Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
(Continued from Part 12)
n page 101, Part VII., of Parodies there is a poem called The Settler’s version of Excelsior. It was taken from a MS. copy, lent by a friend. The following is probably more correct. It is an American attempt to translate Excelsior into plain English:—
Higher.
The shadows of night were a-commin’ down swift,
And the dazzlin’ snow lay drift on drift,
As thro’ a village a youth did go,
A carryin’ a flag with this motto,—
Higher!
O’er a forehead high curled copious hair,
His nose a Roman, complexion fair,
O’er an eagle eye an auburn lash,
And he never stopped shoutin’ thro’ his moustache,
Higher!
He saw thro’ the windows as he kept gettin’ upper
A number of families sittin’ at supper,
But he eyed the slippery rocks very keen,
And fled as he cried, and cried while a fleein’—
Higher!
“Take care, you there!” said an old woman; “stop!
It’s blowin’ gales up there on top—
You’ll tumble off on t’other side!”
But the hurryin’ stranger loud replied,
Higher!
“Oh! don’t you go up such a shocking night.
Come sleep on my lap,” said a maiden bright.
On his Roman nose a tear-drop come,
But still he remarked, as he upward clomb,
Higher!
“Look out for the branch of that sycamore-tree!
Dodge rollin’ stones, if any you see!”
Sayin’ which the farmer went home to bed,
And the singular voice replied overhead,
Higher!
About quarter-past six the next afternoon,
A man accidentally goin’ up soon
Heard spoken above him as often as twice,
The very same word in a very weak voice,
Higher!
And not far, I believe, from quarter off seven—
He was slow gettin’ up, the road bein’ uneven—
Found the stranger dead in the drifted snow,
Still clutchin’ the flag with the motto—
Higher!
Yes! lifeless, defunct, without any doubt,
The lamp of his life being decidedly out,
On the dreary hillside the youth was a layin’!
And there was no more use for him to be sayin’
Higher!
Diogenes!
The carriages were filling fast,
When o’er a railway platform pass’d
A youth who bore, with tread precise,
A paper with this bold device,
Diogenes!
His arm a parcel held beneath;
He drew a number from its sheath,
And shouted, with well-practised lung,
Accents that through the station rung,
Diogenes!
In happy hours he saw the light,—
The Cynic’s lantern glowing bright;
Resolved to make its lustre known,
His lips soon gave the welcome tone,
Diogenes!
“One hither pass,” an old man said,
(Life’s tempests snow’d his aged head;)
He oped his mouth with laughter wide,
While still the clamorous vendor cried,
Diogenes!
“Oh stay!” a maiden cried; the rest
Around her were as much impress’d;
Each looking forth with eager eye,
Urging the vendor to supply!
Diogenes!
Beware! the train moves from the branch;
The sheets fly like an avalanche!
The boy’s blue eyes with pleasure shine,
While voices shout far up the line,
Diogenes!
Far on the way, with breaks down hard,
Two trains each other rush toward;
And midst the wreck so fearful there,
Voices are heard still loud and clear,
Diogenes!
A traveller on a rugged mound
Was in a hundred pieces found;
His hand still grasping like a vice
That paper with its bold device,
Diogenes!
There, as he cold and lifeless lay,
Smiles seem’d around his lips to play!
Still in the air his accents are,
And echo through each passing car,
Diogenes!
From Diogenes, February 4, 1854.
Diogenes was a comic paper, somewhat resembling Punch in its general features. It contained many good parodies, principally in reference to the Crimean War.
A pesky night was coming down,
As a young man pass’d through a rustic town;
And in his hand he clutch’d a flag,
And this is what was on the rag—
Upards!
As he pass’d by three windows he chanced to see
Three several families taking tea;
He smelt the cakes, but never swerved,
But as he drop’t a tear, observed—
Upards!
A nice girl holler’d “Stay, oh stay!
And I will marry you right away;”
While tears all down his cheeks did flow,
“Its no use, young woman, I’m bound to go—
Upards!"
Said a cute old cove, “Young man, take care,
There’s a rotten old pine-tree fix’d up there;
Sure as eggs is eggs it will fall on your head,”
The young man only wink’d and said—
Upards!
Next morning at the break of day,
A Shaker chanced to pass that way,
And thought he heard the voice of a coon,
A-singing to a service toon—
Upards!
His dog then sniff’d and smelt about,
And soon discover’d what, without doubt,
Was the young man’s body all cover’d with snow,
What carried the flag with the rum motto—
Upards!
All cover’d in snow the young man lay,
In a sort of uncomfortable kind of way;
And though as dead as any nail,
A voice was heard borne on the gale—
Upards!
A. Z.
The Tonbridgian, April 1873.
M. Duruof.
The shades of night were falling fast,
As from the table d’hôte there pass’d
A pair who cried that they would rise,
Obedient to the people’s cries,
Excelsior!
Their hearts were brave—with reckless breath,
They swore they both could face the Death!
And, answering to the mob’s fell clang,
Foolhardy were the boasts that rang,
Excelsior!
In Calais’ streets they saw the light
Of homes and gas-lamps gleaming bright,
Yet from their lips escaped no groan,
As onward flew the mad balloon,
Excelsior!
“Try not the air,” their friends had said,
“Dark storms are raging overhead;
The seas are tossing far beneath,
And you will meet with certain death,
Excelsior!”
“Come, let us go!” his wife had cried;
“We will not stay, for all beside
Will chaff us, if we do, and jeer;”
He answer’d, “You are right, my dear,
Excelsior!”
