Chapter XX: Part 48: Songs by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and various old English (20)

Said the Old Tory Leader to the Young Tory Leader,
“It’s my duty, Tory Leader, to complain.”
Said the Young Tory Leader to the Old Tory Leader,
“What, again, Tory Leader? what again?
Of course, you ought by this time to know what you’re about;
But in thus of me complaining I myself have not a doubt
That you’ll find your indignation――as you’ve oft before found
out――
Is in vain, Tory Leader, is in vain!”

Said the Old Tory Leader to the Young Tory Leader,
“But think, Tory Leader, what you said!”
Said the Young Tory Leader to the Old Tory Leader,
“If my speech, Tory Leader, you have read,
You will know that I objected at more robbery to wink,
Or to let more public money in the City quagmire sink;
That, in short, I told the ‘Bumbles’ just exactly what I think――
So its not a bit of use to shake your head!”

Said the Old Tory Leader to the Young Tory Leader,
“But I must and I will, I say, protest!
For of all our trusted friends, who work hard for Tory ends,
Why the City Corporation is the best!
And yet you go and tell it that it sadly needs reform;
You denounce the Board of Works, too, in a manner very warm.
Let me tell you that already your mad speech has roused a storm!”
Said the Young Tory Leader, “Bah! you jest!”

Said the Old Tory Leader to the Young Tory Leader,
“Jesting matter, Tory Leader, this is none!”
Said the Young Tory Leader to the Old Tory Leader,
“Do have done, Tory Leader, do have done!
For your talk at first amused me, but it now begins to bore,
So let me plainly tell you that I wish to hear no more;
Or you’ll make me put my foot down, as I’ve put it down before,
When, as you will not forget, I’ve always won!”

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

_Truth._ November 25, 1886.

――――

DUET.

The Tory Obadiah, by _Mr. Marriott, M.P._
The Union Obadiah, by _Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, M.P._

Said the Union Obadiah to the Tory Obadiah,
“We have both, Obadiah, turned our coats!”
Said the Tory Obadiah to the Union Obadiah,
“That, our ’cuteness, Obadiah, but denotes!”
For we turned them to some purpose; for example, in my case,
Did I not receive, most promptly, from the Tories a good place?
Come, my worthy fellow-ratter, let us cordially embrace!”
Said the Union Obadiah, “Wait a bit!”

Said the Tory Obadiah to the Union Obadiah,
“But surely, Obadiah, I am right?”
Said the Union Obadiah to the Tory Obadiah,
“No, not quite, Obadiah; no, not quite!
It is true that when you ‘ratted’――by the way, I hate that word――
A by-no-means ill-paid office on you promptly was conferred
But that _I_ have taken office, as a fact, I have not heard.”
Said the Tory Obadiah, “But you might!”

Said the Union Obadiah to the Tory Obadiah,
“Self-respect, Obadiah, very strong,
Would compel me any offer from the Tories, Obadiah,
To reject, Obadiah, as most wrong!”
The Tory Obadiah merely winked with his left eye,
And the Union Obadiah, with one glance at his ally,
Fell back laughing in his chair so that he’d scarcely strength
to cry,
“Go along, Obadiah, go along!”

_Truth_, Christmas Number. 1886.

――――:o:――――

OUR DEAR OLD CHURCH OF ENGLAND.
(_Genuine Version._)

Our dear old Church of England,
Let’s rally round you now,
Though there’s not the least occasion
For kicking up a row:
You know you’re safe as ever,
And watched with loving eye,
But Dizzy (who’s so clever)
Suggests a little Cry.

So, dear Old Church of England,
(And none can tell you cheap)
We’ll make your name a war-cry,
For those who’d office keep.
Declare to win elections,
Old Mother Church so dear,
With these, our crack selections,
Yourself, and Gold, and Beer.

SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1868.

――――

SONG OF THE CHURCH UNION.
(AIR――“_And shall Trelawney Die?_”)

And shall they strike at Ritual rites?
Shall Tooth in durance lie?
Then fourteen thousand Union Men
Will know the reason why!

For Church and conscience James’s days
Saw Bishop’s sev’n confined;
But Cornwall’s sons found means and ways,
To change the royal mind.
So we’ll resist Tait, Cairns, and Pen,
And Law, in them, defy,――
We, fourteen thousand Union men,
And not men to say die.

Matters of moment still we’ll make,
Of chasuble and stole;
With Tooth, in teeth of Law, we’ll take
The Mass of Rome for goal.
While we scorn Tait and Cairns and Pen,
And power of Law defy,――
In Union’s name Disunion Men,
Though with no reason why.

Our Roman candles high shall flare,
On Romish altar-plate,
And lace and flowers and frontals fair,
While Mass we celebrate.
So using tooth and tongue and pen
The Law Courts to defy,
We fourteen thousand Union Men
Will hang each other by!

We’ll under-creep or over-leap
All Acts our course that bar;
Obedience to our Bishops keep,
But while with us they are,
And till we stump Tait, Bench, and Pen,
Against the three we’ll cry:
If Law dares thwart Church-Union Men,
Shall they be bound thereby?

_Punch._ February 3, 1877.

――――:o:――――

EX-PARLIAMENTARY.
(AN IMAGINARY DIALOGUE THAT MIGHT BE TRUE)

_Gladstone._――“Our party’s doing very well,
Amending ev’ry bad law,
I’ve silenced the O’Donnell’s yell,
And now I’ll shut up Bradlaugh.
My copious flow of words each night
Would any good-sized pan fill;
And what I say is always right――――”
“You think it is,” says Granville.

_Granville._――“I fear we’ve not done much as yet,
And daily I’m affrighted
That one of us may p’rhaps forget
We all should be united.
Against our party house of glass
That Harcourt’s thrown a bad stone.
I hope no damage, but――――” “Alas!
He’s smashed a pane,” says Gladstone.

“A penny on the Income Tax
Who’s mean enough to grudge it,
When duties they on malt relax?
Indeed, a glorious Budget!
And ev’ry night my words fall fast,
Like hammer blows on anvil,
While wond’ring hearers gape aghast――”
“They do indeed,” says Granville.

“Yet somehow certain words you speak
Require explanation;
And when their Premier eats the leek
It don’t much please the nation.
You may not like our old Whig ways,
But we don’t like your Rad’s tone,
Nor can we bear your talking craze――”
“You’ll have to, though,” says Gladstone.

