Chapter XXVIII: Part I (8)

My name is _Moses_:――In theft-famed Rag Fair
My father sells old cloathes.――A bearded _Smouch_;
Whose constant aim was to humbug his buyers,
And teach his only son, myself,――_to cheat_.
But I had heard of Gambling,――and I long’d
To lighten, with false dice, some sporting Lord.
Change Alley granted, what my fate denied:
This moon, which rose last night, crooked like my fingers,
’Pear’d not i’ th’ almanac, when in dark street,
A band of lucky _Bulls_, from Garraway’s――hot,
Rush’d like a torrent down chaste Goodman’s Fields,
_Row-wing_ and breaking lamps. The _Rabbis_ fled
To fetch their canes brass headed:――I alone
With breeches pack, and box of ladies’ caxens,[117]
Shuffled about the jolly dogs, and filch’d
Their pocket-books;――I sought Ben Israel;
Whom with a troop of fifty perjur’d Brokers
I Bank-ward follow’d: the notes we parted;
Next morn we fac’d the Stock-encumber’d foe.
We bought up Consols. Ere a transfer made,
A bargain from my tongue _did up_ their chief,
Who held that day the scrip since in my name.
Returning home half-groggy, I disdain’d
Th’ old cloathes man’s stitching life, and having heard
The financier had summon’d all loan jobbers
To bring their _Rino_ to the Treasury side;
I left old Shylock’s house; and stole with me
His fraud-earn’d bags to pay my quantum down;
(The electric _Spankers_ which have skirk’d their masters!)
Intent on lies and rapine, I have prowl’d,
Till, hell-directed, I a _Bear_ became,
The accursed deed that dickies all my hopes!

From “_Poems_, by John Peter Roberdeau,” Chichester. 1803.

――――

The following parody appeared in _The New Tory Guide_, a small collection of political and satirical _jeux d’esprit_ published by J. Ridgway, London, in 1819. “The Doctor” was a nickname bestowed, by his political opponents, upon Henry Addington, first Viscount Sidmouth, who was the son of a medical man, Anthony Addington, M.D.

Henry Addington was Prime Minister in 1801, he was created a Viscount in 1805, and held several lucrative appointments. He was the subject of many bitter lampoons, and in 1817 he attempted by strong measures to limit the freedom of the Press, in which he signally failed. Hone’s publications contain several caricatures of him by George Cruikshank, as well as the following parody, which is there ascribed to the pen of the Right Hon. George Canning, but without any mention of the paper in which it first appeared. It is also quoted in Vol. VIII. of _The Spirit of the Public Journals for 1804_, where it is stated to have been taken from the _Oracle_.

“My name’s the _Doctor_: on the Berkshire hills
My father purg’d his patients; a wise man,
Whose constant care was to increase his store,
And keep his only son――myself――at home.

“But I had heard of politics, and long’d
To sit within the Commons’ House, and get
A place; and luck gave what my sire denied.――
Some thirteen years ago, or ere my fingers
Had learn’d to mix a potion, or to bleed,
I flatter’d Pitt; I cring’d, and sneak’d, and fawn’d,
And thus became the Speaker. I alone,
With pompous gait, and peruke full of wisdom,
Th’ unruly _Members_ could control, or call
The House to order.

“Tir’d of the Chair, I sought a bolder flight,
And grasping at _his_ power, I _struck_ my friend,
Who held that _place_, which now I’ve made my own.
“Proud of my triumph, I disdain’d to court
The patron hand which fed me, or to seem
Grateful to him who rais’d me into notice.
And when the King had called his Parliament
To meet him here conven’d in Westminster,
With all my _Family_ crowding at my heels,
My brothers, cousins, followers, and my son,
I show’d myself prime _Doctor_ to the country;
My ends attain’d, my only aim has been
To keep my place, and gild my humble name.”

――――

MY NAME IS SCRAGGEM.

My name is Scragg’em. On famed Mutton Hill
My father sells his pies, a frugal man
Whose constant care it was to win the toss,
Increase his store, and keep my humble self at home.
But I had heard of winning, and I long’d
To follow to the hill, to call out head or tail,
And Heaven soon granted what my sire denied.
Yon gas, which blazed last night long as my stick,
Had scarce burst into flame, when by its light
A half-starved, hungry mortal, rushed furiously
On my stall, devouring mince and mutton.
The watchman fled for succour, I alone
In Crib-like attitude, hover’d about the enemy,
Then pounced suddenly upon his meagre carcass,
And drew a half-munch’d pie from his devouring jaws.
I fought and conquer’d, ere a Charley came,
I’d drawn the claret from his olfact’ry organ.
Returning home in triumph, I disdain’d
The vulgar cry of apple, mince, or mutton;
And having heard of one Sir Walter Scott,
And Bernard-Barton, bard of broad-brim’d beaver,
Filling their pockets with produce of a pen,
I left my stall, took up the grey goose quill,
And wrote these lines, with the intent
That MIRROR’S page should gild my humble name.

From Limbird’s _Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction_. Vol. vi.

――――

MY NAME’S TOM DIBDIN.

My name’s _Tom Dibdin_,[118] far o’er Ludgate Hill
My master kept his shop, a frugal Cit,
Whose constant cares were to increase his store,
And keep his only ’prentice, me, at home;
For I had heard of acting, and I long’d
To mimic on the stage some warlike lord,
But fortune granted me what trade denied.
Yon moon, which rose one night across Moorfields,
Had scarcely fill’d her horns, when by her light
A band of merry mad-caps from the town
Rushed like a torrent to the water’s edge
Seeking the Margate hoy――with them I fled
For liberty and acting. Thus alone,
With walking strides, and bundle thin of linen,
Hover’d about the Kentish coast, and mark
What trade I took――I hasten’d to _East-Bourne_,
Where _Richland_,[119] and a troop of actor folks
I met advancing. Merry lives we led,
Till we had eased the cash-encumber’d clowns,
I wrote and acted, ere long time had flown,
A scribble from my quill, produc’d a farce,
Which bore that day the name that now it bears,
Elated thence, with triumph I disdained
A country actor’s life, and having heard
That Mister _Harris_ wanted some bold bard,
To lead his actors to old Nilus’ side,[120]
I left my manager, and took with me
A chosen fair one to console my steps,
Yon merry female who delights her master.
Journeying to town from Kent, I pass’d the Tower,
And, chance directed, came this day to write
An opera that’s wormwood to the Jews.[121]

From _The Times_, also quoted in _The Spirit of the Public Journals for 1803_.

