Chapter VII: Introduction (6)

AH me! the times decay, and rent-rolls fall,
The farmers weep the burden of moist ground,
The men that back the field are out of luck.
For during such a summer where's the coin?
For me a wreath, prize of verbosity
Was made: it withers still in Tracy's hands.
For what to me this quiet Western world,
While shadows flit before me, like a dream
Of princely visits to the far-off East,
And costly gifts, and Empire's badges worn?
Alas for these gray tresses, once so black,
When, glorious in my youth, I was thy choice,
Britannia, and I seemed no vulgar clod
To thee, who taught'st me my verbosity.
Then, though the dull roughs met where'er they would,
Beat the Park palings down, and marred the flowers,
They could not end my rule; but left me still
To sit 'neath shade of thy Imperial shield--
Imperial locks beside Imperial shield--
Though all things else were ashes. Thy rich gift,
The Garter, made amends; but, Tracy, go;
I pray thee go; take back thy vulgar gift:
Why should the honest working man desire
To vary from the spendthrift race of men,
And part with hard-earned quarts of "fourpenny,"
Which good Sir Wilfrid calls the curse of all?

* * * * *

In the _The Shotover Papers_, page 181, will be found, _Tithonus in Oxford_.

"The men come up, the men come up, go down.
The mighty Proctor prowls along the streets.
Dons come and plough the men, and let them through,
The unattached at length becomes B.A.
The only envious moderators
Will never pass. I linger through the terms
Here in the quiet Tavern's classic shades,
A bearded undergraduate, well nigh bald,
Roaming along the High, the Broad, the Corn,
Amidst new men, strange faces, other minds."

* * * * *

THE LAWYER'S SOLILOQUY.

"I hold it clear, as one who sings
The party song in divers tones,
That men may rise on stepping stones
Of brazen speech to higher things."

This is the first of sixteen verses contained in the _St. James's Gazette_, of June 18, 1881.

* * * * *

A TENNYSONIAN LYRIC.

I hold this truth with one who sings
That when a donkey will not go,
The kick, the curse, the brutal blow
Should be exchanged for milder things.

But who that sees the donkey's ears
Droop downward, and his hind legs rise,
While from the creature's back he flies,
Can spare the lissom switch he bears?

Or who can smile when crowds condemn,
And ragamuffin imps deride,
Advising him to "get inside"
That product of Jerusalem?

Had I the brute that would not stir,
Despite "Gee-woa!" or "Kim-up, Ned!"
I should, methinks, use arts instead
Of supplemented provender.

From _Funny Folks_.

* * * * *

_Funny Folks_ for January 23, 1875, contained a parody, in ten verses, on _The Voyage;_ the first and last verse only are given, as the rest are of little interest:--

THE EXCURSION TRAIN.

We left behind the painted buoy
That tosses at the harbour mouth;
And madly danced our hearts with joy
As fast we floated to the South.

THE VOYAGE.

"We left behind the painted boy
Who tumbles at the gutter's mouth,
And madly leaped our hearts for joy
In taking tickets for the south;
To get away from smell and sound,
And crowded street and city roar,
Two used-up clerks on pleasure bound,
Ere yet our holidays were o'er.

* * * * *

And never tongue of ours was furled,
As on we went with spirits free;
The railway was our little world,
Though not a little whirled were we.
The winds and rain might blow and cease--
What cared we for wind or rain?
We'd paid our one pound ten apiece,
And this was our Excursion Train!

* * * * *

The following is an extract from a parody on _The Lotus Eaters_. It was written by Captain Barlow, and obtained the second prize offered by the Editor of _The World_, in which paper it appeared in September, 1879:--

THE MINISTERS AT GREENWICH.

"GREENWICH," they said, and pointed into space;
"The steaming train will bear us thither soon,"
In time for dinner came they to that place,
In which it seemèd always dinner-time.
A place of diners: some with friend or fair,
Slow dropping down the stream, to feast did go;
And those by quicker train did there repair
Who deemed all other locomotion slow,
Nor cared to watch the muddy river's flow.

The sky looked showery, as is oft the case
Now, when no two days ever seem the same;
But yet, despite of Nature's frowning face,
To dine the whitebait-eating members came.
Baskets they saw of that delightful fish
Whose flavour is seductive, and doth make
Those who have tasted say that never dish
Was so delicious, and when they partake
Of these, all other food they straight forsake.

Then some one said, "Why further should we pace?"
And all at once they sang, "This is the place
To spend a happy day. Rest we a little space.
Refreshing is this liquor dry,
Iced well as well can be;"

Drink is "the best of life." Then why
Abstain teetotally?
* * * *

* * * * *

THE AMIABLE DUN.

_A Fragment._

(After Tennyson.)

At breakfast time he comes and stands,
He puts his paper in your hands,
He hums and haws, with "ifs" and "ands."

His hands he laves with unseen soaps,
Thanks you for nothing, says he hopes,
Then bows, "Good morning, sir;" he slopes.

From _Odd Echoes from Oxford_, 1872.

A parody of the "Lord of Burleigh" appeared in _Figaro_, January 22, 1873, and one entitled "A Welcome to Alexandra (Palace)" in _Funny Folks_, May 18, 1875.

