Chapter XXIV: Part 48: Songs by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and various old English (24)

Here lies a bit of Tom Torpedo,
The darling of our crew,
Who lost his rating, mates, indeed, O,
At last Spithead Review.
Our eighty-tonner was a beauty――
All flaws, like pewter soft:
Tom fired it――for it was his duty――
And now he’s gone aloft.

“True to the core,” was poor Tom’s motto:
He swore he’d fire the gun,
His mates hung round and begged him not to,
His Poll cried “Tom, ha’ done!”
The crew all fainted――leastways, I did――
But at our fears he scoffed,
And, just as two first-rates collided,
He fired and――went aloft.
They saved us, being summer weather:
The Queen she gave commands
To pipe our fragments all together,
All minus feet or hands.
But when she asked for Tom, our skipper
Said, as his hat he doffed,
“We’ve only got, marm, this ’ere flipper,
The rest of him’s――aloft.”

DARJEW.

A sheer hulk lies the _Devastation_,
The terror of its crew,
And half a million to the nation
Is broached by one review;
Its form had nought of naval beauty,
Its prowess was all “rot,”
One bump unfitted it for duty,
And now it’s gone to pot.

It barely from its berth departed
Till _Ajax_ barred the way,
And then the _Devastation_ started,
For which John Bull must pay.
The Jubilee had else been jolly,
But here began the blot――
The monster brute betrayed its folly,
And now has gone to pot.

Yet with the aid of pleasant weather,
And pumping day and night,
It somehow kept itself together
To swell a show of might:
When ship on ship its mate dispatches,
And strives to sink the lot,
Let those to whom the blame attaches
At once be sent to pot.

GEORGE HAMILTON.

THE ARMOURED CRUISER.

Come, all ye modern seamen bold,
Whose lot is cast in iron “mould,”
Vast terror now in fashion old――
Hurrah for the armoured cruiser!

Aggressive zeal has launched too far
These huge leviathans of war,
For smaller craft more deadly are――
The restless armoured cruiser!

The lither foe, says E. J. Reed,
Would prove, with its terrific speed,
To foes an awful foe indeed――
The flashing armoured cruiser!

And now let’s hope that wars may cease,
And power enforce a lasting peace,
Making a strife upon the seas
Absurd, with the armoured cruiser.

ISAAC READ.

Parody Competition in _The Weekly Dispatch_, July 31, 1887.

――――:o:――――

THE BRITISH ASS.

(_Roared by Sheriff Nicolson in a Den of Scientific Lions at Edinburgh during the visit of the British Association to that city in August, 1871._)

Some men go in for Science,
And some go in for shams,
Some roar like hungry lions,
And others bleat like lambs;
But there’s a beast, that at this feast
Deserves a double glass.
So let us bray, that long we may
Admire the BRITISH ASS!
_Chorus_――With an ASS-ASS-OCIATION, &c.

On England’s fragrant clover
This beast delights to browse,
But sometimes he’s a rover
To Scotland’s broomy knowes;
For there the plant supplies his want,
That doth all herbs surpass,
The thistle rude――the sweetest food
That feeds the BRITISH ASS!

We’ve read in ancient story,
How a great Chaldean swell
Came down from all his glory,
With horned beasts to dwell;
If you would know how it happened so,
That a King should feed on grass,
In Section D, Department B,
Inquire of the BRITISH ASS!

To Grecian sages, charming,
Rang the music of the spheres,
But voices more alarming
Salute our longer ears;
By Science bold we now are told
How Life did come to pass.
From world to world the seeds were hurled,
Whence sprung the BRITISH ASS!

In our waltzing through creation,
We meet those fiery stones
That bring, for propagation,
The germs of flesh and bones;
And is it not a thrilling thought,
That some huge misguided mass,
Will, one fine day, come and sweep away
Our dear old BRITISH ASS!

The child who knows his father,
Has aye been reckoned wise,
But some of us would rather
Be spared that sweet surprise!
If it be true, that when we view
A comely lad or lass,
We find the trace of the monkey’s face
In the gaze of the BRITISH ASS!

The ancients, childish creatures!
Thought we derived from Heaven,
The Godlike form and features
To mankind only given
But now we see our pedigree
Made plain as in a glass,
And when we grin we betray our kin
To the sires of the BRITISH ASS!

――――

THE BRITISH VOLUNTEER.

The country has a quarter of a million of highly trained and disciplined Volunteers, yet the Government will neither find rifle ranges for the Infantry, nor cannon for the artillery. Camp equipment, commissariat, ambulance, and medical stores, are all wanting to render the service of any practical value in time of need.

Some prate of patriotism, and some of cheap defence,
But to the high official mind that’s all absurd pretence;
For of all the joys of snubbing, there’s none to it so dear,
As to snub, snub, snub, snub, snub, snub, the British Volunteer!

A patriotic Laureate may bid the Rifles form.
And Citizens may look to them for safety in War’s storm;
But Secretaries, Dooks, and such as this delight to jeer,
And to snub, snub, snub, snub, snub, snub the British Volunteer!

A semi-swell he may be, but he may be a mere clerk,
And he’s an interloper, and to snub him is a lark.
Sometimes he licks the Regulars, and so our duty’s clear,
’Tis to snub, snub, snub, snub, snub, snub the British Volunteer!

He hankers for an increase in his Capitation Grant,
It’s like his precious impudence, and have the lift he shan’t.
What, make it easier for him to run us close? No fear!
We’ll snub, snub, snub, snub, snub, snub the British Volunteer!

He has a fad for Wimbledon, but that is just a whim,
And as eviction’s all the go, we’ll try it upon _him_,
_He’s_ not an Irish tenant, so no one will interfere,
When once more we snub, snub, snub, snub the British Volunteer!

His targets and his tents and things are nuisances all round,
As Jerry-Builders, Dooks, and other Toffs have lately found.
Compared with bricks and mortar and big landlords he’s small beer,
So we’ll snub, snub, snub, snub, snub, snub the British Volunteer!

* * * * *

If he _must_ shoot his annual shoot somewhere, why, let him go
To Pirbright or to Salisbury Plain, or e’en to Jericho.
But out from his loved Wimbledon he’ll surely have to clear,――
A final snub, snub, snub, snub to the British Volunteer!

_Punch._ August 20, 1887.

