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

by Unknown

George Gordon, Lord Byron,

Born January 22, 1788.    Died April 19, 1824.

yron’s first published volume, entitled Hours of Idleness, contained few poems of note, or that gave promise of his future fame, although the greater number were far too good to justify the savage attack made on them in The Edinburgh Review. Only a few of these poems have been thought worthy of imitation, that entitled “Maid of Athens” apparently being the favourite theme chosen for parodies.

THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE.

Away with your fictions of flimsy romance;

Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove!

Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,

Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.

Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow,

Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove;

From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow,

Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love!

If Apollo should e’er his assistance refuse,

Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove,

Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse,

And try the effect of the first kiss of love!

I hate you, ye cold compositions of art!

Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove,

I court the effusions that spring from the heart

Which throb with delight to the first kiss of love!

Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes,

Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move.

Arcadia displays but a region of dreams:

What are visions like these to the first kiss of love?

Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth,

From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove;

Some portion of paradise still is on earth,

And Eden revives in the first kiss of love.

When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past,

For years fleet away with the wings of the dove,

The dearest remembrance will still be the last,

Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.

Byron.

---

The Maiden I Love.

Away with fictitious and flimsy expanse

Of those tresses of falsehood which folly has wove;

Give me the real hair, and unmedicalled glance

The beauties that dwell in the maiden I love.

Ye charmers whose bosoms with cosmetics glow

Whose passions are put on and off like a glove;

I’m blessed if your long studied acting can show,

With the natural charms of the maiden I love.

If Rachel should e’er her assistance refuse

Or her kin, for that lady has taken a move

Invoke them no more, bid adieu to your ruses

And copy the forms of the maiden I love.

I hate you, ye cold compositions of art,

All young men despise ye, and old ones reprove

I court the emotions that spring from the heart

The unpractised charms of the maiden I love.

Your eyebrows, your locks, your fantastical dresses

Perhaps may amuse, but never can move;

The arcade exhibits a thousand such tresses

What are Mummies like these to the maiden I love?

Oh! cease to affirm that your sex since its birth

From Eve until now, has with coming age strove,

Some portion of nature still is on earth

In the delicate blush of the maiden I love.

When age chills your blood, and your pleasures are passed,

And your youth fled away on the wings of the dove;

Why caricature you, still to the last

The natural bloom of the maiden I love.

P. F. T.

——:o:——

WELL! THOU ART HAPPY.

Well! thou art happy, and I feel

That I should thus be happy too;

For still my heart regards thy weal

Warmly, as it was wont to do.

Thy husband’s blest—and ’twill impart

Some pangs to view his happier lot;

But let them pass—Oh! how my heart

Would hate him, if he loved thee not!

When late I saw thy favourite child,

I thought my jealous heart would break,

But when the unconscious infant smiled,

I kissed it for its mother’s sake.

I kissed it—and repressed my sighs,

Its father in its face to see;

But then it had its mother’s eyes,

And they were all to love and me.

Mary, adieu! I must away:

While thou art blest I’ll not repine;

But near thee I can never stay;

My heart would soon again be thine.

I deem’d that time, I deem’d that pride

Had quenched at length my boyish flame;

Nor knew, till seated by thy side,

My heart in all,—save hope,—the same.

Yet was I calm: I knew the time

My breast would thrill before thy look;

But now to tremble were a crime—

We met, and not a nerve was shook.

Byron.

---

To Mary.

Well! thou art happy, and I say

That I should thus be happy too;

For still I hate to go away

As badly as I used to do.

Thy husband’s blest,—and ’twill impart

Some pangs to view his happier lot;

But let them pass,—O, how my heart

Would hate him, if he clothed thee not!

When late I saw thy favourite child,

I thought, like Dutchmen, “I’d go dead,”

But when I saw its breakfast piled,

I thought how much ’t would take for bread.

I saw it, and repressed my groans,

Its father in its face to see,

Because I knew my scanty funds

Were scarce enough for you and me.

Mary, adieu! I must away;

While thou art blest, to grieve were sin;

But near thee I can never stay,

Because I’d get in love again.

I deemed that time, I deemed that pride,

My boyish feeling had subdued,

Nor knew, till seated by thy side,

I’d try to get you if I could.

Yet was I calm: I recollect,

My hand had once sought yours again,

But now your husband might object,

And so I kept it on my cane.

I saw thee gaze upon my face,

Yet meet with neither woe nor scoff;

One only feeling couldst thou trace,

A disposition to be off.

Away! away! my early dream,

Remembrance never must awake;

O, where is Mississippi’s stream?

My foolish heart, be still, or break!

From Poems and Parodies,
by Phœbe Carey, Boston, United States, 1854.

——:o:——

MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART.

Maid of Athens, ere we part,

Give, oh, give me back my heart!

Or, since that has left my breast,

Keep it now, and take the rest!

Hear my vow before I go,

Zoe mou sas agapo.[99]

By those tresses unconfined,

Woo’d by each Ægean wind;

By those lids whose jetty fringe

Kiss thy soft cheeks’ blooming tinge

By those wild eyes like the roe,

Zoe mou sas agapo.

By that lip I long to taste;

By that zone-encircled waist;

By all the token-flowers that tell

What words can never speak so well;

By love’s alternate joy and woe

Zoe mou sas agapo.

Maid of Athens! I am gone.

Think of me, sweet! when alone,

Though I fly to Istambol,

Athens holds my heart and soul:

Can I cease to love thee? No!

Zoe mou sas agapo.

The heroine of this poem died in London ten or twelve years ago. For some time previously she had been in poverty and when, about 1870, a subscription was started for her, Gounod composed an air to Byron’s “Maid of Athens” which produced about £20 towards the fund for the benefit of Mrs. Black, as she then was. It is said that Lord Byron wrote the poem in Athens, about 1810, when he was quite a young man, but I have never yet seen any mention made of the wonderful similarity between it, and the following ballad which appeared in The Monthly Mirror, November 1799:—

Ballad.

Addressed “to her I dearly love.”

By those orbits which, oft, I enraptur’d survey,

Which, sparkling Content, the mind’s image pourtray,

While sweet Affability tempers their ray,

I conjure thee to love me Sophia!

By those features, which Grief of her tears can beguile,

Aid the gambols of Mirth, light the burthen of Toil,

Dispensing delight when bedeck’d with a smile,

I conjure thee to love me Sophia!

By thy tongue, which I ne’er have heard prattle amiss,

By thy teeth, snow-drop white, thy lips, teeming with bliss,

By the exquisite rapture you breathe in a kiss,

I conjure thee to love me Sophia!

By thy temper as gentle as Spring’s mildest shower,

By the accents so soft, which rob Grief of its power,

By the form my eyes doat on, the mind I adore,

I conjure thee to love me Sophia!

By thy wish to alleviate Misery’s smart,

By the genial solace that wish does impart,

By the fond heart you’ve won, and your own little heart,

I conjure thee to love me Sophia!

By those vows at the altar our souls did approve,

By that union so sacred recorded above,

A compact divine, which demands love for love!

I conjure thee still love me Sophia!

Benedict.

---

Pretty Polka.

The sentimental young lady at the close of the season 1844.

Darling Polka! ere we part,

Hear th’ outpourings of my heart!

Since the season now is o’er,

Wretched, I can Polk no more.

Hear my vow before I go

Polka mou sas agapo!

By those steps so unconfined,

By that neat kick-up behind,

Coulon’s hop, and Michau’s slide,

Backward, forward, or aside,

By the alternate heel and toe

Polka mou sas agapo.

By the waltz’s giddy round,

By the galop’s maddening bound,

By the obsolete quadrille,

Polka mine! “I love thee still.”

Compared with thee each dance is slow

Polka mou sas agapo.

Happy season! thou art gone,

I, alas! must Polk alone!

Though the country now I roll to,

Almacks holds my heart and soul too.

Can I cease to love thee? No!

Polka mou sas agapo.

Punch, August, 1844.

---

Pay, Oh! Pay us what you Owe.

Song for the London Tradesmen.

Higher classes, ere we part,

For the country ere you start,

Let your tradespeople distress’d

Trouble you with one request:

Just a word before you go—

Pay, oh! pay us what you owe.

By those orders unconfined,

Which for goods of every kind

You so readily did give,

Think, oh! think that we must live—

Just a word before you go—

Pay, oh! pay us what you owe.

By those dresses of the best,

Silken robe and satin vest,

In whose splendour, by our aid,

You so gaily were arrayed:

Hear us cry before you go—

Pay, oh! pay us what you owe.

By the Opera and the Rout,

Recollect who rigged you out;

By the drawing-room and ball,

Bear in mind who furnished all:

Just a word before you go—

Pay, oh! pay us what you owe.

By the fête and the soirée,

And the costly déjeuner,

By your plate and ormulu,

Let your tradesmen get their due:

Just a word before you go—

Pay, oh! pay us what you owe.

Punch, July 31, 1847.

---

“The figure advances upon me, flourishing its umbrella in the most deadly manner.

I discover it to be a man—a creature with a long clerically-cut coat, a white linen stock—a creature with its hair parted down the middle to make the most of an inch-and-a-quarter of forehead—a young—a very young ritualist priest.

He flourishes his umbrella in my face, and bursts out in the following alarming way”:—

Am I Right for Colney Hatch?

I.

Man of Mammon, e’er we part

Read the words upon my heart;

Or, if that has left my breast,

Go to Rome and read the rest.

By my vesper-breathing watch

Am I right for Colney Hatch?

II.

By mine alb and stole and cope,

By my tonsured head and Pope,

By my banners’ silken flow,

By my chalice veil of snow,

By the laces that attach,

Am I right for Colney Hatch?

III.

By the chancel dossals hung,

By the incense burnt and swung,

By the candles lit at noon,

By the Sacramental spoon,

By my napkins, cutters, such,

Am I right for Colney Hatch?

IV.

By my chasuble and stool,

By Loyola’s holy rule,

By the font’s baptismal jugs,

By my maniples and mugs,

By my altar-cloths to match,

Am I right for Colney Hatch?

V.

By the acolytes that file

In procession down the aisle,

By the silken flags they bear,

By the holy Cross that’s there,

By my vigil, fast, and watch,

Am I right for Colney Hatch?

VI.

By my piping treble tones,

By my loved Gregorian groans,

By the priest’s Confessional,

By man’s faults transgressional;

Ah! that whispered word I catch—

Yes, I’m right for Colney Hatch.

Benjamin D——. His Little Dinner. 1876.

---

Mr. Gladstone and the “Daily Telegraph.”

(The hour of midnight strikes.)

Mr. Gladstone (at his casement.)

This is the hour when churchyards yawn, they say;

I wish that I could do the same. All day

I’ve worked right hard, yet sleep I cannot woo;

Oh! how I wish the weary night were through.

As he speaks, a form clad in large sheets of newspaper is seen stealing from the neighbouring copse, and sinking on its knees on the gravel before Mr. Gladstone’s window, plaintively sings:—

People’s William, do not start,

Nor reply in accents tart;

See thy “Telly” kneel in pain,

Vowing thee to serve again;

See, and say before I go—

Is it all made up or no?

True it is I turned on thee;

Fate for this has punished me.

For, despite my subtle art,

Joseph M. is not a Bart.

Pity, then, thou’lt surely show!—

Is it all made up or no?

Should’st thou come again to pow’r,

William, recollect this hour!

That thy “Telly” on the stones

Knelt and prayed in piteous tones,

That thou should’st not be its foe—

Is it all made up or no?

Ere thou seek’st thy night’s repose,

Tell me, are we friends or foes?

Wilt thou in our interests work,

If I drop the wicked Turk?

Tell me quickly ere I go,

Is it all made up or no?

Duo.—Willie and his Telly.

Willie: Telly, Telly, like a jelly, shiver I at what you’ve said,

Telly: Gladdie, Gladdie, lowland laddie, pardon here to seek I’ve sped,

Willie: Telly, Telly, quite Pall-Mally, have you been in all you wrote,

Telly: Willie, Willie, I was silly; on the Turk no more I’ll dote.

Willie: You I’ll pardon, ere you harden! Go, and don’t your word forget.

Telly: Joseph Moses, too, supposes he may be Sir Joseph yet,

If right gaily, we now daily, puff the Muscovs up, and you?

Willie: You will see, T., how ’twill be, T.; trust, meantime, in what I do!

Solo.—Telly.

Fare thee well, and if for ever,

Thou can’st say I’ve not been clever;

But remember, please, this hour,

When thou com’st again to pow’r.

[Exit Telly, dancing, and Mr. Gladstone retires to rest.]

—Truth. October, 1877.

(At one time The Daily Telegraph (London), was very strong in its support of Mr. Gladstone’s policy, but it afterwards completely veered round, and whilst Lord Beaconsfield was in power, he became the God of its idolatry. This change of front was popularly supposed to arise from the fact that the proprietor of the paper was very anxious to obtain a baronetcy.)

Maid of Athens.

John Bull loquitur.—

Maid of Athens, ere we start,

Take my arm—I’ll take your part.

Be my partner. All the rest

Have paired off as suits them best.

Hear me swear, before we go,

Zoe mou sas agapo.

Bismarck’s bland, but over-kind;

Gortschakoff would Argus blind;

Coy Andrassy’s coldly cute.

No: such partners will not suit.

You are small, but safe, I trow.

Zoe mou sas agapo.

Hobson’s Choice? Oh, not at all!

I’ve my business at the ball:

What it is I need not tell;

Attic nous should guess right well.

Come! together let us go!

Zoe mou sas agapo.

Maid of Athens! though alone,

Think not, dear, that I’ll be “done.”

They’ve an eye to Istambol,

Fain would leave me in the hole—

Do I mean to let them? No!

Zoe mou sas agapo.

Punch, March 23, 1878.

---

The Maid of Clapham.

Maid of Clapham! ere I part,

Tell me if thou hast a heart!

For, so padded is thy breast,

I begin to doubt the rest!

Tell me now before I go—

Αῥτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπὁρνῶ?

Are those tresses thickly twined,

Only hair-pinned on behind!

Is thy blush which roses mocks,

Bought at three-and-six per box?

Tell me, for I ask in woe—

Αῥτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπὁρνῶ?

And those lips I seem to taste,

Are they pink with cherry-paste?

Gladly I’d the notion, scout,

But do those white teeth take out?

Answer me, it is not so—

Αῥτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπὁρνῶ?

Maid of Clapham! come, no larks!

For thy shoulders leave white marks—

Tell me! quickly tell to me

What is really real in thee?

Tell me, or at once I go—

Αῥτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπὁρνῶ?

Jon Duan.

---

Made of Something.

Made of Something! ere we part,

Tell me, truly, what thou art!

For, it needs must be confessed,

There is mystery at best

Lurking in thine amber glow—

Λαγερ μου σάς ἀγαπῶ!

Tell me, doth the glucose shine

In this chalky foam of thine?

Is it malt of barley true,

Mingled in thy cheery brew?

Hops, not drugs, thy tincture? O

Λαγερ μου σάς ἀγαπῶ!

Howsoe’er it be, I fear,

Made of Something, you are queer!

For you make my head to ache,

And my stomach cause to quake,

After twenty Drinks or so—

Λαγερ μου σάς ἀγαπῶ!

Free Press Flashes, 1882.

---

Zoedone.

“Zoedone is a tonic, no doubt about it; but being rather sweetish, it must be thoroughly iced; then—put a liqueur glass of brandy into a small tumbler of Zoe, and, if you like shandygaffian sort of drinking, you will find this, what the leading Counsel finds his occasional fifty guineas, a gentle and agreeable Refresher. Solvitur drink-no-endo. Verb. sap. We dedicate to Zoedone this Byronic verse”:—

Made of something, ere we part,

Tell me, tell me what thou art?

If the truth must be confest,

With a nip thou goest best.

With liqueur, one little “go,”

Ζώη-δῶν σάς ἀγαπῶ.

Punch, September 18, 1880.

---

Calf’s Heart.

Maid of all work as a part

Of my dinner, cook a heart;

Or, since such a dish is best,

Give me that, and leave the rest,

Take my orders, ere I go;

Heart of calf we’ll cook thee so.

Buy, to price you’re not confined—

Such a heart as suits your mind;

Buy some suet—and enough

Of the herbs required to stuff,

Buy some lemon—peel—and, oh!

Heart of calf, we’ll fill thee so.

Buy some onions—just a taste—

Buy enough, but not to waste;

Buy two eggs of slender shell,

Mix, and stir the mixture well;

Crumbs of bread among it throw;

Heart of calf we’ll roast thee so.

Maid of all work, when ’tis done,

Serve it up to me alone:

Rich brown gravy round it roll,

Marred by no intruding coal;

Currant jelly add—and lo!

Heart of calf, I’ll eat thee so.

Punch, January 1852.

---

“Beautiful for Ever.”[100]

Madam Rachel, ere we smash,

Give, oh, give me back my cash;

Or, since that has left my chest,

Let me have a little rest.

Hear my vow before I go,—

Upon my life, I’ll sue you!

By these powdered tresses fine,

Falling from a brow divine;

By the beautiful gamboge;

By these soft cheeks’ blooming rouge;

By these eyes, so like the roe,—

It is—it is no go!

By this lip he longed to taste;

By this zone-encircled waist;

By “dear William’s” quenched love,

Which I never more can move;

Give me—solace in my woe—

All the cash, and let me go!

Madam Rachel, I’ll be gone:

Think of me sweet, when alone.

I will fly to Mr. Knox;

Every nerve this system shocks,

Can I cease to sue thee? No!

Madam Rachel, oh dear, no!

Judy, June 24. 1868.

---

Maid of All-Work.

(To her Mistress.)

Unkind Missis, e’er the day

Speed my willing feet away,

Let my injured spirit speak,

Prick your conscience, tinge your cheek,

Hear my words before I go:

If I’m bad, you’ve made me so.

By my weary hours confined

To work and dirt and heat combined;

By my ever-lengthening day,

By my ever-shortening pay:

By these grievances you know—

If I’m bad, you’ve made me so.

By the joints I ne’er might taste,

By the rows about the waste;

By your harsh, discordant voice

Scolding with expletives choice!

By my lot of work, and woe,—

If I’m bad, you’ve made me so.

Cruel Missis! never more

Shall midnight find my toil scarce o’er—

Never more! And Missis, yet,

My parting words you’ll ne’er forget,

As changing slaveys come—and go:

If they’re bad, you’ve made them so!

From Grins and Groans, Social and Political.

---

Maid of Ganges.

By a Heart-broken Hindoo.

Maid of Ganges! thou that art

Maharanee of my heart,

Thou that fairest art in all

Rajpootana or Nepaul:

It were happiness to be

Syce or Ayah unto thee;—

Then one glance of pity fling

To Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh.

Had I mines of gems and gold,

All Golconda’s wealth untold;

Myriads of precious stones,

Begum’s crowns and Nizam’s thrones;

Lakhs of annas, pies, rupees,—

These I’d bring and more than these.

I have them not: and so I bring

Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh.

Maid of Ganges! thou shalt feast

On all the dainties of the east;

Curry will I bring to thee,

Chutnee, rice, and cadgeree,

All that can delight the sense—

Thy lover will not spare expense.

He will buy thee anything,

Will Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh.

Maid of Ganges? thou shalt wear

A Tuggaree twined in thy hair.

And about thy head shall play

A sportive punkah all the day;

While the bulbul’s song by night

Shall fill thee with supreme delight,

And to the tomtom’s plaintive string

Shall Koot Nerbudda Chundra sing.

Maid of Ganges! dost thou love

To watch the smoke-rings curl above?

Dost thou smoke? Then so do I,

So lay thy proud demeanour by

And sit beneath yon banyan tree

And share a narghili with me,

Or hubble-bubble murmuring

With Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh.

Maid of Ganges! thou dost lave

Thy houri form in Jumna’s wave;

Thou dost waste thy sunny smiles

On the sacred crocodiles,

As beneath thine eyes they bask

They have what I vainly ask.

Then one glance of kindness fling

To Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh.

The Etonian, February 15, 1884.

---

To a Slavey.

Maid-of-all-work we must part,

You are not a pleasing tart,

Smashing things with such a zest,

You must surely need a rest.

Anyway, one thing I know:

Holy Moses! out you go!

[Takes her by the birdcage and the chignon
and hands her out like a sack of coals.]

The Topical Times, March, 1886.

---

The following verses were said to have been copied from an intercepted post card:—

Joe, my Joseph, ere we part,

Ere you break an old man’s heart,

You that hold the Rads in check,

Ere the Cabinet you wreck,

Pause, nor let Trevelyan go:

Ιώη μοῦ, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ

Leave, oh leave us not alone;

Hartington and James are gone;

Forster, Goschen, stand aside;

Bright (they say) to you’s allied;

But the world I fain would show,

Ιώη μοῦ, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ

Even those I reckon true:

Harcourt, heavy—Morley new—

Childers, blundering—Granville, old—

Some afraid, some rashly bold;

Wanting all, too much to know:

Ιώη μοῦ, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ

If with us you’ll only stay,

In aught else we’ll all give way;

Each shall have (if you’ll show how)

His three acres and a cow;

“Ransom” shall be all the “go:”

Ιώη μοῦ, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ

St. James’s Gazette, March 22, 1886.

