Chapter VIII: Introduction (8)

――――

VERSES

_Supposed to be written by Edward Vaughan Kenealy in his seat in the House of Commons._

I am member for Stoke-upon-Trent,
My right there is none to dispute,
And the eyes of the million are bent
Upon me, so I dare not be mute.
O Parliament, where are the charms
That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this horrible place!

The strangers who come and “withdraw”
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with law,
Their tameness is shocking to me.
The Claimant――what treasures untold
I found in that wonderful claim!
More precious than silver and gold――
It added M. P. to my name.

Ye _Stokers_ who made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial, endearing report,
Ere the public shall vote me a bore.
The bar, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?
O! tell me I yet have a friend,
Though but ONE in the lobby I see.

When I think how I stormed at the Bench
In a moment I seem to be there;
But alas! recollections that wrench
Soon hurry me back to despair.
But there’s comfort in every case;
There are Prittlewells――glorious thought!
Magna Charta’s a movement that pays;
And the _Englishman_[72] freely is bought.

_Funny Folks._ May 15, 1875.

――――

COMPETITION PARODIES.

In 1879, _The World_ offered prizes for parodies on this poem, the subject selected being _The Frozen-out Fox Hunter_.

_First Prize._

I am rather left out in the cold――
Frozen out in more senses than one――
This skating is “jolly,” I’m told;
I’ll be hanged, sir, if I see the fun!
Society! What a dull part
I must play with these ladies and men!
I know nothing of music or art,
I never read Mallock or _Gwen_.

They are dancing to-night――so I stand
And sulk, with my back to the wall――
To the tune of “John Peel” by the band,
And feel myself out of it all.
I glance at the girls who go by,
My looks with amusement they see;
I’d ask them to dance, but I’m shy――
I know they are laughing at me.

How fresh are the breezes of morn,
While over the meadows we go!
What music can equal a horn?
Toot! Gone away! Yoicks! Tally-ho!
There’s a place we intended to draw
To-morrow, just under those rocks――
O, tell me it’s going to thaw,
You fellows who follow the fox!

But the ladies are going to bed;
At least I feel piously glad
That when all the good-nights have been said
There is pool and a pipe to be had.
Yes, while there’s a pipe and some grog,
All pleasure in life is not lost;
Come, throw on another pine log,
And be jolly in spite of the frost!

FABULA SED VERA.

_Second Prize._

I can’t go a huntin’ to-day,
That fact there is none can dispute――
In short, it’s the devil to pay;
I feel like a funeral mute.
O Leicestershire, these are the farms
I dreamt would have shown me the pace
That kills, with a scent! ’Tis the scent
Of the drains in this horrible place.

If fiends who have robbed me of sport
Should “wire,” to upset me still more,
Some fabulous weather report,
That _somewhere_ they’ve heard of a thaw,
I’d saddle a reindeer or elk,
And sleigh myself down to the meet
With some couple of Esquimaux hounds――
By gad, we’d be tackle to beat!

“Gone away!” What eternity’s hopes
To hark to that heavenly word,
Were it whispered by mortal or beast,
Or bullfinch that’s seen or that’s heard!
Heaven’s frost-bitten rafters should ring
To my thaw’d “Tally-ho!” for the first,
While the “pack” on the “shove,” as they sing,[73]
Split pipes in one musical burst.

But the cold has got into my chest,
And the rime has got into my hair;
This manilla is none of the best,
So why am I maundering here?
There’s water in every place,
And water (encouraging thought!)
Gives whisky an excellent taste,
And reconciles man to it――hot.

KING’S CROSS.

_The World._ December 31, 1879.

――――

THE LAY OF THE NEW AMEER.

I am monarch of all I survey
(Tho’ many my right may dispute),
From Persia close down to Cathay,
I’m lord (so, at least, I compute);
I’m ruler from Káfiristan
To Beloochee plains in the south,
Where travellers reach Serawán,
Thro’ Bolan’s leviathan mouth.

(_Three verses omitted._)

_Funny Folks._ March 15, 1879.

――――

EX-KING CETEWAYO’S LAMENT.

I was monarch of all I survey’d;
My right there was none to dispute,
From the Transvaal down to the sea
I was lord both of man of brute.
My men I could count by the score;
I’d an army devoted to me;
Of mealies and tusks I’d a store.
I was happy, and savage, and free!

Oh, Civilisation! the charms
That sages have seen in thy face,
I have fail’d to observe; but alarms
And dread thou did’st cause in their place.
For I’ve found it is part of thy creed
The blood of the helpless to spill,
And so that thy plans may succeed,
To burn, and to ravish, and kill!

And, oh, Christianity! blush
At the things which were done in thy name;
For that they my Zulus might crush,
They put thee full often to shame;
They robbed the poor neighbours they’re taught
By thy laws as themselves they should love.
And everywhere ruin they wrought,
In the name of that God who is love!

They caught me at last, as you’ve read,
And I now a State prisoner am;
And a wearisome life I have led,
Only temper’d with raspberry jam!
On the ways of religion and truth,
My captors as yet have been dumb,
But I notice in age and in youth
They are equally fond of ship rum.

In fact, we poor Zulus, I see,
From Christians have little to learn,
Unless it be vices which we
Were compelled in my kingdom to spurn.
And if to my desolate nation,
To go you will not me allow,
Your “religion” and “civilisation”
Will soon be my ruin, I vow.

_Truth Christmas Number._ 1879.

――――

THE FROZEN-OUT FOX-HUNTER.
_At a Leicestershire Country Inn_,

I am “Cock of the Walk” at “The Post,”
My commands there are none to forestall,
From the bandy-legged boots to the host
I am lording it over them all!
Oh! Leicestershire! where is the wag
Who called thee “a region of bliss?”
Better dine with “The Bore” at “The Rag,”
Than freeze in a pot-house like this!

