Chapter XV: Part II

YET oft the riddle of Art's real drift
Flashed through me as I sat and gazed.
But not the less some season I made shift
To keep my wits undazed.

And so I mused and mooned; for three long weeks
I stood it: on the fourth I fell.
All trace of natural colour fled my cheeks,
And I felt--far from well.

* * * * *

Hollow-cheeked, hectic, rufus-headed dames,
With opiate eyes, and foreheads all
As wan as corpses', but with wings like flames,
Glared on me from each wall.

Those fixed orbs haunted me; I grew to hate
Those square and skinny jaws, those high-cheek bones.
Nocturnes in soot and symphonies in slate
Moved me to sighs and groans.

Queer convolutions of dim drapery
Inwrapt me like a Nessus-snare.
I seemed enmeshed in tangles hot and dry
Of copper-coloured hair.

I loathed the pallid Venuses and Eves,
Nymph-nudity, and Sorceress and Thrall;
The Wings prismatic, the metallic Leaves--
I loathed them one and all.

I howled aloud, "I would no more behold
A witch, an angel, or a saint.
Aught mediæval-mystic, classic-cold,
Or _cinque-cento_ quaint.

"It may be that my taste has come to grief,
But if the spectral, dismal, dry,
_Do_ constitute 'High Art,' 'tis my belief
High Art is all my eye."

So when four weeks were wholly finishéd,
I from my gallery turned away.
"Give me green leaves and flesh and blood," I said,
"Fresh air and light of day.
I pine for Nature, sickened to my heart
Of the affected, strained, and queer.
What was to me Ambrosia of Art
Hath grown as drugged small-beer.

"Yet pull not down my galleries rich and rare:
When Art abjures the crude and dim,
I yet may house the High Ideal there.
Purged from preposterous Whim!"

_Punch_, July 14, 1877.

* * * * *

The following poem appeared in _The Times_ for May 9, 1859, and although not included in the collected works of the Poet Laureate, it has been generally ascribed to his pen. In its warlike promptings, and cheap national bunkum, it resembles the other so-called patriotic songs of this author, of whom nobody ever heard that he took up a rifle for his country, or assisted the Volunteer movement in any way whatever:--

THE WAR.

There is a sound of thunder afar,
Storm in the South that darkens the day,
Storm of battle and thunder of war,
Well, if it do not roll our way.
Form! form! Riflemen, form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form!

Be not deaf to the sound that warns!
Be not gull'd by a despot's plea!
Are figs of thistles, or grapes of thorns?
How should a despot set men free?
Form! form! Riflemen, form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form!

Let your Reforms for a moment go,
Look to your butts, and take good aims.
Better a rotten borough or so,
Than a rotten fleet or a city in flames!
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form!

Form, be ready to do or die!
Form in Freedom's name and the Queen's!
True, that we have a faithful ally,[9]
But only the devil knows what he means.
Form! form! Riflemen, form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form!

T.

* * * * *

INTO THEM GOWN.[10]

_A Wicked Parody on_

RIFLEMEN FORM.

There was a sound of "Town" from afar,
Town in the High that threaten'd a mill,
Storm of town, and thunder of gown,
And town have got with them "Brummagem Bill."
Gown! Gown! into the Town,
Ready, be ready to meet the clown,
Into them; into them; into them, Gown.

Be not afraid of the peelers' staves,
Be not gulled by a proctor's plea,
Velvetty arms are for flunkies, my braves,
Why should a proctor stop our spree?
Gown! Gown! into the Town,
Ready, be ready to meet the clown,
Into them; into them; into them, Gown.

Leave your wines for a moment or so.
Double your fists for the State and the Church,
Better the purple claret should flow,
Than "_La Belle Science_" be left in the lurch.
Gown! Gown! into the Town,
Ready, be ready to meet the clown,
Into them; into them; into them Gown.

Sweep! march ahead, look about, take care,
Deal black eyes and the bloody nose;
True that we have an excellent mayor,
Butt him again, and down he goes.
Gown! Gown! into the Town,
Ready, be ready to meet the clown,
Into them; into them; into them, Gown.

_College Rhymes_, 1861.

* * * * *

The Poet Laureate has been subjected to much ridicule for the change which has of late years been apparent in the tone of his writings, and his poem, "Lady Clara Vere de Vere," has especially been seized on as the vehicle for many malicious parodies directed against the fulsome adulation of Royalty, contained in his later poems.

