Alfred, Lord Tennyson,
POET LAUREATE.
——:o:——
lthough several numbers of Parodies have already been devoted to this Author, there still remain many excellent burlesques of his writings, which, for the sake of the completeness of this collection, must be quoted. The popularity of Tennyson’s poems is in nothing more manifest than in the number of Parodies, and imitations, they give rise to, and the numerous collectors of Tennysoniana will no doubt be grateful for having these harmless, playful skits preserved from oblivion. The order observed in the following Parodies is that adopted in recent editions of the Poet Laureate’s works.
——:o:——
MARIANA.
Mariana on the Second Floor,
Waiting for her Lodgers.
(Another subject for the Pre-Raphaelites.)
With polish bright the coffee pots
Were newly cleaned up, one and all,
And hooks and pegs were screwed in lots,
To hold the hats in the entrance hall.
The drugget was still clean and strange,
Unhampered was the Bramah latch
And unconsumed the congreve match
Beside the new-set kitchen range.
She only said, “The Season’s dreary,
I thought there would be some.”
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,
When will the great rush come?”
Upon the middle of the night
Waking she heard the cabs below;
Some gents sang out before ’twas light—
From Smithfield Bars the oxen’s low
Came to her in a fit of gloom,
In sleep she dreamt of beds forlorn,
Till carts and busses woke the morn
About the lonely furnished room.
She only said, “It’s very dreary,
I thought there would be some.”
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,
And yet no lodgers come!”
About a stone’s throw from the wall,
A man with blackened features swept,
And round him, large and small,
Ill-manner’d boys for mischief crept.
Hard by an organ’s dismal moan
Play’d worn-out tunes of nigger airs,
And mock’d with “Sich a gittin’ up stairs;”
Yet no one came to mount her own.
She only said, “It’s very dreary,
I thought there would be some.”
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,
And yet no lodgers come.”
All day within those lonely walls,
The maid kept clean to let folks in;
The lilac blew i’ the grate; the squalls
Of coop’d up children did begin;
Yet no one came a room to seek,
No strangers waited at the door,
No lodgers viewed the second floor,
No people asked, “How much a week?”
She only said, “It’s very dreary,
They do not come,” she said.
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,
And cannot let a bed.”
The men who came to mend the roof,
The tax collector, and the sound
Which to the weary maid aloof
The pot-boy made, did all confound
Her sense, but most she loathed the hour
When all the last up-trains were in
Without the lodgers, and the din
Of wheels began to lose its power.
Then said she, “This is very dreary,
They will not come,” she said,
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,
Why won’t they hire my bed?”
The Month, by Albert Smith and John Leech, 1851.
Mary Anne; or, The Law of Divorce.
By Alfred Tennisball.
[If the poor had more justice, they would need less charity.—Jeremy Bentham.]
The cats were mewing in the street,
With many a mew of love’s delight;
Policeman X’s heavy feet
Returning marked old Time’s dull flight,
While, as the laggard hours wore on,
In nightcap, in her wretched room
Waiting until her husband come,
Sat Mary Anne in tears alone.
She only said: “I’m very weary,
He cometh not,” she said;
She said—“And if he cometh beery,
He’s sure to punch my head!
Her tears fell all that bitter even,
As sighing she sat there alone,
She ’gan to weep at half-past seven,
And she was weeping there at one.
After the flitting of the bats,
She gazed adown the dreary street,
But nought her aching sight did meet,
Save one policeman and two cats.
She only said, “My life is dreary,
He cometh not,” she said;
She said, “And if he cometh beery,
He’s sure to punch my head!”
About the middle of the night,
She heard a key clink in the latch,
She went to take her spouse a light.
He cursed her first, and then the match.
A wretched life—no hope of change—
Even in her sleep she is forlorn,
In tears at night, in tears at morn
Like her within the “moated grange,”
She only said—“Dear John, I’m weary.
You break my heart,” she said—
He hiccuped forth—“Best not come near me,
Or I shall break your head!”
About a mile from that sad home
Our river’s sluggish waters creep;
She sought that bridge where wretches come,
To woo oblivion dark and deep,
Maddened by patient love’s despite,
With haggard cheek with salt tears wet,
She stood upon the parapet,
And glared a last glance on the night.
Once more she said—“My life is dreary,
Oh! aching heart and restless head,
Love long has lost all power to cheer me,
But soon I shall be dead!”
A downward plunge—one stifled scream,—
No more she’ll watch, and weep, and sigh,
She sank beneath the gurgling stream,
Whose murmers were her lullaby!
Oh! think awhile on lives like these:
Why should the rich alone divorce?
Why drive the poor from bad to worse,
Because of Doctors’ Commons fees?
For many a Mary Anne’s aweary,
Oh! widowed wife—oh! lonely bed;
And many a husband reels home beery,
To punch his poor wife’s head!
Yet these must live in hate together,
Because they’re poor—they can’t afford
To snap their galling, golden tether;
While you, my lady, and my lord,
As neatly as you can your clothes,
Can change your names by process easy,
Ye pay your fees—and, an it please ye,
Adieu for aye to taunts and blows.
The poor wife only sighs: “I’m weary,
He cometh not to bed;—
Death only can divorce me dreary,
Oh! would that I were dead!”
Tait’s Magazine, 1858.
——:o:——
THE OWL.
The Owl’d Yarn.
When the cats were home, and light was come,
And dew was cold upon the ground,
Outside a door, with stop bell dumb,
A whirring wheel has stopped its round.
A whirring wheel has stopped its round.
Alone and warming, by rubbing, his hands,
A “night-riding wheelist” shivering stands.
In vain he tries to “click the latch,”
To move the door that bars his way;
A lecture from his dad he’ll catch;
“We rode all night” has had its day!
“We rode all night” has had its day!
While he knows that the tale has too often been told,
He stands there still trying and shivering with cold.
R. P. Hind, “Harberton,” Torquay.
Wheeling Annual, 1885.
——:o:——
THE BALLAD OF “ORIANA.”
Yule-Tide.
Sit we in the ancient hall,
Oh, my gracious!
Listening to the nor’ wind’s squall,
Oh, my gracious!
Thrice our empty flagons fall,
Ten good wassail bowls withal,
Oh, my gracious!
The hours wax long, and then grow small,
Oh, my gracious!
The hours were long that had been short,
Oh, my gracious!
When like babes our homes we sought,
Oh, my gracious!
Was I led by rage or sport.
To offer fight for level quart?
Oh, my gracious!
Know I not but that I fought,
Oh, my gracious!
’Neath the gas-light’s feeble flutter,
Oh, my gracious!
Like a roll of helpless butter,
Oh, my gracious!
Lay I in the filthy gutter,
Till my kinsmen on a shutter,
Oh, my gracious!
Raised me in prostration utter,
Oh, my gracious!
They with solemn step and slow,
Oh, my gracious!
To my habitation go,
Oh, my gracious!
Did my bosom’s partner show
Pity in my abject woe?
Oh, my gracious!
Or commiserate me?—no!
Oh, my gracious!
The Hornet, January 3, 1872.
The Ballad of Hoary Anna.
“Mr. Newdigate stated that having recently been on an expedition of inquiry into the conventual and monastic institutions of America, he did not mind singing a negro minstrel ballad, which was softly warbled in his ears one evening by a coloured nun:—”
Ah, yes, I ’members what you say,
Hoary Anna.
I often tinks about dat day,
Hoary Anna,
Which robbed me of a lubbin’ wife
An’ changed de current ob my life,
Hoary Anna,
An’ cut me up wuss den a knife,
Hoary Anna.
You used to lub me ’ears ago,
Hoary Anna.
Dat’s when I ’gun to dig an’ hoe,
Hoary Anna.
Dem eyes wuz ’tractive speres to men;
You wuz a lubly nigger den,
Hoary Anna.
I wish dem times wuz here agen,
Hoary Anna.
We used to meet us in de dusk,
Hoary Anna,
When Massa slep’ upon his busk,
Hoary Anna.
Dat mouf wuz roses ob de glen;
Lord bless dose ’ours dis nigger spen’,
Hoary Anna.
I wish Gem cheeks wuz dat agen,
Hoary Anna.
I stoled out by de stars pale light,
Hoary Anna.
De boss wuz fast asleep dat night,
Hoary Anna.
I clustered top de water tub,
An’ whispered o’er de wall my lub,
Hoary Anna,
With nuffin’ but de stars above,
Hoary Anna.
Dis heart kep’ tickin’ loud and fast.
Hoary Anna.
Dis nigger wuz in lub at last,
Hoary Anna.
Dis soul wuz bustin’ wid my bliss,
You must hev’ seed dem sighs I guess,
Hoary Anna.
Dat Cupid’s darts warn’t made to miss,
Hoary Anna.
I ’voked dem stars, den ’voked de Lord,
Hoary Anna.
I ope’d dese lips to say de word,
Hoary Anna;
When—glanced dat cussed lid aside,
An’ dropped your lubbin’ Sam inside,
Hoary Anna.
Your Sam what woo’d you for his bride,
Hoary Anna.
You sclutched me by dis curly pate,
Hoary Anna.
Dem curls wuz small, dat strenf’ wuz great,
Hoary Anna.
Dis wool most nobly stood de strain,
I scrawled dat cussed tub agen,
Hoary Anna,
Dat duckin’ had not cured de pain,
Hoary Anna.
Dat lid was fixed what warn’t secure,
Hoary Anna.
Dat dampin’ made me lub you more,
Hoary Anna.
It could not squench de fire wid’in
It only bust it out agen,
Hoary Anna.
I’d ’gun dat race an’ meant to win!
Hoary Anna.
You blushed at what I goed to do,
Hoary Anna.
Perked on dat lid I knelt anew,
Hoary Anna.
De boss just come a creepin’ sly,
Then dropped your Sam one in de eye
Hoary Anna.
Dat cussed lid—an’ den—good bye!
Hoary Anna.
I tried to scramble up de top,
Hoary Anna.
De boss he said. “I guess you’ll stop,”
Hoary Anna.
He bobbed me down, den bobbed agen,
Jes’ let me out as life wuz spen’,
Hoary Anna.
You wuz a lubly nigger den!
Hoary Anna.
Benjamin D——. His little Dinner, 1876.
Idadæca.
Coals are again announced to rise,
Idadæca:
I cannot half believe my eyes,
Idadæca.
Here, as I grope, and freeze, and hark
The listless curs ayont me bark,
Idadæca,
At the great moon that gilds the dark,
Idadæca!
Ah, when will these things have an end,
Idadæca?
I call to thee, as to a friend,
Idadæca.
Already prices range so high,
I cannot with my income, buy,
Idadæca,
Food, light, or fuel; no, not I,
Idadæca.
So in the dark I starve and freeze,
Idadæca:
I hear the knocking of my knees,
Idadæca:
There is none other help for me,
Nor will there ever likely be,
Idadæca,
Except I find that help in thee,
Idadæca.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
Idadæca:
How I wonder what you are,
Idadæca:
On ledge, on wall, on window frame,
In spots unknown, in haunts of fame,
Idadæca,
I see huge placards with your name,
Idadæca.
Oh, say whatever can you be,
Idadæca?
The Governor-general of Fiji,
Idadæca?
Some horse’s name, some favourite foal,
Or, may be, (peace, my panting soul),
Idadæca,
Some good cheap substitute for coal,
Idadæca?
Some new-style “dolman” for the spring,
Idadæca?
Another “Idyl of the King,”
Idadæca?
Some highly-recommended tea?
Or, (hence, ye frisky fancies, flee,)
Idadæca,
Another Ouida novelty,
Idadæca?
Alas, I cannot make thee out,
Idadæca!
My mind is clouded with a doubt,
Idadæca:
But Time, which raises bards to fame,
(And murder,) I suppose the same,
Idadæca,
Will solve the mystery of thy name,
Idadæca.
