Chapter XVII: Canto VI: ―― (2)

_Jokeby_ went through many editions, although to a modern reader it seems almost destitute of humour or talent. It has been attributed to John Roby, and also to Thomas Tegg, its publisher, whilst the Editor of _Parodies_ copied the following note from a copy of _Jokeby_, which had belonged to the late Shirley Brooks, Editor of _Punch_:――“This was written by the Brothers Smith (of Rejected Addresses). I picked it up at a bookstall near Baker Street. The work is not good for much, but I suppose is now scarce, so this may as well be kept.――_Shirley Brooks_, 17th October, 1873.” But it seems most improbable that this poor imitation should have been the work of either of the Smiths, whose admirable parody of Scott in the _Rejected Addresses_, which was given on page 72, shows what they could do in that way.

There was also _Smokeby_ a Parody of the same poem, which appeared in an early number of the _Ephemerides_, a literary serial, published in Edinburgh in 1813. _Rokeby the Second_ is the title of a long, and rather dull, parody which appeared in _The Satirist_, of March. 1813. The events recounted in the poem are supposed to have occurred immediately after the dreadful fight between Tom Cribb and Molineux. The chief aim of this production was to ridicule Scott for the inordinate length of the notes to his poems, for in a preface entitled “An Essay on the Art of Book Making,” the author remarks: “It must be known to everyone, that in modern bookmaking, little depends on the _poetry_ of a _poem_. The notes are the thing on which success depends. In these, difficult as it may seem to come up to the authors of Childe Harold and Rokeby, I am vain enough to think I shall not be found wanting.” Accordingly, the notes are very long (as well as rather broad), and have very little connection indeed with the parody itself.

The Satirist, _or Monthly Meteor_ (London), first appeared on October 1, 1807, and was discontinued in 1814. It contained numerous political parodies, and with each number there was a large coloured folding cartoon. The tone of the _Satirist_ was decidedly Tory, and both in its cartoons and its letterpress the Whigs were roundly abused and ridiculed.

The parts published December, 1808, and January, 1809, contained two articles entitled “_Second Sight_,” which professed to be a review of a new poem entitled “MACARTHUR, _an Epic Poem_, in six Cantos, by Walter Scott, Esq.” This review not only gave the plot of the supposed work, but also quoted several extracts from it, such as the following:――

“And every eye was turn’d to see
What such a goodly smell might be!
When, lo! upon the sideboard plac’d,
With mottoes quaint and scutcheons grac’d,
And crest erect on high;
In noble dish of china-ware,
Adorn’d with gold and pictures rare,
Stood, and perfumed the neighbouring air,
A lofty pigeon-pie!
And round its edge, in _bas relieve_,
The curious gazer might perceive
S.W. and P.I.!
* * * * *
Knows well, no doubt the curious sage,
And poet’s mind, and head of age,
What such devices mean;
Who made this pie, of high renown,
A baker was, of Derby town,
His sire reap’d beards at Horsleydown,
An honest wight, I ween;
His sister a damsel of Etwall-ash,
His mother a matron of Enfield-wash,
And laundress to the Queen!
And long could he trace his ancestry,
Too long for my weak minstrelsy.”
* * * * *

――――:o:――――

VALENTINES,
_A Fragment._

… “It was then proposed that we should each of us compose a poem for the next St. Valentine’s Day. The idea was readily adopted, and the MINSTREL, who has a knack of pouring the unpremeditated lay, after a very short prelude on the bagpipes, sang the following irregular lines, accompanying his voice with great taste on that expressive instrument:――

I who, of Norham’s castled steep,
And Tweed’s fair river, broad and deep,
And Cheviot’s mountains lone;
The battled towers, the Donjon keep,
The loophole grates where captives weep,
The flanking walls that round it sweep,
Built of the thickest stone:――

Of stalworth knight and champion grim
With square-turn’d joints and strength of limb;
Of Haco’s floating banner trim;
Of Wallace wight, and Martin Swart,
Who came on baker Simnel’s part;
Of abbots, monks and jovial friars,
Of simple nuns and purblind priors,
Of heralds, pursuivants, and squires;
And wanton lady’s charms;
Of painted tabards, proudly showing
Gules, argent, or, or azure glowing,
And him, that Satirist, so knowing,
Of whom we still make some account,
Sir David Lindsay, of the mount,
Lord lion king at arms:――
* * * * *
I, who have sung of all of these;――
And eke of that same cuckold lord,
Sir Hugh the Heron bold,
Baron of Twissel and of Ford,
And Captain of the Hold.
Who led the Falcon knight to the deas,
And posted him full high
With a fresh broach’d pipe of Malvoisie
And a savoury venison pie:
From the bare north, my distant home
A border minstrel, lo! I come;
Who much, I ween, have pored
On many a huge unwieldy tome
Imprinted at the antique dome,
Of Caxton, or de Worde:

To dear St. Valentine no thrush,
Sings livelier from a Springtide bush;
Then pay me half-a-crown a line,
And I will be thy Valentine.”

This Valentine parody appeared in _The Satirist_ for February, 1810, with another poem imitating the style of M. G. Lewis.

In January, 1811, there was another long parody of Walter Scott, in the same journal. It was entitled _The Ovation of the Empty Chair_, and commenced:――

O that I had the muse I wot,
The buxom muse of Walter Scott,
Whose wand’ring verse and vagrant rhymes,
Recite the tales of other times;
Then should that simple muse declare,
_Th’ ovation of the empty chair_.

This parody relates to the imprisonment in the Tower of Sir Francis Burdett, the Radical Member for Westminster, and father of the present Lady Burdett Coutts.

――――:o:――――

On the death of Mr. Henry James Pye, the Poet Laureate, in 1813, and during the discussion which ensued as to his probable successor, _The Satirist_ published a collection of applications for the post. These applications (supposed to have been written by the most eminent poets of the day), contained specimens of such odes and addresses as they would have been prepared to manufacture in praise of the monarch, and his family, on appointment to the office. The authors thus parodied were Hannah More, George Colman, Lord Byron, W. Wordsworth, Thomas Campbell, Robert Southey, Walter Scott, and George Crabbe. The notes which accompanied the parodies were more interesting than the poems themselves, of which, indeed, the only one which would be worth quoting was a parody on Robert Southey. That on Walter Scott was poor stuff, and most of the others are quite out of date.

