Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born at
Portland, Maine, on February 27, 1807, and
died on the 24th March, 1882, having thus just
completed his 75th year. After graduating at
the age of eighteen at Bowdoin College, he
entered the office of his father to study the law.
Soon afterwards, however, he left America for
Europe, where he travelled for three years
and a half, in order to qualify himself for a
professorship of modern language, which had
been offered to him in the college where he
had received his education. A few years later
he was appointed to a similar position in Harvard
College. In order to become acquainted with
the literature and language of Northern Europe
he again left America and travelled in Scandinavia,
Germany, and Switzerland, entering upon
his new duties in 1836. Mr. Longfellow commenced
his career as an author while yet
he was an undergraduate, and continued to
write almost to the last. A mere list of his
works would occupy considerable space. They
are thoroughly well known wherever our language
is spoken, and have obtained in this country a
popularity second to that of no English writer.
The Universities of Oxford and Cambridge both
conferred degrees upon Mr. Longfellow, and he
was also elected a member of the Russian
Academy of Science and of the Spanish Academy.
The following are the poems which have been
most frequently selected as the models for
Parodies:—A Psalm of Life; Beware!; Evangeline;
The Song of Hiawatha; The Village Blacksmith;
Excelsior; Curfew; The Bridge; and
several parts of the Saga of King Olaf.
TELL me not in mournful numbers,
Life Assurance is a dream,
And that while the public slumbers,
Figures are not what they seem!
Really, I am quite in earnest!
So would you be. Here's a goal!
Come let's have enquiry sternest.
It's too bad, upon my soul.
Here's a set of fellows borrow
Money that they can't repay,
Then buy up, till each to-morrow
Finds them deeper than to-day.
Thus my claim they'll fail in meeting,
Though they've taken all I gave!
They, not muffled drums, want beating
Soundly till they look quite grave.
Talk of board rooms' tittle tattle!
Stuff! I have insured my life.
I'm not dumb, like driven cattle!
And I'll make a precious strife!
Trust the Future? Come, that's pleasant!
Wait until I'm buried—dead?
No, I'll make a row at present.
On official toes I'll tread!
And directors think to blind us!
Humbug us just for a time.
Till we go to leave behind us
Nothing? Why, the thing's sublime!
Nothing! Do they think another
Will insure, like me, in vain!
No! the outcry they'll not smother,
Nor catch shipwrecked dupes again!
Let us, then, be up and doing,
Never mind what be our fate,
Each director still pursuing,
Shouting out "Investigate!"
From The Tomahawk, September 11, 1869.
Tell us not in mournful "numbers"
Life is all a ghastly dream!
Such as those we have in slumbers
When the nightmare makes us scream.
Life is dark enough in earnest
Without bringing in the gaol,
Only readers of the sternest
Like their heroines out on bail.
Not to swindle, or to borrow
Is the reputable way;
Not to marry, and to-morrow
Kill your bride, and run away.
Arson's wrong, and poisoning dreary,
And our hearts, though pretty brave
Now and then get rather weary
Of the gallows, and the grave.
In the great domestic battle,
In the matrimonial strife,
Be not like those Mormon "Cattle,"
Give your hero but one wife.
Wives and Daughters should remind you
There are women without crime;
Draw them and you'll leave behind you
Fictions that may weather time.
Fictions free from that Inspector,
Who is sent by Richard Mayne,
And finds footmarks that affect a
Solemn butler in the lane.
Let us, then, have no more trials,
No more tampering with wills,
Leave the poisons in the phials
And the money in the tills.
A Mournful Ditty.
TELL me not that I am pretty—
Really don't, now, Mr. Green;
I'm the last to think it's witty
Not to name things as they seem.
Yes; I know my hair is curly,
Blacker than the blackest sloe;
And I know that you'll be surly
With the candour I thus show.
That my eyes with fire are glancing
I'll admit if that you say:
Yet I think that you're romancing
When you swear they're bright as day.
Then my teeth you state are pearl,
Purer than the driven snow;
And to touch my lips you'd dare all
Dangers from an earthly foe.
Please don't be so very minute
When my beauties you describe,
As, perhaps, your flimsy tribute
May appear to be a bribe.
To secure my young affections
To your nasty little self,
And to banish all reflections
That you seek not me but pelf.
Now, if you'd be bright and happy,
Try and don't be what you seem—
A wretched, lazy, selfish chappy:
There—you have it, Mr. Green.
"I will tell in measured numbers,
That our life is not a dream;
That the earth we don't encumber;
That we are not what we seem.
"Man is real—we are earnest;
Eve, thy birth is not a fib;
Of man thou art, to him returnest;
We each are looking for his rib.
"No selfishness, not pleasure,
Is our only aim below;
Or to win wealth and treasure,
The only bliss we wish to know.
"Life is short, time is fleeting,
We should hurry, up and do
That which brings a parent's greeting,
That which settles us below.
"Bring us aid through life to battle
Who'll gird her hero in the strife;
No longer be mere straying cattle,
Find a tender, loving wife,
"Beware the future, howe'er pleasant
Our fondest dream of it may be;
Our freedom, liberty, past and present,
Our pleasures we may cease to see.
"Do not married men remind us,
We, though erring, yet have time,
To amend and leave behind us
Names unsullied by the crime.
"A crime the ladies all declare,
Being single through life's rapid run;
No victim to their wedded care,
Bent on freedom, pleasure, fun.
"Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still in honour's track pursuing,
Find a partner, though its late."
From Notes and Queries, August 31, 1872.
The following appeared in the Seattle Intelligencer
(a Washington Territory newspaper), of
December 4, 1871:—
"Tell us not, in idle jingle,
'Marriage is an empty dream!'
For the girl is dead that's single,
And things are not what they seem.
"Life is real! life is earnest!
Single blessedness a fib;
Man thou art, to man returnest,
Has been spoken of the rib.
"Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act that each to-morrow
Finds us nearer marriage-day.
"Life is long, and youth is fleeting,
And our hearts are light and gay;
Still like pleasant drums are beating
Wedding marches all the day.
"In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb-driven cattle!
Be a heroine—a wife!
"Trust no future, howe'er pleasant;
Let the dead past bury its dead;
Act—act in the living present,
Hoping for a spouse ahead.
"Lives of married folk remind us
We can live our lives as well,
And departing leave behind us
Such examples as will 'tell';
"Such examples that another,
Wasting time in idle sport,
A forlorn, unmarried brother,
Seeing shall take heart and court.
"Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart on triumph set;
Still contriving, still pursuing,
And each one a husband get."
Lives of great men misinform us
Campbell's Lives in this sublime,
Errors frightfully enormous,
Misprints on the sands of time.
HE interest which is taken in this collection by
many of the subscribers is shewn by their kind
permission to quote Parodies from their works; by
the information they have sent as to out-of-the-way
books in which others may be found; and, further,
by their contribution of original Parodies.
The author of the following introduction to this
series, is well known for his charming pathetic
poems. From the first he has rendered most valuable
assistance; having formed a large collection of
Parodies, he has kindly placed them at the Editor's
disposal, and they will be inserted under the respective
authors to whom they apply.
AN APOLOGY.
After William Morris's "Earthly Paradise."
(Written expressly for this collection.)
Of Love or War this is no hour to sing,
But I may ease the burden of your fears
(Lest you think death to mirth is happening),
And quote from wit of past and present years,
Till o'er these pages you forget your tears,
And smile again, as presently you say
Some idle jingle—or forgotten lay.
But when a-weary of the hunt for mirth
Thro' comic journals with a doleful sigh
You feel unkindly unto all the earth,
And grudge the pennies that they cost to buy
These "weakly comics," lingering like to die,
Remember, then, a little while, I pray,
The clever singers of a former day.
The pomp and power and grand majestic air
That marches thro' their poems' stately tread,
These idle verses may catch unaware,
And by burlesque call back remembered
Some rhymes "that living not can ne'er be dead,"
Though what is meant by that I cannot say—
But Mr. Morris wrote it one fine day.
Here grouped are strains of parody in rhyme,
Now classified and placed in order straight,
Let it suffice it for the present time
That some be old, while some are born but late,
A careful choice, from all the crowd that wait,
Of those that in forgotten serials stay,
Or are, in passing journals, tossed away.
Folks say a wizard to a common King,
One April-tide such wondrous jest did show
That in a mirror men beheld each thing,
Like, yet unlike, and saw the pale nose glow,
While rosy face looked white as fallen snow,
Each visage altered in such comic way
That those who came to court, remain'd to play.
So with these many Parodies it is,
If you will read aright and carefully,
Not scathing satire, nor malicious hiss
For lack of beauty in the themes to see,
Nor jeerings coarse, at what men prize, as we
But jest to make some little changeling play
Its pranks in classic robes, all crowned with bay.
J. W. GLEESON WHITE,
CHRISTCHURCH.
March, 1884.
On the 1st March, 1884, a bust of Longfellow
(by Mr. T. Brock, A.R.A.) was unveiled in Poet's
Corner, Westminster Abbey. It is placed
between the graves of Dryden and Cowley, and
bears this inscription:—
"This bust was placed among the memorials of the poets
of England by the English admirers of an American poet,
1884."
and on the sides are the dates—
"Born at Portland, U.S.A., February 27, 1807.
Died at Cambridge, U.S.A., March 24, 1882."
Mr. J. Russell Lowell was present at the
ceremony, and gave an address, in which he
stated that—
"Longfellow's mind always moved straight towards its
object, was always permeated with the emotions, and gave
them the frankest, the sincerest, and, at the same time, the
most simple expression; and never was there a private
character more answerable to public performance than that
of Longfellow. His nature was consecrated ground, into
which no unclean spirit could ever enter."
This tribute to his memory, paid by one who
had known him for nearly forty years, sufficiently
explains the reason why, in the parodies of his
works which are now to be given, nothing of a
personal nature will be inserted. Indeed it is
doubtful whether one unkindly worded, or
spiteful burlesque was ever penned about either
Longfellow, or his works. The absence of this
element will be all the more noticeable as following
directly after the parodies of the Poet
Laureate, whose actions and writings have
invited so many attacks. Tennyson's early
sneers at hereditary nobility, as contrasted with
his adulation of royalty, and the exaggerated
praise of princes in his official poems of later
years. His involved, and often obscure, mode of
writing, especially when attempting to deal
with metaphysical topics; his narrow insular
prejudices; his frequent writings in praise of
war, and calling aloud for the blood of either
the French, or the Russians, or the Spaniards.
And, lastly, his acceptance of a coronet which
sits grotesquely enough on the laurels he so
long has worn as Poet Laureate.
In all this there was ample room for adverse
comment, which the life and works of Longfellow
never afforded. The tenderness, the
grace, the sweet pathos, and the exquisite simplicity
of his poems, combined with the purity,
charity, and kindness of his personal character,
were such that detraction, envy, and malice were
dumb, and criticism itself was almost silenced.
Hence the parodies will be found to consist
principally of imitations of his style, language,
or ideas, or of reproductions of his poems in a
grotesque form. In some cases a few verses of
the original are given for the convenience of
comparison with the parodies.
Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life's one long unending bill—
Debts unpaid disturb your slumbers—
Tin will fly, do what you will.
Meat is high in real good earnest,
Far above the hungry soul;
Dust thou art, to dust returns, is
Very typical of coal.
In the weekly market battle,
For the cheapest things and best,
Be not like dumb-driven cattle,
Stand out bravely, all the rest.
Not enjoyment, hardly sorrow,
Feel we, when small debts we pay;
Still, we know that each to-morrow
Finds them larger than to-day.
Duns are hard, and time is fleeting,
Bills are sadly in arrears,
And our hearts, tho' brave, stop beating
At the aspect of affairs.
Bailiffs are not very pleasant,
Lock your door and keep the key;
Act, act in the living present—
Leave your country, cross the sea.
Lives of great men, too, remind us,
Big debts sometimes clogged their feet;
And, like them, we leave behind us
Some few bills we cannot meet—
Bills that make you try to smother,
As you cross the stormy main,
Thoughts of love, and home, and mother,
Listening for your step in vain.
Let us then be up and doing
With an eye to making tin,
Any likely trade pursuing,
Learn to gain your end and win.
From The Figaro, December 3, 1873.
Tell us not in mournful numbers
Liberal union is a dream:
Bright is cranky, Bob Lowe slumbers;
Yet things are not what they seem.
Opposition must be earnest,
Or we shall not win the goal;
If for Gladstone still thou yearnest,
Thou art a weak-minded soul.
Ministerial slips to follow
Is our destined end and way,
So that we may throw each morrow
Stumbling blocks in Dizzy's way.
Dizzy's strong, but fame is fleeting;
Conservatism, now so brave,
In the Bills which we are greeting,
Yet may find an early grave.
Trust no Forster, howe'er pleasant,
Let past premiers bury their dead;
Act with Hartington at present,
Nor the coming session dread.
Hansard's pages all remind us
We have but to bide our time;
Dizzy some fine day may find us
In majority sublime.
Gladstone's gone, but till another,
Like him takes the helm again,
Let us help our leader, brother,
Hartington with might and main.
Let us then be up and doing,
Meeting Dizzy in debate,
Tory tactics still pursuing,
Find a policy—and wait!
From Funny Folks, February 27, 1875, when the Conservative
party, led by Mr. Disraeli, was in power, and the
Liberal Opposition was led by Lord Hartington.
What the Heart of the Old Man said to the Genial Gusher
at Christmas Time.
TELL me not in Christmas Numbers
Life is but a gourmet's dream!
Sure your sense is dead or slumbers:
Peptics are not what they seem.
Life is serious! Life is solemn!
And good grub is not its goal:
Menu-making by the column
Helps not the dyspeptic soul.
Not delight from cates to borrow
Is the aim of prudent will,
But to eat so that to-morrow
Finds us not exceeding ill.
Feeds are long and health is fleeting;
And old stomachs once so strong,
Find that indiscriminate eating
Very quickly puts them wrong.
In the banquet's dainty battle,
At the table's toothsome strife,
Feed not like dumb hungry cattle,
Wield a cautious fork and knife!
Trust no menu, howe'er pleasant;
Night-mare-Nemesis is dread;
Swig and swallow like a peasant,
You'll repent it when in bed!
Memories of big feeds remind us
Christmas pudding peace can slay;
Touch it, and next morn shall find us
Indigestion's helpless prey.
Pudding that perhaps another,
Light of heart and bright of brain,
Some strong-stomached younger brother,
Eating, sends his plate again.
Let us then beware high feeding,
Or the love of luscious cate,
Still abstaining, ne'er exceeding,
Learn to dodge dyspeptic fate!
From Punch, December 27, 1879.
Lives of wealthy men remind us
That by using Printer's ink,
We can die and leave behind us
Monstrous piles of golden "chink."
DON'T tell me in cheerful numbers
That the jug is full of cream!
For the milkman's conscience slumbers,
And things are not what they seem!
Odd Echoes from Oxford, 1872.
Wives of great men all remind us
We may make our wives sublime
By departing—leave behind us
Widows in the "weeds" of time.
Widows that perchance some other
Sailing o'er life's solemn main
Some forlorn rejected brother,
May take heart, and "splice" again.
(From the German.)
I KNOW a maiden fair to see,
Take care!
She can both false and friendly be,
Beware! beware!
Trust her not.
She is fooling thee!
She has two eyes, so soft and brown,
Take care!
She gives a side glance and looks down,
Beware! beware!
Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!
Have you a wife with real estate?
Take care!
She can "devise, and alienate,"
Beware! Beware!
She has got
The whip hand of thee!
Too promptly she may take her cue,
Beware!
And learn she has the "power to sue,"
Take care! Take care!
Thwart her not,
She'll be down on thee!
Her three per cents are but a snare,
Take care!
She "holds" as if femme sole she were,
Beware! Beware!
Has she not
The whip hand of thee?
You, Darby, who could sponge on Joan,
Take care!
Henceforth her earrings are her own,
Beware! Beware!
Touch them not,
She'll be down on thee!
If this new law be put in force,
Take care!
Lest th' old mare prove the better horse,
Beware! Beware!
Marry not,
There's a hint for thee!
I KNOW a rink that's fair to see,
Take care!
It can both kind and cruel be,
Beware! Beware!
Trust it not,
It will injure thee!
It has two skates to lend to you,
Take care!
With wheels that oft want oiling too,
Beware! Beware!
Trust it not,
It will injure thee!
It has a surface smooth as glass,
Take care!
For you can't see what will come to pass,
Beware! Beware!
Trust it not,
It will injure thee.
It shows your wondrous grace and skill,
Take care!
But naught it says about a spill,
Beware! Beware!
Trust it not,
It will injure thee!
It tells you much of pleasure there,
Take care!
'Tis a delusion and a snare,
Beware! Beware!
Trust it not,
It will injure thee!"
(Dedicated to Lord Salisbury.)
I know a statesman fair to hear;
Take care!
He can make worst the best appear;
His "little game" is very clear.
Beware! Beware!
Trust him not—he is one to fear.
He has a conscience—he says so;
Take care!
He knows how far to let it go
(We had a Treaty once, you know).
Beware! Beware!
Trust him not, though it may be so.
He gives thee a mode of trading "fair;"
Take care!
It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear!
A "card" for him, for thee a snare.
Beware! Beware!
Trust him not, though it sounds so rare.
He has one face, and some say two;
Take care!
And what he says it is not true,
He would do good, but not to you.
Beware! Beware!
Trust him not, or you will rue.
UNDER a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow,
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
Under the spreading chestnut tree
The village blacksmith stands,
The smith an awful cad is he
With very dirty hands.
For keepers and the rural police
He doesn't care a hang.
He swears, and fights, and whops his wife,
Gets drunk whene'er he can;
In point of fact, our village smith's
A very awful man.
He goes on Sundays to the pub'
With other festive boys,
When drinking beer and goes of rum
His precious time employs.
Till he gets drunk, and going home
He makes no end of noise,
Then, with his poor half-starving wife
He in a passion flies.
He pulls her by the hair, from off
The bed on which she lies,
And kicks her round the room, and says
Bad things about her eyes.
Smoking, soaking, bullying,
Onward through life he goes,
Each morning sees a blackened eye
Or else a broken nose.
I fear within the County Gaol
Calcraft his life will close;
Thanks, thanks to thee, thou black blacksmith
For the lesson thou hast taught.
By Calcraft, or his deputy
I never will be caught,
And to that end I'll never do
The thing I hadn't ought.
From Figaro Programme, February 6, 1873.
(Not by Henry W. Longfellow.)
Beside a noisy tavern door
The night policeman stands,
And a foaming pot of half-and-half,
He clutches with eager hands;
But little doth our Robert know
He is watched by thievish bands.
His voice is thick, his speech too strong
For any sober man;
His brow is wet with his tall helmet,
He drinks whene'er he can;
But the merry prig laughs in his face,
He arrests not any man.
Through the dark night to the broad daylight
You can hear him tramp below,
Until the serjeant hath passed, and then
He soon doth leave his beat to go
To visit a sprightly area belle,
When the evening star is low.
When the burglar, fixing a handy tool,
Breaks in through the bolted door,
And quickly pockets the notes and gold,
And the glittering jewelled store store—
Hearing the laugh, as he gaily flies,
Come from the kitchen floor.
When Robert makes report next morn
Of nought but naughty boys,
Householders angrily impeach.
He hears the inspector's voice;
And he knows that his stately form no more
Will make the cook rejoice.
It sounds to him like a warning voice:
Farewell to rabbit pies,
And juicy ham and nourishing stout,
And the pickles he doth prize.
And with his worsted glove he wipes
A tear from out his eyes.
Shuffling, lying, sorrowing,
He takes off his dark blue clothes—
Lantern, truncheon, and helmet too,
With his cape he sadly throws.
Burglaries attempted! Burglaries done!
