Chapter XII: Introduction (5)

_They are Five_, by W. E. G. (David Bogue), London.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE FLIRT.

(_Hood's Own--for Somebody Else._)

In the loudest things that are worn,
With her cheek a peculiar red,
A maiden sat, in a gentleman's vest,--
This one idea in her head:
To be stitched, stitched, stitched,
Yet a little more tight in her skirt,
The while, with her voice disdainfully pitched,
She sang the "Song of the Flirt!"

"Work, work, work.
In the broiling drive and row,
And work, work, work,
At the stifling crush and show.
And I'm so sick of it all,
That to-morrow I'd marry a Turk,
If he'd ask me--I would! For, after this,
Yes,--_that_ would be Christian work!

"Work, work, work,
On the lawn in the lazy shade;
Work, work, work,
In the blaze of the baked parade.
Tea, and tennis, and band,--
Band, and tennis, and tea:--
If I can but ogle an eldest son,
They're all the same to me.

"You men, do you dare to sneer,
And point to your sisters and wives!--
Because they simper 'Not nice, my dear;'--
As if they had ne'er in their lives
Been stitched, stitched, stitched,
Each prude in her own tight skirt,
And wouldn't have been, without a blush,
Had she had the chance--a _Flirt!_

"And why do I talk of a blush?
Have I much of Modesty known?
Why, no. Though, at times, her crimson cheek
Grows not unlike my own.
Yet strange that, not for my life,
Could I redden as she does, deep.
I wonder why colour called up's so dear,--
Laid on should come so cheap.

"But, work, work, work,
With powder, and puff, and pad:
And, work, work, work,
For every folly and fad!
With Imogen's artless gaze?
No?--Phryne's brazen stare!
With soul undone, but body made up,
I've all the fun of the fair.

"So I work, work, work!
My labour never fags.
And what are its wages? A Spinster's doom,
And a place on the roll of hags.
Still I ogle away by the wall,--
A playful kittenish thing;
Autumn well written all over my face,
Though my feet have lost their spring.

"So at times, when I'm out of breath,
And the men go off in a pack
To dangle about some chit just 'out,'--
Who smirks like a garrison hack,--
I try for a short half hour
To feel as I used to feel
When a girl, if my boldness was all assumed,
My hair, at least, was real.

"And at times, for a short half hour,
It seems a sort of relief
To think of Fred, and the few bright days
Before he came to grief.
My work? May be! Had I a heart,
My tears might flow apace;
But tears must stop--when every drop
Would carry away one's face!"

In the loudest things that are known,
With her cheek a peculiar red,
A maiden sat, in a gentleman's vest,--
This one idea in her head:
To be stitched, stitched, stitched,
Yet a little more tight in her skirt;
The while with her voice disdainfully pitched
(Some ears at the sound, I wis, might have itched),
She sang the "Song of the Flirt!"

_Punch_, September 18, 1880.

* * * * *

THE JANITOR'S SONG.

With features sallow and grim,
With visage sadly forlorn,
The Janitor sat in the Janitor's room,
Weary, and sleepy, and worn.
'Tis a fact, fact, fact!
He sat with a visage long;
And still as he sat, with a voice half cracked,
He sang this Janitor's song:

"Sweep, sweep, sweep,
In dirt, in smoke, and in dust,
And sweep, sweep, sweep,
Till I throw down my broom in disgust.
Stairs, and chapel, and halls,
Halls, and chapel, and stairs--
Till my drowsy head on my shoulder falls,
And sleep brings release from my cares."

"From the very first crack of the gong,
From the earliest gleam of daylight,
Day after day and all day long,
Far into the weary night,
It's sweep, sweep, sweep,
Till my broom doth a pillow seem;
Till over its handle I fall asleep,
And sweep away in my dream.

"Oh! students of high degree,
(I scorn to address a low fellow),
"Oh! seniors most reverend, potent, and grave,
(In the words of the great Othello),
My story's a sad one indeed,
Notwithstanding your laughter and sport;
My life is naught but a broken reed,
And my broom is my only support."

With features sallow and grim,
With visage sadly forlorn,
The Janitor sat in the Janitor's room,
Weary, and sleepy, and worn.
It's a fact, fact, fact,
He sat with a visage forlorn,
And still as he sat with a voice half cracked,
He sang the Janitor's song.

_Carmina Collegensia._

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE SHIRK.

With a countenance weary and worn,
With eyelids all heavy and red,
An Undergrad sat, in his nightgown torn,
Reading his Paley in bed.
Read, read, read,
Till his voice is quite feeble and low,
He can read no more, so in accents poor,
He sang of the dire Littlego.

Read, read, read,
While the Rooks are cawing around;
And read, read, read,
Till of Cabs I hear the sound.
If only last time I had passed,
And had left all this Littlego work,
I'd become a Jew or a "pious Hindoo,"
Or perhaps a barbarous Turk.

Read, read, read,
It's nothing but read all day;
Read, read, read,
Till I read myself away,
Paley and Euclid so hard,
Mathematics with Latin and Greek,
I only wish I had read them before,
For the Exam begins in a week.

O, men, who Examiners are,
Recollect when the period arrives
'Tis not only the _papers_ you're setting this time,
But a _limit_ to Undergrad's lives.
Read, read, read,
By days, by month, by year,
Reading forsooth so uncommonly hard,
That you feel excessively queer.

But why do I sing of them?
Their hearts are like pieces of stone,
I believe I ought to shun the thought
Of Examiners when I'm alone.
It makes me almost mad
To think of that awful sight;
O, dear, that to some the papers are stiff,
While to others they're easy and light.

Read, read, read,
My reading will never stop;
And what's its reward? a name in a list,
Where the bottom's as good as the top.
This tumbled bed, with its shaky legs,
Yon room in disorder so great,
All attired with cards, tobacco, and wine,
It shows that I kept it up late.

Read, read, read,
How full my time has been.
My reading I bless (?) for I possess
No leisure to read _Light Green_.
Hard Latin and odious Greek,
Hard Greek and odious Latin,
Their very dread makes me think this bed
Is the worst I ever sat in.

