Chapter VIII: Introduction (1)

Ye who love the haunts of Town-Life,
Love the kennel and the gutter,
Love the doorway of the gin-shop,
Love the mud about the kerb-stones,
And the drippings from the houses,
And the splashing of the rain-spouts
Through their palisade of gratings,
And the thunder of the coaches,
Whose innumerable echoes,
Roar like sea-waves on the shingle;--
Listen to these wild traditions,
To this song of Drop o' Wather!
Ye who love a nation's legends,
Love the ballads of a people,
That like voices from afar off
Call to us to stop and listen,
Speak in tones so hoarse and roopy,
Scarcely can the ear distinguish
Whether they are hummed or shouted;--
Listen to this London Legend,
To this song of Drop o' Wather!

I.

DROP O' WATHER'S CHILDHOOD.

Downward through the darkening twilight,
In the days long time ago, now,
In the last of drunken stages,
By the Half-Moon fell poor Norah,
On the pavement fell poor Norah,
Just about to be a mother.
She'd been tippling with some women,
Just within the Wine-Vaults' swing-door,
When her Gossip, out of mischief,
Partly idle, partly spiteful,
Pushed the swing-door from behind her,
Pushed in twain the Wine-Vaults' door-flap,
And poor Norah tumbled backward,
Downward through the darkening twilight,
On the gangway foul, the pavement,
On the gangway foul with mud-stains.
"See! a wench falls!" cried the people;
Look, a tipsy wench is falling!"
There amidst the gaping starers,
There amidst the idle passers,
On the gangway foul, the pavement,
In the murky darkened twilight,
Poor drunk Norah bore a boy-babe.
Thus was born young Drop o' Wather,
Thus was born the child of squalor.
He was named, by those who knew him,
Out of joke, and fun, and larking,
For what's called an Irish reason,
Or, by folks who sport the Classics,
A _lucus a non lucendo_,
Like, for all it is so unlike,
Hold a thing to be another,
For the sake of contradiction,
Or the sake of droll connection;
So the folks who knew our hero,
Gave his nickname for this reason,--
'Cause his mother never touched a
Drop of Water in her lifetime.
At the door on fine spring evenings,
Played the little Drop o' Wather;
Heard the cry of "Buy my inguns!"
Heard the cry "Young raddyshees, yere"
Calls of cadger, costermonger;
"Bilin'-apples!" said the huckster;
"Pies-all 'ot!" still said the pieman.
Saw the pot-boy, Wall-eyed Tommy,
Trudging through the dusk of evening,
With the shrillness of his whistle
Piercing all the courts and alleys.
And he sang the song of street-boys.
Sang the song the pot-boy taught him;--
"Wall-eyed Tommy, he's the cove, boys!
He's the ranting, roaring blade, boys!
He's the lad, the daring fellow!
He's the chap, to carry ale-cans,
Pots of beer, and all them 'ere boys!"
Saw the balls at the pawnbroker's,
Balls alike, and three in number,
Saw the gold and burnish on them,
Bawled, "What are those? I say, mother!"
And the fuddled Norah answered,
"Once a cricketer, when angry,
Seized his ball, and bowling, threw it
Up against the shop times threefold,
Right against the shop he threw it;
'Tis its tri-ghost that you see there."
Saw the gallows near the prison,
In the morning sky, the gallows;
Bawled, "What is that? I say mother!"
And the fuddled Norah answered,
"'Tis the gallows-tree, the gibbet;
All the naughty boys of London,
All the wicked ones and careless,
When in town they steal and pilfer,
Hang on that 'ere tree above us."
When he heard the thieves at midnight,
Hooting, laughing in the alley,
"What is that?" he cried half frightened;
"What is that? Now tell me, mother!"
And the fuddled Norah answered,
"That's the thieves and prigs together,
Talking in their own cant language,
Hoaxing, chaffing one another."
Then the little Drop o' Wather
Learned of all the thieves their language;
Learned their slang and learned their by-words,
Twigged their nicknames, knew their lodgings,
Where they hid themselves from justice;
Talked with them whene'er he met them,
Called them "Drop o' Wather's Cronies."
Of all prigs he learned the language,
Learned their gag, and all their secrets.
Found out all their haunts and dodges,
Picked up where they hid their booty,
How they packed the swag so closely,
Why they fought so shy and wary;
Talked with them whene'er he met them,
Called them "Drop o' Wather's Brothers."

II.

DROP O' WATHER AND PUDGY-WHEEZY.

Out of childhood into manhood
Now had grown young Drop o' Wather,
Skilled in all the craft of filchers,
Learned in all the slang of robbers,
In all ways and means of cribbing,
In all knowing arts and dodges.
Swift of foot was Drop o' Wather;
He could pitch a pebble from him,
And run forward with such fleetness,
That the pebble fell behind him!
Strong of arm was Drop o' Wather;
He could fling ten pebbles upward,
Fling them with such strength and swiftness,
That the tenth had left his fingers
Ere the first to ground had fallen.
He had bludgeon, Millemlikefun,
Good strong bludgeon, made of ash-wood;
When into his hand he took it,
He could smite a fellow's head off,
He could knock him into next week.
He had ankle-boots so jemmy,
Good strong ankle-boots of calf-skin;
When he put them on his trotters,
When he laced them up so tightly,
At each step three feet he measured.
From his lair went Drop o' Wather
Dressed for roving, armed for plunder;
Dressed in shooting-jacket natty,
Velveteen, with pearl-white buttons;
On his head a spick-and-span tile,
Round his waist a vest of scarlet;
In his mouth a sprig of shamrock,
In his breast a dashing brooch-pin,
Gold mosaic, set with sham stones;
With his bludgeon, Millemlikefun,
With his ankle-boots so jemmy.
Warning said old fuddled Norah,
"Go not forth, son Drop o' Wather,
To the quarter of the West-End,
To the regions, Hyde-Park, May Fair,
Lest they nab you (chaps from Bow-street),
Lest they clap you into prison."
But the daring Drop o' Wather
Heeded not her woman's warning;
Forth he went along the alley,
At each step three feet he measured;
Tempting looked the shops about him,
Tempting looked the things within them;
Bright and fine the showy jewels,
Smart and gay the newest fashions,
Brown and smooth cigars in boxes,
All that set his heart a-longing,
Longing with the wish to crib them.

* * * * *

XIII.

DROP O' WATHER'S DEPARTURE.

