Chapter XXIX: Canto THE SEVENTH (3)

’Tis the last _ruse_ of someone
Left blooming alone;
All his lovely companions,
Are faded and gone;
No flower of his kidney
Save Rosebery’s nigh,
To reflect back his gushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.

I’ll not leave thee, thou “old hand,”
To skulk in thy den,
Till the landlords are settled,
We’ve Home Rule again;
Thus kindly I flourish
My rod o’er thy head,
While the mates of thy Council
Lie senseless and dead.

How soon may I follow
Should friendship decay.
And from eighty-five “mimbers”
The funds fall away;
If Home Rule lies withered,
And Parli’mint’s flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
Bleak Erin alone?

E.L.
_The Globe_ (London), April 12, 1886.

――――:o:――――

THE MANIFESTO.

(_Mr. Parnell addressed the Irish People on the subject of the Royal Visit._)

Let Erin remember each craze of old,
Now her foremost foes invade her,
America send the dollar of gold
In the sacred task to aid her;
To aid her to see all her banners are furled――
Let who will not look out for danger;――
Turn the emerald gem to a brick to be hurled
At the helpless head of the Stranger.

When far from the revels the Home-Ruler strays,
Whiskey hot, whiskey cold, declining,
He’ll dream of the glories of other days,
And scorn the low joys of dining!
Thus shall Saxons be taught by a pose sublime
That their pride and their prestige are over,
And the Prince and the Princess will know next time
What thick heads a few caubeens do cover!

_Punch_, March 21, 1885.

――――:o:――――

WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE.

When he, who adores thee, has left but the name
Of his fault and his sorrows behind.
Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resign’d?

* * * * *
T. MOORE.

――――

TO A BOTTLE OF OLD PORT.

When he who adores thee has left but the dregs
Of such famous old stingo behind;
Oh! say, will he bluster or weep,――no――’ifegs!
He’ll seek for some more of the kind.
He’ll laugh, and though doctors perhaps may condemn,
Thy tide shall efface the decree,
For many can witness, though subject to phlegm,
He has always been faithful to thee!

With thee were the dreams of his earliest love,
Every rap in his pocket was thine,
And his very last prayer, ev’ry morning, by Jove,
Was to finish the evening in wine.
How blest are the tipplers whose heads can outlive
The effects of four bottles of thee;
But the next dearest blessing that heaven can give,
Is to stagger home muzzy from thee!

W. MAGINN.

――――

TO JOLLY.

When he who adjures thee has left but the shame
Of his pamphlets and postcards behind,
Oh! say――wilt thou weep when they darken the fame
Of a seat that by me was resigned?
Yes weep! but, although in your heart you condemn,
Remember ’twas only through me
You attained to the right to put after your name
The coveted letters “J.P.”

Through thee were the dreams of her earliest love――
The news that she wished to be mine――
By Greenwich conveyed. Therefore since I must move,
My seat unto thee I resign.
Oh! Happy Joe Arch, should he chance to receive
The post now vacated by me,
While one thought serves my last parting pang to relieve,
I’ve resigned――not been kicked out by thee.

From _They are Five_, by W. E. G. (D. Bogue, London, 1880.)

――――:o:――――

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA’S HALLS.

The harp that once through Tara’s halls[119]
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory’s thrill is o’er.
And hearts that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more.
* * * * *
T. MOORE.

――――

COLBURN’S PUFF.

(_Supposed to be chanted over the grave of that eminent publisher_, by MISS L. E. LANDON)

The Puff that once thro’ Colburn’s halls
The soul of humbug shed,
Now lies as mute ’neath Colburn’s walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the praise of many books,
Whose sale, alas! is o’er,
And men who once were gull’d thereby,
Will now be gull’d no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The Puff of Colburn swells,
For those who con _Court Journal_ now,
Heed not the tales it tells,
And people who read _paragraphs_,
In _Courier_ or in _Post_,
Think no more of them than old maids
Of tea and butter’d toast.

_The National Omnibus._ April 29, 1831.

――――

THE BELT WHICH ONCE THE CHAMPION BRAC’D.

The Belt which once the CHAMPION brac’d
When boxing honour reigned,
In modern times has been disgraced,
And all its glory stain’d;
For he, whose pugilistic fame
Each Fancy Bard should sing,
Now hides his head in conscious shame,
And banish’d from the Ring.

TOM CRIBB, thy manly form no more,
In fight we shall behold;
But matchless were thy deeds of yore,
As generous as bold.
Base acts your gallant spirit spurned,
And manfully you dealt,
And honestly, though hardly, earn’d
The English CHAMPION’S Belt.

Thy praise shall long resound afar,
The Champion long wert thou,
And honor was thy leading star,
And triumph deck’d thy brow:
But glory now is on the wane,
The Fancy in despair,
When shall we see thy like again,
The Champion’s Belt to wear?

From _Pierce Egan’s Book of Sports_, 1832.

――――

POETICAL ADVERTISEMENTS.

The harp that once in WARREN’S Mart
The soul of music shed,
Now mutely lies in WARREN’S cart,
Or under WARREN’S bed.
So sleeps the source of MOSES’ lays,
So ROWLAND’S puffs are o’er;
And heads once wreathed in poets’ bays
Are thumped for rhymes no more.

No more by stanzas, songs, and odes,
WARREN his blacking sells;
The van alone the carman loads,
The name of WARREN tells.
Thus MOSES’ muse so seldom wakes;
The only sign she gives
Is when some silly rhymes she makes,
To show that still she lives.

_Punch_, December, 1853.

――――

SARAH’S HALLS.

The broom that once through Sarah’s halls
In hole and corner sped,
Now useless leans gainst Sarah’s walls
And gathers dust instead.
So sweeps the slavey now-a-days
So work is shifted o’er,
And maids that once gained honest praise
Now earn that praise no more!

No more the cobweb from its height
The broom of Sarah fells;
The fly alone unlucky wight
Invades the spider’s cells.
Thus energy so seldom wakes,
All sign that Sarah gives
Is when some dish, or platter breaks,
To show that still she lives.

_Judy_, March, 1869.

――――

THE WALLFLOWER.

