Chapter V: Part 48: Songs by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and various old English (5)

Me neber run from my massa’s plantation,
Wha for me run? me no want to get lick;
He gib me house, and me pay no taxation――
Food when me famish, and nurse when me sick.
Willy-force[8] nigger, he belly be empty,
He hab the freedom, dat no good for me;
My massa good man, he gib me plenty
Me no lobe Willy-force[8] better dan he.
Me be de nigger boy,
Me happy fellow, den why me want free?

From_ Fraser’s Magazine_, 1830.

――――

SONG BY THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

I’d be a Minister born into power,
Grasping the pay and the patronage sweet,
Making fine speeches to last for an hour.
At night when the Members of Parliament meet
I’d never care for the Whigs looking sour,
I should have plenty of slaves at my feet.
I’d be a Minister born into power,
Grasping the pay and the patronage sweet.

Then could I pilfer the office of Grey now
I’d get a share of those nice little things,
Giving the patronage, drawing the pay now
And making the most of whatever it brings.
Those that are out, great complaints have to say now
Office around them complacency flings.
I’d be a Minister, like I see Grey now
I’d get a share of those snug little things.

_Figaro in London_, April 13, 1833.

――――

I’D BE A BUTTERFLY.

“_Master Butterfly_, Mr. Townley’s famous short-horn bull, to which the first prize was awarded at the Chelmsford meeting, and who has been bought for the sum of 1,200 guineas, by an Australian gentleman, was shipped a few days ago for Melbourne by the _Copenhagen_.”――_Daily Paper._

I’d be a Butterfly, bought for a power
Of gold from Australia, a short-horn complete,
Shelter’d in homestead from sun and from shower,
Fatten’d on oat-cake and mangold so sweet.
Think of the glory obtained by my breeder――
Of the medal at Chelmsford so gloriously won――
Think of the credit borne off by my feeder,
For the fat, layer by layer, my broad ribs laid upon!

In a fast clipper they’ve taken my passage,
And a cabin on deck they’ve constructed for me,
Padded and mattressed to ease ocean’s tossage,
Pitched and caulked close ’gainst the wash of the sea.
While roots of the choicest, and hay of the sweetest,
Are stored upon board for my use on the way,
A best Lipscombe’s filter ensures the completest
Regard for my water-supply, day by day.

As for the passenger bipeds――poor devils,
Herring-like packed in the dark hold below!
Think of sea-sickness, and all of its evils――
Hatches all down――when it comes on to blow!
My sweet hay, my good water, and cabin so cool,
Compare with their berths, junk, and Thames from the tank!
Surely all must perceive how a fine short-horn bull
And an emigrant labourer differ in rank!

_Punch._ August 23, 1856.

――――:o:――――

WE MET.

We met――’twas in a crowd,
And I thought he would shun me,
He came――I could not breathe,
For his eyes were upon me;
He spoke――his words were cold,
And his smile was unaltered;
I knew how much he felt,
For his deep-toned voice falter’d.

I wore my bridal robe,
And I rivall’d its whiteness;
Bright gems were in my hair,
How I hated their brightness.
He called me by my name――
As the bride of another――
Oh, thou hast been the cause
Of this anguish my mother!

And once again we met,――
And a fair girl was near him,
He smiled, and whispered low,
As I once used to hear him;
She leant upon his arm――
Once ’twas mine, and mine only
I wept――for I deserved
To feel wretched and lonely.

And she will be his bride!
At the altar he’ll give her
The love that was too pure
For a heartless deceiver.
The world may think me gay,
For my feelings I smother,――
Oh, thou hast been the cause
Of this anguish, my mother!

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

――――

PARODY ON THE ABOVE.

We met, ’twas in a mob, and we looked at each other;
He came――I said to him, “That you have got another.
You know I saw you come out of yonder dark alley,
Along with that ere gal they call one-eyed Sally.”
And she wore her bridal dress,――’twas a sailor’s blue jacket;
Her face, it smiled at me, how I longed for to smack it,
I said that you was false when you gave me a milling!
Oh! thou hast been the cause of these black eyes, you villain!

I saw him once again, with that ’ere same _gal_ walking;
She grinn’d, and so did he; how I envied their talking.
My heart it burst with rage, when her smart cap I tore off,
And a piece of her black hair in triumph I bore off;
He made a rush at me to give me a feller,
But he missed his savage aim, and fell into a cellar:
I laughed――I said to him, “You remember the milling
You last did give to me, and those black eyes, you villain!”

――――

“Mr. Henry Colburn here led Lady Morgan to the harp, and requested her to sing ‘WE MET.’ The wild Irish girl condescended thus to comply”:――

We met! ’twas in your shop,
And I thought you would shun me;
But you came――your words were sweet,
And your yellow-boys won me.
You bade me write a book,
And they damn’d it in Holborn:――
Oh! thou hast been the cause
Of this anguish, Hal Colburn!

You cut off half my price
When I went to another;
And I hate you for it well,
Though my feelings I smother.
God send you may be _burked_,
Some dark night in High Holborn――
And the puffs may bear your corpse
To the doctors, Hal Colburn!

From _The National Omnibus_. November 25, 1831.

――――

WE MET――’TWAS IN ST. GILES.

We met, ’twas in St. Giles, Ah my poor bosom flutter’d――
He spoke, so full of smiles――though a little he stutter’d.
He said, “Ah, how d’ye do,” but I could not say “Thank’ee!”
I looked so very blue, and he look’d so lankey.
I wore my new pelisse all satin and whiteness,
A new five shilling piece had never such brightness
I should have ta’en his arm, but there was another――
O, thou hast been the cause of this anguish――my mother.

