Chapter IV: Part 48: Songs by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and various old English (4)

It came with the merry May, love.
That beautiful big black eye,
The kick I received for aye, love,
Will live in my memory,
And oh! I have got such a bruise, love,
I regret I’m unable to show,
I have to stand up to my meals, love,
Though it’s over a year ago.

It came with the merry May, love,
It looked about forty three,
And much to my dismay, love,
It fixed itself on to me.
I know that it foolish sounds, love,
I promised and breached, you know.
It cost me five hundred pounds, love,
Just over a year ago!

FREDERICK BOWYER.

(This parody was sung, with great success, by Mr. Arthur Roberts, in the Burlesque of _Kenilworth_ at the Avenue Theatre in 1885.)

――――:o:――――

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, and hills and fields,
The woods or steepy mountains yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls,
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers and a kirtle,
Embroidered o’er with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meat,[5]
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall on an ivory table be
Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing,
For thy delight, each May morning;
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

――――

THE NYMPH’S REPLY.

If all the World and Love were young,
And truth on every Shepherd’s tongue,
These pleasures might my passion move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,[5]
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb,
And all complain of cares to come.

But fading flowers in every field,
To winter floods their treasures yield;
A honey’d tongue, a heart of gall,
Is Fancy’s spring, but Sorrow’s fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Are all soon wither’d, broke, forgotten,
In Folly ripe, in Reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw, and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs,
Can me with no enticements move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

What should we talk of dainties, then,[5]
Of better meat than’s fit for men?
These are but vain; that’s only good
Which God hath blessed and sent for food.

But could Youth last, could Love still breed,
Had Joy no date, had Age no need;
Then those delights my mind might move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

――――

In _The Complete Angler_ Izaak Walton introduced these two songs, with some modifications, which are here produced from the First Edition (preserving the old orthography) of _The Complete Angler_, published in 1653:――

“As I left this place, and entered into the next field, a second pleasure entertained me, ’twas a handsome milk-maid, that had cast away all care, and sung like a _Nightingale_; her voice was good, and the Ditty fitted for it; ’twas that smooth Song which was made by _Kit Marlow_, now at least fifty years ago; and the milk-maid’s mother sung an answer to it, which was made by _Sir Walter Raleigh_, in his younger days. They were old fashioned Poetry, but choicely good, I think much better than that now in fashion in this critical age:”

THE MILKMAID’S SONG.

Come live with me, and be my Love,
And we wil all the pleasures prove
That vallies, Groves, or hils, or fields,
Or woods and steepie mountains yeelds.

Where we will sit upon the _Rocks_,
And see the Shepherds feed our _flocks_,
By shallow _Rivers_, to whose falls
Mellodious birds sing _madrigals_.

And I wil make thee beds of _Roses_,
And then a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers and a Kirtle,
Imbroidered all with leaves of Mirtle.

A Gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty Lambs we pull,
Slippers lin’d choicely for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivie buds,
With Coral clasps, and Amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my Love.

The Shepherds Swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight, each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my Love.

――――

THE MILKMAID’S MOTHER’S ANSWER.

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherd’s tongue?
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy Love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And _Philomel_ becometh dumb,
The Rest complains of cares to come.

The Flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward Winter reckoning yields,
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancies spring, but sorrows fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of Roses,
Thy Cap, thy Kirtle, and thy Posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivie buds,
Thy Coral clasps and Amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy Love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need;
Then those delights my mind might move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

A little farther on _Viator_ observes:――

“Yes, master, I will speak you a coppie of verses that were made by Doctor DONNE, and made to shew the world that he could make soft and smooth verses, when he thought them fit and worth his labour; and I love them the better, because they allude to rivers and fish, and fishing. They bee these:――”

Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove,
Of golden sands, and Christal brooks,
With silken lines and silver hooks,

There will the River wispering run,
Warm’d by thy eyes more then the Sun;
And there th’ inamel’d fish wil stay,
Begging themselves they may betray.

When thou wilt swim in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channel hath
Most amorously to thee will swim,
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.

If thou, to be so seen, beest loth,
By Sun or Moon, thou darknest both:
And, if mine eyes have leave to see,
I need not their light, having thee.

Let others freeze with Angling Reeds,
And cut their legs with shels and weeds.
Or treacherously poor fish beset;
With strangling snares, or windowy net.

Let coarse bold hands, from slimy nest,
The bedded fish in banks outwrest;
Let curious Traitors sleave silk flies,
To ’witch poor wandring fishes eyes.

For thee, thou needst no such deceit,
For thou thyself art thine own bait;
That fish that is not catch’d thereby,
Is wiser far, alas! then I.

――――

THE MILKMAID’S SONG.

Come live with me, and be my spouse,
We’ll keep a cottage, pigs and cows;
And I will dress in lace and silk,
While you shall pig, and dig, and milk.

There you will work and hoe all day,
While I enjoy myself, away.
If this you’ll do, we’ll have no rows,
Come live with me, and be my spouse.

From _The Incomplete Angler_, by F. C. Burnand. 1876.

――――

THE PASSIONATE STATISTICIAN TO HIS LOVE.

“For my part, I am a passionate Statistician…. Go with me into the study of statistics, and I will make you all enthusiasts in statistics.” _Mr. Goschen at Whitechapel._

Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That facts and figures can supply
Unto the Statist’s ravished eye.

And we will sit ’midst faction’s shocks
And calculate the price of Stocks,
The music of whose rise and fall
Beats most melodious madrigal.

We’ll learn how the last Census closes
And the art of counting noses;
And taste the pleasures, sweetly solemn,
Of abstract brief, and lengthy column.

We’ll tot the figures fair and full
Relating to the price of wool,
The annual range of heat and cold,
The death-rate, and the price of gold.

