Mrs. Felicia Dorothea Hemans,
(Née BROWNE)
Born 1794. Died in Dublin, May 16, 1835.
THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.
The stately Homes of England!
How beautiful they stand!
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O’er all the pleasant land.
The deer across their greensward bound
Through shade and sunny gleam;
And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.
* * * * *
The Donkey-Boys of England.
(A Song for the Sea-Side,)
The Donkey-Boys of England, how merrily they fly,
With pleasant chaff upon the tongue and cunning in the eye.
And oh! the donkeys in a mass how patiently they stand,
High on the heath of Hampstead, or down on Ramsgate’s sand.
The Donkey-Boys of England, how sternly they reprove
The brute that won’t “come over,” with an impressive shove;
And oh! the eel-like animals, how gracefully they swerve
From side to side, but won’t advance to spoil true beauty’s curve,
The Donkey-Boys of England, how manfully they fight,
When a probable donkestrian comes suddenly in sight;
From nurse’s arms the babies are clutch’d with fury wild,
And on a donkey carried off the mother sees her child.
The Donkey-Boys of England, how sternly they defy
The pleadings of a parent’s shriek, the infant’s piercing cry;
As a four-year-old Mazeppa is hurried from the spot,
Exposed to all the tortures of a donkey’s fitful trot.
The Donkey-Boys of England, how lustily they scream,
When they strive to keep together their donkeys in a team;
And the riders who are anxious to be class’d among genteels,
Have a crowd of ragged Donkey-Boys “hallooing” at their heels.
The Donkey-Boys of England, how well they comprehend
The animal to whom they act as master, guide and friend;
The understanding that exists between them who’ll dispute—
Or that the larger share of it falls sometimes to the brute?
Punch, September 29, 1849.
The Garden Grounds of England.
The Garden Grounds of England! how hopeful they appear
When all things else are desolate at winter time of year;
For though the summer foliage no longer lends its screen,
The earth still wears her uniform of vegetable green.
The Cabbage Rows of England! how gaily they deploy,
With ranks of stout auxiliaries from Brussels and Savoy;
And regiments of native greens, which eloquently speak
Of dishes rich and savoury—of bubble and of squeak!
The Cel’ry Heads of England! how airily they rise,
High up above the trenches, where the root they spring from lies;
Types of the true nobility—bursting by force of worth
Out of the low position of circumstances and birth!
The Beetroot Beds of England! how sturdily they shoot,
The leaves the hardy produce of a stout and stalwart root;
A rough and tough exterior serves but to cover o’er
The rich internal saccharine—the sugar at the core!
The Endive Plants of England! how selfish is their plan,
Spreading at first their arms about to catch at all they can;
Then shutting up within themselves—like hypocrites demure,
With hearts as cold and white as snow, but wonderfully pure!
The Garden Grounds of England! how merrily they thrive;
They show there’s always something to keep the world alive;
For though deprived of Autumn’s fruits, and spring and summer flowers,
There’s always green about the earth to brighten winter hours!
Punch, December 15, 1849.
The Merchant Prince.
[A very fulsome address was presented to Napoleon III. by a deputation of bankers and merchants of the City of London. The matter was brought before Parliament, but was allowed to drop through.]
The Merchant Prince of England,
What a glorious name he bears!
No minstrel tongue has ever sung
The deeds the hero dares.
Enlist that soldier in your cause,
No dangers bar his way,
But gallantly he draws his—cheque,
If the Cause will only pay.
Where Freedom waves her banners
He stands her champion bold,
The noble English merchant Prince
For her unlocks his gold.
For her the Prince’s glowing pulse
With generous ardour thrills,
If only sure that Freedom
Will duly meet her bills.
When scarce the gory bayonet
Upholds the Despot’s throne,
The Merchant Prince, all chivalry,
Springs forward with a loan.
And vain a nation’s cry to scare
That dauntless friend-in-need,
Provided only that the loan
Is safely guaranteed.
See, where a sovereign’s crown rewards
A venturous Parvenu,
Crouches the Merchant Prince to kiss
His royal brother’s shoe.
For trampled law, for broken vow,
No doit his Princeship cares,
If that salute can raise an eighth
His gain on railway shares,
You Christian of the slop-shop,
And you usurious Jew,
Assert your royal blood, for both
Are Merchant-Princes, too.
One common creed unites you,
Devout professors of it,
“There’s but one Allah—Mammon,
And Cent. per Cent.’s his profit.”
What, blame some petty huckster,
That his vote is bought and sold:
What, chide some wretched juryman
That he blinked at guilt, for gold:
What, whip some crouching mendicant,
Who fawned that he might eat—
With the Merchant Prince of England
At the Third Napoleon’s feet?
Shirley Brooks, 1853
The Cabs of London.
The dirty Cabs of London!
How lazily they stand
About the public thoroughfares,
Or crawl along the Strand;
The omnibuses pass them by
With a contempt supreme;
E’en the coal-cart overtakes them
With slow and heavy team.
The crazy Cabs of London!
How wretched is the sight
Of one of those old vehicles
That ply for hire by night!
There, cracked is every window-pane,
The door is weak and old;
The former lets in all the rain,
The latter all the cold.
The shaky Cabs of London!
How impotent the powers
Of one poor nervous female fare,
When fierce the driver lowers,
Swearing, with impudence sublime
And ruffianly frown,
He can’t afford to lose his time;
“His fare will be a crown.”
