Chapter XVIII: Part 48: Songs by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and various old English (18)

Cheer, boys! cheer! no more of idle sorrow,
Courage, true hearts, shall bear us on our way!
Hope points before, and shows the bright to-morrow,
Let us forget the darkness of to-day!
So farewell, England! Much as we may love thee,
We’ll dry the tears that we have shed before;
Why should we weep to sail in search of fortune?
So farewell, England! farewell evermore!

Cheer, boys! cheer! for England, mother England!
Cheer, boys! cheer! the willing strong right hand,
Cheer, boys! cheer! there’s work for honest labour――
Cheer, boys! cheer!――in the new and happy land!

C. MACKAY.

* * * * *

――――

BEER! BOYS, BEER!

Beer! Boys, Beer! for that’s the stuff for sorrow,
Forage out more, we will, upon our way;
The score behind the door, we’ll make right to-morrow,
When we get over the drinking of to-day.
So, farewell, Landlord, much as we may owe thee,
We’ll dry the pots up, if you’ll only draw;
Why should we sleep? let’s drink to better fortune;
So Farewell, Landlord, Farewell, old boy, hurrah!

Beer! Boys, Beer! all over town and country,
Beer! Boys, Beer! with pewter pot in hand;
Beer! Boys, Beer! for all who don’t mind labour,
Beer! Boys, Beer! who a gallon’s going to stand?

Beer! Boys, Beer, off the froth we’re blowing,
Our throats to freely pour down Barclay’s best;
The “Bobby” may follow in the track we’re going
The “Star and Garter” we’ll drop in, to rest,
Though we have toil, we’ve skittles to reward it,
But when we’ve plenty, we’ll do our Champagne:
Then ours shall be Port and Sherry for the poorest,
And foaming measures we’ll fill and fill again.

Beer! Boys, Beer! all over town and country,
Beer! Boys, Beer! united, pot in hand;
Beer! Boys, Beer! for all who hardly labour,
Beer! Boys, Beer! who the next is going to stand?

J. A. HARDWICK.

――――

VOTE, BOYS, VOTE!

Vote, boys, vote, for Freedom’s noble leader;
Shout, boys, shout, our chieftain’s battle cry.
Ireland’s wrongs at length have found a pleader
Ireland’s hope at length is drawing nigh
Long her barque has seemed like one benighted,
Drifting down a troubled, shoreless sea;
But at last a welcome haven’s sighted
Leading on to peace and liberty.
_Chorus_――Vote, boys, vote, &c.

Chamberlain and Hartington and Goschen
May attempt to thwart the nation’s will;
But the British people’s true devotion
Centres in their honoured chieftain still.
Trust again the troth he’s nobly plighted
And he’ll reach the welcome promised goal――
Erin’s sons, by ties of love united,
Shall be “one with Britain’s, heart and soul.”

F. TOPHAM.
_The Weekly Dispatch._ June 27, 1886.

――――

BEER, BOYS, BEER!

Beer, boys, beer! No more absurd restriction,
Courage, Bass, Meux, and Barclay must give way;
Half pints and quarts have vanish’d like a fiction,
Why then, submit to the brewers’ despot sway?
Brown stout of England! much as we may love thee,
(Which, by the way, I rather think we do,)
Pale draught of India, shall they charge us for ye,
Twice what you’re worth, for the profit of a few?
Beer, boys, beer! abundant, deep, and vasty!
Beer, boys, beer! the stunning, strong and grand!
Beer, boys, beer! the cheap, and not the nasty!
Beer, boys, beer! at a price a man can stand!

Beer, boys, beer! The present scale of prices,
Leads to a style of tipple not the best;
Vile Spanish root, and quassia, which not nice is,
Bad for the bile, and oppressive to the chest.
But, let’s unite with hearty agitation;
Push for our rights, and battle might and main;
And ours shall be a large yet brimming tankard
Of real wholesome stuff, brew’d out of roasted grain.
Beer, boys, beer! no more of gentian’s nausea;
Beer, boys, beer! with liquorice away!
Beer, boys, beer! no logwood chips or quassia,
Beer! boys, beer, which is all I have to say!

_Diogenes_, Vol. II. 1853.

――――:o:――――

THE GOOD TIME COMING.

There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
We may not live to see the day,
But earth shall glisten in the ray
Of the good time coming.
Cannon-balls may aid the truth,
But thought’s a weapon stronger;
We’ll win our battle by its aid;――
_Wait a little longer_.

There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
The pen shall supersede the sword,
And Right, not Might, shall be the lord
In the good time coming.
Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind,
And be acknowledged stronger;
The proper impulse has been given;――
_Wait a little longer_.

* * * * *
(_Six verses omitted._)

CHARLES MACKAY.

This song, which was one of a series entitled “Voices from the Crowd,” originally appeared in the second number of the _Daily News_ (London).

Most of Dr. Charles Mackay’s songs breathe sentiments of hope for the future of the people, and trust in their good sense and ability to govern themselves. Such sentiments were very unpopular forty years ago, when revolutions were of frequent occurrence on the Continent, and Chartism was dreaded in England. Hence Mackay’s verses were parodied as follows:――

THE PICKPOCKET’S BLESSING.
(_By Charles Quackay._)

Curses on thee, haughty England!
Shall thy sad heart-broken child
Pray for blessings on a parent,
Who hath well-nigh made him wild?
Why should I prate of thy freedom,
When I’m laden with the weight
Of two hundred pounds of iron,
Forged by thy much-vaunted State?
Wait awhile, boys! Go ahead.
Safety comes for thieves and knaves,
Felons shall not then be slaves――
Go ahead, boys! Go ahead!

When a child I prigged an apple,
When a youth I “faked a cly,”
When a man I shot a keeper;
And for this am I to die,
In a land of iron bondage,
Bound by chains I cannot break,
Scorned by every honest dotard?――
Yet some day my wrath I’ll slake!
Wait awhile, boys! Go ahead! &c.