――――

ADDRESS,

_To be spoken by the Author, dressed in the garb of a
Brewer’s Porter, armed with a Spigot, &c._

My name is Whitbread. Upon Hertford’s hills
My father kept his house; a brewer rich,
Whose constant cares were to increase his wealth,
And keep his only son, myself, at school;
For I had heard of speeches, and I long’d
To follow in the House some noisy chief,
And Bedford granted what my sire denied.

This House which opes to-night, large as my brewhouse,
Had not yet rais’d its head, when on its site
A band of Irish bricklayers, from the street,
Rush’d like mad dogs upon the ruin’d walls,
Wheeling the bricks and stones; the Renters fled
For Sheridan and Peake; whilst I alone,
With bended quill and book full of subscribers,
Hover’d about the ruins, and well mark’d
The road they went;――then hasted to some friend,
Whom with a list of fifty wealthy men
I met advancing. Then the chair I took
And soon o’erturned the _debt-encumbered_ foe;
We talked and argued: ere a pound was paid,
A promise from my tongue upset the chief,
Who had that day the _box_ which now I have!
Returning home in triumph, I disdain’d
A brewer’s vulgar life; and having read
That our old King had summoned his good towns
To send new members up to Abbot’s side,
I went to Bedford, and behind me left
A chosen Lord to follow in my steps――
Yon bald-head bigot who _forsook his master_.

(_Pointing to Lord H’s box._)

Journeying with that intent, I’ve ’scaped the Tower,
And, pride directed, come this night to hear
The rabble shouts that greet my brazen name.

_The Morning Post._ October 29, 1812.

Samuel Whitbread, M.P., took a very active part in the rebuilding of Drury Lane Theatre, which had recently been destroyed by fire. Mr. Whitbread is frequently mentioned in _The Rejected Addresses_. He committed suicide in 1815.

_The Mélange_ (Liverpool, 1834), also contains another parody on the same original. It is an address supposed to be delivered by a lad named William Leigh, who was wounded in the Peterloo massacre in 1819, when the Yeomanry Cavalry and Hussars brutally charged into a public meeting held to deliberate on the Reform Bill, and killed and wounded many people. The parody is now devoid of interest.

――――

CANNING’S HISTORY OF HIMSELF.
(_Written in April_ 1822.)

My name is Canning; on the Thespian boards
My mother played her part――a thrifty dame,
Whose only care was to increase her store,
And teach her hopeful son the “Rule of Three.”[122]
But I had heard of sinecures, and long’d
To follow in the track that leads to Court,
And Heaven soon granted what I so desir’d:
The Gallic sun rose from chaotic night,
And by its blaze, a horde of _Sans Culottes_
Rush’d, like a torrent, o’er the affrighted world――
Threaten’g all crowned heads. The _Courier_ wrote
The Jacobins to succour. I, on place
Intent, wrote, in the _Anti-Jacobin_,
Phillippics against France, and Pitt soon mark’d
The squibbs I penned, and rank’d me with his friends,
A chosen band of needy, hungry placemen,
In fortune all advancing. This life I led
Until at Waterloo we met the foe:
We fought and conquer’d, thank our lucky stars,
The loitering Grouchy seal’d the fate of Nap.,[123]
Who wore that day the crown fat Louis wears.
Exulting in our triumph, I disdain’d
A rhyming punster’s life, and having heard
That Lusitania’s king, called by his peers,
His course was bending to the Tagus side,
I left my native land and took with me
The sum of fourteen thousand pounds a year.
The King came not; but what cared I for that?
I ate and drank, and then came back again;
And, Heaven be prais’d, have liv’d to see the day
When India hails me as her Governor!

From _The Mélange_, Liverpool, 1834.

――――

DR. LARDNER’S CYCLOPÆDIA.

My name is Lardner, in St. Paul’s Churchyard
My Cyclopædia sells, a weighty book
Whose constant pages do increase my store
And keep their editor, myself, at home!
For I was born a _janius_, and I longed
For some two thousand pounds per annum, and
My book soon gave what Gower Street denied.

From _The National Omnibus_, May 27, 1831.

――――

NORVAL.

My name is Norval, on the Grampian hills,
My faither keeps his whisky stills,
His occupation is to shield
His whisky stills frae the gauger chiels;
And to keep his son at hame as weel,
Fal, lal, &c.

The moon which shone so bright last night,
Had scarcely set itself――not quite;
When a band o’ gaugers o’er the hills
Cam’ tumblin’ down like Jacks and Gills,
And pounced upon our whisky stills.
Fal, lal, &c.

My faither he was off like a shot,
And said the stills might go to pot;
While I alone withstood the shock,
And tumbled the gaugers o’er a rock,
And made their heads play nick-ety-knock.
Fal, lal, &c.

Full fifty fathoms they fell, I think,
And spattered the rocks all over with ink;
The first he fell down with a thump, thump, thump,
The next he fell down with a dump, dump, dump.
While they all fell together in a clump, clump, clump.
Fal, lal, &c.

――――

THE MODERN NORVAL.

_Scene.――The Treasury Bench in the House of Commons. As the scene
opens, the new Chancellor of the Exchequer is discovered on his
legs, and forthwith proceeds to thus address the House._

LORD R. CHURCHILL:

My name is Randolph; in the Blenheim fields
My father fed his flocks; a frugal duke
Whose constant care was to increase his store
Of ready money, hoarded for my sake,
That I, although not heir, might have wherewith
To help me in my fight for power and place.
For I had suddenly (what time I sat
For Woodstock borough) gained myself much fame,
And finding that sharp wits, and daring pluck,
And matchless impudence were strangely rare
Amongst the Tories, straightway resolved
To raise myself, as in the past men said
That wily Hebrew and great Tory chief
Lord Beaconsfield, long time as Dizzy known,
Had raised himself to foremost place and fame.