The Poet Laureate has recently contributed a poem, entitled _Early Spring_, to an American paper. It consisted of eight verses, and the fee paid the writer was said to be 1,000 dollars.

Taking the following as a fair example of the rest, it would seem that 125 dollars per verse was a very liberal remuneration:--

Opens a door in Heaven;
From skies of glass
A Jacob's ladder falls
On greening grass,
And o'er the mountain-walls
Young angels pass.

* * * * *

Has the Poet no friends about him who can point out that by the publication of such painfully weak effusions, the once great reputation of Tennyson is being surely, if slowly, undermined; and that the rising generation will be little encouraged, by such specimens of his genius, to read his early works. It is well known that the Poet Laureate is exceedingly vain of his writings, and does not hesitate to place them on a par with those of Milton; this is a point we may leave to posterity to decide, but it seems most improbable that even the finest works of the laurelled, pensioned, titled bard of our days, will ever be considered worthy of a place by the side of the glorious and imperishable poems of the stern old puritan.

As parodies of Tennyson's poems are constantly being produced, a supplementary collection of them will be published separately at some future date.

* * * * *

MR. CHARLES STEWART CALVERLEY.

The death of "C. S. C." will be heard of with regret by all who enjoy the lighter forms of English poetry, such as are to be found to perfection in his two little volumes, entitled "Fly Leaves" and "Verses and Translations," published by Messrs. G. Bell and Sons.

Mr. Calverley had an extraordinary ear for rhythm, and could imitate, at will, the measure and metre of any poet. Taking some comically trifling topic, he could so write it up as to reproduce not only the style, but even the very mode of thought of his original. Thus, in his poem, "The Cock and the Bull," he has caught far more of Robert Browning than the mere verbal eccentricities; "Wanderers" contains the very best of all parodies of Tennyson's "Brook" (quoted on page 30); Matthew Arnold is well imitated in "Thoughts at a Railway Station;" whilst the "Ode to Tobacco" reads like a continuation of Longfellow's "Skeleton in Armour." For _refined parody_, as distinguished from mere verbal burlesque, Mr. Calverley was unapproached, and no collection of humorous English poetry would be complete, which did not include several of his best pieces. His humour was ever genial and pleasant, without a tinge of malice or ill-will, and even those whom he so deftly parodied could have taken no offence at his clever banter. Mr. Calverley was also a considerable scholar, as his translations testify, and he left at Oxford (where he studied before going to Cambridge) a considerable reputation as a wit and conversationalist.

* * * * *

H. W. Longfellow.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born at Portland, Maine, on February 27, 1807, and died on the 24th March, 1882, having thus just completed his 75th year. After graduating at the age of eighteen at Bowdoin College, he entered the office of his father to study the law. Soon afterwards, however, he left America for Europe, where he travelled for three years and a half, in order to qualify himself for a professorship of modern language, which had been offered to him in the college where he had received his education. A few years later he was appointed to a similar position in Harvard College. In order to become acquainted with the literature and language of Northern Europe he again left America and travelled in Scandinavia, Germany, and Switzerland, entering upon his new duties in 1836. Mr. Longfellow commenced his career as an author while yet he was an undergraduate, and continued to write almost to the last. A mere list of his works would occupy considerable space. They are thoroughly well known wherever our language is spoken, and have obtained in this country a popularity second to that of no English writer. The Universities of Oxford and Cambridge both conferred degrees upon Mr. Longfellow, and he was also elected a member of the Russian Academy of Science and of the Spanish Academy.

The following are the poems which have been most frequently selected as the models for Parodies:--A Psalm of Life; Beware!; Evangeline; The Song of Hiawatha; The Village Blacksmith; Excelsior; Curfew; The Bridge; and several parts of the Saga of King Olaf.

A PSALM OF LIFE ASSURANCE.

Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life Assurance is a dream,
And that while the public slumbers,
Figures are not what they seem!

Really, I am quite in earnest!
So would you be. Here's a goal!
Come let's have enquiry sternest.
It's too bad, upon my soul.

Here's a set of fellows borrow
Money that they can't repay,
Then buy up, till each to-morrow
Finds them deeper than to-day.

Thus my claim they'll fail in meeting,
Though they've taken all I gave!
They, not muffled drums, want beating
Soundly till they look quite grave.

Talk of board rooms' tittle tattle!
Stuff! I have insured my life.
I'm not dumb, like driven cattle!
And I'll make a precious strife!

Trust the Future? Come, that's pleasant!
Wait until I'm buried--dead?
No, I'll make a row at present.
On official toes I'll tread!

And directors think to blind us!
Humbug us just for a time.
Till we go to leave behind us
Nothing? Why, the thing's sublime!

Nothing! Do they think another
Will insure, like me, in vain!
No! the outcry they'll not smother,
Nor catch shipwrecked dupes again!

Let us, then, be up and doing,
Never mind what be our fate,
Each director still pursuing,
Shouting out "Investigate!"

From _The Tomahawk_, September 11, 1869.

* * * * *

THE PSALM OF FICTION.

Tell us not in mournful "numbers"
Life is all a ghastly dream!
Such as those we have in slumbers
When the nightmare makes us scream.

Life is dark enough in earnest
Without bringing in the gaol,
Only readers of the sternest
Like their heroines out on bail.