The dear, bad Cabs of London!
In vain the public call
For a better class of vehicles
That can’t be got at all.
Extortion must for ever thrive,
Cabs must be bad and dear,
Till Legislation looks alive,
And deigns to interfere.
Punch, February 26, 1853.
Paragraphs have recently appeared in the London newspapers announcing that a public company has been formed to provide the metropolis with improved cabs. It is to be hoped the news is true, for whilst similar announcements have been often made before, the London four-wheeled cab remains, what it was described by Punch in 1853, the worst public vehicle to be found in any large European city.
National Song.
(By an Ex-Patriot, compelled by circumstances over which he has no control, to absent himself from his native country, and trying to persuade himself that he likes it.)
The Duns of merry England! how terrible their air,
With brows like midnight low’ring, and eyes with fiendish glare;
And never-ceasing questions, when you really mean to pay
The Duns of merry England, what nuisances are they!
The Meats of merry England! how limited their range,
Of roast and boiled, or boiled and roast, by way of start startling change;
Of chops and steaks, and steaks and chops, on each alternate day,
The meats of merry England, what sad affairs are they!
The Colds of merry England, how easy to be caught!
How hard to be got rid of, and with what discomforts fraught!
Swelled eyes, red noses, puff’d out cheeks,—the mildest they display.
The colds of merry England, how torturing are they!
The Wines of merry England! the Port at half-a-crown!
The pure Amontillado, and the nutty-flavoured Brown;
Their horrors e’en while swallowing, and worse effects next day,
The wines of merry England, how villainous are they!
Then here’s to France the smiling, where the weather’s always clear;
The wines are light and wholesome, and as cheap as English beer;
Where a man may grow moustaches, and—blissful thing to say!
The Writs of merry England, how powerless are they!
(The Exile turning sadly from the pier, seeketh forgetfulness of his abandoned country in a petit-verre, for which he disburseth two sous. He groweth reconciled).
Diogenes, January, 1853.
The Barristers of England.
The Barristers of England, how hungrily they stand
About the Hall of Westminster, with wig, and gown, and band;
With brief bag full of dummies, and fee book full of oughts,
Result of the establishment of the New County Courts.
The Barristers of England, how listlessly they sit,
Expending on each other a small amount of wit;
Without the opportunity of doing something worse,
By talking nonsense at the cost of some poor client’s purse.
The Barristers of England, how when they get a cause,
They (some of them) will disregard all gentlemanly laws;
And bullying the witnesses upon the adverse side,
Will do their very utmost the honest truth to hide.
The Barristers of England, how with sang froid sublime,
They undertake to advocate two causes at one time;
And when they find it is a thing impossible to do,
They throw one client overboard, but take the fees of two.
The Barristers of England, how rarely they refuse,
The party they appear against with coarseness to abuse;
Feeling a noble consciousness no punishment can reach
The vulgar ribaldry they call the “privilege of speech.”
The Barristers of England, how often they degrade
An honourable calling to a pettifogging trade,
And show how very slight the lines of separation are.
Between the cabman’s license, and the “licence of the Bar.”
The Barristers of England, how, if they owe a grudge,
They try with insolence to goad a poor Assistant-Judge;
And after having bullied him, their bold imposture clench
By talking of their high respect for the Judicial Bench.
The Barristers of England, how sad it is to feel
That rant will pass for energy, and bluster goes for zeal;
But ’tis a consolation that ’mid their ranks there are
Sufficient gentlemen to save the credit of the Bar.
Punch, November 26, 1853.
The Homes of England.
(By Infelicia Shemans.)
The compo’d homes of England!
’Tis wonderful they stand
Their weight of shaky chimney-pots,
Smoke-drying all the land.
Adown their flimsy tissue roofs
Slate after slate fast slips;
Each gentle rain that on them falls
Through crack and crevice drips.
The drafty homes of England!
Alas! how one must squeeze
Close round the grate in winter time
Unless one quite would freeze.
There every voice continually
Of some vile ache complains;
Lumbago, or sciatica,
Or stiff rheumatic pains.
The stifling homes of England!
In summer’s sunny time
More close and suffocating
Than hot India’s burning clime!
No breath of coolness finds its way
From morn till evening’s close;
But countless vile impurities
Assail each inmate’s nose.
The smoky homes of England!
Spread o’er the smoky land,
If smoke were only grandeur
We’d all be passing grand.
The dull blue vapour pours itself
Increasingly adown
Each chimney, and provokingly
Turns everything black-brown.
Oh, may the homes of England
Long, long in freedom rise,
But may the homes of England
Be built by men more wise;
Let air and light be one chief aim,
Sufficient warmth another;
And let them bear in mind as well,
Our great want is not—smother.
The Figaro, August 24, 1872.
Ballad—By Viscount Blank.
The stately homes of England,
Conveniently they stand;
For helping co-respondent’s games,
’Twould seem they had been planned.
Their lords preserve their game with care,
But cannot keep their wives;
They hunt, they shoot, they fish, they ride
And Hannen’s business thrives!
The blessed homes of England,
How snugly in their bowers,
Their owners soak on liquor fetched
Ere interdicted hours,
Solemn, yet sweet, the church bells chime,
But piggishly they snore.
