Chapter XXXVIII: Part I (18)

In order that this Volume may contain as complete a collection as is possible of the Parodies of those Authors who are treated in it, the following poems are here inserted. Although they appear here somewhat irregularly they will all be found in the Index under the respective Authors to whose works they refer.

THOMAS GRAY.

Numerous parodies and imitations of Gray’s poems appeared in the early pages of this volume, a few remain still to be quoted.

_Musæ Berkhamstediensis_, or Poetical Prolusions by some Young Gentlemen of Berkhamsted School, 1794. This work contains Latin translations of Gray’s _Elegy in a Country Churchyard_, and of several other standard poems.

_An Imitation of Gray’s Elegy._ Written by a Sailor. London. Printed by George Cooke, 1806.

The setting sun now gilds the mountain tops,
The busy shepherd pens his fleecy care,
Domestic fowls now seek their fav’rite props,
And leave the fields, barn-doors, and stack-yards fare.

――――

The following parody was satirically attributed to William Cobbett, M.P., by the Editor of _The Satirist_, in which paper it appeared in August, 1810. The whole of it is bitterly personal and offensive, but it must be remembered that Cobbett himself never spared the feelings or characters of his adversaries:――

ELEGY IN NEWGATE.

The Curfew tolls the hour of locking up,
The grating bolts turn heavy on the key,
The turnkey hastens on beef-steaks to sup,
And leaves the cell to treason and to me.

Now fades the glittering dram glass from the sight,
And through the gaol a horrid stillness reigns,
Save where the watchman bawls the hour of night,
Or restless felon shakes his clanking chains.

Save that beneath the prison’s outward bound,
Some drunken Cyprian wrathfully complains
Of such as, wandering near her nightly round,
Forestal the market of her wanton gains.

* * * * *

THE HANGMAN’S SPEECH.

Here bleeds his head upon the traitor’s stage,
A wretch to Virtue and to Truth unknown,
Foul Faction frown’d not on his lying page,
And Infamy had mark’d him for her own.

Large was his bounty,――so he would you cram,――
The law rewarded him beyond his hope,
He gave to misery, all he pleased――a damn,
The law bestow’d, ’twas all he feared――a rope.

No further seek his villainies to know,
Nor bid me all his hateful libels tell,
For now with him they burn in fires below
And serve the cause of Faction still, in HELL.

――――

A PARODY.

The ruin spread by war is wisely o’er,
The grateful mob receive a peace with glee,
The drooping party cease their wonted roar,
And leave these shades to silence and to me.

* * * * *

This is also given in full in _The Satirist_ for May 12, 1812, where it is attributed to Mr. J. Taylor, who had then recently published a volume of poems. Neither of the above is of sufficient interest to reprint in full, the first, indeed, is too coarse to please modern readers.

――――

WRITTEN IN THE TEMPLE GARDENS.

The gard’ner rings the bell at close of day,
The motley crowd wind slowly home to tea;
Soft on the Thames the daylight fades away,
And leaves the walks to darkness and to me,

Now shine the glimmering gas-lights on the sight,
The warders now the outer portals lock,
And deepest stillness marks th’ approach of night,
Save when the watchman calls “Past ten o’clock.”

Save, also, when from yonder antique tower[143];
With solemn sound, the bell strikes on the ear,
And wand’ring damsels, as they hear the hour,
Trip through the gloomy courts with haste and fear.

In those high rooms, where clients ne’er intrude,
And here and there a light doth dimly peep,
Each in his lonely set of chambers mewed,
The briefless crowd their nightly vigils keep.

The grave attorney, knocking frequently,
The tittering clerk, who hastens to the door,
The bulky brief, and corresponding fee,
Are things unknown to all that lofty floor.

Small comfort theirs when each dull day is o’er:
No gentle wife their joys and griefs to share,
No quiet homeward walk at half-past four
To some snug tenement near Russell Square.

Oft have they read each prosing term report,
Dull treatises, and statutes not a few;
How many a vacant day they’ve pass’d in court;
How many a barren circuit travell’d through.

Yet let not judges mock their useless toil,
And joke at sapient faces no one knows,
Nor ask, with careless and contemptuous smile,
If no one moves in all the long back rows?

Vain is the coif, the ermined robe, the strife
Of courts, and vain is all success e’er gave;
Say, can the judge, whose word gives death or life,
Reprieve himself when summon’d to the grave?

Nor you, ye leaders, view them with ill-will
If no one sees their speeches in _The Times_,
Where long-drawn columns oft proclaim your skill
To blacken innocence, and palliate crimes.

Can legal lore or animated speech
Avert that sentence which awaits on all?
Can _nisi prius_ craft and snares o’er reach
That Judge whose look the boldest must appal?

Perhaps, in those neglected rooms abound
Men deeply versed in all the quirks of laws,
Who could with cases right and wrong confound,
And common sense upset, by splitting straws.

But, ah! to them no clerk his golden page,
Rich with retaining-fees, did e’er unroll;
Chill negligence repress’d their legal rage,
And from the quibbling current of the soul,

Full many a barrister who well could plead,
Those dark and unfrequented chambers bear;
Full many a pleader, born to draw unfee’d.
And waste his counts upon the desert air!

Some Follett, whom no client e’er would trust,
Some Wilde, who gain’d no verdict in his life;
In den obscure, some Denman there may rust;
Some Campbell, with no peeress for his wife.

The wits of wond’ring juries to beguile,
The wrongs of injured clients to redress:
To gain or lose their verdict with a smile,
And read their speeches in the daily press,

Their lot forbad――nor was it theirs, d’ye see?
The wretched in the toils of law to lure;
To prostitute their conscience for a fee,
And shut the gates of justice on the poor.

To try mean tricks to win a paltry cause,
With threadbare jests to catch the laugh of fools,
Or puff in court before all human laws,
The lofty wisdom of the last New Rules.

Not one rule _nisi_, even “to compute,”
Their gentle voices e’er were heard to pray,
Calm and sequester’d, motionless and mute,
In the remote back seats they pass’d each day.

Yet e’en their names are sometimes seen in print,
For Frail memorials on the outer doors
Disclose, in letters large, and dingy tints,
The unknown tenants of the upper floors.

Door-posts supply the place of Term Reports,
And splendid plates around the painter sticks,
To show that he, who never moved the courts,
Has moved from number two to number six.