I am outside society’s bounds,
Alone I must finish my weeds,
Never hear the sweet music of hounds,
I start at the neigh of my steeds!
The foxes that roam o’er the wold
Will soon get to laugh in my phiz;
They are so little used to this cold,
They’re shockingly tame as it is!

Tobacco! what solace divine
Resides in that comforting word!
More precious by far than such wine
As yon beggarly bar can afford!
But the click of a billiard ball
These desolate walls never knew,
Never heard the trim marker’s “Love-all,”
Or rejoice at the sight of a cue!

But the cattle are safe in their shed,
My hunters are wrapped in repose;
Even here is that luxury――bed――
Where I may forget all my woes!
It may thaw! I will hope for the best,
And the _chance of a thaw_, and some sport
Gives e’en to tough mutton a zest,
And reconciles man to bad port!

From _Snatches of Song_, by F. B. Doveton. London.

――――

THE GRIFFIN’S LAMENT.
(_As sung by the Fleet Street Selkirk._)

I am Monarch of naught I survey;
E’en my site is a theme for dispute:
Every omnibus horse that I see,
As he passes me, says, “_What_ a brute!”
Talk of dignity? What are its charms,
When, thrust in the popular face,
I fill the old street with alarms,
Looking down from this _horrible_ place!

I’m out of humanity’s reach,
Stuck up here on the summit alone;
And as for the music of speech,
All I get is a hiss or a groan!
For no beast of the plain, old or new,
No brute from the depths of the sea,
No bird that you’ll find at the Zoo――
Has the vaguest resemblance to me!

But alas! spite rebuke and report,
And letters, and threats by the score,
I’ve been fixed! And, henceforth, without sport,
I shall hear my name mentioned no more!
My friends in the City, do they
Send a wish or a thought after me?
I trust that they do; for _this_ way
Not a friend but old Birch shall I see!

So the traffic each night sinks to rest;
The barrister turns to his square:
The bustle all hurries due West,
Yet still I sit here in the air!
And if you could _then_ see my face,
You’d say, “He has had it so hot――
Has that brute, that he knows his disgrace,
And _admits_ he’s a precious bad lot!”

_Punch._ November 20, 1880.

――――

THE PARVENU.

I’m monarch of all I survey;
At least, when I put it like that,
I mean, if I’m willing to pay,
There’s nothing that I can’t get at.
I heard it was so from the fust,
When I thought that I would be a swell,
If I liked to come down with the dust,
Why everything then would be well.

Now a wife was my most pressing need,
That ’ad plenty of breeding and blood;
Well, I bought ’er――I mean it, indeed――
Yes, bought ’er like one of my stud.
For the Herl o’ Stoke Pogis was poor,
And he couldn’t afford to say “No,”
When he ’ad a good chance to secure
Such a rich son-in-law at a blow.

Well, next, goaded on by the Herl,
A seat in the ’Ouse ’twas I bought;
Which was dear at the price, I may say,
For it’s not so much fun as I thought.
Then the Baronet hafter my name――
This, too, was a stiffish affair;
But I don’t begrudge that, all the same,
For I liked it no hend as Lord Mayor.

Then I bought a big Family Tree,
With roots which to Normandy spread;
Whilst my ancestors cost――let me see!
Yes, close on two ’underd per ’ed.
And though they look well on the wall,
And come out exceedingly nice,
Yet I’m bound to admit that I call
’Em uncommonly dear at the price.

Well, I’ve also bought dozens of “friends,”
Not by paying ’em money down straight;
No, it on their position depends,
And there isn’t a regular rate.
To some ’tis a loan that I make,
Or berths to their boys I hallot;
Some I buy for a dinner-card’s sake,
Some by lending a horse or a yacht.

Why, I’ve Dooks as is under my thumb,
And the proudest my cards don’t decline.
Since I’ve heven got Princes to come
And sit at my table and dine.
In short, if he’s money, like me,
There’s nothing, I’m ready to vow,
That a man who is lavishly free
Can’t do in Society now!

__Truth. Christmas Number_, 1882.

――――

LAWN-TENNIS.

I am monarch of all British Games,
My right there is none to contest,
For Britons all over the world
Acknowledge that I am the best.
Oh, Billiards! say where are the charms,
That some people see in thy face;
Better have a good “rally” with me,
And endeavour “to keep up the pace.”

Other Games I admit are at hand,
But conscience constrains me to own,
There are maidens and men by the score,
Who live but for Tennis alone.
There is Croquet, that once was the rage,
Folks now with indifference see,
And candour compels me to say
Its tameness is shocking to me.

There is Cricket, an old English sport,
And a very good game in its way,
But its votaries all must admit
It is most inconvenient to play.
For its players have nothing to do,
Half the time that they own is so dear,
And I’ve noticed, when once they are “out,”
They hurry to ’baccy and beer.

And Archery, Rinking, and Bowls,
Your charms are displayed but in vain;
No one cares the least atom for you,
Or desires to taste you again;
But with me folks their troubles assuage,
With me they are merry and gay;
Each game they enjoy more and more,
And are cheered by the “rallies” they play.

When driven with judgment and skill,
How swiftly my balls cleave the air,
And “topping the net” by an inch,
Call for no little caution and care;
How merrily, too, sound my cries,
Though strangers can’t make out their use;
My language is strange, I admit,
“Fifteen, love,” “thirty, forty,” and “deuce.”

When worn with the troubles of life,
Or harrassed with business and care,
Cast your worries at once to the wind,
And straight to your Tennis repair.
In every “set” that you play,
There is pleasure and health to be got,
And I’m the best thing in the world,
To reconcile man to his lot.

A. W. MACKENZIE.

From _Pastime_, July 20, 1883.

――――

ON THE ANNEXATION OF NEW GUINEA BY QUEENSLAND.