“Beware the Tempest’s awful blast!
’Twill sweep you out to sea at last!”
This was the Frenchman’s last good-night.
Cried some one, now far out of sight,
“Excelsior!”
Next morn some sailors out at sea
With nets were toiling wearily;
When loud resounded through the air
A cry that made them wondering stare,
Excelsior!
Two travellers at the dismal sound,
Half-buried in the waves were found,
Grasping with eager clutch the ropes,
On which depended all their hopes,
Excelsior!
There ’mid the tossing billows’ spray,
Wretched and shivering they lay;
The freed balloon then, with its car,
Shot upward like a rising star,
Excelsior!
The Tonbridgian, September, 1874.
The Excelsior Climbing Boy.
(Poëma partìm Canino-Latinum, post
Longum— seu potiùs, meritò dicatur,—
Excelsiorem Socium).
Some few, whose days are closing fast,
Remember, in their time long past,
How youth, in toil of little price,
Might yet have borne, for their device,
Excelsior!
These youngsters, in that distant time,
Swept chimneys, which they had to climb,
They could have cried as they clomb higher,
Like one who skywards did aspire,
Excelsior!
Our “Climbing Boys,” as they were called,
Howe’er they “Sweep!” and “Soot O!” bawled,
As they ascended up the flue
Were not instructed to halloo
Excelsior!
By reek and close air overcome,
The Climbing Boy was oft struck dumb,
And stifled soon, unless got out—
Of course he then no more could shout
Excelsior!
His knees were worn by rough ascent
Bare to the very ligament;
Flayed were his fingers and his toes;
Because he grazed them as he rose,
Excelsior!
When, jammed in, on his upward way
He stuck fast, oft, some used to say,
His master, in the grate below,
Would light a fire, to make him go
Excelsior!
These horrors having been at last
Dragged into day, an Act was passed
Declaring it, henceforth, a crime
To make a child a chimney climb
Excelsior!
Still certain Bumbles, it appears,
Against the law, these many years,
Have had their Town Hall’s chimneys swept
By means of little boys who crept
Excelsior!
May a new law, more strictly framed,
All parties hit at whom ’tis aimed,
Concerned in making children sweep
Foul flues, whilst painfully they creep
Excelsior!
Long brush, worked deftly by machine,
All chimneys must, ye Bumbles, clean,
Law must on cruel masters fall,
Who take to driving urchins small
Excelsior!
Punch, June 26, 1875.
Excelsior.
The swampy state of Illinois
Contained a greenish sort of boy,
Who read with idiotic joy—
Excelsior!
He tarried not to eat or drink,
But got a flag of lightish pink,
And traced on it, in violet ink—
Excelsior!
Though what he meant by that absurd,
Uncouth, and stupid, senseless word,
Has not been placed upon record—
Excelsior!
The characters were very plain,
In German text, yet he was fain,
With greater clearness to explain—
Excelsior!
And so he ran, this stupid wight,
And hollered out with, all his might,
(As to a person out of sight)—
Excelsior!
And everybody thought the lad
Within an ace of being mad,
Who cried in accents stern and sad—
Excelsior!
“Come to my arms,” the maiden cried:
The youth grinned sheepishly, and sighed,
And then appropriately replied—
Excelsior!
The evening sun is in the sky,
But still the creature mounts on high,
And shouts (nor gives a reason why)—
Excelsior!
But ere he gains the topmost crag
His feeble legs begin to lag;
Unsteadily he holds the flag—
Excelsior!
* * * * *
Now P. C. Nab is on his track!
He puts him in an empty sack,
And brings him home upon his back—
Excelsior!
Nab takes him to a lumber store,
They toss him in and lock the door,
Which only makes him bawl the more—
Excelsior!
Edinburgh Sketches and Miscellanies. By Eric.
(John Menzies and Company, Edinburgh, 1876).
The Dowager-Duchess at the Drawing Room.
(“A bleak, nipping south-easterly wind was blowing throughout yesterday, the glass having again fallen, but the usual rules as to the Court dress to be worn by all ladies who attended the Drawing Room were strictly enforced. Low-cut bodies, both at back and front, were de rigueur.”—Weekly Paper, February, 1880).
The Dowager-Duchess has been to the Palace,
And duly presented the Honourable Alice;
And now we will show in what sort of condition
Her grace, who is eighty, returned from this mission.
The shades of night were falling fast,
As up a Mayfair street there passed
A carriage with this strange device
As crest:—A rampant cockatrice
And enfant or.
Within was seen an agèd dame,
Whose breath in gasps most frequent came;
Her face was white as Death’s own hue,
Her Roman nose was red; with blue
Her lips spread o’er.
The fair young maiden by her side,
By briskly rubbing, bravely tried
Her grandma’s blood to make reflow—
It seem’d a hopeless object, though,
She labour’d for!
“Oh joy!” this maiden cried, when she
Observed they’d stopped at forty-three;
“We are at home, dear Grandma, come!
Do speak to me!” The Dame was dumb—
E’en as before.
And when she would have left her seat,
She all but tumbled in the street;
Her state, in fact, the house alarms,
When, leaning on the flunkey’s arms,
She gains her door.
“Be quick and heat my grandma’s bed!”
The Honourable Miss Alice said:
“Let well warmed bricks in flannel wrapp’d
Without delay be in it clapp’d,
And bottles hot!
“Beware no window open be,
And blankets bring at once to me!”