Read, read, read,
Till my brain becomes infirm;
Read, read, read,
In this and the Lenten Term.
And then the men who have passed,
As I see them in the street,
Will laugh at me, and twit, and jeer,
Whenever them I meet.

O, but to get through now--
A "Second" I would not mind,
With the "General" looming in front,
And the "Littlego" left behind.
Then to think of the feelings of those,
Who cannot these subjects acquire,
Is enough to give one the direst of woes
(Not to mention the wrath of your sire).

O, but for one short look
At the Euclid or Paley paper,
For one short glance, I soon would dance,
And cut about and caper.
A little peeping would ease my heart,
But from those papers hated,
My eyes must keep, for every peep
Might make me rusticated.

With a countenance weary and worn,
With his nose, alas! awfully red,
The Undergrad blew out his candle's flame,
And settled himself in his bed.
"Read, read, read,"
In his troubled sleep he said.
Examiners think on his piteous face,
If he's plucked, you know 'tis your disgrace,
So in the "First" or "Second" place
The man who reads Paley in bed.

P. M. W.

_Light Green_, Cambridge (W. Metcalfe and Son), 1882.

* * * * *

THE BROOD ON THE BEARD.

With face like a maiden's bare,
With hair on his head strewn thin,
A youth ill at ease, in an easy chair,
Sat stroking his cheeks and chin.
Stroke, stroke, stroke,
Yet never a symptom appeared,
Indulging, yet nowise enjoying the joke,
In penning THIS Brood on the Beard.

I wish, wish, wish,
Till wishing becomes a whirl,
Wish, wish, wish,
For the locks with a flowing curl.
Imperial, beard, moustache,
Moustache, imperial, beard,
I long for them each till the three become
Wove into a triad weird.

Young men with beards full grown,
Young men with moustaches neat;
Say, is it not your lot to own,
The joys of life complete?
I shave, shave, shave,
My cheeks with lather besmeared,
Scraping the skin with razor keen,
To make it utter a beard.

But why should I dream of beards,
For the pleasure of manhood pine;
Or think of the looks my soul so craves,
That never may be mine?
That never may be mine.
Tho' my heart with hope may pant,
And mourn that some with such are blest,
Whilst I of such am scant.

I watch, watch, watch
My glass each morning and night;
Watch, watch, watch,
But no sprouting gladdens my sight.
That shaving glass, that razor keen,
That strop I so often whet;
Betray the desire that ne'er may tire
Of what I ne'er may get.

I feel, feel, feel,
Each morning of each week--
Feel, feel, feel,
My lips, my chin, my cheek.
Moustache, imperial, beard,
Imperial, beard, moustache,
Could I but see signs of the three,
I would give good sterling cash.

I rub, rub, rub,
When the shades of night set in,
Rub, rub, rub,
Pomatum o'er cheeks and chin,
Whilst Tabby, with whiskers long,
Upon the hearthrug lies,
And seems to purr contentment for
What nature me denies.

Oh! could I but only see
Just the faintest dawn of down,
Or FANCY that Nature would
In the end my wishes crown!
Or hope that even I
The hours at last will enjoy,
When maids no longer will deem me
An o'ergrown hobbledehoy.

But I to have glossy hair,
On my lips a flowing curl,
A pair of whiskers to grace my cheeks,
A moustache to turn and twirl,
Is but a dream, a gloomy gleam;
A wish without a hope,
Where fancy free may gain for me
Nothing AT ALL but scope.

With face like a maiden's bare,
With hair on his head strewn thin,
A youth ill at ease in an easy chair,
Sat stroking his cheeks and chin.
Stroke, stroke, stroke,
Till he glanced at THE HOUR, and there was seen
A word that brought the news that he sought--
'Twas the famed PILOSAGINE!

_Old Advertisement._

* * * * *

"THE SONG OF THE DIRT."

(_With Respectful Memories of Tom Hood._)

With garments soddened and soiled,
With boot-tops covered in grime,
With trousers bespattered with foulest mud,
Picking one's way through the slime.
Slush--slush--slush!
And foul-smelling filth and dirt,
That clings like a kind of malodorous pitch--
I sing the "Song of the Dirt."

Dirt--dirt--dirt!
In the January night,
And dirt--dirt--dirt!
While the weather is muggy though bright.
Smell, and slime, and reek,
Reek, and slime and smell;
Till over the kerbstone I fall and slip,
And smother myself as well.

O! but for one short hour!
A respite: 'twould be so sweet!
I'd bless the scavenger's shovel and broom,
If he'd clear the mud 'neath my feet.
For only one short hour,
To feel as I used to feel:
The pavement free from grease and slime
In my walk that's now an ordeal.

_Funny Folks_, January, 1884.

* * * * *

THE WAIL OF A PROOF-READER.

_Made During a Fearful "Spell" of Weather by One of 'Em._

With fingers weary and worn,
And nose quite puffy and red,
A Proof-reader sat in his old linen coat,
With a snorting "cold in 'is ead."
With handkerchief in his left,
And pen in his dexter paw,
The miserable man first blew his nose,
Then thus let loose his jaw:

Read, read, read,
With tears rolling down from my eyes,
Read, read, read,
Till I can't tell l's from i's.
Read, read, read,
In pain, confusion, and noise,
And bored by a voice of dolorous pitch
Belonging to "one of the boys."

Read, read, read,
In the story next to the roof:
Read, read, read,
Till my soul is lost in the proof.
It's oh to be a Hottentot
In the burning sand,
Where never an author sent a lot
Of manuscript the "devil" could not,
Nor the "reader" understand!

Read, read, read,
Till my weary spirits sink,
And mark, mark, mark,
While mind ebbs with the ink.
French, and Latin, and Greek!
Hebrew, Spanish, and Dutch!
Poring o'er all till my eyes grow weak,
And I seem to be, by Fancy's freak,
But a part of the pen I clutch.

Oh, but to "DELE" work!
To "transpose" toil for rest!
To "make up" life's remaining years
On smiling Nature's breast!
A "space" of time to join the "chase,"
Some "quoins" to see me through!
A good "fat take" of these I want,
But a few large "notes" MIGHT do.

Oh, for a brief respite
From toilsome pen and proof!
An "out," while I might calmly seek
A "double" who would share my roof;
The "sort" that could "correct" my "forme,"
And save me from life's many traps,
And round our "table" smiling "set"
Sweet "fat-faced" MINIONS in "SMALL CAPS!"

