Chapter XXXIV: Prologue (5)

Trousers in such “knee-plush-ultra” fashion,
Wide above and at the ancles tight,
As would put the ghost of Stultz into a passion,――
Thus ye see the swell in all his might!

“Hiawatha’s” author tells us in his verses,
Men and flowers are very much alike,
But methinks――although his language trim and terse is,
Hyde-park flowers the simile won’t strike.

Solomon, we know, in all his glory,
Couldn’t to the lily’s dress compare;
Shall then moderns, less than him in story,
Likened be unto the flow’rets fair?

Nay――to Solomon we’ll give the credit
(This we hope his tailor gave him too,)
And believe, although no Rabbi said it,
He ne’er clothed himself as modern Britons do:

For if like theirs had been his usual covering,
We cannot help remarking, by-the-bye,
That old Israel’s far-renowned sovereign,
Little wiser was, dear sir, than you and I.
C.O.
_Tait’s Magazine_, 1858.

――――:o:――――

OUR SERENADERS.

[“The plaintiff,” Mr. Justice MATHEW decided, in an action brought by a literary man to prevent a noise on a neighbour’s premises, “contended for a condition of felicity which could never be obtained in London.”――_Daily Paper._]

I lay in my bed at midnight,
As the dogs were barking the hour,
And I hurled at their heads, of language
A maledictory shower!

I heard their pestilent voices
In the garden under me,
Like a chorus of demons yelling
In hideous symphony.

Most gladly would I have strangled
The Judge who lately said
The Londoner never must hope for
Repose in his little bed.

How often, oh how often,
In the nights that have gone by,
I have tossed on my pillow and wondered
Why cats seem never to die!

How often, oh how often,
I have wished that some tempest drear
Would bear away in its bosom,
My neighbour’s Chanticleer!

And when his protest uplifteth
The mongrel over the way,
I look about for my pistol,
And long for the dawn of day.

And that terrible little Terrier――
Why cannot its mistress see
That it has no right to prowl at night
And bark at the moon and me?

When I think that this latest decision
Of the case-encumbered Judge
Will help my neighbours to beard me,
And to dub my threats as “fudge,”――

I seem to see a procession
Of ills which must spring from it――
The young man goaded to madness,
And the old going off in a fit.

And for ever and for ever,
As long as those Dogs delight
To bark, and the Cats to bellow,
And murder sleep in the night.

The Judge and his latest decision.
And his cold remarks will show
That _he_ hears no “meowing” above him,
And no “bow-wowing” below.

_Punch_, February 7, 1885.

There was also a parody on the same original in _The Sporting Times_, May 2, 1885, but it was too coarse and slangy to bear quoting.

――――:o:――――

DIVITIOR.

The shades of evening deepened fast,
As, bank-ward, through the City passed
A man, who in his pocket bore,
His bank-book, strangely titled o’er――
Divitior!

His brow was wrinkled; keen his eye
Flashed on each jostling passer-by,
And still the strange mysterious word
From his scarce-conscious lips were heard――
Divitior!

In humble homes he saw the light
Of happy faces, warm and bright.
Above, Ambition’s cold heights shone;
He cried, his eye on these alone,――
Divitior!

“Tempt not a path,” the preacher said,
“Which none who loves his life may tread;
The snares and chasms are deep and wide;”
But, confident, he loud replied――
Divitior!

“Stay,” said Content, “Oh stay, and rest,
Thy anxious head upon this breast:”
A tear one moment dimmed his eye,
But still he answered, with a sigh――
Divitior!

“Beware th’ alluring path of greed,
There’s danger in thy headlong speed;”
This was a brother’s parting word――
He cried, the warning scarcely heard――
Divitior!

One morning, as the gossips tell,
While neighbours, woke by matin bell,
Were syllabling their morning prayer,
A voice shrieked through the startled air――
Divitior!

Exhausted, over-wrought, at last
His spirit from its tent had passed;
Still grasping in his hand of ice,
His bank-book, with the strange device――
Divitior!

There, in the twilight, cold and gray,
The Mammon Martyr lifeless lay;
And from beneath a voice was heard,
Muttering in scorn the mocking word――
Divitior!

_Tait’s Magazine_, 1858. S.W.F.

――――――――

NETTLE-RASH.

(From St. Bartholomew’s.)

The shades of night were falling fast,
As through the Doctor’s office passed,
A Boy, who bore upon his face
The symptoms and decided trace
Of nettle-rash.

“You’d better go,” the matron said,
“And rest your head upon your bed;”
A tear stood in her bright blue eye,
As he did question, have then I――
Got nettle-rash?

You’ll take two pills, the doctor said,
And mind you cover up your head――
I’ll see he does, the nurse replies,
I hope you’ll cure me, sir, he cries,
Of nettle-rash.

There, in the gas light, far from gay,
Spotted, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the boys both near and far
The question fell, like a falling star――
HOW’S NETTLE-RASH?

ANONYMOUS.

――――――――

YOUNG LAMBS TO SELL.

The Lamplighters were scudding fast,
As thro’ some half-blind alleys passed,
A man who bore thro’ muddy way――
A Tray with a most strange display,
“Young lambs to sell.”

His face was seamed, his bleary eye,
Told tales of tankards, oft drained dry;
The words were partly said and sung
Which fell from his outlandish tongue――
“Young Lambs to sell.”

The Landlord cried, you’d better stay;
The rain will wash your wares away,
The wind will blow them up sky high,
But loud and shrill he still did cry――
“Young Lambs to sell!”

“Oh, stay and drink” the Toper cried;
“They’ll chalk me up a can inside.”
His ferret eye a twinkle gave,
But constantly he tipped the stave――
“Young Lambs to sell.”

“Beware the Peeler’s truncheon thick,
Nor sleep on kiln of baking brick;
You _are_ a fool that won’t take treat.”
A voice replied far up the street
“Young Lambs to sell.”

D4. upon his nightly round,
The Merchant in a corner found;
Upon his tin legged flock he lay,
His open mouth still seemed to say,
“Young Lambs to sell.”

There, in the bull’s-eyes shining round,
Dead-drunk and muddled was he found;
And soon the lockups grim inside
Contained the leary one who cried
“Young Lambs to sell.”

From _The Free-Lance_, Manchester.

――――――――

U-PI-DEE.

The shades of night were coming down fast, U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day,
When through a Roman village pass’d U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day.
A youth who’d had champagne in ice
They’d marked him with this strange device,
U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.

His hat was bad his eyes were black
A short tail’d coat adorned his back,
And like a cracked Pianner rung
The accents of this unknown tongue:――
U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.

