Chapter XVI: Letter VIII: The Rejected “national Hymns.” (10)

Who fears the Bear’s aggressive paw,
And dare not show the Lion’s claw
But pleads the cause of vile Bradlaugh?
Timid William

Who feasts on legs of roasted lamb,
Of game and fowl, beef, eggs, and ham,
Then recommends the farmer jam?
Sweet William!

Who went to Ireland one fine day,
And promised Pat should have his way,
Then shuffled out as if in play?
Sneaky William!

Who strokes poor Paddy on the back,
And half persuades him white is black,
And irritates him with his clack?
Artful William!

Who sent out Gordon to the fight,
To set affairs in Egypt right,
Then left him in a woeful plight?
Base William!

Who sat with patient smile and sneer
The warning of M.P.’s to hear,
Then said there was no cause to fear?
False William!

Who smilingly went to the play
When news came of the sad affray
Of Gordon’s death and Mahdi’s sway?
Careless William![27]

Whose weak and vacillating sway
Has bartered Britain’s fame away,
And made our hearts to bleed to-day?
Weak William!

Great Britain’s sons are true as steel,
Now put your shoulders to the wheel,
Let him your indignation feel――
This William!

And take from his weak hands the reins,
Who only rules but for his gains;
Then who will thank you for your pains?
Not William!
B.
_Ipswich Journal_, March, 1885.

――――:o:――――

NOBODY.

When I’m in want, who’ll seek me out,
And in my interest rush about,
And not my truth and honor doubt?
Nobody!

Who’ll clasp me to his manly heart,
Stick up for me, and take my part,
And fresh in life give me a start?
Nobody!

Who’ll give me cash, or give me food,
Who will believe me poor, but good,
And always be in generous mood?
Nobody!

――――:o:――――

HER MOTHER.

Who, when I took my pet for life,
Convinced me, through domestic strife,
That I had married with my wife――
Her mother?

Who, though ’twas clearly understood
That live with friends I never would,
Came for a week, and――stayed for good?
Her mother!

Who, whensoever “tiffs” befell,
Would irritating stories tell,
And chafe the place to make it well?
Her mother!

Who to control my household dares,
Each letter reads, each secret shares,
And takes the lead in my affairs?
Her mother!

Who, when from home I chance to stay,
Hints that work “might,” or business “may”
Detain――but there, no more _she’ll_ say?
Her mother!

Who breaks our peace, destroys our bliss,
Coils on our hearth with frequent hiss――
Connubial rapture’s Nemesis?
Her mother!

Enough! But has it not a flaw,
That Act which says I may not draw
Two wives, and yet makes mine in law,
Her mother!

_Funny Folks._

――――:o:――――

CATTLE-SHOW QUERIES.
_By a Squeamish Visitor._

Who looked at me with oil-cake eyes,
Complaining dumbly of their size――
Agglomerate monstrosities?
The Cattle!

Who pushed me there, and shoved me here,
Who bawled their comments in my ear,
Until I called a Southdown, “steer?”
The Farmers!

Who never more will strive with Tag,
With Bobtail too, and eke with Rag,
Within the portals of the “Ag.”
The Writer.

――――:o:――――

AVITOR.
_An aerial Retrospect._

What was it filled my youthful dreams,
In place of Greek or Latin themes,
Or beauty’s wild, bewildering beams?
Avitor!

What visions and celestial scenes
I filled with aerial machines,――
Montgolfier’s, and Mr. Green’s?
Avitor!

What fairy tales seemed things of course!
The rock that brought Sinbad across,
The Calendar’s own winged-horse?
Avitor!

How many things I took for facts,
Icarus and his conduct lax,
And how he sealed his fate with wax!
Avitor!

The first balloons I sought to sail,
Soap-bubbles fair, but all too frail,
Or kites,――but thereby hangs a tail.
Avitor!

What made me launch from attic tall
A kitten and a parasol,
And watch their bitter, frightful fall?
Avitor!

What youthful dreams of high renown
Bade me inflate the parson’s gown,
That went not up, nor yet came down?
Avitor!

My first ascent, I may not tell:
Enough to know that in that well
My first high aspirations fell,
Avitor!

My other failures let me pass:
The dire explosions; and, alas!
The friends I choked with noxious gas,
Avitor!

For lo! I see perfected rise
The vision of my boyish eyes,
The messenger of upper skies,
Avitor!
BRET HARTE.

Before closing the collection of Parodies on Miss Taylor’s poem, “My Mother,” a few serious imitations of its style may be given, and in order to avoid any suspicion of treating these with levity, or irreverence, they are printed separately from the _Parodies_ properly so called; as might be expected from the style of the original, these poems are of a somewhat simple and childlike description.

THE BIBLE, THE BEST OF BOOKS.

What taught me that a Great First Cause
Existed ere Creation was,
And gave a Universe its laws?
The Bible.

What guide can lead me to this power,
Whom conscience calls me to adore,
And bids me seek Him more and more?
The Bible.

When all my actions prosper well,
And higher hopes my wishes swell,
What points where truer blessings dwell?
The Bible.

When passions with temptations join
To conquer every power of mine,
What leads me then to help divine?
The Bible.

When pining cares and wasting pain
My spirits and my life blood drain,
What soothes and turns e’en these to gain?
The Bible.

When crosses and vexations tease,
And various ills my bosom seize,
What is it that in life can please?
The Bible.

When horror chills my soul with fear,
And nought but gloom and dread appear,
What is it then my mind can cheer?
The Bible.

When impious doubts my thoughts perplex,
And mysteries my reason vex,
Where is the guide which then directs?
The Bible.

And when afflictions fainting breath,
Warns me I’ve done with all beneath,
What can compose my soul in death?
The Bible.
ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

THE ORANGE.

What is that fruit, so round and sweet,
So nice to smell, so good to eat,
Which gives the children such a treat?
An Orange!

How yellow and how bright its skin,
So smooth without, so sweet within!
To scorn thee surely were a sin――
Bright Orange!

What treat so great for little boys,
When, tired with their games and toys,
They’re safe with thee from tricks and noise,
Kind Orange!