Per-centages shall stir our blood
Analyses as clear as mud.
Oh, if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The marriage rate, the price of meat,
Shall yield us raptures calm and sweet;
And analytic “Tables” be
Prepared each day to give us glee.

Economists our praise shall sing,
The Statesman’s eloquence we’ll wing
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

_Punch._ March 21, 1885.

――――

THE RINKER’S SONG.

Come, rink with me, and be my love!
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That better far than hills or fields
The slippery floor of asphalte yields.

Of skates with rubber ties a pair,
Thee o’er the asphalte safely bear;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come, rink with me, and be my love!

THE RINKMAID’S ANSWER.

If all the world and love were young,
And truth on every rinker’s tongue,
These asphalte pleasures might me move
To rink with thee and be thy love.

Talk to me not of flowers and posies;
Suppose we fall and break our noses?
Thou’lt not prevail on me at all;
In truth, it is no joke to fall!

_Judy._ April 12, 1876.

――――:o:――――

“WON’T YOU TELL ME WHY, ROBIN?”

――――

The late Mr. Whalley, formerly M.P. for Peterborough, was a firm believer in the truth of the claim of Arthur Orton to the Tichborne title and estates. He, and Dr. Edward Vaughan Kenealy, were the most devoted adherents to the cause of “the unfortunate nobleman.” When Mr. Whalley rose in the House of Commons, he was generally greeted with the cry,――“Sing, Whalley, Sing!”

_Several Scoffers._ Sing, sir! sing!

_Mr. W_.
Well, if you like, I have a little thing:
It’s somewhat sad in tone and very terse,
My own sad feelings put in ballad verse.

_Song_: Mr. WHALLEY.
_Tune_: “_Won’t you tell me why, Robin?_”

Oh, won’t you tell me why, doctor,
You are so stern and strange?
Come, ope your heart and tell, doctor,
What ’tis has made you change!
You never come to see me now,
As once you used to do;
I miss you at the Tichborne fetes,
Where once I went with you.

_Chorus_. Won’t you tell me why, doctor,
Won’t you tell me why;
Won’t you tell me why, doctor,
Oh, won’t you tell me why?

I’m very sad at heart, doctor,
To think you hate me so;
And why you call me names, doctor,
I really do not know.
You shouldn’t use such naughty words
About your once dear friend;
Oh! why not, for dear Tichborne’s sake,
Let this sad difference end?

_Chorus._ Won’t you tell me why, doctor, &c., &c.

We’ve both pressed Roger’s hand, doctor,
More times than I can tell;
We both have loved that man, doctor,
Not wisely, but too well.
And now the _Englishman_ declares
I’m more than three-parts mad;
I did not think you’d do it, Vaughan,
It really is too bad!

_Chorus._ Won’t you tell me why, doctor, &c., &c.

From _Finis_.

――――

THE COOK’S LAMENT.
A Pathetic Ballad of a Policeman’s Perfidy.

Oh, won’t you tell me why, Bobby,
Won’t you tell me why?
You never speaks when’er we meets,
You always pass me by!
You never takes me for a walk,
As was the case afore;
You never comes to have a talk,
Nor see me to the door!

Oh, won’t you tell me why, Bobby,
Policeman X Y Zad?
Why pass my airey by, Bobby?
Your cookey’s awful sad?

Oh, won’t you tell me why, Bobby,
Won’t you tell me why?
When on your beat, you beats retreat,
If o’er the gate I spy?
The mutton cold and taties hot,
As oft I’ve give to you!
Likewise “cold fourp’ny” in a pot,
And now you are not true.

Oh, please to tell me why, Bobby?
My heart’s a-breaking fast;
My bosom’s one big sigh, Bobby――
My figure, long, can’t last!

Oh, won’t you tell me why, Bobby,
Won’t you tell me why?
The reason now, you’ve broke your vow,
To your own Sophy-i?
The “public” we was going to take
Is fading from my view;
And sadly from my dreams I wake――
Deceitful wretch in blue!

Oh, will you tell me why, Bobby,
You’ve gone and broke your word?
And left your love to die, Bobby――
The facts shall all be heard!

I’ve learnt the reason why, Bobby,
I knows the reason why!
I see ’tis plain that Mary Jane
Is lurking in your eye――
The wicked slut! perfidious man!
I’ll go to law, of course!
I’d sooner wed the buttons, Dan,
Than all the blessed Force!

You need not tell me why, Bobby,
Policeman X Y Zad;
For I shall never cry, Bobby――
In fact I’m rather glad!

S. J. A. F.

There was a political parody of the same song in _They are Five_, published by David Bogue. It is out of date now, and of no general interest.

――――:o:――――

PARODIES OF ROBERT HERRICK.

(ROBERT HERRICK was born in Cheapside in 1591. Died October, 1674.)

――――

TO DAFFODILS.

Fair Daffodils we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early rising sun
Has not attained his noon.
Stay, stay,
Until the hast’ning day
Has run
But to the even-song;
And, having prayed together, we
Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, like you:
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay
As you, or anything.
We die
As your hours do, and dry
Away,
Like to the summer’s rain;
Or, as the pearls of morning’s dew
Ne’er to be found again.

ROBERT HERRICK.

――――

UNEXPECTED ACCOUNTS; OR, THE QUARTERLY
“BILL-EST-DUE.”

I.

Dear little bills, we weep to see
You come again so soon;
Our dividends are not paid in,
And yet, you crave this boon;
“Pay, pay,
On reckoning day,
The Tin!”
Thus, Christmas with its charms,
And mirthful glow and glee,
Hath also its alarms!

II.

We did not think that you were due
Till some time in the spring:
You grow, like toadstools, in a night,
As quick as anything;
And though we do
Fight shy of you――and taxes too,
In spite
You fall like drops of summer rain,
Save you are many and they are few.
And――still you come again!