The girl that oft in lighted halls
Enchantment round her shed,
Now sits neglected by the walls
Her bloom and temper fled.
So fades the belle of garrisons
Till she becomes a bore,
And hearts that once beat high for her
Now feel that pulse no more.

From _The Girl of the Period Miscellany_, June, 1869.

――――

THE VOICE THAT ONCE.

The voice that once thro’ senate halls
Would set the echoes free,
Is silent now when Randy calls,
And mute to Ashmead B.
So sleeps the speech of former days,
So hearing’s thrill is o’er,
And Tories famed for teasing ways
Now earn reproof no more.

No more, supreme in wordy fight,
The voice of Gladstone swells;
The cough alone that breaks at night
Its tale of ruin tells,
Thus Eloquence no longer seeks
To conquer near and far――
How can it, when each wheeze bespeaks
Laryngeal catarrh?

_Funny Folks_. March, 1884.

――――

LUKE SHARP WHO ONCE IN NEWGATE’S WALLS.
(_By an Ex-Warder H.M. Prison, Newgate._)

Luke Sharp who once in Newgate’s walls
The tear of penance shed,
And listened to the warders’ calls
And wished those warders dead,
Now feeds no more on prison fare
Loosed are the chains he bore
The cell that once confined him there
Can find him there no more.

No more he weeps in durance vile
Or mourns o’er man’s decline,
He wanders far from Britain’s isle
And Binns[120]――the hangman’s-line.
Fond memory holds his shadow dear
Old Newgate loves him yet,
And though he is no longer there
He ought to be, you bet.

_Hal Berte_, in _Detroit Free Press_, March 21, 1885.

(This parody was written at the expense of the popular _Detroit Free Press_ writer, known as Luke Sharp, the author of the piece being also connected with that amusing paper.)

――――

FLY NOT TO WINE.

Fly not to wine――’tis just the hour
The House divides――the lobbies scour,
And Bellamy’s――for once be bright,
The Whigs are strong――we’re beat to-night,
If friends won’t muster soon.
That Tory Members might be paid,
Were boroughs, taxes, titles made;
Fly――tell our friends the loaves are going,
The fishes fast away are flowing.
Oh! pray!――oh! pray.
The Whigs ne’er wove so strong a chain,
To bind our wrists, our places gain,
If we don’t break it soon.

Fly, like our friend, the black-faced blade,
Our long-tailed saint has taught his trade;
Through all our souls his precepts ran,
Since we, like imps and fiends, began
The people’s hearts to tear.
If Members game at White’s or Brookes
And will not vote to-night, odd zooks――
Office we shall ne’er return in,
Hell their recreant souls shall burn in.
Oh, pray! oh, pray!
Oh, let not Tory spirits quake――
The people rouse――they’re quite awake――
We’re beat to-night――oh, dear!

From _The Blue Bag_; _or, Toryana_. (Effingham Wilson, London,
1832.)

――――

FLY NOT YET.
_Sung by the Right Honorable W. E. Forster, M P_

(“Owing to the near approach of the passing of the Coercion Act a number of Transatlantic personages, who have been going about Dublin for some time, have disappeared. It has also had the effect of inducing others to remove to England.”――_Dublin News letter._)

Fly not yet! ’tis just the hour
When murder, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,
And bhoys who love the moon.
’Twas but to guard these hours of shade
That the Coercion Bill was made;
Let not its penal clauses glowing
Set all mine honest friends agoing.
Oh! stay,――oh! stay,――
Law so seldom weaves a chain
Like this, so tight, that oh! ’tis plain
You shun its links so soon.

Fly not yet. The pluck displayed
In times of old in ambuscade,
Though icy cold by day it ran,
Yet still, with blackened face, began
To shoot when night was near;
And thus the leaguer’s heart and looks,
Though smooth at noon as winter brooks,
Should kindle when the night returning
Brings their usual hour for burning.
Oh! stay,――oh! stay!
Alas! ’tis now too late to take
Revenge on rogues so wide awake
As these embarking here!

From _The St. James’s Gazette_, March 5, 1881.

――――:o:――――

RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE.

Rich and rare were the gems she wore,
And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore;
But oh! her beauty was far beyond
Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand.

* * * * *
T. MOORE.

――――

“_Rich and rare were the gems she wore._”
(_Apropos of the late Alderman Wood and Queen Caroline._)

Rich and furred was the robe he wore,
And a bright gold chain on his breast he bore,
But ah! his speaking was far beyond
Waithman himself with his snow-white wand.

“Humpty, dost thou not fear to stray
With the lady so far from the king’s _highway_?
Are Britain’s sons so dull or so cold
As still to be cheated with tinsel for gold?”

“Mistress Dumpty, I feel not the least alarm,
No placeman ever dare do me harm;
For though they vote her and me a bore,
They love their own heads and places more.”

“On he went――in her coach to ride,
While he cozened the lady who sat by his side;
And lost for ever was she who was led
By Humpty’s honour and Dumpty’s head.”

THEODORE HOOK.
_The Spirit of the Public Journals_, 1824.

――――

RAGGED AND ROUGH.

Ragged and rough were the clothes she wore,
And a bottle and glass in her hands she bore;
But, oh! her red nose shone far beyond
The sparkling rum in her dark brown hand.

“Nancy, oh, Nan! don’t you fear to stray,
Before the morn, on the king’s highway,
When the sons of London are shiv’ring cold,
And may run away with the bottle you hold?”

“Get out, for I don’t feel the least alarm,
I’m too ugly and old for to do me harm;
Though they love young girls, and a plentiful store,
Yet they’ll look on a faded old woman no more!”

On she went to the famed Turnstile,
And, tired enough, she sat down awhile;
Till, _non se ipse_, all care she defied,
For she drank so much, that she hiccupped and died.

――――

ERIN’S CHIVALRY.

Rich and rare were the arms she bore:
A brace of Colts at her waist she wore;
And, oh! her beauty was hidden with fear,
As on she fled like a hunted deer.

Lady, why dost thou fear to stray,
Alone and unarmed, in the ancient way?
If Erin’s sons were not blameless or cold,
They used to spare women in days of old!

