Chapter VI: Part 48: Songs by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and various old English (6)

“What matters it? you are not beat!” his tall friend to him said,
“There’s another man to take your place, you know, when you are
dead.
If you’ll leave Ireland alone, you’ll then get on like fun,
So don’t give up, but go and sup, and we will pay your dun.
Won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you soon cry.
Will you, won’t you, will you soon cry, ‘I’ve won!’”

MISS SHAW.

_Truth_. 15 July, 1886.

Not only has Lewis Carroll given many themes to the parodists, but he has himself produced some amusing parodies, a short one on Dr. Watts, that on Southey’s, “You are old, Father William,” already quoted on page 156, Volume III. of Parodies, and “Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup” given on page 35, all appear in _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_.

That this book should have been translated into German, French, and Italian, tells of its well deserved popularity:――

_And, though the shadow of a sigh
May tremble through the story,
For happy summer days gone by,
And vanish’d summer glory――
It shall not touch with breath of bale
The pleasance of that fairy-tale._

――――:o:――――

MEET ME BY MOONLIGHT.

Meet me by moonlight alone,
And then I will tell you a tale,
Must be told by the moonlight alone,
In the grove at the end of the vale.
You must promise to come, for I said,
I would show the night-flowers their queen;
Nay, turn not away thy sweet head,
’Tis the loveliest ever was seen.
Oh! meet me by moonlight alone.

Daylight may do for the gay,
The thoughtless, the heartless, the free;
But there’s something about the moon’s ray,
That is sweeter to you and to me.
Oh! remember, be sure to be there,
For though dearly the moonlight I prize,
I care not for all in the air,
If I want the sweet light of your eyes.
So meet me by moonlight alone.

J. A. WADE.

――――

MEET ME, MISS MOLLY MALONE.

Meet me, Miss Molly Malone,
At the grove at the end of the vale;
But be sure that you don’t come alone,
Bring a pot of your master’s strong ale,
With a nice bit of beef and some bread,
Some pickled, or cucumbers green,
Or a nice little dainty pig’s head,
’Tis the loveliest tit-bit e’er seen.
Then meet me, Miss Molly Malone.

Pastry may do for the gay,
Old maids may find comfort in tea;
But there’s something about ham and beef
That agrees a deal better with me.
Remember my cupboard is bare,
Then come, if my dear life you prize,
I’d have lived the last fortnight on air,
But you sent me two nice mutton pies.
Then meet me, Miss Molly Malone.

――――

MEET ME THIS EVENING ALONE.

Meet me this evening alone,
Friend Bite, and we’ll hatch up a tale;
We’ll chat when the day’s work is done,
O’er a pipe and a jug of good ale:
A plate of cold meat and some bread,
With salad or cucumbers green,
And part of a sucking pig’s head
’Tis the loveliest of tit-bits e’er seen.
Then meet me &c.

Pastry may do for the gay,
The thoughtless, the young, and the free,
But there’s something in cold beef, they say,
More tempting to you and to me;
Then remember, be sure to be there,
If good eating and drinking you prize,
You’ve liv’d the last fortnight on air,
I can tell by those hollow-sunk eyes.
Then meet me, &c.

From _Wiseheart’s New Comic Songster_. Dublin.

――――

Many years ago (it was in February, 1844), _Punch_ had a parody entitled “Meet me with Wimbush alone,” alluding to Wimbush’s omnibus, which then ran from Belgrave Square to the Bank. It was jocularly reported never to carry more than one passenger at a time. But the following parody, from the same source, is not only more modern, but also more likely to appeal to the present generation, than a satire on a long forgotten omnibus:――

RED HERRINGS.

Meet me at breakfast alone,
And then I will give you a dish
Which really deserves to be known,
Though it’s not the genteelest of fish.
You must promise to come, for I said
A splendid red Herring I’d buy――
Nay, turn not away your proud head;
You’ll like it, I know, when you try.

If moisture the Herring betray,
Drain, till from moisture ’tis free;
Warm it through in the usual way,
Then serve it for you and for me.
A piece of cold butter prepare,
To rub it when ready it lies;
Egg sauce and potatoes don’t spare,
And the flavour will cause you surprise.

_Punch._

――――

PARODIES OF
“WHERE ARE YOU GOING TO, MY PRETTY MAID?”

Miss Emily Faithful’s paper was responsible for the following:――We saw a Christmas card the other day which had been sent to a young lady at a school of design. It represented a grotesque figure at a lecturer’s desk, and underneath were these lines:

“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?”
“I’m going to lecture, sir,” she said.
“And what is the subject, my pretty maid?”
“Total extinction of man,” she said.
“Then nobody’ll marry you, my pretty maid.”
“Advanced women _don’t_ marry, good sir,” she said.

March 1, 1879.

――――

VENUS AND ADONIS.

“Men who suffer their wives’ photographs to be exhibited for sale in the shop-windows run the risk of being thought to get some profit by so doing, for they otherwise would hardly sanction such publicity.”

Where are you going to, my pretty maid?
I’m going to be Photographed, Sir, she said.

May I go with you, my pretty maid?
Yes, if you like it, she calmly said.

What is your fortune, my pretty maid?
My face is my fortune, Sir, she said.

How do you live on’t, my pretty maid?
By selling my photos, she promptly said.

Then may I marry you, my pretty maid?
If you’ve a title, perhaps――she said.

_Punch._ June, 1878.

“WHERE ARE YOU GOING TO, MY PRETTY MAID.”
(_New Reading._)

With the pail for the milk hung over her arm,
Across the green fields tripped Mary;
The smiles on her face gave additional charm,
And caused you to call her a fairy.

Now a spruce young clerk was out for a ride,
And happened to come across Mary;
Said he to himself, “I will make her my bride,
And make her keep me with her dairy.”

But altho’ she was rustic, and simple as well,
As proud as a queen was our Mary;
Tho’ her bonny blue eyes of mischief could tell,
The sequel will show she was wary.

“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?”
Said this gay young spark from the neighb’ring town;
“I am going a-milking, sir,” she said.
A blush on her face, and her eyes cast down.

“May I be your escort, my pretty maid?
Nay turn not away those cheeks rosy red;
To carry your pail I’ll not be afraid,
And if you’ll consent, I’m willing to wed.”

