Chapter VII: Introduction (7)

Once and again PRINCE ALBERT shot,
Once and again shot he;
The hare, that erst on four legs ran,
Now limped away on three.

Each keeper raised his stick and struck
The hare upon the head;
The Prince he shot, the keepers knocked,
Until each hare was dead.

_Dulce et decorum est_, say some,
_Pro patria mori_,
And ’tis a fine thing for a hare,
By princely hand to die.

’Twas this perhaps the game inspired
To court their Prince’s aim,
They died to give PRINCE ALBERT sport,
And therefore they died game.

How many fell _The Court Gazette_
Better than I may say,
Hares that escaped will live to tell
Their children of that day.

Long live the Game Laws, though with ills
Some people say they’re fraught,
Long live the laws by which our Prince
Enjoyed such glorious sport.

_Punch._ 1845.

――――

THE POLITICAL JOHN GILPIN.

GEORGE BENTINCK was a sporting man
Of credit and renown,
A stud in training eke had he,
For Epsom’s famous down.

GEORGE BENTINCK to himself, said he,
Though M.P. I have been
For many years, yet in debate
My name is seldom seen.

JOHN RUSSELL to the Commons goes,
As rumour doth declare,
A bill for Ireland to propose,
And I will meet him there.

There’s BORTHWICK, simple as a child,
Myself and DISRAEL(EE);
We’ll start the game, and other fools
Are sure to follow we.

I am a rider free and bold,
As all the world doth know,
And my good friend the Railway King
Lends me a dodge or so.

The evening came, the dodge was plann’d,
An Irish railway grant,
And sixteen million little pounds
Was all, they said, they’d want.

So BENTINCK, HUDSON, BORTHWICK, BEN,
The measure did bring in;
Four precious souls, and all agog
To dash through thick and thin.

Away they rush’d, on went their tongues,
No rest their hearers had;
The speeches seem’d to be composed
Of eloquence run mad.

GEORGE BENTINCK his steam hobby rode
With all his might and main;
And up he kept himself awhile,
But soon came down again.

Away went BENTINCK, neck or nought,
’Gainst every timid Whig;
They little dreamt when he set out
He would run such a rig.

Some Irish members cheer’d him on;
Protectionists and all
Cried out “Go at it, GEORGE; well done!”
As loud as they could bawl.

Away went BENTINCK, who but he
Could run such pace around?
He carries weight, he rides a race
For sixteen million pound.

And every one that saw him run
Believed it was for place;
Against JOHN RUSSELL they declared
GEORGE BENTINCK rode a race.

And so he did, and lost it too,
For every one in town
Where he had been on getting up,
Found him on sitting down.

Let’s sing I wean, long live the QUEEN,
And BENTINCK long live he;
When next he his steam hobby rides
May we be there to see.

――――

THE NEW JOHN GILPIN.

_Showing how Robert Peel went further than he intended, and came safe home again._

Sir Robert was a Minister
Of credit and renown;
And eke, by virtue of his place,
Adviser to the Crown.

Now Richard Cobden said to him,
“Protected Corn has been
Thro’ thrice ten tedious years, since eight-
Teen hundred and fifteen.

“Yet landlords and eke tenants say
Of profits they despair;
Despite Protection, growing corn
Is a losing affair.

“There’s Mr. Bright, and there’s myself,
And Mr. Fox――make three;
We’ve raised a League, and you must ride
(As Ben says) after we.”

Said Peel, “Your doctrines I admire,
But I am only one;
Still, if the Duke will stick to me,
I’ll try what can be done.

“I am a Premier stout and bold,
As all my party know;
And my good friends in Manchester
Will lend their horse to go.”

Now see him in his new Tariff,
On Free Trade――noble steed!
Full slowly taking duties off,
With caution and good heed.

Then came the blight, and fears arose
We’d not have food to eat,
Free Trade, from walking, ’gan to trot,
Which shook Peel in his seat.

“Fairly and softly,” Peel he cried,
But Peel he cried in vain;
The trot became a gallop soon,
And Free Trade flew amain.

Then giving up, as needs he must
Who cannot help his plight
Peel seized Free Trade, and like a shot
Flew past Protection quite.

Free Trade, who by a Tory lord
Had ne’er been cross’d before,
What thing upon his back had got
Did wonder more and more.

Away went Robert――neck or nought
Past Radical and Whig;
He little thought when he began
His bill would be so big.

The _Post_ did bark, the _Herald_ scream’d,
Out spoke the farmers all,
And every Duke cried out “For shame!”
As loud as he could bawl.

Away went Robert! Who but he?
Free Trade still gaining ground,
He carries weight――he’ll win his race,
His horse’s wind is sound.

Still, as Division-day drew near
’Twas wonderful to view
How overboard the men in place
Their old convictions threw.

Thro’ manufactures of all kinds
His gambols he did play,
And came to Corn Laws at the last,
Which stood dead in the way.

The sliding-scale he knock’d about
Unto his friend’s dismay,
And fix’d how that at three years’ end
The tax should die away.

Free Trade, not satisfied at all
To wait for three years more,
Straight galloped off with all his might,
As he had done before.

Away went Robert, with the League
Still thundering at his heel,
Insisting loud in total and
Immediate repeal.

The county members in the House,
Thus seeing Robert fly,
With Lord John Russell in his rear,
Set up a hue and cry:

“Stop thief! Stop thief! a highway man:”
Not one of them was mute,
And Ben D’Israeli and Colquhoun
Did join in the pursuit.

In the “Protection” heavy coach,
The Upper House gave chase;
But Free Trade’s bottom, bone, and wind,
Made it a hopeless race.

The race is run, the race is won
With credit and renown;
Nor did Free Trade draw breath until
The Corn Laws he ran down.

Now let us sing “Long live the League,
And Cobden, long live he,
And when Peel next doth ride Free Trade,
May _Punch_ his Laureat be.”

_Punch._ February 14, 1846.

――――

THE MODERN PEEPING TOM.

