Chapter XI: Introduction (4)

Slowly and softly they shut the door,
After Radical, Whig, and Tory;
And muttering out, "We'll stop here no more,"
They left him alone in his glory.

_Punch_, December, 1847.

* * * * *

"GRAVE SENTIT ARATRUM."

"A GRIEVOUS THING HE FEELS IT TO BE PLOUGHED."

He looked glum when he heard, by a friendly note
Which, of course, his chum sent in a hurry,
That, alas! he had no testamur got;
And he felt in a deuce of a flurry.

He thought how he'd read at dead of night,
The page of Herodotus turning,
By the tallow-candle's flickering light,
Or the moderator burning.

No ruthless coughing arose from his chest,
Nor did indigestion wound him;
But he said--as the worry was breaking his rest--
"That Examiner--confound him!"

"What's the odds?" were the words that he said;
But he choked not down his sorrow;
For he sadly remembered the hopes that were fled,
And pictured the "Governor's horror."

Then he thought, as he hurled himself into bed,
And dashed his head down on the pillow,
That his foe, the tailor, would want to be paid,
And would quickly be sending his bill, oh!

Very likely he thought (now his credit was gone),
"Oh! I wish with cold cash I had paid him;
But nothing he'll get: I'll be off to Boulogne,"
And he went, out of Britain to shade him.

Just after his heavy sleep, each tone,
As the clock struck the hour, was mocking,
And he fancied that many a ravenous dun
At the oak was sullenly knocking.

He cautiously put out his head, and looked down
From his room in the second story:
He saw but the quad, and its paving of stone;
He was all alone,--in his glory (?)

JEREMY DIDDLER, Oxford.

_College Rhymes_ (T. & G. Shrimpton), Oxford, 1864.

* * * * *

PARODY ON "THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE."

"Not a laugh was heard, not a joyous note,
As our friend to the bridal we hurried;
Not a wit discharged his farewell shot,
As the bachelor went to be married.

"We married him quietly to save his fright,
Our heads from the sad sight turning;
And we sighed as we stood by the lamp's dim light,
To think he was not more discerning.

"To think that a bachelor free and bright,
And shy of the sex as we found him,
Should there at the altar, at dead of night,
Be caught in the snares that bound him.

"Few and short were the words that we said,
Though of wine and cake partaking;
We escorted him home from the scene of dread,
While his knees were awfully shaking.

"Slowly and sadly we marched him down,
From the first to the lowermost storey;
And we never have heard or seen the poor man
Whom we left alone in his glory."

These lines appeared in _Notes and Queries_ June 27, 1868, and are said to have been written by Thomas Hood.

* * * * *

THE FLIGHT OF O'NEILL, THE INVADER OF CANADA.

"General O'Neill, who, at the head of the Fenian forces recently invaded Canada, seems to combine, together with his love for Ireland, a certain amount of affection for the ordinary enjoyments of life; for one complaint against him is, that the morning of the attack, when awakened at three o'clock by a captain belonging to his quarters, he merely said, "All right!" and fell asleep again. On two subsequent occasions he was awakened with no more practical result, and on being called a fourth time, got up. Even then, however, he declined to proceed at once with the glorious work of liberating Ireland, but said, "He guessed he would wait till breakfast." After breakfast this great patriot advanced at the head of his forces, but being surprised by a party of Canadian Volunteers, who fired upon the Fenians, immediately retired to his quarters, where he was found very comfortably lodged, and was arrested by General Foster, the United States Marshal, for a breach of the neutrality laws."

Not a gun was heard, not a bugle note,
As over the border he hurried;
He took to his heels without firing a shot,
Only looking tremendously flurried.

No ridiculous scruples inspired his breast,
As over the ground he jolted;
Not caring a straw what became of the rest,
He unhesitatingly bolted.

And snug in his quarters, at dead of night,
The Yankee General found him;
His bed all ready, his candle alight,
And bottles of whisky around him.

And when at his door came the clanking and noise,
His courage all sank to zero;
For, though at the head of the Fenian "bhoys,"
He wasn't exactly a hero.

When the Britishers find that he really is gone,
In impotent rage they upbraid him;
If Mr. O'NEILL they had laid hands upon
At that moment, they surely had flay'd him!

Few and short were the words they said--
They only expressed their sorrow
That they hadn't caught him, and put him to bed
Where he wouldn't wake up on the morrow.

But safe in New York, under FOSTER'S convoy,
He has gone to tell his own story;
Where "shut up" very much, this broth of a boy
Is at present alone in his glory!

_Judy_, 22nd June, 1870.

* * * * *

"RUNNING HIM IN."

_By a Good Templar in the Force._

A groan was heard, like a funeral note,
From a toper in mud half-buried,
And our Serjeant "Drunk and incapable" wrote,
When his form to the station we hurried.

We hurried him swiftly at dead of night,
And oft with our truncheons spurning,
Under many a gas-lamp's flickering light,
Through alley and crooked turning.

In rags and tatters the toper was dressed,
For in poverty drink had bound him.
And he lay like a pig in a gutter at rest,
With little pigs squeaking around him.

We lifted him up, but he fell as one dead,
And we tumbled him into a barrow;
And the idle spectators shouted and said,
"He'll be fined, with a caution, to-morrow!"

Lightly they talk of the _spirit_ that's gone,
And o'er empty bottles upbraid him;
But little he'll reck, as they let him sleep on
In the cell where the constables laid him.

No curtains had he to his lonely bed,
And a rough deal plank was his pillow;
He will wake with parched throat and an aching head,
And thirst that would drink up a billow.

Roughly, yet sadly, we laid him down,
That toper, worn, haggard, and hoary,
And wished that the dissolute youth of the town
A warning might take from his story.

_Funny Folks._

* * * * *

THE MURDER OF "MACBETH."

Not a hiss was heard, not an angry yell,
Though of both 'twas surely deserving--
When, cruelly murdered, _Macbeth_ fell
By the hand of the eminent Irving.

