Miss Ann Taylor’s “My Mother.”
MY MOTHER.
Who fed me from her gentle breast,
And hush’d me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek sweet kisses prest?
My Mother.
When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who was it sung sweet hushaby,
And rock’d me that I should not cry?
My Mother.
Who sat and watched my infant head,
When sleeping on my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?
My Mother.
When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?
My Mother.
Who dress’d my doll in clothes so gay,
And taught me pretty how to play,
And minded all I had to say?
My Mother.
Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well?
My Mother.
Who taught my infant lips to pray,
And love God’s holy book and day,
And walk in wisdom’s pleasant way?
My Mother.
And can I ever cease to be,
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who was’t so very kind to me,
My Mother?
Ah, no! the thought I cannot bear,
And if God please my life to spare,
I hope I shall reward thy care,
My Mother.
When thou art feeble, old, and gray,
My healthy arm shall be thy stay,
And I will soothe thy pains away,
My Mother.
And when I see thee hang thy head,
’Twill be my turn to watch thy bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed,
My Mother.
For God, who lives above the skies,
Would look with vengeance in His eyes,
If I should ever dare despise
My Mother.
The Athenæum of May 12, 1866, contained a note speaking favorably of the general tone of the poem “My Mother,” but stating that it was spoilt by the last verse, in which the only reason given why a child should not despise its mother is the fear of God’s vengeance. The writer proposed that Mr. Tennyson should be asked to compose a final verse more in accordance with the sentiments contained in the preceding lines.
In the following number of The Athenæum (May 19, 1866), appeared a reply from the authoress of “My Mother,” then a very old lady:—
College Hill, Nottingham,
May 15, 1866.
“Allow me to thank your Correspondent of last Saturday for both his praise and blame; I am grateful for one and confess to the other, in his notice of a little poem—‘My Mother,’ of which I was the author, it may be something more than sixty years ago. I see now, so much as he does, though not in all its implications, that, should another edition pass through the press, I will take care that the offending verse shall be omitted; or, as I may hope (without troubling the Laureate), replaced. I have regarded our good old theologian, Dr. Watts, as nearly our only predecessor in verses for children; and his name—a name I revere—I may perhaps plead in part, though not so far as to accept now, what did not strike me as objectionable then. There has been an illustrated edition of our ‘Original Poems’ recently published by Mr. Virtue, and I am sorry to see it retained there; but, as still the living author, I have sufficient right to expunge it.
“Possibly you may have heard the names of Ann and Jane Taylor, of whom I am the Ann; and remain, yours, &c.,
Ann Gilbert.”
The Editor added: “She sends us the following alteration of the verse:—
For could our Father in the skies,
Look down with pleased or loving eyes,
If ever I could dare despise,
My Mother?”
This suggested alteration, does not, however, remove the objectionable word “despise,” which is utterly absurd as applied to such a mother as the poem describes.
It may be added that the original last verse is still very generally printed with the poem.
The history of the poem was thus given in that valuable storehouse of literary facts, “Notes and Queries,” in August 30, 1884.
“In 1798, Ann Taylor, then residing with her family in Colchester, aged about sixteen, made a purchase of A Minor’s Pocket-Book, a periodical published by Harvey and Darton, 55, Gracechurch Street, London. This contained enigmas, and the solutions of previous ones, and poetical pieces to which prizes were adjudged. Fired with enthusiasm, she set to work, and unravelled enigma, charade, and rebus, and forwarded the results under the signature of ‘Juvenilia.’ They were successful, and obtained the first prize—six pocket-books. She continued her contributions for some years, at first anonymously, assisted by her younger sister Jane, and subsequently she became the editor during twelve or fourteen years, up to the time of her marriage in 1813.
“On July 1, 1803, Darton and Harvey wrote requesting some specimens of easy poetry for young children. The letter proceeds: ‘If something in the way of moral songs (though not songs) or short tales turned into verse, or—but I need not dictate. What would be most likely to please little minds must be well known to every one of those who have written such pieces as we have already seen from thy family,’ &c. Their father (Isaac Taylor, afterwards of Ongar) did not quite approve of the proceeding, remarking, ‘I do not want my girls to become authors.’
“The commission was undertaken by the two sisters, and, at the end of 1803, a small volume appeared, with the title, Original Poems for Infant Minds, by several Young Persons. The work did not consist exclusively of the Taylor contributions. Ann remarks, ‘Having written to order, we had no control over the getting out of the volumes, and should have been better pleased if contributions from other hands had been omitted.’ The sisters received five pounds for the first volume, which succeeded so well that a commission was given in November, 1804, for a second volume, for which they were paid another five pounds. It is in the first volume that ‘My Mother,’ entirely written by Ann, appears.
“Jane Taylor continued to devote herself to literature until her decease, in April, 1824, at the age of forty-one. Ann married the Rev. Joseph Gilbert, in December, 1813, and withdrew from literary work for the rest of her life, except very occasionally. This is much to be regretted, as she possessed rare talents; many of the most popular poems usually ascribed to Jane having been really written by Ann. Mrs. Gilbert survived to a happy and honoured old age, and died Dec. 20, 1866, within a month of the completion of her eighty-fifth year.
“Only a fortnight before her death she wrote, ‘You remember that in May last there was a discussion in the Athenæum on my poem, ‘My Mother,’ which surprised everybody as an announcement and advertisement of my continued existence, so that the Post Office has gained all but a revenue from letters addressed to me, which, kindly complimentary as they are, I have, of course, had to answer.’
“The above brief notices of an estimable member of a talented family may not be without interest in connexion with the poem to which allusion has been made.
“Sandyknowe, Wavertree. J. A. Picton.”
A further account of Miss Ann Taylor and her family will be found in “The Family Pen,” by Isaac Taylor, which contains memorials, biographical and literary, of the Taylor family, of Ongar. The work was published in two volumes in 1867. The poem “My Mother,” has recently been translated into German by Carmen Sylva, Queen of Roumania. Before quoting any parodies of this poem it may be as well to insert the well-known lines “To Mary,” written by the poet Cowper ten years before the publication of Miss Taylor’s “My Mother.” The similarity of the two poems can scarcely have been accidental, and authors of parodies of the one, often approach near to an imitation of the other.
To Mary. (Mrs. Unwin.)
Autumn 1793.
The twentieth year is well nigh past
Since first our sky was overcast;
Ah, would that this might be our last!
My Mary!
Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
I see thee daily weaker grow;
’Twas my distress that brought thee low,
My Mary!
Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disused, and shine no more,
My Mary!
For though thou gladly would’st fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
My Mary!
But well thou play’dst the housewife’s part,
And all thy threads, with magic art,
Have wound themselves about this heart,
My Mary!
Thy indistinct expressions seem
Like language uttered in a dream;
Yet me they charm, whate’er the theme,
My Mary!
Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,
My Mary!
For, could I view nor them, nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,
My Mary!
Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently pressed, press gently mine,
My Mary!
Such feebleness of limbs thou prov’st,
That now at every step thou mov’st
Upheld by two; yet still thou lov’st,
My Mary!
And still to love, though pressed with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,
My Mary!
But ah! by constant heed I know,
How oft the sadness that I show,
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
My Mary!
And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,
Thy worn-out heart will break at last,
My Mary!
William Cowper.
——:o:——
The Victim of Circumstances.
By an Outcast.
Who tucked me up in bed at night,
And cried as she blew out the light:
“Now go to sleep, you little fright?”—
My Mother!
Who patted me upon the head,
And in the gruffest accents said:
“Get out, you oaf, and earn your bread?”—
My Father.
Who dropped on me a scalding tear,
Exclaiming, as she boxed my ear:
“The gallows is your doom, I fear?”—
My Sister.
Who gently asked me what I’d got,
And cried, while pocketing the lot:
“Be off, or else you’ll get it hot?”—
My Brother.
Who with my locks would gently play,
And wrote me when she ran away:
“With such a fool I cannot stay?”—
My Wife.
Who stuck to me through thick and thin,
Then drew a bill and let me in,
Exclaiming: “What an ass you’ve been?”—
My Friend.
Who filled with tears my sorrow’s cup,
By crying, as she went to sup:
“Here, p’leesman, lock this blackguard up?”—
My Aunt.
Who rescued me from out the dirt,
And said, in accents harsh and curt,
“No more nor sixpence on this shirt?”—
My Uncle.
Judy, November 26, 1879.
——:o:——
My Relations.
Who taught my baby-lips to coo,
And trained them first to utter “Boo!”
And spanked me pretty soundly, too?—
My Mother.
Who rapped me smartly on the head
Because I said his nose was red,
And sent me howling off to bed?—
My Father.
Who called me “Clever little lad,
The very picture of my dad.”
And gave me sixpence—which was bad?—
My Grandfather.
Who, when I asked her if her hair
Was all her own, said, “Little bear!”
And fixed me with a stony stare?—
My Aunt.
Who is, alas! the only friend
On whom I can at all depend,
And will remain so to the end?—
My Uncle.
Funny Folks, November 29, 1879.
——:o:——
Nursy Pursy.
[This poem, written by a child aged only five years and three months, is printed more as a literary curiosity than for any other reason. A kind of tender pathos may be observable here and there, which in a child so young is, at least, surprising.]
Who wore a hideous high-crown’d cap,
Who called me tootsy-wootsy chap,
Yet used my little head to slap?
Dear Nursy-pursy.
Who said she’d watch, then meanly slept,
And pinch’d me spiteful when I wept.
And for my pap her stale crusts kept?
Dear Nursy-pursy.
Who gazed into my heavy eye,
And said, “A powder we must try;
This horrid child, he lives too high?”
Dear Nursy-pursy.
Who, when I yell’d, cried, “Hold your din!”
Or choked me with a drop of gin
(It wasn’t spasms, but a pin)?
Dear Nursy-pursy.
Who on my toddlums let me run
Much sooner than she should have done,
Which I’ve grown up a bandy one?
My Nursy-pursy.
Anonymous.
——:o:——
Competition in Long Clothes.
A Lay of North Woolwich.
(Apropos of the Baby Show).
Who felt the weight, and scanned the size
Of rival yearlings with surprise,
Yet doubted not to win the Prize?
My Mother!
The heat, the Baby-freighted train,
To change thy purpose all were vain;
Was’t love of me? or hope of gain,
My Mother?
Who let the public eye make free
With secrets of our nursery,
That int’rest only you and me?
My Mother!
Who babes with piglings would confound,
Show both for flesh, so firm and sound,
And weigh their merits by the pound?
My Mother!
Ambition noble! to prepare
Spring infants, fattened up with care,
First Quality, Ten Pounds the Pair,
My Mother!
If breeders prizes be allowed,
Maternity, to please the crowd,
Concurrently must be endowed,
My Mother!
Home joys, my mother, now are cheap:
I pass my time in healthy sleep,
Yet win a cup to pay my keep,
My Mother!
The Tomahawk, July 31, 1869.
——:o:——
My Mother-in-Law.
Who kissed me when I first was wed,
And said I was her “dear son Fred”—
But did not mean a word she said?
My Mother-in-law.
Who when our honeymoon was o’er
Came just to stop a week, no more!
And proved herself a horrid bore?
My Mother-in-law.
Who coming for a week to stay,
Remained serene day after day,
And showed no wish to go away?
My Mother-in-law.
Who sowed the seeds of married strife
Between the husband and the wife,
And so embittered all our life?
My Mother-in-law.
Who never let a quarrel flag,
Whose tongue was ne’er too tired to wag,
Who taught her daughter how to nag?
My Mother-in-law.
Whom would I fain, ah! fain beguile
To some far distant Sandwich Isle?[21]
That infamous old crocodile,
My Mother-in-law.
——:o:——
A Lay of Real Life.
Who ruined me ere I was born,
Sold every acre, grass and corn,
And left the next heir all forlorn?
My Grandfather.
Who said my mother was “no nurse,”
And physicked me and made me worse,
Till infancy became a curse?
My Grandmother.
Who said my mother was a Turk,
And took me home and made me work,
But managed half my meals to shirk?
My Aunt.
Who, “of all earthly things,” would boast
“He hated other’s brats the most,”
And therefore made me feel my post?
My Uncle.
Who got in scrapes, an endless score,
And always laid them at my door,
Till many a bitter bang I bore?
My Cousin.
Who took me home when mother died,
Again with father to reside,
Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide?
My Stepmother.
Who marred my stealthy urchin joys,
And, when I played, cried “What a noise!”—
Girls always hector over boys—
My Sister.
Who used to share in what was mine,
Or took it all, did he incline,
’Cause I was eight and he was nine?
My Brother.
Who stroked my head and said, “Good lad;”
And gave me sixpence—“all he had”—
But at the shop the coin was bad?
My Godfather.
Who, gratis, shared my social glass,
But when misfortune came to pass,
Referred me to the pump?—Alas!
My Friend.
Through all this weary world, in brief,
Who ever sympathised with grief.
Or shared, my joy, my sole relief?
Myself.
Anonymous.
——:o:——
Her Mother.
Who comes and causes little tiffs;
And gives the most suggestive sniffs,
Whene’er a man takes twenty whiffs?
My Mother-in-law!
Who, when a babe is born, appears,
And in my business interferes,
Until at last she domineers?
My Mother-in-law!
Who comes to stay a day or two,
And then stops all the winter through;
Pretending she’s obliging you?
My Mother-in-law!
Who makes out you ill-treat her child,
When preternaturally mild,
You are at last by her driven wild?
My Mother-in-law!
Who makes the servants notice give,
And when she at your house will live,
Makes you from home a fugitive?
My Mother-in-law!
Who at the meals turns up her nose,
Who loves your projects to oppose,
And very nasty hints out-throws?
My Mother-in-law!
Who, cuckoo like, invades the nest,
Till happiness is dispossest,
And then remains a tiresome guest?
My Mother-in-law!
From Finis.
——:o:——
Dick’s Letter to the Editor of the “Boy’s Own Paper.”
I think the public ought to know
The miseries I undergo
From one who only love should show;
My Brother!
Who thinks my head was made to hit?
My hat a subject for his wit,
Till laughing almost brings a fit!
My Brother!
Who makes me by the hour stand scout,
But kicks me if I catch him out,
Demanding what I am about?
My Brother!
Who goes financially to smash,
And borrows all my hoarded cash,
To purchase stamps, or some such trash?
My Brother!
Who makes me copy out his lines
When he’s been kicking up his shines,
And forces me to pay his fines?
My Brother!
Yes, spite of all the ties of birth,
To him my woes cause only mirth;—
You are the biggest fraud on earth,
My Brother!
——:o:——
Audi Alteram Partem.
Tom’s Letter to the Editor.