Richly fed and richly clothed,
Was the honest greasy fool,
Who in judgment sat upon me;
He, of tyrant’s wretched tool,
Ne’er, forsooth, stole fruit or kerchief;
Richly fed and richly clothed,
Each unhappy wretch he punished,
As a thing he deeply loathed.
Wait awhile, boys! Go ahead, &c.

I was led before a jury,
Stuffed and gorged with choicest food;
They, vile enemies of freedom,
Sentenced me, in coolest mood,
To be bound in iron fetters,
’Midst the basest of mankind.
But though mine are chains of iron,
Theirs are chains which gird the mind!
Wait awhile, boys! Go ahead!
Safety comes for thieves and knaves,
Felons shall not then be slaves――
Go ahead, boys! Go ahead!

(_Five verses omitted._)

This parody occurs in a very scarce pamphlet, of which no copy is to be found in the Library of the British Museum, entitled _The Puppet-Showman’s Album_, illustrated by Gavarni. This is not dated, but it was evidently printed about 1848, or 1849. It contains imitations, either in prose or verse, of Lord Macaulay, Bulwer Lytton, Leigh Hunt, G. P. R. James, B. Disraeli, Charles Dickens, Charles Lever, A. Tennyson, Thomas Carlyle, W. M. Thackeray, W. H. Ainsworth, Douglas Jerrold, Walter Savage Landor, Mrs. Trollope, John Wilson Croker, Charles Mackay, Albert Smith, and Coventry Patmore.

VOICES FROM THE CROWD IN FLEET STREET.

There’s a good road making, boys,
A good road making;
We may not live to see the day,
But there will be an open way
O’er the good road making:
Paviours may tear up the street,
In time they’ll make it stronger;
’Tis true they’re always at it, but
_Wait a little longer_!

There’s a good road making, boys,
A good road making;
The sewers shall supersede the gas,
When paviours, perhaps, might let us pass
O’er the good road making:
Pipes and earth shall stop the way,
Or bricks, which are the stronger,
To jobs the impulse has been given,
_Wait a little longer_!

There’s a good road making, boys,
A good road making;
Loud and fierce shall be the cry
From the cabs, that can’t get by
On the good road making:
Carts and ’busses shall contend,
To see which is the stronger,
And panels smash for smashing’s sake――
_Wait a little longer_!

(_Three verses omitted._)

There’s a good road making, boys,
A good road making;
The drivers shall be temperate,
Nor swear at such a frightful rate,
On the good road making;
They shall use――and not abuse――
Then patience will grow stronger,
When ’tis not so sorely tried,
_Wait a little longer_!

There’s a good road making, boys,
A good road making;
Let them get what aid they can,
Every boy and every man,
On the good road making:
Smallest helps, if rightly given,
Make the impulse stronger,
Fleet Street will be clear――some day――
_Wait a little longer_!

GILBERT ABBOTT à BECKETT.
From _The Almanack of the Month_. September, 1846.

――――

THE WAITER.

I met the waiter in his prime
At a magnificent hotel;
His hair untinged by care or time,
Was oiled and brushed exceeding well.
When “Waiter,” was the impatient cry,
In accents growing stronger,
He seemed to murmur “By and by,
_Wait a little longer_.”

Within a year we met once more,
’Twas in another part of town――
An humbler air the waiter wore,
I fancied he was going down.
Still, when I shouted, “Waiter, bread!”
He came out rather stronger,
As if he’d say with toss of head,
_Wait a little longer_.”

Time takes us on through many a grade;
Of “ups and downs” I’ve had my run,
Passing full often through the shade,
And sometimes loitering in the sun.
I and the waiter met again
At a small inn at Ongar;
Still, when I called, ’twas almost vain,
_He bade me wait the longer_.

Another time, years since the last――
At eating-house I sought relief
From present care and troubles past,
In a small plate of round of beef.
“One beef, and taturs,” was the cry,
In tones than mine much stronger;
’Twas the old waiter standing by,
“_Wait a little longer_.”

I’ve marked him now for many a year;
I’ve seen his coat more rusty grow;
His linen is less bright and clear;
His polished pumps are on the go.
Torn are, alas! his Berlin gloves――
They used to be much stronger;
The waiter’s whole appearance proves
_He cannot wait much longer_.

I sometimes see the waiter still;
’Gainst want he wages feeble strife;
He’s at the bottom of the hill,
Downward has been his path through life.
Of “Waiter, waiter,” there are cries,
Which louder grow and stronger;
’Tis to old Time he now replies
“_Wait a little longer_.”

_Punch._

――――

IT’S A LONG TIME COMING.

It’s a long time coming, boys,
A long time coming;
We may not live to see the day,
But lords their tailors’ bills shall pay
In this good time coming.
Politicians then shall speak the truth,
The people’s cause be stronger,
And thrive without e’en Cuffey’s aid――
_Wait a little longer_.

It’s a long time coming, boys,
A long time coming;
To foster foul disease shall be,
No certain proof of loyalty,
In the good time coming.
Those men that hate the use of soap
Shall not then be the stronger,
Nor poison hosts for custom’s sake――
_Wait a little longer_.

* * * * *
(_Two verses omitted._)

_The Puppet-Show._ June 3, 1848.

――――

HAPPY ARCADIA.

(“General” Booth says that “the Salvation Army is the natural antidote to all the evils on the earth.”)

There’s a good time coming, boys
A good time coming;
The “General” has pointed out,
How all the ill’s of life he’ll rout
In the good time coming.
Tho’ fortune’s frown may threaten us,
The “Army” is still stronger,
The _War Cry’s_ raised――the battle’s won――
_Wait_ a little longer.

There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming;
Bubble companies may break,
Love-sick maiden’s hearts may ache,
Till the good time coming,
Altho’ woe now may seem supreme,
The “Army” will prove stronger,
Then mirth and jollity shall reign――
Wait a _little_ longer.

There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming;
Ould Oirland will be our joy,
“Deceased Wife’s Sister” won’t annoy
In the good time coming.
The Nihilists may menace us,
The “Army” still is stronger,
Our land _will_ be Utopia――
Wait a little _longer_.

