Chapter XVI: Canto VI: ―― (1)

“O woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!”――
* * * *

――――

AN ENGLISH POET TO A SCOTCH CRITIC,

Oh! Scotsman! in thine hour of ease
Uncanny, slow, and hard to please,――
And querulous in thy tirade
As shrewish wife or sour old maid――
When too much “whusky” stings thy brow,
An unco’ sarcy devil thou!

_(Slightly!) altered from Scott (to Scot)._

――――

A GOOD WIFE.

“But, on the whole, Chloe is a good wife. If I have a cold she dresses me in linseed poultices, and doses me with all kinds of potions; and even in my suffering I can appreciate the poetic exclamation――

“Oh, woman! in our hours of ease,
Impatient, coy, and hard to please:
As ineffectual as the shade
By a defective gingham made:
As difficult wherewith to deal
As any sly and cunning eel;
But, oh! when hoarseness grasps the thorax,
How nimble, thou, with soothing borax!”

――――

A DEDICATION.

O woman! in our hours of ease
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
Yet, barring pins, how soft to squeeze!
Unequall’d too at making cheese――
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made;
And “very able,” too thou jade,
In managing a shopping raid――
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
Well, one of two things then art thou:
That is, thou’rt either a born nurse;
Or else a nuisance, if not worse!
O Woman! too, in hours of woe,
Into hysterics apt to go:
When trouble levies its distraint,
How prompt art thou thereon to faint!
When danger’s for the time supreme,
How ready art thou, too, to scream!
In fact, what hour of night or day
Is there when thou’rt not in the way?

From _Finis_, 1877.

――――:o:――――

THE MANSION HOUSE MARMION.

[In 1883, when there was much talk of impending and very desirable reforms in the Government of the Metropolis, Lord Mayor Fowler gave a dinner to the City magnates. He then expressed his great surprise that Mr. Forster should have recommended him to become first Lord Mayor of the new Corporation. “Far from that,” he asserted, “he would fight the new Bill, line by line and clause by clause;” and he then proceeded to declaim to his vociferous fellow-citizens Marmion’s speech to King James.]

The City Carlton merrily
With wassail rung, and mirth and glee,
For Tory City-Fathers there
Feasted the Marquis and Lord Mayor.
The spread outshone all banquets past;
The wine and wit flowed free and fast;
Till, ’midst approving sound,
The loyal toasts were drunk in turn;
And then, whilst civic hearts waxed stern,
The Loving-Cup went round.
And easy was the task, I trow,
The Marquis’ manly form to know,
When, his great courtesy to show,
He drank with Fowler, bending low
To meet the goblet’s brim;
And City men who saw the sight,
Demonstrative in their delight,
Gave several cheers for him.

Ere long, uprising from his chair
To toast the City, Mr. Mayor
Stood, in his new-found fame;
But for some moments could not speak――
His Tory heart swelled nigh to break――
And presently adown his cheek
A bitter tear there came.
Then memory did his wrath inspire,
Then burn’d his furrow’d face with fire,
And shook his very beard with ire,
As “This to me!” he cried.
“From Forster, too, a friend who knows
How I persistently oppose
Reforms on every side!
He little kens the thoughts that roll,
Like storm-clouds, through my haughty soul,
Or he would not declare
That I, a City Tory true,
Would of the Corporation new
Become the first Lord Mayor!”

Still on his cheek the flush of rage
O’ercame the ashen hue of age,
As he went on, “How dare he, then,
Thus beard the Lion in his den――
The Fowler at Guildhall!
Or thinks he Harcourt can o’erthrow,
And lay our Corporation low?
No! by St. Margaret Pattens, No!
Up, Tories, then! What, Carden, ho!
For your stout aid I call.”

Then Fowler turned and laughed, “Ha! ha!”
Deep quaffed the bowl and shouted “Bah!
Let Harcourt know, if he dare try
The City Fathers to defy,
That London has its treasures great――
Its funds invested, and its plate;
That turtle now is cheap as beef
(That Conger _canard’s_ past belief);
And that, ere his vile Bill be passed,
Those hoards of wealth we have amassed
Shall be entirely spent,
In Swords of Honour by the score;
In Golden Boxes, rained galore,
In Banquets gross as those of yore,
In jobs still grosser than before,
And greater in extent!

“That we will many a time persist
In opening a Subscription List,
Far-off distress to aid;
Whilst those who starve about our gate,
We’ll leave to their unhappy fate,
And hunger unallayed.
Know, too, that ere from power we start,
We’ll patronise again High Art,
And raise the Griffin’s counterpart
To dominate the City;
That Billingsgate unmoved shall stay,
And block the fish-producing-way,
Spite what in Parliament they say,
Or argue in Committee.

“Know, too, that ere all London taste
This new reform, we oft will haste
Funds left in Charity to waste
In gorging and in guzzling;
And we, as Aldermen, will mock
At justice still; and surely shock
Those who are bound to us to flock
For our decisions puzzling.

“Yes, know, ere Harcourt shall succeed,
Shall many a poor man die of need,
And thousands suffer for the greed
Of our smug Corporation;
And London for long years shall bear
Fresh burdens that we still may share
The plunder, and well bait the snare
With which we trap the nation,
Pretending that at our own cost
We’ve freed the lands the City’d lost,
With generous intent;
Whereas it safely might be sworn
No penny from our hoard’s been torn――
’Tis duties placed on coal and corn
That we’ve so freely spent!”

Again, ’midst vehement applause,
Did Fowler for a moment pause;
Then, facing round to his brave band,
And fiercely shaking his clenched hand,
He with a sip his voice restored,
And once again defiance poured:
“Let Harcourt, Firth, and all their crew,”
Cried he, “their spiteful ends pursue,
I still am here, my friends, with you,
My opposition to renew;
And ere that Bill shall pass,
Full many a brother shall secure
Knighthood by rank expenditure;
Full many a Scandal we’ll commit;
Absorb full many a perquisite;
Full many a well-known man we’ll bribe
To join some Civic thievish tribe;
Full many a day reforms oppose;
Full many a time strike coward’s blows;
And often to the nation show
How small we are, how rude, how low,
How stubborn, ignorant, and dense,
How totally devoid of sense,
And how intensely crass!”

