Chapter V: Part 36: Page 257 to 278. Thomas Moore (3)

And then the vind it howled apace,
The rain vas fast a pattering.
They stared in each other’s face
As they stood there a chattering.

And still as the rain made more noise,
And as the vind blow’d hoarser,
They heard the sound of the ’prentice boys
As if they vos coming closer.

“Oh! sparkle up,” poor Polly said,
“Though the veather be ever so cold, man,
I’d rather meet a vatery bed
Than meet my angry old man.”

The boat has left the Thames’ famed shore,
They pulled away, ahoy! sir,
Ven oh! too strong for his weak hand,
They run against a buoy, sir.

My eyes! how the wild waves did roar,
Poor Bill thought Poll vos dying,
Black Joe, he reached the fatal shore,
Ven he begun a-crying.

For ven towards the wreck he look’d
His child he did discover.
Von mutton fist in her hair was hook’d
Tother vos round her lover.

“Come back, come back!” he cried, “to me,”
“Come back, vot are you arter,
And I’ll forgive you, Billy Downey,
My daughter! oh, my daughter.”

But a wave came vot upset the boat
In the vater they vos drivelling.
Joe viped his eye vith the tail of his coat,
And he began a snivelling!

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE NEW LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER.

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry;
And I’ll give thee a silver pound
To row us o’er the ferry.”

The boatman did not even smile,
But looked across the water;
He kenned the Chief of Ulva’s Isle,
And eke Lord Ullin’s daughter.

“Oh, haste thee!――haste!” the lady cried,
“This youth and I, eloping,
Would cross at once to t’other side,
So aid us in our sloping!”

The boatman budged no inch, and then
The clue Lord U. discovers;
And down the glen ride armed men,
And catch the brace of lovers.

“Curst boatman;” shouted Ulva’s chief,
“If I were free I’d show ye”――
“_We’d rather dee on Loch Maree
Than on the Sawbath row ye!_”

_Funny Folks_, July 13, 1878.

――――:o:――――

HOHENLINDEN.

On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th’ untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array’d,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neigh’d,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shock the hills with thunder riv’n
Then rush’d the steeds to battle driv’n,
And louder than the bolts of Heaven,
Far flash’d the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow,
On Linden’s hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulph’rous canopy.

The combat deepens, on ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave!
And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few, shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet,
Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

The Battle of Hohenlinden was fought on December 3, 1800, when the French, under General Moreau gained a victory over the Austrians. Campbell witnessed the battle from the monastery of St. Jacob, it is therefore somewhat surprising that his poem should, in its details, be so completely at variance with the reality of history. The Colonel of the Sixteenth Lancers, in describing the battle said that the “victory was obtained almost without an effort of the General, or any very great bravery on the part of his troops.” Some of the poetical allusions, as for instance “the black Iser,” “bannered Munich,” and the “night scene” were altogether imaginary, and nothing can be called true but the beautiful stanza that concludes the Ode. Whilst a writer in “Notes and Queries” suggested that even this stanza was poetically faulty, and proposed it should be altered to:

“And every sod beneath their feet
Shall bear a soldier’s Elegy.”

――――

BANNOCKBURN.
(_An imitation of Hohenlinden._)

Near Stirling’s tower, by Fortha’s wave
The rising sun its radiance gave,
Upon the armour of the brave
That burned for battle brilliantly.

And Scotland by that soaring sun
Beheld her brightest day begun――
Her greenest wreath of glory won
By deeds of dauntless bravery.

On Bannockburn’s camp covered field
The men of war were met to wield,
With hostile hand, the sword and shield,
For conquest or for liberty!

How gaily glanced that field before
Began the battle’s rage and roar!
That reddened with the reeking gore
As raved the dreadful revelry.

The wild war-yell rose hoarse and high,
St. George! for Edward was the cry,
And Scotland’s shout shook earth and sky,
St. Andrew! Bruce! and liberty!

Then closed the conflict deep and dread!
Then strained the bow and struck the blade,
Its dirge of death the trumpet brayed,
As thinn’d the ranks of rivalry!

What feelings fired each hero’s heart,
For conquest or a country’s part,
As from each eye the flash did dart,
That spoke the spirits enmity:

But fast the Southrons fell and fled
Where Bruce――brave Bruce! his patriots led,
And Scotland’s lion rampant――red
Pranced proudly on to victory!

And may each land, as Scotland, scorn
The tyrant’s threat――his thraldom spurn
With such success as Bannockburn
Of dear and deathless memory!

ARCHIE ALIQUIS.

From _The Scrap-book of Literary Varieties_. Printed by Edward
Lacey, 1825.

――――

THE BATTLE OF PEAS HILL.

“The following effusion was penned the day after the memorable 13th of November, 1820, which must be a day of pleasant recollection to all CANTABS, as long as there shall be a SNOB or _Radical_ amongst them, or a fist to bate them with. This is the only _Matriculation Day_ which is registered in _letters_ of blood in the archives of the Vice-Chancellor; and we are sure there never was, nor ever will be, such an occasion for calling FRESHMEN from the science of _mechanics_ to the application of its _theory_ in the _science of war_.”

On Granta, when the sun was low,
No symptoms lower’d of fearless row,
But all was silent as the flow
Of CAMUS rolling _tardily_.

But Granta saw another sight,
When Radicals presumed at night,
With _Carter’s_[17] mutton-wicks to light
Their Caroline’s base treachery.

Round Hobson’s conduit quick array’d,
Each GOWNSMAN rush’d the cause to aid,
And fast about him each one laid,
With blows that told most terribly.

Then rushing forth the SNOBS among,
Fierce from the ranks the Johnian sprung,
And loud and clear the market rung,
With shouts of dreadless liberty.

But redder yet shall be each cheek,
And louder yet each tongue shall speak,
And fiercer yet each soon shall wreak
His vengeance most undauntedly.

’Tis rushlight all――but what can shew
The GOWNSMAN from the GOWNSMAN’S foe,
As shouting in thick files they go
To battle all so merrily?

