Chapter XXXV: Prologue (6)

He passed away, we know not where,
Randy Pandy;
And named me for his lawful heir,
Randy Pandy:
But Salisbury said, “We’ll share and share;”
He took his pick, and called it fair;
Randy Pandy――
He knew he had no business there――
Randy Pandy.

* * * * *

I cannot stand your mad displays,
Randy Pandy;
I cannot bear your wilful ways,
Randy Pandy:
They trouble all my nights and days,
They shatter all the hopes I raise,
Randy Pandy――
Why will you set the world ablaze,
Randy Pandy?

If feud there be you make it sore,
Randy Pandy;
If peace, you leave it peace no more,
Randy Pandy:
Where lay a sleeping foe before,
You wake him up to hear him roar,
Randy Pandy:
You make me swear who never swore,
Randy Pandy.

And when the Grand Old Man begins,
Randy Pandy,
To lay about our heads and shins,
Randy Pandy;
You make a joke of all your sins,
Forgetting he may laugh who wins,
Randy Pandy:
You think the moment meet for grins,
Randy Pandy.

Would I were safe where Salisbury sits,
Randy Pandy!
And he were here to deal his hits,
Randy Pandy!
So might I calm my troubled wits,
So might he smash you all to bits,
Randy Pandy!
Come, happy fate that best befits
Randy Pandy!

――――:o:――――

This Poem is an extract from “THE BANQUET, a Political Satire,” an anonymous work published by William Blackwood and Sons, early in 1885, when the Conservatives were in opposition.[70] “The Banquet” also contains excellent parodies of Tennyson’s “The Brook,” “The Lotus Eaters,” “The Two Voices,” “Locksley Hall,” “The Merman,” “The May Queen,” as well as of a few of Swinburne’s poems. These parodies are put into the mouths of the political guests, of all parties, supposed to be assembled at a grand Banquet given by the new Lord Mayor, when

“The last long day of Bumbledom had ceased,
And all the myriad miles of street and square
That form this busy London where we live
Became one city: all whose myriad hordes
Flocked to the polls, and of their fittest men
Chose a great Council Metropolitan,
To whom the law gave charge to rule and keep
This vast imperial London.”

Amongst the guests was Mr. Warton, M.P., who, after priming his wits with snuff, sang:――

Block, block, block;
Whatever the bills may be:
Of all the blockheads alive or dead
There’s none to compare with me.

O well for the bore and his bill,
That he makes his speech while he may!
O well for the man with a fad,
That he says his little say!

For the stately bills are read,
And they sweep along with a will,
Till they feel the touch of a brandished hand,
And the voice of their movers is still.

Block, block, block:
O the havoc is fine to see!
For the cool repose of a true block-head
You must always come back to me.

――――:o:――――

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE

――――――――

MISS MATILDA JOHNSON JONES.

Miss Matilda Johnson Jones,
You and I at length must part;
There are things call’d paving-stones,
You have got one for a heart.
When you hear the roaring sea
Making wild and wond’rous moans,
You may sit and think of me,
False Matilda Johnson Jones.

Young Matilda Johnson Jones,
Pride has made you what you are;
Though I think my lineage owns
Better men than your papa!
On the field of Waterloo
My sire and grandsire left their bones;
But what is that to me or you?
Ask your heart, Matilda Jones.

Well I know you, Johnson Jones,
You at times are very sad;
And your broken spirit groans
Over what it might have had.
’Tis in vain――your fickle soul
My much nobler soul disowns;
You have taught me to control
E’en myself, young ’Tilda Jones.

Oh! Matilda Johnson Jones,
What is all this wayward life?
Tears and laughter, gifts and loans,
Joy and sorrow, peace and strife.
If I could have shared with thee
Either cottages or thrones,
Both had been the same to me;
But ’tis past, light-minded Jones.

Young coquettish Johnson Jones,
If beloved you still would be,
Go to one a heart that owns,
You have stolen mine from me.
Give it back,――ha! ha! ’tis here,
But ’tis hardened into bones;
Feeling’s dead, and so is fear,
Kind Matilda Johnson Jones.
GILBERT ABBOTT à BECKETT.
_George Cruikshank’s Table Book._ 1845.

――――:o:――――

THE MERMAN.

――――――――

THE MER(RY)MAN.

Who would be
A Premier bold,
Standing alone,
Shining alone,
For the world to see,
In purple and gold,
Close to the Throne?

I would be a Premier bold,
I would play the potentate all the day;
I would chuckle and crow with a voice of might;
But all in the dark I would flirt and play
With the caucuses in and out of the towns,
And the sly little conclaves, out of sight,
That manage the polls and marshal the clowns.
All the caucuses, great and free,
Would loyally take their cue from me,
Steadily, steadily;
Then I would blaze away, away,
And the Tories would yield and the Whigs say “Yea,”
Readily, readily.

* * * * *

_The Banquet_, W. Blackwood & Sons, 1885.

――――:o:――――

THE MAY QUEEN.

――――――――

_Song_: THE LORD MAYOR.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, Betsy dear,
To-morrow’ill be the happiest day that I have had this year;
That I have had this year, Betsy, the jolliest, I declare,
For I’m to be new Lord Mayor, Betsy, I’m to be new Lord Mayor!

There’s nine-and-twenty Aldermen, and Sheriffs too _galore_,
There’s Common Councilmen as well, you reckon by the score;
But none will be so grand as me of all the lot, I swear,
For I’m to be new Lord Mayor, Betsy, I’m to be new Lord Mayor!

O sweet is the first fur-edged gown that councilmen put on!
And sweeter is the scarlet robe that aldermen may don;
But what is there in all the land for sweetness can approach
To putting on the Lord Mayor’s chain, and riding in his coach?

Seven bands will go with me to-morrow all the way,
And cavalry will me surround in all their grand array;
Whilst men-in-armour caracole and trumpets loudly blare,
For I’m to be new Lord Mayor, Betsy, I’m to be new Lord Mayor!

I lay awake the other night and thought of what was nigh,
And my new flunkeys’ liveries I saw in my mind’s eye;
The _menu_ of my banquet, too, was present in my mind,
And up the terrace came a smell of turtle on the wind.