He murdered him, lengthily, that night,
With his new and original reading.
Till his efforts left him in sorry plight,
And the sweat on his brow was bleeding.

Five different garments enclosed his breast,
Five brand-new dresses were found him,
Though in never a one did he look at rest,
Though the people might sleep around him.

Many and long were the words he said,
Till we wished in fervent sorrow,
We could only get home to our welcome bed,
And we vowed not to come on the morrow.

We thought as he quivered, and gasped, and strode,
And made us long for our pillow,
That a taste of his tragic genius he owed
To our cousins far over the billow.

Even there, though his fame before has gone;
He may find it melt in a minute;
But little he'll reck, if they let him act on
In a play with a murderer in it.

But half the heavy play was o'er
When we seized the chance for retiring,
And left him grovelling about on the floor,
With his friends all madly admiring.

Sadly we thought as we went away,
From his acting so dreary and gory,
That the eminent I, if he's wise will not play,
_Macbeth_ any more, if for glory.

_The Figaro_, 16th October, 1875.

This critic, who left the theatre before the tragedy was half over, was, of course, eminently qualified to point out the shortcomings of Mr. Irving in the part of _Macbeth_, But perhaps the critic had forgotten that the leading character has one, or two, rather strong situations towards the end of the play, which he should have witnessed before condemning the actor.

* * * * *

THE BURIAL OF THE TITLE, "QUEEN."

Not a cheer was heard, not a joyous note,
As the Bill to the tellers we hurried;
So solemn and dread is the midnight vote
When a title has to be buried.

We rolled up our sleeve and took off our coat,
To make it a question burning;
We strained every nerve to set it afloat,
The hate of all Englishmen earning.

They hurled at us gibe, and mud so foul
(There's much of it still adhering),
And we knew by the distant and random growl
That the foe was sullenly sneering.

Oh, little we reck of the name that's fled
(That Lowe's a most impudent monkey);
For "Empreth" sounds sweetly when lispingly said
By the lips of some courtly flunkey.

'Twas fondly imagined a title of might,
Renowned in an ancient story;
But we dug a deep hole and rammed it in tight,
And left it alone in its glory!

_The Figaro_, April 8, 1876.

One of the arguments against Mr. Disraeli's Titles Bill, was that _Empress_ was likely altogether to supersede the older, and more constitutional, title of _Queen_. The lapse of but a few years has shown how groundless was this apprehension, for except in state documents or Daily Telegraph leaders, the title of Empress is never employed.

* * * * *

In November, 1879, _The Weekly Dispatch_ (a high-class London Liberal newspaper) commenced a series of Prize Competitions, the subjects, and methods of treatment, being indicated by the Prize Editor. On April 18, 1880, the prize of Two Guineas was for the best Poem on the Downfall of the Beaconsfield Government, in the form of a parody of "The Burial of Sir John Moore." It was awarded to Mr. D. Evans, 63, Talma Road, Brixton, S.E., for the following:--

(_From a Tory point of view._)

Not a hum was heard, not a jubilant note,
As away from the House we all scurried--
Not a Liberal's tear bedewed the spot,
The grave where our hopes were buried.

We buried them sadly and deep that night,
For we had no hope of returning,
By Reason's bright returning light,
And our hearts were sadly yearning.

Few indeed were the words we said,
But though few they were pregnant with sorrow,
As we all in search of Benjamin fled
To inspire us with hope for the morrow.

No gaudy star was upon his breast,
No ermine cloak was around him,
Yet he stood like a man who had feathered his nest;
And he smiled at us all, confound him!

We thought, as we left with a silent tread,
Of Cross and his dreadful Water,
That the Liberals would soon be seen there instead,
And we far away from that quarter.

Lightly they'll talk of us when we have gone,
And of course they've a right to abuse us;
But little we'd care if they'd let us keep on
In our places and wouldn't refuse us.

But scarce had our sad hearts aching done.
When again to the fight we were guided;
And we knew that the foe had a victory won,
That our fate was indeed decided.

Slowly and sadly we all went down
With the blood of our brethren all gory;
But our sun at Midlothian has now gone down,
So farewell to the hopes of the Tory.

Another parody on the same subject by Mr. James Robinson, of 59, Lyal Road, North Bow, was also inserted:--

Not a sigh was heard, not a tear-drop fell,
As its corpse from the hustings we hurried;
But we felt more anxious than tongue can tell
To get the thing decently buried.

With a woodcutter's help we dug it a grave--
(It was deep and contained some water)--
All willingly helped, and the sexton gave
An address on its deeds of slaughter.

With a "brilliant" lie we bedecked its breast,
In a "cloak of deceit" we wound it,
So it lay like a hypocrite taking its rest,
With its weapons all around it.

Brief and stern was the service said,
In its own peculiar lingo;
By a Hebrew scribe was a chapter read
From the gospel according to Jingo.

Lightly we'll speak of the Ministry gone.
Nor o'er its cold ashes upbraid it,
We'll forgive a good deal if it only sleeps on
In the dishonoured past where we've laid it.

The Editor added the following remarks:--

"Among the numerous parodies of 'The Burial of Sir John Moore'
there are some, faulty in parts, in which there are remarkably
vigorous verses. One competitor, for instance, treating Jingo as a
personality, says:--

'No well-bunged beer-cask confined his breast,
Nor in cerement white we bound him;
But he lay 'neath a water-butt, taking his rest,
With a pool of that liquid around him.'

Another winds up thus:--

'Smiling and gladly we toppled him down,
That image of humbug so gory;
We wrote but one line--'Here, under this stone,
_Lies_ bombast, false glitter, and glory.'

And a third is particularly energetic in his speculations as to the behaviour of the Premier on hearing of the defeat of his policy:--

'He thought, as he holloa'd aloud in bed,
And pommelled his lonely pillow,
He was pitching away into Gladstone's head;
And his fury was like the billow.'"

THE BURIAL OF THE MASHER.