Samuel K. Cowan.
Kottabos. Hilary Term, 1881. Dublin,
William McGee, 18, Nassau Street.
——:o:——
Randy Pandy.
(As sung by Sir Stafford Northcote.)
My heart is wasted with my woe,
Randy Pandy;
There is no rest for me below,
Randy Pandy:
I went my way and still would go,
For slow and sure, and sure and slow,
Randy Pandy,
That is the only way I know;
Randy Pandy.
There came a wise man from the East,
Randy Pandy;
Most wise of men, as you are least,
Randy Pandy:
We made him leader, lord, high-priest,
And did his bidding till it ceased,
Randy Pandy:
The tribe of Benjamin increased
Randy Pandy.
He passed away, we know not where,
Randy Pandy;
And named me for his lawful heir,
Randy Pandy:
But Salisbury said, “We’ll share and share;”
He took his pick, and called it fair;
Randy Pandy—
He knew he had no business there—
Randy Pandy.
* * * * *
I cannot stand your mad displays,
Randy Pandy;
I cannot bear your wilful ways,
Randy Pandy:
They trouble all my nights and days,
They shatter all the hopes I raise,
Randy Pandy—
Why will you set the world ablaze,
Randy Pandy?
If feud there be you make it sore,
Randy Pandy;
If peace, you leave it peace no more,
Randy Pandy:
Where lay a sleeping foe before,
You wake him up to hear him roar,
Randy Pandy:
You make me swear who never swore,
Randy Pandy.
And when the Grand Old Man begins,
Randy Pandy,
To lay about our heads and shins,
Randy Pandy;
You make a joke of all your sins,
Forgetting he may laugh who wins,
Randy Pandy:
You think the moment meet for grins,
Randy Pandy.
Would I were safe where Salisbury sits,
Randy Pandy!
And he were here to deal his hits,
Randy Pandy!
So might I calm my troubled wits,
So might he smash you all to bits,
Randy Pandy!
Come, happy fate that best befits
Randy Pandy!
——:o:——
This Poem is an extract from “The Banquet, a Political Satire,” an anonymous work published by William Blackwood and Sons, early in 1885, when the Conservatives were in opposition.[70] “The Banquet” also contains excellent parodies of Tennyson’s “The Brook,” “The Lotus Eaters,” “The Two Voices,” “Locksley Hall,” “The Merman,” “The May Queen,” as well as of a few of Swinburne’s poems. These parodies are put into the mouths of the political guests, of all parties, supposed to be assembled at a grand Banquet given by the new Lord Mayor, when
“The last long day of Bumbledom had ceased,
And all the myriad miles of street and square
That form this busy London where we live
Became one city: all whose myriad hordes
Flocked to the polls, and of their fittest men
Chose a great Council Metropolitan,
To whom the law gave charge to rule and keep
This vast imperial London.”
Amongst the guests was Mr. Warton, M.P., who, after priming his wits with snuff, sang:—
Block, block, block;
Whatever the bills may be:
Of all the blockheads alive or dead
There’s none to compare with me.
O well for the bore and his bill,
That he makes his speech while he may!
O well for the man with a fad,
That he says his little say!
For the stately bills are read,
And they sweep along with a will,
Till they feel the touch of a brandished hand,
And the voice of their movers is still.
Block, block, block:
O the havoc is fine to see!
For the cool repose of a true block-head
You must always come back to me.
——:o:——
LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE
Miss Matilda Johnson Jones.
Miss Matilda Johnson Jones,
You and I at length must part;
There are things call’d paving-stones,
You have got one for a heart.
When you hear the roaring sea
Making wild and wond’rous moans,
You may sit and think of me,
False Matilda Johnson Jones.
Young Matilda Johnson Jones,
Pride has made you what you are;
Though I think my lineage owns
Better men than your papa!
On the field of Waterloo
My sire and grandsire left their bones;
But what is that to me or you?
Ask your heart, Matilda Jones.
Well I know you, Johnson Jones,
You at times are very sad;
And your broken spirit groans
Over what it might have had.
’Tis in vain—your fickle soul
My much nobler soul disowns;
You have taught me to control
E’en myself, young ’Tilda Jones.
Oh! Matilda Johnson Jones,
What is all this wayward life?
Tears and laughter, gifts and loans,
Joy and sorrow, peace and strife.
If I could have shared with thee
Either cottages or thrones,
Both had been the same to me;
But ’tis past, light-minded Jones.
Young coquettish Johnson Jones,
If beloved you still would be,
Go to one a heart that owns,
You have stolen mine from me.
Give it back,—ha! ha! ’tis here,
But ’tis hardened into bones;
Feeling’s dead, and so is fear,
Kind Matilda Johnson Jones.
Gilbert Abbott à Beckett.
George Cruikshank’s Table Book. 1845.
——:o:——
THE MERMAN.
The Mer(ry)man.
Who would be
A Premier bold,
Standing alone,
Shining alone,
For the world to see,
In purple and gold,
Close to the Throne?
I would be a Premier bold,
I would play the potentate all the day;
I would chuckle and crow with a voice of might;
But all in the dark I would flirt and play
With the caucuses in and out of the towns,
And the sly little conclaves, out of sight,
That manage the polls and marshal the clowns.
All the caucuses, great and free,
Would loyally take their cue from me,
Steadily, steadily;
Then I would blaze away, away,
And the Tories would yield and the Whigs say “Yea,”
Readily, readily.
* * * * *
The Banquet, W. Blackwood & Sons, 1885.
——:o:——
THE MAY QUEEN.
Song: The Lord Mayor.
You must wake and call me early, call me early, Betsy dear,
To-morrow’ill be the happiest day that I have had this year;
That I have had this year, Betsy, the jolliest, I declare,
For I’m to be new Lord Mayor, Betsy, I’m to be new Lord Mayor!
There’s nine-and-twenty Aldermen, and Sheriffs too galore,
There’s Common Councilmen as well, you reckon by the score;
But none will be so grand as me of all the lot, I swear,
For I’m to be new Lord Mayor, Betsy, I’m to be new Lord Mayor!
O sweet is the first fur-edged gown that councilmen put on!
And sweeter is the scarlet robe that aldermen may don;
But what is there in all the land for sweetness can approach
To putting on the Lord Mayor’s chain, and riding in his coach?
Seven bands will go with me to-morrow all the way,
And cavalry will me surround in all their grand array;
Whilst men-in-armour caracole and trumpets loudly blare,
For I’m to be new Lord Mayor, Betsy, I’m to be new Lord Mayor!
I lay awake the other night and thought of what was nigh,
And my new flunkeys’ liveries I saw in my mind’s eye;
The menu of my banquet, too, was present in my mind,
And up the terrace came a smell of turtle on the wind.
I thought it must be fancy, and I listen’d in my bed,
And then I fancied some one spoke, I know not what was said;
But my mouth watered, and delight took hold of all my mind,
And up the terrace came again the turtle on the wind.
“What can it mean?” said I; “in truth the odour’s very fine,”
And if it comes three times, thought I, I’ll take it for a sign.
And sure enough it came again, though closed my window bars;
Then seemed to change to venison till my bedroom smelt like Carr’s.
From that I judge the banquet will be good to-morrow night;
I’ve called at Ring and Brymer’s, and I’ve seen a glorious sight!
They’ve never known, or so they say, their turtles run so fat;
And I consider that the sign I smelt referred to that!
So you must wake and call me early, call me early, Betsy dear,
To-morrow’ill be the jolliest day that I have had this year;
That I have had this year, Betsy, the jolliest, I declare,
For I’m to be new Lord Mayor, Betsy, I’m to be new Lord Mayor!
From Finis.
Call me Early, Mother Dear.
You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear,
To-morrow will be the happiest day of all the glad new year,
To-morrow will be the happiest, the maddest, merriest day,
For I’m to be Queen of the May, mother, I’m to be Queen of the May.
I must wear my new kid slippers and my charming muslin dress,
And every one who sees me will admire my loveliness;
They’ll weave a garland fair for me, they’ll weave a garland gay,
And I will be crowned the Queen, mother, crowned the Queen of the May.
Prepare the mustard plasters, mother, a mustard bath likewise,
For chill the wind blows though the sun is shining in the skies,
And in this dress so very thin, no shawl around me rolled,
I know that while the sport goes on I’ll catch my death of cold.
My new kid slippers, too, are thin, although they look so sweet,
And dancing on the dewy grass, I know will wet my feet;
But I’m to be Queen of the May, mother, I’m to be Queen of the May,
So make the mustard plasters hot to fight Pneumon-i-a.
Russia to England.
You must wake to catch me early, very early, brother, dear,
The day you do will be the longest of all the circling year,
Of all the circling year, brother, if you my plans would baulk,
For I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk, brother, I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk.
There’s many a shrewd countree, they say, but none so shrewd as I,
There’s Germany and England, there’s France and Italy,
But none so shrewd as Holy Russia, from Caucasus to Cork,
So I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk, brother, I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk.
You sleep so sound and safe, brother, I hope you’ll never wake,
As in the Eastern Empires my day begins to break,
But I must gather countries, peoples, over Asia stalk,
For I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk, brother, I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk
As I move to the southward, what think ye that I see,
But Herat, leading to the lands that must belong to me?
It knows my hungry look, brother, I watch it like a hawk,
But I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk, brother, I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk.
It knows I am no ghost, brother, although my Tzar is white,
And I move to it slowly creeping, like the morning light,
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not how they talk
For I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk, brother, I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk.
Choice Chips, May, 1885.
A long, but not very amusing, political parody of “The May Queen” appeared in The Morning Advertiser, February 21, 1885, entitled “At the Play.”
——:o:——
A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN.
In 1848 a small volume was published by T. C. Newby, of Mortimer Street, London, entitled “A Vision of Great Men, with other Poems,” by Caroline de Crespigny.
“A Vision of Great Men” was addressed to the author of “A Dream of Fair Women,” and was written in imitation, but not as a parody, of that poem; of the “Great Men” alluded to, the principal were Columbus, and Napoleon the first. The poem consisted of seventy-four verses.
A Dream of Fair Drinking.
* * * * *
At last methought me I had wandered near
Wines in the wood; Old Tom and mountain dew
Shone in pale splendour, cheap, and yet so dear
As one to love them grew!
I paused upon the threshold, all apart,
As some stray bird upon an ocean drift,
Unstirred by any wave, save when my heart
Yearned for its morning “lift.”
And from within me a strange undertone
Thrilled thro’ my bosom with a wish for wine,—
“Pass freely!—these in wood may be thine own,
Dry, sweet or superfine!”
I looked—and saw a lady within call,
Brow bound with golden ringlets standing there;
And women, if they draw man’s wine at all,
Draw it extremely fair!
Her loveliness, her figure, and her eyes
Froze my quick speech: she, turning round her head,
Smiled, saying, “Sherry wine’s about your size!”
And all my doubting fled.
* * * * *
I drank myself to sleep;—and so I lay
Prone on the bosom of the Strand for hours,
Till life stirred briskly, and, at early day,
I wakened—before Flowers.
Judy, May 5, 1880.
A long, and very dull, parody of the same original, entitled “A Dream of Unfair Trade,” appeared in Punch, January 10, 1885.
——:o:——
ULYSSES.
In a prize competition in The World, for a poem on “The Czar of Russia,” on the model of Tennyson’s “Ulysses,” the following was selected for the
First Prize.
It little profits that with boundless powers,
Divine and human, I extend my sway,
From Finland southwards to the Chersonese;
Or that mine armies eastwards (like the tide
O’er low-laid littorals) flood all the steppes
From Caucasus to Khiva, till no khan
But dreads, and hopes, and dreams, and thinks of me.
How fruitless are my efforts! I have given
Unasked, with hand unstinting. I have risked
Defection of my nobles, that my poor
Might rise and bless me. But unshamed they crave
For ever more concessions, till I see
That license ranks as liberty, and law
And order seem but forms of tyranny.
