Chapter XVI: Part 48: Songs by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and various old English (16)

Joe Podgers, the farmer, he keeps a rare store
Of sheep, as his neighbours can see,
And oxen, and _I_ can’t tell how many more,
For a well-to-do fellow is he.
Of beef and of mutton he never doth fail,
And craftily qualified is his milk-pail;
But he never paleth, he quaintly doth say,
As his meat goes to London on each market day.
But oh! oh! oh! his books do show
Where many a cow of his worst doth go.

Bill Choppers he sits in his little back room,
For a butcher discreet is he:
But oft from his premises comes a queer fume,
He says it is “only his tea.”
But there’s a small yard just behind the loft stair,
And folks say they see some strange carcases there;
But Choppers he says, and he _looks_ very bold,
That the meat which he sells is the best ever sold.
But oh! oh! oh! Joe Podgers doth know
Where many a calf of his worst doth go.

Joe Podgers reclines in his easy chair
Without ever dreaming of strife:
But the dead-meat inspector is heard to declare
That the time for a summons is rife.
And the magistrate has a most critical tongue,
And condemns Podgers’ meat to the dogs to be flung.
So somehow Joe Podgers don’t go home to bed,
But finds himself lodged in a prison instead.
And oh! oh! oh! doth he chuckle and crow
As he tramps on the treadmill? Oh! _no!_ NO!

_Fun._ March 17, 1869.

――――

“OLD TIM THE TEETOTALLER.”

Old Tim the Teetotaller keeps a rare store,
Of black and strong green tea,
Of Souchong――and who can tell how many more,
For a thirsty old Soul is he-e!
A thirsty old Soul is he.
Of Pekoe and Twankay he never doth fail,
Which all the day long he drinks out of a pail.
For he never ale-th, he quaintly doth say,
While he sticks to his fifty-two cups in a day――
For ho! ho! ho!
Old Tim can’t know
How much of birch-broom there is in Pekoe.
_Chorus_――“For ho! ho! ho!” &c.

His Landlady sits in her own still-room,
Alone with the cat sits she;
Except when she asks in the maid or the groom,
To join her in taking tea-e,
To join her in taking tea.
Now, Tim has a tea-chest, but isn’t aware,
That his Landlady helps herself freely from there.
Tho’ the maid and the groom of the Landlady told,
Yet Tim held his tongue,――it was no use to scold.
For ho! ho! ho!
He now doth know,
Where all his Bohea and Souchong doth go.
_Chorus_――“For ho! ho! ho!” &c.

Old Tim he reclines in his high-backed chair,
And plays a few tunes on a fife;
He blows it for joy for he doesn’t care,
Since he puzzled _her_ out of her life.
Yes! his landlady out of her life,
For he’s got a lock on his tea-chest so strong,
And the Landlady tried it for ever so long
With hammer and tongs till she fainted away,
And was then handed over to P’liceman 1 A.
And ho! ho! ho!
Old Tim will show
His Landlady up in the Court of Bow.

_Chorus of Teetotallers in their Cups_――

For ho! ho! ho!
Old Tim will show
His Landlady up in the Court of Bow!

_Punch._ February 4, 1871.

――――

TAURUS THE CELLARER.
(_During the Russian War scare._)

Old Taurus our cellarer keeps a rare store
Of Malmsey and Malvoisie,
Of Cyprus, and who shall say how many more?
For a chary old soul is he!
With sacks of canaries he never can fail
And all the year round he is hearty and hale,
And those who once cavilled are now heard to say,
“We are all of us proud of old Taurus to-day.”
And ho! ho! ho! Things seem to show
That England’s not like to the dogs to go!

Dame Ursa she sits in her cold, bare room,
A Christian dame is she,
From thence oft at curfew she steals in the gloom,
On errands of charity.
Now there’s half a turkey that’s not gone as yet,
Which folks say that Ursa would much like to get,
And Dame Ursa she says she is hungry and cold;
But old Taurus he wakes, and he thunders forth “Hold!”
With ho! ho! ho! that game is no go!
Caught napping by Ursa, no, no, no, no!

_Judy._ July 24, 1878.

――――

A parody in three verses, entitled _Simmonds, the Bellower_, was written by J. A. Hardwick. The first verse is given, the other two are omitted, owing to their coarseness:――

SIMMONDS, THE BELLOWER.

Old Simmonds, the Bellower, keeps a coal store,
Of “Clinkers,” and “Slates” nub-bel-y,
And light weights, and who can say what he does more?
For a pious old cock is he.
The sack to have holes in, he never does fail,
And all the day long he keeps “slanging” the scale;
Yet they’ll never nail him, he bluntly does say,
While he makes a ton out of six waggons a day.
And oh, dear! oh, his nose does show,
How oft the “three-out” to his lips does go.

* * * * *

――――

WILLIAM THE CLÔTURER.

Old William the Clôturer sets great store
By his hard-won majori_tee_,
And he wants it in good working order once more,
For an ardent old toiler is he――
A _tre_mendous old toiler is he.
Of business and progress the Commoners fail,
For all the year round they do nothing but rail;
But William declares he this shindy will stay,
And stick to his Clôture――his _gag_ as some say.
And ho! ho! ho!
His demeanour would show
That he on this point to the country would go.

_Chorus_ (_heartily_)――But ho! ho! ho! &c.

Old William the Clôturer weareth the air
Of one who is weary of strife,
And Salisbury oft has been heard to declare
He would have his――political――life,
His――strictly political――life.
And Salisbury hath a most terrible tongue;
But William is warlike, though no longer young;
And to prove that he isn’t――in politics――dead,
He his Clôture-gage hurls at sour Salisbury’s head.
While ho! ho! ho!
He’ll chuckle and crow,
What, cave in to Salisbury? No, no, no!

_Chorus_ (_lustily_)――While ho! ho! ho! &c.

_Punch._ April 22, 1882.

――――:o:――――

I AM A FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY,
_From the Opera of “Merry Sherwood.”_

I am a Friar of orders grey,
And down in the valleys I take my way,
I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip,
Good store of venison fills my scrip;
My long bead roll I merrily chaunt,
Wherever I walk no money I want;
And why I’m so plump the reason I’ll tell――
Who leads a good life is sure to live well.
What baron or squire,
Or knight of the shire,
Lives half so well as a holy friar.