It must be remembered that "Lady Clara Vere de Vere" was written more than fifty years ago, when Alfred Tennyson was young, unknown, and unpensioned. Like many of his early poems, it contains uncomplimentary allusions to our hereditary aristocracy, into whose ranks he has only recently procured admission.

The heartless coquette, Lady Clara, is "the daughter of a hundred Earls," and in her name the poet actually selected one of the oldest in the English nobility on which to vent his indignation. The Vere (or De Vere) family is of great antiquity, once holding the ancient Earldom of Oxford, and as far back as 1387 one of these Earls of Oxford was created Duke of Ireland, and Marquis of Dublin. It is certain the De Veres were noble in the time of William I., and their pedigree has even been traced to a much earlier period. "De Vere" still survives as one of the family names of the Duke of St. Albans. The first Duke of St. Albans (illegitimate son of Charles II. and Nell Gwynn, the orange girl), married Diana de Vere, eldest daughter and heiress of Aubrey de Vere, the 20th and last Earl of Oxford.

CAPTAIN FALCON OF THE GUARDS.

I.

Captain Falcon of the Guards,
How nice you thought to do me brown;
You thought that I'd accept a bill
For discount, when you went to town.
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled
I saw the snare, and I retired:
The black-leg of a hundred "hells,"
Your friendship's not to be desired.

II.

Captain Falcon of the Guards,
I know you thought to get my name;
Your cunning was no match for mine,
Too wide-awake to play your game.
Nor would I write for your delight
A name the Jews ne'er saw before--
My simple name across a bill
Is worth a hundred pounds or more.

III.

Captain Falcon of the Guards,
Some softer pupil you must find,
For were you Colonel of your troop,
I'd shun you still, and all your kind.
You thought to've seen me jolly green;
A plump refusal's my reply:
The army agents in Craig Court
Are not more up to you than I.

IV.

Captain Falcon of the Guards,
You put strange memories in my head;
Not thrice the bill had been renewed
When I beheld young Pigeon fled.
Your crack turn-outs, your drinking bouts,
A fine acquaintance you may be;
But there was that across the bill,
That he had hardly cared to see.

V.

Captain Falcon of the Guards,
When first he met the gov'nor's view,
He had the passions of his kind--
He spake some certain truths of you.
Indeed, I heard one bitter word
About a certain game at cards,
Which, should it e'er get noised abroad,
Would cook your goose at the Horse Guards.

VI.

Captain Falcon of the Guards,
There stands a bailiff in your hall;
Tradesmen are knocking at your door:
Pigeon no longer pays for all.
You held your course without remorse,
To make him trust his run of luck,
And, last, you fairly stripped him clean,
And sought some other bird to pluck.

VII.

Trust me, Falcon of the Guards,
That bill to pay he never meant;
The grand old Judge who tried the cause
Smiled at your claim for money lent.
Howe'er it be, it seems to me
These promised pounds are not bank-notes;
Gold sovereigns are more than words,
And copper pence than paper groats.

VIII.

I know you, Falcon of the Guards;
You're linked with many a scoundrel crew,
Whose nights are spent in playing deep--
Would that your play was honest too!
Be rogue, you must; spurned with mistrust,
Cash is no longer raised with ease;
Your credit, has it sunk so low,
You needs must play such pranks as these?

IX.

Captain Falcon of the Guards,
If tin be needful at your hand,
Are there no money lenders left,
Nor any Jews within the land?
Oh! take the bill-discounters in,
Or try the legal shark to do;
Pray write a promissory-note--
And let the foolish Pigeons go.

_The Puppet Show_, July 8, 1848.

* * * * *

THE RUSSIAN CZAR.

Oh, Russian Czar! oh, Russian Czar!
On me you shall not play the fool;
You thought to make a tool of me
Before you occupied Stamboul.
You drew your plan _en gentleman_,
But I was not to be deceived;
A Russian Czar's a Russian Czar--
You are not one to be believed.

* * * * *

Oh, Russian Czar! oh, Russian Czar!
Some softer envoy you must gloze,
For were you Emperor of the world,
I would not stoop to tricks like those.
You set a cunning trap for me,
But I was cunning in reply;
The monjeike at your palace gate
Was not more _down_ to you than I.

* * * * *

But trust me, ruthless Russian Czar!
Though heaven above be brightly blue,
'Tis writ upon your palace walls--
Dark is the doom prepared for you!
Howe'er it be, it seems to me
The truly great are truly good;
God watches o'er those minarets
When _Christian faith_ sheds Turkish blood.