“In days of old” she answered, “Sir Knight,
Honor and virtue were Erin’s delight;
But this cursed League”――Ere more was said
She ducked, and a brick-bat missed her head.

On, like the hunted deer she went――
Her only crime that she’d paid her rent;
And the stranger said, “Sure, we’ll change the song
Of “Erin-go-bragh” into “Erin gone wrong.”

_Funny Folks._

――――

ROUGH AND RED.

Rough and red was the cloak she wore,
And a cup of potheen in her hand she bore;
But, oh! from her short black pipe the smoke,
Was more fragrant by far than her rough red cloak.

’Lady! dost thou not fear to stray,
So lonely and laden o’er this bleak way?
Are Erin’s sons in virtue so ripe
As not to be tempted by potheen and pipe?

“Och misther! I fear not a boy in the place,
For I’m the girl that can batther a face;
And though they love potheen and pipes d’ye see,
The devil a drop will they get from me!”

On she went with her cup in her hand,
In safety all over that lonely land;
And barefoot and saucy was she who relied
On that fist of her own, that swung by her side.

――――

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

* * * * *
T. MOORE.

――――

PATERNOSTER ROW.

There is not in this city an alley so sweet
As the Row, in whose houses the Publishers meet;
Oh the last ray of feeling must bid me farewell,
E’re the books in those houses shall half of them sell.

Yet it was not the volumes that piled up were seen,
On the high shelves of Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown and Green
’Twas not what old Lardner yet labours to fill.
Oh no, it was something more readable still,

’Twas that Whittaker, Baldwin, and Simpkin were there
With cheap useful knowledge that others sold dear;
’Twas that Hurst, Duncan, Kelly, all published away,
With Sherwood and Gilbert, and the _Piper_ to pay!

Sweet Row Paternoster, I’d like very well,
To see you and your Publishers marching to hell;
There the devils might rub them behind and before
And they’d never be troubled with the Cholera more.

_The National Omnibus._ July 8, 1831.

――――

THOMAS MOORE[121](_Loq._) “I am the English Anacreon, the biographer of Byron and Sheridan, the inditer of Lalla Rookh, and the _Man of Melodies_. I would suggest to my noble patrons that:――

There is not in the palace a wide room so sweet
As the room on whose table the dinner things meet;
Oh the last _gout_ for good things from life must depart
Ere the love of that table shall fade from my heart.

Yet it wasn’t that turtle had shed o’er the dish
Its richest of gravy (that notable fish!)
’Twas not the soft magic of guzzle and fill――
Oh no, it was something more drinkable still.

’Twas that wines, the beloved of my palate, were there
That made every dear slice of the turkey more dear,
And which taught me to feel that my looks were not hurt,
When, I saw them reflected in bottles of port.

Sweet room of the dinner, how calm could I rest
Near thy table and chair, with the wine I love best,
When the ladies should leave us, restraint to release
And, damme, we’d drink off a dozen a piece!

_The National Omnibus_, December 30, 1831.

――――

There’s not in Saint Stephen’s so pleasant a seat,
As that Bench where each evening the Ministers meet:
Oh, the last Tory yearning for place must depart,
Ere that Bench’s remembrance will fade from my heart.

’Twas not that the upholsterer had covered each form,
With the greenest of baizes, so genial and warm;
’Twas not the soft cushions well padded with skill――
Oh no, it was something more exquisite still:――

’Twas that _place_, the beloved of the Tories was near,
Making every dear seat on those Benches more dear;
And which taught how the strongest of scruples will move,
When we find them assaulted with pay that we love.

Sweet Treasury Benches, how calm could I rest,
On thy surface of green, with the friends I love best;
When the radical howl for Reform shall quite cease,
And the Bill, like my speeches, be buried in peace.

_Figaro in London_, 1833.

――――

PUNCH OFFICE.

There is not in all London an _endroit_ so sweet
As the office of PUNCH, in famed Wellington Street,
Oh, the last ray of feeling and life will depart,
Ere the love of that office shall fade from my heart.

It is not that painters have spread o’er the scene
A coat of red paint, while the shutters are green;
’Tis not the vile lucre that chokes up the till――
Oh, no! it is something more exquisite still.

’Tis that PUNCH, the beloved of my bosom is near,
Making every dear inch of the office more dear;
And which shows how the worst furnished rooms will improve,
When we see the shelves loaded with works that we love.

Sweet office of PUNCH! oh, how calm could I rest
In thy little back room though for space rather press’d;
When publishing time should be over and cease,
And my frame, like that Artist’s, shall slumber in peace.

PUNCH, Volume 2, 1842.

――――

AN OXFORD PARODY. ON HUNTING.

There is not in the wide world a country so sweet,
As the valley renown’d where “the Heythrop” pack meet;
Oh! the last dreams of hunting and hounds shall depart,
Ere the runs I’ve there witness’d shall fade from my heart.

Yet it was not that nature had here laid the scene,
’Midst her thickets of “Bullfinch” and pasturage green;
’Twas not the sweet music o’er fence, brook, and hill,
Oh! no, it was something more heart-stirring still.

’Twas that those we had long known were oftentimes near,
Who could make our pursuits and amusements more dear;
And who felt how the true joys of hunting improve,
When riding _with_ friends and _to_ hounds that we love.

Sweet vale of the Evenlode! ne’er may I rest
Deposed in thy blue mud, but on with the best
May I ride, till our pastime with daylight shall cease,
And our brandies-and-waters be mingled in peace.

J. R. G.
From _Hints to Freshmen in the University of Oxford_. (J. Vincent,
Oxford.)

――――

METROPOLITAN MELODIES.

There’s not in the wide world an odour less sweet
Than the stench that’s exhaled where the Thames’ waters meet!
Oh, the last sense of smelling my nostrils must close,
Ere the stench of those waters offends not my nose!

Vile scent of Thamesis, howe’er can I rest,
And know you, perchance, may engender a pest
Till the law, bidding shameful monopolies cease,
Let’s us wash in, or drink, our pure water in peace?

_Punch_, June, 1850.

Another, and a very similar parody, on the same unsavoury topic, appeared in _Punch_, July 17th, 1858.

