Chapter VI: Part 36: Page 257 to 278. Thomas Moore (4)

Ye Constables of London,
That guard our Cockney plain,
Whose staves have braved for several hours
The Chartists and the rain,
To Clerkenwell come forth once more
To meet your ancient foe,
And go then at the men
Who never struck a blow
At the men who spout so loud and long,
But never strike a blow!

Our London needs no barriers,
No forts along the street;
Her faith is in her Specials’ staves,
Her trust is in their feats!
With their truncheons of old oak
They fright the Chartists so,
That they roar all the more,
But they never strike a blow!
Yes, although they spout so loud and long,
They never strike a blow.

The maniac mob of England
Shall yet some reason learn,
Till humbug’s dreary night depart,
And the star of sense return!
Then, then, ye cockney warriors,
Our half and half shall flow
To the fame of your name,
And every one shall know
Of your prowess ’gainst the noisy mob
Who never struck a blow.

_The Puppet Show_, June 10, 1848.

(Written at the time of the Chartist movement, when the late Emperor Napoleon III, was sworn in as a special Constable.)

――――

YE SHIP BUILDERS OF ENGLAND.

Ye Ship builders of England,
That load our native seas
With craft not fit to brave a year
The battle or the breeze:
Such rubbish do not launch again,
Top heavy, dull, and slow
As they creep through the deep
Whatever wind may blow.

The spirits of retrenchment
Shall start from every wave,
For in the sea economy
Through you has found a grave.
Thousands and thousands you have sunk
In ships that will not go;
For they creep through the deep
Whatever wind may blow.

The costly ships of England
For fire-wood yet may burn,
Till to the models of the past
Her shipwrights shall return.
Then, then, ye clumsy shipbuilders,
Our song no more will throw
All the blame on your name,
Which now merits every blow.

_Punch_, December, 1849.

――――

“YE SUBALTERNS IN ENGLAND.”

_From_ TUFF, _of the Fusiliers in the Crimea, to_ MUFF, _of the Grenadiers, at St. James’s_.

Ye subalterns in England,
Who live a life of ease,
How little do ye think upon
Our sufferings o’er the seas.
To sup, lunch, dine, and lunch again,
Upon fried pork we go,
And three-deep, we’ve to sleep,
In the trenches all a-row,
With the batteries roaring loud and long,
Four hundred guns or so!

The ghosts of clothing colonels
Would shudder in their graves;
For no two of us are rigged the same,
And scarce a fellow shaves.
Light cavalry and heavy swell
Black as coal-heavers show;
You can keep clean so cheap,
But here a tub’s no go;
For water you’ve to shell out strong,
And then it’s salt, you know.

Out here we need no boot-jacks,
For in our boots we sleep,
One never sees a dressing-case,
And hair brushes are cheap.
Deuce a cigar one gets to smoke;
Short pipes we’re glad to blow;
And we draw rum from store,
As we can’t have Bordeaux――
The point is, something short and strong,
Although it may be low.

But round the flag of England
We’ll our last cartridge burn,
Till we have made the Russians smart,
And victors home return.
Then, when, as veteran warriors,
At fête and ball we show,
With the fame of our name,
The ladies’ hearts will glow,
And while you swells are voted bores,
The pace, oh, shan’t we go!

_Punch_, November 18, 1854.

Another Parody on “Ye Mariners” appeared in _Punch_, December 11, 1852. It referred to a _fracas_ which had taken place between two Members of Parliament, and has now no interest whatever.

――――:o:――――

A BALLAD BY A BISHOP.
(_With Brass Accompaniment._)

Ye clergymen of England,
Who livings hold at ease,
How little do you think upon
The troubles of the Sees!
Give ear unto my plaintive lay,
And I’ll engage to show
That a bishop’s poor and needy――whom for being rich and greedy,
Up the stormy _Times_ doth blow――oh! oh! oh! oh!
_Chorus expressive of Woe_.

’Tis a law of human nature,
As you all of you must grant,
That of worldly things, the more man has
The more he’s sure to want,
Then wonder not that we, on whom
Such fatness men bestow,
Are in heart sick and sore, and in want, far, far more
Than you who sit below――oh! oh! oh! oh!

That bishops who have been brought up
Regardless of expense,
In luxury must dine and sup,
Seems merely common sense:
And neither few nor far between
Can be their wants, you know,
When in health and at ease their appetites increase
For the good things here below――O! O! O! O!

Then think ye not a bishop’s less
To be envied than be pitied,
Rememb’ring that to meet distress
So little he is fitted.
Nor wonder he for pension wants
Six thousand pounds or so――
Or I fear in a year, tho’ he’s lived like a Peer,
On the parish he would go――o――o――o――Oh!

(_Refrain_) ON THE PARISH HE WOULD GO!

_Punch_. October 11, 1856.

――――

CRINOLINE’S RAGING FURY;
_Or, the Fashionable Female’s Sufferings_.

You rustic maids of England,
Who dress yourselves with ease,
Ah, little do you think how hard
It is French taste to please.
Give ear unto the milliners,
And they will plainly show,
With what care, tight with air,
They our Crinolines do blow.

* * * * *
(_Five verses omitted._)

The husband, and the lover,
May simple gowns prefer,
That fit the form, and, in a storm,
With safety let one stir,
Reproaches fierce, our hearts that pierce,
Against our taste they throw,
Which we poor things endure,
Whilst our Crinolines we blow.

We put on costly merchandise
Of most enormous price,
So much we need of drapery,
To follow this device;
We spend so much in drapery,
Of such a size to show,
And with toil our shape spoil,
When our Crinolines we blow.

_Punch_, January 31, 1857.

――――

YE COMMONERS OF ENGLAND.

Ye Commoners of England,
Who cannot sit at ease
In the house designed by BARRY
Four hundred odd to squeeze,
Your straitened bounds enlarge again
To hold two hundred more,
Who now creep, in a heap,
Through the narrow lobby door,
When division bells ring loud and long,
To the over-crowded floor.

The sluggard and late comer
Their right to seats must waive,
But a card stuck on the bench at prayers
Will disappointment save.
For architects will fail again
Where BARRY failed before,
And ye’ll creep, like penned sheep,
Through another crowded door,
While uttering curses loud and deep,
To the over-crowded floor.