No banners there were waving high,
To cheer the brave to victory,
No pennon floating to the sky,
With rare device wrought curiously.

No plumes of crested pride were seen,
But tassels black of silken sheen,
With gold and silver mix’d between,
Emblems of unanimity!

No sound was heard of martial drum,
No bugle blast, but one wild hum
Floated o’er all: “The SNOBS! they come,
On! on! and meet them cheerily.”

And then was shout, and noise, and din,
As rallying forwards poured in,
Hundreds and hundreds to begin
The work of fame so gloriously.

Then rush’d undaunted, to the fight,
The tall――the low――the strong――the light;
And, oh! it was a glorious sight,
That strife of TOWN and GOWN to see.

As fist to fist, rais’d high in air,
And face to face opposed were,
As shone the conflict in the glare
Of lights that told of Bergami.

Then rushed to fight the hardy SOPH,
Regardless of the townsmen’s scoff,
As one by one they sallied forth
To war in ambush warily.

Then rush’d the FRESHMAN to essay
His maiden valour in the fray,
And who that valour shall gainsay,
And wrong not such effrontery?

Then with one cry so loud and shrill,
It echoed to the CASTLE HILL,
They charged the SNOBS against their will,
And shouted clear and lustily.

Then all distinctions were forgot――
Then, silk and velvet had one lot
With _tatter’d stuffs_, upon that spot
Which sacred was to bravery.

No signs of fear, no signs of dread,
Of bloody nose or broken head,
Of wretch by Proctors homeward led
For “acting contumaciously.”

No thoughts were there, but such as grace
The memory of that crowded place,
The memory of that gallant race
Who _took_ and _gave_ so heartily.

The combat deepens; on, ye brave,
Who rush to conquest, or to save;
Wave all your _stuffs_ and _poplins_ wave!
And charge with all your chivalry!

Few, few, shall part where many meet,
Dull soon shall be each crowded street,
Responsive, now, to thousand feet
Pursuing on to Victory.

From _The Gradus ad Cantabrigiam_, by a Brace of Cantabs,
John Hearne, London, 1824.

――――

JENNY-LINDEN.

A Dreadful Engagement between the Swedish Nightingale, and the Poet Bunn.

On Lind, when Drury’s sun was low,
And bootless was the wild-beast show,
The lessee counted for a flow
Of rhino to the treasury.

But Jenny Lind, whose waken’d sight
Saw Drury in a proper light,
Refused, for any sum per night,
To sing at the Menagerie.

With rage and ire in vain displayed
Each super drew his wooden blade,
In fury half and half afraid,
For his prospective salary.

Bunn in a flaming frenzy flew,
And speedily the goosequill drew
With which he is accustomed to
Pen such a deal of poetry.

He wrote the maiden, to remind
Her of a compact she had signed,
To Drury Lane’s condition blind,
And threaten’d law accordingly.

Fair as in face in nature, she
Implored the man to set her free,
Assuring him that he should be
Remunerated handsomely.

Two thousand pounds she offered, so
That he would only let her go:
Bunn, who would have his bond, said, No!
With dogged pertinacity.

And now his action let him bring,
And try how much the law will wring
From her to do the handsome thing,
Who had proposed so readily!

The Swedish Nightingale to cage
He fail’d; she sought a fitting stage,
And left him to digest his rage,
And seek his legal remedy.

Then shook the House with plaudits riven,
When Jenny’s opening note was given,
The sweetest songstress under heaven
Forth bursting into melody,

But fainter the applause shall grow,
At waning Drury’s wild-beast show,
And feebler still shall be the flow
Of rhino to the treasury.

The Opera triumphs! Lumley brave,
Thy bacon thou shalt more than save;
Wave, London, all thy ’kerchiefs wave,
And cheer with all thy chivalry.

’Tis night, and still yon star doth run;
But all in vain for treasurer Dunn,
And Mr. Hughes, and Poet Bunn,
And quadrupeds, and company.

For Sweden’s Nightingale, so sweet,
Their fellowship had been unmeet,
The sawdust underneath whose feet
Hath been the Drama’s sepulchre.

_Punch_, May 15, 1847.

Mr. Alfred Bunn, then lessee and manager of Drury Lane Theatre, had endeavoured to secure the services of Miss Jenny Lind, but she accepted an engagement under Mr. Lumley, and made her first appearance at Her Majesty’s Theatre, Haymarket, on May 4, 1847. Her _début_ was a brilliant triumph, and for the short time she remained on the lyric stage she was extremely popular. But in 1851 she married M. Otto Goldschmidt, and retired from the stage, although she has occasionally performed since, principally for the benefit of public charities, or other philanthropic objects.

――――

THE BAL MASQUÉ AT CROCKFORD’S.

On Thursday, ere the time was come
For supper’s joys――the guests were glum,
And deep as thunder was the hum
Of thousands polking sullenly.

But Crockford’s saw another sight,
When rang the bell at dead of night,
Commanding streams of gas to light
Her supper-room’s gay scenery.

In Hart’s and Nathan’s costumes lent,
Each polkeuse chose some visor’d Gent,
And eagerly the cash was spent,
To join the coming revelry.

Then rushed the crowds, by hunger driven,
Then rang the room, with laughter riven,
And loudly were the orders given
For Champagne popping merrily.

But louder yet the noise shall grow,
Ere Crockford’s masquers thence shall go,
And faster yet the wine shall flow,
From bottles emptied rapidly.

’Tis day, and scarce the exhausted band
Can sleep’s o’er-powering charms withstand,
While Jullien waves his wearied hand,
And leads the final galopade.

The pace now quickens. On, ye slow!
Or crushed by numbers, down you’ll go.
Blow, Kœnig! loud thy posthorn, blow,
And make the walls re-echo thee!

Few, few, remain that sound to greet,
The dancers rest their burning feet;
And each cab in St. James’s-street
Bears home some worn-out reveller.