――――

“A SONG OF THE SEASON”

O, there’s not in the West-End a valet so sweet
As our JEAMES when with drawing-room bouquet complete;
With the light “_œil de poudré_” on his side-curls so smart,
And where his back-hairs so symmetrically part!

’Tis not that he shows his six feet all serene,
In the reddest of red and the greenest of green:
’Tis not his _grand airs_――gazing nursemaids that kill――
O no, it is something more wonderful still!

’Tis the thought how amazing a product is bred
From the finest of shapes and the emptiest head,
When in folly’s first flight launched to dazzle the eye,
Clad in all that’s most foolish of fashions gone by!

Most fragrant of valets, sought Folly a nest,
The sweetest she’d find in thy Glenfield-starched breast!
Potten Row shall be riderless, Kensington dark,
Ere the calves of that valet are driven from the Park!

_Punch_, April 20, 1872.

――――

There’s not in all London a tavern so gay,
As that where the knowing ones meet of a day;
So long as a farthing remains to my share,
I’ll drink at that tavern, and never elsewhere!

Yet it is not that comforts there only combine,
Nor because it produces good brandy and wine;
’Tis not the sweet odour of pipe nor cigar,
Oh! no――’tis a something more cozie by far!

’Tis that friends of the Hell and the Turf are all nigh,
Who’d drink till the cellar itself should be dry,
And teach you to feel how existence may please,
When pass’d in the presence of cronies like these.

Sweet Sign of the Fiddle! how long could I dwell
In thy tap full of smoke, with the friends I love well!
When bailiffs no longer the alleys infest,
And duns, like their bills, have relapsed into rest!

From _Pickwick Abroad_, by George W. M. Reynolds.

――――

STEPHEN KEMBLE.

The following parody on the “Meeting of the Waters” emanated from the “Durham Wags,” and originally appeared in the _Durham Chronicle_. It was aimed at the late Stephen Kemble, whose frequent visits to Wynyard (the seat of Lord Stewart, afterwards Marquis of Londonderry) used to be celebrated by the _great_ actor in poetry that was anything but “first rate.” “Noble Stewart the Patriot” was a favorite expression with him:――

“There is not in the wide world a mansion so sweet
As the Hall where ‘my Lord’ and ‘my Lady’ I meet:
Their kind invitations such pleasure impart,
_That_ house can be never erased from my heart.

“It is not that well-polished tables so fine
Within its apartments resplendently shine;
It is not the green trees that round it I see:
Oh no! there is something more pleasing to _me_!

“’Tis because ‘Noble Stewart the Patriot’ is there,
With his Lady so lovely, so charming, and fair;
And who make all their tables in beauty improve
When they spread them with dishes that dearly I love.

“Hail, sweetest of mansions! how should I be blest,
If I e’er might dwell _there_ with the food I love best;
Then the pangs I now draw from my crack’d harp should end,
And in stuffing and cramming my days would I spend.

Mr. S. Kemble resided for many years at “The Grove” near Durham. He is buried in the “Chapel of the Nine Altars,” in Durham Cathedral.

――――

THE IRISH WELCOME.

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet,
As the vale where the beef and the white cabbage meet;
With potatoes galore, and strong beer at one end,
In one corner yourself, in the other your friend.

But it was not that Nature had shed o’er those scenes
The head of white cabbage, instead of bad greens;
But, when that was all over we had potheen in store,
With a welcome I’d give it, which makes it much more,

Then no more of your valleys, with your mountains so high,
Where there’s nought to be had but a bleak wind and sky!
But come to the cottage, where plenty you’ll see,
With a “_Keith mille falthee_,” you’re welcome to me.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE TRIFLE.

There’s not in the wide world so tempting a sweet
As that Trifle where custard and macaroons meet;
Oh! the latest sweet tooth from my head must depart,
Ere the taste of that Trifle shall not win my heart.

Yet it is not the sugar that’s thrown in between,
Nor the peel of the lemon so candid and green;
’Tis not the rich cream that’s whipp’d up by a mill,
Oh, no! it is something more exquisite still.

’Tis that nice macaroons in the dish I have laid,
Of which a delicious foundation is made;
And you’ll find how the last will in flavor improve,
When soak’d with the wine that you pour in above.

Sweet _plateau_ of Trifle! how great is my zest
For thee, when spread o’er with the jam I love best,
When the cream white of eggs――to be over thee thrown,
With the whisk kept on purpose――is mingled in one!

_Punch_, March 20, 1852.

――――

THE BITTER CRY OF OUTCAST LONDON.
Prize parody in _The Weekly Dispatch_, November 25, 1883.

There is not in the wide world a fester so foul
As the slums where the outcasts of Babylon prowl,
Oh, the last trace of pity and ruth must depart
Ere the gloom of those alleys shall pass from my heart.

Yet it was not that squalor had shed o’er the spot
The stench of her stews and the reek of her rot;
’Twas not the grim presence of Death and Disease――
Oh, no! it was something more shocking than these.

’Twas that fiends――the familiars of Mammon――were here,
Who made every dear scene of extortion more dear,
And who felt no remorse, while they left unimproved,
The dens whence they drew the rack-rents that they loved.

Sad outcasts of Babylon! How shall ye rest
While the vampires are sucking the blood from your breast?
Or how shall the storms that beat over you cease,
While your hearts, like your quarters, are strangers to peace?

T. A. WILSON.

――――

Highly commended:

There is not in the wide world a city so great
As the Babylon mistress of Britain’s proud State,
Oh, the last rays of feeling and life must depart
Ere the mem’ries of London shall fade from my heart.

Yet it was not that wealth had made radiant the scene
With splendour of pomp and with glory of sheen!
’Twas not the bright magic of palace or hall――
Oh, no! it was something more wondrous than all.

’Twas that Poverty’s sin-stricken children were there,
Darkly gathered, and pent in foul homes of despair;
And I felt as I gazed on their black haunts of shame,
That, though evil defiled them, mankind’s was the blame.

Dark city of London! Within thy deep breast
There are poor without hope, and forlorn without rest.
And, ah! when shall the woes of thy wretched ones cease,
And a wise-taught humanity kindly give peace?