L. F. THOMAS.

_The British and Colonial Stationer_, May, 1884.

* * * * *

THE BITTER CRY!

"Few persons have any conception of these pestilential human rookeries where tens of thousands are crowded together amidst horrors which call to mind the middle passage of the slave ship."--[The Bitter Cry of Outcast London.]

Wearily wandering into the winding
Maze of the filthy and festering slums,
Borne on the blast of the hurricane blinding,
Suddenly into my spirit there comes
Bitterest cry of the careworn and dying,
Weeping and wailing of old and of young--
Wailing of women aweary and sighing.
Heavenward? Hear the song that they sung:

"Strive, strive, strive,
With the wolf at the door, in vain,
Tho' the struggle to keep alive
Is worse than a hell of pain.

Gin, gin, gin,
Our cares we'll drown once more;
'Tis but folly to shrink from the spirit of drink,
So, swig till our lives be o'er."

Fiercer than fathomless cry of the weepers,
Wilder than wailing of women and men,
Echoing ever a voice, "O ye sleepers,
Where is the harpy who owneth each den?
Where are the vultures who prey on the living?"
Pitiless dealers of wrong at each breath,
Shedders of blood who each moment are giving
Children and women and strong men to Death:

"Here, here, here,"
Is the loud and bitter cry.
"Oh, heed our sob of fear,
And save us ere we die.

"Rent, rent, rent,
Our cares we'll drown once more,
For there's nothing but gin when the bailiffs are in,
And the baby's dead on the floor."

G. B. BURGIN.

Ashley House, High Barnet, Herts, England.

* * * * *

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I REMEMBER, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!

TOM HOOD.

* * * * *

NURSERY REMINISCENCES.

I REMEMBER, I remember,
When I was a little Boy,
One fine morning in September,
Uncle brought me home a toy.
I remember how he patted
Both my cheeks with kindliest mood;
"Then," said he, "you little fat head,
There's a top because you're good."

Grandmamma--a shrewd observer--
I remember gazed upon
My new top, and said with fervour,
"Oh! how kind of Uncle John!"
While mamma, my form caressing,--
In her eye the tear-drop stood,
Read me this fine moral lesson,
"See what comes of being good!"

I remember, I remember,
On a wet and windy day.
One cold morning in December,
I stole out and went to play;
I remember Billy Hawkins
Came, and with his pewter squirt,
Squibb'd my pantaloons and stockings,
Till they were all over dirt!

To my mother for protection
I ran quaking every limb.
She exclaim'd, with fond affection,
"Gracious goodness! look at _him!_"
Pa cried when he saw my garment--
'Twas a newly-purchased dress--
"Oh! you nasty little _Warment_,
How came you in such a mess?"

Then he caught me by the collar--
Cruel only to be kind--
And to my exceeding dolour,
Gave me several slaps behind.
Grandmamma, while yet I smarted,
As she saw my evil plight,
Said--'twas rather stony-hearted--
"Little rascal! sarve him right!"

I remember, I remember,
From that sad and solemn day,
Never more in dark December
Did I venture out to play.
And the moral which they taught, I
Well remember; thus they said--
"Little boys, when they are naughty,
Must be whipped, and sent to bed!"

_The Ingoldsby Legends._

* * * * *

A correspondent, writing to _Notes and Queries_ as far back as June 10, 1871, mentions a parody, of which, unfortunately, only the two verses following are given:--

"I remember, I remember,
The day that I was born,
When first I saw this breathing world,
All naked and forlorn.
They wrapped me in a linen cloth,
And then in one of frieze;
And tho' I could not speak just then,
Yet I contrived to sneeze.

"I remember, I remember,
Old ladies came from far;
Some said I was like mother dear,
But others thought like _par;_
Yet all agreed I had a head,
And most expressive eyes;
The latter were about as large
As plums in Christmas pies."

UNEDA.

Philadelphia.

* * * * *

A REMINISCENCE.

I remember, I remember,
The cell, which now I scorn.
The little window where no sun
Could cheer the dreary morn.
Policeman X. no wink too soon,
Brought in my musty fare,
And, growling as he went away,
Locked me in safely there!

I remember, I remember,
We'd been out late at night.
Twain heroes who, o'er sundry cups,
Wound up by "getting tight;"
And then, although no blood was spilt,
That fiend in blue we met;
"Run in" upon my natal day--
Oh, would I could forget.

I remember, I remember,
No soda would he bring,
He said the air seem'd rather fresh
For night birds on the wing!
The _spirits_ needed _feathers_ then,
And rest my fevered brow;
He only said, "The place is cool,"
And, "Mind! don't make a row!"

_The Figaro_, March 7, 1874.

Another parody of the same original appeared in _The Figaro_ for August 26, 1874. It was entitled, "I Remember, I Remember, a reminiscence of Child-Hood and Thomas Hood," and consisted of four verses, but they are not now of sufficient interest to be quoted.

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I remember, I remember,
When first I saw a rink,
How fine to be a skater,
I always used to think,
To roll about, both in and out,
Through all the livelong day,
But now I wish the rink and skates
Had been far, far away.

I remember, I remember,
The skates that first I wore,
The joy I had in buying them,
That I shall have no more;
On being a great skater
My youthful heart was set--
Now the rink has gone the way of rinks;
The skates I have them yet.

I remember, I remember,
When first I had a fall,
How hard I found the asphalte,
How loudly I did bawl;
There was anguish in my bosom,
There was fever on my brow,
There were bruises on my body--
I bear the traces now.

I remember, I remember,
How oft from school I'd beg;
But my rinking days were over.
When at last I broke my leg.
It was a foolish fancy,
And now 'tis little joy,
To know I broke my fibula,
When I was a little boy.

_Idyls of the Rink_ (Judd and Co., London, 1876).

* * * * *

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young and so fair!
Loop up her tresses,
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?
Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full--
Home she had none.
* * * *
TOM HOOD.

* * * * *

ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE.

"ATQUI SCIEBAT QUÆ SIBI BARBARUS TORTOR PARARET."

I.

One more unfortunate
Ploughed for degree,
By those importunate
Questioners three.