_Judy._ June 23, 1880.

There was also a parody, of the same original, in _Judy_, October 10, 1883, on the Election of Alderman Fowler as Lord Mayor of London; and another in _Punch_, February 9, 1884, relating to the elephant Jumbo, entitled “_Jumbo_ and _Taoung_,” but neither is of any interest now.

――――:o:――――

“WE ARE A MERRY FAMILY.”
_Song._――MISS MARY ANDERSON.

I am the pink of properness, and wheresoe’er I roam
I carry the accessories to make a happy home.
I bear about an old armchair, the very best of mothers
A step-papa, a cousin Jane, a time-piece and two brothers.

_Chorus._――Oh! we’re a happy familee,
From Mary down to Jo,
Step-pa, mother, sister, brother,
I, and cousin Flo;
We have a very cosy hearth
Which scandals never mar,
We’re a devoted familee
We are! we are! we are!

I always hurry home to them when once the curtain’s down,
’Twould kill me were mamma to weep or step-dada to frown.
My servants fully understand “No followers allowed,”
And o’er my spotless domicile there rests no scandal cloud.

_Chorus._――For we’re a happy familee, &c.

When interviewers visit me (I know not why they call),
I rattle in my artless way, and tell my little all;
How I work hard for mother dear, and teach my brother Jo.
And how we spend our happy hours, and where to church we go.

_Chorus_.――For we’re a happy familee, &c.

Yet people dare to say that when a soap I recommend,
It’s not because I _merely_ wish the maker to befriend;
And that when I am photographed (in somewhat scant attire),
’Tis not twelve copies for myself _alone_ that I require.

_Chorus._――Yet we’re are a happy familee, &c.

_Truth, Christmas Number._ 1884.

――――

A LAY OF THE LAW.

THE CRUSTED OLD BENCHER _sings_.

We are a Corporation rich, with coffers filled with gold;
Our aspirations high we pitch; we’re proud and close and old;
We hold our honour very dear, our services likewise;
But ’tis a thumping sum per year most fervently we prize!
And so that we may get the more incessantly to waste,
Those blocks law students took of yore, we’re pulling down in
haste;
And in their stead are running up palatial flats, wherein
Rich snobs can pose as barristers and reputation win.

_Chorus_ (_supported by all the performers_).――To always take,
our motto is, to give――we seldom can;
For he who gives the least, of course, becomes the richest
man;
Ours is a strange morality, peculiar to the bar;
We are a grasping family――we are! we are! we are!

THE POPULAR COMMON-LAW BARRISTER _sings_.

We never ask for any fees, oh! no, we’ve too much pride;
But we’ve a clerk who always sees our briefs have cheques inside;
Who duns attorneys when they shirk refreshers to renew――
In short, does all the dirty work _we’d_ rather die than do.
If any scandal should arise, quite safe is _our_ fair fame;
We just repudiate his acts, and he gets all the blame;
But he is quite prepared for this, and knows his place ’twill cost
If, through some squeamishness of his, a fee is ever lost.

_Chorus._――’Tis for this clerk, our strong right hand, we make
our clients pay,
He costs _us_ not one penny-piece, his stipend they
defray;
So as you see, our trickiness is rather over par;
We are a grasping family――we are! we are! we are!

THE SUCCESSFUL M.P.-Q.C. _sings_.

We take more work than we can do, and know it at the time;
But if a client’s case fall through, we don’t think that a crime!
For though his all he may have lost by our insatiate greed,
He cannot sue us for the cost, so what care we, indeed?
Besides, when we’ve received more briefs than we can ever read,
A surplus one enables us to do a kindly deed;
For we choose some young barrister, whose chance of work is dim,
And with a patronising nod, toss on the brief to him.

_Chorus._――Oh, yes; we take the widow’s mite, the orphan’s little
store,
And if a bigger fee come in, look at their briefs no more.
Our carelessness their lot may blight, their life, their
honour mar,
But we’re a grasping family――we are! we are! we are!

THE INCAPABLE BARRISTER WITH A CONNECTION _sings_.

We’re very jealous of our trade, and anxious to retain
Monopoly’s ill-omened aid our rivals to restrain;
We know solicitors are fit to plead in court their cause――
Nay, as a rule, they’re better up than we are in the laws.
But still to keep the barrier up protects all weaker men,
For if there were free trade in briefs, why, where would they
be then?
So “_Vive_ abuses old!” say we, and long live anything
That extra guineas to our purse more easily will bring.

_Chorus._――So _Vive_ th’ abuses of the past! Long live the good
old days!
Why should we try to alter what such thumping income pays?
We’ll foster all the mystery that hangs about the Bar――
We are a grasping family――we are! we are!! we are!!!

_Truth, Christmas Number._ December 1882.

――――

THE RIGHT HON. JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN, _Loq._

“I am the cleverest of men! In all that I essay,
It is my rule on no account to second fiddle play.
There’s scarce a talent or a gift to which I lay not claim,
And “Chamberlain” has, thanks to me, become a famous name.
I brook no interference with the plans which I propose;
I’m dictatorial, to a fault, alike to friends and foes.
Nor am I satisfied applause for my own acts to win――
No! I demand the self-same praise for all my kith and kin.
For we’re a clever family,
From Arthur down to Dick;
My Nephews, cousins, quite by dozens,
And brother-in-law Ken-_rick_.
So who dares question aught we say,
Or our advance to bar?
For we’re a clever family,
We are! we are! we are!

“The nation must be daft to doubt a word of what I say,
Or think that Mr. Gladstone’s plan is equal to _my_ way!
Poor man! What use is it for him his played-out brains to tax,
When all that Birmingham can give so notably he lacks?
_He_ was not born there, has not been its Alderman or Mayor,
Nor tasted of those honours which our family still share.
O, foolish Gladstone! to suppose that any chance he runs
With me, the pride of Brummagem, and greatest of her sons!
And head of such a family, &c.

“And what can England be about to not at once agree
To simply leave her welfare to my family and me?
Why need she fear the rising storm will wreck or overwhelm?
Does she forget her Chamberlains have hurried to the helm?
Not Joseph only, for he’s called his brethren to his aid.
Oh! silly, silly England, to be, in spite of this, afraid!
For how can harm upon you come, or ill of any kind,
When, for your sake, the Chamberlains have openly combined?
For we’re a clever family, &c.