_Verses supposed to have been composed by the individual who annexed the Island._

I am monarch of all I survey,
Where only the savage disputes
My right to teach heathenish clay
The graces of trousers and boots.
O liberty! what are thy rules
To men with the Papuan skin?
Better bless them with churches and schools,
And plenty of powder and gin!

I am out of a Parliament’s reach,
And far from Gladstonian blame;
No fear that a Radical speech
Will spoil our Colonial game.
The Papuans don’t care a straw
If we claim all their acres in fee――
They are so unacquainted with law,
Their darkness is shocking to me!

With railways, and taxes, and gaols,
In store for this fortunate land,
That native is mad who assails
Such blessings so graciously planned.
But his sorrows we soon shall assuage
With this cheerfully practical test;
“To till your own soil for a wage
Is the pleasure of being annexed!”

__Truth._ April 26, 1883.

――――

A SOLITARY SOLILOQUY BY A DISGUSTED DANDY.

I.

I snoozle or snore all the day,
I loll in my silk smoking suit,
Yet, I’m drowsy and tired as can be,
And feel like a regular brute;
Oh! Solitude! where are your calms
My head’s going round such a pace,
All limp are my legs and my arms
And I hardly dare look at my face.

II.

My ‘pals’ stick to me like a leech,
When in want of a lunch or a loan,
At other times swagger and preach
And say: ‘I am wanting in tone’;
They tell me again and again
I need change――some fresh air by the sea;
Do they think I am mad or insane?
Their tameness is shocking to me.

III.

Society, friendship, and love,
Look at me, pale, sickly and wan,
I should like to give that footstool a shove,
But I really don’t know if I can.
As I listlessly turn o’er the page
Of some fanciful fickle untruth,
Bent double by premature age,
You hardly would guess at my youth.

IV.

Yes, alas! I feel seedy and old,
Though the notion is highly absurd,
For I’ve plenty of silver and gold,
And there’s nothing I cannot afford:
I’ve only to touch my hand-bell
For although not respected, I’m feared,
Though I live as a sot, I’m a swell
And am thinking of growing a beard.

V.

Ye wiles that have made me your sport,
Who have wasted my health and my ore,
Who’ve made me swill sherry and port
Till I could not contain any more;
Oh! how I do wish I could mend
Or begin life again and you’d see
If I wouldn’t do something to tend
To my taking my B.A. degree.

VI.

Just once in a way, I don’t mind,
But, thus happening night after night!
And the thoughts which the fumes leave behind,
Are anything but pleasant or bright;
I drink or I gamble till three,
And, if I _do_ reach the right square,
Very often can’t find my latch key,
Or perhaps take my bath for a chair.

VII.

I’ve become a by-word and a jest,
And though I pretend I don’t care,
I feel I’m a bore and a pest,
Why, they laugh at the things that I wear,
I’ll pick my man, my pistols and place,
I know a very nice little spot――
Hand him one, with most infinite grace.
And either shoot him, or be shot!

From _Cribblings from the Poets_, by Hugh Cayley. Jones and Piggott. Cambridge. 1883.

――――

VERSES

_Supposed to have been written by Salisbury Selkirk, during his solitary abode in a Desert Chamber._

I am monarch of all I survey;
My facts there are none to dispute;
I can sneer in my nastiest way,
And the Government Benches are mute,
Oh, why do I constantly sit
In this roofless and desolate house?
For the Peers have had “notice to quit,”
And ’tis left to the spider and mouse.

I am out of Democracy’s reach,
My place the political shelf,
Never hear the sweet sound of a speech――
Except those I make to myself.
The policemen who haunt Palace Yard
My form with indifference see;
To a Marquis they pay no regard,
Which seems dreadfully “bad form” to me.

* * * * *

Oh, GRANVILLE! I wish I had known
What pleasure there lay in your talk,
Then I should not be pining alone
Where I once was the cock of the walk!
But the sound of the Lobby-going bell
These moth-eaten seats never hear,
Never fill at the voice of a “Swell,”
Or empty when dinner-time’s near!

_Punch_, November 8, 1884.

――――

THE TORTURES OF TOURISTS.

Yes, I am the monarch of all I survey,
My right, at the Club, there is none to dispute;
The whole of the papers are mine every day,
And no one esteems me a bore or a brute,
The waiters, too glad to have something to do,
Are eager to wait on the one man in town;
I get my pet chair, without strategy too,
And my button-hole’s free from the finger of Brown.

The Park is my own, I can loll as I will,
I can sit where I wish, I can dress as I please;
And at home or abroad, though a Londoner still,
I, with no one to censure, can live at my ease.
No longer condemned in a whirl to exist,
Nor my time in most senseless pursuits to employ,
I pass the glad hours of the week as I’ll sit,
And London, at last, to the full can enjoy.

But go where I will, be my tasks what they may,
As heedless of Fashion I linger at home,
My thoughts ever dwell, both by night and by day,
On my ill-advised friends who from happiness roam.
Nor can I deny it is one of my joys
To muse on the woes of that sorrowful band,
As victims to heat, to extortion, and noise,
They wander afar o’er the sea and the land.

* * * * *

As I dally awhile o’er my toast and the _Times_,
I picture these tourists, for time ever pressed,
Like spirits condemned, for most heinous of crimes,
To forfeit for ever the semblance of rest;
From foul-smelling places to towns fouler still,
I see them dragged hither and thither away;
Doomed mountains to climb, and spa waters to swill,
To touts and to guides and to vergers a prey.

I see them, deprived of the comforts they need,
Diurnally grow more distraught and distress’d,
And doom’d at hotels in succession to feed
On food that they loathe, and can never digest.
Whilst worse than all else, there is death in the air,
And rumours the stoutest of hearts to appal,
As each _Galignani_ increases the scare,
And dread of the Cholera broods over all!