(Mr. Joseph Chamberlain had just resigned his seat in the Cabinet.)

——:o:——

I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD

I would I were a careless child,

Still dwelling in my Highland cave,

Or roaming through the dusky wild,

Or bounding o’er the dark blue wave;

The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride

Accords not with the freeborn soul,

Which loves the mountain’s craggy side,

And seeks the rocks where billows roll

Fortune! take back these cultured lands,

Take back this name of splendid sound!

I hate the touch of servile hands,

I hate the slaves that cringe around.

Place me along the rocks I love,

Which sound to Ocean’s wildest roar;

I ask but this—again to rove

Through scenes my youth hath known before.

*  *  *  *  *

I loved—but those I loved are gone;

Had friends—my early friends are fled;

How cheerless feels the heart alone

When all its former hopes are dead!

Though gay companions o’er the bowl

Dispel awhile the sense of ill;

Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,

The heart—the heart—is lonely still.

How dull! to hear the voice of those

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power,

Have made, though neither friends nor foes,

Associates of the festive hour.

Give me again a faithful few,

In years and feelings still the same,

And I will fly the midnight crew,

Where boist’rous joy is but a name.

*  *  *  *  *

Lord Byron.

---

The Old Fogey’s Lament.

I would I were a careless child,

Still knowing not how to behave,

With dirty face and hair all wild

And not a bit of need to shave.

The cumbrous ways of manhood’s day

Accord not with my boyish soul;

Again in dreams I “rounders” play,

The top I spin, the ball I roll.

Fortune, take back my house and lands,

For nuisances I them have found;

I want a tipcat in my hands,

I want to make the football bound.

Give me again the “rock” I loved

(Ah, it was sold in penny sticks!)

Which, in my trousers’ pocket shoved,

With fluff and marbles used to mix.

I loved—but what I loved is gone.

Where are those soldiers made of lead

They could not leave my kite alone,

It now has altogether fled.

Let those who will seek Fortune’s track,

And to Ambition’s projects cling!

I only want my jew’s-harp back,

My hoop, my silkworms, and my string.

How dull to hear the voice of those

Whom rank or chance, or wealth or power,

Have made, though neither friends nor foes,

Associates of the present hour.

Give me again my faithful “chums,”

Who ate my cake and jam at school;

Who let me copy off their sums,

Then thrashed me ’cause I was a fool.

Oh, would my boyhood could return,

With all its appetite and joys!

Now doughy cake I’m bound to spurn,

And raspberry jam, by potfulls, cloys.

Life is a weariness, in fact;

And could I rid me of its pain,

With Fate I’d make a willing pact,

And gladly be a boy again.

Funny Folks.

——:o:——

NAPOLEON’S FAREWELL.

From the French.

Farewell to the land, where the gloom of my glory

Arose and o’ershadowed the earth with her name—

She abandons me now—but the page of her story,

The brightest or blackest, is filled with my fame.

I have warr’d with a world which vanquished me only

When the meteor of conquest allured me too far;

I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely,

The last single Captive to millions in war.

Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crown’d me,

I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth—

But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee,

Decay’d in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth.

Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted

In strife with the storm, when their battles were won—

Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted

Had still soar’d with eyes fixed on victory’s sun.

Farewell to thee France!—but when Liberty rallies

Once more in thy regions, remember me then—

The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys;

Though wither’d, thy tear will unfold it again—

Yet, yet I may baffle the hosts that surround us,

And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice—

There are links which must break in the chain that has bound us,

Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice!

Lord Byron.

---

The Bohemian’s Farewell.

Farewell to the Strand, and my uppermost story,

Which bore on the door in rude letters my name;

Whose shelter I’ve courted with countenance gory,

When street rows had soiled both my linen and fame!

I’ve warred with the landlord, who conquered me only

When liquor and love had allured me too far,

And the lodger made love to his fair daughter lonely,

While she giggled softly, and murmured “Ask ma!”

Farewell to the Strand! While the money had crown’d me,

Of coin for sprees I ne’er yet felt the dearth;

But Poverty says, I must leave as I found thee,

Decayed in my garments, and sunk in my worth!

Oh! for the numberless sov’reigns I’ve wasted

In strife with the p’lice ere my orgies were done!

Oh! for the numberless liquors I’ve tasted,

With blackened eyes fixed upon multiplied sun.

Farewell to thee, Strand! But when Bankruptcy rallies,

And calls me once more to thy regions, why then,

As the old well-known footstep recrosses thine alleys,

Welcome me back to Bohemia again!

E’en yet I may baffle the duns that surround me,

E’en yet may thy street be aroused by my voice;

And when for a spree you have gathered around me,

Then turn, and call on the chief of your choice!

John J. Bosworth.

Worthy a Crown? 1876.

——:o:——

The Spell is Broken.

The spell is broken when we own

The girl who made us feel love’s fever;

We madly smile, and wish we’d known

Her temper, ere too late to leave her.

Each curtain lecture brings the thought

Of all the woes of wedding’s charter;

And he who had an angel sought

But lives to find he’s caught a tartar.

Judy, December 29, 1880,

---

The War Song of the Radical Philhellene.

(After Lord Byron’s translation
of a famous Greek War Song.)

Sons of the Greeks, our eyes

Are on your little State;

We view with pained surprise

The move you meditate.

Chorus.

Sons of the Greeks! to go

In arms against the foe

Would be just now, you know,

Inopportune indeed.

Your glorious uprising,

Are you aware, my friends?

Is gravely jeopardizing

Your patrons private ends.

With Philhellenic fervour

He burns, and so do I,

As any close observer

May, if he can, descry.

Gladly would he, I take it,

Extend support to you,

If he could only make it

Convenient so to do.

But asking him to father

Your game, with his to play,

Sons of the Greeks, is rather

A strongish order, eh?

Chorus.

Sons of the Greeks, etc.

Yet, O ye patriots banded!

Sons of the Greeks, I own

There has been, to be candid,

A certain change of tone.

I’ve not forgot full surely,

Nor shall I all my life,

How somewhat prematurely

I woke the Spartan fife.

I made a bold diversion,

Leonidas-like; but he—

He went in for coercion,

And left me up a tree.

And so amid back numbers,

From which I do not quote,

Now, hushed for ever, slumbers

That hasty battle-note.

Chorus.

Sons of the Greeks, etc.

Well, to correct my blunder,

The least that I can do

Is just to preach knock-under

Perpetually to you.

And, after all, there’s reason

In a filibustering raid,

For which ’tis not the season,

To seek our Gladstone’s aid.

He’s not at leisure, is he?

To cut up other Powers,

Just now when he’s so busy

Carving this realm of ours.

Though loath then, I assure you,

To stay the lifted cup,

I solemnly adjure you,

Sons of the Greeks, dry up!

Chorus.

Sons of the Greeks, etc.

The Saturday Review, April. 1886.

——:o:——

ENIGMA

’Twas whispered in heaven, ’twas muttered in hell,

And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell:

On the confines of earth ’twas permitted to rest,

And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed.

’Twill be found in the sphere when ’tis riven asunder,

Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder,

’Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,

Attends at his birth, and awaits him in death;

It presides o’er his happiness, honour, and health,

Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth.

Without the soldier and seaman may roam,

But woe to the wretch who expels it from home.

In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,

Nor e’en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned.

’Twill not soften the heart, and tho’ deaf to the ear,

’Twill make it acutely and instantly hear,

But in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower—

Oh! breathe on it softly—it dies in an hour.

Lord Byron.

---

A Parody on the above, by Henry Mayhew.

I dwells in the Herth, and I breathes in the Hair;

If you searches the Hocean, you’ll find that I’m there.

The first of all Hangels, in Holympus am Hi,

Yet I’m banished from ’Eaven, expelled from on ’Igh.

But though on this Horb I’m destined to grovel,

I’m ne’er seen in an ’Ouse, in an ’Ut, nor an ’Ovel;

Not an ’Oss nor an ’Unter e’er bears me, alas!

But often I’m found on the top of a Hass.

I resides in a Hattic, and loves not to roam,

And yet I’m invariably absent from ’Ome.

Tho’ ’ushed in the ’Urricane, of the Hatmosphere part,

I enters no ’Ed, I creeps into no ’Art;

Only look, and you’ll see in the Heye I appear,

Only ’ark, and you’ll ’ear me just breathe in the Hear.

Though in sex not an ’E, I am (strange paradox)

Not a bit of an ’Effer, but partly a Hox.

Of Heternity Hi’m the beginning! and mark,

Tho I goes not with Noar, I’m the first in the Hark.

I’m never in ’Ealth—have with Fysic no power;

I dies in a Month, but comes back in a Hour!

---

The Letter H’s Petition.

Whereas, I have by you been driven

From house, from home, from hope, from heaven,

And placed by your most learned society

In exile, anguish, and anxiety,

And used, without one just pretence,

With arrogance and insolence;

I here demand full restitution,

And beg you’ll mend your elocution.

Answer.

Whereas we’ve rescued you, Ingrate,

From handcuff, horror, and from hate,

From hell, from horse-pond, and from halter,

And consecrated you in altar;

And placed you where you ne’er should be,

In honour, and in honesty;——

We deem your prayer a rude intrusion,

And will not mend our elocution.

---

The Humble Petition of the Letter W
to the Inhabitants of London.

Whereas by you I have been hurled

From the first station in the world,

Condemned in vice to find a place,

And with the vulgar show my face;

I humbly ask to be restored,

In all that’s proper, to a word.

But what I most complain of now,

Is that the women cut me so;

When any girl becomes a wife,

I’m turned away for all her life—

And even in her widowhood

I mayn’t return to her abode.

Therefore with reason I complain,

Oh! let me not be heard in vain;

And born within the sound of Bow,

I trust I’m not your care below:

Answer.

Your prayer is graciously received,

But you can never be believed;

With v’s you often spell your name—

Then is it just your dupes to blame?

As long as you act parts so double,

We cannot deem you worth our trouble;

But rest assured that nought will hurt you,

So long as you remain in virtue.

DRURY-LANE THEATRE.

On the 14th of August, 1812, the following advertisement appeared in most of the daily papers:—

“Rebuilding of Drury-Lane Theatre.

“The Committee are desirous of promoting a free and fair competition for an Address to be spoken upon the opening of the Theatre, which will take place on the 10th of October next. They have, therefore, thought fit to announce to the public, that they will be glad to receive any such compositions, addressed to their Secretary, at the Treasury-office, in Drury-Lane, on or before the 10th of September, sealed up, with a distinguishing word, number, or motto, on the cover, corresponding with the inscription on a separate sealed paper, containing the name of the author, which will not be opened unless containing the name of the successful candidate.”

Many addresses were sent in, but the Committee rejected them all, much to the annoyance of the competitors, who, having expended their time and paper, by the implied engagement on the part of the committee that the best bidder should have the contract, had a right to protest against the injustice of this wholesale rejection. The committee made an absurd engagement; but surely they were bound to keep to it.

In the dilemma to which that learned body was reduced by the rejection of all the biddings, they put themselves under the care of Lord Byron, who produced the following:—

Address.

Spoken at the opening of Drury-Lane Theatre,
Saturday, October 10th, 1812.

In one dread night our city saw, and sighed,

Bow’d to the dust, the Drama’s tower of pride;

In one short hour beheld the blazing fane,

Apollo sink, and Shakespere cease to reign.

Ye who beheld (oh! sight admir’d and mourn’d,

Whose radiance mocked the ruin it adorn’d!)

Through clouds of fire the massive fragments riven,

Like Israel’s pillar, chase the night from heaven;

Saw the long column of revolving flames

Shake its red shadow o’er the startled Thames,

While thousands, throng’d around the burning dome,

Shrank back appall’d, and trembled for their home,

As glared the volum’d blaze, and ghastly shone

The skies, with lightnings awful as their own,

Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall

Usurp’d the Muse’s realm, and mark’d her fall;

Say—shall this new, nor less aspiring pile,

Rear’d where once rose the mightiest in our isle,

Know the same favour which the former knew,

A shrine for Shakspere—worthy him and you?

Yes—it shall be—the magic of that name

Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame;

On the same spot still consecrates the scene,

And bids the Drama be where she has been:

This fabric’s birth attests the potent spell—

Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well!

As soars this fane to emulate the last,

Oh! might we draw our omens from the past,

Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast

Names such as hallow still the dome we lost.

On Drury first your Siddons’ thrilling art

O’erwhelmed the gentlest, storm’d the sternest heart

On Drury, Garrick’s latest laurels grew;

Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew,

Sigh’d his last thanks, and wept his last adieu;

But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom,

That only waste their odours o’er the tomb.

Such Drury claim’d and claims—nor you refuse

One tribute to revive his slumbering muse;

With garlands deck your own Menander’s head![101]

Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead!

Dear are the days which made our annals bright,

Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write.

Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs,

Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs;

While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo’s glass

To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass,

And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine

Immortal names emblazoned on our line,

Pause—ere their feebler offspring you condemn,

Reflect how hard the task to rival them!

Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Play

Must sue alike for pardon or for praise,

Whose judging voice and eye alone direct

The boundless power to cherish or reject;

If e’er frivolity has led to fame,

And made us blush that you forbore to blame,

If e’er the sinking stage could condescend

To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend,

All past reproach may present scenes refute,

And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute!

Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama’s laws,

Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause;

So pride shall doubly nerve the actor’s powers,

And reason’s voice be echo’d back by ours.

This greeting o’er, the ancient rule obeyed,

The Drama’s homage by her herald paid,

Receive our welcome too, whose every tone

Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own.

The curtain rises—may our stage unfold

Scenes not unworthy Drury’s days of old!

Britons our judges, Nature for our guide,

Still may we please—long, long may you preside.

Hereon followed “The Rejected Addresses” by the brothers Horace and James Smith, published in 1812 by John Miller, 25, Bow Street, Covent Garden, London, and the wonderfully clever and amusing imitations and parodies contained in the book made it at once popular, and caused it to prominently attract the attention of the literati of the day. The imitation of Lord Byron is not perhaps so successful as some of the other poems. As Lord Jeffrey remarked in The Edinburgh Review. “The author has succeeded better in copying the melody and misanthropic sentiments of Childe Harold, than the nervous and impetuous diction in which his noble biographer has embodied them.” It is not to be expected that the burlesque address, by the brothers Smith, should present any resemblance to Lord Byron’s opening address at Drury Lane.

CUI BONO?

(Ascribed to Lord Byron.)

I.

Sated with home, of wife, of children tired,

The restless soul is driven abroad to roam;[102]

Sated abroad, all seen, yet nought admired,

The restless soul is driven to ramble home;

Sated with both, beneath new Drury’s dome

The fiend Ennui awhile consents to pine,

There growls, and curses, like a deadly Gnome,

Scorning to view fantastic Columbine,

Viewing with scorn and hate the nonsense of the Nine.

II.

Ye reckless dupes, who hither wend your way

To gaze on puppets in a painted dome,

Pursuing pastimes glittering to betray,

Like falling stars in life’s eternal gloom,

What seek ye here? Joy’s evanescent bloom?

Woe’s me! the brightest wreaths she ever gave

Are but as flowers that decorate a tomb.

Man’s heart, the mournful urn o’er which they wave,

Is sacred to despair, its pedestal the grave.

III.

Has life so little store of real woes,

That here ye wend to taste fictitious grief?

Or is it that from truth such anguish flows,

Ye court the lying drama for relief?

Long shall ye find the pang, the respite brief:

Or if one tolerable page appears

In folly’s volume, ’tis the actor’s leaf,

Who dries his own by drawing others’ tears,

And, raising present mirth, makes glad his future years.

IV.

Albeit, how like young Betty doth he flee!

Light as the mote that daunceth in the beam,

He liveth only in man’s present e’e;

His life a flash, his memory a dream,

Oblivious down he drops in Lethe’s stream.

Yet what are they, the learned and the great?

Awhile of longer wonderment the theme!

Who shall presume to prophesy their date,

Where nought is certain, save the uncertainty of fate?

V.

This goodly pile, upheaved by Wyatt’s toil,

Perchance than Holland’s edifice[103] more fleet,

Again red Lemnos’ artisan may spoil;

The fire alarm and midnight drum may beat,

And all bestrewed ysmoking at your feet!

Start ye? perchance Death’s angel may be sent,

Ere from the flaming temple ye retreat;

And ye who met, on revel idlesse bent,

May find, in pleasure’s fane, your grave and monument.

VI.

Your debts mount high—ye plunge in deeper waste

The tradesman duns—no warning voice ye hear!

The plaintiff sues—to public shows ye haste;

The bailiff threats—ye feel no idle fear.

Who can arrest your prodigal career?

Who can keep down the levity of youth?

What sound can startle age’s stubborn ear?

Who can redeem from wretchedness and ruth

Men true to falsehood’s voice, false to the voice of truth.

VII.

To thee, blest saint! who doffed thy skin to make

The Smithfield rabble leap from theirs with joy,

We dedicate the pile—arise! awake!—

Knock down the Muses, wit and sense destroy

Clear our new stage from reason’s dull alloy,

Charm hobbling age, and tickle capering youth

With cleaver, marrow-bone, and Tunbridge toy;

While, vibrating in unbelieving tooth,[104]

Harps twang in Drury’s walls, and make her boards a booth.

VIII.

For what is Hamlet, but a hare in March?

And what is Brutus, but a croaking owl?

And what is Rolla? Cupid steeped in starch,

Orlando’s helmet in Augustin’s cowl.

Shakespeare, how true thine adage, “fair is foul!”

To him whose soul is with fruition fraught,

The song of Braham is an Irish howl,

Thinking is but an idle waste of thought,

And nought is everything, and everything is nought.

IX.

Sons of Parnassus! whom I view above,

Not laurel-crown’d, but clad in rusty black;

Not spurring Pegasus through Tempè’s grove,

But pacing Grub-street on a jaded hack;

What reams of foolscap, while your brains ye rack,

Ye mar to make again! for sure, ere long,

Condemn’d to tread the bard’s time-sanction’d track,

Ye all shall join the bailiff-haunted throng,

And reproduce, in rags, the rags ye blot in song,

X.

So fares the follower in the Muses’ train!

He toils to starve, and only lives in death!

We slight him, till our patronage is vain,

Then round his skeleton a garland wreathe,

And o’er his bones an empty requiem breathe—

Oh! with what tragic horror would he start,

(Could he be conjured from the grave beneath)

To find the stage again a Thespian cart,

And elephants and colts down-trampling Shakespeare’s art.

XI.

Hence, pedant Nature! with thy Grecian rules!

Centaurs (not fabulous) those rules efface;

Back, sister Muses, to your native schools;

Here booted grooms usurp Apollo’s place,

Hoofs shame the boards that Garrick used to grace,

The play of limbs succeeds the play of wit,

Man yields the drama to the Hou’yn’m race,

His prompter spurs, his licenser the bit,

The stage a stable-yard,[105] a jockey-club the pit.

XII.

Is it for these ye rear this proud abode?

Is it for these your superstition seeks

To build a temple worthy of a god,

To laud a monkey, or to worship leeks!

Then be the stage to recompense your freaks,

A motley chaos, jumbling age and ranks,

Where Punch, the lignum-vitæ Roscius, squeaks,

And Wisdom weeps and Folly plays his pranks,

And moody Madness laughs and hugs the chain he clanks.

From The Rejected Addresses.

Following close upon The Rejected Addresses, by J. and H. Smith, appeared a small volume entitled,

The Genuine Rejected Addresses,

Presented to the Committee of Management for Drury-Lane Theatre, preceded by that written by Lord Byron, and adopted by the Committee. London: B. McMillan, 1812.—This contained a collection of as many of the Addresses, sent in to the Committee for the competition, as the Editor could gather from the various authors. He admits that it is not a complete collection, nor do the authors’ real names appear with every poem.

Several of the addresses were really written by authors who had been parodied in The Rejected Addresses, notably W. T. Fitzgerald, and Dr. Busby.

——:o:——

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;

And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,

That host with their banners at sunset were seen;

Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,

That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass’d;

And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,

And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,

But through it there roll’d not the breath of his pride;

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,

The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,

And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

Lord Byron.

---

The Destruction of the Aldermen.

A Mansion House Melody.

Apoplexia came down on the Alderman fold,

And his cohorts were gleaming with jaundice like gold,

And the sheen of the spectres that own’d his behest

Glimmer’d bright as the gas at a new Lord Mayor’s feast.

Every fiend that humanity shrinks from was there,

Hepatitis, Lumbago, with hollow-eyed Care,

Hypochondria, and Gout, grinning ghastly with pain,

And of Incubi phantoms a horrible train.

*  *  *  *  *

Then he straightway amongst them his grisly form cast,

And breathed on each puffing red face as he pass’d;

And the eyes of the feasters wax’d deadly and chill,

And their stomachs once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And the turtle devourers were stretched on the floor—

Each cheek changed to purple—so crimson before!