ARAMIS.

――――

THE METEING OF THE WATERS.

There is not, in the Session, a joke so complete
As the sight when the Tories and Turtlemen meet
In conflict direct about water-supply,
And when Randy to Fowler gives “one in the eye.”

That double-chinn’d joker, great Harcourt, must shake
As Coope the Conservative benches doth rake
With his verbal stern-chasers; acidulous Firth
Must be moved to a Mephistophelian mirth.

Oh, it _must_ be some sly compensation, if slight,
For delay of _their_ Measure, to witness the fight
’Twixt the old Corporation, their long-threatened foe,
And those bad Water Companies, equally so.

The Municipal Bill may be under a cloud,
But to hear cheeky Churchill demanding aloud
What’s the _use_ of an Alderman, verily, this
Must mitigate bile by one moment of bliss.

The meteing of waters may be a small point,
When they hold the whole City is quite out of joint;
But this pleasant reflection must comfort their breast,
“When rogues tumble out,”――well, the world knows the rest!

_Punch_, March, 1884.

――――

THE WEEKLY DISPATCH PARODY COMPETITION.

“The Meeting of the Waters” was again chosen for imitation by the above journal, and the following parodies were published on August 10, 1884. The prize of two guineas was awarded to Mr. B. Saunders for the following:――

THE THAMES.

There is not in broad England so doubtful a treat
As a trip on the Thames ’twixt Blackwall and Purfleet.
Oh, the slumbers of Death on my eyelids must close
Ere the bare recollection shall fade from my nose.

Yet ’twas not that the banks were more grimy than green,
Nor rough were the waters that glided between;
’Twas neither sea-sickness nor fear made me ill;
Oh, no, it was something more horrible still.

’Twas that London had poured all its filth and its stink
In the river, which flowed with the blackness of ink;
And I smelt――O ye gods! can no measure improve
This river of sewage that Londoners love?

Sweet valley of Thames――(here I speak of the west,
Where Richmond and Kew smile on waters more blest);
Oh, when shall this plague spot polluting thee cease,
And thy waters to ocean flow purely in peace?

Highly commended:――

There is not in the wide world a maiden so sweet
As the lass for whose favour my bosom doth beat.
Oh, the best hope I cherish in gloom would depart
If that maid should grow fickle, and heed not my heart.

Yet it is not that Nature hath dowered her face
With brightest of beauty and sweetest of grace;
’Tis not the dear magic of figure or feet;
Oh, no, she’s the ugliest girl in the street.

’Tis that gold, the desired of my bosom, is there,
Which makes ev’ry grim line of deformity fair;
And which gives me the courage to smile when I see
Her blue nose at the window reflected on me,

Sweet maiden, so wealthy, how happy I’d rest
Quaffing “fizz” on thy gold with the chums I love best;
Then the tortures I feel in borrowing would cease,
And my duns, like old friends, be all smiling in peace.

ARAMIS.

There is not in this wide world a fraud so complete
As the vetoing power of the Lords’ _corps d’élite_;
Oh, faint must the heart be that beats in his breast,
Who in serfdom like this is contented to rest.

It is not that Nature unkindly denies
To his lordship a brain of the average size;
Nor because he resembles the people he rules,
Who, according to Carlyle, are most of them fools.

’Tis because, not content with his ill-gotten swag,
He would tear from the toiler his last tattered rag,
And give to the Franchise the knock on the head
That he tried on the measure for giving him bread.

Gilded Chamber of Horrors! you’re fated to go――
There is room for your relics with Madame Tussaud;
For the time has come round when Obstruction must cease,
Hark! the cry of “Move off!” from the Commons’ police!

H.B.

There is not, to the poet, a pleasure so sweet
As to win the two guineas for which we compete.
Oh, the joy I’d be feeling if you’d only “part”
Would instil some new energy into my heart.

Yet it is not that lately I’ve frequently seen
That my name ’mongst the “highly commended” has been;
’Tis not the sweet pleasure of this that can fill;
Oh, no, I want something more tangible still.

’Tis the money that’s useful in ev’ry career,
And the first fruit of authorship ever most dear;
And I wonder if ever my verse will improve
Till, no longer rejected, I gain what I love.

Good judge of our excellence, calm would I rest
If I thought you’d adjudge this endeavour the best;
When the guineas would come, my small store to increase,
And the coins in my pocket be jingled in peace.

EDWARD A. HORNE.

There is not in the wide club a room that’s so sweet
As the lounge in whose bosom the baccy wreaths meet;
Oh, the last train may go, the last hansom depart,
Ere the charm of the smoke-room shall cease for my heart.

Yet it is not that care has spread over the scene
The easiest chairs in their leather of green;
’Tis not in the sodas and B. that we fill;
Oh, no, there is something more exquisite still.

’Tis that chums of the oldest are all puffing near,
With stories and jokes to club gossips most dear;
And who feel how the odours of baccy improve
When surrounding the humorous faces we love.

Sweet haunt of a smoker! here weary brains rest
In thy fragrance and shade with the pipes they love best;
Where the worries of life for an hour or two cease,
And our meerschaums, like autumn leaves, colour in peace.

J. PRATT.

――――:o:――――

THE MEETING OF THE EMPERORS AT SKIERNIEVICE.

There is not in the wide world a town with a name
Queer as that to whose bosom the Emperors came;
Oh! ev’n than the treadmill the labour were worse――
That town with the queer name to squeeze into verse!

But not of that town or its name do we treat,
But the reason would know why the Emperors meet;
The _quid-nuncs_ look wise, but――explain it who can?――
What the mischief’s the mischief those Emperors plan?

Are those heads, so beloved of their peoples, brought near
To bring on a war ere the close of the year,
Or, adopting the principle, “_Lex sibi Rex_,”
The unoccupied parts of the globe to annex?

Ah! town with the queer name, how calm should we rest
Could our hearts of the comforting thought be possessed
That the storms we most dread in this dark world would cease,
And that meeting of Emperors really mean Peace!

_Moonshine_, September 27, 1884.

――――:o:――――

COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE.