I know you, haughty Russian Czar!
You sigh to leave your frozen towers;
Short-sighted are your bloated eyes,
Which strain to feast on Moslem bowers.
You move by stealth through boundless wealth;
Your very nobles are o'erawed;
You do so little good at home,
You needs must play such pranks abroad.

Oh, Russian Czar! oh, Russian Czar!
If power be heavy on your hands,
Are there no wretches in your realm,
Nor any slaves upon your lands?
Oh teach your monjeiks how to read,
Emancipate your serfs; but no--
_First pray to have a human heart_,
And let the turban'd Moslem go.

_Diogenes_, April, 1854.

(This parody contained nine verses in all.)

* * * * *

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE;

OR, RUSTIC ADMIRATION.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
The country sun has made you brown,
And now they tell me that you start
To-morrow afternoon for town;
Ah! how I sighed when I descried
Your lovely form beside the stream
The other day when on my way
I passed with Farmer Jackson's team!

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
I wish that you would change your name
For such a humble one as mine:
But no--you'd think it quite a shame;
So I must be content to take
My choice of humbler maiden's charms--
Must marry someone who can bake,
And has a sturdy pair of arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
Some "Lord Dundreary" _you_ must find;
Our rustic bread and cheese and beer
Would hardly suit your taste refined.
If I should write you of _my_ love,
And wait outside for a reply,
The lion on your old stone gates,
Would talk of verdure in his eye.

* * * * *

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
They say--and really p'rhaps they're right--
That I had better give you up,
And marry pretty Sally White;
You are a swell--_she_ loves me well,
And then her cooking is so good--
Jam tarts are more than coronets,
And elder wine than Norman blood!

SPHINX, CHRIST'S COLL., CAMBRIDGE.

_College Rhymes_, 1868.

* * * * *

LADY CLARA IN THE SOUTH.

"Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
You whom the Laureate makes attacks on,
If your papa were not a peer,
If you were not an Anglo-Saxon,
In short, if 'twere not too absurd,
To think of _you_ where aught of trade is,
I'd almost say, upon my word,
I'm looking at you now in Cadiz."

Here follow five other verses descriptive of a Spanish coquette, concluding:--

"Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
I don't believe _femme souvent varie_,
Your sex are all the same, I fear,
From Timbuctoo to Tipperary."

MAXWELL REILLY.

_Kottabos_, Dublin 1870.

* * * * *

Another parody of "Lady Clara Vere de Vere" appeared in _Funny Folks_, April 10, 1875, entitled "The Vicar's Surplice." It was addressed to a Rev. Mr. Mucklestone, who had declined to pay the charges of his laundress, a lady rejoicing in the euphonious name of Gubbins, who resided at Haseley, in Warwickshire. The subject is somewhat wanting in dignity for poetical treatment. The following is the first of six verses:--

"Reverend Mr. Mucklestone,
Of me you shall not win renown;
You thought to have your surplice washed
For nothing, but it won't go down.
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled,
Each time your surplice had a 'rense,'
I charged, and felt quite justified,
The modest sum of eighteenpence."

* * * * *

A MAY DREAM OF THE FEMALE EXAMINATION.

If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,
For to-morrow in the senate-house at nine I must appear:
To-morrow for all womankind will be a glorious day,
And I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say.

There's many a blue, blue stocking, but none so blue as I;
There's not a girl amongst them all with me can hope to vie:
There's none so sharp as little Alice, not by a long, long way,
And I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say,

I lie awake all night, mother, but in the morn I sleep,
And dream of Virgil, Euclid, Dons, all jumbled in a heap,
And the letters in the Euclid dance about like lambs at play:
O, I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say.

As I came by King's Chapel, whom do you think I saw,
But Andrew Jones de Mandeville Fitzherbert Aspenshaw!
He thought of that hard problem I gave him yesterday;
For I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say.

He thought me such a bore, mother, for he couldn't get it right,
To see him puzzle o'er it was such a funny sight;
But not on such a dolt as that I'd throw myself away!
For I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o the list, they say.

They say he is fond-hearted, but that can never be:
He can't get through his "Littlego," then what is he to me?
There's many a Senior wrangler who'll woo me in the May,
For I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say.

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the gate,
And, till they give the questions out, at the window she must wait;
And when she's got them, back to you, mother, she'll haste away,
And I m to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say.