In the present House of Commons
But few attempt to speak,
For some have not the gift of tongue,
And some not that of cheek.
But in the new Reformed House
There be at least ten score
Who, like BRIGHT, every night,
Forth their eloquence will pour,
And speeches make, both loud and long,
As ne’er were heard before.

To meet your wants in future,
And find you room in turn.
Gives HEADLAM, THOMSON HANKEY,
And Bazley great concern:
O’er plans and elevations
Right patiently they pore,
For they know ’tis no go
To find space for any more,
When debates are waxing loud and long,
And the SPEAKER’S heard to snore.

_Echoes from the Clubs_, November 27, 1867.

――――

THE SCREAM OF THE AMERICAN EAGLE;
OR, THE CROW OF YANKEE-DOODLE.

You sneaking skunks of England,
Who stay at home at ease,
Who think because you never fight
You’re rulers of the seas:
Another pirate launch again
To match a New York foe,
For the fame of your name
Which has had so sad a blow,
While we Yankees bluster loud and long,
And over England crow.

The shattered “Alabama”
Lies deep beneath the wave,
Your finest guns and gunners
Their vessel couldn’t save,
When our noble ship, the “Kearsarge,”
Her shot and shell did throw,
To the bottom in an hour
Did the “Alabama” go,
And we Yankees bluster loud and long,
And over England crow.

The flag of old Columbia
Shall ne’er again be furled
Till, having scourged the Southern States,
We whip the whole wide world;
With real lightning from our guns
Our thunderbolts we’ll throw,
Till not a single Britisher
Upon the seas doth show,
Then won’t we bluster loud and long
And over England crow.

Yes, then, you sneaking Britishers,
Our song and feast shall flow
When we sink your Island, Queen and all,
Old ocean’s depths below,
And masters of the ’varsal airth
We’ll liquor to and fro,
Drink gin-slings with our Irish slaves
And trumpets loudly blow
To the fame of our name,
And o’er the whole world crow.

From _Lyrics and Lays_, by PIPS (Wyman Bros., Calcutta, 1867).

――――

THE FENIANS’ RAGING FURY:
_Or, Legal Ireland’s Sufferings_.

Ye gentlemen of Ireland
Who live abroad at ease,
A mighty little wonder ’tis
That you are absentees.
Give heed unto the newspapers,
And they will daily show
All the crimes――see the _Times_――
When the crimson drops do flow.

All we that would live landlords
Must bear arrears of rent,
And little though we should be paid
Or none, must be content;
Or else, a tenant’s bullet
Will quickly lay us low;
With a ball he pays all,
Whilst the crimson drops do flow.

* * * * *

Not Irish landlords only,
Thus live in care and dread;
Their stewards and their agents too
May look to be shot dead.
Whoever makes an enemy
Is very soon let know,
What is what, by a shot,
When the crimson drops do flow.

* * * * *

If all conciliation
Is wasted, nought remains
But to renew an iron rule,
Stern penalties and pain,
At least empower our magistrates
To cage each public foe,
With the speed which we need
When the crimson drops do flow.

_Punch_, March 12, 1870.

――――

YE SCAVENGERS OF ENGLAND.

Ye Scavengers of England!
Whose cart one seldom sees
Without unpleasant consciousness
There’s something in the breeze!
Leave other garbage to its fate,
And here your prowess show!
And sweep through the heap
From King Street up to Bow;
Where the struggle rages all day long,
From King Street up to Bow!

The Duke may wish you farther,
The question try to waive;
But, bear in mind, _that_ filthy slush
Might prove his Grace’s grave!
And should he, by some chance, go down
_Himself_, he’d swear you’re slow,
As ye sweep through the heap
From King Street up to Bow!

We boast we need no bulwarks
Our social rights to keep;
Yet, if we wish to purchase plums,
We do it――ankle deep!
And though we often, through the _Times_,
Our indignation show,
The while we roar, the loads still pour
From King Street and from Bow;
And the struggle lasts the whole day long,
From King Street down to Bow!

The dirty flags of Mudford
At last shall have their turn!
No more for rotting refuse prove
A putrid public churn!
So up, ye British Scavengers,
A decent garden show,
Where Duchesses henceforth may――leap!
From King Street up to Bow!
And thank their stars you’ve made a sweep
From King Street up to Bow!

_Punch_, October 16, 1880.

This Parody was accompanied by a portrait of the Duke of Bedford, the owner of this filthy, inconvenient, and mismanaged market.

――――

TO MILLINERS AND MILLIONARES.
_A modiste address by an Æsthetic Renegade._

Ye milliners of England,
Who clothe so many shes,
Whose stuffs have never found their peers,
Oh, listen if you please.
Your standard prices pray keep down,
To hold the trade in tow,
For thus you’ll reap and you’ll keep
Of customers a flow;
Though you make toilettes loud and long
Now trains have ceased to grow.

The spirits of your tailors
Shall start with every fold,
For Paris ’twas from whence they came,
And their reward was gold;
Where Worth and mighty Felix dwell
There is a better show,
Where they _do_ reap and _do_ keep
Of customers a flow,
And say you haven’t the “haut ton,”
And are most sadly slow.

Britannia needs no bustles,
No heels of slender height,
Her walk should e’er be straight and sure,
Her dresses not too tight.
With simple taste _do_ loop them up
And trim them down below:
Ah! but you say, “that’s not the way
O’er other firms to crow!”
Well, then――(_despairingly_)――make your toilettes loud and long,
We will not say you “No!”

(_Sarcastically_――)
May the ladies fair of England
Ever live and learn
To be extra grateful for your deeds
And give you some return!
We sing to _you_, fair modistes,
To Messrs. Worth and Co.,
To the fame of your name,
And may fools of fashion flow,
While you make dresses more and more,
And bows and buttons grow.

From _Cribblings from the Poets_, by Hugh Cayley (Jones and
Piggott, Cambridge, 1883.)

――――

TORPEDO TERRORS.

_Our Poet has revised Campbell’s Lyric in accordance with the New System of Naval Warfare_).

Ye mariners of England,
Be vigilant to seize
The flag that braved a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze;
And if your ships be launched again
To meet a foreign foe,
Ere ye sweep through thöe deep
Send your divers down below,
For that dread explosive swift and strong,
The sneaking Tor-pe-dö.