II.

Tell it him gingerly,
Break it with care,
Think you he'll angry be?
Or will he swear?

III.

Look at his college cap,
Bent with its broken flap,
Whilst his hand constantly
Clutches his gown,
And he walks vacantly
Back through the town.

IV.

Didn't he study?
Wasn't he cute? or
Had he a coach? and
Who was his tutor?
Or was he a queerer one
Still, and had ne'er a one,
And all this the fruit? Or

V.

Was his brain muddled,
Addled and puddled,
From over-working?
Or did he all the day
Racquets and cricket play,
Books and dons shirking?

VI.

His Greek was a mystery,
So was his history,
His throbbing brain whirled,
And through his shaggy hair,
Both his hands twirled.

VII.

He goes at it boldly,
No matter how coldly
Examiners scan
Him over the table,
And say, "If you're able,
Construe it, man;
Look at it, think of it,
Do what you can."

VIII.

Now they stare frigidly,
Calmly and rigidly,
Courteously, slily;
How well he knows them,
Who could suppose them
Witty and wily?

IX.

Helplessly staring,
He looks at it long,
Then with the daring
Last look of despairing,
Construes it wrong.

X.

Failing most signally,
Construing miserably;
Frequent false quantity,
But as they want it, he
Must do his best,
Until they tell him he
Need not decidedly
Construe the rest.

XI.

Full of urbanity
And inhumanity,
See what they've done;
Out of each couple,
They with tongues supple
Ploughed at least one.

_Lays of Modern Oxford_, by Adon (Chapman and Hall, 1874).

* * * * *

THE HAIR OF THE DEAD.

Pile it up,
Pile it up,
Till it towers above;
Pile it up,
Pile it up,
'Tis a labour of love:
Pin it so carefully,
Cannot be known
Of that temple of hair fully
Half's not your own.
That dark plaited mass,
So dear and so rare:
That highly-prized mass,
Is a dead woman's hair.

Maybe she was poor,
With no money or purse;
Homeless and fasting,
A vagrant, or worse--
A sport for the wind,
As it listlessly blew,
And who from her kind,
No sympathy knew.
Who knows how she died?
Perchance of her life,
O'er burdened with strife,
She grew weary and cried--
"To death's awful mystery swift to be hurled
Anywhere, anywhere out of the world."

Then when the dark waters
Had closed o'er her head,
And this type of Eve's daughters
Was told with the dead;
Then when her poor body
Was borne by the wave
To the shore; they allowed her
A wanderer's grave.
Nor perfect, indeed,
Could she enter it there;
In their terrible greed
They must clip off her hair;
In their venomous greed
They must steal off her hair.

* * * * *

What do we care
That this long flowing curl,
Such a charm to a girl,
Is a dead woman's hair?
Our changeable sex,
Do as fashion directs;
And so long as the hair
Is a grace to the head,
So long will we wear
The locks of the dead.

_The Figaro_, May 5, 1875.

(At that date ladies were wearing very large chignons).

* * * * *

On the occasion of an inebriated "swell" being expelled from the Prince of Wales's Theatre, by P. C. 22 Z.:--

Take him up tendahly,
Lift him with caah;
Clothes are made slendahly
Now, and will taah!

Punch not that nob of his,
Thus I imploah;
Pick up that bob of his,
Dropped on the floah!

Pwaps he's a sister,
Pwaps he's a bwother,
Come to the play with him--
Let 'em away with him--
One or the other.

Ram his hat lightly,
Yet firmly and tightly,
Ovah his head.
Turn his coat-collah back,
Get his half-dollah back.

22 Z.

* * * * *

THE RINK OF SIGHS.

One more unfortunate
Knocked out of breath--
"Rashly importunate,"
Jealousy saith.

Lift her up tenderly--
Mind her back hair;
Fashioned so slenderly--
Fetch her a chair.
Burst are her garments,
Hanging in cerements,
While buttons constantly
Fall from her clothing.
Take her up instantly
Loving, not loathing;
Scornfully touch her not--
Think of the bump she got,
All through those wheels of hers
Which she used killingly;
And those high heels of hers--
Sat she unwillingly.
She in a mess is
All things betoken,
And spoilt her gay dress is,
While wonderment guesses:
"Are the bones broken?"
"Who is her milliner?"
"Has she a glover?--
P'raps a two-shilliner;"
"Or has she a dearer one
Still?" P'raps a nearer one--
Gifts from her lover!

Alas, for the rarity
Of Christian charity,
There isn't one
Who's a bit pitiful,
While that sad, witty fool,
Woffles, makes fun.
She, as she shivers
And mournfully quivers,
Sits bolt upright.
From window to casement,
From roof unto basement
She stares with amazement,
Mournful of plight.

Never this history
Tell--'tis a mystery.
How her wheels twirled.
Anywhere, anywhere,
Facing the world;
Whirled her skates boldly,
No matter how coldly
Regarded by man.
Oh, but the Rink of it--
Picture it--think of it,
When it began;
Rave at it, wink at it,
Now if you can.

Take her up tenderly--
Mind her back hair;
Fashioned so slenderly--
Fetch her a chair.
Can't she sit down on it?
Is she in pain?
True. She doth frown on it--
"Shan't rink again!"

_Funny Folks_, February 26, 1876.

* * * * *

THE LAST APPEAL, 1878.

One more importunate
Struggle for place!
One more unfortunate
Slap in the face!

Dizzy's a devil--he,
What should I spare?
Trip him up cleverly,
Fair or unfair.

Never mind arguments,
Tear up his Pargaments
(While the ink's scarcely dry,
Easy is blotting),
Honour and decency
Wholly forgotten.

Talk of him scornfully,
Talk of him mournfully,
Treat him inhumanly.
Arguments failing.
Throw dirt, and try railing,
Spiteful and womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into past mutiny,
Rash and undutiful,
England's dishonour,
While I heap on her--
Won't it be beautiful?

Point out all slips of his,
Sneer at his family;
Closed are those lips of his,
He must bear silently.
Fear not excesses,
Only hit home.
The "Daily News" blesses,
While wonderment guesses
What next may come.

