Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. I

by Unknown

CHARGE OF THE LIGHT (IRISH) BRIGADE.

(Not by A——d T——n).

Southward Ho—Here we go!

O'er the wave onward

Out from the Harbour of Cork

Sailed the Six Hundred!

Sailed like Crusaders thence,

Burning for Peter's pence,—

Burning for fight and fame—

Burning to show their zeal—

Into the gates of Rome,

Into the jaws of Hell,

(It's all the same)!

Marched the Six Hundred!

"Barracks, and tables laid!

Food for the Pope's Brigade;"

But ev'ry Celt afraid,

Gazed on the grub dismay'd—

Twigged he had blundered;—

"Who can eat rancid grease?

Call this a room a-piece?"[2]

"Silence! unseemly din,

Prick them with bayonets in."

Blessèd Six Hundred!

Waves every battle blade—

"Forward the Pope's brigade!"

Was there a man obeyed?

No—where they stood they stayed,

Though Lamoricière pray'd,

Threatened, and thundered—

"Charge!" Down their sabres then

Clashed, as they turn'd—and ran—

Sab'ring the empty air,

Each of one taking care,

Here, there, and ev'rywhere

Scattered and sundered.

Sick of the powder smell,

Down on their knees they fell,

Howling for hearth and home—

Cursing the Pope of Rome—

Whilst afar shot and shell

Volleyed and thundered;

Captured, alive and well,

Ev'ry Hibernian swell,

Came back the tale to tell;

Back from the states of Rome—

Back from the gates of Hell—

Safe and sound every man—

Jack of Six Hundred!

When shall their story fade?

Oh the mistake they made!

Nobody wondered,

Pity the fools they made—

Pity the Pope's Brigade—

NOBBLED Six Hundred!

Like the accomplished authors of The Bon Gaultier Ballads, Mr. Cholmondeley-Pennell is almost too much a Poet to be thoroughly successful as a mere Parodist. His muse often carries him away, and what begins in mere badinage, and playful imitation, runs into graceful sentiment and poetical imagery, until the author pulls her up short, and compels her to turn aside again into the well-worn "footprints in the sand of time."

It would be difficult to find a better example both of the merits, and, so far as mere parody is concerned, of the defects of Mr. Cholmondeley-Pennell's style than in the following lines, which he has kindly permitted me to insert in this collection.—They parody the Morte D'Arthur:—

LINES SENT TO THE LATE CHARLES BUXTON, M.P.,
WITH MY FAVOURITE HUNTER, WHITE-MIST.

The sequel of to-day dissevers all

This fellowship of straight riders, and hard men

To hounds—the flyers of the hunt.

I think

That we shall never more in days to come

Hold cheery talk of hounds and horses (each

Praising his own the most) shall steal away

Through brake and coppice-wood, or side by side

Breast the sharp bullfinch and deep-holding dyke,

Sweep through the uplands, skim the vale below,

And leave the land behind us like a dream.

I tear me from this passion that I loved—

Though Paget sware that I should ride again—

But yet I think I shall not; I have done:

My hunt is hunted: I have skimmed the cream,

The blossom of the seasons, and no more

For me shall gallant Scott have cause for wrath,

Or injured farmer mourn his wasted crops.

Now, therefore, take my horse, which was my pride

(For still thou know'st he bore me like a man—),

And wheel him not, nor plunge him in the mere,

But set him straight and give his head the rein,

And he shall bear thee lightly to the front,

Swifter than wind, and stout as truest steel,

And none shall rob thee of thy pride of place.

---

IN THE SCHOOLS AT OXFORD.
TO AN EXAMINER.

(Suggested by the Laureate's conundrum "In The Garden at Swaintson.")

Butcher boys shouted without,

Within was writing for thee,

Shadows of three live men

Talked as they walked into me.

Shadows of three live men, and you were one of the three.

Butcher boys sang in the streets,

The bobby was far away,

Butcher boys shouted and sang

In their usual maddening way.—

Still in the Schools quite courteous you were torturing men all the day.

Two dead men have I known,

Examiners settled by me.

Two dead men have I scored,

Now I will settle with thee.

Three dead men must I score, and thou art the last of the three.

REGNOLD GREENLEAF.

(The Shotovor Papers, 1874).

Since the year 1845 Alfred Tennyson has been in the receipt of a civil list pension of £200 a year, so that, in round figures, he has received about £8,000 of the public money, besides drawing the annual salary of £100 since his appointment as Poet Laureate, November, 1850. The sale of his works has also, of course, been greatly increased, owing to his official title, and the present fortunate holder of the laurels enjoys a fortune much in excess of that of any of his predecessors in office. From the days of Ben Jonson downwards Poets Laureate have been paid to sing the praises of the Royal Family; of these Laureates, Jonson, Dryden, Southey, and Wordsworth were true poets, but the others in the line of succession were mere rhymesters, whose very names are now all but forgotten. Eusden, Cibber, and Pye were unremitting in their production of New Year, and Birth-day Odes, Southey did little in this way, and Wordsworth would not stoop to compose any official poems whatever, although he wore the laurels for seven years.