Thus was the maiden’s forethought shown—
Her Grandma scarce had strength to groan:
“Hot ginger, dear!”
And ere of minutes ten had fled,
The chilled old Duchess was in bed;
Where, thanks to measures prompt and sound,
She promised shortly to come round
To health once more.
Then in the firelight, thin and gray,
And cold, but not so cold, she lay,
Whilst from her lips, no longer blue,
A voice came, somewhat hoarse ’twas true,
And somewhat sore.
* * * * *
Truth, February 26, 1880.
After Longfellow.
(A Long Way).
The western sun was sinking fast,
As through the quiet street there passed
A tinker with a blackened eye,
Who ever and anon did cry—
“’Brellas to mend.”
His brow was dark with smoke and soot,
His raiment, rags from head to foot;
And like a penny trumpet rung
The beery accents of his tongue—
“’Brellas to mend.”
He lingered at the corner “pub,”
He drew his last coin from his fob;
He quaffed his glass of half-and-half,
And only answered to their chaff—
“’Brellas to mend.”
“Go not again,” the landlord said,
“Wild blows the tempest overhead,
Your rags will lash you unto death.”
Our friend replied with bated breath—
“’Brellas to mend.”
“Oh, stay,” the daughter said, “and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast;
Why should’st thou from our presence fly?”
This was the tinker’s sad reply—
“’Brellas to mend.”
“Beware the stern blue-coated man—
Beware the falling chimney-can;”
Such was the landlord’s parting word,
And this was the reply they heard—
“’Brellas to mend.”
In Duke Street, at the break of day,
Within a court the tinker lay;
In falling he his leg had broke,
When gently raised, these words he spoke—
“’Brellas to mend.”
He died; his body calmly rests;
His ghost the lonely streets infests;
And often at the midnight hour
A voice cries, with sepulchral power—
“’Brellas to mend.”
Teddy May and other Poems,
by William Thomson, Glasgow, 1883.
Voices of Our Nights.
(Submitted to the American Poet, by Mr. Wrongfellow).
I heard the feline footsteps in the night
Pad through the Court and Hall!
I saw the sable wretch in the moon’s light
Climb Mrs. Coxe’s Wall!
I felt her (that I did! I’m sure I’m right!)
Step o’er me just above;
With shrill pathetic mewings through the night,
As of a cat in love.
I heard the sounds of passion and of fight,
The caterwauling chimes,
That fill each attic chamber in the night,
Where some starved poet rhymes.
My night-capped head in the cool midnight air
Sought vainly some repose;
The echo of perpetual squalls rose there,
From the new cistern rose.
Peace! peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend, you green-eyed fright!
I hate, while thus you screech, and spit, and swear,
The cat-infested night!
Punch, May 4, 1861.
Picked Up at the Stall Entrance to the Novelty Theatre.
I know a maiden fair to see—
K. V.! K. V.! (Cave!)
She dances most bewitchingly—
K. V.! K. V.!
Her twinkling feet, her ankles neat,
Her pirouettes, her glances sweet,
Will make your heart more quickly beat—
K. V.! K. V.!
When you are seeing “Lalla Rookh”—
K. V.! K. V.!
O keep your eyes upon the book—
K. V.! K. V.!
Or Kate’s fair face, and facile grace
Will “mash” you in a moment’s space;
Then yours will be a hopeless case—
K. V.! K. V.!
Truth, May 22, 1884.
(Referring to Miss Kate Vaughan’s performance of the part of Lalla Rookh, in Mr. Horace Lennard’s burlesque extravaganza of Moore’s poem).
Picked up at the stage entrance to the
Novelty Theatre:—
I know a masher dark to see,
J. D., J. D.
He mashes most bewitchingly,
J. D., J. D.
His varnished feet, his collars neat,
His buttonhole (gardenia sweet),
Must make her heart more quickly beat,
J. D., J. D.
When you are seeing Lalla Rookh,
J. D., J. D.
Pray keep your eyes upon the book,
J. D., J. D.
For Kate’s fair face and lower lace
Have made you change your mind apace;
Ah, yours must be a dreadful case!
J. D., J. D.
The Topical Times, May 24, 1884.
Suggested by “The Village Blacksmith.”
(With Apologies to the Shade of Longfellow.)
Under Britannia’s spreading oak
The Grand Old Woodman stands;
A presentation axe he wields
With large and sinewy hands;
But the onslaught of his cruel arms
As yet the tree withstands.
His hair is white and dank and long
His collars none can span;
His brow is wet with honest sweat—
He chops down all he can;
He won’t look Duty in the face,
But he’ll talk with any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his speeches flow;
You can hear him wag his ceaseless tongue,
Dreary and loud and slow,
As the sexton’s song on the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
The children of his Rebel School
Crowd round his open door;
They love to watch his swelling gorge,
And hear his blatant roar,
And catch the myriad words that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach—
He hears his own loved voice,
Reading the daily lessons,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like an angel’s voice
Singing in Paradise!
Which reminds him he will talk no more
When in the grave he lies,
And with his collar end he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Talking—orating—promising,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begun,
Long years don’t see it close;
Too much attempted, nothing done,
How can he seek repose?
Experience by thee, my friend,
Thy country has been taught;
Hadst though been doomed to silent life,
As reckless talkers ought,
Then had thy native land escaped
Much evil thou hast wrought.
Sphinx.
The Globe, September 10, 1884.
The Low Bohemian.
