Chapter XI: Preface (11)

Who saw them die?
Allah on high,
With all-seeing eye――
He saw them die.

Who’ll be their mourners?
“We,” said the Tribes,
“Although we’ve had bribes――
We’ll be their mourners,”

Who’ll pay the cost?
“I,” said John Bull,
“Because I’m a fool――
I’ll pay the cost.”

And who’ll wind it up?
“The Rads!” cried the Nation;
“If but firm in their station,
They’ll wind it up!”

GEORGE MALLINSON.

_The Weekly Dispatch._ April 13, 1884.

――――

WHO KILLED HOME RULE.

Who killed Home Rule?
I, said Joe Chamberlain;
Simply by speaking plain,
I killed Home Rule.

Who saw it die?
I, answered Goschen――
I gave it a potion,
Then saw it die.

Who made its shroud?
I, said Lord Harty;
Regardless of party,
I made its shroud.

Who dug its grave?
I, Lord Randy cried,
Making it deep and wide,
I dug its grave.

Who was chief mourner?
I, said Parnell;
When my hopes fell,
I was chief mourner.

Who was the parson?
I, said Trevelyan;
My text was “rebellion,”
I was the parson.

Who was the clerk?
I, said John Morley,
And I wept sorely,
I was the clerk.

Who tolled the bell?
I, said John Bull;
With a good hearty pull,
I tolled the bell.

_The People._ July 3, 1886.

――――

THE GRAND OLD COCK ROBIN.

Who killed Gladstone?
I, said Chamberlain,
And I feel like Cain(e)
_I_ killed Gladstone.

Who saw him die?
I, said Goschen,
Without any emotion
_I_ saw him die.

Who caught his blood?
I, said Caine,
And it’s left a big stain;
_I_ caught his blood.

Who’ll make his shroud?
I, said Argyll,
In superior style;
_I’ll_ make his shroud.

Who’ll carry him to the grave?
I, said County Guy,
With a tear in his eye;
_I’ll_ carry him to the grave.

Who’ll dig his grave?
I, said Lord Randy,
For I’ve got the tools handy;
_I’ll_ dig his grave.

Who’ll carry the link?
I, said John Bright,
With my sweetness and light;
_I’ll_ carry the link.

Who’ll be chief mourner?
I, said John Morley,
For I miss him sorely;
_I’ll_ be chief mourner.

Who’ll sing a psalm?
I, said Fowler,
A regular howler:
_I’ll_ sing a psalm.

Who’ll be the parson?
I, said Hicks-Beach,
For I can preach;
_I’ll_ be the parson.

Who’ll be the clerk?
I, said John Walter,
For the _Times_ may alter;
_I’ll_ be the clerk.

Who’ll toll the bell?
I, said Parnell:
’Twas for Ireland he fell;
_I’ll_ toll the bell.

_The Pall Mall Gazette._ June 17, 1886.

――――

Who won Miss Jenny?
“I,” said young Bogle,
“With my bow and Ogle.
I won Miss Jenny!”

Who heard him pop?
“I,” said Miss Squeers,
“With my two itching ears,
I heard him pop!”

Who made him do it?
“I,” said Miss Jenny,
“The bashful young ninny.
I made him do it!”

Who’ll tie the knot?
“I,” said Dean B――――.
“For the sake of the fee,――
I’ll tie the knot!”

Who’ll be best man?
“I,” said Jack Bate,
“For I’ll kiss saucy Kate.
I’ll be best man!”

Who’ll tell his Dad?
“I,” said Tom Hare,
“And oh! won’t he swear!
I’ll tell his Dad!”

From _Sketches in Prose and Verse_, by F. B. Doveton, London, Sampson Low & Co., 1886.

――――

Who killed Will Gladstone?
“I,” said Joe C――――;
“The blow came from me;
I killed Will Gladstone.”

Who saw him die?
“I,” said Lord Harty,
“With my little party;
We saw him die.”

Who’ll dig his grave?
“I,” said Lord Randy;
“I’ve got the place handy;
I’ll dig his grave.”

EAST ANGLIA.

_Truth._ September 30, 1886.

――――

Who’ll kill Coercion?
“I,” cries Democracy;
“Despite the Aristocracy,
“I’ll kill Coercion.”

Who’ll see him die?
“I,” sighs each Tory;
“Though in him I glory,
“I’ll see him die.”

Who’ll catch his blood?
“I,” says Castle rule;
“He is my favourite tool,
“I’ll catch his blood.”

Who’ll make his shroud?
“I,” cries Trevelyan;
“Would wager a million,
“I’ll make his shroud.”

Who’ll dig his grave?
“I,” cries old Gladstone;
“In _Mitcheltown’s_ sandstone,
“I’ll dig his grave.”

Who’ll carry him to the grave?
“I,” says Salisbury;
(“But I am in no hurry),
“I’ll carry him to the grave.”

Who’ll bear the pall?
Says Chamberlain and Goschen,
“We are both of one notion,
“We’ll bear the pall.”

Who’ll carry the link?
“I,” says John Bright,
“To give you all light,
“I’ll carry the link.”

Who’ll be chief mourner?
“I,” says Rack-renter;
“My hopes in him centre,
“I’ll be chief mourner.”

“Who’ll be the parson?
“I,” says gagging Smith;
“Have the books to do it with,
“I’ll be the parson.”

Who’ll be the clerk?
“I,” says O’Brien;
“His grace to be eyein’,
“I’ll be the clerk.”

Who’ll toll the bell?
“I,” shouts bold Parnell;
“His end aloud to tell,
“I’ll toll the bell.”

DEMOCRAT.

_Newcastle Weekly Chronicle._

――――

WHO STOLE O’BRIEN’S BREECHES?

Who stole O’Brien’s breeches?
I, said Balfour, with the aid of a warder,
_I_ stole his breeches.

Who stole his shirt?
I, said Londonderry, and it’s made London merry,
I stole his shirt.

Who stole his coat?
I, said Plunkett: I went and slunk it,
I stole his coat.

Who stole his socks?
I, said King-Harman, for I wanted to darn ’em,
I stole his socks.

Who stole his boots?
I, said Saxe-Weimar, and the joke is a screamer,
I stole his boots.

Who’ll wear the gaol clothes?
Not I, said O’Brien, spite of all their tryin’!
I’ll _not_ wear the gaol clothes.

_Pall Mall Gazette._ November, 1887.

――――:o:――――

Jack and Jill went up the hill,
To fetch a pail of water;
Jack fell down, and broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.

JOHANNES ET GILLIA.