And once again we met that dashing young fellow,
It rain’d heavy wet, he’d a green _umbrella_;
He said, a worthy Jew, for nine-pence did mend it,
He said, ’twas good as new, and offer’d to lend it.

I thought there was no harm――I was going to take it;
My mother pull’d my arm, ’till I thought she would break it!
Don’t you think that cut direct, all his loving must smother.
Ah! thou hast been the cause of this anguish my _mamma_.

From _The London Singer’s Magazine_.

――――

THE DUEL.――No. 1.

We met,――’twas on the ground――
And I thought he would fight me;
He came his looks were bold,
And his pistols did fright me.
He frown’d, and he whispered low
A dead shot he is reckoned;
Oh! thou hast been the cause
Of this duel, my second!

He trod the paces out,
With a deal of expertness;
His legs were very short,
How I hated their shortness.
He loaded, primed, and cocked,
To his friend then he beckon’d;
Oh! thou hast been the cause
Of this duel, my second!

From _The National Omnibus_, June 10, 1831.

――――

THE DUEL No. 2.

We met, ’twas in a field,
And I thought he would wing me;
He came, I made cock sure
That down he would bring me.
He spoke, his words were cool;
His smile was unalter’d;
I knew he did not fear,
For his hand never falter’d.

I wore my Russia ducks,
And I rivall’d their whiteness;
Two slight friends were there,
How I envied their slightness!
I call’d the fellow out,
And there could be no shrinkings:
Oh! thou hast been the cause
Of this duel――Miss Jinkins!

(_Two verses omitted._)

_The Comic Magazine_, Second Series, 1833.

――――

LOVE ON THE OCEAN.

“‘Oh! is there not something, dear Augustus, truly sublime in this warring of the elements?’ But Augustus’s heart was too full to speak.”――_MS. Novel by Lady ――――_

They met, ’twas in a storm,
On the deck of a steamer;
She spoke in language warm,
Like a sentimental dreamer.
He spoke――at least he tried;
His position he altered;
Then turn’d his face aside,
And his deep-ton’d voice faltered.

She gazed upon the wave,
Sublime she declared it;
But no reply he gave――
He could not have dared it.
A breeze came from the south,
Across the billows sweeping;
His heart was in his mouth,
And out he thought ’twas leaping.

“O, then, steward,” he cried,
With the deepest emotion;
Then totter’d to the side,
And leant o’er the ocean.
The world may think him cold,
But they’ll pardon him with quickness,
When the fact they shall be told,
That he suffered from sea-sickness.

_Punch._ 1845.

――――

LORD BROUGHAM AND DR. REID.

“I DON’T WANT EXPLANATION, I WANT AIR”――_Brougham on Ventilation, Vide Times_. “LORD BROUGHAM has expressed a very natural repugnance to be treated like an animal, shut up for the purpose of having ventilating experiments tried upon him. Such, however, is the fate of all Members of Parliament who are subjected to the horrors of DR. REID’S process. We can fancy the agonies of the Ex-Chancellor, imprisoned in an exhausted receiver, like one of those little figures we have seen ascending and descending in a glass tube, according as the air was let in upon or withdrawn from them. BROUGHAM’S _rencontre_ with REID would be well worthy of a poetical celebration, in a strain somewhat similar to the following:――

We met, ’twas in the House,
And I hoped he would shun me;
He came, I could not breathe,
For his tube was upon me.
He puff’d, the air was cold,
The thermometer alter’d:
I knew ’twas freezing point,
For my voice with shivering falter’d.

I wore my Russia ducks,
In their beautiful whiteness;
Cold gusts ran through the House――
How I hated their lightness!
I call’d for warmer air,
But the pipes never cock’d are――
Oh, thou hast been the cause
Of this humbug, my Doctor!

And once again we met,
And a workman was near him;
He smiled and whisper’d low,
And I waited to hear him.
He gave a gentle breeze;
I confessed it was pleasing:
But then there came a rush
Of air that was freezing.

Is no one at my side,
Poor BROUGHAM to deliver;
Or must he die shut in
An exhausted receiver?
The world may think him wise,
But the House he will smother;
Or blow it all away
On some day or other.

_Punch._ June, 1846.

――――

THE LOST WATCH.

We met――’twas in a mob――and I thought he had done me――
I felt――I could not feel――for no watch was upon me;
He ran――the night was cold――and his pace was unaltered,
I too, longed much to pelt――but my small-boned legs falter’d.
I wore my brand new boots――and unrivalled their brightness,
They fit me to a hair――how I hated their tightness!
I called, but no one came, and my stride had a tether,
Oh, _thou_ hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!

And once again we met――and an old pal was near him,
He swore, a something low, but ’twas no use to fear him.
I seized upon his arm, he was mine and mine only,
And stept, as he deserved ――to cells wretched and lonely:
And there he will be tried――but I shall ne’er receive her,
The watch that went too sure for an artful deceiver;
The world may think me gay――heart and feet ache together,
Oh, _thou_ hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!

TOM HOOD.

――――

THE IMPOSITION.

We met in upper school,
And I thought he would “draw” me;
He came, his words were stern,
And much did he jaw me.
He asked me for my task,
Which I could not to him show.
Oh! thou hast been the cause
Of this anguish, my “Impo.”

And once again we met.
And his black book was near him
He pored and mumbled low,
As often you may hear him;
He said that I seem’d
In my duty towards him slow.
Oh! thou hast been the cause
Of this anguish, my “Impo.”

I wore a clean white shirt,
And revelled in its whiteness,
Bright studs were in it too,
How I envied their brightness;
For they made my face look pale,
But I did not let him know
That thou wert the cause
Of this anguish, my “Impo.”

