Chapter XX: Part III (1)

The curtain falls on this delightful scene,
As space is precious and will not permit
Of further details; but this goes to show
That things don't always turn out just the same
As those we read about in poets' yarns.
Another thing it shows--that Susan Ann
Had learned a trick when playing at being wed
Upon the seashore in her youthful days
That stood her in good stead in after years--
The wielding of the broomstick here is meant.

_Scraps_, August 1884.

* * * * *

AFTER TENNYSON'S "GRANDMOTHER."

And Willy, with Franchise horn, is gone to blow in the North!
Sturdy, though white, and strong on his legs, bravely holding forth;
And Willy's wife is with him--she ever was true and wise,
Always a wife for Willy--he often takes her advice.

For madame, you see, is clever; she loves her Franchise Bill,
And he can talk so ready, and manage the Scots with skill.
Pretty enough, very pretty! I won't say against it for one.
Eh! but my Lords shall fear him--when Willy his task has done.

Willy, my beauty, my chieftain true, the flower of the flock,
Never a lord can move him, for Willy stands like a rock.
He has always a word for the weak, for crofter and fellaheen too;
There ne'er was his like in the land, since Eighteen-thirty-two.

Strong for the right, and strong in the fight, strong still in his
tongue;
And peers shall go down before him, though the "feller" is not young.
Welcome him back, my brothers, from the North land far away,
Soon shall we liberty see, brothers, when Willy has won the day.

JAMES G. MEAGHER.

_The Weekly Dispatch_, September 14, 1884.

(Parody Competition).

* * * * *

KEEPING TERM AFTER COMMEMORATION.

(_Not by_ A.--T., Esq.)

I steal by lawns, to check the train
Of meditations started
By seeing duns that come in vain
For happy men departed.

By empty rooms I hurry down,
So stumbling down the staircase;
The cads within the sleepy town
Think mine a very rare case.

I hail a boat, and down I row
Along the lonely river,
For other lucky men may go,
But I seem here for ever.

I murmur under moon and stars,
I feel in lunar phrenzy,
I chide the cursèd fate that bars
My exit from B. N. C.

I slope, I slouch, I speed, I stop,
And scan the empty High Street,
I turn me into Boffin's shop,
To cheer me with an ice-treat,

Till ice and sad reflection slow
My diaphragm make quiver,
For other lucky men may go,
But I seem here for ever.

I roam about, and in and out
Poke eyes with envy yellow,
And here and there I spy a scout,
And here and there a fellow.

And here and there a good mamma,
Her squalling baby nursing,
Looks on me pitying, with an "Ah,
Poor fellow, how he's cursing!"

For, sailor like, I storm and "blow
My eyes" and "timbers shiver,"
That other lucky men may go,
But I seem here for ever.

BRASENOSE COLLEGE, Oxford.

_College Rhymes_, 1870.

* * * * *

THE MAIDEN'S LAMENT.

_After Tennyson_ (_and a long way after, too_).

With many a care my life's beset,
My charms are growing mellow,
And I have not secured as yet
An eligible fellow.
I sing, I play, and through the dance
I skim like any swallow;
The ladies look at me askance,
And say I'm vain and shallow.
I chatter, chatter as I go,
And some pronounce me clever.
But the men that come they're awfully slow,
And pop the question _never_, _never_.
Pop the question never, never,
Pop the question never.

I gad about, and in and out
My hopeless fate bewailing;
And think with secret pain and doubt
Of youth and beauty failing.
A youth there is for whose dear sake
To distant lands I'd travel;
I thought he would an offer make
One evening on the gravel.
He spoke in accents soft and low,
But word of love came never.
The men that come are sure to go,
And some take leave for ever,
Some take leave for ever, ever,
Some take leave for ever.

I strive by many cunning plots,
Their feelings to discover,
And sometimes sweet forget-me-nots
Present to backward lover;
And though with costly gems from far,
I deck my shining tresses,
And though I sing of love and war,
And sport becoming dresses,
'Tis all in vain this idle show,
I'll gain their favour never.
For men may come and men may go,
But I'm stuck fast for ever,
I'm stuck fast for ever, ever,
I'm stack fast for ever.

_The Harborne Parish Church Bazaar News_ (Birmingham), September 26, 1874.

* * * * *

Flow down, old river, to the sea,
Thy tribute-muck deliver!
But lake this comfort, Thames, from Me,
_This shan't go on for ever!_

_Punch_, August 23, 1884.

* * * * *

OUR RIVER (A TENNYSONIAN IDYLL).

OLD FATHER THAMES, _loq._

"'I come from haunts of coot and hern,'
From 'neath green ferns I sally;
But into me they quickly turn
The sewage of my valley!

"By fifty sewer mouths I pass--
My surface black with midges;
And bubbles huge of sewage gas
Float down beneath my bridges.

"When first I babble o'er the lea,
As crystal clear I chatter;
But twenty towns soon poison me
With foul organic matter.

"Till last by Barking Creek I go,
A thick, pestiferous river;
And tides may ebb, and tides may flow,
But I smell on for ever!

"I fill with scum my little bays,
I coat with slime my pebbles;
The mud I leave on winter days
The summer drought soon trebles.

"With many a stench the air I fill,
With many an odour fetid;
And epidemics I distil
Throughout the dog-days heated.

"I churn contagion as I go,
A foul, filth-sodden river;
For tides may ebb, and tides may flow,
But I smell on for ever!

"I wind about, and in and out,
With here a dead cat floating,
And here a party seized, past doubt,
With sickness whilst they're boating.

"And Water Companies extract
My water as I travel,
Till I for miles am nought, in fact,
But banks of mud and gravel.

"In short, if they thus pump me dry,
And list to reason never,
Whilst Londoners are talking, I
Shall just flow _off_ for ever!

"As 'tis, the fish are well nigh killed
In all my urban reaches;
And places once with gudgeon filled
Are now too dry for leeches.

"I ruin lawns and grassy plots
By foul deposits spreading;
I blight the sweet forget-me-nots
From Twickenham to Reading.

"I crawl, I creep, I smell, I smear,
Amongst my oozy shallows;
I so pollute the atmosphere
It quite knocks-up the swallows.

