Chapter XIV: Letter VIII: The Rejected “national Hymns.” (8)

we read such lines, and laugh at them without feeling that any injustice is done to Macaulay. Again, when we read of another and less fortunate sufferer,――in the schools of Cambridge this time――how

In the crown of his cap
Were the Furies and Fates,
And a delicate map
Of the Dorian States;
And they found on his palms, which were dirty,
What is frequent on palms――that is dates――[19]

we entirely acquit the writer of any design to laugh at Mr. Bret Harte. In both these cases the parodies are really no more than proofs of the universal popularity of the writers parodied. But when we read in _Rejected Addresses_ the parodies on Wordsworth and Coleridge, we feel that the writers were intentionally casting ridicule on certain trivialities, certain commonplaces both of diction and thought, to which these great men did occasionally sink.

It seems to us, also, that Jeffrey has rated the virtue of _sound_ in a parody too low――which is, perhaps, only to say that he rates the whole art of parody higher than we do. Surely it is an essential of this sort of imitation that the words should strike the ear with the very echo of the original. For this reason the specimens we have quoted seem to us so particularly good; and for the same reason, with the exception of the “Lay of the Lovelorn,” the clever ballads of Bon Gaultier do not seem to us to really come under the definition of parodies at all. And it is this quality which gives the point to Mr. Bromley Davenport’s “Lowesby Hall.”[20] In such lines as these――though, indeed, the whole parody is so good that selection is difficult――it is the _sound_ which does everything, but how inimitably it does it!――

Here at least I’ll stay no longer, let me seek for some abode,
Deep in some provincial country far from rail or turnpike road;
There to break all links of habit, and to find a secret charm
In the mysteries of manuring and the produce of a farm.
To deplore the fall of barley, to admire the rise of peas,
Over flagons of October, giant mounds of bread and cheese;
Never company to dinner, never visitors from town,
Just the Parson and the Doctor (Mr. Smith and Mr. Brown).
Droops the heavy conversation to an after-dinner snort,
And articulation dwindles with the second flask of port.

We are very far from saying that parody is a matter of sound only; to borrow a well-known line,

The sound must seem an echo to the sense.

But certainly it strikes us as being a very important point, and we doubt whether any really clever parody ever was written, or ever will be, in which it does not play a conspicuous part, if not the most conspicuous. And this, perhaps, is the reason why those greatest works of poetry, where the style strikes one as the natural and inevitable vehicle of the thought, are really above the reach of parody; why all attempts to parody them, however clever, lose their cleverness in the larger consciousness of bad taste. But to place all parodies under this ban is surely unreasonable. It is unreasonable, as depriving the world of a great deal of harmless amusement, and also, as we have said, of a method, often more truly efficacious than more serious castigation, of exposing incompetence and affectation.

_The Saturday Review_, February 14, 1885.

Miss Ann Taylor’s “My Mother.”

MY MOTHER.

Who fed me from her gentle breast,
And hush’d me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek sweet kisses prest?
My Mother.

When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who was it sung sweet hushaby,
And rock’d me that I should not cry?
My Mother.

Who sat and watched my infant head,
When sleeping on my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?
My Mother.

When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?
My Mother.

Who dress’d my doll in clothes so gay,
And taught me pretty how to play,
And minded all I had to say?
My Mother.

Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well?
My Mother.

Who taught my infant lips to pray,
And love God’s holy book and day,
And walk in wisdom’s pleasant way?
My Mother.

And can I ever cease to be,
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who was’t so very kind to me,
My Mother?

Ah, no! the thought I cannot bear,
And if God please my life to spare,
I hope I shall reward thy care,
My Mother.

When thou art feeble, old, and gray,
My healthy arm shall be thy stay,
And I will soothe thy pains away,
My Mother.

And when I see thee hang thy head,
’Twill be my turn to watch thy bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed,
My Mother.

For God, who lives above the skies,
Would look with vengeance in His eyes,
If I should ever dare despise
My Mother.

_The Athenæum_ of May 12, 1866, contained a note speaking favorably of the general tone of the poem “My Mother,” but stating that it was spoilt by the last verse, in which the only reason given why a child should not despise its mother is _the fear of God’s vengeance_. The writer proposed that Mr. Tennyson should be asked to compose a final verse more in accordance with the sentiments contained in the preceding lines.

In the following number of _The Athenæum_ (May 19, 1866), appeared a reply from the authoress of “My Mother,” then a very old lady:――

COLLEGE HILL, NOTTINGHAM,
_May_ 15, 1866.

“Allow me to thank your Correspondent of last Saturday for
both his praise and blame; I am grateful for one and confess
to the other, in his notice of a little poem――‘My Mother,’
of which I was the author, it may be something more than
sixty years ago. I see now, so much as he does, though _not
in all its implications_, that, should another edition pass
through the press, I will take care that the offending verse
shall be omitted; or, as I may hope (without troubling the
Laureate), replaced. I have regarded our good old
theologian, Dr. Watts, as nearly our only predecessor in
verses for children; and his name――a name I revere――I may
perhaps plead in part, though not so far as to accept now,
what did not strike me as objectionable then. There has been
an illustrated edition of our ‘Original Poems’ recently
published by Mr. Virtue, and I am sorry to see it retained
there; but, as still the living author, I have sufficient
right to expunge it.

“Possibly you may have heard the names of Ann and Jane
Taylor, of whom _I_ am the _Ann_; and remain, yours, &c.,

ANN GILBERT.”

The Editor added: “She sends us the following alteration of the verse:――

For could our Father in the skies,
Look down with pleased or loving eyes,
If ever I could dare despise,
My Mother?”

This suggested alteration, does not, however, remove the objectionable word “despise,” which is utterly absurd as applied to such a mother as the poem describes.

It may be added that the original last verse is still very generally printed with the poem.

The history of the poem was thus given in that valuable storehouse of literary facts, “Notes and Queries,” in August 30, 1884.

“In 1798, Ann Taylor, then residing with her family in
Colchester, aged about sixteen, made a purchase of _A
Minor’s Pocket-Book_, a periodical published by Harvey and
Darton, 55, Gracechurch Street, London. This contained
enigmas, and the solutions of previous ones, and poetical
pieces to which prizes were adjudged. Fired with enthusiasm,
she set to work, and unravelled enigma, charade, and rebus,
and forwarded the results under the signature of
‘Juvenilia.’ They were successful, and obtained the first
prize――six pocket-books. She continued her contributions for
some years, at first anonymously, assisted by her younger
sister Jane, and subsequently she became the editor during
twelve or fourteen years, up to the time of her marriage in
1813.