Their dewlaps all dabbled with red wine and ale,

And extremities cold as a live fish’s tale!

And there lay the Liv’ryman, breathless and lorn,

With waistcoat and new inexpressibles torn;

And the Hall was all silent, the band having flown,

And the waiters stared wildly on, sweating and blown.

And Cripplegate windows are loud in their wail,

And Mary-Axe orphans all trembling and pale!

For the Alderman glory has melted away,

As mists are dispersed by the glad dawn of day.

Punch, November 13, 1841.

---

A New Sennacherib.

Sir Robert came down on the Corn Laws so bold,

And his backers felt savage, and sorry, and sold;

But the Premier of votes had a majority,

Amounting, in all, to about ninety-three.

As sheep follow the wether, submissive and mean,

That host at the heels of their leader were seen;

As sheep scatter wide when you leave them alone,

That host, says the Times, are now broke and o’erthrown.

For the Iron Duke set his fate on the cast,

And nailed, for the Corn-laws, his flag to the mast;

And the Cabinet’s hopes felt a sensible chill,

When they thought of the Duke, and his potent “I will.”

And there sat the Premier, his head on one side;

His arguments pooh-poohed, his statements denied;

And tho’ he tried hard, he had need of his nerve,

A decent composure of face to preserve.

And there sat grim Grahame, so nervous and pale,

With his hat on his head, and his mouth to his nail;

And their measures were done for, their plans overthrown,

And Peel had to leave his own trumpet unblown.

And Conservative gentry are loud in their wail,

That the country is ruined if Peel should turn tail;

And repeal of the Corn-laws, we soon shall record,

Has been won, not by Peel, but a certain small lord.

Punch, on Sir Robert Peel and the Duke of Wellington
in the struggle for the repeal of the Corn-laws in 1846.

---

The Destruction of Nicholas.

The Russian came down like a thief in the night,

And his legions were arm’d with all weapons, save Right;

And the sheen of their spears to the Turks seem’d afar

Like the passion that burn’d in the heart of the Czar.

Like the loaves of the baker, when breakfast is laid,

That host in their armour of “plate” were array’d;

Like the loaves of the baker, ere tea time next day,

That host lay all “cut up,” and crumbled away!

For the warcry of England is borne on the air,

And France sends her brave in the conflict to share;

And link’d with the Moslem, they shout as they go,

And all Europe is thrill’d with the groans of the foe.

And there lay the sea, but no more on its tide

His vessels shall float in their strength and their pride;

And the foam of its billows shall dash o’er the graves

Of the serfs, who had come to make other men slaves.

And there lay the Czar, all dejected and pale,

With a frown on his brow, and his teeth at his nail;

His palace all silent, deserted, alone;

He trembled to think on his tottering throne!

And the widows of Russia are loud in their cries,

Though idle the tears that may flow from their eyes;

And the might of the tyrant, down-struck by the gun,

Hath melted, like butter when placed in the sun.

Diogenes. October, 1853.

---

The Blizzard.

The blizzard came down like a thousand of brick:

His breathings were cakes of ice four inches thick,

And his hair streamed far out in a stiffness that bent

With the swirl and the speed of the pathway he went.

His beard that found roots to the lids of his eyes

Hid his face in a hairy, unpierced disguise,

And spread out in ice-like rigidity far

From his one eye that flashed like a pivotal star.

Unseen was the rest of the demon-like form

Of the swift-moving blizzard, the god of the storm,

But the presence was felt of an unconquered will,

For the fast-running rivers stood suddenly still.

And the noses of people who travelled the street

Turned white with affright, and the hurrying feet

Were stung as with sting of a hundred bees,

While the blood crept away and allowed them to freeze.

Columbus Dispatch.

---

The Rout of Belgravia.

The Belgravians came down on the Queen in her hold,

And their costumes were gleaming with purple and gold,

And the sheen of their jewels was like stars on the sea,

As their chariots roll’d proudly down Piccadill-ee.

Like the leaves of Le Follet when summer is green,

That host in its glory at noon-tide was seen;

Like the leaves of a toy-book all thumb-marked and worn,

That host four hours later was tattered and torn.

For the crush of the crowd, which was eager and vast,

Had rumpled and ruin’d and wreck’d as it pass’d;

And the eyes of the wearer wax’d angry in haste,

As a dress but once-worn was dragged out of waist.

And there lay the feather and fan, side by side,

But no longer they nodded or waved in their pride;

And there lay lace flounces, and ruching in slips,

And spur-torn material in plentiful strips.

And there were odd gauntlets, and pieces of hair;

And fragments of back-combs, and slippers were there;

And the gay were all silent; their mirth was all hush’d;

Whilst the dew-drops stood out on the brows of the crush’d.

And the dames of Belgravia were loud in their wail,

And the matrons of Mayfair all took up the tale;

And they vow, as they hurry, unnerved, from the scene,

That it’s no trifling matter to call on the Queen.

Jon Duan.

---

The Destruction of a Cat.

Miss Pussy jumped down, like a thief in the night,

From the cream in the cupboard with eyes gleaming bright;

And the ends of her whiskers bedabbled her face,

When Somnus had chloroform’d Europa’s race.

Like all guilty creatures, she feared to be seen,

And crawled o’er the carpet so spotlessly clean;

Like the streaks of the sunlight so daintily thrown,

The whiskers of Pussy a demon had drawn.

This image of death spread its wings o’er the cat,

And rising on tip-toe he lifted his hat;

But the eyes of Miss Pussy grew deadly and chill,

For something had told her—and told her still—

That she had ta’en poison, there could be no doubt,

For there she lay gasping and rolling about,

And as she lay sprawling and thumping the floor,

The demon arose and went out at the door.

And then Puss was silent, distorted, and pale,

From the point of her nose to the end of her tail,

And all the night long she lay there all alone,

Till out of the window at last she was thrown.

And the maid in the kitchen is loud in her joy,

For now “There’s no ’orrible cat to annoy,”

“No dishes is broke,” and “Missus can’t say

As ever I put the poor Pussy away.”

Don Diego.

---

Truth for January 25, 1877 contained a long parody on “Sennacherib.” It related to the Conference, and commenced:—

The Diplomats came like a wolf on the fold,

With their uniforms gleaming in green, blue and gold;

And they all were picked men, there was never a fool,

That recently met to confer in Stamboul.

---

Iroquois.

The Yankee came down with long Fred on his back,

And his colours were gleaming with cherry and black.

He flashed to the front, and the British Star paled,

As the field died away, and the favourite failed.

Like the leaves of the summer when summer is green,

The faces of Peregrine’s backers were seen;

Like the leaves of the autumn when autumn is red,

Flushed the cheeks of the Yanks as their champion led.

Iroquois!!!—then the shoutings shook heaven’s blue dome,

As the legs of the Tinman safe lifted him home.

Oh! A was an Archer, A 1 at this fun.

And A was America, too,—and A won!

And B was the Briton who, ready to melt,

A sort of a je ne sais (Iro)-quois felt,

To see his Blue Riband to Yankeeland go,

B too, none the less, was the hearty “Bravo!”

Which, per Punch, he despatched to “our kin o’er the sea,”

Who, for not the first time, get the pull of J. B.

The Brokers of Wall Street are loud in delight,

And the belles of New York grow more beamingly bright;

Fizz creams like the foam of the storm-beaten surf,

To Jonathan’s triumph on John’s native turf,

And Punch brims his beaker in Sparkling Champagne,

Your health Brother J.! Come and beat us again!

And cold grudge at a victory honestly scored

Melts away like the snow when the wine is outpoured.

Punch, June 11, 1881.

---

The Melting of the Iron Duke.

“The effect produced by the erection of a life-size silhouette of the statue of the Iron Duke and his war-steed opposite the St. James’s Park front of the Horse Guards has quickly resulted in a decision to melt down Mr. Wyatt’s equestrian effort, and to shape the materials into another, and, it is hoped, a better statue.”—Weekly Paper.

All the papers came down, like a wolf on the fold,

And their leaders were trenchant, and fearlessly bold;

And their cynical sneers were as lively and free

As the shrimps on the foreshore of Gravesend-on-Sea.

Thick as leaves of the Forest, when Epping is green,

Had the jokes and the jeers of the “comics” been seen;

Thick as leaves in the Park when the season has flown

Had the jibes of the critics been ruthlessly thrown.

For the chosen Committee an effort had made,

And put up a Duke on the Horse Guards Parade;

But one sight of this model more ludicrous still,

Made those who passed by feel dejected and ill.

For there stood the steed with his nostril all wide,

And his nose all turned up in his evident pride,

And his tail that seemed dressed with the stiffest of starch,

Stood out ’midst the trees, as it had on the Arch.

And there sat the rider, distorted and stern,

That long years of scoffing had failed to o’erturn,

And his hat was still cocked at the angle of yore,

And the same scrubby cape on his shoulders he wore.

And those that passed by gave one shuddering look,

And vowed such a Duke they no longer would brook.

They cried, “Take him off to some near melting-pot!”

And hastened forthwith from the terrible spot.

And the chosen Committee itself had to own

That nought could the horse’s appearance condone;

Whilst as to the rider, they had to confess

That melting alone could his failings redress.

So it straightway decided no site could be found

For this effigy vile of a warrior renowned;

And ere very long they put forth a decree

That the Duke and his charger both melted should be!

*  *  *  *  *

And the Statues of London were loud in their wail,

And the Griffin, in agony, waggled his tail,

Exclaiming, “Alas! if the Duke’s melted thus,

What chance can there be, then, for eyesores like us?”

Truth, August 16, 1883.

---

The Destruction of the Tory (not Sennacherib’s) Army.

The Tories came forth in their pride and their strength,

And flooded the land through its breadth and its length

With speeches whose burden no varying knew—

“Down with Gladstone the traitor and all his base crew!”

Like leaves of the forest when summer is green,

The hosts of the Tories in August were seen;

Like leaves of the forest when autumn has blown,

These hosts in September were withered and strown.

For “Gladstone the traitor” went up to the North,

And tackled the foe on the banks of the Forth;

And the hopes of the Tories waxed deadly and chill,

And their tongues wagged but once, and for ever were still.

And the Tory old women are loud in their whines,

For their idols are broke, both at Hatfield and Pynes;

And their army, unsmote by the sword or the lance,

Has melted like snow at old Gladstone’s advance.

Alick Sinclair.

The Weekly Dispatch, September 14, 1884.

---

Mr. Gladstone’s Home Rule Bill.

The Premier came down to the House as of old,

With a smile on his face and a step light and bold,

And the cheers of the Parnellites smote on the air

As he rose in his place and saluted the Chair.

And the senators sat like men under a spell

While the rythmical tones of his voice rose and fell.

Like sleepers who wake from their dreams at the dawn,

Sober reason returned when the glamour was gone.

For the false light that blinded has vanished at last,

Revealing the pitfalls all round as it passed;

The Magician has failed in his task, and the wand

Has dropped from the “old parliamentary hand.”

And intriguers and Leaguers are loud in their wail,

And Coercion has carried the day o’er “Repale”;

For till whittled away into Councils and Boards

The scheme of Home Rule has no chance in the Lords.

C. Renz.

The Weekly Dispatch, April 18, 1886.

---

The Cutting of the Knot.

Great Gladstone came down his new Bill to unfold,

And his cohorts awaited their Leader so bold,

And the noise of their cheers was like tars of the sea,

When they’re given the toast of old England’s navee.

Like the geese of the farm-yard when summer is green,

The Cock-a-Hoop Tories at noon-day were seen,

Like the geese of the farm-yard when autumn has come,

Those Tories at midnight were nerveless and dumb.

For the King of Debate his opponents did blast,

And glared in the face of each foeman aghast,

And the hopes of the Tories waxed presently chill;

And their groans but once rose, then for ever grew still.

And the sturdy Home Rulers are loud in their cheers,

And the faces are blank in the House of the Peers.

And the knot of the hour, uncut by the sword;

Dissolves at the touch of the Cabinet’s Lord!

F. B. D., 1886.

——:o:——

The two parodies following are written partly in imitation of Byron’s The Dream, and partly after Darkness, which commences thus:—

DARKNESS.

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars

Did wander darkling in the eternal space,

Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;

Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,

And men forgot their passions in the dread

Of this their desolation; and all hearts

Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light;

And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones,

The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,

The habitations of all things which dwell,

Were burnt for beacons.

*  *  *  *  *

My Old Hat.

I had a hat—it was not all a hat,

Part of the brim was gone—yet still I wore

It on, and people wondered as I passed.

Some turned to gaze—others just cast an eye

And soon withdrew it, as ’twere in contempt.

But still my hat, although so fashionless

In complement extern, had that within

Surpassing show—my head continued warm;

Being sheltered from the weather, spite of all

The want (as has been said before) of brim.

A change came o’er the colour of my hat.

That which was black grew brown—and then men stared

With both their eyes (they stared with one before)

The wonder now was twofold; and it seemed

Strange that a thing so torn and old should still

Be worn by one who might——but let that pass!

I had my reasons, which might be revealed

But for some counter-reasons, far more strong,

Which tied my tongue to silence. Time passed on.

Green spring, and flowery summer, autumn brown.

And frosty winter came,—and went and came,

And still through all the seasons of two years,

In park and city, yea at parties—balls—

The hat was worn and borne. Then folks grew wild

With curiosity, and whispers rose,

And questions passed about—how one so trim

In coats, boots, ties, gloves, trousers, could insconce

His caput in a covering so vile.

A change came o’er the nature of my hat.

Grease spots appeared—but, still in silence, on

I wore it, and then family, and friends

Glared madly at each other. There was one

Who said—but hold—no matter what was said;

A time may come when I—away, away—

Not till the season’s ripe can I reveal

Thoughts that do lie too deep for common minds—

Till then the world shall not pluck out the heart

Of this my mystery. When I will, I will!

The hat was now greasy, and old, and torn,

But torn, old greasy, still I wore it on.

A change came o’er the business of this hat.

Women, and men, and children scowled on me—

My company was shunned—I was alone!

None would associate with such a hat—

Friendship itself proved faithless for a hat.

She that I loved, within whose gentle breast

I treasured up my heart, looked cold as death—

Love’s fires went out—extinguished by a hat,

Of those who knew me best, some turned aside,

And scudded down dark lanes; one man did place

His finger on his nose’s side, and jeered;

Others in horrid mockery laughed outright;

Yea, dogs, deceived by instinct’s dubious ray,

Fixing their swart glare on my ragged hat,

Mistook me for a beggar, and they barked.

Thus women, men, friends, strangers, lovers, dogs,

One thought pervaded all—it was my hat.

A change, it was the last, came o’er this hat,

For lo! at length the circling months went round:

The period was accomplished—and one day

This tattered, brown old greasy coverture

(Time had endeared its vileness) was transferred

To the possession of a wandering son

Of Israel’s fated race—and friends once more

Greeted my digits with the wonted squeeze:

Once more I went my way, along, along,

And plucked no wondering gaze; the hand of scorn

With its annoying finger, men, and dogs,

Once more grew pointless, jokeless, laughless, growlless—

And at last, not least of rescued blessings, love!

Love smiled on me again, when I assumed

A brand new chapeau of the Melton build;

And then the laugh was mine, for, then out came

The secret of this strangeness—’twas a bet,—

A friend had laid me fifty pounds to ten,

Three years I would not wear it—and I did!

Anonymous.

---

The Genius of Smoking.

[We have been favored with the following defence of smoking, by an intimate literary friend of Lord Byron, who assures us it is selected from several unpublished juvenile trifles, written at various times in his album by the noble bard.]

I had a dream—it was not all a dream;

Methought I sat beneath the silver beam

Of the sweet moon, and you were with me there,

And everything around was free and fair;

And from our mouths upcurled the fragrant smoke,

Whose light blue wreaths can all our pleasures yoke,

In sweetest union to young Fancy’s car,

And waft the soul out thro’ a good cigar.

There as we sat and puff’d the hours away,

And talked and laughed about life’s little day,

And built our golden castles in the air,

And sigh’d to think what transient things they were,

As the light smoke around our heads was thrown,

Amidst its folds a little figure shone,

An elfin sprite, who held within her hand

A small cigar, her sceptre of command.

Her hair above her brow was twisted tight off,

Like a cigar’s end, which you must bite off;

Her eyes were red, and twinkling like the light

Of Eastern Hookah, or Meerchaum, by night;

A green tobacco leaf her shoulders graced,

And dried tobacco hung about her waist;

Her voice breathed softly, like the easy puffing

Of an old smoker, after he’s been stuffing.

Thus as she rolled aside the wanton smoke,

To us, her awe-struck votaries she spoke,—

“Hail, faithful slaves! my choicest joys descend

On him who joins the smoker to the friend,

Yours is a pleasure that shall never vanish

Provided that you smoke the best of Spanish;

Puff forth your clouds”—(with that we puff’d amain)

“Sweet is their fragrance”—(then we puff’d again)

“How have I hung, with most intense delight,

Over your heads when you have smoked at night,

And gratefully imparted all my powers

To bless and consecrate those happy hours;

Smoke on,” she said. I started and awoke,

And with my dream she vanished into smoke.

Anonymous.

——:o:——

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR.

Missolonghi, Jan. 22, 1824.

’Tis time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it has ceased to move;

Yet, though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf,

The flowers and fruits of love are gone;

The worm, the canker, and the grief,

Are mine alone!

*  *  *  *  *

Seek out—less often sought than found—

A soldier’s grave, for thee the best,

Then look around, and choose thy ground,

And take thy rest.

Byron.

---

A Leaf from the Album of Mr. Briefless.

The following stanzas have no other heading than the pathetic words: “On this day I complete my forty-sixth year.” A friend who was with him at the time, made the following entry in his Dunn and Duncan’s diary: “This morning Mr. Briefless came from his bedroom into the apartment where Mr. Dunup and some other friends were sitting, and said, with a smile, ‘You were remarking the other day that I never draw any pleadings now. This is my birthday, and I have just finished something which I think is better than I usually write.’ He then produced these noble and affecting verses;—

’Tis time that I should be removed,

And the position I can prove.

For since by me there’s nothing moved,

I’d better move.

My gown is in the yellow leaf,

The curls from out my wig are gone,

The bands, the stock, the dummy brief,

Are mine alone.

The debts that on my bosom prey,

Have hopeless been this long, long while;

The bills which I can never pay

Are on that file.

The stamp’d receipt—the quittance fair,

The exacted portion of debts’ ills,

I never am allowed to share,

But keep the bills,

But ’tis not thus—and ’tis not here,

I should succumb to maddening thought,

At Westminster I will appear

This day in Court.

The wig, the bands, the stock, the gown,

All, all around me still I see;

To Westminster I’ll hurry down—

I will be free!

Awake! (not law, that’s wide awake,)

Awake myself! this very day,

The Exchequer’s roof my voice shall shake,

Yes—fire away.

Talk each opposing counsel down.

Unworthy Briefless—unto thee

Indifferent should the smile or frown

Of Judges be.

If thou regret’st thy youth—why pause,

The way to occupation’s short,

There stands the place to find a cause;

The County Court.

Start not—less often sought than found,

A little fish will always please;

Sure shillings beat the uncertain pound,

Take lower fees.

Punch’s Pocket Book, 1856.

——:o:——

Lord Byron was married in January, 1815, and about the middle of January, 1816, Lady Byron left London for her father’s house in Leicestershire, on the understanding that Lord Byron was shortly to follow her. But her father immediately wrote to acquaint Lord Byron that she would never return to him. The reasons for this conduct have never been satisfactorily explained, and though Lord Byron, and his friends, tried their utmost to bring about a reconciliation, all attempts to alter Lady Byron’s decision were in vain. This domestic misfortune supplied the enemies of Lord Byron with a pretext for the gratification of their envious and malignant feelings towards him. The press teemed with slanderous and abominable insinuations in explanation of the conjugal feud. The majority of his acquaintances declared against him; and the proud spirit of the noble poet, stung to the quick, impelled him to leave his country. On the 25th of April, 1816, Lord Byron left England, never to return.

A short time prior to his final departure from his native land, he published the “Siege of Corinth” and “Parisina.” He also wrote two short poems, which were highly popular, and which first appeared in the public papers—“Fare Thee Well,” and “A Sketch from Private Life.”

In “Fare thee Well,” Byron pathetically alludes to his daughter, Augusta Ada, the only child of his unfortunate marriage, who was born on December 10, 1815.

FARE THEE WELL.

Fare thee well! and if for ever,

Still for ever, fare thee well;

Even though unforgiving, never

’Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee

Where thy head so oft hath lain,

While that placid sleep came o’er thee

Which thou ne’er canst know again:

Would that breast, by thee glanced over,

Every inmost thought could show!

Then thou wouldst at last discover

’Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee—

Though it smile upon the blow,

Even its praises must offend thee,

Founded on another’s woe:

Though my many faults defaced me,

Could no other arm be found,

Than the one which once embraced me,

To inflict a cureless wound?

