Chapter XXIV: Part I (4)

They gave him songs and speeches,
They drank his health with glee,
And (heedless of the lodgers)
It was done with three times three.
And they took the rifled knocker,
And hung it up on high,
And there it stands in Johnson’s rooms,
To witness if I lie.

And in the nights of winter,
When things are rather slow,
And men (the gardens being shut)
Uncertain where to go;
To Johnson’s humble chambers,
In little knots drop in,
To smoke his soothing birdseye,
And quaff his cheering gin!

When the bottled stout is opened,
And the meerschaum pipe is lit,
And the guests on trunks and tables
(Chairs at a premium) sit,
When flags the conversation,
Revert they to the “go,”
How Johnson tore the knocker down
Of Watkins of Soho.

――――

SIBTHORPIUS.
_A Lay of Modern London, made in the year_ 1848.

BY T. BLABBINGTON MACSQUALLY

I.

O’Connor of York Castle
By the Six Points he swore,
That the great English rabble
Should suffer wrong no more.
By the Six Points he swore it,
And named a trysting day,
And made his underlings go forth,
In third-class trains, from south to north,
To summon his array.

II.

The pickpockets and Chartists
Come pouring in amain,
From many a dirty market-place,
From many a half-choked drain;
From many a lonely alley,
Where, hid from Peeler’s eyen,
In a magmen’s nest――the neighbourhood’s pest――
Grovel the human swine.

III.

There be some scores of delegates,
The noisiest of the land,
Who alway by O’Connor,
In John Street’s building stand;
With dirty hands the delegates
Have turned the papers o’er――
The leaders bright, in black and white,
Of journalistic lore.

IV.

And with one howl the delegates
This answer forth are slipping,
“Go forth, go forth, dear Feargus,
Go forth, go forth, our pippin!
Go, and return in glory,
To our fine John Street dome,
And hang the tickers of the rich
Round the bare walls of home!”

V.

And now hath every alley
Sent up its batch of men,
The foot are some ten thousand,
The horsemen scarcely ten,
Upon the plain of Kennington
Is met the great array――
A proud man was O’Connor
Upon the trysting day!

VI.

But in the Parks, and Pall Mall,
Was tumult and affright;
And in the Carlton, men looked blue,
And those in Brookes’s white;
And Berkeley Square was shaky,
While some from Mayfair cut;
And girls in pastrycooks were sad
And Quadrant shops were shut.

VII.

Now, from a lofty lamp-post
Could the wan Peelers spy
The dust made by the marching mob,
Like a pall in the sky.
The Ministers in Downing Street
Were nervous all the day,
For every hour a horseman came
With tidings of dismay.

VIII.

They held a council standing
In Westminster Bridge Road;
Surrounded by sad Specials,
Who evil days forbode;
Out spake Lord Russell roundly,
“The bridge must straight go down,
For now that they’re past the New Cut,
Nought else can save the town.”

IX.

Then out spake brave Sibthorpius,
Up to the council riding,
“I’ll keep the bridge――Chartists be hanged,
I’ll give them a d――――d hiding!
Hew down the bridge, Lord Russell!
I’ll let the humbugs see――
What Honourable Member
Will keep the bridge with me?”

X.

“Sibthorpius,” said Lord Russell,
“As thou sayest, so let it be.”
He spoke! two more came forward,
And forth then rushed the Three.
Meanwhile, the Specials round them,
Came each man with an axe,
And Russell gave a mighty blow,
And Morpeth pummelled with a crow
The bridge ’neath which the Thames doth flow,
Resounded with their whacks!

XI.

One Member smote proud Cuffey,
The second rushed at Jones,
Unmoved by Chartist yelling,
Undaunted by the stones.
Sibthorpius at Feargus
Darted one horrid thrust
And the plebian’s puddle blood
Mix’d with Lambeth dust.

XII.

And now the Bridge of Westminster
Trembled ’neath Russell’s blows,――
“Back, back,” he cried, “brave comrades,
Back ere the old bridge goes.”
Then quickly the two members
Ran to the other side――
Then turned and saw Sibthorpius
Alone in all his pride.

XIII.

Then with a crash like thunder,
The old bridge went to pot――
Its ruins down the foaming stream
Rushed hurriedly and hot.
Alone stood brave Sibthorpius,
A moment sternly stood,
Then, with his armour on his back,
He jumped into the flood.

* * * * *

XIV.

And in the nights of winter,
When the cold north winds blow,
And sweepers from the pavement
Are shovelling the snow;
When the crusted port is opened,
And the camphine lamp is lit,
When dessert is on the table,
And around it bright guests sit.

XV.

When the gay and lively party
Roar at the PUPPET-SHOW,
And claret, sparkling like its jokes,
Right joyously doth flow.
When the good-man plays _écarté_,
And the young lads make a noise;
When the girls are working crochet,
And the children smashing toys.

XVI.

When the good-wife takes her workbox,
And the grandame takes a nap,
When Radicals and Chartists
Grow lively at the tap.
With weeping and with laughter,
Still is the story told,
How well Sibthorpius kept the Bridge,
And how the mob were sold.

From _The Puppet-Showman’s Album_.

The six points demanded by the Chartists in 1848, were: _Universal Suffrage_, _Vote by Ballot_, _Annual Parliaments_, _Payment of the Members_, _the Abolition of the Property Qualification_, and _Equal Electoral Districts_.

Forty years ago these proposals were considered terribly revolutionary, and when the leaders of the movement――Ernest Jones, Fergus O’Connor, Vincent and Stephens――proposed to hold a mass meeting at Kennington, and march to Westminster, it was feared there would be a riot. Special constables were enrolled in large numbers, and strong measures were taken by the police, but little actual disturbance occurred. Colonel Sibthorp, a very eccentric M. P., was especially violent in his denunciations of the Chartists, but it need scarcely be said that the poem is entirely imaginary as to the fight at Westminster Bridge, and the part he took in it.

――――

THE FIGHT FOR THE CHAMPIONSHIP.
(_As told by an ancient Gladiator to his
Great-Grandmother._)

Big Heenan of Benicia,
By ninety-nine gods he swore,
That the bright belt of England
Should grace her sons no more.
By ninety-nine he swore it,
And named the ‘fisting’ day――
‘East and west and south and north,’
Said Richard Mayne, ‘ride forth, ride forth,
‘And summon mine array.’