Aye, I had read his doings, and I longed
To follow in the path of such a chief
And trade, as he did, on the ignorance
Of those who called themselves Conservative.
What happ’d I need not tell you; ’tis enough
That Fate soon granted what my soul desired,
And that the chance I yearn’d for came full soon,
I pass in silence o’er those merry months
When aided by three henchmen (each of whom
Has since had cause to bless the day he helped me),
I made notorious our Fourth Party’s name.
Are not its deeds in _Hansard_ duly writ?
How ’twas I teased and “drew” the Grand old Man?
How, too, I all but broke poor Northcote’s heart?
These things are recent, and men still recall
How, like a freelance, rising from my seat,
I made my verbal spear thrusts right and left,
And dealt deep wounds to friend and foe alike.
Men still recall, I say, the things I did,
When office came to crown my lawlessness,
And the proud Marquis had to own my might;
How, cool and confident, I laid my plans,
And, armed with weapons such as Dizzy used,
Made haste to wield them. Aye! whilst others slept
I hovered round the Tory camp and shot
My venowed arrows till the air was full
Of groaning, as the wounded Tory dolts
Were borne complaining to the House of Lords.

Thus did I clear the path that led me here,
Thus paved the way to that great victory
Which has been gained but lately o’er our foes.
’Tis true that other leaders led the van.
Whigs fought and won, but Tories claimed the spoil,
And I, insisting on a lion’s share,
Am here to-day as Leader of that House
In which I’ve played my pranks in sessions past,
And outraged precedent and party faith.

Yes, Randolph is my name, I would repeat,
And whilst my brother Blenheim doth denude
Of all its treasures, to increase the sum
Accruing after mortgages are paid,
I bring the House of Churchill fresh renown
(My foes _will_ call it notoriety),
And seated on this bench prepare to reap
Those oaths so wild I sowed below the gangway
But thirty-seven, yet trusted to control
The realm’s finances, and to have my way
Despite the Marquis and his played-out friends;
But thirty-seven, yet filled with the belief
That greater honour still will soon be mine.
And that the baser Tories, tickled by
My daring tricks, my voluble command
Of words abusive, and the ready way
I pelt my friends and foes with verbal mud,
Will with one voice proceed to summon me
To lead their party to fresh victories,
E’en though it may be o’er Lord Salisbury’s corse.

_The London Figaro._ August 21, 1886.

――――

THE INFANT PRODIGY.

My name is Balfour! On the Irish ills
My uncle feeds his flock, a frugal swain
Whose only care is to enforce the law,
And keep myself, his nevvy, in the swim,
And so, relinquishing a placid post――
That is, the Scottish Secretaryship――
I have been promptly thrust into the gap
Which the involuntary exodus
Of poor Sir Michael E. Hicks-Beach has made.
Now must I urge a valiant attempt
To show my mettle, and, in constant fray
With Ireland’s Home Rule representatives,
Or Ireland’s agitating multitudes,
To justify my elevated state.
Wherefore an’ these, the enemies of law,
Oppose the mandates of our Government,
It shall be mine to head the countercharge,
And bring them to their knees. My trusty sword,
Albeit ’tis of wood, can deal hard knocks;
And slashing, prodding, whacking right and left――
As thus――and thus――unless I greatly err,
I’ll pretty soon assert supremacy,
And make the varlets mind their P’s. and Q’s.

_Fun._ March 16, 1887.

GO, LOVELY ROSE.

(EDMUND WALLER, born 1603, died 1687.)

Go, lovely Rose!
Tell her, that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that’s young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That had’st thou sprung
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired.
And not blush so to be admired.

Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee,――
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

[Yet, though thou fade,
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise;
And teach the maid
That goodness Time’s rude hand defies,――
That virtue lives when beauty dies.]

The last stanza was added by Henry Kirke White, and
is the crowning grace of a beautiful poem, which would
scarcely have been complete without it.

――――

THE WEDDING CAKE.

Verses to accompany the wedding cake prepared by Messrs. Purcell of Cornhill, for the Emperor Napoleon’s marriage.

Go, wedding-cake!
And tell the Emperor, from me
That no mistake,
When I resemble him to thee,
About his work and state can be.

Tell him that’s rich,
And deck’d in jewels, stars, and rings,
That dainties which
Are faced by plaster tinsellings
Are not the wholesomest of things.

Too large a slice
Of plums and almonds thickly press’d,
Though passing nice,
And swallow’d, at the time, with zest,
Is apt to lie upon the chest.

A fair outside,
Of lily whiteness, ne’er so much,
May chance to hide
A mass of black material, such
As dainty palates fear to touch.

Then go, that he
May learn the fate of humbugs past,
Like him, and thee,――
To be, their transient splendours past――
Pitch’d into, and cut up at last.

_Diogenes._ February 1853.

――――

THE ÆSTHETE TO THE ROSE.
(_By Wildgoose, after Waller._)

Go, flaunting Rose!
Tell her that wastes her love on thee,
That she nought knows
Of the new Cult, Intensity,
If sweet and fair to her you be.

Tell her that’s young,
Or who in health and bloom takes pride,
That bards have sung
Of a new youth――at whose sad side
Sickness and pallor aye abide.

Small is the worth
Of Beauty in crude charms attired.
She must shun mirth,
Have suffered, fruitlessly desired,
And wear no flush by hope inspired.

Then die, that she
May learn that Death is passing fair:
May read in thee
How little of Art’s praise they share,
Who are not sallow, sick, and spare!

_Punch._ October 1, 1881.

――――

THE MESSAGE OF THE ROSEBERY.

Go, my Primrose,
Tell them the new Secretaree
Is one who knows
His mind, and hath not a weak knee,
How bland so’er he seem to be.

Tell them you’re young,
And in so high a post untried;
But having sprung
Into the saddle at one stride,
You’re going to sit down and _ride_.

Small is the worth
Of a “light hand” that soon gets tired;
Better stand forth
As the strong man so long desired,
Abroad respected, here admired.

In Granville we
The fate of weakness _debonair_
May clearly see;
Put down your foot, sit firm and square,
And keep us free from shirk and scare!

_Punch._ February 13, 1886.

WANTED――A GOVERNESS.