Come, send round the wine, and leave plans of reform
To patriot asses and radical tools;
In the den of corruption we fatten and swarm,
Then let’s keep our places and laugh at the fools.
Your place may be easy, and mine may be hard;
But while the cash comes from the Treasury chest,
The fool who’d relinquish his _honest_ reward,
Deserves not to eat or to drink of the best.

Shall I ask the _old fogie_, who sits by my side
And plunders the hive, if our tenets agree?
Shall I give up my friend, who for bribery was tried?
If he kneel not before the same altar with me?
From the Catholic girl of my heart shall I fly
To seek somewhere else for a Protestant kiss?
No. Perish the placeman that ever would try
To value his place by a standard like this.

To us ’tis all one whether Catholic Peers
Get into the House or for ever stay out;
And as for the Radicals, we have no fears,
Though they bawl for retrenchment and kick up a rout.
Then feather your nests well, and push round the bowl
Success to TAXATION! that magical word
Is the true source of plenty, and sheds o’er the soul
Of a placeman more joy than aught else can afford.

From _The Spirit of the Public Journals_, 1825.

――――:o:――――

BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to day,
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy-gifts fading away.
Thou would’st still be ador’d, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.

* * * * *
T. MOORE.

_Mr. Colburn’s reflections when gazing on the piles of unsold, copies of_ LADY MORGAN’S _works_.

Believe me if all those damn’d musty old works,
Which I gaze on so sadly to-day,
Were to sell by to-morrow to Heathens or Turks,
And so be got out of my way,
They might still be abused, as this moment they must,
Let their pages be read as they will,
And around their cloth binding the dirt and the dust
Might entwine themselves verdantly still!

It was not till old Lady Morgan had flown
To my neighbours in Conduit-street dear,
That the worthless, _half-price_ of her works could be known
Which so long have laid mouldering here.
Oh, the books that are truly damn’d never will sell,
But are truly damn’d on to the close;
So their publishers wished, when their value so fell,
They had fall’n on her Ladyship’s toes.

_The National Omnibus_, April 15, 1831.

――――

ON THE HOUSE OF LORDS THROWING OUT THE REFORM BILL.

Believe me if all that demolish’d plate glass,
Which I cannot observe without pain;
Could be made by to-morrow one glittering mass,
And fixed in your windows again.
They would soon be in holes, as this moment they are,
Let the panes be as thick as they will;
And around thy fine mansion each mob from afar
Would collect itself angrily still!

Oh! it is not while windows thus smash’d are thine own,
Presenting an aspect so drear,
That the furious rage of a mob can be known,
’Gainst a proud Borough-mongering Peer!
No, the vote of the Tory will ne’er be forgot
Till the bill has passed into an act;
Like your head, my dear Marquis, repair them or not,
Your windows till then will be crack’d!

_Figaro in London_, December 17, 1831.

――――

BELIEVE ME, DEAR SUSAN, IF ALL THOSE YOUNG CHARMS.

Believe me, dear Susan, if all those young charms
Which I meet on my beat ev’ry day,
Were to seek for protection B. 53’s arms,
Like the maiden does Brown’s in the play,
I should still from your area, dear, never depart,
But notice each dish on the sill;
And if in the safe there were only sheep’s heart,
I should gull you――for you’re verdant still.

It is not while cold pigeon pies are your own,
Or you spill master’s cask of best beer,
That the faith of a p’liceman can always be known,
That’s all gammon, you know, Susan dear.
For the peeler that’s steadfast of course never lets
Life’s poetry mix with its prose;
For his love is as warm as the sun, when it sets
On the larder which steams ’neath his nose.

_Diogenes_, Vol. 3, p. 209, 1854.

――――

TO A LADY.

Believe me, if all those voluminous charms
Which thy fondness for fashion betray,
And keep e’en thy nearest relations at arm’s
Distance――some paces away:
Were those air tubes now blown up exploded outright,
And those hoops trundled off thee as well,
With less ample a skirt thou would’st look less a fright,
And more belle-like when less like a bell.

’Tis not by mere Swells taste in dressing is shown,
And that size is not beauty ’tis clear;
Nay, the shapeliest forms when balloon-like out blown,
Both distorted and ugly appear.
Then heed not what fashions _le Follet_ may set,
Be enslaved by no follies like those;
For be sure that your dresses, the wider they get,
The more narrow your mind is disclose.

_Punch_, October 17, 1857.

(Ladies were then wearing very large crinolines.)

――――

JOHN BULL TO PADDY

Believe me, if all those unfounded alarms,
Which circulate every day,
Proved true by to-morrow, and Fenian arms
Were uplifted to plunder and slay,
We should still hold our own, with unterrified heart,
Let the outrages be what they will,
And our motto (however our injuries smart)
Should be “JUSTICE TO IRELAND!” still.

It is not to scoundrels, whom patriots disown,
And whom Erin has reason to fear,
That the meaning of FREEDOM can truly be known,
Nor the cause of “OLD IRELAND” be dear.
No! the heart of the PATRIOT never forgets
’Tis not _thus_ he should conquer his foes,
And the emblem on which his reliance he sets
IS THE SHAMROCK ENTWINED WITH THE ROSE.

_Echoes from the Clubs_, December 25, 1867

――――

JOHN BRIGHT TO HIS PLACE.

Believe me if all those endearing young charms
That I share with such rapture to-day,
Were to fade by to-morrow at Tory alarms,
Collapsing both office and pay!
Thou wouldst still be as dear as this moment thou art,
Let Conservatives boast as they will,
And round the lost Council each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself Liberal still.

It is not when Gladstone and Lowe are thine own,
And thy Childers confiscates the pens
That the ferment and fume of a Bright can be thrown,
Who can roar down the biggest of Bens――
Oh! the tongue of the Demagogue never can rest,
But as glibly runs on to the close,
For the Cabinet’s glories are brief at the best,
And a mob may be useful, who knows.

_Will-o’-the wisp_, May 15, 1869.

――――

TO AN ANCIENT COQUETTE.

Believe me if all those affected young charms
Which I gaze on so sadly to-day,
Were to change by to morrow and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy gifts fading away.
Thou would’st still be abhorred as this moment thou art
Mocking beauty so vainly and ill,
For around such a ruin no wish of my heart
Could entwine itself, or ever will.

