ROBERT BURNS.
In order to make this collection of Scotch Parodies as nearly complete as possible, a few additional Parodies of Robert Burns, and Thomas Campbell will be here inserted.
Address to the G.O.M.
(After Burns’s Address to the De’il.)
O thou, whatever be the name
Your silly pride wad gar ye claim
As likely best to spread your fame
Owre land an’ sea,
Great People’s Will, or G.O.M.,
Listen a wee.
D’ye mind the time, I mind it weel,
When fu’ o’ misbegotten zeal,
Ye pranced through Scotland like a deil,
Verbose an’ rash,
Bletherin’ about the “Land o’ Leal,”
An’ sic like trash?
To reckon a’ your wild harangues
Frae platforms, trains, to gapin’ thrangs,
About the countra’s woes and wrangs,
A gruesome tale
O’ Tory rule, the memory dangs
An’ time wad fail.
In short, ye kicked up sic a splore,
Pourin’ out speeches by the score,
An’ vendin’ rousin’ whids galore
Through a’ the land,
The countra’ bid ye tak the oar
An’ try your hand.
How stands the case? Ye’ve had your fling,
Upset or bungled everything,
Mair waste and shame contrived to bring
Down on the land
Than tongue can tell, or muse can sing
Or understand.
Despite your boasts about finance,
An’ a’ your grand cheap wines frae France,
The whisky duties, sad mischance,
Hae laid ye low,
An’ stopped ye in your reckless dance
At ae fell blow.
I’m wae to think upon your state,
Headlang ye’ve rushed upon your fate,
An’ tho’ advice I ken ye hate,
Tak thought and mend,
Consider, while it’s no owre late
Your hinner end.
“Midlothian” in Moonshine, July 1885.
——:o:——
For a’ That and a’ That.
A new Version, respectfully recommended
to sundry whom it concerns.
More luck to honest poverty,
It claims respect, and a’ that;
We dare be rich for a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
And spooney cant and a’ that,
A man may have a ten-pun note,
And be a brick for a’ that.
What though on soup and fish we dine,
Wear evening togs and a’ that,
A man may like good meat and wine,
Nor be a knave for a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their fustian talk and a’ that,
A gentleman, however clean,
May have a heart for a’ that.
You see yon prater called a Beales,
Who bawls and brays and a’ that,
Tho’ hundreds cheer his blatant bosh,
He’s but a goose for a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,
His Bubblyjocks, and a’ that,
A man with twenty grains of sense,
He look and laughs at a’ that.
A prince can make a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a’ that,
And if the title’s earned, all right,
Old England’s fond of a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Beales’ balderdash, and a’ that,
A name that tells of service done
Is worth the wear, for a’ that.
Then let us pray that come it may
And come it will for a’ that,
That common sense may take the place
Of common cant and a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Who cackles trash and a’ that,
Or be he lord, or be he low,
The man’s an ass for a’ that.
Shirley Brooks, 1868.
——:o:——
If a Proctor meet a Body.
“Accusator erit qui verbum dixerit ‘Hic est.’”
If a Proctor meet a body
Coming down the High,
If a Proctor greet a body
Need a body fly?
Every Proctor has his bulldog,
Dog of mickle might,
When he marches forth in full tog
At the fall of night.
Every bulldog, when he spies a
Man without a gown,
Promptly chases him and tries a-
Main to run him down.
From Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon, 1874.
——:o:——
The Wallace Tower
The Auctioneer’s Address to his Audience.
“The Wallace Tower at Stirling cannot be completed for want of funds, so the project is to be discontinued, and the materials are to be sold by auction.”—Scotch Papers.
Scots, wha won’t for Wallace bleed,
Scots, who’d see such humbug d’d,
Welcome; each condition read—
Then make bids to me.
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour,
Yon’s the rock, and yon’s the tower,
Ere it’s in the Sheriff’s power,
Pay the £ s. d.
Wha would hear an English knave,
Just pretending to look grave,
Drawl, “Is that unfinished shave,
Place for shrimps and tea?”
Wha would see the cursed law,
Grab it in its cruel paw,
Sell up Wallace, Bruce and a’
Sae contemptuously?
By your sturdy Scottish brains,
By your wealth of Union games,
Shows that Scotland’s sense disdains
An anomalie.
Lay provincial pedants low,
Give the cant of Race a blow,
England’s one—and that you know—
One—from Thames to Dee.
Shirley Brooks, 1865.
——:o:——
Gaelic Speech; or, “Auld Lang Syne”
done up in Tartan.
Should Gaelic speech be e’er forgot,
And never brocht to min’,
For she’ll be spoke in Paradise
In the days of auld langsyne.
When Eve, all fresh in beauty’s charms,
First met fond Adam’s view,
The first word that he’ll spoke till her
Was “cumar achum dhu.”
And Adam in his garden fair,
Whene’er the day did close,
The dish that he’ll to supper teuk
Was always Athole brose.
When Adam from his leafy bower
Cam oot at broke o’ day,
He’ll always for his morning teuk
A quaich o’ usquebae.
An’ when wi’ Eve he’ll had a crack,
He’ll teuk his sneeshin’ horn,
An’ on the tap ye’ll well micht mark
A pony praw Cairngorm.
The sneeshin’ mull is fine, my friens—
The sneeshin’ mull is gran’;
We’ll teukta hearty sneesh, my friens,
And pass frae han’ to han’.
When man first fan the want o’ claes,
The wind an’ cauld to fleg.
He twisted roon’ about his waist
The tartan philabeg.
An’ music first on earth was heard
In Gaelic accents deep,
When Jubal in his oxter squeezed
The blether o’ a sheep.
The praw bagpipes is gran’, my friens,
The praw bagpipes is fine;
We’ll teukta nother pibroch yet,
For the days o’ auld langsyne!
