Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. II

by Unknown

John Milton,

Born 1608. Died in Bunhill Fields, London, November 8, 1674.

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arodies of Milton’s Poems are neither numerous, nor particularly amusing; the best known, and most admired, is undoubtedly “The Splendid Shilling,” written (in blank verse) about 1700, by John Philips. A biography of this author is included in Dr. Johnson’s “Lives of the Poets.” He was born at Bampton in Oxfordshire, on December 30, 1676. Being of a delicate constitution his chief amusement was reading, and as Milton was his favorite author, he chose his style for a parody, whilst he found a subject in the character of an impecunious college friend, who knew not how to keep a shilling in his pocket. “The Splendid Shilling” has one great charm, rare in such works, it is a burlesque in which nobody is ridiculed. John Philips died on February 15, 1708, and was buried in Hereford Cathedral. There is a tablet to his memory in Poet’s Corner, Westminster Abbey, which chronicles in high flown Latin phrases, his achievements in poetry. Of these the principal were “Blenheim,” and “Cider,” the latter being founded upon the model of Virgil’s Georgics.

The following is an exact reprint of a very early edition of

THE

SPLENDID SHILLING.

IN

Imitation of Milton.

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——Sing Heavenly Muſe,

Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhyme,

A Shilling, Breeches, and Chimera’s dire

Happy the Man, who void of Cares and Strife,

In Silken or in Leathern Purſe retains

A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain

New Oyſters cry’d, nor ſighs for cheerful Ale;

But with his Friends, when nightly Miſts ariſe,

To Juniper’s, or Magpye, or Town-Hall[49] repairs;

Where mindful of the Nymph, whose wanton Eye,

Transfix’d his Soul, and kindled Amorous flames,

Chloe or Phillis; he each Circling Glass

Wiſheth her Health, and Joy, and equal Love.

Mean while he Smoaks, and Laughs at Merry Tale,

Or Pun ambiguous, or Conundrum quaint.

But I whom griping Penury ſurrounds,

And Hunger, ſure Attendant upon Want,

With ſcanty Offals, and ſmall acid Tiff

(Wretched Repast) my meagre Corps sustain:

Then Solitary walk, or doze at home

In Garret vile, and with a warming puff

Regale chill’d Fingers, or from Tube as black

As Winter’s Chimney, or well-poliſh’d Jett,

Exhale Mundungus, ill-perfuming Smoak.

Not blacker Tube, nor of a ſhorter Size

Smoaks Cambro-Britain (vers’d in Pedigree,

Sprung from Cadwalader and Arthur, ancient Kings,

Full famous in Romantick tale) when he

O’re many a craggy Hill, and fruitleſs Cliff,

Upon a Cargo of fam’d Ceſtrian Cheese,

High over-ſhadowing rides, with a deſign

To vend his Wares, or at the Arvonian Mart,

Or Maridunum, or the ancient Town

Hight Morgannumia, or where Vaga’s Stream

Encircles Ariconium, fruithful Soil,

Whence flow Nectareous Wines, that well may vye

With Massic, Setian, or Renown’d Falern.

Thus while my joyleſs Hours I lingring spend,

With Looks demure, and ſilent pace a Dunn,

Horrible Monſter! hated by Gods and Men,

To my aerial Citadel ascends;

With Vocal Heel thrice Thund’ring at my Gates,

With hideous Accent thrice he calls; I know

The Voice ill boding, and the solemn Sound;

What should I do, or whither turn? amaz’d

Confounded, to the dark recess I fly

Of Woodhole; ſtreight my briſtling Hairs erect

My Tongue forgets her Faculty of Speech,

So horrible he seems; his faded Brow

Entrench’d with many a Frown, and conic Beard,

And ſpreading Band admir’d by Modern Saint

Diſaſtrous acts forebode; in his Right hand

Long Scrolls of Paper ſolemnly he waves,

With Characters and Figures dire inſcribed

Grievous to mortal Eye, (ye Gods avert

Such plagues from righteous men) behind him ſtalks

Another Monſter, not unlike himſelf,

Of Aſpect ſullen, by the Vulgar called

A Catchpole, whoſe polluted hands the Gods

With Force incredible, and Magic Charms

Erſt have indu’d, if he his ample Palm

Should haply on ill-fated Shoulder lay

Of Debtor, ſtreight his Body to the touch

Obſequious (as Whilom Knights were wont)

To ſome enchanted Castle is convey’d,

Where Gates impregnable, and coercive Charms

In durance vile detain him, till in form

Of Money, Pallas ſet the Captive free.

Beware, ye Debtors, when ye walk, beware,

Be circumſpect; oft with inſidious Ken,

This Caitiff eyes your ſteps aloof, and oft

Lies perdue in a Creek or gloomy Cave,

Prompt to enchant ſome inadvertent wretch

With his unhallow’d Touch. So (Poets ſing)

Grimalkin to Domeſtick Vermin ſworn

An everlaſting Foe, with watchful eye,

Lyes nightly brooding ore a chinky gap,

Protending her fell claws, to thoughtleſs Mice

Sure ruin. So her diſembowell’d Web

The Spider in a Hall or Kitchin ſpreads,

Obvious to vagrant Flies; ſhe ſecret ſtands,

Within her woven Cell; the Humming Prey

Regardleſs of their Fate, ruſh on the toils

Inextricable, nor will ought avail

Their Arts nor Arms, nor Shapes of lovely Hue,

The Waſp inſidious, and the buzzing Drone,

And Butterfly proud of expanded wings

Diſtinct with Gold, entangled in her Snares,

Uſeleſs reſiſtance make: with eager ſtrides

She tow’ring flies to her expected Spoils;

Then with envenom’d Jaws the vital Blood

Drinks of reluctant Foes, and to her Cave

Their bulky Carcaſſes triumphant drags.

So paſs my days. But when Nocturnal Shades

This World invelop, and th’inclement Air

Perſwades Men to repel benumming Froſts,

With pleaſant Wines, and crackling blaze of Wood;

Me lonely ſitting, nor the glimmering Light

Of make-weight Candle, nor the joyous talk

Of lovely friends delights; diſtreſs’d, forlorn,

Amidſt the horrors of the tedious night,

Darkling I ſigh, and feed with diſmal Thoughts

My anxious Mind; or ſometimes mournful Verſe

Indite, and ſing of Groves and Myrtle Shades,

Or deſperate Lady near a purling stream,

Or Lover pendant on a Willow-tree;

Mean while I labour with eternal drought,

And reſtleſs wiſh, in vain, my parched Throat

Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repoſe;

But if a Slumber haply do’s invade

My weary Limbs, my Fancy ſtill awake,

Longing for Drink, and eager in my Dream,

Tipples imaginary Pots of Ale.

Awake, I find the ſetled Thirſt—

Still gnawing, and the pleaſant Phantom curſe.

Thus do I live from Pleaſure quitte debarr’d,

Nor tast the Fruits that the Sun’s genial Rays

Mature, John-apple nor the Downy Peach,

Nor Walnut in rough-furrow’d Coat ſecure,

Nor Medlar Fruit delicious in decay;

Afflictions great, yet greater ſtill remain,

My Galligaskings that have long withſtood

The Winter’s Fury, and encroaching Froſts

By time subdu’d, (what will not time ſubdue!)

A horrid Chaſm diſcloſe, with Orifice

Wide diſcontinuous; at which the Winds

Eurus and Auſter, and the dreadful force

Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian Waves,

Tumultuous enter with dire chilling Blaſts,

Portending Agues. Thus a well-fraught Ship

Long ſail’d ſecure, or through the Egean Deep,

Or the Ionian, till Cruſing near

The Lilybean Shoar, with hideous Cruſh

On Scylla or Charibdis dangerous Rocks

She ſtrikes rebounding, whence the ſhatter’d Oak,

So fierce a Shock unable to withſtand,

Admits the Sea, in at the gaping Side,

The crouding Waves guſh with impetuous Rage,

Reſiſtleſs overwhelming; Horrors ſeize

The Mariners, Death in their eyes appears,

They ſtare, they lave, they pump, they ſwear, they pray.

Vain Efforts, ſtill the battering Waves ruſh in

Implacable, till delug’d by the foam,

The Ship ſinks found’ring in the vast Abyſs.

Sir Richard Steele, in “The Tatler,” pronounced “The Splendid Shilling” to be the finest Burlesque Poem in the English language, and Dr. Johnson praised it as an admirable imitation of the stately movement of Milton’s blank verse, whilst Oliver Goldsmith, in his Criticisms, says “This is reckoned the best parody of Milton in our language; it has been an hundred times imitated without success.”

It is a pity that Dr. Goldsmith did not more particularly describe these imitations, as after much searching only about half a dozen have come to light, all of them somewhat old fashioned in subject and manner of treatment.

One of the best, written by Mr. Bramston (author of The Man of Taste, The Art of Politics etc.) was entitled The Crooked Sixpence, and may be found occasionally in old books of Comic Recitations, and Elegant Extracts. Unfortunately no “Elegant Extracts” can be taken from it suitable for the chaste pages of Parodies, for the poem relates to such a topic as might have afforded excellent material to Rabelais, or Chaucer, but which cannot be alluded to in our more refined times.

A few years after the publication of The Splendid Shilling, a small pamphlet appeared, entitled “Wine, a Poem. To which is added, Old England’s New Triumph; or, the Battle of Audenard, a Song.” London: Printed and sold by H. Hills in Black-fryars, near the Water-Side, 1709. No author’s name is given; the poem certainly deserves to be preserved, as an early and interesting imitation of Milton’s blank verse. The song of the “Battle of Audenard” is not a parody.

WINE, a Poem.

Nulla placere diu, nec vivere carmina possunt,

Quæ Scribuntur aquæ portoribus.

Epist. 19, Lib. 1, Hor.

Of Happiness Terrestrial, and the Source

Whence human Pleasure flow, sing Heavenly Muse,

Of sparkling juices, of the enliv’ning Grape,

Whose quickning Taste adds Vigour to the Soul,

Whose Sov’raign pow’r revives decaying Nature,

And thaws the frozen Blood of Hoary Age

A kindly Warmth diffusing, Youthful fires

Gild his dim Eyes, and paint with ruddy hue

His Wrizzled Visage, ghastly wan before:

Cordial restorative to mortal Man

With copious Hand by bounteous Gods bestow’d.

Bacchus Divine, aid my advent’rous Song,

That with no middle flight intends to soar.

Inspir’d, Sublime on Pegaseon Wing

By thee upborn, I draw Miltonic Air.

When fumy Vapour clog our loaded Brows

With furrow’d Frowns, when stupid downcast Eyes

Th’ external Symptoms of remorse within,

Our Grief express, or when in sullen Dumps

With Head Incumbent on Expanded Palm,

Moaping we sit, in silent sorrow drown’d:

Whether inveigling Hymen has trapan’d

Th’ unwary Youth, and ty’d the Gordian Knot

Of jangling Wedlock Indissoluble;

Worried all Day by loud Zantippes Din,

And when the gentle dew of sleep inclines,

With slumb’rous Weight his Eye-lids She inflam’d

With Uncloyed Lust, and Itch Insatiable,

His stock exhausted, still yells on for more;

Nor fail She to exalt him to the Stars,

And fixt him there among the Branched Crew

(Taurus, and Aries, and Capricorn,)

The greatest Monster of the Zodiac;

Or for the loss of Anxious Worldly Pelf

Or Celia’s scornful flights, and cold disdain

Had check’d his Am’rous flame with coy repulse,

The worst Events that mortals can befal;

By cares depress’d in pensive Hypoish mood,

With slowest pace, the tedious minutes Roll.

