Chapter XXXII: Canto THE SEVENTH (6)

THE SWEET BRIAR.

I thought t’other day while attempting to thin
A Briar which over my palings had curled,
As _La Pompadour_ said, “If this were but a sin
It might be the jolliest job in the world.”

For its dear little thorns to their destiny true
Seemed to know they were made to be scratchers and stingers,
And to show me what I was attempting to do
Kept eternally gripping and pricking my fingers.

And whenever we mingled our shoots, and our feet,
I muttered “d * * * n” and cannot tell whether
Through your fault or mine――but, O! Briar called sweet,
I _think_ that we fell and we suffered together.

And at last I found out you belonged to my neighbour,
And when I had brought you exceedingly low
I discovered that I had been spending my labour
On a plant _he_ was very desirous should grow.

In vain did I mutter “There’s nobody nigh,”
In vain curse the taste of my neighbour next door,
Your response was a scratch on the lid of my eye,
And I left it at that, and I asked for no more.

Was I right? I can hardly believe I was wrong,
Though the Briar has grown through the paling again,
And the devil may guide it uninjured along
E’er I put myself twice to such horrible pain.

By Heavens! I would rather forever forswear
The pleasure that lies in a garden that’s neat
Than disturb for a moment the thorns that are there,
Or banish the Briar which people call sweet!

C. S. K.

――――:o:――――

_The Melbourne Punch_ for July 1, 1880, contained a long, and very dreary parody, entitled _Paradise and the Berri_. It dealt with local politics, and was chiefly devoted to insulting a politician named Berry, it had no literary merit whatever. _The Melbourne Punch_ is published at double the price of its London namesake, of which it is but a very poor imitation.

_Paradise and the Peeler_ is the title of another long parody contained in _Lyrics and Lays_, by Pips. Published in 1867, by Wyman, Bros., Calcutta. This relates how the Eden gardens in Calcutta were closed to the general public, by order of the Commissioner of the Police, until a general outcry forced him to withdraw the obnoxious edict.

During Oxford Commemoration in 1866, the S. S. Amateurs performed in the Masonic Hall an “Oriental Extravaganza,” entitled _Lalla Rookh_. This was written by Mr. Vincent Amcotts, of Balliol College, (founded upon Moore’s poem), and the numerous songs it contained were set to music selected from Offenbach’s “_Barbe Bleu_.” This amusing travestie was published by T. Shrimpton and Son, Broad Street, Oxford.

Another Extravaganza, with the same title, was produced at the unfortunate Novelty Theatre, London, in May, 1884. The libretto was written by Mr. Horace Lennard, the musical arrangements were by Mr. P. Bucalossi, and the caste included Miss Kate Vaughan, as _Lalla Rookh_, Mr. Harry Nicholls, and Mr. Fred Story; the piece, however, had but a brief career.

Several other dramatic arrangements of _Lalla Rookh_ have been produced, there was a burletta by Horn; a cantata by Messrs. W. G. Wills and Frederick Clay; and forty years ago the famous Cerito delighted the opera-goers in a ballet founded on Moore’s poem.

――――:o:――――

ONE MORE IRISH MELODY.

I

O weep for the hour
When to Peers’ tranquil bower
The Premier of England with Church Bill came;
The Primate made light
Of the crisis that night,
But loudly Lord Derby declared ’twas a shame.
The Peers caved in soon,
Like the famous “gone ’coon,”
And the Commons protested they’d bear all the blame;
But none will see the day
When the mischief clears away
Which that dark hour left on the Parliament fame.

II

Strange arguments lay
On the crooked pathway
Where the Premier of England slipp’d off from the right;
And many a deep print
On his policy’s tint
Showed the track of his veering towards Lowe and towards Bright.
To-morrow’s new men
May undo all again
Every trace in our laws where the false chief came:
But the babes yet unborn
Shall record it with scorn,
That blot on the scutcheon of England’s fair fame!

_Will-o’-the Wisp_, July 24, 1869.

――――

LORD BROUGHAM.

“Now that the speedy ejection of the Whigs from office, is looked for on all sides and by all parties with a high anticipatory relish, the humane mind naturally turns with compassion to the fate of Lord Brougham, who is on the eve of losing that for which he staked and lost, all his once splendid popularity. He stands a detected apostate from the cause of liberality, and we can only pay to his deplorable condition the melancholy tribute of a commiserating melody.”

AIR――_Eveleen’s Bower_.

Oh! weep for the hour
When to Brougham’s bower,
The Lord of the Treas’ry with large bribes came,
The Lib’rals held their light
From the House that night,
And staid to weep at home for their old chum’s shame.

The clouds have pass’d
From the Liberals at last,
And freedom smiles again with her vestal flame;
But none will see the day,
When the clouds will pass away,
Which taking office cast upon Brougham’s fame.

The road to place lay
Through a crooked path-way,
When Brougham cross’d over the House’s floor,
And many a deep hint,
Which I’ve seen in print,
Show’d the reason of his walk to the Treasury door.

But freedom’s ray
Will soon melt away,
Every trace of the ministry with which he came;
But there’s no light I fear,
Which ever can clear
The stain upon the brightness of Brougham’s fame.

_Figaro in London_, June 22, 1833.

――――:o:――――

Sixty or seventy years ago when Moore’s poems were in the height of their popularity they were made the subject of a vast number of parodies. Of these the majority would now be of no interest whatever, relating as they do to persons and events long since forgotten. Some of the best of these old parodies have already been given, a few others may be enumerated to which reference could easily be made by any reader desirous of seeing them.

_The Spirit of the Public Journals_ for 1823 contained a great many travesties of Moore’s Irish melodies, nearly all of which were political. The first lines of these are as follows:――

Go where Plutus waits thee.
Remember the Deeds of Sir Billy the Fat.
Rich and rare were the gems she wore
If in death I should lie supine.
When first I met thee, fat and fair.
’Tis the last squeak of _Derry_, left nearly alone.
We can roam through the Town, and of _Flats_ make a feast.
Peggy hath a squinting eye. (See page 245.)
Come send round the wine. (See page 243.)
Though numerous our debts are.
Oh! had I some nice little lass of my own.
Come rest in this bosom, my sweet pretty dear!
Rich and furred was the robe he wore. (See page 238.)
Fly not yet.
Blesington hath a beaming eye.
Go where Bennett waits thee.
The Old Whig Club is meeting, Duke.