And then when at night I retire to my bed――
To my own cosy bed in my big airy room――
I think of those friends who from London have fled
To find on the coast of these islands their doom.
For I see them condemned――for the heed that they pay
To Fashion’s decrees――in a cupboard to sleep,
Where the lodging-house flea works its merciless way,
And causes its victims long vigil to keep.

Poor wretches! I think of the sum that they pay,
To be cheated by harpies who ruin their peace;
To be bitten by night and be bullied by day,
And poisoned by cooking all reeking with grease;
Whilst e’en the ozone that they yearn to obtain,
And which to inhale they ’midst miseries tarry,
Can only be breathed by the side of the main
Arm-in-arm, so to speak, with gay ’Arriet and ’Arry

In a month or two’s time I shall welcome them back――
Save those too unwell from abroad to return――
And some Roman Fever to England will track,
Whilst others with ague will shiver and burn;
And all will be writing complaints to the _Times_,
To re-tell the story which every one knows,
As couriers’ guile and hotel-keepers’ crimes
They sadly repeat, and most sternly expose.

_Truth_. August 13, 1885.

――――

THE LIMITED MONARCH.

“Her Majesty’s ship _Monarch_, having then continued on her course at a speed of barely eight knots an hour, finally, when she was distant from Malta fully 250 miles, came to a dead stop, and broke down.”

I’m the Monarch of all I survey,
And Brassey the fact won’t dispute,
For here I’ve been sticking all day
Like some waterlogged sea-going brute!
O Cheeseparing, where are the charms
That Northbrook has seen in thy face!
Look at _me_――in the midst of alarms!――
And yet mine’s but a typical case.

But the upshot of all is quite clear;
If matters go on as they do,
Well, the Navy will soon disappear,
And “My Lords,” well――they’ll disappear too!
So now that I’m docked, and they find
That I never was fit for the main,
Let us hope that a thing of the kind
Won’t occur――till it happens again!

_Punch._ April 25, 1885

――――

A SONG FOR MR. JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN.

O Society, where are the charms
That once I could see in thy face?
To escape from these Duchesses’ arms,
I would live in a desolate place!
But alas! since I’ve turned on my chief,
My peace has been wrecked in this way,
And nothing can bring me relief
Whilst I still with the Unionists stay!

Ah, me! I once said of the Primrose,
’Twas at best but a poor faded flow’r!
But now Primrose Dames are my tyrants,
And threaten my peace to devour.
And instead of the orchid so famous
My buttonhole once used to bear,
’Tis a primrose (of silver enamel)
That now I’m expected to wear!

__Truth. Christmas Number_, 1886.

――――

THE LAMENT OF THE SPORTIVE M.P.

I am weary of all I survey,
I am sick to the heart of debate;
It is something too awful, I say,
To be thus kept in London so late.
O Parliament! where are the charms
That candidates in thee can trace?
For, worn out by the “Whips’” false alarms,
I am sick of the horrible place!

I am out of Society’s reach;
At the Club I am well-nigh alone;
And not e’en the smile of Hicks-Beach
For my dulness extreme can atone.
Yet the Irishmen, brutally stern,
Have not the least pity on me,
But they all make long speeches in turn
In garments most shocking to see.

Had I known it was certainly meant
The House through September should meet,
My money I’d never have spent
In order to carry a seat!
It is shameful, this tax on my brain,
And this daily compulsion to work;
And yet fussy voters complain
If by chance a division I shirk!

Each post brings to me a report
That but makes my position more hard,
As I read of the excellent sport
From which I am wholly debarr’d.
Whilst the “guns” I had asked to my moor,
At Pittwithiebothie, N.B.;
Big bags are content to secure
By blazing away without me!

Yes, I think of these fortunate men,
As I aimlessly wander about,
Or rush to my place now and then,
When Biggar attempts a “count out.”
And sometimes I doze till I dream
Of the things which my thoughts always fill,
Till I wake with disgust most extreme,
To find Dr. Tanner up still!

And then there are Radicals too,
Who want all the votes to discuss,
Instead of “Supply” rushing through
At one sitting, without any fuss.
Whilst some seek the people’s applause
By stating that we of the House
Had better be there making laws
Than shooting at blackcock and grouse.

Such rubbish I never have heard,
For what, pray, becomes of my ease?
It seems to me too, too absurd
That I’m not to do what I please.
The people elected me, true,
But that, let me say, to be frank,
Was the very least thing they could do,
Consid’ring my fortune and rank;

And yet they now tell me, forsooth,
That, since I’ve become an M.P.,
I must give up the sports that in truth
Make life most worth living to me;
And, heedless what fashion may claim,
In London continue to live;
And the days I’d intended for game,
To Crofters and Irishmen give!

What nonsense it is, I repeat,
That a rich young patrician like me
Should be forced, for the sake of a seat,
With a view so advanced to agree.
But I will not submit; they shall find
That I’ll start off for Scotland this day――
But what’s this, though――a whip five times lined?
I suppose, after all, I must stay!

__Truth._ September 16, 1886.

――――

THE MODERN ALEXANDER SELKIRK.
(_By Sir Charles Warren._)

I am monarch of all I survey;
My might there is none to dispute;
I will prosecute all whom I see
If they argue, remonstrate, or hoot.
O Liberty, where is the charm
That Socialists see in thy face?
The tradesmen have taken alarm
At such views being heard in the place.

I am out of society’s reach,
I can issue my edicts alone;
I laugh at the rights of free speech,
For I tolerate none but my own.
The mobs that collect in the Square
I can’t with indifference see,
So outspoken, so bold――I declare
Their language is shocking to me,

How sweet is the constable’s stave
For putting the rabble to flight,
When they bludgeon some vagabond knave,
Then arrest him for brawling outright!
Who talks of a free native land?
I’ll teach them ’tis otherwise there,
With the cells and police-court at hand,
And no speaking allowed in the Square.

