H. W. Longfellow.
A Christmas Psalm of Life.
Tell me not, thou soul that slumbers,
Christmas is an empty dream;
When these comic double numbers
With the flash of humour gleam.
Life is earnest, life is real,
In our Fleet Street and the Strand;
Many an honest heart and leal
Shall be moved by laughter’s wand.
“Sweet enjoyment and no damper”—
Motto fit for every grade,
[If my friends send me a hamper,
Let them mark it “Carriage paid.”]
Hearts which long with hope were beating
Now shall flock to Drury Lane,
There to give a friendly greeting
To the clown and “pants” again.
So in other fields of glory
Comes the genial feud and strife,
Each man, be he Whig or Tory,
Finding happiness in life.
Lives like Sloper’s should remind us
Life can still be made sublime,
Scattering all the trash behind us.
Pointing to a better time.
Sloper’s Christmas Number, 1884.
A Psalm for the Trade.
Tell us not in doleful numbers
Trade is done for evermore,
That supply, demand outnumbers,
And the drummer’s days are o’er.
Trade is real—trade is active,
Better times again we’ll see;
To remain stagnation’s captive,
Is against all history.
Time is long—bill maturing
Must be paid without delay;
Such the only way insuring
Better trade at early day.
Shun this reckless competition,
Look beyond the moment’s gain,
Learn that honest coalition
Is far better in the main.
Stop this scheme of future dating,
Ere it has become too late;
Act at once and cease all prating—
Leave consignments to their fate.
Lives of others all remind us,
If our dealing’s just and fair,
That a better time will find us
Getting all our honest share.
American Exchange.
A Phase of Life.
(The Yankee Merchant to his book-keeper.)
Tell me not in rows of numbers,
Of his assets as they seem,
That if I would loan 1,000
He could bridge the turbid stream.
Debts are real, debts are earnest,
No transferring makes them less;
“Dust” thou borrow, “dust” returnest
Still as great thy sore distress.
Trust no more the men who owe me,
Let the debts just due be paid;
Act, act promptly in collecting,
Ere the last faint hope shall fade.
Failures of great men remind us
How they bought their goods on time,
And departing left behind them
For each dollar’s debt a dime.
Seeing which perhaps another
Almost ready to collapse,
Takes a lesson from his brother—
Leaves behind a few old traps.
Let us then be up and doing,
With a cheek quite undismayed,
Every debtor close pursuing
Till his bills have all been paid.
American Paper.
A Psalm of Life.
(As exhibited in Christmas Annuals.)
Tell me not, O Soul that slumbers,
“Life is placid, Life is pale!”
’Tis not so in Christmas Numbers;
There quite other views prevail.
Life is Foaming, Life is Frantic,
Here the dagger, there the bowl;
“Stick at nothing that’s romantic!”
Says my Printer to my Soul.
Not to live as boys and girls would
Is our men’s and maidens’ way;
But to act as if in Earlswood
You might find them any day.
Write of fire, and flood, and battle,
Write of Earls that gaily sin,
Write of Governesses—that’ll
Bring the sweet subscribers in!
Lives of Great Highwaymen show it,
How to make our tales sublime;
Bother sense and grammar. Go it—
Give us something new in Crime
Crimes that ne’er, perchance, another,
As he reached his volume’s end,
Dreamed of—give us these my brother,
Something fresh in guilt, my friend!
Let us then be up and raving,
Rave of ghosts, and sin, and fate;
These the gentle reader’s craving,
And he does not like to wait!
Punch, January 10, 1885.
——:o:——
Beware!
I know a youth who can flirt and flatter,
Take care!
He loves with the ladies to gossip and chatter,
Beware! Beware
Trust him not
He is fooling thee!
He has a voice of varying tone
Take care!
It echoes many beside thine own,
Beware, &c.
He has a hand that is soft and white,
Take care!
It pressed another than thine last night,
Beware, &c.
His letters are glowing with love I ween,
Take care!
One half that he writes he does not mean,
Beware, &c.
He talks of truth and of deep devotion,
Take care!
Of loving truly he has no notion,
Beware, &c.
Your heart he will gain with his dangerous wiles,
Take care!