Dick’s my small brother; that’s enough
To show my lot is rather rough;
Of one thing I get quantum suff,
My Brother!
Who’s always writing home to sneak?
Who gives me endless kinds of cheek,
Yet wants me to correct his Greek?
My Brother!
Who never at a game will play
Unless you let him have his way,
And bat at least ten times a day?
My Brother!
Who cannot stand the mildest snub?
Who gets his double share of grub?
And if you touch him starts to blub?
My Brother!
’Tis sad to see one’s rackets “go”;
’Tis hard to slog and miss a slow;
You’re worst! for you’re a constant woe,
My Brother!
The Boy’s Own Paper, Feb. 16, 1884.
——:o:——
Some “Confidences” to the Editor.
A “Sister” writes from Newcastle-upon-Tyne:—“Dear Mr. Editor,—In the March part of ‘B. O. P.’ occur two poems, ostensibly Dick’s and Tom’s Letter to yourself, anent the miseries which Tom inflicts upon Dick, and vice versa. Now, on perusal of the said poems, my small brother Harry discovered that some features of (to him, at least) absorbing interest had been omitted in their construction. ‘But that fellow hasn’t got red hair,’ he exclaimed, indignantly, ‘or else his brother would have bullied him about that, too.’ ‘Then since you have,’ I mildly ventured, to hint, ’suppose you write a description of your woes, and we’ll send it to the Editor. While I will have my say about ‘brothers,’ for really I don’t see why girls shouldn’t have a voice in the matter, seeing that they often have not only to mend, at unreasonable times, the said brothers’ wearing apparel, but also to bear at all seasons with their growlings.’
“So, Mr. Editor, Harry and I send you our humble offerings, which you are at perfect liberty to make public, if you see fit, or to banish to the realms of the W. P. B. if you don’t.
“Very truly yours,
“His Sister.”
Harry’s Complaint.
Who would not help me when I fell,
But bade me, roughly, “Stop that yell!”
Or, straightway, he “would go and tell?”
My Brother!
Who took my marbles all away—
Because, “you don’t know how to play”—
And wouldn’t heed my plaintive “Nay?”
My Brother!
Who wouldn’t let me use his ball,
Nor cricket ever learn at all,
Because I was “so very small?”
My Brother!
Who laughed because my hair was red,
And filled it full of crumbs of bread,
Then, jeering, cried, “The baby’s fed?”
My Brother!
Who always was so nice and meek,
And never(!) could a harsh word speak
(And yet he was the biggest sneak)?
My Brother!
Whom all the ladies thought “so good”
And only wished their brothers would
Follow his footsteps, if they should!
My Brother!
——:o:——
A “Sister’s” Complaint.
Who, subsequently, older grown,
Becomes a bore, as will be shown,
Prating of “time,” and “tune,” and “tone!”
My Brother!
Who plays the fiddle in a key
Midway between keys “A” and “B,”
And scorns all mild advice from me?
My Brother!
Who holds it as a solemn charge
To wear the “Masher” collar large,
Nor knows the draper’s overcharge?
My Brother!
Who walks with stately port upright?
Who wears his “pantaloons” too tight,
Which adds absurdly to his height?
My Brother!
Who always will a silk hat wear
Upon his highly-scented hair,
And in his hand a cane-stick bear?
My Brother!
Who think there ought to be no boys,
Who nothing make save “rents” and noise,
And rudely spoil our household joys?
Their Sisters!
The Boy’s Own Paper, May 10, 1884.
——:o:——
Who! Ah, Who?
Who culled me from a foreign source,
And trotted me as his own horse,
In brain—spun harness; Why, of course,
My Author!
Who set me up in type so rare
(I heard him at his “devils” swear!)
And for my future didn’t care?
My Printer.
Who sent me like a sandwich forth,
And tastily my inward worth
Displayed upon the sweetest cloth?
My Binder.
Who-eyed me with a guardian’s eye,
And thought my price, a sov., not high,
Cast me forth with, “hey! buy, buy!”
My Publisher.
Who found a strong “coincidence,”
Informed the public how and whence
My author gleaned at small expense?
My Critic.
The Figaro, February 18, 1874.
——:o:——
Mr. Wilson Barrett (producing MS.). As my
collaborateur and friend is late,
I think I will begin, at any rate.
Our scene, then, Prince——
[Enter Mr. Henry Irving, hurriedly.]
Mr. H. Irving. But what is this I see?
This is not what we settled, Wilson B.?
I was to read, you know——
Mr. W. B. Yes, you are right,
But in your absence, well, I thought I might
At all events commence.
Mr. H. I. (bitterly). Ha, ha! again,
That eagerness advantage to obtain.
Pardon me, Prince, if I, to check emotion,
Carol a strain I made up on the ocean:—
Who first in melodrama played,
And then, when he a name had made,
Like me, Shakespearean parts essayed?
My Barrett!
Who copied me in sundry ways,
And jealous of my early bays,
Got Wills to write him blank-verse plays?
My Barrett!
Who, when I Romeo’s part had done,
Vowed he would play a younger one,
And so came out with Chatterton?
My Barrett!
Whose breast with such ambition burned,
That he the whole of “Hamlet” learned,
And played it when my back was turned?
My Barrett!
And who, if I do not take care,
Will my dramatic sceptre share;
Nay, perhaps to rival me will dare?
My Barrett!
Truth, Christmas Number, 1884.
——:o:——
My Banker.
Who puts my money in his till,
And when in difficulties will
Employ it to take up a Bill?
My Banker.
Who cuts a very pretty dash
By spending other people’s cash,
And ends with a tremendous smash?
My Banker.
Who has a pleasant country seat,
With park and grounds and all complete,
And is a thorough going cheat?
My Banker.
Who goes to Church and says his prayers,
And gives himself religious airs,
And pawns my bonds and sells my shares?
My Banker.
Who, when convinced his house must go,
Hints to a friend to let him know,
’Tis well to keep his balance low?
My Banker.
Who lives in most recherché style,
And wears the very blandest smile,
Though he’s insolvent all the while?
My Banker.
Who may a lesson yet be taught,
And find himself some morning brought
Before the Central Criminal Court?
My Banker.
Punch, June 30, 1855.
——:o:——
My Broker.
Who leads me on to fields Elysian,
Where golden prospects, greet my vision,
And charges but a small commission?
My Broker.
Who, while I trudge through muddy ways,
Rides (for that small commission pays)
Behind a handsome pair of bays?
My Broker.
Who, sitting at Pactolus’ fount,
Buys, sells, or holds for “next account,”
Charging, of course, a small amount?
My Broker.
Whose tone is soft, whose manner bland;
Who, lightly holding by my hand,
Talks figures I don’t understand?
My Broker.
When panics come, who seems to wear
A calm, serene, superior air,
As if it wasn’t his affair?
My Broker.
Whose villa’s somewhere in the West;
Whose wife’s in silk and sealskin drest;
Whose wines and weeds are of the best?
My Broker’s.
Whose waist expands; who still can sport
A face of roundest, ruddiest sort,
Through drinking forty-seven port?
My Broker.
Whom did I look on as my friend,
Till he those “Turks” would recommend,
Yet knew the inevitable end?
My Broker.
Punch, October 23, 1875.
Audi Alteram Partem.
Dear Mr. Punch,—Although a Broker myself, I heartily enjoyed your lines this week, which are true of here and there a case in our calling, though about as applicable to the great body of Brokers as those I enclose are to the generality of Clients. The portrait I have sketched is, however, drawn from nature, and by no means libels a constantly increasing class, whose little game is “Heads, I win: tails, you lose.”
Your highly-tickled reader,
Fair Play.
Throgmorton Street, Oct. 29.
My Client.
Who hangs about the Courts all day,
And deals in a most reckless way,
With every Broker who will stay?
My Client!
Who talks a guttural foreign lingo,
And, whilst he wins, still lets the thing go,
Until a panic comes? By jingo!
My Client!
Who dabbles in a hundred “specs,”
His Broker’s hazards little recks,
And chuckles as he takes large cheques?
My Client!
Who, when his ventures, “bear”-hugged, quake,
Commissions, quick, a double stake,
Vowing the thing all right to make?
My Client!
Who, when the threatened crash has come,
And he owes me a stiffish sum,
Fails to turn up—and leaves me glum?
My Client!
Who, for his “little games” out-lawed,
His pockets filled with fruits of fraud,
Coolly retires, and lives abroad?
My Client!
——:o:——
Alter et Idem.
(From Broker No. 2).
Who swaggered down from West End Club,
As fierce as any half-pay “Sub,”
Prepared all City Men to snub?
My Client!
Who, when I gave him sound advice,
And landed him on “something nice,”
Declared I’d robbed him in the price?
My Client!
Who (though when things were going well,
He took his profits like a Swell)
Firmly, for loss, declined to “shell?”
My Client!
Who, on that panic settling-day,
Just calmly kept himself away,
And left me all his debts to pay?
My Client!
Whom did I find “Gone out of Town,”
Whose assets not worth half-a-crown,
And who’d done twenty Brokers “brown?”
My Client!
Punch, November 6, 1875.
——:o:——
My Bismarck!
Who, safe immured as in an ark,
Keeps all his counsels close and dark,
And acts the part of Nick’s chief clerk?
My Bismarck!
Who to poor Johnny wouldn’t hark,
But seized and ransack’d poor Denmark,
Like, what he is, a greedy shark?
My Bismarck!
Who looks on Europe as a park,
Where men, like dogs, may bite and bark,
While he looks on all grim and stark?
My Bismarck!
Who yet will overshoot the mark,
And wreck proud Prussia’s lofty barque,
And get his hide tann’d? What a lark!
Why Bismarck!
Judy,[22] May 15, 1867.
——:o:——
Who’s Who in 1851.
Who, when I feel a little ill,
Sends me a daily draft and pill,
Followed by a tremendous bill?
My Doctor!
Who preaches self-denying views,
Charges a heavy rent for pews,
And calls on me for Easter dues?
My Parson!
Who, when a law-suit I have won,
For a large sum begins to dun,
To which the extra costs have run?
My Lawyer!
Who, for my trousers, which, with straps,
Have cost him half-a-sovereign, p’raps,
Down in the bill two guineas claps?
My Tailor!
Who, when I wish of beef a stone,
Composed of wholesome meat alone,
Sends me at least three pounds of bone?
My Butcher!
Who, when I send a joint to bake,
Away from it contrives to take
Enough a hearty meal to make?
My Baker!
Who lends my Times to read in town,
And when I at the lateness frown,
Tells me the engine’s broken down?
My Newsman!
Who coolly pawns my “other” shirt,
And tells me, with assurance pert,
She’s only dropped it in the dirt?
My Laundress!
Who peeps in every private note,
Wears my best neckcloth round his throat,
And at the “Swarry” sports my coat?
My Footman!
Who brings my shaving water late,
And with a basket full of plate
One morning doth evaporate,
My Valet!
Who flirts with soldiers dressed so fine,
And leaves that sweetest pet of mine,
To tumble in the Serpentine,
My Nursemaid!
Who comes to make a formal call,
Merely to criticise us all,
When severed by the party wall?
My Neighbour!
Who’s who, or where shall he be sought,
Who may not now and then be caught
At something wrong in act or thought,
Why! No one!
Punch, January 11, 1851.
——:o:——
My Boot-Hooks.
The Lay of a Lunatic.
[This poem is selected from a variety of contributions intended for The Hanwell Annual. It shows a true spirit of poetry, although the subject is not perhaps clearly followed out. The last stanza, in particular, is a fine instance of poetical license.]
Who, when the sea did toss and roar,
And I thought soon to be no more,
Came and knock’d loudly at my door?
My Boot‑hooks.
* * * * *
Who pulled the nose of Rome’s first Pope,
For looking after Johnny Cope,
Who was so poorly off for soap?
My Boot‑hooks.
Who at Vingt-un hid all the aces,
Then threw the counters in our faces,
The night preceding Epsom races?
My Boot‑hooks.
Who, whilst I was residing at Constantinople,
Took advantage of my absence to open my bureau,
And thus betrayed the confidence I placed in them?
My Boot‑hooks.
The Man in the Moon, Vol. 4.
——:o:——
My Bicycle.
By Jagy Torlton.
He cadgily ranted and sang.—Old Song.
What spins around “like all git out,”
And swiftly carries me about,
So light, so still, so bright and stout?
My Bicycle.
Regard me now where I sit high on
Nag forty pound of mostly iron;
And don’t you wish that you might try on
My Bicycle?
Monstrum imforme, ingens! some
Cry, seeing first this courser come,
Our “fine knee-action” strikes them dumb,
My Bicycle!
Call him a monster from the east,
And both a lean and fatuous beast,
You comprehend not in the least
My Bicycle.
Revolve it in your mind, and my way
Will show to be a more than guy way—
High way of riding on the highway—
My Bicycle.
Those now who stand and stare and say,
O, “parce nobis, s’il vous plait,”
Will beg to tread, another day,
My Bicycle.
What tho’ Hans Breitmann did, almost,
And Schnitzerlein gave up the ghost?
’Twas all because they couldn’t boast
My Bicycle.
And saying mine, I do not mean
There are not many others seen
Who ride like me on my machine,
My Bicycle.
I’m not stuck up, tho’ seated high;
To ride, at once, and run and fly—
My pride is so to travel by
My Bicycle.
Who will my head with learning stow,
I work the light, ped-antic toe,
’Tis cyclopedic lore to know
My Bicycle.
And when the saddled arc I span,
What care I for the fall of man
Let him remount! I always can
My Bicycle.
All the mutations I discern
Of men and States not me concern,
While I avoid to overturn
My Bicycle.
See Russia rotten, Turkey eat—
And John Bull in a stewing heat;
We have a better kind of meet,
My Bicycle!
Then hurry spokes and spokesman too,
We only have an hour or so,
And almost twenty miles to go.
My Bicycle.
Lyra Bicyclica, By J. G. Dalton,
(E. C. Hodges & Co.) Boston, 1885.
——:o:——
My Chignon.
What was it all my fears did quell,
When down six flights of stairs I fell,
Preserved my cranium so well?
My Chignon!
What is it, when some young knight pries
Out of his blue orbs corner-wise,
That tilts my hat down o’er my eyes?
My Chignon!
What is it so exceeding kind,
When I walk through the rain and wind,
On some stray twig will stay behind
To form a nest for feathered kind?
My Chignon!
Girl of the Period Miscellany, August, 1869.
——:o:——
My Dentist.
In childhood who my first array
Of teeth pluck’d tenderly away,
For teeth, like dogs, have each their day?
My Dentist.
Who, when my first had run their race,
And others had usurp’d their place,
When overcrowded gave them space?
My Dentist.
