BRITANNIA'S WELCOME TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER.
PLAGUE of Egypt, from over the sea,
Ismail Pasha!
Viceroy, Khidevé, or whatever you be,
Jacksons, O'Tooles, and McStunners are we,
But all John Bulls in our welcome of thee,
Ismail Pasha!
Welcome him, blunder of escort and suite,
Mounted inspector, and mob in the street!
Call up the first cab his Highness to meet!
Throw his hat-box and Bradshaw and rug on the seat!
Welcome him! feast him with fourpenny treat,
One glass of old ale and a sandwich to eat!
Scatter, O Royalty, gold for his keep!
Dream, all ye tradesmen of harvests to reap!
The Palace is empty, our pockets are deep!
Fling wide, O menial, the grand back door!
Take him, O attic, and rock him to sleep!
Strew a viceregal shakedown on the floor!
Welcome him, welcome him, all that is cheap!
Sing, Prima Donna, and fashion stare!
Scrape up your regiments, weak and few,
Hurry, ye Commons, and all be there,
To swell the pomp of the grand review!
Chuckle, Britannia! a Sultan? pooh!
A nobody! don't we know who's who,
Ismail Pasha!
Seeking quarters for change of air,
Come to us, love us (but pay your fare)—
Guests such as you we are happy to see;
Come to us, love us, and have we not shown,
In breakfast, and luncheon, and dinner, and tea,
Kindness to strangers as great as your own?
For Jacksons, O'Tooles, and McStunners we,
Viceroy, Khidevé, or whatever you be,
Yet thorough John Bulls in our welcome of thee,
Ismail Pasha!
Shortly after the death of the late John Brown, when it was announced that the Queen had had a statue of him erected in the grounds at Balmoral, it was also rumoured that Tennyson was writing a poem in his honour. A jocular author suggested that it might run as follows:—
Trash about bells and the merry March hare
Wrote I once at the royal summons.
More of us Danes than Antic Rum-uns!
No; let me see! I'll our welcome of thee,
Alexandra!
Have I gone mad, or taken a drappie?
Norman and Saxon and Dane a wee,
Just a wee drappie intil our ee,
My Indo-Teuton-Celtic chappie!
Norman and Saxon a wee are we,
But more of us rum-uns or Danes you see
Some of us Saxons, and all with a B
In our bonnets, or something that's stronger than tea;
And it's all as easy as A, B, C,
To the poet who sang like a swan up a tree,
Alexandra!
"The promise of May" was a little bit late,
And a fox jumped over a parson's gate,
And he had my cochins, too, if you please,
With a cat to the cream, which was not the cheese;
And a guinea a line is about the rate
You must pay for what flows from the poet's pate
When the blue fire wakes up the whole of the town;
And I'm sure I don't know what to say about Brown.
But whatever I say and whatever I sing
Will be worth to an obolus what it will bring!
The Referee, September, 1883.
It is generally admitted that Tennyson's more recent official poetry has added little to his fame, whilst it has often been mercilessly ridiculed, and, of late, his adulatory poems, and protestations of loyalty, have frequently been ascribed to interested motives. As soon as it was definitely announced that he was to be ennobled, a genealogy was compiled tracing his descent from the kings who ruled in Britain long before the Conquest. This grand claim (which was quoted at page 28) has since been rather spoilt by the plain statement that Alfred Tennyson's grandfather was a country attorney, practising in a small, quiet way in Market Rasen, North Lincolnshire, who, having made money in his business, retired, and bought some land in the neighbourhood.
But for the title just conferred upon him, Tennyson's birth and lineage would have been matters of perfect indifference to his readers. As for raising Tennyson to the peerage, no writer seems seriously to have defended an act which most people look upon as a mistake. Not one parody in its favour has been written, but many against it.
You must wake and call me early, call me early, Vicky clear,
For to-morrow will be the silliest day we've seen for many a year;
For I am a rhyming prig, Vicky, that shoddy and sham reveres,
So I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers.
There's many a crazy lyre, they say, but none so effete as mine;
It cannot ring out an ode to Brown, that gallant gilly of thine,
For there's none so inane as poor old Alf in his sad, declining years;
And I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers.
I sleep so sound all night, Vicky, that I shall never wake;
So come in the early morn, Vicky, and give me a slap and a shake;
For I must gather my scissors and paste and scraps of the bygone years,
And I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers.
As I came up the Row, Vicky, whom think you I should see?
Lord Queensberry against a lamp, and singing Tweedle-de-dee:
He thought of that vile play, Vicky, I wrote in bygone years;
But I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers.
He thought I was a fool, Vicky, for I looked dazed and white;
He took me for a fool, Vicky—by jingo, he was right.
They call me Atheist-hater; but I care not for their jeers,
For I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers.
They say men write, and all for love; but this can never be:
They say that great men write and starve; but what is that to me?
For gold I sell my laughter, for gold I sell my tears,
And I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers.
I wrote my "In Memoriam" when I was young and green;
I wrote my "Promise of the May" when I was pumped out clean;
And I've been the Court's hired lackey for many cringing years;
And I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers.
The spider in my mouldy brain has woven its web for hours
On the dull flats of Lincoln fens and withered hot-house flowers;
I feel the shortening of my wits and the lengthening of my ears,
So I'm to be one of the peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers.
The night winds come and go, Vicky, upon the meadow grass;
There are guineas for the rhymster and thistles for the ass:
I have been your rhyming flunkey for over thirty years;
Now I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers.
There will be poets after me, not fresh and green and still,
Who care less for a Prince's nod than for the People's will,
Not rhyming royal nuptials and singing royal biers;
But I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers.
You must wake and call me early, call me early, Vicky dear;
To-morrow will be the silliest day we've seen for many a year;
For I'm a lackey and prig, Vicky, that sham and shoddy reveres,
And I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers.
From The Secular Review, December 29, 1883.
Of Tennyson's Patriotic Poems The Charge of the Light Brigade has always been the most popular, and has, consequently, been the most frequently parodied. An excellent parody, taken from Puck on Pegasus, was given on page 31; the following are the most interesting examples which remain to be quoted:—