Charles Kingsley.
Born June 12, 1819. Died January 23, 1875.
CHARLES KINGSLEY.
Charles Kingsley, rector of Eversley, was born June 12, 1819, at Holne Vicarage, Dartmoor, Devonshire, and died January 23, 1875. His poems, though comparatively few in number, are marked by much power, pathos, and originality. The two which have most frequently suffered parody are The Three Fishers, and the Ode to the North-East Wind.
The Three Fishers.
Three fishers went sailing away to the West,
Away to the west as the sun went down;
Each thought of the woman who loved him best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town.
For men must work, and women must weep,
And there’s little to earn and many to keep,
Though the harbour bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down
They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.
But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbour bar be moaning.
Three corpses lay out on the shining sands
In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands
For those who will never come home to the town.
For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner it’s over, the sooner to sleep;
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.
Charles Kingsley.
An Old Friend in a New Dress.
Three merchants went riding out into the west,
On the top of the bus, as the sun went down;
Each talked of his wife, and how richly she drest,
And the growing circumference of her new gown;
For wives must dress, and husbands must pay,
And there’s plenty to get, and little to say,
While the Milliner’s Bill is running.
Three wives sat up in Jane Clarke’s for hours.
And they told her to put every article down,
They ordered the silks, and they ordered the flowers
And the bill it kept rolling up, gown upon gown;
For wives must dress, and husbands will pay,
Though perhaps they will be in a terrible way
When they’re dunned for the Bill that is running.
Three Bankrupts were figuring in the Gazette
On a Tuesday night when the sun went down,
And the women were weeping and quite in a pet,
For the dresses they never will show to the town;
For wives will dress, though husbands can’t pay,
And Bankruptcy’s surely the pleasantest way
To get rid of the bill and the dunning.
This parody, with three appropriate illustrations, appeared in Punch, November 27, 1858.
The Four Fishers,
(Who caught nothing)
Four Merchants who thought themselves wisest and best
Of all the folks in Liverpool town,
To the Emperor Looey a letter addressed,
Intended to do him uncommonly brown:
“We’ll sound his plans so dark and so deep,
From Liverpool brokers no secret he’ll keep,”
Said they, in their Lancashire toning.
Four Boobies went sniggering round all day
Among the folks in Liverpool town,
And thinking that none were so clever as they,
And how they should come to a great renown:
“We’ll strike Lord Palmerston all of a heap,
And show we can catch a French weasel asleep,”
Said they, their impertinence owning.
Four asses they hung down their lollopping ears,
When the post came in to Liverpool town,
And brought them a letter whereof it appears
Those donkeys could’nt translate a noun.
For Looey knows well how his secrets to keep,
And the Liverpool brokers unluckily reap
A harvest of jeering and groaning.
Punch, December 17, 1859.
(During the ridiculous panic about a supposed imminent French invasion in 1859, four Liverpool gentlemen wrote a letter to Napoleon III. asking him to publicly declare what his intentions were towards England.)
The Lasher at Iffley.
Eight coveys went out in their college boat,
And they feathered their oars as the water they cut,
Each thought of the races, and what they would do,
And Harvey stood watching them out of the gut.
For men must row and coxswains must steer,
And carefully too, as the races draw near,
While the lasher at Iffley is moaning.
These eight coveys went into training one day,
And they trimmed their boat, though at first it felt queer
Their pipes and their baccy were soon put away,
And they stuck to their steaks, and their chops, and their beer;
For men must train and coxswains must steer,
And if they don’t train they’ll get bumped I fear,
While the lasher at Iffley is moaning.
The races came on, and the guns went off,
The crew now are spurting—the boat does jump,
Their friends too are shouting, and waving their hats
For those who will never submit to a bump.
For men must spurt, and never say die,
And when their strength fails, on their pluck must rely,
While the lasher at Iffley is moaning.
The races are past, and the bumps are made,
The crew have been cheered, and the supper is won,
The pipes and the baccy are quickly renewed,
“The Eight” is deserted—the puntings begun.
For men must rest, and races must cease,
But Isis’ fair stream can ne’er be at peace
While the lasher at Iffley keeps moaning.
H. F. B.
College Rhymes, 1861. W. Mansell, Oxford.
How Three Fishers went Salering
Three mothers sat talking who lived at the west,
The west end—as that eldest son went down,
Each thought him the husband that she liked the best,
For the girl who had watched him all over the town,
For men must pay or women weep
And their dress is expensive, and many to keep,
And their mothers are always wo-o-ning.
Three gentlemen lounged at the club-house door,
And they thought of those girls as the funds went down;
They thought of their bankers and thought them a bore,
And of bills that came rolling in “ragged and brown.”
But men must pay or women will weep—
Though debts be pressing—still mothers are deep,
And keep up a constant wo-o-ning.
Three gentlemen lay in three separate cells—
The last season’s “necessities” pulled them down—
And the women are weeping and ringing their bells,
For those who will never more show upon town,
For men must pay or women will weep,
And the sooner you do it the sooner you’ll sleep
And good-bye to the ma, and her wo-o-nings.
Punch, August 24, 1861.
The Three Freshmen.
Three freshmen went loafing out into the High,
Out into the High, as the sun went down;
Each thought on his waistcoat and gorgeous tie;
And the nursemaids stood watching them all the way down.
For men won’t work, and their mothers must weep,
For nothing they earn, and their ticks run deep,
Though the College Dons be moaning.
Three townsmen met them near Magdalen Tower;
And the freshmen came up, and the sun went down;
And a battle ensued for the space of an hour,
And a bull-dog came running up, breathless and blown.
For when Townsmen meet gownsmen there’s always a riot,
And bull-dogs come sudden, some mischief to spy out,
While the College Dons are moaning.
The Proctors came up in their shining bands,
And they asked them their names, and they sent them down.
And their mothers are weeping and wringing their hands,
For those who will never come back to the town.
For men go to grief, and their mothers must pay,
And the sooner its over the better for they;
So good-bye to the Dons and their moaning.
Duns Scotus.
College Rhymes, 1865. T. and G. Shrimpton, Oxford.
The Three Fellahs.
Three fellahs went out to a house in the west,
To a ball in the west as the sun went down;
Each thought how the women would like his new vest,
And the street-boys stood chaffing them walking thro’ town.
For men must flirt, and women will weep
If they can’t get a husband whose pocket is deep,
Though they don’t tell Pa what’s owing.