Johannes atque Gillia
Scandebant super clivo,
Ut urnam aquæ gelidæ
Haurirent ibi rivo.
Johanni decidenti, heu,
Tunc caput frangebatur;
Et Gillia cadens etiam
Johannem sequebatur.

_The Hornet._ 1872.

――――:o:――――

A SONG FOR FIVE FINGERS.

This pig went to market;
This pig stayed at home,
This pig had a bit of meat;
And this pig had none;
This pig said “wee, wee, wee!”
I can’t find my way home.

IN QUINQUE DIGITOS.

Hic porculus forum pergebat,
Hic, contrà, in domo manebat,
Hic porculus carnem edebat
Hic victu, heu, planè carebat.
Hic porculus mœstè lugebat,
Quod illum nox domo claudebat.

_The Hornet._ 1872.

――――:o:――――

Hey! diddle diddle,
The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon;
The little dog laughed
To see such sport,
And the dish ran away with the spoon.

NURSERY RHYMES A LA MODE.

(Our nurseries will soon be too cultured to admit the old rhymes in their Philistine and unæsthetic garb. They may be redressed somewhat on this model!)

O but she was dark and shrill,
(Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!)
The cat that (on the First Aprill)
Played the fiddle upon the lea.

O and the moon was wan and bright,
(Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!)
The Cow she looked nor left nor right,
But took it straight at a jump, pardie!
The hound did laugh to see this thing,
(Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!)
As it were parlous wantoning,
(Ah, good my gentles, laugh not ye!)
And underneath a dreesome moon
Two lovers fled right piteouslie;
A spooney plate with a plated spoon,
(Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!)

_Postscript._

Then blame me not, altho’ my verse
Sounds like an echo of C. S. C.
Since still they make ballads that worse and worse
Savour of diddle and hey-de-dee.

From _Rhymes and Renderings_. Cambridge. Macmillan and Bowes. 1887.

“HEY DIDDLE DIDDLE! THE CAT AND THE FIDDLE.”

Ah! joy with me, my neighbours, joy with me,
And let the air resound with glad acclaims,
For she indeed, our furry feline friend,
Hath shown herself disposed to music’s charms,
And with the viol held in nimble paw,
Scrapeth the tunes of mirthful melody.
Meanwhile, aroused from out her careless mood,
The Cow forgets her grazing on the grass,
Forgets the blades most choice and succulent,
Forgets the pail defrauded of its milk,
Forgets the aim and tenor of her life,
And rapt in rumination at the sound,
Listens, until the sweet mysterious strains
Fire her most inmost soul: then wildly forth
In frantic frenzy speeds her wind-whirled way,
Stirred by the notes of feline minstrelsy.
But, louder comes the soul-inspiring sound,
Till, boiling o’er with ecstacy, she leaps
Far from the earth, and further still, away.
I may not tell the distance of her leap,
’Twas all too far for mortal eye to trace;
Yet afterwards her corse came hurtling down,――
For in the mighty magnitude of space
Through which she sprang with impulse unrestrained,
Her very swiftness had abstracted breath――
And on her hoof a substance green was found
Which soon, ’twas marked, was nothing else than cheese;
That so ’twould seem she had all but o’ertopped
In that one bound the far far distant moon,
A portion of whose substance there appeared
Hoof-stricken, and adhering to its foe,
To warn all others from such lofty leaps.
Then was there mourning for the direful death;
The horse, the hen, the labourer, and the lamb
Flowed down in floods of saline tears sincere:
While eke the cat hath stayed her viol’s notes,
And wipes with trembling paw each streaming eye:
But he, that very fiend in canine form,
Brawls in a bluff brutality of mirth,
Cries that “I’sooth it was a merry sport;”
Aye laughs, as if each lateral wall of ribs
Would burst asunder; for methinks that she
While yet in life, our much-lamented cow,
The while the dog was barking at her heel,
With well-aimed kick erst stretched him on the plain;
Wherefore at her mishap in spiteful spleen
He now with cachinnations fills the air.
Ah! would that I could end my tale aright,
And give to something some good attribute.
But no:――for in this wicked worthless world
Seldom we see a soul untouched by taint:――
Let me then hurry o’er the final scene,
The shameful shift to make emolument
Amid the wild confusion that prevailed.
’Tis said the earthenware receptacle,
Surnamed the Dish, who, highly held in honour,
Maintained the meats, and lived a lordly life,
Struck by a sudden guilty greed of gain,
And noting furthermore that none espied,
Clutched in his grasp the partner of his trade,
The Spoon yclept, and, hurrying hastily,
Bore him away right down into the street,
And reached by stealth the pawnbroker’s at length,
Whence,――for the spoon was one of Mappin’s make,――
He went back richer by a good round sum,
Nor told to anyone his shameless sin.

(Attributed to Mr. T. H. S. Escott, afterwards Editor of the _Fortnightly Review_.)

From _College Rhymes_. Oxford, 1873.

――――

AT THE INVENTIONS.

Hey diddle diddle,
Piano and fiddle,
The fountains sprang up towards the moon,
The people all flocked to see the fine sight,
And sipp’d Indian tea with a spoon.

CHICKWEED.

_Truth._ October 15, 1885.

――――:o:――――

MISTRESS MARY.

Mistress Mary,
Quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells
And cockle shells
And hyacinths all of a row.

DOMINA MARIA.

O mea Maria,
Tota contraria,
Quid tibi crescit in horto?
Testae et crotali
Sunt mihi flosculi,
Cum hyacinthino serto.

HENRY DRURY.

From _Arundines Cami_. Cambridge. 1841.

A REVISED EDITION.

Mary, Mary quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
Do red rose and sweet mignonette
Make quite a summer show?
Twice seven days since we have met,
But it seems years ago――
Mary, Mary, so contrary,
Why do I love you so!

Mary, Mary, in your airy
Summer gown of snow,
Folding fragrant linen fair,
Through your house to go;
Full of self and full of care
Will you heed my woe――
Mary, Mary, so contrary,
Why do I love you so?

Mary, Mary, in the dairy,
Setting pans in row,
Jingling keys and silver bells,
Marching to and fro,
Learned in all your household spells――
(Wise you are we trow),
Tell me Mary, still contrary,
Why do I love you so!

Ah! my Mary comes a fairy,
Whispers soft and low,
All the sweet and sudden truth
Heart to heart must owe;
Be it joy or be it ruth,
Only this I know――
’Tis because you are contrary
That I love you so!

S. FRANCES HARRISON.

――――

FROM W. E. G.

Joseph, Joseph, quite contrary,
How do your acres grow?
Some with weeds and some with seeds,
But ne’er a one with a cow.

_Truth._ September 30, 1886.

