Chapter XXIII: Part 48: Songs by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and various old English (23)

Shall I like a hermit dwell,
On a rock or in a cell,
Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it where I may
Meet a rival every day?
If she undervalue me,
What care I how fair she be?

Were her tresses angel-gold[79]
If a stranger may be bold
Unrebuked, unafraid
To convert them to a braid;
And with little more ado
Work them into bracelets, too;
If the mine be grown so free
What care I how rich it be?

Were her hands as rich a prize
As her hairs or precious eyes;
If she lay them out to take
Kisses for good manners’ sake;
And let every lover skip
From her hand unto her lip;
If she be not chaste to me
What care I how chaste she be?

No; she must be perfect snow,
In effect as well as show,
Warming but as snow-balls do,
Not like fire, by burning too;
But when she by change hath got
To her heart a second lot;
Then if others share with me,
Farewell her, whate’er she be!

The burden of this song probably suggested the far more beautiful poem by George Wither, which follows:――

SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR.
(George Wither, born 1588, died 1667.)

Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman’s fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care,
’Cause another’s rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flow’ry meads in May,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?

Should my heart be grieved or pined
’Cause I see a woman kind
Or a well disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman’s virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or, her well-deservings known,
Make me quite forget my own
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of best,
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?

’Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do
That without them dare to woo;
And, unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne’er the more despair.
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve:
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go:
For, if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?

From “_The Mistress of Philarete_,” published in 1622.

――――

SONG. MR. GLADSTONE.

Shall my heart be filled with care
’Cause the Whigs are so unfair?
Or, their services to keep,
Shall I sacrifice my sleep?
Or, lest they offence may take,
My great measures weaker make?
If they are not true to me,
What care I what Whigs they be.

’Cause they show such self-conceit,
Shall I risk severe defeat?
Or, in their good books to stay,
Scare good Radicals away?
Tho’ their talent be as great
As they never fail to state,
Yet, if they are not with me,
What care I what Whigs they be?

They have duped me far too long,
Threatening they were very strong,
Now I know they are at best
Fossils of no powers possest,
And methinks they soon will find
I am neither weak nor blind.
If their heats beat not for me,
What care I what Whigs they be?

They have thwarted me enough,
Tried to hinder and rebuff;
Why should I reward them, then,
To the loss of better men;
Better far to let them go,
And become an open foe!
If they will not work with me,
They may Tories be for me!

_Truth._ Christmas number 1882.

――――

MATILDA.

Shall I fret and fume and swear,
Because Matilda dyes her hair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care,
That hers so _very_ rosy are?
Though her raven locks to-day
Turn as yellow as the hay,
If she be but true to me,
What care I how blonde she be!

Shall a woman’s weakness move
Me such weakness to reprove?
Or her little failings known
Make me careless of my own?
Though her bills be longer than
Bill of duck or pelican,
If they be not paid by me,
What care I how long they be?

If her youth be left behind,
Shall I play the fool and mind?
She must be, the women say,
Forty-five if she’s a day――
But I swear she looks no more,
At the most, than forty-four:
If she’s young enough for me,
What care I how old she be?

Be she painted, fast, or old――
Be she flirt, or rake, or scold――
She has cash enough to make
Me submissive for her sake:
If she loose her money, though,
I can scorn and let her go;
If in poverty she be,
She may go to Bath for me!

From _The White Pilgrim, and other Poems_. By Herman Charles Merivale. London, Chapman & Hall, 1883.

(_By the Author’s kind permission._)

――――:o:――――

THE COCKNEY SHEPHEARD TO HIS LOVE.

(ARCADIA.――Switchback railway now running through groves of trees, and above a veritable Fairyland of flowers, foliage, and illuminations, to strains of military music.)

Come, switch with me, my cockney Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
Of hills, vales, groves, and flowery lands,
And strains of military bands.

And we will, sitting on the car,
Where other nymphs and shepheards are,
Shoot up and down, in rise and fall,
With catch (of breath) for madrigal.

My manly arm about thy waist,
For belt and clasp, Love, interlaced;
Thy skirt beflowered, and thy head-gear
The latest thing from Swan and Edgar.

My checks, my tie, my gilded studs,
Will vanquish all the rival “bloods.”
So, if such pleasures may thee move,
Come, switch with me, my cockney Love.

_The Globe._ September 19, 1887.

THE NYMPH’S REPLY

to the “Cockney Shepheard,” is unfavourable to his appeal to her to come and switch with him in “Arcadia.” Much sympathy will be felt with the “Shepheard” on this refusal of his love to “switch the world with noble carmanship.”

Shepheard, an I were sweet seventeen,
And thou wert green and I were green,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To switch with thee, my cockney Love.

But hills and valleys have their fears
For maidens of discreeter years;
And nymphs when they have had their tea
Like to digest it quietlie.

These sudden flights, and jumps, and shoots
Plunge hearts from bosoms into boots;
And where in flowering Arcadee
Flow founts of Sal Volatile?

Thy checks, thy tie, thy gilt of stud,
Stir no bold humours in my blood;
And nothink, ’Arry, can me move
To switch with thee, my cockney Love.

_The Globe._ September 20, 1887.

――――:o:――――

AFTER HERRICK.
(_Upon seeing her picture in profile._)

I die
If I but spy
_One eye_;
Yet would I fain
See twain.

(_Upon receiving the same in a full view._)

In profile
’Twas vile;
But in th’ obverse
’Tis worse.

ERNEST RADFORD.

――――

Cats’ meat, cats’ meat――meat I cry
On a skewer――come and buy;
From Hyde Park Corner to Wapping Wall,
All the year I cats’ meat bawl;
Cats’ meat――cats’ meat――meat, I cry,
On a skewer――come and buy.

From _The Book of Cats_, by C. H. Ross. 1868.

――――:o:――――

THE WHIP’S SONG.
(After _Ben Jonson_.)