Now remains for me to tell of
How he ended, Drop o' Wather;
What befell him, after all his
Knowing doings in the course of
His career, his life in London.
He had run his rigs so clever,
He had risked so very closely,
He had just avoided Newgate,
He had narrowly 'scaped hanging;
And a dream he had one midnight,
Brought him to a sense of danger.
Thus he dreamed; 'twas really awful.
Not far off from Bedford Bury,
By the muddy Big-Thame-Water,
At the doorway of his lodging,
Thought he stood one rainy morning,
Thought he stood there, lounging idly,
Watching fall the sooty raindrops
From the eaves and roofs of houses,
Watching fill the dirty puddles,
Splashed and speckled with the drizzle;
Flowed in filthy streams the gutters,
Flowed the spouts as they ran over;
Pouring, pelting, came the shower.

* * * * *

Through the alley, sudden, briskly,
Something in the hazy distance,
Something in the misty morning,
Came along the dripping pavement,
Now seemed hurrying, now seemed hasting,
Coming nearer, nearer, nearer.
Was it Dingledong, the dustman?
Was it Twopenny, the postman?
Or the cobbler, Shoe-shoe-mender,
Or the milkman, Water-well-it,
With the raindrops dripping, dashing
Profitably in the milk-cans?
It was neither milkman, dustman,
Cobbler, postman, none of those men,
Coming on that misty morning;
But a set of sturdy fellows,
Fast advancing up the alley,
Striding, splashing through the raindrops,
Come with warrant strictly formal,
From the distant Police-office,
From Marlborough Street that morning,
Come with magistrate's command to
Apprehend and promptly take up
Drop o' Wather for his trial.
Then he thought he dreamed the scene of
His conviction, condemnation;
How he saw the Court dense crowded,
Crowded with indignant faces;
How he saw the dock, where he stood,
How he saw the Bench, where Judge sat,
How he saw the box for jury,
Where the twelve sat looking fateful;
Saw the Judge rise up and cover
With black cap his hair of silver;
Heard the word of solemn verdict,--
"Guilty!" Words of fearful sentence,--
"Hanged by neck," and "dead, dead, dead," last.
Thought he fainted quite away there,
And was carried straight to Newgate;
In the dreary cell of felon,
In condemned cell chained with fetters,
There to 'wait the time appointed
For his final execution.
Dreamed he saw the black-robed Chaplain
Come to speak of consolation;
Dreamed he heard the words of comfort
Sounding strangely (Ah, how strangely!--
Sad to think how very strangely
Come those words to ear of culprit,
Never taught to seek their lessons,
Never taught to know their meaning!)
Dreamed he saw the fatal gibbet,
Dreamed he saw the upturned faces
Of the multitude below him;
Dreamed he felt Jack Ketch's fingers
Busy round his neck, adjusting
Noose of rope that was to hang him
Like a dog, not human creature!
Dreamed that in that awful moment,
Came a shout, a cry, a calling;
Dreamed he heard "Reprieve!" loud shouted.
Dreamed he heard of transportation
Being his commuted sentence.
This last thought possessed him wholly
When he woke, and found he'd dreamed all.
Grave he pondered, till it struck him,
That he'd carry out the substance
Of that portion of his dreaming,
Where he felt relieved from terror.
He resolved to seek his fortune
In a fresh new scene of action;
He determined on the scheme of
Nothing less than transportation,
Voluntary transportation,
Willing, prompt, self-transportation,
Most transporting transportation,--
In words other,--emigration.
And he said to mother Norah,
To his wife his Minnie Wather,
Better half, his Frisky-Whisky,
"I've made up my mind to try and
Live a new life, life more dacent;
So let's go and try what turns up
In the New World over yonder."
On the deck stood Drop o' Wather,
Turned and waved his hat at parting;
On the deck of the good vessel,
Outward bound for the long voyage,
Stood and waved his hat at parting
From the dear old Mother Country.

* * * * *

Then a pause; and then he shouted,
Shouted loudly Drop o' Wather:
"Southward! Southward! now then, Southward!"
And the ship went sailing forward
On her way of trust and promise,
Southward, southward; Drop o' Wather
Looking steadfastly before him,
As confronting firm the future.
And his people gave a loud cheer,
Just to cheer him up at parting,
As the ship sailed southward, southward;
And they cried, "Good-bye, my boy, then!
Good bye, Norah! Good-bye, Minnie!
Take good care of yourselves, darlints!
Let us know how you all get on!
Best of all good luck go wid' ye!
So God bless ye! and God speed ye!"
Thus departed Drop o' Wather,
Drop o' Wather, the fine fellow,
With his trust of doing better,
With, at least, that firm intention.
To the regions of the New World,
Of the Bay entitled Bot'ny,
To the Island of New Holland,
To another "New" New South Wales,
To the land of hope, Australia!

This clever parody is followed by amusing burlesque notes, the first of which thus explains the origin of _The Song of Drop o' Wather_.

"This London Legend--if it may be so called--has been suggested by
an interesting Indian tradition, given to the world in the form of
a beautiful poem. The picturesque scenery, vivid description, and
glowing imagery to be found in that production, are fully felt;
while their charm is no more disparaged by the present sportive
trifle, than the sublimity of Shakespeare has been lessened by
the burlesques and parodies that have been made from time to time
upon his great dramas. The tragedy of _Hamlet_ is exalted, not
lowered, by Mr. Poole's admirably clever travestie. The mere fact
of burlesquing a work avouches its excellence--certainly its
popularity."

It is much to be regretted that the author of this amusing work should remain unknown.

* * * * *

Mr. H. Cholmondeley-Pennell's _Puck on Pegasus_ (Chatto and Windus) has gone through so many editions, and is such a favourite book, that his imitation of _Hiawatha_ is familiar to most people. The author has recently somewhat modified its opening lines. As thus altered it will shortly appear in a selection of Mr. H. C. Pennell's poems, and he has kindly allowed me to include it in this collection.

The original poem in _Puck on Pegasus_ commenced thus:--

SONG OF IN-THE-WATER.

When the summer night descended,
Sleepy, on the White-witch water,
Came a lithe and lovely maiden,
Gazing on the silent water--
Gazing on the gleaming river,
With her azure eyes and tender,--
On the river glancing forward,
Till the laughing wave sprang upward,
Upward from his reedy hollow,
With the lily in his bosom,
With his crown of water-lilies--
Curling ev'ry dimpled ripple
As he sprung into the starlight,
As he clasped her charmed reflection
Glowing to his crystal bosom--
As he whispered, "Fairest, fairest,
Rest upon this crystal bosom!"

* * * * *

In the new version the title has been changed, and some of the opening lines altered, but from the point where the above extract closes to the end of the poem, the two versions are very similar, and the later one is quoted in full:--

SONG OF LOWER-WATER.