When your heroic fathers
Their foes a thrashing gave,
On the deck above they sought for fame,
Not _underneath_ the wave.
When Blake and mighty Nelson fought
They dealt no dastard blow,
But now we sweep o’er the deep,
Both cautiously and slow,
Fearing the din and the secret fire
Of the Brigand Tor-pe-dö.

Britannia needs new bulwarks,
New towers along the steep,
If far below the mountain wave
These hidden reptiles creep;
No thunders from our broadsides now
May quell the floods below,
If when the proud ships float along
The swift steam launches throw
Beneath the keels of ironclads strong
The coward Tor-pe-dö.

Though soon beneath our vessels
They may terrific burn,
With ships of steel and hearts of oak
We trust their power to spurn;
That still our ocean warriors
To sea may safely go,
And win new fame for England’s name
With an open-handed blow,
While the enemy’s fleet is blown sky high
With their own vile Tor-pe-dö.

_Funny Folks._

――――

YE INFANTRY OF ENGLAND.
A Military Ode. Imitated from Campbell.
“_Fas est et ab hoste doceri._”

Ye Infantry of England,
Supposed to guard our shores,
Who made a precious mess of it
In trying to pot the Boers,
Your ready rifles take again,
And try another style;
Nor fool by old rule
While the foreign critics smile,
Whilst the Dutchman chuckles loud and long,
And our foreign critics smile.

BRITANNIA needs instructors
To teach her boys to shoot,
Fixed targets and mere red-tape drill
Have borne but bitter fruit.
Our blunders are a standing joke,
The scandal of our Isle,
And the Boer loud doth roar,
Whilst our foreign critics smile.
Whilst the Teuton guffaws loud and long,
And our foreign critics smile.

The cartridges of England
In waste terrific burn;
In sighting and in snap-shots, we
From foes have much to learn.
Then come, ye pipeclayed Infantry,
And go to school awhile,
Till the fame of your aim
Shall no more make foemen smile;
Till the Dutchman’s chuckle’s heard no more,
And your foes have ceased to smile.

_Punch._

――――

THE PERILS OF PARLIAMENT.

Ye Gentlemen of England,
Who stay at home at ease,
Ye little think upon the ills
That threaten our M.P.’s!
Now that throughout the House again
The flood of talk will flow,
And will roar
O’er the floor
While the storms of party blow,
While discussion rages loud and long,
And the storms of party blow!

The Spirit of Obstruction
Will start from every side;
New coalitions will be formed,
Old combinations tried;
The Alderman will shout “Yah! Yah!”
Lord Randolph talk more stuff,
Whilst a roar
O’er the floor
Will proclaim his new rebuff,
And noises weird and varied tell
That Warton’s taking snuff.

His meteor pocket-handkerchief,
Shall oft terrific burn,
Whilst weary legislators long,
But vainly, to adjourn;
Shall wave whilst dreary platitudes
Tempt Ministers to weep,
Or some bore
On the floor
Talks the faithful few to sleep;
Whilst the dazed but ever-active “whips”
Their endless vigil keep.

Yes, Gentlemen of England,
Do picture, if you please,
The fate that probably awaits
Your sorely-tried M.P.’s.
Think of those frequent dinners
Of which they’ll get no bite
When the bell
Sounds their knell,
And compels them to the fight;
Till the lobbies echo with the groan
Of outraged appetite!

Think of the miles of walking
Divisions will impose,
On those who, spite their gouty pains,
Must follow “Ayes” or “Noes.”
Think of the cramps they must endure
When furtive naps they take,
With what racks
In their backs
They will suddenly awake;
When they have slumbered in their seats
For their constitution’s sake.

“Britannia needs no bulwark”――
Or so her poets claim――
But he who makes Britannia’s laws
Should have an iron frame.
Yes, he _does_ need a bulwark
’Gainst all the session woes,
’Gainst the roar
Of the bore,
And the battle’s stress and blows!
If his digestion be not sound,
He scarce will see its close.

For dark is the horizon,
And on the rising breeze,
Clouds, shaped like “all-night sittings,”
The weather-prophet sees;
And fears that even pheasants
The Sportsman shall lay low
Ere the last
Of the blast
Through St. Stephen’s halls shall go;
Ere the sharp “Hear, hear,” is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

_Truth_, February 7, 1884.

――――

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

_The Salisbury Version of Campbell’s Song._

[It would appear from one of his recent speeches that Lord
Salisbury considers Mr. Chamberlain a sham philanthropist,
who only wishes to injure the poor innocent shipowners, and
has no real desire to benefit seamen by his Merchant Shipping
Bill.]

Ye mariners of England,
That trust in Joseph C.,
Whose tale has gulled a thousand ears,
Receive the truth from me.
He champions you for selfish ends,
Does philanthropic Joe,
And you’re “had” by the Rad,
When the stormy winds do blow.

Our sailors need no Bill-wark
To guard them on the deep;
Shipowners all are worthy folk,
And calumny is cheap.
Their vessels stand the tempests’ test,
And never go below,
So no more on that score,
When the stormy winds do blow.

Obstruction’s flag in Parliament
Shall yet terrific burn,
Till Gladstone’s rabble rout depart,
And the Tory clan return.
Then, then, ye ocean simpletons,
Brum tactics we shall “stow,”
None will back Merchant Jack,
When the stormy winds do blow.

_Funny Folks_, June 21, 1884.

――――

RULING THE WAVES.
(_Freely adapted from Campbell._)

Ye Mariners of England!
Who’d guard our native seas,
What think ye, lads, every few years
Of this confounded breeze?
They tell us we must launch more ships
Ere we may match the foe,
And weep
O’er the deep,
Whilst the Pressmen’s trumpets blow,
While the squabble rages loud and long,
And the Pressmen’s trumpets blow.

The spirits of your fathers
Would look extremely grave
At doubts thus thrown upon the fact
That Britain rules the wave.
Officials on each other fall;
One “Yes!” says, t’other “No!”
And sweep
O’er the deep,
Of big figures in a row,
Tabled Statistics stiff and long,
And figures in a row.

Britannia needs a Navy
Her world-wide watch to keep,
To ward her isle-encircling waves,
And to patrol the deep.
_That’s_ truth, and far beyond all joke,
Plain facts from them we’d know,
Who roar
And deplore,
That our Navy’s running low,
That the Frank and Teuton fleets grow strong,
Whilst our Navy’s running low.