So let orators note my behest,
Let each pauper slink back to his lair;
They can go to the workhouse for rest,
While I to my mansion repair.
There’s a workhouse in everyplace,
And the guardians (encouraging thought)
Give relief when they’ve sifted each case――
Why ain’t they content with their lot?

_Pall Mall Gazette._ November 25, 1887.

――――

Several other parodies of this poem are scattered about in various Magazines, but they are not of sufficient interest to be reprinted. See

_Punch._ January 10, 1880.
_Judy._ June 30, 1880.
_St. James’s Gazette._ April 22, 1881.
_Moonshine._ January, 1882.

――――:o:――――

BURBABAN’S DEFEAT.
_A Warwickshire Lay._

Count Peste, he was a nobleman,
Of credit and renown,
A jockey-club man, too, was he,
Of old Newmarket town.

Count Peste said to his love, “My dear,
Though with me you have been
These many tedious years, yet you
No racing yet have seen.

To-morrow is a racing day,
And we will then repair
Unto the town of Warwickshire
And see the racing there.

I am a nobleman so bold,
As all the world doth know,
So I will ride old ‘Burbaban,’
You’ll see how we will go.”

Quoth Lady Peste, “That is well said,
For jockey’s fees are dear,
So you can ride, and be your own,
That is both nice and clear.”

* * * * *

He lost the race, he lost it quite,
And back he got to town;
All wished he never had been up,
For it was up and down.

Now let us sing, “Long live the Queen!
And Count Peste, long live he!
And when he next a race does ride,
May I be there to see!”

There are twenty-two verses in all in this not very interesting parody, which is to be found in _Lays of the Turf_, by Rose Grey. London: G. H. Nichols, 1863.

――――:o:――――

A RIDDLE.

I am just two and two, I am warm, I am cold,
And the parent of numbers that cannot be told;
I am lawful, unlawful――a duty, a fault,
I am often sold dear, good for nothing when bought;
An extraordinary boon, and a matter of course,
And yielded with pleasure when taken by force.

The answer, not given by Cowper, is “A Kiss.” The riddle was first published in _The Gentleman’s Magazine_ in 1806. In a later number the following answer was given, the initials “J. T.” being appended to it:――

A riddle by Cowper
Made me swear like a trooper,
But my anger, alas! was in vain;
For remembering the bliss
Of beauty’s soft kiss,
I now long for such riddles again.

In _Notes and Queries_ April 2, 1887, a poem was printed as having been written by William Cowper, but not hitherto included in his works. This gave rise to some controversy, the general opinion being, that although probably not actually written by Cowper, the poem was a by no means poor imitation of his lighter style.

BLESS MY HEART, HOW COLD IT IS.

Hark! the blustering Boreas blows.
See! the waters round are froze.
The trees that skirt the dreary plain
All day a murmuring cry maintain;
The trembling forest hears their groan,
And sadly answers moan for moan.
Such is the tale,
O’er hill and dale,
Each traveller may behold it is;
While low and high
Are heard to cry,
“Bless my heart, how cold it is!”

Now slumbering sloth, that cannot bear
The question of the piercing air,
Lifts up her unkempt head, and tries,
But cannot from her bondage rise;
The while the housewife swiftly throws
Around the wheel, and quickly shows
The healthful cheek industry brings
(It is not in the gift of Kings).
To her long life,
Devoid of strife,
And justly, too, unfolded is,
The while the sloth
To stir is loth,
And trembling cries, “How cold it is!”

Now lisps Sir Fopling, tender weed,
All shivering like a shaken reed,
“How sharp the wind attacks my back!
John, put some list across that crack;
Go, sandbag all the sashes round,
And see there’s not an air-hole found.”
Indulgence pale
Tells this sad tale
Till he in furs enfolded is;
Still, still complains,
O’er all his pains,
“Bless my heart, how cold it is!”

Now the poor newsman from the town
Explores his way across the down,
His frozen fingers sadly blows,
And still he seeks, and still it snows.
“Go take his paper, Richard, go,
And give a dram to make him glow.”
Such was thy cry,
Humanity,
More precious far than gold it is,
Such gifts to deal,
When newsmen feel,
All clad in snow, how cold it is.

Humanity, delightful tale,
When we feel the winter gale,
May the cit in ermined coat
Lend his ear to sorrow’s note;
And when with misery’s weight oppressed
A fellow sits, a shivering guest,
Full, ample may his bounty flow,
To cheer the bosom dulled by woe.
In town or vale,
Where’er the tale
Of real grief unfolded is,
Oh, may he give
The means to live
To those who feel how cold it is,

Perhaps some soldier, blind or maimed,
Some tar for independence maimed;
Remember these. For thee they bore
The loss of limbs, and suffered more.
Oh, pass them not; for if you do,
I’ll blush to think they fought for you.
Through winter’s reign
Relieve their pain,
For what they’ve done, sure bold it is;
Their wants supply
Whene’er they cry,
“Bless my heart, how cold it is!”

And now, ye sluggards, sloths, and beaux,
Who dread the breath that winter blows,
Pursue the counsel of a friend
Who never found it yet offend.
When winter deals his blasts around,
Go beat the air and pace the ground;
With cheerful spirits exercise,
’Tis there life’s balmy blessing lies.
O’er hill and dale,
Though sharp the gale,
And frozen you behold it is,
Your blood shall glow,
And swiftly flow,
And you’ll not cry, “How cold it is!”

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

_Born April_ 7, 1770. _Died April_ 23, 1850.
_Appointed Poet Laureate_, _April_ 6, 1843.

――――

WE ARE SEVEN.

――A simple Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl;
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
――Her beauty made me glad.

“Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?”
“How many, Seven in all,” she said,
And wondering looked at me.