"I grow each season more impure,
As every one's remarking;
I am an open running sewer
From Teddington to Barking.

"And so upon my course I go,
A foul, pestiferous river,
And tides may ebb, and tides may flow,
But I smell on for ever!"

_Truth_, July 31, 1884.

* * * * *

THE (NORTH) BROOK.

(_Some Way After Tennyson_).

'Tis an ill wind thus blows me out,
From home I must be sailing,
Whilst here the rest will chase, no doubt,
The grouse with zest unfailing.

* * * * *

I'm sent to watch by Nile's swift flow.
Confound that ancient river!
M.P.'s may come, M.P.'s may go;
Must I toil on for ever?

_Punch_, August 16, 1884.

* * * * *

PEERS, IDLE PEERS.

"The House of Lords sat last night somewhat less than a quarter of an hour, during which no business was done."

Peers, idle Peers, I know not what they do.
Peers from the depths of their luxurious chairs
Rise in the Clubs, and saunter into the House,
In-looking on the happy Hugh, Lord Cairns,
And thinking of the Bills that are in store.

Sure as the hammer falling at a sale,
That makes us travel by the Underground,
Sad as the feeling when our bargains prove
Not quite the treasure which we hoped to find;
So sad, so sure, the Bills that are to bore.

Ah, sad (not strange) as on dreary winter morns.
The surliest knock of half-impatient dun
To drowsy ears, ere, watched by drowsy eyes,
The tailor slowly goes across the square;
So sad, so very sad, the bills that are in store.

Drear as repeated hisses at your Play.
And drear as dreams by indigestion caused
To those that take hot suppers; dull as law,
Dull as dry law, and lost without regret;
O House of Lords, the Bills that are a bore.

_Punch_, March 7, 1868.

* * * * *

"Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;
The cloud may stoop from Heaven and take the shape,
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;
But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee?
Ask me no more."

* * * * *

TENNYSON (_The Princess_).

* * * * *

TO AN IMPORTUNATE HOST.

(_During Dinner, and after Tennyson_).

Ask me no more: I've had enough Chablis;
The wine may come again, and take the shape,
From glass to glass, of "Mountain" or of "Cape;"
But, my dear boy, when I have answered thee,
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give,
I love not pickled pork nor partridge pie;
I feel if I took whisky I should die!
Ask me no more--for I prefer to live:
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: unless my fate is sealed,
And I have striven against you all in vain.
Let your good butler bring me Hock again:
Then rest, dear boy. If for this once I yield,
Ask me no more.

ANONYMOUS.

SONG.

To the tune of Tennyson's "Home they brought her warrior dead."

(General Hill fell in the battle before Petersburg, and was the last man buried with military honours on the eve of the evacuation).

Lay the stern old warrior down,
Deeply in his narrow bed,
Ere the conqueror sack the town,
Ere the foeman o'er him tread.

They who checked the battle-tide--
Hoary warriors weeping said,
"Foremost where the bravest died,
Foremost where his country bled."

Low they laid the Pride of War,
Soldiers sternly round him mourned:
"Glorious was our battle-star,
Glorious when the battle burned."

Loudly crashed the fierce farewell--
_This_ of all his toil the crown:
Falling where his country fell,
Falling by the fallen town.

Turning from the warrior's side,
Spake a chieftain often proved:
"Nobly for our land he died,
Nobly for the land he loved."

A. R.
_Exeter Coll._, Oxford.

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

* * * * *

SONG.

Home they brought her husband--"tight,"
She nor moved, nor uttered cry,
But the Peeler, winking said,
"Won't he get it by-and-bye."

Then they placed him on the bed,
Called him "Jolly dog," "old boy!"
Placed the pillows 'neath his head--
Yet she showed nor grief, nor joy.

Stole her daughter from her seat
Up to where her father slept,
Pulled the boots from off his feet,
Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Then the "Bobby" took his purse,
Placed it empty on her knee,
Rose her voice as if to curse--
"Not one sixpence left for me!"

_Vagrant Leaves_, Part I, October, 1866. (A clever little illustrated magazine, of which only three numbers were issued; they are now exceedingly scarce).

* * * * *

Home the "worrier" comes! We read
All his words, nor uttered sigh;
But the Tories, sneering, said,
"He must talk or he would die."

Then we praised his speeches long,
Called them worthy to be heard--
Brilliant thoughts and language strong;
Still the Tories cried, "Absurd!"

Stole Lord Random from his place,
Lightly to the "worrier" stept;
Tried to fool him to his face--
Back into his hole he crept.

Came a host of stupid peers,
Swore the franchise should not be;
Like rolling thunder rose our cheers--
Grand Old Man, success to thee!

ALFRED C. BRANT.

_The Weekly Dispatch_, September 14, 1884. (Parody Competition).

* * * * *

"The Charge of the Light Brigade" is still one of the most popular of Tennyson's poems, in spite of its many faults, and defective construction. Some of its lines are, indeed, ridiculous, whilst many are ungrammatical, but the metre is pleasing, and the words have the ring of the battle about them. Tennyson, however, can claim no credit for these merits, having boldly appropriated them from Michael Drayton's poem on the Battle of Agincourt, in which the following lines occur:--

"They now to fight are gone,
Armour on armour shone:
Drum now to drum did groan;
To hear was to wonder;
That with the cries they make,
The very earth did shake,
Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder."

Several parodies of "The Charge of the Light Brigade" remain to be quoted, in addition to those already given; indeed, this poem appears to possess a peculiar attraction for imitators.

* * * * *

The following parody was written on the occasion of a lecture on "Light" having been given in Horncastle by the late Dr. H. G. Ward:--

THE "LIGHT" CAVALIER'S CHARGE.

With half a score,
Half a score,
Half a score rings bedight,
Through the great lecture room
Staggered Professor Light.
He had been asked to speak
Fifth of December bleak,
Could he deny his squeak?
Had he not heaps of cheek?
As on the dais
Swaggered Professor Light.

Kinsfolk to right of him,
Kinsfolk to left of him
"Buttons" in front of him,
Listened and wondered!
Conceited without a doubt,
Sing-song he brought it out,
Had he not learnt to spout,
Rolling his eyes about,
Amongst the two hundred.