Right glad am I when Christmas comes,
With puddings, mince-pies, tarts, and buns,
And, best of all, thy golden suns,
Round Orange!

Oh! kindly native of Azores,[28]
Round which the broad Atlantic roars,
I bid thee welcome to our shores――
Sweet Orange!
ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

The following poems are extracted from a scarce and curious chap book recently purchased from Mr. Salkeld, of 314, Clapham Road, from whom I have obtained many literary curiosities, and much useful information about books and their contents. This little chap book is entitled

FILIAL REMEMBRANCER.
――――――――
_SELECTION_
of the
MUCH ADMIRED POEMS,
MY FATHER, MY MOTHER, MY BROTHER, and
MY SISTER.
with the
Father’s address to his children, in imitation of Cowper.
――――
Banbury, J. G. RUSHER.

No date is given, nor are the names of the authors mentioned, and although Miss Taylor’s poem is printed in full no acknowledgment is made to her, whilst the preface states that “the following tender little poems, _imitating the style of one of Cowper’s_, cannot be too widely circulated.” It would certainly appear that Miss Taylor’s “My Mother” had served as the model for imitation, rather than any poem by Cowper. There are ten poems in all, four addressed to _My Father_, three to _My Mother_, one to _My Sister_, one to _My Brother_, and one entitled, _The Father’s Address to his Children_. The preface contains these quaint remarks:――

“Were something like the following committed to the memory
of children, and the care of their parents employed to
cultivate an early acquaintance with the virtues inculcated
in these little pieces, it might be of infinite service to
them in checking a refractory disposition; or, by a line or
verse running in their minds, melting down a disobedient
will into the most cheerful and ready compliance to a
parent’s wish. And what a delightful task for an enlightened
mother, when the shades of evening collect her young family
round the fire, to treasure these precepts in their tender
minds! Methinks I see her interesting audience, seated on
their little stools, and leaning on their elbows,
attentively listening, while a Mary or a Maria, a Henry or a
William, to show their proficiency, repeat the verses they
have learnt; or sprightly interrupting the reciter by an
appeal to the mother if he be not wrong.”

MY FATHER.

Who, when my eyes first saw the light,
Upon me fix’t his eager sight,
And bless’d me with unfeign’d delight?
My Father.

When basking on my Mother’s lap,
To win me playful from my pap,
Who would his hands so cheerful clap?
My Father.

When I was breech’d, a rosy boy,
And danc’d, admiring them for joy,
Who shared the bliss without alloy?
My Father.

Who, when the hobby horse aside
Was laid, would set me “Ball” astride,
And hold my leg, and walk beside?
My Father.

When bigger grown,――a paper kite,
Who then would make me, with delight,
Or place the leaping pole upright?
My Father.

When puzzling o’er my task, for play
Oft laid aside, who then would stay,
And teach me soon the easiest way?
My Father.

Or when my task I counted hard,
My mind to study oft prepar’d,
By hopes of pleasure or reward?
My Father.

Who made me tender to a brute,
And told me, though their tongues were mute,
As mine their feelings were acute?
My Father.

Who taught me pity for the poor,
Blessing the beggar at his door,
By me, who oft his bounty bore?
My Father.

* * * * *

Now that thy vigour’s in decline,
Whose strength was spent in rearing mine,
The staff where should thine age recline?
My Father.

No!――tho’ He hung upon a tree,
And bled, and groaned, and died for me,
He will not love if I slight thee,
My Father.

MY MOTHER.

When first my eyes beheld the light,
Who said my little eyes were bright,
And that I was her soul’s delight?
My Mother.

When fell disease her empire spread,
And sickness droop’d my infant head,
Who then the tear of sorrow shed?
My Mother.

Who watch’d my cradle ev’ry hour,
And importun’d Almighty Power,
Upon her babe his gifts to shower?
My Mother.

At length, when pain had fled away,
And rosy health resum’d her sway,
Who prais’d her God for that blest day?
My Mother.

When first my lisping accents came,
And call’d mamma’s beloved name,
Who felt a transport thrill her frame?
My Mother.

And when I stept from chair to chair,
Who watched my steps with anxious care,
Lest I should fall and hurt a hair?
My Mother.

And oh! Who would my food provide,
And little errors gently chide,
And dress me with maternal pride?
My Mother.

Who would my young ideas hoard,
A tale of rapture to afford,
When guests assembled at the board?
My Mother.

Who taught my bosom to rejoice
In God alone, who hears my voice,
And makes His ways my pleasant choice?
My Mother.

Affection’s tear would gem her eye,
And who for me would heave the sigh,
Or wing a secret wish on high?
My Mother.

O! she was kind and good indeed,
Who gave me books that I might read,
And taught me all my Christian creed!
My Mother.

Then let my grateful voice proclaim,
(For else I should be much to blame)
How much I love thy honour’d name,
My Mother.

And should I live to see thee old,
O! may’st thou then in me behold,
Whate’er thy fondest hopes foretold,
My Mother.

And may that pow’r which rules above,
The wish record, thy pray’r approve,
That you may share my filial love,
My Mother.

MY BROTHER.

Who shar’d with me our parents’ love,
And when my tender limbs could move,
Would all my infant ways approve?
My Brother.

Who strove to give my heart delight,
Would blow for me balloons so bright,
And fly his flutt’ring paper kite?
My Brother.

For he was never rude or rough,
And who would make me laugh enough,
When we were playing blindman’s buff?
My Brother.

And if perchance he heard me cry,
O! who would to my succour fly,
And gently wipe my streaming eye?
My Brother.

And who would tell me pleasing tales,
How Vice the wrath of heaven assails,
And Virtue ev’ry where prevails?
My Brother.

He made me love my books indeed;
And who delighted heard me read
Those tales he could recite with speed?
My Brother.

And when a present he had got,
Oh! who was it that ne’er forgot
To share with me his happy lot?
My Brother.

Then I do love thee very well,
Yes, more than any words can tell;
Thy name shall in my bosom dwell,
My Brother.