Sneer at his father,
Jeer at his mother,
Is he a Christian?
Nay, I'll go further.
He's not an Englishman,
Only a Charlatan,
Worse than a murderer.

Oh! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful
To see a whole City full
Greet such an one.

Countryfolk, citizens,
Foreigners, denizens,
Greetings combined!
Yet may such eminence,
Spite of such evidence,
By my malevolence,
Be undermined.

When the lamps quiver
Over the river,
With many a light
From many a casement,
I'll seek his abasement;
And for his displacement,
I'll fight, yes, I'll fight.

John Bull's cold glance
May make other men shiver,
But still I advance,
Implacable ever,
Mad from life's history.
This creature of mystery
Forth shall be hurled
Anywhere, anywhere,
Out of the world.

In I plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly
Popular feeling ran,
Over the brink of it.
Picture it, think of it,
Dissolute man!
How can Heav'n wink at it?
It's more than I can.

Dizzy's a devil--he,
Why should I spare?
Trip him up cleverly,
Fair or unfair.
Treats he me frigidly,
Formally, rigidly.
Decently kindly,
Can this compose me?
While his eyes pose me,
Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring
Through that eye-glass of his,
Malice and daring
Point me--despairing--
To Honour and Peace.

Perish I gloomily
Spurned by contumely.
Soured humanity,
Yields to insanity.
As for the rest--
When my name's perished,
Will his be cherished
By Englishmen blest?

When History has measured
My evil behaviour,
His name shall be treasured
As his country's saviour!

_They are Five_, by W. E. G. (David Bogue, London).

* * * * *

One more unfortunate
Author in debt,
Scorn'd and importunate,
Badger'd, beset.

Lethe, I'd drink of it,
Die without fuss,
Picture it, think of it--
Manager "Gus."

HARRIETT JAY.

_Old Drury Lane, Christmas Annual_, 1883.

* * * * *

BOOTS OF SIZE.

Take them up tenderly,
Lift them with care,
Fashioned so slenderly
"Twelves" never were.

Touch them not scornfully,
Think of her mournfully
Who has to bear them.
Think of the pains of her--
All that remains of her
Save what will wear them.

How were her father's feet?
How were her mother's?
How were her sister's feet?
How were her brother's?
What had the maiden done
That she should merit it?
Was it a judgment?
Or did she inherit it?

Alas for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh, it is pitiful,
From a whole city full
Praise she has none.

Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly
Feelings are changed;
Love goes with "pettitoes,"
"Tootsie" and "pootsie" nose
Ever from feet like those
Turning estranged.

Never the ballroom
(Save she had all room)
Could she be daring;
And if at croquet seen,
"Gracious! that huge _bottine_,"
People would cry or mean,
Dreadfully staring!

The bleak winds of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
Clothes raised in arch
Her huge "trotters" dis-_kiver_.
Oh, then, from scrutiny,
Comment or rootin' eye,
Swift to be hurl'd,
Anywhere, anywhere,
Out of the world.
Take them up tenderly,
Lift them with care,
Fashioned more slenderly
Buckets ne'er were.

_Scraps_, 1884

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE LINES.

With Gradus dirty and worn,
With heavy and weary eyes,
A Freshman sat who had written an ode
For the last Vice-Chancellor's prize.
Wait, wait, wait,
'Mid Grinders, Lectures, and fines,
And thus on a lyre of dolorous chord
He sang the Song of the Lines.

Wait, wait, wait,
When the bell is ringing aloof,
And wait, wait, wait,
When we leave our Grinder's roof,
And it's oh to be a Jib
In the Godless College of Cork,
Where never Vice-Chancellor gives a prize,
If this be Christian's work.

Oh, Fellows with pupils dear,
Oh, Fellows with nephews and sons,
It is not paper you're tearing up,
But Senior Freshman's Duns,
For the Duns are growing rude,
Because of the Bills I owe,
Madden and Roe, Kinsley and Jude,
Jude and Kinsley and Roe.

Wait, wait, wait,
Till term after term fulfils,
And wait, wait, wait,
As minors wait for wills,
Week after week in vain
We've looked at the College gate,
For how many days? I would hardly fear
To speak of ninety-eight.

With Gradus dirty and worn,
With heavy and weary eyes,
A Freshman sat who had written an ode
For the last Vice-Chancellor's prize.
Wait, wait, wait,
'Mid Grinders, Lectures, and fines,
And thus on a lyre of dolorous chord,
(Would that its tones could reach the Board),
He sang the Song of the Lines.

C. P. MULVANY.

_Kottabos_, Dublin (William McGee), 1873.

* * * * *

The following imitation was written by Father McCarthy, and appeared in _The Catholic Herald_ (Jersey), about forty years ago:--

THE SONG OF THE DRUNKARD.

With body shrivelled and worn,
With eyeballs bloodshot and red,
A man in plight forlorn,
Lay moaning sore in bed.
Drink, drink, drink,
In poverty, fever, and pain,
And still he sang of his favourite drink
'Mid the whirlings of his brain.

Drink, drink, drink,
Oh! there's nothing like drink for man,
Drink, drink, drink,
Till the head reel round again.
It's oh! to be a beast,
Without a soul to save,
With no fear to stay the drunken feast,
And no Hell beyond the grave.

Brandy, and gin, and rum,
Rum, and brandy, and gin,
'Till wild delirium come,
And we rave in the pit of sin.
Oh! men with children dear,
Oh! men with starving wives,
It is not gin you are drinking there,
But your wives and children's lives.

Drink, drink, drink,
Let them all be ragged and bare,
Drink, drink, drink,
Is the drunkard's only care.
Drink, drink, drink,
Our guzzling never flags,
And our wages go, and our homes are woe,
And our children skulk in rags.

Forced by day to starve or steal,
By night a floor their bed,
And all their life is a life of vice,
And where are they when dead?
Drink, drink, drink,
Let us fight and curse and swear,
Drink, drink, drink,
'Till our breath pollute the air.

Brandy, and gin, and rum,
Rum, and brandy, and gin,
'Till wasted frame and fever come,
And the sorrows of Hell begin.
Drink, drink, drink,
'Till staggering home we go,
Drink, drink, drink,
'Till we blast that home with woe.