For who, to cold neglect a luckless prey
His unfrequented attic e’er resign’d,
E’er moved with better hopes across the way
And did not leave a spruce tin-plate behind?

Strong is the love of fame in nobler minds,
And he whose bold aspiring fate doth crush,
Receives some consolation when he finds
His name recorded by the painter’s brush.

For thee who, mindful of each briefless wight,
Dost in these motley rhymes their tale relate.
If, musing in this lonely attic flight
Some youthful students should inquire thy fate,

Haply some usher of the court may say――
“At noon I’ve mark’d him oft, ’tween nine and ten
Striding, with hasty step, the Strand away,
At four o’clock to saunter back again.

There in the Bail Court, where yon quaint old judge,
Doth twist his nose, and wreath his wig awry,
Listless for hours he’d sit, and never budge,
And pore upon a book-the Lord knows why.

Oft would he bid me fetch him some report,
And turn from case to case with look forlorn,
Then, bustling, would he run from court to court,
As if some rule of his were coming on.

One morn I miss’d that figure lean and lank,
And that pale face, so often mark’d by me,
Another case――nor yet was he in Banc,
Nor at th’ Exchequer, nor the Pleas was he.

The next day, as at morn I chanced to see
Death’s peremptory paper in _The Times_,
I read his name, which there stood number three,
And there I also read these doleful rhymes,”

EPITAPH

“Here rests a youth lamented but by few;
A barrister, to fame and courts unknown.
Brief was his life――yet was it briefless, too,
For no attorney mark’d him for his own.

“Deep and correct his knowledge of the laws,
No judge a rule of his could e’er refuse;
He never lost a client or a cause,
Because, forsooth, he ne’er had one to lose.

“E’en as he lived unknown――unknown he dies,
Calm be his rest, from hopeless struggle free,
’Till that dread court, from which no error lies,
Shall final judgment pass on him and thee.”

By the late MR. JUSTICE HAYES.

From _Random Recollections of the Midland Circuit_. By Robert Walton. Second Series. Chiswick Press, 1873.

――――

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A BALL-ROOM.

The beaux are jogging on the pictured floor
The belles responsive trip with lightsome heels;
While I, deserted, the cold pangs deplore,
Or breathe the wrath which slighted beauty feels.

* * * * *

This does not continue in the vein of parody.

From _Miscellanies: Prose and Verse_, by William Maginn. 1885.

――――

THE “ELEGY” TRAVESTIED.

The shops are closed――the sign of closing day
The sewing-girl glides glibly home to tea;
The drayman homeward drives his noisy dray,
And leaves “down town” to watchmen and to me.

Now fade the lightless lamp-posts on the sight;
O’er all the street a soothing stillness reigns,
Save where the stages wheel their distant flight,
And random sprinklings tap the window panes.

Save that, from yonder “Square,” upon the ear
Fall sounds of “Presses,” with a buzzing din,
Where hordes of “Scribblers” take their “Bitter Beer,”
And “Midnight Bounders” drink their fighting gin.

* * * * *

Observe, ye chaste, who promenade the way
In spotless satin and unsullied fame,
Where, thro’ the crowded streets, in open day,
The painted wanton publishes her shame.

Can rounded arm, or well-developed bust
Pertain alike to women of our clime?
Can Kalydor disguise the cheek of lust,
Or _Rouge_ conceal the ravages of time?

Perhaps beneath those flaunting robes are locked
Hearts once recoiling at the name of “Flirt”――
Hands that a nursery cradle might have rocked,
Or sewed the buttons on a husband’s shirt!

And who so bold as venture to presage
The fate of seeming best or seeming worst?
For woman’s the same mystery to the age,
She was to Senor Adam at the first.

Full many a fair, to hopeless love a prey,
Still in life’s drama plays a smiling part;
Full many a lover sighs his soul away,
And wastes his passion on a “Marble Heart.”

* * * * *

Yet who, despite the frailties of the fair,
A Bachelor existence long can brook;
Dwell in dull lodgings up a dozen pair,
Nor cast upon the “Sex” one longing look?

On some fond breast the aching head must lean,
Some heart must beat in union with ours;
In this alone their proper “sphere” is seen,
Even in our weakness live their vaunted powers.

For thee, who mindful of the yet unwed,
Dost in these lines extol the married state,
If chance, by British disposition led,
Some _curioso_ shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some old associate may say:
“Oft have we seen him through the deepest snows,
Rushing with hurried strides and features gay
To reach the play-house, ere the curtain rose.

“There, at the end of yonder circling row
That skirts the stage, above the foot-light’s glare,
His careless length at evening would he throw,
And gaze upon the girl that dances there.

“Hard by yon bar, now swearing, as in spite,
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove;
Now talking awful wild, like one half ‘tight,’
Of some new ‘mash,’ his latest love!

“One night we missed him ’mong the accustomed bloods’
Within the corner near his favourite she;
Another came; not yet among the ‘gods,’
Nor near the bar, nor in the pit was he,

“The next, with favours white, and strange designs.
Swift up the church-way path we saw him whirled;
Just take your eye and throw it o’er the lines
That show he’s lost for ever to the world.”

THE EPIGRAPH.

Here lives, retired, with no more to excite,
A youth to all the _corps de ballet_ known;
Fair woman smiled upon him every night,
Till Matrimony marked him for her own.

Strange though his fancies, yet his heart was warm;
Fraught with aversion for a form uncouth,
Was down on Humbug in its wildest form:
His motto――“Every man his own Kossuth!”

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or paint the follies of his single life,
For they, alike, quiescently repose
Within the bosom of his faithful wife.

_The Umpire._ (Manchester), May 5, 1888.

――――

The following imitation of the “Elegy” appeared in _The Volunteer Record and Shooting News_ (London, 33, King William Street, E.C.), August 11, 1888. It was written by a well known shooting man of the London Rifle Brigade as a funeral dirge upon the last of the N.R.A. meetings on Wimbledon Common. The first meeting was held there in July, 1860.

WIMBLEDON――AN ELEGY.
_July_ 21_st_, 1888.

The sound of gunfire marked the closing day
Of that last meeting on the breezy lea;
Now marksmen homeward plod their weary way,
And leave the Common they no more shall see:

For fades the latest glimmering hope from sight
That he who by ill-fate the land doth hold,
Hard by where bullets sped their rapid flight
Might yet a portion of that land have sold.