For well I know thee void of guile,
When others frown’d thy soothing smile
Would many a little woe beguile,
My Brother.

For thou wert always good and kind,
And I could speak to thee my mind,
Sweet solace from thy lips to find,
My Brother.

O may I live to see thee rise
To man’s estate, revered and wise,
To glad your friends’ delighted eyes,
My Brother.

May virtue be thy constant guest,
And sweet contentment charm thy breast,
And ev’ry gen’rous wish be blest,
My Brother.

MY SISTER.

Who was it, when we both were young,
First prais’d me with her artless tongue,
And on my neck delighted hung?
My Sister.

For we would run about all day,
And when at hide-and-seek we’d play,
Who came to find me where I lay?
My Sister.

When I would read of Robin Hood,
Or little Children in the Wood,
Who was it call’d me kind and good?
My Sister.

And when one day (’twas wrong I know)
I trod on grandpapa’s sore toe,
Who strove to shelter me from woe?
My Sister.

For she would cry if I was beat,
And if she got a dainty treat,
Who gave me half of it to eat?
My Sister.

And when to school I went to stay,
(For boys must learn, as well as play,)
Who sobb’d to see me go away?
My Sister.

For it was ever our delight,
To love each other day and night,
Nor would I do a thing to spite
My Sister.

For naughty boys and girls, ’tis true,
Would pinch each other black and blue;
But they were not like me or you,
My Sister.

For thou wert always kind to me,
And it will my ambition be,
To prove a faithful friend to thee,
My Sister.

To guard from hurt thy tender frame,
To shield thy love and spotless name,
And be the champion of thy fame,
My Sister.

For well I know thou would’st disdain,
To be, or haughty, pert, or vain,
And good and modest wilt remain,
My Sister.

O! may it be thy precious choice,
Our aged parents to rejoice,
And soothe them with thy tender voice!
My Sister.

And may that sacred pow’r above,
Still fill thy heart with filial love,
And all thy virtuous ways approve,
My Sister.

“ANOTHER.”

A Readers idea of the state of the Editor’s mind when surveying his growing Pile of Parodies.

What gives me endless toil, no rest
As each subscriber sends with zest,
The Parody _he_ thinks the best――?
Another!

When Tennyson was twice laid by,
Ere ink on final proof was dry,
There came to spoil the set, oh my!
Another!

I started them in mood so gay,
“Why this will be――not work――but play,”
For joyfully _I_ then could say――
Another?

Nor ever dreamt would come a day,
That I should view, with grim dismay,
When frequent posts should each convey――
Another!

I said――when grouped all carefully,
And filled each Author’s set “sure he
Is now complete. There cannot be
Another!

And yet, e’en now, I cannot bear
To weed them out, and e’re I’d spare
One――this volume finished, I’ll prepare
Another!

I would not one kind friend repel,
Nor stay his help, for each may swell
My readers if he’ll only tell
Another!

For when I’m feeble, old, and grey,
And volumes stand in long array.
There’ll yet be “copy” to essay
Another!

For when these Parodies are read
And all the older poets bled,
The yet unwritten ones may head
Another!

So each fresh parody I’ll prize,
Nor look with sorrow in mine eyes
At growing piles, nor e’er despise
Another!
J. W. G. W. April, 1885.

THE VULTURE.
AFTER EDGAR ALLEN POE’S “RAVEN.”

1.

I once, upon a summer’s day,
Strove to solve a solvent way
To escape from skulking sharks;――
For my heart was very sore,
And I ponder’d, ah, how sadly!
How I wanted money badly;
My salvation I’d sell gladly
For nimble notes, or gold galore,
To pay those damn’d and dastard duns,
And be, as I have been before,
Safe from duns for Evermore.

2.

While I ponder’d, nearly sleeping,
Sad at soul, and nigh on weeping,
I reckon’d up my many friends;――
Care corroding my heart’s core,
Those for years that I had known,
Those who truth and trust had shown,
And those, alas! who rich had grown
And forgot they once were poor,
And could not see a seedy chum,
But in his face would close the door.
And neigh or bray him――“Nevermore.”

3.

Yes, I’m like a dotless i,
And want and woe my wretched cry,
With stress of sad starvation,
Ah, me! it is a world of poor.
There’s not a little cur that barks,
Nor tiny birds, from wrens to larks,
Nor even skulking sheriff’s sharks,
Feel so sad, so sick and sore,
As I, most wretched, dotless I,
Doom’d for ever to be poor,
And dunn’d by tradesmen Evermore.

4.

Even while I thus was thinking,
All my soul within me sinking,
Fathoms deep in dark despair,
A knock I heard at my front door,
Which set my heart most wildly beating,
And my blood to fever heating,
As, coward-like, I kept retreating,
Retreating to the basement floor,
There I whisper’d to the slavey,
Aged, I fancy, twenty-four,
“Say I’ve left for――Evermore.”

5.

For my nerves received a shock,
I felt I knew that beastly knock,
The knock of man who takes possession;――
And it went to my heart’s core
To lose my little household gods,
My wear, my gear, and fishing-rods,
All, all my sacred ends and odds,
That cost at least of pounds a score,――
All to go at one fell swoop,
With tearful eyes I glanced them o’er,
And sadly murmur’d,――“Nevermore.”

6.

Yes, it was the sheriffs man;
Like all his ugly kith and clan――
The seedy, dirty, beery lot,
Blood-shot eyes and red and sore.
Then this vile and venomous vulture,
Devoid of every civil culture,
And meanly meaning to insult yer,
Spits upon your carpet floor,
Lights his foul, ill-smelling pipe,――
Stuft’d with plug of negro core,――
Sits and spits for――Evermore.

7.

“Wretch!” I cry, with sudden start
“From this second let us part,
Get thee gone, possessing devil,
Let me never see thee more.”
My voice I raise as thus I cry,
And anger gleams within my eye;
Then the demon made reply,――
“’Tis only thirty pounds, not more,
So, sir, ’tis you, not I, must ‘part,’
If not, why then”――here he swore――
“I shall stay here――Evermore.”

8.