“And do those Radicals believe, who dare to me condemn,
That they can still exist without the Pride of Brummagem?
Do they suppose their Caucus can throughout one session last
If I withdraw the nerve and strength I gave it in the past?
Can they in sooth imagine that, however they may strive,
Their party possibly can hope my loss to long survive?
’Twould seem they can, and yet――no! no! it surely cannot be;
They _must_ have learned the value of my family and me.
For we’re a clever family, &c.

“And yet how strange it is that though I’ve turned against my
chief,
He still exists――such stubbornness is well-nigh past belief;
I’ve told him he must reckon with my family and me,
And yet he has not bowed as yet, not even on one knee.
I’ve warned him that he must my wrath most certainly expect,
And yet he positively dares to hold his head erect;
He must be mad, yes, very mad, to think that thus he can
Defy not me, the chief alone, but Caine and all my clan!
For we’re a clever family, &c.

“And yet, as days and weeks go by, ’twould seem, I must confess,
That if my influence grows at all it only grows much less.
The Tories who two months ago knelt humbly at my feet,
Ignore the man who brought about the Government’s defeat;
The Whigs who warmly welcomed me as their most dear ally,
Already seem inclined to be reserved with me and shy.
In short, ’midst friends and foes alike a tendency I see
To underrate most shamefully my kith and kin and me.
Though we’re a clever family, &c.

“’Tis vain for me a caucus new to start, and it to man
With brothers and with relatives, all members of my clan,
If Radicals continue to ignore that caucus new,
And further dare my policy to laugh at and pooh-pooh;
In vain my family and I display our talents thus,
If the ungrateful State declares ’twill not be saved by us;
And ’tis in vain, too, that my foes I threaten and asperse,
When they are clearly for my threats in no wise aught the worse.
Though we’re a clever family, &c.

“And yet I scarce can bring myself to think I’ve had my day,
And ne’er again shall have the power a Ministry to slay.
Can it, indeed, have come to pass that Birmingham’s chief pride
Is now a pow’rless leader who is feared by neither side?
Can it, indeed, be true that I, spite all my brethren’s aid,
Shall see that Statesman triumph who so lately I betrayed,
And, hardest blow of all, live on to but too surely find
That England is a match for all us Chamberlains combined?

Though we’re a clever family,
From Arthur down to Dick,
With kith and kin, both stout and thin,
And brother-in-law Ken-_rick_.
But to the last, spite all that’s past,
This fact we’ll spread afar,
We _are_ a clever family!
We _are_! we ARE!! we ARE!!!”

_Truth._ August 5, 1886.

――――

THE POLITICAL HAPPY FAMILEE.

We are a Happy Familee,
And never, I engage,
Was known such peace and unity
As flourish in our cage!
For we are all true Unionists,
And it is good to see
With what delight we all unite,
How sweetly we agree!

_Chorus_――For we’re a Happy Familee,
From Peter to John B.!
From Joseph’s brothers, and sundry others,
To Hartington and me!
We are devoted, one and all,
And never snap nor spar,
For we’re a Happy Familee,
We are! We ARE!! We ARE!!!

John Bright and Randolph Churchill make
A truly loving pair,
And gushing Goschen has no notion
Which Rylands does not share;
Collings and Caine would moan with pain
To be from Chaplin parted;
And Hartington, relieved of James
Would be quite broken-hearted!

_Chorus_――For we’re a Union Familee,
Whose hearts with fondness glow;
Peter and Otto ’ve but one motto,
And so have John and Joe.
No thought of rupture troubles us,
No split, no party jar,
For we’re a Happy Familee,
We are! We ARE!! We ARE!!!

_Truth Christmas Number._ December, 1886.

――――

WAIT TILL THE CLOUDS ROLL BY.
_Popular Premier Pipes to a Popular Air._

Willy, my own Grand Old One,
Afar from the House you be,
Out in the Hawarden woodlands,
Under the still home tree.
Doubtless Town misses you, my William.
Winds blow and storms are raging high;
Willy, my own Grand Old One,
Wait till the clouds roll by!

_Chorus_――Wait till the clouds roll by, Willy,
Wait till the clouds roll by;
Willie, my own Grand Old One,
Wait till the clouds roll by!

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

Willy, here’s time for thinking.
Salisbury’s pack is hushed;
But in affairs of empire,
_Have_ you been fogged――or rushed?
Hodge has his boon, and is contented,
But foreign foes seem in full cry.
Willy look sharp, but take it coolly;
Wait till the clouds roll by!

_Chorus_――Wait till the clouds roll by!

Willy, _canards_ are flying,――
Cool skill will bring _them_ down.
But, when the eagles gather,
Danger perchance may frown;
Give it your careful thought, my William,
Don’t be alarmed,――yet _mind your eye_!
But when the bogey-mongers croak, man,
Wait till the clouds roll by!

_Chorus_――Wait till the clouds roll by, Willy,
Wait till the clouds roll by;
Willy, my own Grand Old One,
Wait till the clouds roll by!

_Punch._ January 24, 1885.

――――:o:――――

THE CHILDREN’S VOICES.

I hear the children’s voices
Shouting at their play,
And the tears don’t rise unbidden,
For I know well what they say.
They use strange words, and call each other
Names that are forbid,
And their sole idea of repartee
Is “Didn’t!” “Yaas! ye did!”

_Chorus_――Sweet children’s voices haunt me night and day,
And how I wish those children’s voices far, far away.

I hear the children’s voices
Singing in the street,
And I do not like their singing,
For its neither low nor sweet.
They are not singing quite in tune,
The pitch is far too high,
And I do not like the tune they sing,
For its “Wait till the clouds roll by.” _Chorus._

I hear the children’s voices,
Behind my cottage door,
And I think I never heard them
So soft or low before.
I hear a gentle tapping,
I rush out in the rain,
And I hear their little voices shouting
“Hullo! sold again!” _Chorus._

I hear the children’s voices,
Murmuring in the lane,
As I saunter ’neath the elm trees,
To meet my pretty Jane.
We fondly sit together,
That little lass and I,
And they softly creep behind us both
And loudly call out “Hi!” _Chorus._

Written and composed by CORNEY GRAIN. Published by J. Bath, Berners Street, London.