I thought it must be fancy, and I listen’d in my bed,
And then I fancied some one spoke, I know not what was said;
But my mouth watered, and delight took hold of all my mind,
And up the terrace came again the turtle on the wind.

“What can it mean?” said I; “in truth the odour’s very fine,”
And if it comes three times, thought I, I’ll take it for a sign.
And sure enough it came again, though closed my window bars;
Then seemed to change to venison till my bedroom smelt like Carr’s.

From that I judge the banquet will be good to-morrow night;
I’ve called at Ring and Brymer’s, and I’ve seen a glorious sight!
They’ve never known, or so they say, their turtles run so fat;
And I consider that the sign I smelt referred to that!

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, Betsy dear,
To-morrow’ill be the jolliest day that I have had this year;
That I have had this year, Betsy, the jolliest, I declare,
For I’m to be new Lord Mayor, Betsy, I’m to be new Lord Mayor!

From _Finis_.

――――――――

CALL ME EARLY, MOTHER DEAR.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear,
To-morrow will be the happiest day of all the glad new year,
To-morrow will be the happiest, the maddest, merriest day,
For I’m to be Queen of the May, mother, I’m to be Queen of the May.

I must wear my new kid slippers and my charming muslin dress,
And every one who sees me will admire my loveliness;
They’ll weave a garland fair for me, they’ll weave a garland gay,
And I will be crowned the Queen, mother, crowned the Queen of the May.

Prepare the mustard plasters, mother, a mustard bath likewise,
For chill the wind blows though the sun is shining in the skies,
And in this dress so very thin, no shawl around me rolled,
I know that while the sport goes on I’ll catch my death of cold.

My new kid slippers, too, are thin, although they look so sweet,
And dancing on the dewy grass, I know will wet my feet;
But I’m to be Queen of the May, mother, I’m to be Queen of the May,
So make the mustard plasters hot to fight Pneumon-i-a.

――――――――

RUSSIA TO ENGLAND.

You must wake to catch me early, very early, brother, dear,
The day you do will be the longest of all the circling year,
Of all the circling year, brother, if you my plans would baulk,
For I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk, brother, I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk.

There’s many a shrewd countree, they say, but none so shrewd as I,
There’s Germany and England, there’s France and Italy,
But none so shrewd as Holy Russia, from Caucasus to Cork,
So I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk, brother, I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk.

You sleep so sound and safe, brother, I hope you’ll never wake,
As in the Eastern Empires my day begins to break,
But I must gather countries, peoples, over Asia stalk,
For I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk, brother, I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk

As I move to the southward, what think ye that I see,
But Herat, leading to the lands that must belong to me?
It knows my hungry look, brother, I watch it like a hawk,
But I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk, brother, I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk.

It knows I am no ghost, brother, although my Tzar is white,
And I move to it slowly creeping, like the morning light,
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not how they talk
For I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk, brother, I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk.

_Choice Chips_, May, 1885.

A long, but not very amusing, political parody of “The May Queen” appeared in _The Morning Advertiser_, February 21, 1885, entitled “At the Play.”

――――:o:――――

A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN.

――――――――

In 1848 a small volume was published by T. C. Newby, of Mortimer Street, London, entitled “A Vision of Great Men, with other Poems,” by Caroline de Crespigny.

“A Vision of Great Men” was addressed to the author of “A Dream of Fair Women,” and was written in imitation, but not as a parody, of that poem; of the “Great Men” alluded to, the principal were Columbus, and Napoleon the first. The poem consisted of seventy-four verses.

――――――――

A DREAM OF FAIR DRINKING.

* * * * *

At last methought me I had wandered near
Wines in the wood; Old Tom and mountain dew
Shone in pale splendour, cheap, and yet so dear
As one to love them grew!

I paused upon the threshold, all apart,
As some stray bird upon an ocean drift,
Unstirred by any wave, save when my heart
Yearned for its morning “lift.”

And from within me a strange undertone
Thrilled thro’ my bosom with a wish for wine,――
“Pass freely!――these in wood may be thine own,
Dry, sweet or superfine!”

I looked――and saw a lady within call,
Brow bound with golden ringlets standing there;
And women, if they draw man’s wine at all,
Draw it extremely fair!

Her loveliness, her figure, and her eyes
Froze my quick speech: she, turning round her head,
Smiled, saying, “Sherry wine’s about your size!”
And all my doubting fled.

* * * * *

I drank myself to sleep;――and so I lay
Prone on the bosom of the Strand for hours,
Till life stirred briskly, and, at early day,
I wakened――before FLOWERS.

_Judy_, May 5, 1880.

A long, and very dull, parody of the same original, entitled “A Dream of Unfair Trade,” appeared in _Punch_, January 10, 1885.

――――:o:――――

ULYSSES.

――――――――

In a prize competition in _The World_, for a poem on “The Czar of Russia,” on the model of Tennyson’s “Ulysses,” the following was selected for the

FIRST PRIZE.

It little profits that with boundless powers,
Divine and human, I extend my sway,
From Finland southwards to the Chersonese;
Or that mine armies eastwards (like the tide
O’er low-laid littorals) flood all the steppes
From Caucasus to Khiva, till no khan
But dreads, and hopes, and dreams, and thinks of me.
How fruitless are my efforts! I have given
Unasked, with hand unstinting. I have risked
Defection of my nobles, that my poor
Might rise and bless me. But unshamed they crave
For ever more concessions, till I see
That license ranks as liberty, and law
And order seem but forms of tyranny.
I cannot journey but a hundred knives
Attempt my life; I cannot sleep or eat
Within my very palace but the floors
Rise to assault me, and the walls resound
With treacherous murder’s dread artillery.
This is my son, a true bred Romanoff,
To whom I leave my labours and my crown:
His years are fewer; and the sapling grows
The stronger for the bondage, whose restraint
Would kill the tree. It may be that mine age
Has made me too unbending, that my thoughts.
For ever travelling in the same sad course,
Have worn themselves such grooves within my brain
As ceaseless care has graved upon my brow,
And cannot change their channels. Ye, my friends,
Who love me for my virtues, or in spite
Of vices,-who with me have borne the brunt
Of turbulent sedition, and the blows
Of faithless friends and open enemies,――
If life be grudged us for the few short years
That yet remain, away, and let us seek
Some deed of noble note, and let our foes
Feel that our souls are yet alive in us,
Invincible in courage, strong in will,
To fight, to win, or, winning not, to die.
APIS MATINA.
_The World_, March 17, 1880.