And that vulture, never soaring,
Still is sitting, still is snoring,
On my best Morocco chair,
That I shall sit on now no more;
And his visage is denoting,
As my furniture he’s noting,
A grim and ghastly gloating,
As he gloats my sadness o’er;
And my dreams by that vile vulture,
Who my sadness does ignore,
Will be nightmared――Evermore.
SOMERS BELLAMY.
_Under the Clock._ March, 21, 1885.

――――――――

A WELCOME TO BATTENBERG.

Shortly after it was publicly announced that the Queen had given her consent to the marriage of the Princess Beatrice with Prince Henry of Battenberg, the following paragraph appeared in _Funny Folks_:

“Certain members of the Royal Family do not like the betrothed of the
Princess Beatrice. This may be; but, anyway, nobody will deny that if
we have a Poet Laureate, he ought now and again do something for his
salary. Whether any rumours have reached Lord Tennyson on the subject,
I can’t say; but it is a remarkable fact that the day after such an
opinion was expressed in this office the following communication was
dropped into the editorial box:

_A New Welcome in an old Form._

Serenity’s son from over the sea,
Prince Henry!
English and Scotch and Welsh are we,
But we all shall pay taxes through welcoming thee,
Prince Henry!
Welcome him, thunders of fleet and of fort!
(It costs us five pounds or so, every report)
Welcome him, now let the joy bells begin!
(We shall pay forty pounds for that steamer he’s in)
Break, happy land, into earlier flower!
(Trixy, thank fate! ’s the last girl we’ve to dower)
Blazon your mottoes of blessing and prayer――
If it so be you are _not_ a tax-payer!

Warble, O bugle! and trumpet, O blare!
True, we must pay, but we won’t seem to care.
Welcome him, welcome him, then, to our stand!
Blow ye his praises, ye huge German band!
Penniless bridegroom, yet happy is he,
Knowing his bride will have much £ s. d.
So come to our heart, and accept, if you will,
Posts and positions our own sons might fill!
Come to us, love us, and make England your home,
Draw your pay quarterly, never more roam;
For English or Scotch or Irish we,
Taffys or Cockneys, whatever we be,
We shall all pay our share towards the keeping of thee,
_Dear_ Prince Henry!

Lord Tennyson.

THE FLEET.
(ON ITS REPORTED INSUFFICIENCY.)

You――you――_if_ you have fail’d to understand――
The Fleet of England is her all in all――
On you will come the curse of all the land,
If that Old England fall,
Which Nelson left so great――

This isle, the mightiest naval power on earth,
This one small isle, the lord of every sea――
Poor England, what would all these votes be worth,
And what avail thine ancient fame of “Free,”
Wert thou a fallen State?

You――you――who had the ordering of her Fleet,
If you have only compassed her disgrace,
When all men starve, the wild mob’s million feet
Will kick you from your place――
But then――too late, too late.
TENNYSON.

The above lines appeared in large type, and a prominent position, in the _Times_ of Thursday, April 23rd, 1885. Many persons thought a hoax had been played on the _Times_, refusing to believe that such a dismal appeal ad _captandum vulgus_ could have been penned by the Poet Laureate. Although it is true that all his recent productions have given signs of failing powers, both intellectual and poetical, nothing yet has been published so damaging as this to the reputation of the author of “The Idylls of the King.” It is, indeed, greatly to be regretted that he has no sincere and discriminating friend who could kindly, but firmly, dissuade him from the publication of such lines, which pain his friends, and give rise to endless satires at his expense. Journals representing all parties and every shade of opinion, at once set to work to ridicule _The Fleet_, and numerous parodies of it have already appeared, from which the following are selected:――

THE BARD.
(On his reported imbecility.)

You――you――_if_ you have failed to understand――
The bard of England is no bard at all――
And but a thumb on great St. Jingo’s hand.
See lines of his that sprawl
Across the _Times_ so great.

That bard, the mightiest bard on all the earth,
That one great bard is very much at sea;
Poor England, what would poetry be worth
If thou could’st boast no wiser bards than he?
A pitiable state.

You――you――who wrote those verses indiscreet,
If you have only covered so much space
With lines as bad as these, or rather worse,
Why then we’ll take your place,
And not too soon――too soon.

_The Weekly Echo_, April 25, 1885.

――――:o:――――

A LAUREL.

You――_you!_――and neither He nor She nor It,
But _if_; if _but_, you fail to understand,
Oh! shaker of this tiny English land,
Eagle in war; in peace a mild tomtit――
That Runnymede and Ashmead are the same,
And blood is after all your little game,
And peace an endless heritage of shame!

You――you――who watch the Baltic and the Belt,
Commingling verses to the whale and smelt.
Great Nelson’s heart would melt
If he could read’em.
For such a Hanwell Muse,
The public’s myriad shoes
Would kick themselves with freedom,
You――you!――if but a single soul would heed’em.
J. FOX TURNER.
_The Manchester Examiner and Times._

――――:o:――――

“WE WE” TO THE POET-LAUREATE.
On reading a (surely!) misreported insufficiency called
“The Fleet.”

You――you!――we do not fail to understand――
You, Laureate, are not England’s all in all;
On you is poured the laughter of the land
For your wild Jingo call;
Although you once were great.

Wild jingo cry!――“We mightiest upon earth,
Our naval power supreme on every sea.”
Poor England! What are all these howlings worth
And what avails thy poet’s fame to thee?――
A drivelling Laureate!

You――you――possessed with such a dervish heat,
Spinning and raving to your own disgrace!
While all men laugh, the wild mob’s million feet
Shall kick you from your place.
Ah, then――too late, too late!
E. S. WATSON.
_The Christian Leader_, April 30, 1885.

――――:o:――――

TENNYSON.
(On his reported Lunacy.)

You――you――if you have failed to understand
That England thought you knew the poet’s trick,
On you now comes the laughter of the land
For that mysterious kick
Which falls too late――too late.

Poet of perfect diction highly wrought,
Poet whom England loved in every sea,
Poor Baron, what shall million kicks be drought,
And what avails the ancient fame of thee
Whom once we called “the Great?”