Not to swindle, or to borrow
Is the reputable way;
Not to marry, and to-morrow
Kill your bride, and run away.

Arson's wrong, and poisoning dreary,
And our hearts, though pretty brave
Now and then get rather weary
Of the gallows, and the grave.

In the great domestic battle,
In the matrimonial strife,
Be not like those Mormon "Cattle,"
Give your hero but one wife.

_Wives and Daughters_ should remind you
There are women without crime;
Draw them and you'll leave behind you
Fictions that may weather time.

Fictions free from that Inspector,
Who is sent by Richard Mayne,
And finds footmarks that affect a
Solemn butler in the lane.

Let us, then, have no more trials,
No more tampering with wills,
Leave the poisons in the phials
And the money in the tills.

* * * * *

MISS M. TO MR. GREEN.

_A Mournful Ditty._

Tell me not that I am pretty--
Really don't, now, Mr. Green;
I'm the last to think it's witty
Not to name things as they seem.

Yes; I know my hair is curly,
Blacker than the blackest sloe;
And I know that you'll be surly
With the candour I thus show.

That my eyes with fire are glancing
I'll admit if that you say:
Yet I think that you're romancing
When you swear they're bright as day.

Then my teeth you state are pearl,
Purer than the driven snow;
And to touch my lips you'd dare all
Dangers from an earthly foe.

Please don't be so very minute
When my beauties you describe,
As, perhaps, your flimsy tribute
May appear to be a bribe.

To secure my young affections
To your nasty little self,
And to banish all reflections
That you seek not me but pelf.

Now, if you'd be bright and happy,
Try and don't be what you seem--
A wretched, lazy, selfish chappy:
There--you have it, Mr. Green.

_The Modern Athenian._

* * * * *

BACHELOR'S LIFE.

"I will tell in measured numbers,
That our life is not a dream;
That the earth we don't encumber;
That we are not what we seem.

"Man is real--we are earnest;
Eve, thy birth is not a fib;
Of man thou art, to him returnest;
We each are looking for his rib.

"No selfishness, not pleasure,
Is our only aim below;
Or to win wealth and treasure,
The only bliss we wish to know.

"Life is short, time is fleeting,
We should hurry, up and do
That which brings a parent's greeting,
That which settles us below.

"Bring us aid through life to battle
Who'll gird her hero in the strife;
No longer be mere straying cattle,
Find a tender, loving wife,

"Beware the future, howe'er pleasant
Our fondest dream of it may be;
Our freedom, liberty, past and present,
Our pleasures we may cease to see.

"Do not married men remind us,
We, though erring, yet have time,
To amend and leave behind us
Names unsullied by the crime.

"A crime the ladies all declare,
Being single through life's rapid run;
No victim to their wedded care,
Bent on freedom, pleasure, fun.

"Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still in honour's track pursuing,
Find a partner, though its late."

From _Notes and Queries_, August 31, 1872.

The following appeared in the _Seattle Intelligencer_ (a Washington Territory newspaper), of December 4, 1871:--

THE MAIDEN'S DREAM OF LIFE.

"Tell us not, in idle jingle,
'Marriage is an empty dream!'
For the girl is dead that's single,
And things are not what they seem.

"Life is real! life is earnest!
Single blessedness a fib;
Man thou art, to man returnest,
Has been spoken of the rib.

"Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act that each to-morrow
Finds us nearer marriage-day.

"Life is long, and youth is fleeting,
And our hearts are light and gay;
Still like pleasant drums are beating
Wedding marches all the day.

"In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb-driven cattle!
Be a heroine--a wife!

"Trust no future, howe'er pleasant;
Let the dead past bury its dead;
Act--act in the living present,
Hoping for a spouse ahead.

"Lives of married folk remind us
We can live our lives as well,
And departing leave behind us
Such examples as will 'tell';

"Such examples that another,
Wasting time in idle sport,
A forlorn, unmarried brother,
Seeing shall take heart and court.

"Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart on triumph set;
Still contriving, still pursuing,
And each one a husband get."

* * * * *

ON CAMPBELL'S "_Lives of the Chancellors_."

Lives of great men misinform us
Campbell's _Lives_ in this sublime,
Errors frightfully enormous,
_Misprints_ on the sands of time.

The interest which is taken in this collection by many of the subscribers is shewn by their kind permission to quote Parodies from their works; by the information they have sent as to out-of-the-way books in which others may be found; and, further, by their contribution of original Parodies.

The author of the following introduction to this series, is well known for his charming pathetic poems. From the first he has rendered most valuable assistance; having formed a large collection of Parodies, he has kindly placed them at the Editor's disposal, and they will be inserted under the respective authors to whom they apply.

THE MONTHLY PARODIES.

AN APOLOGY.

_After William Morris's "Earthly Paradise."_ (_Written expressly for this collection._)

Of Love or War this is no hour to sing,
But I may ease the burden of your fears
(Lest you think death to mirth is happening),
And quote from wit of past and present years,
Till o'er these pages you forget your tears,
And smile again, as presently you say
Some idle jingle--or forgotten lay.

But when a-weary of the hunt for mirth
Thro' comic journals with a doleful sigh
You feel unkindly unto all the earth,
And grudge the pennies that they cost to buy
These "weakly comics," lingering like to die,
Remember, then, a little while, I pray,
The clever singers of a former day.

