, was published The Lady of the Lake, which met with equal favour. In the preface to his new poem Walter Scott made the following sensible remarks:—

“If a man is determined to make a noise in the world, he is as sure to encounter abuse and ridicule, as he who gallops furiously through a village, must reckon on being followed by the curs in full cry. Experienced persons know, that in stretching to flog the latter, the rider is very apt to catch a bad fall; nor is an attempt to chastise a malignant critic attended with less danger to the author. On this principle I let parody, burlesque, and squibs, find their own level; and while the latter hissed most fiercely, I was cautious never to catch them up, as school-boys do, to throw them back against the naughty boy who fired them off, wisely remembering that they are in such cases apt to explode in the handling.”

The philosophical temperament of which he here boasts was soon put to a severe test, for George Colman the younger produced a parody in which every technical blemish in The Lady of the Lake was mercilessly ridiculed, and every improbability maliciously exaggerated, whilst Scott’s long Notes on antiquarian and philological topics were imitated with very comical mock gravity. This clever satire was entitled, “The Lady of the Wreck; or Castle Blarneygig,” by George Colman the younger, inscribed to the author of “The Lady of the Lake.” This poem was published by Longmans and Co., London, and was illustrated by some curious and very well executed little woodcuts. The scene of the story is laid in Ireland, and the author thus explains his reason for selecting that country:—

“Let not the reader, whose senses have been delightfully intoxicated by that Scottish Circe, the “Lady of the Lake,” accuse the present author of plagiary. The wild Irish and wild Caledonians bore a great resemblance to each other, in very many particulars; and two Poets, who have any “method in their madness,” may, naturally, fall into similar strains of wildness, when handling subjects equally wild and remote. ’Tis a wild world, my masters! The author of this work has merely adopted the style which a northern Genius has, of late, rendered the Fashion, and the Rage. He has attempted, in this instance, to become a maker of the Modern-Antique; a vendor of a new coinage, begrim’d with the ancient ærugo; a constructor of the dear pretty sublime, and sweet little grand; a writer of a short epick poem, stuff’d with romantick knick-knackeries, and interlarded with songs and ballads, à la mode de Chevy Chase, Edom o’ Gordon, Sir Launcelot du Lake, &c., &c. How is such a writer to be class’d?”

Scott’s descriptions of scenery, his love of sport, and chivalrous tone are all, in this burlesque, reduced to a very prosaic level; thus the lines in Canto I commencing:—

“The stag at eve had drunk his fill,
Where danced the moon on Monan’s rill,
And deep his midnight lair had made
In lone Glenartney’s hazel shade.”

are, by Colman, rendered thus:—

“The Pig, at eve, was lank, and faint,
Where Patrick is the Patron Saint,
And with his peasant Lord, unfed,
Went, grunting, to their common bed:
But when black night her sables threw
Athwart the slough of Ballyloo,
The deep-mouth’d thunder’s angry roar
Re-bellow’d on the Ulster shore,
And hailstones pelted, mighty big,
The Towers of Castle Blarneygig.
*  *  *  *  *
And all the Vassals’ senses lay
Drown’d in the whisky of the day.
Still raged the storm!—still, records run,
All slept in Blarneygig, save one,
Lord of the Castle, and Domain,
Sir Tooleywhagg O’Shaughnashane.”

In Canto II. of The Lady of the Lake occurs the celebrated and often quoted

Boat Song.
Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances!
Honour’d and bless’d be the ever-green Pine!
Long may the tree, in his banner that glances,
Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!
92
Heaven send it happy dew,
Earth lend it sap anew,
Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to grow,
While every Highland glen
Sends our shout back agen,
“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!”
*  *  *  *  *
Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands,
Stretch to your oars for the ever-green Pine!
O that the rose-bud that graces yon islands
Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine!
O that some seedling gem,
Worthy such noble stem,
Honour’d and bless’d in their shadow might grow!
Loud should Clan-Alpine then
Ring from the deepmost glen,
“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!”

In Colman’s version the Lord of Castle Blarneygig is the hero of the song:—

“Soon did the deep Cream Crutin twang,
And, thus, as loud the chorus rang,
The Vassals, at the Banquet, sang.”

Banquet Song.[40]
Hail our Chief! now he’s wet through with whiskey;
Long life to the Lady come from the salt seas!
Strike up, blind harpers! skip high to be frisky!
For what is so gay as a bag-full of fleas?
Crest of O’Shaughnashane!—
That’s a Potato, plain,—
Long may your root every Irishman know!
Pats long have stuck to it,
Long bid good luck to it;
Whack for O’Shaughnashane! Tooleywhagg, ho!
Our’s is an esculent lusty and lasting;
No turnip nor other weak babe of the ground;
Waxy or mealy, it hinders from fasting
Half Erin’s inhabitants, all the year round.
Wants the soil, where ’tis flung,
Hog’s, cow’s, or horse’s dung,
Still does the Crest of O’Shaughnashane grow;
Shout for it, Ulster men,
Till the bogs quake again!
Whack for O’Shaughnashane! Tooleywhagg, ho!
Drink, Paddies, drink to the Lady so shining!
While flouret shall open, and bog-trotter dig,
So long may the sweet Rose of Beauty be twining
Around the potato of proud Blarneygig!
While the plant vegetates,
While whisky recreates,
Wash down the root from the horns that o’erflow;
Shake your shillalahs, boys!
Screeching drunk, scream your joys!
Whack for O’Shaughnashane! Tooleywhagg, ho!

The Song in Canto III, commencing thus:—

The heath this night must be my bed,
The bracken curtain for my head,
My lullaby the warder’s tread,
Far, far, from love and thee, Mary;
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid,
My couch may be my bloody plaid,
My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid!
It will not waken me, Mary!
*  *  *  *  *

is thus parodied:—

Song of the Bridegroom.
Don’t, now, be after being coy;
Sit still upon my lap, dear joy!
And let us at our breakfast, toy,
For thou art Wife to me, Judy!
And I am bound, by wedlock’s chain,
Thy humble sarvant to remain,
Sir Tooleywhagg O’Shaughnashane,
The Husband unto thee, Judy!
*  *  *  *  *
The skins of Wolves,—by me they bled,—
Are covers to our Marriage-Bed;
Should one, in hunting, bite me dead,
A widow thou wilt be, Judy!
Howl at my wake! ’twill be but kind;
And if I leave, as I’ve design’d,
Some little Tooleywhaggs behind,
They’ll sarve to comfort thee, Judy!

Several other parts of this parody might be quoted, but unfortunately Mr. Colman’s muse was not quite so chaste as that of Walter Scott.


The libretto of an Italian opera was founded upon The Lady of the Lake (and such librettos are always burlesques on the original poem), besides which it has been frequently represented, in various forms, on the stage. One very amusing version, by Andrew Halliday, entitled “Mountain Dhu; or, the Knight, the Lady, and the Lake,” was produced at the Adelphi Theatre, on December 26, 1866. This burlesque was full of parodies of Scotch songs with topical allusions. The leading parts were performed by Mrs. Alfred Mellon, Miss Furtado, and Paul Bedford, with J. L. Toole as Rhoderick Dhu. About the same time Miss M. Oliver produced “The Lady of the Lake plaid in a new Tartan, an ephemeral burlesque,” by R. Reece, at the New Royalty Theatre, London, but this was decidedly inferior in literary merit to Mr. Halliday’s Mountain Dhu.


Hail to the Chief!
(A Popular Pæan.   After Sir Walter.)
Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances!
Sharp be his axe, and resplendent its shine,
Long may the light of his fire-flashing glances!
Fervently flame in the front of our line!
93
Heaven his strength renew,
Still keep him stout and true,
Gaily to battle, and greatly to grow;
While all true Englishmen
Send forth the shout agen,
“Gladstone victorious! Ho-ieroe!”
Ours is no stripling, no Knight of the Carpet!
Blooming at seventy, when shall he fade?
Him, of the People, in Peace or in War, pet,
Years cannot fetter, nor foes make afraid,
Firm as the fixèd rock,
Braving the tempest’s shock,
Faster he roots him the fiercer it blow.
England and Scotland then
Echo his praise agen,
“Gladstone victorious! Ho-ieroe!”
Far in Midlothian his pibroch pealed loudly,
And Torydom’s shout to his slogan replied.
Dauntless Dalkeith there confronted him proudly,
But little the Veteran recked of his pride.
“Fagots” all prostrate laid
Long shall lament his raid,
Think of “Old Gladstone” with wonder and woe:
Buccleuch’s brave voting men
Shake when they hear agen
“Gladstone victorious! Ho-ieroe!”
Shout, bearers, shout, for the Pride of the Party!
Lift on your shoulders the evergreen Chief.
Stalwart at seventy, stout, hale, and hearty,
Who of his laurels will grudge him a leaf?
And there’s a stripling gem,
Worthy the ancient stem—
Middlesex missed him, but Leeds won’t say “No.”
Loud shall all England then
Shout for the pair agen,
“Gladstone and Gladstone’s boy! Ho-ieroe!”
Punch, April 24, 1880.

——:o:——

The following lines are in imitation of the opening of Canto III., entitled The Gathering. They are apropos of Mr. Gladstone’s visit to Scotland in August, 1884, during the agitation about the Franchise Bill.