Here Fowler ceased, and sat him down,
While cheers from all sides came to crown
His spirited appeal;
Thrice went the Loving Cup around,
And thrice did fresh applause resound
As those brave City Tories found
Fresh impulse for their zeal!

_Truth_, November 29, 1883.

――――:o:――――

LOCHINVAR

This song, sang by Lady Heron, in _Marmion_, was partly founded on a ballad called “Katharine Janfarie,” which may be found in the “_Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_.”

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west!
Through all the wide border his steed was the best;
And, save his good broad-sword, he weapon had none;
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone!
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!

He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Esk river where ford there was none――
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented!――the gallant came late!――
For, a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar!

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
’Mong bride’s-men and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword――
For the poor, craven bridegroom said never a word――
“O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war?――
Or to dance at our bridal?――young Lord Lochinvar!”

“I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied:
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide!
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine!――
There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!”

The bride kissed the goblet! The knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup!
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh――
With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,――
“Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace!
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered, “’Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!”

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near――
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
“She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur!
They’ll have fleet steeds that follow!” quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting ’mong Græmes of the Netherby clan:
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea――
But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

WALTER SCOTT.

――――

_Benet College, Cambridge_, 1820.

DEAR MR. NORTH,

We are rather flat here at present, but I enclose you a squiblet, which was written when Sir J. E. Smith, that knight of the gilly-flower, made his grand charge on our Botanical Chair.

LOCK-AND-BAR.
_A Botany Bay Eclogue._

O Gallant Sir James is come out of the North,
Through all that wild region his fame had gone forth;
Yet, save the Vice-Chancellor, friend he had none;
He came all unask’d, and he came all alone.
So daring in heart, and so dauntless in pith,
There ne’er was Professor like President Smith.

He staid not for frown, and he stopp’d not for groan;
He put in his clamour where claim he had none;
But e’er he arriv’d at a Lecturer’s state,
The tutors conspir’d――and the lectures came late.
For a Churchman, God wot! and a botanist too,
Was to sit in the chair that Sir James had in view.

In a rage, then, he stalk’d into College and Hall,
Among Bedmakers, Bachelors, Doctors, and all;
Then spoke Mr. Marsh in a civilish way,
(For some of the Tutors had little to say),
“O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dine with the Fellows, or――what come ye for?”

“I long wish’d to lecture, my suit you denied,
I know you’d have lik’d them, if once you had tried;
And now am I come with this Pamphlet of mine,
To try a last measure――then leave you to pine;
There are students in London more civil by far,
That would gladly have welcom’d so brilliant a star.”

Sir James shew’d his Pamphlet, and Monk read it through;
He gulp’d the hard bits, but he saw ’twoul’d not do;
He look’d down to laugh, and pretended to sigh,
With a smile on his lip, and a sneer in his eye,
Then down comes the rogue with an “answer” forthwith.
“This is dealing hard measure!” says President Smith.

So stately the tone, and so lovely the print,
Even Freshmen conceiv’d there must something be in’t.
While Socinians did fret, and Professors did clap,
And Webb tore the tassel that deck’d his new cap;
And Reviewers did whisper, “’Twere better by far
To have match’d your brave knight in some gooseberry war.”

A hint such as this had just rung in his ear,
When he reach’d the stage-coach, and the coachman stood near;
So light to the box that tight coachman he sprung,
So snugly the reins o’er the dickey were flung――
We are off! we are off! over bank and o’er hill,
“Your pamphlet may follow,” cried James, “if it will.”

There is quizzing ’mong wags of the Trinity clan;
King’s, Queen’s-men, and Johnians, they all laugh that can,
There is joking and smoking in Norwich citiè,
But the lost Knight of Botany ne’er do we see,
――So daring in heart, and so dauntless in pith:
Was there e’er such a callant as President Smith.

This Parody appeared in _Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine_ for November, 1820. Many other excellent parodies and imitations are to be found in the early volumes of Blackwood, (which first appeared in April, 1817) but unfortunately most of them are quite out of date, and would be of little, or no interest to the modern reader.

――――

SONGS OF THE RAIL.

O young William Jones is come out of the West,
Of all the bright engines, his engine’s the best!
And save his grim stoker, he helper had none,
He drove all unhelp’d, and he drove all alone,
So dauntless he rush’d midst his engine’s loud moans;
Did you e’er hear of driver like young WILLIAM JONES?

He stopp’d not for water, he stopp’d not for coke,
And he skimm’d o’er the streams render’d black by his smoke;
But when at the station he slacken’d his rate,
The up-train had started, the down-train came late;
And a laggard in travel, a luggage-train guard,
Was to wed the fair POLLY of JONES’S regard.

“I long woo’d your daughter, my suit you denied;
Love swells like a steam-valve, and bursts when it’s tied;
And now I am come, with my lost POLLY B.
To walk once the platform, drink one cup of tea:
There are maidens who’d gladly give body and bones,
To jump at the tender of young WILLIAM JONES.”

The bride stirred the Congou, the spoon took it up,
He quaff’d off the tea, and he put down the cup;
She stoop’d on the pavement her sandal to tie,
And she show’d her neat foot with a tear in her eye:
He took her soft hand, ere her mother said nay;
“Now walk on the platform,” said young WILLIAM J.

So stately his form, and so beauteous her face,
That never a plank such a couple did grace;
While the stoker did fret; and the engine did fume,
And the station-clerk wink’d in his little back-room,
And the navvys all whisper’d, “Ay, BILL, what d’ye say?
They’d make a neat couple, that gal and young J.”