I cannot journey but a hundred knives
Attempt my life; I cannot sleep or eat
Within my very palace but the floors
Rise to assault me, and the walls resound
With treacherous murder’s dread artillery.
This is my son, a true bred Romanoff,
To whom I leave my labours and my crown:
His years are fewer; and the sapling grows
The stronger for the bondage, whose restraint
Would kill the tree. It may be that mine age
Has made me too unbending, that my thoughts.
For ever travelling in the same sad course,
Have worn themselves such grooves within my brain
As ceaseless care has graved upon my brow,
And cannot change their channels. Ye, my friends,
Who love me for my virtues, or in spite
Of vices,-who with me have borne the brunt
Of turbulent sedition, and the blows
Of faithless friends and open enemies,—
If life be grudged us for the few short years
That yet remain, away, and let us seek
Some deed of noble note, and let our foes
Feel that our souls are yet alive in us,
Invincible in courage, strong in will,
To fight, to win, or, winning not, to die.
APIS MATINA.,
The World, March 17, 1880.
——:o:——
LOCKSLEY HALL.
Lay of Boxing Night.
Attributed to Alfred Tennyson
(But not believed to be his).
Proudly stalking o’er the pavement, as the clock is striking one,
Go the nine good men and valiant, who the glorious deed have done;
And they laugh with all their vigour, till the narrow courts resound,
The policeman hears the tumult, and he turns his lanthorn round.
And their course they still continue, and their laughter is not o’er,
Till they all come to a standstill at lion-knocker’d door.
There they thump with noise so mighty, that they make the neighbours wake,
Till a dull-eyed damsel opens, who appears but half awake.
Then a lighted room they enter, where great works of art are found,
Color’d prints of Esmeralda, and of Elssler hang around.
Plaster statuettes, by Danton, stand the chimney-piece along,
From a hook above the wainscot hangs a cornet-à-piston.
And—a better sight than any—there a table, too, was placed,
With a mass of native oysters, and a can of porter grac’d.
Oh! so prime appeared the oysters, that they charm’d the eyes of all,
For the fat part was so milk-white, and the beard so very small!
But how vain is earthly beauty—lovely things must pass away,
For the oysters soon are swallowed, and the girl takes off the tray.
Yet new pleasures follow old ones; thus the damsel reappears,
And a Jug of boiling water with her dingy fingers bears.
Then a brace of labell’d bottles were upon the table seen,
One glowed deep with noble brandy, one was pale with humble gin;
When they all had “mixed” at pleasure, proudly rising o’er the rest,
Stood the chieftain of the party, and his comrades thus address’d:
“We may well be proud, my brethren, we a noble deed have done;
’Tis the virtue that delights me, to say nothing of the fun.
“Against private friends and clacquers, we have fought the cause of right,
We have dar’d to damn a pantomime upon a boxing night.
“’Twas a horrid ‘Introduction,’ as you all, my brethren, know,
And the pantomimic business only made the thing more slow.
“All the tricks were void of humour; all the songs were sorry rhyme,
Sum up all, we never witness’d such a wretched pantomime.
“Though the audience bore it calmly, yet they knew as well as we,
That so dreadful a concoction they had never met to see.
“But they dar’d not speak their minds out—they believed it was a crime,
A most horrid profanation to condemn a pantomime.
“Five-act plays without a scruple they have driven from the stage,
They have whizzed off tragic actors in a hurricane of rage;
“On burlesque and one-act farces they could fell destruction bring,
But a pantomime, my brethren—it was quite another thing.
“Ay, at harlequin they trembled—it was we and only we
That from bonds of superstition could the British public free;
“We have rent apart the fetters, that were forged by ancient time,
Yes, my friends, upon a boxing night, we damned a pantomime.
“We stuck firmly to our purpose, when the clown said ‘Here we are!’
We with laughter did not greet him, but we rais’d the shout of war.
“When the manager came forward, and some mercy bade us show,
We subdued all softer feelings, and we sternly answered ‘No!’
“When the clown had sung ‘Hot Codlins’ we prevented an encore,
And we ceased not opposition till the pantomime was o’er.
“Then at last the public join’d us—on our side was ev’ry voice,
And the wretched thing died hardly in a hurricane of noise.
“I am sure successive ages will our mem’ries ne’er efface,
We shall live on future hist’ry, and give lustre to our race,
“And our sons shall say, a cent’ry hence—or perhaps a longer time,
‘Gallant spirits were our fathers, for they damn’d a pantomime.’”
From The Man in the Moon.—1847.
Lincoln’s Inn.
Comrades, leave me here a minute, for it is not five o’clock,
Leave me here, and when you want me, you will find me at the Cock.
’Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the smoke-cowls spin,
Dreary gleam the dirty windows, never cleaned in Lincoln’s Inn.
Lincoln’s Inn that from its chambers overlooks a grimy square,
With some blackened stubby bushes, killed by smoke and want of air.
Many a morning from my office, have I heard the dirty boys,
Shouting “Paper” down the area, in the full delight of noise;
Many a night I’ve watched the gas-light—all around a dazzling host,
Gleaming like a lot of glow-worms, stuck by bird-lime on a post.
In the Spring a lighter paletot is by Messrs. Nicoll made;
In the Spring a young man’s neck is in a brighter tie arrayed;
In the Spring the Opera opens, and an order may be got;
In the Spring the oysters finish, as the weather gets too hot.
Then I saw her dress was smarter than the other Cranbourne girls,
And her eyes gleamed softly on me, shaded by her glossy curls,
And I said, “Dear Amy Johnson, wilt thou my own sweetheart be?
For, my pretty bonnet builder, I am much in love with thee!”
Love toss’d off the glass of time, as though it had been only gin,
Love dwelt in those dreary chambers three pairs up in Lincoln’s Inn.
When my master had departed, and I felt unwatched and free,
Would my Amy come to see me, and assist in making tea.
Many a Sunday by the railway did we go to Hampton Court,
When the chestnuts were in blossom, and the days were not so short;
Many a Sunday on the water, made we inexpensive trips,
Talking then was not the only use to which we put our lips.
Oh! my Amy, Amy, Amy! Oh! my Amy, mine no more!
Oh! the dreary, dreary Sundays; Bushy has become a bore.
Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me thus to drop
To a man with lots of money, but who keeps a retail shop?
Yet it shall be! thou shalt lower still, in spite of all his pelf,
Till from sad reverses you may have to sweep it out yourself.
As the gent is, so the lady; thou art mated to a snob,
And he’ll sink thee to his level, in a cheap Excursion mob.
He will treat thee, when he wearies on thy jaded face to look,
Something better than his strop, but more as if thou wert his cook.
What is this? His speech is hazy—think not he has had too much.
Go to him—it is thy duty—you re his wife—behave as such.
He will answer to the purpose—perhaps he’ll murmur “It’s all right;”
Better thou wert dead before me, though I gave thee arsenic white!
(The rest of the MSS. is so blotted with tears as to be illegible.)
From The Month, by Albert Smith and John Leech. August, 1851.
St. Stephen’s Revisited.
Comrades, leave me here a little, I have thoughts you cannot know;
Leave me, gentle ghosts, to ponder on the days of long ago.
’Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the brawlers brawl,
Dreary bores about St. Stephen’s vying for the Speaker’s call.
Many a night from yonder benches, when I longed to be in bed,
Saw I not the great Orion, but the Grand Old Man instead.
Saw I not the starry Pleiads, but the meteor stars that fade,
Flashing for their little moment, passing into outer shade.
Here about the floor I waited, when I knew my youth sublime,
Waited for the time to ripen, for the very nick of time—
Then I dipped into the future, far as one keen eye could see,
Saw the Vision of an earldom, and the garter round my knee.
In the spring the little chicken only just has left the shell,
In the spring that little chicken thinks himself a precious swell.
In the spring a boy’s ambition leaps at once to summer heat,
In the spring a young man’s fancy very seldom plays the cheat.
Then my cheeks were white and waxen, thoughtful too for one so young,
Black on brows of snowy marble then my silken ringlets hung.
Yet on pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and a light,
When I met the jeers that mocked me, with a spoken scorn outright—
Saying from a height prophetic, “You shall hear me by and by,”
Saying, to the stoutest champion, “We shall meet at Philippi.”
Many a morning saw me famous, many a night more famous still,
Great to lead the grateful Tory, bold to bend him to my will.
* * * * *
O St. Stephen’s, false and fickle! O St. Stephen’s, mine no more!
O the weary, dreary benches! O the aching, quaking floor!
Is it proper not to scold thee? having known me—to decline
On this spurious Gentile Joseph, in the screw and Caucus line?
* * * * *
These lines, descriptive of the career of Lord Beaconsfield, are extracted from a clever parody in The Banquet. (W. Blackwood and Sons.) 1885.
“The Grinder,” an examination parody of “Locksley Hall,” appeared in Number 1 of The Aberdeen High School Magazine, March, 1885.
In a work entitled “Travels by Umbra,” published in Edinburgh in 1865, there was also a parody of “Locksley Hall” consisting of 34 lines, entitled Digwell’s Lament.
——:o:——
GODIVA.
WHITTINGTON.
By Alfred Tennisball.
(N.B.—No connexion with “I waited for the Train at Coventry,” &c.)
I waited for the boat at Hungerford;
I hung with snobs and swells upon the bridge,
To watch the muddy water; there I shaped
The City’s ancient legend into this:—
* * * * *
Not only we of Eighteen Fifty-seven,
Smart men that, swift as streak of lightning greased,
Make and spend “tin”—not only we that prate
Of progress, learning, and “Excelsior,”
Have loved ourselves full well and turned up trumps
At life’s great game of whist—but surely he
“Did more, and underwent, and overcame,”—
The wight of some few hundred summers back,
Whittington, ’prentice erst to some dull cit,
Some wheezy councilman—who worked him hard,
And gave him the allowance monkeys have,
More kicks than half-pence—and, when asked for more,
Showed him the street, and kicked him into it
With turned-up toe, saying “Begone and starve!”
He sought relief in vain, for in those days
Were no “relieving officers”—his thoughts
Turned to his childhood’s home, far, far away,
Embowered in tufted trees where cooed the dove,
Where sang a chorus sweet of jenny-wrens,
Tom-tits, and gay cock-sparrows—and he said,
“It must be so—farewel, ambitious dreams,”
(“Farewel,” he would have said, “to all my greatness,”
But he had never gentle Shakespeare read,
Nor seen the play of England’s bluff King Hal
Performed at the Princess’s). “So, farewell—
Clown was I born, and to clod-hopping life
I must return”—and then he ’gan to snivel,
And wipe his nose upon his jerkin’s cuff;
(For his were days when Manchester was not,
And dear were pocket handkerchiefs).
Then this poor boy wound slow his mournful way
Towards Highgate’s hill—and up the steep ascent
Toiled wearily—yet deem not him alone,
For at his heels there walked a faithful friend,
A gentle quadruped—a fond Grimalkin
Who purred between her master’s weary legs,
Till he looked down and saw her at his feet,
And wept at such four-footed sympathy.
So with their honest backs to London town
These twain toiled valiantly up Highgate hill.
They sat them down at last—for Whittington
Was very hungry—and on bread and cheese
In equitable portions dined they then.
But up he starts—and lo! what is’t he hears
Clanged with great shock of sound from distant bells
Of Bow in Cheapside? Say they rightly thus?
“Return! return! great Whittington return!
Thou shalt of London’s City be Lord Mayor!”
Such were the words—or hope was much mistaken—
Such were the words. Backward again they hied,
He, and his cat, the solace of his sorrows,
As partner of his joys—but, if she thought
That such a Co. could long exist, methinks
The poor Grimalkin then was slightly “sold.”