The same Volume also contains a Burlesque review, or, as it is termed, a criticism extraordinary, upon a supposed poem, entitled _Loves of the Mortals_, by Timothy Tickle, Esq. This _jeu d’esprit_ was published a few days after _The Loves of the Angels_, and the extracts given from the imaginary poem parody that work.

_Figaro in London_, a sarcastic paper published in London in 1831-32-33, contained many parodies of Moore’s Melodies, the best of these have already been given.

_Punch_ for 1847 contained _The Loves of the New Police_, in several parts. In December 13, 1856, it had a set of verses addressed to a certain _Mr. Morris Moore_, parodying several of Moore’s Songs.

_Funny Folks_, May 10, 1884, on the Dynamite scare: “Believe me that all these explosive alarms.”

_The Humourous Works_ of the late Theodore Hook (London, 1873), in addition to the parody quoted on page 238, contain another on _The young May-Moo_n but it is quite out of date. A review of “_Mr. Minus the Poet_” is also included in the above collection; it is a skit upon Moore’s versification and philosophy, and contains a short imitation of his poetry, entitled _Fanny’s Bower_, somewhat resembling _The Living Lustres_ in the Rejected Addresses.

“_Jack Randall’s Diary_, or proceedings at the House of Call for Genius,” written by Mr. Breakwindow. London, Simpkin, 1820.

This is a small book which cannot be found in the Library of the British Museum. J. C. Hotten, in his “Bibliography of Slang and Cant,” says (p. 103) this was written by Thomas Moore; but further information is wanted on this point.

――――:o:――――

YOUNG LOVE.

Young Love once fell through a straw-thatched shed,
Where pigs were feeding
And, nowise heeding
What cause the god had thither led,
While wash they swilled, and were well fed,
They thrived and flourished,
For Stickem nourished
Their hog-ships with good new-made grains;
And pigs, though grubby, must be fed,
For even they feel Hunger’s pains.

Alas! that mankind’s greedy eye
Should e’er go thither,
Their loves to wither,
But pigs must know they’re born to die
And should not squeal when the knife draws nigh.
Stickem came that morning,
While love was yawning,
And seized him, with intent to slay;
“Oh, oh!” says Love, “this is all my eye!”
So he kicked him over, and flew away.

――――

THE BENCHER; OR, WHITEWASHING DAY.

_Air_――“Though dark are our sorrows, to-day we’ll forget them.”

Though num’rous our debts are, yet soon we forget them,
When free from a bailiff’s or turnkey’s rude powers;
For never were hearts, if the _nabmen_ would let them,
More formed to be jovial and light than ours.
But though without cash
We oft cut a dash,
And _credit_ besprinkles our path with flowers,
Yet the day will come
When we’re _found at home_!
Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles,
Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay;
But though ’twere the last little spark on our souls,
Let us light it up now――for ’tis _whitewashing day_!

The devil take tradesmen, who say we’re ungrateful;
Though we fly from _grabs_, to our friends we are true!
If we can’t pay, we can’t! then what is more hateful
Than taking one’s body for sums over-due?
Vile creditors blight
Our prospects outright;
And when they have nailed us, cry “Pay me, sir, pay!”
So unless we give bail,
We’re lugg’d off to jail;
But since I’m now _up_, were I summon’d next minute,
I’d laugh, drink, and sing, look cheerful and gay,
And shew what the head of a _Bencher_ has in it,
Who has passed the ordeal of _Whitewashing Day_!

We no longer are _green_, and our _sprees_ are recorded
By men who have suffer’d too much to forget;
With hope they were gull’d, and with promise rewarded,
While our quarterly pilgrimage spong’d out the debt.
_Their_ hearts may be broke,
Yet _we_ laugh at the joke,
For nothing can make an _old Bencher_ pay;
He’s _up_ and he’s _down_
To the tricks of the Town;
He lives by his wits, and plays a bold part
With an impudent air that ne’er will decay;
Though his poverty’s great, still greater’s his art,
For he clears off all scores by _Whitewashing Day_,

From _The Spirit of the Public Journals_, 1825.

――――:o:――――

THE LIVING LUSTRES.[126]

The following imitation of Tom Moore’s style is taken from _The Rejected Addresses_. It was written by Horace Smith. Early editions of _The Rejected Addresses_ contained three verses which have recently been generally omitted. These are here supplied within parenthesis.

“Jam te juvaverit
Viros relinquere,
Doctæque conjugis
Sinu quiescere.”
SIR T. MORE.

I.

O Why should our dull retrospective addresses
Fall damp as wet blankets on Drury Lane fire?
Away with blue devils, away with distresses,
And give the gay spirit to sparkling desire!

II.

Let artists decide on the beauties of Drury,
The richest to me is when woman is there;
The question of houses I leave to the jury;
The fairest to me is the house of the fair.

III.

When woman’s soft smile all our senses bewilders,
And gilds while it carves, her dear form on the heart,
What need has New Drury of carvers and gilders?
With Nature so bounteous, why call upon Art?

(IV.

Each pillar that opens our stage to the circle, is
Verdant antique, like Ninon de l’Enclos,
I’d ramble from them to the pillars of Hercules,
Give me but Rosa wherever I go.)

IV.

How well would our actors attend to their duties,
Our house save in oil, and our authors in wit,
In lieu of yon lamps, if a row of young beauties
Glanced light from their eyes between us and the pit!

V.

The apples that grew on the fruit-tree of knowledge
By woman were pluck’d, and she still wears the prize,
To tempt us in theatre, senate, or college――
I mean the love-apples that bloom in the eyes.

(VI.

Attun’d to the scene, when the pale yellow moon is on
Tower and tree they’d look sober and sage,
And when they all wink’d their dear peepers in unison,
Night, pitchy night, would envelop the stage.

VII.

Ah! could I some girl from yon box for her youth pick,
I’d love her as long as she blossomed in youth;
Oh! white is the ivory case of her tooth pick,
But when beauty smiles how much whiter the tooth.)

VI.

