Lord Tennyson.
THE FLEET.
(On its Reported Insufficiency.)
You—you—if you have fail’d to understand—
The Fleet of England is her all in all—
On you will come the curse of all the land,
If that Old England fall,
Which Nelson left so great—
This isle, the mightiest naval power on earth,
This one small isle, the lord of every sea—
Poor England, what would all these votes be worth,
And what avail thine ancient fame of “Free,”
Wert thou a fallen State?
You—you—who had the ordering of her Fleet,
If you have only compassed her disgrace,
When all men starve, the wild mob’s million feet
Will kick you from your place—
But then—too late, too late.
Tennyson.
The above lines appeared in large type, and a prominent position, in the Times of Thursday, April 23rd, 1885. Many persons thought a hoax had been played on the Times, refusing to believe that such a dismal appeal ad captandum vulgus could have been penned by the Poet Laureate. Although it is true that all his recent productions have given signs of failing powers, both intellectual and poetical, nothing yet has been published so damaging as this to the reputation of the author of “The Idylls of the King.” It is, indeed, greatly to be regretted that he has no sincere and discriminating friend who could kindly, but firmly, dissuade him from the publication of such lines, which pain his friends, and give rise to endless satires at his expense. Journals representing all parties and every shade of opinion, at once set to work to ridicule The Fleet, and numerous parodies of it have already appeared, from which the following are selected:—
The Bard.
(On his reported imbecility.)
You—you—if you have failed to understand—
The bard of England is no bard at all—
And but a thumb on great St. Jingo’s hand.
See lines of his that sprawl
Across the Times so great.
That bard, the mightiest bard on all the earth,
That one great bard is very much at sea;
Poor England, what would poetry be worth
If thou could’st boast no wiser bards than he?
A pitiable state.
You—you—who wrote those verses indiscreet,
If you have only covered so much space
With lines as bad as these, or rather worse,
Why then we’ll take your place,
And not too soon—too soon.
The Weekly Echo, April 25, 1885.
——:o:——
A Laurel.
You—you!—and neither He nor She nor It,
But if; if but, you fail to understand,
Oh! shaker of this tiny English land,
Eagle in war; in peace a mild tomtit—
That Runnymede and Ashmead are the same,
And blood is after all your little game,
And peace an endless heritage of shame!
You—you—who watch the Baltic and the Belt,
Commingling verses to the whale and smelt.
Great Nelson’s heart would melt
If he could read’em.
For such a Hanwell Muse,
The public’s myriad shoes
Would kick themselves with freedom,
You—you!—if but a single soul would heed’em.
J. Fox Turner.
The Manchester Examiner and Times.
——:o:——
“We we” to the Poet-Laureate.
On reading a (surely!) misreported insufficiency called “The Fleet.”
You—you!—we do not fail to understand—
You, Laureate, are not England’s all in all;
On you is poured the laughter of the land
For your wild Jingo call;
Although you once were great.
Wild jingo cry!—“We mightiest upon earth,
Our naval power supreme on every sea.”
Poor England! What are all these howlings worth
And what avails thy poet’s fame to thee?—
A drivelling Laureate!
You—you—possessed with such a dervish heat,
Spinning and raving to your own disgrace!
While all men laugh, the wild mob’s million feet
Shall kick you from your place.
Ah, then—too late, too late!
E. S. Watson.
The Christian Leader, April 30, 1885.
——:o:——
Tennyson.
(On his reported Lunacy.)
You—you—if you have failed to understand
That England thought you knew the poet’s trick,
On you now comes the laughter of the land
For that mysterious kick
Which falls too late—too late.
Poet of perfect diction highly wrought,
Poet whom England loved in every sea,
Poor Baron, what shall million kicks be drought,
And what avails the ancient fame of thee
Whom once we called “the Great?”
You—you—who had the ear of all the world,
If you can compass only pathos, see!