Nay, rather leave rouge and pearl powder alone,
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a smear,
That nature’s own beauty in age may be known,
And the autumn of life calm and clear.
The heart that is true to itself never frets
For the tints of the lily and rose,
And the sun of affection should glow when it sets,
Even purer than when it arose.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

Believe me, if all those most solemn-faced dons,
Whom we’ve seen at St. Mary’s to-day,
Were to get in a body, and tuck up their gowns,
And down Market-place caper away;
They would still be _adored_ as this moment they are,
Let their dignity fare as it will;
And at them, with wondering awe from afar,
The Freshmen gaze _verdantly_ still.

But while they are clothed in glossy silk gown
And cap best obtainable here,
Their features are scanned by the Freshmen and known,
So that time only makes them _less dear_,
For when once he’s been gated he never forgets,
But steadily swears to the close
At the Tutor, who bounds to his out-goings sets,
Or for Chapel disturbs his repose.

_The Lays of the Mocking Sprite_, by E. B. (Cambridge.)

――――

Believe me, if all that roast pork which with zest
I devoured at dinner to-night,
Were to bring indigestion and lie on my chest
Like a log, putting slumber to flight,
It would still be my favourite dish, as of yore,
Let my sufferings be what they will,
And round the crisp crackling and stuffing galore
My thoughts linger lovingly still!

It is not while playing a good knife and fork,
When your frame’s undisturbed by a throe,
That the thought of the horrors attendant on pork
Will be likely to fill you with woe.
No! ’tis only when several _hours_ have flown,
That pale Nemesis steals from her lair,
And as on your pillow you fidget and groan,
You feel that “roast pig” is a snare!

F. B. DOVETON.
_Judy_, March 9, 1881.

――――

Believe me, that all these delusive alarms
That the Tories so recklessly float
Are but meant, like the silly cry, “Ulster to arms!”
As a trap for the Liberal vote.
Since you gave them the sack, they imagine (good lack!)
They can wriggle, by foul means or fair,
In spite of consistency, just to get back
Into Downing-street, Parliament-square!

But you know very well, from my action of old,
It’s on me you can always depend;
If you lean on the Dissidents, then you’ll be sold――
It’s not Joseph, but William’s your friend!
All their high-sounding talk hides but envy and pride,
Though their tone is so soft and so fair;
’Tis for you to decide whom you’ll have to preside
At 10, Downing-street, Parliament-square.

ABRACADABRA.
_The Weekly Dispatch._ June 27, 1886.

――――:o:――――

“OH, BLAME NOT THE BARD.”

Ah, blame not the Bard if his frantic endeavours
At compassing _kudos_ should constantly fail,
Nor blame Mr. Warden when circumstance severs
The ties of his home and consigns him to jail;
The Bard would be willing, and yearns to be able,
To thrill the whole world to its innermost soul,
And Warden would cheerfully grace his own table,
But “circumstance over which _we’ve_ no control.”

Oh, blame not the British Museum for showing
Its autotype Raphaels all of a row,
For wert thou “originals” on them bestowing
They’d hang them with pleasure I happen to know;
And blame not the troops in the Soudan for straying
Unlinked with their base as they press to their goal――
It is, though, undaunted the front they’re displaying,
A “circumstance over which _they’ve_ no control.”

* * * * *

Oh, blame not the walrus that’s come to West_minster_
If loneliness makes him to set up a howl,
How often the same has occurred to the spinster
Who sits by her parrot and cat, cheek by jowl;
And blame not the Frenchman with China who quarrels,
Though sad be his lot and unhappy his dole,
But just count his strange international morals
A “circumstance over which _he’s_ no control.”

Oh, blame not the people in Salt Lake its city,
Who’re sending out parties to proselytize;
They’ve suffered from wives, and they think it’s a pity
That others should not have to suffer likewise;
And blame not the Bard if his verses are prosy,
And move with a steadily slumberous roll,
The fact that he makes all the universe dozy
Is “a circumstance over which _he’s_ no control.”

_Fun_, November, 1883.

――――:o:――――

(_Air_――“Love’s young dream.”)

Oh! the days are gone when beauty bright
Her own hair wore,
Oh, a girl was not an awful fright
In days of yore.
Now, eyes may leer――false teeth appear,
And painted be each face;
But there nothing half so beautiful
As Grace――sweet Grace.

Oh! those lovely girls are ne’er forgot,
Mine eye once traced:
No “Chignons” huge, or scanty skirts,
Their forms disgraced.
Now “Taste” has fled――from heel to head,
All ugliness we trace,
Ah! there’s nothing half so beautiful
As Grace――sweet Grace.

From _The Girl of the Period Miscellany_, May 1869.

――――:o:――――

LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.

Lesbia hath a beaming eye,
But no one knows for whom it beameth;
Right and left its arrows fly,
But what they aim at no one dreameth.
Sweeter ’tis to gaze upon
My Nora’s lid that seldom rises;
Few its looks, but every one,
Like unexpected light, surprises!
Oh, my Nora Creina, dear,
My gentle, bashful Nora Creina,
Beauty lies
In many eyes,
But love in yours, my Nora Creina.
* * * * *
T. MOORE.

――――

THE SLOE-BLACK PEEPER.

Peggy hath a squinting eye,
But no one knows at what it squinteth;
Right and left her glances fly,
But what they glance at, no one hinteth;
Sweeter ’tis to gaze upon
My Nancy’s roguish sloe-black peeper;
Few its looks, but every one
Strikes sly Cupid’s arrows deeper!
Oh, my black-eyed Nancy, dear!
My pretty, roguish black-eyed Nancy!
I despise
Peg’s squinting eyes,
But sloe black peepers please my fancy.

Peggy wears her dresses high,
And then her stays so tight she’ll lace ’em;
Not a charm can one espy,
Tho’ busy fancy tries to trace ’em.
Oh, my Nancy’s gown for me,
That floats as wild as mountain breezes,
Leaving every beauty free,
To rise or fall as nature pleases!
Yes, my black-eyed Nancy, dear!
My plump and playful black-eyed Nancy!
Nature’s dress
Is loveliness,
And _yours_, like _hers_, just suits my fancy.