Try not the pass the old man said
Does your mother know you’re not in bed?
He took the old man by the nose,
And said one word which I suppose
Was: U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.

“O stay!” the maiden cried, said she U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day.
We’re all just a going to sit down to tea U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day.
A wink was in the bright blue eye,
As he said with a hiccough or a sigh,
Oh, U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.

Remove the flags if you fall pat U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day,
I say young man I’ll have your hat U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day,
This was a cabman’s last good night,
When a voice from somewhere out of sight
Said, U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.

Now you want a moral to my song,
To know what is right and what is wrong,
Don’t get champagne upon the brain,
Or else instead of speaking plain,
You’ll say: U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.

Night passed, and in the morning gray,
He was found fast asleep by Policeman A,
He asked his name, he turned him round
In the pocket of his coat a card was found;
It was U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.

About a quarter past six the next forenoon,
A man accidentally getting up soon,
Heard utter’d above mid snow and ice,
This remarkable song in a very weak voice,
U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.

He’s dead, defunct, without any doubt
The lamp of his life is entirely out,
In the snow and the ice he now is laying,
So it aint any use any more to be saying,
U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.

This old fashioned comic song, written by F. C. Burnand, was sung in the Burlo-Drama of _Julius Cnaeser_ at the Royalty Theatre. The chorus has here been somewhat abbreviated, as its wit was not in proportion to its length. A parody, having a similar refrain, appeared in Volume 1, _Parodies_, page 101.

――――――――

A CHRISTMAS PANTOMIME.

“The shades of night were falling fast,”
As through the streets of London passed,
A youth who trudged through snow and ice,
Stamped on his heart the fond device,
Loved Arabella!

His coat was rough, his hat was sleek,
The frost had nipped both nose and cheek;
But as he walked he softly sung,
Those words so often on his tongue,
Loved Arabella!

To Camden Town try not the way,
The snow has fallen thick to-day:
This was a comrade’s last good-bye,
But bold he said “For _her_ I’ll try,”
Loved Arabella!

“Oh! buy my chestnuts baked and warm,”
A damsel cried, then touched his arm;
A longing look was in his eye,
But still he answered with a sigh,
Loved Arabella!

About the pantomime he’d read,
Of fays and sprites, so onward sped;
For to these scenes of festive light
He’d vowed to lead his lady bright,
Loved Arabella!

The villa reached he saw the light
Of chandelier and firelight bright,
While on the blind he traced a shade
Like that of his long worshipped maid,
Loved Arabella!

E’en as he gazed, beside her came
A hated rival, “Jones” by name:
One she had sworn no more to meet,
Nor even bow to in the street,
False Arabella!

Above her head he held a spray――
A sacred plant, ’twas once, they say,
Then under this protection base,
He bent and kissed her blushing face,
False Arabella!

The outside lover shook his fist,
To choke his rival much he wished,
For acting such a traitor’s part,
And stealing thus _his_ fair one’s heart,
False Arabella!

A moment later _he_ was there,
Glaring at the detected pair;
With words of anger sharp, but few,
He bade the maid a last adieu,
False Arabella!

Then on he went, for well he knew
That maxim old, and yet so true――
“There’s always good fish in the sea,”
And therefore maids more true than _she_,
False Arabella!

_London Society_, Christmas Number, 1867.

――――――――

YE POOR MAHDI!

The shades of night were falling fast
As Mahdi through El Obeid past;
He said good-bye to all his wives,
Which caused a thousand stifling cries――
Ye poor Mahdi!

His brow was sad; his blessed eyes
Were gazing steadfast on the skies;
And from a weak consumptive chest;
There came a voice of piteousness――
“Ye poor Mahdi!”

In Cairo’s Hall he saw the light;
Of Gladstone laws, as dark as night,
And in the merchants’ faces gazed,
And saw that they too Gladstone praised,
Ye poor Mahdi!

“Try not this scheme,” good Randy said;
“A scimitar hangs o’er thy head,
For England hates thee, she’s so proud;”
But a voice answered, “I’m quite cowed,”
Ye poor Mahdi!

“Stay,” cried an angry Custom’s Clerk,
“You pay £5 to leave this _barque_;
And if you don’t, why we shall paste
On H.M.S. right round your waist”――
Ye poor Mahdi!

Beware, ye girls of Kensington,
Beware that man called “Number One.”
Thus warned our friend left Charing Cross
With nearly all his money lost.
Ye poor Mahdi!

At early dawn as servant maids
Were nodding to their soldier slaves.
A voice ran through the Castle shrill
“Where’s Dr. Gull? I am so ill.”
Ye poor Mahdi!

An Eastern, in a lumber room
Was found reclining on a stool,
He raised to Heaven his bony hands
And said, “Why crossed I desert sands?”
Ye poor Mahdi!

There dead and cold the Mahdi lay
The servants round cried “Lack-a-day.”
And then in coffin strong and fast
They placed this son of desert vast.
Ye poor Mahdi!

From _The Mahdi’s Diary_, 1884.

――――――――

THE PURSE-SUIT.

[The _Echo_ in a recent article pictures Mr. Maskelyne starting off in search of Mr. Irving Bishop to recover the ten thousand pounds awarded him by the Jury in the libel suit.]

_Air_――“_Excelsior._”

The mail train blew its final blast,
When, dashing frantically past
The barrier, rushed a breathless man,
Who muttered ever as he ran――
“Ten thousand pounds!”

His cheek was flushed, his eyeballs seemed
To burn like fire, so bright they gleamed;
And as all watched him disappear,
The echo of a voice rang clear――
“Ten thousand pounds!”

All Europe soon he searched――in vain
He climbed each mountain, scoured each plain,
Alas! he found not him he sought,
And vocal grew the luring thought――
“Ten thousand pounds!”

“Off to the east I’ll go,” he cried:
“I’ll roam the deserts far and wide,
I’ll Search the Sphynx, the rivers swim,
To get my damages from him――
“Ten thousand pounds!”

One day the Mahdi’s army saw
A man armed with a writ of law,
And as in terror wild they fled,
They heard the mystic words he said――
“Ten thousand pounds!”

Tradition doubtless will declare
He’s been seen here, there, everywhere;
And unborn savages will speak
Of him who ceases not to seek――
Ten thousand pounds.

_Funny Folks_, January 31, 1885.

THE GREAT DEMONSTRATION.

