Isaac Watts, D.D.,
Born at Southampton in 1674. Died November 25, 1748.
Against Idleness and Mischief.
How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower.
How skillfully she builds her cell,
How neat she spreads the wax,
And labours hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.
In works of labour or of skill
I would be busy too;
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.
In books, or work, or healthful play,
Let my first years be past;
That I may give for every day
Some good account at last.
Dr. Watts.
The Flea.
The flea, so called because it always “flees” the foe, is an industrious insect, and has been immortalized by Dr. What’s-his-name in those beautiful lines commencing:
How doth the busy little flea
Improve each starry night,
And gather food from you and me
With all his little might.
How skilfully it hops away,
When it we try to squeeze;
And waits until the close of day
Its hunger to appease.
The flea may be said to come under the denomination of “game,” being eagerly hunted by various animals, and especially by woman. To see a woman flea-hunting is a never-to-be-forgotten sight. What ardour glistens in her eyes! what determination is shown in her mouth! It is probably the only time in a woman’s life when she doesn’t know, or doesn’t care, whether her back-hair is up or down; and if she does catch the flea, the pride of the successful fox-hunter is small in comparison with hers.
The flea’s favourite song is “Put me in your little bed.”
Hymns for Children.
How doth the ever busy wasp
Improve the shining hour;
His object ever is to grasp
The sweets of fruit and flower.
To dip his beak into the peach,
To pierce the ripen’d plum;
To suck whatever is in reach,
To sting whoe’er may come.
So, children, you should ne’er forget
This insect’s happy toil;
Before you his example set,
And what you can’t eat, spoil.
Punch, September 25, 1852.
The Northern Bee.
How doth the busy Russian Bee
Improve the darkened hour,
And kindly hope it will not see
The fall of England’s power.
How skillfully it frames the “sell,”
Forgives Crimean whacks,
And owns John Bull does pretty well
Whate’er he undertakes.
So now, let Russia, with a will,
The works of peace pursue;
For Satan finds some mischief still
For soldier-States to do.
In laying down the Iron Way,
Be her next century passed,
And then, who knows, the world may say—
“She’s civilised at last.”
Punch, October 10, 1857.
Convivial Song.
To be sung Sloughly, and with expression.
How doth the dizzy Disraeli
Improve the dining hour,
And draw the long bow fearlessly
To show his elbows power.
How neatly he prepares the sell,
How deftly cooks the facts!
And for what others have done well,
Himself the credit takes.
What perils with what art and skill
He’s pulled the country through!
What wonders will his India Bill,
If we believe him, do!
So with the farmers he makes hay
Ere yet his Sun be past;
For though e’en Dizzies have their day,
Not long that day can last.
Punch, June 19, 1858.
[This appeared shortly after Mr. Disraeli had been addressing the electors of Slough.]
On a Bee I’ve Bee(n) to.
How doth the lively Spelling Bee
Delight the evening hour,
And bother folks of each degree—
Sweet maids and spinsters sour.
Hard names that few have ever heard
Are bandied round pell-mell;
And Nuttall finds some crack-jaw words
That not all folks can spell.
With Butter, Mavor, Vyse, each day,
Let my spare time be pass’d;
So at the Spelling Bee I may
Win some nice prize at last.
Judy, March 15, 1876.
[Published when the mania for Spelling Bees was at its height.]
Chap. I.—On Industry.
With what singular persistency of purpose does that diminutive and laborious creature, the Bee, turn to account every minute of sunshine! The construction of her cell is a marvel of insect architecture; and if you were to attempt to spread wax with the same neatness and regularity, you would no doubt fail in the most ignominious manner. At least, I know I should; for I was only the other day sealing a letter when I burned my fingers dreadfully. I am aware that bee’s-wax is not sealing-wax; but still if I had used bee’s-wax to fasten my envelope, I daresay I should have made just as bad a mess of it, or worse. Then again, look how the Bee labours to store those octagonal chambers with the saccharine food she is all the day gathering from roses, tulips, candytuft, pelargoniums, pansies, pinks, hollyhocks, fuchsias, heliotropes, marigolds, dahlias, begonias, lupines, lilies, daffydowndillies, and, in short, every opening flower. I can’t help thinking that if the whole of one’s time was passed in books or work, or even healthy athletic pastimes, such, for example, as hop-scotch, dominoes, tossing the caber, knurr and spell, coddams, cricket, rounders, peg-top, prisoner’s-base, noughts-and-crosses, Aunt Sally, cribbage, nine-pins, Indian clubs, fly-the-garter, boxing, balancing tobacco-pipes on the tip of one’s nose, skimming half-pence at cats or attic windows, turning Catharine wheels in the road, or putting the stone, we might haply give as good an account of every day as our little friend the Bee could do, if so required. (Since the foregoing was committed to manuscript, I have met with some similar ideas in verse, by a Dr. What’s-his-name. I do not, however, think it necessary or desirable to cancel my own original reflections on a subject which, after all, is quite open to anybody.)
Punch.
Dr. Watts on Asthma.