Lord Trallala a noble was,
Of credit and renown,
A brave old Volunteer was he
Of famous London town.

A well known connoisseur was he
Of things antique and fine――a
His taste was good in rare old wine.
Old women, and old china.

A noted champion was he,
Of damsels in distress;
But as Companion of the Bath
He got into a mess.

A witch there was in Bond Street dwelt,
Whom RACHEL men did call;
She took in women young and old,
And beautified them all.

With powders and with cosmetique,
And eastern bloom of Ninon;
And added to their tresses bright
The decorative chignon.

The bath the next essential was,
To clarify their skins――
Let’s hope it cleansed their conscience too,
And washed away their sins.

For if not so, why one would think
Such folks as these could never,
By any other process be
Made “_beautiful for ever_.”

Behind the bath a snuggery lay,
Though doors were hung _a plomb_;
And TRALLALA went in to play
The part of peeping TOM.

And now it is conjectured by
Each erudite surmiser,
He went, he saw, he came away
Considerably wiser.

From _The Hornet_. Sept. 9, 1868.

Tom Jones, Viscount Ranelagh, Colonel of the South Middlesex Volunteer Rifles, was called as a witness in an action brought by Mrs. Borrowdale against Madame Rachel of Bond Street, who professed to make ladies “_Beautiful forever_.” Rachel was convicted for obtaining money under false pretences, and died in Brixton Gaol.

――――

THE RAILWAY GILPIN.

JOHN GILPIN is a citizen;
For lineage of renown,
The famed JOHN GILPIN’S grandson, he
Abides in London town.

To our JOHN GILPIN said his dear,
“Stewed up here as we’ve been
Since Whitsuntide, ’tis time that we
Should have a change of scene.

“To-morrow is a leisure day,
And we’ll by rail repair
Unto the Nell at Dedmanton,
And take a breath of air.

“My sister takes our eldest child;
The youngest of our three
Will go in arms, and so the ride
Won’t so expensive be.”

JOHN soon replied, “I don’t admire
That railway, I, for one;
But you know best, my dearest dear,
And so it must be done.

“I, as a linen draper bold,
Will bear myself, and though
’Tis Friday by the calendar
Will risk my limbs, and go.”

Quoth MISTRESS GILPIN, “nicely said
And then, besides, look here,
We’ll go by the Excursion Train,
Which makes it still less dear,”

JOHN GILPIN poked his clever wife,
And slightly smiled to find
That though on peril she was bent,
She had a careful mind.

The morning came; a cab was sought:
The proper time allow’d
To reach the station door; but lo!
Before it stood a crowd.

For half an hour they there were stay’d,
And when they did get in――
“No train! a hoax!” cried clerks agog
To swear through thick and thin.

“Yaa!” went the throats; stamp went the heels;
Were never folks so mad,
The disappointment dire beneath:
All cried “it was too bad.”

JOHN GILPIN home would fain have hied,
But he must needs remain,
Commanded by his wilful bride,
And take the usual train.

’Twas long before our passengers
Another train could find,
When――stop! one ticket for the fares
Was lost or left behind!

“Good lack,” quoth JOHN, “yet try it on.”
“’Twon’t do,” the guard replies,
And bearing wife and babes on board,
The train without him flies.

Now see him in a second train,
Behind the iron steed,
Borne on, slap-dash for life or bones
With small concern or heed.

Away went GILPIN neck or naught,
Exclaiming, “Dash my wig!
Oh, here’s a game, oh, here’s a go!
A running such a rig!”

A signal, hark!――the whistle screamed,
Smash! went the windows all:
“An accident!” cried out each one,
As loud as he could bawl,

Away went GILPIN, never mind,
His brain seemed spinning round;
Thought he, “This speed a killing pace
Will prove, I’ll bet a pound!”

And still, as stations they drew near,
The whistle shrilly blew,
And in a trice, past signal-men
The train like lightning flew.

Thus, all through merry Killbury,
Without a stop shot they;
But paused to ’scape a second smash,
At Dedmanton so gay.

At Dedmanton his loving wife,
On platform waiting, spied
Her tender husband, striving much
To let himself outside,

“Hallo! JOHN GILPIN, here we are――
Come out!” they all did cry;
“To death with waiting we are tired!”
“Guard!” shouted GILPIN, “Hi!”

But no――the train was not a bit
Arranged to tarry there,
For why? because ’twas an Express,
And did dispatches bear.

So, in a second, off it flew
Again, and dashed along,
As if the deuce ’twere going to,
With motive impulse strong.

Away went GILPIN, on the breath
Of puffing steam, until
They came unto their journey’s end,
Where they at last stood still.

And then――best thing that he could do――
He book’d himself for Town;
They stopped at every station up,
Till he again got down

Says GILPIN, “Sing, long live the Queen,
And eke long life to me;
And ere I’ll trust that line again;
Myself I blest will see!”

ANONYMOUS.

From _Partron’s Collection of Humorous Poetry_. Boston, 1881.

――――

THE TRUE AND DIVERTING HISTORY OF TOM TUCKER.

John Tucker was a broker bold,
Of very great renown:
A dab at putting bedsteads _up_,
And pulling bedsteads _down_.

A broker too in politics,
Had words at his command,
But, like his goods, his speeches are
Retail’d at _second-hand_.

(There are 16 verses in all of this, not very amusing, parody.)

From “_The Argus_, or Record of Politics, etc.” Southampton, 1831.

――――

A long parody also appeared in _Edgbastonia_, June 1885. of which only a few verses need be quoted:――

A SECOND HOLIDAY FOR JOHN GILPIN;

_Or, a voyage to Vauxhall, where tho’ he had better luck than before, he was far from being contented._

John Gilpin was a citizen
Of credit and renown,
A common councilman was he,
Of famous London Town.

Most folks had heard of Gilpin’s fame,
And of the race he won,
When he on horseback did set out
All unto Edmonton

And never since that luckless time
Which gave him such dismay,
For ten whole years, had he and spouse,
Enjoyed a holiday.