The pomp and power and grand majestic air
That marches thro' their poems' stately tread,
These idle verses may catch unaware,
And by burlesque call back remembered
Some rhymes "that living not can ne'er be dead,"
Though what is meant by that I cannot say--
But Mr. Morris wrote it one fine day.

Here grouped are strains of parody in rhyme,
Now classified and placed in order straight,
Let it suffice it for the present time
That some be old, while some are born but late,
A careful choice, from all the crowd that wait,
Of those that in forgotten serials stay,
Or are, in passing journals, tossed away.

Folks say a wizard to a common King,
One April-tide such wondrous jest did show
That in a mirror men beheld each thing,
Like, yet unlike, and saw the pale nose glow,
While rosy face looked white as fallen snow,
Each visage altered in such comic way
That those who came to court, remain'd to play.

So with these many Parodies it is,
If you will read aright and carefully,
Not scathing satire, nor malicious hiss
For lack of beauty in the themes to see,
Nor jeerings coarse, at what men prize, as we
But jest to make some little changeling play
Its pranks in classic robes, all crowned with bay.

J. W. GLEESON WHITE,
CHRISTCHURCH.

_March_, 1884.

* * * * *

On the 1st March, 1884, a bust of Longfellow (by Mr. T. Brock, A.R.A.) was unveiled in Poet's Corner, Westminster Abbey. It is placed between the graves of Dryden and Cowley, and bears this inscription:--

LONGFELLOW.

"This bust was placed among the memorials of the poets of England by
the English admirers of an American poet, 1884."

and on the sides are the dates--

"Born at Portland, U.S.A., February 27, 1807.
Died at Cambridge, U.S.A., March 24, 1882."

Mr. J. Russell Lowell was present at the ceremony, and gave an address, in which he stated that--

"Longfellow's mind always moved straight towards its object, was
always permeated with the emotions, and gave them the frankest,
the sincerest, and, at the same time, the most simple expression;
and never was there a private character more answerable to public
performance than that of Longfellow. His nature was consecrated
ground, into which no unclean spirit could ever enter."

This tribute to his memory, paid by one who had known him for nearly forty years, sufficiently explains the reason why, in the parodies of his works which are now to be given, nothing of a personal nature will be inserted. Indeed it is doubtful whether one unkindly worded, or spiteful burlesque was ever penned about either Longfellow, or his works. The absence of this element will be all the more noticeable as following directly after the parodies of the Poet Laureate, whose actions and writings have invited so many attacks. Tennyson's early sneers at hereditary nobility, as contrasted with his adulation of royalty, and the exaggerated praise of princes in his official poems of later years. His involved, and often obscure, mode of writing, especially when attempting to deal with metaphysical topics; his narrow insular prejudices; his frequent writings in praise of war, and calling aloud for the blood of either the French, or the Russians, or the Spaniards. And, lastly, his acceptance of a coronet which sits grotesquely enough on the laurels he so long has worn as Poet Laureate.

In all this there was ample room for adverse comment, which the life and works of Longfellow never afforded. The tenderness, the grace, the sweet pathos, and the exquisite simplicity of his poems, combined with the purity, charity, and kindness of his personal character, were such that detraction, envy, and malice were dumb, and criticism itself was almost silenced.

Hence the parodies will be found to consist principally of imitations of his style, language, or ideas, or of reproductions of his poems in a grotesque form. In some cases a few verses of the original are given for the convenience of comparison with the parodies.

A NOBLE AMBITION.

Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life's one long unending bill--
Debts unpaid disturb your slumbers--
Tin _will_ fly, do what you will.

Meat is high in real good earnest,
Far above the hungry soul;
Dust thou art, to dust returns, is
Very typical of coal.

In the weekly market battle,
For the cheapest things and best,
Be not like dumb-driven cattle,
Stand out bravely, all the rest.

Not enjoyment, hardly sorrow,
Feel we, when small debts we pay;
Still, we know that each to-morrow
Finds them larger than to-day.

Duns are hard, and time is fleeting,
Bills are sadly in arrears,
And our hearts, tho' brave, stop beating
At the aspect of affairs.

Bailiffs are not very pleasant,
Lock your door and keep the key;
Act, act in the living present--
Leave your country, cross the sea.

Lives of great men, too, remind us,
Big debts sometimes clogged _their_ feet;
And, like them, we leave behind us
Some few bills we cannot meet--

Bills that make you try to smother,
As you cross the stormy main,
Thoughts of love, and home, and mother,
Listening for your step in vain.

Let us then be up and doing
With an eye to making tin,
Any likely trade pursuing,
Learn to gain your end and win.

From _The Figaro_, December 3, 1873.

* * * * *

THE LIBERAL PSALM OF LIFE.

Tell us not in mournful numbers
Liberal union is a dream:
Bright is cranky, Bob Lowe slumbers;
Yet things are not what they seem.

Opposition must be earnest,
Or we shall not win the goal;
If for Gladstone still thou yearnest,
Thou art a weak-minded soul.

Ministerial slips to follow
Is our destined end and way,
So that we may throw each morrow
Stumbling blocks in Dizzy's way.

Dizzy's strong, but fame is fleeting;
Conservatism, now so brave,
In the Bills which we are greeting,
Yet may find an early grave.