――――:o:――――

LOCKSLEY HALL.

――――――――

LAY OF BOXING NIGHT.

ATTRIBUTED TO ALFRED TENNYSON

(_But not believed to be his_).

Proudly stalking o’er the pavement, as the clock is striking one,
Go the nine good men and valiant, who the glorious deed have done;

And they laugh with all their vigour, till the narrow courts resound,
The policeman hears the tumult, and he turns his lanthorn round.

And their course they still continue, and their laughter is not o’er,
Till they all come to a standstill at lion-knocker’d door.

There they thump with noise so mighty, that they make the neighbours wake,
Till a dull-eyed damsel opens, who appears but half awake.

Then a lighted room they enter, where great works of art are found,
Color’d prints of Esmeralda, and of Elssler hang around.

Plaster statuettes, by Danton, stand the chimney-piece along,
From a hook above the wainscot hangs a cornet-à-piston.

And――a better sight than any――there a table, too, was placed,
With a mass of native oysters, and a can of porter grac’d.

Oh! so prime appeared the oysters, that they charm’d the eyes of all,
For the fat part was so milk-white, and the beard so very small!

But how vain is earthly beauty――lovely things must pass away,
For the oysters soon are swallowed, and the girl takes off the tray.

Yet new pleasures follow old ones; thus the damsel reappears,
And a Jug of boiling water with her dingy fingers bears.

Then a brace of labell’d bottles were upon the table seen,
One glowed deep with noble brandy, one was pale with humble gin;

When they all had “mixed” at pleasure, proudly rising o’er the rest,
Stood the chieftain of the party, and his comrades thus address’d:

“We may well be proud, my brethren, we a noble deed have done;
’Tis the virtue that delights me, to say nothing of the fun.

“Against private friends and clacquers, we have fought the cause of right,
We have dar’d to damn a pantomime upon a boxing night.

“’Twas a horrid ‘Introduction,’ as you all, my brethren, know,
And the pantomimic business only made the thing more slow.

“All the tricks were void of humour; all the songs were sorry rhyme,
Sum up all, we never witness’d such a wretched pantomime.

“Though the audience bore it calmly, yet they knew as well as we,
That so dreadful a concoction they had never met to see.

“But they dar’d not speak their minds out――they believed it was a crime,
A most horrid profanation to condemn a pantomime.

“Five-act plays without a scruple they have driven from the stage,
They have whizzed off tragic actors in a hurricane of rage;

“On burlesque and one-act farces they could fell destruction bring,
But a pantomime, my brethren――it was quite another thing.

“Ay, at harlequin they trembled――it was we and only we
That from bonds of superstition could the British public free;

“We have rent apart the fetters, that were forged by ancient time,
Yes, my friends, upon a boxing night, we damned a pantomime.

“We stuck firmly to our purpose, when the clown said ‘Here we are!’
We with laughter did not greet him, but we rais’d the shout of war.

“When the manager came forward, and some mercy bade us show,
We subdued all softer feelings, and we sternly answered ‘No!’

“When the clown had sung ‘Hot Codlins’ we prevented an _encore_,
And we ceased not opposition till the pantomime was o’er.

“Then at last the public join’d us――on our side was ev’ry voice,
And the wretched thing died hardly in a hurricane of noise.

“I am sure successive ages will our mem’ries ne’er efface,
We shall live on future hist’ry, and give lustre to our race,

“And our sons shall say, a cent’ry hence――or perhaps a longer time,
‘Gallant spirits were our fathers, for they damn’d a pantomime.’”

From _The Man in the Moon_.――1847.

――――――――

LINCOLN’S INN.

Comrades, leave me here a minute, for it is not five o’clock,
Leave me here, and when you want me, you will find me at the Cock.

’Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the smoke-cowls spin,
Dreary gleam the dirty windows, never cleaned in Lincoln’s Inn.

Lincoln’s Inn that from its chambers overlooks a grimy square,
With some blackened stubby bushes, killed by smoke and want of air.

Many a morning from my office, have I heard the dirty boys,
Shouting “Paper” down the area, in the full delight of noise;

Many a night I’ve watched the gas-light――all around a dazzling host,
Gleaming like a lot of glow-worms, stuck by bird-lime on a post.

In the Spring a lighter paletot is by Messrs. Nicoll made;
In the Spring a young man’s neck is in a brighter tie arrayed;

In the Spring the Opera opens, and an order may be got;
In the Spring the oysters finish, as the weather gets too hot.

Then I saw her dress was smarter than the other Cranbourne girls,
And her eyes gleamed softly on me, shaded by her glossy curls,

And I said, “Dear Amy Johnson, wilt thou my own sweetheart be?
For, my pretty bonnet builder, I am much in love with thee!”

Love toss’d off the glass of time, as though it had been only gin,
Love dwelt in those dreary chambers three pairs up in Lincoln’s Inn.

When my master had departed, and I felt unwatched and free,
Would my Amy come to see me, and assist in making tea.

Many a Sunday by the railway did we go to Hampton Court,
When the chestnuts were in blossom, and the days were not so short;

Many a Sunday on the water, made we inexpensive trips,
Talking then was not the only use to which we put our lips.

Oh! my Amy, Amy, Amy! Oh! my Amy, mine no more!
Oh! the dreary, dreary Sundays; Bushy has become a bore.

Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me thus to drop
To a man with lots of money, but who keeps a retail shop?

Yet it shall be! thou shalt lower still, in spite of all his pelf,
Till from sad reverses you may have to sweep it out yourself.

As the gent is, so the lady; thou art mated to a snob,
And he’ll sink thee to his level, in a cheap Excursion mob.

He will treat thee, when he wearies on thy jaded face to look,
Something better than his strop, but more as if thou wert his cook.