――――:o:――――

WALTER SCOTT, ESQ., TO HIS PUBLISHERS.

Be not discouraged――gentlemen,
Tho’ criticism has run me down――
Tho’ burlesque has assum’d my pen,
And Plagiary stole my renown――
Give me more cash――I’ll take more pains,
And far surpass my former strains
In Metaphor and thought.
My fancy too shall soar so high,
That burlesque writers I’ll defy,
And critics set at naught.

Successful in my first essay,
My friends began to greet――
My _First_, entitled the _Last_ Lay――
No minstrel sung more sweet――
Then envy slept and I became,
At once a Poet of great fame;
For much applause I had――
Proud of the offspring of my pen,
I was resolved to write agen,
And to my laurels add.

My _Marmion_ I then gave the town,
In strains energetic and bold;
The critics were ready to own,
The battle sublimely was told.
But one _Peter Pry_,
His humour must try,
To burlesque the poem I’d written;
To me it did seem
A wonderful theme,
For any to exercise wit on.

Resolved another work to make,
I wrote the _Lady of the Lake_;
The Lady was so much the rage,
That she was brought upon the stage;
But grief to tell!
The younger Colman must think fit,
(In order to display his wit)
My Lady, who the Lake did deck,
To make _the Lady of the_ WRECK;
Nor was this all――for――oh, for shame!
Presumptuous Plagiary, I wot,
Stole all my sentiments and plot,
And made a _novel_ of the same.

I’ll nought of _Don Roderic_ say,
For that, sirs, had never fair play
And well the poor author may rail
In oblivion Don Roderic lay;
For all must allow,
There wer’nt puffs enow,
And how could it then have a sale?

I then my dear _Rokeby_ devised――
By MURRAY ’twas well advertised;
For he made a boast
In the _Times_ and the _Post_,
(And many the puffs too believed)
That he the _first copies_ received――
But oh my unfortunate Rokeby;
Who e’er of a parody dream’t,
To bring thee thus into comtempt,
Metamorphosing thee into JOKEBY.
When I saw――oh, how great was my passion,
The bills upon Edinburgh wall――
Fit dress for this writer of fashion[41]――
I sent men to cover them all.

Now, gentlemen, as I have hinted,
I wish a new work to be printed――
Another’s already prepared,
Then don’t let your money be spared.
I hate in my price to be stinted――
’Tis such――it will baffle all wit,
’Tis such that no burlesque can hit;
’Tis such so sublime and so grand――
The critics will not understand.
And I long――ah, I long now to show ’em,
The charms of my forthcoming Poem.

From ACCEPTED ADDRESSES, or _Præmium Poetarum_. London, Thomas Tegg,
1813.

――――:o:――――

“THE POETIC MIRROR, _or the Living Bards of Britain_,” is the title of a small volume published by Longmans & Co., London, in 1816. This contains poems which are ascribed, in the index, to Lord Byron, Walter Scott, W. Wordsworth, James Hogg, S. T. Coleridge, J. Wilson, and Robert Southey. In the introduction the Editor remarks that he claims no merit save that of having procured from the authors the various Poems contained in the volume, and he leads one to believe that the names affixed to the Poems represent the real authors.

The Editor of _Parodies_ purchased this little old book in March, 1879, and by a singular coincidence he picked up in the same shop “_The Altrive Tales_,” by the Ettrick Shepherd (London, 1832). This contains a memoir of the author, James Hogg, written by himself. In it Hogg thus describes the origin of _The Poetic Mirror_: “My next literary adventure was the most extravagant of any. I took it into my head that I would collect a poem from every living author in Britain, and publish them in a neat and elegant volume, by which I calculated I might make my fortune. I applied to Southey, Wilson, Wordsworth, Lloyd, Morehead, Pringle, Paterson, and several others, all of whom sent me poems. Wordsworth reclaimed his, Byron and Rogers both promised, but neither of them ever performed. Walter Scott absolutely refused to furnish me with even one verse, which I took exceedingly ill, as it frustrated my whole plan. I began, with a heavy heart, to look over the pieces I had received, and lost all hope of the success of my project. After considering them well, I fancied that I could write a better poem than any that had been sent to me, and this so completely in the style of each poet, that it should not be known but for his own production. It was this conceit that suggested to me the idea of “The Poetic Mirror, or the Living Bards of Britain.” I wrote nearly all of it in three weeks, and in less than three months it was published. The second poem in the volume, namely, the Epistle to R―――― S―――― is not mine. It was written by Mr. Thomas Pringle, and was not meant as an imitation of Scott’s manner, although in the contents it is ascribed to his pen. I do not set any particular value on any poem in the work by myself, except “The Gude Greye Katte,” which was written as a caricature of “The Pilgrims of the Sun,” and some others of my fairy ballads. It is greatly superior to any of them.”

It is only just to the memory of James Hogg to add that the poems in the _Poetic Mirror_ cannot be termed _Parodies_; they are rather imitations of style, and all the authors mentioned are treated with forbearance; Wordsworth, alone comes in for some slight criticism, called forth by his intense egotism, and offensive self-assertion, of which Hogg, in his memoir, gives some amusing instances.

Besides the Epistle addressed to Southey, in the name of Walter Scott, there is a long poem, in three Cantos, entitled “_Wat o’ the Cleuch_,” which would pass very well as a minor poem by Walter Scott himself. In style it somewhat resembles _Marmion_, whilst _Lochinvar_ was evidently in the author’s mind when he wrote the following sketch of his robber hero:――

WALSINGHAME’S SONG.

O heard ye never of Wat o’ the Cleuch?
The lad that has worrying tikes enow,
Whose meat is the moss, and whose drink is the dew,
And that’s the cheer of Wat o’ the Cleuch.
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
Woe’s my heart for Wat o’ the Cleuch!

Wat o’ the Cleuch sat down to dine
With two pint stoups of good red wine;
But when he looked they both were dry;
O poverty parts good company!
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
O for a drink to Wat o’ the Cleuch!

Wat o’ the Cleuch came down the Tine
To woo a maid both gallant and fine;
But as he came o’er by Dick o’ the side
He smell’d the mutton and left the bride.
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
What think ye now of Wat o’ the Cleuch?