Whether the cavities were slight,
Or vast and deep, who stopp’d them tight,
Then made their polish’d surface white?
My Dentist.
When void of bone a gap was seen,
Who fix’d, the vacancy to screen,
An artificial one between?
My Dentist.
Who, when ambitious to be first
My horse fell headlong in the burst,
Replaced the ivories dispersed?
My Dentist.
Who “Baily” left on parlour chair
With leaf turn’d down to show me where
Jack Russell’s life was pictured there?
My Dentist.
Or reading in that doleful cell
Whyte-Melville’s verse, who knew full well
Its charm would every pang dispel?
My Dentist.
Who lull’d with laughing gas my fear
When conscious that a tug was near
For man’s endurance too severe?
My Dentist.
And lastly, when infirm I grew,
Who skilfully each relic drew,
And framed for me a mouth-piece new?
My Dentist.
From “Songs and Verses on Sporting Subjects,”
by R. E. Egerton-Warburton
(Pickering & Co., Piccadilly, 1879.)
——:o:——
Rondeau.
To-day, it is my natal day,
And threescore years have passed away,
While Time has turned to silver gray
My hairs.
Pursuing pleasure, love, and fun,
A longish course I’ve had to run,
And thanks to Fortune I have won
My hares.
But now, exhausted in the race,
No longer I can go the pace,
And others must take up the chase,
My heirs.
Tom Hood.
——:o:——
The following Parody is taken from a small and very scarce volume, entitled, “My Hookah; or, The Stranger in Calcutta.” Being a collection of Poems by an Officer. Calcutta: Printed at the Press of Greenway and Co., 1812.
The volume contains a Preface, 73 pages of Poetry, of a mildly humourous type, and a List of Subscribers, headed by the name of The Right Honourable Lord Minto, Governor General, etc., etc., etc. In a foot note to My Hookah, the Author (whose name is not given), remarks, “Cowper’s beautiful lines to ‘Mary’ have given rise to innumerable Parodies—we have had ‘My Father,’—‘My Mother,’ and even ‘My Granny;’ why then should not ‘My Hookah’ be added to the number?”
My Hookah.
What is it, that affords such joys
On Indian shores, and never cloys,
But makes that pretty, bubbling noise?
My Hookah.
What is it, that a Party if in
At breakfast, dinner, or at Tiffin,
Surprises and delights the Griffin?
My Hookah.
What is it to Cadets gives pleasure?
What is it occupies their leisure?
What do they deem the greatest treasure?
My Hookah.
Say—what makes Decency wear sable?
What makes each would-be nabob able
To cock his legs upon the table?
My Hookah.
What is it (trust me, I’m not joking,
Tis truth—altho’, I own, provoking)
That sets e’en Indian belles a smoking?
My Hookah.
What is it—whensoe’er we search
In ev’ry place;—except the Church,
That leaves sweet converse in the lurch?
My Hookah.
But hold my Muse—for shame, for shame—
One question ere you smoking blame—
What is it gives your book a name?
My Hookah.
My fault I own—my censure ends;
Nay more—I’ll try to make amends,
Who is the safest of all friends?
My Hookah.
Say who? or what retains the power,
When fickle Fortune ’gins to lour,
To solace many a lonely hour?
My Hookah.
When death-like dews and fogs prevailing
In Pinnace or in Budg’-row sailing,
What is it that prevents our ailing?
My Hookah.
When we’re our skins with claret soaking,
And heedless wits their friends are joking,
Which friend will stand the greatest smoking?
My Hookah.
By what—(nay, answer at your ease,)
While pocketing our six rupees—
By what d’ye mean the town to please?
My Hookah.
——:o:——
My Jenny.
A Lay of Lumley.
“Jenny sçait quoi.”—French idiom.
“Jenny knows what’s what.”—English translation.
Oh! when by all my troop forsaken,
And Beale had all my singers taken,
Who just appeared to save my bacon?
My Jenny!
Who was it I at last cajoled,
To break her word for British gold,
[23]By which the Poet Bunn was sold,
My Jenny!
Who is this Swedish nightingale,
Of whom each told a different tale,
“She’d rival Grisi;” “No, she’d fail,”
My Jenny!
Alboni, Castellan, or Grisi
Are tolerable, and may please ye,
But where’s the girl who’ll beat them easy,
My Jenny!
Who made so brilliant a début,
And such an awful audience drew,
That all soprani pallid grew,
My Jenny!
Who is’t I hope will still remain,
Because I can foresee, with pain
All’s up when she’s gone back again,
My Jenny!
The Man in the Moon. Vol. I.
——:o:——
My Landlady.
By a Lodger.
Who greets me with a greasy smile,
Though she is cheating me the while—
And says, “I’m out of coals and ile?”
My Landlady.
Who says she’s seen much better days,
And will her “poor departed” praise,
And with her chat my meal delays?
My Landlady.
Who lets her son my collars wear,
And with me my clean linen share?
Who with my clothes-brush does her hair?
My Landlady.
Who on my viands waxes fat!
Who keeps a most voracious cat!
Who often listens on my mat?
My Landlady.
Who won’t bring up cold joints to me,
Who drinks my spirits—prigs my tea—
Who for my sideboard keeps a key?
My Landlady.
Who “cooks” the little bills I pay,
And cheats me—yes! in every way;
Who is it I shall leave to-day?
My Landlady.
The Figaro Album, 1873.
——:o:——
My Lodger.
By a Landlady.
Who chips my marble mantelpiece,
Drops on my “Brussels” spots of grease,
Deprives my tabby of his peace,
And more than once has kissed my niece?
My Lodger.
And who my balcony did fill
With an election posting-bill,
And spouted to a mob, until
The uproar really made me ill?
My Lodger.
Who plays the horn at ghostly hours,
And brings the ceiling down in showers,
By beating time, and thoroughly sours
The people in the house next ours?
My Lodger.
And who, when Sunday morning comes,
Some operatic chorus hums
With wild young men he calls his “chums,”
While one a harp, or banjo thrums?
My Lodger.
Who doth the acrobats engage,
The “happy family” in the cage;
Delights in Punch and Judy’s rage
With ragged boys of every age?
My Lodger.
Who wakes my neighbour in a fright,
Invites that pious man to fight,
Hiccups—“I’ll see—mishtake—all right,”
And who’ll have warning, too, this night?
My Lodger.
Judy, February 10, 1869.
——:o:——
The Undergrad’s Soliloquy.
What darkens all my bright career,
And takes away my breath with fear,
As I behold it looming near?
My Little-go.
I used to feel so free and jolly,—
Indulged in fun, perhaps in folly,—
What makes me now so melan-choly?
My Little-go.
What makes me blush, and look so shy,
When up the Turl, or down the High,
I catch the stern Exam’ner’s eye?
My Little-go.
O would I were a little lamb
A-skipping with my gentle fam—
Ily, nor troubled by Exam.
My Little-go.
What makes my sister Mary Jane
Keep writing in that mournful strain,—
“Dear John, don’t overtax your brain?”
My Little-go.
Oh! will this frightful harass last?
No! I can see I’m thinning fast,
And soon my body will be past
All Little‑goes.
These mental faculties of mine
Their powers and energies resign—
I die a martyr at the shrine
Of Little-go.
And when beneath some yew-tree’s gloom,
My bones shall into dust consume,
This epitaph shall grace my tomb,—
O Little-go!
Epitaph.
“No ceaseless coughings racked his side,
No agues shook him; in his pride
(Weep, gentle reader, weep!) he died
Of Little‑go.”
C. E. W. B. Worc. Coll. Oxford.
College Rhymes. T. & G. Shrimpton, Oxford, 1865.
——:o:——
My Member.
Dedicated to the Marquis of Londonderry.
Who, now that naughty Castlereagh
With Sharman Crawford’s gone astray,
For Downshire ought to win the day?
My Member.
Who, since the seat I’ve dearly bought,
Must in for it at once be brought
(At least, so I have always thought)?
My Member.
Who, if he calls his soul his own,
And don’t his views to mine postpone,
Shall overboard at once be thrown?
My Member.
Who, when I say that wrong is right,
That truth is falsehood, black is white,
Must take the self-same point of sight?
My Member.
Who, at my will, is deaf, dumb, blind,
And, howsoever disinclined,
Must, if he will speak, speak my mind?
My Member.
Who with my letters ne’er must fence,
But praise the style and guess the sense,
Despite the number, mood, and tense?
My Member.
Who, in the park or in the street,
Shall have a nod whene’er we meet,
And at my balls shall shake his feet?
My Member.
Who, ’neath such favours shower’d en masse,
From mere humanity shall pass,
And be my man, my ox, my ass?
My Member.
Punch, June 5, 1852.
[The Viscount Castlereagh, eldest son of the Marquis of Londonderry, sat as the member for County Down from 1826 to 1852, and the seat had always, until then, been regarded as family property.]
——:o:——
To My Murray.
Autumn, 1857.
The Wind and tide have brought us fast,
The Custom House is well nigh past,
Alas; that this should be the last;
My Murray.
The spirits in my flask grew low,
Mine sinking too, I rushed below,
And in despair, cried, “Steward, oh!”
My Murray.
But once on shore, my troubles end,
Sights, sounds, no longer me offend,
I clap thee on the back, my friend!
My Murray.
My classics, once a shining store,
For thee put by this month or more,
Now rust disused and shine no more,
My Murray.
So well thou’st played the hand-book’s part,
For inns a hint, for routes a chart,
That every line I’ve got by heart
My Murray.
And though thou gladly would’st fulfil,
The same kind office for me still,
My purse now seconds not my will,
My Murray.
Thy shabby sides once crimson bright
Are quite as lovely in my sight,
As mountains bathed in roseate light,
My Murray.
For should I view them without thee,
What sights worth seeing could I see,
The Rhine would run in vain for me,
My Murray.
Companion of my glad ascent,
Mount Blanc I did with thy consent,
And saw wide-spread the Continent,
My Murray.
Once, I could scarce walk up the Strand,
What Jungfrau now could us withstand,
When we are walking hand-in-hand,
My Murray.
But ah! too well some folk I know,
Who friends on dusty shelves do throw,—
With us it never shall be so,
My Murray.
Punch, December 5, 1857.
——:o:——
My Nose.
What leads me on where’er I go,
In sun and shade, in joy and woe,
Thro’ fog and tempest, rain and snow?
My Nose.
In youth’s most ardent reckless day,
And when arose disputes at play,
What would be foremost in the fray?
My Nose.
And should my tongue rude blows provoke,
What would protrude and brave each stroke,
Till coral streams its pains bespoke?
My Nose.
And falling in an airy bound,
In chase of some new charm or sound,
To save me—what came first to ground?
My Nose.
When some dark pass I would explore,
With neither shut nor open door,
What oft for me hard usage bore?
My Nose.
And when in want I yearn’d to eat,
And hunger might my judgment cheat,
What prompted me to food most sweet?
My Nose.
’Mid violet banks and woodbine bowers,
And beds where bloom’d the fairest flowers,
What fed me with their fragrant powers?
My Nose.
Each eye may need in age a guide,
And when young helpmates I provide,
Thy back thou’lt lend for them to stride,
My Nose.
And can I or in care or glee,
Refuse my aid and love to thee,
Who thus has felt and bled for me,
My Nose?
No; when cold winter’s winds blow high,
And bite thee hard and thou shalt cry,
Thy tears with sympathy I’ll dry,
My Nose.
And if for snuff thy love shall come,
Thy slaves, my finger and my thumb,
Shall faithful be, and bear thee some,
My Nose.
Still as I follow thee along,
Oh, mayst thou never lead me wrong!
But thou must hush our sleeping song,
My Nose!
Attempts in Verse, by John Jones, an old Servant.
(Edited by Robert Southey, poet laureate, 1831.)
——:o:——
My Punch.
Upon the express train of the Michigan Railway.
February, 1864. Midnight. Mercury at Zero.
What, in this far benighted West,
Brings comfort to my lonely breast,
And gives my life its sweetest zest?
My Punch.
The ragged boy who brought the news,
Offered me much from which to choose.
Times, Tribune, Herald, I refuse,
My Punch.
Within the carriage sickly white
Were men from Chicamanga’s fight.
My eyes were moistened by the sight,
My Punch.
“Discharged from hospital,” they sigh,
“Where yet a thousand sufferers lie,
And coming home at last” to die,
My Punch.
For those sad faces homeward turned,
Their short-lived pensions fully earned,
How many mother’s hearts had yearned,
My Punch.
’Twas scarce a twelvemonth since, I know,
When eager crowds beheld them go,
Their youthful faces all a-glow,
My Punch.
And now all twisted by the cramps,
Which wrung them ’mid the noxious damps
Of fenny bivouacks and camps,
My Punch.
Bright were those eyes, now bleared and dim,
Lithe was each crutch-supported limb,
Merry were once those spectres grim,
My Punch.
What contrast between now and then!
Their mothers scarce would know again
Those mournful, feeble, dying men,
My Punch.
One speechless on his pallet lay,
They take him forth, “His home” they say
A wretched hamlet by the way,
My Punch.
My wandering fancy sadly bore
My vision to the half-ope’d door,
The tearful clasp—I saw no more,
My Punch.
Oh, fearful reign of greed and hate!
Oh, Nation haughty and elate,
Writing in blood its dreadful fate!
My Punch.
It haunts me, this repulsive theme,
With gory phantasies which seem
The nightmares of a troubled dream,
My Punch.
For through the surface gloze so thin
One sees the Carnival of Sin,
The devil’s dice they play. Who win?
My Punch.
The train is stopped by drifting snows,
An inn is reached, but no repose
Exhausted hungry nature knows,
My Punch.
Here I am forced to sit up late,
Amid the chewing crowds I hate,
Who patiently expectorate
My Punch.
The whistle sounds ere I depart,
I clasp thee to my aching heart,
Balm for the exile’s keenest smart,
My Punch.
——:o:——
My Stockings.
A nobler theme let others choose;
Fit subject for my humble muse
Are ye, whom night and day I use,
My Stockings.
Soon as Aurora points the skies,
(Ere from my sluggard couch I rise,)
For you I raise my earliest cries,
My Stockings.
The live-long day, around my thigh
Ye cling: and seldom turn away;
With me ye trudge through wet and dry,
My Stockings.
At night, one serves to stop a gap
I’th’ wall—I sink in Somnus’ lap,
And t’other serves me for a cap,
My Stockings!
Let none their various deeds decry:
For ever as the week goes by,
They’re washed, and then I hang to dry,
My Stockings!
About 1800. Anonymous.
——:o:——
The Man of Fashion.
Who made this moving piece of clay,
So bright, and beautiful and gay
As though life were one holiday?
My Tailor.