Round yon trim cottage and the windmill’s tower
The moping owl shall hoot his sad refrain,
And with the bat disport at twilight’s hour;
Nought to disturb their solitary reign.

Where stood the umbrella tent, whose welcome shade
They often sought――to smoke, to flirt, to sleep;
Where Henton’s[144] band such charming music played;
Now, noisome creatures o’er the turf shall creep.

The cheery call of bugles in the morn,
Or thunder rain-drops trickling on their head;
Or worse, the shriek of bag-pipes, zephyr borne,
No more shall wake them from their palliasse bed.

And they no more upon those beds shall turn,
Making perchance, in dreams, tall scoring there.
No comrades greet them in hot haste to learn
What they have made, their joy or sadness share.

Oft did the targets to their science yield
The welcome “eyes” when they past records broke.
How jocund then they sped across the field!
Scarce bent the grass beneath their feet’s light stroke.

And yet, more oft, mocked was ambition’s toil,
Modest outers, and “mags,” scarce less obscure,
Rewarding hope with a disdainful smile!
Provoking language the reverse of pure.

They freedom asked for, from vexatious strife.
Their well-aimed bullets never learned to stray,
And never yet endangered limb or life,
While to the butts they sped their noiseless way.

Full many a budding shot, with vision keen,
Strove hard to woo the fickle goddess there;
But now, alas! they live to blush unseen
And waste their sweetness on the desert air!

Perhaps, on that neglected range have laid
Embryo prizemen, who, if they could fire,
Might with their fame have distant empires swayed!
And, being chaired, have invoked the living lyre!

And thou, proud Duke, ’twill be indeed thy fault
If mem’ry o’er thy tomb no trophies raise!
If, after long-drawn years, thy fretted vault
Bears no inscription graved in words of praise.

No storied urn, or marble sculptured bust,
Shall e’er record thy name――but fleeting breath――
For thou hast brought the N.R.A. to dust,
And laid thereon the dull cold hand of death.

’Twas thou forbade it――yes, thou, and thou alone
Their growing talents crushed; the deed’s confined
To thee, who, although dwelling near a throne
Hast shut the gates that bound thee to thy kind.

The gnawing pangs of conscience try to hide,
Go, quench the blush caused by thy action’s shame,
Heap on thyself discredit for thy pride;
Thou’st sunk for gain, thy erstwhile honour’d name.

That name, thy years, thy choice to power misuse,
Thy selfish deed, this elegy supply,
Which round thy fame unholy blessings strews,
For thou hast left the N.R.A. to die.

THE EPITAPH.

There now lies dead upon this spot of earth
An institution once to fame well-known,
A Queen was present at its humble birth!
Success unrivalled marked it for its own.

Large was its mission, and its work sincere,
The Volunteers its meets did well attend;
They give its mem’ry (all they have)――a tear,
And pray for (that which “George” was not) a friend.

No further need the merits to disclose
Of that Common, so long by marksmen trod,
Those marksmen now in trembling hope repose
Their future in the Council, and their God.

E. B. ANSTEE.

――――

Another parody on Gray’s “Elegy” appeared in a scarce old Scotch volume, entitled “_The Court of Session Garland_” which has recently been re-issued by Messrs. Hamilton, Adams & Co., London.

The parody was written by Colin Maclaurin, Esquire, advocate, and was first privately printed at Edinburgh in 1814. It relates the cares and anxieties incident to the legal profession:――

The bell now tolls, soon after dawn of day,
The lawyer herd wind slowly up the street,
The macer court-ward plods his weary way,
Anxious, in haste, each learned judge to meet.

And soon the bustling scene delights the sight,
In yonder gorgeous and stupendous hall,
While eager macers call, with all their might,
The busy lawyers from each judge’s roll.

E’re long, from yonder velvet-mantled chair,
The angry judge does to the bar complain,
Of counsel who, by way and means unfair,
Molest his potent and judicial reign.

Beneath yon fretted roof that rafters shade,
Whare lie huge deeds in many mouldering heads,
Each, in its narrow cell, far too long laid,
Many a dusty process often sleeps.

The dreadful call of macer, like a horn,
The agent, tottering from some humble shed,
The lawyer’s claron, like the cock’s, at morn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the agent’s lamp shall burn,
Or busy clerk oft’ ply his evening care,
No counsel run to hail their quick return,
Or long their client’s envied fees to share.

Oft’ did the harvest to their wishes yield,
And knotty points their stubborn souls oft’ broke.
How keenly did they, then, their clients shield!
How bow’d the laws beneath their sturdy stroke.

Let not derision mock their useful toils,
Forensic broils, and origin obscure,
Nor judges hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple causes of the poor.

The boast of sov’reignty, the rod of power,
And all the sway that judges ever have,
Await alike the inevitable hour
When all must yield to some designing knave.

Nor you, ye vain, impute to such the fault,
If mem’ry o’er his deeds no trophies raise,
Where, thro’ the long drawn hall and fretted vault,
The well-fee’d lawyer swells his note of praise.

* * * * *

For thee, who mindful of each agent’s deeds,
Dost in these lines their artful ways relate
If chance, or lonely contemplation leads
Some kindred spirit to enquire thy fate;

Haply some hoary headed sage may say,――
Oft’ have we seen him, at the peep of dawn,
Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away,
To meet the judges, at the court in town.

One morn I miss’d him in th’ accustomed hall,
Upon the boards, and near his favourite seat;
Another came, and answered to the roll:
Nor at the bar nor in the court he sate.

The next, with dirges due, in sad array,
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne:
Approach and read, for thou canst read the lay
Grav’d on his stone, beneath yon aged thorn.

EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth to Business and to Law well known;
Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth,
And Litigation marked him as her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Mis’ry (all he had), a tear;
He gain’d from Heav’n (’twas all he wished), a friend.

No further seek his merits to disclose,
Nor draw his frailties from their dread abode;
(There they, like many a lawyer’s, now repose)
The bosom of his Father and his God.

MATTHEW G. LEWIS.
(_Concluded from page_ 143.)

Several parodies of “Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogine” are given in _The Spirit of the Public Journals_, of which the following is the best. It originally appeared in _The True Briton_, and was reprinted in Vol. III. of _The Spirit of the Public Journals_. for 1799.

PEGGY THE GAY, AND THE BOLD ROGER GRAY.