Trust no Forster, howe'er pleasant,
Let past premiers bury their dead;
Act with Hartington at present,
Nor the coming session dread.

Hansard's pages all remind us
We have but to bide our time;
Dizzy some fine day may find us
In majority sublime.

Gladstone's gone, but till another,
Like him takes the helm again,
Let us help our leader, brother,
Hartington with might and main.

Let us then be up and doing,
Meeting Dizzy in debate,
Tory tactics still pursuing,
Find a policy--and wait!

From _Funny Folks_, February 27, 1875, when the Conservative party, led by Mr. Disraeli, was in power, and the Liberal Opposition was led by Lord Hartington.

* * * * *

A PSALM OF LIFE AT SIXTY.

_What the Heart of the Old Man said to the Genial Gusher at Christmas Time._

Tell me not in Christmas Numbers
Life is but a _gourmet's_ dream!
Sure your sense is dead or slumbers:
Peptics are not what they seem.

Life is serious! Life is solemn!
And good grub is not its goal:
_Menu_-making by the column
Helps not the dyspeptic soul.

Not delight from cates to borrow
Is the aim of prudent will,
But to eat so that to-morrow
Finds us not exceeding ill.

Feeds are long and health is fleeting;
And old stomachs once so strong,
Find that indiscriminate eating
Very quickly puts them wrong.

In the banquet's dainty battle,
At the table's toothsome strife,
Feed not like dumb hungry cattle,
Wield a cautious fork and knife!

Trust no _menu_, howe'er pleasant;
Night-mare-Nemesis is dread;
Swig and swallow like a peasant,
You'll repent it when in bed!

Memories of big feeds remind us
Christmas pudding peace can slay;
Touch it, and next morn shall find us
Indigestion's helpless prey.

Pudding that perhaps another,
Light of heart and bright of brain,
Some strong-stomached younger brother,
Eating, sends his plate again.

Let us then beware high feeding,
Or the love of luscious cate,
Still abstaining, ne'er exceeding,
Learn to dodge dyspeptic fate!

From _Punch_, December 27, 1879.

* * * * *

Lives of wealthy men remind us
That by using Printer's ink,
We can die and leave behind us
Monstrous piles of golden "chink."

* * * * *

TO MY SCOUT AT BREAKFAST.

Don't tell me in cheerful numbers
That the jug is full of cream!
For the milkman's conscience slumbers,
And things are not what they seem!

_Odd Echoes from Oxford_, 1872.

* * * * *

A FRAGMENT.

Wives of great men all remind us
We may make our wives sublime
By departing--leave behind us
Widows in the "weeds" of time.

Widows that perchance some other
Sailing o'er life's solemn main
Some forlorn rejected brother,
May take heart, and "splice" again.

* * * * *

BEWARE!

(_From the German._)

I know a maiden fair to see,
Take care!
She can both false and friendly be,
Beware! beware!
Trust her not.
She is fooling thee!

She has two eyes, so soft and brown,
Take care!
She gives a side glance and looks down,
Beware! beware!
Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!

LONGFELLOW.

"TAKE CARE."

Have you a wife with real estate?
Take care!
She can "devise, and alienate,"
Beware! Beware!
She has got
The whip hand of thee!

Too promptly she may take her cue,
Beware!
And learn she has the "power to sue,"
Take care! Take care!
Thwart her not,
She'll be down on thee!

Her three per cents are but a snare,
Take care!
She "holds" as if _femme sole_ she were,
Beware! Beware!
Has she not
The whip hand of thee?

You, Darby, who could sponge on Joan,
Take care!
Henceforth her earrings are her own,
Beware! Beware!
Touch them not,
She'll be down on thee!

If this new law be put in force,
Take care!
Lest th' old mare prove the better horse,
Beware! Beware!
Marry not,
There's a hint for thee!

From _The Tomahawk_.

* * * * *

BEWARE!

I know a rink that's fair to see,
Take care!
It can both kind and cruel be,
Beware! Beware!
Trust it not,
It will injure thee!

It has two skates to lend to you,
Take care!
With wheels that oft want oiling too,
Beware! Beware!
Trust it not,
It will injure thee!

It has a surface smooth as glass,
Take care!
For you can't see what will come to pass,
Beware! Beware!
Trust it not,
It will injure thee.

It shows your wondrous grace and skill,
Take care!
But naught it says about a spill,
Beware! Beware!
Trust it not,
It will injure thee!

It tells you much of pleasure there,
Take care!
'Tis a delusion and a snare,
Beware! Beware!
Trust it not,
It will injure thee!"

_Idyls of the Rink_, 1876.

* * * * *

BEWARE!

(_Dedicated to Lord Salisbury._)

I know a statesman fair to hear;
Take care!
He can make worst the best appear;
His "little game" is very clear.
Beware! Beware!
Trust him not--he is one to fear.

He has a conscience--_he says so;_
Take care!
He knows how far to let it go
(We had a _Treaty_ once, you know).
Beware! Beware!
Trust him not, though it _may_ be so.

He gives thee a mode of trading "fair;"
Take care!
It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear!
A "card" for him, for thee a snare.
Beware! Beware!
Trust him not, though it sounds so rare.