Whose magic shears, and cloth, and tape,
Gave to my ugly neck a nape,
And brought my bow-legs into shape?
My Tailor.
Who all deformity effaced,
And beautified, and stuffed and laced,
And stamp’d Adonis on my waist?
My Tailor.
Who made the coat, the pantaloon,
That in the gay and bright saloon,
Won me a spouse and honey-moon?
My Tailor.
Reverse the picture; who was it,
That taught me wisdom was unfit
A beau, a gentleman, and wit?
My Tailor.
Whose magic shears, and cloth, and tape,
Made me in bearing, form, and shape,
The very mockery of an ape?
My Tailor.
Who bound me to a worthless wife,
Whose vanity, and spleen, and strife
Will be the nightmare of my life?
My Tailor.
Who passes me with threatening looks?
Who’s got me deepest in his books?
Who’ll nab me yet? Why, Mr. Snooks—
My Tailor.
The Maids, Wives, & Widows Penny Magazine,
May 25, 1833.
——:o:——
My Ticker.
Old friend that once with me did dwell
Vouchsafing all the hours to tell,
Where art thou gone? I know too well,
My Ticker!
Thou art not gone to artists’ care
To try the good of change of air
Or undergo a slight repair,
My Ticker.
No! thou art gone—no fault of thine—
Unto a relative of mine,
Entitled “Uncle,” I opine,
My Ticker.
And there must thou remain awhile,
Spite of thyself, in durance vile,
Accompanied by my best tile,
My Ticker.
And much I fear thou must remain
Until a shower, not of rain,
Impels thee down the spout again,
My Ticker.
Punch, 1842.
——:o:——
My Uncle.
(By Louis Napoleon Bounaparte.)
Who raised our race up from the dregs,
And set us youngsters on our legs,
Putting us up so many pegs?
My Uncle!
Who scratch’d up Europe like a hen,
To fling out grains for us young men?
Who shut the mouth and stopped the pen?
My Uncle!
Who broke through rights and smash’d through laws,
To find neat crowns for our papas,
And shot young D’Enghien in our cause?
My Uncle!
Who left us something still to do—
A name to keep French passions true
To us—the name of Waterloo?
My Uncle!
Who gave me all my little name,
My little hopes, my little fame,
My little everything, but blame?
My Uncle!
Punch, January 3, 1852.
——:o:——
My Uncle.
Who, by a transmutation bold,
Turns clothes or watches, new and old,
Or any other goods, to gold?
My Uncle!
Who, by a duplication rare,
Makes Hunger’s chattels (scant and bare)
Produce first cash, and then good fare?
My Uncle!
Who, when my credit got quite low,
Handed me cash on Jane’s trousseau,
And lent a suite of paste for show?
My Uncle!
Who caused her silks our mouths to fill,
And made my full-dress shirt with frill
Discharge a fortnight’s butcher’s bill?
My Uncle!
When creditors—a ruthless crew—
Had “small accounts just coming due,”
Who stopped their clamorous tongues? Why you,
My Uncle!
And when attorneys round me pressed
With writs of judgment and arrest,
Who set for weeks their quills at rest?
My Uncle!
Who lent us hundreds three and four,
And kindly kept our plate secure,
When we commenced our foreign tour?
My Uncle!
Punch, March, 1845.
My Uncle.
Who dwells at yonder three gold balls
Where Poverty so often calls
To place her relics in his walls?
My Uncle.
Who cheers the heart with “money lent,”
When friends are cold, and all is spent,
Receiving only cent. per cent?
My Uncle.
Who cares not what distress may bring,
If stolen from beggar or from king,
And, like the sea, takes everything?
My Uncle.
Who, wiser than each sage of yore,
Who Alchemy would fain explore,
Can make whate’er he touches ore?
My Uncle.
Who, when the wretch is sunk in grief
And none besides will yield relief,
Will aid the honest or the thief?
My Uncle.
Who, when detection threatens law,
His secret stores will open draw,
That future rogues may stand in awe?
My Uncle.
Bought wisdom is the best, ’tis clear,
And since ’tis better as more dear,
We, for high usance, should revere,
My Uncle.
And though to make the heedless wise,
He cheats in all he sells or buys,
To work a moral purpose tries
My Uncle.
Who, when our friends are quite withdrawn,
And hypocrites no longer fawn
Takes all but honour into pawn
My Uncle.
John Taylor.
——:o:——
The Pawnbroker before Congress.
(Of Social Science,
Represented by Mr. Attenborough.)
Who is the Poor Man’s constant friend,
Aid ever ready to extend,
And sums at moderate usance lend?
My Uncle.
Who’s the philanthropist, maligned
By thoughtless, ignorant, unkind
Perverters of the people’s mind?
My Uncle.
Who stolen goods will ne’er receive,
In fact, is shunned by them that thieve
For pledges they’re afraid to leave?
My Uncle.
Who, when a Nephew, or a Niece,
Would pawn a doubtful gem, or piece
Of plate, apprises the Police?
My Uncle.
Who keeps the shop whose “Two-to-one,”
Denotes that you shall not be done,
For all that has been said in fun?
My Uncle.
Who is particular about
All articles put “up the spout,”
Again, (almost all,) taken out?
My Uncle.
The false suspicion, therefore, drop,
That Nunky keeps a Fence’s shop,
Who’d lose by prey which thieves might pop,
My Uncle.
Punch, October 21, 1871.
——:o:——
My Valentine.
In furs and velvets orthodox,
With laughing eyes and sunny locks,
And, oh! the very shortest frocks,
My Valentine.
With lips like full ripe cherries bright,
With eyes ablaze with inward light,
With dainty frills all gleaming white,
Sweet Valentine.
Her voice but like the rippling stream,
Her face but like an artist’s dream,
Her form but fit for poet’s theme,
My Valentine.
In silk her shapely limbs encased,
With tiny bottines deftly laced,
On modelled feet so fitly placed,
Dear Valentine.
Her merry tricks, her roguish ways,
Her playful pranks, her earnest gaze,
Her gleeful laugh, her well-turned phrase,
My Valentine.
Who is there bold enough to dare
With her sweet beauty to compare,
Or even claim her throne to share?
Loved Valentine.
The chief she is of all coquettes,
The prettiest of pretty pets;
What thoughts her memory begets!
My Valentine.
Could I but hope her heart to fix!—
Ah me! old Time plays cruel tricks,
For I, alas! am fifty-six;—She’s only nine,
My Valentine.
Judy, February 2, 1880.
——:o:——
The Jesuit to his Grandmother.
Who, when I was a puny child
And drew my interference mild,
Shrieked at me, and grew very wild?
My Whalley!
Who, when the country let me play,
Grabbed at my toys day after day,
And scared my very foes away?
My Whalley!
Who thus, when things seemed growing slack,
With injudicious, wild attack,
Brought all my finest business back?
My Whalley!
Who, when the House discussed my claim,
Yelled at me—called me every name,
Till I got votes—for very shame?
My Whalley!
Who, when he rose his change to ring,
“Like Paganini, on one string,”
Was very strongly urged to sing?
My Whalley!
Who, when his name became a jest,
By friends well cursed—by foes well blest—
Himself to other arts addressed?
My Whalley!
Who all his nasty powers tasked,
And spread—Lord Campbell’s Act unasked—
His famed “Confessional Unmasked”?
My Whalley!
Who foremost in the Turnbull chase,
When bigots drove him from his place,
In savage war-paint led the race?
My Whalley!
Turnbull no more, who still must rave,
And, none to answer, call him knave—
Insult the dead man in his grave?
My Whalley!
Who, by such wiles—friends not too true,
And enemies by no means few—
Rallied them all around me?—Who?
My Whalley!
Who thus, should the whole Order fail,
And Grand Inquisitors turn tail,
In any mess will stand my bail?
My Whalley!
And who, unto the very end,
My honour—life—will e’er defend?—
My grandmother!—my truest friend!—
My Whalley!
The Tomahawk, August 31, 1867.
[The late Mr. G. H. Whalley sat for many years as M.P. for Peterborough, and was noted for the bitterness of his attacks on the Roman Catholics. On rising to address the House of Commons he was frequently greeted with cries of “Sing, Whalley, sing!”]
——:o:——
My Whiskers.
What causes all the folks to stare,
As I strut by en militaire,
And makes my face all over hair?
My Whiskers.
Why do the children laugh with glee?
’Tis no uncommon sight to see.
Ah! no; they only envy me
My Whiskers.
What wounds with twenty thousand darts
When practising the game of hearts,
And such sweet vanity imparts?
My Whiskers.
How I can quiz a naked chin,
And mimic every vulgar grin;
But I’ll be bound they’ll laugh who win,
My Whiskers.
Should ever cruel fate decree,
That we, alas! should sever’d be,
I’ll lay me down and die with thee—
My Whiskers.
The Penny Belle Assemblée, October 26, 1833.
——:o:——
“My Yot.”
(A confidential Carol, by a Cockney Owner, who inwardly feels that he is not exactly “in it” after all.)
What makes me deem I’m of Viking blood
(Though a wee bit queer when the pace grows hot),
A briny slip of the British brood?
My Yot!
What makes me rig me in curious guise,
Like a kind of a sort of—I dont know what,
And talk sea-slang, to the world’s surprise?
My Yot!
What makes me settle my innermost soul
On winning a purposeless silver pot
And walk with a (very much) nautical roll?
My Yot!
What makes me learned in cutters and yawls,
And time-allowance—which others must tot—
And awfully nervous in sudden squalls?
My Yot!
What makes me sprawl on the deck all day,
And at night play “nap” till I lose a lot,
And grub in a catch-who-can sort of a way?
My Yot!
What makes me qualmish, timorous, pale,
(Though rather than own it I’d just be shot)
When the Fay in the wave-crests dips her sails?
My Yot!
What makes me “patter” to skipper and crew
In a kibosh style that a child might spot,
And tug hard ropes till my knuckles go blue?
My Yot!
What makes me snooze in a narrow close bunk,
Till the cramp my limbs doth twist and knot,
And brave discomfort, and face blue-funk?
My Yot!
What makes me gammon my chummiest friends
To “try the fun”—which I know’s all rot—
And earn the dead-cut in which all this ends?
My Yot!
What makes me, in short, an egregious ass,
A bore, a butt, who, not caring a jot
For the sea, as a sea-king am seeking to pass?
My Yot!
Punch, August 28, 1880.
Your Friend.
By the Countess of Blessington.
Who borrows all your ready cash,
And with it cuts a mighty dash,
Proving the lender weak and rash?
Your Friend!
Who finds out every secret fault,
Misjudges every word and thought,
And makes you pass for worse than naught?
Your Friend!
Who wins your money at deep play,
Then tells you that the world doth say,
“’Twere wise from clubs you kept away?”
Your Friend!
Who sells you, for the longest price,
Horses, a dealer in a trice
Would find unsound, and full of vice?
Your Friend!
Who eats your dinners, then looks shrewd,
Wishes you had a cook like Ude,[24]
For then, much oft’ner would intrude—
Your Friend.
Who tells you that you’ve shocking wine,
And owns that, though his port’s not fine,
Crockford’s the only place to dine?
Your Friend!
Who wheedles you with words most fond,
To sign for him a heavy bond?
“Or else, by Jove, must quick abscond?”
Your Friend!
Who makes you all the interest pay
With principal, some future day,
And laughs at what you then may say?
Your Friend!
Who makes deep love unto your wife,
Knowing you prize her more than life,
And breeds between you hate and strife?
Your Friend!
Who, when you’ve got into a brawl,
Insists that out your man you call,
Then gets you shot, which ends it all?
Your Friend?
From The Keepsake.
Another Friend.
When Satan for his sins was driven
Forth from the eternal joys of heaven,
We read that unto him was given
A Stick.
In infancy, what was my pride?
What was’t for which I often cried?
What did I saddle, mount, and ride?
My Stick.
And when my tardy teens began,
I flourish’d oft my gay rattan,
Thou graced me while I ape’d the man,
My Stick.
Theatre, market, church, or fair,
Wherever I am, thou art there,
Ev’n children cry—there goes a pair
Of Sticks.
But till my door of life is shut
Till in my kindred earth I’m put,
Till life’s extinct, I’ll never cut
My Stick.
——:o:——
Woman.
When our first parents liv’d in blissful ease,
In Eden’s flowery fields, enjoying peace,
Who was it caus’d those blissful days to cease?
A Woman.
Who was’t (beguil’d by our inveterate foe),
Gave to man’s happiness a mortal blow,
And brought into the world, sin, death, and woe?
A Woman.
When Lot from his detested country fled,
Who was’t the heavenly mandate disobey’d,
And to the city turned her daring head?
A Woman.
Who was’t, with naked and resistless charms,
Rais’d in King David’s bosom wild alarms,
And clasp’d the monarch in adultrous arms?
A Woman.
Who was’t inflam’d King Ahab’s lurking vice,
His thirst of blood, his grasping avarice,
And caus’d the wretched Naboth’s sacrifice?
A Woman.
Who was’t (enamour’d of the Phrygian boy,
King Priam’s blooming hope) with secret joy,
Left her brave spouse, and fir’d Imperial Troy?
A Woman.
Who was’t, regardless of her nuptial vows,
To Atreus’ son betray’d her Trojan spouse,
And saw him sink beneath the murd’rer’s blows?
A Woman.
Who was it caus’d the deadly strife to grow
Betwixt Pelides and his royal foe,
And brought on Greece unutterable woe?
A Woman.
When Agamemnon (through all Greece renown’d)
From Trojan wars returned, with conquest crown’d,
Who caus’d th’ unguarded monarch’s mortal wound?
A Woman.
Who was’t, with witchcraft, and each am’rous wile,
Detain’d Ulysses from his native isle,
His wife’s embraces, and his parent’s smile?
A Woman.
When Antony’s victorious arms had gain’d
One half the world, o’er which he jointly reign’d,
Who caus’d his death, and all his glory stain’d?
A Woman.
Who was’t the royal Edward’s life betray’d,
The unhappy martyr’s confidence repaid,
By plunging in his heart the assassin’s blade,
A Woman.
Who was’t, inflam’d with false religious ire,
Caus’d Latimer and Ridley to expire,
Roasted like lobsters in a Smithfield fire?
A Woman.
Who still in man’s weak heart retains her place,
And with a smile upon a lovely face,
Can lure the fool to misery and disgrace?
False Woman.
The Duel, with other Poems, by L. O. Shaw, Blackburn,
printed and sold by T. Rogerson, 1815.
(Referring to this Poem, in his preface, the author quaintly remarks “Truth offends none but fools and knaves.”)
——:o:——
ODE XXV.
My Godwin!
Parcius junctas quatiunt fenastras.