Out of the force he goes.
From Funny Folks, May 22, 1875.
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village grog shop stands;
The host a thirsty man is he,
With large and bloated hands;
And the vessels of his beery charms
Are bright in pewter bands.
His tap is "Watney," "Meux," and "Long,"
And bitter as the tan;
His till is fill'd with ready coin,
He cheats whene'er he can,
He looks the whole "Bench" in the face,
And he trusts not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear the liquor flow;
And after hours the bobby's tread,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a convict working the cheerful mill
When his morals have been low.
And maidens, not long freed from school,
Jot down th' increasing score,
They love to see the lab'rers gorge,
And hear the rustics roar,
And catch th' attempted wits—so "fly,"
With chaff—from a sawdust floor.
He goes in Sessions 'fore the Bench,
And sits among the crowd;
He hears the "unpaid" jaw and preach,
He hears his counsel's voice
Pleading with legalic fire;
And licensed, has his choice.
It makes him think of the Three per Cents.
Wherein his money lies!
He needs must think of her once more
How in the bar she plies,
And with his hard rough hands he lifts
His beer-mug to the skies.
Spoiling—adult'ring—borrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some cask begun,
Each evening sees its close;
Somebody tempted, something won,
Has earned the pub's repose."
Mirth, March, 1878. F. H. S.
(As sung by Dr. E. V. Kenealy).
Under the carved-oak canopy
Our ermined Justice sits;
The Judge, a mighty man is he,
With large and varied wits;
And nobly to his land and Queen
His duty he acquits.
His wig is crisp, and gray, and full,
And if his face you scan,
'Tis furrow'd deep with lines of thought;
'Twere hard his brow to span.
And he looks the whole world in the face,
For he fears not any man.
Term in, term out, from ten till four,
You can hear his accents clear;
You can hear him crush deceit and fraud
With authority severe,
But the innocent and helpless one
Has naught from him to fear.
And strangers "doing" London sights
Look in at the swinging door;
They love to see his massive form,
And to hear his legal lore,
And to catch the pearls of thought that drop
From his copious mental store.
At four for home he leaves the bench,
And 'midst his books and notes
His leisure far into the night
To "cases" he devotes.
Nor counts his nights and mornings lost,
If justice he promotes.
With patient care he extricates
The tangled legal skein;
Whilst barristers and clients sleep,
Re-links the broken chain,
And ere the hour of ten has come
Is at his post again.
Toiling, re-searching, circuiting,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees new work begun,
But not each night its close;
And not till Long Vacation comes
Can he expect repose.
Thanks, thanks! then, to the English Judge
For the lessons he has taught!
For a life so earnest and so pure,
With good example fraught.
And may we all learn this from him,—
How duty should be wrought.
Truth Christmas Number, 1879.
Under a spreading Gainsborough hat
The village beauty stands,
A maiden very fair to see,
With tiny feet and hands,
As stately, too, as if she owned
The squire's house and lands.
Her hair is golden brown and long,
Her brow is like the snow,
Her cheeks are like the rosy flush
Left by the sunset's glow,
She greets the lads with a careless look,
She's the village belle, you know.
Week in, week out, at morn and night,
The young miller comes each day;
"'Tis the nearest way to town," he says,
But 'tis rather out of his way,
And every night he seems to have
Plenty of time to stay!
And children, coming home from school
Look in at the door, and know
That the handsome fellow by her side
Is pretty Nellie's beau,
Who can hardly tear himself away,
When he finds 'tis time to go.
He goes on Sundays to the Church,
And sits in his proper pew,
But his eyes wander off to the transept near,
Where he sees a charming view,
For Nellie sits there, in her Sunday best,
With her bonnet of palest blue.
He hears the parson pray and preach
With his outward ear alone,
For he only listens for Nellie's voice,
And responds in a dreamy tone,
And when she smiles at the carpenter near,
He can't suppress a groan.
Despairing, hoping, fearing,
Onward thro' life he goes;
Each morning he sees Nellie,
And each evening, at its close;
She even haunts him sleeping,
And disturbs his night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught;
Thus at the flirting time of life
Our fortunes may be wrought,
So we cannot be too careful
Over every word and thought!
From The Dunheved Mirror, Cornwall, March, 1880.
(A Song of St. Stephen's.)
UNDER St. Stephen's high roof-tree
The British M. P. sits:
M. P. a mighty man is he,
With sharp and seasoned wits,
And an eloquence that, once set free,
Would give opponents fits.
Week in, week out, from noon to night,
He must sit in silent woe,
Whilst WARTON vents his dullard spite,
With measured boom and slow,
Or SEXTON soars in furious flight
When the morning lights burn low.
Boiling and bored, no fight, no fun,
Onward the M. P. goes.
Each day sees aimless jaw begun,
No night beholds its close.
Little attempted, nothing done—
No work and no repose!
(With Deprecatory Acknowledgments to Longfellow.)
["A PEACEFUL PARISH.—It is worthy of remark that in
a parish near Blandford a petition in favour of peace has
been signed by every grown-up man and woman, with the
exception of one farmer."—Times.]
Under the spreading olive tree
The peaceful village stands,
It's known for its tranquillitee
Throughout the neighbouring lands;
And it drinks but very weak Bohea,
Nor smokes the mildest brands.
Its hair is smooth, its patience long,
Its biceps, when you span,
You find they're more like dimples; and
You may hit them where you can,
And come off cheap with easy fame,
For it fights not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear the humming low
Of dogs who like to bark and bite
Because their nature's so;
And their cocks they're all put out of sight,
For the bullies used to crow!
Preaching, protesting, sorrowing,
Because of Eastern foes,
Each morning sees that village dawn,
Each evening sees it doze,
O'er asses' milk and ginger-beer,
And Peter Taylor's prose.
Thanks, thanks, to you, O happy vale!
It is a cheering thought
That somewhere waits a blessed spot
For one by yells distraught,
Where bray of Jingoes reaches not,
And Drummond-Wolff is nought.
(With apologies to Mr. Longfellow.)
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The busy Gladstone stands;
Ever this restless W. G.
Has something on his hands.
O'er field or meadow, park or farm,
O'er clay or gravelly lands,
He takes the sharpened axe in hand
With tree-destroying plan;
His brow is wet with woodman's sweat,
He fells whate'er he can,
And looks the proud tree in the face,
And cleaves it like a man.
Week in, week out, from morn to night,
You can hear his hatchet's blow;
You can see him swing his heavy axe,
Resolved that tree shall go,
Like a workman labouring for his pay
When his funds are very low;
And tourists, wandering o'er the fields,
Look aghast at this woodman bold;
They shudder at the flashing axe,
And mark the upturned mould;
They see by the scattered chips that fly
That the woodman's strong though old.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And reads the lessons there.
To hear the parson pray and preach
Few to that church repair.
But reading in that village church
Makes the G. O. M. rejoice,
For he loves to hear his own sweet voice
In Church or Parliament.
But where'er he be he thinks of trees,
How many fallen lie,
And those who notice him may see
A twinkle in his eye.
Toiling, rejoicing, brandishing
His axe, thus on he goes;
Each morning sees some grand old tree,
Each evening sees its close;
Some branches felled, some trunk laid low—
And then he seeks repose.
Moonshine, January 19, 1884.
Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha certainly
invites parody, and its easy metre is readily
caught up by any one having an ordinarily
good ear, and knack of versification. Consequently
parodies of it abound; unfortunately
they become somewhat wearisome in perusal
from the monotonous diction, and some of the
best only will be quoted at length.
The following, written by Mr. J. W. Morris,
appeared in the Bath and Cheltenham Gazette
shortly after the appearance of Longfellow's
poem, and is interesting as giving an account
of the feelings with which Hiawatha was first
received:—
(A Parody.)
DO you ask me what I think of
This new song of Hiawatha,
With its legends and traditions,
And its frequent repetitions
Of hard names which make the jaw ache,
And of words most unpoetic?
I should answer, I should tell you
I esteem it wild and wayward,
Slipslop metre, scanty sense,
Honour paid to Mudjekewis,
But no honour to the Muse.
"Honour to the Muddyminded!"
Who now wears the belt of Wampum,
He has stolen it from the Northmen,
And he wears it, and shall wear;
And hereafter, and for ever,
Shall he hold ungrudged dominion
Over all the winds that whistle;
Call him no more Muddyminded,
Call him Longfellow, the Yankee!
Forth upon a Pitchy Puddle,
Gleaming with a fitful phosphor;
In a bark of his own making,
With a line of his own twisting,
Forth to catch a fine new Poem
All alone went Muddyminded.
At the stern sat Muddyminded,
For 'twas windy, and he knew
He was heavy, and he trembled
Lest he'd sink his grand canoe;
Soon he came to where 'twas clearer,
And the bottom he could see,
So he looked, and saw the bottom,
Saw the bottom of the sea.
There he saw the song he wanted
Lying far beyond his reach,
Lying just within his vision,
But beyond the reach of boat-hook.
There it lay in all its armour,
Fenced about with ugly words,
Indian names and Indian notions,
Painted too, with various colours,
Earthy, very earthy, too.
Muddyminded cast about him,
How he'd bring this song to light:—
"Take my bait, you Indian Poem!"
Cried he down the depths below,
Then sat waiting for an answer,
For an answer from below.
Quiet lay the Indian Story,
Nor would listen to his clamour;
Turned he to another tale though,—
EUANGLEEN,—six-footed monster,
And he bade him take the bait, that
Still was dangling to and fro:
EUANGLEEN he rose to take it;
Muddyminded liked him not,
And he shouted through the water,
"Pesta! Pesta! shame upon you!
You are not a Poem at all,
You are one six-footed monster,
You are not the song I wanted."
Then went downward swift and certain
Down the depths of dark oblivion,
Disappointed EUANGLEEN.
Then the mighty Indian Poem
Said to GOLDEN LEG, another,
"Take the bait of this great boaster,
Break his line, and spoil his trade!"
But again did Muddyminded
Shout derision as he rose,
"Pesta! Pesta! shame upon you!
You are but a lame imposture,
Fame will never call you Poem,
You are not the song I wanted."
Then upleapt this Indian Story,
Legend rude, but fierce and strong—
High enough he leapt, to show us
What he might be could we tame him,
Could there but a real Magician
Disenchant him, and control.
His great jaws he op'ed, and swallowed
Both canoe and Muddyminded.
Down into that dark oblivion
Plunged the hapless Muddyminded,—
As a log on some black river
Down the rapids plunges soon,
Found himself in utter darkness,
Thought he had been there before,
Groped about, and groped, and wondered,
Wondered, groped, and groped the more.
In 1856, a small shilling volume of 120 pages
was published by George Routledge and Co.,
as a companion to Longfellow's Hiawatha.
This was entitled, "The Song of Drop o' Wather, a
London legend, by Harry Wandsworth Shortfellow,"
and is now scarce. It commences thus:—
AUTHOR (considering). "People expect a preface; and
this is the place for one. But there is no preface in the
great 'Indian Edda' which has occasioned this poem. The
author of that work gives his explanation to the public in
the Notes and Vocabulary; then, of course, mine also,
ought (and is) to be found in the Notes and Vocabulary to
'The Song of Drop o' Wather.'"
Then follow the contents, consisting of an
Introduction and thirteen chapters, namely:—
I. Drop o' Wather's Childhood.
II. Drop o' Wather and Pudgy-Wheezy.
III. Drop o' Wather's Fasting.
IV. Drop o' Wather's Friends.
V. Drop o' Wather's Filching.
VI. Drop o' Wather's Wooing.
VII. Drop o' Wather's Wedding.
VIII. The Ghost of the Star and Garter.
IX. Bilking the Runners.
X. Paw-Paw-Keeneyes.
XI. The Hunting of Paw-Paw-Keeneyes.
XII. The Fate of Queershin.
XIII. Drop o' Water's Departure.
In its completeness and closeness of imitation,
this anonymous work is the best parody extant
of the Song of Hiawatha. From the introduction,
and the first chapter, it will be gathered that the
hero is a poor little gutter child, who grows up to
be a thief. The following chapters trace his career
in crime, and the last describes his departure to
Australia as a repentant emigrant.
INTRODUCTION.
YE who love the haunts of Town-Life,
Love the kennel and the gutter,
Love the doorway of the gin-shop,
Love the mud about the kerb-stones,
And the drippings from the houses,
And the splashing of the rain-spouts
Through their palisade of gratings,
And the thunder of the coaches,
Whose innumerable echoes,
Roar like sea-waves on the shingle;—
Listen to these wild traditions,
To this song of Drop o' Wather!
Ye who love a nation's legends,
Love the ballads of a people,
That like voices from afar off
Call to us to stop and listen,
Speak in tones so hoarse and roopy,
Scarcely can the ear distinguish
Whether they are hummed or shouted;—
Listen to this London Legend,
To this song of Drop o' Wather!
Downward through the darkening twilight,
In the days long time ago, now,
In the last of drunken stages,
By the Half-Moon fell poor Norah,
On the pavement fell poor Norah,
Just about to be a mother.
She'd been tippling with some women,
Just within the Wine-Vaults' swing-door,
When her Gossip, out of mischief,
Partly idle, partly spiteful,
Pushed the swing-door from behind her,
Pushed in twain the Wine-Vaults' door-flap,
And poor Norah tumbled backward,
Downward through the darkening twilight,
On the gangway foul, the pavement,
On the gangway foul with mud-stains.
"See! a wench falls!" cried the people;
Look, a tipsy wench is falling!"
There amidst the gaping starers,
There amidst the idle passers,
On the gangway foul, the pavement,
In the murky darkened twilight,
Poor drunk Norah bore a boy-babe.
Thus was born young Drop o' Wather,
Thus was born the child of squalor.
He was named, by those who knew him,
Out of joke, and fun, and larking,
For what's called an Irish reason,
Or, by folks who sport the Classics,
A lucus a non lucendo,
Like, for all it is so unlike,
Hold a thing to be another,
For the sake of contradiction,
Or the sake of droll connection;
So the folks who knew our hero,
Gave his nickname for this reason,—
'Cause his mother never touched a
Drop of Water in her lifetime.
At the door on fine spring evenings,
Played the little Drop o' Wather;
Heard the cry of "Buy my inguns!"
Heard the cry "Young raddyshees, yere"
Calls of cadger, costermonger;
"Bilin'-apples!" said the huckster;
"Pies-all 'ot!" still said the pieman.
Saw the pot-boy, Wall-eyed Tommy,
Trudging through the dusk of evening,
With the shrillness of his whistle
Piercing all the courts and alleys.
And he sang the song of street-boys.
Sang the song the pot-boy taught him;—
"Wall-eyed Tommy, he's the cove, boys!
He's the ranting, roaring blade, boys!
He's the lad, the daring fellow!
He's the chap, to carry ale-cans,
Pots of beer, and all them 'ere boys!"
Saw the balls at the pawnbroker's,
Balls alike, and three in number,
Saw the gold and burnish on them,
Bawled, "What are those? I say, mother!"
And the fuddled Norah answered,
"Once a cricketer, when angry,
Seized his ball, and bowling, threw it
Up against the shop times threefold,
Right against the shop he threw it;
'Tis its tri-ghost that you see there."
Saw the gallows near the prison,
In the morning sky, the gallows;
Bawled, "What is that? I say mother!"
And the fuddled Norah answered,
"'Tis the gallows-tree, the gibbet;
All the naughty boys of London,
All the wicked ones and careless,
When in town they steal and pilfer,
Hang on that 'ere tree above us."
When he heard the thieves at midnight,
Hooting, laughing in the alley,
"What is that?" he cried half frightened;
"What is that? Now tell me, mother!"
And the fuddled Norah answered,
"That's the thieves and prigs together,
Talking in their own cant language,
Hoaxing, chaffing one another."
Then the little Drop o' Wather
Learned of all the thieves their language;
Learned their slang and learned their by-words,
Twigged their nicknames, knew their lodgings,
Where they hid themselves from justice;
Talked with them whene'er he met them,
Called them "Drop o' Wather's Cronies."
Of all prigs he learned the language,
Learned their gag, and all their secrets.
Found out all their haunts and dodges,
Picked up where they hid their booty,
How they packed the swag so closely,
Why they fought so shy and wary;
Talked with them whene'er he met them,
Called them "Drop o' Wather's Brothers."
Out of childhood into manhood
Now had grown young Drop o' Wather,
Skilled in all the craft of filchers,
Learned in all the slang of robbers,
In all ways and means of cribbing,
In all knowing arts and dodges.
Swift of foot was Drop o' Wather;
He could pitch a pebble from him,
And run forward with such fleetness,
That the pebble fell behind him!
Strong of arm was Drop o' Wather;
He could fling ten pebbles upward,
Fling them with such strength and swiftness,
That the tenth had left his fingers
Ere the first to ground had fallen.
He had bludgeon, Millemlikefun,
Good strong bludgeon, made of ash-wood;
When into his hand he took it,
He could smite a fellow's head off,
He could knock him into next week.
He had ankle-boots so jemmy,
Good strong ankle-boots of calf-skin;
When he put them on his trotters,
When he laced them up so tightly,
At each step three feet he measured.
From his lair went Drop o' Wather
Dressed for roving, armed for plunder;
Dressed in shooting-jacket natty,
Velveteen, with pearl-white buttons;
On his head a spick-and-span tile,
Round his waist a vest of scarlet;
In his mouth a sprig of shamrock,
In his breast a dashing brooch-pin,
Gold mosaic, set with sham stones;
With his bludgeon, Millemlikefun,
With his ankle-boots so jemmy.
Warning said old fuddled Norah,
"Go not forth, son Drop o' Wather,
To the quarter of the West-End,
To the regions, Hyde-Park, May Fair,
Lest they nab you (chaps from Bow-street),
Lest they clap you into prison."
But the daring Drop o' Wather
Heeded not her woman's warning;
Forth he went along the alley,
At each step three feet he measured;
Tempting looked the shops about him,
Tempting looked the things within them;
Bright and fine the showy jewels,
Smart and gay the newest fashions,
Brown and smooth cigars in boxes,
All that set his heart a-longing,
Longing with the wish to crib them.
Now remains for me to tell of
How he ended, Drop o' Wather;
What befell him, after all his
Knowing doings in the course of
His career, his life in London.
He had run his rigs so clever,
He had risked so very closely,
He had just avoided Newgate,
He had narrowly 'scaped hanging;
And a dream he had one midnight,
Brought him to a sense of danger.
Thus he dreamed; 'twas really awful.
Not far off from Bedford Bury,
By the muddy Big-Thame-Water,
At the doorway of his lodging,
Thought he stood one rainy morning,
Thought he stood there, lounging idly,
Watching fall the sooty raindrops
From the eaves and roofs of houses,
Watching fill the dirty puddles,
Splashed and speckled with the drizzle;
Flowed in filthy streams the gutters,
Flowed the spouts as they ran over;
Pouring, pelting, came the shower.
Through the alley, sudden, briskly,
Something in the hazy distance,
Something in the misty morning,
Came along the dripping pavement,
Now seemed hurrying, now seemed hasting,
Coming nearer, nearer, nearer.
Was it Dingledong, the dustman?
Was it Twopenny, the postman?
Or the cobbler, Shoe-shoe-mender,
Or the milkman, Water-well-it,
With the raindrops dripping, dashing
Profitably in the milk-cans?
It was neither milkman, dustman,
Cobbler, postman, none of those men,
Coming on that misty morning;
But a set of sturdy fellows,
Fast advancing up the alley,
Striding, splashing through the raindrops,
Come with warrant strictly formal,
From the distant Police-office,
From Marlborough Street that morning,
Come with magistrate's command to
Apprehend and promptly take up
Drop o' Wather for his trial.