A plowman so stout and a damsel so rare,
Conversed as they sat on the hay;
They ogled each other with simpering stare;
Pretty Peggy the Gay, was the name of the fair,
And the plowman’s the Bold Roger Gray.

“And O!” said the nymph, “since to-morrow you go
Far hence with a sergeant to list,
Your tears for your Peggy soon ceasing to flow,
Your love for some wealthier maiden you’ll show,
And she’ll by my Roger be kiss’d.”

“What nonsense you talk!” cried the youth in a pet;
For by the Lord Harry I swear,
Nor cheeks red as cherries, nor eyes black as jet,
Nor moist lips, nor of teeth the most beautiful set,
Shall make me untrue to my fair.

“If ever by money or love led aside,
I forget my sweet Peggy the gay,
With the power of a justice’s warrant supplied,
May a constable come as I sit by my bride,
And bear me to prison away!”

To Glos’ter then hastened this plowman so bold,
His sweetheart lamented him sore,
But scarcely nine months had over him roll’d,
When a rich butcher’s widow, with bags full of gold,
Bold Roger entic’d to her door.

Her mutton and beef, so red and so white,
Soon made him untrue to his vows;
They pamper’d his palate, they dazzled his sight,
They caught his affection, so vain and so light,
And she carried him home as her spouse.

From church the fond couple adjourn to the “Crown,”
The company laugh, drink, and sing,
The bacon and greens they go merrily down,
And the mugs were all frothing with liquor so brown,
When the bell of the alehouse went――Ding!

Now first Roger Gray with amazement descried
A stranger stalk into the room;
He spoke not, he mov’d not, he look’d not aside,
He neither regarded the landlord nor bride,
But earnestly gaz’d on the groom.

Full stout were his limbs, and full tall was his height,
His boots were all dirty to view,
Which made all the damsels draw back in a fright,
Lest by chance they should sully their petticoats white,
And poor Roger began to look blue.

His presence all bosoms appear’d to dismay:
The men sat in silence and fear;
Till trembling at length, cried poor Roger, “I pray
Aside your great coat, my old cock, you would lay,
And deign to partake of our cheer.”

The swain now is silent――the stranger complies,――
His coat now he slowly unclos’d!
Good Gods! what a sight met poor Roger’s gray eyes,
What words can express his dismay and surprise,
When a constable’s staff was expos’d!

All present then utter’d a terrified shout,
All hasten with hurry away;
For as no one knew whom he came to seek out,
Some tried to creep in, some tried to rush out,
Till the constable cried “Roger Gray!”

“Behold me, thou false one!――behold me!” he cried;
“Remember fair Peggy the gay,
Whom you left with a child to possess a new bride;
But his Worship, to punish thy falsehood and pride,
Has sent me to fetch thee away.”

So saying, he laid his strong arm on the clown,
Calling vainly for help from the throng;
He bore him away to the gaol of the town,
Nor ever again was he seen at the “Crown,”
Or the catchpole who dragg’d him along.

Not long staid the bride――for, as old women say,
The meat in her shop was all spoil’d,
All her beef and her mutton were carried away,
And sold to buy caudle for Peggy the gay,
And biggins and pap for the child.

Four times in each year, when in judgment profound
The Quorum all doze on the Bench,
Is Roger brought up, and is forc’d to be bound,
With a friend, in the sum of at least forty pound,
To provide for the child and the wench.

The Church-wardens sit round the treat they don’t pay,
Their cares all with _’bacco_ beguil’d,
They drink out of mugs newly form’d of bak’d clay,
Their liquor is ale, and this whimsical lay
They sing――“Here’s a health to fair Peggy the gay,
And the false Roger Gray and his child.”

――――

There is another Parody in the same volume commencing:――

“A Bulldog so fierce, and a Spaniel so meek.”

In Volume V. (1801) of the same collection there is an imitation of Lewis’s style, entitled “_The Little Green Man_,” and in Volume IX. (for 1805) a parody of “Alonzo the Brave,” commencing:――

“Lemona was daughter of Hudda the Brave.”

Neither of these is worth preserving, but the following rather humorous skit may be quoted:――

THE SQUEAKING GHOST.

_A Tale according to the genuine principles of the horrific, by M. G. L――――s, Esq., of Spectre Hall, In the County of Hobgoblin._

The wind whistled loud! Farmer Dobbin’s wheat stack,
Fell down! The rain beat ’gainst his door!
As he sat by the fire, he heard the roof crack!
The cat ’gan to mew and to put up her back!
And the candle burnt――_just as before!_

The farmer exclaimed, with a piteous sigh,
“To get rid of this curs’d noise and rout,
Wife, gi’e us some ale.” His dame straight did cry,
Hem’d and cough’d three times three, then made this reply――
“I can’t, mun!” “Why?” “’_Cause the cask’s out_!”

By the side of the fire sat Roger Geeho,
Who had finished his daily vocation:
With Cicely, who’s eyes were as black as a sloe,
A damsel, indeed, who had never said no,
And because――_she ne’er had an occasion_,

All these were alarmed by some loud piercing cries,
And thrown into a terrible state;
Till opening the door, with wide-staring eyes,
They found to their joy, no less than surprise,
’_Twas the old sow stuck fast in a gate_!

_The Spirit of the Public Journals for_ 1804. Volume VIII.

――――:o:――――

A scarce little pamphlet, published by J. Crocker, London, 1838, entitled “_The Modern Gilpin_, or the Adventures of John Oldstock, in an Excursion by Steam from London to Rochester Bridge, containing a passing glance at the principal places on the Thames and Medway” was, as its name implies, a parody of Cowper’s “John Gilpin”:――

John Oldstock was a store-keeper,
In far-famed Seven-Dials;
An ebon nymph grac’d his shop-door――
He dealt in rags and phials.

* * * * *

It is very long, and its only interest consists in its descriptions of scenes much changed during the past fifty years.

――――

“_A Lay of Modern Exon_: a serio-comic satire on the Great Gas Question,” by Blabington Mike-Hawley, F.C.E., was the title of a small pamphlet published in Exeter in 1879. It was a not very good parody of Lord Macaulay, and of purely local interest.

――――:o:――――

AMERICAN PARODIES

On page 284 a parody of E. A. Poe, entitled “The Swells,” was erroneously attributed to Mr. T. F. Dillon Croker. That gentleman had kindly written a _copy_ of the poem for this collection, hence the error, which he wishes to be corrected. The author of the parody is unknown.