One touch of her hand, and one word in her ear,
And they open’d a carriage that by them stood near;
So light o’er the cushions the fair lady sprung――
So light the policeman the bright brass bell rung――
“She is won! we are off! there’s no train in the way,
And the next does not stop here” said young WILLIAM J.

There was laughing and roaring with every man;
They laugh’d and they roar’d till their eyes briny ran:
They must get a new maiden to hand out the tea,
For the fair MRS. JONES there they never will see;
And each one that knows her will laughingly say,
“That’s a deucid ’cute fellow, that young WILLIAM J.!”

_Punch_, January 22, 1848.

――――

THE RUSSIAN LOCHINVAR.

[The first encounter in the Crimean War took place at
Oltenitza, on November 4, 1854, when the Russians were
defeated. A few days later the Turks retired to Kalafat where
they kept the Russians in check for some time.]

The big-booted Czar had his eye on the East,
For treaties and truces he cares not the least,
And save his good pleasure he conscience hath none,
He talks like the Vandal and acts like the Hun.
So faithless in peace, and so ruthless in war,
Have ye e’er heard of King like the big-booted Czar?

He stayed not for speech, but with sabre and gun,
He rushed into Turkey, though cause there was none;
But when he got near to the old Iron Gate,
He found certain reasons which urged him to wait.
For down by the Danube stood Omar Pasha,
Prepared to encounter our big-booted Czar,

So he drew up his legions――serf, vassal and thrall,
His footmen, and horsemen, and cannons, and all,
Then out spake bold Omar, his hand on his sword,
In an attitude fitting an Ottoman Lord,
“O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to see St. Sophia, you big-booted Czar?”

“I’ve long asked your homage, my suit you denied,
And my holy religion you’ve scorned and decried,
So now I’ve come down with this army of mine,
The rights and the wrongs of the case to define,
And you have not a chance, for the Musselman star
Must pale when it looks on the flag of the Czar.”

He flung down his challenge, the Turk took it up
(Remarking on slips ’twixt the lip and the cup),
And deigned to his logic the briefest reply,
“That the claim was unjust, and its proof was a lie,”
And he brought up some thousands of swords as a bar
To further advance by the big-booted Czar.

So before Oltenitza the battle took place,
And the Russian thought proper to right about face,
For the guns of Stamboul had a menacing boom,
And a bombshell sent flying the Dannenburg plume,
And the Cossacks all grumbled, “’Twere better by far
To eat tallow at home than dine out with the Czar”,

One hint would not do, nor one word in his ear,
The despot commands, and his men persevere――
So again to the breezes their standards are flung,
And Kalafat echoes the war-trumpet tongue,
And the Ottoman, charging, has scattered afar
The ill-fated troops of the big-booted Czar.

There was wild disarray in the rear and the van,
The Moslem they rode, and the Cossacks they ran.
There was racing and chasing――’twas pleasing to see
The Russ as well beat as a Russian can be.
May this, and much worse, be all fortune of war
That awaits the old pirate, the big-booted Czar.

SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1854.

――――

THE PRINCE OF WALES’S RIDE.
(à la Lochinvar.)

The Prince of Wales was present at the autumn manœuvres in 1871, and the _Times_ gave the following account of a part he took in a sham fight:――

“A party of the dashing 10th Hussars had pushed on too far
up the hill, and were captured by our cavalry, and given in
as killed by an umpire. They were standing――dead men all――on
the ridge, when the Prince and his staff rode up the
hill-side, and made towards three of STAVELEY’S guns. In a
few seconds His Royal Highness had discovered whose the guns
were, and galloped up to the troop of the 10th, who were
prisoners (but he did not know it), placed himself at their
head, and ordered them to charge the guns. The gunners,
perceiving this manœuvre, with great smartness, but little
loyalty, put four rounds into the Prince and his Hussars
before they were ridden down. The Prince claimed the
battery, and an umpire was sent for. Sir H. GRANT, Sir C.
STAVELEY, and others came, and the Prince and his party were
given in as prisoners; but when Sir CHARLES claimed them,
the Prince laughed and galloped off. Then was seen the Heir
Apparent, flying before a general of division and his staff,
who kept up the pursuit with a will, to loud cries of “Stop
him!” “Don’t let him go!” “Seize the Prince!” One of Sir
CHARLES’S aides-de-camp got so close that he could have laid
his hand on the Prince’s shoulder, but neither for big guns,
nor small arms, nor shouts would the Prince draw bridle, and
he got clear away, and vanished into the woods below the
hill.”

It was ALBERT of WALES and his troop of Hussars,
Who took horse one fine day to go off to the wars;
And their trappings were brilliant, their sabres were bright,
As they rode to the Sham (for it _was_ a sham) Fight.
“And if any would take the wind out of our sails,
They must look sharp about it!” says ALBERT OF WALES.

“It is rather slow work, this,” then ALBERT said he.
“And to stand and do nothing will hardly suit me.
At the side of yon hill, where those clouds of smoke hang,
Are the enemy’s cannon――hark! there they go――BANG!
Let us try to surprise them――a rush seldom fails:
Balaclava the Second!” shouts ALBERT OF WALES.

With a crash and a waving of sabres in air,
Down they swoop on the gunners――and how these last stare!
But although they are startled, not one of them runs:
They are Britons, and doggedly stick to their guns,
“Now surrender!” (a bombardier thus the PRINCE hails):
“Do you yield?”――“No, but _you_ do!” says ALBERT OF WALES.

“You are captured, each man Jack!” says he with a laugh.――
“I beg pardon, your Highness, it’s you and your staff.”――
“Oh dear, no!”――“Yes, yes, really,” the umpire submits,
“As your Highness’s men would be knocked all to bits,
You must yield yourselves up――no resistance avails.”――
“Don’t you wish you may get it?” says ALBERT OF WALES.