Should you ask me why this hubbub,
Why this motley-garbed procession,
Filled with parties somewhat blatant,
Bearing sundry gaudy banners――
Like to banners borne by “supers”――
Why these strains of weird-like music
Fill the air on Easter Monday?――
I should answer, I should tell you,
“Tis the partisans of Orton――
(Orton, that much-suffering martyr),
Headed by their chief, Kenealee,
Better known as Doctor “Dewdrops”――
He who represents the people
In the senate of St. Stephen.
Often has he swayed his “gingham”
When orating from the platform.
Oh, the wicked judges fear him,
And the Press with terror trembles
When he mightily denounces
Sundry falsehoods journalistic!

See, they stay at Nelson’s column
Waiting for the great contingent:
Followers of Magna Charta
From the Eastern plains of Shoreditch,
From the Western Seven dials,
From the Southwark Southern suburb,
From the Northern wilds of Hoxton!
Yea, assembled in their thousands
(Well, we’ll say about two thousand),
Enter they the gates of Hyde-park,
And Kenealee, from his chariot,
Speaks to them in silvery accents.
Lo! they make a conflagration
With an execrated journal,
And the crowd, dispersing slowly,
Seek the publics close adjacent,
There to quaff their pots of porter――
Porter, their belovèd liquor;
There to puff their shag-tobacco,
And, amid the fumes ascending,
They will prate of him in Dartmoor.
When the time shall come for quitting,
They’ll depart with gait unsteady,
Shouting in their native jargon,
“We the people har of Hingland!”

_Fun_, April 26, 1876.

――――――――

PAHTAHQUAHONG.

_A Lyric after Longfellow._

(The Rev. Henry Pahtaquahong Chase, Hereditary Chief of the Ojibway Indians has arrived in England. _Vide Press._)

Should you ask me whence this Chieftain?――
Whence this Henry Pahtahquahong?――
I should answer, I should tell you――
From the realms of lake and forest,
Where the mighty Saskatchàwan
And the Kaministaquoiah
Drain the happy hunting valleys;
Where the Mas-ka-gaws and Saulteaux,
Surcees, Pay-gans, Bloods, and Blackfeet,
Ottoes, Dog-ribs, Crees, and Beavers,
Hunt the Wapiti and Musquash;
From the lakes of Manitoba,
Winnipeg and Winnipags,
Pickcògasi and Pàquash,
Dòobiaunt, Wéenìsk, Wheldyàhad,
From the shores of Athabasca,
From the Land of the Ojibways.

Should you ask me what he looks like――
Wears he feathers and mocassins,
Belt of wampum, coat of war-paint,
Wields he tomahawk and scalp-knife,
Musket quaint or modern rifle,
Like to sitting Bull or Big Snake,
Chingachgook, or Outalassi,
Leather stocking’d Natty Bumppo,
Hiawatha, Paw-puk-kewis,
Shaw-wa-nos-soway, whose rival
Muck-e-tock-e-now (Black Eagle)
Died thro’ wooing sweet Awh-mid-way
Beautiful as Minnehàha?――
I should answer. I should tell you――
Pahtahquahong Chase, the chieftain,
Wears no feathers nor mocassins,
Wields no tomahawk nor scalper,
But a black suit and white choker,
On his head a silk broad brimmer,
In his hand a stick for walking,
He has turn’d him from the war-path,
He has buried deep the hatchet,
Gives us sermons ’stead of war-whoops,
And the Pale-face is his brother;
Welcome then, O Pahtahquahong
From the realms of Lake and forest,
From the happy hunting valleys,
From the land of the Ojibways.
WALTER PARKE,
_The Bath and Cheltenham Gazette_, March 30, 1881.

――――――――

THE SONG OF CETEWAYO.

(WITH APOLOGIES TO THE NOBLE HIAWATHA.)

FAR across the big-sea-water――
Which is sometimes termed the ocean――
To the lodges of the pale-face
Comes the gentle Cetewayo.
(Lady Florence trisyllabic
Makes the name of her odd hero;
But, to suit this bards convenience,
And his transatlantic measure,
Pray let him say “Cet-e-wayo.”)
If you ask me “Why ‘the gentle?’”
I shall answer, I shall tell you,
I shall pity you and tell you,
’Tis because he is a savage,
Who by force compelled his people
To become a tribe of cut-throats.
Furthermore, because our brothers
He has slaughtered by the hundred.
Now, however, being captive,
Very small and mild he singeth――
Talks no more his spears of washing
In our blood, or eating us up.
That is why we call him “gentle,”
And a lot of names as pretty,
(“We” are Lady Florence Dixie,
And Natal’s least Christian Bishop,
Arithmetical Colenso;
Also aqueous Sir Wilfred,
And a varied mob of other
Dames hysteric of both sexes.)
So we bring him o’er the ocean――
Otherwise the big-sea-water――
Feed him up like any porker;
Lodge him, and the British uni
Form encourage him to scoff at.

* * * * *

Soon as a “distinguished stranger,”
He will gaze down on the Commons――
Gaze upon his friends and patrons――
While beside him Shepstone Junior,
Meekly nameth each one thusly,
In a sort of Zulu-English;
Yonder sits the aged chieftain,
Gran-dole-man-o, whom the To-rees――
Wicked race, who love their country!――
Liken to the eel that wriggleth.
Near him bideth Dil-ki-kilkee,
Speaker of the thing which is not,
With the mighty Ver-no-narker,
Like some would-be dignified hip――
Popotamus by your rivers,
Far away see Carlisle’s Willfee――
Pal o’-yours, my Cetewayo,
Who’s so very fond of water
That he puts it in his speeches,
Till he drowns all his ideas,
And his hearers think he has none.”

* * * * *

Thus, methinks, will Shepstone Junior
Prattle to the “dusky Monarch”
As he gazeth on the Commons,
Or in greasy state “does” London,
But if any one should ask me
_Why_ we’ve brought this big “He nigger”
All across the big-sea-water――
This sounds better far than “ocean”――
Why we’ve coddled him and dressed him
In a garb that once was glorious,
I should answer, I should tell him,
I should shake my head and tell him,
That I’ve not the least idea,
And I fancy no one else has!
G. G.
_Evening News_, Aug. 4, 1882.

――――:o:――――

THE PRINTERS’ HIAWATHA.

Should you ask us why this dunning,
Why all these complaints and murmurs,
Murmurs hard about delinquents,
Who have read the paper weekly,
Read what they have never paid for,
Read with pleasure and with profit,
Read the church affairs and prospects,
Read the news, both home and foreign,
Full of wisdom and instruction;
Read the table of the markets,
Carefully corrected weekly――
Should you ask why all this dunning:

From the printer, from the mailer,
From the kind old paper-maker,
From the landlord, from the devil,
From the man who taxes letters
With the stamp of Uncle Samuel――
Uncle Sam the rowdies call him――
From them all there comes a message,
Message kind, but firmly spoken:
“Please to pay the bill you owe me.”

