Chapter XXI: Part III (2)

So, sweetest, most sensitive-nostril'd of girls,
Come hither!--the stenches are gone.
Foul dust blows no more in malodorous whirls,
No cabbage-leaves rot in the sun,
Damp-reek from choked gutter won't straighten your curls,
So come--'twill be really good fun!

_Punch_, December 16, 1882.

_Punch_ has long been calling attention to the disgraceful condition of Covent Garden Market, but hitherto without the slightest success. The Duke of Bedford appears to totally ignore the fact that property has its duties, as well as its privileges; and it seems probable that even the simplest remedies and improvements on his estate will be neglected, until public attention is drawn to the foul market and its adjacent slums, by the outbreak of some epidemic.

There was another parody of "Come into the Garden, Maud," in _Punch_, May 23, 1868.

* * * * *

ANGLING IN THE RYE.

(A wicked parody on Tennyson's "Old and New Year.")

I STOOD by a river in the wet,
Where trout and grayling often met,
And waters were rushing and rolling;
And I said: "O Fish, a dainty dish,
Is there aught that is worth the trolling?"
Fishes enough there are rising,
Nibbles so often cajoling,
Matter enough for surmising,
But aught that is worth the trolling?
Waves at my feet were rolling,
Winds o'er the Rye were sailing,
But, alas! for all my trolling
For wily trout and grayling!

E. H. RICHES, L.L.D.

_College Rhymes_, 1868 (T. and G. Shrimpton), Oxford.

The following scientific _jeu d'esprit_ is wafted to us all the way from San Francisco. Professor O. C. Marsh, of Yale College, is a champion of Darwinism. He has, however, few followers in America, where Agassiz, Dawson, and other men of science, hold more orthodox views.

A PARODY.

(Addressed to Professor O. C. Marsh, by a Non-uniformitarian.)

Break, break, break
At thy cold, grey stones, O. C.!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the five-toed horse!
That his bones are at rest in the clay:
O well for the ungulate brute!
That he roams o'er the prairie to-day.

Thy rocks bear the record of life,
Evolved from Time's earliest dawn.
But O for the view of a vanished form,
And the link that is missing and gone!

Break, break, break
At thy fossils, and stones, O. C.!
But the gentle charm of Uniform Law
Can never quite satisfy me.

* * * * *

TEARS, IDLE TEARS.

(The Right Hon. Spencer Walpole, Home Secretary, shed tears when he heard that the Hyde Park Railings had been pulled down by the people to whom he had denied access to the Park).

Tears, idle tears--a sweet sensation scene--
Tears at the thought of that Hyde Park affair
Rise in the eye, and trickle down the nose,
In looking on the haughty EDMOND BEALES,
And thinking of the shrubs that are no more.

(_Three verses omitted_).

_Punch_, August 25, 1866.

* * * * *

In one of the early Christmas numbers of _Fun_ there appeared a parody entitled "The Dream of Unfair Women." It concluded thus:--

"A maid, blue-stockinged, broke the silence drear,
And flashing forth a winning smile, said she:
'Tis long since I have seen a man, come here,
Play croquet now with me!'"

"She spooned, and cheated, and had ancles thick.
I let her win, the game was such a bore,
Her bright ball quivered at the coloured stick,
Touched--and--we played no more."

The trick of Tennyson's blank verse, as displayed in some of his early and lighter poems, was admirably imitated by Bayard Taylor in the "Diversions of the Echo Club," (now published by Messrs. Chatto and Windus). The parody is entitled "Eustace Green; or, the Medicine Bottle."

In the second volume of "Echoes from the Clubs" several instances are given of plagiarisms committed by Tennyson; whilst in "The Figaro" of October 27, 1875, whole passages from his tragedy of Queen Mary are shown to have been borrowed.

Long extracts from the second scene, of the second act, are printed side by side with similar passages taken from the twenty-eighth chapter of Ainsworth's old novel, "The Tower of London," showing conclusively that Tennyson had either appropriated from Ainsworth without acknowledgment, or that both authors had gone to the same source for inspiration. Again, the beauties of "The Idylls of the King" are generally insisted on without any mention being made of the fact that in all the main incidents the poems simply retell the old "History of King Arthur, and of the Knights of the Round Table," as compiled by Sir Thomas Malory more than four centuries ago. Indeed, some of the most pathetic passages of the old original have been utterly marred; their simple charm and quaint pathos being lost in the over elaboration of detail affected by the Laureate. The beauty of his blank verse is admitted, and the Idylls have been frequently parodied. Unfortunately, most of the parodies are too long to quote in full in this Part.

AN IDYLL OF PHATTE AND LEENE.

The hale John Sprat--oft called for shortness, Jack--
Had married--had, in fact, a wife--and she
Did worship him with wifely reverence.
He, who had loved her when she was a girl,
Compass'd her, too, with sweet observances;
His love shone out in every act he did;
E'en at the dinner table did it shine.
For he--liking no fat himself--he never did,
With jealous care piled up her plate with lean,
Not knowing that all lean was hateful to her.
And day by day she thought to tell him o't,
And watched the fat go out with envious eye,
But could not speak for bashful delicacy.

At last it chanced that on a winter day,
The beef--a prize joint!--little was but fat;
So fat, that John had all his work cut out,
To snip out lean in fragments for his wife,
Leaving, in very sooth, none for himself;
Which seeing, she spoke courage to her soul,
Took up her fork, and, pointing to the joint
Where 'twas the fattest, piteously she said:
"O, husband! full of love and tenderness!
What is the cause that you so jealously
Pick out the lean for me? I like it not!
Nay! loathe it--'tis on the fat that I would feast;
O me, I fear you do not like my taste!"
Then he, dropping his horny-handled carving knife,
Sprinkling therewith the gravy o'er her gown,
Answer'd, amazed: "What! you like fat, my wife!
And never told me. O, this is not kind!
Think what your reticence has wrought for us:
How all the fat sent down unto the maid--
Who likes not fat--for such maids never do--
Has been put in the waste-tub, sold for grease,
And pocketed as servants' perquisite!
O, wife! this news is good; for since, perforce,
A joint must be nor fat nor lean, but both;
Our different tastes will serve our purpose well;
For, while you eat the fat--the lean to me
Falls as my cherished portion. Lo! 'tis good!"
So henceforth--he that tells the tale relates--
In John Sprat's household waste was quite unknown;
For he the lean did eat, and she the fat,
And thus the dinner-platter was all cleared.