Raising theFiery Cross.
(Some way after Sir Walter Scott).
Time rolls his ceaseless course. That fight of yore,
When the Great Earl was beaten to his knee,
When Gladstone’s rhetoric rolled from shore to shore,
Herald and harbinger of victory,
Is not yet blotted from man’s memory.
How few, how weak and withered of their force
The Tory remnant, which all men might see
Like stranded wrecks. The tide returning hoarse
Sets them afloat again! Time rolls its ceaseless course.
There yet live those who can remember well
When last the Liberal Chief his bugle blew;
When county broad and borough big, as well
As far Midlothian’s heart, the signal knew,
And fast the faithful clan around him drew.
And now again his warning note is wound,
Again the banner floats as then it flew;
Whilst now the clamorous war-pipes shrilly sound,
And now the Fiery Cross gleams like a meteor round.
The Summer Sun’s effulgent hue
Gilds Scotia’s skies of bluest blue;
Autumn’s at hand, but a brisk breeze,
Born of conflicting policies,
Blows o’er the land, and leisure coy,
And sport’s supreme soul-stirring joy,
Are not for Members sorely prest,
The prospect of unbroken rest
In dull uncertainty still lies
Far off, ’neath drear December’s skies.
The Peers have crossed the People’s right,
And there is bound to be a fight!
Against the ermine and the lawn
The proletariat blade is drawn,
Members must leave the mountain’s side,
The trout stream’s swift and silvery glide;
To raise the sword and shout the cry
Amidst the roused democracy.
Good-bye to grouse, to health’s fair flush,
The pheasant’s whirr, the salmon’s rush,
War’s raven croaks, the cushat dove
Hushes her notes of peace and love.
No thought of peace or Autumn rest
Hath harbour in the Chieftain’s breast.
With unsheathed broadsword in his hand,
He’ll pace the war-awakened land.
Strife’s rising he has heard and laid
His hand upon his ready blade,
His foot’s a rock. His vassals’ care
Midlothian promptly will prepare,
Where he aforetime lessons taught
With deep and deathful meaning fraught;
Where they shall meet and whence abroad
The Cross of Fire shall take its road.
The land would hear his vocal blasts,
And see the flashing glance he casts:
Such glance the mountain-eagle throws,
When high among the peaks and snows
He spreads his pinions on the wind,
And, like an albatross reclined
Mid-air, with his broad shadow hushes
The chirpers of the brakes and bushes.
’Tis all prepared! Firm as a rock,
And bold to brave the stormiest shock,
With kindling eye, with floating plaid,
Wide waving hair and flashing blade,
The Chieftain stands, heroic, grim,
Of dauntless front, and sinewy limb.
The Cross is shaped, and held on high;
The Chieftain of the eagle eye
Rears it aloft with clutch of steel,
Whilst far resounds his fierce appeal:—
“When flits this Cross from man to man,
Vich-Gladstone’s summons to his clan,
Woe to the clansman who shall view
This symbol, loved of followers true,
Forgetful that when last the blue
Beheld its blaze its beaconing drew
Beaconsfield’s glory low!
Deserter of his Chieftain’s trust,
He shall be scattered like the dust,
And from all loyal gatherings thrust,
Each clansman’s execration just
Shall doom him wrath and woe!”
He stops;—the word his followers take
With forward step and fiery shake
Of naked brands that lightnings make,
And clattering shields that echoes wake;
And first in murmur low,
Then like a Demonstration’s course
94
That Hyde parkwards doth his in force,
And purple shouts itself, and hoarse,
Burst from that thousand-throated source,
“Woe to such traitors, woe!”
The Chiefs grey locks defiant wave,
The Tories scarce that Cross may brave;
The exulting Rads hurrah afar—
They know the voice of Gladstone’s War!
Punch, August 30, 1884.

——:o:——

ROKEBY.

Rokeby was the next important poem produced by Scott,—it appeared early in 1813, and was quickly followed by a burlesque, entitled “Jokeby; a Burlesque on Rokeby. A Poem in Six Cantos, by an Amateur of Fashion.” To which are added Occasional Notes, by our most popular characters. London, printed for Thomas Tegg, 1813. The notes are in imitation of the style of learned commentators, and are signed by Sheridan, Kemble, Colman, and others. The only portion of this now-forgotten parody which is worth quoting, is a song founded on that in Canto III. Rokeby, commencing:—

“O, Brignall banks are wild and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there,
Would grace a summer queen.”
Song.
Oh, Giles’s lads are brave and gay,
The pride of Dyott Street,
And though in dwellings low they stay,
Yet snug is their retreat.
And as I walked thro’ Russel-square,
To see what I could see,
A fair one from a window there
Was singing merrily
Chorus
“Oh, Giles’s lads are brave and gay,
The pride of Dyott Street;
I’d rather with my Cymon stray,
Than live in country seat.”
If, fair, thou wou’dst for me agree,
To leave this house and place,
Thou first must guess what boys we are,
Who sweet St. Giles’s grace.
And if thou can’st this riddle tell,
As tell you may with ease,
Then shalt thou enter soon our cell,
As merry as you please.
Chorus
Yet sung she “Giles’s lads are gay,
The pride of Dyott Street;
I’d rather with my Cymon stray,
Than live in country seat.”
“I guess you by your awkward feet,
And by your stoop to boot;
I guess you for a taylor meet,
To make a marriage suit.”
“A taylor, madam, bends his knees,
And not for sake of prayer;
His legs are always fix’d at ease,
And mine are here and there.”
Chorus
Yet sung she, “Giles’s lads are gay,
The pride of Dyott Street;
I wish I could with Cymon stray,
And see his snug retreat.”
“By the fine compliments I’ve met,
And by your gallant airs,
I guess you for a ’Squire’s valet,
Who for him lies and swears.”
“No servant I to any Squire,
Nor yet a place have I,
And when that trials hard require,
I can both swear and lie.”
Chorus
And, oh! though Giles’s lads are gay,
The pride of Dyott Street,
Yet never lass with me shall stray,
To see our snug retreat.
“Lady, a shameful life I lead,
A shameful death I’ll die;
The man who labours hard for bread
Were better spouse than I.
And when I meet my comrades rare,
In places distant far;
We all forget what once we were,
Nor think on what we are.”
Chorus
Yet Giles’s lads are bold and gay,
The pride of Dyott Street;
And ever true and merry they,
Within their snug retreat.

Jokeby went through many editions, although to a modern reader it seems almost destitute of humour or talent. It has been attributed to John Roby, and also to Thomas Tegg, its publisher, whilst the Editor of Parodies copied the following note from a copy of Jokeby, which had belonged to the late Shirley Brooks, Editor of Punch:—“This was written by the Brothers Smith (of Rejected Addresses). I picked it up at a bookstall near Baker Street. The work is not good for much, but I suppose is now scarce, so this may as well be kept.—Shirley Brooks, 17th October, 1873.” But it seems most improbable that this poor imitation should have been the work of either of the Smiths, whose admirable parody of Scott in the Rejected Addresses, which was given on page 72, shows what they could do in that way.

There was also Smokeby a Parody of the same poem, which appeared in an early number of the Ephemerides, a literary serial, published in Edinburgh in 1813. Rokeby the Second is the title of a long, and rather dull, parody which appeared in The Satirist, of March. 1813. The events recounted in the poem are supposed to have occurred immediately after the dreadful fight between Tom Cribb and Molineux. The chief aim of this production was to ridicule Scott for the inordinate length of the notes to his poems, for in a preface entitled “An Essay on the Art of Book Making,” the author remarks: “It must be known to everyone, that in modern bookmaking, little depends on the poetry of a poem. The notes are the thing on which success depends. In these, difficult as it may seem to come up to the authors of Childe Harold and Rokeby, I am vain enough to think I shall not be found wanting.” Accordingly, the notes are very long (as well as rather broad), and have very little connection indeed with the parody itself.

95 The Satirist, or Monthly Meteor (London), first appeared on October 1, 1807, and was discontinued in 1814. It contained numerous political parodies, and with each number there was a large coloured folding cartoon. The tone of the Satirist was decidedly Tory, and both in its cartoons and its letterpress the Whigs were roundly abused and ridiculed.

The parts published December, 1808, and January, 1809, contained two articles entitled “Second Sight,” which professed to be a review of a new poem entitled “MacArthur, an Epic Poem, in six Cantos, by Walter Scott, Esq.” This review not only gave the plot of the supposed work, but also quoted several extracts from it, such as the following:—

“And every eye was turn’d to see
What such a goodly smell might be!
When, lo! upon the sideboard plac’d,
With mottoes quaint and scutcheons grac’d,
And crest erect on high;
In noble dish of china-ware,
Adorn’d with gold and pictures rare,
Stood, and perfumed the neighbouring air,
A lofty pigeon-pie!
And round its edge, in bas relieve,
The curious gazer might perceive
S.W. and P.I.!
*  *  *  *  *
Knows well, no doubt the curious sage,
And poet’s mind, and head of age,
What such devices mean;
Who made this pie, of high renown,
A baker was, of Derby town,
His sire reap’d beards at Horsleydown,
An honest wight, I ween;
His sister a damsel of Etwall-ash,
His mother a matron of Enfield-wash,
And laundress to the Queen!
And long could he trace his ancestry,
Too long for my weak minstrelsy.”
*  *  *  *  *

——:o:——

Valentines,

A Fragment.