――――:o:――――

MR. W. CHAPPELL’S valuable _Collection of English National Airs_ contains a few curious parodies. Of “_The Hunt is up_,” a very old ballad, he remarks:――

“_Musick’s Delight on the Cithern_, from which our copy of
the music is taken contains many very old and popular
tunes, such as ‘Trip and go,’ and ‘Light o’ Love’ which we
have, found in no other printed collection. The words also
are evidently much older than ‘Merry Drollery,’ being
parodied in ‘Ane compendious Booke of Godly and Spirituall
Songs, collectit out of Sundrie of Partes of Scripture,
with Sundrie of other Ballates changed out of prophaine
Sanges for avoyding of Sinne and Harlottrie, &c.;’
reprinted in Edinburgh, by Andro Hart, in 1621, the
original edition having been published in 1590.

“A ‘Hunt is up,’ or ‘Hunt’s up,’ was a general term for
hunting songs, or rather an early song to rouse the party
for the chase, something equivalent to the French
_Réveillée_. It was afterwards generally used for any
description of morning song.

“Maurus, _last morne_, at’s mistress window plaid
An hunt’s up on his lute; but she (it’s said)
Threw stones at him: so he, like Orpheus there
Made stones _come flying_ his sweet notes to heare.

_Wits’ Bedlam_, 1617.

“And now the cock, the morning’s trumpeter,
Play’d hunt’s up for the day-star to appear.――_Drayton._

The following is the parody from the “’Compendious Booke of Godly Songs.’”

“With hunts up, with hunts up,
It is now perfite day;
Jesus our King is gane in hunting;
Quha (who) likes to speed they may.

“Ane cursit fox lay hid in rox
This lang and mony ane day,
Devouring sheep, whilk he might creep;
Nane might him shape away.

“It did him gude to laip the blude
Of young and tender lammis:
Nane could him mis, for all was his,
The young anes with their dammes.

“The hunter is Christ, that hunts in haist;
The hunds are Peter and Paul;
The Paip is the fox; Rome is the rox
That rubbis us on the gall.

“That cruel beist, he never ceist,
By his usurpit power,
Under dispence, to get our pence,
Our saullis to devoure.

“Quha could devise sic merchandise
As he had there to sell,
Unless it were proud Lucifer,
The great Master of Hell?

“He had to sell the Tantonie bell,
And pardons therein was;
Remissions of sins in auld sheep skinis,
Our sauls to bring from grace.

“With buls of lead, white wax and reid,
And either whiles with green,
Closit in ane box, this usit the fox;
Sic peltrie was never seene.”

As another strange instance of religious fanaticism, Mr. Chappell quotes a love-ditty of about the year 1590, and its absurd conversion into a “Godly song”――

“Go from my window, love go;
Go from my window, my dear;
The wind and the rain,
Will drive you back again;
You cannot be lodged here.

“Begone, begone, my juggy, my puggy,
Begone, my love, my dear;
The weather is warm,
’T will do thee no harm;
Thou canst not be lodged here.

“Quho (who) is at my windo, who, who?
Goe from my windo, goe, goe.
Quho (who) calls there, so like ane strangere?
Goe from windo, goe, goe.

“Lord, I am here, ane wretched mortal,
That for thy mercie dois crie and call
Unto thee, my Lord celestiall;
See who is at my windo, who?

“O gracious Lord celestiall,
As thou art Lord and King Eternal;
Grant us grace that we may enter all,
And in at thy doore let me goe.

“Quho is at my windo, quho?
Go from windo, go;
Cry no more there, like are strangere,
But in at my doore thou go.’

――――:o:――――

GUNPOWDER PLOT.

’Tis good to remember
The FIFTH of NOVEMBER,
Gunpowder, treason, and plot;
There’s abundance of reason
To think of the treason,
Then why should it e’er be forgot?
Our sympathies thrive
By keeping alive
Such sweet little hatreds as these;
And folks love each other
As dear as a brother,
Whose throat they are ready to squeeze.

I delight in the joys
Of the vagabond boys,
When they’re burning Guy Vaux and the Pope;
It the flame keeps alive,
It makes bigotry thrive,
And gives it abundance of scope.
’Tis a beautiful truth
For the minds of our youth,
And will make them all Christians indeed;
For the Church and the State
Thus to teach ’em to hate
All those of a different creed.

From George Cruikshank’s _Comic Almanac_, 1835.

――――:o:――――

A RHYME FOR THE TIME.

“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?”
“I’m going a-voting, Sir,” she said.
“I’ll be your escort, my pretty maid.”
“I need not trouble you, Sir,” she said.
“Then will you not vote for me, my pretty maid?”
“Tell me your policy, Sir,” she said.
“Concession and cowardice, my pretty maid.”
“Out of the question, Sir,” she said.
“Yet they are the cheapest, my pretty maid.”
“Not in the long run, Sir,” she said.
“But I’ll leave my friends to stew in their juice;
I’ll let the colonies go to the deuce;
I’ll truckle to Russia and worry the Porte
(Pray look upon that as my special forte);
I’ll shut my ears when a hero calls,
And I’ll go, when he dies, to the music-halls.

“How will that suit you, my pretty maid?”
“I could not consent to it, Sir,” she said.
“Never mind foreign affairs, my lass;
I’ll give you a cow and three acres in grass:
The cow shall be Smith’s and the grass shall be Brown’s,
And the butter will buy you a couple of gowns.
What do you say to that, pretty maid?”
“Robbery! bribery! Sir!” she said.
“Then I won’t be your escort, my pretty maid!”
“Nobody asked you, Sir!” she said.

_The St James’s Gazette._ November 27, 1885.

――――

SWEET HOME RULE.

’Mid closures and procedure and orders by the tome,
Be it ever so simple, there’s no Rule like Home;
To mind our own business we often are warned,
Then why not let Paddy take Ireland in hand?
Home Rule! Sweet Home Rule!
There’s no plan so good, so give them Home Rule.

Without it Coercion is tried, but in vain,
Evictions and Land Acts all bring strife and pain;
A Senate in Dublin, to meet at their call,
With the knowledge of their local wants dearer than all.
Home Rule! Sweet Home Rule!
There’s no plan so good, so give them Home Rule.

_The Liberal and Radical._ September, 1887.

――――

ALE.