――――

Harty, Harty, what of your party,
How does your Union grow;
Primrose belles, and Radical swells,
Coercionists all in a row.

_Newcastle Chronicle._ November, 1887.

――――

“Master Joey,
Quite too showy,
How does your party grow?”
“There’s Collings, and Dick,
And Mister Kenrick,
And myself, the boss of the show.”

P. Q. X.

_Truth._ June 28, 1888.

――――:o:――――

MOTHER HUBBARD.

Brethren, the words of my text are:――

“Old Mother Hubbard, she went to the cupboard,
To get her poor dog a bone;
But when she got there the cupboard was bare,
And so the poor dog had none.”

These beautiful words, dear friends, carry with them a solemn lesson. I propose this morning to analyze their meaning, and to attempt to apply it, lofty as it may be, to our every-day life.

“Old Mother Hubbard, she went to the cupboard,
To get her poor dog a bone.”

Mother Hubbard, you see, was old; there being no mention of others, we may presume she was alone; a widow――a friendless, old, solitary widow. Yet, did she despair? Did she sit down and weep, or read a novel, or wring her hands? No! _she went to the cupboard_. And here observe that she _went_ to the cupboard. She did not hop, or skip, or run, or jump, or use any other peripatetic artifice; she solely and merely _went_ to the cupboard. We have seen that she was old and lonely, and we now further see that she was poor. For, mark, the words are “_the_ cupboard.” Not “one of the cupboards,” or “the right-hand cupboard,” or “the left-hand cupboard,” or “the one above,” or “the one below,” or “the one under the floor,” but just “_the_ cupboard,” the one humble little cupboard the poor widow possessed. And why did she go to the cupboard? Was it to bring forth goblets, or glittering precious stones, or costly apparel, or feasts, or any other attributes of wealth? _It was to get her poor dog a bone!_ Not only was the widow poor, but her dog, the sole prop of her old age, was poor too. We can imagine the scene. The poor dog, crouching in the corner, looking wistfully at the solitary cupboard, and the widow going to that cupboard――in hope, in expectation may be――to open it, although we are not distinctly told that it was not half open, or ajar, to open it for that poor dog.

“But when she got there the cupboard was bare,
And so the poor dog had none.”

When she got there! You see, dear brethren, what perseverance is! _She got there!_ There were no turnings and twistings, no slippings and slidings, no leanings to the right, or falterings to the left. With glorious simplicity we are told “she got there.”

And how was she rewarded?

“The cupboard was bare!” It was bare! There were to be found neither apples, nor oranges, nor cheesecakes, nor penny buns, nor gingerbread, nor crackers, nor nuts, nor lucifer matches. The cupboard was bare! There was but one, only one solitary cupboard in the whole of the cottage, and that one, the sole hope of the widow, and the glorious loadstar of the poor dog, was bare! Had there been a leg of mutton, a loin of lamb, a fillet of veal, even an ice from Gunter’s, the case would have been very different, the incident would have been otherwise. But it was bare, my brethren, bare as a bald head. Many of you will probably say, with all the pride of worldly sophistry――“The widow, no doubt, went out and bought a dog biscuit.” Ah, no! Far removed from these earthly ideas and mundane desires, poor Mother Hubbard, the widow, whom many thoughtless worldlings would despise, in that she only owned one cupboard, perceived――or I might even say saw――at once the relentless logic of the situation, and yielded to it with all the heroism of that nature which had enabled her, without deviation, to reach the barren cupboard. She did not attempt, like the stiff-necked scoffers of this generation, to war against the inevitable; she did not try, like the so-called man of science, to explain what she did not understand. She did nothing. “The poor dog had none.” And then at this point our information ceases. But do we not know sufficient? Are we not cognisant of enough? Who would dare to pierce the veil that shrouds the ulterior fate of Old Mother Hubbard――her poor dog――the cupboard――or the bone that was not there? Must we imagine her still standing at the open cupboard door, depict to ourselves the dog still drooping his disappointed tail upon the floor, the sought-for bone remaining somewhere else? Ah, no, my brethren, we are not so permitted to attempt to read the future. Suffice it for us to glean from this beautiful story its many lessons; suffice it for us to apply them, to study them as far as in us lies, and, bearing in mind the natural frailty of our nature, to avoid being widows; to shun the patronymic of Hubbard; to have, if our means afford it, more than one cupboard in the house; and to keep stores in them all.

And oh! dear friends, keep in recollection what we have learned this day. Let us avoid keeping dogs that are fond of bones. But, brethren, if we do, if fate has ordained that we should do any of these things, let us then go, as Mother Hubbard did, straight, without curvetting and prancing, to our cupboard, empty though it be,――let us, like her, accept the inevitable with calm steadfastness; and should we, like her, ever be left with a hungry dog and an empty cupboard, may future chroniclers be able to write also in the beautiful words of our text――

“And so the poor dog had none.”

_Notes and Queries_, April 21, 1888, contained the following interesting account of the origin of this singular jeu d’esprit:

This is not a “burlesque” of the story of ‘Mother Hubbard,’ but a good-humoured parody of the popular (?) “regulation” sermon. It appeared originally in 1877, in a novel by Lord Desart, who claimed it in a letter to the _Pall Mall Gazette_ in December, 1886, in which he says that “one of his characters delivered it as a mock sermon,” and adds that it has been copied into “most of the provincial English and Scotch, and into many American and Canadian newspapers.” He adds:――

“I myself heard it preached by a negro minstrel at
Haverley’s, New York; it has been neatly printed, with an
introduction, by a clergyman, and sent round to his brother
preachers as an example of how not to do it; it was bought
for a penny in a broadsheet form in the City a year or two
ago by a friend of mine; it has been heard at countless
penny readings and entertainments of the kind; it has
appeared among the facetiæ of a guide-book to Plymouth and
the South Coast; and in a volume published by the owners of
St. Jacob’s Oil, as well as in another jest-book; and the
other day I was shown it in a collection of _ana_, just
published by Messrs. Routledge & Co., for a firm in
Melbourne; and all this without any acknowledgment of its
authorship whatsoever. Perhaps you will allow me, through
your columns, to claim my wandering child――‘a poor thing,
but mine own.’”

――――:o:――――

Little Jack Horner sat in a corner,
Eating a Christmas pie;
He put in his thumb, and he took out a plum,
And said, “What a good boy am I!”

These lines form part of “The pleasant History of Jack Horner, containing his witty Tricks and pleasant Pranks,” a copy of which is in the Bodleian Library, the story must have been in existence earlier than 1617, at which date a similar tale was printed in London founded upon it.

VERSIO ALTERA.

