Chapter III: Part 48: Songs by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and various old English (3)

She dresses fine and very smart,
She buys the best of lace;
She uses _Rowland’s Kalydor_,
To wash her hands and face.
Her dress becomes her very well,
Her bonnet looks quite gay,
But I’m awake――yes, I can smell,
Her hair is turning grey

She’s sunk, at least an inch in height,
She does not walk so fast,
But, her virgin state is not yet done,
Her single life’s not past;
For when the men have ogled her,
I’ve heard them whispering say
She must be old, and so I’ve thought
For her hair is turning grey!

From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin.

――――:o:――――

I CANNOT SING THE OLD SONGS,
Words and Music by CLARIBEL.

I cannot sing the old songs
I sung long years ago,
For heart and voice would fail me,
And foolish tears would flow;
For bygone hours come o’er my heart,
With each familiar strain.
I cannot sing the old songs,
Or dream those dreams again.
I cannot sing the old songs,
Or dream those dreams again.

* * * * *

“I CANNOT SING THE OLD SONGS.”

“Of course not; they’re hackneyed and out of fashion, and nobody knows what half of them mean. We will change them into new songs, adapted to the taste of the day.

We met――’twas on the rink,
And I feared he’d upset me;
He curved――I tried to think
Who he was, and he let me!

She wore a “pull back” costume
That night when first we met;
As flat as any pancake,
Her tablier worked with jet.

Her footsteps had no lightness
(Though high her heels were shown)
How could they, with a tightness
To sprightliness unknown?

I saw her but a moment,
Yet methinks I see her now,
With a cloud of lace _à sortir_
About her sunny brow.

“Cherry ripe, cherry ripe, ripe, ripe,” I cry,
“Fresh and fair ones”――when no Bobby’s nigh.

_Funny Folks._

――――

I CANNOT EAT THE OLD HORSE.

(Written during the agitation in Paris in favor of eating horse flesh).

I cannot eat the old horse,
I rode long years ago;
I’m sure my teeth would fail me,
And foolish tears might flow.
For bygone hunts come o’er my heart,
With cuts from round and side;
I cannot eat the old horse,
On which I used to ride.

I cannot eat the old horse,
For visions come again;
Of bygone meets departed,
And runs in soaking rain.
But perhaps when raging hunger,
Has set his hand on me;
Then I may eat the old horse,
And hope t’will tender be.

――――:o:――――

OH! THE MISTLETOE BOUGH.

The mistletoe hung on the castle hall,
The holly branch shone on the old oak wall,
And the baron’s retainers were blithe and gay;
And keeping their Christmas holiday:
The baron beheld with a father’s pride,
His beautiful child, young Lovell’s bride;
While she, with her bright eyes, seem’d to be
The star of that goodly company.
Oh! the mistletoe bough.

“I’m weary of dancing now,” she cried;
“Here tarry a moment――I’ll hide――I’ll hide;
And Lovell, be sure thou’rt the first to trace
The clue to my secret hiding place.”
Away she ran――and her friends began
Each tower to search, and each nook to scan;
And young Lovell cried, “Oh! where dost thou hide,
I’m lonesome without thee, my own dear bride.”
Oh! the mistletoe bough.

* * * * *

THE MICHAELMAS GOOSE.

The Michaelmas goose lay in Leadenhall,
On the outside of a poulterer’s stall;
The poulterer’s boys were blithe and gay,
Keeping of Leadenhall Market-day:
The poulterer, though his stock profuse,
Kept twigging with pride the Michaelmas goose;
Whilst she with her neck broke, seem’d to be
The best of all gooses that could be.
Oh! the Michaelmas goose,
Oh! the Michaelmas goose.

“I’m tired of walking,” an old maid did cry,
“I’ve walk’d to the market a goose for to buy:
And poulterer be sure that you give me, I pray;
The best of your gooses for Michaelmas day!”
Then a thief ran by, and straight began,
To finger the goose, and away he ran:
And he the poulterer out loud did call,
“Oh! I’ve lost the best goose in all Leadenhall!”
Oh! my Michaelmas goose, &c.

They sought it that hour, they sought it all day,
They sought it in vain till the night passed away!
“The cleanest――the dirtiest――the filthiest spot,
The old maid sought wildly but found it not;
At length, as onward she did roam,
She looked far the goose all the way she went home;
When the old maid appeared, oh! the children did cry,
“Twig the old woman that went a large goose to buy!”
Oh! the Michaelmas goose, &c.

The thief was caught at morning’s light,
They searched his pockets, when oh; what a sight;
For a bit of a goose lay hidden there,
In the breeches pocket, the thief did wear:
The thief laugh’d aloud, and swore it was fun;
To the Beak who heard how the trick was done,
Who decided against him, so now laugh your fill!
For three months he was sent to step at the mill.
All through prigging a goose,
Oh! the Michaelmas goose.

――――

THE VORKHOUSE BOY.

The cloth vos laid in the Vorkhouse hall,
And the greatcoats hung on the vhite-vashed vall;
The paupers all were blithe and gay,
Keeping their Christmas holiday;
Vhen the master he cried, with a roguish leer,
You’ll all get fat on your Christmas cheer;
And one by his looks he seemed to say,
I’ll have more soup on this Christmas day.
Oh, the poor Vorkhouse boy, &c.

At length all of us to bed vos sent,
The boy vos missing in search ve vent;
Ve sought him above, ve sought him below,
Ve sought him with faces of grief and voe:
Ve sought him that hour, ve sought him that night,
Ve sought him in fear, and ve sought him in fright,
Vhen a young pauper cried “I know ve shall
Get jolly vell vopt for losing our pall.”
Oh, the poor vorkhouse boy, &c.

Ve sought in each corner, each crevice ve knew,
Ve sought down the yard, and ve sought up the flue;
Ve sought in each saucepan, each kettle each pot,
In the vorter butt looked, but found him not;
And veeks rolled on, ve vere all of us told,
That somebody said he’d been burked and sold;
Vhen our master goes out the parishioners vild,
Cries, “there goes the cove that burked the poor child.”
Oh, the poor vorkhouse boy, &c.