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not:

Love may sink by slow decay,

But by sudden wrench, believe not

Hearts can thus be torn away;

Still thine own its life retaineth—

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;

And the undying thought which paineth

Is—that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow

Than the wail above the dead;

Both shall live, but every morrow

Wake us from a widow’d bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather,

When our child’s first accents flow,

Wilt thou teach her to say “Father!”

Though his care she must forego?

When her little hands shall press thee,

When her lip to thine is pressed,

Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,

Think of him thy love had bless’d!

Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more mayst see,

Then thy heart will softly tremble

With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest,

All my madness none can know;

All my hopes, where’er thou goest,

Wither, yet with thee they go.

Every feeling hath been shaken;

Pride, which not a world could bow,

Bows to thee—by thee forsaken,

Even my soul forsakes me now:

But ’tis done—all words are idle—

Words from me are vainer still;

But the thoughts we cannot bridle

Force their way without the will.

Fare thee well!—thus disunited,

Torn from every nearer tie,

Sear’d in heart, and lone, and blighted,

More than this I scarce can die.

Byron.

---

Lady Byron’s Reply to Lord Byron’s
“Fare Thee Well.”

“As to the author of the reply, I have for years been trying to find out, but unsuccessfully. One or two gentlemen, whose opinions on this subject are well worthy of attention, have said in a joking way that the author must be Byron himself, as the lines are so very beautiful and appropriate. I certainly do not think Lady Byron was the author. From all that I can glean from the oldest inhabitants in this neighbourhood she was always held in the highest respect, a good, kind, domestic lady; but no one seems to give her credit for much poetic taste, let alone faculty.”

Yes, farewell; farewell for ever;

Thou thyself hast fixed our doom;

Bade hope’s fairest blossom wither,

Never more for me to bloom!

Unforgiving thou hast called me;

Didst thou ever say forgive?

For the wretch whose wiles enthralled thee,

Thou didst seem alone to live.

Short the space which Time had given

To complete thy love’s decay!

By unhallowed passion driven,

Soon thy wishes wildly stray.

Lived for me that feeling tender,

Which thy verse so well can show?

From my arms why didst thou wander—

My endearments why forego?

Rapt in dreams of joy abiding,

On thy breast my head hath lain,

In thy love and truth confiding—

Bliss I ne’er can know again!

When thy heart, by me glanced over,

First displayed the guilty stain,

Would these eyes had closed for ever,

Not to weep thy crimes again!

But by Heaven’s recording spirit

May that wish forgotten be!

Life, though now a load, I’d bear it

For the babe I’ve born to thee—

In whose lovely features (let me

All my weakness here confess),

While the struggling tears permit me,

All her father’s I can trace;

His, whose image never leaves me,

Whose remembrance yet I prize;

Who this bitterest feeling gives me—

Loving where I most despise.

With regret and sorrow, rather,

When our child’s first accents flow,

I shall teach her to say “Father”—

But his guilt she ne’er shall know.

Whilst to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Wake me to a widowed bed;

In another’s arms no sorrow

Wilt thou feel, no tears wilt shed.

For the world’s applause I sought not

When I tore myself from thee;

Of its praise or blame I thought not—

What is blame or praise to me?

He in whom my soul delighted,

From his breast my image drove;

With contempt my truth requited,

And preferred a wanton love.

Thou art proud—and mark me, Byron!

Proud is my soul as thine own;

Soft to love—but hard as iron

When despite is on me thrown.

But, ’tis past!—I’ll not upbraid thee,

Nor shall ever wish thee ill;

Wretched though thy crimes have made me,

If thou canst, be happy still!

Anonymous.

---

Another reply was published entitled—

Lady Byron’s Response to “Fare Thee Well.”

“What reader of Pope’s celebrated Eloise ever thought that poem really the work of its heroine? or who for a moment will conceive the following to be the production of Lady Byron’s pen?”

And fare Thee well, too—if, for ever—

How dread the thought!—still fare thee well!

Yet think not time or space can sever

The heart that wont on thine to dwell!

O cherish not the sad illusion,

All thy high-wrought hopes deceiving,

Which whispers thee, that heart’s profusion

Of love can end in “unforgiving!”

Too well I know thy conscious breast,

That form’d, how brief! my “placid” pillow,

Hath wandered from its ark of rest,

Far stretching o’er life’s cheerless billow.

(This is dated April 29, 1816, and consists of twenty-three verses in all. It is unnecessary to quote the remainder, but the poem can be found in the British Museum Library, 11642 b.b.b. 58.)

---

Another Reply to “Fare Thee Well.”

Fare thee well, and if for ever,

Then for ever let it be;

For again, false Byron, never

Canst thou be beloved by me.

If thy breast were bared before me,

What a cruel heart ’twould show;

False to her who did adore thee—

Cold as Russia’s wastes of snow.

’Twas not I who rent asunder

Ties which should have lived till death.

Thou hast been a wide world’s wonder

For thy scorn of love and faith.

Vain are now thy magic verses,

None to pity can they move;

Better far to send me curses

Than the mockery of love.

Though the world to soothe endeavour,

Though it sorrow for my pain

Can it, Byron, can it ever

Make thy false heart true again?

No! a heart once dead to feeling

True again can never prove,

And the wound that knows no healing

Is a woman’s trampled love.

Oh! to banish recollection

Of that early love of mine,

When my young heart’s deep affection

Thought it met the same in thine.

When in tones of gentle kindness

That false tongue love’s accents pour’d

Could I think my love was blindness?

Could I doubt I was adored?

Still there is a tie that binds me

To respect thy once loved name,

Though each passing morrow finds thee

Deeper still in guilt and shame.

Yes—our little infant smiling

As she climbs upon my knee,

Lisping with her voice beguiling,

Teaches me to think of thee.

When, as twilight’s shadows gather

She repeats her ev’ning prayer,

Then she prays for thee, her father,

Tho’ she sees no father there.

Thus it is, though love has vanished

From this torn and bleeding heart,

That the feeling is not banished

That thou still my husband art.

Fare thee well, and, if for ever

In this world of grief and pain,

I will hope that those who sever

Here, will meet elsewhere again.

Lyrics and Lays, by Pips. Wyman Bros.,
Hare Street, Calcutta, 1867.

---

Whatever were the causes of the separation of Lady Byron from her husband (and many reasons have been assigned) will probably never be known, nor do they concern us here, except in so far as regards the statements made by Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe. In 1869 it pleased this American authoress to contribute an article to a London magazine, in which she deliberately accused Lord Byron of having committed the foulest crimes imaginable, and stated that although Lady Byron was aware of his depravity from their very wedding day, she yet continued to reside with him until after the birth of their daughter. A violent controversy ensued, many old scandals were revived, and whilst Mrs. Stowe’s statements were generally disbelieved, Byron’s reputation suffered considerably. For this result Thomas Moore was mainly to blame, he having destroyed the memoirs entrusted to him by Lord Byron. Had these memoirs been published, it is very improbable that Mrs. Stowe’s article would have ever have been written. Moore was imprudent enough to show these memoirs to several people, as well as the concluding five Cantos of Don Juan, before he destroyed them, and it is said that Lady Burghersh made copies of them. It is possible, therefore that Byron’s view of the circumstances may yet be given to the world, but however that may be, nothing can excuse the action of Mrs. Stowe, whose article could serve no other purpose than that of blackening the memory of a great but ill-used and unfortunate man:—

The Un-True Story.

Dedicated to Mrs. Stowe.

Know ye the land where the novelists blurt all

The family secrets they learn in our clime;

Where skill in romance will contrive to convert all

The deeds of our bard to the blackest of crime?

Know ye the land of the dollar divine,

Where Beecher’s considered a speaker sublime;

Where the dark wings of scandle will even presume

To flap o’er the great, long at rest in the tomb;

Where writers and editors all “high falute,”

And the voice of the slanderer never is mute,

Where all, who as authors or speakers stand high,

Though varied in views, in “tall-talking” may vie,

And the principal journal can stoop to a lie;

While lucre and puffs to support it combine

(Though Low and Macmillan adopt the same line)?

’Tis the clime of the west, ’tis the land of a Stowe:

Can ye marvel her libels have angered us so?

Oh! false as all things merely written to sell

Are the statements they make, and the tales which they tell!

Punch and Judy (London) February 12, 1870.

——:o:——

TO THOMAS MOORE.

My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea:

But before I go Tom Moore.

Here’s a double health to thee!

Here’s a sigh to those who love me,

And a smile to those who hate;

And, whatever sky’s above me,

Here’s a heart for every fate.

Though the ocean roar around me,

Yet it still shall bear me on;

Though a desert should surround me,

It hath springs that may be won.

Were’t the last drop in the well,

As I gasped upon the brink,

Ere my fainting spirit fell,

’Tis to thee that I would drink.

With that water, as this wine,

The libation I would pour

Should be—peace with thine and mine,

And a health to thee, Tom Moore.

Lord Byron.

---

A Noble Lord to his Creditors.

My cab is at the door,

Thou must raise the wind for me,

But ere you go, Tom Moore,

Here’s a snug douceur for thee!

Here’s a bond for those who’ll lend me,

And a bill at six month’s date—

I’ll sign whate’er you send me—

Get the cash at any rate!

Though boring duns surround me,

They still must trust me on,

Till you the cash have found me—

“Call again,” to every one!

Each knock I know full well,

And my fainting spirits sink

When they pull the area bell,

So be off, and fetch the chink!

Mind and bring me back by one,

Of thousands half a score,—

Hark! there’s another dun,—

Adieu! adieu! Tom Moore!

The National Omnibus, December 9, 1831.

---

Les Adieux du Premier.[106]

My cab is at the door,

Of my red-box here’s the key,

But before I go John Russell,

Here’s some good advice for thee,

Act, that honest hearts may love thee;

Act, that party knaves may hate;

And from office when they shove thee,

Have a heart to meet thy fate.

Tho’ Protection roar around thee,

As loud as roar it can,

Tho’ they set on to confound thee,

“Young Ben,” that “nice young man.—”

Tho’ county members yell,

Tho’ you sever Party’s link,

Tho’ Bedchamber Lords rebel,

Speak out boldly what you think.

Tho’ for shorter term than mine,

Quite sufficient of a bore

You’ll find office, I opine,

And be glad when it is o’er.

Punch, 1846.

---

Ward Hunt after Byron.

My boat has run ashore,

And my barque’s beneath the sea

And I’m told I never more

Must rule the Admiraltee.

There’s a sigh from those who love me,

And a smile from those who hate;

And the man who’s put above me

Will tremble at my fate.

But though Commons rail around me,

They still shall hear me on;

Though the Upper House confound me,

It hath seats that may be won.

My boat has run ashore,

And my barque’s beneath the sea,

And I fear I never more

Shall rule the Admiraltee!

Punch, November, 1875.

——:o:——

The Catholic Candidate.

Dan O’Connell came down like a wolf on the fold,

And his priest-ridden voters look’d bloody and bold;

And the noise of their cheering resembled the roar

Of galley-slaves plying the criminal oar.

Like the fell rebel Orr, in his livery of green,

O’Connell and Catholic Clergy were seen;

And their hopes and their actions, ’tis very well known,

Are to level our Church, and to hurl down the Throne.

But the Protestant voice came strong on the blast,

And O’Connell and Treason grew sick as it passed,

And the hopes of his traitorous party grew chill,

And their hearts quaked with sorrow, their voices were still.

*  *  *  *  *

And the precious Cat.Ass. were loud in their wail,

And mute was the Corn-Exchange temple of Baal;

For the might of the party, in spite of big words,

Must melt like the snow before Protestant Lords.

From “Spirit of the Age Newspaper” for 1828.

——:o:——

CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE.

Canto I.

“Adieu, adieu! my native shore

Fades o’er the waters blue;

The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,

And shrieks the wild sea-mew.

Yon sun that sets upon the sea

We follow in his flight:

Farewell awhile to him and thee,

My native Land—Good Night!

*  *  *  *  *

“With thee, my bark, I’ll swiftly go

Athwart the foaming brine;

Nor care what land thou bear’st me to,

So not again to mine.

Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!

And when you fail my sight,

Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!

My native land—Good Night!”

Byron.

As Sung by Lord Grey.

Adieu, adieu! place once so sure,

Sounds through the house I see,

The Whigs must sigh, the Tories roar,

And shrieks the new M.P.

Yon tax they’ve taken off the malt,

We follow in its flight,

Farewell! ’twere vain to try and halt,

My premiership, good night.

With thee, my Brough’m, I’ll swiftly go

And some new scheme design,

Nor care what shifts they put us to,

So ’tis not to resign.

Welcome, welcome, ye Whiggish slaves,

But should you fail to fight,

Welcome, ye ratting Tory knaves,

My premiership, good night.

Figaro in London, May 4, 1833.

---

The Flight of the Aldermen.

A! doo, A! doo, my fav’rite scheme

Low in the market falls;

The lawyers sigh, the brokers scream,

They ask in vain for calls.

Yon bubble, bursting on the sea,

We follow in his flight:

Farewell! my simple allottee;

My engineer! good night.

With thee, my cash, I’ll swiftly go,

Athwart the foaming brine;

Nor care should fortune take me to

The equinoctial line.

Welcome, welcome! ye bulls and bears;

And when I’m out of sight,

You’re welcome to my worthless shares,

My Capel Court, good night!

Punch, 1846.

(The above refers to the Railway Panic in 1846.)

——:o:——

The Battle of Waterloo.

There was a sound of revelry by night,

And Belgium’s capital had gather’d then

Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright

The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men;

A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes look’d love to eyes which spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage-bell[107]

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it?—No; ’twas but the wind,

Or the car rattling o’er the stony street;

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined,

No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet

To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet—

But, hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,

As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm! it is—it is—the cannon’s opening roar!

Within a window’d niche of that high hall

Sate Brunswick’s fated Chieftain: he did hear

That sound, the first amid’st the festival,

And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear;

And when they smiled because he deem’d it near,

His heart more truly knew that peal too well

Which stretch’d his father on a bloody bier,

And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:

He rush’d into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,

And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,

And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago

Blush’d at the praise of their own loveliness;

And there were sudden partings, such as press

The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs

Which ne’er might be repeated: who would guess

If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,

Since upon night so sweet, such awful morn could rise.

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed

The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,

Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,

And swiftly forming in the ranks of war:

And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;

And near, the beat of the alarming drum

Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;

While throng’d the citizens with terror dumb,

Or whispering with white lips—“The foe! they come! they come!”

*  *  *  *  *

Childe Harold, Canto III.

---

The Railway Panic.

There was a sound that ceased not day or night,

Of Speculation. London gathered then

Unwonted crowds and moved by promise bright,

To Capel Court rushed women, boys and, men,

All seeking railway shares and scrip; and when

The market rose, how many a lad could tell,

With joyous glance, and eyes that spake again,

’Twas e’en more lucrative than marrying well;—

When, hark! that warning voice strikes like a rising knell.

Nay, it is nothing, empty as the wind,

But a ‘bear’ whisper down Throgmorton street;

Wild enterprise shall still be unconfined;

No rest for us, when rising premiums greet

The morn, to pour their treasures at our feet;

When, hark; that solemn sound is heard once more,

The gathering “bears” its echoes yet repeat—

’Tis but too true, is now the general roar,

The Bank has raised her rate, as she has done before,

And then and there were hurryings to and fro,

And anxious thoughts and signs of sad distress,

Faces all pale, that but an hour ago

Smiled at the thought of their own craftiness.

And there were sudden partings, such as press

The coin from hungry pockets,—mutual sighs

Of brokers and their clients. Who can guess

How many a “stag” already panting flies,

When upon times so bright such awful panics rise?

(This alludes to the panic subsequent on the Railway Mania of 1845-6)

From “Our Iron Roads,” by F. S Williams. London: Bemrose and Sons.

---

Waterloo at Astley’s Theatre.

“According to the latest Astley authorities, dated last June, the Battle of Waterloo occupied six minutes exactly. Several French soldiers walked undisguisedly into the quarters of the English army before the fight commenced; and some, at the extreme back of the scene, fought indiscriminately on either side, as occasion required. But the gravest circumstance is, that in the heat of the action the Duke of Wellington, approaching Marshall Soult, said to him, ‘Don’t let your fellows fire until mine have’! a course which must have led them to destruction, had not General Widdicombe roared, with a voice of thunder, ‘what the devil are you doing there, you stupid asses?’ which produced the last grand charge. The following beautiful lines are but little known, and well deserve a place in this report. They are the production of Lord Byron, and were written at the request of the late Andrew Ducrow, Esq., describing the scene immediately before the commencement of the battle.”

There was a sound of revelry by night;

And Astley’s Manager had gathered then

His supers and his cavalry; and bright

The gas blazed o’er tall women and loud men.

The audience waited happily, and when

The orchestra broke forth with brazen swell,

Apples were sold for most extensive gain;

And ginger beer popped merrily as well!—

But hush! hark! what’s that noise, just like our parlour bell?

Did ye not hear it?—No, sir!—Never mind,

P’haps it was the Atlas bus to Oxford Street.

Strike up, you fiddlers! Now, young feller, mind!

Don’t scrouge, or you shall go where police meet,

To chase the knowing thieves with flying feet!—

But hark! that sound is heard again—once more!

And boys, with whistle shrill, its note repeat;

And nearer, clearer, queerer than before!

Hats off!—It is, it is—the bell from prompter’s door!

Ah! then was hurry-skurry, to and fro;

And authors’ oaths, and symptoms of a mess;

And men as soldiers, who, two nights ago,

Went round the circus in a Chinese dress!

And there were rapid paintings, such as press

On those who ply the arts, with choking size,

Which ne’er might be completed! Who could guess

How all would look before the public eyes,

When on that “Street in Brussels” the act drop would rise!

From George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack, 1846.

---

A Farewell to Jenny Lind, after the Farewell to Thomas Moore, in five verses, appeared in Punch, September, 1848, and a long parody entitled “The Battle of the Opera,” in Punch, May 19, 1849, commenced thus:—

“There was a sound—’tis Jenny Lind’s last night!

And England’s capital had gathered then,

Her beauty, rank, fashion and wealth—and bright

The gas shone o’er fair women and spruce men.”

*  *  *  *  *

---

The Chinese War, 1856-7.[108]

There was a sound of orat’ry by night,

And Britain’s capital had gathered then

Her parliament’ry chivalry, and bright

The gas shone o’er these intellectual men;

Six hundred hearts beat hopefully; and when

Cobden arose, that slaughter-hating swell,

Dark eyes flash’d fire at eyes which flash’d again,

And Cobden felt a second William Tell,

Obsequious Hayter paled, and Pam’s bold visage fell!

Had’st thou but heard, O gentle reader mine,

The whispering talk, the noise of shuffling feet—

But mark’d the looks of men who wished to dine,

And dared not, for their lives, move from their seat,

Chafing within, without, with fervent heat,

Thou would’st have envied orators no more—

Thou would’st have owned no eyes could ever meet

A sight suggesting stronger the word “bore,”

And turned thee to thy bed contentedly to snore.

Ah! then and there were hurryings to and fro,

And notes delivered in a shocking mess,

And gents grew pale who, but a week ago,

Esteemed themselves “the cheese,” and nothing less;

And there were sudden partings—I confess

These coalitions, ruptures, did surprise

The public gen’rally. Could any guess

That villain Yeh would break old English ties,

And British statesmen stoop to puff his Chinese lies?

Then ye might see cabs hurrying in hot haste

To Paddington, and Shoreditch, Euston-square,

And all the other stations—for no waste

Of time made Pam, nor did he even spare

His co-mates; for the ripen’d wheat and tare

Must grow and bloom together here, until

The reck’ning comes, and men’s hearts are laid bare.

And well did Ministers their own plots till,

And sway the supple country at their lordly will!

Within a niche of Romulus’s halls

Sat Manchester’s sick member. He did hear

The news by telegraph, and loud he calls

For ink and paper; and he dropt a tear

(Of course well’d up by sentiment, not fear)

Upon the sheet which stated he would stand

Once more for that great town he loved so dear.

Ungrateful Manchester, I say—for it

Saw its sick member stand, and would not bid him sit![109]

And Thames’ waves murmur as the members leave,

And sigh beneath its bridges as they pass,

Grieving (if aught so muddy e’er can grieve)

Over the unreturning brave—alas!

So shortly to be stript of all their brass

As well as tin, and, friendless, left to go

O’er the wide, gloomy world—consigned, en masse,

To vile obscurity by heartless foe,

Shorn of their proud “M.P.” by base elector’s “No!”

Last session found them full of lusty strife,

Last month in House of Commons blythe and gay—

The guns of Canton signall’d forth the strife

And called ’em all to arms. And “Gov’nor Yeh!”

The war-cry was which led them on that day;

The husting’s mob closed round them—forth they went

Their hopes all wither’d, crush’d, in dust low lay—

To mourn their factious folly and repent

Were Gibson, Cobden, Bright, by angry England sent.