"Mr. Burnand's good-natured but well-directed chaff in 'Blue Beard,' at the Gaiety, may be said to have ridiculed that curious product of modern civilisation, the Masher, out of existence. His continued life now seems to be impossible."--_Daily Paper._

Not a laugh was heard, not a cheery sound,
As the song to an _encore_ was hurried;
Not a man in the stalls to cheer was found,
On the night that the Masher was buried.

He'd come before to a parlous pass,
Sore stricken by TRUTH'S endeavour;
But "Blue Beard" gave him his _coup de grâce_.
And finished him once for ever!

It killed and buried him sitting there,
By ridicule on him turning;
'Neath the shifting lime-light's brilliant glare,
With the footlights brightly burning.

His wired gardenia graced his breast,
And sodden in scent one found him,
As he sat there sucking his stick with zest,
With his three-inch collar around him.

A deep red groove in his puffy throat,
That collar's starched edge was flaying;
And the bow trimmed pumps, on which youths now dote,
Were the clocks of his hose displaying.

Pearl-headed pins kept his tie in place.
And his shirt front's wealth of whiteness
Made yet more sallow his pasty face,
More dazzling his chest-stud's brightness.

No thought worth thinking was in his breast,
Nor on his dull brain was flashing,
But he sat encased in his board-like vest,
Equipped for the evening's mashing.

But few and short were the leers he gave
At the chorus-girls singing before him;
For cold and swift as an ocean wave,
The chaff of Burnand swept o'er him.

And vainly he turn'd, sore at heart and sick,
Some hope from the "Johnnies" to borrow;
For they steadfastly sucked every one his stick,
And most bitterly thought of the morrow.

They thought, as the dramatist chaffed them to death,
And foreshadowed their doom so plainly,
That they next morning, with feverish breath,
Might demand devilled prawns all vainly;

That their faith in the curried egg might go,
And a cayenne salad not serve them,
Nor champagne cheer when their "tone" was low,
Nor a _fricassee'd_ oyster nerve them!

They felt that the power to attention gain
Would surely henceforth evade them,
And that public contempt would let them remain
In the grave where a "Blue Beard" had laid them.

And so, when Burnand his task had done,
And received a right warm ovation,
Of all the Mashers was left not one;
'Twas complete annihilation.

And they buried them there, where they first were born,
With gardenias on them clustered--
In the mashing garbs that they long had worn--
Near the stalls where they'd nightly mustered.

Blithely and gaily they laid them down,
Nor heard was a sob nor a sigh there;
And they carved not a line and they raised not a stone--
For the Mashers were worthy of neither!

_Truth_, March 22, 1883.

* * * * *

NEVER JOHN MOORE; OR, THE REJECTED SUITOR.

(An old story by an Old Bachelor.)

(_With sincere apologies to the Rev. Charles Wolfe--for the sheep's
clothing._)

I.

He felt highly absurd, as he put on his coat,
And, of course, exceedingly worried;
He swore he'd never return to the spot,
As out of the front door he scurried.

II.

He tried to banish her face from his sight,
She for whom he was yearning;
Hadn't Fred said, he knew he was right,
And that she was fond of spurning.

III.

But who'd have thought--ah, even guessed--
That after she had caught and bound him;
It was to be but a flirting jest.
An impartial joke to sound him.

IV.

Few and short were the words he had said,
Only this--only this, "love be mine."
She gave him a rap with her fan on his head,
And laughingly left him to pine

V.

What was he to do? should he hate her instead?
Or weeping wail, waly willow;
Or wiping away the tears he had shed,
Launch in some fresh peccadillo?

VI.

Lightly they'd talked in the days that were gone,
In arbours and in kitchen gardens;
Only to find _his_ poor heart torn
By devotion, which her hard heart hardens.

VII.

L'ENVOI.

The moral of this I hope you won't shun,
Don't be in your mind too enquiring,
Don't fall in love, or as sure as a gun,
You're not cared for by her you're admiring.

VIII.

Talk to them civilly and leave them alone,
And this is the end of my story.
And as I don't mean to alter my tone,
I drink to all flirts "con amore."

From _Cribblings from the Poets_ (Jones & Piggott), Cambridge, 1883.

A FUNERAL AFTER SIR JOHN MOORE'S, FURNISHED BY AN UNDERTAKER.

Not a mute one word at the funeral spoke
Till away to the pot-house we hurried,
Not a bearer discharged his ribald joke
O'er the grave where our "party" we buried.

We buried him dearly with vain display,
Two hundred per cent. returning,
Which we made the struggling orphans pay,
All consideration spurning.

With plumes of feathers his hearse was drest,
Pall and hatbands and scarfs we found him;
And he went, as a Christian, unto his rest,
With his empty pomp around him.

None at all were the prayers we said,
And we felt not the slightest sorrow,
But we thought, as the rites were perform'd o'er the dead,
Of the bill we'd run up on the morrow.

We thought as he sunk to his lowly bed
That we wish'd they'd cut it shorter.
So that we might be off to the Saracen's Head,
For our gin, and our pipes, and our porter.

Lightly we speak of the "party" that's gone,
Now all due respect has been paid him;
Ah! little he reck'd of the lark that went on
Near the spot where we fellows had laid him.

As soon as our sable task was done,
Nor a moment we lost in retiring;
And we feasted and frolick'd, and poked our fun,
Gin and water each jolly soul firing,

Blithely and quickly we quaff'd it down,
Singing song, cracking joke, telling story;
And we shouted and laughed all the way up to Town,
Riding outside the hearse in our glory.

_Punch_, January 5, 1850.

At the time when the above parody appeared there was an agitation on foot to reform the costliness and vain display at funerals. _Punch_, both in his cartoons and his letterpress, was exceedingly bitter against the undertakers.

The matter was so energetically taken up by the press and the public, that funerals were soon shorn of their costly mummery, and are now conducted on much more sensible and economical principles than they were in 1850.