The main chance minding still at home,
On bus’ness quite intent;
He made amends, there is no doubt,
For what that day was spent.

Their daughters, rising in their teens,
Were innocent and gay,
And as young girls, they often begg’d
To have a holiday.

Good Mistress Gilpin had a heart
Her pretty girls to please;
But how to win John Gilpin to’t
Was not a task of ease.

“Howe’er,” said she, “leave that to me,
It never will cause strife;
And he will sure comply once more,
To please his loving wife.”

She mark’d the time, in cheerful mood
John Gilpin for to see;
Then unto him thus did she speak,
One evening o’er their tea.

“My dear you must a favour grant,
Your tenderness to prove.”
Said Gilpin, “What is your desire?
I can’t deny my love.”

“Why, there’s my sweetest life,” said she,
And strok’d his smirking face;
At which he kissed his dearest dear,
And smiled with kindly grace.

“You know,” said she, “since that sad day,
Which we could not foresee,
That we have never thought upon
Another holiday.

“Ten circling years have made their round,
And time comes stealing on;
Next Tuesday is our wedding day,
Then pray let us have one.”

John Gilpin hum’d and ha’d awhile,
Then cried, “It shall be so,
Yet hope, you do not mean, my dear,
To Edmonton to go.

“That cursed jaunt I can’t forget
Which brought me such disgrace.”
“No, no, my dear,” she quick reply’d,
“I mean a nearer place.

“Amusements round the town are found,
Delighting unto all;
Therefore with me, if you’ll agree,
We’ll go to sweet Vaux-hall.

“A sculler, sure, will take us all,
The purchase can’t be great;
And then along the silver Thames,
How we shall ride in state.”

“Thy will be done,” John Gilpin cry’d,
“I like thy thought in this;
The evening is not all the day,
Much business we can’t miss.”

Then Mistress Gilpin said to John,
“That we may all be gay
Your very suit you shall have on,
Made for your wedding day.

“Your lac’d cravat, and beaver hat,
Your cane, with head of gold,
With roll’d up hose, and then you’ll be
Most charming to behold.”

At length the happy time arrived,
John Gilpin, neatly dressed,
Look’d like a citizen, indeed,
Array’d in all his best.

* * * * *

――――

_Davy Jones_, a Gilpinic Tale, by Barnard de Burgh, 1823. This little work has some amusing illustrations, but a very misleading title, for it is not a parody of “John Gilpin.”

“John Gilpin” translated into Latin, was published some years ago by Mr. J. Vincent of Oxford. The pamphlet was entitled “Johannis Gilpiniiter, Latine Redditum,” and may probably still be obtained in Oxford.

――――

Two other parodies of _John Gilpin_ may be mentioned, one which appeared in “_The Yorkshireman_” for August 1876, entitled _The Connaught Rangers_, and commencing:

Bold Sutcliffe was a citizen
Of credit and renown,
A Bowling dyer eke was he
And Mayor of Bradford town.

The other appeared in “_The Idel News_” in August 1878, and commenced thus:――

PADDY AND THE MORMON.
_An Episode of Idel Green, Yorks._

Childe Evins was a citizen
Of credit and renown,
A Mormon Elder too was he
Of famous Utah town.

His latest wife said in his ear――
“Though wedded we have been
These twelve long tedious months yet we
No holiday have seen.

To-morrow is our wedding day,
And we will then prepare
To take a voyage o’er the sea,
To greet the old folks there.

Sall, Ruth, and Ann, and Tabitha,
Thy other wives, shall stay
To nurse their bairns, and keep the home
The time we are away.

* * * * *

The latter parody was written by Mr. J. Horsfall Turner, unfortunately both poems are very long, and of only local interest.

――――:o:――――

THE ROSE.

The Rose had been washed, just washed in a shower,
Which Mary to Anna conveyed;
The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower,
And weighed down its beautiful head.

The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet
And it seemed, to a fanciful view,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret
On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was
For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned;
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I snapped it――it fell to the ground!

And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind;
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resigned.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,
Might have bloomed with its owner awhile;
And the tear that is wiped with a little address,
May be followed perhaps by a smile.

WILLIAM COWPER.

――――

Mr. Frederick Locker-Lampson, author of _London Lyrics_, has in his possession the first draft of William Cowper’s poem of _The Rose_, in the poet’s autograph. It is interesting, as it shows how much he altered and improved his poems:――

“The Rose that I sing had been bathed in a show’r,
Profusely and hastily shed,
The plentiful moisture incumber’d the flow’r,
And weigh’d down its elegant head.

The cup was all fill’d, and the leaves were all wet,
And it seem’d to a fanciful view
To weep for the home it had left with regret
In the flowery bush where it grew.

Unfit as it was for the use of the Fair,
With foliage so dripping and drown’d,
I shook it and swung it with too little care――
I snapp’d it, it fell to the ground.

And such, I exclaim’d is the pitiless part,
Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resign’d.

This Rose might have held, had I shaken it less,
Its unblemish’d beauty awhile,
And the tear that is wiped by a little address,
May be follow’d perhaps by a smile.”

――――

MY UNIFORM.
_By a Damp but Determined Volunteer._

The corps had been washed, newly-washed in a shower,
Which, as usual, had spoiled our parade,
The plentiful moisture, poured down for an hour,
With our uniforms havoc had played.

My belts were all sodden, my shako so wet,
That it seemed to a fanciful view,
As if mere _papier-maché_ ’twould prove, and forget
For what it had duty to do.

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was――
Poor shako――a shaking to stand!
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
The peak came off, limp, in my hand!

“And such,” I exclaimed, “was the Dons[68] foolish act
With his helmet so neatly combined,
He exposed it to thwacks, which the joints rudely cracked,
Not for use but appearance designed.

“This elegant cap, had I shaken it less,
Might have bloomed, ’neath its _pompon_ awhile;
And accoutrements wiped with a little address
May adorn next Review’s rank and file!”

_Punch._ July 28, 1860. (The wet summer.)