Was not the lecture good,
His for great minds the food!
See how erect he stood.
Teaching his Townsmen,
Whilst Horncastle wondered!
Surrounded by Kith and Kin,
Did he not give it in?
"Light" was the very thing
Whereon our faith to pin.
Misled by Forbes Winslow,
The Doctor who blundered--
Then he sat down amid
Cheers from two hundred.

Kinsfolk to right of him,
Kinsfolk to left of him,
No one behind him
Listened and wondered.
Other orbs, great and small,
Took fresh light, one and all,
In the great lecture hall
From Light's special envoy.
These were but few, indeed,
Of the two hundred.

Honour Professor bold,
Long shall the tale be told;
Aye, when our babes be old,
How he enlightened us!

* * * * *

THE CHARGE OF THE COURT BRIGADE.

I.

Half a yard--half a yard--
Half a yard onward,
Through the first crush-room
Pressed the Four Hundred.
Forward--the Fair Brigade!
On to the Throne, they said:
On to the Presence Room
Crushed the Four Hundred.

II.

Forward, the Fair Brigade!
Was there a girl dismayed?
E'en though the chaperons knew
Some one had blundered.
Theirs not to make complaint,
Theirs not to sink or faint,
Theirs--but words cannot paint
Half the discomfiture
Of the Four Hundred.

III.

Crowds on the right of them,
Crowds on the left of them,
Crowds all in front of them,
Stumbled and blundered:
On through the courtier-lined
Rooms--most tremendous grind--
Into the Presence-Room,
Leaving their friends behind,
Passed the Four Hundred.

IV.

Flushed all their faces fair,
Flashed all their jewels rare,
Scratched all their shoulders bare,
Thrusting each other--while
Outsiders wondered:
Into the Presence Room,
Taking their turn they come,--
Some looking very glum
O'er trains sore-sundered:--
Kiss hand, and outwards back,
Fagged, the Four Hundred!

V.

Crowds to the right of them,
Crowds on the left of them,
Crowds all in front of them,
Stumbled and blundered--
Back through more courtier-lined
Rooms--O, tremendous grind!--
_Débutantes_ thirsty pined
For ice or cup o' tea:
No sofas horse-hair lined,
Not a chair or settee,
Poor dear Four Hundred!

VI.

Mothers to rage gave vent,
Husbands for broughams sent,
While at mismanagement
Both sorely wondered.
Not till the sun had set,
Not till the lamps were lit,
Home from the Drawing Room
Got the Four Hundred.

VII.

Some, I heard, in despair
Of getting stool or chair,
Took to the floor, and there
Sat down and wondered.
Now, my Lord Chamberlain,
Take my advice. Again
When there's a Drawing-room,
Shut doors, and don't let in
More than Two Hundred.

_Punch_, May 30, 1874.

* * * * *

THE BATTLE OF BARTLEMY'S.

Snowballs to right of them,
Snowballs to left of them,
Snowballs in front of them,
Shattered and sundered.
"Forward the Blue Brigade!
Run 'em in! Who's afraid?"
Less easy done than said:
Not in the least dismayed,
Every bold student stayed,
And at the Blue Brigade
Volleyed and thundered.
Flashed every truncheon bare,
Helmets were tossed in air,
Robert gets quite a scare,
While every student there
Hooted and pelted.

* * * * *

Stormed at with jeer and yell,
Truncheon and helmet fell,
Back rushed they all, pell mell,--
How the force wondered;
Many a pretty maid,
Down in the area shade,
Weeps for her Bob betrayed,
Weeps for her Blue Brigade,
Knowing they blundered.

_Funny Folks_, December 25, 1875.

* * * * *

CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

(No. 2.)

(_At the Alexandra Palace Banquet, given to the survivors of the Baltic of Balaclava, on October_ 25, 1875).

Paying sight! Left and right,
Crowds pressing onward,--
Sharp Alexandra Board
Dines the Two Hundred!
"Free passes grant them all!"
Veterans, short and tall--
Sharp Alexandra Board--
(Profits will not be small)--
Dines the Two Hundred!

"Go it, the Light Brigade!"
Toast-Master, sore dismayed,
Queered by those heroes' chaff,
Boggled and blundered.
Theirs not to speechify,
Still less to make reply;
Theirs but to drain all dry,--
Into the drinkables
Walked the Two Hundred!

Bottles to right of them,
Bottles to left of them,
Bottles in front of them,
While the band thundered;
They knew no "Captain Cork"--
Boldly they went to work,
After the eatables
Fell to their knife and fork,--
Thirsty Two Hundred!

_À La Russe_ might surprise,
Still they knew joints and pies,
Clearing the dishes there,
_Relevés_ and _entrées_, while
Scared waiters wondered;
Then, plunged in 'bacca smoke,
Glasses and pipes they broke--
Comrades long sundered,
Big with old lark and joke,
Gleefully met again--
Jolly Two Hundred!

Trophies to right of them,
Trophies to left of them,
CARDIGAN'S charger's head,
Piously sundered!
Back they reeled, from the spread,
Straight as they could, to bed--
They that had dined so well--
Nothing to pay per head--
Happy Two Hundred!

When shall their glory fade?
O, what a meal they made!
Cockneydom wondered.
Honour the Charge they made--
Bravo the Light Brigade!
Hearty Two Hundred!

_Punch_, November 6, 1875.

* * * * *

ON THE RINK.

Half a mile, half a mile,
Half a mile onward,
On to the skating rink
Came the fair trio.
"Skates for the fair trio,
Oil them well before they go,"
Over the smooth rink
Slide the fair trio.

Forward the fair trio!
Was a false step made? No!
Not tho' they all knew
Some one had tumbled.
Theirs but to give a sigh,
Theirs but to let him lie,
Theirs but to pass him by,
Away o'er the rink
Glide the fair trio.

Admirers to right of them,
Admirers to left of them,
Admirers in front of them,
Wonder'd and wonder'd.
"Outside edge," and never fell,
Boldly they skate and well,
"Treble threes and Q.'s."
Any step you choose,--
Over the smooth rink
Glide the fair trio.

Flash'd all their eyes so bright,
Flash'd as they turned in air,
Wounding every fellow there,
With a glance to left and right,
Other girls envying.
"Waltzing" and "Mercury stroke,"
Straight through the line they broke,
Whirling and twirling,
Light as the fairy folk,
Twisting and turning,--
Then they skate back, but not,
Not alone the fair trio.