Thy charming sight, but much more charming Gust

New Life incites, and warms our chilly Blood,

Strait with pert Looks, we raise our drooping Fronts,

And pour in chrystal pure, thy purer Juice,

With cheerful Countenance and steady Hand

Raise it Lip-high, then fix the spacious Rim

Th’ expecting Mouth, and now with grateful Tast,

The ebbing Wine glides swiftly o’re the Tongue,

The circling Blood with quicker motion flies;

Such is thy pow’rful influence, thou strait

Dispell’dst those Clouds that lowring dark eclips’d

To whilom Glories of our gladsom Face

And dimpled Cheeks, and sparkling rolling Eyes,

Thy cheering Virtues, and thy worth proclaim.

So Mists and Exhalations that arise

From Hills or streamy Lake, Dusky or Gray

Prevail, till Phœbus sheds Titanian Rays,

And paints their Fleecy Skirts with shining Gold,

Unable to resist the Foggy Damps

That veild the Surface of the verdant Fields,

At the God’s penetrating Beams disperse:

The Earth again in former Beauty smiles,

In gaudiest Livery drest, all Gay and Clear.

When disappointed Strephon meets Repulse,

Scoff’d at, despised, in melancholick mood

Joyless he wasts in sighs the lazy Hours,

Till Reinforc’t by thy Almighty Aid,

He Storms the Breach, and wins the Beauteous Fort.

To pay thee Homage, and receive thy Blessings,

The British Mariner quits native shore,

And ventures through the tractless vast Abyss,

Ploughing the Ocean, whilst the Upheav’d Oak

With beaked Prow, Rides tilting o’re the Waves;

Shockt by Tempestuous jarring Winds she Rolls

In Dangers Imminent, till she arrives

At those blest Climes, thou favour’st with thy presence.

Whether, at Lusitanian sultry Coasts,

Or Lofty Teneriff, Palma, Ferro,

Provence or at the Celtiberian Shores;

With gazing Pleasure and Astonishment

At Paradice, (Seat of our ancient sire,)

He thinks himself arriv’d, the Purple Grape

In largest Clusters Pendant, grace the Vines

Innumerous, in Fields Grotesque and Wild

They with Implicit Curles the Oak entwine,

And load with Fruit Divine her spreading Boughs;

Sight most delicious, not an Irksom Thought,

Or of left native Isle, or absent Friends,

Or dearest Wife, or tender sucking Babe,

His kindly treach’rous mem’ry now presents

The Jovial God has left no room for Cares.

Celestial Liquor, thou that didst inspire

Maro and Flaccus, and the Grecian Bard,

With lofty Numbers, and Heroic strains

Unparalell’d, with Eloquence profound,

And Arguments Convincive didst enforce

Fam’d Tully, and Demosthenes Renown’d

Ennius first fam’d in Latin Song, in vain

Drew Heliconian Streams, Ungrateful whet

To Jaded Muse, and oft’ with vain attempt

Heroic Acts in Flagging Numbers dull

With pains essay’d but abject still and low,

His Unrecruited Muse could never reach

The mighty Theme, till from the Purple Font

Of bright Lenæan fire, Her barren drought

He quench’d, and with inspiring Nect’rous Juice,

Her drooping spirits chear’d, aloft she towres

Born on stiff Pennons, and of Wars alarms,

And Trophies won, in loftiest Numbers sings:

’Tis thou the Hero’s breast to Martial Acts,

And resolution bold, and ardour brave

Excit’st, thou check’st Inglorious lolling ease,

And sluggish minds with gen’rous fires inflam’st,

O thou, that first my quickned Soul engaged,

Still with thy Aid assist me, What is dark

Illumin, What is low raise and support

That to the height of this great Argument,

Thy Universal Sway o’er all the World,

In everlasting Numbers, like the Theme

I may record, and sing thy matchless Worth.

Had the Oxonion Bard thy Praise rehears’d,

His Muse had yet retain’d her wonted height;

Such as of late o’er Blenheim Field she soar’d

Aerial, now in Ariconian Bogs

She lies Inglorious floundring like her Theme

Languid and Faint, and on damp Wing emerg’d

In acid Juice, in vain attempts to rise.

With what sublimest Joy from noisy Town,

At Rural Seat, Lucretelus retir’d,

Flaccus, untained by perplexing Cares,

Where the white Poplar, and the lofty Pine

Join Neighbouring Boughs, sweet Hospitable shade

Creating from Phœbean Rays secure,

A cool Retreat, with few well chosen Friends

On flowry Mead Recumbent, spent the Hours

In Mirth Innocuous, and Alternate Verse!

With Roses Interwoven, Poplar Wreaths

Their Temples bind, dress of Sylvestrian Gods:

Choicest Nectarian Juice Crown’d largest Bowls,

And over look’d the lid, alluring sight,

Of fragrant Scent, attractive, tast Divine!

Whether from Formain Grape depress’d, Falern

Or Setin, Massic, Gauran, or Sabine,

Lesbian or Cæcuban the chearing Bowl

Mov’d briskly round, and spur’d their heightened wit

To sing Mecœna praise their Patron kind.

But we, not as our Pristrin sires repair

T’ umbrageous Grot or Vale, but when the Sun

Faintly from Western Skies his Rays oblique

Darts flopping, and to Thetis watry Lap

Hastens in prone Career, with Friends Select

Swiftly we hie to Devil Young or old

Jocund and Boon, where at the entrance stands

A Stripling, who with Scrapes and Humil Cringe,

Greets us in winning Speech, and Accent Bland;

With lightest bound, and safe unerring step

He skips before, and nimbly climbs the Stairs

Melampus thus, panting with lolling Tongue,

And wagging’s Tail, Gamboles, and frisks before

His sequel Lord from pensive Walk return’d,

Whether in Shady Wood or Pasture Green,

And waits his coming at the well known Gate.

Nigh to the Stairs ascent, in regal Port

Sits a Majestick Dame, whose looks denounce

Command and Sov’reignty, with haughty Air,

And Studied Mien, in Semicirc’lar Throne

Enclos’d, she deals around her dread Commands;

Behind her (Dazling sight) in order Rang’d,

Pile above Pile Christallin Vessels shine;

Attendant Slaves with eager stride advance,

And after Homage paid, baul out aloud

Words unintelligible, noise confus’d:

She knows the Jargon Sounds, and strait describes

In Characters Mysterious Words obscure;

More legible are Algebraic Signs,

Or Mystic Figures by Magicians drawn,

When they Invoke aid Diabolical.

Drive hence the Rude and Barb’rous Dissonance

Of Savage Thracians, and Croatian Boors;

The loud Centaurean Broil’s with Lapithæ

Sound Harsh, and grating to Lenæan God;

Chase brutal Feuds of Bælian skippers hence,

(Amid their Cups, whose Innate Tempers shown)

In clumsy Fist wielding Scymetrian Knife,

Who slash each others Eyes, and Blubber’d Face,

Prophaning Bacchanalian solemn Rites:

Musicks Harmonius Numbers better suit

His Festivals, from Instrument or Voice,

Or Gasperim’s Hand the trembling string

Should touch, or from the Tuscan Dames

Or warbling Tosts more soft Melodious Tongue

Sweet Symphonies should flow, the Delian God

For Airy Bacchus is Associate meet.

The Stairs Ascent now gain’d our Guide unbars

The door of Spacious Room, and creeking Chairs

(To ear offensive) round the Table sets,

We sit, when thus his Florid Speech begins:

Name, Sirs, the WINE that most invites you, Tast,

Champaign or Burgundy, or Florence pure,

Or Hoc Antique, or Lisbon New or Old,

Bourdeaux, or neat French White, or Alicant:

For Bordeaux we with Voice Unanimous

Declare, (such Sympathy’s in Boon Conpeers.)

He quits the Room Alert, but soon returns,

One hand Capacious glist’ring Vessels bore

Resplendant, th’ other with a grasp secure,

A Bottle (mighty charge) upstaid, full Fraught

With goodly Wine, He with extended Hand

Rais’d High, pours forth the Sanguin frothy Juice,

O’erspread with Bubbles, dissipated soon:

We strait t’our Arms repair, experienced Chiefs;

Now Glasses clash with Glasses, (Charming Sound,)

And Glorious ANNA’s Health the first the best

Crowns the full Glass, at Her inspiring Name

The sprightly Wine Results, and seem to smile,

With hearty Zeal, and wish unanimous

The Health we drink, and in her Health our own.

A Pause ensues, and now with grateful Chat

W’ improve the Interval, and Joyous Mirth

Engages our rais’d Souls, Pat Repartee,

Or Witty Joke our airy Senses moves

To pleasant Laughter, strait the Echoing Room

With Universal Peals and Shouts resounds.

The Royal Dane, blest Consort of the blest QUEEN,

Next Crowns the Rubied Nectar, all whose Bliss

In ANNA’S plac’t with Sympathetic Flame,

And Mutual Endearments, all her Joys,

Like the kind Turtles pure untainted Love,

Center in Him, who shares the grateful Hearts

Of Loyal Subjects, with his Sov’reign QUEEN,

For by his Prudent Care, united shores

Were say’d from Hostile Fleets Invasion dire.

The Hero Malbro next, whose vast Exploits

Fame’s Clarion sounds, fresh Laurels, Triumphs new

We wish, like those he won at Hochstet’s Field.

Next Devonshire Illustrious, who from Race

Of Noblest Patriots sprung, whose Soul’s endow’d,

And is with ev’ry Vertuous gift Adorn’d

That shon in his most worthy Ancestors,

For then distinct in sep’rate Breast were seen

Virtues distinct, but all in him unite.

Prudent Godolphin, of the Nations weal

Frugal, but free and gen’rous of his own.

Next Crowns the Bowl, with Faithful Sunderland.

And Halifax, the Muses darling Song,

In whom Conspicuous, with full Lustre shine

The surest Judgment, and the brightest Wit,

Himself Mecænas and a Flaccus too,

And all the worthies of the British Realm

In order rang’d succeeded, Healths that ting’d

The Dulcet Wine with a more charming Gust.

Now each their Mistress by whose scorching Eyes

Fir’d, tost Cosmelia Fair, or Dulcibella,

Or Silvia Comely Black with jetty Eyes

Piercing, or Airy Celia sprightly Maid.

Insensibly thus flow Unnumber’d Hours;

Glass succeeds Glass, till the Dircean God

Shines in our Eyes, and with his Fulgent Rays

Enlightens our glad Looks with lovely Die;

All Blithe and Jolly that like Arthur’s Knights

Of Rotund Table, Fam’d in Pristin Records,

Now most we seem’d, such is the Power of Wine.

Thus we the winged Hours in harmless Mirth,

And Joys Unsull’d pass, till Humid Night

Has half her Race perform’d, now all abroad

Is hush’d and silent, nor the Rumbling Noise

Of Coach or Cart, or Smoaky Link-Boys call

Is heard; but Universal Silence Reigns:

When we in Merry Plight, Airy and Gay,

Surpriz’d to find the Hour so swiftly flie,

With hasty knock, or Twang of Pendant Cord

Alarm the Drowsy Youth from slumb’ring Nod;

Startled he flies, and stumbles o’er the Stairs

Erroneous, and with busie Knuckles plies

His yet clung Eyelids, and with stagg’ring Reel

Enters Confus’d, and Mutt’ring asks our Wills;

When we with Lib’ral Hand the Score discharge,

And Homeward each his Course with steady step

Unerring steer’d of Cares and Coin bereft.

——:o:——

A Panegyric on Oxford Ale.
By a Gentleman of Oxford.

Mea nec Falernae

Temperant vites, neque Formiani

Pocula colles.

Horace.