Before the Cheshire Cheese’s bar
The low Bohemian stands;
A sallow, seedy man is he,
With dirty nails, and hands;
And ’tis in a gin-sodden voice
He “four of Cork” demands.
His nose is large and very red,
His mouth ’twere hard to span;
His daily work he likes to shirk,
He borrows when he can,
And he scans new comers anxiously,
For he owes to many a man.
Week in, week out, from morn to night,
He loiters bars before;
He knows the barmaids’ Christian names
(A fact they much deplore;)
Now here, now there, he, with a leer,
Slinks in at the swinging door!
He glories in the Referee,
And reads the Weekly Times,
In Reynolds’ finds congenial stuff,
And sends it jokes and rhymes;
For he’s a writer for the press,
When liquor duly primes.
Loafing—and loitering—liquoring—
Down to his grave he goes;
Each morning finds him “coppery,”
He’s “screw’d” ere night doth close;
Something attempted—some one “done,”
Whilst liquor always flows.
He dies at length, and round his grave
His boon companions tread,
Then go and drink at various bars
Till maudlin tears are shed—
Whilst their dead friend has left a wife
And children lacking bread!
But his lost life and early death,
Do they no sermon preach?
His doom, self-sought, has it no power
A lesson strong to teach?
No; his friends’ brains too sodden are,
The message them to reach.
Truth, Christmas Number, 1878.
The Village Schoolboy.
Under the garden apple-tree
The village schoolboy stands;
The boy, a nasty boy is he,
With muddy, filthy hands;
And the mussel-shells he’s playing with
Are pick’d from dirty sands.
His hair is short, and red, and straight,
His face is like the tar;
He cries and bawls when mother calls,
You hear him near and far,
And when he gets a chance he steals
The sugar from the jar.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
He bellows and he cries,
And in the village there’s not one
So good at telling lies;
Big stones he throws at other boys,
And hits them in the eyes.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And every one annoys;
He pinches all the kids he’s near,
And asks them for their toys;
And when they sing up in the choir
He shouts out, “Hold your noise!”
His father smacks him in the face,
He pulls him by the nose,
The village schoolboy only cries,
And crying—off he goes;
His parents go to bed at night,
And THERE, they’ve no repose.
W. C. L.
The Sporting Times, July 5, 1884.
The Village Blacksmith.
Beside a dingy public-house, the village smithy stands,
The smith, a nasty man is he, with beastly dirty hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms a bruiser well might suit,
His face is void of any charm, he looks a nasty brute.
His brow is wet with beery sweat, he scarcely earns a bob;
But to drink up another’s drink he’s always on the job!
Week in, week out, from morn to night, he curses high and low.
You seldom hear his hammer’s beat, his step is dull and slow;
Communications from his mouth are seldom “yes” or “no.”
And children coming home from school run frightened past his door,
They fear to see the ugly beast, and shun his drunken roar,
They’d only catch a kick or blow, if they lingered near his door.
He never goes inside a church, and never sends his boys,
He never heard a parson preach, he hates his daughter’s voice,
Snarling over her kitchen work, it makes him swear like vice,
Reminding him of her mother’s voice—that wasn’t over nice.
And when he thinks of her once more, how in the grave she lies,
He thinks in his heart that Providence is sometimes kind and wise,
Cursing, drinking, borrowing; onward through life he goes.
No morning sees good work begin, no evening sees its close.
Nothing attempted, nothing done, from gin he gets repose.
The Topical Times, September 13, 1884.
The parody of “A Psalm of Life,” entitled “The Maiden’s Dream of Life,” which was quoted on page 64, Part IV., of Parodies, was copied from a Washington (U.S.) newspaper, dated December, 1871. The idea of this parody had evidently been borrowed from one contained in a small volume by Phœbe Carey, entitled “Poems and Parodies.” The borrower made some verbal alterations, which were by no means improvements on Miss Carey’s parody, which is decidedly the better of the two:—
A Psalm of Life.
(What the Heart of the Young Woman said
to the Old Maid).
Tell me not, in idle jingle,
Marriage is an empty dream,
For the girl is dead that’s single,
And things are not what they seem.
Married life is real, earnest,
Single blessedness a fib;
Taken from man, to man returnest,
Has been spoken of the rib.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Nearer brings the wedding day.
Life is long, and youth is fleeting,
And our hearts, if there we search,
Still like steady drums are beating
Anxious marches to the Church.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a woman, be a wife!
Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act—act in the living Present.
Heart within, and Man ahead!
Lives of married folks remind us
We can live our lives as well,
And, departing, leave behind us
Such examples as will tell;—
Such examples, that another,
Sailing far from Hymen’s port,
A forlorn, unmarried brother,
Seeing, shall take heart, and court.
Let us then be up and doing,
With the heart and head begin;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour, and to win!
Poems and Parodies. By Phœbe Carey,
Boston, 1854.
The following is an amusing specimen of advertisement parodies. It was written by Mr. T. Thatcher, of College Green, Bristol:—
Tell me not in doleful murmurs
Ink is but a mouldy stream!
And the pen it rusts, and murders
Writing paper by the ream!
Thatcher’s Ink is Ink in earnest!
And to rust is not its goal;
Mud thou art, to mould returnest,
Was not spoken as its dole.
With enjoyment and not sorrow
Welcome thee in loudest lay:
Ink to write, that each to-morrow
Finds it blacker than to-day.
Blots begone! Vile ink be fleeting!
Penman, be no more a slave!
Let all other inks go beating
Funeral marches to their grave!
In the world’s wide field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Write not like dumb driven cattle!