When the summer Moon was sleeping
On the Sands of Lower-Water--
By the Lowest Water Margin--
At the mark of Dead Low Water,--
Came a lithe and lovely maiden,
Crinolina, Wand'ring Whiteness,
Gazing on the ebbing water--
Gazing on the gleaming river--
With her azure eyes and tender,--
On the river glancing forward,
Till the laughing Wave sprang upward,
From his throne in Lower-Water,--
Upwards from his reedy hollow,
With the lily in his bosom,
With his crown of water-lilies--
Curling ev'ry dimpled ripple
As he leapt into the starlight,
As he clasped her charmed reflection
Glowing to his crystal bosom--
As he whisper'd "Wand'ring Whiteness,
Rest upon my crystal bosom!
Join this little water party."...
Yet she spoke not, only murmured:--
Down into the water stept she,
Lowest Water--Dead Low Water--
Down into the wavering river,
Like a red deer in the sunset--
Like a ripe leaf in the autumn:
From her lips, as rose-buds snow-filled,
Came a soft and dreamy music,
Softer than the breath of summer,
Softer than the murm'ring river,
Than the cooing of Cushawa,--
Sighs that melted as the snows melt,
Silently and sweetly melted;
Sounds that mingled with the crisping
Foam upon the billow resting:--

Still she spoke not, only murmured.

From the forest shade primeval,
Piggey-Wiggey looked out at her;
He the most Successful Squeaker--
He the very Youthful Porker--
He the Everlasting Grunter--
Gazed upon her there, and wondered!
With his nose out, Rokey-pokey--
And his tail up, Curley-wurley--
Wondered what could be the matter,

Wondered what the girl was up to--
What the deuce her little game was....

And she floated down the river,
Like a water-witch'd Ophelia....
FOR HER CRINOLINE SUSTAINED HER.

* * * * *

THE WALLFLOWERS.

Two belated men from Oxford,
Members of a nameless college--
Pip, the philosophic smoker,
And his friend they called the Fluffer--
Men belated in the country,
Lost their way geologising;
Reached the city after midnight,
After lawful hour of entry,
By the gateway of the college.
And they did not rouse the porter,
For they knew the dean was wrathful,
And had vowed a weighty vengeance,
If a man knocked in belated.
But they gat them round a back way,
Where a wall divides the college
From intrusion of the vulgar.
Stole they down a lonely footpath,
And they halted where a sapling
Very near the wall was growing;
And above an ancient elm-tree
Stretched a downward arm in welcome,
To embrace the little sapling.
Each in turn his toe adapted,
Where a crevice in the stonework,
In the worn and ancient stonework,
Gave a short precarious foothold
While they climbed the little sapling.
Pip had scaled the wall, and sitting,
Helped the Fluffer struggling upwards,
When a Bobby, a policeman,
Irreproachable policeman,
Came upon them round the corner,
And remarked, "Gents, I have caught you;
You're a pretty pair of wallflowers!"
Then the Fluffer answered briefly,
Answered, "Bobby, you have caught us,"
And the careful Pip, the smoker,
From his seat upon the wall-top,
Echoed, "I believe you've caught us."
But the Bobby, the policeman,
Said, "I have not seen you do it--
Seen you over any wall get;
And perhaps I should not see you,
If I happened to be looking
In an opposite direction,
With my back turned right upon you."
Nothing further said the Bobby,
Irreproachable policeman,
Only grinned, and seemed to linger.
Quick then Pip pulled up the Fluffer,
And inquired, "Old fellow, Fluffer,
Have you any coin about you?"
And the Fluffer from his pockets,
Brought the bob, the silver shilling,
And the piece of six, the tizzy,
And the piece of four, the joey,
And the double bob, the florin.
Down he threw them on the pathway;
Then the Bobby, the policeman,
Irreproachable policeman,
Picked them up, and whispered softly,
Somebody had dropped some money;
He was lucky to have found it.
After that did Pip, the smoker,
And his friend they called the Fluffer,
Get across the wall securely;
But the Bobby, the policeman,
Irreproachable policeman,
Did not see them get across it;
For he happened to be looking
In an opposite direction,
And his back was turned upon them.

_Odd Echoes from Oxford_, by A. Merion, B.A.

J. C. Hotten, 1872.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF NICOTINE.

SHOULD you ask me why this meerschaum,
Why these clay-pipes and churchwardens,
With the odours of tobacco,
With the oil and fume of "mixture,"
With the curling smoke of "bird's eye,"
With the gurgling of rank juices,
With renewed expectorations
As of sickness on the fore-deck?
I should answer, I should tell you,
From the cabbage, and the dust-heaps,
From the old leeks of the Welshland,
From the soil of kitchen gardens,
From the mud of London sewers,
From the garden-plots and churchyards,
Where the linnet and cock-sparrow
Feed upon the weeds and groundsel,
I receive them as I buy them
From the boxes of Havana,
The concocter, the weird wizard.
Should you ask how this Havana
Made cigars so strong and soothing,
Made the "bird's eye," and "York-river,"
I should answer, I should tell you,
In the purlieus of the cities,
In the cellars of the warehouse,
In the dampness of the dungeon,
Lie the rotten weeds that serve him;
In the gutters and the sewers,
In the melancholy alleys,
Half-clad Arab boys collect them,
Crossing-sweepers bring them to him,
Costermongers keep them for him,
And he turns them by his magic
Into "cavendish" and "bird's-eye,"
For those clay-pipes and churchwardens,
For this meerschaum, or he folds them,
And "cigars" he duly labels
On the box in which he sells them.

From _Figaro_, October 7, 1874.

* * * * *

The following is an extract from a long parody contained in _Lays of Modern Oxford_, by _Adon_ (Chapman and Hall, 1874.)

THE BUMP SUPPER.

"_Nunc est bibendum, nunc pede libero Pulsanda tellus._"

You shall hear how once our college,
When our boat had done great wonders,
And had bumped all boats before it,
Gave a great and grand bump-supper.
First the scouts, the sherry-swiggers,
And the scouts' boys, beer-imbibers,
Spread the things upon the table.

* * * * *

And they placed upon the table
Champagne-cup and rosy claret.
When the lamp-black night descended
Broad and dark upon the college,
When the reading man, the bookworm,
Grinding, sat among his Greek books,
With his oak securely sported,
And his tea-cup on the table,
From their rooms in groups assembled
Many guests to this great supper.
Came the boating men in numbers,
Came the cricketers in numbers,
Came the athletes clothed with muscle,
Came the singers, and the jesters,
And the jokers, funny fellows;
Came the active gymnast Biceps,
Also Pugilis, his comrade,
Very clever with the mittens;
Came our sturdy plucky boat's crew,
Remex Princeps, and his comrades,
And the steerer, Gubernator.
All were hungry, all were merry,
Full of repartee and laughter.
First they ate the slippy oyster,
Native oyster, cool and luscious,
And the ruddy blushing lobster,
And the crab so rich and tasty;
Then they ate the cold roast chicken,
And the finely flavoured ox-tongue,
And the cold roast mutton sheep's flesh,
And the pigeon-pie, the dove-tart,
And the well stuffed duck and turkey,
With the sausages around it.
Thus the guests, the mutton munchers,
Played the noble game of chew-chew,
Game of knife and fork and tumblers,
Very popular in Oxford.