For well they know whilst those bells clang
Close shuts the public’s door.
The cottage homes of England,
By thousands on her plains,
Are wretched hovels as a rule,
And quite devoid of drains.
There’s sodden thatch upon their roofs,
And mildew on their walls,
And yet they’re what the poetess,
“Sweet smiling dwellings” calls.
The free fair homes of England!
Well, these do not exist;
And if you doubt me just read through
What’s on a jury list.
Think of the things you’re forced to do,
And all you dare not try;
The free, fair homes, in sooth! Go to
Free fiddlesticks, say I!
Truth, Christmas Number, 1877.
Cottage Homes.
“The Cottage-homes of England,
How beautiful they stand!”
(So once Felicia Hemans sang),
Throughout the lovely land!
By many a shining river-side
These happy homes are seen,
And clustering round the commons wide,
And ’neath the woodlands green.
The Cottage-homes of England—
Alas, how strong they smell!
There’s fever in the cesspool,
And sewage in the well.
With ruddy cheeks and flaxen curls,
Though their tots shout and play,
The health of those gay boys and girls
Too soon will pass away.
The Cottage-homes of England!
Where each crammed sleeping-place
Foul air distils whose poison kills
Health, modesty and grace.
Who stables horse, or houseth kine,
As these poor peasants lie,
More thickly in their straw than swine
Are herded in a stye?
* * * * *
(Three verses omitted.)
Punch, May 23, 1874.
The Haunted Homes of England.
[Mr. Ingram had published a weirdly fascinating volume called “The Haunted Homes of England;” a kind of Postal Directory, or Court Guide, to British Haunted Houses.]
The Haunted Homes of England,
How eerily they stand,
While through them flit their ghosts—to wit,
The Monk with the Red Hand,
The Eyeless Girl—an awful spook—
To stop the boldest breath;
The boy that inked his copy-book,
And so got “wopped” to death!
Call them not shams—from haunted Glamis
To haunted Hawthornden,
I mark in hosts the griesly ghosts
Of women, priests, and men!
I know the spectral dog that howls
Before the deaths of Squires;
In my “Ghost-guide” addresses hide
For Gurney and for Myers!
I see the Vampire climb the stairs
From vaults below the church;
And hark! the Pirate’s spectre swears!
Oh, Psychical Research,
Cans’t thou not hear what meets my ear,
The viewless wheels that come?
The wild Banshee that wails to thee?
The Drummer with his drum?
Oh, Haunted Homes of England,
Though tenantless ye stand,
With none content to pay the rent,
Through all the shadowy land,
Now, Science true will find in you
A sympathetic perch,
And take you all, both Grange and Hall,
For Psychical Research!
A.L.
The Pall Mall Gazette, December 21, 1883.
The Men of England.
By a blighted being turned pessimist
through disappointed ambition.
I.
The stately men of England,
How eloquent the band;
Setting their sails to catch the breeze
Which they themselves have fanned!
With argument, not over sound
Patched up with awkward seam,
Whig versus Tory—both a’ground
On life’s tumultuous stream!
II.
The merry men of England,
Who take a strange delight,
In making jokes that none can see
Unless he’s extra bright!
Who volunteer a comic song
Some pointless tale retold!
Or try and make you think you’re wrong
And roar to see you sold!
III.
The saintly men of England,
Teaching their screeching choirs;
Full of huge pedantic words!
Their sermons lasting hours!
Though down upon “life’s idle whims!”
Though other men they scorn,
You’ll see them—well—not chanting hymns
On many a tennis lawn.
IV.
The free, fair trade of England,
Long, long in shop and stall,
May harmless customers be fleeced
Of their small and little all!
Thus, to my thinking it behoves
Him who earth’s paths hath trod
To mind and not spoil other coves
By sparing satire’s rod.
From Cribblings from the Poets,
by Hugh Cayley, Cambridge, 1883.
The Homes of England.
The unhealthy Homes of England!
How jauntily they stand
Among their long-untended drains
By crafty builders planned!
The deer would shun them like the pest,
Though beautiful they seem,
And the Doctor’s face, in passing by,
Lights with a sickly gleam.
The drainy Homes of England!
In Summer’s sultry heat
What sniffs of not unmixed delight
Each varied odour greet!
Then woman’s voice is heard to say
She thinks there’s something wrong,
While manly lips the landlord bless
In language rather strong.
The typhoid Homes of England!
How pleasant ’tis to know
That liquid microbes of disease
Keep up a constant flow!
Simple, yet sure, the plan whereby
The sewer-gas ascends;
They’re perfect masters of their art,
Our homicidal friends.
The fever-dens of England!
By thousands on her plain,
They smile at the defective pipes
Which link them with the “main.”
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
And gardens all abloom,
And hygienic dullards sleep
Unconscious of their doom.
The scamping rogues of England!
Long, long in hut and hall
May heads of wisdom still be reared
To circumvent them all!
And trapped for ever be the drains,
And pure the watery store
Where first the child’s glad spirit learns
What lurks beneath the floor.
Punch, August 30, 1884.
Cottage Homes.
Theoretical—
Ye Cottage Homes of England!
How pleasantly ye stand,
With bees and bowers and birds and flowers,
And rich allotment land!
How happy, too, each owner,
As fearless, free, and frank,
He thanks his landlord that he has
His “oven, porch, and tank!”