‘Ride forth by heathy Hampshire,
Of “chalk-stream-studded” dells,
And wake the beaks of Eversley
Where gallant Kingsley dwells;
Spur fast thro’ Berkshire spinneys,
The broad Hog’s Back bestride,
And if the White Horse is scour’d
Mount up amain and ride:
Spur, spur, I say, thro’ England!
The word went flashing by.
Look out for Sayers and Heenan,
Policemen――mind your eye!

Sir Richard’s bold moss-troopers
Looked out uncommon keen,
From park and plain and prairie,
From heath and upland green;
From Essex fens and fallows,
From Hampshire, dale and down,
From Sussex’ hundred leagues of sand,
To Shropshire’s fat and flowery land,
And Cheshire’s wild and wasted strand,
And Yorkshire’s heather brown;――
And so, of course, the fight came oft
A dozen miles from Town.

Then first stept out big Heenan,
Unmatched for breadth and length;
And in his chest it might be guessed;
He had unpleasant strength.
And to him went the Sayers
That looked both small and thin,
But well each practised eye could read
The ‘lion and the bull-dog’ breed,
And from each fearless stander-by
Rang out that genuine British cry,
‘_Go in, my boy_,――and win!’

And he went in――and smote him
Through mouthpiece and through cheek;
And Heenan smote him back again
Into the ensuing week:
Full seven days thence he smote him,
With one prodigious crack,
And th’ undaunted Champion straight
Discerned that he was five feet eight,
When flat upon his back:――
Whilst a great shout of laughter
Rose from the Yankee pack.

As from the flash the bullet,
Out sprang the Sayers then,
And dealt the huge Benician
A vast thump on the chin;
And thrice and four times sternly
Drove in the shatt’ring blow;
And thrice and four times wavered
The herculean foe;
And his great arms swung wildly,
Like ship-masts two and fro.

And now no sound of laughter
Was heard from either side,
Whilst feint, and draw, and rally,
The cautious Bruisers tried;
And long they sparred and counter’d
Till Heenan sped a thrust
So fierce and quick, it swept away
Th’ opposing guard like sapling spray――,
And for the second time that day
The Champion bit the dust.

Short time lay English Sayers
Upon the earth at length,
Short time his Yankee foeman
Might triumph in his strength!
Sheer from the ground he smote him
And his soul went with the blow――
Such blow no other hand could dash――
Such blow no other arm could smash――
The giant tottered low;
And for a space they sponged his face,
And thought the eye would go.

Time’s up!――Again they battle;
Again the strokes fly free;
But Sayers’ right arm――that arm of pride――
Now dangles pow’rless by his side,
Plain for all eyes to see;
And thro’ that long and desperate shock――
Two mortal hours on the clock――
By sheer indomitable pluck
With his _left hand_ fought he!

With his left hand he fought him,
Though he was sore in pain,――
Full twenty times hurled backward,
Still pressing on again!
With his left hand he fought him,
Till each could fight no more;
Till Sayers could scarcely strike a blow,
Till Heenan could not see his foe――
Such fighting England never knew
Upon her soil before!

They gave him of the standard
Gold coinage of the realm,
As much as one stout guardsman
Could carry in his helm;
They made him an ovation
On the Exchange hard by,――
And they may slap their pockets
In witness if I lie.

And every soul in England
Was glad, both high and low,
And books were voted snobbish,
And ‘gloves’ were all the go;
And each man told the story,
Whilst ladies’ hearts would melt,
How Sayers, the British Champion,
Did battle for the belt.

Yet honour to the vanquished!
(If vanquished then he were)
Let the harp strike a bolder string
And the Bird of Freedom clap his wing
For the fight so free and fair.
And forge another girdle
That shall belt as brave a breast
As ever sailed to English shore
From the broad lands of the West.

And when some sterner battle
Shall shake along the line,
The Lion flag of Liberty
In Freedom’s cause to shine,――
To fence its ancient honour,
And guard it safe from harms,
May _two_ such Champions hand in hand――
Twin brethren of the Saxon land――
Be found together to withstand
A universe in arms.

H. CHOLMONDELEY-PENNELL.

This excellent parody has appeared in numerous editions of _Puck on Pegasus_ (published by Chatto and Windus, London), it is here given by special permission, and with corrections and additions recently made by the author.

The desperate fight it describes took place at Farnborough on April 17, 1860. Tom Sayers, the Champion of England, stood only about 5 feet 8 inches high, whilst John Heenan, the “Benicia Boy” was upwards of 6 feet in height. Both men showed great courage and endurance, but Sayers displayed the most science, and had not the fight been interrupted, he would, in all probability, have been victorious, as Heenan’s eyes were fast closing up from the punishment he had received. As the fight was a draw, a silver belt was afterwards presented to each of the men. _Punch_ also had a very long parody on the subject, from which a few verses may be quoted.

THE FIGHT OF SAYERIUS AND HEENANUS.
_A Lay of Ancient London._

(_Supposed to be recounted to his Great Grand-Children, April_ 17_th_, A.D. 1920, _by an Ancient Gladiator_.)

Close round my chair, my children,
And gather at my knee,
The while your mother poureth
The Old Tom in my tea;
The while your father quaffeth
His rot-gut Bordeaux wine,――
’Twas not on such potations
Were reared these thews o’ mine.
Such drinks came in the very year
――Methinks I mind it well――
That the great fight of HEENANUS
With SAYERIUS befell.
These knuckles then were iron;
This biceps like a cord;
This fist shot from the shoulder
A bullock would have floored.
Crawleius his Novice,
They used to call me then,
In the Domus Savilliana,
Among the sporting men.
There, on benefit occasions,
The gloves I oft put on,
Walking round to show my muscles
When the set-to was done;
While ringing in the arena
The showered denarii fell,
That told Crawleius, Novice
Had used his mauleys well.
’Tis but some sixty years since
The times whereof I speak,
And yet the words I’m using
Will sound to you like Greek.

What know ye, race of milksops,
Untaught of the P. R.,
What stopping, lunging, countering,
Fibbing, or rallying are?
What boots to use the _lingo_,
When you have not the _thing_?
How paint to _you_ the glories
Of BELCHER, CRIBB, or SPRING,――
To _you_, whose sire turns up his eyes
At mention of the Ring?