After supper of Heaven I dream,
But that is fat pullet and clouted cream,
Myself, by denial, I mortify――
With a dainty bit of a warden pie;
I’m cloth’d in sack-cloth, for my sin;
With old sackwine I’m lined within;
A chirping cup is my matin song,
And the vesper’s bell is my bowl, ding, dong.
What baron or ’squire, &c.

J. O’KEEFFE.

――――

A BRADLAUGH BALLAD.

I am the Demagogue of the day,
And down ’mongst the mob I make my way,
It’s years since of poverty I felt a nip
Good store of the Sovereigns I love fill my scrip
Republican patter I merrily chant
Wherever I stump no money I want;
And why I’m so plump the reason I’ll tell――
Who fattens on martyrdom’s sure to live well:
No bishop or squire
Can hope to aspire
To the glorious height of the law defier.

After orating, of fame I dream,
And Cromwell-cum-Wilkes-cum Washington seem,
Myself as a model I mortify
With a thumping cupful of wine when dry;
I wear best broadcloth, black as sin,
My breeches pockets are lined with “tin;”
I’m Liberal with a strong Radical dash,
But I’m strictly Conservative of my cash.
No lord of the shire
Nor prince is higher
In _my_ esteem than C. B., Esquire.

My dusk performances are my best
While working men work, I take my rest,
I bid my disciples prevent new lives,
Reading “Fruits of Philosophy” with their wives.
And to save their pence, as they’ve got no soul
To help me to win at Northampton poll,
For the House is the only Heaven I know
Though they say I make it a Hell below,
Where I’ll play the lyre
And kindle its ire,
Till oblivion swallows the law defier.

From _Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet_. By Ion. London. Houlston & Sons.

――――:o:――――

OLD SONG.

Gently touch the warbling lyre,
Chloe seems inclin’d to rest;
Fill her soul with fond desire,
Softest notes will soothe her breast:
Pleasing dreams assist in love,
Let them all propitious prove.

On the mossy bank she lies
(Nature’s verdant velvet bed),
Beauteous flowers meet her eyes,
Forming pillows for her head;
Zephyrs waft their odours round,
And indulging whispers sound.

A. BRADLEY.

HOW SHALL I DINE.

Gently blow and stir the fire,
Lay the mutton down to roast,
Dress it nicely I desire,
In the dripping put a toast,
That I hunger may remove:
Mutton is the meat I love.

On the dresser see it lie,
Oh! the charming white and red!
Finer meat ne’er met my eye,
On the sweetest grass it fed:
Let the jack go swiftly round,
Let me have it nicely browned.

On the table spread the cloth,
Let the knives be sharp and clean:
Pickles get and salad both,[39]
Let them each be fresh and green:
With small beer, good ale, and wine,
O ye gods! how I shall dine.

Attributed to DEAN SWIFT.

――――:o:――――

WHY SO PALE AND WAN.

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can’t move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can’t win her,
Saying nothing do’t?
Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame, this will not move,
This cannot take her;
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her,
The devil take her.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

AN IMITATION OF THE ABOVE.

I.

Why so sad and pale, fond lover?
Pr’ythee, why so dull?
How can tears the cause discover
Why these eyes are full?
Pr’ythee why so dull?
Shall a hopeful maiden take
A baby to her arms?
Oh, prove a man, and for her sake,
Caress, not grieve her charms.

II.

Thou hast no heart, fearful wooer,
And love ye give, not gain;
Then, with the heart that ye gave to her,
Why give her not its pain?
Cease to murmur, hapless whiner,
Sigh that sob away,
Think, if caring much won’t win her,
Caring little may;
Then scorn, with scorning pay.

R. J.
From _Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine_. May, 1819.

Sir John Suckling also wrote what is, perhaps, the finest ballad in the English language, _A Ballad upon a Wedding_, this appears to have escaped parody. An imitation of it, however, is contained in _Elegant Extracts from the British Poets_, 1824. It is entitled _Aylesbury Races_, and is attributed to Sir J. H. Moore; it is very long, and does not sufficiently follow its original to entitle it to a place in this collection.

――――:o:――――

THE MAD SHEPHERDESS.[40]

My lodging is on the cold ground,
And very hard is my fare;
But that which troubles me most is
The unkindness of my dear;
Yet still I cry, O turn love,
And I prithee, love, turn to me,
For thou art the man that I long for,
And alack! what remedy!

I’ll crown thee with a garland of straw then,
And I’ll marry thee with a rush ring,
My frozen hopes shall thaw then,
And merrily we will sing;
O turn to me my dear love,
And I prithee, love, turn to me,
For thou art the man who alone canst
Procure my liberty.

But if thou wilt harden thy heart still,
And be deaf to my pitiful moan!
Then I must endure the smart still,
And lie in my straw all alone;
Yet still I cry, O turn love,
And I prithee, love, turn to me,
For thou art the man that alone art
The cause of my misery.

――――

SONG BY FUSBOS.

My lodging is in Leather-lane,
A parlour that’s next to the sky;
’Tis exposed to the wind and the rain,
But the wind and the rain I defy:
Such love warms the coldest of spots,
As I feel for Scrubinda the fair,
Oh! she lives by the scouring of pots,
In Dyot-street, Bloomsbury Square.

Oh! was I a pint, quart or jill,
To be scrubb’d by her delicate hands;
Let others possess what they will,
Of learning, and houses and lands;
My parlour that’s next to the sky
I’d quit her blest mansions to share;
So happy to live and to die
In Dyot-street, Bloomsbury Square.

And, oh! would this damsel be mine!
No other provision I’d seek;
On a _look_ I could breakfast and dine,
And feast on a _smile_ for a week.
But ah! should she false-hearted prove,
Suspended, I’d dangle in air;
A victim to delicate love,
In Dyot-street, Bloomsbury Square.

From _Bombastes Furioso_, by William Barnes Rhodes.

――――:o:――――

THE WOLF.

At the peaceful midnight hour,
Every sense and every power
Fetter’d lies in downy sleep,
Then our careful watch we keep.
When the wolf, in nightly prowl,
Bays the moon with hideous howl;
Gates are barr’d, a vain resistance;
Females shriek, but no assistance.
“Silence or you’ll meet your fate――
Your keys, your jewels, cash, and plate!”
Locks, bolts, and bars, soon fly asunder,
Then to rifle, rob and plunder!