Come to my lobby with thy vote,
And give it in with mine;
Or pair with one who’d vote against,
And I’ll not ask for thine.
Divisions thus will make us still
More closely link’d as friends,
And when our party is in place,
You may attain your ends.

I sent thee late a three-lined whip,
And posted it to thee,
In hopes that ere the House was made,
It might deliver’d be.
But thou didst never come that night
Nor wrote a line to me!
Do this again my friend, I swear,
I’ll make it hot for thee.

C. H. WARING.

R. B. SHERIDAN.

On page 195 a list was given of the principal burlesques founded upon Sheridan’s plays, but the two following were accidentally omitted:――

PIZARRO; _a Spanish Rolla-King Peruvian Drama_. A Burlesque in one act. by C. J. Collins. 1856. This was produced at Drury Lane Theatre, on September 22, 1856, with Mr. and Mrs. Keeley, Mrs. Frank Matthews, and George Honey in the caste.

PIZARRO; _or, the Leotard of Peru_. An original Burlesque Extravaganza by Leicester Buckingham. Produced at the Strand Theatre, in 1862. Miss Fanny Josephs, Miss C. Saunders, Miss Woodin, Miss Ada Swanborough, Miss E. Bufton, James Rogers, and J. Clarke were the principal performers.

OF THE GENDERS OF NOUNS.
_Air_――“Here’s to the Maiden of bashful fifteen.’

All names of the male kind you masculine call,
Ut sunt (for example), Divorum,
Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, the deities all,
And Cato, Virgilius, virorum.
Latin’s a bore, and bothers me sore,
Oh, how I wish that my lesson was o’er.

Fluviorum, ut Tibris, Orontes likewise,
Fine rivers in ocean that lost are,
And Mensium――October an instance supplies;
Ventorum, ut Libs, Notus, Auster.
Latin’s a bore, and bothers me sore,
Oh, how I wish that my lesson was o’er.

From _The Comic Latin Grammar_, by Paul Prendergast (Percival Leigh.) Published by David Bogue. London.

――――:o:――――

GLEE.

This bottle’s the sun of our table,
His beams are rosy wine:
We, planets that are not able
Without his help to shine.
Let mirth and glee abound!
You’ll soon grow bright
With borrowed light,
And shine as he goes round.

R. B. SHERIDAN.

THE LIGHT OF THE STUD.

Bicycle’s the sun of our stable,
His beams the spokes so fine;
We planets that so are able
With him to roll and shine.
Let circling mirth abound;
We’ll all grow bright
With _borrowed_ light,
And shine as he goes round.

From _Lyra Byclica_, by Joseph G. Dalton, Boston. 1885.

THE HON. MRS. NORTON.

(This lady was a grand-daughter of R. B. Sheridan.)

THE ARAB’S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED.

My beautiful, my beautiful! that standest meekly by,
With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye!
Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy wingèd speed;
I may not mount on thee again!――thou’rt sold, my Arab steed!
Fret not with that impatient hoof――snuff not the breezy wind;
The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;
The stranger hath thy bridle-rein, thy master hath his gold:――
Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell!――thou’rt sold, my steed,
thou’rt sold!

Farewell!――Those free untired limbs full many a mile must roam,
To reach the chill and wintry clime that clouds the stranger’s
home;
Some other hand, less kind, must now thy corn and bed prepare:
That silky mane I braided once, must be another’s care.
The morning sun shall dawn again――but never more with thee
Shall I gallop o’er the desert paths where we were wont to be――
Evening shall darken on the earth; and o’er the sandy plain,
Some other steed, with slower pace, shall bear me home again.

Yes, thou must go; the wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and
sky,
Thy master’s home, from all of these my exiled one must fly;
Thy proud, dark eye shall glow less proud, thy step become less
fleet.
And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy master’s hand to meet.
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright――
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;
And when I raise my dreaming arms to check or cheer thy speed,
Then must I startling wake, to feel thou’rt sold, my Arab steed.

Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side,
And the rich blood that’s in thee swells, in thy indignant pain,
Till careless eyes that on thee gaze may count each starting vein!
Will they ill-use thee?――if I thought――but no,――it cannot be;
Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed, so gentle, yet so free;――
And yet if haply when thou’rt gone, this lonely heart should
yearn,
Can the hand that casts thee from it now, command thee to return?

“Return!”――alas, my Arab steed! what will thy master do,
When thou, that wast his all of joy, hast vanished from his view?
When the dim distance greets mine eyes, and through the gathering
tears
Thy bright form for a moment, like the false mirage, appears?
Slow and unmounted will I roam, with wearied foot alone,
Where, with fleet step, and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me
on;
And sitting down by the green well, I’ll pause, and sadly think,――
“’Twas here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him drink.”

When last I saw thee drink!――Away! the fevered dream is o’er!
I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more;
They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger’s power is strong――
They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.
Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold?
’Tis false! ’tis false! my Arab steed! I fling them back their
gold!
Thus――thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains!
Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains.

HON. MRS. NORTON.

――――

THE DYING VENDOR OF VEGETABLES TO HIS PALFREY OF JERUSALEM.

Where art thou now? where art thou now? my beautiful, my bold;
And shall they take thee far away to green-yards to be sold?
O rather let them take the bed, where now, alas! I lie,
Than seize on thee, for debt or rent, my beautiful――my shy!
They tell me they’ll take care of thee――I know what ’tis they
mean,
A truss of hay in half a year, with thistle-tops between.
O no! it shall not be thy fate, I’d rather, ere I part,
Plunge deep, my mild and patient ass, this pitchfork to thy
heart!

Nay, do not turn aside thy nose, and shake thine honest ear,
Thy master’s sense is wandering, but thou’st no cause to fear;
But let me give thee one embrace, ere from the world I go.
There! there! nay, do not shrink from me, my terrified――my slow!
Thou’st drawn with me, boy, many a year, the cart along the
streets:――
Put thine hoof on thy master’s heart――thou feelest how it beats.
But Oh, thine eyes benevolent, my anguish’d feelings lull.
Farewell, my Jackass!――Oh! farewell――my beautiful! my dull!!