When all men laugh, a million lips are curled,
To send a jeer at thee,
Our laughed-at Laureate!
The Liverpool Mercury.
——:o:——
Tennyson Tackled.
I.
The Flight!
Companion Poem to “The Fleet.” A Rejoinder.
You—you—if you have failed to understand
How ships are built on paper at Whitehall,
Have picked up from the Pall Mall, second-hand,
Facts which but after all
Make circulation great.
Your Isle—where you possess the snuggest berth,
The tangled lanes, clear stretches of the sea—
Might feed your Muse; of matter you’ve no dearth,
So why this unprovoked attack on me,—
This—regular slate?
You—you—who, I admit, can write,
If you have talked of “kicking” to my face:—
Well, pr’aps I ought to seek the Isle of Wight,
And kick you at your place;
And may—though late, though late.
II.
The Bard.
Another Companion Poem. A Reply.
Yum-yum,[29]—if I have failed to understand
The tons, and guns, and “ends,” whereof they brawl,
At me, at least, can no man paint the hand,
For hypothetical
Purely, is all I state.
Yum-yum—if any man has starved the Fleet,
If any man has his head punched for this,
Kicked by a million boots along the street,
That sight I would not miss,
Nay, nor arrive too late!
And what, if flying collars and a face
Familiar once in Highland tour with me,
I saw thus pelted in the market-place?
Well, well, so might it be;
And, if deserved, First-rate!
Punch, May 2, 1885.
——:o:——
Our Fleet.
You—you—if you have read the silly rhymes
About our Fleet just published in the Times—
Should raise your hands and righteously exclaim:
“If this be poetry,
What the de’il is fame?”
“This isle the mightiest naval power on earth,
This one small isle—the land of every sea—
Poor England!”—what are Poets Laureate worth?
And what avail thy ancient fame, oh T.,
When thou art fallen from thy high estate?
You—you—who had the penning of those lines—
If you have compassed your own disgrace,
When all men laugh—“the wild mob’s million feet”
Will kick thee to a place—the name’s not long—
It’s called by the polite—“Hong Kong!”
Moonshine, May 9, 1885.
——:o:——
“I am informed by a perfectly unreliable correspondent that the following poem—evidently composed by a dynamiter who reads his Times and his Tennyson attentively—was picked up in Mr. Swainson’s room at the Admiralty after the recent explosion.”
You—you—if you have failed to understand
The lesson taught by previous blow-ups,
Learn that on you the weight of Rossa’s hand—
When he’s not in his cups—
Still falls, despotic State!
This man, the noisiest Fenian on the earth,
Has sworn a swear to ne’er let Britain be.
Poor England! what are all thy bobbies worth,
And what avail detectives unto thee,
To guard thee from his hate?
You—you—who catch a Cunningham or so,
If you imagine that the danger’s o’er,
You’re much mistaken, as you’ll shortly know,
So now to gain the door
And slope—ere it’s too late!
Funny Folks, May 9, 1885.
[This poem is founded upon two erroneous assumptions, namely that the explosion at the Admiralty was caused by dynamite, and that it was of Fenian origin. Colonel Majendie has expressed his confident opinion that the explosion was caused by the firing of about 12-lbs. of gunpowder enclosed in a metal pot; and the personal unpopularity of the unfortunate Mr. Swainson is considered a far more likely cause for the outrage, than any political motive.]
——:o:——
The eight following parodies of The Fleet, were published in The Weekly Dispatch Prize Competition of May 10th, 1885, the First Prize of Two Guineas was awarded to Mrs. Emily Lawrence, for the following:—
Whew! whew! if you are hailed the master-hand—
The Laureate of England over all—
On you will come the laugh of all the land
If you to bathos fall,
Who erst did things so great.
This verse—the veriest doggrel verse on earth—
For this small beer were you a lord to be?
Poor Tennyson! what is your purple worth?
And what avails thine ancient fame to thee,
Now in thy fallen state?
