Chapter XXI: Canto VI: ―― (6)

A man stood up and called out Foul!
And called out Foul! with an angry frown;
Then made for the gate with a sudden howl,
While the mob with bricks tried to knock him down.
For men will fight and boys will jeer,
And luck is best when the gate is near,
To escape from the crowd and its groaning.

A doctor was working the best he knew how.
The best he knew how, as the sun went down,
He thought as he plastered the broken brow
Of the awful yells and the missiles thrown.
For clubs will play and mobs will fight,
And the umpire’s lucky if he lives till night
To escape from the crowd and its groaning.

_United States Paper._

Robert Southey,

POET LAUREATE.
_Born August_ 12, 1774. _Died March_ 21, 1843.

lthough this voluminous author was Poet-Laureate from 1813 until his death, and produced a great quantity of poetry, yet only a very few of what he would have considered his minor poems, ever achieved any success. Of his more ambitious works, some of which contain passages of undoubted power and originality, even the very names are now generally forgotten, or only remembered in connection with the Satires and Lampoons of his political adversaries. Southey commenced life as an ardent Republican, and wrote poems which were ridiculed by Tories such as George Canning; he concluded by becoming a Tory himself and was mercilessly satirised by Whigs, such as Byron and Macaulay. It will therefore be necessary to divide the parodies of his poems into three distinct classes, the non-Political, the early Political, and the later Political. Of Southey’s non-political poems the best known are “_The Cataract of Lodore_,” “_The Battle of Blenheim_,” and “_You are Old Father William_,” of each of which there are many amusing parodies. But before treating of these a few imitations of detached passages taken from Southey’s epic poems may be given. These epics were never very popular, and are now almost forgotten, yet they contain some beautiful descriptive poetry, as for instance the opening lines of “_Thalaba the Destroyer_”:――

“How beautiful is night!
A dewy freshness fills the silent air;
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain
Breaks the serene of heaven:
In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine
Rolls through the dark-blue depths,
Beneath her steady ray
The desert-circle spreads,
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky,
How beautiful is night!”

Amongst the “Paper Money Lyrics” contained in the poems of Thomas Love Peacock, there is an imitation of these lines, commencing――

“How troublesome is day!
It calls us from our sleep away;
It bids us from our pleasant dreams awake,
And sends us forth to keep or break
Our promises to pay.
How troublesome is day!”

The poem deals with questions of Banking, paper money, and other very unpoetical topics:――

Come listen to my lay,
While I the wild and wond’rous tale array,
How Fly-by-Night went down,
And set a bank up in a country town;
How like a king his head he reared,
And how the coast of cash he cleared,
And how one night he disappeared,
When many a scoffer jibed and jeered;
And many an old man rent his beard;
And many a young man cursed and railed;
And many a woman wept and wailed;
And many a mighty heart was quailed;
And many a wretch was caged and jailed;
Because great Fly-by-Night had failed.
And many a miserable sinner
Went without his Sunday dinner,
Because he had not metal bright,
And waved in vain before the butcher’s sight,
The promises of Fly-by-night.
And little Jackey Horner
Sate sulking in the corner,
And in default of Christmas pie
Whereon his little thumb to try,
He put his finger in his eye,
And blubbered long and lustily.
* * * * *

From _The Works of Thomas Love Peacock_.
R. BENTLEY & SON, LONDON, 1875.

――――

The well-known antiquarian writer, and Editor, Mr. Edward Walford, M.A., has recently published, at his own expense, many interesting records of the Charterhouse School, together with some poems and parodies which will greatly interest old Carthusians. From amongst them Mr. Walford has kindly allowed me to select the following:――

ODE IN IMITATION OF SOUTHEY.

How beautiful is green
Where grass has every colour but its own,
Black, dingy, dirty brown, with noxious weeds o’ergrown.
Lo, the trees
Shaking and waving in the autumn breeze;
Black as the Devil,
Father of evil,
With soot and smoke,
Enough to choke
Any unfortunate who walks below,
When the winds blow;
So beautiful the trees,
How beautiful the Cods.[51]

Each one in chapel nods,
While Pritchett drawls the lessons of the day,
And long-drawn snores proclaim their senses dozed away;
Till the organ’s thund’ring peal
Wakes again their slumb’ring zeal;
And soon no more condemned with sleep to grapple,
They toddle out of chapel,
So beautiful are Cods.
Thou passer by,
Who traversed the famed Carthusian square,
Raise thy admiring eye,
And view the gloom which long inhabits there;
And as thou journeyest on thy way,
Do say,
Within that wall
How beautiful is all!

――――:o:――――

Of all the amusing poems in _The Rejected Addresses_ perhaps the only one which can be truly styled a _parody_ is _The Rebuilding_, which closely mimics the Funeral of Arvalan in Southey’s _Curse of Kehama_. Not only is the metre closely followed, but James Smith, the author of this particular “Address,” has shown great ingenuity in bringing in the same characters as Southey has introduced into his poem. Lord Jeffrey, writing in _The Edinburgh Review_, said, “_The Rebuilding_ is in the name of Mr. Southey, and is one of the best in the collection. It is in the style of the Kehama of that multifarious author, and is supposed to be spoken in the character of one of his Glendoveers. The imitation of the diction and measure, is nearly perfect; and the descriptions are as good as the original.” It may here be mentioned that Southey borrowed his description of the Glendoveers from the “Life and Adventures of Peter Wilkins,” published in London, in 1751.

THE REBUILDING.

――――“Per audaces nova dithyrambos
Verba devolvit, numerisque fertur
Lege solutis.” HORAT.

[_Spoken by a Glendoveer._]

I am a blessed Glendoveer;[52]
’Tis mine to speak, and yours to hear.
Midnight, yet not a nose
From Tower-Hill to Piccadilly snored!
Midnight, yet not a nose[53]
From Indra drew the essence of repose!
See with what crimson fury,
By Indra fann’d, the god of fire ascends the walls of Drury!

Tops of houses, blue with lead,
Bend beneath the landlord’s tread.
Master and ’prentice, serving man and lord,
Nailor and tailor,
Grazier and brazier,
Through streets and alleys pour’d――
All, all abroad to gaze,
And wonder at the blaze.
Thick calf, fat foot, and slim knee,
Mounted on roof and chimney,[54]
The mighty roost, the mighty stew
To see;
As if the dismal view
Were but to them a Brentford jubilee.
Vainly, all-radiant Surya, sire of Phaeton
(By Greeks call’d Apollo)[55]
Hollow
Sounds from thy harp proceed;
Combustible as reed,
The tongue of Vulcan licks thy wooden legs:
From Drury’s top, dissever’d from thy pegs,
Thou troublest,
Humblest,
Where late thy bright effulgence shone on high:
While, by thy somerset excited, fly
Ten million
Billion
Sparks from the pit, to gem the sable sky.