Anonymous.

---

Billiards at Oxford.

There was a clash of billiard balls by night,

And University had gathered then

Her members for a handicap, and bright

The lamps shone o’er fair tables and dark men;

A hundred went up rapidly; and when

The clock struck nine a wild tumultuous yell

Bade them play on until the hour of ten

Brought into sound the evening chapel bell;

But hush! hark! a deep voice strikes like a rising knell.

Did ye not hear it? No; ’twas but a moke,

Or a cad yelling from the distant street;

On with the game! don’t interrupt the stroke;

No one should budge when two such players meet

To give us all an exhibition treat—

But hark! that fatal sound breaks in once more,

Alas! no pen its terrors could repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Fly! fly! it is-it is—the Proctor at the door!

Within a windowed niche of those low walls

Sate Univ.’s famous dandy; he did hear

That sound the first amidst the billiard balls,

And caught its tones with sad, prophetic ear;

And when they smiled because he deemed it near,

His heart more truly knew that sound too well

Which cost his father several pounds a year,

And roused the instinct flight alone could quell

He rushed into the street, and foremost victim fell.

A. Haskett Smith, Univ. Coll: Oxford.

---

The First Night of “Othello.”

I.

Stop: for your tread is on a Poet’s dust!

’Tis Shakespeare, mangled, feels the dreadful blow!

The bubble of that overrated fame has bust!

No critics sing the praises of the slow:—

None; presumptuous player! why don’t you go

Back to the “Bells” or “Diddler”? Can’t you see

The Moor is not your form? ask Mrs. Crowe,

And all true friends; they will agree

That in this role you’re more than ever up a tree.

II.

There was a sound of smother’d glee that night,

And at the Lyceum was gathered then

A crowd expecting something rich and bright

The gas shone o’er stalls filled with first-night men;

The pitites coughed impatiently, and when

Music beneath the stage was heard, the swells

Began to fidget in their seats again,

And many wished the play had been the “Bells,”

For this, ’twas feared, would prove the most grotesque of sells.

*  *  *  *  *

IV.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,

To leave the place, and murmurs of distress,

And some, who should have gone two hours ago,

Had only stayed because the dreadful mess

Must be reported in the daily press;

And these regretfully, with choking sighs,

Sat the performance through, for who could guess

If ever more, before the critics’ eyes,

The curtain on such cruel sacrilege would rise?

The Figaro, February 26, 1876.

These lines refer to the first appearance of Mr. Henry Irving in the Character of “Othello.” The success he met with then, induced him to revive it some time afterward, and proves how reliable these verses were as a criticism. But at that time The Figaro persistently and indiscriminately ran down all Mr. Irving’s impersonations.

---

London’s Inferno.

There is a sound of revelry by night,

For England’s capital has gathered then

Her lowest and her foulest and too bright

The gas shines o’er frail women and fast men!

A thousand tongues wag noisily, and when

The music-halls the shameless concourse swells,

And drunken wretches reel from many a den,

The scene grows yet more like an earthly hell!—

But hush! Big Ben booms midnight, like some solemn knell!

Do they not hear it sounding on the wind,

These reckless haunters of the crowded street?

Nay, on they course, their laughter unconfined,

Prepared in all their brazen shame to greet

The ribald roysterers they haply meet!

But hark! that bell of doom breaks in once more,

And some lone hearts its echoes now repeat;

But louder, shriller, ghastlier than before,

Rises that hideous midnight Market’s odious roar!

Ah! now there’s eager hurrying to and fro,

And frightful oaths and tears of deep distress

And cheeks are drabbled which an hour ago

Were brave with artificial loveliness.

And there are sudden quarrels as the press

Of desperate women swirls and surges by,

With laughter forced and words of bitterness,

Which overwhelms the outcasts deep-drawn sigh,

As the pale moon breaks through the sombre-clouded sky.

And this in London! in the very street

Which speaks the grandeur of the wealthy west!

’Tis here debauchery and riot meet;

’Tis here each night, when purity’s at rest,

There rages rampantly that moral pest

That saps our city’s health and blasts her name,

And steals the reputation she posses’t,

Leaving her rifled of her once fair fame,

A bye-word for the nations, and all Europe’s shame.

Truth, Christmas Number, 1884.

---

A parody entitled Childe Snobson’s Pilgrimage, in several parts, appeared in volume III. of Punch 1842; and again, in 1883, another long parody of Childe Harold ran through several numbers of the same periodical. This was called Childe Chappie’s Pilgrimage, and, when complete, was issued in book form by Bradbury Agnew & Co., with the Author’s name, E. J. Milliken, on the title page, and some illustrations by E. J. Wheeler.

This work is at once a parody of Childe Harold, and a satire on the typical young “Masher” of the period, who, having exhausted all modern forms of dissipation, finally “comes an awful cropper” in the slang of his tribe.

“Childe Chappie” bids farewell to the haunts of his boyhood in the following verses, sung to the accompaniment of a banjo.

I.

Adieu! adieu! Home life’s a bore

When one is twenty-two;

Nights were, not given to snooze and snore,

Days, hours are all too few.

When the sun sets o’er land and sea,

Life’s beacon blazes high.

Farewell, domestic fiddle-de-dee!

My Early Home—good-bye!

II.

A few short hours, and Sol will rise

To give grey morning birth;

We shall be prone with sleep-crowned eyes,

Dreaming of night’s mad mirth,

Whilst yonder, round my father’s hall,

My sisters, dear, but dull,

Will toss the early tennis-ball,

Or pull the morning scull.

III.

Let love be hot, let wine run high,

I fear not love or wine.

From tame delights of home I fly,

Life’s fiery press be mine!

I mean to do the whole mad round,

Turf, Stage, Sport, Fun, light Love;

For in these things do joys abound

Home’s doldrums far above.

IV.

My sire will “row” me vigorously,

My Mother sore complain,

But, o’er life’s wildest waves I’ll fly

E’er I touch shore again,

Let sermons scare the goody good

From Stage, or Bar, or Ring;

But I, who am of gayer mood,

Intend to have my fling.

V.

With ye, my bonny boys, I’ll go

The fastest pace that’s set;

With hopes to lead the field, you know,

And cut all record yet,

Welcome, the riskiest game that’s on!

Brim, brim the beaker high!

Life’s fizz till the last bubble’s gone!

My early Home-good-bye!

Canto the First.

*  *  *  *  *

Canto the Seventh.

I stood in London, on the bridge which lies

Tall tower and swelling dome on either hand.

From out the stream Saint Stephen’s spires arise,

St. Paul’s huge summit dominates the land;

Between them runs the noisy, wheel-worn Strand,

Hushed now awhile, for early morning smiles

O’er the swift river, and the grey, yet grand

Wide-winged old city of Titanic piles,

Huge capital of our little, lordliest of all isles.

She looks a sprawling Mammoth from the river

Risen, with unspanned bulk and ungauged powers,

O’er league on league the silver morn-mists quiver

Upon her mighty maze of roofs and towers.

And what brings she, what are her dearest dowers

To wealth-spoilt golden youth? The Comus feast,

The Rahab lap piled high with gems and flowers,

The Circe draught proffered by Pleasure’s priest,

Which lures the eager lip, and leaves the man—a beast,

But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song,

Who ’midst this city lived the life called “fast”?

Doth he upon his pillow tarry long?

He comes no more—those flutterings were his last;

The butterfly is stricken, netted, cast,

Wing-bruised, bloom-robbed aside, a thing that was;

To-day a phantasy, not to be classed

With “form” maintainers—these must let him pass,

Vanish in Limbo’s gloom, sink in Despair’s morass.

Scattered his substance, linked life, honour, all

With—what? A thing that silence fain must shroud,

“Gone to the bad, poor beggar! What a fall!”

“Under the very dingiest kind of cloud.”

“Thought he was ’cuter, or at least more proud.”

“Yes—regular church and ring affair, a craze

Most melancholy,—can’t be squared, too loud!”

So cackle they, in vague slang-garnished phrase,

The “other Johnnies,”—chums of his exuberant days.

What profits prying into the abyss

Where plunge the witless dupes of flaunting shame,

Of vulgar Mélusines who writhe and hiss,

Too late detected? Chappie’s lost to fame.

Who’ll wipe the dirt from the dishonoured name

Society no more hears? For never more

Shall he who’s siren-mated be the same,

Unless high genius hush the social roar—

Genius whose spell to miss were “quite too great a bore.”

But I must end. My Pilgrim’s shrine is won,

And he and I must part—so let it be.

His task in life was the pursuit of “Fun;”

In Babylon there are thousands such as he;

Each year breaks hundreds, and the wrecks few see.

That venturous Muse were voted all too bold

Who golden youth in their gregarious glee

Should paint, or the veracious tale unfold

Of dull esurient lives in gilded styes outrolled.

*  *  *  *  *

Roll on, thou shallow stream of Pleasure!—roll!

Ten thousand skiffs float over thee in vain,

Prows prone to rapids, helms beyond control;

Awhile they dance upon thy watery plain,

Then fleet to wreck, and nothing doth remain

Save a sad memory of the bitter groan

When one more struggler, slackening the fierce strain,

Sinks wave-choked, weed-encumbered, stark, alone,

Gone to the dogs, unstayed, unfriended, and unknown.

---

To Inez.

Nay, smile not at my garments now;

Alas! I cannot smile again:

Yet Heaven avert that ever thou

Should’st dress, and haply dress so plain.

And dost thou ask, why should I be

The jest of every foe and friend?

And wilt thou vainly seek to see

A garb, even thou must fail to mend?

It is not love, it is not hate,

Nor low Ambitions’ honors lost

That bids me loathe my present state,

And fly from all I loved the most.

It is the contrast which will spring

From all I meet, or hear, or see,

To me no garments tailors bring,—

Their shops have scarce a charm for me.

It is a something all who rub

Would know the owner long had wore;

That may not look beyond the tub,

And cannot hope for help before.

What fellow from himself can flee?

To zones, though more and more remote,

Still, still pursues, where’er I be,

The blight of life,—the ragged Coat.

Yet others wrapt in broadcloth seem,

And taste of all that I forsake!

O, may they still of transport dream,

And ne’er, at least like me, awake!

Through many a clime ’tis mine to go,

With many a retrospection curst,

And all my solace is to know,

Whate’er I wear, I’ve worn the worst.

What is the worst? Nay, do not ask,—

In pity from the search forbear:

Smile on,—nor venture to unclasp

My vest, and view the shirt that’s there.

From Poems and Parodies. By Phœbe Carey.
(Ticknor, Reed, and Fields,
Boston, United States, 1854.)

——:o:——

Childe Harold.

Canto IV.

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;

A palace and a prison on each hand:

I saw from out the wave her structures rise

As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand:

A thousand years their cloudy wings expand

Around me, and a dying Glory smiles

O’er the far times, when many a subject land

Look’d to the wingèd Lion’s marble piles,

Where Venice sat in state, throned on her hundred isles!

She looks a sea Cybele fresh from ocean,

Rising with her tiara of proud towers

At airy distance, with majestic motion,

A ruler of the waters and their powers:

And such she was; her daughters had their dowers

From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East

Pour’d in her lap all gems in sparkling showers,

In purple was she robed, and of her feast

Monarchs partook, and deem’d their dignity increased.

In Venice Tasso’s echoes are no more,

And silent rows the songless gondolier;

Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,

And music meets not always now the ear:

Those days are gone—but Beauty still is here.

States fall, arts fade—but nature doth not die,

Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,

The pleasant place of all festivity,

The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.

Byron.

---

Venice Unpreserved.

“Steamers have been started on the Grand Canal at Venice.”

—Globe.

I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs,

A palace and a prison on each hand.

I saw from out the wave black funnels rise

Whence clouds of densest smoke I saw expand,

And common steamboats, at a penny a mile,

O’er the canal—saw many a person land

Upon the piers. O Anguish! it does rile

The Bard to see all this—and what a smell of ile!

Punch, November 12, 1881.

---

Practical Venice.

(By a Commercial Childe Harold.)

I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs;

A factory, a mill on either hand,

I saw from out the wave tall chimneys rise,

And wharves and busy steam-cranes edge the strand,

And palaces to warehouses expand:

A murky air, where sunshine never smiles,

As black as Bradford. This was once the land

Where poets sang its countless marble piles,

And Ruskin wrote and revelled in its sunny isles!

In Venice Ruskin’s echoes are no more,

And steam has stopped the songless gondolier;

Her palaces are crammed with goods galore,

And barcarolles no longer meet the ear;

Those days are past—but Enterprise is here.

Shares fall, Stocks fade, but Commerce doth not die

But reckons dodges more than Doges dear,

And gain above artistic sanctity;

Accounting best on earth, the Trade of Italy.

Punch, December 9, 1882.

——:o:——

On seeing an Intoxicated Policeman.

Roll on thou drunk and dark blue peeler—roll!

Thy bâton now thou wieldest quite in vain;

Thou’rt conquered by blue ruin—self controul

Hath ceased with thee; the gin and watery bane

Doth mar thy course, nor dost thou now retain

One sign of human reason save alone,

When for a moment with thy might and main

Thou cling’st unto some lamp-post with a groan,

Without a hat, and luckily, unseen, unknown.

His steps shake on the path—the hat he wears

Is but a sport for him—he doth arise,

And kick it from him; the vile nap it bears,

For four and ninepence, he doth all despise,

Spurning it from the pavement towards the skies,

And sends it shivering in his playful way

Into the gutter, where perchance it lies

Till, stumbling over it as well he may,

He falls beside it; there together let them lay.

The Puppet Show, March 25, 1848.

---

Address to a Wine Barrel.

(By a Poetical Butler.)

There is pleasure in cask of wood,

There is a rapture on a stony floor,

There is society where none intrude,

The vaulted roof above and nothing more!

I love not master less, but more his store,

From these our interviews in which I steal,

From all I may be, or have been before

To mingle two good brews and feel,

What I can ne’er express, yet cannot (hic) all conceal!—

From Cribblings from the Poets, by Hugh Cayley.
(Jones and Piggott, Cambridge, 1883.)

——:o:——

Arcades Ambo.

The “Childe Harold” metre is comically reproduced and ridiculed in “Arcades Ambo,” where Mr. C. S. Calverley thus addresses the beadles of the Burlington Arcade:—

Why are ye wandering aye ’twixt porch and porch,

Thou and thy fellow—when the pale stars fade

At dawn, and when the glow-worm lights her torch,

O Beadle of the Burlington Arcade?

—Who asketh why the Beautiful was made?

A wan cloud drifting o’er the waste of blue,

The thistledown that floats above the glade,

The lilac blooms of April—fair to view,

And naught but fair are these; and such, I ween, are you.

Yes, ye are beautiful. The young street boys

Joy in your beauty. Are ye there to bar

Their pathway to that paradise of toys,

Ribbons, and rings? Who’ll blame ye if ye are?

Surely no shrill and clattering crowd should mar

The dim aisle’s stillness, where in noon’s mid-glow

Trip fair-haired girls to boot-shop or bazaar;

Where, at soft eve, serenely to and fro

The sweet boy-graduates walk, nor deem the pastime slow

And O! forgive me, Beadles, if I paid

Scant tribute to your worth, when first ye stood

Before me, robed in broadcloth and brocade,

And all the nameless grace of Beadle-hood!

I would not smile at ye—if smile I could,

Now as erewhile, ere I had learned to sigh;

Ah, no! I know ye beautiful and good,

And evermore will pause as I pass by,

And gaze, and gazing think, how base a thing am I.

From Fly Leaves, by C. S. Calverley.
Bell and Sons, London, 1878.

Mr. Calverley also wrote, when quite a young man, some most amusing Byronic stanzas (in Don Juan style), in praise of

Beer.

In those old days which poets say were golden—

(Perhaps they laid the gilding on themselves:

And, if they did, I’m all the more beholden

To those brown dwellers in my dusty shelves,

Who talk to me “in language quaint and olden”

Of gods and demigods, and fawns and elves,

Pan with his pipes, and Bacchus with his leopards,

And staid young goddesses who flirt with shepherds:)

In those old days, the Nymph called Etiquette

(Appalling thought to dwell on) was not born,

They had their May, but no Mayfair as yet,

No fashions varying as the hues of morn.

Just as they pleased they dressed, and drank, and ate,

Sang hymns to Ceres (their John Barleycorn),

And danced unchaperoned, and laughed unchecked,

And were, no doubt, extremely incorrect.

Yet do I think their theory was pleasant:

And oft, I own, my “wayward fancy roams”

Back to those times, so different from the present;

When no one smoked cigars, nor gave At-homes,

Nor smote a billiard-ball, nor winged a pheasant,

Nor “did” her hair by means of long-tailed combs,

Nor migrated to Brighton once a year,

Nor—most astonishing of all—drank Beer.

*  *  *  *  *

So to proceed. That abstinence from Malt

Has always struck me as extremely curious.

The Greek mind must have had some vital fault,

That they should stick to liquors so injurious—

(Wine, Water, tempered p’raps with Attic salt)—

And not at once invent that mild, luxurious,

And artful beverage Beer. How the digestion

Got on without it, is a startling question.

*  *  *  *  *

O Beer! O Hodgson, Guinness, Allsop, Bass!

Names that should be on every infant’s tongue!

Shall days, and months, and years, and centuries pass,

And still your merits be unrecked, unsung?

Oh! I have gazed into my foaming glass,

And wished that lyre could yet again be strung

Which once rang prophet-like through Greece, and taught her

Misguided sons that the best drink was water.

*  *  *  *  *

Coffee is good, and so no doubt is cocoa;

Tea did for Johnson and the Chinamen:

When “Dulce est desipere in loco”

Was written, real Falernian winged the pen.

When a rapt audience has encored “Fra Poco”

Or “Casta Diva,” I have heard that then

The Prima Donna, smiling herself out,

Recruits her flagging powers with bottled stout.

But what is coffee, but a noxious berry,

Born to keep used-up Londoners awake?

What is Falernian, what is Port or Sherry

But vile concoctions to make dull heads ache?

Nay, stout itself—(though good with oysters, very)—

Is not a thing your reading man should take.

He that would shine, and petrify his tutor

Should drink draught Allsop in its “native pewter.”

But hark! a sound is stealing on my ear—

A soft and silvery sound—I know it well,

Its tinkling tells me that a time is near

Precious to me—it is the Dinner Bell.

O blessed Bell! Thou bringest beef and Beer,

Thou bringest good things more than tongue may tell:

Seared is, of course, my heart—but unsubdued

Is, and shall be, my appetite for food.

I go. Untaught and feeble is my pen:

But on one statement I may safely venture:

That few of our most highly gifted men

Have more appreciation of the trencher.

I go. One pound of British beef, and then

What Mr. Swiveller called a “modest quencher;”

That home-returning, I may “soothly say,”

“Fate cannot touch me: I have dined to-day.”[110]

Verses and Translations,
by C. S. C.—London, George Bell and Sons.

——:o:——

In “The Poetic Mirror, or The Living Bards of Britain,” written by James Hogg, there is a poem entitled The Guerilla, written in the Spenserian stanza adopted by Lord Byron in his Childe Harold. As The Guerilla is a serious poem, not a parody, it would be out of place here. It consists of 47 stanzas, and is the first poem in The Poetic Mirror, of which volume a full account will be found on page 96.

A parody, entitled The Last Canto of Childe Harold, by Lamartine, was published in London in 1827, but is now difficult to find.

——:o:——

THE GIAOUR.

He who hath bent him o’er the dead

Ere the first day of death is fled,

The first dark day of nothingness,

The last of danger and distress,

(Before Decay’s effacing fingers,

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers),

And mark’d the mild angelic air,

The rapture of repose that’s there,

The fix’d yet tender traits that streak

The languor of the placid cheek,

And—but for that sad shrouded eye,

That fires not, wins not, weeps not now,

And but for that chill, changeless brow,

Where cold Obstruction’s apathy

Appals the gazing mourner’s heart,

As if to him it could impart

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;

Yes, but for these and these alone,

Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,

He still might doubt the tyrant’s power;

So fair, so calm, so softly seal’d,

The first, last look by death reveal’d!

Such is the aspect of this shore;

’Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!

So coldly sweet, so deadly fair.

We start, for soul is wanting there.

Hers is the loveliness in death,

That parts not quite with parting breath;

But beauty with that fearful bloom,

That hue which haunts it to the tomb,

Expression’s last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay,

The farewell beam of Feeling pass’d away!

Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,

Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish’d earth!

Byron.

---

Lines Written on seeing a “Calf’s Head”
hanging up in Bene’t Street.

He that had gazed upon this head

Ere yet the spark of life was fled,

Before the butcher’s cursed fingers

“Had swept the lines where beauty lingers,”

Had playful seen in Nature’s pride

The offspring at its mother’s side—

Oh! who could think that tyrant man

Could e’er curtail its narrow span—

In fetters drag it helpless thence,

And slay it in its innocence!