_Cribblings from the Poets_, by Hugh Cayley. Cambridge, Jones and Piggott, 1883.

――――:o:――――

ADVICE.
(_Freely adapted from Herrick_).

Order ye Wallsends while ye may,
Though prices are surprising;
For this same coal that’s high to day,
To-morrow may be rising.

The winter quarter has begun,
The sun is sooner setting,
Best coals are now two pounds a ton,
And dearer will be getting.

That man is blest whose cellar’s full,
For days will not grow warmer;
But what we want to see, John Bull,
Is some great coal reformer.

Then be not rash, but take advice――
All ye who wish to marry!
With coals and meat at such a price,
You would be wise to tarry.

――――:o:――――

LOVE’S REASONS.
(_After Herrick._)

Why do I love my love?
Her eyes are deepest blue,
Bluer than sky above,
She’s pure, and sweet, and true.
’Tis not for every grace
That sparkles in her face,
Although each one of these
My wayward fancy please,
I love my love because I do.

I’ll tell you of my love,
She tender is and true,
Kind as turtle dove,
Too fair for mortal view.
And if you fain would know
Why I must love her so,
I love my love, but I
Could hardly tell you why,
I love my love because I do.

From _The Figaro_. October 28, 1874.

――――:o:――――

CHERRY RIPE.

Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry,
Full and fair ones, come and buy;
If so be you ask me where
They do grow? I answer there,
Where my Julia’s lips do smile
There’s the land, or cherry isle.

Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry
Full and fair ones come and buy
There plantations fully show
All the year where cherries grow.
Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry,
Full and fair ones, come and buy.

ROBERT HERRICK.

This song having been adapted to a pleasing melody by Mr. Charles Horn, became very popular about 60 years ago.

――――

It is probable that “Cherry Ripe” was suggested to Herrick by Richard Allison’s earlier poem, entitled:――

THERE IS A GARDEN IN HER FACE.

There is a garden in her face,
Where roses and white lillies grow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
There cherries grow that none may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do inclose,
Of orient pearl a double row;
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose buds fell’d with snow;
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still,
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threatening with piercing frowns to kill
All that approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

――――

“WATER-PIPES.”
(Paterfamilias’s song of the frost.)

“Water-pipes, water-pipes, pipes” I cry!
“Been and busted!” Low and High.
If I ask the housemaid. “Where?”
She will answer, “Here, and there,――
Here and there and everywhere.”

Whence they come and where they go,
Is just the thing I want to know!
But I don’t, and that is why
“Plumber! Plumber!” is the cry.
Plumber! Plumber! left and right;
Plumber! Plumber! day and night.

Why are you and I such fools
As submit to Builders’ rules?
You and I, my friend, and all,
High and Low, and great and small?
One thing Builder understands――
How to play in Plumber’s hands:
And for one thing Builder cares
To leave openings for “repairs:”
So loose, tiles and slates defends,
Drains that finish in “dead ends,”
Tanks and boilers safe to leak,
Chimneys warranted to reek;
Doors and windows placed with craft,
Still to catch you in a draught;
Green-wood panels in the doors,
Warping new deal in the floors;
Pipes that run just where they shouldn’t,
And burst each frost. O, if they wouldn’t!

_Punch._ January 28, 1871.

――――

COFFEE HOT.

Coffee hot, coffee hot, hot, I cry,
Full and fair cups, come and buy;
But if so be you axes where
I makes it hot? I answer there,
Over the fire where hangs my pot,
That’s where I make coffee hot.
Coffee hot, coffee hot, &c.

Coffee hot, coffee hot, hot I cry,
Full and fair cups, if you’re dry;
Here the milk galore doth flow,
Here is butter, bread, also,
If you have the ready got,
That’s the time for coffee hot.
Coffee hot, coffee hot, &c.

Coffee hot, coffee hot, hot, I cry,
Full and fair cups, come and buy;
Here is milk and sugar nice;
Come here, I’ll serve you in a trice:
If you have the ready got
Then’s the time for coffee hot.
Coffee hot, coffee hot, &c.

JAMES BRUTON.

――――

ROSY WINE.

Rosy wine, rosy wine, wine we sip,
Sweeter far than woman’s lip;
If green-eyed grief assail the soul,
Why, drown him in the flowing bowl;
’Twere folly now to grieve or pine,
While seated near such rosy wine.
Rosy wine, &c.

Rosy wine, rosy wine, wine, they cry,
Doth beauty’s cheek by far outvie;
Thou to the soul art more sincere,
Her love is weaker than her tear;
Then wreathe my brow with laughing vine
While I quaff the rosy wine.
Rosy wine, &c.

JAMES BRUTON.

――――

HEAVY WET.

Heavy wet, heavy wet, still I cry,
Full and fair pots when I’m dry,
If so be, you ask me where,
They are drawn, I answer there,
Where our lips their thirst forget,
That’s the place for heavy wet!

Heavy wet, heavy wet, still I cry,
Meux’s, Whitbread’s, nought care I;
To the Blue Posts let us go,
There we’ll clouds of backey blow;
And, while we our cares forget,
All the year quaff heavy wet!

W. T. MONCRIEFF.

――――

CHERRY PIE.

Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry,
Kentish cherries you may buy.
If so be you ask me where
To put the fruit, I’ll answer “There!”
In the dish your fruit must lie,
When you make your Cherry Pie.
Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! &c.

Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry
Full and fair ones mind you buy
Whereabouts the crust should go,
Any fool, of course will know;
In the midst a cup may lie
When you make your Cherry Pie.
Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! &c.

_Punch._

――――

MUTTON CHOPS.