Sad it is to hear the message,
When the funds are all exhausted
When the last greenback has left us
When the nickles all have vanished,

Gone to pay the toiling printer,
Gone to pay the paper-maker,
Gone to pay the landlord’s tribute,
Gone to pay the clerk and devil,
Gone to pay the faithful mailer,
Gone to pay old Uncle Samuel――
Uncle Sam, the rowdies call him――
Gone to pay for beef and Bridget,
Gone to pay the faithful parson.

Sad it is to turn our ledger,
Turn the leaves of this old ledger,
Turn and see what sums are due us,
Due for volumes long since ended,
Due for years of pleasant reading,
Due for years of anxious labour,
Due despite of patient waiting,
Due despite of constant dunning,
Due in sums from two to twenty.

Would you lift a burden from us?
Would you drive a spectre from you?
Would you have a pleasant slumber?
Would you have a quiet conscience?
Would you read a paper paid for?
Send us money! Send us money!
Send us money! Send us money!
Send the money that you owe us.

_Printers’ Circular_.

Another amusing Parody of _Hiawatha_ was published in _The Bill of the Play_ for July 11, 1870. It was entitled “La Belle Sauvage” and gave a summary of the burlesque history of the Princess Pocahontas then being performed at the St. James’s Theatre. It is, unfortunately, out of date now, and much too long to be given here.

FURTHER PARODIES
OF
Thomas Hood.

――――:o:――――

THE OVERSEER’S LAMENT (in Australia.)

(Adapted from Hood’s “Song of the Shirt,” to the circumstances of an Overseer in the service of “_Long Clarke_,” a wealthy squatter in Victoria.)

With breeches thread-bare and worn.
With jumper running to seed,
An overseer sat in a stringy-bark hut,
Smoking his favourite weed.
Puff! Puff! Puff!
“Oh! When shall I rise from this state?”
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,
He sang the song of his fate.

“Ride! Ride! Ride!
While the cock is crowing aloof!
And ride, ride, ride
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It’s oh, to be a super
Along with some Western swell,
Where man has never a stiver to save,
But sometimes gets a spell.

“Ride! Ride! Ride!
Till my boots are rusty and worn!
And ride, ride, ride!
Till my breeches are tattered and torn;
Plain, and gully, and range,
Range, and gully, and plain,
Till over the saddle I fall asleep,
To waken and ride again.

Oh! Squatters with beautiful runs!
Oh! Squatters with fattening plains
Not feet alone are you wearing out,
But you’re sowing rheumatic pains!
Twitch! Twitch! Twitch!
I feel it in all my bones,
Sowing at once with a double stitch,
Colonial experience and groans.

“But why do I talk of rheumatics?
That phantom of aching bone;
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own――
It seems so like my own,
Because of the spills I reap.[67]
Oh! that runs should be so dear,
And overseers so cheap!

Ride! Ride! Ride!
My labour never flags:
And what are its wages? Forty a year,
And these two wretched nags,
This mutton chop, and this damper queer――
A stretcher, a ’possum rug,
And so wretched all that the traveller here
But seldom shows his mug!

“Count! Count! Count!
The thousands of every flock,
Count, count, count!
Till I’ve counted my master’s stock;
Ewes, and wethers, and lambs,
Lambs, and wethers, and ewes,
Till the eyes are dazzled, the hurdles smashed,
And my shins are all in a bruise.

Snip! Snip! Snip!
When the shearing season’s come,
And snip, snip, snip!
But never a keg of rum!
Curse, and squabble, and row,
Row, and squabble, and curse,
Till my eyes are blackened, my ‘claret’ drawn,
As well as my private purse.

“Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the Royal Hotel in town;
A prime manilla in my mouth,
Whilst I knock my earnings down!
Oh! but for one short month,
To spree as I used to spree,
Before I knew the super’s berth,
In the days when I was free!

“Oh! but for one short week!’
A respite, however brief!
No blessed leisure for love or lush,
But only time for grief!
A little drinking would ease my mind,
But in its secret lurk
The grog must stop, for every drop,
Would hinder station work!”

With breeches threadbare and worn,
With jumper running to seed,
An overseer sat in a stringy-bark hut,
Smoking his favourite weed.
Puff! Puff! Puff!
Oh, when shall I rise from this state?
And still with a tone like a heart-broken lark――
Would that its wail would reach Long Clarke――
He sang the song of his fate.
MARK PRINGLE STODDART.
_Canterbury Rhymes._ Christ Church, New Zealand, January, 1853,

――――:o:――――

THE SONG OF THE DIRT.

_Suggested by Dr. Letheby’s Report on the Sanitary State of the City._

“Your attention has been drawn to this pestilential source
of disease, and to the consequence of heaping human beings
into contracted localities;[68] and I again revert to it
because of its great importance, not merely that it
perpetuates fever and the allied disorders, but because
there stalks side by side with this pestilence a yet
deadlier presence, blighting the moral existence of a rising
population, rendering their hearts hopeless, their acts
ruffianly, and scattering, while society averts her eye, the
retributive seeds of increase for crime, turbulence and
disorder.”――_See Report of Dr. Letheby, Medical Officer of
Health._

――――――――

In a room up a squalid court,
Where “tramps” sleep three in a bed,
Where the baby sleeps by the sick man’s side,
And the dying beside the dead;
Rich! Rich! Rich!
Your feelings perhaps may be hurt,
That a woman there, to a dolorous pitch,
Should sing this “Song of the Dirt.”

Dirt! Dirt! Dirt!
From basement up to roof,
And dirt, dirt, dirt,
Where sickness stands never aloof.
It’s oh! to dwell and toil
With the heathen Esquimaux,
To batten on filth and oil,
If _Christians_ should live on so!

Dirt! Dirt! Dirt!
On ceiling wainscot and floor,
And dirt, dirt, dirt
On sidepost, lintel and door.
Stench, and fever, and death,
Where huddle the young and old,
Where the beggars brat is rocked to sleep
By the side of the corpse just cold![69]

“Oh! men with thousands a year,
Oh! men with mothers and wives,
Oh! read that report, and think of our sort,
Oh! think of our bestial lives.
Dirt! Dirt! Dirt!
Can such as we grow good,
When filth is around us, night and morn,
In sleep, work, drink and food?