At length the soup-coppers repairs did need,
The copper-smith came, and there he seed;
A dollop of bones lay grizzling there,
In the legs of the breeches the boy did vear;
To gain his fill the boy did stoop,
And, dreadful to tell, he vos boiled in the soup!
And ve all of us say it, and say with a sneer,
That he vos pushed in by the overseer!
Oh, the poor vorkhouse boy &c.

From _The Victoria Minstrel_.
Published by JAMES DUFFY, Dublin.

――――

THE FAMILY GHOST.

At the Old Manor House and ancestral Hall,
Where the ivy climbs over the gable-end wall,
A Rookery lends the domain a charm,
And the rats and the mice within-door swarm;
And, time out of mind, as the talk hath been,
There’s a spectral Thing to be heard and seen.
O, the Family Ghost!
O, the Family Ghost!

A sound, as it were, of a rustling train,
That sweeps into the chambers, and out again,
And anon there appeareth an ancient Dame,
Like a figure stept out of a picture-frame,
In a stomacher, frill, and farthingale,
And her eyes glimmer through an antique lace-veil.
O, the Family Ghost!
O, the Family Ghost!

There’s a room where the Ghost is given to keep
So in that one apartment that none dare sleep,
No man-servant, maid servant, girl, or groom,
Will adventure a night in the Haunted Room.
Should the Host any Stranger away there stow,
The Ghost of the Family lets him know.
O, the Family Ghost!
O, the Family Ghost!

A something in sooth it may be to boast,
That a fellow hath gotten a Family Ghost,
For a Family Ghost to a Family Name
Is a sort of appurtenance much the same
As a coat-of-arms, or a Family Tree;
No such Ghost but for persons of pedigree.
O, the Family Ghost!
O, the Family Ghost!

In your stuccoed Villas it scorns to dwell;
Stands only the hold of your high-born Swell.
It disdains to appear――having too much pride――
To the family circle at Christmastide,
Where, if ghost-stories then be but truly told,
It could, an it listed, a tale unfold.
O, the Family Ghost!
O, the Family Ghost!

_Punch._ December 29, 1883.

――――:o:――――

HOME, SWEET HOME.

By J. HOWARD PAYNE, in the opera of “Clari,
the Maid of Milan.”

’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble there’s no place like home!
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.
Home! home, sweet home!
There’s no place like home!

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain!
Oh! give me my lowly thatch’d cottage again!
The birds singing gaily that came at my call:――
Give me these and the peace of mind, dearer than all!
Home! home, &c.

In the winter of 1833. John Howard Payne called upon an American lady, living in London, and presented to her a copy of “Home, Sweet Home,” set to music, with the two following additional verses addressed to her:――

To us, in despite of the absence of years,
How sweet the remembrance of _home_ still appears
From allurements abroad, which but flatter the eye,
The unsatisfied heart _turns_, and says with a sigh
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home!
There’s no place like home!

Your exile is blest with all fate can bestow,
But mine has been checkered with many a woe!
Yet, though different our fortunes, our thoughts are the same
And both, as we think of Columbia, exclaim,
Home, home, sweet, sweet home, &c.

Whilst the words are thus clearly of American origin, the melody was introduced by Sir Henry Bishop as a national Sicilian air, in his _National Melodies_. Sir Henry afterwards adapted it to the words “Home, Sweet Home,” in Howard Payne’s opera of _Clari_, 1823, from which time its popularity dates. It has subsequently been called a National Swiss air; but Sir Henry Bishop seems to have the right to it. Donizetti introduced it, with some alterations, in his _Anna Bolena_, not as his own, but as a representative English melody.

――――

ON THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

“The melody of Home, sweet home, must be impressed on the memory of all. The only sphere in which poor Wellington can feel himself at home is in ‘place, sweet place,’ and having once tasted of its pleasures it continues to haunt his memory. To him the splendour of palaces and the favour of his sovereign offer no longer a charm, ‘It is all very well,’ he sometimes frantically exclaims, but:――

The court of my sovereign, though I may grace,
Be it ever so stormy there’s nothing like place,
A vapour from hell seems to shield us when there,
Which seek through the world you’ll ne’er meet with elsewhere.
Place! place! sweet, sweet, place.
There’s nothing like place, No! there’s nothing like place.

An exile from place levees dazzle in vain.
Oh! give me my Downing Street house once again,
The subs slaving daily that came at my call,
Give me them, with a sinecure, dearer than all.
Place! place! sweet, sweet, place.
There’s nothing like place. No! there’s nothing like place.

_Figaro in London._ Sept. 22. 1832.

――――

BEIGNET DE POMME.

’Mid fritters and lollipops though we may roam,
On the whole, there is nothing like Beignet de Pomme.
Of flour a pound, with a glass of milk share,
And a half pound of butter the mixture will bear.
Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme!
Of Beignets there’s none like Beignet de Pomme.

A Beignet de Pomme, you will work at in vain,
If you stir not the mixture again and again;
Some beer, just to thin it may into it fall;
Stir up that, with three whites of eggs, added to all.
Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme!
Of Beignets there’s none like the Beignet de Pomme!

Six apples, when peeled, you must carefully slice,
And cut out the cores――if you’ll take my advice;
Then dip them in batter, and fry till they foam,
And you’ll have in six minutes your Beignet de Pomme.
Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme!
Of Beignets there’s none like the Beignet de Pomme

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE UNFINISHED HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT.

When Lord Brougham said there was no more dependence to be placed on BARRY’S promises than on a broken reed, he was not perhaps aware that it was really REID, and not BARRY, that acted as a barrier to the completion of the Houses of Parliament. Since it has been discovered that REID is the culprit, the following melody has been expressly written for LORD BROUGHAM, who has sung it twice at the Beef Steak Club, with considerable gusto.

“’Mid Westminster’s palace, while REID still shall roam
The Lords will ne’er taste of the blessings of home;
If BARRY e’er tries the new house to prepare,
His efforts by REID are all blown into air.
REID, REID, DOCTOR REID!
Of all great mistakes, there is not one like REID.

“While exil’d from home, all my speeches seem vain;
Oh give me my old House of Commons again.
The ‘cheers’ and the ‘hears,’ once my own I could call
Give me them, or that sack of wool, dearer than all,
REID, REID,” &c.