Mutton chops, mutton chops, chops I cry,
Fat or lean ones, both I’ll buy;
But if so be you’d have my coin
You must cut them off the loin!
When the cook for nothing stops,
That’s the time for mutton chops!

Mutton chops, mutton chops, chops I cry,
I as hungry am as dry;
Let me have them nice and hot.
With a murphy and shalot!
Heaven bless the butchers’ shops,――
All the year they’ve mutton chops!

――――

CHERRY BOUNCE.

Cherry bounce, cherry bounce, bounce, I cry,
Fill a full glass on the sly;
If so be you ask me where,
To the wine-vaults we’ll repair,
When we heavy wet renounce,
That’s the time for cherry bounce!

Cherry bounce, cherry bounce, bounce I cry,
When my flame is standing nigh;
When with love I’m quite beguiled,
And I wish to draw it mild,
Then, each vulgar fear to trounce,
Then I call for cherry bounce!

――――

GUINEA-PIGS.

Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,――
As Directors qualify!
At your feet your shares we lay,――
Not a penny there’s to pay!
’Tis high-sounding names we want,
As decoy-ducks for our plant:
Names to draw the public in,
Place our shares, and sack their tin.
Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,――
From the West-End, come and try!

Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,――
Of the City why fight shy?
With shares for the taking, if you please,
And, besides, Directors’ fees:
Office work――an hour a day,
Lots to get, and nought to pay…
Flats agog to risk their tin.
Giv’n good names to draw them in.
So Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,――
As Directors Qualify!

_Punch._ March 6, 1875.

Herrick had no occasion to steal, yet there is little doubt but that his _Cherry Ripe_ was adapted from Allison’s earlier, and prettier poem, _There is a Garden in her Face_; whilst the following lines (which occur in his poem upon Mistress Susanna Southwell,)

Her pretty feet
Like snails did creep
A little out, and then,
As if they playéd at bo-peep,
Did soon draw in again.

were stolen (and spoilt in the stealing), from Sir John Suckling’s inimitable _Ballad upon a Wedding_:

Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,
As if they feared the light:
But oh! she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter-day
Is half so fine a sight.

――――

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

(Born in Bath, 1797. Died at Cheltenham, April 22, 1839.)

he songs of this prolific writer, which but sixty years ago were exceedingly popular, are now nearly forgotten, A few old-fashioned people may be heard to warble “She wore a wreath of Roses,” or “I’d be a butterfly,” whilst “Perfection,” perhaps the best known of Bayly’s dramatic pieces, is still occasionally played to afford some graceful actress an opportunity of displaying her varied attainments. The author of “Perfection” had to contend with many difficulties before he could get his piece performed. It was rejected at Covent Garden Theatre and several other houses, but was finally accepted at Drury Lane. With Madame Vestris, as Kate O’Brien, it achieved a great success, but several of Bayly’s other dramatic productions were less fortunate, and he had nothing to depend upon but the precarious income of a journalist for his support. His songs, though exceedingly popular, brought him small pecuniary returns during his lifetime, but after his death his widow derived a small sum from the sale of his collected works. Although but a poor and struggling author, it suited the editor of _Fraser’s Magazine_ to sneer at this amiable and harmless versifier, and in volume iv. of that magazine these lines will be found in the _Lay of the Twaddle School_:――

“Satins and silks I sang gravely and gaily,
And the bard of the boudoir was Thomas Haynes Bayly;
With my butterflies, buttercups, butter-flowers daily,
I buttered my bread,――heigh, for Thomas Haynes Bayly.
With my songs and my sonnets, the girls I wooed frailly,
Tom Moore, the chaste model of Thomas Haynes Bayly;
Apollo,――though radiant his rays,――shines but palely,
When the eyes of the fair shine on Thomas Haynes Bayly.
With miniature Lyrics, the muse did I waylay,
And a miniature picture of Thomas Haynes Bayly;
I sang about Bath, till I bothered them really,
And eclipsed was Kit Anstey by Thomas Haynes Bayly;
Herrick, Waller, Burns, Byron, Moore, Morris and Shelley,
Were poor sing-song strummers to Thomas Haynes Bayly.”

But these songs, which sixty years ago every one was singing, are now so seldom heard, that some of the parodies would be quite unintelligible unless accompanied by the originals.

SHE WORE A WREATH OF ROSES.

She wore a wreath of roses that night when first we met,
Her lovely face was smiling beneath her curls of jet;
Her footsteps had the lightness, her voice the joyous tone,
The tokens of a youthful heart where sorrow is unknown.
I saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now,
With a wreath of summer flowers upon her snowy brow.

A wreath of orange flowers when next we met she wore,
The expression of her features was more thoughtful than before,
And standing by her side, was one, who strove, and not in vain,
To soothe her leaving that dear home she ne’er might view again.
I saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now,
With a wreath of orange blossoms upon her snowy brow.

And once again I saw that brow, no bridal wreath was there,
The widow’s sombre cap concealed her once luxuriant hair;
She weeps in silent solitude, for there is no one near,
To press her hand within his own, and wipe away the tear!
I see her broken-hearted, and methinks I see her now,
In the pride of youth and beauty, with a wreath upon her brow.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

――――

THE BANDIT’S FATE.

He wore a brace of pistols the night that first we met,
His deep-lined brow was frowning beneath his wig of jet;
His footsteps had the moodiness, his voice the hollow tone,
Of a bandit-chief who feels remorse and tears his hair alone.
I saw him but at half-price, yet methinks I see him now,
In the tableau of the last act with the blood upon his brow.

A private bandit’s belt and boots, when next we met he wore,
His salary, he told me, was lower than before;
And standing at the O.P. wing he strove, and not in vain,
To borrow half a sovereign, which he never paid again.
I saw it but a moment――and I wish I saw it now――
As he buttoned up his pocket with a condescending bow.