——:o:——
Additional Verses to
“Willie Brew’d a Peck o’ Maut.”
Thus Willie, Rab and Allan sang,
Thus pass’d the night wi’ mirth and glee,
And aye the chorus, a’ night lang,
Was, “As we’re now, we hope to be.”
And aye they sang, “We are nae fou,
But just a drappie in our e’e;
The cock may craw, the day may draw,
And aye we’ll taste the barley bree.”
That time for them the cock did craw,
The harbinger of morn to be;
That time for them the day did daw’,
Wi’ gouden tint o’er tour and tree.
And aye they sang, &c.
That time for them the moon’s pale horn
Did wax and wain o’er land and sea,
But now has dawn’d the hapless morn,
That gilds the grave o’ a’ the three,
Nae mair they sing “We are nae fou,
Nae mair the drappie’s in their e’e,
Nor cock does craw, nor day does daw’,
Nae mair they’ll taste the barley bree.”
Thus Learning makes for Willie main,
For Robin, Poesy wipes her e’e,
And Science wails for Allan gane,
Since death’s dark house hauds a’ the three.
Then Britons mourn for genius rare,
A’ victims o’ the barley bree,
And ban the bree that could na spare
The youthfu’ lives o’ a’ the three.
——:o:——
My Foe.
John Alcohol, my foe, John,
When we were first acquaint,
I’d siller in my pockets, John,
Which noo, ye ken, I want;
I spent it all in treating, John,
Because I loved you so;
But mark ye, how you’ve treated me,
John Alcohol, my foe.
John Alcohol, my foe, John,
We’ve been ower lang together,
Sae ye maun tak’ ae road, John
And I will tak’ anither;
For we maun tumber down, John,
If hand in hand we go;
And I shall hae the bill to pay,
John Alcohol, my foe.
John Alcohol, my foe, John,
Ye’ve blear’d out a’ my een,
And lighted up my nose, John,
A fiery sign atween!
My hands wi’ palsy shake, John,
My locks are like the snow;
Ye’ll surely be the death o’ me,
John Alcohol, my foe.
John Alcohol, my foe, John,
T’was love to you, I ween,
That gart me rise sae ear’, John,
And sit sae late at e’en;
The best o’ friens maun part, John;
It grieves me sair, ye know;
But “we’ll nae mair to yon town,”
John Alcohol, my foe.
John Alcohol, my foe, John,
Ye’ve wrought me muckle skaith;
And yet to part wi’ you, John,
I own I’m unko’ laith;
But I’ll join the temperance ranks, John,
Ye needna say me no;
It’s better late than ne’er do weel,
John Alcohol, my foe.
Home Tidings, January, 1886.
Ted Henderson my Jo.
Ted Henderson,[45] my Jo, Ted,
When we were fast acquent,
On giving Bobbies martial drill
Your mind was wholly bent:
But burglars have revolvers now,
And mobs to riot go,
And Hugh thinks you behind the times,
Ted Henderson, my Jo.
Ted Henderson, my Jo, Ted,
It is a little hard
The men in blue you won’t review
Again in Scotland Yard.
That you were not alone to blame
Is what we all well know,
But take your pension and depart,
Ted Henderson my Jo.
Moonshine, March 13, 1886.
——:o:——
The following imitations are selected from some New Temperance Songs, written by the Rev. R. S. Bowie, of Glasgow:—
The Wife’s Appeal.
Tune—“O Willie brewed a Peck o’ Maut.”
O never touch the drunkard’s cup,
It drumly makes your sparkling e’e,
And changes a’ your features sae,
My kind gudeman nae mair I see.
Then get na fou’, no, ne’er get fou’,
Aye keep the wee drap oot your e’e;
And at cock-craw, when day does daw,
You’ll blyther far than drunkards be.
Ne’er waste your hours wi’ merry boys,
Who to strong drink for pleasure flee;
For if at night they merry be,
You know the pains next morn they dree.
Then get na fou’, etc.
“The moon, that frae her silver horn,
Pours radiance over tower and tree,”
Should never shine “to wile folk hame,”
Frae tipplin’ o’ the barley bree.
Then get nae fou’, etc.
Shun a’ the gilded snares o’ vice,
“The cuckold coward loon is he,”
Who dare not say that wee word No!
And act the man where’er he be.
Then get na fou’, etc.
Tib’s Sang—“Oor Tam has joined
the Templars noo.”
Tune—“Duncan Gray.”
Oor Tam has joined the Templars noo,—
Ha, ha, the doing o’t!
Ne’er again ye’ll see him fou,—
Ha, ha, the doing o’t!
When a’ the lave tak’ to the drink,
An’ gar the change-house glasses clink,
While they themselves like howlets wink,
He ne’er thinks o’ preein’ o’t.
Takin’ drink baith late an’ ear’,—
Weary fa’ the brewing o’t!
Aft he made oor hearts richt sair,—
Weary fa’ the brewing o’t!
But what cared he for wife an’ weans—
For a’ oor sighs and heavy granes!
We micht as weel ha’ saved oor pains,—
He couldna see the meanin’ o’t.
Drink had seared his heart within,—
Weary fa’ the brewing o’t!
He ne’er was pleased till he was blin’,—
Weary fa’ the brewing o’t!
His wife and weans micht hungry be;
Tam ne’er cared a single flee,
As lang’s he’d got the barley bree.—
Weary fa’ the brewing o’t!
Hame he reeled fu’ late at nicht,—
Weary fa’ the brewing o’t!
Gi’ein’ wife an’ weans a fricht,—
Weary fa’ the brewing o’t!
An’ when ance atowre the door,
He wad stamp, an’ shout, an’ roar;
Oh! it was an unco splore,—
Weary fa’ the brewing o’t!
Noo, oor hame’s a heaven on earth,—
Ha, ha, the doing o’t!