W. V.
From _The Charterhouse School Collection of Poems_.

――――:o:――――

THE SOLDIER’S TEAR.

Upon the hill he turn’d
To take a last fond look,
Of the valley and the village church,
And the cottage by the brook;
He listen’d to the sounds
So familiar to his ear;
And the soldier lean’d upon his sword,
And wip’d away a tear.

Beside the cottage porch
A girl was on her knees,
She held aloft a snowy scarf
Which flutter’d in the breeze:
She breath’d a prayer for him,
A prayer he could not hear,
But he paus’d to bless her as she knelt,
And wip’d away a tear.

He turn’d, and left the spot,
Oh! do not deem him weak,
For dauntless was the soldier’s heart,
Tho’ tears were on his cheek.
Go, watch the foremost ranks
In danger’s dark career,
Be sure the hand most daring there
Has wip’d away a tear.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.
――――

THE RECTOR’S TEAR.
(Supposed to be sung by the Rev. George Croly.)

Beside the church he stood,
To take a last fond look
Of the pulpit and the vestry-room,
And the red morocco book.
He heard the beadle’s voice,
So familiar to his ear,
And he raised his surplice to his eyes,
And wiped away a tear.

Within the old church door,
The clerk was on his knees,
Groping about in the wooden box,
In which he kept his fees.
The parson heard the dub-ups chink
Said he to himself, oh! dear,
If I had those, I do not think
I’d wipe away a tear!

That fine old humbug turned
To leave the chapel door;
He’d pocketted a fortune there,
But now he longed for more.
Go watch the vacant bishoprics,
In the chancellor’s career;
If he pops into one of them
He’ll wipe away no tear!

From _The National Omnibus_, November 25, 1831.

――――

THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON’S TEAR.

“We cannot help calling the attention of our readers to the following very touching melody, sung by the Duke of Wellington immediately on his discovering his inability to form an Administration. The allusion to his threatened retirement from the House, is replete with feeling; and the reference to the broken windows of Apsley House, pathetic and beautiful.”

Upon his heel he turned,
To take a last fond look,
Of their lordships and the ministers,
And the premier’s pleasant nook.
He listened to the sounds
So familiar to his ear,
And the soldier on his protest leant.
To wipe away a tear.

Upon the sack of wool,
Brougham was on his knees;
He held aloft the snow-white Bill,
That caused so many a breeze.
He breathed a prayer to him――
A prayer he could not hear;
But he paused to damn him as he went,
And wiped away a tear.

He turned to quit the House――
Oh, do not deem him weak;
For bloody were the soldier’s thoughts,
Though tears were on his cheek.
Go watch the broken panes,
Of Apsley, dark and drear,
For there the soldier now must go,
To wipe away his tear.

_Figaro in London_, May 26, 1832.

(At that time the Duke of Wellington was very unpopular, and Apsley House had been attacked by the mob.)

――――

THE BLUES AGAIN.

Upon the ground he stood,
To take a last fond look
At the troopers as he entered them
In Mister Dixon’s book.
He listened to the neigh
So familiar to his ear;
But the soldier thought of bills to pay,
And wiped away a tear.

The soldier blew his nose,
Oh, do not deem him weak!
To meet his creditors he knows
He’s not sufficient cheek.
Go read the writ-book through,
And mid the names, I fear
You’re sure to find the very Blue
Who wiped away the tear.

_Punch._ 1845.

(“Punch had hoped that the regiment had been extricated from its little pecuniary difficulties, but was horrified on finding that the Commanding Officer had given instructions to sell twenty very superior long-tailed troop-horses. The above lines were suggested to the mind of a sentimentalist who attended the sale.”)

――――

THE FOOTMAN’S NOSE.

In the street he turn’d to take a last long look,
Of the palings and the garden wall, where he the carpets shook:
He saw the kitchen fire where oft he’d warm’d his toes,
The footman bent upon his stick, and stood to wipe his nose.

Upon those steps a girl was scrubbing on her knees,
The wind took off her bonnet which flutter’d in the breeze.
She pray’d that it might fall by him, as in the air it rose,
He grinn’d, but lest that she should see, he stood and wiped his
nose.

He turn’d and left the place where he had lived a week,
Too youthful was the footman’s heart, tho’ whiskered was his
cheek;
Yet he had gain’d that cooky’s love, and banish’d other beaux,
For sure the one she lov’d the most, was he who wiped his nose.

From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin.

――――

THE POLICEMAN’S TEAR.

Against the rails he leant,
To take a last fond look,
At the kitchen he was petted in,
And the open-handed cook.
He heard the pretty housemaid read――
“The Guards will soon be here,”
And the Peeler turned his bracelet round,
And wiped away a tear.

He thought on beef and pickles,
On the lobster and the crab,
And other dainties that the Force
So well knows how to grab.
He thought of Susan’s sixpences,
Of Sarah’s supper-beer,
And the Peeler turned his bracelet round
And wiped away a tear.

For the Guards, the Guards are coming――
A week, and we shall find
His nose put not less out of joint
Than our larder, when he’d dined,
Cousins from the Crimea
With his rights will interfere――
No wonder that the peeler sighed,
And wiped away a tear.

But there is vengeance in his head,
So do not deem him weak――
There’s many a soldier will be watched
And brought before the Beak.
And of his rivals he will try
To keep our kitchens clear,
No sharper eye the steps can guard
Than now lets fall the tear.

SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1856.

――――

AWFUL POSITION OF MR. DUNUP AT BOULOGNE.

Upon the pier he turned
To take a mental look
Of his credit and his creditors,
Whom basely he forsook.
He conjured up the sound
So familiar to his ear,
Of “please to settle this account;”
And answer’d with a sneer.