You――you――who had the ear of all the world,
_If_ you can compass only pathos, see!
When all men laugh, a million lips are curled,
To send a jeer at thee,
Our laughed-at Laureate!

_The Liverpool Mercury._

――――:o:――――

TENNYSON TACKLED.

I.
THE FLIGHT!
_Companion Poem to_ “The Fleet.” _A Rejoinder._

You――you――_if_ you have failed to understand
How ships are built on paper at Whitehall,
Have picked up from the _Pall Mall_, second-hand,
Facts which but after all
Make circulation great.

Your Isle――where you possess the snuggest berth,
The tangled lanes, clear stretches of the sea――
Might feed your Muse; of matter you’ve no dearth,
So why this unprovoked attack on me,――
This――regular slate?

You――you――who, I admit, _can_ write,
_If_ you have talked of “kicking” to my face:――
Well, pr’aps I ought to seek the Isle of Wight,
And kick you at your place;
And may――though late, though late.

II.
THE BARD.
Another Companion Poem. A Reply.

Yum-yum,[29]――_if_ I have failed to understand
The tons, and guns, and “ends,” whereof they brawl,
At me, at least, can no man paint the hand,
For hypothetical
Purely, is all I state.

Yum-yum――_if_ any man has starved the Fleet,
_If_ any man has his head punched for this,
Kicked by a million boots along the street,
That sight I would not miss,
Nay, nor arrive too late!

And what, _if_ flying collars and a face
Familiar once in Highland tour with me,
I saw thus pelted in the market-place?
Well, well, so might it be;
And, _if_ deserved, First-rate!

_Punch_, May 2, 1885.

――――:o:――――

OUR FLEET.

You――you――if you have read the silly rhymes
About our Fleet just published in the _Times_――
Should raise your hands and righteously exclaim:
“If this be poetry,
What the de’il is fame?”

“This isle the mightiest naval power on earth,
This one small isle――the land of every sea――
Poor England!”――what are Poets Laureate worth?
And what avail thy ancient fame, oh T.,
When thou art fallen from thy high estate?

You――you――who had the penning of those lines――
If you have compassed your own disgrace,
When all men laugh――“the wild mob’s million feet”
Will kick thee to a place――the name’s not long――
It’s called by the polite――“Hong Kong!”

_Moonshine_, May 9, 1885.

――――:o:――――

“I am informed by a perfectly unreliable correspondent that the following poem――evidently composed by a dynamiter who reads his _Times_ and his Tennyson attentively――was picked up in Mr. Swainson’s room at the Admiralty after the recent explosion.”

You――you――_if_ you have failed to understand
The lesson taught by previous blow-ups,
Learn that on you the weight of Rossa’s hand――
When he’s not in his cups――
Still falls, despotic State!

This man, the noisiest Fenian on the earth,
Has sworn a swear to ne’er let Britain be.
Poor England! what are all thy bobbies worth,
And what avail detectives unto thee,
To guard thee from his hate?

You――you――who catch a Cunningham or so,
_If_ you imagine that the danger’s o’er,
You’re much mistaken, as you’ll shortly know,
So now to gain the door
And slope――ere it’s too late!

_Funny Folks_, May 9, 1885.

[This poem is founded upon two erroneous assumptions, namely that the explosion at the Admiralty was caused by dynamite, and that it was of Fenian origin. Colonel Majendie has expressed his confident opinion that the explosion was caused by the firing of about 12-lbs. of gunpowder enclosed in a metal pot; and the personal unpopularity of the unfortunate Mr. Swainson is considered a far more likely cause for the outrage, than any political motive.]

――――――――

The eight following parodies of _The Fleet_, were published in _The Weekly Dispatch_ Prize Competition of May 10th, 1885, the First Prize of Two Guineas was awarded to Mrs. Emily Lawrence, for the following:――

Whew! whew! _if_ you are hailed the master-hand――
The Laureate of England over all――
On you will come the laugh of all the land
If you to bathos fall,
Who erst did things so great.

This verse――the veriest doggrel verse on earth――
For this small beer were you a lord to be?
Poor Tennyson! what is your purple worth?
And what avails thine ancient fame to thee,
Now in thy fallen state?

Whew! whew! with all your orders thus replete,
If you can only compass your disgrace,
When all men read these lines of halting feet.
They’ll hurl you from your place
As England’s Laureate!

――――――――

A CONSERVATIVE,――(ON HIS LEADER’S REPORTED INEFFICIENCY.)

You――you――_if_ you have failed to understand
That hope of office is our all in all――
On you will come the curse of all our band
If that old Party fall,
Which Beaconsfield made great――

This hope, our mightiest motive power on earth,
This one great hope, that fills our hearts with glee――
Poor Party, what would all thy votes be worth,
And what avail our love of place and fee,
Wert thou a fallen State?

You――you――who should have led to Downing-street
If you have been too laggard in the race,
Ere we all starve, our roused rebellious feet
Will kick you from your place――
But then――too late, too late!
HENRY L. BRICKELL.

――――――――

THE GOVERNMENT.――(ON ITS REPUTED INEFFICIENCY.)

You――you if you should fail to understand
That _Peace_ for England is her all in all――
On you will come the curse of all the land
If that old England fall,
Which _Peace_ has made so great――

This isle, the mightiest _moral_ power on earth,
This one small isle, the lord of all the sea――
Poor England, what would all thy Fleet be worth,
And what avail thine ancient name of “Free.”
Wert thou a _tyrant_ State?

You――you――who have the ordering of her choice,
If you shall only compass her disgrace,
When all men know, the wild mob’s million voice
Shall hurl you from your place――
But then――too late, too late!
JOHN CARTER

――――――――

THE LAUREATE.――(ON HIS REGRETTABLE DECADENCY).

You――you――_if_ you have ceased to understand
Why once your song did England’s heart enthral――
On you will come the gibes of all the land
If that old grandeur fall
From eminence so great.

’Tis vile, thou sweetest singer upon earth――
’Tis very vile, thou bard of every sea――
Poor poet, what will bygone praise be worth,
And what avail thine ancient fame to thee,
If bathos blur thy state?