A governess wanted――well fitted to fill
The post of tuition with competent skill――
In a gentleman’s family highly genteel.
Superior attainments are quite indispensable,
With everything, too, that’s correct and ostensible;
Morals of pure unexceptionability;
Manners well formed, and of strictest gentility.
The pupils are five――ages, six to sixteen――
All as promising girls as ever were seen――
And besides (though ’tis scarcely worth while to put that in)
There is _one_ little boy――but _he_ only learns Latin.
The lady must teach all the several branches
Whereunto polite education now launches:
She’s expected to teach the French tongue like a native,
And be to her pupils of all its points dative;
Italian she _must_ know _au fond_, nor needs banish
Whatever acquaintance she _may_ have with Spanish;
Nor would there be harm in a trifle of German,
In the absence, that is, of the master, Von Hermann.
The harp and piano――_cela va sans dire_,
With thorough bass, too, on the plan of Logier.
In drawing in pencil, in chalks, and the tinting
That’s called Oriental, she must not be stint in;
She must paint upon paper, and satin, and velvet;
And if she knows gilding, she’ll not need to shelve it,
Dancing, of course, with the newest gambades,
The Polish mazurka, and best gallopades;
Arithmetic, history, joined with chronology,
Heraldry, botany, writing, conchology,
Grammar, and satin-stitch, netting, geography,
Astronomy, use of the globes, cosmography,
’Twas also as well could she be calisthenical,
That her charges’ young limbs may be pliant to any call.
Their health, play, and studies, and moral condition,
Must be superintended without intermission:
At home, she must all habits check that disparage,
And when they go out must attend to their carriage.
Her faith must be orthodox――temper most pliable――
Health good――and reference quite undeniable.
These are the principal matters. _Au reste_,
Address, Bury Street, Mrs. General Peste.
As the _salary’s moderate_, none need apply
Who more on that point than on _comfort_ rely.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

WANTED――AN ALDERMAN.

Wanted, an Alderman, fitted to fill
His post in the City with competent skill.
If no judge of justice, a good judge of wine,
Who knows how to ride and who knows how to dine.
When needed to Time he must be in “the nick,”
And if he makes watches must not go on tick;
Who three times on Sundays to church does repair,
Who knows how to feather the nest of a mayor.
Who well the importance of beakdom can feel,
For the Court is itself――oh! so very genteel.
Wanted――an Alderman!

He must not at Greenwich, with Radicals shout,
Nor yet to a beanfeast with workmen go out;
And if at a tavern to dine he doth please,
Must not make a bet on the height of the cheese.
He must vow Temple Bar still shall weather the storm,
And not say a word about City reform,
He must swear vested rights are of all rights the best,
And not a chain cable wear outside his vest.
He his mind must not speak, whatsoe’er he may feel,
For the Court is itself――oh! so very genteel.
Wanted――an Alderman!

Wanted――an Alderman――portly and fat,
To wear on occasions a gown and cocked hat;
To look sharply after the City police,
And fine costermongers his five pounds apiece.
To let out on bail each embezzling clerk,
And lock up young swells who are “out for a lark;”
To vote for the Tories or not vote at all,
To ride in his carriage, and cabs never call;
In short, “fit and proper” to be and to feel,
For the Court is itself――oh! so very genteel!
Wanted――an Alderman!

_Funny Folks._

――――

WANTED AN EDITOR.

Wanted an Editor, burly and big,
Clever, and willing, and hearty.
Neither a Radical, Tory, nor Whig,
But able to please every party.
He must not be squeamish, nor over nice
In tracing out jobs, root and fibre
He must loathe every sinner, lash every vice
But never offend a subscriber.
(This last is a process requiring great care,
Since vices are plenty, subscribers more rare.)

Learned, yet practical, he must unite
Natural talent with science,
These, with that which can alone keep him right,
Judgment, well worthy reliance.
He must always be able to crack a good joke,
And ready to tell a new story
Know all the authorities, Camden and Coke,
The Stud Book and Sir Peter Laurie.
(He may have what he likes _in_ his head; but beware!
The latter authority don’t like long hair!)

He must know all the turns of the Turf and the tricks
Which folks would involve in such mystery;
If a horse should be poisoned, be able to fix
On the rogue――and relate the whole histr’y.
He must watch every dodge and deceit in the odds,
By discerning ’twixt better and hedger;
He must mark all the winks, and the nudges and nods,
And PROPHESY Derby and Leger.
(This last is a matter of lucky fortuity,
Which when you are “out” merely wants ingenuity.)
And now as to terms, we already have shown
How pleasant this Editor’s place is――
He must hunt, and of course keep a horse of his own
Shoot――fish――and attend all the races;――
Thus his work is so light, yet so pleasant withal,
From the honest fame he must inherit,
The Proprietors don’t wish to pay him at all,
But let his reward be――his merit.
(Another announcement will appear by and by
Directing all candidates where to apply.)

From _Songs of the Press, and other Poems relating to Printing_, collected by C. H. Timperley. London. Fisher, Son & Co. 1845.

William Makepeace Thackeray,

Born, July 18, 1811. | Died, Dec. 24, 1863.

EPARTING from the plan hitherto adopted in this collection, Thackeray will have to be considered not only as the author of many poems which have formed the bases of parodies, but also as himself the writer of almost innumerable parodies and burlesques, both in verse and in prose. Having, indeed, such a natural _penchant_ for travestie that he would rather parody himself, than remain long serious, or philosophical. One of his early friends and schoolfellows wrote of him, that, when quite a boy at the Charterhouse School, “he was known for his faculty of making verses, chiefly parodies.”

I only remember one, a parody on a poem by L. E. L. about ‘Violets, dark blue violets,’ which Thackeray translated into ‘Cabbages, bright green cabbages,’ and we thought it very witty.”

This parody will be given later on, but considerations of space render it necessary to be sparing of comment on Thackeray’s work as a parodist; some of his best poetical parodies will be given, as well as a list of his prose burlesques. But for historical details of these famous _jeux d’esprit_, with explanations of the allusions contained in them, the reader can be confidently recommended to turn to Anthony Trollope’s charming volume on Thackeray, in the “English Men of Letters” series, published by Macmillan & Co., London.

Certainly, as Anthony Trollope therein remarks, no writer ever had a stronger proclivity towards parody than Thackeray, and there is no form of literary drollery more dangerous. The parody will often mar the gem of which it coarsely reproduces the outward semblance.

But it must be acknowledged of Thackeray, that he has done little or no injury by his parodies. They run over with fun, but are so contrived that they do not lessen the flavour of the original. In the little set of verses of his own, called _The Willow Tree_, and his own parody on the same, we see how effective a parody may be in destroying the sentiment of the piece parodied.

But in dealing with other authors, he has been grotesque without being severely critical, and has been very like, without making ugly or distasteful that which he has imitated.

VIOLETS.