“On July 1, 1803, Darton and Harvey wrote requesting some
specimens of easy poetry for young children. The letter
proceeds: ‘If something in the way of moral songs (though
not songs) or short tales turned into verse, or――but I need
not dictate. What would be most likely to please little
minds must be well known to every one of those who have
written such pieces as we have already seen from thy
family,’ &c. Their father (Isaac Taylor, afterwards of
Ongar) did not quite approve of the proceeding, remarking,
‘I do not want my girls to become authors.’

“The commission was undertaken by the two sisters, and, at
the end of 1803, a small volume appeared, with the title,
_Original Poems for Infant Minds_, by several Young Persons.
The work did not consist exclusively of the Taylor
contributions. Ann remarks, ‘Having written to order, we had
no control over the getting out of the volumes, and should
have been better pleased if contributions from other hands
had been omitted.’ The sisters received five pounds for the
first volume, which succeeded so well that a commission was
given in November, 1804, for a second volume, for which they
were paid another five pounds. It is in the first volume
that ‘My Mother,’ entirely written by Ann, appears.

“Jane Taylor continued to devote herself to literature until
her decease, in April, 1824, at the age of forty-one. Ann
married the Rev. Joseph Gilbert, in December, 1813, and
withdrew from literary work for the rest of her life, except
very occasionally. This is much to be regretted, as she
possessed rare talents; many of the most popular poems
usually ascribed to Jane having been really written by Ann.
Mrs. Gilbert survived to a happy and honoured old age, and
died Dec. 20, 1866, within a month of the completion of her
eighty-fifth year.

“Only a fortnight before her death she wrote, ‘You remember
that in May last there was a discussion in the _Athenæum_ on
my poem, ‘My Mother,’ which surprised everybody as an
announcement and advertisement of my continued existence, so
that the Post Office has gained all but a revenue from
letters addressed to me, which, kindly complimentary as they
are, I have, of course, had to answer.’

“The above brief notices of an estimable member of a
talented family may not be without interest in connexion
with the poem to which allusion has been made.

“Sandyknowe, Wavertree. J. A. PICTON.”

A further account of Miss Ann Taylor and her family will be found in “The Family Pen,” by Isaac Taylor, which contains memorials, biographical and literary, of the Taylor family, of Ongar. The work was published in two volumes in 1867. The poem “My Mother,” has recently been translated into German by Carmen Sylva, Queen of Roumania. Before quoting any parodies of this poem it may be as well to insert the well-known lines “To Mary,” written by the poet Cowper ten years before the publication of Miss Taylor’s “My Mother.” The similarity of the two poems can scarcely have been accidental, and authors of parodies of the one, often approach near to an imitation of the other.

TO MARY. (_Mrs. Unwin._)
AUTUMN 1793.

The twentieth year is well nigh past
Since first our sky was overcast;
Ah, would that this might be our last!
My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
I see thee daily weaker grow;
’Twas my distress that brought thee low,
My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disused, and shine no more,
My Mary!

For though thou gladly would’st fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
My Mary!

But well thou play’dst the housewife’s part,
And all thy threads, with magic art,
Have wound themselves about this heart,
My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem
Like language uttered in a dream;
Yet me they charm, whate’er the theme,
My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,
My Mary!

For, could I view nor them, nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,
My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently pressed, press gently mine,
My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov’st,
That now at every step thou mov’st
Upheld by two; yet still thou lov’st,
My Mary!

And still to love, though pressed with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,
My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know,
How oft the sadness that I show,
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,
Thy worn-out heart will break at last,
My Mary!

WILLIAM COWPER.

――――:o:――――

THE VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCES.
BY AN OUTCAST.

Who tucked me up in bed at night,
And cried as she blew out the light:
“Now go to sleep, you little fright?”――
My Mother!

Who patted me upon the head,
And in the gruffest accents said:
“Get out, you oaf, and earn your bread?”――
My Father.

Who dropped on me a scalding tear,
Exclaiming, as she boxed my ear:
“The gallows is your doom, I fear?”――
My Sister.

Who gently asked me what I’d got,
And cried, while pocketing the lot:
“Be off, or else you’ll get it hot?”――
My Brother.

Who with my locks would gently play,
And wrote me when she ran away:
“With such a fool I cannot stay?”――
My Wife.

Who stuck to me through thick and thin,
Then drew a bill and let me in,
Exclaiming: “What an ass you’ve been?”――
My Friend.

Who filled with tears my sorrow’s cup,
By crying, as she went to sup:
“Here, p’leesman, lock this blackguard up?”――
My Aunt.

Who rescued me from out the dirt,
And said, in accents harsh and curt,
“No more nor sixpence on this shirt?”――
My Uncle.

_Judy_, November 26, 1879.

――――:o:――――

MY RELATIONS.

Who taught my baby-lips to coo,
And trained them first to utter “Boo!”
And spanked me pretty soundly, too?――
My Mother.

Who rapped me smartly on the head
Because I said his nose was red,
And sent me howling off to bed?――
My Father.

Who called me “Clever little lad,
The very picture of my dad.”
And gave me _sixpence_――_which was bad?_――
My Grandfather.

Who, when I asked her if her hair
Was all her own, said, “Little bear!”
And fixed me with a stony stare?――
My Aunt.

Who is, alas! the _only_ friend
On whom I can at all depend,
And will remain so to the end?――
My Uncle.

_Funny Folks_, November 29, 1879.

――――:o:――――

NURSY PURSY.

[This poem, written by a child aged only five years and three months, is printed more as a literary curiosity than for any other reason. A kind of tender pathos may be observable here and there, which in a child so young is, at least, surprising.]

Who wore a hideous high-crown’d cap,
Who called me tootsy-wootsy chap,
Yet used my little head to slap?
Dear Nursy-pursy.

Who said she’d watch, then meanly slept,
And pinch’d me spiteful when I wept.
And for my pap her stale crusts kept?
Dear Nursy-pursy.

Who gazed into my heavy eye,
And said, “A powder we must try;
This horrid child, he lives too high?”
Dear Nursy-pursy.