Balm of my cares, sweet solace of my toils,

Hail Juice benignant! O’er the costly cups

Of riot-stirring wine, unwholesome draught,

Let Pride’s loose sons prolong the wasteful night;

My sober ev’ning let the tankard bless,

With toast embrown’d, and fragrant nutmeg fraught

While the rich draught with oft-repeated whiffs

Tobacco mild improves. Divine repast!

Where no crude surfeit or intemperate joys

Of lawless Bacchus reign; but o’er my soul

A calm lethean creeps, in drowsy trance

Each thought subsides, and sweet oblivion wraps

My peaceful brain, as if the leaden rod

Of magic morpheus o’er mine eyes had shed

Its opiate influence. What though sore ills

Oppress, dire want of chill-dispelling coals

Or cheerful candle (save the make-weight’s gleam

Haply remaining) heart rejoicing ALE

Cheers the sad scene, and every want supplies.

Meantime, not mindless of the daily task

Of tutor sage, upon the learned leaves

Of deep Smiglecius much I meditate,

While ALE inspires, and lends its kindred aid

The thought-perplexing labour to pursue

Sweet helicon of logic! but if friends

Congenial call me from the toilsome page,

To pot-house I repair, the sacred haunt,

Where ALE thy votaries in full resort

Hold rites nocturnal. In capacious chair

Of monumental oak and antique mould,

That long has stood the rage of conqu’ring years

Inviolate, (nor in more ample chair

Smokes rosy justice, when th’important cause,

Whether of hen-roost, or of mirthful rape,

In all the majesty of paunch he tries)

Studious of ease, and provident, I place

My gladsome limbs; while in repeated round

Returns replenish’d the successive cup,

And the brisk fire conspires to genial joy:

While haply, to relieve the ling’ring hours

In innocent delight, amusive putt

On smooth joint-stool in emblematic play,

The vain vicissitudes of fortune shews.

Nor reckoning, name tremendous, me disturbs

Nor, call’d for, chills my breast with sudden fear

While on the wonted door, expressive mark,

The frequent penny stands describ’d to view,

In snowy characters and graceful row.

Hail, Ticking! surest guardian of distress

Beneath thy shelter, pennyless I quaff

The cheerful cup, nor hear with hopeless heart

New oysters cry’d: Though much the poet’s friend,

Ne’er yet attempted in poetic strain,

Accept this tribute of poetic praise!

Nor proctor thrice with vocal heel alarms

Our joys secure, nor deigns the lowly roof

Of pot-house, snug to visit; wiser he

The splendid tavern haunts, or coffee house

Of James or Juggins, where the grateful breath

Of loathed tobacco ne’er diffus’d its balm;

But the lewd spendthrift, falsely deem’d polite,

While steams around the fragrant Indian bowl

Oft damns the vulgar sons of humbler ALE:

In vain—the proctor’s voice arrests their joys;

Just fate of wanton pride and loose excess!

Nor less by day delightful is thy draught,

All-powerful ALE! whose sorrow-soothing sweet

Oft I repeat in vacant afternoon,

When tatter’d stockings crave my mending hand

Not unexperienc’d; while the tedious toil

Slides unregarded. Let the tender swain

Each morn regale on nerve-relaxing tea,

Companion meet of languor loving nymph:

Be mine each morn with eager appetite

And hunger undissembled, to repair

To friendly buttery; there on smoaking crust

And foaming ALE to banquet unrestrain’d,

Material breakfast! Thus in ancient days

Our ancestors robust, with lib’ral cups

Usher’d the morn, unlike the squeamish sons

Of modern times: nor ever had the might

Of Britons brave decay’d, had thus they fed,

With British ALE improving British worth.

With ALE irriguous undismay’d I hear

The frequent dun ascend my lofty dome

Importunate: whether the plaintive voice

Of laundress shrill awake my startled ear;

Or barber spruce with supple look intrude;

Or tailor with obsequious bow advance;

Or groom invade me with defying front

And stern demeanour, whose emaciate steeds

(Whene’er or Phœbus shone with kindlier beams,

Or luckier chance the borrow’d boots supply’d)

Had panted oft beneath my goring steel

In vain they plead or threat: all-powerful ALE

Excuses new supplies, and each descends

With joyless pace, and debt-despairing looks:

E’en Spacey with indignant brow retires,

Fiercest of duns! and conquered quits the field.

Why did the Gods such various blessings pour

On hapless mortals, from their grateful hands

So soon the short-liv’d bounty to recall?

Thus, while improvident of future ill,

I quaff the luscious tankard uncontroul’d,

And thoughtless riot in unlicens’d bliss;

Sudden (dire fate of all things excellent!)

The unpitying bursar’s cross-affixing hand

Blasts all my joys, and stops my glad career.

Nor now the friendly pot-house longer yields

A sure retreat when night o’ershades the skies;

Nor Sheppard, barb’rous matron, longer gives

The wonted trust, and Winter ticks no more.

Thus Adam, exil’d from the beauteous scene

Of Eden griev’d, no more in fragrant bower

On fruits divine to feast, fresh shade and vale

No more to visit, or vine-mantled grot;

But, all forlorn, the dreary wilderness

And unrejoicing solitudes to trace;

Thus too the matchless bard, whose lay resounds

The Splendid Shilling’s praise in nightly gloom

Of lonesome garret, pin’d for cheerful ALE;

Whose steps in verse Miltonic I pursue,

Mean follower: like him with honest love

Of ALE divine inspir’d, and love of song.

But long may bounteous heav’n with watchful care

Avert his hapless lot! enough for me,

That burning with cogenial flame, I dar’d

His guiding steps a distance to pursue,

And sing his favourite theme in kindred strains.

Anonymous.
The Oxford Sausage. Cambridge, 1822.

——:o:——

The Suet Dumpling.

Happy the man who in his pot contains

A suet dumpling; he nor feels the pains

Of going dinnerless, nor griping hunger;

But cheerful blows the fire with merry heart,

Often revolving when the happy minute

That brings it to his homely board will come.

Sometimes with longing eyes he gazes hard,

And views it boiling in the frothy waves;

Then, with his fork or spoon applied, he feels,

And turns it o’er and o’er. Now time moves slowly on;

The hour-glass, which in yon old corner stands,

Is often view’d; for now his stomach keen,

Gnawing with greedy expectation,

Almost persuades him that the sands are stopp’d.

Now is his table placed near the fire,

His cloth of dingy hue is spread thereon;

His large clasp knife from out his pocket pull’d.

(A knife which oft has dealt destruction dire

To many a pudding, beef, or whate’er else

Came in its way; for none it spar’d;)

The earthen plate which graces his old shelf,

(Which late grimalkin, taking her nightly walks

In search of prey, by dire mishap

Threw down; but, by good care of fortune,

A piece from out the brim is only broke,)

Is straight in order plac’d and all’s compleat.

As when the mariner, who, long from home,

Far from his native land, through seas and storms

And dangerous perils, homeward does return;

Sudden he sees the wish’d for port appear,

Joy fills his dancing heart, and now he feeds

His fancy with the pleasing expectation

Of mirth and joy, and heart delighting scenes.

Behold the pot has yielded up its store,

And reeking hot, is placed upon the plate!

The three-legg’d stool is drawn, and down he sits,

Elated with the goodly prospect: sudden

His knife, well plung’d, dreadful incision makes;

And fork, aptly applied, his joys compleat.

Now direful devastation does ensue;

And half the delicious morsel is destroy’d

Ere he can make a pause; which having done,

He smacks his lips, and liking well the sport,

Proceeds again with more deliberation,

Till of the luscious cates he’s made an end.

Thus happy he, envying not sumptuous feasts,

Nor courtly entertainments; but well pleas’d,

Feasts on his homely viands; far happier than a king,

He enjoys as full content, without his cares.

Anonymous.

——:o:——

The Copper Farthing.

Happy the boy, who dwells remote from School,

Whose pocket, or whose rattling-box, contains

A Copper Farthing! He nor grieving hears

Hot cheese-cakes cried, nor savoury mutton-pies;

But with his play mates, in the dusk of eve.

To well-known blacksmith’s shop, or church-yard hies;

Where, mindful of the sport that joys his heart,

Marbles, or chuck, he instantly begins,

With undissembled pleasure in his face,

To draw the circle, or to pitch the dump:

While I, confin’d within the hated walls

Of school, resounding with a clamorous din,

By still more hated books environ’d, I,

With tedious lessons and long task to get,

My dismal thoughts employ; or wield my pen

To mark dire characters on paper white:

Not blunter pen or stronger character

Uses the sage, a chiromancer hight,

Sprung from Egyptian king, and swarthy race,

Amenophis, or Ptolemy, when he,

In search of stolen calf, or money lost,

For wondering plowman does his art employ!

Or for the wish’d return of sweet-heart dear,

Or apron fine, purloin’d from hawthorn hedge,

For country-maid consults directing stars,

Gemini, Taurus, or chill Capricorn.

Thus while my lingering hours I joyless spend,

With magisterial look, and solemn step,

Appears my school-master, tremendous wight!

Dreaded by truant boys; how can I ’scape

The expected punishment for task ungot,

Aghast I stand, nor fly to covert bench,

Or corner dark, to hide my hapless head;

So great my terror, that it quite bereaves,

My limbs the power to fly, slow he ascends

The appointed seat, and on his right-hand lies

The bushy rod compos’d of numerous twigs,

Torn from the birchen tree, or bending willow;

Which to the flesh of idle boys portends,

For the neglected task, a poignant smart;

And with him comes another mighty elf,

Yclep’d an usher, ah, terrific name

To lesser wights! who, if they hapless place

In station wrong pronoun or participle,

Straight, by the magic of his voice, are rais’d

In attitude above their lov’d compeers,

Where they, reluctant, various torments bear,

Till, by their dolorous plaints, that pierce the skies,

They draw kind Pity, moist-eyed goddess, down,

To heal, with balm of sympathy, their woe.

Ye urchins, take, ah! take peculiar care,

Or, when ye wot not, much he marks your ways

And in his mind revolves disastrous deeds

Against th’ unwary wretch. So story tells,

That chanticleer, on dunghill’s top elate,

With haughty step, and watchful eye askance,

Each tiny prominence he views, where haply he

May find conceal’d delicious grub or worm,

To which his maw insatiate forebodes

Certain destruction, while, behind or bush,

Or pale encompassing the farmer’s yard,

Skulks Reynard, fraught with many a crafty wile

T’ensnare the feather’d race, who, if they stray

Beyond the precincts of their mother’s ken,

He straight purloins them from her careful wing,

With his sharp teeth torments their tender frame,

And with the crimson gore distains their sides,

Relentless; nor can all the piercing cries

Of duckling, chick, or turkey, yet unfledg’d,

His heart obdurate move; instant he tears

Each trembling limb, devours the quivering flesh,

Nor leaves a remnant of the bloody feast,

Save a few fluttering feathers scatter’d round

(That, with their varied plumage, whilom deck’d

The slaughter’d prey), to tell the hapless tale.

Thus joyless do I spend those hours the sun

Illuminates; and, when the silver moon

Her gentle ray dispenses, and invites

The swains and maids to mix in jovial dance,

Around the towering may-poles of the green,

Where each gay plowman does his partner choose

As love or fate directs; or o’er the lawn

The needle thread, or toss the bounding ball;

All cheerless I, nor dance, nor pleasing sport,

Nor social mirth, nor bowl of nappy ale.