… “It was then proposed that we should each of us compose a poem for the next St. Valentine’s Day. The idea was readily adopted, and the Minstrel, who has a knack of pouring the unpremeditated lay, after a very short prelude on the bagpipes, sang the following irregular lines, accompanying his voice with great taste on that expressive instrument:—

I who, of Norham’s castled steep,
And Tweed’s fair river, broad and deep,
And Cheviot’s mountains lone;
The battled towers, the Donjon keep,
The loophole grates where captives weep,
The flanking walls that round it sweep,
Built of the thickest stone:—
Of stalworth knight and champion grim
With square-turn’d joints and strength of limb;
Of Haco’s floating banner trim;
Of Wallace wight, and Martin Swart,
Who came on baker Simnel’s part;
Of abbots, monks and jovial friars,
Of simple nuns and purblind priors,
Of heralds, pursuivants, and squires;
And wanton lady’s charms;
Of painted tabards, proudly showing
Gules, argent, or, or azure glowing,
And him, that Satirist, so knowing,
Of whom we still make some account,
Sir David Lindsay, of the mount,
Lord lion king at arms:—
*  *  *  *  *
I, who have sung of all of these;—
And eke of that same cuckold lord,
Sir Hugh the Heron bold,
Baron of Twissel and of Ford,
And Captain of the Hold.
Who led the Falcon knight to the deas,
And posted him full high
With a fresh broach’d pipe of Malvoisie
And a savoury venison pie:
From the bare north, my distant home
A border minstrel, lo! I come;
Who much, I ween, have pored
On many a huge unwieldy tome
Imprinted at the antique dome,
Of Caxton, or de Worde:
To dear St. Valentine no thrush,
Sings livelier from a Springtide bush;
Then pay me half-a-crown a line,
And I will be thy Valentine.”

This Valentine parody appeared in The Satirist for February, 1810, with another poem imitating the style of M. G. Lewis.

In January, 1811, there was another long parody of Walter Scott, in the same journal. It was entitled The Ovation of the Empty Chair, and commenced:—

O that I had the muse I wot,
The buxom muse of Walter Scott,
Whose wand’ring verse and vagrant rhymes,
Recite the tales of other times;
Then should that simple muse declare,
Th’ ovation of the empty chair.

This parody relates to the imprisonment in the Tower of Sir Francis Burdett, the Radical Member for Westminster, and father of the present Lady Burdett Coutts.

——:o:——

On the death of Mr. Henry James Pye, the Poet Laureate, in 1813, and during the discussion which ensued as to his probable successor, The Satirist published a collection of applications for the post. These applications (supposed to have been written by the most eminent poets of the day), contained specimens of such odes and addresses as they would have been prepared to manufacture in praise of the monarch, and his family, on appointment to the office. The authors thus parodied were Hannah More, George Colman, Lord Byron, W. Wordsworth, Thomas Campbell, Robert Southey, Walter Scott, and George Crabbe. The notes which accompanied the parodies were more interesting than the poems themselves, of which, indeed, the only one which would be worth quoting was a parody on Robert Southey. That on Walter Scott was poor stuff, and most of the others are quite out of date.

——:o:——

96
Walter Scott, Esq., to his Publishers.
Be not discouraged—gentlemen,
Tho’ criticism has run me down—
Tho’ burlesque has assum’d my pen,
And Plagiary stole my renown—
Give me more cash—I’ll take more pains,
And far surpass my former strains
In Metaphor and thought.
My fancy too shall soar so high,
That burlesque writers I’ll defy,
And critics set at naught.
Successful in my first essay,
My friends began to greet—
My First, entitled the Last Lay—
No minstrel sung more sweet—
Then envy slept and I became,
At once a Poet of great fame;
For much applause I had—
Proud of the offspring of my pen,
I was resolved to write agen,
And to my laurels add.
My Marmion I then gave the town,
In strains energetic and bold;
The critics were ready to own,
The battle sublimely was told.
But one Peter Pry,
His humour must try,
To burlesque the poem I’d written;
To me it did seem
A wonderful theme,
For any to exercise wit on.
Resolved another work to make,
I wrote the Lady of the Lake;
The Lady was so much the rage,
That she was brought upon the stage;
But grief to tell!
The younger Colman must think fit,
(In order to display his wit)
My Lady, who the Lake did deck,
To make the Lady of the Wreck;
Nor was this all—for—oh, for shame!
Presumptuous Plagiary, I wot,
Stole all my sentiments and plot,
And made a novel of the same.
I’ll nought of Don Roderic say,
For that, sirs, had never fair play
And well the poor author may rail
In oblivion Don Roderic lay;
For all must allow,
There wer’nt puffs enow,
And how could it then have a sale?
I then my dear Rokeby devised—
By Murray ’twas well advertised;
For he made a boast
In the Times and the Post,
(And many the puffs too believed)
That he the first copies received—
But oh my unfortunate Rokeby;
Who e’er of a parody dream’t,
To bring thee thus into comtempt,
Metamorphosing thee into Jokeby.
When I saw—oh, how great was my passion,
The bills upon Edinburgh wall—
Fit dress for this writer of fashion[41]
I sent men to cover them all.
Now, gentlemen, as I have hinted,
I wish a new work to be printed—
Another’s already prepared,
Then don’t let your money be spared.
I hate in my price to be stinted—
’Tis such—it will baffle all wit,
’Tis such that no burlesque can hit;
’Tis such so sublime and so grand—
The critics will not understand.
And I long—ah, I long now to show ’em,
The charms of my forthcoming Poem.
From Accepted Addresses, or Præmium Poetarum.
London, Thomas Tegg, 1813.

——:o:——

The Poetic Mirror, or the Living Bards of Britain,” is the title of a small volume published by Longmans & Co., London, in 1816. This contains poems which are ascribed, in the index, to Lord Byron, Walter Scott, W. Wordsworth, James Hogg, S. T. Coleridge, J. Wilson, and Robert Southey. In the introduction the Editor remarks that he claims no merit save that of having procured from the authors the various Poems contained in the volume, and he leads one to believe that the names affixed to the Poems represent the real authors.

The Editor of Parodies purchased this little old book in March, 1879, and by a singular coincidence he picked up in the same shop “The Altrive Tales,” by the Ettrick Shepherd (London, 1832). This contains a memoir of the author, James Hogg, written by himself. In it Hogg thus describes the origin of The Poetic Mirror: “My next literary adventure was the most extravagant of any. I took it into my head that I would collect a poem from every living author in Britain, and publish them in a neat and elegant volume, by which I calculated I might make my fortune. I applied to Southey, Wilson, Wordsworth, Lloyd, Morehead, Pringle, Paterson, and several others, all of whom sent me poems. Wordsworth reclaimed his, Byron and Rogers both promised, but neither of them ever performed. Walter Scott absolutely refused to furnish me with even one verse, which I took exceedingly ill, as it frustrated my whole plan. I began, with a heavy heart, to look over the pieces I had received, and lost all hope of the success of my project. After considering them well, I fancied that I could write a better poem than any that had been sent to me, and this so completely in the style of each poet, that it should not be known but for his own production. It was this conceit that suggested to me the idea of “The Poetic Mirror, or the Living Bards of Britain.” I wrote nearly all of it in three weeks, and in less than three months it was published. The second poem in the volume, namely, the Epistle to R—— S—— is not mine. It was written by Mr. Thomas Pringle, and was not meant as an imitation of Scott’s manner, although in the contents it is ascribed to his pen. I do not set any particular value on any poem in the work by myself, except “The Gude Greye Katte,” which was written as a caricature of “The Pilgrims of the Sun,” and some others of my fairy ballads. It is greatly superior to any of them.”

It is only just to the memory of James Hogg to add that the poems in the Poetic Mirror cannot be termed Parodies; they are rather imitations of style, and all the authors mentioned are treated with forbearance; Wordsworth, alone comes in for some slight criticism, called forth by his intense egotism, and offensive self-assertion, of which Hogg, in his memoir, gives some amusing instances.