Then he thought he dreamed the scene of
His conviction, condemnation;
How he saw the Court dense crowded,
Crowded with indignant faces;
How he saw the dock, where he stood,
How he saw the Bench, where Judge sat,
How he saw the box for jury,
Where the twelve sat looking fateful;
Saw the Judge rise up and cover
With black cap his hair of silver;
Heard the word of solemn verdict,—
"Guilty!" Words of fearful sentence,—
"Hanged by neck," and "dead, dead, dead," last.
Thought he fainted quite away there,
And was carried straight to Newgate;
In the dreary cell of felon,
In condemned cell chained with fetters,
There to 'wait the time appointed
For his final execution.
Dreamed he saw the black-robed Chaplain
Come to speak of consolation;
Dreamed he heard the words of comfort
Sounding strangely (Ah, how strangely!—
Sad to think how very strangely
Come those words to ear of culprit,
Never taught to seek their lessons,
Never taught to know their meaning!)
Dreamed he saw the fatal gibbet,
Dreamed he saw the upturned faces
Of the multitude below him;
Dreamed he felt Jack Ketch's fingers
Busy round his neck, adjusting
Noose of rope that was to hang him
Like a dog, not human creature!
Dreamed that in that awful moment,
Came a shout, a cry, a calling;
Dreamed he heard "Reprieve!" loud shouted.
Dreamed he heard of transportation
Being his commuted sentence.
This last thought possessed him wholly
When he woke, and found he'd dreamed all.
Grave he pondered, till it struck him,
That he'd carry out the substance
Of that portion of his dreaming,
Where he felt relieved from terror.
He resolved to seek his fortune
In a fresh new scene of action;
He determined on the scheme of
Nothing less than transportation,
Voluntary transportation,
Willing, prompt, self-transportation,
Most transporting transportation,—
In words other,—emigration.
And he said to mother Norah,
To his wife his Minnie Wather,
Better half, his Frisky-Whisky,
"I've made up my mind to try and
Live a new life, life more dacent;
So let's go and try what turns up
In the New World over yonder."
On the deck stood Drop o' Wather,
Turned and waved his hat at parting;
On the deck of the good vessel,
Outward bound for the long voyage,
Stood and waved his hat at parting
From the dear old Mother Country.
Then a pause; and then he shouted,
Shouted loudly Drop o' Wather:
"Southward! Southward! now then, Southward!"
And the ship went sailing forward
On her way of trust and promise,
Southward, southward; Drop o' Wather
Looking steadfastly before him,
As confronting firm the future.
And his people gave a loud cheer,
Just to cheer him up at parting,
As the ship sailed southward, southward;
And they cried, "Good-bye, my boy, then!
Good bye, Norah! Good-bye, Minnie!
Take good care of yourselves, darlints!
Let us know how you all get on!
Best of all good luck go wid' ye!
So God bless ye! and God speed ye!"
Thus departed Drop o' Wather,
Drop o' Wather, the fine fellow,
With his trust of doing better,
With, at least, that firm intention.
To the regions of the New World,
Of the Bay entitled Bot'ny,
To the Island of New Holland,
To another "New" New South Wales,
To the land of hope, Australia!
This clever parody is followed by amusing
burlesque notes, the first of which thus explains
the origin of The Song of Drop o' Wather.
"This London Legend—if it may be so called—has been
suggested by an interesting Indian tradition, given to the
world in the form of a beautiful poem. The picturesque
scenery, vivid description, and glowing imagery to be found
in that production, are fully felt; while their charm is no
more disparaged by the present sportive trifle, than the
sublimity of Shakespeare has been lessened by the burlesques
and parodies that have been made from time to time upon
his great dramas. The tragedy of Hamlet is exalted, not
lowered, by Mr. Poole's admirably clever travestie. The
mere fact of burlesquing a work avouches its excellence—certainly
its popularity."
It is much to be regretted that the author of
this amusing work should remain unknown.
Mr. H. Cholmondeley-Pennell's Puck on
Pegasus (Chatto and Windus) has gone through
so many editions, and is such a favourite book,
that his imitation of Hiawatha is familiar to
most people. The author has recently somewhat
modified its opening lines. As thus
altered it will shortly appear in a selection of
Mr. H. C. Pennell's poems, and he has kindly
allowed me to include it in this collection.
The original poem in Puck on Pegasus commenced
thus:—
When the summer night descended,
Sleepy, on the White-witch water,
Came a lithe and lovely maiden,
Gazing on the silent water—
Gazing on the gleaming river,
With her azure eyes and tender,—
On the river glancing forward,
Till the laughing wave sprang upward,
Upward from his reedy hollow,
With the lily in his bosom,
With his crown of water-lilies—
Curling ev'ry dimpled ripple
As he sprung into the starlight,
As he clasped her charmed reflection
Glowing to his crystal bosom—
As he whispered, "Fairest, fairest,
Rest upon this crystal bosom!"
* * *
In the new version the title has been changed,
and some of the opening lines altered, but from
the point where the above extract closes to the
end of the poem, the two versions are very
similar, and the later one is quoted in full:—
When the summer Moon was sleeping
On the Sands of Lower-Water—
By the Lowest Water Margin—
At the mark of Dead Low Water,—
Came a lithe and lovely maiden,
Crinolina, Wand'ring Whiteness,
Gazing on the ebbing water—
Gazing on the gleaming river—
With her azure eyes and tender,—
On the river glancing forward,
Till the laughing Wave sprang upward,
From his throne in Lower-Water,—
Upwards from his reedy hollow,
With the lily in his bosom,
With his crown of water-lilies—
Curling ev'ry dimpled ripple
As he leapt into the starlight,
As he clasped her charmed reflection
Glowing to his crystal bosom—
As he whisper'd "Wand'ring Whiteness,
Rest upon my crystal bosom!
Join this little water party."...
Yet she spoke not, only murmured:—
Down into the water stept she,
Lowest Water—Dead Low Water—
Down into the wavering river,
Like a red deer in the sunset—
Like a ripe leaf in the autumn:
From her lips, as rose-buds snow-filled,
Came a soft and dreamy music,
Softer than the breath of summer,
Softer than the murm'ring river,
Than the cooing of Cushawa,—
Sighs that melted as the snows melt,
Silently and sweetly melted;
Sounds that mingled with the crisping
Foam upon the billow resting:—
Still she spoke not, only murmured.
From the forest shade primeval,
Piggey-Wiggey looked out at her;
He the most Successful Squeaker—
He the very Youthful Porker—
He the Everlasting Grunter—
Gazed upon her there, and wondered!
With his nose out, Rokey-pokey—
And his tail up, Curley-wurley—
Wondered what could be the matter,
Wondered what the girl was up to—
What the deuce her little game was....
And she floated down the river,
Like a water-witch'd Ophelia....
FOR HER CRINOLINE SUSTAINED HER.
TWO belated men from Oxford,
Members of a nameless college—
Pip, the philosophic smoker,
And his friend they called the Fluffer—
Men belated in the country,
Lost their way geologising;
Reached the city after midnight,
After lawful hour of entry,
By the gateway of the college.
And they did not rouse the porter,
For they knew the dean was wrathful,
And had vowed a weighty vengeance,
If a man knocked in belated.
But they gat them round a back way,
Where a wall divides the college
From intrusion of the vulgar.
Stole they down a lonely footpath,
And they halted where a sapling
Very near the wall was growing;
And above an ancient elm-tree
Stretched a downward arm in welcome,
To embrace the little sapling.
Each in turn his toe adapted,
Where a crevice in the stonework,
In the worn and ancient stonework,
Gave a short precarious foothold
While they climbed the little sapling.
Pip had scaled the wall, and sitting,
Helped the Fluffer struggling upwards,
When a Bobby, a policeman,
Irreproachable policeman,
Came upon them round the corner,
And remarked, "Gents, I have caught you;
You're a pretty pair of wallflowers!"
Then the Fluffer answered briefly,
Answered, "Bobby, you have caught us,"
And the careful Pip, the smoker,
From his seat upon the wall-top,
Echoed, "I believe you've caught us."
But the Bobby, the policeman,
Said, "I have not seen you do it—
Seen you over any wall get;
And perhaps I should not see you,
If I happened to be looking
In an opposite direction,
With my back turned right upon you."
Nothing further said the Bobby,
Irreproachable policeman,
Only grinned, and seemed to linger.
Quick then Pip pulled up the Fluffer,
And inquired, "Old fellow, Fluffer,
Have you any coin about you?"
And the Fluffer from his pockets,
Brought the bob, the silver shilling,
And the piece of six, the tizzy,
And the piece of four, the joey,
And the double bob, the florin.
Down he threw them on the pathway;
Then the Bobby, the policeman,
Irreproachable policeman,
Picked them up, and whispered softly,
Somebody had dropped some money;
He was lucky to have found it.
After that did Pip, the smoker,
And his friend they called the Fluffer,
Get across the wall securely;
But the Bobby, the policeman,
Irreproachable policeman,
Did not see them get across it;
For he happened to be looking
In an opposite direction,
And his back was turned upon them.
Odd Echoes from Oxford, by A. Merion, B.A.
J. C. Hotten, 1872.
Should you ask me why this meerschaum,
Why these clay-pipes and churchwardens,
With the odours of tobacco,
With the oil and fume of "mixture,"
With the curling smoke of "bird's eye,"
With the gurgling of rank juices,
With renewed expectorations
As of sickness on the fore-deck?
I should answer, I should tell you,
From the cabbage, and the dust-heaps,
From the old leeks of the Welshland,
From the soil of kitchen gardens,
From the mud of London sewers,
From the garden-plots and churchyards,
Where the linnet and cock-sparrow
Feed upon the weeds and groundsel,
I receive them as I buy them
From the boxes of Havana,
The concocter, the weird wizard.
Should you ask how this Havana
Made cigars so strong and soothing,
Made the "bird's eye," and "York-river,"
I should answer, I should tell you,
In the purlieus of the cities,
In the cellars of the warehouse,
In the dampness of the dungeon,
Lie the rotten weeds that serve him;
In the gutters and the sewers,
In the melancholy alleys,
Half-clad Arab boys collect them,
Crossing-sweepers bring them to him,
Costermongers keep them for him,
And he turns them by his magic
Into "cavendish" and "bird's-eye,"
For those clay-pipes and churchwardens,
For this meerschaum, or he folds them,
And "cigars" he duly labels
On the box in which he sells them.
From Figaro, October 7, 1874.
The following is an extract from a long
parody contained in Lays of Modern Oxford, by
Adon (Chapman and Hall, 1874.)
"Nunc est bibendum, nunc pede libero Pulsanda tellus."
YOU shall hear how once our college,
When our boat had done great wonders,
And had bumped all boats before it,
Gave a great and grand bump-supper.
First the scouts, the sherry-swiggers,
And the scouts' boys, beer-imbibers,
Spread the things upon the table.
And they placed upon the table
Champagne-cup and rosy claret.
When the lamp-black night descended
Broad and dark upon the college,
When the reading man, the bookworm,
Grinding, sat among his Greek books,
With his oak securely sported,
And his tea-cup on the table,
From their rooms in groups assembled
Many guests to this great supper.
Came the boating men in numbers,
Came the cricketers in numbers,
Came the athletes clothed with muscle,
Came the singers, and the jesters,
And the jokers, funny fellows;
Came the active gymnast Biceps,
Also Pugilis, his comrade,
Very clever with the mittens;
Came our sturdy plucky boat's crew,
Remex Princeps, and his comrades,
And the steerer, Gubernator.
All were hungry, all were merry,
Full of repartee and laughter.
First they ate the slippy oyster,
Native oyster, cool and luscious,
And the ruddy blushing lobster,
And the crab so rich and tasty;
Then they ate the cold roast chicken,
And the finely flavoured ox-tongue,
And the cold roast mutton sheep's flesh,
And the pigeon-pie, the dove-tart,
And the well stuffed duck and turkey,
With the sausages around it.
Thus the guests, the mutton munchers,
Played the noble game of chew-chew,
Game of knife and fork and tumblers,
Very popular in Oxford.
Then a man, who came from Cornwall,
Sang a song that clearly stated
If a person named Trelawny,
Should by any hap or hazard,
Leave the world by death untimely,
Many people in the south-west
Part of England would insist on
Knowing wherefore he had left it.
Then the cheeky smiling Ginger
Sang of lovely Angelina,
Lady with the Grecian bend, and
Of the maiden dressed in azure,
With both eyes and hair of darkness.
Then the guests said, "Sing some more songs;
Sing to us immortal Ginger,
Songs of laughter quaint and comic,
With a merry roaring chorus,
That we all may be more noisy.
And the sleeping dons may waken."
All was shouting, noise, confusion,
Till at last the guests exhausted,
All departed hot and dizzy,
Thus the entertainment ended,
Thus the great bump-supper ended,
Long to be discussed and talked of,
Long to be remembered by the
College in the days hereafter.
(From Figaro, August 11, 1875.)
High among the tribes of Jon-buls,
Was a tribe they called the Lor-yahs;
Very cunning were the Lor-yahs:
They could talk and twist and double
Till the other tribes of Jon-buls
Scarcely knew if they were standing
On their heads or on their sandals.
Chief among these learned Lor-yahs
Was the great and good Ken-e-li.
Brave and handsome, kind and gentle,
Soft in voice and smooth in manner,
Wise yet simple, strong yet tender,
Was the mighty chief Ken-e-li.
But the blind and stupid Jon-buls
Could not see his many virtues;
When he spake they shouted, "Bun-kum!"
And they scoffed at good Ken-e-li.
The poem then describes the gentle manners
of the inhabitants of the district An-lee, their
mild sports and pastimes, and how they chose
the great Ken-e-li to be their talking Em-pee in
the council of their nation, and the manner in
which he was received there.
[The following graceful effusion, by a well-known Longfellow-countryman
of the Colorado insect, should be hailed
with delight by the British public. As it contains an
accurate description of the Beetle, we would suggest that it
should be learned by heart by the Rector of Hitcham's
school-children, with a view to preventing entomological
mistakes.]
Should you ask me of the Beetle,
Of the Colorado Beetle!—
Properly the Doryphora
Decemlineata christen'd—
I should answer, I should tell you,
"He's a beggar for potatoes,
Quite a glutton at potatoes—
For he 'wolfs' the common 'murphy.'
The Solanum tuberosum.
(Thus the savans named the tater!")
Should you ask me if the Beetle
Were at all like other beetles—
Like the 'chafer, for example,
Him whom boys impale on pin-point—
I should straight reply in this wise:
"He, when young, is like the insect
Whose abode is always burning,
She whose children are departed.
[4]
But when fourteen days have glided,
Then the Beetle is much longer;
Very much more pointed-taily,
Sharp as to his latter ending,
Red thus far has been his colour,
Red, the hue of guardsman's tunic,
Red, the tint of postal pillars.
But, as time and trouble try him,
This our insect grows much paler,
Fades and fades till he is yellow—
Yellow e'en as one dyspeptic,
Yellow with black stripes upon him."
Should you further ask the poet,
How to treat the little stranger?
I should answer, I should bid you,
"Stamp on him, where'er you find him!
In the garden—in the pig-sty—
In the parlour or the bed-room—
In the roadway or the meadow—
Squash the little wretch, confound him!
That's the way that I should answer,—
That's the sort of man that I am."
In 1879 the editor of The World offered two
prizes for the best parodies on Longfellow's
Hiawatha, the subject selected being The Hunting
of Cetewayo. There were 135 competitors, the
first prize was awarded to Floreant-Lauri, whose
poem will be found, with the three next best, in
The World for October 8, 1879.
The prize poem commenced as follows:—
VERY wrath was Wolsey-Pullsey
When he landed at Fort Durban,
Hearing all the depredations
Of the cunning Cetewayo;
Called his captain Giffey-Wiffey,
Saying, "Catch this Cetewayo,
Muzzle thou this mischief-maker;
Not so tangled is the jungle,
Not so dark the deepest donga,
But that thou canst track and find him."
Then in hot pursuit departed
Giffey-Wiffey and his soldiers,
Through the jungle, through the forest;
But they found not Cetewayo—
Only found his bed and blanket.
From the farthest dingey-donga
Cetewayo looking backward,
Placed his thumb upon his nostril,
Made the sign, the Snookey-Wookey,
Made the gesture of derision,
Pulling bacon, piggey-whiggey,
Hurling at them his defiance.
Then cried Giffey-Wiffey loudly,
"When I catch you, you black rascal,
Cat-o'-nine tails, pussey-wussey,
You and she shall be acquainted,"
Mockingly came back the answer:
"When you catchee, when you catchee!"
Full of anger was Sir Garnet
When he came among the Zulus,
And found them in a precious muddle,
Heard of all the wicked doings,
All the luckless Zulus slaughter'd
By the savage Cetewayo.
Fuming in alarming fashion,
Through his thick moustache he mutter'd
Dire words of blood and thunder,
Raging like an angry tiger—
"I will nobble Cetewayo,
Bag this horrid rascal," said he;
"Not so wide the realm of Zulus,
Not so terrible the bye-ways,
That my anger shall not nail him,
That my vengeance shall not spot him!"
Then in hot pursuit departed
Marter and the mighty hunters
On the trail of Cetewayo.
Through the bush where he had hidden,
To the hut where he had rested—
But they found not Cetewayo;
Only in the charcoal embers
And the smell of bad tobacco,
Found the spot where he had halted;
Found the tokens of his presence.
Through the bush and brake and forest
Ran the cunning Cetewayo,
Till a lonely kraal he entered
In the middle of the forest!
Then the corpulent old sinner
Heard the tramp of many footsteps,
Heard the sound of many voices,
Saying, "He, the white man's coming!"
Got into a funk and shivered.
Then came Marter, mighty Major,
He, of all Dragoons the boldest,
To the hut door riding straightway,
Saying, "Where is Cetewayo,
For his Majesty is wanted?"
Then came forth the noble savage,
On his breast a scarlet blanket,
Proudly wearing à la toga,
Gave himself to mighty Marter;
Pass'd a captive 'twixt the soldiers!
Ended now his strange adventures,
Ended all his wily dodges,
All his plottings and his schemings,
And his hecatombs of Zulus!
From Snatches of Song, by F. B. Doveton, 1880.
Author's Preface.
("In an age of imitation, I can claim no special merit for
this slight attempt at doing what is known to be so easy.
Any fairly practised writer, with the slightest ear for rhythm,
could compose, for hours together, in the easy running metre
of 'The Song of Hiawatha.'")
FROM his shoulder Hiawatha
Took the camera of rosewood.
Made of sliding, folding rosewood,
Neatly put it all together.
In its case it lay compactly,
Folded into nearly nothing;
But he opened out the hinges,
Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,
Till it looked all squares and oblongs,
Like a complicated figure
In the Second Book of Euclid.
This he perched upon a tripod—
Crouched beneath its dusky cover—
Stretched his hand, enforcing silence—
Said, "Be motionless, I beg you!"
Mystic, awful was the process.
All the family in order,
Sat before him for their pictures;
Each, in turn, as he was taken,
Volunteered his own suggestions,
His ingenious suggestions.
First the Governor, the Father,
He suggested velvet curtains
Looped about a massy pillar;
And a corner of a table,
Of a rosewood dining-table.
He would hold a scroll of something,
Hold it firmly in his left hand;
He would keep his right hand buried
(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;
He would contemplate the distance
With a look of pensive meaning,
As of ducks that die in tempests.
Grand, heroic was the notion:
Yet the picture failed entirely—
Failed because he moved a little,
Moved, because he couldn't help it."
Next to him the eldest daughter:
She suggested very little,
Only asked if he would take her
With her look of 'passive beauty.'
Her idea of passive beauty
Was a squinting of the left eye,
Was a drooping of the right eye,
Was a smile that went up sideways
To the corner of the nostrils."