――――

THE DUTCHMAN AND THE RAVEN.

Vonce upon a midnite dreary, as I pondered, veak and veary,
Ofer many a glass of lager, vot I drank in days of yore,
In my bed I vas faschd nabbing, ven I dream I heert some dapping,
As if some von gently drowing brickbats at my voodshed door;
“Dis dot Snyder poy,” I muttered, “trying to preak my voodshed door――
Only dis, and noding more.”

Yah, disdinctly I remember, it was in dot pleak December,
Und each seberate dying ember vos gone oud long pefore;
Dot nide I felt quoide heardy, for Louise vent to a bardy,
Und of cause I drunk more lager as I nefer did pefore;
But schdill I know dot somedings sthruck my oudside voodshed door――
Only dot, und noding more.

From oud mine bed I makes von jumb, und see vot vos dis drubble,
Mine Got! vot makes mine legs so veak? I feel so not pefore;
I sckarce could valk, I could not talk, mine mind was in a muddle;
But I dought it vas Johnny Snyder dryin’ to open schud mine door,
Und mit cabbage-sdumps to hit me, as he often doned before――
Dis I said, und noding more.

Py und py I vos got praver; den I takes mine gun and sabre,
Und schloly valks, midout mine pants, up to mine voodshed door;
Und dare for von half hour I sdood mitout no power,
So veak I vos I could not lift mine hands up any more;
But at vonce I got more polder, und I opened vide de door――
Plack as darkness, noding more.

Deep into dot plackness peeping, all around mine voodshed creeping,
Dreaming dreams no Dutchman efer dare to dream pefore.
Der silence vos unbroken, und der sdillness gave no token;
But I hear somepody spoken, “You vill vare dem pants no more.”
“Vot is dot?” I cried, and someding answered back the vord, “No more.”
Merely dis, und noding more.

Back indo my bedroom turning, all my sole mitin me burning,
Den vonce more I heert a tapping, someding louder as pefore.
Now I cries out, “Dunder vetter! vot the devil ish the madder?”
Surely dis ain’t Johnny Snyder hitting cabbage mit mine door?
No! I dink dis cannot be, for I bet, by geminee!
’Twas the vind, und noding more.

Oben here I flung mine vindow, ven dere all at vonce came into
A ding just like a big plack cat I never saw pefore;
Von fearful vink he gafe me, not von moment sdoped nor sdayed he;
His pack he humped, und den he jumped upon mine bedroom door.
Dare he sat, und noding more.

The air dew was so funny, for it schmells no more like honey,
Und den I squease mine nose hard until it vas quide sore;
Den vonce I cried mid all my mide, “I vant to vare mine pants
to-night,
Und of you dink dot I vos dighd, chust chumped down off dot floor;”
Again I heard it gently say: “You’ll vare dem pants no more.”
Dis it said, und noding more.

“Profid,” said I, “ding of efil; profid sdill, if dorg or devil,
For vot you comes into mine house? I vant you here no more;
Leafe no ding here as a doken of dot lie vich you hafe spoken;
You go home, I vas not joking, for I told you once pefore,
Chust dake dot smell frum out mine house, und jump down off mine
door!”
But it vinked, and said no more.

――――

A penny pamphlet, in a blood red cover, has been recently published in Poppin’s Court, Fleet Street, entitled “_The Whitechapel Murders_, A vision of the Murderer as seen from Dreamland, by _Marcus_.”

It is written in imitation of Poe’s _Raven_, to call attention to the wretched inefficiency of our present system of police, and the supineness of the Home Office in everything relating to the unfashionable quarters of London.

But as both Sir Charles Warren and Mr. Matthews are already sufficiently unpopular, it is needless to quote this parody, dealing, as it does, with topics of a most unpleasant description.

――――:o:――――

The following parody refers to the Fisheries dispute between Canada and the United States, which, but for Mr. Chamberlain’s unfortunate want of tact and temper during his mission, might have been amicably settled:――

CANADA, MY CANADA.

The haddock’s feet are on thy shore,
Canada, my Canada;
The halibut is at the door,
Canada, my Canada;
For smelt and gudgeon, chub and eel,
For codfish, hake and mackareel,
Arise and meet the Yankee steal.
Canada, my Canada.

Thou wilt not cower in the brine,
Canada, my Canada;
Thou wilt not drop thy fishing line,
Canada, my Canada;
Defend thy sculpin, save thy skate,
Strike for thy shad with soul elate,
Don’t swear, and spit upon thy bait.
Canada, my Canada.

Deal gently with a herring race
Canada, my Canada;
Put up your swordfish in its place,
Canada, my Canada;
If for reprisal you would sue,
Just turn your other cheek――please do,
And take a Yankee smack or two,
Canada, my Canada.

_The Brooklyn Eagle, U.S._

――――:o:――――

THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW.

A correspondent in Chicago writes in reference to this poem (see page 268) “there seems little doubt but that it was written by Mr. James M. Watson. Mr. Bryant in his _Library of Poetry and Song_, and Mr. Coates in his _Fire-side Cyclopedia_ both name him as the author. The last verse, however, which you quote is not a part of the original poem, but added later, and by another hand. Mr. W. F. Fox, of this city, wrote an additional verse to supply the idea of final hope of forgiveness and happiness. It is as follows:――

How strange it should be that the beautiful snow
Should robe with its brightness this world in its woe!
Yet the soft crystals so tenderly falling,
Speak to my heart as if angels were calling,
Lovingly, earnestly, bidding me come,
Offering this soul of mine rest and a home;
Away in the mansion of glory above,
I’ll plead for admission through pardoning love,
There, robed in that mantle God’s grace can bestow,
I’ll rival the whiteness of beautiful snow.

The authorship of this poem has been very much discussed over here in the United States. The following verses, which went the rounds a few years ago, were keenly enjoyed by the reading world”:――

_The Gallant Three Hundred._

Three hundred brave warriors with pistols and rifles,
Who will not be daunted by dangers or trifles
Have taken an oath and are ready to go,
On a hunt for the author of “Beautiful Snow.”

Too long has he lived on this suffering earth,
Too long has he haunted the family hearth,
Too long been permitted his trumpet to blow,
That cold-blooded author of “Beautiful Snow.”

If they find him――and surely we hope that they will――
They will finish him up, for they’ll hunt him to kill;
The gallant Three Hundred will follow the chase,
Till they come within sight of his back or his face.