Now come the men of fire to quench the fires:
To Russell Street see Globe and Atlas run,
Hope gallops first, and second Sun;
On flying heel,
See Hand-in-Hand
O’ertake the band!
View with what glowing wheel
He nicks
Phœnix!
While Albion scampers from Bridge Street, Blackfriars――
Drury Lane! Drury Lane!
Drury Lane! Drury Lane!
They shout and they bellow again and again.

All, all in vain!
Water turns steam;
Each blazing beam
Hisses defiance to the eddying spout:
It seems but too plain that nothing can put it out!
Drury Lane! Drury Lane!
See, Drury Lane expires!
Pent in by smoke-dried beams, twelve moons or more,
Shorn of his ray,
Surya in durance lay:
The workmen heard him shout.
But thought it would not pay
To dig him out.
When lo! terrific Yamen, lord of hell,
Solemn as lead,
Judge of the dead,
Sworn foe to witticism,
By men call’d criticism,
Came passing by that way:
Rise! cried the fiend, behold a sight of gladness!
Behold the rival theatre!
I’ve set O.P. at her,[56]
Who, like a bull-dog bold,
Growls and fastens on his hold.
The many-headed rabble roar in madness;
Thy rival staggers: come and spy her
Deep in the mud as thou art in the mire.
So saying, in his arms he caught the beaming one,
And crossing Russell Street,
He placed him on his feet
’Neath Covent Garden Dome. Sudden a sound,
As of the bricklayers of Babel, rose:
Horns, rattles, drums, tin trumpets, sheets of copper,
Punches and slaps, thwacks of all sorts and sizes,
From the knobb’d bludgeon to the taper switch,[57]
Ran echoing round the walls; paper placards
Blotted the lamps, boots brown with mud the benches;
A sea of heads roll’d roaring in the pit;
On paper wings O.P.’s
Reclined in lettered ease;
While shout and scoff,
Ya! ya! off! off!
Like thunderbolt on Surya’s ear-drum fell,
And seemed to paint
The savage oddities of Saint
Bartholomew in hell.
Tears dimm’d the god of light――
“Bear me back, Yamen, from this hideous sight;
Bear me back, Yamen, I grow sick.
Oh! bury me again in brick;
Shall I on New Drury tremble,
To be O.P.’d like Kemble?
No,
Better remain by rubbish guarded,
Than thus hubbubish groan placarded;
Bear me back, Yamen, bear me quick,
And bury me again in brick.”
Obedient Yamen
Answered, “Amen,”
And did
As he was bid.

There lay the buried god, and Time
Seemed to decree eternity of lime;
But pity, like a dew-drop, gently prest
Almighty Veeshnoo’s[58] adamantine breast:
He, the preserver, ardent still
To do whate’er he says he will
From South-hill wing’d his way,
To raise the drooping lord of day.
All earthly spells the busy one o’erpower’d;
He treats with men of all conditions,
Poets and players, tradesmen and musicians;
Nay, even ventures
To attack the renters,
Old and new:
A list he gets
Of claims and debts,
And deems nought done, while aught remains to do.

Yamen beheld, and withered at the sight;
Long had he aimed the sunbeam to control,
For light was hateful to his soul:
“Go on!” cries the hellish one, yellow with spite;
“Go on!” cried the hellish one, yellow with spleen,
“Thy toils of the morning, like Ithaca’s queen
I’ll toil to undo every night.”

Ye sons of song, rejoice!
Veeshnoo has still’d the jarring elements,
The spheres hymn music;
Again the god of day
Peeps forth with trembling ray,
Wakes, from their humid caves, the sleeping Nine,
And pours at intervals a strain divine.
“I have an iron yet in the fire,” cried Yamen;
“The vollied flame rides in my breath,
My blast is elemental death;
This hand shall tear your paper bonds to pieces;
Ingross, your deeds, assignments, leases,
My breath shall every line erase
Soon as I blow the blaze.”

The lawyers are met at the Crown and Anchor,
And Yamen’s visage grows blanker and blanker;
The lawyers are met at the Anchor and Crown,
And Yamen’s cheek is a russety brown:
Veeshnoo, now thy work proceeds;
The solicitor reads,
And, merit of merit!
Red wax and green ferret
Are fixed at the foot of the deeds!

Yamen beheld and shiver’d;
His finger and thumb were cramp’d;
His ear by the flea in’t was bitten,
When he saw by the lawyer’s clerk written,
Sealed and delivered,
Being first duly stamped

“Now for my turn!” the demon cries, and blows
A blast of sulphur from his mouth and nose.
Ah! bootless aim! the critic fiend
Sagacious Yamen, judge of hell,
Is judged in his turn;
Parchment won’t burn!
His schemes of vengeance are dissolved in the air
Parchment wont tear!

Is it not written in the Himakoot book
(That mighty Baly from Kehama took)
“Who blows on pounce
Must the Swerga renounce?”
It is! it is! Yamen, thine hour is nigh:
Like as an eagle claws an asp,
Veeshnoo has caught him in his mighty grasp,
And hurl’d him, in spite of his shrieks and his squalls,
Whizzing aloft, like the Temple fountain,
Three times as high as Meru Mountain,
Which is
Ninety-nine times as high as St. Paul’s.
Descending, he twisted like Levy the Jew,[59]
Who a durable grave meant
To dig in the pavement
Of Monument-yard:
To earth by the laws of attraction he flew,
And he fell, and he fell
To the regions of hell;
Nine centuries bounced he from cavern to rock,
And his head, as he tumbled, went nickety-nock,
Like a pebble in Carisbrook well.

Now Veeshnoo turned round to a capering varlet,
Array’d in blue and white and scarlet,
And cried, “Oh! brown of slipper as of hat!
Lend me, Harlequin, thy bat!”
He seized the wooden sword, and smote the earth;
When lo! upstarting into birth
A fabric, gorgeous to behold,
Outshone in elegance the old,
And Veeshnoo saw, and cried, “Hail, playhouse mine!”
Then, bending his head, to Surya he said:
“Soon as thy maiden sister Di
Caps with her copper lid the dark blue sky,
And through the fissures of her clouded fan
Peeps at the naughty monster man
Go mount yon edifice,
And show thy steady face
In renovated pride,
More bright, more glorious than before!”
But ah! coy Surya still felt a twinge,
Still smarted from his former singe;
And to Veshnoo replied,
In a tone rather gruff,
“No, thank you! one tumble’s enough!”

――――:o:――――

JUSTICE.

“_She hath escaped very well,” Kehama cried;
“She hath escaped_ - - - _but thou art here_.”

I.