_Punch._ May 27, 1843.

――――

The four following Parodies appeared in a Prize Competition in _One and All_, 1879:――

A TRAVELLER’S FAREWELL TO HIS TRAIN.
(_Which he thinks he has missed while lunching at York._)

My railway train, my railway train, that stoodst all steaming by,
With thy paraffin and oily lamps and one red gleaming eye.
Thou goest to fly along the line with all thy wheelèd speed;
I cannot ride in thee again――I’m sold, I am indeed!
Puff not with that impatient blast; cleave not the breezy wind;
The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind:
The driver tends thy furnace fires; the “clerk” he hath my gold;
Swift wheeled and punctual, farewell!――I’m sold, my train, I’m
sold!
Farewell! Those swift and tyred wheels full many a mile must glide
To reach old Scotland’s bonnie moors and heather’d mountain side;
Some other man more fortunate must occupy my seat,
The corner place I sat in once must be another’s treat.
The morning sun will dawn again, but not again with thee
Shall I ride along the iron rails where thou art wont to be;
Evening shall darken on the earth, and o’er the grassy plain
Some other train with slower wheels will bear me on again.

Yes, thou must go; the wild free breeze, the autumn sun and sky,
Thy terminus――to all of these my punctual one must fly.
The “ticket-man” will go his rounds, and vainly seek my “tip,”
And vainly will he ply his punch my ticket then to clip.
Only in sleep shall I behold that red eye gleaming bright,
Only in sleep shall hear again that whistle shrill at night;
And when I rouse my dreaming brain to wonder at thy speed,
Then must I starting wake, to feel――I’m sold, my train, indeed.

Ah now, indeed, uncared by me, some fireman’s hand may “stoke,”
Till steam wreaths mix like driven snow among the blackening
smoke,
And the fierce fire that is in thee burns with increasing flare
Till careless eyes which rest on thee may wonder at the glare.
Wilt thou return here? If I thought――but no, it cannot be――
Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed, so punctual “to a T”!
And though most surely now thou’rt gone my lonely heart will
yearn,
Yet the man who loses thee cannot command thee to return.

Return! alas, my railway train, what shall this traveller do
Now thou, who wert his travelling home, has vanished from his
view?
When the dim distance cheats my eye, and through my gathering
tears
Thy bright light for a moment like a Will-o’-the-wisp appears,
By parliamentary slow, alas, I now must travel on
Where with thy speed and joyous shriek rejoiced I should have
gone;
But, sitting down on yon platform, I now in vain must grunt,
“It was here he blew his whistle shrill, when last I saw him
shunt!”

“When last I saw him shunt!” Away! The foolish dream is o’er;
I see that thou art shunting still, and here thou art once more.
They tempted me, my railway train, for hunger’s power is strong;
They tempted me, my railway train! I near had gorged too long!
Who said that I had lost the train? Who said that thou wast gone?
’Tis false――’tis false, my railway train; I still shall travel on.
Thus, thus, I leap into my seat, and my good fortune bless;
Who overtakes us now must beat a G. N. R. express!

W. G. MCMILLAN.

――――

THE HORSE AND HIS MASTER.
(_A panegyric._)

My――anything but beautiful, that standest “knock-knee’d” by,
“Inverted arch” describes thy back, as “dismal” doth thine eye.
Fret not――go roam the commons now, limp there for want of speed;
I dare not mount on thee (’twere pain), thou bag of bones, indeed.
Fret not with that _too_ patient hoof, puff not with wheezy wind;
The harder that thou roarest now the more we lag behind.
The stranger “had” thy master, brute, for twice ten pounds, all
told;
I only wish he had thee back! Too late――I’m sold! I’m sold!

To-morrow’s sun will dawn again, but ah! no ride for me.
Can I gallop over Rotten Row astride on such as thee?
’Tis evening now, and getting dark, and blowing up for rain;
I’ll lead thee then, with slow, slow step, to some “bait stables”
plain
(When a horse-dealer cheats, with eyes of clap-trap truth and
tears,
A hack’s form for an instant like a thoroughbred’s appears);
And sitting down, I’ll ponder well beside this water’s brink.
Here――what’s thy name? Come, Rosinante! Drink, pretty (?)
creature, drink!

Drink on, inflate thy skin. Away! this wretched farce is o’er;
I could not live a day and know that we must meet once more.
I’ve tempted thee, in vain (though Sanger’s power be strong,
They could not tempt this beast to trot), oh, thou hast lived too
long!
Who says that I’ll give in? Come up! who says thou art not old?
Thy faults were faults, poor useless steed, I fear, when thou wert
foal’d.
Thus, thus I whack upon thy back; go, scour with might and main
The asphalte! Ha! who stops thee now may have thee for his gain.

PHILIP F. ALLEN.

――――

THE CABBY’S FAREWELL TO HIS BEER.

My pewter full, my pewter full, that stands untasted by,
With thy amber hue, and odour sweet, and froth heaped up so high,
Fret though I may to taste thee now, howe’er I feel inclined,
I may not drink of thee again――I’ve signed the pledge, I’ve
signed.
I fret not ’neath this cosy roof, snug near the taproom fire;
The further thou art from me now, the more is my desire.
The landlord hath thee still his own, and “cabby” hath his gold.
Beer! yes, my pewter full, farewell, to me thou art not sold.

The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more for thee
Shall I leave my “hansom” in the “stand” to get some stout and B;
Evening shall darken o’er the “pub” and o’er it’s sandy floor;
Some other “cove” may take my seat behind the taproom door,
When a short distance cheats my “fare,” then through the gathering
crowd
I see the flash of pewter pots, and hear men singing loud;
And sitting on my cab again, I pause and sadly think,
“It was here I nearly broke my neck when last I had a drink.”

