Chapter XXXI: Canto THE SEVENTH (5)

All new dishes fade――
The newest oft the fleetest
Of all the pies now made,
The Apple’s still the sweetest;
Cut and come again,
The syrup upward springing!
While my life and taste remain,
To thee my heart is clinging.
Other dainties fade――
The newest oft the fleetest;
But of all the pies now made,
The Apple’s still the sweetest.

Who absurdly buys
Fruit not worth the baking?
Who wastes crust on pies
That do not pay for making?
Better far to be
An Apple Tartlet buying,
Than to make one at home, and see
On it there’s no relying:
That all must be weigh’d,
When thyself thou treatest
Still a pie home-made
Is, after all, the sweetest.

Who a pie would make,
First his apple slices;
Then he ought to take
Some cloves――the best of spices:
Grate some lemon rind,
Butter add discreetly;
Then some sugar mix――but mind
The pie’s not made too sweetly,
Every pie that’s made
With sugar, is completest;
But moderation should pervade
Too sweet is not the sweetest.

Who would tone impart,
Must――if my word is trusted――
Add to his pie or tart
A glass of port――old crusted
If a man of taste,
He, complete to make it
In the very finest paste
Will inclose and bake it.
Pies have each their grade;
But, when this thou eatest
Of all that e’er were made.
You’ll say ’tis best and sweetest.

_Punch._

――――:o:――――

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells,
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time,
When last I heard their soothing chime.

Those joyous hours are pass’d away;
And many a heart, that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.

And so t’will be when I am gone;
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!

T. MOORE.

――――

THESE CHRISTMAS BILLS.
(_A commercial melody_ 1826).

These Christmas bills, these Christmas bills
How many a thought their number kills,
Of notes and cash, and that sweet time
When oft I heard my sovereigns chime.

Those golden days are past away,
And many a bill I used to pay
Sticks on the file, and empty tills
Contain no cash for Christmas bills.

And so ’twill be――though these are paid,
More Christmas bills will still be made,
And other men will fear these ills,
And curse the name of Christmas bills.

From Hone’s Every Day Book.

――――

ON REVISITING COLLEGE.

That chapel bell-that chapel bell!
Ah, once I knew its music well――
It tells of youth――of wasted time――
Of folly, happiness, and crime.

But now those joyous days are gone,
Yet still its peal is ringing on――
While others wish its tongue in hell,
And daily curse that chapel bell!

_The Gownsman_, (_Cambridge_), February 18, 1830.

――――

THE FATAL MOUSTACHE.

The Duke of Cumberland had grossly insulted some ladies in the public high road near Barnes. He attempted to deny his identity, but was recognised by his white moustache.

My white moustache, my white moustache,
You speak the truth, however harsh,
Of Barnes and Kew, and of the time
When I rode past with air sublime.

The curs’d excrescence does away
With every lie that Q―――― may say;
And oh, its ghastly whiteness tells
The truth to the insulted _belles_.

And so they knew when I had gone
The moustache that my lips had on.
“No other pair so whitely swells
We know them,” say the Chiswick belles.

_Figaro in London_, October 6, 1832.

Moore, himself, wrote a parody on this subject, in imitation of the old song:

“A Master I have, and I am his man,
Galloping dreary dun.”

The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass,
Galloping, dreary Duke;
The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass,
He’s an ogre to meet, and the devil to pass,
With his charger prancing,
Grim eye glancing,
Chin, like a Mufti,
Grizzled and tufty,
Galloping, dreary Duke.

Ye misses, beware of the neighbourhood
Of this galloping, dreary Duke;
Avoid him, all, who see no good
In being run o’er by a Prince of the Blood.
For, surely, no nymph is
Fond of a grim phiz,
And of the married,
Whole crowds have miscarried
At sight of this dreary Duke.

Song supposed to be addressed by Lord Eldon to Ernest Augustus, Duke of Cumberland (afterwards King of Hanover) on his leaving England:――

FLY NOT YET.

Fly not yet, ’tis just the hour,
When place――like a black midnight flower,
Which scorns the rude and vulgar light,
Begins to woo us sons of night,
And scamps who covet cash.
’Twas but to bless us sons of shade,
That place and pay were ever made.
’Tis then their rich attractions glowing,
From the public purse are flowing.
Oh stay! oh stay.

The Whigs are at a discount now,
And while they are, indeed I vow
For you to leave is rash.

_Grand Chorus._ The Whigs are at a discount now,
And while they are, indeed I vow
For you to leave is rash.

_Figaro in London_, September 28, 1833.

(The Duke of Cumberland was the least popular of all the sons of George III. His manners were rude, overbearing, and sometimes even brutal, and he was profligate, selfish, and quarrelsome. On the accession of Queen Victoria, the throne of Hanover passed to him in virtue of the Salic law, and the greatest public satisfaction was felt on his departure for his new kingdom, where his breaches of faith, and tyrannical conduct, soon led to commotions which had to be quelled by severe military measures. He died in 1851).

――――:o:――――

Those London belles, those London belles,
Ah! what a tale their beauty tells,
Of suff’ring beaux and wounded hearts,
The dire effect of Cupid’s darts.

Perhaps that maid, with eyes of blue,
Has often made a sad to do;
And many a heart with anguish swells,
While thinking of the London belles.

Ah! yes, how sweet it is to me.
To take a social cup of tea,
And while the heart in comfort dwells,
To hear the chat of London belles.

For then they scan their dress,――the play,
Though woe to those who are away,
For Scandal often leaves her cells,
To join the chat of London belles.

Ev’n Jove peeps down, with looks of love,
And Juno, jealous, frowns above,
To see young Beauty gladly dwells,
To deck the charms of London belles.

And so ’twill be in other times,
Fond hearts will sing in softer rhymes,
And cloud the praise this ditty swells
While ages grace the London belles.

MISS BRYANT.

――――

THOSE BALL-ROOM BELLES.

Those ball-room belles! those ball-room belles!
How many a tale their memory tells
Of polka, waltz and galopade,
Of D’Albert, Linter, and Musard.

“The season” now has pass’d away,
And many “a man” that then was gay
Now climbs the alps or Scotia’s fells,
And whirls no more those ball-room belies.