But I am speaking rather in the tense
Hight Paulo post-futurum. To my theme:
Backward he hied—re-entered London town,
Obtained employment as a quill-driver,
A very drudge for three long bitter years;
But still the cat sat ’neath his stool by day
And slept upon his truckle-bed at night.
Now Whittington’s employer was a merchant,
Who sent forth ships to trade beyond the seas
One of his captains saw—admired the cat,
And with her sailed to China, land of dirt,
Rice, lorchas, pigtails, ivory deftly carved,
And ladies with short toes bent backward. Soon
Made he acquaintance with the Emperor,
The brother of the Sun and Moon, celestial “swell,
First cousin to the Stars; for in those days
Men craved not introduction—Bowring then
Had not been sent out as Ambassador,
Nor Seymour to bombard their tin-pot towns.
Now it so happened that this Emperor’s
Imperial snuggery was overrun
With mice who stole the delicate tit-bits
From off the table of the Stars’ first cousin,
And cats till then in China were unknown,
And Whittington’s Grimalkin had three kittens,
And so the Brother of the Sun and Moon
Purchased the cat of Whittington for a sum
Which would content me for my lease of life,
Invested snugly in the Three-per-Cents.
The Captain homeward sailed to England’s shore,
And paid his sum to Whittington—so he
Became a sucking Crœsus—bought and sold,
And “rigged the market” like our “bulls” and “bears,”
Became a man whose name across a bill
Drew ready cash—then Sheriff—then Lord Mayor,
And built himself an everlasting name:
And of his acts if more ye wish to learn,
Are they not written in the picture books
Of Messrs. Darton upon Holborn hill!
As for his cat—I’ve little more to tell.
Save that she lived and multiplied her species
For the great Brother of the Son and Moon;
And her descendants, worthy of their dam,
E’en now are mewing loud in great Canton,
Unless that stout Drawcansir, Chinese Yeh,
Hath poisoned the poor innocents because
Their ancestress was British!
C.O.
Tait’s Magazine, 1858
——:o:——
THE EAGLE
Fragment.
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Tennyson.
A Parody.
The cup with trembling hands he grasps,
Close to his thirsty lips he clasps,
Ringed with its pewter rim-he grasps.
The Eddying floor beneath him crawls,
He clutches at the flying walls,
Then like a lump of lead he falls.
E. B. Iwan-Muller.
(Author of “Break, break, break” given on page 14, Vol. I., Parodies, and of “Rise up, cold reverend, to a see,” given on page 30, Vol. I., Parodies.)
——:o:——
BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.
Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!
Sleep! sleep! sleep!
My babe, I speak to thee;
And, oh, could I put on paper
The thoughts that occur to me!
Oh, well for my dear little boy,
Who shouts in the garden all day!
Oh, well for my little girls,
Who sing to their brother at play!
But the baby still screams on,
Let his mother do what she will;
And it’s oh, could I get him to understand!
And O that his voice would be still!
Sleep! sleep! sleep!
My babe I speak to thee;
The quiet peace of a bachelor’s bed
Will never come back to me.
The Mocking Bird and other Poems, by Frederick Field.
J. Van Voorst, London, 1868.
The Lost Joke.
Good! good! good!
Was the joke I heard last night,
And I would that my tongue could utter
The words of that joke aright.
O, well for good memory’s aid
That it passes old tales in review,
O, well for the ready wit
That can palm a stale joke as a new!
And that cheerful yarn is gone,
And the words I remember not,
But O, for a guide to that vanished tale,
And a clue to that joke forgot!
Good! good! good!
Is the story whatever it be,
But the comic point from my memory fled,
Will never come back to me.
Judy, December 10, 1879.
A New Irish Melody.
(As Sung by the Premier.)
Talk, talk, talk,
In thy cold calm tones, O “P.”!
And I would I might utter the language
That sometimes occurs to me!
O well for Lord B. that he sits
As a Peri among the Peers!
O well for the Radical “Reds,”
With their “warnings,” and worry, and jeers!
And the stately Whigs go on
Demanding a moderate Bill.
But O for a prison for Parnell and Dillon,
That the Land-Leaguers’ voice may be still!
Talk, talk, talk,
In thy cold calm tones, O “P.”!
But the tender grace of your style just now
Shall never bamboozle me!
Punch January 22, 1881
Wake! wake! wake!
In thy Northern land so free,
And our eloquent leader utters
A protest for you and me.
Oh, well for Midlothian’s sons
That they shout with him in the fray,
Oh, well for our British lads,
For we know he will gain us the day.
And the Franchise war goes on,
Though the Lords would have us be still;
But, O, for our triumph, thou Grand Old Man,
When the people have their bill
Wake! wake! wake!
To the war-cry of “Liberty!”
And slav’ry’s old despotic days
Shall never return to thee.
Richard H. W. Yeabsley.
Warm Weather.
Thirst, thirst, thirst!
As I sit all day by the sea;
And I would that the weather were colder,
For it’s much too warm for me.
And “Brandy and water” is “raw,”
And “Brandy and soda” is “sloppy;”
And its oh for five dozen of “natives” or more,
And a “magnum” of “fizz” that is froppy.
Ice, Ice, Ice!
For the milk, the butter, and cream!
And I would I might sit “for never”
In comparative shade and dream.
But the stately Eds. go on.
Should they not get their copy in time;
But hang it! the Mercury’s 99°,
Which is even too hot to rhyme.
Judy, September 21, 1881.
A Reminiscence of Redcar.
Broke, broke, broke,
By thy pitiless shores, O sea;
And I grieve that my tongue should utter
The groans that arise in me.
Oh well for the hunter’s soul,
Had he stopped at home that day,
Oh well had he taken some lovelorn lass
And spooned in his boat on the bay.
For the favourites all go down,
And I haven’t the price of a gill;
And it’s oh for the touch of that vanished gold,
And the tick of a watch that is still.
Broke, broke, broke,
By thy damnable crags O sea!
And the tender faith of the Hebrew race
Once more must be tempted by me.
The Sporting Times.
Who Breaks Pays.
Break, break, break,
My china and glass. Oh she
Wouldn’t like to hear me utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the lodging-house cat
That at present it’s out of the way;
O well for the plump page-boy
That he didn’t take down that tray.
And the breakages go down
To their haven in the dust-bin;
But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a rivet knocked in;
Break, break, break,
At the foot of the stairs. Oh she!
Can’t expect that the whole of her wages
Will be paid this month by me.
The Age, June 27, 1885.
——:o:——
April Love.
By a young Tory, after Tennyson.
[Lord Randolph Churchill was expected back
from India in April, 1885.]
Gladstone hath us in his net.
Dizzy’s gone—can we forget?
Many sessions rise and set,
Many a chance the years beget,
Northcote muffs ’em all, you bet.
Even so.
Fruitlessly we jar and fret,
Dizzy is a vain regret,
E’en Hicks-Beach is in a pet.
Censure votes fall idle yet,
Where is Randolph? We forget?
Ah, no! no!!!
Funny Folks, 1885.
——:o:——
THE BROOK.
The Song of the Flirt.
With many a prank my “ma” may fret—
She wants me to be steady;
But all her counsels I forget—
For fun I’m ever ready.
I go to many a rout and ball,
And “star” it all the season;
I stay at many a country Hall,
And plot fresh plans of treason.
I ride my bay mare in the “Row,”
I go to fêtes and races;
To croquet parties too I go,
Sought out midst all “the graces.”
I make men prisoners evermore
By giving them my roses;
I get love-letters by the score,
And baskets full of posies.
I toss my head and arch my neck,
And they are plunged in sadness;
I smile and with my finger beck,
And they are filled with gladness.
The strings are many to my bow;
My followers fail me never;
For men may come and men may go,
But I flirt on for ever!
Judy, September 4, 1867.
The Mont Cenis Train.[71]
(In the line of the Laureate.)
[Written 1868.]
O train, he says,
O trundling train, says Edmund in his rhyme,
How go you? and the train, why not? replies—
I leave the station, make a raid
With sudden upward sally
Upon the height—no lady’s maid,
To bicker with a valley.
Up thirty hills I mount amain,
Or slip between the ridges,
And sometimes find the hills made plain,
Like David’s Psalm by Bridges.[72]
Again the flat I seek below
(No reference to you, Sir),
And so men come, and so men go,
From San Michel to Susa.
I clatter o’er the stony way,
A natural base of boulders,
I raise the dust—what better trait
In railway for shareholders?
With many a curve aloft I toil,
I rush o’er stream and runnel;
And many a fairy foreland spoil
With corrugated tunnel.
I clatter, clatter to and fro
Over Mont Cenis gaily,
And men may come, and men may go,
Vide time tables, daily.
Though tired my wheels, I never tire,
I carry young swells gay-geared:
And here and there a lusty sire,
And here and there a grey-beard.
And here and there fair maidens take
Upon me as I travel,
Who many a gazer’s heart-peace break
With chignon’s golden ravel.
I bear them all along. Who knows
Of more gallant endeavour?
When WOMAN comes and WOMAN goes,
I’d fain go on for ever!
I steal through clouds to glacier’s height,
In metres out do rhymers;
And have the deadly peaks in sight,
Which grew for Alpine climbers.
I slip, I slide as I come down,
My fit of peak being ended,
Then glide into the little town
To which my course has tended.
I murmur under moon and stars.
And under provocation;
I rail against the rail là bas,
The Gallic excavation,
Well, should that oust me, as I know
They’re wishing, from Mont Cenis,
All men may go to—Jericho,
And Frenchmen may be—bènis.
Mrs. Gutch.
The Song of the Flirt.
“I come to wage a war on men,
None can withstand my sally;
With me no man, that I can ken,
E’er dared to ‘shilly-shally.’
“Full thirty Harries have been mine,
And twenty-seven Neddies;
A hundred John’s, of Herberts nine,
And quite three-score of Freddies.
“Though all the rest I do not know,
In spite of my endeavour;
Yet men may come, and men may go,
But I’ll flirt on for ever!
“With many a slight I fellows fret,
With many a smile I ‘draw’ them;
And make them, ere I’ve done, regret
Full sore I ever saw them.
“I chatter, chatter! dont I, though?
And some my talk call clever;
And men may come, and men may go,
But I flirt on for ever!
“I run about, go in and out,
Men’s hearts the while assailing;
And some each week, I do not doubt,
Think of me with bewailing.
“I’ve booked of foreigners a few,
When I have chanced to travel;
And left them in a pretty stew,
My conduct to unravel.
“I draw all men along, I know,
And that is my endeavour;
And men may come, and men may go,
But I flirt on for ever!
“I steel their hearts with subtile plots,
Not one my game discovers;
They give me sweet forget-me-nots,
And think they are my lovers.
“I smirk, I smile, I glimpse, I glance,
My moods are most ‘adaptive;’
I ne’er a valse or gallop dance,
But what I make a captive.
“I murmur out on balconies,
And ‘spoon’ upon staircases;
I like to see men on their knees,
I put up with embraces.
“And if they kiss me, well-a-day,
The liberty I pocket;
’Twould be unkind to say him ‘Nay,’
Who’d given me a locket.
“So on I mean to go the same,
Though some may call it folly;
And long as I my charms can claim
My hope is to be jolly.
“Let those who will do all they know
From flirting me to sever—
Whilst men shall come, or men shall go,
I will flirt on for ever!”
From Finis.
The Corn.
(A Birmingham Ballad of the 14th Century.)
I come when boots are small and stern,
And make a sudden sally,
To mar the lordly strut, and turn
The trips of every ballet.
Then fast and suddenly I grow
With many a painful quiver,
For men may cut and men may mow,
But I grow on for ever.
I make men scream o’er stony ways,
In screeching sharps and trebles,
And make them swear in maddened rage,
When slipping on the pebbles.
With many a twinge their soles I fret,
Soles arched and soles built shallow,
And many an imprecation get
From lips with pain grown sallow.