It chanced that at an old tobacconist’s,
Outside the door a painted figure stood,
A Kilted Scotchman neatly carved in wood;
’Twas new and rather good.
Now Tomkins bent upon a spree,
Walked down the street the various sights to see;
But when the painted image Tomkins view’d,
To this he sprung, to this he clung,
And ran like mad along the High with this
Across his shoulder swung.

II.

Two bobbies seized him as he turned the street,
Before he was aware;
He dropped the image, and with wingèd feet
Shinned them, and bolted like a started hare;
The angry bobbies baffled now,
Unto each other vow
To make it hot for any gownsmen there
They meet; and Wilkins passing, full of fun,
Began to chaff the bobbies; wrathful they
Seized him instead, and carried him away;
He neither struggled, kicked, nor tried to run,
Nor the least show of opposition made,
Although they grasped him with their dirty hands
Courageously, for they don’t feel afraid
When still their victim stands.

III.

Thus are they always bold when they have made
Some crippled beggar old,
Or unresisting girl, or boy, their prey,
But somehow they are never in the way
If a strong ruffian has been throwing stones,
Or punching some one’s head in self-sought fray,
For they are careful of their bones.

IV.

“The culprit hath escaped,” the bobbies cried,
He hath escaped, but one is here,
Will do as well;
Now let us go and tell
The Proctor that ’twas he; and so they went
And told their story well.
Next morning Wilkins gets a note,
Brought by the Proctor’s man,
To call upon the Proctor at his rooms
With all the haste he can.

V.

And when he came within the Proctor’s room,
Young Wilkins roused himself,
And told the Proctor ’twas a lie,
Invented by those blue-clad menials base;
That he was in the ‘High’
Walking alone, and never even saw
The wooden figure that they talked about.
And that these bobbies
Came and pounced on him as he walked about,
Because the real culprit they
Had been so baulked about.

VI.

The velvet-sleeved one deigned him no reply,
The narrow-minded man――his gooseberry eye
Looked idiotic: not the smallest part
Had right and justice in his foolish heart.
At last he uttered loud each measured word,
Long in his breast confined,
Unjust, severe, proctorial, absurd――
The index of his mind.

VII.

“You must go down,
Away from this town,
For here you would
Never do any good.
You have made a row,
Which I cannot allow,
And so I must take you,
An example to make you;
You must pay me a fine
Of five pounds to-day,
And then go away;
For you must not stay,
At Oxford, lest others
Should follow your track;
And your caution-money
You’ll not get back.
And now Mr. Wilkins,
My words are plain,
You must never again,
Though it gives you pain,
Come up to Oxford.
If you think to do so,
You think it in vain,
You’ll have to obey me,
Mr. Wilkins, for ever:
You can go away now, Sir,
And return again never.”

VIII.

There with those bugbears of the town
Before him, stood the wretched man;
There stood young Wilkins with loose-hanging gown.
Was it a dream? Ah! no,
He heard his sentence flow,
He heard the ready bobbies lie,
And felt all hope within him die.
Ah! who could have believed
That he the velvet-sleeved
Could have so small, so weak a mind,
And ever trust those worms of dust,
Those banes of student kind.
With indignation flashing from his eye,
He left the room, nor cast one look behind.

From _Lays of Modern Oxford_, by Adon.
LONDON, CHAPMAN & HALL, 1874

THE CATARACT OF LODORE.

HOW DOES THE WATER COME DOWN AT LODORE.

Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Here smoking and frothing,
Its tumult and wrath in,
It hastens along, conflicting, strong,
Now striking and raging,
As if a war waging,
Its caverns and rocks among.

Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and flinging,
Showering and springing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Twining and twisting,
Around and around,
Collecting, disjecting,
With endless rebound;
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in;
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzing and deafening the ear with its sound.

Reeding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and growing,
And running and stunning,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And dinning and spinning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And heaving and cleaving,
And thundering and floundering,
And falling and crawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering,
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,
And thumping and flumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o’er, with a mighty uproar,――
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

――――:o:――――

BEFORE AND AFTER MARRIAGE.

BEFORE.

How do the Gentlemen do before marriage?
Oh! then they come flattering,
Soft nonsense chattering,
Praising your pickling.
Playing at tickling,
Love verses writing,
Acrostics inditing,
If your finger aches, fretting,
Fondling and petting,
“My loving,”――“my doving,”
“Petseying,”――“wetseying,”
Now sighing, now dying,
Now dear diamonds buying,
Or yards of Chantilly, like a great big silly,
Cashmere shawls――brandy balls,
Oranges, apples――gloves, _Gros de Naples_,
Sweet pretty “skuggies”――ugly pet puggies;
Now with an ear-ring themselves endearing,
Or squandering guineas upon _Sevignés_
Now fingers squeezing or playfully teazing,
Bringing you bull’s eyes, casting you sheep’s eyes,
Looking in faces while working braces;
Never once heeding what they are reading,
But soiling one’s hose by pressing one’s toes;
Or else so zealous, and nice, and jealous of all the fellows,
Darting fierce glances, if ever one dances, with a son of
France’s;
Or finding great faults, and threatening assaults whenever you
“Valtz;”
Or fuming and fussing enough for a dozen if you romp with your
cousin;
Continually stopping, when out-a-shopping, and bank notes dropping,
Not seeking to win money, calling it “tin” money, and promising
pin-money;
Liking picnics at Twickenham, off lovely cold chicken, ham and
champagne to quicken ’em;
Detesting one’s walking without John too goes stalking, to prevent
the men talking;
Think you still in your teens, wont let you eat “greens,” and hate
Crinolines;
Or heaping caresses, if you curl your back tresses, or wear
low-neck’d dresses;
Or when up the river, almost sure to _diskiver_ that it beats all
to shiver the sweet Guadalquiver;
Or seeing death-fetches if the toothache one catches, making
picturesque sketches of the houses of wretches;
Or with loud double knocks bring from Eber’s a box, to see “BOX
AND COX,” or pilfer one’s locks to mark their new socks;
Or, whilst you are singing a love song so stinging, they vow
they’ll be swinging, or in serpentine springing, unless to them
clinging your’ll go wedding-ringing, and for life mend their
linen.
Now the gentlemen sure I’ve no wish to disparage,
But this is the way they go on _before_ marriage.

AFTER.