Three girls sat dressed to the best of their power,
And they trimmed their hair as the sun went down;
They thought of the ball, and they looked at the hour,
And the carriage came rolling up—coachman in brown—
For men must flirt, and women will weep
If they can’t get a husband whose pocket is deep,
Though they don’t tell Pa what’s owing,
Three swells are tied firmly in wedlock’s bands,
In the morning gleam as the ’bus went down;
And the women are laughing and shaking the hands
Of those who without them will ne’er leave the town.
But men should mind, and women are deep,
And the richer the husband the harder to weep,
And good-bye to the swells and their groaning.
Judy, September 4, 1867.
Three Husbands.
Three husbands went forth from their homes in the West—
From their homes in the West to the City went down,
Each thought on the woman whom he loved best,
And said “shall I bring her to-night a gown?”
For men must work and women must dress,
Though it sometimes comes hard on the husband, I guess,
And gives rise to much grief and moaning.
Three wives sat up in a lady’s bower,
And each trimmed the dress that was brought from town,
Fixing here a ribbon, and there a flower;
And said one “’Twill look well trimmed with Bismarck brown,”
For men must work that women may dress,
And if it comes hard on the husbands I guess
It is not the least use their moaning.
Three husbands stood at the bankruptcy bar—
At the bankruptcy bar and their heads hung down,
For creditors pressing for dividends are
And three white-washed men will go forth to the town.
For if men must work that women may dress,
The former sometimes find themselves in a mess,
Which gives rise to tears and much moaning.
From Banter, edited by George Augustus Sala, November 4, 1867.
Three Children were Playing.
Three children were playing, one day on the lawn,
One day on the lawn, ere the sun was high,
Their day had no shadow, their rose had no thorn,
Not one little cloud was abroad in the sky.
Their fathers were working when they were at play,
Though pleasant the season and early the day;
For the old world goes on rolling.
Three husbands once met in the street of a town,
In the street of a town as the crowd pass’d by;
And one had a heartache, and one was cast down,
And the other look’d gloomy, and said with a sigh,
“Yet we must toil that the children may play,
Though a night of disquiet oft follows the day;
And the old world goes on rolling.”
Three old men stood by the side of a tomb,
By the side of a tomb when the night drew nigh;
And they look’d to the westward, all shrouded in gloom,
But no beam of sunset was seen in the sky:
“Oh, let us to sleep; and the children will play
To-morrow at day break, when we are away:
For the old world goes on rolling.”
From The Mocking Bird, and other Poems,
by Frederick Field. J. Van Voorst, London, 1868.
Three Students.
Three Students sat writing with lips compressed
In a well-known house with their heads bent down;
Each thought of the “tip” that might serve him best,
And the Proctor came rustling up, all hood and gown.
For men must work, and little they’ll sleep,
If Dons be cruel, and papers be deep,
And the Church and Bar be waiting.
Three Dons sat sipping at something hot
By a flickering lamp when the sun went down;
They looked at each blunder, and crib phrase and “shot,”
And they marked down a D with a sigh and a frown.
For men must work—but little you’ll sleep
If a man with a cornet should under you keep,
And the Church and Bar be waiting.
Three travellers puffed out a fragrant cloud,
One Saturday morn when the sun went down;
Though they travelled first-class, you could see they were ploughed,
And, oh! they were Robinson, Jones and Brown!
For men won’t work, and little they’ll sleep
If the wine be good, and tobacco be cheap,
Though the Church and Bar be waiting.
The Cantab, E. Johnson, Cambridge, 1873.
The Three Diners.
(A Lay of Temple Bar in its present state, September, 1874.)
Three gourmands invited were into the West,
Out of Cornhill by Lord Fitz-Brown;
They found they’d be late, and they thought it best
From Cheapside to cab it right into Town.
“For men will growl and women will weep,
If waiting for dinner my Lord we keep!”
Near Temple Bar they’re moaning.
They were blocked up in Fleet Street for nigh an hour,
And the lamps were lit as the sun went down;
They swore they’d walk, but there came a show’r:
’Twas long past the hour for Lord Fitz-Brown.
For cabs must walk and ’busses must creep,
Which causes a block from Fleet to Chepe,
While the Temple Bar is moaning.
Three “empties” drew up at Fitz-Brown’s house grand,
As the Devonshire cream and the tart went down;
And the ladies are smiling behind the hand
As the “empties” explain to Lord Fitz-Brown.
While cabs must crawl and ’busses must creep,
All long to say, from Fleet to Chepe,
“O, good-bye to the Bar and its moaning!”
Punch, September 26, 1874.
The Three Skaters.
Three ladies went skating at Prince’s one day,
And happy indeed were one and all;
For their hearts were light, and their dresses were gay,
But ’ere night they each had a terrible fall;
For women will skate, whate’er be their fate,
And its perfectly useless objections to state,
So heigh ho! for the rink and the skating.
Three husbands sat waiting for dinner that night,
And weary and hungry they were each one,
And the cook and the butler were both in a fright,
For they knew the fish would be overdone:
But men must wait, while women do skate,
And its just as well to put up with your fate,
So heigh ho! for the rink and the skating.
Three sufferers that night were brought home in alarm,
Bemoaning their fate with many a sigh;
One had broken her leg, another her arm,
And the third alas! had fractured her thigh:
For woman will skate, whate’er be their fate,
Though to mend we know it’s never too late,
So good-bye to the rink and the skating.
From Idyls of the Rink. Judd and Co, London, 1876.
Song on Cyprus, by Mr. Gladstone.
Three regiments went sailing away to the East—
Away to the East, to our Island new;
And the nearer they came their spirits increased,
For they were Englishmen brave and true:
For whilst we’ve an army our troops must fight;
And islands bought must be held by might,
In spite of the press’s groaning.
Three Regiments landed on Cyprus shores—
On Cyprus shores, there by Larnaca town;
And having no huts slept out of doors,
And a quarter next week were with fever down:
For officials will blunder, and men must die,
And it’s little use to be asking why;
For nought comes of the press and its groaning.
Three Regiments went sailing away to the West—
Away to the west, whence they first had come;
And none had escaped from the island’s pest,
But all were feeble, and limp and glum.
And soldiers must suffer and die, no doubt,
But why did they send those Regiments out?
Did they know at the time what they were about?
It’s for this that the press is groaning.
Truth. Christmas Number, 1878.
The Three Practical Men.