Practical—
Ye Cottage Homes of England,
That reek with filth and smells;
There’s rheumatism in your roofs,
There’s typhus in your wells;
And many an ill-fed tenant—
His landlord’s helpless fief—
Looks forward to his workhouse home
With positive relief!
Truth Christmas Number, 1885.
CASABIANCA, THE HEROIC BOY.
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck
Shone round him o’er the dead;
Yet beautiful and bright he stood
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud though child-like form!
The flames rolled on—he would not go
Without his father’s word;
That father faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud—“Say, father, say.
If yet my task is done!”
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.
“Speak, father!” once again he cried,
“If I may yet be gone!
And”—but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair;
And looked from that lone post of death
In still, yet brave despair!
He shouted yet once more aloud,
“My father! must I stay?”
While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way:
They wrapped the ship in splendour wild.
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.
Then came a burst of thunder sound—
The boy—oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds, that far around
With fragments strewed the sea,
With mast and helm and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part—
But the noblest thing that perished there,
Was that young faithful heart.
Mrs. Hemans.
Exploits of the Eminent I.
(The character of Macbeth was not one
of Mr. Irving’s theatrical successes.)
Macbeth stood on the new built stage,
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit his tragic rage
Shone round his classic head.
Yes—beautiful and bright he stood,
A stalwart, graceful form,
And raved about old Duncan’s blood,
Whose corpus still was warm.
(Six verses omitted here.)
The gods applaud with thunder sound:
Irving—O! Where was he?
Ask of the wise ones grouped around,
Who came Macbeth to see.
His eye had then no lurid glare,
He bowed, with grateful heart;
But a noble thing was murdered there—
’Twas Shakespeare’s tragic art,
The Figaro, October 13, 1875.
The Mule.
The Mule stood on the steamboat deck,
For the land he would not tread;
They tied an halter round his neck
And whacked him on the head,
Yet obstinate and braced he stood,
As born the sea to rule,
A creature of the old pack brood,
A stubborn steadfast mule.
They cursed and swore, but he would not go
Until he felt inclined,
And though they thundered blow on blow,
He altered not his mind.
The ship’s boy to his master cried,
“The varmint’s bound to stay,”
And still upon that old mule’s hide
The sounding lash made play.
His master from the shore replied,
The ship’s about to sail,
And as all other means you’ve tried,
Suppose you twist his tail;
I think that that will make him land.
The ship’s boy, brave though pale,
Then nearer drew, with outstretched hand,
To twist that old mule’s tail.
There came a sudden kick behind,
The boy, oh! where was he?
Ask of the softly blowing wind,
The fishes in the sea.
For a moment not a sound was heard,
And that mule he winked his eye,
As though to say to him who’d gone,
“How was that for high?”
A Prose Version.
“The boy stood on the back-yard fence whence all but he had fled. The flames that lit his father’s barn shone just above the shed. One bunch of crackers in his hand, two others in his hat; with piteous accent loud he cried, ‘I never thought of that.’ A bunch of crackers to the tail of one small dog he tied; the sparks flew wide, and red, and hot; they fell upon the brat; they fired the crackers in his hand and lit those in his hat. Then came a burst of rattling sound—the boy, where was he gone? Ask of the winds that far around strewed bits of flesh and bone, and scraps of clothes, and balls, and tops, and nails, and books, and yarn, the relics of that dreadful boy that burned his father’s barn.”
Casabiank.
The dog lay on the butcher’s stoop
And in a pleasant doze,
Forgot his lack of bed and board
And all his canine woes.
He dreamed of one fair pup he loved
And soft his tail he wagged;
’Twas in those days when he was young,
And kennelled, fed, and tagged.
Her spirit seemed to hover ’round,
For from the shop behind
A fragrance came which somehow brought
That she-dog to his mind.
And of those pugs who’d scratched with him,
And barked and gambolled ’round,
Some ate the poisoned chop and died,
Some perished in the pound.
The dog dreamed on—the butcher-man
Looked down on him and said,
“A roly-poly sausage skin
Shall be your final bed.
With pepper and sweet marjoram
And fragrant allspice grains,
Casabiank, ’twill be my task
To mingle your remains.
And though you’re old and tough, embalmed
In spices of the East,
You’ll for my faithful customers
Provide a dainty feast.”
He took three paces toward the dog,
That pup—O, where was he?
Ask of the reeking knives that tore
Through hide and hair and flea.
And since that day though many a neck
Has felt that cleaver keen,
No fairer dog-meat ever fed
The butcher’s dread machine.
Anonymous.
The Fate of the Peers.
The Peer stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled;
The storm that meant his Order’s wreck
Roared round his puzzled head.
Yet masterful and mad he stood,
As though all threats were vain;
A creature of most noble blood,
But of a childish brain.
The storm raged on—he would not go
Without his leader’s word;
That leader, fooled by friend or foe,
No warning voices heard.
He called aloud: “See, Cecil, see
How thick the people loom!”
He knew not that Lord Salisburee
Was reckless of his doom.
“Oh, let me go,” again he cried,
“I surely can be spared?”
“Nay, you must stay,” the “Whip” replied,
“Since you’ve remained ‘unpaired.’”
Upon his brow he felt the weight
Of unaccustomed care,
And tried “to follow the debate,”
But ended in despair.
And shouted but once more aloud:
“Oh, Cecil, must I stay!”