Besides the Epistle addressed to Southey, in the name of Walter Scott, there is a long poem, in three Cantos, entitled 97Wat o’ the Cleuch,” which would pass very well as a minor poem by Walter Scott himself. In style it somewhat resembles Marmion, whilst Lochinvar was evidently in the author’s mind when he wrote the following sketch of his robber hero:—

Walsinghame’s Song.
O heard ye never of Wat o’ the Cleuch?
The lad that has worrying tikes enow,
Whose meat is the moss, and whose drink is the dew,
And that’s the cheer of Wat o’ the Cleuch.
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
Woe’s my heart for Wat o’ the Cleuch!
Wat o’ the Cleuch sat down to dine
With two pint stoups of good red wine;
But when he looked they both were dry;
O poverty parts good company!
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
O for a drink to Wat o’ the Cleuch!
Wat o’ the Cleuch came down the Tine
To woo a maid both gallant and fine;
But as he came o’er by Dick o’ the side
He smell’d the mutton and left the bride.
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
What think ye now of Wat o’ the Cleuch?
Wat o’ the Cleuch came here to steal,
He wanted milk, and he wanted veal;
But ere he wan o’er the Beetleston brow
He hough’d the calf, and eated the cow!
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
Well done, doughty Wat o’ the Cleuch!
Wat o’ the Cleuch came here to fight,
But his whittle was blunt, and his nag took fright,
And the braggart he did what I dare not tell,
But changed his cheer at the back of the fell.
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
O for a croudy to Wat o’ the Cleuch!
Wat o’ the Cleuch kneel’d down to pray,
He wist not what to do or to say;
But he pray’d for beef, and he pray’d for bree,
A two-hand spoon and a haggies to pree.
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
That’s the cheer for Wat o’ the Cleuch!
But the devil is cunning as I heard say,
He knew his right, and haul’d him away;
And he’s over the border and over the heuch,
And off to hell with Wat o’ the Cleuch.
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
Lack-a-day for Wat o’ the Cleuch!
But of all the wights in poor Scotland,
That ever drew bow or Border brand,
That ever drove English bullock or ewe,
There never was thief like Wat o’ the Cleuch.
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
Down for ever with Wat o’ the Cleuch!

——:o:——

“Warreniana; with Notes Critical and Explanatory, by the Editor of a Quarterly Review,” is the title of a small volume of imitations, published by Longmans and Co., London, in 1824. The Editor signs his prefatory remarks “W.G.” but there is every reason to believe that the work was written by a Barrister, Mr. William Frederic Deacon, who died in, or about 1845. The motto on the title-page gives the key-note to the motive of the poems, “I have even been accused of writing Puffs for Warren’s Blacking,” Lord Byron. Warren’s Blacking inspires each composition, but whether seriously or in jest, can be best judged by the following extract from the dedication to the King: “Deign then, oh best of Princes, to justify the Editor’s appeal, that posterity may learn how Warren enlarged the bounds of science, and his Sovereign bowed approval. Long after the trophies of a Wellington shall have floated down the Lethe of oblivion, the name of Guelph, eternised by the gratitude of Warren, shall flourish to after ages, the Medici of modern art. That as yet this mighty manufacturer has lived comparatively unnoticed, he casts no reflection on your Majesty; he resigns that office to his Blacking, but feels with the sensitiveness of neglected genius, that intellect, like the oak, is but tardy in the attainment of its honours.”

This dedication is followed by an introduction stating that Robert Warren had lately engaged all the intellect of England in his behalf, each author being required to furnish a modicum of praise in the style to which he was best adapted. The result being a collection of writings attributed to Washington Irving, William Wordsworth, Leigh Hunt, Robert Southey, Lord Byron, S. T. Coleridge, Sir Walter Scott, and other authors of less note.

The imitation of Scott is entitled:—

The Battle of Brentford Green.

In the autumn of 1818, a serious affray took place between those illustrious rivals, Warren, and Day and Martin. The parties, as I learn from the black litter record of the fray, met at Brentford, and after a ‘well-foughtenfield,’ victory was decided in favour of the former Chieftain.

The first Canto describes a Wassail in the banquetting-hall of Robert Warren. The second Canto, which is the better of the two, is entitled:—

The Combat.
’Tis merry—’tis merry on Brentford Green,
When the holiday folk are singing,
When the lasses flaunt with lightsome mien,
And the Brentford bells are ringing;
Well armed in stern unyielding mood.
High o’er that Green the Warren stood;
A burly man was he,
Girt round the waist with ’kerchief blue,
And clad in waistcoat dark of hue,
And thick buff jerkin gay to view,
And breeches of the knee:
Beside him stood his trusty band,
With hat on head, and club in hand,
Loud shouting to the fight;
Till answering shrill, street, alley, lane,
O’er hill and heather, wood and plain,
Sent forth the deepened sounds again,
With voice of giant might.
Charge, Warren, charge; yon battle Green,
Glitters afar with silvery sheen,
The lightning of the storm;
Where bands of braggarts bluff in mien,
With ragged Irishmen are seen,
Dreadful and drunken all, I ween,
A phalanx fierce to form:
Saint George! it was a gallant sight,
To ken beneath the morning light,
The shifting lines sweep by;
98
In mailed and measured pace they sped,
The earth gave back their hollow tread,
’Till you mote think the charnelled dead
Were howling to the sky.
“Hark, rolls the thunder of the drum,
The foe advance—they come, they come!
Lay on them,” quoth the Day;
“God for the right! on Brentford Heath,
Our bugles stern and stormy breath,
Summons to victory or to death;
Hurrah then, for the fray!”
Hurrah, hurrah! from rear to flank,
In vengeance rung along each rank;
And the red banners (formed by hap
Of two old shirts stitched flap to flap)[42]
Waved lordlier at the cry:
’Till every proud and painted scrap,
Shivered like plume in ’prentice cap,
Or cloud in winter sky.
The Warren first this squad espied,
Ranged man to man in ruffian pride,
And to each warrior at his side
In vaunting phrase began,
“Rush on, ye ragamuffins, rush,
All Brentford to a blacking brush,
My foeman leads the van.”
On rushed each lozel to the fight,
Ruthless as flood from mountain height,
The bludgeons clattered fierce and fast,
And dealt destruction as they past,
While high as some tall vessel’s mast,
Warren o’erlooked the shock;
Thence bore him back with might and main;
Brickbats and bludgeons fell like rain,
Stones, sticks and stumps, all, all in vain,
He stemmed them like a rock;
His foeman chief with wary eye,
The flickering of the fight could spy,
And shouted as his bands he led,
To Pat O’Thwackum at their head,
“Thwackum, press on—ne’er mind your scars,
Press on—they yield—and oh, my stars!
Each nose is bleeding fast;
Strike, strike,—their skulls like walnuts cracking
For Day, for Martin, and his blacking,
The battle cannot last.”
Vain charge! the Warren dauntless stood,
Though ankle deep flowed seas of blood,
Till Thwackum fierce towards him flies,
His breast with choler glows,
Rage flashes from his mouth and eyes,
And claret from his nose.
The foemen meet—they thump, they thwack!
Hark! burst the braces on their back!
And, hark! their skulls in concert crack!
And, hark! their cudgels clatter, whack!
With repercussive shocks:
See, see they fall—down, down they go,
Warren above, his foe below,
While high o’er all ascends the cry
Of “Warren,” “Warren,” to the sky,
And “Thwackum” to the stocks.
Oh! for a blast of that tin horn,
Through London streets by newsmen borne,
That tells the wondering host
How murder, rape, or treason dread,
Deftly concocted, may be read
In Courier, Times, or Post;
Then in dramatic verse and prose,
The martial muse should tell
How Warren triumphed o’er his foes,
How Thwackum fought and fell,
And how, despite his cartel, Day
Hied him, like recreant, from the fray.
’Tis done—the victors all are gone,
And fitfully the sun shines down
On many a bruised and burly clown,
The flower of whose sweet youth is mown,
To blossom ne’er again;
For e’en as grass cut down is hay,
So flesh when drubbed to death, is clay,
As proved each hind who slept that day
On Brentford’s crimson plain.
Sad was the sight, for Warren’s squad
Bravely lay sprawling on the sod;
They scorned to turn their tails,—for why?
They had no tails to turn awry,
So dropped each where he stood.
First Ned of Greenwich kissed the ground,
Then Figgins from Whitechapel pound,
Mark Wiggins from Cheapside,
Whackum and Thwackum from Guildhall,
The two O’Noodles from Blackwall,
Noggins the Jew from London Wall,
And Scroggins from Saint Bride:
Tim Bobbin tumbled as he rose
To join the motley chase,
Joe Abbot, spent by Warren’s blows
Lay snug ensconced, and Danson’s nose
Was flattened to his face:
Stubbs too, of Brentford Green the rose,
Would have essayed to pour
On one—on all, his wrath red hot
As blacksmith’s anvil, had he not
Been hanged the day before.
Illustrious brave if muse like mine
May bid for aye, your memories shine
In fame’s recording page;
Each wounded limb, each fractured head,
Albeit tacked up in honour’s bed,
Shall live from age to age;
And still on Brentford Green while springs
The daisy, while the linnet sings
Her valentine to May,
The sympathising hind shall tell
Of those who fought and those who fell,
At Brentford’s grim foray.
L’Envoy to the Reader.
Now, gentles, fare ye well, my rede
Hath reached an end, nor feel I need
To add to Warren’s fame, my meed
Of laudatory rhymes;
Far loftier bards his praise rehearse,
And prouder swells his daily verse
99
In Chronicle or Times.
Enough for me on summer day,
To pipe some simple oaten lay,
Of goblin page or border fray,
To rove in thought through Teviotdale,
Where Melrose wanes a ruin pale,
(The sight and sense with awe attacking,)
Or skim Loch Katherine’s burnished flood,
Or wade through Grampian Moor and mud,
In boots baptized with Warren’s Blacking.

——:o:——

In 1822 a volume of Poems was published by Hurst, Robinson and Co., of London, and in Edinburgh by Archibald Constable and Co., entitled “The Bridal of Caölchairn, and other Poems, by Sir Walter Scott, Bart.”