He reached his lodging door,
A trembling took his knees――
He found in Paris there had been
A most tremendous breeze.
“_A bas les Anglais!_” roar’d
Directly in his ear,
Told him there was not time to pause――
He sought again the pier.

He look’d on board the boat,
Oh! do not deem him weak;
For desperate was _Dunup’s_ game,
The game of hide-and-seek.
Go watch him at Boulogne,
You’ll find him on the pier;
He’d rather risk the bayonets there,
Than brave the bailiffs here!

_Punch_, 1848.

――――

THE SOLDIER’S FEAR.

He turn’d upon his heel,
To take an angry look
Of the baggage-waggon and the baggage
As they came o’er the brook;
He tried to lose the sounds
So familiar to his ear,
And the soldier leant upon his sword
His wife was in the rear.

She sat upon the baggage.
A child was on her knees:
She looked just such a sort of one
As loved to have a breeze;
She breathed a threat for him,
A threat he could not hear,
Or else he would have soundly drubb’d
His partner in the rear.

He turned and cursed the spot,
Oh! do not deem him weak;
Bursting with fury was his heart,
Tho’ pallid was his cheek.
Go watch the foremost rank
In danger’s dark career,
And mark the man most des’prate there
His wife is in the rear.

From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin.

――――

STANZAS.
(By Haynes Bayly the Second.)

The Broadwood is opened, its tapers are lit,
And my hostess implores me to play;
She would hear me accompany lines full of wit,
In my truly musicianlike way.
But my lyrics were made for the careless and free,
When my heart and my spirits were light:
Seek the lays of the lively from others, not _me_,
Let my song be a sad one to-night.

Leave, leave me, fair lady, to cherish my gloom
In a corner far far from the throng;
Let me carry some chair to the end of the room
And retreat from the dance and the song,
Let me hide my depression and veil my despair
From the crowd of the brilliant and bright;
Or in case you _insist_ upon hearing an air,
Let my song be a sad one to-night.

I could give you “The Last Rose of Summer,” perhaps,
In a plaintive and exquisite style:
But I know I should simply and feebly collapse
In my efforts to conjure a smile.
The low-comedy manner, the sickly grimace,
Would be rather too painful a sight:
With a load on my bosom, a cloud on my face,
Let my song be a sad one to-night.

Not a particle, thank you. No fluids can cheer
Such a state of dejection as mine.
It resists the seductive advances of beer,
And refuses the solace of wine.
No, I cannot be comic, fair lady. I trust
You regard my refusal aright.
Well, of course, if you _must_ have a ballad, you _must_,
Let my song be a sad one to-night.

_Fun._ November 18, 1871.

――――

MORE STANZAS.
(By Haynes Bayly the Second.)

I have taken ten glasses of sherry;
I hope they will ask me to sing;
I am feeling uncommonly merry,
And pine to go in for my fling.
I would give them no die-away ditty;
My lay should be jocund and light.
Bother sentiment――let me be witty;
Oh! let me be comic to-night.

As I sit here alone in a corner――
A slighted though eminent guest――
I resemble poor little Jack Horner,
Except that the pie is _non est_.
Yet I fain would be awfully jolly,
I fain would be gay if I might;
I am ready for frolic and folly――
Oh, let me be comic to-night.

I was grieved when my opulent uncle
Was taken so terribly ill.
’Tis a fearful affair, a carbuncle,
And baffles all medical skill.
He is gone, and has left me to suffer;
But Time puts our sorrows to flight.
He left me his money, poor buffer:――
Oh, let me be comic to-night.

Let me try; I am perfectly ready,
I’ve sat in my corner too long,
But my legs are a little unsteady――
That wine was remarkably strong.
Did you say I was tipsy? Oh gammon!
Just lift me up gently. All right――
I can sing, Sir. ’Twas only the salmon.
Oh, let me be comic to-night.

_Fun._ December 9, 1871.

These two imitations of Bayly’s style were written by the late Mr. Henry Sambrook Leigh, who died June 16, 1883. They were also included in a volume of his poems, entitled _A Town Garland_, published by Chatto & Windus, London, in 1878.

――――:o:――――

OUT.

Out, John! out, John! what are you about, John?
If you don’t say out at once, you make the fellow doubt, John!
Say I’m out, whoever calls, and hide my hat and cane, John!
Say you’ve not the least idea when I shall come again, John!
Let the people leave their bills, but tell them not to call,
John!
Say I’m courting Miss Rupee, and mean to pay them all, John!
Out, John! out, John! what are you about, John?
If you don’t say out at once, you make the fellow doubt, John!

Run, John! run, John! there’s another dun, John;
If it’s Prodger, bid him call to-morrow week at one, John!
If he says he saw me at the window as he knocked, John!
Make a face, and shake your head, and tell him you are shocked,
John!
Take your pocket handkerchief, and put it to your eye, John!
Say your master’s not the man to bid you tell a lie, John!
Out, John! out John! &c.

Oh, John! go, John! there’s Noodle’s knock, I know, John
Tell him that all yesterday you sought him high and low, John!
Tell him just before he came, you saw me mount the hill, John!
Say you think I’m only gone to pay his little bill, John!
Then I think you’d better add, that if I miss to-day, John!
You’re sure I mean to call when next I pass his way, John!
Out, John! out, John! &c.

Hie, John! fly, John! I will tell you why, John!
If there is not Grimshawe at the corner, let me die, John!
He will hear of no excuse, I’m sure he’ll search the house, John!
Peeping into corners hardly fit to hold a mouse, John!
Beg he’ll take a chair and wait, I know he won’t refuse, John!
I’ll pop through the little door that opens on the mews, John!
Out, John! out, John! &c.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

――――

LORD BRUMMAGEM, LATE JOHN BRIGHT.