What is this? His speech is hazy――think not he has had too much.
Go to him――it is thy duty――you re his wife――behave as such.

He will answer to the purpose――perhaps he’ll murmur “It’s all right;”
Better thou wert dead before me, though I gave thee arsenic white!

(_The rest of the MSS. is so blotted with tears as to be illegible._)

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

――――――――

ST. STEPHEN’S REVISITED.

Comrades, leave me here a little, I have thoughts you cannot know;
Leave me, gentle ghosts, to ponder on the days of long ago.

’Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the brawlers brawl,
Dreary bores about St. Stephen’s vying for the Speaker’s call.

Many a night from yonder benches, when I longed to be in bed,
Saw I not the great Orion, but the Grand Old Man instead.

Saw I not the starry Pleiads, but the meteor stars that fade,
Flashing for their little moment, passing into outer shade.

Here about the floor I waited, when I knew my youth sublime,
Waited for the time to ripen, for the very nick of time――

Then I dipped into the future, far as one keen eye could see,
Saw the Vision of an earldom, and the garter round my knee.

In the spring the little chicken only just has left the shell,
In the spring that little chicken thinks himself a precious swell.

In the spring a boy’s ambition leaps at once to summer heat,
In the spring a young man’s fancy very seldom plays the cheat.

Then my cheeks were white and waxen, thoughtful too for one so young,
Black on brows of snowy marble then my silken ringlets hung.

Yet on pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and a light,
When I met the jeers that mocked me, with a spoken scorn outright――

Saying from a height prophetic, “You shall hear me by and by,”
Saying, to the stoutest champion, “We shall meet at Philippi.”

Many a morning saw me famous, many a night more famous still,
Great to lead the grateful Tory, bold to bend him to my will.

* * * * *

O St. Stephen’s, false and fickle! O St. Stephen’s, mine no more!
O the weary, dreary benches! O the aching, quaking floor!

Is it proper not to scold thee? having known me――to decline
On this spurious Gentile Joseph, in the screw and Caucus line?

* * * * *

These lines, descriptive of the career of Lord Beaconsfield, are extracted from a clever parody in _The Banquet_. (W. Blackwood and Sons.) 1885.

――――――――

“The Grinder,” an examination parody of “Locksley Hall,” appeared in Number 1 of _The Aberdeen High School Magazine_, March, 1885.

In a work entitled “Travels by Umbra,” published in Edinburgh in 1865, there was also a parody of “Locksley Hall” consisting of 34 lines, entitled _Digwell’s Lament_.

――――:o:――――

GODIVA.

――――――――

WHITTINGTON.

BY ALFRED TENNISBALL.

(N.B.――No connexion with “I waited for the Train at Coventry,” &c.)

I waited for the boat at Hungerford;
I hung with snobs and swells upon the bridge,
To watch the muddy water; there I shaped
The City’s ancient legend into this:――

* * * * *

Not only we of Eighteen Fifty-seven,
Smart men that, swift as streak of lightning greased,
Make and spend “tin”――not only we that prate
Of progress, learning, and “Excelsior,”
Have loved ourselves full well and turned up trumps
At life’s great game of whist――but surely he
“Did more, and underwent, and overcame,”――
The wight of some few hundred summers back,
Whittington, ’prentice erst to some dull cit,
Some wheezy councilman――who worked him hard,
And gave him the allowance monkeys have,
More kicks than half-pence――and, when asked for more,
Showed him the street, and kicked him into it
With turned-up toe, saying “Begone and starve!”
He sought relief in vain, for in those days
Were no “relieving officers”――his thoughts
Turned to his childhood’s home, far, far away,
Embowered in tufted trees where cooed the dove,
Where sang a chorus sweet of jenny-wrens,
Tom-tits, and gay cock-sparrows――and he said,
“It must be so――farewel, ambitious dreams,”
(“Farewel,” he would have said, “to all my greatness,”
But he had never gentle Shakespeare read,
Nor seen the play of England’s bluff King Hal
Performed at the Princess’s). “So, farewell――
Clown was I born, and to clod-hopping life
I must return”――and then he ’gan to snivel,
And wipe his nose upon his jerkin’s cuff;
(For his were days when Manchester was not,
And dear were pocket handkerchiefs).
Then this poor boy wound slow his mournful way
Towards Highgate’s hill――and up the steep ascent
Toiled wearily――yet deem not him alone,
For at his heels there walked a faithful friend,
A gentle quadruped――a fond Grimalkin
Who purred between her master’s weary legs,
Till he looked down and saw her at his feet,
And wept at such four-footed sympathy.
So with their honest backs to London town
These twain toiled valiantly up Highgate hill.
They sat them down at last――for Whittington
Was very hungry――and on bread and cheese
In equitable portions dined they then.
But up he starts――and lo! what is’t he hears
Clanged with great shock of sound from distant bells
Of Bow in Cheapside? Say they rightly thus?
“Return! return! great Whittington return!
Thou shalt of London’s City be Lord Mayor!”
Such were the words――or hope was much mistaken――
Such were the words. Backward again they hied,
He, and his cat, the solace of his sorrows,
As partner of his joys――but, if she thought
That such a Co. could long exist, methinks
The poor Grimalkin then was slightly “sold.”
But I am speaking rather in the tense
Hight _Paulo post-futurum_. To my theme:
Backward he hied――re-entered London town,
Obtained employment as a quill-driver,
A very drudge for three long bitter years;
But still the cat sat ’neath his stool by day
And slept upon his truckle-bed at night.
Now Whittington’s employer was a merchant,
Who sent forth ships to trade beyond the seas
One of his captains saw――admired the cat,
And with her sailed to China, land of dirt,
Rice, lorchas, pigtails, ivory deftly carved,
And ladies with short toes bent backward. Soon
Made he acquaintance with the Emperor,
The brother of the Sun and Moon, celestial “swell,
First cousin to the Stars; for in those days
Men craved not introduction――Bowring then
Had not been sent out as Ambassador,
Nor Seymour to bombard their tin-pot towns.
Now it so happened that this Emperor’s
Imperial snuggery was overrun
With mice who stole the delicate tit-bits
From off the table of the Stars’ first cousin,
And cats till then in China were unknown,
And Whittington’s Grimalkin had three kittens,
And so the Brother of the Sun and Moon
Purchased the cat of Whittington for a sum
Which would content _me_ for _my_ lease of life,
Invested snugly in the Three-per-Cents.
The Captain homeward sailed to England’s shore,
And paid his sum to Whittington――so he
Became a sucking Crœsus――bought and sold,
And “rigged the market” like our “bulls” and “bears,”
Became a man whose name across a bill
Drew ready cash――then Sheriff――then Lord Mayor,
And built himself an everlasting name:
And of his acts if more ye wish to learn,
Are they not written in the picture books
Of Messrs. Darton upon Holborn hill!
As for his cat――I’ve little more to tell.
Save that she lived and multiplied her species
For the great Brother of the Son and Moon;
And her descendants, worthy of their dam,
E’en now are mewing loud in great Canton,
Unless that stout Drawcansir, Chinese Yeh,
Hath poisoned the poor innocents because
Their ancestress was British!
C.O.
_Tait’s Magazine_, 1858