_Punch._ April 14, 1846.

――――

PARODY FOR PUSEYITES.

Though crosses and candles we play with at home,
To go the whole gander, there’s no place like Rome;
We’ve statues and relics to hallow us there,
Which, save in museums, you’ll not find elsewhere,
Rome, Rome, sweet, sweet Rome!
For all us Tractarians there’s no place like Rome

_Punch._ 1850.

――――

THE POLICEMAN’S HOME.

Up courts and round palaces long may they roam,
But ancient policemen have no sort of home
To offer them shelter, and comfort, and care,
The curbstone no more when their highlows can wear.
Home! home! they’ve no home:
For poor old Policemen there’s no place like home!

* * * * *

Then let a snug station await Life’s decline,
When once sturdy fists must their truncheons resign;
And ere his worn frame is consign’d to the loam,
Oh, grant the Policemen a few years of home!
Home! home! short, short home!
Let worn out Policemen have some place like home

_Punch._ December 6, 1851.

――――

SONGS OF THE CIRCUIT.

From Circuit to Circuit although we may roam,
Be it ever so briefless, there’s none like the Home;
A fee from the skies p’rhaps may follow us there,
Which, seek through the Courts is ne’er met with elsewhere
Home, Home, sweet sweet Home,
There’s none of the Circuits can equal the Home.
When out on the Home, lodgings tempt you in vain,
The railroad brings you back to your chambers again:
On the Home the expenses for posting are small;
Give me that――’tis the Circuit, the cheapest of all.
Home, Home, sweet sweet Home,
There’s none of the Circuits can equal the Home.

_Punch._ March 23, 1884.

――――

HOME, SWEET HOME!
_Modern Version._

’Midst mansions and palaces worthy of Rome,
How pleasant, great Bumble, is Poverty’s home!
Gehenna-like gloom seems to circle us there,
Which, seek through the world, is scarce met with elsewhere.
Foul fume as from Styx seems to hang o’er the spot,
Its gutters that reek and its rafters that rot,
Its rain-sodden dwellings that threaten to fall,
And its squalid, sad denizens, drearer than all.

Home, Home, Sweet, Sweet Home!
As ruled by King Bumble, a sweet place is Home!

An outcast from comfort, a bondsman to pain,
The shivering prey of the frost and the rain,
The thrall of King Bumble must patiently dwell,
’Midst scenes that might fit the grim Florentine’s Hell.
Foul garbage-choked footways snake on through the slum,
Where the sweet airs of heaven seem never to come,
Where a bird shuns to ’light, where a flower ne’er waves;
Where the grass will not grow, though it grows amidst graves.

Home, Home, Sweet, Sweet Home!
As ruled by King Bumble, a sweet place is Home!

Close-stacked, crazy rookeries, rotting and rank,
Pest-pregnant, plague-foul in each timber and plank,
Rear thick-huddled frontages, row upon row,
The smoke-pall above, and the swamp-ooze below.
Each garret-roof covers its horde――though it leaks,
Each cellar slough hides its pale crowd――though it reeks.
Dumb thralls, voiceless victims, none heeds their mute call;
But Dirt and Disease are the masters of all.

Home, Home, Sweet, Sweet Home!
As ruled by King Bumble, a sweet place is Home!

Hence Mammon draws tithe, and here Moloch takes toll;
Here conscienceless wealth, of the spiderish soul,
Sucks fatness from foulness in fœtid beast-lairs;
Whilst somnolent Bumble, as deaf to all pray’rs
As a drowsing King Log, all his powers lets fall,
And skulks in prone impotence. What though they crawl
From their dens to his knees, the poor souls, in appeal?
His brains are of wool, and his heart is of steel.

Home, Home, Sweet, Sweet Home!
As ruled by King Bumble, a sweet place is Home!

Deaf, blind to all pleas sense or feeling can urge,
Till King Pest, with his fierce, indiscriminate scourge,
Sallies forth from the loathsome, the horrible lair,
That himself and his imps with our pariahs share.
Then, who so affrighted, so helpless as he,
King Log, brainless Bumble? Ah! when shall we see
Some stout modern ghoul-slaying Champion come
To teach our poor outcasts the meaning of Home?

Home, Home, Sweet, Sweet Home!
As ruled by King Bumble, a sweet place is Home!

_Punch._ November 12, 1881.

――――

SONG OF THE PROFESSIONAL BEAUTY’S HUSBAND.

’Midst mansions and palaces so much I roam,
That it’s useless to long for an evening at home;
The charm from the heavens that falls on us there
I’ve never a chance to experience or share.

Home, home, sweet sweet home,
Be it ever so humble,
There’s no place like home!

An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain,
O give me my villa at Tooting again;
My pipe at the fireside; the lawn where I bowled;
And that sweet peace of mind, far more precious than gold!

Home, home, sweet home,
Be it ever so quiet,
There’s no place like home!

But parties perpetual now are my lot.
I’ve a home,――but I never enjoy it one jot;
It is only a place where I put on white ties――
Whence I drive with my wife in our nightly-jobbed flies.

Home, home, sweet home,
Be it ever so humdrum,
There’s no place like home!

O woe to the morning when, foolishly vain,
I gazed on my wife in the shopkeeper’s pane;
It was only a _carte_――but with anger I foam
When I think how it’s carted us both from our home.
Home, home, sweet home,
Be it ever so “homey”
There’s no place like home!

_Truth Christmas Number_, 1882.

――――

THE WEEKLY DISPATCH.
(PRIZE PARODY. January 28, 1883.)

’Mid hardships and hovels
Though we may roam,
From Dan to Beersheba,
There’s no place like home.
A fiend from below
Seems to worry us there,
Which, search through the world,
Is not met elsewhere.

Home, home! vile, vile home!
There’s no place like home;
There’s no place like home.

How hateful the squalling
Of children and wife!
While doctors and duns
Make a limbo of life.
Of all human dwellings
Beneath heaven’s dome,
Be they ever so shocking,
There’s no place like home.

Home, home! vile, vile home!
There’s no place like home;
There’s no place like home.