Out, John! out, John! What have you been about, John,
To thus oppose your Grand Old Chief, and try to cause his rout,
John?
We’d news of late which said your health was very much amiss,
John;
But, sick or well, we never thought that you would come to this,
John!

Fie, John! fie, John! We wish you’d tell us why, John,
You’ve now become of selfish Whigs and Tories the ally, John?
It can’t, of course, be from mere spite, or any such mean end,
John,
That you have, in an honoured age, thus turned upon your friend,
John!

Yet, John! yet, John! we very much regret, John,
That better reason for your acts we’ve wholly failed to get, John.
You hint that Mr. Gladstone’s mad, which is not very kind, John;
But, come now, are you sure that _you_ are in your own right mind,
John?

Come, John! come, John! Nay, nay, you can’t be dumb, John.
You _must_ speak out if we begin your past life’s deeds to sum,
John;
For hitherto you have been bold upon the side of right, John.
What, then, has changed your principles, if it be not mere spite,
John?

Why, John! why, John! you in the days gone by, John,
Full many a time have pleaded for the race you now defy, John;
Freedom was sacred then to you, and justice very dear, John,
But now, though, you attack them both, whilst stupid Tories cheer,
John.

Think, John, think, John! ere you much lower sink, John,
That those who cheer you are the crew from whom you used to
shrink, John;
Yes; stupid Tories, grasping Whigs, and Jingoes wild for war,
John,
_These_ are your brand-new friends――and we would ask again “What
for, John?”

Yes, John! yes, John! Most sadly we confess, John
We, for the sake of “Auld Lang Syne,” for explanation press, John.
Had you wax’d weary of the right, and tired of being true, John,
When you across a noble life this sombre shadow threw, John?

Stay, John! stay, John! Hear all we have to say, John!
Falls like to that of Chamberlain in no wise us dismay, John.
Joseph is an ambitious man, and full of self-conceit, John;
He’s shallow, too, like young men are, and vain and indiscreet,
John!

But oh, John! oh, John! it was a cruel blow, John,
When, with desertion not content, you went and joined the foe,
John!
Aye, when at Gladstone his old friend, John Bright, propelled a
stone, John!
’Twas not his son alone that gave a deep and heartfelt groan,
John!

Aye, John! aye John! you can’t yourself deny, John,
That thousands who once loved your name begin to it decry, John;
Whilst those too young your worthy deeds of past years to recall,
John,
Already ask in wonderment why it is loved at all, John!

But, stay, John! stay, John! There yet remains a way, John,
In which, though stubborn, you may still this tendency allay,
John;
Yes, you may keep the name of Bright un-slurred in any case, John.
By simply taking, as a Peer, a title in its place, John!

True, John! true John! you may this plan eschew, John,
But, ere you do so, please recall the things you’ve stooped to do,
John;
You’ve shown yourself, though old in years, quite greedy of renown,
John――
You as an Oxford D.C.L. flaunt in a scarlet gown, John

More, John! more, John! with feeling we deplore, John,
You have most bitterly denounced the friends of heretofore, John!
You’ve caused true Radicals to mourn――you’ve raised a Tory cheer,
John:
The climax, then, is natural――you mean to die a Peer, John!

Yes, John! yes, John! your recent acts express, John,
That you in your maturer years a curious craze possess, John;
Which, having made you do the things you’ve all your life abhorr’d,
John,
Now fills you with a silly wish――’twould seem――to be a Lord, John!

Eh, John! eh, John? “It isn’t so!” you say, John?
Then let it be your aim henceforth, most earnestly we pray, John;
Yes, please, as fitting climax to those Whig and Tories, cheers,
John,
To Bramwell, Lowe, and Brabourne join in our great House of Peers,
John!

Yes, John! yes, John! most urgently we press, John,
That you should from the Upper House declaim your next address,
John;
So that “John Bright” may still remain a prized and honoured name,
John,
Whilst with “Lord Brummagem” instead we link your Tory fame, John!

_Truth._ July 8, 1886.

――――

NAY, JOHN.
(A Temperance Song,)

“Nay,” John, “Nay,” John, that’s what you must say John,
Wherever you are asked to drink, or you’ll be led astray, John

Say that though you are not old,
Nor yet so very wise, John,
Yet what is right and good and true,
You’re old enough to prize, John.
Let the people drink who will,
But when they come to you, John,
Boldly say, “I’VE SIGNED THE PLEDGE,
AND MEAN TO KEEP IT TOO,” John.

“Nay,” John, “Nay,” John, that’s what you must say John,
Whenever you are asked to drink, or you’ll be led astray, John.
Think, John, think, John, what a thing is drink, John,
From bad to worse, it mostly leads to death and ruin’s brink,
John.

You know your uncle Robert had
As nice a house as mine, John,
But, years ago, you know, as well,
He swallowed it in wine, John,
His trade is dead, his shop is shut,
’Twas drink that made him fail, John;
He started with a single glass,
And now he’s in the gaol, John.

Use, John, use, John, winks at this abuse, John,
And when you recommend the pledge, will patch up some excuse,
John.

Many drink because they’re cold,
And some because they’re hot, John
Many drink because they’re old,
And some because they’re not, John;
Many drink because they’re thin,
And some because they’re stout, John;
Many drink because they’re in,
And some because they’re out, John.

“Nay,” John. “Nay,” John, whatever they may say, John.
Never touch and never taste, but always answer “Nay,” John.