And once again we met; but no bandit-chief was there;
His rouge was off, and gone that head of once luxuriant hair:
He lodges in a two-pair back, and at the public near,
He cannot liquidate his “chalk,” or wipe away his beer.
I saw him sad and seedy, yet methinks I see him now,
In the tableau of the last act with the blood upon his brow.

_Punch_, November 11, 1843.

――――

HE DINED AT BERTHOLINI’S.

He dined at Bertholini’s, the day when first we met,
A pint of single stout was on the board before him set;
His dinner had the lightness――his voice the humble tone
Of one to whom a shilling was not intimately known;
I saw him but a moment, but I think I see him now,
In that hat of time-worn gossamer that drooped upon his brow.

A new dark Llama Paletot when next we met he wore,
The expression of his dress was not so seedy as before;
And, dining at his side, was one, in Hemming’s room upstairs,
Who deem’d his Line a good one, and who took five hundred shares.
I saw him but a moment, but methinks I see him still,
At the _café_ in the Haymarket, where yet he owes the bill!

And once again I saw him, but this time it was not here;
In coat of questionable age he traversed Boulogne Pier!
He stept in shabby solitude, for, on one fated day
The bubble of his Line had burst, and he had run away.
I saw him quite down-hearted, with his paletot all but rags,
As he underwent the fate of all Provisionary Stags.

ALBERT SMITH.
――――

HE WORE GREY WORSTED STOCKINGS.

He wore grey worsted stockings the term when first we met,
His trousers had no straps, his highlows had no jet;
His look it had the greenness, his voice the sleepy tone,
The tokens of a raw young man who’d lately left his home.
I saw him but a moment, yet methinks I see him now,
With his cap the wrong end foremost upon his freshman’s brow.

A pink and snowy buckskins, when next we met he wore,
The expression of his banker was more thoughtful than before;
And riding by his side was one who strove, and not in vain
To borrow five and twenty pounds he ne’er might see again;
I saw him lend the money; and methinks I see him now,
With his hunting cap of velvet upon his sportsman’s brow.

And once again I see that brow; no sporting cap is there:
An article at four-and-nine sits on its untrimmed hair;
I see him playing racquets in the Fleet,[6] yet even now
Methinks I see my freshman with verdure on his brow.
The face is somewhat dirty, yet methinks I see it now,
With the cap the wrong end foremost upon the freshman’s brow.

From _Hints to Freshmen_. Oxford: J. Vincent.

――――

THE BETTING-OFFICE FREQUENTER’S PROGRESS.

He wore a suit of Moses,
The night when first we met,
And knowingly his hat was cocked
Upon his curls of jet;
Flash “Publics” he frequented,
Where “Sporting cards” were seen;
And many a Derby Sweep got up
To ease them of their “tin.”
I saw him in his glory――
(The word seems doubtful now),
When to his stable wisdom
His admiring chums would bow.

A betting-book he’d started,
When next this youth I saw;
And hourly he was lounging at
Some Betting-office door;
Or standing treat to stable-boys,
With a “weed” between his lips,
And listening to their sage discourse
Of “great events” and “tips.”
He told me then he stood to win
A fi’ pun’ note or two,
Upon a “certain” prophecy――
I doubt if it came true.

And once again I see this youth,
No betting-book is there:
The prison scissors close have cropped
His once luxuriant hair.
They tell that “cleaned” completely “out,”
He closed his short career
By bolting with his master’s till,
When “settling” time drew near.
I see him shipped――the Government
His passage out will pay:
And at some penal settlement,
He’ll spend his Settling Day.

_Punch._

――――

THREE VISIONS OF ONE HEAD.

She wore a wreath of roses
The night that first we met;
Her lovely face was smiling,
Beneath her curls of Jet.
Her curls of jetty brightness,
Were charmingly in tone,
With the colour on her features,
For the hue was Nature’s own.
I saw her but a moment,
Yet methinks I see her now;
With the hair that Nature gave her,
Above her snowy brow.

A head of Paris fashion
When next we met, she wore;
The expression of her features,
Was sharper than before.
And standing by her side was one,
Who seemed to give her pain,
As he rubbed the reddening fluid on
What should have held a brain.
I saw her but a moment,
Yet methinks I see her now,
With the barber’s nasty liquid,
Smeared on her snowy brow.

And once again I met her,
No radiant locks were there;
An unmistaken wig she wore
Instead of lovely hair.
She weeps in silent solitude,
Because she looks so queer!
The barber’s poison has destroyed
Her hair from ear to ear.
I saw her but a moment,
Nor want to see her now,
With those ugly proofs of folly
Above her snowy brow.

SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1866.

――――

HE WORE A PAIR OF “MITTENS.”[7]

He wore a pair of “mittens,”
That day when first we met,
His stony face was smiling
As on himself he bet;
He stood with saucy firmness,
Or danced upon his feet,
In token of a confidence
That had not known defeat.
I saw him but a moment,
Yet methinks I see him now,
With his hands well up for boxing,
All eager for the row.

Two eyes, both black and swollen
When next we met he wore,
The expression of his features,
Was less pleasant than before;
And standing close beside was one,
Who strove with might and main
To make them still less beauteous,
Nor did he strive in vain.
I saw him but a moment,
Yet methinks I see him now,
As he diligently sought a tooth,
He’d swallowed in the row.

And once again I saw that man,
No joy at all was his;
For many knocks had quite effaced
Expression from his “phiz.”
He wept as weeps a boy at school
When beaten in the rear,
Nor did he bless his second,
Who sponged away the tear.
I saw him but a moment,
Yet methinks I see him now,
As his length on earth he measured,
Less eager for the row.

From _The Corkscrew Papers_. London: W. H. Guest, Paternoster Row. 1876.

――――

THE GRAVEL RASH.