“And where are they? I pray you tell,”
She answered, “Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

“Two of us in the churchyard-lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.”

“You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven!――I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be.”

Then did the little Maid reply,
“Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie;
Beneath the church-yard tree.”

“You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five.”

“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
The little Maid replied,
“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,
And they are side by side.

“My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem:
And there upon the ground I sit,
I sit and sing to them.

“And often after sun-set, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer
And eat my supper there.

“The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

“So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

“And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side.”

“How many are you, then,” said I,
“If they two are in heaven?”
The little Maiden did reply,
“O Master! we are seven.”

“But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!”
’Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, “Nay, we are seven!”

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

――――

NEW PEERS.

The Poet Wordsworth is supposed to propose to King William IV. that he, with Coleridge, Southey, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Croly shall be made Peers, there being then a necessity to create Peers in order to carry the Reform Bill, which had already passed the Commons.

A driver of a rattling cab,
Or gorgeous omnibus,
That passeth every great man by,
What could he know of us?

I met a driver such as this,
And I knew that he was king,
For his steeds trod over classic ground,
And they made its echoes ring.

He bore a thousand books along,
The best their authors had,
And his praise was fair, and very fair,
But his censure made me mad.

“Why come you here, why come you here,
And how many may you be?”
“We each come here to be made a peer,”
I said, “and seven are we.”

“And where are the seven――I see but one?”
I answered, “seven are we;”
But Rogers is digging up some old pun,
And Southey has gone to see.

“Tom Campbell is shaking Bentley’s hands,
And Croly a sermon giving,
In praise of the good Lord Chancellor,
Who popped him into his living.

“Coleridge is now expounding why
The Latin for “fish” is pisces,
While Moore has lunched on one lady’s sigh,
And will dine on another’s kisses.”

Then did the mighty king reply,
“Seven are ye, I see,
But the devil a peer in all the lot
Shall ever be made by me.”

With a rolling eye, and a visage sage,
I gazed on the glorious heaven,
Then turned away in a furious rage,
And shouted, “_We are seven._”

_The National Omnibus_, November 4, 1831.

――――

THE TRUSTEE.
(_A True Story._)

The subject is that of a Trustee, who has been persuaded to accept a trust under the persuasion that as a mere trustee of property, the enjoyment of which he has nothing to do with, no liability of any kind can possibly attach to him. The simplicity with which he adheres to the impression of his being only a trustee, while suits at Law and in Equity, with their consequent costs, shower down upon him, will remind the reader of the innocent exclamation of “We are Seven!” so affectingly persisted in by the little child in the famous poem of Wordsworth.

A simple creature Gaffer Jones,
A Court he never saw;
An income adequate he owns;
What should he know of Law?

He had a quiet stupid air,
And he was richly clad;
I thought if he’s got cash to spare,
’Tis easy to be had.

A suit I heard was ’gainst him brought,
Which must expensive be.
“Expense!” he cried; Pooh pooh, ’tis nought;
I’m only a trustee.”

“But how is that? I pray you tell.”
He answered, “Don’t you see?
I’d got some property to sell――
Only as a trustee.

“Two purchasers they did apply,
Whilst, to prevent all bother,
When one hung back I by and by
Concluded with the other.

“The first from Chancery got a writ,
And served it straight on me;
But why am I to care a bit?――
I’m only a trustee.”

“You say in Chancery you are thrown;
Great the expense will be;
And since the fault has been your own,
The costs will fall on thee.”

Then did the simpleton reply,
“’Tis true the first vendee
Has filed a bill――I can’t tell why――
I’m only a trustee.”

“You’re in a mess, my little man,
As sure as you’re alive,
Unless to hit upon a plan
For safety you contrive.”

“You’re rather green, it may be seen,”
The silly man replied;
The purchase-money paid has been.
The fund I did divide;

“And when I’d parted with it, Sir,
Another suit they brought;
Because, they said, I’d sold it for
Less money than I ought.

“First, the original vendee
Had filed a bill to say,
His purchase-money paid would be,
Upon a certain day.

“But as it happen’d, I’d been paid
By number two, and I
To him had the estate consign’d,
Passing the first one by:

“And as I did not better know
With whom I ought to side,
I’ve let the money from me go――
The fund I did divide.

“So the executors have brought
An action ’gainst me, too,
Yet I’ve proceeded as I thought
’Twere best for me to do.”

“How many suits must you defend,
In numbers odd or even?”
Said he, “To say I can’t pretend:
I think, though, there are seven.

“But then, you know, you’ll understand
It matters not to me;
For though no fund I’ve got in hand,
I still am a trustee.”

“The cash is gone, the suits run on,
Each day requires a fee!”
’Twas waste of argument, for still
He said, “I’ve not to pay a bill,
I’m only a trustee.”

――――

ONLY SEVEN.
_A Pastoral Story, after Wordsworth._

I marvell’d why a simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
Should utter groans so very wild,
And look as pale as Death.

Adopting a parental tone,
I ask’d her why she cried;
The damsel answer’d, with a groan,
“I’ve got a pain inside!

“I thought it would have sent me mad
Last night about eleven;”
Said I, “What is it makes you bad?
How many apples have you had?”
She answer’d, “Only seven!”

“And are you sure you took no more,
My little maid?” quoth I.
“Oh! please, sir, mother gave me four,
But _they_ were in a pie!”

“If that’s the case,” I stammer’d out,
“Of course you’ve had eleven;”
The maiden answer’d, with a pout,
“I ain’t had more nor seven!”

I wonder’d hugely what she meant,
And said, “I’m bad at riddles,
But I know where little girls are sent
For telling taradiddles.”

“Now, if you don’t reform,” said I,
“You’ll never go to heaven.”
But all in vain; each time I try,
That little idiot makes reply,
“I ain’t had more nor seven.”