O’er cut-glass and chalices the eye may like to roam,
And our pewter may be humble, but ’tis ale that makes it foam;
The taste that you prize surely waits for you there,
Oh, the flavour of such malt and hops was never found elsewhere.
Ale, ale, double X ale!
There is no drink like ale, there’s no drink like ale!

Some tell me their small is good, but for me I do not heed it;
And I don’t like your fourpenny, nor yet your intermediate.
The gin it don’t agree with me, the brandy makes me pale,
But the reason I’m so jolly is, I stick to drinking ale.
Ale, ale, double X ale!
There’s no drink like ale, there’s no drink like ale!

An exile from Knight’s, liquors dazzle me in vain;
Oh, give me nay seat at the Christopher again;
The jolly little pot-boy that came at my call;
And give me my glass of ale, dearer than all.
Ale, ale, double X ale!
There’s no drink like ale, there’s no drink like ale!

EVERARD CLIVE.

――――:o:――――

JUBILATE.

“Ring out the joybells! ring a loud peal!
We are English you know! So English, you know!
Yes, this is a moment at which we all feel
We are English, you know! So English, you know!
’Tis a time to exult! At the sound of her voice
The rest of the world should kneel down and rejoice
That England, the mighty, allows them this day
To come to her throne their poor homage to pay.
So cry jubilate! and banish your woe!
We are English, you know! Yes, so English, you know!

“For we English, you know, are the mightiest nation;
We are English, you know! So English, you know!
And have we not cause for this grand jubilation?
So English, you know! So English, you know!
The Queen of our country has reigned fifty years,
So greet her with joybells, and join in three cheers!
Our wealth and good fortune she graciously shares,
She has cost a few millions――so Bradlaugh declares,
So cry jubilate! and banish your woe!
For it’s English, you know! Yes, so English, you know!

“Then cheer for Prince Bertie! He’s gallant, if weak;
That is English, you know. So English, you know!
Though of German extraction, he sticks to his clique;
Which is English, you know! So English, you know!
His thoughts are Imperial, his Institute’s grand;
To build it he begs with his hat in his hand.
For there’s nought to be done without hats full of tin;
And he doesn’t much care so the money comes in
From the rich and the poor, from the high and the low――
Which is English, you know! Yes, so English, you know!

“The publicans now are assisting to pay――
Which is English, you know! Quite English, you know!
Our taxes by fines, and they don’t like this way――
Which is English, you know! Quite English, you know!
Sir Wilfrid declares selling liquor is wrong,
But the Government analysts say, ‘Make it strong.’
Next election the Tories will find, I much fear,
Their votes from the bungs will be very small beer――
But cry jubilate! Good bitter must flow――
For it’s English, you know! Quite English, you know!

“At the last Jubilee people went on a spree;
Which is English, you know! So English, you know!
They feasted and fed all the poor with much glee;
Which is English, you know! Quite English, you know;
But this time a journalist heads his own list,
And makes an appeal which few folks can resist,
For treating the children, oh, won’t it seem queer,
If Jewbilee Lawson[81] is not made a peer?
Will Didcott be knighted for bossing the show?
’Twould be English, you know! Quite English, you know!

From _The Reign of Error_. London: J. Cheetham. 1887.

――――

QUITE ENGLISH.

When the Comte de Paris recently issued a manifesto to the French nation, few sensible people gave it a serious thought, for Bourbons and Buonapartes are as much played out in France, as the Stuarts are in this country. _Punch_ (September 24, 1887) ridiculed the pretensions of this would-be constitutional king, representing him as masquerading in John Bull’s garments, a world too wide for his shrunk shanks, and singing:――

Here I come in complete Constitutional coat
(That’s English, you know; quite English, you know):
The type of true Monarchy based on the Vote.
(That’s English, you know; quite English, you know);
To have a legitimate King on the throne,
To make all the Country’s best interests his own,
Great, grand, patriotic, but _not_ overgrown
(That’s English, you know; quite English, you know).

_Chorus._

Oh, the things that you see and the things that you hear
Are English, you know; quite English, you know.
My mind, like my last Manifesto, ’tis clear,
Is English, quite English, you know!

Just now a great calm meets the national eyes
(That’s English, you know; quite English, you know):
But imminent perils it cannot disguise
(That’s English, you know; quite English, you know).
We have deserved well of Conservative France;
A Monarchy only her bliss can enhance;
And now of its nature I’ll give you a glance
(That’s English, you know; quite English, you know).

Direct, universal, free suffrage, my friends,
(That’s English, you know; quite English, you know),
Will vote――well for Me, and all trouble then ends
(That’s English, you know; quite English, you know).
The King, with the Chamber’s concurrence, will rule.
The Deputies then can no more play the fool――
Clemenceau, Boulanger, and men of that school
(That’s English, you know; quite English, you know).

* * * * *

Constitutional principles, these, my good friend!
(They’re English, you know; quite English, you know)――
They Conservative needs and Equality blend,
(That’s English, you know; quite English, you know).
_Do_ at my new Royal rig-out take a glance!
In this to the front I shall proudly advance,
As the true King of all, and first Servant of France,
(But English, you know; quite English, you know).

_Chorus._

The things which I say it is time you should hear
(They’re English, you know; quite English, you know).
The principles these to make France without peer
(Though they’re English; quite English, you know)!

――――:o:――――

I NEVER MENTION IT.

Oh, no! I never mentioned it,
I never said a word;
But lent my friend my five pound note,
Of which――I’ve never heard!
He said he merely borrowed it
To pay another debt――
And since I’ve never mentioned it,
He thinks that _I forget_!

Where’er we ride I pay the ’pike;
I settle every treat;
He rides my cob, he drives my cab,――
But cuts _me_ when we meet!
My new umbrella I lent him too,
One night ’twas very wet;
Tho’ _he_ forgets it ne’er came back,
Ah, me!――I don’t forget!

(_Three verses omitted._)

My friend is cousin to a lord;
And when a feed I sport,
He always asks his own fine friends,
Who drink champagne like port!
Last night down my own very stairs
They kick’d me for a bet!
By goles! I’ll fight them every one――
That’s――if I don’t forget.

By Lady Clarke, in _The Comic Offering_ for 1832. London: Smith, Elder and Co.

――――

PARODY ON “ALICE GRAY.”