When _last_ I had a drink! Away! the temp’rance dream is o’er;
I cannot live a day and know I _ain’t_ to drink _no_ more.
Thou’st tempted me, my pewter full, for habit’s power is strong;
Thou’st tempted me, my pewter full, and I have drunk too long.
Who said that I had given thee up? who said thou wert not sold?
’Tis false, ’tis false; here, guv’nor, come and change us this
’ere gold.
Thus, thus I give my lips a smack, and call for number two;
Who tries to make me sign again shall have enough to do!

GEORGE R. GALLAHER.

――――

THE BICYCLIST’S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED.

My bicycle, my bicycle, that crouchest weakly by,
With thy proudly arched backbone a wreck, thy spokes all bent
awry,
Though not of late untreasured, now I swear, I do indeed,
If any man says one pound ten, thou art sold, my iron steed.
Straight shot right o’er thy patent head, my spill no easy kind,
All smashed and low thou liest now: I’m sore before――behind.
A stranger who’ll the trifle pay right fain would I behold,
And then, my bicycle, farewell! thou’rt sold, my steed, thou’rt
sold.

Farewell! this knee, these tired limbs full many a mile must roam
To reach the railway――then, oh my! where’s cash to take me home?
Some other plan must I contrive ere I to bed repair
(My silver watch, paraded once, is in another’s care).
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more, ah me!
Shall I whirl upon my bicycle through tollgates running free.
Evening shall darken on the earth, and over hill and plain,
While I must needs with weary step slow tramp it home again.

Yes, I must go, though barked my knees, a bump above my eye;
Although I’m lame and scarce can wheeze, I yet to trudge must try.
My big black eye will grow more black, more tired become my feet,
And vainly shall I stretch my legs thy treadles’ whirl to meet.
Only in sleep shall I behold thy smart lamp gleaming bright,
Only in sleep shall hear again thy bell’s tinck-tinckling light,
And when I move my dreaming arm to brake thy gathering speed,
Then must I starting wake to wish thou wert sold, my iron steed.

Ah, rudely then, unseen by me, some traveller may deride
On finding here thy rusted frame upon this lone way-side,
While paraffin, that tear-like wells slow through thy lamp’s
cracked pane,
His careless nose will so surprise that on he’ll start again.
Will folks ill-use thee? If I thought――but no, that couldn’t be;
Thou art so smashed, howe’er disturb’d, no harm can come to thee.
And yet, if haply when I’m gone for thee again I yearn,
Could the man who rode thee gaily here remount thee to return?

Return, alas! My iron steed, what can thy master do
But leave thee here and limp along till home appears in view?
When the long distance tires me I will rest while fancies queer,
Thy bright form will restore, and thou’lt a new machine appear.
Slow and unmounted must I go with weary foot alone,
Where with fleet wheels fast whirling round thou once did’st bear
me on;
And sitting down in some hotel I o’er my beer will think,
I nearly broke my blessed neck when last I rode full clink.

When last I rode full clink! Away! the fever’d dream is o’er;
I could not live a day and know that thee I’d mount no more,
I’ll tinker thee, my bicycle, for solder’s sometimes strong;
I’ll tinker thee, my bicycle, perchance thou’lt serve me long.
Who said that I had given thee up? who said I wished thee sold?
’Tis false, ’tis false, my iron steed; I wouldn’t have their gold.
Thus, thus I’ll heap upon my back thy battered, bulged remains;
Away! who from me takes thee now gets little for his pains!

S. T. A. N.
From _One and All_. November 8, 1879.

――――:o:――――

THE CYCLIST’S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED.

My beautiful, my bicycle! that standest patient by,
With thy proudly arched and glossy back, ’twould please a critic’s
eye,
Fret not to roam the country o’er with all thy willing speed,
I may not mount on thee again――thou’rt sold, my iron steed.
Fret not; thy modern Stanley head, held high in breezy ind,
The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;
The stranger hath thy handling now, thy master hath his gold――
To thee, my bicycle, farewell,――thou’rt sold, my steed, thou’rt
sold.

Farewell; from me those wired wheels full many a mile must roam,
To reach the hill, men weary climb, and near the stranger’s home;
Some other hand than mine must now thy injuries repair,
That brilliant surface plated once must be another’s care.
The morning sun shall dawn again――but never more with thee,
Shall I paddle o’er the country roads where we were wont to be;
Evening shall darken on my path, and trudging o’er the plain,
With slackened speed and slower pace shall think of thee again.

Only in sleep shall I behold that nick’ling beaming bright
Only in sleep shall tread again that step so firm and light;
And when I turn my dreaming arms to slack or check my speed,
Then must I startling wake to feel thou’rt sold, my iron steed.
Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, the lurking dark oxide,
In rust marks lie, encrusted deep, along thy wire-ribbed side;
And thy rich gloss, oft praised by swells, show strong metallic
grain.
Till careless eyes that on thee gaze shall count each patent vain.
Will they ill-use thee? If I thought――but no――it cannot be,
Thou art so swift, so easy worked, so silent, yet so free;
And yet, if haply when thou’rt gone, this lonely heart should
yearn,
Can the hand that casts thee from it now, command thee to return?

Return! alas! my iron steed, what will thy master do,
When thou that wast his all of joy, has vanished from his view,
When the dim distance greets mine eyes, and through the wandering
tears,
Thy bright form for a moment like the false mirage appears.
Slow and unmounted will I roam, with wearied foot, alone,
Where with fleet speed thy whirling wheels full oft hast borne me
on;
And sitting down on grassy bank, I’ll pause and sadly think
’Twas here he bowed his glossy neck and shot me o’er the brink.