He has one face, and some say _two;_
Take care!
And what he says it is not true,
He would do good, but not to _you_.
Beware! Beware!
Trust him not, or you will rue.

_Grins and Groans_, 1882.

* * * * *

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

* * * * *

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow,
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

* * * * *

LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH AS HE IS.

Under the spreading chestnut tree
The village blacksmith stands,
The smith an awful cad is he
With very dirty hands.
For keepers and the rural police
He doesn't care a hang.
He swears, and fights, and whops his wife,
Gets drunk whene'er he can;
In point of fact, our village smith's
A very awful man.

He goes on Sundays to the pub'
With other festive boys,
When drinking beer and goes of rum
His precious time employs.
Till he gets drunk, and going home
He makes no end of noise,
Then, with his poor half-starving wife
He in a passion flies.
He pulls her by the hair, from off
The bed on which she lies,
And kicks her round the room, and says
Bad things about her eyes.

Smoking, soaking, bullying,
Onward through life he goes,
Each morning sees a blackened eye
Or else a broken nose.
I fear within the County Gaol
Calcraft his life will close;
Thanks, thanks to thee, thou black blacksmith
For the lesson thou hast taught.
By Calcraft, or his deputy
I never will be caught,
And to that end I'll never do
The thing I hadn't ought.

From _Figaro Programme_, February 6, 1873.

* * * * *

THE NIGHT POLICEMAN.

(_Not by Henry W. Longfellow._)

Beside a noisy tavern door
The night policeman stands,
And a foaming pot of half-and-half,
He clutches with eager hands;
But little doth our Robert know
He is watched by thievish bands.

His voice is thick, his speech too strong
For any sober man;
His brow is wet with his tall helmet,
He drinks whene'er he can;
But the merry prig laughs in his face,
He arrests not any man.

Through the dark night to the broad daylight
You can hear him tramp below,
Until the serjeant hath passed, and then
He soon doth leave his beat to go
To visit a sprightly area belle,
When the evening star is low.

When the burglar, fixing a handy tool,
Breaks in through the bolted door,
And quickly pockets the notes and gold,
And the glittering jewelled store store--
Hearing the laugh, as he gaily flies,
Come from the kitchen floor.

When Robert makes report next morn
Of nought but naughty boys,
Householders angrily impeach.
He hears the inspector's voice;
And he knows that his stately form no more
Will make the cook rejoice.

It sounds to him like a warning voice:
Farewell to rabbit pies,
And juicy ham and nourishing stout,
And the pickles he doth prize.
And with his worsted glove he wipes
A tear from out his eyes.

Shuffling, lying, sorrowing,
He takes off his dark blue clothes--
Lantern, truncheon, and helmet too,
With his cape he sadly throws.
Burglaries attempted! Burglaries done!
Out of the force he goes.

From _Funny Folks_, May 22, 1875.

* * * * *

THE VILLAGE GROG SHOP.

Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village grog shop stands;
The host a thirsty man is he,
With large and bloated hands;
And the vessels of his beery charms
Are bright in pewter bands.

His tap is "Watney," "Meux," and "Long,"
And bitter as the tan;
His till is fill'd with ready coin,
He cheats whene'er he can,
He looks the whole "Bench" in the face,
And he trusts not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear the liquor flow;
And after hours the bobby's tread,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a convict working the cheerful mill
When his morals have been low.

And maidens, not long freed from school,
Jot down th' increasing score,
They love to see the lab'rers gorge,
And hear the rustics roar,
And catch th' attempted wits--so "fly,"
With chaff--from a sawdust floor.

He goes in Sessions 'fore the Bench,
And sits among the crowd;
He hears the "unpaid" jaw and preach,
He hears his counsel's voice
Pleading with legalic fire;
And licensed, has his choice.

It makes him think of the Three per Cents.
Wherein his money lies!
He needs must think of her once more
How in the bar she plies,
And with his hard rough hands he lifts
His beer-mug to the skies.

Spoiling--adult'ring--borrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some cask begun,
Each evening sees its close;
Somebody tempted, something won,
Has earned the pub's repose."

_Mirth_, March, 1878. F. H. S.

* * * * *

THE ENGLISH JUDGE.

(_As sung by Dr. E. V. Kenealy_).

Under the carved-oak canopy
Our ermined Justice sits;
The Judge, a mighty man is he,
With large and varied wits;
And nobly to his land and Queen
His duty he acquits.

His wig is crisp, and gray, and full,
And if his face you scan,
'Tis furrow'd deep with lines of thought;
'Twere hard his brow to span.
And he looks the whole world in the face,
For he fears not any man.

Term in, term out, from ten till four,
You can hear his accents clear;
You can hear him crush deceit and fraud
With authority severe,
But the innocent and helpless one
Has naught from him to fear.

And strangers "doing" London sights
Look in at the swinging door;
They love to see his massive form,
And to hear his legal lore,
And to catch the pearls of thought that drop
From his copious mental store.

At four for home he leaves the bench,
And 'midst his books and notes
His leisure far into the night
To "cases" he devotes.
Nor counts his nights and mornings lost,
If justice he promotes.

With patient care he extricates
The tangled legal skein;
Whilst barristers and clients sleep,
Re-links the broken chain,
And ere the hour of ten has come
Is at his post again.