J. O’KEEFFE.

A PARODY.

At the peaceful midnight hour,
When by love and hunger’s power,
I am kept from downy sleep,
Nightly I to Molly creep;
Whilst the cats upon the tiles
Mew their loves for many miles,
O’er the gutters lightly hopping,
Thro’ the garret window dropping.
Silence! or my master wakes,
Lay the cloth and broil the steaks;
Beef-steaks and onions crown our blisses;
Bread and cheese and balmy kisses.

――――:o:――――

THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.

The light of other days is faded
And all their glory’s past;
For grief with heavy wing hath shaded
The hopes too bright to last.
The world with morning’s mantle clouded,
Shines forth with purer rays;
But the heart ne’er feels in sorrow shrouded,
The light of other days.

The leaf which Autumn’s tempests wither,
The bird which then take wing,
When Winter’s blasts are past, come hither,
To welcome back the Spring.
The very ivy on the ruin,
In Spring new life displays;
But the heart alone sees no renewing
Of the light of other days.

ALFRED BUNN.

THE COAT OF OTHER DAYS.

The coat of other days is faded,
And all its beauty past:
My shoes no longer look as they did,
But, like it, are fading fast!
When first I sported it, a new one,
My uncles cash ’twould raise,
But now no longer ’tis a new one,
The coat of other days.

The cuffs and collar now are greasy,
Not a bit of nap is there;
’Twas tight, but now it fits me easy,
’Twill soon be at Rag-fair!
My four-and-nine look rather rummy,
Expos’d to Sol’s bright rays,
And ’tis too late for renovating
The coat of other days!

Another parody of this song, by J. James, entitled _The Foggy Gin-Fluenza Days_ occurs in Vol. II., of Punch’s Popular Song Book, but it is slangy and vulgar.

――――:o:――――

THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL.

On Richmond Hill there lives a lass
More bright than May-day morn,
Whose charms all other maids surpass
A rose without a thorn.

This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet,
Has won my right good-will;
I’d crowns resign to call her mine,
Sweet lass of Richmond Hill.

* * * * *

Mr. Upton, who wrote the above song, also wrote many others for the convivial entertainments at Vauxhall Gardens towards the close of the last century. The music was composed by Mr. Hook, father of Theodore Hook, the celebrated wit and practical jokist.

THE LASS OF RICHMOND ILL.

[The Richmond Select Vestry, having sent to the Home Office a memorial with reference to the deplorable condition of the Thames in that district, Sir W. V. Harcourt has entered into communication with the Conservators, and has been informed by them that nothing can be done until a radical change is effected in the disposal of the London sewage.]

On Richmond Hill there lives a lass
Who on a bright May morn,
By sweeps of sewage mud must pass,
On Thames’s waters borne.
What does she meet? Spring breezes sweet?
No, muck is master still.
“Deposit’s” cake, and stink, and make
The Lass of Richmond ill!

How happy might that maiden be
If _sweet_ Thames-tide might run.
But no; Conservators agree
That “Nothing can be done.”
Lips she must close, must nip her nose,――
The Stench-fiend lords it still,
And laughs with glee――grim ghoul――to see
The Lass of Richmond ill!

――――

WILLIAM’S BILL.

Of William’s bill we’ll see the last,
No more it holds the field;
We’ve nailed our standard to the mast,
The harp we’ll never yield.
The Irish fry in vain may try
To gild the Home Rule pill,
But soon we’ll see, ’twixt you and me,
The last of William’s bill.

’Tis past dispute, the kingdoms three
Together stand or fall,
And measures of autonomy
Should be the same for all;
But this that tends to part old friends
Shall ne’er have our goodwill;
No, no, friend Pat, we’ll veto that
By “chucking” William’s bill.

DARJEW.
_The Weekly Dispatch._ July 4, 1886.

――――:o:――――

THE BRAVE OLD OAK.

A Song to the Oak, the brave old Oak,
Who hath ruled in the green wood long,
Here’s health and renown to his broad green crown,
And his fifty arms so strong.
There’s fear in his frown, when the sun goes down,
And the fire in the west fades out,
And he showeth his might on a wild midnight,
When the storms through his branches shout.

Then here’s to the Oak, the brave old Oak,
Who stands in his pride alone,
And still flourish he a hale green tree,
When a hundred years are gone.

* * * * *
H. F. CHORLEY.

A BIT OF A PARODY.

A Song of the Dukes, of the dense old Dukes,
That have rul’d in the land so long;
With small renown to the Ducal crown,
By dint of legal wrong.
There’s rage in their frown when Peel goes down,
And for Free Trade’s cause speaks out;
And they show him their spite in the Lords each night
That the subject is talk’d about.

Then here’s to the Dukes, to the dense old Dukes,
Who live for themselves alone;
And still live they, though no more to prey
On the country’s blood and bone.

They talk of the times when the Christmas chimes
Were a merry sound to hear;
And pretend that the poor were regaled, galore,
With old English beef and beer.
That tale is all stuff, it is much too tough;
It won’t even hoax an ass;
And don’t we know, they who tell us so,
The New Poor Law allow’d to pass?

Then here’s to the Dukes, to the dense old Dukes,
Who live for themselves alone;
And still live they, though no more to prey
On the country’s blood and bone.

_Punch._ April 11, 1846.

――――:o:――――

FRAGMENT OF A TRANSLATION FROM SAPPHO.

Blessed as the immortal gods is he,
The Youth who fondly sits by thee;
And hears and sees thee, all the while,
Softly speak, and sweetly smile.

’Twas this deprived my soul of rest,
And rais’d such tumults in my breast;
For while I gazed, in transport tossed,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost.

My bosom glow’d the subtle flame
Ran quickly thro’ my vital frame;
O’er my dim eyes a darkness hung,
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.

In dewy damps my limbs were chill’d,
My blood with gentle horrors thrill’d;
My feeble pulse forgot to play,
I fainted, sunk, and died away.

AMBROSE PHILIPS.

――――

A PARODY OF THE FOREGOING.

Drunk as a dragon sure is he,
The youth who sups or dines with thee;
And sees and hears thee, full of fun,
Loudly laugh, and quaintly pun.

’Twas this first made me love my dose,
And rais’d such pimples on my nose;
For while I fill’d to every toast,
My health was gone, my senses lost.