Use this Ink and end thy strife!
Lines of this Ink all remind us
We may write with ease sublime,
And departing, leave behind us
Words to live as long as time!
Pen marks, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwreck’d brother,
Reading, shall take heart again.
Let us then be up and doing,
Seize this Ink before too late,
Thatcher’s now at once securing,
Neither hesitate nor wait!
Shortfellow.
Please be Cheerful.
(Advice to Modern Novelists.)
Tell us not, in mournful numbers,
Life is all a ghastly dream!
Such as those we have in slumbers,
When the nightmare makes us scream.
Life is dark enough in earnest,
Without bringing in the gaol;
Only readers of the sternest
Like their heroines out on bail.
Not to swindle, or to borrow,
Is the reputable way;
Not to marry, and to-morrow
Kill your bride, and run away.
Arson’s wrong, and poisoning dreary,
And our hearts, though pretty brave,
Now and then get rather weary
Of the gallows and the grave.
In the great domestic battle,
In the matrimonial strife,
Be not like those Mormon “cattle,”
Give your hero but one wife.
Wives and daughters should remind you
There are women without crime;
Draw them, and you’ll leave behind you
Fictions that may weather time;—
Fictions free from that Inspector
Who is sent by Richard Mayne,
And finds footmarks that affect a
Solemn butler in the lane.
Let us, then, have no more trials,
No more tampering with Wills;
Leave the poisons in the phials—
And the money in the tills.
Punch, December 1, 1866.
A PSALM OF FARMING.
Bell’s Messenger, December 9th, 1878.
What the Heart of the Young Farmer
Said to the Old ’Un.
(After Wrongedfellar).
Tell me not in cheerful numbers
You have known when times was wuss,
Kip on sowin’ wutts and barley,
And things will come right for us.
Rents are too much, labour’s heavy,
And our fair share’s not the goal,
Landlords take all they can gather,
Cow and calf, both mare and foal.
Not enjoyment and not profit
Seems our destined end or way;
But to act that each to-morrow
Finds us poorer than to-day.
The world is big and steam is quick,
But our hearts, though stout and brave,
Do not like to leave the “dear” land,
’Cause our wives do look so grave!
With the world’s broad field for farming,
With the chance of a free life,
Be not like dumb, driven donkeys,
With such prospects have no strife.
Trust no landlord, howe’er pleasant;
Let the dead past bury its dead.
Act, act in the living present,
Heart within and God o’erhead.
Happy Colonists do teach us
We can go and be the same,
And, departing, leave behind us
Wiser landlords, much more tame.
Landlords, that perhaps another
Year or so might make so wise,
Might then know that ’tis quite certain
Rents must fall as well as rise.
Let us, then, be up and going,
With a heart for any fate,
Then succeeding, more persuading
That ’tis good to emigrate.
Reproduced in “Farming,” by Joseph Mangoldwurzel, London, W. Ridgway, 1879.
(A small pamphlet on Free Trade versus Protection).
A Song of St. Stephen’s.
Tell me not in mocking numbers
We shall have to come to town,
And resume our wonted slumbers,
When the leaves are sere and brown.
* * * * *
Lives of patriots all remind us
We can show uncommon nous,
And, departing, leave behind us
Relays that shall “keep a House.”
Relays that perchance our Leaders
O’er that legislative main
May observe, while we are pleaders,
Autumn leisure to attain.
Punch, July 1, 1882.
A Psalm of Burial.
Tell me not with words inflated
Bodies were not meant to burn;
For the moo-cow when cremated
Doth to “frosted silver” turn.
Not the grave-yard, not interment
Is the cheapest, healthiest way;
But to rob the worm preferment
Finds with cultured men to-day.
Lights of learning all have told us
We can shunt the gloomy pall,
And, when churchyards will not hold us,
Roast our flesh for funeral.
Let us, then, keep time with culture:
“Earth to earth” is out of date—
Leave no carrion for the vulture,
Spurn the sexton, and cremate.
Moonshine, May 17, 1884.
On Reading a Life and Letters.
“Lives” of great men all remind us
Friends may after our last breath
Publish what we leave behind us,
Adding thus new fears to death.
Wives of rich men oft remind us,
We may make our wives sublime;
But ten pounds for a lady’s bonnet
Knocks a cheque-book out of time.
“The Day is Done.”
The day is done, and darkness
From the wing of night is loosed,
As a feather, is wafted downward,
From a chicken going to roost.
I see the lights of the baker
Gleam through the rain and mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me,
That I cannot well resist.
A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not like being sick,
And resembles sorrow only
As a brickbat resembles a brick.
Come, get for me some supper—
A good and regular meal—
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the pain I feel.
Not from the pastry bakers,
Not from the shops for cake;
I wouldn’t give a farthing
For all that they can make.
For, like the soup at dinner,
Such things would but suggest
Some dishes more substantial,
And to-night I want the best.
Go to some honest butcher,
Whose beef is fresh and nice,
As any they have in the city,
And get a liberal slice.
Such things through days of labour,
And nights devoid of ease.
For sad and desperate feelings,
Are wonderful remedies.
They have an astonishing power
To aid and reinforce,
And come like the “finally, brethren,”
That follows a long discourse.
Then get me a tender sirloin
From off the bench or hook.
And lend to its sterling goodness
The science of the cook.
And the night shall be filled with comfort,
And the cares with which it begun
Shall fold up their blankets like Indians,
And silently cut and run.
Poems and Parodies. By Phœbe Carey,
Boston, United States, 1854.