There too is the lash which, all statues controlling,
Still governs the slaves that are made by the fair;
For man is the pupil, who, while her eye’s rolling,
Is lifted to rapture, or sunk in despair.

VII.

Bloom, theatre, bloom, in the roseate blushes
Of beauty illumed by a love-breathing smile!
And flourish, ye pillars,[127] as green as the rushes
That pillow the nymphs of the Emerald Isle!

VIII.

For dear is the Emerald Isle of the ocean,
Whose daughters are fair as the foam of the wave,
Whose sons, unaccustom’d to rebel commotion,
Tho’ joyous are sober――tho’ peaceful, are brave.

IX.

The shamrock their olive, sworn foe to a quarrel,
Protects from the thunder and lightning of rows;
Their sprig of shillelagh is nothing but laurel,
Which flourishes rapidly over their brows.

X.

O! soon shall they burst the tyrannical shackles
Which each panting bosom indignantly names,
Until not one goose at the capital cackles
Against the grand question of Catholic claims.

XI.

And then shall each Paddy, who once on the Liffey
Perchance held the helm of some mackerel-hoy,
Hold the helm of the State, and dispense in a jiffy
More fishes than ever he caught when a boy.

XII.

And those who now quit their hods, shovels, and barrows,
In crowds to the bar of some ale-house to flock,
When bred to _our bar_ shall be Gibbses and Garrows,
Assume the silk gown, and discard the smock-frock.

XIII.

For Erin surpasses the daughters of Neptune,
As Dian excels each encircling star;
And the spheres of the heavens could never have kept tune
Till set to the music of Erin-go-bragh!

――――:o:――――

The great Christopher North (Professor Wilson) had but a poor opinion of Thomas Moore, and in _Noctes Ambrosianæ_ (Blackwood’s Magazine July 1823) he thus expressed himself;――

“Moore will not live long as a song writer, he has not the
stamina in him at all. His verses are elegant, pretty,
glittering, anything you please in that line; but they have
defects which will not allow them to get down to posterity.
His strong party views, his affectation of learning, his
parade of his knowledge of botany, zoology, and the other
’ologies, these are serious defects, and then the mixed
metaphors, and often down-right nonsense to be found in his
songs, all detract from his chances of immortality.”

“Here” says Wilson “is a song he intended to be sung by:――

A FALLEN ANGEL OVER A BOWL OF RUM-PUNCH.

Heap on more coal there,
And keep the glass moving,
The frost nips my nose,
Though my heart glows with loving.
Here’s the dear creature,
No skylights――a bumper;
He who leaves heel taps
I vote him a mumper.

With hey cow rumble O,
Whack! populorum,
Merrily, merry men,
Push round the jorum.

What are Heaven’s pleasures
That so very sweet are?
Singing from psalters,
In long or short metre.
Planked on a wet cloud
Without any breeches,
Just like the Celtic,
Met to make speeches.

With hey cow rumble &c.

Wide is the difference,
My own boozing bullies,
Here the round punch-bowl,
Heap’d to the full is.
Then if some wise one
Thinks that up “yonder”
Is pleasant as we are,
Why――he’s in a blunder.

With hey cow rumble, &c.

――――:o:――――

LOVE AND THE FLIMSIES.

Little Cupid one day on a sunbeam was floating,
Above a green vale where a paper mill played;
And he hovered in ether, delightedly noting
The whirl and the splash that the water-wheel made.

The air was all filled with the scent of the roses,
Round the Miller’s veranda that clustered and twined;
And he thought if the sky were all made up of noses,
This spot of the earth would be most to his mind.

And forth came the Miller, a Quaker in verity,
Rigid of limb and complacent of face,
And behind him a Scotchman was singing “Prosperity,”
And picking his pocket with infinite grace.

And “Walth and prosparity,” “Walth and prosparity,”
His bonny scotch burthen arose on the air,
Is a song all in praise of that primitive charity,
Which begins with sweet home, and which terminates there.

But sudden a tumult arose from a distance,
And in rushed a rabble with steel and with stone.
And ere the scared miller could call for assistance,
The mill to a million of atoms was blown.

Scarce mounted the fragments in ether to hurtle,
When the Quaker was vanished, no eye had seen where;
And the Scotchman thrown flat on his back, like a turtle,
Was sprawling and bawling, with heels in the air.

Little Cupid continued to hover and flutter,
Pursuing the fragments that floated on high,
As light as the fly that is christened from butter,
Till he gathered his hands full and flew to the sky.

“Oh, mother,” he cried, as he showed them to Venus,
What are these little talismans cyphered――One――One?
If you think them worth having, we’ll share them between us,
Though their smell is like, none of the newest, poor John!”

“My darling,” says Venus, “away from you throw them,
They’re a sort of fool’s gold among mortals ’tis true;
But we want them not here, though I think you might know them,
Since on earth they so often have bought and sold you.”

THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.
(From Paper Money Lyrics, written during the commercial panic,
in the winter 1825-26.)

――――:o:――――

Another imitation of Moore’s style is given in _The Book of Ballads_, edited by _Bon Gaultier_, and published by William Blackwood & Sons. These Ballads were written by Professor W. E. Aytoun, and Theodore Martin. A few of them may be considered amusing as parodies, but the greater number are really clever imitations of style, with a little burlesque introduced here and there. Thus, the following would pass very well for one of Moore’s lighter songs:

THE BARD OF ERIN’S LAMENT.

Oh! weep for the hours when the little blind boy
Wove around me the spells of his Paphian bower;
When I dipped my light wings in the nectar of joy,
And soared in the sunshine, the moth of the hour!
From beauty to beauty I passed, like the wind;
Now fondled the lily, now toyed with the rose;
And the fair, that at morn had enchanted my mind,
Was forsook for another ere evening’s close.

* * * * *

But weep for the hour! Life’s summer is past,
And the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow;
And my soul as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast,
Can not turn to a fire that glows inwardly now.
No, its ashes are dead――and, alas! Love or Song
No charm to Life’s lengthening shadows can lend,
Like a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong,
And a seat by the fire _tête-à-tête_ with a friend.