* * * * *

Then a man, who came from Cornwall,
Sang a song that clearly stated
If a person named Trelawny,
Should by any hap or hazard,
Leave the world by death untimely,
Many people in the south-west
Part of England would insist on
Knowing wherefore he had left it.
Then the cheeky smiling Ginger
Sang of lovely Angelina,
Lady with the Grecian bend, and
Of the maiden dressed in azure,
With both eyes and hair of darkness.
Then the guests said, "Sing some more songs;
Sing to us immortal Ginger,
Songs of laughter quaint and comic,
With a merry roaring chorus,
That we all may be more noisy.
And the sleeping dons may waken."

* * * * *

All was shouting, noise, confusion,
Till at last the guests exhausted,
All departed hot and dizzy,
Thus the entertainment ended,
Thus the great bump-supper ended,
Long to be discussed and talked of,
Long to be remembered by the
College in the days hereafter.

* * * * *

THE LEGEND OF KEN-E-LI.

(From _Figaro_, August 11, 1875.)

* * * * *

High among the tribes of Jon-buls,
Was a tribe they called the Lor-yahs;
Very cunning were the Lor-yahs:
They could talk and twist and double
Till the other tribes of Jon-buls
Scarcely knew if they were standing
On their heads or on their sandals.

Chief among these learned Lor-yahs
Was the great and good Ken-e-li.
Brave and handsome, kind and gentle,
Soft in voice and smooth in manner,
Wise yet simple, strong yet tender,
Was the mighty chief Ken-e-li.
But the blind and stupid Jon-buls
Could not see his many virtues;
When he spake they shouted, "_Bun-kum!_"
And they scoffed at good Ken-e-li.

* * * * *

The poem then describes the gentle manners
of the inhabitants of the district An-lee, their
mild sports and pastimes, and how they chose
the great Ken-e-li to be their talking Em-pee in
the council of their nation, and the manner in
which he was received there.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE BEETLE.

[The following graceful effusion, by a well-known
Longfellow-countryman of the Colorado insect, should be hailed
with delight by the British public. As it contains an accurate
description of the Beetle, we would suggest that it should be
learned by heart by the Rector of Hitcham's school-children, with a
view to preventing entomological mistakes.]

Should you ask me of the Beetle,
Of the Colorado Beetle!--
Properly the _Doryphora
Decemlineata_ christen'd--
I should answer, I should tell you,
"He's a beggar for potatoes,
Quite a glutton at potatoes--
For he 'wolfs' the common 'murphy.'
The _Solanum tuberosum_.
(Thus the _savans_ named the tater!")

Should you ask me if the Beetle
Were at all like other beetles--
Like the 'chafer, for example,
Him whom boys impale on pin-point--
I should straight reply in this wise:
"He, when young, is like the insect
Whose abode is always burning,
She whose children are departed.[4]

But when fourteen days have glided,
Then the Beetle is much longer;
Very much more pointed-taily,
Sharp as to his latter ending,
Red thus far has been his colour,
Red, the hue of guardsman's tunic,
Red, the tint of postal pillars.
But, as time and trouble try him,
This our insect grows much paler,
Fades and fades till he is yellow--
Yellow e'en as one dyspeptic,
Yellow with black stripes upon him."

Should you further ask the poet,
How to treat the little stranger?
I should answer, I should bid you,
"Stamp on him, where'er you find him!
In the garden--in the pig-sty--
In the parlour or the bed-room--
In the roadway or the meadow--
Squash the little wretch, confound him!
_That's_ the way that I should answer,--
That's the sort of man that _I_ am."

From _Funny Folks_.

In 1879 the editor of _The World_ offered two prizes for the best parodies on Longfellow's _Hiawatha_, the subject selected being _The Hunting of Cetewayo_. There were 135 competitors, the first prize was awarded to Floreant-Lauri, whose poem will be found, with the three next best, in _The World_ for October 8, 1879.

The prize poem commenced as follows:--

Very wrath was Wolsey-Pullsey
When he landed at Fort Durban,
Hearing all the depredations
Of the cunning Cetewayo;
Called his captain Giffey-Wiffey,
Saying, "Catch this Cetewayo,
Muzzle thou this mischief-maker;
Not so tangled is the jungle,
Not so dark the deepest donga,
But that thou canst track and find him."
Then in hot pursuit departed
Giffey-Wiffey and his soldiers,
Through the jungle, through the forest;
But they found not Cetewayo--
Only found his bed and blanket.
From the farthest dingey-donga
Cetewayo looking backward,
Placed his thumb upon his nostril,
Made the sign, the Snookey-Wookey,
Made the gesture of derision,
Pulling bacon, piggey-whiggey,
Hurling at them his defiance.
Then cried Giffey-Wiffey loudly,
"When I catch you, you black rascal,
Cat-o'-nine tails, pussey-wussey,
You and she shall be acquainted,"
Mockingly came back the answer:
"When you catchee, when you catchee!"

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE HUNTING OF CETEWAYO.

Full of anger was Sir Garnet
When he came among the Zulus,
And found them in a precious muddle,
Heard of all the wicked doings,
All the luckless Zulus slaughter'd
By the savage Cetewayo.
Fuming in alarming fashion,
Through his thick moustache he mutter'd
Dire words of blood and thunder,
Raging like an angry tiger--
"I will nobble Cetewayo,
Bag this horrid rascal," said he;
"Not so wide the realm of Zulus,
Not so terrible the bye-ways,
That my anger shall not nail him,
That my vengeance shall not spot him!"
Then in hot pursuit departed
Marter and the mighty hunters
On the trail of Cetewayo.
Through the bush where he had hidden,
To the hut where he had rested--
But they found not Cetewayo;
Only in the charcoal embers
And the smell of bad tobacco,
Found the spot where he had halted;
Found the tokens of his presence.
Through the bush and brake and forest
Ran the cunning Cetewayo,
Till a lonely kraal he entered
In the middle of the forest!
Then the corpulent old sinner
Heard the tramp of many footsteps,
Heard the sound of many voices,
Saying, "He, the white man's coming!"
Got into a funk and shivered.
Then came Marter, mighty Major,
He, of all Dragoons the boldest,
To the hut door riding straightway,
Saying, "Where is Cetewayo,
For his Majesty is wanted?"
Then came forth the noble savage,
On his breast a scarlet blanket,
Proudly wearing à la toga,
Gave himself to mighty Marter;
Pass'd a captive 'twixt the soldiers!
Ended now his strange adventures,
Ended all his wily dodges,
All his plottings and his schemings,
And his hecatombs of Zulus!