Yet, in despite of all the jaw
And gammon of the time,
That brands the art of self-defence
――Old England’s art――as crime,
From off mine ancient memories
The rust of time I’ll shake,
Your youthful bloods to quicken
And your British pluck to wake.
Then gather to your grandsire’s knee,
The while his tale is told,
How SAYERIUS and HEENANUS
Milled in the days of old.

* * * * *

The stakes are pitched, the ropes are tied,
The men have ta’en their stand;
HEENANUS wins the toss for place,
And takes the eastward hand.
CUSICCIUS and MACDONALDUS
Upon the Boy attend;
SAYERIUS owns BRUNTONUS,
And JIM WELSHIUS for friend.
And each upon the other now,
A curious eye may throw,
As from the seconds’ final rub
In buff at length they show,
And from their corners to the scratch
Move stalwartly and slow.

Then each his hand stretched forth to grasp,
His foemen’s fives in friendly clasp;
Each felt his balance trim and true,――
Each up to square his mauleys threw;
Each tried his best to draw his man――
The feint, the dodge, the opening plan,
Till left and right SAYERIUS tried;
HEENANUS’ grin proclaimed him wide;
He shook his nut, a lead essayed,
Nor reached SAYERIUS’ watchful head.
At length each left is sudden flung,
We heard the ponderous thud,
And from each tongue the news was rung,
SAYERIUS hath “First blood!”
Adown HEENANUS’ Roman nose
Freely the tell-tale claret flows,
While stern SAYERIUS’ forehead shows
That in the interchange of blows
HEENANUS’ aim was good!
Again each iron mauley swung,
And loud the counter-hitting rung,
Till breathless all and wild with blows,
Fiercely they grappled, for a close;
A moment in close hug they swing
Hither and thither, round the ring,
Then from HEENANUS’ clinch of brass
SAYERIUS, smiling, slips to grass!

I trow mine ancient breath would fail
To follow through the fight,
Each gallant round’s still changing tale,
Each feat of left and right.
How nine times in that desperate Mill
HEENANUS, in his strength,
Knocked stout SAYERIUS off his pins,
And laid him all at length;

But how in each succeeding round
SAYERIUS smiling came,
With head as cool, and wind as sound,
As his first moment on the ground,
Still confident, and game.
How from HEENANUS’ sledge-like fist,
Striving a smasher to resist,
SAYERIUS’ stout right arm gave way,
Yet the maim’d hero still made play,
And when in-fighting threatened ill,
Was nimble in out-fighting still,
Did still his own maintain――
In mourning put HEENANUS’ glims,
Till blinded eyes and helpless limbs,
The chances squared again.
How blind HEENANUS in despite
Of bleeding mug and waning sight
So gallantly kept up the fight,
That not a man could say
Which of the two ’twere wise to back,
Or on which side some random crack
Might not decide the day:
And leave us――whoso won the prize,――
Victor and vanquished, in all eyes,
An equal meed to pay.

Two hours and more the fight had sped,
Near unto ten it drew,
But still opposed-one-armed to blind,――
They stood, the dauntless two.
Ah, me, that I have lived to hear
Such men as ruffians scorned,
Such deeds of valour brutal called,
Canted, preached down and mourned!
Ah, that these old eyes ne’er again
A gallant Mill shall see!
No more behold the ropes and stakes,
With colours flying free!
But I forget the combat――
How shall I tell the close,
That left the Champion’s Belt in doubt
Between those well-matched foes?
Fain would I shroud the tale in night,――
The meddling blues that thrust in sight,――
The ring-keepers o’erthrown;――
The broken ring,――the cumbered fight,――
HEENANUS’ sudden, blinded flight,――
SAYERIUS pausing, as he might,
Just when ten minutes used aright
Had made the fight his own!

Alas! e’en in those brighter days
We still had Beaks and Blues,――
Still, canting rogues, their mud to fling
On self-defence and on the Ring,
And fistic arts abuse!
And ’twas such varmint had the power
The Champion’s fight to stay,
And leave unsettled to this hour
The honours of the day!
But had those honours rested
Divided as was due,
SAYERIUS and HEENANUS
Had cut the Belt in two.

_Punch._ April 28, 1860.

――――

THE BATTLE OF THE BRIDGE.

Great LAWRENCE, erst a builder,
By Gog and Magog swore
That he would rule the Livery
And be Lord Mayor once more.
By Gog and Magog swore it,
And named the polling day,
And bade the Liverymen go forth
To all the wards, East, West, and North,
To summon his array.

I see the long type galleys,
I see the molten lead,
I see the wondrous matrix――
The bright type leaves its bed.
He casts the grim black-letter,
For battle he is ripe,
Thus ever rides our Besley,
Lord of the Founts of Type.

Now hath each polling district
Sent up her tale of men,
And Besley counts by hundreds,
And Lawrence scarcely ten.
But a mighty boast he uttered
“Right soon the Queen shall ride
To Blackfriars Bridge, and where looks down
The viaduct o’er London town,
And Lawrence by her side.”

The harvest of the title,
This year shall Lawrence reap;
This year the London urchins
At Queen Victoria peep.
This year the crowds shall gather
To London, like the foam
That gathers on the Tiber
That rolls beside old Rome.

And now the warfare’s over,
And who shall say who’s won,
Our Besley rules the Aldermen,
The civic fight is done.
But Lawrence, cool and cunning,
No shock of war would stand,
He yields the power, but wins the prize;
Henceforth, before the nation’s eyes,
He wears the Bloody Hand!

And in the nights of winter
When many a bottle’s floor’d,
And gormandizing aldermen
Gloat o’er the groaning board,
Between the punch and turtle,
The tale they still shall tell:
How Lawrence jockey’d Besley――
How Gladstone managed well.

_The Period._ 1869.

The new Blackfriars Bridge was opened by the Queen on November 6, 1869, during the mayoralty of Alderman James C. Lawrence, who wished to be twice Lord Mayor of London, but he was beaten by Mr. Robert Besley.

――――

A LAY OF ANCIENT STOKE.

Qucealy, the avenger,
By the nine points he swore
That the great Tichborne Claimant
Should suffer wrong no more:
By the nine points he swore it,
And ere the polling day
He straightway rose and gat him forth,
And taking tickets for the North,
He sped him on his way.

Full rapidly yet surely,
The Midland train runs fast,
Until the town of potteries
Is safely gained at last!
Woe to the vile traducer
Who treats it as a joke,
For Qucealy the avenger
Is on the march for Stoke.