Yet still, I love thee! away, away, the fever’d dream is o’er!
I could not live a day and know that we should meet no more;
They tempted me, my beautiful for money’s power is strong,
They tempted me, my bicycle but I have loved too long.
Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold?
’Tis false, ’tis false, my iron steed, I fling them back their
gold.
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and roll o’er distant plains――
Away, who overtakes us now, shall claim thee for their pains.

ANONYMOUS.

A parody with the same title as the above, and written by R. P. Nind, appeared in _Rare Bits_ for December 18, 1886. A prize was awarded to it as being the best poem written in praise of the bicycle. There was also another parody, entitled “The Englishman’s Farewell to his Train,” which appeared in Vol. I. of _Tit Bits_.

――――

THE PUBLIC’S ADDRESS TO HIS CABMAN.

My insolent, my turbulent! that stands crest-fallen by,
With the recent Cab Act in thy hand, and tear-drops in thine eye,
Try not to overcharge us now, or make our pockets bleed;
You cannot do it now again――thou’rt sold, my man, indeed
Fret not with that impatient cough: if surlily inclined,
The nearest station is the place at which redress to find;
The magistrates have now the power to mulct thee of thy gold,
Or send thee off to jail, my friend. Thou’rt sold, my man, thou’rt
sold.

Do they ill-use thee, Cabman? No! I’m sure it cannot be;
You that have bullied half the world, and humbugged even me.
And yet, if haply thou’rt done up, and for thee we should yearn,
Can the same law that cut thee off compel thee to return?
Return! alas! my Cabman bold, what shall the public do,
When rain is falling everywhere, wetting the public through?
I’ll stand me up beneath an arch, and pause and sadly think――
’Twas at the beer-shop opposite, the Cabmen used to drink.

The Cabmen used to drink! Away――my fevered dream is o’er;
I could not live a day and know cabs were to be no more.
They’ve cut thee down, exacting one; but legal power is strong:
You tempted us, my insolent! you kept it up too long.
Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold?
’Tis false! tis false! Thou’rt better off, my Cabman, thou art
told.
Thus, thus, I leap into thy cab, to ride five miles from town,
And when at Acton I alight, I’ll pay thee half-a-crown.

_Punch._ July 30, 1853.

――――

THE RINKER’S FAREWELL TO HER SKATES.

My beautiful! my beautiful!
That hang so calm and still,
I may not use you e’er again,
For you have wrought me ill.
Though you may roll the rink again
With all your wingèd speed,
I may not mount on you again
I mayn’t, I mayn’t indeed.
You’ll fly as you are wont to fly,
Fast as the breezy wind,
Alas! however fast you fly,
You’ll leave me still behind.
I must not rink on you again,
For so by all I’m told;
Swift wheel’d and beautiful, farewell!
They say you must be sold.

Farewell! your patent “canting” wheels
Full many a mile must rink,
Ere into fell oblivion.
Like others you must sink.
Some other foot less soft than mine
Must now upon you press,
Some other hand must oil your wheels
And maybe make a mess.
The morning sun shall dawn again
But never more with thee
Shall I across the asphalte skate
Where we were wont to be.
Evening shall darken on the rink,
For that what shall I care?
I’ll ne’er return alone again
I never shall go there.

Yes! you must go! no matter though
The wrench should break my heart;
My parents, friends, and doctors too,
All say that we must part.
Your tender straps some other foot
To grasp must now endure,
Beneath whose weight your “rubber pad”
Perchance will grow less sure.
Only in sleep again shall I
Your springing action feel;
Only in sleep shall hear again
The creaking of your wheel.
And when I raise my toe or heel
To guide you through the stream,
Then must I, starting, wake to find
“’Tis nothing but a dream.”

A dream? alas! my much loved skates,
What shall your mistress do
When you, who were her joy of joys,
Have vanish’d from her view?
Shall I the charms of Badminton
Or Lawn Tennis essay,
Or knock the Billiard Balls about
To pass the time away?
Or purposeless, and aimless too,
The lanes and meadows roam
Seeking that “constitutional”
I cannot get at home,
And may-be pass that darling spot
And pause and sadly think,
’Twas here we got that fall when last
Together we did rink?

_When last together we did rink!_
Away! the dream is o’er!
I could not live a day, and know
That we shall meet no more.
They tempted me, my beautiful!
Not without cause I own――
For all the rinking world knew well
I broke my collar-bone.
Who said that I had given you up?
Who said you wrought me ill?
’Tis false, ’tis false! ’Twas my own fault
I’ll risk another spill.
Thus, thus I mount on you again,
And o’er the asphalte fly――
Away! who’d win you for her own,
To catch us let her try!

From _Idyls of the Rink_ By A. W. Mackenzie. Second Edition. London. Hardwicke & Bogue. 1877.

――――:o:――――

BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers――
There was lack of woman’s nursing, there was dearth of woman’s
tears;
But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away,
And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.
The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade’s hand,
And he said: “I never more shall see my own my native land;
Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine,
For I was born at Bingen――at Bingen on the Rhine!

* * * * *

“Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age,
And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage:
For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child,
My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and
wild;
And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,
I let them take whate’er they would――but kept my father’s sword;
And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to
shine,
On the cottage wall at Bingen――calm Bingen on the Rhine!

“Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,
When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant
tread;
But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,
For her brother was a soldier, too――and not afraid to die.
And, if a comrade seek her love, I ask her, in my name,
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame;
And to hang the old sword in its place (my father’s sword and
mine),
For the honour of old Bingen――dear Bingen on the Rhine!

“There’s another――not a sister,――in the happy days gone by,
You’d have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye:
Too innocent for coquetry; too fond for idle scorning;――
Oh, friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest
mourning!
Tell her, the last night of my life (for, ere this moon be risen,
My body will be out o pain――my soul be out of prison)
I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen――fair Bingen on the Rhine!

* * * * *

His voice grew faint and hoarser,――his grasp was childish weak,――
His eyes put on a dying look,――he sighed and ceased to speak
His comrade bent to lift him,… but the spark of life had fled!
The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land was dead!
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown;
Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,
As it shone on distant Bingen――fair Bingen on the Rhine!