Admirers to right of them,
Admirers to left of them,
Admirers on all sides of them,
Wonder'd and wonder'd.
Refreshed with coffee and tea,
Sweet cake, but no "Cherry B."
They whom none excel,
They who deserve so well,
They who no scandal tell,
Away o'er the rink
Glide the fair trio.
"When can their beauty fade?"
Oh! the grand show they made,
All the rink wonder'd;
Applaud all the skill displayed,
Admire the fair trio,
Charming fair trio.

_The Figaro_, April 10, 1876.

* * * * *

HOW A HUNDRED GUESTS MET THEIR DEATH.

"There seems to be hardly a single ailment not traceable to the poulterer or butcher."--_Daily Paper._

"Half a duck, half a duck,
Guests do not shirk ye;
Eat, 'tis the Christmas luck,
Eat a whole turkey!"
Little thought they of pain,
Killed they the plate again,
Why would ye not refrain?
On to death, onward!

Death was to right of them,
Death was to left of them,
Death right in front of them,
Death in that conger!
Long did they feast, and well,
_How_ long I cannot tell,
Till they began to yell,
"Cannot eat longer!"

Ate they the tables bare,
Swept they the platter clear,
While the host wondered.
Wrapped in the pudding's smoke,
Right through its midst they broke,
Mince pies were sundered!
Then sank they back; but not--
Not the same hundred.

_Judy_, January 16, 1884.

* * * * *

A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA.

(_As the Laureate might have adapted it to the opening of the Alexandra Palace_).

Muswellian Palace far over the lea,
ALEXANDRA!
Eastern and Western and South are we,
But all of us North in our welcome of thee,
ALEXANDRA!
Welcome it, _Times_ and _Telegraph_ fleet;
Welcome it, _Echo_, that sells in the street;
Break, _Daily News_, into rhetoric's flower;
Make "copy," O _Standard_, and new budded _Hour!_
Blazon advertisements, concert and play,
Ballet, with Lancers, sportive and gay;
Bertram and Roberts, famed for supply,
Cut from the joint, or savoury pie,
Ices and jellies and nourishing things;
Speckman's wonderful Hall of the Kings;
Warble, O bugle, and trumpet blare,
Flags flutter out upon turrets and towers,
Clash, ye bells, in the rainy May air--
Welcome, welcome, this Palace of ours!
Palace of corridor, vestibule, hall,
Lofty in roofing, with pillars so tall,
Meet for dining and dancing; and, O!
Fireworks--the brightest that mortal may know;
Reach to the roof sudden rocket, and higher,
Melt into stars for the crowd's desire;
Flash, ye rockets, in showers of fire,
Flaming comets shoot swift on the wire--
Welcome it, welcome it, land and sea;
O joy to the populace yet unknown,
We come to thee, love, and make thee our own--
For Camden, Camberwell, Bloomsburee,
Highgate, Belgravia, or Battersea,
We are all of us Muswell in welcome of thee,
ALEXANDRA!

_Funny Folks_, May 15, 1875.

After Tennyson's

"Flower in the Crannied Wall."

Terrier in my Granny's hall,
I whistle you out of my Granny's;
Hold you here, tail and all, in my hand,
Little terrier: but if I could understand
What you are, tail and all, and all in all,
I should know what "black and tan" is.

C.

_Kottabos_, Dublin, 1870.

* * * * *

There have been numerous imitations of _In Memoriam_, and Mr. William Dobson, in his "Poetical Ingenuities," speaking of parodies, observes:--"One appeared in _Punch_ a number of years ago, called 'Ozokerit,' a travesty of Tennyson's 'In Memoriam,' which has been considered one of the finest ever written." It is unquestionably very clever. Singularly enough it did not appear in the body of _Punch_ at all, but on the outside wrapper, as an advertisement, so that many people who have bound sets of _Punch_ will not find the parody, which was as follows:--

OZOKERIT.

(By A. T., or some one who writes as well as _he_).

Wild whispers on the air did flit,
Wild whispers, shaped to mystic hints,
When bright in breadths of public prints
Shone that great name "Ozokerit."

And much the people marvelled when
That embryon thing should leap to view!
And "what is it," and "whereunto?"
Rang frequent in the mouths of men.

"This babbler! is he not to blame?
Or will he, in the cycled course
Of Time, with circumstance and force
Invest this nothing of a name?"

And one his thought would thus declare,
"Our fooling makes this fellow blithe,
He joys to see conjecture writhe
And flutter in the wordy snare."

Thereat one wiselier--"Watch and see
(When Time be ripe, which now is rathe)
His Titan-touch unfold the swathe
That darkly wraps the great 'To be.'"

Shine forth yet undiscovered star!
Shed largess of all precious balms!
We dimly grope with vacant palms
And wondering wait thy Avatar.

Thou cam'st by Prejudice withstood
In vain, and lulling doubt to sleep:
But one--yet two in one--the cheap
Divinely wedded to the good.

A thing of beauty, form combined
With soul phlogistic, sent to cloy
Our Æon, with Promethean joy:--
A joy from central darkness mined.

Of regions haunted by the Hun;
Thence baled with cost of countless gold
To Lambeth's marish, and in mould
Of seeming-waxen tapers run:

Whose radiance is as that of moons
Innumerous, making day of night;
With most intensity of light,
Emblazing fashion's gay saloons.

When sound of midnight morrice rings
On floor and roof, and all is noise,
Of jubilant Ophicleids, hautboys,
Clear twanging harp, and fiddle strings.

And shapes of silver-bosomed girls,
In bacchant revel wheeling, trace
The waltz with sweet disordered grace
Of twinkling feet and flashing curls.

* * * * *

IN MEMORIAM TECHNICAM.

I count it true which sages teach--
That passion sways not with repose,
That love, confounding these with those,
Is ever welding each with each.

And so when time has ebbed away,
Like childish wreaths too lightly held,
The song of immemorial eld
Shall moan about the belted bay,

Where slant Orion slopes his star,
To swelter in the rolling seas,
Till slowly widening by degrees,
The grey climbs upward from afar,

And golden youth and passion stray
Along the ridges of the strand--
Not far apart, but hand in hand--
With all the darkness danced away!

