SONG OF THE UNSUCCESSFUL STOCK EXCHANGE SPECULATOR
(Apropos of certain recent failures).
Break, break, break!
It's a serious thing to see,
And I wish I could manage to utter
The cheques that are forged by me!
Oh well for the bill-broking cad
That is able to toddle away!
Oh well for the discounting lad
That goes to no Botany Bay!
The detective police go on,
To find him whose name's on the bill—
And it's oh for a whiff of Havannah brand,
And a glass of the wine that is still!
Break, break, break!
It's little of me you will see;
For the tender touch of detective's hand
May some day be felt by me.
From Faust and 'Phisto, 1876.
Tithonus was the subject of two long prize parodies, concerning Lord Beaconsfield, which appeared in The World, July 30, 1879.
The opening stanzas of the first parody are now of almost historical interest:—
AH me! the times decay, and rent-rolls fall,
The farmers weep the burden of moist ground,
The men that back the field are out of luck.
For during such a summer where's the coin?
For me a wreath, prize of verbosity
Was made: it withers still in Tracy's hands.
For what to me this quiet Western world,
While shadows flit before me, like a dream
Of princely visits to the far-off East,
And costly gifts, and Empire's badges worn?
Alas for these gray tresses, once so black,
When, glorious in my youth, I was thy choice,
Britannia, and I seemed no vulgar clod
To thee, who taught'st me my verbosity.
Then, though the dull roughs met where'er they would,
Beat the Park palings down, and marred the flowers,
They could not end my rule; but left me still
To sit 'neath shade of thy Imperial shield—
Imperial locks beside Imperial shield—
Though all things else were ashes. Thy rich gift,
The Garter, made amends; but, Tracy, go;
I pray thee go; take back thy vulgar gift:
Why should the honest working man desire
To vary from the spendthrift race of men,
And part with hard-earned quarts of "fourpenny,"
Which good Sir Wilfrid calls the curse of all?
* * * * *
In the The Shotover Papers, page 181, will be found, Tithonus in Oxford.
"The men come up, the men come up, go down.
The mighty Proctor prowls along the streets.
Dons come and plough the men, and let them through,
The unattached at length becomes B.A.
The only envious moderators
Will never pass. I linger through the terms
Here in the quiet Tavern's classic shades,
A bearded undergraduate, well nigh bald,
Roaming along the High, the Broad, the Corn,
Amidst new men, strange faces, other minds."
* * * * *