Horner Jacculo sedit in angulo
Vorans, ceu serias ageret ferias,
Crustum dulce et amabile;
Inquit et unum extrahens prunum――
“Horner, quam fueris nobile pueris
Exemplar imitabile.”

HENRY DRURY.

From _Arundines Cami_. Cambridge, 1841.

JOHANNIS HORNERII JACTATIO.

Hornerius Johannes
In angulo sedebat,
Et ibi in silentio
Artocream edebat.

Extraxit prunum digito
Et statim se jactabat――
“Ecce quam bonus puer sum!”
Hornerius clamabat.

_The Hornet._ May 29, 1872.

――――

Studious Jack Horner, of Latin no scorner,
In the second declension did spy
How nouns there were some,
Which, ending in um, do not make their plural in i.

CHESSMEN.

_Truth._ September 30, 1886.

――――

THE MODERN JACK HORNER.

Little Jack Horner, on the street corner,
Smoked up his last cigarette;
Saying, “When this is done, I’ll to the saloon
And wet up my whistle, ‘you bet.’”

Little Jack Horner is now the chief mourner
To head a policeman’s procession.
The infantile dude became far too rude
In trying to follow the fashion.

_Detroit Free Press._ December, 1886.

――――

Little Lord Randy
Turned up quite handy,
Speaking his mind so spry;
He slashed right and left,
Both weavers and weft,
And he said, “What a statesman am I.”

M. B. B.

_Truth._ June 28, 1888.

――――:o:――――

Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief;
Taffy came to my house, and stole a shin of beef:
I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was not at home;
Taffy came to my house and stole a marrow bone.
I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was not in,
Taffy came to my house and stole a silver pin;
I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was in bed,
I took up a poker and flung it at his head.

For an explanation of this curious old rhyme, and Shirley Brooks’s adaptation of it in English and Welsh see p. 255, Vol. iv. _Parodies_.

Staffy was a poor man,
Staffy was a chief;
Staffy in the Lower House
Often came to grief;
So Staffy to the Upper House
Hurriedly has flown,
And left ’em the Lower House
To stay and pick the bone!

JESSE H. WHEELER.

_The Weekly Dispatch._ July 5, 1885.

NEGLECTED WAILS.

Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy had a farm,
Taffy wouldn’t pay his tithes, but kept ’em in his palm;
His Vicar lowered Taffy’s tithes, for the sake of quiet,
Taffy had rejoicings, ending in a riot.
The Landlord sent his Agent, and doubled Taffy’s rent,
Taffy’s now for Welsh Home Rule, and Disestablishment!

_Punch._ December 4, 1886.

――――:o:――――

What are little boys made of, made of?
Snaps and snails, and puppy dog’s tails;
And that’s what little boys are made of.
What are little girls made of, made of?
Sugar and spice, and all that’s nice;
And that’s what little girls are made of, made of.

What is an Englishman made of?
Roast beef and jam tart,
And a pint of good Clar’t,
And that’s what an Englishman’s made of.

What is a Frenchman, pray, made of?
Horse steak and frog fritter,
And absinthe so bitter,
And that’s what a Frenchman is made of.

[_Therefore, my dears, you must be kind to a Frenchman, and give
him some of your nice dinner, whenever you can, and teach
him better._]

SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1864.

What are some young Misses made of?
Poker and Bang,
Second-hand slang;
Plenty of face,
Air without grace;
Bustle and flounce,
Brains half an ounce;
Dreams but of pelf,
Thoughts but of self;
Life all a lie,
Hang by-and-bye!
That’s what some Misses are made of.

What are most young Johnnies made of?
Needless toothpicking,
Stage door heel-kicking;
Long lemon squashing,
Prodigal washing;
Stock-seller’s model,
Hairdresser’s noddle;
Old schoolboy vices,
Love-lingering for “nicies”;
_Blasé_ pretended,
Unbegun――ended!
That’s what most Johnnies are made of!

_Judy._ January 3, 1883.

“DICKORY,” _à la française_.

Diggoré, doggoré, doge,
Le rat monte à l’horloge,
Une heure se frappe
Le rat s’échappe
Diggoré, doggoré, doge.

_Boys Own Paper._ March, 1884.

MUS IN HOROLOGIO.

Quatit terrore domus,
Est horologio mus.
Tunc hora prima sonuit,
Et murem sic attonuit;
Caret terrore domus――
Non horologio mus.

_The Hornet._ June 19, 1872.

A SONG OF A SELL.

Hickery, dickery, dare!
The Socialists met in the Square;
Warren nabs one,
Away the rest run,
Hickery, dickery, dare!

――――:o:――――

Multiplication is vexation,
Division is as bad;
The Rule of Three, it puzzles me,
And Practice drives me mad!

POEM BY THE ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY.
(_Composed on the day His Grace “deprived” Mr. Denison._)

Transubstantiation is vexation,
Consubstantiation is as bad;
Archdeacon D. doth trouble me,
And I rather think he’s mad.

J. B. CANTUAR. 1856.

THE KHEDIVE’S SUMMING UP.

Abdication is vexation,
Deposition’s twice as bad;
The Rule of Three it bothers me,
And Bismarck drives me mad.

_Punch._ June 28, 1879.

(Written shortly before the deposition of the Khedive, by Turkey, France and England.)

A SUM OF SORROWS.

The Iligant Nation
Is a vexation,
But Gordon’s twice as bad:
From Redistribution
Comes bitter confusion,
And Egypt’s driven me mad.

BY A PUBLICAN.

“Application” is vexashun,
“Compensation” ’ll prove bad;
Terms o’ years three is a muzzle for me,
Them practices drives me mad.

DANEHILL.

Lord S. _loqr._
Compensation’s tribulation,
The wheel-tax is as bad,
By Jokin G――
And Licensed V,
I’m fairly driven mad.

BARITONE.

_Truth_, June 14, 1888.

――――

Mobilisation’s desperation,
Inaction is as bad;
The Admiraltee it puzzles “we,”
The Horse Guards drives us mad.

_Truth._ June 28, 1888.

――――

Shakespeare and Bacon are vexation
Donelly is as bad,
His Cryptogram it puzzles me,
His Cypher drives me mad.

_Scott Surtees._ 1888.

――――:o:――――

Please to remember
The Fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot;
I know no reason
Why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.

(About 1651.)

MITCHELSTOWN.

Please to remember
The ninth of September,
Mitchelstown’s murderous shot.
I see no reason
Why Government treason
Should ever be forgot.

Balfour blacksheep,
Have you any gruel?
Yes sir, yes sir,
Three plates full.
One for the Parson,
One for the Dame,
And one for the man who joins
The Plan of Campaign.