POSTSCRIPT.

To borrow WORDSWORTH’S name was wrong,
Or slightly misapplied;
And so I’d better call my song,
“Lines after ACHE-INSIDE.”

From _Carols of Cockayne_, by Henry. S. Leigh. London: Chatto & Windus, 1874.

(This originally appeared in _Fun_. November 11, 1865.)

――――

THEY ARE THREE.

――――A simple youth
That sits and smokes with fools,
And looks a fop in face and mien,
What should he know of Schools?

I met an undergraduate boy:
He was three times ploughed, I heard;
His head was like a pretty toy,
His language was absurd.

He had a town-bred London air,
And he was sprucely clad;
His face was soft, so was his hair;
His ‘side’ it made me sad.

“Of lectures, undergraduate sir,
How many may you keep?”
“How many? Three,” he did aver.
And cunning looked and deep.

“And what are they? I’d gladly know.”
He answered, “Three are they;
To one of them I never go,
And one I cut each day.

“But one of them is given by
My Tutor and my Dean,
So in the early morning I
Must go to that I ween.”

“You say that one you cut alway,
To one you do not go,
Yet you have three! Explain, I pray,
Sweet youth, how this is so.”

The wily youth thus answered me,
“Three lectures――three in all
The list of lectures you may see
Upon the board in hall.”

“You wander in your talk, I wot,
Or else you are in fun,
If one you cut, to one go not,
Then you have only one.”

“The list is there, that can I swear,”
The wily youth replied;
“In the second row of the letter O,
The three are side by side.

“I oft do paper work in hall,
My letters there I write;
And, though the dons are cutish all,
I sit and crib outright.

“And often, when the sun is down,
Beneath the gaslight’s glare,
I take my tattered cap and gown,
And eat my dinner there.

“The first I cut was Latin Prose;
In bed one morn I lay
Till ten had struck, and then I rose,
But ’twas too late that day.

“So in my room I sat and smoked,
And when my pipe was out,
To Russell’s lazily we walked,
I and my terrier, Snout.

“And when the clock eleven had struck,
I scarce had chalked my cue;
And though perhaps the schools I’ll muck,
I cut my Mods, Books too.”

“How many have you then,” said I,
“If two you cut each day?”
The wily youth would still reply,
“Three, if you please, we’ll say.”

“But one you cut, nay two you cut!
You never go, you see!”
’Twas throwing words away, for still
This wily youth would have his will,
And said, “Nay, they are three.”

From _The Shotover Papers_. Oxford: J. Vincent, 1874.

――――

“I’VE GOT SEVEN.”

――――A little boy,
A schoolboy he might be,
That shows his joy in every smile,
Of figures what knows he?

I met a little London boy,
He was nine years old, he said;
His face shone bright with mottled soap,
His hair curled on his head.

He had a cockney, saucy air,
And he was sparely clad:
His eyes were black, and very black;
――He looked a thorough cad.

“All sorts of marbles, little boy,
How many may there be?”
“How many? Seven in all,” he said,
And, whistling, winked at me.

“And where are they? I pray you tell.”
He answered, “Seven there be;
Two ‘alley-tors,’ one ‘commoney,’
And all belong to me.

“The ‘alley-tors’ for three a-piece
Do count, and thus you see,
That they are seven in all, although
Their number’s only three.”

“You say you’ve got two ‘alley-tors’
And one small ‘commoney;’
Yet you’ve got seven! I pray you tell,
Youngster, how this may be?”

Then did the little boy reply,
“Seven marbles I possess;
Two, you observe, are ‘alley-tors’
And count for six――no less.”

“You cut along, my lively lad,
You’re gamesome, I can see;
Although for seven your marbles count,
Still they are only three.”

“They’re striped with red in lines of three,”
The little chap replied.
“Twelve yards or more from my mammy’s door
I place them side by side.

“My spelling there I try to learn,
My tables there to say;
And there upon the ground I kneel,
And, knuckling, with them play.

“And often after ‘washing up,’
When the tea-table’s bare,
I take my bread and treacle, and
I eat my supper there.

“The first I had was given me
By my big brother, Bill;
He bought it with a ha’penny which
He cribbed from mother’s till.

“The next my sister Poll gave me;
She found it as she brushed
My Uncle Jack’s cord’roys, and then
With it to me she rushed.

“The third, the ‘commoney,’ I got
From out the kitchen drawer;
I nailed it when I went to fetch
Pa’s usual spirit――raw.”

“How many have you, then,” said I,
“If two to you were given;
And one you ‘nailed,’ you wicked boy?”
“Lord love you! I’ve got seven.”

“Fie! if you tell such fibs, my boy,
You’ll never go to Heaven!”
’Twas wasting breath to talk; for still,
The little wretch would have his will,
And would say, “I’ve got seven.”

EDWARD COMPTON.

_Touchstone._ November, 1878.

――――

A SIMPLE LAY.
_By the Archbishop of Canterbury._

――――A Rural Dean
That with the Church content,
Brooked not in any shape or form
The schism of Dissent.

He met an aged cottager,
He was eighty-two, he said,
His hair――as will to you occur――
Had some time left his head.

He had a dazed and rustic air,
In kettle-smock was clad;
The Dean a minute had to spare,
So spoke to this gran’-dad:

“Of sons and daughters cottager,
How many may you be?”
“I have had seven, they’re all in heaven,
Not one is left to me!”

“And what were they?” the Dean asked then;
“What were they?” echoed he;
“Why, three was Plymouth Bretheren,
And two turned Methodee.

“And two was Baptistes, I think,
The heldest an ’is brother;
The heldest, well, he tookt to drink,
An’ used to whack ’is mother.

“But in the hend he did reform,
An’ gived up bein’ cranky;
He was converted in a storm
By Moody an’ that Sankey!”