Life, in sooth, is something worth,—
Ha, ha, the doing o’t!
We’re a’ weel clad frae tap to tae,
An’ meat in plenty, too, we ha’e,
An’ something for a rainy day,—
Ha, ha, ha, the doing o’t!
Wha wad thocht to see me here,—
Ha, ha, the doing o’t!
Singing sangs o’ hearty cheer,—
Ha, ha, the doing o’t!
Nae mair the weans an’ me think shame
To hear folk mention “daddy’s” name;
We’re prood our kinship noo to claim,—
Ha, ha, ha, the doing o’t!
Song of the Session.
There’s nought but talk on every han’;
On every night that passes, oh!
’Tis wonderful how Members can
Behave so much like Asses, oh!
Loud bray the Asses, oh!
Loud bray the Asses, oh!
While business wails amid debates;
And so the Session passes, oh!
All this delay, from day to day
Arrears of work amasses, oh!
By sum on sum, till August’s come,
When Statesmen look like Asses, oh!
Loud, &c.
The Income Tax upon our backs,
With leaden weight is pressing, oh!
And Ireland’s grief demands relief,
The Debtor’s wrongs redressing, oh!
Loud, &c.
The Poor-Law Bill is standing still,
While Gentlemen are jawing, oh!
At fists and foils, in private broils,
Each other clapper-clawing, oh!
Loud, &c.
Give them their hour to spend at night,
In altercation dreary, oh!
And England’s good, and England’s light,
May gang all tapsalteerie, oh!
Loud, &c.
Although the above lines appeared in Punch more than forty years ago, they apply almost equally well to the present Parliament.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
The Last Duke.
(After The Last Man.)
All selfishness must meet its doom;
Humbug itself must die,
Before the Dukes give us their room
’Stead of their company.
I saw a vision in my sleep,
Of Tainboffcoon, a fearful heap,
And Belgian cattle prime:—
I saw the last of Ducal race,
Who in the steamer took his place,
To seek a foreign clime.
His Grace had quite a bilious air;
His cheek with woe was wan;
The Ducal glories center’d were,
All in that lonely man!
Some had gone to Boulogne—the hands
Of mortgagees were on their lands—
To Rome and Baden some;
The House of Peers was drear and dead,
And Punch himself as dull as lead,
Now that the Dukes were dumb.
Yet, donkey-like that lone one stood,
In seediness still high,
And, turning on the pier of wood
To England gave good bye:
Saying, “Thou hast set, my country’s sun!
Thou may’st shut up—the thing is done;
The Dukes are forc’d to go;
The Corn Laws, that for eighteen years
Have kept up rents and paid the Peers,
Have fallen at a blow!
“What though beneath them we had dearth,
And no reward for skill?
What though the tillers of the earth
Their bellies ne’er could fill?
Henceforth to men in toil grown grey,
The new coat with its buttons gay,
No Ducal hand imparts—
Henceforth no Duke shall teach the throng,
With curry-powder warm and strong,
To cheer the labourers’ hearts.
“But I, for one, won’t vote supplies
To men who thus conspire
To lower the Duke in vulgar eyes,
And poke fun at the Squire.
I quit my country, doomed to death;
Hard soil, where first I drew my breath,
Where long I ruled the roast;
I’ll take the Corn-Laws for a pall,
And, wrapping them around me, fall—
Wept by the Morning Post!
“Go, John—the steam will soon be up,
A sandwich I would taste;
I shall be too sea-sick to sup—
Unto Sir Robert haste;
Tell that man to his brazen face,
Thou saw’st the last of Ducal race
Quitting this classic spot,
Peel and Potato-blight defy
To make him hold his tongue, or try
To talk aught else but ‘rot’!”
Punch, 1846.
(The Duke of Richmond opposed the repeal of the Corn Laws, and declared that if they were repealed, landed proprietors would be driven out of the country.)
The Last Man.
(A Study after Campbell.)
The Park has quite a sickly glare,
The trees are brown as tan,
The spectres of the season are
Around that lonely man.
His world has vanished—ah, ’tis hard,
He cannot find a single card
For party on the lawn,
For picnic, flower show, or dance;
To Greece, Spain, Italy, and France
Or Cyprus they have gone.
Sad and perplexed the lone one stood,
And muttered with a sigh,
“I have no friends by field or flood,
By moor or mountain high.
The opera’s over, Goodwood done,
And sport with fishing-rod or gun
Alone is very slow.
Until the ‘Upper Ten’ appear,
About the closing of the year,
I know not where to go.
“And wearily each moment flies,
For stale amusements tire;
An idle man’s in agonies
When seasons thus expire.
Belgravia is as still as death,
And in Mayfair I hold my breath;
Or on some absent host
Make quite unnecessary calls;
Or haply in familiar halls
I linger like a ghost.”
He sought the club—“Bring claret cup
Oh, waiter, and with haste;
Something to keep my spirits up
In mercy let me taste.
And if a pilgrim seeks the place
Tell him the last swell of his race
This afternoon hath trod,
The squares, the drives, and Rotten Row,
And met no single belle or beau
To greet his listless nod.”
Funny Folks, August 24, 1878.
——:o:——
The Song of the First Lord of the Admiralty.
(The Earl of Ellenborough.)
Ye mariners of England,
I’ll thank you if you please,
To come and tell me something of
The service of the seas:
I’ve something heard of horse marines
But nothing do I know;
Though a trip in a ship
I to India once did go.
If enemies oppose me,
And say I’m very far
From being what I ought to be,
I’ll say that others are.
So come, brave tars, and teach me
A vessel for to know:
If the heel is the keel—
Or abaft means down below.
Then courage, all you admirals,
And never be dismay’d,
For I’m a bold adventurer,
That never learnt my trade.