And so ’twill be when next they meet,
In Belgrave-square and Berkeley-street;
The waltz shall rouse embroider’d “swells”
To _deux-temps_ with those ball-room belles.

_Diogenes_, August, 1853.

――――

THOSE SCOTCH HOTELS.

Those Scotch hotels! Those Scotch hotels
Each tourist of their robberies tells:
My pocket to its bottom thrills,
When I reflect upon their bills.

Some pleasant hours soon pass’d away,
But when I learned what was to pay,
I wish’d the devil had those swells――
The landlords of the Scotch hotels.

And so ’twill be when I am gone,
The greedy race will still rob on;
And other tourists through these dells
Shall rail upon the Scotch Hotels.

_Diogenes_, September, 1853.

――――

THOSE GRESHAM CHIMES.

Those Gresham chimes, those Gresham chimes!
They take us back to Tudor times,
When Merchant Princes felt no shame
To bear a civic magnate’s name.

That name has sunk below disdain,
No GRESHAM dons the civic chain,
A Merchant Prince as soon would wear
The garb of Beadle as of Mayor.

But Mayors, and such, will soon be gone,
A new _régime_ is coming on;
We’ll hope to hear, in better times,
Some Gresham hailed by Gresham chimes.

_Punch_, December, 1853.

(A new set of Chimes had just been fixed in the tower of the Royal Exchange, London.)

――――

THOSE TRAMWAY BELLS.

Those tramway bells, those tramway bells,
How many a joy their discord quells;
My temper, thoughts, and this sweet rhyme
They knock completely out of time.

Those fearful sounds ne’er pass away,
But mar with discord night and day;
And tin-tin-nabulation swells
To horror in those tramway bells.

The railway bell has bulk of tone,
The muffin――sweetness of its own;
But frenzy in this tinkling dwells――
Like Mr. Irving’s in “The Bells.”

Not thus ’twill be when steam has come,
For then this clangour will be dumb;
Whilst other force the car propels,
We’ll hear no more those tramway bells.

_Funny Folks._

――――

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

Those Evening Bells, those Evening Bells,
How many a tale their music tells.
Of Yorkshire cakes and crumpets prime.
And letters only just in time!――

The Muffin-boy has pass’d away,
The Postman gone――and I must pay,
For down below Deaf Mary dwells,
And does not hear those Evening Bells.

And so ’twill be when she is gone,
The tuneful peal will still ring on,
And other maids with timely yells
Forget to stay those Evening Bells.

_Tom Hood._

――――

LONDON BELLS.

Those London Bells, those London Bells,
How plain a tale that nuisance tells,
Of fees and beer, that buy the time
Of those who raise that senseless chime

Those foolish times are passed away
When people liked the belfry’s bray,
With Lord Mayor’s Shows and Thames’s smells
We class those pestering London Bells,

Were wringers’ swipes and swindle gone,
That vulgar noise would _not_ go on.
The fact from every steeple knells
That Pewter Pots are London Bells.

SHIRLEY BROOKS. November 1855.

――――

THOSE PRETTY GIRLS.

Those pretty girls, those pretty girls,
How many a glance their bright eye whirls,
Of love, and hope, and that fond ray
That lures us on from day to day.

How many a spirit that was bright,
When first he looked on beauty’s light,
Walks sorrowing where the cascade purls,
And sees no more those pretty girls.

Thus, too, when silence quells my lyre,
Will beauty’s eyes still flash with fire,
And other poets twine your curls,
And sing your praises, pretty girls.

J. W. W.

――――

THOSE VATTED RUMS.

Those Vatted Rums, those Vatted Rums!
How very cheap a quartern comes,
When of that liquor pure and prime,
You take two gallons at a time.

The fumes will quickly pass away,
And many an evening will be gay――
While nothing like a headache comes,
Through drinking these delicious Rums.

And so ’twill be, when I am gone;
Those Vatted Rums will still sell on,
And other fingers, pens, and thumbs
Will sing your praise――ye Vatted Rums.

_Punch._ August 25, 1855.

――――

THOSE EVENING BELLES.

Those evening belles, those evening belles
How much of faded youth it tells
That red red rouge thick painted on,
Of waning charms, of beauties gone.

Soon e’en red rouge will pass away,
And sunken cheek and mind’s decay
Will dull those eyes where sparkle dwells,
Leave old and grim those evening belles.

Yet then, as now, when they are gone
Some red rouged belles will still laugh on,
And yawning o’er them other “swells,”
Discourse their charms, rouged evening belles.

From _Pan, the Pilgrim_. (Weldon & Co., London).

――――

THAT MUFFIN BELL.

That Muffin-Bell! That Muffin-Bell!
How many a tale its tinklings tell.
Of youth, and hope, and that glad time
When my digestion yet was prime!

The bilious discs I then could eat,
The bell’s wild whangling down the street
Was one of boyhood’s special joys:
I never, never thought it noise.

How joyously at even rang
The tintinnabulary clang!
The gawping jaw, the raucous yell,
I loved them, loved them passing well

Those happy hours are passed away.
Age must not with its peptics play.
Strange qualms within me darkly dwell
Whene’er I hear the Muffin-Bell.

And yet soft memories of old times
Linger about the jangling chimes,
And, like DE RUTZEN, I’d be tender
To the too noisy Muffin Vendor.

But oh! methinks when I am gone
That tuneless peal will _not_ ring on;
For Man, with street-law ordered well,
Will hear no more the Muffin-Bell!

_Punch_, December 18, 1880.

――――

THE PARCEL POST.

The Parcel Post, the Parcel Post!
To Fawcett pledge the joyous toast――
May no ill fortune e’er restrain
This glorious bantling of his brain.

Deliv’ry companies no more
Delay and “cheek”――their day is o’er;
What now has laid the Carrier’s ghost?――
The Parcel Post, the Parcel Post!

When Christmas comes with jovial fare,
Of turkeys, geese, and viands rare,
What then shall be my hope and boast?――
The Parcel Post, the Parcel Post!

The postman, staggering ’neath the weight
Of welcome presents, opes my gate;
’Tis then I prize and honour most
The Parcel Post, the Parcel Post!

_Judy_, August 3. 1883.

――――

EVENING BELLES.