“But why do _I_ talk of dirt,
Where nothing else is known?
I hardly know the foul thing’s form,
It seems so like my own.
It seems so like my own――
While three in a bed we sleep,
Till filth doth grow to the poor man dear,
While water and soap are cheap.

Dirt! Dirt! Dirt!
We cannot sleep on the flags,
So together we herd in our fetid dens,
And fever nurse in our rags,――
Small-pox, fever, and cough,
Where the slimy vapour doth reek,
Where children are born near the livid corpse,
That cholera killed last week?

Dirt! Dirt! Dirt!
In the cold December night,
And dirt, dirt, dirt
When summer days are bright,
When God’s blessèd winds do blow,
Like a message from bygone years,
From the broad green fields at home,
Till I wash my face with tears!

“Oh, for one breath of air,
Away from this sick’ning smell,
Where the only flowers _we_ ever see,
Are the flowers we cannot sell,
Which we hawked in the street all day,
Till hunger our cheeks doth blench,
And we bring ’em home to wither and die,
And fragrance fades into stench!”

_Tait’s Magazine_, 1858.

Although both the above Report, and the Parody were written many years ago, they are quite as applicable to the condition of the poor in most of our large Cities now, as they were then.

――――:o:――――

THE SONG OF THE STUDENT.

With body weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A young man sat, and a longing glance
Was thrown on his lowly bed.
Grind, grind, grind,
Till your head is like to break;
Work through the livelong night,
For your honour is at stake.

Grind, grind, grind,
Till the brain begins to swim;
Grind, grind, grind,
Till the eyes are heavy and dim.
Homer, Virgil, Euclid,
With numerous others, I ween,
Till over my lessons I fall asleep
And get them all in a dream.

O Dominies, why do you give,
Such lessons for students to get?
’Tis wearing out their precious lives
By keeping them up so late.
Grind, grind, grind,
Throughout the livelong night;
This harassing cannot be borne,
For it passes human might.

* * * * *

Grind――grind――grind,
In the dull December light;
Grind――grind――grind,
And work with all my might!
But oh! if, while I work,
The seeds of death are sown,
What profit will it be
If honor’s all my own?

* * * * *

Oh! but for one short hour
To close my weary eyes,
But visions cross my mind
Of losing every prize.
A little sleep would ease my limbs
And cool my aching head;
But I must not think of ease or rest
When stretched upon my bed.

With body weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A young man sat, and a longing glance
Was thrown on his lowly bed.
Grind――grind――grind,
Till your head is like to break;
Work throughout the live-long night,
For your honor is at stake.
FIN.
_Aberdeen University Magazine_, June, 1854.

(This little Work is now exceedingly scarce.)

――――――――

THE SONG OF EXAMS.

With eyelids heavy and red, with fingers inky and chill,
A student sat in his lodgings alone, plying his weary quill――
Scratch! scratch! scratch! ’mid translations, and cribs, and crams,
And still, in a croak no crow could match, he sang this “Song of
Exams”:――

“Work! work! work! while the cock is crowing aloof,
And work! work! work! while the cats serenade on the roof;
It’s oh! to be a slave with the most unspeakable Turk,
Who neither professors nor colleges has, if this is Christian work.

“Work! work! work! till the head begins to swim;
And work! work! work! till the eyes are heavy and dim――
Mathematics, and logic, and phil., philosophy, logic and math.,
Till with props. and deductions the brain is crammed, and no
sensibility hath.

“Oh! Profs., with well-lined nests!――oh! Profs., with incomes good!
The solutions of your questions stiff are solutions of brains and
blood――
Scratch! scratch! scratch! ’mid translations, and cribs, and crams,
Writing at once, with our heart’s best blood, death warrants as well
as exams.

“But why do I talk of death? that phantom of grisly bone;
I hardly fear its terrible shape, it seems so like my own;
It seems so like my own, because of the way I _sweat_,
And oh! this session of endless toil is not nearly ended yet.

Work! work! work! my labour never flags;
And what’s it all for? a mortar board, a gown to be torn in rags;
This shattered health, a head growing bald prematurely, at end of my
name
To write M.A., for one brief day, in the papers to win some fame.

“Work! work! work! from weary chime to chime,
And work! work! work! as prisoners work for crime――
Philosophy, logic, and math., mathematics, and logic, and phil.,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, and I have to take
a pill.

“Work! work! work! in the dull December light;
And work! work! work! when the weather is warm and bright;
While underneath my window “caller haddies!” the fishwives screech,
And, of course, no boots are handy, and the coals are out of reach.

“Oh! but to breathe the breath of a glass of barley bree,
With my heels upon the mantel-piece where no such heels should be;
For only one short hour to feel as I used to feel
Before I knew of the awful fag of climbing the Spital hill.

“Oh! but for one short hour, a respite however brief,
Just leisure enough to get a nip, and a smoke of the fragrant leaf;
A little strong language would ease my heart. A little enough, I
think,
To oblige the recording scribe below to get a fresh bottle of ink.”

With eyelids heavy and red, with fingers inky and chill,
A student sat in his lodgings alone, plying his weary quill――
Scratch! scratch! scratch! ’mid translations, and cribs, and crams;
And still in a croak no crow could match
(Would that the ear of some Prof. it could catch!)
He sang this “Song of Exams.”

From _Alma Mater_, _Aberdeen University Magazine_, February 4, 1885.

――――――――

THE SONG OF THE DRINK.

A long poem, with the above title, was written by an Irish lady and was widely circulated by the Temperance Societies (Banner Leaflets, No. 6), especially in Ireland. The two following verses (which are the best), will show the general style:――

With a voice that was hoarse and low,
Then shrill as the night wind’s shriek,
A woman, weary with want and woe,
Wan, and worn, and weak,
A woman sang this song:
Oh, that into men’s hearts it would sink
This song of anguish, and ruin and wrong,
She sang this song of the Drink.

“Gin, and brandy, and rum,
Rum, and brandy, and gin,
Till the eyes are blind, and the tongue is dumb,
And the heart is rotten within.
O men, with souls to be saved,
O men, drawing living breath,
It is not liquor you’re pouring out,
But misery, ruin, and death.”

* * * * *

――――――――

THE SONG OF THE WHEEL.

A man in a factory far away
Is polishing burnished steel,
And still, as he works the live-long day,
He sings the song of the wheel.

Oh, I make them smooth and I make them bright,
And many the miles they run,
As they skim along in the dusky night
Or onward fly in the morning light,
Ere the day is yet begun.

Much joy there is with lightning speed
To traverse the gleaming snow,
Or over the waters a race to lead,
But the joy of a ride on the silent steed
The wheelman alone may know.