After having taken each member of the family
in succession, with the most dismal results:—
Finally my Hiawatha
Tumbled all the tribe together,
('Grouped' is not the right expression),
And, as happy chance would have it,
Did at last obtain a picture
Where the faces all succeeded:
Each came out a perfect likeness.
Then they joined, and all abused it,
Unrestrainedly abused it,
As 'the worst and ugliest picture
They could possibly have dreamed of.'
But my Hiawatha's patience,
His politeness and his patience,
Unaccountably had vanished,
And he left that happy party.
Left them in a mighty hurry,
Stating that he would not stand it,
Stating in emphatic language
What he'd be before he'd stand it.
Thus departed Hiawatha.
From Rhyme? and Reason? by Lewis Carroll, 1883.
These disjointed extracts give but a poor idea
of this most amusing poem, the comical effects
of which are much heightened by Mr. A. B.
Frost's humorous illustrations.
(A fragment in the metre of Longfellow's "Hiawatha.")
I was sitting in my wigwam,
Looking from my lofty wigwam,
On the fir-clad hill of Dryburgh,
O'er the vale of Pepperhanger.
Suddenly there came a rapping,
The Postman's
knock.
Double rapping, double tapping,
Sounding through the little wigwam,
Startling quiet Pepperhanger.
Thus the Government Messénjah,
Heathen
Mythology.
Mercury of brazen buttons,
Crimson-collared, azure-coated,
Blue as when some ancient Briton,
As enlightenment came o'er him,
Thinking skin was rather shabby,
History of
England.
Went and put a coat of Woad on.
He, the carrier of all letters,
He the bearer of all tidings
To the lofty hill of Dryburgh,
To the vale of Pepperhanger.
Swiftly then I took the letter;
Eagerly I read the message
From a hospitable lady
Of the vale of Pepperhanger,
"Come at four o'clock to tiffin,
If no better action urges;
In the cool of Tuesday evening,
Come and play a game of Tennis
On my lawns at Pepperhanger."
Thus her letter: then I sallied
To her almost hidden wigwam.
Which from East and rude Sou'-wester
Evergreen the pine-tree shelters;
Took my Tennis shoes of rubber,
Mocassins of Indian rubber,
Racket, too, of Horace Bayley,
To the tournament of Tennis
On the lawns of Pepperhanger.
Lodge's
Peerage.
Came the lordly Tennyslornah.
Came the Reverend B. A. Kander,
Clergy
List.
Came the cute 'un, Charley Pleycynge,
Came the smasher, young de Vorley,
Came the great Sir V. O. Verandah,
Came the warrior, Foragh Biscoe,
Sludgeborough-in-the-Marsh.
Strangers from a distant countrie,
To the tournament of Tennis
In the vale of Pepperhanger.
There we had a game at Tennis,
Outdoor Tennis let us call it,
Lest the lords of real Tennis
Should invoke a curse upon us;
Hotly smote the fierce back-hander,
Volleyed toward, also froward,
Till the speeding ball appeared as
One continuous flash of lightning:
Shouted loudly cries of Tennis,
"Forty-thirty" and "advantage,"
Giving fifteen, owing thirty
For a bisque, anon half-thirty
Owing, giving, taking, wanting,
Till the brain was almost reeling,
Colenso's
Arithmetic.
Handicapping calculations
All too hard for Pepperhanger!
Presently the tea-bell sounded
Through the pine-tree-shelter'd gardens
To the ne'er inebriating
Ever cheering goblet summons.
From Pastime, August 24, 1883.
The late Mr. Shirley Brooks composed a
number of clever parodies, many of which were
contributed to Punch during his Editorship of
that journal. Three of the longest and most
amusing of these were The Very Last Idyll, after
Tennyson; The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,
after Coleridge; and The Song of Hiawatha, after
Longfellow. A quotation from The Very Last
Idyll was given on page 44; and the parody on
Coleridge will be quoted when that author is
reached; the parody of Longfellow, which appeared
in Punch as far back as 1856, commenced
thus:—
(Author's Protective Edition.)
YOU, who hold in grace and honour,
Hold as one who did you kindness
When he published former poems,
Sang Evangeline the noble,
Sang the golden Golden Legend,
Sang the songs the Voices utter,
Crying in the night and darkness,
Sang how unto the Red Planet
Mars he gave the Night's First Watches,
Henry Wadsworth, whose adnomen
(Coming awkward for the accents
Into this his latest rhythm)
Write we as Protracted Fellow,
Or in Latin, Longus Comes—
Buy the Song of Hiawatha.
Should you ask me, Is the poem
Worthy of its predecessors,
Worthy of the sweet conceptions
Of the manly, nervous diction
Of the phrase, concise or pliant,
Of the songs that sped the pulses,
Of the songs that gemmed the eyelash,
Of the other works of Henry?
I should answer, I should tell you,
You may wish that you may get it—
Don't you wish that you may get it?
Should you ask me, What's its nature?
Ask me, What's the kind of poem?
Ask me in respectful language,
Touching your respectful beaver,
Kicking back your manly hind-leg,
Like to one who sees his betters;
I should answer, I should tell you,
'Tis a poem in this metre,
And embalming the traditions,
Tables, rites, and superstitions
Of the various tribes of Indians.
I should answer, I should tell you
Shut your mouth and go to David,
David, Mr. Punch's neighbour,
Buy the Song of Hiawatha.
Read and learn, and then be thankful
Unto Punch and Henry Wadsworth,
Punch and noble Henry Wadsworth.
Truer poet, better fellow,
Than to be annoyed at jesting
From his friend, great Punch, who loves him.
The following is a list of the names of some
famous advertisers of thirty years ago, taken
from Hiawater, a parody contained in "The
Shilling Book of Beauty," by Cuthbert Bede
(J. Blackwood, 1853):—
"Howlawaya, the quack doctor;
Mosieson, the cheap slop seller;
Mechisteel and Warrenblacking;
Camomile, the Pillofnorton;
Marywedlake, oaten bruiser;
Doctorjong, the great cod liver;
Revalenta, the Dubarrie,
Rowlandskalidore, and Trotman's
Doubledupperambulator."
Another scarce parody on the same original
was entitled Milk-and-Watha, and an amusing
skit was also contained in Gilbert's libretto to
Princess Toto.
There is also a parody in Edmund Yates's
Our Miscellany (G. Routledge and Co., 1857),
and "Revenge, a Rhythmic Recollection," appeared
in Tom Hood's Comic Annual, 1877.
MILES STANDISH, old Puritan soldier, courts gal Priscilla by proxy;
Gal likes the proxy the best, so Miles, in a rage, takes and hooks it.
Folks think he's killed, but he ain't, and comes back, as a friend, to the wedding,
If you call this ink-Standish stuff poetry, Punch will soon reel you off Miles.
Shirley Brooks on "The Courtship of Miles Standish."
(By an admirer of Longfellow's "Evangeline," who sorrowfully
sat through the six concerts.)
This is the music primeval. The festival singers from Bayreuth,
Solemn and stern, with their shirt fronts studded, and swallow-tailed garments,
Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms,
Loud from its ligneous caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring organ
Moans, and in accents disconsolate answers the orchestra wailing.
This is the music primeval, and when it is ended, Herr Wagner
Is called to the front, and is crowned with a wreath by the Madame Materna;
Then there is hugging and kissing and weeping with Wagner Wilhelmj,
And Richter, to whom is presented a bâton—brand new, silver-mounted;
But where are the beautiful maidens who solemnly sat in the boxes?
Where are the men—tawny swells—who talked of clubs, races, or billiards,
Silenced from time unto time by thunders and earthquakes orchestral?
Empty are boxes and stalls, the occupants all have departed,
And the critic goes—glad to survive the music primeval of Wagner.
Another parody of Evangeline, entitled Picnicaline
occurs in "Mirth and Metre," 1855.
The shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed,
A youth, who bore 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with this strange device,
Excelsior!
His brow was sad; his eye beneath
Flashed like a faulchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung,
The accents of that unknown tongue.
Excelsior!
It is possible that Longfellow had the motto
of New York, "Excelsior," in his mind when he
composed this hackneyed poem, which has
served as the model for hundreds of parodies,
and particularly for advertising purposes. A
few of the more amusing only can be inserted.
The following article is from Pro and Con,
December 14, 1872.
"Pidgin English is the name given to an
absurd patois which is used in conversation
between the Chinese celestials, and the outer
barbarians. It appears to be a physical impossibility
for a Chinaman to pronounce the letter
r as in rough, cry, or curry, which he turns into
lough, cly, and cully, as young English children
often do. V, he turns into W, th into f, and to
most words ending with a consonant, he adds a
final syllable, as in find findie, catch catchee, &c.
I, me, my, and mine, are all expressed by one
word, my. The vocabulary consists of a few
words of French origin, such as savey, one or
two from the Portuguese, many common
Chinese expressions, such as chop-chop for quick;
man-man, which means stop; maskee, never mind,
or do not mind; chin-chin, good-bye; welly culio,
or muchee culio, very curious; Foss-pidgin-man, a
priest; and Topside Galah, hurrah for the top, or
Excelsior. There is also a plentiful use of the word
pidgin, which is simply a corruption of our word
business, but it appears to be applied with the
utmost impartiality, to a variety of most incongruous
phrases. As an example of every day
talk, a lady telling her nurse to bring down her
little girl and boy to see a visitor would say,—'Aymah,
suppose you go topside catchee two
piecee chiloe, bull chiloe, cow chiloe, chop chop.'
From a gentleman well acquainted with China
and the Chinese, we have received the following
clever imitation of Excelsior, which is pronounced
a very fair specimen of Pidgin English":—
"That nightee tim begin chop-chop,
One young man walkee, no can stop,
Maskee colo! maskee icee!
He cally that flag wid chop so nicee
Topside Galah!
"He too muchee solly, one piecee eye
Look see sharp—so fashion—allo same my,
He talkee largee, talkee stlong,
Too muchee culio-allo same gong—
Topside Galah!
"Inside that housee he can see light,
And evely loom got fire all light.
Outside, that icee largee high,
Inside he mouf, he plenty cly,
Topside Galah!
"Olo man talkee, 'No can walkee!'
Bimeby lain come-welly darkee,
Hab got water, too muchee wide!
Maskee! my wantchee go topside—
Topside Galah!
"'Man-man,' one galo talkee he,
What for you go topside look see?'
And one tim more he plenty cly,
But allo tim walkee plenty high,
Topside Galah!
"'Take care that spilem-tlee young man!
Take care that icee!'" He no man-man;
That coolie chin-chin he 'Good night,'
He talkee, 'My can go all lite!'
Topside Galah!
"Joss Pidgin man chop-chop begin
That morning tim that joss chin-chin,
He no man see, he plenty fear,
Cause some man speakee, he can hear
Topside Galah!
"That young man die—one largee dog see,
Too muchee bobbely, findee he;
Hand muchee colo, allo same icee,
Have piecee flag wid chop so nicee,
Topside Galah!
"You too much laughee! what for sing?
I tink you no savey what ting!
Supposee you no b'long cleber inside,
More better you go walkee topside,
Topside Galah!"
Another, but, on the whole, inferior version of
the above parody appeared in Harper's Magazine,
and is quoted at page 122 of Poetical Ingenuities
and Eccentricities, by W. T. Dobson (Chatto and
Windus, 1882.)
The shades of night were falling fast,
When through the spacious High there passed
A form in gown of strange device,
Who uttered in a tone of ice,
"Your name and college!"
His brow was black, his eye beneath
Shone like a wrathful bull-dog's teeth;
And still amid the darkness rung
The accents of his well-known tongue;
"Your name and college!"
"Try not the High," the porter said,
"Dark lowers the proctor, bull-dog led."
But forth in "loud" illegal dress
The youth went, crying "Let him guess
My name and college!"
"O stay," his comrade said, "and rest
Thy wearied limbs and panting chest!"
To gain their wind the fliers try,
When lo! a figure gliding nigh,
Cries, "Name and college!"
"Beware the proctor's sacred paunch,
Beware the rushing bull-dog's launch!"
This was the porter's last good-night;
A voice replied, "It serves me right
For cutting college!"
Next morn, as tolled the stroke of nine,
Two youths, in dread of penal fine,
Slunk silent through the awful gate,
And "hoped they were not much too late,
They'd run from college!"
There, like a mouse awaiting cat,
Awful and calm the proctor sat;
And, like a death-knell booming far,
A voice fell stern: "This week you are
Confined to college!"
The shades of night had fallen (at last!)
When from the Eagle Tavern pass'd
A youth, who bore, in manual vice,
A pot of something monstrous nice—
XX—oh lor!
His brow was bad—his young eye scann'd
The frothing flagon in his hand,
And like a gurgling streamlet sprung
The accents to that thirsty tongue,
XX—oh lor!
In happy homes he saw them grub
On stout, and oysters from a tub,—
The dismal gas-light gleamed without,
And from his lips escaped a shout,
"XX—oh lor!"
"Young man," the Sage observ'd, "just stay,
And let me dip my beak, I say,
The pewter is deep, and I am dry!"
"Perceiv'st thou verdure in my eye?
XX—oh lor!"
"Oh stop," the maiden cried, "and lend
Thy beery burden here, my friend—"
Th' unbidden tear regretful rose,
But still his thumb-tip sought his nose;
XX—oh lor!
"Beware the gutter at thy feet!
Beware the Dragons of the street!
Beware lest thirsty Bob you meet!"
This was the ultimate remark;
A voice replied far thro' the dark,
"XX—oh lor!"
That night, by watchmen on their round,
The person in a ditch was found;
Still grasping in his manual vice,
That pot—once fill'd with something nice—
XX—oh lor!!!
From Mr. H. Cholmondeley-Pennell's Puck on Pegasus
(Chatto and Windus.)
"Nam quae pervincere voces Evaluere sonum referunt quem
nostra Theatra?"
The theatre was filling fast,
As through the open door there passed
A stranger with a scarlet tie,
That instantly provoked the cry
Of "Turn him out!"
His nose was red, his lips beneath,
In frequent smiles disclosed his teeth,
And upward when he turned his eye,
In ceaseless hubbub came the cry,
"Ugh! Turn him out!"
"Stay, stay," a master said, "and rest,
The 'Vice' cares little how you're dressed,"
But loud from undergraduate lung
The cry continually rung,
"Ugh! Turn him out!"
The public orator began
To spout his Latin like a man;
His lips moved fast, but not a word
Was audible; we only heard,
"Ugh! Turn him out!"
The Gaisford and the Newdigate
And Stanhope shared no better fate;
No single voice could drown the cry
That roared out from the gallery,
"Ugh! Turn him out!"
The 'Vice' rose up from off his chair,
And raised his finger in the air,
And gently strove the noise to quell,
But louder came the ceaseless yell,
"Ugh! Turn him out."
I left the place with aching brain,
And deafened ear that throbbed again,
And as I sauntered down the High,
Upon the breeze I heard the cry,
"Ugh! Turn him out!"
Lays of Modern Oxford (Chapman and Hall, 1874.)
The price of meat was rising fast,
As to his daily duty passed
A toiler who, with bitter laugh,
Had read upon his Telegraph,
Excelsior!
His brow was sad; because it bore
A costlier hat than e'er before:
His feet were sadder; he'd to pay
For boots that quickly wore away,
Excelsior!
In oyster shops he saw the shells
Wherein the luscious bivalve dwells,
But had no chance of shelling out,
And murmured, as he dreamt of stout,
Excelsior!
"Try this rump-steak!" the butcher said;
"At Tillyfour the ox was bred;
Juicy it is, M'Combie's pride,
And only one-and-six." He sighed—
Excelsior!
"Stay!" cried a maiden of the bar,
"A shilling buys a good cigar—
Ten more some icy dry champagne."
He shook his head and cried again,
Excelsior!
"Take comfort," said a Hebrew mild;
"I love to help a Christian child.
My moderate terms are cent. per cent.
'Twas sixty once," he thought, and went—
Excelsior!
At dead of night that wayward youth,
So saddened by the eternal truth,
Was by a pious peeler found,
Who kindly raised him from the ground,
Excelsior!
He uttered words that can't be told,
Said eating game was eating gold,
Showered maledictions on the souls
Of those who raise the price of coals—
Excelsior!
When morning shone upon the town,
He had to pay five shillings down,
And blessed the rulers of the skies
The price of Justice does not rise,
Excelsior!
The London Magazine, February, 1876.
The shades of night were some time past,
And snow had fallen thick and fast;
A youth, who broom and shovel bore,
Was heard to call outside the door,
"Clean your doorstep, Marm?"
In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright,
The singing kettle brightly shone—
Again, again, his well-known tone—
"Clean your doorstep, Marm?"
His brow was sad—his chilly nose,
Like fiery coals, glow'd in the snows,
And, as the kitchen bell he rang,
In accents clear he loudly sang,
"Clean your doorstep, Marm?"
"Oh, stay," the girl said, "while I see,
As I takes up the toast and tea;
And if your charge is not too high"—
"A tanner's all," the poor boy's cry,
"To clean your doorstep, Marm?"
He set to work with all his might,
But suddenly went out of sight;—
Half-buried in the coals was found
The youth who sang that piteous sound,
"Clean your doorstep, Marm?"
Some rascal in the night had twigged,
The coal-iron loose, which he had prigged,
"If I'd a know'd a hole was there,
I would o' coorse ha' took more care
Cleaning your doorstep, Marm?"
The shades of night were gone—at last,
As, all agog to break her fast,
A maiden sat, 'mid kith and kin,
While bent, impatient to begin,
Egg-shell she o'er.
Ye Paterfamilias.
His brow was staid; his eyes beneath
Were closed. Not so his lips and teeth,
Whence, like a copper clarion rung
"Grace before meat." Still, listening, hung
Egg-shell she o'er.
Hys remonstrance.
"Try not the egg!" the "old man" cried,
"Dark lowers some prodigy inside!
What if fowl play?"—no more he said,
For her protecting fingers spread
Egg-shell she o'er.
Ye Mayden—her Prayer.
"Stay, Pa!" the maiden said, "let's test
Your query, ere upon this breast
You anguish pile." Her moistening eye
Here drooped, and struggled with a sigh,
Egg-shell she o'er.
Ye Fynde.
At break of shell, as chickenward
(For aught she knew) her spoon she stirred,
A something stubborn claimed a stare.
"My brooch!" cried with a startled air,
Egg-shell she o'er.
Ye Ende.
There in the middle—so they say—
Hard, but albuminous it lay.
And, when she grew serener, far,
Fished the thing up, with "dear old star!"
Egg-shell she o'er.
This ingenious but rather mad parody appeared
in The Figaro of May 6, 1876.
THE shades of night were falling fast,
As through the quad a gownsman passed,
Whose seedy look and sunken cheek
Bespoke as plain as words could speak,
"Those horrid schools!"
His coat was worn; his bags beneath
Were quite too short his legs to sheath,
While like a penny trumpet rung
The treble of that mournful tongue,
"Those horrid schools!"
In happy homes he left the light
Of household fires both warm and bright;
Before the spectral "Great Go" shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
"Those horrid schools!"
"Try but to pass," his tutor said,
"A class is not within your head.
The yawning gulf is deep and wide!"
But still that treble voice replied,
"Those horrid schools!"
"Oh stay!" the maiden said, "and rest
Thy learned head upon my breast!"
A tear stood in his sunken eye,
He blushed, and answered, looking shy,
"Those horrid schools!"
"Beware tobacco's withered plant!
Beware of vinous stimulant!"
This was the gov'nor's last good-bye,
A voice replied, from out the fly,
"Those horrid schools!"
At break of day, as through the gloom
The scout when going from room to room,
Uttered the oft repeated call,
A voice came from the bedroom small,
"Those horrid schools!"