There be many whom the franchise
Makes voters in the land,
Who always by the public house,
Both morn and evening stand.
Evening and morn they linger
About the open door;
While each man’s little finger
Is lifted o’er and o’er.

And with one voice the voters
Have their glad answers given
“Go forth, go forth, Qucealy!
Go forth, beloved of Heaven.”
Or, in the plain vernacular
Of these simple men of Stoke,
“We’ll stick to you, Qucealy!
Go in and win, old bloke!”

I wis in all the Commons,
When came the Doctor’s night,
There was not e’en a vacant seat
For none would miss the sight.
Forthwith uprose the Premier,
Uprose the Members all:
Full speedily they seized their hats,
And hied them to the hall.

The Doctor’s brow is knit,
And the Doctor’s speech is low,
And frequently is heard “Ha, ha!”
And now and then “Oh, oh!”
But he flings aside their taunts,
As when bounding o’er the plain,
The lion shakes the dewdrops
From off his tawny mane.

“Ye honorable members
Jeer on as best ye may;
But I with two to help me
Will keep you all at bay.
A Jesuitical device
May well be checked by three:
Now who will stand on either hand
To crush conspiracy?”

Then out spake valiant Whalley,
From Peterborough he,
“_Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
And give my voice with thee._”
And outspake bould O’Gorman,
Of Celtic blood was he,
“_Whack philliloo! I’m wid you too.
Acushla gra machree!_”

The speeches now are ended,
And lo! the ranks divide,
And outsteps brave O’Gorman,
With elephantine stride.
And many fear what he may say,
And at the thought grow pale!
“_Is there any of yiz here would like
To trid upon my tale?_”

Never I ween did member
In any former case,
In solitary grandeur walk
Back to his ’customed place.
With a mighty cheer they greet him,
As he marches on alone,
And the tellers say the members be
Four hundred odd to one.

When the “ancient Tom” is opened,
And the farthing dip is lit:
When the elders whack the youngers,
And the kid howls when he’s hit:
When old and young together
Around the quartern close:
When the girls are cracking cobnuts
And the lads are mixing “goes:”

When the goodwife rubs her elbow,
After contact with the broom:
When the goodman’s “highlows” merrily
Are flying round the room!
Amid these gay distractions,
Still doth the story run,
How Qucealy lost his motion by
Four hundred odd to one.

_The Figaro_ (London). July 7. 1875.

Dr. E. V. Kenealy, counsel for the Tichborne Claimant in the great trial, was afterwards elected M.P. for Stoke.

――――

THE RETURN-MATCH BETWEEN DRYBURGH AND SLUDGEBOROUGH,

Sir V. O. Verandah of Sludgebro’
On his Tate racket swore
That the marshy town he dwelt in,
Should know defeat no more:
On his Tate racket swore it,
And named a trysting day,
And bade his messengers go forth,
To Dryburgh in the far off North,
And challenge it to play.

On bicycles to the far off North
The messengers ride fast,
And tower and town and cottage
And hill and vale are passed.
And continuous rotation
Of the never-wearied wheel
Brings them to where, near Dryburgh’s hill,
Flows Pepperhanger’s rapid rill;
To where the whilom victors dwell,
And play the game they love so well,
Foes worthy of their steel.

* * * * *

From the towers of stately Ballchester
Drives in young Tennyslorne,
From Pleycyngbury comes the heir,
And the young de Vorley’s horn
Is heard behind his spanking four
As he drives to the Pavilion door,
And nods to each a friendly greeting
Assembled for the special meeting,
Just called on Dryburgh’s lawn.
They held a council standing
By the Pavilion gate;
There wasn’t much necessity
For musing or debate.
And they read the Sludgebro’ challenge
“That another match they’d play;”
And they all agreed on the Sludgeborough mead
To meet on the trysting day.

* * * * *

Quick are the strokes as lightning
From Charley Pleycynge’s racket,
And hot must be the game that makes
De Vorley doff his jacket;
And the two said, “We will play them
A return-match, if they will.
That they may regain on Sludgeboro’ plain
What they lost on Dryburgh’s hill.”
But the maidens fair of Dryburgh
Must do without their beaux,
While young Pleycynge and de Vorley
Go forth to fight the foes;
To fight them where in Sludgeboro’s lakes
The pike at their quarry dash,
And the silver moon on the deep lagoon
Sees the wild fowl dive and splash.
And now on the Sludgebro’ tennis-lawn
Is met a surging crowd,
And “play” is called by the umpire skill’d.
In accents clear and loud:
And forth steps the great Verandah
With the warrior Biscoe bold,
Whose doughty feats upon these sheets
Could never enough be told.
And the Dryburgh pair so dauntless
Step forth on that humid lawn,
From which the lake-weed and the sedge
Have recently been shorn:
With their Tate-made rackets in their hands
And their dark blue flannel coats;
And the referee and the umpire skill’d
Lay to, hard by, in their boats.

Then the great Sir V. O. Verandah
Served his over-handed stroke,
And the crowd was hushed in silence,
And never a word was spoke:
But it came back down the side-lines,
And made the whitening fly,
And the warrior barely saw it,
As it swiftly whistled by.
Then all gazed on young de Vorley,
As he smashed with wondrous knack;
And some in front cried “Volley,”
And some said “play it back;”
But the Marshers looked despondent,
As the umpire called the score,
While all this time the rain poured down
As usual in Sludgeboro’ town.

* * * * *

At length a sound of triumph
From the Dryburgh players rose,
“Three sets to love, and Dryburgh wins
Once more against her foes.”
And many a muttered curse was heard
From the Marshers in goloshes,
And folks in boats were heard to swear,
And the Sludgeboro’ people tore their hair,
And their looks were those of grim despair,
As they clutched their mackintoshes.

But then a sullen murmur
Through the angry Marshers ran,
And the word was passed from mouth to mouth,
Till it reached from rear to van:
“Seize on those haughty Dryburghers,
And duck them in our lake,
And their jackets blue, and their rackets too,
From those proud ones let us take.”

* * * * *

Then forthwith Charley Pleycynge raised
Aloft his Tate-made racket;
Sternly his partner buttoned up
His dark blue Christ Church jacket;
And the surging crowd pressed forward,
And the shout of “Drown them!” rose,
But the two stood calm and silent,
And gazed upon their foes.