Whew! whew! with all your orders thus replete,
If you can only compass your disgrace,
When all men read these lines of halting feet.
They’ll hurl you from your place
As England’s Laureate!
A Conservative,—(On his Leader’s Reported Inefficiency.)
You—you—if you have failed to understand
That hope of office is our all in all—
On you will come the curse of all our band
If that old Party fall,
Which Beaconsfield made great—
This hope, our mightiest motive power on earth,
This one great hope, that fills our hearts with glee—
Poor Party, what would all thy votes be worth,
And what avail our love of place and fee,
Wert thou a fallen State?
You—you—who should have led to Downing-street
If you have been too laggard in the race,
Ere we all starve, our roused rebellious feet
Will kick you from your place—
But then—too late, too late!
Henry L. Brickell.
The Government.—(On its Reputed Inefficiency.)
You—you if you should fail to understand
That Peace for England is her all in all—
On you will come the curse of all the land
If that old England fall,
Which Peace has made so great—
This isle, the mightiest moral power on earth,
This one small isle, the lord of all the sea—
Poor England, what would all thy Fleet be worth,
And what avail thine ancient name of “Free.”
Wert thou a tyrant State?
You—you—who have the ordering of her choice,
If you shall only compass her disgrace,
When all men know, the wild mob’s million voice
Shall hurl you from your place—
But then—too late, too late!
John Carter.
The Laureate.—(On his Regrettable Decadency).
You—you—if you have ceased to understand
Why once your song did England’s heart enthral—
On you will come the gibes of all the land
If that old grandeur fall
From eminence so great.
’Tis vile, thou sweetest singer upon earth—
’Tis very vile, thou bard of every sea—
Poor poet, what will bygone praise be worth,
And what avail thine ancient fame to thee,
If bathos blur thy state?
You—you—whose Muse had dainty, dancing feet,
If with a careless pen you mar her grace,
While true men sigh, the million, as ’tis meet,
Will laugh you from your place—
But then—too late, too late!
Exe.
The Corporation (Alderman loq.)
We—we—who have not failed to understand
That Soup of turtle is our all in all—
On us may fall the anger of the land,
And that old charter fall,
Which kings have left so great—
That charter, noblest instrument on earth,
That grand old charter, gift of royalty—
Poor charter, what will all thy words be worth,
And what avail thine ancient liberty,
When in a lapsed state?
We—we—who strove to hold our powers complete,
If we have only fought and toiled in vain,
When all men kick, the region of our seat
Will suffer mortal pain—
Too hard—too hard a fate!
Thomas H. Knight, jun.
To the Jingo.—(On His Reported Reappearance.)
You—you—since you have failed to understand
The Brag of England serves no turn at all—
Will never rise to curse again this land,
And never have the fall
Five years ago your fate.
This creed, the maddest vainest creed on earth,
That one small isle should lord o’er all lands be—
Poor jingo! what would this small isle be worth,
Where its great wealth, its ancient name of “Free,”
Wert thou to rule our state?
You—you—when you’d the ordering of the Fleet,
Did you not strive to compass our disgrace?
Do you forget ’twas once the “wild mob’s” feat
To kick you from your place?
You’ll mend—too late, too late!
George Mallinson.
Few—few—so few can really understand
Why all this fighting to our share should fall—
Or why Old England should protect a land
That is not hers at all,
Although she is so great—
This isle, the mightiest meddling power on earth,
The would-be lord of every land and sea—
Poor England, what is all the honour worth,
To crush a people struggling to be free,
And help a rotten state?
Few—few—there are who would not wish to fight
If Russia should encompass our disgrace,
And make for India—why, then with right
We’d kick her from the place—
But now—we’ll wait, we’ll wait.
Edward Scott.
Gladstone’s Rebuke.
You—you—if you have failed to understand
The peace of nations is our all in all—
On you will come the blame of all the land
If those strong efforts fall
That we have used of late.