Those evening belles, those evening belles,
How many a tale their costume tells
Of Fashion, in its latest show,
Reviving modes of long ago.

Our grandmothers have passed away,
Yet in their habits girls look gay,
As in last century gowns the swells
To dinner take the evening belles.

And so ’twill be when we are gone,
Fashion’s caprices will go on;
A century hence, what now repels
Will serve to deck the evening belles.

_Moonshine_, July 31, 1886.

――――:o:――――

OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT.

Oft, in the stilly Night,
Ere Slumber’s chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

* * * * *
T. MOORE.

――――:o:――――

SONG BY THE MARQUIS OF LONDONDERRY.

Oft o’er my tea and toast,
When I a speech have sported,
I take the _Morning Post_,
To see how its reported.
The frequent “hears,”
“Continued cheers,”
The witty things ne’er spoken,
The “oh’s” left out,
And nought about
The coughs with which t’was broken.

When I behold it all
in columns neat and taper,
Precisely made to fall
By Brougham’s in the paper――
I feel like one,
Who’s really done
A thing too bright to sully,
And dream with head
As thick as lead,
That I’m the modern Tully.

_Figaro in London_, March 31, 1832.

――――

OFT IN HIS PRESENT PLIGHT.

Oft in his present plight,
Now bolts and bars have bound him
Calls Mitchell, with affright,
The late events around him;
His bragging talk of sharp pitchfork,
And words of pikes, too, spoken――
The boys who cheered, now disappeared,
The heads at Limerick broken.

When he remembers all
The facts thus linked together,
He feels uncommon small,
And aught but in full feather;
If all’s confessed, he feareth lest,
By Jurors ill supported,
Their maws to stay, he perchance may
Be, after all, transported.

_The Puppet Show_, May 27, 1848.

――――

THE POET AND THE STOMACH.

(_The Stomach complaineth that his Master writes love ballads when he should be sleeping._)

Oft in the chilly night,
When slumber should have bound him,
Pale Phosphor gives its light,
His dressing-gown around him.
He rushes then
For ink and pen,
To write some lines in measure,
The while poor I
Can only sigh,
Nor glow with Poet’s pleasure.
Thus, in the chilly night,
When slumber should have bound him;
Sad Phosphor gives its light,
His dressing-gown around him.

When I remember all
The many hours wasted;
Those dainties turned to gal
Which I had lately tasted.
I must lament
The time misspent,
The hours snatched from slumber
The Stomach’s curse
Is midnight verse,
Without regard to number!
Thus, in the chilly night,
When slumbers should have bound him;
Sad Phosphor pales its light,
His dressing-gown around him.

From _Memoirs of a Stomach_. Written by himself, that all who eat may read. (W. E. Painter, 342, Strand, London, 1853.)

――――

THE SILLY SEASON.
[_By a Used-up Journalist._]

Oft, on a “silly” night,
When lack of news has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me:
Physicians’ fees,
The Channel seas,
Words “out of Season” spoken;
Ill-treated Clerks,
The Public Parks,
And nerves by railways broken.
Oft on a silly plight,
When printers’ devils hound me,
Kind memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

When I remember all
The themes, so mix’d together,
Which regularly call,
Like duns in autumn weather,
I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some prison mill deserted:
Each topic dead,
Each interest fled,
And all but me departed.
Thus, when a “silly” night
Completely “stumped” has found me,
Kind Memory flings the light
Of brighter days around me.

_Funny Folks._ October 5, 1878.

――――

_Air._――“Oft in the Stilly Night.”

W. E. G. sings:――

Oft in Election’s fight,
Ere “Home Rule’s” chains had bound me,
Mem’ry brings before my sight
Companions then around me;
The rows, the sneers,
The poll-booth jeers,
The slanging words then spoken;
The eyes that shone
How blacked! and bone
How smashed! and heads how broken!
Thus in election’s fight, &c.

When I remember all
The friends, then linked together,
Sloping off, to wait my fall,
Like crows in rainy weather,
I feel like one
Who breasts alone
A tide of vile coercion;
With justice fled,
And honour dead,
And on all sides aversion.
Thus in election’s fight, &c.

CANICULUS
_Truth._ Parody Competition. July 15, 1886.

――――:o:――――

HERE’S THE BOWER.

Here’s the bower she lov’d so much,
And the tree she planted;
Here’s the harp she used to touch――
Oh, how that touch enchanted!
* * * * *

T. MOORE.

――――

Here’s the box that held the snuff,
And the bean so famous;
Here’s the pipe he used to puff,――
Oh! how that puff o’er came us!
Strasburgh, Tonquin,――both are dry,――
Where’s the hand to soak them?
Pipes around extinguished lie,――
Where’s the lip to smoke them?

Gin may fall, but he who loved
It, ne’er shall feel its cheapness;
Porter pots may be improved,――
Lost on him their deepness.
Quarts were pints where’er he stayed,――
Pints were to quarterns nearer;
Whiff ne’er warmed a jollier blade,
Nor drinking killed a dearer.

ANONYMOUS.

J. Bruton wrote a similar parody, commencing――

Here’s the bottle she loved so much,
And here’s the glass she drank from,
Here’s the max her lips oft touched,
The stuff they never shrank from.

――――:o:――――

_Punch’s Almanac_ for 1881 contained several parodies of Moore’s songs, of which the opening lines were as follows:――

Quaint and queer were the gems she wore,
A golden “pig” in each ear she bore
She’d flies and beetles and snake-shaped bands,
And the rummiest rings on her snow-white hands,

(Three more verses.)

――――

The plate that once through Fashion’s halls
Æsthetic rapture shed,
Now hangs upon the kitchen walls
Its ancient glories fled.
So pass the fads of former days.
So fashion’s whim is o’er.
Old China that was once the craze
Now “fetches” fools no more.

(One more verse.)

――――

When he who now bores thee has left but the fame
Of his one little weakness behind,
Oh! say wilt thou smile when they mock at his name,
_Thou_, to boredom so sweetly resigned.
Nay, weep, and however my face may condemn
Thy tears shall efface their decree;
For though I have often been shut up by them
I have always found patience in thee.

To buttonhole thee was my constant delight,
Every cock and bull story was thine,
Each mare’s nest I found I exposed to thy sight,
To my twaddle thine ear thoud’st incline.
Oh! blest be thy kindness which hearing would give
To my fulsomest fiddle-de-dee.
The great race of Buttonhole-Bores could not live,
Were it not for Pill-Garlics like thee!

――――:o:――――

LALLA ROOKH.

There’s a bower of roses by Bendemeer’s stream
And the nightingale sings round it all the day long;
In the time of my childhood ’twas like a sweet dream,
To sit in the roses and hear the bird’s song.

T. MOORE.
_The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan._

SONG.

There’s of benches a row in St. Stephen’s extreme,
And the minister’s sitting there all the night long,
In the time of my power ’twas like a sweet dream,
To sit on those rows in the Cabinet throng.

That bench and its placemen I never forget,
But oft when alone at the close of the year,
I think are conservatives sitting there yet,
Are the subs to their speeches still clamouring “hear!”

No, the Tories are ousted each plundering knave,
But rich harvests they pluck’d while the sun on them shone,
And wealth was amassed from their jobbing which gave
All the profits of place when their places were gone.

Thus the minister takes, from his power e’er it dies,
A pension that gives him some thousands a year.
So lucrative either in fall or in rise,
Is a seat on some bench in the treasury sphere.

_Figaro in London_, November 10, 1832.

――――

“THERE’S A BOWER OF BEAN-VINES.”

There’s a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard,
And the cabbages grow round it, planted for greens;
In the time of my childhood ’twas terribly hard
To bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans.

That bower and its products I never forget,
But oft, when my landlady presses me hard,
I think, are the cabbages growing there yet,
Are the bean-vines still bearing in Benjamin’s yard?

No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used to wave,
But some beans had been gathered, the last that hung on
And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave
All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.

Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,
An essence that breathes of it awfully hard;
And thus good to my taste as ’twas then to my eyes,
Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard.

Poems and Parodies_, By PHŒBE CAREY, Boston, U. S.,
1854.

――――:o:――――

PARLIAMENT AND THE TORY.

“Every one is acquainted with Moore’s beautiful poem of Paradise and the Peri, in which the fallen spirit is represented as seeking on earth for a boon to regain the heaven she has lost. The story assimilates closely to a late affair, in which a certain military Tory (the Duke of Wellington), having lost the heaven of place (to him far more desirable than any _place in heaven_) devised all kinds of tricks to regain his former position.

One morn a Tory at the gate
Of Stephen’s stood disconsolate;
And as he listened to the words
Of Whigs within, like poison flowing,
And caught the sense of what he heard,
The downfall of his party knowing,
He wept to think his plundering race
Should e’er have lost that glorious place

* * * * *

The Devil, who is always keeping
The doors, beheld the Tory weeping,
And as he nearer drew and listened
To the complaint, a tear-drop glistened
Within his eyelids, like the spray
From Eldon’s fountain, when he cries
With tears which those who know him say
Proceed from no where but his eyes.

“Thou scion of a plundering line,”
The Devil said “one hope is thine.”
I think it is not yet too late
The Tory may again get power,
Who brings to this infernal gate
Some trick or bribe to suit the hour;
“Go seek it,” said he with a grin,
“’Tis sweet to let the Tories in.”

* * * * *

Downward the Tory turns his gaze,
And through excitement’s lowering haze,
Beholds a noble premier stand
Desponding, ’mid the people crying

Reform, just falling from his hand,
And his last hope to save it dying.
He tried what chance he found remain,
A threat of Peers, but all in vain.

False flew the shaft, though pointed well
Corruption lingered, freedom fell;
Yet marked the Tory where it lay,
And, when the rush of rage had past,
As he imagined to allay
The nation’s ire, he seized the last
Last copy of the Bill, as read,
Just ere the noble premier fled.

“Be this,” he cried, as he wing’d his flight
“My welcome gift in the house to night,
Though poison to me is this odious bill,
Fram’d by Whigs in power, to rat like this,
For conservative ends so noble is,
It would stain not the purest of those who still
Long to sit on the treasury bench of bliss.
Oh, if there be on this earthly sphere
A boon that the Devil holds truly dear,
’Tis the false _eclat_ which knavery draws
From a premier who falls with the people’s cause.

“Sweet,” said the Devil, as he gave
The gift unto his grasping hand,
“Sweet is our welcome of the brave
Who such a hellish trick has plann’d;”
But see, alas! the golden bar
Of office moves not――craftier far
Than even this trick, the means must be
To open the gates of place for thee.

_Figaro in London_, 1832.

――――

THE ROYAL ENCLOSURE AT ASCOT.

A Peri at the “Royal” gate
At Ascot stood disconsolate,
And as she gazed upon the forms
Of those who passed that jealous portal,
With envy, then, her bosom warms,
For she was feminine and mortal.
She all but wept to think her feet
Trod not that most select retreat.

“How lucky!” thought she, “aye, past compare,
Are the happy houris who wander there,
Where the feet of real princes fall.
If the Royal Enclosure’s not for me,
The joys of the season cease to be;
A ticket from Hardwicke exceeds them all.”

* * * * *

_Truth._ June 14, 1877.

This parody is much too long to give in full, as is also the following, on a similar topic, and which, by a curious coincidence, appeared in _Truth_ exactly six years later:――

PARADISE LOST.

This week a Peeress at the gate
Of Ascot stood disconsolate――
(The Royal Enclosure Gate is meant)
And as in misery she bent,
And gazed upon the lonely scene
Where life a week before was teeming,
She sighed for what long since had been――
A past now lost beyond redeeming,
And wept to think the privileged place
No more was held a sacred place.

“How happy!” she cried, in an accent drear
“We used to be who gained entrance here.
How mixed with our joy, too, was pleasant spite,
’Gainst others who lacked our privileged right.
Aye! it well-might upset _our_ tried composure
To first get cards for the Royal Enclosure,
And nothing on earth was too great a price
To pay to enter the Paradise.

* * * * *

_Truth_, June 14, 1883.

――――

THE POLITICAL PERI.

One morn Ben Dizzy at the gate
Of office stood disconsolate,
He wept to think he’d run his race,
And left for aye that glorious place.
“How happy” exclaimed that child of air――
And ’twas true, though he hadn’t much truth to spare――
“Are Gladstone and Bright in clover there!
But I’ve made a mess they’ll find hard to repair
I’ve shed innocent blood in every clime,
Sent thousands of men to death in their prime,
Have carried my rule by falsehood and crime,
Done deeds that will stink the end of time,――
And I leave my country my heir!”
“Woe, woe for ever!
The Election’s done,
The votes are cast――
And I’ve not won!”

_Bits of Beaconsfield._ (ABEL HEYWOOD & SON, Manchester.)

――――:o:――――

THE LAMENT OF THE PERI.

Farewell――farewell to thee, ARABY’S daughter
(Thus warbled a PERI beneath the dark sea,)
No pearl ever lay, under Oman’s green water,
More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee.

Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing,
How light was thy heart till Love’s witchery came,
Like the wind of the south o’er a summer lute blowing,
And hush’d all its music, and wither’d its flame!

* * * * *

Farewell, farewell――until Pity’s sweet fountain
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave,
They’ll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain,
They’ll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave.

T. MOORE.
_The Fire Worshippers._

――――

“The wrongs of Ireland which are exciting so much sympathy on all hands at this moment, naturally call to recollection one of her most devoted advocates, as well as one of her brightest ornaments.

AIR.――_Farewell――farewell to thee, Araby’s daughter._

Farewell――farewell to thee desolate Erin,
(Thus warbled a patriot beneath a dark tree,)
No curl ever lay on Law’s visage so leering,
More bright in its oil than thy spirit in thee.

Oh fair as the flowers all over thee growing,
How light was thy heart till curs’d Castlereagh came,
Like the breath of a Croker o’er eloquence blowing,
To hush all its music, and render it tame.

But yet when to Parliament they are returning,
There will still be amongst both the young and the old,
Some who with disgust most indignantly burning,
Will weep when they think how thy freedom was sold

The new made elector whene’er he advances,
To vote on some Irish Electoral day,
Will think of thy fate, till forgetting his franchise,
He mournfully turns from the poll-booth away.

Nor shall Daniel[124] beloved of thy people forget thee,
Though tyrants watch over his tears as they start.
Close, close in his bosom that hero will set thee,
Embalmed in the innermost shrine of his heart.

_Figaro in London_, February 23, 1833.

――――

THE SONG OF THE SULTAN

Farewell――farewell to thee, ARABI darling!
(Thus murmured the SULTAN beneath his moustache.)
No help for it now: the curst Giaour is snarling;
Complete is the sell, and most utter the hash.

Oh! sweet as the whiff from my chibouque soft blowing,
Our joint little game till the Britisher came,
Like the wind from the desert rose-gardens o’erthrowing
And blew it to bits. ’Tis a thundering shame!

But long upon ARABI’S Orient guile and
Astuteness shall ABDUL sit brooding in gloom.
To be bowled out at last by that crass Western Island!
Would, _would_ it were swept by the blasting Simoom!

And now by Old Nilus SIR GARNET is burning,
And calls to his standard the young and the old.
E’en the Guards, such home pastime as Polo stern spurning,
In sunshine Egyptian can broil yet be bold.

I’ve played fast and loose, but the Giaour’s successes
My dark schemes have dished in the dismallest way;
I must leave thee to fate, though my bosom still blesses
The nice little game I must trust thee to play.

Nor shall Islam, who hails thee as hero, forget thee――
Those tyrants of Infidel dogs are too smart,
But _if_ thou shouldst lick them, by Allah, she’d set thee
Supreme in the innermost shrine of her heart.

Farewell!――be it mine still to squat on this pillow,
And muse upon dodges exceedingly deep;
But those sons of burnt fathers who’ve come o’er the billow
Will crumple my rose-leaves, and trouble my sleep.

I’ve ground my poor teeth till I’ve shivered the amber,
My bloated pipe-bearer I’ve kicked till he wept.
(He lies at this moment, and howls, in yon chamber,
Most sore-footed slave that on blisters e’er stept.)

I’ll dive where Intrigue’s deepest plots still lie darkling
But this Proclamation _must_ hurl at thy head.
Thy prospects on Egypt’s hot sands scarce look sparkling.
They gather, the Giaours, the Nile’s in his bed.

Farewell――farewell! ’Tis a pity――but counting
The chances, at present, by Nilus’s wave,
Thy star, my dear ARABI, scarcely seems mounting.
And so――go to blazes, recalcitrant slave!

[_Signs reluctantly._
_Punch_, September 16, 1882.

――――

On January 7, 1880 _The World_ published four parodies on the same poem which had been sent in for Competition, the subject selected being:――

THE AMEER OF CABUL, YAKOOB KHAN.

FIRST PRIZE.

Begone, begone with thee, son of Shere Ali!
(Thus chanted a Mollah on Gandamak’s brow.)
No cursèd Hindu, timid servant of Kali,
Is feeble in heart and in spirit as thou.

O, brave as the chieftains thy palace adorning
How high was thy pride ere the Englishman came,
Like the frost of the north on the flow’r of the morning,
And silenced thy boasting, and withered thy fame

Not long, by the Prophet, on Cabul’s green highlands,
Shall we and thy warriors mourn for the doom
Of thee, whom, afar in the Andaman Islands,[125]
Some infidel hireling may bear to the tomb.

Nor yet when the glorious trumpet is sounding,
And summons to combat the bold and the strong,
Shall one Barakzai, on the enemy bounding,
Ever call on thy name as he rushes along.

So shall Cabul, beloved of Shere Ali, forget thee,
As soon as her tyrants have bid thee depart;
Far, far from the pride of thy father shall set thee,
And curse thee from out of her innermost heart.

Begone! Be it ours to atone for thy meekness,
With ev’ry revenge that a victor may deal;
Each sign of submission, each token of weakness,
Shall hasten our footsteps and sharpen our steel.

We’ll charge where the thickest the foe is deploying,
And lose in the battle the thought of thy name;
We’ll seek where the Angel of Death is destroying,
And gather new laurels to cover thy shame.

Begone, begone, until life is departed,
And still are the hearts of the true and the brave!
We’ll weep for the warriors who died noble-hearted;
We’ll curse at the coward who sued like a slave.

TOFFER.

(Sir Louis Cavagnari, the English Envoy to Afghanistan, and his staff having been murdered in the Cabul, English troops hastened to that city which was captured on Christmas Eve, 1879. Yakoob Khan, accused of complicity in the massacre, was sent as a prisoner to India.)

SECOND PRIZE.

Away, away with the Ameer unlucky!
(Thus murmured the Viceroy o’er India’s plain;)
No oyster fished up by a pearl-diver plucky,
Ever proved such a sell as thy spiritless reign.

O, bright as the passion-flower by the wall creeping,
How fair was thy promise till treachery came!
Like the storm of the desert through rose-garden sweeping
And quenched thy brief glory in blood and in flame.

But long by Cabul’s rapid glacier-fed fountains
Shall the young and the old shudder over the fate
Of the fifty men hanging beneath the great mountains
With jackals for mourners to howl by the gate.

And when the cold winter and snows are returning,
They’ll tell the old tale how the infidels fell;
As they huddle together around the logs burning
They’ll bitterly think of our vengeance as well.

The vendor of kabobs, while deftly preparing
His wares, will remember brave Roberts’ return
Till, losing himself in his cursing and swearing
He carelessly leaves all the kabobs to burn.

Nor shall England, great mother of heroes, forget him,
Who worthily wiped out the stain on her fame;
High up on the roll of her heroes she’ll set him
Inscribed, that her children may honour his name.

Away! Be it mine to surround thy seclusion
With everything innocent, harmless and bright
Tin trumpets and drums in the richest profusion,
And candy to sweeten the wearisome night.

My cook shall prepare thee the daintiest dishes,
My doctor shall ease thee whene’er thou’rt in pain;
I’ll willingly grant thee whate’er thy heart wishes,
But ne’er shalt thou see Afghanistan again.

QUANTOX.

――――:o:――――

THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.

Oh! ever thus, from childhood’s hour,
I’ve seen my fondest hopes decay;
I never lov’d a tree or flower,
But ’twas the first to fade away.

I never nurs’d a dear gazelle,
To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well,
And love me, it was sure to die.
* * * * *

T. MOORE.

――――

THE CUTLER’S LAMENT.

I never wrote up “Skates to Sell,”
Trusting to fickle Nature’s law,
But――when I’d advertised them well,
And puffed them――it was sure to thaw,
Yes, it was ever thus――the Fates
Seem adverse to the trade in skates

If a large stock I chanced to buy,
Thinking ’twas likely still to freeze,
Up the thermometer would fly――
All in a day――some ten degrees.
Their presence in my window-pane
Turns ice to mud, and snow to rain.

_Punch_, February, 1848.

――――

’TWAS EVER THUS.

I never loved a dear gazelle,
In fact, I never knew one;
And though I’ve loved a sweet mam’zelle
I’ve ne’er had pluck to woo one.

’Twas ever thus, ’twas ever thus
From boyhood’s early prime, sirs,
It’s been my fate to be too late――
I never was in time, sirs!

I never went to dance or ball,
But there I made a blunder;
My partners always had a fall,
And I was always under.

A martinet I’ve got to wife
Oh, quite an acid tartar:
_She_ has all the sweets of life,
While _I’m_ a bilious martyr.

’Twas ever thus, ’twas ever thus;
I thought her parents wealthy;
I’ve found them poor――they live next door,
And are _so_ beastly healthy.

I speculated all my cash
In her relations’ ventures;
Of course the comp’nies went to smash――
And I’d to pay debentures!

’Twas ever thus, ’twas ever thus:
My life is far from sweet, sirs,
My cash is gone, I’ve nought to pawn
So I must beat retreat, sirs.

I’ll take a trip across the seas
To-day for other nations;
For I shall never be at ease,
With wife, or wife’s relations.

’Twas never thus, ’twas never thus,
I’d ne’er in view such blisses;
In ecstasy I’d fly to thee,
Sweet freedom, joy, and kisses――
Oh, wretched dog, I now must jog,
For here comes dreadful missus.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

’TWAS EVER THUS.

I never rear’d a young gazelle,
(Because, you see, I never tried;)
But, had it known and loved me well,
No doubt the creature would have died.
My rich and aged Uncle John
Has known me long and loves me well,
But still persists in living on――
I would he were a young gazelle.

I never loved a tree or flower;
But, if I _had_, I beg to say,
The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower
Would soon have wither’d it away.
I’ve dearly loved my uncle John,
From childhood till the present hour,
And yet he _will_ go living on――
I would he were a tree or flower!

From _Carols of Cockayne_. By Henry S. Leigh. (Chatto and Windus,
London, 1874.)

――――

A FEW MUDDLED METAPHORS BY A MOORE-OSE MELODIST.

Oh, ever thus, from childhood’s hour,
I’ve seen my fondest hopes recede!
I never loved a tree or flow’r
That did’nt trump its partner’s lead.

I never nursed a dear gazelle,
To glad me with its dappled hide,
But when it came to know me well,
It fell upon the buttered side.

I never taught a cockatoo
To whistle comic songs profound.
But, first when “Jolly Dogs” it knew
It failed for ninepence in the pound

I never reared a walrus-cub
In my aquarium to plunge,
But, when it learnt to love its tub
It placidly threw up the sponge!

I never strove a metaphor
To every bosom home to bring
But――just as it had reached the door
It went and cut a pigeon’s wing!

_Tom Hood_, the younger.

――――

“I never had a piece of toast,
Particularly long and wide,
But fell upon the sanded floor,
And always on the buttered side.”

――――

WUS, EVER WUS.

Wus! ever wus! By freak of Puck’s
My most exciting hopes are dashed;
I never wore my spotless ducks
But madly――wildly! they were splashed.

I never roved by Cynthia’s beam,
To gaze upon the starry sky;
But some old stiff-backed beetle came,
And charged into my pensive eye:

And oh! I never did the swell
In Regent street, amongst the beaux,
But smuts the most prodigious fell,
And always settled on my NOSE!

From _Puck on Pegasus_, by H. Cholmondeley-Pennell.
(Chatto and Windus, London,)

――――

DISASTER.

’Twas ever thus from childhood’s hour!
My fondest hopes would not decay:
I never loved a tree or flower
Which was the first to fade away!
The garden, where I used to delve
Short-frock’d, still yields me pinks in plenty
The Peartree that I climbed at twelve
I see still blossoming, at twenty.

I never nursed a dear gazelle;
But I was given a parroquet――
(How I did nurse him if unwell!)
He’s imbecile, but lingers yet.
He’s green, with an enchanting tuft;
He melts me with his small black eye
He’d look inimitable stuff’d
And knows it――but he will not die!

I had a kitten――I was rich
In pets――but all too soon my kitten
Became a full-sized cat, by which
I’ve more than once been scratch’d and bitten,
And when for sleep her limbs she curl’d
One day beside her untouch’d plateful,
And glided calmly from the world,
I freely own that I was grateful.

And then I bought a dog――a queen
Ah Tiny, dear departing pug!
She lives, but she is past sixteen
And scarce can crawl across the rug,
I loved her beautiful and kind;
Delighted in her pert Bow-wow:
But now she snaps if you don’t mind;
’Twere lunacy to love her now.

I used to think, should e’er mishap
Betide my crumple-visaged Ti,
In shape of prowling thief, or trap,
Or coarse bull-terrier――I should die.
But Ah! disasters have their use;
And life might e’en be too sunshiny:
Nor would I make myself a goose,
If some big dog should swallow Tiny.

From _Fly Leaves_ by C. S. Calverley. (George Bell and Sons, London,
1878.)

――――

Oh, ever thus, since Childhood’s hour
We’ve seen our fondest hopes decay,
We never raised a Calf or Cow or
Hen that laid an Egg a day,
But it was marked and stol’n away,
We never raised a sucking pig
To glad us with its sunny eye
But when ’twas grown up fat and big
And fit to roast, or boil, or fry
We could not find it in the stye.

――――

BY OUR BUTCHER.

I never loved a dear gazelle,
Nor would I care for one if cheap
All my affections centres on
Such things as bullocks, pigs and sheep;
Yet often, when a little lamb,
Whose price was low, has caught my eye,
I’ve purchased it; but, sad to say,
Next morning it was sure to die;

――――

I never bought a young gazelle.
To glad me with its soft black eye,
But, when it came to know me well,
’Twas sure to butt me on the sly.

I never drilled a cockatoo,
To speak with almost human lip,
But, when a pretty phrase it knew,
’Twas sure to give some friend a nip.

I never trained a collie hound
To be affectionate and mild,
But, when I thought a prize I’d found,
’Twas sure to bite my youngest child

I never kept a tabby kit
To cheer my leisure with its tricks,
But, when we all grew fond of it,
’Twas sure to catch the neighbour’s chicks,

I never reared a turtle-dove,
To coo all day with gentle breath,
But, when its life seemed one of love,
’Twas sure to peck its mate to death.

I never――well, I never yet――
And I have spent no end of pelt――
Invested money in a pet
That didn’t misconduct itself.

_Funny Folks Annual_, 1886.

――――

THE YOUNG GAZELLE.
_A Moore-ish Tale._

In early youth, as you may guess,
I revelled in poetic lore,
And while my schoolmates studied less,
I resolutely studied _Moore_.

Those touching lines from “Lalla Rookh”――
“Ah! ever thus”――you know them well,
Such root within my bosom took,
I wished _I_ had a young Gazelle.

Oh, yes! a sweet, a sweet Gazelle,
“To charm me with its soft black eye,”
So soft, so liquid, that a spell
Seems in that gem-like orb to lie.

Years, childhood passed, youth fled away,
My vain desire I’d learnt to quell,
Till came that most auspicious day
When _some one gave me a Gazelle_.

With care, and trouble, and expense,
’Twas brought from Afric’s northern cape;
It seemed of great intelligence,
And oh! so beautiful a shape.

The little creature grew so tame,
He “learned to know (the neighbours) well,”
And, then the ladies, when they came,
Oh! how they “nursed that dear Gazelle,”

But woe is me! on earthly ground
Some ill with every blessing dwells;
And soon to my dismay I found
That this applies to young Gazelles.

When free allowed to roam in doors,
The mischief that he did was great;
The walls, the furniture, the floors,
He made in a terrific state.

He nibbled at the table cloth,
And trod the carpet into holes,
And in his gambols, nothing loth,
Kicked over scuttles full of coals.
* * * * *
In short the mischief was immense
That from his gamesome pranks befel,
And truly, in a double sense
He proved a _very_ “dear gazelle.”

At length I sighed――“Ah! ever thus
Doth disappointment mock each hope;
But ’tis in vain to make a fuss
You’ll have to go, my antelope.”

I said “This antler’d desert child
In Turkish Palaces may roam
But he’s much too free and wild
To keep in any English home.”

Yes, though I gave him up with tears
Experience had broke the spell,
And if I live a thousand years,
I’ll never have a young gazelle!

This humorous poem was written by Mr. Walter Parke the dramatist, and author of many skilful and amusing parodies. _Lays of the Saintly_, by the same gentleman, (Vizetelly and Co., London.) contains the lives of the principal Saints, told in rhymes imitating Swinburne, Tennyson, Longfellow, and other poets. One of the best of these legends is undoubtedly that devoted to the adventures of St. Patrick, the patron Saint of Ireland. Most appropriately this is written after Moore’s style, and parodies of a number of his melodies are ingeniously woven into the narrative. Amongst these are “_Eveleen’s Bower_,” “_Love’s Young Dream_,” “_She is far from the Land_,” “_Oft in the Stilly night_,” “_The Harp that Once_,” “_The Woodpecker_,” “_Let Erin remember_,” and “_The Meeting of the Waters_.” Perhaps the last is the best imitation of style:――

There’s not in old Ireland an islet more sweet
Than the Isle where the penitents annually meet:
Oh! the last spark of faith from the land must depart
Ere pilgrims forbear on that journey to start.

It is not for Nature they go to the scene,
However romantic, sublime, or serene;
’Tis not just for pleasure or holiday’s sake,
They pay sixpence each to be row’d o’er the lake.

’Tis that Patrick the Great made a station for pray’r
With chapels and cells purgatorial there,
’Twas his own blessed crozier that hallowed the cave,
The heathen to vanquish, the faithful to save.

Sweet Isle of Lough Dearg! by thy devotees blest,
If ever I’m near thee, I’ll go with the rest;
Oh! may they in multitude yearly increase,
And the boatmen grow rich by their sixpence apiece

Farewell, farewell to thee, Ireland’s protector,
Thy mem’ry I drink in a draught of “L. L.”
If ever a “medium” should show me thy spectre,
How gladly I’ll bow to his mystical spell!

Farewell, farewell to fair Erin, thy daughter,
And may she grow ever more lovely and gay,
Forgetting the troubles the past may have brought her,
Till each shade of sorrow has vanished away.

But there is not a dull page in the whole of this dainty volume, it is full of fun and refined humour, and the imitations are in many cases, of exceptional literary merit.

――――:o:――――

THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM.

Come hither, come hither――by night and by day
We linger in pleasures that never are gone
Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away,
Another as sweet and as shining comes on.
And the love that is o’er, in expiring gives birth
To a new one as warm, as unequall’d in bliss;
And, oh! if there be an Elysium on Earth,
_It is this, it is this_.

* * * * *
T. MOORE.

――――:o:――――

THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

Come hither, come hither: by night and by day,
We list to the members that never are gone――
Like the moan of the east wind, as one dies away,
Another as dull and as prosing comes on.
And the speech that is o’er, in expiring gives birth,
To a new one as wretched as barren of _nous_,
And oh! if there be an Inferno on earth,
It’s the house! it’s the house!

Here Tories are raving――their voices are high,
As the bray of a jack-ass, or yelp of a hound,
And dirty their spleen as that rain from the sky,
Which turns into mud as it falls on the ground.
Oh! think what the conscience or mind must be worth,
When the speech and the satire are weak as a louse,
Then own if there be an Inferno on earth,
It’s the house! it’s the house!

Here prosper the Whigs that with lucre’s vile love,
Have come down from their own vaunted honesty’s sphere
Who put power all former professions above,
And forgot pledges past in the places they’ve here.
And bless’d with the money our pockets give forth,
What placemen the sweets of his office would douse,
For oh! if there be an Inferno on earth,
It’s the house! it’s the house!

* * * * *

There’s a pest beyond all that the minstrel has told
When the Whigs that are bound in one powerful tie,
With principles changing and hearts ever cold,
Drain the country of wealth and drain on till ’tis dry.
One hour of so hateful a ministry’s worse,
Than whole ages of harm done by Tory or rat,
And oh! if there be an Inferno――or curse,
It is that! it is that!!

_Figaro in London_, September 1, 1832.

――――:o:――――

SWEET BOROUGH OF TAMWORTH.

(The following song, supposed to be sung by the late Sir Robert Peel, who long represented Tamworth, is a parody of “_Fanny of Timmol_.”

Sweet borough of Tamworth, when first I go in
To the dear House of Commons in which I was hurl’d,
I found it a place of such pelf and such sin,
And for humbug the funniest place in the world.

For the Minister’s lips to their destiny true,
Seem’d to know I was born to be sold as anothers;
And to put me in mind of what I ought to do,
They whispered rich places for me and my brothers.

And then he was darting from eye-lids so sly,
Half squinting, half winking such gold beaming light;
Let them say what they will, I could read in his eye,
“Here’s a bait for you, Peel, if you know how to bite.”

So on Treasury benches I mingled my feet,
I felt a pulsation I cannot tell whether
Of joy shame or guilt――’twas bitter yet sweet;
But my heart and my face got as tough as cow’s leather.

At length when arrived in my office I sat,
And I heard of its tricks, with a slight twinge of pain,
But Castlereagh whispered, if once you should rat,
Dear Peel, you can never get office again.

Oh Liverpool, Castlereagh, never were any
Statesmen more pious, to place-men more true,
Of snug roguish places, you both had so many,
That my conscience was drill’d like a sieve through and through.

But Bexley would preach, and Eldon so grieved,
That a suckling like me should be lost in a jiffey――
And Cumberland swore they could not be deceived
If they sent me to humbug the folks on the Liffey.

Professions, manœuvres, smiles, bowing, I used,
Oh the orange sword waved without shame or relenting;
And the Papists were crushed, and their church I abused,
Whilst I swore that their sighs were but signs of consenting.

How the Catholic claims I scorned and denied,
Till I found my reward in a better place here;
When the Duke, rest his soul, his old principles shied,
Saying “Rat with me, Peel, or your places forbear.”

In vain did I whisper, there’s no danger nigh,
Bags, Bexley, and Sellis’s Duke did implore,
He promised a title, a sinecure sly;
I acknowledged them both, and I asked for no more.

Was I right?――oh, I cannot believe I was wrong,
Though Whigs, King and People may shout their disdain;
In cursed schedule B. thou shalt not be kept long,
Sweet Tamworth, I’ll rat for thee over again.

By heaven! Rotten Boroughs I’d rather forswear――
The Reform Bill, I’d hug to my plausible breast――
Than lose thee, sweet Tamworth, thy Peel will yet share
Place, power and title――you know all the rest.

From _The Blue Bag; or, Toryana_. By the Speaker of the House of
Commons. (Effingham Wilson, London, 1832.)

The same little pamphlet contains another parody on Moore, supposed to be spoken by William Frederick, Duke of Gloucester, nephew of George III. Many amusing anecdotes of the stupidity of this Royal Duke were current during his lifetime, and earned for him the sobriquet SILLY-BILLY.

When in death I shall calm recline,
More dozy I can’t be than I have been here;
No power could rouse me by smiles or wine,
Silly Billy, at Cambridge they called me, dear.

I never could feel either joy or sorrow,
My heart is so spongy, my liver so white;
But very large sums from the taxes I borrow,
And humbug the people, by family right.
* * * * *
Curse the Whigs, they are overthrowing
Our lazy, vicious, and well-paid rest;
My moon-calf uncle’s debt that’s owing,
Makes all people his name detest.

When fools, and tyrants, and peers are over,
England’s glad cup will flow over its brim;
John Bull our impudent _rights_ will uncover,
Repaying the woes we’ve inflicted on him.

The Duke of Gloucester had been educated at Cambridge. He died in 1834, leaving the large fortune he had amassed from the numerous sinecure offices he held during his parsimonious lifetime, to his widow.

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