Wat o’ the Cleuch came here to steal,
He wanted milk, and he wanted veal;
But ere he wan o’er the Beetleston brow
He hough’d the calf, and eated the cow!
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
Well done, doughty Wat o’ the Cleuch!

Wat o’ the Cleuch came here to fight,
But his whittle was blunt, and his nag took fright,
And the braggart he did what I dare not tell,
But changed his cheer at the back of the fell.
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
O for a croudy to Wat o’ the Cleuch!

Wat o’ the Cleuch kneel’d down to pray,
He wist not what to do or to say;
But he pray’d for beef, and he pray’d for bree,
A two-hand spoon and a haggies to pree.
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
That’s the cheer for Wat o’ the Cleuch!

But the devil is cunning as I heard say,
He knew his right, and haul’d him away;
And he’s over the border and over the heuch,
And off to hell with Wat o’ the Cleuch.
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
Lack-a-day for Wat o’ the Cleuch!

But of all the wights in poor Scotland,
That ever drew bow or Border brand,
That ever drove English bullock or ewe,
There never was thief like Wat o’ the Cleuch.
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
Down for ever with Wat o’ the Cleuch!

――――:o:――――

“Warreniana; _with Notes Critical and Explanatory_, by the Editor of a Quarterly Review,” is the title of a small volume of imitations, published by Longmans and Co., London, in 1824. The Editor signs his prefatory remarks “W.G.” but there is every reason to believe that the work was written by a Barrister, Mr. William Frederic Deacon, who died in, or about 1845. The motto on the title-page gives the key-note to the motive of the poems, “_I have even been accused of writing Puffs for Warren’s Blacking_,” LORD BYRON. Warren’s Blacking inspires each composition, but whether seriously or in jest, can be best judged by the following extract from the dedication to the King: “Deign then, oh best of Princes, to justify the Editor’s appeal, that posterity may learn how Warren enlarged the bounds of science, and his Sovereign bowed approval. Long after the trophies of a Wellington shall have floated down the Lethe of oblivion, the name of Guelph, eternised by the gratitude of Warren, shall flourish to after ages, the Medici of modern art. That as yet this mighty manufacturer has lived comparatively unnoticed, he casts no reflection on your Majesty; he resigns that office to his Blacking, but feels with the sensitiveness of neglected genius, that intellect, like the oak, is but tardy in the attainment of its honours.”

This dedication is followed by an introduction stating that Robert Warren had lately engaged all the intellect of England in his behalf, each author being required to furnish a modicum of praise in the style to which he was best adapted. The result being a collection of writings attributed to Washington Irving, William Wordsworth, Leigh Hunt, Robert Southey, Lord Byron, S. T. Coleridge, Sir Walter Scott, and other authors of less note.

The imitation of Scott is entitled:――

THE BATTLE OF BRENTFORD GREEN.

“_In the autumn of 1818, a serious affray took place between those illustrious rivals, Warren, and Day and Martin. The parties, as I learn from the black litter record of the fray, met at Brentford, and after a ‘well-foughtenfield,’ victory was decided in favour of the former Chieftain._”

The first Canto describes a Wassail in the banquetting-hall of Robert Warren. The second Canto, which is the better of the two, is entitled:――

THE COMBAT.

’Tis merry――’tis merry on Brentford Green,
When the holiday folk are singing,
When the lasses flaunt with lightsome mien,
And the Brentford bells are ringing;
Well armed in stern unyielding mood.
High o’er that Green the Warren stood;
A burly man was he,
Girt round the waist with ’kerchief blue,
And clad in waistcoat dark of hue,
And thick buff jerkin gay to view,
And breeches of the knee:
Beside him stood his trusty band,
With hat on head, and club in hand,
Loud shouting to the fight;
Till answering shrill, street, alley, lane,
O’er hill and heather, wood and plain,
Sent forth the deepened sounds again,
With voice of giant might.

Charge, Warren, charge; yon battle Green,
Glitters afar with silvery sheen,
The lightning of the storm;
Where bands of braggarts bluff in mien,
With ragged Irishmen are seen,
Dreadful and drunken all, I ween,
A phalanx fierce to form:
Saint George! it was a gallant sight,
To ken beneath the morning light,
The shifting lines sweep by;
In mailed and measured pace they sped,
The earth gave back their hollow tread,
’Till you mote think the charnelled dead
Were howling to the sky.
“Hark, rolls the thunder of the drum,
The foe advance――they come, they come!
Lay on them,” quoth the Day;
“God for the right! on Brentford Heath,
Our bugles stern and stormy breath,
Summons to victory or to death;
Hurrah then, for the fray!”

Hurrah, hurrah! from rear to flank,
In vengeance rung along each rank;
And the red banners (formed by hap
Of two old shirts stitched flap to flap)[42]
Waved lordlier at the cry:
’Till every proud and painted scrap,
Shivered like plume in ’prentice cap,
Or cloud in winter sky.
The Warren first this squad espied,
Ranged man to man in ruffian pride,
And to each warrior at his side
In vaunting phrase began,
“Rush on, ye ragamuffins, rush,
All Brentford to a blacking brush,
My foeman leads the van.”

On rushed each lozel to the fight,
Ruthless as flood from mountain height,
The bludgeons clattered fierce and fast,
And dealt destruction as they past,
While high as some tall vessel’s mast,
Warren o’erlooked the shock;
Thence bore him back with might and main;
Brickbats and bludgeons fell like rain,
Stones, sticks and stumps, all, all in vain,
He stemmed them like a rock;
His foeman chief with wary eye,
The flickering of the fight could spy,
And shouted as his bands he led,
To Pat O’Thwackum at their head,
“Thwackum, press on――ne’er mind your scars,
Press on――they yield――and oh, my stars!
Each nose is bleeding fast;
Strike, strike,――their skulls like walnuts cracking
For Day, for Martin, and his blacking,
The battle cannot last.”

Vain charge! the Warren dauntless stood,
Though ankle deep flowed seas of blood,
Till Thwackum fierce towards him flies,
His breast with choler glows,
Rage flashes from his mouth and eyes,
And claret from his nose.
The foemen meet――they thump, they thwack!
Hark! burst the braces on their back!
And, hark! their skulls in concert crack!
And, hark! their cudgels clatter, whack!
With repercussive shocks:
See, see they fall――down, down they go,
Warren above, his foe below,
While high o’er all ascends the cry
Of “Warren,” “Warren,” to the sky,
And “Thwackum” to the stocks.