In the same year another edition was published by T. Hookham, Old Bond Street, London, on the title-page of which the work was said to be “by John Hay Allan, Esq.” The volume was dedicated to the Duke of Argyle, it had no preface, nor any explanation of the author’s impudent attempt to pass off his work upon the public as that of Sir Walter Scott.

The poems are of a serious nature, and would not have been mentioned here, had it not been for the hoax as to their authorship.

——:o:——

Rejected Odes, edited by Humphrey Hedgehog, Esq. (London, J. Johnston, 1813), contains an imitation of Scott’s poetry, but it is not worth quoting.

When George, visited Scotland in August, 1822, Scott wrote an imitation of an old Jacobite ditty, Carle, now the King’s come, it was in two parts, and was published as a broadside. This was parodied, under the title of Sawney, now the King’s come, of which it is very difficult now to obtain a copy.

In the third volume of the works of the late Thomas Love Peacock (London, R. Bentley and Son, 1875) there is a Border Ballad written in imitation of Sir Walter Scott.

This was one of the “Paper Money Lyrics” which were written by Peacock in 1825, and published in 1837, it has little to interest modern readers.

Several other Parodies of Scott have appeared in Punch, in addition to those here reprinted. One, entitled The Battle of Wimbledon, which appeared on July 19, 1862, consists principally of an enumeration of the most famous shots amongst the Volunteers of the day. Another, The Nile Song, June 6, 1863, in imitation of “Hail to the Chief,” celebrates the announcement made by Sir R. Murchison, at the Royal Geographical Society that Messrs. Speke and Grant had discovered the sources of the Nile.

A few other Parodies of detached passages of Scott’s poems are to be found in the early numbers of Blackwood’s Magazine, some of which were written by Professor Wilson (Christopher North.)

Many of Scott’s novels have been dramatised, and also burlesqued, these will be enumerated when dealing with his prose works. It may here be mentioned, however, that a burlesque of Kenilworth, written by R. Reece and H. B. Farnie is now being performed at the Avenue Theatre, London.

Illustration: Swan medalion
Illustration: Scotch Songs
The London University.
March, march, dustmen and coal-heavers,
Doff your great castors for brims of less border,
Assume trencher caps in the room of your old beavers,
And march off to school at great Intellect’s order;
For many a poet, who now does not know it,
Professor, historian, logician and great wit,
Mathematician, and famed rhetorician,
Shall start from the dust-cart, or rise from the coal-pit.
March, march, &c.
Come from your shop-boards, ye tailors so nimble,
Come forth, ye Crispins, from out your snug stalls,
No more waste your time on your needle and thimble,
Nor trust to your lapstones, your lasts, and your awls,
Big wigs are debating, professors are waiting,
To make ye all gentlemen, linguists, and great men,
Turn tinkers and tailors to soldiers and sailors,
And qualify dunces and asses for statesmen.
Then march, march, &c.
From The Spirit of the Age, 1829

The London University was founded mainly through the exertions of Lord Brougham, and Thomas Campbell, the Poet. It was opened in October, 1828, and was for some time the object of great opposition and ridicule. It was said that every sweep was going to have a college education, and a song, entitled The Literary Dustman, became exceedingly popular:—

At sartin schools they make boys write
Their alphabet on sand, sirs,
So I thought dust would do as vell,
And larnt it out of hand, sirs;
Took in the “Penny Magazine,”
And Johnson’s Dixionary,
And all the Perio-di-calls
To make me literary.
They calls me Adam Bell, ’tis clear,
As Adam vos the fust man,—
And by a co-in-side-ance queer,
Vy, I’m the fust of Dustmen!

100
Smoking’s quite Regular.
When pigs run wild about the streets, with straw in
their mouths, it is a sign of rain.
”—Old Saying.
Smoke! smoke! Arcade and College-green,
Light your cigars, for smoking’s quite regular.
Smoke! smoke! shop boys and chimney sweeps;
Smoking’s the fashion from gemman to higgler.
Blow! blow! smokers and pugilists;
Let there be piping and blowing no matter how.
Blow! blow! zephyrs and organists,
Piping and blowing there’s nothing else thought of now.
Puff! puff! that’s doing what is right.
Puff till you’ve blinded his majesty’s lieges,
Puff! puff! bakers and pastry-cooks,
Bacca-pipe odour each nostril besieges.
Spit! spit! all who love bacca smoke,
For it produces great expectoration;
Spit! spit! smokers and cook wenches,
Let there be spitting without a cessation.
Pipe! pipe! pipers and naughty brats;
Here end my verse, my muse she is rather hoarse,
Quid! quid! what do you think of it?
Excellent metre! I know you all cry of course.
From Wiseheart’s New Comic Songster,
Dublin (about 1832, when smoking was
first becoming prevalent).

——:o:——

Oh, Where, and oh Where.

(Written by Mrs. Grant, of Laggan, “On the Marquis of Huntly’s departure for the Continent with his Regiment in 1799.”)

Oh where, tell me where, is your Highland Laddie gone?
He’s gone with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done,
And my sad heart will tremble, till he come safely home.
Oh where, tell me where, did your Highland Laddie stay?
He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, beside the rapid Spey,
And many a blessing followed him, the day he went away.
Oh what, tell me what, does your Highland Laddie wear?
A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war,
And a plaid across his manly breast, that yet shall wear a star.
Suppose, ah suppose that some cruel cruel wound
Should pierce your Highland Laddie, and all your hopes confound!
The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly,
The spirit of a Highland chief would lighten in his eye!
But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland’s bonny bounds,
His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds,
While wide through all our Highland hills his warlike name resounds.

Punch’s Serenade.
Oh where, and oh where, is my Harry Brougham gone?—
He’s gone to see the French, and Philippe upon his throne,
And it’s oh! in my heart, I wish him safe at home.
Oh where, and oh where, does my Harry Brougham dwell?—
He dwells at Cannes in bonny France, and likes it very well;
But recollect ’tis not the Cann’s where gravy soup they sell.
In what clothes, in what clothes, is your Harry Brougham clad?—
His hunting coat’s of velvet green, his trowsers are of plaid;
And it’s oh! in my heart, he can’t look very bad.
Suppose, and suppose, that your Harry Brougham should die!—
Dog Toby would weep over him, and Punch himself would cry:
But it’s oh! in our hearts, that we hope he will not die.
Punch, October 1846.

Lord Brougham went to his château at Cannes.—Passing through Paris, he, as usual, paid his respects to Louis Philippe. Life of Lord Brougham.


Song of the Slighted Suitor.
Oh where, and oh where, has my learned counsel gone?
He’s gone to the Queen’s Bench, where a case is coming on,
And it’s oh! in my heart, that I wish my case his own.
What fee, and what fee did your learned counsel clutch?
Five guineas on his brief he did not think too much;—
And it’s oh! if he’s a barrister, I wish he’d act as such.
In what court, in what court is your learned counsel found?
I cannot catch him anywhere, of all he goes the round;—
And it’s oh! in my heart, that to one I wish him bound.
What excuse, what excuse can your learned counsel make?
None at all, none at all, but his head he’ll gravely shake,
And it’s oh! in my heart, that the fee he’s sure to take.
Punch, 1848.

The Great Kilt Reform.
Oh where, and oh where, is your Highland Laddie gone?
Oh, he’s gone into the hospital, with pains in every bone;
And it’s oh! in my heart, that I wish he’d breeks put on!
What clothes, oh what clothes, did your Highland Laddie wear?
Oh, his shoulders were well covered, but his legs were left all bare;
And it’s oh! how that part must have felt the wintry air!
Oh why, and oh why, was your Highland Lad not dress’d?
Oh, some people say with half his clothes the Highlander looks best;
But it’s oh! in my heart, that I wish he’d wear the rest!
Suppose that his dress, now your Highland lad reform,
Oh, I think ’twould be more decent, and I know ’twould be more warm;
And it’s oh! in my heart, that I hope he will reform.
Suppose and suppose that they make your Highland lad
Wear decent coat and trowsers, ’stead of kilt and tartan plaid?
Then it’s oh! in my heart, but just should’nt I be glad!
101
Suppose and suppose that they keep the costume old;
Oh! this winter’s so severe, I’m sure he’ll catch his death of cold;
And it’s oh! bless my heart! how my Laddie would be sold!
Diogenes, p. 22, Vol. 3, 1854.

Wandering Willie.
Oh where, and oh where, has our Wand’ring Willie gone?
He’s gone to fight in Scotland for Radicals forlorn,
And it’s oh, Greenwich town is left alone to mourn.
Oh where, and oh where, has our Wand’ring Willie been?
He’s been down into Scotland to sweep the Tories clean,
And it’s oh, what on earth does our Wand’ring Willie mean?
Oh why, and oh why, did our Wand’ring Willie roam
So far from Greenwich Hospital, so far from Oxford’s dome?
For he knows in his heart he had better stop at home.
In what way, in what way, was our Wand’ring Will addressed?
As if he of all statesmen was wisest, truest, best,
And it’s oh, he must feel this was but a sorry jest.
Oh what, and oh what, does our Wand’ring Willie need?
’Tis hoping to get office he’s gone across the Tweed;
But it is oh, in my heart I hope he won’t succeed.
And oh how, and oh how, would our Wand’ring Willie act
If by his will the Government were out of office packed?
And it’s oh, he don’t know, and oh, that’s a solemn fact.
Judy, December 31, 1879.