Partake: but, on her drooping raven wing,

Sad Melancholy hovers o’er my head,

Pale Envy rankles deep within my breast,

And baneful venom sheds. Grim Horror too

Attends my thoughts, and fills my gloomy mind

With tales of gliding sprites, in milk-white shrouds

Array’d, and rattling chains, and yelling ghosts

Irascible! or Fancy, mimic queen,

To swift imagination’s eye presents

A group of tiny elves, in circling dance,

Or luscious feast employ’d; such elves as danc’d

When Oberon did fair Titania wed;

While I, in wishes impotent and vain,

For Liberty, dear object of my hopes,

The tedious moments spend; or if, perchance,

Morpheus invok’d, my heavy eye-lids close,

Dear Liberty still haunts my sleeping thoughts,

And in a short-liv’d dream those joys I taste,

Which waking are denied; and beat the hoop

With dextrous hand, or run with feet as swift

As feather’d arrow flies from archer’s bow:

Till, from my slumber wak’d, too soon I find

It was illusion all, and mockery vain.

Thus, comfortless, appall’d, forlorn, I pass

The tardy hours, nor of those viands taste,

Which are on other boys full oft bestow’d

In plenteous manner, by the liberal hand

Of friend indulgent; apple-pye, or tart

Or trembling custard of delicious go˚t,

Or frothy syllabub in copious bowl.

Hard fate for me! Yet harder still betides

Me, hapless youth! My faithful top, that oft

Has cheer’d my drooping spirits, and reviv’d

My saddening thoughts, when o’er the pavement smooth

It spins, and sleeps, and to its master’s hand

Does ample justice, now, alas! become

To all the rude inclemencies of weather,

To time and destiny’s relentless doom

A miserable victim, quite decay’d

With many services, and cleft throughout

All useless lies; ah! sight of saddest woe

To wretched me! of every hope bereft,

Of every gleam of comfort. So the wretch,

Who near or Ætna or Vesuvius, dwells,

Beholds the sulphurous flames, the molten rocks,

And feels the ground trembling beneath his feet;

Till with a horrid yawn it opens wide

Before his eyes, all glaring with affright;

Swallows his cultur’d vines, his gardens, house,

With all his soul held dear, his lovely wife,

And prattling babes, the hopes of years to come;

All, all are lost, in ruin-terrible!

By Miss Pennington who died in the year 1759, aged 25. The following character of her, by Mr. Duncombe, is extracted from that Gentleman’s Poem “The Feminead,”

“Nor shall thy much-lov’d Pennington remain

Unsung, unhonour’d in my votive strain.

See where the soft enchantress, wandering o’er

The fairy ground that Philips trod before,

Exalts her chemic wand, and swift behold

The basest metals ripen into gold:

Beneath her magic touch, with wondering eye,

We view vile copper with pure sterling vie;

Nor shall the Farthing, sung by her, forbear

To claim the praises of the smiling fair;

Till chuck and marble shall no more employ

The thoughtless leisure of the truant boy.”

The School Boy.

By the Rev. Mr. Maurice, Author of the Indian Antiquities.

Multa tulit, fecitque Puer. Hor.

Thrice happy he, whose hours the cheering smiles

Of freedom bless; who wantons uncontroul’d

Where Ease invites, or Pleasure’s syren voice;

Him the stern tyrant with his iron scourge

Annoys not, nor the dire oppressive weight

Of galling chain; but, when the blushing morn

Purples the East, with eager transport wild

O’er hill, o’er valley, on his panting steed

He bounds exulting, as in full career

With horns, and hounds, and thund’ring shouts, he drives

The flying stag; or when the dusky shades

Of eve, advancing, veil the darken’d sky,

To neighbouring tavern, blithsome, he resorts

With boon companion, where they drown their cares

In sprightly bumpers, and the mantling bowl.

Far otherwise within these darksome walls,

Whose gates, with rows of triple steel secur’d,

And many a bolt, prohibit all egress,

I spend my joyless days; ere dawn appears,

Rous’d from my peaceful slumbers by the sound

Of awe-inspiring bell, whose every stroke

Chills my heart-blood, all trembling. I descend

From dreary garret, round whose ancient roof,

Gaping with hideous chinks, the whistling blast

Perpetual raves, and fierce-descending rains

Discharge their fury—dire, lethargic dews

Oppress my drowsy sense; still fancy teems

With fond ideal joys, and, fir’d with what

Or poets sing, or fabled tale records,

Presents transporting visions; goblets crown’d

With juice of nectar, or the food divine

Of rich ambrosia, tempting to the sight!

While, in the shade of some embowering grove,

I lie reclin’d, or through Elysian plains

Enraptur’d stray; where every plant and flower

Send forth an odorous smell, and all the air

With songs of love and melody resounds.

Meanwhile benumbing cold invades my joints,

As with slow faltering footsteps I resort

To where, of antique mold, a lofty dome

Rears its tremendous front; here all at once

From thousand different tongues a mighty hum

Assaults my ear; loud as the distant roar

Of tumbling torrents; or as in some mart

Of public note, for traffic far renown’d,

Where Jew with Grecian, Turk with African,

Assembled, in one general peal unite

Of dreadful jargon.—Straight on wooden bench

I take my seat, and con with studious care

Th’appointed tasks; o’er many a puzzling page

Poring intent, and sage Athenian bard,

With dialect, and mood, and tense perplex’d;

And conjugations varied without end.

When lo! with haughty stride (in size like him

Who erst, extended on the burning lake,

Lay floating many a rood) his sullen brow,

With lowering frowns and fearful glooms o’ercast,

Enters the pedagogue; terrific sight!

An ample ninefold peruke, spread immense,

Luxuriant waving down his shoulders plays;

His right-hand fiercely grasps an oaken staff,

His left a bunch of limber twigs sustains,

Call’d by the vulgar birch, Tartarean root,

Whose rankling points, in blackest poison dipt,

Inflict a mortal pain; and, where they light,

A ghastly furrow leave.—A solemn pause ensues:

As when, of old, the monarch of the floods,

’Midst raging hurricanes and battling waves,

Shaking the dreadful trident, rear’d aloft

His awful brow.—Sudden the furious winds

Were hush’d in peace, the billows ceas’d their rage:

Or when (if mighty themes like these allow

An humble metaphor) the sportive race

Of nibbling heroes, bent on wanton play,

Beneath the shelter of some well-stor’d barn,

In many an airy circle wheel around;

Some eye, perchance, in private nook conceal’d,

Beholds Grimalkin; instant they disperse,

In headlong flight, each to his secret cell;

If haply he may ’scape impending fate.

Thus ceas’d the general clamour; all remain

In silent terror wrapt, and thought profound.

Meanwhile, the pedagogue throughout the dome

His fiery eye-balls, like two blazing stars,

Portentous rolls, on some unthinking wretch

To shed their baleful influence; whilst his voice,

Like thunder, or the cannon’s sudden burst,

Three times is heard, and thrice the roofs resound!

A sudden-paleness gathers in my face;

Through all my limbs a stiffening horror spreads,

Cold as the dews of death; nor heed my eyes

Their wonted function, but in stupid gaze

Ken the fell monster; from my trembling hands

The time-worn volume drops; oh, dire presage

Of instant woe! for now the mighty sound,

Pregnant with dismal tidings, once again

Strikes my astonished ears: transfix’d with awe,

And senseless for a time, I stand; but soon

By friendly jog or neighbouring whisper rous’d,

Obey the dire injunction; straight I loose

Depending brogues, and mount the lofty throne

Indignant, or the black oblique ascend

Of sorrowful compeer; nor long delays

The monarch, from his palace stalking down,

With visage all inflam’d; his sable robe

Sweeping in lengthening folds along the ground:

He shakes his sceptre, and th’ impending scourge

Brandishes high; nor tears nor shrieks avail;

But with impetuous fury it descends,

Imprinting horrid wounds with fatal flow

Of blood attended, and convulsive pangs.

Curst be the wretch, for ever doom’d to bear

Infernal whippings; he, whose savage hands

First grasp’d these barbarous weapons, bitter cause

Of foul disgrace, and many a dolorous groan,

To hapless school-boy!—Could it not suffice

I groaned and toil’d beneath the merciless weight

By stern relentless tyranny impos’d;

But scourges too, and cudgels, were reserv’d

To goad my harrow’d sides: this wretched life

Loading with heavier ills! a life expos’d

To all the woes of hunger, toil, distress;

Cut off from every genial source of bliss;

From every bland amusement, wont to sooth

The youthful breast; except when father Time,

In joyful change, rolls round the festive hour,

That gives this meagre, pining figure back

To parent fondness, and its native roofs!

Fir’d with the thought, then, then, my towering son!

Rises superior to its load, and spurns

Its proud oppressors; frantic with delight,

My fancy riots in successive scenes

Of bliss and pleasures: plans and schemes are laid

How best the fleeting moments to improve,

Nor lose one portion of so rare a boon.

But soon, too soon, the glorious scenes are fled,

Scarce one short moon enjoy’d; (oh! transient state

Of sublunary bliss!) by bitter change,

And other scenes succeeded, what fierce pangs

Then rack my soul! what ceaseless floods of grief

Rush down my cheeks, while strong convulsive throbs

Heave all my frame, and choak the power of speech!

Forlorn I sigh, nor heed the gentle voice

Of friend or stranger, who, with soothing words

And slender gift, would fain beguile my woes:

In vain; for what can aught avail to sooth

Such raging anguish? Oft with sudden glance

Before my eyes in all its horror glares

That well-known form, and oft I seem to hear

The thundering scourge—ah me! e’en now I feel

Its deadly venom, raging as the pangs

That tore Alcides, when the burning vest

Prey’d on his wasted sides,—At length return’d

Within these hated walls, again I mourn

A sullen prisoner, till the wish’d approach

Of joyous holiday or festive play

Releases me: ah! freedom that must end

With thee, declining Sol! All hail, ye sires

For sanctity renown’d, whose glorious names,

In large conspicuous characters pourtray’d,

Adorn the annual chronologic page

Of Wing or Partridge; oft, when sore opprest

With dire calamities, the glad return

Of your triumphant festivals hath cheer’d

My drooping soul. Nor be thy name forgot,

Illustrious George: for much to thee I owe

Of heart-felt rapture, as with loyal zeal

Glowing, I pile the crackling bonfire high,

Or hurl the mounting rocket through the air,

Or fiery whizzing serpent; thus thy name

Shall still be honour’d, as through future years

The circling Seasons roll their festive round.

Sometimes, by dire compulsive hunger press’d,

I spring the neighbouring fence, and scale the trunk

Of apple-tree; or wide, o’er flowery lawns,

By hedge or thicket, bend my hasty steps,

Intent, with secret ambush, to surprise,

The straw-built nest, and unsuspecting brood

Of thrush or bull-finch; oft with watchful ken

Eyeing the backward lawns, lest hostile glance

Observe my footsteps, while each rustling leaf,

Stirr’d by the gentle gale, alarms my fears:

Then, parched beneath the burning heats of noon,

I plunge into the limpid stream, that laves

The silent vale; or, on its grassy banks,

Beneath some oak’s majestic shade recline,

Envying the vagrant fishes, as they pass,

Their boon of freedom; till the distant sound

Of tolling curfew warns me to depart.

Thus under tyrant-pow’r I groan, oppress’d

With worse than slavery; yet my free-born soul

Her native warmth forgets not, nor will brook

Menace, or taunt, from proud insulting peer;

But summons to the field the doughty foe

In single combat, ’midst th’ impartial throng,

There to decide our fate: oft too, inflam’d

With mutual rage, two rival armies meet

Of youthful warriors; kindling at the sight,

My soul is filled with vast heroic thoughts,

Trusting, in martial glory, to surpass

Roman or Grecian chief; instant, with shouts,

The mingling squadrons join the horrid fray;

No need of cannon, or the murderous steel,

Wide wasting nature: rage our arms supplies.