HON. MRS. NORTON.

ST. LOUIS BY THE CREEK.

During the Presidential Campaign of 1884 in the United States of America a great deal of jealousy and strife existed between different cities on the question as to where the nominating conventions should be held. After the Convention for the Republican party had been located at Chicago, the struggle became still more fierce as to where the Democratic Convention should assemble. It was Chicago against the field, but St. Louis a long way ahead of all other competitors. Both cities had committees working in Washington to support their interests, but finally the location was awarded to Chicago, whereupon the St. Louis people were in great wrath and indignation, and the St. Louis newspapers were very bitter in their remarks upon the contest.

Chicago, content with its victory, could afford to laugh at St. Louis, and the following parody appeared in the “_Chicago Tribune_”――

A Democratic Statesman stood in the bright saloon
There was lack of laundried linen――to all Democrats a boon――
But a comrade stood beside him as the whiskey ebbed away
And bent with pitying glances to hear what he might say.
The bedrock Statesman faltered, as he put the tumbler down
And he said, “I never more shall see my own, my native town,”
Take a message and a token (’tis my board bill for a week),
For I am from St. Louis――St. Louis by the creek.

“Tell my Democratic comrades as they gather from afar
To hear my mournful story standing up against the bar;
That we fought the battle bravely and when the shock was o’er
Full many a jug that once held rye lay empty on the floor;
And ’mid the knocked out phalanx were some grown old at bars,
The death wound on their noses red the last of many scars;
And some were young and suddenly began to feel quite weak
And one was from St. Louis――St. Louis by the creek.

Tell my sister not to weep for me and make an awful scene;
When the delegates are carried home (with aching heads I ween)
But to put her foot down proudly, minding not what it may smash
For her brother was a delegate, and stormed the sour mash.
And if a comrade seek her love don’t let him get away.
But secure a marriage license, and appoint the happy day:
And hang the cork screw in its place (nor yet to use it seek)
For the honor of St. Louis――St. Louis by the creek.

When we came here to Washington we thought to name the town
Where the next convention would be held, but Chicago bore us down:
The copper bottomed stomachs of their Statesmen held out well
And to us the merry gurgle of each bottle was a knell,
Who could hope against such talent the convention to secure――
Hope to make our sham Democracy o’ercome their Simon pure!
No――the contest was a hopeless one――defeat has made me weak!
And I ne’er shall see St. Louis――St. Louis by the creek.

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse――he motioned for a
drink,
His eyes assumed a home-like look, he even ceased to blink;
His comrade mixed a cocktail, but the spark of life had fled――
The Bourbon from St. Louis in a foreign land was dead.
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down
(For the moon herself was full that night) on the crimson painted
town,
Her rays fell on the delegate his ruddy nose and cheek
As they fell on far St. Louis――St. Louis by the creek.

WHAT IS THE GERMAN’S FATHERLAND?

The following imitation of this well-known German song appeared in _Notes and Queries_ (London), in 1871:

“Where doth proud England’s boundary stand?
In Europe’s land? In Asia’s land?
Where islands spot the ocean’s face,
Or where uncultured tribes have place?
O no, O no, O no, O no!
Her boundary farther yet must go.

“Where doth proud England’s boundary stand?
In Afric’s land? Columbus’ land?
Or is it marked by desert sand?
By rocks, or by the sea’s wide strand?
O no, O no, &c.

“Where doth proud England’s boundary stand
Australia’s land? Tasmania’s land?
Where earth and waters teem with gold?
Where wealth is heaped in sums untold?
O no, O no, &c.

“Where doth proud England’s boundary stand?
O tell me in what distant land.
From shore to shore, from pole to pole,
Where’er the ocean surges roll,
The earth doth smile, the sun doth shine,――
Go England there, for there is thine!”

F. C. H.

――――

HANS BREITMANN’S VATERLAND.
(With due respect to Mr. Leland.)

Was ist des Breitmann’s Vaterland?
Py Sharman sdream or Yankee sdrand?
Ist wo Mosel tovärts de Rhein
Pours bright pure vafe und thin poor wein?
Ist wo, py Erie’s voondrous fount,
De treaming Dutch de bubbles count?
Oh no, no, no! Oh, no, no, no,
You von’t content Hans Breitmann so.

Was ist des Breitmann’s Vaterland?
Vho raised dis shief von blut and brand?
Ist wo de hosts von Geist adfance
To murder French und ploonder France?
Ist wo, mit sack und sword und flame,
Ne North de rebel South reclaim?
Oh no, no, no! Oh no, no, no!
You von’t content Hans Breitmann so.

Was ist des Breitmann’s Vaterland――
Dis segond Gotz von iron hand?
Ist wo Petrolia’s fiery draught
Of olt fictorious Bummers quaffed?
Ist wo, ’mid corpses scharcely sdill,
De true Champagne die Uhlans schvill?
Oh no, no, no! Oh no, no, no!
Hans Breitmann sdill wär dirsty so.

Was ist des Breitmann’s Vaterland?
Oh name dat blace so pig und grand!
Vhere Geist is sdill so voonderful,
Vhere cities all are ploonderful,
Vhich iron und blut to glory pring,
Vhere robbers ne’er on gallows schving.
Dere let me go! Dere let me go!
Und wie der Breitmann leben so!

Was ist des Breitmann’s Vaterland?
Verefer roves de Bummerband;
Vhere Var lets lust und murder loose,
Und theft in glory finds excuse;
Vhere tyrant mob or robber-king
Triumphant hymns to Himmel sing;
Das soll es seyn, das soll es seyn;
Ja, Breitmann, ja! dat land ist dein!

_The Standard._ January 30, 1871.