Drink, curses, murder, and shame,
Make up the drunkard's life,
With the rags and vice of a starving child,
And the groans of a sickly wife.
With body shrivelled and worn,
With eyeballs glaring and red,
A savage man in plight forlorn,
Lay, raving loud on his bed.

Drink, drink, drink,
In racking fever and pain,
And still he raved of his murderous drink,
'Mid the frenzies of his brain.

* * * * *

A distinguished officer writes that the recent spell of warm weather has reminded him of a parody he read in India twenty-five years ago. It describes, in no exaggerated manner, a very disagreeable complaint to which Anglo-Indians are liable in the hot season:--

THE SONG OF "THE PRICKLY HEAT."

I.

With fingers never at rest,
With cuticle measly red,
A heat-oppress'd victim capered about,
Itching from ankles to head--
Scratch, scratch, scratch--
At a rate few North-Britons could beat,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
Thus sang he of "Prickly Heat."

II.

"Itch, itch, itch,
Till my brain begins to swim,
And scratch, scratch, scratch,
Till I bleed in every limb.
Thighs, and body, and arms,
Back, and body, and thighs,
Till weary with scratching I fall asleep,
And scratch with sleep-sealed eyes.

III.

"Oh! white men banished here!
Oh! men all greedy of wealth!
It is not money your sweating out,
But your precious, precious health!
Itch, itch, itch,
Through years of monotonous rack,
Sowing at once with a double seed,
Disease as well as a Lakh!

IV.

"They say it is not disease,
This villanous pimply glow,
If not disease's tangible shape,
'Tis deuced like it though--
'Tis deuced like it though,
If healthy skins are pale.
Oh, God! that suns should be so strong
And flesh and blood so frail.

V.

"Scratch, scratch, scratch,
My labour never flags;
And what are its wages?--a carcass raw--
Lint, plaisters, and swathing rags,
This tortured head, and this body flayed,
Dyspepsia and gloom alway,
And a brain so blank, each ninny I thank
Who drones me through the day.

VI.

"Itch, itch, itch,
When good dinners glad the sight,
And scratch, scratch, scratch,
When I'm longing to bite, bite, bite,
When under silver roofs
Rich viands my servants bring,
As if to show me their dainty shapes,
And twit me for lingering.

VII.

"Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet,
Where the sky above one's head
Is not of this melting heat;
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel
Before I knew Calcutta's suns
Flay men as men the eel.

VIII.

"Oh! but for one short hour
A respite just to snatch!
No blessed leisure for love or lark--
But only time to scratch.
Though goulard water might ease my pain
The antidote I dread,
An idle day might affect my pay,
And physic claims a bed."

IX.

With fingers never at rest,
With cuticle measly red,
A heat-oppress'd victim capered about,
Itching from ankles to head.
Scratch, scratch, scratch,
At a rate few North-Britons could beat,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
(Would that its tone could _cure_ the itch!)
Thus sang he of "The Prickly Heat."

_The Calcutta Englishman_, 1859.

* * * * *

There was another parody of Hood's _Song of the Shirt_, written by Mr. Clement Scott, entitled _The Song of the Clerk_. The Editor of this collection would be glad to know when, and in what work it appeared.

* * * * *

ABOUT THE WEATHER.

(_A Fragment_).

I remember, I remember,
Ere my childhood flitted by,
It was cold then in December,
And was warmer in July.
In the winter there were freezings--
In the summer there were thaws;
But the weather isn't now at all
Like what it used to was!

_The Man in the Moon_, Vol. 5.

* * * * *

THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.

'Twas in the prime of summer time,
An evening calm and cool,
And four-and-twenty happy boys
Came bounding out of school:
There were some that ran and some that leapt,
Like troutlets in a pool.

* * * * *

That very night, while gentle sleep
The urchin eyelids kiss'd,
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walk'd between,
With gyves upon his wrist.

THOMAS HOOD.

* * * * *

THE FALL OF THE EMINENT I.

'Twas in the prime of autumn time,
An evening calm and cool,
And full two thousand cockneys went
To see him play the fool;--
And the critics filled the stalls as thick
As the balls in a billiard pool.

Away they sped when the play was done,
Scarce knowing what to say;
So they passed the butter boat around
In the simple, usual way.
Smoothly ran their glowing prose
In the daily press next day.

The Eminent I. they raved about
Till their gush to columns ran;
Condoning a _fiasco_ great,
As friendly critics can;
And _he_ still strutted on the stage,
An over-rated man.

He wore pink tights--his vest apart,
To clutch his manly chest;
And he went at the knees in his old, old way,
Whilst his brow he madly prest.
So he whisper'd and roared, and gasp'd and groan'd,
As with dyspepsia possest.

Act after act he ranted through,
And he strode for many a mile,
Till some were fain to leave the house,
Too weary even to smile;
For acting the murderer's part so oft
Had somewhat marred his style.

But he took six more hasty strides
Across the stage again--
Six hasty strides, then doubled up,
As smit with searching pain;
As though to say, "See me create
The conscience-stricken Thane!"

Then leaping on his feet upright,
Some moody turns took he
Now up the stage, now down the stage,
And now beside Miss B.;
And, looking off, he saw her ma,
As she read in the R. U. E.

"Now, Mrs. B., what is't you read?"
Ask'd he, with top-lip curving.
"Queen Mary? A play by Mr. Wills,
Or something more deserving?"
Said Mrs. B., with an upturned glance,
"It is 'The Fall of Irving!'"

"His fall!" gasped he, "in sooth you jest!
O, prithee say what mean ye?
Know ye not, they call him Kemble-ish,
And speak of his style as Kean-y?
On the modern stage he stands alone."
She murmur'd one word--"Salvini!"

"Avaunt!" he cried; "that name again!
Its mention ne'er will cease;
Does he still dare my throne to share,
And threaten my fame's short lease?"
But here the call-boy came to say,
That his absence stopped the piece.

* * * * *

One night, months thence, whilst gentle sleep
Had still'd the City's heart,
Two bill-stickers set out with paste
And play-bills in a cart,
And the Eminent I. had his name on them,
In a melodramatic part.

_The Figaro_, October 9, 1875.