This isle, once fairest spot in all the earth,
This one small isle that boasts the name of “Free”—
Poor England! what will that fair name be worth,
And what will be thy “prestige” presently,
At war with every State?
You—you—who grovel still at Jingo’s feet,
If you shall plunge us in this dark disgrace
While thousands, starving, walk about the street,
They’ll hiss you to your face;
But all—too late, too late!
Jesse H. Wheeler.
The two following parodies à propos of present circumstances, also appeared in a Prize competition:
Britannia to Gladstone.
You must save me from the Jingoes, from the Jingoes, Gladdy dear—
To morrow’ll be the wretchedest time of all this tragic year;
Of all this tragic year, Gladdy, the maddest, wickedest day,
For there’ll be a war, they say, Gladdy—there’ll be a war they say.
The Russians come and go, Gladdy, and seize upon each pass,
And with the savage Turcomans they drain the social glass;
The Tories shout and yell, Gladdy, awhile the Quakers pray,
For there’ll be a war, they say, Gladdy—there’ll be a war, they say.
All in the wild March morning I heard the trumpet call,
As Russian upon Afghan did mercilessly fall;
The shots began to whistle, and the drums began to roll,
And in the wild March morning fled many a trooper’s soul.
O, strange it seems to me, Gladdy, that ere this year is done
Some thousands of my bravest may be rotting ’neath the sun,
Just like my noble Gordon, the gallant and the true—
But what of that, the Jingoes say, why make ye such ado?
For ever, and for ever, they rave and stamp and roam—
Why can’t they wait a little while, until th’ elections come?
For then you’ll go up, Gladdy to yon House and wear a crest,
And the Russian cease from troubling, and the Jingo be at rest!
J. Arthur Elliott.
——:o:——
Hodge’s Emancipation.
The elections will be early, will be early, brother dear;
There is no doubt we’ll have to vote before another year.
The parson and the squire, they say, are quite polite to-day,
And think it will be most unkind if we don’t vote their way.
They forget we were the black sheep—the blackest of our time—
Were only fit to till the ground and feed our master’s swine;
Now they declare by us to stand for ever and a day,
If we will vote their way, brother—will only vote their way.
As I came up the valley brother, whom think ye I should see
But the parson arm-in-arm with Hodge, as merry as could be?
He thought of those sharp words, brother, I gave him yesterday—
When I refused to tell him, brother, if we should vote his way.
Now they may lose our votes brother, they think we’re in the right,
Although they failed to see our wrongs till Gladstone gave them light.
They may call us cruel-hearted—I care not what they say—
For we will vote by ballot, brother—why should we vote their way?
You must wake me and poll early—poll early, my brother dear—
That morrow will be the merriest time of all this glad new year!
That morrow may be to all of us our emancipation day,
If we vote for those who helped, brother—who helped us on our way!
John H. Gibson.
The Weekly Dispatch, April 26, 1885.
——:o:——
Picked up Outside the Lyceum.
You must wake and call me early—call me early mother dear,
Our Irving, as you’ll recollect, does now once more appear,
And so I’m bound, ere yet ’tis dawn, my humble couch to quit,
For I have to book for the pit, mother—I have to book for the pit.
Funny Folks.
Lyceum—Special Notice—With a desire to increase the comfort of the people, all seats in the pit and gallery of this theatre may, during Mr. Irving’s management, in the future be booked, and the pit and gallery will be reseated for this purpose by Mr. J. C. Phipps.—Advertisement in the Daily Papers, April, 1885.
[This arrangement did not meet with general approval, and was soon abandoned.]
Wages.
Hundreds of sovereigns, hundreds of sterling, hundreds of cash,
Paid with a cheerfulness, eager to gain a poem from me;
Hundreds of sterling to write, to utter, to make a dash—
Nay, but the Editor aim’d not at poetry, no lover of poetry he:
Give me the pleasure of going on for the £ s. d.!