Our ministers employ me
To vote for them, you know;
Then be bold, when you’re told
That by interest things go.
Then here’s a health to Wellington,
Who made of me the choice;
And to his worthy colleagues bold,
Who scorn the public voice.
Tell France and tell America
They may begin to crow;—
While I reign o’er the main
Is the time to strike a blow.
Punch, January, 1846.
(The Earl of Ellenborough was sent to India, as Governor-General, in 1842, and remained there till 1844. On his return there was some difficulty to find a place in the Government for him. By Sir Robert Peel he was appointed First Lord of the Admiralty, a post which he probably owed to the friendship and interest of the Duke of Wellington.)
The Railways Gross Mismanagement;
Or, The Complaint of the “Engine-driver” versified.
(Written in 1847, when Railways were in their infancy.)
You Managers of Railways,
Who meet to talk and dine,
Ah! little do you think upon
The dangers of the line;
Give ear unto your engineers,
And they will plainly show
All the wrack, which, alack!
From mismanagement doth flow.
All who are engine-drivers
Must have tremendous pluck,
For when you get upon your seat
You trust your life to luck;
You must not be faint-hearted
For crash or overthrow,
And the spills from the ills
Of mismanagement that flow.
Sometimes our trains are mixed up,
Of common sense in spite,
With several heavy carriages,
And others that are light;
Out rolls the train, and no man
What next may come can know;
And whate’er happens here
From mismanagement doth flow.
But our worst source of peril
By far, is when we find
An engine put before the train,
And one to push behind;
Then jamm’d and crush’d together
Of carriages the row
Oft will be—which, you see,
From mismanagement doth flow.
Unto our trains of breaksmen
There is a shameful lack;
And hence it is our lives and limbs
So often go to wrack,
For want of due assistance
Our peril when we know:
This defect from neglect
And mismanagement doth flow.
Ye legislative sages!
On you it is we call!
For as for our proprietors,
Gain is their all in all,
Which, for the public safety,
They somewhat must forego,
Or your bills stop those ills
From mismanagement that flow.
Punch, 1847.
“A great deal more attention will have to be given than heretofore by the agriculturists of England, and perhaps even Scotland, to the production of fruits, vegetables and flowers. You know that in Scotland a great example of this kind has been set in the cultivation of strawberries.”—Mr. Gladstone at West Calder, Nov. 27, 1879.
Ye husbandmen of Scotland,
Who till our native soil,
How vain your high-class farming!
How profitless your toil!
Your fields of grain are humbug,
Your flocks and herds are “bam”—
Go cultivate the strawberry,
And make it into jam!
* * * * *
The Liberals of England.
(Campbell’s “Mariners of England”
applied to recent events.)
Ye Liberals of England
Who vote by land and seas,
Who stamped your names in other years,
On Parliament’s decrees—
Your glorious party launch again
To meet its ancient foe,
And sweep, swift and deep,
And no hesitation know,
Till a Liberal army, brave and strong,
Shall Tories overthrow.
The great deeds of your fathers
Still speak from many a grave;
For the Commons was their field of fame,
Their native land to save.
Again let noble Gladstone tell,
While every heart doth glow,
How to leap o’er the deep
Machinations of the foe,
Till England echoes with the song
Of the Tory overthrow.
Britannia needs no bulwarks
On every savage steep;
At keeping rebel hordes in awe
Small glory will she reap.
She smiles at “Foreign Policy,”
While “Peace and Honour” grow,
And Jingoes roar abroad no more
About a savage foe.
But John Bull sees ’twixt right and wrong,
Through the Tory overthrow.
The Liberal strength of England
Shall fill the voting urns,
Till Tory fictions fade away,
And common sense returns.
Then, then, ye Liberal warriors,
The song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
And the glory of the blow
That struck a Sham with the force of Truth,
And laid the Tories low.
Funny Folks, April 17, 1880.
——:o:——
The Landlord’s Farewell.
A respectful Perversion of The Exile of Erin.
There came to the beach a poor landlord of Erin,
The due on his rent-roll was heavy and chill,
For his garments he sighed, for they needed repairin’,
While the boots on his feet were just “tenants-at-will;”
But a steamer attracted his eye’s sad devotion,
And he thought as he watched it glide over the ocean,
“There’s one thing that keeps my poor grinders in motion,
And that’s emigration from “Erin-go-Bragh.”
“Sad is my fate!” groaned the purple-nosed stranger,
To beg I’m ashamed, and to dig I don’t agree;
I have no refuge from famine and danger
But to set up a pub in the Land of the Free.
Never again, at the midnight’s small hours,
Shall I swig the old port in those well-furnished bowers,
Which my grandfather got from the governing powers,
When penal laws flourished in Erin-go-bragh.
Erin, my country! you’ll soon be forsaken
By all the respectable landlords of yore;
Then will those rascally tenants awaken,
With their nose to some grindstone they knew not before.
Oh, cruel fate, could you ever replace me
In my seat in the House, where no bagman could chase me;
I’d vote for Coercion—though Healy should face me—
And prove my relations were hanged by the score!
Where is my hunting lodge, deep in the wild wood
(Hounds that are poisoned can’t answer the call),
Where are the tenants I bullied since childhood?
And where are my rack-rents? They’re gone to the wall.
Ah, my sad pocket ’tis easy to measure,
Land Leagues and lawsuits exhausted your treasure,
Fifty per cent. I’d abate now with pleasure
But the devil a ha’penny they’ll give me at all!
New Year is here now, and creditors pressing,
One dying wish! ere I’m forced to withdraw
Davitt! a landlord bequeaths thee his blessing,
(’Tis all that you’ve left him in Erin-go-Bragh).
And (in my shirt-sleeves across the broad ocean)
I’ll pray for Parnell who put voters in motion,
And filled their thick heads with this new-fangled notion
That leaves them the masters of Erin-go-Bragh.