Our Temple youth, a lawless train,
Blockading Johnson’s window pane,
No longer laud thy solemn strain,
My Godwin!
“Chaucer’s” a mighty tedious elf,
“Fleetwood” lives only for himself,
And “Caleb Williams” loves the shelf,
My Godwin!
No longer cry the sprites unblest,
“Awake! Arise! Stand forth confess’d!”
For fallen, fallen is thy crest,
My Godwin!
Thy muse for meretricious feats,
Does quarto penance now in sheets,
Or cloathing parcels roams the streets,
My Godwin!
Thy name at Luna’s lamp thou light’st,
Blank is the verse that thou indit’st,
Thy play is damn’d, yet still thou writ’st,
My Godwin!
And still to wield the grey goose quill,
When Phœbus sinks, to feel no chill,
“With me is to be lovely still,”
My Godwin!
Thy winged steed (a bit of blood)
Bore thee like Trunnion through the flood,
To leave thee sprawling in the mud,
My Godwin!
But carries now, with martial trot,
In glittering armour, Walter Scott,
A poet he—which thou art not,
My Godwin!
Nay, nay, forbear these jealous wails,
Tho’ he’s upborne on fashion’s gales,
Thy heavy bark attendant sails,
My Godwin
Fate each by different streams conveys,
His skiff in Aganippe plays,
And thine in Lethe’s whirlpool strays,
My Godwin!
From Horace in London, by James and Horace Smith, authors of “Rejected Addresses,” 1815. William Godwin, the author of a Life of Chaucer; “Fleetwood;” “Caleb Williams,” “St. Leon,” and other works, was a well known character in the literary world in the beginning of the present century. He married Mary Wollstonecraft, and their daughter, the authoress of Frankenstein, became the wife of Shelley the poet. William Godwin died in 1836, aged 81. There is a short sketch of his career in “The Maclise Portrait Gallery.”
——:o:——
The News-paper; or, Ready-made Ideas.
I sing not of a tale of woe
That happ’d some ninety years ago:
I urge a theme that all must know—
The Paper.
At morn, when tea and toast appear,
And to the table all draw near,
What gives a zest to welcome cheer?
The Paper.
In vain the urn is hissing hot,
In vain rich Hyson stores the pot,
If the vile newsman has forgot
The Paper.
What is’t can draw the Vicar’s eye,
Ee’n from the tithe-pig smoking by,
To mark some vacant Rectory?
The Paper.
What is’t attracts the optic pow’rs
Of Ensign gay, when fortune show’rs
Down prospects of “a step” in “ours”?
The Paper.
Who is’t can make the man of law,
Neglect the deed or plea to draw—
Ca. Sa.—Fi. Fa.—Indictment, Flaw?
The Paper.
What is’t can soothe his client’s woe,
And make him quite forget John Doe,
Nor think on Mister Richard Roe?
The Paper.
What is’t absorbs the wealthy Cit,
The half-pay Sub, the fool, the wit,
The toothless Aunt, the forward Chit—
The Paper.
What is’t informs the country round,
What’s stol’n or stray’d, what’s lost or found,
Who’s born, and who’s put under ground?
The Paper.
What tells you all that’s done and said,
The fall of beer, the rise of bread,
And what fair lady’s brought to bed?
The Paper.
What is it tells of plays and balls,
Almack’s, and gas lights, and St. Paul’s,
And gamblers caught by Mr. Halls?
The Paper.
What is’t narrates full many a story,
Of Mr. Speaker, Whig, and Tory,
And heroes all agog for glory?
The Paper.
What is it gives the price of stocks,
Of Poyais Loans, and patent locks,
And wine at the West India Docks?
The Paper.
What tells you too who kill’d or hurt is,
When turtles fresh arriv’d, whose skirt is
Much relish’d by Sir William Curtis?
The Paper.
What speaks of thieves and purses taken,
And murders done, and maids forsaken,
And average price of Wiltshire bacon?
The Paper.
Abroad, at home, infirm or stout,
In health, or raving with the gout,
Who possibly can do without
The Paper?
It’s worth and merits then revere,
And since to-day begins our year,
Think not you e’er can buy too dear
The Paper.
The Spirit of the Public Journals, 1823.
——:o:——
Velluti.
Heards’t thou not the peacock shriek?
Heards’t thou not the cricket squeak?
Heards’t thou not the door-hinge creak?
No—it was Velluti!
Heards’t thou the parrot’s shrilly cry?
Heards’t thou the screech-owl hooting by?
Heards’t thou the sea-mew screaming nigh?
No—it was Velluti!
Heards’t thou the angry mastiff growl?
Heards’t thou grimalkins midnight howl,
And croaking frogs in waters foul?
No—it was Velluti!
Some there are who mock the song
And warblings of the feather’d throng—
But birds and beasts alike belong
To thy tones, poor Velluti!
For thou art each—first this, then that—
A husky rook, a squeaking rat—
Famed Punch, a frog, a love-sick cat—
These form thy voice, Velluti!
Spirit of the Age Newspaper, 1828.
——:o:——
The Bishop and Don Miguel.
(A recent correspondence.)
Who, false alike in war and peace,
Hath nothing done but cheat and fleece,
His brother bilk, and rob his niece?
My Miguel!
Who, on his way to all this evil,
In London looked so sweet and civil,
In Lisbon pitch’d us to the devil?
My Miguel!
Whose tyrant deeds e’en roused the spleen
Of tyrant-loving Aberdeen
To call thee names he didn’t mean
My Miguel?
Who rules his realm with guns and drums,
And sends poor devils to martyrdoms,
With “little angels”[25] round their thumbs?
My Miguel!
Yet, ah! atrocious as thou art,
So well thou play’st a monarch’s part,
Thou’rt dear unto a bishop’s heart,
My Miguel.
For thine the sceptre and the purse,
And wert thou even ten times worse,
To us ’twould matter not a curse,
My Miguel.
The Answer.
As welcome as a richer see
Would prove to Exeter, or thee,
Thy kindly greeting comes to me,
My Bishop!
’Tis sweet to think whoever draws
His sword against the people’s cause
Is sure, at least, of thy applause,
My Bishop.
And whether ’tis Old Nick or Nero,
With morals, like my own, at zero,
Thou’lt hail him as the Church’s hero,
My Bishop.
The world may hold thy “Nolo” light,
But where men come to ask their right
Thy “Nolo” may be trusted quite,
My Bishop.
Love to the bench, should you and they
Chance to be ousted some fine day,
Pop over here to Lisbon, pray,
My Bishop.
For though ’twill doubtless dull appear
Without your thousands five per year,
You’ll meet some kindred spirits here,
My Bishop.
Thomas Moore.
(In 1826 Don Pedro, King of Portugal, abdicated the throne in favour of his daughter, Maria II., but his brother Don Miguel, usurped the crown, which he retained until 1833, amidst almost incessant civil war, and commotion. His character was detestable, and his reign cruel and tyrannical, yet Henry Phillpotts, the grasping and intolerant Bishop of Exeter, gave him his sympathy. Thomas Moore, in this parody, refers to the Bishop’s greed (at one time he held no less than five rich livings, and two prebendal stalls), and to the part he took in defence of the detestable Peterloo massacre of innocent people assembled at a public meeting. Fortunately for Portugal there were few Englishmen who followed Phillpotts in befriending Don Miguel, and the news of his downfall, in 1833, and the proclamation of Queen Maria, were loudly welcomed in England. Miguel had visited London in 1827; he died in exile in November, 1866.)
——:o:——
The Proctor.
Who is it, that with bull-dogs two,
With brass-bound book, and cloaks of blue,
Is capped on Sundays by a few?
The Proctor.
Who is’t in bands and silk so fine,
Is seen about soon after nine,
Like glow-worm doomed at night to shine?
The Proctor.
Who was it when I doused a glim,
Dispatched to catch me bull-dog Jem,
And begged that I would call on him?
The Proctor.
Who was it too, when sporting hat,
On Queen’s bridge rails one night I sat,
Just asked my name—no more than that?
The Proctor.
Who was it, when a row began,
Between the Snobs and Gownsmen ran,
And seized me, as I floored a man?
The Proctor.
And when I bribed with half-a-dollar
The bull-dog to let go my collar,
Who was it ran, and beat me hollow?
The Proctor.
And when he caught me—asked my name—
Who was it found I could die game?
(For I kicked his shins and made him lame),
The Proctor.
Who was it of this aggravation,
Before the vice laid accusation,
Who kindly sentenced rustication?
The Proctor.
Who was it, when Degree was near,
By frowning looks taught me to fear,
He meant to harass me?—Oh dear!
The Proctor.
Who was it said, “Sir, if you please,
“I’ll trouble you to pay your fees,
“We never trust for no degrees”?
The Proctor.
Who after all this long delay
Examination, lots to pay,
Declined to make me a B. A.
—And then got licked that very day?
The Proctor.
The Gownsman.
(Conducted by Members of the University),
Cambridge. No. 10. January 7, 1831.
——:o:——
Ode to a Blackguard.
Who, nurs’d in ev’ry roguish villainy,
Taught, while he shamm’d the face of truth, to lie,
Who came into the world? the Lord knows why!
Blucher.
Who grew in size and cunning, till his eye,
Trained to its art, gave what he meant the lie,
Who, young in years, grew old in roguery?
Blucher.
Who trains a dog, which, Freshmen thinking cheap,
Purchase, which leaves them with a homeward leap,
Who keeps a dog, which no one else can keep?
Blucher.
Who daring impudence, the Gownsman stops,
To tell him of the B—nw—l evening hops,
And then, brings Proctor who upon him pops?
Blucher.
Who is a Judas on the face of Earth,
Spirit, accomplish’d in all blackguard mirth,
Whose days disgrace the region of his birth?
Blucher.
Would, that the Castle Bell’s prophetic clang
Should call grim Newgate’s Ketch, when next it rang,
That he, next Session, Justice due, should hang.
Blucher.
From the “Cambridge Odes,” by Peter Persius. Published by W. H. Smith, Rose Crescent, Cambridge. There is no date to this little pamphlet, nor any account of the character entitled “Blucher.” Several verses are omitted on account of their coarseness.
——:o:——
The Turncock.
Who is it, when we’re taken ill,
And slops require all day to swill,
The grateful cistern helps to fill?
The Turncock.
Who is it, when the dreadful sound
Of “Fire” echoes all around
Is hardly ever to be found?
The Turncock.
Who is it, when upon his beat,
Will very often, for a treat,
Turn on the main and swamp the street?
The Turncock.
Who is it often comes to state
The Company no more will wait,
But must insist upon the rate?
The Turncock.
Who is it waits another day,
And then no longer will delay,
But cuts the water right away?
The Turncock.
Punch, 1843.
——:o:——
The Ramoneur’s Address.
Who, when the chimney is on fire,
Than any sweep can go up higher,
And do whatever you require?
The Ramoneur.
Who saves the bother and the noise
Of dirty little climbing boys,
Whose feet the furniture destroys?
The Ramoneur.
Who human nature never shocks,
By torturing mortal knees and hocks,
And who deserves a Christmas box?
The Ramoneur.
Punch, Christmas, 1843.
This refers to the invention of a new Chimney Sweeping Machine. Before the Act of 1842 it was customary to compel little boys to climb up the insides of chimneys to sweep them, and many were suffocated, or got jammed in the narrow flues.
——:o:——
The Protectionist Catechism.
(To be Sung or Said in all places where they talk Nonsense.)
What is it makes Provisions cheap,
Turns last year’s corn too soft to keep,
And breeds the rot in Cows and Sheep?
Free Trade!
What caused last summer’s heavy rains?
What makes stiff clays insist on drains?
What will have farmers use their brains?
Free Trade!
What brought about potato blight?
What is the cause of Ireland’s plight?
What won’t let anything go right?
Free Trade!
What caused two years’ short cotton crops?
What made the Funds to ninety drop?
What soon will make the world shut shop?
Free Trade!
What drains our gold and silver out,
Makes quassia to be used in stout,
Puts foreign monarchs up the spout?
Free Trade!
What makes poor tenants quite content
To pay whatever’s asked for rent,
Though corn go down fifteen per cent?
Free Trade!
What soon will raise the labourers’ hire
To something past mere food and fire,
And make him saucy to the squire?
Free Trade!
What works the Constitution woe,
At Church and State doth strike a blow,
And brings up everything that’s low?
Free Trade!
What is the thing to save our bacon,
Restore our Constitution shaken,
And give us back what Peel has taken?
Protection!
What will vote draining tiles a bore,
What Coprolites and Guano floor,
And good old rule of thumb restore?
Protection!
What will make sunshine, rain and snow,
As farmers want them, come and go,
Keeping all things in statu quo?
Protection!
What, for a shield ’gainst foreign grain
Will give us Law to trust again,
Instead of British Brawn or Brain?
Protection!
What will leave landlords as of yore,
And tenants as they did before,
On the old paths to snooze and snore?
Protection!
Then raise on high a general call,
For that which works the good of all,
By robbing Peter to pay Paul.
Protection!
Punch, April 21, 1849.
——:o:——
The Baker.
Who is it, in an idle hour,
Grinds up some beans both cheap and sour,
To mix them with his wheaten flour?
The Baker!
Who, if a trifling rise in price
Occurs in corn, will not be nice,
But in the bread will charge it twice?
The Baker!
Who, when the corn is “down again,”
Is such a thorough rogue in grain,
The rise in bread still to maintain?
The Baker!
Who is it, when we send a pie,
Will child-like take a straw and try
To suck it of the syrup dry?
The Baker?
Who is it, when we trust some ribs
Of beef to bake, a portion cribs,
And hides the fault by wicked fibs?
The Baker!
Who, if we miss a piece of fat,
Has always got an answer pat,
And lays it on a neighbour’s cat?
The Baker!
Who, from rice pudding, with a cup,
Extracts the custard—every sup—
And says the fire has dried it up?
The Baker!
Who, the unpleasant truth to state,
Cheats us at such a fearful rate,
That every loaf is short in weight?
The Baker!
Punch, January 15, 1853.
——:o:——
The Poet.
Who welcomes first the powers of spring?
The swallow twittering on the wing,
Who pines to hear the cuckoo sing?—
The Poet.
Who loves the snowdrop, modest flower,
First of the year to grace the bower,
To cause its stay, who sighs for power?
The Poet.
Who marks it lowlier droop its head,
And kiss its cold and damp death bed,
Weeping when all its life is shed?
The Poet.
Who, when the lark awakes refreshed,
And soars above its little nest,
Loves its sweet morning song the best?
The Poet.
Who smiles to see the dark mist free,
Young morning dawn o’er earth and sea,
Who then feels proud of being free?
The Poet.