Oh! for a blast of that tin horn,
Through London streets by newsmen borne,
That tells the wondering host
How murder, rape, or treason dread,
Deftly concocted, may be read
In Courier, Times, or Post;
Then in dramatic verse and prose,
The martial muse should tell
How Warren triumphed o’er his foes,
How Thwackum fought and fell,
And how, despite his cartel, Day
Hied him, like recreant, from the fray.

’Tis done――the victors all are gone,
And fitfully the sun shines down
On many a bruised and burly clown,
The flower of whose sweet youth is mown,
To blossom ne’er again;
For e’en as grass cut down is hay,
So flesh when drubbed to death, is clay,
As proved each hind who slept that day
On Brentford’s crimson plain.
Sad was the sight, for Warren’s squad
Bravely lay sprawling on the sod;
They scorned to turn their tails,――for why?
They had no tails to turn awry,
So dropped each where he stood.

First Ned of Greenwich kissed the ground,
Then Figgins from Whitechapel pound,
Mark Wiggins from Cheapside,
Whackum and Thwackum from Guildhall,
The two O’Noodles from Blackwall,
Noggins the Jew from London Wall,
And Scroggins from Saint Bride:
Tim Bobbin tumbled as he rose
To join the motley chase,
Joe Abbot, spent by Warren’s blows
Lay snug ensconced, and Danson’s nose
Was flattened to his face:
Stubbs too, of Brentford Green the rose,
Would have essayed to pour
On one――on all, his wrath red hot
As blacksmith’s anvil, had he not
Been hanged the day before.

Illustrious brave if muse like mine
May bid for aye, your memories shine
In fame’s recording page;
Each wounded limb, each fractured head,
Albeit tacked up in honour’s bed,
Shall live from age to age;
And still on Brentford Green while springs
The daisy, while the linnet sings
Her valentine to May,
The sympathising hind shall tell
Of those who fought and those who fell,
At Brentford’s grim foray.

L’Envoy to the Reader.

Now, gentles, fare ye well, my rede
Hath reached an end, nor feel I need
To add to Warren’s fame, my meed
Of laudatory rhymes;
Far loftier bards his praise rehearse,
And prouder swells his daily verse
In Chronicle or Times.
Enough for me on summer day,
To pipe some simple oaten lay,
Of goblin page or border fray,
To rove in thought through Teviotdale,
Where Melrose wanes a ruin pale,
(The sight and sense with awe attacking,)
Or skim Loch Katherine’s burnished flood,
Or wade through Grampian Moor and mud,
In boots baptized with WARREN’S BLACKING.

――――:o:――――

In 1822 a volume of Poems was published by Hurst, Robinson and Co., of London, and in Edinburgh by Archibald Constable and Co., entitled “THE BRIDAL OF CAÖLCHAIRN, _and other Poems_, by Sir Walter Scott, Bart.”

In the same year another edition was published by T. Hookham, Old Bond Street, London, on the title-page of which the work was said to be “by John Hay Allan, Esq.” The volume was dedicated to the Duke of Argyle, it had no preface, nor any explanation of the author’s impudent attempt to pass off his work upon the public as that of Sir Walter Scott.

The poems are of a serious nature, and would not have been mentioned here, had it not been for the hoax as to their authorship.

――――:o:――――

_Rejected Odes_, edited by Humphrey Hedgehog, Esq. (London, J. Johnston, 1813), contains an imitation of Scott’s poetry, but it is not worth quoting.

When George IV, visited Scotland in August, 1822, Scott wrote an imitation of an old Jacobite ditty, _Carle, now the King’s come_, it was in two parts, and was published as a broadside. This was parodied, under the title of _Sawney, now the King’s come_, of which it is very difficult now to obtain a copy.

In the third volume of the works of the late Thomas Love Peacock (London, R. Bentley and Son, 1875) there is a _Border Ballad_ written in imitation of Sir Walter Scott.

This was one of the “Paper Money Lyrics” which were written by Peacock in 1825, and published in 1837, it has little to interest modern readers.

Several other Parodies of Scott have appeared in _Punch_, in addition to those here reprinted. One, entitled _The Battle of Wimbledon_, which appeared on July 19, 1862, consists principally of an enumeration of the most famous shots amongst the Volunteers of the day. Another, _The Nile Song_, June 6, 1863, in imitation of “Hail to the Chief,” celebrates the announcement made by Sir R. Murchison, at the Royal Geographical Society that Messrs. Speke and Grant had discovered the sources of the Nile.

A few other Parodies of detached passages of Scott’s poems are to be found in the early numbers of Blackwood’s Magazine, some of which were written by Professor Wilson (Christopher North.)

Many of Scott’s novels have been dramatised, and also burlesqued, these will be enumerated when dealing with his prose works. It may here be mentioned, however, that a burlesque of _Kenilworth_, written by R. Reece and H. B. Farnie is now being performed at the Avenue Theatre, London.

PARODIES OF SOME SCOTCH SONGS.

THE LONDON UNIVERSITY.

March, march, dustmen and coal-heavers,
Doff your great castors for brims of less border,
Assume trencher caps in the room of your old beavers,
And march off to school at great Intellect’s order;
For many a poet, who now does not know it,
Professor, historian, logician and great wit,
Mathematician, and famed rhetorician,
Shall start from the dust-cart, or rise from the coal-pit.

March, march, &c.

Come from your shop-boards, ye tailors so nimble,
Come forth, ye Crispins, from out your snug stalls,
No more waste your time on your needle and thimble,
Nor trust to your lapstones, your lasts, and your awls,
Big wigs are debating, professors are waiting,
To make ye all gentlemen, linguists, and great men,
Turn tinkers and tailors to soldiers and sailors,
And qualify dunces and asses for statesmen.

Then march, march, &c.