_Vere Vereker's Vengeance._ By Thomas Hood, the younger, 1865.

* * * * *

A NEW CHRISTMAS SONG.

(Adapted to the Times from In Memoriam).

_Apropos of the wet winter of_ 1872.

Wring out the clouds in that damp sky,
Which all this year so drear have made,
If, for the weather's clerk, her trade
A weather-washerwoman ply.

Wring out the old, wring in the new,
Wring, weather-washerwoman, so,
That wet shod if the Old Year must go
The New may damps and dumps eschew.

Wring out the wet that stands in clay,
Rots the potatoes in their bed,
Fingers and toes gives swedes instead
Of bellies in the usual way.

Wring out my mouchoir, damp with flow
Of constant cold through warp and woof,
Bring in a patent waterproof,
Through whose seams raindrops will not go.

Wring out the shirts, wring out the skin,
To which I've been wet many times;
Ring out the raindrops' pattering chimes,
And bring some drier weather in!

_Punch_, December 28, 1872.

A NEW RING.

Ring out, glad bells! with clappers strong;
Ring out the year that dies to-night!
Ring in the new year with the light!
Ring in the right, ring out the wrong.

Ring out the squabbles at the Zoo!
Ring opera boxes in my reach,
And "natives" at a penny each!
Ring out Ward Hunt, whate'er you do.

Ring out the tax collector's knocks--
The Hebrew usurer--the dun!
Ring coals in at a pound a ton,
Ring out the women's "tie-back" frocks!

Ring out th' oppressors of the poor--
The rinderpest and Ouida's books!
Ring in some housemaids and some cooks,
Ring out the Reverend Edward Moore.

Ring out all rates without delay!
Ring in the Law Courts, if you can!
Ring out, ring out, the _Englishman!_
Ring out Kenealy, right away!

_O. P. Q. P. Smiff_, in _The Figaro_, January 5, 1876.

* * * * *

THE COMING MANNIKIN.

Mr. Punch, having heard that many Conservatives looked upon Lord Randolph Churchill as the "Coming Man" of their party, expressed himself as follows:--

Ring out fools'-bells to limbo's dome,
Which copes the neo-Tory clique!
The man is coming whom they seek!
Ring out fools'-bells, and let him come!
Ring out the old, ring in the new.
Ring jangling bells a Bedlam chime;
'Tis the true _Simon Pure_ this time;
Ring in the chief of Gnatdom's crew!

* * * * *

Ring out old pride in race and blood,
That kept the fierce old fighters right;
Ring in crude slander and small spite,
The urchin love of flinging mud.
Ring out the gentleman! Ring in
The narrow heart, the rowdy hand.
Ring out the brave, the wise, the grand!
Ring in the Coming Mannikin!

_Punch_, November 19, 1881.

The parody of _In Memoriam_, mentioned on Page 61 as having appeared in the _St. James's Gazette_ of June 18, 1881, was written by Mr. H. D. Traill, and has since been re-published, by Messrs. Blackwood and Sons, in a volume entitled _Recaptured Rhymes_. Parodies of D. G. Rossetti, A. C. Swinburne, and Robert Browning are contained in the same volume, and will be quoted when the works of these authors are reached.

Detached portions of Tennyson's _Maud_, have frequently been parodied, but the only case in which any attempt appears to have been made to imitate all its varying styles, and phases of thought, occurs in a small volume published in 1859, entitled _Rival Rhymes in Honour of Burns_.

Unfortunately, the mere trick of imitating the metre only does not constitute a good parody, and this one lacks both in interest and humour. It is, besides, very long. The following are some of its best verses:--

THE POET'S BIRTH:

A MYSTERY.

_By the P--t L--te._

I.

I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the dirty town,
At the corner of its lips are oozing a foul ferruginous slime,
Like the toothless tobacco-cramm'd mouth of a hag who enriches the
crown
By consuming th 'excised weed,--parent of smuggling crime!

II.

'Tis night; the shivering stars, wrapt in their cloud-blankets
dreaming,
Forget to light an old crone, who to cross the hollow would try;
But watchful Aldebaran, in Taurus's head swift gleaming,
Like a policeman, to help her, turns on his bull's-eye.

III.

There's a hovel of mud, and the crone, mudded and muddled,
Knocks, and an oxidized hinge creaks a rusty "Come in."
There are now in the hovel,--a woman in bed-gear huddled,
A careworn man, and a midwife, her functional fee to win.

IV.

Midwives are hard as millstones: Expectant father's emotions
Are dragg'd by the heart's wild tide, like seashore shingle,
Shrieking complaint, when the fierce assaults of the ocean
Beat them all round, without an exception single.

* * * * *

1. Darkness! Darkness! Darkness!
Ebon carved idol of wickedness!
Guilty deeds do love thee,
Innocent childhood fears thee;
Therefore these do prove thee
An unbless'd thing!--Who hears thee,
Grisly, gaunt, and lonely,--
Darkness! Darkness! Darkness!
Thy brother Silence only!

2. Lightness! Lightness! Lightness!
Great quality in small things,
A pudding, above all things!
Great quality in great things,
And, not to understate things,
Thou art the essence of sunshine,
Lightness! Lightness! Lightness!
Whose brightness--
And whiteness--
Are but lackness
Of blackness.

Therefore, Darkness! Darkness!
Ebon-carved idol of wickedness!
Let those who love you
And Silence, prove you
And seek!
Not I!
For why?--for why?--for why?
I'll speak!

* * * * *

Falling is the snow,
Every frosty flake
Making the round world
Like a wedding-cake.
What is't makes the snow?
Is it frost? No, no!
Petals of the rose
That in the heaven grows,
Thrown by angels down,
In Elysian play,
Make the snow, I say,
To produce a crown
For the bridal day.

* * * * *

_Rival Rhymes, in Honour of Burns_, 1859.

* * * * *

MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS.

By A. T. (D.C.L.)

SONG.

Chirrup, chirp, chirp, chirp twitter,
Warble, flutter, and fly away;
Dicky birds, chickey birds--quick, ye bird,
Shut it up, cut it up, die away.