(Vide Advertisement.)
How doth the little busy wheeze
Augment from hour to hour,
And gather “stuffiness” all day,
With forty “bad-cold” power!
How skilfully it clogs each cell,
How strongly it attacks!
And labours hard both cad and swell
To lay upon their backs.
It calls for all the doctor’s skill—
Apothecary’s too too—
And Satan finds decoctions still
For ’prentice hands to brew.
Funny Folks, July 21, 1877.
A Simple Rhyme for the 5th December.
How doth the busy Parliament
Improve each shining hour,
By talking, talking, night and day,
With twenty-magpie power.
How doth the savage Gladstone rise,
Ambition to pursue,
And rave of Russia, India, and
Of Afghanistan too.
How doth the angry Radical
Delight to bark and shriek;
How oft he tries a lion’s roar,
And only makes a squeak.
How doth the loyal Englishman
All snarling curs deride,
And in the present Government
Implicitly confide.
Judy, Jan. 4, 1879.
Watts’ Humourous Poems.
How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!
How, cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in
With gently smiling jaws!
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,
by Lewis Carroll,
(London Macmillan and Co.)
The Little Mosquito.
How doth the little Mosquito
Delight to buzz and bite,
And make the terrors of the day
Ten times as bad at night.
How buzzily (busily) it flits on wing,
And ’lighting on your nose,
It makes you feel its quick, sharp sting
When you’re trying for to doze.
How skilfully it dodges round;
And when you try to “bust” it,
Flies away and likes to see
And hear how you have cuss’d it.
But thank the Lord the time will come
When they’ll have no work to do,
And you will find they’re “busted some,”
And Mosquitoes will be few.
So go your way and rest content,
That they away have “flew,”
But mind that by this time next year
They’ll find some work to do.
Toby.
Icycle, The Wheel World Annual, 1880.
An Old Friend with a New Face.
(After Doctor Watts.)
By an Enthusiastic Land-Leaguer, specially gifted in teaching the young idea how to shoot.
How doth the honest Land-League man
Improve each shining hour,
An’ gather money all the day
Wid all his might an’ power!
How carefully he guards his sell,
How neatly showers his whacks,
An’ labours hard to please Parnell,
An’ dodge the law’s attacks!
No works of labour tax our skill,
Yet we’ll be busy too,
The Land-League has some mischief still
Our idle hands can do.
In Boycotting an’ suchlike play,
Let all our days be past.
Begorra! we may have to pay
A long account at last!!
Judy, March 9, 1881.
The Coal-hole Top.
How doth the little coal-hole top
Its slipperiness disguise,
And feet on bootless errands send
So often to the skies!
The little schoolgirl steps on it
With an elastic gait;
But ere she can step off again
She sits upon her slate.
The little boy with pail of milk,
Treads on it “just in play.”
He sees some stars. The passers-by
Gaze on the “milky way.”
The belle, with rich embellishment,
Comes up with mincing tread,
Her shoes are made of best French kid;
Her stockings clocked with red.
The big policeman, proud, erect,
With gum shoes on his feet,
Disguises it with confidence,
How quick he’s off his beat!
The granger with his cowhide boots:
“By thunder! Did you see
How spry that little iron thing
Got out from under me.”
No matter what the size of feet,
Nor with what they are shod,
The coal-hole top has never yet
With uprightness been trod.
Free Press Flashes, 1882.
“Doctor Watts” Improved.
(From a Sea-side Lodger.)
How doth the little busy Flea,
Disturb each silent hour,
And all night long, most wickedly
Our wearied limbs devour.
How cruelly he breaks our rest,
How wroth he makes us wax,
When, jumping from his hidden nest,
He bites our tender backs.
Now, had it been in works like these
That my first years were past,
I must have come, like little Fleas,
To no good end at last.
For so, the little cruel Flea,
By those who would have slept,
Will—drowned, or burnt, or headless be,
Unpitied and unwept.
Punch, October 18, 1884.
Children’s Corner.
How doth the very Bizzy B.[43]
Improve each shining hour,
Annexing isles in every sea
To cripple England’s power.
How skilfully he plans his schemes,
How well he times each blow,
While in his chair Lord Derby dreams
That all is comme il faut!
Possessed of such a dauntless will
Would we’d one Bizzy too,
Or Satan find less mischief still
For Liberals’ hands to do.
Moonshine, January 1885.
The Bee.
How doth the gorging greedy Bee,
Destructive little brute,
Hum all day long from tree to tree,
And spoil the choicest fruit!
Behold how deep she scoops a cell,
When peaches she attacks,
In nectarines and pears as well,
How big a hole she makes!
Likewise to eat and drink my fill,
I should be happy too;
For Nature has disposed me still
But little else to do.
In prog and grub, by turns with play,
Might all my life be past,
Till I, perhaps, should come to weigh
Good fourteen score at last.
Punch, October 9, 1875.
The Wops.
How doth the wobbling, wily wops
Improve each shining hour!
Within the peach he slyly stops,
And stings with all his power!