How do they do after marriage?
Oh, then nothing pleases ’em,
But everything teases ’em;
Then they’re grumbling and snarling――
You’re a “fool,” not a “darling”;
Though they’re rich as the _Ingies_,
They’re the stingiest of stingies;
And what is so funny,
They’ve _never_ got money;
Only ask them for any
And they haven’t a penny;
But what passes all bounds,
On themselves they’ll spend pounds――
Give guineas for lunch
Off real turtle and punch;
Each week a noise brings about, when they pitch all the things
about
Now bowing in mockery, now smashing the crockery;
Scolding and swearing, their bald heads tearing,
Storming and raging past all assuaging.
Heaven preserve us! it makes one so nervous,
To hear the door slam to, be called simple ma’am too:
(I wonder if Adam called Mrs. Eve _Madam_;)
As a matter of course they’ll have a divorce;
Or “my Lord Duke” intends to send you home to your friends;
Allow ten pounds a quarter for yourself and your daughter;
Though you strive all your might you can do nothing right;
While the maids――the old song――can do nothing wrong;
“Ev’ry shirt wants a button”! Every day they’ve cold mutton;
They’re always a-flurrying one, or else they’re a-hurrying one,
or else they’re a-worrying one;
Threatening to smother your dear sainted mother, or kick your
big brother;
After all your fine doings, your strugglings and stewings――why
“the house is in ruins!”
Then the wine goes like winking, and they cannot help thinking
you’ve taken to drinking;
They’re perpetually rows keeping, ’cause out of house-keeping
they’re in bonnets their spouse keeping;
So when they’ve been meated if with pies they’re not treated, they
vow that they’re cheated;
Then against Ascot Races, and all such sweet places, they set their
old faces;
And they’ll never leave town, nor to Broadstairs go down, though
with bile you’re quite brown;
For their wife, they unwilling are, after cooing and billing her,
to stand a cap from a Milliner――e’en a paltry twelve shillinger;
And it gives them the vapours to witness the capers, of those
bowers and scrapers the young linen drapers;
Then to add to your woes, they say nobody knows how the money all
goes, but they pay through the nose for the dear children’s
clothes;
Though you strive and endeavour, they’re so mightily clever, that
please them you’ll never, till you leave them for ever!――Yes!
the hundredth time sever――“_for ever and ever_”!!
Now the gentlemen sure I’ve no wish to disparage,
But this is the way they go on _after_ marriage.

From _George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanac_, for 1850.

* * * * *

HOW THE DAUGHTERS COME DOWN AT DUNOON.

_“There standyth on one side of Dunoon, a hill or moleock of
passynge steepnesse, and right slipperie withal;
whereupon, in gaye times, ye youths and ye
maidens of that towne do exceedingly disport
themselves and take their pleasaunce;
runnynge both uppe and downe
with great glee and joyous-
nesse, to the much en-
dangerment of their
fair nekkes.”_
KIRKE’S _Memoirs_.

How do the daughters
Come down at Dunoon?
Daintily, slidingly,
Gingerly, slippingly,
Tenderly, trippingly,
Fairily, skippingly,
Glidingly, clippingly,
Dashing and flying,
And clashing and shying,
And starting and bolting,
And darting and jolting,
And rushing and crushing,
And leaping and creeping.
Feathers a-flying all――bonnets untying all――
Crinolines rapping and flapping and slapping all,
Balmorals dancing and glancing, entrancing all,

Feats of activity――
Nymphs on declivity――
Sweethearts in ecstacies――
Mothers in vexaties――
Lady-loves whisking and frisking and clinging on
True lovers puffing and blowing and springing on,
Flushing and blushing and wriggling and giggling on,
Teasing and pleasing and wheezing and squeezing on,
Everlastingly falling and bawling and sprawling on,
Flurrying and worrying and hurrying and skurrying on,
Tottering and staggering and lumbering and slithering on,
Any fine afternoon
About July or June
That’s how the daughters
Come down at Dunoon!

From _Puck on Pegasus_, by H. Cholmondeley Pennell―― London, Chatto
and Windus.

――――

HOW DOES THE DRUNKARD GO DOWN TO THE TOMB?

Here he comes crawling,
And there he lies sprawling,
Here growling and muttering,
His gloomy thoughts uttering,
He totters along, with passions so strong,
Now striking and raging.
Or wordy war waging,
His drunken companions among.

Sitting and drinking, ogling and winking,
Rising and leaping, peering and peeping,
Humming and singing, swelling and flinging,
Turning and twisting, around and around,
Hallooing and cooing, with endless rebound;
Sparring and fighting,
Lewd pieces reciting,
Blundering, thundering,
Disgusting and deafening the ear with the sound.

Laughing and scoffing, sneering and jeering,
Hissing and kissing, sporting and courting,
Spouting and shouting, rhyming and chiming,
Smoking and joking, jesting, detesting,
Huffing and puffing, bouncing and pouncing,
Sweating and betting, winning and dinning,
Slapping and rapping, whipping and skipping,
Scuffling and shuffling, rattling and battling,
Ranting and panting, blustering and flustering,
Reading, receding,
With antic so frantic,
Conceited, pedantic.

Jumping and bumping and thumping,
Dancing and glancing and prancing,
Bawling and squalling and calling,
Chattering and shattering and battering,
Scaring and swearing and tearing,
Tiring, persevering,
The fumes are expiring;
Money gone, credit none,
Kicked about, bolted out.
Staggering, swaggering, whirling, twirling,
Wheeling, reeling, tumbling, grumbling,
Pondering, wandering, moping, groping,
Here he goes with broken nose,
Battered face, sad grimace,
Chairs he crashes, crockery smashes,
Wife he thrashes, children lashes,
Passions deadly, such a medley.

Sighing, crying, snoring, roaring,
Groaning, moaning, sleeping, weeping.
Screaming, dreaming, screeching, retching
All the night, till morning light;
Then on waking, head is aching,
Shaking, quaking, shivering, quivering,
Whining, pining, quailing, wailing,
He seems to see spirits dire,
With eyes of fire, and fiendish glee,
Mocking at his misery.

Yet spite of all his pain
And woes, he goes
And seeks it yet again.
To himself he’s a fool,
To liquor a slave,
To the landlord a tool,
To his friends he’s a knave,
And he makes his own winding-sheet, digs his own grave.
Cut down in his bloom,
He seals his own doom,
And this way the drunkard goes down to the tomb.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

ALL THE LUXURIES OF THE SEASON.