Violet!――deep-blue violets!
April’s loveliest coronets!
There are no flowers grown in the vale,
Kissed by the sun, woo’d by the gale,
None with the dew of the twilight wet
So sweet as the deep-blue violet!
I do remember how sweet a breath,
Came with the azure light of a wreath,
That hung round the wild harp’s golden chords,
That rung to my dark-eyed lover’s words;
I have seen that dear harp rolled
With gems of the east and bands of gold.
But it never was sweeter than when set
With leaves of the dark blue violet.
And when the grave shall open for me――
I care not how soon that time may be――
Never a rose shall blow on my tomb,
It breathes too much of hope and bloom!
But let me have there the meek regret
Of the bending and deep-blue violet!

LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON.

In L. E. L.’s poetical works, “Excelsior” Edition, the above is called “_The_ Violet,” and lines 3 and 4 are――

There are no flowers _grow_ in the vale
Kiss’d by the _dew_, woo’d by the gale,

and the final lines are――

Never a rose shall grow on _that_ tomb,
It breathes too much of hope and _of_ bloom,
_But there be that flower’s_ meek regret,
The bending and deep-blue violet!

――――

CABBAGES.

Cabbages! bright green cabbages!
April’s loveliest gifts I guess,
There is not a plant in the garden laid,
Raised by the soil, dug by the spade,
None by the gardener water’d I ween,
So sweet as the cabbage, the cabbage green.
I do remember how sweet a smell
Came with the cabbage I loved so well,
Served up with the beef that so beautiful looked,
The beef that the dark-eyed Ellen cooked.
I have seen beef served with radish of horse,
I have seen beef served with lettuce of Cos,
But it is far nicer, far nicer I guess
As bubble and squeak. Beef and cabbages.
And when the dinner-bell sounds for me――
I care not how soon that time may be――
Carrots shall never be served on my cloth,
They are far too sweet for a boy of my broth,
But let me have there a mighty mess
Of smoking hot beef and cabbages!

W. M. THACKERAY.

This early parody has not hitherto been included amongst Thackeray’s collected ballads and poems. It was printed in an article which appeared in _Cornhill_, Vol. XI., 1865, entitled “A Memorial of Thackeray’s Schooldays,” signed J. F. B.

THE WILLOW-TREE.

No. I.

Know ye the willow-tree,
Whose gray leaves quiver,
Whispering gloomily
To yon pale river?
Lady, at eventide
Wander not near it!
They say its branches hide
A sad lost spirit!

Once to the willow-tree
A maid came fearful,
Pale seemed her cheek to be,
Her blue eye tearful.
Soon as she saw the tree,
Her steps moved fleeter,
No one was there――ah me!――
No one to meet her!

Quick beat her heart to hear
The far bells’ chime,
Toll from the chapel-tower
The trysting time.
But the red sun went down
In golden flame,
And though she looked round,
Yet no one came!

Presently came the night,
Sadly to greet her,――
Moon in her silver light,
Stars in their glitter.
Then sank the moon away
Under the billow.
Still wept the maid alone――
There by the willow!

Through the long darkness,
By the stream rolling,
Hour after hour went on
Tolling and tolling.
Long was the darkness,
Lonely and stilly.
Shrill came the night wind,
Piercing and chilly.

Shrill blew the morning breeze,
Biting and cold.
Bleak peers the gray dawn
Over the wold!
Bleak over moor and stream
Looks the gray dawn,
Gray, with dishevelled hair,
Still stands the willow there――
The maid is gone!

Domine, Domine!
Sing we a litany――
Sing for poor maiden-hearts
Broken and weary;
Domine, Domine!
Sing we a litany,
Wail we and weep we a
Wild miserere!

Thackeray wrote this pretty little ballad simply that he might render it absurd by his own parody, which is here printed side by side, as it was when it first appeared in _Frazer’s Magazine_ for 1842, in _The Fitz-Boodle Papers_.

THE WILLOW-TREE.

No. II.

Long by the willow-tree
Vainly they sought her,
Wild rang the mother’s screams
O’er the gray water.
“Where is my lovely one?
Where is my daughter?

“Rouse thee, sir constable――
Rouse thee and look.
Fisherman, bring your net,
Boatman, your hook.
Beat in the lily beds,
Dive in the brook.”

Vainly the constable
Shouted and called her.
Vainly the fisherman
Beat the green alder.
Vainly he threw the net,
Never it hauled her!

Mother beside the fire
Sat, her night-cap in;
Father, in easy chair,
Gloomily napping;
When at the window-sill
Came a light tapping.

And a pale countenance
Looked through the casement.
Loud beat the mother’s heart,
Sick with amazement,
And at the vision which
Came to surprise her!
Shrieking in an agony――
“Lor’! it’s Elizar!”

Yes, ’twas Elizabeth;――
Yes, ’twas their girl;
Pale was her cheek, and her
Hair out of curl.
“Mother!” the loved one,
Blushing, exclaimed,
“Let not your innocent,
Lizzy be blamed.

“Yesterday, going to aunt
Jones’s to tea,
Mother, dear mother, I
Forgot the door-key!
And as the night was cold,
And the way steep,
Mrs. Jones kept me to
Breakfast and sleep.”

Whether her pa and ma
Fully believed her,
That we shall never know.
Stern they received her;
And for the work of that
Cruel, though short night,――
Sent her to bed without
Tea for a fortnight.

_Moral._

Hey diddle diddlety,
Cat and the fiddlety,
Maidens of England take
Caution by she!
Let love and suicide
Never tempt you aside,
And always remember to take the door-key.

W. M. THACKERAY.

LITTLE BILLEE.
(AIR.――_Il y avait un petit navire._)

There were three sailors of Bristol city
Who took a boat and went to sea.
But first with beef and captain’s biscuits
And pickled pork they loaded she.

There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy,
And the youngest he was little Billee.
Now when they got as far as the Equator
They’d nothing left but one split pea.

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
“I am extremely hungaree.”
To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy,
“We’ve nothing left, us must eat we.”

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
“With one another we shouldn’t agree!
There’s little Bill, he’s young and tender,
We’re old and tough, so let’s eat he.”

“Oh! Billy, we’re going to kill and eat you,
So undo the button of your chemie.”
When Bill received this information
He used his pocket handkerchie.

“First let me say my catechism,
Which my poor mammy taught to me.”
“Make haste, make haste,” says guzzling Jimmy,
While Jack pulled out his snickersnee.