In reference to the disputed authority of the ode "Not a drum was heard," the Rev. T. W. Carson, of Dublin, has kindly forwarded a _facsimile_ of the letter, (to which reference was made on page 105), from the Rev. C. Wolfe to his friend Mr. John Taylor. It varies slightly from the version already given, and seems conclusively to establish Wolfe's title as author of the poem.

It runs thus:--

"I have completed the Burial of Sir John Moore, and will here
inflict it upon you; you have no one but yourself to blame, for
praising the two stanzas (?) that I told you so much;--

(_Here follows the poem._)

"Pray write soon--you may direct as usual to College, and it will
follow me to the country. Give my love to Armstrong, and believe me,
my dear John, ever yours,

(Signed) CHARLES WOLFE."

This is addressed--

"JOHN TAYLOR, ESQ.,
At the Rev. Mr. Armstrong's,
Clonoulty,
Cashel."

Date of postmark, Se, 6, 1816.

The handwriting is small, neat, and clear, and there is only one slight verbal correction, which occurs in the last verse; in verses 3 and 4 a few end words have been torn off by the seal.

There is a postscript, as it has no reference, however, to the poem, it is needless to reprint it.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 4: This appears to be a covert allusion to the lady-bird.]

[Footnote 5: We shall not publish the vocabulary with this song.--ED.]

Thomas Hood.

1798--MAY 3, 1845.

In Hood's poems a rare blending is found of wit, fancy, humour and pathos; and as his personal character was amiable, gentle and good, his memory is cherished by Englishmen with peculiar affection and respect.

Thomas Hood was born in London, and was the son of a member of the then well-known firm of booksellers, Vernor, Hood, and Sharp.

Hood was intended for an engraver, and although he soon deserted that profession, he acquired a sufficient knowledge of it to enable him to illustrate his own works, which he did in a quaintly comical manner. His sketches, though generally crude and inartistic, admirably explain his meaning, and never certainly did puns find such a prolific, and humourous, pictorial exponent as Hood.

Hood's eldest son (Thomas Hood the younger) was also the author of several novels and some humourous poetry. He was for many years editor of _Fun_.

Of Hood's poems the four most usually selected for parody and imitation are, _The Song of the Shirt;_ _The Bridge of Sighs;_ _The Dream of Eugene Aram;_ and a pretty little piece entitled _I remember, I remember_.

It is a somewhat curious fact that one of the most earnest and pathetic of Hood's poems should first have appeared in _Punch_. _The Song of the Shirt_ will be found on page 260 of vol. 5, 1843, of that journal.

This dirge of misery awoke universal pity for the poor victims of the slop-sellers and ready-made clothiers; but like most of the spasmodic outbursts of British rage and indignation little permanent good resulted from it. The machinists, and unattached out-door employés of the London tailors, are probably worse off now than ever they were in Hood's time.

As might have been expected from the wonderful popularity of _The Song of the Shirt_ and its peculiarly catching rhythm, it has been the subject of almost innumerable parodies, and has also served as the model for many imitations of a serious nature.

TRIALS AND TROUBLES OF A TOURIST.

In clothes, both muddy and wet,
Without hat--left on the fell;
A pedestrian sought, with a tottering gait,
Refreshment at this hotel.
He'd walked a long and weary way,
O'er mountain-top and moor;
And thus he mused, mid'st wind and rain,
As he approached the door.

"I walk! walk! walk!
First climbing hills, and then down
Where the people are not to be seen,
Many miles from village or town.
Oh! haven't I been a dupe,
Pedestrian pleasure to seek,
When so quiet I might have stayed
At Redcar all the week."

"I walk! walk! walk!
With my boots fast breaking up,
And walk! walk! walk!
Without either bite or sup.
Oh! that again I was at home,
To feel as I used to feel,
And not as now, in hunger and thirst,
With a doubly-blistered heel."

"I walk! walk! walk!
Up to the knee in bog,
And loudly call, 'Lost! Lost!'
Surrounded by clouds and fog.
I walk! walk! walk!
Till my head begins to spin;
Oh! that I ne'er had scrambled out
The stream I tumbled in."

"I walk! walk! walk!
With cheeks all swollen and red;
A nasty aching within my ears,
Rheumatics in my head.
I walk! walk! walk!
In trousers tattered and torn!
With every thread from foot to head
Quite soaked since early morn."

"The day is fast wearing out,
And so are my boots and I;
The sleet blows in my face,
As with the breeze I sigh.
Although white fog I'm in,
Yet 'tis a dark look out
For one who hither has come for a change,
And cannot change a clout."

"I walk! walk! walk!
And nothing can find to see;
While water and mud from out my boots
Is squirting up to each knee.
Talk of scenery! Bah! it's all stuff,
But the waterfall, I admit,
Is good, for it's running down my back,
And I've no dry place to sit."

"I walk! walk! walk!
With my throat quite parched and dry;
No spirit to rouse my spirits up;
With pulse quite fevered and high.
I've a dropsy got outside,
Whilst inside there's a drought;
Oh! for a good warm draught within,
As a check to the draught without."

"Walk! walk! walk!
I'll never come here again:
My holiday shall be spent elsewhere,
Free from fatigue and pain.
Or I'll stay at home with my wife,
Where a dry shirt I can wear;"--
And worn out with misfortune's strife,
And almost weary of his life,
He sank in the old arm chair.

JOHN REED APPLETON, F.S.A.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE SPURT.

With hands all blistered and worn,
With eyes excited and red,
A boating man sat, in jersey and bags,
Awaiting the signal with dread.
Tug! tug! tug!
Every bone in his body is hurt;
And still, with a sigh and a dolorous shrug,
He sang the "Song of the Spurt!"

"Work! work! work!
Till I shiver in every limb;
Work! work! work!
Till the eyes begin to swim
Steam, bucket, and pant,
Pant, bucket, and steam,
Till over the oar I almost faint,
And row along in a dream."