――――

APRIL:
_Or, the New Hat._

My Boots had been wash’d――well wash’d――in a show’r;
But little I griev’d about that:
What I felt was the havoc a single half hour,
Had made with my costly new Hat.

For the Boot, tho’ its lustre be dimm’d, shall assume
Fresh sprightliness after a while:
But what art may restore its original bloom,
When once it hath flown, to the Tile?

I clomb to my perch, and the horses (a bay
And a brown) trotted off with a clatter:
The Driver look’d round in his affable way
And said huskily, “Who is your hatter?”

I was pleas’d that he’d notic’d its shape and its shine,
And as soon as we reached the _Old Druid_,
I begg’d that he’d drink to my new Four-and-nine
In a glass of his favourite fluid,

A gratified smile sat, I own, on my lips
When the landlady called to the master
(He was standing hard by with his hands on his hips),
To “look at the gentleman’s Castor!”

I laugh’d, as an organ-man paus’d in mid-air
(’Twas an air that I happen’d to know,
By a great foreign Maestro) expressly to stare
At _ze gent wiz ze joli chapeau_.

Yet how swift is the transit from laughter to tears!
Our glories, how fleeting are they!
That Hat might (with care) have adorn’d me for years;
But ’twas ruin’d, alack, in a day!

How I loved thee, my Bright One! I wrench in remorse,
My hands from my coat-tail and wring ’em:
“Why did not I, why, as a matter of course,
When I purchas’d thee, purchase a Gingham!”

CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.

(_This poem is a double acrostic._)

――――

THE RINK HAD BEEN WASHED.

The rink had been washed, just washed in a shower,
Where Mary and Charley did skate,
While plentiful moisture enveloped the bower,
Where to rest or to flirt they would wait.

The eaves were all dripping――my spirits did sink,
For it seemed to a sensible view,
That it was not at all a good day for a rink,
Save perhaps for a venturesome few.

But they would go and skate, unfit though it was,
And cut figures so neat and so round,
When in turning round sharply, too sharply, alas!
They slipped and then――fell to the ground.

And such, I exclaimed, is the result of a whim,
That might, could, and should have been saved,
Regardless of falling and breaking a limb,
They brave what should ne’er have been braved.

Had the rain kept away, or their speed had been less,
They ne’er would have tumbled at all,
But the figure that’s cut without skill or address,
May be followed perhaps by a fall.

A. W. MACKENZIE
(Author of _Idyls of the Rink_.)

From _Mirth_, edited by H. J. Byron. May 1878.

――――

THE ROSE AND THE BUCKETS.

One day, old George Rose, in a fit of finance
Saw, or thought that he saw, in two buckets,
The two gasping nations of England and France,
Not worth by their warfare three ducats.

* * * * *

This is the first of five verses of an old political parody, which originally appeared in _The Morning Chronicle_, but was afterwards republished in _The Spirit of the Public Journals_ for 1812. (Volume XVI.)

――――:o:――――

MARY ANDERSON.[69]
(_A parody of Cowper’s lines “To Mary.”_)

She came; she trod our English land:
A masterpiece from Phidias’ hand――
Antique and classical and grand
Looked Mary.

And mashers flew the maid to greet,
Leaving the playhouse o’er the street,
And Nelly of the twinkling feet,
For Mary.

In vain for one sweet smile they sued,
She thought their conduct very rude;
You see that something of a prude
Is Mary.

Though titled splendour bade her come
And share the festive “kettledrum,”
Nothing could tempt the maid to roam――
Unless a Bishop was “at home”
To Mary.

Said Britain’s Heir, “She’ll not refuse
If I should seek to introduce
Myself to this dramatic Muse――
Miss Mary.”

But little noble Albert recked
The haughty damsel’s self-respect.
“I keep my circle most select,”
Says Mary.

So with a calm impassive eye
She gave his Highness the “go by.”
“Who wants to know you, Sir? Not I!”
Said Mary.

Across the Atlantic wave to-day
Columbia’s children proudly say,
“Guess naow who snubbed a Coming K.?
Why, Mary.”

_Judy._ October 24, 1883.

――――

THE NEGRO’S COMPLAINT.

Forced from home and all its pleasures,
Afric’s coast I left forlorn;
To increase a stranger’s treasures,
O’er the raging billows borne.
Men from England bought and sold me,
Paid my price in paltry gold;
But, though slave they have enrolled me,
Minds are never to be sold.

Still in thought as free as ever,
What are England’s rights, I ask,
Me from my delights to sever,
Me to torture, me to task?
Fleecy locks and black complexion
Cannot forfeit nature’s claim;
Hues may differ, but affection
Dwells in white and black the same.

Why did all-creating Nature
Make the plant for which we toil?
Sighs must fan it, tears must water,
Sweat of ours must dress the soil.
Think, ye masters, iron-hearted,
Lolling at your jovial boards,
Think how many backs have smarted
For the sweets your cane affords.

* * * * *

Deem our nation brutes no longer,
Till some reason ye shall find
Worthier of regard and stronger
Than the colour of our kind.
Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings
Furnish all your boasted powers;
Prove that you have human feelings
Ere you proudly question ours!

WILLIAM COWPER.

――――

Two parodies of this poem appeared in _Figaro in London_ more than fifty years ago, they are consequently rather out of date, and it is unnecessary to give them in full.

The first referred to Henry Phillpotts, the stern, mercenary, and bigoted Bishop of Exeter, the bitter opponent of Roman Catholic emancipation, and the apologist for the Peterloo massacre. The second is supposed to be a complaint made by Lord Grey on his rejection from the office of premier by his late colleagues.

NO. 1. BISHOP PHILLPOTTS’ COMPLAINT.

Forced from dissipation’s pleasures,
Oxford’s walls I left forlorn,
To increase my worldly treasures,
Up to town a stranger borne.
Men in office bought and sold me,
Paid my price in shining gold,
But though theirs they then enrolled me,
Sentiments may twice be sold.