“What, sir, is your fortune?” cried the young maid,
And around her lips a merry smile played.
“My face is my fortune! my pretty maid.”
“Then you’ve plenty of brass, kind sir,” she said.

――――

TRUE.

Oh, where are you going, my pretty maid?”
“I’m going a chestnutting, sir,” she said.
And she spoke sober truth, in sooth, for lo!
She had a ticket for the minstrel show.

_Detroit Free Press._ July 24, 1886.

(Chestnuts――Americanism for stale jokes.)

――――

Where are you going to my pretty maid?
“I’m going to publish, sir,” she said.
Perhaps you’ve a fortune, my pretty maid?
“My verse is my fortune, sir,” she said.
Then you’d better not try it, my pretty maid,
There’s an item for printing, and when it is paid,
There’s “commission on sales,” oh, innocent maid!
In your rural retreat have you heard of THE TRADE?
Oh, _where_ are you going to, my pretty maid?

ERNEST RADFORD.

――――

AN IDYLLIC DUET.

(A New Version, as Sung under the Gallery with the Greatest Success by the Sergeant-at-Arms, and the Junior Member for Northampton, Mr. Charles Bradlaugh.)

“Where are you going to, my stubborn head?
Where are you going to, my stubborn head?”
“I’m going a-swearing, GOSSET,” he said;
“I’m going a-swearing, GOSSET,” he said.

“Then I must come after you, my stubborn head;
Then I must come after you, my stubborn head,”
“You may come if you like, old GOSSET,” he said;
“You may come if you like, old GOSSET,” he said.

“Now you’re tempting your fortune, my stubborn head,
Now you’re tempting your fortune, my stubborn head.”
“Why,――my Oath is my fortune, GOSSET,” he said;
“Why,――my Oath is my fortune, GOSSET,” he said.

“Then, I don’t think much of you, my stubborn head,
Then, I don’t think much of you, my stubborn head.”
“Nobody axed you to, GOSSET,” he said;
“Nobody axed you to, GOSSET,” he said.

(_Dance up the middle, touch shoulder, and down again._)

_Punch_, May 21, 1881.

――――

“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?”
“I’m going to Spelling Bee, sir,” she said,
“Where is your lexicon, my pretty maid?”
“I do not want one, sir,” she said.
“What can you spell, pray, my pretty maid?”
“I can spell prize, kind sir,” she said.
“Let’s hear you spell it, my pretty maid!”
“P-r-e-y-e-s, prize,” she said.
“I wouldn’t give much for your ‘preyes,’ pretty maid!”
“’Cause you ain’t got it to give, sir,” she said.

[_Exeunt ambo._

――――

“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?”
“I’m going to a lecture, sir,” she said.
“May I come with you, my pretty maid?”
“You won’t understand it, sir,” she said.

“What is the subject, my pretty maid?”
“The _final extinction of man_,” she said,
“Then you won’t marry, my pretty maid?”
“_Superior_ girls _never_ marry,” she said.

_Modern Society._ September 12, 1885.

“WHIZZ,” the Christmas number of _The Bicycling Times_, 1880, has a long parody, entitled “A Bicyclist’s Song,” after _My Rattling Mare and I_; also a parody on “My Pretty Maid,” entitled _The Wheelman and the Maid_, which concludes thus:――

“Shall I have any croppers?” asked my pretty maid,
“Shall I have any croppers?” asked my pretty maid,
“You’ll often go over, sweet girl, I said, sweet girl I
said,” &c.

“Then I cannot ride it,” said my pretty maid,
“Then I cannot ride it,” said my pretty maid,
“Then I’ll wish you good morning, sweet girl, I said, sweet
girl I said,” &c.

And still another, commencing:――

“Will you come and see my Humber?” said the rider on the tri,
’Tis the scorchingest of trycycles that ever you did spy;
You’ve only got to pop your leg the easy saddle o’er,
And you’ll go along at such a pace as ne’er was seen before;
Will you, will you, will you, will you come and see my tri?

There is also a prose imitation of Captain Mayne Reid, entitled, _On the Prairie_, by Jak Strauz Karsel.

――――:o:――――

I’VE BEEN ROAMING.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,
Where the meadow dew is sweet,
And I’m coming, and I’m coming,
With its pearls upon my feet.
I’ve been roaming, &c.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,
O’er the rose and lily fair,
And I’m coming, and I’m coming,
With their blossoms in my hair.
I’ve been roaming, &c.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,
Where the honey-suckle sips,
And I’m coming, and I’m coming,
With its kisses on my lips.
I’ve been roaming, &c.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming
Over hill and over plain,
And I’m coming, and I’m coming,
To my bower back again.
I’ve been roaming, &c.

ANONYMOUS. 1832.

――――

I’VE BEEN SHOPPING.

I’ve been shopping――I’ve been shopping
To John Brown’s in Regent Street,
And I’m hopping――and I’m hopping
With his shoes upon my feet.

I’ve been roaming――I’ve been roaming,
For rose oil and lily rare,
And I’m coming――and I’m coming
With a bottle for my hair.

I’ve been roaming――I’ve been roaming
To the pastrycook’s, old Phipps,
And I’m coming――and I’m coming
With some kisses for my lips.

I’ve been roaming――I’ve been roaming
Up Bond Street and down Park Lane
And I’m coming――and I’m coming
To my own house back again.

――――

THE WANDERING JEW.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,
Vid a merry, merry strain,
And I’m coming, and I’m coming,
Home to Rosemary Lane.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,
Through ev’ry street and square,
And I’m coming, and I’m coming
Vith the pargains I got there.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,
I have upon my life,
And I’m coming, and I’m coming,
To my children and my vife.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming
For to pargain I’ve the knack,
And I’m coming, and I’m coming,
Vith my pag upon my pack.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,
Quite hungry full of vo,
But I’m a coming, I’m a coming,
To eat fish and _buckle yow_.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,
Vere the people call out “Pork,”
But I am coming, I am coming,
To be rested from my vork.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming
But our _shaboth_ it is nigh,
So I’m coming, so I’m coming,
To vish you all good-bye.

_Universal Songster_, Vol. 3.