Three practical men went strolling West,
Out into the West as the Bar came down;
Each said to the workmen, “May you be blest,
For moving this obstacle out of the town!
For cabs still crawl, and ’busses still creep—
While stultified aldermen vainly weep,
Their ancient Bar bemoaning.”
Three barmaids stood in their gas-lit bower,
And filled each glass as the Bar came down;
And the practical gentlemen looked at the shower,
And the mud that was rolling up slimy and brown,
For men will drink, and women must keep
Replenishing beakers, while potions deep
Are quaffed to the Bar and its “boning.”
Three “lushingtons” lie in the roaring Strand,
’Neath the Law Courts’ shade as the Bar comes down,
And the barmaids are peeping—a giggling band—
For they know the police may be squared with a crown.
Ah! liquors are potent, and draughts are deep,
And the more you imbibe, why, the sooner you sleep,
An’ goo’-bye to th’ Bar an’s moaning!
Funny Folks, January 26, 1878,
The Three Profits.
[“There must be three profits obtained from land.”—Lord Beaconsfield.]
“Three profits” had got to come out of the land—
Out of the land where the cash went down—
The farmer some capital still had in hand,
Which stood in his name at the bank in the town.
For rents fall due, and tenants must pay,
And there’s little quarter on Quarter-day
From the lord the land who’s owning.
Three landlords sat in an ancient hall,
And mourned the way that their rents went down!
“Three profits!” they cried. “It is ours that fall!
Where once we’d a sovereign, now we’ve a crown!
We have to live—and our farms won’t let!
And we can’t exist upon what we get—
So what use is the land we’re owning!”
Three farmers consulted about their lands—
Each face was sad with a thoughtful frown
The profits were all paid to farming “hands”—
The profits were all in the land sunk down!
“Three profits!” they cried, “there’s not a doubt
Our landlords and we must go without,
And ‘Good-bye’ to our old farms owning!”
Funny Folks, October 18, 1879.
When we were Boys.
By an Old Boy.
Three lambkins went larking there out in the west,—
Out in the west at the dawn of day;
At pulling of knockers they all did their best,
And the bobbies looked on in a bobbylike way.
For boys will be boys, and bobbies will bob,
And when you get cotched you get one on the nob,
If you’re out on the spree of a morning.
Three lambkins got lagged and were shut up in quod,
Twenty-six knockers the bobbies they found.
Mr. Woolrych, he said that such conduct was odd,
And he mulct each poor lambkin of twenty-one pound;
For beaks will be beaks, though boys may be boys.
You must grin and must bear, not kick up a noise
At the court when you show in the morning.
A marquess, a colonel, a captain, and I
Forty years gone went out on the spree;
To every trick on the cards we were fly,
And now of the four alive there’s but me.
For night will come and man must die,
And we come, to look back half ashamed by and by
On what we thought fun in the morning.
Judy, March 19, 1879.
The Three Land Agitators in Ireland.
The following were selected, from over one hundred parodies sent in to The World, as worthy of the first and second prizes:—
First Prize.
Three rascals went ranting round in the West,
Disturbing old Ireland, country and town;
“Bedad, it’s the landlords is bastes at the best!
And if ever they drive ye for rent, shoot ’em down!”
For rogues must rant, and good men must weep,
With starvation to earn, and prison to keep,
And a cry for Freedom sounding.
Three captives sat in the prison drear,
And they longed for their pipes as the sun went down;
And they sniffed their stale loaves, and they begged for some beer,
And they swore at their mattrasses rugged and brown.
For rogues who rant in prison must weep,
And planks are knotty, and treadmills are steep,
Though Freedom’s echoes be sounding.
Three cropped heads fresh from the barber’s shears,
Three bowls of thin gruel as salt as the sea,
Three curses on Parnell, three strong men in tears,
“Me boys, ye are marthers to Fradom!” says he.
For fools must smart, and victims must weep,
And the harder the mattrass the later to sleep,
So good-bye to the three in their “pounding.”
GOBO.
Second Prize.
Three land agitators went down to the West,
Went down to the West, where the storm-clouds rise;
Each thought of fair Erin, the land of unrest,
And of fair Erin’s children, so poor, so unwise.
For times are hard, and harvests are bad,
And there’s little to comfort and little to glad,
And Famine’s throes impending.
Three men spoke up to the Gurteen throng,
And they trimmed their words by Home-Rule light;
They railed at the landlords, they raved about wrong,
And curses came rolling up black as the night,
For times are hard, and harvests are bad,
And troubles are many, and hearts grow sad,
With treason’s woes impending.
Three captives lay prisoned in Sligo jail,
Away in the West where the sun goes down;
And men mutter fiercely, and women bewail,
And Erin—poor Erin!—must reap the crop sown,
For times are hard and harvests are bad,
And famine and treason make misery mad,
Despair and death the ending.
OBSERVER.
The World, December 10, 1879.
The Three Agitators.
Three Paddies went spouting away at Gurteen,
Away at Gurteen in old Erin’s Isle,
Each stormed at the Saxons, their laws and their Queen,
And the “boys” their shillaleghs stood twirling the while;
For tenants must shoot, and landlords must die,
Cold lead is cheap, and the rents are high,
So, hurray for the agitation!
Three Bobbies came up, and they tapp’d those Pats
On the shoulders, just in a friendly way,
And they look’d rather sold, as they put on their hats,
For the game was up, and it would’nt pay!
But tenants must shoot, and landlords must die,
Though a dirty Government plays the spy
On the Irish agitation!
Three martyrs lay lock’d in the Sligo gaol,
In the Sligo gaol as the sun went down,
And the loafers set up a discordant wail
For those whose orations were lost to the town!
For tenants must shoot, and landlords must die,
And the sooner they’re potted, the sooner we’ll cry
Farewell to the agitation!
From Snatches of Song, by F. B. Doveton.
(Wyman and Sons, London, 1880.)
The Jelly Fishes.
Three fishes were floating about in the sea;
Three fishes which were of the Jelly-fish kind,
And being perceived by a certain grandee,
They called up at once, as he said, to his mind,
How much they resembled in form and degree,
Three colleagues he recently had left behind.
And men now will laugh and women must smile
At this very apt joke of the Duke of Argyll.
These fishes, he said, iridescent but limp
Seem’d all at first sight to be able to sail,
But examined had not e’en so much as the shrimp
The power of propelling themselves by the tail;
They neither had skeletons, nerve, nor backbone,
Were nothing but jelly, no will of their own,
So women must scoff at, and men will deride
These structureless creatures adrift in the tide.