So Billy went up the main-top gallant mast,
And down he fell on his bended knee.
He scarce had come to the twelfth commandment
When up he jumps. “There’s land I see:

“Jerusalem and Madagascar,
And North and South Amerikee:
There’s the British fleet a riding at anchor,
With Admiral Nelson, K.C.B.”

So when they got aboard of the Admiral’s ship
He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee;
But as for little Bill, he made him
The Captain of a Seventy-three.

It is stated that Thackeray first sang this amusing piece of nonsense _extempore_. When it first found its way into print is not known, but it occurs as early as 1863 in an article on _Thackeray_ which appeared in the now defunct, “North British Review.” Prior to that date an incorrect version was printed in some American newspapers, and rumour at once fixed upon O. W. Holmes as the author. Perhaps Holmes may have written a parody on it, but if so, it does not appear in his collected poems.

――――

THE MODERN MEN OF GOTHAM!
(_Who went to sea in a Bowl._)

There were three dwellers in Gotham city
Who took a bowl and put to sea;
But first with fallacies, and figments,
And cooked statistics they loaded she.

There was bumptuous ’Arry, and bouncing Jemmy,
And the youngest he was little Randee;
And there wasn’t an able-bodied seaman,
Nor a skilful steersman among the three.

And the bowl was crank as the crankest cockboat,
It hadn’t a keel, and its bottom was queer;
And it rolled and pitched like a tipsy porpoise,
And it couldn’t sail, and it wouldn’t steer.

They might have sailed in a genuine clipper,
’Arry and Jemmy, and little Randee,
But they’d had a row with the Free Trade skipper,
And were filled with the spirit of mutinee.

Their craft――“Fair Trade” was the name they christened it――
They jointly launched on the tumbling ocean,
And they huddled into her with a lot of shouting,
But they soon felt queer, all along of her motion.

For she tumbled this way, and wobbled that way,
And she circumvoluted, like a tee-to-tum;
And the angry billows dashed damply over them,
Whilst they whistled for a fair wind, which wouldn’t come.

Thus bumptious ’Arry and bouncing Jemmy,
And the cocky urchin called little Randee!
And they had’nt got far from the Prime Meridian,
When they wished they were safe on a Seventy-three.

Says bumptious ’Arry to bouncing Jemmy,
“I fear we are _very much_ at sea.”
To bumptious ’Arry says bouncing Jemmy,
“How about Reciprocitee?”

Says bumptious ’Arry to bouncing Jemmy,
“I begin to fear that it won’t help we
If this blessed bowl takes us bang to the bottom,
What do you think of it, little Randee?”

Says _he_, “Our Free Trade Catechism
We’d better repeat upon bended knee,
And be more particular about the Ninth Commandment,
Nor again go floating in a bowl to sea.”

* * * * *

So when they got back to the Free Trade skipper,
He chivied ’Arry and he chaffed Jemmee.
But as for little Randee, they made him――
Well, they who live longest will probably see!

_Punch._ November 15, 1884.

Henry Chaplin, M.P., James Lowther, M.P., and Lord Randolph Churchill, M.P., had recently been advocating several remedies for the agricultural depression. Fair Trade, Reciprocity, and a Protective Duty on imported corn, were proposed, but met with no general support either in Parliament, or out of it.

――――

THE JOLLY COMMISSIONERS.

There were some Commissioners of Northern Lighthouses,
Who took a boat and went to sea,
Who took a boat to see what they could see.

There was Gorging Jack and Guzzling Jimmy,
With others, who ran up a little bill-ee
At the Waterloo, Grieve’s Hostelr_ee_.

They went to inspect Lighthouses and Lightships,
All round the Scottish coast, N.B.
A very pleasant trip it was, N.B.

Says Gorging Jack to Guzzling Jimmy,
“What shall we do if we’re hunge-_ree_?
Which will happen very probab_lee_.

“Oh, ain’t we going to drink and eat too
When Lighthouses we come to see?
Oh, this air gives such an appe-ti-_tee_.”

Says Guzzling Jim to Gorging Jacky,
“O Gorging Jack, what a fool you be.
Let’s store the boats provisional_lee_.”

With dinners and dessert and Amontillado,
And Chambertin they loaded she,
With Sixty-four Lafitte they loaded she.

* * * * *

They’d Steinberg Cabinet of Sixty-Eight too,
And other wines which were all first-rate to
Says Guzzling Jim unto Jackee,
“Oh, what a lot of lighthous_es_ I see!

“But they all appear mos’ dre’fully shaky,
The Lighthouses appear mos’ horr’bly shaky!
Its very fortch-nate that we came to see.
Thesh Lighthousesh are not stead_ee_.

“I think the Lighthouses have been drinking,
They have been taking too much whis_kee_!

“Look at the lightsh how they’re revolving,
I don’t think they’re working proper_lee_,
The Board of Trade must hear of this from We.”

Before they finished their Waterloo Banquet,
They drank the health of her Majestee,
And they drank the Royal Jubilee.

And as for their little Bill (who paid it?)
It’s being examined by a Com-mit-_tee_

When next they want Lighthouse Commissioners
To examine the Scottish Coast, N.B.
Of candidates what crowds there’ll be!!

_Punch._ March 5, 1887.

A most exorbitant charge was made for the dinners and refreshments provided for these Commissioners.

――――:o:――――

THACKERAY’S BURLESQUE ANALYSIS OF THE SORROWS OF WERTHER.

Werther had a love for Charlotte
Such as words could never utter;
Would you know how first he met her?
She was cutting bread and butter.

Charlotte was a married lady,
And a moral man was Werther,
And, for all the wealth of Indies,
Would do nothing for to hurt her.

So he sighed and pined and ogled,
And his passion boiled and bubbled,
Till he blew his silly brains out,
And no more was by it troubled.

Charlotte, having seen his body
Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
Went on cutting bread and butter.

――――

PEG OF LIMAVADDY.

Limavaddy inn’s
But a humble baithouse,
Where you may procure
Whiskey and potatoes;
Landlord at the door
Gives a smiling welcome
To the shivering wights
Who to his hotel come.
Landlady within
Sits and knits a stocking,
With a wary foot
Baby’s cradle rocking.