_The Man in the Moon_, Vol. 1.

――――

ROW-IN-LONDON.

_Caused by the Invasion of the French National Guards, in_ 1848.

In London, when the funds were low,
And business was uncommon slow,
The Quadrant only on the go,
And that kept moving sluggishly.

But London saw another sight
When National Guards arrived at night,
And Lumber troopers took to flight,
Across the pavement slippery.

In shirt and stockings fast arrayed,
The Lord Mayor gasped out, sore afraid,
And with the Aldermen essayed
To join the flying Cavalry.

To cut and run they’d stoutly striven,
But back to battle they were driven,
And then the foremost rank was given
The Bunhill Row Artillery.

But bolder yet that troop must grow,
Or, London conquered by the foe,
The Gallic cock will proudly crow
On Temple Bar right merrily.

’Tis morn――but Specials in a swoon,
Won’t reach the Mansion House by noon,
Where frantic Gibbs and “pale-faced Moon”[18]
Groan in the butler’s pan-t-ry.

The combat deepens――on ye brave,
Who rush to Guildhall, or the grave;
Save, Magog! oh, the city save,
And charge with all the Livery.

Few French shall tread where freemen meet
Turtle on Lord Mayor’s Day to eat;
But hung on high, with dangling feet,
Swing opposite St. Sepulchre’s!

_The Puppet Show_, September 30, 1848.

――――

THE BATTLE OF THE BOULEVARD.

On Paris, when the sun was low,
The gay “Comique” made goodly show,
_Habitués_ crowding every row
To hear Limnandier’s opera.

But Paris showed another sight,
When, mustering in the dead of night,
Her masters stood, at morning light,
The crack _chasseurs_ of Africa.

By servants in my pay betrayed,
Cavaignac, then, my prisoner made,
Wrote that a circumstance delayed
His marriage rite and revelry.

Then shook small Thiers with terror riven;
Then stormed Bedeau, while gaol-ward driven;
And, swearing (not alone by Heaven),
Was seized, bold Lamoricière.

But louder rose the voice of woe,
When soldiers sacked each cit’s depôt,
And tearing down a helpless foe,
Flashed Magnan’s red artillery.

More, more arrests! Changarnier brave
Is dragged to prison like a knave,
No time allowed the swell to shave,
Or use the least perfumery.

’Tis morn, and now Hortense’s son,
(Perchance her spouse’s too) has won
The imperial crown. The French are done,
Chawed up most incontestably.

Few, few shall write, and none shall meet;
Suppressed shall be each journal-sheet!
And every serf beneath my feet
Shall hail the soldier’s Emperor.

These lines on the Coup d’Etat of Napoleon III. were written by the late Professor W. E. Aytoun, a most determined and persistent opponent of the Napoleon régime. The doubt as to the Emperor Napoleon’s paternity has been frequently expressed, it did not originate with Aytoun.

――――

HOHEN-LONDON.

_The result of an awful Engagement on the part of her Majesty to honour the City Ball with her presence._

In London, when folks’ taste was low,
They used to like the Lord Mayor’s show;
But now ’tis voted very slow――
A dull affair, decidedly.

But London showed another sight,
When the Queen came on Wednesday night,
Escorted, through a blaze of light
To join the City revelry.

At every window smart array’d,
Sat civic lass, and Cockney blade;
And all the populace hoorayed
To see the Royal pageantry.

Then shook St. Paul’s, with shouting riven;
Then rushed the steeds, up Cheapside driven;
And still more stunning cheers were given
By noisy British loyalty.

But noisier yet the crowd will grow,
Through King Street, as the Queen shall go
To Guildhall, there――on gouty toe――
To see her hosts dance heavily.

The concourse thickens! Heroes brave,
Who flash the bull’s eye on the knave,
Wave, Crushers, all your truncheons wave,
And charge them with the cavalry.

The Hall is gained; but lo! what fun!
As to a ball, the Sovereign’s done!
Except her suite, there’s room for none
To dance before her Majesty.

Few, few can polk where many meet,
And have no space to kick their feet;
The Hop a failure was complete;
The Supper went off decently.

_Punch_, July 19, 1851.

――――

SWINDON.

At Swindon when the night drew nigh,
Few were the trains that went thereby,
And very dreary was the sigh,
Of damsels waiting dolefully.

But Swindon saw another sight,
When the train came at dead of night,
Commanding oil and gas to light
Much stale confectionery.

By soups and coffee fast allured,
Each passenger his choice secured,
Excepting those lock’d in, immured
By sly policeman’s treachery.

Then rushed the mob, by hunger driven;
Then vanished buns, in pieces riven;
And louder than the orders given,
Fast popped the beer artillery.

But farther yet the train shall go,
And deeper yet shall be their woe,
And greater horrors shall they know,
Who bolt their food so speedily.

Time’s up; but scarce each sated one
Can pierce the steam cloud, rolling dun,
Where curious tart and heavy bun
Lie in dyspeptic sympathy.

The combat thickens. On, ye brave!
Who scald your throats, in hope to save
Some spoonsful of your soup, the knave
Will charge for all he ladles ye!

Few, few, digest where many eat,
The nightmare shall wind up their feat,
Each carpet bag beneath their seat
Shall seem a yawning sepulchre.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

HOTEL SWINDLING.

In Dover, when my purse was low,
One luckless night, ’twixt sheets of snow,
At an hotel most travellers know,
Did I, Sir, slumber cosily.

But Dover shock’d at morn my sight
With _such_ a bill for that brief night,
Such whacking sums for wax to light
The darkness of its hostelry!

My tea and crumpets’ cost array’d,
That a rogue drew the bill betray’d,
And furious overcharges made,
The whole a dreadful robbery.

Then shrank my purse, to plunder given:
Then wagg’d my tongue, to scolding driven;
And at these scamps, on cheating thriven,
Fierce flash’d my eyes’ artillery.

But fiercer yet did those eyes glow,
When reft of means “express” to go,
From Dover, in the third-class low,
Was I, Sir, rolling crawlingly.