This witty grandee has been wont to come out,
To come out of his house when the sun has gone down,
To meet with his compeers, tall, lean, short and stout,
And bishops arrayed in black gaiters and gown,
But no one could predicate till he’d begin,
With head well thrown back and with prominent chin,
Whether friends had to cheer or opponents to moan,
Over what would among them most surely be thrown.
But all must rejoice, and none can deplore,
Our having among us the Mac Allum More.
Morning Post, August 4, 1881.
The Three Fishers.
Three Tories[47] went bravely down into the North,
Away to the North which the “Rads” love best;
Each thought of the man that had driven him forth,
From the snug little berth that he once possessed:
For Placemen must live, though the country may starve,
And sometimes a blister, and sometimes a salve,
Will set party waves a-rolling.
Three Orators spoke for many an hour,
And told ’em the blunders that Gladstone had made,
Which they only could right if returned into power:
And they gave ’em some pious “opinions” on trade.
For Placemen must live, and—though hardly the thing,
Yet even to Newcastle coals you must bring,
To set Tory tides a-rolling.
Three “Failures” came back, as we’ve all of us read,
Sad, if not wiser, to London town;
For e’en Tory organs were shaking a head,
And hinted they’d better have not gone down.
But Placemen must live—every dog has a day,
And even “Fair Trade” may, for once in a way,
Keep party waves a-rolling.
From Grins and Groans. 1882.
The Academy, 1882.
The Mew-Stone. J. W. Oakes, A.R.A.
There were three pussy-cats sought the tiles,
They sought the tiles as the sun went down,
Their faces were wreathed with complacent smiles,
For they were about to “do it brown.”
And men may growl and women may weep,
But nobody gets him a wink of sleep
For pussy-cats’ caterwauling.
There were three parties who yearned for sleep,
Who yearned for sleep as the sun went down,
They used expressions “not loud but deep,”
At pussies’ commencing to “do it brown.”
For men may growl and women may weep,
But who, may I ask, can manage to sleep,
With pussy-cats caterwauling.
There were three parties who rose in rage,
Who rose in nocturnal cap and gown,
And one of the pussies was, I’ll engage,
A little surprised when they knocked her down.
A second succumbed to a pistol shot,
The other fell down a chimney-pot—
“Good bye to the cats a-wauling!”
From Fun Academy Skits, 1882.
Three London Fishmongers.
Three fishmongers looked for a sale down west,
In the heart of the west, when the world’s in town,
Each thought of the neighbourhood paying him best
Where the prices go up but never come down;
For fools will pay when they can’t buy cheap,
So back to the sea every day goes a heap,
While the public look on groaning.
Three Stores were set up some miles from the Tower,
And the fish got west all over the town,
And the middlemen cried, “We’re in for a shower,
If this goes on! Why the price will come down!
For men will dine, and—if they can—cheap,
And the public seems waking at last from its sleep—
It’s so precious tired of groaning!”
Three bankrupts are showing their empty hands,
And all that they get for their pains is a frown,
And a “Serve you right—why, ’twas your demands
That for years have plundered and starved the town!”
But fools grow wise, and fish can get cheap,
Three halfpence a pound anywhere in the heap,
And the public has done with its groaning!
1883
The Potteries.
Three potters set out all dressed in their best,
All dressed in their best as the sun went down,
Each sought out the butcher who’d serve him the best,
It was Saturday night, and a crowd in the town—
For women must cook and men must eat,
And the nearer the bone the sweeter the meat,
Tho’ ’tis better by far with no bone in.
Three wives sat wearily “watching for pa,”
Till the sweet chimes jingled the midnight hour,
And they waited and watched with the doors ajar,
Oh, where were the joints, the spuds, and the flour!
For women can’t cook if the cupboard is bare,
And a dinnerless Sunday will make a saint swear,
With the poor little children moaning.
Three potters came home all dressed in their best,
All dressed in their best, but draggled and torn,
Nothing they brought—you may guess the rest,
And the wigging they got from their wives forlorn,
For men should be sober at each week end,
And give their wives their wages to spend,
Then there’d be no headaches and groaning.
(Stoke-upon-Trent, 1884)
The Three Champions.
Three Champions went stumping up into the North,
Up into the North with identical creeds;
Lord S. took the Clyde, and Sir Stafford the Forth,
While Lord Randolph he posed as a Leader at Leeds,
For if Radicals rant, then Tories will fret,
And there’s little to learn, and much to forget,
When our rival Chiefs are spouting.
Three Editors sat in their newspaper towers,
While the “flimsies” came pouring in fast as could be;
And they kindly cut short the rhetorical flowers,
And sighed when the language was “painful and free;”
For if Rads will threaten, then Tories must scold,
Though Europe be angry and ironclads old,
And patriots hate this spouting.
Three crowds of admirers they chortled and cheered,
For the Leaders went up, and their speeches “went down;”
And the Editors swear by Lord Beaconsfield’s beard
That the country is with them as well as the Town.
But though Tories and Radicals scream themselves red,
The sooner it’s over, the sooner to bed,
And good-bye to this pestilent spouting!
Punch, October 11, 1884.
Three Fossils.
Three Fossils sat perched in the Whitehall Zoo,
Out far in the West where the sun goes down;
Each thought of his crotchet—the last one he knew;
And their fads and their whims were the talk of the town.
For men must work and women must weep,
Or there’ll be no money the Fossils to keep;
And the shipowning folks are groaning.
Three shipowners sat in their wild despair,
By East or by West they were all done brown!
For the Fossils had ruined the trade once so fair;
And the foreigners cut in to put the freights down.
But men must work and women must weep;
’Tis hard to do else when there’s nothing to eat,
While the Fossils go on droning.
Three ships were laid up in the stream hard by;
And the crews were discharged ere the sun went down;
And nothing was left for a roof but the sky;
And the moon’s not as warm as a quilt made of down.
But men must work and women must weep;
For none but a Fossil in comfort can sleep,
When the Shipping trade is groaning.
Three Fossils laid stretched on a Whitehall floor;
Right flat on the floor, on a carpet brown.
And their collars were dirty; and loud was their snore;
For they’d all been enjoying a night about town.
But men must work and women must weep,
And when the spree’s ended the Fossils can sleep,
While the hard-working world is moaning.
Fairplay, November 7, 1884.
Three Fishermen.
Three fishermen went gaily out into the North—
Out into the North ere the sun was high,
And they chuckled with glee as they sallied forth,
Resolved to capture the trout—or die.
For men will fish and men will lie,
About the fish they “caught on the fly,”
Their Sunday-school lessons scorning.
Three fishers lay under the trees at noon,
And “blamed” the whole of the finny race,
For never a nibble touched fly or spoon,
And each sighed as he wet the hole in his face,
For men will fish and men will lie,
And the way they caught trout when nobody’s nigh
Is something to tell—in the morning.
Three fishermen came into town at night,
And their “speckled beauties” were fair to see:
They talked of their “sports” with keen delight,
The envy of all the fraternity.
But men will fish and men will lie,
And what they can’t catch they’re sure to buy,
And never repeat in the morning.
U. N. None.
The Saturday Evening Post,
Philadelphia, U.S.A. June 27, 1885.
New Words and Old Songs.
Three acres seemed pleasant to Countryman Hodge;
With Countryman Hodge, too, the Cow went down;
The Acres and Cow were a capital dodge
For those who could never get in for the town.
The men may vote—the women may not—
But the Primrose League is the comfort they’ve got;
So the Knights and Dames go cadging!
Three Rads came out in the country to speak—
By the village-pumps where the Cow went down;
And they all kept talking on end for a week,
Till the rustics came polling up, horny and brown.
The men did vote—the women did not—
But though they didn’t, they canvassed a lot;
And the Knights and Dames went cadging!
Three Tories retired to their Primrose Lodge—
Left out in the cold when the Cow went down;
And the women sate cussing at Countryman Hodge,
For going and spoiling the votes of the town.
That men should vote—and women should not!
But if ever they do, ’twill for Members be hot,
So, good-bye to the Dames, and their cadging!
Punch, December 19, 1885.
Three Farmers went Driving.
Three farmers went driving up into the town,
Up into the town when the sun was low;
Each thought what he’d do when the sun went down,
And the women came outward to see them go.
For farmers must carry their produce to town
To buy themselves clothes and the women a gown,
And the neighbours wives are groaning.
Three peelers stood out on their lonely beat
And swung their staves as the sun went down,
They looked at their helmets and looked at their feet,
And now and then squinted round through the town:
For “cops” must hunt for men who are full,
And finding them, ’tis their duty to “pull”
Though the prisoners may start howling.
Three farmers were locked in a cell that night,
Who, loaded with “lush” as the sun went down;
Their produce they sold and they soon got tight,
And started at once to take in the town.
For “cops” will “pull” whenever they see
Three farmers together out on a big spree,
Whose wives are at home a-growling.
Scraps, January 1886.
Three Topers.
Three topers went strolling out into the East,
Out into the East as the sun went down—
Each thought of the liquor that’s brewed with yeast,
And not of the wife with the tattered gown—
For men must drink, and women must weep,
For there’s little to earn and nothing to keep,
When the pot-house bar is groaning.
Three wives sat up in a garret bare,
And they lit their dips as the sun sank low,
And they gazed at the squalor and misery there
Till the night-rake comes rolling up stagg’ring slow.
For men must drink and women must weep,
And storms are sudden when men drink deep,
And the pot-house bar is groaning.
Three bodies lie out on the shining sands
Of the pot-house floor in the morning light,
And the women are weeping, and wringing their hands,
For there’s murder done in a drunken fight.
For men must drink, and women must weep;
Oh! would that the Temperance pledge they’d keep,
Bid adieu to the bar and its groaning.
Hyde Parker, 1886.
The Three Poets.
Three poets went sailing down Boston streets,
All into the East as the sun went down,
Each felt that the editor loved him best
And would welcome spring poetry in Boston town.
For poets must write tho’ the editors frown,
Their æsthetic natures will not be put down,
While the harbour bar is moaning!
Three editors climbed to the highest tower
That they could find in all Boston town,
And they planned to conceal themselves, hour after hour,
Till the sun or the poets had both gone down.
For Spring poets must write though the editors rage,
The artistic spirit must thus be engaged—
Though the editors all were groaning.
Three corpses lay out on the Back Bay sand,
Just after the first spring sun went down,
And the Press sat down to a banquet grand,
In honour of poets no more in the town.
For poets will write while editors sleep,
Though they’ve nothing to earn and no one to keep;
And the harbour bar keeps moaning.
Lilian Whiting.
From an American collection, entitled The Wit of Women by Kate Sanborn.
The Three Filchers.
Three filchers went cadging in character dressed,
To every move most remarkably down,
Each thought on the fakement that suited him best;
And the peelers stood watching them out on the town.
“Oh, we don’t want no vork, ’cos ve goes on the cheap,
We prigs all ve can, though but little we keep,
And we are the boys for boning.”
Three bob-hobbies sat by the station fire,
And to trim these scamps they a plan laid down;
They looked very sly, but may need to look slyer,
For these night-hawks were old ’uns at doing ’em brown.
“Oh, vhen ve vork honest folks are asleep,
And in their strong boxes ve takes a sly peep,
And we are the boys for boning.”
Three convicts, connected with iron bands,
In the saddest plights of the “jug” went down,
And the peelers are grinning and rubbing their hands
At the coves who will never more cadge on the town.
“Now then ve must vork with our hands and our feet,
Sich a gitting up-stairs—oh, ain’t it a treat,
Besides we are barred from boning.”
From The Free Lance, Manchester.
Three Students.
Three students were walking, all dressed in their best,
On a Sunday in Term, without cap, without gown.
Each lit a cigar that came from the West,
And they thought they’d astonish the men of the town.
For men will slum, tho’ their guv’nors weep,
Who have got to stump up to pay for their keep,
And the Tutor ’bout work may be groaning.
Three students sat up past the midnight chimes,
And they re-trimmed their lamps, as they oft ran down,
And they “mugged” at their Paley, and got up the rhymes,
And turned o’er their “Dictions,” so ragged and brown.
For men must work and give up their sleep,
Their livings to earn and themselves to keep,
Though o’er Euclid they be moaning
Three proctorised students the Proctor call’d up
On the Monday morning. He sent them down;
But not for the others did dons wring their hands,
Because they would nevermore wear cap and gown.
For if men won’t work by night or by day,
The sooner they go down the less there’s to pay,
When goodbye is said to the college.
From The Lays of the Mocking Sprite,
by E. B. C. Cambridge, W. Metcalfe and Sons.
(There is no date to this curious little collection, nor does the Author’s name appear.)
Meloncholic.
Three Melons went sailing out in the West—
Nutmeg, water, and musk,
Three little boys at evening dusk,
While nature brooded in damp suspense,
Climbed over a ten rail, eight foot fence
And stowed a Melon beneath each vest.
Three little colics appeared that night
And tackled the cherubs three—
Oh, the groan, the pain, the misery,
The cramp, the gripe, and the inward hurt,
The fate that doctors couldn’t avert,
Three Undertakers at morning’s light.
Let Melons go sailing everywhere
And women are born to weep,
And boys will forage while farmers sleep,
And colics will come where melons go,
And so will doctors and every woe
That points the way to the golden stair.
United States Paper.
House Cleaning.
Three Carpets hung waiving abroad in the breeze
Abroad in the breeze as the sun went down,
And three husbands with patches of dust on their knees
Whacked whacks that were heard for miles up and down.
For men must work and women must clean
And the carpet be beaten, no matter how mean,
While neighbours do the bossing.
Three housewives leaned out of their windows raised
Of their windows raised where the light streamed in
And they scrubbed and scrubbed till their heads grew dazed,
And their ears were filled with a horrible din;
For pots will fall and kettles go bang,
And boilers refuse in the attic to hang,
While husbands do the swearing.
Three husbands went out in the hay mows to hide
In the hay mows to hide where their wives ne’er looked.
Each said as he rolled himself o’er on his side,
“I guess I will snooze, for I know I am booked,
For men may swear, but women will dust,
And before I’ll move that stove I’ll be cussed—
I’ll stay right here till morning!”
Three Judges sat up on their benches to judge
Three cases that came from a house-cleaning row;
The parties asserted they never would budge,
But wanted divorces “right here and right now.”
So the men went off and the women went home,
And hereafter will do their house-cleaning alone,
While their former partners snicker.
United States Paper.
The Three Worthless Fellows.
Three worthless young fellows went out in the night,
Went out in the night when the sun went down,
They wandered along ’neath the moon’s pale light,
And smoked their cigars as they walked down town.
For men will go and women will weep,
’Tis useless to grieve, ’tis wiser to sleep,
Tho’ they don’t come home till morning.
Three worthless young fellows looked up at the moon,
Looked up at the moon as they went their way,
Each thought of O’Shaunnessy’s big saloon,
Where every night they could billiards play.
For men will play and women will weep,
’Tis useless to grieve, ’tis wiser to sleep,
Tho’ they don’t come home till morning.
Three worthless young fellows got safe to the door,
Got safe to the door as the clock struck nine,
Each well knew the place, they had been there before,
And drank of the brandy, and ale, and wine.
For men will drink and women will weep,
’Tis useless to cry, ’tis better to sleep,
Tho’ they don’t come home till morning.
Three worthless young fellows came out in the street,
Came out in the street as the clock struck three,
Two stalwart policemen they chanced to meet,
And were marched straight along to the armoury.
For men will sing and women will weep,
’Tis useless to grieve, ’tis wiser to sleep,
Tho’ they don’t come home till morning.
Three worthless young fellows came home in the morn,
Came home in the morn as the clock struck ten;
They “went out for wool,” but alas, were shorn,
And they wished themselves anywhere else just then.
For men will sin, and women will weep,
’Tis waste of affection, forget it in sleep,
And dream till the dawn of the morning.
United States Paper.
A Royal Flush.
Three Sports got into a railroad car,
A railroad car with a pack of cards;
They called “hear” “hyar,” and “there” was “thar,”
And they always spoke to each other as “paur”
For sports there are both good and poor,
Professional and amateur,
Where railroad trains are running.
They wanted a fourth at a poker hand,
Three were they, and they were one short,
And they asked a stranger if he’d the sand
To try a little game for sport;
For strangers there are when men abound,
And you’ll always find a stranger round
Where railroad trains are running.
The stranger didn’t know the game,
But he was willing to live and learn;
To him the cards were all the same—
“They was to all at first he’d hearn,”
And the Sports laughed loud and dealt the pack
And gave him four queens and a thick-legged Jack,
As they will when trains are running.
And then they bet on the poker hand,
And fattened the pot to a goodly pile,
And they asked the stranger if he would stand,
And the stranger stood with a simple smile.
And one sport raised the other two,
And the stranger won, as strangers do
Where railroad trains are running.
And then in a solemn breathless hush
The three Sports showed what they had got;
But aces won’t beat a royal flush,
And the stranger gobbled that obese pot,
For strangers and sports are natural foes,
And the former carry cauls in their clo’es
When railroad trains are running.
United States Paper.
The “Bar” and its Moaning.
(Not a Parody.)
By Mrs. G. Linnæus Banks.
Three husbands went reeling home out of the West,
Home out of the West ere the moon went down,
Nor thought of the women who loved them the best,
Or the children expecting them home from the town;
Oh! women must work and women must weep,
When there’s all to be earned, and many to keep,
And the tavern bar makes moaning.
Three wives sat up past the midnight hour,
And they trimmed their lamps till the moon went down,
They wept o’er their work, and looked out through the shower,
Till the night-rakes came reeling with menace and frown;
But women must work, and women must weep,
For storms are sudden when drink is deep,
And the tavern bar makes moaning.
Three husbands shake out life’s sodden sands
In the morning gleam when the moon goes down,
And women are weeping and wringing their hands,
For those who will never go back to the town;
But women must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner its over, the sooner to sleep,
And good-bye to the bar, and its moaning.
Messrs. Hopwood and Crew have recently published a song, entitled “Three Young Men who never went astray,” which has been sung with some success in the Music Halls, but it has no literary merit as a parody.
——:o:——
ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND.
Welcome, wild north-easter!
Shame it is to see
Odes to every zephyr;
Ne’er a verse to thee.
Welcome, black north-easter!
O’er the German foam;
O’er the Danish Moorlands,
From thy frozen home.
Tired we are of summer,
Tired of gaudy glare,
Showers soft and steaming,
Hot and breathless air.
Tired of listless dreaming,
Through the lazy day:
Jovial wind of winter
Turn us out to play!
Sweep the golden reed-beds,
Crisp the lazy dyke;
Hunger into madness
Every plunging pike.
Fill the lake with wild fowl;
Fill the marsh with snipe;
While on dreary moorlands
Lonely curlew pipe.
Through the black fir-forest
Thunder harsh and dry,
Shattering down the snow flakes
Off the curdled sky.
Hark! the brave north-easter!
Breast-high lies the scent,
On by holt and headland,
Over heath and bent.
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Through the sleet and snow.
Who can over-ride you?
Let the horses go!
Chime ye dappled darlings,
Down the roaring blast;
You shall see a fox die
Ere an hour be past.
Go! and rest to-morrow,
Hunting in your dreams,
While our skates are ringing
O’er the frozen streams.
Let the luscious south-wind
Breathe in lovers’ sighs,
While the lazy gallants
Bask in ladies’ eyes.
What does he but soften
Heart alike and pen?
’Tis the hard grey weather
Breeds hard English men.
What’s the soft south-wester?
’Tis the ladies’ breeze,
Bringing home their true loves
Out of all the seas:
But the black north-easter,
Through the snowstorm hurled,
Drives our English hearts of oak
Seaward round the world.
Come, as came our fathers,
Heralded by thee,
Conquering from the eastward,
Lords by land and sea.
Come, and strong within us
Stir the Vikings’ blood;
Bracing brain and sinew;
Blow, thou wind of God!
Charles Kingsley.
The Surgeon’s Wind.
The wind is North-East—so let it be!
The North-East wind is the wind for me,
To me it blows good if to none besides;
For the boys on the pavement cut out slides,
And the passenger on the hard flagstones
Comes down, ha, ha! and breaks his bones.
I have had a radius to do,
And a compound fractured tibia, too,
And that had been scarce ten minutes gone,
When in came a case of olecranon,
There was next a dislocated hip,
Resulting also from a slip.
Zymotic diseases lend a charm
To genial autumn, moist and warm.
We have Scarlatina and Typhus then,
And Cholera good for medical men;
But practice is best, I always find,
In the bracing air of the North-East wind.
When the North-Easter whistles shrill,
It makes me think on the little bill
To many a patient that I shall send,
Whom that wind calls me to attend
And though its music may seem severe,
’Tis a strain to gladden a surgeon’s ear.
Punch, February 21, 1857.
“Blow, Blow, Thou Wintry Wind.”
“Sir,—I have lived to see and hear a great many strange things, but I never expected to live to hear an English poet singing the praises of the North-East Wind, as I am amazed to find the Rev. Charles Kingsley has been doing. What does the man mean? Has he a nerve in his body? Is he susceptible of catarrh, influenza, bronchitis, and the other ills that miserable flesh is heir to in this climate? Has he a constitution of cast iron, a skin of triple brass, and muscles of steel wire? Does he not know what it is, as he lies in bed of a morning, to feel that twinge of indescribable all-overishness, which announces that the East Wind is blowing outside the house? Does he not feel his eyes smart, his skin scorch and shrivel, his every limb ache, appetite go, and his temper break down altogether, whenever this same abominable wind prevails, as it does three days out of four in this infernal climate of ours?
Sir, if we are to have a song of the North East Wind, I submit that mine is more the thing than Mr. Kingsley’s, and therefore beg to enclose it for your journal, which has occasionally, though at distant intervals, beguiled a miserable half-hour for,
“Your dyspeptic reader,
“Miserrimus Meagreson.”
My Song of the North Wind.
Hang thee, vile North Easter;
Other things may be
Very bad to bear with,
Nothing equals thee.
Grim and grey North Easter,
From each Essex-bog,
From the Plaistow marshes,
Rolling London fog—
“Tired we are of summer”
Kingsley may declare,
I give the assertion,
Contradiction bare:
I, in bed, this morning
Felt thee, as I lay:
“There’s a vile North Easter
Out of doors to-day!”
Set the dust-clouds blowing
Till each face they strike,
With the blacks is growing
Chimney-sweeper like.
Fill our rooms with smoke gusts
From the chimney-pipe,
Fill our eyes with water,
That defies the wipe.
Through the draughty passage
Whistle loud and high,
Making door and windows
Rattle, flap and fly;
Hark, that vile North Easter
Roaring up the vent.
Nipping soul and body,
Breeding discontent!
Squall, my noisy children;
Smoke, my parlour grate;
Scold, my shrewish partner;
I accept my fate.
All is quite in tune with
This North Eastern blast;
Who can look for comfort
Till this wind be past?
If all goes contrary,
Who can feel surprise,
With this rude North Easter
In his teeth and eyes?
It blows much too often,
Nine days out of ten,
Yet we boast our climate,
Like true English men!
In their soft South Easters
Could I bask at ease,
I’d let France and Naples
Bully as they please,
But while this North Easter
In one’s teeth is hurled,
Liberty seems worth just
Nothing in the world.
Come, as came our fathers
Heralded by thee,
Blasting, blighting, burning
Out of Normandie.
Come and flay and skin us,
And dry up our blood—
All to have a Kingsley
Swear it does him good!
Punch, April 10, 1858.
Ode to the North-East Wind.
By a Débutante
at the last Drawing Room.
Welcome, wild North-Easter?
Oh! most certainly!
Here a girl must gladly
Turn a verse to thee!
Welcome, black North-Easter?
Eugh! a German goddess,
Or a Danish nymph,
Never donned low bodice.
True it looks like Summer,
There’s a chilly glare;
But the Sun seems hurtling
Ice-shafts through the air.
In their glad Spring greenery
All the trees look gay,
But through Summer’s scenery
Winds of Winter play;
Sweep my golden tassels,
To my bosom strike;
Make my toes feel tingling
In some frozen dyke;
Fill my eyes with tear-drops,
Cold—I hope as bright—
As those diamond ear-drops,
Dear Mamma’s delight;
Through this thin tulle-pleating
Worm their way until
My poor heart stops beating
With the deathly chill.
Hark! the brave North-Easter,
Like a blast from Norway,
Howls along the passage,
Whistles through the doorway.
Cringe, ye courtly darlings,
In your robes of snow,
Trimmed with pure white lilac!
Heavens! it does blow!
Even the plump Duchess
In her brocatelle
Finds the draught too much is,
Though she’s covered well.
Her blue lips she closes,
Her chilled eyelids wink,
And her Roman nose is,
Like her train, shrimp-pink.
Mamma’s eye is on me,
Sparkling like a jewel.
Courage! but this wind is
Cruel, cruel, cruel!