――――:o:――――

THE VOLUNTEER’S SONG.
(Air.――“_I am a Simple Muleteer._”)

I am a Rifle Volunteer,
And quite particular to rules;
Nor march, nor drill, howe’er severe,
My military ardour cools.
I arm but in my country’s cause,
To keep her from the Eagle’s claws;
If they attempt a swoop to make,
Crack, crack! my course is clear;
They’ll find they’ve made a slight mistake――
I am a Volunteer!

* * * * *

_Punch._ July 21, 1860.

――――:o:――――

OH! GIVE ME BUT MY ARAB STEED.

Oh! give me but my Arab steed,
My shield and falchion bright,
And I will to the battle speed,
To save him in the fight.
His noble crest I’ll boldly wave,
And gird his scarf around;
But I must to the field repair,
For hark! the trumpets sound.

Oh! with my Arab steed I’ll go,
To brave the embattled plain,
Where warriors brave their valour show,
And drain each noble vein.
His brow that oft the battle braves
With fadeless laurels crown’d,
Shall guide me where his falchion waves,
But hark! the trumpets sound.

――――

OH! GIVE ME BUT MY DONKEY, JOE.

Oh! give me but my donkey, Joe,
His panniers fixed on tight;
And I will to my doxie go,
And do the thing what’s right!
Her bran new wipe I’ll proudly wear,
And pass the punch around,
But I must to my crib repair――
For, hark! the cleavers sound.

Oh! with my donkey I will go,
And greens and lettuce cry,
While my doxie patters with the foe,
I’ll toddle on the sly.
Their chaffing without fear she braves――
Her head with carrots crowned,
Shall guide me where her hand she waves――
But hark! the cleavers sound.

From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin.

――――

THE COACHMAN’S LAMENT.
(_Air――“Oh! give me but my Arab steed.”_)

Farewell my ribbons, and, alack!
Farewell my tidy drag;
Mail-coachmen now have got the _sack_,
And engineers the _bag_.

My heart and whip alike are broke――
I’ve lost my varmint team,
That used to cut away like _smoke_,
But couldn’t go like _steam_.

It is, indeed, a bitter _cup_,
Thus to be sent to _pot_;
My bosom boils at boiling up,
A gallop or a trot.

My very brain with _fury’s_ racked,
That railways are the _rage_;
I’m sure you’ll never find them _act_,
Like our old English _stage_.

A man whose _passion’s_ crost, is sore,
Then pray excuse my _pet_;
I ne’er was _overturn’d_ before,
But now am quite _upset_.

From _The Comic Latin Grammar_. By Paul Prendergast (Percival Leigh). London. D. Bogue. 1848.

――――:o:――――

JUST BEFORE THE WEDDING, MOTHER.
PARODY ON “_Just before the Battle, Mother_.”

Just before the wedding, mother, what a lot there is to do,
Seeing after wreaths and dresses, and the wedding favors, too;
Bridesmaids six, around one crying, spoiling pretty bonnets gay,
Oh! what a comfort ’tis, dear mother, weddings don’t come every
day.

Farewell, mother, we must sever,
We must sever, mother,
Cries the bride in tones of pain;
But oh! you’ll come and see us, mother,
You will come and see us,
When we’re back in town again.

Just before proposing, mother, oh! how nervous young men are,
Even after they’re accepted, and referred to dear papa.
For the settlements and breakfast, dear papa has got to pay,
And says, “Oh! what a comfort, mother; weddings _don’t_ come
every day.”

Just before the breakfast, mother, no one knows what to be at,
But when guests are round the table, they are more at home at
that;
Billious wedding-cake and speeches――save me from such speeches,
pray――
Oh! what a comfort ’tis, dear mother, weddings don’t come every
day.

Just before departing, mother, and the carriage is outside,
Aunts and uncles, brothers, sisters, tearfully caress the bride;
Every slipper in the household after them is thrown away,
Oh! what a comfort ’tis, dear mother, weddings don’t come every
day.

Just before the christening, mother, such a fuss you never saw,
When the household is commanded by “dear mamma-in-law.”
“Pretty Poppet,” cry the ladies; “happy father,” people say.
Ah well! he has _this_ consolation, _christenings_ don’t come
every day.
Dearest mother, did you ever――no, I never, mother,
See so fine a child before;
You may take the glove off, mother,
From the knocker on that door!

_The Newcastle Weekly Chronicle._ May 28, 1887.

――――

JUST AFTER THE WEDDING, MOTHER.
PARODY ON “_Just after the Battle, Mother_.”

Still upon my recent marriage I am thinking, Mother dear;
But the fatal step I’ve taken cannot now be help’d, ’tis clear;
She was such a duck, I told her that to eat her I’d be glad,
And now, between ourselves, dear Mother, don’t I only wish I had.
Mother dear, your boy is married; all regret is now in vain;
But oh, how gladly would I, Mother, be a bachelor again.

Oh, those callers in were fearful, Jones, and Robinson, and Brown,
Shower’d in congratulations, when we first returned to town.
All my darling wife’s relations came to breakfast, sup, and dine,
And oh! what appetites, dear Mother, oh! the fearful waste of
wine.
Mother, dear, &c.

Oh! our dreadful cook and housemaid, oh! that boy we did engage,
In the hist’ry of our servants, gladly I’d blot out that page;
All our china he demolish’d, not a glass upon the shelves;
And oh! the only spoons remaining are our two unlucky selves.
Mother, dear, &c.

Sweet she look’d in gipsy bonnets blushing, like a damask rose,
Little did I think that angels wanted such a lot of clothes;
Wives, of course, are very charming, but be careful if you can,
And when you chose one take a warning by a henpeck’d married man.
Mother, dear, &c.

――――:o:――――

THE THREE JOVIAL STATESMEN.

Sir William Harcourt, at Glasgow, in quoting from _The Three Jovial Huntsmen_, referred to it as “a delightful illustrated story-book,” which he advised all his hearers to buy. Quite so, Mr. Caldecott’s pictures are simply delicious, and the verses themselves are quaint and pithy. But the “bearings of ’em lie in their application.” And here’s their application――much at your service, Sir William.

It’s of Three Jovial Statesmen, and a-stumping they did go;
And they spouted and they flouted, and they blew their horns also.
Look ye there!