In the papers country parsons have been writing lots of trash:
They say this scheme for us, mother, is sure to come to smash;
And agèd Dons all shake their heads, and say it will not pay;
But I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say.

If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,
I'd something more to say, mother, but my head is not quite clear;
For I always have a headache when I put my books away;
But I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list they say.

* * * * *

"I thought to have gone down before, but still up here I am,
And still there's hanging o'er me that horrible Exam.
They said I should be top, mother; but then I'd such bad luck,
Though I went in for honours--_I only got a pluck!_"

X. Y. B., CHRIST'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.

_College Rhymes_, 1865.

* * * * *

MRS. HENRY FAWCETT ON THE UNIVERSITY EDUCATION OF WOMEN, APRIL, 1884.

"That large numbers of women--numbers that every year are
rapidly increasing--demand a University training is not a matter
of controversy; it is a simple fact. This training is already
offered to them by University College, London, and by Cambridge
University. The hall-mark of the degree is offered to them by the
University of London, and a certificate of having passed the Tripos
Examinations (almost as valuable as a degree) is offered to them by
the University of Cambridge. The last Census shows that there were
in Great Britain and Ireland more than 120,000 women teachers. To
many of these a University degree or certificate is of the highest
professional importance. This is a question to many women, not
of sentiment, but of bread. Those whose generosity has provided
scholarships, exhibitions, and a loan fund for women at Cambridge
could prove how invaluable to many a woman a University training
is. Equipped with her University certificate she can at once obtain
a situation, and command a much more adequate remuneration for her
services. Cambridge has had twelve years' experience of the presence
of women students resident in Newnham and Girton Colleges. They
number now in the two Colleges about 150. Nearly all the professors'
lectures are open to them; they attend some of the lectures given in
College rooms. When the experiment was first started at Cambridge
there is little doubt that the bulk of the residents thought the
presence of women students objectionable and alarming. But the
fears at first entertained were at Cambridge so entirely removed by
experience that when, in 1881, the question had to be decided by
the Senate of opening the Tripos examinations to the students of
Girton and Newnham, only thirty members of the Senate were found to
oppose it, while those who supported it were so numerous that it was
impossible to record all the votes within the time and under the
conditions prescribed. It was estimated that about 500 members of
the Senate came up to Cambridge to vote in favour of the proposal.
More than 300 actually voted.

* * * * *

The two Parodies, from which the following extracts are taken, appeared in _The Porcupine_, a Liverpool comic paper.

They refer to the Cart Horse procession held in Liverpool on May-day, and describe, with tolerable accuracy, the scenes of rough revelry and noisy merriment which this carnival gives rise to. These compositions are merely quoted as curiosities, possessing, as they do, every attribute which should be studiously avoided in a parody. They are slangy and vulgar, more especially in the omitted verses, without being either humorous or grotesque; they debase the memory of a really beautiful poem by the mere trick of repetition of a catch-phrase and some slight imitation of its metre. The subject chosen is low and commonplace, which might, perhaps, have been excused, had the description of its unpleasant details been enlivened by one spark of wit, or genuine originality. To the lovers of an original poem such Parodies must be offensive; whilst to those who delight in a really clever burlesque, such things as these can afford no gratification, and only tend to bring _true Parody_ into disrepute.

THE DRAY QUEEN.

_A Car-men on the May-day Carnival, after the Poet Lorry-ate._

YOU must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear!
To-morrow'll be the liveliest time of all the glad New Year;
Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest, merriest day,
For I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.

There'll be many a black, black eye, they say, and many a lively shine
With Margaret and Mary, and Kate and Caroline;
But none can lick this little Alice, in all the court, they say;
So I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake
If you do not call loud and give me, too, a jolly good shake;
As I must buy some bonnet-flowers and sky-blue ribbons gay,
For I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.

As I came up our alley, whom think ye I should see?
But Robin leaning on Chisenhale Bridge, as screwed as he could be;
He had been cleaning his harness, mother, and drinking all the day;
But I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.

You know my Robin drives a dray, a heavy brewer's cart;
To-morrow with his handsome team of horses he will start
A-roaming up and down the streets, loafing about all day,
And I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.

To-morrow I'll get out of pawn my bran-new winsey frock,
For Robin he is sure to wear a reg'lar snow-white smock;
His dray is cleaned and painted up, and now looks very gay,
And I must be clean on the Dray, mother, I must be clean on the Dray.