From _Snatches of Song_, by F. B. Doveton, 1880.

* * * * *

HIAWATHA'S PHOTOGRAPHING.

_Author's Preface._

("In an age of imitation, I can claim no special merit for this slight attempt at doing what is known to be so easy. Any fairly practised writer, with the slightest ear for rhythm, could compose, for hours together, in the easy running metre of 'The Song of Hiawatha.'")

From his shoulder Hiawatha
Took the camera of rosewood.
Made of sliding, folding rosewood,
Neatly put it all together.
In its case it lay compactly,
Folded into nearly nothing;
But he opened out the hinges,
Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,
Till it looked all squares and oblongs,
Like a complicated figure
In the Second Book of Euclid.
This he perched upon a tripod--
Crouched beneath its dusky cover--
Stretched his hand, enforcing silence--
Said, "Be motionless, I beg you!"
Mystic, awful was the process.
All the family in order,
Sat before him for their pictures;
Each, in turn, as he was taken,
Volunteered his own suggestions,
His ingenious suggestions.
First the Governor, the Father,
He suggested velvet curtains
Looped about a massy pillar;
And a corner of a table,
Of a rosewood dining-table.
He would hold a scroll of something,
Hold it firmly in his left hand;
He would keep his right hand buried
(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;
He would contemplate the distance
With a look of pensive meaning,
As of ducks that die in tempests.
Grand, heroic was the notion:
Yet the picture failed entirely--
Failed because he moved a little,
Moved, because he couldn't help it."

* * * * *

Next to him the eldest daughter:
She suggested very little,
Only asked if he would take her
With her look of 'passive beauty.'
Her idea of passive beauty
Was a squinting of the left eye,
Was a drooping of the right eye,
Was a smile that went up sideways
To the corner of the nostrils."

After having taken each member of the family in succession, with the most dismal results:--

Finally my Hiawatha
Tumbled all the tribe together,
('Grouped' is not the right expression),
And, as happy chance would have it,
Did at last obtain a picture
Where the faces all succeeded:
Each came out a perfect likeness.
Then they joined, and all abused it,
Unrestrainedly abused it,
As 'the worst and ugliest picture
They could possibly have dreamed of.'

* * * * *

But my Hiawatha's patience,
His politeness and his patience,
Unaccountably had vanished,
And he left that happy party.
Left them in a mighty hurry,
Stating that he would not stand it,
Stating in emphatic language
What he'd be before he'd stand it.
Thus departed Hiawatha.

From _Rhyme? and Reason?_ by Lewis Carroll, 1883.

These disjointed extracts give but a poor idea of this most amusing poem, the comical effects of which are much heightened by Mr. A. B. Frost's humorous illustrations.

* * * * *

THE LAWN-TENNIS PARTY AT PEPPERHANGER.

(_A fragment in the metre of Longfellow's "Hiawatha."_)

I was sitting in my wigwam,
Looking from my lofty wigwam,
On the fir-clad hill of Dryburgh,
O'er the vale of Pepperhanger.
Suddenly there came a rapping,
[Sidenote: The Postman's knock.]
Double rapping, double tapping,
Sounding through the little wigwam,
Startling quiet Pepperhanger.
Thus the Government Messénjah,
[Sidenote: Heathen Mythology.]
Mercury of brazen buttons,
Crimson-collared, azure-coated,
Blue as when some ancient Briton,
As enlightenment came o'er him,
Thinking skin was rather shabby,
[Sidenote: History of England.]
Went and put a coat of Woad on.
He, the carrier of all letters,
He the bearer of all tidings
To the lofty hill of Dryburgh,
To the vale of Pepperhanger.
Swiftly then I took the letter;
Eagerly I read the message
From a hospitable lady
Of the vale of Pepperhanger,
"Come at four o'clock to tiffin,
If no better action urges;
In the cool of Tuesday evening,
Come and play a game of Tennis
On my lawns at Pepperhanger."
Thus her letter: then I sallied
To her almost hidden wigwam.
Which from East and rude Sou'-wester
Evergreen the pine-tree shelters;
Took my Tennis shoes of rubber,
Mocassins of Indian rubber,
Racket, too, of Horace Bayley,
To the tournament of Tennis
On the lawns of Pepperhanger.
[Sidenote: Lodge's Peerage.]
Came the lordly Tennyslornah.
Came the Reverend B. A. Kander,
[Sidenote: Clergy List.]
Came the cute 'un, Charley Pleycynge,
Came the smasher, young de Vorley,
Came the great Sir V. O. Verandah,
Came the warrior, Foragh Biscoe,
[Sidenote: Sludgeborough-in-the-Marsh.]
Strangers from a distant countrie,
To the tournament of Tennis
In the vale of Pepperhanger.
There we had a game at Tennis,
Outdoor Tennis let us call it,
Lest the lords of real Tennis
Should invoke a curse upon us;
Hotly smote the fierce back-hander,
Volleyed toward, also froward,
Till the speeding ball appeared as
One continuous flash of lightning:
Shouted loudly cries of Tennis,
"Forty-thirty" and "advantage,"
Giving fifteen, owing thirty
For a bisque, anon half-thirty
Owing, giving, taking, wanting,
Till the brain was almost reeling,
[Sidenote: Colenso's Arithmetic.]
Handicapping calculations
All too hard for Pepperhanger!
Presently the tea-bell sounded
Through the pine-tree-shelter'd gardens
To the ne'er inebriating
Ever cheering goblet summons.

From _Pastime_, August 24, 1883.

* * * * *

The late Mr. Shirley Brooks composed a number of clever parodies, many of which were contributed to _Punch_ during his Editorship of that journal. Three of the longest and most amusing of these were _The Very Last Idyll_, after Tennyson; _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner_, after Coleridge; and The _Song of Hiawatha_, after Longfellow. A quotation from The _Very Last Idyll_ was given on page 44; and the parody on Coleridge will be quoted when that author is reached; the parody of Longfellow, which appeared in _Punch_ as far back as 1856, commenced thus:--

THE SONG OF HIAWATHA.

