Chapter V: Introduction (4)

"Half-past nine, August three--
Half-past nine--onward!
Off to the Vartry Works
Went some two hundred.
Off to the Vartry Works,
Where the good water lurks,
Down on the Wicklow line,
Thinking of how they'd dine;
'Toasting,' with best of wine,
Off--with the weather fine--
Went the two hundred.

"'Forward!' said Sir John Gray,
On to the station, Bray,
There, there was some delay.
Some of the party said
'Waller has blundered.'
But they were wrong, to doubt--
Forty-three cars set out,
On from the station there,
Into the mountain air--
Through Wicklow's mountain air--
Drove the two hundred.

"Arrived at the Vartry stream,
Inspected each shaft and beam;
Saw how the men with spade
Embankments and _puddle_ made:
Crowds there of every grade
Admired and wondered.
Gray, like an engineer--
Explained what was strange or queer:
All the works, far and near,
He showed the two hundred.

"Then through the Vartry pipes
As niggers bend to stripes,
Right through these monster pipes.
Like string through a bodkin,
Sir John led a lot of us,
Making small shot of us;
The first man he caught of us
Was our _London Times_--Godkin.

"Done with the Vartry Works,
Flashed all our knives and forks;
To work, like some 'hungry Turks,'
Went the two hundred.
Soup, fish, meat, fowl, and ham,
Ice, jellies, pies, and jam;
At this wild mountain cram
All the guests wondered.

"Champagne to the right of them,
Champagne to the left of them,
Champagne around them,
Popping and spurting.
Toasts then came from the chair,
Toasting the ladies fair,
But not a female there,
Therefore no flirting.

"Good wine of every sort,
Speeches with joke and sport;
Then they went back again,
But not the two hundred.
Some of them went astray
O'er hills and far away,
But, getting home next day,
Made up the two hundred.

"W. S."

This poem is signed with the initials W. S., which probably stand for the name of the late Mr. William Smith, a gentleman well-known in Dublin literary circles, as the author of many clever parodies which appeared over the _nom de plume_ of "Billy Scribble." Whether these humorous poems have ever been published in a collected form, I cannot say, and I should be glad to receive any information about them.

* * * * *

"THE HALF HUNDRED" (OF COALS).

_A good way after A. Tennyson's "Six Hundred."_

Up the stairs, up the stairs,
Up the stairs, onward!
Joe took, all out of breath,
Coals, half a hundred!
Up he went, still as death,
Lest they had wonder'd
That I, with a cellar large,
Bought by the "Hundred!"

"Forward! the light evade;
Let 'em not know," I said;
"Glide up as still as death,
With the 'Half-hundred!'
Let them be gently laid!
No sound as by earthquake made
When the ground's sunder'd!
You here, if one should spy,
Wondering the reason why?
I with the shame should die!
So crawl up still as death,
With the 'Half-hundred!'"

A cat on the right of him!
Cat on the left of him!
Cat at the front of him!
What if he blunder'd?
Slipt his foot! clean he fell!
Came then a horrid yell!
Joe look'd as pale as death,
As down they came _pell mell_,
All the "Half-hundred!"

Out popt the "party" there!
Wondering what meant that _ere_
Noise on the landing stair!
All stood and wonder'd!
Dust-clouds of coal and coke!
Made them all nearly choke!
Oh! such a dreadful smoke!
As from the second floor
Rolled the "Half-hundred!"

Voices at right of him!
Voices at left of him!
Voices behind him!
Question'd and thunder'd!
Shrunk I into my shell;
Ah! how my grandeur fell!
Knowing that (thought a "swell")
I was thus found to buy
Coals by the "Hundred!"

How does one's glory fade,
When there an end is made
At what the world wonder'd?
Ne'er from my mind will fade
That awkward mess we made,
Of the "Half-hundred!"

JAMES BRUTON.

_(From the Stratford-on-Avon Herald.)_

* * * * *

The following clever parody was given to me, about ten years ago, by a young Scotch friend, who has since gone to New Zealand. I have no clue to the _year_ in which it was written (the day of the month, however, was carefully preserved), nor do I know by _whom_ it was written, nor where it made its first appearance in public. Will any kind correspondent furnish me with information on these points?

THE DOCTOR'S HEAVY BRIGADE.

"They would scarcely believe him when he told them that when in
Thurso, some time ago, he on one occasion saw six hundred people
asleep in a church." Speech of Dr. Guthrie, October 26th.

O'er their devoted heads,
While the law thunder'd,
Snugly and heedlessly
Snored the Six Hundred!
Great was the preacher's theme;
Screw'd on was all the steam;
Neither with shout nor scream
Could he disturb the dream
Of the Six Hundred!

Terrors to right of them!
Terrors to left of them!
Terrors in front of them!
Hell itself plundered!
Of its most awful things,
All those unlawful things.
Weak-minded preacher flings
At the dumb-founder'd!
Boldly he spoke, and well,
All on deaf ears it fell,
Vain was his loudest yell
Volley'd and thundered;
For, caring--the truth to tell,
Neither for Heaven nor Hell,
Snor'd the Six Hundred;

Still, with redoubled zeal,
Still he spoke onward,
And, in a wild appeal,
Striking with hand and heel,
Making the pulpit reel,
Shaken and sundered--
Called them the Church's foes,
Threatened with endless woes,
Faintly the answer rose,
(Proofs of their sweet repose),
From the United Nose
Of the Six Hundred!

L'ENVOY.

Sermons of near an hour,
Too much for human power;
Prayers, too, made to match
(Extemporaneous batch,
Wofully blundered).
With a service of music,
Fit to turn every pew sick,
Should it be wondered?
Churches that will not move
Out of the ancient groove
Through which they floundered.
If they will lag behind,
Still must expect to find
Hearers of such a kind
As the Six Hundred!

* * * * *

THE CHARGE OF THE BLACK BRIGADE.[3]

Half a day, half a day,
Sped the clocks onward,
While in Freemason's Hall
Roared the six hundred!--
Frantic the Black Brigade,
"Charge for the Church!" they said,
In the Freemason's Hall
Roared the six hundred!