“She’s all my fancy painted her,
She’s lovely! she’s divine!”
Thus sighed all day my silly heart,
_Before_ my wife was mine:
I loved as mankind ever love,
And all love must decay:
I found I had a wife,――Good lack!
Whose horrid hair was grey!

Fine dark brown locks seemed braided
O’er her brow of spotless white;
Her eyes, on me soft languishing,
Oft beamed with fond delight:――
But _now_ they flash with angry fire;
The paint is washed away
From off that forehead brown――Good lack!
Whose horrid braids are grey!

I’d slumber o’er a mountain’s side,
I’d cross an angry flood;
T’escape her tongue’s continued strife,
I’d dare the field of blood.
But soon the turf will wrap my grave.
And all my friends will say:――
He thought her young――and died――Good lack!
When he found her locks were grey!

LOUISA H. SHERIDAN.

From _The Comic Offering_ for 1832, London: Smith, Elder & Co.

――――:o:――――

THE SOLDIER’S FEAR.

Upon the hill he turned,
To take a last fond look
Of the alehouse, and the village church,
And the cottage by the brook.
To use his pockethandkerchief,
While tears began to swell,
The soldier leant upon his sword――
It bent――and down he fell.

Amid the roar of battle,
The warrior’s fellest blow
Has failed to penetrate the coat
That shields the vaunting foe.
But though the pliant steel may cost
Our bravest and our best,
Be sure the sword most yielding there
Has passed the strictest test.

_Punch._ April 30, 1887.

Another parody, entitled “_The Sapper’s Beer_,” a recollection of the Crystal Palace, occurs on p. 383 of _The Month_, by Albert Smith. 1851.

There are parodies of several other songs in the same volume, but they are all quite out of date.

――――――

THE SHOPMAN’S HORROR.

She stood beside the counter,
The day he’ll ne’er forget,
She thought the muslin dearer
Than any she’d seen yet;
He watched her playful finger
The silks and satins toss,
The shopman looked uneasy
And felt a little cross.

“Show me some velvet ribbon,
Barege and satin turc,”
She said, “I want to purchase!”
Then gave the goods a jerk.
The shopman, all obedience――
Brought satins, silks and crape;
At length, with hesitation,
_She bought a yard of tape_!

ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

FOR EVER AND FOR EVER.

Ah, me! I often think, my pet,
Of that sweet hour when first we met――
A time that I would fain forget
For ever and for ever!
Beneath the palms we sat alone;
We’d lost, I think, your chaperon;
You whispered you would be my own
For ever and for ever!

Ah, me! how well can mem’ry show
That letter which I wrote to know
If I were doomed to weal or woe
For ever and for ever!
When her papa’s consent I read――
Oh, how to see my love I sped!
Folks thought me one whose wits had fled
For ever and for ever!

Ah, me! that stroll down Regent Street,
That afternoon when you, my sweet,
Said strawberry ices you could eat
For ever and for ever!
Ah, me! with what a queenly air
You entered “Jay’s” and took a chair!
I thought, my love, you’d keep me there
For ever and for ever!

Ah, me! the way you said, “I see
A bracelet sweet. Oh, give it me!
And I shall fondly think of thee
For ever and for ever!”
I said, “I can’t!” You said, “You will!”
My love, I owe the money still.
By Jove! they’ll have to send that bill
For ever and for ever!

Ah, me! that morn at Whiteley’s mart;
What time I said, “I think, sweetheart,
That you and I had better part
For ever and for ever!”
A luckless speech with dire effect;
My new silk hat at once was wrecked!
That moment I shall recollect
For ever and for ever!

Ah, me! that afternoon in court,
When you, my love, your action brought;
The peals of mirth would last, I thought,
For ever and for ever!
Some beings we can ne’er forget;
Years may roll on, but I, my pet,
Shall think of thee――with deep regret――
For ever and for ever!

LAURENCE S. MAY.
From _Cassell’s Saturday Journal_. March 19, 1887.

――――:o:――――

THE OLD CREEDS.
AIR――“_I cannot sing the Old Songs_.”

I cannot hold the old creeds,
We have them now outgrown;
They cramped and bound the loving soul
With fetters quite their own;
The dogmas of the ancient faiths
Are passing fast away,
And now there dawns upon us
Beams of a brighter day.

I cannot love the old times,
When truth was seldom taught,
When Church and Priest usurped the right
To stifle human thought;
When deeds of darkness, crime and woe,
Were seen on every hand,
And Old Religion’s name was made
A terror in the land.

I cannot tread the old paths,
With rankest weeds o’ergrown;
A better way is opened up,
Whose gates are closed to none.
Nature’s domain is now our road,
And science is our guide;
We’ve travelled from sectarian strife
With Freethought to abide.

G. SEXTON.

――――:o:――――

A parody of General G. P. Morris’s song, “_Woodman, Spare that Tree_.”

Butcher, spare that pig!
Touch not a single limb!
He’ll soon be fat and big,
Though now he’s lean and slim.
’Twas my old father’s hand
That placed him in his sty;
And, till too fat to stand,
That porker shall not die!

My little girl and boy
Delight to hear him grunt;
They prod him in their joy
With sticks which are not blunt.
My mother kissed him here,
Upon his luscious cheek;
My aunt would shed a tear
Whene’er she heard him squeak.

My heart-strings round thee cling
Close as thy crackling, friend!
Thy bacon soon shall sing,
Its frying scent ascend.
But now thou would’st be tough
So, butcher, go away;
Not till he’s fat enough,
My piggy shall you slay.

ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

I’D BE A BOTTLE-FLY.

I.

I’d be a bottle-fly, buzzing and blue,
With a Chuny[82] proboscis, and nothing to do,
But to dirty white dimity curtains, and blow
The choicest of meats when the summer days glow!
Let the hater of sentiment, dew-drops, and flowers,
Scorn the insect that flutters in sunbeams and bowers;
There’s a pleasure that none but the blue-bottle knows――
’Tis to buzz in the ear of a man in a doze!

II.

How charming to haunt a sick-chamber, and revel
O’er the invalid’s pillow, like any blue devil;
When pursued, to bounce off to the window, and then
From the pane to the counter-pane fly back again!
I’d be a bottle-fly, buzzing and blue,
With a Chuny proboscis, and nothing to do,
But to dirty white dimity curtains, and blow
The choicest of meats when the summer days glow!