The horses' tails all nicely combed, with ribbons will be decked,
Upon the shining harness not a smirch you can detect,
The very brutes they seem to feel it is the first of May,
And I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.

Upon the barrels I'll sit perched, the barrels all so full
Of smashing stuff they sell for beer, and give you the long pull.
My Robin rarely touches beer--for 'Rum's my drink,' he'll say--
But I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.

Through Lime-street, Lord-street, we'll parade each leading
thoroughfare,
While the spectators rival teams and turn-outs will compare,
On brewers' and on millers' carts the brazen bands will play,
And I'll be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'll be Queen o' the Dray.

* * * * *

For hours and hours we'll roam about, until the team it tires,
And Robin will imbibe more rum than he actually requires;
At many a 'public' he will stop a-moistening of his clay,
And I'll be the Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'll be the Queen o'
the Dray.

* * * * *

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear.
If I don't seem to hear you, give me a smack upon the ear;
To-morrow'll be of all the year, the maddest, merriest day,
For I'm to be the Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o'
the Dray.

* * * * *

THE DRAY QUEEN.

(_A Sequel to last May-day's Carol, by Our Own Poet Lorry-ate, Author of "I'm A-float," &c._)

IF you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,
For I would see the sun rise upon the carters' cheer;
It is the last of the turn-outs that I may ever see,
For Robin he lays me low with a kick--and thinks no more of me.

Last May we had a reg'lar spree, we had such a jolly day,
And Robin, who drove a brewer's cart, he made me Queen o' the Dray;
And we danced and sung and got mad drunk on Walker's sixpenny hops,
Till the Charleys come at the row we made, and every one of us cops.

And lugs us off to chokee, mother, and keeps us there all night,
As drunken and disorderlies--both women and men were tight--
And Raffles, the beak, next morning, was in a terrible way--
Ten shillin' we had to pay, mother, ten shillin' and costs to pay.

And in default of payment,--our cash we had spent in ale,--
That Raffles he gave us all a week within sweet Walton gaol,
Where soon we learnt to pick oakum (the skin's off my fingers still),
And Robin did "Sich a gettin' upstairs" upon the revolving mill.

* * * * *

The end of it was, he axed me, as I'd been Queen of his Dray,
If I would marry a scavenger as never did work by day,
And though his wages was but low--a matter o' twenty-five bob--
Before the month o' May was out we settled the blessed job.

At first my Robin was very kind and gentle, so to speak,
He never got drunk and kicked me--not more than twice a week,
And of his weekly wages, no matter what else he did,
He never would spend on pay-nights more than eighteen bob or a quid.

* * * * *

And after that--it's a month ago--my Robin got much worse,
'Twould make your hair just stand on end to hear him swear and curse,
He never gets drunk as he used to do--that's once or twice in a week--
He's never properly sober, on me all his rage he'll wreak.

When he comes home of a morning, it's rarely he goes to bed,
He takes to drinking about all day, and hammerin' me instead,
And well I know my husband's hand, it's weight I often feel,
I wouldn't be lyin' so low, mother, if not for my husband's heel.

The brewers' carts and the scavengers' to-morrow will be gay,
The horses all with ribands decked will walk in grand array,
The Corporation carters and their wives will have a spread,
And get their annual dinner 'neath the great Haymarket shed.

* * * * *

Good-night, dear mother, call me before the day is born;
I'd like to see the carters a-marching in the morn;
The pubs, are closing early, very early, mother dear,
So, if you've got any coppers left, just go for a quart of beer!

* * * * *

THE MAY QUEEN.

(_New Version, adapted to existing Climatic Conditions_).

[CONSIDERING apology superfluous, Mr. Punch offers none, as the Poet Laureate will doubtless approve the modification of his beautiful lines, rendered needful by recent meteorological conditions.]

YOU must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;
To-morrow'll be the tryingest time of all the Spring, this year--
Of all the Spring, this year, mother, the dreariest, dreadfullest day;
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

There'll be many a red, red nose, no doubt, but none so red as mine;
For the wind is still in the East, mother, and makes one peak and pine:
And we're going to have six weeks of it, or so the prophets say say--
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

I sleep so sound all night, mother, I am sure I shall never wake.
So you'd better call me loud, mother, and perhaps you'll have to shake:
I shall want some coffee hot and strong, before I'm called away,
To shiver as Queen o' the May, mother, to shiver as Queen o' the May.