* * * * *

And still in the factory far away,
The man is polishing steel,
And still throughout the live-long day,
He sings the song of the wheel.

_Springfield Gazette._

――――――――

THE SONG OF THE SPONGE.

[A distinguished professor of New South Wales has discovered that sponges have nerves. Considering, therefore, the importance of nerves, it becomes a question how far we are justified in subjecting sponges to their present treatment.――_Daily Paper._]

With system weary and rack’d,
With nerves all shattered and sore,
A sponge lay full of petroleum soap,
Wishing existence o’er!
Soap, soap, soap,
With every squeeze and plunge!
And still with a voice half drowned and faint
It sang the song of the sponge.

O you who “tub” each day!
O men, and sisters, and wives!
They are not sponges you’re squeezing up,
But fellow creatures’ lives!
Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze,
With each agonising plunge!
Squeezing at once, with cruel hand,
A nerve as well as a sponge!

* * * * *

O but to feel the wash
Of the free, wild wave again!
With the glorious sea above my head,
And no hand to give me pain!
O but for one short hour
Of that glad old life of mine!
Before I knew the woe of soap,
And its horrors alkaline!

* * * * *

With system weary and rack’d,
With nerves all shattered and sore,
A sponge lay full of petroleum soap,
Wishing existence o’er!
Soap, soap, soap,
With every squeeze and plunge!
And still with a voice half drowned and faint――
Would bathers could only hear its plaint!――
It sang the song of the sponge.

January, 1885.

――――:o:――――

TO AN UTTER STRANGER, WITH WHOM THE BARD HAD
BUMPED HEADS AT A CORNER.

Our heads have met, and, if thine smarts
Like mine, you hope they won’t again.
Friends who saw the painful scene
Laughed till laughter grew a pain.
I only know we bumped them once,
I only know we looked insane:
Our heads have met (mine seemed in parts).――
I hope they’ll never meet again.

Then we fell, but lent a hand
To raise each other from the wet.
_My_ head’s alter’d form above
Prevents my hat from fitting yet.
Friends no doubt we seemed to be,
And pardon begged in phrases set:
Our heads have clashed, and still mine smarts,――
I would our heads had never met.

――――:o:――――

REMINISCENCES OF A “GRINDER.”

I remember, I remember,
The garret where I GROUND,
While slowly on the wheels of time
The circling hours went round,
As rendering Tully’s florid page,
Or Virgil’s polished lay,
I lengthened out the weary night
To meet the weary day.

I remember, I remember,
How hard I strove to SHINE,
But always some superior LIGHT
Arose eclipsing mine;
Another gave a better PHRASE,
Or fairly struck me dumb,
By showing I’d erred in mood and tense,
With QUALIS, QUIS or QUUM!

I remember, I remember,
Those versions, three per week,
Which I did strive, as few have striven,
To write in Attic Greek;
Yet oft the Doctor by mistake,
Though never by design,
Gave better marks to idle rogues,
Who copied theirs from mine.

I remember, I remember,
The X.’s and the Y.’s
O’er which I frequent toiled in vain,
Till slumber sealed my eyes;
The pentagons, the polygons,
The spheroids and the planes,
The conjugates and ordinates,
Which nightly vexed my brains.

I remember, I remember,
Linnæus and Jussieu!――
I own I never learnt their lists,
And never mean to do;
But still, my College chums would hint
That my unhonoured name
Might yet be known to naturalists,
And rival theirs in fame.

I remember, I remember,
My castles in the air;
The honours, wealth, and fame, I dreamt
Would recompense my care――
“O, these,” thought I, “will flow on me
In one continued stream;”
But time has ope’d my eyes to see
The folly of my dream.

_Aberdeen University Magazine_, April, 1854.

――――:o:――――

THE AGE OF SIGHS.

One more unfortunate
Laid on the shelf;
Loveless――without a mate,
All by herself.
Speak not too tenderly,
Kiss her with care,
For awfully vain is she
Now, as once fair.

Gaze on her lineaments!
Fingers like filaments!
Poor hopeless creature,
Stamped on each feature
Is grief and despair.
Look at her there,
Braiding her hair――
How she caresses
The fast thinning tresses,
Dreaming that some still consider her fair.

Was she a beauty once?
Yet could not ensnare
Never a stupid dunce
Into her lair!
Had she no sweetheart?
Had she no lover?
Had she no dearer one
Still than all other;
Nearer and dearer one,
Coming to bother?

Yes, by the dozens
She counted her cousins,
Once a young milliner,
With as much sin in her
As milliners now possess;
Equally fond of dress――
Craving for show,

Throwing her kisses
And smiling――the sinner――
At all the young coxcombs
Going to dinner.
Now, never a smile
Gets she all the lone while
Where’er she may go.
Alas! for the scarcity
Of masculine pity?
Oh! ’tis most pitiful
Near a whole cityful
Beau she had none
Sing we her requiem,
Never a man to come
Now to console
Her desolate soul.
Hope is all gone!

_The Owlet_, 1868.

――――:o:――――

1885.

Old Year, unfortunate,
Fatal in trust;
To many disconsolate,
Fatally bust.

Ope the Bank carefully,
Ope, if you dare,
People’s deposits
Are very scarce there.
Think of it tearfully,
Think of it fearfully.
No watch this Christmas?
Last year, I declare,
A watch I could wear;
But now it is naught,
It is gone,
It is bought;
It is hung at my uncle’s
With gems and carbuncles.
For the Savings Bank bust,
Wherein was my trust,
And it scattered my fortune
And brought me to crusts.

Turn the key carefully,
Swing back the door.
See the securities
Lie on the floor.

At least that’s where they should be,
And that’s where they would be,
If――
The chief’s speculations had turned out all right,
And the chief’s peculations had ne’er come to light,
Why――
The bonds would lie there on the floor,
But――
They lie there no more!

Old year!――eventuate!
Fatal in trust,
To many unfortunate
Fatally bust.

_Detroit Free Press._

――――:o:――――

A few other parodies of Hood’s Poems may be enumerated, which are not of sufficient interest to be reprinted. “The Age” for June 6, 1885, contained a poem, called, “The Song of the Streets,” deploring the noises of London. In the Manchester “Free Lance” there was a parody (of purely local interest) of “_I remember, I remember_,” entitled “Manchester Musings;” and a Manchester clothier, named Whitham, advertises his goods in a handbill containing a very fair parody of “The Bridge of Sighs.” In _The Saturday Review_ of August 29, 1885, there was a political poem, “A Case of Conscience,” modelled upon “The Dream of Eugene Aram.”