The poor young sap asleep quite sound,
Half buried in the sheets was found,
Still grasping, nibbled by the mice,
An Ethics with the strange device,
"Those horrid schools!"
There in the twilight, cold and grey,
Dirty, unwashen, there he lay,
While from his scout the sentence flowed,
"Oh drat those books—them schools be blowed,
"Them 'orrid schools!"
(The following parody was selected for a prize
in a competition, by the editor of Truth, and
appeared in that paper on November 25th, 1880.
It refers to the American puzzle, called "Thirty-four,"
which was then very popular).
Chill August's storms were piping loud,
When through a gaping London crowd,
There passed a youth, who still was heard
To mutter the perplexing word,
"That Thirty-four!"
His eyes were wild; his brow above
Was crumpled like an old kid glove;
And like some hoarse crow's grating note
That word still quivered in his throat,
"That Thirty-four!"
"Oh, give it up!" his comrades said,
"It only muddles your poor head;
It is not worth your finding out."
He answered with a wailing shout,
"That Thirty-four!"
"Art not content," the maiden said,
"To solve the 'Fifteen' one instead?"
He paused-his tearful eyes he dried—
Gulped down a sob, then sadly sighed,
"That Thirty-four!"
At midnight, on their high resort,
The cats were startled at their sport,
To hear, beneath one roof, a tone
Gasp out, betwixt a snore and groan,
"That Thirty-four!"
THE clouds or smoke were rising fast,
As through a college room there passed
A youth who bore, 'spite sage advice,
A "baccy"-pouch with strange device,
"Tobacco smoke!"
His brow was sad; his eye beneath
Stared on a pipe, laid in its sheath,
And in his ears there ever rung
The accents of the donor's tongue,
"Tobacco smoke!"
"Try not the shag!" the old man said,
It is o'er strong for thy young head,
Dire its effects to those untried
Heedless he was, and but replied,
"Tobacco smoke!"
"Oh, stay," the maiden said, "and test
Our Latakia—'tis the best!"
He grasped his packet of birds'-eye,
And only muttered with a sigh,
"Tobacco smoke!"
"Beware; don't set your room alight—
The college might object—good-night!"
Such were the words the scholar spoke,
And scarcely heard through closing oak,
"Tobacco smoke!"
That Freshman by his scout was found
Lying all prone upon the ground,
And still his hand grasped like a vice
The "baccy"-pouch with strange device,
"Tobacco smoke!"
* * * *
R. C., Oxford.
(By a Lover of Longfellow, after spending Twenty-six Hours
in the House of Commons.)
The shades of night were falling fast,
As through St. Stephen's portals passed
An Irish band, not over nice,
Whose banners bore the strange device—
"Obstructionists!"
Each brow was sad, each eye beneath
Glared at Cavan, Dungarvan, Meath;
And soon in Erin's brogue was heard
Again their policy absurd—
"Obstructionists!"
* * * *
"Tempt not the Commons," Northcote said,
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead;
Too long its rules have been defied;"
But still the Irish rowdies cried—
"Obstructionists!"
* * * *
"Beware the Ministerial branch—
Beware the Tory avalanche!"
Was Biggar's caution, and he smiled,
When for a nap he left the wild
"Obstructionists!"
At noon that day O'Donnell craved
A respite, but the Commons braved
The contest, and their only prayer
Was to demolish then and there—
"Obstructionists!"
The chaplain came his usual round,
The Commons sitting still he found,
Using each possible device
To crush that band, not over nice—
"Obstructionists!"
But late on that eventful day
The "stumbling blocks" were kicked away;
South Africa rejoiced afar,
And Biggar moaned, "It's done we are!"—
"Obstructionists!"
THE shades of night were falling fast
Round Hughenden,—for some time past
A Statesman, working day and night,
A flowery fiction did indite—
Endymion.
His hair was dark, and you could trace
A soupçon of an ancient race;
And still, in quite his early way,
He wrote of Lords and Ladies gay—
Endymion.
"Tempt not the Press," Lord Rowton said.
"Of critics have a timely dread:
They skinned you when you wrote Lothair."
He answered, with his nose in air,
"Endymion!"
"Oh stay," the Tory said, "and make
That wicked GLADSTONE writhe and quake."
A twinkle flash'd from out his eye:
"I'll give him rope," he said, "and try
Endymion!"
"Beware the day they may begin
To break the Treaty of Berlin!"
This was the Tory's last appeal.
He only said, "I will reveal
Endymion!"
And so, when Ireland was aflame,
The Eastern Question just the same,
Conservatives beheld with doubt
Their Leader bring his novel out—
Endymion.
And all who waded through the book,
Met Titles, Tailor, Prince and Dook:
What wonder it is all the rage?
For epigram adorns thy page,
Endymion!
There, in the twilight, cold and grey,
Serene in Curzon Street he lay.
"This cheque from LONGMANS' will go far,"
A voice said. "Now for a cigar!"
Endymion!
THE summer day was waning fast,
As o'er a London heath there pass'd
A youth who walked with steps precise,
And murmured, more than once or twice,
"The Heath is ours!"
His eyes flashed brightly in his head,
Till, as the notice-boards he read,
His cheeks for one short moment blenched,
but soon he cried, with fingers clenched,
"The Heath is ours!"
Then he recalled the large amount
The people'd paid that they might count
That Heath their own, and then again
He shouted out, with might and main,
"The Heath is ours!"
As thus he cried, a keeper came,
And roughly said, "Young man! Your name?
I'll summons you for spouting here!"
"Bah," cried the youth, "I have no fear—
The Heath is ours!"
The liveried myrmidon but jeered,
"Well, that's the queerest tale I've heerd;
This 'eath's been taken by our Board."
Much moved, the youth in answer roared,
"The Heath is ours!"
"Rouse not his ire," an old man said;
"You have not, p'rhaps, the by-laws read?
Alas! he's might upon his side."
"Go to!" the eager youth replied,
"The Heath is ours!"
"O stay!" a maiden said, "nor pass
In that mad way across the grass!
You will be fined. Oh, please don't go!"
"Thanks!" cried the youth, "but I must show
The Heath is ours!"
Then, rising 'gainst crass Bumble's yoke,
He every stupid by-law broke,
And when stern keepers asked his name,
Still loud the self-same answer came:
"The Heath is ours!"
As evening fell, a tottering form,
All heedless of the gathering storm,
Defied each notice-board he passed,
And cried—determined to the last:
"The Heath is ours!"
A youth, when next the sun came round,
Buried in summonses was found;
Still gasping, as yet more were served,
In accents, feeble and unnerved:
"The Heath is ours!"
There to the Police Court brought next day,
He'd many pounds and costs to pay;
And from his lips no more was heard
That cry he'd learned was so absurd:
"The Heath is ours!"
The following description of an unpleasant
nocturnal adventure has been written especially
for this collection:—
The shades of night were falling fast,
One mile from town was Knightsbridge passed,
We found ourselves (it was not nice)
Tripped up by two men in a trice,
And felt so sore!
Our brow was muddy, as beneath
Their pressure we could scarce draw breath,
Our "withers" seemed to be unwrung.
As we were in the gutter flung,
And felt so sore!
We never shall forget that night
Rising in pitiable plight,
We found our jewellery gone,
Ourselves a sight to look upon,
We felt so sore!
"Try not to pass!" they might have said.
Alas! they tripped us up instead.
Such warning was to us denied,
And stretched upon the pavement wide,
We felt so sore!
"Oh, stay a moment, that arrest
May police vigilance attest,"
Was what we were inclined to cry,
But we could only heave a sigh—
We felt so sore!
Beware a court, where the roads branch,
Be wary, lest an avalanche
Of blows should, when out late at night,
On your poor occiput alight,
We felt so sore!
They ran away with watch and guard,
And left us on the pavement hard,
Whilst we to follow did not dare,
Because we had no breath to spare—
We felt so sore!
No passers by to make a sound,
And not a "peeler" to be found.
Still gasping from their hands of vice,
Glad to escape at any price,
We felt so sore!
Then all at once we cried "hooray!"
Here comes a "Bobby" on his way.
A LONG FELLOW we spied afar,
And mentally exclaimed, "Ha! ha!"
Excelsior.
A courteous correspondent has forwarded a
little pamphlet, which was issued by Enoch
Morgan, Sons, and Co., New York, about three
years ago. It has some quaintly comical
silhouette illustrations, beneath each of which is
one of the following verses:—
The shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Eastern village passed
A youth who bore, through dust and heat,
A stencil plate, that read complete—
SAPOLIO!
His brow was sad, but underneath,
White with "Odonto" shone his teeth.
And through them hissed the words, "Well, blow
Me tight if here is 'ary show!"
SAPOLIO!
On household fences, gleaming bright,
Shone "Gargling Oil," in black and white.
Once "Bixby's Blacking" stood alone,
He straight beside it clapped his own—
SAPOLIO!
"Try not my fence," the old man said,
"With 'Mustang Liniment' 'tis spread,
Another vacant spot thar ain't,"
He answered with a dash of paint—
SAPOLIO!
"O, stay," the maiden said, "a rest
Pray give us! What with 'Bixby's Best,'
And 'Simmons' Pills,' we're like to die."
He only answered, "Will you try—
SAPOLIO?"
"Beware them Peaks! That wall so bright
Is but a snow bank, gleaming white,
Your paint won't stick!"; came the reply,
"I've done it! How is that for high?"
"SAPOLIO."
One Sabbath morn, as heavenward
White mountain tourists slowly spurred,
On ev'ry rock to their dismay,
They read that legend strange, alway
"SAPOLIO."
There on the summit, old and fat,
Shameless, but vigorous he sat,
While on their luggage as they passed,
He checked that word, from first to last,
"SAPOLIO."
Advertising parodies of Excelsior abound.
Extracts from a few of the best are given
below:—
The shades of night were falling fast,
As through the ancient city passed,
A youth who scorned to pause or stop,
Until he reached that noted shop,
13, CROSS CHEAPING.
In happy homes he saw the light,
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
He heeded not the cheerful coal,
But strode straight onward to his goal,
13, CROSS CHEAPING.
"Beware of rain," an old man said,
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,"
The youth made quite a little speech,
"I fear no rain if once I reach
13, CROSS CHEAPING."
"Oh stay," a maiden said, "and rest;
Put not your strength to further test,"
A smile lurked in his bright blue eye,
And merrily he made reply:
"13, CROSS CHEAPING."
"Once safely there, I shall forget
My tired feet, and dread of wet;
Whilst buying where I've bought before;
Whilst choosing from that well-filled store,
13, CROSS CHEAPING."
"Their BOOTS have richly earned their fame;
Their SHOES have gained an envied name;
What matters mud, however thick,
When once your feet are shod by DICK,
13, CROSS CHEAPING."
The shades of night were falling fast,
When on the word his eyes he cast—
That word which struck him with amaze—
Couched in the adverts' meant to praise.
PILOSAGINE.
Sleep from his eyelids fastly fled,
As to himself he wondering said:
"If it be true that I can buy
What will produce a beard, I'll try
PILOSAGINE."
"Tempt not the trash," in tones full rough,
His father urged, "Like other stuff
That you have oft and often tried
'Tis sure to prove." The youth replied,
"PILOSAGINE."
PILOSAGINE at once applied,
The wished-for three for which he sighed,
Imperial, beard, moustache, soon felt;
And thankful is he that e'er he spelt
PILOSAGINE.
The drizzling rain was falling fast,
As thro' the streets of London passed
A youth who bore a neat and nice
Umbrella with the strange device,
"THE IMPERCEPTIBLE."
His step was firm, erect his form,
As heedless of the gathering storm
He homeward hied with dauntless mien
Beneath that elemental screen—
"THE IMPERCEPTIBLE."
He saw umbrellas creased and torn,
By wet and angry persons borne,
And sorrowing o'er their wretched plight,
He pitied those who lacked that night
"THE IMPERCEPTIBLE."
"Best try a cab," an old friend said;
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead.
The rain will faster fall anon;"
But still that youth relied upon
"THE IMPERCEPTIBLE."
"O stay," a maiden said, "I'd fain
Ask a brief shelter from the rain."
The astonished youth gazed at the fair,
And gently answered, "You may share,
"THE IMPERCEPTIBLE."
(By a Long-way-after-a-Fellow-Poet.)
The shades of night were falling fast,
When through a western suburb passed
A man who bore upon his back
A placard, with this word in black—
"OZOKERIT."
His brow was dark, his eye beneath
Gleamed like a lantern o'er his teeth,
Which gnashing ceaselessly he sung
That fragment of an unknown tongue—
"OZOKERIT."
In humble homes he saw the light
Of candles—if anything less bright
Above, the glimmering gas lamps shone,
The contrast wrung from him a groan.
"OZOKERIT."
"Trust not the gas," the old man said,
"Dingy and dull the lamps o'er head—
The illumination is ill supplied,"
But loud that sandwich bearer cried,
"OZOKERIT."
"O stay," the maiden said, "or rest
Until your mystery is guessed!"
A wink obscured his cunning eye,
As still he mentioned in reply—
"OZOKERIT."
Beware the peeler, stern and staunch,
With bull's-eye pendant at his haunch.
This was the pleasant last "Good-day,"
A voice replied, some streets away,
"OZOKERIT."
At break of day, while reeled along,
Shouting their oft repeated song.
Some "Jolly Dogs," with blinking stare,
They heard a voice ring through the air,
"OZOKERIT."
The speaking, tracing by the sound,
They, sitting on a doorstep, found
A man, who bore upon his back
A placard, with that word in black,
"OZOKERIT."
There on the doorstep, cold and flat,
Puzzled by pondering he sat;
And with the hoarseness of catarrh,
He sighed, "I wonders what it are!"
"OZOKERIT."
From Fun, October 22, 1870.
SOLEMNLY, mournfully
Dealing its dole,
The Curfew Bell
Is beginning to toll.
Cover the embers,
And put out the light,
Toil comes with the morning,
And rest with the night.
Dark grow the windows,
And quenched is the fire,
Sound fades into silence,—
All footsteps retire.
No voice in the chambers,
No sound in the hall!
Sleep and oblivion
Reign over all!
Suddenly, joyfully,
Leaving the Row,
The London Belle
Is beginning to go.
Cover the couches
And shut out the light,
Calls cease in the morning,
And parties at night.
Closed are the windows,
And out is the fire.
The knockers are silent
All footmen retire.
No groom in the chambers,
No porter in hall:
Dust and brown holland
Reign over all!
The season is ended,
And closed like the play,
And the swells that adorned it
Vanish away.
Dim grow its dances,
Forgotten they'll be,
Like the ends of cigars,
Thrown into the sea.
Squares lapse into silence,
The Railways are full
The windows are papered,
The West End is dull.
Fewer and fewer
The people to call
Sweeps and the charwoman,
Reign over all.
Tuesday, September 7, 1880.
(A Vague Reminiscence of Longfellow.)
TARDILY, wearily,
Reacheth its goal
The Session of '80,
Tired old soul!
Cover the benches,
And put out the light;
Divisions are over,
And sittings all night.
The bells are all dumb,
And idle the wire;
Rant sinks into silence,
Reporters retire.
Fewer and fewer
The few footsteps fall;
Quiet and Constables
Reign over all!
Punch, September 18, 1880.
I STOOD on the bridge at midnight,
As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose o'er the city,
Behind the dark-church tower.
How often, oh, how often,
In the days that had gone by,
I had stood on the bridge at midnight
And gazed on that wave and sky!
I stood on the bridge at midday,
And the crowd was striking in power,
And the roar rose from the City,
And the docks about the Tower.
And I made a bright reflection
On the waters under me,
Like a muddy highway flowing
With steamers to the sea.
How often, oh, how often,
In omnibus or fly,
I have crossed the bridge at midday,
When you hardly could get by.
How often, oh, how often
I have wished the crowd beside
Were at Jericho or elsewhere,
Or the pathways were more wide.
For my heart was hot and restless,
And my mind was full of care,
Lest the train I wished to go by
Might start 'ere I got there.
And I think how many thousand
Of crowd-encumbered men,
Each striving to stem the current,
Have missed their trains since then.
I see the long processions
Of the cabs and the 'busses go,
And the eager people restless,
Because they must walk so slow.
And for ever, and for ever,
For all that a party knows,
As long as the cabs and the 'busses
Must pause with their frequent "whoas,"
To cross it in either direction
Will take an hour or near,
So you simply must start at eleven,
If by twelve you would cross it clear.
Respectfully Dedicated to the Author of "The Bridge."
I SAT in the Rink at midday;
The clocks were striking the hour,
But you would not have known, for the April sun
Was quenched in a copious shower.
I saw the raindrops falling
In puddles in the street,
And I envied the throng that was passing along
With wet, but unrollered feet.
And far in the hazy distance
Of that dripping April day,
My snug hearth fire gleam'd redder and higher,
Because I was far away.
The rattle of wheels rang round me,
With a quaint and wooden roar,
And groups of the fair, with dishevelled hair,
Were lying about on the floor.
E'en I, in a moment of madness,
Had snatched at the fatal cup.
And my rollers were on, but I sat all alone,
For alas! I could not get up.
And like those rinkers rolling
Amongst their woodon piers,
A flood of thoughts came o'er me
That filled my eyes with tears.
How often, oh, how often,
In the days that had gone by,
I had waltzed in that room at midnight,
With a fixed and a vacant eye.
How often, oh, how often,
I had wished that a cab from afar,
Would bear me away in its bosom
To my rooms, and a mild cigar.
For my limbs were hot and restless,
And my boots a serious care,
And the burden of mild flirtation,
Seemed greater than I could bear.
But now it is changed and vanished,
It has fallen over the brink;
Before, we were sad, but now we are mad,
And the ball-room is turned to a rink.
Yet whenever I watch these rinkers
Amongst their wooden piers,
Like the sound of April raindrops,
Comes the thought of other years.
And I think how many thousands
Of skate-encumbered men,
Each bearing his burden of ladies,
Have rinked on this floor since then.
I see the long procession,
Still tottering to and fro,
The young feet clumsy and rapid,
The old feet clumsy and slow.
And for ever, and for ever,
As long as the raindrops fall,
As long as we've angling ladies,
(And angular too) at all,
The Rink and its ceaseless rollers,
And its broken limbs, shall appear
As the symbol of Bedlam's madness
And its accurate image here!
The Figaro, June 14, 1876.
I stood on the bridge at midnight,
As "Travis" was striking the hour;
And the moon rose o'er the city
Aslant the Dock Co.'s tower.
I stood and recalled how savage,
In the day that's just gone by,
I was stopped by that bridge at midday,
And watched it raised on high.
For my heart was hot and restless,
My business full of care;
And the check thus put upon me
Seemed longer than I could bear.
And I thought how many thousands
Of work-encumbered men,
On hearing the bell a-ringing,
Have cursed this bridge since then.
I see the long procession
Still pacing to and fro—
The master, the clerk, the workman;
The Dockmen, officious and slow.
And forever, and forever,
As long as the Company goes,
As long as we brook the fashion
Of transit, and bow to our woes.
So long we shall lose our appointments,
So long by our spouses be told
That we're ten minutes late as usual,
And our dinner is getting cold.
The Whitefriargate Papers, Hull, February 17, 1872.
(An Imitation.)
I STOOD on the shore at even,
And I looked out into the west,
Out over the pathless ocean,
As the sun sank down to rest.
I saw him dip into the billows,
And the sea was one blaze of light,
As if day's expiring effort
Was to blacken the darkness of night.
From my feet to the far horizon
Was a golden sparkling road,
A type of the path that leads us
From earth to God's abode.
As darkness fell on the waters,
I heard the sea-birds' cry,
And the mighty ocean answered
With its waves in an endless sigh.
Then I thought how like the sunlight
We find our hopes depart,
And the ocean's endless sighing
Found an echo in my heart.