And one said “Mind your eye, Staff, there’s Reaction in the wind,
And soon, by hook or crook, we a winning cry shall find.”
Look ye there!

They spouted and they flouted, and the first thing they did find,
Was a tattered scare-crow-mummy-thing, which seemed much to their
mind.
Look ye there!

One said it _was_ a scare-crow, but another he said “Nay;
It’s the real farmer’s friend, Fair Trade, and I think this cry
will pay.”
Look ye there!

They spouted and they flouted, and the next thing they did find
Was a swelling, swaggering Bogey, its arms waving in the wind.
Look ye there!

One said it _was_ a Bogey, but another he said, “Nay;
It’s our dear old Jingo-Fi-Fo-Fum, not yet quite past away.”
Look ye there!

They spouted and they flouted, and the next thing they did find
Was a Bull who browsed at leisure, and seemed easy in his mind.
Look ye there!

One said ’twas brave John Bull himself, another he said “Nay;
It’s just a Boer-whipt Jackass, without even pluck to bray.”
Look ye there!

They spouted and they flouted, and the next thing they did find
Was a fat pig grunting in a stye, with anger almost blind.
Look ye there!

One said it _was_ a fat pig, but another he said “Nay;
It’s just a worthy Alderman who fears Reform’s black day.”
Look ye there!

They spouted and they flouted, and the next thing they did find,
Was two old Patriots trying to bring Pat to his right mind.
Look ye there!

One said they _were_ two Patriots, but another he said, “Nay;
They’re just two ranting Demagogues. We’re sold! let’s come away.”
Look ye there!

So they spouted and they flouted, till the setting of the sun;
And they hadn’t got a cry at last, when their stumping-course was
run.
Look ye there!

Then each unto the other said, “This stumping doesn’t pay;
But we’ve pounded up and down a bit, and had a rattling day.”
Look ye there!

_Punch._ November 5, 1881.

――――

THE THREE JOVIAL HUNTSMEN.

(New and abbreviated version sung by Lord Salisbury, Sir Stafford Northcote, and Lord Randolph Churchill on their return from stumping the country.)

It’s of three Jovial Huntsmen, an’ a-hunting they did go;
And they hunted, an’ they hollo’d, and they blew their horns also.
Look ye there!

And one said, “Mind your eyes, and keep your noses right i’ the
wind,
And in Leeds or in Midlothian _some_ game we’re bound to find.”
Look ye there!

They hunted and they hollo’d, and the first thing they did find
Was that a previous huntsman little game had left behind.
Look ye there!

One said there was a chance for them, but another he said “Nay;
In these North Country moorlands we have been and lost our way.”
Look ye there!

* * * * *

They hunted and they hollo’d, and the last thing they did find
Was a Bull, safe in a Liberal fold, and that they left behind.
Look ye there!

One said he was John Bull still, but another, he said “Nay;
He’s no better than a jackass since he learned the Radical bray.”
Look ye there!

So they hunted and they hollo’d till their holiday course was ran,
And they’d nought to bring away at last when their hunting time
was done.
Look ye there!

Then one unto the others said, “This hunting does not pay;
But we’ve pounded up and down a bit, and had a rattling day.”
Look ye there!

_Punch._ October 18, 1884.

――――:o:――――

BEAUTIFUL SNOW.
(_With a Drift_)

Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow
(This is a parody, please you to know;
Over and over again you may meet
Parodies writ on this poem so sweet;
Rhyming, chiming, skipping along
Comical bards think they do nothing wrong;
Striving to follow what others have done,
One to the number may keep up the fun).
Beautiful snow, so gently you scud,
Pure for a minute, then dirty as mud.

Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow!
Here’s a fine mess you have left us below;
Chilling our feet to the tips of our toes;
Cheekily landing full pert on our nose;
Jinking, slinking, ever you try
’Neath our umbrella to flop in our eye;
Gamins await us at every new street,
Watching us carefully, guiding our feet,
Joking, mocking, ready to throw
A hard compressed ball of this beautiful snow.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

O, the snow! the beautiful snow!
Feathering down to the ground below.
Snow on the pavement and snow on the street,
Snow on the boots of the people you meet.
Train, cab, or omnibus? O, no!――no!
Nothing to-day but the beautiful snow;
Nothing to go by and nowhere to go,
All through the fall of the beautiful snow.

O, the slush! the ineffable slush!
Snow, mud, and fog churned to maddening mush,
Slush that slips in through the boots on your feet,
Slush that slops up to your chimney-pot neat.
Into town――into country――wherever you rush
Nothing to-day but ineffable slush:
Bedraggled merino and velvet and plush
Trail through the swamps of ineffable slush.

_The Globe._ January 28, 1886.

――――:o:――――

WHERE THE WET COMES IN.
(_Parody of “When the Tide Comes In.”_)

He had a dull and beery look,
And I was ill at ease,
When from the kitchen came the cook:
“The plumber, if you please.”
His very first request of me
Was for a “drop o’ gin;”
And then he said, “I’ll quickly see
Where the wet comes in.”

He hammered there for many hours,
At what I couldn’t guess,
And broke some pots of winter flowers,
Making an awful mess;
Then said “he’d mended every crack,”
Departing with a grin,
Remarking, “I will soon be back
If the wet comes in.”

I saw the main with joy again
The empty cisterns fill.
When, at a sound like summer rain,
My heart began to thrill;
While o’er the furniture it ran,
A voice came through the din:
“We’re certain now,” cried that false man,
“Where the wet comes in!”

_Funny Folks._ February 8, 1879.

――――:o:――――

IF DIRTY DEEDS.
(_Sung by an inebriated Chimney-sweep. After Sullivan’s
“If Doughty Deeds.”_)

I.

If dirty deeds my lady please,
I’m jest the man to soot ’er;
With me she’s sure to feel at ease,
Both now and in the futur’.
A dingy colour o’er me lies,
Wot pictur’s forth my art;
Wich, if it gets into my heyes,
It alwuss makes ’em smart.
Then say if I shall soot my love,
Oh, say if I shall soot ’er!
Or else――’weep ho!
I’ll drownd my woe
In this ’ere pot of pewter.

II.