You――you――whose Muse had dainty, dancing feet,
If with a careless pen you mar her grace,
While true men sigh, the million, as ’tis meet,
Will laugh you from your place――
But then――too late, too late!
EXE.
――――――――

THE CORPORATION (ALDERMAN LOQ.)

We――we――who have not failed to understand
That Soup of turtle is our all in all――
On us may fall the anger of the land,
And that old charter fall,
Which kings have left so great――

That charter, noblest instrument on earth,
That grand old charter, gift of royalty――
Poor charter, what will all thy words be worth,
And what avail thine ancient liberty,
When in a lapsed state?

We――we――who strove to hold our powers complete,
If we have only fought and toiled in vain,
When all men kick, the region of our seat
Will suffer mortal pain――
Too hard――too hard a fate!
THOMAS H. KNIGHT, JUN.

――――――――

TO THE JINGO.――(ON HIS REPORTED REAPPEARANCE.)

YOU――you――since you have failed to understand
The Brag of England serves no turn at all――
Will never rise to curse again this land,
And never have the fall
Five years ago your fate.

This creed, the maddest vainest creed on earth,
That one small isle should lord o’er all lands be――
Poor jingo! what would this small isle be worth,
Where its great wealth, its ancient name of “Free,”
Wert thou to rule our state?

You――you――when you’d the ordering of the Fleet,
Did you not strive to compass our disgrace?
Do you forget ’twas once the “wild mob’s” feat
To kick you from your place?
You’ll mend――too late, too late!
GEORGE MALLINSON.

――――――――

Few――few――so few can really understand
Why all this fighting to our share should fall――
Or why Old England should protect a land
That is not hers at all,
Although she is so great――

This isle, the mightiest meddling power on earth,
The would-be lord of every land and sea――
Poor England, what is all the honour worth,
To crush a people struggling to be free,
And help a rotten state?

Few――few――there are who would not wish to fight
If Russia should encompass our disgrace,
And make for India――why, then with right
We’d kick her from the place――
But now――we’ll wait, we’ll wait.
EDWARD SCOTT.

――――――――

GLADSTONE’S REBUKE.

You――you――if you have failed to understand
The peace of nations is our all in all――
On you will come the blame of all the land
If those strong efforts fall
That we have used of late.

This isle, once fairest spot in all the earth,
This one small isle that boasts the name of “Free”――
Poor England! what will that fair name be worth,
And what will be thy “prestige” presently,
At war with every State?

You――you――who grovel still at Jingo’s feet,
If you shall plunge us in this dark disgrace
While thousands, starving, walk about the street,
They’ll hiss you to your face;
But all――too late, too late!
JESSE H. WHEELER.

The two following parodies àpropos of present circumstances, also appeared in a Prize competition:

BRITANNIA TO GLADSTONE.

You must save me from the Jingoes, from the Jingoes, Gladdy dear――
To morrow’ll be the wretchedest time of all this tragic year;
Of all this tragic year, Gladdy, the maddest, wickedest day,
For there’ll be a war, they say, Gladdy――there’ll be a war they say.

The Russians come and go, Gladdy, and seize upon each pass,
And with the savage Turcomans they drain the social glass;
The Tories shout and yell, Gladdy, awhile the Quakers pray,
For there’ll be a war, they say, Gladdy――there’ll be a war, they say.

All in the wild March morning I heard the trumpet call,
As Russian upon Afghan did mercilessly fall;
The shots began to whistle, and the drums began to roll,
And in the wild March morning fled many a trooper’s soul.

O, strange it seems to me, Gladdy, that ere this year is done
Some thousands of my bravest may be rotting ’neath the sun,
Just like my noble Gordon, the gallant and the true――
But what of that, the Jingoes say, why make ye such ado?

For ever, and for ever, they rave and stamp and roam――
Why can’t they wait a little while, until th’ elections come?
For then you’ll go up, Gladdy to yon House and wear a crest,
And the Russian cease from troubling, and the Jingo be at rest!

J. ARTHUR ELLIOTT.

――――:o:――――

HODGE’S EMANCIPATION.

The elections will be early, will be early, brother dear;
There is no doubt we’ll have to vote before another year.
The parson and the squire, they say, are quite polite to-day,
And think it will be most unkind if we don’t vote their way.

They forget we were the black sheep――the blackest of our time――
Were only fit to till the ground and feed our master’s swine;
Now they declare by us to stand for ever and a day,
If we will vote their way, brother――will only vote their way.

As I came up the valley brother, whom think ye I should see
But the parson arm-in-arm with Hodge, as merry as could be?
He thought of those sharp words, brother, I gave him yesterday――
When I refused to tell him, brother, if we should vote his way.

Now they may lose our votes brother, they think we’re in the right,
Although they failed to see our wrongs till Gladstone gave them light.
They may call us cruel-hearted――I care not what they say――
For we will vote by ballot, brother――why should we vote their way?

You must wake me and poll early――poll early, my brother dear――
That morrow will be the merriest time of all this glad new year!
That morrow may be to all of us our emancipation day,
If we vote for those who helped, brother――who helped us on our way!

JOHN H. GIBSON.
_The Weekly Dispatch_, April 26, 1885.

――――:o:――――

PICKED UP OUTSIDE THE LYCEUM.

You must wake and call me early――call me early mother dear,
Our Irving, as you’ll recollect, does now once more appear,
And so I’m bound, ere yet ’tis dawn, my humble couch to quit,
For I have to book for the pit, mother――I have to book for the pit.

_Funny Folks._

LYCEUM――Special Notice――With a desire to increase the comfort of the people, all seats in the pit and gallery of this theatre may, during Mr. Irving’s management, in the future be booked, and the pit and gallery will be reseated for this purpose by Mr. J. C. Phipps.――_Advertisement in the Daily Papers_, April, 1885.

[This arrangement did not meet with general approval, and was soon abandoned.]

WAGES.