――――

WHAT IS THE GERMANS’ FATHERLAND?
(_Dedicated to the Exiled Deutchlanders._)

What is the Germans’ Fatherland?
A country where the purple vine
Adorns the banks of flowing Rhine,
And men in want and hunger pine;
That is the Germans’ Fatherland.

What is the Germans’ Fatherland?
A thoughtful people’s teeming land,
Where groan and pine a noble band
Of men who love the right:
That is the Germans’ Fatherland.

What is the Germans’ Fatherland?
A nation where the stern command
Of one man sways with iron hand
The destinies of all;
That is the Germans’ Fatherland.

What is the Germans’ Fatherland?
An Empire steeped, on every hand,
In poverty――an o’er-taxed land,
Where iron grip and blood command;
This is the Germans’ Fatherland.

What is the Germans’ Fatherland?
A soldier-ridden, blood-stained soil,
Where heaves and pants a vast turmoil
Of down-trod noble souls;
This is the Germans’ Fatherland.

From _Fiz._ January 17, 1879.

――――

ANOTHER VERSION.

What is the Briton’s Father-Land?
Is’t where unfinished Paul’s doth stand,
Is’t where Boyne William, stern, doth frown,
Or where Sir Walter, calm, sits down?
O no! O no! Because, you see,
His Father-Land must greater be.

What is the Briton’s Father-Land?
Is’t little Wales’s mountains grand,
Is’t where Australia’s cattle grazes,
Or where Maöris fight like blazes?
O no! O no! Because, you see,
His Father-Land must greater be.

What is the Briton’s Father-Land?
Is it the grim Heligoland,
Whereof Tom Campbell took and wrote
A ghastly song about a Boat?
O no! O no! Because, you see,
His Father-Land must greater be.

What is the Briton’s Father-Land?
Is it the brave Canadian strand
Whereof Tom Moore he took and wrote
A pleasing song about a Boat?
O no! O no! Because, you see,
His Father-Land must greater be.

What is the Briton’s Father-Land?
(My patience drops its final sand――)
’Tis known by BÂTON and by hunch――
’Tis where all good folk read their _Punch_――
Where _Punch_ is seen in every hand,
There! there’s the Briton’s Father-Land!

SHIRLEY BROOKS.

――――:o:――――

THE SNUG LITTLE ISLAND.

Daddy Neptune, one day, to Freedom did say,
If ever I lived upon dry land,
The spot I should hit on would be Little Britain!
Says Freedom, “Why, that’s my own Island!”
O, it’s a snug little Island!
A right little, tight little Island!
Search the globe round, none can be found
So happy as this little Island.

Julius Cæsar, the Roman, who yielded to no man,
Came by water――he couldn’t come by land;
And Dane, Pict, and Saxon, their homes turn’d their backs on,
And all for the sake of our Island.
O, what a snug little Island!
They’d all have a touch at the Island!
Some were shot dead, some of them fled,
And some stayed to live on the Island.

Then a very great war-man, called Billy the Norman,
Cried, “D――n it, I never liked my land.
It would be much more handy, to leave this Normandy,
And live on your beautiful Island.”
Says he, “’Tis a snug little Island;
Shan’t us go visit the Island?”
Hop, skip, and jump, there he was plump,
And he kick’d up a dust in the Island.

But party deceit help’d the Normans to beat;
Of traitors they managed to buy land;
By Dane, Saxon, or Pict, Britons ne’er had been lick’d,
Had they stuck to the King of their Island.
Poor Harold, the king of our Island!
He lost both his life and his Island.
That’s all very true: what more could he do?
Like a Briton he died for his Island!

The Spanish Armada set out to invade――a,
’Twill sure, if they ever come nigh land.
They couldn’t do less than tuck up Queen Bess,
And take their full swing on the Island.
O, the poor Queen of the Island!
The Dons came to plunder the Island;
But snug in her hive, the queen was alive,
And “buzz” was the word of the Island.

These proud puff’d-up cakes thought to make ducks and drakes
Of our wealth; but they hardly could spy land,
When our Drake had the luck to make their pride duck
And stoop to the lads of the Island!
Huzza for the lads of the Island!
The good wooden walls of the Island;
Devil or Don, let them come on;
And see how they’d come off the Island!

Since Freedom and Neptune have hitherto kept tune,
In each saying, “This shall be my land;”
Should the “Army of England,” or all it could bring, land,
We’d show ’em some play for the Island.
We’d fight for our right to the Island;
We’d give them enough of the Island;
Invaders should just――bite once at the dust,
But not a bit more of the Island.

THOMAS DIBDIN.

A somewhat different arrangement of this song appeared in _The Spirit of the Public Journals for 1800_, Volume IV. It contained several additional verses relating to the war with France, and Lord Nelson’s victories.

――――

THE VERY LATEST EDITION OF ROBINSON CRUSOE.

Published, with splendid illustrations, by Augustus Harris,
Covent Garden Theatre.

Henry Byron one day to A. Harris did say
“You’ve asked me to write, and I’ll do so;
My pantomine theme I’ll work out with a dream,
Of the fairies and Robinson Crusoe;
There’s Payne will play Robinson Crusoe;
Years ago he did Robinson Crusoe;
But such pleasures of Payne,
Evergreen will remain;
And his sons shine in _Robinson Crusoe_.”

Then when came Christmas time, to the new Pantomime,
Great crowds to the theatre drew; so
Uproarious with joy grew man, woman, and boy
At each scene in bright _Robinson Crusoe_.
Coral groves were in _Robinson Crusoe_;
Fairy-land was in _Robinson Crusoe_;
Matt Morgan and Telbin,
Hawes Craven had well been
Working wonders for _Robinson Crusoe_.

Nelly Power skips in, with not much on her skin,
But her natural charms are not few, so
We need not complain if she likes to remain
Half-naked through _Robinson Crusoe_.
A smart elf she’s in _Robinson Crusoe_.
Jigs a hornpipe in _Robinson Crusoe_;
And sings to the tune
“_Up in a Balloon_;”
And frolics through _Robinson Crusoe_.