But, if fond love ’er ’eart could gain,
I wish she’d tell me ’ow;
For love it is wot gives the pain
As haggeriwates me now.
Ah, yes! I’m weepin’ still――’weep ho!――
And likely to continner:
Not thinkin’ so to soothe my woe,
But trustin’ thus to win ’er.
Then say if I shall soot my love,
Oh, say if I shall soot ’er!
Hair from my grief
I seeks relief
In this ’ere pot of pewter.

From _The Humorous Works of the late gifted Hopkins_. London: James Blackwood & Co. An anonymous and undated book, with Eight Illustrations by _Phiz_. It also contains a few parodies of Longfellow, and E. A. Poe.

――――:o:――――

A WET SHEET.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like an eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

* * * * *

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

――――

IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.
(_A Voice from the Ventilator._)

With wet feet, in a committee,
To our seats tied hard and fast,
We sit half-starved, and to our call
Comes Dr. Reid at last:
Comes Dr. Reid at last, my boys,
And turns the valves so free;
Away the cold air flies and leaves
The room at eighty-three.

“Oh, for a cool and gentle wind!”
I heard a member cry;
“But give it to me hot and hot,”
Another did reply:
Another did reply, my boys;
So Dr. Reid made free
To give it to us half and half,
And wretched men were we!

The Speaker sits at freezing point,
At fever heat the crowd;
In the reporters’ gallery
They all complain aloud:
They all complain aloud, my boys,
Of Reid in language free;
And say, not even Peel can blow
So hot and cold as he!

_Punch._ 1845.

At that time there were loud complaints about the bad ventilation of the House of Commons, and every remedy tried, seemed only to make matters worse. Nor was much improvement felt when the members were installed in Sir Charles Barry’s new Palace of Westminster, which has nearly every fault that it is possible a large public building can have. The site is probably the worst that could have been selected. The palace lies low, close to a polluted river, which smells intolerably in the summer, and gives off fog and damp in the winter. The style of architecture is totally unsuited for our climate, or for the purposes for which it is intended, and the stone of which it is built is rapidly crumbling away, whilst although the building covers nine acres of ground, the room in which the Commons meet will only accommodate a little more than half their number.

Every consideration of comfort and utility was sacrificed to gratify an architectural fad, and the requirements of the two legislative bodies who use the building were simply ignored. Frequent debates have been held, and divisions taken, to express the dissatisfaction of the members. Committees have been appointed to examine into, and report upon the heating and ventilation, the sanitary arrangements, and the possibility of enlarging the Commons chamber. Costly repairs are constantly going on, crumbling stonework is removed and replaced, and experiments of all kinds have been tried to remedy the structural defects. But all to no purpose, and the building remains a costly monument of a nation’s folly, and an architect’s vanity and incompetence.

SIR PERCY AND THE FEARFUL FOGGE.
(_A new “Percy Relique.”_)

Full seven hundred Members mayde aloude thys one remark――
“Scarce can we breathe, or speke, or thynke. Wee all are in the
darke.”

Like unto pygmyes arm’d against great Basan’s Monarque Og,
So gasping, gallant gentlemen doe battell with the Fogge.

Stout Percy to the Commons went, all in Westministeere.
Quoth he, “Ye have good neede of help, the Fogge doth enter heere.

“I ventylate and drayne the House, and keep it sweet and cool.”
Cryed every man, “Who’ll stay the Fogge?” Quoth bold Percy, “I
wool!”

“Now bless thee, Doctor Percy!” cry the Commons with a cheer,
“If thou the Fogge shall set at naught all in Westministeere;

“And if with cotton-wool thou pluggest cranny, hole, and crack,
The Lords we’ll dysestablyshe, and to thee give the Woolsàck.”

Stout Percy sniff’d a pynche of snuff, all of the olden schoole.
Quoth he, “And if I fayle I’ll get the Sack without the Wool.

“Natheless the cotton-wool I’ll try; my very best I’ll do.”
“No more can we expect,” sayde each to each. “_Que woolley woo?_”

Stout Percy hies him to the work, nor lists to knave nor fool.
“Plenty of ‘cry’ there be,” quoth he. “My ears hold cotton-wool.”

“As walls have ears, I trow,” quoth he, “those at Westministeere
Will thank me soe for saving them from much that else they’d
heare.”

* * * * *

Then Heav’n send Doctor Percy may bring them light and peace!
May Fogge clear from Westministeere, and all obstruction cease!

_Punch._ March 19, 1887.

In August 1887, Mr. Plunket, questioned by Mr. Esslemont and Dr. Kenny, said “he had no reason to believe that the air of the House of Commons was noxious. As to the artificial system of ventilation, it simply consisted in drawing up the air through the ceiling when it had been breathed by members, in order that there might be a freer and more constant access of fresh air from below. That air passed over ice to make it cooler, and he could not recommend the discontinuance of the system. Straining the air through cotton wool had been tried, but the officials were waiting for the next fog before making another experiment.”

――――:o:――――

SHE AND I.

I in a mighty palace,
She in a lonely room,
I where the lights are shining,
She where there is but gloom,
I amid mirth and laughter,
She where no laugh is known,
I with gay friends around me,
She with her fears alone.

I where gay music soundeth,
She where the clock ticks loud,
I where the lights are shining,
She with her fair head bowed,
I noble, rich, and courted,
Chief of a mighty throng.
She by her kin deserted,
Burdened with care and wrong.

Could I but share her sorrow,
One aching thought beguile,
Gladden her heart to-morrow,
Woo from her lips one smile,
Oh, then I would give how gladly
The joys that the world may prize,
For one touch of her gentle fingers,
One glance of her loving eyes.

G. COURTENAY BOYLE.

――――

I AND SHE.

She in a gay gin palace,
I in a lonely room,
She where the gas is shining,
I where there is but gloom,
She amid mirth and laughter,
I where no mirth is known,
She with young swells around her,
I with my pipe alone.

She where the money clinketh,
I where no tick’s allowed,
She where the masher drinketh,
I with my poor head bowed,
She pretty, young, and courted,
Chief of the Barmaid throng,
I by my friends deserted,
One more good man gone wrong.

Ah! she could soothe my sorrow,
This aching heart beguile,
If from her I could borrow
Ten shillings for a while.
And, oh, I would take it gladly,
Altho’ it perhaps sounds queer,
If she drew me with gentle fingers
One glass of her bitter beer.

