NEVER JOHN MOORE; OR, THE REJECTED SUITOR.

(An old story by an Old Bachelor.)

(With sincere apologies to the Rev. Charles Wolfe—for the sheep's clothing.)

He felt highly absurd, as he put on his coat,

And, of course, exceedingly worried;

He swore he'd never return to the spot,

As out of the front door he scurried.

II.

He tried to banish her face from his sight,

She for whom he was yearning;

Hadn't Fred said, he knew he was right,

And that she was fond of spurning.

III.

But who'd have thought—ah, even guessed—

That after she had caught and bound him;

It was to be but a flirting jest.

An impartial joke to sound him.

IV.

Few and short were the words he had said,

Only this—only this, "love be mine."

She gave him a rap with her fan on his head,

And laughingly left him to pine

What was he to do? should he hate her instead?

Or weeping wail, waly willow;

Or wiping away the tears he had shed,

Launch in some fresh peccadillo?

VI.

Lightly they'd talked in the days that were gone,

In arbours and in kitchen gardens;

Only to find his poor heart torn

By devotion, which her hard heart hardens.

VII.

L'ENVOI.

The moral of this I hope you won't shun,

Don't be in your mind too enquiring,

Don't fall in love, or as sure as a gun,

You're not cared for by her you're admiring.

VIII.

Talk to them civilly and leave them alone,

And this is the end of my story.

And as I don't mean to alter my tone,

I drink to all flirts "con amore."

From Cribblings from the Poets (Jones & Piggott), Cambridge, 1883.

A FUNERAL AFTER SIR JOHN MOORE'S,
FURNISHED BY AN UNDERTAKER.

NOT a mute one word at the funeral spoke

Till away to the pot-house we hurried,

Not a bearer discharged his ribald joke

O'er the grave where our "party" we buried.

We buried him dearly with vain display,

Two hundred per cent. returning,

Which we made the struggling orphans pay,

All consideration spurning.

With plumes of feathers his hearse was drest,

Pall and hatbands and scarfs we found him;

And he went, as a Christian, unto his rest,

With his empty pomp around him.

None at all were the prayers we said,

And we felt not the slightest sorrow,

But we thought, as the rites were perform'd o'er the dead,

Of the bill we'd run up on the morrow.

We thought as he sunk to his lowly bed

That we wish'd they'd cut it shorter.

So that we might be off to the Saracen's Head,

For our gin, and our pipes, and our porter.

Lightly we speak of the "party" that's gone,

Now all due respect has been paid him;

Ah! little he reck'd of the lark that went on

Near the spot where we fellows had laid him.

As soon as our sable task was done,

Nor a moment we lost in retiring;

And we feasted and frolick'd, and poked our fun,

Gin and water each jolly soul firing,

Blithely and quickly we quaff'd it down,

Singing song, cracking joke, telling story;

And we shouted and laughed all the way up to Town,

Riding outside the hearse in our glory.

Punch, January 5, 1850.

At the time when the above parody appeared there was an agitation on foot to reform the costliness and vain display at funerals. Punch, both in his cartoons and his letterpress, was exceedingly bitter against the undertakers.

The matter was so energetically taken up by the press and the public, that funerals were soon shorn of their costly mummery, and are now conducted on much more sensible and economical principles than they were in 1850.

In reference to the disputed authority of the ode "Not a drum was heard," the Rev. T. W. Carson, of Dublin, has kindly forwarded a facsimile of the letter, (to which reference was made on page 105), from the Rev. C. Wolfe to his friend Mr. John Taylor. It varies slightly from the version already given, and seems conclusively to establish Wolfe's title as author of the poem.

It runs thus:—

"I have completed the Burial of Sir John Moore, and will here inflict it upon you; you have no one but yourself to blame, for praising the two stanzas (?) that I told you so much;—

(Here follows the poem.)

"Pray write soon—you may direct as usual to College, and it will follow me to the country. Give my love to Armstrong, and believe me, my dear John, ever yours,

(Signed) CHARLES WOLFE."

This is addressed—

"JOHN TAYLOR, ESQ.,

At the Rev. Mr. Armstrong's,

Clonoulty,

Cashel."

Date of postmark, Se, 6, 1816.

The handwriting is small, neat, and clear, and there is only one slight verbal correction, which occurs in the last verse; in verses 3 and 4 a few end words have been torn off by the seal.

There is a postscript, as it has no reference, however, to the poem, it is needless to reprint it.

———♦———

Thomas Hood.

1798—MAY 3, 1845.

In Hood's poems a rare blending is found of wit, fancy, humour and pathos; and as his personal character was amiable, gentle and good, his memory is cherished by Englishmen with peculiar affection and respect.

Thomas Hood was born in London, and was the son of a member of the then well-known firm of booksellers, Vernor, Hood, and Sharp.

Hood was intended for an engraver, and although he soon deserted that profession, he acquired a sufficient knowledge of it to enable him to illustrate his own works, which he did in a quaintly comical manner. His sketches, though generally crude and inartistic, admirably explain his meaning, and never certainly did puns find such a prolific, and humourous, pictorial exponent as Hood.

Hood's eldest son (Thomas Hood the younger) was also the author of several novels and some humourous poetry. He was for many years editor of Fun.

Of Hood's poems the four most usually selected for parody and imitation are, The Song of the Shirt; The Bridge of Sighs; The Dream of Eugene Aram; and a pretty little piece entitled I remember, I remember.

It is a somewhat curious fact that one of the most earnest and pathetic of Hood's poems should first have appeared in Punch. The Song of the Shirt will be found on page 260 of vol. 5, 1843, of that journal.

This dirge of misery awoke universal pity for the poor victims of the slop-sellers and ready-made clothiers; but like most of the spasmodic outbursts of British rage and indignation little permanent good resulted from it. The machinists, and unattached out-door employés of the London tailors, are probably worse off now than ever they were in Hood's time.

As might have been expected from the wonderful popularity of The Song of the Shirt and its peculiarly catching rhythm, it has been the subject of almost innumerable parodies, and has also served as the model for many imitations of a serious nature.