But Cecil, still unwisely proud,
Would have his wilful way.
There came a burst, a shock, a jar!
The Peer—oh! where was he?
Ask of the Chief who scattered far
Our old Nobilitee.
Dukes, Earls, and Barons went to smash
Amidst a grateful cheer;
But the crassest victim of the crash
Was that deluded Peer!
Truth, October 16, 1884.
The Old Man Lingered.
The girl stewed on the burning deck,
For Rockaway she fled;
The sun which blazed down on her neck,
Turned all her tresses red.
Yet innocent by Pa she sat,
While glances shy and warm
Shot from beneath her saucy hat
At every manlike form.
Pa left to see a friend, he told:
And then her smile was sweet
On Mr. Jones, who growing bold,
Took by her side a seat.
The boat rolled on. Jones would not go
Without her father’s word;
That father at the bar below
Her laugh no longer heard.
She called (not loud) “Stay, father, stay
Until thy task is done.”
She knew, too well, the old man’s way,
Unconscious of her fun.
The wind had freshened to a gale,
The boat tossed on the sea,
“Oh, miss,” cried Jones, “why art thou pale?
Why talk’st thou not to me?”
“Speak, maiden!” once again he cried;
“Art ailing? Tell me quick.”
And but the drooping maid replied,
“Oh, I—I feel so sick.”
Upon her brow then came his breath;
He smoothed her frizzled hair.
She looked for all the world like death;
He looked like grim despair.
She murmured but once more aloud,
“Oh Jones, a basin—quick!”
Not one was left, for in that crowd
Each female, too was sick.
Oh, when was gallant like to Jones;
Or, rather, one so flat!
With one heroic smile, he groans,
“Here, darling, is my hat.”
Then came a burst of lightning sound;
The girl!—oh, where was she?
A-spoiling Jones’s hat, which crowned
His cup of misery.
Oh! Knights of old and heroes rare;
Oh! lovers think of that,
The noblest thing which perished there
Was Jones’s new silk hat.
American Paper.
A poetical squib which has gone the round of the U. S. papers is evidently based on the same original:
The boy stood by the stable door
And watched the pensive mule;
A thoughtful attitude it wore,
An air serenely cool.
That boy approached its hinder end—
Let fall the pitying tears,
“He’s gone to meet his brother, and
His age was seven years.”
THE BETTER LAND.
“I hear thee speak of the Better Land,
Thou callest its children a happy band;
Mother, oh where is that radiant shore?
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire flies glance through the myrtle boughs?’
—‘Not there, not there, my child!”
“Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or ’midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?’
—‘Not there, not there, my child!”
“Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o’er sands of gold?
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?—
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?’
—‘Not there, not there, my child!”
“Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair.—
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
—It is there, it is there, my child!”
Mrs. Hemans.
The Best Hotels.
“I’ve heard thee speak of a good hotel,
Where they charged thee little and fed thee well;
Mother, oh where is this hostel of thine,
Shall we not seek it and go there to dine?
Is’t in some fair city of the far North East,
By the winding Wear?” “Oh! not in the least,
Not there, not there, my child.”
“Is’t among the people who love to boast
Of their “Town Improvements” the princely cost?
Who say that, to keep their bodies sound
They have spent £100,000?[48]
Where (when small-pox is absent[49]) Hygeia dwells,
Is it there, is it there, this best of hotels!”
“Not there, not there, my child.”
“Is it where, through the small though festive rooms
A drainpipe sheds its rich perfumes—
O’er the strange old birds with skinny wings,
Which the languid waiter to table brings,
With tottering steps that betoken, alas!
The chronic effects of sewer gas?”
“Not there, not there, my child.”
Is it far away in some region cold
Where the visitor’s welcome; if he have gold
That he’s willing to spend on most villainous wine
At the regally privileged “Bleed him fine?”
here the whole concern abounds in “sells”—
Is it there, sweet mother, this best of hotels?
“Not there, not there, my child.”
Full many a city, my gentle boy
Hath hostels in plenty where thou may’st enjoy
Good viands well cooked, rooms sweet and large,
Decent wines, and good waiting, at moderate charge;
But, unless to thy soul disappointment is dear,
Seek them not in the town by the mouth of the Wear;
“Not there, not there, my child!”
——:o:——
The “Three Acres and a Cow” Legend.
The familiar joke, that every labourer was promised three acres and a cow, arose, as myths usually arise, out of an inversion of actual facts. Nobody ever seriously believed that such promises were made, and everybody knows that the substratum of truth on which the misrepresentation rested was that some machinery must be set up to promote the restoration of the people to the soil. There was, however, no desire to injure the landowners.
Mr. Chamberlain speaking at the Westminster Palace Hotel, in January, 1886, observed that:—
“The Tories have universally asserted that we promised to every labourer, as a free gift, three acres of land and a cow. (Laughter.) Well, I don’t think the labourers are fools. They have not shown it at the last election; and I don’t suppose many of them have been deceived by this falsehood. I sometimes think we were a little too eager to contradict it. (Laughter.) At all events, if we see it necessary to repudiate this burlesque of our intentions and our promises, let us take care to do nothing to discourage the expectation, perfectly praiseworthy and reasonable in itself, that facilities should be made by legislation for every thrifty, industrious labourer to obtain at a fair price an adequate, independent, and secure interest in the soil which he cultivates.”