From _The Keys ‘At Home.’_ By J. M. Lowry. London. Field and Tuer, 1885.

――――

WILD WEST-MINSTER!
_Air――“Do you ken John Peel?”_

Do you ken Arthur Peel in the nightly fray?
Do you ken Arthur Peel at the break of day?
Do you think he won’t wish himself far far away,
Ere the House rises early in the morning?

_Chorus_――
For the sound of the Pats keeps us each from our bed,
And the Tory horse bolts if you give him his head,
And the row of the Rads, by sly Labouchere led,
At Wild West-minster sounds until morning.

Yes, I know Arthur Peel, with his seat so true,
And he needs it indeed on that buck-jumping screw,
Which to fling Arthur Peel has done all that it knew,
The bit and the bridle still scorning.
_Chorus_――For the sound, &c.

Do you ken Arthur Peel of the resolute will,
And the “hand” that is worthy of Buffalo Bill?
Do you think the buck-jumper would not like to spill
The cool hand on its back ere the morning!
_Chorus_――For the sound, &c.

Yes, I know Arthur Peel for a rough-riding body,
At handling a rogue almost equal to Cody,
And down like a hammer on noodle and noddy,
Though kept in the saddle till morning.
_Chorus_――For the sound, &c.

Do you ken Arthur Peel with a snaffle so strong,
Prepared for a contest that’s dour and ding-dong,
For a rally that’s sharp and a struggle that’s long,
Which may last all the night until morning?
_Chorus_――For the sound, &c.

Do you ken Arthur Peel with the spur at his heel,
Which the stubbornest buck-jumper’s bound for to feel,
And flinch at the punishment dealt out by Peel,
While Wild West-minster howls in the morning?
_Chorus_――For the sound, &c.

Yes, I know Arthur Peel as a chap who won’t shirk;
But his mount of to-day is a tiger, a Turk,
And to break it to harness he’ll have all his work,
Though he leathers and spurs night and morning.

_Chorus_――
For the sound of its snorts and the pad of its feet
Show this buck-jumping brute is a teaser to beat,
And Peel will do well if he still keeps his seat
When Wild West-minster shuts some fine morning.

_Punch._ May 14, 1887.

――――:o:――――

BOATSWAIN CHAMBERLAIN.
AIR――_“Sailing, sailing.”_

The Liberal Barque is on the wave,
And manned by seamen stout and brave,
And though the Tory shoals are near,
The gallant ship will danger clear,
For Chamberlain
The bo’san’s pipe will blow,
And a hardy crew
Stand ready for the foe――

Then here’s to the captain,
With grand old heart so true.
To Harcourt, Dilke, and Hartington,
Who lead a gallant crew――――
Sailing sailing,
Over the bounding main,
Ready and ripe,
At the sound of the pipe,
Of Boatswain Chamberlain.

Joe Chamberlain is bold and free,
And skipper some day he will be,
For never a heart more true and brave,
A murmuring people counsel gave;
No false step marks
His actions or career;
And he sounds his pipe
For action now to clear――
Then here’s to the captain, &c.

From _Songs for Liberal Electors_. Manchester, A. Heywood, 1885.

(This parody was written before Mr. Chamberlain and Lord Hartington joined the Conservative party.)

――――:o:――――

“JOLLY NOSE.”

The late Mr. William Bates writing to _Notes and Queries_ in December, 1863, pointed out that this capital drinking song is a translation of one of the _Vaux-de-Vire_ of the fine old Norman Anacreon, Olivier Basselin. W. H. Ainsworth puts the song into the mouth of “Blueskin” in his novel _Jack Sheppard_, but it was made famous by the late Paul Bedford, who sang it in his celebrated impersonation of “Blueskin” at the Adelphi Theatre, London.

À SON NEZ.

Beau Nez, dont les rubis ont cousté mainte pipe
Du vin blanc et clairet,
Et duquel le couleur richement participe
Du rouge et violet;
Gros Nez! Qui te regarde à travers un grand verre,
Te juge encore plus beau.
Tu ne ressemblas point au nez de quelque hère
Qui ne boit que de l’eau.
Un coq d’inde, sa gorge à toy semblable porte:
Combien de riches gens
N’ont pas si riche nez! Pour te peindre en la sorte,
Il faut beaucoup de temps.
Le verre est le pinceau, duquel on t’enlumine;
Le vin est la couleur
Dont on t’a peint ainsi plus rouge qu’une guisgne
En beuvant du meilleur.
On dit qu’il nuit aux yeux; mais seront ils les maistres?
Le vin est la guarison
De mes maux: J’aime mieux perdre les deux fenestres
Que toute la maison.

DRINKING SONG.

Jolly Nose! the bright rubies that garnish thy tip
Were dug from the mines of Canary;
And to keep up their lustre I moisten my lip
With hogsheads of claret and sherry.
Jolly Nose! he who sees thee across a broad glass,
Beholds thee in all thy perfection;
And to the pale snout of a temperate ass
Entertains the profoundest objection.

(For a turkey-cock’s neck one might surely mistake thee:
Why there’s many a well-to-do fellow
Can’t boast such a nose! what a time it must take thee
To get to a colouring so mellow.)
For a big-bellied glass is the palette I use,
And the choicest of wine is my colour;
And I find that my nose takes the mellowest hues,
The fuller I fill it,――the fuller.

Jolly Nose! there are fools who say drink hurts the sight
Such dullards know nothing about it;
’Tis better with wine to extinguish the light,
Than live always in darkness without it.

Mr. Ainsworth had omitted the third verse, this is supplied in the above version by Mr. Bates, but it will readily be seen that his lines are inferior to the gay sparkling verses of Mr. Ainsworth’s translation.

――――:o:――――

DERBY AND JONES.
(_With convivial compliments to Mr. James Molloy._)

The Derby’s here, and I’m getting grey,
By Jove I’m fifty if I’m a day;
But through dust and sun, I like my fun
As the cab rolls on.
So we, that is Jones my friend and I,
Have each to our wives made this reply:
“Yes, we’re going,――like two staid elderly men,
But don’t mean, my dear, to do it again.”
And its always the same! Serious tones,――
Then a nice little game with my old friend Jones.
A nice little game with my old friend Jones.