If they ask you only just
To taste a little drop, John,
Say you would if you knew where
The “little drop” would stop, John.
Tell them by gin and rum,
By wine and malt and hops, John,
That life and health, and peace and fame,
Are drowned in “little drops,” John.

Oh, John, oh, John, I’ll tell you what I know, John:
_A drunken man o’er all the world, has most of grief and woe,
John_.

Then on the land and on the sea,
In seasons hot and cold, John,
Keep the pledge when you are young,
And keep it when you’re old, John,
Let the people drink who will,
But when they come to you, John,
Boldly say, “I’VE SIGNED THE PLEDGE,
AND MEAN TO KEEP IT TOO, JOHN.”

――――

When Sir Thomas Brassey lost his seat in the House of Commons, he was promoted to a peerage for his services to his party. Some snobbish toadies immediately set to work to trace a pedigree for the new Baron, and asserted that one of his ancestors came over with the Duke William from Normandy. Whereas it was well known that the father of Sir Thomas was of very poor and humble origin, and made his money by honorable hard work as a Railway Contractor. _Truth_ represented Sir Thomas, attired in a suit of mail as a Norman Knight, appearing to his father, who sits smoking a short pipe, in the loose and easy costume of his early calling, a “navvy,” or road excavator. The father thus addresses the newly made Baron:――

Out, Tom! Out, Tom! what have you been about, Tom?
Though, if you truly know yourself, I’m very much in doubt, Tom!
To think, though, that a man of sense, for you are not a fool,
Tom!
Should act in such a way, oh, dear! I hardly can keep cool, Tom!

What’s that you say? “You’ve only claimed what should be yours by
right,” Tom?
And that Le Sieur Bresci was indeed a Norman knight, Tom?
My poor, poor boy! Come, tell me who has told you of such stuff,
Tom!
I should have thought your father’s name for you’d be good enough,
Tom!

What’s that? “The Heralds searched for you, and found you our old
crest,” Tom?
For any Brassey’s crest I think my pickaxe would serve best, Tom;
While for a motto, here is one that cannot be attackt, Tom,
For it is merely “We enlarge the more that we contract,” Tom.

But, come, let me be serious, and this, at least, I’d pray, Tom:
Do not, in common-sense’s name, go on in such a way, Tom.
If you’ve been made a Lord, why I suppose you must be one, Tom,
But do now try to be more like your poor old father’s son, Tom.

Don’t make the people laugh at you, by silly, empty pride, Tom;
And don’t your father’s honest trade be so inclined to hide, Tom.
You always were a clever boy, so let me then implore, Tom,
That of these Norman ancestors I never may hear more, Tom.

_Truth._ Christmas Number, 1886.

――――:o:――――

THE OLD HOUSE AT HOME.

Oh! the old house at home where my forefathers dwelt,
Where a child at the feet of my mother I knelt,
When she taught me the prayer, where she read me the page,
Which, if infancy lisps, is the solace of age;
My heart, ’mid all changes, wherever I roam,
Ne’er loses its love for the old house at home!

’Twas not for its splendour that dwelling was dear,
’Twas not that the gay or the noble were near;
O’er the porch the wild rose and wood-bine entwined,
And the sweet-scented jessamine waved in the wind;
Yet dearer to me than proud turret or dome
Were the halls of my fathers, the old house at home!

But now the old house is no dwelling for me,
The home of the stranger henceforth it shall be;
And ne’er will I view it, nor rove as a guest,
O’er the ever-green fields which my father possessed;
Yet still, in my slumbers, sweet visions will come
Of the days that are pass’d, and the old house at home!

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

――――

A CONTRAST.

Oh! the old house at home where my forefathers dwelt,
Was a tumble-down place, where most dismal I felt;
For my friends kept few servants, and taught me the page
Could not wait upon me, for I was not of age.
Oh! my heart ’midst all changes, from London to Rome,
Finds each place more gay than the old house at home!

’Twas not for its rent that the dwelling was dear,
But it wanted no end of repairs every year.
From the roof had been stolen the coating of lead,
And the rain pelted through till it dripped on your head;
And a dark narrow passage, with no space to roam,
Was the hall of my father,――the old house at home.

But now the old house is no dwelling for me;
I’m settled in London, where sooner I’d be;
And ne’er will return there, except as a guest,
Just for two or three days,――if I do, I am blest!
The dulness would kill me, and slumber would come,
In the small dingy rooms of the old house at home.

From _A Bowl of Punch_, by ALBERT SMITH, London: D. Bogue, 1848.

PARODIES OF LEWIS CARROLL.

“Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,” and “Through the Looking-Glass, and what Alice found there” have so long been familiar, and are so universally popular, that their recent production on the Stage at the Prince of Wales’s Theatre only causes a feeling of surprise that they have not been dramatised hitherto.

It is true, that Colonel Lynes, of the Royal Artillery, selected the subject of “Alice in Wonderland” for the Soldiers’ pantomime at Woolwich, more than six months ago, and at his suggestion Mr. J. Addison wrote a very ingenious play, which was produced in the Theatre of the Royal Artillery Barracks at Christmas 1886.

But this was far less complete as a representation of Alice’s adventures, than the Musical Dream Play, in two acts by H. Savile Clarke, produced at the Prince of Wales’s Theatre in December, 1886.

All who have read Alice’s Adventures (and who has not read them?) should see how admirably they have been realised on the boards, and recognise in Miss Phœbe Carlo the charming little heroine of Mr. Carroll’s invention. Mr. H. Savile Clarke thus introduces the subject of his play:――

A Nursery Magician took
All little children by the hand;
And led them laughing through the book,
Where Alice walks in Wonderland:

Ours is the task with Elfin dance
And song, to give to Childhood’s gaze
That Wonderland; and should it chance
To win a smile, be his the praise.