I found the claret and champagne
Inflame my blood, and mad my brain;
The toast fell falt’ring from my tongue,
I hardly heard the catch I sung.

I felt my gorge and sickness rise;
The candle danc’d before my eyes;
My sight grew dim, the room turn’d round,
I tumbled senseless to the ground.

HENRY ERSKINE.

――――:o:――――

DEAR BETTY.

Dear Betty, come give me sweet kisses,
For sweeter no girl ever gave;
But why, in the midst of our blisses,
Do you ask me how many I’d have?
I’m not to be stinted in pleasure;
Then prithee, dear Betty be kind;
For as I love _thee_ beyond measure,
To numbers I’ll not be confined.

Count the bees that on Hybla are straying,
Count the flowers that enamel the fields,
Count the flocks that on Tempé are playing,
Or the grains that each Sicily yields;
Count how many stars are in Heaven;
Go reckon the sands on the shore,
And when so many kisses you’ve given,
I still will be asking for more.

To a heart full of love let me hold thee,
A heart, that dear Betty is thine;
In my arms I’ll for ever enfold thee,
And curl round thy neck like a vine.
What joy can be greater than this is?
My life on thy lips shall be spent;
But those who can number their kisses,
Will always with few be content.

SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.

――――

THE NUMBERING OF THE CLERGY.

Come, give us more Livings and Rectors,
For richer no realm ever gave;
But why, ye unchristian objectors,
Do you ask us how many we crave?
Oh, there can’t be too many rich livings,
For souls of the Pluralist kind,
Who, despising old Cocker’s misgivings,
To numbers can ne’er be confin’d.

Count the cormorants hovering about,
At the time their fish season sets in,
When these models of keen diners-out
Are preparing their beaks to begin.
Count the rooks that, in clerical dresses,
Flock round when the harvest’s in play,
And not minding the farmer’s distresses,
Like devils in grain peck away.

Go, number the locusts in heaven,
On their way to some titheable shore;
And when so many parsons you’ve given,
We still shall be craving for more.
Then, unless ye the Church would submerge, ye
Must leave us in peace to augment,
For the wretch who could number the Clergy,
With few will be ever content.

THOMAS MOORE.

(Suggested by the Bishop of London’s Charge, in which he said:――“_We want more Churches, and more Clergymen_.”)

――――:o:――――

LINES TO AN EDITOR.
(_On sending a Book for Review._)
_After Ben Jonson._

Print for me only just one word,
And I will pledge thee mine,
If thou wilt give a wholesome “puff,”
That I will not repine.
I think my work should be preferr’d
(’Tis very large and fine),
Though dullards may not like my stuff,
_I_ would not change a line.

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.
(_On the non-appearance of a Notice._)

I sent thee late my able book,
Not so much honouring thee,
As hoping something would appear
That might bring L. S. D.
But thou thereon did’st neither look
Nor sent’st it back to me,
Since when I feel inclined to swear
Both at myself and thee.

――――:o:――――

DELIGHT IN DISORDER.
(_Adapted from Herrick._)

“There is nothing in the pit-brow work, nor in the costume necessitated, that tells against modesty. It makes fine, healthy, strapping women――not exactly after the pattern of _Fenella_ or _Miranda_――but women who are the fit mates for the men whose wives and mothers they are.”――_Mrs. Lynn Linton on the “Pit-brow Women._”

A fine frank roughness in the dress,
Is better than _La Mode’s_ excess;
Flannel about the shoulders thrown,
A stayless bodice and loose zone;
Stout clogs or highlows and a pair
Of coarse hose much the worse for wear;
A kerchief-cap, and trailed thereby,
Wild locks that flow confusedly;
A dual garb deserving note,
As more――or less――than petticoat;
A leathern shoe-string in whose tie
The slattern speaks to every eye,
Do more bewitch me, for my part,
Than Regent Street with all its Art.

_Punch_, May 28, 1887.

――――:o:――――

HERRICK IN THE HOUSE.
_After Herrick’s Lines to Ben Jonson._
(_By a Troubled Tory._)

Ah, Ben![41]
Say how or when
Shall we, thy sheep,
Less scattered order keep?
Or have such fun
As when you led us on,
When we such musters had
As made us with great joy half mad?
Ah, sure one speech of thine
Outdid nine Randolphs and Smiths nine times nine.

My Ben!
Oh, come again,
Or send to us
Thy wit’s great overplus;
But teach us yet
Wisely to husband it.
Lest we that talent spend,
And, having once brought to an end
That precious stock, the store
Of will, wit, tact, our Party have no more!

_Punch._ February 5, 1887.

――――

SONG.

_On seeing the Speaker asleep in his Chair, in one of the Debates of the first Reformed Parliament._

(_Parody of the well-known Lullaby in Guy Mannering._)

“Sleep, Mr. Speaker, ’tis surely fair,
If you mayn’t in your bed that you should in your chair;
Louder and longer now they grow,
Tory and Radical, Aye and No,
Talking by night, and talking by day,
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.

Sleep, Mr. Speaker, slumber lies
Light and brief on a Speaker’s eyes.
Fielden or Finn in a minute or two
Some disorderly thing will do;
Riot will chase repose away,
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.

“Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sweet to men
Is the sleep that cometh but now and then,
Sweet to the weary, sweet to the ill,
Sweet to the children that work in the mill;
You have more need of repose than they,
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.

“Sleep, Mr. Speaker, Harvey will soon
Move to abolish the sun and the moon;
Hume will no doubt, be taking the sense
Of the House on a question of sixteen pence;
Statesmen will howl and patriots bray:
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.

“Sleep, Mr. Speaker, and dream of the time
When loyalty was not yet quite a crime,
When Grant was a pupil in Canning’s school,
And Palmerston fancied Wood was a fool.
Lord! how principles pass away!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.”

W. M. PRAED.

――――:o:――――

MY HEART AND LUTE.

I give thee all,――I can no more,――
Though poor the offering be:
My heart and lute are all the store
That I can bring to thee:
A lute whose gentle heart reveals
The soul of love full well,
And better far a heart who feels
Much more than lute can tell.

Though love and song may fail, alas!
To keep life’s clouds away,
At least ’twill make them lighter pass,
Or gild them if they stay:
If ever care his discord flings
O’er life’s enchanted strain.
Let love but gently touch the strings,――
’Twill all be sweet again.
I give thee all, &c.