――――

I’VE BEEN EATING.

I’ve been eating, I’ve been eating,
In the north and in the south
And I’m coming, and I’m coming,
With the crumbs about my mouth.

I’ve been stuffing, I’ve been stuffing
Plates of beef, of pork and veal;
And my corporation’s puffing,
With an out-and-out good meal.

I’ve been drinking, I’ve been drinking,
Heavy wet and Hodges’ gin,
And I’m going, and I’m going,
To my attic back again.

I’ve been eating, I’ve been eating,
In the north and in the south;
From the shops I’m now retreating,
With the crumbs about my mouth!

――――

SONG BY A SHIFTY POLITICIAN.
(_Not_ dedicated to Mr. Robert Lowe.)

I’ve been turning――I’ve been turning,
Tory, Radical, and Whig,
And I’m earning, and I’m earning,
Something handsome by the rig.

I’ve been turning,――I’ve been turning,
Over politic’s wide range,
But I’m earning, yes I’m earning,
Money by each little change.

I’ve been turning,――I’ve been turning,
Till I have been made a Peer,
And I’m earning, oh, I’m earning,
Several thousand pounds a year.

I’ve been turning,――I’ve been turning,
Almost every way ’tis plain,
And I’m yearning, yes I’m yearning
To be Chancellor again.

Almost every way, ’tis plain,
To be Chancellor again;
And I’m yearning, and I’m yearning,
To be Chancellor again.

――――:o:――――

AFLOAT.

In the steamer, O my darling! when the foghorns scream and blow,
And the footsteps of the steward softly come and softly go.
When the passengers are groaning with a deep and sincere woe,
Will you think of me and love me, as you did not long ago?

In the cabin, O my darling! think not bitterly of me,
Though I rushed away and left you in the middle of our tea:
I was seized with a sudden longing to gaze upon the damp, deep
sea――
It was best to leave you then, dear; best for you and best for
me.

_Liverpool Weekly Post._ January 1, 1887.

――――:o:――――

SOME DAY
(_To an Extortionate Tailor._)

I know not when your bill I’ll see,
I know not when that bill fell due
What interest you will charge to me,
Or will you take my I.O.U.?
It may not be till years have passed,
Till chubby children’s locks are grey;
The tailor trusts us, but at last
His reckoning we must meet some day
Some day――some day――some day I must meet it,
Snip, I know not when or how,
Snip, I know not when or how;
Only this――only this――this that once you _did_ me――
Only this――I’ll do _you_ now――I’ll do you now――
I’ll do you now.

I know not are you far or near――
Are you at rest? or cutting still?
I know not who is held so _dear_!
Or who’s to pay your “little bill!”
But when it comes, some day――some day――
These eyes an awful tote may see;
And don’t you wish, my tailor gay,
That you may get your _£_ _s._ _d._?
Some day――some day――some day I must meet it,
Snip, I know not when or how,
Snip, I know not when or how,
Only this――only this――this that once you _did_ me――
Only this――I’ll do you now――I’ll do you now――
I’ll do you now!

From _Sketches in Prose and Verse_, by F. B. Doveton, author of _Snatches of Song_. London: Sampson Low & Co., Fleet Street. 1886. (This amusing volume also contains a number of Parodies on the poems of Moore, Alfred Tennyson, Campbell, Hood, Byron, Coleridge, Southey, Poe, and Swinburne.)

――――:o:――――

MY MOTHER BIDS ME FIND AN HEIR.

My mother bids me find an heir
And give up Cousin Hugh,
Who came so often to the square,
Poor cornet――Horse Guards Blue.
“For why,” she cries, “a younger son,
While plainer girls win peers,
Alas! another season’s done,
And still you’re all _Miss Veres_.”

The _Post_ announces _he_ has gone
To shoot and stalk the deer;
I canter through the lanes alone,
And wish it was next year:
And as I draw the amber thread,
_His_ slippers to adorn,
No novel that I ever read,
Had heroine so forlorn.

_Punch_ September 22, 1866.

――――

SONG.

My mother bids me spend my smiles,
On all who come and call me fair,
As crumbs are thrown upon the tiles
To all the sparrows of the air.

But I’ve a darling of my own
For whom I hoard my little stock,――
What if I chirp him all alone
And leave mamma to feed the flock?

THOMAS HOOD.

――――:o:――――

O! ’TIS LOVE! ’TIS LOVE!

O! ’Tis love! ’tis love! ’tis love!
From woman’s bright eye glancing,
O! ’tis love! ’tis love! ’tis love!
Every heart entrancing.
What claims the monarch’s duty?
What soothes the peasant’s pain?
What melts the haughty beauty,
And conquers her disdain?
O! ’tis love, &c.

O! ’tis love! ’tis love! ’tis love!
The warrior doth inspire.
O! ’tis love! ’tis love! ’tis love!
That kindles soft desire.
On rocks or lonely mountains,
In palaces or vales,
In gay saloons near fountains,
’Tis love alone prevails.
O! ’tis love! &c.

――――

OH ’TIS BEEF!

Oh, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef,
(’Pon my soul I’m not joking),
Oh, ’tis Beef,
Affords relief,
When hunger’s most provoking.

Though many may doat upon mutton,
And some prefer veal or lamb,
Upon Beef I could feed like a glutton,
Nor sigh for poultry and ham;
Flank, brisket, or the sir-loin,
I never could let alone,
But nice tit-bits would I purloin
From buttock, round, or edgebone.
Oh, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef,
(’Pon my soul I’m not joking).
Oh,’tis Beef,
Affords relief,
When hunger’s most provoking.

Though Mrs. Glass I daily look in,
(No _reflection_ on that cook, the chief),
Of all dishes her famous book in,
There’s none can compare with Beef.
How sweet when after my toiling,
And cutting joints up, down, across,
To behold on the gridiron broiling,
A rump-steak for my oyster sauce,
Oh, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef,
(’Pon my soul I’m not joking),
Oh, ’tis Beef,
Affords relief,
When hunger’s most provoking.

D. A. O’MEARA.

――――

OH! ’TIS LOVE!

