Chapter III: Introduction (2)

Then spoke King Guillaume to Sir Donald C.:
"Next session will most probably upset
The goodliest Ministry of virtuous men
Whereof this world holds record. Not for long
Shall we contrive our schemes of policy,
Meeting within the offices and halls
Of Downing Street, as in the days that were.
I perish by these voters which I make--
Although Sir Andrew says that I may live
To rule once more; but let what will be, be.
He tells me that it is not good for me
To cut down oaks at Haw'rden, as before.
Thou, therefore, take my axe Exbrummagem,
Which was my pride--for thou rememberest how
The lustiest tree would fall beneath my strokes--
But now delay not; take Exbrummagem,
And fling him overboard when out at sea."

Then bold Sir Donald took Exbrummagem,
And went, and lighted his cigar, and thought:
"And if, indeed, I cast the axe away,
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,
Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.

The King is cross, and knows not what he says.
What record, or what relic of my lord,
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath
Condensed in Hansard's books? But were this kept,
Preserved in some Mechanics' Institute,
It might be brought out by some lecturer,
Saying, 'King Guillaume's axe, Exbrummagem,
With which he cut down trees at Hawarden!'
So might he illustrate a stupid speech
To all the people, winning reverence."
So spake he, thinking of constituents,
And kept Exbrummagem for future use.

* * * * *

Then came Sir Donald, gave the King his arm,
And brought him to the margin of the sea.
And at his call there hove a roomy barge,
Manned with a gallant crew from stem to stern;
And so they entered, and put off, and reached
The stately _Pembroke Castle_, and were ware
That all the decks were dense with manly forms
In naval caps and jackets, and with these
Three dames in yachting suits; and from them rose
A cheer of greeting, and they stretched their hands,
Took him on board, and laughed, and petted him.

And so they sailed; and while the sea was calm
They talked, and sang, and feasted much, and had,
In Yankee parlance, "quite a high old time."
But when the wind blew, and the waves arose,
It sometimes happened that the grand old face
Was white and colourless, and cries of "Steward!"
Proceeded from the lips of eloquence.
And like a prostrate oak-tree lay the King
Wrapped in a shepherd's plaid and mackintosh:
Not like that Guillaume who, with collars high,
From brow to boot a meteor of debate,
Shot through the lists at Westminster, and charged
The serried ranks of bold Conservatives.

_The St. James's Gazette_, Sept. 19, 1883.

* * * * *

In the same 1842 volume, appeared "Godiva," "Locksley Hall," "Break, Break, Break," and "The Eagle," of each of which there are some excellent parodies.--The old legend of Lady Godiva, so beautifully retold in blank verse by the Laureate, has recently been sadly vulgarised by the processions at Coventry, and the following poem describes, not unfairly, the scene in which a somewhat prominent actress stooped to sustain the part of the _Lady Godiva_.

THE MODERN LADY GODIVA.

_I journeyed by the train to Coventry;
I pleased a groom with porter near the bridge,
And asked which way the pageant came; and then
I saw it pass--'twas passing strange--and this
Is what they've turned the City's legend to._

Not even were it to remove a tax
Could a Godiva ride abroad to-day
As she rode forth a thousand summers back:
Lord Campbell's Act, and Collette both forbid!
Still did the people clamour for a show;
So was it settled there should be forthwith
A pageant such as Coventry did love.

Whence came it that, whilst yet the sunny moon
Of roses showed her crescent horn; the day
Fix'd for the pageant dawn'd on Coventry;
And Sanger--he of circus fame--arose
Betimes; for much was on his mind. Perchance
An elephant had shed its trunk; perchance
Some giant camel had "the hump" too much;
Or piebald horse had moulted all its spots.
Most feared he, though, lest she who had agreed
To act Godiva, having slept on it,
Should from her bargain flinch; so sought he her
With, "Well, and ride you through the town to-day?"

And she--for eggs and toast had made her bold--
"Ay, that will I!" Then he: "'Tis well!" and went
And whistled as he walked.

She, left alone,
When the effect of eggs and toast had gone,
Did half repent her promise; then again
Thought of her fee, and so grew bold once more.
And as she sat, rejoicing that 'twas warm,
There came the sound of trumpet and of drum,
And driving past she saw the circus car,
And on it was a placard calling all
Good people to come forth and gaze at her.

Then knew she that undressing time had come,
So sped her to the inner room, and there
Unhook'd the clinging bodice of her frock,
Hair-pinned on locks to show'r down to her knee,
Donned the rose "fleshings" that she was to wear;
Then throwing on a shawl she waited there
Till such time as they brought her palfrey, trapt
In purple, blazoned with armorial gold.

So came at last the sound of pattering hoofs,
And up the stairs a voice, "The 'oss is come!"
And tripping to the door she found a steed,
Milk-white and bony, meek, and pink of eye,
And with a chair and Mr. Sanger's help
Clomb on his back, and then one bang'd a door
And shouted, "Right!" and so the charger past.