I shatter comfort as I grow,
The best of tempers shiver,
For men may cut and men may mow,
But I grow on for ever.
I wind about, and shoot and sprout,
Keen anguish dire entailing,
While here and there a swear and shout,
Each precious unavailing.
And oft-times, too, I make them quake,
As o’er loose stones I travel,
And make them with emotion shake
Upon the new-laid gravel.
I agonise them all, and go
To make the strongest quiver,
For men may cut and men may mow,
But I grow on for ever.
I steal ’neath toes and in between,
I slide where toe cap covers,
I slink where p’raps a bunion’s been,
But now no longer hovers.
I twinge, I throb, I shoot, I prance.
When damp about is lying,
I make my victims fairly dance,
When rain about is flying.
And out I’ll neither come nor go,
From feet I’m hard to sever,
And they may cut and they may mow,
But I grow on for ever.
From Ye Old Brum and ye New, by Jayhay.
Houghton and Hammond, Birmingham, 1878.
The River.
A Steamboat Version.
I puff, and roar, and shriek, and blow,
Along the crowded river,
For men may scull, and men may row,
But I steam on for ever.
Now crowd the towing-path along
On foot and in the saddle,
Of cads and swells a giddy throng,
Yet still I onward paddle.
And up the stream I gaily go
Upon the sunlit river.
For men may scull, and men may row,
But I steam on for ever.
And in and out I curve and glide,
No other vessels fearing,
And go full speed adown the tide,
A reckless, wild course steering.
I fizz and clatter as I go
Fast up and down the river,
For men may scull and men may row,
But I steam on for ever.
I turn astern, and back, and stop,
With pant, and snort and clatter,
As down mid-stream I gaily drop
With rushing, dashing splatter.
I puff and roar, and shriek and blow
Along the crowded river,
For men may scull and men may row
But I steam on for ever.
Judy, April 2, 1879.
The Song of the Steam Launch
I steam from snug up river lairs,
I make a sudden sally,
And spread dismay among the “pairs,”
Which by the rushes dally.
On tiny craft I love to dash
(As swallow darts on midges):
The women scream as down I crash,
And swamp them by the bridges.
Ay, helter-skelter, on I go,
Adown the crowded river,
For tide may ebb and tide may flow,
But I steam on for ever!
I drown with my shrill whistle’s scream
The blackbird’s piping trebles;
I churn up mud and foul the stream
Above the tide-worn pebbles.
With many a wave the punts I fret,
My wash engulphs them neatly;
I many a dainty lady wet,
And spoil her dress completely.
I clatter, splatter, as I go,
A-muck upon the river,
For tide may ebb and tide may flow,
But I steam on for ever.
I twist about, dash in and out,
T’annoy some merry party;
And here and there receive a shout
Of malediction hearty.
Yes! here and there the worm may turn,
And curse me as I travel;
But victims, as a rule, I learn,
Are far too scared to cavil,
Or check me as along I go,
Upon the crowded river,
Where tide may ebb and tide may flow,
But I steam on for ever.
I steal by lawns when all is dark,
Glide close to reedy covers,
And there cut down the tiny bark,
That bears the heedless lovers.
I start, I dart, I screech, I blare,
I belch forth coal-black vapours;
I make the angry oarsmen swear
To write to all the papers.
I murder quiet ’neath the stars;
For any mischief willing;
I cut away young yachtsmen’s spars;
Treat anglers to a swilling.
The loveliest scenery I spoil,
On beauty lay embargo;
I reek with blacks and engine oil,
I carry cads for cargo.
I swill, I kill, I hoot, I snort,
A nuisance all declare me;
A river demon I disport,
Yet you’ve to grin and bear me!
Yes, on again I wildly go,
To curse the crowded river;
For tide may ebb and tide may flow,
But I steam on for ever!
Truth, August 11, 1881.
The Sherbrooke.
(Not by Tennyson.)
I come from haunts of statesmen hard,
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out a life-long bard
En-thu-si-as-ti-cally.
My life has run o’er stony ways,
I’ve seemed all sharps and trebles;
But now I mean to wring the bays
From critics hard as pebbles.
I on my Peer’s soft cushion fret,
Because my life seems fallow,
But ah! the “glowing Muse” shall yet
Show me less sour and sallow.
I steal away from Whiggish plots
To Poesy’s green covers,
I try my hand at true-love knots,
I sing for happy lovers.
I rhyme with Hudibras’s dash
(Who fancied me all iron?)
With here a touch of Canning’s flash,
And there a tone of Byron.
I sing Swiss glaciers, southern stars,
Australian wildernesses,
I sneer at old Colonial jars,
And Antipodean messes.
I fancy my old foes will quake,
As this new path I travel;
I think my rhymes the bards will shake,
And all the critics gravel.
Bravo, Bob Lowe! for do you know
I think this dodge is clever,
For Statesmen come and Statesmen go,
But Bards live on for ever!
Punch, May 23, 1885.
Lord Sherbrooke, better known, perhaps, as Mr. Robert Lowe, had just produced a small volume of Poems, a piece of temerity on his part which is now quite forgotten and forgiven.
A Lay of Lawn Tennis.
(By a Lawn-Tennysonienne.)
With rackets poised against the foe,
We scorn the shining river;
Though other games may come and go,
Lawn Tennis lives for ever.
We roam the verdant lawn about,
Our skill seems unavailing;
For, sometimes in and sometimes out,
’Gainst fortune we are railing.
We chatter in our eager ways,
In merry girlish trebles;
We rush for many a ball that strays
Across the pathway pebbles.
We play upon the grassy plots,
The “Court” the garden covers;
We wear the blue forget-me-nots,
Like Tennyson’s young lovers.
We skip, we slide, with many a glance,
As swift as eager swallows;
And as the gay balls bound and dance,
The ardent player follows.
We murmur when the stern net bars
The ball, we shake our tresses;
We’ve played beneath the moon and stars,
As many a girl confesses.
And how to “screw” and “twist” we know,
The “Service” to deliver:
For other games may come and go,
Lawn Tennis lives for ever.
Punch, August 8, 1885.
——:o:——
PARODIES OF SONGS IN
“THE PRINCESS.”
The Worrier and his Wife.
Home they brought her worrier, dead—
Dead as any mummy he—
So they thought, and so they said;
But his helpmate—what said she?
“Dead? I only wish he was!
He is only extra tight!
Too much liquor is the cause
Of my husbands senseless plight!
“Put him down—oh, anywhere!—
Not upon the sofa—no!
Drop him on the carpet—there!
Now I’ll thank you all to go!”
One by one they slowly went;
Then she locked and barred the door,
Then—above her worrier bent,
Frowned and smiled and crossed the floor.
From a corner back she tripped,
Knelt beside her helpless mate,
And, with scissors, clipped and clipped,
Till he had a hairless pate!
Then she rose and left him there—
Left him there, and went to bed—
Left him there without his hair,
With his hair around him spread!
In her bed she lay and slept,
On the floor he passed the night…
In the house for weeks he kept—
Sober—hairless—such a fright!
Not in vain was he deprived
Of his glossy locks, I trow:
With new hair new strength arrived—
He’s a pledged abstainer now!
C. Johns.
Let me Lie Here.
A Parody on “Ask me no more” in The Princess.
Let me lie here; the rain may rot the tree;
The undiluted essence of the grape
May set my plastic countenance agape;
For O, how frail, when out upon the spree.
Let me lie here!
Let me lie here: no dry old brewer’s sieve
Had greater need of liquor than had I;
Now like a boiling gooseberry floats mine eye,
Let me lie here, for I would quite as lieve.
Let me lie here!
Let me lie here: the secret is revealed;
Though I could wend with thee I am not fain;
Do not, policeman, take me home again,
I dread my wife and would remain concealed,
Let me lie here!
John Cotton.
[The above appeared in the Central Literary Magazine, Birmingham, 1878.]
San Francisco Free Public Library, Jan. 20, 1885.
To Walter Hamilton, Esq.
Dear Sir,—I venture to interrupt you again with a transcript of a Tennyson Parody which you may not have seen. It can’t have the local flavour with you which it had when first printed, in the middle of General Butler’s political and oratorical campaign for the governorship of Massachusetts—not his successful one, but one of the others, about 1875. It first came out in the Springfield (Massachusetts) Republican newspaper.—Very truly yours,
(Signed) F. B. Perkins.
Bugle Song.
(After Tennyson—and Butler.)
The slander falls in different halls
Where sounds the somewhat stale old story:
With wrath he shakes, and fearless makes,
Like the wild cataract, “leaps in glory.”
Blow, Butler, blow! set your wild statements flying;
Blow, Butler; answer people!—“Lying, lying, lying!”
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, further going
From Truth,—as far as he from scar—
The doughty general’s reckless blowing!
Blow, Butler! let us hear the working men replying—
Blow, Butler! answer, people!—“Lying, lying, lying!”
Your yarns, Ben, die in this State’s sky;
They fail in hall, on bench, by river:
The answers roll from poll to poll—
“He lies for ever and for ever.”
Blow, Butler, blow! set your wild statements flying;
Blow, Butler; answer, people!—“Lying, lying, lying!”
——:o:——
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.
The Light (Blue) Brigade.
(The University Boat Race.)
Half a length, half a length,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Thames
Rowed the Eights, onward!
“Go!” was the starter’s cry,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to win—or try;
Into the valley of Thames
Rowed the Eights, onward!
Steamers to right of them,
Steamers to left of them,
Steamers each side of them,
Snorted and thundered!
Cheered at by cad and swell,
Boldly they rowed and well,
Under Barnes Railway Bridge,
On past the Ship Hotel,
Rowed the Eights, onwards.
O but the sight was fair,
Flashed the oar-blades in air,
Trying the rowlocks there,
Rowing to Mortlake, while
All the world wondered.
Plunged in the steamer smoke,
Fiercely in front they broke;
Griffiths and Marsden;
Strong was the Oxford stroke,
Nobody blundered;
Then they rowed back, but not
As they rowed onward!
Steamers to right of them,
Steamers to left of them,
Steamers in front of them,
Snorted and thundered;
Cheered at by cad and swell,
While horse and Cockney fell,
They that had rowed so well,
Came through Barnes Railway Bridge,
Back from the Ship Hotel,
All that was left in them
Since they rowed onward!
When can their glory fade?
O, the wild spurts they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the spurts they made,
Dark and Light Blue Brigade,
Each worth a hundred!
Fun, April 27, 1867.
The Gas Stokers’ Strike.
Dark were the streets and wet;
Out went each radiant jet,
While all that passed or met
Questioned and wondered.
“Strike,” was the gasmen’s cry,
Their’s not to reason why.
Their’s to raise wages high,
Pleasure and trade defy;
Therefore the gasmen struck—
Struck by the hundred.
Darkness to right of them,
Darkness to left of them,
Darkness in front of them,—
Every one blundered.
Many an oath and yell
On the fierce strikers fell;
When to the gasworks came—
Came to work swift and well,
Another Six Hundred.
Flashed all their elbows bare,
Flashed all at once in air;
Shovelling the Wallsend there,
Filling retorts up, while
Strike-men all wondered.
Plunging in flame and smoke,
Bravely the coals they broke;
Strong was their pickaxe stroke.
Loudly the public voice
Cheering them thundered.
Then to their beef and beer
Rushed the Six Hundred.
Strikemen to right of them,
Strikemen to left of them,
Strikemen behind them,
Blasphemed and thundered.
Stormed at with drunken yell,
Boldly they worked and well,
Rushing through flame and smoke,
O’er piles of coal and coke,
Saving from darkness then,
Millions of Englishmen.
Gallant Six Hundred.
Honour the brave and bold,
Labourers young and old;
Long shall the tale be told,
When by the gasmen “sold,”
We were left undone.
By the flame wearily,
In the smoke drearily,
On they worked cheerily.
Lighting up London.
Joseph Verey.
The Hornet, December 11, 1872.