The three parodies following are imitations of Longfellow’s
The Arrow and the Song.
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in his flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterwards, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
The Birds and the Pheasant.
I shot a partridge in the air,
It fell in turnips, “Don,” knew where;
For just as it dropped, with my right
I stopped another in its flight.
I killed a pheasant in the copse,
It fell amongst the fir-tree tops;
For though a pheasant’s flight is strong,
A cock, hard hit, cannot fly long.
Soon, soon afterwards, in a pie,
I found the birds in jelly lie;
And the pheasant, at a fortnight’s end,
I found again in the carte of a friend.
Punch, October 12, 1867.
Ballad. The Ex-Premier.
(Mr. Gladstone).
I wrote a pamphlet t’other day;
It fell still-born in the usual way;
For the public knew ’twas the old, old tale,
And they thought it just a wee bit stale.
I wrote an article in a “mag,”
And it made its circulation flag;
For the readers knew ’twas my only work
To speak about th’ unspeakable Turk!
Not long after my spirits sunk,
For I found the pamphlet lining a trunk;
And the article (degradation utter)
Was round a pat of the best salt butter.
Truth. Christmas Number, 1877.
The Arrow and the Hound.
At Shanklin, in the Isle of Wight,
I shot an arrow such a height,
It fell to earth, I know not where,
And, sooth to say, I do not care.
A poem to a mag. I sent,
Receiving no acknowledgment;
The subject was, I know not what—
If e’er I knew I have forgot.
A traveller the arrow found
Half-buried in his faithful hound,
And what he said in his distress
I do not know—I dare not guess.
And soon, when reading in the train,
I found my poem once again;
But on the fire that in it burned,
A comic hydrant had been turned.
What verse with arrow had to do
I know not now—I never knew!
But that such things should hap no more
I called upon the editor.
I aimed an arrow with such care,
It hit I scarce remember where;
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
He turned, and called me with a sigh—
But what, to tell you were not right;
Besides, I have forgotten quite;
But arrow, editor, and hound,
Are famed to earth’s remotest bound.
Excelsior Junior.
The Topical Times, June 14, 1884.
The Soirée.
(After “The Arsenal at Springfield.”)
This is the Soirée: from grate to entrance,
Like milliners’ figures, stand the lovely girls;
But from their silent lips no merry sentence
Disturbs the smoothness of their shining curls.
Ah! what will rise, how will they rally,
When shall arrive the “gentlemen of ease!”
What brilliant repartee, what witty sally,
Will mingle with their pleasant symphonies!
I hear even now the infinite sweet chorus,
The laugh of ecstacy, the merry tone,
That through the evenings that have gone before us
In long reverberations reach our own.
From round-faced Germans come the guttural voices,
Through curling moustache steals the Italian clang,
And, loud amidst their universal noises,
From distant corners sounds the Yankee twang.
I hear the Editor, who from his office
Sends out his paper, filled with praise and puff,
And holy priests, who, when they warn the scoffers,
Beat the fine pulpit, lined with velvet stuff.
The tumult of each saqued, and charming maiden,
The idle talk that sense and reason drowns,
The ancient dames with jewelry o’erladen,
And trains depending from the brocade gowns—
The pleasant tone, whose sweetness makes us wonder,
The laugh of gentlemen, and ladies, too,
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of some lady blue,—
Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With pastimes so ridiculous as these,
Thou drownest Nature’s sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies?
Were half the wealth that fills the world with ladies,
Were half the time bestowed on caps and lace,
Given to the home, the husbands, and the babies,
There were no time to visit such a place.
Poems and Parodies. By Phœbe Carey
(Ticknor, Reed, and Fields).
Boston, United States, 1854.
The following old parody was written in imitation of the hexameters of Evangeline:—
DOLLARINE; A TALE OF CALIFORNIA.
A Fragment in Hexameters.
By Professor W. H. Longandshortfellow,
Of Cambridge, Connecticut.
In St. Francisco located was Nathan Jehoiakim Bowie;
Down by the wharf on the harbour he traded in liquors and dry goods,
Darned hard knot at a deal, at Meetin’ a powerful elder.
There at his store, in the shade, they met, onbraced and enlightened
Traders and trappers and captings, and lawyers and editors also.
Freely they liquored and chewed, indulgin’ in expectoration,
Rockin’ with heels over heads, and whittling’, laborious, the counter.
Like dough-nut at a frolic, or yellow-pine stump in a clearin’,
Sharp as a backwoodsman’s axe, and cute as a bachelor beaver,
Glimmer’d, through clouds of Virginny, the cypherin’ mug of Nathaniel.
Sweeter nor candy of maple, a’most too genteel to be raal,
Straight as a hickory sapling and clean as a Nar’ganset pacer
Tall she moved through the bar, a-sarvin’ of juleps and cock-tails,
Sweetenin’ the cobblers with smiles, and firin’ Havannahs with glances,
Nathan J. Bowie’s fair darter, splendiferous Miss Dollarina!
Tall she moved thro’ the bar, collectin’ the joes and the cents in:
Not that she needed to did it, but ’cause nigger helps there’s no trustin’,
And she was too tender-hearted to get the black varmint cow-hided.
—There in pastoral peace, since first the location was ceded,
Dwelt the old man and his child, beneath their own vine and their fig-tree,
Doin’ a good stroke of business, for cash or beaver-skins only.