――――:o:――――

THE EAGLE

FRAGMENT.

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
TENNYSON.

――――――――

A PARODY.

The cup with trembling hands he grasps,
Close to his thirsty lips he clasps,
Ringed with its pewter rim-he grasps.

The Eddying floor beneath him crawls,
He clutches at the flying walls,
Then like a lump of lead he falls.
E. B. IWAN-MULLER.

(Author of “Break, break, break” given on page 14, Vol. I., _Parodies_, and of “Rise up, cold reverend, to a see,” given on page 30, Vol. I., _Parodies_.)

――――:o:――――

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.

――――――――

SLEEP! SLEEP! SLEEP!

Sleep! sleep! sleep!
My babe, I speak to thee;
And, oh, could I put on paper
The thoughts that occur to me!

Oh, well for my dear little boy,
Who shouts in the garden all day!
Oh, well for my little girls,
Who sing to their brother at play!

But the baby still screams on,
Let his mother do what she will;
And it’s oh, could I get him to understand!
And O that his voice would be still!

Sleep! sleep! sleep!
My babe I speak to thee;
The quiet peace of a bachelor’s bed
Will never come back to me.

_The Mocking Bird and other Poems_, by Frederick Field. J. Van Voorst, London, 1868.

――――――――

THE LOST JOKE.

Good! good! good!
Was the joke I heard last night,
And I would that my tongue could utter
The words of that joke aright.

O, well for good memory’s aid
That it passes old tales in review,
O, well for the ready wit
That can palm a stale joke as a new!

And that cheerful yarn is gone,
And the words I remember not,
But O, for a guide to that vanished tale,
And a clue to that joke forgot!

Good! good! good!
Is the story whatever it be,
But the comic point from my memory fled,
Will never come back to me.

_Judy_, December 10, 1879.

――――――――

A NEW IRISH MELODY.
(_As Sung by the Premier._)

Talk, talk, talk,
In thy cold calm tones, O “P.”!
And I would I might utter the language
That sometimes occurs to me!

O well for Lord B. that he sits
As a Peri among the Peers!
O well for the Radical “Reds,”
With their “warnings,” and worry, and jeers!

And the stately Whigs go on
Demanding a moderate Bill.
But O for a prison for PARNELL and DILLON,
That the Land-Leaguers’ voice may be still!

Talk, talk, talk,
In thy cold calm tones, O “P.”!
But the tender grace of your style just now
Shall never bamboozle me!

_Punch_ January 22, 1881

――――――――

Wake! wake! wake!
In thy Northern land so free,
And our eloquent leader utters
A protest for you and me.

Oh, well for Midlothian’s sons
That they shout with him in the fray,
Oh, well for our British lads,
For we know he will gain us the day.

And the Franchise war goes on,
Though the Lords would have us be still;
But, O, for our triumph, thou Grand Old Man,
When the people have their bill

Wake! wake! wake!
To the war-cry of “Liberty!”
And slav’ry’s old despotic days
Shall never return to thee.
RICHARD H. W. YEABSLEY.

――――――――

WARM WEATHER.

Thirst, thirst, thirst!
As I sit all day by the sea;
And I would that the weather were colder,
For it’s much too warm for me.
And “Brandy and water” is “raw,”
And “Brandy and soda” is “sloppy;”
And its oh for five dozen of “natives” or more,
And a “magnum” of “fizz” that is froppy.

Ice, Ice, Ice!
For the milk, the butter, and cream!
And I would I might sit “for never”
In comparative shade and dream.
But the stately Eds. go on.
Should they not get their copy in time;
But hang it! the Mercury’s 99º,
Which is even too hot to rhyme.

_Judy_, September 21, 1881.

――――――――

A REMINISCENCE OF REDCAR.

Broke, broke, broke,
By thy pitiless shores, O sea;
And I grieve that my tongue should utter
The groans that arise in me.

Oh well for the hunter’s soul,
Had he stopped at home that day,
Oh well had he taken some lovelorn lass
And spooned in his boat on the bay.

For the favourites all go down,
And I haven’t the price of a gill;
And it’s oh for the touch of that vanished gold,
And the tick of a watch that is still.

Broke, broke, broke,
By thy damnable crags O sea!
And the tender faith of the Hebrew race
Once more must be tempted by me.

_The Sporting Times._

――――――――

WHO BREAKS PAYS.

Break, break, break,
My china and glass. Oh she
Wouldn’t like to hear me utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the lodging-house cat
That at present it’s out of the way;
O well for the plump page-boy
That _he_ didn’t take down that tray.

And the breakages go down
To their haven in the dust-bin;
But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a rivet knocked in;

Break, break, break,
At the foot of the stairs. Oh she!
Can’t expect that the whole of her wages
Will be paid this month by me.

_The Age_, June 27, 1885.

――――:o:――――

APRIL LOVE.
_By a young Tory, after Tennyson._
[Lord Randolph Churchill was expected back from India in April, 1885.]

Gladstone hath us in his net.
Dizzy’s gone――can we forget?
Many sessions rise and set,
Many a chance the years beget,
Northcote muffs ’em all, you bet.
Even so.