“That two were Methodists, you said,
And Plymouth Brethren three,
And Baptists two, then why say you
That seven in heaven there be?”

Then did that cottager reply,
“Seven boys and gals had we,
And now they’re dead, as I’ve a-said,
In heaven I hopes they be.”

“You’re very green!” observed the Dean,
“And won’t be long alive;
Your children seven are not in heaven,
Nor three, nor four, nor five!

“For all of them, by what you say,
Dissenters I must call;
And so you make a great mistake.
There’s none in heaven at all!”

“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
The cottager replied.
“Ah, yes, I see, they are on the
Unconsecrated side.”

“The first that went was Mary Jane,”
The cottager did say;
“A rare good gal, too, in the main,
’Twere fine to yeer ’er pray!

“So in the ground, sir, she was laid,
Then Bill the fever caught;
A rare good workman with ’is spade,
And good in deed an’ thought!

“It seemed a despard cruel blow!”――
And here the old man sighed――
“For ’fore the ground was white with snow,
God help us! all ’ad died!”

“How many were you?” said the Dean,
“I think you mentioned seven?”
Then said the cottager, serene,
“Yes, we have seven in heaven!”

“They were dissenters!” cried the Dean,
“They cannot be in heaven!”
’Twas throwing words away, for still
The cottager would have his will,
“And said “We’ve seven in heaven!”

From _Finis_, 1877.

――――

THE BALLAD OF THE ’BUS.

――――A simple ’Bus,
Belonging to a London “Co,”
That gets its ten per cent. with ease,
――Why should it crowd us so?

I hailed a raucous little “Cad,”――
“There’s room for one!” he cried;
But when I stood upon the step,
The facts his word belied.

He bore a bag to give you change;
His voice was very loud.
The simpleton he overcharged,
And timid ladies cowed.

“Within this vehicle,” I asked,
“How many may there be?”
“How many?” roughly he replied;
“Why don’t you look and see.”

“But where is room? I see no room?”
My wrath I tried to smother.
He answered――“On one side are six,
And only five on t’other.”

“Two of the five,” I pointed out,
“Must weigh a ton between ’em;
Two others have such tattered garbs
As barely serve to screen ’em.”

Then did the little “Cad” rejoin,
“Yet they are only five;
If you’re a-coming by this ’bus,
I wish you’d look alive!”

“’Tis shameful,” angrily I said,
“To play your fares such tricks!
If two do take the room of three,
Then surely there are six.”

“You’re jolly green, that may be seen!”
The rude Conductor cried;
“Until I’ve got twelve passengers,
I am _not_ ’full inside.”

“I always travel in a ’bus,”
I thought it right to say,
“And frequently am over-pressed
In this atrocious way.

“My little bag I love to bring,
My paper here I read,
And, when there’s proper elbow-room,
’Tis very nice indeed.

“A Magistrate has just declared
You have no right to pack us,
And――ah, I see _that_ person is
A votary of Bacchus!

“A nice quintette! The more I look
I seem to grow the sicker;
Two elephants――two more in rags――
The fifth, he is in liquor!

“But Mr. Partridge, _he_ will see
These wrongs are not repeated――”
’Twas wasting words, for with a frown
The ’Bus Conductor knocked me down,
And cried. “_Now_ you are seated!”

_Punch._ April 18, 1885.

――――

THEY ARE SEVEN.

I marvelled why he looked so wild,
And fiercely drew his breath;
That Tory, who had lately smiled,
But now looked pale as death.

His cranium seemed in such a whirl,
He hated Fate, he said――
His hair was sadly out of curl,
He lowly bent his head.

Said I, “The members in for ‘Brum,’
All one sort seem to be.”
“Yes, seven in all,” he said, quite glum,
But, there, _we’ve_ no M. P.!”

“And who are they?” I asked, “Say, do!”
Quoth he, “Cook, Broadburst, Bright,
And Williams, Kenrick, Dixon, too――
And ‘Joe’ has won _his_ fight!”

“What, not e’en Randolph in,” said I.
“That Birmingham batch to leaven?”
“Ah, no,” he sadly made reply,
“Not _one_, while _they_ have Seven!”

“Nay raise your head,” I gently said,
“Let mirth your mourning leaven;
Why, look at Liverpool”――but he
Still moaned “In ‘Brum’ we’ve no M. P.,
While Liberals they have Seven!”

_Fun._ December 2, 1885.

――――

“WE ARE SEVEN.”

――――A Radical,
With tenets all complete,
Whose name is Joseph Chamberlain――
How should _he_ know defeat?

I met――no little cottage gal,
With curls around her head,――
But Joe, the conquering Radical,
He’s more than seven, he said.

“In Brum what conquests have you made?
How many may you be?”
“How many? seven in all,” he said,
And winked and smiled at me.

“The Tories? Pray you, where are they?”
He answered: “Seven are we;
The Tories stood awhile at bay,
But they were all at sea!

“All of them knew the way to lie,
They tutored one another,
But each has gone to pipe his eye
And whimper to his mother!

“And as they went I raised my hat,
I smiled and coughed: Ahem!
And there upon the poll I sat,
I sat and laughed at them.

“The first to fail was Lord Chur-chill,
Bright made him dull, by Joe!
Then Showell showed extremely ill,
And Lowe looked very low!”

“But they are fled――their hopes are done.”
He said: “They are forgiven!
Seven seats there are, but they have none,
Seven seats――yet they have not won one,”
He said, “But we are seven!”

_The Judge._ London. December 5, 1885.

――――

MORE THAN SEVEN.
(_Wordsworth’s Poem Adapted to Modern Times._)

I met a little city child,
A small and vulgar boy,
His eyes were twinkling, and he smiled
As with an inward joy.

He had a look of saucy pride,
His legs were somewhat bent,
He walked along with careless stride,
And whistled as he went.