Then fearlessly charging the terrible foe,
They will pepper the author of “Beautiful Snow,”
So let the brave heroes in battle array,
Dash off to “the front” well equipped for the fray.

Accomplish their purpose they can and they must,
For their cause is the people’s, their warfare is just,
And when their good work is effectively done,
When the battle is fought and the victory won,

They’ll return with their banner star spangled and bright,
And high on their flagstaff plainly in sight
Will dangle what all must feel happy to know,
Is the scalp of the author of “Beautiful Snow.”

――――

DER GOOD-LOOKIN SHNOW.

Oh! dot shnow, dot goot-lookin shnow,
Vhich makes von der shky out on tings below,
Und yoost on der haus vhere der shingles vas grow,
You come mit some coldness, vherefer you go;
Valtzin und blayin und zinging along.
Goot-lookin shnow, you dond cood done wrong.
Ofen of you make on some oldt gal’s scheek,
It makes notting tifferent, ofer das shendlesom freak.
Goot-lookin shnow, von der glouds py der shky,
You vas bully mit cold vedder, und bully von high.

Oh! dot shnow, dot goot-lookin shnow,
Yoost dis vay, und vot you make vhen you go;
Fhlyin aroundt, you got matness mit fun,
Und fhreeze makes der nose of efery von;
Lafein, runnin, mit gwickness go py,
Yoost shtobbin a leedle, den pooty gwick fhly;
Und efen der togs, dot vas out in der vet,
Vood shnab at der bieces vhich makes on dhere hedt.
Der peobles vas grazy, und caddles vood crow
Und say how you vas, you goot-lookin shnow.

Und so gwick you vas dhere, und der vedder did shnow,
Dhey shpeak out in dones so shweeder as low,
Und der shleigh-riders, too, vas gone py in der lite,
You doond cood saw dhem, dill quite out of site.
Schwimmen, shkimmen, fhlirdin dhey go
Rect on der tob of dot goot-lookin shnow.
Dot shnow vas vhite glean vhen it comes der shky down,
Und yoost so muddy like mud, ven it comes of der town;
To been valked on py more as dwo hoondret fife feet,
Dill gwick, vas yoost lookin so phlack like der shtreet.

* * * * *

This imitation will be found complete in Routledge’s _Medley Dialect Recitations_.

――――:o:――――

GOOD-BYE TO THE (CRICKETING) SEASON,

(_A Fond Farewell, something in the style of Praed, composed at the Oval in October by our Own Old Enthusiast._)

Good-bye to the Season!――’Tis over!
Pavilions no longer are gay;
Bat, bowler, and leal Cricket-lover,
Are scattered like M.P.’s away.
Walter Read bobs no longer his brown end
At point, watching Bannerman’s “shape;”
Gilbert Grace has gone home to dear Downend,
Bob Abel is bound for the Cape.
For want of a fuller enjoyment,
Till Bat, Ball, and Stumps, can come out,
At Football a few find employment,
But Cricket is done, beyond doubt.

Good-bye to the Season!――The weather
Has bowed at the shrine of St. Gamp;
Wet wickets have sodden the leather,
And stumps have been pitched in a swamp.
Chill deluges, varied with thunders,
The Cricket-crack’s “average” queer.
Bad hits and bad misses are blunders
Scarce blamed in so beastly a year.
There are all sorts of excellent reasons
All round for the prevalent “duck;”
So, Good-bye to this wettest of Seasons!
Its memories are mainly of muck.

Good-bye to the Season!――The chances
That filled even champions with gloom;
The rascally tricks and rare dances
Devised by the demon of doom.
The “bad hits” that should have been “beauties,”
The good ones so palpably “flukes”;
The fielders so slack in their duties,
The Captains so tart in rebukes;
The cocksures who dropped bobs and tanners
On matches like Surrey _v_. Notts;
The consequent breaches of manners;
The subsequent downfall of “pots.”

Good-bye to the Season!――Another
Will come with the coming of May;
Though the new county boundaries bother,
The cry of the boys will be “Play!”
Will it come like _this_ terrible “tryer?”
Or come very much the reverse?
Will its scorings be lower or higher?
Will its weather be better or worse?
Will it favour the bowler or batter?
Will it come with dry turf and clear sky,
Or washy and squashy?――No matter:――
Good-bye to the Season――good-bye!

END OF VOLUME V.

INDEX.

――――

_The Authors of the original poems are arranged in alphabetical order; the titles of the original poems are printed in italics, followed by the Parodies. The Authors of the Parodies are named in italics._

――――

Joseph Addison.

PAGE

_On the Immortality of the Soul._ “Cato” 311
Mitchell’s Soliloquy. 1729 311
The Belle’s Soliloquy. _J. P. Roberdeau_ 312
Lady Townley’s Soliloquy 312
“Ovid, it must be so--thou reason’st well” 312
Joseph Addison’s prose writings parodied in _Posthumous
Parodies_. 1814 312

Rev. Richard Harris Barham.

THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS 293
_Misadventures at Margate_ 293
The Vulgar Little Boy 294
Misadventures at the Mansion House. _Truth_ 295
The Little Vulgar (Scotch) Boy. _Punch._ 1881 296
Sixty Years after. _The Globe._ 1887 296
The Little Bulgar Boy. _Punch._ 1885 297
The Boy and the Bear. _Punch._ 1887 297

_The Jackdaw of Rheims._ 1837 297
The Story of the Latest Curse. _Truth._ 1888 298

_The Execution_ 299
The Frolics of Boreas 300
A Parliamentary Legend 300
The Lord of Intrigue. 1876. 301
The Devil’s Billiard Match. _Rare Bits._ 301
A Row in the Upper Circles. _Judy._ 1880 302
The Enchanted Net. _Mirth & Metre._ 1855 303
Handy Jack. _Punch._ 1882 304
The Cardinal’s Hat. _Ipsedixit._ 1851 304
Temptation of the Good St. Gladstone. 1886 305
The Roll Scroll of the Odd Volumes. 1888 306

_Barney Maguire on the Coronation._ 1837 306
Barney Maguire on the Jubilee. _Lady’s Pictorial_ 307
A Lay of St. Dunstan’s. 1882 (on Temple Bar and the
Griffin) 308
Pigeon shooting at Hurlingham. _R. L. Francis_ 309