From _Blackwood’s Magazine_. May, 1828.

――――:o:――――

PARODY.

As sung by Robson, in “_Masaniello_,” a burlesque by Robert Brough.

I’m a shrimp! I’m a shrimp of diminutive size;
Inspect my antennæ and look at my eyes;
I’m a natural syphon when dipped in a cup,
For I drain the contents to the latest drop up;
I care not for craw fish, I heed not the prawn;
From a flavour especial my fame has been drawn.

Nor e’en to the crab or the lobster I’ll yield,
When I’m properly cooked and efficiently peeled.
Quick, quick! pile your coals, let your saucepan be deep,
For the weather is warm, and I’m not sure to keep.
Off, off with my head! split my shell into three!
I’m a shrimp, I’m a shrimp, to be eaten with tea!

Another parody of the same original was sung by the late
comedian, Edward Wright, as _Mr. Chatterton Chopkins_, in
“This House to be Sold (the property of the late William
Shakespeare); Enquire Within.” This was written by J.
Sterling Coyne, and produced at the Adelphi Theatre,
London, September 9, 1847.

――――

I’M A GENT! I’M A GENT!

I’m a gent! I’m a gent! I’m a gent ready made;
I rove through the Quadrant and Lowther Arcade;
I’m a register’d swell from the head to the toe;
I wear a moustache and a light paletôt.

I’ve a cane in my hand, and a glass in my eye;
And I wink at the girls as I pass them by.
Then, la! how they giggle to win my regards,
And I hear them all say, “He’s a gent in the Guards!”

I can sing a flash song, I can blow on the horn,
I like sherry cobblers――am fond of Cremorne;
I love the Cellarius, the Polka I dance,
And I’m rather attached to a party from France.

This gal I adore, is a creature divine,
Though deucedly partial to lobsters and wine;
She was struck with my figure, and caught with a hook,
For I took her to visit “my uncle the Duke.”

I’m a gent! I’m a gent! in the Regent Street style;
Examine my waistcoat, and look at my tile.
There are gents, I dare say, who are handsomer far,
But none who can puff with such ease a cigar.

From _Sharp’s Vauxhall Comic Song Book_. London: Thomas Allman.

――――:o:――――

THE OLD ENGLISH CONSTABLE.

I’ll sing you of a good old boy, whom all must now revere,
Of a fine old English constable, who lived for many a year;
Who, though his natural looks were kind, could oft be most severe,
And could whene’er he had a mind strike every one with fear――
Like a fine old English constable, one of the olden
time.

His office was to keep the peace and order of the town,
To take the roaming spirits up, and knock the rising down.
They wanted then no new police, with hats glazed round the crown,
To strut about, for he did all, in rare old rusty gown――
Like a grand old English constable, one of the olden
time.

He often had to ring a bell, that every one might hear,
When goods were stolen, strayed, or lost, in accents loud and
clear.
So maidens when their reticules were miss’d, did never cry,
For love letters were found before they reached the parent’s eye――
By the good old English constable, one of the olden
time.

There are nine more verses of this parody. It occurs in _Songs_, by “Jingo,” published by Edward West, Newgate Street, London. No date, but probably about 1859. It also contains parodies of “Meet me by Moonlight Alone,” “The Cannibal Islands,” “The Ratcatcher’s Daughter,” “I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls,” and many other songs which were popular about thirty years ago.

――――:o:――――

AN OPIUM VISION.
(_After a long course of Alma Tadema._)

I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls,
Whilst Sappho sang songs at my side,
Ah! cold as a bath were those glittering walls,
The doors and the windows were wide.
From no point of view could I make head or tail
Of the plan, the perspective, the plot;
Though ’twas all on a truly magnificent scale,
If I knew what it _meant_ I’ll be shot.

* * * * *

From _Harry Furniss’s Royal Academy_. 1887.

There was another parody in _Punch_ for August 20, 1887, commencing thus:――

I dreamt that I gazed at the Marble Arch,
King Fog and King Coal at my side;
The soot of November, the dust storms of March,
Had made it a sight to deride.

* * * * *

――――:o:――――

MY DUDE.
AIR――“_My Queen_.”

When and where shall I earliest meet him?
What are the clothes he then will wear?
Will he still use the same big eye-glass
Which gives his eyes such a vacant glare?
Will he still walk like a hen rheumatic,
Or like a goose by a boy pursued?
He whom I look for with longing ecstatic,
He whom I worship――My Dude, My Dude.

Will his small moustache be with wax anointed?
Will his hair in the middle be parted neat?
Will he still wear those boots so pointed,
Pinching his dear little tender feet?
Will his legs be thin and his hat be curly?
Will he suck his cane as a child its food?
Will he still call me his girly, girly?
He whom I worship――My Dude, My Dude.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

HOW VERY GREEN!

Oh! a cunning plant doth the Jew, I ween,
Oft make of both young and old;
The younger the better, for then the more green,
And so much the more readily sold.
He’ll lend him cash, or sell him jewels,
Or horses; he’ll pleasure each whim
Of such arrant young fool; for he knows by-and-bye
There’s a merry meal for him!
So teaching the youth how life should be seen,
He plucketh the feathers of Verdant Green.

Fast he leadeth him on at a terrible pace
(Yet how staunch doth his false heart seem);
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings
To his _friend_ “Mishter Verdant Green!”
All the while slily weaving around his path,
A net that very soon will
Put a stop to his game; then no longer the Jew
Will discount, but sue on each bill;
Having shown the way that life should be seen,
By emptying the pockets of Verdant Green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decay’d,
And nations have scatter’d been;
But the cunning old Jew will ne’er cease to drain
The life-blood of each Verdant Green.
And old “Shent per shent,” in his lonely days,
Will e’er chuckle o’er the past,
As he crones of the fortunes that Christians raise
But to come to the Jews at last.
And thus to the end of time, I ween,
The Jew will thrive on each Verdant Green.

_Diogenes._ July, 1853.

――――

A FINE OLD CHANT.

Oh! a fine old chant is “God Save the Queen,”
With “Britannia Rules the Waves,”
I like a red cabbage from Turnham Green,
And Britons are――always slaves.
We are miserable, in this happy land,
Impossible things must be done;
For a mouldy crust, and water for thirst,
A Briton about doth run.
Oh, chanting where gay life is seen,
A fine old chant is “God Save the Queen.”
Chanting where gay life is seen,
A fine old chant is――“God Save the Queen.”