There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming;
We’ll have then the Millennium,
Earth will be an Elysium,
In the good time coming.
We only need to join the “Army,”
And make it daily stronger,
And if ills yet _will_ come, why we
_Must go on waiting longer_!

_Fun._ June 16, 1886.

――――

THERE’S A GOOD TIME COMING.

There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming,
When truth and justice will prevail,
And all shall listen to the tale,
In the good time coming;
Every day shall aid our cause,
And make conviction stronger,
That Toryism’s but a snare――
Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming,
There’s a good time coming, boys,
Wait a little longer.

There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming,
Education shall be free
To the poor man’s family,
In the good time coming;
No class shall be privileged
Though it were ten times stronger.
But all shall share the general good,
Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys, &c.

There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming,
For the owners of the soil
Starving peasants shall not toil
In the good time coming;
Primogeniture shall be
No struggling people’s wronger,
Nor rents be raised at landlords’ wills,
Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys, &c.

There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming,
Sinecures shall have no pay,
Endowments shall be swept away,
In the good time coming;
A pensioned aristocracy,
Which now is growing stronger,
No longer shall impair the State,
Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys, &c.

* * * * *
(_Several verses omitted._)

From _Songs for Liberal Electors_. 1886.

――――

LIBERAL UNION.

The past has proved a trying time,
And friends, once reckoned hearty,
Have left us now, and vengeance vow
Against the Liberal party.
And are we sorry? Truly, yes.
And hopeless? Nay, not we!
For we all know
Our cause must grow,
Till we victorious be!
Aye, our thinned ranks will fill again!
Already we grow stronger.
There’s a good time coming, boys!
So wait a little longer!

Some who have left us will come back:
Nor need the loss much grieve us
If those who flagg’d and often lagg’d
When with us, wholly leave us.
For, purged of traitors and of cowards,
With whom we’d no communion,
The country soon
Will bless that boon,
A real Liberal Union!
Then we for conquest or defence
Shall stauncher be and stronger;
Nor is this happy time far off;
We shall not wait much longer.

_Truth Christmas Number._ 1886.

――――

There was also a parody of this song in _The Hornet_, May 22, 1872, which is now quite out of date, and another appeared in the _St. Stephen’s Review_ for July 2, 1887. This prophesies that there will be a “good time coming” when an eminent politician goes to――――a certain warm but unmentionable place――the good taste of which assertion might not be obvious to some over sensitive people, so the parody is omitted.

Dr. Mackay wrote a number of other songs. “To the West! To the West!” was very popular; it was imitated in some verses entitled “I’m in Love! I’m in Love!”; whilst “Far, far upon the sea” was parodied by J. A. Hardwick as “Pa, out upon the spree,” in three very coarse and slangy verses, which cannot have a place here.

CAREY’S “SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.”

――――

LABBY IN OUR ABBEY.

Of all the Rads that are so smart
There’s none like witty Labby;
He’s played of late a leading part,
So he’ll be at the Abbey;
No institution in the land
Escapes the sneers of Labby,
But all the same, I understand,
He’s going to the Abbey.

Of all the days within the week
There’s one that will be _the_ day,
And that’s a day that’s quite unique,
Victoria’s Jubilee Day.
Then he’ll be dressed in all his best
With nothing old or shabby;
He may be snarling in his heart,
But he’ll be at the Abbey.

He tried to dock the vote, you know,
For fitting up the Abbey;
Perhaps he’d like the Queen to go
And hail the nearest cabby;
All sentiment for England’s Queen
He designates as “flabby;”
But _Truth_ must needs describe the scene,
So he’ll be at the Abbey.

_The Globe._ June 20, 1887.

――――

LABBY AND HIS BABBY.

Of all the would-be witty Rads
There’s none like clowning Labby;
He is the Mother Gamp of fads
And farms the Home Rule Babby.
Not even Lawson, of the Pump,
Whose jokelets all are flabby,
When on the water-swilling stump,
Is in the hunt with Labby.

In fine old Saxon flowers of speech,
A bargee or a cabby
Would own there’s nothing left to teach
The conscript Father Labby.
Bad are his jokes, but even worse
His Parliamentary manners,
And so he’s chosen for dry-nurse
By Conybeares and Tanners.

On all the days right through the week,
From Monday until Friday,
Incessantly does Labby speak,
He never has a bye-day;
And, sucking at Obstruction-pap,
The wizened Home Rule babby
Squalls, howls, and chokes, upon the lap
Of Parnell’s dry-nurse Labby.

J.W.P.
_St. Stephen’s Review._ July 2, 1887.

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER.
Better known as BARRY CORNWALL.
Born about 1787. Died October, 1874.

――――:o:――――

THE BEST OF ALL GOOD COMPANY.

Sing!――Who sings
To her who weareth a hundred rings?
Ah! who is this lady fine?
The Vine, boys, the Vine!
The mother of mighty Wine.
A roamer is she
O’er wall and tree,
And sometimes very good company.

Drink!――Who drinks
To her who blusheth and never thinks?
Ah! who is this maid of thine?
The Grape, boys, the Grape!
O, never let her escape
Until she be turned to Wine!
For better is she
Than Vine can be,
And very, very good company!

Dream!―― Who dreams
Of the God that governs a thousand streams?
Ah! who is this Spirit fine?
’Tis Wine, boys, ’tis Wine!
God Bacchus, a friend of mine.
O, better is he
Than Grape or tree,
And the best of all good company.

B. W. PROCTER.

――――

AN OMNIBUSIAN SONG.

Ride! Who rides
In a ’bus that taketh twelve insides?
Ah! who is this lady fine
That falls on this lap of mine?
A lady is she,
As big as three.
I prefer her room to her company.

Smoke! Who smokes
To the great annoyance of other folks?
Ah! who is this snob so fine?
A gent, Sirs! a gent!
He comes with the noxious scent
Of tobacco, beer, and wine:
Far better that he
On the roof should be.
I prefer his room to his company.