On Nat’s. roof of split shingle, illustrious Governor Tarbox
Hoisted the Stars and the Stripes, representative there of the Mighty,
The Free, and the Fearless of airth, the Go-a-head ’Merican people;
Boarded there the great Tarbox, and took his horn like a mere man,
Paying four dollars per diem for grub, grog, shake-down, and washin’.
Then came down, like iled lightning, on St. Francisco a rumour—
Fame her brazen trump turned best mint metal to puff it—
How that the root of all evil was found growin’ wild up the country,
How gold stuck to folk’s fingers that washed in the St. Sacramento!
Nat. chawed two plugs extra to hear it; the editor swore he
Wished to be darned, if it wasn’t a caution how folks could be gammoned.
“My!” sighed sweet Dollarina, and paused as she squoze a half lemon;
But the magnanimous Tarbox, he reckoned ’tmight be kinder likely,
Seein’ the States whipt the airth for men, and why not for metals?
Came from the diggins a straanger, with two carpet-bags full of goold dust;
Nathan diskivered the fact, as he traded a pinch for a gin-sling;
And as that straanger loafed, thro’ the bar, from parlor to bedroom,
Streams of the glorious sand oozed out through a hole in his trousers.
—Gathered the rumour and grew, and soon rose a sudden demand for
Calabash, can, keg, and kettle; and Nathan’s prime lot of tin fixin’s,
Crockery, also, went off at figgers that beat to eternal
Smash all prices he’d thought, in dreams e’en, of e’er realisin’.
Soon the traders upped hook, and the editor talked edifyin’
All about lucre and dross; and the lawyer convened it was awful;
Till one mornin’ trampoused the lawyer and editor with him.
Off were the trappers for beaver, they said, but “it warn’t noways likely,”
Nathan remarked, “they would strike beaver-trail in them there locations.”
Then the captings went too, they said, to bring back their sailors;
And as it stands to natur’, their customers followed the captings.
Next the Meetin’s they thinned—that’s a fact—till, down to the elders,
Dropped, like leaves in the fall, congregations of e’en the awakened.
Ontil the deacon was forced to look arter the flock of backsliders,
Minister mizzlin’ himself, before long, to look arter the deacon.
Why should Nathan hold on, with his bar of its customers empty,
Strawers unsucked in the cobblers, and mint unplucked in the garding,
Swopped his prime tin doin’s, or sold to the uttermost pipkin?
So he went—but before him the helps, black and Irish, had vanished.
Lone in the shanty she lingered, the fair and forlorn Dollarina—
Lone like a flower, in the face of great natur’, and Governor Tarbox!
Blushin’ she bowed to the governor’s snigger, when first to his bed-room,
Bearin’ his boots and his breakfast, she came like a minist’rin’ angel—
Blushin’ she raised her bright face—and the Governor swore catawampus,
“Burn my old bree—that is, boots—gals like you didn’t ought for to do it.”
—Soft was the heart of Great Tarbox, and most horrid hansum the maiden,
Loftily spoke he of goold, and the tarnal low hitch of the humans,
Leavin’ such gals all alone, to go the whole hog at the washin’s.
Sweetly she’d set there beside him, the while with his governor’s hands he
Washed his own dicky or fried his simple repast of pork fixins;
Sweetly she sot there beside him, and Tarbox a-slavin’ was happy!
Still now and then that bright eye from its tail would glance up to the mountains,
And a faint sigh be the echo of Tarboxes glowin’ soft sawder;
Oft in her pail of ablution he’d catch her a rinsin’ the water;
And once she ventured to murmur, “I wonder what nateral goold’s like.”
—Down came the moment at last—set Tarbox a-mendin’ his shoe-sole,
Breathin’ his love in a Sonnet, and chawin’ a plug of tobaccer—
Entered the maiden so stately—and bowin’ her beauty before him,
Smilingly, sobbingly uttered, “Adoo—I am off for the diggins!”
* * * * *
Burst the full heart of Great Tarbox——
(Here the MSS., becomes illegible, apparently from tears).
Punch, January 20, 1849.
The Lost Tails of Miletus.
High on the Thracian hills, half hid in the billows of clover,
Thyme, and the asphodel blooms, and lulled by Pactolian streamlet,
She of Miletus lay, and beside her an aged satyr
Scratched his ear with his hoof, and playfully mumbled his chestnuts.
Vainly the Mænid and the Bassarid gambolled about her,
The free-eyed Bacchante sang, and Pan—the renowned, the accomplished—
Executed his difficult solo. In vain were their gambols and dances!
High o’er the Thracian hills rose the voice of the shepherdess, wailing—
“Ai! for the fleecy flocks,—the meek-nosed, the passionless faces;
Ai! for the tallow-scented, the straight-tailed, the high-stepping;
Ai! for the timid glance, which is that which the rustic, sagacious,
Applies to him who loves but may not declare his passion!”
Her then Zeus answered slow: “O daughter of song and sorrow,—
Hapless tender of sheep,—arise from thy long lamentation!
Since thou canst not trust fate, nor behave as becomes a Greek maiden,
Look and behold thy sheep.”—And lo! they returned to her tailless!
Bret Harte.
In 1856 a pamphlet was published (at the price of two shillings), by W. J. Golbourn, of Princes Street, Leicester Square, entitled: “Marks and Remarks for the Catalogue of the Exhibition of the Royal Academy, MDCCCLVI. (after the manner of ——) by A. E., to which is added a Dirge (in imitation of another).” This very scarce pamphlet consists of thirty-two pages, mostly occupied by descriptions of the pictures in the Royal Academy for that year, and the author’s comments upon them, in the metre of Hiawatha, commencing thus:—
“Should you ask me whence the Stories?