As I was coming home to-night, whom think you I should see
But DOCTOR SQUILLS! And he saw that my nose was as red as red could be;
And he said the weather was cruel sharp, that I'd better stay away,--
But I'm chosen Queen o' the May, mother, so I must be Queen o' the May.

The honeysuckle round the porch is white with sleety showers,
And, though they call it the month of May, the hawthorn has no flowers;
And the ice in patches may yet be found in swamps and hollows gray,--
Ain't it nice for the Queen o' the May, mother, so nice for the Queen
o' the May?

The East wind blows and blows, mother, on my nose I follow suit,
For my influenza's so very bad, and I've got a cough to boot;
Perhaps it will rain and sleet, mother, the whole of the livelong day,
Yet, I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother; I must be Queen o' the May.

I've not the slightest doubt, mother, I shall come home very ill,
And then there'll be bed for a week or more, and a long, long,
doctor's bill;
And with prices up and wages down however will father pay?
But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother--oh bother the Queen o' the May!

So please wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear,
That I may look out some winter wraps, fit for the spring this year.
To-morrow of this bitter "snap," I'm sure 'twill be the bitterest day,
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May."

_Punch_, May 12, 1877.

* * * * *

Truth had a long parody describing the visit in 1877 of Dom Pedro, Emperor of Brazil, whose early rising, and insatiable appetite for sight-seeing were the topics of conversation. Two verses are sufficient to indicate the style:--

THE SIGHT-SEEING EMPEROR.

IF you're waking, call me early, "Boots," not later, please, than four,
And if you're passing earlier, pray rat-tat at my door;
But stay I have so much to do, that p'rhaps 'twill better be,
Not to depend on you at all, but call myself at three.

* * * * *

I cannot, though an Emperor, stay quietly at home,
Some impulse irresistibly makes me for ever roam;
Each week it holds me tighter still beneath its mystic thrall,
Till soon I am afraid I shall not eat or sleep at all.

_Truth_, June 21, 1877.

Another parody of the same original, called _The Business of Pleasure_, appeared in _Truth_, May 9, 1878.

* * * * *

THE PENGE MYSTERY TRIAL.

YOU must come and dress me early, very early, Simmons, mind!
For to-morrow'll be the summing-up, and I must not be behind;
Of all this jolly trial, I'm told, to-morrow'll be _the_ day,
So be sure you call me early, Simmons; now attend to what I say!

* * * * *

The judge means hanging, so they say, and when the sentence's pass'd,
There's sure to be an awful scene, more curious than the last;
P'raps the men will have hysterics--_that_ would be fun to see!
And Alice Rhodes may have a fit. Oh! how jolly it will be!

So you must wake and call me early, Simmons, call me early, Simmons,
mind!
Or I'll give you a month's warning if you are at all behind!
For to-morrow'll be, of all the trial, the awfullest jolliest day,
For I think all four will be hanged, Simmons; all four will be hanged,
they say!

_Truth_, October 4, 1877.

* * * * *

THE WELSHER'S LAMENT.

(_On the Suppression of Suburban Race Meetings_).

May, 1879.

IF yer passin', knock me up, Bill; knock me up, old cock, d'yer yere;
For to-morrer's Kingsbury meetin', is the last there'll be, I fear;
Of all suburbin races, the werry last they say,
For that Anderson in Parlyment, 'as contrived to get 'is way.
It's ter'ble rough on us, Bill; on us, an' all our pals,
As 'asn't got no tickets for that bloomin' Tattersall's;
For 'ow without these meetin's our livin's were to get,
Is a rayther ticklish problim, as I 'avent worked out yet.

_Truth_, February 21, 1878.

* * * * *

THE MODERN MAY QUEEN.

(_The Result of the First Fortnight_).

DON'T wake and call me early, pray don't call me, mother dear,
To-morrow may be the coldest day of all this cold New Year;
Of all this wintry year, mother, the wildest stormiest day,
And we have had fires in May, mother, we have had fires in May.

I sleep so sound at night, mother, that I don't want to wake,
With the horrid thermometer standing at what seems a sad mistake;
But none so wise as those who read the weather forecasts, they say;
Shall we have more fires in May, mother? must we have more fires
in May?

A storm is coming across, mother, the _New York Herald_ has said,
And, if you please, I'd rather lie as long as I like in bed;
So bother the knots and garlands, mother, and all the foolish play,
If we're to have fires in May, mother, why--we must have fires in May.