Hundreds of sovereigns, hundreds of sterling, hundreds of cash,
Paid with a cheerfulness, eager to gain a poem from me;
Hundreds of sterling to write, to utter, to make a dash――
Nay, but the Editor aim’d not at poetry, no lover of poetry he:
Give me the pleasure of going on for the £ s. d.!

The wages of rant is great: if the wages of merit be just
Would the publishers scramble who should be first to bargain with me?
I desire them not to come hither, unless it be with the “dust,”
To make me a golden grove, or to add to my stock of gree;
Give me the pleasure of going on for the £ s. d.!

_Judy_, February 19, 1868.

――――:o:――――

GIVE ME NO MORE,
(_With apologies to_ LORD TENNYSON.)

Give me no more: a man might drink the sea――
If it were drinkable, and yours to give――
Might drink while Heaven allowed him grace to live
And not exhaust your hospitality;
Give me no more.

Give me no more: I’m nearly tight already,
Behold my flaming cheek and bloodshot eye;
Yes, O my friend, ’tis time to say good bye,
My tongue feels thick, my knees are far from steady
Give me no more.

Give me no more: ofttimes I might be glad
To drink with you all night, and glass for glass,
But not just now――my honest word I pass――
_Your liquor is so execrably bad_,
_Give me no more!_

――――:o:――――

THE ONION-EATERS.

“Courage!” she said, and pointed with one hand
(A hand that held a heavy metal spoon),
“Ere dies the day ye all will understand
The solemn myst’ry of this afternoon,
The luscious dish will ready be full soon!”
Above the cauldron rose a fragrant steam,
Through which her face gleam’d like a misty moon:
The boiling broth, with energy extreme,
Within the pot to bubble up did seem.

The dancing fire flicker’d up and down,
Fann’d by the murm’ring bellows gentle gale,
And by its crimson light was plainly shown
The kitchen-dresser and the housemaid’s pail.
Upon the table stood a jug of ale,
Some plates and knives and forks were near the same;
A frying-pan hung greasy on a nail.
With faces ruddied by the leaping flame,
The eager, hungry onion-eaters came.

Large roots they bore of that full-flavour’d stem,
Of pungent taste and odour. These they gave
To Cook, who gladly did receive of them.
With careful hands these roots she well did lave
In pure spring water’s clear and limpid wave;
Then toss’d them in the pot, a stew to make.
’Tis for this mess the greedy gluttons crave;
The echoes with their eager cries they wake,――
“Oh, give us some, we pray, for mercy’s sake!”

They sat them down, a longing, hungry band,
To eat, as if they ne’er had ate before,
Within the savoury dish each dipp’d a hand,
Until ’twas empty. Then arose a roar――
“’Tis not enough! Oh, give us more, _more_, MORE!
’Tis not more filling than the ocean’s foam.”
Then some one said,――“Eat not, friends, I implore!
Or how, when back to our own shores we roam,
Dare we kiss wives and sweethearts left at home?”

_Judy_, September 25, 1872.

――――:o:――――

In _Punch_, May 9, 1885, will be found a rather weak parody of “Tears, idle tears,” it is à propos of the farewell performance of Adelina Patti, at San Francisco, and commences “Tears, maudlin tears.”

――――:o:――――

GENERAL GORDON.

In reply to a letter from the poet Whittier respecting General Gordon, Lord Tennyson has written as follows――

“Dear Mr. Whittier,――Your request has been forwarded to me,
and I herein send you an epitaph for Gordon in our
Westminster Abbey――_i.e._ for his cenotaph:――

“‘Warrior of God, man’s friend, not here below
But somewhere dead far in the waste Soudan;
Thou livest in all hearts, for all men know
This earth hath borne no simpler, nobler man.’

“With best wishes, yours very faithfully,
“TENNYSON.”

On which the _Globe_ (May 7th, 1885,) remarked――“Lord Tennyson must really decline to be prodded. The poet Whittier has been egging him on to write about Gordon, and the result is an epitaph of four lines, giving the information that Gordon is not “here below” (_i.e._, in Westminster Abbey), but in the Soudan. The _Times_, in giving this epitaph, heads it “Gordon, Tennyson, and Whittier,” and the association of three such names with the starveling verse under them, is an ideal example of the short and simple step from the sublime to the ridiculous.”

“MY MOTHER.”

HE kind correspondent who sent the pathetic poem entitled “Another,” which appeared in the May number of _Parodies_, correctly described the difficulty of compiling this collection so as to make it fairly complete, without being tedious, especially as new Parodies on every popular poem are continually appearing. Since Part 18 appeared many other parodies on “My Mother” have been sent in, some of which are so good that they are here inserted, although it had not been intended again to refer to that particular poem in this volume.

THE SLUG.

No more this silent grief I’ll hug,
What shall I do to kill the slug,
That haunts the beds which I have dug?――
Curst slug!

I’ve sprinkled soot upon its trail,
But less than naught does that avail,
Over it pass’d th’ unconscious snail――
Vile slug!

I dogg’d its footsteps then with lime,
Dropping it where I saw the slime,
But it did change its route next time――
Sly slug!

I keep some salt mixed in a jug,
In which I hoped to pop it snug,
But it declined to show its mug――
Shy slug!

What lots of mischief it can do――
Would you believe it bit in two
My _Vincitoxis Thunbergu_?
Base slug!

Could it not e’en have spared me this?
My bulb _Incomparabilis
Hookeri Walkeri insignis_――
Low slug!

If I could find its hidden lair!
I can’t! Ah, cry of wild despair,
That breaks upon the tortured air――
Oh, slug!

Stranger! who read’st, yet sittest still,
I’ll leave you something in my will――
Give me a recipe to kill
That slug!

_Judy_, July 30, 1873.

――――:o:――――

THE FIRST FOG OF THE SEASON.
_By a Victim._

“What may perhaps be said to be the first fog of the season occurred in London on Wednesday last. All through the forenoon the weather was so dark as to make the use of gas requisite within doors. The fog was especially dense in the Northern and Eastern suburbs. In the morning there was a sharp frost.”――_Daily Paper._

What comes this year before its time,
To make us execrate our clime,
And doth the City streets begrime?
The fog!