Of his whispered words, of his sighs, of his smiles.
Beware! Beware!
Trust him not.
He is fooling thee!
Anonymous.
The Barber Fiend.
I know a barber who in town doth dwell—
Take care!—
He has a lot of things to sell
For hair; forbear!
Buy them not,
Though he counsel thee.
For he will charge thee four-and-six
(Take care!)
For a bottle of wash, worth less than nix,
Beware, beware!
Of his pomade pot,
’Tis a fallacy.
And when thou goest to get a “crop,”
Don’t swear,
If he say thy hair is thin atop,
Somewhere, somewhere;
Believe him not,
He is fright’ning thee.
And if to take thee by thy nose
He dare,
Whilst sitting, in ungraceful pose,
On chair, on chair;
Resent it not,
He is shaving thee.
And he has dyes of every hue;
Take care
Lest russet locks be turned to blue,
Or fair, or fair—
To some hue not
Such as pleases thee.
He has bear’s grease in pots for thee
(A snare).
If on thy face no whiskers be,
Don’t care, don’t care;
Hog’s lard will not
Make a man of thee.
Judy, November 22, 1871.
——:o:——
Female Commercial “Travellers.”
I know a maiden with a bag,
Take care!
She carries samples in a drag,
Beware! beware!
O Draper fond,
She is fooling thee!
She has the true “Commercial” style,
Take care!
To which she addeth woman’s guile,
Beware! beware!
O Grocer goose,
She is plucking thee!
And she has quite a flood of talk,
Take care!
She sells as cheese what’s only chalk,
Beware! beware!
O Dealer daft,
She’s deceiving thee!
Her eyes are really wondrous black,
Take care!
They make a shiver run down your back,
Beware! beware!
O Shopman soft,
She is ogling thee!
She sells you a silk of “perfect wear,”
Take care!
At it your customers will swear,
Beware! beware!
Trust her not,
This Travelling She!
Punch, February, 1885.
——:o:——
Song of the Oyster Land.
By a Longing Fellow.
“Oysters are abnormally dear in the New York market.” Daily News.
Into the Oyster Land!
Ah! who shall lead us thither?
Our hopes from the New World now pale and wither,
There is no joy in Cheapside and the Strand.
Who’ll lead us with a friendly hand,
Thither, oh thither,
Into the Oyster Land?
Into the Oyster Land!
To you, ye nameless regions
Of Native worth. Delicious daily visions
Of some Ostrealia, beautiful and bland.
Where at the bar a man might stand,
Gulping cheap bivalve beauties
Down, in the Oyster Land.
O Land! O Land!
No longer hopeful joy stirs
Within my bosom. Rubbish, tinned and potted,
Mocks one, by no bright herald now doth stand,
To lead us, with a liberal hand,
Into the land of the cheap good Oysters,
Into the Oyster Land!
Punch, October 21, 1882.
——:o:——
The Bubble and the Bullet.
(A sweet thing in Morals, not even remotely suggested by Longfellow’s “Arrow and Song.”)
I blew a bubble into the air,
And bright and high it floated there;
Till all who gazed both near and far,
Declared the bubble was a star.
I shot a bullet into the air,
Worth twenty bubbles bright and fair;
But the bullet’s flight was all in vain,
It only fell to the earth again.
Learn hence, in catching the public eye—
Bullets are difficult things to fly;
So bubble on bubble upward send
And keep your lead for the heart of a friend!
William Sawyer.
——:o:——
The Roman Prelate.
(From a Mediæval Legend.)
After Longfellow’s Norman Baron.
In his chamber grand and fitting,
Was the Roman Prelate sitting,
By his side St. Philip Neri
Stood, the window looking thro’
When a strange, unpleasant feeling,
O’er the Cardinal came stealing
While, as if by wand of fairy,
All things alter’d to his view.
Vanished street, and dome, and steeple,
Vanished crowds of priests and people,
Lo, instead, a place of torture
(Which politeness would not name),
There he saw the souls tormented,
Suffer all the pangs invented
By the old Arch-fiendish Scorcher,
He whose element is flame.