To the chimney nook,
Having found admittance,
There I watch a pup,
Playing with two kittens;
(Playing round the fire,
Which of blazing turf is,
Roaring to the pot
Which bubbles with the murphies;)
And the cradled babe
Fond the mother nursed it!
Singing it a song
As she twists the worsted!

Up and down the stair
Two more young ones patter
(Twins were never seen
Dirtier nor fatter);
Both have mottled legs,
Both have snubby noses,
Both have――here the host
Kindly interposes;
“Sure you must be froze
With the sleet and hail, sir,
So will you have some punch,
Or will you have some ale, sir?”

Presently a maid
Enters with the liquor,
(Half a pint of ale
Frothing in a beaker,)
Gods! I did’nt know
What my beating heart meant
Hebe’s self I thought
Enter’d the apartment.
As she came she smiled,
And the smile bewitching,
On my word and honour,
Lighted all the kitchen.

With a curtsey neat
Greeting the new comer,
Lovely, smiling Peg
Offers me the rummer;
But my trembling hand
Up the beaker tilted
And the glass of ale
Every drop I spilt it;
Spilt it every drop
(Dames, who read my volumes,
Pardon such a word,)
On my what d’y call ’ems!
Witnessing the sight
Of that dire disaster,
Out began to laugh
Misses, maid, and master;
Such a merry peal,
Specially Miss Peg’s was,
(As the glass of ale
Trickling down my legs was),
That the joyful sound
Of that ringing laughter
Echoed in my ears
Many a long day after.

Such a silver peal!
In the meadows listening,
You who’ve heard the bells
Ringing to a christening;
You who ever heard
Caradori pretty,
Smiling like an angel
Singing “Giovinetti,”
Fancy Peggy’s laugh,
Sweet, and clear, and cheerful,
At my pantaloons
With half a pint of beer full!

* * * * *

See her as she moves
Scarce the ground she touches,
Airy as a fay,
Graceful as a duchess;
Bare her rounded arm,
Bare her little leg is,
Vestris never show’d
Ankles like to Peggy’s;
Braided is her hair,
Soft her look and modest,
Slim her little waist
Comfortably boddiced.

* * * * *

W. M. THACKERAY.

The ballad from which these extracts are taken first appeared in _The Irish Sketch Book_ published in 1843.

――――

A BEAUTIFIED BEING.
(_Old Lady Sings._)

Only look at me,
Fair in every feature;
Don’t you think you see
A fascinating creature?
Venus, Beauty’s Queen,
Looked so lovely never.
Lo now, I have been
Made Beautiful for Ever!

Here are bust and brow,
White as alabaster;
Don’t you tell me, now,
That I am cased in plaster.
Here’s a cheek, whose rose
Time shall never pluck――Oh
Do not say it glows
With nought but painted stucco!

Oh, forbear to chaff,
Saying, Art doth trammel
Features, which a laugh
Would cause to crack enamel.
Freckles o’er this face
Where did Time’s hand sprinkle?
Point me out the place
Or show me any wrinkle.

I have undergone
Renovation thorough,
Loveliness, laid on,
Has filled up every furrow,
So, to win my hand,
Now, boys, who’ll endeavour?
Take me as I stand,
Made Beautiful for Ever.

Published at the time when the trial of Madame Rachel was in progress, and her devices for making women “Beautiful for ever” were being exposed.

――――

WHISKEY! DRINK DIVINE!

Whiskey, drink divine!
Why should driv’lers bore us
With the praise of wine,
Whilst we’ve thee before us?
Were it not a shame,
Whilst we gaily fling thee
To our lips of flame,
If we could not sing thee?
Whiskey, drink divine!
Why should driv’lers bore us
With the praise of wine,
Whilst we’ve thee before us?

Greek and Roman sung
Chian and Falernian――
Shall no harp be strung
To thy praise, Hibernian?
Yes――let Erin’s sons――
Gen’rous, brave, and frisky――
Tell the world, at once,
They owe it to their whiskey.

If Anacreon――who
Was the grape’s best poet――
Drank our _Mountain dew_,
How his verse would show it:
As the best then known,
He to wine was civil;
Had he _Inishowen_
He’d pitch wine to the d――l.

Bright as beauty’s eye,
When no sorrow veils it;
Sweet as beauty’s sigh,
When young love inhales it;
Come, then, to my lip――
Come, thou rich in blisses――
Every drop I sip
Seems a shower of kisses.

Could my feeble lays
Half thy virtues number,
A whole _grove_ of bays
Should my brows encumber.
Be his name adored,
Who summed up thy merits
In one little word,
When he called thee _spirits_.

Send it gaily round――
Life would be no pleasure,
If we had not found
This enchanting treasure:
And, when tyrant death’s
Arrow shall transfix ye,
Let your latest breaths
Be whiskey! whiskey! whiskey!
Whiskey! drink divine!
Why should driv’lers bore us
With the praise of wine,
Whilst we’ve thee before us?

By JOSEPH O’LEARY (a parliamentary reporter for the _Morning Chronicle_). 1840.

――――

HENRY AND ELLEN.

O’er Atlantic wave
Comes a fearsome babel;
Every sort of stave,
Fact confused with fable.
Henry some assail,
T’other side the ferry;
But the western gale
Blows love of Ellen Terry!

Black is Henry’s guilt,
Passing all contrition;
For he runs atilt
At a pet tradition.
When he seems to fail
Philistines make merry;
But the western gale
Blows love of Ellen Terry!

Shylock is too tame
For a taste robustious;
Oracles acclaim
Henry is “industrious!”
Still the crafty Jew
Agitates the scholars――
Hebrew never drew
Such a pile of dollars.

Melancholy Dane,
Why this grief abysmal?
Democrats would fain
See a Prince less dismal.
How can Boston praise,
With this thought unnerving――
Edwin’s crown of bays
On the brow of Irving?

For the Martyr King
Countless cheeks are dewy;
Critics sweetly sing
Anthems to the Louis.
Many love him best
When his vein for sport is――
Prize the polished jest
That his Doricourt is.

Mathias appals
With his conscience deathless
Gallery and stalls,
Sitting mute and breathless.
What though taunting scribe
Write himself a noodle?
Henry turns the gibe,
Whistling “Yankee Doodle!”

But when Ellen smiles,
Glows the most sedate eye;
Lightly she beguiles
Boston literati.
Never did the sword
Win such wide submission――
Slavery restored,
Spite of Abolition!