Thus rode she forth, clothed on with scantiness,
And in the pageant duly took her place,
Along with camels and with elephants
And men-in-armour, weakest at the knee,
And Foresters with horns that wouldn't blow,
And clumsy bows, and Odd-fellows as well,
In fool regalia; and the Volunteers,
And Fire Brigade, and several brazen bands.
But chiefly 'twas on her all eyes were fix'd,
And women wondered what she could have got
For making of herself a show; and men
Opined that cotton wool she'd freely used;
And one low churl, compact of thankless earth,
Drawing a pin and rushing at her horse
Prick'd--but it was no good, the steed jogged on
As theretofore: and thanks to frequent bangs
And shouts of "Right" did reach the end at last
Of the day's progress, much to its delight.
And she was glad, and hastening to her room
She slipp'd her garments on, and issuing claim'd
Her fee, and took the earliest train to town,
And in the ballet, in the foremost row,
Danced with her fellows, winning great renown,
As one who rode through Coventry in "tights,"
And built herself an evanescent name.

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.

Tennyson writes thus:--

"Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me."

"O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!"

"And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!"

"Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me."

Of this he has had numerous imitators:--

TO MY SCOUT.

_After a smash (and Tennyson)._

Break, break, break!
Plate, decanter, and glass!
It's enough to worry a cherub,
And loosen the tongue of an ass.

It's all very well to declare
That your "helbow" caught in the door,
And your "fut" must 'ave 'itched in a nail,
And you're very sorry, you're sure.

And I'm very hard up just now,
Three troublesome duns to stop,
But I wish I'd only got half the coin
I've paid to that china-shop.

Break, break, break!
You must order another new set.
It's good for trade; but I'd like to know
What is the commission you get?

From _Odd Echoes from Oxford_, 1872.

Here is another in a similar vein:--

Break, break, break,
My cups and my saucers, O scout!
And I'm glad that my tongue can't utter
The oaths that my soul points out.

It's well for the china-shop man,
Who gets a fresh order each day;
And deucedly well for yourself,
Who are in the said china-man's pay.

And my stately vases go
To your uncle's, I ween, to be cashed;
But it's O for the light of my broken lamp,
And the tick of my clock that is smashed.

Break, break, break!
At the foot of thy stairs in glee;
But the coin I have spent in glass that is smashed
Will never come back to me.

From the "_Shotover Papers_," Oxford, 1875.

* * * * *

THE BATHER'S DIRGE.

_By Tennyson Minor._

Break, break, break,
On thy cold hard stones, O Sea!
And I hope that my tongue won't utter
The curses that rise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,
If he likes to be soused with the spray!
O well for the sailor lad,
As he paddles about in the bay!

And the ships swim happily on
To their haven under the hill:
But O for a clutch at that vanish'd hand,
And a kick--for I'm catching a chill!

Break, break, break,
At my poor bare feet, O Sea!
_But the artful scamp who has collar'd my clothes
Will never come back to me._

From _Funny Folks_, 1879.

* * * * *

The two following are taken from _Punch:_--

THE MUSICAL PITCH.

Break, break, break,
O voice!--let me urge thy plea!--
O lower the Pitch, lest utter
Despair be the end of me!

'Tis well for the fiddles to squeak,
The bassoon to grunt in its play:
'Twere well had I lungs of brass,
Or that nothing but strings gave way!

Break, break, break,
O voice! I must urge thy plea,
For the tender skin of my larynx is torn,
And I fail in my upper G!

* * * * *

TENNYSON AT BILLINGSGATE IN 1882.

(Apropos of the _Ring_ of Wholesale Fish Dealers.)

Take! Take! Take!
Oh grabber of swag from the sea,
And I shouldn't quite like to utter
The thoughts that occur to me!

Oh, ill for the fisherman poor
That he toils for a trifle all day,
And ill for the much-diddled public
That has through the nose to pay.

And the swelling monopolist drives
To his villa at Haverstock Hill,
But it's O for the number of poor men's lives
Food-stinted to plump his till!

Take! Take! Take!
Oh grabber of swag from the sea,
_But you'll render a reckoning one of these days
To the public and Mr. P._

* * * * *

In June, 1882, the Editor of _The Weekly Dispatch_ awarded a prize of Two Guineas to M. Percivale, for a parody on _Locksley Hall_. The somewhat uncomplimentary allusions to a young Æsthetic poet are too obvious to require any elucidation.

Cousins, leave me here a little, in lawn tennis you excel;
Leave me here, you only bore me, I shall come at "luncheon bell!"

'Tis the place (but rather older)--I was in my eighteenth year,
When I first met utter Oscar, and I thought him such a dear!

How about the beach I wandered, listening while that youth sublime
Spouted verses by the dozen, which he said he wrote for _Time_.

But his form was somewhat fatter than should be for one so young,
And his round eyes spoke the language of his glib and oily tongue.

In the spring the fleshly poet writes a sweet and soothing sonnet:
In the spring a wise young woman buys a more becoming bonnet.

And he said, "Oh, have you anything in Consols or Per Cents.?
For my property's in Ireland, and I cannot get the rents?"

Oh, my Oscar! Impecunious! Oh, intense!--if nothing worse--
Oh, those too-too precious poems! Oh, that too-too empty purse!

Then I said, "I've an allowance from an old maternal aunt,
Just enough for dress; but as to victuals--no, I really can't!"

And he turned, his face was frightful, pale with anger for poor me;
Was it fancy that he muttered something like a big, big D--?

* * * * *

As my husband is, his wife is, rich, the envy of the town;
How a life in shabby lodgings would have dragged my spirit down!

How my beauty would have faded, growing daily paler, thinner!
Making puddings, washing clothing, planning for the children's dinner.

Comes the butler, "Lunch is ready, madam!" iced champagne, I know,
Mayonnaise and lobster salad; I am hungry and--I go.

* * * * *

Here is another, and an earlier, imitation of the same original:--

BACCHANALIAN DREAMINGS.