* * * * *

Was none who would be foremost
To lead this fell attack?
No: those behind cried “forward!”
And those in front cried “back!”
And backward now and forward
Wavered the deep array,
Till, all at once, the warrior bold
And Kander, shepherd of the fold,
And the country correspondent too,
With fright all shivering cold and blue,
Turned tail and ran away.

And the great Sir V. O. Verandah,
With all his Sludgeboro’ men,
Fled for their lives and safety
Through marsh and lake and fen;
Nor paused to look behind them,
All pale and white with fear,
Till they had reached the furthest shores
Of the gloomy Sludgeboro’ mere.

* * * * *

And in future generations,
In Dryburgh’s lofty town,
When we, and our great grandchildren
By time have been cut down,
In the freezing nights of winter,
When the blinding snow-storm falls,
And the boys are making tennis-nets,
And the girls are washing balls,

When the good man mends his racket,
And tightens up the strings,
When the good wife plies her needle,
And mends her winter things,
Will children gather round the fire,
And the story will be told,
How well their champions fought the fight
On Sludgeboro’ marsh, on Dryburgh height
In the famous days of old.

_From Pastime._ September 28, 1883.

This parody was afterwards reprinted in _Tennis Cuts and Quips_. Field and Tuer. London.

THE BATTLE OF THE ASSES’ BRIDGE.

Triangle Equilateral
By Algebra he swore,
That his good friend, Isosceles,
Should suffer wrong no more.
By Algebra he swore it,
And named a fighting day,
And bade his angles hurry forth――
East and west and south and north――
To summon to the fray.

East and west, and north and south,
The angles hurry fast.
And problem old and Theorem
Have heard the trumpet blast.
Shame on the Point that has no parts
The Circle that would quake,
When Equilateral has sworn
The Asses’ Bridge to take.

* * * * *

And now they are assembled,
The tale of fighting men,
The Decimals in hundreds are,
The Units one to ten.
Equations all quadratical,
Drawn out in long array;
Oh, proud was Equilateral
Upon the fighting day!

But on the Bridge of Asses
Was tumult and affright,
For all the lines below the base
Were stricken at the sight.
They held a council standing,
Upon the narrow ridge,
Hard lines I wis in times like this
’Twould take to save the Bridge.

Then outspake gallant Alpha,
On the Apex full in view,
“A Dog they say shall have his day,
A Bridge must have it too;
And how can man die better,
When things come to this pass,
Than fighting as first letter
In the sacred name of ASS?”

“Know then, false Equilateral,
“No Bridge thou’lt take to-day;
I, with two more to help me,
Will keep ye all at bay.
In these five lines a thousand
May well be stopped by three;
Now who will stand on either hand
And keep the Bridge with me?

Then outspake gallant Beta,
Of Grecian blood was he,
“Lo! I will stand on thy right hand,
And keep the Bridge with thee.”
And spake a stout Centurion,
A Roman, surnamed C,
“I will abide on thy left side,
And keep the Bridge with thee.”

The three stood calm and silent,
And watched the foeman’s line,
As from its right stepped out to fight
Theta’s well-known Co-sine.
And Vector the Quaternion――
Vector, whose fourfold power
Had puzzled many a weary head,
And kept it aching out of bed
Long past the midnight hour.

C went at once for Vector
And with a deadly blow,
Of his good blade he quickly laid
The great Quaternion low:
For in that hour had Vector’s power
Been risen to the tenth.
Little cared C I ween for he
Had smote him to the Nth.

Next Beta marked how Theta
Advanced against his line,
So with his trusty tangent he
Bisected the Co-sine.
“Lie there,” he cried, “fell tyrant!
No longer shalt thou mark
How Girton’s gold-haired graduates sigh
With vain endeavours to descry
The variable length of Pi
In thine accursed Arc.”

Then X on his Equation
Advanced, and all were mute,
For in his hand he waved his brand,
A knotty old cube root;
Thrice round his head he waved it,
And then the weapon sprung
Like bolt from bow, a mighty blow,
On Alpha’s crest it rung.

He reeled, and first on Beta
Leaned, for a breathing space,
Then dashed his Co-efficient
In the Equation’s face:
And loud he cried, “No more thy pride
My inmost soul shall vex;”
Then with a stroke, ’twould cleave an oak,
Eliminated X.

* * * * *

They gave him out of Euclid
Ten cuts so erudite,
Not thrice ten senior wranglers
Could solve ’twixt morn and night;
They gave a square, it still is there,
And every dunce derides,
With twice the double ratio
Of its homologous sides.

And on the square they raised him
A vast triangle high,
His name is on the Apex
To witness if I lie,
And underneath is written,
In letters all of brass,
How well brave Alpha held the Bridge,
That’s sacred to the ASS.

J. M. LOWRY.

This parody first appeared in “_The Keys at Home_,” published about four years since by Field and Tuer, at the Leadenhall Press, London. It has since been included in an interesting collection of Poems, entitled “_A Book of Jousts_,” edited by Mr. James M. Lowry, also published by Field and Tuer, of London.

HARCOURTIUS OF DERBIÆ.

Harcourtius of Derbiæ,
In Right’s great name he swore
That the crass hordes of Bumble
Should hold Guildhall no more.
In Right’s great name he swore it,
And with good heart and will
Made ready for the desperate fight――
That is to say, he named a night
For bringing in his Bill,
And when the night (’twas Tuesday)
In order due came round,
In serried ranks the Liberals
Were in their places found;
And with a mighty shouting
Their gallant chief they cheered:
In sooth, those present on that day
Declare ’twas good to hear the way
They ardently “Hear-hear’d!”

But ’mongst the City Fathers
Was turmoil and affright,
For they had right good reason
To dread the coming fight;
And as they filled the lobby,
And locomotion stopped,
An awesome thing it was to hear
The h’s that they dropp’d!
For many a City Father,
With far-protruding vest,
And City Knight, who should have worn
A soup-tureen as crest;
_Vulgares Consiliarii_――
In short, they all were there,
Who, having passed the bottle,
Soon hoped to “pass the Chair!”

They held a council standing
About the Lobby floor,
In groups to which fierce Auceps
In turns his presence bore;
But, after hot discussion
Of this and that design,
They, to a man, agreed their plan
Should be to go and dine!