Writhing in and out among them,
Snakes and demons bit and stung them,
Never ceased, the victims, therefore,
Ne’er from anguish could be free,
In their midst a seat most splendid,
Seem’d for some great Prince intended,
Asked the Prelate—“What’s that chair for?”
Quoth St. Philip—“’tis for thee.”
Then the Cardinal, in terror,
Thought upon his life of error,
Ask’d the Saint on what condition
Heaven his soul would deign to spare,
“’Tis, relinquish worldly pleasure,
Love of sway and greed of treasure,
Banish envy and ambition,
Satan else will seat you there!”
Then the Cardinal repenting,
Soon the holy Saint, relenting,
Gave him pardon, warning, blessing,
Preaching, too, (without a text),
Vanish’d then the Prelate’s panic,
Vanish’d then that scene Satanic,
Never more his soul distressing
In this world—or in the next!
Walter Parke.
The Bath and Cheltenham Gazette, June 25, 1878.
——:o:——
The City Blackleg.
Under the railway arch there see,
The villain Smith he stands;
That Smith a puny man is he,
With small and skinny hands;
And the muscles of his bony arms
Are like elastic bands.
His hair you see’s by no means long,
His face is lean and wan;
His brow ne’er yet was wet with sweat,
He lives as best he can;
To owe he holds is no disgrace,
For he owes to ev’ry man.
He tries to tempt that countryman
(Flinging a pair o’ dice),
But having fleeced him once before,
Upon his back he lies;
And with his skinny hand he wipes
A pair of blackened eyes.
Swindling—skedaddling—borrowing
Onward through life he goes;
No morning sees him taken in,
No evening sees him lose;
Somebody tempted, some one “done,”
Earns him a night’s repose.
Judy, September 4, 1867.
Nudity.
(Set to the Tune of an Old Ditty.)
[“A British Matron” addressed an indignant letter to the Times, anent the nudities which are now exhibited at our annual picture shows.]
Before a study of the nude
The British Matron stands,
A vivid blush is on her cheek,
She raises both her hands,
And for that hussy all undraped
A petticoat demands.
Her air is shocked, her face is long,
Her mission is to ban;
Her brow is set in lines of fret,
As may be seen by man,
And oft while gazing she exclaims,
“I wonder painters can!”
Sneak in, sneak out, brush-wielding wights,
Tread softly and talk low,
Take note of Mrs. Grundy’s scowl,
Observe her wrathful glow;
She don’t approve of frockless daubs
And that she’d have you know!
The Matron’s wishing even now
She’d never sought your door,
Since here are pictures on the line,
Some ten, if not a score,
That make her almost long to sink
Unnoticed through the floor.
Crimson, indignant, horrified,
On through the room she goes;
Each glance to left augments her pain,
Each glance to right but shows
Some one who’s classic, some one stripped
Of decency and clo’es!
Thanks, thanks to thee, our British M.,
For the lesson thou hast taught.
Not to these Academic halls
Must nudities be brought;
In France the artist comes it strong,
But here he “didn’t ought.”
Funny Folks, June 6, 1885.
——:o:——
Flowers.
Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
When he called the flowers so blue and golden,
Stars that in earth’s firmament do shine.
* * * * *
Longfellow
——:o:——
Flowers (of Rotten-row).
Spake full well in language most descriptive,
One who walked by the Serpentine,
When he called these ladies fair, deceptive,
Beauties lost in crinoline.
Monstrous are those petticoats inflated,
Altering the syrens’ figures quite,
While the swells who unto them are mated
Are eclipsed from the beholders’ sight.
Wondrous fashions, manifold as wondrous,
Modern genius cuts its cloth into,
From the head-dress to the sandals under us,
From the “tile” unto the walking shoe.
And the costume-connoisseur, observant,
Sees alike in male or female dress,
More than is by wearer, him or her, meant.
More of folly—but of beauty less:
Gorgeous neck-ties, glistening in the sunlight,
Hats e’en whiter than their wearer’s hands,
“All round” collars made to screw the neck tight,
Coats “high-church”-like, and suggesting “bands.”
Trousers in such “knee-plush-ultra” fashion,
Wide above and at the ancles tight,
As would put the ghost of Stultz into a passion,—
Thus ye see the swell in all his might!