Who, when the bright stars stud the sky,
The pale moon smileth from on high,
Beholds them with admiring eye?
The Poet.
Who, when the snows of winter fall
O’er earth, obedient at his call,
Wondering, reveres the cause of all?
The Poet.
Who feels that love, which few e’er feel,
Which bids him every thought reveal,
To her—his own in woe or weal?
The Poet.
Who, when soft twilight’s sober grey
Obscures the light of lessening day,
To love’s pure feast hies swift away?
The Poet.
Who then in maiden’s raptured ear
Pours the sweet sounds she loves to hear,
Dispelling doubt, destroying fear?
The Poet.
Who pines not, toils not for the gold,
In search of which the young grow old,
To whom doth love true joys unfold?
The Poet.
Who dearest loves his brother man,
Nor stains with hate life’s little span?
Who glads the heart of all he can?
The Poet.
Who feels there is a God in Heaven,
By whom all love, all life is given,
Who oft the scoffer’s jest hath riven?
The Poet.
Who pauses, nor with hasty tread
Stalks o’er the turf-hid, silent dead:
Weeping, although no tear is shed?
The Poet.
Who, when his eye is glazed and dim,
And life a dying ember’s gleam,
Relies on, finds a friend in Him?
The Poet.
He’s not, who, ’mid Time’s onward flow,
Can’t mark, and learn, and wiser grow,
He’s not, who lives not, dies not so
A Poet.
Lays and Lyrics, By C. Rae. Brown, London.
Arthur Hall, Virtue & Co., 1855.
——:o:——
King Clicquot.
Who rules the Kingdom, till of late
Which was a leading German State,
But he has made it second-rate?
King Clicquot.
When Nicholas the Turks attacked,
Who joined the league against that act,
Then out of his engagement backed?
King Clicquot.
Who feigned to hold with the Allies,
But to co-operate denies,
And, underhand, to thwart them tries?
King Clicquot.
Swayed by domestic feelings weak,
His people’s good who does not seek,
But plays the traitor and the sneak?
King Clicquot.
By private ties who only bound
Breaks those of honour, like a hound,
And yet his head continues crowned?
King Clicquot.
Who has a crafty project planned,
Denmark and Holland to command,
Meanwhile betraying Fatherland?
King Clicquot.
Who Russia would abet, as base
Accomplice, to enslave his race,
If he but durst the danger face?
King Clicquot.
Who, double minded, double sees?
Whose conduct with his gait agrees?
Who breaks his nose ’gainst apple-trees?
King Clicquot.
Whose dirty tricks have brought about
His nation to be quite shut out
From Europe’s Council? Germans, shout—
King Clicquot.
Who vacillates ’twixt knave and fool?
Who’s the Czar’s satrap, pander, tool?
Who is no longer fit to rule?
King Clicquot.
Punch, March 31, 1855.
Frederick William, King of Prussia, (the elder brother of the present German Emperor,) had the credit of being a stupid sensualist, and was long known in England by the nickname “King Clicquot.” During his reign Prussia had come to occupy a lower position in Europe than she had ever before held during her existence as a Kingdom. It seemed almost marvellous how by any process the country of the Great Frederick could have sunk to such a condition of insignificance. At the period just preceding the Crimean War the King of Prussia, with his usual indecision of character, led the Allies to believe he would side with them, and then, at the last minute, withdrew from the compact, saying that the interests of Prussia did not require him to engage in a war. Prussia was relieved from the rule of this weak and vacillating individual, by his death in January, 1861.
——:o:——
The Baby Show.
By Mrs. Gamp.
(Authoress of “Diary of a Monthly Nurse,” &c., &c.)
Where is the man with soul so badge,
Which could denige this moryal sage.
That Babby-shows is all the rage!
The Monster!
Which he should instantaneous go
Unto the famious Zo—
—ologic Gardings, to the show
Of Babbies.
There, where the beastiges does roar,
And bragian bands their toons play o’er,
To see the babes, the people pour
In thousands,
Like Cowcumbers on summer days,
These tender plants, though hard to raise,
Does win our most maternial praise:
The ducksy-wucksys!
Ah dear! I knows a lady—which
Her name is Harris—who had sitch
Two little cherryubs, with the
Scotch Complaint.
Which, likewige, was the cauge why they
Was not exhibited that day;
So Mrs. Harris could not say
As follows.
1st Mother.—
Who was the babe who gain’d the prize
For being, in the judges eyes,
The little boy of finest size?
My Tommy.
2nd Mother.—
Who was the lion of the ground?
Who gain’d the first prize of five pound
For well-developed limbs, and round?
My Billy.
3rd Mother.—
And who was it, all cloth’d in red,
Who for a month had been well fed
On rice, and oil, and oatmeal bread?
My Jimmy.
4th Mother.—
But who was it, with teeth like pearl,
And bright blue eyes, and sunny curl,
Was judged to be “the prettiest girl?”
My Jemimar.
(Hysterical, unlooked for, and utterly-out-of-place,
Chorus of Mothers): Singing:
“Ri-tol-looral, lal-looral, lal-looral, lal la!”
The Shilling Book of Beauty. Edited by Cuthbert Bede, 1856.
[Mrs. Gamp’s feelings are doubtless strong on this subject, and may be shared in, for aught we know, (though we very much doubt it), by a large number of “the women of England.” But we must confess that our feelings are so strongly opposed to these “Baby Shows”—which we think are cruel, degrading and disgusting exhibitions—that we should not have given insertion to Mrs. Gamp’s poetical effusion, had not Lady Slipslop kindly furnished us with an antidote, which will be found in the article next ensuing.—Ed. S. B. of B.]
——:o:——
Lines by a Girl of the Future to a
Girl of the Period.
Who taught me that our English ways,
So highly prized in former days,
In her time only bred amaze?
My Mother.
Whose ev’ry action went to show
That homely virtues were all slow,
And fit but for the mean and low?
My Mother.
That girls of spirit ne’er should care
For aught on earth save what they wear,
Short skirts—high heels—and false dyed hair?
My Mother.
That thoroughly they should despise
All plodding, dull, domestic ties,
Know naught of pickles, or of pies?
My Mother.
That always they should imitate
Young men in slangy talk and gait,
As bashfulness was out of date?
My Mother.
That hearts were to be weigh’d ’gainst gold,
Not love, as was the case of old
And to the highest bidder sold?
My Mother.
And that when wed, all girls should learn
Base thoughts of stupid thrift to spurn
And spend much more than husbands earn?
My Mother.
Girl of the Period Miscellany, April, 1869.
——:o:——
Our Bishops.
1.
Who follow Christ with humble feet,
And rarely have enough to eat,
Who “Misereres” oft repeat?—
Our Bishops.
2.
Who, like the fishermen of old,
Care not for house, nor lands, nor gold,
But boldly brave the damp and cold?—
Our Bishops.
3.
Who preach the gospel to the poor,
And nurse the sick, and teach the boor—
Who faithful to the end endure?—
Our Bishops.
4.
Who give up all for Jesus’ sake,
And no thought for the morrow take,
But daily sacrifices make?—
Our Bishops.
5.
And who count everything a loss
Except their Lord and Master’s cross,
And reckon riches as but dross?—
Our Bishops.
Jon Duan—Weldon’s Christmas Annual, 1874.
Episcopal Salaries.—The thirty-one prelates of the Church of England receive £161,900 a year, and have more than thirty-one palaces. To contrast with this there are nearly one thousand clergymen whose average stipend is under £76 per annum.
——:o:——
L. S. D.
What makes man selfish and morose,
The cause of troubles, trials, and woes,
What makes fierce friendship, fiercer foes?
Money!
What leads to murder and disgrace,
What aids young sparks to go the pace;
And takes him abroad to hide his face?
Money!
What leads to those sweet family rows,
When Pa tells Ma with fearful vows,
Tom shan’t spend more than he allows?
Money!
Again, what can’t we do without,
What gives us power to gad about,
Enjoy ourselves, and laugh and shout?
Money!
For what does man work hard all day,
What makes him sad his bills to pay,
(Paying them whether he will or nay)?
Money!
Oh, would I knew some little game
To make my name well-known to fame,
And bring me plenty of that same—
Money!
The Figaro Programme, November 28, 1874.
——:o:——
The Russians.
Who spread no Sclavic Empire far
O’er Khiva’s deserts and Kashgar,
And murder not, and name it war?
The Russians!
Whose scourging armies never chose
To make Darius’ sons their foes,
And dye in blood the Persian rose?
The Russians!
Who camp by Attrek’s lonely shore?
Whose sunny vales and Barakpore
Shall hear the clang of arms no more,
The Russians!
Who did not dare destroy, annul,
(Nor since defy us—coward, fool,)
The record of Sevastopol?
The Russians!
Whose new embrasures speak not scorn?
Whose fleet’s on never a billow borne
That flows towards the Golden Horn?
The Russians!
Who turn no envious gaze upon
The lands which Clive subdued and won—
Our Indian Empire and Ceylon?
The Russians!
Who were our friends in ’fifty-four,
And spared our country’s life and gore,
And hope to shed them nevermore?
The Russians!
Whom should we court and value more
Than bearded statesmen’s art and lore,
And love and cherish evermore?
The Russians!
Benjamin D—— His Little Dinner, 1876.
——:o:——
My Father.
By Mr. Gladstone, Junr.
Who loved me when I was a child,
And never at my pranks grew wild,
And when I broke his china, smiled?
My Father!
Who, when I used to mix his work
And his last manuscript to burke,
Would merely say, “you little Turk”?
My Father!
Who, when—this was my boyish dread—
My mother sent me up to bed,
Would give me jam with my dry bread?
My Father!
Who, when we led the Liberal host,
Made me so snug a treasury post?
A thousand pounds a year it cost—
My Father!
Who, now that he has lost his pow’r,
Is growing querulous and sour,
And more eccentric every hour?
My Father!
Who must again the Liberals lead,
And Hartington soon supersede?
Who is it that the people need?
My Father!
Truth, September 6, 1877.
——:o:——
The Doctor.
[The other day a baker was fined for adulterating his bread with what is called in the trade the “doctor,” a mixture composed principally of alum. The use of the “doctor,” it came out, results in making inferior bread look of a good quality.]
What makes the quartern loaf a sight
To glad the heart and bring delight,
So crusty brown, so crumby white?
The “Doctor.”
What turns the flour from mouldy wheat
Into a substance looking sweet,
Ambrosia that a god might eat?
The “Doctor.”
Who is the baker’s firmest friend?
Who passes all they choose to vend?
Who makes them wealthy in the end?
The “Doctor.”
Who is the public’s meanest foe?
Who deals it many a stealthy blow
With daily lumps of poisoned dough?
The “Doctor.”
Funny Folks, June, 1877.
——:o:——
Tight Lacing in the Pulpit.
[Mr. Haweis in addressing a crowded Congregation at St. James’s, Marylebone, spoke very strongly on the Criminal Ignorance and thoughtlessness of Tight Lacing.]
What is it makes a lady’s head
Feel heavy as a lump of lead?
What makes her nose’s tip so red?
Tight-lacing!
What makes her cheek burn like a coal,
Her feet as cold as Arctic pole?
What cramps her body and her soul?
Tight-lacing!
What makes her temper short and sharp?
What causes her to fret and carp,
And on the smallest ills to harp?
Tight-lacing!
What checks her proper circulation,
And dulls her ordinate sensation?
What blighted babes breeds for the nation?
Tight-lacing!
What makes her waist a wasp-like thing,
And gives her tongue a waspish sting?
What baulks her when high notes she’d sing?
Tight-lacing!
What is it, with its vice-like squeeze,
Destroys its fated victim’s ease,
And brings her doctors countless fees?
Tight-lacing!
What is it makes her gasp for breath,
And—so stern modern science saith—
Dooms her too oft to early death?
Tight-lacing!
What brings a “corn upon her heart,”
And makes her—spoil’d by cruel art—
Unfit to play the mother’s part?—
Tight-lacing!
What tortures her into a shape
Which “ruts the liver” past escape,
And which, at most, makes gommeux gape?—
Tight-lacing!
What beauty’s lines in her destroys,
And fashion’s powerful aid employs,
To crush from out her life its joys?—
Tight-lacing!
What ages her before her time,
And makes her feeble ere her prime?
What tempts to a self-suffer’d crime?—
Tight-lacing!
What quite ignoring nature’s facts,
Her waist so cruelly contracts,
That each inch saved fresh pain exacts?
Tight-lacing!
And what bad fashion of the day
Is it that ladies now should say
They’ll spurn without an hour’s delay?—
Tight-lacing!
Truth, April 24, 1879.
——:o:——
“Baby” at the Strand Theatre.
Who is’t whose life has just begun
With quip, and crank, and mirth, and fun,
Who cannot walk, yet’s bound to run—?
“The Baby!”
With grief o’erwhelmed and sore distrest,
By fear disturbed, by care opprest,
Who makes me laugh with merry jest?—
“The Baby!”
Who is it from each box and stall
Each night receives applause from all,
Because his birth was with a caul?—
“The Baby!”
French parentage he owns, but here
He’s godfathered, the pretty dear,
By C. H. Ross and A. T. Freer—
Sweet “Baby!”
And to the theatre ev’ry night
These sponsors all the world invite
To pay their money for a sight
Of “Baby!”
Fun, January 1, 1879.
——:o:——
A Song of the Season.
By Viscount Sandon, M.P.
What was it made the season fail,
Our commerce languish, tradesmen rail,
And landlords tell a dismal tale?
The weather.
What made the farmers grumble so,
And struck alike at high and low,
Till dukes and dustmen felt the blow?
The weather.
What caused the Customs and Excise
To droop before our very eyes,
Yet made quinine and borax rise?
The weather.
What made the Ascot week so dull,
Of glorious Goodwood made a mull,
And help’d the ring to backers gull?
The weather.
What made half London madly rush
French plays to see, and so to crush,
That they might hear “the Bernhardt” gush?
The weather.
What made the people stay away
From Mr. Boucicault’s new play?
’Twas very bad, though; so they say?
The weather.
What made the last new valse the rage,
And caused gay youth and hoary age
In Polo, that fresh dance, t’engage?—
The weather.
What made the hackney’d recitation
At dull “At-homes” a new sensation,
Much to Society’s vexation?
The weather.
What made all outdoor sports a snare,
What spoil’d lawn tennis everywhere,
And fill’d the archer with despair?—
The weather.
What “Princes’” turn’d and “Lords’” to mire,
What wholly damp’d the batsmen’s fire,
Till even Grace had to retire?—
The weather.
What made the late Lord Mayor abuse
His colleagues, and his temper lose,
And drove to acts we can’t excuse?
The weather.