Still in thought as Whig as ever,
What are Brougham’s rights I ask,
Me with irony so clever
Cruelly to take to task?
Whigs may proudly all connection
With the Tories now disclaim,
But for place a fond affection
Dwells, we know, in both the same.

Why did Whigs the all engrossing,
Take the place for which we toil,
Tories now must keep them close in,
Lest our future hopes we spoil.
Think, ye ministers so grasping,
Lolling on the Treasury boards,
Think, what lots of us are gasping,
For the sweets your place affords.

Is it, as ye sometimes tell us,
That our gracious sovereign, Bill,
Gives you power to compel us
To Reform against our will.
Ask him if your Irish scourges,
Taxes――acts that press like screws,
Are the measures that he urges
Lib’ral ministers to use.

Hark! he answers, fierce coercion
Washing Ireland’s shores with blood,
Wasting towns, with a subversion
Of the rights to which it stood.
He foreseeing what oppression
Erin’s sons must undergo,
Kept the Whigs another session,
That they might lay freedom low.

(_Two verses omitted._)

_Figaro in London._ March 9, 1833.

NO. 2. LORD GREY’S COMPLAINT.

Forced from place and all its pleasures,
Treasury bench I left forlorn,
To advance old Brougham’s measures,
In his cunning _caput_ born.
All my former colleagues sold me,
Ousted me by tricks that told;
But though _out_ at last they’ve bowl’d me,
Whigs are always to be sold.

Still in principle as ever,
I can shortly change my mind;
Join the Tories, ’twould be clever,
Leaving former friends behind.
Whig professions, Tory practice,
Both may sometimes kindred claim;
Names may differ, but the fact is
Whig and Tory are the same.

Why did all creating nature
Make us wish for place to toil,
Lies must earn it――which we ought to
Shun, lest we our souls should soil.
Think ye Ministers while boasting,
Lolling at your treasury boards;
How our souls must get a roasting,
For the sweets that place affords?

* * * * *

_Figaro in London._ August 2, 1834.

――――

JUMBO’S JEREMIAD.

Forced from fogs and all their pleasures,
England’s shore I leave forlorn,
To increase base BARNUM’S treasures
O’er the foaming billows borne.
Yankee scamps have bought and sold me,
Paid my price――two thousand pounds;
And because their bonds enfold me
London with my roar resounds.

Still in thought as free as ever,
What is BARNUM’S right, I ask,
Me from Regent’s Park to sever,
Me to torture, me to task?
In the Zoo I’m never beaten,
Children hail me with three cheers;
Buns unnumbered have I eaten
To amuse the little dears.

Like tall ladders wearing trousers
Are the Guardsmen who have sat
On my back, the red carousers,
While they talked in loving chat
With the nursemaid, prim and pretty,
Who those soldiers so adore,――
Chat was theirs, both fond and witty,
Shall I never hear it more?

Now, to fill the bitter chalice
Of my grief, my foes discreet
Fain would make my lovely ALICE
Lure me from my dear retreat.
ALICE, ALICE, don’t succumb, O!
Either to their smiles or sneers,
Listen to your husband, JUMBO,
Oh, have pity on his tears!

ALICE, Darling, we’ll be jolly,
We won’t wander from the Zoo,
I’ll not go upon their trolly,
Smash my trunk, pet, if I do!

_Judy_, March 1, 1882,

(Alas, poor Jumbo! He was afterwards accidentally killed by a locomotive engine.)

――――

THE SCHOOL BOY’S COMPLAINT

1

Forced from home and all its pleasures,
Father’s house I left forlorn;
To increase a master’s treasures,
To Carthusia’s mansions borne.
My lot was fixed, my place was taken;
Paid for too in paltry gold;
And thus by all my friends forsaken,
Unwillingly at school enrolled.

2

Still in thought as free as ever,
What are master’s rights, I ask,
Though they think themselves so clever.
Me to torture, me to task?
Vainly Saunders, Chapman, Penny,
Claim their right to power and rule,
Though they seldom call us any
Names but “stupid ass,” and “fool!”

3

Why did all-creating Nature
Plant that tree, the school-boy’s bane?
Sighs must fan it, tears must water;
Cause of woe and bitter pain.
Think, ye masters, iron-hearted,
Frowning from your desks of state,
Think how many backs have smarted
’Neath the object of our hate!

4

Are there, as ye sometimes tell us,
Mighty lords, who govern all,
Suff’ring boys and masters jealous.
Meeting in the Founders’ Hall?
Do they order impositions,
Learning in our brains to hammer?
Will they teach our repetitions?
Or instruct us in the grammar?

5

No, we never rule so cruel,
Never shall our spirits brook;
Desks and blocks shall turn to fuel,
Lighted by the dread Black-Book.
Now’s the hour, and now’s the season
For one well-directed blow:
Can they call such daring, treason?
Hark! our injuries answer, No.

6

By the years which we have wasted
In this dreary place of woe;
By the mis’ries we have tasted,
By the ills we undergo;
By our suff’rings since we entered
Chapman’s portals, op’ning wide;
When our joy in freedom centred,
Hope, alas! remained outside,

7

Deem us, therefore, fools no longer,
’Till some reason ye shall find,
Worthier of regard and stronger
Than _your_ judgment of our mind.
Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings
All your precepts vain belie;
Destitute of human feeling,
Subjects fit for mockery!

F. N.

From the _Charterhouse Collection of Poems, &c._ Collected by Edward Walford, M.A.

――――:o:――――

FAREWELL TO THE CAMP.
(_A Lyric for the 20th August_, 1853.)

A military camp was held during the summer months of 1853 at Chobham, and became a favourite place of resort for Londoners.

The Camp has departed!――farewell the parade,
And the earth-shaking march of the stern Colonade:[70]
The bands play no longer from manuscript leaves,
Nor detectives prowl stealthily watching the thieves.

The City of War, which immense fun we’ve had in
Is fled like the palace that flew with Aladdin;
And musketry’s crack, and artillery’s roar
Astonish the echoes of Chobham no more.