Ding, dong, dell,
Dillon’s in a cell,
Who put him in?
Servants of the Queen.
Who’ll pull him out?
G. O. M. no doubt.

NEWGATE.

_Truth._ June 14, 1888.

――――

Remember, remember, the recreant member
Who with Tories has cast in his lot,
I see no reason why Chamberlain’s treason
Should ever be forgot.

Clever, smart, and spry,
With his eye-glass in his eye,
Send him to the House of Lords
And there let him lie!

A Tory place the traitor to pay;
True Radicals scorn to lash him;
Old Ireland’s curse on his soul to lay,
And the next election to smash him.

JOHN BULL.

_The Weekly Dispatch._ November, 1888.

――――

A LAY FOR THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER.

Remember, remember, the fifth of November,
And gunpowder treason plot;
I know no reason why winking at treason
Should ever be forgot.
So, holloa, boys, holloa, and bring out the guys
That every true Englishman needs must despise.
Instead of Old Guy, who in years long gone by
Used gunpowder kegs for a tool,
We’ve a certain old man who does all he can
To break up the House with Home Rule.
Bring the effigy out, and take it about;
On to the Bonfire with laughter and shout,
And all the good people who see it will cry,
“Holloa! boys, holloa! for Gladstone the Guy.”

Remember, remember, the fifth of November,
As years have rolled on we have got
Fresh guys for the season of gunpowder treason
So now let us bring out the lot.
Here’s Charley Parnell, and Dillon as well,
With Labby so fond of abuse,
And Harcourt may find a place close behind
With a jar of the Parnellite juice.
And give to each one a moonlighter’s gun,
A mask, and some powder and shot,
With Fenian dynamite somewhere concealed
To finally blow up the lot.
Holloa, boys, holloa, and pile the chips well,
For Gladstone of Hawarden has plenty to sell.
Bring the effigies out and take them about,
On to the bonfire with laughter and shout,
With cheers for the empire, with hooting and cries
Of “Holloa! boys, holloa! boys, down with the guys!”

J. E. CLARKE.

_Judy._ November 7, 1888.

――――:o:――――

THE HUSBAND’S REVENGE.
_A Warning to wives who will keep bad Cooks._

Provisions raw
Long time he bore,
Remonstrance was in vain;
To escape the scrub
He join’d a club;
Nor dined at home again.

_Punch._ March 1, 1856.

――――

EPITAPH ON A LOCOMOTIVE.

Collisions four
Or five she bore,
The signals wor in vain;
Grown old and rusted,
Her biler busted,
And smash’d the Excursion Train――
“Her end was pieces”

MONODY ON PROTECTION.

Protection sore long time we bore,
Seditions were in vain;
But now his friends have given him o’er,
He’ll never wake again.

――――:o:――――

NURSERY RHYMES FOR CYCLISTS.

Here is a touching little thing to “teach the young idea how to shoot”――down nasty hills:――

“Sing a song of wheeling,
Mind that no one squeals――
Four-and-twenty black boys
Riding on their wheels,
When down hill they ventured,
They ‘braked’ it rather rash,
And four-and-twenty cripples
Resulted from the smash!”

The pathetic address of the bicyclist to his lamp:――

“Twinkle, twinkle, little light
Struggle through the murky night,
Round about the corners trot
Many a blue _for-get-me-not_ (_i.e._, the _Bobby_),
Who would drag me to the Beak
For a fine or for a ‘week,’
And they’d always serve me so
If you did not twinkle so!”

“Little Jack Jumber
Sat on his Humber,
Waiting till cows go by,
When one in a flurry
Sent him in a hurry
_Sow_-so into the old pig-stye!”

Ladies are invited to――

“Ride a machine to What’s-the-name Green,
To see whatever there is to be seen,
Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,
She shall have music wherever she goes!”

“Jack and Jill
Rode down the hill,
With joke and jeer and laughter,
Jack fell down,
And broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after!”

Jack and Gill came down the hill
Upon a Humber tandem,
Jack turned round to Gill and frowned,
“Eugh!” you don’t understand ’em
Put up your feet, stick to your seat,
I’m going to do a ‘flyer,’
For goodness sake don’t touch the brake.
We’re spilt! oh Jeremyur!

_Wheeling Annual._ 1885.

――――:o:――――

QUESTIONS FOR SIR CHARLES.

O where, O where, are your little wee dogs,
O where are they gone, Sir C.?
Says Chawles “Down in Surrey,
They fled in a hurry,
And never came back to me,”

And where, O where, were your merry men gone
That people should murdered be?
“O, my men were ‘all there,’
In Trafalgar Square,
Looking most militaree.”

But Chawlie, O Chawlie, where were you?
Why didn’t you travel down E.?
“I was up to my eyes
In a Christmas Prize
Composition for Newnes’s _T. B._”

COCK WARREN.

Who killed Cock Warren?
“I,” said the gin distiller;
“I’m the tyrant killer,
I killed Cock Warren.”

Who killed Cock Warren?
“I,” said the _Pall Mall_;
“I set him up as well,
Then I killed Cock Warren.”

Who killed Cock Warren?
“I,” said Mr. Graham,
“I’m the hound to bay ’em;
I killed Cock Warren.”

Who killed Cock Warren?
“We,” said the people;
“Clash the bells in the steeple;
We killed Cock Warren.”

H. W. M.

AN EPITAPH.

Here lies
Sir CHARLES WARREN,
Formerly
Chief Commissioner of Metropolitan Police.
During his Tenure of Office
He Lectured on the Holy Land,
And Trampled Under his Feet
Our Free and ancient laws,
Daily insulting the law-abiding people of London.
Contrary to the Regulations of the Service
He wrote an article in _Murray’s Magazine_,
The grammar of which was shaky,
And the spelling of which is said to have been corrected
By the Printer’s Devil.
He resigned rather than submit to
Merited censure.
Forbear, pious reader,
To spit upon his tomb,
For though his actions were despotic,
His resignation brought joy and gladness
To the homes of thousands.

“_When the wicked perish there is shouting._”

From _The Star_. November, 1888. Just after the resignation of Sir C. Warren as Chief Commissioner of the London Police, much to the delight of the London people.

――――:o:――――

In _Carols of Cockayne_ (London, Chatto & Windus, 1874) the late Mr. Henry S. Leigh gave some poetical versions of Nursery Rhymes, which he termed “Chivalry for the Cradle.” The stories selected were “Humpty-Dumpty,” “Ride a Cock-horse to Banbury Cross,” and “Babie Bunting.”

THE ROMAUNT OF HUMPTY-DUMPTY.