* * * * *

Then out spoke brave Harcourtius,
Commencing the debate,
“To every Government on earth
Defeat comes soon or late,
And how can one fall better
Than fighting Bumbles’ swarm,
For the sake of London’s future
And Municipal Reform?
For the sake of every citizen,
Be he or high or low,
And dwelleth he at Kensington,
Or Bermondsey, or Bow,
For the sake of every citizen
Who payeth heavy rates,
And to save them from the jobbery
That Bumble’s rule creates.

“I’m ready, Mr. Speaker,
With all the haste I may,
To pass the sweeping measure
That I bring in to-day.
Too long has Gog been fancied
Invincible to be;
Now, who will stand on either hand
And back this Bill with me?”
Then out spake Gee-O-Emius,
A Grand Old Man was he,
“Lo, I will stand at thy right hand
And back this Bill with thee!”
And out spake Chelsæ Firthius,
A legal “friend” was he,
“I will, with pride, by thee abide,
And fight the Bill with thee!”

Meanwhile the Civic forces,
Despite their recent meal,
Are, in their hearts, so much afraid,
That all the blatant noise they made
Could not their fear conceal.
In vain did Magnus Blockus
His snuff-box pass around,
In vain did Auceps try to cheer
His followers, or far or near,
By his loud “Yah, Yah’s” sound.
And far above the arena,
More City Fathers sat;
Smug, dense, and dull and vulgar,
Crass, fatuous, and fat.
And full of dread foreboding
Lest, if the Bill were past,
Of civic jobs and shuffles
They’d seen the very last.

For none was for the City,
Though all “managed” its estates;
And the Liveries robbed the poor man,
And the Council jobbed the rates.
Most trusts were misdirected,
And endowments misapplied,
When Harcourtius and Firthius
Stood out boldly side by side.
Stout Firthius sprang on Auceps,
And in a moment’s space
He hurled, with crushing ardour,
A Blue-book in his face,
He saw, too, McArturus,
With soup-nerved vengeance burn,
And with one shot upset him,
Fired from a new “Return.”

Then Cardenus of Barum,
On Gee-o-Emius rushed;
Cardenus, who, neath cab or ’bus
So frequently is crushed;
And Gee-O-Emius met his dash
With a compelling frown,
Then, with a force like Pickford’s van,
Bore his assailant down.
’Twas Firthius smote down Luskus,
Statistics laid him low;
And to Cottoniensis’ heart
Harcourtius sent a blow;
Owdenus muttered curses,
And ’midst the rising din
Was heard the voice of him who sits
For Farringdon Within.

But hark, they cry, “Randolphus!”
And ’midst a deep’ning roar
The spry “Quaternian” leader
Sprang out upon the floor.
He smiled at those before him,
A smile serenely sly;
He eyed the Bumbles near him,
And scorn was in his eye.
Quoth he, “In my existence
I never yet did know
So very just a measure,
So very mean a foe,
The City Corporation!
Bah! tell me what is that?
A mass of vulgar ignorance,
Of fussiness and fat!”

Then, snatching up a Blue-book,
He turned him left and right,
And hurled most damning extracts
With all his well-known might!
’Twas vain for poor Northcotus
To shrewishly protest;
In vain for Sclater-Boothius
To beat his massive chest.
And when the perky Crossius
To Bumble brought his aid,
’Twas fun to see how quickly he
Upon his back was laid.

Meantime, the “whips” their office
Persistently had plied,
And all the air was vocal
With cries of “‘vide,’ ‘vide,’ ‘vide!”
With one more bound Harcourtius
At Auceps sternly leapt,
Then like a stream that bursts its banks,
In currents twain the rival ranks.
On to the lobbies swept.

* * * * *

No sound of joy or sorrow
Rose from the crowded floor,
But friends and foes in mute surmise,
With parted lips and straining eyes,
Stood gazing at the door,
And when, from ’mongst the members
That surged about the Bar,
They saw the Liberal Whips appear,
There rose a most stupendous cheer,
Repeated near and far.

The stricken City Fathers,
Disgusted, slink away,
But round great Gee-O-Emius
The jocund victors stay,
Until, midst shouts and laughter,
And cheering long and loud,
He passes from the Forum,
Hailed by the joyous crowd.
They gave him and Harcourtius
A banquet straightaway,
And passed of votes of thanks, at least,
A score or so a day.
And they made a graven image
Of both these statesmen good,
And set them up where hitherto
The Civic Griffin stood.

And still their names are music
Wherever they are heard;
Still by the daring deeds they did,
The City’s pulse is stirred.
And its wives still pray for offspring
With hearts and will as bold
As those who passed the Bill so well,
And stormed bold Bumble’s hold.
And in the nights of winter,
When from Turnham-Green to Bow,
And from Camberwell to Hackney
The Cits all homeward go;
When round their cosy firesides
The happy households draw,
No longer dreading Bumble,
Nor Vestry-muddled law;

When the evening print is opened,
And electric-lamps are lit,
And, their rates no longer dreading,
The serene breadwinners sit;
When the young and old in circle
Around their parents close;
When the girls make high-art doyleys,
And the boys make classic _mots_;
When Papa writes to the paper
To Civic ways commend,
And London’s central government
To London’s weal doth tend;
Then, with many a burst of laughter,
Shall the story still be told
How brave Harcourtius passed his Bil.
In the bad days of old!

__Truth._ April 10, 1884.

The Right Hon. Sir William V. Harcourt, M.P. for Derby, introduced his Bill for the Reform of the London Municipality, and it was read a first time on April 8, 1884. The other Members of Parliament here referred to are Lord Mayor Fowler, Joseph F. B. Firth (Chelsea), C. N. Warton, the Blocker (“Magnus Blockus”), Alderman A. McArthur, Alderman Sir Robert Carden, Sir Andrew Lusk, Alderman Cotton, Alderman Owden, Lord Randolph Churchill, Sir Stafford Northcote, G. Sclater-Booth, and the Right Hon. Sir Richard Cross.

――――

THE BATTLE OF THE INSTITUTE.[101]

_A Lay sung on the Feast of St. Guy, about the ides of
November_, 1875.

CHARLES COCHRANE of the Institute,
By the heathen gods he swore
That that great swell, Lothian Bell,
Should Cocci Walkus be no more.
By all the gods he swore it,
And Marshall[102] named a day,
And circulars were posted forth
East and west, and south and north,
Calling members to the fray.