How do the jolly days
Pass in the holidays?
Joking, and smoking,
In Wales or at Woking,
And riding, and hunting,
And lazily punting,
Canoeing, and boating,
And swimming, and floating,
And using in bathing,
The sea as a plaything,
And watching with glasses
Each ship as she passes;
And punning, and rhyming,
And glacier-climbing,
And fishing and shooting:
New theories mooting
In desolate islands,
Or up in the Highlands;
And yachting, rope-knotting,
And random notes jotting,
And sailing and baling,
And picnic-regaling,
Deerstalking and walking,
And merrily talking,
And skipping and prancing,
And glancing and dancing,
And flirting, exerting
Each talent diverting;
And playing at racquets
In white flannel jackets;
Golf, cricket, and touring,
Hard labour enduring,
In quest of new pleasure,
And spending your leisure
In dicing and gambling,
And quietly rambling,
And trudging with trouble
O’er turf and o’er stubble,
Exploding your cartridge
At grouse or at partridge;
Returning to table,
And feeling well able
To eat a whole elk up
Washed down with moselle cup
And drinking, and eating,
At each merry meeting,
Beef, venison, and mutton,
Not caring a button,
Because indigestion
Is out of the question;
Or, better and better,
Avoiding a debtor.
(Perhaps growing pale, if
You think of a bailiff,)
And audience attracting
By Amateur acting,
And singing, and playing,
And modestly staying
At Ramsgate or Margate,
Destroying a target
By accurate aiming,
And sporting and gaming
And draining the bubbly can
Of beer-bearing publican,
Chastising a slow moke
With cudgel of holm-oak,
Your animal thrashing,
And beating and lashing,
To carry his master
A little bit faster;
At croquet excelling,
And tale of love telling
To charming young lady
With hair black and raidy;
Oh! sweetly the jolly days
Pass in the holidays!

From _Banter_, edited by G. A. Sala. September 23, 1867

――――

HOW THE HORSES COME ROUND AT THE CORNER.

How do the horses come round at The Corner?
When eyes are all straining,
To see which is gaining,
And far-distant humming
Grows louder and clearer,――Grows stronger and nearer.
“They’re off!” “They are coming!”
“Who leads?” “Black and red!”――“No! Green, by a head!”
“The Earl!” “No, the Lady!”――” Typhœus looks shady!”
“Orion! Orion,――To live or to die on!”
“Twenty pounds to a crown――On the little Blue Gown.”
“I’ll venture my whole in――That colt by Tom Bowline!”
“Paul Jones!” “Rosicrucian!”
“Green Sleeve!” “Restitution!”
“Le Sarrazin!” “Pace!”
“It’s Mercury’s race!”
Then on they come lashing, and slashing, and dashing,
Their colours all flashing like lightning-gleams gashing
The darkness, where, clashing, the thunder is crashing!
With whipping and thrashing,
With crowding and smashing,
With pressing and stirring,
With lifting and spurring,
With pulling and striving,
With pushing and driving,
With kicking and sporting,
With neighing and snorting,
With frisking and whisking,
With racing and chasing,
With straining and gaining,
With longing and thronging,
With plunging and lunging,
With fretting and sweating,
With bustling, and hustling, and justling,
With surging, and urging and scourging,
With rushing, and brushing, and crushing,
With scattering, and pattering, and clattering,
With hurrying, and scurrying, and flurrying, and worrying,
With sliding, and gliding, and riding, and striding,
With crying, and flying, and shying, and plying,
With tying, and vying, and trying, and hieing!
Till rapidly spinning,
The ranks quickly thinning,
The crowd is beginning
To see which is winning:――
Some faces grow brighter――and some grow forlorner:
And that’s how the horses come round at The Corner!

_Fun_, May 30, 1868.

――――

MAY IN LINCOLNSHIRE.
(_After the manner of Southey’s Cataract of Lodore._)

What are the chief delights of May――
This season, verdant, sweet, and gay?
The leafy trees, the fragrant flowers,
The genial sun, the reviving showers,
The feathered songsters of the grove――
All nature redolent of love.
So poets write, and write it true;
Alas! there’s a prosaic view,
Dwellings are turned quite inside out;
The household madly rush about――

Cleaning and changing,
Counting and ranging,
Painting and lining,
Tinting and priming,
Stirring and mixing,
Glueing and fixing,
Mounting and glazing,
Hauling and raising,
Thatching and tiling,
Crowding and piling,
Dragging and trailing,
Sprigging and nailing,
Stitching and lining,
Twisting and twining,
Turning and clipping,
Sorting and ripping,
Fing’ring and thumbing,
Sticking and gumming,
Stretching and climbing,
Draining and griming,
Rembling[60] and raving,[61]
Tewing[62] and taving,[63]
Noising and clatting,[64]
Rightling and scratting,[65]
Sanding and grinding,
Fussing and finding,
From garret to ground
No peace to be found!
Slaving and laving,
Shoving and moving,
Working and shirking,
Lifting and shifting,
Soaping and groping,
Washing and splashing,
Routing and clouting,
Messing and pressing,
Bending and rending,
Greasing and squeezing,
Kneeling and wheeling,
Humming and drumming,
Pailing and baling,
Lugging and tugging,
Laughing and chaffing,
Dusting and thrusting,
Tripping and dripping,
Unbedding, blackleading,
Upsetting and wetting,
They come with their brooms,
Invading the rooms,
Carry off all the books,
In spite of black looks,
Such confusion and riot,
Destruction to quiet!

And filling, and swilling, and spilling;
And mopping, and flopping, and slopping;
And racing, and chasing, and placing;
And hustling, and rustling, and bustling;
And holding, and folding, and scolding;
And sudding, and flooding, and thudding;
And banging, and clanging, and hanging;
And clapping, and rapping, and frapping;
And pasting, and hasting, and wasting;

Inspecting, selecting, rejecting;
Varnishing, tarnishing, garnishing;
Hurrying, scurrying, flurrying;
Bothering, pothering, smothering;
Unrusting, adjusting, disgusting;
Clattering, spattering, chattering;
Whitening, tightening, brightening;
Ransacking, attacking, unpacking;
Reviewing, renewing, and doing.

Charing, and airing, hammering, and clamouring;
And mending, and sending, and spending, and ending;
And tacking, and blacking, and cracking, and packing;
And oiling, and soiling, and moiling, and toiling;
And creaking and squeaking, and reeking, and seeking;
And racking, and sacking, and smacking, and clacking;
And thumping, and bumping, and lumping, and pumping;
And wrapping, and strapping, and tapping, and clapping;
And heaping, and steeping, and creeping, and sweeping;
And wringing, and dinging, and bringing, and singing;
And knocking, and rocking, and flocking, and shocking;
And jamming, and cramming, and slamming, and ramming;
And rubbing, and scrubbing, and tubbing, and grubbing;
And huddling, and muddling, and puddling, and ruddling;[66]
And patching, and matching, and catching, and snatching;
And rushing, and gushing, and slushing, and brushing;
And rumbling, and jumbling, and tumbling, and grumbling;

Thus, in the manner that I have been telling,
May-fever spreads over the whole of the dwelling.

This clever parody appeared, anonymously, in _Once a Week_, June 8, 1872.