E’en now methinks its looks implore,

Tho’ fixed in death, tho’ stain’d with gore;

“And but for that sad shrouded eye,”

That gives the rising thought the lie,

One yet might think it breath’d with life,

And gaz’d upon the threat’ning knife!

The sturdy ox falls in his prime,

The sheep is happy for a time,

This only feels man’s ceaseless hate;—

I mused—and pond’ring o’er its fate,

And on the butcher’s cruel steel,

I vow’d I’d never eat of veal!

Alas! our best resolves are vain,

Repentance leads to sin again!

That selfsame minute—callous sinner!

I hastened to my friend and dinner;

And, as a mistress at her lover,

Impatient eyed each envious cover:

Which, lo! disclosed—that Fate should will it!

Calf’s head, mock turtle, and a fillet!

What could I do? To end my story,

I acted like a modern Tory;

For after all my long debate

On justice, cruelty and fate.

Like him I took the loaves and fishes,

And paid my court to all the dishes!

Anonymous.

From The Gownsman,
(Cambridge) December 31, 1830.

---

Another Parody appeared in The Gossip (London,) June 9, 1821, commencing:

He that hath bent him o’er a goose,

When the first slice of breast is loose—

The first prime slice for tenderness,

The last for grateful savouriness;

(Before the glutton’s eager fingers

Have swept the dish where gravy lingers)

And mark’d the brown inviting air,

The harvest of fine cuts that’s there,

The firm yet greasy lumps that deck

The roundness of its luscious neck.

He who hath bent him o’er the bed

On which some dreamer rests his head,

Before the housemaid’s tapping fingers

Disturb the room where slumber lingers,

May possibly have pondered o’er

The fitful start and vacant snore;

And wondered, as his vision caught

The working of the slumberer’s thought,

How different a turn ’twould take

When he should be once more awake.

From Beauty and the Beast, by Albert Smith, 1843.

---

The Blind Nuisance.

He that don’t always bend his head

When London streets he fain would tread,

But with a mild and stately air,

From left to right doth idly stare,

Or looking round him, slightly lingers,

Twirling his guard-chain round his fingers,

Will, as he gives a look behind,

Not seeing where he means to go,

Receive from a tremendous blind,

An almost stupifying blow.

So darkly low, so lowly dim,

It breaks the hat from crown to rim.

The taller victim as he goes,

Receives the blind below his nose;

While the less loftier passer-by,

Sheathes the fierce ledge-point in his eye.

A cry of vengeance fills the air—

’Tis vain, police are wanting there.

Punch, 1847.

---

The Next Morning.

(Desecrated from Byron.)

He who hath looked with aching head

Where pipes and glasses still are spread,

In the first hour of seediness,

The last of seeing such a mess

(Before the housemaid’s clumsy fingers

Have swept the rooms where smoke still lingers)

And marked the rank unwholesome air,

The evidence of gin that’s there,

The upset trays that plainly speak

Of what has caused that pallid cheek;

And but for that strong stale cheroot

Which sickens now his very soul,

And but for that half-empty bowl,

Where sugar, limes, and rum to boot,

Appal the seedy gazers heart,

As if they ne’er had formed a part

Of what he’d lavished praise upon—

Yes, but for these, and these alone

Some moments, aye, till office hour,

He still might doubt false whiskey’s power.

But no, to bed he faintly reels,

So sad the sight that room reveals.

The Puppet Show, April 8, 1848.

(The above lines were reproduced, without the slightest acknowledgment, in the Summer Number of “The Chiel,” 1885.)

---

THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS.

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime?

Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,

Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime!

Know ye the land of the cedar and vine,

Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine;

Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress’d with perfume,

Wax faint o’er the Gardens of Gul in her bloom;

Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,

And the voice of the nightingale never is mute:

Where the tints of the earth and the hues of the sky,

In colour though varied, in beauty may vie,

And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye;

Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,

And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?

’Tis the clime of the East; ’tis the land of the Sun—

Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done?

Oh! wild as the accents of lovers’ farewell

Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.

Byron.

This will remind those who have read Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister of some verses sung by Mignon, which also form the theme of one of the gems of the beautiful opera founded on that tale. In Carlyle’s translation the poem opens thus:—

Know’st thou the land where lemon-trees do bloom,

And oranges like gold in leafy gloom;

A gentle wind from deep blue heaven blows,

The myrtle thick, and high the laurel grows?

Know’st thou it, then?

’Tis there! ’tis there

O my belov’d one, I with thee would go!

---

Inscribed to an Alderman.

Know ye the land where the leaf of the myrtle

Is bestowed on good livers in eating sublime?

Where the rage for fat ven’son and love of the turtle

Preside o’er the realms of an epicure clime?

Know ye the land where the juice of the vine

Makes Aldermen learned, and Bishops divine?

Where each Corporation, deep flushed with its bloom,

Waxes fat o’er the eyes of the claret’s perfume?

Thick spread is the table with choicest of fruit,

And the voice of the reveller never is mute:

Their rich robes, though varied, in beauty may vie.

Yet the purple of Bacchus is deepest in dye:—

’Tis the clime of the East—the return of the sun

Looks down on the deeds which his children have done:

Then wild is the note, and discordant the yell,

When, reeling and staggering, they hiccup—Farewell.

From Hone’s Year Book, Vol. I., p. 1337—38.

---

Fifty Years Ago.

Know ye the town of the turkey and turtle?

Fit emblems of tales that are told in their clime,

Where stems of the laurel and leaves of the myrtle

Grow broad in balconies and glorious in rhyme!

Where the tongue of the news-seller never is mute,

And the orange-stands glow with their yellow cheek’d fruit,

Where the stains of the street and the smoke of the sky

And the purple of faces are darkest in dye?

Where statesmen are pure as the papers they sign.

And even the cloth of their coats superfine?—

O large as the sigh at a lover’s farewell

Are the fees which they take, and the fibs which they tell!

*  *  *  *  *

The Theatrical Journal, 1816.

---

“Know ye the house in which Vestris and Nisbett

Are sparkling and bright as the pieces they act,

Where the wretch who wants money may safely make this bet

Five to one on Madame ’gainst the world—that’s a fact.”

This parody proceeded to describe the various members of the Covent Garden Theatre Company.

Punch, Volume 2, 1842.

Another parody, of the same original, appeared in Punch, December 16, 1848, describing the advantages of emigration to Australia:—

Know’st thou the land where the kangaroos bound,

And the queer looking ornithorhynci are found?

The land of the south, that lies under our feet,

Deficient in mouths, overburdened with meat,

Know’st thou that land, John Bull, my friend?

Thither, oh! thither, poor people should wend!

(Four verses omitted.)

---

Know ye the House.

Know ye the House where the Whigs and the Tories

Are emblems of deeds that are constantly done;

Where the prosing of Peel, when in candour he glories,

Now sinks into twaddle, now rises to fun?

Know ye the house, of the benches all green,

Where dozing at night many members are seen;

Where the dull words of Borthwick,—the figures of Hume

Wax faint, e’en to those whom to gull they assume;

Where parties but squabble for place and its fruit,

Where the voice of self-interest never is mute;

Where the Minister’s speech, and opponent’s reply,

In phrases though varied, in falsehood may vie,

And the strongest assertion’s the cleverest lie;

Where the heads are as soft as the yarns that they spin,

And all wish for change save the few that are in!

’Tis the House of the Commons—and Peel is its sun;

Can he smile when he thinks how the country is done?

Oh! vile as the votes which at Ipswich they sell,

Are the measures they pass, and the lies that they tell.

Punch, Volume 2, 1842.

---

The Vauxhall Masquerade.

Know ye the scene where the clerks and the tailors

Are deck’d out in costume both dirty and fine;

Where till-robbing shop boys, as soldiers and sailors,

Now stoop down to beer—now ascend up to wine?

’Tis the place for a feast: not the region of fun.

Can we smile on the jokes that are made there?—not one.

Oh, pointless and dull, as Ojibbeway yell,

Are the tricks which they play, and the bon mots they tell.

There a bevy of noodles, by puffing extreme,[111]

Are tempted to muster in numerous throng;

They’re off to Vauxhall, where they drink, dance, and scream,

And fancy they come it exceedingly strong.

Vauxhall’s Great Bal Masqué I ne’er can forget;

And oft when alone, at the close of the year,

I think, are the vagabonds dancing there yet?

Are they still at their brandy and water, and beer?

Punch, 1844.

---

The Mayor’s Lament for the Loss of the Turtles.

“Several hundred lively turtles were thrown overboard a little while ago from a ship bound for Liverpool. The Mayor of that town, who is remarkable for hospitality, has been, ever since the sad event, in a state of fearful despondency. The following touching lament has been heard to issue from his windows at fitful and feverish intervals—

Know ye the loss of the beautiful turtles,

The emblems of soup, had they lived to this time?

Oh bind up my brows with the leaves of some myrtles,

Let me mourn for the loss of a feast so sublime.

Did they do it from fear?—did they do it in fun?

Sure no one could smile at the mischief they’ve done.

Had shipwreck been threaten’d, and had it been known,

That everything must have been overboard thrown.

Though the whole of the freight in the ocean were cast,

The turtles should always be kept till the last.

Oh, had I been there in that terrible hour,

As Mayor I’d at once have exerted my power,

And made the most active endeavours to save

The turtle alive, from a watery grave,

I envy thee, Neptune—for thou art possess’d

Of a treasure by which I had hoped to be blessed;

I’m almost disposed to make one of thy group,

And drown myself, just to come in for the soup.”

Punch, 1846.

---

Reflections on a Tea Table.

Know ye the land where the hot toast and muffin

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their spheres;

Where scandalous stories and hints about nuffin,

Now melt into whispers, now rise into sneers?

Know ye the land where the liquids and cake

Their circumvolutions consecutive make;

Where Pompey’s strong arms are oppressed with Pekoe,

And the air waxes faint with the scent of the sloe;

Where malice produces its bitterest fruit,

And the voice of detraction can never be mute;

Where the tints of the story, the shades of the lie

In number though varied, in falsehood may vie,

And the venom of scandal is deepest in dye;

Where virgins of fifty strange ringlets entwine,

In the fond misconception of looking divine?

’Tis the land of the teapot, the realm of the tray.

Can we smile when we know what their votaries say?

Oh! false as the curls of their ancientest belle,

Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.

Punch, December, 1846.

---

The Foreigner’s Lay of London.

Know ye the town where policemen and navvies,

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime!

Where the noise of the clocks, and the cries of the tabbies,

E’er rouse you to madness o’er roofs as they climb?

Know ye that Smithfield, abounding in kine,

Where the dirt ever blossoms, and beams never shine?

Know ye the land where their coffee is beans?

Their milk chalk and brains, and their tea is but greens,

Where they polish their apples and all other fruit,

And the voice of the muffin-man never is mute?

Where the tints of your nose and the chimney-pot high,

In colour not varied with blackness may vie,

And the soot that falls on you is deepest in dye?

’Tis the town of the North, and of great Exhibitions,

Of pickpockets, thieves, and of base impositions!

Can you smile as you ride and you know all the while,

That the cabman will charge you five shillings a mile?

Oh, false as the bills of an actor’s “farewell,”

Are the hearts that they bear, and the lies that they tell.

The Month, by Albert Smith and John Leech, October, 1851.

---

The Pride of London.

Know ye the stream where the cesspool and sewer

Are emptied of all their foul slushes and slimes,

Where the feculent tide of rich liquid manure

Now sickens the City, now maddens the Times?

Know ye the filth of that great open sink,

Which no filter can sweeten, no “navvy” can drink;

Where in boats overcrowded the Cockney is borne

To the mud-bounded gardens of joyous Cremorne;

Where the gas-works rain down the blackest of soot,

And the oath of the coal-whipper never is mute:

Where the liquified mud, which as “water” we buy,

With the richest of pea-soup in colour may vie,

And deodorisation completely defy;

Where the air’s fill’d with smells that no nose can define,

And the banks teem prolific with corpses canine?

’Tis the stream of the Thames! ’tis the Pride of the Town!

Can a nuisance so dear to us e’er be put down?

Oh! fouler than words can in decency tell

Are the sights we see there, and the scents which we smell!

Punch, September 11, 1852.

---

A Byronic Valentine.

A City Article.

Know’st thou the spot where the venison and turtle

Meet best, from the heather and tropical clime;

Where the fat of the latter is green as the myrtle,

And the former as pink as the rose in her prime?

Know’st thou the hall where old Magog and Gog

Laugh a-sly at the centuries onward that jog?

The spots where the markets dispense the cane fruit,

Where Manilla has brokers to sell her cheroot?

Where the “Bulls” ever raise, and the “Bears” e’er depress

Consols to a quarter the more or the less?

Where the rumours of earth, and the clouds of the sky

Bid the sellers to hold, or the knowing ones buy,

(Which the public in general thinks, “All my eye”)?

’Tis the place of the swain, ’tis the haunt of the one

Who thy beauty unceasingly ponders upon;

Whose passion for thee can ne’er suffer decline,

And till further advice is Thine Own Valentine.

Diogenes, February, 1853.

---

The Pride of England.

Know ye the Inn where the laurel and myrtle

Well emblem the green who are done ’neath its sign?

Where they serve you on plate which is mock as their turtle,

Now fleecing the tourist, now maddening the Times?

Know ye the shams of that ill-managed house,

Where the host ever bows, and the bills ever chouse;

Where the “wax-lights” that don’t half illumine your room

Give a muttonish rather than waxy perfume;

Where although you don’t see half a waiter all day,

For “attendance” as much as a lawyer’s you pay,

And find even then there’s an extra for “Boots.”

Nor the porters in asking for liquids are mutes;

Where your “bottle of sherry” (Cape under disguise,)

Scarce equals the vinegar-cruet in size,

And analysation completely defies;

Where the sofas are soft as yourself if you dine

At eight shillings a head—perchance even nine,

With the heaviest price for the lightest of wine?—

’Tis the English Hotel: and ’tis twenty to one

That, where’er you may enter it, brown you’ll be done.

For more than e’en Punch in a volume could tell,

Are the shams they serve there, and the victims they sell.

Punch, 1853.

---

General view of Greece.

“Greece sided with Russia until France and England sent troops to the Piræus, whereupon King Otho promised to observe strict neutrality.”

Knows’t thou the land were a sly press’s dirt’ll

Be flung upon all that won’t pay for it’s slime,

When the merchant’s a Doo, and the soldier’s a Thurtell,

And the lawyer’s their trusty accomplice in crime?

Knows’t thou the land once beloved of the Nine,

More lately the scene of Pacifico’s shine,

Where a soft head like Otho’s the crown could assume,

A King—with the mien of an underbred groom—

Where the traders in feats of rascality vie

Where they cheat if you sell, and they cheat if you buy,

And to list to a native’s to list to a lie.

Where, if trees (as we say) may be known by their fruit,

One’s certain that Honesty never struck root.

Where their dastardly banner wears Christendom’s sign,

In type that each fight is a Cross, we opine?

’Tis the fair land of Greece, whose demoralised son

Exults in the hope that the Russians have won.

Oh! wild are his accents, when telegraphs tell

That our soldiers are doing their duty right well.

Shirley Brooks, 1854.

---

A Lesson for Ladies.

“While the Lord Mayor elect and some friends were inspecting the preparations for the Guildhall feast, the Lady Mayoress unhesitatingly declared with reference to the turtle, that ‘she did not like the nasty stuff!’”—Daily News.

Know you the Lady who doesn’t like turtle,

And had the fine courage to speak out her mind;

Though Aldermen round her stood scowling like Thurtell,

And even her Chaplain lisped, “Rather unkyind,”

Long life to the woman who dared to declare it,

Be her gay Lady-Mayoralty marked by good luck:

Her robe fit divinely—her health last to wear it—

We don’t share her taste, but we honour her pluck.

The good City Queen sets a lesson to ladies

Who haven’t got minds, or have minds they don’t know:

Who don’t care if wine comes from China or Cadiz,

And simper alike over venison and veau!

We like a companion who knows what she’s eating,

(What chance for your tastes if she’s none of her own?)

So hip, hip, hurrah, for November that’s seating

A Sovereign like this on the Mansion House throne.

Shirley Brooks, 1856.

---

Jamaica.

(Written in 1866, when Governor Eyre was being prosecuted for his excessive severity in suppressing the negro insurrection in Jamaica.)

Know ye the land of molasses, and rum

Emblems of deeds that are done in their clime

Where the cant of the nigger or the beat of his drum

Now melts into humbug, now maddens to crime—

Know ye the land of the cocoa and pine,

Where the trees that would blossom are left to decline

Where those who would toil must bear the attacks

Of those blood-thirsty vipers, Liberty’s Blacks?

Where murder and treason are the fairest of fruit,

And the voice of sedition never is mute

Where the sloth of the negro, cries aloud to the sky

And his vices tho’ varied, in horror may vie

With those crimes of man that are deepest in dye.

Where whites must bow down, if the negroes combine

For is not a nigger a spirit divine?

’Tis the land of the negro who once was a slave

How has he deserved the freedom we gave?

’Tis the clime of the west, ’tis the land of the sun

Can he smile on the deeds that these darkies have done?

Oh! fierce as the accents of foemen’s farewell

Are the hearts which they bear, and the lies which they tell.

W.H.

---

Description of the Murtle Lecture delivered
in our Public School.

Know ye the Hall where the birch and the myrtle

Are emblems of things half profane, half divine,

Where the hiss of the serpent, the coo of the turtle,

Are counted cheap fun at a sixpenny fine?

Know ye the Hall of the pulpit and form,

With its air ever mouldy, its stove never warm;

Where the chill blasts of Eurus, oppressed with the stench

Wax faint at the window, and strong at the bench;

Where Tertian and Semi are hot in dispute,

And the voice of the Magistrand never is mute;

Where the scrape of the foot and the audible sigh

In nature though varied, in discord may vie,

Till the accents of Wisdom are stifled and die;

Where the Bajuns are dense as the cookies they chew,

And all save the Regents have something to do:—

’Tis our Hall of Assembly, our high moral School,

Must its walls never rest from the bray of the fool?

Oh, vain as the prospect of summer in May

Are the lessons they learn and the fines that they pay.

All the public discipline, fines, &c., are arranged and levied at the Public School. The Bajuns, Semis, Tertians, and Magistrands are the four years of men. The Regents are the four Professors—Greek, Nat. Hist., Nat. Phil., and Mor. Phil.

From “Life of Professor James Clerk Maxwell” by Lewis Campbell and William Garrett, 1882.

---

A Lunatic’s Love Song.

O, know you the land where the cheese tree grows,

And the unicorn spins on the end of his nose;

Where the sea-mew scowls on the circling bat,

And the elephant hunts in an opera hat?

’Tis there that I lie with my head in a pond,

And play with a valueless Tichborne bond;

’Tis there that I sip pure Horniman’s tea

To the sound of the gong and the howling sea.

’Tis there that I revel in soapsuds and rum,

And wait till my creditors choose to come;

’Tis there that I dream of the days when I

Shall soar to the moon through the red-hot sky.

Then come, oh! come to that happy land!

And don’t forget your galvanic band;

We will play at cards in the lions den,

And go to bed when the clock strikes ten.

---

An Address to Lord Byron.

Know’st thou the land where the hardy green thistle,

The red-blooming heather and harebell abound?

Where oft o’er the mountains the shepherd’s shrill whistle

Is heard in the gloaming so sweetly to sound?

Know’st thou the land of the mountain and flood,

Where the pine of the forest for ages has stood,

Where the eagle comes forth on the wings of the storm,

And her young ones are rocked on high Cairngorm?

Know’st thou the land where the cold Celtic wave

Encircles the hills which its blue waters lave?

Where the virgins are pure as the gems of the sea,

And their spirits are light as their actions are free?

Know’st thou the land where the sun’s lingering ray

Streaks with gold the horizon, till dawns the new day,

Whilst the cold feeble beam which he sheds on the sight

Scarce breaks through the gloom of the cold winter’s night?

’Tis the land of thy sires!—’tis the land of thy youth,

Where first thy young heart glowed with honour and truth;

Where the wild fire of genius first caught thy young soul,

And thy feet and thy fancy roamed free from control!

Ah, why does that fancy still dwell on a clime

Where Love leads to Madness, and Madness to Crime:

Where courage itself is more savage than brave;—

Where man is a despot, and woman a slave?

Though soft are the breezes, and sweet the perfume,

And fair are the “gardens of Gul” in their bloom;

Can the roses they twine, or the vines which they bear,

Speak peace to the heart of suspicion and fear?

Let Phœbus’ bright ray the Egean wave,

But say, can it lighten the lot of a slave—

Or all that is beauteous in nature impart

One virtue to soften the Moslem’s proud heart?

Ah, no! ’tis the magic that glows in thy strain,

Gives life to the action and soul to the scene!

And the deeds which they do, and the tales which they tell,

Enchant us alone by the power of thy spell!

And is there no charm in thine own native earth?

Does no talisman rest in the place of thy birth?