――――

STEWED DUCK AND PEAS.

I give thee all, I can no more,
Though poor the dinner be;
Stew’d Duck and Peas are all the store
That I can offer thee.
A Duck, whose tender breast reveals
It’s early youth full well;
And better still, a Pea that peels
From fresh transparent shell.

Though Duck and Peas may fail, alas!
One’s hunger to allay;
At least for luncheon they may pass,
The appetite to stay.
If seasoned Duck an odour bring
From which one would abstain,
The Peas, like fragrant breath of Spring,
Set all to rights again.

I give thee all my kitchen lore,
Though poor the offering be;
I’ll tell thee how ’tis cook’d, before
You come to dine with me:
The Duck is truss’d from head to heels,
Then stew’d with butter well;
And streaky bacon, which reveals
A most delicious smell.

When Duck and Bacon in a mass
You in the stew-pan lay,
A spoon around the vessel pass,
And gently stir away:
A table-spoon of flour bring,
A quart of water bring,
Then in it twenty onions fling,
And gently stir again.

A bunch of parsley, and a leaf
Of ever-verdant bay,
Two cloves――I make my language brief,
Then add your Peas you may!
And let it simmer till it sings
In a delicious strain,
Then take your Duck, nor let the strings
For trussing it remain.

The parsley fail not to remove,
Also the leaf of bay;
Dish up your Duck――the sauce improve
In the accustom’d way,
With pepper, salt, and other things,
I need not here explain
And if the dish contentment brings,
You’ll dine with me again.

_Punch._

――――:o:――――

EARNEST REMONSTRANCE.

_Addressed to the Young Lady World, on the “Fringes” now in Fashion._

AIR.――“_Long, Long Ago._”

Twine me the curls I delighted to see
Long, long ago――long, long ago;
Bring the old curling-tongs hither to me
Of long ago, long ago!
Since they are gone, all my grief has begun;
Those queer “waving fronts” do not please me, for one
I pine for the hair as it used to be done
Long, long ago, long ago!

Don’t you remember the ringlets that flow’d
Long, long ago――long, long ago;
The beautiful ringlets that then were the mode,
Long, long ago, long ago?
Some called them “corkscrews”――a gross malaprop,
Save that when met at a squeeze, or a hop,
Lovers, like corks, would come out with a pop,
Long, long ago, long ago!

Oh, if the Whigs their old fame would renew,
(Quite _rococo_――quite _rococo_)
And rival the glories of Brian Boroo,
Long, long ago, long ago.
Let them but give us, our thanks to secure,
Instead of a Bill for removing the Poor,
A Bill for removing the shady _coiffure_
Now all the go, all the go!

_Punch._

――――:o:――――

THE BEAUTIFUL MAID.

_A Parody of Liston’s “Beautiful Maid.”_

My fishmonger he swore that his soles were most dear,
I trembled to hear what he said;
For salmon and shrimps ’twas the wrong time of year,
So I pitched on a beautiful maid;
I brought home my beautiful maid:
“Here, cook! dress this beautiful maid;
Go boil it,――don’t spoil it,
But see it well done,
And I’ll dine on my beautiful maid!”

But an ugly black cat, I speak it with grief,
My delicate tit-bit waylaid,
The cook turned her back, and the long-whiskered thief
Ran off with my beautiful maid;
She clawed up my beautiful maid;
She swore o’er my beautiful maid;
Oh, pussy, you hussey,
Oh, what have you done?
You have eaten up my beautiful maid!

――――:o:――――

OH! SAY NOT WOMAN’S HEART IS BOUGHT.
_From the Opera of “Clari, the Maid of Milan.”_

Oh! say not woman’s heart is bought
With vain and empty treasure.
Oh! say not woman’s heart is caught
By every idle pleasure.
When first her gentle bosom knows
Love’s flame, it wanders never,
Deep in her heart the passion glows,
She loves, and loves for ever.

Oh! say not woman’s false as fair,
That like the bee she ranges!
Still seeking flowers more sweet and rare,
As fickle fancy changes.
Ah! no, the love that first can warm,
Will leave her bosom never;
No second passion e’er can charm,
She loves, and loves for ever.

T. L. POCOCK.

――――

OH, SAY NOT THAT MY HEART IS CAUGHT.

Oh, say not that my heart is caught,
By Mary’s face bewitching;
For other charms my love has bought,
Those charms her mind enriching;
Unfriendly fate may soon us part
And fickle fortune sever,
But she who holds this throbbing heart
I’ll love and love for ever.

And must I then those charms resign,
All I esteem a treasure,
And give up what I hoped was mine
To fix a rival’s pleasure?
The stars may fall, the sun decay,
The earth’s whole fabric waver,
But firm as heaven my love shall stay,
Unquenched, unceasing never.

MONTAGUE.

――――

HE DRINKS, AND DRINKS FOR EVER.

Oh, say not life is dearly bought
By him who seeks for pleasure;
Oh, say not joy is wrongly sought
When whiskey’s thought a treasure!
When first a youthful toper knows
Its fumes he wanders never;
He gladdens at his rosy nose,
He drinks and drinks for ever.

Oh, say not whiskey does impair,
Nor like a poison rages;
Still seeking ev’ry vein to tear,
Nor cause such deadly changes!
Oh, no! the draught that first can warm
Will leave his stomach never,
Though all his friends may rant and storm,
He’ll drink, and drink for ever.

ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

DUNOIS THE BRAVE.

It was Dunois the young and brave,
Was bound for Palestine,
But first he made his orisons
Before St. Mary’s shrine!
“Oh! grant, immortal queen of heaven,”
Was still the soldier’s prayer,
“That I may prove the bravest knight
And love the fairest fair.”

His oath of honour on the shrine,
He graved it with his sword,
And followed to the holy land
The banner of his Lord.
Where, faithful to his noble vow,
His war-cry filled the air:
Be honoured, aye, the bravest knight,
Beloved the fairest fair.

They owed the conquest to his arm,
And then his liege-lord said,
“The heart that has with honour beat,
By bliss must be repaid.
My daughter Isabel and thou
Shall be a wedded pair;
For thou art bravest of the brave,――
She, fairest of the fair.”