When Mr. Henry Irving produced _The Iron Chest_, at the Lyceum Theatre, the Editor of _The World_ offered two prizes for the best two parodies on the subject, the model chosen being Hood's _Dream of Eugene Aram_. The successful parodies were printed in _The World_, October 22, 1879:--

FIRST PRIZE.

'Twas in the Strand, a great demand
For seats was quite the rule;
The pit and gallery were crammed,
The stalls and boxes full.
One man remained who could not find
A solitary stool.

From gods to stall, he paced them all,
Unable to find rest;
A burning thought was in his heart,
Beneath his spotless breast.
He'd eaten pork, and knew full well
Pork he could not digest.

With hollow sound the curtain rose,
And then he found a place,
Where, cramped and crushed, he just could see
The great tragedian's face--
He was so prest, for the _Iron Chest_
He hadn't any space.

He saw how Irving walked the stage
With ill-dissembled care,
To keep the limelight on his brows
And on his flowing hair,
While all the rest were in the dark--
You only heard them there.

His voice was hollow as the grave,
Or like an eagle's scream--
Murderers, you know, talk always so--
His eyes like theirs did gleam--
He'd done this sort of thing before.
But then 'twas in a dream.

He showed how murderers start and gasp
When conscience pricks them sore;
He dragged his shirt-front out by yards,
And strewed it on the floor;
He rolled his eyes, and clutched his breast--
He'd done it all before.

If anybody mentioned death
Or foul assassination,
He started up and groaned or shrieked
With obvious perturbation.
'Twas very strange this sudden change
Provoked no observation.

And when at last four acts were past
Of stares and glares and guggles,
And in the chest they found the knife
Which he so neatly smuggles--
'Twas ecstacy to see him die
Of aggravated struggles.

Q.

SECOND PRIZE.

The sky was clear; no ripple marked
The course of silver Tyne;
And all was still, save for the bells
On the necks of the grazing kine.
On his fair demesne Sir Edward looked,
Last of an ancient line.

His face was fair, but it did not wear
The sign of a soul at rest;
Anon a shudder shook his frame,
A sigh broke from his breast;
He seemed as seems a man by some
O'ermastering woe oppressed.

"And yet among thy peers is known
Than thine no prouder name,
And wealth is thine and friendship's joy,
A scutcheon void of blame;
All this is thine, Sir Edward; why
Thus bow thy head in shame?

"Men call thee good, they know thee kind--
Yet more, if aught beside
There lacks thy happiness to crown,
Thou hast a peerless bride;
Why, then, Sir Edward, bow thy head?"
A mocking demon cried.

"Hell-hound! and art thou here to taunt
My last--Yet 'tis thy meed:
'Twas thou that in this fevered breast
Wrath and revenge didst feed,
Till--woe unutterable!--I
Wrought the accursèd deed.

"'Twas at thy feet, a pupil apt,
I learnt this lying art;--
O God, that I--that I could stoop
To play this loathly part!
O God, that with a face so calm
I cloak so black a heart!

Yet the end is gained and the secret sure:
They shall lay the tortured clod
Of this vile clay in the open day
With honour beneath the sod."
That night 'twas known that a felon's soul
Had gone to meet its God.

PORTIONISTA.

The following was also published:--

'Twas in the dim Lyceum pit
(And, O, that pit was hot)
That several hundred folks did sit,
And I amongst the lot;
And some drank ale and some drank stout,
From mug or pewter-pot.

We watched the jovial robber-crew,
The merry poaching clan,
Chasing the sportive deer about
As only robbers can;
While the keeper kept himself at home,
A conscience-stricken man.

His hair was long and his dress was dark,
And he strode with Irving's stride;
A crime unconfessed he hid in the chest
Kept ever by his side;
Much painting had made him very pale
And wan and hollow-eyed.

And he saw his secretarial clerk,
One Wilford (Norman Forbes),
Go prying about in the ancient room
Hung round with family daubs;
And he "went" forthwith for that timid clerk,
Whose name was Norman Forbes.

"By hell!" he shrieked, and held him fast;
"Untrusty youth, unstable--"
He raved in his face and clenched his fists,
And chased him round the table.
"Wouldst read the secret? wouldst hear thy doom?"
"I would, an I were able!"

"If thou wert Abel, then I were Cain!
But, 'fore I tell thee, swear--"
And he swore and he swore and he swore again,
Till on end arose our hair;
And I couldn't help thinking what fines he'd have paid
If there'd been a magistrate there.

And that very night, when a somnolent snooze
Was exciting the murderer's nose,
Poor Wilford rose up, and he hied him away
In a scanty assortment of clothes;
And the baronet rummaged and routed his trunk,
As we do when our "general" goes.

And there he hid a fork and spoon
In a most ingenious way,
And a ring or so and a deed or two,
And Wilford was tried next day;
But the KNIFE had slipped in, and--ha, ha!--'twas found!

* * * * *

And that's the plot of the play!

C. S.

* * * * *

The peculiar rhythm, and quaint conceits of fancy, in Hood's _Miss Kilmansegg and her Precious Leg_ have been admirably imitated by Mr. H. Cholmondeley Pennell in _The Thread of Life_. This poem (the last in _Puck on Pegasus_) resembles its original also in the exquisite blending of the pathetic and the humorous, of which, unfortunately, disjointed extracts can give but a faint idea:--

LIFE! What depths of mystery wide
In the oceans of Hate and the rivers of Pride,
That mingle in Tribulations tide,
To quench the spark--VITALITY!
What chords of Love and "bands" of Hope
Were "made strong" (without the use of rope)
In the thread--INDIVIDUALITY.

LIFE! What marvellous throbs and throes
The Alchemy of EXISTENCE knows;
What "weals within wheels" (and woes without woahs!)
Give sophistry a handle;
Though Hare himself could be dipped in the well
Where Truth's proverbial waters dwell,
It would throw no more light on the vital spell
Than a dip in the Polytechnic bell,
Or the dip--a ha'penny candle.

* * * * *

Into being we come, in ones and twos,
To be kissed, to be cuff'd, to obey, to abuse,
Each destined to stand in another's shoes
To whose heels we may come the nighest;
This turns at once into Luxury's bed,
Whilst that in a gutter lays his head,
And this--in a house with a wooden lid
And a roof that's none of the highest.