Peggy’s mouth to grin’s inclin’d,
But ’mongst her teeth there’s ne’er a white one;
And then they look as if design’d
To snap at, or perhaps, to bite one!
But Nancy’s iv’ries, oh, how clean!
And then her breath is sweet as roses;
And lips were never redder seen,
Nor aught more straight than Nancy’s nose is:
Oh, my black-eyed Nancy dear!
My pretty, roguish black-eyed Nancy!
How I prize
Your sloe-black eyes,
But squinting Peg’s I ne’er can fancy.

From _The Spirit of the Public Journals_, 1825.

――――

BOILED CHICKEN.

Lesbia hath a fowl to cook
But, being anxious not to spoil it,
Searches anxiously our book,
For how to roast, and how to boil it.
Sweet it is to dine upon――
Quite alone, when small its size is
And, when cleverly ’tis done,
Its delicacy quite surprises.
Oh! my tender pullet dear!
My boiled――not roasted――tender chicken,
I can wish
No other dish,
With thee supplied, my tender chicken!

Lesbia, take some water cold,
And having on the fire placed it,
And some butter, and be bold――
When ’tis hot enough――taste it.
Oh! the chicken meant for me
Boil before the fire grows dimmer,
Twenty minutes let it be,
In the saucepan left to simmer,
Oh! my tender chicken dear!
My boil’d delicious, tender chicken!
Rub the breast
(To give a zest)
With lemon-juice, my tender chicken,

Lesbia hath with sauce combined
Broccoli white, without a tarnish;
’Tis hard to tell if ’tis designed
For vegetable or for garnish.
Pillow’d on a butter’d dish,
My chicken temptingly reposes,
Making gourmands for it wish,
Should the savor reach their noses.
Oh, my tender pullet dear!
My boiled――not roasted――tender chicken!
Day or night,
Thy meal is light,
For supper, e’en, my tender chicken.

_Punch._

――――

CRINOLINA.

Lesbia’s skirt doth streaming fly,
But none observes how full it streameth;
Right and left the men go by,
But of remarking no one dreameth.
Bolder ’tis to dare put on
My Lina’s skirts of extra sizes;
Light she seems, but every one
By unexampled bulk surprises.
Oh, my Crinolina dear,
My pavement-filling Crinolina,
Beauty lies
In mod’rate size,
But _Ton_ in your’s, my Crinolina!

Lesbia’s dress keeps out the cold,
Good taste, good sense, all feel, have graced it;
But _Ton_ approval must withhold,
There’s not a breadth of stuff in’t wasted!
Oh, my Lina’s skirt for me,
That swells balloon-like on the breezes,
Letting everybody see
How far stuff _can_ go, if it pleases!
Yes, my Crinolina dear,
My rustling bell-shaped Crinolina,
Taste in dress
Can’t well be less
Than _you_ display, my Crinolina!

Lesbia hath a waist refined,
But with such mod’rate drapery round it,
Who can tell her heart’s confined,
From breaking bounds, when Love hath found it.
Pillowed safe, my Lina’s heart
Within her miles of skirt reposes,
Beyond the flight of Cupid’s dart,――
Poor Love quite lost among the rows is.
Oh, my Crinolina dear,
Expansive and expensive Lina,
Waist less tight,
Skirts less a sight,
Indulge in, do, my Crinolina!

_Punch_, November 8, 1856.

――――

TO MARK LEMON, ESQ. SONG.
(Air: _Lesbia hath a Beaming Eye_.)

Lemon is a little hipped,
And this is Lemon’s true position;
He is not pale, he’s not white-lipped,
Yet wants a little fresh condition.

Sweeter it is to gaze upon
Old Ocean’s rising, falling billers,
Than on the houses every one
That form the street called Saint Anne’s Villers.

Lemon hath a coat of frieze,
But all so seldom Lemon wears it,
That it is a prey to fleas,
And every moth that’s hungry tears it.

Oh! that coat’s the coat for me,
That braves the railway sparks and breezes,
Leaving every engine free
To wear it till the owner sneezes.

Then, my Lemon, sound and fat,
Oh, my bright, my right, my tight ’un,
Think a little what you’re at――
On Tuesday next come down to Brighton.

CHARLES DICKENS, 1855.
Published in _London Society_, October, 1875.

――――

THE CHAUNT OF THE COCKNEY SWELL.
(AIR――“_This Life is all Chequer’d with Pleasures and Woes._”)

This suit is all chequer’d with crosses and stripes,
Which I wear as I walk by the wide winkley deep.
I am one of the tourist world’s toppingest types,
And I purchased these togs in Cheapside on the cheap.
So closely they fit to my elegant shape,
That the fall in my back every optic may see;
And, if you should take an Apollo and drape
Him in chocolate tweed, he would look much like me.
Just tottle me up! I’m all in it, dear boy,
With tile ever shiny and boots ever tight;
Like all Things of Beauty, for ever a joy,
The envy of toffs, and the ladies’ delight.

When I stroll on the sands all the girls try to count
The number of pockets my garments display:
There are twenty, all told,――’tis a tidy amount,
Though there is’nt much in them, I’m sorry to say.
There are many like me who in youth would have tasted
The fountain of Pleasure that flows by the brine,
But their precious small “screws” they on tipsters have wasted,
And left all their pockets as empty as mine.
But let’s have a liquor! ’tis jolly good fun
To do the cheap toff in the Hall by the Sea!
Though I may’nt sport a mag when my holiday’s done,
Go it stiff while you can, is the motto for me!

――――:o:――――

OH! THE SHAMROCK.

Through Erin’s Isle,
To sport awhile,
As Love and Valour wander’d,
With Wit, the sprite,
Whose quiver bright
A thousand arrows squander’d.
Where’er they pass
A triple grass
Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming,
As softly green
As Emerald’s seen
Through purest crystal gleaming.
Oh the Shamrock, the green immortal Shamrock!
Chosen leaf
Of Bard and Chief,
Old Erin’s native Shamrock!