M. O’Brien.
From The Irish Fireside, February 6, 1886.
——:o:——
The Escape of the Aldermen.
(After The Battle of the Baltic.)
Sing the adventure rare
Of those worthies of renown,
The Right Honourable Lord Mayor
Of great London’s famous town,
And the Sheriffs, and the Aldermen, at large
On diversion they were bent,
And on junketting intent;
So they up the river went
In their barge.
Like porpoises afloat
Roll’d their Worships in their craft,
In that truly jolly boat
It was merry fore and aft:
The thirtieth of September was the day,
They were sitting at dessert,
With their waistcoats all ungirt,
So extremely full of tur-
-tle were they.
Michael Gibbs was in his chair,
In his chair of civic state;
And the Sheriffs near him were,—
The elect as well as late;
And the Aldermen the board were sitting round,
As they drifted up the tide,
In their cabin big and wide,
Each took care of his inside,
I’ll be bound.
In a moment from his seat
Was the Mayor of London thrown,
And the Aldermen—like wheat
By the sickle newly mown:
And the Sheriffs four were stretched their length along,
And the mace joined in the fall,
With decanters, plates and all,
Which the company did sprawl
Prone among.
Out bawled his Lordship then,
And the Corporation, too,
Loudly raised those Aldermen
Of affright the wild halloo:—
“What’s the matter, what’s the matter” was the cry;
And the answer to their shout
Was “Quick! put the barge about;
Now, you fellow there, look out,
For your eye!”
And then it did appear,
By bad steering, or bad luck,
The barge against a pier
Of Westminster Bridge had struck:
Their escape was most miraculous, indeed,
Now, your Worships, have a care
Who your navigators are
When on board you next repair
For a feed.
Punch, 1845.
——:o:——
Oh! in London
To London ere the sun is low,
The unemployed in thousands go,
Where the Trafalgar fountains flow,
Like Hyndman speaking rapidly.
But London saw another sight,
When Hyndman bade his friends unite
To make o’erladen shops more light
Of their superfluous jewelry.
By word and gesture fast arrayed,
Whitechapel thieves of ev’ry grade—
Who rushed upon their westward raid
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the streets to riot given,
Then rushed King Mob to havoc driven,
And louder than the bolts of Heaven
They roared in all their devilry.
But more defiant yet they grow,
As down South Audley Street they go,
Bottles and legs of mutton throw
In Socialistic bravery.
The havoc deepens! On, ye brave,
To win no glory—risk no grave—
Wave, Riot, thy red banner wave,
And charge with East-end chivalry.
’Tis eve, and all the damage done,
Police stroll up to see the fun,
And from each thousand capture one
Who joined not in the knavery.
Few, few shall smart, tho’ many meet,
And carpenters and glaziers greet
A day dear to South Audley Street,
The famous eighth of February.
Hyde Parker.
CORONATION LAYS.
(Picked up in the Crowd.)
An article, having the above title, appeared in the New Monthly Magazine, July, 1831. It referred to the forthcoming coronation of King William IV. and Queen Adelaide, which took place on September 8, 1831. The scraps of poetry were supposed to proceed from the pens of Sir Walter Scott, Thomas Campbell, S. T. Coleridge, W. Wordsworth, L.E.L. (Miss Landon), the Rev. G. Crabbe, Thomas Moore, Thomas Hood, and Robert Southey, then Poet Laureate. As the imitations of Scott and Campbell lead the way, the article may as well be inserted here. The little introductory notices alluding to Moore’s well-known love of a Lord, Southey’s objection to write the official odes hitherto expected from the Poet Laureate, &c., sufficiently indicate the authors referred to. Some of the imitations are not very striking, and those on Crabbe and L.E.L. might perhaps have been omitted as possessing little to interest the modern reader. However, the whole of the poetry is given, the comments only having been slightly shortened.
The Lay of the Lost Minstrel.
(Sir Walter Scott.)
[A tall “stalwart figure,” with a good-humoured Scotch face, a sturdy-looking stick, and a style of dress indicative of something between the farmer and the philosopher, should be represented seated upon a pile of novels, marked “fiftieth edition,” writing, with a pen in each hand two volumes at once of a new work—at the same time dictating a third to an amanuensis at his elbow.]
Long years have pass’d, since lyre of mine
Awoke the short and easy line
That now unbidden flows;
Tell, Constable, tell thou, how long
My steps have shunned the halls of Song,
And sent, for sundry reasons strong,
My pages, an uncounted throng,
To bear the train of Prose!
But now my harp anew is strung;
And eager grows my tuneful tongue,
Like panting steed that paws the earth,
To burst and tell its tale of mirth.
And visions float, like those that danced
Before my eyes, when George the Fourth,
Be-tartaned o’er, erewhile advanced
With knightly train, and quite entranced
The fondly-frantic North.
Again I see such glittering show,
Again such pageants gleam and go,
As well might form the golden theme
Of minstrel-song or morning-dream.
The last excursion formed, I ween,
To charm our gentle King and Queen,
Was on the tide of Thames;
A sight that few may e’er forget,
That bards, enrapt, are singing yet:
Then all the court, defying wet,
Embarked at House of Somerset;
But now the Royal party met
At Palace of St. James!
Sunny was that September morn;
And groups grotesque were there;
The beef-eaters—and those who scorn
To taste such vulgar fare—
And those again who daily mourn,
Condemned to dine on air.
Highest and lowest of the land
Were met, and saw no vacant stand;
Ladies with white and waving hand,
And troops, a fine mustachio’d band,
With brandished weapons bare.
And coachmen, comely, sleek, and big,
Beneath a curly world of wig;
And pages slim, a countless race,
So dazzlingly disguised in lace,
So like a line of dukes they stood,
That had their thousand mothers old
Beheld them in those suits of gold,
They had not known their blood.