The money-bags of England
The balance yet can turn.
We’re quite prepared to freely “part,”
Cheese-paring fudge we’d spurn.
Facts, facts, ye ocean-warriors,
Are what we fain would know!
For the fame
Of your name
Every British heart will glow,
When Party fights are heard no more
And the Windbags cease to “blow.”

_Punch_, October 4, 1884.

――――

YE RADICALS OF BRUMM’GEM.
(A Song for the next Election.)

Ye Radicals of Brumm’gem,
With all your Caucuses,
Whose noise has rung a year or two
Just on a passing breeze,
Your voice shall ne’er be raised again
To deafen another foe;
You shall fall, spouters all,
When our party strikes the blow,
And the battle will be short, I say,
When our party strikes the blow!

The demagogues and stumpers
No more shall rant and rave,
The platform was their field of fame,
Th’ election is their grave.
Where Bunkum, Humbug, Bluster spoke,
Now silence you shall know,
For you fall, stumpers all,
When our party strikes the blow,
And the battle will be short indeed
When our party strikes the blow.

Britannia’ll have no rebels
Her soil in blood to steep;
Her strength can crush the blustering knave――
Her wit the sly and deep;
And class with class she reconciles
And fuses high and low――
They unite for the fight
And together strike the blow,
And they make the battle short, I say,
When, allied, they strike the blow.

Conservatives of England;
A light enlightening burn
To help the poor and guide the rich
Right Members to return.
Then, then, you ranting Radicals,
Our song and feast shall flow,
As we tell how you fell
When the nation struck the blow,
How the battle was uncommon short
When the nation struck the blow.

_A Pen’orth o’ Poetry for the Poor_, London, 1884.

――――

PARODIES BY A PREMIER.
(_Addressed to the L――――s of the A――――y._)

“Ye Mariners of England,”
(I’ll term you if you please),
Whose brag has raised, a hundred times,
A Parliament’ry “breeze!”
Your gallant features blanch again
Beneath another blow.
As ye creep down the steep
“Companion” stairs below;
While the crisis rages loud and long,
And you have to keep below.

“The spirits of your fathers”
Won’t “start from every wave”――
For the deck “it was their field of fame,”
And Kensal Green “their grave,”
“Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell”
You’ll have no chance to go,
Nor to creep down the steep
“Companion” stairs below;
While the crisis rages loud and long,
And you have to keep below.

“Britannia needs” her “bulwarks”
And “towers along the steep;”
Her ships crawl “o’er the mountain waves,”
Her navy’s “on the cheap,”
With blunders from her naval L――ds
She riles the tars below,
And they swear――you’re aware――
“When the stormy winds do blow,”
’Cause their awkward squadrons all go wrong,
“When the stormy winds do blow.”

“The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn”――
They say――when Liberal L――ds depart,
And Tory ones return.
Then, then, ye ocean-amateurs!
Their song and jest shall flow,
To make game of your name
When you’ve ceased to go below;
When my fiery flights are heard no more,
And you’ve ceased to go below.

_The Globe_, June 18, 1885.

――――

SONG AT SCARBOROUGH.

_During the Match Gentlemen of England_ v. _Players of England, September_ 3, 1885.

Ye Gentlemen of England,
Who smite for twos and threes,
One bat has swiped for twenty years,
That bat is W. G.’s.
That wondrous willow waves again
To match the old, old foe,
And spanks through their ranks
Whilst the bowlers puff and blow,
Though Tom Emmett sends them swift and straight,
And the “field” do all they know.

Britannia need not tremble
Whilst he his “block” can keep,
And slog for sixes and for fours,
Though the field stand close or deep
There’s “powder” yet in every stroke,
His “drives” like lightning go,
And men roar as the score
Swells at every swashing blow,
Though Ulyett “sends ’em down” like hail,
And Peate his best doth show!

The Cricket fame of England
Shall yet in brightness burn,
And we can wait without blue funk
That Cornstalk Team’s return,
Whilst W. G. can show such form
After twenty years or so;
The fame of his name
Sounds wherever Britons go,
And the mighty score on Scarborough’s shore
Should bring him “one cheer mo’!”

_Punch_, September 12, 1885.

――――

ON CONCEDING THE SATURDAY
IN CHRISTMAS WEEK, 1884.

Ye Shopkeepers of London,
Who live in lavish ease;
We beg of you for once to hear
Your poor employés pleas.
There is no need for us to say
How hard their daily task;
Then give the one short Saturday
Which they this Christmas ask!

* * * * *

Ye Merchants, too, of London,
Who Christmas will enjoy,
Until a glut of luxuries
Your appetites will cloy;
Come, think of those whose tired hands shake,
As at your books they toil;
And, oh, do not, for pity’s sake,
Their taste of Yule-tide spoil!

* * * * *

_Truth_, December 18, 1884.

Another long imitation of the same original appeared in _Truth_, Sept. 25, 1879, commencing

“Ye Ministers of England.”

Amongst the curiosities of literature may be classed an extraordinary collection entitled “DIVINE SONGS OF THE MUGGLETONIANS,” printed in 1829, and now very scarce. Amongst these so-called Divine Songs are some to be sung to such tunes as “God save the King,” “Hearts of Oak,” “De’il tak the wars,” and one there is which commences as follows, in imitation of Campbell’s _Mariners_:――

“You faithful Muggletonians who truly do believe
The doctrine of Muggleton to be the same as Reeve;
Let no wise anti-followers infuse into your ear,
That a Prayer, Christ does hear, from us mortals here below.”

――――:o:――――

Campbell’s poems seem to be especially favored by the Editor of the Parody Competitions in _The Weekly Dispatch_, as, in addition to those already alluded to, he also selected “The Maid’s Remonstrance” for political parodies, and the following examples were printed, March 1, 1885:――

THE BENCH OF BISHOPS.

Never working, ever wooing,
Loving fat things, wealth pursuing;
Know ye not the wrong ye’re doing,
O ye favoured few?
All your lives obstruction brewing.
Cease, or else be true!

Measures banished, wrongs not righted.
See your Church, how disunited!
See the scores of bills you’ve blighted
In the House of Peers!
Cringing, wav’ring, and benighted,
’Midst your country’s tears.