’Tis midnight, and the moonbeam sleeps
Upon the garden sward:
My lady in yon turret keeps
Her tearful watch and ward.
“Beshrew me!” mutters, turning pale,
The stalwart seneschal;
“What’s he that sitteth, clad in mail,
Upon our castle wall?”

“Arouse thee, friar of orders gray;
What, ho! bring book and bell!
Ban yonder ghastly thing, I say;
And, look ye, ban it well.
By cock and pye, the Humpty’s face!”――
The form turn’d quickly round;
Then totter’d from its resting-place――
* * * * *
That night the corse was found.

The king, with hosts of fighting men,
Rode forth at break of day;
Ah! never gleam’d the sun till then
On such a proud array.
But all that army, horse and foot,
Attempted, quite in vain,
Upon the castle wall to put
The Humpty up again.

THE BALLAD OF BABYE BUNTING.

The Knight is away in the merry green wood,
Where he hunts the wild rabbit and roe:
He is fleet in the chase as the late Robin Hood――
He is fleeter in quest of the foe.

The nurse is at home in the castle, and sings
To the babe that she rocks at her breast:
She is crooning of love and of manifold things,
And is bidding the little one rest.

“Oh, slumber, my darling! oh, slumber apace!
For thy father will shortly be here;
And the skin of some rabbit that falls in the chase
Shall be thine for a tippet, my dear.”

――――

H. DUMPTEII TRISTIS HISTORIA.

Humptius Dumpteius
Sedebat stulte muro:
Humptius, heu, decidit
Nec fatum in obscuro.
Non omnes equi regii,
Non viri potuere
Pristinam rectitudinem
Dumpteio præbere.

AD INFANTEM BUNTINII.

Buntincule beate!
Pater venatur catè.
Pellem feret cuniculi,
Ut vestis sit Buntinculi.

_The Hornet._

――――:o:――――

THE MONTHS.

Thirty days hath September,
April, June, and November;
February has twenty-eight alone,
All the rest have thirty-one,
Excepting leap-year, that’s the time,
When February’s days are twenty-nine.

These lines occur in an old play, “The Return from Parnassus,” printed in London in 1606, they may have been derived from the following old poem _De Computo_, written in the thirteenth century:――

“En avril, en juing, en septembre
A .xxx. jours et en novembre:
Tout li autre ont .xxxj jour,
Fors fevriers qi est li plus cour,
En soi que .xxviij. jors n’a,
Ne plus ne meins n’i avra ja
Fors en l’an qe bissextres vient,
Adont en a, einsi avient,
.xxix., de tant est creüs,
L’an que bixestres est cheüs.”

Dirty days hath September,
April, June, and November;
From December up to May,
The rain it raineth every day.
All the rest have thirty-one,
Without a blessed gleam of sun;
And if any had two-and-thirty,
They’d be just as wet, and twice as dirty.

_Figaro._ 1873.

A SUMMERY SUMMARY.

Thirty-one days hath the month of May,
Most of them chilly, and none of them gay,
June――less obnoxious by one day――has thirty,
Every one, more or less, dirty and squirty.
Thirty plus one are the “whack” of July,
None of them sunny, and few of them dry,
Three months of gloom that each year groweth glummer!
That sums the sell that is called English Summer!

USEFUL MEMS. FOR 1885.

JANUARY is first month
(It commences with the oneth).

FEBRUARY’S days are twenty-eight
(Wanting more, four years you wait).

In MARCH you find mad hares and Lent
(25th’s the day for rent).

APRIL’S days are only thirty
(And even most of those are dirty!)

Thirty-one there are in MAY
(24th’s Victoria’s day).

Thirty days are there in JUNE
(Rent-day the 24th――too soon!)

Thirty-one days in JULY
(A month for eating greengage pie).

In AUGUST thirty-one you’ll find
(If you don’t care, well, I don’t mind).

Thirty days, please, hath SEPTEMBER
(And 29th’s the rent, remember!)

Thirty-one days hath OCTOBER
(Quite enough, if you keep sober!)

NOVEMBER it has thirty (why?――
You’d best ask some one else than I).

DECEMBER――thirty-one (contrive
To scrape up rent by 25).

――――:o:――――

THE THREE JOLLY RATSMEN.
(_With Apologies to the Memory of Randolph Caldecott_).

It’s of three politicians, and a rattin’ they did go;
An’ they ratted, an’ they ranted, an’ they blew their horns also.
Look ye there!

An’ one said, “Mind yo’r een, an’ keep yo’r noses reet i’ th’ wind,
An’ then, by scent or seet we’ll leet o’summat to our mind.”
Look ye there!

(_Portraits of Chamberlain, Goschen and Hartington._)

They ratted, an’ they ranted, an’ the first thing they did find
Was a Grand Old Statesman in a field, an’ him they left behind.
Look ye there!

One said it was a Statesman, an’ another he said, “Nay;
It’s just a Liberal Party, that has been and gone astray.”
Look ye there!

They ratted an’ they ranted, an’ the next thing they did find,
Was a gruntin’, grindin’ grindlestone, an’ that they left behind.
Look ye there.
One said it was a grindlestone, another he said, “Nay,
It’s nought but a fossil Quaker that’s gone an’ roll’t away.”
Look ye there!

(_Portrait of John Bright._)

They ratted an’ they ranted, an’ the next thing they did find
Was a bull calf in a Tory fold, an’ that they left behind.
Look ye there!
One said it was a bull calf, an’ another he said, “Nay,
It’s just a little jackass that has never learnt to bray.”
Look ye there!

(_Lord R. Churchill_).

They ratted an’ they ranted, an’ the next thing they did find
Was a two-three children leaving school, an’ these they left behind.
Look ye there!
One said they were children, but another he said, “Nay,
They’re no’ but little Radicals, so we’ll leave ’em to their play.”
Look ye there!

They ratted an’ they ranted, an’ the next thing they did find,
Was a poet singing in a ditch, an’ him they left behind.
Look ye there!
One said it was a poet, an’ another he said, “Nay;
It’s only just a poor young man whose wits are stole away.”
Look ye there!

(_A. C. Swinburne._)

They ratted an’ they ranted, an’ the next thing they did find,
Was two young lovers in a lane, an’ these they left behind.
Look ye there!
One said that they were lovers, but another he said “Nay;
They’re two poor wandering lunatics: come, let us go away.”
Look ye there!

(_Erin and John Morley._)

So they ratted an’ they ranted till, the setting of the sun,
And they’d naught to bring away at last when election time was done.
Look ye there!
Then one unto the other said, “This rattin’ doesn’t pay;
But we’n powler’t up an’ down a bit, an’ had a rattlin’ day.”
Look ye there!

_Pall Mall Gazette._ July 7, 1886.