(_Author's Protective Edition._)

You, who hold in grace and honour,
Hold as one who did you kindness
When he published former poems,
Sang Evangeline the noble,
Sang the golden Golden Legend,
Sang the songs the Voices utter,
Crying in the night and darkness,
Sang how unto the Red Planet
Mars he gave the Night's First Watches,
Henry Wadsworth, whose adnomen
(Coming awkward for the accents
Into this his latest rhythm)
Write we as Protracted Fellow,
Or in Latin, Longus Comes--
Buy the Song of Hiawatha.

Should you ask me, Is the poem
Worthy of its predecessors,
Worthy of the sweet conceptions
Of the manly, nervous diction
Of the phrase, concise or pliant,
Of the songs that sped the pulses,
Of the songs that gemmed the eyelash,
Of the other works of Henry?
I should answer, I should tell you,
You may wish that you may get it--
Don't you wish that you may get it?

* * * * *

Should you ask me, What's its nature?
Ask me, What's the kind of poem?
Ask me in respectful language,
Touching your respectful beaver,
Kicking back your manly hind-leg,
Like to one who sees his betters;
I should answer, I should tell you,
'Tis a poem in this metre,
And embalming the traditions,
Tables, rites, and superstitions
Of the various tribes of Indians.

* * * * *

I should answer, I should tell you
Shut your mouth and go to David,
David, Mr. Punch's neighbour,
Buy the Song of Hiawatha.
Read and learn, and then be thankful
Unto Punch and Henry Wadsworth,
Punch and noble Henry Wadsworth.
Truer poet, better fellow,
Than to be annoyed at jesting
From his friend, great Punch, who loves him.

* * * * *

The following is a list of the names of some famous advertisers of thirty years ago, taken from _Hiawater_, a parody contained in "The Shilling Book of Beauty," by Cuthbert Bede (J. Blackwood, 1853):--

"Howlawaya, the quack doctor;
Mosieson, the cheap slop seller;
Mechisteel and Warrenblacking;
Camomile, the Pillofnorton;
Marywedlake, oaten bruiser;
Doctorjong, the great cod liver;
Revalenta, the Dubarrie,
Rowlandskalidore, and Trotman's
Doubledupperambulator."

Another scarce parody on the same original was entitled _Milk-and-Watha_, and an amusing skit was also contained in Gilbert's libretto to _Princess Toto_.

There is also a parody in Edmund Yates's _Our Miscellany_ (G. Routledge and Co., 1857), and "Revenge, a Rhythmic Recollection," appeared in _Tom Hood's Comic Annual_, 1877.

* * * * *

SHORTFELLOW SUMS UP LONGFELLOW.

Miles Standish, old Puritan soldier, courts gal Priscilla by proxy;
Gal likes the proxy the best, so Miles, in a rage, takes and hooks it.
Folks think he's killed, but he ain't, and comes back, as a friend,
to the wedding,
If you call this ink-Standish stuff poetry, _Punch_ will soon reel
you off Miles.

_Shirley Brooks_ on "The Courtship of Miles Standish."

* * * * *

THE WAGNER FESTIVAL.

(_By an admirer of Longfellow's "Evangeline," who sorrowfully
sat through the six concerts._)

This is the music primeval. The festival singers from Bayreuth,
Solemn and stern, with their shirt fronts studded, and swallow-tailed
garments,
Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms,
Loud from its ligneous caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring organ
Moans, and in accents disconsolate answers the orchestra wailing.

This is the music primeval, and when it is ended, Herr Wagner
Is called to the front, and is crowned with a wreath by the Madame
Materna;
Then there is hugging and kissing and weeping with Wagner Wilhelmj,
And Richter, to whom is presented a bâton--brand new, silver-mounted;
But where are the beautiful maidens who solemnly sat in the boxes?
Where are the men--tawny swells--who talked of clubs, races, or
billiards,
Silenced from time unto time by thunders and earthquakes orchestral?
Empty are boxes and stalls, the occupants all have departed,
And the critic goes--glad to survive the music primeval of Wagner.

_Funny Folks._

Another parody of Evangeline, entitled _Picnicaline_ occurs in "Mirth and Metre," 1855.

EXCELSIOR.

The shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed,
A youth, who bore 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with this strange device,
Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath
Flashed like a faulchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung,
The accents of that unknown tongue.
Excelsior!

It is possible that Longfellow had the motto of New York, "_Excelsior_," in his mind when he composed this hackneyed poem, which has served as the model for hundreds of parodies, and particularly for advertising purposes. A few of the more amusing only can be inserted.

EXCELSIOR IN "PIDGIN ENGLISH."

The following article is from _Pro and Con_, December 14, 1872.

"Pidgin English is the name given to an absurd _patois_ which is used in conversation between the Chinese celestials, and the outer barbarians. It appears to be a physical impossibility for a Chinaman to pronounce the letter _r_ as in rough, cry, or curry, which he turns into lough, cly, and cully, as young English children often do. V, he turns into W, th into f, and to most words ending with a consonant, he adds a final syllable, as in _find findie_, _catch catchee_, &c. I, me, my, and mine, are all expressed by one word, _my_. The vocabulary consists of a few words of French origin, such as savey, one or two from the Portuguese, many common Chinese expressions, such as _chop-chop_ for quick; _man-man_, which means stop; _maskee_, never mind, or do not mind; _chin-chin_, good-bye; _welly culio_, or _muchee culio_, very curious; _Foss-pidgin-man_, a priest; and _Topside Galah_, hurrah for the top, or Excelsior. There is also a plentiful use of the word _pidgin_, which is simply a corruption of our word _business_, but it appears to be applied with the utmost impartiality, to a variety of most incongruous phrases. As an example of every day talk, a lady telling her nurse to bring down her little girl and boy to see a visitor would say,--'Aymah, suppose you go topside catchee two piecee chiloe, bull chiloe, cow chiloe, chop chop.' From a gentleman well acquainted with China and the Chinese, we have received the following clever imitation of Excelsior, which is pronounced a very fair specimen of Pidgin English":--

TOPSIDE GALAH!

"That nightee tim begin chop-chop,
One young man walkee, no can stop,
Maskee colo! maskee icee!
He cally that flag wid chop so nicee
_Topside Galah!_

"He too muchee solly, one piecee eye
Look see sharp--so fashion--allo same my,
He talkee largee, talkee stlong,
Too muchee culio-allo same gong--
_Topside Galah!_

"Inside that housee he can see light,
And evely loom got fire all light.
Outside, that icee largee high,
Inside he mouf, he plenty cly,
_Topside Galah!_

"Olo man talkee, 'No can walkee!'
Bimeby lain come-welly darkee,
Hab got water, too muchee wide!
Maskee! my wantchee go topside--
_Topside Galah!_

"'Man-man,' one galo talkee he,
What for you go topside look see?'
And one tim more he plenty cly,
But allo tim walkee plenty high,
_Topside Galah!_

"'Take care that spilem-tlee young man!
Take care that icee!'" He no man-man;
That coolie chin-chin he 'Good night,'
He talkee, 'My can go all lite!'
_Topside Galah!_

"Joss Pidgin man chop-chop begin
That morning tim that joss chin-chin,
He no man see, he plenty fear,
Cause some man speakee, he can hear
_Topside Galah!_

"That young man die--one largee dog see,
Too muchee bobbely, findee he;
Hand muchee colo, allo same icee,
Have piecee flag wid chop so nicee,
_Topside Galah!_

MOLAL.