The Globe, (London), in an article on The Three Acres Legend, observed:—
“Whether anybody ever said, in jest or earnest, that Mr. Chamberlain had promised three acres and a cow to every elector who voted Liberal, we do not know. But someone has been writing to him to ask whether such a statement, supposing it to have been made, would be true, and the inquirer has received the answer which he might have looked for. The statement is not true. Mr. Chamberlain’s secretary goes on to suggest to the right hon. gentleman’s correspondent that he has only to challenge those who make the assertion to prove it by quotation, adding, that if they decline the challenge he will know how to deal with them. He will, in fact, be able to charge them with uttering falsehoods.”
Three Acres and a Cow.
I have heard you speak of “three acres of land,”
With “a cow” to belong to each peasant band;
Tell me, oh! where are those acres found,
That promised spot of domestic ground?
Tell me, oh! where is that happy shore
Where we all shall settle, and starve no more;
Not here, not here, my man!
Where father shall sit ’neath his sheltering vine,
And smoke his own pipe, and drink his wine,
And mother and sisters, at tea in the shade,
Bless the rosy bowers their hands have made;
While the cow untethered, and ranging free,
Crops the summer wealth of our acres three?
Not here, not here, my man!
Say, are they then where rich travellers roam
O’er the heathery hills of the “Scot at home”?
Or are they where Erin’s gay sons abide,
By the Liffey’s stream or the Shannon’s tide?
Or are they in Northern or Southern Wales,
Where St. David’s cliffs woo the Western gales?
Not there, not there, my man!
Eye hath not seen them, my gentle Will;
Ear hath not heard of them; valley or hill,
Pasture, or moorland, or woodland fair,
John Hodge and his brats may not settle there;
Not there, not there, my man!
Trust not, oh trust not, to statesmen’s smiles;
These visions so fair are delusion’s wiles
And the acres are only “Chateaux en Espagne,”
Built up in the head of Joe Chamberlain;
They are there, they are there, my man!
Edward Walford, M.A.
Life, December 10, 1885.
The Bit o’ Land.
I hear thee speak of a bit o’land,
And a cow for every labouring hand;
Tell me, dear mother, where is that shore,
Where shall I find it and work no more?
Is it at home, this unoccupied ground,
Where the three acres and cow will be found?
Is it where Pheasants and Partridges breed,
Or in the fields where the farmer is sowing his seed?
Is it upon the moors, so wild and so grand,
I shall find this bit of arable land?
Not there, not there, my Giles.
Is it far away on the Rio Grande?
In Zululand or Basutoland?
Is it far away on forbidding shores,
Where Unicorns fight and the Lion roars?
Or will it in Soudan be found,
Where English bones manure the ground?
Or on the banks of ancient Nile?
Perhaps ’tis on some Coral Isle,
With dusky groves and silver strand,—
Is it there, dear mother, that bit o’ land?
Not there, not there, my Giles.
Eye hath not seen that fair land, my child,
Ear hath but heard an echo wild,—
The nightmare of excited brain
That dreamers, have, like Chamberlain
Far away, beyond the ken
Of sober, practical, business men;
Far away beyond the sight
Of men whose heads are screwed on right;
Where castles in the air do stand,
Behold the cow and the bit o’ land!
’Tis there, ’tis there, my Giles.
1885.
“The Promised Land!”
(Three Acres.)
“I hear thee speak of a ‘Plot of Land,’
For each and all of the Peasant band;
Where! Oh Where! is this garden store?
Shall we not till it and starve no more?
Is it where the lordling sits in his pride,
’Mid wealth that to me has been denied?
Is it where the flocks on the hill-side graze,
Or the stag in the forest leaps and plays;
Or the hare runs wild on every hand
Is it there? Is it there? That Promised Land!”
“Not there! Not there! my Giles!”
“Is it far away in some distant spot,
This promised parcel of garden plot?
Where nothing is heard but the murmuring bees,
And the sound of the wind among the trees;
Where no turnips are planted, or apples grown,
Or the fruits of the earth in season sown;
Where the land is idle, and nought is seen
But the fragrant flowers and woodland green,
And the sun shines down on a desolate spot,—
Is it there? Is it there? ‘My three-acre plot!’”
“Not there! Not there! my Giles!”
“It is deeply hid in the mazy brain
Of the venturesome Joseph Chamberlain!
’Tis but a bribe to catch a vote,
A bait to hook fish by the throat;
In vulgar phrase it’s ‘All my eye’!
A newly invented election cry.
It has no existence in sober sense,—
It is but the product of impudence!
It lives but in Chamberlain’s speech so bland,
This tempting plot of that Promised Land—
It is there! only there! my Giles!”
The Promised Land: Three Acres.
(An answer to the preceding Parody.)
I hear thee speak of a Plot of Land
For every one of the peasant band,
Tories! Oh, where is that garden store?
Shall we not till it and starve no more?
Is it where the lordling sits in his pride,
’Mid wealth that to me has been denied?
Is it where the flocks on the black hills graze,
Or the stag in the forest leaps and plays?
Or the hare runs wild on every hand,
Is it there, dear friend, that better land?
Not there, not there, my man.