Now, now the standard fondlier floats,
The cannons speak with hoarser throats,
And cheek of trumpeter denotes
The coming of the king!
Each lady now her kerchief throws,
Each exquisite with ardour glows,
Each treads upon his fellow’s toes,
And deems he sees the monarch’s nose,—
Ah! no, ’tis no such thing.
Yet hark! now, now in truth he comes,
He comes as sure as drums are drums;
The drums, the guns, the shouts, the cheers,
You hear—or you have lost your ears.
Let all look now, or look no more;
What stands at yonder palace-door?
Gaze, wonderers, gaze; a coach-and-eight
Is passing through that palace-gate—
A coach of gold, with steeds of cream,
It moves, the marvel of a dream.
With coursers six, are some that bring
The suite and kindred of the King;
Bold Sussex, honest Duke;
And him, the darling of renown,
A nation’s idol, hope and crown,
Great Cumberland—whom yet the town
Salutes with sharp rebuke.
And not one lazy lacquey there
But glance of rapture drew,
Like tinselled hero at the fair
Of old Bartholomew.
Some rode, some walk’d, some trumpets blew,
Some were with wands and some without;
And all along the line of view
From pavement and from housetop too
Rose one continual shout;
That Charles the First at Charing-cross
His head, amazed, might seem to toss.
Rang all the Mall with needless noise,
From topmost Sams to Moon and Boys!
——:o:——
The Show in London.
(Thomas Campbell.)
[Let the design represent a middle-sized and middle-aged poet, habited in blue, with buttons bearing the initials “P.L.U.C.” He must be leaning on an anchor, reading the last account of the capture of Warsaw. His books must be numerous and classical, but none bound in Russia, as it reminds him of despotism. A volume of his own poems should be lying before him, opened at “Hohenlinden,” as that exquisite composition has evidently suggested the idea of his new one, called “The Show in London.”]
In London when the funds are low,
And state-distresses deeper grow,
The rule is this—to have a show,
Designed with strict economy.
We here this cheapened show have had;
Who now shall deem the nation sad!
Distress was there superbly clad,
And Sorrow stalked not shabbily.
All, all the troops were out; who choose
To read the list their time may lose;
The gaudy Guards, the Oxford Blues,
Besides the Surrey Yeomanry.
And many a line of Foot appears,
With drummer-boys and pioneers,
And last, the Loyal Volunteers,
The drollest of the Infantry.
Not last; for of the New Police
Behold how one, in pure caprice,
The hat knocks off—to keep the peace—
Of idler, answering snarlingly.
That morn was seen by all the town
King William’s brow without a crown;
But ere yon autumn sun went down,
’Twas circled most expensively.
The Debt still deepens. Could we save
A trifle, Hume might cease to rave.
Waive, Rundell, half your profits waive,
And charge as low as possible.
Few, few shall gain where many pay;
The people must the cost defray,
And give their guineas too to-day
For seats to see the pageantry.
——:o:——
The Ancient Mariner.
(S. T. Coleridge.)
[The author of “The Ancient Mariner,” should be delineated after the poet’s definition of him, as a “noticeable man with small grey eyes.” A crowd of listeners should be around him, catching up with eagerness and ecstasy every syllable as it falls from his lips; and in a corner of the room there might be one or two persons reading his works, apparently puzzled at times to make out his meaning. On the walls should be representations of a giant devoting his life to catching flies; of a philosopher straying on the sea-shore to pick up shells, while the sails of the vessel that was to waft him to his home are scarcely to be descried in the distance.]
The sun it shone on spire and wall,
And loud rang every bell;
Wild music, like a waterfall,
Upon my spirit fell;
But the old grey Abbey was brighter than all,
Each spire was like a spell.
I breathed within that Abbey’s bound,
It was a hallowed spot;
The walls they seemed alive with sound,
And hues the sky hath not.
Good lord, my brain was spinning round,
And methought, I knew not what.
Eleven o’clock, eleven o’clock!
My spirit feels a passing shock;
Eleven o’clock—you heard the chime;
Oh! many shall see the King this time.
My very heart it seems to sing,
And it leapeth up to see the King.
What flattering music meets his ear,
What loving voices greet!
He sitteth now in presence here,
With a nation at his feet.
And (joy for him!) he’s not alone;
Yon lady, look—she shares his throne.
The bishops, a right reverend race,
Bring first, then take away,
Rare things of gold that through the place
Dispense a brighter day
They robe him next with a robe of grace,
The supertunica.
And many a ring, and staff, and sword,
He takes from many a mumbling lord,
Enwrapt in richest silk and fur;
On head and hand the oil is poured,
And now they touch his foot with a spur,
And crown that Ancyente Marynere!
Soon about the Queen they’ll stir,
Crowning William, crowning her.
To kiss the cheek, with aspects meek
Now on their knees the bishops fall;
Oh! every peer must kiss the cheek,
But great Lord Brougham the last of all.
Oh! yes, Lord Harry he came the last,
But the roof it rang as on he passed;
The people laugh, and the peers they stare
For they never had thought to have seen him there.
I guess ’twas curious there to see
A baron so oddly clad as he,
Ludicrous exceedingly.
——:o:——
Sonnets on the Coronation.
By a Lyrist from the Lakes.
(William Wordsworth.)
[Our Lyrist of the Lakes must be figured as an “old man eloquent” in all that can interest and elevate our nature. He should be somewhat tall, and somewhat drooping, with a head that scarcely seems to know that there is a halo round it, an expression of quiet dignity and simplicity of character, an unaffected familiarity of demeanour, and a suit of brown, properly fitted for one whose studies are sometimes of the same complexion. The white doe, the “solitary doe” of Rylstone, might be playing in the back-ground, and it would not be amiss to have a glimpse of the other solitary and immortal quadruped, that Peter Bell encountered in the forest.]