It was reserved for Alfred Tennyson to revive the custom, and he has composed numerous adulatory poems on events in the domestic history of our Royal Family.

The smallest praise that can be bestowed on Tennyson's official poems is that they are immeasurably superior to any produced by former Laureates; and although the events recorded have but a passing interest, the poems will probably long retain their popularity. The death of the princess Charlotte in 1817 was, no doubt, considered at the time as a greater public loss than was the death of Prince Albert in 1861; yet who now reads Southey's poem in her praise? Whereas the beauty of Tennyson's Dedication of the Idyls of the King will cause it to be remembered long after people have forgotten the Prince to whom it was inscribed.

The Dedication commences thus:—

"THESE to his Memory—since he held them dear,

Perhaps as finding there unconsciously

Some image of himself—I dedicate,

I dedicate,—I consecrate with tears—

These Idyls.

"And, indeed, He seems to me

Scarce other than my own ideal knight."

NOTE.—Poets Laureate, with the dates of their appointment:—Benjamin Jonson, 1615-16; Sir William Davenant, 1638; John Dryden, 1670; Thomas Shadwell, 1688; Nahum Tate, 1692; Nicholas Rowe, 1715; Lawrence Eusden, 1718; Colley Cibber, 1730; William Whitehead, 1757; Thomas Warton, 1785; Henry James Pye, 1790; Robert Southey, 1813; William Wordsworth, 1843; and Alfred Tennyson, 19th November, 1850.

Continuing in this strain for another fifty lines, the Poet credits the Prince with every conceivable virtue, after which, as a contrast, it is almost a relief to turn to some parody, less ideal, and less heroic.

THESE to his memory—since he held them dear,

Perchance as finding there unwittingly

Some picture of himself—I dedicate,

I dedicate, I consecrate with smiles—

These Idle Lays—

Indeed, He seemed to me

Scarce other than my own ideal liege,

Who did not muchly care to trouble take;

But his concern was, comfortable ease

To dress in well-cut tweeds, in doeskin suits,

In pants of patterns marvellous to see;

To smoke good brands; to quaff rare vintages;

To feed himself with dainty meats withal;

To sport with Amaryllis in the shade;

To toy with what Neræa calls her hair;

And, in a general way, to happy be,

If possible, and always debonair;

Who spoke few wise things; did some foolish ones;

Who was good-hearted, and by no means stiff;

Who loved himself as well as any man;

He who throughout his realms to their last isle

Was known full well, whose portraiture was found

In ev'ry album.

We have lost him; he is gone;

We know him now; ay, ay, perhaps too well,

For now we see him as he used to be,

How shallow, larky, genial-hearted, gay;

With how much of self-satisfaction blessed—

Not swaying to this faction nor to that,

Because, perhaps, he neither understood;

Not making his high place a Prussian perch

Of War's ambition, but the vantage ground

Of comfort; and through a long tract of years,

Wearing a bouquet in his button-hole;

Once playing a thousand nameless little games,

Till communistic cobblers gleeful danced,

And democratic delvers hissed, "Ha! ha!"

Who dared foreshadow,, then, for his own son

A looser life, one less distraught than his?

Or how could Dilkland, dreaming of his sons,

Have hoped less for them than some heritance

Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine,

Thou noble Father of her Kings to be—

If fate so wills it, O most potent K——;

The patron once of Polo and of Poole,

Of actors and leviathan "comiques;"

Once dear to Science as to Art; once dear

To Sanscrit erudition as to either;

Dear to thy country in a double sense;

Dear to purveyors; ay, a liege, indeed,

Beyond all titles, and a household name,

Hereafter, through all times, Guelpho the Gay!

The Coming K——

The Coming K—— was published about ten years ago as one of Beeton's Christmas Annuals, and created a sensation at the time, as it dealt with some social scandals then fresh in the public mind. After enjoying a rapid sale for a short period, it was suddenly withdrawn in a mysterious manner from circulation, and is now rather scarce. Following the Dedication, just quoted, are parodies of the Idyls of the King, with the following titles:—The Coming of Guelpho; Heraint and Shenid; Vilien; Loosealot and Delaine; The Glass of Ale; Silleas and Gettarre; The Last Carnival; and Goanveer. In each of these parts there are parodies well worthy of preservation, but space will only permit of the insertion of the following extracts, one from Vilien, the other from Goanveer.

In Vilien, the then prevalent crazes for Spiritualism, Table Rapping, and Cabinet séances are amusingly satirised; Vilien seeks out Herlin the Wizard, and thus begs him to reveal the one great secret of his art:—

"I ever feared you were not wholly mine,

And see—you ask me what it is I want?

Yet people call you wizard—why is this?