――――:o:――――

OLD SHERRY.
(_A Parody on the Anacreontic Song._)

To old Sheridan once as he sat in full glee,
A few duns for hard money sent a petition;
And prayed that his cash or bank notes they might see,
But this answer received from the sturdy old Grecian:――
“My friends, I declare
I have no cash to spare,
And for all your distresses one damn I dont care,
But then I’ll instruct you like me how to dine,
And make creditors pay for the banquet and wine.”

By this answer appalled, at the statesman they stared,
And then fell to bowing, beseeching, and coaxing,
But their time and their talking they well might have spared,
For old Sherry’s grand forte was cajoling and hoaxing.
“My good friends,” says he,
“The thing cannot be,
For my purse can’t produce to you one mar’vedie;
But if to discount some more bills you incline,
You all shall partake of my banquet and wine.”

The duns with amazement on each other gazed,
Then threatened attornies, arrests, executions,
But old Sheridan smiled, and was mightily pleased
At their impotent threats, and their vain resolutions.
“Goods and chattels,” says he,
“You can’t get from me,
And from all your arrests, I’m by privilege free;
Disappointed and vex’d, let my creditors whine,
I’ll still make them pay for my banquets and wine.

“Dame Justice, that hobbling old Beldam I’ve found,
With brisk Generosity ne’er can keep pacing;
All my debts I would pay if the cash could be found,
But my wants my finances are always outracing.
Then submit with good grace,
For while I’m out of place
All payment of debt is quite out of the case;
But if once I get in, ’tis my serious design,
That the nation shall pay for my banquet and wine.”

The duns one and all from his presence withdrew,
In sullen despair of e’er touching the rhino.
And they’d never come there if old Sherry they knew
But one half so truly as you or I know.
In passing this quiz,
So flushed was his phiz,
That the nose of old Bardolph were ice matched to his;
He returned to his friends, who’d just helped him to dine,
And laughed at the dupes who found banquet and wine.

From _The Spirit of the Age Newspaper for_ 1828.

The Right Hon. R. B. Sheridan here referred to, the celebrated wit, orator, and dramatist, was continually in debt, and as, in addition to being thriftless and extravagant, he was intemperate, his once handsome features became, in the later years of his life, so bloated, distorted, and discoloured, that he seemed but a hideous caricature of his former self.

――――:o:――――

THE SHY BO-PEEP.
(_A sea-side fact._)

The shy Bo-Peep to the sea is gone,
In a bathing frock you’ll find her;
A swimming belt she has girded on,
And a life buoy slung behind her.
“Bathe, I wont!” said this maiden shy,
“Tho’ disappointment rankles,
“In such a garb some man might spy
My pettitoes and ankles!”

Her friends protest, but the task is vain
To make Bo-peep knock under,
The frock was never worn again,
For she tore its seams asunder;
And said, “No more embarrass me
“Thou cumbersome monstrosity!
“I’ll bathe ‘au naturel’ and free
In despite of curiosity!”

A.H.S.

――――:o:――――

ANACREON’S ODE XXI.

Observe when mother earth is dry,
She drinks the droppings of the sky;
And then the dewy cordial gives
To every thirsty plant that lives.
The vapours, which at evening weep,
Are beverage to the swelling deep;
And when the rosy sun appears,
He drinks the ocean’s misty tears.
The moon too quaffs her paly stream
Of lustre from the solar beam.
Then, hence with all your sober thinking
Since Nature’s holy law is drinking;
I’ll make the laws of Nature mine,
And pledge the universe in wine.

T. MOORE.

Moore has been often accused of plagiarism, and more often perhaps in connection with the above translation from Anacreon than any other poem. A few examples of the versions of earlier writers will show how far the charge can be substantiated.

_Pierre de Ronsard_ (who died in 1585) wrote a version; which, given in the old orthography, runs thus:――

“La terre, les eaux va boivant.
L’arbre la boit par sa racine.
La mer salée boit le vent,
Et le soleil boit la marine.
Le soleil est beu de la lune,
Tout boit soit en haut ou en bas.
Suivant ceste règle commune
Pourquoy donc ne boirons nous pas?”

_Capilupus_ imitated the ode, in an epitaph on a drunkard, which has thus been rendered:――

While life was mine, the little hour
In drinking still unvaried flew;
I drank as earth imbibes the shower,
Or as the rainbow drinks the dew;
As ocean quaffs the rivers up,
Or flushing sun inhales the sea:
Silenus trembled at my cup,
And Bacchus was outdone by me!

In scene 3, act iv., of _Timon of Athens_, Shakespeare has a similar passage;――

“I’ll example you with thievery.
The sun’s a thief, and with his great attraction
Robs the vast sea; the moon’s an arrant thief,
And her pale fire she snatches from the sun;
The sea’s a thief, whose liquid surge resolves
The moon into salt tears.”

Another version:――

The heavens carouse each day a cup,
No wonder Atlas holds them up!
The trees suck up the earth and ground,
And in their brown bowls drink around;
The sea, too, whom the salt makes dry,
His greedy thirst to satisfy,
Ten thousand rivers drink, and then
Gets drunk, and brings them up again.

The sun, and who as right as he?
Sits up all night to drink the sea;
The moon quaffs up the sun, her brother,
And wishes she could tope another;
If all things fuddle; why should I,
Of all things, be the one that’s dry?
Well, I’ll be content to thirst,
But too much drink shall make me first.

LORD ROCHESTER (Died 1680).

――――:o:――――

THE THIRSTY EARTH.
(Freely translated from Anacreon.)

ABRAHAM COWLEY (Died 1667.)

The thirsty earth drinks up the rain
And thirsts, and gapes for drink again;
The plants suck in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair.

The sea itself (which one would think
Should have but little need of drink)
Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,
So fill’d that they o’erflow the cup.

The busy sun (and one would guess
By’s drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks up the sea, and when he’s done,
The moon and stars drink up the sun,

They drink and dance by their own light,
They drink and revel all the night:
Nothing in nature’s sober found,
But an eternal health goes round.

Fill up the bowl then, fill it high,
Fill all the glasses here; for why
Should every creature drink but I?
Why, man of morals, tell me why?