F. W. D., St. Alban Hall.
College Rhymes (T. Shrimpton and Sons, Oxford), 1873.
BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay,
His sickle in his hand;
His breast was bare, his matted hair
Was buried in the sand,
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,
He saw his Native Land
The forests, with their myriad tongues,
Shouted of liberty:
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,
With a voice so wild and free,
That be started in his sleep, and smiled
At their tempestuous glee.
He did not feel the driver's whip,
Nor the burning heat of day;
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,
And his lifeless body lay
A worn-out fetter, that the soul
Had broken and thrown away!
(Dedicated by a Shortman to a Longfellow.)
BESIDE an untouched ice he lay,
An eighteenpenny cigar in his hand,
He shook his hair with an angry air
At the sound of a distant band.
Then he dreamt in the mist and shadow of sleep
He was a beggar in the Strand.
Wide through his frock-coat's gaping seams
His fancy shirting showed;
He had no gloves, no crutchy cane,
No nosegay a la mode;
And he saw a man, with a tinkling pan,
Crying m-u-lk all down the road!
He felt quite sore, and very lean,
His face was sadly tanned;
His bones stuck out on both his cheeks,
And he could hardly stand.
A tear dropped from the sleeper's lids,
His Havanna from his hand.
And then the dismal vision showed
The way in which he sank;
From golden chains, to aches and pains,
With no balance at the bank.
For this woe he could feel, and it caused him to reel,
He had but himself to thank.
From a popular man, dubbed a wit and a wag,
To a pauper without a sous;
From morn till night, like an unhappy wight,
Cut or shunned by all he knew.
And this was his fate, by stopping up late,
And losing his money at "loo!"
How he had wasted his time and his tin
By keeping and driving a team.
The care and the cash he had spent on his weeds,
All this he saw in his dream.
And, as his thoughts sped, the blood in his head
Curdled up like so much cream.
He thought of the good he might have done
For love and charity;
And with anguish bowed, he cried out aloud
A word that began with a "d!"
He started and woke—and exceedingly riled,
Rang the bell for a Soda and B.
How did he feel as he took out his watch,
And consulted the time of day?
Had he learnt a lesson from the Land of Sleep?
I hope for my sake he may!
And I think the moral did reach its goal,
For he's got quite stingy they say.
From Cribblings from the Poets (Jones and Piggott,
Cambridge, 1883).
INTO the Silent Land!
Ah! who shall lead us thither?
Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather,
And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand.
Who leads us with a gentle hand
Thither, O thither,
Into the Silent Land?
(After Longfellow and Salis.)
INTO the Irish Land!
Ah! who shall lead us thither?
Clouds in the Western sky less darkly gather,
And household wrecks less thickly dot the strand.
Who leads us with a friendly hand,
Thither, oh thither,
Into the Irish Land?
O Land! O Land!
For which poor Pat hath plotted,
GLADSTONE, mild herald by kind fate allotted,
Beckons, and with his blessed Bill doth stand,
To lead us with a friendly hand
Into the Land whence we've long been parted,
Into the Irish Land!
In Punch of October 21, 1882, there was
another parody of this poem, entitled "Song of
the Oyster Land," by a Longing Fellow, commencing—
"Into the Oyster Land!
Ah! Who shall lead us thither?"
IN his chamber, weak and dying,
Was the Norman baron lying;
Loud without the tempest thundered,
And the castle-turret shook.
In this fight was Death the gainer,
Spite of vassal and retainer,
And the lands his sires had plundered,
Written in the Doomsday Book.
Every vassal of his banner,
Every serf born to his manor,
All those wronged and wretched creatures
By his hand were freed again.
And, as on the sacred missal
He recorded their dismissal,
Death relaxed his iron features,
And the monk replied, "Amen!"
Many centuries have been numbered
Since in death the baron slumbered
By the convent's sculptured portal.
Mingling with the common dust.
But the good deed, through the ages
Living in historic pages,
Brighter grows and gleams immortal,
Unconsumed by moth or rust.
A Lay of Berlin.
(After Professor Shortfellow.)
In his chamber, mine adjoining,
Was the German Baron dining.
Loud his voice with passion thundered,
And with fear the kellner shook.
As I listened it was plainer
That he bullied this retainer,
Forasmuch as he had blundered;
Or it might have been the cook.
Just outside, upon the Linden,
On an instrument (a wind 'un)
Played a minstrel most demurely,
Dismal as the parish waits.
And so loud he kept on getting,
While his frau stood by him, knitting,
That I thought, "The Baron, surely,
Will demolish all the plates."
"Spare a groschen, princely stranger!
May you never be in danger
Of the want of means to spare 'un,
Or a couple, if so be."
Then the minstrel went on playing,
Not a single word more saying;
And exclaimed the shuddering Baron,
"Miserere Domine!"
Tears upon his eyelids glistened
While in agony he listened
To the instrument (a wind 'un)
Which the minstrel he did play.
Then unto the kellner ready,
"Take this double thaler," said he,
To the minstrel of the Linden,
Begging him to go away."
In that hour of deep contrition
He beheld with double vision
All the sins he had committed,
And he said in accents thick
To the kellner, "Loo' here, kellner,
You're a 'spec'ble kind o' felner;
I'm a felner to be pitied;
I'm a mis'ble felner! Hic.
"Can you feel for one in sorrow?
I shall make my will to-morrow;
I shall leave you all my money,
Every single thing that's mine.
Watch—repeater; ring—carbuncle;
Kellner you're my long-lost uncle.
Just discovered this—how funny!
Fesh another bolowine."
Many hours the clock has numbered
Since the German Baron slumbered;
And his boots are at the portal
Of his chamber, free from dust;
And an instrument (a wind 'un)
Sounds again upon the Linden,
Waking that unhappy mortal
From the snorings of the just.
Tom Hood's Comic Annual, 1871.
Longfellow's ballad, The Skeleton in Armour
commences thus:—
"SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest!
Who, with thy hollow breast
Still in rude armour drest,
Comest to daunt me!
Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched, as if asking alms,
Why dost thou haunt me?"
its metre was admirably imitated by the late
C. S. Calverley, in his
THOU who, when fears attack
Bidst them avaunt, and Black
Care, at the horseman's back,
Perching, unseatest;
Sweet when the morn is grey;
Sweet when they've cleared away
Lunch, and at close of day
Possibly sweetest.
I have a liking old
For thee, though manifold
Stories, I know are told,
Not to thy credit.
Cats may have had their goose
Cooked by tobacco juice;
Still why deny its use
Thoughtfully taken?
We're not as tabbies are:
Smith take a fresh cigar!
Jones, the tobacco jar!
Here's to thee, Bacon!
From C. S. Calverley's Verses and Translations (George
Bell and Sons).
(A Long Way After a Longfellow.)
Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week, how precious are thy pleasures!
Not hymned alone in summer-time
With hoarse enthusiastic rhyme,
Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week, but hailed in pewtern measures!
Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week, how coarse the cads who "put on"
Their three half-crowns for Insulaire,
Or intimate Sir Joseph's "square."
Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week—as if I cared a button!
Saturnian feasts, Saturnian feasts, you ape, despite Dame Grundy.
We laugh until the dread bell rings,
But oh, the aches to-morrow brings,
And Derby week, and Derby week, that reckoning on the Monday!
The welsher's book, the welsher's book, is mirror of thy glories:
It's ready when their horse comes in,
But somewhat muddled when you win.
The welsher's book, the welsher's book, whips Black's in point of stories!
So Derby week, oh, Derby week, your usual style, we think, errs,
In ending in too cheerful nights,
Headaches and debts, green veils and fights,
And Derby week, oh, Derby week, Dutch dolls and British drinkers.
Funny Folks, June 8, 1878.
The following are parodies of the "Saga of
King Olaf," contained in Longfellow's "Tales
of a Wayside Inn":—
(A Longfellow Cut Short.)
Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and aloft,
In her chamber that looked over meadow and croft;
She held in her hand a ring of gold
That was brought to her by a henchman old.
King Olaf had sent her that wedding gift;
But knowing King Olaf was prone to thrift,
She gave the ring to her goldsmiths twain,
Who smiled as they handed it back again.
Then Sigrid the Queen in her haughty way,
Asked, "Why do you smile, my goldsmiths, pray?"
They answered, "Queen, if the truth be told,
The ring is Brummagem—'t isn't gold!"
The colour flushed over forehead and cheek,
She simply stamped—but she did not speak.
A footstep rang on the outer stair,
And in strode Olaf with royal air.
He kissed her hand, and he whispered love,
And (just for the rhyme) he murmured "Dove!"
She smiled with contempt as she said "Oh, king!
Step it—and get five bob on that ring!"
The face of King Olaf was dark with gloom,
He swore as he strode about the room.
She raised her brows and looked at the King—
"To swear before ladies is not the thing!"
"Why should I wed thee," he cried, "old maid?
A faded beauty, a heathen jade!"
He swore a swear, and he stamped a stamp,
And he fetched her a whack with his gingham Gamp.
They placed the King in a dungeon vault,
Because he was guilty of an assault,
With Tupper for supper, and hot cross buns
They slowly starved him, those savage ones,
And his only drink was Petroleum—
And he'd been accustomed to Red Heart Rum!
DOWN by the Serpentine,
Found I the Skaterman—
Found him a-wiping his
Eyes with his ulster-sleeve,
Eyes full of scalding tears,
Red with much blubbering.
Red was his nose likewise—
Deeply I pitied him.
"Cheer up, O Skaterman!
Never say die!" says I.
"Cheer up, my hearty!"—so
Tried I to comfort him,
Slapping his back, whereby
Coughed he like anything,
Forth went my heart to him,
Lent him my wipe, I did,
Dried his poor nose and eyes,
Sitting aside of him
Holding his hand.
"Hark to the Skald!" I says,
"Tell him what's up with thee;
Thor of the Hammer will
Come to thine aid!"
Then spake the Skaterman,
Rumbling with muttered oaths
Deep in his diaphragm,
Grumbling at Thor:
"Blow Thaw and Scald!" he cried;
"Blow heverythink!" he cried,
Salt tears a-rolling down
Alongside his nose.
"See these here 'Hacmes,' Sir,
New from the Store they are,
Never been used afore,
Twelve-and-six thrown away!
Friga the Frigid came,
Friga, great Odin's wife,
Bound up the river-gods,
Laid out an icy floor
Mete for the Skaterman.
Then I began to hoard.
Weekly and weekly hoard,
All of my saving to
Buy these here things—
Came Thaw, the thunder-god,
Brake up the Ice-bound stream—
Twelve-and-six thrown away,
That's what's the matter, Sir—
Thaw, he be blowed!"
Then, with a wild shriek, he
Upped with his knobby stick,
Smote on the Acme steel,
Smote with a mighty stroke,
Smote it and broke it up
Into small flinderkins,
Banged it and smashed it up
Into smithereens.
Shocked, then I left him there,
Grumbling at Thor!
Another long parody of the same original was
contained in Punch, September 20, 1879. It was
entitled "A Modern Saga," and consisted of
nine verses, describing Professor Nordenskiöld's
travels and discoveries concerning the North-East
passage.
It is now a good many years since a well-known
American author, Mr. Bayard Taylor,
produced a clever little book, entitled "Diversions
of the Echo Club." The late Mr. John
Camden Hotten published it in London, and it
has since gone through several editions. The
scheme of the book is thus given by the
author:—"In the rear of Karl Schäfer's lager-beer
cellar and restaurant—which everyone
knows, is but a block from the central part of
Broadway—there is a small room, with a vaulted
ceiling, which Karl calls his Löwengrube, or
Lions' Den. Here, in their Bohemian days,
Zoïlus and the Gannet had been accustomed to
meet, discuss literary projects, and read fragments
of manuscript to each other. The Chorus,
the Ancient and young Galahad gradually fell
into the same habit, and thus a little circle of
six, seven, or eight members came to be formed.
The room could comfortably contain no more:
it was quiet, with a dim, smoky, confidential
atmosphere, and suggested Auerbach's Cellar to
the Ancient, who had been in Leipzig.
Here authors, books, magazines, and newspapers
were talked about; sometimes a manuscript
poem was read by its writer; while mild
potations of beer and the dreamy breath of cigars
delayed the nervous, fidgetty, clattering-footed
American Hours. The character which the
society assumed for a short time was purely
accidental. As one of the Chorus, I was present
at the first meeting, and, of course, I never
failed afterwards. The four authors who furnished
our entertainment were not aware that I
had written down, from memory, the substance
of the conversations, until our evenings came to
an end, and I have had some difficulty in obtaining
their permission to publish my reports."
These so-called "Reports" describe the proceedings
at eight meetings of the Club, and the
conversation is devoted to criticisms of the most
famous modern poets. The members next proceed
to draw lots as to whose works they shall
imitate, the result being a series of parodies, or,
more correctly speaking, comical imitations of
style, many of which are exceedingly amusing.
The principal poets thus parodied are William
Morris; Robert Browning; E. A. Poe; John
Keats; Mrs. Sigourney; A. C. Swinburne;
R. W. Emerson; E. C. Stedman; Dante G.
Rossetti; Barry Cornwall; J. G. Whittier;
Oliver Wendell Holmes; Alfred Tennyson;
H. W. Longfellow; Walt Whitman; Bret
Harte; J. R. Lowell; Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett
Browning; and several less known authors.
Amongst the minor poets are included several
American writers, whose works are almost
unknown to English readers.
On the Fifth night Zoilus draws Longfellow, and
his comrades caution him to beware how he
treats an author, already a classic, whose works
have been complimented by many ordinary
parodies. He composes the following imitation
of Longfellow's hexameters:—
This is the place: be still for a while, my high-pressure steamboat!
Let me survey the spot where the Mormons builded their temple.
Much have I mused on the wreck and ruin of ancient religions,
Scandinavian, Greek, Assyrian, Zend, and the Sanskrit,
Yea, and explored the mysteries hidden in Talmudic targums,
Caught the gleam of Chrysaor's sword and occulted Orion,
Backward spelled the lines of the Hebrew graveyard at Newport,
Studied Ojibwa symbols and those of the Quarry of Pipestone,
Also the myths of the Zulus whose questions converted Colenso,
So, methinks, it were well I should muse a little at Nauvoo.
Fair was he not, the primitive Prophet, nor he who succeeded,
Hardly for poetry fit, though using the Urim and Thummin.
Had he but borrowed Levitical trappings, the girdle and ephod,
Fine twined linen, and ouches of gold, and bells and pomegranates,
That, indeed, might have kindled the weird necromancy of fancy.
Had he but set up mystical forms, like Astarte or Peor,
Balder, or Freya, Quetzalcoatl, Perun, Manabozho,
Verily, though to the sense theologic it might be offensive,
Great were the gain to the pictured, flashing speech of the poet.
Yet the Muse that delights in Mesopotamian numbers,
Vague and vast as the roar of the wind in a forest of pine-trees,
Now must tune her strings to the names of Joseph and Brigham.
Hebrew, the first; and a Smith before the Deluge was Tubal,
Thor of the East, who first made iron ring to the hammer;
So on the iron heads of the people about him, the latter,
Striking the sparks of belief and forging their faith in the Good Time
Coming, the Latter Day, as he called it,—the Kingdom of Zion.
Then, in the words of Philip the Eunuch unto Belshazzar,
Came to him multitudes wan, diseased and decrepit of spirit,
Came and heard and believed, and builded the temple of Nauvoo.
All is past; for Joseph was smitten with lead from a pistol,
Brigham went with the others over the prairies to Salt Lake.
Answers now to the long, disconsolate wail of the steamer,
Hoarse, inarticulate, shrill, the rolling and bounding of ten-pins,—
Answers the voice of the bar-tender, mixing the smash and the julep,
Answers, precocious, the boy, and bites a chew of tobacco.
Lone as the towers of Afrasiab now is the seat of the Prophet,
Mournful, inspiring to verse, though seeming utterly vulgar:
Also—for each thing now is expected to furnish a moral—
Teaching innumerable lessons for who so believes and is patient.
Thou, that readest, be resolute, learn to be strong and to suffer!
Let the dead Past bury its dead and act in the Present!
Bear a banner of strange devices, "Forever" and "Never!"
Build in the walls of time the fame of a permanent Nauvoo,
So that thy brethren may see it and say, "Go thou and do likewise!"
This poem does not altogether meet with his
comrades' approval; Zoïlus retorts that "it is
no easy thing to be funny in hexameters; the
Sapphic verse is much more practicable."
The Gannet hereupon asserts that he could
write an imitation of Longfellow's higher strains—not
of those which are so well known and so
much quoted—which would be fairer to the
poet, and after a short interval produces—
A strange vibration from the cottage window
My vagrant steps delayed,
And half abstracted, like the ancient Hindoo,
I paused beneath the shade.
What is, I said, this unremitting humming,
Louder than bees in spring?
As unto prayer the murmurous answer coming,
Shed from Sandalphon's wing.
Is this the sound of unimpeded labour,
That now usurpeth play?
Our harsher substitute for pipe and tabor,
Ghittern and virelay?
Or, is it yearning for a higher vision,
By spiritual hearing heard?
Nearer I drew, to listen with precision,
Detecting not a word.
Then, peering through the pane, as men of sin do,
Myself the while unseen,
I marked a maiden seated by the window,
Sewing with a machine.
Her gentle foot propelled the tireless treadle,
Her gentle hand the seam:
My fancy said, it were a bliss to peddle
Those shirts, as in a dream!
Her lovely fingers lent to yoke and collar
Some imperceptible taste;
The rural swain, who buys it for a dollar,
By beauty is embraced.
O fairer aspect of the common mission!
Only the Poet sees
The true significance, the high position
Of such small things as these.
Not now doth Toil, a brutal Boanerges,
Deform the maiden's hand;
Her implement its soft sonata merges
In songs of sea and land.
And thus the hum of the unspooling cotton,
Blent with her rhythmic tread,
Shall still be heard, when virelays are forgotten,
And troubadours are dead.
It may be said of "Diversions of the Echo
Club" (now published by Messrs. Chatto and
Windus), that whilst many of the parodies are
amusing, none are either vulgar or ill-natured;
the criticisms on the various poets are generally
just, thoughtful, and keenly perceptive.
Before leaving Longfellow there are two
amusing imitations of Hiawatha to be quoted;
Unfortunately, the very clever Song of Big Ben
is too long to quote in full, but it is easily
accessible:—
SHOULD you ask me why these columns
Filled with words of many speakers—
Why this record of their doings,
With their frequent repetitions,
Their inane deliberations,
And their aggravating dulness?
I should answer, I should tell you,
"That I write them as I hear them,
As I hear, and as I see them;—
That the world may learn what happens
In the painted, gilded chamber,
In the chapel of St. Stephen's,
At the House of Talkee-Talkee,
Where, upon the woolsack, patient,
Lolls the Chancellor, hard-headed,
Where, enthroned above the table,
Sadly sits and broods the Speaker."
Should you ask me why he sits there?
I should answer, I should tell you,
"'Tis because the people will it;
'Tis because they send up members
Who will talk for moons together;
Nought accomplishing, yet spouting,
Like the dolphin, Mishe-no-zha,
Weak and watery stuff for ever."
If still further you should ask me,
Saying "But what do these members,
And the many like unto them,
In the House of Talkee-Talkee?"
I should answer your enquiry
Straightway in such words as follow:—
"Much they love to hear their voices
Talking rubbish at all seasons:
Many 'mongst them seize all chances
For the riding of their hobbies;
Ride them late and ride them early,
Ride them through the Standing Orders;
Ride them without bit or bridle,
Knowing not, nor caring whither."
And if once again you query,
Saying, "Is this all they do there?"