’Twas morn, but deuce a bit of sun
Pierced through the clouds; they were as “dun”
As I,――excuse the horrid pun――
In that infernal hostelry.

The subject sickens. On, thou knave!
And dig base Imposition’s grave;
Shave, landlords! all your guests close shave,
And overcharge in rivalry!

Few, few return, where many meet,
Or press again the snow-white sheet;
The _Times_, ye hosts, who foully cheat,
Will be your swindling’s sepulcre.

_Diogenes_, November, 1853.

――――

THE BATTLE OF BULL-RUN.

At Bull-run, when the sun was low,
Each Southern face was pale as snow;
And shrill as jackdaws, rose the crow
Of Yankees boasting _rabidly_!

But Bull-Run saw another sight,
When in the deepening shades of night
Towards Fairfax Court-house, streamed the flight
Of Yankees running _rapidly_!

Then shook the corps, with terror riven
Then rushed the steeds, _from_ battle driven;
The men of “Battery number seven”
Forsook their red artillery.

Now from McDonald’s furthest left,
The roar of cannon strikes one deaf;
Where furious “Abe” and fiery “Jeff”
Contend for death or victory.

The _panic_ thickens; Off ye Brave!
Throw down your arms; _your bacon save_!
Waive Washington, each scruple waive,
And fly with all your chivalry.

――――

SIC VOS, NON VOBIS, VERSIFICATIS AVE.

At Seacliff, when the time passed slow,
And summer’s sun refused to show,
Relentless was the steady flow
Of raindrops pattering drearily.

But Seacliff saw another sight,
The band struck up at ten at night,
And Volunteers in leggings tight,
Awoke the dance right cheerily.

By willing steward’s friendly aid
The warrior sought the smiling maid,
And charged, as each musician played,
Adown the hall, hung tastily.

Then shook the floor to twinkling feet,
While some did dance and some did eat,
Or strove to stay the increasing heat
By swallowing ices hastily.

But shorter yet these lights shall burn,
And faster yet the waltzers turn,
Before the chaperones discern
That day is surely slipping in.

’Tis morn; but all that’s young and fair
Of Seacliff beauties linger there,
Full loath to seek the outer air
And leave the hall they’re tripping in.

The ball is over. Read ye now
Who read for honours,――or a plough,
May Oxford’s laurels grace the brow
Of him who works most steadily.

Too soon we part; but when we meet
In bonds of recollections sweet,
We’ll chat of Seacliff’s snug retreat
That welcomed us so readily.

L. E. S.

From _College Rhymes_. W. Mansell, Oxford, 1861.

――――

BELTON.[19]
(August 12, 1863.)

At Belton, ere the twilight grew,
Untrodden was the avenue,
Save by Papas and Mas a few
With their sight-seeing progeny.

But Belton saw another sight,
When the mob came at nine at night,
And with a thousand flambeaux light
Illumined all her scenery.

With od’rous torch and British cheer,
To Brownlow’s home they drew them near,
His Lordship’s honour――not his beer――
The motive of their revelry.

Forth flowed the ale. Ye know not its
Peculiar virtues, O ye cits,
’Twould beat e’en Burton tap to fits,
Though Bass be its auxiliary.

And hours that amber stream shall flow,
And men shall come and scorn to go,
The thirsty souls shall thirstier grow,
Though quarts it empties rapidly.

’Tis midnight. For one “level son,”
A hundred bawl they “havn’t done,”
And as the barrels run and run,
Shout in their beery jollity.

The beer grows thicker: now they go――
They could not drink for aye, you know――
Grantham thy banners (calico)
Should wave o’er these (thy chivalry?).

Few, few can stand, though all have feet,
They need no counterpane or sheet,
When ev’ry turf that e’er they meet
Destroys a perpendicular.

――――

BILLS.

AT Oxford when my funds were low,
And I was ploughed for “Little-go,”
How fast and furious was the flow
Of Bills that came in rapidly!

But Oxford saw another sight,
When my rich aunt went off one night,
For then I’d gold, and cheques could write,
And shopkeepers came fawningly:

“Our stupid clerks the error made,
_We_ never were the least afraid
About our small bills being paid;”
And so they went on lyingly.

“We hope,” they said with glistening eye,
“You’ll still allow us to supply
All articles you want; we’ll try
To please you, sir, in every way.”

Oh! rare and comic was the fun
To see each humbly cringing dun,
The oily and the sugary one,
All full of meek apology.

I paid their bills upon the spot,
And the receipts from each I got,
And then I looked at all the lot,
As they stood bowing smilingly.

“Get out each fawning drivelling knave,”
I shouted out with features grave;
My hand towards the door I wave,
And clench it simultaneously.

I heard the sound of hurrying feet
Haste down the stairs and up the street,
And then in fits of laughter sweet,
I went off unrestrainedly.

From _Lays of Modern Oxford_, by Adon. Chapman and
Hall, London, 1874.

――――

HO! IN PRINCE’S.

At Prince’s when the sun is low,
See all the fashion skating go,
And bright and brilliant is the flow,
Of ladies rinking rapidly.

Ah! Prince’s is a splendid sight,
From break of day till fall of night,
For all combine to render bright,
The dull surrounding scenery.

In gorgeous dresses see arrayed,
The haughty dame, the tender maid,
Who join, with not a thought dismayed,
The fascinating revelry.

From morn till eve a throng is found,
Of rapid rinkers rolling round,
Amid the light and joyous sound
Of music’s varied melody.

Then on, ye fair ones, one by one,
Who rink for fashion, or for fun,
From early morn till setting sun
You’ll always meet with chivalry.

And if, perchance at fearful pace,
You charge another face to face,
Then cry, when in that close embrace,
“’Tis I, Sir, rinking rapidly,”

Few will forget the hours sweet,
They spent with skates upon their feet,
Nor friends that they were wont to meet
At Prince’s, rinking rapidly.