_Punch._ September 17, 1853.

――――

Sing! Who sings
Of him who weareth the fine gold rings,
Ah, who is the party fine?
The Jew I divine,
Who works the Brummagem line.
In “h’s” he
Is a dealer free,
And very unpleasant company.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

A CHAUNT FOR THE CHOUSED.

Dine? who’d dine
At eight shillings a head, or even nine,
With the heaviest price for the lightest wine?
Ah! that house I know too well,
’Tis your “first-class” Hotel:
Sad “Tales of my Landlord” there they tell
Far better for me
To order tea,
And go dinnerless at that hostelry.

Sleep? who’d sleep
Where a standing army their quarters keep,
And in countless legions upon you creep?
Ah! whose form is that I see,――
A flea! Sirs, a flea!
He cometh to sup off me.
Far better, say I,
On the sofa to lie;
I prefer his room to his company.

Stay? who’d stay
To be bitten and fleeced in this wholesale way,
And live at the rate of a fortune a day?
Ah! who’ll expose their crimes?
The _Times_, Sirs, the _Times_,
The waiter his fee declines;
Tell the landlord from me
Him further I’ll see,
Ere again I’ll be fleeced at his hostelry.

_Punch._ October, 1853.

――――:o:――――

THE SEA.

The sea, the sea, the open sea,
The blue, the fresh, the ever free:
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth’s wide region round:
It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies,
Or like a cradled creature lies.
I’m on the sea, I’m on the sea,
I am where I would ever be,
With the blue above and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe’er I go.
If a storm should come and awake the deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love, O how I love to ride
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,
Where every mad wave drowns the moon,
And whistles aloft its tempest tune:
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the south-west wind doth blow.
I never was on the dull, tame shore,
But I loved the great sea more and more,
And backward flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh her mother’s nest――
And a mother she was and is to me,
For I was born on the open sea.

The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born;
The whale it whistled, the porpoise roll’d,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such an outcry wild,
As welcom’d to life the ocean child.
I have lived since then in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers a rover’s life,
With wealth to spend, and a power to range,
But never have sought or sighed for change;
And death, whenever he comes to me,
Shall come on the wild unbounded sea!

B. W. PROCTER.

――――

THE CAM, THE CAM.

The Cam! the Cam! the dirty Cam!
The green, the brown, the black, the blue!
Of every shade, of every hue,
It runneth the list of colours through!
It plays with the sedge, it stagnant crawls,
Or like an o’erfilled kennel brawls.
I’m on the Cam! I’m on the Cam!
Where I never again will be, I am;
With the blue above, and the mud below,
And weeds are wheresoe’er I go――

From _The Individual_. November 29, 1836. Cambridge: W. H. Smith.

――――

THE PIPE.

The pipe, the pipe, the German pipe!
The short, the long, the meerschaum ripe!
Its odorous puffs without a sound,
They float my head’s wide regions round;
They rise in clouds and mock the skies,
While _Backy_ snugly cradled lies.
My hookha wide! my hookha deep!
I’ve that which I would ever keep;
With the smoke above, and smoke below,
And smoke wheresoe’er I go.
If a storm (like a Chinese gong) should ring
What matters that? I’ll smoke and sing.
What matters, &c.

I love――oh! how I love to smoke,
And drink full bumpers of th’ foaming soak!
And when its waves have drowned my soul,
I’ll whistle aloud such a “Tol-de-rol!”
Don’t ask me where the world is going,
Nor why the sou’-west _blast_ is blowing.
I never breathed the dull tame air,
But I relished my great pipe mair and mair,
And back again flew for a soothing puff,
Like a bird――I’m sure that’s quick enough.
My _mother_ it is, and I’ll prove it to ye,
(Much more of a mother than the open sea!)
For _smoking_, I am at it ever and ever!
I hope your comment on this line is “clever!”

For fear of growing at all lackadaisical
I hasten to lay down my pen _parody_-sical;
In truth these stanzas concluding with somewhat
’Bout “birth” and “death,” which things I can’t come
I’ve only one word, and that’s to crave pardon,
These sweet pretty verses that I’ve been so hard on.

From _The Individual_. Cambridge, January 31, 1837.

――――

THE GIN, THE GIN!

The gin! the gin! Hodge’s Cordial Gin!
It fairly makes our heads to spin;
It gives us marks, and without bound,
It turneth our head completely round;
It plays with our eyes, it mocks our brain,
And sends us rolling in the drain.
I love the gin! I love the gin!
And in a butt of it I could swim,
Or ever live among butts below,
For the juniper’s taste so well I know;
If a drunken storm should rise, and a row begin,
What matter? We’ll settle it all with Gin.

I love, I love――oh, how I love to bide,
With a flowing gin-cask by my side;
Where every quartern gives relief,
We whistle a stave, and drown all grief;
And when our browns to the host we show,
The gin-cock then will merrily flow.
I never tasted watery swipes,
But I always found they gave me the gripes;
So back I flew to my favourite juice,
Until my sorrows were all reduced.
No three-outs I’ll have, but my whack to the brim.
For when I was born my mother gave me gin.

The gin it flow’d the glasses to adorn,
On the drunken hour when I was born;
The nurse she sang, but I did scream,
My mother called out for valley’s cream;
And never was known such a drunken crush,
As welcomed to life this child of lush!
I’ve lived since then in riot and din,
Full thirty winters quite warm with gin;
With ready blunt to the shops I range,
But where I find it good I never change;
And Death, whene’er it comes so grim,
Shall find me guzzling Hodge’s gin.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE MAIL! THE MAIL!

The Mail! The Mail! The Royal Mail,
The black, the red, the never pale;
Without a bar, without a gate
She runneth from Cork to Dublin straight,
She plays with the stones, she mocks the sands,
Or like a tilted waggon stands.
I’m on the Mail, I’m on the Mail!
I am where I would ever sail,
With the dust before and the dust behind,
And driving straight before the wind,
If a storm should come, and disturb my ride,
What matter! what matter! I can jump inside.