Toiling, re-searching, circuiting,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees new work begun,
But not each night its close;
And not till Long Vacation comes
Can he expect repose.

Thanks, thanks! then, to the English Judge
For the lessons he has taught!
For a life so earnest and so pure,
With good example fraught.
And may we all learn this from him,--
How duty should be wrought.

_Truth Christmas Number_, 1879.

* * * * *

THE VILLAGE BEAUTY.

Under a spreading Gainsborough hat
The village beauty stands,
A maiden very fair to see,
With tiny feet and hands,
As stately, too, as if she owned
The squire's house and lands.

Her hair is golden brown and long,
Her brow is like the snow,
Her cheeks are like the rosy flush
Left by the sunset's glow,
She greets the lads with a careless look,
She's the village belle, you know.

Week in, week out, at morn and night,
The young miller comes each day;
"'Tis the nearest way to town," he says,
But 'tis rather out of his way,
And every night he seems to have
Plenty of time to stay!

And children, coming home from school
Look in at the door, and know
That the handsome fellow by her side
Is pretty Nellie's beau,
Who can hardly tear himself away,
When he finds 'tis time to go.

He goes on Sundays to the Church,
And sits in his proper pew,
But his eyes wander off to the transept near,
Where he sees a charming view,
For Nellie sits there, in her Sunday best,
With her bonnet of palest blue.

He hears the parson pray and preach
With his outward ear alone,
For he only listens for Nellie's voice,
And responds in a dreamy tone,
And when she smiles at the carpenter near,
He can't suppress a groan.

Despairing, hoping, fearing,
Onward thro' life he goes;
Each morning he sees Nellie,
And each evening, at its close;
She even haunts him sleeping,
And disturbs his night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught;
Thus at the flirting time of life
Our fortunes may be wrought,
So we cannot be too careful
Over every word and thought!

L. P.

From _The Dunheved Mirror_, Cornwall, March, 1880.

* * * * *

THE BRITISH M. P.

(_A Song of St. Stephen's._)

Under St. Stephen's high roof-tree
The British M. P. sits:
M. P. a mighty man is he,
With sharp and seasoned wits,
And an eloquence that, once set free,
Would give opponents fits.

Week in, week out, from noon to night,
He must sit in silent woe,
Whilst WARTON vents his dullard spite,
With measured boom and slow,
Or SEXTON soars in furious flight
When the morning lights burn low.

Boiling and bored, no fight, no fun,
Onward the M. P. goes.
Each day sees aimless jaw begun,
No night beholds its close.
Little attempted, nothing done--
No work and no repose!

_Punch_, March 24, 1883.

* * * * *

THE VILLAGE PAX.

(_With Deprecatory Acknowledgments to Longfellow._)

["A PEACEFUL PARISH.--It is worthy of remark that in a parish near Blandford a petition in favour of peace has been signed by every grown-up man and woman, with the exception of one farmer."--_Times._]

Under the spreading olive tree
The peaceful village stands,
It's known for its tranquillitee
Throughout the neighbouring lands;
And it drinks but very weak Bohea,
Nor smokes the mildest brands.

Its hair is smooth, its patience long,
Its biceps, when you span,
You find they're more like dimples; and
You may hit them where you can,
And come off cheap with easy fame,
For it fights not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear the humming low
Of dogs who like to bark and bite
Because their nature's so;
And their cocks they're all put out of sight,
For the bullies used to crow!

Preaching, protesting, sorrowing,
Because of Eastern foes,
Each morning sees that village dawn,
Each evening sees it doze,
O'er asses' milk and ginger-beer,
And Peter Taylor's prose.

Thanks, thanks, to you, O happy vale!
It is a cheering thought
That somewhere waits a blessed spot
For one by yells distraught,
Where bray of Jingoes reaches not,
And Drummond-Wolff is nought.

* * * * *

THE VILLAGE WOODMAN.

(_With apologies to Mr. Longfellow._)

Under a spreading chestnut tree
The busy Gladstone stands;
Ever this restless W. G.
Has something on his hands.
O'er field or meadow, park or farm,
O'er clay or gravelly lands,
He takes the sharpened axe in hand
With tree-destroying plan;
His brow is wet with woodman's sweat,
He fells whate'er he can,
And looks the proud tree in the face,
And cleaves it like a man.

Week in, week out, from morn to night,
You can hear his hatchet's blow;
You can see him swing his heavy axe,
Resolved that tree shall go,
Like a workman labouring for his pay
When his funds are very low;
And tourists, wandering o'er the fields,
Look aghast at this woodman bold;
They shudder at the flashing axe,
And mark the upturned mould;
They see by the scattered chips that fly
That the woodman's strong though old.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And reads the lessons there.
To hear the parson pray and preach
Few to that church repair.
But reading in that village church
Makes the G. O. M. rejoice,
For he loves to hear his own sweet voice
In Church or Parliament.
But where'er he be he thinks of trees,
How many fallen lie,
And those who notice him may see
A twinkle in his eye.

Toiling, rejoicing, brandishing
His axe, thus on he goes;
Each morning sees some grand old tree,
Each evening sees its close;
Some branches felled, some trunk laid low--
And then he seeks repose.

_Moonshine_, January 19, 1884.