With a jerk at his rein, and a stroke of his whip,
Then the Prince turns his charger, and gives them the slip.
“You have not got me yet,” says he: “follow who may,
He must gallop who’s going to take me to-day!
You’ll excuse my not stopping to talk of details――
I am off in a hurry!” says ALBERT OF WALES.

Then in haste follows STAVELEY, and off gallops GRANT:
“Hallo there!”――“Hold him, now!”――“Oh, I’ll stop him!”――“You
Can’t!”
Down the Hill the Prince goes, seeming little to reck
That the Heir to the Throne can break only one neck.
“It’s at this sort of speed that they carry the mails;
Let who can overtake me!” cries ALBERT OF WALES.

_Judy_, October 11, 1871.

――――

THE LATE LIGHT OF THE BAR.

Choice of Stoke-upon-Trent, lo, KENEALY[36] confest,
Pledged to see the foul wrongs of SIR ROGER redressed!
Save his grievance and gingham he weapons had none;
He went unabashed, and he went all alone,
As though stainless in ’scutcheon, in fame without scar,――
Who e’er equalled for brass this late Light of the Bar?

He stayed not for scoff, and he stopped not for groan;
What were “Orders” to him, who takes orders from none?
But ere he alighted at Westminster Gate,
The House was well-filled, though the doctor came late;
For the night’s blushing honours were shared, and at par,
’Twixt JOHN MITCHEL and him, this late Light of the Bar.

So boldly he entered the High Commons’ hall,
Among Whigs, Rads, Conservatives, alien all,
While calm, cold, and cutting, the SPEAKER was heard,
Through the silence, unbroken by cheer or by word,
“In breach of the House-Standing-Order you are,
Without introducers thus passing our Bar!”

“I stuck to the Claimant: his claims were denied:
Bench might beard me and Bar; Bar and Bench I defied!
And now I am come, with this lost cause of mine,
Like CROMWELL, to bid hence that ‘bauble’ of thine:
Learn how wide-spread my fame, whom the much-wrongèd Gaikwâr
Had retained,[37] had there not been that sinister Bar.”

Dropped by all like hot poker, JOHN BRIGHT took him up――
“Not e’en from such lips should this House dash the cup.
If WHALLEY has spirit to lend me a hand,
By Stoke-upon-Trent’s new-made Member I’ll stand.”
But DISRAELI moved, “Waive the rule, better far:
Some will force their way over, some under, the Bar.”

So the Order was waived, and unblushing in face
He shook hands with the SPEAKER, swore, scowled at the Mace;
’Twas some time e’er the House could its business resume,
What with Decency’s fret and Propriety’s fume:
While an old stager whispered, “We’re best as we are;
Stick to Orders, that serve, now and then, as a Bar.”

He touched WHALLEY’S hand, who fought shy, it was clear,
And he reached the Hall-door, with the cabs standing near;
So light in the air his green gingham he swung;
So light to his faithful four-wheeler he sprung――
“I have won! The trick’s done! To the knife it is war!
See _The Englishman_!”――quoth this Ex-light of the Bar.

There were posters (four-sheet) on _The Englishman’s_ van
With its damp quires the newsboys they roared and they ran:
Vollied dirt at M.P.’s, as at Judges, there flew.
But the lost case of ORTON they would not review!
So persistent to pelt, from the mark though so far,
Was e’er Member like this late Light of the Bar!

_Punch_, March 6, 1875.

――――

YOUNG STEPHEY CAVE.[38]

O, young Stephey Cave is come out of the East,
Through borders Levantine his steed was the beast!
And save his grey goosequill he weapon had none;
He rode all unharm’d, and he rode all alone.
So renowned at accounts, so financially brave,
There never was knight like the young Stephey Cave.

He staid not for passport, he stopped not for Stone;
He took the first steamer where train there was none;
But ere he alighted at Ismail’s gate
The Khedive was ruined; the banker came late,
For a babe at accounts and a scripholding slave
Had forestalled the proud mission of young Stephey Cave.

So boldly he entered proud Ismail’s hall,
Among Pashas and Agas, Effendis and all.
Then spoke those Egyptians, ineffably bored,
(For the poor craven Khedive said never a word,)
“O, come ye to fleece us, or come ye to save,
Or to prove us insolvent, thou young Stephey Cave?”

“I long thought ye bankrupt――the truth ye denied;
Loans swell like the Solway, but ebb like its tide,
And now I am come with this ledger of mine
To go through your figures. You dare not decline!
There are countries in Europe as bankrupt, proud knave,
Who’d gladly be tipped by the young Stephey Cave.”

They threw down the records, bills, bonds, and such stuff;
He tested the figures through sums on his cuff;
He bent down to blush, and he got up to sigh,
With a curl on his lip and disdain in his eye;
He gave his right hand a most tragical wave――
“They’ve swindled thee proper,” said young Stephey Cave.

One pull at the bell, and one crocodile’s tear,
And they ope’d the hall-door, and the Khedive stood near.
So plain to his Highness the plan that he showed,
So strongly perceiving the same he avowed――
“We are saved! We are saved! spite of loan, bond, and knave!”
“They’ll have sharp wits that beat us,” said young Stephey Cave.

There was raving and stamping ’mong Pashas galore;
Frenchmen, Germans, and Yankees, they cursed and they swore;
There was hoping and waiting ’mong bondholders free,
But the fruits of his mission ne’er did they see.
So renowned at accounts, so financially brave,
Have ye e’er heard of banker like young Stephey Cave?

BENJAMIN D――――. _His Little Dinner_, 1876.

――――

YOUNG LOCHINVAR.
_The True Story in Blank Verse._

Oh! young Lochinvar has come out of the West,
Thro’ all the wide border his horse has no equal,
Having cost him forty-five dollars at the market,
Where good nags, fresh from the country,
With burrs still in their tails are selling
For a song; and save his good broad sword
He weapon had none, except a seven-shooter
Or two, a pair of brass knuckles, and an Arkansaw

Toothpick in his boot, so, comparatively speaking,
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone,
Because there was no one going his way.
He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for
Toll-gates; he swam the Erke River where ford
There was none, and saved fifteen cents
In ferriage, but lost his pocket-book, containing
Seventeen dollars and a half, by the operation.