I should answer your fresh query,
I should meet your new conundrum
Right away in some such fashion
As the following, for instance,
I should tell you, "There are many
Who will bide their time with patience,
Knowing that to them by waiting
Will come all the things they long for.
That M.P. means oft More Power;
That 'twill bring them briefs and clients,
Make them 'guinea-pigs' and chairmen,
Knight them, maybe, in the future;
Or ennoble them if only
They will spend their money freely
For the party they belong to."
If you really had the conscience
To make any more enquiries,
I would answer, I should tell you
Not to ask more leading questions,
But to wait and read these columns.
In these records find your answers,
In these lines replies discover.
To the gilded, painted chamber
Of the House of Talkee-Talkee,
Comes a crowd of various people,
Comes a flock of noble ladies,
Painted most, and all decolletees;
Come the Bishops and the Judges,
Gravely taking up their places;
Clad in their state robes, the Judges,
Like to agéd washerwoman;
In their puffed lawn sleeves, the Bishops,
Fussy, like the hen that cackles
Over new-laid egg or chicken;
Come diplomatists by dozens,
Blazing with their numerous orders,
Which they gladly take, like bagmen;
Come with their vermilion buttons
And their petticoats of satin,
Wond'ring much, the Chinese Envoys:—
Wond'ring why it is the ladies
Care to sit squeezed up like herrings?
How it is their faces glow so
With the ruddy hues of nature?
Wond'ring why it is the nobles
Moon about with hideous cloaks on,
Making them appear round-shouldered,
Mute-like, "Jarvie-ish," ungainly?
Why it is Lord Coleridge carries
'Neath the folds of his the head-gear
Known in slang phrase as a "stove-pipe!"
Why in swallow-tail of evening
Mr. Pierrepoint walks at noon-day?
Why the Primate greets profusely
Fezzed Musurus when he enters?
Why the latter comes to gaze on
These ill-fated dogs of Christians
That his former masters cheated?
And their wonderment continues
As they hear the charivari,
See the entrances and exits,
Watch staid men in green and silver,
Rushing here and running thither.
Others, clad in velvet small-clothes,
Pottering in among the benches,
Nought effecting but confusion.
Entered are at last the household,
And the Queen comes through the doorway,
Sits she in her dress of velvet
On the throne, and all is silent.
Only for a minute's space though,
For, from down a distant lobby,
Comes the sound of pattering footsteps,
Like the rush of many waters,
By the shore of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining Big Sea Water.
Nearer, nearer, comes the pattering,
Louder, louder grow the voices,
More pronounced the hurried scuffling.
Now it seems as though the sound wave
Rolled close to the chamber's portal,
And, 'midst loud complaints and laughter,
Plainly heard by all who sat there,
Comes unto the bar the Speaker;
At his heels are Stafford Northcote,
And Ward Hunt, the Tory giant,
After them the deluge! Members
Fight and push, and pull and scuffle;
Loudly wrangle for their places,
And protest with scanty measure
Of politeness or good breeding;
Whilst their premier, safe translated,
Smiles a smile that's cold and selfish.
But at length the Commons settle
Into order as behoves them.
And the Chancellor upstanding
Mounts the throne's wide steps, and kneeling
To his sovereign he offers
Her own speech, which she declining,
He unrolls, and then distinctly
With a voice and tone majestic
(Picked up in his constant practice),
Read it in this way and this wise:—
"Listen to these words of wisdom
Sounding much but meaning little,
That with much elaborate caution,
In the Cabinet we hit on.
Oh, my faithful Lords and Commons,
As it is so far from likely
That you read the daily journals,
As it is so very certain
You've heard nothing that has happened,
I will tell you what you cannot
By remotest chance have heard of:
Know ye then, my trusted children,
There has been a war in Turkey,
And my Ministers have written
Some despatches on the subject;
So if, later on, my Commons
Should find out the vote for foolscap
And for ink and quills is swollen,
They will know the cause and pass it;
But let me haste on to tell you
In thrice twenty lines the items
That for weeks have been known fully
Through the papers to the people.
Know ye then, my Lords and Commons
(This is likewise news important,
I have journeyed far to tell you),
We joined Europe in a Conference,
And we sent our trusty cousin,
Robert Cecil, Salisbury's Marquis,
To take part in its discussions?
Know ye not that Robert Cecil,
Lordly master he of Hatfield,
Went and saw, but did not conquer—
Went and talked, but did not manage
Well his coaxing or his bluster;
Nay, came back completely vanquished,
And must do without his dukedom?
Need I add, my knowing children,
How his failure grieved his colleagues—
How Lord Derby wept to hear it—
How Lord Beaconsfield has felt it?
Still bewails it much in private,
And in public should his lips curl,
That is merely force of habit.
Know ye too, my legislators,
My most able statute-makers,
That my Indian subjects vastly
Liked the squibs let off at Delhi,
By my dreamy poet-Viceroy;
And, about to die of famine,
They enjoyed the show immensely.
All the Colonies are prosp'rous!
Which, if I am not mistaken,
Will be news to many of them,
Say, for instance, to Barbadoes.
Gentlemen, who pull the purse-strings,
I presume you will, as usual,
Vote sufficient of the needful.
Go, then, and in these great labours
May the spirit of the Master,
Gitche Manito, the Mighty
Aid you, lest they should o'erwhelm you."
Then uprose the Queen, and vanished,
And a hubbub fills the Chamber:
Peers take off their robes of velvet;
Ladies cover up their shoulders,
And the throng is quickly scattered;
Yet was very full the chamber—
Full of Lords, and full of strangers,
All come down, and feeling curious
How the Earl and eke the Marquis
Would get on when brought together;
Some there were who thought the Marquis
Would upon the Earl his back turn;
Some who thought the Earl would curl his
Upper lip, and snub the Marquis;
Others that the Marquis, smarting
With the knowledge that he'd been offered
Coolly on the Eastern altar,
That he had been made a victim;
Had been sent to wreck his prestige,
'Mongst the diplomatic breakers,
Would dig up the buried hatchet
From the Quarterly's shut pages,
Would dash down the friendly peace-pipe,
And his tomahawk turn wildly
On his former foe, Ben Dizzy;
But it did not come to pass so,
For on Thursday all was quiet,
And the Salisburian lion
Lay down with the Dizzian lambkin.
And the Marquis keeps his vengeance
For a more convenient season,
If, indeed, he has not hopes still
Of a dukedom for his failure.
After this they talked for four hours,
But the talk meant simply nothing!
As the "brave" re-seeks his wigwam,
Left deserted in the autumn,
When the early spring-tide tempts him
To return and hunt the bison—
To return and trap the beaver—
To return and scalp the "pale-face"—
To return, in short, and do for
Many beasts and birds and fishes;
So unto their long-left places,
To their worn and padded places,
Where they sought for reputation—
Where they strove for loaves and fishes—
Where they hounded down the helpless—
Where they vexèd those in office—
Where they howled and snored and hooted—
Where they quite wore out the Speaker,
Harried Adderley and Holker,
Tried in vain to draw Ben Dizzy,
And gave forth such endless rubbish—
Came the M.P.'s for the Session.
Came in state, too, Mr. Speaker
With the mace and with his chaplain;—
Gold the mace, and Byng his chaplain;
Whereupon did Captain Gossett,
In his normal tights and ruffles,
"Tile" the door till prayers were over.
Thus all present fell to praying,
Let us hope they prayed in earnest,
For delivery from envy,
Spite and malice and Kenealy.
Prayed for sense (God knows most want it),
Prayed for very frequent count-outs,
And for early dissolution.
[Left Praying.
Now the mace is on the table
From his oaken throne the Speaker,
In his hand the Queen's speech holding,
Tries to read it, but half through it,
Something ails him, and he falters.
May we not trace his emotion
To the thought of what's before him?
How can he fail to remember
That the bores have re-assembled.
Stronger both in lung and purpose,
That when they left town last August.
And he knows he can't escape them,
That his eye perforce will caught be
By the Lewises and Lawsons,
By the Biggars and the Whalleys,
By the Newdegates and Parnells,
This is why his voice completely
Fails him and prevents his reading,
This is why his accents die out,
Like the last song of Pu-kee-wis,
Of the dying swan, Pu-kee-wis;
This is why they have to bring him
Of the water from his cistern
(Let us hope it first was filtered),
Which he drinks, and so recovers;
Drinks, and so concludes his reading.
Then, since there is no amendment,
One would think that when the mover
And the seconder had spoken
That the House would straightway scatter;
Little do they know, who think so,
Of the ways of Mr. Gladstone!
Little do they understand him,
If they think he can keep silence
When the Eastern question's talked of!
Could they fancy Whalley speechless,
With the Jesuits on the tapis?
Could they picture Doctor "Dewdrops"
Dumb upon the Magna Charta?
Or the Common Serjeant henceforth
Dropping his deceased wife's sister?
Could they e'en think Holker clever?
Couple modesty and Jenkins?
Take from Lewis his white waistcoats,
Or from Plimsoll his last hobby?
Could they do all this? it's doubtful,
Even then, if Mr. Gladstone
Could be really kept from speaking.
When the Eastern question's mentioned,
He is always running over
With a tide of verbal fulness;
At a moment's notice ready
To break through his lips or flow out
In a pamphlet from his study,
Just as when the cat, Me-aw-nee,
Sees a mouse she pounces on it;
As the buffalo, Shu-shu-kah,
At the sight of crimson's maddened;
As the sturgeon, Minhe-nah-ma,
Meets a mackerel, but to bolt it,
As the 'possum, Pau-ku-kee-wis,
When it finds a gum-tree, climbs it,
So does this M.P. for Greenwich
Seize upon the Eastern question,
Be it in, or out of, season,
Be it apropos or useless,
Be it positively dangerous
To allude to it in public;
So on Thursday seized he on it,
Even though he knew the time was
Not yet come to talk upon it,
Poured his stream of words upon it,
Swamped it with his fluent diction;
And when he had talked a column,
Was informed by Gathorne Hardy,
That the questions he'd propounded
Would be answered in the blue-books;
That the information asked for
Would be printed in the blue-books;
That, in short, his speech was useless—
Verba et præterea nihil.
Whereupon the Speaker vanished,
And the House broke up its sitting.
Truth, February 15, 1877.
"The REV. HENRY PAHTAHQUAHONG CHASE, hereditary
Chief of the Ojibway tribe, President of the Grand Council
of Indians, and missionary of the Colonial and Continental
Church Society at Muncey Town, Ontario, Canada, has just
arrived in England, on a short visit."—The Standard.
STRAIGHT across the Big-Sea-Water,
From the Portals of the Sunset,
From the prairies of the Red Men,
Where Suggema, the mosquito.
Makes the aggravated hunter
Scratch himself with awful language;
From the land of Hiawatha,
Land of wigwams, and of wampum,
Land of tomahawks and scalping,
(See the works of J. F. COOPER),
Comes the mighty PAHTAHQUAHONG,
Comes the Chief of the Obijways.
Wot ye well, we'll give him welcome,
After manner of the Pale Face,
Show him all the old world's wonders,
Griffins in the public highways,
Gormandising corporations,
And the Market of Mud-Salad.
Show him, too, the dingy Palace,
And the House of Talkee-Talkee;
Where the Jossakeeds—the prophets—
And the Chieftains raise their voices.
Like Iagoo the great boaster,
With immeasurable gabble,
Talking much and doing little,
Till one wishes they could vanish
To the kingdom of Ponemah—
To the Land of the Hereafter!
We will show him all the glories
Of this land of shams and swindles,
Land of much adulteration,
Dusting tea and sanding sugar,
And of goods not up to sample;
Till disgusted PAHTAHQUAHONG,
Till the Chief of the Obijways,
President of Indian Council,
Missionary swell, and so forth,
Cries, "Oh, let me leave this England,
Land of Bumbledom and Beadles,
Of a thousand Boards and Vestries;
Let me cross the Big-Sea-Water,
With Keewaydin—with the Home Wind,
And go back to the Ojibways!"
Punch, March 12, 1881.
A jeu d'esprit somewhat in the nature of The
Rejected Addresses has recently been published
by Mr. George Dryden, of Lothian Street, Edinburgh.
It is entitled "Rejected Tercentenary
Songs, with the comments of the Committee
appended." Edited by Rolus Ray.
It will be remembered that the Edinburgh
University has just been celebrating its Tercentenary,
and the contents of this amusing
little sixpenny pamphlet consist of the Poems
supposed to have been sent in, by matriculated
students of the University, in competition for a
prize of Ten Guineas, offered by the Tercentenary
Committee for the best song in honour
of the occasion.
It contains numerous Latin and Macaronic
verses, a long parody of Walt Whitman, one of
Gilbert, and two of Longfellow, which I venture
to quote. The first is incomplete:—
"I stood in the quad at midnight,
As the bells were tolling the hour;
And the moon shone o'er the city,
Behind the Tron Kirk tower."
"Among the black stone gables
The ghostly shadows lay;
And the moonbeams from the rising moon,
Falling, made them creep away."
"With weary brain and mind opprest,
I stood in the quad and pondered—"
Here it breaks off abruptly; the other is a
very fair parody of the Song of Hiawatha,
although, of course, some of the allusions are
only of local interest. The poem is entitled—
By Alfred Longcove.
Should you ask of what I'm writing,
With the scented smoke of segars
Curling around my weary head,
With the odours of the class-rooms,
And its wild reverberations
Of the many interruptions
Of its bands of many students,
Rankling in my ears and nostrils?
Why my head I scratch so often?
Why I ask my muse to aid me
With her bright poetic fire?
Why I burn the gas at midnight?
Why I have so many books—
Poetry books on prosy subjects,
Books of songs by Burns and Moore,
Ponderous books for words referring,
Webster's Unabridged and Walker's
Poet's Rhyming Dictionary—
Strewed around me on the table?
I should answer, I should tell you,
"'Tis because I am composing
A natal song to Alma Mater."
'Tis thy year, O Alma Mater,
Of thy great Tercentenary.
Time, thy years three hundred measures
With his glass; the mighty Hour-glass
Marks thy seconds, passing quickly,
With grains of sand for e'er falling
Through its glassy neck so slender,
Let us sing to her, O students,
A pæan song of natal greetings,
Let us spread our banquet-tables
In the halls of Edina's town.
Let us drain to her good welfare
Many bottles filled with good wine
From the vineyard of the Loire,
From the Spanish town of Xeres,
From the town of great Oporto,
From the country of the Deutchers,
From the flow'ry land of Champagne;
Let us drain the pewter tankards,
Filled with Bass's bittery beer
And with Dublin's triple X stout;
Let us drain our glassy goblets,
Filled with the wine of Gooseberry,
Filled with clarets made in London,
And with other imitations;
Let us brew the Festive Toddy
From the whisky, great Tanglefeet,
On that morn—her natal morning!
Sons and daughters of old Scotland,
Land of Oatcakes and of Whisky,
Don your costumes made for Sunday;
O ye students of Edina,
Put your "go-to-meetings" on you;
O ye Dons, that festal morning,
Don ye your gowns and mortar boards;
Let the Billirubin warble
One of his impromptu ditties,
Physiologic songs of praise—
Sing the praise of Alma Mater;
Let the great, her mighty surgeon,
Throw his dazzling, lustrous sheen
Of his intellect most massive,
In a speech of his own making,
Stock full of jokes and anecdotes—
Speak the praise of Alma Mater;
Let them all, her swell Professors,
Puff her up above the skies.
From the Gardens to the Meadows,
From the Loch—great Duddingston—
To the station of Haymarket,
From the Place of the Lunatics
To the town of Portobello—
Where the many donkey-riders
Ride along its dirty sands;
Where the fellows go on Sunday
For a walk, and drink the Ozone
Wafted round promiscuously;
Where they go to meet their damsels,
And walk with them along the strand—
From Merchiston to Warriston,
Let merry songs of praises ring
On that day, her happy birthday.
Now join with me, ye students all,
Wish her now, your Alma Mater,
Greatest wealth and prosperity.
Hail to thee, O Alma Mater,
School above schools upon this earth!
Hail to thee, thou great Alchemist!
Hail to thee, O Verdant Pasture!
Hail to thee, O Parenchyma!
Hail to thee, thou Grecian Pet!
Hail to thee, the great Kail Runter!
Hail to thee, O Billirubin!
Hail to thee, O Wells of Water!
Hail to thee, the Kitchen Surgeon!
Hail to thee, thou Man of Physic!
Hail to thee, thou Just Lawgiver!
Hail to thee, the great Drug Speaker!
Hail to thee, her Story-teller!
Hail to thee, the great Dissector!
Hail to thee, O Damsonjamer!
Hail to thee, her Organ Grinder!
Hail to thee, thou Fossilfeller!
Hail to thee, O Afterglower!
Hail to thee, the Celtic Chairer!
Hail to thee, O Wandering Jew!
Hail to thee, the Magna Charta!
Hail to thee, O great Kirkpaddy!
Hail to thee, Cephalic Mewer!
Hail to thee, no Small Pertater!
Hail to thee, the great Schoolboarder!
Hail to thee, her Comet-gazer!
Hail to thee, the Soda-fountain!
Hail to thee, thou Cubic Crystal!
Hail to thee, O Science Gossip!
Hail to thee, the Engine-Driver!
Hail to thee, thou great Darwiner!
Hail to thee, the Eye-restorer!
Hail to thee, O great Lunatic!
Hail to thee, her long Gatekeeper!
Hail to ye, her famous Children!
Hail to ye, O Students' Council!
Hail to ye, her many Students!
Hail to me, her Song Composer!
Hail to ye, all her Children, Friends,
And Near Relations, on that day!
All hail to our Alma Mater
On her natal morn be given!!!
[5]
The author of The Dagonet Ballads has produced
so many pathetic poems, descriptive of
the terrible miseries of our London poor, that
one is rather apt to overlook the humorous
poetry proceeding from the same pen. But, like
all true masters of pathos, this poet of the people
has the power to summon up smiles through
our tears. It was well said of Tom Hood "that
the blending of the grave with the gay which
pervaded his writings, makes it no easy task to
class his poems under the heads of 'serious'
and 'comic.'" This remark applies with equal
force to the poems of George R. Sims, and were
it possible to anticipate the verdict of posterity
we might expect to find the names of Hood
and Sims classed together; indeed, so far as
practical results are concerned, the philanthropical
efforts of the younger poet are likely
far to exceed anything that was achieved by the
author of The Bridge of Sighs and The Song of the
Shirt.
But this is not the place to consider Mr. Sims'
position as a serious writer, although, indeed,
even the following poem has a moral:—
(An Episode of a rapid Thaw.)
THE dirty snow was thawing fast,
As through the London streets there passed
A youth, who, mid snow, slush, and ice,
Exclaimed, "I don't care what's the price—
A Plumber!"
His brow looked mad, his eye beneath
Was fixed and fierce—he clenched his teeth,
While here and there a bell he rung,
But found not all the shops among
A Plumber.
He saw his home, he saw the light
Wall-paper sopped—a gruesome sight.
He saw his dining-room afloat,
He cried, "I'll give a fi' pun note—
A Plumber!"
"O stop the leak!" his wife had said;
"The ceiling's cracking overhead.
The roaring torrent's deep and wide"—
"I'll go and fetch," he had replied,
"A Plumber."
"Pa ain't at home," the maiden said,
When to the plumber's house he sped.
He searched through London low and high,
But nowhere could he catch or spy
A Plumber.
Next morn, a Peeler on his round,
A mud-bespattered trav'ller found,
Who grasped the "Guide to Camden Town"
With hand of ice—the page turned down
At "Plumbers."
They brought a parson to his side,
He gently murmured ere he died—
"My house has floated out to sea,
I am not mad—it's not d. t.—
It's Plumbers."
This parody is to be found in a small volume
entitled The Lifeboat and other Poems, by George
R. Sims (John P. Fuller, Wine Office Court,
London, 1883).
