THE BURIAL OF THE TITLE, "QUEEN."
Not a cheer was heard, not a joyous note,
As the Bill to the tellers we hurried;
So solemn and dread is the midnight vote
When a title has to be buried.
We rolled up our sleeve and took off our coat,
To make it a question burning;
We strained every nerve to set it afloat,
The hate of all Englishmen earning.
They hurled at us gibe, and mud so foul
(There's much of it still adhering),
And we knew by the distant and random growl
That the foe was sullenly sneering.
Oh, little we reck of the name that's fled
(That Lowe's a most impudent monkey);
For "Empreth" sounds sweetly when lispingly said
By the lips of some courtly flunkey.
'Twas fondly imagined a title of might,
Renowned in an ancient story;
But we dug a deep hole and rammed it in tight,
And left it alone in its glory!
The Figaro, April 8, 1876.
One of the arguments against Mr. Disraeli's Titles Bill, was that Empress was likely altogether to supersede the older, and more constitutional, title of Queen. The lapse of but a few years has shown how groundless was this apprehension, for except in state documents or Daily Telegraph leaders, the title of Empress is never employed.
In November, 1879, The Weekly Dispatch (a high-class London Liberal newspaper) commenced a series of Prize Competitions, the subjects, and methods of treatment, being indicated by the Prize Editor. On April 18, 1880, the prize of Two Guineas was for the best Poem on the Downfall of the Beaconsfield Government, in the form of a parody of "The Burial of Sir John Moore." It was awarded to Mr. D. Evans, 63, Talma Road, Brixton, S.E., for the following:—
(From a Tory point of view.)
Not a hum was heard, not a jubilant note,
As away from the House we all scurried—
Not a Liberal's tear bedewed the spot,
The grave where our hopes were buried.
We buried them sadly and deep that night,
For we had no hope of returning,
By Reason's bright returning light,
And our hearts were sadly yearning.
Few indeed were the words we said,
But though few they were pregnant with sorrow,
As we all in search of Benjamin fled
To inspire us with hope for the morrow.
No gaudy star was upon his breast,
No ermine cloak was around him,
Yet he stood like a man who had feathered his nest;
And he smiled at us all, confound him!
We thought, as we left with a silent tread,
Of Cross and his dreadful Water,
That the Liberals would soon be seen there instead,
And we far away from that quarter.
Lightly they'll talk of us when we have gone,
And of course they've a right to abuse us;
But little we'd care if they'd let us keep on
In our places and wouldn't refuse us.
But scarce had our sad hearts aching done.
When again to the fight we were guided;
And we knew that the foe had a victory won,
That our fate was indeed decided.
Slowly and sadly we all went down
With the blood of our brethren all gory;
But our sun at Midlothian has now gone down,
So farewell to the hopes of the Tory.
Another parody on the same subject by Mr. James Robinson, of 59, Lyal Road, North Bow, was also inserted:—
Not a sigh was heard, not a tear-drop fell,
As its corpse from the hustings we hurried;
But we felt more anxious than tongue can tell
To get the thing decently buried.
With a woodcutter's help we dug it a grave—
(It was deep and contained some water)—
All willingly helped, and the sexton gave
An address on its deeds of slaughter.
With a "brilliant" lie we bedecked its breast,
In a "cloak of deceit" we wound it,
So it lay like a hypocrite taking its rest,
With its weapons all around it.
Brief and stern was the service said,
In its own peculiar lingo;
By a Hebrew scribe was a chapter read
From the gospel according to Jingo.
Lightly we'll speak of the Ministry gone.
Nor o'er its cold ashes upbraid it,
We'll forgive a good deal if it only sleeps on
In the dishonoured past where we've laid it.
The Editor added the following remarks:—
"Among the numerous parodies of 'The Burial of Sir John Moore' there are some, faulty in parts, in which there are remarkably vigorous verses. One competitor, for instance, treating Jingo as a personality, says:—
'No well-bunged beer-cask confined his breast,
Nor in cerement white we bound him;
But he lay 'neath a water-butt, taking his rest,
With a pool of that liquid around him.'
Another winds up thus:—
'Smiling and gladly we toppled him down,
That image of humbug so gory;
We wrote but one line—'Here, under this stone,
Lies bombast, false glitter, and glory.'
And a third is particularly energetic in his speculations as to the behaviour of the Premier on hearing of the defeat of his policy:—
'He thought, as he holloa'd aloud in bed,
And pommelled his lonely pillow,
He was pitching away into Gladstone's head;
And his fury was like the billow.'"