Mr. Randolph Caldecott must have founded his well known children’s ballad upon the following very old nursery rhyme:――

There were three jovial Welshmen,
As I have heard them say,
And they would go a hunting
Upon St. David’s day.

All the day they hunted,
And nothing could they find,
But a ship a-sailing,
A-sailing with the wind.

One said it was a ship,
The other he said, nay;
The third said it was a house,
With the chimney blown away.

And all the night they hunted,
And nothing could they find
But the moon a-gliding,
A-gliding with the wind.

One said it was the moon,
The other he said, nay;
The third said it was a cheese,
And half o’t cut away.

――――:o:――――

The following old rhyme was sung to the tune of Chevy Chace. It was taken from a poetical tale in the “Choyce Poems” printed in London in 1662. John Poole introduced the song in his _Hamlet Travestie_ in 1810, without any acknowledgment, perhaps thinking it was too well known to require mention.

Three children sliding on the ice
Upon a summer’s day,
It so fell out they all fell in,
The rest they ran away.

Now had these children been at home,
Or sliding on dry ground,
Ten thousand pounds to one penny
They had not all been drown’d.

You parents all that children have,
And you that eke have none,
If you would have them safe abroad,
Pray keep them safe at home.

CARMEN CANINUM.

Labentes super glaciem,
In medio æstatis,
Tres pueri sunt mersi, et
Succubuêre fatis.

Ah, si in terrâ lapsi sint,
Vel domi si mansissent
Sestertium ad denarium
Non aquâ periisent.

Parentes quibus nati sunt,
Et vos qui non habetis
Si salvos vultis foris hos,
Clausos domi servetis.

_The Hornet._ 1872.

――――:o:――――

THE COW.

Thank you, pretty cow, that made
Pleasant milk to soak my bread,
Ev’ry day and ev’ry night,
Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white.

Do not chew the hemlock rank,
Growing on the weedy bank;
But the yellow cowslips eat,
They perhaps will make it sweet.

Where the purple violet grows,
Where the bubbling water flows,
Where the grass is fresh and fine,
Pretty cow, go there and dine.

TO A PET REPTILE.

Thank you, pretty spotted snake,
Thus to as your mistress try me.
What a charming pet you make,
Cold and creepy, damp and slimy!

How you wriggle up my sleeve.
How you coil around my shoulder
Causing visitors to leave,
Terrifying each beholder.

Come, then, where your breakfast waits,
Reptile of eccentric habits;
Come, and seal the several fates
Of these frogs and two plump rabbits.

――――:o:――――

THE CAT.

I love little Pussy, her coat is so warm,
And if I don’t hurt her, she’ll do me no harm;
So I’ll ne’er pull her tail, nor drive her away.
But pussy and I together will play;
She shall sit by my side, and I’ll give her some food,
And she’ll love me because I am gentle and good.

TO MY NEW PET.

I love my ichneumon,
Its tongue is so queer,
Its ways are so human,
It has such a leer.

’Tis fond of the emmet
For dinner and tea;
But ere you condemn it,
Pray listen to me.

And know that though _ants_ it
Delights in so much;
Its fiercest foe grants it
An _uncle_ won’t touch.

“Be lenient with lobsters, and ever kind to crabs,
And be not disrespectful to cuttle-fish or dabs;
Chase not the Cochin-China, chaff not the ox obese,
And babble not of feather-beds in company with geese.
Be tender with the tadpole, and let the limpet thrive,
Be merciful to mussels, don’t skin your eels alive;
When talking to a turtle don’t mention calipee――
Be always kind to animals wherever you may be.”

――――:o:――――

Speak roughly to your little boy,
And beat him when he sneezes;
He only does it to annoy,
Because he knows it teases.

_Alice in Wonderland._

Speak when _not_ spoken to,
Sulk when you’re chid,
Bang the door after you
Good little kid!

――――:o:――――

Be kind to the panther! for when thou wert young,
In thy country far over the sea,
’Twas a panther ate up thy papa and mama,
And had several mouthfuls of thee!

Be kind to the badger! for who shall decide
The depth of his badgerly soul?
And think of the tapir, when flashes the lamp
O’er the fast and the free flowing bowl.

Be kind to the camel! nor let word of thine
Ever put up his bactrian back;
And cherish the she-kangaroo with her bag,
Nor venture to give her the sack.

Be kind to the ostrich! for how canst thou hope
To have such a stomach as it?
And when the proud day of your “bridal” shall come,
Do give the poor birdie a “bit.”

Be kind to the walrus! nor ever forget
To have it on Tuesday to tea;
But butter the crumpets on only one side,
Save such as are eaten by thee.

Be kind to the bison! and let the jackal
In the light of thy love have a share;
And coax the ichneumon to grow a new tail,
And have lots of larks in its lair!

Be kind to the bustard! that genial bird,
And humor its wishes and ways;
And when the poor elephant suffers from bile,
Then tenderly lace up his stays!

_Figaro’s Natural History._ (O. P. Q. Smiff.)

――――:o:――――

MARY’S LAMB.

Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow,
And everywhere that Mary went,
The lamb was sure to go.

He followed her to school one day,――
That was against the rule;
It made the children laugh and play,
To see a lamb at school.

(_Two verses omitted._)

――――

DOT LAMBS VOT MARY HAF GOT.

Mary haf got a leetle lambs already:
Dose vool vas vite like shnow;
Und every times dot Mary did vend oud,
Dot lambs vent also oud vid Mary.

Dot lambs did follow Mary von day to der school-house,
Vich was obbosition to der rules of der schoolmaster,
Alzo, vich it dit caused dose schillen to schmile out loud
Ven dey did saw dose lambs on der insides of der school-house.

Und so dot schoolmaster did kick dot lambs quick oud,
Likevise, dot lambs dit loaf around on der outsides,
Und did shoo der flies mit his tail off patiently aboud
Undil Mary did come also from dot school-house oud.

Und den dot lambs did run right away quick to Mary,
Und dit make his het on Mary’s arms,
Like he would said, “I dond vos schkared
Mary would keep from droubles ena how.”

“Vot vos de reason aboud it, of dot lambs and Mary?”
Dose schillen did ask it, dot schoolmaster;
Vell, doand you know it, dot Mary lov dose lambs already,
Dot schoolmaster did zaid.

MORAL.

Und zo, alzo, dot moral vas,
Boued Mary’s lambs’ relations:
Of you lofe dose like she lofe dose,
Dot lambs vas obligations.

――――

MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB.
A TALE.