Are the daughters of Albion less worthy thy care,

Less soft than Zuleika, less bright than Gulnare?

Are her sons less renowned, or her warriors less brave,

Than the slaves of a Prince who himself is a slave?

Then strike thy wild lyre, let it swell with the strain,

Let the mighty in arms live and conquer again;

Their past deeds of valour thy lays shall rehearse,

And the fame of thy country revive in thy verse.

The proud wreath of victory round heroes may twine,

’Tis the poet who crowns them with honour divine;

And thy laurels, Pelides, had sunk in the tomb,

Had the bard not preserved them immortal in bloom!

Anonymous.

---

Jon Duan’s Tale.

A STORY OF THE CONFESSIONAL.

Know ye the place where they press and they hurtle,

And do daring deeds for greed and for gain,

Where the mellow milk-punch and the green-fatted turtle

Now mildly digest, and now madden with pain?

Know ye the land of Stone and of Vine,

Where mayors ever banquet and aldermen dine;

Where Emma[112] was wooed, and Abbott laid low,

And they fly paper kites and big bubbles blow;

Where Gold is a god unassail’d in his might,

And neck-ties are loosened when stocks get too tight?

If this district you know—it is E.C. to guess,

And you go up a street which the Hebrews possess,

And turn to the right,—why, then, for a wager,

You come to the Church of St. Wackslite the Major;

And list, as o’er noises that constantly swell,

Comes the soul-stirring sound of its evensong bell.

From Jon Duan. London: Weldon and Co., 1874.

---

The Colorado Beetle.

A “Native of the Great American Desert” writes from Rosario on Colorado and its bug:—“We knew that potato bug before he was introduced into polite society and world-wide fame; he was then called the ‘camote spoiler,’ a name derived from a sweet tuber that grows wild all over Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona. Generations would have died ignorant of the very name of our newest State had it not been for the potato bug; newspapers wrote, orators eulogized, and poets sang about the advantages of Colorado, but all combined they could not command the attention of anybody east of the Mississippi river until that bug went booming across the Atlantic States and Ocean, and actually entered the House of Lords and the Privy Councils of various European monarchs. Since that day Colorado has become universally known, and one of its mountain poets something in ideas like Goethe, but in style after Byron, has chanted—

Is it where the cabbage grows so fast

That it bursts with a noise like a thunder’s blast,

Is it where thro’ the rich deep mellow soil

The beet strikes down as if digging for oil,

Is it where each irrigating sluice

Is fed with water-melon juice,

Where tatoes and onions are hard to beat

And the cattle get fat on nothing to eat,

Where everything grows to such a wondrous size

That the simplest stories appear like lies,

Tell me in sooth I’d like to know—

Is this the land they call Colorado?

“You bet! old hoss, it is!”

---

Parody.

BY AN OLD SOLDIER.

Know ye the land of reeds and of rushes,

Emblems of dampness innate in the clime,

Where the toad and the viper to show itself blushes,

And the damp air comes heavy impregnate with crime;

Where landlords in daylight like woodcocks they shoot

And the voice of the mendicant never is mute.

’Tis a land of the West, fair, glorious, and free,

First flower of the land, first gem of the sea;

I would we poor soldiers some method could learn,

To the depths of its bosom, this gem to return.

——:o:——

Overworked.

They stood upon his nose’s bridge of size—

His spectacles; a book in either hand.

I saw a queer expression in his eyes,

As if a sunstroke in some tropic land

Had made his too colossal brain expand

More than it ought; and on his face odd smiles

Would come sometimes, and then he’d laughing stand,

Clutching his gown, and talking loud meanwhiles.

He wore a college cap, the mouldiest of tiles.

Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon, 1874.

——:o:——

Cabul—September, 1879.

The following poem obtained the first prize in a parody competition in The World. Subject: “Cabul in September, 1879,” treated in the style of Lord Byron’s Siege of Corinth.

’Tis done—the murd’rous work complete,

The turbaned hordes acclaim the feat:

Had fallen to a craven shot

The chiefest victim of a plot:

Brave leader! all too brave to date

A warning from Macnaughten’s fate.

His gallant comrades round him strown,

An English youth stands—stands alone.[113]

His gallant comrades round him lie

Dead; it remains for one to die.

Forth on the foe the soldier leapt;

And, as his blade a circle swept,

Five traitors felt the avenging brand,

Ere dropped it from the lifeless hand—

A glorious tale indeed to tell—

’Neath thousand blows one hero fell.

’Tis done—the slaughtered guests are spread

Under a hecatomb of dead.

No need of marble pile to show

Where sleep the illustrious slain below;

No need of graver’s art to trace

In lettered brass their resting place,

Their own right arms, in death still feared,

Eternal monument have reared:

Where, ere they fell, these warriors stood,

They wrote their epitaph in blood.

These devotees of Islam’s creed

Shrink not to violate at need

The laws they worship; the behest

Of reverence due to hallowed guest.

Ah, but it were a goodly boast—

A stranger murdered by his host!

Yet think not, dastards, England slow

To recompense so foul a blow,

If payment meet could deal the sword

To miscreants honoured by the cord.

Where to the skies their summits push

The giant Alps of Hindu Kush;

Where Cabul’s river hastes to hide

His shame beneath a mightier tide;

Where, with a scorn of time, proclaim

The records of a bygone fame

The ravished fanes, whose ruins trace

The march of Timour’s conquering race

And, mid her oft-beleagured towers,

Dark Ghuzni’s fortress sternly lowers;

Where many mouthèd Helmund makes

His briny home in Seistan’s lakes—

Not long delayed, the cannon’s boom

Shall sound the knell of Cabul’s doom.

Merton.

The World, October 1, 1879.

——:o:——

The Civic Mazeppa.

“The disappearance of Gibbs from the civic procession created some little astonishment, and many were the inquiries as to what had become of him. The following Poem gives a bold, but very probable, notion of how the Alderman was really occupied on the day of the opening of the Royal Exchange. It is supposed that some of his fellow parishioners, meeting with him in a back street, caught hold of him, and tied him on to a horse, which got dreadfully into a-rear, and was then suffered to run on without the smallest check—thus typifying the state of the accounts of St. Stephen’s, Walbrook. The Poem begins at the period when the Alderman is about to undergo his equestrian martyrdom.”

“Bring forth the horse!” the horse was brought;

In truth he was a noble steed—

A creature of the hackney sort,

Dash’d slightly with the dray-horse breed,

His sire had drawn a fly,

Into which six would often cram;

His mother was of lineage high,

Himself was worth—well worth his dam.

He plunged, he kick’d, he reared, he snorted,

With ears erect and eye distorted;

He switched his tail, he show’d his hoof—

E’en Widdicomb had kept aloof

At sight of such a noble steed,

He was a precious beast indeed.

They seized me fiercely by the daddle;

They thrust me down into the saddle;

They tied me strongly by the bridle:

The horrid brute began to shy,

To kick, to amble, and to sidle,

And then away they let him fly;

Away, away! my breath is gone;

Still gallop, gallop, gallop on,

Down, down the street, and up the Strand,

Over the woman’s apple-stand.

We pass the cabs, and here we are,

Plunged at one bound through Temple Bar.

The courser’s fleetness seems to mock

The slowness of St. Dunstan’s Clock.

Away, away, we madly whisk

Along! past Waithman’s Obelisk!

On, on we go, we gallop still

Up Ludgate’s gently rising hill.

A moment now our way seems barr’d,

Oh! shall we stop at last?

’Tis the barrier at St. Paul’s Church Yard—

No, no, he gallops past.

I pull’d the bridle, but in vain,

The horse refused my will to heed;

Each motion of the useless rein

But madden’d him to wilder speed.

I tried my voice; but nonsense, pooh!

Onwards the brute contemptuous flew:

At times I thought he must have stopp’d,

When ’gainst an omnibus he whopp’d;

But vain my hopes! the sudden blow

Served but to make him faster go.

Away, away, we turn and wind,

Leaving the city far behind.

He tears away, hock touching hock,

Swift up the hill of Haverstock:

Until, with just exhausted breath,

At last he reaches Hampstead Heath.

The brute has only strength to bound

Into the well remembered Pound;

Where in the morning we were found

By a policeman going his round.

Punch 1844.

The above poem was accompanied by a spirited, and very comical illustration, showing the worthy Alderman strapped on the bare-backed steed, which is urging on his wild career, followed by astonished beadles and policemen.)

---

DON JUAN.

Bob Southey! You’re a poet—Poet-laureate,

And representative of all the race;

Although ’tis true that you turn’d out a Tory at

Last,—yours has lately been a common case;

And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at?

With all the Lakers, in and out of place?

A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye

Like “four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye.”

*  *  *  *  *

Byron.

Dedication.

Ben Dizzy! You’re a humbug—Humbug-laureate,

And representative of all the race;

Although ’tis true that you turned out a Tory at

Last, yours is still an enigmatic face.

And now, O Sphyntic renegade, what are you at

With all the Rurals in and out of place?

Where will you leave the boobies in the lurch—

Have you resolved to double D—— the Church?

You’ve dished the Whigs before; we now would sing.

What is the pie that you’re so busy making?

A dainty dish to set before the Thing—

Or aught that its digestion will be shaking?—

Or is it Discord’s apple that you bring?

Or will you set the good old Tories quaking,

By saying that they hitherto have missed tricks,

By not going in for equal polling districts?

You’ll educate them, won’t you, Master Ben?

And make them think that they are clever, very,

Until the trick is won, and they’ll wish then,

They’d taken you cum grano Salis-bury.

No wonder Mr. Miall’s making merry,

And rallying his Liberation men—

He sees your tongue so plainly in your cheek,

When in your Church’s champion rôle you speak.

Go on, neat humbug, laughing in your sleeve.

And winking, as you bid the Church not falter;

We joy to see her aid from you receive,

To guard her ’gainst the dangers that assault her;

The English Church has had her last reprieve,

Now you are standing boldly by her altar.—

Already in the glass we see the image,

Of an impending, big religious scrimmage.

*  *  *  *  *

Jon Duan, by the authors of The Coming K——. 1874.

——:o:——

DON JUAN

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!

Where burning Sappho loved and sung,

Where grew the arts of war and peace,—

Where Delos rose, and Phœbus sprung.

Eternal summer gilds them yet,

But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute,

Have found the fame your shores refuse;

Their place of birth alone is mute

To sounds which echo further west

Than your sires’ “Islands of the Blest.”

The mountains look on Marathon—

And Marathon looks on the sea:

And musing there an hour alone,

I dream’d that Greece might still be free;

For standing on the Persian’s grave,

I could not deem myself a slave.

*  *  *  *  *

Trust not for freedom to the Franks—

They have a king who buys and sells:

In native swords and native ranks,

The only hope of courage dwells;

But Turkish force and Latin fraud,

Would break your shield, however broad.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!

Our virgins dance beneath the shade—

I see their glorious black eyes shine;

But, gazing on each glowing maid,

My own the burning tear-drop laves,

To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep,

Where nothing, save the waves and I,

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;

There, swan-like, let me sing and die:

A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine—

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

Byron.

---

Meditations by a Despairing Angler.

The Isle of Eels! The Isle of Eels!

Where Mrs. Hopkins dined and sung;

Where first (as this seared heart reveals),

My passion for the Widow sprung!

The pies are good, and so’s the ale—

But all to me is flat and stale!

Where Richmond looks on Teddington,

In patient guise I threw my line;

And fishing there (and catching none)

I dreamt, that she might still be mine:

For, dressed in Doudney’s light gambroon,

I could not deem myself a spoon.

Fill high the glass with ginger wine!—

We will not think on this here theme;

Nor for the charming Widow pine;

Others may yet more charming seem.

More charming? Ah, it cannot be—

Her equal never made the tea!

Fill high the glass with ginger wine!—

On Richmond’s bridge, or Twit’nam’s shore,

Oft had I held my rod and line,—

But never had a bite before!

There was a downright tug that day;—

But ah! he tugged, and swam away!

And where is he? And where art thou,

My widow? At the Angler’s heart

Thou gav’st one mighty tug, and now

Art fled—but hast received no smart!

Such loss would sure a Stoic move—

My only fish! My only love!

Place me on Railton’s stunted post[114]

(Queer pedestal for France’s Fear);

And fishing there with Nelson’s Ghost,

I’m sure I’d catch as much as here!

Doudney and line no more be mine—

Dash down—no, don’t—that ginger wine!

Punch, 1844.

---

The Smiles of Peace.

The Smiles of Peace, the Smiles of Peace,

By Foreign need from England wrung,

Have bid the cannon’s war-shout cease,

The Thanks be said, the Anthem sung:

But there is that (besides our Debt)

Which English hearts should not forget.

It was not, surely, to amuse

The gossip’s hour of Club dispute,

We sat down daily to peruse

Those tales from Camp, where man and brute

Alike endured the sternest test

That ever crushed our brave, our best.

Disraeli looks on Palmerston,

And Palmerston on Mr. D.,

And in debates that last till one

They taunt each other skilfully;

But there be questions far too grave

To edge a mere debater’s glaive.

Ten thousand men of fearless brow,

On lips they loved laid parting kiss—

O, titled soldiers! answer how

A needless Death has claimed them his.

They went, one well-remembered day—

Some few brief months, and where were they?

What! silent still, and silent all?

O no, the damning charge is read—

Even now, in Chelsea’s trophied Hall,

The judges sit, the scrolls are spread,

And haughty blunderers blustering come—

Unknown the shame that makes men dumb.

In vain, in vain accuse those Lords,

All Lords are right, by right divine,

No, gild anew their tarnished swords,

And let bereft plebeians whine:

You ask for proof of soldier’s skill—

How vaunts each bungling Bobadil!

You’ve Lord John Russell’s lectures yet,

Where’s William Russell’s teaching gone:

Of two such lessons, why forget

The bolder and the manlier one?

You have the letters William gave

Think you he meant them for a Shave?

Trust not men who lodge in banks

The price of swords your System sells;

Seek, in the people’s healthier ranks

The fire that no disaster quells;

But slang Routine, and jobbing Fraud

Will break your back, however broad.

Along Pall-Mall a martial line!

Our Life-Guards ride with helm and blade.

I see each glittering cuirass shine,

But, gazing on the gay parade,

I own a wish to bite my nails,

To think such horses ate their tails.

Her lofty place would England keep

In Europe’s none too loving eye,

She’d make one grand and final sweep

Of all her System’s pedantry.[115]

But no—she bows by right divine.

Dash dumb that Punch’s impious shine!

Shirley Brooks, 1856.

---

In Vino Veritas.

The wines of Greece! the wines of Greece!

(T’was thus a Shambro’ merchant sung)

It gives the tortured mind no peace,

To think that Britons, old and young,

Their Port and Sherry can forget,

For Santorin, or mount Hymett.

*  *  *  *  *

Fill high the vat with Shambro’ wine!

We will not think on themes like these

Let’s call the mixture Sherry fine,

Or any other name they please.

Rebuke not, friends, the buyer’s voice:

Who pays his cash should take his choice.

Punch, October 7, 1865.

---

The Ills of Greece.

The ills of Greece, the ills of Greece,

By glowing Gladstone warmly sung!

Lord B. brought honour back with peace,

And Greece aside is coolly flung,

For wider boundaries yearning yet,

Which don’t she wish that she may get?

Vague promise might awhile amuse,

Make her for fight less resolute;

Now help or counsel we refuse,

And even sympathy is mute.

We’ve urgent bothers East and West,

And Greece’s claims may be—well, blest!

*  *  *  *  *

Fill high the bowl with Cyprus wine!

Hang hopes of nationalities!

The Sultan’s much more in our line,

He serves some schemes of cute Lord B’s.

A tyrant?—well, perhaps; but then

He plays our game, my countrymen!

Punch, April 26, 1879.

---

Musical Notes.

(On the Claims of Greece.)

I.

The claims of Greece! the claims of Greece!

Which burning Byron boldly sung,

When in that land were few police

And robbers every day were swung,

Eternal humbug gilds you yet

And all against you dead are set.

II.

Lo! the Dispatch, the Daily News,

Charles Dilke, with many a gay recruit,

Have told how Greece the Powers abuse;

And even Fleet Street is not mute

To sounds which echo with more zest

At Rooms of Willis in the West.

III.

Charles Dilke, he looked at Lord Lansdowne—

Lansdowne, he looked at Rosebery—

And sitting there in study brown

They passed the bottle rather free;

Then sang o’er “dead men’s” empty graves,

“Greeks never, never, shall be slaves!”

*  *  *  *  *

(Five verses omitted.)

The Sporting Times, June 14, 1879.

---

The following lines were quoted by Mr. G. A. Sala, in the Illustrated London News, 24 May, 1879, apropos of a meeting held at Willis’s Rooms, in favour of the claims of Greece to the Treaty rights promised at Berlin:—

The Claims of Greece! The claims of Greece!

Which Dilke declared and Roseb’ry sung,

Which Dizzy in his Berlin Peace,

To the Greek Kalends coolly flung.

Eternal Moonshine gilds them yet,

And moonshine’s all they’ll ever get!

---

The Aisles of Rome.

I.

The aisles of Rome! the aisles of Rome!

Where burning censers oft are swung,

Where saints are worshipp’d ’neath the dome,

Where banners sway and mass is sung—

In Papal Sees these aisles have place,

But English churches they disgrace.

II.

The vestments, many-hued and quaint,

The alb, the stole, the hood, the cope,

The prayers to Virgin and to saint—

These are for them who serve the Pope:

Shame! that such mummeries besmirch

The ritual of the English Church!

III.

I took the train to Farringdon,

From Farringdon I walked due E.;

And musing there an hour alone,

I scarce could think such things could be.

At Smithfield—scene of martyrs slain—

I could not deem they died in vain.

IV.

And is it so? and can it be,

My country? Is what we deplore

Aught but a phase of idiocy?

Is England Protestant no more?

Is she led captive by a man—

The dotard of the Vatican?

V.

Must we but weep o’er days more blest?

Must we but blush?—our fathers bled.

Earth, render back from out thy breast

A remnant of our martyred dead!

Of all the hundreds grant but three

To fight anew Mackonochie.

From Jon Duan, by the authors of The Coming K—— and The Siliad. Weldon and Co., London, 1874.

Another imitation of the same original commencing—

“The isles decrease, the isles decrease,

The last fog-signal now has rung,”

occurs in Faust and Phisto, Beeton’s Christmas Annual for 1876, but it has no literary interest, nor merit as a parody.

---

The Claims of Greece.

The Claims of Greece! The Claims of Greece!

No doubt Miss Sappho loved and sung,

But how can Europe keep the peace,

The wily Greek and Turk among:

Eternal summer may be there,

But noise of war is in the air.

The nations look on Marathon,

And wonder sometimes will there be

A fight like that which erst went on

Between the mountains and the sea:

Where Turk and Greek may find a grave,

If neither party will behave.

A Bismarck sat with furrowed brow,

And scanned the Treaty of Berlin,

Quoth he, “There’ll be a fearful row,

My interference must begin.

We’ll arbitrate.” He spoke, when lo!

Both Greece and Turkey answered “No!”

“Trust not for freedom to the Franks,”

Was Byron’s sage remark to Greece

He bids the Hellenes close their ranks,

Their only hope for full release.

They’ve ta’en his counsel it would seem;

Yet surely ’tis an idle dream?

“Fill the high bowl with Samian wine,”

Whatever Samian wine may be;

And still let Grecian temples shine,

Be Greece inviolate and free:

But ne’er shall European peace

Be broken for the claims of Greece!

Punch, January 29, 1881.

---

Nice in May 1874.

“The town of Nice! the town of Nice!

Where once mosquitoes buzzed and stung

And never gave man any peace,

The whole year round, when he was young!

Eternal winter chills it yet;

It’s always cold, and mostly wet.

Lord Brougham sat on the rocky brow

Which looks on sea-girt Cannes, I wis;

But wouldn’t like to sit there now,

Unless ’twere warmer than it is.

I went to Cannes the other day,

But found it much too damp to stay.

The mountains look on Monaco,

And Monaco looks on the sea

And, playing their some hours ago,

I meant to win enormously;

But, though my need of coin was bad

I lost the little that I had.

Ye have the Southern charges yet

Where is the Southern climate gone

Of two such blessings, why forget

The cheaper and the better one?

My weekly bill my wrath inspires;

Think ye I meant to pay for fires?

Why should I stay? no worse art thou,

My country! On the genial shore

The local east winds whistle now,

The local fogs spread more and more;

But in the sunny South the weather

Beats all you know of put together.

I cannot eat—I cannot sleep—

The waves are not so blue as I;

Indeed, the waters of the deep

Are dirty brown, and so’s the sky.

I get dyspepsia when I dine—

Oh, dash that pint of country wine!”

This parody appeared in Temple Bay for March 1886, in a paper entitled Humours of Travel by Herman Merivale, but it had previously been printed in a volume entitled “The White Pilgrim, and other Poems” by the same author, and published by Chapman and Hall, London 1883.

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The Smiles of Peace.