Ere he alighted at the Netherby mansion
He stopped to borrow a dry suit of clothes,
And this delayed him considerably, so when
He arrived the bride had consented――the gallant
Came late――for a laggard in love and a dastard in war
Was to wed the fair Ellen, and the guests had assembled.

So, boldly he entered the Netherby Hall
Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and
Brothers-in-law and forty or fifty cousins;
Then spake the bride’s father, his hand on his sword
(For the poor craven bridegroom ne’er opened his head):

“Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in anger,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”
“I long wooed your daughter, and she will tell you
I have the inside track in the free-for-all
For her affections! my suit you denied; but let
That pass, while I tell you, old fellow, that love
Swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide,
And now I am come with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one glass of beer;
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far
That would gladly be bride to yours very truly.”

The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the nectar and threw down the mug,
Smashing it into a million pieces, while
He remarked that he was the son of a gun
From Seven-up and run the Number Nine.
She looked down to blush, but she looked up again
For she well understood the wink in his eye;
He took her soft hand ere her mother could
Interfere, “Now tread we a measure; first four
Half right and left; swing,” cried young Lochinvar.

One touch to her hand and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall door and the charger
Stood near on three legs eating post hay;
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,
Then leaped to the saddle before her.
“She is won! we are gone! over bank, bush, and spar,
They’ll have swift steeds that follow”――but in the

Excitement of the moment he had forgotten
To untie the horse, and the poor brute could
Only gallop in a little circus around the
Hitching-post; so the old gent collared
The youth and gave him the awfullest lambasting
That was ever heard of on Canobie Lee;
So dauntless in war and so daring in love,
Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

_Free Press Flashes_, 1883.

――――:o:――――

MARMION TRAVESTY.

_Marmion_ was published in February, 1808, when the Duke of York was Commander-in-Chief of the British Army. A scandal in connection with this office gave rise to a very successful burlesque of _Marmion_, about which a few explanatory notes must be given. Frederic, Duke of York (the second son of George III., born in 1763), having proved his utter incapacity as a general in the field, during several disastrous campaigns in Flanders and Holland, was raised to the lucrative post of Commander-in-Chief of the Army. Notwithstanding that he was married to a daughter of the King of Prussia, he took several ladies under his protection, one of whom, Mrs. Mary Anne Clarke, was also married. The Duke, in addition to an unfortunate attachment to the pleasures of the table, was also an inveterate and unlucky gamester, consequently the allowance of £1,000 a year which he had promised to Mrs. Clarke was always in arrear.

Unable to support the expensive establishment which she had started at the Duke’s instigations, Mrs. Clarke proceeded, with much business aptitude, to sell Commissions in the Army, to arrange promotions, and to effect transfers, pocketing very large sums for her services, which, in most cases, were crowned with success. Colonel Wardle, M.P. for Oakingham, brought the subject before the House of Commons, an enquiry was instituted, Mrs. Clarke was examined as a witness, and stated that she always found the Duke of York willing to promote the gentlemen whose names she recommended to his notice. The evidence taken before the Committee was so damaging to the character of the Duke that he resigned his office before the House had fully decided on its report. Sir David Dundas was appointed Commander-in-Chief, but he only held the position for a short time. As soon as the public indignation had in some degree subsided, the Duke of York resumed the office, having by the clever ruse of a temporary resignation, escaped the almost certain vote of censure of the House of Commons.

Upon these circumstances was founded “_Marmion travestied_; a tale of Modern Times, by Peter Pry, Esq. London; Thomas Tegg, Cheapside. 1809.” The keynote of this amusing volume is given by the motto, taken from Gay:――

_’Tis Woman that seduces all mankind;
By her we first are taught the wheedling arts;
Her very eyes can cheat when most she’s kind;
She tricks us of our money with our hearts._

The Travesty was inscribed by its author to “Walter Scott, Esq., Advocate.” Each canto is introduced by lines addressed either to Sir Francis Burdett, R. B. Sheridan, Sir David Dundas, Sir Robert Peel, or Lord Ellenborough.

The poem consists of 277 pages, octavo, and deals very closely with the Clarke case, so that unless the reader has by him the Report containing the evidence taken before the House, some of the allusions would be unintelligible, especially as the names are only indicated by italics, and the volume is destitute of any explanatory notes.

As one of the longest and most important burlesques in the language it could not be passed over, but unfortunately it offers few passages, which detached from the context, would interest the modern reader, and even these might be considered rather broad in their allusions.

The parody it contains of Lady Heron’s song, _Lochinvar_, is entitled “The Bishop,” an allusion to the fact that the Duke of York was Prince-Bishop of Osnaburg, a post for which his high moral character admirably fitted him.

THE BISHOP.

O, a Bishop from _Surrey_ is come here to pray,
Throughout our dominions no man is more gay;
And save one in a corner, he favourites had none,
For he was so moderate, he lov’d only one;
So faithful in love and so fervent in _pray’rs_
That never did man better manage affairs.

He staid not for cash――tho’ he ask’d for a loan,
But he that cur’d tooth-aches, provided him none;
And ere he’d neglect _things_ of love or of state
He came without money, for fear he’d come late,
For a laggard in love, is a fool, he declares,
Unworthy of Cupid, or e’en state affairs.

To worship his saint did he thus take a trip,
And, quite pilgrim-like, with no cash in his scrip;
When one of the vestals, the Bishop attacked,
(It seems that the altar some sacrifice lack’d),
Oh! come you with money, or come you with pray’rs,
Or come you with vows that you’ll settle affairs?