_Punch_, May 28, 1881.

The following parody appeared originally in a clever little Cambridge University Magazine, entitled _Light Green_, which has long been out of print. _Light Green_ contained many excellent parodies, notable amongst them being:--_The May Exam._, after Tennyson; _The Song of the Shirk_, after Hood; _The Heathen Pass-ee_, after Bret Harte; and _The Vulture and the Husbandman_, after Lewis Carroll. These, with several other amusing pieces of poetry, have been reprinted in a small pamphlet, which can be obtained from W. Metcalfe and Son, Trinity-street, Cambridge.

THE MAY EXAM.

(_By Alfred Pennysong_).

"Semper floreat
Poeta Laureate."--HORACE.

YOU must wake and call me early, call me early, Filcher dear,
To-morrow 'ill be a happy time for all the Freshman's year;
For all the Freshman's year, Filcher, the most delightful day,
For I shall be in for my May, Filcher, I shall be in for my May!

There's many a hot, hot man, they say, but none so hot as me;
There's Middlethwaite and Muggins, there's Kane and Kersetjee;
But none so good as little Jones in all the lot, they say,
So I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May!

I read so hard at night, Filcher, that I shall never rise,
If you do not take a wettish sponge and dab it in my eyes:
For I must prove the G.C.M., and substitute for _a_,
For I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May.

As I came through the College Backs, whom think ye should I see
But the Junior Dean upon the Bridge proceeding out to tea?
He thought of that Ægrotat, Filcher, I pleaded yesterday,--
But I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May.

There are men that come and go, Filcher, who care not for a class,
And their faces seem to brighten if they get a common pass;
They never do a stitch of work the whole of the live-long day,--
But I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May!

All the College Hall, my Filcher, will be fresh and clean and still,
And the tables will be dotted o'er with paper, ink, and quill;
And some will do their papers quick, and run away to play,--
But I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May!

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, Filcher dear,
To-morrow 'ill be a happy time for all the Freshman's year;
For all the Freshman's year, Filcher, the most delightful day,
For I shall be in for my May, Filcher, I shall be in for my May!

* * * * *

NEW-YEAR'S EVE.

If you're waking call me early, call me early, Filcher dear,
For I'll keep a morning Chapel upon my last New-year.
My last New-year before I take my Bachelor's Degree,
Then you may sell my crockery-ware, and think no more of me.

To-night I bade good-bye to Smith: he went and left behind
His good old rooms, those dear old rooms, where oft I sweetly dined;
There's a new year coming up, Filcher, but I shall never see
The Freshman's solid breakfast, or the Freshman's heavy tea.

Last May we went to Newmarket: we had a festive day,
With a decentish cold luncheon in a tidy one-horse-shay.
With our lardy-dardy garments we were really "on the spot,"
And Charley Vain came out so grand in a tall white chimney-pot.

There's not a man about the place but doleful Questionists;
I only wish to live until the reading of the Lists.
I wish the hard Examiners would melt and place me high;
I long to be a Wrangler, but I'm sure I don't know why.

Upon this battered table, and within these rooms of mine,
In the early, early morning there'll be many a festive shine;
And the Dean will come and comment on "this most unseemly noise,"
Saying, "Gentlemen, remember, pray, you're now no longer boys."

When the men come up again Filcher, and the Term is at its height,
You'll never see me more in these long gay rooms at night;
When the old dry wines are circling and the claret-cup flows cool,
And the loo is fast and furious with a fiver in the pool.

You'll pack my things up, Filcher, with Mrs. Tester's aid,
You may keep the wine I leave behind, the tea, and marmalade.
I shall not forget you, Filcher, I shall tip you when I pass,
And I'll give you something handsome if I get a second-class.

Good-night, good-night, when I have passed my tripos with success,
And you see me driving off to catch the one o'clock "express;"
Don't let Mrs. Tester hang about beside the porter's lodge,
I ain't a fool, you know, and I can penetrate that dodge.

She'll find my books and papers lying all about the floor,
Let her take 'em, they are hers, I shall never use 'em more;
But tell her, to console her, if she's mourning for my loss.
That she's quite the dirtiest bedmaker, I ever came across.

Good-night: you need not call me till the bell for service rings,
Through practice I am pretty quick at putting on my things;
But I would keep a Chapel upon my last New Year,
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, Filcher dear.