* * * * *

Longfellow's _Song of Hiawatha_ certainly invites parody, and its easy metre is readily caught up by any one having an ordinarily good ear, and knack of versification. Consequently parodies of it abound; unfortunately they become somewhat wearisome in perusal from the monotonous diction, and some of the best only will be quoted at length.

The following, written by Mr. J. W. Morris, appeared in the _Bath and Cheltenham Gazette_ shortly after the appearance of Longfellow's poem, and is interesting as giving an account of the feelings with which _Hiawatha_ was first received:--

HIAWATHA.

(_A Parody._)

Do you ask me what I think of
This new song of _Hiawatha_,
With its legends and traditions,
And its frequent repetitions
Of hard names which make the jaw ache,
And of words most unpoetic?
I should answer, I should tell you
I esteem it wild and wayward,
Slipslop metre, scanty sense,
Honour paid to Mudjekewis,
But no honour to the Muse.

* * * * *

"Honour to the Muddyminded!"
Who now wears the belt of Wampum,
He has stolen it from the Northmen,
And he wears it, and shall wear;
And hereafter, and for ever,
Shall he hold ungrudged dominion
Over all the winds that whistle;
Call him no more Muddyminded,
Call him Longfellow, the Yankee!

* * * * *

Forth upon a Pitchy Puddle,
Gleaming with a fitful phosphor;
In a bark of his own making,
With a line of his own twisting,
Forth to catch a fine new Poem
All alone went Muddyminded.
At the stern sat Muddyminded,
For 'twas windy, and he knew
He was heavy, and he trembled
Lest he'd sink his grand canoe;
Soon he came to where 'twas clearer,
And the bottom he could see,
So he looked, and saw the bottom,
Saw the bottom of the sea.

There he saw the song he wanted
Lying _far beyond his reach_,
Lying just within his vision,
But beyond the reach of boat-hook.
There it lay in all its armour,
Fenced about with ugly words,
Indian names and Indian notions,
Painted too, with various colours,
Earthy, very earthy, too.

Muddyminded cast about him,
How he'd bring this song to light:--
"Take my bait, you Indian Poem!"
Cried he down the depths below,
Then sat waiting for an answer,
For an answer from below.

Quiet lay the Indian Story,
Nor would listen to his clamour;
Turned he to another tale though,--
EUANGLEEN,--six-footed monster,
And he bade him take the bait, that
Still was dangling to and fro:
EUANGLEEN he rose to take it;
Muddyminded liked him not,
And he shouted through the water,
"Pesta! Pesta! shame upon you!
You are not a Poem at all,
You are one six-footed monster,
You are not the song I wanted."
Then went downward swift and certain
Down the depths of dark oblivion,
Disappointed EUANGLEEN.

Then the mighty Indian Poem
Said to GOLDEN LEG, another,
"Take the bait of this great boaster,
Break his line, and spoil his trade!"
But again did Muddyminded
Shout derision as he rose,
"Pesta! Pesta! shame upon you!
You are but a lame imposture,
Fame will never call you Poem,
You are not the song I wanted."

Then upleapt this Indian Story,
Legend rude, but fierce and strong--
High enough he leapt, to show us
What he might be could we tame him,
Could there but a real Magician
Disenchant him, and control.
His great jaws he op'ed, and swallowed
Both canoe and Muddyminded.

Down into that dark oblivion
Plunged the hapless Muddyminded,--
As a log on some black river
Down the rapids plunges soon,
Found himself in utter darkness,
Thought he had been there before,
Groped about, and groped, and wondered,
Wondered, groped, and groped the more.

J. W. M.

* * * * *

In 1856, a small shilling volume of 120 pages was published by George Routledge and Co., as a companion to Longfellow's _Hiawatha_. This was entitled, "_The Song of Drop o' Wather_, a London legend, by Harry Wandsworth Shortfellow," and is now scarce. It commences thus:--

APOLOGY FOR THERE BEING NO PREFACE.

AUTHOR (_considering_). "People expect a preface; and this is the
place for one. But there is no preface in the great 'Indian Edda'
which has occasioned this poem. The author of that work gives his
explanation to the public in the Notes and Vocabulary; then, of
course, mine also, ought (and is) to be found in the Notes and
Vocabulary to 'The Song of Drop o' Wather.'"

Then follow the contents, consisting of an Introduction and thirteen chapters, namely:--

I. Drop o' Wather's Childhood.
II. Drop o' Wather and Pudgy-Wheezy.
III. Drop o' Wather's Fasting.
IV. Drop o' Wather's Friends.
V. Drop o' Wather's Filching.
VI. Drop o' Wather's Wooing.
VII. Drop o' Wather's Wedding.
VIII. The Ghost of the Star and Garter.
IX. Bilking the Runners.
X. Paw-Paw-Keeneyes.
XI. The Hunting of Paw-Paw-Keeneyes.
XII. The Fate of Queershin.
XIII. Drop o' Water's Departure.

In its completeness and closeness of imitation, this anonymous work is the best parody extant of the _Song of Hiawatha_. From the introduction, and the first chapter, it will be gathered that the hero is a poor little gutter child, who grows up to be a thief. The following chapters trace his career in crime, and the last describes his departure to Australia as a repentant emigrant.

THE SONG OF DROP O' WATHER.