"You too much laughee! what for sing?
I tink you no savey what ting!
Supposee you no b'long cleber inside,
More better you go walkee topside,
_Topside Galah!_"

Another, but, on the whole, inferior version of the above parody appeared in Harper's Magazine, and is quoted at page 122 of _Poetical Ingenuities and Eccentricities_, by W. T. Dobson (Chatto and Windus, 1882.)

* * * * *

The shades of night were falling fast,
When through the spacious High there passed
A form in gown of strange device,
Who uttered in a tone of ice,
"Your name and college!"

His brow was black, his eye beneath
Shone like a wrathful bull-dog's teeth;
And still amid the darkness rung
The accents of his well-known tongue;
"Your name and college!"

"Try not the High," the porter said,
"Dark lowers the proctor, bull-dog led."
But forth in "loud" illegal dress
The youth went, crying "Let him guess
My name and college!"

(_Half-an-hour elapses._)

"O stay," his comrade said, "and rest
Thy wearied limbs and panting chest!"
To gain their wind the fliers try,
When lo! a figure gliding nigh,
Cries, "Name and college!"

"Beware the proctor's sacred paunch,
Beware the rushing bull-dog's launch!"
This was the porter's last good-night;
A voice replied, "It serves me right
For cutting college!"

Next morn, as tolled the stroke of nine,
Two youths, in dread of penal fine,
Slunk silent through the awful gate,
And "hoped they were not much too late,
They'd run from college!"

There, like a mouse awaiting cat,
Awful and calm the proctor sat;
And, like a death-knell booming far,
A voice fell stern: "This week you are
Confined to college!"

_College Rhymes_, 1863.

* * * * *

EXEXOLOR.

The shades of night had fallen (_at last!_)
When from the Eagle Tavern pass'd
A youth, who bore, in manual vice,
A pot of something monstrous nice--
XX--oh lor!

His brow was bad--his young eye scann'd
The frothing flagon in his hand,
And like a gurgling streamlet sprung
The accents to that thirsty tongue,
XX--oh lor!

In happy homes he saw them grub
On stout, and oysters from a tub,--
The dismal gas-light gleamed without,
And from his lips escaped a shout,
"XX--oh lor!"

"Young man," the Sage observ'd, "just stay,
And let me dip my beak, I say,
The pewter is deep, and I am dry!"
"Perceiv'st thou verdure in my eye?
XX--oh lor!"

"Oh stop," the maiden cried, "and lend
Thy beery burden here, my friend--"
Th' unbidden tear regretful rose,
But still his thumb-tip sought his nose;
XX--oh lor!

"Beware the gutter at thy feet!
Beware the Dragons of the street!
Beware lest thirsty Bob you meet!"
This was the ultimate remark;
A voice replied far thro' the dark,
"XX--oh lor!"

That night, by watchmen on their round,
The person in a ditch was found;
Still grasping in his manual vice,
That pot--once fill'd with something nice--
XX--oh lor!!!

From Mr. H. Cholmondeley-Pennell's _Puck on Pegasus_ (Chatto and Windus.)

* * * * *

THE THEATRE.

"_Nam quae pervincere voces Evaluere sonum referunt quem
nostra Theatra?_"

I.

The theatre was filling fast,
As through the open door there passed
A stranger with a scarlet tie,
That instantly provoked the cry
Of "Turn him out!"

II.

His nose was red, his lips beneath,
In frequent smiles disclosed his teeth,
And upward when he turned his eye,
In ceaseless hubbub came the cry,
"Ugh! Turn him out!"

III.

"Stay, stay," a master said, "and rest,
The 'Vice' cares little how you're dressed,"
But loud from undergraduate lung
The cry continually rung,
"Ugh! Turn him out!"

IV.

The public orator began
To spout his Latin like a man;
His lips moved fast, but not a word
Was audible; we only heard,
"Ugh! Turn him out!"

V.

The Gaisford and the Newdigate
And Stanhope shared no better fate;
No single voice could drown the cry
That roared out from the gallery,
"Ugh! Turn him out!"

VI.

The 'Vice' rose up from off his chair,
And raised his finger in the air,
And gently strove the noise to quell,
But louder came the ceaseless yell,
"Ugh! Turn him out."

VII.

I left the place with aching brain,
And deafened ear that throbbed again,
And as I sauntered down the High,
Upon the breeze I heard the cry,
"Ugh! Turn him out!"

_Lays of Modern Oxford_ (Chapman and Hall, 1874.)

EXCELSIOR.

The price of meat was rising fast,
As to his daily duty passed
A toiler who, with bitter laugh,
Had read upon his _Telegraph_,
Excelsior!

His brow was sad; because it bore
A costlier hat than e'er before:
His feet were sadder; he'd to pay
For boots that quickly wore away,
Excelsior!

In oyster shops he saw the shells
Wherein the luscious bivalve dwells,
But had no chance of shelling out,
And murmured, as he dreamt of stout,
Excelsior!

"Try this rump-steak!" the butcher said;
"At Tillyfour the ox was bred;
Juicy it is, M'Combie's pride,
And only one-and-six." He sighed--
Excelsior!

"Stay!" cried a maiden of the bar,
"A shilling buys a good cigar--
Ten more some icy dry champagne."
He shook his head and cried again,
Excelsior!

"Take comfort," said a Hebrew mild;
"I love to help a Christian child.
My moderate terms are cent. per cent.
'Twas sixty once," he thought, and went--
Excelsior!

At dead of night that wayward youth,
So saddened by the eternal truth,
Was by a pious peeler found,
Who kindly raised him from the ground,
Excelsior!

He uttered words that can't be told,
Said eating game was eating gold,
Showered maledictions on the souls
Of those who raise the price of coals--
Excelsior!

When morning shone upon the town,
He had to pay five shillings down,
And blessed the rulers of the skies
The price of Justice does not rise,
Excelsior!

MORTIMER COLLINS.

_The London Magazine_, February, 1876.

* * * * *

"CLEAN YOUR DOOR-STEP, MARM?"

The shades of night were some time past,
And snow had fallen thick and fast;
A youth, who broom and shovel bore,
Was heard to call outside the door,
"Clean your doorstep, Marm?"