The wages of rant is great: if the wages of merit be just
Would the publishers scramble who should be first to bargain with me?
I desire them not to come hither, unless it be with the “dust,”
To make me a golden grove, or to add to my stock of gree;
Give me the pleasure of going on for the £ s. d.!
Judy, February 19, 1868.
——:o:——
Give me no More,
(With apologies to Lord Tennyson.)
Give me no more: a man might drink the sea—
If it were drinkable, and yours to give—
Might drink while Heaven allowed him grace to live
And not exhaust your hospitality;
Give me no more.
Give me no more: I’m nearly tight already,
Behold my flaming cheek and bloodshot eye;
Yes, O my friend, ’tis time to say good bye,
My tongue feels thick, my knees are far from steady
Give me no more.
Give me no more: ofttimes I might be glad
To drink with you all night, and glass for glass,
But not just now—my honest word I pass—
Your liquor is so execrably bad,
Give me no more!
——:o:——
The Onion-Eaters.
“Courage!” she said, and pointed with one hand
(A hand that held a heavy metal spoon),
“Ere dies the day ye all will understand
The solemn myst’ry of this afternoon,
The luscious dish will ready be full soon!”
Above the cauldron rose a fragrant steam,
Through which her face gleam’d like a misty moon:
The boiling broth, with energy extreme,
Within the pot to bubble up did seem.
The dancing fire flicker’d up and down,
Fann’d by the murm’ring bellows gentle gale,
And by its crimson light was plainly shown
The kitchen-dresser and the housemaid’s pail.
Upon the table stood a jug of ale,
Some plates and knives and forks were near the same;
A frying-pan hung greasy on a nail.
With faces ruddied by the leaping flame,
The eager, hungry onion-eaters came.
Large roots they bore of that full-flavour’d stem,
Of pungent taste and odour. These they gave
To Cook, who gladly did receive of them.
With careful hands these roots she well did lave
In pure spring water’s clear and limpid wave;
Then toss’d them in the pot, a stew to make.
’Tis for this mess the greedy gluttons crave;
The echoes with their eager cries they wake,—
“Oh, give us some, we pray, for mercy’s sake!”
They sat them down, a longing, hungry band,
To eat, as if they ne’er had ate before,
Within the savoury dish each dipp’d a hand,
Until ’twas empty. Then arose a roar—
“’Tis not enough! Oh, give us more, more, MORE!
’Tis not more filling than the ocean’s foam.”
Then some one said,—“Eat not, friends, I implore!
Or how, when back to our own shores we roam,
Dare we kiss wives and sweethearts left at home?”
Judy, September 25, 1872.
——:o:——
In Punch, May 9, 1885, will be found a rather weak parody of “Tears, idle tears,” it is àpropos of the farewell performance of Adelina Patti, at San Francisco, and commences “Tears, maudlin tears.”
——:o:——
General Gordon.
In reply to a letter from the poet Whittier respecting General Gordon, Lord Tennyson has written as follows—
“Dear Mr. Whittier,—Your request has been forwarded to me, and I herein send you an epitaph for Gordon in our Westminster Abbey—i.e. for his cenotaph:—
“‘Warrior of God, man’s friend, not here below
But somewhere dead far in the waste Soudan;
Thou livest in all hearts, for all men know
This earth hath borne no simpler, nobler man.’
“With best wishes, yours very faithfully,
“Tennyson.”
On which the Globe (May 7th, 1885,) remarked—“Lord Tennyson must really decline to be prodded. The poet Whittier has been egging him on to write about Gordon, and the result is an epitaph of four lines, giving the information that Gordon is not “here below” (i.e., in Westminster Abbey), but in the Soudan. The Times, in giving this epitaph, heads it “Gordon, Tennyson, and Whittier,” and the association of three such names with the starveling verse under them, is an ideal example of the short and simple step from the sublime to the ridiculous.”
“MY MOTHER.”