Yet you deem yourselves a blessing――
Sleek and fat, and self-caressing,
Time is short, and needs are pressing;
Soon you’ll have to go.
Dull and useless, always messing;
Dotard’s all, and slow.

JAMES TURNER.

――――

RANDOLPH’S REMONSTRANCE TO SIR STAFFORD.

Never fighting, ever cooing,
Still a fruitless course pursuing;
Read you not the wrong you’re doing
In my cheek’s pale hue?
All my lifelong hopes eschewing――
Fight, or cease to coo!

Gordon murdered, pledges slighted,
Still our ways are disunited.
When the goal is well-nigh sighted
Feeble funk appears;
Vacillation so benighted.
Is for Lib’ral fears.

Office――once your dearest blessing;
Place――we both would be possessing!
Hopes――a mutual soul confessing,
Soon you’ll make them grow
Dim, and worthless our caressing――
Yours with age, mine woe.

HENRY L. BRICKEL.

――――

BRITANNIA’S REMONSTRANCE.

Never peaceful, ever doing,
Still the phantom, Fame, pursuing,
And askance the straight path viewing――
All for pow’r and place!
Future storms for me you’re brewing;
Cease, or veil my face!

Where is now the troth we plighted?
Both our hearts are disunited;
Freedom’s lamp one day we lighted,
Now ’tis quenched with tears.
Heroes murdered, great hopes blighted,
Roused are all our fears.

Once you earned my richest blessing,
Thrilled my soul with your caressing
Each a mutual love confessing,
Soon its sweets you’ll miss,
For your love’s not worth possessing
While War’s lips you kiss.

J. ARTHUR ELLIOTT.

――――

STAFFY’S REMONSTRANCE.

Never winning, ever wooing,
Still the sweets of place pursuing,
And the cause of my undoing,
Randolph――it is you!
All your life seems spent in brewing
Mischief ever new,

Rivals bullied and indicted,
Still our ranks are disunited;
When your glowworm lamp is lighted
Mine half-quenched appears;
I must wander on benighted
’Mid’st the groans and cheers.

Would you but bestow your blessing,
How I’d purr at your caressing!
But your pranks are so distressing
Soon you’ll make me trow
Place itself’s not worth possessing
If you plague me so!

GOSSAMER.

――――:o:――――

THE EXILE OF ERIN.

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill:
For his country he sigh’d, when at twilight repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
But the day-star attracted his eye’s sad devotion,
For it rose o’er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,
He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh!

“Sad is my fate”! said the heart-broken stranger,
“The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee;
But I have no refuge from famine and danger,
A home and a country remain not to me.
Never again, in the green sunny bowers,
Where my forefathers liv’d, shall I spend the sweet hours,
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh!”[22]
* * * * *
THOMAS CAMPBELL.

――――

ENGLISH MELODIES.

“Unhappy little John, the once popular representative of Westminster, is, as every body knows, kicked out of the seat he has so long occupied, and has resigned the office in which he, for so short a period, was suffered to luxuriate. In the expressive words of the poet we may exclaim,

Joy, joy for ever! the task is done,
The city’s free and _Evans_ has won.

It will be seen from the following splendid ebulition of true pathos, that little Hobby in all his misery for the loss of his office and his seat, has not yet forgotten his kind patron ‘_Dear De Vear_,’ to whom his heart still turns with a most appropriate gratitude.”

AIR.――_Erin go bragh._

There came to the hustings an exile from office,
The damp at his heart it was heavy and chill,
For his sal’ry he sigh’d, when one night he threw off his
Patriotic disguise just assum’d for the bill.
But the poll booth attracted his ancient devotion,
As it stood, and he saw the electors in motion,
And thinks he “pon my soul I’ve a very strong notion,
They’ll return Colonel Evans! De Vear then go bragh.”

“Oh sad is my fate,” said the wretched ex-placeman,
“Some Tories or Whigs to a borough can flee,
But I have no chance, for so great’s my disgrace man,
A seat in St. Stephen’s remains not for me.
Ah, never again from John Bull’s breeches pocket,
Whence my dad draws a pension; (God grant they won’t dock it),
My pay shall I take in my coffers to lock it,
Unless re-elected, De Vear then go bragh.

Oh office my haven, though by me forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy lucrative store,
But alas, by the Colonel thrown out I awaken,
And sigh for the votes that support me no more.
And thou my Lord Grey, will you never replace me,
In a post where electors no longer can chase me;
Ah, never again shall old Glory embrace me,
Or will he too go out with his Hob to deplore.

Where now is the Westminster rump that supported
Sir Frank and myself? we must weep for its fall,
And where is the junta, that influence sported,
And where is De Vear too the dearest of all?
Alas what an ass I have been for declining
My seat! what a fool I have been for resigning
My office! but now there is no use in whining,
It cannot my seat or my office recal.

But yet all my bitter reflections repressing,
There is one dying wish my fond bosom shall draw,
De Vear, thy old _protegé_ gives thee his blessing,
Thou ghost of the rump! my De Vear then go bragh.
Kicked out of my seat, when (oh bitterest potion)
I’ve no longer the means of proposing a motion
In the House, I’ll still out of it sing with devotion,
You’ve been a kind friend dear De Vear then go bragh.”

_Figaro in London_, May 18, 1833.

This Parody refers to the late Sir John Cam Hobhouse (Lord Broughton), who long represented Westminster in Parliament, he was succeeded by Sir De Lacy Evans, then Colonel De Lacy Evans. The “Sir Frank” alluded to in the fourth verse was Sir Francis Burdett, a very advanced Radical politician for those days. He was the father of Lady Burdett Coutts, whose husband has recently been elected member for Westminster in the Conservative interest.

――――

THE EXILE OF ERIN;
_Or, Mitchell in Norfolk Island_.

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,
The dew on his breeches was heavy and chill;
He thought of the days of his spouting and “beering,”
As he rattled his chains on the wind-beaten hill.
He looked towards the north with an air of devotion,
And thought of the very green isle of the ocean,
Which once he had put in such awful commotion
By bawling and roaring out Erin-go-bragh!

“Sad is my fate,” said the gray-coated stranger,
“My cousins, the apes to their caverns can flee,
But I in a chain-gang of convicts must range here;
Repose or tobacco exist not for me;
Ne’er again in the snug little bar
Where my ancestors dwelt, shall I smoke the cigar.
Or cheer on the rabble of Dublin to war
By bawling and roaring out Erin-go-Bragh!