Frantic the Black Brigade,
Fearful the row they made,
Some day they'll know too well
How they have blundered.
Theirs not to hear reply,
Theirs throat and lungs to try,
Theirs to bawl "Low" and "High,"
Round the Archbishop's chair
Roared the seven hundred!

Canons to right of him,
Canons to left of him,
Canons in front of him,
Shouted and thundered!
Stormed at with groan and yell,
Really they stood it well,
Till they were out of breath,
Till an Earl tried to quell
Howls by the hundred!

Flustered the laymen's hair;
Flushed all the clergy were;
Scaring the waiters there
Hooting and hissing, while
York's prelate wondered--
Guides of us sinner folk

Precept and law they broke,
Curate and rector spoke,
Dealing the Church a stroke
Shaken and sundered--
Then they divided, and
Lost the six hundred!

Clergy to right of chair,
Clergy to left of chair,
Clergy in front of chair,
Shouted and thundered!
Stamping, with groan and yell,
Past any power to quell,
They who had roared so well
Went blessed, and out of breath,
Back to their flocks to tell
All that was done by them--
Nice fourteen hundred!

When will the scandal fade
Of the wild row they made?
All the world wondered
Why such a noise was made
All by the Church Brigade--
Blind fourteen hundred!

_Punch_, 1868.

* * * * *

AT THE MAGDALEN GROUND.

_Ecce canit formas alius jactusque pilarum._

I.

Drive to the Magdalen Ground;
Soon myself there I found,
Balls flew, and ground boys
After them blundered!
Theirs not at ease to lie,
Theirs but to field, and shy
Balls up and mind their eye;
If they were out of breath,
Who could have wondered?

II.

Balls to the right of me!
Balls to the left of me!
Balls, too, in front of me!
Nearly a hundred!
There stood each cricket swell,
Some of them batted well,
Smacking the balls about;
Seldom their wickets fell;
I stood and wondered!

III.

Thirsty, with elbows bare,
Bowlers were bowling there;
Cricket-balls through the air
Whizzed past their heads the while.
Muchly I wondered
Why no one's head was broke,
For at each mighty stroke
Close past the legs or head
Of some unconscious bloke,
Fast the balls thundered;
Which, had they hit him, would
Limbs have near sundered!

IV.

Balls to the right of me!
Balls to the left of me!
Balls, too, behind me!
Bounded and thundered!
Then came a sudden thwack,
Right on my poor old back,
Earthward I tumbled smack,
Knocked out was all my breath
With this untimely crack;
Whether my bones were smashed,
I lay and wondered.

Ne'er will the memory fade
Of the large bruise it made,
Not if six hundred
Years on this earth I stayed.
Why cricket's ever played,
Often I've wondered!

From _Lays of Modern Oxford, 1874_.

* * * * *

The following is a fair specimen of the Puff Poetical, taken from the _Daily News_ of January, 1878:--

CHARGE OF THE FAIR BRIGADE.

_With the Junior Partner's Apologies to Mr, Tennyson._

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All on the underground line
Rode the six hundred.
Right! cried the guard of the train;
Right! for the Sale, he said,
Into the Terminus then
Glide the six hundred.

Forward the bright brigade!
Was there a heart dismayed,
Not tho' it seemed too true
Someone had fainted.
Their's not to call a fly,
Aldgate, the station nigh;
Their's but to try and buy,
Into the premises
Came the six hundred.

Counters to right of them,
Counters to left of them,
Counters in front of them,
Dighted and lumbered;
Greeted with chair and grace
Boldly they entered apace,
Into the matter fain,
Into the "Sale" amain
Went the six hundred.

Flash'd all their note-books fair,
Flash'd all the pencils there,
Noting with all due care.
Purchases rich and rare,
All the world wondered;
Plunged in the "Hibernum Sale,"
Pleased with each neat detail;
Silken and Linen
Metre and yard-stick fail
Almost to measure.
Then they hark back, but not--
Not unencumbered.

Counters to right of them,
Counters to left of them,
Counters behind them
Piled up with wonders;
Offered some bargains rare,
Mute with a great despair
They that had bought so well
Came from the "Tempus" Sale
Tired and deadly pale,
Weary six hundred.

When can their gladness fade?
O! the good time they had!
All the world wondered.
Honour the "parcels made;"
Honour the Drapers' Trade,
Noble six hundred.

* * * * *

THE CHARGE OF THE "BUSTLE."

Forward the Big Bustle!
Down the long street rustle,
Sweeping the street Arab
Into the gutter;
Swells to the right of it,
Swells to the left of it.
Cane, stick, and eyeglass,
All in a flutter!

Loud cries the errand-boy,
"Big Bustle there, ahoy!"
And the respectable
Citizens stare--
Reckless of every one,
On goes the "haughty one,"
Sweeping past houses,
Terrace and square.

But look, the low'ring sky
Portends a storm is nigh;
While men on all sides
Gallantly throng;
Swells to the right of it,
Swells to the left of it,
Blue Bustle charges,
Sweeping along.

Ah, 'tis a rainy day!
Streams flood the muddy way,
And the fair ornament
Cheeky cads hustle;
Homeward it now retreats,
Flies from the crowded streets,
Safe at last! ah, but not--
_Not the same Bustle!_

_Judy_, 17th April 1872.

* * * * *

OUR BOYS.

On the occasion of the Six Hundredth performance of this most successful comedy at the Vaudeville Theatre, the following verses were composed:--

Keep the league! keep the league,
Keep our league onward!
We twain have "run" a piece
Nights now Six Hundred.

Though but a light brigade,
Not such "great guns" 'tis said.
Yet we a play have played
Nights full Six Hundred!

"Here's your piece," Byron said,
"Take it friends, undismayed,"
So we did, for we knew
Seldom he's blundered!
Ours not to talk, but buy,
Ours but to act (or try!)
How fared the Comedy!
Into two years we've run,
Nights now Six Hundred.

Prophets to right of us,
Prophets to left of us,
Prophets in front of us,
Volleyed and thundered!
Wiseacre shot and shell,
"May, for a time, do well!"
Ne'er, in their jaws (so right!)
Ne'er in their mouths that night
Boded Six Hundred.