Maud is going to sing!
Maud with the voice like lute strings,
(To which the sole species of string
I know of that rhymes is boot-strings).

Still, you may stop, if you please;
Roar as a chorus sonorous,
Robin, bob in at ease;
Tom-tit, prompt it for us.

Rose or thistle in, whistlin',
(What a beast is her brother!)
Maud has sung from her tongue rung;
Echo it out,
From each shoot shout,
From each root rout--
"She'll oblige us with another."

* * * * *

Midsummer Madness,

A SOLILOQUY.

I am a hearthrug--
Yes, a rug--
Though I cannot describe myself as snug;
Yet I know that for me they paid a price
For a Turkey carpet that would suffice
(But we live in an age of rascal vice).
Why was I ever woven,
For a clumsy lout, with a wooden leg,
To come with his endless Peg! Peg!
Peg! Peg!
With a wooden leg,
Till countless holes I'm drove in.
("Drove," I have said, and it should be "driven"
A hearthrug's blunders should be forgiven,
For wretched scribblers have exercised
Such endless bosh and clamour,
So improvidently have improvised,
That they've utterly ungrammaticised
Our ungrammatical grammar).
And the coals
Burn holes,
Or make spots like moles,
And my lily-white tints, as black as your hat turn,
And the housemaid (a matricide, will-forging slattern),
Rolls
The rolls
From the plate, in shoals,
When they're put to warm in front of the coals;
And no one with me condoles,
For the butter stains on my beautiful pattern.
But the coals and rolls, and sometimes soles,
Dropp'd from the frying-pan out of the fire,
Are nothing to raise my indignant ire,
Like the Peg! Peg!
Of that horrible man with the wooden leg.

This moral spread from me,
Sing it, ring it, yelp it--
Never a hearth-rug be,
That is if you can help it.

* * * * *

AN EXTRACT (NOT) FROM TENNYSON'S "MAUD."

Birds in St. Stephen's garden,
Mocking birds, were bawling--
"Lord, Lord, Lord, John!"
They were crying and calling.

Where was John? In a fix!
Gone to Vienna, whither
They'd sent him out of the way,--
Tories and Whigs together.

Birds in St. Stephen's sang,
Chattering, chattering round him--
"John is here, here, here,
Back too soon, confound him!"

They saw his dirty hands!
Meekly he bore their punning;
John[13] is not seventy yet,
But he's very little and cunning.

He to show up himself!
How can he ever explain it?
John were certain of place,
If shuffling could retain it.

* * * * *

Look, a cab at the door,
Dizzy has snarled for an hour;
Go back, my Lord, for you're a bore,
And at last you're out of power.

_Our Miscellany._

(Which ought to have come out, but didn't).

* * * * *

GRANNY'S HOUSE.

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn,
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the dinner horn.
'Tis the place, and all about it, as of old, the rat and mouse
Very loudly squeak and nibble, running over Granny's house;--
Granny's house, with all its cupboards, and its rooms as neat as wax,
And its chairs of wood unpainted, where the old cats rubbed their
backs.
Many a night from yonder garret window, ere I went to rest,
Did I see the cows and horses come in slowly from the west;
Many a night I saw the chickens, flying upward through the trees,
Roosting on the sleety branches, when I thought their feet would
freeze;
Here about the garden wandered, nourishing a youth sublime
With the beans, and sweet potatoes, and the melons which were prime;
When the pumpkin-vines behind me with their precious fruit reposed,
When I clung about the pear-tree, for the promise that it closed.
When I dipt into the dinner far as human eye could see,
Saw the vision of the pie, and all the dessert that would be.
In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast;
In the spring the noisy pullet gets herself another nest;
In the spring a livelier spirit makes the ladies' tongues more glib;
In the spring a young boy's fancy lightly hatches up a fib.
Then her cheek was plump and fatter than should be for one so old,
And she eyed my every motion, with a mute intent to scold.
And I said, "My worthy Granny, now I speak the truth to thee,--
"Better believe it,--I have eaten all the apples from one tree."
On her kindling cheek and forehead came a colour and a light,
As I have seen the rosy red flashing in the northern night;
And she turned,--her fist was shaken at the coolness of the lie;
She was mad, and I could see it, by the snapping of her eye,
Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do thee wrong,"--
Saying, "I shall whip you, Sammy, whipping I shall go it strong."
She took me up, and turned me pretty roughly, when she'd done,
And every time she shook me, I tried to jerk and run;
She took off my little coat, and struck again with all her might,
And before another minute, I was free, and out of sight.
Many a morning, just to tease her, did I tell her stories yet,
Though her whisper made me tingle, when she told me what I'd get;
Many an evening did I see her where the willow sprouts grew thick,
And I rushed away from Granny at the touching of her stick.
O my Granny, old and ugly, O my Granny's hateful deeds,
O the empty, empty garret, O the garden gone to weeds,
Crosser than all fancy fathoms, crosser than all songs have sung,
I was puppet to your threat, and servile to your shrewish tongue,
Is it well to wish thee happy, having seen thy whip decline
On a boy with lower shoulders, and a narrower back than mine?
Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the dinner-horn,
They to whom my Granny's whippings were a target for their scorn;
Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a mouldered string?
I am shamed through all my nature to have loved the mean old thing;
Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's spite,
Nature made them quicker motions, a considerable sight.
Woman is the lesser man, and all thy whippings matched with mine
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine.
Here at least when I was little, something, O, for some retreat
Deep in yonder crowded city where my life began to beat,
Where one winter fell my father, slipping off a keg of lard,
I was left a trampled orphan, and my case was pretty hard.
Or to burst all links of habit, and to wander far and fleet,
On from farm-house unto farm-house till I found my Uncle Pete,
Larger sheds and barns, and newer, and a better neighbourhood,
Greater breadth of field and woodlands, and an orchard just as good.
Never comes my Granny, never cuts her willow switches there;
Boys are safe at Uncle Peter's, I'll bet you what you dare.
Hangs the heavy-fruited pear-tree: you may eat just what you like.
'Tis a sort of little Eden, about two miles off the pike.
There, methinks, would be enjoyment, more than being quite so near
To the place where even in manhood I almost shake with fear.
There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have scope and breathing
space.
I will 'scape that savage woman; she shall never rear my race;
Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive and they shall run;
She has caught me like a wild-goat, but she shall not catch my son.
He shall whistle to the dog, and get the books from off the shelf,
Not, with blinded eyesight, cutting ugly whips to whip himself.
Fool again, the dream of fancy! no, I don't believe it's bliss,
But I'm certain Uncle Peter's is a better place than this.
Let them herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of all glorious gains,
Like the horses in the stables, like the sheep that crop the lanes;
Let them mate with dirty cousins--what to me were style or rank,
I the heir of twenty acres, and some money in the bank?
Not in vain the distance beckons, forward let us urge our load,
Let our cart-wheels spin till sundown, ringing down the grooves of
road;
Through the white dust of the turnpike she can't see to give us chase:
Better seven years at Uncle's than fourteen at Granny's place.
O, I see the blessed promise of my spirit hath not set!
If we once get in the wagon, we will circumvent her yet.
Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Granny's farm;
Not for me she'll cut the willows, not at me she'll shake her arm.
Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and holt,
Cramming all the blast before it,--guess it holds a thunderbolt:
Wish't would fall on Granny's house, with rain, or hail, or fire, or
snow,
Let me get my horses started Uncle Pete-ward, and I'll go.

_Poems and Parodies_, by Phœbe Carey.

Boston, United States, 1854.

* * * * *

THE SQUATTER'S 'BACCY FAMINE.

In blackest gloom he cursed his lot;
His breath was one long, weary sigh;
His brows were gathered in a knot
That only baccy could untie.
His oldest pipe was scraped out clean;
The deuce a puff was left him there;
A hollow sucking sound of air
Was all he got his lips between.
He only said, "My life is dreary,
The Baccy's done," he said,
He said, "I am aweary, aweary;
By Jove, I'm nearly dead."

The chimney-piece he searched in vain,
Into each pocket plunged his fist;
His cheek was blanched with weary pain,
His mouth awry for want of twist.
He idled with his baccy knife;
He had no care for daily bread:--
A single stick of Negro-head
Would be to him the staff of life.
He only said, "My life is dreary.
The Baccy's done," he said.
He said, "I am aweary, aweary;
I'd most as soon be dead."

Books had no power to mend his grief;
The magazines could tempt no more;
"Cut gold-leaf" was the only leaf
That he had cared to ponder o'er.
From chair to sofa sad he swings,
And then from sofa back to chair;
But in the depths of his despair
Can catch no "bird's-eye" view of things.
And still he said, "My life is dreary.
No Baccy, boys," he said.
He said, "I am aweary, aweary;
I'd just as soon be dead."

His meals go by, he knows not how;
No taste in flesh, or fowl, or fish;
There's not a dish could tempt him now,
Except a cake of Caven-dish.
His life is but a weary drag;
He cannot choose but curse and swear,
And thrust his fingers through his hair,
All shaggy in the want of shag.
And still he said, "My life is dreary.
No Baccy, boys," he said.
He said, "I am aweary, aweary;
I'd rather far be dead."

To him one end of old cheroot
Were sweetest root that ever grew.
No honey were due substitute
For "Our Superior Honey-Dew."
One little fig of Latakia
Would buy all fruits of Paradise;
"Prince Alfred's Mixture" fetch a price
Above both Prince and Galatea.
Sudden he said, "No more be dreary!
The dray has come!" he said.
He said, "I'll smoke till I am weary,--
And then I'll go to bed."

_Miscellaneous Poems_, by J. Brunton. Stephens. (Macmillan and Co., London), 1880.

This book contains several other amusing parodies of the poems of Swinburne, E. A. Poe, and Coleridge, which will be quoted in future parts of the collection. They all relate to Colonial life, and are now difficult to meet with, as all the unsold copies of the book have been returned to the author, who resides in Australia.

* * * * *

THE VOICE AND THE PIQUE.

(Amended Edition, by the P-- L--.)

The Voice and the Pique!
It was once a beautiful Voice
From a girl with roseate cheek,
Who made my heart rejoice.

But the Voice--or the girl--ah, which?
Against me took a Pique,
Because I was not so rich
As she thought--and the voice grew a squeak.

Hast thou no voice, O Pique?
Thou hast, uncommonly shrill:
And I know that a Maiden meek
May grow to a wife with a will.

Ah, misery comes, and miscarriage,
To all who wear fleshly fetters;
She's made a Capital marriage--
I mourn in Capital Letters.

_Punch_, October 17, 1874.

* * * * *

THE PLAINT OF THE PLUMBER AND BUILDER.

(In the case of Dee v. Dalgairns, the plaintiff, a plumber by trade, sued the defendant Dalgairns, a Civil Engineer, for the sum of thirty pounds for the erection of a lavatory. The defendant made a counter claim of one hundred and twenty pounds, on the ground that the work being improperly done, sewer gas escaped into the house, and caused the illness of six members of the household, and the death of his son. He, therefore, claimed the doctor's bill and other expenses. The Judge struck out the plaintiff's claim, and gave judgment for the defendant).

SOLO BY THE PLUMBER.

"I scamp the joints. I scamp the drains.
I am an artful Plumber;
You'll feel my hand in winter's rains,
You'll sniff it in the summer."

"I dig, I delve, I patch, I pry,
And lay the pipes so badly,
That even bland Surveyors sigh,
And tenants chatter madly."

(_Here the Jerry Builder breaks in with his Jeremiad_).

"I build my floors on rags and bones,
Or lush organic matter;
Or where the grass in swampy zones
Grows greener and grows fatter."

"My doors are sure to warp in time,
My slates let in the water;
Take equal parts of dust and slime.
And there you have my mortar."

"I build my wall with many a trick,
So shrewd as to astound one;
With here and there a rotten brick,
And here and there a sound one."

_The Artful Plumber resumes his plaint;_--

"The sewer-pipe I love to lay,
Connecting with the cistern;
And where's the law that dares to say,
The tenant should have _his_ turn?"

_Finale by the Pair:_--

"Why, here's a Judge who would restrain
Our right to scatter fever!
Should this decision stand, 'tis plain
We _can't_ scamp on for ever!"

_Punch._

* * * * *

LIBERAL LYRICS.

(_Apropos_ of Mr. Gladstone's visit to Scotland).