Who, when I yell’d, cried, “Hold your din!”
Or choked me with a drop of gin
(It wasn’t spasms, but a pin)?
Dear Nursy-pursy.

Who on my toddlums let me run
Much sooner than she should have done,
Which I’ve grown up a bandy one?
My Nursy-pursy.

ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

COMPETITION IN LONG CLOTHES.
A LAY OF NORTH WOOLWICH.
(_Apropos of the Baby Show_).

Who felt the weight, and scanned the size
Of rival yearlings with surprise,
Yet doubted not to win the Prize?
My Mother!

The heat, the Baby-freighted train,
To change thy purpose all were vain;
Was’t love of me? or hope of gain,
My Mother?

Who let the public eye make free
With secrets of our nursery,
That int’rest only you and me?
My Mother!

Who babes with piglings would confound,
Show both for flesh, so firm and sound,
And weigh their merits _by the pound_?
My Mother!

Ambition noble! to prepare
Spring infants, fattened up with care,
FIRST QUALITY, TEN POUNDS THE PAIR,
My Mother!

If breeders prizes be allowed,
Maternity, to please the crowd,
Concurrently must be endowed,
My Mother!

Home joys, my mother, now are cheap:
I pass my time in healthy sleep,
Yet win a cup to pay my keep,
My Mother!

_The Tomahawk_, July 31, 1869.

――――:o:――――

MY MOTHER-IN-LAW.

Who kissed me when I first was wed,
And _said_ I was her “dear son Fred”――
But did not mean a word she said?
My Mother-in-law.

Who when our honeymoon was o’er
Came just to stop a week, no more!
And proved herself a horrid bore?
My Mother-in-law.

Who coming for a week to stay,
Remained serene day after day,
And showed no wish to go away?
My Mother-in-law.

Who sowed the seeds of married strife
Between the husband and the wife,
And so embittered all our life?
My Mother-in-law.

Who never let a quarrel flag,
Whose tongue was ne’er too tired to wag,
Who taught her daughter how to nag?
My Mother-in-law.

Whom would I fain, ah! fain beguile
To some far distant Sandwich Isle?[21]
That infamous old crocodile,
My Mother-in-law.

――――:o:――――

A LAY OF REAL LIFE.

Who ruined me ere I was born,
Sold every acre, grass and corn,
And left the next heir all forlorn?
My Grandfather.

Who said my mother was “no nurse,”
And physicked me and made me worse,
Till infancy became a curse?
My Grandmother.

Who said my mother was a Turk,
And took me home and made me work,
But managed half my meals to shirk?
My Aunt.

Who, “of all earthly things,” would boast
“He hated other’s brats the most,”
And therefore made me feel my post?
My Uncle.

Who got in scrapes, an endless score,
And always laid them at my door,
Till many a bitter bang I bore?
My Cousin.

Who took me home when mother died,
Again with father to reside,
Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide?
My Stepmother.

Who marred my stealthy urchin joys,
And, when I played, cried “What a noise!”――
Girls always hector over boys――
My Sister.

Who used to share in what was mine,
Or took it all, did he incline,
’Cause I was eight and he was nine?
My Brother.

Who stroked my head and said, “Good lad;”
And gave me sixpence――“all he had”――
But at the shop the coin was bad?
My Godfather.

Who, gratis, shared my social glass,
But when misfortune came to pass,
Referred me to the pump?――Alas!
My Friend.

Through all this weary world, in brief,
Who ever sympathised with grief.
Or shared, my joy, my sole relief?
Myself.
ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

HER MOTHER.

Who comes and causes little tiffs;
And gives the most suggestive sniffs,
Whene’er a man takes twenty whiffs?
My Mother-in-law!

Who, when a babe is born, appears,
And in my business interferes,
Until at last she domineers?
My Mother-in-law!

Who comes to stay a day or two,
And then stops all the winter through;
Pretending she’s obliging you?
My Mother-in-law!

Who makes out you ill-treat her child,
When preternaturally mild,
You are at last by her driven wild?
My Mother-in-law!

Who makes the servants notice give,
And when she at your house will live,
Makes you from home a fugitive?
My Mother-in-law!

Who at the meals turns up her nose,
Who loves your projects to oppose,
And very nasty hints out-throws?
My Mother-in-law!

Who, cuckoo like, invades the nest,
Till happiness is dispossest,
And then remains a tiresome guest?
My Mother-in-law!

_From_ FINIS.

――――:o:――――

DICK’S LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF THE “BOY’S OWN PAPER.”

I think the public ought to know
The miseries I undergo
From one who only love should show;
My Brother!

Who thinks my head was made to hit?
My hat a subject for his wit,
Till laughing almost brings a fit!
My Brother!

Who makes me by the hour stand scout,
But kicks me if I catch him out,
Demanding what I am about?
My Brother!

Who goes financially to smash,
And borrows all my hoarded cash,
To purchase stamps, or some such trash?
My Brother!

Who makes me copy out his lines
When he’s been kicking up his shines,
And forces me to pay his fines?
My Brother!

Yes, spite of all the ties of birth,
To him my woes cause only mirth;――
You are the biggest fraud on earth,
My Brother!

――――:o:――――

AUDI ALTERAM PARTEM.
_Tom’s Letter to the Editor._

Dick’s my small brother; that’s enough
To show my lot is rather rough;
Of one thing I get _quantum suff_,
My Brother!

Who’s always writing home to sneak?
Who gives me endless kinds of cheek,
Yet wants me to correct his Greek?
My Brother!

Who never at a game will play
Unless you let him have his way,
And bat at least ten times a day?
My Brother!

Who cannot stand the mildest snub?
Who gets his double share of grub?
And if you touch him starts to blub?
My Brother!

’Tis sad to see one’s rackets “go”;
’Tis hard to slog and miss a slow;
You’re worst! for you’re a constant woe,
My Brother!

_The Boy’s Own Paper_, Feb. 16, 1884.

――――:o:――――

SOME “CONFIDENCES” TO THE EDITOR.