By the author's kind permission I am also
enabled to quote the very funny, although slightly
incoherent, remarks of—
IT comes as a boon and a blessing to men
When your missus as was disappears from your ken.
ANONYMOUS.
When from the wife you get a parting benison,
Her sister will console you—
ALFRED TENNYSON.
When weary, worn, and nigh distraught with grief,
You mourn Maria in your handkerchief,
Rush, rush to Aunty, and obtain relief.
AN F.S.A. OF OVER 100 YEARS.
Beneath the spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands—
With Mrs. Smith it's all U P,
She's gone to other lands.
But he goes on Sunday to the church,
And hears her sister's voice;
He leaves his scruples in the lurch,
And she makes his heart rejoice.
The morning sees his suit commenced,
The evening sees it done—
Next day the Parson ties the knot,
And Pa and Aunt are one.
LONGFELLOW.
O blood-bitten lip all aflame,
O Dolores and also Faustine,
O aunts of the world worried shame,
Lo your hair with its amorous sheen,
Meshes man in its tangles of gold;
O aunts of the tremulous thrill,
We are pining—we long to enfold
The Deceased Wife's Fair Relative Bill.
SWINBURNE.
Although the above lines were written several
years ago, they may be appropriately quoted
now that the House of Commons has once
again carried, and by a large majority, a resolution
in favour of the repeal of the law prohibiting
marriage with a deceased wife's sister.
(In a division in the House of Commons on
May 6, 1884, Mr. Broadhurst's motion was
carried by 238 to 127, or a majority of 111 in
favour of the repeal.)
THE dinner hour had come at last,
The evening sun was sinking fast;
I sat me down in sorry mood,
And darkly look'd upon the food.
Dyspepsia!
My happy comrades' bright eyes beam'd,
And o'er the steaming potage gleam'd;
Alas! not mine to find relief
In whitebait's flavour bright and brief.
Dyspepsia!
"Try not the duck," my conscience said;
'Twill lie upon your chest like lead;
Delusion all, that bird so fair;
The sage and onions are a snare.
Dyspepsia!
"Oh, taste!" our hostess cried, and press'd
A portion of a chicken's breast;
I view'd the fowl with longing eye,
Then answer'd sadly, with a sigh,
Dyspepsia!
I mark'd with fix'd and stony glare
A brace of pheasants and a hare;
A tear stood in my bilious eye,
When helping friends to pigeon-pie.
Dyspepsia!
"Beware the celery, if you please;
Beware the awful Stilton cheese."
This was the doctor's last good-night;
I answered feebly, turning white,
"Dyspepsia!"
The scarcely-tasted dinner done,
Old Port and walnuts next came on;
I kept my mouth all closely shut;
But how I long'd for just one nut!
Dyspepsia!
Some nuts I had, at early day,
(Morn was just breaking cold and grey),
I, starting up, with loud ha! ha!
Felt falling, like a falling star.
Dyspepsia!
The Mocking Bird, by Frederick Field (John Van Voorst,
London, 1868.)
(By a young lady aged fourteen).
The shades of night were falling fast,
As through a lonely village passed
A youth, who rode 'mid snow and ice
A two-wheeled thing of strange device—
A Bicycle.
His brow was sad, his eye below
Flashed like his bicycle's steel glow,
While like a silver clarion rung
A bell, which on the handle hung—
Of the Bicycle.
In cosy sheds he saw the light
Of bicycles well cleaned and bright;
Along the road deep ruts had grown,
And from his lips escaped a moan—
"My Bicycle!"
"Try not that road," the old man said,
"'Tis full of holes, you'll break your head;
The farm pond, too, is deep and wide;"
But loud the bicyclist replied,
"Rot! Bicycle!"
"Beware the oak-tree's withered arm,
Beware the holes, they'll do you harm!"
This was the peasant's last good-night;
A voice replied, "Don't fear, all right—
Vive Bicycles!"
At break of day, as in a brook
A passenger did chance to look,
He started back, what saw he there?
His voice cried through the startled air,
"A Bicycle!"
A bicyclist, upon the ground,
Half buried in the dirt, was found
Still hugging, in his arms of ice,
That two-wheeled thing of strange device,
The Bicycle.
There in the twilight cold and grey,
Helpless, but struggling, he lay,
While, now no longer bright and fair,
His bicycle lay broken there—
Poor Bicycle!
Whizz; the Christmas number of The Bicycling Times,
1880.
The shades of night were a coming down swift,
Upidee, Upida.
The snow was heapin' up, drift on drift,
Upidee, Upida.
Through a Yankee village a youth did go,
Carrying a flag with this motto—
"Upidee, Upida."
On his high forehead curled copious hair,
He'd a Roman nose, and complexion fair,
A bright blue eye, with an auburn lash,
And he ever kep' a shoutin' thro' his moustache,
Upidee, Upida!
About half-past nine, as he kep' gettin' upper
He saw a lot of families a sitting down to supper;
He eyed those slippery rocks, he eyed 'em very keen
And he fled as he cried, and he cried as he was fleein'—
"Upidee, Upida."
"Oh take care," cried an old man, "stop;
It's blowing gales up there on top;
You'll be blown right off the other side,"
But the humorous stranger still replied,
"Upidee, Upida."
"Beware the branch of the sycamore tree,
And rolling stones, if any you see;"
Just then the farmer went to bed,
And a singular voice replied overhead,
"Upidee, Upida."
"Oh, stay!" the maiden said, "and rest,
Your weary head upon this breast."
On his Roman nose a tear-drop come,
As he ever kep' a shoutin' as he upward clum,
"Upidee, Upida!"
About a quarter to six in the next forenoon
A man accidentally going up too soon
Heard repeated above him, as much as twice,
Those very same words, in a very weak voice,
"Upidee, Upida."
The very same man about a quarter to seven
(He was slow a-gettin' up, the road being uneven),
Found buried up there, among the snow and ice,
That youth with the banner with the strange device,
"Upidee, Upida."
He was dead, defunct, beyond any doubt,
The lamp of his life was quite gone out,
On the dreary hill-side the youth was a layin',
There was no more use for him to be sayin',
"Upidee, Upida!"
The shades of night were falling fast,
As through the streets of London passed
A party with a packet nice,
On which was seen the strange device—
Exitium.
"Hi, stay!" the Bobby cried, "you man."
Says he, "You'll catch me if you can."
Three rapid strides, and he was gone;
From Bobby's lips escaped a groan—
Exitium.
At break of day, as in a fright,
The Bobbies came from left and right,
Each murmured, starting in a scare;
A crash resounded through the air—
Exitium.
There in the twilight cold and grey—
In ruins stately buildings lay,
And o'er the land the news is spread:
"Another Fenian escapade!"
Exitium.
Scraps, 14 May, 1884.
Use not the coke, the old man said,
The stove must be by small coal fed.
The heap of slack is deep and wide,
But still their saucy voices cried,
Don't bother us!
Printer's Devil, Northampton, 1884.
(After "The Bridge.")
I went to bed at eleven,
At the sign of the Azure Boar,
And I knew that my room was seven,
For I'd seen it upon the door.
With a flickering, flaring candle,
That glimmered like sickly Hope,
I found out my way to the handle,
And I flung the portal ope,
When a gentleman—not to my thinking—
Was placed in the door upright;
It was evident he had been drinking,
For he hiccuped out in the night;
And he spoke in a language mighty,
That rang through the chill and gloom;
And he asked me, "Highty-tighty,"
"What the deuce do you do in my room?"
And never of warning mildly
A word had the stranger said,
Ere he took up a bootjack wildly,
And hurled it at my head;
And down with a noise and clatter
It fell o'er the winding stair,
And some one cried, "What's the matter?"
And I said, "I am not aware!"
And whenever I feel dyspeptic,
And whenever my soul's unwell,
And whenever I've got lumbago,
And whenever my eyelids swell,
I see the man with the bootjack,
He swears as he used to swear,
And I hear the implement falling
And clattering down the stair;
And I say to myself at twilight,
A vindictive person's a brute;
I'd rather have been on the skylight
Than down at the staircase foot!
For whatever evil you suffer,
The words of the sage rehearse,
"Though things may be bad, you duffer,
They might be a good deal worse."
The Story of a Railway Tavern, by Professor Long,
Fellow of the Learned Societies, contained in Vere Vereker's
Vengeance, by Thomas Hood, 1865.
Reference was made, on page 80, to Edmund
H. Yates's parody on Evangeline, it is to be
found in "Mirth and Metre," by F. E. Smedley
and E. H. Yates, 1855.
It commences thus:—
THESE are the green woods of Cliefden. The glorious oaks and the chestnuts
All appertain to the Duke, whose residence stands in the distance—
Stands like a toyhouse of childhood, besprinkled all over with windows—
Stands like a pudding at Christmas, a white surface, dotted with black things.
Loud from the neighbouring river, the deep voiced clamorous bargée
Roars, and in accents opprobrious holloas to have the lock opened.
These are the green woods of Cliefden. But where are the people who in them
Laughed like a man when he lists to the breath-catching accents of Buckstone?
Where are the wondrous white waistcoats, the flimsy baréges and muslins,
Worn by the swells and the ladies who came here on pleasant excursions?
Gone are those light-hearted people, flirtations, perhaps love—even marriage,
All have had woeful effect since Mrs. Merillian's picnic;
And of that great merry-making, some bottles in tinfoil enveloped,
And a glove dropped by Jane Page, are the vestiges only remaining!
Ye who take pleasure in picnics, and dote on excursions aquatic,
Flying the smoke of the city, vexations and troubles of business,
List to a joyous tradition of one which was once held at Cliefden—
List to a tale of cold chicken, champagne, bitter beer, lobster salad!
* * * * *
EDMUND H. YATES.
BRIGHTLY blazed up the fires through the long dark days of November,
Glimmered the genial lamp in the wainscoted rooms of the College,
Brightest of all in the rooms of De Whyskers, "the talented drinker."
Thence came the festive song, and the clink of the bottles and glasses,
Thence came the chorus loud, abhorred of the Dean and the Fellows.
There sat De Whyskers the jolly, the drinker of curious liquors,
There sat De Jones, and De Jenkyns, stroke oar of the Boniface Torpid;
There too, De Brown, and De Smith, well known to the eyes of the Proctors,
Heedless of numberless ticks, and the schools, and a "plough" in futuro,
Sat by the ruddy-faced fire, and quaffed the bright vintage of Xeres.
Merrily out to the night through the fogs and the mist of November
Floated the breath of the weed through the fields of the dark Empyrean,
Rose the melodious sounds of the "dogs" which are known as "the jolly,"
"Slapping" and "banging" along through that noisy and meaningless ditty.
But silence! the welkin now rings (whatever the meaning of that is),
A rumour of battle is heard, and the wine and the weeds are deserted.
Out to the darkling High, where the cad and the commoner struggle,
Out to the noise, and the din, and the crowd of the unwashed mechanics,
Went forth De Whyskers the bold, brimfull of the valour of Holland,
Flashed both his eyes in the dark with a gleam that was quite meteoric,
As flashes the pheasant's tail when he hears the first gun in October.
Now with a yell and a spring the cads came up to the onset,
Cursing and swearing amain, and throwing their arms out like thunder.
Stopping before All Saints' the hideous work of Dean Aldrich,
Stopping De Whyskers made emphatic the sign for the battle,
Thereon he let fall a blow swift like an armourer's hammer,
Down on his face fell a cad as falls an oak on the mountains,
Forth from his nose came "the red" as oft in the vintage the dresser
Squeezes the blushing grape on the plains of Estremadura.
Now from the end of the High a rush of the cads overwhelming
Sweeps as the sea sweeps on in the long dark nights of the winter,
Howling as howl the wolves through the snow in the forests of Sweden;
Blow after blow is struck, as the flakes come down in the snowstorm.
Now from the Turl to the Broad, and St. Giles's, abode of the peaceful,
Even to Worcester the slow, or Botany Bay, as they call it,
Down by Trinity Gates, and Balliol beloved of the scholar,
Down by the temple of Tom, whence the Curfew rings in the gloaming
Thundered the fray till the rain came down on the scene as a damper.
College Rhymes (T. and G. Shrimpton, Oxford, 1865.)
The great "Town and Gown" rows that used
to occur annually on the Fifth of November,
between the undergraduates and the townspeople,
have been gradually dying out, but the
memory of them still lingers in many old College
Rhymes and traditions. They are most vividly
described in Verdant Green, an Oxford Freshman,
a light-hearted clever little work, by the Rev. E.
Bradley, Rector of Lenton, better known under
his pseudonym of Cuthbert Bede. Mr. Bradley,
although himself a Cambridge man, was intimately
acquainted with Oxford.
Hailing the Centenary Birthday of Burns.
Happy thy name, O BURNS! for burns, in thy native Doric,
Meaneth the free bright streams, exhaustless, pellucid, and sparkling,
Mountain-born, wild and erratic, kissing the flow'rets in passing,
Type of thy verse and thyself—loving and musical ever;
And the streams by thy verse made immortal are known by our giant rivers,
Where the emigrants sing them to soothe the yearnings for home in their bosoms,
And the Coila and gentle Doon, by the song of the Celtic wanderer,
Are known to the whispering reeds that border the great Mississippi.
Thou wert the lad for the lasses! lasses the same are as misses;
And here we have misses had pleased you—Missouri and the Mississippi.
And "green grow the rushes" beside them—as thy evergreen chorus would have them.
Thou wert the champion of freedom!—Thou didst rejoice in our glory!
When we at Bunker's Hill no bunkum display'd, but true courage!
Jubilant thou wert in our Declaration of Independence!
More a Republican thou than a chain-hugging bow-and-scrape Royalist!
Even the Stars and the Stripes seem appointed the flag of thy destiny;—
The stars are the types of thy glory, the stripes thou didst get from Misfortune.
Rival Rhymes, in honour of Burns. Edited by Ben
Trovato (Routledge, Warnes & Routledge. London, 1859.)
There are several excellent parodies in Lays
of the Saintly, amongst them the following,
which is given here as it is also in the style of
Longfellow's Evangeline:—
THIS is the metre Columbian. The soft-flowing trochees and dactyls,
Blended with fragments spondaic, and here and there an iambus,
Syllables often sixteen, or more or less, as it happens,
Difficult always to scan, and depending greatly on accent,
Being a close imitation, in English, of Latin hexameters—
Fluent in sound, and avoiding the stiffness of commoner blank verse,
Having the grandeur and flow of America's mountains and rivers,
Such as no bard could achieve in a mean little island like England;
Oft, at the end of a line, the sentence dividing abruptly
Breaks, and in accents mellifluous follows the thoughts of the author.
In the old miracle days, in Rome the abode of the saintly,
To and fro in a room of her sacred conventual dwelling,
Clad in garments of serge, with a veil in the style of her Order,
Mass-book and rosary too, with a bunch of keys at her girdle,
Walk'd, with a pensive air, Beatrice the Carmelite sister.
Fair of aspect was she, but a trifle vivacious and worldly,
And not altogether cut out for a life of devout contemplation.
More of freedom already had she than the rest of the sisters,
For hers was the duty to ope the gates of the convent, and take in
Messages, parcels, et cetera, from those who came to the wicket.
Ever and often she paused to gaze on the face of Our Lady,
Limn'd in a picture above by some old pre-Raphaelite Master;
Then would she say to herself (because there was none else to talk to),
"Why should I thus be immured, when people outside are enjoying
Thousands of sights and scenes, while I'm not allowed to behold them,
Thousands of joys and of changes, while I am joyless and changeless?
No, I can bear it no longer. I'll hasten away from the Convent:
Now is the time, for all's quiet; there's no one to see or to catch me."
So resolving at length, she took off her habit monastic,
And promptly array'd herself in smuggled secular garments;
Then on the kneeling-desk she laid down the keys, in a safeplace,
Where some one or other, or somebody else, would certainly find them.
"Take thou charge of these keys, blest Mother," then murmured Beatrice,
"And guard all the nuns in this holy but insupportable building."
And as she spoke these words, the eyes of the picture were fasten'd
With mournful expression upon her, and tears could be seen on the canvas;
Little she heeded, however, her thoughts had played truant before her,
Then stole she out of the portal, and never once looking behind her,
Wrapp'd in an ample cloak, and further concealed by the darkness,
Out through the streets of the city Beatrice quickly skedaddled.
Out in the world went Beatrice, her cell was left dark and deserted;
Scarce had she gone, when lo! with wonderment be it related—
Down from her canvas and frame, there stepp'd the blessed Madonna,
Took up the keys and the raiment Beatrice had quitted, and wore them,
Also assuming the face and figure of her who was absent;
Became in appearance a nun, so that none could discover the difference.
Save that the sisters agreed that Beatrice the portress was growing
Better and better, as one who aspired to canonization;
Daily abounding in grace, a pattern to all in the convent;
Till it would not have surprised them to see a celestial halo
Gather around her head, and pinions spring from her shoulders,
That, when too good for this world, she might fly away to a better.
Her post was below her deserts, and so by promotion they made her
Mistress of all the novices seeking religious instruction.
Such was her great success in that tender and beautiful office,
Her pupils all bloomed into saints, and some of the very first water.
Many a day had pass'd since Beatrice escaped from the convent,
Much had she seen of the world, and its wickedness greatly distress'd her;
Oft she repented her act, and long'd to return, yet she dared not;
Oft was determined to go, still she "stood on the order of going."
Thus it at last occurr'd that her convent's secular agent
Entered one day, in the house where the truant sister was staying,
But changed as she was in appearance, he did not know her from Adam;
Whilst he in his clerical garb was to her a familiar figure.
"Now I shall learn," thought she, "what they say of my flight and my absence."
And so she eagerly asked of the nuns and of sister Beatrice,
As of a friend she had known when living near to the convent.
"Truly," the factor replied, "She is still the pride of our sisters,
Favourite too of the abbess, and worthy of all our affection.
Would there were more of her kind in some houses monastic I know of,"
Puzzled and rather distress'd, then answer'd the truant religieuse,
"She whom I speak of, alas! was less of a saint than a sinner,
She fled from the veil and the cell, so surely you speak of another?"
"Not in the least, my child," the secular agent responded;
"Sister Beatrice, the saint-like, did not run away from the cloister,
Mistress is she of the novices. Why should she go? Stuff and nonsense!"
"What can it mean?" thought Beatrice, "and who is my double and namesake?"
So when the agent was gone, resolved she would settle the question,
Off to the convent she went, and knocked at the portal familiar,
Ask'd for the sister Beatrice, was shown to the parlour and found a
Counterpart of herself, as she was in her days of seclusion.
Down on her knees went Beatrice—the why and the wherefore she knew not.
"Welcome, my daughter, again," said her double, the blessed Madonna;
"Now I restore you your keys, your robe, and your other belongings,
Adding the excellent name and promotion I've won in your likeness;
Be you a nun as before, but more pious; farewell, take my blessing."
Speaking, she melted away in the holy pre-Raphaelite picture.
Again was Beatrice "herself," like Richard the third, à la Shakespeare,
Growing in grace from that day, and winning the glory of Saintship;
While each of the pupils she taught, went to heaven as surely as she did.
Such is the metre Columbian, but where is the bard who devised it?
Tenderest he of the poets who wrote in the tongue of (New) England,
Where the minstrel who sang of "Evangeline," also "Miles Standish?"
Alas! he will never again pour forth his effusions pathetic,
But his name and his fame endure, and this characteristic measure
In honour of him I adopt, without any thought of burlesquing.
Thus on the ear its cadence, like sounds from the labouring ocean,
Breaks, and in accents mellifluous follows the thoughts of the author.
Lays of the Saintly, by Walter Parke (Vizetelly & Co.),
London, 1882.