_A I Laye a-thynkyne_ 310
As I Sate a-drynkynge 310
The Jingoldsby Legends. 1882 311
The Corkscrew Papers. 1876 311

Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Contradictory statements as to her birth 228
Mr. Ingram’s final settlement of the date 229
Mrs. Browning’s personal appearance 229

_The Cry of the Children_ 229
The Wail of the Children. _Punch._ 1884 230
The Bitter Cry of Agriculture. _J. D. Beeston_ 230
Church or Stage. _The Referee._ 1884 231
Down East. _Edmund H. Yates_ 231
Gwendoline. _Echo Club Papers, Bayard Taylor_ 232
A Tool of Trade 232
The Origin of Pan. _Harry Furniss_ 232
The Rhyme of Sir Launcelot Bogle 233
The Spirit of Mrs. Browning to her husband. From
_Strange Visitors_. New York. 1869 273

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

_The Ancient Mariner._ 1798 107
The Sheriff’s Officer. 1834 108
Le lecturé malgré lui. 1847 108
The Rhime of the Seedy Barrister. 1847 109
The Prolix Orator. 1849 110
The Rime of the Ancient Alderman. In V. Parts.
_Shirley Brooks._ 1855 110
The Ancient Mariner, or the Deceived Husband 112
Classical _versus_ Modern. 1869 113
New Version of Ancient Mariner. _W. J. Wiegand._ 113
The Rime of the Modern Shipowner. 1873 113
The Fight of the Fifth of November. 1874 114
The Rime of the Ancient Premier. 1875 115
The Rime of ye Ancient Dowager. 1876. (On Henry Irving
in _Othello_) 115
The Wedding Guest’s Version. 1878 116
The Rhyme of the Ancient Blue. 1881 117
The Rime of the Potent Minister. 1882 117
Our Regimental Mess. _E. Oliver_ 118
An American Version. 1885 118
The Admiralty Goose. 1885 118
The Rime of the Antient Missionere. 1886 119
Ye Ancient Father Thames. _Truth_ Competition
Parodies. 1884 120
The Lay of the Modern Millinere. 1886 121
The Ancient Philosopher. _W. J. Prowse._ 1868 122
The Rime of the Ancient Waggonere. 1819 122
The Cockney Mariner. _G. A. à Beckett._ 1846 122
The Rime of the New-made Baccalere. 1841 122
The Wise Men of Gotham. _T. L. Peacock._ 123
It was an Ancient Marriager. 1885 123
The Rime of the Ancient Statesman. 1874 123
The Birmingham Speech, by W. E. G. 1880 123
The Rime of the Ancient Rinking Man. 1876 123
The Meeting of the Justices. 1867 123
The Ancient Story (Tichborne case) 136

_Love_ 123
The Power of Science. _J. B. Stephens._ 1880 124

_To a Young Ass._ 1794 126
Playhouse Musings. _Rejected Addresses._ 1812 125

_Kubla Khan._
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 126
In Hungerford did some wise man. 1844 127

_Christabel._ 1797 127
Continuation by _Dr. Maginn._ 1819 129
The Dream. _Warreniana._ 1824 131
A Parody of Christabelle. _The Dejeuné._ 1820 133
Christobell, a Gothic Tale. 1815 135
Geraldine, a sequel to Christabel. _Martin F.
Tupper._ 1838 135
Christabel, continued. _Eliza Stewart._ 1841 135
Christabess, by _S. T. Colebritche._ 1816 135
Isabelle. _James Hogg._ 1816 135
The Cherub. 1816 135
Chrystabelle; or, the Rose without a Thorn. _Edmund
Falconer._ 1860 135
Notes of other Parodies of Christabel 135
A Vision. _Thomas Moore._ 1826 135
Fragment of a Vision. _William Maginn._ 1821 136

_The Devil’s Progress on Earth_ 189
The Devil’s Walk, variously ascribed to Professor Porson,
Robert Southey, and to S. T. Coleridge 189
Various Imitations 190
Satan Reformer. 1832 191
The Devil’s Drive. _Lord Byron._ 191
Death’s Walk. 1832 192
The Printer’s Devil’s Work. 1832 192
The Devil’s Dream. _The Hornet._ 1871 193
The Devil’s Politics. 1878 194
The Forestaller’s Walk. 1881 194
The Devil’s Walk. 1883 194
The Devil’s latest Walk. 1887 195
The Devil’s Excursion to London. _W. Phillips_ 195
There’s a Lying Spirit Abroad. _E. A. Beard_ 196

William Collins.

_Ode on the Passions_ 312
Ode to the Passions 313
The Aspirants. An Ode for Music. From _Posthumous
Parodies_. 1814 313
The Victims. _Thomas Dibdin._ 1813 314
The Sessions. An Ode for Music. _C. H. Waring_ 314
Ode to the Fashions. _Comic News._ 1864 315

William Cowper.

_The Diverting History of John Gilpin._ 1782. 64
Mrs. Gilpin riding to Edmonton 67
The History of Moore’s Life of Byron. 1831 67
A Ballad for all True Sportsmen. 1845. “Prince Albert
is a Sportsman Bold” 67
The Political John Gilpin. (George Bentinck) 68
The new John Gilpin. (Sir Robert Peel.) 1846 68
The Modern Peeping Tom. (Viscount Ranelagh). 1868 69
The Railway Gilpin 70
The Diverting History of Tom Tucker. 1831 71
John Gilpin’s Voyage to Vauxhall. 1885 71
Davy Jones. _B. de Burgh._ 1823 71
John Gilpin in Latin 71
The Connaught Rangers. 1876 72
Paudy and the Mormon. _J. H. Turner._ 1878 72
Burbaban’s Defeat. 1863 86
The Modern Gilpin, or the adventures of John
Oldstock. 1838 322

_The Rose_ 72
Cowper’s first draft of the poem 72
My Uniform, by a Volunteer in 1860 72
April, or the new hat. _C. S. Calverley_ 73
The Rink had been washed. _A. W. Mackenzie_ 73
The Rose and the Buckets. 1812 73

_To Mary_
Mary Anderson. 1883 73

_The Negro’s Complaint_ 74
On the Death of the Princess of Wales. 1819 76
Bishop Philpott’s Complaint. 1833 74
Lord Grey’s Complaint. 1834 74
Jumbo s Jeremiad. 1882 74
The School Boy’s Complaint 75
Farewell to the Camp. _Shirley Brooks._ 1853 75