A “Sister” writes from Newcastle-upon-Tyne:――“Dear Mr. Editor,――In the March part of ‘B. O. P.’ occur two poems, ostensibly Dick’s and Tom’s Letter to yourself, anent the miseries which Tom inflicts upon Dick, and _vice versa_. Now, on perusal of the said poems, my small brother Harry discovered that some features of (to _him_, at least) absorbing interest had been omitted in their construction. ‘But _that_ fellow hasn’t got red hair,’ he exclaimed, indignantly, ‘or else _his_ brother would have bullied him about that, too.’ ‘Then since _you_ have,’ I mildly ventured, to hint, ’suppose you write a description of your woes, and we’ll send it to the Editor. While _I_ will have _my_ say about ‘brothers,’ for really I don’t see why girls shouldn’t have a voice in the matter, seeing that they often have not only to mend, at unreasonable times, the said brothers’ wearing apparel, but also to bear at all seasons with their growlings.’

“So, Mr. Editor, Harry and I send you our humble offerings, which you are at perfect liberty to make public, if you see fit, or to banish to the realms of the W. P. B. if you don’t. “Very truly yours, “HIS SISTER.”

――――――――

HARRY’S COMPLAINT.

Who would not help me when I fell,
But bade me, roughly, “Stop that yell!”
Or, straightway, he “would go and tell?”
My Brother!

Who took my marbles all away――
Because, “you don’t know how to play”――
And wouldn’t heed my plaintive “Nay?”
My Brother!

Who wouldn’t let me use his ball,
Nor cricket ever learn at all,
Because I was “so very small?”
My Brother!

Who laughed because my hair was red,
And filled it full of crumbs of bread,
Then, jeering, cried, “The baby’s fed?”
My Brother!

Who always was so nice and meek,
And _never_(!) could a harsh word speak
(And yet he was the biggest sneak)?
My Brother!

Whom all the ladies thought “_so_ good”
And only wished _their_ brothers would
Follow his footsteps, _if they should_!
My Brother!

――――:o:――――

A “SISTER’S” COMPLAINT.

Who, subsequently, older grown,
Becomes a bore, as will be shown,
Prating of “time,” and “tune,” and “tone!”
My Brother!

Who plays the fiddle in a key
Midway between keys “A” and “B,”
And scorns all mild advice from me?
My Brother!

Who holds it as a solemn charge
To wear the “Masher” collar large,
Nor knows the draper’s overcharge?
My Brother!

Who walks with stately port upright?
Who wears his “pantaloons” too tight,
Which adds absurdly to his height?
My Brother!

Who always will a silk hat wear
Upon his highly-scented hair,
And in his hand a cane-stick bear?
My Brother!

Who think there ought to be no boys,
Who nothing make save “rents” and noise,
And rudely spoil our household joys?
Their Sisters!

_The Boy’s Own Paper_, May 10, 1884.

――――:o:――――

WHO! AH, WHO?

Who culled me from a foreign source,
And trotted me as his own horse,
In brain――spun harness; Why, of course,
My Author!

Who set me up in type so rare
(I heard him at his “devils” swear!)
And for my future didn’t care?
My Printer.

Who sent me like a sandwich forth,
And tastily my inward worth
Displayed upon the sweetest cloth?
My Binder.

Who-eyed me with a guardian’s eye,
And thought my price, a sov., not high,
Cast me forth with, “hey! buy, buy!”
My Publisher.

Who found a strong “coincidence,”
Informed the public how and whence
My author gleaned at small expense?
MY CRITIC.

_The Figaro_, February 18, 1874.

――――:o:――――

MR. WILSON BARRETT (_producing MS._). As my collaborateur and friend
is late,
I think I will begin, at any rate.
Our scene, then, Prince――――

[_Enter_ Mr. Henry Irving, _hurriedly_.]

_Mr. H. Irving._ But what is this I see?
This is not what we settled, Wilson B.?
I was to read, you know――――

_Mr. W. B._ Yes, you are right,
But in your absence, well, I thought I might
At all events commence.

_Mr. H. I._ (_bitterly_). Ha, ha! again,
That eagerness advantage to obtain.
Pardon me, Prince, if I, to check emotion,
Carol a strain I made up on the ocean:――

WHO first in melodrama played,
And then, when he a name had made,
Like me, Shakespearean parts essayed?
My Barrett!

Who copied me in sundry ways,
And jealous of my early bays,
Got Wills to write him blank-verse plays?
My Barrett!

Who, when I Romeo’s part had done,
Vowed he would play a younger one,
And so came out with Chatterton?
My Barrett!

Whose breast with such ambition burned,
That he the whole of “Hamlet” learned,
And played it when my back was turned?
My Barrett!

And who, if I do not take care,
Will my dramatic sceptre share;
Nay, perhaps to rival me will dare?
My Barrett!

_Truth, Christmas Number_, 1884.

――――:o:――――

MY BANKER.

Who puts my money in his till,
And when in difficulties will
Employ it to take up a Bill?
My Banker.

Who cuts a very pretty dash
By spending other people’s cash,
And ends with a tremendous smash?
My Banker.

Who has a pleasant country seat,
With park and grounds and all complete,
And is a thorough going cheat?
My Banker.

Who goes to Church and says his prayers,
And gives himself religious airs,
And pawns my bonds and sells my shares?
My Banker.

Who, when convinced his house must go,
Hints to a friend to let him know,
’Tis well to keep his balance low?
My Banker.

Who lives in most _recherché_ style,
And wears the very blandest smile,
Though he’s insolvent all the while?
My Banker.

Who may a lesson yet be taught,
And find himself some morning brought
Before the Central Criminal Court?
My Banker.

_Punch_, June 30, 1855.

――――:o:――――

MY BROKER.

Who leads me on to fields Elysian,
Where golden prospects, greet my vision,
And charges but a small commission?
My Broker.

Who, while I trudge through muddy ways,
Rides (for that small commission pays)
Behind a handsome pair of bays?
My Broker.

Who, sitting at Pactolus’ fount,
Buys, sells, or holds for “next account,”
Charging, of course, a _small_ amount?
My Broker.

Whose tone is soft, whose manner bland;
Who, lightly holding by my hand,
Talks figures I don’t understand?
My Broker.

When panics come, who seems to wear
A calm, serene, superior air,
As if it wasn’t _his_ affair?
My Broker.

Whose villa’s somewhere in the West;
Whose wife’s in silk and sealskin drest;
Whose wines and weeds are of the best?
My Broker’s.

Whose waist expands; who still can sport
A face of roundest, ruddiest sort,
Through drinking forty-seven port?
My Broker.

