THE WAR.
THERE is a sound of thunder afar,
Storm in the South that darkens the day,
Storm of battle and thunder of war,
Well, if it do not roll our way.
Form! form! Riflemen, form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form!
Be not deaf to the sound that warns!
Be not gull'd by a despot's plea!
Are figs of thistles, or grapes of thorns?
How should a despot set men free?
Form! form! Riflemen, form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form!
Let your Reforms for a moment go,
Look to your butts, and take good aims.
Better a rotten borough or so,
Than a rotten fleet or a city in flames!
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form!
Form, be ready to do or die!
Form in Freedom's name and the Queen's!
True, that we have a faithful ally,[9]
But only the devil knows what he means.
Form! form! Riflemen, form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form!
T.
INTO THEM GOWN.[10]
A Wicked Parody on
RIFLEMEN FORM.
THERE was a sound of "Town" from afar,
Town in the High that threaten'd a mill,
Storm of town, and thunder of gown,
And town have got with them "Brummagem Bill."
Gown! Gown! into the Town,
Ready, be ready to meet the clown,
Into them; into them; into them, Gown.
Be not afraid of the peelers' staves,
Be not gulled by a proctor's plea,
Velvetty arms are for flunkies, my braves,
Why should a proctor stop our spree?
Gown! Gown! into the Town,
Ready, be ready to meet the clown,
Into them; into them; into them, Gown.
Leave your wines for a moment or so.
Double your fists for the State and the Church,
Better the purple claret should flow,
Than "La Belle Science" be left in the lurch.
Gown! Gown! into the Town,
Ready, be ready to meet the clown,
Into them; into them; into them Gown.
Sweep! march ahead, look about, take care,
Deal black eyes and the bloody nose;
True that we have an excellent mayor,
Butt him again, and down he goes.
Gown! Gown! into the Town,
Ready, be ready to meet the clown,
Into them; into them; into them, Gown.
College Rhymes, 1861.
The Poet Laureate has been subjected to much ridicule for the change which has of late years been apparent in the tone of his writings, and his poem, "Lady Clara Vere de Vere," has especially been seized on as the vehicle for many malicious parodies directed against the fulsome adulation of Royalty, contained in his later poems.
It must be remembered that "Lady Clara Vere de Vere" was written more than fifty years ago, when Alfred Tennyson was young, unknown, and unpensioned. Like many of his early poems, it contains uncomplimentary allusions to our hereditary aristocracy, into whose ranks he has only recently procured admission.
The heartless coquette, Lady Clara, is "the daughter of a hundred Earls," and in her name the poet actually selected one of the oldest in the English nobility on which to vent his indignation. The Vere (or De Vere) family is of great antiquity, once holding the ancient Earldom of Oxford, and as far back as 1387 one of these Earls of Oxford was created Duke of Ireland, and Marquis of Dublin. It is certain the De Veres were noble in the time of William I., and their pedigree has even been traced to a much earlier period. "De Vere" still survives as one of the family names of the Duke of St. Albans. The first Duke of St. Albans (illegitimate son of Charles II. and Nell Gwynn, the orange girl), married Diana de Vere, eldest daughter and heiress of Aubrey de Vere, the 20th and last Earl of Oxford.