A. W. HUMPHREYS.

――――:o:――――

“IN THE GLOAMING.”

On the ocean, oh, my darling,
When it rocks us to and fro,
Don’t you think ’twere better, darling,
We should both go down below?
When the waves are tossing gently,
’Tis a sudden unknown woe
Prompts me _once_ again to ask you,
Would you like to go below?

In the gloaming, oh, my darling,
Cling not tenderly to me,
For I oft with shortened warning
Rush to view the deep blue sea;
And I feel all choked with something
Longing, struggling to be free;
It were best to leave me thus, dear,
Best for you, and best for me.

――――:o:――――

TEN LIBERAL UNIONISTS.
(_By Sir Wilfrid Lawson._)

Ten Liberal Unionists, kicking up a shine,
One went to _Burnley_, and then there were but nine.

Nine little Unionists, weeping o’er his fate,
Another went to _Ilkeston_, and then there were eight.

Eight little Unionists, trusting still in Heaven,
Fought a fight in _Cornwall_, and then there were seven.

Seven little Unionists, still up to tricks,
Had a fling at _Spalding_, and then there were six.

Six little Unionists, fresh and all alive,
Sent a man to _Coventry_, and then there were five.

Five little Unionists, valiant as before,
Tried their luck at _Glasgow_, and then there were four.

Four little Unionists, bumptious as could be,
Had a shot at _Northwich_, and then there were three.

Three little Unionists, looking rather blue,
Thomas Russell left them, and then there were two.

Two little Unionists, feeling rather done,
Joe cut a summersault, and then there was one.

One little Hartington, sitting all alone,
He joined the Tories, and then there were none.

_Pall Mall Gazette._ 1887.

――――:o:――――

THE LOST DISCORD.

Standing one day at his organ,
The grinder seemed quite at ease,
With his monkey idly chasing
The far too-industrious fleas.
I know not what he was playing
(For I was composing then),
But I heard someone curse that organ,
And I murmured a great “Amen!”

That discord, it filled the silence
With a sound as of tom-cats lorn;
It racked my brain like a nightmare,
It was worse than an oil-cloth torn.
It was like inharmonious yelling;
It made all the street-dogs whine,
It seems that the soul of that organ
Had spitefully gone for mine.

So I made for that organ-grinder,
And swore that I’d break each limb;
And his monkey his fleas ceased chasing,
When he saw I meant chasing him.
It may be in some other quarter
He’s playing that air――and then,
If someone is smashing his organ,
I fervently say, “Amen!”

_Judy._ May 26, 1886.

――――

YE BICYCLISTS OF ENGLAND.

Ye Bicyclists of England
Who stride your wheels with ease,
How little do you think upon
What Mr. Sturmey[83] sees.
The Wheelman’s standard rises high
With every year that goes,
Wheels sweep, fast and cheap,
Whereof Sturmey’s trumpet blows――
Our cycles range more swift and strong,
And Sturmey’s trumpet blows――

* * * * *

The “meteor” wheels of England
Shall yet terrific turn;
’Tis true that France gave us a start――
Now she has much to learn.
To you, our brave wheel-warriors,
Our song and glass shall flow;
To the fame of your name
Mr. Sturmey’s trumpets blow――
Cycles or Cyclists, _ours_ are best,
So why should we _not_ blow?

_Punch._ October 1, 1887

――――:o:――――

THE SONG OF BILLIAWATHA.[84]

Should you ask me whence these Indians?
Whence these cowboys, whence these riders,
Whence these Red Shirts and these shootists,
With their tomahawks and war-paint,
With their mustangs and buck jumpers,
With their lassoes, with their rifles,
With the savour of the prairies,
With a smack of Reid and Cooper,
And of melodrama on them?
I should answer――I should tell you
Buffalo, the great Bill, found them,
Brought them from their camps and wigwams,
From their lodges on the prairies
In the great Show land of Barnum,
In the clime of Minnie Palmer;
Brought them here to Earl’s Court, Brompton,
Where the Lohndahner, the Cochneh,
Will throughout the Lohndahn season
Flock in troops to gaze and wonder
At their prowess with the bronchoes,
At their dextrous use of lasso,
At their deadly skill with rifle;
Wonder how the deuce they do it,
Wonder what the men are made of,
How on earth they learned such dodges.
If still further you should ask me
What’s the use of all these cowboys?
What’s the good of these wild Red men?
What’s to us this coach of Deadwood,
Or this railroad, the Switchback?
I should answer your conundrums
In the straitest tips as follow:
In the wilds of Kensingtonia,
In the land of Exhibitions,
Where the Fisheries, the Health’ries,
The Invent’ries, the Colindries
Drew their thousands, drew the masses,
Drew the town for four past seasons,
Something new to-day is wanted,
Something to revive the glories
Of those sights and shows now played out;
Something fresh must be provided,
So the Lohndahner, the Cochneh,
The Prohvinshial, the Yohkehl
Still may find congenial pastime,
Still may revel through the summer
Nights, and puff the penny Piquewique;
Feast his eyes with coloured lanterns,
And his inner man with “cocktails,”
Soothe his soul with “corpse revivers,”
Steep himself in “maiden’s blushes,”
List the strains of martial music,
Mash the merry maids of Bertram.
Hence these Yank’ries, these Cowboyries,
Hence these Westeries, these Wigwamries,
With the customs of the prairies,
With their buffaloes and mustangs,
With their skilful shooting maidens,
With the squaws and their papooses,
With the plundered coach of Deadwood,
And the toboggin and Switchback,
And the drinks of Yankee Doodle.

_Judy._ June 1, 1887.

――――:o:――――

W. S. GILBERT’S SONGS.

A CRACKSMAN’S CAROL.

[A burglar, who was recently arrested, was proved to have a yacht of his own, on which he went sailing when not on burgling bent. Doubtless, in the fulness of time, the noble army of cracksmen will thus carol in a Gilbertian strain.]