Fragments of rock are hurl’d, and showers of stones

Obscure the day; nor less the brawny arm,

Or knotted club, avail; high in the midst

Are seen the mighty chiefs, through hosts of foes

Mowing their way; and now, with tenfold rage

The combat burns, full many a sanguine stream

Distains the field, and many a veteran brave

Lies prostrate; loud triumphant shouts ascend

By turns from either host; each claims the palm

Of glorious conquest; nor till night’s dun shades

Involve the sky, the doubtful conflict ends.

Thus, when rebellion shook the thrones of heaven,

And all th’ eternal powers in battle met,

High o’er the rest, with vast gigantic strides,

The god-like leaders, on th’ embattled plain,

Came towering, breathing forth revenge and fate:

Nor less terrific joined the inferior hosts

Of angel-warriors, when encountering hills

Tore the rent concave—flashing with the blaze

Of fiery arms, and lightnings, not of Jove;

All heaven resounded, and the astonish’d deep

Of chaos bellow’d with the monstrous roar.

——:o:——

In 1880 the Editor of The World offered two prizes for the best poems in the style of Milton’s Paradise Lost, Book II., on “The Opening of Parliament.” The following were the successful compositions:—

First Prize.

Thus pondering how they best might frame reply,

Unto their Sovereign’s speech, mute and perplexed

Sat all the Peers, awaiting who appeared

To second, or oppose, or undertake

The perilous attempt, till Onslow, raised

Alike by merit and the Premier’s choice

To that bad eminence, in glib-set speech

Began: “Since silent all, great powers, ye wait

Counsel and guidance, I myself have framed

A loyal Address of dutiful assent,

Declaring confidence in this our State

And those whose prudence guides it,—fit reply!”

He spoke, and from the other side uprose

Granville, in act most graceful and humane

Of all who fell from office, breathing forth

Hatred implacable, and straight denounced

Revenge, and dissolution dangerous

To less than Peers. Louder applause was heard

As Granville ended, and his sentence pleased,

Counselling revolt, which, when the Premier saw,

Lord Beaconsfield, than whom of all the powers,

Save the Lord Chancellor, none higher sat,

With grave aspect he rose. High on his front

The curl of Vivian clung, though thinned with years,

Majestic still in ruin; and with knee

Somewhat advanced, as if perchance to show

Its mystic circlet, thus imperious spoke:

“Peers of the Empire, still ye look to me,

Your chief, for still to me the popular vote

Inclines, here to continue, and build up here

A growing Empire, so with Freedom joined;

Receive my words, nor heed inferior tongues,

False to their Sovereign and to our State,

Counselling ignoble ease and peaceful sloth,

Not peace. Well have ye judged of old, and still

Ye shall judge well, discerning to avoid,

By me advised, shameful dismemberment

Of this great realm.” He ceased, and straight the powers

Their session ended, voted the Address,

Momentous issue of prolonged debate.

THE BABY.
(Mr. John Foote, Kensington.)

---

Second Prize.

High on a throne of Royal state which well

Beseemed the rule of Britain, and of Ind,

In sable vested, save for lustrous star

And circlet bright of gleaming gem and gold,

Victoria proudly sat by lineage raised

To that fair eminence, and by desert

Thus high enthroned in her people’s hearts.

Meanwhile the Black-Rod usher by command

Acquaints the Commons, who, their summons called

From Government and Opposition ranks,

Came trooping to the bar, and thronged the floor.

Behold a wonder! They, who in their place

Were pompous in their port as any peer,

Now fight and jostle for a standing-room;

Their self-importance breathless and collapsed

As Æsop’s fabled frog. But far above,

And at their own convenience, like their wont,

The noble lords—dukes, earls, and smaller fry—

In otium cum dignitate sat,

Quaint demi-gods, in crimson robes and hats

Shiny and tall. After short silence then,

The ms. tendered, Cairns the Royal thoughts

And Beaconsfield’s concoctions thus disclosed:

‘My Lords and Gentlemen, once more well met,

Or classically, “Here we are again!”

The firmest friendship knits us to all Powers

(Save tiffs with holy Russia and the Turk,

Which every week or so must needs occur).

Triumphant o’er the Afghans are our arms;

For since no downfall in its grip can hold

All-conquering England, though repulsed awhile,

I hold it victory. Despite our loss

In Zululand, and Chelmsford’s blundering,

Imperium et Libertas will appear

More glorious to the Jingoes than no war,

With what beside in Parliament or field

Hath been involved in failure. To this, then,

Our policy of old we now return—

How best we can contrive, by force or guile,

To filch our neighbours’ lands, and keep our own.’

Brian Boru.
(Mr. H. Hamilton, Holloway.)

The World, February 18, 1880.

——:o:——

“Prae Existence, a Poem in imitation of Milton.” London: Printed for John Clark, at the Bible and Crown in the Old Change, near St. Paul’s, 1714. This work was published anonymously, but it had a long Publisher’s Preface, signed J.B., under which initials it may be traced in the catalogue of the British Museum Library (Press Mark 11,631, b.b.b. 39). The Preface states that the structure of the Poem is founded on the opinion “That all human souls had an existence antecedent to the Mosaic Creation,” and is intended as an account of the events that occurred in the interval between the battle of Michael and Lucifer, and the creation of the World.

In Book I. Paradise Lost, Milton thus alludes to Lucifer’s discomfiture:—

“Nine times the space that measures Day and Night

To mortal men, he with his horrid crew,

Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf,”

and the Author of “Prae Existence” commences his poem with the Archangels sounding a retreat from the pursuit of the Rebel Angels condemned to Hell, and the closing of Hell Gates.

With such a text it may be easily imagined that the Poem is not of a very light or cheerful description. It opens thus ominously:—

Now had th’ Archangel Trumpet, raised sublime

Above the walls of Heav’n, begun to sound;

All Æther took the Blast, and Hell beneath

Spoke with Celestial Noise; th’ Almighty Host

Hot with pursuit, and reaking with the Blood

Of guilty Cherubs smear’d in sulphurous Dust,

Pause at the known command of sounding Gold;

And first they close the wide Tartarian Gates,

Th’ impenetrable Folds on Brazen Hinge

Rowl creaking horrible; the Din beneath

O’ercomes the Roar of Flames, and deafens Hell.

*  *  *  *  *

The remainder of the Poem is too heavy to be quoted, but the curious in such matters may easily refer to it in the British Museum Library.

——:o:——

In Isaac D’Israeli’s Curiosities of Literature there is a chapter entitled “Critical Sagacity and Happy Conjecture;” or, Bentley’s Milton. Dr. Bentley had, by his injudicious corrections and prosaic interpolations, much disfigured his edition of Paradise Lost, and D’Israeli, in his article exposes Dr. Bentley’s errors and want of taste.

“——Bentley, long to wrangling schools confined,

And but by books acquainted with mankind—

To Milton lending sense, to Horace wit,

He makes them write, what never poet writ.”

“Salmagundi: a miscellaneous combination of original Poetry; consisting of Illusions of Fancy, Amatory, Elegiac, Lyrical, Epigrammatical, and other Palateable Ingredients. Third Edition, London. E. Hodson, Bell Yard, Temple Bar, 1793.” This volume was written by the Rev. George Huddersford, M.A., Vicar of Loxley, Warwickshire, who died November 10, 1809. It contains the two following poems in imitation of L’Allegro, and Il Penseroso.

Whitsuntide.
Written at Winchester College on the immediate
approach of the Holidays.

Hence, Thou Fur-clad Winter, fly;

Sire of shivering Poverty!

Who, as thou creep’st with chilblains lame

To the crowded charcoal flame,

With chattering teeth and ague cold,

Scarce thy shaking sides canst hold

While thou draw’st the deep cough out:

God of Football’s noisy rout,

Tumult loud and boist’rous play,

The dangerous slide, the snow-ball fray.

But come, thou genial Son of Spring,

Whitsuntide! and with thee bring

Cricket, nimble boy and light,

In slippers red and drawers white,

Who o’er the nicely-measur’d land

Ranges around his comely band,

Alert to intercept each blow,

Each motion of the wary Foe.

Or patient take thy quiet stand,

The angle trembling in thy hand,

And mark, with penetrative eye,

Kissing the wave the frequent fly,

Where the trout with eager spring

Forms the many-circled ring,

And, leaping from the silver tide,

Turns to the sun his speckled side.

Or lead where Health or Naiad fair

With rosy cheek and dripping hair,

From the sultry noon-tide beam,

Dives in Itchin’s crystal stream.

Thy votaries, ranged in order due,

To-morrow’s wish’d-for dawn shall view,

Greeting the radiant Star of Light

With Matin Hymn and early kite:

E’en now, these hallow’d haunts among,

To thee we raise the choral song[50]

And swell with echoing minstrelsy

The strain of joy and liberty.

If pleasures such as these await

Thy genial reign, with heart elate

For Thee I throw my gown aside,

And hail thy coming. Whitsuntide.

---

Christmas.

Hence, Summer, indolently laid

To sleep beneath the cooling shade!

Panting quick with sultry heat,

Thirst and faint Fatigue retreat!

Come, Christmas, father Thou of Mirth,

Patron of the festive hearth,

Around whose social ev’ning flame

The jovial song, the winter game,

The chase renewed in merry tale,

The season’s carols never fail.

Who, tho’ winter chill the skies

Canst catch the glow of exercise,

Following swift the football’s course;

Or with unresisted force,

Where Frost arrests the harden’d tide,

Shooting along the rapid slide.

Who, ere the misty, morn is grey,

To some high covert hark’st away;

While Sport, on lofty courser borne,

In concert winds his echoing horn

With the deeply thund’ring hounds,

Whose clangour wild, and joyful sounds.

While echo swells the doubting cry,

Shake the woods with harmony.

How does my eager bosom glow

To give the well-known Tally-Ho!

Or show, with cap inverted, where

Stole away the cautious hare!

Or if the blast of Winter keen

Spangles o’er the silvery green,

Booted high thou lov’st to tread

Marking through the sedgy mead,

Where the creeping moor-hen lies,

Or snipes with sudden twittering rise.

Or joy’st the early walk to take

Where, through the pheasant-haunted brake,

Oft as the well-aim’d gun resounds,

The eager dashing spaniel bounds.

For thee of Buck my breeches tight,

Clanging whip and rowels bright,

The hunter’s cap my brows to guard,

And suit of sportive green’s prepar’d:

For since these delights are thine,

Christmas with thy bands I join.

——:o:——

In 1776 another parody on Milton’s L’Allegro was published, entitled “The Garrulous Man,” a poem addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Miller, Bath; but this the Editor has not succeeded in finding.

——:o:——

L’Allegro; or Fun, a Parody.

Off, blubbering Melancholy!

Of the blue devils and book-learning born,

In dusty schools forlorn;

Amongst black-gowns, square caps, and books unjolly,

Hunt out some college cell,

Where muzzing quizzes mutter monkish schemes,

And the old proctor dreams;

There, in thy smutty walls, o’errun with dock,

As ragged as thy smock,

With rusty, fusty fellows ever dwell.

But come, thou baggage fat and free,

By gentles called Festivity,

And by us rolling kiddies, Fun,

Whom Mother Shipton, one by one,

With two Wapping wenches more,

To skipping Harlequino bore:

Or whether, as some deeper say,

Jack Pudding on a holiday

Along with Jenny Diver romping.

As he met her once a pumping.

*  *  *  *  *

Hip! here, jade, and bring with thee

Jokes and sniggering jollity,

Christmas gambols, waggish tricks,

Winks, wry faces, licks and kicks,

Such as fall from Moggy’s, knuckles,

And love to live about her buckles;

Game, that hobbling watchmen boxes,

And Horse-laugh hugging both his doxies;

Come, and kick it as you go,

On the stumping hornpipe-toe:

And in thy right hand haul with thee

The Mountain brim French liberty.