――――

THE BOAT-RACE.
(_A Retrospect._)

How do the ’Varsities come to the Race?――
All a-rowing, and knowing their pluck they are showing,
And blowing, and going the deuce of a pace;
With the ending depending on strong arms extending,
And bending oars rending the waves in the chase.
With a spurting, exerting their muscles, and hurting
Their hearts, say the Doctors (but that’s a rare case),
With too much book-making, and arms next day aching――
And that’s how the Varsities come to the Race?

How do the Ladies come down to the Race?――
With a rustle and bustle, and zest for the tussle,
With a hustle and jostle, and tearing of lace.
With a gushing and blushing, and little feet rushing,
And pushing and crushing to get a good place.
With a petting and getting the odds in the betting,
And letting their fretting be seen in their face:
With a swarming so charming, in toilettes alarming,
And that’s how the Ladies come down to the Race!

How do the Gentlemen come to the Race?――
With a walking and talking, and pleasant “dear”-stalking;
Uncorking and forking out “pegs” from a case.
With a smoking and joking, and badinage-poking,
Invoking the Stroke in the boat that they “place.”
With a laughing, Bass-quafting, and eke shandy-gaffing
And chaffing the cads till they’re black in the face,
And hurraying, and laying the odds――and then paying――
And that’s how the Gentlemen come to the Race!

How do the Roughs and Cads come to the Race?――
With a cheering and beering, and sneering and jeering;
“My dear”-ing and leering at each pretty face.
With a scowling, and fouling the air with their howling,
And prowling and growling, and grin and grimace,
With a swearing and tearing, and blue rosettes wearing,
And a daring uncaring what things they abase――
And a reeling, and feeling for fighting, and stealing――
And that’s how the Roughs and Cads come to the Race!

_Punch_, April 27, 1878.

――――

READY FOR THE START.

Here they come sparkling,
There they go darkling,
A tide that flows onward conflicting and strong:
Some betting, some fretting
At losing relations
At choked railway stations,
And storming and raging,
And hansoms engaging,
Or aught upon wheels that will drag them along;
While tramps, the path keeping,
Are running and leaping,
And slinking and creeping,
Eddying and whisking,
Panting and frisking,
Slouching and twisting,
Planning for trysting
When reaching the ground,
Collecting, expecting
Where flats may be found.

Smiting and fighting
Some crowds fun delighting,
Strong language abounding,
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound;
Feeding and speeding,
And shockingly mocking,
And tripping and skipping,
And sipping and whipping,
And nipping and slipping,
Quivering and shivering,
And vainly endeavouring
By pushing and rushing,
And craving and raving,
And waving and staving,
And tossing and crossing,
And working and jerking,
And wriggling and giggling,
And hugging and mugging,
And boring and roaring,
And thundering and blundering,
And hauling, and falling, and sprawling,
And frequently naughty names calling,
And striving and hiving and driving,
And sounding and rounding and bounding,
And grumbling and tumbling, much humbling,
And chattering and battering and shattering,
And thumping and bumping, and plumping and stumping,
And flashing and splashing, and dashing and crashing,
Such sounds and such motions for evermore blending,
Till at last, with a tumult that seems never ending,
By train, carriage, drag, coach, cab, wheelbarrow, cart,
The thousands reach Epsom in time for the start.

_Funny Folks_, June 8, 1878.

――――

THE FALLS OF NIAGARA.

(Lord Dufferin has suggested that Ontario and New York should combine to make a Public International Park at Niagara Falls. All visitors to the World’s Wonder must hope that his proposition may succeed.)

“How does the water
Come down at Niagara?”
Somebody asked me
Thus once on a time;
And moreover he tasked me
To tell him in rhyme
How the Rapids’ broad tracts
And the Falls might be seen.
So without hesitation
I made explanation
And gave him the facts,
For I feared he was green.

When you leave your hotel,
To enjoy the sight well,
And, in wonder
At the thunder,
To Goat Island go,
Fifty cents is the pittance
They charge for admittance
To gaze at the show.
Again you pay fifty
(Unless you are thrifty)
To take a not very
Smooth trip o’er the ferry;
And the victim soon finds
It is three times as much to the Cave of the Winds.
It is twenty cents here, and it’s forty cents there;
Half dollars and more when you’ve money to spare.

At all the good places
For seeing the way
In which the flood races,
There’s something to pay.
Wherever you walk,
As a bird by a hawk,
You are worried and flurried
By beggarly louts,
Importunate touts,
And hackmen who, swarming around,
Waylay you at starting,
And, never departing,
Keep stopping, confusing,
Annoying, abusing,
And plotting and scheming,
And often blaspheming,
And pumping and bumping,
And dunning and stunning,
And shouting and spouting,
And pressing and guessing,
And beckoning and reckoning,
And following and holloaing,
All over the ground;
Although so inviting,
Far, far from delighting,
Confounding, astounding,
Pestering and maddening the ear with their sound.
So with a sensation of great irritation,
Of native extortion quite out of proportion,
Of vanishing dollars and rather damp collars,
Of guides never ending, but always attending,
Wherever your fugitive footsteps are wending,
You may get, at a cost that will cause you to stagger, a
Precious dear sight of the Falls of Niagara.

_Funny Folks_, November 23, 1878.

――――

HOW THE CUSTOMERS COME TO THE SANDOWN BAZAAR.

(The following parody was written for the programme of the Sandown Bazaar, Isle of Wight, in 1879. With a few verbal alterations it might easily be applied to a similar purpose in any other locality.)

_If “Robert the Rhymer” were alive, I’d implore,
Forgiveness, for trying to copy “Lodore.”_

“What things do you want
For the Sandown Bazaar?”
My kind friends have ask’d me
Thus, time after time.
Moreover some wish’d me
To tell them in rhyme,
So what with one friend,
And then with another,
Eagerly urging
The request of each other;
I promised to tell them
What things we required
For the Sandown Bazaar
From near and afar,
As many a time
We have had them before;
And to tell them in rhyme,
For of rhymes I have store;
Though ’tis not my vocation,
But their recreation
That makes me thus sing,
Because I am anxious
To please in this thing.
From sources which well
In the heart’s deepest cell;
From fountains
In the mountains
Of thought and good will.

Through post and through rail
We expect things to come;
Then rest for awhile
In some kind friends home;
And thence at departing
After effort at starting,
They will quickly proceed,
With a general stampede,
To the Hall of the Town.
Helter-skelter,
Hurry-scurry,
Every one seems
In a terrible flurry.
Hammering and clammering,
The tumult and banging,
Making a furious
Terrible roar.
’Mid all this confusion,
The boxes are placed
On the Town Hall floor.
Then arms which are strong
Drag them along
To the stalls, where there falls
On the faces of “graces”――
All found in their places,
A light of delight.
Laughing and talking,
Smiling and walking,
Turning and twisting,
Walking and frisking,
Soon all are agreed
That a sight to delight in,
At last is displayed,
As the stalls are arrayed
In articles useful and fancy,
As if by the aid of necromancy.