_The Puppet Show_, May 27, 1848.

――――

THE VISIT TO ERIN.

There came an ex-Premier from England to Erin,
If not to his tongue, to give rest to his quill.
From his country he came in the hope of repairing
Some errors whose memory clings to him still.
Can we doubt that e’en now, as he traversed the ocean,
His conscience recalled with a doubtful emotion
The day when, to show to the priests his devotion,
He danced to the music of Erin-go-bragh?

O fond is my breast, said the time-serving stranger,
O Erin! dear Erin! my heart yearns to thee.
The day still I rue when we parted in anger,
For a place and a party remain not in me.
Then grant me once more for a day or an hour
The pleasures of office, the semblance of power.
O cover my head with the shamrock’s green flower,
And I’ll dance to the measure of Erin-go-bragh.

O Erin! dear island! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit the Speaker’s right hand;
But, alas! with the dawn’s reappearing I waken,
Regretful I broke with the Irish brass band.
O fate, cruel fate! would’st thou only replace me
On the Treasury Bench, with few Tories to face me,
With Biggar, O’Donnell, Parnell to embrace me,
I’d seem like their leader, though they might command.

Where is my great University measure?
Prelates and priests, did ye weep o’er its fall?
O how can you dwell on its failure with pleasure,
Which gave to you Trinity College and all?
O my poor pen, long abandoned to railing!
O my sad tongue, is thy influence failing?
Pamphlets and speeches are both unavailing,
My power and my party they cannot recall.

O that, all sad recollections suppressing,
From the future one bright grain of hope I could draw,
I’d sing, over-coming, all memories distressing,
Home Rule for ever! sweet Erin-go-bragh!
Sea-sick and ill when I feel the ship’s motion,
Still joyously homeward I’ll traverse the ocean,
And murmur, in token of grateful devotion,
Home Rule for ever! and Erin-go-bragh!

From “_They are Five_,” by W. E. G., 1877.

――――

In the thirtieth of the Poem Competitions in “The World,” two prizes were offered for poems on “Ireland’s Distress,” the model selected being Campbell’s “Exile of Erin.” The first prize was gained by Captain Walford (Kommitop); the second by Miss Chamberlayne (Hypophosphate.) The Poems were printed in “The World” March 3, 1880.

IRELAND’S DISTRESS.

I saw in a dream the sad angel of Erin;
Her green robe hung loosely, so withered her form;
For her country she sighed, as though almost despairing,
Of shelter and rest from the pitiless storm.
Though the day-star of Hope, rising fair o’er the ocean,
Shone bright on the mist of her eye’s sad devotion;
Yet scarcely her lips, in their trembling emotion,
Could whisper the anthem of Erin-go-bragh.

‘Sad is my fate!’ said the heart-broken stranger;
‘The wild deer and fox shall be monarchs alone;
For, racked by the tortures of famine and danger,
To new homes and new countries my children have flown,
Never again, when the hill-tops are hoary
And the winter winds wail, shall they list to the story,
Which their forefathers loved, of their countrymen’s glory,
Nor join in the chorus of Erin-go-bragh.

Britannia, my sister, though sad and forsaken,
In hope I yet linger about thy rough shore;
Alas, has my anguish no power to awaken
Some pity to love, and some aid to restore?
O happy land, only thou can’st replace me
In a haven of peace! If thine arms shall embrace me,
Never again shall my children disgrace me,
Nor die at a distance, but live in my heart.

Now is the cabin-door open and shattered,
Father and mother are weeping within;
Gone are their kindred, their friends are all scattered,
Their children with famine are wasted and thin.
Ah, my sad heart, as I look on this sorrow,
Hopeless to-day, and despairing to-morrow,
How can I dare any comfort to borrow
From dreams which the future may blast and destroy?

Yet all the thoughts of its anguish suppressing,
One only fond wish my sad heart can desire――
That my sons’ bitter curses may change to a blessing,
As faction shall languish and discord expire!
Now wild with distress is my isle of the ocean;
Then gladness shall swell my fond breast with emotion,
And my children shall sing with new love and devotion,
Erin mavourneen, Erin-go-bragh!’

KOMMITOP (CAPTAIN WALFORD).

――――

SECOND PRIZE.

There crept o’er the loveliest isle of the ocean
The foretaste of famine, foreshadow of pain,
And winter and want, with each fiercer emotion.
Long-suffering patience had worn to the wane;
For the food of the famishing people was rotten,
And the hate that is often of hunger begotten
Embittered the hearts with sedition besotten,
And the singers of Erin were silent again.

O, where is the ardour of Shiel and O’Connell,
The heart-burning eloquence poured in the cause?
Would it stimulate Parnell, impassion O’Donnell,
If of hunger they felt for a moment the claws?
For small is the gain and the glory ensuing
From the tortuous path that their feet are pursuing,
And slow the advance unto Ireland accruing,
From forcing the coach-wheels of Albion to pause.

‘Sad is our fate,’ cries the famishing peasant;
‘The wild bird is left to its home on the tree,
And corn is full lavishly flung to the pheasant,
But no roof and no food for my children and me.
O, harder our fate than the horrors of fiction!
When thrust by the merciless laws of eviction
From the home that is held by the heart’s predilection,
We are forced o’er the bare breast of Erin to flee.

Erin, our country, as, weak and heart-broken,
We wander half-starved over mountain and shore,
And search for a remnant of hope, or a token
That life may be glad to our spirits once more;
Can we trust that the hearths, now forlorn and forsaken,
To welfare shall warm and to laughter awaken,
And the dust from the wings of thy glory be shaken
To the future reëcho of Erin-go-bragh!

Sweet solace it were to the heart of the dying,
That throbs his last pulse out on pitiless ground,
Could he know that the land upon which he was lying
Would smile into gladness, with plenty abound;
And the trials and straights of despair and starvation
Through which he was fighting should end in salvation
To happier sons of a new generation,
Who will sing the old anthem of Erin-go-bragh.’

HYPOPHOSPHATE (MISS E. CHAMBERLAYNE.)

――――:o:――――

HOHENLINDEN.

An imitation of Hohenlinden, written by Mr. F. B. Doveton, was given on page 28. It was descriptive of the Tay Bridge disaster, which happened in December, 1879.