――――

By the kind permission of Mr. Lewis Carroll the following poems are selected from his books, with some parodies and imitations of them.

THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER.

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might;
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright――
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done.
“It’s very rude of him,” she said,
“To come and spoil the fun.”

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead――
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
“If this were only cleared away,”
They said, “It _would_ be grand!”

“If seven maids, with seven mops,
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose,” the Walrus said,
“That they could get it clear?”
“I doubt it,” said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

“Oh, Oysters, come and walk with us!”
The Walrus did beseech.
“A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beech;
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each.”

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head――
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat――
And this was odd, because, you know,
They had’nt any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four:
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more――
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

“The time has come,” the Walrus said,
“To talk of many things:
Of shoes――and ships――and sealing-wax――
Of cabbages-and kings――
And why the sea is boiling hot――
And whether pigs have wings.”

“But wait a bit,” the Oysters cried,
“Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!”
“No hurry!” said the Carpenter:
They thanked him much for that.

“A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said,
“Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed――
Now, if you’re ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed.”

“But not on us,” the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
“After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!”
“The night is fine,” the Walrus said.
“Do you admire the view?

“It was so kind of you to come,
And you are very nice!”
The Carpenter said nothing, but
“Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf――
I’ve had to ask you twice!”

“It seems a shame,” the Walrus said,
“To play them such a trick,
After we’ve brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!”
The Carpenter said nothing but
“The butter’s spread too thick!”

“I weep for you,” the Walrus said:
“I deeply sympathize.”
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

“Oh, Oysters,” said the Carpenter,
“You’ve had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?”
But answer came there none――
And this was scarcely odd, because
They’d eaten every one.

Lewis Carroll (_Through the Looking Glass_).

――――

THE VULTURE AND THE HUSBANDMAN.
BY LOUISA CAROLINE.

(A _Vulture_ is a rapacious and obscene bird, which destroys its prey by _plucking_ it limb from limb, with its powerful beak and talons. A _Husbandman_ is a man in a low position of life who supports himself by the use of the _plough_.――_Johnson’s Dictionary._)

The rain was raining cheerfully,
As if it had been May,
The senate-house appeared inside
Unusually gay;
And this was strange, because it was
A _vivâ-voce_ day.

The men were sitting sulkily,
Their paper-work was done,
They wanted much to go away
To row, or ride, or run;
“It’s very rude,” they said, “to keep
Us here and spoil our fun.”

The papers they had finished lay
In piles of blue and white.
They answered everything they could,
And wrote with all their might;
But though they wrote it all by _rote_
They did not write it right.

The Vulture and the Husbandman
Beside these piles did stand,
They wept like anything to see
The work they had in hand;
“If this were only finished up,”
Said they “it would be grand.

If seven D’s or seven C’s
We give to all the crowd,
Do you suppose,” the Vulture said,
“That we could get them ploughed?”
“I think so,” said the Husbandman,
‘But, pray, don’t talk so loud.’

“O undergraduates, come up!”
The Vulture did beseech,
“And let us see if you can learn
As well as we can teach.
We cannot do with more than two,
To have a word with each.”

Two undergraduates came up,
And slowly took a seat,
They knit their brows and bit their thumbs
As if they found them sweet;
And this was odd, because, you know,
Thumbs are not good to eat.

“The time has come,” the Vulture said
“To talk of many things,
Of accidence and adjectives,
And names of Jewish kings,
How many notes a sackbut has,
And whether shawns have strings.”

“Please sir,” the undergraduates said
Turning a little blue,
“We did not know that was the sort
Of thing we had to do.”
“We thank you much,” the Vulture said,
“Send up another two.”

Two more came up, and then two more
And more, and more, and more,
And some looked upwards at the roof
Some down upon the floor;
But none were any wiser than
The pair that went before.

“I weep for you,” the Vulture said
“I deeply sympathize;”
With sobs and tears he gave them all
D’s of the largest size,
While at the Husbandman he winked
One of his streaming eyes.

“I think,” observed the Husbandman,
“We’re getting on too quick,
Are we not putting down the D’s
A little bit too thick?”
The Vulture said, with much disgust,
“Their answers make me sick!”

“Now, undergraduates,” he cried,
“Our fun is nearly done,
Will anybody else come up?”
But answer came there none,
And this was scarcely odd, because
They’d ploughed them every one.

_The Light Green._ Cambridge, 1872.

――――

THE NYUM――NYUM.

The Nyum Nyum chortled by the sea,
And sipped the wavelets green:
He wondered how the sky could be
So very nice and clean;

He wondered if the chamber-maid
Had swept the dust away,
And if the scrumptious Jabberwock
Had mopped it up that day.

And then in sadness to his love
The Nyum Nyum weeping said,
I know no reason why the sea
Should not be white or red.

I know no reason why the sea
Should not be red, I say;
And why the slithy Bandersnatch
Has not been round to-day.

He swore he’d call at two o’clock.
And now its half-past four.
“Stay,” said the Nyum Nyum’s love, “I think
I hear him at the door.”

In twenty minutes in there came
A creature black as ink,
Which put its feet upon a chair
And called for beer to drink.

They gave him porter in a tub,
But, “Give me more!” he cried;
And then he drew a heavy sigh,
And laid him down, and died.

He died, and in the Nyum Nyum’s cave
A cry of mourning rose;
The Nyum Nyum sobbed a gentle sob,
And slily blew his nose.

The Nyum Nyum’s love, we need not state,
Was overwhelmed, and sad:
She said, “Oh, take the corpse away,
Or you will drive me mad!”

The Nyum Nyum in his supple arms
Took up the gruesome weight,
And, with a cry of bitter fear,
He threw it at his mate.