Tatting and platting,
Matting and blacking,
And crochet and croquet
And crewls and jewels,
And baskets and caskets,
And brackets and rackets,
And lustres and dusters,
And feathers and leathers,
And towels and trowels,
And cradles and ladles,
And sables and tables,
And mittens and kittens,
And dresses and presses,
And dishes and fishes,
And cases and braces,
And pencils and lentils,
And pictures and tinctures,
And bangles and mangles,
And brushes and thrushes,
And coffee and toffee,
And bonnets and sonnets,
And pickles and sickles,
And papers and scrapers,
And slippers and nippers,
And sashes and taches,
And money and honey.
And screens and machines,
And ferns and epergnes,
And coseys and poseys,
And lamps and stamps,
And games and frames,
And spoons and balloons,
And quilts and stilts,
And yachts and whatnots,
And telephones and microphones,
And phonographs and photographs,
And oleographs and chromographs,
And telescopes and stereoscopes,
And pinafores and battledores,
And lemonade and gingerade,
And cheffoniers and caffetiers,
And letter racks and knickknacks,
And cocoatina and farina,

And barometers and thermometers,
And refrigerators and perambulators,
And chrysanthemums and kettle-drums,
And pelargoniums and harmoniums,
And canaries and cassowaries,

And clocks and socks and frocks.
And stools and wools and tools,
And bibs and cribs and nibs.
And rugs and jugs and mugs,
And muffs and cuffs and stuffs,
And caps and maps and scraps,

And thus without ceasing and ever increasing,
I might go on telling what things we’ll be selling,
If they only come here, from near and afar,
To make most successful the SANDOWN BAZAAR!

W. J. CRAIG. 1879.

――――

In November, 1879, the Editor of _The World_ selected Southey’s _Cataract of Lodore_ as the original for a Parody Competition, on the subject of THE HOME RULERS, and the following parodies were printed:――

FIRST PRIZE.

Is it how the Home Rulers,
Make spaches, me boys?
Whist! I’ll tell ye the tale
In a ‘three-cornered’ rhyme,
Wid the laste taste, iv brogue――
Be the mortial, its prime!

Where they riz thim quare clothes,
Sorra, one iv me knows!
Their wondherful ‘caubeens,’
Their illegant ‘dhudeens,’
Their rings and sich things,
But we saw them wid joy
Comin’ over the bogs,
In sich beautiful togs,
Each a broth iv a boy.
So they kem walking,
Chattering and talking,
Wid ivery long word
That iver ye heard,
Blarneying and fighting,
Dividing, uniting;
Wid the finest iv action
Explaining and proving,
All scruples removing,
To their own satisfaction.

Stamping, hurrahing,
Erin-go-bragh-ing,
Jumping and pushing,
Wildly ‘hoorooshing,’
Shaking shillalies,
Brandishing ‘dailies,’
Tearing their hair,
Sawing the air
(Be jabers, ’twas quare!)
Storming and raving,
Deluding, ‘desaving――’
Demosthenes would have been struck with despair.

Objecting, correcting,
Defying, denying,
Remarking and barking,
And shouting and spouting,
Rebelling and yelling and telling,
And growling and howling and scowling,
Deriding, deciding, and chiding and hiding,
Rejecting, reflecting, projecting, directing,
Refusing, abusing, confusing, amusing,
An’ taching and praching and shaking and spaking,
Wid the gift of the gab such a shindy awaking,
That the author of mischief might listen wid joy――
That’s the way the Home Rulers make spaches, me boy.

(_Miss Story._) FABULA SED VERA.

SECOND PRIZE.
_How do the Home Rulers behave in the House._

Here they come broguing,
Together colloquing,
Here jangling and wrangling,
The Queen’s English mangling,
Staircase and hall and lobby along:
Execrating, dilating,
On methods of baiting,
The Sassenach foe for their fancied wrong.

Then rising and bawling,
Caterwauling and squalling,
Perspiring, untiring,
And sputtering and spluttering,
With ceaseless outpour,
Blustering and flustering,
Explanation mistrusting,
A sight full disgusting,
Amazing, gorge-raising,
Half crazing the House by their senseless uproar.

For dry rot eternal
Commend me to Parnell:
For bosh by the gallon,
Go listen to Callan;
Like a train in a tunnel
Is the voice of O’Donnell;
For imbecile vigour
Unrivalled is Biggar.
Nagging and bragging,
And canting and ranting,
Speech-prolonging, sing-songing.
Face-contorting and snorting,
And stranger espying,
In gallery prying,
Mispronouncing and bouncing and flouncing,
Impeding Bill-reading proceeding,
And scorning the dawning of morning,
Rage inducing, time-losing, abusing,
Naught-revering but jeering and sneering.
Unremitting, late sitting, straw-splitting, and twitting,
Body-swaying, inveighing, and braying, and neighing;
Blue-book spouting and shouting, and doubting and pouting;
Ear-shattering, dirt-spattering, and clattering and smattering,
And so never stopping, but always upcropping,
Fresh batches in-dropping to keep up the ball,
Disloyal Obstructionist bores one and all;
From the start of the year till the shooting of grouse――
This is how the Home Rulers behave in the House.

(_C. L. Graves._) TROT.

――――

Here they come wrangling,
And there they go jangling,
Here mumbling and fumbling,
With tumult and grumbling,
They wander about in trouble and doubt;
Now calling and squalling,
As if they were brawling,
With many an angry shout.
Storming and groaning,
Scolding and moaning,
Their bad taste disowning,
With gibes and with jeers;
Fluttering and muttering
While uttering their sneers.
Now bouncing and flouncing,
And madly denouncing,
And filling the air with their wild Irish cheers.
Rebelling and yelling,
Haggling and naggling,
Jabbering and blabbering,
Sweating and fretting,
Exploding and goading,
Embarrassing, harrassing,
Chaffing and laughing,
And talking and balking,
Vapouring and capering,
Bewailing and railing,
And sparring and jarring,
And growling and howling,
Discussing and fussing,
Retorting and thwarting,
And thrashing and slashing,
Disquieting and rioting,
‘Bejaber’-ing and labouring,
And hustling and bustling and tussling,
And leaguing, fatiguing, and often intriguing,
Provoking and joking and choking and croaking,
And poking and prying, and ‘strangers espying,’
Delighting in smiting, inciting to fighting,
Interfering and jeering, domineering and sneering,
Exceeding good breeding by rudely impeding,
And figuring and sniggering, and Parnelling and Biggaring,
And always obstructing, and oft misconducting,
And flaring and daring and wearing and tearing,
And blundering and sundering and wondering and thundering,
And clustering and mustering and flustering and blustering;
Hindering and teasing, they bring without ceasing
Their ‘questions’ and ‘motions’ for ever increasing,
And rush to the fore with a mighty uproar,
These Irish Home Rulers whose freaks we deplore.