The subject was chosen for a prize competition in _The World_, the model selected being Campbell’s Hohenlinden, and the following poems appeared in that journal on January 21, 1880:――

THE TAY BRIDGE DISASTER.

On Balgay when the sun was low,
Pale gleamed the distant Grampian snow,
And dark and muddy was the flow
Through Strath-Tay ebbing rapidly.

But Balgay saw another sight,
When rose the wind at fall of night,
And distant gleams of splendour light
The darkness of her scenery.

Mid light and darkness fast arrayed
The Storm-King’s hosts commenced their raid,
And every furious blast essayed
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the bridge with storm-gusts riven,
Then rushed the cloud-wrack tempest-driven,
And nearer ’neath the vault of heaven,
Out flashed the train lights ruddily.

But brighter still that light shall gleam,
With one last flash o’er land and stream,
And then shall vanish like a dream
At daylight passing wearily.

The coming sun shall light no more
Yon bridge that spans from shore to shore,
And dark Dundee bereft shall cower
Beneath her smoky canopy.

The horror deepens. Who can save
Those rushing to a watery grave?
Wave dashes wildly over wave,
And leaps in dreadful rivalry.

None, none shall part where many meet;
The sand shall be their winding sheet;
No churchyard turf shall veil their feet
In their untimely sepulchre.

CHEVY CHASE (J. F. BAIRD.)

――――

SECOND PRIZE.

On Tay the summer sun sinks low,
Soaring above the broad Firth’s flow;
A thread athwart yon ruddy glow,
The wondrous bridge winds airily.

But halcyon days have taken flight,
Wild howls the storm this winter’s night,
And ’gainst that daring fabric light
The tempest rages furiously.

Homeward they wend from town and glade,
Husband and wife, and youth and maid,
For that dread race of death arrayed,
An all-unconscious company.

Forth speeds the train to ruin driven――
Is there no help, O pitying Heaven?
No warning voice in mercy given
Of the impending destiny?

The signal beckons――on they go;
Now o’er the bridge the lamp-lights glow,
Where, in the shuddering depth below,
The foam-flecked Firth roars hungrily.

With straining eyes the watchers run,
Longing to mark the passage done.
In vain: the blast his prey has won,
And on it swoops relentlessly.

That fiery flash the signal gave;
Down crashing through the maddened wave,
Both bridge and freight have found a grave,
Whelmed in one dire catastrophe.

With questioning eyes the mourners meet,
Blanched lips the fearful tale repeat;
The wild wave rolling at their feet
Mocks at their helpless misery.

COURTHOPE (L. BECK.)

――――:o:――――

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

Of Nelson and the North,
Sing the glorious day’s renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark’s crown.
And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
By each gun the lighted brand,
In a bold determined hand,
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on!

* * * * *

But the might of England flush’d
To anticipate the scene;
And her van the fleeter rush’d
O’er the deadly space between.
“Hearts of Oak,” our captains cried! when each gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.

Again! again! again!
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back;――
Their shots along the deep slowly boom:――
Then ceas’d――and all is wail,
As they strike the shatter’d sail;
Or, in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom.
* * * * *
THOMAS CAMPBELL.

The two following parodies of this poem occur in _The University Snowdrop_, an Edinburgh College Magazine. These and the interesting explanatory notes which accompany them have been kindly furnished by Mr. James Gordon, F.S.A., Scotland.

The winter of 1837-8 was very severe, and there was a heavy
fall of snow in Edinburgh. On the 10th January some
snowballing took place in front of the College, in which the
students took part. The warfare between the students and the
townspeople was renewed on the 11th, and became more
serious. Several shop windows were broken, the shops were
closed, and the street traffic suspended. The students,
believing that the constables took the side of the mob
against them, appeared on the 12th armed with sticks, to
defend themselves against the constables batons. Then a
regular riot took place, sticks and batons being freely
used, and matters became so serious that the magistrates
found it necessary to send to the Castle for a detachment of
soldiers of the 79th Highlanders, which arrived and drew up
across the College quadrangle, and peace was restored. Five
students who had been most active in the fray were tried by
the Sheriff and were acquitted. The trial lasted three days.
Among the witnesses for the prosecution were the Lord
Provost, some Bailies, and the heads of the police force.
The students were defended by Patrick Robertson, in a most
amusing speech. He was made a Lord of Session, and wrote
some volumes of poetry, now unsaleable, if ever they did
sell. Lockhart wrote an epitaph for him:――

“Here lies that peerless paper lord, Lord Peter,
Who broke the laws of ‘gods and men’ and metre.”

A report of the trial was published, which was followed by
“_The University Snowdrop_, an appendix to the Great Trial,
containing a selection of squibs, old and new, descriptive
of the wars of the quadrangle and the consequences thereof.
With magnificent embellishments.” Edinburgh, 1838.

The “embellishments” are pen and ink portraits of the
principal parties concerned in the riot, drawn by Edward
Forbes, then a student, who became a Professor. (His widow
married Major Yelverton, from which event sprang the famous
case of Longworth against Yelverton.)

BATTLE OF THE BALLS.

Of Alma and the North,
Sing the glorious day’s renown,
When the students all stood forth
’Gainst the minions of the town.
And their snowballs on the Bridge fleetly flew
I can’t tell how or why,
But each Student took a shy,
And floored were passers by
Not a few!

Like ravens to the row,
Came Pond and his Police,
(For breaking heads, we know,
Is their way of keeping peace,)
It was two post meridiem by the bell:
Up the Bridges as they dashed,
The boldest looked abashed,
For they knew they would be hashed
Very well!

Out the youth of Alma poured
To anticipate the scene――
And the balls the faster showered
O’er the deadly space between:
“We’ll be licked!” bellowed Pond, “that’s the fact.”
So around his band he looks,
“Now go, B20, Snooks,
And summon Bailie Crooks
With the Act.”

The Act was read in vain――
And the havoc did not slack,
Till Crooks had fled again
To the Council chambers back,
And that there was a riot he would vouch:
Then came the soldiers all,
With their captains stout and tall,
And sixty rounds of ball
In their pouch.

Out spake the Major then,
And he trembled as he spoke――
“We are brothers――we are men――
By the Lord, my nose is broke!
Are your cartridges, my men, duly rammed;
Our patience you will tire
Peace is all we require,
Then yield, or we shall fire!”
“You be d――――d!”