(Published when the stokers of several of the London Gas Works were out on strike.)
The same journal also published another Parody of the Charge of Balaklava, by the same author, on “Clapham Junction,” October 23, 1872.
The Charge of the “Light” Brigade.
“What Ho! there, lights; lights!”
(Enter servants with a rush.) Old Play.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward;
Till in valley of Lud,
Pausing I pondered.
“Forward the Light Brigade!”
Charging my pipe, I said,
Into the valley of Lud
Rushed half-a-hundred.
“Forward the Light Brigade!”
Was there a lad delayed,
Not though the mudlarks knew
Nought could be plundered.
Their’s s not to reason why,
Their’s but to make him buy,
“Wax” is their sole reply;
Into the valley of Lud
Rushed the half hundred.
Cabmen to right of them,
Cabmen to left of them,
Cabmen in front of them,
Holla’ed and thundered.
Stormed at by “slop” and swell,
Into the road pell-mell;
Into the jaws of Death,
Out of the paws of L,
Wary policeman L,
Rushed the half hundred.
Flashed all their ankles bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,
Tumbling in gutters there;
Dodging the bobby, while
All the world wondered.
Bold in the matter o’ smoke,
Right through the mob they broke,
Mudlark and “crusher,”
Reeled from their neighbour’s stroke
Spattered and sundered;
Ne’er till they’d served the “bloke”
Turned the half hundred.
Cabmen to right of them,
Cabmen to left of them,
Bobbies behind them
Followed and thundered.
But though policeman L
On his proboscis fell,
They knew the road so well
Right thro’ the jaws of Death,
Out of the claws of L
All that was left of him,
Slipped the half hundred.
Long thrive their simple trade,
Whatever tax be made,
May they escape any;
Honour the Light Brigade!
Honour the Charge they made!
’Twas but a ha’penny.
From The Rocking of the Lilies, and other Poems, by Charles T. Druery, (Clayton & Co., London), 1882.
——:o:——
Recitation.—The Charge of the
Heavy Brigade at Kassassin.
By a Life Guards’ Officer.
Half a league (more or less),
Half a league onward;
All in the moon’s pale light
Rode the Six Hundred.
“Forward!” cried Drury Lowe,
“Goodness knows where you’ll go.
I can’t see any foe.”
Out into the pale moonlight
Rode the Six Hundred!
“Forward, Cavalry Brigade!”
Was there a man dismayed?
Or, so to speak, afraid?
No; not a man drew back
In all the Six Hundred,
Theirs not to make reply
(That they knew was muti-ny),
Theirs not to wonder why
No enemy was nigh,
Theirs not (just then) to die.
Out into the pale moonlight
Rode the Six Hundred!
Desert to right of them,
Desert to left of them,
Desert in front of them,
Yet on they thundered;
Whilst far above their head
Bullets by dozens sped,
Still not a trooper fled,
Still not a man dropped dead,
As into the desert wild
Rode the Six Hundred!
“Forward, Cavalry Brigade!”
So ’twas their leader said,
When, as the moon shone bright,
Came the dread foes in sight,
As to the left and right,
Blindly they blundered.
None at the guns would stay,
Wildly they ran away;
Whilst to their great dismay,
Up dashed, in proud array,
All the Six Hundred!
Flashed then their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turn’d in air,
Halving Egyptians there,
Slicing limbs off everywhere,
Whilst “fellahs” wondered.
Then, when of slaughter tired,
They no more blood required,
Copt or Egyptian,
When they by valour fired,
Plenty had sunder’d;
Then they rode back again,
All the Six Hundred!
Desert to right of them,
Desert to left of them,
Desert behind them,
Yet on they thundered;
Storm’d by no shot nor shell,
Nor horse nor hero fell,
Whilst those who’d sliced so well,
Came from they knew not where,
Back, whence they could not tell,
Back to their camp they came,
All the Six Hundred!
When can the glory fade
Of this wild charge they made?
Pish! what’s the Light Brigade,
At which the world wondered?
They didn’t all ride back
After their wild attack;
They lost one half, alack!
Silly Six Hundred!
Not so with our Brigade;
They, when their charge they’d made,
Rode back to their parade
Still a Six Hundred!
“At this point of the programme the prompter announced that the Egyptian Honours would be distributed, on which there at once came such a rain of stars, crosses, medals, K.C.B.’s, &c., from the “flies,” that the gallant veterans on the stage were glad to put up their umbrellas to guard their skulls from fracture.”
Truth Christmas Number, 1882.
The Porcupine (Liverpool) published a parody on July 11, 1885, entitled “The Charge of the Fire Brigade,” but it was of purely local interest, and destitute of humour, or any other literary merit.
——:o:——
A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA.
The Chester Cup.
Frenchman’s mare from over the sea,
“Stradella!”
Epsonians, Ascotians, Chesterians are we,
But all of us French in our welcome of thee,
“Stradella!”
Welcome her myriads of horses so fleet,
Welcome her thundering cheers of the street,
Welcome her champagne, cooling and sweet,—
Scatter the bank-notes under her feet.
Burst poor book-makers into sad tears,
’Tis victory, and the Frenchman’s cheers!
Welcome her, welcome her, winnings of ours!
Mather and Russell, don’t bustle there,
Fluttering, sputtering, chattering so!
Like rivulets let your gold-dust flow.
Pencils of gold in the suns’ rays flare
Put down your marks and to wit aspire,
We feel the breeze, but we do not care.
Flash, ye ladies, in champagne’s fire,
You shall have gloves, and by her desire,
“Stradella!”
Frenchman’s mare, from over the way,
If thou would’st go, yet thou must stay,
Or such a bore you then would be!
Oh, joy to the “gentry,” if you should win,
No matter the “people” who lose their tin.
Epsonians, Ascotians, Chesterians, we
Goths, or Roodes, or whatever we be,
We are all of us French in our welcome of thee,
“Stradella!”
P.S.—Frenchman’s mare from over the sea,
“Stradella!”
Since these ere lines I’d been and done,
An English horse has been and won;
And all my prophecy is void,
For I forgot that “Asteroid.”
From Lays of the Turf, by Rose Grey.
London, G. H. Nichols, 1863.
——:o:——
In Tennysoniam.
“We have had the following Stanzas forwarded us, with the signature of “A****d T*nn***n.” Can they be from the Laureate? We have our doubts. And yet there is a wild, mystical, logical, sentimental, and general obscurity of expression throughout the lines which inclines us to think (from their internal evidence) that they could have proceeded from no other pen than the author of ‘In Memoriam.’”
We seek to know, and knowing seek;
We seek, we know; and ev’ry sense
Is trembling with the great Intense
And vibrating to what we speak.
We ask too much, we seek too oft,
We know enough, and should no more:
And yet we skim through Fancy’s lore
And look to earth, and not aloft.
A something comes from out the gloom;
I know it not, nor seek to know:
I only see it swell and grow,
And more than this would not presume.
Meseems, a circling void I fill,
And I, unchanged where all is change;
It seems unreal; I own it strange,
Yet nurse the thoughts I cannot kill.
I hear the oceans surging tide
Raise quiring on its carol-tune;
I watch the golden-sickled-moon,
And clearer voices call beside.
O Sea! whose ancient ripples lie
On red-ribbed sands where sea-weeds shone;
O Moon! whose golden-sickles gone:
O Voices all! like ye I die!
From “The Month,” by Albert Smith and
John Leech. December, 1851.
——:o:——
The Battle of the Reviews.
“The sonnet written by Mr. Tennyson as an introduction to the Nineteenth Century has excited universal attention and admiration. Some people, however, are understood to have complained that they cannot exactly penetrate the meaning which the poet wishes to convey. But this is entirely their own fault, as, if they had studied the whole history of the secession from the Contemporary, they would fully appreciate the charm, and the appropriateness of the Laureates’ verses.”
“For the benefit of these, Mr. Tennyson, with his customary kindness, has forwarded to us the following lines, which our readers will at once perceive to be an explanation of his sonnet, as clear as the latter is beautiful:”
Of old the murmurs of the Delphian shrine,
The dry leaves fluttering in the Sibyl’s cave,
The mystic lights that shone upon the gems
Of Israel’s pontiff, and all prophecy
Were for the few, not for the common herd.
I, who have spoken to my co-mates stanch
Foregather’d by our mast, have spoken words,
‘Here in this roaring moon of daffodil
And crocus,’ which to them are clear as light,
Though dark as night to them that stand without.
Not dark to us, for we have trod the heights
‘Of hoar high-templed faith;’ and we do know,
For we have traversed them with fearless keel,
The ‘Seas of Death and sunless gulfs of Doubt,’
And we may win a ‘golden harbour’ yet.
But since we know well all that we do know,
The cunning plannings of our busy brains,
And e’en the meanings of the words we frame,
Let it content all men that stand without
That we do know exactly what we mean;
Nor let them rashly for their private ends
Construct interpretations of our speech.
Anonymous.
Tennyson’s “Prefatory Sonnet” in the first number of the “Nineteenth Century” commenced thus:—
Those that of late had fleeted far and fast
To touch all shores, now leaving to the skill
Of others their old craft seaworthy still,
Have chartered this; where, mindful of the past,
Our true co-mates regather round the mast;
* * * * *
——:o:——
IDYLLS OF THE KING.
A Parody of the Dedication.
In Memoriam.—A Collie Dog.
“These to its Memory—since from all I hear
It was a dog most dutiful and dear—
These simple lines, in which will p’rhaps be found
Some lasting image of a faithful hound,
I to its mourning mistress consecrate,
Hoping therewith her sorrow to abate;
Aye, hoping to console her for its fate,
With mingled doubts and fears I dedicate
These verses.
“And indeed it seems to me
A most ideal kind of dog to be
Which she has lost; not highly bred, indeed—
But who, with sense, cares aught for birth or breed?
I, as a poet, such vain things despise,
And hold them low as titles in my eyes;
Enough to know the dog at heart was true
To her that long as mistress fond it knew;
So true, in sooth, that others oft it spurned,
And with a savage snarl upon them turned
When they, with dainty bribe or gentle pat,
Would try to pass it, watchful on its mat.
“It loved her only, and with bounty kind
She in its favour e’er was much inclined
Since first she sadly called it to her side
When its dear master, and her husband, died;
And, gladly finding it come at her call,
Put trust in it thenceforward, all in all.
* * * * *
“Yet would I bid that mistress to take cheer,
Nor mourn too much that dog which was so dear.
Nor o’er its empty collar still to weep,
Nor its void kennel still unfilled to keep.
For though ’mongst dogs about her she detects
No one like ‘Laddie’ was, in all respects,
Yet, as the ocean yields, without a doubt,
Fish equal to the best ones taken out,
So, too, ’mongst dogs that have not had their day
May be as good as that one passed away;
Quite as devoted, quite as strong and true,
And possibly less rough and awkward, too.
“Let, then, the mistress of this much-mourned pet,
If she another collie still would get,
Learn that amongst the dogs that crowd around
Another ‘Laddie’ may with ease be found.
Which if not quite so roughly fond, indeed,
May points as good combine with better breed.”
Truth, February 14, 1884.
(In allusion to the Queen’s Servant, the late John Brown).
——:o:——
VIVIEN’S SONG.
A Little.
A little rift within the lute
And discord mars the pleasing strain;
A little tightness in the boot
Excuses epithets profane.
A little tip, a little bet,
A little silver from the till;
He does his little sentence yet,
And little likes the prison mill.
Dry as a little bit of chalk,
In a small pub they share a quart;
A little stagger in their walk
Shows they topped up with something short.
A little more, perhaps, than he meant
—Men sometimes speak a bit too fast—
One little word—she gives consent;
Her little fish is hooked at last.
R.H.B.
The Sporting Times, June 27, 1885.
——:o:——
GUINEVERE.
No light: so late! and dark and chill the night!
O, let us in, that we may find the light!