"Flashy! a thing of air!
Flashy! but very fair!"
So said these wonders there,
Stage-wise alarmists! while
All who of fun'd heard,
Crushed in the groaning pit.
Fought thro', fought bit by bit!
Coster and Nobleman
Laughed at the same old hit,
Laughed at, and wondered,
Thought of that night, but not
Dreamed of Six Hundred!

Dresses wore spite of us,
Scenes waned each night of us,
Stitches made light of us,
Severed and sundered;
Summers on "houses" tell,
"Business," tho', never fell,
Everything turned out well,
So, we are playing still,
Playing each night with will,
All that is left of us
After Six Hundred!

When shall this fortune fade?
No increased charge we've made
(Herein we blundered!)
Thanks to all, true as steel!
Thanks to the Public, we'll
Double Six Hundred.

These stanzas, which bore the signature of Mr. Robert Reece, were circulated among the audience, but were not spoken from the stage.

The extraordinary run of _Our Boys_, which closed in April, 1879, will long excite the curiosity and wonder of the theatrical world. Mr. Byron's comedy was produced January 16, 1875, and was played continuously for four years three months and three days. This would allow about 1,321 nights, but extra day representations have raised the total number of performances to 1,362. Besides this return the "long runs" of previous days were completely dwarfed. When _Our American Cousin_ was brought out at the Haymarket it ran for 496 nights, and the _Colleen Bawn_ went 278; _Meg's Diversion_, 330; and _School_ 381 nights respectively.

* * * * *

"_Apropos_ of the vote for six millions," said _The Globe_, "Mr.
Gladstone, in his speech, protested against many of the attacks
which had been levelled at him during the debate, and he threatened
Mr. Chaplin in particular with his vengeance upon some future
occasion, and he quoted, amid the laughter of the House, some
doggerel verses which had been sent to him in reference to the
vote." These lines, parodying 'The Charge of the Light Brigade,' ran
thus:--

"Ring out your battle cry--
Vote us our war supply,
This must we do or die--
Vote the six millions.
Theirs not to reason why,
Ours not to make reply,
Ours but to say 'You lie'--
Vote the six millions."

* * * * *

THE CHARGE OF THE "RAD." BRIGADE.

(After Mr. Tennyson's "Charge of the Light Brigade".)

By the League, by the League, by the League onward,
Into the Commons' House went the three hundred.
Forward the "Rad." Brigade! "Pass this Bill quick!" he said.
Into the Commons' House went the three hundred.

Forward the "Rad." Brigade! Who is a whit afraid?
What tho' the Tories say we have all blundered?
Theirs but to moan and cry--let Jemmy Lowther sigh, and ask Sir
Stafford "Why?"
Into the Commons' House went the three hundred.

Leaguers to right of them, Whiggites to left of them,
Tories in front of them, shouted and thundered.
Stormed at with hoot and yell, while weak-kneed Lib'rals fell,
Into the lobby drear, into the House pell-mell, rushed the
three hundred;

Flashed all their tongues quite bare, each one his speech to air,
Crushing the Leaguers there, dishing the Tories while Salisbury
wondered.
Plunged in the hot debate, those who the rules had broke--
Parnell and Dillon--reeled from brave Gladstone's stroke shattered
and sundered;
Then they went out, but not--not the three hundred.

Leaguers to right of them, Whigs on the left of them,
Tories behind them, stamped, roared, and thundered,
Stormed at with hoot and yell, while many a weak one fell,
They that had voted well came from the lobby back, back to the House
pell-mell--
All that was left of the happy three hundred.

When will they e'er be paid? Oh, the grand vote they gave!
Salisbury wondered!
Honour the vote they gave! Long live the "Rad." Brigade!
Gladstone's three hundred.

25th June, 1882. J. ARTHUR ELLIOTT.

* * * * *

A LAY OF THE LAW COURTS.

Being the experience of Officials, Counsel, Clients, Witnesses, and all who do their business in the Great Legal Maze. With apologies to the Poet Laureate.

* * * * *

Up the stairs, down the stairs,
Farther and farther yet;
Here we come out of breath,
Flustered and sundered.

Barriers to right of us,
Barriers to left of us,
Barriers in front of us!
Bad words we thundered.

Most doors are barred and locked,
All sense of safety shocked;
Why is our business blocked
By those who blundered?

Back to the charge we're led;
Corridors dark we tread;
Had we gone heels o'er head
Who could have wondered?

No friend to say "Beware!"
No warning, "Pray, take care!"
Each step another snare!
If one, there's five hundred.

Ours not to make reply;
Ours not to reason why;
Still we may raise the cry,
Some one has blundered!

_Funny Folks_, 1883.

* * * * *

THE LATEST CHARGE.

[At a meeting in Ireland recently, when Mr. Biggar got up to speak, six hundred ladies rose and quitted the room.]

On their legs, on their legs,
On their legs onward,
All with face pale as death
Rose the Six hundred.
How dare he show his head?
"Rush from the wretch!" they said.
Straight to the street beneath
Strode the Six Hundred.

Forward the fair brigade,
No woman there dismayed.
Not though each fair one knew
Biggar had blundered.
His not to reason why,
His not to make reply,
Best take his hat and fly,
When with rage out of breath
Rushed the Six Hundred.

Married to right of him,
Single to left of him,
Widows in front of him
Volleyed and thundered.
No storm of shot and shell
E'er silenced man so well.
Joe! ne'er his tale shall tell
When near an Irish belle--
Noble Six Hundred!

_Funny Folks_, January 1884.

_The Nineteenth Century_, March 1878, contained a poem entitled--

THE REVENGE.

_A Ballad of the Fleet._

I.

At FLORES, in the Azores, Sir Richard Grenville lay,
And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away:
"Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!"
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard; "'Fore God I am no coward;
But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear,
And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick.
We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?"

* * * * *

The rugged metre, and the exaggerated national sentiment of this ballad were thus amusingly parodied:--

RETRIBUTION--A XIXTH CENTURY BALLAD OF THE SLOE.

_By the Author of "Vengeance, a Ballad of the Fleet."_

At his chambers in the Albany Sir Richard Tankard lay,
And a missive, like brown buttered toast, was brought him on a tray;
"Come, drink my Spanish wine--fifty dozen, all is thine,
And bring your friends with you, we'll drink till all is blue."