How skilfully he wheels around,
And maidens makes afraid;
He loves to clear the pic-nic ground,
And roll in marmalade!
The whispered charm of lover’s talk
He’ll stop without ado;
The Vicar’s sermon he will balk,
And sting the Vicar too!
On cake or fruit or window pane,
On pie or mutton chops,
He’ll sharply sting and come again—
The wobbling, wily wops!
Punch, September 15, 1883.
THE VARIATION HUMBUG.
There is perhaps more Humbug talked, printed, and practised in reference to Music than to anything else in the world, except Politics. And of all the musical humbugs extant it occurs to Mr. Punch that the Variation Humbug is the greatest. This party has not even the sense to invent a tune for himself, but takes somebody else’s, and starting therefrom as an acrobat leaps from a spring board, jumps himself into a musical reputation on the strength of the other party’s ideas. Mr. Punch wonders what would be thought of a poet who should try to make himself renown by this kind of thing—taking a well-known poem of a predecessor’s, and doing Variations on it after this fashion:—
Buggins’s Variations of the Busy Bee.
How doth the Little Busy Bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower,
From every opening flower, flower, flower,
That sparkles in a breezy bower,
And gives its sweetness to the shower,
Exhaling scent of gentle power,
That lasts on kerchief many an hour,
And is a lady’s graceful dower,
Endeared alike to cot and tower,
Round which the little Busy Bee
Improves each shining hour,
And gathers honey all the day
From every opening flower,
From every opening flower, flower, flower,
From every opening flower.
How skilfully she builds her cell,
How neat she spreads her whacks,
And labours hard to store it well.
With the sweet food she makes,
With the sweet food she makes,
With the sweet food she makes, makes, makes,
When rising just as morning breaks,
The dew-drop from the leaf she shakes,
And oft the sleeping moth she wakes,
And diving through the flower she takes,
The honey with her fairy rakes,
And in her cell the same she cakes,
Or sports across the silver lakes,
Besides her children, for whose sakes,
How skilfully she builds her cell,
How neat she spreads her wax,
And labours hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.
In works of labour or of skill,
I would be busy too,
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do,
For idle hands to do,
For idle hands to do, do, do,
Things which thereafter they will rue,
When Justice fiercely doth pursue,
Or conscience raises Cry and Hue,
And evil-doers look quite blue,
When Peelers run with loud halloo,
And Magistrates put on the screw,
And then the wretch exclaims, Boo-hoo,
In works of labour or of skill
I wish I’d busied too,
For Satan’s found much mischief still
For my two hands to do.
There! Would a Poet get much reputation for these Variations, which are much better in their way than most of those built upon tunes. Would the poetical critics come out, as the musical critics do, with “Upon Watts’s marble foundation Buggins has raised a sparkling alabaster palace;” or, “The old-fashioned Watts has been brought into new honour by the étincellant Buggins;” or “We love the old tune, but we have room in our hearts for the fairy-like fountains of birdsong which Buggins has bid start from it.” Mr. Punch has an idea that Buggins would have no such luck; the moral to be deduced from which fact is, that a Musical Prig is luckier than a Poetical Prig.
Punch, February 2, 1861.
——:o:——
Against Quarrelling and Fighting.
Let dogs delight to bark and bite,
For God hath made them so,
Let bears and lions growl and fight,
For ’tis their nature to.
But, children, you should never let
Such angry passions rise;
Your little hands were never made
To tear each other’s eyes.
Dr. Watts.
Address to the Quarrelsome Boys of Switzerland.
Let canine animals delight in mutual barkings, and in reciprocating injuries with their fangs; for it is their natural disposition in this manner to gratify their ferocity.
Let creatures of the ursine and feline tribes employ themselves in growling and contention: since they are so constituted as to take pleasure in these occupations. But you, who, among the great European family may be called children—should never allow your irascible propensities to be thus aroused. Those diminutive organs of prehension which you possess were never constructed for the laceration of one another’s instruments of vision.
Punch, December 11, 1847.
To a Roebuck[44] at Bay.
Whigs in their cozy berths agree
And ’tis a sorry sight
When independent men we see
Fall out and fume and fight.
Let Broom[45] delight to bark and bite
For Campbell riles him so;
Let Irish members bounce and fight,
For ’tis their nature to.
But Roebuck, you should never let
Your angry passions rise;
Your little hands were never meant
To tear out Grattan’s eyes.
Punch, June, 1849.
A Remonstrance from the Nursery.
Let Austria delight to bark and bite,
And snap off Kossuth’s nose;
Let Prussia’s King, against all right,
Tread hard on Freedom’s toes;
But Nicholas should never let
A love of conquest rise;
His gory hands were never made
To tear out the Sultan’s eyes.
Diogenes, 1854.
Rational Remonstrance.
Let peaceful Bright in speech delight
That charms the Cotton crew:
Let Cobden rather trade than fight,
For ’tis his business to.
But when our Premier, duped before,
Still trusts to Russian lies,
Such weakness but disgusts John Bull,
And makes his monkey rise.