Too late, too late: ye cannot enter now.
Tennyson.
Too Soon.
Scene—The Pit door of the Lyceum.
Time—Ten minutes before 7.30 on a winter’s evening.
O let us out, the heat stifles us sore,
O pray open kindly behind us the door,
Too soon, too soon, ye cannot get out yet.
“Too long,” groaned we, for that we do repent:
Let us pass out, have mercy and relent,
No, no, too soon, ye cannot get out yet.
Fate made us soft: this shoving is no joke,
Our necks are nigh disjointed, our backs are nearly broke;
Too soon, too soon, ye cannot get out yet.
With punches yon cowards on us poor wretches drop,
Your cruel mates frown because the way we stop,
You should not have called us names quite yet.
Ah! Parodies, we’ve heard you are so sweet:
O let us out to hear “Amens” repeat
His soft “Dryhilldics.” No, too soon, not yet.
The Tonbridgian. March, 1879. C. C. H.
——:o:——
Little Miss Muffet.
A Tennysonian Version of the Popular Nursery Rhyme.
IN STURDY ANGLO-SAXON.
Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a tuffet,
Eating of curds and whey;
There came a great spider
And sat down beside her,
And frightened Miss Muffet away!
RESET AS AN ARTHURIAN IDYL.
Upon a tuffet of most soft and verdant moss,
Beneath the spreading branches of an ancient oak,
Miss Muffet sat, and upward gazed,
To where a linnet perched and sung,
And rocked him gently, to and fro.
Soft blew the breeze
And mildly swayed the bough;
Loud sung the bird,
And sweetly dreamed the maid;
Dreamed brightly of the days to come—
The golden days, with her fair future blent—
When one—some wondrous stately knight—
Of our great Arthur’s “Table Round;”
One, brave as Launcelot, and
Spotless as the pure Sir Galahad,
Should come, and coming, choose her
For his love, and in her name,
And for the sake of her fair eyes,
Should do most knightly deeds.
And as she dreamed and softly sighed,
She pensively began to stir,
With a tiny golden spoon,
Within an antique dish upon her lap,
Some snow-white milky curds;
Soft were they, full of cream and rich,
And floated in translucent whey;
And as she stirred, she smiled,
Then gently tasted them,
And smiling, ate, nor sighed no more.
Lo! as she ate—nor harbored thought of ill—
Near and nearer yet, there to her crept
A monster great and terrible,
With huge, misshapen body—leaden eyes—
Full many a long and hairy leg,
And soft and stealthy footstep.
Nearer still he came—Miss Muffet yet,
All unwitting his dread neighbourhood,
Did eat her curds and dream,
Blithe, on the bough, the linnet sung—
All terrestrial natures, sleeping, wrapt
In a most sweet tranquility.
Closer still the spider drew, and—
Paused beside her—lifted up his head
And gazed into her face.
Miss Muffet then, her consciousness alive
To his dread eyes upon her fixed,
Turned and beheld him.
Loud screamed she, frightened and amazed,
And straightway sprung upon her feet:
And, letting fall her dish and spoon,
She—shrieking—turned and fled.
Free Press Flashes, 1881.
——:o:——
DESPAIR.
Never Say Die.
A Dramatic Monologue.
The Minister of the Sect, which was abandoned by the man who did not drown himself, replies to the dramatic monologue on Despair which was published by that person in the “Nineteenth Century” for November, 1881.
So you’re minded to curse me, are you, for not having let you be,
And for taking the trouble to pull you out when your wife was drowned in the sea?
I’m inclined to think you are right—there was not much sense in it;
But there was no time to think, the thing was done in a minute.
You had not gone very far in: you had fainted where you were found;
You’re the sort of fellow that likes to drown with his toe on the ground.
However, you turn upon me and my creed with all sorts of abuse;
As if any preaching of mine could possibly be of use
To a man who refused to see what sort of a world he had got
To live in and make the best of, whether he liked it or not.
I am not sure what you mean: you seem to mean to say
That believing in hell you were happy; but that one unfortunate day
You found out you knew nothing about it, whereby the troubles of life
Became at once too heavy to bear for yourself and your wife.
That sounds silly; so perhaps you may mean that all is wrong all round—
My creed and the know-nothing books—and that truth is not to be found,
That’s sillier still; for if so the know-nothing books are right,
And you’re a mere spiritless cur, who can neither run nor fight—
Too great a coward to live, and too great a coward to die,
Fit for nothing at all but just to sit down and cry.
Not that you’re really unhappy. I don’t think you ever were.
Give you a poet’s corner, and a pipe and an easy chair,
And a woman or two to pet you, and you never gave way to despair,
You might sell it at so much a line—but that’s quite another affair.
Why in the midst of your whines it’s impossible not to see
How anxious you are to show that you’re only attacking me,
And that you’ve not a word to say against respectable people
Who own no connection between my chapel and their church-steeple.
You always contrive to hint, and almost seem to feel
That your creed would have been much better if your Church had been more genteel.
Why, man, we’re all in one boat, as every one can see,
Bishops and priests and deacons, and poor little ranters like me.
There’s hell in the Church of England, and hell in the Church of Rome:
And in all other Christian Churches, abroad as well as at home.
The part of my creed you dislike may be too stern for you.
Many brave men believe it—aye, and enjoy life too.
The know-nothing books may alarm you; but many a better man
Knows he knows nothing, and says so, and lives the best life he can.
If there is a future state, face its hopes and terrors gravely;
The best path to it must be to bear life’s burdens bravely.
And even if there is none, why should not you live like a man,
Enjoying whatever you have as much and as long as you can.
In the world in which we are living there’s plenty to do and to know,
And there’s always something to hope for, till its time for us to go.
Despair is the vilest of words, unfit to be said or thought,
Whether there is a God and a future state or not.
If you really are such a wretch that you’re quite unfit to live,
And ask my advice I’ll give you the best that I have to give.
Drown yourself by all means; I was wrong and you were right;
I’ll not pull you out any more; but be sure you drown yourself quite.
The St. James’s Gazette. November, 1881.
——:o:——
HANDS ALL ROUND.
Tennysonian Toryism Developed.
First pledge our Queen this solemn night,
Then drink to Tories every guest;
Next toast our leaders men of “light,”
In whose effulgence we are blest!
May carping Churchills ever live,
And Cecils “flout and jeer” for aye;
That man’s the best Conservative
Who best obstructs vile Gladstone’s sway.
Hands all round! God the Lib’rals’ hope confound!
To the sham cause of “Greatness” drink, my friends,
And the great name of Jingo round and round.
Drink health to lords of high degree,
Who strive to thwart the land’s desire;
May our opponent’s fail, while we
Grow strong in borough and in shire,
We fought wherever we could fight,
We scrupled not to confiscate;
We would be “great” by wrong or right:
May England thus be ever “great.”
Hands all round! God all Radicals confound!
To the sham cause of “Greatness” drink, my friends,
And the great name of Jingo round and round.
John Phelan.
The Weekly Dispatch, April 2, 1882.
——:o:——
THE FLEET.
The Unfitness of the Meat.
The Master to the Mistress, Loquitur.
You—you—if you have failed to comprehend
A Briton’s dinner is his all in all,
On you a husband’s anger will descend,
If that cold mutton pall
Upon his palate keen.
This meal the cheeriest—sacred hour of bliss!
This one rare meal, the joy of every man;
Poor Hubby, what would Life be, stripped of this?
And what avail the lunch abstention plan,
If Dinner brings the spleen?
You—you—who have the ordering of the meat,
If you can only compass horrid grub.
When husbands starve—the hansom trim and fleet
Shall whirl them to the Club—
But then, you’ll call it mean!
F. B. Doveton.
Eastbourne, 1885.
——:o:——
TO H.R.H. PRINCESS BEATRICE.
Two Suns of Love make day of human life,
Which else with all its pains and griefs and deaths
Were utter darkness—one, the Sun of dawn
That brightens thro’ the Mother’s tender eyes,
And warms the child’s awakening world—and one
The later-rising Sun of spousal Love
Which from her household orbit draws the child
To move in other spheres. The Mother weeps
At that white funeral of the single life,
Her maiden daughter’s marriage; and her tears
Are half of pleasure, half of pain—the child
Is happy—e’en in leaving her! but Thou,
True daughter, whose all-faithful, filial eyes
Have seen the loneliness of earthly thrones,
Wilt neither quit the widow’d Crown, nor let
This later light of Love have risen in vain,
But moving thro’ the Mother’s home, between
The two that love thee, lead a summer life,
Sway’d by each Love, and swaying to each Love
Like some conjectured planet in mid heaven
Between two Suns, and drawing down from both
The light and genial warmth of double day.
Tennyson.
Latest by the Poet of Low-Rate.
Two Moons for thee, of honey and of strife;
The one with all its love, and joy, and bliss,
And ample income; one the honeymoon
Which shines for thee in Trixey’s tender eyes,
And warms thee to our English home:—and one
The moonshine of a watchful Ma-in-law,
Who in her household orbit keeps her child
To pine for other spheres. The Mother smiles
At that white feather in thy jaunty cap;
Her maiden daughter’s marriage does not rob
Her of her close associate; her daughter
Is happy, never leaving her; but thou,
New Son-in-law, her watchful woman’s eyes—
Which know the ways of young men sprung from thrones—
Will watch thee with a jealous look, and curb
Thy freedom as befits one who is Queen—
So moving through the Mother’s home, between
The two, thy life alternately will be
Swayed by each one, swaying to this or that
Like some erratic planet in mid air
Between two Moons, and, trying to please both,
The life you’ll lead will well be worth the pay.
The Weekly Echo, July 25, 1885.
Poem Addressed to the Princess Beatrice,
not by the Poet Laureate.
Two Sums of cash will fill a German purse,
Which else with all its pockets and elastic band
Were utter emptiness—one, the round Sum down
Of £30,000, which brightens up the mother’s eyes,
And warms the child’s awakening greed—and one
The annual sum of just six thousand pounds
Which keeps her husband, and which helps the child
To move in other spheres. The mother smiles
At that gay funeral of the people’s cash,
Her maiden daughter’s marriage; and her thoughts
Are half of pleasure, half of pain—the coin
Is being spent—ev’n leaving her! But Thou,
True daughter, whose all faithful filial eyes
Have seen the costliness of earthly thrones
Wilt neither quit thy new half-crowns, nor let
Thy nice annuity have risen in vain,
But moving through the Mother’s home, between
Thy dividends and pension, lead an easy life,
Sway’d by each Lump of cash, and swaying to each Lump
Like some fat Pluralist in clover dwelling
Between two Sums, and drawing down from both
The light and genial warmth of double pay.
Modern Society, August 1, 1885.
There was a Parody competition on these lines in The Weekly Dispatch, August 9, 1885, and the following Parodies were printed. The first, which gained the prize of Two Guineas was written by Mr. J. Phelan, of 4, Albion Terrace, Wisbech.
Two tones of love make woe of married life,
Which, at its best, hath frets and jars enough
For passive comfort—one, the voice of dole
That frequent murmurs from the wife’s cold lips,
And warns the spouse to meek assent—and one
The keener-rising strain of mother’s plaint
Which from obedience turns her daughter’s mind
To undisguised revolt. The mother weeps
At that black burial of the single life,
Her hapless daughter’s marriage; and her tears
Are half of sorrow, half of guile—the man
Tormented, rids himself of her!, but thou,
Poor bondsman, whose wealth-seeking, glamoured eyes
Have caught the loveliness of palace-homes,
Canst neither quit thy mother-in-law nor shun
The scorn her princely kin to thee accord,
But, moving in the mother’s shade, between
Two fears that haunt thee, lead a tortured life,
Bored by restraint, and maddened by contempt,
Like luckless dweller ’neath Italian Alps,
’Tween ice and sun, and drawing down from both
The chills and scorchings of a double clime.