Whom did I look on as my friend,
Till he those “Turks” would recommend,
Yet knew the inevitable end?
My Broker.

_Punch_, October 23, 1875.

――――――――

AUDI ALTERAM PARTEM.

Dear Mr. Punch,――Although a Broker myself, I heartily enjoyed your lines this week, which are true of here and there a case in our calling, though about as applicable to the great body of Brokers as those I enclose are to the generality of Clients. The portrait I have sketched is, however, drawn from nature, and by no means libels a constantly increasing class, whose little game is “Heads, I win: tails, you lose.”

Your highly-tickled reader,
FAIR PLAY.
Throgmorton Street, Oct. 29.

MY CLIENT.

WHO hangs about the Courts all day,
And deals in a most reckless way,
With every Broker who will stay?
My Client!

Who talks a guttural foreign lingo,
And, whilst he wins, still lets the thing go,
Until a panic comes? By jingo!
My Client!

Who dabbles in a hundred “specs,”
His Broker’s hazards little recks,
And chuckles as he takes large cheques?
My Client!

Who, when his ventures, “bear”-hugged, quake,
Commissions, quick, a double stake,
Vowing the thing all right to make?
My Client!

Who, when the threatened crash has come,
And he owes me a stiffish sum,
Fails to turn up――and leaves me glum?
My Client!

Who, for his “little games” out-lawed,
His pockets filled with fruits of fraud,
Coolly retires, and lives abroad?
My Client!

――――:o:――――

ALTER ET IDEM.
(_From Broker No._ 2).

Who swaggered down from West End Club,
As fierce as any half-pay “Sub,”
Prepared all City Men to snub?
My Client!

Who, when I gave him sound advice,
And landed him on “something nice,”
Declared I’d robbed him in the price?
My Client!

Who (though when things were going well,
He took his profits like a Swell)
Firmly, for loss, declined to “shell?”
My Client!

Who, on that panic settling-day,
Just calmly kept himself away,
And left _me_ all his debts to pay?
My Client!

Whom did I find “Gone out of Town,”
Whose assets not worth half-a-crown,
And who’d done twenty Brokers “brown?”
My Client!

_Punch_, November 6, 1875.

――――:o:――――

MY BISMARCK!

Who, safe immured as in an ark,
Keeps all his counsels close and dark,
And acts the part of Nick’s chief clerk?
My Bismarck!

Who to poor Johnny wouldn’t hark,
But seized and ransack’d poor Denmark,
Like, what he is, a greedy shark?
My Bismarck!

Who looks on Europe as a park,
Where men, like dogs, may bite and bark,
While he looks on all grim and stark?
My Bismarck!

Who yet will overshoot the mark,
And wreck proud Prussia’s lofty barque,
And get his hide tann’d? What a lark!
Why Bismarck!

_Judy_,[22] May 15, 1867.

――――:o:――――

WHO’S WHO IN 1851.

Who, when I feel a little ill,
Sends me a daily draft and pill,
Followed by a tremendous bill?
My Doctor!

Who preaches self-denying views,
Charges a heavy rent for pews,
And calls on me for Easter dues?
My Parson!

Who, when a law-suit I have won,
For a large sum begins to dun,
To which the extra costs have run?
My Lawyer!

Who, for my trousers, which, with straps,
Have cost him half-a-sovereign, p’raps,
Down in the bill two guineas claps?
My Tailor!

Who, when I wish of beef a stone,
Composed of wholesome meat alone,
Sends me at least three pounds of bone?
My Butcher!

Who, when I send a joint to bake,
Away from it contrives to take
Enough a hearty meal to make?
My Baker!

Who lends my _Times_ to read in town,
And when I at the lateness frown,
Tells me the engine’s broken down?
My Newsman!

Who coolly pawns my “other” shirt,
And tells me, with assurance pert,
She’s only dropped it in the dirt?
My Laundress!

Who peeps in every private note,
Wears my best neckcloth round his throat,
And at the “Swarry” sports my coat?
My Footman!

Who brings my shaving water late,
And with a basket full of plate
One morning doth evaporate,
My Valet!

Who flirts with soldiers dressed so fine,
And leaves that sweetest pet of mine,
To tumble in the Serpentine,
My Nursemaid!

Who comes to make a formal call,
Merely to criticise us all,
When severed by the party wall?
My Neighbour!

Who’s who, or where shall he be sought,
Who may not now and then be caught
At something wrong in act or thought,
Why! No one!

_Punch_, January 11, 1851.

――――:o:――――

MY BOOT-HOOKS.
_The Lay of a Lunatic_.

[This poem is selected from a variety of contributions intended for _The Hanwell Annual_. It shows a true spirit of poetry, although the subject is not perhaps clearly followed out. The last stanza, in particular, is a fine instance of poetical license.]

Who, when the sea did toss and roar,
And I thought soon to be no more,
Came and knock’d loudly at my door?
My Boot-hooks.

* * * * *

Who pulled the nose of Rome’s first Pope,
For looking after Johnny Cope,
Who was so poorly off for soap?
My Boot-hooks.

Who at Vingt-un hid all the aces,
Then threw the counters in our faces,
The night preceding Epsom races?
My Boot-hooks.

Who, whilst I was residing at Constantinople,
Took advantage of my absence to open my bureau,
And thus betrayed the confidence I placed in them?
My Boot-hooks.

_The Man in the Moon_, Vol. 4.

――――:o:――――

MY BICYCLE.
BY JAGY TORLTON.

He cadgily ranted and sang.――_Old Song._

What spins around “like all git out,”
And swiftly carries me about,
So light, so still, so bright and stout?
My Bicycle.

Regard me now where I sit high on
Nag forty pound of mostly iron;
And don’t you wish that you might try on
My Bicycle?

_Monstrum imforme, ingens!_ some
Cry, seeing first this courser come,
Our “fine knee-action” strikes them dumb,
My Bicycle!

Call him a monster from the east,
And both a lean and fatuous beast,
You comprehend not in the least
My Bicycle.

Revolve it in your mind, and my way
Will show to be a more than _guy_ way――
High way of riding on the highway――
My Bicycle.

Those now who stand and stare and say,
O, “_parce nobis, s’il vous plait_,”
Will beg to tread, another day,
My Bicycle.

What tho’ Hans Breitmann did, almost,
And Schnitzerlein gave up the ghost?
’Twas all because they couldn’t boast
My Bicycle.