Punch, July 29, 1854.
Watt’s the Matter.
Let Lords delight to bark and bite,
They’ve nothing else to do;
Let Whigs and Tories growl and fight,
For ’tis their nature to.
But Liberals, you should never let
Escape your passions dire,
Your little wits were never meant
To set the Thames on fire.
Kings on their gilded thrones agree,[46]
But ’tis a shocking sight,
When all St. Stephen’s family
Fall out with Lowe and Bright.
Then keep your tempers if you can,
On Tories wreak your hate,
And dance a Radical cancan
O’er prostrate Church and State.
Will-o’-the-Wisp, May 22, 1869.
Birds in their little nests agree
’Tis true. But what about?
They all agree in trying hard
To turn each other out.
Let dogs delight to bark and bite,
For ’tis their nature to;
Then don’t complain if some fine day
They bark and bite at you.
When shines the sun, and rain is past,
Make hay, get in your crops;
But what the Dickens must one do,
Suppose it never stops?
The early bird, the proverb says,
The early worm devours;
Then lest you’d be that early worm,
Abandon early hours.
Alas for childhood’s early faiths!
Comparing old with new;
I like the latter quite as well,
And think them just as true.
The Tonbridgian, April, 1873. H. M.
“In my opinion there’s only one policy worth a ducat!”
“And that, Benjamin,” I ask in my captivating way, is——?”
“Pointedly expressed in the following lines of the poet:—
“Let Rads delight to bark and bite,
For God has made ’em so;
Let Butts and Biggars growl and fight,
For ’tis their nature to;
But Hardy, you must never let
The landed gentry rise
To see the games that I am at
Beneath their nose and eyes.”
Benjamin D——His Little Dinner, 1876.
Watts the Matter?
(Lord Marcus Beresford.)
Oh, Marcus! you should never let
Your angry passions rise,
Nor at a money-lender get,
And try to black his eyes,
One hundred pounds may not be dear
For joys so simply gay;
Yet still to most it will appear
A tidy sum to pay!
Yorick, 1877.
Gibes and “Germs.”
(A respectful Remonstrance addressed to
Professor Tindall, and Dr. H. C. B.)
Let bigots write with sneers of spite,
And dogmas argue so,
Let priests and parsons, differing, fight,
As ’tis their nature to.
But, Sages, you should never let
Such female passions rise;
Your thinking minds were never made
To bandy taunts unwise.
Let calm through all your questions run,
All your debates be mild;
Keep your discussions, every one
By rancour undefiled.
With patience gentle as a lamb
Your arguments pursue;
Call not each other’s theories “flam,”
But prove the sounder view.
Look up to Truth all ends above;
Seek that and that alone:
Nor squabble, out of mere self love
O’er crochets of your own.
Punch, July 7, 1877.
A Fortou—itous Event.
Addressed, with all earnestness, to M. Gambetta.
Let fools and bullies brawl and fight,
For ’tis their nature to;
Let brainless apes in duels delight,
But not such men as you.
No! Statesmen they should never let
Their passions get such sway.
Just think of France’s keen regret,
Had you been shot that day!
Twas true there was small chance of this,
Thanks to the seconds’ care;
But though both pistols scored a miss,
The folly still was there.
* * * * *
Then why conform to such a rule
As that which you obey’d;
The laws that bind the fop and fool
For you were never made.
To France a wise example show
When next you’re asked to fight;
And let these moral cowards know
You dare to do what’s right.
Truth, November 28, 1878.
On a late Fracas at Newmarket.
Let dogs delight to bark and bite,
For ’tis their nature to,
Let sculptors in the law courts fight
And raise a great to-do.
But, race-horse trainers, pray don’t let
Your angry passions rise;
Your stable-forks weren’t made, you bet
To gouge each other’s eyes.
If you go in for law you’ll be
Awarded just a farden;
So henceforth, when you disagree,
Beg one another’s pardon.
Judy, February 14, 1883.
To a Policeman.
Let dogs delight to bark and bite,
Or howl the whole night through;
Let roosters hail the morning light
With “cock-a-doodle do:”
Let bawling costers all the day
Make hideous the street;
And organs grind, and niggers play
And bands discordant meet:
But, Bobby, you must never try
To stifle torturing sounds,
Nor murmur placidly “Oh, fie!”
But meekly—go your rounds.
Funny Folks.
Watt’s Up Again.
(On a Recent Fracas.[47])
Let cads delight with fists to fight,
To them ’tis nothing new,
Which if our Swells consider right,
Why—let ’em do it, too.
When well-bred Englishmen now let
Their angry passions rise,
The fashion has been lately set—
They black each other’s eyes.
Hyde Park.
Notice.—To Noblemen and Gentlemen frequenting the Row, all Rows forbidden, except Rows of Chairs. No Rowing in which punching of heads is included, will be permitted, though Rowing on the Serpentine is allowed, but the Rowers will have to pay for any damage done to the sculls.
No objection to pistols and coffee, but fighting like coal-heavers I will not have in my Park, I swear I won’t, by,
George.