The Lancer in scarlet, the Rifle in green,
And the Horse-guard in blue, have abandoned the scene;
And we’ve witness’d the last of the blood-stirring frays
Where gallop’d in glory those terrible Greys.

No longer in toothsome libation is spilt
The Dew that is dear to the sons of the kilt;
No longer falls plashing in pleasantness here,
The frothy cascade of the black British beer,

O! Chobham Olympics, your games are all done,
The last close is wrestled, the last race is run,
The stone’s “put” away, to the leap-frog there’s truce,
And the ultimate caber is pitched to the deuce.

Rejoice in thy stable, thou omnibus steed!
For thee the campaign-times were wiry indeed,
No more shalt thou toil on that villanous road,
With a cargo of snobs for thy heart-breaking load.

Weep, rascally drivers of ramshackle flies,
Adieu your extortions, your sauce, and your lies,
Farewell to that Station, the cheating point where
You’ve so oft charged a pound for a two shilling fare.

Well, everything passes; a Camp like the rest,
But this ends while its novelty still has a zest;
And we’re free to confess that we see with regret
The Flutters Hill’s sun, like the Austerlitz set.

Here’s a health to the officer――liner or guard――
Who with Cambridge and Seaton has laboured so hard,
Here’s a health to his men, whose good looks and good will
Did such excellent credit to messman and drill.

The object was good, and the object is gained,
Right sound is the teaching the troops have obtained;
And we’ll mark that M.P. for a short-sighted scamp
Who grudges one mil for the Chobhamite Camp.

SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1853.

――――:o:――――

ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE, OF WALES.
(_In imitation of Cowper’s dirge on the loss of the “Royal
George.”_)

Wail for the dead!
And rend thy streaming hair,
Thou fairest Island-Queen
That ever ocean bare!

All lonely on the rock,
To every passing sail,
Let thy deep shriek of woe
Fly pinioned on the gale.

Not light that tale of woe is,
No trouble of a day;
Thy cup of Joy is dashed,
Is dashed in haste away.

Wail for the dead!
The high-born and the good!
Long years must pass before
Her equal shall be viewed.

Three kingdoms longed to trust
The sceptre in her hand,
And send it down her race,
While their white cliffs should stand.

Each heart on tiptoe stood,
To hail a new-born son,
And merry bells were ready,
To make the welcome known.

Wail for the dead!
The babe lies cold in death!
Mother and offspring need
But one sad funeral wreath.

Stars sunk in ocean blue
’Merge from the eastern main;
But England’s star of glory
Shall never rise again.

(_Several verses omitted._)

CLIO.

From _The Pocket Magazine_, Vol. III. Published by John Arliss, London. 1819.

――――:o:――――

SOLITUDE.

_Supposed to have been written by Alexander Selkirk, a shipwrecked sailor, who lived four years in the uninhabited Island of Juan Fernandez._

I am monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute;
From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
Oh, Solitude! where are the charms
Which sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this desolate place.

I am out of humanity’s reach,
I must finish my journey alone,――
Never hear the sweet music of speech,
I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts that roam over the plain
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestowed upon man,
Oh! had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again!
My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth――
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheered by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasures untold
Reside in that heavenly word,
More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford.
But the sound of the church-going bell
These valleys and rocks never heard;
Never sighed at the sound of a knell,
Never smiled when a Sabbath appeared.

Ye winds! that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial, endearing report
Of a land I shall visit no more.
My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me;
Oh! tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind!
Compared with the speed of its flight,
The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-winged arrows of light.
When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there;
But, alas, recollection at hand,
Soon hurries me back to despair!

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair;
Even here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair.
There is mercy in every place,
And mercy, (encouraging thought!)
Gives every affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.

WILLIAM COWPER.

In 1813 Leigh Hunt and his brother, as proprietors of _The Examiner_, were sentenced to undergo two years imprisonment, and each to pay a fine of five hundred pounds, for publishing an article in that paper containing the following remarks on the Prince Regent:――

“What person would imagine in reading these astounding eulogies in _The Morning Post_, that this ‘Glory of the people’ was the subject of millions of shrugs and reproaches! That this ‘Conqueror of Hearts’ was the disappointer of hopes! That this ‘Exciter of Desire’ (Bravo, _Morning Post_!), this ‘Adonis in Loveliness’ was a corpulent man of fifty! In short, this _delightful_, _blissful_, _wise_, _pleasureable_, _honourable_, _virtuous_, _true and immortal_ Prince was a violator of his word, a libertine over head and ears in disgrace, a despiser of domestic ties, the companion of gamblers and demireps, a man who has just closed half a century without one single claim on the gratitude of his country, or the respect of posterity.”

The Hunts were informed that if they would undertake to abstain from commenting on the actions of the Prince Regent for the future, the sentence would be remitted. They declined to give the required undertaking, but paid their fines, and went to prison. The severity of the sentence caused great delight to the friends of the Prince Regent, and Theodore Hook wrote the following apropos parody of Cowper’s poem on Alexander Selkirk:――

VERSES.

(Supposed to be written by the Editor of the _Examiner_, whilst in prison.)

I am tenant of nine feet by four,
My title no lawyer denies.
From the ceiling quite down to the floor,
I am lord of the spiders and flies.

Oh, Justice! how awkward it is
To be griped by thy terrible squad!
I did but indulge in a _quiz_,
And the Quorum have sent me to _quod_.

Dear scandal is out of my reach,
I must pass my dull mornings alone.
Never hear Mr. Brougham make a speech,
Nor get audience for one of my own!

The people, provokingly quiet,
My fate with indifference see:
They are so unaccustomed to riot,
Their tameness is shocking to me.

Personality, libel, and lie,
Ye supports of our Jacobite train,
If I had but the courage to try,
How soon I would sport you again!

My ranklings I then might assuage
By renewing my efforts to vex,
By profaning the rev’rence of age,
And attacking the weakness of sex.

A libel! what treasure untold
Resides in that dear little word,
More rich than the silver and gold
Which the Bank is reported to hoard!

But the Bench have no bowels for pity,
No stomach for high-seasoned leaven,
And though we be never so witty,
They trim us when judgment is given.