NATIONAL HAPPINESS.
Oh! ardent gazers! happy, happy herd
Of creatures, who your parlours, back or front,
Have left in litters; and in scorn of Hunt
And all who once your darker feelings stirred,
Have risen this morning with the earliest bird—
Breakfastless haply, or with some such thing
As a dry biscuit satisfied; your King
May justly prize the crown this day conferred
Upon him, and for you his power employ,
Was ever love like this! That maiden pale
Was there at seven this morn; of cap and veil
Despoiled, yon matron laughs. Behold that boy
Loyally standing on a spiked rail.
Oh! what can damp a nation’s natural joy.
EFFECTS OF RAIN AT A CORONATION.
What, what but Rain! When brightest shines the sun,
Now as the pageant gorgeous back returns,
Down, down it comes! Each honied aspect learns
The sour vexation; all delight is done.
The King is now forgotten. Many run
For shelter, where strange phrases (strange to me)
Of “perkins,” “meux,” and “barclay,” seem to be
Signs of glad welcome and of social fun.
Meanwhile each cloud some cherished comfort mars;
Those, envied, on the roofs, slide down again
Now envying those below, Rheumatic men,
With ague in perspective, curse their stars.
Wives, with their dresses dabbled, mourn the sum
Thus washed away, and wish they had not come.
THE SUBJECT CONTINUED.
The very soldiers fly: with dripping plumes
Depending, the whole staff, at furious pace,
Retreats, most tender of its limbs and lace.
On tiptoe creep the carriage-seeking grooms
Of many who, among the Abbey-tombs
Had prayed for a “long reign!” but not for showers
Like this that seems disposed to last for hours!
Oh! happy they who, shut within their rooms,
Were disappointed of their seats to-day!
’Tis wisely ordered that——
* * * * *
I have forgot what I was going to say.
——:o:——
The Little Absentee.
(Miss L. E. Landon.)
[The only illustration to this contribution should be three elegantly-ornamented letters “L.E.L.” Through the clouds in the background might be dimly discerned a face, whose expression seems to hover between Romance and Reality—that indicates a spirit bound by every natural tie to the altar of song, yet stealing a sidelong look at the shrine of prose, as if inclined to offer up half its worship there.]
I see the bright procession wind
“Like a golden snake” along;
And I gaze around the Abbey, lined
With a proud and jewelled throng.
I see fair Lady Harrington;
And rich St. Albans, clad
In gems that drive, though ill put on,
The peeresses half mad.
The little princes too are there,
Those pure and pretty peers;
But oh! the scene, to others fair,
To me is dimmed with tears.
One speck upon this earthly sun,
That soon, alas! must fade,
One little spot, and only one,
Throws on my heart a shade.
Of all the myriads met to-day,
Oh! tell me which is she
The gentle child I saw at play
By Kensington’s green tree.
My eye it rests on every spot,
Ladye and cavalier;
But that fair child, I see her not
Of all the thousands here.
She is not here—the reason why[46]
Is neither there nor here;
At home she heaves the infant sigh,
And dries the childish tear.
The humblest maid will murmur when
Refused its cup of bliss;
How must a princess suffer then,
To lose a sight like this!
Thus, mid the rich magnificence,
A vision sad and wild
Presents unto my inmost sense
An image of that child.
——:o:——
A Reflection.
(Rev. George Crabbe.)
[The author of this “Reflection,” who would have given a “Tale of the Hall,” but that it happened to be closed this Coronation, should be represented by a river side, moralizing on the state of some Crabs that have just been captured, and quite insensible to the increasing tide which is washing over him. He should be figured as a poet prone to consider things “too curiously”—as one who, if he had a centipede to describe, would dissect you every separate leg, and instruct you in its anatomy; who would enlist your sympathies for a beggar by painting the shape and colour of every patch upon his vest, and whose picture of a battle would be merely the Army-List turned into rhyme. A workhouse should be in the centre of the picture, with a prison on one side, and an hospital on the other.]
Turn from the court your eyes, and then explore
Those gloomier courts where dwell the pining poor.
Just think what hungry families might dine
On that laced jacket, framed of superfine.
How large a nation may a little net
Confine—what traps are in those trappings set!
Will the King give, what he has gained, a crown,
To Jones, Clark, Thompson, Jackson, Smith, or Brown?
All penceless pockets theirs—the man with cakes
For them stands still, or eats the tarts he makes.
Yet see yon lady; fifty pearls at least
Circle her arms, and might an army feast.
That zone for which a princess might have pined,
Her waist confining, seems to waste consigned.
On those red coats, ten buttons meet the view;
Ten plated buttons; ten divide by two,
It leaves you five, and five we know would do.
These five, if sold, would buy yon lad a hat,
Provide a dinner, and a tea to that.
——:o:——
A Melody. (Moorish.)
(Thomas Moore.)
“The Moor, I know his trumpet!”—Othello.
[A very small space will suffice for the present illustration. The poet must be figured at his desk inditing an epistle, commencing with “My dear Lord.” Volumes of poetry that exhibit signs of having been read over and over again are thrown in profusion about him, mingled with which are some biographies that seem to have been cast aside with many of the leaves uncut. Invitations to dinner are piled before him, with some resolutions proposing him as President of the Silver Fork Club.]
There’s a beauty as bright as the sunshine of youth,
Or the halo that beams round the temples of truth;
An odour like that from the spring-lily thrown
When a breathing from Araby blends with its own.
But the lustre is not on that Peeress’s hair,
Though gems and a circlet of gold glisten there;
And the odour is not by that Exquisite cast,
Though his robe left a scent on the air as he pass’d.
This odour, ’tis not from the Abbey at all,
But breathes round the banquet in Westminster Hall;
This light, that outsparkles the courtliest class,
Is the dazzling of dishes, the glitter of glass.