Punch, August 8, 1885.
The Sluggard.
’Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain,
“You have wak’d me too soon, I must slumber again.”
As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed,
Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.
“A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;”
Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number:
And when he gets up he sits folding his hands,
Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.
I pass’d by his garden, and saw the wild brier,
The thorn and the thistle, grow broader and higher;
The clothes that hung on him are turning to rags;
And his money still wastes, till he starves or he begs.
I made him a visit, still hoping to find
That he took better care for improving his mind;
He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking;
But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.
Said I then to my heart, “Here’s a lesson for me,
This man’s but a picture of what I might be;
But, thanks to my friends, for their care in my breeding,
Who taught me betimes to love working and reading.”
Dr. Watts.
The French Sluggard.
’Tis the moan of old Louis,[48] I hear him complain;
“I’ve deluded my people to warfare with Spain;”
As the priests are at mass, so is he on his throne,
An imbecile monarch, an indolent drone.
A little more craft, and a little more ruling,
Thus his days and his hours have been wasted in fooling
And when he snores up, for his capon and crown,
His lethargy sinks him again on his down.
I passed by his palace,—I saw the disguise,—
His Jesuits caressed him, his Ultras were spies;
The robes that hung on him were ragged and poor
And his life, like a beggar’s, dependent once more.
Said I—“Ye Allies!!—’tis a lesson for you;
This King is a picture that soon you will view;
And thanks to the nations who freedom have cherish’d,
That knowledge hath conquer’d, and despots have perish’d.”
The Spirit of the Public Journals, 1823.
The Sluggard.
“’Tis the voice of the sluggard, I heard him complain,
“You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again.”
And I’m not much surprised, for ’tis surely some lout,
Who won’t let the poor fellow have his sleep out.
It’s all very well for some fidgety elf,
Who can’t get a wink of sound sleep for himself,
To call others “sluggards”—as worthy as he—
Because they don’t quite with his theory agree.
They think it high time, if to dress they’re prepared,
When the sun is up first, and the day is well aired,
If the body needs rest, ’tis but reason to sleep,
And thus all its functions in order to keep.
If the birds (little fools!) rise so early, I beg
You’ll remember they usually sleep on one leg:
And its wearisome, doubtless, standing so long,
So they wake up and shake off the cramp with a song.
If they had, as I have, a nice cosy bed,
My impression is they would sleep later instead,
And as for the “worm-catching” proverb, in terms,
It can’t affect me—I’m not partial to worms.
Funny Folks.
’Tis the voice of the lobster; I heard him declare,
“You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.”
As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose,
Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. (Macmillan and Co., London.)
The wise one, and the Foolish.
’Tis the voice of the sluggard, I heard him complain,
“You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again,”
As a door on its hinges, so in his bed he
Turn’d and drowsily muttered, “A Soda and B!”
’Tis the voice of the sluggard, I heard him complain,
“I fancy that last night I drank too much champagne;
But no,” he exclaim’d, as he loll’d at his ease,
“It was not the champagne, ’twas the salmon and peas.”
I look’d once again, as he lay on the bed,
His eyes they were blood shot, his nose it was red,
And I said to myself, as I turn’d from the sight,
“It is clear he was up till a late hour of night.”
Then I said to my heart, “Here’s a lesson for me!
That man’s but a picture of what I might be.
But no, I am cautious in all that I eat;
I mix not my liquors, but take each one neat.”
Judy, September 23, 1874.
The “Special.”
(After “Watts” his name.)
’Twas the voice of the “Special,” they heard him complain,
“Oh, bother the telegram! Copy again?”
His fingers were cramped, and his eyelids were red,
And he yawned, for the “Special” had not been in bed.
He had written “atrocity” scenes without number
On a cannon or drum, or some odd pile of lumber;
Had reeled off adventures, romances, realities—
All a Special considers his own Specialities.
Then he dashed down his pen, took a whiff at a “briar,”
And glanced at his costume all covered with mire;
For the clothes that hung on him were turning to rags,
And Poole would have fainted to witness such “bags.”
But he screwed up his courage, still hoping to find
New horrors for British consumption designed;
And he wrote of his dreams, of his eating and drinking
(Too much of the latter some readers are thinking).
But they scan with delight that escape from a shell,
That leap from a mountain, that fall in a well;
And when brought as a spy to some captain or colonel,
’Twas an excellent scene to write up for his journal.
But I said as I read, “Here’s a lesson for me;
This man’s, but a picture of what I might be.
Were it not for the care of my friends in my breeding,
I might have to make ‘Specials’ for newspaper reading.”
Funny Folks.
The Czar he Leads a Jolly Life.
’Tis the voice of the Czar, don’t you hear him complain?
“They’ve been trying to blow up my palace again!
Now matters are really getting too bad;
For years not a moment of peace have I had.”
This is the first verse of a long and curiously prophetic poem which appeared in Truth, December 18, 1879. The remaining verses are not given as they do not parody Dr. Watts.
The Rinker.
’Tis the voice of the rinker, I heard her complain,
You have stopped me too soon, I’ll go skating again,
As the door on its hinges, so she on her skates,
Turns gracefully, and expectantly waits.
A little more skating, a little more rinking,
Thus she wastes half her days, and her hours without thinking
And when she’s at home, she but lolls in a chair,
And wonders how soon she again will go there.
On her way to the rink I once chanced to be nigh her,
And I thought that she held her head higher and higher,
So fine was the dress she wore, I quite shuddered to think
Of the money she wastes on the terrible rink.
I made her a visit, still hoping to find
She took some little care for improving her mind;
She told me her feats, talked of dressing and rinking,
But scarce reads a book, and never loves thinking.
Then I said to myself, “Here’s a lesson to me,
This woman’s a pattern of what I might be,”
But I’m proud to confess, and I can without blinking,
I much prefer reading and writing to rinking.
Idyls of the Rink. Judd & Co., London, 1876.
A Moral Song for Election Time.
’Tis the voice of Britannia, I heard her explain
“I’m wide awake now; I wont slumber again;
As Materfamilias, once out of bed,
I must sack my late servants, and turn off their head.
“A little more sleep, and a little more slumber,
And my wars, big and little, had grown out of number;
Over vanishing trade I’d have had to fold hands,
Perplexed not with orders, but debtor’s demands.
“I passed Jingo’s Music Hall, lit with blue fire,
That on Russia’s big bogey blazed higher and higher,
I heard “Rule Britannia,” saw waving of flags,
With a great deal by way of bounce, bunkum, and brags.
“I called upon Jingo, as hoping to find,
Common sense had found access, at length, to his mind,
But he told me his dreams, talked as if he’d been drinking,
For he reads the D. T., and has long given up thinking.
“Then, said Punch to John Bull, ‘you take warning, J. B.,’
This Jingo’s a picture of what we might be.
But thanks to our friends for the care of our breeding,
Who warned us, betimes, the D. T. against reading.
Punch, 1880.
’Tis the voice of the glutton,
I hear him complain,
My waistcoat unbutton,
I’ll eat once again.
Punch, May 1864.
The Moan of the “Native.”
“Of all the inanimate objects which are inimical to the oyster, there is nothing so fatal as sand.”
Land and Water, Oct. 23, 1880.
’Tis the voice of the oyster I hear him complain;
“I can’t live in this place, here’s the sandstorm again.
I was settling to rest ’mid the rocks and the tiles
They had made for a home, but this sand how it riles.
It gets into my shell, and the delicate fringe
That I use when I breathe; and I can’t shut my hinge
When the grit lodges there; so the crabs come at will,
Since my poor mouth is open they feed, and they kill,
I’ve complained to Frank Buckland, who quite understands,
But he cant undertake to abolish the sands.”
Thus the “Native” made moan, then I took up the brown
Bread-and-butter and lemon, and swallowed him down!
Punch, 1880.
Praise for Mercies Spiritual and Temporal.
Whene’er I take my walks abroad,
How many poor I see!
What shall I render to my God
For all his gifts to me?
Not more than others I deserve,
Yet God hath given me more:
For I have food while others starve,
Or beg from door to door.
How many children in the street
Half naked I behold!
While I am clothed from head to feet
And cover’d from the cold.
While some poor wretches scarce can tell
Where they may lay their head,
I have a home wherein to dwell,
And rest upon my bed.
While others early learn to swear,
And curse, and lie, and steal,
Lord, I am taught thy name to fear,
And do thy holy will.
Are these thy favours, day by day,
To me above the rest?
Then let me love thee more than they,
And try to serve thee best.
Dr. Watts.
London Streets.
A Moral Song, after an Obvious Original.
Whene’er I take my walks abroad
How many things I see
Which make me wish that Colonel Hen-
derson were there with me.
Not more than others I observe,
But things impress me more—
The noise, the filth, the area-sneaks
Who beg from door to door.
What borrowed children in the street
Half-naked I behold!
What sturdy hawkers howl and cheat,
And how the poor are “sold!”
Horses in ’bus and cab I see
O’erworked and underfed,
And overladen creatures fall
Upon the roadway—dead!
Teutonic bands disturb the street
Remote from noise and strife,
And organs grinding discord make
A misery of life.
On crowded pavements, two abreast,
Perambulators run,
To drive the folks into the road—
The nursemaids’ daily fun.
The gamins early learn to swear,
And curse, and lie, and steal,
Too fleet of foot for him to race—
The bobby, named of Peel.
Such things as these are day by day
A scandal and a pest;
But Scotland Yard, with folded arms,
Snores on and takes its rest.
The Irish Landlord’s Song.
“Whene’er I take my walks abroad
My tenantry I see,
And each has got a blunderbuss,
A looking out for me.”
Judy.
Praise for Mercies Spiritual and Temporal.
I cannot take my walks abroad,
I’m under lock and key,
And much the public I applaud,
For all their care of me.
Not more than others I deserve,
In fact much less, than more;
Yet I have food while others starve
Or beg from door to door.