Charles Cochrane there, whose yellow hair
Waves o’er his manly brow
He built a mighty furnace, the cause of all the Row.
This furnace was more wide and big
Than any other known,
And, Cochrane said, t’would make more pig
As could be clearly shown.
And then he quoted figures, which were an awful bore,
And of the members some did yawn, some shuffled on the floor.
Bell shook his head, and then he said
The figures were all wrong.
The blast put in was much _too weak_
The facts were all _too strong_!
And in his pleasant, genial way
He “hoped the Chair would let him say
That Cochrane was a fool!”
Then Cowper great, from Storey’s Gate,
He raised his voice on high
And swore an oath, a mighty oath,
He swore that Bell should die!
Each chieftain hastened to the brawl
In vain did Bramwell “Order” call.
Cried Marshall “What will Europe think?
When Cochrane hurled a pot of Ink
Full in the face of Bell!

Now Williams to the rescue! oh!
What man alive could tell
The laughter that arose all round
When they saw the face of Bell?
But Bell he rushed at Cochrane
And smote him fearful blows;
He gave him _one_ between the eyes,
And _two_ upon the nose!
They rose, they fell, with gasp, and yell
And angry oath and roar;
Whilst Ink and Blood, one horrid flood
Did cover all the floor!
Then, Carbutt, Mighty Hammer, and Bramwell in the Chair
And Siemens of the Telegraph, did wish they were not there.
Whilst all the other members thought
It was a funny way.
To settle scientific points
In that far distant day.
But high above the mighty din, was Hawksley heard to say
“Ho! Gentlemen, Ho! Gentlemen, let’s stop this horrid fray!”
So they sent out for the Serjeants, the Serjeants of Police,
The Constables of Manchester, in the interests of Peace.
They bade them pick those members up,
And wipe the blood away,
Whilst others washed each inky stain
From off the floor that day.

But when they picked the foemen up
No man alive could tell
Which of the two was Cochrane,
Nor which of them was Bell!
But Bell survived the combat, all in the North Contree
And for his gifts and money, they made him an M.P.
Whilst Cochrane for his valour
Got glory and renown,
As much as could be measured
Ere the sun went down.
And in each drawing office, when the argand lamp is lit,
And the draughtsman cuts his pencil, and points his ready wit.
When the pupil spoils the tracing, and breaks his Archbutt scale
With laughter and with merriment then shall they tell the tale.
Whilst the pupil rubs his Indian ink
And the draughtsman wipes his pen
They still recount with wonder
The valour of those men.
And still we hear the story――told with mirth and glee,
In any West end office, where merry draughtsmen be.

――――

FRAGMENT FROM A LAY OF MODERN ENGLAND.
(_Picked up somewhere between Downing Street and Khartoum._)

* * * * *

But the statesman’s brow was dark,
And fear was in his eye,
For he saw the wild storm rising
Across his summer sky.
“The Mahdi, he will water
His steeds at Cairo’s gate;――
No Caucus, and no Chamberlain,
Can save us from our fate!”
Then out spoke gallant Gordon,――
All fearless was his speech,――
“What could a man ask better,
Than to stand in the fiery breach;
To go at England’s bidding
And rend the sordid chain,
That binds the desert peoples,
For the sake of a Pasha’s gain;
To build up out of ruin
Order and peace once more;
To burn the thongs for scourging,
To break the prison door?”

* * * * *

Alone stood our brave hero,
But constant still in mind,
In front, foes thick as desert sand,
And sneaking friends behind.
“Now curse it,” quoth Lord Hartington,[103]
“Blood-guiltiness I fear;
The sun beats strong, the way is long,
And English gold is dear!”
“Aye! curse it,” quoth smooth Granville,
“Yet will I speak him fair;
“And show in my despatches
“A Minister’s wise care,
“To save him from the bad Zebehr,
“And from the Mahdi too;
“And praise him, while we leave him
“To sink with all his crew!”
“Aye! curse it,” quoth Spectator,
“Why raise a hand to save
“The friends he’s gathered round him;
“Let each man dig his grave,
“Or join the coming Mahdi,
“Or take himself to flight;
“We’ll rally round the Government,
“And have a faction fight.”
Round turned he as not deigning,
Those craven ranks to see,
Nought spake he to Lord Hartington,
To Granville nought spake he;
But he turned to the English people
And spoke to the English heart,
That ever has throbbed the higher
When called to choose its part.

“I came here at your bidding,
“I came to try and save;
“I spoke of that far England,
“Away beyond the wave,
“Whose hand could reach the helpless,
“Whose shield could bar the way,
“And would not leave to perish
“One life, that owned her sway.
“And now, forsooth, I’m bidden
“To save myself in flight.”

* * * * *

AUBERON HERBERT.

_Pall Mall Gazette._ May, 1884.

――――:o:――――

There are many other parodies of _Horatius_ possessing less general interest than those already quoted.

As most of them are very long, only a few verses of each will be given, sufficient to indicate the subject, and style of treatment. As the source from whence each is derived will be named, the complete parodies can easily be obtained.

It will be noticed that the last four or five verses of _Horatius_ have been especially favoured by the parodists.

LARS PORSENNA.

This amusing parody originally appeared in _College Rhymes_, 1855, but has since been issued in pamphlet form (price sixpence), by Messrs. T. Shrimpton and Son, Oxford, and has had a large sale.

Adolphus Smalls, of Boniface,
By all the powers he swore,
That though he had been plucked three times
He would be plucked no more.
By all the powers he swore it,
And put on “Coaches” three,
And many a livelong night he read,
With sported oak, and towell’d head,
To get him his “degree.”

* * * * *

They gave him his “Testamur,”
That was a Passman’s right――
He was more than three Examiners
Could “plough” from morn to night.

And in each Oxford College,
In the dark November days,
When Undergraduates fresh from hall
Are gathering round the blaze:
When the crusted port is opened
And the Palmer’s lamp is lit,
When the weed glows in the freshman’s mouth,
And makes him turn to spit:
When “goes” unlimited are forced
On some unhappy gull,
When victims, doomed to mull their pass,
Unconscious pass the mull:
With chaffing and with laughing.
They still the tale renew,
How Smalls, of Boniface, went in,
And, actually got through.

ANONYMOUS.

Several imitations of _Horatius_ occur in early volumes of _Punch_, one as far back as December 4, 1847, entitled the “Mustering of the Hobbies, a Lay of Modern Babylon,” refers to politicians many of whom are dead, and to events most of which are now forgotten. Another, dated January 26, 1856, “The Sibylline Books, a Lay of Ancient Rome for the consideration of modern Russia,” is also quite out of date. It contained certain advice which _Mr. Punch_ considered advisable to address to the Emperor of Russia.