“Hiawatha’s” author tells us in his verses,
Men and flowers are very much alike,
But methinks—although his language trim and terse is,
Hyde-park flowers the simile won’t strike.
Solomon, we know, in all his glory,
Couldn’t to the lily’s dress compare;
Shall then moderns, less than him in story,
Likened be unto the flow’rets fair?
Nay—to Solomon we’ll give the credit
(This we hope his tailor gave him too,)
And believe, although no Rabbi said it,
He ne’er clothed himself as modern Britons do:
For if like theirs had been his usual covering,
We cannot help remarking, by-the-bye,
That old Israel’s far-renowned sovereign,
Little wiser was, dear sir, than you and I.
C.O.
Tait’s Magazine, 1858.
——:o:——
Our Serenaders.
[“The plaintiff,” Mr. Justice Mathew decided, in an action brought by a literary man to prevent a noise on a neighbour’s premises, “contended for a condition of felicity which could never be obtained in London.”—Daily Paper.]
I lay in my bed at midnight,
As the dogs were barking the hour,
And I hurled at their heads, of language
A maledictory shower!
I heard their pestilent voices
In the garden under me,
Like a chorus of demons yelling
In hideous symphony.
Most gladly would I have strangled
The Judge who lately said
The Londoner never must hope for
Repose in his little bed.
How often, oh how often,
In the nights that have gone by,
I have tossed on my pillow and wondered
Why cats seem never to die!
How often, oh how often,
I have wished that some tempest drear
Would bear away in its bosom,
My neighbour’s Chanticleer!
And when his protest uplifteth
The mongrel over the way,
I look about for my pistol,
And long for the dawn of day.
And that terrible little Terrier—
Why cannot its mistress see
That it has no right to prowl at night
And bark at the moon and me?
When I think that this latest decision
Of the case-encumbered Judge
Will help my neighbours to beard me,
And to dub my threats as “fudge,”—
I seem to see a procession
Of ills which must spring from it—
The young man goaded to madness,
And the old going off in a fit.
And for ever and for ever,
As long as those Dogs delight
To bark, and the Cats to bellow,
And murder sleep in the night.
The Judge and his latest decision.
And his cold remarks will show
That he hears no “meowing” above him,
And no “bow-wowing” below.
Punch, February 7, 1885.
There was also a parody on the same original in The Sporting Times, May 2, 1885, but it was too coarse and slangy to bear quoting.
——:o:——
Divitior.
The shades of evening deepened fast,
As, bank-ward, through the City passed
A man, who in his pocket bore,
His bank-book, strangely titled o’er—
Divitior!
His brow was wrinkled; keen his eye
Flashed on each jostling passer-by,
And still the strange mysterious word
From his scarce-conscious lips were heard—
Divitior!
In humble homes he saw the light
Of happy faces, warm and bright.
Above, Ambition’s cold heights shone;
He cried, his eye on these alone,—
Divitior!
“Tempt not a path,” the preacher said,
“Which none who loves his life may tread;
The snares and chasms are deep and wide;”
But, confident, he loud replied—
Divitior!
“Stay,” said Content, “Oh stay, and rest,
Thy anxious head upon this breast:”
A tear one moment dimmed his eye,
But still he answered, with a sigh—
Divitior!
“Beware th’ alluring path of greed,
There’s danger in thy headlong speed;”
This was a brother’s parting word—
He cried, the warning scarcely heard—
Divitior!
One morning, as the gossips tell,
While neighbours, woke by matin bell,
Were syllabling their morning prayer,
A voice shrieked through the startled air—
Divitior!
Exhausted, over-wrought, at last
His spirit from its tent had passed;
Still grasping in his hand of ice,
His bank-book, with the strange device—
Divitior!
There, in the twilight, cold and gray,
The Mammon Martyr lifeless lay;
And from beneath a voice was heard,
Muttering in scorn the mocking word—
Divitior!
Tait’s Magazine, 1858. S.W.F.
Nettle-rash.
(From St. Bartholomew’s.)
The shades of night were falling fast,
As through the Doctor’s office passed,
A Boy, who bore upon his face
The symptoms and decided trace
Of nettle-rash.