To Prince Henry of Battenberg.
Two things, no doubt, make day of married life,
Which else, with all its cares and births and deaths,
Were utter mis’ry! One a loving wife,
Who brightens all the home, whose tender eyes
Beam o’er the household world—and one,
The secondary one, of needful cash,
Which from far Germany has drawn thee, child,
To move in English spheres. What Prince would keep
In the mean penury of single life
When he could make a marriage such as yours,
With half its pleasure, half its gain, the while
Your slyness draws an annual six thou?
True German, whose all-seeking eager eyes
Have seen the pickings round an English throne,
You’ll cotton to our widow’d Crown, I’ll bet!
Nor play the “light o’ love” and spoil your game;
But, walking round your mother-in-law, between
The two that keep you, lead a stunning life.
Play well your cards—good playing, too, ’twill prove;
But don’t—rememb’ring both are more than seven—
Between two stools come tumbling down from both,
And lose the genial game by doubtful play.
Leonard Harding.
To My Sunday Suit.
Two tricks of trade make bearable my life,
Which else, with all its hunger and its thirst,
Were utter mis’ry—one, to buy on tick
By throwing dust into the tradesmen’s eyes.
And so secure my Sunday clothes—and one
The later-rising hope of pawning them,
Which from my household orbit draws the suit
To go up uncle’s spout. The tradesman weeps
Thinking of that white lie I gulled him with,
His maiden, sad adventure, and his tears
Are none of pleasure, all of pain. The clothes,
All nappy as they left his shop—yes, thou
Good broadcloth, my all useful Sunday suit,
Whose presence cheers my earthly loneliness,
Wilt neither quit my gloomy home nor let
Those gleaming three brass balls have risen in vain,
But, moving through the popping-shop, between
The two that own thee, glad my fretful life,
Swayed by each need, and swaying to each need,
Like some new-fangled toy acquired in shares
Between two boys, and drawing down from both
Their warm and genial zeal in double play.
Edward Johns.
To the New Radical Members.
Two sorts of grants make rich the royal train,
Who else, with all their pomp and stars and glare,
Were utter paupers—one, the grant for age
That princes get when twenty-one they reach—
Or set up their establishments—and one
(The later asked-for grant) when spousal love
Quite oft the Household charges takes the child—
To let the parent save. The Commons shout
At these extensions of the public tax.
And vote them with a rapture—and the Peers,
Amidst their pleasure, feel a pain that they
Hold not the purse-strings national. But ye,
True Radicals!—with earnest, rugged minds—
Knowing the shams and uselessness of thrones,
Will neither vote the first-named grant, nor let
The later bold demand be made again.
But, rising in the Commons’ House, between
The sides that fear thee, make a stern protest;
Bribed by no place, nor fearful of the frown
That scares those noble patriots who’re in heaven
When smiles a Queen, or whensoe’er they feel
The snug and genial warmth of feathered nests.
George Mallinson.
To Lord Tennyson.
Two bridal loves make laugh of “You you’s” song,
Which else, with all its gush and hollow praise,
Were utter blankness—one, the German Prince
Who settles ’neath his mother’s Castle roof,
And claims her child’s unbounded wealth; and one—
The not surprising one—his lady-love,
Who from her wedding bower drawls the lines—
And shows unto her friends. Her mother weeps
At this vile twaddle from her great Laureate
On Princess Trixie’s marriage; and her sighs
Are half of pity, half contempt—the child
Is muddled e’en at reading it! For thou
O Alfred, whose erst faithful lyric pen
Hath limn’d the loveliness of “The Princess,”
Could’st ne’er forget whence came thy crown, nor let
This little love-match pass without a strain;
But, grovelling at the mother’s throne, between
The two new lovers, act the toady’s part,
Playing the fool, and playing unto fools,
Like some contortioned jester of the Court
Between two “spoons,” and drawing down from both
A cold insipid smile on this glad day.
Jesse H. Wheeler.
End of Volume II.
Footnotes
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flow’r is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
[2] Adrien Marx, purveyor of Court news to The Figaro.
[3] At the time the London, Chatham, and Dover stopped paying any dividends.
[4] A term of endearment sometimes applied to Earl Granville by his political opponents.
[5] Cockney rhyme for which the Premier-Poet’s present model Edgar Poe, is responsible.
“Old Father Noah he built him an ark,
And set it afloat in St. James’ Park,” &c.—Old Song.
[7] The name of one of Mr. Poe’s Poems.
[8] It was announced that Mr. Irving intended to make his first appearance in New York in his celebrated part of Mathias in “The Bells.”
[9] The Right Hon. George Otto Trevelyan, M.P., Author of a Biography of Lord Macaulay.
[10] A nick-name applied to the Right Hon. W. E. Forster, M.P., by the Home Rulers.
[11] The dragon-ship of the Norse mythology.
[12] The Fates and Furies.
[13] An imitation of “The Bells.”
[14] A Parody of “Ulalume.”
[15] A Parody of “Annabel Lee.”
[16] A Parody of “The Raven.”
[17] A Parody of “The Conqueror Worm.”
[18] “The Lay of the Lovelorn,” this was quoted on page 21, Part II. of Parodies.
[19] “The Heathen Pass-ee” from Light Green. This parody was given in full in Part IX. Parodies, page 135.
[20] Where and when did this Parody appear? The “Saturday Reviewer” omits this important information, whilst he tantalises his readers by saying that “the whole parody is so good that selection is difficult.” It should have appeared here in full had a proper reference been given to it. All the other Parodies alluded to in the article will be included in this collection under the authors to whom they refer.—Ed. Parodies.
[21] In the Sandwich Isles it is death for a man’s mother-in-law to visit him without permission. Happy Sandwich Islanders.!!!
[22] This amiable and accomplished lady should remember the useful advice of Mr. Artemus Ward, “Never to prophecy unless you know.”
[23] Miss Jenny Lind first appeared at Covent Garden Theatre when it was under the management of Mr. Lumley—Alfred Bunn (the “Poet Bunn”) being then lessee of Drury Lane Theatre.
[24] (A celebrated cook of whom Tom Moore makes frequent mention in his lighter poems.)
[25] Thumbscrews.
[26] “The drummer” an Americanism for Commercial Traveller.
[27] This is incorrect. Mr. Gladstone went to the Criterion Theatre the night before the tidings arrived of the fall of Khartoum.
[28] The St. Michael oranges come from one of the Azore Islands.
[29] Yum-yum, believed to be Japanese Muse of Hypothetical Poetry, corresponding to “You, you.”
[30] Lauder.
[31] Macpherson.
[32] Chatterton.
[33] Sir Richard Mayne, then chief of the Metropolitan Police.
[34] It was recently announced that at one of the meetings of the Society Mr. Carr would read a paper on “Such Harmony is in Immortal Soules;” considering the stormy history of the Society, this announcement appeared so grotesque that even the grim and austere Daily News burst into satirical verse to celebrate the event:—
“The new Shakespeare Society
“(From violence of language free,
“And full of friends who all agree)
“In grave debate will meet!”
[35] This was a skit on the late Prince Albert’s absurd design for a new head-gear for soldiers.
[36] Alluding to a well-known sonnet of the late Marquis:—
“O happy, happy, happy flea,
If I were you or you were me,
But since, alas, that cannot be,
I must remain Lord Salisbury.”
[37] Drum.—“A drum, then, is an assembly of well-dressed persons of both sexes, most of whom play at cards, and the rest do nothing at all; while the mistress of the house performs the part of the landlady at an inn, and, like the landlady of an inn, prides herself in the number of her guests, though she doth not always, like her, get anything by it.”—Fielding, History of a Foundling, p. xvii;, ch. 6.
[38] The coercive measure for Ireland.
[39] Othello (on this occasion only) by Mr. Henry Irving.
[40] Mrs. Bateman.
[41] Sub-Warden, Sub-Rectors, &c.
[42] The well-known Shakespearian commentators.
[43] Prince Bismarck.
[44] John Arthur Roebuck, M.P., for Sheffield.
[45] Lord Brougham.
[46] This is quite as true to fact as the Bird harmony of the original.
[47] Alluding to a disgraceful fight which took place in Rotten Row, between Lord Lonsdale and Sir George Chetwynd.
[48] Louis XVIII, who was replaced on the throne of his ancestors, after the deposition of Napoleon Buonaparte. But for the support of the Allied Powers, the French people would probably have soon deposed this indolent and bigoted representative of the Divine Right, who, at the instigation of the priests, had just landed them in an unjust war with Spain. He had for several years previously been suffering from the effects of his indolent habits, and his constant over eating, and over drinking, and he died in the following year, September 16, 1824.
[49] Celebrated Oxford Ale-houses.
[50] A Latin song called “Domum,” sung with instrumental accompaniment, on the day before the commencement of their Whitsuntide Vacation, by the scholars of Winchester College.
[51] Fox-covers.
[52] The ante-room at the Opera, where the audience assemble, and flirt, and catch cold, under the pretence of waiting for their carriages.
[53] Lauder, Macpherson, Chatterton, and W. H. Ireland.
[54] Wolseley and Roberts are small men; Graham is 6ft. 4in.
[55] Le Beau D’Orsay cut out his gilets.
[56] Beau Nash was M.C. at Bath.
[57] Beau Brummel it was who said to the Prince Regent, “George, ring the bell.”
[58] Tyndall, Phonologist.
[59] Huxley, Agnostic.
[60] Darwin, Ethnologist.
[61] Randolph Churchill.
[62] Lord R. Churchill.
[63] Mrs. Langtry.
[64] Miss Terry.
[65] Miss Mary Anderson.
[66] Stage direction. The thunder is produced by rolling a turnip in a fish kettle.
[67] Clark’s Horses were notorious buck-jumpers.
[68] “Of the many cases to which I have alluded there are some that have commanded my attention by reason of their unusual depravity,—cases in which three or four adults of both sexes, with many children were lodging in the same room, and often sleeping in the same bed. I have notes of three or four localities where 48 men, 73 women, and 69 children are living in 34 rooms. They are distributed as follows 2 men, 2 women, and 3 children in one room; 1 man, 2 women, and 3 children; 1 man, 4 women, and 2 children; 2 men, 3 women, and 1 child; 2 men, 1 woman, and 2 children; 1 man, 4 women, and 1 child; 1 man and 3 women; 2 men and 3 women; and so on.—Vide Report.
[69] “About a fortnight since, I visited the back room on the ground floor of No. 5. I found it occupied by 1 man, 2 women, and 2 children, and in it was the dead body of a poor girl who had died in childbirth a few days before. The body was stretched out on the bare floor without shroud or coffin.”—Ibid.
[70] Since this paragraph was in type I have received a copy of the second edition of The Banquet from the author, Mr. George Cotterell. Collectors of Tennysoniana should certainly “make a note” of this amusing little book. Ed. Parodies.
[71] On the Fell Railway which preceded the Mont Cenis Tunnel.
[72] Bridges, on the 119th Psalm.
Transcriber’s Note
This book was written in a period when many words had not become standardized in their spelling. Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent hyphenation in the text. These have been left unchanged unless indicated below. Dialect was not changed. “The Splendid Shilling” is presented as an exact reprint; the long s (ſ) was retained in this poem.
Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and were moved to the end of the book. Two footnotes were not printed, page 229. All three anchors resolve to [51]. There are two anchors to footnote [42].
Obvious printing errors were corrected, such as backwards, upside down, partially or unprinted letters and punctuation, letters in reversed order, and punctuation marks used as letters. Final stops missing at the end of sentences and abbreviations were added. Punctuation was standardized (commas changed to stops and vice versa; open and close quote marks, and spacing between words). Duplicate words at line endings or page breaks were removed.
In the section entitled “Pot-Pourri,” the original citations of the Poe poems were printed across the bottom of the two-column page; these were moved to follow immediately after the parody of each poem.
Spelling corrections: