Thomas Hood.
——:o:——
The Overseer’s Lament (in Australia.)
(Adapted from Hood’s “Song of the Shirt,” to the circumstances of an Overseer in the service of “Long Clarke,” a wealthy squatter in Victoria.)
With breeches thread-bare and worn.
With jumper running to seed,
An overseer sat in a stringy-bark hut,
Smoking his favourite weed.
Puff! Puff! Puff!
“Oh! When shall I rise from this state?”
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,
He sang the song of his fate.
“Ride! Ride! Ride!
While the cock is crowing aloof!
And ride, ride, ride
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It’s oh, to be a super
Along with some Western swell,
Where man has never a stiver to save,
But sometimes gets a spell.
“Ride! Ride! Ride!
Till my boots are rusty and worn!
And ride, ride, ride!
Till my breeches are tattered and torn;
Plain, and gully, and range,
Range, and gully, and plain,
Till over the saddle I fall asleep,
To waken and ride again.
Oh! Squatters with beautiful runs!
Oh! Squatters with fattening plains
Not feet alone are you wearing out,
But you’re sowing rheumatic pains!
Twitch! Twitch! Twitch!
I feel it in all my bones,
Sowing at once with a double stitch,
Colonial experience and groans.
“But why do I talk of rheumatics?
That phantom of aching bone;
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own—
It seems so like my own,
Because of the spills I reap.[67]
Oh! that runs should be so dear,
And overseers so cheap!
Ride! Ride! Ride!
My labour never flags:
And what are its wages? Forty a year,
And these two wretched nags,
This mutton chop, and this damper queer—
A stretcher, a ’possum rug,
And so wretched all that the traveller here
But seldom shows his mug!
“Count! Count! Count!
The thousands of every flock,
Count, count, count!
Till I’ve counted my master’s stock;
Ewes, and wethers, and lambs,
Lambs, and wethers, and ewes,
Till the eyes are dazzled, the hurdles smashed,
And my shins are all in a bruise.
Snip! Snip! Snip!
When the shearing season’s come,
And snip, snip, snip!
But never a keg of rum!
Curse, and squabble, and row,
Row, and squabble, and curse,
Till my eyes are blackened, my ‘claret’ drawn,
As well as my private purse.
“Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the Royal Hotel in town;
A prime manilla in my mouth,
Whilst I knock my earnings down!
Oh! but for one short month,
To spree as I used to spree,
Before I knew the super’s berth,
In the days when I was free!
“Oh! but for one short week!’
A respite, however brief!
No blessed leisure for love or lush,
But only time for grief!
A little drinking would ease my mind,
But in its secret lurk
The grog must stop, for every drop,
Would hinder station work!”
With breeches threadbare and worn,
With jumper running to seed,
An overseer sat in a stringy-bark hut,
Smoking his favourite weed.
Puff! Puff! Puff!
Oh, when shall I rise from this state?
And still with a tone like a heart-broken lark—
Would that its wail would reach Long Clarke—
He sang the song of his fate.
Mark Pringle Stoddart.
Canterbury Rhymes. Christ Church, New Zealand,
January, 1853,
——:o:——
The Song of the Dirt.
Suggested by Dr. Letheby’s Report on the Sanitary State of the City.
“Your attention has been drawn to this pestilential source of disease, and to the consequence of heaping human beings into contracted localities;[68] and I again revert to it because of its great importance, not merely that it perpetuates fever and the allied disorders, but because there stalks side by side with this pestilence a yet deadlier presence, blighting the moral existence of a rising population, rendering their hearts hopeless, their acts ruffianly, and scattering, while society averts her eye, the retributive seeds of increase for crime, turbulence and disorder.”—See Report of Dr. Letheby, Medical Officer of Health.
In a room up a squalid court,
Where “tramps” sleep three in a bed,
Where the baby sleeps by the sick man’s side,
And the dying beside the dead;
Rich! Rich! Rich!
Your feelings perhaps may be hurt,
That a woman there, to a dolorous pitch,
Should sing this “Song of the Dirt.”
Dirt! Dirt! Dirt!
From basement up to roof,
And dirt, dirt, dirt,
Where sickness stands never aloof.
It’s oh! to dwell and toil
With the heathen Esquimaux,
To batten on filth and oil,
If Christians should live on so!
Dirt! Dirt! Dirt!
On ceiling wainscot and floor,
And dirt, dirt, dirt
On sidepost, lintel and door.
Stench, and fever, and death,
Where huddle the young and old,
Where the beggars brat is rocked to sleep
By the side of the corpse just cold![69]
“Oh! men with thousands a year,
Oh! men with mothers and wives,
Oh! read that report, and think of our sort,
Oh! think of our bestial lives.
Dirt! Dirt! Dirt!
Can such as we grow good,
When filth is around us, night and morn,
In sleep, work, drink and food?
“But why do I talk of dirt,
Where nothing else is known?
I hardly know the foul thing’s form,
It seems so like my own.
It seems so like my own—
While three in a bed we sleep,
Till filth doth grow to the poor man dear,
While water and soap are cheap.
Dirt! Dirt! Dirt!
We cannot sleep on the flags,
So together we herd in our fetid dens,
And fever nurse in our rags,—
Small-pox, fever, and cough,
Where the slimy vapour doth reek,
Where children are born near the livid corpse,
That cholera killed last week?
Dirt! Dirt! Dirt!
In the cold December night,
And dirt, dirt, dirt
When summer days are bright,
When God’s blessèd winds do blow,
Like a message from bygone years,
From the broad green fields at home,
Till I wash my face with tears!
“Oh, for one breath of air,
Away from this sick’ning smell,
Where the only flowers we ever see,
Are the flowers we cannot sell,
Which we hawked in the street all day,
Till hunger our cheeks doth blench,
And we bring ’em home to wither and die,
And fragrance fades into stench!”
Tait’s Magazine, 1858.
Although both the above Report, and the Parody were written many years ago, they are quite as applicable to the condition of the poor in most of our large Cities now, as they were then.
——:o:——
The Song of the Student.
With body weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A young man sat, and a longing glance
Was thrown on his lowly bed.
Grind, grind, grind,
Till your head is like to break;
Work through the livelong night,
For your honour is at stake.
Grind, grind, grind,
Till the brain begins to swim;
Grind, grind, grind,
Till the eyes are heavy and dim.
Homer, Virgil, Euclid,
With numerous others, I ween,
Till over my lessons I fall asleep
And get them all in a dream.
O Dominies, why do you give,
Such lessons for students to get?
’Tis wearing out their precious lives
By keeping them up so late.
Grind, grind, grind,
Throughout the livelong night;
This harassing cannot be borne,
For it passes human might.
* * * * *
Grind—grind—grind,
In the dull December light;
Grind—grind—grind,
And work with all my might!
But oh! if, while I work,
The seeds of death are sown,
What profit will it be
If honor’s all my own?
* * * * *
Oh! but for one short hour
To close my weary eyes,
But visions cross my mind
Of losing every prize.
A little sleep would ease my limbs
And cool my aching head;
But I must not think of ease or rest
When stretched upon my bed.
With body weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A young man sat, and a longing glance
Was thrown on his lowly bed.
Grind—grind—grind,
Till your head is like to break;
Work throughout the live-long night,
For your honor is at stake.
Fin.
Aberdeen University Magazine, June, 1854.
(This little Work is now exceedingly scarce.)
The Song of Exams.
With eyelids heavy and red, with fingers inky and chill,
A student sat in his lodgings alone, plying his weary quill—
Scratch! scratch! scratch! ’mid translations, and cribs, and crams,
And still, in a croak no crow could match, he sang this “Song of Exams”:—
“Work! work! work! while the cock is crowing aloof,
And work! work! work! while the cats serenade on the roof;
It’s oh! to be a slave with the most unspeakable Turk,
Who neither professors nor colleges has, if this is Christian work.
“Work! work! work! till the head begins to swim;
And work! work! work! till the eyes are heavy and dim—
Mathematics, and logic, and phil., philosophy, logic and math.,
Till with props. and deductions the brain is crammed, and no sensibility hath.
“Oh! Profs., with well-lined nests!—oh! Profs., with incomes good!
The solutions of your questions stiff are solutions of brains and blood—
Scratch! scratch! scratch! ’mid translations, and cribs, and crams,
Writing at once, with our heart’s best blood, death warrants as well as exams.
“But why do I talk of death? that phantom of grisly bone;
I hardly fear its terrible shape, it seems so like my own;
It seems so like my own, because of the way I sweat,
And oh! this session of endless toil is not nearly ended yet.
Work! work! work! my labour never flags;
And what’s it all for? a mortar board, a gown to be torn in rags;
This shattered health, a head growing bald prematurely, at end of my name
To write M.A., for one brief day, in the papers to win some fame.
“Work! work! work! from weary chime to chime,
And work! work! work! as prisoners work for crime—
Philosophy, logic, and math., mathematics, and logic, and phil.,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, and I have to take a pill.
“Work! work! work! in the dull December light;
And work! work! work! when the weather is warm and bright;
While underneath my window “caller haddies!” the fishwives screech,
And, of course, no boots are handy, and the coals are out of reach.
“Oh! but to breathe the breath of a glass of barley bree,
With my heels upon the mantel-piece where no such heels should be;
For only one short hour to feel as I used to feel
Before I knew of the awful fag of climbing the Spital hill.
“Oh! but for one short hour, a respite however brief,
Just leisure enough to get a nip, and a smoke of the fragrant leaf;
A little strong language would ease my heart. A little enough, I think,
To oblige the recording scribe below to get a fresh bottle of ink.”
With eyelids heavy and red, with fingers inky and chill,
A student sat in his lodgings alone, plying his weary quill—
Scratch! scratch! scratch! ’mid translations, and cribs, and crams;
And still in a croak no crow could match
(Would that the ear of some Prof. it could catch!)
He sang this “Song of Exams.”
From Alma Mater, Aberdeen University Magazine,
February 4, 1885.
The Song of the Drink.
A long poem, with the above title, was written by an Irish lady and was widely circulated by the Temperance Societies (Banner Leaflets, No. 6), especially in Ireland. The two following verses (which are the best), will show the general style:—
With a voice that was hoarse and low,
Then shrill as the night wind’s shriek,
A woman, weary with want and woe,
Wan, and worn, and weak,
A woman sang this song:
Oh, that into men’s hearts it would sink
This song of anguish, and ruin and wrong,
She sang this song of the Drink.
“Gin, and brandy, and rum,
Rum, and brandy, and gin,
Till the eyes are blind, and the tongue is dumb,
And the heart is rotten within.
O men, with souls to be saved,
O men, drawing living breath,
It is not liquor you’re pouring out,
But misery, ruin, and death.”
* * * * *
The Song of the Wheel.
A man in a factory far away
Is polishing burnished steel,
And still, as he works the live-long day,
He sings the song of the wheel.
Oh, I make them smooth and I make them bright,
And many the miles they run,
As they skim along in the dusky night
Or onward fly in the morning light,
Ere the day is yet begun.
Much joy there is with lightning speed
To traverse the gleaming snow,
Or over the waters a race to lead,
But the joy of a ride on the silent steed
The wheelman alone may know.
* * * * *
And still in the factory far away,
The man is polishing steel,
And still throughout the live-long day,
He sings the song of the wheel.
Springfield Gazette.
The Song of the Sponge.
[A distinguished professor of New South Wales has discovered that sponges have nerves. Considering, therefore, the importance of nerves, it becomes a question how far we are justified in subjecting sponges to their present treatment.—Daily Paper.]
With system weary and rack’d,
With nerves all shattered and sore,
A sponge lay full of petroleum soap,
Wishing existence o’er!
Soap, soap, soap,
With every squeeze and plunge!
And still with a voice half drowned and faint
It sang the song of the sponge.
O you who “tub” each day!
O men, and sisters, and wives!
They are not sponges you’re squeezing up,
But fellow creatures’ lives!
Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze,
With each agonising plunge!
Squeezing at once, with cruel hand,
A nerve as well as a sponge!
* * * * *
O but to feel the wash
Of the free, wild wave again!
With the glorious sea above my head,
And no hand to give me pain!
O but for one short hour
Of that glad old life of mine!
Before I knew the woe of soap,
And its horrors alkaline!
* * * * *
With system weary and rack’d,
With nerves all shattered and sore,
A sponge lay full of petroleum soap,
Wishing existence o’er!
Soap, soap, soap,
With every squeeze and plunge!
And still with a voice half drowned and faint—
Would bathers could only hear its plaint!—
It sang the song of the sponge.
January, 1885.
——:o:——
To an Utter Stranger, with whom the Bard had Bumped Heads at a Corner.
Our heads have met, and, if thine smarts
Like mine, you hope they won’t again.
Friends who saw the painful scene
Laughed till laughter grew a pain.
I only know we bumped them once,
I only know we looked insane:
Our heads have met (mine seemed in parts).—
I hope they’ll never meet again.
Then we fell, but lent a hand
To raise each other from the wet.
My head’s alter’d form above
Prevents my hat from fitting yet.
Friends no doubt we seemed to be,
And pardon begged in phrases set:
Our heads have clashed, and still mine smarts,—
I would our heads had never met.