Oh! ’tis love, ’tis love, ’tis love,
That makes the world go round;
Ev’ry day, beneath his sway,
Fools, old and young, abound;
Love often turns young ladies’ brains,
At which mamma will scold,
So, in revenge, Love thinks it fair
To shoot sometimes the old;
With love some folks go mad,
’Tis love makes some quite thin,
Some find themselves so bad,
The sea they must jump in.
Oh! ’tis love, &c.

_The Universal Songster._

――――

OH! THIS LOVE! THIS LOVE! TO ME’S A FUNNY THING.

Oh! this love! this love! this love
To me’s a funny thing,
It smites the heart of every cove,
From beggar up to king.
It never is found absent,
From the breast of any one,
But, like a cruel stab sent,
One touch and you’re undone!
The cure, too, is so hard
That very few will try,
Then, girls, be on your guard
When love approaches nigh.
For this love! this love, &c.

Oh! this love! this love! this love!
It takes away one’s rest,
So, after all, as I can prove,
A single life is best,
As, when once you’re married,
You’ll find out to your cost,
You’ll wish you’d longer tarried,
Before your heart you’d lost,
For then, too late, repentance
Comes into your head,
And, after Hymen’s sentence,
A precious life is led,
For this love! this love &c.

_The Universal Songster._

――――:o:――――

I KNOW A “HIGH.”
(Parody on John Oxenford’s song, “_I Know an Eye_.”)

I know a “High” so fair and bright,
When glistening ’neath the moon’s pale light,
Whence men, with many a glance behind,
To dodge the lurking Dons unkind,
Rush to the “Star,”[10] where, pure and clear,
They quaff their mild and sparkling beer.
Belovèd “High,” beloved “Star,”
Dear to my heart your memories are.

That “High,” where once, when violent blew
The gale of war the whole night through,
I fought the town with joyous glee,
Though pain with joy possessed me;
For whirled and kicked, ’mid scream and yell,
With two black orbs at last I fell.
Belovèd “High,” beloved “Star,”
Dear to my heart your triumphs are.

And when at last that radiant “High” shall be
Untrod, for e’er untrod by me;
When absence throws her dim pale light
O’er distant scenes of past delight;
That “High,” that “Star” shall ever shine
In Memory’s eye, with power divine;
Belovèd “High,” beloved “Star,”
Dear to my heart your glories are.

C. E. W. B.
Worcester College, Oxford.
From _College Rhymes_. 1866.

――――:o:――――

ANOTHER MESSAGE.

I’d another message to send her,
To her whom my heart knows best,
But a twinge of gout came o’er me,
And I was compelled to rest.
And she was above――and dressing――
A duty to her most dear:
It was useless to shout to my darling,
For I knew she would never hear.

I’d another message to send her,
To hungry folks most sweet,
It was that the dinner was ready,
And the fire was spoiling the meat.
I tied it this summer’s evening
To her lapdog’s bushy breast,
But the canine rascal tore it,
And ate it with wondrous zest.

I gave it to baby next moment,
And saw him climb and climb,
But his little legs grew weary,
And he fell in a little time.
Then I yelled, in my hungry longing,
Has an invalid no friend,
Who will carry a wife a message
Her ravenous spouse would send?

Then I smelt a scent of cooking,
So savory and so sweet,
That my very heart stood silent,
And my pulse refused to beat.
It rose in enticing rushing
From meats and soups and things,
So I laid my anxious message
On its appetising wings.

Then I saw the steam rise higher,
In smell more telling than speech,
And I knew it would find her chamber,
I knew her dear nose ’twould reach.
Yes, I knew she would get my message,
And I should not have to wait,
So my soul grew calm and peaceful
Though dinner, alas! was late.

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

――――:o:――――

WAPPING OLD STAIRS.

Your Molly has never been false, she declares,
Since the last time we parted at Wapping Old Stairs;
When I swore that I still would continue the same,
And gave you the ’bacco-box mark’d with my name.
When I pass’d a whole fortnight between decks with you,
Did I e’er give a kiss, Tom, to one of your crew?
To be useful and kind to my Thomas I stay’d,
For his trowsers I wash’d, and his grog, too, I made.

Tho’ you promis’d last Sunday to walk in the mall,
With Susan from Deptford, and likewise with Sall,
In silence I stood your unkindness to hear,
And only upbraided my Tom with a tear.
Why should Sall or should Susan than me be more prized?
For the heart that is true, Tom, should ne’er be despis’d;
Then be constant and kind, nor your Molly forsake,
Still your trowsers I’ll wash, and your grog too, I’ll make.

――――

THE KNIGHTLY GUERDON.

Untrue to my Ulric I never could be,
I vow by the saints and the blessed Marie,
Since the desolate hour when we stood by the shore,
And your dark galley waited to carry you o’er:
My faith then I plighted, my love I confess’d,
As I gave you the BATTLE-AXE marked with your crest!

When the bold barons met in my father’s old hall,
Was not Edith the flower of the banquet and ball?
In the festival hour, on the lips of your bride,
Was there ever a smile save with THEE at my side?
Alone in my turret I loved to sit best,
To blazon your BANNER and ’broider your crest.

The knights were assembled, the tourney was gay!
Sir Ulric rode first in the warrior-mélée.
In the dire battle hour, when the tourney was done,
And you gave to another the wreath you had won!
Though I never reproached thee, cold, cold was my breast,
As I thought of that BATTLE-AXE, ah! and that crest!

But away with remembrance, no more will I pine,
That others usurped for a time what was mine!
There’s a FESTIVAL HOUR for my Ulric and me:
Once more, as of old, shall he bend at my knee;
Once more by the side of the knight I love best,
Shall I blazon his BANNER and ’broider his crest.

W. M. THACKERAY.
――――

OCEAN MELODIES.
(_Refined from the original_ SEA SONGS, _for the use of
the Yacht Clubs_.)

(The Wife wishes to go upon the Continent.)

Adelina has flirted――not once, she declares,
Since you placed on her finger the ring that she wears;
Since at gloomy St. George’s your bride she became,
And you gave her an Opera-box marked with her name.

When I sailed in that yacht a whole fortnight with you,
Did I say I was bored (if I did it was true),
With my Alfred for hours at _ecarté_ I played,
And his meerschaum I lit, and his coffee I made.