"O, men, with sisters dear,
O, men, with pretty cousins,
I must mind and keep my form for the end--
They'll be there on the barge by dozens!
Pull! pull! pull!
What is poverty, hunger, or dirt,
Compared with the more than double dread
Of catching a crab in the spurt!"

With eyes excited and red,
With good hope of victory fired,
He was rowing along in his jersey and bags,
But feeling uncommonly tired!
Pull! pull! pull!
He began his full powers to exert;
Soon his boat would have been at the head of the river,
But when just at the barge--an unfortunate shiver
Made him catch a crab in the spurt!

REMEX MORIBUNDUS.

_College Rhymes_ (T. and G. Shrimpton), Oxford, 1865.

* * * * *

THE DRIPPING SHEET.

"This sheet, wrung out of cold or tepid water, is thrown around the body. Quick rubbing follows, succeeded by the same operation with a dry sheet. Its operation is truly _shocking_. Dress after to prevent remarks."

SONG OF THE SHEET.

(_After Hood._)

With nerves all shattered and worn,
With shouts terrific and loud,
A patient stood in a cold wet sheet--
A Grindrod's patent shroud.
Wet, wet, wet,
In douche, and spray, and sleet,
And still, with a voice I shall never forget,
He sang the song of the sheet.

"Drip, drip, drip,
Dashing, and splashing, and dipping;
And drip, drip, drip,
Till your fat all melts to dripping.
It's oh, for dry deserts afar,
Or let me rather endure
Curing with salt in a family jar,
If this is the water cure.

"Rub, rub, rub,
He'll rub away life and limb;
Rub, rub, rub,
It seems to be fun for him.
Sheeted from head to foot,
I'd rather be covered with dirt;
I'll give you the sheet and the blankets to boot,
If you'll only give me my shirt.

"Oh men, with arms and hands;
Oh men, with legs and shins;
It is not the sheet you're wearing out,
But human creatures' skins.
Rub, rub, rub,
Body, and legs, and feet,
Rubbing at once with a double rub,
A skin as well as a sheet.

"My wife will see me no more--
She'll see the bone of her bone
But never will see the flesh of her flesh,
For I'll have no flesh of my own:
The little that was my own,
They won't allow me to keep,
It's a pity that flesh should be so dear,
And water so very cheap.

"Pack, pack, pack,
Whenever your spirit flags,
You're doomed by hydropathic laws
To be packed in cold wet rags:
Rolled up on bed or on floor--
Or sweated to death in a chair;
But my chairman's rank--my shadow I'd thank
For taking my place in there.

"Slop, slop, slop,
Never a moment of time,
Slop, slop, slop,
Slackened like masons' lime;
Stand and freeze or steam--
Steam or freeze and stand;
I wish those friends had their tongues benumbed,
That told me to leave dry land.

"Up, up, up,
In the morn before daylight,
The bathman cries, "Get up,"
(I wish he were up for a fight).
While underneath the eaves,
The dry, snug swallows cling,
But give them a cold wet sheet to their backs,
And see if they'll come next spring.

"Oh! oh! it stops my breath,
(He calls it short and sweet),
Could they hear me underneath,
I'll shout them from the street!
He says that in half an hour
A different man I'll feel
That I'll jump half over the moon and want
To walk into a meal.

* * * * *

"I feel more nerve and power,
And less of terror and grief;
I'm thinking now of love and hope--
And now of mutton and beef.
This glorious scene will rouse my heart,
Oh, who would lie in bed?
I cannot stop, but jump and hop;
Going like needle and thread."

With buoyant spirit upborne,
With cheeks both healthy and red;
The same man ran up the Malvern Crags,
Pitying those in bed.
Trip, trip, trip,
Oh, life with health is sweet;
And still in a voice both strong and quick,
Would that its tones could reach the sick,
He sang the Song of the Sheet.

From _Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch_. By J. B. Oddfish, Esq., M.P., L.L.D. (Malvern Patient, Doctor of Laughs and Liquids).

Simpkin, Marshall and Co., London, 1865.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE STREET.

(To the memory of the good, the genial, the large-hearted Thomas Hood, this humble imitation of his "Song of the Shirt" is inscribed by the writer).

I.

With lips all livid with cold,
And purple and swollen feet,
A woman, in rags, sat crouch'd on the flags,
Singing the Song of the Street!
"Starve! starve! starve!
Oh, God! 'tis a fearful night!
How the wind does blow the sleet and the snow!
Will it ever again be light?

II.

"I have rung at the 'Refuge' bell,
I have beat at the workhouse-door,
To be told again that I clamour in vain,
They are full--they can hold no more.
Starve! starve! starve!
Of the crowds that pass me by,
Some with pity, and some in pride,
But more with indifference turn aside,
And leave me here to die!

III.

"Oh! you that sleep in beds,
With coverlet, quilt, and sheet,
Oh think when it snows what it is for those
That lie in the open street:
That lie in the open street,
On the cold and frozen stones,
When the winter's blast, as it whistles past,
Bites into the very bones.

IV.

"Oh! what with the wind without,
And what with the cold within,
I own I have sought to drive away thought
With that curse of the tempted--gin.
Drink! drink! drink!
Amid ribaldry, gas, and glare.
If there's hell on earth,
'Tis the ghastly mirth
That maddens at midnight, there.

V.

"Oh you, that never have stray'd,
Because you have not been tried,
Oh look not down with a Pharisee's frown
On those that have swerv'd aside.
And you that hold the scales,
And you that glibly urge
That the only plan is the Prison van,
The Treadmill, or the Scourge.

VI.

"Oh, what are the lost to do?
To famish, and not to feel?
For days to go, and never to know
What it is to have one meal?
They cannot buy, they dare not beg,
They must either starve or steal.

"Food--food--food!
If it be but a loaf of bread,
And a place to lie--
And a place to die,
If it be but a workhouse bed!
If you will not give to those that live,
You at least _must_ bury the dead!"

VIII.