——:o:——

Bonnie Dundee; or, the Strike in the Kitchen.

(Another strike is announced, the malcontents being on this occasion gentlemen’s servants. A crowded meeting of butlers, coachmen, footmen, gardeners, and stablemen was held at Leamington; the butler of Leamington College being in the chair. The demands were for shorter hours and increased pay; while the separation of married couples was deprecated as conducive to immorality. Cheers were given at the conclusion of the meeting for “The Maids of Dundee.”—Daily Paper, April 30th, 1872.)

To the gents of the pantry ’twas Yellow-plush spoke,
“This gentleman’s-gentleman’s life is no joke;
And so, fellow-servants, I votes as how we
Go ahead with the maidens of bonnie Dundee.
For, be it a maid, or be it a man,
Our rule is, Do nothing and get all you can.
To compass that object no method I see
Like that of the maidens of bonnie Dundee.
“’Tis true that their meeting all ended in smoke,
What can you expect, though, from weak women-folk?
But that which we like is the pluck—the esprit
Displayed by the maidens of Bonnie Dundee.
So go out on strike, gents, that is your plan;
Of course our arrangements are quite spick and span.
And all our manœuvres more perfect you’ll see
Than the foolish flare up of the maids of Dundee.
“What may not result from this union of schemes,
If only Jemima is aided by Jeames?
We’ll soon be installed in the salon, you know,
With masters and missises all down below.
So go in for ‘union’ each Benedict man.
No longer on Hymen let caste lay its ban.
While every Lothario provided shall be
With a mate from the maidens of bonnie Dundee.
“Then come from the pantry, the kitchen, the hall,
From footman gigantic to buttons the small,
And follow your leaders the butlers, as we
Condescend to be led by the girls of Dundee.
Quick! down with the master, and up with the man,
Since that nowadays is society’s plan.
You’ll each one deserve a poor curate to be
If you don’t join your lots with the maids of Dundee.”
The Hornet, May 8, 1872.

The Maidens of Bonnie Dundee.

(“The Dundee servant maids have quarrelled with the reporters, whom they charge with having made their meetings ridiculous. They refused to have their last meeting reported.”)

And did they its meeting turn into a joke,
And fun journalistic presume for to poke?
Could anyone aught that’s ridiculous see
In the “platform” assumed by the maids of Dundee?
O be it a maid, or be it a man,
Let each be placed rigidly under the ban.
And henceforth resolve no reports there shall be
Of the talk of the Maidens of Bonnie Dundee.
Dare we hope, as result of this last little game,
The Lords and the Commons will soon do the same?
How much more inviting the papers would be,
If the House followed suit to the Maids of Dundee.
For be it in earnest, or be it in joke,
A deal of the talkee-talk does end in smoke.
Of course the reports are in fault, as in re
The counsels astute of the Maids of Dundee.
Should St. Stephen’s be wise, and this maxim adopt,
Every sort of reporting we soon might have stopped.
No longer that twaddling bosh should we see,
“The Toast of the Evening”—all thanks to Dundee
Then go on and prosper, each striking young maid,
You are sweet as the taste of your own marmalade.
From henceforth we’ll hope no memorial to see
Of the doings of maidens in Bonnie Dundee.
The Hornet, June 19, 1872.

Bonnie Bar-gee.
“’Tis a jolly conception!”—’twas Truscott who spoke—
“Though Temple Bar’s gone, we can still have our joke;
So let each civic wag who loves humour and me,
Vote for putting this Stone where the Bar used to be.
Come, out with your trowels, and up with the Stone,
Though Cabmen may cavil, and Bus-drivers groan,
We care for no pleadings or warnings—not we!
For it’s up with the cry, ‘Calipash! Calipee!’”
102
Now the Stone is erected, objectors are beat,
And the Civic wags laugh at the block in the Fleet,
While Truscott, the joker, cries, “Well, as you see,
’Tis a noble memorial of humour and Me!”
So crash goes the hansom, and smash goes the van,
There’s a mingling together of horse, wheel, and man,
Just over the spot where the Bar used to be
They triumphantly cry, “Calipash! Calipee!”
There are fools in the East as in West, South, or North,
But there yet may be time ere the edict go forth,
Since there are sober men who the reason can’t see
For obstructing the Fleet where the Bar used to be,
Come, put up the trowels, and leave well alone;
Come, abandon the scheme, and have done with the Stone!
For if once set up, ’twould a laughing-stock be,
To be fitly inscribed “Calipash! Calipee!”
Punch, September 18, 1880.

The Temple Bar memorial, erected in the centre of a narrow and very busy thoroughfare, cost London over £12,000. So great was the annoyance it caused, both on account of its obstruction and its ugliness, that two policemen were placed to guard it night and day, yet, in spite of their watchfulness, the carvings were smashed wherever they could be reached. The grotesque Griffin which surmounts the memorial is still the laughing stock of every passer-by.


The Dissolution.
In the House of St. Stephen’s Britannia thus spoke:
You will now be released and can take off the yoke.
As you’ve meddled and muddled till all is at sea,
The majority of you can go to the D.!
You have squandered my money in powder and shot;
Whom you should have protected you gave it to hot.
You did this, and much more, in the name of the free,
So away you incompetents! Go to the D.!
You have fostered intolerance—bigotry’s ban;
Like cowards you turned on a stout-hearted man,
Compensated iniquities lavishly free—
Nearly everything’s gone to the dogs or the D.!
But now my affairs which you’ve scattered and strown,
Perhaps will come right when you leave ’em alone.
Two million! Ah, they to my future will see!
Farewell, then, I’ve done with you—go to the D.!
D. Evans.
The Weekly Despatch, November 15, 1885.

Jawing “J. C.” (Air, “Bonnie Dundee.”)
To the lords of creation ’twas Chamberlain spoke,
“Ere my power go down the Queen’s crown shall be broke!
So each jolly Rad who loves plunder and me,
Let him follow the system of jawing J. C.
Come fill up my inkpot and whittle my pen,
To meeting my radicals! Sing out like men,
Come, open the best way to let us go free,
For plunder’s the system of jawing J. C.”
J. C. he is started, he puffs through the land;
The Whigs they sink backward, dismayed at his “hand;”
But the Leader, douce man, says “Just e’en let him be,
For the party must stick to that deil o’ J. C.”
“Come fill up,” &c.
There are games beyond Gladstone, and fields beyond Forth;
If there’s farms in the Southland, there’s crofts in the North;
There are braw whiskey-drinkers, three thousand times three,
Who’ll “go blind” on the system of jawing J. C.
“Come fill up,” &c.
“Then away to the garrets, the cellars, and slums—
Ere I own to a leader, I’ll funk like my chums.
So tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee,
Ye have nae seen the last of my system and me.
Come fill up my inkpot and whittle my pen,
To meeting my Radicals, sing out like men;
Fling everything open, we all will be free,
For plunder’s the system of jawing J. C.”
The Globe, December 1, 1885.

——:o:——

The Campbell’s are Coming.

Dr. John Cumming, minister of the Scotch church, in London, frequently introduced controversial matters into his sermons, and was at times, rather violent in his denunciations of the Pope, and Roman Catholicism. The Pope wrote inviting him to go to Rome, but intimated that he would not consent to reopen a discussion on theological questions which had long since been decided by his august predecessors. The two following parodies on the subject appeared in Punch, which has always been exceedingly bitter in its attacks on the Roman Catholics and their priesthood. So much so that Richard Doyle (himself a Catholic), one of the most talented artists who ever drew for Punch, retired from its staff on that account.

The Pop’ an’ Jock Cumming.
The Pop’ an’ Jock Cumming, oh dear, oh dear!
They winna foregather, I fear, I fear;
For Jock certain questions has got to speer
That the Pop’ wad na fancy to hear, hear, hear.
The Pop’ till his Council did all invite,
Wha coudna see Truth, to receive their sight,
“For me” answered Jockie, “noo that’s a’ right;
Just what I wad hae is your light, light, light.
“Ye’ve sic an’ sic points I could ne’er mak’ oot,
An’ want my puir vision illumed aboot;
Mair light is the cure my complaint wad suit;
Sae lighten my darkness an’ doot, doot, doot.
“Do show me your light, abune Lime, or Bude,
Magnesian, Electric—do be sae gude!
Sin’ I’ve been invited, I dinna intrude;
When I cry for light ca’ me not rude, rude, rude.”
The Pop’ to Jock Cumming mak’s no reply;
Non possumus, noo, he may truly cry.
’Tis not as it was in the days gane by,
When a Pop’ could his questioner fry, fry, fry.
103
The Pop’ and his Cardinals sing fu’ sma’,
An’ they grin, an’ they glow’r in their Conclave Ha’,
An’ their auld shaven chaps wi’ dismay do fa,’
Jock Cumming’s dumfounded ’em a’, a’, a’!
Punch.