Without you have cash must your suit be denied,
Love swells like the ocean but ebbs like its tide;
So now I observe――and observe very true,
That if you’ve no money, your kissing won’t do;
Your _Grace_ need not take empty pockets upstairs,
It is a _long-purse_ that must manage affairs.

The saint then appear’d and the Bishop soon pray’d;
His vows――but not one of the house-bills――were paid.
She look’d up for more and she look’d down in vain,
For searching his small clothes, they nought did contain.
She wish’d to know how she should settle arrears,
“Good morrow,” said he, and thus managed affairs.

How sudden his exit――how wild was her look,
For now his departure she scarcely could brook;
While her sister did fret and her housemaid did fume,
And her friends in a passion walk’d all round the room,
And the servants too whisper’d, “She’s wrong, who e’er dares,
To _meddle_ so much with a Bishop’s _affairs_.”

One hint by the way――and one word in your ear
If ever you wish to be _darling_ and _dear_――
Ne’er talk to a Bishop ’bout _mammon_, but know
His _blessing’s_ enough, as the sequel will show;
“She is false――then farewell――let her rail, but who cares;
Another I’ll find that can manage affairs.”

And to manage affairs is a business of art,
A secret which prudence forbids to impart,
A secret which e’en in the Cabinet reigns,
For statesmen can always display ways and means;
In love or in war whoe’er stratagem spares,
Deserves not a blessing to prosper affairs.

The Duke of York died early in 1827, to the great regret of all――his numerous creditors, and the nation erected an expensive monument to commemorate his military genius, and domestic virtues.[39] Perhaps the money might have been as well employed in the payment of some of his debts.

――――:o:――――

THE LADY OF THE LAKE.

The success of _Marmion_ encouraged Scott to produce another poem, and in May, 1810, was published _The Lady of the Lake_, which met with equal favour. In the preface to his new poem Walter Scott made the following sensible remarks:――

“If a man is determined to make a noise in the world, he is
as sure to encounter abuse and ridicule, as he who gallops
furiously through a village, must reckon on being followed
by the curs in full cry. Experienced persons know, that in
stretching to flog the latter, the rider is very apt to
catch a bad fall; nor is an attempt to chastise a malignant
critic attended with less danger to the author. _On this
principle I let parody, burlesque, and squibs, find their
own level_; and while the latter hissed most fiercely, I was
cautious never to catch them up, as school-boys do, to throw
them back against the naughty boy who fired them off, wisely
remembering that they are in such cases apt to explode in
the handling.”

The philosophical temperament of which he here boasts was soon put to a severe test, for George Colman the younger produced a parody in which every technical blemish in _The Lady of the Lake_ was mercilessly ridiculed, and every improbability maliciously exaggerated, whilst Scott’s long Notes on antiquarian and philological topics were imitated with very comical mock gravity. This clever satire was entitled, “THE LADY OF THE WRECK; _or Castle Blarneygig_,” by George Colman the younger, inscribed to the author of “_The Lady of the Lake_.” This poem was published by Longmans and Co., London, and was illustrated by some curious and very well executed little woodcuts. The scene of the story is laid in Ireland, and the author thus explains his reason for selecting that country:――

“Let not the reader, whose senses have been delightfully
intoxicated by that Scottish _Circe_, the “_Lady of the
Lake_,” accuse the present author of plagiary. The wild
Irish and wild Caledonians bore a great resemblance to each
other, in very many particulars; and two Poets, who have any
“method in their madness,” may, naturally, fall into similar
strains of wildness, when handling subjects equally wild and
remote. ’Tis a wild world, my masters! The author of this
work has merely adopted the style which a northern GENIUS
has, of late, rendered the Fashion, and the _Rage_. He has
attempted, in this instance, to become a maker of the
_Modern-Antique_; a vendor of a new coinage, begrim’d with
the ancient ærugo; a constructor of _the dear pretty
sublime_, and _sweet little grand_; a writer of a short
epick poem, stuff’d with romantick knick-knackeries, and
interlarded with songs and ballads, _à la mode de_ Chevy
Chase, Edom o’ Gordon, Sir Launcelot du Lake, &c., &c. How
is such a writer to be class’d?”

Scott’s descriptions of scenery, his love of sport, and chivalrous tone are all, in this burlesque, reduced to a very prosaic level; thus the lines in Canto I commencing:――

“The stag at eve had drunk his fill,
Where danced the moon on Monan’s rill,
And deep his midnight lair had made
In lone Glenartney’s hazel shade.”

are, by Colman, rendered thus:――

“The Pig, at eve, was lank, and faint,
Where Patrick is the Patron Saint,
And with his peasant Lord, unfed,
Went, grunting, to their common bed:
But when black night her sables threw
Athwart the slough of Ballyloo,
The deep-mouth’d thunder’s angry roar
Re-bellow’d on the Ulster shore,
And hailstones pelted, mighty big,
The Towers of Castle Blarneygig.
* * * * *
And all the Vassals’ senses lay
Drown’d in the whisky of the day.
Still raged the storm!――still, records run,
All slept in Blarneygig, save one,
Lord of the Castle, and Domain,
Sir Tooleywhagg O’Shaughnashane.”

In Canto II. of _The Lady of the Lake_ occurs the celebrated and often quoted

BOAT SONG.

Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances!
Honour’d and bless’d be the ever-green Pine!
Long may the tree, in his banner that glances,
Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!
Heaven send it happy dew,
Earth lend it sap anew,
Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to grow,
While every Highland glen
Sends our shout back agen,
“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!”
* * * * *
Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands,
Stretch to your oars for the ever-green Pine!
O that the rose-bud that graces yon islands
Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine!
O that some seedling gem,
Worthy such noble stem,
Honour’d and bless’d in their shadow might grow!
Loud should Clan-Alpine then
Ring from the deepmost glen,
“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!”

In Colman’s version the Lord of Castle Blarneygig is the hero of the song:――

“Soon did the deep Cream Crutin twang,
And, thus, as loud the chorus rang,
The Vassals, at the Banquet, sang.”