Is it far away in some distant spot,
The promised parcel of garden plot
Where nothing is heard but the murmuring bees,
And the sighs of the winds among the trees;
Where no turnips are sown or sweet apples grown,
Or fruit of the earth in its season known;
Where the land is idle and nought is seen
But the dear wild flowers and woodland green,
And the sun shines down on a desolate spot—
Is it there, is it there, my three acre plot?
Not there, not there, my man.
It only exists in the “Tory” brain.
Though they always “father it” on Chamberlain;
They think we want bribes to get a vote,
Like the Tories from Parnell, then cut his throat;
But in vulgar phrase, it is all in “my eye,”
“A great, big, thumping,” Tory “lie;”
It has no existence in sober sense,
It’s the product of Tory insolence;
It’s author I think was the man in the moon,
And if you expect to find such a boon—
It is there, it is there, my man.
Anonymous.
Out West.
I hear thee speak of a Western land,
Thou callest its children a wide-awake band—
Father, oh, where is that favored spot?
Shall we not seek it and build us a cot?
Is it where the hills of Berkshire stand
Whence the honey comes already canned,
Not there, not there, my child.
Is it far away in the Empire state
Where Horace Greeley feels first rate,
Where the people are ruled by Tammany ring,
And Mr. Fisk is a Railroad King,
With two thousand men at his command,
Besides a boat with a big brass band?
Not there, not there, my child!
Is it where the little pigs grow great
In the fertile vales of the Buckeye State?
And get so fat on acorns and meal
That they sell every bit of them all but the squeal,
Where the butchers have such a plenty of hogs
That they don’t make sausages out of dogs.
Not there, not there, my child!
Or is it where they fortunes make,
Where they’ve got a tunnel under the lake,
Where the stores are full of wheat and corn
And divorces are plenty as sure as you’re born,
Where Long John Wentworth is right on hand—
Is it there, dear father, that Western land?
Not there, not there, my child.
Is it in the dominions of Brigham Young
The most married man that is left unhung,
Where every man that likes can go
And get forty wives or more you know,
Where “saints” are plenty with “cheeks” sublime,
Can that be the gay and festive clime?—
Not there, not there, my child!
Is it where Nevada’s mountains rise
From the Alkali plains which we all despise,
Where a man may beg, or borrow, or steal,
Yet he often will fail to get a square meal,
Where the rocks are full of silver ore—
Is it there we’ll find that Western Shore,
Not there, not there, my child.
Eye hath not seen it my verdant youth,
Tongue cannot name it and speak the truth;
For though you go to the farthest state
And stand on the rocks by the Golden Gate,
They’ll point you across the Western sea
To the land whence cometh the “heathen Chinee,”
Saying “’Tis there my child.”
American Paper.
The Happy Land.
I hear them speak of a Happy Land,
Is it at the Gaiety—Vaudeville—Strand—
Or where, secure from the public gaze,
Mr. Buckstone privately Hamlet plays?
Is it where the acting gives go and life
To Wilkie Collins’s “Man and Wife?”
—” Not there, not there, my friend!”
“Is it where the Lord Chamberlain weakly tries
To interfere with the actors’ guise,
Because it gave us a portrait true
Of the gentle Ayrton, and Lowe, and you[50]—
Though you now as three music hall cads appear,
Which makes the satire much more severe?”
—“Not there, not there, my friend!”
“Is it where Jack Sheppard they fail to hang;
Where Macbeth’s broad Scotch has a German twang;
Or where many a bonny and bouncing lass
To Nature holds up a Bohemian glass;
Where Rosa Dartle’s consummate skill
Inclines you to hiss her against your will?”
—“Not there, not there, my friend!”
“I have not seen it, my gentle bore,
For five or six years—or rather more,
Its joys are calmer by far than those
That the Ministerial Bench bestows,
For the scene of the Happy Land is laid
In Opposition’s refreshing shade,
—It is there, it is there, my friend!”
Fun.
The Graves of a Household.
They sucked their pap spoons side by side,
They filled one house with shines—
Their graves are lying severed wide,
By many railway lines.
The same nurse tied the plain night cap
At evening, on each brow:
She gave each naughty child a slap—
Where are those screamers now?
One by the broad gauge line which goes
To Exeter, is laid.
They ran into a luggage train,
And mincemeat of him made.
The Eastern Counties line hath one—
He sleeps his last long sleep—
Near where an engine chose, slap off,
A viaduct to leap.
Another went from Euston-square
By an ill-fated train;
They buried him at Coventry,
With others of the slain.
And one—’neath her an axle broke,
And stayed life’s running sand—
She perished on the Dover line—
The last of that bright band.
And parted thus they lie, who play’d
At hop-scotch in the court.
Who after every cab that passed,
Cried “Whip behind,” in sport.
Who played upon the Nigger bones,
And jumped Jim Crow with glee—
Oh, steam! if thou wert everywhere,
Where would poor mortals be?
The Man in the Moon.
Edited by Albert Smith, Vol. II.
——:o:——
“He Never Wrote Again.”
His hope of publishing went down,
The sweeping press rolled on;
But what was any other crown
To him who hadn’t one?
He lived—for long may man bewail
When thus he writes in vain;
Why comes not death to those who fail?—
He never wrote again!
Books were put out, and “had a run,”
Like coinage from the Mint;
But which could fill the place of one,
That one they wouldn’t print?
Before him passed, in calf and sheep,
The thoughts of many a brain:
His lay with the rejected heap:—
He never wrote again.