O ye, who were present in Court,
In pity convey to me here
Some well-manufactured report,
Of a lady, a prince, or a peer.

Do my writings continue to tell?
Does the public attend to my lines?
O say that my Newspapers sell
Though the money must go for my fines!

How fleet is the growth of a fib!
The astonishing speed of its flight
Outstrips the less mischievous squib
Let off on a holiday night.

Then who would not vamp up a fudge,
When he knows how it helps off his papers
Were it not――that the thought of the judge
Overcasts him, and gives him the vapours?

But Cobbett has got his discharge――
_The beast_ is let loose from his cover;
Like him I shall yet be at large,
When a couple of years shall be over.

For law must our liberty give,
Though _Law_ far a while may retard it
Even I shall obtain it, who live
By sapping the bulwarks that guard it.

This parody was given in Volume IV. (Part 41) of this collection, with George Cruikshank’s caricature of the Prince Regent,

“The Dandy of Sixty
Who bows with a grace,
And has taste in wigs, collars,
Cuirasses and lace,”

but it is necessary to repeat it here in its proper place, under the poet Cowper.

――――

VERSES.

(_Supposed to have been written by Arthur, Duke of Wellington, during his late solitary visit to Downing Street._).

However horrible may have been the situation of that wretched man Alexander Selkirk, the Duke of Wellington’s place in 1832 must have been equally appalling. Thrown by the sea of politics on the rock of Government, out of the reach of all help, he found himself Prime Minister of England, without a single associate in his solitary Administration.

I am master of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute,
All the cormorants feeding on pay;
Yes, I’m Lord of each time-serving brute.
Oh Premiership! where are the charms
I formerly saw in thy face?
Better herd with the underling swarms,
Than alone in my horrible place.

I am out of humanity’s reach,
I must make up my council alone;
I am taxed by my foes in each speech,
And they cough at the sound of my own.
The clerks that loll over the desks,
My form with indifference see;
The supplies will, they know, meet with checks,
Oh! their apathy’s shocking to me.

Ye Liberals-aye, even more,
Whigs, Radicals, either or both,
Oh, had I ne’er ratted before,
To join you I’d be nothing loth.
My errors I then might atone,
By supporting the BILL with all zeal,
Though taunted with Winchelsea’s groan,
Or jeered by the sallies of Peel.

* * * * *

_Figaro in London._ June 2, 1832.

――――

THE MONARCH OF ALL THEY SURVEY.
(_By a Railway Director._)

I am monarch of all they Survey,
My right there is none to assail;
O’er Great Britain Victoria may sway,
I am lord of the Line and the Rail!

Oh, Pimlico! where are the charms
Thy Buckingham Palace can boast?
What is sporting proud royalty’s arms
Of Railways to ruling the roast?

Prince Albert to prance on his nag,
And follow the lame deer is free;
But my quarry’s a different stag,
And the Engine’s the hunter for me.

An army our Queen may possess,
On the Ocean her navy may roll;
Of the Line I have regiments, no less,
And more numerous navies control.

My seat of imperial state
I’d not swop for Her Majesty’s throne,
Nor for that of my Sovereign vacate
The boiler that serves for my own.

Lords in Waiting are all very grand,
Maids of Honour are all very fine;
But the deft Engineer to command,
And to rule the sharp Stoker be mine.

_Punch._ November 15, 1845.

――――

VERSES.

_Supposed to be written by William Smith O’Brien, during his solitary Abode in the Cellar of the House of Commons._

I am monarch of all I survey;
My right there is none to dispute;
From the break-fast time round to the tay,
I see neither Saxon nor brute.
O Solitude! where’s the atthractions,
That sages have seen in your face?
Better dwell in the midst of the Saxons,
Then reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity’s reach,
I must finish the Session alone,
Ne’er cry “hear!” to an illigant speech,――
Sure I start at the sound of my own.
Them beasts, the attindants and waithers,
My form with indifference see;
They are so unaccustomed to Marthyrs,
Their coolness is shocking to me.

Society――blarney――abuse――
Gifts dear to the boys of my name!
O if I had the _wings_ of a goose,
It’s soon I’d be out of this same.
I then might enliven my gloom
In the ways of repalers and men,
Might learn from the wisdom of HUME,
And be cheer’d by the sallies of BEN.

Ye Mimbers, that make me your sport,
O convey to this desolate door
A _Times_, with a faithful report
Of the House I shall visit no more.
My frinds, sure they now and then sind
A joke or a laugh after me?
O tell me I yet have a frind
Though BENTINCK I’m never to see.

The attindant is gone to his rest,
The Saxon lies down in his lair;――
While I think of the Isle of the West,
And turn up my bed[71] in dispair.
But whisky is still to be had;
And the whisky――encouraging thought!
As it is not by any means bad,
Half reconciles me to my lot.

_Punch._ 1846.

――――

THE ORIGINAL SONG OF ROBINSON CRUSOE.

I’m monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute:
No Poors Rates nor taxes I pay,
Nor take out a license to shoot.
No bailiffs or brokers I dread
To carry off me or my sticks,
And this hut I built over my head
Though of mud, is as jolly as bricks.
They may talk of residing abroad,
With limited means for a plea,
But of all the cheap places to live,
Uninhabited islands for me.

Quite out of my fashion I strike
All habits defying my ease;
I wear my clothes just as I like,
And I think they are “rather the cheese.”
No poachers nor bailiffs I fear,
Nor e’er shot a man by mistake.
My venison though cheap still is “deer,”
And game of the game-laws I make.
They may talk of residing abroad,
At Boulogne, or Brussels, or Brest,
But of all the cheap places to live,
Uninhabited islands are best.

I’ve no Mrs. Caudle to twit,
But go to sleep just when I choose,
And corn-laws don’t fret me a bit,
For I always wear very large shoes.
I’ve nothing to purchase, and so
With bills I am never afflicted,
And quarrels I never shall know,
Because I am ne’er contradicted.
They may talk of residing abroad,
Or of flight to the land of Yankee,
But of all the cheap places to live,
Uninhabited islands for me.