And if I give puffing due,

Fun, admit me of thy crew,

To pig with her, and pig with thee,

In everlasting frolicks free:

To hear the sweep begin his beat,

And squalling startle the dull street,

From his watch-box in the alley

Till the watch at six doth sally;

Then to go, in spite of sleep,

And at the window cry, “Sweep! sweep!”

Through the street-door, or the area,

Or, in the country, through the dairy;

While the dustman, with his din,

Bawls and rings to be let in,

And at the fore, or the back-door,

Slowly plods his jades before.

Oft hearing the sow-gelder’s horn

Harshly rouse the snoring morn,

From the side of a large square,

Through the long street grunting far.

Sometimes walking I’ll be seen

By Tower-hill, or Moorfields green,

Right against Old Bedlam-gate,

Where the mock king begins his state,

Crown’d with straw, and rob’d with rags,

Cover’d o’er with jags and tags,

While the keeper near at hand

Bullies those who leave their stand;

And milk-maid’s screams go through your ears,

And grinders sharpen rusty sheers,

And every crier squalls his cry

Under each window he goes by.

Straight mine eye hath caught new gambols,

While round and round this town it rambles;

Sloppy streets and foggy day,

Where the blundering folks do stray!

Pavements, on whose slippery flags

Swearing coach-men drive their nags;

Barbers jostled ’gainst your side,

Narrow streets, and gutters wide.

Grub-street garrets now it sees,

To the muse open and the breeze,

Where perhaps some scribbler hungers,

The hack of neighbouring newsmongers,

Hard by, a tinker’s furnace smokes,

From betwixt two pastry-cooks,

Where dingy Dick and Peggy, met,

Are at their scurvy dinner set,

Of cow-heel, and such cellar messes,

Which the splay-foot Rachael dresses;

And then in haste the shop she leaves,

And with the boy the bellows heaves;

Or if ’tis late, and shop is shut,

Scrubs at the pump her face from smut,

Sometimes, all for sights agog,

To t’other end of the town I jog.

When St. James’s bells ring round,

And the royal fiddles sound,

And young and old dance down the tune,

In honour of the forth of June;

Till candles fail and eyes are sore,

Then home we hie to talk it o’er,

With stories told of many a treat,

How Lady Swab the sweetmeats eat;

She was pinch’d and something worse,

And she was fobb’d and lost her purse,

Tell how the drudging Weltjee sweat,

To bake his custards duly set,

When in one night, ere clock went seven,

His ’prentice-lad had robb’d the oven

Of more than twenty hands had put in;

Then lies him down, a little glutton,

Stretch’d lumbering ’fore the fire, they tell ye,

And bakes the custards in his belly;

Then crop-sick down the stairs he flings

Before his master’s bell yet rings,

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep

By hoofs and wheels soon lull’d to sleep.

But the city takes me then,

And the hums of busy men,

Where throngs of train-band captains bold

In time of peace fierce meetings hold,

With stores of stock-jobbers, whose lies

Work change of stocks and bankruptcies;

Where bulls and bears alike contend

To get the cash they dare not spend.

Then let aldermen appear,

In scarlet robes, with chandelier,

And city feasts and gluttony,

With balls upon the lord mayor’s day;

Sights that young ’prentices remember,

Sleeping or waking, all November.

Then to the play-houses anon,

If Quick or Bannister be one;

Or drollest Parsons, child of Drury,

Bawls out his damns with comic fury,

And ever, against hum-drum cares,

Sing me some of Dibdin’s airs,

Married to his own queer wit,

Such as my shaking sides may split,

In notes, with many a jolly bout,

Near Beaufort Buildings oft roar’d out,

With Wagging curls and smirk so cunning,

His rig on many a booby running,

Exposing all the ways and phizzes

Of “wags, and oddities and quizzes,”

That Shuter’s self might heave his head

From drunken snoozes, on a bed

Of pot-house benches sprawl’d, and hear

Such laughing songs as won the ear

Of all the town, his slip to cover,

Whene’er he met ’em half-seas over.

Freaks like these if thou canst give,

Fun, with thee I wish to live.

Anonymous.

——:o:——

The Hare Hunter.
A Burlesque imitation of various parts of Milton’s
L’Allegro and Il Penseroso.

Lo I, who erst, at break of day,

To Nelston Wiggs[51] betook my way,

Alarming all the country round

With barbarous shout and yelping hound;

And many a fox in vain pursued

To Bardon Hill[51] or Button Wood;

And oft returned in evening dark

With empty hands from Horsely Park;[51]

And thought myself a clever lad,

While all the neighbours thought me mad;

Now condescend with nicest care

To hunt the hedge-row for a hare.

Hence, Fox-hunting! thou fiend forlorn,

Of Uproar wild and Tumult born:

No more expect me on the hill,

Obedient to thy summons shrill,

Where late with joy I saw thee stand,

The whip new corded in thine hand,

In boots thy legs entrenched strong,

Thy heels well arm’d with rowels long,

The cap close fitted to thy head,

The blue plush coat, the waistcoat red;

Thy person trim, succinct, and light

Breechee’d high in buckskin tight;

Mounted on a courser fleet,

With ardent eyes and pawing feet;

Hence, with thy tall tail-curling hound,

Of tongue so shrill and ears so round.

No more I listen to the noise

Of “wind him, rogues,” and “to him boys,”

The “touch,” the “drag,” and “tallihoe,”

And “gone away,” and “there they go;”

And how we earth’d him at Crick Chase,

Or lost him at some cursed place;

From all such ills that did attend us,

Henceforth, good Jupiter, defend us!

But come, thou genius of “Loo Whoore,”

Sober, steadfast, and demure,

Clad in a coat of clumsy size,

Of double drab or knotted frieze,

O’er which is drawn the warm surtout

With flourish’d girdle bound about;

Thy vacant forehead broad and fat,

Shadow’d beneath the round-cropp’d hat.

Sweet power of Thistle-whipping, hail!

Whom in a solitary vale

To prone-eyed Dulness long of yore

The moping nymph Tantarra bore.

Come, but keep your wonted state

On a horse of sluggish gait;

Your looks commencing with the ground,

Where the close-crouching hare is found;

And as across the lands you creep,

Forget yourself and fall asleep

Till the dull steed shall break your nap,

Stumbling through the accustom’d gap.

And first the waddling beagle bring,

That looks as just escaped the string,

With sneaking tail and heavy head,

Such as by neighbour Dash are bred;

And join sharp Cold with Ache severe,

And Patience, that can bear to hear

The pack with melancholy tone

Around the scented hillock moan,

And with such discord as they keep,

Tempt pitying travellers to weep.

Me, Genius, shalt thou often find

On some hill side beneath the wind,

On fallows rough or stubbles dry,

Where the lone leveret loves to lie,

While such mean merriment invites,

Doing thy sadly-pleasing rites.

Oft, on a plat of rising ground,

I see the fat pack puzzling round,

Where the game went long before,

Sounding sad with sullen roar;

With slow-paced heed, and tedious cunning,

Through all her artful mazes running,

Untwisting every knotty wile

Both of the double and the foil;

In notes with many a winding bout

Of drowsy murmurings long-drawn out,

Bewailing their dull master’s folly,

Most pitiful, most melancholy,

But chiefly let the Southern’s tongue

Drag its deep dismal tone along,

In bellowings loud, and utterance hoarse,

Such as its mournful way may force

Through all my hearing’s cavities,

And bring the tears into my eyes.

But let my due sight never fail,

Where beaten paths divide the vale,

With anxious skill and cunning care,

To prick the footsteps of the hare,

While I cheer the beagle’s toil,

With “hoo the way,” and “hark the foil!”

And when at last old age and gout

Prevent my longer going out,

O may I from my easy chair

The wonders of my youth declare,

Extol at large myself and steed,

And talk of hounds of my old breed,

Till I become through neighbouring shires

The oracle of country squires.

These pleasures, Hare Hunting, impart,

And I am thine with all my heart.

Mundy.

Elegant Extracts from the British Poets, 1824.

——:o:——

Fashion.
A Paraphrase of L’Allegro.

Hence, loath’d vulgarity,

Of Ignorance and native Dullness bred,

In low unwholesome shed,

’Mongst thieves and drabs, and street sweeps, asking charity:

Find some suburban haunt,

Where the spruce ’prentice treats his flashy mate,

And smoking cits debate:

Or at a dowdy rout, or ticket ball,

Giv’n at Freemason’s hall,

With tawdry clothes and liveries ever flaunt.

But come, thou nymph of slender waist,

Known early by the name of Taste.

And now denominated Fashion,

Whom erst, by no unlawful passion,

Pleasure’s fair nymph, on Britain’s shore,

To radiant ey’d Apollo bore:

Or Hermes (so the grave dispute is)

The frolic god of chemist beauties,

Found Lady Someone in the dark

As once they met at — — Park,

There, on a couch of damask blue,

And squabs, and cushions, damask too,

Fill’d her with thee, thou white-arm’d fair,

So delicate and de bon air.

Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee

Steed, and light hung Tilbury,

Undiscoverable rouge,

Polish’d boots; and neckcloth huge,

(Such as might deck a Dandy’s cheek,

And draw the gazers for a week.)

Mackintosh’s racy phrase,

And wit, that peerless Ward might praise.

Come, and let your steps be bent

With a lively measurement,

And bring the proper airs and graces,

That make their way in certain places:

And, if I give thee honour due

Fashion, enroll me with the few,

With Spencer, Sidney Smith, and thee,

In a select society:

To ride when many a lady fair, in

Her morning veil begins her airing,

And with the nurse and children stow’d,

Drives down the Park, or Chelsea Road:

Then to stop in spite of sorrow,

And through the window bid good morrow

Of vis-a-vis, or barouchette,

Or half-open landaulet:

While little Burke, with lively din,

Scatters his stock of trifles thin,

And at the Bridge, or Grosvenor Gate,

Briskly bids his horses wait;

Oft listening how the Catalani

Rouses at night the applauding many,

In some opera of Mozart,

Winning the eye, the ear, the heart.

Then in the round room not unseen,[52]

Attending dames of noble mien,

Right to the door in Market Lane,

Where chairmen range their jostling train,

And footmen stand with torch alight,

In their thousand liveries dight,

While the doorkeeper on the stairs,

Bawls for the Marchionesses’ chairs,

And young dragoons enjoy the crowd,

And dowagers inveigh aloud,

And lovers write a hasty scrawl,

Upon the ticket of a shawl.

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,

As the circling crowd it measures;

Virgins old with tresses gray,

That in corkscrew curls do stray;

Ladies, on whose softer breast,

Gallants receive a hope of rest;

Little feet with sandals tied,

Shallow heads and shoulders wide;

Necks and throats of lovely form,

Bosom’d high in tippet warm,

Where some beauty spreads her snare,

The envy of surrounding fair.

Hard by, the Op’ra being past,

To some small supper let me haste,

Where ladies, wits, and poets met,

Are at their various banquet set,

Of fifty little tempting messes,

Which the neat-handed Gunter dresses:

And there with satisfaction see

The pullet and the early pea,

Or, if the sultry dog-star reign,

The melon, ice, and cool champagne.

Sometimes, to a late delight

Argyll advertisements invite,

Where the wreathed waltz goes round,

Or English tunes more briskly sound,

To twice a hundred feet or more,

Dancing on the chalky floor:

And wise mama, well pleased to see

Her daughter paired with high degree,

Stays till the daylight glares amain:

Then in the carriage home again,

With stories told, of many a bow,

And civil speech from so-and-so.

She was asked to dance, she said,

But scarcely down the middle led,

Because his Lordship only thought,

How soonest to find out a spot,

Where, seated by her side, unheard,

He whispered many a pretty word,

Such as no poet could excel!