From _Idyls of the Rink_. London: Judd & Co., 1876.

――――

THE TAY BRIDGE DISASTER.

That fatal eve, as darkness died,
It spann’d the Firth in conscious pride,
And far beneath it rolled the tide
Of Tay, lamenting sullenly.

But later met that bridge its doom,
When fiery showers pierced the gloom,
To light to their tempestuous tomb,
A wild despairing company.

Struck midway by the raging blast,
The girders crash’d and crumbled fast,
And down that living freight was cast
Into a sea of agony.

Lost was the falling metals roar
Amid the elemental war,
And fast the flaming sparks flew o’er
The chasm’s dense obscurity.

But soon those sparks are lost to sight,
Quenched in the river’s rayless night,
And still rejoicing in his might,
Tay sweepeth seawards sullenly.

’Tis midnight! scarce yon barque can make
Her way where seething billows break,
And still the winds and waters shake
The heavens in their rivalry.

Though darker yet the airy dome,
Speed, gallant ship, across the foam!
On! on! _Dundee_! and gather home
Those wrecks of frail humanity!

But none shall wake where many sleep,
Their bier shall be the trackless deep;
And ever shall the surges sweep
Above their lonely sepulchre.

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

The Tay Bridge broke down on December 28, 1879, carrying with it a train which was passing over at the time, and many lives were lost.

――――

ERIN-LIEDER.

In Erin where the Praties grow
When rents were high and prices low
Ejected Paddies had to go,
Across the ocean rapidly.

But Erin saw another sight,
When tenants struck for tenant right,
And gallant Parnell led the fight,
Against a Landlord tyranny.

By torch-light leaders were conveyed
To platforms, furious speeches made,
And every tenant farmer bade,
To “hold the harvest” steadily,

Few, few the rents that any got,
And if an Agent was not shot,
He had to undergo Boycott-
Ing, by a _furious_ peasantry.

J. M. LOWRY, 1884.

――――

It is said that Campbell sent the MS. of Hohenlinden to the _Greenock Advertiser_, but that it was rejected, with a polite intimation “that it did not come up to the Editor’s standard, and that poetry was evidently not the _forte_ of the contributor.”

A version of Hohenlinden in Latin sapphics, probably written by Father Prout (the Rev. Francis Mahony) appeared in Blackwood’s Magazine, in 1834; and another version, in Latin Alcaics, “Prælium Lindenium” by the Rev. William Fellowes A.M., appeared in the _Sabrinæ Corolla_, 1850.

THE SOLDIER’S DREAM.

Our bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw;
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field’s dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track,
’Twas autumn――and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft,
In life’s morning march, when my bosom was young,
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore,
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kissed me a thousand times o’er,
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.

“Stay――stay with us!――rest, thou art weary and worn!”
(And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay,)
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

――――

THE SOLDIER’S DREAM.
(_After_ T. CAMP-BELL, _by_ A. CAMP-BEAU.)

We were wet as the deuce; for like blazes it poured,
And the sentinels’ throats were the only things dry;
And under their tents Chobham’s heroes had cowered,
The weary to snore, and the wakeful to sigh.

While dozing that night in my camp bed so small,
With a mackintosh over to keep out the rain――
After one glass of grog, cold without――that was all――
I’d a dream, which I hope I shall ne’er have again.

Methought from damp Chobham’s mock-battle array,
I had bowled off to London, outside of a hack;
’Twas the season, and wax lights illumined the way
To the balls of Belgravia that welcomed me back.

I flew to the dancing rooms, whirled through so oft
With one sweet little partner, who tendril-like clung,
I saw the grim chaperons, perched up aloft,
And heard the shrill notes WEIPPERT’S orchestra flung.

_She_ was there――I would “pop”――and a guardsman no more,
From my sweet little partner for life ne’er would part,
When sudden I saw――just conceive what a bore――
A civilian, by Jove! laying siege to her heart!

“Out of sight, out of mind!” It was not to be borne――
To cut her, challenge him I was rushing away――
When sudden the twang of that vile bugle horn
Scared my visions, arousing the camp for the day.

_Punch_, July 9, 1853.

――――

THE BOAT RACE,
“_Verrimus et proni certantibus æquora remis._”

We had stripped off our coats, for the first gun had fired;
Our starter intent on his watch set his eye;
On the bank there were hundreds in flannels attired,
The lean ones to run, and the fat ones to try.

The last gun was fired, we are off and away,
With fast flashing oars, on the foremost boat’s track;
’Twas pumping――my knees, too, got in my way,
And a troublesome horse-fly was biting my back.

The flush of exertion broke out on my face,
And the skin-wearing car handle gave me great pain,
And I vowed in my heart this should be my last race,
And thrice ere the finish I vowed it again.

Put it on――well-rowed all――now you’re gaining――full oft
I heard on the bank from many a tongue,
And the cheers of our comrades that went up aloft
From many a loud-shouting ear-splitting lung.

Then we spurted like mad, and gained more and more,
Till the two boats were scarcely six inches apart,
Our coxswain alternately cheered us and swore,
To let off the steam from his fast-beating heart.

Easy all! ’Tis a bump! ’Tis a bump, I’ll be sworn!
I was glad, for my back had begun to give way.
Our cheers on the wings of the evening were borne,
And our boat became head of the river that day.

From _Lays of Modern Oxford_, by Adon. Chapman and
Hall, London, 1874.

――――

THE TORY PREMIER’S DREAM.

Our leaders sang truce――for the session had lowered,
And a cloud had come o’er the political sky;
And the Parliament sank on the ground over-powered,
The Liberals to shout, and the Tories to cry.

After feeding that night on my pork chop so raw
With the vote-guarding “faggot” still haunting my brain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice e’er the cock crew I dreamed it again.

Methought from the Polling-booth’s dreadful array
Triumphant I rose, for of votes I’d no lack.
’Twas delightful to hear all constituents say.
“We idolize Jingo, and welcome you back!”