DAVID REID.

――――

“PLACE, SWEET PLACE.”
(Sung by an Old Whip).

Though clubdoms’s fair palaces
Welcome my face,
I cannot but grumble
There’s nothing like place.
A chance may arise
For a fellow who’s there,
But he’ll travel the world
Ere he meets it elsewhere.

An exile from “place,”
Fashion dazzles in vain,
Oh, give me my showy
Appointment again!
With members who tremble
And come at my call,
Give me this――or a pension,
More valued than all!

EXE.

――――

THE BARRISTER’S LAMENT ON LEAVING THE OLD COURTS,
AND GOING INTO THE NEW COURTS.

’Mid new courts and chambers,
Where’er I may roam,
There no place familiar――
I don’t feel at home.
A shade from the old hall
Has followed me here,
As a friend that’s departed,
Whose mem’ry is dear.

An exile from home,
Splendour dazzles in vain;
Oh, give me my dirty
Old Law Courts again!
I can’t say a word here,
My brief I let fall,
When the old place I think of,
And that dear, grimy Hall.

C. W. SCOTT.

――――

A VERSE TO HOME RULE.

In Westminster Palaces
We bluster and foam,
And say, if its bumble,
There’s no Rule like Home.
St. Stephen’s is charming,
St. Stephen’s is fair,
But it’s not the St. Stephen’s
We long for elsewhere.

Home, Home, sweet Rule of Home!
There’s no Rule like Home Rule,
No Rule like Home!

ANONYMOUS.

――――

In 1885 _Truth_ had two competitions on the song “Home, Sweet Home,” the first (April 23, 1885), was for parodies, when twenty-five were printed; the second (June 4, 1885) was for original third verses, and twenty-eight replies were printed.

Selections from both these numbers are given below.

ORIGINAL AND THIRD VERSES TO “HOME SWEET HOME.”

Though bidden to roam, the world’s face to its end,
The power of home will attractiveness lend;
Then dearest and fairest of memories all,
Bid me come, and with rapture I’ll answer the call.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

CUYUNI.

――――

Fond hearts bear it? sweetness o’er land, and o’er sea,
It’s mem’ry is with us where’er we may be;
Though time’s changes ringing nought else should remain,
Sweet home and its loved ones our hearts shall retain.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

PICAFLOR.

――――

In the Soudan desert, ’neath Afric’s fierce sun,
After butchering Arabs, no honour being won;
Worn out by hard marches, we lay on the sand,
And longed for sweet home and our lov’d native land.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

TOMMY ATKINS.

――――

Though far from dear England our lot may be cast
Our love and allegiance she’ll hold till the last,
New ties we contract, and affections we gain,
But Britain we mean when we sing the refrain:
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

DALETH.

――――

In joy or in sadness, in care or in grief,
We fly to its bosom, and there find relief;
There love reigns supremely, and on till life’s wane
Our hearts shall re-echo that sweetest refrain:
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home!

PICAPTOR.

――――

Tho’ rich be our portion, or poor be our lot,
Tho’ years flying swiftly all else be forgot;
Tho’ fortune disdain us and friendship should veer,
Home’s mem’ry our hearts in their loneness shall cheer,
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

PICAPTOR.

――――

I pray that I reach the old homestead once more,
And see the loved faces around, as of yore;
Of all fortune’s gifts, methinks this were the best,
At home, at life’s close, thus to peacefully rest.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

W. P. (TENERIFFE).

――――

How many in dreams only shadow the bliss
Of home, where, alas, a mother’s last kiss
Is all that sustains them o’er life’s weary strand
Away from sweet home, and their dear native land.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home,
There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

A. ATWOOD.

――――

Like bird to its nest, or like sheep to the fold,
I turn to my home from the world’s bitter cold;
For true, faithful hearts beckon me from afar,
And the flame of my ingle is my guiding star.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

WINSTEAD.
_Truth._ June 4, 1885.

――――:o:――――

LAW, CHEAP LAW.

’Mid falsehood and fallacies, jingle and jaw,
Though often we stumble, there’s nothing like law!
There’s a charm in the wig, there’s a grace in the gown,
And say what they will, ’tis the best trade in town.
Law, law, cheap, cheap law,
There’s no trade like law; there’s no trade like law.

For counsel-at-law clients whistle in vain,
“Oh, give us our wasted retainers again;
The bright, golden guineas we paid at your call,
Give us these, and the ‘Fees on Brief,’ greater than all.”
Law, law, cheap, cheap law, &c.

LEX.

――――

BEEF, ROAST BEEF.

’Mid soup, fish, and entrées our stay will be brief,
Be it ever so gristly, there’s no meat like beef;
A true English taste seems to hallow this fare,
Which, eat what we will, is not met with elsewhere.
Beef, beef, roast, roast beef,
There’s no meat like beef; there’s no meat like beef.

Debarred from my beef, kickshaws tempt me in vain,
Oh, give me my plainly-cooked sirloin again;
The greens, piping hot, to be brought to my call,
Give me them with the under-cut, dearer than all.
Beef, beef, roast, roast beef,
There’s no meat like beef; there’s no meat like beef.

FRIAR TUCK.

――――

TEA, SWEET TEA.

’Midst mansions or cottages, where’er we may be,
Be it ever so feeble, there’s nothing like tea.
A balm that restores seems to perfume the air,
Which, seek through all comforts, is not met elsewhere.
Tea, tea, sweet, sweet tea!
There’s nothing like tea! there’s nothing like tea!

Forbidden my tea, all else tempts me in vain,
Oh, give me my Chinese infusion again.
The urn, singing gladly, responds to my call,
And brings back the soothing draught, cheering to all.

EDIORA.

――――

THE LONDON POOR’S LAMENT.

’Mid gin-shops or “palaces” though I may roam,
’Tis better than starving and freezing at home!
No food, fire, or candle is ever found there,
Such comforts, alas! must be sought for elsewhere.
Home, home, bleak, bleak home!
For sorrow and want there’s no place like home!