HE kind correspondent who sent the pathetic poem entitled “Another,” which appeared in the May number of Parodies, correctly described the difficulty of compiling this collection so as to make it fairly complete, without being tedious, especially as new Parodies on every popular poem are continually appearing. Since Part 18 appeared many other parodies on “My Mother” have been sent in, some of which are so good that they are here inserted, although it had not been intended again to refer to that particular poem in this volume.
The Slug.
No more this silent grief I’ll hug,
What shall I do to kill the slug,
That haunts the beds which I have dug?—
Curst slug!
I’ve sprinkled soot upon its trail,
But less than naught does that avail,
Over it pass’d th’ unconscious snail—
Vile slug!
I dogg’d its footsteps then with lime,
Dropping it where I saw the slime,
But it did change its route next time—
Sly slug!
I keep some salt mixed in a jug,
In which I hoped to pop it snug,
But it declined to show its mug—
Shy slug!
What lots of mischief it can do—
Would you believe it bit in two
My Vincitoxis Thunbergu?
Base slug!
Could it not e’en have spared me this?
My bulb Incomparabilis
Hookeri Walkeri insignis—
Low slug!
If I could find its hidden lair!
I can’t! Ah, cry of wild despair,
That breaks upon the tortured air—
Oh, slug!
Stranger! who read’st, yet sittest still,
I’ll leave you something in my will—
Give me a recipe to kill
That slug!
Judy, July 30, 1873.
——:o:——
The First Fog of the Season.
By a Victim.
“What may perhaps be said to be the first fog of the season occurred in London on Wednesday last. All through the forenoon the weather was so dark as to make the use of gas requisite within doors. The fog was especially dense in the Northern and Eastern suburbs. In the morning there was a sharp frost.”—Daily Paper.
What comes this year before its time,
To make us execrate our clime,
And doth the City streets begrime?
The fog!
What makes the trains late up in town,
And much disgusts Smith, Jones, and Brown;
And stops them when they would go “down?”
The fog!
What spreads destruction round one’s feet
By dark’ning every crowded street—
Invades the most secure retreat?
The fog!
What fills the atmosphere with smoke,
Till all who breathe it, all but choke;
And much bad language doth provoke?
The fog.
What hurts the eyes and makes them red,
Gives one a bad cold in the head,
And makes one think one’s nearly dead?
The fog!
What in the day produces night,
And keeps the flaring gas alight,
And takes away one’s appetite?
The fog.
What doth all London discompose,
Yet whence it comes and where it goes
No living human being knows?
The fog!
Judy, November 1, 1876.
——:o:——
The Nervous.
Who taught me when there was a draught,
And showed me perils fore and aft
And frowned when I untimely laughed?
The Nervous.
Who told me when the glass would rise
Or fall, and with their prophecies,
Or recollections, made me wise?
The Nervous.
Who heard a crash before it fell
And knew things were not going well,
And would some warning story tell?
The Nervous.
Who, when I was a pachyderm,
By many a proper piercing term
Thinned my coarse skin so hard and firm?
The Nervous.
The Argosy Magazine, 1866.
——:o:——
My Banker.
Dedicated (without respect) to certain Bank Mis-Directors.
By a Man of no Account.
“I know a bank which when a wild time rose,
Stopped payment, and resolved its doors to close.”
—Shakespeare perverted.
Though times are hard, who is’t one sees
Enjoying life’s luxurious ease
By spending others’ £. s. d’s?
My Banker.
Who cows the trader with a glance,
And eyes poor shopkeepers askance,
And wastes their money in—“finance”?
My Banker.
Whose style the ignorant delights,
Who orphans’ confidence invites,
And freely takes the widows’ mites?
My Banker.
Who finds religion’s cloak to pay
And client’s money ev’ry day
In charity, who gives away?
My Banker.
Who’s he whose fame spreads far and wide
For wealth and ostentatious pride
Until for peculation tried?