And saying mine, I do not mean
There are not many others seen
Who ride like me on my machine,
My Bicycle.

I’m not stuck up, tho’ seated high;
To ride, at once, and run and fly――
My pride is so to travel by
My Bicycle.

Who will my head with learning stow,
I work the light, ped-antic toe,
’Tis cyclopedic lore to know
My Bicycle.

And when the saddled arc I span,
What care I for the fall of man
Let him remount! I always can
My Bicycle.

All the mutations I discern
Of men and States not me concern,
While I avoid to overturn
My Bicycle.

See Russia rotten, Turkey eat――
And John Bull in a stewing heat;
We have a better kind of meet,
My Bicycle!

Then hurry spokes and spokesman too,
We only have an hour or so,
And almost twenty miles to go.
My Bicycle.

_Lyra Bicyclica_, By J. G. DALTON, (E. C. Hodges & Co.) Boston, 1885.

――――:o:――――

MY CHIGNON.

What was it all my fears did quell,
When down six flights of stairs I fell,
Preserved my cranium so well?
My Chignon!

What is it, when some young knight pries
Out of his blue orbs corner-wise,
That tilts my hat down o’er my eyes?
My Chignon!

What is it so exceeding kind,
When I walk through the rain and wind,
On some stray twig will stay behind
To form a nest for feathered kind?
My Chignon!

_Girl of the Period Miscellany_, August, 1869.

――――:o:――――

MY DENTIST.

In childhood who my first array
Of teeth pluck’d tenderly away,
For teeth, like dogs, have each their day?
My Dentist.

Who, when my first had run their race,
And others had usurp’d their place,
When overcrowded gave them space?
My Dentist.

Whether the cavities were slight,
Or vast and deep, who stopp’d them tight,
Then made their polish’d surface white?
My Dentist.

When void of bone a gap was seen,
Who fix’d, the vacancy to screen,
An artificial one between?
My Dentist.

Who, when ambitious to be first
My horse fell headlong in the burst,
Replaced the ivories dispersed?
My Dentist.

Who “Baily” left on parlour chair
With leaf turn’d down to show me where
Jack Russell’s life was pictured there?
My Dentist.

Or reading in that doleful cell
Whyte-Melville’s verse, who knew full well
Its charm would every pang dispel?
My Dentist.

Who lull’d with laughing gas my fear
When conscious that a tug was near
For man’s endurance too severe?
My Dentist.

And lastly, when infirm I grew,
Who skilfully each relic drew,
And framed for me a mouth-piece new?
My Dentist.

From “_Songs and Verses on Sporting Subjects_,” by R. E. Egerton-Warburton (Pickering & Co., Piccadilly, 1879.)

――――:o:――――

RONDEAU.

To-day, it is my natal day,
And threescore years have passed away,
While Time has turned to silver gray
My hairs.

Pursuing pleasure, love, and fun,
A longish _course_ I’ve had to run,
And thanks to Fortune I have won
My hares.

But now, exhausted in the race,
No longer I can go the pace,
And others must take up the chase,
My heirs.
TOM HOOD.

――――:o:――――

The following Parody is taken from a small and very scarce volume, entitled, “MY HOOKAH; or, _The Stranger in Calcutta_.” Being a collection of Poems by an Officer. Calcutta: Printed at the Press of Greenway and Co., 1812.

The volume contains a Preface, 73 pages of Poetry, of a mildly humourous type, and a List of Subscribers, headed by the name of The Right Honourable Lord Minto, Governor General, etc., etc., etc. In a foot note to _My Hookah_, the Author (whose name is not given), remarks, “Cowper’s beautiful lines to ‘Mary’ have given rise to innumerable Parodies――we have had ‘My Father,’――‘My Mother,’ and even ‘My Granny;’ why then should not ‘My Hookah’ be added to the number?”

MY HOOKAH.

What is it, that affords such joys
On Indian shores, and never cloys,
But makes that _pretty_, _bubbling_ noise?
My Hookah.

What is it, that a Party if in
At breakfast, dinner, or at Tiffin,
Surprises and delights the Griffin?
My Hookah.

What is it to Cadets gives pleasure?
What is it occupies their leisure?
What do they deem the greatest treasure?
My Hookah.

Say――what makes Decency wear sable?
What makes each would-be nabob able
To cock his legs upon the table?
My Hookah.

What is it (trust me, I’m not joking,
Tis truth――altho’, I own, provoking)
That sets e’en Indian _belles_ a smoking?
My Hookah.

What is it――whensoe’er we search
In ev’ry place;――_except the Church_,
That leaves sweet converse in the lurch?
My Hookah.

But hold my Muse――for shame, for shame――
One question ere you smoking blame――
_What is it gives your book a name?_
My Hookah.

My fault I own――my censure ends;
Nay more――I’ll try to make amends,
Who is the _safest_ of all friends?
My Hookah.

Say who? or what retains the power,
When fickle Fortune ’gins to lour,
To solace many a lonely hour?
My Hookah.

When death-like dews and fogs prevailing
In Pinnace or in Budg’-row sailing,
What is it that prevents our ailing?
My Hookah.

When we’re our skins with claret soaking,
And heedless wits their friends are joking,
_Which_ friend will stand the _greatest smoking_?
My Hookah.

By what――(nay, answer at your ease,)
While pocketing our six rupees――
By what d’ye mean the town to please?
My Hookah.

――――:o:――――

MY JENNY.
A LAY OF LUMLEY.

“_Jenny sçait quoi._”――French idiom.
“_Jenny knows what’s what._”――English translation.

Oh! when by all my troop forsaken,
And Beale had all my singers taken,
Who just appeared to save my bacon?
My Jenny!

Who was it I at last cajoled,
To break her word for British gold,
[23]By which the Poet Bunn was sold,
My Jenny!

Who is this Swedish nightingale,
Of whom each told a different tale,
“She’d rival Grisi;” “No, she’d fail,”
My Jenny!

Alboni, Castellan, or Grisi
Are tolerable, and may please ye,
But where’s the girl who’ll beat them easy,
My Jenny!

Who made so brilliant a _début_,
And such an awful audience drew,
That all _soprani_ pallid grew,
My Jenny!

Who is’t I hope will still remain,
Because I can foresee, with pain
All’s up when she’s gone back again,
My Jenny!