What made him take so strange a view
Of what to decency was due,
And landed him in such a stew?—
The weather.
What made the Times such blunders make,
And praise each Government mistake,
Till honest readers’ hearts did ache?—
The weather.
What made the Great Sea Serpent late?
What “Cato” gave a chance to prate,
And gave us Mechi’s “Parson’s Grate”?—
The weather.
What was it rank obstruction bred,
And made Sir Stafford lose his head?
What kept the House from going to bed?
The weather.
What made the Home Rule Members spout
Sedition as they stump’d about?
What sent the threat’ning letter out?
The weather.
What brought the Bank rate down to one,
And sent up “railways” with a run?
What made so heavy Punch and Fun?—
The weather.
What made Lord B. to Aylesbury go,
To prose of black-faced ewes, and show
How from the land three profits grow?
The weather.
What made him, later try to pass
As words of wisdom nonsense crass—
Imperium et Libertas!—?—
The weather.
And to declare that for our land
There was a future great and grand
Since chemicals were in demand?—
The weather.
What made the British ironclads tack
And sail due East, and then, alack!
Upon the morrow sail straight back?—
The weather.
What made it cups and swords to rain,
When home across the stormy main
Our Zulu heroes came again?—
The weather.
What sent up bread and kept down wheat,
And made the Russian troops retreat,
Although the Turcomans they beat?—
The weather.
What made the youthful King of Spain
Resolve that he would wed again,
And add a bridal to his reign?—
The weather.
What made so many wives elope,
What damp’d our joy, and dull’d our hope,
And knock’d up Bismarck and the Pope?—
The weather.
What Bismarck to Vienna sent
The Austrian union to cement,
And Salisbury make so eloquent?—
The weather.
What made Peru and Chili fight,
And nerved Bolivian arms with might?
What smash’d up the Huascar quite?—
The weather.
In short, what can we safely blame
For all the ills that on us came,
Till one begins to loathe its name?—
The weather.
Truth, Christmas Number, 1879.
——:o:——
The Weather.
(By one who is much affected by it.)
What made me careless, cheery, gay,
What made me throw ten pounds away,
And cheerfully some large bills pay?
The weather!
What made my head feel iron-bound,
What made me kick my favourite hound,
Quarrel with wife and friends all round?
The weather!
What made me open wide my coat,
And get into a penny boat,
And talk of spring time like a “Pote?”
The weather!
What made me suddenly feel ill,
What gave me such a fearful chill,
That I went home to make my will?
The weather!
Punch, March 12, 1881.
——:o:——
Our Sunday—(Down East).
[N.B.—Permission to include these lines in the Programme of any Sabbatarian Penny Reading may be obtained from Mr. Punch.]
Which is the day that should be blest,
And to the weary, work-opprest,
Bring wholesome pleasure, peace and rest?
Our Sunday.
Yet which the day of all the seven
To our sour lives adds sourer leaven
And leaves poor folk most far from heaven?
Our Sunday.
When gutter-brats of tender years,
What filled our childish souls with fears
Of father’s curses, mothers tears?
Our Sunday.
What makes the sound of prayer and praise,
Heard ’mid our foul and filthy ways,
Like echoes of an empty phrase?
Our Sunday.
What day down East,—where day’s half night,
While West-End wealth enjoys the light—
Most feeds the public’s frowze and fight?
Our Sunday.
What, when the week’s toil stills its din,
Proclaims each simple pleasure sin,
And, preaching grace, provideth gin?
Our Sunday.
What, when we strive up from our sink,
Our souls with nobler things to link,
Bars all,—but one bar labelled drink?
Our Sunday.
And, when of this world we are clear,
What is it, in another sphere,
Won’t be flung at us, as ’twas here?
Our Sunday.
Punch. June 12, 1880.
——:o:——
The Egyptian Baby.
(As sung by the Khedive, Tewfik.)
Who made affairs grow pretty hot
About this Oriental spot?
Who were a rather shady lot?
My Pashas!
Who put me in a dreadful fright,
And wished to have me killed outright?
Who vowed they were resolved to fight?
My Army!
Who with a fleet of iron came
And stopped their naughty little game,
And rescued this child from the same?
My Beauchamp!
Who first said nay, and next said yea,
Asserting he would use his sway,
Then waited for another day?
My Abdul!
Who led the British troops he’d brought,
And with the rebels bravely fought
Till Arabi was smashed and caught?
My Garnet!
Who now will raise me where I fell
And kiss the place to make it well,
And keep me happy ’neath his spell?
My William!
1882.
——:o:——
What the Seasons Bring.
When comes the Southern summer breeze,
That softly blows from tropic seas,
Who lives in impecunious ease!
The bummer.
When borean blasts blow fierce and free,
And winter reigns on land and sea,
Who chuckles then with fiendish glee?
The plumber.
Or warm or cold the breezes blow,
From tropic seas or arctic snow,
Who comes his “sample lot” to show?
The drummer.[26]
E. J. S.
Free Press Flashes, 1882.
——:o:——
The Fog.
What stops the nation’s loud lament,
And makes some folks almost content
With Liberals in Parliament?—
The fog!
What, when debaters disagree
And fight on this and that decree,
With Ministers is pol-i-cee?—
Why, fog!
When questioned by Lord Randy, and—
Well, badgered by an adverse band,
Where takes the Grand Old Man his stand?—
In fog!
Judy, November 22, 1882.
——:o:——
The Mahdi.
Everyone just now is hearing a good deal about the Mahdi but no one seems to know what he is like. Until the London Stereoscopic Company sell the gentleman’s photo for a shilling, perhaps the following description may help the public to form some idea of the hero of the hour.
That’s “Him.”
Who’s forty years—well-nigh, not quite?
Who is about the medium height?
Who has a beard as black as night?
The Mahdi.
Whose eyes with fire and passion gleam?
Whose hue is that of coffee cream?
Whose face shows many a scar and seam?
The Mahdi’s.
Who’s thinner e’en than Sally B?
Who on his cheeks has gashes three?
Who’s quite upset our William G.?
The Mahdi.
Who got his living in the East
By dealing in wild bird and beast,
And then turned hermit—later priest?
The Mahdi.
And yet in town receive we may
As petted lion of the day—
(Perhaps at Labby’s house he’ll stay)—
The Mahdi.
G. R. Sims,
The Referee, May 11, 1884.
——:o:——
Our Marquis.
By a long suffering Tory Peer.
Who, by his tyrannous oppression
And obstinate and proud aggression,
Has really caused this Autumn Session?—
Our Marquis!
Who made us vote against the Bill,
And thus defy the people’s will?
Who wants to keep us stubborn still?—
Our Marquis!
Who, much against our inclination,
Forced us to take to “demonstration,”
And foster outdoor dissipation?—
Our Marquis!
Who goaded us by his remarks
To let off fireworks in our parks,
And let in ’Arry, with his “larks”?—
Our Marquis!
Who, too, with malice so prepense,
Made us attempt our own defence,
In feeble words and weaker sense?—
Our Marquis!
Who, in his arrogance and pride,
Brings us to town this autumn-tide,
Decided facts to re-decide?
Our Marquis!
Who spoils our sport, upsets our plans,
And trips to Cannes or Carthage bans,
Whilst popular disgust he fans?—
Our Marquis!
Who takes the time we would allot
To gun and game, to moor or yacht,
To waste it in abortive plot?
Our Marquis!
Who, ’stead of pheasants, gives us fog
Debate in place of horse and dog,
And “Whips” us when our streams we’d flog?—
Our Marquis!
Who class ’gainst class insanely sets
With his “Elizabethan” threats
And “Burleigh-nods” and epithets?
Our Marquis!
Who, knowing we are somewhat dull,
And slow of speech, and thick of skull,
Has found it easy us to gull?—
Our Marquis!
But who, though he our pleas may spurn,
Will find, ere we again adjourn,
That even Tory worms will turn?—
Our Marquis!
Truth, October 23, 1884.
——:o:——
The Lords.
Who, dwelling in ancestral halls,
Surrounded by emblazoned walls,
Are deaf to all the peoples’ calls?
The Lords.
Who, in a manner underhand,
Have stolen from the people land,
And on these stolen riches stand?
The Lords.
Who every measure do reject
Which will the people’s rights protect,
Or in some way their good effect?
The Lords.
Who always did oppress the Jew,
And the Roman Catholic, too,
Refusing to them their just due?
The Lords.
Who, Ireland ever did oppress,
And never would her wrongs redress,
But coercion always did caress?
The Lords.
Who, with well simulated fright,
To every man denies the right
With his wife’s sister to unite?
The Lords.
Who, in a manner uniform,
For years rejected all reform,
Till fearful of the coming storm?
The Lords?
Who, amidst speeches loud and shrill,
Have now thrown out the Franchise Bill,
And so oppose the peoples’ will?
The Lords.
Who, now their rashness recognise,
And by dark deceitful lies,
Attempt their action to disguise?
The Lords.
Who, though they’ve had long to repent,
Now with an air so insolent,
Appear on further follies bent?
The Lords.
Then since the warned ones will not mend,
But still continue to offend,
Let us now take quick means to end
The Lords.
H. E. Harker.
Hull Express, August 30, 1884.
——:o:——
The “Comp.”
Who is it that causes all the woes,
The editor so often knows,
And makes the poor man many foes,
“Setting up” what he don’t propose?
The “comp!”
Who is it eyes “The Force” askance,
Like he was waiting for the chance,
Their local items to enhance,
And cause “The Force” to swear and prance?
The “comp!”
Who is it grins in fiendish glee,
His error on the press to see,
And views all things cynically,
And never gives a big, big “D?”
The “comp!”
Detroit Free Pree, January 24, 1885.
——:o:——
The Peoples William.
How runs the ignominious story,
Since Britain’s ancient fame and glory,
Passed from its famous Premier Tory
To William?
Who fears the Bear’s aggressive paw,
And dare not show the Lion’s claw
But pleads the cause of vile Bradlaugh?
Timid William
Who feasts on legs of roasted lamb,
Of game and fowl, beef, eggs, and ham,
Then recommends the farmer jam?
Sweet William!
Who went to Ireland one fine day,
And promised Pat should have his way,
Then shuffled out as if in play?
Sneaky William!
Who strokes poor Paddy on the back,
And half persuades him white is black,
And irritates him with his clack?
Artful William!
Who sent out Gordon to the fight,
To set affairs in Egypt right,
Then left him in a woeful plight?
Base William!
Who sat with patient smile and sneer
The warning of M.P.’s to hear,
Then said there was no cause to fear?
False William!
Who smilingly went to the play
When news came of the sad affray
Of Gordon’s death and Mahdi’s sway?
Careless William![27]
Whose weak and vacillating sway
Has bartered Britain’s fame away,
And made our hearts to bleed to-day?
Weak William!
Great Britain’s sons are true as steel,
Now put your shoulders to the wheel,
Let him your indignation feel—
This William!
And take from his weak hands the reins,
Who only rules but for his gains;
Then who will thank you for your pains?
Not William!
B.
Ipswich Journal, March, 1885.
——:o:——
Nobody.
When I’m in want, who’ll seek me out,
And in my interest rush about,
And not my truth and honor doubt?
Nobody!
Who’ll clasp me to his manly heart,
Stick up for me, and take my part,
And fresh in life give me a start?
Nobody!
Who’ll give me cash, or give me food,
Who will believe me poor, but good,
And always be in generous mood?
Nobody!
——:o:——
Her Mother.
Who, when I took my pet for life,
Convinced me, through domestic strife,
That I had married with my wife—
Her mother?
Who, though ’twas clearly understood
That live with friends I never would,
Came for a week, and—stayed for good?
Her mother!
Who, whensoever “tiffs” befell,
Would irritating stories tell,
And chafe the place to make it well?
Her mother!
Who to control my household dares,
Each letter reads, each secret shares,
And takes the lead in my affairs?
Her mother!
Who, when from home I chance to stay,
Hints that work “might,” or business “may”
Detain—but there, no more she’ll say?
Her mother!
Who breaks our peace, destroys our bliss,
Coils on our hearth with frequent hiss—
Connubial rapture’s Nemesis?
Her mother!
Enough! But has it not a flaw,
That Act which says I may not draw
Two wives, and yet makes mine in law,
Her mother!
Funny Folks.
——:o:——
Cattle-show Queries.
By a Squeamish Visitor.
Who looked at me with oil-cake eyes,
Complaining dumbly of their size—
Agglomerate monstrosities?
The Cattle!
Who pushed me there, and shoved me here,
Who bawled their comments in my ear,
Until I called a Southdown, “steer?”
The Farmers!
Who never more will strive with Tag,
With Bobtail too, and eke with Rag,
Within the portals of the “Ag.”
The Writer.
——:o:——
Avitor.
An aerial Retrospect.
What was it filled my youthful dreams,
In place of Greek or Latin themes,
Or beauty’s wild, bewildering beams?
Avitor!
What visions and celestial scenes
I filled with aerial machines,—
Montgolfier’s, and Mr. Green’s?
Avitor!
What fairy tales seemed things of course!
The rock that brought Sinbad across,
The Calendar’s own winged-horse?
Avitor!
How many things I took for facts,
Icarus and his conduct lax,
And how he sealed his fate with wax!
Avitor!
The first balloons I sought to sail,
Soap-bubbles fair, but all too frail,
Or kites,—but thereby hangs a tail.
Avitor!
What made me launch from attic tall
A kitten and a parasol,
And watch their bitter, frightful fall?
Avitor!
What youthful dreams of high renown
Bade me inflate the parson’s gown,
That went not up, nor yet came down?
Avitor!
My first ascent, I may not tell:
Enough to know that in that well
My first high aspirations fell,
Avitor!
My other failures let me pass:
The dire explosions; and, alas!
The friends I choked with noxious gas,
Avitor!
For lo! I see perfected rise
The vision of my boyish eyes,
The messenger of upper skies,
Avitor!
Bret Harte.
Before closing the collection of Parodies on Miss Taylor’s poem, “My Mother,” a few serious imitations of its style may be given, and in order to avoid any suspicion of treating these with levity, or irreverence, they are printed separately from the Parodies properly so called; as might be expected from the style of the original, these poems are of a somewhat simple and childlike description.
The Bible, the Best of Books.
What taught me that a Great First Cause
Existed ere Creation was,
And gave a Universe its laws?
The Bible.
What guide can lead me to this power,
Whom conscience calls me to adore,
And bids me seek Him more and more?
The Bible.
When all my actions prosper well,
And higher hopes my wishes swell,
What points where truer blessings dwell?
The Bible.
When passions with temptations join
To conquer every power of mine,
What leads me then to help divine?
The Bible.
When pining cares and wasting pain
My spirits and my life blood drain,
What soothes and turns e’en these to gain?