Fruitlessly we jar and fret,
Dizzy is a vain regret,
E’en Hicks-Beach is in a pet.
Censure votes fall idle yet,
Where is Randolph? We forget?
Ah, no! no!!!

_Funny Folks_, 1885.

――――:o:――――

THE BROOK.

――――――――

THE SONG OF THE FLIRT.

With many a prank my “ma” may fret――
She wants me to be steady;
But all her counsels I forget――
For fun I’m ever ready.

I go to many a rout and ball,
And “star” it all the season;
I stay at many a country Hall,
And plot fresh plans of treason.

I ride my bay mare in the “Row,”
I go to fêtes and races;
To croquet parties too I go,
Sought out midst all “the graces.”

I make men prisoners evermore
By giving them my roses;
I get love-letters by the score,
And baskets full of posies.

I toss my head and arch my neck,
And they are plunged in sadness;
I smile and with my finger beck,
And they are filled with gladness.

The strings are many to my bow;
My followers fail me never;
For men may come and men may go,
But I flirt on for ever!

_Judy_, September 4, 1867.

――――――――

THE MONT CENIS TRAIN.[71]
(_In the line of the Laureate._)
[Written 1868.]

O train, he says,
O trundling train, says Edmund in his rhyme,
How go you? and the train, why not? replies――

I leave the station, make a raid
With sudden upward sally
Upon the height――no lady’s maid,
To bicker with a _valley_.

Up thirty hills I mount amain,
Or slip between the ridges,
And sometimes find the hills made plain,
Like David’s Psalm by _Bridges_.[72]

Again the _flat_ I seek below
(No reference to you, Sir),
And so men come, and so men go,
From San Michel to Susa.

I clatter o’er the stony way,
A natural base of boulders,
_I raise the dust_――what better trait
In railway for shareholders?

With many a curve aloft I toil,
I rush o’er stream and runnel;
And many a fairy foreland spoil
With corrugated tunnel.

I clatter, clatter to and fro
Over Mont Cenis gaily,
And men may come, and men may go,
_Vide_ time tables, daily.

Though _tired_ my wheels, I never tire,
I carry young swells gay-geared:
And here and there a lusty sire,
And here and there a grey-beard.

And here and there fair maidens take
Upon me as I travel,
Who many a gazer’s heart-peace break
With chignon’s golden ravel.

I bear them all along. Who knows
Of more gallant endeavour?
When WOMAN comes and WOMAN goes,
I’d fain go on for ever!

I steal through clouds to glacier’s height,
In _metres_ out do rhymers;
And have the deadly peaks in sight,
Which grew for Alpine climbers.

I slip, I slide as I come down,
My fit of peak being ended,
Then glide into the little town
To which my course has tended.

I murmur under moon and stars.
And under provocation;
I rail against the rail _là bas_,
The Gallic excavation,

Well, should that oust me, as I know
They’re wishing, from Mont Cenis,
All men may go to――Jericho,
And Frenchmen may be――_bènis_.
MRS. GUTCH.

――――――――

THE SONG OF THE FLIRT.

“I come to wage a war on men,
None can withstand my sally;
With me no man, that I can ken,
E’er dared to ‘shilly-shally.’

“Full thirty Harries have been mine,
And twenty-seven Neddies;
A hundred John’s, of Herberts nine,
And quite three-score of Freddies.

“Though all the rest I do not know,
In spite of my endeavour;
Yet men may come, and men may go,
But I’ll flirt on for ever!

“With many a slight I fellows fret,
With many a smile I ‘draw’ them;
And make them, ere I’ve done, regret
Full sore I ever saw them.

“I chatter, chatter! dont I, though?
And some my talk call clever;
And men may come, and men may go,
But I flirt on for ever!

“I run about, go in and out,
Men’s hearts the while assailing;
And some each week, I do not doubt,
Think of me with bewailing.

“I’ve booked of foreigners a few,
When I have chanced to travel;
And left them in a pretty stew,
My conduct to unravel.

“I draw all men along, I know,
And that is my endeavour;
And men may come, and men may go,
But I flirt on for ever!

“I steel their hearts with subtile plots,
Not one my game discovers;
They give me sweet forget-me-nots,
And think they are my lovers.

“I smirk, I smile, I glimpse, I glance,
My moods are most ‘adaptive;’
I ne’er a _valse_ or _gallop_ dance,
But what I make a captive.

“I murmur out on balconies,
And ‘spoon’ upon staircases;
I like to see men on their knees,
I put up with embraces.

“And if they kiss me, well-a-day,
The liberty I pocket;
’Twould be unkind to say him ‘Nay,’
Who’d given me a locket.

“So on I mean to go the same,
Though some may call it folly;
And long as I my charms can claim
My hope is to be jolly.

“Let those who will do all they know
From flirting me to sever――
Whilst men shall come, or men shall go,
I will flirt on for ever!”

From _Finis_.

――――――――

THE CORN.
(_A Birmingham Ballad of the 14th Century._)

I come when boots are small and stern,
And make a sudden sally,
To mar the lordly strut, and turn
The trips of every ballet.

Then fast and suddenly I grow
With many a painful quiver,
For men may cut and men may mow,
But I grow on for ever.

I make men scream o’er stony ways,
In screeching sharps and trebles,
And make them swear in maddened rage,
When slipping on the pebbles.

With many a twinge their soles I fret,
Soles arched and soles built shallow,
And many an imprecation get
From lips with pain grown sallow.

I shatter comfort as I grow,
The best of tempers shiver,
For men may cut and men may mow,
But I grow on for ever.

I wind about, and shoot and sprout,
Keen anguish dire entailing,
While here and there a swear and shout,
Each precious unavailing.

And oft-times, too, I make them quake,
As o’er loose stones I travel,
And make them with emotion shake
Upon the new-laid gravel.

I agonise them all, and go
To make the strongest quiver,
For men may cut and men may mow,
But I grow on for ever.

I steal ’neath toes and in between,
I slide where toe cap covers,
I slink where p’raps a bunion’s been,
But now no longer hovers.

I twinge, I throb, I shoot, I prance.
When damp about is lying,
I make my victims fairly dance,
When rain about is flying.