And then they bound the holy knot,
Before St. Mary’s shrine,
That makes a Paradise on earth,
If hearts and hands combine.
And every lord and lady bright,
That were in chapel there,
Cried, “Honoured be the bravest knight,
Beloved the fairest fair.”

This is a translation by Sir Walter Scott, of the French song _Partant pour la Syrie_, written by De Laborde, to music said to have been composed by Queen Hortense, mother of Napoleon III. Under the Empire _Partant pour la Syrie_ was the officially recognised French national song, but it never became so popular as _La Marseillaise_.

――――

PARTANT POUR LA RUE BAKER.[42]

It was Bill Noyes, the yeoman brave,
Was in the tillage line,
But first he set his heart upon
His stock of beeves and swine;
His mind to cattle most was given,
And “darn,” he swore, “my wig!
But I will breed the hugest ox,
And rear the fattest pig.”

This point of honour, weight of swine,
And ox as highly scored,
He proved it at the Smithfield Club,
Before both squire and lord,
And cried as to the judges’ view
He bore the monsters big,
“Now bain’t this here the hugest ox?
That there the fattest pig?”

They owned his victory――due the palm――
And then the chairman said:
“The ox that is for honour grown,
On oilcake must be fed;
On barley-meal, hog, boar, or sow,
And tubs of wash to swig;
That’s how you cram the hugest ox,
And stuff the fattest pig.”

So round his neck the prize was tied,
And then they went to dine,
Which makes a farmer’s heaven on earth,
When beef and beer combine;
And every yeoman, lord, and ’squire,
Conservative and Whig,
Drank “Honour to the hugest ox,
Be praised the fattest pig!”

_Punch._ December 17, 1859.

There was another parody commencing:――

It was Dunupp, the hard beset,
Was bound to far Boulogne;
But first a hansom he must get,
And money he had none!
“Alas,” he cried, “they’re safe to nab,
No time have I to spare;
If I can find the fastest cab
I’ll prove the fairest fare.”

in _The Hornet_ for January 10, 1872, and another, of no interest or literary merit, on page 134 of _The Literary Lounger_, London 1826.

――――:o:――――

CHEVY-CHACE.

It is quite unnecessary to quote this noble old ballad in full, it may be found in Percy’s Reliques, Robert Bell’s _Early Ballads_, and many other collections of old English Songs and Ballads.

God prosper long our noble king,
Our lives and safetyes all;
A woefull hunting once there did
In Chevy-Chace befall;

To drive the deere with hound and horne,
Erle Percy took his way;
The child may rue that is unborne,
The hunting of that day.

The stout Erle of Northumberland
A vow to God did make,
His pleasure in the Scottish woods
Three summer days to take;

The cheefest harts in Chevy-Chace
To kill and beare away.
The tydings to Erie Douglas came,
In Scottland where he lay:

Who sent Erle Percy present word,
He would prevent his sport.
The English Erle, not fearing that,
Did to the woods resort

With fifteen hundred bow-men bold;
All chosen men of might,
Who knew full well in time of neede
To ayme their shafts arright.

* * * * *

Lord Percy to the quarry went,
To view the slaughter’d deere;
Quoth he “Erle Douglas promised
This day to meet me heere:

But if I thought he would not come,
Noe longer wold I stay.”
With that, a brave young gentleman
Thus to the Erle did say:

“Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come,
His men in armour bright;
Full twenty hundred Scottish speres
All marching in our sight.”

* * * * *

The newes was brought to Eddenborrow,
Where Scottland’s king did raigne,
That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye
Was with an arrow slaine.

O heavy newes, King James did saye,
Scottland may my witnesse bee,
I have not any captaine more
Of such account as hee.

Like tydings to King Henry came,
Within as short a space,
That Percy of Northumberland
Was slaine in Chevy-Chace:

Now God be with him, said our king,
Sith it will noe better bee;
I trust I have, within my realme,
Five hundred good as hee.

Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say,
But I will vengeance take:
I’ll be revenged on them all,
For brave Erle Percye’s sake.

This vow full well the king perform’d
After, at Humbledowne;
In one day, fifty knights were slaine;
With lords of great renowne:

And of the rest, of small account,
Did many thousands dye:
Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace,
Made by the Erle Percy.

God save our king, and bless this land
With plentye, joy, and peace;
And grant henceforth, that foule debate
’Twixt noblemen may cease.

――――

CHEVY CHACE.[43]

God prosper long our noble King,
Our lives and safeties all:
A woeful story late there did
In Britain’s Isle befall.

DUKE SMITHSON, of NORTHUMBERLAND,[44]
A vow to God did make,
The choicest gifts in fair England,
For him and his to take.

“Stand fast, my merry men all,” he cried,
“By MOIRA’S Earl and me,
And we will gain place, wealth, and pow’r,
As arm’d neutrality.

Excise and Customs, Church and Law,
I’ve begged from _Master_ ROSE;
The Garter too――but still _the Blues_
I’ll have, or I’ll oppose.”

“Now God be with him,” quoth the KING,
“Sith ’twill no better be;
I trust we have within our realm,
Five hundred good as he.”

The DUKE then join’d with Charley Fox
A leader ware and tried,
And ERSKINE, SHERIDAN, and GRAY
Fought stoutly by his side.

Throughout our English Parliament
They dealt full many a wound;
But in his King’s and country’s cause,
PITT firmly stood his ground.

And soon a law like arrow keen,
Or spear, or curtal-axe,
Struck poor DUKE SMITHSON to the heart,
In shape of Powder-tax.[45]

Sore leaning on his crutch, he cried,
“Crop, crop, my merry men all;
No guinea for your heads I’ll pay,
Though Church and State should fall.”

Again the taxing-man appeared――
No deadlier foe could be;
A schedule of a cloth-yard long,
Within his hands bore he.

“Yield thee, DUKE SMITHSON, and behold
The assessment thou must pay;
Dogs, horses, houses, coaches, clocks,
And servants in array.”

“Nay,” quoth the DUKE, “in thy black scroll,
Deductions I espye,
For those who, poor, and mean, and low,
With children burthen’d lie.

And though full sixty thousand pounds
My vassals pay to me,
From Cornwall to _Northumberland_,
Through many a fair countée;

Yet England’s Church, its King, its laws,
Its cause I value not,
Compar’d with this, my constant text――
_A penny sav’d, is got_.