From _The Spirit of the Age_, 1829

The London University was founded mainly through the exertions of Lord Brougham, and Thomas Campbell, the Poet. It was opened in October, 1828, and was for some time the object of great opposition and ridicule. It was said that every sweep was going to have a college education, and a song, entitled _The Literary Dustman_, became exceedingly popular:――

At sartin schools they make boys write
Their alphabet on sand, sirs,
So I thought dust would do as vell,
And larnt it out of hand, sirs;
Took in the “Penny Magazine,”
And Johnson’s _Dixionary_,
And all the Perio-di-calls
To make me _literary_.

They calls me Adam Bell, ’tis clear,
As Adam vos the fust man,――
And by a co-in-side-ance queer,
Vy, I’m the fust of Dustmen!

――――

SMOKING’S QUITE REGULAR.

“_When pigs run wild about the streets, with straw in their mouths, it is a sign of rain._”――_Old Saying._

Smoke! smoke! Arcade and College-green,
Light your cigars, for smoking’s quite regular.
Smoke! smoke! shop boys and chimney sweeps;
Smoking’s the fashion from _gemman_ to _higgler_.

Blow! blow! smokers and pugilists;
Let there be piping and blowing no matter how.
Blow! blow! zephyrs and organists,
Piping and blowing there’s nothing else thought of now.

Puff! puff! that’s doing what is right.
Puff till you’ve blinded his majesty’s lieges,
Puff! puff! bakers and pastry-cooks,
_Bacca-pipe_ odour each nostril besieges.

Spit! spit! all who love _bacca_ smoke,
For it produces great expectoration;
Spit! spit! smokers and cook wenches,
Let there be spitting without a cessation.

Pipe! pipe! pipers and naughty brats;
Here end my verse, my muse she is rather hoarse,
Quid! quid! what do you think of it?
Excellent metre! I know you all cry of course.

From WISEHEART’S NEW COMIC SONGSTER, Dublin (about 1832, when
smoking was first becoming prevalent).

――――:o:――――

“OH, WHERE, AND OH WHERE.”

(Written by Mrs. Grant, of Laggan, “On the Marquis of Huntly’s departure for the Continent with his Regiment in 1799.”)

Oh where, tell me where, is your Highland Laddie gone?
He’s gone with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done,
And my sad heart will tremble, till he come safely home.

Oh where, tell me where, did your Highland Laddie stay?
He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, beside the rapid _Spey_,
And many a blessing followed him, the day he went away.

Oh what, tell me what, does your Highland Laddie wear?
A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war,
And a plaid across his manly breast, that yet shall wear a star.

Suppose, ah suppose that some cruel cruel wound
Should pierce your Highland Laddie, and all your hopes confound!
The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly,
The spirit of a Highland chief would lighten in his eye!

But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland’s bonny bounds,
His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds,
While wide through all our Highland hills his warlike name
resounds.

――――:o:――――

PUNCH’S SERENADE.

Oh where, and oh where, is my Harry Brougham gone?――
He’s gone to see the French, and Philippe upon his throne,
And it’s oh! in my heart, I wish him safe at home.

Oh where, and oh where, does my Harry Brougham dwell?――
He dwells at Cannes in bonny France, and likes it very well;
But recollect ’tis not the Cann’s where gravy soup they sell.

In what clothes, in what clothes, is your Harry Brougham clad?――
His hunting coat’s of velvet green, his trowsers are of plaid;
And it’s oh! in my heart, he can’t look very bad.

Suppose, and suppose, that your Harry Brougham should die!――
Dog _Toby_ would weep over him, and _Punch_ himself would cry:
But it’s oh! in our hearts, that we hope he will not die.

_Punch_, October 1846.

Lord Brougham went to his château at Cannes.――Passing through Paris, he, as usual, paid his respects to Louis Philippe. _Life of Lord Brougham._

――――

SONG OF THE SLIGHTED SUITOR.

Oh where, and oh where, has my learned counsel gone?
He’s gone to the Queen’s Bench, where a case is coming on,
And it’s oh! in my heart, that I wish my case his own.

What fee, and what fee did your learned counsel clutch?
Five guineas on his brief he did not think too much;――
And it’s oh! if he’s a barrister, I wish he’d act as such.

In what court, in what court is your learned counsel found?
I cannot catch him anywhere, of all he goes the round;――
And it’s oh! in my heart, that to one I wish him bound.

What excuse, what excuse can your learned counsel make?
None at all, none at all, but his head he’ll gravely shake,
And it’s oh! in my heart, that the fee he’s sure to take.

_Punch_, 1848.

――――

THE GREAT KILT REFORM.

Oh where, and oh where, is your Highland Laddie gone?
Oh, he’s gone into the hospital, with pains in every bone;
And it’s oh! in my heart, that I wish he’d breeks put on!

What clothes, oh what clothes, did your Highland Laddie wear?
Oh, his shoulders were well covered, but his legs were left all
bare;
And it’s oh! how that part must have felt the wintry air!

Oh why, and oh why, was your Highland Lad not dress’d?
Oh, some people say with half his clothes the Highlander looks
best;
But it’s oh! in my heart, that I wish he’d wear the rest!

Suppose that his dress, now your Highland lad reform,
Oh, I think ’twould be more decent, and I know ’twould be more
warm;
And it’s oh! in my heart, that I hope he will reform.

Suppose and suppose that they make your Highland lad
Wear decent coat and trowsers, ’stead of kilt and tartan plaid?
Then it’s oh! in my heart, but just should’nt I be glad!

Suppose and suppose that they keep the costume old;
Oh! this winter’s so severe, I’m sure he’ll catch his death of
cold;
And it’s oh! bless my heart! how my Laddie would be sold!

_Diogenes_, p. 22, Vol. 3, 1854.

――――

WANDERING WILLIE.

Oh where, and oh where, has our Wand’ring Willie gone?
He’s gone to fight in Scotland for Radicals forlorn,
And it’s oh, Greenwich town is left alone to mourn.

Oh where, and oh where, has our Wand’ring Willie been?
He’s been down into Scotland to sweep the Tories clean,
And it’s oh, what on earth does our Wand’ring Willie mean?

Oh why, and oh why, did our Wand’ring Willie roam
So far from Greenwich Hospital, so far from Oxford’s dome?
For he knows in his heart he had better stop at home.

In what way, in what way, was our Wand’ring Will addressed?
As if he of all statesmen was wisest, truest, best,
And it’s oh, he must feel this was but a sorry jest.