FURTHER PARODIES
OF THE POEMS OF
Alfred, Lord Tennyson,
POET LAUREATE.

――――:o:――――

lthough several numbers of _Parodies_ have already been devoted to this Author, there still remain many excellent burlesques of his writings, which, for the sake of the completeness of this collection, must be quoted. The popularity of Tennyson’s poems is in nothing more manifest than in the number of Parodies, and imitations, they give rise to, and the numerous collectors of Tennysoniana will no doubt be grateful for having these harmless, playful skits preserved from oblivion. The order observed in the following Parodies is that adopted in recent editions of the Poet Laureate’s works.

――――:o:――――

MARIANA.

――――――――

MARIANA ON THE SECOND FLOOR,
WAITING FOR HER LODGERS.

(_Another subject for the Pre-Raphaelites._)

With polish bright the coffee pots
Were newly cleaned up, one and all,
And hooks and pegs were screwed in lots,
To hold the hats in the entrance hall.
The drugget was still clean and strange,
Unhampered was the Bramah latch
And unconsumed the congreve match
Beside the new-set kitchen range.
She only said, “The Season’s dreary,
I thought there would be some.”
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,
When will the great rush come?”

Upon the middle of the night
Waking she heard the cabs below;
Some gents sang out before ’twas light――
From Smithfield Bars the oxen’s low
Came to her in a fit of gloom,
In sleep she dreamt of beds forlorn,
Till carts and busses woke the morn
About the lonely furnished room.
She only said, “It’s very dreary,
I thought there would be some.”
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,
And yet no lodgers come!”

About a stone’s throw from the wall,
A man with blackened features swept,
And round him, large and small,
Ill-manner’d boys for mischief crept.
Hard by an organ’s dismal moan
Play’d worn-out tunes of nigger airs,
And mock’d with “Sich a gittin’ up stairs;”
Yet no one came to mount her own.
She only said, “It’s very dreary,
I thought there would be some.”
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,
And yet no lodgers come.”

All day within those lonely walls,
The maid kept clean to let folks in;
The lilac blew i’ the grate; the squalls
Of coop’d up children did begin;
Yet no one came a room to seek,
No strangers waited at the door,
No lodgers viewed the second floor,
No people asked, “How much a week?”
She only said, “It’s very dreary,
They do not come,” she said.
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,
And cannot let a bed.”

The men who came to mend the roof,
The tax collector, and the sound
Which to the weary maid aloof
The pot-boy made, did all confound
Her sense, but most she loathed the hour
When all the last up-trains were in
Without the lodgers, and the din
Of wheels began to lose its power.
Then said she, “This is very dreary,
They will not come,” she said,
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,
Why won’t they hire my bed?”

_The Month_, by ALBERT SMITH and JOHN LEECH, 1851.

――――――――

MARY ANNE; OR, THE LAW OF DIVORCE.
BY ALFRED TENNISBALL.

[If the poor had more justice, they would need less charity.――_Jeremy Bentham._]

The cats were mewing in the street,
With many a mew of love’s delight;
Policeman X’s heavy feet
Returning marked old Time’s dull flight,
While, as the laggard hours wore on,
In nightcap, in her wretched room
Waiting until her husband come,
Sat Mary Anne in tears alone.
She only said: “I’m very weary,
He cometh not,” she said;
She said――“And if he cometh beery,
He’s sure to punch my head!

Her tears fell all that bitter even,
As sighing she sat there alone,
She ’gan to weep at half-past seven,
And she was weeping there at one.
After the flitting of the bats,
She gazed adown the dreary street,
But nought her aching sight did meet,
Save one policeman and two cats.
She only said, “My life is dreary,
He cometh not,” she said;
She said, “And if he cometh beery,
He’s sure to punch my head!”

About the middle of the night,
She heard a key clink in the latch,
She went to take her spouse a light.
He cursed her first, and then the match.
A wretched life――no hope of change――
Even in her sleep she is forlorn,
In tears at night, in tears at morn
Like her within the “moated grange,”
She only said――“Dear John, I’m weary.
You break my heart,” she said――
He hiccuped forth――“Best not come near me,
Or I shall break your head!”

About a mile from that sad home
Our river’s sluggish waters creep;
She sought that bridge where wretches come,
To woo oblivion dark and deep,
Maddened by patient love’s despite,
With haggard cheek with salt tears wet,
She stood upon the parapet,
And glared a last glance on the night.
Once more she said――“My life is dreary,
Oh! aching heart and restless head,
Love long has lost all power to cheer me,
But soon I shall be dead!”

A downward plunge――one stifled scream,――
No more she’ll watch, and weep, and sigh,
She sank beneath the gurgling stream,
Whose murmers were her lullaby!
Oh! think awhile on lives like these:
Why should the _rich alone divorce_?
Why drive the _poor_ from bad to worse,
Because of Doctors’ Commons fees?
For many a Mary Anne’s aweary,
Oh! widowed wife――oh! lonely bed;
And many a husband reels home beery,
To punch his poor wife’s head!

Yet these _must_ live in hate together,
_Because they’re poor_――they can’t afford
To snap their galling, golden tether;
While _you_, my lady, and my lord,
As neatly as you can your clothes,
Can change your names by process easy,
Ye pay your fees――and, an it please ye,
Adieu for aye to taunts and blows.
The poor wife only sighs: “I’m weary,
He cometh not to bed;――
Death only can divorce me dreary,
Oh! would that I were dead!”

_Tait’s Magazine_, 1858.

――――:o:――――

THE OWL.

――――――――

THE OWL’D YARN.

When the cats were home, and light was come,
And dew was cold upon the ground,
Outside a door, with stop bell dumb,
A whirring wheel has stopped its round.
A whirring wheel has stopped its round.
Alone and warming, by rubbing, his hands,
A “night-riding wheelist” shivering stands.

In vain he tries to “click the latch,”
To move the door that bars his way;
A lecture from his dad he’ll catch;
“We rode all night” has had its day!
“We rode all night” has had its day!
While he knows that the tale has too often been told,
He stands there still trying and shivering with cold.
R. P. HIND, “Harberton,” Torquay.
_Wheeling Annual_, 1885.

――――:o:――――

THE BALLAD OF “ORIANA.”

――――――――

YULE-TIDE.

Sit we in the ancient hall,
Oh, my gracious!
Listening to the nor’ wind’s squall,
Oh, my gracious!
Thrice our empty flagons fall,
Ten good wassail bowls withal,
Oh, my gracious!
The hours wax long, and then grow small,
Oh, my gracious!