“You’d better go,” the matron said,
“And rest your head upon your bed;”
A tear stood in her bright blue eye,
As he did question, have then I—
Got nettle-rash?
You’ll take two pills, the doctor said,
And mind you cover up your head—
I’ll see he does, the nurse replies,
I hope you’ll cure me, sir, he cries,
Of nettle-rash.
There, in the gas light, far from gay,
Spotted, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the boys both near and far
The question fell, like a falling star—
How’s nettle-rash?
Anonymous.
Young Lambs to Sell.
The Lamplighters were scudding fast,
As thro’ some half-blind alleys passed,
A man who bore thro’ muddy way—
A Tray with a most strange display,
“Young lambs to sell.”
His face was seamed, his bleary eye,
Told tales of tankards, oft drained dry;
The words were partly said and sung
Which fell from his outlandish tongue—
“Young Lambs to sell.”
The Landlord cried, you’d better stay;
The rain will wash your wares away,
The wind will blow them up sky high,
But loud and shrill he still did cry—
“Young Lambs to sell!”
“Oh, stay and drink” the Toper cried;
“They’ll chalk me up a can inside.”
His ferret eye a twinkle gave,
But constantly he tipped the stave—
“Young Lambs to sell.”
“Beware the Peeler’s truncheon thick,
Nor sleep on kiln of baking brick;
You are a fool that won’t take treat.”
A voice replied far up the street
“Young Lambs to sell.”
D4. upon his nightly round,
The Merchant in a corner found;
Upon his tin legged flock he lay,
His open mouth still seemed to say,
“Young Lambs to sell.”
There, in the bull’s-eyes shining round,
Dead-drunk and muddled was he found;
And soon the lockups grim inside
Contained the leary one who cried
“Young Lambs to sell.”
From The Free-Lance, Manchester.
U-Pi-Dee.
The shades of night were coming down fast, U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day,
When through a Roman village pass’d U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day.
A youth who’d had champagne in ice
They’d marked him with this strange device,
U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.
His hat was bad his eyes were black
A short tail’d coat adorned his back,
And like a cracked Pianner rung
The accents of this unknown tongue:—
U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.
Try not the pass the old man said
Does your mother know you’re not in bed?
He took the old man by the nose,
And said one word which I suppose
Was: U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.
“O stay!” the maiden cried, said she U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day.
We’re all just a going to sit down to tea U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day.
A wink was in the bright blue eye,
As he said with a hiccough or a sigh,
Oh, U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.
Remove the flags if you fall pat U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day,
I say young man I’ll have your hat U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day,
This was a cabman’s last good night,
When a voice from somewhere out of sight
Said, U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.
Now you want a moral to my song,
To know what is right and what is wrong,
Don’t get champagne upon the brain,
Or else instead of speaking plain,
You’ll say: U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.
Night passed, and in the morning gray,
He was found fast asleep by Policeman A,
He asked his name, he turned him round
In the pocket of his coat a card was found;
It was U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.
About a quarter past six the next forenoon,
A man accidentally getting up soon,
Heard utter’d above mid snow and ice,
This remarkable song in a very weak voice,
U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.
He’s dead, defunct, without any doubt
The lamp of his life is entirely out,
In the snow and the ice he now is laying,
So it aint any use any more to be saying,
U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.
This old fashioned comic song, written by F. C. Burnand, was sung in the Burlo-Drama of Julius Cnaeser at the Royalty Theatre. The chorus has here been somewhat abbreviated, as its wit was not in proportion to its length. A parody, having a similar refrain, appeared in Volume 1, Parodies, page 101.
A Christmas Pantomime.
“The shades of night were falling fast,”
As through the streets of London passed,
A youth who trudged through snow and ice,
Stamped on his heart the fond device,
Loved Arabella!
His coat was rough, his hat was sleek,
The frost had nipped both nose and cheek;
But as he walked he softly sung,
Those words so often on his tongue,
Loved Arabella!
To Camden Town try not the way,
The snow has fallen thick to-day:
This was a comrade’s last good-bye,
But bold he said “For her I’ll try,”
Loved Arabella!
“Oh! buy my chestnuts baked and warm,”
A damsel cried, then touched his arm;
A longing look was in his eye,
But still he answered with a sigh,
Loved Arabella!
About the pantomime he’d read,
Of fays and sprites, so onward sped;
For to these scenes of festive light
He’d vowed to lead his lady bright,
Loved Arabella!
The villa reached he saw the light
Of chandelier and firelight bright,
While on the blind he traced a shade
Like that of his long worshipped maid,
Loved Arabella!
E’en as he gazed, beside her came
A hated rival, “Jones” by name:
One she had sworn no more to meet,
Nor even bow to in the street,
False Arabella!
Above her head he held a spray—
A sacred plant, ’twas once, they say,
Then under this protection base,
He bent and kissed her blushing face,
False Arabella!
The outside lover shook his fist,
To choke his rival much he wished,
For acting such a traitor’s part,
And stealing thus his fair one’s heart,
False Arabella!
A moment later he was there,
Glaring at the detected pair;
With words of anger sharp, but few,
He bade the maid a last adieu,
False Arabella!
Then on he went, for well he knew
That maxim old, and yet so true—
“There’s always good fish in the sea,”
And therefore maids more true than she,
False Arabella!
London Society, Christmas Number, 1867.
Ye Poor Mahdi!
The shades of night were falling fast
As Mahdi through El Obeid past;
He said good-bye to all his wives,
Which caused a thousand stifling cries—
Ye poor Mahdi!
His brow was sad; his blessed eyes
Were gazing steadfast on the skies;
And from a weak consumptive chest;
There came a voice of piteousness—
“Ye poor Mahdi!”
In Cairo’s Hall he saw the light;
Of Gladstone laws, as dark as night,
And in the merchants’ faces gazed,
And saw that they too Gladstone praised,
Ye poor Mahdi!
“Try not this scheme,” good Randy said;
“A scimitar hangs o’er thy head,
For England hates thee, she’s so proud;”
But a voice answered, “I’m quite cowed,”
Ye poor Mahdi!
“Stay,” cried an angry Custom’s Clerk,
“You pay £5 to leave this barque;
And if you don’t, why we shall paste
On H.M.S. right round your waist”—
Ye poor Mahdi!
Beware, ye girls of Kensington,
Beware that man called “Number One.”
Thus warned our friend left Charing Cross
With nearly all his money lost.
Ye poor Mahdi!
At early dawn as servant maids
Were nodding to their soldier slaves.
A voice ran through the Castle shrill
“Where’s Dr. Gull? I am so ill.”
Ye poor Mahdi!
An Eastern, in a lumber room
Was found reclining on a stool,
He raised to Heaven his bony hands
And said, “Why crossed I desert sands?”
Ye poor Mahdi!
There dead and cold the Mahdi lay
The servants round cried “Lack-a-day.”
And then in coffin strong and fast
They placed this son of desert vast.
Ye poor Mahdi!
From The Mahdi’s Diary, 1884.
The Purse-Suit.
[The Echo in a recent article pictures Mr. Maskelyne starting off in search of Mr. Irving Bishop to recover the ten thousand pounds awarded him by the Jury in the libel suit.]
Air—“Excelsior.”
The mail train blew its final blast,
When, dashing frantically past
The barrier, rushed a breathless man,
Who muttered ever as he ran—
“Ten thousand pounds!”
His cheek was flushed, his eyeballs seemed
To burn like fire, so bright they gleamed;
And as all watched him disappear,
The echo of a voice rang clear—
“Ten thousand pounds!”
All Europe soon he searched—in vain
He climbed each mountain, scoured each plain,
Alas! he found not him he sought,
And vocal grew the luring thought—
“Ten thousand pounds!”
“Off to the east I’ll go,” he cried:
“I’ll roam the deserts far and wide,
I’ll Search the Sphynx, the rivers swim,
To get my damages from him—
“Ten thousand pounds!”
One day the Mahdi’s army saw
A man armed with a writ of law,
And as in terror wild they fled,
They heard the mystic words he said—
“Ten thousand pounds!”
Tradition doubtless will declare
He’s been seen here, there, everywhere;
And unborn savages will speak
Of him who ceases not to seek—
Ten thousand pounds.