When, the night we’d a box at St. Jullien’s last _bal_,
And――goodness knows why――you deserted the _salle_,
I gave you a smile when you chose to appear,
Nor asked whom you knew on that horrid top tier.

Why won’t you, dear Al, by mamma be advised?
A wife who don’t pout, Al, deserves to be prized――
So to Constance and Rome Adelina you’ll take,
Or a nice piece of work that young person will make.

_Punch._ September 17, 1853.

――――

THE ALMACK’S ADIEU.

Your Fanny was never false-hearted
And this she protests and she vows,
From the _triste moment_ when we parted
On the staircase of Devonshire House!
I blushed when you asked me to marry,
I vowed I would never forget;
And at parting I gave my dear Harry
A beautiful vinegarette!

We spent _en province_ all December,
And I ne’er condescended to look
At Sir Charles, or the rich county member,
Or even at that darling old Duke.
You were busy with dogs and with horses,
Alone in my chamber I sat,
And made you the nicest of purses,
And the smartest black satin cravat!

At night with that vile Lady Frances
(_Je faisais moi tapisserie_),
You danced every one of the dances
And never once thought of poor me!
_Mon pauvre petit cœur!_ what a shiver
I felt as she danced the last set,
And you gave, oh, _mon Dieu!_ to revive her,
My beautiful _vinegarette_.

Return, love! away with coquetting;
This flirting disgraces a man!
And ah! all the while you’re forgetting
The heart of your poor little Fan!
_Reviens!_ break away from those Circes,
_Reviens_, for a nice little chat;
And I’ve made you the sweetest of purses,
And a lovely black satin cravat!

W. M. THACKERAY.

――――

ADVICE TO OLD WOMEN.
(_Of both sexes._)

Your money will never be safe, _Punch_ declares,
While you keep with it parting for rotten Bank shares:
It more safe in old stockings or teapots had lain,
Or in some carpet-bag or box marked with your name.
Not a bubble now bursts, not a Bank falls to ground,
But shows how directors keep robbing around;
How the company’s funds to their own use they take,
Then suspend their cash payments, and scarce themselves make.

* * * * *

_Punch._ March 21, 1857.

――――:o:――――

TOM BOWLING.

Here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of our crew;
No more he’ll hear the tempest howling,
For death has broach’d him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful below he did his duty,
But now he’s gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed,
His virtues were so rare;
His friends were many, and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair:
And then he’d sing so blithe and jolly,
Ah! many’s the time and oft;
But mirth is turned to melancholy,
For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,
When he who all commands,
Shall give (to call life’s crew together)
The word to pipe all hands,
Thus death, who kings and tars despatches,
In vain Tom’s life has doff’d;
For tho’ his body’s under hatches
His soul is gone aloft.

CHARLES DIBDIN.
――――

A CAROL FOR CRICKETERS.

Here a sheer hulk from fierce round bowling,
We mourn a batsman true;
No more he’ll send the ball a-rolling;
He’s battered black and blue.
Long at the stumps he did his duty,
And puzzled many a scout,
For though swift balls might spoil his beauty,
They rarely put him out.

Ne’er from the wicket he departed
Without a decent score;
And seldom were his timbers started
Until his legs were sore.
At pads and gloves, as things new-fangled,
With pleasant scorn he’d laugh;
But now so grievously he’s mangled,
No more we’ll fear his chaff.

_Punch._ September 22, 1855.

――――

AN ELEGY OF THE ADMIRALTY.

Here, on the floor stands famed TOM BRASSEY,
The darling of his friends,
He built the _Arethusa_ saucy,
But did not plate her ends!

For Tom was faithful to his Party,
(His virtues were so rare!)
So economical and hearty,
He seemed upon the square!

His ships we took for things of beauty
(Though REED, and others, scoffed),
And doubtless they would do their duty,
But ah! their ends are soft!

Yet still, comparatively little
They cost, as REED admits;
Unlucky that they are so brittle,
They’ll get blown into bits!

And when the shot the foe dispatches
Has raked them, oft and oft,
The sea will pour beneath their hatches,
Because――their ends are soft.

_Punch._ March 21, 1885.

――――

LORD TOM NODDY.

But, a sheer wreck, sits Lord Tom Noddy,
The last made of our Peers,
Who joins our legislative body
Amidst a nation’s jeers.
As M.P. he could not do duty,
His brain had grown too soft;
So――mark our Constitution’s beauty――
He’s now been sent aloft!――aloft!
He’s now-ow been――ah sen-n-n-n-t a-a-loft!

Lord Tom for nothing good was noted,
Of virtues he had none;
But with his side he always voted,
And was his father’s son.
So, as upon his last appearance
He publicly was scoff’d,
The Premier, to effect a clearance,
Has sent Lord Tom aloft!――aloft!
Has sen-n-n-nt Lord Tom-o-om ma-aloft!

_Truth._ Christmas Number, 1886.

There is another parody on _Tom Bowling_, by L. M. Thornton, entitled _Drunken Sally_, but it is too vulgar to be inserted. It may occasionally be seen amongst the penny ballads on street walls.

――――:o:――――

THE JOLLY YOUNG WATERMAN.

And did you ne’er hear of a jolly young waterman,
Who at Blackfriars Bridge used for to ply,
And he feather’d his oars with such skill and dexterity,
Winning each heart and delighting each eye.
He look’d so neat, and he row’d so steadily,
The maidens all flock’d in his boat so readily,
And he eyed the young rogues with so charming an air,
That this waterman ne’er was in want of a fare.

What sights of fine folks he oft rowed in his wherry;
’Twas clean’d out so nice, and so painted withal;
He was always first oars when the fine city ladies
In a party to Ranelagh went, or Vauxhall;
And oftentimes would they be gigling and leering;
But ’twas all one to Tom their gibing and jeering;
For loving or liking he little did care,
For this waterman ne’er was in want of a fare.

And yet, but to see how strange things happen,
As he row’d along, thinking of nothing at all,
He was ply’d by a damsel so lovely and charming,
That she smil’d, and so straight-way in love he did fall.
And would this young damsel but banish his sorrow
He’d wed her to-night――before to-morrow,
And how should this waterman ever know care
When he’s married, and never in want of a fare.