Stepping more warily, dressing less airily,
Sweet and grave as the _Last Waltz_ of Rousseau,
Comes charming Miss Harris; while a _danseuse_ from Paris
Brings her _pas_ into _Robinson Crusoe_.
Lambertini’s in _Robinson Crusoe_;
A grand ballet’s in Robinson Crusoe;
With the tips of their toes
They point at one’s nose,
And cut capers in _Robinson Crusoe_.

When the next scene begins, we see Payne and the twins,
His coat and his face looking blue, so
We know that his wife _is_ the plague of his life,
And is master of Robinson Crusoe.
Very riled is poor Robinson Crusoe;
Sore perplexed is poor _Robinson Crusoe_;
But, drinking and hopping
Like sailors at Wapping,
Hops away from Dame _Robinson Crusoe_.

_Vivat wrecks_! we may cry, when we next him espy,
As he paddles his raft――not canoe――so
We next see him land, on that desolate strand
Where the footprint shocked Robinson Crusoe.
Quashibungo meets Robinson Crusoe;
Three niggers meet _Robinson Crusoe_;
One of them fled,
And one he shot dead,
And one stayed with _Robinson Crusoe_.

Then we see him with Friday in his dwelling so tidy,
Goat and parrot, and dog and cat, too; so,
To bake they get at, while Friday a rat
Pops the pie in of Robinson Crusoe.
Oh! the gestures of Robinson Crusoe.
While Friday jeers _Robinson Crusoe_!
Then the last thing from France
They, with decency, dance;
The man Friday and _Robinson Crusoe_.

The procession of tribes then, as Stoyle says, “arribes;”
The King and his squaw, and her trousseau;
In the crocodile car, very splendid they are;
’Tis the great scene in _Robinson Crusoe_.
Full of splendour is _Robinson Crusoe_;
Full of fun, too, is _Robinson Crusoe_;
But here I will stop,
And the curtain will drop,
On the Pantomime _Robinson Crusoe_.

_Once a Week._ February 6, 1869. London.

Although this clever parody was published anonymously, it was known to proceed from the pen of the witty and genial “Cuthbert Bede,” the author of _Verdant Green_, and other works of more historical importance.

――――:o:――――

THE SAILOR’S SLIP.
_Spithead_, _Saturday, July 23, 1887_.

(_Lord Charles Beresford sings._)

’Twas when the Great Review was o’er,
To signal Lady C. I started.
Oh, etiquette’s a horrid bore!
I erred, and hence am broken-hearted.
The whole huge Fleet the signal read――
Confound that thoughtless act of folly!
What could I do but bow my head,
And bid a long [?] adieu to Solly?

* * * * *

You see ’twas getting on for night,
And true-bred tars, e’en midst carouses,
Think with considerate delight
About their sweethearts or their spouses.
Up went my signal, frank and free,
(A breach of rule most melancholy)
To “give the tip” to Lady C.,
And now I have to part with Solly.

“Tell Lady Charles to go on board
The _Lancashire Witch_, where I will join her”――――
And all the Fleet read this and roared.
Well――of strong words Jack’s a free coiner,
But never mind what I remarked
When I perceived my act of folly.
They’ll think the Naval Lord has larked!
Hang it! I’ll say good-bye to Solly.

Such games aboard the Royal Yacht!――
Although I am a chartered rattle,
The Big-wigs won’t stand this. ’Tis rot,
But with red-tape who, who can battle?
A private message to my wife
By public signal! Oh, what folly!
It _is_ a lark, upon my life!
But――I’ll resign my berth, dear Solly![80]

_Punch._ August 6, 1887.

――――:o:――――

The five following Nautical Songs were written for a Parody Competition, and printed in _The Weekly Dispatch_:――

A SAILOR’S JOURNAL.
(_Bound in Iron._)

’Twas post meridian, half-past four,
The _Nancy_ from her moorings parted;
At six we drifted on to shore,
And found out half her “plates” had started.
At seven, as in distress we lay,
To fire a signal was our fancy;
But then, d’ye see, there was no way,
No powder was aboard the _Nancy_.

Next day, tugged off, and into port,
A month’s repairs, and off we glided
At three o’clock, all trim and taut――
Then with the Margate boat collided.
She soon sheered off, all safe and sound,
But as for us――it was no fancy――
We overhauled the craft, and found
There was a big hole in the _Nancy_.

We stuffed it up; a gale came on;
We weathered it, though well-nigh worsted;
Then at eight bells, or close upon,
Two of our blessed boilers bursted!
“Avast!” I cried, and swam ashore,
“Them ironclads is not my fancy;
If e’er I go a-cruising more,
The Devil seize _me_, and sink the _Nancy_!

W. H. HADLEY.

POOR JACK.

Go, patter to Lords of the Admiralty
’Bout torpedoes and rams and the like;
A sturdy old-fashioned three-decker give me,
And to never a foeman I’ll strike.
Now we’re caged up in armour, with guns of rare might,
And think scorn of our vessels of wood,
But our enemies with us keep pace left and right;
Then I ask, after all, what’s the good?
But jobbers are reckless and taxpayers soft
And we sailors are taken aback,
Though we know “there’s a Providence sits up aloft”
To keep watch for the life of Poor Jack.

Just hear Lyon Playfair palaver away
About ironclads, ordnance, and such.
By Jingo! what Science has done in our day!
But it hasn’t been _proved_ very much.
Those huge iron monsters may founder, d’ye see?
And those great guns may burst, don’t you know?
And our boasted appliances turn out to be
More fatal to us than the foe.
When hardy sea lions, who’ve conquered so oft,
Are by engineers told to stand back,
It may take the “sweet cherub that sits up aloft”
All his time to look after Poor Jack.

ROBERT PUTTICK.

TOM TORPEDO.