And out I’ll neither come nor go,
From feet I’m hard to sever,
And they may cut and they may mow,
But I grow on for ever.

From _Ye Old Brum and ye New_, by Jayhay. Houghton and Hammond, Birmingham, 1878.

――――――――

THE RIVER.
A Steamboat Version.

I puff, and roar, and shriek, and blow,
Along the crowded river,
For men may scull, and men may row,
But I steam on for ever.

Now crowd the towing-path along
On foot and in the saddle,
Of cads and swells a giddy throng,
Yet still I onward paddle.

And up the stream I gaily go
Upon the sunlit river.
For men may scull, and men may row,
But I steam on for ever.

And in and out I curve and glide,
No other vessels fearing,
And go full speed adown the tide,
A reckless, wild course steering.

I fizz and clatter as I go
Fast up and down the river,
For men may scull and men may row,
But I steam on for ever.

I turn astern, and back, and stop,
With pant, and snort and clatter,
As down mid-stream I gaily drop
With rushing, dashing splatter.

I puff and roar, and shriek and blow
Along the crowded river,
For men may scull and men may row
But I steam on for ever.

_Judy_, April 2, 1879.

――――――――

THE SONG OF THE STEAM LAUNCH

I steam from snug up river lairs,
I make a sudden sally,
And spread dismay among the “pairs,”
Which by the rushes dally.

On tiny craft I love to dash
(As swallow darts on midges):
The women scream as down I crash,
And swamp them by the bridges.

Ay, helter-skelter, on I go,
Adown the crowded river,
For tide may ebb and tide may flow,
But I steam on for ever!

I drown with my shrill whistle’s scream
The blackbird’s piping trebles;
I churn up mud and foul the stream
Above the tide-worn pebbles.

With many a wave the punts I fret,
My wash engulphs them neatly;
I many a dainty lady wet,
And spoil her dress completely.

I clatter, splatter, as I go,
A-muck upon the river,
For tide may ebb and tide may flow,
But I steam on for ever.

I twist about, dash in and out,
T’annoy some merry party;
And here and there receive a shout
Of malediction hearty.

Yes! here and there the worm may turn,
And curse me as I travel;
But victims, as a rule, I learn,
Are far too scared to cavil,

Or check me as along I go,
Upon the crowded river,
Where tide may ebb and tide may flow,
But I steam on for ever.

I steal by lawns when all is dark,
Glide close to reedy covers,
And there cut down the tiny bark,
That bears the heedless lovers.

I start, I dart, I screech, I blare,
I belch forth coal-black vapours;
I make the angry oarsmen swear
To write to all the papers.

I murder quiet ’neath the stars;
For any mischief willing;
I cut away young yachtsmen’s spars;
Treat anglers to a swilling.

The loveliest scenery I spoil,
On beauty lay embargo;
I reek with blacks and engine oil,
I carry cads for cargo.

I swill, I kill, I hoot, I snort,
A nuisance all declare me;
A river demon I disport,
Yet you’ve to grin and bear me!

Yes, on again I wildly go,
To curse the crowded river;
For tide may ebb and tide may flow,
But I steam on for ever!

_Truth_, August 11, 1881.

――――――――

THE SHERBROOKE.
(_Not by Tennyson._)

I come from haunts of statesmen hard,
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out a life-long bard
En-thu-si-as-ti-cally.

My life has run o’er stony ways,
I’ve seemed all sharps and trebles;
But now I mean to wring the bays
From critics hard as pebbles.

I on my Peer’s soft cushion fret,
Because my life seems fallow,
But ah! the “glowing Muse” shall yet
Show me less sour and sallow.

I steal away from Whiggish plots
To Poesy’s green covers,
I try my hand at true-love knots,
I sing for happy lovers.

I rhyme with HUDIBRAS’S dash
(Who fancied me all iron?)
With here a touch of CANNING’S flash,
And there a tone of BYRON.

I sing Swiss glaciers, southern stars,
Australian wildernesses,
I sneer at old Colonial jars,
And Antipodean messes.

I fancy my old foes will quake,
As this new path I travel;
I think my rhymes the bards will shake,
And all the critics gravel.

Bravo, BOB LOWE! for do you know
I think this dodge is clever,
For Statesmen come and Statesmen go,
But Bards live on for ever!

_Punch_, May 23, 1885.

Lord Sherbrooke, better known, perhaps, as Mr. Robert Lowe, had just produced a small volume of Poems, a piece of temerity on his part which is now quite forgotten and forgiven.

――――――――

A LAY OF LAWN TENNIS.
(_By a Lawn-Tennysonienne._)

With rackets poised against the foe,
We scorn the shining river;
Though other games may come and go,
Lawn Tennis lives for ever.

We roam the verdant lawn about,
Our skill seems unavailing;
For, sometimes in and sometimes out,
’Gainst fortune we are railing.

We chatter in our eager ways,
In merry girlish trebles;
We rush for many a ball that strays
Across the pathway pebbles.

We play upon the grassy plots,
The “Court” the garden covers;
We wear the blue forget-me-nots,
Like TENNYSON’S young lovers.

We skip, we slide, with many a glance,
As swift as eager swallows;
And as the gay balls bound and dance,
The ardent player follows.

We murmur when the stern net bars
The ball, we shake our tresses;
We’ve played beneath the moon and stars,
As many a girl confesses.

And how to “screw” and “twist” we know,
The “Service” to deliver:
For other games may come and go,
Lawn Tennis lives for ever.

_Punch_, August 8, 1885.

――――:o:――――

PARODIES OF SONGS IN
“THE PRINCESS.”

――――――――

THE WORRIER AND HIS WIFE.

Home they brought her worrier, dead――
Dead as any mummy he――
So they thought, and so they said;
But his helpmate――what said she?

“Dead? I only wish he was!
He is only extra tight!
Too much liquor is the cause
Of my husbands senseless plight!

“Put him down――oh, anywhere!――
Not upon the sofa――no!
Drop him on the carpet――there!
Now I’ll thank you all to go!”

One by one they slowly went;
Then she locked and barred the door,
Then――above her worrier bent,
Frowned and smiled and crossed the floor.