What is it makes you seem so proud and cold?

Yet if you'd really know what boon I ask,

Then tell me, dearest Herlin, ere I go,

The charm with which you make your table rap.

* * * *

O yield my boon,

And grant my re-iterated wish,

Then will I love you, ay, and you shall kiss

My grateful lips—you shall upon my word."

And Herlin took his hand from hers and said,

O, Vilien, ask not this, but aught beside.

But as thou lov'st me, Vilien, do not ask

The way in which I make the table rap.

O ask it not!

And Vilien, like the tenderest hearted maid

That ever jilted swain or lover mocked,

Made answer, either eyelid wet with tears:

"Nay, Herlin, if you love me, say not so;

You do but tease to talk to me like this.

Methinks you hardly know the tender rhyme

Of 'Trust me for all in all, or not at all.'

I heard a 'comique' sing the verses once,

And they shall answer for me. List the song:

'In love, 'tis as in trade; if trade were ours,

Credit and cash could ne'er be equal powers—

Give trust to all or don't give trust at all.

It is the little rift within the lute

That cracks the sound and makes the music mute,

And leaves the banjo nothing worth at all.

It is the little moth within the suit,

It is the merry maggot in the fruit,

That worming surely, slowly ruins all.

It is the little leaven makes the lump,

It is the little piston works the pump;

And A-L-L spells ALL, and—all is all.'

O, Herlin, do you understand my rhyme?

And Herlin coughed, and owned that he did not.

* * * *

And Villien, naught abashed, replied again:

"Lo, now, how silly you must be, you know,

My simple stanzas not to understand;

'Tis thus our truest poets write their rhymes;

They try their sense and meaning to conceal;

But you should solve their riddles, though 'tis said

They don't the answers know themselves, sometimes.

However, be that as it may, I think

I'll give you one verse more. So Villien sang:

"That sign, once mine, is thine, ay, closelier mine,

For what is thine is mine, and mine is thine,

And this, I much opine, is line on line;

To learn the obvious moral once for all."

But Herlin looked aghast, as well he might,

Nor knew the teaching of her little song."

The last legend, that of Goanveer, tells how—

"Fleet Goanveer had lost the race, and stood

There in the stable near to Epsom Downs."

This mare the Coming K—— had backed heavily, but his trusted friend, Sir Loosealot, obtaining access to her stable the night before the race, had drugged her, so that on the day she hobbled sickly to the winning-post. By this evil trick Sir Loosealot wins much, whilst the Coming K—— is a heavy loser. Guelpho visits the mare in her stable, and thus addresses her, in a parody of the celebrated passage in Guinevere, where Arthur parts from his faithless Queen:—

"And all went well till on the turf I went,

Believing thou wouldst fortune bring to me,

And place me higher yet in name and fame.

Then came the shameful act of Loosealot;

Then came thy breaking down in that great race;

And now my name's worth nil at Tattersall's,

And all my knights can curl their lips at me;

Can say 'I've come a cropper,' and the like,

And all through thee and he—and him, I mean—

But slips will happen at a time like this.

Canst wonder I am sad when thus I see

I am contemned amongst my chiefest knights?

When I am hinted at in public prints

As being a man who sold the people's race?

But think not, Goanveer, my matchless mare,

Thy lord has wholly lost his love for thee.

Yet must I leave thee to thy shame, for how

Couldst thou be entered for a race again?

The public would not hear of it; nay, more,

Would hoot and hound thee from the racing-course,

Being one they had loved, yet one on whom they had lost."

He paused, and in the pause the mare rejoiced.

For he relaxed the caresses of his arms;

And, thinking he had done, the mare did neigh,

As with delight; but Guelpho spake again:—

"Yet, think not that I come to urge thy faults;

I did not come to curse thee, Goanveer:

The wrath which first I felt when thou brok'st down

Is past—it never will again return.

I came to take my last fond leave of thee,

For I shall ne'er run mare or horse again.

O silky mane, with which I used to play

At Hampton! O most perfect equine form,

And points the like of which no mare yet had

Till thou was't bred! O fetlocks, neater far

Than many a woman's ankles! O grand hocks

That faltered feebly on that fatal day!"

* * * *

Yet, Goanveer, I bid thee now good-bye,

And leave thee, feeling yet a love for thee,

As one who first my racing instinct stirred,

As one who taught me to abjure the turf.

Hereafter we may meet—I cannot tell;

Thy future may be happy—so I wish.

But this I pray, on no account henceforth

Make mixture of your water—drink it neat;

I charge thee this. And now I must go hence;

Through the thick night I hear the whistle blow

That tells me that my 'special' waits to start.

Thou wilt stay here awhile, so be at rest;

But hither shall I never come again,

Or ever pat thy neck, or see thee more.

Good-bye!"

On the occasion of the arrival of the Princess Alexandra from Denmark in March, 1863, Tennyson wrote:—