As exiles from home I and mine would be fain,
We pine for a log-hut or cottage in vain.
In a land where the poor are not forced “_to the wall_.”
Give us this and some “pieces” down――better than all!
Home, home, bleak, bleak home!
There’s no place in England, there’s no place called home.

CRYSTAL PALACE.
――――

(“Men are merriest when they are from home.――_Shakespeare._)

’Mid pleasures and palaces fain would I roam,
Be it ever so stately there’s no peace at home;
All bores ’neath the sky seem to follow us there,
Which, seek thro’ the world, may not meet us elsewhere.
Roam, roam, sweet to roam!
There’s no peace at home! there’s no peace at home!

A captive at home, comfort’s sought for in vain;
Oh, give me my bachelor freedom again;
The little club dinners, they came at my call;
Give me them, with the “pipe of peace,” dearest than all.
Roam, roam, sweet to roam! &c.

MOONSHINE.

――――

’Mid worry and bustle, where’er you may roam,
There is nothing can beat the Spring cleaning of home;
There’s a fuss and confusion then reigns in the air,
That, search where you will, is not met with elsewhere.
When Spring cleaning times come,
There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

Exiled from my room, I must grumble in vain,
For they’re cleaning my lowly thatched cottage again;
Those sweetbirds, the charwomen, chatter and bawl,
’Till I give them a “piece of mind” louder than all.
When Spring cleaning time’s come, &c.

ANON.

――――

RUM, GOOD RUM.

Of all the strong drinks that are loved in the slum,
Be they ever so fiery, there’s none like good rum;
Its quickness in levelling a man with the ground
In no other liquor will ever be found.
Rum, rum, good rum, good rum,
There’s nothing like rum; there’s nothing like rum.

Though it’s hastening my ruin and my life is a stain,
Fill up the fire-water, I’ll drink it again;
Speak not of the pleasures I lose by my fall,
I tell you good rum is the dearest of all.
Rum, rum, good rum, good rum, &c.

MONA.

――――

JONES STILL JONES.

In islands or continents, this parodist depones,
Wherein he has wandered he’s always met Jones
In steamboats or trains, or balloons in the air.
If he sought for a change, Jones was sure to be there!
Jones, Jones, still, still Jones,
There’s no shirking Jones, there’s no shirking Jones.

In prairies and deserts again and again,
I have striven to dodge him, but always in vain;
On the top of Mount Blanc, and the Great Chinese Wall
When I paused to take breath, there was Jones after all!
Jones, Jones, still, still Jones,
There’s no dodging Jones, there’s no dodging Jones!

PRIMA DONNA.

――――

HOME RULER’S SONG.

’Neath measures and policies though we may groan,
Be we ever so humble we long for our own.
’Tis liberty’s charm bids us “Home Rule” declare,
And we’ll stir all the world if we don’t get our share.
Home Rule, rule at home!
There’s no rule like “Home,” there’s no rule like “Home!”

An exile from home is both cruel and vain,
So give us our coveted “Home Rule” again,
With a Parliament pledged to destroy British thrall;
And Charles Stewart Parnell as king over all,
Home Rule, rule at home! &c.

ROGGEE SHURT.

――――

When worries and creditors force you to groan,
For safety and freedom there’s nought like Boulogne,
In vain will bum-bailiffs or writs seek you there,
Very short is the distance, very cheap is the fare.
Boulogne! oh, Boulogne!
There’s nought like Boulogne, there’s nought like Boulogne.

I can laugh at all duns, bailiffs threaten in vain,
By Jove! they shan’t catch me on their side again.
By my wits I can manage to keep up the ball,
To be lagged for contempt would not suit me at all.
Boulogne! oh, Boulogne, &c.

NUTSHELL.

――――

ROME, SWEET ROME.

’Mid Ritualistic clergy, though we may roam,
Be they ever so High Church, there’s no place like Rome;
No Forty-nine articles harass one there,
No Penzance to rule what a parson must wear.
Rome, Rome! Sweet, sweet Rome!
There’s no place like Rome! There’s no place like Rome!

A concert from Rome, livings dazzle in vain,
Oh, give me my stole and my incense again;
The maids sighing daily who came to my call,
The piece of mind then that I gave to them all.
Rome, Rome! Sweet, sweet Rome!

CLERICUS.

――――

A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD SONG.
“She had a voice like a siren, and when she sang:――

“Mid play sure, sand pal aces, thoug heam a Rome,
Be it averse, oh! wum bull there, snow play sly comb,
H, arm from thesk eyeseam stew wallow a sheer,
Whitch seek through the whirl disneerm et twithel swear!”

――――there wasn’t a dry eye in the Tabernacle; but if the programme hadn’t said, in clear, unmistakable print, that she was going to sing “Home, Sweet Home,” a man might have thought his teeth loose without ever guessing it.” _American Paper._

――――

DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE EYES.

(From “The Forest,” by Ben Jonson,
born 1574, died 1637.)

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I’ll not look for wine.
The thirst that from my soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine:
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It would not wither’d be,
But thou thereon did’st only breathe,
And sent it back to me;
Since then, it grows and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.

――――

A PARODY.

Drink to me only from a jug,
And I will pledge in mine;
So fill my glass with whisky punch,
And I’ll not look for wine.
The thirst that in my throat doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove’s nectar sip,
That honour I’d resign.

* * * * *

(The Editor felicitously adds that the second verse is not worth parodying.)

_Blackwood’s Magazine._ July, 1823.

――――

TO LYDIA’S GLASS EYE.

“From particulars supplied to the reporter of a Chicago paper by a dealer in glass eyes in that city, it appears that there are as many as a thousand wearers of these eyes in Chicago…. Twenty years ago there were sold many more dark eyes than light … about twenty light eyes are now sold to one dark.”――_Times._

Wink at me only with glass eye,
And I’ll respond with mine,
And smile not when the harmless fly
Goes crawling over thine.
I care not for the colour there,
Dark brown, or black, or blue,
Or even if you wink, _ma chère_,
With eyes of different hue.

I sent thee late a new glass eye,
Impervious to the tear,
Tinged with some new æsthetic dye,
And quite “too utter” dear.
You’ll wear it, won’t you, when you think
How faithful it must be,
For it is warranted to wink
At nobody but me?