Then the Provost forth he came,
For he saw it was no go:
Said he “It is a shame
To treat the Students so,――
If you’ll promise, my young friends, to withdraw,
No longer at the gate
The Policemen shall await,
And the vengeance I’ll abate
Of the law.”

“That will do,” the Students cried,
And each band departed straight.
And one by one they hied
Through the lofty College gate.
But they knew not how severely they were watched;
For Pond and all his rout
Raised a horrid shout,
And as every man came out
He was cotched.

Brave hearts! who fought so well
Once so faithful and so true,
In your dungeon’s gloomy cell
Our eyes shall weep for you.
We’ll be bail for every one of you and bond!
And when you all are freed,
I think we are agreed
On one article of creed,
DOWN WITH POND!!!

――――

STANZAS ON A LATE BATTLE.

Of the combat in the North,
Sing the glorious days’ renown,
When the Charlies’ fierce came forth,
To defend the trembling town,
While the ragged crew without, hiss and groan.
Each student took his stand,
Till the College gates were mann’d,
And shillellahs in each hand,
Proudly shone.

Intent upon a row,
Rose their clamour wild and loud,
And in showers the snowballs flew,
At the ragamuffin crowd.
It was just two o’clock by the time;
When the medicals came out,
As each waved his cudgel stout,
Cried “To crack a Charlie’s snout
Is no crime.”

So down the stairs they dashed,
Spreading terror far and wide;
Right and left the crabsticks smash’d;
Yells were heard on every side.
“Hit ’em hard,” was the cry――when each man
With an adamantine whack,
Made their empty noddles crack,
Now, ye Charlies, pay them back!!
If ye can!!!

Again, again, again,
And the havoc did not slack,
Till to cut their sticks, they deign,
And within the gates fly back.
Stones and dirt along the streets, slowly boom;
And the Charlies’ bruised and pale,
With the mob behind their tail,
Our environs to assail,
Did presume.

With joy ye students shout,
At the tidings of your might,
How ye made the claret spout!
How the scoundrels mauled took flight!
Until midst their howling and uproar,
The Lobsters in were led,
And the Riot Act was read,
While the Provost popp’d his head
Through the door.

Brave hearts! turn out’s the word;
Though you’ve leathered the police,
Yet a baton’s not a sword,
So leave the field in peace.
And our bards shall sing the glory of the day,
How many a skull and hat,
To the tune of “Tit for Tat,”
Was bash’d and batter’d flat,
In the fray.

KILSPENDIE.

In the same volume (which is now very scarce) there are also Parodies of “Lochiel’s Warning,” entitled the “Student’s Warning,” one of a passage from _Marmion_, and another imitating _The Lady of the Lake_:――

“Hail to the chief who in triumph advances,” &c.

headed “Clan Charlie’s Pibroch,” and a parody of Hamlet’s Soliloquy, commencing, “To stand or not to stand, that is the question?” This is headed, “The Policeman’s Soliloquy.”

――――:o:――――

THE BURNING OF THE PLAY-HOUSE.
(_Improved from Campbell._)

[Covent Garden Theatre was destroyed by fire on March 5, 1856,
during a masked ball conducted by Anderson, the self-styled
“Wizard of the North.”]

Of the “Wizard of the North
Sing the Tuesday’s night renown,
When he let the gas break forth
And burn the play-house down.
And illuminated London brightly shown,
While a masquerading band,
Almost too drunk to stand,
But all holding hand in hand,
Revelled on.

Detesting every note,
(They’d been playing there from nine),
The orchestra scarce kept
From kicking up a shine.
It was five of Wednesday morn, by the chime,
And as each fiddler saith,
Tobacco choked his breath,
And he played, fatigued to death,
Out of time.

Any decent folks had blushed
To assist at such a scene――
But, sudden, firemen rushed
Where before they should have been,
And “Fire! fire!” the Wizard cried, and the fun
Stopped upon pallid lips,
For the ceiling and the slips
Glowed like a mountain’s tips
In the sun.

The Main! the Main! the Main!
But beams came tumbling whack,
And a shower of fiery rain
Falls on the frightened pack,
And each hurries from the menaced doom,
And gents with terror pale
Pay no heed to woman’s wail,
And the flames at once prevail
And consume.

Down went Covent Garden then,
Vain was the engine’s wave,
Vainly the gallant men
Struggled the wealth to save――
The clock twice saved away indeed they bring,
But the Muse’s ancient seat
Is a ruin most complete;
Ashes, where song’s _élite_
Used to sing.

And London’s blame was chief
For the stupid heads of those
Who have doubtless come to grief
Through the Wizard’s vulgar shows.
A play-house is intended for a play;
If you let it for a night
To a Quack, you but invite
A fate that serves you right,
You may say.

Now joy old opera raise
For the tidings of the night,
Once more thy gas shall blaze,
Once more thy songs delight,
And though losing our fine house is a bore,
Let us think of those who weep
Their tools――by no means cheap――
A charred and melted heap
On its floor.

SHIRLEY BROOKS.

――――:o:――――

THE LAST GROWLER.

(After Thomas Campbell’s _Last Man_――also after the Official Report that there are one hundred and fifty seven fewer Four-wheeled Cabs in London now than last year.)

Four million souls without a Fly!
Shall we _then_ realise
Our lack of common comforts, born
From lack of enterprise?
I saw a vision in my sleep
That caused me from my bed to leap,
And skip around the room;
I saw the Final Growler go
Unhonoured, hideous, mean and slow,
To its appointed doom!

The gas-lamps had a sickly glare,
And not a heart did bleed
As passed that bony hulk along.
Drawn by its bony steed;
The Hansom Cabmen winked and leered,
The very Crossing-Sweeper jeered,
The street-boys raised a yell:
And bliss o’er troubled spirits slid
To see that Four-wheeled Monster bid
To fares a long farewell!

Yet, martyr-like, the Driver sat;
He knew the end was near
Of over-charge and under-pay,
And did not shed a tear;
Saying――“Too long I have delayed;
My Cab is old, my Horse decayed,
’Tis mercy bids me bolt;
For fifty years of mortal breath,
We’ve jolted Passengers to death,
And shall no longer jolt.