From _A Bowl of Punch_, by Albert Smith. London. D. Bogue. 1848.

――――

THE MODERN SELKIRK.
(_Ballad of the Exeter Arcade Beadle._)

I am beadle of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute;
From the centre to over the way,
I’m lord of the playbills and fruit.
O, solitude, where are thy joys?
O, would I could see but one face!
’Tis but to be chaffed by the boys
I am left in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity’s reach,
I must walk up and down all day long,
I’ve no one to list to my speech,
I have not the pluck for a song.
The newspaper boys they peep in,
And laugh and insult me with glee;
To them it is very good fun――
Their jesting is shocking to me.

Lyceum! what pleasures untold
Reside in thy laugh-loving crowd;
But I may grow owlish and old,
Ere to witness a play I’m allowed.
The sound of the drop-raising bell,
Not once, as a beadle, I’ve heard;
Never sighed at a tragedy swell,
Nor laughed when a burlesque appear’d.

Shareholders, who’ve made me your sport,
Convey to this dreary arcade
A drop of that something called short,
Or with me ’tis all up, I’m afraid,
If my friends would but now and then send
A small drop of comfort to me,
I might know that I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.

From _A Bowl of Punch_, by Albert Smith. London. 1848.

――――
A SAVAGE PARODY.

(Born 1845; couldn’t be borne any longer, 1866; retired from society, is buried in the seclusion of a garret, 1867.)

I am monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute,
For my creditors can’t do away
With their dread for the toe of my boot
O Solitude! where are the charms
That sages have seen in thy face,
If forebodings one’s bosom alarms
That a bailiff may come to the place?

I am out of my landlady’s reach;
She knows it, and leaves me alone,
My skill there is none will impeach
At grilling a chop or a bone.
The clo’men in Petticoat-Lane
My form with indifference see,
For though making of most things some gain
They cannot make ought out of me.

New trousers! what visions unfold!
I dare not now venture abroad,
For the trousers I’ve on are too holed,
And a new pair I cannot afford.
The sound of the muffin-man’s bell
Makes me ready with anguish to bust,
For of money I’ve only heard tell,
And the beggars decline to give trust.

The pot boy has made me his sport!
He conveys to this desolate floor
From the pub at the end of the court
The bottles of Guinness no more.
My friends, when they wish to convey,
The hint that for me they have sorrowed,
“Feel very much hurt,” so they say,
I return not the trifle I borrowed!

But my landlady’s gone to her rest,
And the bailiff’s away in despair,
And everything seems to suggest
That I may with safety repair
To the printers――benevolent race,
Whose mercy may grant me a pot,
Which lends e’en affliction a grace
And reconciles man to his lot.

_The Hornet._ July 15, 1867.

――――

LINES BY THE “HEAD OF THE FAMILY.”

I am monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute;
From my husband right down to the cat,
I am mistress of man and of brute.
O servitude! where are thy charms
That pages and housemaids can trace?
Better reign in a sphere I won’t name
Than serve in the opposite place.

I either society seek,
Or live in my boudoir alone.
I can’t bear from others free speech,
Though fond of the sound of my own.
My husband, a sweet little man,
Has ceased a free agent to be;
In fact, he’s so under my thumb,
His tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love,
For him I have placed under ban;
And made him as meek as a dove,
The nice little, mild little man.
He once used to get in a rage,
Till I taught him religion and truth.
He has learnt all the wisdom of age,――
He has cut all the “Sallies” of youth.

Submission! what treasure untold
I brought when I taught him that word;
Far better than silver and gold,――
Though these he’d perhaps have preferr’d.
“The sound of the church-going bell”
Till married to me he ignored;
And p’raps that he did was as well,
Since all through the sermon he snored.

But, since he first paid me his court,
I’ve never allowed him to snore;
His rollicking ways I’ve cut short,――
He slumbers serenely no more.
My friends――I have many a friend――
Drop in rather often to tea;
And ma comes a twelvemonth to spend,
Which makes it quite pleasant for me.

How sweet ’tis a husband to find
Submissive and innocent quite;
Himself to assert not inclined;
Whatever I tell him is right.
When I think of my maidenhood’s home――
He bore me thence blushing and fair――
To this one conclusion I come,
I’m glad that no longer I’m there.

My husband has feathered his nest;
My progeny’s prospects are fair;
My own way, it must be confess’d,
I’ve got rather more here than there.
So, since he’s resigned to his place,
And no silly notions has got,
I very serenely say grace,
And reconciled feel to my lot.

_The Hornet._ November 1, 1871.

――――

WOMAN.

She is monarch of all she surveys,
Her right there is none to dispute,
On her altar submissively lays
Its choicest, each fowl and each brute.

Behold her surrounded by those
Whose homage is lavishly done,
The world at the tip of her toes,
All its denizens crouching, save one.

Look proud, pretty Queen from thy shrine,
And thy vassals so loftily scan――
But tell them their labour, and thine,
Is to make thee seem fair to――a man!

_Punch’s Almanack._ 1874.

――――

SOLITUDE.

I’m monarch of all I survey;
I had no one my wrong to dispute,
So was forcibly hurried away
By an uniformed muscular brute.
Oh solitude! where is thy charm?
It’s certainly not in this place,
For my heart is filled with alarm
At the thought of a magistrate’s face.

I haven’t a friend to go bail;
I must drag out the night here, alone,
And it goes at the rate of a snail;
Was there ever so sad a wretch known.
The cause of all this to me’s plain,
My folly and wrong I now see!
Never more will I drink champagne,
But stick to the weakest of tea.

Society’s all very well;
But from dinners and suppers refrain,
Or one day you will certainly tell
Of the troubles of which I complain!
And remember, wherever you go,
To be sure and return home in peace.
If you don’t, well, you’ll very soon know
What ’tis to be in the hands of P’lice.

From _The Figaro_. December 19, 1874.