Arm-in-arm, after lunch that day,
Arm-in-arm,――well we made our way:
And everything spun round and round like fun
As the cab bowled on!
Arm-in-arm, we managed to slide,
Though the streets and lamps all took the wrong side;
And we never could quite tell how or when
Each of us got safe home again!
Always the same!――Banjo and Bones――
Always the same with my old friend Jones.
Always the same with my old friend Jones.

_Punch._ June 4, 1881.

――――

GLADSTONE SINGS:――
(_Addressing the Earl of Derby._)

Derby, dear, I am old and grey,
Fifty years since my Newark day;
Changes will come to every one
As the years roll on.
Derby, dear, when the votes went wry,
Out in the cold and alone was I;
Ah! but the thought of you cheered me then,
“’Tis not for long _he_ can hold with Ben.”
Always the same, Derby, my own,
Always the same to your old Glad-stone!
_Always_ the same to your old Glad-stone!

Derby, dear, but I did feel riled,
When the Jingoes with joy went wild,
Until hope whispered Knowsley’s lord
“Loveth not the sword.”
Derby, dear, ’twas your backing out
Showed the way for the Tories’ rout,
Ah, dear! how you stilled my fear,
Life appeared better and office near.
Always the same, Derby, my own,
Always the same to your old Glad-stone!
_Always_ the same to your old Glad-stone!

_Punch._ December 23, 1882.

――――

SONG OF THE RAILWAY CLERK.

Come dwell with me, and be my own,
For a joyful lot is mine;
I’ve a sunny bank, with turf o’ergrown,
And a cottage on the line.
And two policemen own my sway,
And strive to be my slaves,
And daren’t receive gratuities,
Though each one well behaves.
Then, dearest, be for ever mine,
In that small station on the line.

And though my lot’s all day to stamp
Those slips of card-board blue,
When faded is the mail’s red lamp,
I come to love and you.
Then, dearest, you must not refuse,
But to my prayers incline;
I’ll fetter thee, in Hymen’s noose,
Not in――but on――a line.
And let me link my lot with thine,
And love thee on the banks of line.

From _The Man in the Moon_. Edited by Albert Smith.

――――

MUTTON CHOPS.

Come dine with me, come dine with me,
And our dish shall be, our dish shall be,
A mutton chop from the butcher’s shop
And how I cook it you shall see.
The chop I choose is not too lean;
For to cut off the fat I mean.
Then to the fire I put it down,
And let it fry until ’tis brown.
Come dine with me; yes dine with me, etc.

I’ll fry some bread cut rather fine,
To place betwixt each chop of mine;
Some spinach, or some cauliflowers,
May ornament this dish of ours.
I will not let thee once repine
At having come with me to dine:
’Twill be my pride to hear thee say,
“I have enjoy’d my chop, to-day.”
Come, dine with me; yes, dine with me;
Dine, dine, dine, with me, &c.

――――:o:――――

DON’T DYE YOUR HAIR WHEN YOU GROW OLD.
(_Parody on “Silver Threads among the Gold.”_)

Don’t dye your hair when you grow old,
Or you surely will be sold,
As I found myself one day
When my hair was turning grey,
On a pretty girl, named Grace,
I was spooney, quite a case,
But her hair was black and bright,
Whereas mine was turning white.
Don’t dye your hair when you grow old,
Either black, or brown, or gold,
Or the day you’ll surely rue,
“Ne’er say _dye_” what’er you do.

Then to myself I said, said I,
I’ll try a bottle of hair dye;
Out I rush’d, and hurried back
With a bottle labell’d black.
When I’d rubb’d it on my head,
I look’d beautiful, folks said,
But when I’d embraced dear Grace
I found out I’d dyed her face.
Don’t dye your hair, &c.

And in the morning, I declare,
Bright magenta was my hair.
To the hairdresser I flew,
“Sir,” said he, “that’s nothing new,
Try our ostrich marrow grease,
Try it, and your fretting cease;”
So I did, and next was seen
With my hair a light pea green.
Don’t dye your hair, &c.

Next day, alas! ’twas dirty pink,
Then the colour of red ink;
Next ’twas purple, then ’twas blue,
Every colour it’s gone through.
Now content with homely grey,
Often to dear Grace I say,
“Locks may lose their black or gold,
But true love will ne’er grow old.”
Don’t dye your hair, &c.

――――:o:――――

A CHILD’S HYMN OF PRAISE

I.

I thank the goodness and the grace,
Which on my birth have smiled,
And made me in these Christian days,
A happy English child.

* * * * *

From _Hymns for Infant Minds_. By Jane & Ann Taylor.

A PARODY.

Upon my childhood’s pallid morn,
No tropic summer smiled,
In foreign lands I was not born,
A happy heathen child.

Alas! but in a colder clime,
A cultured clime I dwell,
All in the foremost ranks of Time,
They say: I know it well.

You never learn geography,
No grammar makes you wild.
A book, a slate you never see,
You happy heathen child.

I know in forest and in glade,
Your games are odd, but gay.
Think of the little British maid,
Who has no place for play.

When ended is the day’s long joy,
And you to rest have gone,
Think of the little British boy,
Who still is toiling on.

The many things we learn about
We cannot understand,
Oh, send your missionaries out
To this benighted land!

You blessed little foreigner,
In weather fair and mild,
Think of the tiny Britisher,
Oh, happy heathen child.

Ah! highly favoured Pagan, born
In some far hemisphere,
Pity the British child forlorn
And drop one sorrowing tear.

From “_That very Mab_.” Published by Longmans.

SCOTCH SONGS.

Parodies of the Songs of ROBERT BURNS, and other Scotch Authors appeared in Volume III., but the following were not included.

――――

ANNIE LAURIE.

Supposed to have been modernised from an old Scotch song by Douglas, and dedicated by him to Annie Laurie, daughter of Sir Robert Laurie. Tradition says that Douglas was rejected by the young lady, and further, that he did not “lay him doun and dee.”

Maxwelton braes are bonnie,
Where early fa’s the dew;
And it’s there that Annie Laurie
Gied me her promise true;
Gied me her promise true,
Which ne’er forgot will be;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I’d lay me doun and dee.

Her brow is like the snaw-drift,
Her throat is like the swan,
Her face it is the fairest
That e’er the sun shone on;
That e’er the sun shone on,
And dark blue is her ee;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I’d lay me doun and dee.