Funny Folks, January 31, 1885.
The Great Demonstration.
Should you ask me why this hubbub,
Why this motley-garbed procession,
Filled with parties somewhat blatant,
Bearing sundry gaudy banners—
Like to banners borne by “supers”—
Why these strains of weird-like music
Fill the air on Easter Monday?—
I should answer, I should tell you,
“Tis the partisans of Orton—
(Orton, that much-suffering martyr),
Headed by their chief, Kenealee,
Better known as Doctor “Dewdrops”—
He who represents the people
In the senate of St. Stephen.
Often has he swayed his “gingham”
When orating from the platform.
Oh, the wicked judges fear him,
And the Press with terror trembles
When he mightily denounces
Sundry falsehoods journalistic!
See, they stay at Nelson’s column
Waiting for the great contingent:
Followers of Magna Charta
From the Eastern plains of Shoreditch,
From the Western Seven dials,
From the Southwark Southern suburb,
From the Northern wilds of Hoxton!
Yea, assembled in their thousands
(Well, we’ll say about two thousand),
Enter they the gates of Hyde-park,
And Kenealee, from his chariot,
Speaks to them in silvery accents.
Lo! they make a conflagration
With an execrated journal,
And the crowd, dispersing slowly,
Seek the publics close adjacent,
There to quaff their pots of porter—
Porter, their belovèd liquor;
There to puff their shag-tobacco,
And, amid the fumes ascending,
They will prate of him in Dartmoor.
When the time shall come for quitting,
They’ll depart with gait unsteady,
Shouting in their native jargon,
“We the people har of Hingland!”
Fun, April 26, 1876.
Pahtahquahong.
A Lyric after Longfellow.
(The Rev. Henry Pahtaquahong Chase, Hereditary Chief of the Ojibway Indians has arrived in England. Vide Press.)
Should you ask me whence this Chieftain?—
Whence this Henry Pahtahquahong?—
I should answer, I should tell you—
From the realms of lake and forest,
Where the mighty Saskatchàwan
And the Kaministaquoiah
Drain the happy hunting valleys;
Where the Mas-ka-gaws and Saulteaux,
Surcees, Pay-gans, Bloods, and Blackfeet,
Ottoes, Dog-ribs, Crees, and Beavers,
Hunt the Wapiti and Musquash;
From the lakes of Manitoba,
Winnipeg and Winnipags,
Pickcògasi and Pàquash,
Dòobiaunt, Wéenìsk, Wheldyàhad,
From the shores of Athabasca,
From the Land of the Ojibways.
Should you ask me what he looks like—
Wears he feathers and mocassins,
Belt of wampum, coat of war-paint,
Wields he tomahawk and scalp-knife,
Musket quaint or modern rifle,
Like to sitting Bull or Big Snake,
Chingachgook, or Outalassi,
Leather stocking’d Natty Bumppo,
Hiawatha, Paw-puk-kewis,
Shaw-wa-nos-soway, whose rival
Muck-e-tock-e-now (Black Eagle)
Died thro’ wooing sweet Awh-mid-way
Beautiful as Minnehàha?—
I should answer. I should tell you—
Pahtahquahong Chase, the chieftain,
Wears no feathers nor mocassins,
Wields no tomahawk nor scalper,
But a black suit and white choker,
On his head a silk broad brimmer,
In his hand a stick for walking,
He has turn’d him from the war-path,
He has buried deep the hatchet,
Gives us sermons ’stead of war-whoops,
And the Pale-face is his brother;
Welcome then, O Pahtahquahong
From the realms of Lake and forest,
From the happy hunting valleys,
From the land of the Ojibways.
Walter Parke,
The Bath and Cheltenham Gazette, March 30, 1881.
The Song of Cetewayo.
(With Apologies to the Noble Hiawatha.)
Far across the big-sea-water—
Which is sometimes termed the ocean—
To the lodges of the pale-face
Comes the gentle Cetewayo.
(Lady Florence trisyllabic
Makes the name of her odd hero;
But, to suit this bards convenience,
And his transatlantic measure,
Pray let him say “Cet-e-wayo.”)
If you ask me “Why ‘the gentle?’”