In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright,
The singing kettle brightly shone--
Again, again, his well-known tone--
"Clean your doorstep, Marm?"

His brow was sad--his chilly nose,
Like fiery coals, glow'd in the snows,
And, as the kitchen bell he rang,
In accents clear he loudly sang,
"Clean your doorstep, Marm?"

"Oh, stay," the girl said, "while I see,
As I takes up the toast and tea;
And if your charge is not too high"--
"A tanner's all," the poor boy's cry,
"To clean your doorstep, Marm?"

He set to work with all his might,
But suddenly went out of sight;--
Half-buried in the coals was found
The youth who sang that piteous sound,
"Clean your doorstep, Marm?"

Some rascal in the night had twigged,
The coal-iron loose, which he had prigged,
"If I'd a know'd a hole was there,
I would o' coorse ha' took more care
Cleaning your doorstep, Marm?"

* * * * *

YE MAYDEN AND YE EGGE.

The shades of night were gone--at last,
As, all agog to break her fast,
A maiden sat, 'mid kith and kin,
While bent, impatient to begin,
_Egg-shell she o'er_.

_Ye Paterfamilias._
His brow was staid; his eyes beneath
Were closed. Not so his lips and teeth,
Whence, like a copper clarion rung
"Grace before meat." Still, listening, hung
_Egg-shell she o'er_.

_Hys remonstrance._
"Try not the egg!" the "old man" cried,
"Dark lowers some prodigy inside!
What if fowl play?"--no more he said,
For her protecting fingers spread
_Egg-shell she o'er_.

_Ye Mayden_--_her Prayer._
"Stay, Pa!" the maiden said, "let's test
Your query, ere upon this breast
You anguish pile." Her moistening eye
Here drooped, and struggled with a sigh,
_Egg-shell she o'er_.

_Ye Fynde._
At break of shell, as chickenward
(For aught she knew) her spoon she stirred,
A something stubborn claimed a stare.
"My brooch!" cried with a startled air,
_Egg-shell she o'er_.

_Ye Ende._
There in the middle--so they say--
Hard, but albuminous it lay.
And, when she grew serener, far,
Fished the thing up, with "dear old star!"
_Egg-shell she o'er_.

This ingenious but rather mad parody appeared in _The Figaro_ of May 6, 1876.

THOSE HORRID SCHOOLS.

I.

The shades of night were falling fast,
As through the quad a gownsman passed,
Whose seedy look and sunken cheek
Bespoke as plain as words could speak,
"Those horrid schools!"

II.

His coat was worn; his bags beneath
Were quite too short his legs to sheath,
While like a penny trumpet rung
The treble of that mournful tongue,
"Those horrid schools!"

III.

In happy homes he left the light
Of household fires both warm and bright;
Before the spectral "Great Go" shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
"Those horrid schools!"

IV.

"Try but to pass," his tutor said,
"A class is not within your head.
The yawning gulf is deep and wide!"
But still that treble voice replied,
"Those horrid schools!"

V.

"Oh stay!" the maiden said, "and rest
Thy learned head upon my breast!"
A tear stood in his sunken eye,
He blushed, and answered, looking shy,
"Those horrid schools!"

VI.

"Beware tobacco's withered plant!
Beware of vinous stimulant!"
This was the gov'nor's last good-bye,
A voice replied, from out the fly,
"Those horrid schools!"

VII.

At break of day, as through the gloom
The scout when going from room to room,
Uttered the oft repeated call,
A voice came from the bedroom small,
"Those horrid schools!"

VIII.

The poor young sap asleep quite sound,
Half buried in the sheets was found,
Still grasping, nibbled by the mice,
An Ethics with the strange device,
"Those horrid schools!"

IX.

There in the twilight, cold and grey,
Dirty, unwashen, there he lay,
While from his scout the sentence flowed,
"Oh drat those books--them schools be blowed,
"Them 'orrid schools!"

_College Rhymes_, 1861

THAT THIRTY-FOUR.

(The following parody was selected for a prize in a competition, by the editor of _Truth_, and appeared in that paper on November 25th, 1880. It refers to the American puzzle, called "Thirty-four," which was then very popular).

Chill August's storms were piping loud,
When through a gaping London crowd,
There passed a youth, who still was heard
To mutter the perplexing word,
"That Thirty-four!"

His eyes were wild; his brow above
Was crumpled like an old kid glove;
And like some hoarse crow's grating note
That word still quivered in his throat,
"That Thirty-four!"

"Oh, give it up!" his comrades said,
"It only muddles your poor head;
It is not worth your finding out."
He answered with a wailing shout,
"That Thirty-four!"

"Art not content," the maiden said,
"To solve the 'Fifteen' one instead?"
He paused-his tearful eyes he dried--
Gulped down a sob, then sadly sighed,
"That Thirty-four!"

At midnight, on their high resort,
The cats were startled at their sport,
To hear, beneath one roof, a tone
Gasp out, betwixt a snore and groan,
"That Thirty-four!"

* * * * *

TOBACCO SMOKE!

The clouds or smoke were rising fast,
As through a college room there passed
A youth who bore, 'spite sage advice,
A "baccy"-pouch with strange device,
"Tobacco smoke!"

His brow was sad; his eye beneath
Stared on a pipe, laid in its sheath,
And in his ears there ever rung
The accents of the donor's tongue,
"Tobacco smoke!"

* * * * *

"Try not the shag!" the old man said,
It is o'er strong for thy young head,
Dire its effects to those untried
Heedless he was, and but replied,
"Tobacco smoke!"

"Oh, stay," the maiden said, "and test
Our Latakia--'tis the best!"
He grasped his packet of birds'-eye,
And only muttered with a sigh,
"Tobacco smoke!"

"Beware; don't set your room alight--
The college might object--good-night!"
Such were the words the scholar spoke,
And scarcely heard through closing oak,
"Tobacco smoke!"

That Freshman by his scout was found
Lying all prone upon the ground,
And still his hand grasped like a vice
The "baccy"-pouch with strange device,
"Tobacco smoke!"
* * * * *
R. C., Oxford.

_College Rhymes_, 1864.

* * * * *

"OBSTRUCTIONISTS."

(_By a Lover of Longfellow, after spending Twenty-six Hours
in the House of Commons._)

The shades of night were falling fast,
As through St. Stephen's portals passed
An Irish band, not over nice,
Whose banners bore the strange device--
"Obstructionists!"

Each brow was sad, each eye beneath
Glared at Cavan, Dungarvan, Meath;
And soon in Erin's brogue was heard
Again their policy absurd--
"Obstructionists!"

* * * * *