Then sware Lord Thomas Drunker: "By jingo, I'm no funker;
But I cannot go, I fear, for my liver's out of gear,
And my head feels like to burst, and I only slake my thirst
With Apollinaris water, for I dare not touch port wine."

Then spake Sir Richard Tankard, "I know you are no funker,
And fly wine for a moment to return to it again,
But my liver and my brain are free from ache and pain.
I should count myself the funker if I left them, my Lord Drunker,
Unsatisfied, and craving for the purple wine of Spain."

He called his friends together to go with him and dine.
He told them of the telegram that told him of the wine.

"We will go for we are dry;
Good Sir Richard, we are thine,
And the vintage we will try.

If good there will be little left ere morrow's sun be set!"
And Sir Richard said again, "We be all good Englishmen;
Let us empty all the bottles down our sturdy British throttles,
For I never turned my back upon glass or bottle yet."

Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roared a hurrah, and so,
Like true-born sturdy Englishmen, we all of us would go.
And found the wine all laid along the floor in many a row,
And half was laid on the right-hand side, and half on the left was
seen,
And the table, like the white sea foam, ran down the room between.

The dim eyes of the waiters winked with an inward laugh;
They seemed to mock the notion that we the wine would quaff.
But as the night was waning they watched the rows grow small,
And whispered to each other, "I bet they'll drink it all!"
For the wine was flowing swiftly down, as a cataract might be
When it leaps from a mountain to the sea!

And the moon went down and the stars came out o'er the smoky London
town;
And never a moment ceased the flow of the purple liquor down!
Glass after glass, the whole night long, the mighty magnums went,
And bottle after bottle was away from the table sent.

"Dead men," as in a battle field, lay strewn upon the floor,
But still there was no cry of "Hold!" but constant shouts for "more!"
For he said, "Drink on, drink on!"
Though he scarce could lift his hand.

And it chanced when more than half of the summer night was gone
That he rose up on his feet and tried to stand,
But he sunk into his chair, and lay back grinning there,
And close up to his side we stept,
Then--the rule in such a case--we cork'd him on the face,
And he fell upon the floor, and he slept.

So pass'd we all, and when we woke each knew of a heavy head,
For not a soul of all of us had found the way to bed!
And a tempest of indignation swept over our surging brains,
That we could be floored by vintage, ay, ev'n of a hundred Spains!

"It never was PORT"! we cried, and so we tasted it once again--'twas
SLOE!
Vile SLOE, with all our might, we had drunk for half the night!
And brave Sir Richard Tankard said, "Boys, although we drank hard,
'Tis SLOE-JUICE, and not Spanish wine, is giving us such pains!"
Then in a sink, that day, we poured the rest away,
To be lost evermore in the drains.

On the 15th March, 1882, at one of the London Ballad Concerts, Mr. Santley sang, for the first time, a patriotic song, written by Alfred Tennyson, the music composed by Mr. C. V. Stanford. This song was announced with much ceremony as a new work, whereas it was simply an abbreviated, and somewhat modified, arrangement of a poem in five verses, entitled _Hands all Round_, which had appeared in the _Examiner_ in 1852, over the signature _Merlin_. The song did not arouse any enthusiasm, and is now only memorable for the offence its chorus gave to the temperance party. The first verse is quoted to illustrate the parodies:--

"First pledge our Queen, my friends, and then
A health to England, every guest;
He best will serve the race of men
Who loves his native country best!
May freedom's oak for ever last,
With larger life from day to day;
He loves the present and the past
Who lops the moulder'd branch away.
Hands all round! God the traitor's hope confound!
To the great cause of Freedom, drink my friends,
And the great name of England round and round."

On this poem getting into the papers, the Good Templars attached far too much importance to it, and wrote to remonstrate with the Poet Laureate. The following reply was sent to Mr. Malins, the Chief Templar:--

"86, Eaton-square, London,--Sir,--My father begs to thank the
Committee of the Executive of the Grand Lodge of England Good
Templars for their resolution. No one honours more highly the good
work done by them than my father. I must, however, ask you to
remember that the common cup has in all ages been employed as a
sacred symbol of unity, and that my father has only used the word
'drink' in reference to this symbol. I much regret that it should
have been otherwise understood.--Faithfully yours, HALLAM TENNYSON."

The following parody, adverting to this correspondence, appeared in _Punch_, April 1, 1882:--

SLOPS ALL ROUND!

_Tennyson Teetotalised._

[The Manchester Good Templars having expostulated with the Poet Laureate for countenancing "in his latest so-called patriotic song, _Hands all Round_," the heathen and intoxicating custom of drinking toasts (in anything stronger than toast and water) it is understood that the conscience-stricken Bard has prepared the following "revised version" for the special use of the I. O. G. T's.]

FIRST pledge the Alliance, friends, and then
A health to WILFRID, champion dear!
He honours best that best of men
Who drinks his health in ginger-beer.
May LAWSON'S jokes for ever live,
With washier shine from day to day,
He's Freedom true Conservative,
Who Zoedone imbibes alway.
Slops all round!
Heaven the Wittler's hopes confound!
To the great cause Teetotal, swig my friends,
And the great name of LAWSON round and round!

To Local Optionists who long
To hold the land in leading-strings,
By boldly banning liquors strong,
For lemonade and such sweet things.
To all who 'neath our watery skies,
Would English wits with water whelm,
To Toastandwaterdom's swift rise,
Till the Good Templar rules the realm,
Slops all round!
Heaven the Wittler's hopes confound!
To the great cause Teetotal swig, my friends,
And the great name of LAWSON round and round!

To all our Statesmen, so they be
Forwarders of our League's desire,
To both our Houses, if with glee
They'll quench, in water, Freedom's fire,
What odds though Freedom's flag _should_ sink,
Whilst high the Temperance banner waves?
Shall Britons bondsmen be to Drink
Through fear of being Slopdom's slaves?
Slops all round!
Heaven the Wittlers' hopes confound!
To the great cause Teetotal swig, my friends,
And the great name of LAWSON round and round!

* * * * *

DRINKS ALL ROUND.