Whence the legends and traditions’
That have furnished forth our Artists
With the most attractive subjects
For the present exhibition?”
“I should answer, I should tell you,
They have drawn them from the Poets,
From the Book-of-books have drawn them,
From the best Historic sources,
From the Mountains, Lakes, and Rivers,
From the Hills, the Lanes, the Meadows,
From the Highland and the Lowland,
And the mighty surging Ocean;
And the Portraits, large and little,
And the Portraits of all sizes,
With their frequent repetitions,
Pillars, table cloths and curtains,
From the Court, the Camp, the Senate,
And plain Gentlemen and Ladies.”
* * * * *
A long political parody appeared in Punch, February 23, 1867, entitled “The Great Medicine-Man; a new Canto of Hiawatha.” This was apropos of Mr. Disraeli’s Reform proposals, then submitted to the House of Commons in Thirteen Resolutions.
On page 95, Part VI., a long extract was given from a parody of Hiawatha, entitled The Song of Big Ben, which appeared in Truth, February 15, 1877. It was descriptive of the opening of Parliament, and the subsequent proceedings in the Houses have since been related in the same metre, and under the same title, in many other numbers of Truth. On page 80 reference was made to a parody which appeared in Tom Hood’s Comic Annual for 1877; unfortunately, it is much too long to give in full. The following short extract will, however, give an idea of its style:—
Revenge. A Rhythmic Recollection.
If you ask me where I found it, found this very dreadful legend, with its strange coincidences and its tragic repetitions, I should answer, I should tell you, in the columns of the “Pleecenoos,” in the pages of the “Standard,” in the Organ of the Knife Board, in all sheets of published scandal, published in the month of August, published in the midst of Fleet Street, where the tide of life rolls onward, whilst the modest newsman murmurs low amid the noise of traffic, “Buy the ‘Hecker,’ fifth edition! Buy the ‘Standard,’ latest war news! Buy the Organ of the Knife Board!”
’Twas the pleasant April weather, and a coach was bound for Cambridge, and four youths alike in feature sat together in the rumble; each alike was bound for Cambridge, each alike in air was noble, each alike in hair was curly, each in speech was Hebraistic, and they all were bound for Cambridge.
Never had they met before this, though their fathers in four townships wide apart had heard the rumours of each other’s great successes in the art of habit-making, famed for thirteen-shilling trousers; and each parent, little recking of the others’ great successes, said, “My son shall rise to swelldom; he shall have his fling at college, and shall dwell among the nobles who, by my fair art made nobler, wear my thirteen-shilling trousers.”
As in April’s pleasant weather all the four rolled on to Cambridge, did they swear eternal friendship; and alighting from the rumble, pledged each other in great beakers, drank each other’s healths in “dogsnose;” sought the portals of the college where they had matriculated, crossed the sunny green quadrangle, and betook them to their chambers; parted tearful on the landing, and betook them to their chambers.
* * * * *
Then they severed at the doorway; but by devious ways returning, met again before the doorway.
Then with scowling brows they entered; and the barmaid—most impartial of the race of British barmaids—sweetly winked in turn upon them till their hearts within them gladdened; and they drank the luscious “dogsnose,” and their friendly vows repeated, till with arm-in-arm close linking they once more the dim quadrangle crossed, and all was wrapped in silence.
* * * * *
D. Christie Murray.
The Song of Progress.
Should you ask me, “Why this hubbub?
Why this coming strife of parties?
Why the Hyde Park Demonstration?
Why the mighty northern meeting?
Why Conservatives take counsel
With their own selected members,
Each admitted with a ticket?”
I should answer you in this wise,
“Harken to the Song of Progress,
Listen to the din of warfare—
Listen for the coming triumph
Of the People o’er the Peerage.”
By the dark and murky waters,
Foul and dank with filth and sewage,
Waters which are not pellucid,
Of the noble river Isis,
Stands a large and stately Palace,
Where th’ elected of the people
Meet for work of legislation.
One a Party firm, united,
Loved and trusted by the People.
They the Party are of Progress—
Ever have been, ever must be;
They the champions who do battle
’Gainst hereditary privilege.
Their opponents are a Party
Smaller far and disunited.
Dwarfed in mind, with doings crooked,
Quick to “execute a sharp curve,”
With no Policy whatever,
Save to stop the work of Progress,
They the Party are of Privilege,
Who oppose, and ever have done,
Social progress of the masses.
Should you ask me why the Peerage
Rule responsible to no one,
What their deeds of wondrous valour,
What their wisdom unsurpassed,
What their nobleness of nature,
What their learning, power, or goodness,
That they thus should reign supreme there,
I should answer you, “I know not.”
This I know, that tho’ their country
Scarcely knows the names of any,
On the racecourse every welcher,
Every gambling scoundrel, blackleg,
Knows them there by tens and dozens.
I should answer ’tis a relic
Of the ignorant Middle Ages,
When the king held all the country,
Shared it with his greater barons,
And the toilers were in bondage.
One by one the links of thraldom
Have been rent and burst asunder;
Few the fetters that are left us
Of the hateful Feudal system;
But this one stands trembling, tottering,
Till the breath of further Freedom,
Strengthened by the voice of Gladstone,
Bright, and Chamberlain, and Picton,
Broadhurst, Illingworth, and Lawson,
Shall abolish it for ever.
Funny Folks, August 16, 1884.