Bret Harte.

——:o:——

That Greenwich M.P.

Which I wish to declare,

And my story is sad,

That for dealings unfair,

And for ways that are bad,

The Greenwich M.P. is peculiar—

Which the same is a terrible “Rad.”

’Twas an October day,

But a week or two back,

When the mob yelled “Hurray”

On the heath that is Black,

As they gazed from afar upon William,

And harked to his voluble clack.

Which this W. G.,

You will all understand,

Is the Greenwich M.P.,

And his promise is bland;

But then, over his sinister shoulder,

He points with the thumb of his hand.

So free from all guile,

From intent to deceive,

He seem’d all the while,

You could hardly believe

How, when talking to people of Greenwich,

He chuckled and laughed in his sleeve.

He was greatly concern’d

For the Greenwichers’ weal,

And he twisted and turn’d

With his words like an eel—

Praised himself, and the Radical party;

It little—himself a great deal.

Which is why I declare,

And my feelings are sad,

That for dealings unfair,

And for ways that are bad,

The Greenwich M.P. is peculiar—

Which that same is a stone that is glad.

Judy, November 22, 1871.

——:o:——

The Heathen M.P.

Which I wish to remark,

And my language is plain,

That for words that are dark

And for tricks that are vain

The Heathen M.P. is peculiar,

Which the same I would wish to explain.

Ben D——was his name,

And I shall not deny

That who went by the same

Was exceedingly sly;

But his smile it was pensive and child-like,

As I often remarked to Bill-y;

It was April the third,

And quite soft were the skies;

Let it not be inferred

That Ben D——was likewise;

Yet he played it that day upon William

In a way too adroit to be wise.

Which we had a debate,

And Ben D——took a part,

After begging to state

That it came from his heart;

But he smiled as he stood by the table

With a smile that was hollow and tart.

Now his speech it was stocked

In a way that I grieve,

(And my feelings were shocked

As you cannot believe,)

It was stuffed full of stories and crammers,

And the same with intent to deceive.

But the points that were made

By that Heathen Ben D——,

And the fibs he essayed

Were quite frightful to see,

Till at last he came out with a crammar

That was known to be such unto G——.

G—— looked to the skies,

(Which was sad for to see,)

And he rose up likewise,

And said, “Darling Ben D——,

“This is false what you say about Russia!”

And he went for that Heathen M.P.

In the scene that ensued

William took a large part,

For the way he’d been Jewed

Had gone straight to his heart,

Like the fibs that Ben D——had been telling

In the speech that had come “from his heart.”

In which speech, which was long,

He had twenty-four packs,

Which was coming it strong

As departing from facts;

And they found in that speech, which was rant,

What is frequent in speeches—that’s cant?

Which is why I remark,

And my language is plain,

That for words that are dark

And for tricks that are vain

The Heathen M.P. is peculiar,

And the same I am free to maintain.

Benjamin D——. His Little Dinner, 1876.

——:o:——

The Political Heathen Chinee.

Ben Diz was his name,

And it were vain to deny

In respect of the same

What the name might imply:

For his nose had a hook that meant mischief,

But the hook was a fool to his eye.

“Heads I win, tails you lose,”

Was the “lie” of his game.

Turks, Afghans, Zulus—

No matter who came—

It was “beggar my neighbour” all round,

Which all neighbours got treatment the same.

Which he euchred the Turk—

For he played from a hand

Of “reserves,” that did lurk

Underneath his wristband;

And an island he quietly nobbled,

With a smile diplomatic and bland.

Bits of Beaconsfield, or a new Series of Disraeli’s
Curiosities of Literature.
(Abel Heywood and Son, Manchester.)

——:o:——

On Chang, the Chinese Giant.

Which I beg you won’t doubt,

As you listen to me,

A man longer drawn out

You’re not likely to see

Than this very remarkable giant,

Which same was a heathen Chinee.

Mister Chang was his name,

All alive! O, alive!

From Fychow he came

In eighteen-sixty-five,

On the shillings of sight-loving public

For some time to gleefully thrive.

It was August, eighteen,

That he first came to town,

And by thousands was seen,

And won highest renown;

But so lofty was he, and so haughty,

On all of his friends he looked down.

When invited to sup

He’d not touch flesh of cows,

And he turned his nose up

At an English carouse,

For he swallowed at dinner and breakfast

But bird’s-nests and little bow-wows.

But he fretted and fumed

As the shillings got few,

And his features assumed

A cerulean hue,

And he looked like a piece of blue china

Of a size that you don’t often view.

Judy, August 20, 1879.

——:o:——

On Bret Harte.
(After “Jim”)

Say there, then,

Some of you men

Might read Bret Harte,

Not p’raps all through

But one or two,

Just a part?

Try first that one

Heathen Chinee,

Then just for fun

Take two or three