(Being an attempt to arrange Mr. Tennyson's noble words for truly Patriotic, Protectionist, and Anti-Aboriginal Circles):--

A health to Jingo first, and then
A health to shell, a health to shot!
The man who hates not other men
I deem no perfect patriot!
To all who hold all England mad
We drink; to all who'd tax her food!
We pledge the man who hates the Rad!
We drink to Bartle Frere and Froude!
Drinks all round! Here's to Jingo, King and crowned!
To the great cause of Jingo drink, my boys,
And the great name of Jingo round and round!

To all the Companies that long
To rob as folk robbed years ago;
To all that wield the double thong,
From Queensland round to Borneo!
To all that, under Indian skies,
Call Aryan man "a blasted nigger;"
To all rapacious enterprise;
To rigour everywhere, and vigour!--
Drinks all round! Here's to Jingo, King and crowned!
To the great name of Jingo drink, my boys,
And every filibuster round and round!

To all our statesmen, while they see
An outlet new for British trade,
Where British fabrics still may be
With British size all overweighed!
Wherever gin and guns are sold
We've scooped the artless nigger in;
Where men give ivory and gold,
We give them measles, tracts, and gin!
Drinks all round! Here's to Jingo, King and crowned!
To the great name of Jingo drink, my boys,
And to Adulteration, round and round.

From _The Daily News_, March 17, 1882.

* * * * *

THE LAUREATE'S LAST LYRIC; OR, NORTHAMPTON' FREEMEN.

Come! pledge Northampton, friends, and then
A health to Freemen's every guest;
He best will serve the race of men
Who loves his country's freedom best!
May Freedom's reign for ever last,
With wider bounds from day to day;
He loves the present, not the past,
Who breaks the tyrant's chain away!

CHORUS--Hands all round! All despotic laws confound!
Northampton's Freemen, cheer, my friends,
The hope of Britain round and sound!

To all the British hearts, who long
Will keep their heart of freedom whole--
To all our noble sons, the strong
Of British birth--the men of soul
Who rise against coercive wrong,
That drags "suspects" untried to gaol,
While starving thousands in the realm.
Oh! burst the prison of the "Pale."
Whatever statesman holds the helm.

CHORUS--Hands all round! All despotic laws confound!
Northampton's Freemen, cheer, my friends,
The hope of Britain round and sound!

To all our statesmen who for Right,
Are leaders at the land's desire;
Nor bend nor aid the force of Might,
That gags free speech to quench the fire
That burns to make the people great,
In thought and deed on every hand.
We freedom gave the mighty State,
But lack it in our native land!

CHORUS--Hands all round! All despotic laws confound!
Northampton's Freemen, cheer, my friends,
The hope of Britain round and sound!

June 1882. E. T. CRAIG.

* * * * *

Tennyson's blank verse has seldom been more successfully imitated than in _The Very Last Idyll_, written by Shirley Brooks for "Punch's Pocket Book," it concludes thus:--

"And the blameless king,
Rising again (to Lancelot's discontent,
Who held all speeches a tremendous bore),
Said, "If one duty to be done remains,
And 'tis neglected, all the rest is nought
But Dead Sea apples and the acts of apes."
Smiled Guinevere, and begged him not to preach;
She knew that duty, and it should be done:
So what of pudding on that festal night
Was not consumed by Arthur and his guests,
The queen upon the following morning, fried."

In a similar strain, but more ponderous in treatment is _Sir Tray: an Arthurian Idyll_, which appeared in Blackwood's Magazine for January, 1873. A few of the opening lines betray the whole of the jest:--

"The widow'd dame of Hubbard's ancient line
Turned to her cupboard, cornered anglewise
Betwixt this wall and that, in quest of aught
To satisfy the craving of Sir Tray,
Prick-eared companion of her solitude,
Red-spotted, dirty white, and bare of rib,
Who followed at her high and pattering heels,
Prayer in his eye, prayer in his slinking gait,
Prayer in his pendulous pulsating tail.
Wide on its creaking jaws revolved the door,
The cupboard yawned, deep throated, thinly set
For teeth, with bottles, ancient cannisters,
And plates of various pattern, blue or white;
Deep in the void she thrust her hookèd nose
Peering near sighted for the wished-for bone,
Whiles her short robe of samite, tilted high,
The thrifty darnings of her hose revealed;--
The pointed feature travelled o'er the delf,
Greasing its tip, but bone or bread found none.
Wherefore Sir Tray abode still dinnerless,
Licking his paws beneath the spinning-wheel,
And meditating much on savoury meats."

The hypercritical might object that, inasmuch as the dame greased the tip of her nose whilst peering into the recesses of her store-chamber, that some small rest of edibles was there, but the poem hurries on to its tragical climax, and carries the reader breathless past such trivial objections as these.

The dame passes out, and swiftly down the streets of Camelot, where she seeks, and finds, the needed bread, and hastens back--but all too late, alas! for Sir Tray lay prone upon the hearth, and neither breathed nor stirred:--

"Dead?" said the Dame, while louder wailed Elaine;
"I see," she said, "thy fasts were all too long,
Thy commons all too short, which shortened thus
Thy days, tho' thou mightst still have cheered mine age
Had I but timelier to the city wonned.
Thither I must again, and that right soon,
For now 'tis meet we lap thee in a shroud,
And lay thee in the vault by Astolat,
Where faithful Tray shall by Sir Hubbard lie."

Up a by-lane the undertaker dwelt;
There day by day he plied his merry trade,
And all his undertakings undertook:
Erst knight of Arthur's Court, _Sir Waldgrave_ hight,
A gruesome carle who hid his jests in gloom,
And schooled his lid to counterfeit a tear.
With cheerful hammer he a coffin tapt,
While hollow, hollow, hollow rang the wood,
And, as he sawed and hammered, thus he sang--

Wood, hammer, nails, ye build a house for him,
Nails, hammer, wood, ye build a house for me,
Paying the rent, the taxes, and the rates.

I plant a human acorn in the ground,
And therefrom straightway springs a goodly tree,
Budding for me in bread and beer and beef.

O Life, dost thou bring Death or Death bring thee?
Which of the twain is bringer, which the brought?
Since men must die that other men may live.

O Death, for me thou plump'st thine hollow cheeks,
Mak'st of thine antic grin a pleasant smile,
And prank'st full gaily in thy winding sheet.

Yet am I but the henwife's favourite chick,
Pampered but doomed; and, in the sequel sure,
Death will the Undertaker overtake."

Thus to Sir Waldgrade the Dame recounts her loss:--

"Sir Tray that with me dwelt,
Lies on my lonely hearthstone stark and stiff;
Wagless the tail that waved to welcome me."

Here Waldgrave interposed in sepulchral tones--

"Oft have I noted, when the jest went round,
Sad 'twas to see the wag forget his tale--
Sadder to see the tail forget its wag."

The description of the coffin follows, and, lastly, after sundry vicissitudes (including a visit to the hatter's), the dame returned--

"Home through the darksome wold, and raised the latch,
And marked, full lighted by the ingle-glow,
Sir Tray, with spoon in hand, and cat on knee,
Spattering the mess about the chaps of Puss."

* * * * *

SIR EGGNOGG.

Forth from the purple battlements he fared,
Sir Eggnogg of the Rampant Lily, named
From that embrasure of his argent shield
Given by a thousand leagues of heraldry
On snuffy parchments drawn,--so forth he fared,
By bosky boles and autumn leaves he fared,
Where grew the juniper with berries black,
The sphery mansions of the future gin.
But naught of this decoyed his mind, so bent
On fair Miasma, Saxon-blooded girl,
Who laughed his loving lullabies to scorn,
And would have snatched his hero-sword to deck
Her haughty brow, or warm her hands withal,
So scornful she: and thence Sir Eggnogg cursed
Between his teeth, and chewed his iron boots
In spleen of love. But ere the morn was high
In the robustious heaven, the postern-tower
Clang to the harsh, discordant, slivering scream
Of the tire-woman, at the window bent
To dress her crispèd hair. She saw, ah woe!
The fair Miasma, overbalanced, hurled
O'er the flamboyant parapet which ridged
The muffled coping of the castle's peak,
Prone on the ivory pavement of the court,
Which caught and cleft her fairest skull, and sent
Her rosy brains to fleck the Orient floor.
This saw Sir Eggnogg, in his stirrups poised,
Saw he and cursed, with many a deep-mouthed oath,
And, finding nothing more could reunite
The splintered form of fair Miasma, rode
On his careering palfrey to the wars,
And there found death, another death than hers.

From _Diversions of the Echo Club_.

* * * * *

The following is from the _St. James's Gazette_, January 14, 1881.

THE PLAYERS.

_A Lawn Tennisonian Idyl._

I, who a decade past had lived recluse,
Left for awhile the dust of books and town
To share the pastimes of a country house;
And thus it chanced that I beheld a scene
That steep'd my rusted mind in wonderment.
The morn was passing fair; no vagrant cloud
Obscured the summer sun, as from the porch
I sallied forth to saunter at my will
Adown the garden path. Anon I came
To where a lawn outspread its verdant robe,
Whose decoration filled me with amaze.
Lawns many had I seen in days gone by,
But never lawn before the like of this;
For o'er its grassy plane a strange device
Of parallelograms rectangular
Was limn'd in lines of most exceeding whiteness:
Athwart the centre of this strange device
A threaden net was stretch'd a full yard high,
And clasp'd in its reticulated arms,
As ivy clasps the oak, two sturdy staves
Uprear'd on either side. At either end,
Holding opposing corners of the field,
A youth and damsel did themselves disport
In costume airy, mystic, wonderful;
The while in dexter hand each held a quaint
And spoon-shaped instrument of chequer'd strings--
Modell'd perchance, upon an ancient lute--
Wherewith they nimbly urged the bounding sphere
Across the meshy bar.

No space had I
To ponder, ere they spied me and did call
A welcome--"Hast thou come to see us play?"
"What is the game?" I ask'd; they answer'd "Love."
"A pretty game," quoth I, "for man or maid,
But one wherein a third is out of place;
Fain would I therefore go." "Nay, nay," they cried;
"Prithee remain, and thou shalt stand as umpire."
And so I stay'd, and presently besought
To know their prospects. Then the maiden said,
"I'm fifteen now;" the gallant, he replied,
"And thirty, I." Whereon methought at first
That he did somewhat overstate his case,
Though she seem'd rather underneath the mark.
But when they said that she was thirty-two,
And, next, that he was forty, I perceived
They told of other things than length of years;
Since mortals' ages, e'en at census time,
Could scarce be subject to such fluctuations.
Thus did they wage the contest, hither, thither
Running and smiting, till triumphantly
The damsel shouted, "Deuce!" Alas! mused I,
That lips so fair should utter words so base,
Yet would have held my peace, had not the youth
Turn'd unto me--"How's that; was that a fault?"
"A fault!" I answer'd; "aye, and worse than that;
Indeed, 'tis nigh a sin." "Go to," he said;
"Thou makest merry." So the sport went on;
And then she cried, "Advantage, and I win!"
And then, "'Tis deuce again!" and then, "Advantage
To thee!" and then she strove to reach the ball,
And fail'd, and in despair exclaim'd, "Oh, dear,
I'm beaten!" and fell back upon the sward.
"And this," quoth I, "is this your game of love?
Well, I have heard men say that oftentimes
True love, once smooth, is scattered to the deuce
And she that first advantage hath obtain'd,
Doth lose at last, and suffer sad reverse.
Sweet maid, when thou art wed, the deuce avoid,
And thou shalt ne'er at least deserve a beating."
She laugh'd; he frown'd; I turn'd, and went my way.

* * * * *

Notwithstanding the care Tennyson has usually bestowed upon his writings, he has occasionally of late years, published poems in the magazines, remarkable for their inferiority--even as compared with ordinary magazine poetry--by no means a very high standard. Perhaps he never wrote a weaker set of lines than those printed in "Good Words" for March, 1868, they were headed--

1865-1866.

I stood on a tower in the wet,
And New Year and Old Year met,
And winds were roaring and blowing;
And I said, "O years! that meet in tears,
Have ye aught that is worth the knowing?"
Science enough and exploring,
Wanderers coming and going;
Matter enough for deploring,
But aught that is worth the knowing?
Seas at my feet were flowing,
Waves on the shingle pouring;
Old Year roaring and blowing,
And New Year blowing and roaring.

The following parody, which appeared shortly afterwards, is scarcely inferior to the Laureate's lines.--

1867-1868.

I sat in a 'bus in the wet,
"Good Words" I had happened to get,
With Tennyson's last bestowing;
And I said, "O bard! who works so hard,
Have ye aught that is worth the knowing?"

Verses enough and so boring,
Twaddle quite overflowing,
Rubbish enough for deploring;
But aught that is worth the knowing?
Placards on walls were glowing,
Puffs in the papers pouring,
"Good Words" roaring and blowing,
"Once a Week" blowing and roaring!

Or, "another way," as the cookery books say--

A PARODY,

_After Tennyson's Last._

TENNYSON stood in the wet,
And he and his publishers met,
His publishers cursing and swearing,
And they said "O Tennyson tell us,
Have you anything good to sell us,
The public mind it enrages,
To read such bosh by pages,
'The Victim' was little better,
And oh! that 'Spiteful Letter.'"
They spoke, their poor hair tearing,
TENNYSON poems rehearsing,
Publishers cursing and swearing,
TENNYSON swearing and cursing.

* * * * *

"The Victim," above referred to, which also had appeared in "Good Words," was the subject of the following witty parody, in which the versification of the original is closely imitated:--

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: The song in _Enid_, here alluded to, runs thus:--

Turn, fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud;
Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm and cloud;
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

* * * * *

Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands;
Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands;
For man is man and master of his fate.

Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd;
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud;
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.
]

[Footnote 2: A room for each man, and plenty of excellent provisions were amongst the inducements held out to the deluded victims who enlisted in the Papal Brigade to fight against Italian unity.]

[Footnote 3: _Apropos_ of the clamorous meeting of the Clergy, in Freemason's Hall, December, 1868, the Archbishop of York in the Chair. 1439 votes were recorded at the division.]

"THE VICTIM."

NOT _by Alfred Tennyson, Poet Laureate_,

(See _Good Words_, January 1, 1868).

I.

A plague upon the people fell,
A plague of writers high and low,
There were some wrote ill, and some wrote well,
And the Novel, the Novel was all the go;
But the people tired of what they admired,
And they said to the Editors one and all,
'We have had enough of sensation stuff,
So give us a change, be it great or small'--
And the Editors paled
As they heard the throng--
What would you have of us?
Poem or Song?
Were it the queerest,
Were it the dearest
Money can purchase,
We'll give you a Song.

II.

But still the plague spread far and wide,
Bad novels were written and bought and read,
In which handsome wives took their husbands' lives,
And maidens behaved as if they were wed:
So the people stormed and some of them swore,
'"Good Words" they butter no parsnips, no;
So give us a song, both sweet and strong,
Or you or your magazines may go--
To Jericho!'--
Or was it Hong Kong?
'Were it the queerest,
Were it the dearest,
We'll give them a song.'

III.

The Editors went through 'The Men of the Time,'
'Including the Women,' with eager look,
Through the men and women who dabble in rhyme,
Whose names are inscribed in that golden book.
'Oh! who shall we get to sing to "the Beast"?
To sing to the Beast a deathless song?'--
'Till they came to Tupper, the great High Priest--
_Proverbially_ the worst of the throng.
And their hearts exulted
A moment or two:--
'_His_ were the queerest,
But we've promised the _dearest_,
Tupper won't do!'

IV.

Again they looked for a bard divine.
'Here's one,' they exclaimed, 'should be preferred
A poet the half of whose name is _Swine_,
Is fittest to sing to the swinish herd.
But _Swine_ and _burn_ suggest in their turn
Ideas a little too gross and warm;
And a poet who writes of hermaphrodites
Is scarcely the man to weather the storm.
So Swineburne, too,
Won't do, won't do!
What's to be done
With the raging throng?
We can't have the queerest,
We'll pay for the dearest:
Give us a song!'

V.

The cry went forth o'er cities and towns;
It tickled the ears of the men who write;
It leaped from the land and over the downs,
And flew like wind through the Isle of Wight:
There Tennyson sat in his wide-awake hat,
Or smoked and strolled on his 'sponge-wet' grounds;
'_I_'ll give them a song not over long--
I'll give them a song for two hundred pounds.'
How happy, how happy,
The Editors grew!
'Were it the merest
Trash, 'tis the _dearest_,
And therefore will do.'

VI.

The poet wrote the poem I quote,
'The Victim,' whose life the priests would destroy
But the Editor knows ere now, I suppose,
That _he_ is the victim, and not the boy:
'Tis he must _bleed_ for this rhythmic deed
And ever for more, as the public cry,
May Alfred the Great--the Laureate--
Shriek out 'the _dearest_, the _dearest_ am I!'
And the public are happy,
And so they ought;
For to them doth belong,
If not the sincerest
Outburst of song
That ever was thought,
At least the dearest
That ever was bought.

January 27, 1868, "M."
_Dublin Paper_.

Tennyson's _The Victim_ was curiously anticipated by _The Prophet Enoch_, a poem by James Burton Robertson (London, James Blackwood, 1860), in which the following passage occurs:--

"'One victim more!' a thousand voices cry;
'One victim more!' resounds the cave of gloom.
Lo! borne on lofty car, 'mid savage cries
Of a wild band, a costlier victim comes.
It is a lovely stripling, o'er whose cheek
Youth hath her earliest purple bloom suffused:
In rich luxuriant curls his locks descend,
Twined with the fatal flowers that sweetly mock
The victim they adorn. Wild with despair,
His shrieking mother grasps the iron wheel
Of the inexorable car: she spurns
The fierce rebukes, or menace of the throng,
To catch the last glimpse of her darling boy.
'Ah! spare my son; shed mine own blood instead:
My life may satisfy your vengeful gods!'"
Exclaims the hapless matron, but in vain.

* * * * *

THE THREE COURSES OF ACHILLES.

Mr. Gladstone's fondness for Homer is well known, and he was doubtless one of the first to read the Laureate's lines in the _Nineteenth Century_, called "Achilles Over the Trench." This Trojan hero will now be dearer than ever to the Premier, for the Laureate's lines show him to be a man strangely after the "People's William's" own heart. Thus, it is matter of public notoriety that Mr. Gladstone thinks thrice before he makes his mind up to any great matter, and he is famed for his historic "three courses." How curious, then, to find that Achilles, too, has what may be termed a "triologic" bent of mind! Evidently it was not till he had thought thrice that he remained sulking in his tent. And when he came out and fought, we find, from Alfred Tennyson, that--

"Thrice from the dyke he sent his mighty shout,
Thrice backward reel'd the Trojans and allies."

The fragment of verse is incomplete, but we have little doubt that when we see it complete, we shall read something of this kind:--

"Thrice rolled his glowing eye, with fury fired,
And thrice his spear leapt forward at the foe;
Whilst as the sinking sun proclaimed it three,
He thrice imbued it in the Trojan's blood.
Then stood he where three stones were rudely piled,
And thrice he thought what next his course should be;
Thrice wiped the triple tears that dewed his cheek,
Thrice muttered words I care not to repeat;
Then murmuring his mother's name three times,
Made up his mind to slaughter three more foes.
So thrice again his spear was launched in space,
And three miles off, within Troy's triple walls,
Three widows, each with children three, were left
To mourn that he, Achilles, had not thought
Four times that afternoon instead of three."

From _Funny Folks_.

* * * * *

UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY.

_An Experiment._

(A parody of the _Lord of Burleigh_.)

When he whispers, "O, Miss Bailey,
Thou art brightest of the throng!"
She makes murmur, softly, gaily--
"Alfred, I have loved thee long."

Then he drops upon his knees, a
Proof his heart is soft as wax;
She's--I don't know who; but he's a
Captain bold from Halifax.

Though so loving, such another
Artless bride was never seen;
Coachee thinks that she's his mother--
Till they get to Gretna Green.

There they stand by him attended,
Hear the sable smith rehearse
That which links them, when 'tis ended,
Tight for better or for worse.

Now her heart rejoices--ugly
Troubles need disturb her less--
Now the Happy Pair are snugly
Seated in the night express.

So they go with fond emotion,
So they journey through the night;
London is their land of Goschen--
See its suburbs are in sight!

Hark, the sound of life is swelling,
Pacing up, and racing down;
Soon they reach her simple dwelling--
Burley-street, by Somers Town.

What is there to so astound them?
She cries "Oh!" for he cries "Hah!"
When five brats emerge--confound them!
Shouting out, "MAMMA!"--"PAPA!"

While at this he wonders blindly,
Nor their meaning can divine,
Proud she turns them round, and kindly,
"All of these are mine and thine!"

* * * * *

Here he pines and grows dyspeptic,
Losing heart he loses pith--
Hints that Bishop Tait's a sceptic,
Swears that Moses was a myth.

Sees no evidence in Paley,
Takes to drinking ratafia:
Shies the muffins at Miss Bailey,
While she's pouring out the tea.

One day, knocking up his quarters,
Poor Miss Bailey found him dead,
Hanging in his knotted garters,
Which she knitted ere they wed.

FREDERICK LOCKER.

* * * * *

In Memoriam.

£ S. D.

"_Abiit ad plures._"

BADEN-BADEN, MDCCCLXVIII.

I.

I HOLD it truth, with him who rings
His money on a testing stone
To judge its goodness by its tone,
That gold will buy all other things.

It hides the ravages of years;
It gilds the matrimonial match;
It makes deformity "a catch;"
And dries the sorrowing widow's tears.

Let love grasp cash, lest both be drowned;
Let Mammon keep his gilded gloss;
Ah, easier far to bear the loss
Of love, than of a thousand pound!

Let not the victor say with scorn,
While of his winnings he may boast,
"Behold the man who played and lost,
And now is weak and overworn."

* * * * *

II.

O, Fortune, fickle as the breeze!
O, Temptress, at the shrine of gain!
O, sweet and bitter!--all in vain
I come to thee for monied ease!

"The chances surely run," she says;
But prick the series with a pin;
Mark well; and then go in and win!--
Or lose! for there are but two ways.

And still the phantom, Fortune, stands
And sings with siren silvery tone;
Music that I may reach alone
With empty purse and empty hands!

And shall I still this fickle fair
With constant energies pursue?
Or do as other people do--
Escape the tangles of her hair?

* * * * *

XXVII.

I envy not in any mood
The mortal void of Mammon's lust,
Who never to a chance will trust,
And never Fortune's favours woo'd.

I envy not the plodding boor,
Whose stupid ignorant content
Cares not if odds on an event
Are 2 to 1 or 10 to 4.

Nor him who counts himself as blest,
And says, "I take the wiser way,
Because for love alone I play,
So gambling never breaks my rest."

I hold it true, whate'er befall,
I feel it when I lose the most,
'Tis better to have play'd and lost
Than never to have played at all.

(Name of Author not known).

* * * * *

PUNCH TO SALISBURY.

I hold it true, whate'er befall,
Though Jingo bounce and patriot rail,
'Twere better far to meet and fail,
Than never try to meet at all.

* * * * *

THE RINKER'S SOLACE.

I hold it true whoe'er may fall,
I _feel_ it when I tumble most,
'Tis better to have rinked and lost
Than never to have rinked at all.

_Tennyson_ (revised).

* * * * *

BEHIND TIME.

She looked quite cross--her face had not
The smile that once lured one and all,
While waiting at that seaside spot
For him she loved;--divinely tall;
Her sloe-black eyes showed restless change,
Small sparks of anger you might catch,
And yet those eyes you could not match,
Were you throughout the world to range,
"Alas! I'm getting weary, weary--
Waiting here for Fred;
He said he'd take me sailing--query?
He's not come yet," she said.

"He asked me when we met last night,
If I would like a sail or row;
I answered 'Yes,' with great delight;
He said at one o'clock we'd go.

'Tis now five minutes past the hour,
And where is _he_, I'd like to know?
Oh! if I did not love him so
I'd punish him--and show my pow'r.
But oh, alas! it _is_ so dreary
When I am not with Fred;
I feel like Moore's lamenting Peri:
Why _won't_ he come?" she said.