Let, let but that lustre encircle me still!
’Tis the true light of love, we may say what we will.
Oh! give me a breath of that odour sublime,
It is worth all the flowers perfuming my rhyme.
* * * * *
No banquet, dear Lansdowne? no banquet to-day!
You cannot mean that!—I’ll appeal then to Grey.
My lord, you have blotted the beauty, while new,
Of the rainbow that rises round Althorp and you.
Your music should mix with the drawing of corks,
Your glory should gleam in the flashing of forks.
Economy charms me—but first I must dine;
You may tamper with all constitutions—but mine.
Let Lord What’s-his-title exult in his curls,
Let Lady The-other still dote on her pearls;
What is all this to me, who my loss must deplore
’Till the Dinnerless Administration be o’er!
No dinner!—not even a sandwich——
[The poet was here overcome by his feelings. He was carried off in a carriage decorated with a coronet, and was shortly afterwards set down at a very satisfactory side-table.]
——:o:——
A Glance from a Hood.
(Thomas Hood.)
[Represent a grave and rather anti-pun-like looking person, turning over the leaves of a pronouncing dictionary, and endeavouring to extract a pun from some obstinate and intractable word, that everybody else had discovered and abandoned years ago. Now and then he finds something that repays him, not because it is good but because it is new. If unsuccessful, he puts the first word he comes to in italics, and leaves the reader to fasten any joke upon it he pleases.]
He comes, he comes! the news afar
Is spread by gun and steeple;
He seems (what many princes are)
The Father of his People.
That echoing cheer—it rises higher
And seems to reach the stars;
No Life-Guard escort he requires
Who meets with such Huzzas!
A poet-King; nay, do not scoff!
The Monarch hath his Mews;
Like those whose pensions he cuts off,
He’s followed by the Blues.
Yet some our King and Queen must hate,
For see, besides a star,
Their houses they illuminate
With “W. A. R.”
He’s near the Abbey; on the air
The guns their echoes threw;
And now the bishops make him swear
To mind their canons too.
That organ seems on ours to play
As if our love to nourish;
Be ruined by reform who may,
Those trumpeters must flourish.
A crown is brought, they make him King;
A King! why they mistake;
Two crowns, each child must know the thing,
But half a sovereign make.
Well, he is ours; along the way
He hears his people’s vow;
And as he goes, he seems to say,
“Your Bill is passing now!”
——:o:——
The Laureate’s Lay.
(Robert Southey, Poet Laureate.)
[The Laureate’s Lay will of course exist only in a blank page. His lyre hath no chord left. He hath taken out a patent in the Court of Apollo, for treating birthdays and coronations with contempt. He basks in the sunshine of idleness—the poetical privilege of doing nothing, except calling at the treasury once a-year. As he could not be conveniently omitted among the contributors to this collection, some emblematic device may be introduced—a chamelion, or a rainbow: or you may paint him, if you will, glancing back upon the light of his earlier years, and paraphrasing the story of “Little Wilhelmine” and the “famous victory:”—
“They say it was a splendid sight,
Such sums were lavished then,
Although the nation at the time
Was full of famished men;
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous pageantry.
“Much praise our gentle Monarch won,
And so did Grey and Brougham;”
“But what good came of it at last,”
Quoth simple Mr. Hume.
“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he,
“But ’twas a famous pageantry.”
Mr. Barnum’s Experience of Travelling in England.
The way was short, the wind was cold,
The voyage on Mr. B. had told;
His yielding knees, his tottering gait,
Showed what had lately been his fate;
His sunken eyes, his face so pale,
Bespoke the scarcely-finished gale.
His bag, in which he took such joy,
Was carried by a dockside boy;
And undistributed remained
The store of handbills it contained.
He had not far to go to gain
The platform where the London train
Stood waiting, and with wistful eye
He saw his welcome bourne so nigh;
And soon sank down, with yearning face,
Into the nearest vacant place.
It was a dark and fusty den,
In which were huddled several men,
Who gave, as Barnum came, a groan,
Which died away into a moan,
As, with their chins close to their knees,
They watched their new companion squeeze
Into his seat, and try in vain
Room for his legs, or arms to gain.
When he had struggled moments twain,
His wrath, which he could not restrain,
Impelled him suddenly to rise;
But no, he found, to his surprise,
’Twas useless, he was now, alas!
Part of a packed and groaning mass.
And as he, too, felt weak and ill,
He gave one groan and sat him still;
Till, moved by his increasing ire,
He cried, “Allow me to enquire
If we poor victims truly are
Now seated in a first-class car?”
“We are!” they moaned, then Barnum said,
“I’m sure I’d much prefer instead
Inside a cattle-truck to ride!”
“You’re right!” his fellow martyrs cried.
“Then why,” exclaimed P. Barnum “then,
If you are true, brave Englishmen,
Do you submit without a battle
To thus be served far worse than cattle?”
Then, strengthened by his indignation,
He uttered this denunciation:—
“Breathes there a man that England’s bred,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is a scandal to my land?
Whose wrath has not within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned
From travelling on a foreign strand,
When he’s been put to ache and freeze
In such disgraceful trucks as these?
If such there be, one soon can tell
That ’tis the shares he holds impel
Him to condone the line’s disgrace;
Or ’cause connection he can trace
With some large holder of its scrip,
Or one on its directorship.
That any other man of sense
Should find conceivable pretence
So great an outrage to defend
Does probability transcend.”
Truth, Christmas Number, 1883.
The Christmas Number of Truth, 1877, contained a parody on Lochinvar, concerning the appointment of Mr. Digby Piggott, as controller of the stationery office, by Lord Beaconsfield. This was characterised, at the time, as a gross piece of jobbery, but the subject has lost all interest now, and the parody was not a particularly good one.