I love, O! how I love to drive,
To urge the wheelers all alive,
While every loose stone strikes the box,
Or rattles aloft and the boot top knocks,
And tells how goeth the road below,
Or why the panting leaders blow,
I never was in a dull post chaise,
But on the Mail was fain to gaze,
And jumped again on the buoyant box,
Like an ape that sits on its native rocks,
And my native place I always hail,
For I was born, was born in the “Royal Mail.”

The roads were rough, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born,
The wind it whistled, the sign-board swung,
The leaders jobled, and out they flung,
And never was heard such an outcry wild
As welcomed to life the coachman’s child.
I have lived since then on ale and gin,
Full fifty summers and not grown thin,
With a coach to run and a team to drive,
And never have sought or sighed to wive,
And love if ever in that I engage,
Must come on the fast light bounding Stage.

From _Wiseheart’s New Comic Songster_, Dublin. No date.

――――

THE ROAD.

The road, the road, the turnpike road!
The brown, the hard, the smooth, the broad,
Without a check, without an end,
Horses against horses on it contend;
Men laugh at the gate, they bilk the tolls,
Or stop and pay like honest souls.
I’m on the road, I’m on the road,
I’m never so blithe as when abroad,
With the hills above, and the vales below,
And merry wheresoever I go,
If the opposition appears in sight
What matters――we’ll soon make that all right.

I love――oh! how I love to ride,
With a smiling damsel by my side,
Where every prad keeps well his pace,
Nor draws my eye from the sweet one’s face.
Nought tells how goeth the time of day,
Nor why the hours so fly away.
I never heard the angry sea roar,
But I love the dry land more and more;
And away have flown to my box and reins,
For whips and wheel sounds are my favourite strains;
On my team is all my care bestow’d,
For I was born on the turnpike road!

The clouds were dark, and grey the morn,
In the hazy hour when I was born;
The guard he whistled, the coach it roll’d,
And the outriders shrieked and shivered with cold,
And never was heard such a curious din,
As when the road-child the world popt in.
I have driven since then in fair and rough,
Full forty winters, a traveller tough,
With primest of cattle, and carriages neat,
And never had a spill or beat,
And death, whenever he looks for me,
Shall come on the road, and not on the sea.

From _The London Singer’s Magazine_.

――――

THE STEAK.

Of steak, of steak――of prime rump steak――
A slice of half-inch thickness take,
Without a blemish, soft and sound;
In weight a little more than a pound.
Who’d cook a steak――who’d cook a steak,
Must a fire clear proceed to make:
With the red above and the red below.
In one delicious, genial glow.
If a coal should come, a blaze to make,
Have patience! You mustn’t put on your steak.

First rub――yes, rub――with suet fat,
The gridiron’s bars, then on it flat,
Impose the meat; and the fire soon,
Will make it sing a delicious tune,
And when ’tis brown’d by the genial glow,
Just turn the upper side below.
Both sides with brown being cover’d o’er,
For a moment you broil your steak no more,
But on a hot dish let it rest,
And add of butter a slice of the best;
In a minute or two the pepper-box take,
And with it gently dredge your steak.

When seasoned quite, upon the fire
Some further time it will require;
And over and over be sure to turn
Your steak till done――nor let it burn:
For nothing drives me half so wild
As a nice rump steak in the cooking _spiled_.
I’ve lived in pleasure mixed with grief,
On fish and fowl, and mutton and beef;
With plenty of cash, and power to range,
But my steak I never wished to change:
For a steak was always a treat to me,
At breakfast, luncheon, dinner, or tea.

_Punch._

――――

THE TEA! THE TEA!

The tea! the tea! the genuine tea!
Souchong, Young Hyson, Gunpowder, Bohea――
Without a leaf that was not found,
Growing on Noqua’s famous ground.
It fills the teapot, and from the spout,
The hand of beauty pours it out.

I’m for the tea! I’m for the tea!
No chocolate, coffee, or such for me――
No sky-blue milk to blend with its flow――
No silence when round doth the tea-tray go!
If friends drop in, we will hail with glee
Their presence, and quaff our cups of tea!

I love――oh! how I love to sip,
The green――green tea with my willing lip,
When the toast is brown and the muffins hot,
And there’s plenty of tea in the China pot,
And to talk some scandal and how below,
Matters and things in this world do go.

I never sat down with a dull tame “bore,”
But I loved a tea-party more and more;
And I backward flew to the cheerful sup
Like a bird that nibbles its sugar up;
And sugar it was, and more to me,
For ’twas blent with the flavour of good green tea.

The clouds were dull and rainy the morn――
So the gossips say when I was born.
The kettle sung and the jest was told,
And the teacups and saucers were green and gold.
And never was heard such a chattering wild,
As welcomed to Congo the China child.

I’ve lived since then upon “heavy wet,”
And all sorts of drinks which a man can get,
With splitting headaches and purpled nose,
With empty pockets and tattered clothes!
But I’ve signed the pledge, and when death seeks me,
He shall find me over a cup of tea!

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE SEE.

The See, the See, the wealthy See!
I can’t resign it gratis free;
Within the mark――within fair bounds――
I think I may say six thousand pounds――
That is little enough――but one’s heart’s in the skies――
Therefore one can’t be worldly wise.

I’m in the See, I’m in the See,
I am where I may ever be.
Suppose I do not choose to go,
What do you say then; yes or no?
Of the whole of the income I stand possessed,
And I can’t be turn’d out of my mother’s nest,
For a Mother the Church has been to me,
And I was born for her fattest See.

I love my See, my wealthy See,
I scorn the idea of Simony;
But I must take care what I’m about,
Six thousand a-year and I’ll turn out.
My offer you had better take,
And you will, if you are wide awake,
For Death, whenever he comes to me,
Can alone compel me to quit my See.

_Punch._ August 2, 1856.

――――

THE TEA.
_By Carry Bornwall._

The tea! the tea! the beef, beef tea!
The brew from gravy-beef for me!
Without a doubt, as I’ll be bound,
The best for an invalid ’tis found;
It’s better than gruel; with sago vies;
Or with the cradled babe’s supplies.