When Macaulay was created a baron, it was practically a life peerage, as he was unmarried and unlikely to marry, _Punch_ had some verses congratulating him on the event, and referring to Mr. Baron Parke, who, in 1856, had been raised to the peerage as Lord Wensleydale, with the usual succession to his heirs male, who did not exist, and never came into being.

HOW TITUS MANLIUS MACAULEIUS WAS MADE
A PATRICIAN.

The Consul Palmerstonius
Hath ta’en down his DEBRETT,
And o’er its storied pages
His anxious brow is set.
Those are not age’s wrinkles
The Consul’s cheek that plough,
It is not time that sprinkles
That snow upon his brow.

The Consul closed the volume――
He closed it with a bang!
And he seized his slate and pencil
From the wall where they did hang;
And straight he set to ciphering,
And out a sum he brought;
And his sum was of six figures,
And it ended with a nought.

So the united ages
Of the Patricians stood,
When Consul Palmerstonius
Vowed they must have new blood.
What though your _novi homines_
Do not always wax in wit;
Oft _Patricius_, like _Poeta_,
Proves “_nascitur non fit_.”

“Besides, as after physic
The matron gives her child
A crust of blandest honey,
To make the bitter mild;
So I, for the Patricians,
A pleasant peer must find,
To take away the savour
Wens’dalius left behind.

“_Patres majorum gentium_,
_Patres minorum_, too,
Your seats upon those benches
To sources strange are due:
The fruit of royal bye-blows,
The growths of courtier-slime
The brawny sons of rapine,
The heirs of reckless crime.

“The sword hath dibbled often
Holes for patrician seed;
And many a lawyer’s tongue hath licked
All shoes, and oft unfee’d,
No stooping found too lowly,
No crawling thought too mean,
If but a Conscript Father
He might at last be seen.

“I’ll raise to the Patricians,
One who ne’er wore steel, nor lied,
Whose weapon was his goose-quill,
Whose pleadings were world-wide;
Whose foes were Falsehood, Prejudice,
Fraud, Sophistry, and Wrong――
With which he held wit-combat,
Wit-combat, brave and long!

“So, when that Palmerstonius
Hath gone where all must go――
E’en those whose brains glow fiery
’Neath coronals of snow:
Write by the Appian way-side,
On the tomb where he is laid,
‘Of Manlius Macauleius
He a Patrician made.’”

(_Four verses omitted._)

_Punch._ September 19, 1857.

――――

THE BATTLE OF LAKE GLENLIVIT.
_By the Author of “The Lays of Ancient Rum.”_

It was a song of sorrow,
Blent with a solemn vow,
Floated across the lovely lake,
And up the mountain’s brow.
Glenlivit! O, Glenlivit!
No wonder that we grieve;
Glenlivit! O, Glenlivit!
Why should we ever leave?

No, we will never leave it,
By oaths let us avouch,
As long as mountain dew exists,
And plack is in the pouch.
Ye Parliament oppressors,
Who Scotia ne’er could quell,
Our fathers fought ye stoutly,――
Their sons can fight as well!

_The poet then recounts the fight between the lovers of Whiskey, and the Temperance party, led on by Forbes Mackenzie, in which, after a tremendous struggle, Whiskey is triumphant_:――

Glenlivit’s joyous victors
With cheers the welkin rent,
And home was Forbes Mackenzie
Upon a shutter sent.

Now you who hear this story,
Don’t doubt it, if you please;
Have I not told you things before
As wonderful as these?
Why should you doubt a legend
Because ’tis nearer home?
Or can no fables please you
But those that come from Rome?

This parody, which consists of 25 verses, is to be found in _Rival Rhymes in Honour of Burns_, by Ben Trovato. London. Routledge and Co. 1857.

This book is generally ascribed to Samuel Lover, the novelist.

――――

LAY OF MODERN ENGLAND.

Augustus Smith, of Scilly,
By Piper’s Hole he swore
That the proud Lord of Brownlow
Should keep the waste no more.
By Piper’s Hole he swore it,
And named a trysting night,
And bade his myrmidons ride forth,
By special train from London’s north,
To venge the Common Right.

Where on the street of Drummond
Four Doric columns frown,
Where the gigantic Stephenson
On his own line looks down,
The stalwart navvies gathered,
From lodgings far and near;
Strong were the crowbars in their hands,
Stronger their hope for beer.

Loured the foul London gaslights,
And made the gloom more deep,
The million-peopled city’s sons
Were in their early sleep,
When from the Euston Station
Glided the special train
That bore the force that went to win
Berkhampstead’s waste again.

On, the steam-demon bore them,
Nor flagged upon the wing,
Until he lighted with his load
At Baptist-chapelled Tring.

They marched three miles in silence,
The road was dark and drear,
One thought upheld the navvy’s heart
The pleasant thought of beer.
They reached Berkhampstead Common
Or that which had been one,
Until by Ashridge’s proud Lord
The feudal deed was done.

There, miles of iron railing
Scowled grimly in the dark,
Making what once was Common,
The Lord of Brownlow’s Park:
His rights that Lord asserted,
Rights which they hold a myth,
The bold Berkhampstead Commoner,
Led by Augustus Smith.

Spoke out the nameless Leader,
“That Railing must go down”
Then firmer grasped the crowbar
Those hands so strong and brown,
They march against the railing,
They lay the crowbars low,
And down and down for many a yard
The costly railings go.

So down went Brownlow’s railings,
And down went Hazell’s beer,
And from the gathering crowd upgoes
One loud and lusty cheer.
For carriage, gig, and dog-cart
Come rushing on the scene,
And all Berkhampstead hastes to see,
Where Brownlow’s rails had been.

And husbands, wives, and children,
Went strolling through the gorse,
And cried, “We’ve got our own again,
Thanks to your friendly force.”
They cut green little morsels
As memories of the Band,
Whose lusty arms and iron bars
Had freed the Common land.

Bold was the deed and English
The Commoners have done,
Let’s hope the law of England, too,
Will smile upon their fun.
For our few remaining Commons
Must not be seized or sold,
Nor Lords forget they do not live
In the bad days of old.

(_Seven verses omitted._)

_Punch_. March 24, 1866.

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