With lips all livid and blue,
And purple and swoll'n feet,
A woman, in rags, sat crouch'd on the flags,
And sang the Song of the Street.
As she ceased the doleful strain,
My homeward path I trod;
And the cry and the prayer,
Of that lost one there
Went up to the Throne of God.

W. H. B.

_The Standard_, February 16th, 1865.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE STUMP.

Stump--stump--stump--
Through market-place, pothouse, and dirt;
Stump--stump--stump--
With a greasy mob fast to his skirt;
Having changed his coat to secure their vote,
Mr. Gladstone now changes his shirt.
And if he but ends as he does begin,
There is little doubt he will change his skin,
On the stump--stump--stump.

Stump--stump--stump--
Through Ormskirk, St. Helen's and Newton,
Whilst after him shout a rabble rout
Of electors "Ain't he a cute 'un?"
Stump--stump--stump--
With the aid of rhetorical steam,
Till over his speeches we fall asleep,
And hear him stump in a dream;
Stump--stump--stump--
For ever upon our ear.
Alas! that principle's so cheap,
And office is so dear!
Stump--stump--stump.

_The Tomahawk_, November, 1868.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE FLIRT.

With bosom weary and worn,
With eyelids painted and red,
A lady, just from a Duchess's ball,
Sat on the side of her bed.
Her sapphires were gleaming and rich,
And faultless her lace and her skirt,
And yet with a voice of dolorous pitch,
She sang the "Song of the Flirt."

"Flirt, flirt, flirt!
When the lunch is scarcely begun!
Flirt, flirt, flirt!
Till the sickening supper is done
Ball and dinner, and rout,
Rout, and dinner, and ball,
Till I long for my bed to rest my head,
And in a wakeless slumber to fall."

"Flirt, flirt, flirt!
Till the room begins to swim;
Flirt, flirt, flirt,
Till the eyes are starting and dim:
Beam, and falsehood, and frown,
Frown, and falsehood, and beam,
Till over my lyings I fall asleep,
And flirt my fan in a dream!"

"Flirt, flirt, flirt!
My labour never ends;
And what are its wages? all true men's scorn,
And a dreary dearth of friends.
That shattered life--and this broken heart--
And yon smile that shrines a sneer;
And a house so blank, my cousin I thank
For sometimes calling here!"

"Oh! but to scent the breath
Of an honest man on my brow--
To feel the throb of a worthy arm
Winding around me now;
For only one brief hour
To feel as the pure can feel,
To staunch with the power of hearty love
The wounds that refuse to heal!"

With bosom weary and worn,
With eyelids painted and red,
A woman, fresh from a great duke's ball,
Knelt by the side of her bed.
Her rubies were ruddy and rich,
And perfect her bodice and skirt--
She looked like a splendid and tigerly witch,
And yet with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the "Song of the Flirt."

F. C. W., Exeter College, Oxon.

_College Rhymes_ (T. Shrimpton and Son), Oxford, 1872.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE WIRE.

With finger cunning and firm,
With one eye and a crooked back,
An old man, clad in an old pair of bags,
Was carving a profile in black.
Snip! snip! snip!
Cold, wet, or whatever the day,
And still, with a voice of a ludicrous crack,
He croaked the "Wirer's Lay."

"Wire! wire! wire!
While men to their lectures fly,
And wire! wire! wire!
Where the Turl runs into the High!
It's O, to be the Vice,
Or a Prince in his cap and gown,
It's O, to be able to pay the price
To be stuck round my hat's old crown.

"Wire! wire! wire!
Till the nose begins to be clear;
Wire! wire! wire!
Till the lips and the chin appear!
Hair and shoulder and brow,
Brow and shoulder and hair,
Till over the likeness I chuckle and wait
For a gent who's a moment to spare.

"O, men, with sisters dear!
O, men, with mothers to please!
It is not for them my portraits are bought,
But for dearer far than these!
Snip! snip! snip!
With a point as keen as a dart,
Carving at once a likeness to suit,
And a place in the loved one's heart.

"But why do I talk of her?
The fair one of unknown name,
I hardly think she could tell the face,
They all seem much the same--
They all seem much the same,
Because of the types I keep;
'Tis odd that faces should be so like,
And yet I work them so cheap!

"Wire! wire! wire!
My labour never flags;
And what are its wages? a copper or two,
Which I lose through the holes in my bags,
A nod of the head, or a passing joke,--
A laugh,--a freshman's stare,--
Or a gent so bland, when I ask him to stand
While I carve him his portrait there.

"Wire! wire! wire!
In the sound of S. Mary's chimes,
Wire! wire! wire!
As specials wire to the _Times!_
Hair, and shoulder, and brow,
Brow, and shoulder, and hair,
Till the trick is done, and I pocket the coin,
As I finish it off with care.

"Wire! wire! wire!
In the dull month of Novem-
ber--wire! wire! wire,
When Oxford is bright with Commem.
While under light parasols,
The pretty girls slily glance,
As if to show how nice they would look
If they'd only give me a chance.

"Oh! but to catch that face
Which health and beauty deck--
That hat posed on her head,
And the curl that falls on her neck;
For only a minute or two
To sketch as I could when I tried
To take off the Vice as he passed one day,
And the Prince in my hat by his side.

"Oh! but for a minute or two!
A moment which soon will have gone!
No blessed second for fair or brunette,
Nor even to copy a don!
A little sketching would bring some brass,
But in its musty case,
My scissors must lie, for I have but one eye
With which to look out for a face!"

With finger cunning and firm,
With one eye and a crooked back,
An old man clad in an old pair of bags,
Was carving a profile in black.
Snip! snip! snip!
Cold, wet, or whatever the day,
And, still with a voice of a ludicrous crack,
Would I could describe its cadaverous knack--
He croaked the "Wirer's Lay."

ARTHUR-A-BLAND.

This parody appeared in _The Shotover Papers_ for May, 1874 (J. Vincent, High Street, Oxford), it will certainly appeal more to old Oxford men, from its allusions, than to the general reader.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF LOVE.