Such a scene as this is
Every girl’s delight is;
But my throat’s so raspy,
And that means bronchitis:
One would rather die
Than not be presented;
But in a North-Easter?
Kingsley was demented!
Yes, the luscious South-wind
Which the goose decries,
Less afflicts our bosoms,
Better suits our eyes.
Why belaud and soften
With his tricky pen
What, alas! too often
Women slays—and men?
Says the soft South-Wester
Is the Ladies’ breeze!
Be it so, and let us
Have it, if you please!
But the black North-Easter
Through May’s mid-day hurled,
Drives poor English girls by scores
Death ward from “the world.”
Drawing-rooms are lovely,
But diaphanous dress
In a May North-Easter
Means—eugh! I can guess
By this inward quivering,
By this bosom chill:
E’en Mamma is shivering,
Spite of her strong will.
Oh! cannot our mothers
(From the dear Queen down)
Some less killing fashion
Set the foolish Town?
Mode rules strong within us,
But—we’re flesh and blood,
Frozen by what Kingsley
Calls “the wind of God.”
Punch, May 30, 1885.
Ode to an English Easter.
(After a Muscular Poet).
Welcome English Easter,
Cowards should we be,
Loving our vacations
Not to sing to thee;
Welcome English Easter
When we long to roam,
O’er the heights of Dover,
Far away from home.
Tired we are of working,
Sick and ill with care.
Weary of Reformers,
House of Commons air!
Sweep the busy city
Of the dust of years.
Prime with pluck and muscle
All our volunteers.
Shriek, ye snorting engines,
With your loads in tow,
Worried station-masters
Give the word to go!
Shriek, ye puffing engines,
For we want to see
Paris Exhibition
Now that we are free.
Let the lazy summer
Tempt us by and by
With its cosy pic-nics,
Ice, and pigeon-pie.
Lengthy expeditions,
Put them off till then,
’Tis this doubtful weather
Pleases Englishmen!
What’s the sunny summer!
’Tis the ladies’ hour,
Bringing lawns and crôquet,
Tea and toast in power;
But an English Easter
Often takes us in,
And ’midst our enjoyment
Soaks us to the skin.
Welcome English Easter,
We must have our spree,
Cheap excursion-tickets,
By the land and sea,
Take us for next to nothing
There and back again,
Blow the doubtful weather,
Never mind the rain!
Fun, April 27, 1867.
“The South-West Trains and the Speaker’s Clock.—(To the Editor of the Daily News.)—Sir,—The writer of an article in your edition of to-day, in quoting these lines of Kingsley’s: ‘Oh, blessed south-west train; Oh, blessed, blessed Speaker’s clock, All prophesying rain,’ describes them as being ‘rather mysterious.’ As it is quite unusual to see anything of Kingsley’s thus characterised, it may perhaps be instructive to your writer, and interesting to your readers, to know that these lines simply have reference to the sounds which were wafted towards Eversley Rectory from the South-Western Railway and the clock at Heckfield Place, the residence of the then Speaker of the House of Commons, when the ‘bless’d southwind’ was blowing; always welcome to Kingsley as heralding a day’s fishing, when—
I’m off at eight to-morrow morn
To bring such fishes back.
—Faithfully yours, Fred. W. Gill.—Dartford, Kent.”—
The Daily News, April, 1885.
——:o:——
A Husband’s Lament.
Air—“I once had a sweet little Doll, dears.”
(Kingsley’s Words, set by A. Cecil.)
I once saw a sweet pretty face, boys:
Its beauty and grace were divine.
And I felt what a swell I should be, boys,
Could I boast that such charms were all mine!
I wooed. Every man I cut out, boys,
At my head deep anathemas hurled:—
But I said as I walked back from church, boys,
“I’m the luckiest dog in the world!”
As doves in a cot we began, boys,
A cosy and orthodox pair:
Till I found at my notable wife, boys,
The world was beginning to stare.
She liked it. At first so did I, boys,
But, at length, when all over the place
She was sketched, hunted, photo’d and mobbed, boys,
I cried, “Hang her sweet pretty face!”
Still, we went here and there,—right and left, boys;—
We were asked dozen’s deep,—I say “we,”
Though wherever I went not a soul, boys,
Could have pointed out Adam from me.
But we had a rare social success, boys,
Got mixed with the noble and great,
Till one’s friends, who say kind and nice things, boys,
Talked of me as “the man come to wait!”
So, I’ve no more a sweet pretty wife, boys;
For the one that I once hoped to own,
Belongs, as I’ve found to my cost, boys,
To the great British public alone.
So until they’ve got tired of her face, boys,
And a rival more touzled or curled,
Drives her home to her own proper place, boys—
I’m the dullest dull dog in the world!
Punch, January 7, 1882.
——:o:——
A correspondent writes from the United States, “I send you below an attempt I made twenty-three years ago to parody an illegitimate poem of Kingsley’s, and to show that even a foreigner having a moderate familiarity with Scott’s novels, can write as good a piece of bad Scotch poetry as an Englishman:—
New York Correspondence.
New York City, June 21, 1862.
Dear Press,—I saw in your Poet’s Corner some time since a poem by Charles Kingsley about a beast termed an Oubit. What is it? I was vexed at the poem. What business has Kingsley to be writing fraudulent Scotch poetry? He can’t do it well. It makes him look as ridiculous as the old philosopher in the story, trying to put his toe in his mouth, because he saw a baby do it. Besides, anybody can do it as well as Kingsley. I can. Exempli gratia:
The Dirdum.
It was a fearfu’ Dirdum, ae morning in the spring,
He hirpled down the brae his lane, a sair and grewsome thing.
The muckle buirdly dirdum, wi’ pawky glarin een,
And couched himsel amang the grass, whare he could na be seen.
Wee leein’ Jamie Nagle cam daunderin’ up the glen;
A fusionless camsteary chiel, aye answering back again.
And when auld Jock the cadger tauld him where the dirdum lay,
And warned him aff, he leugh, and sware he’d surely gang that way.
Sae on he went, and up he gat, and lang, fu’ lang, he staid—
For naebody saw Jamie e’er come back the gate he gaed.
But mony an eldritch screech was heard within the lonesome glen,
Though what the dirdum did wi’ him, I’m sure I dinna ken.
There. And yet I don’t think myself an eminently—scarcely a moderately—successful Scotch poet! Ne sutor I say.