The hours were long that had been short,
Oh, my gracious!
When like babes our homes we sought,
Oh, my gracious!
Was I led by rage or sport.
To offer fight for level quart?
Oh, my gracious!
Know I not but that I fought,
Oh, my gracious!

’Neath the gas-light’s feeble flutter,
Oh, my gracious!
Like a roll of helpless butter,
Oh, my gracious!
Lay I in the filthy gutter,
Till my kinsmen on a shutter,
Oh, my gracious!
Raised me in prostration utter,
Oh, my gracious!

They with solemn step and slow,
Oh, my gracious!
To my habitation go,
Oh, my gracious!
Did my bosom’s partner show
Pity in my abject woe?
Oh, my gracious!
Or commiserate me?――no!
Oh, my gracious!

_The Hornet_, January 3, 1872.

――――――――

THE BALLAD OF HOARY ANNA.

“Mr. Newdigate stated that having recently been on an expedition of inquiry into the conventual and monastic institutions of America, he did not mind singing a negro minstrel ballad, which was softly warbled in his ears one evening by a coloured nun:――”

Ah, yes, I ’members what you say,
Hoary Anna.
I often tinks about dat day,
Hoary Anna,
Which robbed me of a lubbin’ wife
An’ changed de current ob my life,
Hoary Anna,
An’ cut me up wuss den a knife,
Hoary Anna.

You used to lub me ’ears ago,
Hoary Anna.
Dat’s when I ’gun to dig an’ hoe,
Hoary Anna.
Dem eyes wuz ’tractive speres to men;
You _wuz_ a lubly nigger den,
Hoary Anna.
I wish dem times wuz here agen,
Hoary Anna.

We used to meet us in de dusk,
Hoary Anna,
When Massa slep’ upon his busk,
Hoary Anna.
Dat mouf wuz roses ob de glen;
Lord bless dose ’ours dis nigger spen’,
Hoary Anna.
I wish Gem cheeks wuz dat agen,
Hoary Anna.

I stoled out by de stars pale light,
Hoary Anna.
De boss wuz fast asleep dat night,
Hoary Anna.
I clustered top de water tub,
An’ whispered o’er de wall my lub,
Hoary Anna,
With nuffin’ but de stars above,
Hoary Anna.

Dis heart kep’ tickin’ loud and fast.
Hoary Anna.
Dis nigger wuz in lub at last,
Hoary Anna.
Dis soul wuz bustin’ wid my bliss,
You must hev’ seed dem sighs I guess,
Hoary Anna.
Dat Cupid’s darts warn’t made to miss,
Hoary Anna.

I ’voked dem stars, den ’voked de Lord,
Hoary Anna.
I ope’d dese lips to say de word,
Hoary Anna;
When――glanced dat cussed lid aside,
An’ dropped your lubbin’ Sam inside,
Hoary Anna.
Your Sam what woo’d you for his bride,
Hoary Anna.

You sclutched me by dis curly pate,
Hoary Anna.
Dem curls wuz small, dat strenf’ wuz great,
Hoary Anna.
Dis wool most nobly stood de strain,
I scrawled dat cussed tub agen,
Hoary Anna,
Dat duckin’ had not cured de pain,
Hoary Anna.

Dat lid was fixed what warn’t secure,
Hoary Anna.
Dat dampin’ made me lub you more,
Hoary Anna.
It could not squench de fire wid’in
It only bust it out agen,
Hoary Anna.
I’d ’gun dat race an’ meant to win!
Hoary Anna.

You blushed at what I goed to do,
Hoary Anna.
Perked on dat lid I knelt anew,
Hoary Anna.
De boss just come a creepin’ sly,
Then dropped your Sam one in de eye
Hoary Anna.
Dat cussed lid――an’ den――good bye!
Hoary Anna.

I tried to scramble up de top,
Hoary Anna.
De boss he said. “I guess you’ll stop,”
Hoary Anna.
He bobbed me down, den bobbed agen,
Jes’ let me out as life wuz spen’,
Hoary Anna.
You _wuz_ a lubly nigger den!
Hoary Anna.

BENJAMIN D――――. His little Dinner, 1876.

――――――――

IDADÆCA.

Coals are again announced to rise,
Idadæca:
I cannot half believe my eyes,
Idadæca.
Here, as I grope, and freeze, and hark
The listless curs ayont me bark,
Idadæca,
At the great moon that gilds the dark,
Idadæca!

Ah, when will these things have an end,
Idadæca?
I call to thee, as to a friend,
Idadæca.
Already prices range so high,
I cannot with my income, buy,
Idadæca,
Food, light, or fuel; no, not I,
Idadæca.

So in the dark I starve and freeze,
Idadæca:
I hear the knocking of my knees,
Idadæca:
There is none other help for me,
Nor will there ever likely be,
Idadæca,
Except I find that help in thee,
Idadæca.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
Idadæca:
How I wonder what you are,
Idadæca:
On ledge, on wall, on window frame,
In spots unknown, in haunts of fame,
Idadæca,
I see huge placards with your name,
Idadæca.

Oh, say whatever can you be,
Idadæca?
The Governor-general of Fiji,
Idadæca?
Some horse’s name, some favourite foal,
Or, may be, (peace, my panting soul),
Idadæca,
Some good cheap substitute for coal,
Idadæca?

Some new-style “dolman” for the spring,
Idadæca?
Another “Idyl of the King,”
Idadæca?
Some highly-recommended tea?
Or, (hence, ye frisky fancies, flee,)
Idadæca,
Another Ouida novelty,
Idadæca?

Alas, I cannot make thee out,
Idadæca!
My mind is clouded with a doubt,
Idadæca:
But Time, which raises bards to fame,
(And murder,) I suppose the same,
Idadæca,
Will solve the mystery of thy name,
IDADÆCA.
SAMUEL K. COWAN.
_Kottabos_. Hilary Term, 1881. Dublin, William McGee, 18, Nassau
Street.

――――:o:――――

RANDY PANDY.

(As sung by Sir Stafford Northcote.)

My heart is wasted with my woe,
Randy Pandy;
There is no rest for me below,
Randy Pandy:
I went my way and still would go,
For slow and sure, and sure and slow,
Randy Pandy,
That is the only way I know;
Randy Pandy.

There came a wise man from the East,
Randy Pandy;
Most wise of men, as you are least,
Randy Pandy:
We made him leader, lord, high-priest,
And did his bidding till it ceased,
Randy Pandy:
The tribe of Benjamin increased
Randy Pandy.