Hey, Johnny Cumming!
(Air—“Hey, Johnny Cope!”)
Hey, Johnny Cumming! are ye waukin’ yet!
Or aboot the Millennium talkin’ yet?
Gin ye were waukin’ priests wad wait,
To shrive Johnny Cumming i’ the mornin’.
Johnnie wrote a challenge to the Pop’ o’ Rome,
Sayin’, “Sin’ till the council ye’ve bid me come,
Gin I gang, can I speak as nae doggie dumb?
I wad speer ye for light i’ the mornin’.”
When Pawpie read the letter on,
He took him pen and ink anon,
We’ll mak’ short wark wi’ this heretic son
O’ Scotia an’ Knox i’ the mornin’.”
A line through Manning the douce auld Pop’
To Johnnie did in answer drop;
“Thae questions ye’d speer we canna stop
To re-open the noo of a mornin’.
“There’s nane can doot or deny that we
Are the Lord-Lieutenant o’ Christendie.
D’ye spy ony green in our Paternal ee?
Get hoot wi’ your chaff of a mornin’!
“Ye’re welcome at our council Ha’,
Doon on your marrowbones to fa’
An’ your errors recant, and haud your jaw,
Nae mair o’ your gab i’ the mornin’!
Ye’ll come to mak’ submission mute,
We dinna argue or dispute,
Shall naething say but, ‘There’s Our fute,
Kiss that, Johnny Cumming, i’ the mornin’!
When Johnnie gat the Pop’s reply,
Said he, “I baith doot an’ deny
An’ sae do mony mair forbye,
The commission ye claim of a mornin’.”
Twice ten Munich Doctors of canon law
Acknowledge there’s nae rule at a’
To tell what the Pop’ says ex cathedra
An’ what aff of his throne i’ the mornin’.”
When Pawpish Doctors disagree
As to what maks gude the Pop’s decree,
The warth o’t canna be ane bawbee
To ae canna Scot of a mornin’.
Nae dogmies Pio will discuss
To prove whilk wad auld Nick nonplus:
And sae he cries non-possumus;
Canna meet Johnnie Cumming i’ the mornin’.
Punch.

——:o:——

Khartoum.
The Camels are coming at last, at last!
Over the desert so fast, so fast!
Daring canoe-men from Canada’s shore
Mock Father Nile, and his cataract’s roar
The might of Old England is felt once more—
Thanks to the Franchise Bill.
The Camels are coming at last, at last!
The dream of dishonour has passed, has passed.
But this we owe not to Gordon’s fame,
Or the growing power of that hero’s name,
Or to Europe’s echoing cry of “Shame”—
But to the Franchise Bill.
The Camels are coming at last, at last!
The trumpets peal forth their warlike blast,
Every nerve must now be strained,
New prestige must now be gained,
Money be spent and blood be rained—
To save the Franchise Bill.
C. B. S.
The Globe, September 30, 1884.

——:o:——

The Millionaire on the Moors.
My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands, my ’art it ain’t ’ere,
My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands, along of the deer;
Along of the wild deer, the buck and the doe;
My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands, I’d ’ave you to know.
I bought bare estates up of lairds proud and poor,
As they ’adn’t the money to live on a moor,
Now like any Duke I my deer-forest keep,
And grouse-shootins also—don’t care much for sheep.
I now and agin leave my ware’ouse be’ind,
Go North for refreshment of ’ealth and of mind,
Where solitude reigns on the ’eath all around,
On the ’ole of my propputty I don’t ’ear a sound.
There’s no eagles now in the mountain’s to scream,
And as for the gos’awk, ‘is whistle’s a dream.
There’s never no falcons a flyin’ about,
Shot down by the keepers to them I bought out.
Poor beggars, and therefore you’ll own they was free,
Theirselves, from romance, quite as much so as me,
In Town whilst attendin’ to bisnis, although
My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands wherever I go.
Punch, October 27, 1883.

——:o:——

The Tourist’s Matrimonial Guide Through Scotland.

The following song, to the tune of “Woo’d and married an’ a’,” was written by a distinguished Scotch judge, Lord Neaves, it may therefore be taken as giving a correct view of the curious state of the Scotch law relating to marriage.

Ye tourists, who Scotland would enter,
The summer or autumn to pass,
I’ll tell you how far you may venture
To flirt with your lad or your lass;
104
How close you may come upon marriage,
Still keeping the wind of the law,
And not, by some foolish miscarriage,
Get woo’d and married an’ a’,
Woo’d and married an’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
And not, by some foolish miscarriage,
Get woo’d and married an’ a’.
This maxim itself might content ye,
That marriage is made—by consent;
Provided its done de prœsenti,
And marriage is really what’s meant.
Suppose that young Jocky and Jenny
Say, “We two are husband and wife;”
The witnesses need’nt be many—
They’re instantly buckled for life,
Woo’d and married an’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
It isn’t with us a hard thing
To get woo’d and married an’ a’.
Suppose the man only has spoken,
The woman just giving a nod.
They’re spliced by that very same token
Till one of them’s under the sod.
Though words would be bolder and blunter,
The want of them isn’t a flaw;
For nutu signisque loquuntur
Is good Consistorial Law.
Woo’d and married an’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
A wink is as good as a word.
To get woo’d and married an’ a’.
If people are drunk or delirious,
The marriage of course will be bad;
Or if they’re not sober and serious,
But acting a play or charade.
It’s bad if it’s only a cover
For cloaking a scandal or sin,
And talking a landlady over
To let the folks lodge in her inn.
Woo’d and married an’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
It isn’t the mere use of words
Makes you woo’d and married an’ a’.
You’d better keep clear of love-letters,
Or write them with caution and care;
For, faith, they may fasten your fetters,
If wearing a conjugal air.
Unless you’re a knowing old stager,
’Tis here you’ll most likely be lost;
As a certain much-talked-about Major[43]
Had very near found to his cost.
Woo’d and married an’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
They are perilous things, pen and ink,
To get woo’d and married an’ a’.
I ought now to tell the unwary,
That into the noose they’ll be led,
By giving a promise to marry,
And acting as if they were wed.
But if, when the promise you’re plighting,
To keep it you think you’d be loath,—
Just see that it isn’t in writing,
And then it must come to your oath.
Woo’d and married ah’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
I’ve shown you a dodge to avoid
Being woo’d and married an’ a’.
A third way of tying the tether,
Which sometimes may happen to suit,
Is living a good while together,
And getting a married repute.
But you who are here as a stranger,
And don’t mean to stay with us long,
Are little exposed to that danger,
So here I may finish my song.
Woo’d and married an’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
You’re taught now to seek or to shun
Being woo’d and married an’ a’.
Charles, Lord Neaves.

——:o:——

Promise and Performance.[44]

Air—“Charley is my darling.
Charley was so daring, so daring, so daring,
Charley was so daring, yet somehow durstn’t fight;
For Cronstadt looked so scaring, so scaring, so scaring,
Cronstadt looked so scaring, it frightened him outright.
Its forts he vowed he’d shatter, he’d shatter, he’d shatter,
The forts he swore he’d shatter, no stone of them should stand:
But this was merely chatter, mere after-dinner chatter,
He changed his note when soberly the stones themselves he scanned.
“Your cutlasses prepare boys, prepare boys, prepare boys,
For victory depends upon the sharpness of your fire;
But at Cronstadt we’ll but stare boys, but stare boys, but stare boys,
Then home again in safety all right gallantly retire.
And if they ask us why, boys, our strength we didn’t try, boys,
’Stead of taking it for granted if we fought that we’d be beat;
’Twas the fault of Jimmy Graham, the swab (I’d like to flay him!)
Who with boys and with old women had manned our precious fleet.”
And now the War is over, Sir Charley’s turned a rover,
And arm in arm with Constantine inside the forts has seen;
And he swears ’twas deuced lucky he more prudent was than plucky,
Or sunk and smashed and shattered every ship of his had been!
Now with all respect for Charley, who did his work so rarely,
Punch holds that British oak’s as tough as ’twas in Dibdin’s day;
And Punch states without shrinking, he’s not alone in thinking,
That a Nelson would have taken where a Napier turned away.
Punch, November 29, 1856.

105
The Manager to Mrs. Langtry.
Air—“Oh, Nanny, wilt thou gang wi’ me?
O Langtry, wilt thou gang wi’ me,
On lime-lit boards to win renown?
Can crowded stalls have charms for thee—
The painted scene and tinsel crown?
No more mere Photo’ed-Beauty’s Queen,
No more restrained to Park and Square,
Say, canst thou quit Belgravia’s scene,
Where thou art fairest of the fair?
O Langtry, when ’tis thine to play
“Big parts,” their “keeping” keep in mind;
Though Beauty’s charming in its way,
In acting “there is more behind.”
Some say, so stately is thy mien,
High tragic rôles thou well could’st bear;
Let’s hope as Genius thou’lt be seen,
As well as fairest of the fair.
O Langtry, canst thou act so true,
Through long and trying scenes to go,
Not pleased by Flattery’s smooth review,
Nor grieved when critics “slate” the “show?”
As yet, they don’t agree at all
What praise or blame shall be thy share;
And critics, whether great or small,
Are not the fairest of the fair.
And when at last thy Muse shall try
Ophelia, Juliet, Queen Macbeth,
Say, canst thou make thy audience cry,
Or, scared and spellbound, hold their breath?
And wilt thou from thy handsome pay,
Of poorer players take due care?
If so, then still the world will say
That thou art fairest of the fair.