BANQUET SONG.[40]

Hail our Chief! now he’s wet through with whiskey;
Long life to the Lady come from the salt seas!
Strike up, blind harpers! skip high to be frisky!
For what is so gay as a bag-full of fleas?
Crest of O’Shaughnashane!――
That’s a Potato, plain,――
Long may your root every Irishman know!
Pats long have stuck to it,
Long bid good luck to it;
Whack for O’Shaughnashane! Tooleywhagg, ho!

Our’s is an esculent lusty and lasting;
No turnip nor other weak babe of the ground;
Waxy or mealy, it hinders from fasting
Half Erin’s inhabitants, all the year round.
Wants the soil, where ’tis flung,
Hog’s, cow’s, or horse’s dung,
Still does the Crest of O’Shaughnashane grow;
Shout for it, Ulster men,
Till the bogs quake again!
Whack for O’Shaughnashane! Tooleywhagg, ho!

Drink, Paddies, drink to the Lady so shining!
While flouret shall open, and bog-trotter dig,
So long may the sweet Rose of Beauty be twining
Around the potato of proud Blarneygig!
While the plant vegetates,
While whisky recreates,
Wash down the root from the horns that o’erflow;
Shake your shillalahs, boys!
Screeching drunk, scream your joys!
Whack for O’Shaughnashane! Tooleywhagg, ho!

The Song in Canto III, commencing thus:――

The heath this night must be my bed,
The bracken curtain for my head,
My lullaby the warder’s tread,
Far, far, from love and thee, Mary;
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid,
My couch may be my bloody plaid,
My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid!
It will not waken me, Mary!
* * * * *

is thus parodied:――

SONG OF THE BRIDEGROOM.

Don’t, now, be after being coy;
Sit still upon my lap, dear joy!
And let us at our breakfast, toy,
For thou art Wife to me, Judy!
And I am bound, by wedlock’s chain,
Thy humble sarvant to remain,
Sir Tooleywhagg O’Shaughnashane,
The Husband unto thee, Judy!
* * * * *
The skins of Wolves,――by me they bled,――
Are covers to our Marriage-Bed;
Should one, in hunting, bite me dead,
A widow thou wilt be, Judy!
Howl at my wake! ’twill be but kind;
And if I leave, as I’ve design’d,
Some little Tooleywhaggs behind,
They’ll sarve to comfort thee, Judy!

Several other parts of this parody might be quoted, but unfortunately Mr. Colman’s muse was not quite so chaste as that of Walter Scott.

――――

The libretto of an Italian opera was founded upon _The Lady of the Lake_ (and such librettos are always burlesques on the original poem), besides which it has been frequently represented, in various forms, on the stage. One very amusing version, by Andrew Halliday, entitled “MOUNTAIN DHU; or, the Knight, the Lady, and the Lake,” was produced at the Adelphi Theatre, on December 26, 1866. This burlesque was full of parodies of Scotch songs with topical allusions. The leading parts were performed by Mrs. Alfred Mellon, Miss Furtado, and Paul Bedford, with J. L. Toole as Rhoderick Dhu. About the same time Miss M. Oliver produced “_The Lady of the Lake_ plaid in a new Tartan, an ephemeral burlesque,” by R. Reece, at the New Royalty Theatre, London, but this was decidedly inferior in literary merit to Mr. Halliday’s _Mountain Dhu_.

――――

“HAIL TO THE CHIEF!”
(A_ Popular Pæan. After Sir Walter._)

Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances!
Sharp be his axe, and resplendent its shine,
Long may the light of his fire-flashing glances!
Fervently flame in the front of our line!
Heaven his strength renew,
Still keep him stout and true,
Gaily to battle, and greatly to grow;
While all true Englishmen
Send forth the shout agen,
“Gladstone victorious! Ho-ieroe!”

Ours is no stripling, no Knight of the Carpet!
Blooming at seventy, when shall he fade?
Him, of the People, in Peace or in War, pet,
Years cannot fetter, nor foes make afraid,
Firm as the fixèd rock,
Braving the tempest’s shock,
Faster he roots him the fiercer it blow.
England and Scotland then
Echo his praise agen,
“Gladstone victorious! Ho-ieroe!”

Far in Midlothian his pibroch pealed loudly,
And Torydom’s shout to his slogan replied.
Dauntless Dalkeith there confronted him proudly,
But little the Veteran recked of his pride.
“Fagots” all prostrate laid
Long shall lament his raid,
Think of “Old Gladstone” with wonder and woe:
Buccleuch’s brave voting men
Shake when they hear agen
“Gladstone victorious! Ho-ieroe!”

Shout, bearers, shout, for the Pride of the Party!
Lift on your shoulders the evergreen Chief.
Stalwart at seventy, stout, hale, and hearty,
Who of his laurels will grudge him a leaf?
And there’s a stripling gem,
Worthy the ancient stem――
Middlesex missed him, but Leeds won’t say “No.”
Loud shall all England then
Shout for the pair agen,
“Gladstone and Gladstone’s boy! Ho-ieroe!”

_Punch_, April 24, 1880.

――――:o:――――

The following lines are in imitation of the opening of Canto III., entitled _The Gathering_. They are _apropos_ of Mr. Gladstone’s visit to Scotland in August, 1884, during the agitation about the Franchise Bill.

RAISING THE “FIERY CROSS.”
(_Some way after Sir Walter Scott_).

Time rolls his ceaseless course. That fight of yore,
When the Great Earl was beaten to his knee,
When Gladstone’s rhetoric rolled from shore to shore,
Herald and harbinger of victory,
Is not yet blotted from man’s memory.
How few, how weak and withered of their force
The Tory remnant, which all men might see
Like stranded wrecks. The tide returning hoarse
Sets them afloat again! Time rolls its ceaseless course.