_The Man in the Moon_. Vol. I.

――――:o:――――

MY LANDLADY.
_By a Lodger._

Who greets me with a greasy smile,
Though she is cheating me the while――
And says, “I’m out of coals and ile?”
My Landlady.

Who says she’s seen much better days,
And will her “poor departed” praise,
And with her chat my meal delays?
My Landlady.

Who lets her son my collars wear,
And with me my clean linen share?
Who with my clothes-brush does her hair?
My Landlady.

Who on my viands waxes fat!
Who keeps a most voracious cat!
Who often listens on my mat?
My Landlady.

Who won’t bring up cold joints to me,
Who drinks my spirits――prigs my tea――
Who for my sideboard keeps a key?
My Landlady.

Who “cooks” the little bills I pay,
And cheats me――yes! in every way;
Who is it I shall leave to-day?
My Landlady.

_The Figaro Album_, 1873.

MY LODGER.
_By a Landlady._

Who chips my marble mantelpiece,
Drops on my “Brussels” spots of grease,
Deprives my tabby of his peace,
And more than once has kissed my niece?
My Lodger.

And who my balcony did fill
With an election posting-bill,
And spouted to a mob, until
The uproar really made me ill?
My Lodger.

Who plays the horn at ghostly hours,
And brings the ceiling down in showers,
By beating time, and thoroughly sours
The people in the house next ours?
My Lodger.

And who, when Sunday morning comes,
Some operatic chorus hums
With wild young men he calls his “chums,”
While one a harp, or banjo thrums?
My Lodger.

Who doth the acrobats engage,
The “happy family” in the cage;
Delights in _Punch_ and _Judy’s_ rage
With ragged boys of every age?
My Lodger.

Who wakes my neighbour in a fright,
Invites that pious man to fight,
Hiccups――“I’ll see――mishtake――all right,”
And who’ll have warning, too, this night?
My Lodger.

_Judy, February_ 10, 1869.

――――:o:――――

THE UNDERGRAD’S SOLILOQUY.

What darkens all my bright career,
And takes away my breath with fear,
As I behold it looming near?
My Little-go.

I used to feel so free and jolly,――
Indulged in fun, perhaps in folly,――
What makes me now so melan-choly?
My Little-go.

What makes me blush, and look so shy,
When up the Turl, or down the High,
I catch the stern Exam’ner’s eye?
My Little-go.

O would I were a little lamb
A-skipping with my gentle fam――
Ily, nor troubled by Exam.
My Little-go.

What makes my sister Mary Jane
Keep writing in that mournful strain,――
“Dear John, don’t overtax your brain?”
My Little-go.

Oh! will this frightful harass last?
No! I can see I’m thinning fast,
And soon my body will be past
All Little-goes.

These mental faculties of mine
Their powers and energies resign――
I die a martyr at the shrine
Of Little-go.

And when beneath some yew-tree’s gloom,
My bones shall into dust consume,
This epitaph shall grace my tomb,――
O Little-go!

EPITAPH.

“No ceaseless coughings racked his side,
No agues shook him; in his pride
(Weep, gentle reader, weep!) he died
Of Little-go.”

C. E. W. B. Worc. Coll. Oxford.

_College Rhymes._ T. & G. SHRIMPTON, Oxford, 1865.

――――:o:――――

MY MEMBER.
_Dedicated to the Marquis of Londonderry_.

Who, now that naughty CASTLEREAGH
With Sharman Crawford’s gone astray,
For Downshire ought to win the day?
My Member.

Who, since the seat I’ve dearly bought,
Must in for it at once be brought
(At least, so I have always thought)?
My Member.

Who, if he calls his soul his own,
And don’t his views to mine postpone,
Shall overboard at once be thrown?
My Member.

Who, when I say that wrong is right,
That truth is falsehood, black is white,
Must take the self-same point of sight?
My Member.

Who, at my will, is deaf, dumb, blind,
And, howsoever disinclined,
Must, if he _will_ speak, speak my mind?
My Member.

Who with my letters ne’er must fence,
But praise the style and guess the sense,
Despite the number, mood, and tense?
My Member.

Who, in the park or in the street,
Shall have a nod whene’er we meet,
And at my balls shall shake his feet?
My Member.

Who, ’neath such favours shower’d _en masse_,
From mere humanity shall pass,
And be my man, my ox, my ass?
My Member.

_Punch_, June 5, 1852.

[The Viscount Castlereagh, eldest son of the Marquis of Londonderry, sat as the member for County Down from 1826 to 1852, and the seat had always, until then, been regarded as family property.]

――――:o:――――

TO MY MURRAY.
_Autumn_, 1857.

The Wind and tide have brought us fast,
The Custom House is well nigh past,
Alas; that this should be the last;
My Murray.

The spirits in my flask grew low,
Mine sinking too, I rushed below,
And in despair, cried, “Steward, oh!”
My Murray.

But once on shore, my troubles end,
Sights, sounds, no longer me offend,
I clap thee on the back, my friend!
My Murray.

My classics, once a shining store,
For thee put by this month or more,
Now rust disused and shine no more,
My Murray.

So well thou’st played the hand-book’s part,
For inns a hint, for routes a chart,
That every line I’ve got by heart
My Murray.

And though thou gladly would’st fulfil,
The same kind office for me still,
My purse now seconds not my will,
My Murray.

Thy shabby sides once crimson bright
Are quite as lovely in my sight,
As mountains bathed in roseate light,
My Murray.

For should I view them without thee,
What sights worth seeing could I see,
The Rhine would run in vain for me,
My Murray.

Companion of my glad ascent,
Mount Blanc I did with thy consent,
And saw wide-spread the Continent,
My Murray.

Once, I could scarce walk up the Strand,
What Jungfrau now could us withstand,
When we are walking hand-in-hand,
My Murray.

But ah! too well some folk I know,
Who friends on dusty shelves do throw,――
With us it never shall be so,
My Murray.

_Punch_, December 5, 1857.

――――:o:――――

MY NOSE.

What leads me on where’er I go,
In sun and shade, in joy and woe,
Thro’ fog and tempest, rain and snow?
My Nose.

In youth’s most ardent reckless day,
And when arose disputes at play,
What would be foremost in the fray?
My Nose.

And should my tongue rude blows provoke,
What would protrude and brave each stroke,
Till coral streams its pains bespoke?
My Nose.