——:o:——
Reminiscences of a “Grinder.”
I remember, I remember,
The garret where I GROUND,
While slowly on the wheels of time
The circling hours went round,
As rendering Tully’s florid page,
Or Virgil’s polished lay,
I lengthened out the weary night
To meet the weary day.
I remember, I remember,
How hard I strove to SHINE,
But always some superior LIGHT
Arose eclipsing mine;
Another gave a better Phrase,
Or fairly struck me dumb,
By showing I’d erred in mood and tense,
With Qualis, Quis or Quum!
I remember, I remember,
Those versions, three per week,
Which I did strive, as few have striven,
To write in Attic Greek;
Yet oft the Doctor by mistake,
Though never by design,
Gave better marks to idle rogues,
Who copied theirs from mine.
I remember, I remember,
The X.’s and the Y.’s
O’er which I frequent toiled in vain,
Till slumber sealed my eyes;
The pentagons, the polygons,
The spheroids and the planes,
The conjugates and ordinates,
Which nightly vexed my brains.
I remember, I remember,
Linnæus and Jussieu!—
I own I never learnt their lists,
And never mean to do;
But still, my College chums would hint
That my unhonoured name
Might yet be known to naturalists,
And rival theirs in fame.
I remember, I remember,
My castles in the air;
The honours, wealth, and fame, I dreamt
Would recompense my care—
“O, these,” thought I, “will flow on me
In one continued stream;”
But time has ope’d my eyes to see
The folly of my dream.
Aberdeen University Magazine, April, 1854.
——:o:——
The Age of Sighs.
One more unfortunate
Laid on the shelf;
Loveless—without a mate,
All by herself.
Speak not too tenderly,
Kiss her with care,
For awfully vain is she
Now, as once fair.
Gaze on her lineaments!
Fingers like filaments!
Poor hopeless creature,
Stamped on each feature
Is grief and despair.
Look at her there,
Braiding her hair—
How she caresses
The fast thinning tresses,
Dreaming that some still consider her fair.
Was she a beauty once?
Yet could not ensnare
Never a stupid dunce
Into her lair!
Had she no sweetheart?
Had she no lover?
Had she no dearer one
Still than all other;
Nearer and dearer one,
Coming to bother?
Yes, by the dozens
She counted her cousins,
Once a young milliner,
With as much sin in her
As milliners now possess;
Equally fond of dress—
Craving for show,
Throwing her kisses
And smiling—the sinner—
At all the young coxcombs
Going to dinner.
Now, never a smile
Gets she all the lone while
Where’er she may go.
Alas! for the scarcity
Of masculine pity?
Oh! ’tis most pitiful
Near a whole cityful
Beau she had none
Sing we her requiem,
Never a man to come
Now to console
Her desolate soul.
Hope is all gone!
The Owlet, 1868.
——:o:——
1885.
Old Year, unfortunate,
Fatal in trust;
To many disconsolate,
Fatally bust.
Ope the Bank carefully,
Ope, if you dare,
People’s deposits
Are very scarce there.
Think of it tearfully,
Think of it fearfully.
No watch this Christmas?
Last year, I declare,
A watch I could wear;
But now it is naught,
It is gone,
It is bought;
It is hung at my uncle’s
With gems and carbuncles.
For the Savings Bank bust,
Wherein was my trust,
And it scattered my fortune
And brought me to crusts.
Turn the key carefully,
Swing back the door.
See the securities
Lie on the floor.
At least that’s where they should be,
And that’s where they would be,
If—
The chief’s speculations had turned out all right,
And the chief’s peculations had ne’er come to light,
Why—
The bonds would lie there on the floor,
But—
They lie there no more!
Old year!—eventuate!
Fatal in trust,
To many unfortunate
Fatally bust.
Detroit Free Press.
——:o:——
A few other parodies of Hood’s Poems may be enumerated, which are not of sufficient interest to be reprinted. “The Age” for June 6, 1885, contained a poem, called, “The Song of the Streets,” deploring the noises of London. In the Manchester “Free Lance” there was a parody (of purely local interest) of “I remember, I remember,” entitled “Manchester Musings;” and a Manchester clothier, named Whitham, advertises his goods in a handbill containing a very fair parody of “The Bridge of Sighs.” In The Saturday Review of August 29, 1885, there was a political poem, “A Case of Conscience,” modelled upon “The Dream of Eugene Aram.”
Further Parodies
OF THE POEMS OF