CHARLES DIBDIN.

――――

THE JOLLY YOUNG BARRISTER.

And did you not hear of a jolly young Barrister,
At the Old Bailey who used for to ply?
He made out his case with such skill and dexterity,
Twisting each fact, while he glozed o’er each lie.
He stuck at nothing; and that so steadily,
The felons all sought his aid so readily,
And he saved from conviction so many a thief,
That this barrister ne’er was in want of a brief.

What sights of fine rogues he got off by his blarney;
His tongue was so glib, and so specious withal:
He was always retained by the great City forgers
To Newgate from Mansion House sent, or Guildhall.
And often the Press would be gibing and jeering,
But ’twas all one to him, its carping and sneering;
He’d swear black was white on behalf of a thief,
So this barrister ne’er was in want of a brief.

And yet, only think what strange morals have lawyers
The Bar of such conduct think nothing at all;
Whilst should any poor counsel report for a paper,
“To Coventry with him!” that instant they call;
From their mess they’ll expel him, he’ll find, to his sorrow;
But they’ll dine with the housebreaker’s hireling to-morrow.
Then hurrah!――though his client be swindler or thief,――
For the barrister never in want of a brief.

_Punch._ 1845.

――――

The late Albert Smith wrote a piece entitled “Novelty Fair, or hints for 1851,” which was produced at the Lyceum Theatre, on May 21, 1850. In this, Father Thames enters with a goblet of dirty water in his hand, and exclaims:――

“Oh, did you e’er hear of such jolly bad water, man,
As at Blackfriars Bridge comes out of I?
No wonder they talk of my stream with severity,
Sickening each nose, and disgusting each eye!”

――――

THE JOLLY OLD WATERMAN.

And did you ne’er hear of a jolly old Waterman
Who at the cabstand used for to ply?
He feathered his nest with the passengers’ halfpennies,
Smoking his pipe, with a drop in each eye,
He looked so drunk――yet stood so steadily,
The drivers all flocked to his stand so readily;
And he eyed the old rogues with so knowing an air,
For this Waterman knew they would cheat every fare.

What sights of gents drunk and incapable, very,
He’d clean out so nice, and politely withal,
As he called the first cab, when the finely-dressed victims
Came staggering out from Cremorne or Vauxhall.
And oftentimes would they be quizzing and queering,
And ’twas all one to Tom, all this chaffing and jeering:
For laughing or chaffing he little did care,
For this Waterman wished but to rifle the fare.

And yet but to see how strangely things happen,
As he jogged along, thinking of nothing at all,
He was caught by a Cab Act so awfully stringent,
That it caused all the tricks of the cab-stand to fall.
But would this old Waterman feel proper sorrow,
For all his old tricks, and turn honest to-morrow;
And should this old Waterman act with more care,
He’ll be licensed, and never impose on a fare.

_Punch._ July 30, 1853.

――――

THE HANDSOME YOUNG CLERGYMAN.

Oh! did you not hear of a handsome young clergyman,
Who in his pulpit was wont for to cry?
He handled his text with such seeming sincerity,
Melting each heart and suffusing each eye.
He sighed so hard and groaned so steadily,
The ladies all flocked to his church so readily;
And he turned up his eye with so saintly an air,
That this clergyman greatly was liked by the fair.

His features were fine, and his views Sabbatarian,
So by both young and old he was made a great pet;
What teapots and slippers this predestinarian,
Young disciple of CALVIN did constantly get!
He had won such credit and fame for piety,
That he had the run of the best society;
And a girl with lots of tin did pair
With this parson esteemed such a duck by the fair.

_Punch._ May 31, 1856.

――――

THE JOLLY YOUNG TRILOBITE.

Oh, did you ne’er hear of a jolly young trilobite,
That lived in Siluria once on a time,
And some years ago turned to stone in a terrible fright,
And forgot all about the deeds done in his prime;
But harden’d and horny his tail no more wags,
For he now lies entombed in the Lingula flags.

Some doubt as to what was the cause of his fright,
Some say that the sea where he lived got too hot,
Some say too cold, and some vanished quite,
But one thing is certain, whatever is not,
That harden’d and stony, his tail no more wags
For he now lies entombed in the Lingula flags.

The jolly young fellow has had his day out,
And doubtless once relished like others a spree,
Made love to the Lingulas roaming about,
Was lively and affable, funny and free,
But hardened and slaty his tail no more wags,
For he now lies entombed in the Lingula flags.

This parody refers to some rare specimens of trilobites contained in Dr. Grindrod’s Museum at Malvern.

From _Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch_. By J. B. Oddfish. London: Simpkin, Marshall & Co., 1865.

――――

THE LUCKLESS YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

And did you not hear of that luckless “Young Gentleman,”
Who at St. Stephen’s but lately did ply
His pencil and paper with skill and dexterity?
(Till his sly toil caught the SULLIVAN’S eye.)
He looked so calm, and he worked so steadily,
His Pitman’s Phonetics he marshalled so readily,
And he eyed the debate with such business-like air,
You’d have sworn his proceedings were all square and fair.

What sights of long speeches he heard in his gallery,
So frothy, so fierce, and so foolish withal!
How his ears must have ached when the Home-Rule Circassians
Gave the rein to their _penchant_ for shindy and squall;
And oft times would they be snapping and sneering,
But ’twas all one to him their jibing and jeering;
Not a figs-end for party or brogue did he care,
His task was reporting them all square and fair.

And yet but to see now how strangely things happen!
As he scribbled on, thinking of nothing at all,
He was spotted by SULLIVAN, POWER, and CALLAN,
Who “protisted,” and straightway began _such_ a brawl!
“Obnoxious and unprecedented Reporther!”
The Shindyites yelled, and a world of hot wather
Was caused by that luckless “Young Gentleman” there,
MR. SPEAKER’S note-taker so square and so fair!

_Punch._ July 26, 1879

――――

THE JOLLY OLD WOODCUTTER.

Oh! did you ne’er hear of a jolly old woodcutter,
Who at Hawarden Castle used for to stop;
He handled his axe with such skill and dexterity,
Treating his friends to a generous “chop.”
He looked so grand, and chopped so steadily,
That toadies all flocked to admire so readily;
And he eyed the old geese with an ogle so sweet,
That this woodcutter ne’er was in want of a seat.