No drop of Princely PERCY’S blood
Through these cold veins doth run;
With _Hotspur’s_ castles, blazon, name,
I still am _poor_ SMITHSON.

Let England’s youth unite in arms,
And every liberal hand
With honest zeal subscribe their mite
To save the native land.

I at _St. Martin’s_ Vestry Board,
To swear shall be content,
That I have children eight, and claim
_Deductions, ten per cent_.”

God bless us all from factious foes,
And French fraternal kiss;
And grant the King may never make,
Another DUKE like this.

From _The Anti-Jacobin_, March, 1798.

――――

Another parody of Chevy-Chace, entitled _The Battle of Putney Hill_ appeared in the Morning Herald in 1799. It commenced thus:

God prosper long our noble King,
And guard our Statesmen all
From foul mishaps of every sort,
That vulgar folk enthral.

Two orators, whose venom tongues
Had left a point in doubt,
With weapons of more deadly mould
Resolv’d to fight it out.

The one a squire, of manners blunt,
A patriot staunch within;
The other of a lordly breed,
A courtier tall and thin.

Forth went these wights one Sabbath morn;
Ill luck such acts betide!
Was there no other to be found,
Of all the days beside?

* * * * *

The complete parody may be found in Vol. III of _The Spirit of the Public Journals_ for 1799.

――――

THE NEW CHEVY CHACE.
(_On the occasion of the O. P. Riots._)

God prosper long our noble _King_,
Our cash and comforts all,
In Covent Garden, while I sing,
The _row_ that did befal.

To chase the CAT with howl and horn
JOHN BULL went to the play;
And though she laughed him to scorn,
I trow he won the day.

THE KEMBLES, HARRIS, SON and CO.
Did vow to God――God willing
That for GRIMALKIN and their show
They’d touch――the _other shilling_!

For they a theatre had made,
This famous CAT to squall in;
With “_Annual Boxes_” for the trade
No doubt of caterwalling;

JOHN’S native drama to undo,
With foreign airs and vices――
And so they e’en impos’d their New
And banish’d his “_Old Prices_.”

Their _bowmen_ bold from Bow Street brought,
All chosen men of might
Resolv’d to stuff down Johnny’s throat,
Their prices――wrong or right.

But JOHN whose skull with brains is cramn’d,
Their schemes did soon unriddle,
“And if I have, may I be damn’d,
(Quoth he) your _Cat_ and _Fiddle_!

“What! think you me to tax and gull,
“For building _this here house_!
“Or thinks a _Cat_ to catch JOHN BULL
“Just as she’d catch a mouse?

“Your modesty, upon my soul,
“Much with the ton increases,
“That fain would cram _each pigeon-hole_
“With _seven-shilling pieces_!

“No, no――it will not do, _Black_ JACK
“It shall not do, by Jingo;
“_Old plays and prices_ we’ll have back,
And no outlandish lingo!”

The orchestra struck up in vain,
_Macbeth_ and _wife_ were hiss’d!
And “_Birnham Wood_ to _Dunsinane_”
Unnotic’d pass’d, I wist.

For “_banners on the outward wall_”
The tyrant had no use
Their scrolls within so thick did fall,
Though _ne’er a flag of truce_!

On Monday first the _row_ begun.
Or call it what you may,
’Tis certain they kept up the fun
Until the Saturday.

The actors ran through every scene,
As fast as they could go――
As it a pantomime had been
Or eke, a puppet show.

And though the people that were there
Most loud did roar and rage,
Their backs they all, with special care,
Did turn upon the stage.

O Jove! it was a grief to see,
For word you could not hear――
(Except the speech of Mister Leigh)
A tragedy so queer.

To catgut, cat-call did reply,
With bell and bugle brazen!
And all _the Gods_, that sat on high,
Help’d out the diapason.

Yet bides JACK KEMBLE on the bent,
A Don of thorough blood;
With _aitches_ though his head was rent,
Firm as a mule he stood.

“Show me,” said he, “_what ’tis you want_?
“_What want_ ye here?” he cried
“We neither want your CAT or _cant_,”
Our Englishmen replied.

“Our _notes_, for her’s you shan’t command;
“And for her pipe, perdie,
“We trust we have within the land
“_Five hundred good as she_!”

With that there came a glorious roar,
Of rattles and of row-sticks;
As such there never did before
Confound the _catacousticks_!

Then look’d our manager, I trow,
Like one in doleful dumps;
His pride was humbled to a bow,
Almost upon his stumps.

As thus he said――“At length I yield,
“You’ve got what you have wish’d;
“You’ve won, JOHN BULL, you’ve won the field,
“And so――_the cat is dish’d_!”

God save the King, and bless the land,
Our liberties and laws,
And thus may Britons ever stand,
United in their cause.

From _The Morning Chronicle_. September 30, 1809.

This parody refers to the most extraordinary series of disturbances, known as the O.P. Riots, which took place in the new Covent Garden Theatre, commencing on the opening night, September 18, 1809, and lasting, almost without intermission, till December 16, when the old charges were restored. John Philip Kemble, the tragedian, and manager of the theatre, was singled out for special disapproval, the outcries against the _Cat_ (Madame Catalani) were also very bitter, as it was generally supposed the prices had been raised owing to her exorbitant salary. Madame Catalani’s business agent used to ask five hundred guineas for her appearance at a concert, which was considered an enormous sum in those days.

Kemble (styled _Black Jack_, on account of his dark complexion and black hair), had a pedantic way of pronouncing _ache_ as _aitche_.

A PROTECTIONIST PARODY.

God prosper long our noble Queen,
Our lands and purses all;
A woeful ruin once there did
In Parliament befall.

The sly Sir Robert Turnabout,[46]
A solemn vow did make,
To scout the aristocracy,
And make the farmers quake.

The Landowners to terrify,
The Corn-laws to repeal.
These tidings to Lord Bentinck came,
Who wished his country’s weal.

He sent Sir Robert present word,
He shouldn’t pass his bill;
Sir Turnabout, not fearing this,
Replied, “Indeed, I will.”

For full three hundred backed him up,
A force in numbers strong,
Who knew full well in time of need
To give their votes a-wrong.

The “Turncoats” mustered in the “House,”
Taunts able to endure;
Their faces all that day were made
Of brass, you may be sure.

And long before midnight they had
Their pledges rendered vain;
And when they’d dined, the _whipper-in_
Soon drove them back again.