Oh what, and oh what, does our Wand’ring Willie need?
’Tis hoping to get office he’s gone across the Tweed;
But it is oh, in my heart I hope he won’t succeed.

And oh how, and oh how, would our Wand’ring Willie act
If by his will the Government were out of office packed?
And it’s oh, he don’t know, and oh, that’s a solemn fact.

_Judy_, December 31, 1879.

――――:o:――――

BONNIE DUNDEE; OR, THE STRIKE IN THE KITCHEN.

(Another strike is announced, the malcontents being on this occasion gentlemen’s servants. A crowded meeting of butlers, coachmen, footmen, gardeners, and stablemen was held at Leamington; the butler of Leamington College being in the chair. The demands were for shorter hours and increased pay; while the separation of married couples was deprecated as conducive to immorality. Cheers were given at the conclusion of the meeting for “The Maids of Dundee.”――_Daily Paper_, April 30th, 1872.)

To the gents of the pantry ’twas Yellow-plush spoke,
“This gentleman’s-gentleman’s life is no joke;
And so, fellow-servants, I votes as how we
Go ahead with the maidens of bonnie Dundee.
For, be it a maid, or be it a man,
Our rule is, Do nothing and get all you can.
To compass that object no method I see
Like that of the maidens of bonnie Dundee.

“’Tis true that their meeting all ended in smoke,
What can you expect, though, from weak women-folk?
But that which we like is the pluck――the _esprit_――
Displayed by the maidens of Bonnie Dundee.
So go out on strike, gents, that is your plan;
Of course our arrangements are quite spick and span.
And all our manœuvres more perfect you’ll see
Than the foolish flare up of the maids of Dundee.

“What may not result from this union of schemes,
If only Jemima is aided by Jeames?
We’ll soon be installed in the _salon_, you know,
With masters and missises all down below.
So go in for ‘union’ each Benedict man.
No longer on Hymen let caste lay its ban.
While every Lothario provided shall be
With a mate from the maidens of bonnie Dundee.

“Then come from the pantry, the kitchen, the hall,
From footman gigantic to buttons the small,
And follow your leaders the butlers, as we
Condescend to be led by the girls of Dundee.
Quick! down with the master, and up with the man,
Since that nowadays is society’s plan.
You’ll each one deserve a poor curate to be
If you don’t join your lots with the maids of Dundee.”

_The Hornet_, May 8, 1872.

――――

THE MAIDENS OF BONNIE DUNDEE.

(“The Dundee servant maids have quarrelled with the reporters, whom they charge with having made their meetings ridiculous. They refused to have their last meeting reported.”)

And did they its meeting turn into a joke,
And fun journalistic presume for to poke?
Could anyone aught that’s ridiculous see
In the “platform” assumed by the maids of Dundee?
O be it a maid, or be it a man,
Let each be placed rigidly under the ban.
And henceforth resolve no reports there shall be
Of the talk of the Maidens of Bonnie Dundee.

Dare we hope, as result of this last little game,
The Lords and the Commons will soon do the same?
How much more inviting the papers would be,
If the House followed suit to the Maids of Dundee.
For be it in earnest, or be it in joke,
A deal of the talkee-talk _does_ end in smoke.
Of course the reports are in fault, as _in re_
The counsels astute of the Maids of Dundee.

Should St. Stephen’s be wise, and this maxim adopt,
Every sort of reporting we soon might have stopped.
No longer that twaddling bosh should we see,
“The Toast of the Evening”――all thanks to Dundee
Then go on and prosper, each striking young maid,
You are sweet as the taste of your own marmalade.
From henceforth we’ll hope no memorial to see
Of the doings of maidens in Bonnie Dundee.

_The Hornet_, June 19, 1872.

――――

BONNIE BAR-GEE.

“’Tis a jolly conception!”――’twas Truscott who spoke――
“Though Temple Bar’s gone, we can still have our joke;
So let each civic wag who loves humour and me,
Vote for putting this Stone where the Bar used to be.
Come, out with your trowels, and up with the Stone,
Though Cabmen may cavil, and Bus-drivers groan,
We care for no pleadings or warnings――not we!
For it’s up with the cry, ‘Calipash! Calipee!’”

Now the Stone is erected, objectors are beat,
And the Civic wags laugh at the block in the Fleet,
While Truscott, the joker, cries, “Well, as you see,
’Tis a noble memorial of humour and Me!”
So crash goes the hansom, and smash goes the van,
There’s a mingling together of horse, wheel, and man,
Just over the spot where the Bar used to be
They triumphantly cry, “Calipash! Calipee!”

There are fools in the East as in West, South, or North,
But there yet may be time ere the edict go forth,
Since there _are_ sober men who the reason can’t see
For obstructing the Fleet where the Bar used to be,
Come, put up the trowels, and leave well alone;
Come, abandon the scheme, and have done with the Stone!
For if once set up, ’twould a laughing-stock be,
To be fitly inscribed “Calipash! Calipee!”

_Punch_, September 18, 1880.

The Temple Bar memorial, erected in the centre of a narrow and very busy thoroughfare, cost London over £12,000. So great was the annoyance it caused, both on account of its obstruction and its ugliness, that two policemen were placed to guard it night and day, yet, in spite of their watchfulness, the carvings were smashed wherever they could be reached. The grotesque Griffin which surmounts the memorial is still the laughing stock of every passer-by.

――――

THE DISSOLUTION.

In the House of St. Stephen’s Britannia thus spoke:
You will now be released and can take off the yoke.
As you’ve meddled and muddled till all is at sea,
The majority of you can go to the D.!
You have squandered my money in powder and shot;
Whom you should have protected you gave it to hot.
You did this, and much more, in the name of the free,
So away you incompetents! Go to the D.!

You have fostered intolerance――bigotry’s ban;
Like cowards you turned on a stout-hearted man,
Compensated iniquities lavishly free――
Nearly everything’s gone to the dogs or the D.!
But now my affairs which you’ve scattered and strown,
Perhaps will come right when you leave ’em alone.
Two million! Ah, they to my future will see!
Farewell, then, I’ve done with you――go to the D.!

D. EVANS.

_The Weekly Despatch_, November 15, 1885.

――――

JAWING “J. C.” (AIR, “BONNIE DUNDEE.”)