There yet live those who can remember well
When last the Liberal Chief his bugle blew;
When county broad and borough big, as well
As far Midlothian’s heart, the signal knew,
And fast the faithful clan around him drew.
And now again his warning note is wound,
Again the banner floats as then it flew;
Whilst now the clamorous war-pipes shrilly sound,
And now the Fiery Cross gleams like a meteor round.

The Summer Sun’s effulgent hue
Gilds Scotia’s skies of bluest blue;
Autumn’s at hand, but a brisk breeze,
Born of conflicting policies,
Blows o’er the land, and leisure coy,
And sport’s supreme soul-stirring joy,
Are not for Members sorely prest,
The prospect of unbroken rest
In dull uncertainty still lies
Far off, ’neath drear December’s skies.
The Peers have crossed the People’s right,
And there is bound to be a fight!
Against the ermine and the lawn
The proletariat blade is drawn,
Members must leave the mountain’s side,
The trout stream’s swift and silvery glide;
To raise the sword and shout the cry
Amidst the roused democracy.
Good-bye to grouse, to health’s fair flush,
The pheasant’s whirr, the salmon’s rush,
War’s raven croaks, the cushat dove
Hushes her notes of peace and love.

No thought of peace or Autumn rest
Hath harbour in the Chieftain’s breast.
With unsheathed broadsword in his hand,
He’ll pace the war-awakened land.
Strife’s rising he has heard and laid
His hand upon his ready blade,
His foot’s a rock. His vassals’ care
Midlothian promptly will prepare,
Where he aforetime lessons taught
With deep and deathful meaning fraught;
Where they shall meet and whence abroad
The Cross of Fire shall take its road.
The land would hear his vocal blasts,
And see the flashing glance he casts:
Such glance the mountain-eagle throws,
When high among the peaks and snows
He spreads his pinions on the wind,
And, like an albatross reclined
Mid-air, with his broad shadow hushes
The chirpers of the brakes and bushes.
’Tis all prepared! Firm as a rock,
And bold to brave the stormiest shock,
With kindling eye, with floating plaid,
Wide waving hair and flashing blade,
The Chieftain stands, heroic, grim,
Of dauntless front, and sinewy limb.
The Cross is shaped, and held on high;
The Chieftain of the eagle eye
Rears it aloft with clutch of steel,
Whilst far resounds his fierce appeal:――
“When flits this Cross from man to man,
Vich-Gladstone’s summons to his clan,
Woe to the clansman who shall view
This symbol, loved of followers true,
Forgetful that when last the blue
Beheld its blaze its beaconing drew
Beaconsfield’s glory low!
Deserter of his Chieftain’s trust,
He shall be scattered like the dust,
And from all loyal gatherings thrust,
Each clansman’s execration just
Shall doom him wrath and woe!”
He stops;――the word his followers take
With forward step and fiery shake
Of naked brands that lightnings make,
And clattering shields that echoes wake;
And first in murmur low,
Then like a Demonstration’s course
That Hyde parkwards doth his in force,
And purple shouts itself, and hoarse,
Burst from that thousand-throated source,
“Woe to such traitors, woe!”

The Chiefs grey locks defiant wave,
The Tories scarce that Cross may brave;
The exulting Rads hurrah afar――
They know the voice of Gladstone’s War!

_Punch_, August 30, 1884.

――――:o:――――

ROKEBY.

_Rokeby_ was the next important poem produced by Scott,――it appeared early in 1813, and was quickly followed by a burlesque, entitled “JOKEBY; _a Burlesque on Rokeby_. A Poem in Six Cantos, by an Amateur of Fashion.” To which are added _Occasional Notes_, by our most popular characters. London, printed for Thomas Tegg, 1813. The notes are in imitation of the style of learned commentators, and are signed by Sheridan, Kemble, Colman, and others. The only portion of this now-forgotten parody which is worth quoting, is a song founded on that in Canto III. _Rokeby_, commencing:――

“O, Brignall banks are wild and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there,
Would grace a summer queen.”

SONG.

Oh, Giles’s lads are brave and gay,
The pride of Dyott Street,
And though in dwellings low they stay,
Yet snug is their retreat.
And as I walked thro’ Russel-square,
To see what I could see,
A fair one from a window there
Was singing merrily

_Chorus_――

“Oh, Giles’s lads are brave and gay,
The pride of Dyott Street;
I’d rather with my Cymon stray,
Than live in country seat.”

If, fair, thou wou’dst for me agree,
To leave this house and place,
Thou first must guess what boys we are,
Who sweet St. Giles’s grace.
And if thou can’st this riddle tell,
As tell you may with ease,
Then shalt thou enter soon our cell,
As merry as you please.

_Chorus_――

Yet sung she “Giles’s lads are gay,
The pride of Dyott Street;
I’d rather with my Cymon stray,
Than live in country seat.”

“I guess you by your awkward feet,
And by your stoop to boot;
I guess you for a taylor meet,
To make a marriage _suit_.”
“A taylor, madam, bends his knees,
And not for sake of prayer;
His legs are always fix’d at ease,
And mine are here and there.”

_Chorus_――

Yet sung she, “Giles’s lads are gay,
The pride of Dyott Street;
I wish I could with Cymon stray,
And see his snug retreat.”

“By the fine compliments I’ve met,
And by your gallant airs,
I guess you for a ’Squire’s valet,
Who for him lies and swears.”
“No servant I to any Squire,
Nor yet a place have I,
And when that trials hard require,
I can both swear and lie.”

_Chorus_――

And, oh! though Giles’s lads are gay,
The pride of Dyott Street,
Yet never lass with me shall stray,
To see our snug retreat.

“Lady, a shameful life I lead,
A shameful death I’ll die;
The man who labours hard for bread
Were better spouse than I.
And when I meet my comrades rare,
In places distant far;
We all forget what once we were,
Nor think on what we are.”

_Chorus_――

Yet Giles’s lads are bold and gay,
The pride of Dyott Street;
And ever true and merry they,
Within their snug retreat.