——:o:——

ROBIN ADAIR.

When General Dumourier, after unparalleled victories, deserted the army of the French Republic, in 1793, and took refuge from the infuriated Convention with the enemies he had lately beaten, someone expressed joy in the event where Burns was present, when he chanted, almost extempore, the following sarcastic stanzas:—

On General Dumourier.

A Parody on Robin Adair.
You’re welcome to Despots, Dumourier;
You’re welcome to Despots, Dumourier,
How does Dampiere do?
Ay and Bournonville too?
Why did they not come along with you, Dumourier?
I will light France with you, Dumourier;
I will fight France with you, Dumourier.
I will fight France with you;
I will take my chance with you;
By my soul I’ll have a dance with you, Dumourier.
Then let us fight about, Dumourier;
Then let us fight about, Dumourier:
Then let us fight about,
Till Freedom’s spark is out,
Then we’ll be damn’d, no doubt—Dumourier.

A Song.
Tune—“Robin Adair.
Hark! to yon glorious shout,
Canning, O rare!
Echo proclaims it out,
Canning, Huzza!
Beauty, each step you see,
Displaying loyalty,
Whose charms keep Britons free,
Canning, Huzza!
O! ’tis a lovely sight,
Canning, O rare!
Thrills each heart with delight
Canning, Huzza!
What! though no freeman true,
What! though their eyes are blue,
Still are their lips for you,
Canning, Huzza!
Lips whose persuasive touch,
Canning, O rare!
Strengthens our cause so much,
Canning, Huzza!
Thou’lt think when far away,
Where red rose held its sway,
On Bosoms, pure as day,
Canning, Huzza!
Heroes wait their command,
Canning, O rare!
When waves their lily hand.
Canning, Huzza!
Whilst you with smiles approve,
Naught can our bosoms move,
Save Mars, or God of Love,
Canning, Huzza!
Mark as in lines they lead,
Canning, O rare!
See England’s hero tread
Canning, Huzza!
Whose bosoms void of care,
Wounds from your eyes but fear,
Whence falls the tender tear,
Canning, Huzza!
View their faces with surprise,
Canning, O rare!
Lovely tints lips and eyes,
Canning, Huzza!
Mark coalitions wile,
Join’d by a heavenly smile,
That can each hour beguile,
Canning, Huzza!
You whom all hearts adore,
Canning, O rare!
’Tis you to guard our shore,
Canning, Huzza!
Tell wandering nations far,
Our’s is bright honour’s war,
Shine Salamanca’s star,
Canning, Huzza!

From An Impartial Collection of Addresses, Songs, Squibs, &c., published during the Liverpool Election, October, 1812.

The Candidates were the Right Hon. George Canning; Lieut.-General Isaac Gascoyne; Henry Brougham; Thomas Creevey; and General B. Tarleton. (Messrs. G. Canning and Gascoyne, both Tories, were elected.)

106

ROBERT BURNS.

In order to make this collection of Scotch Parodies as nearly complete as possible, a few additional Parodies of Robert Burns, and Thomas Campbell will be here inserted.

Address to the G.O.M.
(After Burns’s Address to the De’il.)
O thou, whatever be the name
Your silly pride wad gar ye claim
As likely best to spread your fame
Owre land an’ sea,
Great People’s Will, or G.O.M.,
Listen a wee.
D’ye mind the time, I mind it weel,
When fu’ o’ misbegotten zeal,
Ye pranced through Scotland like a deil,
Verbose an’ rash,
Bletherin’ about the “Land o’ Leal,”
An’ sic like trash?
To reckon a’ your wild harangues
Frae platforms, trains, to gapin’ thrangs,
About the countra’s woes and wrangs,
A gruesome tale
O’ Tory rule, the memory dangs
An’ time wad fail.
In short, ye kicked up sic a splore,
Pourin’ out speeches by the score,
An’ vendin’ rousin’ whids galore
Through a’ the land,
The countra’ bid ye tak the oar
An’ try your hand.
How stands the case? Ye’ve had your fling,
Upset or bungled everything,
Mair waste and shame contrived to bring
Down on the land
Than tongue can tell, or muse can sing
Or understand.
Despite your boasts about finance,
An’ a’ your grand cheap wines frae France,
The whisky duties, sad mischance,
Hae laid ye low,
An’ stopped ye in your reckless dance
At ae fell blow.
I’m wae to think upon your state,
Headlang ye’ve rushed upon your fate,
An’ tho’ advice I ken ye hate,
Tak thought and mend,
Consider, while it’s no owre late
Your hinner end.
Midlothian” in Moonshine, July 1885.

——:o:——

For a’ That and a’ That.
A new Version, respectfully recommended
to sundry whom it concerns.
More luck to honest poverty,
It claims respect, and a’ that;
But honest wealth’s a better thing,
We dare be rich for a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
And spooney cant and a’ that,
A man may have a ten-pun note,
And be a brick for a’ that.
What though on soup and fish we dine,
Wear evening togs and a’ that,
A man may like good meat and wine,
Nor be a knave for a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their fustian talk and a’ that,
A gentleman, however clean,
May have a heart for a’ that.
You see yon prater called a Beales,
Who bawls and brays and a’ that,
Tho’ hundreds cheer his blatant bosh,
He’s but a goose for a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,
His Bubblyjocks, and a’ that,
A man with twenty grains of sense,
He look and laughs at a’ that.
A prince can make a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a’ that,
And if the title’s earned, all right,
Old England’s fond of a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Beales’ balderdash, and a’ that,
A name that tells of service done
Is worth the wear, for a’ that.
Then let us pray that come it may
And come it will for a’ that,
That common sense may take the place
Of common cant and a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Who cackles trash and a’ that,
Or be he lord, or be he low,
The man’s an ass for a’ that.
Shirley Brooks, 1868.

——:o:——

If a Proctor meet a Body.
Accusator erit qui verbum dixerit ‘Hic est.’
If a Proctor meet a body
Coming down the High,
If a Proctor greet a body
Need a body fly?
Every Proctor has his bulldog,
Dog of mickle might,
When he marches forth in full tog
At the fall of night.
Every bulldog, when he spies a
Man without a gown,
Promptly chases him and tries a-
Main to run him down.
From Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon, 1874.

——:o:——

107

The Wallace Tower

The Auctioneer’s Address to his Audience.

“The Wallace Tower at Stirling cannot be completed for want of funds, so the project is to be discontinued, and the materials are to be sold by auction.”—Scotch Papers.

Scots, wha won’t for Wallace bleed,
Scots, who’d see such humbug d’d,
Welcome; each condition read—
Then make bids to me.
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour,
Yon’s the rock, and yon’s the tower,
Ere it’s in the Sheriff’s power,
Pay the £ s. d.
Wha would hear an English knave,
Just pretending to look grave,
Drawl, “Is that unfinished shave,
Place for shrimps and tea?”
Wha would see the cursed law,
Grab it in its cruel paw,
Sell up Wallace, Bruce and a’
Sae contemptuously?
By your sturdy Scottish brains,
By your wealth of Union games,
Shows that Scotland’s sense disdains
An anomalie.
Lay provincial pedants low,
Give the cant of Race a blow,
England’s one—and that you know—
One—from Thames to Dee.
Shirley Brooks, 1865.

——:o:——

Gaelic Speech; or, “Auld Lang Syne”
done up in Tartan.
Should Gaelic speech be e’er forgot,
And never brocht to min’,
For she’ll be spoke in Paradise
In the days of auld langsyne.
When Eve, all fresh in beauty’s charms,
First met fond Adam’s view,
The first word that he’ll spoke till her
Was “cumar achum dhu.”
And Adam in his garden fair,
Whene’er the day did close,
The dish that he’ll to supper teuk
Was always Athole brose.
When Adam from his leafy bower
Cam oot at broke o’ day,
He’ll always for his morning teuk
A quaich o’ usquebae.
An’ when wi’ Eve he’ll had a crack,
He’ll teuk his sneeshin’ horn,
An’ on the tap ye’ll well micht mark
A pony praw Cairngorm.
The sneeshin’ mull is fine, my friens—
The sneeshin’ mull is gran’;
We’ll teukta hearty sneesh, my friens,
And pass frae han’ to han’.
When man first fan the want o’ claes,
The wind an’ cauld to fleg.
He twisted roon’ about his waist
The tartan philabeg.
An’ music first on earth was heard
In Gaelic accents deep,
When Jubal in his oxter squeezed
The blether o’ a sheep.
The praw bagpipes is gran’, my friens,
The praw bagpipes is fine;
We’ll teukta nother pibroch yet,
For the days o’ auld langsyne!

——:o:——

Additional Verses to
Willie Brew’d a Peck o’ Maut.
Thus Willie, Rab and Allan sang,
Thus pass’d the night wi’ mirth and glee,
And aye the chorus, a’ night lang,
Was, “As we’re now, we hope to be.”
And aye they sang, “We are nae fou,
But just a drappie in our e’e;
The cock may craw, the day may draw,
And aye we’ll taste the barley b