To the lords of creation ’twas Chamberlain spoke,
“Ere my power go down the Queen’s crown shall be broke!
So each jolly Rad who loves plunder and me,
Let him follow the system of jawing J. C.

Come fill up my inkpot and whittle my pen,
To meeting my radicals! Sing out like men,
Come, open the best way to let us go free,
For plunder’s the system of jawing J. C.”

J. C. he is started, he puffs through the land;
The Whigs they sink backward, dismayed at his “hand;”
But the Leader, douce man, says “Just e’en let him be,
For the party must stick to that deil o’ J. C.”

“Come fill up,” &c.

There are games beyond Gladstone, and fields beyond Forth;
If there’s farms in the Southland, there’s crofts in the North;
There are braw whiskey-drinkers, three thousand times three,
Who’ll “go blind” on the system of jawing J. C.

“Come fill up,” &c.

“Then away to the garrets, the cellars, and slums――
Ere I own to a leader, I’ll funk like my chums.
So tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee,
Ye have nae seen the last of my system and me.

Come fill up my inkpot and whittle my pen,
To meeting my Radicals, sing out like men;
Fling everything open, we all will be free,
For plunder’s the system of jawing J. C.”

_The Globe_, December 1, 1885.

――――:o:――――

“THE CAMPBELL’S ARE COMING.”

Dr. John Cumming, minister of the Scotch church, in London, frequently introduced controversial matters into his sermons, and was at times, rather violent in his denunciations of the Pope, and Roman Catholicism. The Pope wrote inviting him to go to Rome, but intimated that he would not consent to reopen a discussion on theological questions which had long since been decided by his august predecessors. The two following parodies on the subject appeared in _Punch_, which has always been exceedingly bitter in its attacks on the Roman Catholics and their priesthood. So much so that Richard Doyle (himself a Catholic), one of the most talented artists who ever drew for _Punch_, retired from its staff on that account.

THE POP’ AN’ JOCK CUMMING.

The Pop’ an’ Jock Cumming, oh dear, oh dear!
They winna foregather, I fear, I fear;
For Jock certain questions has got to speer
That the Pop’ wad na fancy to hear, hear, hear.

The Pop’ till his Council did all invite,
Wha coudna see Truth, to receive their sight,
“For me” answered Jockie, “noo that’s a’ right;
Just what I wad hae is your light, light, light.

“Ye’ve sic an’ sic points I could ne’er mak’ oot,
An’ want my puir vision illumed aboot;
Mair light is the cure my complaint wad suit;
Sae lighten my darkness an’ doot, doot, doot.

“Do show me your light, abune Lime, or Bude,
Magnesian, Electric――do be sae gude!
Sin’ I’ve been invited, I dinna intrude;
When I cry for light ca’ me not rude, rude, rude.”

The Pop’ to Jock Cumming mak’s no reply;
_Non possumus_, noo, he may truly cry.
’Tis not as it was in the days gane by,
When a Pop’ could his questioner fry, fry, fry.

The Pop’ and his Cardinals sing fu’ sma’,
An’ they grin, an’ they glow’r in their Conclave Ha’,
An’ their auld shaven chaps wi’ dismay do fa,’
Jock Cumming’s dumfounded ’em a’, a’, a’!

_Punch._

――――

HEY, JOHNNY CUMMING!
(Air――“_Hey, Johnny Cope!_”)

Hey, Johnny Cumming! are ye waukin’ yet!
Or aboot the Millennium talkin’ yet?
Gin ye were waukin’ priests wad wait,
To shrive _Johnny Cumming_ i’ the mornin’.

Johnnie wrote a challenge to the _Pop’ o’ Rome_,
Sayin’, “Sin’ till the council ye’ve bid me come,
Gin I gang, can I speak as nae doggie dumb?
I wad speer ye for light i’ the mornin’.”

When _Pawpie_ read the letter on,
He took him pen and ink anon,
We’ll mak’ short wark wi’ this heretic son
O’ _Scotia_ an’ _Knox_ i’ the mornin’.”

A line through _Manning_ the douce auld _Pop’_
To _Johnnie_ did in answer drop;
“Thae questions ye’d speer we canna stop
To re-open the noo of a mornin’.

“There’s nane can doot or deny that we
Are the Lord-Lieutenant o’ Christendie.
D’ye spy ony green in our Paternal ee?
Get hoot wi’ your chaff of a mornin’!

“Ye’re welcome at our council Ha’,
Doon on your marrowbones to fa’
An’ your errors recant, and haud your jaw,
Nae mair o’ your gab i’ the mornin’!

Ye’ll come to mak’ submission mute,
We dinna argue or dispute,
Shall naething say but, ‘There’s Our fute,
Kiss that, _Johnny Cumming_, i’ the mornin’!

When _Johnnie_ gat the _Pop’s_ reply,
Said he, “I baith doot an’ deny
An’ sae do mony mair forbye,
The commission ye claim of a mornin’.”

Twice ten Munich Doctors of canon law
Acknowledge there’s nae rule at a’
To tell what the _Pop_’ says _ex cathedra_’
An’ what aff of his throne i’ the mornin’.”

When Pawpish Doctors disagree
As to what maks gude the _Pop’s_ decree,
The warth o’t canna be ane bawbee
To ae canna Scot of a mornin’.

Nae dogmies _Pio_ will discuss
To prove whilk wad auld Nick _nonplus_:
And sae he cries _non-possumus_;
Canna meet _Johnnie Cumming_ i’ the mornin’.

_Punch._

――――:o:――――

KHARTOUM.

The Camels are coming at last, at last!
Over the desert so fast, so fast!
Daring canoe-men from Canada’s shore
Mock Father Nile, and his cataract’s roar
The might of Old England is felt once more――
Thanks to the Franchise Bill.

The Camels are coming at last, at last!
The dream of dishonour has passed, has passed.
But this we owe not to Gordon’s fame,
Or the growing power of that hero’s name,
Or to Europe’s echoing cry of “Shame”――
But to the Franchise Bill.

The Camels are coming at last, at last!
The trumpets peal forth their warlike blast,
Every nerve must now be strained,
New prestige must now be gained,
Money be spent and blood be rained――
To save the Franchise Bill.

C. B. S.

_The Globe_, September 30, 1884.

――――:o:――――

THE MILLIONAIRE ON THE MOORS.