With bosom weary and sad,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A maiden sat, in maidenly grace,
Thinking o'er pleasures dead.
Sigh! sigh! sigh!
In misery, sorrow, and tears,
She sang, in a voice of melody,
The plaintive song of her fears.

Love! love! love!
Whilst the birds are waking from rest;
And love! love! love!
Till the sun sinks in the west;
It's oh! to be in the grave,
Where hope's false dream is not,
Where doubts ne'er rise to bedim the eyes,
If this is woman's lot!

Here follow nine more verses in an equally plaintive style, and of no particular interest.

From _The Figaro_, February 28, 1874.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE CRAM.

With fingers trembling and warm,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A schoolboy sat, in true schoolboy style,
His hand supporting his head.
Throb! throb! throb!
With frantic excitement and dread,
And still with a look of dolor and pain,
He sat on the side of his bed.

"Throb! throb! throb!
In my chamber next the roof;
And work! work! work!
From my friends I must keep aloof;
French and German and Greek,
Greek and German and French,
Till my brow grows damp, and my breath comes hard,
And my agonised hands I clench.

"Work! work! work!
While my cousins are laughing beneath,
And work! work! work!
Till I scarcely can draw my breath;
It's oh! to prepare! prepare!
My head with knowledge to cram,
Not a word to say! not a moment to spare!
I'm going in for Exam!

"Work! work! work!
Till the brain begins to swim,
And work! work! work!
Till my eyes are heavy and dim;
Greek and German and French,
French and German and Greek,
Till over the problems I have a nap,
And work them out in my sleep.

"Throb! throb! throb!
My courage is ebbing fast!
Work! work! work!
I fear that my brain won't last!
Throb! throb! throb!
O come and help me cram!
I'm going to be a lunatic,
If plucked in this Exam!

"O men with cousins dear!
O men with mothers and wives!
I'd cram you, if I had you here,
Within an inch of your lives!
But Examiners' hearts are hard,
And their wisdom is but a sham;
And little they care what we have to bear,
Or how hard we need to cram!

"Oh! but to play a game
With my happy friends below!
Oh! but to make a pun,
Or try--but 'tis all 'no go'--
So they for me may wish,
But I must stay and cram;
Oh, bother it! I'm just 'done up'
With this horrible Exam!"

With fingers trembling and warm,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A schoolboy sat in true schoolboy style,
His hand supporting his head.
Throb! throb! throb!
And cram! cram! cram!
And still with a look of dolor and pain,
He studied and crammed with might and main,
To pass the dreaded Exam!

A. P.

_The Dunheved Mirror_, Cornwall, December, 1876.

* * * * *

THE SLAVE OF THE PEN.

I.

With fingers inky and cold,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A scribbler sat through the dreary night,
Spinning "Copy," at morn to be read.
Scratch! scratch! scratch!
In a gas-lighted steamy den,
And still, in a voice of dolorous pitch,
He sang the song of the pen.

II.

"Scratch! scratch! scratch!
While engines are shaking the roof;
Scratch! scratch! scratch!
Till the "Devil" appears with a proof.
And it's oh! to be a slave
Of the pen, whether steel or quill,
Is as bad as being a worthless knave
Doing his month at the 'mill.'

III.

"Scratch! scratch! scratch!
Is it farce or tragedy grim,
Making up the requisite batch,
With fact, and fancy, and whim?
It fritters away my life,
In the flow of this inky stream.
And over the copy I fall asleep,
And punctuate in a dream."

* * * * *

Oh! husband with slippered feet;
Oh! wife in morning gown:
Coming down to breakfast, pleased to read
The latest news of the town--
Think of the dismal scratch
Of these midnight slaves of the pen.
Forgive them a caustic, or feeble phrase,
And remember they are but men.

_Funny Folks_, January 9th, 1875.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE SWORD.

Weary, and wounded, and worn, wounded and ready to die,
A soldier they left, all alone and forlorn, on the field of the
battle to lie.
The dead and the dying alone could their presence and pity afford,
Whilst, with a sad and terrible tone, he sang ... the Song of the
Sword.
"Fight--fight--fight! though a thousand fathers die;
Fight--fight--fight! though a thousand children cry!
Fight--fight--fight! while mothers and wives lament;
And fight--fight--fight! while millions of money are spent.

"Fight--fight--fight! should the cause be foul or fair,
Though all that's gained is an empty name, and a tax too great to
bear;
An empty name, and a paltry fame, and thousands lying dead;
Whilst every glorious victory must raise the price of bread.
War--war--war! fire, and famine, and sword;
Desolate fields and desolate towns, and thousands scattered abroad,
With never a home, and never a shed, whilst kingdoms perish and fall;
And hundreds of thousands are lying dead, ... and all for nothing at
all!

"War--war--war! musket, and powder, and ball--
Ah! what do we fight so for? ah! why have we battles at all?
'Tis Justice must be done, they say, the nation's honour to keep;
Alas! that Justice should be so dear, and human life so cheap!
War--war--war! misery, murder, and crime;
Are all the blessings I've seen in thee, from my youth to the present
time.
Misery, murder, and crime--crime, misery, murder, and woe;
Ah! would I had known in my younger days half the horrors which now
I know."

Weary, and wounded, and worn, wounded and ready to die,
A soldier they left, all alone and forlorn, on the field of the
battle to lie.
The dead and the dying alone could their presence and pity afford,
And thus with a sad and a terrible tone (oh! would that these truths
were more perfectly known!) he sang the Song of the Sword.

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF A SOT.

Words composed by Bro. J. B. Davies, P.M. (753).

_Dedicated to George Cruikshank, Esq., by his kind permission._

With a visage pale and wan,
With a vacant stare of eye;
The wreck of a man, and a friend, I saw,
In a tavern standing by.
Drink, drink, drink,
Was the demon that urged him on;
And yet still with a husky voice did he call
For drink, till "his pence were gone."