What sights of soft folks he cajol’d with his speeches,
All polished so fair, and so “painted” withal;
His partisans stuck to his side like leeches,
And the G.O.M. lorded it over them all.
Oft times were his enemies gibing and jeering,
But ’twas all one to Bill, their groaning or cheering;
For praise or for blame he but little did care,
So long as he filled the Prime Minister’s chair.

And yet, but to see how strangely things happen!
As he chopped away, bowing and smiling as well,
He was ply’d by an Irishman, caught by his blarney,
One known by the name of Charles Stewart Parnell.
And would this Parnell but keep him in power,
He’d banish the clouds that o’er Erin did lower,
Defying old Salisbury, and “Randy” so glib,
E’en though it would cost him full many a fib.

_Truth._ July 15. 1886.

――――

THE JOLLY YOUNG RIFLEMAN.
(A Roundelay for Ranelagh.)

Did you ever hear tell of a jolly young Rifleman,
Who as Adonis his charms used to try?
He curled his side-locks with such skill and dexterity,
Winning each heart and enchanting each eye.
He stood so straight, he marched so steadily,
The Volunteers came at his call so readily,
And he pranced at their head with so princely an air,
That he had the good word of the Brave and the Fair.

This Rifleman young never seemed to grow older,
So trim was his mien, and so chirpy withal;
He was always A 1 to each beauteous beholder,
And youths mustered proudly at RANELAGH’S[11] call
And though some folk might be chaffing or jeering,
’Twas all one to him their flouting and fleering,
For how should our Rifleman ever know care,
While he wins the good word of the Brave and the Fair?

_Punch._ March 24, 1883.

――――

TOO JOLLY BY HALF.

Did you ever hear tell of the jolly young waterman,
Writ of by Dibdin and sung of by Reeves?
He has gone up aloft, but his grandson surviving him,
Though jollier still, no such homage receives.

Said this jolly young sprig from a jolly old waterman,
“Dear Mr. Bull, I can steer in a style
Such as no foreigner ever could rival yet;
_Do_ let me manage your boats on the Nile.

“I can shoot all the rapids and likewise your enemies,
Oh! how for nautical glory I pant!
_Shall_ I be suffered to win it right jollily?”
Quoth dear Mr. Bull, “You’re too jolly. _You shant!_”

_Judy._ September 10, 1884.

(Canadian boatmen were employed in the Soudan Expedition.)

――――:o:――――

THE HIGH-METTLED RACER.

See, the course throng’d with gazers, the sports are begun,
What confusion, but hear!――“I’ll bet you, Sir!”――“Done, done!”
A thousand strange murmurs resound far and near,
Lords, hawkers, and jockeys, assail the tired ear;
While, with neck like a rainbow, erecting his crest,
Pamper’d, prancing, and pleased, his head touching his breast,
Scarcely snuffing the air, he’s so proud and elate,
The high-mettled racer first starts for the plate.

Next Reynard’s turn’d out, and o’er hedge and ditch rush
Hounds, horses, and huntsmen, all hard at his brush;
They run him at length, and they have him at bay,
And by scent or by view, cheat a long tedious day;
While alike born for sports in the field or the course,
Always sure to come through――a staunch and fleet horse;
And when fairly run down, the fox yields up his breath,
The high-mettled racer is in at the death.

Grown aged, used up, and turn’d out of the stud,
Lame, spavin’d, and wind-gall’d, but yet with some blood;
While knowing postilions his pedigree trace,
Tell his dam won that sweepstakes, his sire won that race;
And what matches he’d won too the ostlers count o’er,
As they loiter their time by some hedge-alehouse door;
Whilst the harness sore galls, and the spurs his sides goad,
The high-mettled racer’s a hack on the road.

At length, old and feeble, trudging early and late,
Bow’d down by diseases, he bends to his fate;
Blind, old, lean, and feeble, he tugs round a mill,
Or draws sand, till the sand of his hour-glass stands still;
And now, cold and lifeless, exposed to the view
In the very same cart which he yesterday drew;
Whilst a pitying crowd his sad relics surrounds
The high-mettled racer is sold to the hounds.

CHARLES DIBDIN.

This, being a sporting song, would be quite out of place here, but that Dibdin followed it up, by writing an imitation of it, on a naval topic. This is one of the somewhat rare cases of an author composing a parody on one of his own poems:――

THE PRIDE OF THE OCEAN.

See the shore lined with gazers, the tide comes in fast,
The confusion, but hear! bear a hand there, avast!
The blocks and the wedges the mallets obey,
And the shores and the stanchions are all cut away:
While with head like a lion, built tight fore and aft,
Broad amidships, lean bows, and taper abaft
In contempt of all danger from quicksands and rocks,
The pride of the ocean is launched from the stocks.

Now the signal is flying, and, fleet in her course,
She chases a sail, far superior her force;
And now the brisk broadside is merrily pour’d,
And splinters, cut ropes, and masts go by the board;
Next, yard-arm and yard-arm entangled they lie,
The tars loudly swearing to conquer or die;
’Till hull’d and cut up, getting more than she likes,
To the pride of the ocean the enemy strikes.

The prize is sent home, and, alert in a trice,
They make gaskets and points, and they knot and they splice;
While knowing Jack tars of their gallantry talk,
Tell who served well Boscawen, and Anson, and Hawke;
’Till, all of a sudden, a calm, then a scud,
A tempest brings on that the face of the flood,
The thunder and lightning, and wind, so deform,
The pride of the ocean scarce lives out the storm.

And now, having nobly defended the cause
Of the nation, of freedom, religion, and laws,
Her timbers all crazy, all open her seams,
Torn and wounded her planks, and quite rotten her beams,
To the last humbly fated her country to aid,
Near the very same slip where her keel was first laid,
No trace of her rate but her ports and her bulk,
The pride of the ocean’s cut down a sheer hulk.

CHARLES DIBDIN.

――――

THE HIGH-METTLED POLITICIAN.