My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands, my ’art it ain’t ’ere,
My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands, along of the deer;
Along of the wild deer, the buck and the doe;
My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands, I’d ’ave you to know.

I bought bare estates up of lairds proud and poor,
As they ’adn’t the money to live on a moor,
Now like any Duke I my deer-forest keep,
And grouse-shootins also――don’t care much for sheep.

I now and agin leave my ware’ouse be’ind,
Go North for refreshment of ’ealth and of mind,
Where solitude reigns on the ’eath all around,
On the ’ole of my propputty I don’t ’ear a sound.

There’s no eagles now in the mountain’s to scream,
And as for the gos’awk, ‘is whistle’s a dream.
There’s never no falcons a flyin’ about,
Shot down by the keepers to them I bought out.

Poor beggars, and therefore you’ll own they was free,
Theirselves, from romance, quite as much so as me,
In Town whilst attendin’ to bisnis, although
My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands wherever I go.

_Punch_, October 27, 1883.

――――:o:――――

THE TOURIST’S MATRIMONIAL GUIDE THROUGH SCOTLAND.

The following song, to the tune of “_Woo’d and married an’ a’_,” was written by a distinguished Scotch judge, Lord Neaves, it may therefore be taken as giving a correct view of the curious state of the Scotch law relating to marriage.

Ye tourists, who Scotland would enter,
The summer or autumn to pass,
I’ll tell you how far you may venture
To flirt with your lad or your lass;
How close you may come upon marriage,
Still keeping the wind of the law,
And not, by some foolish miscarriage,
Get woo’d and married an’ a’,

_Woo’d and married an’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
And not, by some foolish miscarriage,
Get woo’d and married an’ a’._

This maxim itself might content ye,
That marriage is made――by consent;
Provided its done _de prœsenti_,
And marriage is really what’s meant.
Suppose that young Jocky and Jenny
Say, “We two are husband and wife;”
The witnesses need’nt be many――
They’re instantly buckled for life,

_Woo’d and married an’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
It isn’t with us a hard thing
To get woo’d and married an’ a’._

Suppose the man only has spoken,
The woman just giving a nod.
They’re spliced by that very same token
Till one of them’s under the sod.
Though words would be bolder and blunter,
The want of them isn’t a flaw;
For _nutu signisque loquuntur_
Is good Consistorial Law.

_Woo’d and married an’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
A wink is as good as a word.
To get woo’d and married an’ a’._

If people are drunk or delirious,
The marriage of course will be bad;
Or if they’re not sober and serious,
But acting a play or charade.
It’s bad if it’s only a cover
For cloaking a scandal or sin,
And talking a landlady over
To let the folks lodge in her inn.

_Woo’d and married an’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
It isn’t the mere use of words
Makes you woo’d and married an’ a’._

You’d better keep clear of love-letters,
Or write them with caution and care;
For, faith, they may fasten your fetters,
If wearing a conjugal air.
Unless you’re a knowing old stager,
’Tis here you’ll most likely be lost;
As a certain much-talked-about Major[43]
Had very near found to his cost.

_Woo’d and married an’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
They are perilous things, pen and ink,
To get woo’d and married an’ a’._

I ought now to tell the unwary,
That into the noose they’ll be led,
By giving a promise to marry,
And acting as if they were wed.
But if, when the promise you’re plighting,
To keep it you think you’d be loath,――
Just see that it isn’t in writing,
And then it must come to your oath.

_Woo’d and married ah’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
I’ve shown you a dodge to avoid
Being woo’d and married an’ a’._

A third way of tying the tether,
Which sometimes may happen to suit,
Is living a good while together,
And getting a married repute.
But you who are here as a stranger,
And don’t mean to stay with us long,
Are little exposed to that danger,
So here I may finish my song.

_Woo’d and married an’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
You’re taught now to seek or to shun
Being woo’d and married an’ a’._

CHARLES, LORD NEAVES.

――――:o:――――

PROMISE AND PERFORMANCE.[44]
AIR――“_Charley is my darling._”

Charley was so daring, so daring, so daring,
Charley was so daring, yet somehow durstn’t fight;
For Cronstadt looked so scaring, so scaring, so scaring,
Cronstadt looked so scaring, it frightened him outright.

Its forts he vowed he’d shatter, he’d shatter, he’d shatter,
The forts he swore he’d shatter, no stone of them should stand:
But this was merely chatter, mere after-dinner chatter,
He changed his note when soberly the stones themselves he
scanned.

“Your cutlasses prepare boys, prepare boys, prepare boys,
For victory depends upon the sharpness of your fire;
But at Cronstadt we’ll but stare boys, but stare boys, but stare
boys,
Then home again in safety all right gallantly retire.

And if they ask us why, boys, our strength we didn’t try, boys,
’Stead of taking it for granted if we fought that we’d be beat;
’Twas the fault of Jimmy Graham, the swab (I’d like to flay him!)
Who with boys and with old women had manned our precious fleet.”

And now the War is over, Sir Charley’s turned a rover,
And arm in arm with Constantine inside the forts has seen;
And he swears ’twas deuced lucky he more prudent was than plucky,
Or sunk and smashed and shattered every ship of his had been!

Now with all respect for Charley, who did his work so rarely,
_Punch_ holds that British oak’s as tough as ’twas in Dibdin’s
day;
And _Punch_ states without shrinking, he’s not alone in thinking,
That a Nelson would have taken where a Napier turned away.

_Punch_, November 29, 1856.

――――:o:――――

THE MANAGER TO MRS. LANGTRY.

AIR――“_Oh, Nanny, wilt thou gang wi’ me?_”

O Langtry, wilt thou gang wi’ me,
On lime-lit boards to win renown?
Can crowded stalls have charms for thee――
The painted scene and tinsel crown?
No more mere Photo’ed-Beauty’s Queen,
No more restrained to Park and Square,
Say, canst thou quit Belgravia’s scene,
Where thou art fairest of the fair?

O Langtry, when ’tis thine to play
“Big parts,” their “keeping” keep in mind;
Though Beauty’s charming in its way,
In acting “there is more behind.”
Some say, so stately is thy mien,
High tragic _rôles_ thou well could’st bear;
Let’s hope as Genius thou’lt be seen,
As well as fairest of the fair.