And then he wept, and tore his hair,
And threw it in the sea,
And loudly sobbed with streaming eyes
That such a thing could be.

The ox, that mumbled in his stall,
Perspired and gently sighed,
And then, in sympathy, it fell
Upon its back and died.

The hen that sat upon her eggs,
With high ambition fired,
Arose in simple majesty,
And, with a cluck, expired.

The jubejube bird, that carolled there,
Sat down upon a post,
And, with a reverential caw,
Gave up its little ghost.

And ere its kind and loving life
Eternally had ceased,
The donkey, in the ancient barn,
In agony deceased.

The raven, perched upon the elm.
Gave forth a scraping note,
And ere the sound had died away,
Had cut its tuneful throat.

The Nyum Nyum’s love, was sorrowful;
And, after she had cried,
She, with a brand-new carving knife,
Committed suicide.

“Alas!” the Nyum Nyum said, “alas!
With thee I will not part;”
And straightway seized a rolling-pin
And drove it through his heart.

The mourners came and gathered up
The bits that lay about;
But why the massacre had been,
They could not quite make out.

One said there was a mystery
Connected with the deaths;
But others thought the silent ones
Perhaps had lost their breaths.

The doctor soon arrived, and viewed
The corpses as they lay:
He could not give them life again;
So he was heard to say.

But, oh! It was a horrid sight
It made the blood run cold,
To see the bodies carried off
And covered up with mould.

The Toves across the briny sea
Wept buckets-full of tears;
They were relations of the dead,
And had been friends for years.

The Jabberwock upon the hill
Gave forth a gloomy wail,
When in his airy seat he sat,
And told the awful tale.

And who can wonder that it made
That loving creature cry?
For he had done the dreadful work,
And caused the things to die.

That Jabberwock was passing bad――
That Jabberwock was wrong.
And with this verdict, I conclude
One portion of my song.

I contend that there is a great deal of natural beauty in the poem of which this extract forms part. Some people say there isn’t a scrap. A man, I am aware, mixed up something of the sort in a book called “Alice through the Looking Glass.”

――――:o:――――

JABBERWOCKY.

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand
Long time the manxome foe he sought――
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
ame whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came.

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!
He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves,
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

LEWIS CARROLL (_Through the Looking Glass_).

――――

WAGGAWOCKY.
(_On the Tichborne Trial_)

“Merely interpolating the note that the word ‘wabe’ is explained by the Poet to mean ‘a grassplot round a sundial,’ but that it also means a Court of Justice, being derived from the Saxon _waube_, a wig-shop, we proceed to dress the prophetic ode in plain English:――

’Twas May time, and the lawyer coves
Did jibe and jabber in the wabe,
All menaced were the Tichborne groves,
And their true lord, the Babe.

“Beware the Waggawock, my son,
The eyelid twitch, the knees’ incline,
Beware the Baigent network, spun
For gallant Ballantine.”

He took his ton-weight brief in hand,
Long time the hidden clue he sought,
Then rested he by the Hawkins tree,
And sat awhile in thought.

And as in toughish thought he rocks,
The Waggawock, _sans_ truth or shame
Came lumbering to the witness box,
And perjured out his Claim.

“Untrue! untrue!” Then, through and through
The weary weeks he worked the rack;
But March had youth, ere with the Truth
He dealt the final whack.

“And hast thou slain the Waggawock
Come to my arms, my Beamish Boy!
O Coleridge, J.! Hoorah! hooray!”
_Punch_ chortled in his joy.

SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1872.

In _Truth_, October 4, 1883, twenty-one imitations of the _Jabberwocky_ were printed. They are now rather heavy reading, and only the two following seem worth reprinting:――

THE CRUISE OF THE “P. C.” BY A. T.[9]

Across the swiffling waves they went,
The gumly bark yoked to and fro;
The jupple crew on pleasure bent,
Galored, “This is a go!”

Beside the poo’s’l stood the Gom,
He chirked and murgled in his glee;
While near him, in a grue jipom,
The Bard was quite at sea.

“Gollop! Golloy! Thou scrumjous Bard!
Take pen (thy stylo) and endite
A pome, my brain needs kurgling hard,
And I will feast to-night.”

That wansome Bard he took his pen,
A flirgly look arnund he guv;
He squoffled once, he squirled, and then
He wrote what’s writ above.

HERMON.

――――

THE BURGLAR.

’Twas grilling hot, the bloky cove
Had burgled through the shop,
When Bobbles caughtled him, and shove
Him into quod flip-flop.

He chore his hair right fistfully,
He rowled his squinty eyne;
He waggled, grovelling fitfully,
His lithy form and lean.

Then Bobbles sweart agin him straight,
So off they chustled him
To horrid Zone for seasons eight,
And chortled at his din.

So all ye pals, come gristle up
Unto my doleful tale:
Ne’er fake away, nor jumble sup,
Though nix my Dolly fail.

ALMA.

――――:o:――――

_Air._――“Will you walk into my parlour.”

“Can you move a little faster?” said a tall man to a stout,
“I’ve an enemy behind me, and I want to keep him out.
See how eagerly the flatterers all throng round the great man;
Now he is looking for their votes, can’t you spoil his little
plan?
Can you, can’t you, can you, can’t you spoil his little plan?
Can you, can’t you, can you spoil his little plan?

“You can really have no notion how delightful it would be,
If you get into the House, you will have many a fee.”
And the stout one said, “No! I’ve worked in vain, I’m beat,
My opponent’s firmly settled, and I cannot take his seat.
Will not, cannot, cannot, will not now take his seat.
Will not, cannot, will not now take his seat.”