_Punch._ April, 1881.

――――

Bring to me only, if you’re wise,
The ale that’s clear and fine;
Place but a quart within the cup,
I’ll call that quart divine.

――――

DRINKING SONGS FOR THE MEN OF THE PERIOD.

“What can you expect from a nation that lives chiefly upon tonics.”――Vide _Saturday Review_. 1866.

1.

Drink wine only with thy Drugs
And I will drink with mine,――
Or leave a “peg” within the cup,
And I’ll not seek Quinine!

2.

O some may praise John Barleycorn,
And some the juice of Cadiz,
But I will sing of Chlorodyne,
That keeps me out of Hades.

3.

Boast not thyself in Sherries gold,
Or Claret’s crimson river,
There’s nothing like Taraxacum
To spur a sluggish liver!

4.

Ah hapless youth, life’s honey-sweets
Too deeply you beguile!
Soon must you quaff its bitter cup,
Quassia and Camomile!

5.
Pledge me a draught of the Pepsine Wine
To comfort thy spirit sore,
To-morrow you’ll play a knife and fork
As you never have played before

6.
Hey nonny, nonny,
Champagne is bonny,
At summer pic-nic or wedding feast;
But more for your weal,
Is Citrate of Steel,
Effervescing like German Yeast!

7.
On an Iron Age we fall――
Iron steeds, and Iron rail,
Iron ships and, worst of all,
Iron drinks instead of Ale!

8.
Life is cruel, false, and cold,
Steel thy heart against the scorner,
Steel it with the Tincture sold
At the Chemist’s round the corner!

9.
Iron drops such conquerors be
Over death, that hoary croaker,
That you’ll quite immortal be
When you’ve swallowed all your porter.

_Will-o-the-Wisp._ July 10, 1869.

――――

THE RINKER’S SONG.

Rink to me only with thine ice,
And I will sledge with mine;
Or heave a hiss but inly up,
And I’ll not look for whine.
The thirst that from a sole doth rise,
Doth ask a rink divine,
But might I on Jove’s necktie slip,
I would not change for thine.

I went to thee, late, a rosy youth,
Not so much honoring thee
As in the hope that, taking care,
I should not “Spiller’d” be.
But thou me send’st, in groanly truth,
Plump on back, ah me!
Since when my “ditto” suit I swear,
Smells asphaltely of thee!

_The Figaro._ June 10, 1876.

――――

THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE.

Talk to me only with thine eyes,
And I will hear with mine;
Turn hither all the light that lies
In those twin orbs of thine.
I shall not miss an H or two,
Nor find as many slips
Of grammar as I daily do
From these bewitching lips.

In such a deep impassioned glance
Could any eye suspect
A double negative, perchance;――
Which never ain’t correct.
Could any dazzled gaze descry,
In stars thus blue and bright,
A tendency to say, “Says I;”――
Which, I says, can’t be right.

Nay, Love and Prosody combined
Sit smiling evermore.
Within those eyes that speak a mind
Above grammatic lore.
Those lips may err――they often do;
But why should that surprise?
My love has nothing of the Blue
About her but her eyes.

From _A Town Garland_. By HENRY S. LEIGH. (Chatto and Windus. London, 1878.)

――――

PHILLIS IS MY ONLY JOY.

Phillis is my only joy,
Faithless as the wind or seas;
Sometimes coming, sometimes coy,
Yet she never fails to please.
If with a frown
I am cast down
Phillis smiling
And beguiling,
Makes me happier than before.

Though, alas! too late I find
Nothing can her fancy fix;
Yet the moment she is kind,
I forgive her all her tricks;
Which though I see,
I can’t get free;
She deceiving,
I believing,
What need lovers wish for more?

CHARLES SEDLEY.

――――

A RHYME OF THE HOAX.

Fillies _is_ my only joy――
Slippery jades as e’er one sees,
Sometimes forward, sometimes coy,
Sometimes game to win with ease.
If I’ve ill luck,
And back the ruck,
Yet disaster
Makes me faster.
Bet each year upon the Oaks.

Though, alas! I always find
There’s no guessing all their tricks,
Yet I still with constant mind
Risk my monkey’s, five or six;
This year may be
A case for me
Of cash――bereavement;
O ACHIEVEMENT.
Win! or ’tis a frightful _Hoax_.

_Echoes from the Clubs._ May 22, 1867.

――――

Fillies is my only joy!
Faithless though the jades oft be
Transient ever such annoy.
’Tis but so much £ s. d.;
Done are we brown
On Epsom Down,
Fillies shying,
Shiners flying,
Spooners sappier than before!

Though, alas! too late I find,
Fails the goal my fancy picks;
Since she’s not of womankind,
Freely I forgive her tricks.
Fortune’s slippy, ah!
Get on HIPPIA,[4]
I believing,
Ne’er misgiving,
Mean to risk my “tin” once more.

_Echoes from the Clubs._ May 29, 1867.

――――:o:――――

PARODIES OF ALFRED BUNN’S OPERATIC SONGS.

THE SOT BOWED DOWN.

The sot bowed down by too much drink,
To nearest post will cling;
Or in the gutter p’rhaps will sink,
Which can no comfort bring;
For all exciting spirits tend
The senses having flown,
To make a fool the only friend
That drink can call its own.

The sot will in his muddy lair,
Still ponder o’er the last
Strong glass he took, and could’nt bear,
But which he swallowed fast.
Till the police assistance lend,
And in a cell of stone;
Lock up all night the only friend
That drink can call its own.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

SONG OF JANUARY.

When other months amid the range
Of time’s revolving year,
Exhibit symptoms of a change
From what they should appear;
Though April fails to bring her showers;
Though March is mild and tame;
Though May forgets her buds and flowers,
You’ll find me still the same.

They say that Janus sways my lot,
That I two faces wear;
But, let me ask them, who does not?
In this false world of care.
Oh! I’m a month that’s always cold,
And who shall dare to blame,
If they’re at such a moment told
That I am still the same.

_Punch’s Almanac._ 1846.

――――

SELF-EVIDENT.