The Bible.
When crosses and vexations tease,
And various ills my bosom seize,
What is it that in life can please?
The Bible.
When horror chills my soul with fear,
And nought but gloom and dread appear,
What is it then my mind can cheer?
The Bible.
When impious doubts my thoughts perplex,
And mysteries my reason vex,
Where is the guide which then directs?
The Bible.
And when afflictions fainting breath,
Warns me I’ve done with all beneath,
What can compose my soul in death?
The Bible.
Anonymous.
——:o:——
The Orange.
What is that fruit, so round and sweet,
So nice to smell, so good to eat,
Which gives the children such a treat?
An Orange!
How yellow and how bright its skin,
So smooth without, so sweet within!
To scorn thee surely were a sin—
Bright Orange!
What treat so great for little boys,
When, tired with their games and toys,
They’re safe with thee from tricks and noise,
Kind Orange!
Right glad am I when Christmas comes,
With puddings, mince-pies, tarts, and buns,
And, best of all, thy golden suns,
Round Orange!
Oh! kindly native of Azores,[28]
Round which the broad Atlantic roars,
I bid thee welcome to our shores—
Sweet Orange!
Anonymous.
——:o:——
The following poems are extracted from a scarce and curious chap book recently purchased from Mr. Salkeld, of 314, Clapham Road, from whom I have obtained many literary curiosities, and much useful information about books and their contents. This little chap book is entitled
FILIAL REMEMBRANCER.
SELECTION
of the
MUCH ADMIRED POEMS,
MY FATHER, MY MOTHER, MY BROTHER, and
MY SISTER.
with the
Father’s address to his children, in imitation of Cowper.
Banbury, J. G. Rusher.
No date is given, nor are the names of the authors mentioned, and although Miss Taylor’s poem is printed in full no acknowledgment is made to her, whilst the preface states that “the following tender little poems, imitating the style of one of Cowper’s, cannot be too widely circulated.” It would certainly appear that Miss Taylor’s “My Mother” had served as the model for imitation, rather than any poem by Cowper. There are ten poems in all, four addressed to My Father, three to My Mother, one to My Sister, one to My Brother, and one entitled, The Father’s Address to his Children. The preface contains these quaint remarks:—
“Were something like the following committed to the memory of children, and the care of their parents employed to cultivate an early acquaintance with the virtues inculcated in these little pieces, it might be of infinite service to them in checking a refractory disposition; or, by a line or verse running in their minds, melting down a disobedient will into the most cheerful and ready compliance to a parent’s wish. And what a delightful task for an enlightened mother, when the shades of evening collect her young family round the fire, to treasure these precepts in their tender minds! Methinks I see her interesting audience, seated on their little stools, and leaning on their elbows, attentively listening, while a Mary or a Maria, a Henry or a William, to show their proficiency, repeat the verses they have learnt; or sprightly interrupting the reciter by an appeal to the mother if he be not wrong.”
My Father.
Who, when my eyes first saw the light,
Upon me fix’t his eager sight,
And bless’d me with unfeign’d delight?
My Father.
When basking on my Mother’s lap,
To win me playful from my pap,
Who would his hands so cheerful clap?
My Father.
When I was breech’d, a rosy boy,
And danc’d, admiring them for joy,
Who shared the bliss without alloy?
My Father.
Who, when the hobby horse aside
Was laid, would set me “Ball” astride,
And hold my leg, and walk beside?
My Father.
When bigger grown,—a paper kite,
Who then would make me, with delight,
Or place the leaping pole upright?
My Father.
When puzzling o’er my task, for play
Oft laid aside, who then would stay,
And teach me soon the easiest way?
My Father.
Or when my task I counted hard,
My mind to study oft prepar’d,
By hopes of pleasure or reward?
My Father.
Who made me tender to a brute,
And told me, though their tongues were mute,
As mine their feelings were acute?
My Father.
Who taught me pity for the poor,
Blessing the beggar at his door,
By me, who oft his bounty bore?
My Father.
* * * * *
Now that thy vigour’s in decline,
Whose strength was spent in rearing mine,
The staff where should thine age recline?
My Father.
No!—tho’ He hung upon a tree,
And bled, and groaned, and died for me,
He will not love if I slight thee,
My Father.
My Mother.
When first my eyes beheld the light,
Who said my little eyes were bright,
And that I was her soul’s delight?
My Mother.
When fell disease her empire spread,
And sickness droop’d my infant head,
Who then the tear of sorrow shed?
My Mother.
Who watch’d my cradle ev’ry hour,
And importun’d Almighty Power,
Upon her babe his gifts to shower?
My Mother.
At length, when pain had fled away,
And rosy health resum’d her sway,
Who prais’d her God for that blest day?
My Mother.
When first my lisping accents came,
And call’d mamma’s beloved name,
Who felt a transport thrill her frame?
My Mother.
And when I stept from chair to chair,
Who watched my steps with anxious care,
Lest I should fall and hurt a hair?
My Mother.
And oh! Who would my food provide,
And little errors gently chide,
And dress me with maternal pride?
My Mother.
Who would my young ideas hoard,
A tale of rapture to afford,
When guests assembled at the board?
My Mother.
Who taught my bosom to rejoice
In God alone, who hears my voice,
And makes His ways my pleasant choice?
My Mother.
Affection’s tear would gem her eye,
And who for me would heave the sigh,
Or wing a secret wish on high?
My Mother.
O! she was kind and good indeed,
Who gave me books that I might read,
And taught me all my Christian creed!
My Mother.
Then let my grateful voice proclaim,
(For else I should be much to blame)
How much I love thy honour’d name,
My Mother.
And should I live to see thee old,
O! may’st thou then in me behold,
Whate’er thy fondest hopes foretold,
My Mother.
And may that pow’r which rules above,
The wish record, thy pray’r approve,
That you may share my filial love,
My Mother.
My Brother.
Who shar’d with me our parents’ love,
And when my tender limbs could move,
Would all my infant ways approve?
My Brother.
Who strove to give my heart delight,
Would blow for me balloons so bright,
And fly his flutt’ring paper kite?
My Brother.
For he was never rude or rough,
And who would make me laugh enough,
When we were playing blindman’s buff?
My Brother.
And if perchance he heard me cry,
O! who would to my succour fly,
And gently wipe my streaming eye?
My Brother.
And who would tell me pleasing tales,
How Vice the wrath of heaven assails,
And Virtue ev’ry where prevails?
My Brother.
He made me love my books indeed;
And who delighted heard me read
Those tales he could recite with speed?
My Brother.
And when a present he had got,
Oh! who was it that ne’er forgot
To share with me his happy lot?
My Brother.
Then I do love thee very well,
Yes, more than any words can tell;
Thy name shall in my bosom dwell,
My Brother.
For well I know thee void of guile,
When others frown’d thy soothing smile
Would many a little woe beguile,
My Brother.
For thou wert always good and kind,
And I could speak to thee my mind,
Sweet solace from thy lips to find,
My Brother.
O may I live to see thee rise
To man’s estate, revered and wise,
To glad your friends’ delighted eyes,
My Brother.
May virtue be thy constant guest,
And sweet contentment charm thy breast,
And ev’ry gen’rous wish be blest,
My Brother.
My Sister.
Who was it, when we both were young,
First prais’d me with her artless tongue,
And on my neck delighted hung?
My Sister.
For we would run about all day,
And when at hide-and-seek we’d play,
Who came to find me where I lay?
My Sister.
When I would read of Robin Hood,
Or little Children in the Wood,
Who was it call’d me kind and good?
My Sister.
And when one day (’twas wrong I know)
I trod on grandpapa’s sore toe,
Who strove to shelter me from woe?
My Sister.
For she would cry if I was beat,
And if she got a dainty treat,
Who gave me half of it to eat?
My Sister.
And when to school I went to stay,
(For boys must learn, as well as play,)
Who sobb’d to see me go away?
My Sister.
For it was ever our delight,
To love each other day and night,
Nor would I do a thing to spite
My Sister.
For naughty boys and girls, ’tis true,
Would pinch each other black and blue;
But they were not like me or you,
My Sister.
For thou wert always kind to me,
And it will my ambition be,
To prove a faithful friend to thee,
My Sister.
To guard from hurt thy tender frame,
To shield thy love and spotless name,
And be the champion of thy fame,
My Sister.
For well I know thou would’st disdain,
To be, or haughty, pert, or vain,
And good and modest wilt remain,
My Sister.
O! may it be thy precious choice,
Our aged parents to rejoice,
And soothe them with thy tender voice!
My Sister.
And may that sacred pow’r above,
Still fill thy heart with filial love,
And all thy virtuous ways approve,
My Sister.
“Another.”
A Readers idea of the state of the Editor’s mind when surveying his growing Pile of Parodies.
What gives me endless toil, no rest
As each subscriber sends with zest,
The Parody he thinks the best—?
Another!
When Tennyson was twice laid by,
Ere ink on final proof was dry,
There came to spoil the set, oh my!
Another!
I started them in mood so gay,
“Why this will be—not work—but play,”
For joyfully I then could say—
Another?
Nor ever dreamt would come a day,
That I should view, with grim dismay,
When frequent posts should each convey—
Another!
I said—when grouped all carefully,
And filled each Author’s set “sure he
Is now complete. There cannot be
Another!
And yet, e’en now, I cannot bear
To weed them out, and e’re I’d spare
One—this volume finished, I’ll prepare
Another!
I would not one kind friend repel,
Nor stay his help, for each may swell
My readers if he’ll only tell
Another!
For when I’m feeble, old, and grey,
And volumes stand in long array.
There’ll yet be “copy” to essay
Another!
For when these Parodies are read
And all the older poets bled,
The yet unwritten ones may head
Another!
So each fresh parody I’ll prize,
Nor look with sorrow in mine eyes
At growing piles, nor e’er despise
Another!
J. W. G. W. April, 1885.
The Vulture.
After Edgar Allen Poe’s “Raven.”
1.
I once, upon a summer’s day,
Strove to solve a solvent way
To escape from skulking sharks;—
For my heart was very sore,
And I ponder’d, ah, how sadly!
How I wanted money badly;
My salvation I’d sell gladly
For nimble notes, or gold galore,
To pay those damn’d and dastard duns,
And be, as I have been before,
Safe from duns for Evermore.
2.
While I ponder’d, nearly sleeping,
Sad at soul, and nigh on weeping,
I reckon’d up my many friends;—
Care corroding my heart’s core,
Those for years that I had known,
Those who truth and trust had shown,
And those, alas! who rich had grown
And forgot they once were poor,
And could not see a seedy chum,
But in his face would close the door.
And neigh or bray him—“Nevermore.”
3.
Yes, I’m like a dotless i,
And want and woe my wretched cry,
With stress of sad starvation,
Ah, me! it is a world of poor.
There’s not a little cur that barks,
Nor tiny birds, from wrens to larks,
Nor even skulking sheriff’s sharks,
Feel so sad, so sick and sore,
As I, most wretched, dotless I,
Doom’d for ever to be poor,
And dunn’d by tradesmen Evermore.
4.
Even while I thus was thinking,
All my soul within me sinking,
Fathoms deep in dark despair,
A knock I heard at my front door,
Which set my heart most wildly beating,
And my blood to fever heating,
As, coward-like, I kept retreating,
Retreating to the basement floor,
There I whisper’d to the slavey,
Aged, I fancy, twenty-four,
“Say I’ve left for—Evermore.”
5.
For my nerves received a shock,
I felt I knew that beastly knock,
The knock of man who takes possession;—
And it went to my heart’s core
To lose my little household gods,
My wear, my gear, and fishing-rods,
All, all my sacred ends and odds,
That cost at least of pounds a score,—
All to go at one fell swoop,
With tearful eyes I glanced them o’er,
And sadly murmur’d,—“Nevermore.”
6.
Yes, it was the sheriffs man;
Like all his ugly kith and clan—
The seedy, dirty, beery lot,
Blood-shot eyes and red and sore.
Then this vile and venomous vulture,
Devoid of every civil culture,
And meanly meaning to insult yer,
Spits upon your carpet floor,
Lights his foul, ill-smelling pipe,—
Stuft’d with plug of negro core,—
Sits and spits for—Evermore.
7.
“Wretch!” I cry, with sudden start
“From this second let us part,
Get thee gone, possessing devil,
Let me never see thee more.”
My voice I raise as thus I cry,
And anger gleams within my eye;
Then the demon made reply,—
“’Tis only thirty pounds, not more,
So, sir, ’tis you, not I, must ‘part,’
If not, why then”—here he swore—
“I shall stay here—Evermore.”
8.
And that vulture, never soaring,
Still is sitting, still is snoring,
On my best Morocco chair,
That I shall sit on now no more;
And his visage is denoting,
As my furniture he’s noting,
A grim and ghastly gloating,
As he gloats my sadness o’er;
And my dreams by that vile vulture,
Who my sadness does ignore,
Will be nightmared—Evermore.
Somers Bellamy.
Under the Clock. March, 21, 1885.
A Welcome to Battenberg.
Shortly after it was publicly announced that the Queen had given her consent to the marriage of the Princess Beatrice with Prince Henry of Battenberg, the following paragraph appeared in Funny Folks:
“Certain members of the Royal Family do not like the betrothed of the Princess Beatrice. This may be; but, anyway, nobody will deny that if we have a Poet Laureate, he ought now and again do something for his salary. Whether any rumours have reached Lord Tennyson on the subject, I can’t say; but it is a remarkable fact that the day after such an opinion was expressed in this office the following communication was dropped into the editorial box:
A New Welcome in an old Form.
Serenity’s son from over the sea,
Prince Henry!
English and Scotch and Welsh are we,
But we all shall pay taxes through welcoming thee,
Prince Henry!
Welcome him, thunders of fleet and of fort!
(It costs us five pounds or so, every report)
Welcome him, now let the joy bells begin!
(We shall pay forty pounds for that steamer he’s in)
Break, happy land, into earlier flower!
(Trixy, thank fate! ’s the last girl we’ve to dower)
Blazon your mottoes of blessing and prayer—
If it so be you are not a tax-payer!
Warble, O bugle! and trumpet, O blare!
True, we must pay, but we won’t seem to care.
Welcome him, welcome him, then, to our stand!
Blow ye his praises, ye huge German band!
Penniless bridegroom, yet happy is he,
Knowing his bride will have much £ s. d.
So come to our heart, and accept, if you will,
Posts and positions our own sons might fill!
Come to us, love us, and make England your home,
Draw your pay quarterly, never more roam;
For English or Scotch or Irish we,
Taffys or Cockneys, whatever we be,
We shall all pay our share towards the keeping of thee,
Dear Prince Henry!