Mary was the proprietress of a diminutive incipient sheep, whose outer covering was as devoid of colour as congealed atmospheric vapour, and to all localities to which Mary perambulated, her young South-down was morally sure to follow. It tagged her to the dispensary of learning one diurnal section of time, which was contrary to all precedent, and excited cachinnation to the seminary attendants when they perceived the presence of a young mutton at the establishment of instruction. Consequently the preceptor expelled him from the interior, but he continued to remain in the immediate vicinity, without fretfulness, until Mary once more became visible.

“What caused this specimen of the _genus ovis_ to bestow so much affection on Mary?” the impetuous progeny vociferated.

“Because Mary reciprocated the wool-producer’s esteem, you understand,” the teacher answered.

――――:o:――――

MARY’S LITTLE LAMB.
_Verses culled from different Authors._

Oh, who has not heard of Sweet Mary’s pet sheep,
With fleece like the lilies by Alaway’s stream,
When the day on the breast of the night falls asleep
With the fragrance of lilies to perfume its dream?
The love of that mutton for Mary was more
Like the nightingale’s song by the swift Bendemeer
Which born in the grove, seeks a grave on the shore
As laughter or music is drowned in a tear.

THOMAS MOORE.

I saw that lamb rise from the hallowed ground
That emperors have kissed as they resigned their rule;
I saw him rise like Venice rise and straddle round,
There where the wraith of Time prowls like a ghoul
And centuries have sate, each on its stool,
Then, with a spring of ages, saw him bound
To Mary’s side, and down the sombre cool
Dark corridors of rotting years he followed her to school

LORD BYRON.

Bounce, bounce, bounce,
For Mary’s poor pet wool!
But the tenderness of three days’ grace
Can’t get him back to school;
Oh, well for the sailor lad
That he bit his sister’s thumb,
For the contribution box goes round
And the lamb is deaf and dumb!

TENNYSON.

Prithee, good pedagogue, we lend our ears
To feed on explanation. It appears
That this pet lamb has passed the world’s estate
Of treachery, and love that loves to prate
Of love, while loving but the sound
The gnashing lips that bear it breathe around,
Beseemeth he would with her spangle nights
And wear her as the stars wear satellites,
To him she is the lightning to the cloud,
The rain to summer, to death the shroud,
Dreams to eyes, sleep to the weary, rest
To the yearning or ambitious breast.
We prithee, pedagogue, if so be you know,
Why does this sheep love little Mary so?

SHAKESPEARE.

――――:o:――――

William had a big gingham,
Its folds were strong and broad;
And everywhere that William came
That gingham too abode.

Lord Rosey put it up one day,
And many sheltered there;
It made the Tories laugh and play
To see the huge affair.

To shut it up their leaders tried,
But still its folds are spread,
And ’neath them Libs and Rads abide
Around their Grand Old Head.

“Why do they all love William so?”
The jealous Tories cry.
“Because he trusteth us you know,”
The people loud reply.

SCRAWLER.

_Truth._ October 15, 1885.

――――

Mary had a little corn
Upon her little toe,
And everywhere that Mary went
The corn was sure to go.

But Mary bought an Alcock’s shield,
And stuck it on her toe;
And then she ran about alone,
For the corn soon had to go.

And Mary, grown up, tells the tale,
Of that time, long ago,
When she was little Mary with
That corn upon her toe.

――――

Mary had a little lamb,
With coat as black as soot,
And into Mary’s cup of milk
It put its dirty foot.
Now Mary, a straightforward girl,
Who hated any sham,
Rapped out a naughty little word
That rhymed with Mary’s lamb.

HUSSAR.

_Truth._ September 30, 1886.

――――

Mary had a pot of jam
Presented by the cook,
And everywhere that Mary went,
The luscious jar she took.

She carried it to school one day,
Which was against the rule;
And when the teacher looked away,
She ate the jam in school.

At last the teacher found her out,
And, oh! was most severe:
But what the imposition was
It doth not well appear.

Now Mary soon began to roll
Her head upon her arm,
And felt dismayed, and much afraid
The jam had done her harm.

“Oh! why does Mary’s head ache so”
The curious children cry,
“Quaejam est, ea _sic_ erit,”
The teacher did reply.

C. W. G.

_Newcastle Weekly Chronicle._ 1887.

――――

JOSEPH AND HIS JESSE.

_An Adaptation of “Mary had a Little Lamb,” said to have been Sung during the Ayr Contest, in which Mr. Collings took an active part._

Joseph had a little lamb――a little lamb――
Joseph had a little lamb,
Which loved its master so,
That everywhere that Joseph went――that Joseph went――
That everywhere that Joseph went,
The lamb was sure to go.

It followed him so close about――so close about――
It followed him so close about,
To every place you know,
It made the people laugh and shout――laugh and shout――
It made the people laugh and shout,
To see the lamb and Joe.

And when the laborers turned it out――turned it out――
And when the laborers turned it out,
Yet still it lingered near,
And wandered helplessly about――helplessly about――
And wandered helplessly about,
Till Joseph did appear.

“What makes the lamb love Joseph so――love Joseph so――
What makes the lamb love Joseph so?”
The “Rural Laborers” cry,
“Why Joseph loves the lamb, you know――the lamb, you know”――
Why Joseph loves the lamb――you know,
And Jesse makes reply, Baa! Baa!

_The Star._ June 18, 1888.

――――

Mary had a cactus plant
So modestly it grew,
Shooting its little fibers out
It lived upon the dew.

Her little brother often heard
Her say it lived on air,
And so he pulled it up one day
And placed it in a chair.

Placed it in a chair he did,
Then laughed with ghoulish glee――
Placed it in the old arm chair
Under the trysting tree.

Nor thought of Mary’s lover,
Who called each night to woo,
Or even dreamed they’d take a stroll,
As lovers often do.

The eve drew on. The lover came.
They sought the _trysting tree_,
Where has the little cactus gone?
The lover――where is he!

――――:o:――――

SONG.

AIR.――“_If I had a donkey vot vouldn’t go,
Do you think I’d wallop, &c._”

Had I an ass averse to speed,
Deem’st thou I’d strike him? No, indeed
Mark me, I’d try persuasion’s art,
For cruelty offends my heart:
Had all resembled me, I ween,
Martin, thy law had needless been
Of speechless brutes from blows to screen
The poor head;
For had I an ass averse to speed
I ne’er would strike him; no indeed!
I’d give him hay, and cry, “Proceed,”
And “Go on, Edward!”

Why speak I thus? This very morn,
I saw that cruel William Burn,
Whilst crying “Greens!” upon his course,
Assail his ass with all his force;
He smote him o’er the head and thighs,
Till tears bedimm’d the creature’s eyes!
Oh! ’twas too much. My blood ’gan rise,
And I exclaim’d,
“Had I an” &c.