The honest pauper in the street,
Half-naked I behold;
While I am clad from head to feet,
And covered from the cold.
Thousands there are who scarce can tell
Where they may lay their head;
While I’ve a warm and well air’d cell,
A bath, good books, good bed.
While they are fed on workhouse fare
And grudged their scanty food:
Three times a day my meals I get,
Sufficient, wholesome, good.
Then to the British public health,
Who all our care relieves;
And while they treat us as they do,
They’ll never want for thieves.
This parody was ascribed to the pen of one Stephen Bills, a convict, and some twenty years ago his photograph could be obtained, with the parody printed at the back. Mr. Bills was there represented in the costume peculiar to gentlemen who are enjoying state hospitality. It is a curious circumstance that a very similar parody was included in the volume entitled “Wit and humour, by Shirley Brooks,” edited by his son, and published by Bradbury, Agnew & Co., London.
It would be interesting to know whether Mr. Shirley Brooks was the actual author, or whether he obtained the poem in the manner stated below:
Song by a Caged Bird.
The following lines were found in the cell of a discharged convict, who made his way into a Chaplain’s heart by piety, and, subsequently, into a jeweller’s shop by burglary.
The spirit that dictated such an irreverence
with Dr. Watts is worthy of the Author.
I cannot take my walks abroad,
I’m under lock and key,
And much the public I applaud,
For all their care of me.
Not more than Paupers I deserve,
In fact, much less than more,
Yet I have food while Paupers starve
And beg from door to door.
The honest Pauper in the street
Half naked you behold,
While I am clothed from head to feet
And covered from the cold.
While honest Paupers scarce can tell
Where they may lay their head,
I have a warm and well-aired cell,
With bath-room, gas, and bed.
While Paupers live on workhouse fare,
A grudged and scanty meal,
My table’s spread with bread and beer,
And beef, or pork, or veal.
Then since to honest folks, I say,
They put the Workhouse Test,
Why nix my doll palls, fake away,
You’ll like the Jug the best.
The Model Prison.
[This originally appeared in Punch, April 4, 1857.]
Covent Garden.
A Hymn of Humility.
[Over and over again has the Duke of Bedford been implored, adjured, entreated, and admonished to set Covent Garden Market and its approaches in order; but as yet he has practically turned a deaf ear to all the appeals made to him.—Daily Paper.]
Whene’er abroad we take our walks,
And choose the Covent Garden route,
We ask, “Do dukes like cabbage-stalks?
And are they fond of rotten fruit?”
We see the garbage piled on high,
We sniff an air whose odour tells
Of rank corruption; and we sigh,
“No doubt the duke approves of smells!”
We pick our way through filth and slime,
And, musing on the noisome flood,
The thought occurs to us in time,
“In politics dukes fling much mud!”
We watch the traffic raging round,
And filling every hole and nook,
Then say, “Of course this muddle’s found
To gratify his grace the duke.”
The grimy avenue we pace,
About the ugly sheds we pry;
“It’s hard,” we think, “to like the place,—
But then one lacks the ducal eye.”
We mark the slums that fester near,
And dirt and squalor still we find;
But reason whispers in our ear,
“It’s not so bad, or dukes would mind.”
Oh, fie on agitating elves
Who say the market is a blot!
They ought to murmur to themselves,
“The duke’s contented with the spot.”
He draws his rents, he hoards his gold;
What cares he for the vulgar throng!
They might just recollect, when told,
That dukes, like kings, can do no wrong.
The Weekly Dispatch, June, 1882.
——:o:——
Moral Songs for Election-Time.
(After Dr. Watts).
I.—Play (Innocent and Otherwise).
Abroad in the Boroughs to see the Blue Lambs,
And the Red Lions rather too free of their dams,
Standing up for what both call their rights:
Or a knot of young roughs, whose right place were the cage,
Of their hustling and horse-play well-earning the wage,
Are not pleasant election-time sights.
If we’d been born Ducks, we might dabble in mud;
Or Dogs, we might snarl till it ended in blood;
But we claim to be rational creatures;
And Dizzy and Gladstone, and such pretty names,
We ought to know better than fling, to our shames,
Like mud, in each other’s flushed features.
Not a harsh thing Blues do, or a hard thing Buffs say,
But with Blue and Buff bills should be wiped clean away;
They are fools who let foolish words hurt.
Not so rough’s rude horseplay, who fight and throw mire,
Or, still worse, penmen’s frolic’s, who fling about fire
In Jingo Drawcansir disport.
II.—Love between Reds and Blues.
Let Frenchmen fight with kick and bite—
They can’t use fists, we know—
Let Turk and Russ take wrong for right,
It is their nature to.
But, Britons, you should never let
Such Party-passions rise,
As, even at Election times,
To—blank—each other’s eyes!
Afghans, Zulus howe’er we treat,
Let’s keep the peace at home;
Where Rads and Jingoes share the street,
To cuffs they should not come.
Birds in their little nests agree,
And ’tis a painful sight,
When fools, though of one family,
Fall out and chide and fight.
Hard hustings-names, hot platform-words,
And blatant leaders’ breath,
Take shape in Clubs, Lies’ two-edged swords,
And mob-war to the death.
He’s wise who tongue and temper schools
Through the election fight,
Nor holdeth all his foes for fools,
Himself still in the right.
Punch, April 17, 1880.
——:o:——
Watts’s Income Tax Logic.
When Bishops, who in wealth abound,
Return their incomes wrong,
And pocket several thousand pound
To them that don’t belong.
Oh, how can Government expect
A struggling chap like me
Should put his earnings down correct,
To fill up Schedule D?
Punch, April 16, 1853.
Hymn by a Member of the Peace Congress.
How sweet a thing it is to dwell
In blessed u-ni-ty,
With envious passions ne’er to swell,
But cherish a-mi-ty.
How very sweet it is to take
Your little brother’s gold,
And make a snug pro-vi-sion
Against when we get old.
How very sweet it is—“Oh dear!”
Who hit me in the eye?
“Who kicked me then? Get out you brute!
Ah do—just only try—”
“I’ll tear your clothes clean off your back,
I’ll smash your ugly head;”
It’s done—three cheers for blessed peace!
My en-e-my is dead.
The Tomahawk, September 21, 1867.
The Thief.
Why should I deprive my neighbour
Of his goods against his will?
Hands were made for honest labour,
Not to plunder, or to steal.
Dr. Watts.
Why should I relieve my neighbour
With my goods against my will?
Can’t he live by honest labour
Can’t he borrow, can’t he steal?
A Paraphrase.
[On the Rev. Dr. Watts’s Celebrated Distich, on the Study of Languages.]
Addressed to the young gentlemen of the English Grammar Schools, by one of their School-fellows.
“Let every foreign tongue alone
Till you can spell and read your own”
With equal justice, sense and truth,
So says the guide and friend of youth:
For ignorant in that, ’tis plain,
Your boast of literature is vain;
But make your own your first concern,
All others you may quickly learn:
And thus with minds prepar’d and free,
Their beauties taste, their idioms see.
Pedants may flout and keep a pother
About this language, and the other,
And swear that none can write or speak
Who have not Latin learn’d and Greek:
‘He of all judgement is depriv’d
‘Who knows not whence a word’s derived
‘And every Briton willy nilly,
‘Must dig good English out of Lilly;’
These are vague notions foster’d long
Crude in their birth, in practice wrong;
Like many more of ancient date,
Wisely reformed or obsolete.
Thousands ’tis true the course have run,
Which reason would have bid them shun:
’Tis common sense and good in law,
To furnish brick we should have straw.
But by the mystic code of schools
There’s neither straw allowed nor tools;
And years of pain, and learning’s stock,
Begin and end in Hic, haec, hoc!
What charms are there, in sense or sound
Of such intrinsic merit found,
That not thro’ prejudice to err,
Terms of our own we mayn’t prefer?
And just as well the purpose fit,
With Oxford writing,—he, she, it?
Or do they more in Church or State
Improve discourse, or point debate?
Poor boys in training, it appears,
Condemn’d to waste their tender years
On exercises which conduce
To little or no real use,
Seem to perpetuate Britain’s doom,
To groan beneath the yoke of Rome.
Rome that abandon’d us in need
Still o’er our judgment takes the lead;
We scout her eagles with disdain
The fasces still usurp domain;
Still, of court influence tho’ bereft,
In schools the badge of slavery’s left,
And interest still, or affectation,
Warps the free spirit of the nation;
Tho’ richer prospects grace our view
Than ever Greek or Roman knew,—
All must be through the classics led,
Before the horn-book well they’ve read;
A more oppressive task in fact
Than Ægypt’s tyrant could exact
Which genius in the cradle cramps,
And all her generous efforts damps;
But in your native language skill’d
You on a sure foundation build;
The edifice will rise sublime,
In perfect order, place, and time.
There, and there only should commence
The path to knowledge, wit and sense,
For there the young ingenious mind,
The road to excellence will find,
And in the flowery walks of science,
May bid disgraceful birch defiance;
But who, a novice there, aspires,
Must work his way through thorns and briars,
And when the craggy steeps are past,
May skulk a useless drone at last;
Nay, though he get A. B. at College,
Be stopt of his degree in knowledge.
Then cultivate your native soil,
The harvest will repay your toil;
And be it every parent’s care,
To plant the seeds of goodness there.
*.* The petty ambition of pretending to superior skill, in other languages, seems pleasantly and aptly ridiculed in the following anecdote:—
One of our modern modishly-bred ladies, boasting of her proficiency in the French tongue, asserted she understood and spoke it better than she did English; and for the truth, appealed to a French lady in company. The adroit Parisian very candidly and sensibly replied, “I am not, my dear madam, sufficiently acquainted with the English language to determine; but I should be ashamed and sorry to say, I spoke any language half so well as my own!”
From A Collection of Poems, by Samuel Whyte, Dublin, 1792.