I flew to the policy traversed so oft,
The secrecy whence my “surprises” have sprung;
My motto, “Imperium,” floated aloft,
And I laughed in my sleeve at the softness of Bung.

Then pledged we the Water Bill; fondly we swore
From our spirited policy never to part;
The stockjobbers blessed me a thousand times o’er,
And the public it cursed in its hardness of heart.

Stay, stay with us――rest till an Empire is born;
And fain was the Novelist-Statesman to stay;
But Gladstone returned with the dawning of morn,
And all my majority melted away.

_Funny Folks_, April 17, 1880.

――――

THE FATAL GALLOPADE.

A Parody upon the style of Thomas Campbell, Author of “Theodric,” etc.

’Twas night――a damp――dark――misty――murky night,
Scarce thro’ the gloom could pierce the gas-lamp’s light,
When to the square, which bears proud Grosvenor’s name,
A crowd of carriages and chariots came,
Stopping in turns, successively before
A mansion’s wide and double-knockered door;
And there was heard the carriage door’s quick slam,――
Anon a halt――and then a sudden jam
Of poles retrorsally thro’ chariots driven,
And shrieks of “Coachman!――Thomas! John!――oh Heaven!”
At length, in safety’s reached the drawing room,
Where gold, and platina, and pearl, and plume,
Floating and shining o’er neck, head, and ears,[20]
Like stars and white clouds seemed in heav’nly spheres
From the high roof where gold and azure blended,
In hues designed to typify the sky,
Bright chandeliers of crystallised glass depended
In colours each of too resplendent dye
For human art with one of them to vie.
Oh! ’twas a scene too dazzling to the sight――
Too grandly gay――too beautifully bright!

And now the music and the dance began,――
The beaux to ogle, and the belles to fan;
And oft between the pauses of each dance,
To lull the listener to a dreamy trance,
Soft melting sounds around his heart-strings wreathed,
To which a voice responsive accents breathed,
Filling with such sweet harmony the air,
It seemed an angel had been wafted there!

But who is he of foreign garb and air,
That roams about with sentimental stare?
No common personage; his star-lit breast
Bespeaks him noble――little boots the rest;
Russian he is, a rich ambassador.
And oh!――propitious fact! a batchelor!
A faded heiress looks on him intent;
But, ah! his eyes are on another bent,――
And such another! who her charms can paint?
Description waxes in the effort faint;

Pure as an infant in its first repose――
Mild as a summer evening at its close――
Pensive and pale as Dian in decline,――
Meek as the lily――tender as the vine――
Chaste as the Vestal,――modest as the ray,
Which the sun leaves for night to scare away!
These, and a thousand other charms, to boot
Struck folly dumb, and admiration mute!
Ceased the quadrille, the gallopade began,
And partners briskly to their stations ran;
Now thought the amorous Ambassador,
Now let me dance――yes, now, or never more!
With this he rushed to where his loved one stood,
Asked her to dance――sweet girl!――she said she would;
Joy to the Russian! he is blest indeed,
And soon outstrips the fashionable speed;――
Too fatal speed! the floor’s vanished chalk
Which pairs, more careful, step o’er in a walk,
Arrests not them too fond to look below,
Till down they suddenly together go!
Smile not, ye fools!――the fair one’s head is broke!
They raised her up, but never more she spoke!
Ah! well with anguish may her partner start,
For what hath broke her head, hath also broke his heart!

_The Comic Magazine_, 1834.

――――

LOCHIEL’S WARNING

_The Wizard_――
Lochiel! Lochiel, beware of the day
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight,
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight:
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown;
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war,
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?
’Tis thine, oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await,
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate,
A steed comes at morning; no rider is there;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led!
Oh, weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead;
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave,
Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave!

_Lochiel_――
Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.

_The Wizard_――
Ah! laughs’t thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn?
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn!
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth,
From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north?
Lo! the death shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad;
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high!
Ah! home let him speed――for the spoiler is nigh.
Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast,
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast?
’Tis the fire shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven.
Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might,
Whose banners arise on the battlements height,
Heaven’s fire is around thee, to blast and to burn;
Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return!
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,
And a wild mother scream o’er her famishing brood.

――――

These lines are from Campbell’s “Lochiel’s Warning,” which poem
is said to have been formed upon the skeleton of
_bouts-rimés_, it certainly displays little trace of such a
mode of construction.

――――

On January 14, 1880, _The World_ published two competition poems on the model of “Lochiel’s Warning”; the topic selected being:

“1879, its Glory and its Shame.”

FIRST PRIZE.

_John Bull――――Old Year._

_John Bull_――
Old Year, Old Year, I’m glad of the day
That beholds thee, like evil dream, vanish away!
For dejection and shame have companioned thy flight,
From the morn of thy birth to thy final midnight.
Look, look, where on reeking Isandula’s plain,
Outflanked and outnumbered, our bravest are slain!
Ah, see how cruel assegais enter the breast,
Undismayed to the last, of our comrade and guest!
Hark, hark, where the waters of Afghan’s dark river
Fling back a sad cry, and then still it for ever,
And where blood-stained Cabul with fanatical yells
Of an envoy’s foul slaughter exultingly tells.

_Old Year_――
Peace, pessimist, peace! I have shattered the power
Of the Zulu man-slayer, have curbed the rude Boer;
Secocoeni is captive. Shere Ali is dead,
And back from your borders the Russian I’ve sped;
And no brighter pages can valour display.

_John Bull_――
Old Year, Old Year, I’m glad of the day――
From thy frost-bitten spring to thine autumn of blight
Rain, rain hath oppressed us noon, morning, and night;
Scant produce, unripened, mocks garden and farm;
Flood and Tempest have waited on Famine’s alarm;
While Leisure and Labour and Pleasure and Pain
Have pined for the breath of thy summer in vain.
With Sedition’s loud cry, have our annals been shamed,
With a Senate obstructed, a credit defamed,
With the cheers of a mob and the sneers of a press
To rash to condemn and too prompt to caress,
While the pulse of our commerce beats fitful and low――

_Old Year_――
False libeller, silence! and hark, ere I go:
All my life throughout Europe the sword hath been sheathed;
I have soothed the war-passions my brothers bequeathed;
If want and Disaster _have_ marched by my hand,
They have knit class to class, and endeared land to land;
And hardier and wiser, you shall not repine
At the trials you have passed through in ’Seventy-nine.