When other lips and other eyes
Their tales of love shall tell,
Which means the usual sort of lies
You’ve heard from many a swell;
When, bored with what you feel is bosh,
You’d give the world to see,
A friend, whose love you know will wash,
Oh, then remember me!

When Signor Solo goes his tours,
And Captain Craft’s at Ryde,
And Lord Fitzpop is on the moors,
And Lord knows who beside;
When to exist you feel a task
Without a friend at tea,
At such a moment I but ask
That you’ll remember me.

J. R. PLANCHE.

――――

A YULE-TIDE PARODY.

When other wits and other bards,
Their tales at Christmas tell,
Or praise on cheap and coloured cards,
The time they love so well;
Secure from scorn and ridicule
I hope my verse may be,
If I can still remember Yule,
And Yule remember me.

The days are dark, the days are drear,
When dull December dies;
But, while we mourn an ended year,
Another’s star will rise,
I hail the season formed by rule
For merriment and glee;
So let me still remember Yule,
And Yule remember _me_.

The rich plum-pudding I enjoy,
I greet the pie of mince;
And loving both while yet a boy,
Have loved them ever since,
More dull were I than any mule
That eyes did ever see,
If I should not remember Yule,
And Yule remember _me_.

ANONYMOUS.

From _London Society_. Christmas Number for 1881.

――――:o:――――

SONG FOR THE HALL PORTER.

I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls,
With tradesmen and duns outside,
And a large assembly of morning calls,
In carriage pomp and pride.
There were crowds too great to count, and most
For Bills unsettled came;
But I also dreamt that at my post
I sat dozing all the same.

I dreamt that footmen raised their hand,
And knock’d to a high degree,
With a noise few porters’ ears could withstand,
But they wasted it all on me,
I dreamt that one of the noisy host
Came forth and bawl’d my name;
But I also dreamt that fast as a post
I slept there all the same.
I slept there all the same.

From _George Cruikshank’s Table Book_. Edited by Gilbert Abbot à Beckett.

――――

THE ALARMIST’S DREAM ABOUT THE GREAT EXHIBITION.

I dreamt that I stood in the Crystal Halls,
With Chartists and Reds at my side,
And that all who assembled in those glass walls,
Came there the contents to divide.
Of riches too great to count it could boast,
And jewels of world-wide fame;
But I found, when I woke, which surprised me most,
They remained there all the same.

I dreamt the swell mob was there in a band
With thieves of every degree,
And with skill that no police could withstand,
They picked all the pockets of we.
And I dreamt that one of the scampish host
To grab the Koh-i-Noor came;
But I found when I woke, which surprised me most,
It was safe there all the same.

_Punch._ June 14, 1851.

――――

LORD BROUGHAM’S DREAM.

“The foul, the false charge, that I have changed a single opinion.”――_Vicar of Bray_.

I dreamt that I dined in Conservative halls,
With Peel and the Duke at my side;
That I went like their shadow, to morning calls,
To concerts, the club, or the ride.
And seldom or never to meet, did I seem,
With a Whig or a Radical name;
And yet――the most curious part of my dream――
My opinions were still the same!

And I dreamt of a Chancellor (strangely, of course,
For my senses were running a rig,)
Who said that “Persuasion was better than force,”
As he dazzled my eyes with his wig.
“Oh, beautiful wig!” thought I, “could I for thee
Turn this coat? Ay, or part with my name?”
And yet――the most wonderful matter to me――
My opinions were still the same!

_Punch._ April 13, 1844.

――――

BALLAD.

I dreamt that I sat in the House of Lords,
As Monteagle spoke at my side,
And into that sleep which his tone affords
I did imperceptibly glide.
There were lions too many to count――a host
Of creatures I knew not by name;
And I also dreamt――which puzzled me most――
That the figures were all the same.

I dreamt that huge monsters――a fearful band――
Were staring to such a degree
That the sight was more than I could withstand,
For they turn’d all their eyes upon me.
And I dreamt that King John’s unearthly ghost
Stepped forth my homage to claim,
When I woke and I found ’twas my bedstead’s post,
But it frightened me all the same.

――――

DREAMS OF MABILLE BALLS.

(The famous Moulin Rouge Restaurant and Mabille disappear together from the Champs Elysées this month.)

(RETROSPECTIVE BALLADS.)
(_Sung confidentially by the Old “Bohemian Boy_.”)

I dreamt that I danced at Mabille balls――
That again at the Cancan I shied:
But to judge from the set that now honoured those walls,
I had far best have Cancan’d outside!
For, spite JULES’S antics, once good as a feast――
Spite Music, Nymphs, flare――still the same.
I noticed, what certainly pleased me the least,
That the whole thing seemed horribly tame,
Oh, so tame!
So depressingly, horribly tame!

_Punch._ March 4, 1882.

――――

MARBLED BEEF.

(Ballad for the Modern Butcher, with acknowledgments to the Shade of Bunn.)

I dreamt that I dined on Marbled Beef,
And found it the best I had tried;
And of all its good points I held this the chief,――
The figure at which ’twas supplied.
But when, as Prime English, I found it as nice
You tried on the same old game,
And though every carcass cost you half the price,
You charged me still the same!
You charged me still the same!

_Punch._ April 18, 1885.

――――:o:――――

BEAUTIFUL STAR.

――――

Beautiful star! on each opera night,
Watching with wonder your diamonds bright,
And hearing your cadences echo afar,
I envy your fortune, fair opera star――
Star of the evening, beautiful star.

I hear sad Amina’s cantabile ring,
I see the bouquets which by dozens they fling;
Watch gaily Rosina her guardian cajole,
And weep when Medea entrances my soul――
Star of the evening, beautiful star.

I love thee in _Norma_ and fair Marguerite,
And _Lohengrin_ even thy tones can make sweet:
But I sigh that no journal will pay me to write
At the rate of thy two hundred guineas per night――
Star of the evening, beautiful star.

_Funny Folks._

――――

Beautiful Pit, behind the stalls,
For treatment kind thy memory calls;
Who could fail to thy use admit,
Pit of the Haymarket, Haymarket Pit!
Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!

In fancy’s eyes you seem to say,
Think of the Drama’s bright hey-day;
When first-night critics would views emit
From the famed front row of the Haymarket Pit!
Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!