AIR――_Policemen’s Chorus_ (“_Pirates of Penzance._”)

When the window “prising” burglar’s not a-burgling――not
a-burgling,
He doesn’t rush to some mere rural spot,
And listen to the rivulet a-gurgling――’let a-gurgling,
But skims along the ocean in his yacht.
When his “lay” has been of “Ooftish” most productive――most
productive,
And he finds the land is getting rather “hot,”
Then he tries a pastime soothing and instructive――and
instructive,
For he bounds across the billows in his yacht.
When no “swag” is for the present to be got――to be got,
He loves to go and navigate his yacht――’gate his yacht.

When the cracksman rests awhile from his employment――his
employment,
With his “jemmy” and his skeletonian key,
Then he feels as how he ought to seek enjoyment――seek
enjoyment,
By inhaling of the breezes of the sea.
When officious “slops” and “’tecs” would dare pursue him――dare
pursue him,
And his whereabouts they’re likely for to “spot,”
Then in search of recreation you may view him――yes, you’ll view
him,
Large as life enjoying _otium_ in his yacht.
For a-lurking on the land is “Tommy-Rot”――“Tommy Rot,”
So off he goes a-sailin’ in his yacht――in his yacht.

_Fun._ June 1, 1887.

――――

IT REALLY DOESN’T MATTER!

_Trevelyan._

My eyes were fully open to my awful situation――
So I went at once to Gladstone, and I made him an oration.
I explained to him that I once more was in my proper senses,
And was willing to back up Home Rule and take the consequences;
That I did not want to perish by desertion of my party,
To descend into oblivion like Goschen had, and Harty.
He accepted my apologies with pleasure that did flatter,
As he said I’d been mistaken, and it really didn’t matter!

_Cham._――And it really didn’t matter!
That it really didn’t matter, matter, matter,
matter, matter!

_Chamberlain._

If I were not so deeply pledged to mingle with the Tories,
I should like once more to join in my former leader’s glories;
For I’m very much afraid that I have got into a mire,
And lowered my position, sirs, instead of rising higher;
My brain is getting weaker, I was once considered clever,
I have voted for Coercion that’s to linger on for ever;
To act like this I must have been as mad as any hatter,
But as I can’t retrace my steps, it really doesn’t matter!

_Trev._――It really doesn’t matter!
It really doesn’t matter, matter, matter, matter,
matter!

_Pall Mall Gazette._ August 15, 1887.

――――

THE MODEL AMERICAN GIRL.

A practical, plain young girl;
Not afraid-of-the-rain young girl;
A poetical posy,
A ruddy and rosy,
A helper-of-self young girl.

At home-in-her-place young girl;
A never-will-lace young girl;
A toiler serene,
A life pure and clean.
A princess-of-peace young girl.

A wear-her-own-hair young girl;
A free-from-a-stare young girl;
Improves every hour,
No sickly sunflower,
A wealth-of-rare-sense young girl;

Plenty-room-in-her-shoes young girl;
No indulger-in-blues young girl;
Not a bang on her brow,
To fraud not a bow,
She’s a just-what-she-seems young girl.

Not a reader-of-trash young girl;
Not a cheap-jewelled-flash young girl;
Not a sipper of rum
Nor a chewer of gum,
A marvel-of-sense young girl.

An early-retiring young girl;
An active, aspiring young girl;
A morning ariser,
A dandy-despiser,
A progressive, American girl.

A lover-of-prose young girl;
Not a turn-up-your-nose young girl;
Not given to splutter,
Nor “utterly utter.”
But a-matter-of-fact young girl.

A rightly-ambitious young girl;
Red-lips-most-delicious young girl;
A sparkling clear eye
That says “I will try,”
A sure-to-succeed young girl.

An honestly-courting young girl;
A never-seen-flirting young girl;
A quiet and pure,
A modest, demure,
A fit-for-a-wife young girl.

A sought-everywhere young girl;
A future-most-fair young girl;
An ever-discreet
We too seldom meet
This queen-among-queens young girl.

ANONYMOUS.

A somewhat similar American parody will be found on page 128.

――――

THE HOME SECRETARY’S SONG.

“It is announced this morning that ‘the Home Secretary will address a meeting of his constituents in the Birmingham Town Hall on Monday next. On Tuesday he will open the new premises of the Aston Conservative Club, and on Wednesday attend ward meetings in the division he represents.’ The following song has, we understand, been expressly written for the Minister’s use on this occasion.”

Henceforth all the crimes that I find in the _Times_,
I vow I’ll investigate daily;
For ignorance crass, like I showed to Miss Cass,
Makes life go by not at all gaily;
No kudos receiving for Lipski’s reprieving,
The Salvation Army disgraces,
The child-mother sentence, my tardy repentance,
And numerous similar cases.
To have me in the Cabinet’s awfully nice,
But I fear I shall cost them a terrible price!

The new special pleaders, the writers of leaders,
Come down on my faults like a hammer,
To teach me the beauty of doing my duty,
Yet I falter, and struggle, and stammer.
Oh, Balfour and Goschen! you have not a notion,
What a terrible life I am leading;
For my faults blazoned get in the _Pall Mall Gazette_,
While they mock at my manners and breeding.
To give me a place was exceedingly nice,
But I fear I shall cost you a terrible price.

Each day when I rise, lo, another surprise
I feel will o’erwhelm me with wonder;
If I walk through the street, I am certain to meet
With placards denouncing some blunder;
The position I’ve got is uncomfort’bly hot,
For the public is getting so touchy,
Next time there’s a race for the prize of a place
I shall try to jump into the Duchy;
For to be in the Cabinet’s awfully nice,
But the honour is rather too much for the price.

_Pall Mall Gazette._ September 13, 1887.

CUMBERLAND, KING!

_The Mélange_, published in Liverpool in 1834. contained a number of songs of “High Tory and No Popery” sentiments, such as “Up, Protestants, Up!” in which the Pope and the Devil were ranged side by side, and a parody entitled “_Rouse, Britons! Arouse_.” Also the following verses to the tune of “God Save the King.”

Thy choicest curse in store,
On _George_ be pleased to pour,
The traitor King!
He has abused the laws,
Slighted the Brunswick cause,
Then hail with loud applause,
Cumberland, King!
Oh, may the Duke of Wel-
Lington and Peel to Hell
Go hand in hand;
While _Clarence_ and his crew,
Popish O’Connell too,
Homage are forced to do
To Cumberland!