ZIEGELSTEIN. (_Goymour Cuthbert_).

――――

SECOND PRIZE.

_Wizard (of the North)――――Chieftain B._

_Wizard_――
Chieftain, O Chieftain, lament for the year!
Of distress and disaster a history drear:
For Cabul with its slain rises red on my sight;
And grim Isandula, that massacre fight.
They fought and they perished by field and by flood;
But their victories rest bootless, and blood calls for blood.
Weep, Albion, thy losses, thy glory grown pale!
Weep, though gagged correspondents can’t tell the whole tale!

_Chief_――
Go, prate to Midlothian, thou peace-preaching seer!
If the wars of thy country so dreadful appear,
Let the fields of Ulundi, Rorke’s Drift, and Ekowe
Dispel with their glory such phantoms of woe.

_Wizard_――
Ha! then turn to the East, who will there take thy side?
Proud Chief, thou must break with the land of thy pride.
Say, how strutted proud Turkey! how low now he lies!
And new nations spring round while the old tyrant dies.
Flourish freedom and peace where oppression once stood,
And poor Turkey may scream for the loss of that brood.

_Chief_――
Verbose rhetor, avaunt! I’ve well managed my clan;
Right or wrong, I rely on their votes to a man,
With our endless resources, no foeman we fear,
So woe to king Theebaw――

_Wizard_―― Yet weep for the year.
Trade’s bad, sir, whatever your chemicals meant;
And outside of Ireland, folks will not pay rent.
Home interests were shelved, though oft Ministers met――
And look how the country has got into debt!
They’ve finished, their blunders are done in the House;
The Session was lost, just because they’d no _nous_,
And where are those bothering Irishmen――where?
Making trouble afresh, which may you have to bear!
Yet, no! for departure from office is near;
Peace, retrenchment, reform――

_Chief_―― You be――! Well, I don’t fear.
For though weighted by taxes and harassed by foes,
Still England, while life in each British breast glows,
Shall, queen among nations in ages to come,
Exult in libertas――

_Wizard_―― But _not_ imperium.

RAD

――――

In March, 1882, “The Weekly Dispatch” had a Competition for Parodies of the first eighteen lines of “Lochiel’s Warning,” having reference to the House of Lords’ Select Committee on the Irish Land Act. The first prize was awarded to Mr. Jesse H. Wheeler, for the following:――

Old women! old women! prepare for the day
When the Commons shall rule with an unopposed sway;
For a dream of the future behold we to-night,
While the hosts of Will Gladstone are massed for the fight.
They guide us, they lead e’en their country and Queen――
Accursed be the puppets that trespass between!
Poor Salisbury’s bunkum and muddling are vain,
And the “shut up committee” is baffled, ’tis plain.
For hark! that harangue, and those deep telling words――
What voice of the people defies the great Lords?
’Tis thine, William Gladstone, whose hearers await
That scathing rebuff on the meddlers of State,
A calm comes at finish, no challenge is there,
But a silence prevails, then a sigh of despair.
Shout, people! the Lords in humility bend;
Oh, shout! this submission foreshadows the end.
For this triumphant army the Lords can’t withstand,
The Lords――whose foundations fast sink in the sand.

――――

The following Parody was also printed:――

O Cecil! O Cecil! beware of the day
When the Commons shall meet thee in battle array;
When the people’s stern will rushes on in its might,
And the clans of the landlords are scattered in flight,
Their standard shows ever “For kingdom and crown,”
Hail! ye who shall trample the false device down,
Proud sons of the people, as honest as plain,
While _their_ selfish bosoms throb only for gain.
But see! through the storm-clouds that gather afar,
What falchion gleams like a meteor star?
’Tis thine, William Ewart; in dread they await
The time when thy summons is heard at their gate.
Already its prelude resounds in the air,
And soon will be heard their last sigh of despair.
Oh! Albion, long in captivity led,
Soon, soon, will the term of thy thraldom be sped,
And the standard of freedom shall gallantly wave
Where rule by a class finds a dishonoured grave!

JAMES ROBINSON.

――――:o:――――

The same original was again selected for a competition in the Weekly Dispatch, and the following prize poem was printed in that paper on September 14, 1884:――

O, Salisbury, Salisbury, beware of the day
When the people shall meet thee in hostile array!
For what can it end in excepting thy flight?
Whilst thy Tory companions are scattered in fight,
It is not a contest ’twixt people and crown,
And woe to the lords who would trample them down!
Brave Gladstone advances his arguments plain,
And Tory mis-statements are routed and slain.
And hark! ’mid the mutt’rings of those you would dare,
What cry loud and earnest is borne on the air?
’Tis “Down with the Lords!” and, though Gladstone deplores,
The people in anger will surge at your doors.
Then take Gladstone’s warning, your error repair,
Ere we wring our just rights from your fear and despair;
Stay, Salisbury, then, ere the hour is too late,
And you and your lords meet a merited fate!

ALBERT OTLEY.

――――

GLADSTONE’S WARNING.
(_Nothing to do with Lochiel’s Warning._)

O Tories! O Tories! beware of the day
When my legions shall meet you in battle array!
For the state of the poll in a vision I trace,
With a name at the top, and a name at the base;
Ye rally and cry: “For ourselves and the Crown!”
And ye hoodwink the people and trample them down.
Proud Salisbury, descending, declares to the poor,
That he works for them now――though he did not before.
But hark! through the thunder and speech-laden air,
Who is he that flies howling in rage and despair?
’Tis the loud Democrat, so triumphant of late,
The country has snubbed him, and――shown him the gate!
Weep, Tories! your tricks to the country are plain,
O weep!――can ye hope to deceive them again?
They know, though your speeches sound pleasant and smart,
That the truth on your lip is a lie at your heart!