I like beef-tea! I like beef-tea,
I’m satisfied, and aye shall be,
With the brew I love, with the brew I know,
And take it wheresoe’er I go.
If the price should rise, or meat be cheap
No matter! I’ll to beef-tea keep.

I love――oh, how I love to guide
The strong beef-tea to its place inside,
When round and round you stir the spoon,
Or whistle thereon to cool it soon.
Because one knoweth, or ought to know,
That things get cool whereon you blow.

I never have drunk the dull souchong,
But I for my loved beef-tea did long,
And inly yearned for that bountiful zest,
Like a bird: as a child on that I messed――
And a mother it was and is to me,
For I was weaned on the beef――beef-tea!

TOM HOOD, the younger.

――――

OPERATIC MEM.

“When the C. from the chest is produced for the first time, the delight of the tenor is supposed to be so great that he bursts out into something like the following:

THE C! The C!
The ALTO C!
Most singers never get past B,
Nor reach that most expensive sound.
The C, which now at last I’ve found,――
The C! that treasure which to gain,
Lessees shall hunt no more in vain.
I’m up to C!
I’m up to C!
I am where I ne’er hoped to be!”

_Diogenes_, Volume ii. 1853.

――――

THE VAN-DEMON.

The Van, the Van! the hurrying Van!
Terror alike of beast and man;
With awful rush and roaring sound
It thunders merrily over the ground.
It smashes the cabs, it crushes the flies,
Before it in ruin the tax-cart lies.
I’m on the Van, I’m on the Van!
Let people get out of the way who can.

Jolly the day when the Van was born,
In the noddle of Pickford, or Chaplin and Horne;
Says they, “The people denounce as slow
The waggons so huge from our yards that go.
We’ll build a Van that hath equal space,
And horse it with horses that go the pace;
With a scowling blackguard the box we’ll man,
Let people get out of the way who can.”

I have lived since then in storm and strife,
The fierce Van-Demon’s right jovial life.
I drive like mad,――if a cove complains,
He gets an oath or a cut for his pains;
And right and left doth the traffic fly,
When my thundering Juggernaut car comes by.
I scrunch folks’ spokes as you’d scrunch a fan――
Let people get out of the way who can.

SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1859.

――――:o:――――

KING DEATH.

King Death was a rare old fellow,
He sat where no sun could shine,
And he lifted his hand so yellow,
And pour’d out his coal-black wine.
Hurrah! for the coal-black wine.

* * * * *

B. W. PROCTER.

――――

SONG OF JULY.

July is a rare old fellow,
He’s a month when the sun does shine;
He makes the pear quite mellow,
Sagittarius is his sign.
Hurra, hurra! though we don’t know why,
For that rare old month――a hot July.

The Quail, that ne’er deceives us,
Now makes his morning call;
The fickle cuckoo leaves us,
But that’s the way with them all.
Then hurra, hurra! though we don’t know why,
For that blazing month――a hot July.

_Punch’s Almanac._ 1846.

――――:o:――――

THE RETURN OF THE ADMIRAL.

How gallantly, how merrily we ride along the sea!
The morning is all sunshine, the wind is blowing free,
The billows are all sparkling and bounding in the light,
Like creatures in whose sunny veins the blood is running bright.
All nature knows our triumph, strange birds about us sweep,
Strange things come up to look at us――the masters of the deep!
In our wake, like any servant, follows even the bold shark――
Oh, proud must be our admiral of such a bonny bark!

Oh, proud must be our admiral (though he is pale to-day)
Of twice five hundred iron men who all his nod obey!
Who’ve fought for him and conquered, who’ve won with sweat and
gore
Nobility, which he shall have whene’er he touch the shore!
Oh, would I were an admiral, to order with a word――
To lose a dozen drops of blood, and straight rise up a lord!
I’d shout to yon bold shark there, which follows in our lee,
“Some day I’ll make thee carry me like lightning through the sea!”

Our admiral grew paler, and paler, as we flew,
Still talk’d he to the officers, and smiled upon the crew;
And he look’d up at the heavens, and he look’d down on the sea,
And at last he saw the creature that was following in our lee!
He shook――’twas but an instant: for speedily the pride
Ran crimson to his heart, till all chances he defied;
It threw boldness on his forehead, gave firmness to his breath,
And he look’d like some grim warrior new risen up from death!

That night a horrid whisper fell on us where we lay――
And we knew our fine old admiral was changing into clay
And we heard the wash of waters, though nothing could we see――
A whistle and a plunge among the billows on our lee;
Till dawn we watched the body in its dead and ghastly sleep,
And next evening at sunset it was slung into the deep;
And never from that moment, save one shudder through the sea,
Saw we, or heard the creature that had followed in our lee!

B. W. PROCTER.

――――

THE RETURN OF THE OMNIBUS.

How gallantly, how merrily, we ride along the lane,
The passengers all hope to catch the eight o’clock up-train;
The wind is fresh, the clouds of dust do in our faces fly,
Like coming from the Derby, when the roads are always dry:
And all along is triumph: large crows above us sweep;
Small boys rush out to shout at us, and maids from windows peep.
A free-school urchin hangs behind some way upon the road――
Oh! proud must be our omnibus of such a jolly load!

And proud is Tom, the driver, too, who smiles, and well he may,
Of twice three people (in and out) who’ll each a shilling pay;
He’s proud, too, of that old grey horse, who earns so very hard
The hay and water he shall have when once more in his yard.
Oh, would that I were Tom, to drive and order with a word,
That old grey horse, whose harness is made up of tape and cord,
I’d shout unto the free-school boy who’s hanging on our lee,
‘If you don’t mind, I’ll whip behind, as quickly you shall see.’

Our driver pale, and paler grew; but, as we went along,
Still talked he to the passengers, and then he hummed a song;
And first he looked behind him, and then he looked on straight;
And then we thought we heard him say ‘I think we is too late.’
He shook――’twas but an instant――we saw his fearful plight,
The village clock struck eight just then; but that is never right.
He flogged the old grey horse along, till he was out of breath,
And when he reached the station doors he turned as pale as death.