_The Figaro_, February 12, 1873.

* * * * *

THE PASSING OF M'ARTHUR.

(_An Idyll of the Ninth of November_).

So through the morn the noise of bustle roll'd
About the precincts of the Mansion House,
Until at last M'Arthur, the Lord Mayor,
Was with his Secretary left alone.

Then Mayor M'Arthur to Sir Soulsby spake:
"The sequel of to-day doth terminate
The goodliest series of civic jaunts
Whereof my mind holds record. Of a truth,
It was a glorious time! I think that I
Shall never more, in any future year,
Delight my soul with welcoming to feasts,
And taking chairs, as in the year just gone;
For my Chief Magistracy perisheth.
But now delay not! to the window run,
Watch what thou see'st, and lightly bring me word."

Then did the bold Sir Soulsby answer make:
"No call have I to follow thy behest;
Look for thyself--thine eyes are good as mine!"

To whom replied M'Arthur, much in wrath:
"Ah, miserable and unkind, and untrue,
Ungrateful Secretary! Woe is me!
Authority forgets the late Lord Mayor,
When he lies widow'd of official pow'r
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art;
Thou think'st with thine old master to have done,
And wouldst neglect him for the new forthwith.
Yet, for a man may fail in duty once
And presently repent him, get thee hence:
But if thou spare to go and bring me word,
I will arise and clout thee with my hands."

Then quickly rose Sir Soulsby, and he ran
To the great window by the street, and cried:
"Your lordship, I perceive a gallant coach,
Drawn by four glossy horses, waits below,
With well-fed coachman sitting on the box.
And gold-laced lackeys hanging on behind."

Then groaned M'Arthur, "Take me to the coach,"
So to the coach they came. There lackeys three
Leap'd to the ground, and seized his Lordship's arms,
And hitch'd him up, and closely shut the door.

Then loudly did the bold Sir Soulsby cry:
"Ah! my Lord Mayor M'Arthur, dost thou go?
Shall I not show my sorrow in my eyes?
For now I see thy glorious time is dead,
When every morning brought some famous scheme,
And every scheme resulted in success.
Such time hath not been since I first became,
A sort of fixture in the Mansion House.
But now thy term of office hath expired,
And I no longer serving thee, must stay
To travail 'mong new faces, other minds."

Slowly M'Arthur answer'd from the coach:
"The old Mayor changeth, yielding place to new,
Lest one good citizen have all the fun.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
My reign is o'er, nor may it do thee harm
If thou dost never see my face again.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou see'st--if, indeed, we can
(For narrow and becrowded is the route)--
Before the new Lord Mayor to Westminster,
Where many worthies are awaiting us;
Thence the brave Show must citywards return
To be dissolved at the famed Guildhall,
And I at length in limbo shall repose--
Limbo of Aldermen who've passed the chair."

So said he; and the gallant coach-and-four
Moved off, like some prodigious equipage
That seems quite natural in pantomime,
But strange in real life. Sir Soulsby stood
Long meditating, till the gold cock'd hats
Those lackeys wore, looked like a single spark,
And down Cheapside the cheering died away.

_The St. James's Gazette_, November 9, 1881.

* * * * *

GARNET.

(_An Idyll of the Queen_).

GARNET the Brave, GARNET the Fortunate,
GARNET the Victor, made by Ashantee,
Heard once again War's summons to the East,
Heard and rejoiced, and straightway set himself
To strenuous strife, and subtle shift, to toil
All-various, and the crowning of his fame,

For from the sand-flats hard by Nilus' shore
Arose Rebellion's clamant voice, rang out
The cry of slaughtered Britons, echoed soon
By thunderous bellowing of brave BEAUCHAMP'S guns.
Then peaceful GLADSTONE sudden stood and smote
With rounded fist the Council-board, as though
It were the Commons' Table, and his foe,
DIZZY, once more before him, smote and cried,
"By Jingo, this _won't_ do!!!"--lapsing in heat
To passing invocation of a name
Late odious in his ears. Whereon arose
Conflicting chorussings of praise and blame--
This atrabilious, half-ironic that--
From doubting Tories, dubious Liberals,
Much-gibing GREENWOOD, pert, implacable;
And peevish PASSMORE, sourly posing sole
As Abdiel--with the hump.
But GARNET, glad
With a great gladness Sand-boys may not match,
And cheer beyond the chirping cricket's, set
His face toward far Pharaoh-land, where still,
Pyramid-perched, the Forty Centuries
Of the thrasonic Corsican looked down,
Twigging the coming Pocket-Cæsar.

* * * * *

_Punch_, October 7, 1882.

* * * * *

JACK SPRATT.

(_After Tennyson_).

Within the limits of well-ordered law
They lived, this thrifty squire and eke his spouse;
No discord marred the genial dinner hour,
Where union rooted in dis-union stood,
And tastes divergent served the end in view;
What he would not, she would, what she not, he;
So in all courtesie the meal progressed
And soon the viands wholly passed from sight.

J. M. LOWRY, 1884.

* * * * *

The plot of the Idyll, "Gareth and Lynnette," was given, in burlesque style, by Mr. Martin Wood in "The Bath and Cheltenham Gazette" shortly after the appearance of the original.

"The Quest of the Holy Poker," a parody in blank verse appeared in _Punch_, March 5, 1870.

Three long Idyllic parodies, entitled "Willie and Minnie" appeared in _Kottabos_, a Trinity College magazine, published in Dublin by Mr. W. McGee, in 1876.