And falling in an airy bound,
In chase of some new charm or sound,
To save me――what came first to ground?
My Nose.

When some dark pass I would explore,
With neither shut nor open door,
What oft for me hard usage bore?
My Nose.

And when in want I yearn’d to eat,
And hunger might my judgment cheat,
What prompted me to food most sweet?
My Nose.

’Mid violet banks and woodbine bowers,
And beds where bloom’d the fairest flowers,
What fed me with their fragrant powers?
My Nose.

Each eye may need in age a guide,
And when young helpmates I provide,
Thy back thou’lt lend for them to stride,
My Nose.

And can I or in care or glee,
Refuse my aid and love to thee,
Who thus has felt and bled for me,
My Nose?

No; when cold winter’s winds blow high,
And bite thee hard and thou shalt cry,
Thy tears with sympathy I’ll dry,
My Nose.

And if for snuff thy love shall come,
Thy slaves, my finger and my thumb,
Shall faithful be, and bear thee some,
My Nose.

Still as I follow thee along,
Oh, mayst thou never lead me wrong!
But thou must hush our sleeping song,
My Nose!

_Attempts in Verse_, by John Jones, an old Servant. (Edited by Robert Southey, poet laureate, 1831.)

――――:o:――――

MY PUNCH.

Upon the express train of the Michigan Railway.
February, 1864. Midnight. _Mercury at Zero._

What, in this far benighted West,
Brings comfort to my lonely breast,
And gives my life its sweetest zest?
My Punch.

The ragged boy who brought the news,
Offered me much from which to choose.
_Times_, _Tribune_, _Herald_, I refuse,
My Punch.

Within the carriage sickly white
Were men from Chicamanga’s fight.
My eyes were moistened by the sight,
My Punch.

“Discharged from hospital,” they sigh,
“Where yet a thousand sufferers lie,
And coming home at last” to die,
My Punch.

For those sad faces homeward turned,
Their short-lived pensions fully earned,
How many mother’s hearts had yearned,
My Punch.

’Twas scarce a twelvemonth since, I know,
When eager crowds beheld them go,
Their youthful faces all a-glow,
My Punch.

And now all twisted by the cramps,
Which wrung them ’mid the noxious damps
Of fenny bivouacks and camps,
My Punch.

Bright were those eyes, now bleared and dim,
Lithe was each crutch-supported limb,
Merry were once those spectres grim,
My Punch.

What contrast between now and then!
Their mothers scarce would know again
Those mournful, feeble, dying men,
My Punch.

One speechless on his pallet lay,
They take him forth, “His home” they say
A wretched hamlet by the way,
My Punch.

My wandering fancy sadly bore
My vision to the half-ope’d door,
The tearful clasp――I saw no more,
My Punch.

Oh, fearful reign of greed and hate!
Oh, Nation haughty and elate,
Writing in blood its dreadful fate!
My Punch.

It haunts me, this repulsive theme,
With gory phantasies which seem
The nightmares of a troubled dream,
My Punch.

For through the surface gloze so thin
One sees the Carnival of Sin,
The devil’s dice they play. Who win?
My Punch.

The train is stopped by drifting snows,
An inn is reached, but no repose
Exhausted hungry nature knows,
My Punch.

Here I am forced to sit up late,
Amid the chewing crowds I hate,
Who patiently expectorate
My Punch.

The whistle sounds ere I depart,
I clasp thee to my aching heart,
Balm for the exile’s keenest smart,
My Punch.

――――:o:――――

MY STOCKINGS.

A nobler theme let others choose;
Fit subject for my humble muse
Are ye, whom night and day I use,
My Stockings.

Soon as Aurora points the skies,
(Ere from my sluggard couch I rise,)
For you I raise my earliest cries,
My Stockings.

The live-long day, around my thigh
Ye cling: and seldom turn away;
With me ye trudge through wet and dry,
My Stockings.

At night, _one_ serves to stop a gap
I’th’ wall――I sink in Somnus’ lap,
And _t’other_ serves me for a cap,
My Stockings!

Let none their various deeds decry:
For ever as the week goes by,
They’re washed, and then I hang to dry,
My Stockings!

About 1800. _Anonymous._

――――:o:――――

THE MAN OF FASHION.

Who made this moving piece of clay,
So bright, and beautiful and gay
As though life were one holiday?
My Tailor.

Whose magic shears, and cloth, and tape,
Gave to my ugly neck a nape,
And brought my bow-legs into shape?
My Tailor.

Who all deformity effaced,
And beautified, and stuffed and laced,
And stamp’d Adonis on my waist?
My Tailor.

Who made the coat, the pantaloon,
That in the gay and bright saloon,
Won me a spouse and honey-moon?
My Tailor.

Reverse the picture; who was it,
That taught me wisdom was unfit
A beau, a gentleman, and wit?
My Tailor.

Whose magic shears, and cloth, and tape,
Made me in bearing, form, and shape,
The very mockery of an ape?
My Tailor.

Who bound me to a worthless wife,
Whose vanity, and spleen, and strife
Will be the nightmare of my life?
My Tailor.

Who passes me with threatening looks?
Who’s got me deepest in his books?
Who’ll nab me yet? Why, Mr. Snooks――
My Tailor.

_The Maids, Wives, & Widows Penny Magazine_, May 25, 1833.

――――:o:――――

MY TICKER.

Old friend that once with me did dwell
Vouchsafing all the hours to tell,
Where art thou gone? I know too well,
My Ticker!

Thou art not gone to artists’ care
To try the good of change of air
Or undergo a slight repair,
My Ticker.

No! thou art gone――no fault of thine――
Unto a relative of mine,
Entitled “Uncle,” I opine,
My Ticker.

And there must thou remain awhile,
Spite of thyself, in durance vile,
Accompanied by my best tile,
My Ticker.

And much I fear thou must remain
Until a shower, _not of rain_,
Impels thee down the spout again,
My Ticker.

_Punch_, 1842.

――――:o:――――

MY UNCLE.
(_By Louis Napoleon Bounaparte._)

Who raised our race up from the dregs,
And set us youngsters on our legs,
Putting us up so many pegs?
My Uncle!

Who scratch’d up Europe like a hen,
To fling out grains for us young men?
Who shut the mouth and stopped the pen?
My Uncle!