We who saw thy tomb,
Pride of all Verona,
Mourned thy piteous doom,
Sweetest Desdemona;
Gladly would we sail
Ocean in a wherry,
While the western gale
Blew love of Ellen Terry!

Portia, we know
What it is that tutors
Blest Bassanio
To vanquish other suitors!
Beatrice might rail
From Sandy Hook to Kerry,
Still would western gale
Blow love of Ellen Terry!

May red rose grow pale,
Juice desert the berry,
Ere the western gale
Blow slight of Ellen Terry!
Which of us would quail
Before the worst of sherry,
To drink “Columbia, hail!”
For love of Ellen Terry!

_The St. James’s Gazette._ January 10, 1884.

――――:o:――――

THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK.

Ye Genii of the nation,
Who look with veneration,
And Ireland’s desolation onsaysingly deplore,
Ye sons of General Jackson,
Who’d thrample on the Saxon,
Attend to the thransaction upon Shannon shore.

When William, Duke of Schumbug,
A tyrant and a humbug,
With cannon and with thunder on our city bore,
Our fortitude and valiance
Insthructed his battalions,
To respict the gallant Irish upon Shannon shore.

Since that capitulation,
No city in this nation
So grand a reputation could boast before,
As Limerick prodigious,
That stands with quays and bridges,
And the ships up to the windies of the Shannon shore.

A chief of ancient line,
’Tis William Smith O’Brine
Reprisints this darling Limerick, this ten years or more;
O the Saxons can’t endure
To see him on the flure,
And thrimble at the Cicero from Shannon shore!

This valiant son of Mars
Had been to visit Par’s,
That land of Revolution, that grows the tricolor;
And to welcome his return
From pilgrimages forr’n,
We invited him to tay on the Shannon shore.

* * * * *

When full of tay and cake,
O’Brine began to spake;
But juice a one could hear him for a sudden roar
Of a ragamuffin rout
Began to yell and shout,
And frighten the propriety of Shannon shore.

As Smith O’Brine harangued,
They bathered and they banged;
Tim Doolan’s doors and windies down they tore:
They smashed the lovely windies
(Hung with muslin from the Indies),
Purshuing of their shindies upon Shannon shore.

With throwing of brickbats,
Drowned puppies and dead rats,
These ruffin democrats themselves did lower:
Tin kettles, rotten eggs,
Cabbage-stalks, and wooden legs,
They flung among the patriots of Shannon shore.

“Cut down the bloody horde!”
Says Meagher of the sword,
“This conduct would disgrace any blackamore;”
But the best use Tommy made
Of his famous battle blade
Was to cut his stick from the Shannon shore.

Immortal Smith O’Brine
Was raging like a line;
’Twould have done your sowl good to have heard him roar:
In his glory he arose,
And he rushed upon his foes,
But they hit him on the nose by the Shannon shore.

Then the Futt and Dthragoons,
In squadthorns and platoons,
With their music playing chunes, down upon us bore;
And they bate the rattatoo,
But the Peelers came in view,
And ended the shaloo on the Shannon shore.

W. M. THACKERAY.

――――

MR. PATRICK O’RORY’S ACCOUNT OF THE HAMPTON COURT MEET.

Och, the glorification of bicycleation,
What is’t in the nation can ever compare,
With all of them fleeting to Hampton, and meeting
Like temperance preachers all in the open air.
Och, for the numbers with Singers and Humbers,
Piling their instruments up by the gates;
And patent Eclipses, and policemen, and gipsies,
And boys with the programmes all eating of swates.

Their bicycles shining all standing a line in,
’Twas done by designing, and splendid to see;
With people all flocking, and each other knocking,
And all of them happy as they could be.
Then over the courses two policemen on horses,
A-dancing and prancing, decipher the line;
Quickissimo! steady! the riders get ready
To jump in their saddles when they get the sign.

Then the bugle sounded, and all of them bounded,
Right on to the top of their lovely machines;
Only some of them hopping too hard took to flopping,
And mixed themselves up by all manner of manes.
Then the first couple dodges right in by the Lodges,
At the Lion Gates, into Bushy Park.
Their club was the Pickwick (which wanst had a picnic
In Epping Forest and got back before dark.)

And next comes the Surrey up all in a hurry,
With nice Mister Budd, ’kase he thought they were late;
And Mister Oxx laughing so wide at the chaffing,
He had to stop smiling to get through the gate.
And then came the Temple, a pleasant exemple
Of teetotal members who never drink beer;
In front of them “Maccy,” who rode on his “jacky,”
And young Charley Liles bringing up the rear.

Then comes Lacy Hillier――’twould purty well kill ye,
To watch him a-spiling his beautiful face
In such a sad manner, just by the Diana,
As only a knocker could make such a grimace.
And H. Liddel Cortis, who’d only just bought his
New Surrey Machinist a couple of weeks;
And being a novice, ’twas hard luck of his,
To have a great wapse get inside of his breeks.

The next was the London, and may I be undone,
By faith, if they wasn’t the best of them all.
With Handicap Rucker in front, on a duck o’
A beautiful Humber from ’Cultural Hall;
And then came the Saturn, a worthy pattern,
With lace on their jackets, and gould on the front;
And R. Vazie Simons, all shining like di’mon’s――
The sun he complately put out of the hunt.

(_Three verses omitted._)

Then the eggs and the cresses and the ladies’ dresses,
And all other things which are good for to eat,
With tea to delight ’em all _ad infinitum_,
And waiters to cut up the plates full of meat;
There was punch and toddy for everybody,
And anyone else who could only get in;
But poor Mister Sopper eat more than was proper,
Which made him so fat that he’ll never get thin.

Then the crowd disperses――the sojers and nurses,
And dames with their purses for to catch the train,
Wid all of them boring, each other assuring
It’s the grandest sight they’ll never see again.
And now that I’ve finished my tale and diminished
The beautiful nagus ye mixed before,
I’m dhry as a dragon, so hand me the flagon――
Sure it can’t hurt to drink one glass more.

H. A. V.

From _Icycles_. The Christmas number of _The Wheel World_, 1880.

――――

THE BATTLE OF O’BRINE.

Great jaynius of the nation,
Ould Ireland’s veneration,
Come over, Mr. Gladstone, most honourable sorr;
And sling your grand old axe on,
To slay the tricherous Saxon
That raised that dridful shindy on fair Ontario’s shore.