See, the house throng’d with members; debate is begun
The confusion――“hear, hear,” cries of “spoke,” and “well done.”
A hundred strange voices resound far and near,
Whigs, Tories, and Radicals greet the tir’d ear,
While with neck well cravatted, arranging his vest,
Proud, pert, and a puppy with hand on his breast,
Slightly turning his hair, with a dandyish grace,
The young politician first starts for a place.

Now the premier’s turn’d out, to succeed him they rush,
Whigs and Tories both making a desperate push.
They plot and intrigue, and by craft every day,
Expect into office to find a quick way;
While alike born for liberal or aristocrat,
Always sure to come over, a regular rat.
When the premier’s blown out by a party’s foul breath,
The young politician is _in_ at the death.

Grown stale quite us’d up and turn’d out of the stud
Of treasury _protégés_ yet with some blood,
While keen boroughmongers his pedigree trace,
How he made this long speech, how he gained that good place,
And what pensions he won his companions count o’er
As they stand with lank purse at the treasury door;
While disgrace sorely galls, with his remnant of nouse,
The young politician’s a hack in the house.

Till at last in St. Stephen’s both early and late,
To divide for his party he bends to his fate,
Despis’d, poor and feeble he votes for each bill,
Brought in by the minister’s paramount will,
And now blank and silent an object of scorn,
On the very same bench he was used to adorn,
While his memory the treasury whipper-in jogs,
The young politician is gone to the dogs.

_Figaro in London._ October 13, 1832.

――――

THE HIGH-METTLED RAZOR.

Since of course we want razors when manhood’s begun,
Lest profusion of beard should our faces o’errun,
A thousand strange methods are found every year,
And Mechi and Rodgers assail our young ear,
When we next, like a vain beau, direct that our crest,
Silver-mounted, should be on the handle impressed,
Scarcely scraping a hair in our downy estate,
The High-mettled Razor first ranks among plate.

The next ten years turn out, and we need not now blush
To be caught when we’re soaping our beard with a brush,
For we _have_ one at length, and we need not say nay,
Should any one ask if we shave every day.
While alike born for scrapes in our life’s daily course,
Always sure to come through with a cut, if not worse;
When we’re barely shaved down just to what Fashion saith,
The High-mettled Razor now bores us to death.

Grown rusty, used up, and turned dull as a spud,
Notched, blunted, and always, when used, drawing blood;
While, knowing its past deeds, its misdeeds we trace,
Tell, “This notch cut my finger, and this cut my face;”
And what dangers we’ve run, we could quickly count o’er,
As we wasted our time, and our temper, and gore;
When the shaving doth gall, and the steel our chins goad.
The Dull-mettled Razor’s put out of the road.

At length they’ve improved it, before ’tis too late,
And Mechi and Rodgers must bend to their fate;
And barbers will soon have to work the tread-mill,
If their razors are brought to a daily stand-still.
For now, with its works nearly hid from our view,
In the very same chair in which we must sit too,
While a music-box plays like a musical elf,
The High-mettled Razor doth _shave us itself_.”

CUTHBERT BEDE.

(This amusing parody, by the author of _Verdant Green_, originally appeared in _Punch_. It was afterwards included in _Medley_, a small shilling volume of light reading published by James Blackwood in 1856. The last verse referred to the invention by a joiner, at North Shields, of a machine which was to lather and shave a man whilst seated in an arm-chair.)

――――

THE HIGH METTLED GUARDSMAN.

See the pier throng’d with gazers! The War is begun!
The soldiers are coming――“Let’s see them!” “Run, run!”
A thousand loud voices resound far and near,
With the hearty “huzza” and the soul-stirring “cheer.”
While with mien like a hero――erecting his crest,
Proud and pleas’d――with true courage inflaming his breast,
With the prospect of glory, his ardour increas’d,
The High Mettled Guardsman embarks for the East.

From the ship now turned out his way he must push,
Through mud and through marshes, through rain, cold, and slush.
They leave him to struggle as well as he may
From the shore to the camp after leaving the bay.
Sustained by the pluck that he shows in the field,
He is sure to come through, for he never will yield;
And though nearly worn-out, weary, hungry, and wet,
The High Mettled Guardsman has life in him yet.

Exposed to the cold, and turned out in the mud,
Still ready to shed for his country his blood;
While knowing officials――the precedents trace,
Of what are the ancient traditions of place.
What appointments were made――in what heads will reside
The patronage Government has to divide.
Thus the High Mettled Guardsman, ’tis easily seen,
The victim becomes of official routine.

At length ill and weak, working early and late,
Bowed down by disease to a pitiful state;
Expos’d to the wet――a continual drench,
He feebly turns over the mud in the trench.
And now, cold and lifeless, he silently lies
On the soil where he hoped to win victory’s prize:
Whilst official _routine_ on contentedly jogs,
And the High Mettled Guardsman has gone to the dogs.

_Punch._ January, 1855.

A parody, entitled _The Village-Born Beauty_, appeared in “The Universal Songster,” vol. 1, p. 356, and was also printed as a halfpenny ballad, by Taylor, of Brick Lane, Bethnal Green. This song described the adventures of the Village-born Beauty, (who had strayed from the paths of virtue) in language somewhat too free to be admitted in this collection.

――――:o:――――

THE BOATSWAIN CALLS.

My name d’ye see’s Tom Tough, I’ve seen a little service,
Where mighty billows roll and loud tempests blow;
I’ve sail’d with gallant Howe, I’ve sailed with noble Jervis,
And in valiant Duncan’s fleet I’ve sung out yo, heave ho!
Yet more ye shall be knowing,
I was coxon to Boscawen,
And even with brave Hawke have I nobly faced the foe.
Then put round the grog,
So we’ve that and our prog,
We’ll laugh in Care’s face, and sing yo heave ho!

* * * * *

And now at last laid up in a decentish condition,
For I’ve only lost an eye and got a timber toe;
But old ships must expect in time to be out of commission.
Nor again the anchor weigh with yo, heave ho!
So I smoke my pipe and sing old songs,
My boys shall well revenge my wrongs,
And my girls shall breed young sailors nobly for to face the foe;
Then to country and king,
Fate can no danger bring,
While the tars of old England sing out yo, heave ho!

CHARLES DIBDIN.

――――

A WORD FROM TOM TOUGH.