What makes the trains late up in town,
And much disgusts Smith, Jones, and Brown;
And stops them when they would go “down?”
The fog!

What spreads destruction round one’s feet
By dark’ning every crowded street――
Invades the most secure retreat?
The fog!

What fills the atmosphere with smoke,
Till all who breathe it, all but choke;
And much bad language doth provoke?
The fog.

What hurts the eyes and makes them red,
Gives one a bad cold in the head,
And makes one think one’s nearly dead?
The fog!

What in the day produces night,
And keeps the flaring gas alight,
And takes away one’s appetite?
The fog.

What doth all London discompose,
Yet whence it comes and where it goes
No living human being knows?
The fog!

_Judy_, November 1, 1876.

――――:o:――――

THE NERVOUS.

Who taught me when there was a draught,
And showed me perils fore and aft
And frowned when I untimely laughed?
The Nervous.

Who told me when the glass would rise
Or fall, and with their prophecies,
Or recollections, made me wise?
The Nervous.

Who heard a crash before it fell
And knew things were not going well,
And would some warning story tell?
The Nervous.

Who, when I was a pachyderm,
By many a proper piercing term
Thinned my coarse skin so hard and firm?
The Nervous.

_The Argosy Magazine_, 1866.

――――:o:――――

MY BANKER.
_Dedicated (without respect) to certain Bank Mis-Directors._
BY A MAN OF NO ACCOUNT.

“I know a bank which when a wild time rose,
Stopped payment, and resolved its doors to close.”
――_Shakespeare perverted._

Though times are hard, who is’t one sees
Enjoying life’s luxurious ease
By spending others’ £. s. d’s?
My Banker.

Who cows the trader with a glance,
And eyes poor shopkeepers askance,
And wastes their money in――“finance”?
My Banker.

Whose style the ignorant delights,
Who orphans’ confidence invites,
And freely takes the widows’ mites?
My Banker.

Who finds religion’s cloak to pay
And client’s money ev’ry day
In charity, who gives away?
My Banker.

Who’s he whose fame spreads far and wide
For wealth and ostentatious pride
Until for peculation tried?
My Banker.

Who makes of roguery a trade,
Who, by his conscience undismayed,
To other rascals lends his aid?
My Banker.

Who is’t would have us to believe
A child in arms he’d not deceive,
Yet all the while will lie and thieve?
My Banker.

Who, when my Banker stares aghast
At prison walls which hold him fast,
Rejoices that he’s caught at last?
My-self.

_Judy_, January 29, 1879.

――――:o:――――

MY BROTHER.

Who held the tempting apple nigh
And always tried to make me cry,
And stuck the scissors in my eye?
My Brother.

Who left us all on Christmas Day
And to the cupboard made his way
And on the tree left not a spray?
My Brother.

Who threw my playthings on the floor.
And broke my doll behind the door,
And my best ribbons always tore?
My Brother.

Who pinched my kitten’s ear, or tail,
And ducked her in the water-pail
And pinched my cheek for turning pale?
My Brother.

Who spilt his coffee on his lap,
And tore his mother’s new lace cap,
And blurred with ink my atlas map?
My Brother.

Who’s glad he is at school now,
And not at home to make a row
I know who’s happy, anyhow,
His Sister.

――――:o:――――

VALENTINE.

Why at my church do I select a pew,
Commanding always one particular view
Alas! I fear it is to look at you
The Curate.

When do I shun the theatre or the ball,
For spinsters’ tea that’s weak, and talk that’s small
’Tis when I think it probable you’ll call
Our Curate.

Why, by my hands, industriously were tied
The holly wreaths in church at Christmas-tide?
Because I loved to labour by your side
Dear Curate.

And when the living fat shall fall to thee,
Shall all thy flock forgotten be,
Or wilt thou then begin to think of me
My Curate.

――――:o:――――

MY BAEDEKER.

Who teaches me to go abroad
To Paris, Rome, or Venice-ward,
Or Norway’s fjeld and deep fjord?
My Baedeker.

Who gives the annals of each nation,
Maps, money, language, vegetation,
And what’s about the population?
My Baedeker.

Who says what galleries there may be
For which one pays, which open free
From ten to four, or nine to three?
My Baedeker.

Who says what churches I’m to visit
And if a picture’s framed which is it?
And puts a star lest I should miss it?
My Baedeker.

From _Tracks in Norway_.

――――――――

Who are the anxious watchers o’er
The slumbers of a little bore,
That screams whene’er it doesn’t snore
Why, Mothers.

Whose pity wipes its piping eyes,
And stills maturer childhood’s cries,
Stopping its mouth with cakes and pies?
Oh, Mothers!

_The Humorist_, 1861.

MY TUTOR.

Who was’t when I came fresh from School
Up here, was so polite and cool,
And showed me each Collegiate rule?
My Tutor.

Who bade me shun those friends of vice
Which undergraduates entice,
In shape of billiards, cards, and dice?
My Tutor.

Let Paley be my constant friend,
Eight hours each day in studies spend,
And chapels night and morn attend?
My Tutor.

By such a course that worthy planned
First class in Little Go I’d land,
A credit to my College, and
My Tutor.

But who next day, by all that’s odd,
Happened to note me as I trod
Across the grassplots in the quad?
My Tutor.

And saw (what fools some people are!)
Me puffing at my first cigar,
And called it “most irregular”?
My Tutor.

Who’s now my foe inveterate,
Who every night at half-past eight
Keeps me within the College gate?
My Tutor.

Because I chanced to skip, you know,
And thought intolerably slow
His lectures on the Little Go?
My Tutor.

Who is so shy he shuns to meet
One of his College in the street?
Who dare not let you see his feet?
My Tutor.

Who always is agreable with
Lord Jones, but keeps a great broad frith
Between himself and Sizar Smith?
My Tutor.

Who is it whom I ought to dread
And hang on every word he’s said
But whom I caricature instead?
My Tutor.

From _Paulopostprandials_, published by Jones and Piggott, Cambridge, 1883.

William Shakespeare.
(1564-1616.)