Cronies leave me in the bar-room, while as yet I've cash to spend,
Leave me here, and if I'm wanted, 'mum's' the word to every friend,

'Tis the place, I can assure you, if from funds you wish to part;
Yet for these you'll get a mixture, wisely stirred will warm the heart.

This old house is situated in a street well-known as High;
Here the choicest spirits gather, when the moon is in the sky.

Oft at night I've seen the taper seemingly to multiply
And assume these quaintish fashions so deceptive to the eye.

Till in fancy I've been lifted high above this earthly ball;
And the lights, like stars have twinkled, in the mirrors on the wall.

In the happiness that followed, I've forgot life's cankering care,
Yet from these Elysian dreamings I've waked to misery and despair.

In this mood I've heard, with pleasure common mortals cannot know,
Grand debates, and songs and speeches, which from sparkling genius
flow.

Then I've built aerial castles towering up to heights sublime,
And I've questioned in my fancy, if such blissfulness were mine.

For the nonce, a powerful statesman, I have ruled with iron sway,
Millions of my fellow-creatures, who, of course, were rougher clay.

Changing, then, to mighty warrior, at the head of armies bold,
I've crushed all who dared oppose me, just for glory, not for gold.

Or, again, as learned historian, I've noted down the deeds of yore,
Woven in a graceful fashion, mines of thought from ancient lore.

Burning passions, that consumed me, caused my throbbing heart to swell,
Or, when seized with poet's fancy, I've attempted oft to tell.

But the finest of our fancies very quickly disappear,
If from thoughtfulness we're wakened by the foolish jest or jeer.

White-sleeved waiters can't appreciate thoughts superior to red wine,
And that Act, by one Mackenzie, foeman is to Muses Nine.

In my rev'rie I was shaken, by a hand, and gruffly told
That the hour had just departed, when with safety wine was sold.

From _The Modern Athenian_, 18th March, 1876.

* * * * *

THE NEW ŒNONE.--AN EPIC FRAGMENT.

(_With Apologies to the Poet Laureate._)

O British Public, many-fadded public,
Queer British Public, harken ere I die!
It was the bright forenoon: one silvery cloud
Had with soft sprinkle laid the gathered dust
Of Mayfair. To the studio they came.
Scant-robed they came before the camera.

And at their feet was laid a carpet fair,
Lemon, and cinnamon, and ghostly grey,
Purple, and primrose. And the artist rose
And overhead the swift spring-curtains drew
This way and that in many a subtle shift
For fine effect of light and shade, and placed
Background of statuary and drooping boughs,
With cloud and curtain, tower and portico.

O British Public harken ere I die!
I heard great Heré. She to Paris made
Proffer of popular power, public rule,
Unquestioned, an elastic revenue
Wherewith to buoy and back Imperial plans,
Honour (with Peace) she said, and tax and toll
From many a Place of Arms and haven large,
And Scientific Frontiers, and all else
That patriotic potency may crave;
To all most welcome, seeing men in power
Then only are like gods, having attained
Rest in "another place," and quiet seats
Above the tumult, safe from Dissolution,
In shelter of their great majority.
O British Public harken ere I die!
She ceased, and Paris held the golden fruit
Out at arm's length, so much the thought of power
Flattered his spirit; but Pallas where she stood
Somewhat apart, her straight and stately limbs
Uplifted, and her aspect high, if cold.
The while above her full and earnest eye
Over her firm set mouth and haughty cheek
Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply.

"Unselfishness, high honour, justice clear,
These three alone give worth to sovereign power.
Yet not for power (power of itself
Is a base burden) but to hold as law
The fiat high, 'Be just and do not fear.'
And because right _is_ right to follow right,
With a serene contempt of consequence."

* * * * *

And Paris pondered, and I cried, "Oh! Paris,
Give it to Pallas!" But he heard me not,
Or hearing, would not heed me. Woe is me!

O British Public, many-headed Public,
Crass British Public, harken ere I die!
Audacious Aphrodite, beautiful
Fresh as the purple hyacinth's rain-washed bells,
With soft seductive fingers backward drew
From her bold brow and bosom her long hair
Auricomous, and bared her shining throat
And shoulder; on the carpet her small feet
Shone lily-like, and on her rounded form,
Between the shadows of the studio blinds,
Shifted the cunning "high lights" as she moved.

O British Public, harken ere I die!
She, with a subtle smile in her bold eyes,
The herald of her triumph, well assured,
Half whispered in his ear, "I promise thee
_The negative of my next photograph!_"
She spoke and laughed, I shut my eyes in fear,
And when I looked, Paris had not the apple.
And I beheld great Heré's angry eyes
As she withdrew from forth the studio door,
And I was left alone within the place!

* * * * *

From _Punch_, December, 1879.

There still remain to be quoted a few amusing parodies of Tennyson's early poems, the first in order being _Mariana_, which was thus closely burlesqued in George Cruikshank's _Comic Almanack_ for 1846.

THE BOW STREET GRANGE.

_By Alfred Tennyson._

With blackest mud, the locked-up sots
Were splashed and covered, one and all.
And rusty nails, and callous knots,
Stuck from the bench against the wall.
The wooden bed felt hard and strange;
Lost was the key that oped the latch;
To light his pipe he had no match,
Within the Bow Street station's range.

He only said, "It's very dreary;"
"Bail will not come," he said;
He said, "I have been very beery,
I would I were a-bed!"

The rain fell like a sluice that even;
His Clarence boots could not be dried,
But had been soaked since half-past seven--
To get them off in vain he tried.
After the smashing of his hat,
Just as the new police came by,
And took him into custody,
He thought, I've been a precious flat,

He only said, "The cell is dreary;"
"Bail cometh not," he said;
He said, "I must be very beery,
I wish I were in bed!"

Upon the middle of the night,
Waking, he heard a stunning row;
Some jolly cocks sang out till light,
And would not keep still anyhow.
He wished to bribe, but had no change
Within his pockets, all forlorn,
And so he kept awake till morn
Within that lonely Bow Street grange.

He only said, "The cell is dreary;"
"Bail cometh not," he said;
He said, "I must be very beery,
I'd rather be in bed!"

All night within that gloomy cell
The keys within the padlock creaked;
The tipsy 'gents' bawled out as well,
And in the dungeons yelled and shrieked.
Policemen slyly prowled about;
Their faces glimmered through the door,
But brought not, though he did implore,
One humble glass of cold without.

He only said, "The night is dreary;"
"Bail cometh not," he said;
He said, "I have been very beery,
I would I were in bed!"

At morn, the noise of boys aloof,
Inspectors' orders, and the chaff
Of cads upon the busses' roof,
To Poplar bound, too much by half
Did prove; but most he loathed the hour
When Mr. Jardine chose to say
Five shillings he would have to pay,
Now he was in policeman's power.

Then said he, "This is very dreary;"
"Bail will not come," he said;
He said, "I'll never more get beery,
But go straight home to bed!"

* * * * *

In 1855, Messrs. G. Routledge & Co., published a small volume, by Frank E. Smedley and Edmund Hodgson Yates, entitled _Mirth and Metre_, which contained several excellent parodies, one entitled Boreäna, after the _The Ballad of Oriana;_ and another, called Vauxhall, which imitated _Locksley Hall_. Most of the parodies in the book were written by Mr. Edmund H. Yates, but he gave the credit of Boreäna to Mr. Frank Smedley, the author of several well-known novels, who died in May, 1864.

THE BALLAD OF BOREÄNA.

My brain is wearied with thy prate,
Boreäna,
I sit and curse my hapless fate,
Boreäna,
What time the rain pours down the gutter,
Still your platitudes you utter
Boreäna,
I unholy wishes mutter,
Boreäna.

Ere the night-light's flame was fading,
Boreäna,
While the cats were serenading,
Boreäna,
Sheep were bleating, oxen lowing,
We heard the beasts to Smithfield going,
Boreäna,
You said the butcher's bill was owing,
Boreäna.

At Cremorne, we two alone,
Boreäna,
Ere my wisdom teeth were grown,
Boreäna,
While the dancers gaily hopped,
And the brass-band never stopped,
Boreäna,
I to thee the question popped,
Boreäna.

She stood behind the area gate,
Boreäna,
She did it just to aggravate,
Boreäna,
She saw me wink, she heard me swear,
She recognised the scoundrel there,
Boreäna,
She _knows_ a bailiff I can't bear,
Boreäna.

The cursed writ he pushed it through,
Boreäna,
The area rails, and gave it you,
Boreäna,
The infernal summons me unnerved,
He from his duty never swerved,
Boreäna,
On thee, my bride, the writ he served,
Boreäna.

Oh! narrow-minded county court,
Boreäna,
'Tis death to me, to them 'tis sport,
Boreäna,
Oh! stab in my most tender place,
My pocket, oh! the deep disgrace,
Boreäna,
I fell down flat upon my face,
Boreäna.

They fined me at the next court day,
Boreäna,
Locked up, how can I get away,
Boreäna?
I don't perceive of hope a ray,
'Tis a true bill, but oh! I say,
Boreäna,
How without tin am I to pay,
Boreäna?

* * * * *

When turns the never-pausing mill,
Boreäna,
I tread, I do not dare stand still,
Boreäna:
At home, of beer thou drink'st thy fill,
I may not come to thee and swill,
Boreäna,
I hear the rolling of the mill,
Boreäna.

* * * * *

TENNYSON'S _The Palace of Art_, commences thus:--

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house,
Wherein at ease for aye to dwell,
I said, "O soul, make merry and carouse,
Dear soul, for all is well."

* * * * *

And "while the world runs round and round," I said,
"Reign thou apart, a quiet king,
Still as while Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade
Sleeps on his luminous ring."

The following skit ridiculing the furniture and decorations of an artistically-arranged modern house, is taken from _Punch_ of the 15th February, 1879.

THE PALACE OF ART.

I BUILT myself a high-art pleasure-house
For my sick soul at peace therein to dwell.
I said, "I have the true æsthetic _nous_,
And can design it well."

'Twas dull red brick, with gables set galore,
And little light did through the windows pass,
For 'twas shut out by thick lead frames that bore
Quarrels of grey-green glass,

The dadoed walls, in green were stained, no tint
Which common blue and yellow mingled make;
But a green y-wrought--of sepia without stint--
With indigo and lake.

Nor grainèd panel nor enamelled slate
Was there to jar on my artistic sight;
Plain ebon wood-work framed the open grate,
And over,--blue and white.

Two lovely griffins, made of burnished brass,
I found, to guard the fireplace on each side.
With curling tails (though one was lost, alas!),
And mouths that gapèd wide.

All round the rooms were shelves of black-dyed deal,
On which stood pots and plates of every hue;
Whilst far apart two lilièd angels kneel
In Robbia white and blue.

One deep recess, serge-covered, like a lawn,
Held, on a brass-nailed shelf, its seat of state,
Apart from other pots and pans withdrawn,
An ancient kitchen-plate.

"Hence whilst the world runs round and round," I said,
"I will send forth my wits to gather wool;
With task or toil I will not vex my head;
But on that plate feed full."

So day and night upon that plate I gazed,
And strove to fix thereon what thought I had;
Until my sight grew dim, and my sense dazed,
And my digestion bad.

My brain shrank like a nut adust and dried;
I felt that I was not at all myself,
And longed to lay my dwindled wits beside
That plate upon that shelf.

That ancient plate of willow-pattern blue,
Which so absorbèd had my every thought,
I seemed to live thereon, and slowly grew
Confucian, clear of thought.

One year I gazed upon that much-loved plate,
Till at the last the sight began to pall.
I said, "How know I 'tis of ancient date,
Or China-ware at all?"

So when one year was wholly finishèd,
I put that willow-pattern plate away.
"Now rather bring me Satsuma!" I said,
"Or blue-green Cloisonnée.

"For I am sick of this pervading hue,
Steepèd wherein this landscape, stream, and sky,
To my heart-weary question, 'Is all blue?'
'Yea, all is blue,' reply.

"Yet do not smash the plate I so admired,
When first my high æsthetic house I built;
I may come back to it, of Dresden tired,
And Sèvres gaily gilt."

* * * * *

Although taken from Cruikshank's _Comic Almanack_, for 1846, the following parody of _The May Queen_ is so fresh and so funny that it might have been written yesterday:--

THE QUEEN OF THE FÊTE.

_By Alfred Tennyson._

I.--THE DAY BEFORE.

[_To be read with liveliness._]

If you're waking, call me early, mother, fine, or wet, or bleak;
To-morrow is the happiest day of all the Ascot week;
It is the Chiswick fête, mother, of flowers and people gay,
And I'll be queen, if I may, mother, I'll be queen, if I may.

There's many a bright _barege_, they say, but none so bright as mine,
And whiter gloves, that have been cleaned, and smell of turpentine;
But none so nice as mine, I know, and so they all will say;
And I'll be queen, if I may, mother, I'll be queen, if I may.

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,
If you do not shout at my bedside, and give me a good shake;
For I have got those gloves to trim with blonde and ribbons gay.
And I'm to be queen, if I may, mother; I'm to be queen, if I may.

As I came home to-day, mother, whom think you I should meet,
But Harry--looking at a cab, upset in Oxford Street;
He thought of when we met, to learn the Polka of Miss Rae--
But I'll be queen, if I may, mother; I'll be queen, if I may.

They say he wears moustachios, that my chosen he may be;
They say he's left off raking, mother--what is that to me?
I shall meet all the Fusiliers upon the Chiswick day;
And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen if I may.

The night cabs come and go, mother, with panes of mended glass,
And all the things about us seem to clatter as they pass;
The roads are dry and dusty; it will be a fine, fine day,
And I'm to be queen, if I may, mother; I'm to be queen, if I may.

The weather-glass hung in the hall has turned to "fair" from "showers."
The sea-weed crackles and feels dry, that's hanging 'midst the flowers,
Vauxhall, too, is not open, so 'twill be a fine, fine day;
And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen, if I may.

So call me, if you're waking; call me, mother, from my rest--
The "Middle Horticultural" is sure to be the best.
Of all the three this one will be the brightest, happiest day;
And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen, if I may.

II.--THE DAY AFTER.

[_Slow, and with sad expression._]

If you're waking, call me early; call me early, mother dear;
The soaking rain of yesterday has spoilt my dress I fear;
I've caught a shocking cold, mamma, so make a cup for me,
Of what sly folks call, blackthorn, and facetious grocers, tea.

I started forth in floss and flowers to have a pleasant day,
When all at once down came the wet, and hurried all away;
And now there's not a flower but is washed out by the rain:
I wonder if the colours, mother, will come round again.

I have been wild and wayward, but I am not wayward now,
I think of my allowance, and I'm sure I don't know how
I shall make both ends meet. Papa will be so very wild;
He says, already mother, I'm his most expensive child.

Just say to Harry a kind word, and tell him not to fret;
Perhaps I was cross, but then he knows it was so very wet;
Had it been fine--I cannot tell--he might have had my arm;
But the bad weather ruined all, and spoilt my toilet's charm.

I'll wear the dress again, mother; I do not care a pin,--
Or, perhaps, 'twill do for Effie, but it must be taken in;
But do not let her see it yet--she's not so very green,
And will not take it until washed and ironed it has been.

So, if you're waking, call me, when the day begins to dawn;
I dread to look at my _barege_--it must be so forlorn;
We'll put it in the rough-dried box: it may come out next year;
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.

_Light Green_, a magazine published at Cambridge, in 1872, contained another parody of the same original, it is called "The May Dream," by Alfred Pennysong.

The following appeared in _The Tomahawk_, of December 5th, 1868.

ELECTIONS' EVE!

_A Song of the Future(?)._

You must wake and call me early, call me early mother dear,
Though November is the dullest month of any in the year,
Yet to-morrow I shall represent my country--oh! how droll!
For I'm the Queen of the Poll, mother! I'm the Queen of the Poll!

There'll be many a black, black eye, mother (I hope one won't be mine),
But ten thousand voting virgins will be flocking to my sign,
Supported by my Coleridge--Mill, 'neath Becker's steadfast soul,
Shall I be the Queen of the Poll, mother! I, be the Queen of the Poll!

The Benches soon shall welcome me, the Lobby be my haunt,
That spinster Speaker by her winks and frowns shall ne'er me daunt.
My rights are good as any, and my name is on the roll,
And I'm the Queen of the Poll, mother! I'm the Queen of the Poll.

I have been wild and wayward, but those days are past and gone,
The Valse is fled, the Kettledrum, the Croquet on the Lawn;
Another _Lawn_, clear-starched and white, rises before my eye,
The Speaker's risen to _orders_, why the Dickens shouldn't I?

Pardon my slang, for auld _slang_ syne, I'm still a woman true,
And women's tongues were never made to say what they might rue;
But there's one thing on my mind, mother, to ask you I'd forgot,
Shall I repair to Parliament in petticoats or----not?

Now, good night, good night, dear mother, ah! to-morrow'll be the day
When women's rights are settled, then won't we have our say;
And then 'midst England's patriots, my name shall I enrol,
For I'm the Queen of the Poll, mother! I'm the Queen of the Poll!

* * * * *

A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN.

(From _The World_, July 23rd, 1879).

Long time I fed my eyes on that strange scene,
Painted by Poynter, of the famous bay,
Wherein Phæacian maids surround their queen
Nausicaa in play.

And clearer on my trancèd gaze there grew
The celebrated beauties of the town;
Leaping in front, I saw with wonder new
The sexless thing in brown.

Meseemed that, as I gazed, my vision changed:
The loose-girt ladies on the pictured wall
I saw no more; but, fancy led, I ranged
The fair in Albert Hall.

The hothouse blossoms of a sunless year,
And quaintest crewels, wrought in grays and greens,
Adorned the stalls--extravagantly dear,
For they were sold by queens.

Foremost I saw, with overloaded stall
Beset from morn till eve with densest crowd,
A daughter of the Jews, divinely small,
And most divinely proud.

With high-pitched tones in broken English she
Waved bystanders aside, and sold her wares
Only to scions of nobility,
With all her choicest airs.

And passing on, not caring to pay dear
For portraits which in all shop-windows are,
I saw our novel Helen standing near,
Far-gleaming like a star.

Softly she spake: 'I would that from my stall
Some favour you would buy, that I may gain
Tenfold in praise, and beat my rivals all
In making fools of men.'

Outleapt my answer: 'Try me with thy wile:
A crown for that sweet rose!' With polished ease
She shook from haughty eyes a languid smile:
'Not so; a guinea, please.'

Lighter my purse, as onward, pacing slow,
I turned from right to left in idle quest,
Till on me flashed, fair as the sunset glow,
Mrs. Cornwallis West.

Strangely my eyes their wonted functions changed;
I saw her once again, white-veiled, white-furred,
As oft by deft photographers arranged,
A photographic bird

Prest to her lips 'mid counterfeited snow.
Full soon the fancy ceased. I heard a cry
Peal from the lips that men have worshipped so:
'Pass quickly on, or buy!'

A labyrinth of beauty, sweet to see!
The proud Guinness, the noted Wheeler--all
Our much-belauded London galaxy,
Protecting each a stall.

Sweet forms, fair faces, everywhere the same;
And many a withered flower and trinket old
I purchased recklessly, till joy became
A solemn scorn of gold.

The slow day faded in the evening sky
Ere all my petty cash was squandered free.
One joy remained. I bade my hansom fly
To visit Connie G.

TERRÆ FILIUS.

Those who have read _Locksley Hall_ will greatly appreciate _The Lay of the Lovelorn_, a parody contained in the Bon Gaultier Ballads of Theodore Martin and Professor Aytoun.

Tennyson's original poem commences thus:--

Comrades leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn;
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn.

'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old the curlews' call,
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall;

Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time.

* * * * *

Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands;
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.

Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the chords with might;
Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.

Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships,
And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips.

O my cousin, shallow hearted! O my Amy, mine no more,
O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren shore!

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung,
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue!

Is it well to wish thee happy? having known me--to decline
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine!

Yet it shall be: thou shall lower to his level day by day,
What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise with clay.

As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown,
And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force,
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

* * * * *

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth!
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth!

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest nature's rule.
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straightened forehead of the fool.

* * * * *

THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN.

Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair
I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air.

Whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger beer,
Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer.

* * * * *

In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes--
Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely there's a brace of moons!

See! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare;
Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair.

Oh, my cousin, spider hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it!
I must wear the mournful willow,--all around my hat I've bound it.

Falser than the Bank of Fancy, frailer than a shilling glove,
Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love!

Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever?
Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver?

Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day,
Changing from the best of china to the commonest of clay.

As the husband is, the wife is,--he is stomach-plagued and old;
And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of his gold.

When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then
Something lower than his hookah,--something less than his cayenne.

What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret? Oh, no, no,--
Bless your soul! it was the salmon,--salmon always makes him so.

Take him to thy dainty chamber--soothe him with thy lightest fancies;
He will understand thee, won't he?--pay thee with a lover's glances?

* * * * *

Better thou wert dead before me--better, better, that I stood,
Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good!

Better thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and dead,
With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed.

Cursed be the Bank of England's notes, that tempt the soul to sin!
Cursed be the want of acres,--doubly cursed the want of tin!

Cursed be the marriage contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed!
Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed!

Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn!
Cursed be the clerk and parson,--cursed be the whole concern!

* * * * *

Oh, 'tis well that I should bluster,--much I'm like to make of that;
Better comfort have I found in singing "All around my Hat."

But that song so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British ears.
'Twill not do to pine for ever,--I am getting up in years.

Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press,
And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretchedness?

Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn I knew
When my days were all before me, and my years were twenty-two!

When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant wide
With the many larks of London flaring up on every side;

When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come;
Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb;

Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh heavens!
Brandy at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking hot at Evans'!

Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears,
Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of years,

Saw Jack Sheppard, noble strippling, act his wondrous feats again,
Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy chain.

Might was right, and all the terrors, which had held the world in awe,
Were despised, and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie, spite of law.

In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's edge was rusted,
And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much disgusted!

Hark! my merry comrade's call me, bawling for another jorum;
They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before 'em.

Womankind no more shall vex me, such at least as go arrayed
In the most expensive satins and the newest silk brocade.

I'll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields
Rarer robes and finer tissues than are sold at Spitalfields.

Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self aside,
I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval pride;

Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root,
Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit.

Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple main
Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accents of Cockaigne.

There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents;
Sink the steamboats! cuss the railways! rot, O rot the Three per Cents!

There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe,
my cousin!
I will wed some savage woman--nay, I'll wed at least a dozen.

There I'll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are reared:
They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard--

Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon,
Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the mountains of the moon.

I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily quaff,
Ride a tiger hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe.

Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he crosses,
Startling from their noonday slumbers, iron-bound rhinoceroses.

Fool! again the dream, the fancy! But I know my words are mad,
For I hold the grey barbarian lower than the Christian cad.

I the swell--the city dandy! I to seek such horrid places,--
I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber lips, and monkey-faces!

I to wed with Coromantees! I who managed--very near--
To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shillibeer!

Stuff and nonsense! let me never fling a single chance away,
Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may.

* * * * *

That's the sort of thing to do it. Now I'll go and taste the balmy,--
Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted cousin Amy!

BON GAULTIER BALLADS.

VAUXHALL.

Cabman, stop thy jaded knacker; cabman, draw thy slackened rein;
Take this sixpence--do not grumble, swear not at Sir Richard Mayne!

'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old the cadger's bawl--
Sparkling rockets, squibs and crackers, whizzing over gay Vauxhall.

Gay Vauxhall! that in the summer all the youth of town attracts,
Glittering with its lamps and fireworks, and its flashing cataracts.

Many a night in yonder gilded temple, ere I went to rest,
Did I look on great Von Joel, mimicking the feathered nest;

Many a night I saw Hernandez in a tinsel garb arrayed,
With his odorif'rous ringlets tangled in a silver braid;

Here about the paths I wandered, chaffing, laughing all the time,
Laughing at the piebald clown, or listening to the minstrel's rhyme;

When beneath the business-counter linendraper's men reposed,
When in calm and peaceful slumber, sharp maternal eyes are closed;

When I dipt into the pewter pot that held the foaming stout,
When I quaffed the burning punch, or wildly sipped the "cold without."

In the spring a finer cambric's wrapped around the lordling's breast;
In the spring the gent at Redmayne's gets himself a Moses' "vest;"

In the spring we make investment in a white or lilac glove;
In the spring my youthful fancy prompted me to fall in love.

Then she danced through all the _ballet_, as a fairy blithe and young,
Stood a tiptoe on a flow'ret, or from clouds of pasteboard swung--

And I said, "Miss Julia Belmont, speak, and speak the truth to me,
Wilt thou from this fairy region with a heart congenial flee?"

On her lovely cheek and forehead came a blushing through her paint,
And she sank upon my bosom in the semblance of a faint;

Then she turned, her voice was broken (so, if I must tell the truth,
Was her English--all I pardoned in the generous warmth of youth),

Saying, "Pray excuse my feelings, nothing wrong, indeed, is meant,"
Saying, "Will you be my loveyer?" weeping, "you are quite the gent."

Love took up the glass before me, filled it foaming to the brim,
Love changed every comic ballad to a sweet euphonious hymn!

Many a morning in the railway did we run to Richmond, Kew,
And her hunger cleared my pockets oft of shillings not a few!

Many an evening down at Greenwich did we eat the pleasant "bait,"
Till I found my earnings going at a rather rapid rate.

Oh! Miss Belmont, fickle-hearted! Oh, Miss Belmont known too late,
Oh, that horrid, horrid Richmond, oh, the cursed, cursed "bait."

Falser far than Lola Montes, falser e'en than Alice Gray,
Scorner of a faithful press-man, sharer of a tumbler's pay!--

Is it well to wish thee happy? having once loved _me_--to wed
With a fool who gains his living by his heels, and not his head!

As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown,
And pursuing his profession, he will strive to drag thee down.

He will hold thee in the winter, when his fooleries begin,
Something better than his wig, a little dearer than his gin.

What is this? his legs are bending! think'st thou he is weary, faint?
Go to him, it is thy duty; kiss him, how he tastes of paint!

Am I mad, that I should cherish memories of the bygone time?
Think of loving one whose husband fools it in a pantomime!

Never, though my mortal summers should be lengthened to the sum
Granted to the aged Parr, or more illustrious Widdicomb--

Comfort!--talk to me of comfort! What is comfort here below?
Lies it in iced drinks in summer, aquascutum coats in snow?

Think not thou wilt know its meaning, wail of all his vows the proof,
Till the manager is sulky, and the rain pours through the roof.

See, his life he acts in dreams, while thou art staring in his face,
Listen to his hollow laughter, mark his effort at grimace!

Thou shalt hear "Hot Codlins" muttered in his vision-haunted sleep,
Thou shalt hear his feigned ecstatics, thou shalt hear his curses deep.

Let them fall on gay Vauxhall, that scene to me of deepest woe,
But--the waiters are departing, and perhaps I'd better go!--

By EDMUND H. YATES,

From _Mirth and Metre_, 1855.

* * * * *

Extract from _Sir Rupert the Red_, in imitation of Tennyson's _Locksley Hall_.

Very early in the morning would he, tumbling out of bed,
Mow his chin with wretched razor, mow and hack it till it bled;

Then he'd curse the harmless cutler, heap upon him curses deep,
Curse him in his hour of waking, doubly curse him in his sleep--

Saying, "Mechi! O my Mechi! O my Mechi, mine no more,
Whither's fled that brilliant sharpness which thy razors had of yore,

Ere thou quittedst Leadenhall Street, quittedst it with many a qualm--
Ere thou soughtest rustic Tiptree, Tiptree and its model farm?

Many a morning, by the mirror, did I pass thee o'er my beard,
And my chin grew smooth beneath thee, of its hairy harvest cleared;

Many an evening have I drawn thee 'cross the throats of wretched Jews,
When they, trembling, showed their purses, stuffed for safety in
their shoes.

But, like mine, thy day is over--thou art blunt and I'm disgraced!
Curses on thy maker's projects, curses on his 'magic paste.'"

From _Mirth and Metre_.

* * * * *

The following imitation of "Break, Break, Break," is from _Snatches of Song_, by F. B. Doveton, 1880, which volume also contains (page 127) a long, but not very amusing, parody of _The Grandmother_, entitled _Hard Times_.

BREAK, break, break,
In thy pantry, costly maid!
And I bitterly rue the hour
When I took you from Mrs. Slade.

'Tis well for the lady fair
Whose glass is unshattered yet!
'Tis well for the thrifty dame
Who has "an unbroken set!"

And the clatter and crash goes on,
And Mary picks up the slain;
But oh! for that teacup of rarest Sèvres,
And that vase of porcelain!

Break, break, break,
In thy pantry, Mary G----!
But that costly vase and that teacup rare
Will never come back to me!

Here is another in a similar vein, from _Punch's Almanack_ for 1884:--

BREAK, break, break,
O slavey, my crock-e-ry!
And I would that my tongue dared utter
The wrath that's astir in me.

O well for the labourer's wife,
Who can wash her own tea-things each day!
O well for the labourer's self,
Who has no servant's wages to pay!

But the breakages here go on,
And I have to settle the bill;
And it's oh! for the shards of my vanished cups,
And my saucers dwindling still!

Break! break! break!
A week from this you shall see,
But the dishes and plates you have smashed since you came,
Will never come back to me!

* * * * *

OUR MISCELLANY (_which ought to have come out, but didn't_), edited by Edmund H. Yates and R. B. Brough, published by G. Routledge & Co., in 1857, contains a number of parodies, amongst them of Lord Macaulay, E. A. Poe, Longfellow, and Charles Dickens.

Of Tennyson there are two imitations of _Maud;_ one, nine verses in length, of _In Memoriam_, and one entitled _A Character_, which is a rather close parody of a poem having the same title, published in Tennyson's 1830 volume.

It will be remembered that at the time _Our Miscellany_ appeared, M. Jullien's Promenade Concerts were in the full tide of their prosperity, and that the little fopperies and vanities of the clever _Chef d'orchestre_, and his importation of French military bands were then the talk of the town.

A CHARACTER.

(_Jullien._)

With half a glance upon the house,
Each night he said "The gatherings
Of people underneath this roof
Teach me the paying sort of things,
And music, whence they'd stand aloof,
May in the ocean depths go souse."

* * * * *

He led a polka--round his skull
He waved the rhythm of the charm,
And stamped, and shook his dress-coat skirts,
With giant wavings of his arm;
And then--he went and changed his shirt!
And said the house was very full.

And so he drove a thriving trade,
With symphonies in classic way;
With Drummers and with Zouaves' call
Himself upon himself did play,
Each season ending with a ball
Of masques, his fortune thus he made.

* * * * *

The _In Memoriam_ verses are scarcely so good, I will, therefore, only quote the first and the last:--

RICHMOND, 1856.

I HOLD it truth, when I recall
Last London's season's joyous spell,
'Tis better to have danced not well,
Than never to have danced at all.

* * * * *

The season's past; alone at Basle
I sit; but still, as truth I tell,
'Tis better to have danced not well,
Than never to have danced at all.

* * * * *

The two imitations of _Maud_, at pages 80 and 179, are too long, and scarcely sufficiently interesting, to quote at length.

_The Shilling Book of Beauty_, by Cuthbert Bede (J. Blackwood, 1853), has also a parody of _Maud_, in ten verses, it is entitled:--

MAUD IN THE GARDEN.

_By Alfred Tennison, Esq._

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
I hear the beat of her fairy feet,
As she trips to the garden gate;
As she comes to the garden gate,
In her glimmer of satin and pearl,
With her sunny head in a terrible state
And her ringlets out of curl.

* * * * *