We fall like the drops of April show'rs,
Cradled in mud, or cradled in flow'rs,
Now idly to wile the rosy hours,
And now for bread to importune;
Petted, and fêted, and fed upon pap,
One prattler comes in for a fortune, slap--
And one, a "more kicks than ha'pence" chap,
For a slap--without the fortune!

* * * * *

Yet, laugh if we will at those baby days,
There was more of bliss in its careless plays,
Than in after time from the careful ways
Or the hollow world, with its empty praise,
Its honeyed speeches, and hackney phrase,
And its pleasures, for ever fleeting.

_Puck on Pegasus_ (Chatto and Windus), London.

* * * * *

A NICE YOUNG MAN FOR A SMALL PARTY.

Young Ben he was a nice young man,
An author by his trade;
He fell in love with Polly-Tics,
And was an M. P. made.

He was a Radical one day,
But met a Tory crew;
His Polly-Tics he cast away,
And then turned Tory too.

Now Ben had tried for many a place
When Tories e'en were out;
But in two years the turning Whigs
Were turn'd to the right-about.

But when he called on ROBERT PEEL,
His talents to employ,
His answer was, "Young Englander,
For me you're not the boy."

Oh, ROBERT PEEL! Oh, ROBERT PEEL!
How could you serve me so?
I've met with Whig rebuffs before,
But not a Tory blow.

Then rising up in Parliament,
He made a fierce to do
With PEEL, who merely winked his eye;
BEN wink'd like winking too.

And then he tried the game again,
But couldn't, though he tried;
His party turn'd away from him,
Nor with him would divide.

Young England died when in its birth:
In forty-five it fell;
The papers told the public, but
None for it toll'd the bell.

_Punch_, June 1845. (This parody was accompanied by a portrait of Mr. Benjamin Disraeli).

* * * * *

A FEW WORDS ON POETS IN GENERAL, AND ONE IN PARTICULAR.

BY THE GHOST OF T-- H--D.

"What's in a name?"--_Shakespeare._

I.

By different names were Poets call'd
In different climes and times;
The Welsh and Irish call'd him _Bard_,
Who was confined to rhymes.

II

In France they called them _Troubadours_,
Or _Menestrels_, by turns;
The Scandinavians called them _Scalds_,
The Scotchmen call theirs _Burns_.

III.

A strange coincidence is this,
Both names implying heat;
But had the Scotchmen call'd theirs _Scald_.
'Twere title more complete.

IV.

For why call'd BURNS 'tis hard to say
(Except all sense to slaughter);
_Scald_ was the name he should have had,
Being always in _hot water_.

V.

For he was poor,--his natal hut
Was built of _mud_, they say;
But though the hut was built of mud,
_He_ was no _common clay_.

VI.

But though of clay he was (a fate
Each child of earth must share),
As well as being a child of earth,
He was a child of _Ayr_.

VII.

And though he could not vaunt his _house_,
Nor boast his birth's gentility,
Nature upon the boy bestow'd
Her patent of nobility.

VIII.

It needed not for him his race
In heralds' books should shine;
What pride of ancestry compares
With his illustrious _line_.

IX.

So he, with heaven-ennobled soul,
All heralds held in scorn,
Save one, the oldest of them all,--
"The herald of the morn."

X.

Call'd by _his_ clarion, up rose he,
True liege of Nature's throne,
_Fields_ to invest, and mountain _crest_
With _blazon_ of his own.

XI.

His _Vert_, the morning's dewy green,
His _Purpure_, evening's close,
His _Azure_, the unclouded sky,
His _Gules_, "the red, red rose."

XII.

His _Argent_ sparkled in the streams
That flash'd through birken bowers;
His _Or_ was in the autumn leaves
That fell in golden showers.

XIII.

Silver and gold of other sort
The poet had but little;
But he had more of rarer store,--
His heart's undaunted mettle.

XIV.

And yet his heart was gentle, too,--
Sweet woman could enslave him;
And from the shafts of Cupid's bow
Even Armour[6] could not save him.

XV.

And if that Armour could not save
From shafts that chance might wield,
What wonder that the poet wise
Cared little for a _shield_.

XVI.

And _Sable_, too, and _Argent_ (which
For colours heralds write)
In BURNS' uncompromising hands
Were honest _black and white_.

XVII.

And in that honest black and white
He wrote his verses bold;
And though he sent them far _abroad_,
Home truths they always told.

XVIII.

And so for "honest poverty"
He sent a brilliant page down;
And, to do battle for the poor,
The gauger threw his _gauge_ down.

XIX.

For him the garb of "hodden gray"
Than tabards had more charms;
He took the part of _sleeveless coats_
Against the _Coats of Arms_.

XX.

And although they of Oxford may
Sneer at his want of knowledge,
He had enough of wit at least,
To beat the Heralds' College.

XXI.

The growing brotherhood of his kind
He clearly, proudly saw that,
When launching from his lustrous mind,
"A man's a man for a' that!"

_Rival Rhymes, in honour of Burns;_ by Ben Trovato (Routledge), London, 1859.

* * * * *

THE HAUNTED LIMBO.

_A May-Night Vision, after a Visit to the Grosvenor Gallery._ (_With acknowledgment of a hint from_ HOOD.)

I.

A world of whim I wandered in of late,
A limbo all unknown to common mortals;
But in the drear night-watches 'twas my fate
To pass within its portals.

Dusk warders, dim and drowsy, drew aside
What seemed a shadowy unsubstantial curtain,
And pointed onwards as with pain or pride,
But _which_ appeared uncertain.

I entered, and an opiate influence stole,
Like semi-palsy, over thought and feeling,
And with inebriate haziness my soul
Seemed rapt almost to reeling.

For over all there hung a glamour queer,
A sense of something odd the spirit daunted,
And said, like a witch-whisper in the ear,
"The place is haunted!"

II.

Those women, ah, those women! They were white,
Blue, green, and grey,--all hues, save those of nature,
Bony of frame, and dim and dull of sight,
And parlous tall of stature.

_Ars longa est_,--aye, very long indeed,
And long as Art were all these High-Art ladies,
And wan, and weird; one might suppose the breed
A cross 'twixt earth and Hades.