From a corner back she tripped,
Knelt beside her helpless mate,
And, with scissors, clipped and clipped,
Till he had a hairless pate!

Then she rose and left him there――
Left him there, and went to bed――
Left him there _without_ his hair,
_With_ his hair around him spread!

In her bed she lay and slept,
On the floor he passed the night…
In the house for weeks he kept――
Sober――hairless――_such_ a fright!

Not in vain was he deprived
Of his glossy locks, I trow:
With new hair new strength arrived――
He’s a pledged abstainer now!
C. JOHNS.

――――――――

LET ME LIE HERE.
A Parody on “ASK ME NO MORE” in _The Princess_.

Let me lie here; the rain may rot the tree;
The undiluted essence of the grape
May set my plastic countenance agape;
For O, how frail, when out upon the spree.
Let me lie here!

Let me lie here: no dry old brewer’s sieve
Had greater need of liquor than had I;
Now like a boiling gooseberry floats mine eye,
Let me lie here, for I would quite as lieve.
Let me lie here!

Let me lie here: the secret is revealed;
Though I could wend with thee I am not fain;
Do not, policeman, take me home again,
I dread my wife and would remain concealed,
Let me lie here!
JOHN COTTON.

[The above appeared in the _Central Literary Magazine_, Birmingham, 1878.]

――――――――

San Francisco Free Public Library, Jan. 20, 1885.

To Walter Hamilton, Esq.

Dear Sir,――I venture to interrupt you again with a
transcript of a Tennyson Parody which you may not have seen.
It can’t have the local flavour with you which it had when
first printed, in the middle of General Butler’s political
and oratorical campaign for the governorship of
Massachusetts――not his successful one, but one of the
others, about 1875. It first came out in the Springfield
(Massachusetts) Republican newspaper.――Very truly yours,

(_Signed_) F. B. PERKINS.

BUGLE SONG.
(_After Tennyson――and Butler._)

The slander falls in different halls
Where sounds the somewhat stale old story:
With wrath he shakes, and fearless makes,
Like the wild cataract, “leaps in glory.”
Blow, Butler, blow! set your wild statements flying;
Blow, Butler; answer people!――“Lying, lying, lying!”

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, further going
From Truth,――as far as he from scar――
The doughty general’s reckless blowing!
Blow, Butler! let us hear the working men replying――
Blow, Butler! answer, people!――“Lying, lying, lying!”

Your yarns, Ben, die in this State’s sky;
They fail in hall, on bench, by river:
The answers roll from poll to poll――
“He lies for ever and for ever.”
Blow, Butler, blow! set your wild statements flying;
Blow, Butler; answer, people!――“Lying, lying, lying!”

――――:o:――――

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

――――――――

THE LIGHT (BLUE) BRIGADE.
(_The University Boat Race._)

Half a length, half a length,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Thames
Rowed the Eights, onward!
“Go!” was the starter’s cry,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to win――or try;
Into the valley of Thames
Rowed the Eights, onward!

Steamers to right of them,
Steamers to left of them,
Steamers each side of them,
Snorted and thundered!
Cheered at by cad and swell,
Boldly they rowed and well,
Under Barnes Railway Bridge,
On past the Ship Hotel,
Rowed the Eights, onwards.

O but the sight was fair,
Flashed the oar-blades in air,
Trying the rowlocks there,
Rowing to Mortlake, while
All the world wondered.
Plunged in the steamer smoke,
Fiercely in front they broke;
GRIFFITHS and MARSDEN;
Strong was the Oxford stroke,
Nobody blundered;
Then they rowed back, but not
As they rowed onward!

Steamers to right of them,
Steamers to left of them,
Steamers in front of them,
Snorted and thundered;
Cheered at by cad and swell,
While horse and Cockney fell,
They that had rowed so well,
Came through Barnes Railway Bridge,
Back from the Ship Hotel,
All that was left in them
Since they rowed onward!

When can their glory fade?
O, the wild spurts they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the spurts they made,
Dark and Light Blue Brigade,
Each worth a hundred!

_Fun_, April 27, 1867.

――――――――

THE GAS STOKERS’ STRIKE.

Dark were the streets and wet;
Out went each radiant jet,
While all that passed or met
Questioned and wondered.

“Strike,” was the gasmen’s cry,
Their’s not to reason why.
Their’s to raise wages high,
Pleasure and trade defy;
Therefore the gasmen struck――
Struck by the hundred.

Darkness to right of them,
Darkness to left of them,
Darkness in front of them,――
Every one blundered.

Many an oath and yell
On the fierce strikers fell;
When to the gasworks came――
Came to work swift and well,
Another Six Hundred.

Flashed all their elbows bare,
Flashed all at once in air;
Shovelling the Wallsend there,
Filling retorts up, while
Strike-men all wondered.

Plunging in flame and smoke,
Bravely the coals they broke;
Strong was their pickaxe stroke.
Loudly the public voice
Cheering them thundered.
Then to their beef and beer
Rushed the Six Hundred.

Strikemen to right of them,
Strikemen to left of them,
Strikemen behind them,
Blasphemed and thundered.

Stormed at with drunken yell,
Boldly they worked and well,
Rushing through flame and smoke,
O’er piles of coal and coke,
Saving from darkness then,
Millions of Englishmen.
Gallant Six Hundred.

Honour the brave and bold,
Labourers young and old;
Long shall the tale be told,
When by the gasmen “sold,”
We were left undone.

By the flame wearily,
In the smoke drearily,
On they worked cheerily.
Lighting up London.
JOSEPH VEREY.
_The Hornet_, December 11, 1872.

(Published when the stokers of several of the London Gas Works were out on strike.)

The same journal also published another Parody of the Charge of Balaklava, by the same author, on “Clapham Junction,” October 23, 1872.

――――――――

THE CHARGE OF THE “LIGHT” BRIGADE.

“What Ho! there, lights; lights!”

(Enter servants with a _rush_.) _Old Play._

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward;
Till in valley of Lud,
Pausing I pondered.
“Forward the Light Brigade!”
Charging my pipe, I said,
Into the valley of Lud
Rushed half-a-hundred.