He rode a tandem trycycle
The day when first we met,
He wore a pair of spectacles,
Perhaps he has them yet!
I saw him but a moment,
But methinks I see him now
With the same old cap upon his head
And frown upon his brow.

His face looked white as driven snow
Against his bags of blue,
His pedalling was marvellous
As round the track he flew.
I saw him but a moment,
But methinks I see him now,
Lying whole length o’er the track,
And the frown still on his brow.

The last I heard of that young man,
Was through the weekly WHEELING;
“Whee-ling”-er o’er those words of his
So full of kindly feeling.
I saw them but a moment,
But methinks I see them now
With the author bending o’er them,
And that frown yet on his brow.

MORAL.

When people speak of others’ faults,
It’s time they knew their own,
So take a lesson, dear young man,
And try ye to atone.

_Wheeling Annual_, 1885.

――――

“I SAW HER BUT A MOMENT.”

“The trains to Notting Hill run every half-hour.”
_Information given by Company._

“Do they? Ha! ha!” _Remark by one who had tried them._

I saw her but a moment,
Yet, methinks, I see her still――
’Twas at Victoria Station,
And she wanted “Notting Hill.”

Comes a “Notting Hill Gate” quickly――
Comes one more, then one more still;
But they suit not our poor maiden,
For she wants a “Notting Hill.”

That face, so wan and weary,
Was sure enough to fill
With pity, heart of marble,
In this case of Notting Hill.

I saw her but a moment,
Yet, perhaps, she’s waiting still――
Or, better still, has given up
All hopes of “Notting Hill.”

――――

BUT A MOMENT.

I saw her but a moment
Beneath the apple tree;
There was no one to listen,
No eyes were there to see.
I heard her soft voice singing,
Her song was one of love;
Her bright eyes seemed to borrow
Light from the stars above.
I saw her but a moment
As ’neath the tree she sat;
I threw at her the poker――
(She was――my neighbour’s cat).

――――:o:――――

OH! NO, WE NEVER MENTION HER.

Oh! no, we never mention her, her name is never heard,
My lips are now forbid to speak, that once familiar word;
From sport to sport they hurry me, to banish my regret,
And when they win a smile from me they think that I forget.

They bid me seek in change of scene the charms that others see,
But were I in a foreign land, they’d find no change in me.
’Tis true that I behold no more the valley where we met,
I do not see the hawthorn tree, but how can I forget?

For oh! there are so many things recall the past to me,
The breeze upon the sunny hills, the billows of the sea;
The rosy tint that decks the sky before the sun is set,
Aye, every leaf I look upon forbids that I forget.

They tell me she is happy now, the gayest of the gay,
They hint that she forgets me too, but I heed not what they say;
Perhaps like me she struggles with each feeling of regret,
But if she loves as I have loved, she never can forget.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

――――

ANSWER TO “OH! NO, WE NEVER MENTION HER!”

Oh! am I then remembered still,
Remembered too by thee!
Or am I quite forgot by one,
Whom I no more shall see?
Yet, say not so, for that would add
Fresh anguish to my lot.
I dare not hope to be recall’d,
Yet would not be forgot.

Had they who parted us but known
How hearts like our’s can feel,
They would have spared us both a pang,
Beyond their power to heal.
I know not if my heart retains,
Its wonted warmth or not;
Though I’m forbid to think of thee,
Thou’lt never be forgot.

May’st thou enjoy that peace of mind,
Which I can never know,
If that’s denied my prayer shall be,
That I may share thy woe.
Where’er thou art my every wish,
Will linger o’er that spot,
My every thought will be of thee,
Though I may be forgot.

If we should meet in after years,
Thou’lt find that I am changed;
My eyes grow dim, my cheeks grow pale,
But not my faith estrang’d:
From mem’ry’s page the hand of death,
Alone thy name shall blot,
Forget, forsake me, if thou wilt,
Thou’lt never be forgot.

――――

Lines suggested by the failure of Mr. Thomas Haynes Bayly’s Farce, “Decorum.”

Oh no! we’ll never mention him;
We won’t, upon our word!
“Decorum” now forbids to name
An unsuccessful bard.
From Drury Lane we’ll toddle to
Our office with regret,
And if they ask us, “Who’s been dished!”
We’ll say that We forget!

We’ll bid him now forsake the “Scene,”
And try his ancient strain;
He’d better “be a butterfly”
Than write a farce again.
’Tis true that he can troll a song,
Or tender chansonette;
But if you ask us, “What beside”?
Why, really, we forget.

R. H. BARHAM, Author of _The Ingoldsby Legends_.

――――

A SONG.

_Written by a rusticated Trinity man, while brooding over the conduct of the Proctor of 1827._

Oh! no we never mention him,
His name is never heard,
My lips are now so loth to speak
That once familiar word;
From street to street he followed me
One evening thro’ the west,
Then brought me to the Vice, which now
He thinks that I forget.

They bade me seek in rustic ease
A quiet man to be,
But when I come to Trin: again
They’ll find no change in me.
’Tis true that I behold no more
The alley where we met,
I do not see dear Mr. T.
But still I shan’t forget.

They tell me he is happy now,
But each dog has his day,
They tell me he forgets me now
But he soon shall dearly pay;
For when near me he struggles with
A crowd of snobs beset,
Then if I hit as I have hit,
He never shall forget.

M.
_The Gownsman._ February 18, 1830, (or 1831?)

――――

SONG BY SIR ROBERT PEEL.

Notwithstanding the length of time that has now elapsed since the breaking up of the Tory Administration, there is scarcely a member of it who does not still look back with a feeling of the most melancholy regret to the days when he once fingered the public money within the walls of the Treasury. On Sir Robert Peel the effect that has been produced is as vivid as it seemed the first hour after his resignation, and the unhappy baronet is often heard to give vent to his sensations, after the debate of the night, in the following exquisitely touching stanzas:――

Oh no we never finger it,
Its name we never say,
My fingers are forbid to grasp
The once familiar pay.
From Bill to Bill they hurry me,
To banish my regret,
And when they win a speech from me,
They think that I forget.