To your cheap seats the people come
In a vigorous crowd with a hearty hum;
And where is the manager who’d permit
One seat to be filched from the Haymarket Pit?
Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!

The stalls are cynical, boxes sneer
At the warm applause to actors dear;
And the cheer that cometh their hearts to knit,
Is sent from the rows of the crowded pit.
Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!

So, Pit, last on! and hold your own,
Whatever else may be overthrown;
And let fond hands your each seat refit,
Pit of the Haymarket, Haymarket Pit!
Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!

_Truth._ Christmas Number, 1884.

(Old Play-goers still remember, with a sigh, that in the palmy days of Buckstone’s management, the Haymarket Pit was the most comfortable in London.)

――――

The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and began, in a voice sometimes choked with sobs, to sing this:――

Beautiful soup, so rich and green,
Waiting in a hot tureen!
Who for such dainties would not stoop?
Soup of the evening, beautiful soup!
Soup of the evening, beautiful soup!

Beau――ootiful Soo-oop!
Beau――ootiful Soo-oop!
Soo-oop of the e-e-evening,
Beautiful, beautiful soup!

Beautiful soup! Who cares for fish,
Game, or any other dish?
Who would not give all else for two-
pennyworth only of beautiful soup?
Pennyworth only of beautiful soup?

Beau-ootiful Soo-oop!
Beau-ootiful Soo-oop!
Soo-oop of the e-e-evening,
Beautiful, beauti――FULL SOUP!

From _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_, by LEWIS CARROLL. (Macmillan & Co., London.)

――――:o:――――

MORE LOST CHORDS.

On page 3 a parody of “The Lost Chord” was given which had originally appeared in _Judy_ in 1880. This was written by Mr. Alfred Greenland, junior, and has been included by him in an amusing volume, entitled _Lunatic Lyrics_ (published by Tinsley Brothers, London), which also contains one of the very best parodies of Swinburne ever written, entitled _A Matcher_.

The last verse of _The Lost Cord_ as given in this volume differs slightly from the _Judy_ version, it runs as follows:――

_Grandioso._

It may be my truant monkey,
Will come with that cord again;
It may be he only skedaddles
When he hears the organ-men!
It may be my truant monkey
Will come with that cord again;
It may be he only SKEDADDLES
When he hears the organ men!!

As mentioned above this parody was printed in 1880, but curiously enough, another rather similar parody has been sent in, dated December, 1879.

THE LOST APE.

Seated one day on an organ,
A monkey was ill at ease,
When his fingers wandered idly,
In search of the busy fleas.
I know not what he was slaying,
Or what he was dreaming then,
But a sound burst forth from that organ,
Not at all like a grand Amen.

It came through the evening twilight
Like the close of the feline psalm,
But the melody raised by their voices,
Compared to this noise, was balm!
It was worse than Salvation’s Sorrow
With their band of drum and fife,
And cut, like an evening “Echo,”
The _Tit-Bits_ out of “Life.”

I upset my table and tea things,
And left not one perfect piece;
I gazed at the wreck in silence,
Not loth, but unable to speak!
Then I sought him, alas! all vainly,
The source of that terrible whine,
With his cracked and tuneless organ,
And its melodies undivine.

Of course there was no policeman
To move him away,――and men
Who grind organs smile demurely
At your curses, and smile again.
It may be that I could choke him――
Could kill him――but organ men
If you kill a dozen to-day,
To-morrow will come again!

J. W. G. W.
December, 1879.

――――

THE LOST RENT.

(Copied, _without permission_, from a Christmas card in the shape of a “Dicky,”)

Seated one day at the window,
I was weary and ill at ease,
And my coat I handled lightly,
As I tried to extract the grease.

I had no hopes of a dinner;
My stomach was aching then,
When a knock at the door of my chamber.
Like the sound of the broker men!

It may be they thought I would open;
But I stepped through the window then,
Leaving one chair and a shirt front,
To amuse the broker men.

――――

THE LOST KEY.

The following parody was written, composed, and sung with great success by Mr. George Grossmith. It carries the idea of “The Lost Chord” throughout, yet the air is different, and the quaint and laughable words form a strong contrast to the mystical language of the original. The music is published by J. Bath, Berners Street, London.

Seated one day in her carriage,
She was lounging well back at her ease,
And her fingers wandered idly,
In her pocket for her keys.
She thought――as the bunch was missing,
In her wardrobe it must be,
So she struck one note of discord,
Like the sound of a big, big D.
Like the sound of a big, big D.

She thought of the sweet little trinkets,
Whose loss she would sadly mourn,
Then she thought of her frocks and mantles,
Some of which she had not yet worn.
She thought of her precious diamonds,
She thought of the square plate-chest,
For at home, in that large old wardrobe,
She kept everything she possess’d.

Then she thought of the sweet love letters,
Received with many a ruse,
Then she suddenly thought that the servants
Those letters would surely peruse.
Then she thought, with a feeling of horror!
That the neighbours would surely be shown,
A piece of black hair neatly plaited,
Which was not exactly her own.

So she dived to the bottom of her carriage,
Turned the matting all upside down,
Then she dived beneath the cushions,
And the lining of her green silk gown.
She dived in the depths of her mantle,
And into her muff dived she,
But only at home in her wardrobe,
Would be found that lost, lost key!

――――:o:――――

’TWAS ONLY A YEAR AGO, LOVE.
(Music by F. Paolo Tosti.)

It came with the merry May, love,
That neat little billet doux,
And I much regret to say, love,
The measles and rates came too:
The passion may fade away, love,
But the rates I shall always owe.
’Twas only a year ago, love,
Only a year ago!

It came with the merry May, love,
That tip for the big event;
I shall ne’er forget the day, love,
I plank’d on my ev’ry cent.
But the animal stopped to sneeze, love,
Which much increas’d my woe,
’Twas absolutely last, love,
Only a year ago!

It came with the merry May, love,
That big furniture van,
It took all my goods away, love,
It thwarted my fondest plan.
I thought I could shoot the moon, love,
But destiny grunted “No”;
They were there a bit too soon, love,
Only a year ago!