Whilst referring to Thomas Moore’s plagiarisms mention must be made of an article on the subject contained in Fraser’s Magazine, June 1841. It is too long to quote in full, but some of its principal statements may be given:

“Moore’s plagiarisms are intolerable. There is not a single
original thought, conception, metaphor, or image, in the
whole range of his works,――from the _Posthumous Poems of Tom
Little_ to his last dying speech――The _Travels of an Irish
Gentleman in Search of a Religion_. Even the title of this
nonsense is stolen from Erasmus’s _Peregrinatio Religionis
ergo_. The man is an indefatigable thief. He has laid under
contribution every imaginable book, from the biography of
his namesake, Tom Thumb, to the portly folios of the fathers
of the church. Perfectly unscrupulous in his marauding
expeditions, and impartial in his attacks, he is found at
one moment rifling a saint, and in the next pillaging a
sinner. You have asked me for some specimens of his
plagiarisms. You shall have them. Time will permit me to
expose only a very few, so I shall plunge at once _in medias
res_:――

LITTLE’S POEMS.

“_Your mother says, my little Venus,
There’s something not correct between us,
And you’re in fault as well as I;
Now on my soul, my little Venus,
I think ’twould not be right between us,
To let your mother tell a lie._”

This is plagiarised from an old collection of English epigrams published in 1785:――

“The lying world says naughty words
Of you and I, my dearest love;
You know, my dear, the world’s the Lord’s
Let ’em no longer liars prove.”

LITTLE’S POEMS. _To Julia_

“_Why let the stingless critic chide
With all that fume of vacant pride
Which mantles o’er the pedant fool,
Like vapour on a stagnant pool._”
Lloyd

“Must thou whose judgment dull and cool
Is muddy as the stagnant pool.”

LITTLE’S POEMS.

“_Here is one leaf reserved for me
From all thy sweet memorials free,
And here my simple song might tell
The feelings thou must guess so well.
But could I thus within thy mind
One little vacant corner find,
Where no impression yet is seen,
Where no memorial yet has been,
Oh, it should be my sweetest care
To write my name for ever there._”

These are stolen from some lines of Pope’s:――

“With what strange raptures would my soul be blest,
Were but her book an emblem of her breast,
As I from that all former marks efface,
And, uncontroll’d, put new ones in their place,
So might I chase all others from her heart,
And my own image in the stead impart;
But ah! how short the bliss would prove if he
Who seized it next might do the same by me.”

LITTLE’S POEMS.

“_Oh, shall we not say thou art Love’s duodecimo;
Few can be prettier, none can be less, you know,
Such a volume in sheets were a volume of charms,
Or if bound, it should only be bound in our arms._”

Wit restored. _In several select poems._ 1658.

“A woman is a book, and often found
To prove far better in the sheets than bound;
No marvail, then, why men take such delight
Above all things to study in the night,”

LITTLE’S POEMS.

“_If Mahomet would but receive me,
And Paradise be as he paints,
I’m greatly afraid (God forgive me)
I’d worship the eyes of his saints._”

Dryden. _Epilogue to “Constantine the Great._”

“Th’ original Trimmer, though a friend to no man,
Yet in his heart adored a pretty woman,
He knew that Mahomet laid up for ever
Kind black-eyed rogues for every true believer,
And, which was more than mortal man e’er tasted,
One pleasure that for threescore twelvemonths lasted,
To burn for this may surely be forgiven,
Who’d not be circumcised for such a heaven?”

LITTLE’S POEMS.

“_Weep on, and as thy sorrows flow
I’ll taste the luxury of woe._”

Langhorne. _Precepts of Conjugal Happiness_

“For once this pain, this frantic pain forego,
And feel at least _the luxury of woe_.”

MOORE. _Anacreon._

“_When the sunshine of the bowl
Thaws the ice about the soul._”

Cawthorne.

“However, when the sprightly bowl
Had _thaw’d the ice about the soul_,”

MOORE’S MELODIES.

“_And when he said, Heaven rest her soul
Round the lake-like music stole,
And her ghost was seen to glide
Smiling o’er the fatal tide._”
Kirke White. _Gondoline._

“The maid was seen no more; but oft
Her ghost is known to glide
At midnight’s silent, solemn hour
Along the ocean’s tide.”

MOORE’S MELODIES.

“_Sweet Vale of Avoca, how calm could I rest
In the bosom of shade with the friends I love best;
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace._”

This simile of friendly hearts blending together like waters is as old as

Sir John Suckling. _Aglaura_, act iv.

“Alas! we two
Have mingled souls more than two meeting brooks.”

Dryden. _All for Love_, act iii., sc. 3.

“We were so closed within each other’s breasts,
The rivets were not found that join’d us first,

That does not reach us yet,――we were so mixt
As meeting streams, both to ourselves were lost.”

Wilson. _City of the Plague_, act iii. sc. 3.

“We shall die
Like two glad waves, that, meeting on the shore
In moonlight and in music melt away
Quietly mid the quiet wilderness.”

MOORE’S MELODIES.

“_My only book
Were woman’s looks,
And folly’s all they’ve taught me._”

John Heywood. _Of a most noble Ladye._

“The vertue of her looks
Excels the precious stone,
Ye need none other books
To read or look upon.”

MOORE’S MELODIES.

“_No, Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign,
Go tell our invaders, the Danes,
That ’tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine
Than to sleep but a moment in chains._”

Addison. _Cato_, act ii. sc. 1.

“A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty
Is worth a whole eternity of bondage.”

MOORE’S MELODIES.

“_Long, long be my heart with such memories fill’d,
Like the vase in which roses have once been distill’d;
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will.
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still._”

Sir John Suckling. _Brennoralt_, act v.

“Thou motion’st well, nor have I taken leave.
It keeps a sweetness yet, [_Kisses her_].
As stills from roses when the flowers are gone.”

Philip Massinger. _Roman Actor_, act iv. sc. 2.

“But that thou, whom oft I’ve seen
To personate a gentleman, noble, wise,
Faithful and gainsome, and what virtues else
The poet pleases to adorn you with;
But that (_as vessels still partake the odour
Of the sweet precious liquors they contain’d_)
Thou must be really in some degree
The thing thou dost present.”

MOORE’S MELODIES.

“_As a beam o’er the face of the waters may glow
While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below,
So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile,
Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while._”

James Mervyn. _On Shirley’s Plays._

“They might, like waters in the sunshine set,
Retain his image, not impart his heat.”