This was evidently written before the death of George IV. in 1830; he was succeeded by William, the _Clarence_ alluded to in the song. King William was suspected of having Liberal leanings, and an Orange plot existed to displace him and put his brother Ernest, Duke of Cumberland, on the throne, thus entirely excluding the Princess Victoria from the succession. This plot was exposed by Joseph Hume; but it never had any chance of success, for the Duke of Cumberland, profligate, brutal, and overbearing, was thoroughly hated by the English people. On the death of William IV. Cumberland became King of Hanover, and this country was finally relieved of his presence, and his plots. In the time of the Georges the following additional verse was sometimes sung:――

God save great George our King,
Long live our noble King,
God save the King.
Send us roast beef a store,
If it’s gone send us more,
And the key of the cellar door,
That we may drink.

“DRUIDICAL SONGS, by _James Wilson_, A.D. (_i.e._, _Ancient Druid_), of Lodge 91. Adapted to popular and well-known tunes.” George Elliott, Blackfriars Road. London, 1839.――This pamphlet of 48 pages contains a number of songs in praise of the Ancient Order of Druids, to be sung to once popular airs, the majority of which are now quite forgotten. They are not actual Parodies.

“CORN LAW RHYMES, and other Poems” by Ebenezer Elliott, London. B. Steill, 1844, contained parodies of “Robin Adair,” “Scots wha hae,” “Rule Britannia,” &c., all relating to the scarcity of food, and the protective duties.

“SONGS OF THE PRESS, _and other Poems_,” original and selected, by C. H. Timperley. London. Fisher, Son and Co. 1845.――This amusing work contains a number of songs adapted to popular airs; they are very technical in their language, and only those already quoted can be styled Parodies.

“MOTLEY,” by Cuthbert Bede, B.A., published in 1855 by James Blackwood, London, contained a number of imitations of the popular songs of the day. Most of them related to incidents in the Crimean War. Professor Browne, of Fenchurch Street, London, hair-dresser and wig maker, has for more than twenty-five years issued small almanacs to his customers. These have contained a number of curious parodies relating to the Professor’s business, and praising his skill and enterprise. In some cases the humour of these productions was very quaint and grotesque.

Numerous short parodies of popular songs are to be found in the theatrical burlesques and extravaganzas produced during the last fifty years. As a rule they consist of a few couplets only, and possess no interest apart from their context. Hundreds of these ephemeral _jeux d’esprit_ have been produced, and the following are the names of the most prolific authors of dramatic burlesques:――Vincent Amcotts; Captain Arbuthnot; William and R. B. Brough; Leicester Buckingham; F. C. Burnand; H. J. Byron; Gilbert A. A’Beckett; C. Dance; Maurice G. Dowling; W. S. Gilbert; H. Such Granville; A. Halliday; W. H. Oxberry; J. R. Planché; R. Reece; William Rogers; Francis Talfourd, and Charles Selby.

A more detailed account of dramatic burlesques will be given in a future volume.

Amongst collections of songs written for societies, such as the Freemasons, Druids, Anglers, Cricket and Football Clubs, Conservative, Liberal, and Radical Associations, many are to be found written to the airs of popular songs. As a rule these are not parodies.

There are numerous advertisement parodies of songs, some of considerable merit; the best of these have been quoted.

Some purely unintentional travesties of songs are really the most laughable and amusing, as, for instance, the absurd translations given in the English libretti of the Italian operas. Those who can appreciate comic songs should certainly also read Messrs. Augner’s edition of Schubert’s songs with English and German words. The song “Alinde” commences thus in the English version: “The sun sinks down into the meer, forth hast she not ridden?” This is intended to be a translation of “Die Sonne sinkt in’s tiefe meer, da wollte sie nicht kommen.” What is a meer? In several other cases the German word meer (sea) is translated meer. As a second example take “_The Fisher_.” “The water rushed, the water swelled, A fisher there bestow’d, With lazy angle, felt the hush, His heart with coolness load!” How could any man with his wits about him write such arrant nonsense? It certainly seems like an attempt to translate literally, but in the “Nachtstück” (night piece) an unpardonable deviation is made from the original. “Luna mit gewölken kämpft” we are told means “Luna camped upon the clouds!” Last, but not least, in that exquisite little song “Der Tod und das Mädchen,” which is unpoetically called “Death and the Girl,” the German runs thus: “Vor über ach vor über, geh wilder knochenmann.” Surely the translator struck the summit of absurdity in rendering it, “Pass onward, pass onward, wild man with skinless bone!” It is not a matter for surprise that we seldom hear any of Schubert’s works, except perhaps “Ave Maria,” in an English drawing-room, when the translations offered are hardly fit for nigger minstrels. There is much room for improvement in the poetry of our modern popular sentimental songs, whether intended for the stage, or the concert room. Yet ridiculous as these often are, they do not approach the nonsense, called translations from Italian, French, or German songs, where the effort required to render the sense in a metre suitable to the melody seems too much for any ordinary translator to cope with.

――――

MORE ABOUT LORD TENNYSON’S JUBILEE ODE.

Several parodies of this Ode were given in Part 43 (June) but since then some others have appeared.

The universal opinion that Tennyson’s poem was a failure, and altogether unworthy of his reputation has been expressed in several ways, one London evening paper printed a couple of the Laureate’s verses “as they ought to be” thus:――

“You then loyally, all of you, deck your houses, illuminate all your towns for a festival, and in each let a multitude loyal, each, to the heart of it one full voice of allegiance, hail the great Ceremonial of this year of her Jubilee.”

“You, the Patriot Architect, shape a stately memorial, make it regally gorgeous, some Imperial Institute, rich in symbol, in ornament, which may speak to the centuries, all the centuries after us, of this year of her Jubilee.”

Instead of being poetry of transcendent merit, it seems to be a poor imitation of the language of Scripture. Others declare it to be an imitation of the style of WALT WHITMAN, and the Ode has even been compared to a badly-written catalogue! One satirist went so far as to plead in the Laureate’s latest style:――

You, the Patriot poet,
Shape a statelier poem;
Leave out “regally gorgeous,”
Cut the Imperial Institute,
Or we, weary, uncomforted,
And we needy unbanqueted,
Seeing how maimed are your verses,
Joy not this year of the Jubilee.

――――

“TENNY THE BARON’S” JUBILEE ODE.

I.

Fifty times my poor nose you have broken,
Fifty times my gore you have spilled,
Since I stood with you in corded ring.

II.