_The Judge_, November 28, 1885.

――――:o:――――

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

A NAVAL ODE.

Ye Mariners of England!
That guard our native seas:
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle, and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe!
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!――
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave.
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o’er the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below,――
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger’s troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

Campbell began this famous Ode, in Edinburgh, in 1799, and finished it at Altona in 1800. He at first styled it “Alteration of the old ballad ‘Ye Gentlemen of England’ composed on the prospect of a Russian War;” it was published early in 1801, in the _Naval Chronicle_, with the line “Where Granvill (boast of freedom) fell,” instead of

“Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,”

this being an allusion to the brave Sir Richard Granvill, who was killed in 1591, in the fight of the “Revenge” against the Spanish Armada.

After the death of Lord Nelson, at Trafalgar, in 1805, Campbell revised the poem, and then introduced the beautiful line

“Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell.”

The poem is frequently printed with the original date of 1800, and with the line about the fall of Nelson, without any explanation of these facts, thus making it appear that Campbell had anticipated the loss of the great sailor five years before it occured.

――――

YE KITE-FLYERS OF SCOTLAND.

Ye kite-flyers of Scotland,
Who live from home at ease;
Who raise the wind, from year to year,
In a long and strong trade breeze:
Your paper-kites let loose again
On all the winds that blow;
Through the shout of the rout
Lay the English ragmen low;
Though the shout for gold be fierce and bold,
And the English ragmen low.

The spirits of your fathers
Shall peep from every leaf;
For the midnight was their noon of fame,
And their prize was living beef.
Where Deloraine on Musgrave fell,
Your paper kites shall show,
That a way to convey
Better far than their’s you know,
When you launch your kites upon the wind
And raise the wind to blow.

Caledonia needs no bullion,
No coin in iron case;
Her treasure is a bunch of rags
And the brass upon her face;
With pellets from her paper mills
She makes the Southrons trow,
That to pay her sole way
Is by promising to owe,
By making promises to pay
When she only means to owe.

The meteor rag of Scotland
Shall float aloft like scum,
Till credit’s o’erstrained line shall crack,
And the day of reckoning come:
Then, then, ye Scottish kite-flyers,
Your hone-a-rie must flow,
While you drink your own ink
With your old friend Nick below,
While you burn your bills and singe your quills
In his bonny fire below.

THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.

The above parody is one of a series entitled _Paper Money Lyrics_, which were written in 1825-26, and published in a collected form in 1837. They had reference to the commercial panic of the winter 1825-26, and are consequently somewhat obsolete now. The other authors imitated besides Campbell, were Robert Southey, Poet Laureate; William Wordsworth, Thomas Moore, Samuel T. Coleridge, and Sir Walter Scott; whilst several old Scotch songs were also parodied, as for instance,

CHORUS OF NORTHUMBRIANS.
(_On the prohibition of Scotch One Pound Notes in England._)

March, march, Make-rags of Borrowdale,
Whether ye promise to bearer or order;
March, march, Take-rag and Bawbee-tail,
All the Scotch flimsies must over the border:
Vanity you snarl anent
New Act of Parliament,
Bidding you vanish from dairy and “lauder”
Dogs you have had your day,
Down tail and slink away;
You’ll pick no more bones on this side of the border.

Hence to the hills where your fathers stole cattle;
Hence to the glens where they skulked from the law;
Hence to the moors where they vanished from battle,
Crying, “De’il tak the hindmost” and “Charlie’s awa’.”

* * * * *

COMIC SONGS FOR YOUNG LADIES.

Young gentlemen of England,
That only mind your ease,
Ah, little do you think how hard
Young ladies try to please!
Give ear unto the Milliners,
And they will plainly show
How the waist must be laced,
By the Fashion-books to go.

She who’d attract attention
Must laugh at common sense,
For when one goes to choose a dress,
One mustn’t mind expense;
Nor think how Pa will scold one,
Whene’er he comes to know
How he’s let into debt,
By the Fashion-books to go.

What terrible privations
Young ladies must endure,
A lovely face and form of grace
From damage to secure!
Their appetites they must control,
Lest they too stout should grow,
And in vain strive and strain
By the Fashion-books to go.

In days of bitter weather,
Which winter doth enforce,
One cannot think of such a thing
As good thick boots, of course;
With instep undefended,
In rain, and hail, and snow,
All so bold one gets cold,
By the Fashion-books to go.

_Punch_, December 14, 1844.

――――

YE PEASANTRY OF ENGLAND.[21]
(_Dedicated to the Duke of Norfolk._)

Ye Peasantry of England,
Who till our fertile leas,
How little do ye think a man
May live on, if he please?
Your weekly wages, it is plain,
As far again would go,
And keep you so cheap,
(For Norfolk’s Duke says so)
If, when hunger rages fierce and strong,
To curry you would go,

This powder, hungry fathers,
From all expense will save;
For if your children eat thereof,
No other food they’ll crave;
And any time that wages fall,
(As oft they fall, you know,)
’Twill come cheap, a pinch to steep
In water――a pint or so;
And when hunger rages fierce and strong,
To your curry powder go.

Our labourers need no dainties,
But something strong and cheap;
No steak from off the rump they crave,
No chop from off the sheep:
With curry powder thrice a week,
Warm into bed they’ll stow,
Nor ever roar out for more――
Their place so well they know;
But when hunger rages fierce and strong,
To the curry powder go.

The ’tato crops of England
May all to gangrene turn,
While Norfolk’s Duke about your lot
His wise head shall concern.
Meanwhile, ye hardy labourers,
Your song of thanks should flow
To the fame of his name
Who the powder made you know:
Which, when hunger rages fierce and strong,
Will set you in glow.

_Punch_, January, 1845.

――――

ODE TO THE “SPECIALS.”