MOORE’S MELODIES.

“_The moon looks
On many brooks,
The brook can see no moon but this._”

Sir William Jones.

“The moon looks upon many night-flowers, the night-flowers
see but one moon.”

MOORE’S MELODIES.

“_Though dark are our sorrows to-day, we’ll forget them,
And smile through our tears like a sunbeam in showers._”

Sir E. Brydges. _Restituta_, vol. ii. p. 337.

“Golden storms
Fell from their eyes, as when the sun appears;
And yet it rains, so shew’d their eyes their tears.”

MOORE’S MELODIES.

“_I flew to her chamber, ’twas lonely,
As if the loved tenant lay dead;
Ah, would it were death and death only!
But no, the young false one had fled.
And there hung the lute that could soften
My very worst pains into bliss;
While the hand that had waked it so often,
Now throbb’d to a proud rival’s kiss._”

Thomas Heywood. _A Woman Killed with Kindness. Grief of Frankford after discovering his wife’s infidelity._

“_Nic._ Master, here’s her lute flung in a corner!

_Frank._ Her lute! Oh, God! upon this instrument
Her fingers have ran quick division,
Swifter than that which now divides our hearts.
* * * Oh, Master Cranwell!
Oft hath she made this melancholy wood
(Now mute and dumb, for her disastrous change)
Speak sweetly many a note, sound many a strain,
To her own ravishing voice, which being well strung,
What pleasant, strange airs, have they jointly rung!”

These are specimens of Moore’s rogueries; and now having heard them, will you not agree with me in the propriety of addressing him with the same compliment which Homer pays to Mercury.――

“Immortal honour awaits thee, oh, Thomas Little! for thou
shalt be known to all posterity as the chief of thieves.”

LORD BYRON.

On page 197 was inserted “_The Enigma on the letter H_,” with several parodies on it. This poem has been generally ascribed to Lord Byron, but from correspondence recently published in “Notes and Queries” there seems little doubt but that it was written by Miss Catherine Fanshawe. The following imitation of it appeared in _The Gownsman_ (Cambridge) November 1830.

A RIDDLE.

I was fashion’d by nat_u_re, and formed in the s_u_n,
And I’ve followed him since in the race he has run;
Not a co_u_ntry he warms but I’ve wandered it through,
From Kerg_u_elens land to the verge of Per_u_;
Not a soul has been born, not a creature on earth,
But I have been there in the ho_u_r of birth;
I was present each min_u_te in life as it pass’d,
And I mix’d with the d_u_st it return’d to at last.
In the c_u_p of the lily I love to repose,
And I guard, like a spirit, the b_u_d of the rose.
In the feverish thoughts, and the do_u_bt of a dream,
In the m_u_rmur that wakes from the bed of the stream;
In the str_u_ggle we hear when the tempest is high,
In the th_u_nder that breaks ere we dream it is nigh;
In the fort_u_ne of war, in the pl_u_me of the brave,
In the s_u_rge, as it chafes on the crest of the wave,
I have ever been present, and ever must be,
Though the _U_niverse had its beginning with me;
Though my fate is entwined with fut_u_rity too,
Yet I cannot last long, for I finish in yo_u_.

U.
――――:o:――――

TOBACCO.

Sublime Tobacco! which from East to West
Cheers the tar’s labour or the Turkman’s rest;
Which on the Moslem’s ottoman divides
His hours, and rivals opium and his brides;
Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand,
Though not less loved, in Wapping or the Strand;
Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe,
When tipp’d with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe;
Like other charmers, wooing the caress,
More dazzlingly when daring in full dress,
Yet thy true lovers more admire by far
Thy naked beauties――Give me a cigar!
THE ISLAND.

――――

THE POTATO.

“Sublime potatoes! that, from Antrim’s shore
To famous Kerry, form the poor man’s store;
Agreeing well with every place and state――
The peasant’s noggin, or the rich man’s plate.
Much prized when smoking from the teeming pot,
Or in turf-embers roasted crisp and hot.
Welcome, although you be our only dish;
Welcome, companion to flesh, fowl, or fish;
But to the real gourmands, the learned few,
Most welcome, steaming in an Irish stew.”

T. CROFTON CROKER.

――――:o:――――

“MAZEPPA TRAVESTIED: a Poem,” is the title of a small anonymous pamphlet published by C. Chapple, Pall Mall, London, in 1820. Price, Half-a-crown. It has an introductory address to “_The Goddess of Milling, and her worshippers, The Fancy_.”

The preface contains the following sensible passage “With regard to Travesty, or Parody in general, it may be observed that the use of it by no means necessarily implies a design of holding up the original to ridicule and contempt.” The parody itself, however, is so full of slang, and deals with such unsavoury topics, that no extracts from it can be given. Suffice it to say that it describes the adventures and amours of prize-fighters and their friends, in language worthy of the theme, although it must be admitted, the parody closely imitates the original poem in its construction. Following the _Mazeppa Travestie_ comes a short parody descriptive of the defeat of Belasco, the Jewish prize-fighter.

THE DEFEAT OF CRACK-A-RIB.

Belasco came down like a bruiser so bold,
And his _bellows_ was good, and his nobbers all told:
And the shout of his backers was like the hurrah
Of the _Black Diamond’s_ friends, when he _queer’d Quashee’s_ jaw.

Like sheep in the pens, in that business so green,
All sporting their _flimsies_, the kiddies were seen;
Like those sheep, when the shearer has thought them full grown,
And fleeced them, those kiddies stood chilly and lone.

For the genius of _Milling_ came down on the blast,
And _bung’d_ up the eyes of the Jew pretty fast;
And the _glims_ of the _green_ ones with gloom ’gan to fill,
When they saw how the gilding was gone from their pill.

And there lay the _cove_ with his mouth open wide
But through it there came not the sounds that defied;
And those who have _made_ him are wild on the turf,
That the _swell_ they had raised should prove nothing but surf.

And the pugilist’s _fancy_ is loud in her wail,
For fear that her man should be clapt into jail;
And the _queer’d ones_ of Israel no _blunt_ can afford,
To _flash_ in the ring, since their _swell_ has been _floor’d_.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

THE AUCTION.

Three women went sailing out into the street
To the brown stone front where the red flag hung
They jostled the crowd all day on their feet,
While “going and going and gone” was sung.
For women must go where bargains are had,
And buy old trash, if ever so bad,
And husbands must never be groaning.

Three husbands all hungry went homeward to dine,
But when they arrived there was nothing to eat,
Three women, all crazy, and looking so fine,
Were gabbling of bargains along on the street,
For women must talk of bargains they buy,
And homes must suffer, and babies must cry,
And husbands must ever be groaning.

Three women were showing their husbands with glee
Their bargains at prices that never were beat:
Three husbands all starving and mad as could be,
Were tossing the bargains out into the street.
For men don’t know when bargains are cheap,
And women, poor creatures, do nothing but weep,
And husbands must ever be groaning.

――――

THREE LITTLE FISHERS.

Three little fishers trudged over the hill,
Over the hill in the sun’s broad glare,
With rods and crook’d pins, to the brook by the mill,
While three fond mothers sought them everywhere.
For boys will go fishing, though mothers deny;
Watching their chance they sneak off on the sly
To come safely back in the gloaming.

Three mothers waited outside of the gate;
Three little fishers, tired, sunburnt and worn,
Came into sight as the evening grew late:
Their chubby feet bleeding, their clothing all torn,
For “boys will be boys”――have a keen eye for fun,
While mothers fret, fume, scold, and――succumb,
And welcome them home in the gloaming.

Three little fishers were called to explain――
Each stood condemned, with a thumb in his eye,
They promised never to do so again,
And were hung up in the pantry to dry.
Three mothers heaved great sighs of relief,
An end had been put to their magnified grief,
When the boys came home in the gloaming.

FRANK H. STAUFFER.
_Detroit Free Press_, July 10, 1886.

――――

THREE COWS.

Three cows were seized for the tithe rent in the West,
For the parson’s tithe in old Ruthin’s town,
And the Taffies flocked, with a lively zest,
To the farm to see the crummies knocked down
For parsons want tithes, and farmers must pay,
Though crops may fail, and quarter-day,
And bankruptcy they be reaching.

Three bailiffs ran after the cows in the park,
After the cows amid laughter and groan,
Policeman and people enjoying the lark;
And the cattle weren’t caught when the bailies were blown.
But parsons want tithes, and farmers must pay,
Or their kine will be sold and be harried away,
To provide for the Church and the preaching.

Three constables guarded the auctioneer,
And three milch beauties fetched twenty pounds;
The tithe was paid with expenses clear,
And the knight of the hammer was hissed off the ground
For parsons want money, and tithes must be paid;
But the sooner they’re done with the better ’tis said,
Or good-bye to the Church and its teaching.

――――

THREE FISHERS.

Three fishers went fishing out into the sea
With bottles well filled with the regular bait:
They burned in the sun and told stories with glee
And caught one sea-robin, a crab and a skate;
But, as they were told, on the previous day,
More fishes were caught than were carried away,
And then were these fishers a-groaning.

Three fishers all blistered crawled homeward intent
With cussing their luck and without any bait,
And also without the small fortune they’d spent
For one old sea-robin, a crab and a skate,
But then――if the wind or the tide had been right,
Or different bait, or fishes would bite,
These fishers would not be a-groaning.

Three fishers went telling some terrible lies
Of how they returned with a ton or so weight;
The fish, they kept growing in numbers and size
As fast as the fishers could swallow more “bait.”
For spinning of yarns is the only delight
Of fishers who fish without getting a bite
And who, when alone, are a-groaning.

H. C. DODGE.
_Detroit Free Press_, August 21, 1886.

――――:o:――――

HORTICULTURAL EMBLEMS.

A Parody of Rogero’s Song in THE ANTI-JACOBIN.

Snobs of Cambridge, you must all
Have a piece of garden ground,
Well enclosed with a wall,
Or with a fence well guarded round.
Get of plants that none e’er saw
A beautiful variety;
Then be a _member_ of the Hor-
-Ticultural Society!

Work and toil both night and day,
Rearing flowers choice and rare;
And then――if you like you may
With them to the show repair.
But since a SNOB, expect a flaw,
In spite of your anxiety;
’Tis never heeded by the Hor-
-Ticultural Society.

_Humble plants_ in order stand,
And _sensitives_ in order too:
Shrinking from the Floral wand
Of _Mister Touch-me-not_ and Co.
Such _humble plants_ you never saw,
Waiting for their moiety
Awarded to them by the Hor-
-Ticultural Society.

_Cocks-combs_ leave their native seat,
_Cocks-combs_ dwarf and _cocks-combs_ tall,
Other _cocks-combs_ here to meet,
And whisper, “SNOBS, we’ve done you all.”
Oh! what are those great baskets for――
Those looks of such anxiety?
Why! for the _Sweepstakes_ of the Hor-
-Ticultural Society!

Grow a Pine that’s worth a guinea,
And they’ll award you just a crown;
_Quere?_――who is such a ninney?
Some there are――their names are down;
But the pine’s his own!――O, no, ’tis for
One _Mister Sec-Satiety_:
_Wot_ drives the members of the Hor-
-Ticultural Society!!

_The Gownsman_ (Cambridge), November 26, 1830.

END OF VOLUME III.

Footnotes:

[1] Henry Stephens appears first to have started this
subject of _parody_; whose researches have been borrowed by
the Abbé Sallier, as I am in my turn occasionally indebted
to Sallier. His little dissertation is in the French
Academy’s Memoirs, tome vii, 398.

[2] See a specimen in Aulus Gellius, where this parodist
reproaches Plato for having given a high price for a book,
whence he drew his noble dialogue of the Timæus. Lib. iii.
c. 17.

[3] See Spanheim, Les Césars de l’Empéreur Julien in his
“Preuves,” Remarque 8. Sallier judiciously observes, “Il
peut nous donner une juste idee de cette sorte d’ouvrage,
mais nous ne savons pas précisément en quel tems il a été
composé;” no more, truly, than the Iliad itself!

[4] Les Parodies du Nouveau Théätre Italien, 4 vol. 1738.
Observations sur la Comédie et sur le Génie de Molière, par
Louis Riccoboni. Liv. iv.

[5] I am indebted to James Gordon, Esq., F.S.A., (Scotland)
for the reference to this poem, and for many other useful
memoranda.

[6] Nursery abbreviation of lollipops.

[7] James Usher, Primate of Ireland.

[8] William Bedell, Bishop of Kilmore.

[9] Jeremy Taylor, Bishop of Dromore.

[10] George Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne.

[11] This stanza is often omitted.

[12] These were the distinguishing marks of a Pilgrim.

[13] The year of noviciate.

[14] Editors of two newspapers of the Opposition.

[15] The once beautiful and famous Vauxhall Gardens, in
the south of London. The last performance in the Gardens took
place on 25th July, 1859, and the ground has since been almost
entirely built over.

[16] In 1846, Sir Robert Peel carried the Repeal of the Corn
Laws, in the face of much conservative and protectionist
opposition.

[17] A noted vendor of wax moulds, short sixes, farthing
rushlight and all other _wick_-ed wares.

[18] Alderman Moon.

[19] Celebration of the coming of age of the late Earl
Brownlow.

[20] Campbell has, in his Gertrude of Wyoming, “All gladness
to the heart, nerve, ear and sight.”

[21] At a time of great agricultural distress the Duke of
Norfolk had suggested that the poor people should provide
themselves with a curry powder of his own device, as a
palliative for hunger. He had perhaps forgotten that when
Marie Antoinette was told that the poor in Paris were
starving for the lack of bread, she replied “Poor things,
why don’t they buy some cake.”)

[22] “Ireland for ever.”

[23] For the engagement of Jenny Lind, that young lady
having deserted to Mr. Lumley, the rival manager, at Her
Majesty’s Theatre.

[24] Sir Andrew Agnew, M.P., an opponent of the admission of
Jews to Parliament.

[25] In the letter which accompanied this song, Professor
Blackie stated that “Sam Sumph,” was a great favorite with
the Edinburgh Students, but that it had not previously been
published. Another great favorite with the Students is the
eminent Professor himself, whose handsome presence, and
genial character are so well known in Auld Reekie. There is
an anecdote related of him, that having to transact some
private business one day, he left a label on his door:

“_Professor Blackie regrets that he cannot meet his
classes to-day._”

A Student coming up effaced the _c_, and left the message――

“_Professor Blackie regrets that he cannot meet his
lasses to-day._”

But the Professor, returning sooner than he expected,
removed another letter, and the intimation on his door for
the rest of the day stood thus:――

“_Professor Blackie regrets that he cannot meet his
asses to-day._”

Se non e vero, e ben trovato.

[26] Sir Stafford Northcote.

[27] _Lixmaleerie_ a corruption of _L’Eglise de Marie_.

[28] Alluding to the then great distance between the picture
frame, in which the green curtain was set, and the band.

[29] The old name for London.

[30] Old Bedlam, at that time, stood “close by London Wall.”
It was built after the model of the Tuileries, which is said
to have given the French king great offence. In front of it
Moorfields extended, with broad gravel walks crossing each
other at right angles. These the writer well recollects; and
Rivaz, an underwriter at Lloyd’s, has told him that he
remembered when the merchants of London would parade these
walks on a summer evening with their wives and daughters.
But now as a punning brother bard sings, “Moorfields are
fields no more.”

[31] “‘Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on’
Were the last words of Marmion.”

[32] _Parliament_――A sweet biscuit now seldom met with.

[33] Whitbread’s shears. An economical experiment of that
gentleman. The present portico, towards Brydges Street, was
afterwards erected under the lesseeship of Elliston, whose
portrait in the Exhibition was thus noticed in the EXAMINER:
“Portrait of the great lessee, in his favourite character of
Mr. Elliston.”

[34] A Scotchman, who was on his dying bed was asked by the
clergyman of his parish “And where do you think you are
going to now?” replied “Hech, meenister, ye ken this is
neether the time nor place to be asking conundrums.” So,
too, it may be said, this is neither the time, nor the place
to discuss questions of political economy. Yet――in answer to
the writer of these bigoted lines――it may be pointed out
that the great, the chief reason for Scotchmen leaving their
own country, is to be found in the iniquitous land laws,
which doom so many of the finest parts of Scotland to be
depopulated for the formation of dear runs, and game
preserves.

And a Scotchman may point with pardonable pride to the fact,
that wherever Scotchmen go they are welcomed as honest,
thrifty, and law abiding citizens. Whilst by their industry,
their intelligence, and integrity, they win the success
which is denied them in their own country, through the
survival of an obsolete feudal system, not at all in keeping
with the spirit of the age.

[35] The writer will not guarantee the absolute correctness
of all these names of localities, but he has carefully
consulted the best authorities on the subject.

[36] The late Dr. E. V. Kenealy, M.P., for Stoke-upon-Trent,
and counsel for the Claimant in the famous Tichborne case.

[37] So says the _Englishman_. It is true the Gaikwar’s
agents in this country deny the assertion point-blank, but
that is nothing in the Doctor’s way.

[38] The Rt. Hon. Stephen Cave, M.P. for New Shoreham.

[39] EPIGRAM

(_On placing the Bankrupt Duke of York’s statue on a high
column_).

To put the Duke upon so high a column,
Appears to me a mockery rather solemn.
Such lofty place for him cannot be meet;
Surely the project they should straight abandon
Of placing him, who’d scarce a _leg to stand on_
Upon a thing of _near one hundred feet_.

_Figaro in London_, Dec., 1834.

EPIGRAM

(_On the Column to the Duke of York’s memory._

In former times th’ illustrious dead were burned,
Their hearts preserved in sepulchre inurned.
This column, then, commemorates the part
Which custom makes us single out――the heart;
You ask “How by a column this is done,”
I answer, “_’Tis a hollow thing of stone_.”

_Figaro in London_, March, 1833.]

[40] Here is to be observed the astonishing similarity of
manners and customs, between the Irish and Scotch, in former
days. How close is

“_Whack for O’Shaughnashane! Tooleywhagg, ho!_

to “_Roderigh Vich Alpine Dhu! ho ieroe!_”
――See _The Lady of the Lake_.