They bid me seek by change of note
The place where rivals be,
But were I e’en to turn a Whig,
There’d be no place for me.
’Tis true that I no more behold
The council where we met,
I do not see the Treasury,
But how can I forget?

They tell me Lyndhurst’s happy now,
The gayest of the gay,
They hint that he forgets, but pshaw!
I heed not what they say.
Perhaps th’ Exchequer brings him in
A pretty penny yet,
But if he grasp’d as I have grasp’d,
He never can forget.

_Figaro in London._ April 6, 1833.

――――

THE NOTORIOUS UNKNOWN.

“Oh! no! we never mention HER, HER name is never heard!
And now the deuce to find it out, I know not, on my word.
But tho’ I could not tell HER name, HER face I’d often seen,
“She stood among the glittering throng,” with Jacky in the green.

A ladle in one hand she bore, a salt box in the other;
And of the Sooty Cupids near, she seemed the teeming mother.
“I met HER at the Fancy fair,” with fancy lads around her,
And with a blow she laid one low, as flat as any flounder.

“I saw HER at the Beulah Spa,” along with Gipsy Joe,
A-riding on a donkey rough, vitch, somehow vouldn’t go.
I saw HER ply her sybil art, and pick up cash like fun,
For heads and tails she gave them hearts, and pleasur’d every
one.

“I saw HER at the Masquerade,” along with Nimming Ned,
Achieve those feats, where fingers light work nimbler than the
head.
I saw HER too at All-Max once (not Almack’s in the west,)
“’Twas in the crowd,”――her voice was loud: I must’nt tell the
rest.

I saw HER at the “Central Court,” (it gave me quite a shock),
Surrounded by her body guard, she stood within the dock.
And then I heard a little man, with solemn voice proclaim,
(’Twas rue to me, and wormwood too), that ALIAS was her name.

From George Cruikshank’s _Comic Almanack_, 1836.

――――

LORD NON-CONTENT.

_Lord Lyndhurst_ (_Lord Chancellor_): Content or Non-content? _Lord Brougham_ (_Ex_-_Lord Chancellor_): Oh! Non-content, of course.

Oh! no I say; don’t mention it,
’Tis really too absurd;
I don’t admit a single thing:
I won’t believe a word.
From all that Noble Lords have said,
_In toto_ I dissent;
Why, doesn’t everybody know
I’m always “Non-Content?”

They tell me I’m an obstinate,
Impracticable man;
I’m open to conviction――but
Convince me if you can.
I blame your views, deny your facts,
Dispute your argument;
Then why the question put to me?
Of course I’m “Non-Content.”

Content indeed! I never was,
From childhood’s dawn till now;
And I should greatly like to see
The statement I’d allow.
To differ only I’ll agree;
On that I’m firmly bent,
I am, I will, I must, I shall,
Be always “Non-Content.”

_Punch._ 1844.

――――

OH! NO, I NEVER NAME MY WIFE.

Oh no, I never name my wife
But let her lie at rest;
Although she used to pull my nose,
Now I am truly blest.

Each morn for cash she’d worry me,
To purchase heavy-wet;
And how she stagger’d home at eve
I never shall forget.

I strove to find in change of scene,
A tranquil hour or two,
But if, alas, she found me out
She’d thump me black and blue.

’Tis true, I now appear no more
With eyes as black as jet;
But _how the poker she could wield_,
_I never can forget_.

They hint that she is happy now,
In sooth, and so am I,
And, as she can return no more
’Twere wrong in me to sigh.

When I prepared to bury her
And friends and neighbours met,
The sort of sorrow I then felt
I never can forget.

From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin.

――――:o:――――

I’D BE A BUTTERFLY.

I’d be a butterfly born in a bower,
Where roses and lilies and violets meet,
Roving for ever from flower to flower,
And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet.
I’d never languish for wealth or for power,
I’d never sigh to see slaves at my feet;
I’d be a butterfly born in a bower,
And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet.
I’d be a butterfly, &c.

Oh! could I pilfer the wand of a Fairy,
I’d have a pair of those beautiful wings,
Their summer day’s ramble is sportive and airy,
They sleep in a rose where the nightingale sings;
Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary,
Power, alas! nought but misery brings.
I’d be a butterfly, sportive and airy,
Rock’d in a rose where the nightingale sings.
I’d be a butterfly, &c.

What though you tell me each gay little rover,
Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day,
Surely ’tis better when summer is over,
To die when all fair things are fading away:
Some in life’s winter may toil to discover
Means of procuring a weary delay.
I’d be a butterfly, living a rover,
Dying when fair things are fading away,
I’d be a butterfly, &c.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

In 1828 a small volume was printed at Malton, entitled “PSYCHÆ; _or Songs of Butterflies. By T. H. Bayly, attempted in Latin Rhyme by the Rev. Francis Wrangham, M.A., F.R.S. (Archdeacon of the East Riding of York_.”) in which occurs the following admirable Latin version of the above song:――

Ah sim Papilio, natus in flosculo,
Rosae ubi liliaque et violae patent;
Floribus advolans, avolans, osculo
Gemmulus tangens, quae suave olent!
Regna et opes ego neutiquam postulo,
Nolo ego ad pedes qui se volutent――
Ah sim Papilio, natus in flosculo,
Osculans gemmas quae suave olent!

