A "COMMON" GRIEVANCE; OR, OUR OPEN SPACES AND OUR ÆDILES.
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!"
Truth, August 2, 1883.
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.
T. F. DILLON CROKER.
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:—