I shall answer, I shall tell you,
I shall pity you and tell you,
’Tis because he is a savage,
Who by force compelled his people
To become a tribe of cut-throats.
Furthermore, because our brothers
He has slaughtered by the hundred.
Now, however, being captive,
Very small and mild he singeth—
Talks no more his spears of washing
In our blood, or eating us up.
That is why we call him “gentle,”
And a lot of names as pretty,
(“We” are Lady Florence Dixie,
And Natal’s least Christian Bishop,
Arithmetical Colenso;
Also aqueous Sir Wilfred,
And a varied mob of other
Dames hysteric of both sexes.)
So we bring him o’er the ocean—
Otherwise the big-sea-water—
Feed him up like any porker;
Lodge him, and the British uni
Form encourage him to scoff at.
* * * * *
Soon as a “distinguished stranger,”
He will gaze down on the Commons—
Gaze upon his friends and patrons—
While beside him Shepstone Junior,
Meekly nameth each one thusly,
In a sort of Zulu-English;
Yonder sits the aged chieftain,
Gran-dole-man-o, whom the To-rees—
Wicked race, who love their country!—
Liken to the eel that wriggleth.
Near him bideth Dil-ki-kilkee,
Speaker of the thing which is not,
With the mighty Ver-no-narker,
Like some would-be dignified hip—
Popotamus by your rivers,
Far away see Carlisle’s Willfee—
Pal o’-yours, my Cetewayo,
Who’s so very fond of water
That he puts it in his speeches,
Till he drowns all his ideas,
And his hearers think he has none.”
* * * * *
Thus, methinks, will Shepstone Junior
Prattle to the “dusky Monarch”
As he gazeth on the Commons,
Or in greasy state “does” London,
But if any one should ask me
Why we’ve brought this big “He nigger”
All across the big-sea-water—
This sounds better far than “ocean”—
Why we’ve coddled him and dressed him
In a garb that once was glorious,
I should answer, I should tell him,
I should shake my head and tell him,
That I’ve not the least idea,
And I fancy no one else has!
G. G.
Evening News, Aug. 4, 1882.
——:o:——
The Printers’ Hiawatha.
Should you ask us why this dunning,
Why all these complaints and murmurs,
Murmurs hard about delinquents,
Who have read the paper weekly,
Read what they have never paid for,
Read with pleasure and with profit,
Read the church affairs and prospects,
Read the news, both home and foreign,
Full of wisdom and instruction;
Read the table of the markets,
Carefully corrected weekly—
Should you ask why all this dunning:
From the printer, from the mailer,
From the kind old paper-maker,
From the landlord, from the devil,
From the man who taxes letters
With the stamp of Uncle Samuel—
Uncle Sam the rowdies call him—
From them all there comes a message,
Message kind, but firmly spoken:
“Please to pay the bill you owe me.”
Sad it is to hear the message,
When the funds are all exhausted
When the last greenback has left us
When the nickles all have vanished,
Gone to pay the toiling printer,
Gone to pay the paper-maker,
Gone to pay the landlord’s tribute,
Gone to pay the clerk and devil,
Gone to pay the faithful mailer,
Gone to pay old Uncle Samuel—
Uncle Sam, the rowdies call him—
Gone to pay for beef and Bridget,
Gone to pay the faithful parson.
Sad it is to turn our ledger,
Turn the leaves of this old ledger,
Turn and see what sums are due us,
Due for volumes long since ended,
Due for years of pleasant reading,
Due for years of anxious labour,
Due despite of patient waiting,
Due despite of constant dunning,
Due in sums from two to twenty.
Would you lift a burden from us?
Would you drive a spectre from you?
Would you have a pleasant slumber?
Would you have a quiet conscience?
Would you read a paper paid for?
Send us money! Send us money!
Send us money! Send us money!
Send the money that you owe us.
Printers’ Circular.
Another amusing Parody of Hiawatha was published in The Bill of the Play for July 11, 1870. It was entitled “La Belle Sauvage” and gave a summary of the burlesque history of the Princess Pocahontas then being performed at the St. James’s Theatre. It is, unfortunately, out of date now, and much too long to be given here.
Further Parodies
of