_The St. Paul's Magazine_ of January, 1872, contained a most amusing political Idyll, entitled "_The Latest Tournament_"--an Idyll of the Queen (respectfully inscribed to Alfred Tennyson, Esq., Poet Laureate). This parody, which consists of nearly 400 lines, describes, in a mock-heroic style, all the principal political celebrities of the day, its satire being aimed at the supposed Republican tendencies of the Liberal party.

"The Prince's Noses," a modern Idyll, by W. J. Linton, a parody of Tennyson's blank verse, appeared in _Scribner's Monthly Magazine_, April, 1880.

_Punch_, May 27, 1882, contained a poem entitled "On the Hill; or, Tennysonian Fragments, picked up near the Grand Stand." This was an imitation of style only.

"Tory Revels" (_slightly altered from Tennyson_) in _Punch_, August 26, 1882, commenced thus:--

"SIR GYPES TOLLODDLE, all an Autumn day,
Gave his broad, breezy lands, till set of sun,
Up to the Tories."

and described a Conservative political picnic. It concluded:--

"Then there were fireworks; and overhead
SIR GYPES TOLLODDLE'S aisles of lofty limes
Made noise with beer and bunkum, and with squibs."

_The Wheel World_, October, 1882, contained a long parody, entitled "London to Leicester; a Bicycling Idyl, by Talfred Ennyson (Poet Laureate to the Mental Wanderers, B.C.)" This is written in very blank verse, and is chiefly interesting to 'Cyclists.

_Pastime_, June 29, 1883, contained "TENNIS, a Fragment of the Lost Tennisiad," and July 27, 1883, "The Lay of the Seventh Tournament," both being parodies of Tennyson's "Idylls of the King."

The small detached poems which Lord Tennyson has written for the magazines of late years, have been the cause of numerous and very unflattering parodies.

The following "Prefatory Poem," by Alfred Tennyson, appeared in the first number of the "Nineteenth Century," published in March, 1877, by Messrs. Henry S. King and Co., London:--

Those that of late had fleeted far and fast
To touch all shores, now leaving to the skill
Of others their old craft, seaworthy still,
Have charter'd this; where mindful of the past,
Our true co-mates regather round the mast;
Of diverse tongue, but with a common will,
Here, in this roaring moon of daffodil
And crocus, to put forth and brave the blast;
For some descending from the sacred peak
Of hoar, high-templed faith, have leagued again
Their lot with ours, to rove the world about;
And some are wilder comrades, sworn to seek
If any golden harbour be for men
In seas of Death and sunless gulfs of Doubt.

Upon which Mr. John Whyte (of the Public Library, Inverness) wrote the following:--

"I felt sure on reading the above lines that I had seen among my
papers something nearly as prosy. The following is, I consider, not
only quite as stiff as the foregoing, but it seems to me to prove
beyond question that the one was suggested by the other. Whether the
Poet Laureate or the author of 'The Last Hat' is the plagiarist, I
leave others to decide.

THE LAST HAT LEFT.

Those low-born cubs who sneaked away so fast,
Have picked all the best hats, and left the worst
To others. For their craft may they be cursed
Who left me this! I mind me of the past--
I stalked along, and felt tall as a mast,
In my new beaver; with this bashed old pot,
Under the shining moon, like seedy sot,
I must go creeping forth, or brave the blast
Bareheaded. Should I chance to meet the _beak_,
I swear by faith, I'll send him on their trail;
The lot we'll follow the old world about,
Among their wilder comrades, sworn to seek
And find the thief; their doom be, if we fail--
Disease and death--long years of mumps and gout!"

* * * * *

THE CITY MONTENEGRO.

(_One More Sonnet for the Laureate's New Book_).

(_Apropos_ of the hideous obstruction which marks the site of old Temple Bar, and remarkable as being a very close parody of Tennyson's sonnet on "Montenegro," which appeared in the Nineteenth Century, May, 1877).

I rose to show them a half-sovran tail,
To turn to chaff their "freedom" on this height,
Grim, comic, savage; worse by day and night
Than any Turk: yet here, all over scale,
I watch the passer as his footsteps fail,
With dauntless hundreds struggling main and might
To cross,--the one policeman out of sight,--
And reach this haven where the strongest quail.

O, smallest among steeples! Precious throne
Of Freedom! Why, I merely swell the swarm
That surge and seethe in curses and in tears!
Great Gog and Magog! Never since thine own
Odd dodges drew the cloud and brake the storm,
Have you produced a mightier crop of jeers!

_Punch_, December 11, 1880.

* * * * *

RIZPAH, 1883.

(_Written expressly for this collection_).

Railing, railing, railing, the crowd from town and lea,
When William's voice was heard, "O poet a peer to be!"
"Why should he call me, I wonder, in that high-born house to go,
For my politics won't bear searching, and my creed's rather mixed,
you know?

"We should be laughed at, my William, 'twould be the jest of the town;
Even the knights would jeer, and the press sure to cry it down.
Why, I can but rule my own land; when I tried awhile for the stage,
I only drew empty houses, in this cynical latter age.

"Anything failed again? Nay, what is there left to fail?--
'Harold,' or 'Mary,' or 'May,' or even the 'Lover's Tale?'
What am I saying, and why? fails!--that must be a lie!
Fails--what fails?--not my faith in play writing, not I.

"Why will you call up here?--who are you?--what have you heard
That you all sit so solemn and quiet?--nobody's spoken a word.
O, to make of me--yes, his lordship! none of the scribbling crew
Have crept in by their rhymes before, as I have dared to do.

"Ah! you that have lived so soft, what do you know of the spite,
The cutting and slashing critiques that the wretched papers write?
I have known it; when you were amused in the stalls the first
night of a play,
And chattered and gossipped together, and forgot it the very next day.

"Nay, but it's kind of you, William, to gild my declining life,
And make me a peer, a baron, above all this petty strife;
But I haven't left off scribbling, and shall not--no, not I;
But I'll write whenever I will, for the public's sure to buy.

"I whipt Miss Bulwer for jeering, and gave it him, slightly riled,
For mocking at me, or my poems, has always driven me wild.
To be idle--I couldn't be idle--I do not write for a whim,
And a guinea a line is better than a short "Italian Hymn."

"So, William, I thank you gladly; I think you meant to be kind;
And I will not heed the mob, whilst they'll very quickly find
The poems will read as well by a Lord as ever they did before,
And the publishers sell more copies, and more, and more, and more.
See how it reads for yourself, to be stuck up on every wall,
Lord Tennyson's Poems complete, in a specially printed Vol."

W.

_The Nineteenth Century_ for November, 1881, contained a very uncomfortable kind of poem, by Tennyson, entitled "DESPAIR, a Dramatic Monologue." The argument of the poem was that "a man and his wife having lost faith in a God, and hope of a life to come, and being utterly miserable in this, resolve to end themselves by drowning. The woman is drowned, but the man is rescued by a minister of the sect he had abandoned."

_The Fortnightly Review_ of the following month contained a parody which not only turned inside out the arguments of the original poem, but was so exquisitely worded as a burlesque that it was by many attributed to the pen of no less a poet than Mr. A. C. Swinburne.

DISGUST: A DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE.

(A woman and her husband, having been converted from free thought to
Calvinism, and being utterly miserable in consequence, resolve to
end themselves by poison. The man dies, but the woman is rescued by
application of the stomach-pump).

I.

PILLS? talk to me of your pills? Well, that, I must say is cool.
Can't bring my old man round? he was always a stubborn old fool.
If I hadn't taken precautions--a warning to all that wive--
He might not have been dead, and I might not have been alive.

II.

You would like to know, if I please, how it was that our troubles
began?
You see, we were brought up Agnostics, I and my poor old man.
And we got some idea of selection and evolution, you know--
Professor Huxley's doing--where does he expect to go!

III.

Well, then came trouble on trouble on trouble--I may say, a peck--
And his cousin was wanted one day on the charge of forging a cheque--
And his puppy died of the mange--my parrot choked on its perch.
This was the consequence, was it, of not going weekly to church?

IV.

So we felt that the best if not only thing that remained to be done
On an earth everlastingly moving about a perpetual sun,
Where worms breed worms to be eaten of worms that have eaten their
betters--
And reviewers are barely civil--and people get spiteful letters--
And a famous man is forgot ere the minute hand can tick nine--
Was to send in our P.P.C., and purchase a packet of strychnine.

V.

Nay--but first we thought it was rational--only fair--
To give both parties a hearing--and went to the meeting-house there,
At the curve of the street that runs from the Stag to the old Blue
Lion.
"Little Zion" they call it--a deal more "little" than "Zion."

VI.

And the preacher preached from the text, "Come out of her." Hadn't
we come?
And we thought of the Shepherd in Pickwick--and fancied a flavour of
rum
Balmily borne on the wind of his words--and my man said, "Well,
Let's get out of this, my dear--for his text has a brimstone smell."

VII.

So we went, O God, out of chapel--and gazed, ah God, at the sea.
And I said nothing to him. And he said nothing to me.

VIII.

And there, you see, was an end of it all. It was obvious, in fact,
That, whether or not you believe in the doctrine taught in a tract,
Life was not in the least worth living. Because, don't you see?
Nothing that can't be, can, and what must be, must. Q.E.D.
And the infinitesimal sources of Infinite Unideality
Curve in to the central abyss of a sort of a queer Personality.
Whose refraction is felt in the nebulæ strewn in the pathway of Mars
Like the pairings of nails Æonian--clippings and snippings of stars--
Shavings of suns that revolve and evolve and involve--and at times
Give a sweet astronomical twang to remarkably hobbling rhymes.

IX.

And the sea curved in with a moan--and we thought how once--before
We fell out with those atheist lecturers--once, ah, once and no more,
We read together, while midnight blazed like the Yankee flag,
A reverend gentleman's work--the Conversion of Colonel Quagg.
And out of its pages we gathered this lesson of doctrine pure--
Zephaniah Stockdolloger's gospel--a word that deserves to endure
Infinite millions on millions of Infinite Æons to come--
"Vocation," says he, "is vocation, and duty duty. Some."

X.

And duty, said I, distinctly points out--and vocation, said he,
Demands as distinctly--that I should kill you, and that you should
kill me.
The reason is obvious--we cannot exist without creeds--who can?
So we went to the chemist's--a highly respectable church-going man--
And bought two packets of poison. You wouldn't have done so. Wait.
It's evident, Providence is not with you, ma'am, the same thing as
Fate.
Unconscious cerebration educes God from a fog,
But spell God backwards, what then? Give it up? the answer is, dog.
(I don't exactly see how this last verse is to scan,
But that's a consideration I leave to the secular man).

XI.

I meant of course to go with him--as far as I pleased--but first
To see how my old man liked it--I thought perhaps he might burst.
I didn't wish it--but still it's a blessed release for a wife--
And he saw that I thought so--and grinned in derision--and threatened
my life
If I made wry faces--and so I took just a sip--and he--
Well--you know how it ended--he didn't get over me.

XII.

Terrible, isn't it? Still, on reflection, it might have been worse.
He might have been the unhappy survivor, and followed my hearse.
"Never do it again?" Why, certainly not. You don't
Suppose I should think of it, surely? But anyhow--there--I won't.

* * * * *

There still remain a great many parodies of Tennyson's poems to be quoted, and every day increases their number. It will, therefore, be necessary to return to this author in some future part of this collection; the following references are given to some of the more easily accessible parodies, which space will not now permit me to quote in full:--

"Edinburgh Sketches and Miscellanies." By Eric. Edinburgh and Glasgow: John Menzies and Company, 1876, contains _Codger's Hall_, a long and humorous parody of _Locksley Hall;_ Once a Week, Echoes from the Clubs, and The Weekly Dispatch, October 19, 1884, also contained parodies of the same poem.

_Lady Clara Vere de Vere_ was the subject of an advertising parody, of which the best verse ran:--

"Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
You put strange fancies in my head!
Do you remember that rich silk
You wore last year at Maidenhead?
Now "velveteen" is all the go;
'Tis richer far, and costs much less,
The lion on your old stone gates
Is not more ancient than that dress."

whilst the Charge of the Light Brigade was thus imitated by a Birmingham tea-dealer:--

"Half a League! Half a League!
Half a League, onward!
Into Gant's tea shop
Walk many hundred.
Tea is the people's cry,
Which is the kind to buy?
Gant's at Two Shillings try,
Say many hundred!
Tea-men to right of us,
Tea-men to left of us,
Grocers all round us,
Find they have blundered."

There was another parody on the Charge of the Light Brigade, in _Punch_, December 19, 1868.

"The Song of the 'Skyed' one, as sung at the Academy on the first Monday in May," was a parody, in ten verses, commencing:--

Awake I must, and early, a proceeding that I hate,
And cab it to Trafalgar Square, and ascertain my fate;
For to-morrow's the Art-Derby, the looked-for opening day
Of the Fine Art Exhibition, yearly shown by the R.A.

This appeared in _Punch_, May 11, 1861.

_The May Queen_ was also imitated in a poem contained in _Modern Society_, March 29, 1884. It was entitled "Baron Honour," and was a very severe, and rather vulgar, skit on Lord Tennyson's adulation of the Royal Family.

In _The Weekly Dispatch_, September 9, 1883, five parodies were printed in a competition to anticipate the Poet Laureate's expected poem in commemoration of the late John Brown; a subject on which, however, Lord Tennyson has not as yet published a poem. In the same newspaper six parodies of _Hands All Round_ were inserted on April 2, 1882.

These were very entertaining, and were severally entitled: "Pots all Round;" "Tennysonian Toryism Developed;" "Drinks all Round;" "Cheers all Round;" "Hands all Round (with the mask off)"; and "Howls all Round."

_Truth_, February 14, 1884, contained a parody entitled "In Memoriam; a Collie Dog." _Punch_ also had a parody with the title "In Memoriam" on July 9, 1864.

"The Two Voices, as heard by Jones of the Treasury about Vacation time," was the title of a long parody in _Punch_, September 7, 1861.

There was also a political parody, on the same original, in _Punch_, May 11, 1878.

"Recollections of the Stock Exchange," a long parody of _Recollections of the Arabian Nights_, and dealing with the topic of Turkish Stocks, appeared in _Punch_, December 18, 1875.

"The Duchess's Song," after Tennyson, was in _Punch_, September 3, 1881; and _British Birds_, by Mortimer Collins (1878), contained, amongst others, a capital parody of Tennyson.

* * * * *

THE POETASTERS: A DRAMATIC CANTATA.

_Chorus of Poetasters._

An itch of rhymes has seized the times
Till every cobbler's turned a poet,
And he who taught the secret ought
In justice to be made to know it.
Rhyme, brothers, rhyme, vast odes and epics vaster,
And post them to the Master, Master, Master.

Bards, pour your benison on Baron Tennyson,
Who vulgarised the art of rhyming,
And set the twaddle that fills each noddle
In endless jingle-jangle chiming:
Rhyme, brothers, rhyme, each puling poetaster,
And inundate the Master, Master, Master.

_Recitative and Aria: Lord Tennyson._
Bards, idle bards, I know not what ye mean!
Words powerfully expressive of despair
Rise to my lips and flash from out my eyes
In looking o'er the reams each post-bag yields.
But, mark me, I'll return the stuff no more.

When morning sees the groaning board
With my baronial breakfast spread--
With bacon crisp and snow-white bread,
And fragrant coffee freshly poured.

I greet with joy the cheerful sight,
When, hark! there comes the postman's knock:
I thrill as with a lightning shock
And bid adieu to appetite.

For song and stave and madrigal
Make dark to me the opening day,
And sonnet, ode, and roundelay
Sink on my spirit like a pall.

And lunch-time brings another host,
At each delivery they throng,
While any hour may bring along
Three tragedies by parcels-post;

And twelve-book epics ton on ton,
Each with its laudatory ode
Of drivelling dedications, load
The vans of Carter, Paterson.

I can nor eat, nor drink, nor sleep
In peace; I vow that from to-day
I'll have them carted straight away
Unopened to the rubbish-heap.

Call in the dustman!--Lo! 'tis done!
The contract signed, I breathe again.
Come, load at once thy lingering wain
Blest henchman of oblivion!

_Finale: Chorus of Poetasters._
Not return nor e'en acknowledge!
Dares he treat our verses thus?
Knows he not the might malignant
Of a poetaster's "cuss?"
Dreads he not our "spiteful letters,"
Epigrams, satiric skits?
Let him learn that would-be poets
Also shine as would-be wits.
Who is he to scorn our verses?
British taxpayers are we;
Is he not the Poet Laureate?
Don't we stand his salary?
Straightway we'll transfer allegiance
To some other, blander bard,
Whom no paltry peerage renders
Uppish, arrogant, and hard.
Mr. Browning, for example,
Won't treat brother poets thus.
Though we may not understand him,
Doubtless he'll appreciate us;
He'll return with mild laudation
Our effusions every one.
Poetasters, snap your fingers
At the played-out Tennyson!

W. A.

_St. James's Gazette_, June 24, 1884.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 9: Alluding to Napoleon III.]

[Footnote 10: Suggested by a paragraph in _The Times_, November, 1859.]

[Footnote 11: The Lawn Tennis Annual.]

[Footnote 12: Sir Peter Laurie had endeavoured to put down the sale of plaster casts of nude figures by the Italian image boys in the streets.]

[Footnote 13: Lord John Russell.]

The Reverend Charles Wolfe.

Since the June and July parts were published containing parodies on "The Burial of Sir John Moore," _Truth_ has had a Parody Competition with that poem as the selected original. The Editor of _Truth_ published no less than twenty-four parodies, many of which were very amusing.

Some of the best are given complete, with a few extracts from the remainder:--

PARODIES OF "THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE."

THE DEATH OF THE "CHILDERSES."

Not half-sovereigns were we, but ten-shilling bits,
The thin, jaundiced children of Childers;
To name us the public were put to their wits,
As some called us "Guilders," some "Gilders."

We buried our heads in our cradle, the Mint,
And were sparingly fed by our nurses;
In our life, which was brief, we received without stint
Abuse, imprecations, and curses.

No useless retorts did we ever return
To those who so coldly received us:
But we patiently bore each contemptuous spurn,
Till sweet death in his mercy relieved us.

Few and short were our moments on earth,
And they were brief snatches of sorrow;
Our parents were told at the time of our birth,
We were only for idiots to borrow.

We thought, as we lay in our embryo mould,
Of the fun we should have when grown older;
But we learnt that all glittering things are not gold,
That a "gilder" is hardly a "golder."

Lightly they talked of our humble alloy,
And how we were base and degraded;
And tried in all possible ways to annoy
Our lives, which already were faded.

Though half our heavy blows and kicks,
We never thought once of returning;
We passed over the "Styx" without passing the "Pyx,"
Or the wonders of life ever learning.

Slowly but gladly, too tired to laugh,
We made room for the use of our betters;
Heavy our grave-stone, and our epitaph
Was a column of newspaper letters.

DALETH.

THE BURIAL OF THE SEASON.

Not a "drum" was given, nor dance of note,
From the "course" at fair Goodwood we'd hurried;
Not a soul here but uttered farewell, and shot
Out of town, looking jaded and worried.

* * * * *

And lightly they'll talk of the "Master" that's gone,
And o'er his own "Hashes" abuse him;
But little he'll reck, if they'll let him sail on
In the yacht which was built to amuse him!

But half of our heavy trunks were down,
When the clock struck the hour for departing;
And we heard the distant discordant groan
Of the engine ready for starting!

Slowly and smoothly we glided out
Of the station so grim and so gritty;
We cared not a doit, and we raised not a doubt,
For we'd left care behind in the "city!"

ORCHIS.

THE BURIAL OF MY FELLOW LODGER'S BANJO.

Not a "strum" was heard, not a tune or a note,
As his chords to the damp earth I hurried;
Not a soul there was by when I stripped off my coat,
O'er the grave where the banjo I buried.

I buried it darkly at dead of night,
The sods with a fire shovel turning.
My heart throbbing fast with a wild delight,
And revenge in my heart fiercely burning.

No useless fingers I close to it pressed,
Not as much as once did I sound it,
But I laid it gently down to its rest,
With a _Daily News_ wrapped round it.

* * * * *

Quickly and gladly I laid it down
To a place where no more it could worry,
I stirred not a twine and I raised not a tone,
But I silently left in my glory.

GARRYOWEN JACK.

THE FATE OF GENERAL GORDON.

Not a drum was heard, not a martial note,
As our Gordon to Khartoum was hurried;
But into the desert our hero we shot,
And there in the desert he's buried.

No useful soldiers were with him sent,
Neither horseman nor footman we found him;
But alone, on a camel, our warrior went,
With the foe and the desert all round him.

Few and short were the prayers he made,
Not a word of complaint or of sorrow;
But we coldly declined to give him our aid,
And told him to wait--till "to-morrow!"

And he thought as he lay on his anxious bed,
Or the foe-threatened city defended:
"'Tis plain that the men who are over my head
Have ideas I've not quite comprehended."

And lightly men talk of his fanatic ways,
Because life and wealth he nought reckons;
But little he recks of their blame or their praise,
And goes straight where his own honour beckons.

Not half of his heavy task is done,
That of "rescuing and retiring"--
He will not retire, for he has rescued none,
And thousands upon him are firing.

Slowly and sadly I lay my pen down,
'Tis a mean and pitiful story;
God grant we mayn't have to carve on his stone,
"England left him alone in his glory."

GUINEA PIG.

THE FUNERAL OF ONE MORE VICTIM AT MONTE CARLO.

Not a franc he had, not a louis nor note,
As forth from the tables he hurried;
Resolved to discharge one fatal shot,
And leave his corpse to be buried.

They buried him deeply at dead of night,
The soil with their mattocks turning;
When the sinking moon refused her light,
And the lamps had ceased from burning.

A useful coffin enclosed his breast,
Which the Administration found him;
And he lay like a suicide sadly at rest,
With none of his friends around him.

* * * * *

Silent and secret they left him there,
The wound in his head fresh and gory;
Replaced all the plants and the shrubs as they were,
And hoped to discredit the story.

JANE KENNEDY.

THE BURIAL OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

THE drums were heard, and the funeral notes,
As his corpse to the City was carried;
The soldiers discharged their farewell shots,
Near the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him grandly in noon's full light,
The clay to earth's bosom returning;
With the cheerful sunbeams shining bright,
And within the lantern burning.

Three costly coffins encased his breast,
(In sheet and in shroud they had wound him);
And he lay like a conqueror taking his rest
With his marshal compeers round him.

Many and long were the prayers we said,
And we murmured last words of sorrow;
As we steadfastly gazed on the grave of the dead,
And we sighed, "Who will lead us to-morrow?"

We thought as they filled in his narrow bed,
Of his struggles across the billows;
And we dreamt that all ages would honour the dead,
As a Captain above his fellows.

Lightly men speak of him now that he's gone,
And grudge e'en the recompense paid him:
But little he'll reck if they'll let him sleep on,
In the tomb where a grateful land laid him.

At length our grievous task was done,
And the masses were slowly retiring,
And the clangour ceased of the minute gun,
That for hours had been steadily firing.

Solemnly, sadly, we left him alone,
With his roll of deeds famous in story;
We carved him a trophy, we praised him in stone,
And to-day--we've forgotten his glory!

OBSERVER.

THE BURIAL OF THE BACHELOR.

NOT a laugh was heard, not a frivolous note,
As the groom to the wedding we carried;
Not a jester discharged his farewell shot
As the bachelor went to be married.

We married him quickly that morning bright,
The leaves of our Prayer-books turning,
In the chancel's dimly religious light;
And tears in our eyelids burning.

No useless nosegay adorned his chest,
Not in chains, but in laws we bound him;
And he looked like a bridegroom trying his best
To look used to the scene around him.

Few and small were the fees it cost,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we silently gazed on the face of the lost,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hurried them home to be fed,
And tried our low spirits to rally,
That the weather looked very like squalls overhead
For the passage from Dover to Calais.

Lightly they'll talk of the bachelor gone,
And o'er his frail fondness upbraid him;
But little he'll reck if they let him alone,
With his wife that the parson has made him!

But half of our heavy lunch was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we judged from the knocks which had now begun,
That their cabby was rapidly tiring.

Slowly and sadly we led them down,
From the scene of his lame oratory;
We told the four-wheeler to drive them to town,
And we left them alone in their glory!

YELRAP.

THE MARRIAGE OF SIR FREDERICK BOORE.

NOT a laugh was heard, not a time-worn jest,
In the brougham in which we were carried;
Not one displayed himself at his best,
For our friend was going to be married.

* * * * *

Calmly and sadly we stood that day,
To the sorrowful end of the story;
But when all was o'er he hurried away,
And left us alone in our glory.

HOCKWOOD.

A VISIT OF WORKING MEN TO THE HEALTH EXHIBITION.

NOT a grumble was heard, not a guttural note,
As we off to the Healtheries hurried;
Not a cove of the party, but paid his shot,
Though the seedy young man appeared flurried.

* * * * *

Slowly and sadly we dawdled down
From the Doultons, and dresses, and dairies,
We carved not a name, we grazed not a stone,
But went straight to our alleys and "aireys."

BOB RIDLEY.

THE REMOVAL OF THE HOUSE OF LORDS.

NOT a sound was heard but a general drone,
As remorselessly onwards we hurried;
Not a soul but discharged a farewell groan
For the House where those zeros erst worried.

* * * * *

But after our pleasant task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for assembling,
We stood in the distance and scanned the fun,
As the Lords came suddenly trembling.

Joyously, gladly, we heard them bemoan
The fate of their famed upper storey;
We'd moved every stick and we'd razed every stone,
And bereft them of home and of glory.

ESTRELLA.

THE SPINSTER HOUSEHOLDER MARTYR, OR THE MAN IN POSSESSION.

NOT a sigh was heard, not a funeral note,
As the malice of Gladstone she parried:
"No taxes from me; I pay not a shot!"
So her furniture off was carried.

They carried it darkly--a deed of night,
For desk, tables, and chairs oft returning,
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
And a lantern dimly burning.

The man in possession ate, drank of her best,
In well-aired holland sheets he wound him;
And he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his pipe alight--confound him!

Few and short were the prayers he said,
And he spoke not a word of sorrow;
And he steadfastly smoked till Jane wished him dead,
As she bitterly thought of the morrow.

He chaffed the girl thus: "When you makes my bed,
And smoothes down my lonely pillow,
Don't you go for a stranger, nor wish me dead,
If you don't want to wear the willow."

Lightly he talked when the "spirits" were gone,
For pipe-ashes why should she upbraid him?
But little he'd spy if she'd let him smoke on,
In the bed where Britannia had laid him.

But half of the tyrant's task was done,
When the clock told the hour for retiring;
The minion quailed at the sound of the gun,
Which to signal her triumph was firing.

Of that spinster householder martyr's crown,
O, never shall perish the story:
Her friends paid her taxes, she had the renown--
Thus we leave her alone in her glory!

J. MCGRIGOR ALLAN.

All the above are from _Truth_, July 31, 1884.

THE MURDER OF A BEETHOVEN SONATA.

(Executed by Miss----)

SUCH a strum was heard--not a single right note,
When to make you play every one worried;
Yet I would not discharge one satirical shot
As to the piano you hurried.

You hurried so quickly, 'twas scarcely right,
I knew not the piece you'd been learning;
But I saw by the flickering candle-light
Your cheeks were with nervousness burning.

No useless music encumbered the rest;
No pieces had any one found you;
But you played it by heart, no doubt doing your best,
Though the people would talk around you.

Dreary and long was the thing you played,
And we listened in suffering sorrow;
And I thought to myself that, if any one stayed,
You'd have finished, no doubt, by the morrow.

Lightly they'll talk of the piece when it's done,
And wonder whoe'er could have made it;
But nothing she'll reck if they let her strum on
At the piece till she's thoroughly played it.

When you'd made but some fifty mistakes, or more,
And no more such torture requiring,
I managed to get to the open door,
And succeeded in quickly retiring.

I've but one thing more in conclusion to say,
Though you no doubt will think it a story;
'Tis this, that no matter wherever you play,
You will get neither money nor glory!

MOZART.

THE BURIAL OF THE PAUPER.

NOT a knell was heard, not a requiem note,
As his corpse to the churchyard we hurried;
Not a mourner had donned his sable coat,
By the grave where our pauper we buried.

We buried him quickly at shut of night,
The sods with our keen shovels turning;
By the closing day's last glimmering light,
And the lantern palely burning.

No oaken coffin enclosed his breast,
In a sheet for a shroud we wound him:
And he lay as a pauper should, taking his rest,
With his four deal planks nailed around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we shed not a tear of sorrow;
But we carelessly looked on the face of the dead,
And we heedlessly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down its green turf billow;
That haply a stranger would lay a wan head
To-night on his tenantless pillow.

Lightly they'll talk of the poor soul that's gone
At the "House," and maybe they'll upbraid him,
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where his parish has laid him.

But half of our thankless job was done,
When the cold sky grew sullen and low'ring;
And the raindrops came pattering one by one,
And soon all the heavens were pouring.

Swiftly and smoothly we sodded him down,
In his last bed of shame, gaunt and hoary;
We raised not a cross, and we scored not a stone,
But we left him to earth with his story.

SEFTON.

"These gentlemen (the Tory party) can really get no sleep at night, owing to their burning anxiety to enfranchise their fellow men."--_Vide_ Sir Wilfrid Lawson's Speech.

Not a snore was heard, not a slumberous note,
For my Lords are too awfully worried;
Not a Peer but bewails the Bill's sad lot,
Tho' he feels that it musn't be hurried.

They think of it sadly, at dead of night,
The thing in their mind's eye turning,
By the somewhat foggy, misty light
In their noble bosoms burning.

No useless logic confused their heads,
'Tis but little they ever heed it;
But they tossed and they turned on their sleepless beds,
And one and all they d----d it.

"Few and short were the prayers they said"--
The fact I record with sorrow;
They thought of the day when the Bill would be read,
And they wished there were _no_ to-morrow.

They thought of the words Mr. Gladstone had said--
Each word was a thorn in their pillow--
Of laurels that still would encircle _his_ head,
While they would be wearing the willow.

Nightly they burn for their brothers to be
Enfranchised, as they would have made 'em;
And little they'll reck, till the "rustic" be free,
Of how a cold world may upbraid 'em.

But half of the weary night was gone,
And my Lords were still busy enquiring,
"The deuce, now! the deuce! what IS to be done?
And they found that the effort was tiring.

Slowly and sadly they laid them down,
And they murmured the old, old story,
"We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,
But we MUST have a share in the glory!"

DARBY.

A MEMBER OF A DEFEATED CRICKET ELEVEN _loq._

NOT a ball was missed, not a catch uncaught,
As the course 'tween the wickets we scurried;
Not a fielder but was a famous shot,
At the stumps, whither, backward, we hurried,

We slogged the ball wildly with all our might,
The sods with our willow-bats turning:
But the leather was caught, and held so tight,
And our cheeks with shame were burning.

No useless figures my scoring blest,
Not in cut or in drive I found them;
But they lay like the egg of the duck in a nest,
With a line drawn all around them.

Few, too few, were the runs we could claim,
And we spoke many words of sorrow,
And we steadfastly gazed on the state of the game,
As we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we watched how our wickets fell,
And reckoned the meagre scoring,
That the foe and the stranger would thrash us all well,
And we, far behind them, deploring.

Lightly they'll think of the runs we've put on,
And o'er a cold luncheon upbraid us;
But little we'd reck if bad weather came on,
And the rain further playing forbade us.

But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for refraining;
And we saw by the distant and setting sun,
That the light was steadily waning.

Slowly and sadly did we disappear,
From the field of our shame-laden story;
We gave not a groan, we raised not a cheer,
But we left them alone to their glory.

FRIAR TUCK.

The above are from _Truth_, August 7, 1884.

* * * * *

THE MARRIAGE OF SIR JOHN SMITH.

Not a sigh was heard, nor a funeral tone,
As the man to his bridal we hurried;
Not a woman discharged her farewell groan,
On the spot where the fellow was married.

We married him just about eight at night,
Our faces paler turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the gas-lamp's steady burning.

No useless watch-chain covered his vest,
Nor over-dressed we found him;
But he looked like a gentleman wearing his best,
With a few of his friends around him.

Few and short were the things we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we silently gazed on the man that was wed,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we silently stood about,
With spite and anger dying,
How the merest stranger had cut us out,
With only half our trying.

Lightly we'll talk of the fellow that's gone,
And oft for the past upbraid him;
But little he'll reck if we let him live on,
In the house where his wife conveyed him.

But our heavy task at length was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the spiteful squib and pun
The girls were sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we turned to go,--
We had struggled, and we were human;
We shed not a tear, and we spoke not our woe,
But we left him alone with his woman.

_Poems and Parodies_, by Phœbe Carey.

Boston, United States, 1854.

* * * * *

We buried him slyly on Monday night, the sods with our
shooting-sticks turning, for he wrote a new poem, and read it with
might, in spite of the Editor's warning.

QUADS.

* * * * *

Thomas Hood.

THE SONG OF THE HORSE.

With shins all hash'd and torn,
With carcases skin and bone,
Two nags with a 'bus hung on at the square,
With hunger almost gone--
"Ya hip--hip--hip!"
Shouted one on the dicky borne,
"Should we pick up a fare now, my five-year-olds,
To-morrow you _may_ get corn."

* * * * *

Trot, trot, trot!
Till our giddy brains run round!
Trot, trot, trot!
And that on Christian ground!
Run, gallop, and trot,
Trot, gallop, and run,
Till we weary and weary over again
That our dreadful task were done.
O! others of our race
More favoured than we two!
You little think in your day of grace,
That this fate may come to you!
Soft, soft, soft!
You sleep without a throe!
Hard, hard, hard!
We struggle through drifted snow!

(_Eight verses omitted_).

J. M. CRAWFORD, Greenock, March, 1844.

* * * * *

Many years ago _The New York Herald_ had a long parody of the "Song of the Shirt," entitled _The Lament of Ashland_. It commenced:--

"With brows all clammy and cold,
With face all haggard and wan,
The "Hero of Bladensburgh" sat in his chair,
And uttered a fearful groan;

Wake, wake, wake!
Ye Whigs from your drowsy bed;
And wake, wake, wake!
Ere my hopes are all perished and fled."

There were seven more verses, but as the parody was of purely local interest, they are not here quoted.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE POST.

With "Bluchers" cobbled and worn,
With post-bag heavy alway,
A postman tramped on his twentieth round,
On good St. Valentine's day.
Rat-tat! rat! tat!
At every knocker almost,
Each time, in a voice that was somewhat flat,
He sang the "Song of the Post!"