Magicam si possem virgam furari,
Alas has pulchras aptem mi, eheu!
Æstivis actis diebus in aëre,
Rosâ cubant Philomelae cantu.
Opes quid afferunt? Curas, somnum rare;
Regna nil praeter aerumnas, eheu!
Ah sim Papilio, die volans aëre,
Rosâ cubans Philomelae cantu!

Quemque horum vagulum dicis horrore
Frigora Automni ferire suo;
Æstas quando abiit, mallem ego mori,
Omni quod dulce est cadente pulchro.
Bramae qui capiunt captent labore
Gaudia, et moras breves trahunto――
Ah sim Papilio; vivam in errore,
Concidamque omni cadente pulchro.

_January_, 1828.

――――

AN ANSWER TO MR. BAYLY.

I would not be a butterfly,
Nay, Mr. Bayly nay,
Although you rhyme to ear and eye
In such a dainty way.
Those pretty words, that pretty air
Admit but this reply,
It strikes me I should hardly care
To be a butterfly.

A charm there is in being born
Within a rosy bower,
Where sunshine and a summer morn
Should grace my natal hour.
But I was born a cockney, sir,
A cockney I shall die,
Pray why on earth should I prefer
To be a butterfly?

The plants that in a garden grow
Are fresh and very sweet,
But more befitting for a show
Than proper things to eat.
I love my soup, I love my fish,
My joint and apple-pie,
My menu never makes me wish
To be a butterfly.

’Tis only just a month or so
The things can keep alive,
One year’s career they never know,
And mine are forty-five.
I hope to earn a little fame
Ere many more go by,
It would not be a paying game
To be a butterfly.

I tell you frankly Mr. B.
I would not if I could,
In fact so far as I can see
I could not if I would.
To many things we all aspire,
For many things we sigh,
But why should mortal man desire
To be a _butterfly_?

HENRY S. LEIGH.

――――

I’D BE A PARODY.

I’d be a Parody, made by a ninny
Or some little song with a popular tune,
Not worth a halfpenny, sold for a guinea,
And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon.
I’d never sigh for the sense of a Pliny,
(Who cares for sense at St. James’s in June?)
I’d be a parody made by a ninny,
And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon.

Oh, could I pick up a thought or a stanza,
I’d take a flight on another bard’s wings
Turning his rhymes into extravaganza,
Laugh at his harp――and then pilfer its strings!
When a poll-parrot can croak the cadenza
A nightingale loves, he supposes he sings!
Oh! never mind, I will pick up a stanza,
Laugh at his harp――and then pilfer its strings!

What though you tell me each metrical puppy
May make of such parodies _two pair a day_;
Mocking birds think they obtain for each copy
Paradise plumes for the parodied lay:――
Ladder of fame! if man _can’t_ reach thy top, he
Is right to sing just as high up as he may;
I’d be a parody made by a puppy,
Who makes of such parodies two pair a day.

From _Sharpe’s Magazine_, 1829.

――――

SONG OF A RIFLEMAN.

I’d be a Rifleman, gallant and gay,
Longest and last at the banquet or ball;
Waltzing, Quadrilling, and flirting away,
Constant to none, yet a favourite with all.
True to the opera, concert, or play,
I’d never languish for wedlock’s dull thrall;
I’ll be a Rifleman, gallant and gay,
Constant to none, yet a favourite with all.

* * * * *

What though you tell me the jacket of scarlet
Is forwarder seen when the battle’s begun?
Yet the Rifleman sure you ought never to snarl at,
For he’ll safely return when the battle is done.
Others in conflict, while fighting may fall at
The stroke of a sabre, or shot of a gun,
But the Rifleman laughs at the jacket of scarlet,
Perch’d in a tree till the battle is done.
I’d be a Rifleman, I’d be a Rifleman,
Flirting in peace-time when battle is done.

From _The Bentley Ballads_. (London. Richard Bentley.)

――――

SONG OF THE COLLEGE BEDMAKER.

I make the butter fly all in an hour;
I put aside the preserves and cold meats,
Telling my master his cream has turned sour,
Hiding his pickles, purloining his sweets.

I never languish for husband or dower;
I never sigh to see gyps at my feet;
I make the butter fly, all in an hour,
Taking it home for my Saturday treat.

From _Horace at Athens_, by G. O. TREVELYAN.

――――

I’D BE A ROTHSCHILD.

I’d be a Rothschild! immortal in story,
As the fellows who live by their stanzas and brains,
Having a heart drunk with visions of glory,
When fifty per cent, on my table remains;
I’d have no poet to sway his lute o’er me,
A fig for the head that such nonsense contains.
I’d be a Rothschild! immortal in story,
As the fellows who live by their stanzas and brains.

Tell me of Southeys and Scotts, they are ninnies
To foolishly trifle with time as they do,
Give me the music of soul-witching guineas,
While they address lays to the “summer skies blue!”
What if they scribble like Virgils or Plinies,
At sixpence per line in each London review?
I’d be a Rothschild! and laugh at the ninnies,
Whose brains such absurd undertakings pursue.

Commerce shall wave her proud flag o’er the ocean,
When the wreath and the minstrel have vanished from hence,
Rhymes may give to the muse their devotion,
But mine is concentred in consols and rents
Of Tempe and Castaly I have no notion
Oh! they give song the importance of sense;
I’d be a Rothschild! with every emotion
Awake at the tune of _pounds, shillings, and pence_!

REGINALD AUGUSTINE.
From _The Mirror_, 1830.

――――

NEGRO LIBERTY.

Me be a nigger boy, born in de hovel,
What plantain da shade from de sun wha da shine,
Me learn to dig wid de spade and de shovel,
Me learn to hoe up de cane in a line.
Me drink my rum, in de calabash oval,
Me neber sigh for de brandy and wine;
Me be a nigger boy, born in de hovel,
What plantain da shade from de sun wha da shine.
Me be a nigger boy,
When me live happy, wha for me repine?