We heard a bell, and then a pause, and then a bell again!
We knew our fine old omnibus had missed the ‘eight up-train.’
And next we heard a rush of steam, but nothing could we see,
But a whistle and a puff among the fir-trees on our lee.
We watched the passing vapour till it vanished round the steep,
Then back again t’wards home with all our luggage did we creep;
But never from that moment, having once been ‘sold,’ again
We patronised the omnibus that always missed the train.

From _A Pottle of Strawberries_, by Albert Smith.

――――

THE ALDERMAN.
(_By a Parishioner of St. Stephen’s, Walbrook._)

How gallantly, how merrily, they ride upon their way;
Fleet Street is in commotion, the Queen comes here to-day!
The Aldermen are mounted, and sitting bolt-upright,
Like riders in whose eyes it is no joke to hold on tight.

All London owns their triumph, they ride along two deep,
Small boys come up to look at them, their seats so well they
keep.
In their wake, as mild as new milk, stand policemen stiff and
stark;
Oh! who would not be Aldermen, in such a famous lark?

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

_Punch._ 1844.

――――

THE CRUIZE OF THE OLD ADMIRAL.

How crazily, how lazily,
We creep along the sea;
Our upper works are straining,
Our hull is rolling free;
Our lower ports they baffle
Attempts to caulk ’em tight,
Like scuppers, through whose leaky seams
The water runs outright!

E’en coal-brigs o’er us triumph,
Smart yachts about us sweep;
Green’s ships come up to look at us――
The slow-coach of the deep!
In their wake, like any servant,
We sail from day to dark;
Oh, proud must be our Admiral-
-ty Lords of such a barque!

And proud must be our Admiral
(He’s seventy-four to-day)
Of turning out on duty,
Whate’er the doctors say;
He has fought with them and conquered,
Although ’twas mad, they swore,
To go to sea, when he should have
Been laid up snug on shore.

Oh, if I were an Admiral
I wouldn’t be on board,
I’d stay in London, if I could,
And be made a Junior Lord;
I’d write to the Prime Minister,
“Just find a place for me,
For a sheer hulk lies Tom Bowling,
No longer fit for sea?”

Our Admiral grew paler,
And bluer and more blue,
’Midst the sniggers of the officers,
And the broad grins of the crew;
For at sixes and at sevens
His stomach well might be,
’Twas so long, the poor old creature!
Since he had been at sea.

He heaved――’twas but an instant――
For the old sailor’s pride
Succeeded in the effort
His nausea to hide.
So he mopped his poor old forehead,
And held hard his wheezy breath;
And, like a steamboat passenger,
Sat, looking grim as death!

That night the surgeon’s whisper
Went round the mess to say,
That our poor old used-up Admiral
Was in a dreadful way:
Next day we beat to quarters,
In a Bath-chair wheeled was he,
With a Welsh wig, and his legs
Wrapped in fleecy hosiery!

That night a glass of toddy
Sent him cozily to sleep,
And next morning into harbour
The old ship made shift to creep.
And never from that moment,
(Lest again sick he might be)
Excepting in fine weather,
Did we venture out to sea.

_Punch._ January 15, 1853.

――――:o:――――

THE RETURN OF THE MEMBERS.
_From the great Naval Review in 1853._

How speedily, how puffingly they glide along the rail,
The M.P.’s who went down at morn to see the fleet in sail;
And now they’re going back to town to sit again to-night,
Like creatures who’ve no Factory Bill to guard their labour’s
right;
And some are jolly, some can scarce their eyelids open keep,
And some who have been queer all day now are gone to sleep;
But in one carriage one young member ventures this remark,
“How proud must be the admiral of every glorious bark!”

* * * * *

Said Bright, “For no inducement’s sake an admiral I’d be,
No Peace Societies again would ask me out to tea;
And people all would think that I demeaned me, as they say,
That Mr. Buckstone does the fighting Quaker in the play.”
“I would not be an admiral,” Mackinnon said, “until
Each cannon were subjected to my smoke-prevention Bill,
Else should I fire a single gun ’twould drive me wild to see
A curl of smoke upon the air, or even on the sea.”

* * * * *

_Diogenes._ Volume ii. 1853.

――――

THE TERM OF THE FRESHMAN.

How jollily, how joyously we live at B. N. C.[53]
Our reading is all moonshine――the wind is not more free:
The champagne is all sparkling; we quaff it day and night,
Like creatures in whose sunny throats a thirsty flame burns
bright.
All Oxford knows our triumph: fast birds around us sweep;
Strange “duns” come up to look at us, their masters though so
deep;
In our wake, like any serpent, doth the night policeman go,
And at the toll-bar tarrieth the proctor with his pro.
Proud, proud must be each Brasenose man, at least so I should
say,
Of all those grooms and flunkies who promptly him obey,
Who’ve ta’en his horse to covert, who’ve cleaned, with labour
sore,
The snowy “tops” which he shall have when chapel-time is o’er.

Who would not be a Brasenose man to order with a word,
His pink and well-built leathers, to turn out like a lord?
I’d shout to yonder hack there, though somewhat screwed it be――
Each morn I’ll make thee carry me Lord Redesdale’s hounds to see.
Each term our pace grew faster, and faster still it grew,
Yet talked we to our tradespeople, and gull them not a few;
And we looked into our bankers, but nothing could we see,
And at last there came the fearful time for what we call “degree.”
We read――’twas but an instant! for speedily the pride
Of being plucked twice for “little go,” all chance of ours defied;
This gave boldness to th’ examiners, as, sitting in a row,
They told us we might mizzle, for indeed it was no go.

That night a horrid proctor fell on us where we lay,
And we knew some fine policemen were carrying us away;
And we heard the wash of waters――hard by the gutter we――
And a whistle from a friend of ours who knew how it would be.
Till dawn they watched the body in its most unpleasant sleep,
And the two next Terms, at morning, they refused to let us keep;
And ever from that moment did one shudder for to see,
The proctor or policeman that had followed in our lee.