Then, having paid his court so well,

Most manifestly meaning marriage,

He fetch’d the shawls and call’d the carriage,

Handed her from the crowded door,

And watched till she was seen no more.

Thus done the tales, the flutt’ring fair

Go up to bed, and curl their hair.

Country houses please me too,

And the jocund Christmas crew,

Where chiefs of adverse politics

Awhile in social circle mix,

And tenants come, whose country franchise

Connects them with the higher branches,

Since all the great alike contend

For votes, on which they all depend.

Let affability be there,

With cordial hand and friendly air.

And private play and glittering fête,

To make the rustic gentry prate,—

Such joys as fill young ladies’ heads,

Who judge from books of masquerades.

Then will I to St. Stephen’s stray,

If aught be moved by Castlereagh,

Or matchless Canning mean to roll,

His thunders o’er the subject soul.

And sometimes, to divert my cares,

Give me some flirt, with joyous airs,

Married a girl, a widow now,

Such as will hear each playful vow,

Too young to lay upon the shelf:

Meaning—as little as myself:—

Still speaking, singing, walking, running,

With wanton heed and giddy cunning,

With a good mien to testify

Her converse with good company,

That Chesterfield might lift his eyes

From the dark Tartarus where he lies,

Beholding in her air and gait,

Graces that almost compensate

The blunders of his awkward son

And half the harm his book has done.

These delights if thou canst give,

Fashion, with thee I wish to live.

Posthumous Parodies. (John Miller, London, 1814.)

——:o:——

Ode

By an Amateur, an ardent admirer of
Milton,
On the Centennial Birthday of Burns.

I.

Hence, chroniclers of Time,

Makers of almanacs and strange predictions,

Held by the wise as fictions;

Begone, and wallow in the river’s slime,

To calculate the tides;

Or be your bed in bedlamitic cell,

Where moon-calves best may dwell,

To note her phases and her quarters dark,

That lovers well may mark,

What silvery hour for meeting best provides,

But here your art is wanted not,

This day—the ne’er-to-be-forgot

Makes an Era of its own;

And the dark Cimmerian throne

Of Erebus and Nox, no more

Encumbers Lethe’s barren shore,

In chains of silence to oppress

The victims of forgetfulness.

*  *  *  *  *

III.

In centennial cycle we,

With pomp, and feast, and revelry,

Multitudinously meet,

Natal day of Bard to greet,

Fauns and Dryads, Sylph and Fairy,

Hail this epoch centenary.

See on yonder mountain top

Caledonia plays Scotch-hop

With swimming eye and mazy gait,

(By “Mountain dew” inebriate)

Summons every loyal chiel

To reel the dance and dance the reel;

While centuries come, and centuries go

“On the light fantastic toe.”

*  *  *  *  *

XII.

Such our day!—from morning’s light

Till what time the angular flight

Of the bat suggests that we

Zig-zag home as well as he,

Thus the mazy path we’ll go

Still on the fantastic toe,

Though the lightness all hath fled

From the foot into the head.

After festal elevation,

Each descends to’s proper station

Where the locomotive’s snorting,

And the careful guard escorting;

Or, it may be, at the feasts’ end,

Some seek busses to the West End,

Some with frowns and some with smiles,

Debating how they’ll gang their miles,

Ev’n as, through life, it doth prevail,

That some do buss it,—some do rail.

These extracts are taken from a long poem contained in Rival Rhymes, in honour of Burns; collected and edited by Ben Trovato. Published by Routledge, Warnes and Routledge, London, in 1859. This little volume contains parodies of Father Prout; Thomas Campbell; Longfellow; Hood; Tennyson; Barry Cornwall; Macaulay; Pope, and Thackeray. It is now known that it was written by Samuel Lover, the novelist, it will, however, add little to his fame either as a poet, or a humourist.

——:o:——

Recreation Rhymes.

By the Author of “The Idylls of the Rink.”
Football.

By J * * n M * * * * n.

Hence, hateful idleness,

Thou thing accursed, of parents dread begot,

And with thy selfish lot

Betake thee where my eyes shall see thee less;

For, sprung from such a race,

Ennui thy mother, and thy father Vice,

Thou never couldst be nice.

Begone, where I no more shall see thy face.

Come, goddess of another sort,

Yclep’d by men and mortals, Sport!

Come, offspring of a noble pair.

Thy mother Leisure, sweet and fair,

And Health thy Father, stout and strong.

Come, ’tis of thee I make my song.

First let me pray the tuneful Nine

To aid me with a ray divine,

To guide me as I sweep the string,

And teach me rightly how to sing;

For, sooth, no classic bard, I deem,

Could ever find a nobler theme;

Nay, garbed in language rich and terse,

And married to immortal verse,

With fairy figures richly dight,

How can it fail to give delight?

It is a wintry holyday,

When young and old come out to play;

The air is crisp, the day is bright,

In sooth it is a goodly sight.

As to the trysting place they hie,

Right merrily the time goes by,

With sportive quip, and pungent pun,

With hearty laugh, and joyous fun.

Then, hasting to a spot remote,

Each player doffs his outer coat,

And shows himself in vesture trim,

Which closely fits each lissome limb;

Then to the ground speeds with a will,

To prove his prowess and his skill.

The rival chiefs, a worthy pair,

Now toss the coin high in air,

And he whom fortune doth befriend

Makes choice of goal to guard and fend;

The while his foe ’mid joyous cry

First drives the aëry ball on high.

Now listen to the merry din,

And see the much-loved sport begin.

The ball swift travels through the air,

Now here, now there, and everywhere,

Now sailing on with lofty bound,

Now creeping slowly o’er the ground.

The players now, an eager crew,

The well encasèd ball pursue,

Rush on and kick it as they go,

With the light but well-shod toe.

Now see a youth fly o’er the ground,

And deftly catch it on the bound;

Tight in his grasp he holds his prize,

To evade the foe as on he flies.

Then loud is heard the welcome cry

“A scrummage, to the rescue hie!”

And, with a roar of wild delight,

Rush all to “scrummage,” strangely hight.

And now indeed a wondrous scene

Is acted on the village green;

For all who play, save three or four,

Rush madly on, at least a score

Of heads and shoulders quickly meet,

And twice as many eager feet.

Now many a toe meets many a shin

And leaves its mark on manly skin,

And elbows, seeking cosy cribs,

Find lodgment in opposing ribs;

And all seem to yon blue-eyed lass

A seething, surging, kicking mass.

And now, while still they push and shout,

The well-kicked ball creeps slowly out.

A nimble-footed youth espies

And after it like lightning flies,

And, ere his foes see through the trick,

Essays a deftly-aimèd kick.

“Home,” cries the keeper of the goal,

Too late from scrummage rush the shoal,

The ball skims o’er the opposing hosts,

And gently drops between the posts.

Now change they sides, and soon again

The ball is speeding o’er the plain,

While after it each eager wight

Scampers in transports of delight.

Until at length he respite seeks,

With wearied limbs but rosy cheeks.

His mud-bespattered garments shows

How oft on Earth he’s laid him low;

But still this brings him no remorce,

He feels the hot blood through him course,

And knows that in his much-loved game,

He’s found both pleasure, health, and fame.

Pastime, September 7, 1883.

An Epitaph.
On the admirable Dramatic Poet, William Shakespeare.

What needs my Shakespeare for his honour’d bones,

The labour of an age in pilèd stones?

Or that his hallowed relics should be hid

Under a starry pointing pyramid?

Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,

What needs’t thou such weak witness of thy name?

Thou, in our wonder and astonishment,

Hast built thyself a livelong monument.

For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art,

The easy numbers flow; and that each heart

Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book,

Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,

Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,

Dost make us marble with too much conceiving;

And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie,

That Kings, for such a tomb, would wish to die.

John Milton.

---

AN EPITAPH (CONSIDERABLY) AFTER MILTON.

On that admirable, but lately maligned Dramatic Poet, the divine

Williams.

“What needs my Shakspeare for his honoured bones,”

The veneration of Smith, Brown, and Jones?

Or that his hallowed genius should be hid

From dunces by pedantic Form bestrid?

“Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,”

What matter if Ponsard asperse thy name?

That is no wonder, no astonishment:

All are not pedants on the Continent.

For whilst Teutonic poetry and art

Esteem thy numbers, and the German heart

Prizes the leaves of thine unvalued book,

What, if thou by a booby art mistook?

Thou, a dull coxcomb of his rules bereaving,

Hast stupified him by too much conceiving.

Calling thee obsolete bonhomme!—the fly

Has buzzed about thy glory—let him die.

This parody appeared in Punch, December 27, 1856, and another, very much resembling it appeared in the same paper in 1863:—

Mr. Milton modernised.

What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones,

The sovereigns of Brown, Robinson and Jones?

Or that his hallowed relics should be hid

Under a Hepworth-Dixon pyramid?

Dear son of memory—great heir of fame,

Why all these little names tacked to thy name?

Thou may’st feel wonder and astonishment

At all this row about thy monument,

While to the shame of our dramatic art,

Thy plays of our stage banquet make no part.

Methinks, t’were well, blushing, to bring to book,

Praises so Empty, though so big they look,

And with our stage ungraced of thy conceiving,

Own ourselves arrant humbugs, self-deceiving;

Meanwhile do thou in quiet Stratford lie,

Heedless of all this buzzing of small fry.

——:o:——

A Reading Man.

“One whose mind is devoted to nothing else but the study of Mathematics; one who, though naturally, perhaps, of a peacable, quiet temper, and disposition, so congenial to study, yet whose highest ambition is to be accounted the greatest Wrangler in the university!”

Hence, loathed Mathematics!

Of lecturer and blackest tutor born,

In lecture-room forlorn,

Mongst horrid quizzes, bloods, and bucks unholy;

Find out some uncouth cell,

Where pallid study spreads his midnight wings,

And dismal ditties sings;

There, mid’st unhallow’d souls, with sapless brain,

Compose thy sober train,

And in the mind of Reading Quizzes dwell

From Gradus ad Cantabrigiam, by a Brace of Cantabs,
London, John Hearne, 1824.

——:o:——

A Seaside Sonnet.
After Milton-Oysters.

How jaunty the jelly-fish frolic and roar,

How wildly the winkles express their delight,

Though Robinson Crusoe would frown in affright.

On the footprints, by ocean all foam fizzled o’er,

Of an amber-shod maiden who looks to the Nore,

And heeds not her havoc—for heaving in sight

Is a barque, and on board her belovèd,—but “tight”

As never was British belovèd before.’

Alas! for that maiden awaiting her mate—

She knew not the ways of the sons of the wave,

When she bade him go ride at a rollicking rate

O’er the billow that bounds; and she knows not her brave

Hath struggled with “swipes” and sea sickness and fate,

Till gone with his “grub” is the joy that she gave.

Judy, September 8, 1880.

JOHN DRYDEN’S EPIGRAM ON MILTON

Three Poets, in three distant ages born,

Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn:

The First in loftiness of thought surpassed;

The Next in majesty; in both the Last.

The force of Nature could no farther go:

To make a third, she joined the former two.

——:o:——

The following parody is taken from “The Caricature History of the Four Georges,” p. 219, where a full account will be found of the characters referred to in it:

Three great wise men in the same era born,

Britannia’s happy island did adorn.

Henley in cure of souls displayed his skill,

Rock shone in physic, and in both John Hill;

The force of nature could no farther go,

To make a third she join’d the other two.

“Orator” Henley, and Rock, a noted quack doctor, were well known men, Dr. John Hill was a surgeon, a botanist, an unprincipled satirical writer, an actor, and finally a dramatic author, in which latter character his want of success caused Garrick to remark:—

“For physic and farces, his equal there scarce is:

His farces are physic, his physic a farce is.”