PEMBROKE.

――――

Just out of one bother
Into another.
Gone is the Fenian――
Here comes his brother,
Worse than the other.
Whence is this fooling
Of Irish Home Ruling?

From English invasion,
At Irish persuasion,
Of Paddy’s first unity
In village community――
Not with impunity;
From _his_ horror of digging,
From _his_ habit of pigging,
From _his_ love of things smooth
Better far than the truth;

From _our_ law-codes too drastic,
From our treatment too plastic――
Neither elastic;

Generally speaking,
Without further seeking――
From Irish obliquities,
From English iniquities;
Of such-like antiquities
Eight centuries reckoned
From Henry II.
Thence come Home Rulers,
Both fools and befoolers,
Here they stand spouting
Our Parliament flouting;
There they go shouting,
At this silly season
To Irish unreason
Murder and treason;

Lunging of gunning,
Plotting at potting,
Mooting of looting,
Hooting of shooting,
Braying of slaying,
Rent-paying delaying,
Some of them hedging,
Scruples alleging, while treason is fledging,
Hoping to get the thin end of their wedge in!

Yet they cut a poor figure,
This Parnell and Biggar.
With all their pretension.
As they linger and linger
With a trembling finger
On the racketty trigger
Of their glorious National Irish Convention!

HOYLE.
_The World_, November 5, 1879.

――――

HOW THE HOME RULERS BEHAVE AT ST. STEPHEN’S.

Here they come shouting,
And there they sit pouting;
Here fuming and raging.
A wordy war waging,
They stand a most irate throng
Now fussing and fretting
As though much regretting
They cannot fight all night long!

Collecting, dispersing,
Rejecting and cursing,
Hurrying and flurrying,
Tormenting and worrying
Like some snarling bow-wow;
Taking delight in
Abusing and fighting,
Deafening all with their terrible row!
Vapouring and capering,
Grumbling and mumbling,
And wrangling and jangling,
And growling and scowling,
And squalling and bawling,
And jumping and thumping,
And roaring and boring,
And moaning and groaning,
And laughing and quaffing,
And hissing and missing,
And tearing and swearing,
And thundering and blundering,
And querying and wearying,

And hating, and prating, and rating,
And leering, and peering, and jeering,
And dancing, and glancing, and prancing,
And masking, and asking, and tasking,
And stammering, and hammering, and clamouring,
And teasing, and wheezing, and sneezing,
And stunning, and funning, and punning,

And stumping, and pumping, and jumping, and thumping,
And twitting, and hitting, and sitting, and flitting,
And hashing, and gnashing, and lashing, and slashing,
And mustering, and clustering, and flustering, and blustering,
Replying, denying, and eyeing, and crying,
Tallying, and dallying, and rallying, and sallying,
And staring, and glaring, and daring, and flaring,
And railing, and wailing, and quailing, and failing,
And therefore the House they can never have peace in,
The tumult unceasing, for ever increasing,
Rolls restlessly on like some huge tidal wave,
And this is the way the Home Rulers behave!]

From _Snatches of Song_, by F. B. DOVETON. Wyman and
Sons, London, 1880.

――――

THE SHORE.

How do Cheap Trippers
Come down to the shore?

* * * * *

From their sources they wend
In the squalid East-end;
From Whitechapel,
Surge and grapple
Its ’Arries and its Carries.
Through court and through lane
They run and they shout
For awhile, till they’re out
By their own special train,
And thence, at departing
All bawling at starting,
They drink and they feed;
And away they proceed
Through the dark tunnels,
’Mid smoke from the funnels,
Where they shriek in their flurry,
Helter skelter, hurry skurry,
Now singing, now smoking,
Now practical joking,
Till, in this rapid ride
On which they are bent
They reach the sea-side
And make their descent.

* * * * *

The excursion crowd strong
Then plunges along,
Running and leaping
Over rocks creeping,
Kicking and flinging,
“Kiss-in-the-ring”-ing,
Pulls at the whisky,
Making them frisky.
Smiting and fightin’――
A thing they delight in――
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzying and deafening the ear with their sound.

* * * * *

Sea-weeding and feeding,
And mocking and shocking,
And kissing and missing,
And skipping and dipping,
And drinking and winking,
And wading and bathing,
Shell picking and sticking,
In mud-holes and kicking.
And going a rowing,
And fishing and wishing,
And roaming in gloaming,
Sight-seeing and teaing,
And larking and sparking,
Love-making and taking
To beering and jeering,
Donkey-riding and hiding,
And squeaking and seeking.

* * * * *

And galloping and walloping,
And wandering and maundering,
Uncoating and boating and floating,
Upsetting and getting a wetting,
And crying and drying and spying,
Immersing, dispersing, and cursing,
And meeting and greeting and seating and eating,
And fuddling and muddling and huddling and puddling;
And so never ending, but always descending,
The Cockneys for ever and ever are wending,
All at once and all o’er with a mighty uproar――
And this way Cheap-Trippers come down to the shore!

_Punch_, August 7, 1880.

――――

THE MEETING OF THE MEDICINAL “WATERS.”

How do the Waters come down on the public?
Here they come bouncing,
All rivals denouncing,
“Untradesmanlike falsehoods” tremendously trouncing,
Swearing that hurt is meant
By foe’s advertisement;
Public ear stuffing,
And rubbish be-puffing.
Greek meeting Greek――in the crackjawish names of ’em;
Polyglot rot setting forth bogus claims of ’em.
Loquaciously gassing
Of merits surpassing,
Phosphates and carbonates, jargon empirical
Blazoning each pseudo-medical miracle,
Taunting and vaunting,
Their praises loud chanting,
And bothering and pothering
And boasting, and posting
On hoardings and boardings
Their pictures and strictures,
And much advertising,
And circularising;
Till one wishes the roar
Of these Waters were o’er,
And votes the whole business no end of a bore.

_Punch_, June 4, 1881.

――――

A LEGISLATIVE CATARACT; OR HOW THE COMMONS RUSH IN THROUGH THE DOOR.

“How do the members,
Rush in through the door?”
A curious friend asked me
Last year at this time;
And, furthermore, tasked me
To tell him in rhyme.
So anon, thus possess’d
Of his wish in the matter,
My muse I entreated
To come when address’d
And describe how those seated
With clamour and clatter,
Rush in through the door,
And swarm over the floor
When so eager they are
To press to the bar
And to hear the Queen’s Speech
As they’ve heard it of yore!