From _Hints to Freshmen_. Oxford: J. Vincent.

(An amusing little pamphlet, which has been ascribed to the Rev. Canon Hole.)

――――

THE RETURN TO TYROL.

I.

How merrily, how jollily we haste along the steep,
Though mist is all around us, and snow is lying deep;
The green Inn rushes foamingly, far down beneath our path,
And chafes against the stocks and stones, like an M.P. in wrath.
All nature holds a washing-day, with froth, and slop, and steam,
The wintry sun will scarcely deign vouchsafe one vagrant beam;
So when we reach Landek and stop, well may the _Gastwirth_[54]
grin,
He sees the Nirgend’s[55] Wanderer come very soppy in:

(_Chorus of enthusiastic partizans and compatriots_:――)

The long-haired German Wanderer comes very soppy in!

II.

Oh! wet must be the Wanderer, for it has rained to-day,
Though he a red umbrella has, from Rome brought all the way.
The wind was high, the road was rough, where slushy mud snow,
Lay on the long and winding path, and through it went our Joe!
He sneezed! a moment’s weakness, for speedily he cried,
“Bring me a glass of your _Brantwein_,[56] and a _masz_ of Bier
beside!”
It gave colour to his cheek and nose, yet took away his breath,
And he look’d like some old fox-hunter, new come in at the death:

(_Chorus, discriminative and appreciatory_:――)

Like some half-wash’d-out fox-hunter, that rides in at the death.

III.

The Wanderer grew merrier, and merrier still he grew,
Joining in all the harmless fun of that Tyrolean crew;
He sang Italian Opera airs, French _chansons_,[57] English songs,
And _Burschen lieder_,[58] that were chorused as by Chinese
gongs.
He looked in his deep beer-glass: the _kellnerin_[59] knew the
sign,
And fill’d it up: he took one sup, and then set-to at wine.
That night a horrid whisper pass’d, with calumny imbued,
It said “The long-hair’d Wanderer got regularly screw’d!”

(_Chorus, unanimous and valedictory._)

Of course ’twas false, but how he got to bed he never knewed!

JOSEPH WOODFALL EBSWORTH.
Innspruchk. 1854.

――――

THE BABY IN THE TRAIN.

“Why is there not a Compartment ‘for Babies only’?”
_The Crusty Philosopher._

How merrily, how cheerily, we ride along the rail!
We think not of the driving rain, nor care about the gale!
I’m comfortably seated in a snug back corner seat,
With woolly rugs about my knees, and warmers at my feet;
I’ve all the morning papers in a heap upon my lap,
I read and calmly contemplate, and think about a nap;
A nap indeed? Impossible! You’ll find it all in vain,
To have the slightest slumber with the Baby in the Train!

He’s autocratic as to rule, and as to language terse,
He’ll freely fist his dear Mamma, and domineer o’er Nurse!
He wrinkles up his forehead like an ancient Chimpanzee’s,
And babbles of the “puff-puff,” and prattles of “gee-gees:”
He guggles and he struggles, and he will not stand nor sit,
But he gives an imitation of an apoplectic fit.
I am not very captious, and I wish not to complain――
But _what_ a crying grievance is the Baby in the Train!

I wish to feign the friendly, but I earnestly reflect――
In silly finger-snapping do I lose my self respect?
Can I crow or can I chuckle with a countenance serene?
Is “kitchee-kitchee” fitted for my gravity of mien?
Can I talk of “doggie-oggies,” or prate of “ittle dears”?
Is “peep-bo” fit amusement for a person of my years?
And though I do my very best to try to entertain,
I’m thought a vile impostor by the Baby in the Train!

He knows that I am longing to make faces on the sly,
How spitefully I’d pinch him if no guardians were nigh!
He clutches at my watch-chain, he smiles upon my suit,
He tries to eat my eye-glass, he jumps upon my boot;
He takes away my walking-stick, he crumples up my _Punch_;
He burrows deep in paper-bags in foraging for lunch;
And cups of milk at stations, too, how eagerly he’ll drain,
With sighs of satisfaction, will the Baby in the train!

O bold Directors, build a car to take such household pets!
And fit it up with cots and cribs and rocking bassinettes,
And lullabies and picture-books and bon-bons, cakes, and toys,
To soothe the savage bosoms of these little girls and boys.
O brim the cup with caudle high! Let Soothing Syrup flow!
Let roasted mutton deck the board, and milky rice also!
And let all Railway Companies immediately sustain
A Separate Compartment for the Baby in the Train!

_Punch._ March 24, 1883.

――――

THE NEWS.
(After “_The Sea! The Sea!_”)

The News! the News! the motley News!
Oh, how I love the motley News!
’Tis here, ’tis there, ’tis everywhere,
At market, statute, wake and fair,
And tells to all the country round,
Where rogues and knaves may soon be found.
I love the News! I love the News!
And when I’m bothered with “the blues,”
I turn me to the motley page,
Where barbers boast, and patriots rage,
And if it tells of bankrupt Jews,
What matter? I’m among the News!

I love, oh, how I love the News!
It’s gay _bon-mots_ and keen reviews――
To loll at ease from morn till night,
With nought but News within my sight,
While lords attend the huntsman’s becks,
And set no value on their necks.
I never see the motley News,
But love the more its new-born dews;
And I think of the curl of an editor’s nose,
As he scans the scraps of rhyme and prose,
That come to his hand from _wits and blues_,
Ambitious of places within the News.

The _devil_ was black, ’twas early morn,
And the _pressmen_ sweat, when the News was born;
A _proof_ had been in the editor’s gripe,
And there wasn’t a single misplaced _type_.
Each _pig_ was set, the _galleys_ were high,
No _column_ could crumble into _pie_――
The _forme_ was so well lock’d up with _quoin_,
And the _chase_ was proud of every line.
I love, I love, the motley page,
And if I live to well-fed age,
And e’er-so-often change my views,
What matter? I’ll always love the News!