My Banker.
Who makes of roguery a trade,
Who, by his conscience undismayed,
To other rascals lends his aid?
My Banker.
Who is’t would have us to believe
A child in arms he’d not deceive,
Yet all the while will lie and thieve?
My Banker.
Who, when my Banker stares aghast
At prison walls which hold him fast,
Rejoices that he’s caught at last?
My-self.
Judy, January 29, 1879.
——:o:——
My Brother.
Who held the tempting apple nigh
And always tried to make me cry,
And stuck the scissors in my eye?
My Brother.
Who left us all on Christmas Day
And to the cupboard made his way
And on the tree left not a spray?
My Brother.
Who threw my playthings on the floor.
And broke my doll behind the door,
And my best ribbons always tore?
My Brother.
Who pinched my kitten’s ear, or tail,
And ducked her in the water-pail
And pinched my cheek for turning pale?
My Brother.
Who spilt his coffee on his lap,
And tore his mother’s new lace cap,
And blurred with ink my atlas map?
My Brother.
Who’s glad he is at school now,
And not at home to make a row
I know who’s happy, anyhow,
His Sister.
——:o:——
Valentine.
Why at my church do I select a pew,
Commanding always one particular view
Alas! I fear it is to look at you
The Curate.
When do I shun the theatre or the ball,
For spinsters’ tea that’s weak, and talk that’s small
’Tis when I think it probable you’ll call
Our Curate.
Why, by my hands, industriously were tied
The holly wreaths in church at Christmas-tide?
Because I loved to labour by your side
Dear Curate.
And when the living fat shall fall to thee,
Shall all thy flock forgotten be,
Or wilt thou then begin to think of me
My Curate.
——:o:——
My Baedeker.
Who teaches me to go abroad
To Paris, Rome, or Venice-ward,
Or Norway’s fjeld and deep fjord?
My Baedeker.
Who gives the annals of each nation,
Maps, money, language, vegetation,
And what’s about the population?
My Baedeker.
Who says what galleries there may be
For which one pays, which open free
From ten to four, or nine to three?
My Baedeker.
Who says what churches I’m to visit
And if a picture’s framed which is it?
And puts a star lest I should miss it?
My Baedeker.
From Tracks in Norway.
Who are the anxious watchers o’er
The slumbers of a little bore,
That screams whene’er it doesn’t snore
Why, Mothers.
Whose pity wipes its piping eyes,
And stills maturer childhood’s cries,
Stopping its mouth with cakes and pies?
Oh, Mothers!
The Humorist, 1861.
——:o:——
My Tutor.
Who was’t when I came fresh from School
Up here, was so polite and cool,
And showed me each Collegiate rule?
My Tutor.
Who bade me shun those friends of vice
Which undergraduates entice,
In shape of billiards, cards, and dice?
My Tutor.
Let Paley be my constant friend,
Eight hours each day in studies spend,
And chapels night and morn attend?
My Tutor.
By such a course that worthy planned
First class in Little Go I’d land,
A credit to my College, and
My Tutor.
But who next day, by all that’s odd,
Happened to note me as I trod
Across the grassplots in the quad?
My Tutor.
And saw (what fools some people are!)
Me puffing at my first cigar,
And called it “most irregular”?
My Tutor.
Who’s now my foe inveterate,
Who every night at half-past eight
Keeps me within the College gate?
My Tutor.
Because I chanced to skip, you know,
And thought intolerably slow
His lectures on the Little Go?
My Tutor.
Who is so shy he shuns to meet
One of his College in the street?
Who dare not let you see his feet?
My Tutor.
Who always is agreable with
Lord Jones, but keeps a great broad frith
Between himself and Sizar Smith?
My Tutor.
Who is it whom I ought to dread
And hang on every word he’s said
But whom I caricature instead?
My Tutor.
From Paulopostprandials, published by
Jones and Piggott, Cambridge, 1883.