The smiles of Peace, the smiles of Peace,

Which Gladstone in Midlothian sung!

A song we hope may never cease

Though Jingoes yell, with blatant tongue,

To fight—not for themselves, you bet!

And howl for blood, and—“Heavy Wet!”

We look up to the Grand Old Man,

And he looks out upon the sea

Of stormy politics, which can

Be still’d by none so well as he!

For standing at the Nation’s helm,

He safely guides the British Realm.

Fill high the bowl with Gladstone wine—

The sunny purple wine he gave—

Let fame and Bacchus round him twine

The wreaths that crown the good and brave!

His solid worth the nation rules,

Though worried by bombastic fools.

Trust not to Tories for a peace—

They have a chief who longs for war,

Let tax and income tax increase.

Pay! ’tis what we’re created for,

Better to fight, and glory win,

Than hoard a pile of useless “tin.”

Keep firm on Ministerial height

He who nor man nor nation fears—

He who seeks peace, yet fears not fight—

Whose strength and knowledge come with years—

Who knows that peace on earth’s divine!

Here’s Gladstone’s health in Gladstone wine!

Funny Folks May 23, 1885.

---

Renounce The Paper Union Creed.

The Liberal seats! the Liberal seats!

That we in ’eighty proudly won!

Whence—while we suffered few defeats—

We saw the Stupid Party run!

Again we fight these borough’s, yet

Nothing, except disgrace, we get!

The Unionist and Tory crews,

Led on, alas! by honest Bright,

Have gained the day; and men refuse

To vote the Grand Old Chieftain right,

Save in the Island of the West,

Where scarce a Tory dares contest.

The Liberals look to Chamberlain,

And Chamberlain looks sour and glum;

Yet, seeing what he had to gain,

We’d hoped that Joseph round would come.

For, gazing back upon his past,

We could not think his—spleen?—would last.

The chief sat in St. Stephen’s, where

He’d nobly worked for fifty years;

He saw the Liberals crowded there,

And heard with joy their hearty cheers.

He looked at them one winter’s day—

And in the summer—where were they?

And where are they? And where art thou,

O Gladstone? In thy voiceless age

The heroic task comes harder now;

Soon must thou quit “the ungrateful stage.”

And must thy part, praised in all lands,

Degenerate into pigmy hands?

’Tis something, in this shameful hour,

When beaten, with the fettered race,

To know at least that those in power

This question cannot choose but face.

And they may yield to craven fear,

However brave they now appear.

Why should we moan o’er times more blest?

Why should we wail? Our fathers worked!

The Tory must not peaceful rest,

The Irish Bill must not be burked!

’Tis but delayed, and time shall see

Another Ireland, glad and free!

Coercion now? Repression still?

Ah, no!—that sort of thing is dead!

You may reject our Home Rule Bill,

But tell us, what have you instead?

The eighty-six recruited come,—

Say, can coercion make them dumb?

In vain, in vain! Strike other chords!

Renounce your Paper Union Creed!

In spite of thirty thousand swords,

The Irish nation will be freed!

See! rising at their country’s call,

Who fronts you in St. Stephen’s Hall!

You have the Liberal leader yet;

Where is the Liberal phalanx gone?

You have two courses. Why regret

To take the nobler, manlier one?

You have the path that Justice shows—

And you’ve a nation to oppose!

Renounce the Paper Union creed!

You cannot govern men with this

Your Irish brethren you may need

When foreign foes around you hiss,

Renounce it, and the Irish then

Will prove themselves your countrymen.

The peasant of the sister Isle

has with our best and bravest bled,

That peasant now is all that’s vile—

Or—is your sense of justice dead?

Do right, and you perhaps will find

Him generous still, and brave, and kind.

No more these idle fictions whine!

On Liffey’s banks, on Shannon’s shore,

Exists the remnant of a line

Such as your English mothers bore.

And there, perhaps, some seed is sown

The British blood might proudly own.

Trust not the Tories and their pranks,

Despite the tales their leader tells;

In Irish hearts and Irish ranks

The old, strong love of justice dwells!

But Tory force and Tory fraud

Would crimson swift Rebellion’s sword!

Renounce the Paper Union Creed!

Our party, though now in the shade,

Shall still, with glorious Gladstone, lead!

Repulsed we are; not yet dismayed.

No isle whose shore the Atlantic laves

Can ever be the land of slaves.

Place what you will before the House,

There nothing, save an Irish bill,

Will pass. Meanwhile, let Liberals rouse—

Prove Liberal England’s Liberal still!

The Irish claim we must concede,

And have no Paper Union Creed.

G.W.

Pall Mall Gazette. July 13, 1886.

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Warreniana, by Mr. William F. Deacon (London, 1824), contained an excellent parody on Childe Harold, unfortunately it is too long to give in full, but some stanzas may be quoted.

The Childe’s Pilgrimage.

1.

Whileome in Limehouse docks there dwelt a youth,

Childe Higgins hight, the childe of curst ennui,

Despair, shame, sin, with aye assailing tooth,

Had worn his beauty to the bone.—Ah me!

A lone unloving libertine was he;

For reft of health and hope’s delusive wiles,

And tossed in youth on passion’s stormy sea,

He stood a wreck ’mid its deserted isles,

Where vainly pleasure wooes and syren woman smiles.

2.

He was a merchant, ’till ennui’d with toil

Of counting house turned but to small account,

Sated of home, and Limehouse leaden soil,

Nee more to his dried heart a freshening fount

Of kindly feelings; he aspired to mount

To intellectual fame, for when the brain

Is dulled by thoughts, aye fearful to surmount,

When youth, hope, love, essay their charms in vain,

The rake-hell turns a blue as doth his sky again.

3.

Thus turned the Childe, when in the Morning Post,

The Herald, Chronicle, and eke the Times,

He read with tasteful glee a daily host

Of the Strand bard’s self eulogistic rhymes;

He read, and fired with zeal, resolv’d betimes

A pilgrim to that minstrel’s shrine to move,

As Allah’s votaries in Arabian climes

To far Medina’s hallowed altar rove,

There low to bend before the idol of their love.

4.

He left his home, his wife without a sigh,

And trod with pilgrim-pace the Limehouse Road;

The morn beamed laughing in the dark blue sky,

And warm the sun on post and pavement glowed:

Each varied mile new charms and churches showed,

But sceptic Higgins jeered the sacred band;

For his full tide of thought with scorn o’erflowed,

Or deep immersed in objects grave and grand,

Dwelt on the Warren’s fame at number Thirty, Strand.

*  *  *  *  *

11.

Th’ Exchange is past, the Mansion House appears,

Surpris’d the Childe surveys its portly site,

Dim dreams assail him of convivial years,

And keener waxes his blunt appetite,

Luxurious visions whelm his fancy quite,

Of calipash and ekecalipee,

While sylphs of twenty stone steal o’er his sight,

Smiting their thighs with blythe Apician glee,

And licking each his lips right beautiful to see.

12.

’Twas here they tucked, these unctuous city sprites,

’Twas here like geese they fattened and they died.

Here turtle reared for them her keen delights,

And forests yielded their cornuted pride.—

But all was vain, ’mid daintiest feasts they sighed;

Gout trod in anger on each hapless toe;

Stern apoplexy pummelled each fat side,

And dropsy seconded his deadly blow,

’Till floored by fate they sunk to endless sleep below.

*  *  *  *  *

15.

Something too much of this; but now ’tis past,

And Fleet Street spreads her busy vale below:

Lo! proud ambitious gutters hurry past,

To rival Thames in full continuous flow;

The inner temple claims attention now,

That Golgotha of thick and thread-bare skulls,

Where modest merit pines in chambers low,

And impudence his oar in triumph pulls

Along the stream of wealth, and snares its rich sea-gulls.

*  *  *  *  *

19.

Thus mused the Childe as thoughtful he drew near

The sacred shrine of number Thirty, Strand,

And saw bright glittering in the hemisphere

Like stars on moony nights—a sacred band

Of words that formed the bard’s cognomen grand

Each letter shone beneath the eye of day,

And the proud sign-boot, by spring breezes fanned,

Shot its deep brass reflections o’er the way,

As shoots the tropic morn o’er meads of Paraquay.

*  *  *  *  *

21.

But I forgot—my pilgrim’s shrine is won

And he himself—the lone unloving Childe

His Limehouse birth, his name, his sandal-shoon,

And scallop shell are dreams by fancy piled:

His dull despairing thoughts alone—once mild

As love—now dark as fable’s darkest hell,

Are stern realities; but o’er the wild

Drear desert of their blight the soothing spell

Of Warren’s verse flits rare as sun-beams o’er Pall Mall.

22.

Farewell—a word that must be and hath been

Ye dolphin dames who turn from blue to grey

Ye dandy drones who charm each festive scene

With brainless buzz, and frolic in your May,

Ye ball-room bards who live your little day,

And ye who flushed in purse parade the town,

Booted or shod—to you my muse would say,

“Buy Warren’s Blacking” as ye hope to crown

Your senseless souls or soulless senses with renown.

——:o:——

After the Examination.

I.

Without one lingering look he leaves

The spot of all his troubles past,

With thoughtful heart; for he believes

The dons have made this chance his last.

Those hated schools, brain-addling place,

That seems to haunt his mind for ever,

And sight of which before his face,

Makes all his limbs with horror shiver—

Shiver as though had fallen smack

A douche of water on his back

And arms and neck and head and face,

So hated was that awful place;

But it must come, and all must go

Where, sitting sternly in a row

Examiners, with looks that chill,

Pluck those that do their papers ill.

II.

And he has gone to his lonely room

To sit alone by the fireside;

He stirs the fire with the broom,

And does eccentric things beside.

For flurried by the exam, he seems,

And while his hissing kettle steams,

He mutters deep within his breast,

“What causes this delay?

If with Testamur I am blest,

It can’t be far away.”

And then the toasting-fork he takes,

And with it in the cinders rakes,

And makes it in a fearful mess,

And then he walks in restlessness

About his room, while minutes creep

More slowly than in prison keep.

III.

He plucked his toothpick in his pocket,

But sheathed it ere the point was bare;

He rolled his eye within its socket,

And passed his fat hand through his hair;

Nay more—he took his meerschaum then,

And gazed upon it with a look

Of absent wonder, then he took

And put it in its case again;

And mopped his brow all cold and damp,

And blew his nose, and lit his lamp,

Then in his arm chair sat and numbered

The weary minutes till he slumbered.

From Lays of Modern Oxford. By Adon. London.
Chapman and Hall, 1874.

(These lines parody stanzas 4, 5, and 7 of Parasina. The same volume contains a parody of The Prisoner of Chillon, entitled Snowed Up, but it is not of sufficient interest to be quoted.)

——:o:——

Miscellaneous Parodies of Lord Byron’s Works.

A very large number of Parodies of Byron’s poems have been produced in the form of small pamphlets, either on political or social events, or of purely local interest. It will be sufficient to enumerate the principal of these, the curious in such matters can easily refer to them in the Library of the British Museum.

The Age of Soapsuds. A Satire, by Lord Vyron. London. W. Edwards, 1839; pp. 15.

In his preface the author remarks: “We live in an age of bubbles, and if the ‘Soapsud’ of the following lines seem blown about on the gale of fancy—all I can say is, I write to please myself, and not the critics.”

Despair: A Vision. Derry Down and John Bull: A Simile. Being two Political Parodies on “Darkness,” and a scene from “The Giaour,” by Lord Byron. London. T. Hughes 1820.—Political, and of no interest at present.

Arlis’s Pocket Magazine for 1825, contained a parody of “The Maid of Athens,” entitled Sarah, I Love Thee.

Railway Adventures and Anecdotes, edited by Richard Pike, 1884, contains a parody on the lines commencing—“There was a sound of Revelry by night.”

The Mongrelites; or, The Radicals so-called. A Satiric Poem. By ——. Published in New York, by Van Evrie, Horton and Co., in 1866 (59 pp.)

This is said by the author to be an imitation of Byron’s “English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,” but as it relates to the party politics of the United States it does not come within the scope of this collection.

Two prize poems, in imitation of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers were printed in The World, April 14, 1880. The subject chosen was Electioneering Speeches, the poems were therefore of merely passing interest.

In 1834 a small sixpenny pamphlet was published by Chalmers and Son, of Edinburgh, entitled Lays of Straiton House. It contained several poems, written in imitation of Lord Byron, Thomas Moore, and of a few popular songs. These were descriptive of the Caledonian Bazaar and its contents were of local interest only, and are now quite out of date.

Abel: written, but with great humility, in reply to Lord Byron’s Cain. By Owen Howell. London: John Mardon, 1843; pp. 22.

“The object of Lord Byron in his drama ‘Cain,’ was to embody all the emotions of Despair as they act upon the human mind; in the present poem (if it deserves the name) the author has endeavoured to personify Hope, and to bring together as many pleasing expectations as possible.”

Cain: A Poem, intended to be published in Parts, containing an Antidote to the Impiety and Blasphemy of Lord Byron’s Cain. By Henry Wilkinson, Stone-gate, York. London: Baldwin, Cradock and Joy. 1824. pp. 97.

(A short poem, with voluminous notes, violently abusive of Lord Byron’s poem, and his theological views.)

Several of Lord Byron’s poems have been produced upon the stage, the most notable examples being Manfred, brought out at Drury Lane Theatre some years since, with grand scenic effects; and Mazeppa, at Astley’s Theatre, with Ada Isaacs Menken in the title rôle. Mazeppa has, however, long been quite a stock piece with Circus proprietors, and as far back as December 27, 1858, a burlesque of it (written by the late Henry James Byron) was produced at the Olympic Theatre, with F. Robson, H. Wigan, Miss Wyndham, and Mrs. Emden in the caste, which had a long and successful run.

The late Mr. Gilbert Abbot a’Beckett wrote a burlesque, entitled Man-Fred in 1828; and Mr. H. Such Granville wrote “Sardanapolus, or The Light of other Days, an original Ninevitish Burlesque,” which was first performed at St. George’s Hall, on December 23, 1868, when the author performed the part of Zarina.

“The Bride of Abydos; or, The Prince, the Pirate, and the Pearl” was the title of another Burlesque, written by the late Henry James Byron,[116] and produced at the Strand Theatre, with a strong caste, including Mr. H. J. Turner, Miss M. Oliver, and Miss Swanborough.

As a rule these burlesques merely give a ludicrous turn to the plot of the original poems, and contain little which could be quoted as interesting parodies.

Amongst the numerous Parodies, Imitations and continuations of Lord Byron’s unfinished poem, Don Juan, the following may be mentioned:

Don Juan Unmasked, 1819.

Gordon, a review of Don Juan, 1821. The Templar. A Poem in the Stanza and Spirit of Don Juan, with allusions to Lord Byron. 1822.

A Sequel to Don Juan, London, 1825.

Juan Secundus, 1825.

An Apology for Don Juan, Cantos I and II, 1824.

The Seventeenth Canto of Don Juan, London, 1829.

Don Juan Junior, a poem (with notes), by Byron’s Ghost, edited by G. K. Wythen Baxter, 1839.

Don Juan reclaimed, 1840.

Termination of Don Juan, H. W. Wetton, 1864.

Don Juan, Canto the Seventeenth. London, Thomas Cooper and Co., 1870. (In this curious production the author has spread his scanty materials over 56 pages, by the simple expedient of leaving about a quarter of them blank.)

Some Rejected Stanzas of Don Juan, with Byron’s own curious notes. From an unpublished manuscript in the possession of Captain Medwin. A very limited number printed at Charles Clarke’s private press, Great Totham, Essex, 1845.

This consists of twenty stanzas relating to the early history of Ireland, is coarse in its language, and of no general interest.

The Royal Progress, a Canto, with notes written on the occasion of his Majesty’s visit to Ireland, August, 1821, London, 1821.

Dedicated to Lord Byron, and written in imitation of his ottava rima metre in Don Juan. p.p. 95.

Don Juan, Canto the third, London. Printed by R. Greenlaw, Holborn, 1821. p.p. 103. (An imitation.)

An Apology for Don Juan, by John W. Thomas, London, Partridge and Oakey, 1850.

New Don Juan, and the Last Canto of the Original ‘Don Juan.’ From the papers of the Contessa Guiccioli. 12mo. pp. 61, 1876.

The Vampire. This publication was at one time ascribed to Byron, but a letter of his exists, denying this. It is dated April 27, 1819, from Venice. This Letter is not to be found in Moore’s Collection of Byron’s Letters, its discovery having been first announced in the Academy, April 23, 1881.

“I am not the author, and never heard of the work in question until now. In a more recent paper I perceive a formal annunciation of ‘The Vampire,’ with the addition of an account of my ‘residence in the Island of Mitylene,’ an island which I have occasionally sailed by in the course of travelling some years ago through the Levant—and where I should have no objection to reside—but where I have never yet resided.… Neither of these performances are mine, and I presume that it is neither unjust nor ungracious to request that you will favour me by contradicting the advertisement to which I allude. If the book is clever it would be hard to deprive the real writer—whoever he may be—of his honours; and if stupid—I desire the responsibility of nobody’s dulness but my own.… The imputation is of no great importance, and as long as it was confined to surmises and reports I should have received it as I have received many others—in silence. But the formality of a public advertisement of a book I never wrote—and a residence where I never resided—is a little too much, particularly as I have no notion of the contents of one, nor the incidents of the other. I have, besides, a personal dislike to ‘Vampires,’ and the little acquaintance I have with them would by no means induce me to divulge their secrets.”

Brum: A Parody. By old Sarbot. A small pamphlet of 29 pages, without author’s or publisher’s name, date, or place, but evidently printed in Birmingham, and dealing with persons and incidents connected with that town.

Ossian’s Address to the Sun. Lines supposed to have been written by Byron on a leaf of the second volume of Macpherson’s ‘Ossian.’ These volumes are preserved in the library at Harvard University. The MS. notes and the ‘Address’ are now known to be forgeries.

The Vampyre. Letters, spurious. By Dr. Polidori, Sherwood, Neely and Jones, 1819.

The Suppressed Letters of Lord Byron. Collected by H. Schultess-Young. R. Bentley, 1869. Publication suspended.

A Spiritual Interview with Lord Byron: his Lordship’s Opinion about his New Monument. 12mo. pp. 18. 1875.

Strange Visitors, a series of original papers, embracing philosophy, religion, poetry, art, fiction, satire, humor, etc., by the spirits of Thackeray, Bronte, Byron, Browning and others now dwelling in the spirit-world, dictated through a Clairvoyant state, Boston, 1884.

This curious volume contains:—By W. M. Thackeray, His Post-Mortem Experience; by Lord Byron, To His Accusers; by Edgar A. Poe, The Lost Soul; and by Charlotte Bronte, Agnes Reef, a tale.

---

Don Juan Unread (1819.)

By Dr. W. Maginn, Trin. Coll., Dublin.

Of Corinth Castle we have read,

Th’ amazing scene unravell’d;

Had swallowed Lara and the Giaour.

And with Childe Harold travell’d.

And so we followed Cloven-foot,

And faithfully as any,

Until he cried, “Come, turn aside

And read of Don Giovanni.

“Let Whiggish folk, frae Holland House,

Who have been lying, prating,

Read Don Giovanni, ’tis their own,

A child of their creating.

On jests profane they love to feed,

And there they are—and many,

But we, who link not with the crew,

Regard not Don Giovanni.

“There’s Goodwin’s daughter, Shelley’s wife

A’writing fearful stories;

There’s Hazlitt, who with Hunt and Keats,

Brays forth in Cockney chorus.

There’s pleasant Thomas Moore, a lad

Who sings of Rose and Fanny;

Why throw away, their wits so gay

To take up Don Giovanni.

“What’s Juan but a shameless tale

That bursts all rules asunder?

There are a thousand such elsewhere

As worthy of your wonder—

Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn

His lordship looked not canny;

And took a pinch of snuff, to think

I flouted Don Giovanni!

“O, rich,” said I, “are Juan’s rhymes,

And warm the verse is flowing

Fair crops of blasphemy it bears,

But we will leave them growing.

In Pindar’s strain, in prose of Paine,

And many another Zany

As gross we read, so where’s the need

To wade through Don Giovanni?

“Let Colburns’ town-bred cattle snuff

The sweets of Lady Morgan;

Let Maturin to amorous themes

Attune his barrel organ.

We will not read them, will not hear

The Parson or the granny,

And, I dare say, as bad as they,

Or worse, is Don Giovanni.

“Be Juan, then, unseen, unknown;

It must, or we shall rue it.

We may have virtue of our own,

Ah! why should we undo it?

The treasured faith of days long past

We still would prize o’er any,

And grieve to hear the ribald jeer

Of scamps like Don Giovanni.

“When Whigs with freezing rule shall come

And piety seems folly,

When Cam and Isis, curbed by Brougham,

Shall wander melancholy;

When Cobbet, Wooler, Watson, Hunt,

And all the swinish many,

Shall rough shod ride o’er Church and State,

Then hey! for Don Giovanni.”

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