He sat where men who wrote went round,
And heard the rhymes they built;
He saw their works most richly bound,
With portraits and in gilt.
Dreams of a volume all forgot
Were blent with every strain;
A thought of one they issued not:—
He never wrote again!
Minds in that time closed o’er the trace
Of books once fondly read,
And others came to fill their place,
And were perused instead.
Tales which young girls had bathed in tears
Back on the shelf were lain:
Fresh ones came out for other years:—
He never wrote again!
From Poems and Parodies, by Phœbe Carey,
Boston, U.S., 1854.
——:o:——
Fish have their Times to Bite.
“Leaves have their time to fall.”
Mrs. Hemans.
Fish have their times to bite—
The bream in summer, and the trout in spring,
That time the hawthorn buds are white,
And streams are clear, and winds low-whispering.
The pike bite free when fall
The autumn leaves before the north-wind’s breath,
And tench in June, but there are all—
There are all seasons for the gudgeon’s death.
The trout his ambush keeps
Crafty and strong, in Pangbourne’s eddying pools,
And patient still in Marlow deeps
For the shy barbel wait expectant fools.
Many the perch but small
That swim in Basildon, and Thames hath nought
Like Cookham’s pike, but, oh; in all—
Yes, in all places are the gudgeon caught.
The old man angles still
For roach, and sits red faced and fills his chair;
And perch, the boy expects to kill,
And roves and fishes here and fishes there.
The child but three feet tall
For the gay minnows and the bleak doth ply
His bending hazel, but by all—
Oh! by all hands the luckless gudgeon die.
C.
From College Rhymes, Oxford.
W. Mansell, 1861.
Charles Kingsley.
The following parodies have come to hand since Part 30 was published.
“The Three Fishers.”
Three anglers went down to fish Sunbury Weir,
To fish Sunbury Weir, when the morn did break;
But though the morn broke, so bright and so clear,
Ne’er a one of those three a fish did take.
For though a South wind the trout likes best,
It’s sure to be North, or East, or West,
To set the angler groaning.
Three anglers got down from Sunbury Weir,
Where they had been fishing from break of day;
Yet though their bag from trout was clear,
A fourteen-pounder they’d seen at play.
For though a cold wind the trout likes least,
That day half-a-gale blew up from the East,
To set those anglers groaning.
They tried that old trout at Sunbury Weir,
With a choice selection of baits, so fine;
But although that fish was devoid of fear,
With that cold East wind he declined to dine.
So away they sped from Sunbury Weir,
And out came the trout when the coast was clear,
And gobbled the bleaks “in the gloamin’.”
Otter.
From The Angler’s Journal, May 1, 1886.
Three Freshers.
Three Freshers went sailing out into the street,
Out into the street for a ‘town and gown,’
Each thought of the foeman he longed to meet
And the Bull-dogs stood watching them out in the town.
Through ‘High’ and ‘Broad’ the Proctor must sweep,
And the fifth of November is hard to keep
When such myrmidons are roaming.
Three times that night near the Magdalen tower,
Did the dim gas lamps show a ‘town and gown’;
They looked out for squalls, but alas! for the hour
That the Proctor came up and was neatly knocked down;
For men their hands from Proctors must keep
Though blows be sudden, and black-eyes cheap,
When our gallant blades are roaming.
Three heroes set out for their native strands,
When the morning gleam saw them all ‘sent down.’
And the tradesmen of Oxford are wringing their hands
For those who may never come home to the town.
And Fathers storm, and Mothers must weep,
And the Freshers have sworn a great oath they will keep
Of goodbye to the fifth and its roamings.
A.H.S.
Univ. Coll., Oxford.
Three Women.
Three women went sailing out into the street
To the brown-stone front where the red flag hung.
They jostled the crowd all day on their feet,
While “going and going and gone” was sung.
For women must go where bargains are had.
And buy old trash, if never so bad,
And husbands must ever be groaning.
Three husbands, all hungry, went homeward to dine,
But when they arrived there was nothing to eat.
Three women, all crazy and feeling so fine,
Were gabbling of bargains along in the street
For women must talk of bargains they buy.
And homes must suffer, and babes must cry,
And husbands must ever be groaning.
Three women were showing their husbands with glee
Their bargains at prices that never were beat,
Three husbands, all starving and mad as could be
Were tossing the bargains out into the street.
For men don’t know when bargains are cheap
And women, poor creatures do nothing but weep,
And husbands must ever be groaning.
Anonymous.
The Umpire’s Valedictory.
(After a Base-ball Match.)
An umpire went sallying out into the east,
Out into the east, ere the sun went down.
He thought of the club that loved him least
And the quickest way to leave the town.
But men must chin and boys must cheer,
And the umpire’s lot is hard and drear,
Along with the crowd and its groaning.
A man stood up and called out Foul!
And called out Foul! with an angry frown;
Then made for the gate with a sudden howl,
While the mob with bricks tried to knock him down.
For men will fight and boys will jeer,
And luck is best when the gate is near,
To escape from the crowd and its groaning.
A doctor was working the best he knew how.
The best he knew how, as the sun went down,
He thought as he plastered the broken brow
Of the awful yells and the missiles thrown.
For clubs will play and mobs will fight,
And the umpire’s lucky if he lives till night
To escape from the crowd and its groaning.
United States Paper.