A LONG WAY AFTER LORD TENNYSON'S "BROOK."

I've spouted o'er the land o' Burns,
I've made a gushing sally,
Although I fear, with true Returns,
My speeches will not tally,

From town to town I've hurried down,
I've talked on hills and ridges;
At railway stations played the clown,
And gabbled from their bridges.

I've chattered over stony ways.
I've chattered through the heather,
I've doused and soused the Rads with praise,
To keep myself together.

I chatter, chatter, my words flow
As fast as any river;
Tho' some men's language may be slow,
I can talk on for ever.

I wind about, and in and out,
I bolster up each failing;
But though I wheedle, brag, and shout,
There's nothing like plain sailing.

Oh! bless me, what a lot of plots
My tongue elastic covers;
Though Tories ain't forget-me-nots,
Nor Rads precisely lovers.

The Franchise is my party cry,
The Lords my latest craze is,
And till they both are settled--why,
All things may go to blazes!

Yet, still my eloquence shall flow
Like some loquacious river;
For men may come and men may go,
I gabble on for ever.

_England_, September 27, 1884.

* * * * *

THE TRAIN.

I come from haunts of Smith and Son,
I agitate the vapours,
I take in Judy, Punch, and Fun,
And all the morning Papers;
And all the magazines besides,
Since Chambers's began,
And all varieties of guides,
And all degrees of man.

I roll away like "thunder live,"
With half a ship the freight of;
Six hundred miles a day at five
Times ten an hour the rate of.
Twice twenty streets I intersect,
And flash o'er twenty runnels.
With many loops the towns connect,
And vanish in the tunnels.

And out again I curve, and so
Pursue my destination;
For men may come and men may go,
And stop at any station.
I echo down the mountain pass,
I pass fine ruins over,
As light as harebell in the grass,
Or leveret in the clover.

Like Orpheus the trees I charm,
And set the hedgerows dancing;
With here a forest, there a farm
Retiring and advancing.
I draw them all along, and thread
The counties everywhere,
As men must have their daily bread,
So I my daily fare.

_Chambers' Journal._

Another imitation (and a very long one) of the same original, appeared in _Punch_, October 11, 1884, and a parody entitled _The Mill_ was in _Judy_, April 26, 1884.

* * * * *

SONG SUPPOSED TO BE SUNG BY MR. BURNE-JONES.

"Come into my studio Maud,
If you've chalk'd your face, my own;
Come into my studio, Maud,
I am here at the easel alone;
And the _pot-pourri's_ odour is wafted abroad,
And the scent of the patchouli blown.

"For I've shut the bright morning out,
With a saffron yellow blind;
And I've thrown my brick-dust velvet about,
And the sage-green curtain untwined;
So haste, my darling, the sun to flout
In your rust-red robe enshrined.

"All night, as you may have heard,
I've toss'd in a _fantaisie_,
Whether to paint my dear little bird
As a 'Nocturne' or 'Symphony;'
But now I have pass'd my æsthetic word,
An 'arrangement' you are to be.

"I said to the corpse: 'There is to be one
Who'll be ghastly as your cold clay;
Aye, bluer than you before I have done,
And with hair like glorified hay.'
Come, Maud, it is time that we had begun,
So hasten, my love, I pray,
Or we shan't be able to keep out the sun;
Don't bismuth yourself all day.

"I said to our surgeon: 'You often go
Where women suffer and pine,
But I bet that a painted face I'll show
Of a love-sick model of mine,
That will beat them all for hopeless woe
And cadaverous design!

"And our surgeon said, 'No doubt you will,
For the epicene women you paint
Are bilious ghosts in want of a pill,
With undoubted strumous taint;
So hollow-eyed and cheek'd, no skill
Could save them from feeling faint.'

"Queen Corpse of my graveyard garden of girls,
Come hither, o'er carpets dun,
In your rust-red robe and you're soot-black pearls;
Queen, spectre, and corpse in one!
Shine out, corpse candles, above her curls,
And be the picture's sun!

"Oh, come! for I've managed to mix
A charnel-house-ish hue;
Oh, come! that your lord may fix
This cholera-morbus blue!
The patchouli whispers: 'She's near, she's near!'
And her musk-drops say: ''Tis true!'
And the creak of her slippers, I hear, I hear,
They're the colour of liquid glue.

"She is coming, my bilious sweet;
I can see her tawny head;
Her footsteps are far from fleet,
She's tied back till she scarce can tread;
But yet shall her face yours meet,
When the months of the winter have fled,
On the walls of the Grosvenor hung complete
In dissecting-room blue and red!"

_Truth_, December 26, 1878.

* * * * *

COME INTO "THE GARDEN," MAUD!

_A very Ideal Idyl of the (we hope not very remote) Future._

Come into "the Garden," MAUD!
For the Mudford blight is flown;
Come into "the Garden," MAUD!
I am here by the "Hummums" alone;
No garbage stenches are wafted abroad,
And the slime from the pavement's gone.

For a breeze of morning blows,
Yet my hand is not compelled
To hold up my handkerchief close to my nose,
As it had to be always held,
When the shops in the market of old would unclose,
And the cry of the porters swelled.

All night have the suburbs heard
The wheels of the waggons grind;
All night has the driver, with seldom a word,
His horses nodded behind;
And your waggoner is as early a bird
As in Babylon one may find.

I say to myself, "No, there is not one
To block up the street and stay
Till the hum of the City hath well begun."
I chortle in joyaunce gay.
"Now half to the Southern suburbs are gone,
And half to the North. Hooray!
Low on the wood, and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away."

I say, this _is_ better now, goodness knows,
Than it was but a short time syne.
Oho! my Lord Duke, I am glad to suppose
That much of the credit is thine,
And that I need not go softly and hold my nose,
Or feel sick like a man on the brine.

No scent of rank refuse goes into my blood
As I stand in the central hall;
And long in "the Garden" I've strolled and stood,
Without feeling qualmish at all.
And I say, "This is really exceeding good,
An improvement that's far from small."

The paths, roads, and gutters are almost sweet,
And the stodge, like fœtid size,
That used to impede one, and foul one's feet,
No longer offends one's eyes.
'Tis a pleasantish place for two lovers to meet--
Quite an urban paradise.