Drink, drink, drink,
From morning until night!
Drink, drink, drink,
By the glare of bright gaslight.
Oh! fearful sight to see,
And a dreadful thought to think,
That man, who should rule, a slave should be
To that fearful demon, drink.

Drink, drink, drink,
Till power of sense is gone,
Drink, drink, drink,
Till it's of health and wealth both shorn;
Beer, brandy, gin and rum,
Rum, brandy, gin and beer,
Till the glorious form of manhood's lost
In the beast that you now appear!

Oh! men with thoughtful minds,
Oh! men with a reason fair,
Tread not in the paths that drunkards go--
From demon drink, stand clear.
Drink, drink, drink,
Both in slums and great highway,
Is a curse that we too often meet
In our walks by night or day.

But why do I thus depict
That fell demon of the soul?
I do but so that my fellow men
Themselves from drink control.
Themselves from drink control,
Because of the scenes we see!
Oh, God! to think that man should seek
In drink his misery!

Drink, drink, drink,
But soon the time will come,
And what will be the end? a soul that's lost,
A drunkard's wretched home
Where sorrow is found, and mark the cost--
Neither victuals, fire, or light
With a starving wife near the close of life
To meet the drunkard's sight!

Drink, drink, drink,
From morning until night,
Drink, drink, drink,
'Tis the drunkard's sole delight.
Beer, brandy, gin, and rum,
Rum, brandy, gin, and beer,
Till his health is gone and his wealth as well,
For the demon nought will spare.

Drink, drink, drink,
In mansion as well as in cot,
'Tis drink, drink, drink,
With the highest and lowest sot;
While toiling thousands sleep
Their rest of calm content,
In gilded palaces round about,
The night's in riot spent.

Oh! that the world would shun,
That demon in form of drink;
And would reason within themselves
And from its presence shrink!
Oh! how might the soul of wayward man,
Rejoice in freedom then--
And be better far in health and wealth--
And better far as men.

Oh! but that men would see,
The sorrow that drink entails!
The orphan's cry and the madman's shout,
As well the widow's wails.
A curse to body, as well as soul,
Sends thousands to their grave;
And makes of Man, God's noblest work,
A low dejected slave.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF "THE CASE."

(_A Reminiscence of the late Session_).

With spirits drooping and worn,
With eyelids heavy as lead,
The members sat on their seats in the House,
And wearily longed for bed;
While "Tich, Tich, Tich,"
With gruesome and long-drawn face,
"The Doctor," with voice of dolorous pitch,
Sang the Song of "the Case."

"Tich, Tich, Tich,
In spite of all reproof;
And Tich, Tich, Tich,
Though the members stand aloof,
It's I that ought to be classed
Along with Chatham and Burke,
And I'll never cease to raise my voice
Against such monstrous work!"

"Tich, Tich, Tich,
Till the brain begins to swim,
Tich, Tich, Tich,
Till their eyes are heavy and dim.
Stream, and minnow, and twitch,
Minnow, and twitch, and stream,
Till over the _tattoo_ they fall asleep,
And see it done in a dream."

"O, men, so callous and blind--
O, men, so bloated and rich--
It isn't Orton you're locking up,
But the real and only 'Tich!'
Tich, Tich, Tich,
'Prison'd, dishonour'd, opprest,
Stitching at once with his sewing-machine,
A shroud as well as a vest."

(_Four verses omitted here._)

With spirits drooping and worn.
With eyelids as heavy as lead,
The members sat in their place in the House,
And wearily longed for bed;
While Tich, Tich, Tich,
With gruesome and long-drawn face,
"The Doctor," with voice of dolorous pitch,
(Ah me! to have to listen to sich),
Sang the Song of "the Case."

_Funny Folks_, October 2nd, 1875.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE TURK IN 1877.

With arguments tattered and worn,
With facts long torn to a shred,
The statesman rose in eloquent rage
To ply his political trade.
Stump, stump, stump,
Is this the successor of Burke,
Who, with a voice of dolorous pitch,
Still sings his song of the Turk?

Turk, Turk, Turk!
While the Czar is biting the dust.
And Turk, Turk, Turk,
The incarnation of lust.
It's O to be a slave,
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where women have never a soul to save,
And only a body for--work!

Turk, Turk, Turk!
Till the brain begins to swim.
Turk, Turk, Turk,
Till the audience is eager and grim.
Rape, and outrage, and murder,
And outrage, murder, and rape,
Till stories, long since disproved, appear
To assume a bodily shape.

O, men, with sisters dear!
O, men, with mothers and wives!
These are things that are wearing away
Bulgarian Christian lives.
Stump, stump, stump,
It's not uncongenial work,
To be damning away, with a double tongue,
The Tory as well as the Turk.

Turk, Turk, Turk!
My labour never flags,
Yet, what are its wages? A Nottingham feast,
And a suit of political rags,
A broken party, a shattered name,
A smile from the "Daily News,"
A bloody war, and a future so blank
That my mind the thought eschews.

Turk, Turk, Turk!
On the chill October night,
And Turk, Turk, Turk,
When the weather is warm and bright.
And yet, underneath the theme
A longing for power lurks.
So the people of England show me their backs,
And twit me about my Turks.

Oh, but to breathe the air
Of the Treasury Bench so sweet,
With never a soul above my head,
And Lord Beaconsfield under my feet!
Oh, but for one short hour,
To feel as I used to feel,
When the Liberal Government was in power,
And I was the man at the wheel!

Oh, but for one short hour!
A period however brief!--
No blessed leisure for Power or Hope,
But only time for grief!
A little writing eases my mind--
A pamphlet, a postcard, a note--
Yet my pen must stop, for each hot ink-drop
May cost my party a vote.

With statements tattered and worn,
With facts distorted and cooked,
The statesman may hope that his share in the war
Will perchance be overlooked,
Turk, Turk, Turk!
'Tis vain the truth to shirk,
While thousands of bleeding corpses cry,
"Your pamphlets and speeches have made us die,
And we hope you are proud of your work."