“_I am Monarch of all I survey_” 76
Verses supposed to have been written by LEIGH HUNT. “I am
tenant of nine-feet by four” 77
Verses ascribed to the Duke of Wellington 77
The Monarch of all they survey. By a Railway Director. 1845 78
Verses ascribed to William Smith O’Brien. 78
The original song of Robinson Crusoe. 1848 78
Ballad of the Exeter Arcade Beadle. 1848 79
A Savage Parody. 1867 79
Lines by the “Head of the Family.” 1871 79
“She is Monarch of all she surveys.” 1874 80
Enforced Solitude. 1874 80
Verses ascribed to Dr. E. V. Kenealy. 1875 80
The Frozen-out Fox Hunter. _The World._ 1879 81
The Lay of the New Ameer. 1879 81
Ex-King Cetewayo’s Lament. 1879 81
I am “Cock of the Walk.” _F. B. Doveton_ 82
The Griffin’s Lament. 1880 82
The Parvenu. 1882 82
Lawn Tennis. _A. W. Mackenzie._ 1883 83
On the Annexation of New Guinea. 1883 83
Soliloquy by a Disgusted Dandy. 1883 83
Verses by Salisbury Selkirk. 1884 84
The Tortures of Tourists. 1885 84
The Limited “Monarch.” 1885 85
A song for Mr. Joseph Chamberlain. 1886 85
The Lament of the Sportive M.P. 1886 85
Verses by Sir Charles Warren. 1887 86
Lines supposed to be written by Robinson Crusoe.
_C. M. Fanshawe_ 102

_A Riddle_ by William Cowper. 1806 86
The Answer 86
“Bless my Heart, how Cold it is” 87

Thomas Gray.

_An Elegy wrote in a Country Church-yard._ 1751 1
A Reprint of the first edition, and history of the poem.
An Evening contemplation in a College. 1753 _John
Duncombe, M.A._ 3
The Nunnery, an Elegy 5
Elegy on “The Guardian outwitted.” 1764 6
An Epitaph on a certain Poet 7
An Elegy in Covent Garden. 1777 7
An Elegy in Westminster Hall 9
An Elegy written in St. Stephens. 1784 10
Elegy written in a Grub street Garret. 1789 10
Elegy written in Bartlemy Fair. 1810 11
Elegy written in Drury Lane Theatre. 1818 12
Elegy written at a Christmas Feast. 1803 13
Elegiac Stanzas written in a London Alley 14
Elegy on the Last of the Lotteries 15
Elegy written in King’s Bench Prison. 1821 16
“ “ “ “ by _A Minor_. 17
Epitaph on a late Administration. 1811 18
An Elegy in a London Churchyard. 1799 18
Nightly Thoughts in the Temple. 1806 19
Nocturnal Contemplations in Barham Downs Camp. 1806 20
Elegy on a Pair of Breeches. _T. Brand._ 1818 22
Elegy written in a College Library. 1824 22
Elegy on the Death of Bow Fair. 1823 23
The Long Vacation, 1823 23
Lucubrations in an Apothecary’s shop 24
Elegy on Sir Francis Burdett, M.P. 1811 24
Elegy addressed to a little Attorney. 1819 25
Elegy written in the Long Vacation. 1831 26
The Woes of Change. _T. Dibdin._ 1832 26
The Gambler. 1832 27
Dry Goods: A Manchester Elegy. 1833 28
Meditations on Barry’s New Houses of Parliament. 1844 28
Elegy in a London Theatre. 1843 29
Night Thoughts. _Albert Smith_ (_?_) 1848 30
Elegy in a London Churchyard. 1849 30
“ “ “ _Diogenes._ 1853 30
Elegy on a Betting office. 1853 31
Elegy written in a Railway Station. 1853 31
Elegy written near a Suburban Station House. 32
A Lunatic Parody. _Fun._ 1865 33
Elegy written in the House of Commons. 1867 33
An Elegy on Cremation. 1875 34
Lament of the Eminent One. (_H. Irving._) _The
Figaro_, 1875 34
Elegy written in Rotten Row. 1876 34
Elegy written in a Country Skating Rink. 1877 35
Cremorne: An Elegy. 1878 36
Circuit Elegy. By Lord Chelmsford. 1881 36
Elegy on a favourite Washerwoman. 1882 37
Gray’s Elegy in an Irish Prison. 1882 38
The S.K. Ring’s Requiem. 1886 38
Parnell-egy in Westminster Palace. 1887 38
Epitaph on “The Pic-Nic.” 1803 39
Epitaph on a noted Highwayman. 1806 39
A Political Parody. _The British Press._ 1812 39
Elegy in St Stephen’s Chapel. 1809 40
Elegy for “The Mirror.” 1825 41
Elegy written in a Town Church-yard. 1885 41
Elegy in Newall’s Buildings 42
The Scales 42
Lord Grey’s Elegy. 1881 42
A Perversion 42
The Author 42
Pensive in a Bone Yard. 1885 42
Imitations of “The Elegy” 42
A Supplement to Gray’s “Elegy.” 1823 42
The Foundlings. An Elegy. 1763 43
An Evening Contemplation in a French Prison. 1809 43
An Elegy written under a Gallows. 1768 43
Lord Mayor’s Day. A Mock Elegy. 1786 43
Elegy written at Bristol Hot Wells. 1789 44
Elegy written in Poet’s Corner. 1803 44
The Nunnery 44
Elegy written on a Field of Battle. 1818 44
Elegy written in a City Churchyard. 1848 44
Translations of “The Elegy” 44
“The Elegy” in French 45
Articles and Notes on “The Elegy” 48
Legs in Tattersall’s yard. 1828 46
An Elegy on the Departed Season. 1867 47
“The Elegy” in Latin 317
An Imitation of the “Elegy.” By a Sailor 317
Elegy in Newgate. _The Satirist._ 1810 317
Elegy written in the Temple Gardens, by _Mr. Justice Hayes_ 317
Elegy written in a Ball Room. _W. Maginn_ 318
The Elegy “travestied.” _The Umpire._ 1888 318
“Wimbledon,” an Elegy. July 1888. _E. B. Anstee_, L.R.B. 319
Parody in _The Court of Session Garland_ by _Colin
Maclaurin_ 320

INDEX TO FIRST LINES.