Sir Robert went――his speech complete――
To view his friends so queer;
Quoth he, “Lord Bentinck promised
This night should cost me dear:

Now, if I thought he would not come,
I’d have my Com-mit-tee.”
With that, says Bright, “Friend Turnabout,
A sight you now may see.

Lo! yonder doth Lord Bentinck stand,
His friends replete with spite;
Two hundred stout Protectionists,
To _cheer_ the live-long night;

All sturdy agriculturists,
True to their pledges still.”
“Then leave your dinners,” Bobby said,
“And Treasury benches fill,

And now with me, my Turnabouts,
Set forth fallacious words,
For never was there statesman yet,
In Commons House, or Lords,

That e’er did with statistics come,
But if he proved too strong,
I durst cook up some others quick,
To show that his were wrong.”

Lord Bentinck, on his hobby-horse,
Most like an honest man,
Stood foremost of his company,
And straightway thus began:

“Show me,” said he, “What right have ye,
The farmer’s gains to steal,
To rob the agriculturists,
The Corn-laws to Repeal?”

The man who longest answer made,
Was turn-coat Bobby, he
Who said, “We have the right of power
And of _majority_.”

* * * * *

Forth stept a manufacturer
(Dick Cobden was his name)
Who said, “I would not have it told
Unto ‘The League’ for shame,

That e’er this bill was fairly passed,
To make our traffic free,
And I took not that time t’abuse
The Aristocracy.

I’ll jaw as long as jaw I may,
Although I’m proved quite wrong,
Whilst I have place in Parliament
I’ll never hold my tongue.”

* * * * *

The fight did last twelve live long nights,
(The matter was so deep;)
And when they cleared the gallery,
The Speaker fell asleep!

Two hundred men and seventy
That day remained true;
The rest did rat with Turnabout,
And voted black was blue.

Then tidings to Lord Stanley came,
That Bentinck’s lord was beat,
And that at last Protection’s cause
Had suffered sore defeat.

“Now heaven be with us,” Stanley said,
“And Robert, what is he?
I trust we have within this Isle,
Leaders more trustworthy.

Yet shall not Bob nor turn-coats say,
But we will vengeance take:
We’ll be revenged upon them all,
For our good farmers’ sake.

This vow full well the chief performed,
As _Irish bills_ explain,
For Turnabout was then kicked out,
And won’t come in again.

Honour to you, Protectionists,
Bob and his lot shall fall,
For if _they kept_ their _places, you_
Have _kept your pledges all_!

(_26 verses are here given, the complete Parody contains 48._)

From _Protectionist Parodies_. By a Tory. J. Vincent Oxford. 1850.

――――

CHEVY CHASE.

_New Version of the old Ballad of Chivalry, adapted to our unchivalric days._

God prosper long our gracious Queen,
And may no more befall,
So foul a fight as that rude fray,
Which Chevy[47] Chase we call.

To lead the House, with care and pain,
Grey Gladstone did essay.
The churl may shame that is unborn
The manners of that day.

The suave Sir Stafford[48] to oppose
His _devoir_ did with grace;
A gentler pair of gallant foes
Stood never face to face.

But forth there stepped a cheeky Squire,
Randolpho[49] was his name,
Who cried, “You don’t call _this_ a fight?
Your style is much too tame!

“You shall not fool about like this,
And I stand looking on.
You be too muffs,” Randolpho[49] said,
“I’d lick the pair alone!

“I’ll do the best that do I may,
Although not Old or Grand.
All this punctilio is rot;
I’ll fight for my own hand!”

Then straight arose a vulgar row,
Shaming good hearts and true;
Coarse words like poisoned arrows went,
And smirched where they not slew.

To still the storm, with broken voice,
Grey Gladstone did his best;
A Captain he of mickle might,
Who never stooped his crest.

But howls rose fast on every side,
No courtesy was found;
And yahoo yells of laughter rude,
His struggling accents drowned.

O Saints! it was great grief to see
How pale he did appear,
While flout and shout flew all about,
Rude laugh, and ruthless jeer.

This fight did last till Gladstone grey
Shamed _some_ of such coarse fun.
Hoarse was that voice, erst like a bell,
That long-tried strength foredone.

Lo! conscience pricks the brave Sir Hicks,[50]
A Knight of courtesie;
On that black bench churl hearts might blench,
And fail of their cad glee.

For Randolpho needs must I wail
As one in doleful dumps,
Aping the rough who kicks his foe,
And on his body jumps.

Smart Squire, who well might be brave Knight,
Him pity ’tis to see
Hounding rude clowns on, in despite
Of gallant Chivalry.

Let Irish churls of small account
Thus play the unknightly lout;
Let inarticulate Tory sumphs
Thus rudely yell and shout;

But one of brain and gentle blood
Should deem it less disgrace
To join some Cockney Epping Hunt
Than lead a Chevy Chase!

God save the Queen, and bless the land
With plenty, joy, and peace;
And grant henceforth that foul debate
’Twixt gentlemen may cease!

_Punch._ May 30, 1885.

――――:o:――――

LORD BATEMAN.

One of the best known of our old Ballads is _Lord Beichan_, or _Buchan_. This is corrupted in the modern English form to _Lord Bateman_; the ballad commences thus:

“Lord Bateman was a noble lord,
A noble lord of high degree;
He shipped himself on board a ship,
He longed strange countries for to see.”

Cruikshank collectors will remember that the artist chose this ballad for illustrating, and small as is the book, a copy of the original 1839 edition sold for £5 15s. at Sotherby’s last year. Of course Cruikshank’s version is comic, and the history of it is that he sang the ballad at a dinner of the Antiquarian society, to the air, and with the cockney pronunciation he had heard given to it by a street ballad singer. Dickens was present at the dinner, and offered to supply the illustrative notes (which are exceedingly humorous), Cruikshank etched the plates, and almost innumerable editions of the little book have been published; the most recent having been issued a few years since by Messrs. Bell and Daldy, London.

THE NEW BALLAD OF LORD BATEMAN.

Lord Bateman wos a noble Lord,
Wot held Free Trade pure fiddlededee;
So he up and he moved in the House of Peers,
In favour of Sweet Reciprocitee!

He maundered here, he meandered there,
For a good two hours, or, some say, three,
In the style of oration called roundaboutation,
Until his hearers they wos wearee.