Hill was knighted through the favour of Lord Bute, and died in 1775.

——:o:——

On [page 156], Parodies, the Shakespearian forgeries of W. H. Ireland were referred to, they gave rise to many bitter caricatures and satires. Amongst others appeared the following parody, by some ascribed to William Mason, by others to Steevens.

“Four forgers[53], born in one prolific age,

Much critical acumen did engage:

The first was soon by Doughty Douglas scar’d,

Tho’ Johnson would have screen’d him had he dar’d.

The next had all the cunning of a Scot,

The third, invention, genius—nay, what not?

Fraud now exhausted, only could dispense

To her fourth Son their threefold impudence.”

It is said that Ireland was so enraged at this publication that he broke the shop windows where it was exposed for sale.

——:o:——

In the days of Daniel O’Connell beards were not usually worn, and in the House of Commons, Col. Sibthorp, M.P. for Lincoln, was the only member who wore one. O’Connell, wishing to retort to some attacks made on him by Colonel Sibthorp, Col. Verner, M.P. for Armagh County, and Col. Gore, M.P. for Sligo county, composed the following parody:—

“Three colonels in three distant counties born,

Armagh, Sligo, and Lincoln did adorn;

The first in direct bigotry surpass’d,

The next in impudence, in both the last.

The force of nature could no farther go,

To beard the third she shaved the other two.”

This version is taken from “Notes and Queries” of February 24, 1883, but the Athenæum, in quoting the lines, said they referred to Cols. Verner, Percival, and Sibthorp, thus omitting Col. Gore; whilst another paper named three totally different constituencies:

“Three members, in three distant counties born,

Cork, Clare, and Tipperary did adorn:

The first in strength of impudence surpassed;

The next in lying; and in both the last.

The force of Nature could no further go—

To beard the third, she shaved the former two.”

——:o:——

A Pen-sive Thought.

Three Pens for three essential virtues famed,

The Pickwick, Owl, and Waverley were named,

The first in flexibility surpassed,

In ease the next, in elegance the last.

These points, united with attractions new,

Have yielded other boons, the Phæton and Hindoo.

Advertisement.

——:o:——

The Memorial Funds.
(Mr. Punch’s Contribution.)

Hemans. Hallam. Hogg.

Three H’s, in three different countries born,

Hibernia, Albion, Caledon adorn.

The first in gentlest Poesy surpassed,

The next in Justice, Humour claims the last.

Send tribute to the Name most dear to you,

But, reader, don’t neglect the other two.

Punch, April 7, 1860.

——:o:——

The Editor of Truth selected Dryden’s Epigram as the model for a parody competition, and the replies were published in that paper on March 27, 1884. They were very numerous, the following have been selected from amongst them, as being the best parodies, on the most interesting topics:—

Three brightest blessings of this thirsty race,

(Whence sprung and when I don’t propose to trace);

Pale brandy, potent spirit of the night,

Brisk soda, welcome when the morn is bright;

To make the third combine the other two,

The force of Nature can no further go.

Sexton.

---

Three wishes granted to a jolly tar,

Who east, and west, and south had travelled far.

First, “grog enough to float a fleet!” The next

Was, “all the baccy in the world!” Perplext,

Imagination could no further go;

“More grog and baccy!” was the final throw.

Guinea Pig.

---

Three Generals in three different counties born,

England, Madras, Suakin did adorn.

The first in science and success surpassed;

The next in timely dash; in all the last

The force of nature could no further go,

To frame[54] the third she joined the other two.

Captain Rock.

---

Athenian quidnuncs when they wished to fill

Their ears with gossip hastened to Mars’ Hill;

Whilst Romans (ever destitute of humour)

Denounced it as the lying tongues of Rumour.

Wiser than either, modern wit, forsooth,

Sells it for sixpence, and proclaims it Truth.

Long Lane.

---

Three coxcombs in three recent ages born,

France, Cambria, and England did adorn;

The first for cut and fit[55] was Fashion’s glass,

The next in mould of form[56] none could surpass;

Then Nature, travailing, with cunning tool,

Joined Form and Fashion[57] in the third, a fool.

Observer.

---

Three champion bats in distant counties born,

Kent, Nottingham, and Gloucester did adorn;

The first in strong defensive drives surpassed,

The next in grand leg-hits, in both the last.

Old England’s genius could no further go;

Australia boasts the champion batsman now.

Hegira.

---

Three insects fell amid fair summer’s joy,

England and other countries do annoy;

The first is felt, alas! not seen nor heard;

The next seen, heard, and felt; but oh! the third!

Ferocious nature could no fiercer grow,

Joined midge and gnat to make the mosquito.

Mordecai.

---

Three nations’ emblems in one posy twined—

Shamrock and thistle with the rose combined!

One humour hath, one shrewdness for her dower;

The third with both endowed, plus wealth and power!

E’en Nature’s self, will own herself outdone

When (happy exploit!) all are blent in one!

The White Lily.

---

Three “savants” in this nineteenth century born

Have racked our brains with ethics night and morn;

One tunes his harp to sound in many ears;[58]

The next knows all, yet knows not what he fears.[59]

Exhausted nature felt her forces sink—

To make a third she found the “Missing Link.”[60]

Rosbeg.

---

Three young men in distant cities born,

Did Paris, London, and New York adorn;

The first, a beau, in manners far surpassed,

The dandy next, in dress outdid the last;

The force of nature could no further go,

To make a Masher joined the other two.

Deux Nigauds.

——:o:——

POLITICAL.

Three party leaders—Gladstone, Stafford North-

Cote, and for third the leader of the “fourth;”

the first in majesty of speech surpassed,

The next in courtesy, in nil the last.

Exhausted nature could no further go,

She’d spent her powers on the other two.

Miggles.

---

Three members as three trusty Jingoes sworn,

Eye, Bridport town, and Woodstock did adorn;

The first in rabidness of talk surpassed,

The next in idiocy, in both the last.

The force of Madness could no further go—

To make a third she joined the other two.

Aramis.

---

Three leaders ’mong the Opposition stand,

Two with a “dual control” do guide that band,

The first, a haughty lord with fire doth speak,

The next, less eloquent, is mild and meek.

For long the Tories could no better show,

But now the last[61] will oust the other two.

Alfred.

---

Three Statesmen in our happy island dwell,

S. N. and C.—their names I may not tell.

The first a nobleman of high degree;

The next a commoner; each chief would be.

The force of folly could no higher go

Than that the third should try to be it too.

Dryasdust.

---

Three statesmen from three different hamlets sent,

Eye, Woodstock, Bridport, fitly represent;

The first excels in universal lore,

The next in impudence, the last a bore.

The force of nature nothing more could do,

’Twould have been merciful to make but two.

Nedyrd.

---

Three statesmen wish to lead the Tory crowd;

The first’s a gartered Marquis, thundering loud,

His temper fiery as the days in June;

Then comes a courteous, mild, old pantaloon;

The third’s too saucy, and too full of cheek.

Name thy successor—shade of Dizzy speak!

W. A. P.

---

Three Statesmen with three different “fads,” were born,

Two still our blood-stained Cabinet adorn;

The first in felling trees and men surpassed,

The next in frothy speech, Caucus the last.

Britannia’s patience can no further go,

For Will, and Jack, are “not a patch” on Joe!

J. McGrigor Allan.

---

Three statesmen in the age now waning born,

France, Germany, and England did adorn;

The first in wit and eloquence surpassed,

The next in statesmanship, in all the last;

For Nature in her gifts had been so free,

To make a third she had to join the three.

H. Marsh Green.

---

Three Statesmen, by three rival parties sent,

North Devon, Cork, Midlothian, represent;

The first on apathy his censure cast,

The next on energy—on both the last.

Now hot, now cold, in doubt Dame Nature ran,

And mixed the two to form the Grand Old Man.

Brum Rogers.

---

Three Irishmen on England’s downfall bent,

Cork, Monaghan, and Cavan represent;

The first delights in treasonable word,

The next in spitefulness, in both the third;

Though first and second as big traitors figure,

Nature has made the last and least a Biggar.

Indicus.

---

Three statesmen now the Tory party head—

Salisbury and Stafford, Randolph, too, ’tis said.

The first in weak verbosity surpassed,

The next in nothing, in untruths the last.

Nature was “stumped,” for join them as she can,

Out of the three she’ll never make a man.

Action Front.

---

Three statesmen in one lucky cycle born,

Bucks, Lothian, and Woodstock did adorn;

The first in epigram and schemes surpassed,

The next in home affairs, in both the last.

The force of nature could no further go,

To make a third she joined the other two.

Timon.

---

Three members, at three different moments born,

The British House of Commons now adorn;

The first in “impudence” none can surpass,

The next would rob us of a “friendly glass;”

The third, to many known as “faithless Jo,”

Is “Biggar” far than both the other two.

Guelder Rose.

---

Three leaders, in the nineteenth century born,

The Tories of the present time adorn.

For flouts and sneers Lord Salisbury’s not surpassed;

But Stafford’s slow and cautious to the last.

The force of nature could no further go—

To Churchill make she joined the other two.

Mercury Maker.

---

Three Tories in two neighbouring Chambers placed,

Lords, Commons, and a “Four-in-hand” team graced;

The first in fire of eloquence surpassed,

The next in doggedness, in both the last;[62]

But bigger bodies nature could not grow—

To make the third she dwarfed the other two.

F. A. Sw.

---

Three parties did our Parliament adorn,

Whigs, Parnellites, and Tories (bigots born!)

The first verbose exuberance ne’er lack’d,

The next, when noisy, by the third were sack’d;

The force of nature could yet further go,

And made a “Fourth,” frail, frivolous, and few.

Beautiful Sam.

---

Sir Wilfrid Lawson.

Three noodles in two distant countries born,

Iberia and England did adorn;

In one Quixote the Don—consummate ass!

In t’other—Colonel Sibthorpe did surpass;

The force of folly could no further go,

To make a third, she join’d the other two.

Grace.

---

Pitt. Fox. Gladstone.

Three famous statesmen by our England bred,

In turn her senate’s van have ably led;

The first in wealth of eloquence did shine,

The next in lore, the third doth these combine;

Last in succession, foremost in degree,

The Premier of Prime Ministers is he.

Ivy Green.

——:o:——

DRAMATIC.

Irving, Bancroft, and Toole.

Three actors on three London stages play,

Who, by their art, wile many hours away;

The first in tragedy is unsurpassed;

The next in comedy; in farce the last.

Tho’ Nature works by neither line nor rule,

Whene’er at play she needs must have a Toole.

Jack.

---

Three actors on three different stages known—

Toole, Sullivan, and Irving thus are shown.

The first in comedy, his “forte” was cast;

The next in tragedy; in both the last;

And captious critics, here and o’er the main,

Admire, condemn, then praise him up again.

Crystal Palace.

---

Three players in the lap of Genius born,

France, Italy, and England each adorn,

The first in brilliancy of style surpassed;

The next in dignity—in power the last.

Dramatic Art, when pressed to further go,

To make an “Irving” joined the other two.

Siva.

---

Three managers, the glory of our age,

Delight the patrons of the British stage.

High art to scenic glory Irving marries,

Extravaganza finds her home with Harris.

Whilst Wilson Barrett—enterprising man—

Combines them both, and gives us Claudian.

La Nina.

---

Three lovely women grace the modern stage,

A perfect face and form make one[63] the rage;

And one,[64] depicting passions strong or sweet,

Brings thousands breathless, spell bound to her feet.

Nature, by stint, to mar perfection loth,

Upon the last[65] has showered the charms of both.

Truth, March 27, 1884.